Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You slept with Kuroro.”

Illumi’s hands paused over the keyboard, eyes flashing from his screen to the space right above the edge. He’d been here before, accused of things, put on the spot for an answer. He just never expected the origin of the accusation to be Hisoka, of all people. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man lean against the doorframe, arms crossed and expression stoic.

Expectant.

With practiced fluidity, Illumi looked back down at his screen and resumed typing. “I did.”

“And why, pray tell, did you feel the need to do that?”

Illumi didn’t scoff and he didn’t blink and he didn’t pause his stream of work. Being on the Whale was bad enough as it was, the last thing he needed was to deal with Hisoka’s judgement. Not that the man had much room to judge, given who he was and how he normally behaved. In fact, the accusation was so very out of character that Illumi hadn’t thought to question where he’d gotten the information to begin with. Illumi wasn’t exactly fond of the incident or all that excited to share—Kuroro was new money. The worst kind of new money, too; he was a thief and a meteorite, a man with no blood to fuel his fame.

Those were the last things he wanted associated with the Zoldyck name.

But he’d been drunk, and Kuroro—no matter how nameless and base—had a way about him that Illumi chose to indulge in. It was the same dangerous amorality that attracted him to Hisoka, and here he was paying for both his choices in one fell swoop. Without paying Hisoka mind, Illumi crossed his bare legs under him, balancing the laptop across his knees, shorts riding higher on his thigh.

“He’s attractive,” Illumi admitted, fingers tapping away at a steady pace. “Why does it matter? It doesn’t interfere with anything.”

“Oh, but it does,” Hisoka purred, sounding more dangerous than he had in a while. He approached the bed with the same quiet he’d use in a fight, Illumi knew, all silent steps and uncrossed posture. If he wasn’t a trained assassin, who’d tracked Hisoka’s aura from the moment he walked into the room, Illumi might not have felt him coming even if he knew he was. “It changes lots of things, you know that.”

“And what—” Illumi gave his spacebar a hard snap, “—pray tell, would my sex life change?”

Hisoka hovered over him, smelling like the inside of a whiskey rock glass despite not seeming drunk at all. He was perfectly on kilter, as far as Illumi was concerned. His syllables were balanced, his nen tight and his body a temple of control. Craning his head, Hisoka looked down at Illumi, “We had a deal.”

“A deal that I would join the Spiders, yes,” Illumi met him head on, looking up. “A deal to kill you, yes. I don’t recall a chastity clause, and I’m thorough with my work.”

“Funny,” Hisoka’s smile was controlled.

“Between the both of us,” Illumi responded evenly, gaze handing Hisoka a deliberate once-over, “I’m not the clown.”

Hands flew to his jaw, fingers digging into the halo of his cheekbones.

It was every bit as hostile as Illumi expected it to be, rough and sudden, Hisoka’s aura tinted with a certain lack of courtesy. He didn’t expect there to be care anyway, not with the initial direction of the conversation—so Illumi allowed it to happen, let Hisoka force his head up and cling to the break of his neck and tilt the line of his chin upward with sharp nails.

Hisoka looked different, his hair loose and dyed a pale blue, a single heart painted under the corner of one eye. The aesthetic was the same, but Illumi found himself studying it more intently under the ambient light of the room. He never fully understood it, anyway.  They weren’t open about their backgrounds, and even though the Zoldyck name was common knowledge within the circles that mattered, Illumi didn’t know how much Hisoka knew of his family and his upbringing.

He certainly knew nothing of Hisoka’s, no matter how much he dug for it.

“Magician, darling,” he corrected, his voice low and breathed into Illumi’s space, their proximity dying with each inch Hisoka destroyed. He leant down far enough for his nose to brush against Illumi’s temple, grazing the side-strands that fell out of his bun and down the sides of his neck. Illumi fought his own desire to lean into the hostility, closing his eyes instead. Hisoka’s words swept his skin, running past the smile Illumi knew was there. “You know, you make me so—angry, Illumi, my love.

“Do I?” Illumi replied, ignoring the sting of nails against the soft skin of his cheeks, fingers falling idle along plastic keys. “Must be inconvenient.”

