Imagine laying in bed next to your lover but they’re asleep. And you’re wide awake literally so horny you can feel yourself dripping through your sleep shorts. Not being able to handle it anymore you pull out your trusted toy from your bedside table. Slowly pulling off your shorts trying to not make a lot of noise or movement. Throwing the shared covers off of you. You slowly start to tease yourself. Soft moans falling from your mouth, covering your mouth with your free hand trying to slience yourself just to not wake up your lover next to you. After teasing yourself for a bit you decided to sink the toy deep inside of you moaning out then immediately throwing your hand back over your mouth when you felt them slightly tussle the bed. When you were confident they were sleeping you continued with fucking yourself. So focused on tying to keep your noises at bay you didn’t really pick up the fact that you were really fucking yourself eyes closed moans muffled against your hand when you felt their hand wrap around your wrist. “What are you doing baby?” they said voice relativly deep from being asleep. “Nothing..” “Mhm..” Your lover pulls your toy completely out of you pulling a moan from you and dives straight into your pussy sucking up all of your juices. “Oh fuck!” "You close baby?" "Yes!" “Good. Cum for me” And oh boy you do. Squirming all over the bed cumming hard against their tounge. You literally passed out before they came back to clean you up.
This is very very long I suggest you read when you got time to spare
The evening was loud with the chatter of the Spiders. A stolen feast spread across the table — wine, glistening meats, and enough laughter to make the abandoned warehouse sound almost alive. Shalnark leaned back in his chair, smiling as he explained some trivial observation, his hand gesturing too widely for someone who didn’t really need to prove a point. Phinks barked out a laugh, tossing his half-empty glass onto the table with a satisfying thud.
You sat among them, caught between the ripple of amusement and the sharp undercurrent of danger that never truly left this group.
Your gaze wandered, inevitably, to the head of the table.
Chrollo sat in silence.
The lamplight cast his features in shadows, unreadable as always. He wasn’t drinking, nor laughing, nor even pretending to engage. He merely turned a page of the book in his hands, as though the rowdy scene surrounding him was nothing more than static. His presence alone anchored the room, but he gave you no acknowledgment — not a glance, not a word.
It shouldn’t have bothered you. He was always like this. Detached. Cold. Distant enough that you sometimes wondered if he even remembered you existed outside of orders. And yet… there was a pull you couldn’t ignore, a weight to his silence that pressed against your chest whenever his eyes happened to lift from the page, even if they didn’t land on you.
“Hey,” Shalnark said suddenly, pulling your attention back. His smile was sharp but not unkind. “Don’t look so stiff. Relax. You’ll give yourself wrinkles before you even hit thirty.”
That earned a round of chuckles from the others. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the twitch of a smile tugging at your lips. Shalnark always did have that way — easing tension with a grin, disarming without trying.
“You’re one to talk,” you shot back. “You spend more time fixing your hair than anyone I know.”
Phinks roared with laughter. Shalnark only laughed too, lifting his glass in mock surrender.
For a moment, you allowed yourself to laugh with them.
It was then, as the sound left your lips, that you felt it.
A shift in the air.
Barely noticeable, like the scrape of a blade just out of sight. The faintest prickling at the back of your neck, the kind that told you you were being watched. Against your better judgment, your eyes flicked back toward the end of the table.
Chrollo’s gaze was on you.
Dark, steady, unreadable. The book lay closed in front of him now, one hand resting lightly atop it. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t frowning. He was simply watching.
The kind of watching that made your pulse skip.
And then, as though it had never happened, his eyes dropped back to the page. The spell broke. Conversation swelled again around you.
But you couldn’t shake the lingering chill of his attention.
Shalnark leaned closer, elbow resting on the table, and lowered his voice just enough that it felt like a private joke between the two of you.
“You’ve got a sharp tongue,” he said with a grin. “Bet you use it to get out of trouble a lot.”
Phinks snorted. “Or into it.”
That earned another ripple of laughter, and you rolled your eyes again — but it was impossible to hide the way your lips curved, how easy it was to fall into the warmth of their banter.
And once again, you felt it.
That weight. That gaze.
Chrollo hadn’t turned a page in several minutes. His thumb rested against the spine of his book, perfectly still. His dark eyes tracked the scene with that same impassive calm — only, every time Shalnark’s shoulder brushed yours, every time your laughter broke through the room, his gaze seemed to sharpen, just slightly, as though narrowing focus on a single detail of a painting.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t interrupt.
He didn’t need to.
The air simply shifted, heavy and deliberate, until you found yourself laughing more quietly, answering less quickly, aware of every measured glance he sent across the table.
Shizuku, oblivious, tilted her head toward you. “You’re getting along with them pretty well,” she said simply.
Shalnark chuckled. “Of course she is. She’s fun. Right?” He turned back to you, green eyes bright.
That was when Chrollo finally spoke.
“(Y/N).”
His voice cut cleanly through the noise — low, calm, carrying a weight that silenced the room in a heartbeat. Every Spider looked up. Even Shalnark faltered, his smile dimming just enough to betray surprise.
Chrollo closed the book in front of him with a soft snap.
“Come here.”
No explanation. No shift in expression. Just an order.
The silence stretched. Then, without waiting for your reply, he rose smoothly from his chair and turned toward the darker end of the warehouse, footsteps measured, unhurried.
No one said a word.
The Troupe’s eyes lingered on you, some amused, some curious, until the choice was no longer a choice at all.
Your chair scraped softly against the floor as you stood to follow him.
The air grew colder the deeper you followed him, until the laughter of the others was little more than a hum behind steel walls. Chrollo didn’t look back once. His stride was unhurried, perfectly confident, as though he knew you would follow regardless of what you wanted.
When he stopped, it was in a shadowed alcove where the flickering light above couldn’t quite reach. He turned only then, the book still in one hand, his face as unreadable as ever.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked softly.
It wasn’t really a question.
You opened your mouth, but the words stalled under his gaze. Calm. Sharp. Too sharp.
“You laugh easily with them,” he continued, voice low and measured. “I rarely hear you laugh at all.”
Your pulse kicked. “Is that… a problem?”
His lips curved, the barest shadow of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Not at all. It’s… enlightening.”
He stepped closer. You caught yourself pressing back slightly against the wall, though he hadn’t crowded you yet. His presence did that on its own.
“Tell me,” he said, tilting his head, studying you like another passage in one of his books. “Do you find Shalnark amusing? Or is it simply the attention you enjoy?”
The question was deceptively soft, but the edges cut.
Your throat tightened. You tried for defiance, though it sounded thinner than you wanted. “Does it matter?”
That small smile sharpened. In an instant, he closed the space between you, one hand braced just beside your head, the other tucking the book casually against his hip. His body didn’t touch yours — not quite — but the heat of him was undeniable.
“It matters,” he murmured, his voice pitched so low it felt like it brushed along your skin. “Because your attention is not as free as you believe.”
You sucked in a breath, chest tight, and for a heartbeat you swore his eyes darkened — something dangerous, something possessive flickering there before the mask slipped back into place.
Then, just as suddenly, he stepped back.
The distance felt colder than his nearness.
Chrollo opened his book again with a quiet motion, already turning away, as if the entire exchange had been nothing more than a passing thought.
“Don’t keep them waiting,” he said without looking back.
And with that, he left you standing in the shadows, your pulse racing, your skin prickling, unable to decide if he had scolded you, warned you, or claimed you.
The next night, the Troupe gathered again — not around food this time, but around maps and piles of loot strewn across a battered table. The atmosphere was sharper, more focused, though not without its usual edge of arrogance.
You leaned over the table to trace a line on the map, marking one of the planned routes. The paper crinkled beneath your fingers.
“Smart,” Phinks said from behind you, his voice rough but amused. He leaned in close enough that you could feel the heat of him at your shoulder, one heavy hand braced on the table beside yours. “Didn’t think you’d catch that. Most people don’t.”
You glanced at him, arching a brow. “And here I thought you didn’t think much of me at all.”
He smirked. “Maybe I’m reconsidering.”
The words hung heavier than you expected. Phinks didn’t bother to hide the way his eyes dragged over you before he straightened, still grinning, still planted far too close.
The room was busy, everyone arguing over routes and strategies, but that familiar prickle at the back of your neck told you instantly: you were being watched again.
When you lifted your gaze across the table, you found him.
Chrollo.
Silent, still, seated with his hands folded loosely over his book. His expression was as calm as ever, but his eyes… his eyes were locked on the space between you and Phinks. On how close he stood. On how easily you had let him.
Your chest tightened.
“Something wrong?” Phinks asked lightly, following your gaze. His smirk faltered just slightly when he saw who you were looking at.
Chrollo didn’t look away.
The pause stretched until the air itself seemed to weigh heavier. Then, finally, Chrollo’s voice cut through the room, low and steady:
“Phinks. Switch with Shizuku.”
It wasn’t a request.
Phinks blinked, jaw working, clearly ready to argue — but the weight in Chrollo’s tone silenced him before he could. He muttered under his breath, gave you one last glance, and shifted away.
Shizuku wandered over in his place, oblivious, scribbling notes on the map as though nothing had happened.
The meeting continued. Conversations picked back up. But every so often, your eyes betrayed you — flicking across the table, only to find Chrollo’s gaze still anchored, unblinking, fixed not on the map, not on the plans, but on you.
As though reminding you without a single word: your attention is not yours to give.
Later that evening, the Troupe scattered in small groups instead of crowding together. Machi sat on a crate, stitching a tear in her sleeve. Shizuku was humming faintly to herself, polishing her glasses.
You were perched on the edge of a table, idly spinning a knife between your fingers.
“Careful,” Feitan muttered, his sharp eyes flicking to your hand. He leaned in the shadows, arms folded, but his tone was sharper than usual. “You’ll cut yourself.”
You smirked. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
His eyes narrowed, and though his mouth didn’t move much, you caught the faintest twitch of something almost like amusement. “Not before a fight.”
The exchange was simple, fleeting — but Feitan’s attention lingered longer than expected, his gaze flicking over you, assessing in that way only he could. His presence pressed at you, different from the others — more dangerous, more unpredictable.
And then, as always, you felt it.
The weight.
Chrollo was seated a short distance away, book in hand, but you realized he hadn’t turned a page since Feitan spoke. His eyes were on you again, steady, calm, the faintest chill seeping into the air between the three of you.
Feitan caught it too. His gaze slid from you to Chrollo, and in that sharp silence, something unspoken passed between them.
Feitan’s mouth twitched again — this time not with amusement, but with something closer to defiance.
Chrollo closed his book with a soft snap.
“Feitan.” His tone was light, but final. “I need you outside.”
No explanation. No elaboration.
Feitan’s eyes lingered on you one second longer before he disappeared into the night without a word.
You sat frozen, fingers still wrapped around the knife handle, heart hammering in your chest.
When you finally dared to glance back, Chrollo’s gaze hadn’t moved. Still on you. Still steady. Still unreadable.
Only when he opened his book again, turning the page as though nothing had happened, did you let yourself breathe.
The days blurred together in the way only life with the Troupe could — constant movement, jobs stacked one on top of another, nights broken up by stolen spoils and laughter that never quite felt safe.
You found yourself drifting toward Feitan more often than not.
He didn’t talk much — he hardly talked at all — but there was something almost comforting in that. No teasing like Shalnark. No heavy-handed jokes like Phinks. Just a steady, watchful presence that didn’t demand you perform.
Sometimes, when the noise of the others grated too sharply, you found him in the corner sharpening his blade or mending his cloak. You didn’t ask permission before sitting nearby. He didn’t tell you to leave.
That was enough.
“You’re loud when you laugh,” he said once, out of nowhere, his voice a low rasp.
You blinked. “Is that a complaint?”
“Observation,” he said simply, eyes flicking toward you with the faintest glint. A pause. Then, almost grudgingly: “Not unpleasant.”
It was the closest thing to praise you’d ever heard from him.
The next time you laughed around him, his eyes caught yours for a beat too long — and though he didn’t smile, something sharp and knowing lingered there.
It didn’t go unnoticed.
“Getting cozy with Feitan, huh?” Shalnark teased one night, nudging your side. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
Phinks barked a laugh. “Good luck with that. Guy’s about as warm as a corpse.”
You shrugged them off, but you could feel eyes on you from across the room.
Chrollo.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just sat in his chair, book open in his hands, gaze heavy as stone.
It was impossible to tell if he was watching the group in general… or you in particular.
But the longer Feitan’s shadow lingered near yours, the more you felt it. That silent, smothering pressure.
Like a blade waiting to fall.
It became a pattern.
Whenever the Troupe split off into pairs, somehow you and Feitan ended up together. He never asked, and you never insisted — it just happened, like gravity.
At first, the others joked. Shalnark teased you relentlessly, Machi raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and Phinks muttered about you having a death wish.
But over time, the jokes quieted. Because whatever it was between you and Feitan, it wasn’t fleeting.
You’d grown used to his silence, the way he answered only when it mattered. You learned to read the flicker of his eyes, the tilt of his head, the way his shoulders loosened just slightly when you were near.
And he… tolerated you. More than tolerated — he kept you close. Sometimes, when the others were too loud, too brash, you caught him standing just slightly between you and them. Not protectively. Not possessively. Just there.
“Why me?” you asked him once as you walked through the ruins of a half-emptied town, the air heavy with smoke. “You don’t let anyone else hang around you this much.”
Feitan didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked toward you, unreadable. Then, finally, he said:
“You’re quiet when it matters.”
It was the closest thing to an admission you’d ever get.
That night, you laughed at something small — a rare slip of humor at his expense — and to your surprise, he didn’t scowl. He didn’t snap. He just looked at you, head tilted, like he was cataloguing the sound.
It was such a small thing. And yet it stuck with you, curling in your chest.
But not as much as the weight you felt later, when you walked back into camp and caught Chrollo watching.
He was leaning against a crate, book closed in his hand, posture relaxed, expression calm. To anyone else, he looked utterly indifferent.
But his eyes… his eyes followed you as you crossed the room, followed the way Feitan drifted just behind you like a shadow.
And for the first time, you thought you saw it — not in his face, not in his body, but in the cold, deliberate steadiness of his gaze.
Jealousy.
Subtle. Controlled. Hidden beneath layers of calm. But there.
Waiting.
It started with training.
Feitan had been sharpening his blade when you wandered too close, restless and itching for movement. He looked up once, gaze sharp, before flicking it back to his weapon.
“You should practice,” he said simply.
You raised a brow. “Are you offering to spar?”
His lips twitched, almost a smirk. “You’ll lose.”
That was answer enough.
The fight was quick, brutal, and nothing like the playful spars you’d had with Phinks or the others. Feitan didn’t hold back — his movements were precise, fast, every strike calculated to cut. You were forced to keep up, blood singing in your veins as you blocked, dodged, retaliated.
For once, he wasn’t a shadow lingering nearby. He was right there in front of you, sharp and relentless, and you matched him as best you could.
When he finally knocked the weapon from your hand, the flat of his blade at your throat, you were panting, sweat dripping down your temple. He was calm, not even winded, his dark eyes fixed on you.
“Better than before,” he muttered.
You blinked. “That’s… a compliment?”
A short pause. Then, with the faintest tilt of his head: “Maybe.”
The corner of your mouth twitched upward despite yourself. His eyes caught the expression — and lingered
For a moment, too long, neither of you moved.
Then Feitan stepped back, sliding his blade away, his face unreadable again.
