Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Illumi doesn’t watch porn.

It simply was never a vice he felt compelled to consume. He doesn’t have strong feelings about it one way or another, though if forced to choose, he’d lean toward indifference, perhaps slight disfavor. He understands its purpose, why people become hooked, even chronically addicted. He’s even somewhat sympathetic to those who fall victim to such hyperfixations.

After all, he’s seen it firsthand.

His younger brother, Milluki, had gone through a particularly debilitating phase of porn addiction a few years back—a memory Illumi doesn’t revisit willingly. If only his needles allowed selective memory loss.

Milluki, for all his technical ingenuity—inventive digitizing, ability to execute long-distance kills, and advanced cyber-literacy—had been completely ensnared by the content of a certain camgirl known as SapphireSlurps444. Illumi pointedly chose not to comment on the username. Milluki had bypassed every firewall and parental control their parents had placed on household devices with laughable ease. On the site stripcam.com, Sapphire was particularly distinguished due to her rather, well, proficient slurping skills—an umbrella term since she would deepthroat just about anything suggested or sent to her personally.

The signs had been obvious: an uptick in Milluki’s willingness to take missions, a pattern of costly online purchases, and the arrival of numerous suspiciously packaged deliveries. Naturally, the responsibility of addressing the issue fell to Illumi, as all household dilemmas inevitably did. So, he reluctantly navigated the dark, musky corridors of the manor to Milluki’s room, dreading what awaited him on the other side.

The sequence of events comes to him in fragmented flashes, much like the erratic recollections of his rare bursts of unbridled fury. The door slamming open, the immediate stench of something salty and stale, the rhythmic, obscene sounds of wet slurping interwoven with heavy, uneven breathing. Milluki hunched over his desk, eyes glued to the monitor where the camgirl was mid-performance, throat stuffed to the brim with an unidentifiable foreign object. Illumi lost control. He doesn’t remember what he said—if he said anything at all—but by the time he left, Milluki had been thoroughly reprimanded.

It took several months before Milluki could meet his gaze again. When he finally did, Illumi sat him down for what he considered a productive conversation. He assured him that nothing about his actions was inherently shameful—he was a vulnerable, hormonal teenager with too much free rein—but sexuality was something to be understood and explored, not something one should be thrust into recklessly, especially by someone profiting from their indulgence.

Illumi thought he had handled the situation rather well.

He had reassured Milluki that this phase—this awkward, uncomfortable transition—was one that everyone outgrew, a rite of passage. His own, naturally, had been meticulously calculated. Like most things in his life.

His formal introduction to sex had come at eighteen, taught in true Zoldyck fashion by his father. The curriculum? A strictly utilitarian guide on seduction as a tactical advantage, ensuring the success of a mission. Before mastering technique, he first had to understand the fundamentals—procreation, intercourse, and an array of related acts like fellatio and cunnilingus. The lessons had been delivered with brutal efficiency: a skeletal diagram of human anatomy, a sparse explanation of corresponding erogenous zones, and his father’s clipped, emotionless instruction.

“And Son, remember, implement these techniques with the utmost tactfulness and consideration.” 

But it wasn’t until later that Illumi discovered that his father had intended for consideration to be taken in regards to oneself. He learned that the hard way.

From there, Illumi refined his understanding through practical application. He started small: a lingering glance, the subtle raise of a brow, a fleeting touch to the knee. Each test yielded varying degrees of success, though he quickly deduced that his naturally cold allure produced mixed results.

Eventually, he escalated. Engaging targets, luring them into private spaces, cultivating trust—rendering them vulnerable. His first attempt at something more advanced had been a disaster, though it hadn’t seemed so at first. The mark had been conventionally attractive: symmetrical face, straight teeth, a full head of hair. He had been charmed by Illumi’s advances, reciprocating eagerly. But when he had guided Illumi into the VIP section of his club, things had taken a sharp turn.

The man had been forceful—too forceful. He had manhandled Illumi onto his back, rutting against him, begging to penetrate. Illumi had acquiesced, though unease prickled at him. He’d averted his gaze as an imposing finger thrust inside him, stretching, preparing. Then came the moment of entry—sudden, sharp, a pain that ricocheted through his body like a ping-pong ball.

Before he could fully register the sensation, his body reacted on instinct.

His fingers sharpened into lethal claws, slashing clean through the man’s jugular in one swift motion.

Illumi remained stone-faced as the body collapsed beside him, blood pooling around them both. He shoved the corpse aside, calmly rose to his feet, snapped a few photos for documentation, and slipped out of the club. Later that night, he stood beneath the scalding spray of his shower, meticulously scrubbing away the dried blood. Then, without warning, his knees buckled. He sank to the floor, curling into himself, wet hair clinging to his face as he fought to control his trembling breaths. Water mixed with tears, both swirling down the drain in quiet testimony to his unraveling.

From that point on, he knew without question: he prefers to top.

For the next two years, he refined his skills, bedding men and women alike—curvy, petite, muscular, short, tall. He honed his technique, ensuring that he could render any mark utterly defenseless, pliant beneath him. But once he perfected the method, he lost interest. Seduction was no longer a necessity, so he abandoned it, shifting focus to more efficient forms of assassination.

Which brings him back to the subject of porn.

Illumi simply never saw the need for it. Sexual proclivities had always been a matter of utility, confined strictly to work. Of course, every now and then, he had to relieve tension, but he had a practiced routine, a tried-and-true method that never took more than five minutes.

Anything one sought out in porn, Illumi reasoned, could be pursued in real life. Tangible experience was in no way comparable to a mere visual portrayal.

For reference, he had learned an exponential amount regarding his preferences—his likes and dislikes—through his spontaneous trysts with Hisoka over the past few months. He had even begun taking notes when he returned home, documenting both his reactions and Hisoka’s. The information would, no doubt, prove valuable in the future. At the very least, it was an ongoing case study.

Hisoka and Illumi’s relations are unpredictably predictable—

A pattern only distinguishable to them.

First, Hisoka deliberately strikes a nerve—disobedience, disrespect, or a well-placed insult. It’s a game. It always starts on a mission, with Hisoka jeopardizing the plan by ignoring Illumi’s strict guidelines or making an offhanded snide remark about the Zoldycks.

Next, Illumi sets a boundary—cold, and precise, reminding Hisoka what is acceptable during their time together. Hisoka, of course, takes this as an invitation to push further, slyly inching Illumi’s patience toward the edge.

Then, at the mission’s climax, Hisoka escalates. A particularly egregious move—too reckless, too defiant—finally forcing Illumi to snap. Violence ensues. Hisoka is pummeled, tossed, and wounded—but never in a way that truly hurts him. He makes sure of that. He lets Illumi overpower him, fails to dodge certain blows, reveling in the shift of control, the raw dominance radiating off of Illumi when his composure shatters.

Finally, Illumi reasserts his dominance—through force, through restraint, through carnal reclamation. If one were to categorize it, it is brat-taming in its purest form, a BDSM-flavored assertion of power.

But it is never planned. It simply… happens.

Hisoka, desperate for attention, thrives under pain. Illumi, starved for control, finds satisfaction in being needed. Their dynamic has never been defined—no words, no negotiations, just a pattern falling into place. A wild, encompassing need, burning bright for as long as the moment lasts, until the bloodlust, fury, desperation, and passion is spent.

Then, they move on.

Just as Illumi does with all of life’s pleasures.

His enjoyment, after all, is fleeting. He dedicates himself fully to his work, losing himself in assignments because once a job ends, reality sets in. It’s back to going through the motions, waiting—always waiting—for the next thrill, the next purpose, the next rush.

Illumi’s life is a waiting game.

So it’s no surprise that when he has Hisoka exactly where he wants him, he takes his time. Painstakingly slow. Drawn-out teasing. Meticulous control.

Illumi is an efficient man, but when it comes to Hisoka, he is clocked out. Smug. Adrenaline-high.

Hisoka’s ideal mix. Even if he pretends to despise it.

“Mmf—y’hafta let m’down.”

Illumi withdraws his fingers from Hisoka’s mouth, dragging his forefinger and index against the wet heat of his tongue. Hisoka’s saliva pools, glossy and thick, imprinting tiny ridges of his teeth onto Illumi’s skin. A faint taste of oil lingers—the slick residue of Illumi’s hair, which he had idly run his fingers through moments ago.

Hisoka coughs—rough, dry.

“Let me down, Illu—this is insane. Even for you.”

Illumi’s large, black eyes widen. His pupils, endless and devouring, reflect Hisoka’s golden irises—fiery, defiant.

Hisoka’s eyes always give him away.

They gleam too much, twinkling as if he finds his own predicament amusing.

Illumi studies him, the way Hisoka soaks up the attention, before the magician pointedly looks away, feigning nonchalance.

“Then tell me Hisoka, why did you allow yourself to be tied up, hm? You fought back pathetically, so by all means—enlighten me."

A slow bloom of red colors Hisoka’s cheeks, clashing starkly with his ashen pallor.

He sways slightly, the steel wire creaking under his weight.

“Why’re y’doin'—is?”

The voice comes from above.

Illumi’s eyes flicker upward. He almost forgot—they aren’t alone.

Hisoka hangs closest to the ground, suspended like a grotesque centerpiece. Above him, a dozen butchers stretch upward in two staggered lines, six to each side, ascending diagonally toward the ceiling in a grim V-formation. All of them dangle with slit throats, blood dripping steadily from deep, precise gashes.

The slaughterhouse is frozen in time.

Along the back wall, chickens still hang as if waiting. Their raw, freshly plucked flesh fills the air with a foul, sulfuric stench, loose feathers drifting weakly beneath them.

On a metal table, three pigs lay long dead, their lace pink skin mottled with green veins, betraying the sickness they’d carried even before death.

Illumi cocks his head, finally landing his gaze on the butcher who had spoken.

The man hangs upside-down, short black hair sticking up in grotesque defiance of gravity. Blood crawls from his throat wound, tracing along his temples before falling free, splattering the faded tiles in a violent abstract piece.

“You’re still alive.”

A statement, not a question.

Illumi considers the possibility that he had been sloppy—rushing the kills in his eagerness to move on to other matters.

The butcher tries to speak again, but all that comes out is a wet, gurgling rasp. He coughs, spitting blood onto Hisoka’s leg.

Illumi grimaces, the dark coagulated fluid marring the smooth expanse of skin he had so carefully arranged before him.

This isn’t his usual style, but the client had been specific—and they had paid well.

A radical non-profit, locked in a decade-long war with a meat processing giant, had commissioned the hit. With recently leaked footage exposing the company’s horrific treatment of animals, they wanted to send a message—a brutal, sinister one.

Illumi had known it was serious business the moment his grandfather cackled maniacally while reading the assignment details:

Immobilize the staff. String them up like their livestock. Slit their throats with their own butcher knives. Make them bleed slow. 

A mirror image of their victims.

Illumi had called Hisoka, not because he needed him, but because the job suited Hisoka’s tastes. 

As expected, Hisoka had been gleeful.

And, as expected, Hisoka had gone off-script.

Letting a butcher almost escape, leaving too much slack in his wires.

So, of course—Illumi had to teach him a lesson.

Hisoka hangs limp, strung up among the corpses, suspended upside-down, helpless, perfect.

He looks breathtaking from this angle—one long, toned leg bent in a pirouette, shoulders bunched, arms restrained behind his back. His torso—bronzed, slick with sweat—rises and falls, muscles quivering from the awkward position. And his lips—pink, curl in a smirk despite everything—parted slightly, just enough for Illumi to lean in.

“Well, you heard him.”

Illumi ghosts his lips over Hisoka’s.

“Show him why we’re doing this, baby.”

Hisoka shudders.

Illumi’s nails skim his abdomen, tracing the fine lines of muscle, before stopping at a pert nipple. Hisoka whines, trying to press his thighs together—only for his body to sway uselessly in its restraints.

“Illu… touch me—touch me. Please.”

A plea, breathless.

Illumi smirks, turning his gaze to the butcher, whose bulging eyes are dulling with blood loss.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, “should I indulge him?”

The butcher laughs, choking on his own blood.

“G’to hell.”

Illumi sighs.

“Oh my… it seems I’ve inadvertently mixed work and pleasure—again.”

Illumi’s voice is a low hum, amused yet detached, as he returns to Hisoka’s side. A thin strand of saliva slips from his lips, landing messily on the curve of Hisoka’s cock, where a deep venetian flush has already begun to bloom.

And then—

He indulges him.

With methodical precision, he spreads the spit along the slit, circling the head in slow, deliberate strokes before easing into a steady rhythm. Hisoka’s thighs tremble at the contact, breath stuttering, the bindings amplifying every sensation. Painful creases imprinted upon his skin, completely subjected to the onslaught of pleasure.

Illumi leans down, biting softly at Hisoka’s milky thigh before ghosting a kiss over the mark—dainty, deceptive, almost tender. Hisoka is panting now, his chest fluctuating in uneven waves. Illumi can tell he won’t last long.

He lets himself relish the sight—Hisoka, uncharacteristically pliant, head tipping back, body reacting on instinct. The grotesque cocktail of scents in the room—blood, sweat, death—barely registers. He refuses to let it distract him.

Instead, he focuses on the sounds.

The drawn-out, keening whimpers. The breathless pleas.

Hisoka rarely surrenders so quickly. But there is something uniquely intoxicating about watching him unravel—his usual defiance melting into need.

Illumi tightens his grip, twisting his wrist with just the right amount of pressure. His fingers squeeze the base, dance along the head, teasing, coaxing. Then he taps the back of Hisoka’s thigh—a silent command.

“Look at me.”

Hisoka obeys, though it takes effort. His neck strains as he lifts his head, lidded eyes flickering open. His straining is rewarded with Illumi’s rare, desirous gaze. Half-lidded and patient, his typical saucers had transformed into elegant crescents. Thick lashes casting shadows over onyx irises, pupils blown wide.

“Illu—ah—”

The sound barely makes it past Hisoka’s lips before his release shudders through him. A sharp gasp, then a healthy spurt spilling across his chest, the final remnants landing in a glistening trail along the curve of his Adam’s apple. The trickling spend reveals his transcendent ecstasy like a poorly kept secret, the final touches to a masterpiece. Illumi briefly considers if this, the hyperrealistic blissed-out piece before him is his magnum opus.

Illumi stills, admiring his work, expression unreadable. Then—

A sigh.

Breathy, content.

He’s been making that sound a lot more often lately. Usually at a time like this—in the wake of their shared adrenaline high.

If you were to ask, Illumi would argue it's a simple release of air, an allowance of tension his body is prone to hold. That tends to happen a lot in his field of work. Illumi tells himself that it doesn’t happen all that often.

Embarrassingly enough, he does it again—a mere 96 hours later.

That sigh. That instinctual reaction. It’s becoming too frequent.

Even more frequent than the shrill, high-pitched scream of his mother.

Which says a lot.

It’s almost Pavlovian, really. A conditioned response, triggered by Hisoka’s presence. An unspoken cue to wrap it up and return to business—as if any of this was business to begin with.

────୨ৎ────

After ninety-six hours, when Illumi sighs again, he swears Hisoka reacts too. A bated breath is expelled, and Hisoka looks almost bashful—light lashes fluttering, cheeks stretching in a lazy smile. The moment is unexpectedly sweet, juxtaposed against the remnants of their more sordid activities.

Hisoka straddles Illumi, knees angled on either side of him, his warm body slack against Illumi’s softening cock. Leisurely, Hisoka winds a long strand of black hair around his fingers, then leans forward, smudging the mess on his chest with idle fascination. A soft suction sound follows—the plug gone with the motion, and Illumi’s spend seeps out obscenely.

“Gross.”

Illumi wrinkles his nose, its curve sharp and disdaining. Hisoka only smirks, shifting to rub himself along Illumi, still slick and wet. Illumi groans, half in disapproval of the unhygienic display, half in response to the lingering pleasure despite his oversensitivity.

Mere minutes ago, Hisoka had ridden him expertly—thighs flexing, sculpted calves straining, keeping a steady, punishing rhythm on Illumi’s cock. The light slap of their hips meeting a constant, Hisoka bouncing on Illumi's cock like his life depended on it, burying his face in Illumi's neck—sensual moans breathed directly into his ear like a confession. His stamina was remarkable, a testament to his endurance. Perhaps Illumi should train with him. Hisoka moved like he was made for this, a realization Illumi had relayed with a firm grip on his hips and a choked hiss.

Hisoka’s hips had stuttered at that, and Illumi had easily taken over—fucking up into him, chasing the clench of Hisoka’s release as he gasped and came undone.

Now, Hisoka truly brings Illumi back to the present, running a finger through the sticky mess on his chest before slipping it between his lips, sucking it clean like it’s brownie batter.

Illumi shifts him aside with measured ease, settling Hisoka onto the wrinkled green and gold satin bedding. With his distraction removed, he is reacquainted with the sight of their mark, still seated upright in his gilded Vendôme chair. The man’s cosmetically tanned skin gleams, his expression frozen in horror. Needles embedded in his C1 and C2 vertebrae keep him paralyzed, his body locked in time—watery eyes wide, thin lips trembling, hand pathetically gripping his purpling half-hard cock.

Hisoka had been the one to discover the mark’s particular perversion. A few well-placed questions, a generous tab of drinks, and the man had spilled his proclivities like a leaky faucet.

Illumi had felt his stomach twist when Hisoka whispered the new information against his ear, voice lilting with a hopeful hum. There was no convincing needed—Illumi had all but dragged Hisoka aside, palms groping whatever they could reach, devouring him with open eyes fixed on their mark.

Soon after, they had been led to a private room, their target visibly aroused, hands trembling as he fumbled with the lock. By then, Illumi’s hands had been buried deep in Hisoka’s pants, a cool middle finger circling his rim, coaxing more breathy whimpers from his throat.

────୨ৎ────

“Did you like being watched?”

“Hm?”

Illumi stands tall, gazing out at the skyline emerging from thick wisps of clouds. The view is a familiar comfort—whenever he rides by airship over this region, he ensures he’s here, watching, precisely when they reach an altitude of forty-thousand feet.

Hisoka’s voice doesn’t distract him from the sight of the sun breaking through the edges of the clouds, casting shadows over the denser formations. Illumi breathes evenly, his heartbeat steady and slow.

“The other day, in the private room with the pervert.” Hisoka’s nail drags lightly along Illumi’s shoulder, goosebumps rising in its wake. “You liked it, didn’t you? That he watched us?”

Illumi grunts—a weak, ambiguous response. In truth, he isn’t sure. He hasn’t examined those feelings yet, having neatly boxed them away and banished them to his mind’s deepest abyss.

Hisoka sidles up beside him, resting a hip against the sleek white railing. He puffs out his cheeks, an exaggerated pout.

“Oh, but my dear Illumi, your body divulges all your secrets. You finished fast that day.”

He sighs dreamily, lashes fluttering as if lost in pleasant reminiscing.

Illumi finally tears his eyes from the shifting horizon. The airship passes through a darker cluster of clouds—smoky, ominous.

“No,” he says at last, “you’re mistaken. I’m not an exhibitionist.”

Hisoka raises a curious brow. Illumi clarifies.

“Corpses don’t count. We can’t be actively watched if the soul has already been expelled.”

Illumi shrugs. Hisoka chuckles, delighted by the cold detachment in his response. The corner of Illumi’s lips twitch in the shadow of a smile.

“But what is it, then?” Hisoka presses, glancing at the dark clouds warily. “If I know what you like, I can make it better for both of us.” A pause. “I could arrange for a willing audience to enjoy our little performances~”

Illumi’s chest tightens. His brief tranquility dissolves into irritation. He hates these conversations—improper, invasive. They force him to imagine scenarios he would never place himself in.

“No need.”

Hisoka blinks, mildly stunned. His hand is halfway into his pocket, reaching for his phone, likely already prepared to make arrangements.

Illumi halts the motion with a gentle hand on his wrist, then turns, walking toward his quarters. The sharp click of Hisoka’s heels follows.

There’s a low rumble from outside the airship.

Illumi is always in transit—one destination to the next. He keeps a small bag of travel essentials, but nothing compares to the comfort of a proper rest. He enjoys the designated resting rooms, where a weighted blanket helps him drift into unconsciousness with moderate ease.

Now, however, he finds himself beneath the grounding weight of Hisoka’s body instead. In the spotless mirror across the room, he can't help but observe Hisoka sitting prettily in his lap, facing the reflection. His eyes are closed, at ease, hips rolling in slow, teasing movements.

“Illu~”

Illumi answers by gripping Hisoka’s waist, fingers brushing over soft linen. Up close, he breathes in Hisoka’s scent—earthy musk from the outdoors, layered with something warm, rustic.

He exhales against Hisoka’s skin, relenting to the stir in his gut.

Hisoka meets his gaze in the mirror, smirking.

“Oh, but of course. You do enjoy an audience.” He tilts his head, eyes twinkling. “But you’d prefer if that audience was you. Possessive looks good on you.”

Illumi frowns, dropping his gaze to the curve of Hisoka’s ass resting against his thighs. He leans back, sinking into the pillow, his hold tightening to drag Hisoka back some.

“Finish what you started.”

“With pleasure~”

Outside, thunder rolls, a deep, resounding echo against the airship’s hull.

Inside, the storm brews between them, unrelenting.

Illumi drags his palms over the curve of Hisoka’s clothed ass, feeling the slow grind of rounded hips against him. Eager for more, Hisoka lowers himself deftly, his face dipping elegantly, nuzzling his cheek along the length of Illumi’s concealed erection. A soft purring sound rumbles from his throat, like a stray cat reveling in newfound attention.

In turn, Illumi mouths at Hisoka’s lower back, the mesh fabric of his top lifting, granting him access as he leisurely trails lower. He carefully pulls baby-blue bottoms taut with his fingers before pressing a flat tongue over the dip of his rim. Hisoka groans, his grip tightening as he tugs Illumi free from his pants, fingers curling around his base, lips pressing soft kisses to his tip. The affection makes Illumi’s hips stutter, his cock twitching in response. He tugs at Hisoka’s pants, the material slipping effortlessly down, baring Hisoka’s perky backside in invitation.

Illumi licks his lips, pink tongue sweeping over his mouth, anticipation pooling in his stomach.

Hisoka reciprocates, licking him from base to tip, his tongue twirling along the underside before gliding over his slit. He suckles gently, then swallows him down, his cheeks hollowing to create a tight suction as he pulls back up. A muffled sound escapes Illumi as he laps at Hisoka's rim, teasingly dipping his tongue to relax the tight muscle. With rough, calloused fingers spreading him apart, he buries his tongue deep inside Hisoka’s hole, his grip firm. Hisoka moans around him, the vibrations sending delicious tremors around Illumi’s cock, his saliva dripping down to slick Illumi’s balls as he bobs his head, sucking him whole.

Illumi’s breath hitches when he makes the mistake of glancing up, his reflection in the mirror capturing the erotic display—Hisoka eagerly taking him in, pink lips stretched around his cock, the sight bordering on obscene. Dark black make-up, eyeliner, or mascara—Illumi can't tell, runs in streaks beneath Hisoka's fluttering eyes, yet he looks genuinely delighted. Foxy eyes bright, a hand pushing his tousled hair from his face, determined to take Illumi deeper.

Illumi reaches around Hisoka’s thigh, fingers squeezing his cock, pumping him in a firm rhythm, mindful to tighten his grip at the tip, twisting his wrist just enough to make Hisoka jolt. A high-pitched whimper escapes Hisoka’s throat, his hips trembling in response. Watching his cock disappear down Hisoka’s throat, feeling the tight constriction as Hisoka swallows around him, Illumi’s stomach coils tight, pleasure cresting suddenly. Unable to restrain himself, his climax rips through him with startling force, spilling deep down Hisoka’s throat. Hisoka sputters briefly, the wet sound of a low gargle filling the air before he forcibly gulps him down, throat constricting, milking him dry. The continued suction pulls another moan from Illumi’s lips as he twitches through the aftershocks.

With a slick pop, Hisoka pulls off, panting, lips red and swollen. Illumi slips two fingers beside his tongue, stretching him further. Hisoka clenches around him, shuddering at the quickening rhythm and precise, angled thrusts. The warm, velvety grip of him is intoxicating—Illumi swears he could chase this high indefinitely. Hisoka gasps, voice cracking on a broken moan of Illumi’s name as he spills, cum splattering his heaving stomach, droplets slipping onto Illumi’s fingers.

“Feels good?” Illumi asks, voice low and unable to prevent mild slurring.

Hisoka trembles, his name mixing with breathy affirmations, whispered like a prayer. Illumi works him through his orgasm, toeing the line of overstimulation before bringing his cum-streaked fingers to his lips, lapping them clean as if it were second nature. When he glances up again, Hisoka’s gaze meets his in the mirror, his almond eyes hazy, angular features flushed a soft pink.

The sudden ring of Illumi’s phone cuts through the thick, humid air. Without hesitation, he straightens up and answers.

“Hello, Father.”

Hisoka playfully plants lingering kisses along his spent length, tucking Illumi neatly back into his pants, before crawling off his lap. On the other end of the call, Silva’s voice is sharp, demanding a mission report.

Illumi drones on about timeliness, preparation, execution, and resource allocation, but his true focus is on Hisoka stretching, his arms lifting above his head before he lazily slumps against Illumi’s side, head resting on his shoulder.

Illumi’s fingers find Hisoka’s cherry-red hair, raking through the strands like a comb, his nails dragging lightly over Hisoka’s scalp. Hisoka hums, pleased.

Silva’s voice hardens. “And the collateral?”

Illumi lowers his volume slightly. “An unforeseen witness. Eliminated accordingly.”

A displeased grunt. A pause. Then, “Sloppy.”

“Yes, Father,” Illumi says without inflection. “I understand. I will be more cautious.”

“Yes.”

“Goodbye.”

The call ends with a click.

Hisoka tilts his head up, a lazy smirk curling his lips. “Somebody’s in troooublee~” he teases in a sing-song voice.

Illumi rolls his eyes, shifting Hisoka onto the pillows before standing, straightening his clothes as he gathers his bearings. A part of him—perhaps a rather foolish, indulgent part—longs for the feathery warmth of the bed, for Hisoka’s body curled beside him, pressing close. But that would be inappropriate.

There are other rooms. Other beds.

Illumi finds one and flops onto it with ease, his long hair splaying around his head like a dark fan. The airship hums with motion, the sound of wind and distant thunder rumbling beyond its walls.

He closes his eyes.

But sleep does not come.

────୨ৎ────

Restlessness crashes over Illumi, a tempest arising. When he finally does succumb to sleep, it’s fleeting—shallow and fitful. He twists in his sheets, jaw clenched, frustration carving deep lines into his face. Barely an hour passes before he’s forced to rise, his body heavy with exhaustion, his mind thrumming like distant thunder, low and ceaseless.

But thunder never rumbles without consequence. It builds, swells—until the inevitable strike. And when Illumi’s lightning falls, it’s precise, merciless. This time, it has nothing to do with an assignment. He’s engaged in reconnaissance for a potential job Silva is considering, weighing whether the effort is worth the pay. Slipping into the weathered church had been easy, and Illumi has to give them credit—it’s the perfect cover. He counts 1,620 seconds, then rises from the rickety pew and heads to the restroom. The congregation is consumed by the hymnal, swaying in reverence, eyes fixed on the cross.

Finding the backroom is effortless. The parish office is tucked into the closest hallway, completely unguarded. They’re confident, too confident. Illumi moves like a shadow, gliding through long crumbling halls, peering into rooms, taking note of every detail. A headcount: roughly a hundred workers, completely nude, working diligently, their exposed skin pressed uncomfortably against wooden stools as they bag the powdery white substance. By his estimation, there are at least forty kilos, with more peeking out from military-grade duffels.

Depending on the purity, this operation could rake in a hefty payout. A job worth taking. He’ll give his father his assessment later.

Retracing his steps, he moves toward the exit, but in the lobby, a coarse hand latches onto his arm. Illumi's gaze falls from the double doors, only a couple more steps away, to the tiny spikes digging into his skin. Instinctively, he jerks away, his gaze snapping downward to the offending object: a thick, gaudy two-finger ring—cheap gold encasing two stubby fingers.

Illumi looks up, curious who would dare touch him unprompted. The sinister face looking back at him, all too familiar. The priest.

She doubles down, reaching again, her stout frame straining against a long cream robe, chunky rhinestones glittering at her throat. There’s a hint of green smeared into her ashen skin, the telltale sign of cheap jewelry.

“Come with me, boy.”

The ring bites into his flesh again, and a flash of blood-red fills his vision.

A blink, then another, and the blood is real. It pools before him, memorializing the woman, her sickly sneer frozen in place. Flowing robes now tattered, barely clinging to open wounds, grotesque and gaping. An expanse of raw salmon pink now visible where the skin had been clawed at. She is exposed, lifeless, ruined.

Illumi is gone before the tang of metal taints the air, slipping into the alley behind the building. His chest heaves, breaths uneven. He presses two fingers to his pulse, but it’s erratic, impossible to track. His hands tremble as he braces against his knees, then sinks to the ground. The phone in his grip feels foreign, slick. He fumbles, and it clatters pathetically against the pavement. He wants nothing more than to shut the world out—just for a moment.

He dials without thinking. Instinct. A risk.

The call rings. Once. Twice. Thr—

“Ah, speak of the devil! Illu, I was just thinking about you~”

Illumi holds his breath until it feels like he’ll burst, then exhales in a shaky gasp.

“H-Hisoka… she—no, I—felt it. Felt something sharp… my arm. Can’t breathe.”

“Hey, hey. Slow down—give me a moment.” There’s a faint rustling, then muffled voices. “Okay, I’m here. Take a breath, sweetheart. Breathe with me—three counts.”

Hisoka’s voice is firm, steady. Illumi clings to it like a lifeline, following the inhale-hold-exhale rhythm until the tremors subside. His other hand is tangled in his hair, strands yanked loose. His fingernails are caked with blood.

“You with me?”

“Yes.”

“Mm, I’m glad. Listen to what happened to me today.”

Illumi presses the phone closer, grounding himself in Hisoka’s voice feeling soothed by the playful cadence. The breathing exercise continues in the background as he listens.

“I ordered the most darling top—cinched at the waist, low scooping neckline, mesh with streaks of scarlet red. Been waiting three months. The Heaven’s Arena mailroom clerk must’ve been terrified of me peeking in every day—he quit.”

Illumi snorts, covering his mouth. He can imagine Hisoka looming impatiently, oozing deadly irritation. No wonder the worker fled.

“Don’t laugh! I didn’t even speak to him. Anyway, the shirt finally came. I opened it up, tried to slip it on, and—rip! Right at the shoulders. Turns out, they sent me a petite.”

“Why did you even try it on?” Illumi asks, exasperated. “The size must have been obviously wrong. It was a lost cause to begin with.”

“I’m an optimist at heart. You know this.”

“Right.” Illumi shakes his head. “Are you in your room now?”

“Something like that. Where are you, darling?”

Illumi surveys his surroundings. The city stinks of garbage and mold. He’s sitting on a crushed plastic cup. A fat rat scurries along the sidewalk just beyond the alley.

“Gathering intel. This place is a dump. I’m literally sitting in trash.” He swats at a buzzing fly.

“Ah, that takes me back. Are you hurt? Do you need me to retrieve you?”

“No, I can take care of myself. You—” Illumi hesitates. “You were helpful. It’s appreciated.”

“Anytime.”

Regaining composure, Illumi reenters the church, leaving behind the signature modus operandi of an inner-city gang. They routinely rob local establishments, marking victims with hands placed over their mouths, blood scrawled beside them: should’ve complied. A final mockery before the body grows cold.

Once his tracks are clean, he calls his father to request a jet, desperate to be far, far away. He wipes his hands down his shirt, rolling his fingers repeatedly to rid his fingernails of ugly, fleshy bits of skin. This outfit? He’s tossing it—it’s tainted.

Strapped in on the jet, feeling more like himself, he types out a message:

[Illumi]: Turns out I ruined an outfit today too. I empathize with you.

[Hisoka]: It’s completely and utterly heart-breaking (☍﹏⁰)｡

[Illumi]: At the very least, I’m sure your closet isn’t suffering the loss.

[Hisoka]: Maybe, maybe not (¬､¬)

Illumi smiles faintly, locking his phone. Thick headphones muffle the drone of the propellers. Minutes later, a vibration against his palm.

[Hisoka]: You okay?

[Illumi]: Yes.

[Illumi]: I apologize for earlier. I’m unsure what happened.

[Hisoka]: You mentioned something sharp on your arm?

[Illumi]: Yes. An unexpected civilian intercepted my departure. She had a multi-finger ring and grabbed me. The sharpness was startling.

[Hisoka]: Reminded you of something unsavory?

[Illumi]: My mother wore a similar ring when I was young. Jagged, opaque gemstones. She’d grab at me during endurance training—chaining me up, leaving me alone for days with only water. Checking on me periodically, rousing my senses.

[Hisoka]: And that worked?

[Illumi]: Yes. It motivated me. I didn’t realize it had become a negative memory.

[Hisoka]: I assume you killed her.

[Hisoka]: The woman, I mean.

[Illumi]: Yes.

[Hisoka]: Good.

[Hisoka]: Accompany me to a black-market arms auction later this week?

[Illumi]: Why not? I currently have no pending obligations.

[Hisoka]: It’s a date! (˃ᆺ˂)

────୨ৎ────

Both Illumi and Hisoka have attended black market auctions before, so the get-up is no challenge. 

Illumi dresses himself in a tailored black three-piece suit, his hair styled neatly, coated in an oil-sheen finishing spray before brushing it down straight as can be—silky as ever. 

Hisoka picks him up in a black luxury sprinter, sliding open the door with a flourish, likely hoping Illumi will ogle his outfit. He wears a crisp off-white suit, fitted and elegant, with golden detailing along the seams. A long matching jacket lined in regal gold trails down just short of the ground, revealing his cuffed wrists. 

Where he’d acquired such an outfit, Illumi refuses to ask. But he does rake his eyes over Hisoka’s form, trying to ignore how Hisoka puffs his chest out in delight. His hair is loose—not slicked back but swept to the side.

The ride is brief, and Hisoka uses the time to inform Illumi of his objective for the night: the Metal Storm gun—a renowned, deadly machine gun capable of firing one million rounds per minute. Hisoka finds it impressive; Illumi finds it irrelevant, even redundant.

“If you require such a bulky, heavy-duty machine,” Illumi muses, “then you have no business engaging in violence, let alone warfare.”

Hisoka smirks, twirling a lock of hair between his fingers. “I intend to use it to train my technique—diversify its range, speed, and deadliness.”

Illumi considers this. Hisoka’s technique is effective, applicable in most, if not all, situations. Observing its evolution would be of interest.

Hisoka taps his fingernail against his phone and scoots closer, angling the screen toward Illumi. “Here’s the exact model I want. Memorize the serial number—need me to send you a pic?”

“You know I don’t.”

Hisoka sighs dramatically. “That’s such a turn-on, Illu. Not now. ”

Illumi scoffs but still catches Hisoka’s beaming grin—lips pursed, dipped into a knowing curl. Is that gloss? His eyeliner wings sharply, accentuating his eyes. The gold shimmer of his outfit makes the colors pop. 

He looks radiant. Illumi’s mouth goes dry.

He fiddles with his fingers in his lap and turns his attention to the window, half-listening as Hisoka drones on about how he had “charmed” his way into obtaining the sprinter, at no charge. The story is long, filled with unnecessary tangents, but Illumi nods along. He believes it. Slick persuasion. Pretty privilege.

Hisoka pokes a finger into his chest, and Illumi realizes they have parked.

“It’s time~”

Hisoka stands and strides to the door, pressing the button to slide it open. He extends a hand. 

“By the way, Illumi.”

Illumi, half-turning, blinks, lips barely ticking into a frown. 

“You look exquisite.” Hisoka waves his hand in a dramatic flourish as if casting a spell.

Illumi sure feels enchanted. He stiffens, nodding politely. “Thank you.”

Taking Hisoka’s hand, he steps from the stuffy car into the brisk evening air. His sleek black Oxfords kiss the cobblestone lining the driveway, their polished surface catching the glow of solar lights. He smooths his blazer, straightens his tie, and sweeps his sharp gaze over the property.

The house is heavily obscured by towering trees, their dark canopy casting an eerie overcast. The shrubbery is neatly trimmed, and men in black trench coats and optic monolith sunglasses usher well-dressed guests toward the entrance. The mansion itself is enormous yet grotesquely modern—cold grey aluminum, a culmination of harsh rectangles and squares fused together, a poor excuse for a home.

Illumi thinks it is horrendous. Visually lacking. 

“You don’t like it,” Hisoka observes as they ascend the polished stairs.

Illumi arches a brow. Hisoka continues, smirking. “This type of property is indicative of this particular auction. The host jumps locations for secrecy but enjoys the facade of opulence. You can see right through it—like that tacky door.”

They approach a grand, ostentatious doorway—an expanse of glass that attempts to impress but instead shatters the illusion. The panels open in jagged, discordant movements, their transparency exposing the space beyond, offering no real sense of exclusivity.

Illumi exhales a quiet huff, amused by the contradiction.

Inside, they are thoroughly searched for weapons before stepping into a grand foyer. The white noise of chatter envelops them. A towering cobblestone wall stretches to the high ceiling. A massive chandelier bathes the room in soft cream light. A black, winding staircase disappears into the second floor, its railing intricately designed. Few furnishings—just black leather sofas with deep red throw pillows. Servers in white vests carry trays of champagne, their smiles unsettlingly fixed.

Mildly curious about the interior, Illumi makes note of his intended route. “I’ll take the second floor. We can message if one of us has success.”

“You’re on, Illu~” Hisoka coos.

Illumi hadn’t intended for it to be a competition, but whatever helps Hisoka sleep at night.

Upstairs, the lights are dimmed, conversations hushed. Illumi adjusts his cuffs, letting his fingers trace the tip of a needle he keeps on hand. He strokes the steel wire almost absentmindedly, scanning black walls lined with weaponry. He isn’t well-versed in guns, nor does he need to be, but Milluki once rambled about their statistical benefits to Nen users, something about hand-eye coordination.