Hisoka hummed, “It is.”

“Maybe,” Illumi tilted his head, letting their profiles align as he opened his eyes. “For you.”

Hisoka’s gaze was brimming with dark amusement, a brand Illumi had only seen a handful of times in the past. That brand, he realized, was never good news. “By extension, you as well.”

“And why’s that?” Their voices were low-tenor, just shy of whispers.

“Well, fiancé,” Hisoka’s smile widened, mocking, “You know I’ll make damn sure you experience hell if you choose to drag me through it.”

Illumi’s hand came up to hang off Hisoka’s wrist, not doing much to remove the hold so much as threaten it. “You’re jealous.”

Hisoka’s expression didn’t change, but his silence was enough for Illumi to go off of.

Illumi pursed his lips, curling them into an expression he knew was cruel. “You feel threatened. Are you insecure? He did kill you, after all—your ego must have taken quite the hit.”

Nails dug themselves deeper, leaving marks Illumi knew he’d have to hide. “My ego is perfectly intact. You might not be, if you keep running your mouth.”

A curl of pleasure iced down Illumi’s spine; the whole thing sounded more seductive than menacing, purred under the smell of whiskey and Hisoka’s ultraviolet nen. There it is, Illumi swallowed, the power and control that made him gravitate to the man to begin with—something he’d never experienced with any other person, family accounted for. Even Kuroro, who radiated brutality and embraced carnage like carnival, couldn’t make his blood riot the way Hisoka did.

Maybe that’s why Illumi banked a violent hand into grey-blue and forced their lips to meet. 

And maybe that was why Hisoka met him halfway.

His hand scraped down the side of Illumi’s face to curl against his throat instead, possessive. Their bodies dragged, the computer sliding off Illumi’s lap when his back met mattress, Hisoka slanting over him with the same restless energy he used in fights. There was nothing gentle about the kiss, all canted mouths and loose tongues, but even then it was far from sloppy.

There was a dexterity there, Hisoka knowing where to press his thumbs along Illumi’s ribs, how to roll his tongue against the vault of an open mouth. Experience was what it was, and it shone through in every smooth shift of his form. He glided a palm up past Illumi’s knee and Illumi fell into it, his body hovering to press closer and his hands tightening along the nape of Hisoka’s neck.

Breathing through his nose, he let out a modulated hum against the rise of Hisoka’s lower lip. Good goddess.

Hisoka’s mouth was lined in liquor and lust, his breathing unsteady against Illumi’s face, nose drawing a divot into his cheek. Kissing the magician was an experience in and of itself, something Illumi never thought he’d enjoy as much as he did; love was meant to be beneficial, after all, and sexual desire didn’t have room in negotiation unless it was a clause in an agreement. That was what Silva had taught him, and that’s what Illumi had taken to heart since.

Kuroro was a footnote, and sleeping with him came with its own set of contractual benefits—Hisoka—no, Hisoka was something else entirely.

Something caught between the teeth of oversight and error.

Weakness.

Illumi drew their bodies tighter, running a knee high against Hisoka’s ribs; not now. He wouldn’t think of it now. It would all end soon enough as it was—his needles would find their way into Hisoka’s skull, into the space under his ear or between his eyes or at the dip of his temple, and he’d die. Illumi would end him when it came down to it, when the time was right and the context was tailored for a kill.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he decided, his hands sliding down to cup the sides of Hisoka’s neck before dipping into his collar and rising back, he’d enjoy whatever weakness this was.

“You know,” Hisoka breathed onto Illumi’s lips, rolling his own against the other’s chin, “I’m going to miss this.”

Illumi frowned, pulling him back into the kiss, urging Hisoka into another bout of no-talking. It didn’t last long, not when Hisoka dropped both of his palms to Illumi’s knees, forcing them apart before sitting up, hair chaotic shades of blue and grey. Although the hunger in his eyes stayed, there was something else there too, hidden behind the dilated copper and the thick panting.

Oh.

Oh no.

“I’m going to miss this,” Hisoka repeated, fingers reacquainting themselves with the sculpt of Illumi’s knees, rolling into the indents and curving up towards his thigh. They traced the same pattern, over and over, and Illumi felt the horror begin to settle in the hollow of his lungs; this can’t be happening.