But the air between you had shifted.
And you weren’t the only one who noticed.
When you looked up, you caught a flicker of movement from the edge of the training ground.
Chrollo.
He was standing in the shadows, arms folded, book tucked against his side. Watching.
The kind of watching that made your pulse skip, that made the sweat cooling on your skin feel suddenly cold.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t approach. He only turned away after a moment, his stride calm, controlled — but you felt it all the same.
The weight. The warning.
And for the first time, the thought hit you sharp and undeniable:
You were playing with fire.
It started with small gestures.
Feitan never reached for you, never spoke more than necessary, but there were moments you caught — a hand lingering near yours when adjusting stance, a nod that lingered longer than it should, the way his dark eyes followed your movements with interest.
During one late-night sparring session, the two of you faced each other across the worn training ground, the firelight flickering against your skin. You lunged; he blocked, your hands brushing for just a moment longer than needed.
“Again,” he said, voice low, almost a growl. “Try to anticipate me this time.”
You stepped back, catching your breath, heart hammering. You noticed, as always, the subtle shift at the edge of your vision:
Chrollo.
He stood just beyond the circle, arms folded, book tucked against his side. His posture was calm, his face unreadable, but the weight of his gaze pressed down, subtle but unyielding. You could feel it across the distance, the quiet control he exerted without moving a muscle.
Feitan didn’t seem to notice, but you did. Every flicker of his attention toward you, every cautious motion, was amplified under Chrollo’s watchful eyes.
The air was taut. Every laugh, every mistake, every shared glance between you and Feitan felt magnified, charged with tension.
Later, when you walked past Chrollo to leave, he didn’t stop you. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
And yet the intensity lingered.
The nights that followed, these small dances continued. Feitan’s quiet attention became a balm you sought, but each time your closeness grew, Chrollo’s gaze followed.
He never acted in the moment. Never touched. Never spoke.
But every subtle interaction, every whisper of trust with Feitan, made it impossible to ignore the truth:
He was watching. Always.
And you could feel it, in every glance, every step, every breath
It was a slow burn. A trap. A warning.
And you loved it — even as your chest tightened with anticipation.
The warehouse was quiet now, the rest of the Troupe scattered for the night. The only light came from a single lamp, casting long shadows across the crates and weapons strewn across the floor.
“(Y/N),” Chrollo’s voice broke the silence. Low, calm, commanding.
You froze where you stood, heart hammering. His gaze had already found you — that impossible, unreadable stare that made your chest tighten, your skin prickle.
“I need you,” he said simply. No explanation. No emotion. Just certainty.
You followed, almost automatically, feeling the pull of his presence stronger than any words. The warehouse felt enormous, yet somehow the space between the two of you shrank with every step.
Once you were in a secluded corner, away from the edges where light spilled, he finally spoke again.
“You’ve been… careless.” His hand brushed against your arm, almost imperceptibly, just enough to make you shiver. “Laughing too freely. Spending too much time with Feitan. It’s… unwise.”
You swallowed, chest tight. “I—”
He raised a hand, stopping you before you could continue. “Don’t speak.”
His eyes held you captive, dark and steady. The book at his side was forgotten; all his attention was on you now. His fingers brushed along your jaw, slow, deliberate. The touch wasn’t soft — it was commanding, possessive, precise.
“You think you can enjoy someone else’s attention without consequence,” he murmured. “But every glance, every laugh… I notice. I always notice.”
You shivered under his gaze, under the weight of his hand, under the quiet but undeniable threat behind his calm words.
Then, impossibly, he stepped closer. The heat of his body pressed against you, and for the first time, you felt it fully: that silent, controlled jealousy that had been simmering these past nights.
“Do you understand?” he whispered, close enough that your breath mingled.
“Yes,” you breathed, though your voice shook.
Chrollo didn’t smile. Didn’t relax. But his hands moved — one sliding to your hip, the other brushing a lock of hair from your face. Not tenderly. Not gently. Possessively. Claiming, without force, without a word.
He leaned in, lips barely grazing your ear. “You are mine. Even when you think you’re elsewhere.”
A shiver ran through you, electric, burning, undeniable.
His hands roamed slowly — over your waist, down your sides — exploring, testing boundaries, claiming the space he already owned. Each touch precise, controlled, yet charged.
Then, with a subtle shift, he pressed against you, just enough to make your knees weaken, but he didn’t rush. Not yet.
He wanted you aware. Wanted every nerve ending, every heartbeat, every pulse to know: he was there, in control, and he had been watching all along.
“Look at me,” he whispered. His thumb brushed your lower lip, forcing your gaze to meet his. “Every moment with anyone else, you think you’re free. You’re not.”
And in that command, in that possession, in that quiet, calculated dominance… you felt it.
Chrollo was done waiting.
The silence between you and Chrollo felt suffocating. His fingers lingered at your jaw, pressing lightly, forcing you to hold his gaze. His eyes were unreadable, but you felt the sharp weight of something deeper — something darker — simmering there.
“I’ve been patient,” he murmured, each word calculated, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip with quiet precision. “I’ve watched. I’ve allowed. But patience is not permission.”
Your breath hitched as his hand trailed down, slipping to your throat, not squeezing — just resting there, testing the way your pulse jumped beneath his touch.
“Every time you smiled at him. Every time you let him stand too close…” His hand pressed more firmly at your neck, a subtle claim. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
You parted your lips to speak, but his grip tightened slightly, silencing you.
“I told you not to speak.”
The command lanced through you, your body tensing under his authority. His other hand slid lower, brushing across your hip, then your thigh, deliberate in every movement. He wasn’t rushed. He wanted you to feel his control in the slowness, the inevitability.
Chrollo pressed you back until your shoulders hit the cold wall of the warehouse. His body boxed yours in, but his composure never cracked. He leaned close, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.
“You belong to me,” he whispered, breath warm, voice low. “And tonight, I’ll remind you.”
His hand slipped beneath your shirt, cool fingers skating over your stomach, tracing lines upward until they cupped your breast. He rolled your nipple between his fingers, slow and purposeful, watching your reaction with detached intensity.
Your back arched involuntarily, a soft sound escaping your lips.
“Quiet,” he breathed against your neck, though the faint curl at the corner of his mouth betrayed his satisfaction. His thumb flicked, harder this time, drawing another gasp he immediately swallowed with his mouth.
The kiss wasn’t tender. It was claiming. His tongue slid against yours, dominating the pace, his hand at your throat tightening just enough to make your head spin.
When he finally pulled back, his lips were wet, his eyes darker.
“Do you let him touch you?” he asked, almost conversational, as his hand slid lower, fingers grazing the waistband of your pants. “Does he hear you gasp like this?”
“N-no—”
A sharp squeeze at your throat. “What did I say?”
You swallowed hard, nodding instead, and his grip eased — rewarding obedience. His fingers slipped past fabric, brushing the heat between your legs. He exhaled softly, like he’d been expecting this all along.
“Already wet,” he murmured, stroking slow, deliberate circles over your clit. “And it wasn’t for him.”
Your knees buckled, and he caught you effortlessly, his hand working you with devastating precision. He watched your face, studied your every reaction like a page he could read and memorize.
“Mine,” he said simply, fingers sliding lower, dipping inside you with a slow push. You gasped, walls clenching around him, and his lips brushed your ear again. “Every sound. Every tremor. Mine.”
He fucked you with his fingers slowly at first, measured, his palm pressing against your clit just enough to make you writhe. He never rushed. Every thrust was deliberate, designed to unravel you piece by piece.
Your head fell back against the wall, breath ragged, body trembling. “Ch—Chrollo—”
His eyes sharpened, hand tightening at your throat again. “You forgot yourself.”
The reprimand came with a harder thrust of his fingers, curling them deep until your vision sparked. You whimpered, clamping down on him, your body betraying you.
He smiled then — a small, cold, victorious curve of lips. “That’s better.”
His pace quickened just slightly, enough to send you spiraling. Your body tensed, pleasure building sharp and unbearable.
“Come,” he ordered softly, voice low and steady in your ear. “Come for me. Show me who you belong to.”
The command hit as hard as his fingers did, and you shattered, crying out despite yourself, body convulsing around him.
Chrollo watched, eyes dark and calm, as though committing every detail to memory. His fingers slowed but didn’t stop until you were wrung out, trembling against the wall, your breath ragged.
Only then did he withdraw, bringing his slick fingers to his lips. He sucked them clean, slow, deliberate, eyes locked on yours the entire time.
“Good,” he murmured. “Now you understand.”
He leaned in, brushing his mouth against yours, not kissing — teasing. “This was a warning.”
And with that, he stepped back, leaving you shaking against the wall, your body still burning, your heart racing — and the undeniable knowledge that you were his, whether you admitted it or not.
The next day, Chrollo was the picture of indifference.
He gave orders, discussed routes, delegated jobs — as if nothing had happened in the shadows of that warehouse. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t so much as glance your way longer than necessary.
And yet, every time you caught his gaze across the camp, you felt it: the memory of his fingers inside you, his hand on your throat, his voice telling you who you belonged to.
You burned beneath it.
Feitan noticed.
He said nothing — he never did — but his sharp eyes tracked the subtle shifts in your demeanor. The way you tensed when Chrollo entered the room, the way your gaze flicked away too quickly.
One evening, while sharpening his blade, he spoke without looking up.
“You’re distracted.”
You blinked. “Am I?”
He glanced up, just briefly. “Yes. By him.”
Your throat tightened. The denial sat on your tongue, but you couldn’t force it out. Feitan didn’t press. He just went back to his blade, the rasp of steel against stone filling the silence.
Later that night, you found yourself sparring with him again. It was different this time — his strikes slower, his movements almost… protective. He let your hand linger against his chest when you pushed, let his fingers graze your wrist when he corrected your grip.
The touches weren’t purposeful — not like Chrollo’s. But they were there, and they were soft in comparison.
You caught yourself laughing again, breathless, and Feitan’s lips twitched, almost a smile.
And then you felt it — that weight.
Chrollo.
He stood in the doorway this time, not hiding, not waiting in shadow. Just watching, calm and silent, while you and Feitan circled each other like something unspoken was building between you.
The room stilled. Feitan noticed him too — his eyes flicked briefly toward Chrollo, sharp and wary.
But Chrollo said nothing. He didn’t step forward. Didn’t stop you.
He only turned, leaving the doorway, the faintest trace of something cold in his eyes.
A promise.
And that promise clung to you long after, making every touch with Feitan feel heavier, riskier, closer to something dangerous.
Days blurred into each other, your pattern with Feitan only deepening. He became the constant you didn’t realize you craved: silent, steady, sharp enough to challenge you without breaking you.
During one spar, he pinned you hard against the ground, his blade at your throat — but he didn’t press. Instead, his dark eyes lingered, holding yours in a rare moment of stillness. His weight hovered over you, not suffocating, but heavy, grounding.
Your lips parted, breath shallow, and for a fleeting moment it felt like the world had narrowed down to just you and him.
Then his blade shifted, withdrawn in a swift motion, and he stood, offering no explanation. Just Feitan, as ever.
But something had changed.
Later, in the camp, when you brushed too close reaching for supplies, his hand caught your wrist — light, precise, deliberate. His gaze cut to yours, unreadable, but he didn’t let go right away.
And you didn’t pull back.
The air between you was charged.
You knew who was watching.
Chrollo’s presence loomed before you even turned. He sat at the far end of the room, book open, eyes lowered — but you felt it all the same. The tension. The stillness. The patience.
It stretched into hours, into days. Each time you drifted near Feitan, Chrollo was there. Always in the periphery, always quiet, always letting you think you were free — while making it clear you weren’t.
Until finally, one night, he acted.
You’d just finished sparring with Feitan again, sweat slick on your skin, adrenaline still buzzing. You lingered too long when he corrected your stance, his hand steady at your waist.
That was when Chrollo’s voice cut through the space like a blade.
“(Y/N). With me.”
No room for refusal.
You froze, heart pounding, before nodding and stepping away from Feitan. You felt his eyes linger on you, sharp and suspicious, but you followed Chrollo without hesitation.
He led you into the same warehouse corner as before, the shadows thick around you. When he finally turned, his book was gone, his hands free — and his composure razor-sharp.
“I warned you,” he said softly, too soft. His hand slid to your throat, pressing you back against the wall, not hard enough to choke, but hard enough to remind you of his strength. “You disobeyed.”
Your pulse thundered beneath his grip. “I—”
The pressure increased, silencing you.
“You let him touch you,” Chrollo continued, eyes narrowing slightly, though his tone never rose. “You let him linger where he shouldn’t. And you enjoyed it.”
His other hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in.
“That ends now.”
He kissed you then — if it could be called that. His mouth crashed onto yours, teeth catching your lip, tongue pushing past any resistance. It wasn’t affection. It was a claim, brutal and undeniable.
When he pulled back, your lips were swollen, breath ragged.
“On your knees.”
The command was quiet, calm, but it brooked no hesitation. His hand guided you down, fingers tangled in your hair, his eyes sharp as he looked down at you like you were both possession and offering.
His hand in your hair didn’t yank — it guided.
The pressure at your scalp was firm, fingers sliding through, settling at the nape of your neck until your pulse matched the rhythm of his grip.
He tilted your head up, making you look at him. Even in the dim light his eyes were unreadable; his expression wasn’t lust, not warmth, but something heavier.
“You don’t move until I say,” he said, low, steady.
He didn’t push himself into your mouth yet. Instead he drew his thumb along your lower lip, smearing the sting from his kiss, watching the way you trembled.
It wasn’t teasing. It was instruction, rehearsal, control.
“You kneel because I allow it,” he murmured. “You breathe because I allow it.”
He shifted his grip, still not shoving, still not giving you what you thought was coming. His hand on your jaw tilted your face a fraction, studying you the way he studied a book: a page to be turned, a diagram to be memorised.
“You think Feitan sees you,” Chrollo said, voice calm. “He doesn’t. He sees what you want him to see.”
His thumb pressed under your chin, forcing your eyes back to his.
“I see what you are.”
For a long moment he simply stood over you like that — one hand in your hair, the other on your face, holding you there while his body loomed just a breath away. It was slow, deliberate, suffocating.
Then, without warning, he dragged his thumb down from your lip to your throat, tracing the pulse there. His other hand moved to the back of your head, cradling rather than yanking, guiding you closer but stopping just before contact.
“You’ll take me when I decide you’re ready,” he said, each word a promise. “And when you do, you’ll remember who made you kneel.”
His thumb brushed back up, slipping past your lips, pressing against your tongue until you opened for him. The small motion made your cheeks burn; he watched it happen with that same unreadable expression.
“Good,” he murmured, voice still low. “You’re learning.”
He pulled his thumb free and brought it back to your throat, palm open, holding you still. He wasn’t rushing. He wanted you to feel the way his composure filled the room, to understand that every second you waited on your knees belonged to him.
“You’re going to stay right here,” Chrollo said softly. “Hands behind your back. Eyes on me.”
It was all control, all anticipation. The tension built not from what he did, but from how he did it: slow, cold, deliberate, making you hyperaware of every inch of his body and every inch of space left between you.
Your knees ached against the concrete, but you didn’t shift. His command was too absolute, his gaze too heavy.
Chrollo let the silence sit between you, hand still at your throat, as though he wanted you to hear the echo of your own pulse. He didn’t move until you started to fidget, the restless energy showing in your shoulders. Only then did he reward you with the smallest motion: the slide of his thumb along your skin, a reminder of how completely he owned the space around you.