He taps through digital tablets displaying each firearm, watching demonstration videos. Sleek, well-crafted guns, showcased by masked shooters hitting bullseyes—or, in one case, a rabbit between the eyes from long-range. 

“Masterful, isn’t it? Do you carry?”

Illumi straightens. A middle-aged man with slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair, wiry glasses, and a pinstriped suit stands before him, hands clasped. His smile is wide, revealing crow’s feet and unnervingly perfect teeth.

Illumi extends a hand. “Impressive maximum range. I don’t carry, but I’m interested.”

The man’s grip is firm, his gold watch tapping Illumi’s fingers. Illumi hopes the same can’t be said for his hidden needles. The man lifts his blazer, revealing the thick grip of a Glock.

Illumi’s eyes narrow.

“Don’t look so surprised,” the man chuckles. “Being host grants certain privileges. I’m Akira.”

“I’d like to keep my name confidential.” Illumi meets his gaze warily. “But as host, you’d be valuable to my search. I’m looking for something that can fire multiple rounds in rapid succession.”

Akira smirks. “Like a machine gun? I have preserved relics—Type 92 HMG, for example.”

“Not interested in relics. I want something new, unprecedented, overwhelming.”

“Scary.” Akira chuckles. “I like you. Follow me.”

He moves with effortless confidence, leading the way to the dimly lit bar tucked into the corner. The scent of aged whiskey lingers in the air, mingling with the faint polish of well-worn wood. Without hesitation, Akira presses his back against the rear wall, his movements precise, almost rehearsed. He ducks beneath the canopy of suspended wine glasses, their delicate stems catching the low light, before reaching for a hidden door—its black paint blending seamlessly into the surroundings. With a subtle push, the outline of the passageway emerges, a secret waiting to be revealed. With a deft push, it cracks open just enough for the two men to slip inside.

The room beyond is darker, the air denser. It takes a moment for Illumi’s eyes to adjust. A dim, red glow illuminates the space, casting elongated shadows over tables draped in black cloth. Propped up on stands and arranged behind velvet rope barriers, the displays resemble a high-end gun show rather than a private lounge.

And there it is.

An intricate assembly of octagonal metallic plates, converging in a brutalist cross, riddled with firing apertures. Illumi’s fingers ghost over his breast pocket, feeling the outline of his phone. Akira halts beside him, following his gaze with mild intrigue.

“This one caught your eye?” Akira muses, his tone laced with satisfaction. “You have excellent taste. The Metal Storm operates on an electronic firing system. Its cyclic rate of fire is unlike anything else—rapid succession without the need for reloads.” He raises a finger, as if lecturing an eager student. “Bidding starts at ninety million Jenny.”

Illumi doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he steps away and dials Hisoka.

“Ah, I was just about to message you,” Hisoka purrs, voice thick with amusement. “No luck down here. I trust you have better news, hm?”

“Yes. I’m currently looking at the firearm you wanted. How much should I bid?”

“Delightful. Start with the minimum plus ten percent. The host knows me—I’ve wired payments through him before. Shouldn’t be an issue. Where can I find you?”

“Understood.” Illumi pauses, glancing at Akira before adding, “I’m actually here with him now. It’s an exclusive area. You wouldn’t be able to access it.”

A beat of silence.

“Wh—huh?! I’m sorry, what?!” Hisoka’s voice spikes in disbelief.

“I’ll be right down. Placing the bid now. No one else has.”

Illumi ends the call and proceeds with the bid, relaying Hisoka’s instructions to Akira. The other man quirks a brow at the mention of Hisoka but wisely refrains from commenting. Once the bid is placed and the transaction practically finalized, Illumi pivots toward the exit. Akira, however, isn’t ready to let him leave just yet.

“Leaving so soon?” Akira’s fingers brush down Illumi’s forearm, curling lightly around his wrist. “I have so much more to offer—things you might find just as appealing. Let me give you the real tour, won’t you?”

Illumi barely spares him a glance. With a precise twist of his wrist, he pulls free, continuing toward the door without hesitation.

“I’m good.”

By the time Illumi and Hisoka reconvene, the latter is practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a child high on sugar.

“Honestly, I didn’t think we’d actually land the bid,” Hisoka muses, a grin spreading across his face. “That model is elusive—I’m elated!”

Illumi, on the other hand, only feels the weight of exhaustion settling in. The auction’s gaudy chandelier lights are too bright, the voices around him too loud, the mingling perfumes too pungent. His patience, already thin, wears even thinner.

Illumi's lips thin into a narrow line, “Shall we go?”

“We shall.” Hisoka’s eyes soften as he offers an arm. 

Illumi untangles himself from Hisoka’s grasp before stepping into the sprinter, the door clicking shut behind him. As the vehicle lurches forward, its tires jolt over the uneven cobblestone, each bump sending a dull vibration through his spine. He exhales slowly, tension bleeding from his muscles as the geometric house shrinks in the rearview mirror, swallowed by distance and the encroaching dusk.

Several minutes into the drive, Illumi rests his head against the seat, closing his eyes. Hisoka’s insistent voice breaks the quiet. “Illu, don’t sleep. I’d like some entertainment.”

Illumi huffs in response, rubbing his knuckles into his eye to ease the lingering tension. When he blinks his eyes open, Hisoka’s expectant face is hovering far too close. A slender finger traces over Illumi’s cheek, plucking a single black lash and holding it up between them. Hisoka’s lips curl, eyes crinkling shut. “Make a wish~”

Illumi indulges him, thinking about his goal to increase his work productivity tenfold in the coming year. He blows gently. Hisoka’s neatly filed nail stays steady as the lash floats away with the warm gust of air.

“Now play a game with me, Illu~”

“I think I’ve reached my limit for card games.”

Hisoka groans theatrically. “If we must, we can play something different. It’s rush hour, so the ride back will take much longer.” He taps his chin, thinking. “Hm, how about ‘Two Truths and a Lie’? It’s a common game for social settings, but we can use it to test our observational skills and ability to read body language. I’ll start—it’s fairly straightforward.”

Illumi adjusts his posture, bending one leg on the seat as he sweeps his long hair over his shoulder, fully turning toward Hisoka. The magician has made himself quite comfortable, legs crossed daintily, resting his head in his palm. The upturned tip of his nose and pronounced cupid’s bow create an elegant contrast against his sharp features.

“Alright, Illu,” Hisoka begins, a hum of amusement in his voice. “Try to guess the lie correctly.” He collects his thoughts before listing his statements. “I am a certified mixologist. My quickest win in a fight was ten seconds. And I am quite the homebody.”

He grins as Illumi immediately begins analyzing. The second statement must be true—Hisoka’s prowess is undeniable. The third statement is also plausible; despite his flamboyant tendencies, Hisoka does have introverted habits. But a mixologist? Illumi isn’t entirely convinced.

“I’m fairly certain the first statement is the lie.”

Hisoka makes a loud buzzing sound, chuckling. “Sorry, darling, that’s incorrect. The lie was the second statement. I would never waste my precious time and energy on an opponent who could be beaten so easily. You know I love a challenge.” His voice lowers, words dripping with something greedy. “A real competitor—someone who can keep up with me.”

“Mm. I should’ve known.” Illumi’s brows furrow slightly. “I was careless.”

“Aw, don’t beat yourself up.” Hisoka rests a hand on Illumi’s thigh. “Now you know.”

Illumi exhales through his nose. “Fine. My turn. The Zoldycks have a combined net worth of 238.6 billion Jenny. I know how to knit. And I keep a documented headcount of all my kills.”

Hisoka idly traces circles on Illumi’s leg. The gentle motion makes it all too easy for Illumi to drift.

“Ooh, this is a tough one—you didn’t hold back.” Hisoka tilts his head, eyes gleaming with interest. “The third statement? That screams your meticulous, type-A personality, so I’ll set that aside. The first? Plausible—your family’s been steeped in wealth and notoriety for centuries. But the second…” He taps a finger against his chin, lips curling into a smirk. “Knitting, Illu? I won’t put it past you, but it feels a little too on the nose—so precise, so controlled, too much like your needles.” He leans in with a teasing lilt. “That has to be the lie.”

Hisoka’s nail scratches lightly at Illumi’s knee, making his leg twitch.

“Wrong.” Illumi mimics Hisoka’s earlier buzzer sound, earning a pout from the magician. “The lie was the first statement. I would never reveal vital information about my family’s wealth. And yes, I do keep a rough kill count inadvertently—my assignments are all documented and filed by my father. As for knitting, I do knit. Every so often, I complete a sweater, hat, or scarf when I find the time.”

Hisoka’s eyes gleam with mischief. “Can I commission you for a top sometime?”

Illumi chuckles. “Yes, but no payment is required. I’m still a novice—it could turn out horribly.” His fingers graze Hisoka’s bicep lightly. “I would need your measurements, though.”

Hisoka smirks, flexing. “Oh, Illu, as familiar as you are with my body, are you sure that’s necessary?”

Illumi’s fingers twitch, claws poised to strike, but before he can lash out, Hisoka melts away—quick, effortless.

He quickly steers the conversation back. “My turn again! Let’s see… Okay. I am a terrible cook. When you called me the other day in a panic, I was actually mid-fight at Heaven’s Arena. And when I was a boy, my hair was curly.”

Illumi’s mouth parts slightly, his black eyes reflecting flecks of amber and saffron. “Well, I personally hope the second statement isn’t true—that’s mildly horrifying. But truthfully, I’m stumped. The first could go either way. The second does seem like something you would do… but is that even allowed?” He shakes his head, thinking. “The third statement could be true, but I’m unsure how your hair texture could change so drastically.”

Illumi shrugs. “I give up.” He focuses on neutralizing his expression to refrain from appearing genuinely curious.

Hisoka’s grin stretches. “Really stumped you, huh? The third is actually true.” He twirls a fiery lock of hair around his finger, tucking it behind his ear. “Can’t explain it, but my hair was unruly when I was younger and smoothed out over time. The first is actually the lie—I may not seem like the type to cook, but I’m plenty capable. I’ve been self-sufficient forever.”

“Hisoka, no...”

“Hisoka, yes!” Hisoka throws an arm around Illumi’s shoulders and pulls out his phone. “I would never miss a call from you, so I called Time until we finished speaking.”

Illumi deadpans. “You didn’t think to tell me? I wouldn’t have kept you.”

Hisoka click-clacks through his phone before turning it horizontally and pressing play on a recording of the fight. He swipes through the video to about the fourteen-minute mark, revealing his opponent in an absurdly tight neon green bodysuit with a cartoonish flame in the center. A matching mask covers his head and eyes. Despite his vigilante get-up, the man is anything but a fighter—completely immobilized. Using Gyo, Illumi sees the fighter stuck to the ground with bungee gum, another strand binding his wrists together as if under arrest.

The camera angle shifts, capturing Hisoka addressing the audience, entirely disregarding his captive opponent. The video has no audio, but Illumi assumes he’s engaging in simple showman crowd-play, using his Nen to perform ‘magic tricks.’ His act is abruptly cut short when he retrieves his phone from his pants, extending a hand toward the crowd. His yellow compression shirt clings to his slim waist, the black cropped tee fluttering slightly as he turns to address the referee, red spades adorning his chest.

The referee signals a T, and the camera pans through the audience, capturing scowls and shouts. Illumi even spots a few drinks being thrown— wasteful. Before Hisoka descends the stairs of the ring, the camera catches his face: eyes unnaturally squinted, mouth set in a grim line. He looks… unnerved. Maybe even concerned. The emotion is so uncharacteristic of Hisoka that Illumi shifts in his seat, eager for the next shot.

Hisoka pauses the video, his lips curving into a sly smile as he tilts his head. “Well, I’d say this evidence speaks for itself—undeniable.” He flicks his fingers across the screen, zooming in on his own face, then lets out a low whistle. “Ah, but more importantly—would you look at that? My makeup was flawless that day. The camera truly adores me.”

Illumi groans, his eyes rolling, then hangs his head in exasperation.

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but his tone is playful.

“Eh, you know I don’t put too much thought into those fights. Every once in a while, I get a golden opportunity, but most times, my opponents lose all resolve halfway through.” He grimaces. “The biggest turn-off.”

Illumi rolls his eyes and peers outside. He recognizes the area now—they’re nearing his hotel.

“Gross.”

“Anyway, after that, I ended up defeating him completely one-handed. Figured I’d have some fun with it since it was so one-sided." Hisoka squeezes Illumi's thigh, "See what I did there?”

Illumi swiftly reaches over to snatch the phone from Hisoka’s hands, fast-forwarding through the footage. “I’d very much like to see that.”

────୨ৎ────

Days later, Illumi is still pondering the new information he has learned about Hisoka. He delays entering it into Hisoka’s case file, allowing himself to retain sole knowledge of it for just a little longer. The thought of Hisoka cooking himself a hot meal, detangling red curls, and expertly tossing a cocktail in a shaker tin before serving it neatly with a twist is strangely domestic, and Illumi finds himself lingering on the imagery.

As he settles at the long dining table—alone—to enjoy his dinner, he pauses, making a quick detour to the wine cellar to chase down the perfect pairing. He has spent most of the day catching up on sleep, and after working up an appetite, he feels like spoiling himself with a well-aged wine.

Thumbing through the steel labels lining the shelves, he decides to consult an expert.

[Illumi]: Hello. I need your expert advice—aged Chateau Margaux or Chateau Cheval Blanc to compliment venison?

[Hisoka]: How classy, Mr. Moneybags.

[Hisoka]: I’d go with the latter; the Cheval Blanc is exquisitely rich and full-bodied.

[Illumi]: You’ve just become that much more essential to me.

[Hisoka]: Oh, Illu~ I’m blushing (人´∀`)

Since he has already initiated a message thread with the magician, Illumi decides to go out on a limb and ask something he has been mulling over for the past few weeks. No time like the present, especially considering that it didn't serve to ease his already restless mind.

[Illumi]: After ascertaining your extensive Rolodex of talents, I’d like to extend a formal invitation for you to be my partner—both professionally and, for the sake of appearances, intimately—on my next assignment. It will take place aboard a yacht, during an exclusive art gallery event hosted over a weekend retreat for the elite. More details to come. 

[Illumi]: Join me?

Illumi waits with bated breath as a minute passes without a reply. He turns over the recommended bottle of wine, blowing at the thin sheet of dust caking the bottom. The wispy grey particles flutter into a cloud, and Illumi contemplates breathing it in to distract himself from the weighted anticipation. Then, three incoming messages appear in rapid succession.

[Hisoka]: (─‿─)

[Hisoka]: (⁀ᗢ⁀)

[Hisoka]: (ᗒᗨᗕ)

Illumi snorts, the indignant sound sharp against the quiet, reverberating through the vast cellar. He slaps a palm across his mouth, slightly embarrassed at the outburst despite being in a completely secluded area of his residence. 

[Illumi]: I understand what you mean by that, but given the scope of this assignment, I require a clear, verbal agreement.

[Hisoka]: I, Hisoka Morow, assert with full lucidity and without undue influence that I agree to accompany one Mr. Illumi Zoldyck as partner (and acting lover) for the designated mission.

[Illumi]: Thank you. 

[Hisoka]: ♡＼(￣▽￣)／♡

Chapter Text

The closest Illumi has ever come to true dissociation is in the overwhelming presence of his father. His mind—typically an impenetrable fortress—is slowly chipped away, gutted like a rundown car stripped for parts. When the paint peels and the scratches deepen, all that remains is a fragile husk, the skeletal remains of a man arrested in development.

It’s a sensation he knows well: the sudden cotton padding muffling his ears, the dull static distorting nerve signals, his brain wrapped in a fog. A sensation of weightlessness. 

Head in the clouds.

The metaphor unsettles him. In the Zoldyck family, white is a symbol of purity, light, and ascension—like a cloud, a whispered prophecy passed down through generations. But Illumi was never destined to embody divinity. The moment he was expelled from his mother’s womb, he was thrust into servitude.

Sometimes, Silva Zoldyck’s presence is blinding. His long white hair cascades down his broad frame, softening the harsh angles of his battle-hardened body. A lifetime of precise Nen mastery and flawless assassinations has left its mark, each strand of silver a testament to the burdens he bears. Yet, even the great Silva is not untouched by struggle—the turbulence of his path shaping his hair into windswept curls, like an angry nimbostratus cloud ready to burst and rain down its frustrations upon everything below.

The weight of his father’s shadow is suffocating, casting a thick fog that muddies clear waters, turning them murky and undrinkable. Psychological warfare is something Illumi has studied, honed, mastered—but against the immovable force of Silva Zoldyck, even he is rendered defenseless.

When his father summons him to his quarters, his mind scrambles to piece together memories best left buried, forcing them into a picture he wishes would remain incomplete. The fragmented recollections crash over him in a flurry, blurring the line between reminiscence and reality.

“Illumi, listen carefully. This next task is crucial.”

“Illumi, you are my eldest. The glue of this family.”

“Illumi, are you listening?”

“This family relies on you.”

“I said, are you listening?”

“A Zoldyck must sacrifice comfort for the sake of our family’s legacy.”

“Illumi.”

“Ensure that Killua accepts his role as successor. If he refuses, you will watch the empire our ancestors built come crashing down. You won’t let that happen, will you?”

Silva clears his throat, his grip firm on Illumi’s shoulder. The rasp in his voice is enough to stir Mike from his spot in the corner, the giant beast’s ears twitching beneath his heavy muzzle.

“Yes, Father. My apologies—I was still considering my options.”

Silva’s brow creases, and he lifts a thumb to rub the tension away. Illumi knows the warning signs of his father’s dwindling patience.

“I was unsure which assignment would best suit my talents,” Illumi continues, his voice even, measured. “But after speaking with Grandpa, I’m certain the art gallery is the more appropriate choice.”

Silva exhales, settling back against the velour cushion. His long white locks remain eerily undisturbed, defying gravity despite the friction.

“Yes. The thieves in question are highly skilled, requiring a level of covertness only you possess. The pay increases based on the amount of stolen art recovered. My expectations, as always, remain high.”

A firm pat on the back sends Illumi stumbling forward, his balance briefly faltering. Silva’s strength is effortless, overwhelming.

Their eyes meet—Silva’s icy gaze sharp, piercing, drilling straight through him. A chill seeps into Illumi’s bones. He represses a shudder.

“Be confident in your skills,” Silva says, his voice soft but carrying the weight of an undeniable truth. “You are my son. I raise only the best.”

A slow, deliberate smile curves his lips, the shadows cast by his sharp cheekbones deepening. “You are the best.”

“Yes, Father.”

Silva tuts, and Mike lowers his massive head, returning to his resting position. Despite the beast’s imposing size, the room’s sterility is what truly commands attention—bleach, chlorine, chemicals. Silva’s breath is crisp, his pockets always stocked with minty mouth spray. Illumi has never once smelled morning breath on either of his parents.

“I plan to assign Kalluto to eliminate the drug kingpin.”

Illumi’s pulse stutters. The fluorescent lights overhead glare against his pale skin, and a bead of sweat forms at his temple.

“He needs to take on more serious assignments,” Silva continues, his tone unyielding. “Kalluto’s progress has been… disappointing. It’s time for a more expedited resolution.”

A familiar gnawing feeling claws at Illumi’s insides, but he keeps his expression neutral. “Mm. I have noticed his hesitation in developing his technique. However, patience may be the key to ensuring its effectiveness.”

Silva stands, movements slow, deliberate, as if savoring his own authority. Illumi follows suit immediately.

“My patience is wearing thin.”

He leads Illumi toward his desk, every step laden with unspoken weight, a slow unraveling of defenses. As they stop, Silva turns to him with something dangerously close to fondness.

“You understand Kalluto is special,” Silva muses. “He is most like your mother. That boy must be forced into situations where the stakes are absolute—where everything is on the line.”

Illumi doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch. He focuses on the upturned point of his father’s nose to avoid the scrutiny of his piercing gaze.

“I will run through the details with you later. For now, we have more pressing matters to discuss. I’ll brief you now.”

────୨ৎ────

“Tch. And what exactly do I get out of this, huh?”

“What would you like?”

Illumi meets his brother’s unwavering glare, sharp and pointed. It reminds him of their father’s, and he finds himself quietly proud of Milluki’s ruthless edge. No request is ever a simple favor with him; everything becomes a negotiation, a trade-off.

Dark almond-shaped eyes, so black that the pupil and iris blur together, mirror his own. Milluki swivels in his seat, crossing his stumpy legs.

“I could settle for an IOU,” he says, tapping his fingers against his armrest. “Nothing I really want at the moment. Feeling pretty content with my inventory.”

Illumi’s gaze sweeps across the room, taking in the blinking monitors and high-end PCs before settling on the overstuffed bookshelf against the wall. It’s filled with research books, technological manuals—and an extensive manga collection. In front of the shelf stand several life-sized figurines: curvy, scantily clad, disturbingly realistic. One, seated on the floor with her legs partially open, unsettles him. It’s not a good look.

He exhales, remaining in the doorway. Refusing to step further inside, he shoves his hands into his pockets and blows an errant strand of hair from his face.

“It’s a deal, on the condition that your future request isn’t disproportionate to mine. I need you to trace the malware that added three unknown names to the guest list. I suspect a prior phishing attack—the art collector is an older man so it wouldn’t surprise me.”

Milluki has already turned back to his monitors, fingers flying across separate keyboards. Illumi watches, momentarily admiring his brother’s overlooked talent. He often enlists Milluki’s help for assurance.

“Just scan and send me the admission booklet for reference,” Milluki replies. “I’ll get started immediately. When do you leave?”

“Next week. This week is for preparation. I need to be especially thorough, given that I’m also responsible for recovering the stolen artwork. It’s valued at around 30 billion Jenny, and considering only three individuals pulled it off, they’re calculated and well-informed. So, I will be too.” Illumi idly pulls a needle in and out of his collar.

“Millu, I’ll be in constant contact, so regular updates are a must. But once I board the yacht, my cell service will be unreliable, so take advantage of this time.”

Milluki waves him off without looking away from his screen, his button-up straining with the movement.

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. You can count on me or whatever. Now scram.” Milluki waves him off, then suddenly perks up. “Oh—wait! Send me some pics of any busty chicks in bikinis at the jacuzzi, pleeaase?” His voice dips into that nasally, grating whine Illumi detests. “C’mon, that’s your innate duty as my bro, isn’t it?”

“The average age of the women attending is thirty-five and up.”

“So? My request still stands—cougars hold a special place i—”

Illumi slams the door shut with a swift kick before Milluki can finish that depraved thought. As useful as his brother is, Illumi prefers him in small doses, like microdosing poison—gradually building resistance to avoid any fatal exposure.

As he moves toward the foyer, he briefly considers visiting Kalluto before meeting Hisoka. Perhaps he should offer a few words of encouragement before their father sends the boy on his assignment. But as he strides past a line of butlers, each dropping to one knee as he passes, his thoughts shift elsewhere.

A younger, more immature Illumi once tested the butlers’ dedication by pacing back and forth before them, marveling at their synchronized kneeling. He had done this for nearly thirty minutes before his mother found him. She struck him so hard he momentarily forgot his own name.

With that memory in mind, he decides against seeking out Kalluto. His youngest brother is his mother’s living shadow, and if she catches wind of his impending departure, her wails will send the crows scattering from the surrounding trees.

He senses her Nen on the other side of the property, near the gazebo—a dark, encompassing presence. It slithers like a serpent, coiling around its prey, testing before striking. From this distance, it merely grazes his fingertips. That gives him the confidence to continue toward the front entrance. As he reaches the towering gates, Gotoh’s call comes through. He balances his phone against his shoulder, muttering his intended destination while shoving his weight against the heavy doors, pushing through.

────୨ৎ────

One of life’s greatest pleasures, for Illumi, is the moment between the first bite and the final swallow of a sweet treat. Extra points if it's a fresh pastry—filled, fruit-flavored. He feels the tension ease from his stiff shoulders, his balled fists unclenching, the sting of needle-pricked skin dulling as he turns the honey toast over his tongue, savoring the burst of kiwi, strawberry, and vanilla cream.

He knows the sugary film will soon coat his teeth, rough and cloying, but it’s a small price to pay. He drives his silver spoon into the pastry, extracting a spoonful and forcing the gooey, sticky innards to spill out. Syrupy ruby-red glaze and liquefied matcha ice cream pool into the dip of the porcelain plate. Chocolate syrup swirls into raspberry filling, creating an eerie oxblood shade—the color of an old wound left too long without dressing.

Illumi salivates at the sight, biting into a decorative hazelnut pirouline, humming an absent tune. His surroundings fade, his world turning saccharine, candied, bright.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?”

A throat clears behind him. Illumi doesn’t startle, only continues rolling a juicy strawberry in his mouth, its speckled skin brushing his gums. Reluctantly, he retrieves the neatly draped handcloth from his lap and dabs at his lips.

He had sensed Hisoka the moment he stepped into the café. His aura blended seamlessly with the honeyed, confectionery scent hanging thick in the air. Had Illumi been facing the door, he would have seen the bubblegum-pink glow tinting the atmosphere. But he hadn’t needed to—Hisoka’s presence carried malice along its edges, an acrid undertone creeping up the spine like an impending chill.

“No.” Illumi raises a flat hand, gesturing toward the empty seat across from him.

It always amazes him how effortlessly their auras intermingle, engaging in a fluid dance, nearly identical in their bittersweet tendencies. It makes Hisoka dangerous. If he ever truly wished to sneak up on Illumi, he could. Only when Illumi is in a full-bodied rage or Hisoka is consumed by uninhibited bloodlust do their Nen starkly differentiate—two forces too consuming to blend.

Hisoka settles into the chair with a pleased smile, delighted to have caught Illumi at the peak of his sugar high. His red hair is slicked back, not unlike the end of a strawberry, and he wears a cropped pine-green muscle tee with mustard-yellow diamonds in a straight line across his chest. His usual thematic emblems paint his cheeks. Illumi wants to bite him, to sink his molars into Hisoka’s cherry-dusted hairline, incisors breaking through the supple skin.

Illumi himself is dressed professionally, as expected for this meeting—form-fitting attire stopping at his ankles and collaring his throat, an array of needles embedded into the hem and down the front. He wipes the remaining stickiness from his fingers against the cloth, then folds his arms, locking onto his colleague.

“Let’s get straight to business—”

“It’s never any foreplay with you~” Hisoka crosses his arms, flexing, the blue-green vein running down his forearm prominent. He cocks his head disapprovingly.

“I’d appreciate it if you refrained from cutting me off.”

Hisoka listens, but his eyebrows jump an inch. Illumi takes it as permission to continue.

“We depart next week for the four-day retreat. Our client, Lucian Vellaro, a wealthy art collector, hosts this annual event to showcase his gallery. It’s essentially aristocratic networking—a prime opportunity for seasoned thieves. Our three marks, operating as a trio, have stolen billions in artwork and managed to digitally insert themselves onto Vellaro’s encrypted admission list. He identified them after being robbed three times in the past six months—his handwritten guestbook contained no record of their names.” 

Hisoka leans forward, resting an elbow on the table and his chin in his open palm, lips stretched into a close-mouthed smile as he taps his pointed nails against his jaw.

“Vellaro maintains the exclusivity and confidentiality of these events, so he does not question any individuals who board his ship at the disclosed address—only those who’ve been vetted have access,” Illumi explains, raising a knowing finger. “Thus, he cannot personally identify the thieves. It’s our job to locate them, eliminate them quietly, and recover the pieces they intend to sell.”

Illumi flips open the manila folder beside him, rifling through a stack of papers. He lays out Vellaro’s ID, a drone image of his yacht, a copy of the personal booklet, this year’s guest list, and a compiled record of the stolen artwork. He also produces a sheet of aliases he had drafted and sent to Milluki for verification.

“A hefty request,” Hisoka muses. “Asking for my assistance in a stealth mission where I have to lay low and be discreet, hm?”

Hisoka reaches over, plucking the alias sheet from Illumi’s hand. Their fingertips brush briefly. Hisoka glances down at the document, squinting slightly, his winged eyeliner dipping into an elongated point near his temples.

“You already offered a written agreement.”

Hisoka chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling so that the liner nearly touches his auburn brows. “Oh, Illu, that’s not a revocation—just an observation. I’ll have to exercise some restraint, but more likely than not, I’ll need to work something out before we depart.”

Illumi considers this, fully aware of how Hisoka operates when his urge to kill festers—an itch that starts as a whisper beneath the skin before burning through him, consuming everything in its wake until he is nothing but a husk, driven by the singular need to hunt.

“I don’t mind fighting you to get it out of your system.” He taps through his phone, scrolling through his calendar. “How about a match of pure strength? Best of three. Knockout rules. Four days from now at noon.”

“Count me in.” Hisoka’s golden eyes glimmer. “I know a spot.” He flips the sheet he was reading, dragging a finger down the lines until he stops near the end.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but it says here we’re not just posing as an affluent couple—we’re posing as married. Why is that specified? Nothing else of note about our identities?” He curls his lip, feigning suspicion. “Don’t tell me, darling, this was your way of playing house with me.”

Illumi snatches the pages back, swiftly organizing them into a uniform stack before tucking them into the folder. He makes sure to stamp his foot down onto Hisoka’s beneath the table, his small heel digging into Hisoka’s toes.

“As I already mentioned, the event is exclusive. Attendees want to converse leisurely with other high-ranking individuals—they don’t discuss business unless mutually agreed upon. As for our relationship status,” Illumi meets Hisoka’s amused smirk, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips, “these crowds are highly principled, and labels matter. Appearing married will make us more approachable, allowing for smoother navigation.”

“Are you at all concerned that we won’t be convincing?” Hisoka leans in, voice lilting with amusement. “Between the two of us, you’re the weaker actor.”

Illumi rolls his eyes, scoffing. “I am highly adaptable in the field. You simply haven’t been around for it much.” He shrugs, the padded shoulders of his top lifting with the movement. “We have extensive experience engaging intimately with one another—it won’t be difficult to extend that dynamic into a convincing monogamous relationship.”

Hisoka clasps his hands together dramatically, resting them against the side of his face as he flutters his lashes. “I can’t take much more of your romantic words, Illu~” he moans unabashedly, as if Illumi had just dragged a foot up the length of his leg.

Illumi clenches his fists, clearly unamused by Hisoka’s antics undermining the purpose of their assignment.

“Tell me, darling,” Hisoka drawls, “how did we meet? Who proposed? Where were we married?”

Hisoka reaches out, wrapping a hand around Illumi’s fist, his knuckles whitening as his fingers press into his palm. A manicured thumb glides over the tension, paired with that sick, half-lidded smile—the one that promises, no matter how meticulous Illumi is, Hisoka will always find a way to ensnare him, weaving silk threads around him and pulling him into the dark.

Illumi abruptly stands, unwilling to entertain the conversation any further. “We’ll improvise. If we can’t think on the fly, we’re not as capable as we claim.” He tucks in his chair, regretfully abandoning his dessert, then whips his long hair over his shoulder so that it billows in the breeze from the open door as he strides out.

────୨ৎ────

“Illu, surely there’s something I can do to convince you to allow Nen in our fight?”

Illumi kneels on one slender leg, securing the gray athletic tape over his compressed muscle tee. The battered boxing ring beneath him is coated in dirt, dust caked in smears across the frayed white canvas. The thick ropes lining the perimeter are worn thin, splitting at the ends like overused thread.

“I refuse to budge on that front,” he states flatly. “Injuring each other to the point of being unable to complete our assignment would be counterproductive. At worst, one of us will wind up dead.”

Across the ring, Hisoka sits languidly, clad in an all-black cashmere jumpsuit zipped up to his throat, adorned with a spade at the neckline and another sprawled across his back. His legs are wrapped around each other twice, and both hands are idly shuffling his deck of cards. The paper flickers between his fingers like a restless fan, constantly rearranging itself.

He cranes his neck toward Illumi, pouting in disappointment. “Is that really so bad?”

The dim lighting flickers overhead, barely illuminating the space. Only the sunlight spilling through a crumbling hole in the roof offers any clarity, casting long, distorted shadows over Hisoka’s face, deepening the darkness in his eyes. He wriggles his brows, leering as Illumi tightens the waistband of his pants and begins parting his hair into three sections.

“‘Bad’ is too broad a term,” Illumi replies, fingers weaving the sections into a thick braid that drapes around his neck. “More accurately, it would be infeasible.” He flexes his arms, pulling one across his chest with the other. “Don’t be cocky enough to disregard my raw strength. I’ve been training in mixed martial arts since I could stand on my own two feet.”

The blur of Hisoka’s cards is hypnotic until, with a flick of his wrist, he halts the motion, flipping the bottom card to reveal the Joker. Then, with practiced effort, the card vanishes.

“Cheap tricks,” Illumi mutters, smoothing out the end of his brow before hopping onto the raised canvas, landing solidly on both feet.

“Even if I lose, what an honor it would be to have you beat me to a pulp.” Hisoka adjusts the fabric around his pelvis, deliberately palming himself in the process. Illumi doesn’t miss the growing evidence of his arousal. Hisoka rises slowly, turning to face him, the shifting shadows hiding half of his face. When he grins, his tongue runs lazily over a sharp canine.

He cracks his knuckles, the pops snapping like taut rubber bands.

“So, what classifies as a KO?”

Illumi paces his side of the ring, tapping his chin with a calloused finger. “Pinning your opponent to the ground resulting in admitted defeat, unconsciousness, or a full ten seconds passing.”

He blinks up at Hisoka, dull eyes widening slightly. “Anything you’d like to amend?”

Hisoka widens his stance, hands resting on his hips as he bounces on his heels. “Can’t say there is. I’m raring to go.”

For a moment, Hisoka’s aura leaks like pus from a wound—wispy tendrils of dark purple smoke slithering from him. He quickly reels it back in, containing it in mere seconds.

Illumi watches warily, shaking out the leg of his pants. Several thin needles scatter onto the floor around him with metallic clinks.

“Whoops,” he says. “Now that we’ve both gotten that out of the way, let’s begin, shall we?”

Illumi dashes forward without hesitation, pivoting on the ball of his foot as he seizes Hisoka’s shoulder, hooking his elbow around his throat in an attempt to crush his windpipe. At the last possible second, Hisoka worms out of his grasp, twisting his body until he stands where Illumi once did.

His shoulder is held at an odd angle, one higher than the other. He rolls it in a smooth circle before pushing it down with a steady hand, a sharp pop cracking through the air.

“Not fast enough, Illu~”

They circle each other, slow and deliberate, stalking like crows eyeing prey. Hisoka is the first to lunge, sliding forward on his knees before sweeping a sharp chop behind Illumi’s thighs, aiming to take his legs out from under him.

Illumi stumbles but regains his footing, pushing forward—until a sharp tug at his scalp yanks him back. Hisoka has wound Illumi’s braid around his wrist, pulling him downward. Illumi braces himself as his skull slams into the floor, rattling his thoughts. Before he can react, Hisoka shoves an elbow into his sternum, knocking the breath from his lungs.

Illumi recovers quickly, snapping his legs up to lock around Hisoka’s waist. With a powerful twist, he topples them over, flipping their positions. Now straddling Hisoka’s hips, Illumi presses him down, trapping the hand tangled in his hair, preventing further leverage.

Balancing himself, Illumi sharpens his nails against the floor before dragging them up Hisoka’s shoulder. He digs in slowly, peeling pink skin back, watching as the first beads of blood swell beneath his fingertips. Curling his angle, he prepares to puncture deeper—until Hisoka sinks his canines into Illumi’s neck, biting down and dragging back to rupture more skin.

“Mmm, the flavor of a well-balanced assassin— simply exquisite.”

Illumi jerks a hand to his neck, feeling the warm, soupy liquid dripping over his collarbone—tangy, metallic. In that split-second of distraction, Hisoka reverses their positions, trapping Illumi beneath him. His hold tightens around Illumi’s braid, keeping him restrained.

Ten humiliating seconds pass.

Illumi, enraged, lifts himself slightly before slamming his back into the canvas, the impact cracking through the ring’s structure.

“Aaand ten! Hisoka wins, one to zero.” He cackles, red staining his teeth. He leans forward, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up Illumi’s neck, his tongue twisting to explore the still-bleeding wound.

Illumi shoves a hand against Hisoka’s face, pushing him off before he can keep savoring him like some depraved beast. He stalks back to his side of the ring, arms crossed, thoroughly irritated. His Nen flares around him, bubbling, an infectious amoeba.

Hisoka squats, panting before lifting his head, chin streaked with red.

“Get up.”

“Don’t be a sore loser, darling. Take it on the chin,” he laughs, though his voice is hoarse. He spits a thick wad of saliva to the side, clearing his throat. “I know I did~”

The elbow to Illumi’s sternum had loosened his tape, the edges now curling away from his skin. Hisoka smears blood along his lips, spreading it like gloss, his golden eyes half-lidded in satisfaction.

Illumi, wordlessly, unravels himself, stripping away the tape until only his turquoise-stitched compression shirt remains, clinging to his sculpted form. The curve of his shoulder is bared, his exposed navel rising and falling steadily.

He glares at Hisoka, rolling his wrists.

“Round two.”

Illumi waits this time, patient and calculating, making his move only once Hisoka surges forward. Hisoka raises his leg as if to drop an axe kick but feints at the last second, retreating to duck a jab. Illumi is quicker—maneuvering seamlessly into a full nelson, dragging Hisoka to the ground with him.

The two tumble, rolling across the canvas in a struggle for dominance. Illumi kicks his foot out to halt their momentum, positioning himself above Hisoka. He plants his scuffed elbows on either side of Hisoka’s head, knees pressing into his opponent’s sides, his strong quads pinning him down.

Hisoka opens his mouth—whether to make a teasing remark or attempt another bite, Illumi isn’t sure. Either way, he kills two birds with one stone, slamming his forehead forward with full force into Hisoka’s nose. 

Hisoka wheezes, yelping in delight as blood trickles from his now-off-kilter, upturned tip.

