#bungeetricked

[ningyoshii]

piledrives him off a cliff.

               and they say romance is dead !

[hellsceapa]

braids his hair as they talk about their fixations ❤️

                delighted gushing about his dear mika❤️

[ningyoshii]

Hjönk

                  tired sigh.

[ningyoshii]

slips into his room silently and presses a kiss to his lips quickly to wake him up.

OWLISH EYES SNAP OPEN NEARLY INSTANTANEOUSLY – BLEARY, AT FIRST, FROM THE UNANTICIPATED GESTURE. He’s halfway convinced that he was stirred out of his sleep from his own doing before his focus is directed towards a figure still so close to his bedside – and nearly immediately does the young assassin snap his body up, conditioned body moving in muscle memory into a defensive position even before his mind can properly process what was occurring before him. And that occurrence is —

“Hisoka?” Irritability and confusion entwine in his mind, manifesting quite clearly when he speaks. Still drowsy, no doubt, and not particularly pleased that the slumber he hardly gets has been disturbed. “What have... How did you get in here?” – a sharp, venomous whisper, tongue rolling over his lips nearly as if the small kiss is merely an apparition created by his brain. Dreams can certainly seem real – and yet Hisoka stands before him in the flesh ( a rather unfortunate fact, certainly ).  Another stern murmur leaves him; he’s now standing, and despite the rather obvious bedhead he’s completely composed, taking a step forward to quite roughly seize his fiance’s wrist, lips twisted down in perhaps the most dramatic emote he’s exposed in quite a while.

          “You need to go. Now.”

[ningyoshii]

one by one rips his fingernails out of their beds and kisses the digits left in their wake.

NOTWITHSTANDING THE LESS-THAN-FAVORABLE SITUATION, ILLUMI OFFERS A RATHER MUTED REACTION TOWARDS THE REMOVAL OF HIS NAILS. It isn’t as if tearing them off doesn’t hurt– at the end of the day, firmly-attached protein is being ripped from his body– he simply has been expertly conditioned to withstand far worse than this. The act itself does nothing more than manifest vague agitation towards knowing that, for quite a while, even moving his fingers will cause minor stabbings of pain, but it would hardly interrupt much. Fresh blood, warm and sticky ( caking in every crevice of his skin, dripping from his fingertips and onto the ground below ) rises at each tear; his skin tugs just slightly against the nail, and some of its first layer tears off alongside the shell itself, leaving pools of steadily-forming scarlet manifesting in the lacerations below.

And at each tender, bloody kiss, Illumi watches with vague disgust – distanced, no doubt, as he is with most things. As if he peers through a looking-glass, the eldest Zoldyck has the demeanor of someone ( or something ) far away, where such acts are hardly a worry; where all of this is hardly a worry; where his fiancé perched so smugly before him is nothing more than an odd exhibit to be scrutinized. True, he’s frustrated that he managed to get caught within his trap much like a fly to honey, but lamenting would be silly; emotions are meaningless  – his main concern is to endure until Hisoka has exhausted himself of whatever nonsense he considers this to be.

Void’s eyes shift from bloody nailbeds ( they feel so raw already; there’s hardly a breeze, and yet Illumi can feel the chill of the room in near-exaggeration ) towards Hisoka’s honey gaze, meeting striking eyes with an expression quite denouncing of him, not simply devoid of amusement, but absent of any thorough emotion itself. His gaze is hollow; it is empty; there may be an overlay of annoyance, true, but no deeper life rests below. This is not just two men interacting, no; this is a dance. Such a deathly tango, ruthless and nearly without rules, with blood-slicked floors and skull-splitting music; it is unfortunate to admit, but at the moment the young assassin is struggling to keep pace, no less lead. 

But domination changes as swiftly as waves; what is Hisoka’s upper hand one moment may be Illumi’s the next.