“Patience,” he murmured. “You’ll learn it with me, or not at all.”
He released your throat only to drag the back of his hand down your cheek, almost tender, though the edge beneath it was sharp. His fingers dipped briefly into your hair before returning to their grip at the nape of your neck, keeping you in position.
“You want to be touched,” he continued, matter-of-fact, as if he were pointing out the weather. “But not by him. Not by anyone else.”
The words made your chest tighten. He said it like law, not choice.
His other hand trailed down your collarbone, then lower, until his fingers brushed the top button of your shirt. He didn’t undo it. He only rested there, applying the faintest pressure, enough to remind you of what he could do.
He leaned down then, just enough for his breath to ghost over your ear.
“Every time you let him stand too close… every time you laugh with him… remember this moment. Remember how easily I can strip it all away.”
His words sank into you, low and venomous, until you were trembling more from anticipation than fear.
When he finally drew back, he smoothed your hair with almost unnerving care, the way a priest might straighten a page in a sacred book. Then his hand returned to your jaw, tilting your face upward again so you couldn’t escape his gaze.
“You’ll stay like this until I say otherwise,” Chrollo said. “Kneeling, waiting, empty.”
He stepped back only a fraction, enough to loom but not enough to free you. His thumb stroked your lip again, lingering at the corner of your mouth, before pulling away to let you ache in the silence he left behind.
Your thighs had begun to tremble from kneeling, a dull ache spreading through your calves. Chrollo hadn’t moved for what felt like minutes, just watching, letting you feel the weight of the position he’d put you in. His thumb was still at your lip, the faint pressure a constant reminder of who was dictating the pace.
When he finally shifted, it wasn’t hurried. His hands slid down from your face, one into your hair again, the other to his belt. He undid it with a quiet efficiency, eyes never leaving yours.
“I told you you’d stay empty,” he said, voice even, “but I never said I would.”
He guided you a little closer with the grip at the back of your neck. Not rough, not a yank — a steady, unyielding pull that gave you no room to think. His fingers threaded more firmly into your hair, his palm pressing against your scalp as he freed himself with the other hand.
For a heartbeat, he just stood there like that, hard and heavy in front of you, the scent of him hitting your nose before the reality of it. Then he tilted your head up until you were looking at him through your lashes.
“You’re going to take me,” he murmured. “No hands. Just your mouth. Until I’m finished.”
He didn’t shove himself in. He traced himself along your lips first, slow enough to leave a slick line, making you open a little at a time. Only when you parted did he ease forward, the weight of him filling your mouth gradually, his other hand keeping you still.
“Good,” he breathed, as you adjusted around him.
He set his rhythm with the same precision as everything else he did. Not frantic thrusts, but measured, deep strokes, sliding over your tongue until you gagged softly and he held you there just a fraction longer than necessary. His thumb stroked the side of your neck, feeling the movement of your throat as you swallowed around him.
“Look at me,” he said quietly.
When your eyes met his, something flickered there — not heat, not tenderness, but possession. He rolled his hips a little deeper, sighing softly at the friction, his fingers tightening in your hair as his composure started to fray at the edges.
“That’s it,” he muttered, almost to himself, the low sound vibrating against your lips. “Stay there. Take me. Don’t stop.”
He used your mouth like that for long, drawn-out strokes, until his breathing went heavier, his thumb pressing harder into the side of your throat. When he was close, he held you still, forcing you to take every inch of him until his muscles went taut.
The sound he made when he finally spilled into you was quiet but sharp, a hiss between his teeth. He kept you there, still and kneeling, while he shuddered through the last pulses, his grip in your hair firm enough to keep you in place but never cruel.
Only when he’d finished did he exhale and ease his hold, pulling back slowly. He used his thumb to wipe the corner of your mouth, smearing what he’d left behind as his breathing settled back into its usual, measured cadence.
“You’ll swallow,” he instructed softly. “Then you’ll stay exactly as you are.”
His tone was calm again, as if nothing had happened, as if you were just another piece in one of his quiet rituals.
The bitter tang lingered on your tongue, heat still burning your throat as you swallowed like he told you. His hand remained at your jaw until he felt it, until he was satisfied you hadn’t disobeyed.
Only then did he release you.
The loss of his touch made you sway slightly on your knees, but he didn’t reach to steady you. He straightened his clothes with a casual precision, tucking himself away and fastening his belt as though nothing at all had happened.
And he left you there.
Chrollo glanced down at you, calm and unreadable, the faintest curve of his mouth like an afterthought. “You did well,” he said, voice low and measured. “For now.”
He brushed his thumb along your cheek, not tender, not cruel — just a gesture to remind you who had placed you there in the first place.
Then he turned.
Just like that.
He didn’t lift you, didn’t offer comfort, didn’t give you the release that still ached low in your belly. He walked away, retrieving his book, sliding back into the same quiet seat he’d occupied before — a silhouette in shadow, unmoved, unbothered.
And you were left on the floor, the cool sting of the concrete seeping into your knees, his presence weighing on you even from across the room.
The ache between your legs felt unbearable in the silence. But you stayed where you were, because you knew he meant it — you’d remain kneeling until he decided otherwise.
You weren’t sure how much time passed. Minutes. Longer. All the while, his eyes occasionally lifted from his book, flicking over you in casual, possessive checks. As though you were no different from a weapon or an object, waiting to be used again when he chose.
The cement chilled your skin until it ached. Your knees had gone past pain and into numbness. You didn’t know how long you’d been there anymore; time felt as thick as the air in the warehouse.
Chrollo sat exactly where he had been, book open, legs crossed, his profile all calm angles. If not for the faint dampness still clinging to his lower lip, you could almost believe the last few minutes hadn’t happened.
Your pulse jumped when you heard a door somewhere in the hall open and shut. Footsteps—quiet, light—approached.
Feitan.
He appeared in the doorway, eyes flicking from you to Chrollo. He stopped mid-step, his head tilting just slightly, a tiny furrow between his brows. You could see him take in your swollen lips, the way you were still kneeling, hands behind your back, and how Chrollo didn’t even look up from his page.
Feitan said nothing, but the silence was pointed.
Chrollo turned a page in his book. “We’re in the middle of something,” he said mildly, without glancing up. “Leave.”
For a heartbeat Feitan didn’t move. His eyes stayed on you, narrow and unreadable, then shifted to Chrollo’s. There was a flicker of something—challenge, maybe—but then he stepped back and melted into the corridor again. The door clicked shut.
Only when you were sure you were alone again did Chrollo speak.
“You wanted to be seen,” he murmured without looking at you. “You were.” He marked his page and finally closed the book. His eyes lifted to yours, the calmness returning like a blade sliding back into a sheath. “Now you know what it costs.”
He stood, moving with his usual grace, and came to you at last. His hand slid under your chin, tilting your face up. He studied you the way one might study an artefact: noting every tremor, every flicker of defiance or submission in your expression.
“Stand,” he said quietly.
Your legs wobbled as you obeyed. He didn’t help you; he simply watched you struggle to find your balance, then reached up to smooth a strand of hair from your face. The touch was startlingly gentle after everything else.
“You’ll eat, then you’ll rest,” he said. “When I want you again, I’ll come for you. Not before.”
His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth one last time, wiping away the last trace of him. Then he turned and walked away, leaving you standing, your body aching and your head full of him.
Two days later, after another spar, Feitan had been sharper than usual, movements quick, precise, designed to keep you pinned, your body straining under his weight more than once. And each time, his eyes lingered too long — on your mouth, your throat, your wrists. Testing. Pressing.
Chrollo had been watching again, silent as ever, though this time he didn’t wait until later to act.
When you left the training room, bruised and aching, you caught the shift in the air behind you. Feitan hadn’t followed you. Chrollo had gone to him.
You lingered just past the door, breath shallow, and heard the scrape of steel against its sheath — deliberate, not aggressive.
“Chrollo.” Feitan’s voice was low, clipped. “What you do with her. Not my problem.”
A pause.
“But when you leave her like that, on the floor? When you let me see? That’s sloppy.”
The silence that followed was heavier than any threat.
Then Chrollo’s voice, soft, measured. “You think I wasn’t aware you saw her?”
Feitan didn’t answer.
“I allowed it.”
Another pause, then the faint shuffle of feet on cement, Feitan stepping closer. “You’re testing me.”
Chrollo’s tone didn’t waver. “I’m reminding you of your place.”
The quiet stretched taut, and though you couldn’t see, you could feel Feitan’s grip tightening on his sword, the urge to act restrained only by something sharper — calculation.
“You treat her like a weapon,” Feitan rasped finally. “You forget weapons cut both ways.”
Chrollo chuckled softly, not amused, but entertained. “And yet, you’re the one bleeding.”
The sound of footsteps — Chrollo moving, calm, unhurried — until his voice drifted closer to where you stood just outside.
“Stay away from her, Feitan. She belongs to me.”
No raised voice. No threat. Just a fact, as quiet and immutable as law.
The door opened, and you barely had time to step back before Chrollo slipped through, book in hand, expression perfectly composed. He didn’t acknowledge that you’d been listening, didn’t need to. He simply brushed past you, his presence pulling you along in his wake.
Feitan didn’t follow. But you felt the weight of his silence like a blade at your back.
The clash came sooner than you expected.
It wasn’t planned — nothing in the Troupe ever was — but the air was heavy, brittle, ready to snap.
Chrollo had pulled you into his room, as he always did, silent until his back pressed to the door and his hand slid up your thigh, fingers ghosting higher with deliberate patience. You were already pliant against him, already breathing too fast, when the knock came.
No — not a knock. The door simply opened.
Feitan stepped inside without hesitation, blade in hand, eyes cutting first to Chrollo, then to you. He said nothing, but the intent radiated off him: a warning, a claim, a challenge.
Chrollo’s hand didn’t leave you. His thumb pressed higher, teasing, reminding you who had you pinned.
“You’ve grown bold, Feitan,” he said softly. “Interrupting me here.”
Feitan’s eyes narrowed. “You flaunt what you think is yours. I take it as invitation.”
A pause.
Then Chrollo smiled — small, cold. He shifted, guiding you down onto his lap, his hand sliding beneath your clothes in one fluid movement. Your breath hitched, body arching despite yourself.
“Invitation?” Chrollo echoed, his lips brushing your ear. “No. This is demonstration.”
His free hand captured yours, dragging it down to where he was already hard beneath his trousers. He forced your palm against him, making you stroke him while his own fingers slipped against you, slow, calculated, sending sparks racing through your limbs.
“You see?” he murmured, eyes fixed on Feitan as he worked both of you at once. “She obeys. Even with you watching. Especially with you watching.”
Feitan’s jaw tightened, blade twitching as though he might draw it — but he didn’t move. He watched, silent, his stare heavy on every sound you made, every tremor running through you as Chrollo pushed you closer to the edge.
Your hand worked over him under his guidance, his breath deepening against your throat. His fingers inside you matched the rhythm, slow but unrelenting, until you were gasping, torn between shame and unbearable need with Feitan standing less than a meter away.
“Look at her,” Chrollo said, his tone still maddeningly calm, though his own hips pressed harder against your palm now. “And understand. She’s mine.”
The words hit harder than the pleasure itself, forcing you to ride the wave of his control while Feitan’s stare carved through you.
And when Chrollo finally spilled hot and sudden against your hand, his groan low against your neck, he didn’t let you come. His fingers slowed, retreated, leaving you trembling and aching, unfinished — but marked.
He licked the taste of his own release from your palm, his eyes never leaving Feitan’s.
“Do you understand now?” he asked quietly, voice edged in steel.
Feitan didn’t answer. But the blade’s tip scraped against the floor, slow, promising.
This wasn’t over.
It started small.
A brush of his shoulder against yours in the corridor. A spar that went on a beat too long, his weight pinning you harder than necessary, his breath grazing your ear as he leaned in.
“You tremble different now,” Feitan murmured once, when his blade hovered at your throat. “Not from fear.” His eyes dropped lower, to your mouth, then lower still — to where your body pressed against his leg, helpless, aching. His lips curled faintly. “He leaves you empty.”
You shoved him off, snarling, but the heat in your belly betrayed you. He didn’t chase — just smirked, filing away the reaction like a knife tucked in his sleeve.
The next time, he pushed harder.
You’d stayed behind after a job, muscles sore, head buzzing, when Feitan cornered you against a wall. His hand pressed flat against the surface beside your face, his body close enough that you could feel the tension radiating off him.
“Does he make you beg?” His voice was quiet, sharp. “No. He makes you wait. Makes you ache.”
Your pulse hammered. You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.
Feitan tilted his head, studying you with that same flat, cutting stare. Then his hand ghosted lower — not touching, just hovering at your hip, enough to make you lean back against the wall.
“He won’t let you come,” Feitan whispered. “But I would.”
Your knees weakened at the blunt promise, shame heating your skin. He didn’t press, didn’t touch you where you wanted it most. He only leaned back, the faintest grin twisting his mouth as he let the words sink in.
“Think about it,” he murmured, before walking away.
That night, when Chrollo pulled you into his room again, you couldn’t stop the thoughts circling. His hands on you were careful, controlled, denying you more than giving. And every time his fingers slowed, every time he pulled back just before you tipped over the edge, Feitan’s words stabbed through your mind.
He won’t let you come… but I would.
And Chrollo noticed. He always noticed.
It happened after a raid. Everyone was tired, scattered across the hideout in varying states of bloodied satisfaction. You’d slipped off to catch your breath, pressing your back to the cold wall of an empty corridor.
That’s when Feitan found you.
His eyes raked over your flushed face, your restless hands. He didn’t need words to know what it meant — the denial Chrollo had been grinding into you night after night.
“You burn,” he said, voice flat but edged with something sharper. “Not from fight. From him.”
You shook your head, but the heat between your thighs betrayed you. He stepped closer, close enough that the metallic scent of steel and blood still clung to him.
“You want release?” His tone wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.
Your throat worked. “…Yes.”
The smirk that ghosted across his lips was small, vicious. He didn’t waste time — his hand slid under your clothes, fingers finding you already slick, already aching. His touch was nothing like Chrollo’s: rough, fast, merciless. He didn’t tease. He didn’t hold back.
“Pathetic,” he hissed, watching your legs tremble as he worked you harder, faster. “One touch and you break.”
You bit your lip to smother the moan that rose, but it slipped free anyway. Heat flooded your veins, your body arching helplessly against the wall as his hand brought you to the edge — and this time, he didn’t stop.
The climax tore through you, raw and sudden, your cry swallowed in his palm when he clamped it over your mouth. He held you there until you sagged, trembling, against him.
Then he pulled back, licking his fingers with a wicked grin.
“He never gives you this,” Feitan murmured. “Remember who did.”
And he left you there, shaking, your body still humming with the aftershocks.
But you didn’t have long.
That night, Chrollo summoned you. His gaze lingered the moment you stepped inside — too sharp, too knowing. He didn’t need proof. He could see it on you: the looseness in your steps, the faint satisfaction in your eyes that he hadn’t allowed.
“You’re glowing,” he said softly, almost amused. “And I didn’t grant it.”
Before you could answer, his hand closed around your throat, pulling you flush against him. His eyes burned colder than you’d ever seen.
“You forget,” he murmured, “your body is mine. Every gasp, every shiver, every release.” His thumb pressed hard under your jaw, making your pulse pound against it. “You will not come for anyone but me.”