“One… Two… Three… “

Hisoka squirms under Illumi’s grasp, his erection—only swelled larger from the fight—grazing Illumi’s thigh. A muscle in Illumi’s eye twitches, his lash line jumping at the sensation. Hisoka only smiles wider, sweat beading at his flushed forehead.

“Stop. Moving.” Illumi restarts the count, his grip tightening. This time, Hisoka makes no effort to hide it—rolling his hips upward, grinding himself against Illumi’s thigh. The friction is unmistakable.

Illumi exhales sharply, jaw locking as Hisoka tilts his head back, baring his throat. His flushed face is dusted with a rosy hue, the apples of his cheeks warmed with exertion. He grinds into Illumi with deliberate, slow motions, testing his limits.

The ringing in Illumi’s ears from their earlier clash continues, dull throbs rippling through his body—but he can’t ignore the way his cock twitches in response to the friction. The heat of Hisoka’s body beneath him, the sweat-slicked skin, the scent of iron and musk lingering in the air—it all feeds into something primal.

“Eight… Nine… Ten…”

Illumi exhales, raising his clawed hand to inspect it before, with a single sharp flick, slicing a clean line through Hisoka’s jumpsuit from neckline to crotch. His sharpened nails scrape skin on occasion, leaving raised pink lines, the last catching on Hisoka’s erection, digging in just enough to make Hisoka moan.

Hisoka tangles his fingers in Illumi’s braid, yanking him closer, unraveling the plait as he does. Illumi exhales against Hisoka’s lips, ignoring the dull pull at his scalp. He pulls himself free of his trousers, pressing their hard cocks together—hot and pulsing. His hair spills over his shoulders, cascading onto the ground and over Hisoka’s face like a dark veil. Shadows deepen around them, only Illumi’s eyes clearly visible, hazy as he lets saliva trickle from his tongue, coating them both before he begins to move.

With a slow, purposeful motion, Illumi drags his hand across Hisoka’s chest, swiping up the blood trickling from the scratches carved into his sternum. He smears the crimson streak over Hisoka’s slit, watching as the slickness blends with Hisoka’s own arousal.

Illumi spreads his fingers, wrapping them around both cocks, pumping them together. His hand moves with practiced efficiency, rough callouses gliding over velvety ridges, tracing bulging veins. The combined friction, the slide of skin, the slick warmth of saliva and sweat—it all works in tandem, fueling the tension coiling between them.

Hisoka groans, arching his back, pressing himself closer, encouraging Illumi’s pace. His breath comes in short, eager pants, his grip tightening in Illumi’s hair, nails scraping his scalp. Illumi responds by sinking his teeth into the unmarred skin of Hisoka’s neck, leaving behind a chain of reddened indents and crescent-shaped impressions.

The mingling of bodily fluids—sweat, saliva, blood—mixes into something thick, tacky, smearing across their skin in streaks of red and bronze. The scent is overwhelming, intoxicating.

The droning in Illumi’s ears is drowned out by Hisoka’s moans. He can feel himself winding tighter, his body thrumming with built-up adrenaline and tension. His gaze flickers to Hisoka’s face—his creamy whites exposed, eyes rolling, lips parted in unrestrained pleasure. Hisoka’s chest heaves, his breath ragged, his body shuddering beneath Illumi’s weight.

Illumi exhales over Hisoka’s face, dragging his tongue across the blood drying on Hisoka’s nose. The taste is thick with iron, quickly dominating his tongue, flooding his senses with a sharp bitterness that feels unnatural—like rust scraped from the edge of a blade—yet somehow, disturbingly perfect in its rawness.

Hisoka cries out, the sound eerily similar to a wounded bird. Illumi feels the twitch of Hisoka’s cock against his own, the telltale stutter in his rhythm, the way his breath catches. He squeezes, sliding his hand from base to tip, drawing out a long, shuddering release—Hisoka spilling hot across their stomachs, the burnt umber of mixed fluids streaked lighter with each motion. 

Illumi follows moments later, his own release seeping into the mess, soaking into the tattered remains of Hisoka’s clothing.

They remain pressed together, cocks still pulsing against one another, breathing heavy, limbs sore. The canvas beneath them is split, torn from their struggle, it stinks of iron and salt, but beneath that, something faintly sweet—like overripe fruit on the edge of rot. 

Illumi, spent, slumps against the heady crook of Hisoka’s neck, feeling the sturdy frame beneath him shift. Hisoka raises a hand, inspecting it under the dwindling light.

“So, partner,” Hisoka muses, wagging his fingers. “If we’re to be wed, when are you purchasing our wedding bands?”

Illumi barely reacts, simply turning his head, rubbing his nose into alabaster skin before shifting onto the ground beside him. He reaches out, pinching the bridge of Hisoka’s nose between his fingers, testing for a fracture. Hisoka winces.

“Tomorrow,” Illumi says simply. “I have an appointment in the morning. Do you have any preferences?”

Hisoka scrunches his nose, stretching out his limbs, starfishing across the dirty floor. “No, you choose. You’re always full of delightful surprises. I won’t take that from you.”

“‘Kay.”

────୨ৎ────

At Illumi’s command, the tinted partition of the blacked-out vehicle glides upward in three smooth increments, sealing him and Hisoka in privacy. Hisoka is click-clacking away on his phone, either texting or playing a game—Illumi doesn’t care enough to inquire. What he does care about is reviewing their upcoming entrance and initiation into the high-society event.

He leans forward, tilting his head toward Hisoka, long hair cascading over his knees as he focuses his gaze on the magician, waiting for him to look up.

“Darling, if you’d like to chat, just ask—I can feel your bug eyes drilling holes into my head.”

Illumi sighs. “I’m simply waiting for you to finish so we can go over first impressions.”

Hisoka tilts his phone into Illumi’s view, pressing his chin to his shoulder in the process. “I’m juuust about done.”

Illumi watches as Hisoka completes his final solitaire stack. When he places the last card, the soft sound of shuffling plays before the deck resets.

Illumi cocks his head further, shooting Hisoka an incredulous look—predictable as always, playing mobile card games when he already spends every waking moment with his beloved physical deck.

Hisoka simply smiles, lips curling and eyes crinkling shut. He locks his phone and tucks it away into his pants.

“I’m all ears~”

Illumi removes two needles expertly hidden within the stitching of his sweater cuff. The olive-colored knit is a recent project of his, designed with concealed threading for needle storage and easy extraction.

He currently has forty-eight needles discreetly placed within the fabric. The two he flips free with his middle and ring fingers each carry a silver wedding band at the tip, held in place by the needle’s ball. Illumi turns one over in his hand—they’re identical: 14K white gold, with five small embedded diamonds smoothly encased in the band. He slips one onto his left ring finger before handing the second to Hisoka.

Hisoka simply holds out his fingers, nodding for Illumi to slide it on for him. The fit is snug but nearly perfect, the band gliding down Hisoka’s warm finger, complementing his smooth, well-manicured hands.

Hisoka touches the ring, noting its simplicity—the smooth band and minimal diamonds ensure no texture for irritation or disorientation when worn. 

“Well, aren’t you thoughtful, Illu? Seems to me you spent a pretty penny on these,” he muses, turning his hand toward the window so the crystals shimmer in the light.

Illumi grunts, allowing Hisoka to make his assumption despite knowing he spent rather frugally, only shelling out 6,000 Jenny per ring. If these were his actual engagement rings, and his family saw them, he would surely be disowned.

Hisoka chuckles, “Or they could be completely fake and I’d never know the difference.”

“It’s no matter,” Illumi continues. “We should maintain a friendly and cordial demeanor when mingling with the other guests. Stay close, never stray too far from me, and engage in meaningful conversation—ask plenty of questions, gain trust, but reveal little about ourselves.”

“Don’t worry, Illu, I’ll follow your lead at the start—nice and obedient,” Hisoka purrs.

Illumi frowns, about to question the ‘at the start’ specification, but Hisoka presses on eagerly. “Ooh! I must ask, my sweet—what level of contact is permissible?”

“Hm.”

“Take your time, and consider this carefully.”

“For the sake of appearances, I have no reservations about physical touch—at least in public. In private, I will set limitations as I see fit.”

“Fair.” Hisoka lifts a hand, inching it toward Illumi’s neck. “Yes?”

“Would you like me to smooth over this lingering mark?” His fingers brush over the scabbing bite mark he left on Illumi days ago. The wound is an ugly purplish color, marred with red and rusting into scar tissue. “I know we want to appear involved, but I’m not sure how these types will feel about our… salacious relations.”

“Go ahead.”

Hisoka flattens a wad of bungee gum, smoothing it into a seamless patch before adhering it to Illumi’s neck, matching his skin tone. Illumi watches him work, unable to look elsewhere due to their proximity. Hisoka’s outfit is beige and coordinated—an airy button-up left open to reveal his chest, fitted trousers pressed to perfection. His hair is more subdued, a dull burgundy, with a few stray strands falling over his forehead as he concentrates.

Outside, the darkened clouds blend into the blue-pink sky, a gradient backdrop to the shimmering water rippling along the shoreline. In the distance, the port comes into view, and with it, Vellaro’s mega-yacht—a pearl-white vessel stretching nearly two-hundred feet, its towering masts standing tall and proud. Ant-like figures move about the sun deck as the extended stern connects to the dock, allowing guests to board with ease. 

Their driver pulls up as close as possible before lowering the partition to announce their arrival. Hisoka busies himself with a handheld mirror, powdering his nose, his usual theatrical makeup absent—replaced instead with penciled brows, brown liner, and a moisturizing lip oil, leaving him fresh-faced and natural. 

The driver exits to retrieve their luggage—just a single suitcase and a duffel bag, as they packed lightly given their true intentions. The suitcase, naturally, belongs to Hisoka—a high-end brand. Illumi’s duffel, by contrast, is industrial, praised for its multi-purpose pockets and expansive storage. 

Illumi steps out of the car, greeted by the multi-colored hues of the setting sun—pale pinks, smoky oranges, deepening blues. The air is fresh, thick with the scent of seawater. He slings his bag over his shoulder and opens the door for Hisoka, who snaps his mirror shut before taking his hand, allowing Illumi to guide him out.

At the stern, the yacht’s crew stands in pristine white uniforms. A tall, slender woman leads an older couple aboard ahead of them.

“Into the belly of the beast,” Hisoka murmurs, nudging Illumi with his shoulder. Illumi shoves back, and a deckhand waves them over.

“Hiya! Welcome aboard the Vellaro!” A bright-eyed young man with blonde hair and a freckled nose ushers them across the polished dock. “Hope your trip here was smooth sailin’, because that’s all it’ll be from here on out! Most guests are already inside, settling into their rooms or poppin’ champagne in the main lounge. You two lovebirds are in for a treat.”

He winks as the steward approaches, swiftly collecting their luggage before guiding them to their room.

Inside, Illumi leads Hisoka through the grand lobby, his hand placed firmly at the small of Hisoka’s back. The cedar checkered walls and floors gleam under warm yellow bar lights. A floating staircase with golden railings commands the center of the room, and beyond it, couples mingle, sipping from coupe glasses served on silver trays. 

As they ascend the stairs, Illumi briefly extends En, attempting to detect any Nen users aboard. He comes up empty. Expected. The first day, everyone is on their best behavior—unlikely to slip. For now, their priority is blending in.

The stewardess leads them to their suite, where Hisoka immediately busies himself—testing the bed, the sofa, running a finger along the mantle for dust. A large abstract painting looms above the headboard, a swirl of chaotic brushstrokes.

“Come feel this bed,” Hisoka tugs at Illumi’s sweater. He obliges, taking a seat. Surprisingly, the mattress is the most comfortable surface he’s ever laid upon. It swallows him whole, the cushioning firm yet enveloping. Illumi falls onto his back, staring up at the off-white ceiling. 

“Nothing—or no one—stands out yet, but that’s expected this early on. For now, we blend in and feign relaxation.”

Hisoka hums, a low, pleased sound. “Of course.”

“Let’s head downstairs for drinks.”

“Let’s. I estimate about seventy-three people on board, including the crew.”

As they descend the stairs, they pass four different couples, each offering bright, toothy smiles and chattering excitedly about what’s to come. Hisoka drapes himself against Illumi’s side, seamlessly inserting them into a conversation about Vellaro’s past retreats. His body molds against Illumi’s, his breath a steady rise and fall against his chest, his hand a firm, unmoving presence over his heart. The ring on his finger catches the light, shimmering as if to cement their illusion of intimacy.

A couple announces it’s their first time attending, and Hisoka, ever the instigator, feigns a grave expression. “Ah, then we’d best be wary of maritime hazing. I’ve heard through the grapevine,” he leans in closer, lowering his voice, “that some guests can be quite… unforgiving.”

The couple pales slightly, and Hisoka grins, reassuring them with an airy laugh. “I’m not too worried, though. My husband would never allow another hand to be placed on me.”

He turns toward Illumi, pressing a slow, affectionate kiss to his cheek. “My hero.”

Illumi stiffens. His entire understanding of intimacy hinges on a cycle of violence and escalation—touch meant to bruise, contact meant to incite. Affection without the promise of an impending fight unsettles him to the point of nausea. A shudder runs down his spine, but he tamps it down, forcing a polite smile, hoping he will acclimate quickly.

────୨ৎ────

Hours earlier, before the night bled into morning, Illumi had reviewed the holographic itinerary for the weekend—somewhere between Hisoka dragging them from one mindless conversation to the next—he had been formulating his plan. The schedule was packed with leisure activities for couples, each aligning with the yacht’s brief stops at various ports.

One particular activity had caught his attention, his dark eyes lingering on the listing longer than necessary. A morning slot, by sign-up only. He informed Hisoka of his decision before they turned in for the night.

“Well, Illu, I’m going to sleep. Playing pretend today was fun and all,” Hisoka mused, wiping his face with a moist towelette before dabbing his skin with toner. “Considering the late hour, I assume you’ll be reasonable and allow me to sleep through breakfast tomorrow. Most of the other couples will be off at brunch, anyway.”

Illumi shrugged off his pants and sweater, folding them neatly before slipping beneath the light sheets in just his cotton briefs. The humid, salty air drifted through the open windows, cooling the room with a gentle breeze. 

He rolled onto the feather-soft bed, where Hisoka was already curled beneath the thinnest sheet, pulled up to his chin.

“Actually, I signed us up for snorkeling at dawn,” Illumi stated plainly. “You never know who’s listening aboard, so what’s more remote for us to conspire than the middle of the sea? Besides, it will be good for exercising mobility—who knows what movement will be required once this mission picks up.”

Hisoka exhaled dramatically, stretching his mouth into a yawn that made his cheekbones jump. “Illu, I know we’re only one day into our marriage, but I would appreciate it if you considered my input before making these kinds of decisions.”

Illumi sat upright, spine straight, hands neatly tucked into his lap. He blinked, his eyes dry from the way he had furiously rubbed them earlier until stars burst in his vision. The sticky sound of his blinking reverberated in his ears.

“Oh… well, would you like me to cancel?”

Hisoka shifted onto his back, reaching out to grasp Illumi’s hands in his. Their fingers were nearly identical in length and shape, though Illumi’s were a touch more delicate, while Hisoka’s were thicker, a little stronger—but no less pretty.

“Ugh, no, it’s fine. I’ll sacrifice my beauty sleep this once,” Hisoka sighed, puckering his lips. “Though, if you wanted to go swimming with me, you could’ve just asked.”

He lifted their hands, twisting Illumi’s ring off his finger before removing his own. With a lazy flick, he placed both bands on the nightstand beside the small artificial plant that loomed over them.

Illumi felt the warm press of Hisoka’s palm against his cheek, the expected ridges of his fingerprints and faint rough patches brushing over his skin.

“Oh, don’t pout, Illu. I’m just taking them off to sleep,” Hisoka murmured, rolling back over and burying his face in the pillow. “Now, be a dear and let me snag at least five hours.”

Illumi has no trouble shaking Hisoka awake, though he suffers a scratch across his chest—courtesy of Hisoka’s instinctive lashing out, not unlike a disgruntled cat. The air leaves his lungs as he slowly drags Hisoka out of bed, gripping his wrist and pulling him onto the hot sand. Their rings clink together intermittently, catching the early sunlight.

Unbeknownst to them, horrified glances trail in their wake—barefoot on the scorching sand, utterly unbothered by the heat radiating from beneath them. 

The shoreline stretches out before them, an expanse of turquoise blue, where the coral beneath the surface glows in vibrant clusters. Illumi dresses accordingly, his black wetsuit zipped up the front, accentuating his toned frame, biceps peeking through the snug fabric, thighs flexing with each step. 

They leave a trail of footprints as they approach the shack housing the snorkeling gear. The short line moves quickly, and as they wait, Hisoka slides in behind Illumi, pressing flush against his back. The breeze lifts the sheer white fabric of Hisoka’s woven shirt, leaving sun-kissed skin warm against Illumi’s spine. 

With idle fingers, Hisoka gathers Illumi’s long hair, running his hands through it twice before twisting it into a loose knot at the nape of his neck. Illumi unhooks two snorkeling masks from the shack wall, their azure-blue linings conveniently matching the ceramic print of Hisoka’s swim trunks. 

“Ever gone snorkeling?”

Hisoka squints, shielding his eyes from the glaring sun with one hand. The golden hue of his skin gleams in the light, the sharp angles of his face emphasized by the way the sun catches his features. 

Illumi briefly wonders if the light washes him out too much—or if, just maybe, there’s an iridescent fleck hidden somewhere in the abyss of his black pupils. Hisoka’s gaze drops to meet Illumi’s. Despite the mere inch difference in their heights, Hisoka’s presence remains imposing, especially when he devours Illumi with that lingering, heavy stare. 

“Can’t say I have,” Hisoka muses. “The trajectory of my life hasn’t exactly led me to opportunities like this.”

Illumi notes the sarcasm, ignores it, and secures his own mask with a sharp snap of the elastic band. The suction clings tightly to his skin, leaving a dull sting where it presses into his face. 

“Oh no…” Hisoka turns away, chest stuttering with what Illumi recognizes as suppressed laughter. 

A moment later, he is openly cackling, wiping a stray tear from his eye. “You look ridiculous.”

Illumi simply adjusts the fit, testing the give of the mask with a few exaggerated expressions. He slides his feet into the fins and extends a pair toward Hisoka. “Put these on.”

Waddling toward the water’s edge, he kneels to lift Hisoka’s foot, sliding it into the flipper and securing the strap at his heel. Hisoka wriggles his toes experimentally, amused by the shape and slick texture.

From the shore, one of the couples they had spoken to the previous night calls out to them. Hisoka waves back cheerfully, pressing his chest against Illumi’s. Illumi’s breath hitches, fogging up his mask and blurring his vision as Hisoka’s firm torso brushes against him—his bare skin warm, the soft peak of his nipple dragging over Illumi’s own. Illumi raises a flat hand in greeting, ignoring the heat creeping up his neck. 

Hisoka hooks his pinky around Illumi’s and leads them deeper into the water. Cool waves lap at their ankles, creeping up their calves as they wade further, the sea floor gradually dipping beneath them. Small fish dart around their legs, flashing silver as they move. 

“Give me a demonstration, hubby.”

“Put the mask on first.”

Grumbling, Hisoka drags the snorkel over his face, the plastic pressing indignantly against his nose. 

“‘Kay. Starfish your body over the water to distribute your weight, then dip your head under. The snorkel ensures airflow, and the view of the reef from beneath is breathtaking.”

Illumi lays back, allowing himself to float before slowly submerging. He pushes his face beneath the surface, swimming in a slow circle. Tiny bubbles rise from his mouthpiece as clownfish disappear into pale pink coral, their tendrils swaying with the current. 

He surfaces just in time to watch Hisoka follow suit, the dark strands of his hair tinged a deep maroon under the filtered sunlight. 

Illumi exhales, ducking back under. The reef stretches out before him, an endless landscape of flickering scales, clusters of anemones, and twisting beds of seaweed. He reaches out, fingers skimming past a school of guppies, their iridescent bodies shimmering as they scatter. 

A hand grips his forearm. He surfaces, slightly breathless, having dipped lower than before. 

“Mm, this is enjoyable,” Hisoka muses, idly treading water. “But I have an idea.”

Illumi wipes the water from his lashes. “Go on.”

“When I go under, follow me. When I signal, take off your mask.” Hisoka’s smirk curls higher. “Trust me?”

“Never give me much of a choice.”

“Huh?”

“Huh.”

Hisoka lets it go, taking a deep breath before disappearing beneath the surface. Illumi follows, kicking his feet out behind him to swim deeper into the lush expanse of seaweed and vibrant coral. 

Hisoka turns, extending a hand, waiting for Illumi to take it. Illumi hesitates briefly before Hisoka nods in confirmation. He grasps it. 

Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Hisoka lifts his mask, resting it on his forehead. The pressure leaves faint indentations along his nose and brow. He exhales into the water, and Illumi immediately switches to Gyo, watching as a translucent mass of Bungee Gum expands around Hisoka, swelling into a hollowed sphere. A thin, makeshift snorkel extends to the surface, glistening with moisture. 

Illumi removes his mask, blinking through the saltwater as Hisoka adjusts the structure. The sphere expands, then slowly, almost deliberately, engulfs Illumi as well. 

Enclosed in the air pocket, Hisoka exhales. “If I’m being honest, I’m surprised that actually worked.”

“Mmf. Wow.” Illumi frowns slightly, adjusting to the sensation. He can breathe just fine—though the compressed air leaves him slightly lightheaded, his breaths quickening as his lungs adjust.

“I used Hatsu to force out the water while shaping the interior to fit us inside. Impressive, no?”

“Very.”

A school of fish brushes past, bumping against the bubble, unable to detect it from the outside. Overhead, a sea turtle glides by, its massive form casting a shadow over them. 

Hisoka is smug, his grin lazy as droplets of water roll languidly down his skin, glistening under the fractured sunlight filtering through the waves. “What can’t I do?”

Illumi studies him, unmoved. “Adaptability like this will be useful on the night of the gallery. I look forward to seeing you in action.” He adjusts his posture, the sphere shifting around him. “Tonight, I’ll begin using my needles to interrogate guests, but we’ll still rely primarily on conversation for intel. We’ll alternate using En every fourth hour to scan for residual aura. I have a few strategies to flush out our marks—I suspect deceit will be our greatest weapon.”

Hisoka hums, tilting his head. “All tactics I’m already familiar with and intended to use.” His gaze flickers with amusement. “But sure, Illu. Let’s pretend you’re leading this operation.”

Illumi glares at him, but Hisoka suddenly lifts a finger, cutting him off. “Look.”

Beyond them, a horde of milky-white jellyfish drifts through the water, their translucent bodies pulsing with a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Thin tendrils trail beneath them, filling like air balloons before propelling them forward, their movements almost inquisitive—as if drawn to the two foreign presences in their space. The rim of their domed tops flickers a burnt orange, glowing softly with each ripple of the sea. Hisoka runs a hand through his hair, gaze lingering on the bioluminescent glow.

“Think I could pull that color off?” He smirks, shifting his weight. “Ginger’s always a gamble.”

Illumi doesn’t answer, lifting a needle from where it’s securely stored at his sleeve—the tightest part of his suit. He turns it between his fingers before bringing it to the edge of the bubble.

Hisoka’s smirk falters. “Surely you wouldn’t—”

Illumi pricks the surface.

With a sharp pop, the bubble collapses.

Hisoka’s expression shifts instantly, irritation flashing across his features as he instinctively surrounds himself in Ten, his body bracing against the sudden rush of open water. He gives Illumi an exasperated glare before turning to swim away, his movements effortless and fluid. 

Unbothered, Illumi reaches out, plucking one of the drifting jellyfish from the water. The slimy texture presses against his fingers, its tendrils curling, and then—a sharp jolt. Venom injects into his skin, a familiar sting, sharp and numbing all at once. 

Hisoka turns just in time to watch as Illumi withdraws a second needle, unscrews the ball tip, and presses it against the jellyfish’s venom gland, carefully extracting the toxin with a measured squeeze. 

Something so small, so deceptively delicate, will make for the perfect paralyzing agent.

As Illumi begins his ascent, the venom courses through him in slow, numbing pulses, dulling his senses with each wave that rolls over him. Hisoka, still watching, catches the way his movements shift, the flicker of tension in his limbs.

He mouths, “Lunatic.”

Illumi winks.

Then he reaches out—fully aware that the moment Hisoka makes contact, he too will feel the sting. 

Oh well. Hisoka likes pain, so Illumi sees no reason not to share it with him—so long as it’s survivable.

────୨ৎ────

“Seiji, Shun, are you two joining us for paint and sip?”

A high-pitched, pleading voice follows. “You must! Don’t make us go alone!”

Illumi nearly forgets their alias names—Seiji and Shun, something basic and unremarkable, intentionally forgettable. He almost slips up. The couple peering through their door is younger, brazen in their request, as if their age alone makes them more comfortable around Illumi and Hisoka. He cannot fathom why—age is arbitrary. 

Hisoka glances at Illumi, reveling in the range of emotions he's witnessed from him today. The barely contained irritation etched into his features is the latest. If not for the mission, Illumi would have left them drooling and brainless for the remainder of the retreat. 

“Yeah, Sei-ji,” Hisoka purrs, tasting the alias on his tongue. “Shall we go? Oh, how I want to!”

Illumi places a cold hand atop Hisoka’s resting on the bed. “Anything you want, dar-ling.”

Hisoka's eyes gleam with mischief. He raises the stakes. “Thank you, sweet-heart. Then we shall go with our new friends, yes?” He leans in, lips pursed into an exaggerated pout, cheeks tinged from the sun. 

Hisoka peeks an eye open. “Hm?”

“Yes.”

Illumi closes the distance, pecking Hisoka on the lips before pulling away—but Hisoka already has him where he wants him. Hisoka's other hand snakes up, gripping the nape of Illumi’s neck, fingers threading through his hair, thumb brushing his jaw. He slots their lips together, deepening the kiss, his tongue teasing its way into Illumi’s mouth. When he finally pulls back, he licks over Illumi’s lips like he’s just sampled something decadent. 

Their ‘new friends’ shift uncomfortably in the doorway, visibly unsettled by the intimate display.

Illumi smooths the sheets. Hisoka smooths over their relationship.

“My apologies,” he sighs, all breathy, as if on cloud nine. “Sometimes we forget ourselves when we’re so wrapped up in each other. Y’know, ever since we’ve begun trying, it’s been like this.”

The couple blinks, utterly dumbfounded, the woman’s mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Trying?

Hisoka laughs, covering his mouth with one hand, the other gesturing dramatically. “Joking, of course! You should see your faces. Lighten up—it won’t kill you.”

The couple laughs nervously, like they’re still waiting for the other shoe to drop. But once it doesn’t, and Hisoka and Illumi follow them into the hall, the man relaxes, shaking his head as he chuckles. 

“You—” he swats a hand against Hisoka’s back, “got me so good. Thought our yacht-mates had turned out to be a couple of freaks.”

Hisoka flashes a grin, a glint of something unreadable in his golden eyes.

The banquet hall is lavish, with regal tables and elegant chairs. White roses serve as centerpieces, surrounded by softly glowing candles. Each seat is prepped with a small canvas and paint palette. 

The bar is open, servers lined behind the counter, waiting patiently for guests to trickle in. Above them, crystal chandeliers descend, their shards glittering in cascading light. The atmosphere hums with excitement, bodies still warm and sun-kissed from the day’s excursions. 

Illumi scans the room. Roughly half the current guests are in attendance.

As they settle at a table, Illumi catches a familiar face seated by the open window, beside a blonde bombshell with matte red lips and empty, ocean-blue eyes. 

“Guys, look! The ship has its own drink menu. Isn’t that fun?”

Illumi suddenly stands, eager to make progress. “Be right back.”

He strides toward the table, composed but deliberate. He taps the man’s shoulder. The moment he turns, Illumi confirms it—Akira, from the arms auction. 

His hair is dyed black now, no trace of his straggling greys, but the deep-set lines in his face betray his age. Those same, unnervingly straight teeth greet him in a wide smile.

“Illumi, isn’t it? How are you? Fancy seeing you here! What brings you? More business?”

Illumi nods. “Yes, actually. I have a few inquiries. Given your expertise, I was hoping for a moment of your time.”

He glances at the woman beside Akira—her eye shadow heavy, her stare vacant. There’s nothing behind those bright eyes.

“If you don’t mind.”

Akira waves a dismissive hand. “Of course. Babe, I’ll be back in a blink.”

Illumi nods to the woman, but she has already pulled out her phone, scrolling aimlessly. 

Illumi leads Akira toward the bathroom but doesn’t take him inside, instead maneuvering him into a secluded corner. 

“Mm, Illumi,” Akira murmurs, amused. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was a different kind of rendezvous.” He lifts his hand, pinching Illumi’s chin between his thumb and forefinger.

Illumi hums, rolling a needle between his fingers. He leans in just slightly—then licks the tip of the needle before sliding it into Akira’s temple. 

Akira’s eyes roll back before glazing over, turning a cloudy grey. 

Illumi whispers a pact into his ear—information in exchange for his spared life. 

A visible shudder runs through Akira’s body. Goosebumps. Even though his consciousness is buried deep, Illumi has always wondered—does the body still know it’s in distress? Does it sense the violation?

“Why did you come here?”

Akira’s voice is flat, mechanical. “Showboating for my girlfriend. I want to buy her affection.”

Well, yeah.

“Do you know anything about the thieves on this ship? Have you overheard anything suspicious?”

“I’ve heard of the thieves who’ve stolen the kind of art being shown this weekend—but nothing directly linked to this ship. The only suspicious person I’ve noticed is a wiry man with a short crop of black hair, framed glasses—he has the room across from mine. I saw him fumbling with his keycard. Dropped it three times trying to get into his room.”

It could mean nothing. Or it could be something. A start.

Illumi slides his hand into Akira’s pocket, retrieving his phone. He inputs his number and calls himself. 

“If you see anything else suspicious, you will text this number.” He tucks the phone back. “Also—refer to me as Seiji. Hisoka as Shun.”

“Yes.”

Illumi carefully extracts the needle, smoothing Akira’s hair to conceal the puncture. Then he waits.

Akira sways, eyes fluttering as his body reorients itself. Disoriented. A perfect excuse—seasickness.

Illumi steadies him, releasing him just as he begins to come back to himself.

After consoling Akira from his brief ‘seasickness’ bout, Illumi returns to the table to find Hisoka standing, a line of glasses in front of him, surrounded by a small crowd. He shoves his way back to his seat just in time to see Hisoka juggling a speed pourer and shaker tin in the air, balancing one on his elbow before rolling the other along his forearm. With a flourish, he catches the shaker, pours the liquor in with practiced ease, and shakes it before smoothly distributing the drink into a row of glasses—each pour perfectly even.

Illumi briefly scans the room for the man Akira described, but the air is thick with laughter and hollering, the energy too high to pick out any singular presence. 

“Sorry, all~ I’m off the clock. Only my table gets these drinks— better luck next time.”

A disgruntled server materializes at Hisoka’s side, snatching the speed pourer and shaker tin from his hands. Their table now fully stocked, each person grabs a glass, and the woman from the young couple raises hers high. 

“To Shun!”

Everyone clinks glasses as Hisoka settles back next to Illumi, poking his side playfully before they toss their drinks back. Illumi doesn’t think much of it, accustomed to alcohol having little effect on him—but strangely, there’s a burn that lingers on his tongue, an unfamiliar heat curling down his throat.

The other two couples are worse off, coughing and spluttering.

“W-what in God’s name is this? It’s like battery acid!”

A woman at a neighboring table overhears and chuckles. “You must be new. Vellaro only stocks the most sought-after liquor—the kind with the highest alcohol by volume. He’s never supplied anything under ninety percent.”

Beside her, another woman—presumably her wife—leans in, a knowing smirk on her lips. “Good luck. Our first year, I lost an entire weekend to this stuff. And her? She almost went overboard in a stupor.”

Their table erupts into nervous laughter, speculative murmurs circling like a current. Illumi glances at Hisoka, who merely shrugs, unbothered by the information. They don’t get drunk. Not easily. Not ever.

“When in Rome…” Hisoka flags down the server again, sharing Illumi’s unspoken thought—if they want more information, lowering defenses is key.

By the time the event coordinator calls for attention, the entire table is flushed and tipsy, loud voices layering over one another as though sheer volume alone will force their words through the haze of alcohol.

Illumi catches something about partnership, love, and being your partner’s muse—but it all sounds distant, smudged at the edges. 

“Seiji, Seiji, draw me,” Hisoka murmurs, his voice thicker than before. He turns in his chair, resting his chin on his shoulder, then tilts his face back, a coy smile playing at his lips. 

“How’s this?” Hisoka purrs. “Or would you prefer I model in the nude?”

“Oh, Shun, you dirty dog!” One of the women at their table howls with laughter. “How does Seiji put up with you?!”

“I have a bad habit of indulging Shun,” Illumi deadpans, which is not far from the truth. He gestures toward Hisoka’s glass. “Hold this up—I’ll paint you like that.”

The couples around them dissolve into giggles, drinks flowing freely as brushes sweep across the canvases. 

The room shifts as the alcohol takes hold—paint strokes growing sloppier, laughter morphing into shapeless murmurs, hands gesturing wildly with no clear direction. The air is thick with the scent of liquor, the metallic tinge of alcohol cutting through the candlelit ambiance. Some guests are rambling incoherently, while others lean heavily against their partners, heads bobbing like their bodies are no longer entirely their own. 

A woman beside Illumi slurs something unintelligible, blinking at her painting as though it has personally betrayed her.

“H-honey, where’s m’eyes siiilly?”

Illumi arches a brow. The descent into drunkenness is rapid—even for those accustomed to drinking. 

“This stuff works fast, huh?” he muses. “Luckily for us, Shun, we have an inhumanly strong tolerance.”

Hisoka hums, his cheeks tinged pink, the flush spilling down his collarbone. 

Illumi pauses, brush hovering mid-stroke. He narrows his eyes. 

“Have you been drinking while I’m painting?”

“Maybe,” Hisoka groans. “So have you, Sei-ji. I’ve been forced to remain still for so long. I’m bored o–.”

His voice raises slightly, but the moment Illumi’s eyes sharpen, he cuts himself off. 

Illumi’s gaze flicks to the small collection of glasses near Hisoka’s untouched canvas. The math adds up.

“Were you snatching drinks from around the table?”

Hisoka hiccups—his posture faltering for the first time that night. 

“Hic—mf. No.” He clears his throat. “No.”

“…Mhm.”

Illumi exhales through his nose, finishing the last few measured strokes of his painting. Considering Hisoka’s increasingly unsteady state, they should wrap things up.

“Done?” Hisoka grins, already reaching. “Let me see.”

Illumi tops off his newest drink before slowly turning the canvas toward him.

Hisoka’s glassy eyes lock onto it. The painting is carefully composed—Illumi has paid attention to the arch of Hisoka’s back, the curve of his arms, the dip in his cheekbones. 

It isn’t masterful, but that was never the point.

“Oh, my Il-Seiji,” Hisoka drawls, examining it closely, dragging out every syllable. “It’s mag-nif-i-cent.”

“Is it?” Illumi sips his drink, watching him. “I’m glad you think so. You can keep it.”

Hisoka beams. “S’this is exactly… this is exactly why I proposed.”

Illumi blinks. Proposed? Hisoka has told at least three different versions of their engagement story today alone. Sloppy.

He should get him back to their room before he starts blabbering nonsense.

Not that anyone seems to notice. Most of the guests are beyond saving—heads buried in their palettes, slumped over their canvases, or leaning over the deck railing, violently emptying their stomachs into the ocean.

Illumi wrinkles his nose. When he envisioned this event, he expected something far more tasteful—elegant, refined. This? This was a disappointment.

He drapes Hisoka’s thick arm over his shoulder and hauls him up, guiding him toward the front lobby. As they ascend the stairs, Hisoka chatters away, arguing with himself about what classifies as art and whether his fights qualify. (Obviously, he thinks they do.) Illumi doesn’t care—a fight is just a job, nothing more than a paycheck.

Hisoka suddenly blows into Illumi’s ear, and Illumi’s grip loosens— a mistake. Hisoka twists free, hurriedly veering toward the bridge deck that overlooks the ocean.

“Seiji, come here and enjoy this view with me, or I’m filing for divorce.”

Illumi exhales, resigned, and follows. The ocean breeze whips against his face, and he watches the rhythmic waves ripple beneath the silver reflection of the moon.

Hisoka turns, pressing himself into Illumi’s neck. The contrast—Hisoka’s warmth against the crisp sea air—sends a slow pulse of something dangerous down Illumi’s spine. Hisoka kisses just above Illumi’s collarbone, right over the Texture Surprise concealing the brutal mark he left days ago. His lips hover, teasing, inching higher—until they brush the shell of Illumi’s ear.

Illumi nearly forgets himself. One more fleeting kiss, and he might just consummate this sham of a marriage.

But then—

“Look over there,” Hisoka murmurs, voice smooth like honey, thick like syrup. “I heard something about ‘slipping under the radar’ then ‘smuggling inventory.’ Look, but don’t be obvious.”

Illumi stiffens. Focused solely on touch, he had drowned out everything else. Hisoka’s words snap him back.

Leisurely, he casts a glance over his shoulder—just enough to spot him. A thin man, pale as the moonlight, black-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose, a bowl-cut framing his gaunt face. He’s hunched, whispering into a phone, gnawing at his lower lip, fingers twitching at his neck.

One person of interest acquired.

Hisoka’s breath warms Illumi’s ear again. “What do you wanna do, love?”

Illumi’s knees suddenly buckle. His vision tilts. The world spins.

Heat crashes over him in waves, feverish and unrelenting. His stomach lurches. His throat tightens. The nausea is suffocating, but worse—the humiliation of it.

“Hi-soka,” Illumi exhales, voice unsteady. “I’m—I think I got drunk.”

Disgust churns in his gut. Not a slow descent, not a gradual fade—a violent crash, like being thrown against the rocks by a merciless tide. 

He closes his eyes. The world yanks him sideways.

“Take me t-our room. Now.”