And then Hisoka smiled, wide grin and parted teeth, halfway drunk and halfway honest, “You’re looking at me like I killed your mother, darling.”   

Illumi swallowed, for once not having the words to respond. Instead, he dropped his hands from around Hisoka, leaning back on them as he sat up as well, trying to scoot back from the embrace. He couldn’t go far, what with Hisoka still brushing circles into his skin, but it was far enough for their faces to level. When Illumi found his voice after a long moment of due silence, it was hoarse. “You can’t say that.”

Hisoka’s smile was curious. “Say what?”

“That you’ll miss this,” Illumi wanted to sound sharp, but the whole thing came out odd and off-balance. “You can’t say that. You’ll be dead, you won’t miss anything when you’re dead. The dead don’t feel. They’re dead.”

Hisoka stared at him, his smile starting to morph into discomfort. Illumi knew why, it wasn’t hard to guess: he was rambling. Illumi never went on tangents, his words were calculated and his actions were timed down to each breath and each blink. “Uh, no, no they don’t.”

“Then don’t talk nonsense.”

“That’s assuming you manage to kill me,” Hisoka noted, licking the corner of his lips, the skin a bruised, damp plum. “You’re not accounting for the possibility of me killing you.”

Illumi blinked.

That was true. He hadn’t thought of losing, he never lost, not ever, not in recent or dated memory. Then again, he’d never fought someone like Hisoka before. Even with that logic, the burn at the pit of his lungs refused to settle. I don’t know what— “I won’t lose. You’ll die, Hisoka. I’m going to kill you.”

Hisoka bit into his lip, not doing much to curb his grin. His hands slid upward, from the break of Illumi’s knees to the swell of his thighs to the tight bend where hip met leg. Using that hold, he pulled Illumi into him, pressing his nose into black hair. “Then I’ll miss this until then.”

Illumi shoved against his chest, forcing space between them. This can’t be happening, with practiced flexibility, he threw his leg over Hisoka and rolled out of the hold, feet finding the ground with ease, this can’t happen, ever. He wasn’t all that sure what it was that was happening, but the magma-heartburn was enough for him to diffuse the situation.

Because Illumi was taught to rely on three things: family, logic and instinct.

Instinct.

“I think you should leave,” he spoke through his flush, standing at the foot of the bed. He’d never had an issue settling his breathing before then, and he didn’t now. Slowly, Illumi forced whatever rawness he was experiencing down. “This was a mistake. You need to go.”

Hisoka stayed on his knees in the middle of an empty bed, face void. There was no indication that he was about to follow through with the order. “You have to be kidding.”

It wasn’t a question.

Illumi’s expression settled itself into a scowl. “Leave.”

Hisoka scoffed out a laugh, looking off to the side, tongue rolling against the inside of his cheek. The whole display was a show of incredulity, and Illumi didn’t appreciate a single second of it—not the patronizing head-shake or the crane of the neck. Hisoka turned back to him with a loose smile that was every bit caustic. “Suddenly chaste?”

Illumi locked his jaw. “Excuse me?”

“We’ve fucked before,” Hisoka commented, crass. “You suddenly into the monastic life, Zoldyck?”

“No,” Illumi didn’t snap, though his tone was as close as it got to just that. “But you’re feeling awfully sentimental. That wasn’t part of our previous arrangements. I refuse to deal with it.”

“Refuse to deal with it, hm,” Hisoka repeated, an air of curiosity clinging to him. “You think I’m in love with you or something?”

Illumi said nothing.

“That’s cute, darling,” Hisoka leant back on his elbows, making a show of his hard-on. It was a wonder, given their conversation, that it hadn’t gone down. “But I’ll have to pass, there’s nothing about you worth loving.”

The sound that left Illumi was indignant on every front. “And you?”

“What about me?”

“You think there’s anything about you worthy of love?” Illumi flattened his voice to a keen and cutting monotone. “You’re disgusting, Hisoka. Everything about you is disgusting.”

Hisoka moaned, dropping his head back and angling his shoulders. Illumi felt his blood boil a little warmer, his rage a little hotter; he’s mocking me. “Oh, fuck, that’s the stuff, my love.”