He shoved you onto the bed, straddling you, his hand pinning your wrists. This time, there was no patience, no calculated denial. His movements were sharp, demanding, his voice a constant murmur against your ear:
“Say it. Say you belong to me.”
And when he finally let you fall apart beneath him, wrung out and broken open by his hand and his mouth, he didn’t stop until your voice was raw from saying it again and again.
When he was finished, he left you trembling, marked, spent — not from tenderness, but from possession.
“Remember this,” Chrollo said as he wiped his hands clean. His gaze locked with yours, calm once more. “If Feitan gives you release, it’s because I allowed it. If he takes you further…” His smile curved, sharp as a blade. “…then he signs his own death.”
A few nights later, the trap closed.
You’d been left aching again — Chrollo’s hands had been slow, his voice soft but implacable as he pulled away at the last moment, leaving you trembling on the sheets.
“Patience,” he murmured, brushing your cheek like he hadn’t just denied you. “Show me you can wait.”
Then he left, book in hand, without another glance.
Hours later, you found yourself alone in one of the training rooms, fists clenched, body still humming with need. That’s where Feitan appeared.
He didn’t smirk this time. His eyes were dark, serious, his body a coiled spring as he approached.
“You’re shaking again,” he said quietly. “He left you empty again.”
You tried to step back, but he followed, his hand catching your wrist and pinning it lightly against the wall. Not a threat. Not yet.
“I can do more than just finish you,” he murmured, leaning closer until his breath brushed your neck. “I can give you what he won’t.”
His free hand ghosted over your stomach, down to your hip, fingers pressing just enough to make you tremble.
“You think he’ll kill me for this?” Feitan’s lips curved faintly. “He will. But you’ll remember before he does.”
His fingers slipped under your waistband, finding you slick, needy, just as before. But this time he was slow, careful, circling, teasing, coaxing you higher instead of just dragging you there. His mouth brushed your ear as he whispered:
“Tell me if you want it. Or tell me to stop. This time, you choose.”
Your heart hammered. The choice was real — more real than anything Chrollo had ever offered.
What you didn’t know was that Chrollo was already watching.
Hidden in the shadows, his eyes were as unreadable as the pages of his book. He’d set this up deliberately, leaving you aching, knowing Feitan would come. This was his test.
Would you break? Would you take what Feitan offered, knowing it meant betraying Chrollo’s control? Or would you deny yourself, even when your body screamed for it?
The air between all three of you vibrated with it — temptation, control, risk.
Feitan’s fingers pressed a little deeper, his thumb circling, drawing a low sound from your throat. “Decide,” he hissed. “Him or me.”
And from the shadows, Chrollo’s voice slid out, soft and deadly:
This writing contains: pregnancy, smut, boob sucking, and other things,  
———————————
7 months pregnant has done many things to you. Given you a glowing complexion. A sudden hatred for loud noises. An emotional attachment to oddly shaped pillows.
And, most dangerously of all…
your back aches, your feet are swollen, and there's a tiny human doing what feels like sword training, inside your womb. Getting off the bed slowly, grabbing the robe that is
tossed on the floor to cover yourself with. you pad downstairs quietly, hoping not to wake Feitan, though honestly at this point you're not sure why you bother. the man has some sort of sixth sense when it comes to you leaving the bed.
You’re halfway down the stairs when you hear his voice break through the silence of the pitch black house.
“Where..are you…going?
"kitchen," you call back, not bothering to hide the fact that you're on a mission.
Feitan is at the bottom of the stairs moments later, shirtless and irritable, his dark eyes fixed on you with that look that says he already knows this isn't going to end well. he's gotten used to your nocturnal adventures over the past seven months, but his tolerance for your increasingly unhinged food combinations is wearing thin.
“It’s almost 4…in the morning” he says flatly.
“ The baby is hungry” which is technically a lie. The baby is not hungry. But you are, and you want something unhinged and unheard of.
pulling out a jar of pickles, chocolate syrup, and sriracha mayo. you can feel his stare intensify as you gather each item. the silence stretches between you, heavy with his judgmental eyes.
“……No….”
“You don’t even know what I’m making”
“Doesn’t matter….answers is no”
but you're seven months pregnant, your hormones are a mess, and you're at that point where you genuinely don't care what anyone thinks about your food choices. you waddle over to him, hand on your lower back, and give him the look. the one you've perfected over months of pregnancy. the one that says if he doesn't help you right now you will not let him fuck your pregnant pussy, and you will cry, and he will feel guilty about it for the rest of his life.
twenty minutes later, you're both standing in the kitchen staring at your creation. pickles dipped in chocolate sauce with a generous dollop of sriracha mayo on the side. it looks like a crime against humanity. it probably is.
"try it" you say, holding out a pickle.
Feitan stairs at the pickle like it has personally wronged him.
“..No….”
“Fei, this baby that is in my womb at this very moment is yours. it was made from your sperm, that came out of your body. so if the baby is craving this, it must mean that you will most likely will like it”
he sighs. it's a deep, resigned sigh that speaks volumes about his current life choices. he takes the pickle from your hand and brings it to his mouth like he's walking to his execution. you watch his face as he takes a bite, watches his expression contort into something between disgust and betrayal.
“ ..disgusting”
"the baby's been active tonight," you say softly, watching his expression shift. you take his free hand and place it on your belly, right where the baby just kicked.
his entire demeanor changes. whatever gruff exterior he's been maintaining completely softens as he feels the movement under his palm.
"strong," he murmurs, almost to himself.
"takes after their dad," you say softly
he doesn't respond verbally, but his hand stays on your belly, protective and warm.
…………………………..
In the early morning, 4 maybe 5 am, you were standing at the kitchen counter, holding the little pumping machine to your right breast as your face churned with a grimace. Your nipples were sore, from the machine sucking harshly and from how often you had to do it.
You had just started filling one of the little bottles, and as though Feitan knew what you were doing, he walked in. Squinting at you, almost asking what you were doing at this hour- till his eyes landed on your breasts you didn't bother to cover.
“Go back to sleep, I'll be done soon.”
you muttered in a groggy voice as the whirring woke Feitan up from the hazy state he was in.
He took a few steps towards you, watched the machine milk you. Jealous that a stupid machine had the right to and he didn't.
You didn't mind if he watched, but that's all you'd ever grant him. But directly after sex, when his chest would be drippng with the light cream colored liquid that leaked from your tits while he fucked you, and as he looked down to his pale body in the bathroom, the sink running on a hand towel as you waited for him to come back to help clean you up.
His fingers couldn't help but swipe at the liquid before placing it on his tongue. The whisper of your taste on his tongue made one thing clear in his mind. If he couldn’t wrap his lips around your nipple and suck till there was nothing left- if you wouldn’t grant him that one favor, the closest thing he had was to fuck you in missionary from now on.
His eyes watched as the plastic bottle filled up with milk, almost hypnotized by the liquid. You winced as the machine sucked at your sore nipple, which only made the cogs in Feitan’s brain start churning with schemes.
“…They always look so… full,” Feitan says, not taking his eyes off your breast.
With that being said he starts to guided you to sit onto the couch as you've done plenty of times when you'd pump, he already knew how he wanted to be fed, he had thought about it over and over again. And settled on this position, his back was pressed against the tops of your thighs. His legs extended onto the couch, unashamed of his cock rising from staring at the cream droplet that threatened to fall from your nipple.
Your hand was on the back of his head, fingers filled with inky black hair.
a low groan rumbled onto your skin as he lightly pressed his parted lips onto the skin around your nipple. Feitans tongue circled at your hardening nipple, lapping softly.
Feitan’s lips were slow to start sucking, pulling your nipple further into his mouth with a lactogenic motion from his tongue.
It took very little effort to pull milk to the surface. But the moan that reverberated onto your breast from a fat droplet hitting Feitan’s tongue, it was bordering on pornographic. It was as though he saw the pearly gates of heaven when the droplet infiltrated the taste buds of his tongue.
Your milk was warm, thick enough to leave a light cast on his tongue as he tried to suckle more liquid from your nipple. Feitans mouth was latched onto you in a way you knew it would hurt to pull him off.
Your hand holding his head up started rubbing gently at his scalp, seeing frustration form on his delicate features, unknowing why. But you were almost trying to soothe him as whimpers vibrated onto your breast. Watching his eyebrows furrow and the growing blush on his cheeks to deepen as his eyes fluttered open.
You inhaled sharply, feeling his tongue trail from massaging the bottom of your nipple to the little mound that provided the milk. Tracing the tip of his tongue on your bud causing you to hiss his name in a warning.
That's all it took for him to continue suckling on your sore nipple. You were about to rest back onto the couch with a sigh, caressing the back of his head as you felt relief wash over your shoulders, allowing him to take what he needed
Then your eye caught his bicep flexing, and you trailed your eyes down his pale arm parting your lips in shock as you watched his unashamed hand palm himself through his gray sweats.
Feitan only moaned as he heard his name fall from your lips, feeling his mouth suck rougher in order to pull more milk from your heavy breast that threatened to suffocate his nose.
His hand hesitantly removed itself from the stiff bulge of his sweats
he greedily drank from your nipple, so greedily that the corners of his mouth were threatening to leak the honeyed fluid- he was suckling so much, he couldn't swallow fast enough.
You inhaled as his hand led your hand to his cock by your wrist, gasping softly with a tingle on your cheeks from how hard he was. Feita placed his larger hand atop yours, pressing it onto his painful erection
You sighed almost in pity as he let out various throaty whimpers, firmening your fingers around the print in his pants .
“Oh Fie” you soothed, knowing how hard he was, it had to be painful. his hips bucked up into your hand for more friction.
you maneuvered your hand on his bulge to free it from its torment.
For the first time since he latched onto your nipple, his lips parted from your breast with a low moan. The cold air hitting his pinkening tip causing him to furrow his eyebrows, but all it took was for the feeling to settle before he attached onto your draining nipple once more.
You kept a light touch on his cock. you to slowly start stroking him, stopping your grasp right before your fingers could roll onto his flushed tip.
and with one last lap of your nipple, Feitan
unlatched from your breast. Huffing softly as his breath tickled your damp nipple
It was embarrassing, the way your milk left trails of a light white film on his cheeks, the way he was breathing heavily with his cock in your hand. Vulnerable.
Feitan saw your flushed face- and to comfort you he raised himself from your thighs lightly, keeping a massaging hand on your unsucked breast as he pressed his plump lips to yours.
It was filthy, Mouths dancing against each other in pure delirium. Being able to taste yourself on his tongue, on his spit laced with milk.
—————————————
Been trying to finish some of my other work, but I don’t even know how to end half of them -.-
Can I request Feitan and Kurapika with an s/o who can't handle their size and begs for only the tip? (nsfw please!!)
ofc annonie!! sorry for the wait, hope you enjoy :))
feitan
you didn’t expect him to be this big. just feeling him press against your entrance had your thighs shaking and breath catching.
he didn’t say anything, just stared down at you, amused. that cruel little smirk tugged at his mouth as you squirmed.
“too much?” his voice was low, almost mocking.
“just the tip,” you gasped, hands gripping the sheets. “i can’t take all of it yet- please.”
feitan didn’t argue. he just pushed in, barely. the thick head of him stretched you open, your back arching. it wasn’t even an inch, but it felt like everything.
your body clenched around him instantly, a sharp sound slipping from your lips.
he didn’t move. just watched. cold, controlled, like he could stay there all night if he wanted. and maybe he would.
then he pulled out slowly and pushed right back to where he’d been. again. and again.
you whimpered, head tilting back, thighs trembling.
“tight,” he muttered, more to himself. “yet still asking for more.”
he wasn’t wrong. your hips moved before you could think, wanting more of him. but he didn’t give it. he just held you open, fed you tiny, shallow thrusts of just the tip, like you asked. each one a little deeper, a little slower, until you were soaking and wrecked from nothing.
you were begging in seconds. for more. for all of it. and feitan just kept going like he had all the time in the world.
kurapika
he was gentle, but big. too big. and as soon as he started pushing in, you froze.
“wait—just the tip,” you breathed out, clinging to him. “i can’t take it.”
he stopped immediately, his body stiff, breath shaky. the head of him was inside you, thick and hot and already stretching you painfully wide.
he swallowed hard, face flushed, voice low and tight.
“like this?”
you nodded, even though your legs were already shaking. just the tip had you clenching around him like he was buried all the way.
he stayed still for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, trying not to move.
but he did. a slow pull back, then he pushed in again. still shallow, still careful, but every drag of him made your toes curl.
kurapika groaned low in his throat, control hanging by a thread. he started moving again, barely thrusting, but enough to make your body light up.
“i shouldn’t…” he whispered to himself.
but he didn’t stop.
each stroke was deeper, a little more daring, until your body stopped resisting and started wanting. needing. you couldn’t help it anymore, your hips rolled up into his, and your moan was desperate.
Hihi! Just wanted to say I absolutely LOVE your works esp the kurapika ones
Soo basically they take the reader out shopping specifically for undergarments and someone just so happens to walk in while they’re changing? Maybe w the phantom troupe + kurapika?
Panties and such(NSFW)
!!REPOSTS APPRECIATED!!
A/N: I’m going to assume you mean that the character walks in on reader, but if you meant a random person, sorry 😭🙏 also I’m only doing a two from the phantom troupe, doing all of them is just too much. I’ll do a part two if enough people want it, though! 🫡 REQUESTS OPEN! JOIN MY SERVER
characters: Kurapika, Chrollo, Feitan
warnings: creampie, reader wears lingerie, semi-public sex in Kurapika’s
‼️If you want to be added to the taglist, please check out the taglist information then comment what you want to be added to! Make sure you have your age in your bio and that your blog can be tagged/mentioned!‼️
Kurapika
-you brought up the fact you wanted new panties, and he nodded along before processing what you said.
-“d-did you say… panties? As in… underwear?”
-a little flustered, but he insists on taking you, and paying for whatever you want.
-he brings you to a lingerie store, pouting when everyone assumes he’s a woman. that does work in his favor tho
-he keeps bringing you different sets of lingerie to try on, and he’s starting to get horny imagining you in each pair.
-eventually he pushes himself inside the dressing room, eyes going wide and cock hardening in his pants when he sees you pulling up a pair of lacy panties.
-he pushes them to the side, slipping his cock into you and pushing you up against the wall. “s-so pretty, angel…”
-you leave the store with several new sets of lingerie… some of them a bit… sticky…
Chrollo
-he’s the one that suggested it.
-“my love, it seems you don’t have much lingerie. You know how I’d just love to see you covered in lace, don’t you?”
-he takes you to the most well known, expensive lingerie store in the area.
-he’s a bit picky, and takes forever choosing what options for you to try on. He settled on mostly black lingerie, with a few pink and red sets… and one white one, with little angel wings on the top.
-Chrollo helps you into each set, his fingers gently tracing your figure. “Just gorgeous… oh my love, you look like an angel sent from above.”
-he’s quick to purchase every set you try on, and soon as you get home he’s on top of you, his teeth nipping at your jaw as his cock sinks into you.
-“that’s my pretty girl, so good for me…”
-he takes you out for dinner later that night, insisting you wear the lingerie he fucked you in. You spend the entire dinner feeling his cum oozing out of you, embarrassed as he stares at you with utter love and adoration.
Feitan
-“Bras? Don’t care about that. Steal it if want it.”
