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Illumi Zoldyck x Reader

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The forest was silent the night death attempted to come for you.

Your instincts had screamed before your eyes caught him: a pale silhouette standing impossibly still among the trees. His long hair, black as midnight silk, shifted in the windy air. His face was expressionless, his eyes deep and empty, and the sheer weight of his presence pressed down on you until your lungs tightened.

Illumi Zoldyck.

There was no need for introductions. You knew the name, and more importantly, what it meant: he was here for you.

The attack was immediate.

Needles flashed in his fingers, his movements smooth and silent, as though the night itself obeyed him. You barely dodged, striking back with everything you had. He didn’t block—he bent unnaturally, evading with fluid precision, his face blank all the while. To him, this wasn’t a battle. It was an assessment.

Blood warmed your side where his needle had grazed you. He tilted his head, gaze flickering down to the crimson on your hand.

“You’re weaker than I expected,” he murmured, voice calm, detached.

You tightened your grip on your weapon, teeth gritted. “Who hired you?”

His answer was as merciless as his strikes. “Irrelevant. You’ll die tonight.”

And yet, you refused to give him the satisfaction. “I’ll pay you double.”

The words made him still. His hand hovered a hairs breath from your throat. He blinked once, eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly.

“Double…” His voice stretched, curious now. Not moved, not convinced, merely intrigued. Then his lips curved, just slightly. “Fine. For now, you live.”

Your battle was over, but your sentence wasn’t lifted. You’d bought yourself time. Nothing more.

Traveling with Illumi was like living under a constant blade.

He was always near, but never warm. His eyes followed you in silence, studying your movements like a predator examining prey that had, for some reason, been spared. He spoke rarely, and when he did, his words were clinical, precise.

“You’re inefficient with that weapon.”

“You bleed too much when you’re injured.”

“If you hesitate, I won’t save you.”

He didn’t disguise the truth: he didn’t care for you. You weren’t a partner. You were a transaction.

And yet… Illumi never strayed far. You noticed it in subtle things—the way he walked half a step ahead, forcing enemies to meet him first. The way his gaze swept every corner of a room before you entered. He didn’t ask about your fears or pain. He didn’t offer kindness. But he made certain nothing touched you without going through him.

Weeks passed.

You bled together. Killed together. Survived together.

But Illumi never softened. At least, not at first.

At night, you sometimes tried to provoke him into conversation, tossing questions into the firelit silence. “Why do you kill?” “What do you want from life?” “What’s the worst thing you’ve done?”

Most nights, he didn’t answer at all. When he did, his responses were blunt and stripped of feeling.

“It’s my nature.”

“Nothing.”

“That depends on what you consider ‘worst.’”

But in his own quiet and crude way, he was always watching. You’d catch him sometimes, his gaze fixed on you, unreadable. Not longing. Not affection. Something stranger—like he was dissecting a puzzle that refused to solve itself.

The first real fracture in his indifference came when one of the assailants sent for you managed to draw blood.

The blade wasn’t deep, but it bit across your ribs, hot and sharp. You staggered, hissing in pain, but still fought on. When it was over, bodies littered the ground. You wiped your mouth, expecting him to walk away as usual.

Instead, his hand shot out, seizing your wrist.

His fingers were cold as ice as he pulled your arm from your side, exposing the wound. His expression didn’t change, but his grip was harsh, bruising. His voice was quieter than usual, though no less sharp.

“You shouldn’t let them touch you..”

Your breath caught. “Illumi… are you—worried?”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his face unreadable. Then, slowly, he released you, stepping back as though your skin burned him.

“You’re my client. If you die, my payment dies with you.”

And yet, when you cleaned your wound later that night, you found a neatly wrapped bandage tucked among your belongings. His work. Silent. But not unacknowledged.

It took time—so much time—for the cracks to widen.

He began positioning himself closer to you at camp. His eyes lingered longer when you moved ahead on the trail. He started correcting your stance in battle—not with words, but with his hands guiding your arms, his chest brushing your back. The contact was fleeting, cold, but deliberate.

One night, exhausted beyond caring, you leaned against him as you sat by the dying fire. He stiffened immediately, like a statue under your touch. You expected him to push you away. He didn’t. He stayed rigid, unmoving, but he didn’t stop you.

That was the first time Illumi allowed anyone to touch him without purpose.

Eventually his lips found yours, however, it didn’t happen quickly.

For days, Illumi’s eyes lingered a little too long, as if searching for something he couldn’t name. His hand would brush yours when passing a weapon, cold and transient, yet you felt the restraint in the way he pulled back immediately.

The night it finally happened, the air was heavy with smoke and exhaustion after another fight. You sat close, tending a shallow cut on your arm. Illumi approached without a word, crouching beside you, his long hair spilling over his shoulder as he reached for the bandage. His fingers, cold and precise, wrapped the cloth around your wound.

He didn’t speak, but you felt the intensity of his gaze on your face. When you looked up, his eyes were already on you—dark, fathomless, but no longer empty. For once, he didn’t glance away.

The space between you thinned, a fragile thread pulling tighter with every breath. You could feel the faint warmth of him, the steadiness of his presence pressing in close. His hand lingered at your wrist, not moving, as though the thought of letting go hadn’t yet occurred to him.

You whispered, almost afraid to break the silence, “Illumi…”

That was when he moved.

Slowly at first, hesitantly—like even he wasn’t sure why. Then suddenly, decisively, his mouth claimed yours. The kiss wasn’t gentle; it was rough, consuming, searing, as though he’d finally surrendered to something he could no longer deny. His hands anchored you, cold and firm, holding you as though daring the world itself to try and tear you away.

When at last he pulled back, the firelight flickered against his face. His nose rested against yours, his breath mingling with your own. And in his eyes—dark, endless voids—you saw something you had never thought possible.

Not emptiness. Not indifference.

But softness.

“You belong to me now,” he whispered. Not a question. A truth. The silence stretched, heavy with everything unspoken. And then—dead serious, voice perfectly flat—Illumi asked:

“…Am I still getting paid?”

You blinked at him, torn between laughter and disbelief. “Are you kidding me right now?”

His head tilted slightly, as though the question were perfectly reasonable. “You said double. I expect compensation.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed, shaking your head. Trust Illumi Zoldyck to make your first kiss with him feel both life-changing and transactional

Shortly after, the day of your revenge came at last.

The one who had almost bought your death knelt in a fortress of gold, surrounded by guards who believed their weapons could keep fate at bay. They were wrong.

Illumi descended upon them like a nightmare. His needles pierced throats, his hands broke bone, his expression cold as stone. He didn’t fight for you. He fought because this was his nature—killing was as natural as breathing. But you saw something in the way his eyes followed you through the carnage: permission. This was your vengeance. He would make sure nothing stood in the way.

When it was all over, your betrayer cowered before you, gasping. Illumi stood behind you, his presence looming, his voice brushed your ear, low and calm.

“Finish it. I’ll watch.”

And you did. You ended the one who had signed your death warrant, feeling the weight lift from your shoulders as blood stained your hands.

Illumi’s arms wrapped around you from behind, holding you steady as though he knew your knees might fail. His breath ghosted your hair, and for the first time, his voice held something unguarded.

“You’re mine now. No one else touches you. No one else decides your fate.”

You turned in his embrace, meeting his gaze. And there it was—the impossible. Love, in its strangest form. Not gentle. Not safe. But absolute.

Illumi Zoldyck would never love like others did. His love was a blade—cold, sharp, consuming. But it was yours.

And standing in the ruins of your vengeance, you realized you had gained more than justice.

You had gained him.

Forever.