Hisoka’s mouth parts slightly, stunned, as if waiting for Illumi to clarify. When he doesn’t, Hisoka wastes no time, hooking their arms together and guiding him away.

The lights in their room sting. Every sensation—too much. Too loud. Too bright. Too sharp. 

Illumi squeezes his eyes shut. The nausea surges. The floor beneath him feels like it's shifting in every direction.

“Illumi.”

Illumi flinches.

Hisoka’s voice is too smooth, too steady.

“Illumi, darling— open your eyes for me.”

Illumi obeys. Barely.

Hisoka is crouched over him, cradling his head, pressing a cool glass of water to his lips. Hisoka’s face is close—too close—but Illumi is too disoriented to pull away. He drinks, black lashes fluttering, throat bobbing with each swallow. 

Finished, he grabs the cup and tosses it to the floor.

Hisoka sighs. “Now, that was unnecessary.”

Illumi reaches out, fisting Hisoka’s stretched-out collar. At some point, it must have been tugged loose. He pulls—hard—until Hisoka collapses beside him, nose-to-nose on the bed. 

They’re both fully clothed. Both glistening in sweat.

“Spinning,” Illumi mutters, voice thin, fraying at the edges. “Won’t stop. Make it.”

Hisoka presses their foreheads together. The contact is sticky, fever-warm, grounding.

“Wish I could,” he whispers. “Just try to sleep, okay? Focus on your breathing.”

Illumi syncs his breath with Hisoka’s, each inhale and exhale a measured echo of the other. He envisions the slow, rhythmic expansion of lungs—spongy, pink-gray chambers stretching and deflating, drawing life into their folds before releasing it back into the world. His fingers trail lower, pressing lightly over Hisoka’s chest, finding the precise place where his lungs sit—nestled on either side of his steadily beating heart.

The nausea claws at him, bile creeping up his throat, threatening to spill. But he focuses—on the rise and fall, on the quiet rhythm that grounds him, on the warmth of skin beneath his fingertips. Slowly, steadily, the sickness ebbs, leaving him weightless in the cadence of their shared breaths.

Chapter Text

They say your odds of being struck by lightning are roughly one in a million. Your odds of being mauled by a bear? About one in two million. Getting caught in a Nen battle between two Triple-Star Hunters? One in ten million—and that’s being generous. 

But catching a glimpse of Illumi Zoldyck completely defenseless, with every muscle relaxed—face soft, body unguarded, truly at ease?

Less than one in a billion.

Hisoka knows this better than anyone. Illumi mastered emotional concealment the same way he mastered mimicry—an art of deception sharpened through endless hours in front of mirrors, practicing smiles he didn’t feel, sculpting expressions that never quite reached his eyes. His control is surgical. Precise. And yet, no matter how perfect the mask, there are always tells. A twitch beneath one eye. A flare of the nostrils. The tight coil of his posture. Blistering cracks in flawless porcelain.

But this—this was new.

Hisoka had never seen Illumi like that before.

After falling inexplicably ill and insisting Hisoka take him back to their room, Illumi had practically collapsed into him—folded neatly against his chest like laundry taken down from the line. His breathing had evened out quickly but stayed shallow, strained. Both hands were fisted in Hisoka’s shirt, gripping the fabric on either side of his chest. Every few minutes, his lashes fluttered or his brow twitched, his jaw tensing like he was bracing for something in a dream.

Hisoka didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Illumi looked peaceful, but also pained. So Hisoka stayed awake, watching him. Monitoring him like it was a stakeout. Like this was part of the mission. That was the excuse, anyway.

When Illumi’s fingers tightened around the fabric of his shirt again, Hisoka slipped his own hand beneath Illumi’s. Slowly. Reverently. His fingertips traced the damp curve of his spine, moving up and down in long, lazy lines. Hisoka’s claws lightly scratched along muscle and bone—over shoulders, down the dip of his back, pausing at the soft indentations above his hips.

Illumi melted under the attention. Each slow stroke coaxed more tension out of him. His breathing eased. His face nestled deeper into the crook of Hisoka’s neck, warm breath skimming over his skin. Then—barely audible—a small, breathy sound escaped his lips. A purr.

It was so unexpected, so soft and involuntary, that Hisoka felt something in his chest tighten.

He slid his fingers up into Illumi’s tangled hair, untwisting the strands, combing through the silken mess. He scratched gently at his scalp, searching—greedily—for more of that sound. He wanted to hear it again. Needed it. Those tiny gasps of contentment, all raw and high-pitched, were addictive.

Illumi, pliant now, had begun to bury himself into Hisoka’s chest like he couldn’t get close enough, like he wanted to disappear inside him. Hisoka guided his face gently down, cradling his cheek, brushing away the sweat sticking to his temples. He threaded his fingers through Illumi’s hair again, slower this time, savoring every strand.

And then he saw it.

Illumi’s face—utterly serene. His features slack, muscles lax, lips curled faintly, drool beading at the corner of his mouth. His eyelids rested in soft folds, lashes casting long shadows down his cheeks. He looked… soft. Plush.

Beautiful.

Hisoka had always found him handsome. That was a given. The sharp jaw, the symmetry, the unnerving stillness. But this was something else. There was a tenderness in his expression now that blurred the severity of his usual facade. Hisoka stroked his cheek with his thumb, his skin flushed and warm, and pressed a kiss to his hairline—firm, deliberate, like he wanted to leave a mark.

No—more than a mark. He wanted to brand him. Sear himself into Illumi’s skin with the permanence of iron pressed to flesh, the hiss of contact, the sharp scent of scorched dermis lingering in the air. He wanted Illumi to carry him like a scar—visible, undeniable, painful if pressed too hard. Something no one else could touch without remembering who put it there.

Not just a fleeting kiss. Not a memory. A claim. Etched into the body, forged into muscle and nerve. Until there was no separating them.

Until every look, every breath, every ripple of aura screamed the same thing: he’s mine.

He kept watch like that all night. 

Not for the mission—not really. 

Because he couldn’t look away.

As dawn breaks, the room glows soft and orange, coral light bleeding across the floorboards. Illumi stirs for the first time in hours. His legs curl toward his chest, and a small, strained whimper escapes him. The sweat-damp fabric of his shirt clings to his back, then peels away slightly as he shifts.

Hisoka rubs slow circles into his back, trying to smooth out the rigidity. 

But Illumi’s discomfort builds. A furrow cuts deep between his brows. His lips part in a silent wince. 

Hisoka leans in, close enough to feel the heat of his breath.

“Mmm… wake up for me, Illu.”

His voice is low, almost lilting, words poured like syrup as he brushes his knuckles along Illumi’s temple.

“There you are… ” he whispers, eyes narrowing with something between hunger and affection.

“Show me those pretty eyes.”

────୨ৎ────

Illumi is submerged in a heavy fog—thick, dark, and clinging. Shapes flicker just beyond his vision, indistinct shadows that stalk him from all sides. He feels like prey. Something is circling. Pricking sensations stab at his arms and legs—sharp, stinging itches that crawl beneath his skin, urging him to dig, to tear, to press down to bone.

The air moves unnaturally around him, like he’s the axis of some spinning world. Everything tilts without warning, and the dizziness turns sickening. Then—through the murk—he hears a voice. Distant at first. Calling from above.

A hand reaching down in the dark.

It says his name. He thinks it does. It’s smooth and rich, playful around the edges. The sound dances like light refracting through water. He reaches toward it, desperate to escape whatever hellscape he’s sunk into.

“Show me those pretty eyes.”

And then—he wakes.

His body jerks, drenched in sweat. His clothes cling to him, soaked through with salt and moisture. The room smells of perspiration and sea air, and Hisoka’s body heat radiates against him—close enough to burn.

Illumi blinks through the haze. His vision catches flashes of burgundy—Hisoka’s hair plastered to his forehead, curling damp around his ears. His breath hitches. Hisoka is staring at him. Still. Intently. Like he’s been doing it for hours.

He tilts his head, one brow lifting. 

“You with me?”

Illumi nods slowly. His neck cracks as it turns, a sharp pop at the base of his skull. A shiver ripples down his spine. He’s hyper-aware now: the hook of his foot behind Hisoka’s calf, the jut of his knee against a thigh, hip flush to waist, hand splayed over Hisoka’s chest—firm along the edges, warm and yielding in the center.

He meets Hisoka’s gaze. A mosaic of honey-gold and molten bronze.

A dull ache pulses behind Illumi’s eyes. Hisoka’s hand grazes his temple again, and he shudders, the touch tender but electric. It presses him tighter against Hisoka’s chest. He feels the rhythm of a heartbeat, steady and strong, pumping hot blood—dark, thick, the same shade as his hair.

Fingers wipe the sleep from his eyes, then trace gently over his lashes. Illumi lets them. A low laugh rumbles in Hisoka’s chest as Illumi blows his cheeks out in frustration, pouting without meaning to. Hisoka’s gaze drops to his lips. When their eyes meet again, Illumi watches the pupils widen—swelling to near black ovals, dark enough to swallow him whole.

He stares. Fascinated. He’s used to pupil dilation meaning death—glassy, tensionless eyes. This is something else.

“‘Soka.”

He doesn’t know what expression he’s wearing. Too disoriented to fake anything. But whatever Hisoka sees in him must be inviting because it makes him lean in, nose brushing beside Illumi’s as his lips press lightly against his own.

Illumi freezes, overwhelmed. His eyes widen at the soft pressure of Hisoka’s lips—featherlight, then lingering. He catches the brush of umber lashes, curled and damp, fluttering shut against his skin. Hisoka pulls back just enough to inhale, then leans in again, testing his luck.

But the tenderness only sharpens Illumi’s awareness of his own body—how wrong it feels.

The warmth of affection makes the cold, creeping sickness inside him all the more jarring. A ripple of nausea pulses through his gut. Hisoka moves to nip at his bottom lip, playful, but Illumi presses a hand to his jaw, urging him away.

His head spins. His face burns. Saliva pools in his mouth.

“I—” he starts, but the words are swallowed by a new surge rising fast from his core.

Another wave of saliva floods his mouth—this time laced with bile. His stomach lurches, contracting violently. Illumi freezes, caught in confusion. He hasn’t felt this sensation in so long, his mind scrambles to classify it, flipping through symptoms and clinical correlations.

But the conclusion doesn’t come in time.

He feels it too late—his throat tightens as the contents of his stomach rush upward, choking him mid-breath. He jerks forward, startled, panic blooming behind his eyes. He swallows against the upward rush of acid, but his body doesn’t obey. He gags, body seizing, a hand pressed helplessly to his mouth.

Hisoka moves fast, grabbing a blue seasickness bag from the nightstand and pressing it to Illumi’s face just in time. Illumi coughs up a hot splash of fluid, then retches again, heaving, all the alcohol and pain spilling out in violent waves.

Hisoka holds his hair back, murmuring something soft and indecipherable, his hand stroking down his back.

Illumi doesn’t look at him. Can’t.

His eyes sting, watery without warning, tears gathering thick at the corners and clinging to his lashes—humiliating, unearned, unwanted.

And Hisoka just keeps holding him.

When the vomiting finally slows and the dry heaving fades into shaky exhales, Hisoka clears his throat and sighs dramatically.

“Darling, I can’t help but feel a little wounded that you became violently ill right after I kissed you so sweetly.”

Illumi lifts a brow, eyes flicking to Hisoka’s and away again, his lips pressed in a tight, unamused line. He refuses to open his mouth. Not while the taste of bile still clings to his tongue. He feels unclean. Tainted. Stripped bare in a way that goes far beyond the physical.

“Silent treatment, hmm?” Hisoka hums, running fingers through his damp hair. “That’s alright. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

To Illumi’s quiet horror, Hisoka folds the used bag without flinching and tosses it into the bin, then sits at the edge of the bed, slipping his arms beneath him. Illumi tries to protest—weakly—but Hisoka lifts him with practiced ease, cradling him bridal-style, chest to chest, and carries him into the bathroom like he weighs nothing at all.

The weak resistance Illumi musters fades fast. He lets himself be undressed, limbs pliant as Hisoka peels the clinging shirt over his head, the stretched collar catching briefly on his tangled hair. His pants are eased down next, one leg, then the other. When Illumi tries to reassert himself, forcing out a flare of Nen, it fizzles into a sickly, half-formed haze—purplish and thin, crackling in an uneven burst before vanishing like a spent firework.

Hisoka answers it with his own aura—sweet, sticky, and strange. Bubblegum-bright and tinged with threat. To most, it would feel like a warning. To Illumi, it’s familiar. Almost grounding. It washes over him like the first spray of the showerhead—sharp, cold, and strangely comforting.

Hisoka shuffles out of his own clothes and positions himself behind Illumi, steadying him upright. Soap drags across Illumi’s skin, thick and frothy, trailing suds over his chest and arms. Hisoka lathers with gentle, practiced motions, then steps back to let the water rinse it all away. He returns a moment later with a toothbrush, pressing it to Illumi’s lips.

“‘Soka—can brush m’own teeth,” Illumi mutters, snatching the blunt toothbrush from Hisoka’s fingers. “Give me that.”

Hisoka doesn’t resist. Instead, he leans in, nuzzling into the curve of Illumi’s neck. Droplets fall from his nose, threading through the baby hairs at his nape.

“Is this new little pet name permanent?” he purrs. “Because if so, I’m absolutely enchanted, Illu.”

Illumi spits into the drain, the paste swirling pink around his feet. “Hm?”

“‘So-ka~” Hisoka repeats with a grin.

Illumi flushes, mouth opening again to rinse. “Slurred it. Still recovering. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Hi. So. Ka.”

“Unfortunate.” Hisoka sighs, dramatic and forlorn.

While Illumi rinses his mouth, Hisoka takes his time—washing, scrubbing, and exfoliating with ritualistic care. When he finishes, he nudges Illumi aside and rinses clean. Illumi shuts off the water with a twist of the knob and slides the glass door open, reaching for two towels.

“Need me to towel you off, too?” Hisoka asks, eyes glinting.

“You realize, from my perspective, this is you servicing me,” Illumi replies, deadpan. “You should consider yourself lucky to be this close to the likes of me.”

Hisoka grins, snatching one of the towels and kneeling to dry Illumi’s legs.

“On that, we agree,” he says. “I am lucky.”

Illumi kicks out lazily, intending to shove him off, but Hisoka’s reflexes are too quick. He catches his ankle, tugging, and the two of them collapse in a damp heap on the floor—skin to skin, limbs tangled.

Illumi’s reflexes return just enough for him to pin Hisoka’s wrists to his sides. Hisoka’s body shifts beneath him, pliable, letting him win—for now. It’s enough to spark a flicker of satisfaction. But as the adrenaline fades, something colder settles over Illumi.

Too much time lost. Too much weakness shown. And too many gaps in his memory.

Hisoka watches him closely, his expression unreadable.

Illumi sits up slowly, the haze of sleep and sickness finally thinning. His limbs still ache, but his focus is clear now—analytical, honed.

“What’s the likelihood,” he asks, voice rough but steady, “that I was drugged last night?”

Hisoka leans back on his palms, considering. “Ninety-five percent, easily. What I don’t understand is how.”

Illumi swats away the fingers that start to trail low across his stomach, brushing the faint dusting of hair beneath his navel.

“If the substance was unfamiliar to my system, then it likely didn’t originate anywhere local. That suggests the thieves are from outside the region. Possibly the Dark Continent. Or at least from somewhere remote. Unscavenged.”

Hisoka hums, dragging his hand lightly up Illumi’s thigh again.

“Makes it more likely they’re Nen users. Specialists, I’d wager. Or at least one of them,” he adds. “We’ll have to move carefully. What do you make of the man we saw yesterday?”

Illumi grabs his wrist mid-creep and crushes it in his grip. Hisoka merely opens his hand again, undeterred, and laces their fingers together instead. Illumi tries to pull away, but Hisoka uses the resistance to swing their hands like they’re on a casual stroll.

“Tch. Let me think.”

“‘Kay.” Hisoka stops the swinging and gently rubs his thumb over Illumi’s knuckles, coaxing concentration. He watches the telltale scrunch of Illumi’s nose.

“If… we spot him again today, we plant a false lead. A note, or maybe just whispered word of a ‘secret buyer’ onboard. If they’re listening—and they will be—they’ll scramble to adjust. That’s when we move.”

Hisoka’s grin stretches as Illumi squeezes his hand in approval—then sharply cracks his knuckles one by one. The pain makes Hisoka hum with delight.

“Deliciously cruel. How do you propose we plant the lead? Spreading it by word of mouth will be easy—there are two couples’ activities today, and you know how I love to gossip~”

“Mhm, whale-watching is this morning. We can locate our suspect there and craft our note. It’s been a while since I’ve been under the weather—let me…” he pauses to exercise En focusing on expanding his aura in a large-scale burst enveloping the entire boat. He can use the spike of sensations to pin-point any distinct auras and close figures. He detects no aura of note, but unfortunately for them recognizes two individuals coming their way—and quickly.

Illumi twists his hand out of Hisoka’s and rubs at his temples, “Ah. I fear that those two leeches are inbound—arriving in four… three… two…”

Distant calls come from outside their room door the incessant sounds of the young couple who’d grown fond of Hisoka and Illumi’s aliases, Seiji and Shun.

Illumi buries his face in Hisoka’s lap exasperated, “I didn’t even bother learning their names… Mae? Mai?”

“Mira and Theo,” Hisoka cuts in, “And this is perfect—if we expand our social circle starting with them, we’ll be sure to locate our suspect within the hour.”

Illumi exhales in a resounding huff of affirmation. He feels a twitch by his cheek and Hisoka pats his head.

“Careful, sweetheart. Lying against me like that might spark something neither of us has time to finish… though I wouldn’t mind the audience.”

Illumi sits up, his hair sweeping what he now realizes is Hisoka’s hardening cock laid heavy against his thigh. He stands pulling Hisoka up with him, his strength now fully at play lifting the muscular man with ease. “Put that away, come on.”

Without waiting for a response, he strides to the door, snapping into character. His voice lifts into a bright, airy lilt, pitch-perfect for their charade.

“Mira, Theo!” Illumi calls out through the door, though his blank expression doesn’t match his voice. “Shun and I will be out shortly. He’s still waking up—he was sleeping so soundly, I just couldn’t bear to rouse him. But between you and me?”

He lowers his voice conspiratorially.

“He’s hungover!”

────୨ৎ────

“I cannot emphasize this enough: please do not raise your expectations too high,” the guide announces crisply, pacing the deck with a tablet clutched to his chest. “We cannot and do not guarantee whale sightings. While there are a number of factors that may suggest their presence, none of it is absolute. However, we do have excellent visibility this morning, no glare, and calm waters. So, stay alert. Look for spouts, dorsals, and surface disturbances.”

He stops near the railing and gestures toward the horizon. “In this region, we’ve had the most luck spotting the Lurien Crestback—column-shaped blows, hooked dorsal fins, and long, explosive sprays. If we’re lucky, you may even see one breach.”

Illumi offers a quiet hum as the guide continues without pause. He filters the voice into background noise—white static to keep him grounded while he systematically scans the crowd. The group stands loosely gathered on the starboard side, leaning toward the water, eyes shielded against the sun.

His focus isn’t on the guide’s unenthused, rehearsed speech.

His focus is on finding him—the man from last night. The one who’d stood murmuring into a burner phone, unaware of just how thoroughly Illumi had registered him.

Even with the haze of illness that had followed, Illumi’s memory is razor-sharp. He could recreate the man’s likeness now if he wanted—wiry frame, pallid skin, bangs heavy around his face like wet silk. If necessary, Illumi could compress his own body into that shape—applying Ren to Hatsu, rearranging muscle and bone to mimic the man’s narrow proportions. It would be painful—shrinking was always worse than expanding—but possible.

He imagines the final touches: bitten fingernails, dull posture, clothes chosen for invisibility. A model in anonymity.

He cranes his neck, scanning the fourth row of attendees just ahead when Hisoka’s voice bubbles into the air, sweet and smug and unmistakably calculated.

“I, for one, am certain we’ll be seeing a whale today,” he announces with a grin, arms crossed as he leans back slightly into Illumi. “In fact, I’d bet on it. Anyone else feeling lucky?”

A few heads turn. The guide barely hides his wince.

“Oh, come now,” Hisoka coos, “The Lurien’s got the highest odds of surfacing in this stretch of ocean. Long splash, curled fluke—real show-off. I say we see one skim the water before noon, tail in the air and all. Who’s brave enough to bet against me?”

One guest hesitates. “I don’t know if—”

“You’re on!” another interrupts eagerly, voice bright with excitement.

Hisoka beams. “Gutsy.” He leans in just enough to make it feel like too much. “But don’t be fooled—I always find a way to win. My husband calls me his lucky charm, don’t you, 'ji?”

Illumi’s mouth quirks in the faintest smirk. “That’s what you call yourself. I merely tolerate the superstition.”

But the damage is done.

In minutes, the upper deck devolves into a polite but fervent betting circle. A dozen well-dressed passengers, once sipping herbal tea and politely discussing migratory patterns, now bicker softly over odds. Wagers are whispered with polite urgency: how many, which kind, how soon.

The guide’s face remains impassive, eyes hollow. But he gives up trying to stop it and instead starts handing out sleek black binoculars, explaining—somewhat mechanically—how to spot a spout from a distance.

Hisoka winks at Illumi as he slides an arm around his waist. “Look at me—causing trouble, just to catch that little smirk.”

Illumi, maintaining their role, lets his hand drift to Hisoka’s side, fingers grazing the smooth line of his back. He plays the part well—the quieter, composed husband balancing out his loud and loveable partner.

He strokes said partner’s bicep as he makes a particularly cheeky jab about raising the stakes—betting funds toward the winner’s next museum acquisition, playing right into their hunger for social status among the aesthetes. When Hisoka teeters too close to spectacle, Illumi reins him in with a firm squeeze of his hand, a well-timed tug at his wrist. Just enough to suggest affection on the surface and discipline underneath.

All around them, the crowd blends into an aesthetically curated dream: whites and creams dominate the scene—pressed slacks tucked into brown belts, cream linen button-ups, silk dresses that catch the breeze.

Illumi, always understated but never plain, wears a fitted baby blue button-up—uncomfortably snug, Hisoka had noted—and tailored white slacks cropped neatly at the ankle. A navy puffer vest cushions him from the oceanic chill.

Hisoka, naturally, had dressed like he wanted to be remembered. A ruched, cream tank top made from a sweat-slick material clings to his frame, nearly translucent in the right light—which Illumi, standing this close, sees clearly. The dips and hard edges of Hisoka’s torso are all but sculpted beneath the fabric. Illumi forces himself to avert his gaze, letting it fall instead to the man’s loose linen pants.

They’re baggy. Safe. Less dangerous than what’s above them. At least in theory.

Illumi’s eyes sweep across the deck again. He still hasn’t seen the man from last night, but something tells him they’re close. And if the betting frenzy Hisoka’s stirred keeps people distracted long enough, they might finally draw their prey out into the open.

Just as the guide prepares to deflate the group with a polite, “Well, it doesn’t seem like today is our lucky da—”

A spray erupts in the distance.

A column of mist, unmistakable and dazzling in the sun, fires upward like a geyser. Mira gasps, raising her binoculars with shaking hands. “There! Right there—it’s coming toward us!”

The entire group jolts to attention. And sure enough, cutting through the sapphire water with shocking speed, a massive form approaches the yacht. A deep blue back arcs just above the surface. Fast. Too fast.

Hisoka’s grin spreads like wildfire.

A moment later, a Lurien explodes out of the ocean beside the ship—its thick, ridged body flopping mid-air, fins curled, barnacled hide glistening under the morning light. It crashes down with a monumental slap, sending a wave of frothy spray over the main deck. The mist rains over everyone like a broad-tipped sprinkler, soaking collars, dampening cheeks, and drawing squeals and laughter from the crowd.

Hisoka is, naturally, overjoyed.

He throws both arms into the air. “Ha! What did I say?” he cackles, spinning to face the group, dripping with victory. “Checkbooks, please! Don’t be shy—I accept cash, card, fine jewelry, even stock options.”

Illumi presses a damp palm to his forehead, feigning amusement as Hisoka continues his campaign of mock-collecting winnings. He leans in close, eyes locked on the crowd while Hisoka rambles beside him.

“God, it’s massive,” Hisoka murmurs against his ear, starry-eyed. “I’d love to harpoon it. Can you imagine the ambergris inside? A perfume that could bewitch—pheromones sharp enough to drive anyone mad. Even you, Illu.”

Illumi grunts, distracted, still scanning. “Mmm,” he hums vaguely and rewards Hisoka with a quick kiss on the cheek.

The crowd rushes toward the railing, phones out, arms raised, desperate for the perfect shot. But Illumi’s attention catches on someone who isn’t reaching for their device.

At the back of the group, near the stairwell, a thin man stands unnervingly still. Rigid posture. No smile. Not even a glance toward the water. He watches the crowd, not the spectacle. His gaze flickers to Hisoka, then darts away again, likely momentarily distracted by the way Hisoka’s spray-soaked shirt clings to his chest. Illumi catches the subtle flicker of a nervous tic: the man’s tongue darts out, lips dry, eyes rimmed in purple like old bruises.

There’s no mistaking it. It’s him.

Illumi’s eyes narrow. “Shun,” he says, low and firm.

Hisoka hears the tone and reacts instantly, peeling himself away from the crowd mid-boast. He follows Illumi’s glance, then nods once. They move as one.

Hisoka pulls the folded whale-spotting pamphlet from his pocket and quickly unfolds it. With a subtle flick of his finger, he runs his palm across the glossy surface, activating Texture Surprise. The original print vanishes beneath his illusion, replaced with the inscription of a brief, cryptic note:

“Special buyer on board. Watching you closely.”

He tucks it, casual and calm, as he blends into the crowd and drifts toward the target. A subtle swerve here, a body turned there—just enough misdirection. When he reaches the man, he bumps him lightly at the shoulder.

“Oh! Pardon,” Hisoka gasps with a dramatic apology. “Just making my way back to my hus-band~”

Illumi is already there, close and steady, arm extended in a casual beckon. Hisoka leans into him and nuzzles playfully into his neck, his voice a low hum as they turn away together.

The man stiffens.

His expression doesn’t crack, but his eyes flick to Hisoka’s retreating back, jaw flexing. Unaware of the note now nestled in his pocket, he stands frozen for a beat too long—like he senses something’s off, but can’t quite place what.

Hisoka grins into Illumi’s shoulder, satisfied. “Think he bought it?”

Illumi’s lips barely move. “He bought something. Let’s see what he does next.”

────୨ৎ────

The yacht, now anchored after the whale sighting, thrums with restless energy. It’s never felt this alive. The lull of movement on the water has been replaced with clinking glasses, overlapping conversations, and the sharp whine of jet skis slicing across the ocean’s surface. Their engines roar in reckless arcs around the ship, riders laughing into the wind.

Illumi can feel the edges of his senses start to fray.

The deck is a chaotic tapestry: sunlight bouncing off polished railings, wind rippling through linen shirts, and the slap of waves echoing beneath. Guests mill about with renewed vigor—eager now to drink, flirt, or fling themselves into the sea. 

The jet skis had been lined in a neat row along the stern, gleaming like untouched toys. That is, until Theo had clapped his hands and declared, “It would be an injustice to leave them sitting there,” practically vibrating with inherited entitlement.

Naturally, the crew relented.

Illumi spares the watercrafts a glance—mildly tempted—but there are more pressing matters. And they’re guiding him, unavoidably, into the banquet hall.

Hisoka, still basking in the afterglow of his victorious whale bet, floats through conversations like a king in his element.

“You really called it—down to the splash,” one woman praises, touching his arm.

“You must have a sixth sense,” another laughs, leaning in just a bit too close.

“Oh, I’m full of surprises,” Hisoka says with a wink, his hand hovering theatrically over his heart. “And terribly modest, of course.”

He soaks up every compliment, every laugh, every flirty glance like it’s scripted for him—as if “Shun” isn’t a role, but his natural state. Anyone watching might think Hisoka truly is this charming, outgoing, and effortlessly sociable.

But Illumi knows better. 

Hisoka is hitting every mark, delivering every line. It’s not spontaneity. It’s performance.

Their eyes meet.

Illumi raises a single finger—subtle, signalling. A coded cue between them.

Hisoka’s eyes flick briefly, energy pooling around them as he shifts into Gyo. He scans the space around Illumi, reading the gesture.

We’ll join body painting. Let’s alternate using En.

No nod, no smile—but Illumi sees the acknowledgment in the faint shimmer of his gaze. Hisoka reads the message, drinks in the secrecy, and returns to his masquerade with a barely-there glint of mischief.

Illumi peels away from the crowd, gliding through the chatter in search of one person. He finds him easily. Or rather, finds her. Platinum hair catches the light like spun metal—Akira’s girlfriend, still attached to his arm like an accessory. Her expression hasn’t changed since Illumi first saw her: empty-eyed, vacant. Like someone hollowed her out and left just enough behind to smile and nod.

But Illumi knows she isn’t under control. There are no needles, no Nen. She simply is like that. Willingly molded. That disturbs him more.

Akira is mid-conversation with another man—a very wealthy one, if the booming, belly-deep laugh is anything to go by. It’s the kind of guttural sound that says: I could buy this boat and everyone on it.

Illumi approaches with purpose.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says smoothly. “Akira, may I borrow you for a moment?”

Akira turns, smile tightening into something more polished. His demeanor shifts instantly—submissive, immediate compliance. He excuses himself with a few murmured niceties and follows Illumi a few steps away.

“Yeees?” he asks, arranging himself with ostentatious elegance against the railing. It’s a poor imitation of sensuality, more mid-life crisis than model pose.

Illumi doesn’t hide the roll of his eyes.

“I only need one thing from you: the room number of the man you mentioned before.”

He flicks his hair from his face, watching the flare of calculation behind Akira’s curated expression. The answer tumbles out—too quick, forced. Dragged straight from his throat, erupting raw from his larynx.

“Deck Nine. Room Eighteen.”

“Excellent. You may go now.”

Illumi’s feet carry him straight back to the banquet hall, where he’s met with a scene that could have been pulled straight from one of those lush, flowery soap operas his mother used to watch—the rare afternoons she’d beckon him to her quarters, gently brushing out his hair as pastel dramas played in the background.

Soft candlelight dances on the walls. Silver cloths shimmer across the tables and floor. Vases of rare Carvolin orchids—native to the upper ranges of the Lukso Mountains—stand tall in elegant centerpieces, their deep red petals curling like flames. Paint palettes, brushes, and bottles of wine are neatly arranged at each couple’s station. It looks like a luxury spa retreat dressed in avant-garde romance.

Illumi enters without fanfare, shedding his navy vest and draping it over a chair. His shirt, already snug, stretches slightly as he moves. Hisoka is already seated, swirling paint on a palette with a flick of his wrist, chatting animatedly with a nearby couple.

Illumi raises a finger.

He’s in 0918.

Hisoka doesn’t look at him directly. Instead, he exhales slowly and expands his En, blanketing the lower levels of the ship. Illumi feels the soft brush of aura sweep over him—tingling like static.

After a few seconds, Hisoka lifts his hand, index finger raised:

He’s in his room. Packing up paintings. Vintage wooden suitcases.

Illumi sits beside him, brow arching. Just as he suspected.

A woman takes center stage—a hostess, earthy-toned with radiant brown skin, adorned in a striking dupatta shawl and skirt. Her presence glows with warmth.

“Body painting,” she begins, voice smooth as honey, “is not about technique. It’s about connection. Trust. Intimacy. Forget what you know about art—this is about letting your partner see you. Letting your heart guide the brush.”

Illumi tunes most of it out, squeezing paint onto his palette in even lines. After fifteen minutes, the guide begins a gentle demonstration—stroking paint across a volunteer’s arm with practiced care, encouraging couples to connect through slow, intentional touch. As murmurs of laughter rise around the room, Illumi extends his En in a smooth, deliberate swell.

There.

The man in 0918 is hunched over the bed, cramming the last few paintings into the case. His aura is sharp, flickering with panic. He taps furiously at his phone, frustration rolling off him in waves.

Illumi notes the details. Time is running out.

Then Mira’s voice pipes up beside them, pitched low with gossiping thrill.

“Did either of you hear about the secret buyer onboard? Someone planning a private arrangement outside the auction.” She leans closer, eyes sparkling.

Illumi shakes his head. Hisoka remains suspiciously quiet.

So Illumi kicks him lightly under the table. He lifts a finger.

You started a rumor.

Hisoka raises a brow.

Yeah. It’ll cause more panic. Flush him out.

Illumi hesitates, then responds.

You’re not wrong. Good work.

Mira clears her throat, clearly puzzled by their prolonged silence. Illumi blinks at her, lips curling into a sheepish smile.

“Just… interesting news, is all,” he says, cocking his head with feigned curiosity. “Wouldn’t this upset Vellaro?”

Mira grins, leaning in. “I know, right? This is really heating up. Keep an ear out.”

Live soft jazz hums through the room, weaving between the clink of wine glasses and quiet laughter. The body painting activity is in full swing now—white-garbed couples leaning into each other, smearing vibrant color with increasingly erratic enthusiasm. Across the table, Illumi and Hisoka sit facing one another, locked in a wordless impasse.

“Obviously, you’re the canvas,” Illumi says, matter-of-fact.

“Obviously?” Hisoka teases, raising an eyebrow as he swirls a brush lazily in green. “What if I want to paint you?”

“You don’t.”

“Well,” Hisoka croons, grinning, “I like to be pursued sometimes. Flattered. Won over. Negotiated with.”

Illumi meets his eyes, flat and unimpressed.

“I don’t negotiate over a profitless venture. Take it or leave it.”

Hisoka sighs. “Fine, fine. Twist my arm, why don’t you?” He peels the fabric away, slinking out of his shirt with the sensual flair of a burlesque dancer. His pants follow, puddling at his ankles, leaving him in nothing but fitted cotton briefs. Hisoka flicks his hair back and lifts a finger, focusing.

He’s waiting at his door.

I’m going to release Texture Surprise now.

Illumi nods and begins to uncap the paint tubes, methodically squeezing blues and greens onto the palette.

“What will you paint on me?” Hisoka asks, stretching out across a silver-draped bench like a canvas made flesh. “Let that little heart of yours decide. I’m your self-appointed muse~”

Illumi rolls his sleeves to the elbow and dabs his brush into the cool pigment. Hisoka’s skin is warm beneath the first stroke, and the paint drags in a tacky, tingling line up the side of his thigh. Hisoka shivers.

“Tickles,” he murmurs, biting back a laugh.

“Be still.”

They slip into a rhythm, casual conversation bubbling up between them like seafoam on a gentle tide.

“The reef from yesterday,” Illumi says quietly. “The jellyfish. The anemones. That’s what I’m painting.”

“Ahhh,” Hisoka breathes. “So you were moved by the beauty of the sea.”

“Only slightly.”

Illumi dips his brush again and begins to build the composition—long strokes of blue-green, white, and midnight blue swirl against Hisoka’s side, chartreuse and grass green blooming along his ribs like fronds. Tendrils rise from his hip, winding up his torso to his shoulder. Jellyfish float up his stomach, translucent and organic, as if pulsing with light.

His hands press firmer now, nails grazing against Hisoka’s sides as he reaches higher, closer. Hisoka breathes heavier.

Across the room, wine is flowing freely. Other couples begin dissolving into one another—paint splattered across skin, shirts pushed aside, kisses exchanged openly. Moans echo faintly beneath the music. The room becomes more of a den than an art studio.

Hisoka whistles at the sight and makes a pass at Illumi, reaching out to tug him close.

Illumi bats his hand away without missing a stroke.

“No.”

Hisoka pouts. “You’re no fun.”

Illumi digs his nails into Hisoka’s side—not enough to break skin, but enough to make his point. His eyes don’t miss the way Hisoka’s lower lip, softly jutted, catches a iridescent pink tint from the low, ambient light.

“Don’t move. You’ll ruin the composition.”

He raises a finger.

Control yourself.

Hisoka lets out a dramatic moan. He dips a knuckle into a nearby patch of paint and swipes it across Illumi’s cheek, leaving a streak of iridescent blue along his jaw.

“So used to seeing you streaked with red,” he murmurs. “But blue looks stunning on you too.”

Illumi finishes the last spiraling tentacle, steps back, and surveys his work. The colors undulate with each breath Hisoka takes—an oceanic scene alive with motion and curve. He gestures for Hisoka to spin, and when he does, Illumi allows himself the smallest, rarest indulgence:

“You look…” he pauses. “Aesthetically… pleasing.”

Hisoka gasps, hand to his chest.

“My god, Illu. We’re in public.”

“You’re welcome,” Illumi replies, chuckling softly.

They exchange a glance, and behind it—shared knowledge. Everyone else in the room is slipping into intoxicated distraction, leaving them a wide-open path.

“Let’s go,” Illumi says quietly. “He’s on the move.”

────୨ৎ────

The upper deck is chaos. Crew members scramble to redirect swaying passengers away from the rails. The mast stands mostly abandoned. A perfect place for a private meeting.

Illumi and Hisoka move like shadows, hidden in the lattice of spars and rigging above. They mask their presence, banking on their marks being too preoccupied to do a full sweep—bodies cloaked in stillness. Illumi has to exert extra effort to maintain his usual stolidity, pointedly ignoring Hisoka, who moves stealthily beside him, half-naked and streaked with paint. 

Below, the skinny man paces, wringing his hands. A taller, broad-shouldered figure leans against a metal support beam—stoic and silent, cloaked in shadow.

“I don’t have the note!” the skinny one blurts. “I—I had it, I swear. But it’s gone. I think—someone got to it. But the rumors are true. There’s a buyer watching us. We need to move—relocate the paintings—before everything falls apart.”

A pause.

Then the deep voice answers, slow and decisive. “You’re a liability.”

“But I can fix this—”

“No. You’re off large ops from now on. You’ll deliver the goods. Quietly. Tomorrow morning. Before docking. When everyone’s passed out.”

The man straightens slightly, defensive. “And then what?”

“You walk away. That’s all.”