-that’s usually how it went when you asked Feitan to go shopping with you for anything. Either he’d say he didn’t care, or he’d offer to just steal it for you.
-so that’s how you ended up following him to the lingerie store in the middle of the night. He easily broke in, guiding you by the hand through the dark store until the two of you reached the lingerie.
-“okay. Pick your favorite.”
-you huffed at him, looking through the selection. “I’ve gotta try it on first…”
-you stripped, and this got Feitan excited enough… but he started stroking himself when you pulled on a pair of lacy panties.
-he continued to jerk off to you, until you caught him in the mirror.
-“F-Fei!”
-you blushed, but felt strangely flattered… “I’ll take care of it…”
-you sat in front of him, leaning down to take his cock in your mouth. “F-fuck…”
-seeing your pretty lips wrapped around his cock, your ass perched in the air was enough to have him cumming in no time.
-he helped carry home as many sets of lingerie as you wanted… maybe he liked seeing you like that more than he thought.
WC; 1.9k+ |MDNI! | TW/CW; grumpy x sunshine troupe, you and fei are married >.< (sorry i just love him sm), x fem reader, soft sex, piv, pwp? pwop?, cervix kissing, oral -> female receiving, OOC warning
⋆·˚ ༘ * 𝑅𝐸𝒬𝒰𝐸𝒮𝒯 :: (filled request) hmm, in celebration of hunter x hunter returning, can I have some soft feitan smut? female afab reader one shot :3 thank you - @ofrolysdogs
m.list | hxh m.list
People always say how heartless and inhuman your husband is, but you never saw that. Feitan was such an irascible man, yet always so gentle and patient with you. Won't criticize or put you down for all those little things you do.
Members of the phantom troupe, namely Bonolenov, Phinks, and Franklin, always give you a shocked or concerned glance whenever you walk in. It is only because you're such a bright, oblivious woman and Feitan is the exact opposite that they think you are in danger somehow, maybe Feitan has you contained against your will.
But it wasn't like that at all. Fei was always so sweet and nice to you. Sometimes he does get really rough when having sex, but you don't mind, you like it! And sometimes he is super soft with you too, like for instance right now.
You're lying underneath Feitan, your legs strewn over his shoulders, head arched back on the plush pillow. Feitan said something about positioning a smaller pillow beneath your hips would elevate comfort- and sure enough it did. His constant attention was to your pleasure and comfort.
"Fei," you mumble as his nose nudges against your clit.
"What's wrong?" he asks, catching the whimpering in your voice when he barely touched the most sensitive part of you.
You shift under Feitan's grasp on your thighs, arching your back slightly towards his face for more of his touch.
"It's all right, Angel," Feitan soothes, pecking soft and light kisses on your stomach.
You quiver from the simple actions, waiting for the moment when he will use his tongue and fingers.
"I know, Fei," you said, lacing your fingers into his dark hair.
Feitan moves down again to the most sensitive area of yours, your dripping vagina. "Let me know if I'm hurting you."
As you spoke, a quivering breath came out of your lips, and you assured him, "Fei, you never hurt me."
You cry out softly as he kisses your clit, thighs squeezing his head. You lean backward, trying to retreat from the overwhelming sensation, but Feitan does not let you go.
You cry out, 'Fei'.
"I understand, Angel," Feitan soothes. "I am here to say if it is too much."
God was being so gentle with you that it felt like you'd shatter with a single touch. His grip on your thighs slackened, a real sense that you could pull away if you wanted to. Yet he treasured it as you were so small compared to him and underneath him that he was afraid to break you.
Again, Feitan's nose brushes up against your delicate clit, and your grip on his hair tightened. A satisfied sigh seeps through him into your folds as a mewl from your full lips.
"You okay?" he asks before licking a long stripe up your folds, and you moan, your back arching, and your cunt pressing further into his face which he relished in.
You whimpered in response, trying to gather all the scattered thoughts in your mind. "Yeah, 'm am, Fei."
He loves you so much that it hurts, and your reaction makes his heart sing. His tongue climbs up from your wet hole to your clit while a moan escapes from you. Your thighs constrict onto his head because of the constriction he's causing, and as you grind down onto his face, a moan reverberates through your clit. Your lips were littered with chanting of his name, and he was reveling every second in it.
"F-feels s' good," you whine, tears spring in your lash line, he was making you feel so good.
"You're okay?" Feitan asks.
At the feeling of a finger push past your closing walls, you furiously nod your head, your eyes expand and you cry with pleasure. It felt so amazing that you never want it to end, even though you thought you would break because he was so big.
His finger pressed up against that soft spot inside your walls. Feitan was slow with his pace, curling his fingers every time he entered your cunt along with sucking and licking at your puffy, sensitive clit.
"Good, you being so good," moaned Feitan against you, refusing to rut his hips into the mattress. This was about your pleasure, not his—.
A moan arouses from you, and your hips grind themselves onto his face. He let you for once have some sort of control over the situation, and he decided if you came quicker he'll let you do it more often. "That's it," he praised.
His movements quicker, needier, as you yell his name through your broken letters, and the one hold he had on your leg tightens. The coil in your stomach tightened and your fingers wrapped around his locks to halt his movements and make him sigh deeper into your folds.
The groans only drove you over the edge, and as he pressed his tongue firmly against your clit, a muffled scream escaped your lips. Your stomach coil unwound, soaking his face clear.
He slowly drew his fingers out of your drenched pussy, and his cum spilling out from your puffy folds. Before rising his head, he places a kiss on your clit and your mewl softly in overstimulation.
"Are you okay, Angel?" he asks concerned, pecking away the tears of pleasure streaming down your cheeks and to the side of your face.
You hum in pleased satisfaction as he peppers gentle and soothing kisses on your face. "I'm fine, dear," you respond.
"You did so good," Feitan praises.
You let out a tired sigh, your body aching but Fietan wasn't done yet. A trail of kisses were left all over your neck and you gasped when feeling a hot, throbbing tip at your soaked entrance. "Fei!" you moan out, overstimulated.
"I here, I got you," he reassures, a groan slipping past his mouth.
Feitan drags his length out; a breathless sigh emits from your mouth into his own, a look of relief crossing your features as you think the two of you were done. Then, in one swift motion, your head was thrown back in overstimulation and a moan strung from your mouth as his cock slides right back into your wet walls.
Feitan manages to slip out of your walls and gently flips your body onto it's stomach, your eyes were wide with surprise, not expecting a sudden change of position once again. You could feel him lift your hips and place a soft and fluffy pillow under your lower abdomen before letting your body rest fully down on it.
You then felt Feitan's mass press down against your back, and you huffed out softly at the sudden weight. His abs were flush against your back, hands gripping the backs of your own, pressing them into the bed. Feitan's breath tickled your ear as you wiggled your head at the warm sensation, core getting wetter, trying to squirm away from the imposing hold he had on you.
Feitan's hands moved in slow motion, readjusting to hold one of his hands over both of you above your head, careful not to tangle hair within the movement. A contented sigh escapes your mouth as Feitan raises his body ever so slightly, trailing his free hand down the expanse of your smooth back before his fingers meet your slick entrance that is filled with his cum from previous rounds.
Then a heavy, throbbing tip pressed against your clit, and you moaned from the small touch. You tried to squirm away from the pleasurable cause but couldn't since Feitan knew your body more than you did yourself-he knew you were gonna try to run from his body due to the pleasure. So, he pressed his weight against you once more.
You held your breath when Feitan sunk his throbbing cock into your spongey walls, his length getting squeezed by every ridge within your soaked cunt. A moan left both of your mouths the moment Feitan's length nudges the deepest spot within you.
"So good, doing good," Feitan moans, relishing in the way your walls clench him, how could he not want to cum inside, you feel so good.
The hot and heavy kisses trailed down from your ear, down to the dip of your neck to shoulder, and a breathless sigh escaped your parted lips before Feitan rolled his hips into yours. A moan slips out of your mouth as his thick length scrapes across all the sensitive parts of your warm insides.
Feitan spreads his legs apart, knees bent, so any move from you would guarantee closing the gap between them as he places you underneath him, where your beautiful body is still dwarfed by the frame. As expected, you couldn't move from his trapping embrace.
His motions quickened, his cock thrusting deeper inside your needy hole as strained moans and whines escaped your throat. Feitan panted in your ear, an odd deep groan slipping past his lips now and then-the sounds that made your cunt flutter tightly around his length.
Feitan was filling you to the hilt, his throbbing pink tip hitting that soft gummy spot inside my cunt that made me scream out in completion. "I know, my love," he breathed, making you break out into a moan and sigh as your body shook with your pleasure.
Your body tried to arch away from the pleasure, not being able to take the strong rolls of Feitan's hips, but as you arched your back away, his thrusts only aimed deeper, harder into your G spot. You sobbed out, tears filling your lash line. "B-but. Too much, Feitan. Slow down, too much."
Feitan gently shooshed you, cooing you. "It okay, I here."
The moans repeated in your voice while he pounded into your tight heat. You suddenly had this instinctive urge to press yourself against his length, but you couldn't-heavy he was, too heavy for you to move against him-and you were hopeless, utterly, as his thrusts became faster and faster.
"Please, I wanna come," you cry out mewling. "So big, you feel so big, Feitan."
Your body had shaken beneath him and the grip he had on your hands loosened. Your hips were getting held onto now, then the strength he possessed lifted you onto your knees before a bicep wrapped itself around your throat, lifting your head. It wasn't a tight hold, but the power in it lifted your head from the futon as you shakily rested your weight on your elbows.
Your back arched heavily, finally being able to sink more into him. Feitan hunched over you, pulling you closer to him and connected your mouth in a sloppy wet kiss, forcing his tongue inside your mouth, grunting into you while he swallowed your moans. "Taking me so deep," Feitan groaned, pulling away from your mouth and pushing this arch into your back deeper.
"Makin' you feel so good, ain't I?" Feitan groaned, head tilted forward, sweat beading on his forehead as we watched your fall apart and tremble from his dick, broken moans slipping past your plump lips.
"'Wanna come, please," you beg, wanting to feel the release, desperate as the tears stream down your flushed cheeks. "Want it so bad."
With a groan, his lips planted against mine once again as his hips slammed into mine hard, his cum spilling inside me, causing me to moan into his kiss. You feel more of his cum spill into your fertile womb, painting your insides white. You could almost feel your stomach bulging from how much you had of your man inside you.
Feitan slipped his softening length out and pulled away from the kiss as you slumped to the futon, his eyes chained to the white splotches of silky come that spilled from your gaping cunt, watching with a slight frown as the cum fell from your cunt.
"Fei," you huff.
"Fine, I give you break," he replies reluctantly, peppering soft kisses over your face
Do not copy, steal, modify, etc.
Relogs and like are appreciated.
— the heat of the soul; a burning, unyielding intensity that turns a touch into a fever and a moment into an obsession.
SYNOPSIS : lashed by a relentless storm, the hideout becomes a sanctuary of shadows where cold professionalism finally snaps. drenched and volatile, Feitan’s lethal composure unravels into a frantic, velvet urgency, met only by the steady, grounding comfort of a touch that doesn't fear his thorns.
CONTAINS: makeout, suggestive touching, flirting, looong sexual content ( not super explicit but still there ) bj, hickeys / bite marks, overstimulation? toxic dynamics, physical agression, mild language, dark & mature themes, dubcon, marking / branding, breath play, lowkey weapon play, emotional manipulation, internalized violence, lowkey degradation, power play, provocation, bruising, obssessive / possesive ? rough handling, coerced silence, lowkey objectification, edging, hair pulling, threats, height difference does not exist due to plot purposes...
HUNTER X HUNTER: Feitan Portor x Reader
Word Count: 13,254 words and 73,287 characters
MENU
the hallway is a narrow throat of amber light, casting long, wavering shadows against the peeling wallpaper. he stands in the threshold, a silhouette carved from the storm outside. water pools at his boots, a dark, viscous spread that carries the metallic tang of iron and wet pavement. it drips from the hem of his cloak in a rhythmic, heavy staccato, marking the floor with the frantic pulse of the evening’s labor.
you extend the towel. the fabric is thick, bleached bone-white, a stark contrast to the grime clinging to his frame.
Feitan doesn’t move. his eyes, sharp and silver-flecked under the brutal fringe of his hair, fixate on your outstretched fingers.
“ Feitan?— ”
he looks at your hand as if it’s a foreign object— something soft and dangerously misplaced in a room filled with the scent of ozone and copper. the silence between you stretches, thick as velvet, weighted by the exhaustion rolling off his shoulders in invisible waves.
he remains motionless, a statue of damp silk and jagged nerves. the silver of his gaze flickers, tracing the line of your wrist, weighing the simple gravity of the gesture. there is no gratitude in his expression, only a quiet, simmering suspicion, as if waiting for the kindness to sharpen into a blade.
he doesn’t reach for the cloth. instead, he simply breathes, his chest rising in a slow, jagged hitch that betrays the cold deep in his marrow.
the dampness from his clothes begins to steam in the warmth of the room, blurring his edges until he looks less like a man and more like a ghost clawing its way back to the living.
his fingers close around your wrist first, slick and freezing against your pulse, but his grip is a frantic, grounding pressure.
he doesn't pull away. for a long, suspended breath, he simply holds you there, his thumb tracing the shallow valley of your inner arm while the water from his hair maps new paths down the bridge of his nose.
slowly, the tension in his arm snaps. he drags the towel from your hand with a sudden, sharp jerk.
he begins to scrub at his face, the movements violent and uncoordinated.
the white fabric is instantly ruined, blooming with ugly, dark smears of soot and something thicker, darker, that refuses to be ignored. he works with a jagged desperation, as if the grime is a second skin he’s trying to flay off.
underneath the frantic motion, his eyes remain locked on the floor, hidden beneath the wet weight of his bangs. the rhythmic friction of the cloth is the only sound in the hallway, a harsh, abrasive rasp that fills the space between your breathing. when he finally pulls the towel away, his skin is rubbed raw, a flush of angry crimson blooming across his cheekbones, yet he looks no less haunted than when he first stepped through the door.
he stands there, clutching the damp, stained mass of cotton against his chest, his shoulders hunched high as if bracing for a blow that hasn't come.
Phinks leans against the doorframe at the end of the corridor, his massive frame nearly filling the space. the overhead light catches the harsh line of his nonexistent brow, casting his eyes into deep shadow. he doesn’t move toward you; he just stands there, arms folded across his chest, watching the way Feitan clings to the ruined towel like a lifeline.
his gaze flickers from the dark, spreading stains on the floor to the raw, agitated flush on Feitan’s face. there is no humor in his expression, none of the usual bravado that clings to him like a second skin.
“ You look like garbage, ” Phinks says, leaning heavily against the doorframe. he doesn't lower his voice; he never does.
Feitan’s back stays rigid. he doesn't acknowledge the presence, but the way he’s wringing that towel looks like he’s practicing how to snap a neck.
Phinks scoffs, eyes tracking the red staining the floor. “ Don't bleed on the rug. Chrollo wants us moving by dawn. You gonna be a problem, or can you actually walk? ”
the question hangs in the amber light, heavy and uninvited. Feitan’s head drops lower, his wet bangs shielding his expression from both of you. a single, dark droplet falls from the hem of his mask, disappearing into the white cotton of the towel.
Feitan’s voice comes from the back of his throat, a sound like dry parchment tearing. it’s thin, vibrating with a lethal sort of exhaustion that makes the small hallway feel even tighter.