“Your games are getting tiresome, Hisoka,” he voices evenly. The light tone rolling from gentle lips is entangled with muted vexation as his hand is methodically ripped from a nail before being raised and kissed, the dull throb of agitated nerve endings shooting through his body each and every time. And those eyes stare; the deadpan remains; the only sign of life revealed upon him is the subtle agitation that he allows to be displayed. And yet the things he would do to him... the things he would do to him... the things he would do to him if he managed to slip out...

                “How long will you keep this up?”

[ningyoshii]

kisses him very tenderly while he's drowning in his own blood

THE GRACELESS COUGH THAT EXITS HIS LIPS IS PAIRED WITH THE RASP OF A SLIT THROAT AS AIR STREAKS FROM THE NEWFOUND OPENING. The artery in his neck empties blood feverishly into his windpipe, filling such expertly-conditioned lungs with sanguine of which cannot be drained. A hand is curled defensively around his throat; he attempts to stop the bleeding, and yet it gushes like a broken dam; a burst hose; he heaves, he heaves, he heaves. Utterly impossible to contain; a slip-up of a second ( no, half a second; less than that, less than that ) proves fatal; heat rushes over his body, and yet simultaneously a chill does, too; a slow cradle, a steady grasp; he isn’t going to make it.

And despite this – the blood spouting from his lips as he gags, the thick spit entwined and dribbling down his jaw and neck; the feeling of stomach acid boiling beneath, threatening to burst out at any moment – despite this, his fiancé offers such a gentle kiss, a tender kiss in all of its irony; the Jester’s card still caught in his throat does not phase him; the writhing of his body does not phase him; the contortions of which the eldest Zoldyck child is subconsciously jerked into does not phase him; it is gentle, very gentle, perhaps the most he’s ever received. A lightheaded sensation bursts into his mind like an explosion; he sees double – no, double and stars; flashing before his eyes like fireworks and damn it, he feels his life escaping him; damn it, he feels everything escaping him. Speak. Speak, he urges, but he can’t; just a pathetic burst and gurgle, distressed snorts and wheezes exiting in near-animal fashion as the body attempts to fill the lungs with air, with air, but he can’t. He can’t. He can’t; his eyes roll back; he slumps pathetically; hand drops from his throat as the blood leaks, it leaks, it leaks his life out.

                                                     And how tender it is.                                                        How tender it is.                                                        How tender it is.

[ningyoshii]

illumi i cant get through because im dummy thick 😩

              louder, more exhausted sigh.

[ningyoshii]

@bungeetricked / continued from x.

AN EVER-SO-HEEDFUL GAZE REMAINS SCRUTINIZING THE APPROACHING FIGURE, body motionless even as Hisoka invites himself so close that his body heat could be felt. Soon enough, his company’s hand soon invades his hair, somewhat ruffled from the recent job, and he finds himself not bothering to shift back or minimize the contact received. It wasn’t shocking, even in the slightest, that he has been watching ( if anyone was simultaneously enigmatic and transparent to Illumi, it would undoubtedly be him; the embodiment of a paradox, yet somehow still existent ) and so the slightly-raised eyebrows engraved upon the assassin’s features do not expose surprise or curiosity, but inklings of expectation. Rehearsed, like a script, all the way to the singsong tone that arrived with each word Hisoka spouts.

As that claw slowly rolls against his skin, the Zoldyck tilts his head quite subtly to the side, compensating for the lone few strands that stubbornly remained adrift from the rest of his hair. Hisoka’s touch is anticipated, yet still unnatural: Within its familiarity it somehow feels alien, however hardly bothersome; still, the lingering feeling of thin digits dragging against his scalp remain as if it were a track implanted in his skin, etched deep into him. “Audiences are unnecessary, if not counterproductive. I like to avoid them,” he replies; “though I’ve come to terms that you seem to be an exception.” His voice is light, airy; impassivity is as lucid to him as a mother tongue.

          “Even so... most don’t watch for sheer enjoyment, you know.”