The larger man shifts in the shadows. Illumi narrows his eyes. The aura around him hums strange—flexing like bent glass. Hisoka’s brows lift in realization.

A Specialist.

Both assassins commit his form to memory—broad chest, short dark curls, thick scar running across his clavicle. They take in every contour.

Back in their suite, Illumi and Hisoka settle into the kind of silent cooperation that defines them best. The lights stay low. They squat on the floor—no comfort, no pretense.

They sit and plan.

“We use the first one as bait,” Illumi says. “We’ll manipulate his body—get close to the Specialist. Once the paintings are in his hands, we strike. The third will likely show up to oversee the exchange.”

“Two birds, one stone,” Hisoka murmurs, a grin curling at his lips. “How poetic.”

They agree there will be no sleep tonight. 

The call time is 4:15 AM.

Hisoka showers and flops across the bed, building a precarious card tower with strands of Bungee Gum, each flicker of the structure glittering like tension. Illumi remains upright at the headboard, unmoving, lost in his practiced void—an emotional blankness carved out for long hunts and patient kills. He slows his breath, focusing on the steady inhale and exhale, working to clear his mind—draping a white sheet over the relentless cognitive churn.

They wait in silence.

The air is thin in the final stretch before sunrise—brisk, still. The rest of the yacht sleeps beneath the weight of wine, exhaustion, and indulgence.

Illumi and Hisoka are wide awake.

They move like shadows through the upper corridor, the deck beneath their feet softened by plush carpeting. The lights are dimmed to an amber glow, faint and steady, like candlelight filtered through fog.

“There’s something invigorating about the fatigue,” Hisoka murmurs, as they round the final corner. “The way your body stops feeling real. Like drifting through a fever dream. Lethargic kills?” He hums. “One of my favorites~”

“Sleep deprivation sharpens discipline,” Illumi replies, voice hushed but cool. “It demands precision. Control. Killing through exhaustion is… satisfying. The success feels earned—stripped of luxury. Reduced to effort.”

“Mmhmm.”

They stop outside Room 0918.

A soft hum of electricity vibrates through the air. Illumi lifts a finger, and Hisoka responds instantly—switching to Zetsu, aura disappearing completely. The door clicks open, the lock yielding easily to Illumi’s needle.

The room is dark, save for the pale strip of moonlight that spills through the blinds. The slender man is sitting upright on the edge of the bed, wide-eyed and already trembling.

Hisoka wastes no time. A slick, pink strand of Bungee Gum slaps across his mouth, sealing it shut before he can scream. He writhes, but doesn’t dare try to run.

Illumi crosses the room like fog drifting over a graveyard. Silent. Measured. He crouches beside the man, expression unreadable.

“We’re going to make this painless,” he whispers, almost soothing. “Unless you lie to me.”

The man shudders violently as Illumi slips a needle into the side of his temple. The movement is delicate, precise—a pact forming between mind and muscle.

Hisoka leans against the wall, watching like he’s front row at a theater. His face is all angles and shadows—cheekbones slashed high and sharp, nose elegant and predatory,

“Tell me,” Illumi says softly. “Everything. Every detail of the operation.”

The words begin to spill.

He says his name is Gai. Then, with the blank cadence of a machine, he names the burly thief—Curly—and confirms that he’s a Specialist with a phasing ability.

Curly has been smuggling the stolen paintings through walls. His Nen ability allows him to phase through solid materials briefly—an advantage for a thief slipping through safes, walls, or floors. More importantly, he can phase objects with him—but only if he’s in contact with them. His physical body remains partially vulnerable while transporting items, but he’s near impossible to trap or contain.

The real score, however, isn’t the paintings they’ve already stolen—it’s Vellaro’s private collection, the pieces that will only be unveiled during the final gallery. That’s where the third thief comes in.

Ren, a conjurer, manifests a ceramic plate that shrinks anything placed on it. Once miniaturized, he can swallow the object whole and store it inside his body. At will, he can regurgitate the object, returning it to its original size. He becomes physically ill if the inventory is too large, which is why he hasn’t preemptively swallowed the rest of the paintings.

They’ve planned their meet in the engine room, early morning. Gai is to deliver his painting to Ren, who will consume it and hold it until dock. The chaos of disembarking is their smokescreen.

Illumi nods once.

“That’s all I need.”

Hisoka tilts his head, smiling faintly. “We should keep the real Gai out of the way, hm?”

“Deadweight,” Illumi agrees. “I’ll take his place.”

He glances at Gai, who’s trembling with wet, wide eyes. Illumi steps forward and renders him unconscious with a quick jab of his needle to the neck. The man collapses like an unstrung puppet.

Illumi kneels over the limp body and begins mapping him—pressing gently at points along Gai’s limbs, marking them with colorless pins. Pressure points, muscle density, bone width. His fingers are steady as a surgeon’s.

Illumi shrugs out of his sweater—another homemade knit, needle-patched and thread-bound. From inside its folds, he pulls a small container tucked in the lining. One special needle glints silver in the low light.

The jellyfish venom.

He slides it into Gai’s arm, the toxin entering his system silently. It slows the nervous system, preserving muscle laxity, preventing decay. A perfect condition for imitation.

Now, Illumi turns inward.

He begins sticking himself with needles—mirroring each one he had placed in Gai. The change is slow, but relentless. His skin crawls over shifting bone. Ribs compress. His jaw cracks softly, stretching sideways, then pulling in tight. The muscles of his chest narrow, tendons in his neck pull taut. His stomach flattens and hollows; his spine contorts forward.

Hisoka watches, rapt. “Illu, you’re most beautiful when you break yourself.”

Illumi doesn’t respond. His focus is absolute. The pain reverberates through every nerve, each needle a sharp echo in his bones. His ears ring from the unnatural motion—but he’s long since grown numb to pain. It’s all relative.

The final needle pushes beneath his cheekbone, and the transformation locks into place. He exhales—a choppy rush of air. His lungs now have less room. He feels his organs pressed against one another like overpacked luggage in a shrinking suitcase.

But the likeness is flawless.

“You make a stunning Gai,” Hisoka purrs, circling him once, appraising every inch of the newly forged figure. “Though I do miss the long hair.”

Illumi pulls on Gai’s jacket—drab and too big, hanging awkwardly off his restructured frame. Hisoka helps adjust it. Their fingers brush. Illumi’s now spindly, unfamiliar fingers twitch at the contact.

“Stay in the shadows,” Illumi says.

“Yes, sir~”

They leave the room quietly, the original Gai left limp and breathing faintly on the bed.

It’s 4:47 AM.

Eight minutes to the handoff.

Illumi adjusts to his borrowed form with the exactness of a blade slipping into its sheath. Gai’s body is lighter, narrower. The added space in the joints and lack of muscle density feel like walking with sand in his limbs—loose, imprecise. He keeps the discomfort hidden beneath practiced rigidity.

He hauls two vintage suitcases behind him, filled with stolen paintings. They’re no challenge at all, but Illumi feigns strain anyway, letting his shoulders droop, pace drag. Gai wouldn’t move efficiently. He would stumble, adjust, tug too hard at one side.

It takes longer than necessary to reach the rendezvous point.

The air grows warmer, then humid. The silence of the upper deck gives way to a rhythmic thrum—low, constant, like the heartbeat of the ship itself. The engine room yawns open before him in a haze of rust and damp. It smells like old iron and wet rope.

Machinery towers from the floor, pistons churning, oil hissing through coiled tubes. Pipes climb the walls like mechanical vines, twisting in knots, disappearing into steel. Everything is loud—an industrial jungle of heat and power.

Hisoka disappears into a utility closet near the far wall, silent and fluid, sealing himself inside without a sound. Illumi keeps moving, steady, careful. He places the suitcases down near a large maintenance unit and waits, his expression tense with borrowed anxiety.

Then—footsteps.

Heavy and slow, accompanied by the drag of boots and the scrape of something metal. Two men emerge from the far corridor, silhouettes cut against the red hazard lights that flash rhythmically in the low ceiling.

Curly comes first—thick-necked, barrel-chested, with forearms like tree trunks. His eyes scan without blinking. He doesn’t flinch in the heat.

Ren follows. He’s long-limbed, lean, with narrow slits for eyes that never quite open. His mouth curls in something close to disgust. His aura ripples in odd patterns, a faint shimmer tracing the air around him.

They look pissed.

“You,” Curly growls. “You lose the goddamn note, and now you’re dragging ass like we’ve got time to waste? What the hell’s your problem?”

Ren snorts, breathy and sharp. “Gai fucked up again? Shocking. Fix your face—you look pathetic.”

Illumi lowers his head, giving only the faintest nod. He lets them talk. Lets them spit.

He enjoys this part—the moment before the descent. When his marks think they’re dominant. When they’re still clinging to the illusion of control, still smiling, still believing they’ll walk away with their pockets full and their plans intact.

They don’t realize they’ve already died. What they’re living now is just the prelude—death’s foreplay.

Ren crouches and unzips one of the suitcases, long fingers dipping into the neatly stacked canvases.

“Let’s get this over with,” he mutters. “We’re already cutting it too close—”

“When will I be clued back in?” Illumi says quietly, voice flat with just enough of Gai’s inflection to mask the truth.

It’s the signal.

In the same breath, Illumi’s wrist flicks out in a smooth, practiced arc. Needles fly from his fingertips in a straight, gleaming line—bursts of paralysis points that strike Curly’s limbs and shoulders before he can react. The final needle sinks into his artery.

From the closet door, Hisoka bursts forth like a switchblade opening in the dark. He lifts his hand—fingers curled like claws—and cocks his wrist with a snap.

A storm of Bungee Gum bullets launches from between his fingers, impossibly fast. So quick, so clean, Illumi barely catches the movement before the results are painted across the scene.

Ren jerks as if he’s been struck by lightning. Dozens—hundreds—of near-invisible projectiles tear through him like a hailstorm of needles. Each one embeds into his body with surgical precision, plugging entry points immediately.

Not a drop of blood spills.

The room falls quiet again, the roar of the machinery swallowing all sound as Ren stands frozen, riddled with gum-sealed wounds. His slitted eyes open—just a crack—for the first time.

Then he crumples. 

Curly’s body is already down, the thud of it still reverberating off the metallic walls.

The moment Curly’s body collapses into stillness, Hisoka and Illumi get to work. The soft thrum of the ship's apparatus fills the engine room as they retrieve the two corpses and gather the suitcases. Illumi hoists the handles silently, his form still perfectly mimicking Gai’s—bony hands, hunched shoulders, a borrowed gait.

Illumi removes each needle one by one as they make their way back, his body jerking and contorting with every extraction as he gradually returns to his original form. With each hallway they pass, his eyes widen, irises growing larger. Black hair spills down his back, regaining its full length. His nose angles into a delicate curve, and his legs extend, reshaping into their natural, elegant length. 

Hisoka trails beside him, Curly’s massive frame slung over his back. Hisoka chirps as tiny sparks prickle across his skin.

“Ah—he’s still buzzing,” he mutters, voice vibrating with amusement. “It’s like carrying a live wire wrapped in raw meat.”

“Residual aura,” Illumi says. “From phasing. Must’ve left his system in fragments.”

“It’s delightful,” Hisoka grins, eyes gleaming. “Like little love bites from the afterlife.”

Illumi’s body is his own again by the time they return to Room 0918, the door still cracked from their earlier entry. Gai’s lifeless form remains exactly where they left it, face slack, legs twisted beneath him. The room smells faintly of venom, sweat, and urine.

Hisoka kicks the door shut behind them with his heel.

Illumi strips the sheets from Gai’s bed and tears them into three long strips. One is spread flat across the floor, stretched to its full width. The other two are neatly folded and set aside.

Hisoka lowers Curly onto the cloth, electricity still buzzing faintly against his palms. 

“He’s going to spark all the way to the bottom of the ocean, isn’t he?”

“Maybe.”

Illumi moves to roll Ren’s body into place, crouching beside the lean conjurer. His skin is still riddled with pinpricks from Hisoka’s barrage—sealed over with gum, stretched tight like the surface of a balloon.

“Need to open him,” Illumi says.

Hisoka, already fishing through his waistband, pulls out a single playing card. With a flick of his wrist, he coats the edges with hardened aura, the shape warping into something serrated—sleek, deadly.

“Let’s see what he’s been hoarding.”

He slices into Ren’s stomach with one clean stroke. The flesh yields with a wet, splitting sound, and a gush of blood oozes out, saturating the cloth beneath them and filling the air with the sharp scent of copper. A wave of heat follows, thick and humid. Hisoka coats both his and Illumi’s hands in a thin sheen of Bungee Gum before reaching in, the gum acting as a flexible barrier against the viscous warmth as they peel the stomach open. Inside—

Miniature paintings.

Dozens.

Stacked and curved, pressed into folds of slick flesh, they slide out like playing cards from a rigged deck. Illumi helps extract them, careful not to smear the viscera. Some are still shrunken. Some begin to twitch, edges vibrating.

Then, all at once—they grow.

Canvas stretches. Wood frames unfold. Oil pigments expand and shimmer with a faint, radiant hum. The paintings reform in a matter of seconds, spreading out across the floor in a glimmering fan of fantastical beauty.

Landscapes. Surreal portraits. Animals with halos. Skies bleeding starlight. Each piece glows faintly with Nen-infused pigment, the colors richer than any natural dye.

Hisoka whistles, drawing the note out in a slow, rising pitch.

Illumi leans over one—a painting of a deer curled at the base of a tree, its antlers woven with feathers, its eyes bright with something… aware.

“Imbued,” he notes.

He glances at the corpses, the shimmer of life locked in brushstrokes sitting so close to the stillness of death. His gaze shifts to Hisoka, who kneels across from him, rolling Curly’s massive frame in the silver cloth like a gift being wrapped.

Residue from the gum clings to Hisoka’s forearms, glistening. The muscle beneath his skin flexes and shifts with each movement. The intimacy of the moment—of working in tandem, of quiet satisfaction—makes something flicker deep in Illumi’s chest.

A thud. A flutter.

Heartbeat spiking, sharp and sudden.

Hisoka raises his eyes. “Satisfied?” he asks, voice low.

Illumi’s answer escapes before he thinks it through.

“Yes,” he breathes.

Hisoka grins and hoists two of the bundled bodies over his shoulders. Illumi takes the last without effort. He could carry more—easily—but finds himself watching the shape of Hisoka’s back instead, the lines of his arms as he moves with fluid strength down the hallway.

They walk the length of the ship, silent. No one stirs. Not at this ungodly hour.

By the time they reach the bow, the horizon is beginning to warm. The sky is a hazy spectrum—indigo fading to lavender, a trace of peach blooming beneath the clouds. The sea reflects it all, calm and endless.

“Pretty,” Hisoka says. “Makes for a perfect backdrop.”

“Then go ahead. Get to the climax.”

“Impatient,” Hisoka chides.

Still, he complies—dropping both bodies with a dull thud. He flexes his wrists, then cocks his hands into pistols. Bungee Gum whips forward in a scatter of pink-flecked bullets—tiny globs that embed themselves in each corpse like anchoring weights.

“Need them heavy,” he says. “Don’t want any floaters getting traced back to this boat.”

Illumi waits until he’s finished. 

Then—without delay—they toss the bodies overboard.

One by one, the corpses vanish beneath the surface with hardly a splash. No bubbles. No blood. Just a ripple—then stillness.

The light is rising now, stretching long and pale over the deck, staining the metal rails in hues of soft orange and diluted gold.

Hisoka flexes his fingers, wrist cocking as he draws a line through the air with idle flourish.

“Watch closely, partner,” he says, tone teasing and glinting with pride. “You haven’t seen this yet.”

Illumi arches a brow.

Hisoka aims a single finger at the surface of the water. His hand clicks forward like a mimic of a pistol, and a rapid-fire burst of Bungee Gum erupts—streamlined, sharpened, streaking with force and speed.

The water slaps open in tiny, splattering punctures.

Moments later, eight Nyaka Fangs—large, carnivorous fish with translucent scales and rows of backward-hooked teeth—float belly-up. Each is riddled with clean, uniform entry points, the gum bullets still lodged inside like silenced proof of contact.

They bob there in the water, twitching, mouths frozen mid-snarl.

“Learned a few things from the Metal Storm,” Hisoka says, lowering his hand. “Made my gum denser. Faster. Think of it as a lovechild between a silencer and a shotgun.” He turns toward Illumi, smug. “Impressed?”

Illumi watches the bodies float, then shifts his gaze back to Hisoka’s expectant smile. “A little.”

“Oh? Only a little?”

“I have something to show you too.”

Without waiting, Illumi reaches into his sleeve and pulls free a single needle. He holds it delicately, like a calligraphy brush, then drags his tongue along the tip—imbuing it with his aura. It hums faintly in his fingers, pulsing once like a heartbeat.

Then he throws it.

The motion is smooth, exact. The needle vanishes into the water with barely a sound.

Nothing happens.

Hisoka squints. “Was that it?” He covers his mouth in mock shock. “Your big finish?”

Illumi says nothing. Just lifts his chin slightly.

Then another fish jerks to the surface.

It begins thrashing—erratic, violent, splitting the surface with wild strokes. It darts from one corpse to the next, jaws snapping with brutal force. It tears through them viciously, biting into gills, shredding scales, leaving cloudy trails of blood in its wake.

Hisoka whistles, eyes wide. “A berserker protocol?”

“Targeted nerve hijack,” Illumi replies. “I redirect the pain response. Then amplify it.”

They watch the fish rip apart its companions with feverish brutality until it burns itself out, twitching into silence.

For a moment, they stand in silence—surrounded by the rising light, the gentle sway of water, and the soft sound of dying waves.

“Well,” Hisoka grins, “that’s new. Completely overpowered my technique… that’s hot.”

Illumi doesn’t reply immediately. He’s still watching Hisoka—sunlight casting over the edge of his cheekbone, highlighting the faint pink gleam of dried gum clinging to his wrist. Hisoka’s eyes are saffron when caught in the light, and for once, his expression isn’t taunting. It’s waiting. Curious. Maybe even a little vulnerable.

“It really is impressive,” Illumi murmurs.

Hisoka blinks.

“The evolution of Bungee Gum,” Illumi clarifies, voice quieter now, “wasn’t something you needed. You’re perfectly capable without it. But you created it—refined it—not just as a weapon, but as a style.”

Hisoka’s grin spreads slowly. “Are you complimenting me, Illu?”

Illumi says nothing.

Hisoka lowers his head just a bit, lashes batting, posture softening in the slightest. Somehow, despite being an inch taller, he manages to make himself look small, like he’s tucking into the praise, curling into it. The sun hits him in such a way that his skin seems to glow.

Illumi feels something stir in his throat—compulsive, beckoning.

He reaches forward and yanks Hisoka, dragging him into something that only loosely resembles a kiss—rough, teeth-first, lips clashing. Their mouths drag together, Hisoka laughing into it, his hands immediately gripping at Illumi’s waist.

The collision is brutal at first—biting, possessive. Illumi digs a hand into Hisoka’s curls, the other wrapped around his throat, fingers clamping just enough to control but not choke. Their teeth clack. Hisoka groans, sucking hard on Illumi’s lower lip.

But then—

It shifts.

As the sun crests over the horizon and the radiant golden light stretches fully across the deck, something softens. The tension that once fueled the violence between them dissolves. The kiss slows.

Illumi’s grip on Hisoka’s throat loosens, sliding up to cup his face instead. Hisoka’s fingers, which had been digging into Illumi’s back, relax—resting flat against his chest.

They press together, foreheads touching. Breathing into each other’s mouths. Eyes closed.

Then—

A cough.

Snickering.

Illumi’s eyes open, his gaze narrowing over Hisoka’s shoulder.

Two deckhands stand a few feet away, arms full of folded tablecloths and wine buckets, grinning like they’ve walked in on something far too entertaining.

“Mornin’!” one of them says brightly, amused but not malicious.

The other just winks.

Illumi’s stomach drops.

He straightens abruptly, face pulled tight, lips wet. He doesn’t speak as they pass, but his shoulders tense, posture stiffening to a weaponized stillness. 

“Mind your business,” he snaps over his shoulder, voice cold.

The two men only laugh harder, their voices dissolving as they retreat.

“Well,” Hisoka hums, amused, “we’re never escaping those exhibitionist allegations.”

Illumi exhales sharply, rattled.

Because—

For all his composure, he can still feel the ghost of that kiss burning on his lips.

He keeps a measured distance as they climb the stairs, hyper-aware of every inch between them—a direct response to the discomfort still prickling under his skin after being caught in such a vulnerable position. Hisoka’s low chuckle lingers behind him, but it fades once they reach their room.

Illumi enters first and lets the door swing shut with enough force to nearly clip Hisoka’s nose. Texture Surprise could fix the bruise if needed, but the sting in Illumi’s chest is something else entirely—something messier, less easy to repair. He can’t even articulate what exactly has him so on edge; he just knows the sensation is sharp, crawling, and impossible to ignore.

He stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, frown twisting his fine features.

“Should we eliminate those deckhands? They caught us in a compromising position.” His head tilts as he eyes Hisoka, searching for agreement, maybe even disgust.

Hisoka raises both hands in a calming gesture, careful as if approaching something wild and skittish. “I have no qualms with senseless killing, Illu, but why? It’s not like they saw anything incriminating. The bodies were probably thirty feet under by the time they came around.”

He takes a slow step closer, softening his voice. “Unless, of course, there’s another reason you want them dead you’re not telling me.”

Illumi falters, words tumbling out half-formed. “No, just… They still found us at the exact spot we dumped the bodies. Well—” He pauses, the logic starting to unravel even as he tries to justify it. “Just… Forget it.”

Hisoka places a tentative hand on Illumi’s shoulder, searching his face. “Is it embarrassment? Being caught in an intimate moment? Tell me—am I getting warmer or colder?”

Illumi focuses on the light fixture beside the door, hair falling to obscure his expression. “This is senseless.”

“Illu.”

“Warm,” Illumi mutters at last, pushing his hair behind his ear. He doesn’t meet Hisoka’s eyes, but his cheeks flush—soft pink blossoming over pale skin, a rare, bashful look. He’s tapping his thigh, quick and rhythmic.

Hisoka’s smile curls, delight flickering in his eyes. “You felt vulnerable sharing a moment with me. You forgot about everything else.”

The flush deepens. Illumi’s tapping grows faster. Hisoka basks in the sight.

“Warmer.”

Hisoka’s voice turns soft, teasing. “It’s natural, you know. There aren’t many scenarios in our lives where we’re defenseless, swept up in the thrill. But… wasn’t it satisfying?”

Illumi blinks, lashes lowering, then lifts his gaze. His black eyes meet the gold of Hisoka’s—a flash of sunlight trapped in amber. Hisoka’s lips twitch upward—encouraging.

Illumi looks away again, anxiety staccato-fast in his fingers. “Even so. We just got carried away. We should try to get some sleep before the galler—”

“Illumi.” Hisoka interrupts, lowering his hand to still Illumi’s anxious tapping.

“We can enjoy ourselves a little more. We earned it. And if you start overthinking things, just play your role. Be Seiji. That’s what makes this work—” he gestures between them, “—our chemistry on the job.”

“So I should call you Shun, then?”

Hisoka finally closes the last gap between them, pressing his forehead to Illumi’s. Illumi’s skin is cool, breath hitching at the contact. His lips part, caught between deflection or retort, but Hisoka beats him to it.

“We’re alone now,” Hisoka whispers. “Say my name, Illu. I love the way it sounds coming from you.”

He leans in, lips hovering a hair’s breadth away, but stops just short—leaving the choice to Illumi.

“‘Soka.”

The word is barely a whisper, but Illumi leans in, brushing their lips tentatively. The contact is feather-light, shivering, then firmer as he gives in—mouth slotting perfectly against Hisoka’s.

Hisoka’s grip tightens on Illumi’s arms, anchoring him close. Their lips press together, warm and addictive. Illumi sighs into the kiss—a soft, breathy sound—as Hisoka teases the seam of his lips with his tongue. The tip flicks, coaxing, and Illumi opens to him. Hisoka’s tongue curls around Illumi’s, tasting him, making him groan. Hands slide down Illumi’s waist, pulling him closer.

Illumi’s legs feel unsteady, alien, like he’s not entirely in his own body. He leans into Hisoka, overwhelmed by the predatory intensity bearing down on him. He feels blunt pressure—a careful bite—as Hisoka captures his bottom lip, drawing it gently between his teeth.

Illumi moans—quiet, surprised by the force of sensation flooding through him.

The feeling of being devoured, possessed, wanted by Hisoka sets every synapse in his brain alight—endorphins and panic blurring together, temptation battling with a distant urge to flee. Hisoka’s teeth finally release Illumi’s lower lip with a wet smack, leaving it swollen and red. Illumi can tell because Hisoka’s gaze never leaves his mouth.

He takes in Hisoka’s tousled hair, falling in loose waves over his forehead, nearly brushing his ears. His brows are low, his face relaxed and open, eyelids heavy and golden eyes burning through the half-light—like sunrise caught just beyond their window. His lips are plush and shiny with spit, and Illumi, for a split second, feels detached from his own body. He wonders how this man, so different from anyone he’s ever known, wound up so integral. Associate. Companion. And—

And more. Much more. What they have together shatters every Zoldyck maxim he was ever taught, runs counter to every instinct honed for survival. With Hisoka, Illumi feels exposed, strange, and unsteady. But the uncertainty itself is—

It’s—

“Lumi.”

It’s everything.

“Illu, listen to me.”

Hisoka’s hand rises, palm cupping Illumi’s cheek, thumb stroking just beneath his eye, reeling him back to the present. Illumi is instantly, sharply aware of every inch of skin in contact with Hisoka’s.

“Focus on me. My voice. My touch. Can you do that?”

Illumi can’t answer, so he just nods—small, helpless. It’s enough. Hisoka drags his thumb over Illumi’s lips, prying them open with a gentle insistence, nail just nicking the sensitive skin. Pliant, Illumi parts his lips, eyes never leaving Hisoka’s.

The look he gets in return is intense—like Hisoka can see straight through him, past every practiced mask and into the raw script of his being.

Illumi flicks his tongue forward, meeting Hisoka’s again. They moan together this time, a low, desperate sound. Illumi’s hands drift upward, uncertain at first, settling on Hisoka’s shoulders, then squeezing—fingers tracing the hard curve of his biceps through dark, satiny fabric. Hisoka, still half in the costume of “Shun,” wears a black button-up, straight-legged slacks, ankle boots. Understated for him, but the look sparks something odd and domestic in Illumi, some hunger he doesn’t want to name.

His hand finds Hisoka’s neck, feeling the muscles flex beneath the skin as they kiss. The pace is slow, achingly soft, so unlike their usual frantic, bruising hookups. Hisoka keeps pulling away, mouthing words between kisses: “’S’okay,” “Mm’here.”

It’s not enough. Illumi needs more.

He brings both hands to Hisoka’s neck and yanks, easily overpowering him. Hisoka topples forward with a surprised sound, and they fall back onto the bed—Illumi’s back hitting the mattress, Hisoka braced above him, caging him in.

Illumi nearly drools from the weight of Hisoka’s body pressed flush against his own. Every breath, every dip and flex of muscle is transmitted through thin fabric, friction sparking up his spine as he squirms restlessly in Hisoka’s grip.

“You caught me,” he says flatly—deadpan, but something in his voice trembles.

It surprises Hisoka, who pulls back just enough to arch a thin brow, pausing his slow trail of kisses along Illumi’s jaw. “Would you prefer a different position?”

The question comes with a teasing withdrawal, and Illumi instinctively loops his arms behind Hisoka’s neck, refusing to let him leave.

“No, it’s—just a joke.”

“You?” Hisoka laughs, dropping a kiss to the corner of Illumi’s mouth, supporting himself with one hand while the other slips under Illumi’s shirt, untucking it to skim warm fingers across his back. 

“You’re not exactly known for your sense of humor. Or comedic timing.” He maps Illumi’s body with his palm—gliding over ribs, navel, spine, chest—then lowers his mouth to the pale skin of Illumi’s neck, planting soft, open-mouthed kisses that leave him shivering.

“Maybe my jokes are just—mmn—too advanced for you?”

Hisoka lifts his head just long enough to grin. “Pardon?” His voice is lilting, smug.

Illumi tries to retort, but Hisoka’s kisses are relentless—down his neck, across his collarbone, along the tense line of his throat. Suddenly, Hisoka grinds his hips down, pressing the insistent bulge of his erection against Illumi’s. Illumi blinks, surprised to find himself just as riled up—aching, leaking, a damp patch blooming on his slacks.

“—are, ah…”

“I didn’t catch that, sweetheart,” Hisoka murmurs, lips curling into Illumi’s skin.

“Asshole.”

Hisoka keeps rolling his hips, slow and relentless, until Illumi bites down on his own lip—desperate to muffle the needy sounds threatening to spill out. But Hisoka’s gaze lingers on his face, catching every detail. He doesn’t tease Illumi for it; instead, his touch turns reverent—fingertips gliding over Illumi’s brow, tracing his cheekbone, then gently tucking loose hair behind his ear and fanning it across the pillow.

“What do you want, husband?” Hisoka murmurs, voice low and dangerous.

Illumi opens his mouth, ready to deflect, but Hisoka’s eyes and cocked brow disarm him. There’s no point in lying, not now—not when his body is betraying every hidden desire.

“Touch me. More.”

Hisoka’s smile softens. He rewards Illumi with a sweet, lingering kiss before pushing his shirt up, pooling the fabric high on his chest. Hisoka’s thumbs find his nipples, rough pads circling, pressing, making Illumi arch and curse under his breath. Hisoka pinches and rolls them, grinning when Illumi’s breath hitches, then leans down and closes his mouth around one, sucking gently as Illumi's hips kick up.

“Ah—harder,” Illumi gasps.

Obliging, Hisoka drags his nails down Illumi’s side—a delicious burn that makes him shiver. Then Hisoka bites at the sensitive peak, drawing a long, broken whimper from Illumi’s throat. When he finally pulls away, Illumi is breathless, cheeks blazing, hair wild, lips rubbed red.

“Illumi.” Hisoka’s voice is rough, like he’s barely holding back.

“‘Soka,” Illumi replies, just as undone.

“Illu, I—you make me… I need to—” Hisoka’s hands tremble as he strips off Illumi’s shirt the rest of the way, then kneels to unbutton and slide down both pants and boxers in a smooth, urgent motion. He quickly strips himself as well, leaving nothing between them.

Illumi blinks up, dazed, but as soon as Hisoka is naked, he reaches, pulling Hisoka back down on top of him. Skin against skin—Hisoka’s body warm, sculpted, solid. Illumi can feel every muscle, every curve, every sharp contrast between their frames: Hisoka thick and strong, Illumi delicate but defined. Hisoka’s cock stands hard and flushed, pressing easily into the line of Illumi’s hip, a bead of precum trailing slick and cool across his skin.

Instinctively, Illumi tries to wrap a hand around him, but Hisoka catches his wrist and pushes him higher up the bed, pinning him.

Illumi shoots him a flat, unimpressed look, but Hisoka just grins. “Let me touch you more—just… tell me if you want me to stop, alright?” He’s kneeling again, cock bobbing with every movement, pupils blown, drinking Illumi in.

Illumi only hums, unable to form words, but Hisoka understands—his mouth lowering to nose along Illumi’s neck, his breath hot and wet against sensitive skin.

“Excellent choice~” he whispers, voice dripping with affection and heat.

Hisoka kisses down Illumi’s body, hands guiding the way, slow and methodical. Illumi’s own hand finds Hisoka’s hair—soft and disheveled—and pets it back, earning a low moan from Hisoka, who licks along the sharp cut of Illumi’s hip, teeth grazing his skin. He trails a nail down Illumi’s thigh, beneath his balls, then over his straining cock.

“Stop… teasing,” Illumi hisses. “Just—do it.”

Hisoka sighs contentedly. “Illu, you’re gorgeous. The perfect specimen. My favorite plaything,” wrapping a hand around the base of Illumi’s cock and making him wheeze. “So perfect like this, flushed and panting for more.”

Illumi growls, his voice rough. “I will kill you.”

Hisoka moans. 

He tightens his grip, thumb brushing over the weeping slit. In one motion, he bends and envelops the flushed tip—soft, taut skin stretched over the hard crown—tongue flicking along the sensitive underside, lips sucking up the salty drop that glistens there. He lets his canines graze just enough to sting, and Illumi yanks at his hair, a sharp warning.

Keeping eye contact, Hisoka sinks lower, swallowing more of Illumi’s cock, lips stretching wide around the base. He lingers, tongue massaging the thick vein pulsing along the shaft, making Illumi’s breath stutter.

Illumi has to force himself to hold back, every muscle tense to stave off release. When Hisoka finally comes up for air, Illumi manages a shaky breath, barely reining in the urgency.

But Hisoka isn’t finished. One hand cups Illumi’s balls, fingers gliding lower, tracing the delicate ridge of his perineum before circling his tight, furled rim—teasing but not yet breaching.

“Fuck,” Illumi gasps, barely audible.

Then Hisoka resumes—slow, torturous, his mouth and tongue coaxing sounds from Illumi he’s never made before. At the same time, he eases Illumi’s legs up, pushing his knees apart. He reaches down, swipes his fingers through the slick bead of precum gathering at the tip of his own cock, and brings it to Illumi’s rim, circling the tight muscle, slicking it before pressing lightly, testing the resistance.

“‘S-Soka, feels—”

“Hmmm?” Hisoka hums, the vibration sending a shock of pleasure straight through Illumi’s skin. He watches—eyes bright and wild—as Hisoka lifts his head, a slow trail of spit dangling before it lands to slick Illumi’s cock. Hisoka’s tongue flicks to break the strand, then he kisses the flushed tip, letting the moisture ease the slide of his lips. His other hand works gentle, grounding circles into the inside of Illumi’s thigh, and with a slow, teasing pressure, Hisoka lets a finger dip in, just barely breaching him.

Illumi melts into it, breath slowing. He greedily draws Hisoka’s finger in deeper, his body relaxing around the intrusion, letting the warmth spread. The tightness yields, and Illumi’s muscles flutter with the effort to accommodate. Hisoka’s finger sinks to the knuckle—his reward is Illumi’s unabashed moan.

“Feels… ah—s’good… s-so… good…”

He barely registers if Hisoka is even making sense of what he’s saying, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the rhythm: Hisoka’s fingers working him open, Hisoka’s mouth slanting down to suck and slurp at his cock, lavishing attention on the sensitive frenulum. Illumi’s eyes lock with Hisoka’s—umber lashes fanned wide, eyes a molten, honey-rich gold.

“‘Soka—‘Soka,” Illumi whimpers, and Hisoka pulls away with a reluctant pop. He licks a slow, lazy stripe up the length of Illumi’s shaft before easing in a second finger, sliding it beside the first—scissoring and twisting them, testing the give of tight muscle with careful intent.

“Yes, darling—do you like it? Is this okay?” Hisoka’s voice comes out hoarse.

“Mmmhm—like it. You feel good. Don’t stop.” Illumi’s words are thick, cheeks puffed with short, panting breaths. Hisoka’s mouth is back on his, swallowing the next moan, tongues tangled in hungry, messy kisses. The taste of himself lingers, briny and intimate.

He watches, mesmerized, as Hisoka’s fingers work in and out of his fluttering hole—every motion slow and attentive. “You’re so, so tight, Illu," Hisoka murmurs. "But look at you—taking me so well.”

The pleasure gathers, low and insistent in Illumi’s belly, curling tighter and tighter. He's succumbed to Hisoka's touch: the wet, slick heat of Hisoka’s fingers inside him, the slide and stretch, the push and give. He can’t keep from gasping, breath catching as the intensity grows, threatening to drown him.

“I’m—fuck, I feel—ah—” He can’t even finish the thought. Hisoka doesn’t let up, curling his fingers, angling just right, and the pleasure spills over, white-hot.

Tears prick at the corners of Illumi’s eyes. He’s shaking, overwhelmed, every muscle taut as Hisoka massages his prostate, mouth descending to greedily lap up the thick, milky fluid that leaks from Illumi's swollen tip. Hisoka doesn’t relent, fingers working him open, pulsing over that tender spot until Illumi’s hips jerk and another rush of liquid dribbles from his cock. Hisoka catches it on his tongue, humming, savoring it. When he finally—finally—pulls his fingers free, slow and careful, Illumi feels utterly wrung out. His chest tight, a slick ache lingering where Hisoka’s touch has left him empty.

He wants—no, needs—to be filled, claimed, ruined by Hisoka, to feel him in the deepest parts of himself.

“Illu, my love,” Hisoka breathes, his voice pleading, “can I—may I—”

“‘Soka. Fuck me. Now.”

Hisoka chokes, a startled laugh slipping out, but he springs into motion—eyes brimming with affection as he kisses Illumi’s cheek, whispering, “How do you want me?”

Illumi feels a mutinous rebellion within his own body—thought and flesh conspiring, aching to be broken, waterboarded by Hisoka’s warmth, drowned in attention until there’s nothing left. And it feels like that is a little… much, especially for a marriage they’re only supposed to be playing at. So instead of simply splaying himself open—like he feels compelled to do, he presses a gentle kiss to the almost-invisible freckle at the base of Hisoka’s jaw. Then, silently, he turns over, settling onto his stomach, hands braced on either side of the mattress. He arches his back, presenting himself to Hisoka to take from behind.

Out of Hisoka’s direct eyeline, Illumi hopes whatever uncertainty remains will slip away—eclipsed by shadow. He hears what sounds like a whine behind him, but nothing more. Large hands cup his chest, lips kissing his nape then he feels himself being spread apart and a shaky breathe. 

“Are you sure you still want to…”

Illumi groans—irritation simmering at having to reconfirm with every new position. He shifts his hips back, inviting.

“Yes, Hisoka. I’m not bent over like this for you not to fuck me. Keep asking, and I’ll happily pierce you with a needle and use you myself.”

Illumi feels the blunt head of Hisoka’s cock tap at his rim, almost chastising. 

“That was my final ask. Now don’t revert to my full name—you’ll break my heart.”