“ Too much noise, ” he spits.
he finally turns his head just enough for a single, dilated eye to fix on Phinks. he doesn't look at you, but the hand not clutching the towel twitches, his fingers curling into a claw against his thigh.
“ Job done, ” he continues, the words clipped and jagged, sounding more like a curse than a status update. “ go back to sleep, Phinks. Or I remove tongue so you stay quiet. ”
he doesn't wait for a reaction. he pivots away from both of you, his movements stiff, like a rusted machine forced into motion. the metal of the zipper is a biting chill against his skin, the only sound in the room until the fabric finally parts. as the mask drops, it reveals the jagged reality of his composure— teeth gritted against a shuttering breath and a jawline tight with a tension he can no longer kill. without the high collar to hide behind, his face is a raw, cinematic landscape of exhaustion and heat.
he heads toward the bathroom, the stained towel still bunched in his fist, leaving a trail of dark, smeared footprints that look like bruises on the wood.
the door doesn't just close behind him; he slams it, the frame shuddering with the force of his departure. the lock clicks home with a finality that feels like a physical wall being dropped between him and the rest of the world.
Phinks remains anchored in the doorway, his chin lifting as he watches the bathroom door settle into its frame. he lets out a short, sharp exhale— a sound that sits somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. he uncrosses his arms, his massive shoulders rolling with a casual, blunt ease that stands in sharp contrast to the jagged energy Feitan just dragged through the hall.
he turns his head toward you, his eyes glinting with a low, gutter-light mockery.
“ Tch, ” he says, the sound clicking against his teeth. “ Look at this mess. He thinks he’s the only one who had a long night. ”
he pushes off the doorframe, gesturing with a heavy hand at the dark, watery smears staining the floorboards. his gaze travels from the puddles up to your face, his expression flat and unimpressed, though there's a flicker of rough amusement behind it.
“ The hell is his problem? ” he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble. “ You try to hand him a towel and he looks at you like you’re holding a cursed blade. I’ve seen him more agreeable after being tortured for three days straight. ”
“ Just let him be. ”
“ Don’t waste your breath being kind next time, ” he says, a lopsided, mocking grin finally pulling at his mouth. “ He’s just gonna drip on your rugs and snap at the air anyway. Let him rot in the shower—if he’s still acting like a wounded animal in an hour, just lock the kitchen. He’ll figure it out eventually. ”
you let out a breath, a soft, dry sound that barely qualifies as a laugh. it’s a brittle thing, born more from the absurdity of the bloodstains and Phinks’s lack of tact than any real humor.
the moment is severed by the groan of another door.
Shizuku emerges from the shadows of the far room, her oversized sweater swallowing her frame. she stops short, her large, blinking eyes fixing on the two of you through the thick frames of her glasses. her head tilting to the side in a slow, bird-like motion.
“ Oh, ” she says, her voice flat and airy. “ You’re both still here. ”
she looks down at the dark, smeared trail Feitan left behind, then back up at you and Phinks. there is no judgment in her gaze, only a mild, detached curiosity.
“ Why are you both still awake? ” she asks, adjusting her glasses with a pale finger. “ It’s very late. And the floor is leaking. ”
Phinks snorts, rolling his shoulders as he prepares a retort, but the rhythmic hammering of the shower behind the locked door is the only real answer she gets. the hallway feels smaller now, crowded with the lingering scent of rain and the heavy, unspoken weight of whatever Feitan brought home with him.
“ Ask the brat in the bathroom, ” he says, jerking his chin toward the sound of the spray. “ Feitan just crawled in looking like he went ten rounds with a monsoon. ”
he casts a sidelong glance at you, a jagged, mocking glint in his eyes.
“ Besides, ” he adds, his voice dropping into that lazy, gravelly drawl. “ I was just checking in to see if she was still in one piece. Hard to tell with him lately. He’s touchy as a live wire. ”
Shizuku blinks, her gaze drifting back to the dark, watery smears on the wood. she doesn't seem convinced, or perhaps she simply doesn't care enough to hold the thought. she just pulls her sweater sleeves down over her hands, her silhouette soft and blurred against the sharp edges of the hallway.
“ It doesn't matter, ” she says, her voice a calm, flat line that cuts through Phinks’s posturing. “ You should both be sleeping now. ”
she tilts her head, her expression remaining perfectly vacant, yet there’s a cold, practical weight to her words that silences the air.
“ We have the mission tomorrow, ” she reminds you, her tone as detached as if she were reading a grocery list. “ Dying of exhaustion is a very messy way to fail. Especially for Feitan. He’ll be even more difficult if he hasn’t slept. ”
Phinks lets out a sharp, clicking sound with his tongue, his smirk faltering just a fraction. he looks like he wants to argue, but the logic is too blunt to ignore. he casts one last look at the locked bathroom door, then at you, giving a dismissive wave of his hand.
“ Yeah, yeah. The glasses are right, ” he grumbles, turning back toward his own room with a heavy, rhythmic stomp. “ Get some rest. If he’s still acting like a brat in the morning, it's your problem. ”
Shizuku remains in the corridor for a second longer, watching Phinks disappear.
then, she turns her gaze back to you, her eyes reflecting nothing. “ Goodnight, ” she says simply, before finally retreating into the shadows of her doorway.
“ Sleep well, Shizuku. ”
the hallway is suddenly hollow, the air reclaiming its stillness now that the others have retreated into the dark. the only remaining pulse in the apartment is the muffled, violent drumming of the water against the bathroom tiles.
you turn away from the stained floorboards, your footsteps heavy and silent as you move toward the room you share with him. the space is cool, smelling faintly of old paper and the sharp, lingering scent of his smoke.
you lay down, the mattress yielding beneath your weight. the sheets are crisp, a pale expanse that feels almost too clean compared to the grit still clinging to your palms. you stare up at the ceiling, watching the way the stray light from the street filters through the blinds, casting a skeletal ribcage of shadows across the walls.
the sound of the shower cuts off abruptly. in the new, jarring silence, the house feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for the click of a lock and the wet, heavy drag of footsteps.
you stay awake. sleep is a distant, unreachable shore, so you simply lie there with your head turned toward the window.
beyond the glass, the sky is a bruised, heavy indigo, thick with the remnants of the storm. there is no clear shape to the moon, no silver coin pinned to the dark; instead, there is only a faint, ghostly luminescence bleeding through the cloud cover. it is a bruised light, pale and uncertain, casting just enough of a glow to turn the edges of the furniture into jagged, unfamiliar silhouettes.
behind the wall, the pipes groan one last time as they settle, leaving you alone with the rhythmic, slow ticking of the clock and the cold, metallic memory of his grip on your wrist.
the door clicks open, a soft, mechanical snap that cuts through the quiet. Feitan enters the room, his movements stripped of their usual fluid grace, replaced by a heavy, stiff-jointed exhaustion. he is no longer dripping, but the dampness clings to him like a second skin, the scent of soap struggling against the stubborn, underlying tang of iron.
the towel you gave him is draped around his neck, the white fabric ruined by dark, jagged smears that wouldn't wash away. he doesn't look at the bed. he moves to the corner of the room where the faint, bruised light of the moon doesn't reach, his silhouette bleeding into the shadows until only the pale smudge of the towel remains visible.
“ Stay awake for what. ”
his voice is a low, rough friction, barely reaching you across the space. he finally turns, his wet hair casting sharp, needle-like shadows across his brow. he still holds the edge of the towel in one fist, his knuckles white and prominent, as if he’s still anchoring himself to that single, small act of kindness.
you shift slightly against the pillows, the fabric of the bedsheets rustling in the heavy quiet. the faint, ghostly light from the window catches the small, tethered curve of a smile on your lips.
“ Hmm, nothing. ”
the words are light, a soft ripple in the stagnant air of the room. Feitan doesn’t move. he remains a dark, jagged shape against the wall, but you can feel the weight of his gaze. unblinking and sharp— cutting through the dimness to find your face. the playfulness of your tone seems to hang between you, a delicate, shimmering thing that doesn’t quite belong in a room that smells of wet silk and cold metal.
he lets out a short, huffed breath through his nose, a sound that isn't quite a scoff but lacks the warmth of a laugh. his fingers tighten on the ruined towel, his shoulders dropping just a fraction of an inch as the silence stretches back out, long and velvet-dark.
“ Stupid. ”
he lifts his hands, the white fabric of the towel bunching between his fingers as he begins to rub at his hair. the motion is rough and impatient, a rhythmic, muffled friction that hides his face from view. the damp, dark strands of his hair are tossed into a wild, jagged mess beneath the cloth.
you watch the play of the shadows across his tensed shoulders, the way the movement pulls the damp fabric of his shirt tight against his spine.
“ You missed a spot, ” you murmur, your voice trailing off with a slow, honeyed pull. “ if you want, I could do a much better job than that. ”
the rubbing stops instantly. the towel remains draped over his head, a ghostly shroud that obscures his eyes, but the air in the room suddenly feels thick, charged with a sharp, static tension. he doesn't pull the cloth away. he stays perfectly still, his hands still raised, the only sound the ragged, low hitch of his breathing.
“ You have death wish. ”
the words are a muffled, lethal rasp from beneath the cotton, but he doesn't move to leave. he stands there in the dark, caught in the gravity of your suggestion, the ruined towel still clutched in his hands like a white flag he refuses to drop.
you lean back further into the cool expanse of the pillows, your gaze tracing the jagged line of his silhouette in the bruised light.
“ Maybe, ” you breathe, the word slow and deliberate, a soft challenge thrown into the dark. “ but you look tired, Feitan. and that towel is doing a terrible job of taking care of you. ”
you reach out a hand, your fingers ghosting over the edge of the mattress, an unspoken invitation in the small space left between you.
“ Come here. Let me. ”
the silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. Feitan finally pulls the towel down, the fabric falling to rest around his shoulders like a discarded weight. his hair is a chaotic, damp mess, sticking to his forehead in dark needles that frame the golden, dilated heat of his stare. he looks at your hand, then back to your eyes, his chest rising and falling in a slow, jagged rhythm that betrays the sudden, frantic pulse at his throat.
“ Think you are funny, ” he rasps, his voice dropping an octave until it’s nothing more than a lethal vibration. he takes one step closer, the floorboards groaning under the sudden shift of his weight. “ think you can touch me so easily. ”
you tilt your head, the faint light catching the soft, daring glint in your eyes as you hold his stare.
“ ...Can I ? ”
the question is barely a whisper, a thread of silver in the dark. Feitan doesn’t answer, his body locked in a rigid, uncertain tension, but you don't wait for the permission he’s too proud to give.
you slide from the bed with the fluid silence of a shadow, the floorboards barely sighing under your weight. before he can pivot, before he can snap a retort or slip a blade from his sleeve, you are behind him. you wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your face against the damp, cool fabric of his shirt.
he flinches. a sharp, electric jolt that travels through his entire frame— and his breath hitches in a sudden, jagged stop. he is smaller than he looks, all wire-corded muscle and hard edges, but the heat radiating from him is a feverish contrast to the cold rain still clinging to his scent. his hands, still clutching the edges of the towel at his chest, freeze mid-air.
for a long, breathless second, he is a statue of stone and repressed violence. then, slowly, the lethal rigidity in his spine begins to fray. he doesn't pull away. he doesn't even move to loosen your grip. he simply stands there, his head bowing low as he lets out a long, shaky exhale that tastes of surrender.
“ You are annoying, ” he mutters, his voice cracking like dry earth, but he leans back, just a fraction— into the warmth of you.
you shift your grip, your palms sliding further around his torso until they flatten against the hard, low planes of his stomach. he is terrifyingly lean, his abdomen a landscape of deep, defined ridges that feel like carved stone under your fingertips. every muscle is coiled and sharp, yet the skin there is soft, hidden, and pulsing with a heat that makes your own breath catch.
at the touch, Feitan’s stomach muscles ripple in a sudden, involuntary spasm. he lets out a low, shaky hiss through his teeth, his fingers digging into your arms with a renewed, frantic pressure.
“ Really...? ” you repeat, your voice dropping to a whisper as you trace the dip where his muscles meet the waistband of his trousers.
Feitan’s head drops, his chin pressing hard against his chest. he lets out a low, guttural sound— halfway between a snarl and a shuddering moan— and his fingers reach up, blindly catching your forearms through his sleeves. he grips you there, his touch bruising and desperate, as if he’s trying to decide whether to throw you across the room or pull you even closer.
“ I kill you, ” he rasps, the threat sounding more like a prayer as he finally sags against you.
you let out a soft, low hum, the sound muffled against the damp fabric of his shirt. your fingers continue their slow, deliberate descent, trailing past the sharp ridges of his lower abs toward the dark silk of his waistband.
“ …Would you? ”
the question is a silken taunt, barely audible over the frantic, uneven thud of his heart against his ribs.
Feitan’s reaction is instantaneous. a sharp, jagged gasp breaks from his throat as your fingertips graze the very edge of the fabric, dipping just low enough to send a fresh electric jolt through his spine. his grip on your forearms tightens until it’s nearly painful, his knuckles grinding into your skin as he tries to anchor himself against the sudden, overwhelming pull of your gravity.
“ Stop it, ” he chokes out, though he makes no move to physically push you away. his breath is a hot, ragged fire against your skin, a stark contrast to the cold dampness of his hair. “ you play with thing you do not understand. ”
his fingers shift, sliding down from your arms to tangle with yours, his leather-bound grip pinning your hands firmly against his stomach to keep them from wandering any lower. he holds you there, trapping your palms against the hard, heaving map of his muscles as he breathes you in.
the room descends into a heavy, suffocating silence as he remains perfectly still, the only sound is the ragged drag of his breath against your neck. then— with the sudden, violent fluidness of a striking snake, the tension snaps.
before you can draw another breath, he pivots. his strength is deceptive— all lean as he forces you to turn, pressing your chest down toward the mattress until you are bent over the edge of the bed. your back is now flush against his front, the damp heat of his body branding you through your clothes.
he doesn't let go. instead, he jerks your arms behind you, crossing your wrists in a sharp, restrictive X. he clamps both of your hands together with a single, bruising palm, pinning them against the small of your back with a finality that makes the room feel smaller.
you tilt your head back, your neck exposed and vulnerable in the dim, bruised light, until you can see the silver heat of his stare.
“ Hm? Are you suggesting... something? ~ ”
the playfulness in your voice is a thin, shimmering wire, but it vibrates with the sudden shift in power. Feitan leans down, his chest crushing against your shoulder blades as he brings his face inches from yours. his hair, still damp and smelling of rain, brushes against your cheek like needles.
“ You talk too much, ” he rasps, his voice a low, guttural vibration that you feel more than hear.
he doesn't move his hand from your wrists. instead, he tightens the cross, his grip a grounding, lethal pressure that locks you in place. his eyes trace the curve of your throat, dark and dilated, before settling on your lips with a simmering, quiet violence.
“ Think you in control because I let you touch me, ” he murmurs, his breath a hot, feverish ghost against your skin. “ but you forget what I am. ”
the pressure is immediate and total. as he leans down, the damp, searing heat of his chest flattens against your shoulder blades, squeezing the air from your lungs. every ridge of his torso, those hard, stone-carved planes you were just tracing with your fingers, is now branded into your back.
because he’s pinning your wrists in that sharp cross against your spine, your own hands are trapped like a physical wedge between your bodies, forced into the scorching space where his stomach meets your lower back. you can feel every jagged, uneven thud of his heart through the layers of fabric, a frantic rhythm that betrays the lethal stillness of his posture
the weight of him is suffocating and intoxicating all at once. the dampness of his shirt begins to seep through yours, a cold, wet chill that is quickly burned away by the sheer fever of his skin.