Illumi was going to break his own molars with how tightly they ground into one another, his jaw pulsing. “Get out, Hisoka.”

“Answer me this, first,” Hisoka made a show of licking his lower lip, tongue flat and heavy. “Who fucked you better, me—”

Illumi’s control splintered like shrapnel.

“—or him?”

It took the span of a moment, maybe less, for his body to spade across the room in silent fury, palms finding purchase against the column of Hisoka’s throat and the brittle edges of his clavicle. Illumi didn’t have time to think about anything, not his mother’s voice—Using your hands to kill? Crude, Illumi, unrefined!—and not the flat-head needles lanced into the small of his back, ready and coated and singing with volatile nen.

He thought of nothing but the red tint of his vision and the fury stitched down his sternum.

I’m going to kill you.

Illumi’s body craned over Hisoka’s, knocking him back into the pillows, pressing him down by the curve of his neck. The smile—the one that never left and never faded—made Illumi force his body closer and his fingers tighter. He knew how to kill men in every which way, it was what he was born and bred to do—no one did it better, no one could or would ever do it better. Illumi was the ideal.

His pride was everything—and he’d force Hisoka to understand that, even if it took dying. He’d beat him at his own game and force him into submission. I’m going to win.

Hisoka didn’t move save for settling his hands along Illumi’s sides in a parody of something more. Nothing, he didn’t fight him off, no forcing wrists into a curl or driving knees into stomachs; Hisoka gave up every ounce of agency with a tilted grin.

And Illumi felt something he hadn’t in years.

Wrathful desperation.

In a primal battle, Hisoka had inches on him; inches in breadth and strength and height. All it would take was a single upward vault, and Illumi’s lithe form would tip itself over, core power meaningless in the face of someone physically superior. If Hisoka wanted to, he could knock Illumi off with little trouble.

Why aren’t you fighting back, I’m going to—

“—to kill me.”

Illumi’s lip curled. “What?”

“You’re not going to kill me,” Hisoka huffed whatever air he could manage, “not here, not like this.”

Illumi’s hips canted higher, resting all his body weight onto the grip. It worked, in a preliminary sense: Hisoka’s lips parted for a single, choked inhale. Blue painted itself across the thin of his mouth and down the sides of his face, head tilting backward. Illumi didn’t smile, and he didn’t want to.

Not with Hisoka still smiling back at him from past the lid of gold eyes.

I don’t understand, Illumi’s grit teeth shone past his snarl, why are you letting me do this? I thought you wanted a fight.

The longer Hisoka lasted without responding, the more Illumi felt his pride bruise darker.

“If you don’t think I’m capable of killing you whenever I see fit,” somehow, he managed to keep his voice even, “then I urge you to reconsider our agreement.”

The staccato rise of Hisoka’s chest must have been a laugh.

By nature, Hisoka wasn’t easy to tolerate. He was obscene more often than he wasn’t, his morality running itself over like an empty russian roulette revolver. Illumi knew this—he knew this—going in. It was the worst kept secret. While Hisoka kept everything about his origin under wraps, he took pride in advertising his depravity at every opportunity. A younger Illumi found it exciting in a way he shouldn’t have.

An older Illumi found it attractive in a way he shouldn’t have.

Illumi, now—

It was a moment of distraction, his palms loosening and his center of gravity falling onto Hisoka’s hips instead of hovering just shy of them. It was a mistake and a window of opportunity; Hisoka nails tore up the skin of his back, under his shirt, bleeding lines left in their wake. Illumi let out a strangled noise, a mix of pain and surprise, his body thrown off to the side. I don’t—

He’d never been caught off guard.

Hisoka fell over him, deranged looking and grinning, pinning Illumi’s hands. “Fuck,” his voice was shredded, “fuck, I might not be in love with you, but if you keep pulling this shit, I just might fall.”

Illumi didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. He stared up at the panting man with level unamusement, choosing to focus on the searing pain branding his shoulders instead.