“Then hurry an—”

The rest of the sentence is lost as Hisoka pushes in, the thick head of his cock breaching Illumi’s body with a deep, insistent stretch. Hisoka’s hand slides in front of him, palm open.

“Spit.”

Illumi obeys, letting a thick strand of saliva fall into Hisoka’s palm. He hears Hisoka do the same, the wet sounds sharp in the air, then feels the mixture—warm and messy—smeared over his rim, the rest slicked along Hisoka’s cock. He sinks in a couple more inches, groaning, gripping Illumi’s hips tightly, nails digging into flesh. Illumi throws his head back and his back arches deeper, wriggling his hips indicating he can take more.

The pressure and enormity of Hisoka fills Illumi so deeply it’s like he can feel Hisoka everywhere. In him, above him, around him. Illumi’s arms quiver, hands barely holding him up as Hisoka sinks in to the hilt—hips pressed tight, balls slapping softly against the curve of Illumi’s ass. 

For a moment, neither of them moves—just breathing, joined and trembling.

He pulls back. Illumi feels Hisoka’s mouth pressing kisses into the dimples of his lower back, his cock dragging teasingly through the cleft of his ass, slick and hot. The head slides along his rim, circling, making him ache for more. Illumi rocks his hips back, desperate to feel him—until finally Hisoka’s tip catches, and with a deliberate push, Illumi juts his ass back, swallowing Hisoka inside. He moans, pitched high and nearly unrecognizable—fucking himself back onto Hisoka’s cock. The rough feel of the sticky slide has Illumi keening at the burn.

“Fuck, Illu—you're so—fuck, let me give it to you. Take it, baby. Take it.”

Hisoka wraps his arms around Illumi just under his shoulders cradling his chest and pulls him back, against his torso and starts viciously fucking into him, the angle has his reaching even deeper than before. Illumi’s mouth drops open in a silent scream. He glances down, catching the sight of his own cock twitching, thick white spilling from the flushed tip.

He can’t even tell if he’s coming now or if he just has been this whole time. It’s all the same to him at this point. 

Illumi meets every movement, matching Hisoka stroke for stroke—bouncing back into him, supple ass pressing into Hisoka’s hips. His fingers twitch and he grasps for something to hold. He reaches back to grip Hisoka’s thigh, and that—

It feels good, but—not enough.

Without thinking, Illumi whines, reaching back to where they’re joined, feeling the thick stretch, the heat, the slick, and then—unable to bear it, he eases off of Hisoka, panting, and rolls onto his back. He lifts his legs, hands bracing the backs of his thighs, exposing himself—needy, wrecked, wanting.

Hisoka freezes above him, eyes wide with awe. Lips glossy and parted, cheekbones catching the light, a sharp jaw flexing beneath a faint flush. Copper lashes flutter, throwing shadows across his high cheeks, and the slight flare of his nostrils gives away his ragged breathing—his mouth curling into a stunned half-smile.

He looks—

Illumi blinks hard, fighting the haze of tears in his eyes, forcing himself to look up and meet Hisoka’s gaze—truly meet it.

He lets his lower lip jut out—using Hisoka’s own dirty tricks against him to get what he wants. With his legs still drawn back and his body open, it’s all invitation. He knows exactly what it’ll do.

And he’s right. Hisoka cups his jaw, eyes gone shiny and wild, and kisses him with a bruising intensity—swallowing the whimper from Illumi’s throat. He positions himself, lines up, and slides slowly back in, deep and careful, filling Illumi again with a delicious stretch. Hisoka starts moving—slow, controlled, each thrust pushing Illumi further open, lips slanting, breath mingling. Illumi nips at his mouth, trying to ignore the emotion pounding in his chest and spreading heat through his belly.

Hisoka presses back on Illumi’s thighs, bending him open, and the new angle makes Illumi gasp—didn’t think he could get any deeper, but Hisoka proves him wrong.

He barely gets a breath before something hot and wet slides down his cheek, and then another—falling, unbidden, to dampen Hisoka’s lips as they kiss. Hisoka pulls back, gaze dark and searching. He lifts a hand, brushes Illumi’s temple, then gently swipes his thumb beneath Illumi’s eye—timing the caress with a particularly hard thrust.

Illumi feels more tears spill over, shock mingling with pleasure. He realizes—he’s crying.

Hisoka’s lips twist—sharp teeth flashing, his whole face cast in the shadows and golden edge of sunrise. He braces over Illumi, intertwining their fingers, dragging Illumi’s hand back, then begins to drive into him with new intensity—hips snapping, unforgiving, pushing Illumi to the edge he’s been teetering on for too long.

Illumi’s face crumples, sobs torn from him as pleasure burns through.

“‘Soka, you’re gonna—I’m—gonna—”

Hisoka bends low, muscles flexing, tongue lapping up Illumi’s tears, never breaking rhythm.

“Come for me, baby,” he croons. “Let me see you.”

Illumi’s orgasm crests hard and fast, his body clenching down on Hisoka’s cock. It feels like he’s coming everywhere, spilling thick and hot over his own chest, collarbone, stomach—each pulse wrung out by the relentless thrusts of Hisoka inside him.

Hisoka fucks him through it, lapping up the spend that paints his chest, drawing every last spasm from his body until Illumi’s legs are shaking, his mind half-broken, stupefied. He can hear himself babbling Hisoka’s name over and over, soft and stunned, lost in the aftershocks.

Illumi barely comes back to himself before he’s moving. He wriggles free of Hisoka’s grip, winding his arms around his neck and pulling him in close, mouth brushing Hisoka’s ear.

“C’mon, ‘Soka—inside… need you, wanna feel… fill me. Please.”

Illumi's slurred begging is barely coherent but the effect is immediate. Hisoka bites down on Illumi’s shoulder, a harsh, shuddering sound torn from his throat. He thrusts deep, hips pressed flush, cock jerking as he spills inside, heat flooding Illumi’s gut. Hisoka moans, drawing out Illumi’s name, rolling his hips to fuck his release deeper—slick, wet, and shamelessly loud.

Illumi clings to him, riding out the final waves of pleasure, face buried in the curve of Hisoka’s neck, breathing in the scent of sweat, skin, and something sweet.

When at last Hisoka pulls out, Illumi feels a fresh wave of heat as come oozes from his overstretched hole—fluttering, spent, used. Hisoka watches, slowly licking his lips with open admiration.

“Can I?”

Illumi cocks his head, then—remembering himself, feeling the ache set in—quickly crosses his legs, suddenly self-conscious. “No, I’d appreciate even a little sleep, if you’d let up.”

Hisoka pouts but acquiesces, sinking down to wedge himself between Illumi’s legs, laying his head on his chest. He nuzzles close, sweat-soaked hair sticking to Illumi’s skin.

They lie tangled in the sheets, skin damp and sticky. For a long moment, neither says anything. Only the sound of their breathing, ragged and uneven, fills the room—a counterpoint to the muted thrum of the ship beneath them.

Illumi’s heart is still pounding, too loud, so close to the surface he knows Hisoka must hear it. The tears have dried, but his face is still warm, skin flushed and sensitive. Hisoka doesn’t move, just breathes against Illumi’s chest, his arms slung possessively across his waist.

Outside, the first hints of morning creep through the blinds—blush-colored light striping the bed, catching in Hisoka’s hair, painting them both in soft gold. Illumi closes his eyes and lets it wash over him. He doesn’t know what to do with this kind of closeness, doesn’t know where to put all the feeling crowding in behind his ribs.

Hisoka’s thumb draws lazy circles on Illumi’s hip, soothing and grounding. For once, he’s silent, no teasing, no sly remark—just the simple weight of him, anchoring Illumi to the moment.

When Hisoka finally does speak, it’s softer than Illumi expects—more confession than quip.

“You’re… breathtaking like this, you know. You always surprise me.”

Illumi blinks, eyes stinging again. He feels unmade and rebuilt all at once, his body a mess but his mind… oddly peaceful. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he only hums in response, threading his fingers through Hisoka’s hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp.

Hisoka sighs, burrowing closer. 

They lie there, breathing together, skin cooling. Illumi finds himself filing away every detail—the ache in his hips, the mess between his legs, the way Hisoka’s chest rises and falls against his own. 

Minutes stretch. The sun rises higher. Hisoka’s eyes drift closed, breath deepening into something almost like sleep, but his hold on Illumi never loosens.

Illumi sighs, loud and put-upon, but there’s no disguising the fondness beneath it.

Hisoka murmurs, voice loose with satisfaction and the edge of sleep, "’S all good… know you like it, feelin’ me inside… never could deny my hus-band…”

“‘Soka…”

“Lumi.”

────୨ৎ────

Illumi locks the bathroom door with a gentle click, shutting out the sight and sound of Hisoka. He craves space—enough to breathe. The guilt gnaws at his ribs: how easily he’d given in, how thoroughly he’d been unmade. Sleep had dulled the sting, but now the memories pulse under his skin—boundaries breached, left exposed.

He strips down in silence, stepping under the punishing spray of the shower. Scalding water pours over him, sluicing away the sweat, salt, and sticky aftermath. He watches the residue swirl down the drain, but the marks linger—splotches of crimson and purple pressed into his skin.

He tries not to think about what they mean, what he allowed. He catalogues them instead—they’re an asset, he reasons. Married couples are expected to mark each other. Their charade will hold, if anything, even tighter in the spotlight of the gallery.

He towels off briskly, freshening up. Black leather pants slide over his legs, fitting close. The sky-blue sweater is soft, but reveals just enough: a bold cutout at the chest, a glimpse of the throat Hisoka had bitten hours before. Illumi blow-dries his hair, steam still swirling through the air, mirror foggy and indistinct. He parts his hair down the middle, tucks one side back, lets the other fall over his shoulder—a studied symmetry. Only when the mirror clears does he inspect himself fully: skin pale but tinged pink from a faint sunburn, eyes shadowed, but otherwise flawless.

When he finally emerges, the room is washed in muted afternoon light, faint motes draining lazily in the air. Hisoka is already dressed—a tailored burgundy suit, jacket open, cropped black shirt hugging his waist. He’s hunched over the small circular mirror, brow furrowed in concentration as he perfects a razor-edged wing of liner, brows carefully filled and arched. His hands move with deliberate grace, finishing with a swipe of gloss across his lips.

“Come here a moment,” Hisoka calls, not looking up.

Illumi steps forward, instinctively keeping a full foot of space between them. Hisoka glances over his shoulder and laughs—a sound more amused than cutting—then bridges the distance himself, thumb reaching out to smear a sheen of gloss over Illumi’s lips.

“Mm, much better. You should let me make you over sometime, Illu. I’d love to do your whole face.”

Illumi turns to study himself in the mirror, shifting his jaw to catch the light, feeling the sticky new weight on his mouth. He mutters, “Fine, but I’m not making it a habit. And you don’t need it either, Hisoka. I can appreciate your bare face.”

“Oh?” Hisoka teases, arching a brow—liner winged so dramatically he looks almost feline. He leans closer, voice gone low. “So you do appreciate it?”

Illumi frowns, rubbing slow circles at his temple. Enough. They’ve lingered long enough. 

“We’re late. Let’s go collect our reward.”

They step out into the corridor, heels echoing on the polished wood, Illumi’s nerves wound tight beneath his careful composure.

There’s been another grand transformation of the banquet hall—this time, it borders on uncanny. When Hisoka and Illumi step inside, the space is unrecognizable from the raucous parties and games of the nights before. The staff has worked some kind of logistical magic overnight—every inch of wall now draped in rich black cloth, elegantly gathered and hung in diagonal waves that catch the dim gallery lights. The air is cooler, carrying a faint thread of incense and sea salt, undercut by the hum of quiet conversation.

Projected across the fabric walls and spilling onto the polished floor, moving panoramas of distant lands unfold: turquoise waterfalls plunging from mountains veiled in mist, ochre deserts blazing under a violet dusk, crystalline reefs glinting with impossible colors. Abstracts dangle from the ceiling on strands of silk—Mobius spirals of pure color that twist with the air, or angular forms shifting shape with every new step, never quite the same twice.

On pedestals of white marble and smoky quartz, the true treasures rest: oil portraits of folklore nobles, watercolors capturing regal landscapes, and a massive triptych depicting a war scene, each panel shimmering with Nen-infused pigments that seem to breathe and pulse with inner life. Near the center, encased in a lacquered frame, hangs a tapestry said to be woven by a single thread spider—a mythic work so delicate it looks spun from moonlight, almost too ethereal for display.

At the heart of the room stands Vellaro, unmistakable even from a distance. His custom three-piece suit is midnight blue and fits like a second skin—its stitching subtle but clearly expensive, buttons brushed with gold. His watch, a rare make, glimmers under the low light. A single ring—hematite and diamond—rests on his finger. His head is shaved to a pristine sheen, beard trimmed close, and he leans lightly on a steel cane inlaid with a blood-red stone. He is deep in conversation with a gaggle of collectors, his voice both cultured and unhurried, the weight of authority obvious.

He spots Illumi and Hisoka almost instantly and lifts a hand, excusing himself with a smoothness honed over decades. “Mr. Seiji, Mr. Shun,” he greets, voice like velvet, eyes sharp. “Walk with me?”

They move out onto the bow, the doors muffling the din of the gallery. The sun is climbing, the ocean bright and endless beneath them, a few gulls swirling in the updrafts.

Vellaro listens with impeccable patience as Illumi explains the extraction: three marks neutralized, paintings recovered, their Nen abilities delivered in a crisp summation. Gai, Ren, Curly—at least those are the names they gave. Vellaro’s eyes narrow at the mention of the Specialist’s phasing technique and the Conjurer’s shrinking plate, but he doesn’t interrupt, only nods sagely.

“All the stolen work is secure in Room 0918,” Illumi finishes. “No further complications.”

Vellaro turns his gaze to the horizon for a long moment, considering. When he speaks, his tone is warm but calculated. “You two have done me a far greater service than expected. The recovery alone is worth triple the agreed rate.” He pulls out a phone, flicks through several screens with practiced, elegant motions, and then glances up. “Check your account.”

Illumi takes out his own phone, refreshing the display. His balance jumps—three new zeros snap into place at the end. Hisoka whistles, delighted, and tucks his arm around Illumi’s shoulders with an easy, satisfied affection.

“Your discretion is as valued as your efficiency,” Vellaro says, voice lowering. “Should I have future work, I trust you’ll answer my call.”

“Of course,” Illumi replies. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Vellaro smiles, brief and genuine, before he glides back inside, cane ticking against the deck.

Inside, the mood is lighter. The tension of the mission bleeds away, replaced by an easy, almost domestic calm. Hisoka and Illumi drift through the hall, sampling delicate canapés—paper-thin slices of crab layered on citrus toast, tiny tumblers of spiced yuzu sake. 

They pause before a neon-slashed canvas, its subject a stylized seppuku—guts blooming in synthetic pinks and sickly greens. Illumi tips his head, studying the arc of intestines rendered almost artistically luminous against the black void.

“Not quite right,” he murmurs. “The viscera would fall faster. Gravity’s not that forgiving.”

Hisoka grins, hands in his pockets, eyes crinkling with delight. “You’re underestimating the theatrics. Some of us have a certain… flourish.”

“I doubt even you could control the rate of organ descent.” Illumi’s tone is light, almost playful. “Besides, there’d be more blood. This much neon would only show up under blacklight.”

Hisoka laughs, low and unbothered. “You’re just upset they didn’t consult a professional.”

Their laughter and easy conversation draw the attention of Mira and Theo, who approach with the same sparkling curiosity as ever. Mira’s silk dress glows under the gallery lights, Theo’s linen jacket perfectly pressed.

“You two are always so wrapped up in each other,” Mira gushes, “Half these couples look like they’re just barely tolerating each other—old money power plays, or keeping up appearances for the inheritance. I swear, last night I overheard one pair drunkenly arguing about how they couldn’t stand each other. Most of them look one wrong word away from throwing each other overboard. But you two… you’re always in your own world. It’s kind of enviable.”

“Agreeability is key,” Hisoka says with a wink, “but you’ve got to keep that spark alive—whatever that means for you and yours.”

Beside him, Illumi’s mouth twitches with the ghost of a smile.

Theo leans in, conspiratorial. “We really should exchange numbers you know, stay in touch. If you’re ever in Azian, our summer house is yours, or we could arrange a little private getaway—just us couples, you know?”

“Absolutely!” Hisoka agrees, reaching for Theo’s phone with a flourish. He taps in a series of numbers, each one more random than the last, and beams as he hands it over.

Mira claps her hands. “Perfect! You simply must visit. We’ll be in touch.”

Just then, the captain himself makes an appearance—stoic in his dress whites, bowing to Vellaro before announcing to the room that the yacht will be docking by early evening. A quiet ripple of cheers spreads through the crowd. Sunlight pours in through tall windows, the sea outside sparkling in fractured bands of blue and silver.

It should feel triumphant—breathtaking, even. But as the applause fades, Illumi only worries the inside of his cheek, chewing the skin raw. The mask will come off soon, and the facade—like all things—will end.

Just like that.

Which is—

It’s fine.

────୨ৎ────

The only light in the room comes from the screens. Rows of monitors, old and new, cast a cold blue glow over the weary systems engineer’s hunched shoulders and restless hands. He sits amid the hum of fans and the quiet tick of a backup server, four keyboards within reach, coffee cups stacked beside his left elbow. The blackout curtains are always closed. Sunlight is for the careless.

His screen fractures into a dozen feeds—some looping old traffic cam footage from past tails, others fixed on the spectral, fisheye angles scattered through Vellaro’s gleaming mega-yacht. Each vantage point, painstakingly wired by the so-called “heisters” who hired him. No real names. No in-person meetings. Strictly dark web: encrypted chats, fat stacks of crypto—payment upfront, a long list of demands.

Track every guest’s private quarters. Watch for “interference.” Report anything out of place.  

He’d built the code to flag motion, scan faces, catalogue anomalies. Easy money—or so he’d thought.

But it’s been more than twenty-four hours since their last check-in, and his inbox sits empty. Messages to their dark web dropbox bounce back unread, undeliverable. Yesterday, without warning, half a dozen cameras on the mid and upper decks blinked out in unison—not a clean disconnect, either. The feeds glitched, flickered, then went black, like a hard charge had fried the system from the inside out. He’d seen malware before, but never anything this fast-acting. It unsettled him.

So he does what he always does: rewinds to just before the interruption, fast-forwards through the gaps, trying to patch together a narrative worth selling. If he finds the right snippet, vengeance will make someone rich—and he’d take his cut. Someone out there would surely pay handsomely to know what happened to the three ghosts who hired him.

Hours blur into static. He scrolls through rooms, and empty adjoining spaces, dull parties, stiff flirtations, nothing but the quiet vanity of rich travelers. Then—one feed catches his eye. He pauses, his chair stops its lazy spin.

He rewinds and hits play, curiosity keeping his eyes on the screen.

It’s a private suite—pristine, impersonal. Two men inside. The one with long, ink-black hair looks tense, arms crossed tight. The other is taller, muscular, hair a copper red—vivid even in grainy night vision. They stand at opposite ends of the bed, a hush in their posture, faces set. He watches for a moment, trying to place them, but they’re just another couple, aren’t they?

He scrolls the timeline, flicking to 2x speed—just in time to see the atmosphere between them combust. Sudden movement, a flurry of limbs. The red-haired man pushes the other onto the mattress, crowding him in a way that’s almost violent but then—then it’s something else entirely. He sees the shift in their bodies, the tension turning electric. Hands bracket the slim figure, shadow and muscle rippling as he leans in. The taller man’s fingers slip beneath the black-haired one’s shirt, knuckles tracing the line of his ribs. The smaller man arches up, back bowing in an involuntary curve, his lips parted in a soundless moan. From above, the shape of their bodies fits together with striking precision—broad frame enveloping the paler, more delicate silhouette. The video is silent, but the message is unmistakable.

“Holy fuck,” the tech mutters, slowing the playback, squinting at the faces. He sees the redhead’s profile in a flash, jaw sharp, eyes dark. The way he moves is familiar. It claws at the back of his memory.

He pulls up a browser, fingers flying over keys. A few clicks, a couple image searches. Hisoka Morow: undefeated at Heaven’s Arena, infamous for his sadism and spectacle. Headlines abound—Enchanter of the Ring: Heaven’s Arena’s Lethal Showman. There’s no mistaking the match.

A slow, delighted smile creeps across his lips. “No shit.”

He leans back, savoring the windfall. The original job—the three thieves—suddenly seems quaint. What he’s found now is priceless. Not just blackmail. Not just a sellable leak. This is content that could command a small fortune in the right circles: a notorious fighter caught raw and unmasked, tangled up so brazenly.

He slices the footage, dragging the clip to a private folder, then again to a second, nondescript directory for future “distribution.” The digital clock on his desk ticks over. He licks his lips, already drafting encrypted messages to a list of buyers he’s kept for moments just like this. Some lucky buyer’s about to get a front row seat to something much, much more intimate than a blood-soaked fight.

And he’ll be the one cashing in.

────୨ৎ────

https://www.sexplora.com/view_video.xxx

TRENDING

HUNG DOM DESTROYS CUTE FEMBOY ASS

[PLAY ▶️]

⏪ 0:00  █▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ 1:32:44 ⏩   [Settings ⚙️] [1080p]

@meatbeat-master2000

Heaven’s Arena champion Hisoka Morow finger-blasts then fucks the shit out of a gorgeous femboy. Never seen the King of Heaven’s Arena go this hard—raw, rough, and impossibly hot. Who knew the Magician was packing this much heat?

#hungdom #femboy #rawfuck #muscleworship #deepthroat #prolapsegape #celebrityleak #amateur #voyeurism #longvideo #gay #blowjob #throatfuck #anal #creampie 

101,774 views • 9,102 likes • Uploaded 56 minutes ago

Top Comments:

@swol3bro69

Holy shit, is that actually Hisoka? Bruh, the clown’s packing heat LMAO. Dude could break a spine with those hips.

@prof-holeinspector

Never knew the Heaven’s Arena freak would be this fucking sexy. That body is unreal. That femboy takes dick like a champ—hole’s completely destroyed by the end. I’m obsessed.

@prolapse_enthusiast

Best upload all year, hands down. Real talk, the way that dom fingers him open??? 10/10 technique. The faces, the tears—bro, that’s art.

@bigredbussy

That ass is asdfghjkl, I can’t even. This site needs more shit like this. Upload part two!!!

@supreme1-throatgoat

OMFG they really caught Hisoka raw dogging on camera?? This man really do be a magician—made me cum in under a minute XD

Chapter Text

BEEP

“Mister Morow, my apologies for the unprompted interruption, but you have several guests downstairs inquiring about your whereabouts. I can provide their names along with their stated intentions. Are you in a position to receive anyone at this time? They’re requesting to be buzzed up.”

Hisoka yawns, stretching in a long, indulgent ripple—his spine arching like a cat, vertebrae cracking with a string of satisfying pops. He follows it up with each knuckle, cracking them one by one, then tilts his head to the side until a few more joints give with a snap. As he leans back, finishing the routine with a roll of his shoulders, his eyes flick to the ceiling mirror. Lounging in sheer nightwear, he looks half-dreamt—hair wild, expression lazy, flushed from sleep. He gives his cheeks a few light pats, puckers his lips, adjusts the angle of his chin. Neutralizes. Then tries again—this time hollowing his cheeks to accentuate the sharp slope of his cheekbones, the haughty cut of his jaw.

“Mister Morow?”

The clipped chime of his name through the speaker’s static reminds him someone’s waiting for a reply. But instead of answering, he reaches lazily toward the pastel mini fridge beside the bed and retrieves a pack of retinol eye masks—part of a wellness PR kit sent by a skincare brand begging for his endorsement. He’s never once agreed to a sponsorship. But he’s also never said no—a bottomless supply of gifted gratuity that Hisoka happily exploits.

He peels one cold, slick strip free and smooths it beneath his eye. Then the other. Finally, he lifts the handset from the wall, pressing his thumb to the talk button.

“And a glorious morning to you as well, Misty. I thought we had an understanding about my complete lack of interest in mingling with lobby loiterers. Time is precious, and I like to be… selective about who I share it with.”

“Uh—yes, of course. And I’d typically turn them away, but there are a few… distinguished individuals among the usual crowd.”

Hisoka quirks a brow. “Go on.”

“Well… give me a second.” There’s a bit of rustling, her chipper tone dipping into something more confidential. “I’ve been handed several business cards this morning. A PR specialist. An agency manager. A club promoter. And—off the record—an adult film producer and his team.”

Hisoka hums.

“There’s still your regular crowd of enthusiastic supporters, but they seem unusually motivated. I can patch in the lobby feed if you’d like to see for yourself.”

“Please do.”

A moment later, the small monitor above the callbox flickers to life—static first, then a clear overhead view of the lobby. Hisoka scans it casually.

He spots the professionals first: the older men in ill-fitting suits, the woman in a pantsuit with a clipboard clutched like a dagger, the couple in coordinated business casual, and a heavily tattooed man in designer streetwear. But beyond them thrashes a jittering throng of fans, bodies bouncing like baitfish caught in a tidepool.

Hisoka squints, attention snagged by a cluster of matching shirts. Two girls stand facing opposite directions, arms overhead, thumbs pointed at their chests and backs like game show models.

Black shirts. Thick white lettering.

Front: HUNG HISOKA

Back: sexplora.com

Hisoka tilts his head. A soft, amused hum leaves him as he scans more of the crowd.

Top Hisoka Supremacy

Rail Me Hisoka

Fascinating.

He blinks slowly, coquettishly, trying to recall if he’s done anything scandalous lately. Nothing public, at least. Not outside his usual performances. Unless… perhaps someone had cosplayed as him on a porn site? It happens to other celebrities. Lookalikes. Deepfakes. Anything for clicks.

Or worse—imitation gone viral.

“Misty, darling. Hold, please. I need to investigate the link I’m seeing.”

“Of course.”

He reaches for his tablet, already unplugged, and opens a search window. The bar autofills with the website—he’s clearly visited it before. Lewd enough. He types the text from the shirt into the engine.

A single link dominates the results.

HUNG DOM DESTROYS CUTE FEMBOY ASS

Hisoka blinks once. Then smiles slowly.

“Well now,” he murmurs, tapping the link.

Hot.

Just beneath the lurid title, his name stares back at him like a loaded gun: Heaven’s Arena Champion Hisoka Morow finger– before the blurb cuts off, cruelly abrupt.

Hisoka’s lips curl into a smirk. He doesn’t flinch. If anything, he leans in—spine rippling as he taps the blue hyperlink with a lazy flick of his finger, the way one might toy with a trigger.

The page loads instantly. Sexplora, the logo screams in cartoonishly bold bubble letters at the top, flashing pink and orange. A trending tag burns bright above the video title. Pop-up ads explode across the screen—webcams, bouncing tits, lips stretched wide around neon toys. One of them is already moaning on a loop. Hisoka exhales sharply through his nose.

He swats each tab away like flies. A few resist—rerouting him to other windows before he finally wrangles control of the original page again. The video is already autoplaying by the time he settles back into the pillows, arms overhead, toes curling under the silk sheets.

It looks amateur. Set in a hotel room, maybe? Grainy, like a feed rather than a staged production. Dim lighting, half-lit by the slow crawl of sunlight pouring in from the windows. A bed dominates the frame, sheets rumpled. The silence is eerie. Hisoka turns the volume up to max, just to be sure it isn’t an issue on his end. Then—movement. A figure steps into frame: slender, bare-armed, long dark hair spilling over his shoulders. He crosses his arms, lips settling into a faint pout. Even through the pixels, his skin seems to glow.

Hisoka’s breath catches.

Oh.

Oh.

Hisoka’s eyes widen, pupils dilating as the reality hits—like cold water to the face. His mind begins to sync with what’s onscreen: the video plays without sound, memory rushing in to fill the void—supplying soft gasps, the taut pull of tension in the air, as he watches—again—Illumi’s brows draw tight, his gaze flicking downward, then back up, uncertain and sharp all at once.

And then Hisoka—him, unmistakably—enters the frame with hands raised in faux surrender, walking slowly toward Illumi like one might approach something sacred. Or scared.

Fuck.

Hisoka watches in abject horror, taken on a ride he never paid for—never even considered boarding. His chest rises, then locks. The laugh that escapes is too loud, too sharp, fractured at the edges.

The video rolls forward. He watches Illumi tuck his hair behind one ear, blinking hard, unease creeping into every line of his face. He watches himself place a gentle hand on Illumi’s shoulder, lean in, and kiss him softly—so softly it borders on reverent.

The overhead angle casts a wide sweep of the room. When Hisoka squints, he swears he can see it all: the tremble of Illumi’s fingers when they curl against his chest, the way his shoulders drop as their lips meet again. Hisoka’s eyes fixed on him like a worshiper, and the subtle arch of Illumi’s spine as he gives in.

Hisoka’s mouth is dry.

Then Illumi pulls him down onto the bed, legs parting, hands dragging across his back. The video floods with color as the sunlight brightens—the dawn painting their bodies in peach and gold. Hisoka watches himself kiss Illumi’s neck, trace the sharp cut of his clavicle with greedy precision, his mouth a blur against pale skin.

Hisoka feels heat rising in his cheeks. The gel pads below his eyes start to slip.

He watches himself bite down gently, leaving slick, pink-stained marks. Watches Illumi writhe, lips parted, face turned toward the pillow. Watches the desperate claw of nails against his back, the way Illumi whimpers ,open and shining.

He shifts in bed, suddenly too warm. A hand slides low on instinct—pressing to his navel. He lets it rest there, no more.

On screen, Illumi is unmaking beneath him—arch bowed, neck extended, thighs spread as Hisoka’s mouth trails fire down his stomach. His fingers trace every hollow, every muscle. There is nowhere he doesn’t touch. No place left unclaimed.

And then—

Illumi turns, slow and silent, face pressed to the mattress, knees tucked under him, ass raised. Offering. Inviting.

Hisoka stops breathing.

He’s seen this. He’s done this. But seeing it now—detached from sensation, from heat and touch—it’s devastating. Illumi’s rim is flushed and wet, twitching with want. It’s obscene. Exquisite.

The camera picks up the slight wobble in Illumi’s thighs. The tremor in his fingers as he braces himself. The lighting catches on the sheen slicking his entrance.

Hisoka scrolls.

The comments section is flooded.

Who leaked this??? Dark hair’s the prettiest little cumslut I’ve ever seen.

Glory to the Archangel, look at that heavenly arc. I have been blessed.

Archangel’s ass is something serious! Check the bounce at 42:17 (insta-nut).

The word “leaked” punches him in the gut.

This wasn’t a cosplay. This wasn’t a deepfake. This was real. Filmed. Clipped. Uploaded.

A private moment. Made public.

And Illumi—Illumi—was laid bare for the world to dissect. Hisoka’s stomach turns. That sacred, shimmering moment—when Illumi trembled below him, full and breathless, chanting his name like a prayer—had been stolen. Ripped from the delicate folds of memory and plastered on a porn site with auto-play ads and anonymous freaks commenting on Illumi’s ass and dubbing him the fucking ‘Archangel’.

The sanctity was gone.

Hisoka sits up, seething, chest tight. He slams his index finger down on the call button—hard enough to split his nail, the crack sharp, white digging into the pink nail bed. 

The line rings once. Then connects.

“Misty,” he snaps, voice brittle, “They’re all here about the leak, aren’t they? What’s the reach on this video?”

“Ah! Mister Morow, there you are. Lost you for a moment.” A pause, then more brightly: “Well—congrats, I guess? From what I’m hearing down here, you’ve just passed five hundred thousand views on Sexplora. With all the buzz, we’ll be lucky if there’s even standing room at your next fight.”

She adds quickly, “All publicity is good publicity, right?”

“Right,” he says through gritted teeth.

His eyes flick to the key hook by the door, where his faux wedding ring still dangles—cheap metal tarnished, the shine dulled. Nearly two weeks since they parted, and it still hangs. A symbol of their con. Their cover. Something meant to be performative but—onscreen—it had never looked more real.

As the video plays on, Illumi writhes, hands clutching the sheets, body arching with each thrust, each breath. Hisoka watches the climax build, sees himself inside Illumi, and the final release—hot and thick, painted like pearls across a trembling chest.

The ring sways gently on the hook.

It doesn’t gleam anymore.

────୨ৎ────

Life’s all about balance.

As much as Illumi enjoys the build up to a kill, he’s come to savor the stillness that follows. The quiet. The unwinding. The sense of order he can reestablish in the spaces between frenzy. He’s long believed that even an assassin should have a routine, a scaffolding to prevent erosion of the self. And one of his most sacred rituals is tending to his hair.

It’s obvious, of course. His long, black tresses are practically a signature. He’s worn them long since adolescence, growing them out alongside his skill, his reputation, his detachment. The process of maintaining them is rigidly structured—the same trusted products, the same weekly treatments, the same careful strokes. A single flaw could become a fray, and a fray, a weakness. But Illumi doesn’t mind. If anything, he finds peace in the repetition. The time spent brushing becomes a form of meditation—a space where his mind is free to unravel in controlled patterns, leaping fences, unlocking gates.

Sometimes, he even stretches it out. Just a little longer. Just enough to keep the world at bay.

This evening, the silver antique brush glints in the low light. Its swirled emblems catch the moonlight filtering in through the window. A gift from Tsubone, years ago. Ornate and regal—his mother had called it befitting of a young prince. Now, she calls him her knight, her soldier. Endearments that swell something in his chest, something tender and volatile, too big for the space it occupies.

He begins with the ends, pulling through the coarse tangles. The brush drags, catches, then slides smoother with each stroke. He works in measured silence, twisting sections up and pinning them with a claw clip, until only a few stray locks remain by his temple.

His reflection catches the light just right, and for a flicker of a moment, the bristle's sharp tug feels like something else. Like Hisoka's fingertips, grazing his hairline. Like the warm press of a kiss chasing the path. Illumi blinks, lips parting. He scolds himself silently but can’t deny the blush rising to his cheeks, faint and traitorous.

It doesn’t help that he hasn’t put away the ring. It still rests under his satin pillow, the fake wedding band they'd used for cover. He hasn't touched it since returning home, but its weight lingers. A ghost against his temple when he lies down. A prompt for memories he doesn't want, and yet—

A buzz rattles against the surface of the vanity.

Illumi flinches, tugging a little too hard. The sting travels sharply along his scalp. With a hiss, he sets the brush aside and reaches for his phone: two new messages. 

[Milluki]: big bro

[Milluki]: wya

He eyes the screen, unmoved. The texts keep coming.

[Milluki]: gonna wanna see this

[Milluki]: fukcing unbelievable

[Milluki]: illumi

[Milluki]: illumi

[Milluki]: illumi

[Illumi]: I’m here. What requires my immediate attention so urgently?

[Milluki]: lol so remember when you flipped shit like a psycho over the camgirl thing

[Milluki]: ???

[Illumi]: Milluki. What did you do.

[Milluki]: u rlly think it’s me again

[Milluki]: dick

[Milluki]: nah I just think it’s funny tht u had the audacity when u do freaky shit like this

[Milluki]: lol

[Illumi]: I’m sorry, I’m unsure as to what you are referring to. But I do not appreciate your tone Millu.

[Milluki]: wtv man

[Milluki]: https://www.sexplora.com/view_video.xxx

[Milluki]: here go crazy ^^

[Milluki]: perv

Illumi stares.

Blank.

No context. No clues. Just the link and Milluki’s usual unhelpful idiocy.

Illumi has no desire to indulge in whatever degenerate clip Milluki has sent. And yet—Milluki rarely messages him out of the blue, let alone with this much chaotic urgency. A warning bell rings faintly in the back of Illumi’s head.

He hesitates. Then taps.

The page loads. Bold font screams the title at him:

HUNG DOM DESTROYS CUTE FEMBOY ASS

…

…

Destroys is… a strong word. He frowns.

He reasons this must be hyperbole. Shock titles are common on pornographic platforms. Likely some towering, burly brute taking apart a delicate, doll-like man.

He almost smiles. Absurd.

He clicks play.

Several ads are blocked automatically. The screen flickers to life—murky and dark. Night vision casts everything in dull green hues. Grainy. Shadowed. A bed, just barely distinguishable in the dim.

For a moment—then two—nothing happens.

This can’t be it.

Impatient, Illumi presses his thumb to the marker and skips ahead. Thirty minutes in. He only half-expects the quality to improve, only half-cares. He just wants to confirm whatever crude farce his brother thinks he’s caught him in and get it over with.

The jump flashes across the screen in a blur.

The brightness lifts. The grain settles. And the moment the video resumes, he wishes he’d never touched it.

His own face—drawn taut in pleasure, eyes glazed, lips parted. A sharp inhale visible by the stutter of his chest. Illumi freezes. His lungs forget how to breathe.

On screen, Hisoka drops from view. The back of his head lowers between Illumi’s parted thighs.

Illumi’s stomach caves in on itself. He’s sinking. Hollowed out from the inside.

Hisoka’s mouth seals over his cock.

Illumi makes a sound—guttural, breathless. A choked wheeze that feels like it comes from someone else. His hands tremble. His fingers twitch erratically, jolting like frayed wires. He watches himself convulse beneath Hisoka’s mouth and hands. Watches his thighs part wider, offering more. His hips rut forward, chasing more contact, more friction, more heat.

No. No. No.

His watches his own mouth fall open—and clarity crashes in. He remembers the desperate plea he’d chanted, ringing out in his skull like the echo of a gunshot. Remembers the stretch of Hisoka’s mouth around him, the slick heat, the coaxing grind of fingers curling inside him. Remembers letting go—slipping under—believing, foolishly, that he was safe.

He watches himself shudder, unravel, come apart. A stuttering climax—his body clenching, jerking, spilling in thick bursts. Hisoka’s tongue catches it greedily, eyes half-lidded with devotion. The soundless moan that leaves Illumi’s lips in the video burns through his eardrums, even in silence.

He watches himself beg. To be taken. To be filled.

Illumi gags.