“ Too close? ”
he breathes the words against the sensitive curve of your ear, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. he shifts his weight, pressing even harder, forcing your body to conform to the rigid, unforgiving lines of his. he’s so close that when he speaks, you can feel the vibration of his chest echoing through your own ribs, a dark harmony that makes your pulse spike in a sudden, panicked thrill.
he tilts his head, his nose ghosting along your jawline, his damp hair dripping a single, cold bead of water onto your collarbone.
“ You want to see, ” he murmurs, his grip on your wrists tightening until you’re forced to arch just a fraction more against him. “ now you look. ”
you let out a soft, low-throated chuckle, the sound vibrating through your chest and into his. the fact that you’ve managed to crack that iron-cold composure, dragging him from his exhaustion into this sharp, focused heat, makes your pulse dance.
“ I'm looking, Feitan, ” you purr, your voice steady despite the way he’s crushing the air from your lungs.
you shift your hips just a fraction, a slow, deliberate movement that grinds your lower back into his trapped hands and the hard line of his thighs. it’s a bold, dangerous move, a final nudge to see just how far the thread will stretch before it snaps.
“ I like the view much better from here. ”
you tilt your head further back, offering him the pale, vulnerable line of your throat, your eyes hooded as you catch his steel-edged stare in the dim light.
“ But if you’re trying to scare me into being quiet, you’re doing a very poor job of it. ”
the air in the room seems to catch fire at your words. Feitan’s grip on your wrists hitches, his fingers digging in with a sudden, bruising intensity. he looks like he wants to break you or pull you through the floorboards, his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches that burn against the skin of your neck.
“ You… troublesome, ” he rasps, the word sounding like a snarl that got lost on the way to his throat. he leans even lower, his lips ghosting just a hair’s breadth from the pulse jumping in your neck. “ I should pull out your teeth so you not bite back. ”
you let out a soft, breathy sigh, the sound hitching as he presses his weight more firmly into your spine. you lean your head back until your hair brushes against his shoulder, your gaze meeting his with a slow, hooded confidence.
“ Then why haven't you? ”
you murmur the words, a silken challenge that hangs heavy in the dim, bruised light. you shift again, a slow and agonizingly deliberate press against him, feeling the way his body coils like a spring under the provocation.
“ You talk a lot about what you 'should' do, Feitan. But all I feel is you holding onto me like you're afraid I'll disappear if you let go. ”
you let a small, triumphant smile tug at the corner of your mouth, your voice dropping to a whisper that barely carries across the space between your lips and his ear.
the silence that follows is deafening. for a second, the only sound is the frantic, rhythmic thud of his heart hammering against your back. his grip on your wrists turns white-knuckle, and you see his jaw set so hard it looks like it might crack. he looks down at you with a gaze that is pure, unfiltered heat— a lethal mixture of irritation and a hunger he can no longer mask.
“ You think you win, ” he hisses, the words vibrating through your skin as he nuzzles roughly against your jaw, his teeth ghosting over the sensitive skin there. “ you think you are safe because I tired. Big mistake. ”
you don't pull away when his teeth graze your skin; instead, you arch your back further into him, forcing the contact until you can feel the jagged heat of his breath coating your neck. the playfulness has bled out of your expression, replaced by something dark and heavy that matches the suffocating tension in the room.
“ I don't think I'm safe at all, Feitan. ”
your voice is no longer a whisper; it’s a low, resonant vibration that seems to pull the very air out of his lungs. you turn your face as much as the X-lock on your wrists allows, your lips inches from his, your gaze locked onto the liquid silver of his eyes with a terrifyingly steady intensity.
“ I think you’re dangerous. I think you could ruin me in this room... and no one would hear a thing. ”
you lean back, your weight fully supported by his chest, your skin burning wherever it meets his damp clothes. your eyes drop to his mouth for a heartbeat before snapping back to his.
“ But I think you want this more than you want to kill me. I think you’ve been thinking about it all night... while you were out in the rain, while you were in the shower, while you were standing in the dark watching me sleep. ”
you let your voice drop into a raw, jagged register that mimics his own.
the effect is like dropping a match into a powder keg. Feitan’s pupils blow out until his eyes are almost entirely black, and a low, guttural growl rips from deep in his throat— a sound of pure, unadulterated frustration and hunger. he yanks your wrists upward, forcing your chest flatter against the bed, while his other hand abandons the towel to tangle violently into your hair. he pulls your head back, exposing the full, trembling length of your throat to the bruised light.
Feitan doesn’t hesitate. the moment the challenge leaves your lips, he leans in, his movements losing their stiff exhaustion and turning into something hungry and precise. he doesn't go for your mouth; instead, he sinks his face into the side of your neck, his breath a scorching brand against your skin.
he starts just below your jaw, his lips pressing firmly into the sensitive cord of your throat. the first mark is slow, a heavy, dragging pressure that makes your toes curl against the sheets. he isn't being gentle— he doesn't know how to be. but there is a desperate, grounding quality to the way he claims the space.
you let out a jagged, broken breath as you feel his teeth ghost over your skin before the sharp, stinging pull of a hickey begins to bloom.
“ ...Feitan… ”
the sound of his name only seems to fuel him. he moves lower, his tongue tracing the path of the heat he’s creating, leaving a trail of damp fire in the cool air of the room. he works with a focused, silent intensity, his grip on your wrists remaining absolute, pinning you to the bed as he maps the column of your neck with dark, purple-red constellations.
each mark is a silent retort to your teasing, a way of marking exactly where his restraint is fraying. he pauses for a second, his forehead resting against your collarbone as he takes a ragged, shaky breath, his chest heaving against your back. the room is silent except for the frantic, shared rhythm of your breathing and the distant, fading drip of the storm outside.
he nuzzles into the crook of your shoulder, his voice a muffled, lethal vibration.
“ Keep talking, ” he mutters, his lips hovering over a fresh, stinging mark. “ see what else I find to quiet you. ”
the sensation of his mouth against your skin sends a dizzying, liquid heat straight to your core. you lean into the sharp sting of his marks, your eyes half-lidded and clouded with a heavy, sweet haze.
you let out a soft, broken whimper that sounds entirely too much like an invitation, your body yielding and soft against the rigid, punishing lines of his.
“ ...Is that all? ”
the words are a low, breathless taunt, dripping with a honeyed arrogance that dares him to go further. you tilt your head to the side, giving him better access, the movement dragging your skin even more firmly against his teeth.
“ You mark me like I’m a prize, Feitan… but you’re still holding my hands back. Are you worried about what I’ll do if you let me go? are you afraid I’ll find out you’re actually… soft for me? ”
the word soft is a deliberate, lethal strike.
you feel the exact moment his control fractures. he lets out a sharp, hissed intake of air, his fingers tightening around your crossed wrists until it’s a bruising, desperate anchor. he stops the trail of hickeys abruptly, his face buried in the crook of your shoulder as his whole body trembles with the effort of not simply devouring you.
“ Shut up, ” he rasps, his voice cracking, thick with a dark, suffocating hunger. “ you know nothing. I could break you in half and you still… you still smile. ”
he bites down— not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a stinging, definitive mark right on the sensitive junction of your shoulder and neck.
“ Keep pushing, ” he breathes against the raw skin, his voice a low, guttural promise.
you turn your face as much as the sharp angle allows, catching his gaze with a slow, languid smile that is all teeth and triumph.
there is no fear in that smile, only a deep, intoxicating heat that says you knew exactly how this would end the moment you reached for him. it’s a smile that acknowledges the marks on your neck and the bruising grip on your wrists, and asks for more.
Feitan stares at you, his eyes wide and dark, his chest heaving as he watches the way your expression doesn't falter. he looks like a man staring into an abyss, mesmerized by the fall. for all his talk of monsters and death wishes, he is the one caught in the snare of that smile, paralyzed by the sheer, terrifying softness of it.
“ ...You crazy, ” he whispers, the words less of an insult and more of an admission of defeat.
he doesn't pull away. instead, his forehead drops to yours, his wet hair creating a dark curtain around both your faces, sealing you away from the rest of the world. he stays there, breathing in the scent of your skin and the silent challenge of your smile, his grip on your wrists softening just enough to let his thumbs trace the frantic, matching pulse in your veins.
the air in the room is thick, charged with the kind of tension that makes your skin hum. Feitan doesn't move his head from yours, his smoke-colored eyes searching yours. he looks frustrated by the fact that he can’t make you flinch— that every jagged edge he shows you is met with that same, devastatingly soft smile.
slowly, he releases your wrists.
the moment he releases your wrists, he doesn't give you a second to breathe or celebrate the victory. with a sudden, violent fluidness, his hands slide from your arms to your waist, and he flips you onto your back. the mattress groans under the sudden shift, and before you can even blink, he is hovering directly over you, pinning you down with the sheer weight of his presence.
he brackets your hips with his knees, but then he goes further— one knee slides upward, a slow, heavy, and deliberate wedge that forces your legs apart and settles firmly between them. the friction of his damp trousers against your skin is a cold shock, but it’s immediately scorched away by the feverish heat radiating from his thighs.
he plants his hands on either side of your head, his arms corded with tension as he looms over you. his hair, still wild and dripping, creates a dark, jagged curtain that shuts out the rest of the room. the bruised amber light catches the molten steel of his eyes, which are now dark, dilated, and fixed on yours.
he leans down, his chest crushing yours. the hard, defined ridges of his abs grind against you with every shallow, jagged breath he takes. he reaches out, one hand sliding from the mattress to tangle roughly into your hair, pulling just enough to force your head back and expose the dark, blooming marks he’s already carved into your neck.
his gaze drops to your lips, his expression a mask of simmering, quiet violence. he moves his knee just a fraction higher, a slow and agonizingly physical reminder of exactly who has control of the room now.
“ I tired of your talk, ” he breathes against your mouth, his lips ghosting over yours without quite touching. “ maybe I find better use for this tongue. ”
the sound that breaks from your throat is low and syrupy, a soft, vibrating moan that hangs in the heavy space between your lips. it’s a jagged, pretty sound— one that could be a genuine surrender to the heat of him, or just the final, sharpest hook in your game of provocation.
Feitan freezes.
the mercury heat in his eyes flickers, a momentary flash of genuine uncertainty crossing his face as he tries to read the curve of your mouth. he hates the ambiguity of it. he thrives on the concrete—on the clear lines of pain, fear, or victory—but you are giving him something blurred and maddeningly soft.
his hand in your hair tightens, his knuckles grazing your scalp as he yanks your head back a fraction more. he leans into the knee he has wedged between yours, the pressure blunt and uncompromising, trying to force a more honest reaction out of you.
“ You think this game, ” he rasps, his voice cracking with a raw, jagged frustration.
he drops his head, his face burying into the crook of your neck, right beside the darkest mark he’s made. he inhales sharply, the scent of your skin clearly unraveling whatever is left of his thin composure. his chest is heaving now, the hard planes of his stomach rippling against yours in a frantic, uneven rhythm.
“ Keep making that noise, ” he breathes, his lips ghosting over the raw skin of your throat, his teeth grazing the pulse point that’s currently hammering against him. “ and I make sure you not tell the difference anymore. ”
he bites down again, harder this time, a sharp and possessive claim that’s meant to ground both of you in the reality of the room. he wants to hear that sound again, but he wants to know— needs to know—that he’s the one who tore it out of you.
“ Fuck... ”
a low, jagged curse slips from your lips, the word muffled against the heat of his shoulder. it’s a sharp, breathy sound—half-smothered by the sheer weight of him and the biting pressure of his knee.
Feitan pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes narrowed into silver slits. he’s never been one for pretty words, and hearing you drop your guard into something so raw and unpolished sends a fresh surge of dark adrenaline through him. it’s the sound of someone losing their composure, and for Feitan, that is the ultimate victory.
“ Dirty mouth, ” he rasps, a ghost of a cruel, triumphant smirk finally pulling at the corner of his lips.
he leans down, his chest grinding into yours with a renewed, crushing intensity. his hand shifts from your hair, his fingers sliding down to grip your chin, forcing you to hold his gaze. his thumb is rough as it presses into your lower lip, dragging it down until you’re forced to look at him with your mouth slightly open, breathless and wrecked.
he sinks his face back into the hollow of your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin right above your collarbone. he’s no longer just marking you; he’s looking for every gasp and every jagged, whispered curse you have left, determined to strip away every bit of your teasing until there’s nothing left but the truth of his name on your tongue.
“ ...You're hard... Aren't you? ”
the air in the room suddenly feels like it’s been sucked out, replaced by a vacuum of pure, static shock.
Feitan goes absolutely rigid. the hand gripping your chin freezes, his fingers digging into your skin with a sudden, involuntary pressure. your voice, clear and silken even in its breathlessness, cuts through the low-lit violence of the moment like a silver blade.
he doesn't move for a long, heavy second, his face still buried against your collarbone. you can feel the exact moment his heart skips a beat before hammering against your ribs with a frantic, primitive rhythm. the blunt reality of your words, and the physical truth of the position he’s forced you into, hangs between you, stripped of all metaphor.
slowly, he lifts his head.
there is a raw, jagged flush crawling up his neck, a heat that has nothing to do with the storm outside and everything to do with the way you just dismantled his last shred of deniability.
“ You… ” he starts, his voice failing him.
he doesn't pull away. if anything, the pressure of his knee between yours becomes more insistent, more desperate, as if he’s trying to crush the confession back into your lungs. he looks at you with a mixture of pure, unadulterated loathing and a hunger so sharp it looks like physical pain.
“ You no shame, ” he finally rasps, the words coming out as a broken, guttural hiss.
he leans down until his forehead is resting against yours, his damp hair shielding both of your faces from the dim light. his breath is a feverish, ragged mess against your lips.
“ Think you are clever, ” he breathes, his hand sliding from your chin to wrap violently around the back of your neck, his thumb pressing into the hollow behind your ear. “ Think because you notice, you have power. ”
he shifts his weight, the movement blunt and unmistakable, forcing you to feel every inch of the reaction you just called out.
“ So what if I am? ” he snarls softly, his lips finally grazing yours in a jagged, desperate ghost of a kiss. “ What you going to do about it? ”
you let out a soft laugh, the sound vibrating directly into his chest. the terror and the heat of the moment are blurred into a single, intoxicating rush, and you have never felt more in control than you do right now, pinned beneath the weight of a man who could kill you with a flick of his wrist but is currently trembling because of a few words.
you lean up, closing the microscopic gap between your lips and his until you are breathing the same air, your eyes locked onto his dark, blown-out stare.
“ What am I... going to do? ”
you repeat his question in a velvet murmur, your voice dripping with a slow, honeyed confidence. you move your hands now free from his hands— and slide them up his chest while you rise up, your palms tracing the frantic, thundering rhythm of his heart before hooking behind his neck. you pull him down just a fraction more, forcing him to feel the curve of your smile against his mouth.
“ I think the question is… what are you going to do? ”
you shift your hips, a slow, agonizingly deliberate grind against the blunt reality of him, your eyes never leaving his.
“ Show me how much you ‘ hate ’ this. ”
the air in the room practically snaps.