Hisoka leant down, licking up the side of Illumi’s throat, fixing a set of open mouthed kisses along his jaw. Illumi hated it. Or rather, he hated the desire to lean into whatever warped desire he was being offered. Hisoka had, for the lack of a better word, slandered his dignity. He needed to learn his lesson, and as a master of control and restraint and planned cruelty, Illumi had to be the one to teach him.

But in that moment Illumi wasn’t sure which burned hotter, his lust or his pride.

Get a grip, he hissed when Hisoka scraped his abnormally sharp canines against the hollow of his ear, force him off you.

“You want this, too,” Hisoka breathed into his ear, “You want me as much as I want you, that’s why this works, it’s why it’s always worked.”

It scared him that there was truth in that.

Fear wasn’t a familiar emotion for him, he’d worked too hard to keep it that way—but this wasn’t the same fear he’d built himself up against. It wasn’t the fear of hurt or failure or dying; this was a fear of disorder. The idea of letting go of inhibition and calculation made Illumi’s gut eat away at itself, slow and steady and acidic.

Hisoka made him want to lose control.

“We’ve never worked,” Illumi found himself panting, throat leaning up into Hisoka’s lips. “You’re deranged. This was temporary—”

“Then it’s temporary still,” Hisoka shifted his body into the open cant of Illumi’s legs, not letting his wrists go. If anything, his grip tightened, and the tips of Illumi’s fingers began to buzz with the lack of circulation. “You said you’d kill me—as long as you don’t hesitate when the time comes, we should be fine.”

We should be fine.

“Yeah,” he heard himself say, “Yeah, okay.”

That was all the consent Hisoka needed to hear, his breath coming in short and sharp against Illumi’s collar. Illumi closed his eyes, doing his best to take in the sensation of release. It always felt like this, on some level, when it came to Hisoka—always felt like he was giving away a part of himself in that moment of transient pleasure. Gods, unlike the staccato breaths brushing his skin, Illumi held his own, only releasing keen exhales ever so often.

Hisoka pressed open mouthed kisses up the column of his neck, fingers expertly pushing the fabric of Illumi’s crewneck up his chest. “You never did let me finish what I was going to say,” he said against Illumi’s jaw. “All for interrupting me, aren’t you.”

“And what’s that?” Illumi could barely hear his own voice over their breathing, Hisoka’s clothed erection brushing up against his bare thigh. His leg tilted in response, curving up into Hisoka’s waist, ankle perching onto his lower back.

“You’re too pretty for your own good, Zoldyck,” he laughed, “too pretty, too powerful—in another life, I could’ve married you for real.”

Let it be known, Illumi wanted to scoff; he wanted to shun the thought and the sentiment and the stupidity of the statement, like he would’ve ten minutes before. But mental sobriety was far from reach, and the only thing he felt was a folding warmth in his abdomen.

It’s lust.

It had to be.

“You would’ve married me,” Illumi repeated, locking his legs to hitch Hisoka down; the man welcomed the movement with a low, dense moan. “That’s—ridiculous.”

“And this isn’t?” Hisoka swallowed past his smile, burying his face in the break of Illumi’s neck. “We’re about to fuck on a ship hosting some battle royale, well on its way to doomsday. I’d say that was pretty fucking ridiculous.”

Illumi felt their bodies slacken, a stillness falling over the room despite the heat of their arousals. Blinking his eyes open, he stared at the small chandelier hanging from the ceiling, cheap in its luxury, “Hisoka.”

He got a long, unmodulated hum in response.

Slowly, Illumi wound his arms around Hisoka’s shoulders, “Are you serious?”

“That I would’ve married you?” he scoffed, the hold he had on Illumi’s waist more gentle when he did. Hisoka gave himself a moment of quiet, drawing orbit after orbit into Illumi’s hip with his thumb. “Yeah—yeah, I think I am.”

He let out a low whistle.

“I must be wasted.”

Illumi huffed out a small chuckle, something buried and quiet, “I think you might be, yes.”

“Ah, fun.”

The smile was automatic, even if it was barely there. Illumi dropped both his legs back to the mattress, loosening his arms to hold Hisoka’s face instead. He leveled it with his own, “You’re a mess, Morrow.”

Hisoka dropped his head into the ink of Illumi’s hair; we both are.