His fingers shoot up to cover his mouth as bile climbs his throat—but nothing comes. His body convulses, trying to purge itself of something too intangible to vomit out. Hisoka, now visible from the waist down, strokes himself once before pressing inside—and Illumi, his real self, grips the vanity so tightly that his knuckles go bone white.

He can’t look away.

His ass—exposed. On display. Pushing back against the thrust like a wanton animal.

A blur of movement. Then stillness. Neither version of them moves—locked together, shaking, unwilling to part. When Hisoka kisses down the curve of his spine, when Illumi tilts his head just slightly, welcoming the touch—it’s unbearable.

He taps at the screen blindly, fingers wet. It doesn’t pause.

He wipes at it with his sleeve, hissing when the video keeps going, their mouths slanted together in a feverish kiss. Messy. Consuming.

He finally shuts it.

The reflection in the now-dark screen shows him a version of himself he doesn’t recognize. Eyes rimmed in red. Lashes soaked. Tear tracks trail down his cheeks unchecked. He’s crying so hard he doesn’t even remember when it started.

It doesn’t feel like crying. It feels like dying slowly, cell by cell.

He sniffs—sharply, involuntarily. His chest tightens. The air won’t go in right. His hands are numb. The only thing he can feel is the raw heat of shame coating his skin like oil.

[Illumi]: Milluki how long has this been out?

[Illumi]: Who did this?

[Illumi]: How

[Illumi]: How do I delete it

[Illumi]: help me I’ll do anythnig

[Illumi]: please

[Milluki]: ok chill I didn’t realize it was this serious

[Milluki]: you didn’t kno it was recorded?

[Milluki]: tht’s fucked

[Illumi]: What do I do?

[Milluki]: well no 1 knows thats u

[Milluki]: everyb is just talking abt hisoka

[Milluki]: listen it’ll be fine I’ll look into it

[Milluki]: ok?

[Illumi]: Yeah.

[Milluki]: R u ok?

[Illumi]: Fine.

He isn’t. But he doesn’t know what else to say.

Illumi presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, hard. Tries to force the tears back into his skull. His sockets sting. His breath hitches again and again, and still the tears keep coming. It’s mechanical now. Unstoppable.

He sits there—adrift, drowning in silence.

Then, a knock.

Three short raps on the door.

“Master Illumi,” comes a voice through the wood—stiff, respectful. “I apologize for the intrusion, but your presence has been requested by your father and mother. Please report to your father’s quarters at your earliest convenience.”

Three more knocks. Then silence.

The absurdity doesn’t register. Nothing does. Not right now.

He could laugh. He doesn’t.

Instead, he wipes his face. Slowly. Carefully. Like cleaning off blood.

At least now he has a task. A distraction. Maybe, if he’s lucky, it’ll involve ending someone—or multiple someones, even better.

He rises, legs trembling under him like splintering stilts. Whatever remains of him—shame, grief, violation—he leaves it behind on the glass.

His room is only one floor down, a single hallway west of his father’s quarters. There’s no opportunity to stall, no corner to duck into. He makes it to the door without once drawing breath. At the threshold, he gulps down air, slides the panel open—

And his stomach drops. 

Both of his parents are standing—together. Waiting. That alone is enough to set off an internal alarm. His mother at his father’s side, poised in the same ceremonial stance she assumes during rare bureaucratic proceedings or the occasional staged family portrait. Her visor lowered, posture rigid. Silva’s arms are folded tight across his chest, his face a stone wall. 

The air in the room is sparse, straining under the weight of what’s to come.

Silva doesn’t waste a second. 

“Illumi,” he begins, voice low, even. “I appreciate your haste. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get straight to the heart of why I—we—called you here.”

He gestures toward Kikyo with a broad hand. She remains beside him, stiff and uncharacteristically silent, her gloved hands clasped tight at her front. That’s the first sign something is wrong.

“Yes, Father.”

“Well, Son,” Silva says, his gaze drifting just off-center, “we’ve reviewed your debriefing for the Vellaro assignment. All marks neutralized. Assets secured. No loose ends… officially.”

He pauses again. Not thoughtfully—but like something’s lodged in his throat. That hesitation alone sends Illumi’s stomach plummeting. There shouldn’t be anything else. They’d swept the yacht. Covered every angle. No mistakes.

But apparently, even a seasoned assassin—shaped from infancy—can overlook a camera lens when he’s too wrapped up in his partner to notice.

Illumi’s spine stiffens. His jaw locks.

“I’m listening.” he prompts, voice taut.

Silva exhales through his nose. “Imagine my surprise when, while meditating in the courtyard, I was alerted to an anonymous message received on the family’s secure line. One still image. One link.”

He pauses.

Illumi doesn’t breathe.

“Upon opening it, I… called for your mother.”

“Oh.”

The word slips out, dry as paper.

Silva’s voice lowers, each word biting. “What we witnessed, Illumi, defies logic. Reason. Discretion. A video—publicly posted—of you… of my son… being ravaged like some common whore.”

He shakes his head, slow and heavy, silver hair sweeping across his chest. “Utterly desecrated. On camera. In flagrante, with your—” his fist curls tight, mockery coiled in the phrase, “work partner.”

Illumi would rather be dragged outside and executed on the lawn than endure what’s coming.

Silva’s voice cracks with something rawer than anger—shame. “Son, why are you having sex with a clown on the internet?”

Illumi’s mouth opens against his will. “He’s a magician.”

The words tumble out automatically, uselessly. Silva’s eyes shut. A slow, drawn-out blink. His white lashes flutter like the last thread of restraint fraying apart.

And then the dam breaks.

Kikyo collapses into sobs, hands over her face, sleeves fluttering like doves in a panic. Her veil dampens instantly, soaked through with tears. The high ruffles of her collar quiver as she shakes.

“Oh—how could you do this to us?” she wails. “How? After everything we’ve given you? All the trust, the honor of your lineage, and this is how you repay us?”

Her cries grow louder, more erratic. Silva reaches out to steady her by the waist. She clutches his side like she’s about to fall.

“I raised a prodigy! A soldier! Not some… some fleshlight for the masses!”

Illumi doesn’t flinch. He just… folds in on himself. Arms crossing tightly over his chest. Chin down. His body contracts inward, like a dying star. Shame blossoms hot in his throat.

Silva sighs heavily. “We’ve always maintained transparency. That’s the only way this family works. And yet… you neglected to mention the depth of your relationship with Hisoka.”

“I didn’t—” Illumi starts, voice barely audible.

Silva cuts him off with a raised hand. “Enough. This isn’t a debate.”

Kikyo sobs again, louder now. “Everyone’s seen it. Everyone, Illumi. Your carelessness threatens your anonymity. It puts us all at risk. Do you understand that? Our business—jeopardized because of how easily this filth spreads online.”

She draws a shuddering breath. Voice cracking. “What kind of assassin puts himself on display?”

Silva shakes his head slowly, like he can’t believe what he’s saying. “Your mother needs time. And frankly, so do I. Go get cleaned up. Dinner will be in an hour. Attendance is mandatory. There we’ll address whatever this… problem is.”

Illumi’s mouth opens, then shuts again.

He nods once, stiff and small.

His parents turn. Silva guides Kikyo down the hall, his hand braced at her back as her sobs echo off the tile. Illumi watches them disappear around the corner, the shadows swallowing them whole.

He turns mechanically and exits the room, eyes blank. His hands drift to his hair, wrapping long strands around his fingers, pulling them into his mouth. He chews.

He doesn’t make it back to his room.

Halfway down the corridor, he ducks into the nearest bathroom and shuts the door behind him with a trembling hand, the soft click of the lock sealing him into a fragile, temporary cocoon. The walls feel too close. The air is sharp. He presses his palms flat to the sink, knuckles white. The cold porcelain doesn’t ground him. 

His breath stutters in uneven gasps, like his lungs are trying to inhale through a straw. His mother’s shrieking still echoes in his skull—each word clanging against his temples, a bell tolling for his own humiliation.

It’s only once the mirror catches his reflection that his body starts to shake. He looks like a ghost. Wide, red-rimmed eyes. Damp lashes. Hair sticking in clumps to the sides of his face. His skin is bloodless, stark against the shadows of the small room. He looks unwell.

The buzzing starts again.

He flinches violently.

His phone, buried in his pocket, is vibrating. Persistent.

[Hisoka] is calling…

Illumi doesn’t even pause to consider it—he hits decline like the act might save him from further corrosion.

A pause. Then—

7 unread messages from [Hisoka]

[Hisoka] is calling…

He declines again, more violently this time, as though the physical rejection might reach through the screen and force Hisoka to feel the same blowback of shame and fear now coursing through him like venom.

3 new messages…

The vibration hums again.

[Hisoka] is calling…

He snaps.

With a guttural, unthinking sound, Illumi hurls the phone into the mirror above the sink. The impact is explosive. Glass fractures in a spiderweb of jagged shards, the screen cracks with a muffled crack and sticks halfway into the frame like a blade embedded in flesh. The buzzing stops. Silence returns.

A fine shard of mirror has lodged itself between his thumb and index finger. The skin splits open—clean, red. He watches the blood bead up, then lets the water run cold and wash it away, the pink trail swirling down the drain like paint in rinsewater.

“Illu-ni?”

A knock. Soft. Rhythmic. Three light taps.

His breath hitches.

Kalluto.

A pause. Then: “Can I come in?”

Illumi turns the knob without a word, letting the door drift open. He collapses onto the toilet seat, head hanging.

Tiny footsteps. The brush of fabric against tile. A gust of familiar perfume: cherry blossom and rice powder.

There’s a featherlight touch to his cheek. Illumi startles. 

Kalluto gently brushes strands of hair from his mouth—hair he hadn’t realized he’d been chewing on again. The coarse tang of it grounding him only marginally.

The small hands shift, resting firmly on his shoulders, then curling—wrapping around his neck in a wordless embrace.

Illumi blinks, stunned. Kalluto is hugging him.

Soft, silken sleeves drape around his shoulders, and Illumi finds himself tensing as if the act is dangerous. Too gentle. Too warm. He holds his breath, afraid to ruin the moment just by existing.

Then, slowly, he leans in. His cheek presses to Kalluto’s shoulder, nestled in the folds of his furisode, and the cherry blossom scent deepens.

A pocket of silence forms around them.

When Kalluto pulls away, his pink eyes are glassy but calm. He doesn’t look scared—just sad. Understanding, in that quiet, piercing way only he can manage.

“You spoke with Father?” he asks.

Illumi nods. “Yes.”

“Sorry.”

Illumi runs his fingers through his tangled hair, trying to smooth it out. The strands are dry, knotted, stuck together from stress and sweat.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “I… failed. I need to fix it.”

Kalluto frowns, his nose twitching slightly—just like their mother’s when she’s holding back emotion.

“I failed too,” he murmurs. “Taking longer than the rest of you to come into my own. Or so they say.”

Illumi hums—neither agreement nor contradiction. Just noise. They fall quiet again. Kalluto begins pacing slowly in the cramped room, sandals clicking softly on the tile.

The ache in Illumi’s throat eases.

He exhales and looks up. “Will you accompany me to dinner?”

Kalluto stops. He nods.

“Yes.”

────୨ৎ────

Just because you’re seated at the same table as someone doesn’t mean you’re really sharing the space. Being a member of the Zoldyck family has cemented this fact in Illumi’s mind—hardened and impenetrable. 

The long, lacquered dining table—obscenely wide, set with enough silver and crystal to cater a royal banquet—might as well be a collection of distant islands. And each Zoldyck sits isolated on their own.

Including him.

The chandelier overhead casts a cold white glow, stark enough to feel interrogative. Its cascading facets fracture the light into slices, the reflections dancing like spotlights over each of their faces. The tablecloth is thick and ivory, stiff as armor, and every place setting is so precisely laid it borders on oppressive. Knives glint. Crystal winks. Napkins stand like soldiers.

At one end of the table, Silva sits with the stillness of a carved monolith. Beside him, Kikyo clutches her wine glass with tight, birdlike fingers, her hair bound in a strict spiral atop her head. The electronic visor she never removes glows a soft red—the tiny central dot fixed on Illumi like the bead of a scope.

Her lipstick leaves a scarlet ring around the rim of her glass. She sips and swirls. Sips again.

Zeno lounges at the far end, elbow propped lazily, squinting at the old-fashioned grandfather clock standing stiff in the corner—a permanent fixture of the family dining room, more relic than timepiece. Milluki, meanwhile, is too engrossed in his buzzing tablet to look up, let alone meet anyone’s eye. 

Kalluto sits beside Illumi—not beside their mother, where he usually clings like a shadow. His spine is straight. Hands folded. The slight shift is subtle but telling.

Three butlers appear with fluid synchronicity, setting down small platters in front of each person: crostini with black caviar and mint, escargot slicked with garlic butter, and a neat trio of cherry tomato, mozzarella, and basil.

The mingled aromas—brine, butter, bitter herbs—fill the room. Illumi’s stomach clenches.

“Wonderful,” Silva says, voice flat. “We look forward to the main course.”

The butlers bow at a practiced sixty-degree angle and vanish.

Silence settles, broken only by the quiet clink of forks and the wet slurp of Kikyo sucking the filling from a snail shell.

Then she speaks.

“This family,” she begins, voice quivering, “is in a state of complete and utter disarray.”

She dabs the corners of her mouth, then lifts her hand to count, one finger at a time.

“First, I birthed an abomination.” She spares a glance down the hall.

“Then, Killua—the one we’d groomed—abandons his legacy.”

Another finger.

“Kalluto—” she shoots him a look, “—has struggled to embody the family’s expectations in full.”

A third.

“And now,” her final finger rises in a dramatic flourish, “my eldest. My golden child. Caught on film… being used by a man. On camera.”

She takes a long sip of wine that looks more like a gulp, her throat bobbing. The glass is empty now. She swirls it anyway.

Across the table, Zeno chuckles dryly, brushing crumbs from his mustache. “They say adversity builds character… or reveals it. One of the two.”

“Father,” Silva cuts in sharply, “please spare us the recycled mantras. There’s nothing enlightening about scandal.” He turns to Illumi, fingers drumming—once, twice, thrice.

“Son. What else did you fail to report in your mission file?”

Illumi lifts his fork and presses it into the soft mozzarella, slowly breaking it apart.

“Nothing,” he says simply. He buries the memory of being drugged, unwilling to name any deeper failure. “Nothing of consequence. Just… that the relationship evolved.”

A beat. Then another.

He eats the bite slowly, the tang of vinegar clashing with the salt on his tongue. It tastes off—stale, metallic. Like punishment.

“‘Evolved,’” Silva repeats. “An interesting word. Understatement, some might say.”

Kikyo slurps down another escargot. “It wasn’t just sex,” she sneers. “You were debased. Filmed. Spread open like some peasant’s concubine.”

She looks ready to weep again. Her napkin is stained red where she blotted her lipstick.

“There go any prospects for arranged marriage,” she adds with a sniff. “No noble bloodline will look twice.”

Zeno raises a brow. “And was your union arranged?”

“That’s not the point!” Kikyo snaps, voice rising an octave.

Silva sighs, heavy and theatrical. “Illumi. We have spent decades—generations—curating a name that commands respect. You are a Zoldyck. Your image is not your own. It is a brand. A symbol. You are not afforded the same… liberties as others.”

Illumi stares ahead. Every muscle in his body feels locked—like he’s been welded into place, spine to steel.

“That wasn’t planned,” he says at last. “I didn’t know we were being filmed.”

Kikyo exhales like he’s stabbed her. “So you let your guard down?”

“Yes.”

The word lands like a confession.

Kalluto shifts beside him, silent.

Kikyo sniffles into her napkin, her voice trembling and thin.

“And what kind of example does that set for your brothers, hmm?” She dabs at her visor as if trying to erase the image from her memory. “You’re teaching them they can pursue their missions passively—wandering off in their free time to be explored, to be exploited—it’s unnatural!”

Beside her, Silva nods solemnly, as if delivering a grim eulogy.

Illumi’s eye twitches. Though he knows he deserves the scrutiny—deserves to be called to account—he still feels a flicker of heat rising in his chest, a slow, simmering anger. It creeps up like acid.

If it had been a woman, he thinks, would they be this disgusted?

Words like used, debased, defiled—they sting, not just because they’re humiliating, but because they’re revealing. His parents aren’t condemning the leak. They’re condemning who he let himself be in that moment. What he allowed himself to feel. To want.

Silva’s voice cuts into his spiral. He’s been talking the whole time, stern and clipped, each phrase more pointed than the last. He brings the butt of his knife down against the table with a thunk.

“Well?” he demands. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Illumi places both palms flat on the table. The silverware rattles faintly. His eyes lock on his father’s—black meeting violet. He forces a breath into his lungs.

“Yes. I failed to disclose the… progression of my relationship with Hisoka.” The words feel stiff, awkward in his mouth. “That is true.”

He swallows.

“But I also think it’s unfair—frankly, hypocritical—to be condemned for the fact that Hisoka is a man. I know I never formally came out to either of you, but since my seduction training wasn’t gender-exclusive, I assumed it was… understood.”

A silence descends. Even the cutlery seems to pause.

Milluki’s gaze drops to the tablecloth, shoulders hunched like he’s hoping to evaporate. Across from him, Zeno blinks, surprisingly attentive for once—perhaps stunned by the turn.

Kikyo tilts her head slowly. Her voice sharpens to a point.

“Illumi, you think we’re… discriminatory? Biased against non-heterosexual relationships?”

Before he can answer, the butlers return bearing silver-domed trays. They hesitate at the edge of the tension, faltering mid-step. Their heads dip lower than usual, and their exit is brisk, almost apologetic.

“Aren’t you?” Illumi asks quietly.

Kalluto emits a squeak from beside him but otherwise stays silent. Illumi doesn’t dare look his way.

Silva leans forward, hands clasped. 

“Son, how dare you wield such a loaded, grotesque accusation. We’re not ignorant, we’d never arrive at such an intolerant conclusion,” he says, evenly. “This isn’t about who you’re with—it’s about how. About what you’ve done.”

His gaze sweeps the table—slow, somber. “We don’t care if it’s a man or woman. That’s not the impropriety.”

Illumi doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

“But,” Kikyo continues, her tone syrupy and cutting, “if you must degrade yourself in a sexual relationship, why must you be the one… defaced? Bent over? Ruined?”

Illumi’s cheeks go hot. The kind of heat that doesn’t fade—it settles in his bones.

“I—we’re not always like that,” he mutters, barely audible. “We switch.”

Zeno chokes faintly on his mashed potatoes.

Silva frowns. “And I hate to say it, but Hisoka’s a stain on the profession. He kills without grace—no finesse, no discipline.”

He scans the table expectantly.

“Am I wrong?”

Milluki nods—half-hearted. Kalluto follows a second later.

Kikyo lifts her wine glass with dainty fingers. 

“You’ve weakened your image, Illumi. You made yourself submissive. An assassin must remain in control—we shape others to bend to us. That’s what’s being judged. And now, it’s everywhere.”

She shrugs, sipping. “Fix it. Learn your lesson.”

Zeno finally lifts his eyes. “Alright. Let the boy eat in peace. He’s been publicly flogged enough for one meal.”

Silva grunts and digs into his steak, juice spilling down his fork. The conversation ends there, but the tension doesn’t.

Illumi stares at his untouched food, stomach turning. He wants to disappear into the folds of the napkin in his lap. Across the table, Zeno offers a ghost of a nod—one Illumi meets with a hollow flicker of gratitude.

“I will fix this,” he says quietly.

After what is—thankfully—a one-course meal, the family disperses. No one lingers; chairs scrape back, plates clatter, and tension dissipates like steam. Everyone seems eager to flee—both the room and each another. Seated furthest from the exit, Illumi is, unfortunately, the last to leave.

As he steps out into the dim corridor, he finds Milluki leaned against the doorframe, fiddling with his phone.

“That was… brutal.”

Illumi gives a short, brittle laugh. “Yeah. Well. I earned it.”

Milluki looks up, lips thinning. “I traced the original post,” he says, suddenly serious. “Whoever leaked the video tried to cover their tracks, but I pulled metadata off a cached mirror of the original link. From there, I ran a recursive script through some forum crawl logs and found a backdoor connected to an old torrent seed buried in the Sexplora server cache.”

Illumi stares blankly.

Milluki rolls his eyes. “Translation: I found the guy. Or at least his digital footprint. I cracked his encryption, backtraced the wallet IDs used to receive tips, and filtered his connection through a few dark net relays. I’ve got a handle, partial IP, and a tentative physical address.”

He pauses, holding up the screen like a trophy.

“Want it?”

Illumi’s gaze sharpens. A slow, silent yes burns behind his eyes.

────୨ৎ────

Rage is a dangerous high.

It wraps its talons around your spine and lifts you before you even realize you’ve left the ground. Illumi doesn’t remember packing. Doesn’t remember calling for a car. Only the coordinates blinking on his screen and his legs carrying him, possessed by purpose.

His movements are deliberate, but his thoughts barely coalesce. He’s behind the wheel—not willing to wait on a chauffeur—but it doesn’t feel like driving. It feels like spectating. Like watching from the back of his own mind, vision projected on a screen as he arrives at a squat, rotting apartment block. The lobby reeks of piss and despair. The lights buzz and flicker like dying fireflies. No one looks up when he enters.

The hallway feels endless. Narrow. Filthy. The carpet is threadbare and damp beneath his feet. His phone vibrates once. F102. He doesn’t hesitate.

The door is locked. Not for long.

He kicks it open—splinters flying.

A fly’s vision of screens—fractures, multiplied—entangled in knots of wire. Towers of blinking lights and data ports hum in quiet syncopation. The air is thick—sour with mold, body odor, and fried electronics. In the center of it all, a man slouched in an ergonomic racing-style chair, nodding along to guttural metal pouring from his headphones. Illumi watches him type furiously, rat-like fingers twitching over rainbow-lit keys. The monitor casts him in pale green light, like a corpse reanimated.

The room looks disturbingly familiar. Like Milluki’s, but stripped of any personality. No manga. No models. Just machinery and the desperate stench of unwashed skin.

Illumi lets his rage uncoil.

His aura bleeds out of him in slow, choking tendrils, saturating the air like venom. The man freezes. His back goes rigid, fingers pausing mid-keystroke. Fear rolls off him like sweat. He can’t even turn around.

Illumi steps forward, pulling a single needle from his sleeve. The aura clings to it eagerly—hungry for violence. With a flick of his wrist, the needle sinks cleanly into the back of the man’s neck.

Bullseye.

The man convulses violently, body thrashing in unnatural spasms. His chair tips. He crashes to the floor with a sickening crack. Limbs twitch and jerk out of sync, face smacking the floor hard enough to split open his nose. Blood stains the linoleum in fast, smeared blotches.

Illumi watches, detached.

The man shrieks once—a high, garbled noise—before biting into his own tongue. His head slams backward, hard, and his eyes roll up, white and unseeing. Teeth skitter across the floor, tapping softly against Illumi’s boot.

A mercy killing, really.

But it doesn’t help. Illumi’s stomach knots tighter. Rage flares again—fresh and sharp—because this isn’t over. Killing him doesn’t delete the file. It doesn’t scrub the server. It doesn’t undo what’s been done.

The man coughs blood, spine arched grotesquely. Then slumps. Dead.

Then in the wake of the deceased—

“Darling…”

Illumi’s blood runs cold. His pulse spikes like a tripwire. The corpse is forgotten.

“Stay. Away.” His voice is a snarl.

He turns.

Hisoka stands just a couple feet away, one hand mid-reach—just short of touching him. Too close. Dressed down in a black turtleneck and slate slacks, a golden hair clip gleaming softly under the glow of the monitors. He looks unbothered. Effortlessly composed.

“Illumi,” he says gently. “You haven’t answered my calls.”

Illumi’s expression turns to steel. “What are you doing here?”

Hisoka glances at the body. “Same as you. Though clearly you beat me to it.”

He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

Illumi’s arms fold tight across his chest.

“So you know.”

“I do.”

“It’s a passing fad,” Hisoka says. “The internet moves on quickly. It’s already happening.”

Illumi’s laugh is short, bitter, hollow. “For you, maybe. Your whole persona thrives off spectacle. You get off on attention.”

Hisoka doesn’t deny it.

Illumi’s voice sharpens, eyes like glass. “You benefit from this. You always provoke reactions. So tell me—did you plan this? Arrange it? I wouldn’t put it past you.”

Hisoka’s expression finally shifts. The smile falters. “Illu. Don’t do that. You know I didn’t. You felt it. That wasn't performance.”

Illumi looks away. His jaw clenches. “This… this ruined me. My family. My name. My integrity.”

He breathes, shallow. “But sure. Let’s just call it a ‘fad.’”

Hisoka takes a step closer. “Let me help. We can trace the network, tear them all apart. One by one. Together.”

Illumi holds up a hand. “No. Don’t you see? This—you and me—it’s more trouble than it’s worth. I’m done.”

Hisoka stills. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“You don’t,” Hisoka growls. Another step closer. “We understand each other.”

“No.” Illumi’s voice cracks. “We don’t.”

“Illumi—”

“I’m not like you.”

Illumi drops, grabbing the limp, shattered arm of the tech’s corpse and drags it in front of him. “Cross this line, and I’ll retaliate.”

Hisoka’s body tenses. His eyes—wild, angry—narrow. “Don’t do this Illumi.”

“We’re finished.”

“No.” Another step. “We are not.”

Hisoka steps over the line.

The instant his foot lands, Illumi throws.

A fan of needles flash through the air, precise as a scalpel’s edge. They pierce Hisoka mid-movement—one through each bicep, pinning him to the wall behind. Another in his shoulder, another in his thigh. One plants just above his knee, the last in the top of his foot, impaling him through boot leather and bone.

He grunts, staggered, but stays upright. Blood beads, slow and steady, trailing down his limbs.

Still, Hisoka doesn’t look away. Doesn’t wince. His mouth parts slightly, as if to speak.

“I’m not like you,” Illumi says again, quieter this time. But final.

Then he vanishes.

Hisoka doesn’t move. He watches the empty space where Illumi had stood—bleeding out.

He waits.

Not too long, though, because Hisoka never was one for patience.

────୨ৎ────

Illumi honors the break the only way he knows how: by keeping useful. He answers the calls. Finishes the jobs. He doesn’t spiral—exactly. But he drifts. A little further each day.

Monotony brews in him like over-steeped tea, bitter and inescapable. What started as discipline curdles into something sour. Weeks slide by. Then a full month since their quiet, almost-gentle parting on the boat. In that time, the Zoldyck estate—though filled with blood relatives and bustling with staff—feels hollow. Sterile. The vast halls echo with footsteps that never cross paths.

Illumi avoids the others with mechanical exactness, relying on curt text messages and routed instructions through butlers. Even the few missions he’s given carry the quiet sting of retribution. No high-value targets. No close-contact kills. Just clean-up. Verifications. Trailing behind Milluki’s drones like a glorified clerk, certifying death after it’s already been delivered from a screen.

He doesn’t complain. Passive aggression is, in its own way, mercy. Unlike the barrage of violence his parents have been hurling at Kalluto—a Zoldyck’s guide to tough love. 

Illumi sees it in glimpses—when he rounds a corner too fast, or when a butler forgets to hush their voice. The drills. The fasting. The shocks. Their method of ‘accelerating development’ is ruthless—an unrelenting flood of stimuli until the body either snaps… or evolves.

And still, the video lives.

Illumi works alongside Milluki to take it down. And for every success—every wiped copy or dead link—another pops up. Different usernames. Different mirrors. Like trying to kill ants one by one while the colony grows underground. It’s a losing battle, and hope is thinning. The humiliation clings like smoke, always faintly in the air.

At night, Illumi returns to silence. He sharpens his needles. Refines his Nen. Rehearses control. And sometimes, when the weight settles deep in his chest, he makes his way to Kalluto’s room. No words—just ointments. Cream for the welts. Gentle pressure across bruised skin. Ritual, not connection. They don’t speak much.

But it’s the closest thing he has to care.

Illumi is lonely.

Painfully so. It feels like he’s gone slightly translucent, like a painting with the colors rinsed out. Nothing holds. Nothing tastes right.

Still, he tries to soothe himself. He heads to his favorite bakery—a narrow shop tucked into a quiet block, tiled in soft pink and white—and immediately regrets it.

The bell above the door chimes. He’s hit with a wave of buttercream and espresso. People line the glass display, smiling. Couples, mostly. Holding hands. Touching shoulders. Laughing into their drinks.

Illumi can’t make up his mind.

He stares blankly at the pastry case. Everything blurs—macarons, custards, fruit tarts. The cashier, a bored teenager with chipped pink nails, begins offering suggestions.

Seasonal favorites. Vegan options. “Maybe something citrusy?” she says.

He finally settles on a matcha swiss roll with a dollop of red bean cream. It’s cut with meticulous care, plated with a flick of practiced hands. He takes it to a table in the corner, alone.

The fork is delicate. The roll is soft. But his appetite is unconvincing.

The TV in the corner plays a muted nature documentary. A rattlesnake ambushes a field mouse in frame. Quick. Merciless. The venom dulls the nerves before the brain even registers pain.

Illumi swallows a bite. Bitter. Then oddly sweet.

He frowns. Another bite. Too sweet. Cloyingly so—like synthetic fruit and vanilla gloss.

Bubble gum.

He stiffens.

That smell. That precise, saccharine scent laced with faint spice and static.

Hisoka.

Illumi rises, fork clattering. He moves through the café and out into the alley beside the building. The wind is cool and smells of sugar and rot.

He doesn’t have to search long.

Leaning against the wall, casual as a postcard, stands Hisoka. Hair slicked back, cherry-red and gleaming under the single overhead bulb. One foot braced against the brick. Smiling.

“You’re not hard to find,” he purrs.

“Why are you lurking behind civil establishments?” Illumi asks flatly.

“Waiting for you. Naturally.”

At his feet is a large, zip-sealed bag.

Illumi eyes it with suspicion. “What is that?”

Hisoka’s grin grows.

“A present.” He lifts his hand. A soft glow flares from his palm—Bungee Gum, lit like candy glass. It illuminates the bag. Illumi bends at the knee to get a better look.

Inside: hearts.

Actual, human hearts. Several of them. Swollen and slick with congealed blood. Some torn roughly, others with surgical precision. Shades of red and purple gleam through the plastic—arteries dangling, edges ragged, muscle torn where rib cages must’ve been cracked open.

Some are fresh. Others already dull and discolored. All real. All recent.

Illumi doesn’t speak. He just stares.

“These,” Hisoka announces, “are the severed hearts of everyone involved in leaking our little tape.”

He holds both hands out, as if offering a bouquet.

“Every. Last. One.”

A moment of silence stretches between them.

Then: “I’ve scrubbed the footage from every site that hosted it,” he adds, now calmer. “Deep deletion. Ghost IPs. Offline backups incinerated. The original uploader? Obliterated. We’re… clean.”

Hisoka is glowing with the high of his accomplishment. His expression is lit like stage lights, eager for applause. For gratitude.

Illumi’s voice is quiet. “How?”

“After I extracted your needles from my flesh,” Hisoka says breezily, “I rifled through our late friend’s systems. Lovely trove of data. Tracked down everyone who touched the file, cross-referenced locations, infiltrated proxies. Some got away at first.”

He taps the bag with the toe of his kitten heel.

“Not for long~”

Illumi lowers his gaze to the hearts again. They shift slightly in the bag—wet, unsteady. One is split down the center, like it burst mid-beat.

It’s grotesque. It’s intimate. It’s… an olive branch.

Hisoka reaches out, brushing his knuckles against Illumi’s cheek. “Don’t be so cold. I did this for you.”

Illumi pulls back like the touch burned him.

“I never asked you to.”

“You didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

Illumi closes his eyes. “Doesn’t change anything.”

Hisoka blinks. “It changes everything.”

“I said I’m done.”

“You said a lot of things.” Hisoka’s smile fades. “But I know you. You’re not done.”

Illumi steps back, toward the mouth of the alley. The bag of hearts glistens, an altar to early decomposition.

“Take this as closure, Hisoka. We’re even. I’m walking away.”

Hisoka watches him go. Again. Watches the space between them stretch wider. Watches the heat and violence and bond bleed out between them like a severed blood vessel.

And when Illumi disappears from view, Hisoka turns to the bag.

He lifts a finger and Bungee Gum bullets shred it from the inside—arteries explode like streamers, hearts pulped into mist, the walls painted in red. Blood slaps the stone. Pieces rain.

Broken hearts.

────୨ৎ────

Training on family grounds is something Illumi can rely on. It feels instinctive—dirt beneath his soles, the clean bite of mountain air in his lungs, wind threading through the trees that have outlived generations of his bloodline. Out here, everything quiets. Out here, thinking isn’t required—only breath and movement.

Once, as a child, the estate’s vastness had terrified him—the sprawl of wilderness and cold stone. But after years of drills, endurance trials, and repetition, the land became second nature. His terrain. His perimeter. He could sprint blindfolded and still know the turn before the incline.

He begins with stretches at the base of an old sycamore. Its branches, gnarled and wide, spread like a sentry overhead. He rolls his shoulders, pulls each knee to his chest in succession, arms crossing tightly over his torso. The stretch stings—good. Grounding. The morning air carries a chill, edged with pine and damp moss. He breathes it in until it fills the hollows in his chest.

From the nearby shed, he retrieves his ankle weights and straps them on tightly. A light jog follows, each step a pulse through the grass, the weights tugging at him like tethers. His long ponytail lashes behind him, pulled tight and high, the tension at his scalp oddly satisfying.

He moves faster, arms tucked in, posture clean. He runs past the brush, under low-hanging branches, around the small lake nestled two miles out. As his pace increases, the burn in his thighs catches up with the wind biting his cheeks. His breaths fall into a rhythm—in through the nose, out through the mouth—calibrated with the rise and fall of his knees, elbows slicing the air.

It’s not just training anymore. He’s running from something, maybe everything. And the faster he moves, the more distance he imagines placing between himself and the mess he left behind.

Hisoka would say he looks beautiful like this—flushed, driven, taut with exertion. He’d probably want to feel that tension under his hands. He’d drag his tongue along the salt at Illumi’s jaw, fingers slipping under the hem of his sweat-damp shirt. He’d mouth at his ribs—

Illumi shoves the thought down and picks up speed. Think of anything else. Anyone else.

But he doesn’t.

He skids to a stop by the pampas grass, the pale yellow plumes swaying like sentinels. Chest heaving, he braces forward, palms to knees. The world blurs for a second. When it slows, he straightens, pulls out his phone from the strap on his arm—set to silent, learned from experience.

He hadn’t been expecting a message. Not after he’d blocked Hisoka.

And yet—

[774-212-5369]: Illu, don’t block this # (￢_￢)

[774-212-5369]: This is important don’t regret leaving this unread

[774-212-5369]: I have something you will want and need to see (_　_|||)

Illumi narrows his eyes. His fingers hover over the block option. He sighs instead, thumb typing with controlled irritation:

[Illumi]: Hisoka. What is it.

Seconds later:

[774-212-5369]: 35.6895 N , 139.6917 E

[774-212-5369]: Come

[774-212-5369]: plz (⁄ ⁄•⁄-⁄•⁄ ⁄)

He stares at the numbers. A Takya, Jappon coordinate. A very specific one.

Hisoka knew exactly what he was doing.

Illumi pockets the phone, jaw tight. He sprints again, as if running could solve anything, as if motion could outpace doubt. At the edge of the woods, breath fogging in the early air, he pulls the phone out again.

Still there.

Still waiting.

Back at the base of a tree, he crouches low, calves burning, moss cool and damp against his shins. The world feels distant. The message is too simple to mean nothing. Hisoka’s methods are never without intent.

They’d worked together. They were still tethered in too many ways.

Maybe he couldn’t speak freely. Maybe this was about cleanup. Or closure. Or… something else.

Illumi gnaws at the edge of his thumb.

Then, without fully thinking, he pulls up his contact list.

One number. One call.

His voice is flat, professional when it connects:

“I have business to tend to this evening. I’ll report back if necessary. Won’t take long.”

But it does take long. The trip drags—heavy, clinging, like wet fabric.

First, an airship humming with stale air and overpriced ammenities—the kind of cabin where the lights are always too bright and the air purifier somehow too loud. Illumi sits rigid in his seat, arms folded, unmoving. He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t snack, doesn’t speak. He watches the clouds crawl by like they’re trying to outrun him.

Then it’s two separate cabs. The first reeks of air freshener and burnt coffee, the driver rambling about traffic, sports, and the death of manners. The second cab is colder. Quieter. The driver doesn’t say a word, but glances at him often through the rearview mirror, eyes flicking up with a blend of curiosity and caution. The traffic pulses, halts, crawls. Neon signs blur through the windows like smears of paint.

By the time he steps out onto the pavement, it’s late. His sandals slap against concrete as he moves block by block through the city’s thick heat, dodging stumbling drunks and street vendors calling out in too-loud voices. Skyscrapers blink overhead. It’s all motion, all noise.

And then—finally—three blocks later, he stands at the coordinates Hisoka sent him.

Though stands feels too passive, and arrives too generous.

What he’s doing is being dropped into the artery of Takya nightlife—awash in pulsing light, smeared glitter, and heat. Noise thunders around him. Bass bleeds from open doors. The street glows like it’s sweating. A tangle of chaos, and in the middle of it, Illumi stands—still, and slightly off-guard.

The streets throb with movement. Sloshed salarymen in rumpled suits collapse onto trimmed medians, sleeves rolled up, ties crooked. Women in body-hugging yukatas with high slits and glowing accessories pose under streetlights, waving LED signs and sparklers advertising bottle service. Laughter bleeds from every direction. Music leaks from buildings like smoke. And above it all, the electric whine of the city shimmers against the dark sky.

Illumi stares up at the tall, blacked-out facade in front of him—no signage, no marquee, just a thick steel door with a pipe-like handle. A towering man stands guard. Tattooed dragons ripple across his bald scalp and neck. His eyes rake Illumi’s silhouette skeptically.

“In or out?”

Illumi glances down at himself. His midnight blue yukata clings close, the rich fabric cinched neatly at the waist, sleeves pushed back to reveal his wrists. His hair, half-pulled into a tight knot, rests elegantly down his back. He had dressed for Takya’s quiet sophistication—not the fever dream of a hidden underground club.

Still, he raises his chin. “I’d like to be admitted.”

The bouncer doesn’t move. For a moment, he’s nothing but silence and muscle. Then, his earpiece crackles softly. A beat of static. He listens.

His eyes shift. “Follow me.”

The heavy door groans open, swallowing the street noise with it. Inside, bass rolls like thunder, shaking the ground beneath their feet. The air is thick—perfume, sweat, the sharp tang of alcohol—and strobing lights paint streaks across the walls in hues of violet and crimson.

“Go straight to the bar,” the bouncer grunts. “First right, all the way down.”

The hallway opens to a massive room drenched in saturated color and sound. A stage dominates the center, circled by five gleaming poles. Dancers perform with languid grace, arching and spinning in slow, deliberate displays of control. Bills flutter from the rafters like paper petals.

Traditional wear clings to bodies in unconventional cuts—silks cropped short, robes belted high, sleeves tossed over bare shoulders. Businessmen with jackets shrugged off lean against plush booths, eyes glazed. The crowd ripples like water—restless, teetering on the edge of overflow.

Illumi moves through the club like blood through a chambered heart. He pushes through the bodies, movements efficient and unapologetic. He ignores the muttered protests, the accidental elbows. He’s not here to socialize. He plants himself at the bar.

The bartender catches his attention almost immediately—a graceful man with warm brown skin, dark curls tucked behind one ear, and a calm intensity in his monolidded eyes. He pours shochu in a flawless cascade down a row of shot glasses.

A wave of partiers swarms in, shouting and grabbing for their drinks. The line of glasses clinks together, sloshing over, and the bartender exhales with what might be fond exasperation before returning his focus to Illumi.

“You must be Gittarackur.”

Illumi nods. “I am.”

“Come around. You’re expected upstairs.”

The bartender lifts the divider, and Illumi slips behind the bar. They pass through a narrow door leading not to the kitchen, but a carpeted corridor that feels oddly sterile compared to the rest of the club. A sleek elevator gleams at the end.

The bartender presses the button for the eighth floor, bows wordlessly, and vanishes back into the noise.

As Illumi ascends, the lift hums softly, reflective walls catching slices of his face—unbothered, but not unfeeling. He’s being led into something. But fear doesn’t register. Curiosity does.

The doors part.

The penthouse is oddly quiet.

Ceilings soar above him, capped by a twisting LED light fixture that spins lazily like a galaxy. The far wall is glass from floor to sky—Takya unfurls below, jeweled in light. A grand piano stands in shadow to the left. To the right, a sweeping C-shaped couch sits untouched in slate gray. There’s no clutter. No life. Just curated austerity. A set of black, floating stairs ascends to a second floor.

No one greets him. No instructions. No Hisoka.

Fine.

Illumi lifts the hem of his yukata and ascends. His feet make no sound on the stair treads. The second floor is equally bare: rooms with open doors, unfurnished or sparsely staged like showrooms. But one door at the end of the hall is closed.

The only door closed.

He approaches. Fingers light on the handle.

He turns the knob—

And enters.

The red hits him first.

It isn’t just color—it’s a saturation of heat, desire, and danger. The room is bathed in crimson light, soft and low, bleeding from the strip LEDs running along the floor and ceiling. It feels like walking into the center of a rose. Or a warning flare. The air is warm, thick with faint incense—amber, musk, something faintly sweet.

Illumi pauses at the threshold, eyes narrowing as they adjust.

A tripod stands directly before him, its camera trained on the heart of the room. The recording light pulses—slow, deliberate. Alive. Its articulating screen is flipped outward, offering a voyeur’s view of everything within frame. Beside the tripod, two equipment racks flank the space like altars. One glints with neatly arranged riding crops, whips coiled into tight spirals, lengths labeled by type and cut. The other displays paddles and woven rope in an ombré of reds and blacks, leather polished and supple.

Against the left wall: a suspended velvet swing, its black straps hooked and taut.

To the right: a heavy, wrought iron cage—large enough to trap a body, maybe two. The kind of fixture that doesn’t beg explanation.

And in the center of it all—the bed.

Or rather, the stage.

A massive, black tufted platform bed stretches across the middle of the room, its dark wood posts anchored to the ceiling with bolted chains. From those chains dangle two additional lengths of reinforced iron—slack enough for movement, but only barely.

Illumi steps closer. The scent of Hisoka hits him—warm skin and faint bubblegum musk, even sharper in the closed, intimate space.

Hisoka is kneeling on the bed, completely nude. His wrists are cuffed behind him, chains coiled up through the rig and into the ceiling. His ankles are bound similarly, enough give for motion, but not much. His knees are red—rubbed raw from time, tension, or both—and his thighs tremble faintly under the strain.

His head is bowed, cherry-colored hair falling over one eye. But the grin… that grin never falters.

“Expecting someone?” Illumi asks flatly, eyes narrowing.

Hisoka lifts his head, lashes flicking upward as if startled from a daydream. He giggles—light, airy, theatrical. The sound bounces off the padded walls like a well-rehearsed line.

“Yes, darling. I’m not enough of a masochist to tie myself up for no one to find.” He tilts his head coyly. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Illumi doesn’t smile. He simply steps to the camera, taps the side of it with one pale finger, the lens losing focus ever so slightly in response.

“Seems you’ve already handled the humiliation portion quite thoroughly,” he says, voice dry. “Why not go all the way?”

“Was waiting for you~,” Hisoka purrs, sing-song.

Illumi watches him a moment longer, the image burning itself into his memory: Hisoka, exposed and inviting, knees pressing into the dark bedding like a sacrifice offered up with teeth bared.

“I want to tip the scales,” Hisoka continues, shifting subtly in his bindings. “You took the fall alone. The shame, the fallout. And I… well, I just walked away unscathed.”

He lifts his chin. “An injustice.”

Illumi lifts a brow, unconvinced.

Hisoka’s tone sobers, just a touch. “I thought about what would settle the score. About what might begin to… repair what’s left between us.”

He gestures loosely toward the camera with a flick of his fingers—limited, the chains rattling with the motion.

“So here I am. Broadcasting it all. Just like you were. Take the tape. Keep it. Destroy it. Do with it what you will.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to swallow sound.

Illumi lets his arms drop behind him, smooths his fingers over the folded fabric of his yukata, and silently reties the waist. The knot clicks into place. His shoes slide off his feet with a faint shuffle.

“You could break free,” he says softly. “Easily.”

Hisoka smirks. “Ah, but these aren’t ordinary restraints. Nen-dampening alloys, specially designed.” He wriggles in them playfully, and the metal glints as if in approval.

“You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack. I’ve never been more turned on by the concept of sincerity,” Hisoka purrs.

Illumi doesn’t respond.

But his fingers twitch.

And something—something buried and volatile—stirs behind his eyes.

Illumi moves carefully toward the bed, gaze unflinching, drinking in the full image of Hisoka like an art critic surveying a provocative piece—measuring its form, its meaning, its use.

Hisoka kneels there, bound and open, a living sculpture of compliance. Golden eyes half-lidded, lips parted slightly, cheeks tinged with the flush of anticipation. His chest rises and falls with slow, deliberate breath. From the slope of his clavicle down to the swell of his thighs, every inch of him is offered—taut and flexed, humming with want. His cock responds without shame, twitching under Illumi’s eye, stiffening from the base, climbing in slow increments as if rising to meet its viewer’s approval.

Illumi stops just shy of the bed, angled for the camera—always aware of its presence, letting it drink in his profile, the controlled stillness of his body.

He extends one hand, palm down, like he’s coaxing a wild animal. His fingers hover just in front of Hisoka’s mouth, close enough to feel the heat of his breath ghosting over the skin.

Hisoka leans in, brushing his lips softly over the tip of Illumi’s index finger. Then, delicately, he drags his nose along it, eyes lifting—heavy-lashed and golden, a touch of play gleaming behind them. He presses a kiss to the pad, reverent, barely-there. Ghostly. Waiting.

When Illumi doesn’t move or speak, Hisoka takes initiative. He angles his face, limited by the chains, and kisses each knuckle. Each nail. The open palm. Soft lips soothing the harsh texture of a killer’s hands.

He mouths the peak of Illumi’s finger again, then opens up, tongue unfurling—pretty and pink. He lets it curl and trace along the digit, licking from knuckle to pad, then drawing the finger into his mouth.

Saliva builds as Hisoka pushes deeper, his lips parting with practice, glossy and slow. His cheeks hollow as he takes in Illumi’s middle finger next, lips stretched around both digits, tongue flicking and lapping between them. A messy slurp escapes, lewd and low.

Illumi watches closely, tracking every inch.

Hisoka doesn’t stop. He guides the third finger in, lips sealing around the trio, tongue busy and mouth obscenely full. His molars glint in the red light; his throat works around the intrusion. His moans are muffled, barely more than vibrations. They tremble up Illumi’s arm.

Without warning, Illumi lifts one knee onto the mattress, planting it firmly. He drives his fingers deeper, pushing them into the plush heat of Hisoka’s mouth—testing depth, control. Hisoka’s eyes flutter. His shoulders twitch. He takes it all with open delight.

Then Illumi stops.

Pulls his hand free—slow, wet, a sheen of spit clinging between his fingers.

He runs his thumb down Hisoka’s lower lip, presses until he feels teeth behind the flesh, then traces the plump seam of his mouth. Opens it.

Gently, he forces Hisoka’s jaw wider until his lips shape into a perfect, obedient “O.”

“Say ‘ah.’”

Hisoka blinks, his tongue stretching out, breath fogging the air between them. “Ahhh.”

Illumi tips his chin and lets a strand of spit fall from his own tongue into the waiting mouth below. It lands with a quiet plop. He taps Hisoka’s jaw, commanding him to close.

“Swallow.”

Illumi watches the bob of his throat, the flutter of his lashes, the slight quiver of his chest as he processes the command. Power, submission, intimacy—woven into a silence so thick it nearly pulses.

In this moment, something in Illumi softens and tightens all at once. A new current begins to hum low in his spine.

“Don’t move.”

The command cuts through the warm red haze of the room, low and clear.

Hisoka’s lips part in anticipation, the corner of his mouth curling upward—just barely.

“Don’t speak.”

Illumi raises a finger, arching a brow, and taps lightly at the pink curve of Hisoka’s mouth. Hisoka’s grin lingers, teeth gleaming under the crimson light.

Illumi trails his touch downward, brushing the edge of Hisoka’s jaw. The muscles twitch under his fingers. He continues, mapping the contours of Hisoka’s face with a kind of idle cruelty. His thumb brushes over a cheekbone—and pauses. A dusting of freckles, faint and caramel-colored, bloom across the pale skin. Illumi leans in. The freckles, like a constellation, are new. Or maybe they’ve just been waiting to be noticed. The effect makes Hisoka look boyish. Unthreatening. Illumi wants to ruin him for it.

His hands move lower, framing Hisoka’s throat. He cups the slender column gently—then lets his touch glide down over the collarbones, to the hard muscle of his shoulders. Hisoka’s arms are bound behind him, which only heightens the curve of his back, the tension in his body.

Illumi skims down slowly. Elbows. Forearms. Up again—over sculpted deltoids, then across the expanse of Hisoka’s chest. Nails drag over flushed skin, leaving red trails like brushstrokes on canvas. He exhales softly, and Hisoka shivers as his lips graze over his side, just above the ribs.

Illumi sinks his teeth into the sharp cut of Hisoka’s hip.

The reaction is immediate. A gasp, low and animal. Illumi’s yukata slips loose at the shoulder, sliding down to reveal a smooth stretch of ivory skin. Hisoka is watching—he feels it, that hot, devoted gaze.

He angles slightly, stepping left, positioning them for the camera’s lens.

He presses closer. Nails scratch lightly now, a teasing graze, earning soft sounds from Hisoka’s mouth. Illumi dips lower, lips brushing over his navel, loose strands of hair falling like black silk across Hisoka’s trembling abdomen. The scent of jasmine and incense clings to him, filling the space between them.

When he leans back, he takes in the pattern of red welts he’s drawn. Beautiful. Raised, bright, clean. Once again, Illumi resumes his role as artist, his canvas breathing ragged beneath him.

He shifts his weight behind Hisoka and grabs his bound wrists in one hand, using the leverage to gently force him down. Hisoka groans, body folding forward until his cheek presses to the bed, spine curved, ass raised obediently into the air.

Illumi hums. His hands grip Hisoka’s thighs—broad, strong, trembling slightly from the tension. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, flushed and leaking. Illumi leans in and bites the firm flesh of one cheek. Hisoka jerks slightly, the muscle yielding with satisfying resistance.

He licks the same spot—salt and sweat, warm and sweet. A feast.

Illumi lifts his gaze toward the camera. A red light blinks, steadily recording.

He grabs a fistful of Hisoka’s hair, yanking his head up. “Smile pretty,” he murmurs, and bends to suck a bruise into Hisoka’s neck, dragging his lips and teeth over pale skin until Hisoka moans, high and cracked.

Hisoka’s voice is raw when he breathes, “Please.”

Illumi ignores it. His hand drifts to the curve of Hisoka’s ass, squeezing, kneading, teasing—but not yet touching where Hisoka clearly wants him most.

He steps away.

Walks to the far wall and surveys the shelf: oils, lubes, gels—sorted by color, scent, sensation. He selects a thin silver bottle of silicone-based lube and returns, calm and composed.

He unties the band in his hair, letting it fall loose, then gathers it into a loose knot. A few strands escape and sway as he kneels back on the bed.

Illumi uncaps the bottle and lets the slick substance drip over his fingers, coating his palm. Then he tilts it—letting it stream in a line down the cleft of Hisoka’s ass. It coats the twitching rim, a glossy sheen collecting on the sensitive skin.

“What do you want?” he asks, softly.

Hisoka’s voice is hoarse: “Anything you give me.”

Illumi hums, satisfied.

He presses two fingers to the rim, circling slowly. Teasing. Not entering. Hisoka’s body responds, hips canting backward, silent plea clear in every tense line.

“How’s this?”

Hisoka groans, “Good.”

He slips his fingers in—slowly. Warm muscle yields around them, hugging tight. He works them deeper, curling and scissoring as he presses further in.

“And now?”

“Full,” Hisoka gasps.

Illumi maintains his pace, deliberately avoiding the gland he knows would send him reeling. His fingers press and stretch everywhere but that.

Hisoka’s fists clench behind him.

With his free hand, Illumi slicks more lube over the soft skin of his perineum, then dips his head and licks. His mouth closes around Hisoka’s balls, tongue flicking, lips sucking gently until Hisoka’s breath breaks into gasps.

Then Illumi pulls back again. Withdraws his fingers. Leaves him empty.

Hisoka whines softly, turning his head to rest on the other cheek. The sheet beneath him is visibly damp with drool, a glistening mark of surrender. Illumi, unimpressed, strolls away again—though not before casting a glance at the mess Hisoka’s left behind.

Squatting down, Illumi sifts through the absurd collection of toys. Hisoka, sensing the distance, lifts his head just enough to peek over his shoulder. He shoots a sly smile to the camera—sharp teeth flashing, eyes wrinkling with genuine delight—before quickly dropping his head again.

Illumi’s footsteps are featherlight as he circles back to the bed. In his hand, something gleams faintly gold, catching the low red light with every shift of his fingers. And then—

Hisoka gasps.

A sudden pressure meets his rim: blunt, insistent, and cool to the touch. His breath hitches, body tensing with anticipation.

Illumi keeps a steady hand on the jeweled base of the plug, rotating it slowly against him before beginning the slow, deliberate push. Hisoka groans, the stretch steady, consuming. Illumi braces his other arm around Hisoka’s waist, guiding him down onto it, until the plug disappears inside.

He angles it cruelly upward—purposefully away from Hisoka’s prostate—denying him the ecstasy he so clearly aches for. It’s mean. Methodical. The thick globes of Hisoka’s ass are flushed and trembling, stretched open around the plug in a picture of obscene beauty.

Hisoka’s voice cracks behind him.

“Lumi?”

Illumi hums without turning.

“Am I doing well?”

A beat.

“So well. So good for me.” Illumi’s voice is low, smooth. “Would you like more?”

“Desperately.”

A laugh—dark and breathy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. If you walk away again, I’m liable to massacre the entire nightclub beneath us.”

“Hmm.” Illumi smiles, just faintly.

He grabs Hisoka’s bound wrists and pulls him upright, back to kneeling.

“Is that a threat?”

He reaches down, coaxing Hisoka’s legs forward, easing him into a seated position—the plug sinking deeper as he folds down. Hisoka whimpers, visibly trembling.

“If you—ah—want it to be.” He swallows thickly. “Careful…”

Illumi slides him further up the bed, then settles in front of him, positioning them just so—angled perfectly.

He loosens the sash of his yukata, letting it fall open to reveal a ribbon of pale skin, the fabric pooling around his thighs. He bunches it with one hand, keeping it lifted.

“You don’t really want that, do you?” he murmurs, dipping down to kiss Hisoka’s ankle. His voice drops lower, smoky. “Because if you did… I’d have to punish you.”

“Lucky for me,” Hisoka breathes, “I enjoy being good for you—and being bad. Best kind of double-edged sword.”

Disapproving teeth sink into pliant flesh, biting hard enough to bruise. Hisoka hisses—though it sounds more like a moan.

Still kneeling, Illumi reaches between his legs. His lubed fingers circle his own rim, teasing. He feeds his index finger inside, slow and shallow. Just enough to stretch, never enough to satisfy. He adds a second finger. His breath hitches.

The memory of those same fingers inside Hisoka flickers across his mind. His erection twitches, pressing against the thin fabric of his yukata.

Across from him, Hisoka is watching—eyes heavy, lips parted, breathing shallow. His cock bobs with every breath, flushed and leaking. Precum beads along the ridge of his tip, catching the light.

Illumi rocks on his hand, working his fingers deeper, but still avoids brushing that one sensitive spot. He’s building tension. It’s only fair.

Hisoka twitches, eyes fluttering, mouth opening with a whimper.

It’s soft. Desperate. Wordless.

Illumi’s gaze lifts, meeting Hisoka’s. There’s nothing smug left on his face—just want. Illumi waits. Watches. And when Hisoka whines again, shaking in his bonds like a fevered animal, Illumi relents.

Not for him. Not for Hisoka.

For time. The camera battery is surely dying.

He moves on his knees, gliding forward to straddle Hisoka’s lap. The loose folds of his yukata cascade over Hisoka’s thighs like ink poured across snow. He lets the fabric fall, blanketing Hisoka’s lower body, a sheer curtain over pale skin.

Illumi reaches with one finger, tilting Hisoka’s chin up. Burgundy strands stick to damp skin, eyes wide and wild. Illumi’s face remains impassive, but his lips soften as he leans in and plants a single kiss—just the top lip. Then again, a little more.

A slow rhythm builds, mouths brushing, breath exchanging.

With his other hand, Illumi grips Hisoka’s cock, guiding it between them. He shifts his hips, letting the tip smear against his slick entrance.

Then, as his tongue slips past Hisoka’s lips, he sinks down.

The groan Hisoka lets out is strangled. Illumi swallows it in the kiss, taking inch after inch of him inside until he’s seated flush in his lap.

When he pulls back, they’re both panting. Sweaty. Glazed.

“Spit.”

Illumi holds out his tongue.

Hisoka obeys. The wet splatter lands across Illumi’s tongue, and he swallows it promptly.

Then he nods—once.

“Break them. I know you can.”

Hisoka hesitates.

“Now.”

With a loud snap, Hisoka yanks his arms apart—shoulders flexing, elbows flaring outward as the chains clatter to the floor in a cascade of sharp, metallic clinks. The sound rings out like a starter pistol.

His wrists are raw, ringed in bruised red.

Illumi takes them in hand and presses Hisoka’s palms to his own hips, dragging them down over tense thighs slick with sweat. Hisoka grips him instinctively, fingers skating across muscle and bone.

The yukata has fallen to Illumi’s waist, baring the taper of his torso and strong arms. His chest rises and falls, slow but steady, his bun loose and unspooling against his nape. His features—always sharp, always precise—are softened now with heat and motion, the sheen of exertion catching the low crimson light.

“Beautiful,” Hisoka breathes, barely able to keep his voice steady. “Illu…”

“Shut up,” Illumi mutters—sharp, breathless.

And then he moves.

Illumi rises, thighs trembling, and drops himself back down—hard. Hisoka groans, head falling back, as Illumi grinds down into him, merciless and controlled. Over and over he bounces on Hisoka’s cock, rhythm brutal and efficient. Every downward slam punches out a gasp from them both, slick sound filling the room alongside ragged breaths and the muted thud of skin on skin.

Hisoka’s eyes flutter, body twitching as Illumi clenches around him—taunting.

Illumi leans forward, planting his palms flat against Hisoka’s chest, and shifts the angle. Hisoka’s cock grinds into his prostate, drawing a soft, strangled moan from Illumi’s lips—one he smothers against Hisoka’s mouth. Their tongues tangle, messy and desperate, Illumi moaning into him as the tension in his core winds tighter.

Hisoka tightens his grip, fingers digging in with bruising possession as he drives his hips upward, unrelenting. The angle is devastating—sharp, deliberate—and Illumi shudders, back arching as a sudden gasp tears from his throat. His cock jerks between them, a thick rope of cum shooting across Hisoka’s chest, hot and blinding. The sound Illumi makes is raw, a moan cracked open by pleasure, his whole body convulsing around the orgasm wracking through him.

He doesn’t stop. Even as Hisoka’s rhythm falters for a breath, Illumi steadies his hands and begins to move again, fucking himself down on him, desperate and fluid. Their bodies slap together in a slick, wet rhythm, the aftershocks of his climax causing his cock to continue spurting in messy streaks between them—smearing over skin, trickling down Hisoka’s stomach, sticking them together.

When the flow starts to ease, Hisoka’s hand wraps firmly around the base of Illumi’s cock. It twitches violently in his grasp, and Illumi jolts, the oversensitivity flashing in his eyes like panic before melting into something helpless and wanting. Hisoka’s pace slows, but each thrust is deliberate now—dragging the length of his cock through Illumi’s tight heat, savoring the way it grips around him, pulsing and slick.

He pumps Illumi’s shaft with a slow, merciless rhythm, then drags his fingers up to the flushed tip, coaxing out the last of it. Illumi chokes on a moan, stomach flexing, trembling beneath the attention. Hisoka curls two fingers around the head, teasing, watching the way Illumi quivers—his release thick and weak now, barely spurting, more dribbling out in threads.

“‘So—” Illumi’s voice hitches, eyes glassy. “‘Ka…”

Hisoka groans deep in his chest as Illumi sinks back down. His own release surges up, spilling deep into Illumi in thick, heated waves. It forces its way out around him, seeping from Illumi’s fluttering hole, soaking the mess already pooling between them. Illumi doesn’t stop moving—his hips roll in languid, overstimulated circles, murmuring something incomprehensible, strung out and trembling.

The final dribble of his own cum seeps out, coating his base and dripping down to where their bodies meet, a white puddle soaking the coarse hair above Hisoka’s pelvis. They’re a mess of heat and slickness and raw sound, bodies clinging together through the shuddering comedown.

Hisoka’s lips part in a dreamy pout, pupil blown eyes blinking up at him, unfocused.

Illumi bends, pressing a quiet, almost chaste kiss to his mouth.

Then—

“Mind stopping the recording, love?” Hisoka murmurs, voice a low scratch along Illumi’s ear, still breathless.

Illumi stills.

Brows twitching, he blinks, realization clicking into place with a visible shift in posture. Hisoka’s softening cock throbs inside him as Illumi leans away, no longer dazed.

Without a word, he reaches into the pooled fabric of his yukata, fingers slipping along the seam. Something sharp glints—cool against flushed skin—and he draws a needle from its hiding place.

Hisoka’s eyes widen. He braces, expecting the sting.

But the pain doesn’t come.

Instead, Illumi turns, hand flicking with precision, and launches the needle straight at the camera.

A crack. A burst of glass.

The lens fractures. The screen splinters. The red light dies.

The camera slumps from the tripod, crashing to the floor with a dull thud. The monitor flickers to black, jagged white lines streaking across the screen like veins before it gives out completely.

Hisoka stares at the ruined equipment. Blinks.

“Oh,” he says, stunned—maybe even a little impressed.

Then the bed begins to move.

It shifts beneath them like a slow, mechanical tide—rotating on a hidden swivel, inclining ever so slightly. Illumi slips deeper into Hisoka’s lap, their bodies still joined, too sore and too spent to move quickly. The bed continues its sluggish spin, angling them toward the headboard. They fumble, still catching their breath.

Hisoka bursts into laughter, tossing his head back as he reaches beside the headboard—into a recessed control panel—and extracts a shard of glass, flung from the shattered camera and lodged deep in the seam. The rotation grinds to a halt.

“Well,” he grins, turning it over in the dim light, “guess that gave us a bit of a scare.”

“Where did you even find this place?” Illumi asks flatly, brows knit. “It feels like a dominatrix dungeon… or a coital chamber. Just—objectively perverse. It’s like it’s rigged for every sexual contingency.”

“It is,” Hisoka purrs, tossing the glass aside. He leans in, nuzzling the side of Illumi’s throat. “Why do you think I brought you here? Only Jappon—this city, especially—has love hotels with this kind of flair. Almost as twisted as ours… Lover.”

Illumi exhales through his nose.

He lets his head drop, cheek settling on Hisoka’s shoulder. His breath fans over a darkening welt, bruised violet into flushed skin. His tongue drags lazily across it, the tender flesh warm and just slightly raised. The buzz between them simmers low, the aftermath still humming.

In the red hush of the room, nothing moves—but everything has shifted. A sated kind of equilibrium. 

────୨ৎ────

“Coming in at six feet and two inches, weighing a lean and lethal 200 lbs, undefeated outside of the matches he simply didn’t care to show up to—the elusive, vicious, and ever-flamboyant Hisoka Morow!”

The announcer’s voice booms across the vast coliseum, bouncing off the steel rafters and vibrating through the chest of every attendee. The crowd explodes—shouting, shrieking, chanting, their stomping feet rattling the concrete stands. The stadium is overflowing, an ocean of bodies crammed into every inch of space. The arena is packed beyond capacity, buzzing with frenzied energy. There's no space left unoccupied, not a single unclaimed inch. Fans spill into every aisle, staircase, and balcony, screaming, crying, laughing. It’s suffocating with heat and tension, the scent of sweat, excitement, and alcohol heavy.

Humidity clings to the air like a second skin. Security struggles to keep rabid admirers at bay, and staff duck between aisles, arms full of water bottles and ticket scanners. Fans reach over railings, neon posters are waved like flags, and undergarments spiral through the air like celebratory streamers. Every eye is locked on the dark tunnel at the back of the arena.

The spotlight slices through the smoky haze—and then, he appears.

Hisoka steps into view slowly, as if the world has slowed to accommodate his entrance. He strikes a pose at the threshold, one arm draped over his head, the other stretched elegantly outward. His leg bends just so, head tipped back, a vision of poise and theatricality. The crowd stills for a breath.

He walks.

Slow, deliberate, predatory.

Each step rings out with a high-heeled click on the metal walkway. His hair is slicked back into a glistening wave, fanned out like fire. Makeup done to perfection: heavy winged liner, a shimmer of black over his lids, and glistening, lacquered lips. His signature cheek emblems—a mint green star and a glossy pink teardrop—are drawn sharply beneath his glowing eyes.

Hisoka's ensemble is designed to scandalize.

The camera tracks him from head to toe. Long, dangling gold earrings sparkle with each movement. His neck is a mess of dark red and purple—bruises, hickeys, scratches, all blooming like flowers down his throat. And his shirt: cropped hot pink, clinging to him like a second skin, spelled out in silver rhinestones across the chest—’CUM SLUT.’ Every word gleams as if lit from within, catching on the strobes bouncing from the rafters. 

The crowd falls eerily silent for a second time, stunned into awe. Then the noise erupts tenfold.

Gasps. Screams. Someone faints.

The camera continues downward. More bruises paint his arms—scratches, bite marks, fingernail trails wrapping over taut muscle. The shirt stops above his navel, exposing a chain wrapped twice around his slim waist, glittering against skin. More love marks bloom down his sides, leading to white pants that cling tightly to the curve of his hips. The pants are adorned with a pink heart and spade—perfectly centered. On his feet, glossy pink boots with a heel and a diamond-studded gold anklet peeking over the top.

The crowd becomes a living thing—roaring, screaming, sobbing. The camera zooms back out to capture the chaos.

Hisoka lifts one hand, palm up, grinning as his voice rings out over the stadium’s speakers.

"Greetings, sweet things! Woke up feeling lucky today," he turns his head slightly, revealing more bruises on his neck, "Feeling extra motivated~"

The audience explodes again. Chants start and overlap.

He soaks it all in, lashes fluttering, tongue sliding over his teeth.

In the commentator booth, a stunned pause.

“Uh—what’s going on down there?”

A referee yells back from the floor, nearly swallowed by the noise: “Hisoka came out COVERED. Bruises. Scratches. I don’t even know—like, lashes? The crowd’s feral.”

“Should we sound the alarm?”

“No other choice.”

A piercing klaxon wails and the words “AUDIENCE SILENCE” flash repeatedly across every screen.

Slowly, the noise dies down. Except for a few scattered shouts:

“WHORE!”

“SLUT!”

Hisoka basks in it. He raises both arms like a victorious gladiator, flexes his biceps, then trails his fingers teasingly down his torso.

“Bring him out,” he purrs.

Eight minutes and forty seconds into the match, the towering, street-bred Enhancer—famed for ending fights with a single blow—ironically calls a frantic Time.

Bloodied and reeling, he stumbles back, barely on his feet. Hisoka, pristine save for a decorative cut on his cheek, tilts his head, wipes the blood with two fingers—and licks them clean.

He offers a playful shrug and exits the stage with a lazy saunter, disappearing into the backstage green room. There, he pops a heart-shaped pineapple chunk into his mouth, slurping around it decadently. He sinks into a velvet loveseat, legs crossed, utterly relaxed.

He checks his phone.

6 unread messages from [Illumi]

[Illumi]: What are you doing.

[Illumi]: ???

[Illumi]: You’re absolutely insane.

[Illumi]: And before you ask, don’t worry about why I’m tuning in

[Illumi]: Just checking up.

[Illumi]: I cannot believe you wore that Hisoka

Hisoka grins. He switches to the camera, angles it high above his head, and snaps a shot of himself—shirt front and center, hand cupping one pec.

[1 image attached]

[Hisoka]: U like?

[Hisoka]: Thinking of you.

[Hisoka]: xoxoxo

[Illumi]: It’s… something

[Illumi]: gaudy

[Illumi]: obscene

[Illumi]: Felt like I was blinded

[Hisoka]: haha sooo are we finally even

[Hisoka]: ?

[Hisoka]: luluuuu :3

[Illumi]: Meet me after your win.

[Illumi]: -17.5310 S , 149.8260 E

After claiming his victory, Hisoka returns to center stage, waving with blood-drenched fingers, every camera snapping away.

Someone from the front row leans over the barrier, screaming:

"Hisoka! Did the raven-haired Archangel do that to you?!"

Hisoka glances down, lifts both hands in mock surrender, and smiles:

"No comment."

────୨ৎ────

Illumi blinks awake, lashes fluttering against the heavy heat. He hadn’t meant to drift off—but the sway of the hammock, the hush of waves, and the salted breeze tangling his hair had worked together like a lullaby. The cotton ropes cradle him tightly, leaving patterned dents in his skin, thighs crossed loosely, one arm tucked beneath his head.

He turns slightly, face angled toward the shore. Just beyond the shade cast by twin palm trees, the sea glimmers under the late sun—white foam kissing the sand in slow, steady breaths. The air smells like salt, mango trees, and something slightly charred from a distant grill.

Before he can doze again, a shadow falls over him.

“Try this,” Hisoka says.

He’s holding out a drink—sunlight catching in the glass, layered in a soft gradient from coral to blood orange, topped with a mint sprig. Condensation beads down the side, icy against Illumi’s lips as he takes a sip without protest. It’s thick, slushy. Watermelon. Mango. Lime.

Illumi hums softly. “What is it?”

“Margarita,” Hisoka replies, taking his own exaggerated sip, letting it dribble down his lip before lazily catching it with his tongue. “Like it?”

“It’s good.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I’m not. I’m… relaxed.”

Hisoka squints, then reaches out and gently rubs at Illumi’s forehead with two fingers. “Terrible job with the sunscreen. You missed here. And here.” He works his way from temple to cheekbone, pausing when Illumi leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed.

“There,” Hisoka declares, satisfied. “Now come. I cooked.”

Illumi lifts himself from the hammock with a fluid stretch, shirt hanging open at the chest. Hisoka leads him to a small shaded table set beneath a grass-thatched canopy. The ocean glitters in the distance, cicadas hum in the palms, and seagulls glide overhead like drifting punctuation marks in the sky.

Hisoka sets down a plate with dramatic flourish. “Behold. My culinary masterpiece. It boasts a certain… je ne sais quoi.”

He flops into the seat beside Illumi, chin resting in one palm, sunglasses pushed up into his sweat-damp hair. His cheeks are sun-warmed, a healthy bronze setting off the gold glint of his earrings.

Illumi surveys the dish with mild suspicion. A riot of color: thin noodles piled high and crowned with cucumbers, halved tomatoes, pink curls of shrimp, soft-boiled eggs oozing yolk, gingery slices of ham, and red pepper threads arranged like little sparks.

Illumi narrows his eyes. “Poisoned?”

Hisoka snorts. “Not on vacation.”

Illumi cautiously prods at the plate with his chopsticks, stabbing through a tomato and looping up a tangle of noodles.

He tastes. And grimaces.

“It’s cold.”

“It’s hiyashi chuka. Cold ramen,” Hisoka explains.

Illumi hums, intrigued. He chews, swallows, considers—then lifts another bite. The tangy soy-vinegar sauce clings to the chilled noodles, chased by a whisper of sesame and warm kick of chili oil. The initial temperature shock fades. The flavor doesn’t.

“So…”

“So?” Illumi replies, eyes still on his bowl.

“You said this would be a device-free vacation.”

“I’m not following.”

“So are you estranged now?” Hisoka presses, leaning in like he’s about to hear gossip.

“Wh—no. Don’t say that,” Illumi replies, frowning. “Why would you assume that?”

“Easy, gorgeous,” Hisoka says, hand raised in mock surrender. “Just trying to wrap my head around how an overworked machine of an assassin—and devout little soldier of a son—hasn’t checked his phone in a whole twelve hours. Had I tried to steal it six months ago, you’d have had my head on a swivel. Oh! Callback to our Tayka stay!”

Illumi exhales hard through his nose and rolls his eyes. “That was your fault. You snapped the swivel mount trying to increase its speed to your technique—pointless. And dizzying. Also, if I’ve made changes, what of it? I still have a protocol in place—emergency alerts would wake the dead. My family can reach me if absolutely necessary.”

Hisoka lifts a finger, smug. “There it is.”

“I’ve limited my internet access anyway,” Illumi continues, stabbing at a slice of ginger with his chopsticks. “After the incident, Milluki installed filters across all my devices.”

Hisoka snorts. “Like a child lock?”

“I just prefer not to see anything irrelevant. It’s efficient,” Illumi says, glancing away. “We put the same controls on our parents’ devices, too. Keeps their outrage focused and their dignity intact.”

“Adorable,” Hisoka says, twirling his chopsticks before popping a tomato into his mouth. “So you’re back in the family’s good graces, huh? Not festering in the abscesses of the Zoldyck manor for dishonor and indecency?”

Illumi shoots him a glare. “I spoke with Father. Reaffirmed where my loyalty lies—there’s no ambiguity. Our bond is like stone: dense, cold, and permanent. He may not agree with every choice I make, but he knows my heart. I’ve made my position clear.”

Hisoka grins, the breeze tousling his sun-bleached hair. “Which means, translated: we’ve got Daddy’s blessing.”

“It means our professional rapport remains intact. And that I am, in my personal hours, free to pursue… intimacy.”

Hisoka places a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “I’m not some back-alley trick. Say it with your chest, Illu—‘I court you in my free time.’”

Illumi takes an oversized mouthful of noodles, then—cheeks full—mumbles the phrase incomprehensibly.

“Brat,” Hisoka mutters, laughing.

Illumi nudges him under the table. Hisoka traps the ankle between his calves, then hooks a leg around his. His skin is cool from the sea, the contact grounding. The tang of soy and vinegar still lingers on Illumi’s tongue. The salt breeze carries over from the shore. Sunscreen clings faintly to his skin. Hisoka’s casual, half-rambling voice weaves it all together—ridiculous, steady, familiar.

Illumi lets the quiet swell around them. Eats slowly, deliberately. Slurps. Sips broth. And when he finally glances up, his bowl nearly empty, Hisoka is watching him with a lazy grin and too-soft eyes.

“Safe to say you like it.”

Illumi licks his lips, then frowns faintly. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Hisoka scoots closer, leaning across the table. “You’ve got soy sauce on your mouth. And yolk on your chin.”

He reaches out, wiping at Illumi’s face with his thumb—slow, indulgent. Then, just as Illumi exhales through his nose in tolerant amusement, Hisoka swoops in and kisses him. Soft and quick. His tongue flicks over Illumi’s bottom lip before retreating.

Illumi blinks once. Then raises an eyebrow, dryly. “Got it?”

Hisoka grins like a fool. “Not quite.”

He leans in again, kissing him longer this time—gentle, teasing, their lips parting, mouths brushing with more familiarity than urgency. When he pulls back again, he goes right back to his own plate, slurping a mouthful of noodles like nothing happened.

Illumi doesn’t move at first. Then, voice quiet, like an invitation:

“Maybe check one more time… for good measure.”

Hisoka’s chopsticks pause in mid-air. Then slowly lower.

He’s already grinning before he turns.