Feitan’s fingers dig into the back of your neck, his grip bruising and desperate, as a low, guttural sound— a real, unadulterated growl— breaks from the back of his throat. he looks like he’s about to snap, his jaw set so hard you can see the muscle jumping in his cheek.
“ You… ” he rasps, the word a shattered piece of glass. “ I should really tear you tongue out. ”
but he doesn’t pull away. instead, he collapses the final distance, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that is less of an invitation and more of a collision— harsh, jagged, and tastes of iron and desperation.
the collision of his mouth against yours is everything he is: sharp, jagged, and entirely overwhelming. it’s not a soft or practiced kiss; it’s the desperate, messy hunger of a man who has been starving in the rain and finally found a fire.
you don't recoil from the violence of it. instead, your fingers tangle deeper into the damp, dark silk of his hair, your nails grazing his scalp as you pull him down, refusing to let him retreat. you meet his tongue with a daring heat of your own, turning the kiss into a frantic, breathless battle for territory.
Feitan lets out a muffled, broken sound against your lips— a low, frustrated groan that vibrates through your entire frame. he’s no longer the calculated torturer; he’s a live wire, and the way you’re pulling him closer is only stripping away the last of his insulation. his hands abandon the mattress, one arm sliding under your back to haul you up against his chest, while his other hand remains clamped at the nape of your neck.
the knee wedged between your thighs remains a heavy, grounding anchor, and every time the kiss deepens, he shifts against you, the blunt reality of his physical state a constant, thrumming pressure that neither of you can ignore.
the air in the room is thick with the scent of damp wool, salt, and the sudden, sharp ozone of adrenaline. he breaks the kiss for a split second, his chest heaving, his lips hovering just a hair’s breath from yours.
“ You… ” he gasps, his voice a shattered wreck of its usual lethality. “ You not know when to stop. ”
even as he says it, he’s the one who dives back in, his mouth finding the line of your jaw, then the raw, stinging marks on your neck, reclaiming every inch of skin he’s already marked. he’s making out with you with a jagged desperation, his hands wandering from your neck to your waist, his grip so tight he’s practically trying to pull you into his own skin.
“ ...Stop me then. ” you breathe against his ear, a silken taunt that sends a fresh shudder through his wire-corded frame.
he doesn’t stop. he only holds you tighter, his breathing coming in frantic, hot hitches as the hallway and the mission and the storm outside all dissolve into the suffocating, electric heat of the bed.
the atmosphere in the room thickens until it’s visceral, a heavy weight that makes every breath feel like a deliberate choice. the distance between you hasn't just vanished; it’s been incinerated.
his hands begin to move with a restless, searching energy. he finds the hem of your shirt, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your waist with a touch that is both freezing and scorching. you let out a jagged, broken sound as he hitches the fabric upward, his palms finally meeting the warmth of your back in a way that feels like a collision of two worlds.
he breaks the kiss, his forehead dropping back to yours, his chest rising and falling in a frantic, uneven rhythm that mirrors your own. the silence of the room is gone, replaced by the symphony of his grip on the sheets and the heavy, rhythmic thrum of a pulse that seems to vibrate through the floorboards.
“ Trouble, ” he rasps, the word a shattered vibration against your lips.
he shifts, the movement blunt and uncompromising, shedding the last of his lethal restraint as he anchors himself to the heat of you. the bruised light from the window catches the way his shoulders lock, his spine arching as he yields to the gravity of the moment. it isn't a surrender; it’s a total, quiet unraveling, a slow-motion collapsed into the dark pull of the bed.
every touch becomes a question he doesn't have the words to answer, and every breath you draw together is a thread tightening, pulling the two of you into a space where the storm outside can no longer reach. the scent of rain and copper is gone, swallowed by the intoxicating, dizzying haze of a fire that’s been burning in the dark for far too long.
—
the air in the room suddenly grows still, the frantic friction of the last few moments narrowing down to a single, heavy point of gravity. Feitan’s breath hitches, a sharp, jagged intake of air that stalls in his lungs as you shift your position beneath him, your intent written in the slow, deliberate way you move.
he remains anchored to the mattress, his hands clutching the sheets until the fabric groans, his knuckles a ghostly, bloodless white in the dim amber light. as you slide lower, the physical distance between you is replaced by a suffocating, electric tension. he lets out a low, guttural sound—halfway between a warning and a desperate, broken plea as he feels the shift in the atmosphere.
he sinks back against the pillows, his head falling back as his spine arches into a rigid, trembling line. the silver heat of his gaze is gone, hidden behind squeezed-shut eyelids, leaving only the raw, frantic rhythm of his breathing to fill the silence.
his fingers tangle violently into the bedding, his entire frame vibrating with a high-frequency tension that betrays how thin his composure has truly become.
“ You… ” he starts, but the word is swallowed by a sharp, airless gasp.
his jaw sets, the muscle jumping in his cheek as he yields to the quiet, devastating focus of your actions. the room feels smaller, hotter, centered entirely on the jagged, uneven rise and fall of his chest and the way his hands occasionally twitch, reaching out as if to stop you before curling back into the sheets, trapped by the very surrender he swore he’d never give.
the air in the room seems to catch fire, the silence thickening until the only sound left is the jagged, staccato rhythm of his breathing. as you continue with a slow, devastating focus, Feitan’s restraint doesn't just fray— it snaps.
his hand, previously buried in the sheets, suddenly lashes out. he finds the silk of your hair, his fingers threading through the strands and tightening with a bruising force. he isn't pulling away; he’s anchoring you there, his knuckles white as he holds you in place with a raw, desperate intensity.
his head thumps back against the headboard, his eyes squeezed shut so tightly the skin around them creases. a low, broken sound— something between a growl and a stifled sob rips from his throat.
“ Don’t… ” he rasps, the word dying in his throat as his grip in your hair tightens even further.
his other hand finds the edge of the mattress, his nails nearly clawing through the fabric as he tries to find some kind of purchase in a world that has turned entirely to liquid heat. his fingers clench in your hair, a silent, frantic command to never, ever stop.
as the tension reaches a breaking point, Feitan’s grip in your hair shifts from a static anchor to something more active, more demanding.
he doesn't let go, but his fingers tighten with a renewed, rhythmic pressure, wordlessly communicating the jagged pace he needs. his other hand reaches down, his palm flat against the back of your head, his touch a mixture of a heavy, grounding weight and a desperate, guiding force.
he is no longer just enduring the sensation; he is participating in his own undoing.
“ Stop... thinking, ” he rasps, his voice a shattered, guttural mess that barely sounds human.
his hips shift in a slow, involuntary tilt, meeting you with a blunt honesty that betrays exactly how close he is to the edge. every time he breathes, it’s a sharp, airless hitch that hitches his chest off the bed, his spine arching until it’s a rigid bow of corded muscle.
the hand on your head guides you with a sudden, frantic urgency, his knuckles grazing your scalp as he wordlessly pushes for more, his movements becoming more uncoordinated and raw.
he is a man who thrives on being the one in control, but right now, the only control he has is the way he holds you— guiding the very fire that is consuming him. a low, continuous vibration hums in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated friction, until his eyes fly open, staring at the ceiling with a vacant, silver intensity that sees nothing but the dark.
his grip in your hair isn't just possessive now— it’s a vice. his knuckles are stark white, and he uses that grip to anchor you with a sudden, rough urgency. he isn't pleading; he’s taking, his fingers tightening in a wordless, jagged command for you to keep going, to go harder, to finish what you started.
“ Don’t you dare stop, ” he rasps, his voice a jagged, low-frequency snarl that vibrates through the crown of your head.
it’s not a request. it’s a threat, delivered with the last shred of his fraying authority.
his spine stays arched in a rigid, trembling line, his chest heaving as he fights for air. the hand on the back of your head is heavy and uncompromising, guiding you with a frantic, rhythmic pressure that betrays just how close he is to the edge.
he’s no longer making pretty sounds—every breath is a sharp, airless hitch, a guttural sound of pure friction that he can’t seem to swallow back down.
his eyes stay fixed on the ceiling, his pupils blown out into wide, black voids as the room starts to tilt. he shifts his weight, the movement blunt and involuntary, meeting your focus with a desperate, final intensity.
the low hum in his throat builds into a sharp, choked-off sound as he finally hits the breaking point. his grip in your hair reaches a bruising peak, his whole body locking up for a few agonizing, electric seconds before the tension shatters. he falls back against the pillows, his chest rising and falling in wrecked, shallow gasps, his fingers still tangled in your hair as if he’s afraid that if he lets go, he’ll disappear into the dark.
you slowly sit up, your own hair a mess from his grip, and look down at him. a slow, languid smile spreads across your lips— the same one that started this whole mess.
“ ...Look at you, ” you murmur, your voice a low, honeyed purr that seems to echo in the quiet room.
Feitan’s eyes snap open, the molten steel burning through the shadows. his hand is still tangled in your hair, and at your words, his fingers flex reflexively, a sharp, warning tug that brings your face inches from his. He looks like he wants to kill you and kiss you all over again, his jaw set so tight it’s a miracle it doesn't crack.
“ ...Quiet, ” he rasps, his voice a shattered, low-frequency ghost of its usual self.
“ Make me, ” you tease, your eyes dropping to his mouth before snapping back to his. you lean in, your breath ghosting over his lips. “ you seem… a bit preoccupied. Should I help you find your voice again? ”
a low growl rips from his throat— he yanks your head down, his thumb dragging across your lower.
“ You talk too much, ” he breathes, his eyes narrowing into lethal slits even as he pulls you back down into his space. “ I find another way to stop your mouth. ”
the tension in the room doesn't just return; it mutates into something far heavier, a thick, atmospheric weight that makes the very air feel like a physical pressure against your skin. Feitan doesn’t wait for another word to leave your mouth. he reacts with a sudden, jolting energy, his hands sliding from your hair to your waist, his grip so tight it feels like he’s trying to fuse your shadows together.
he hauls you back down, the mattress dipping low as he maneuvers you with a restless, frantic urgency. the playfulness of your tease is immediately swallowed by the raw, unpolished heat radiating from him.
the exchange becomes a blur of friction and shallow, shared breaths. there are no more words, only the rhythmic, heavy thud of a heart hammering against ribs and the sound of leather and linen twisting under the weight of two people who have stopped trying to pretend they aren't unraveling. he moves with a desperate sort of focus, his hands mapping the curve of your spine and the slope of your shoulders as if he’s trying to memorize the geography of your skin in the dark.
every touch is a jagged escalation. the space between you disappears entirely, replaced by a suffocating intimacy that tastes like salt and iron. he buries his face in the hollow of your neck, his breathing a series of hot, jagged hitches that vibrate against your pulse point, while his fingers tangle back into your hair, pulling you closer until there is no air left between you.
the bruised light from the window catches the way his muscles lock, his entire frame vibrating with a high-frequency tension that refuses to break. it’s a total, quiet collapse into the dark— a slow-motion fall where the only thing keeping either of you grounded is the bruising, uncompromising grip you have on each other.
—
the heavy, electric heat of the room finally begins to thin as the storm outside peters out into a dull, rhythmic drizzle. the absolute, suffocating darkness of the midnight hours slowly gives way to a bruised, cinematic grey— the first tentative light of dawn bleeding through the gaps in the curtains.
the air is cool now, smelling of damp pavement and fading ozone, a stark contrast to the feverish friction of the hours before.
Feitan has finally stilled, though the tension never fully leaves his frame. he’s a dark, jagged silhouette against the rumpled white of the sheets, his breathing deep and steady for the first time since the sun went down. the violent, magnetic pull that dictated every movement of the night has settled into a heavy, exhausted quiet, leaving the room feeling vast and hollow in the early light.
the clock on the wall ticks with a sudden, sharp clarity that wasn't there before, marking the end of the vacuum you’ve been living in. the mission, the Troupe, and the cold reality of the world outside are starting to settle back into the corners of the room, reclaiming the space that, for a few times, belonged only to the two of you.
the night is over, and the soft haze of the dark is retreating, leaving behind only the cooling marks on your skin and the quiet, heavy weight of a man who looks entirely different in the light of day.
—
the grey, watery light of morning filters through the room, looking less like a new beginning and more like an unwelcome intrusion. Feitan is awake long before the sun manages to fully clear the horizon, his eyes snapping open with a sharp, instinctive clarity that feels like a physical ache.
he feels… volatile. his skin feels a size too small, tight with the residual heat of a night that refused to let him rest. there is a heavy, leaden irritation settled behind his eyes— partly from the lack of sleep, but mostly from the lingering, honeyed memory of your laugh and the way he had completely unspooled in the dark. to a man who views any loss of control as a weakness, the echoes of last night are a jagged thorn in his side.
he rolls out of bed with a silent, lethal grace, his movements stiff. he doesn't look back at the bed as he pulls on his high-collared coat, the fabric feeling abrasive against the marks on his skin.
when he slides open the door to the common area, the atmosphere is already humming with the low-frequency energy of the Troupe.
Machi is sitting by the window, her needle moving in a rhythmic, silver blur as she repairs a fraying shroud. she doesn’t look up when Feitan enters; she doesn’t need to. the shift in the room’s pressure tells her exactly who it is.
“ Your Nen is erratic, ” she says. her voice is flat— not a taunt, just an observation.
Feitan doesn't answer, moving toward the shadows near the back of the room, his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line. he exudes a sharp, foul energy that would make anyone else back away.
Machi finally pauses, her threads suspended in the air like a web. she turns her gaze toward him, her pink eyes devoid of humor. she notes the rigid set of his shoulders and the slight delay in his step.
“ You’re moving heavy, ” she states plainly. She doesn't smirk; she simply watches him with the detached interest of a doctor looking at a broken tool. “ If you need stitches, sit down. If you’re just going to bleed on the floor, do it somewhere else. ”
Feitan’s hand twitches toward the hilt of his umbrella, his silver eyes narrowing into dangerous, lethal slits. Machi doesn't blink, already returning her needle to the fabric.
“ Keep talking, ” he rasps, his voice a low, gravelly warning that still carries the jagged edge of his exhaustion. “ and I find new place for your needles. ”
Machi huffs a short, dry laugh, the sound brittle and gone as soon as it hits the air. she is entirely unimpressed by the threat; she has lived among monsters far too long to flinch at a bared tooth.
the rest of the Troupe continues their preparations, but the heavy, charged silence Feitan brought into the room remains, a simmering reminder of the night he’s trying so hard to forget.
the tension in the room is already thick enough to choke on, but there is always someone in the Troupe willing to poke at a fresh wound.
as the silence between Machi and Feitan stretches, the heavy door creaks open. Phinks saunters in, his footsteps heavy and echoing compared to Feitan’s ghost-like tread. he stops short, eyes darting between Machi’s rhythmic sewing and the dark, radiating gloom coming from the corner.
Phinks whistles low, a sound that grates against the quiet.
“ Look at you, ” Phinks says, leaning his weight against the doorframe and crossing his arms. he doesn't have Machi’s clinical detachment; he has a predator’s eye for weakness and a loud mouth to go with it. “ You’re looking a little sluggish, Feitan. What’s the matter? Shadows under your eyes are darker than your coat. ”
Feitan flares— a cold, jagged spike of Nen that makes the air in the room feel thin.
Phinks just grins, undeterred.
“ Don't tell me you’re having trouble sleeping. What, did one of those 'toys' from last week start haunting your dreams? Or are you just afraid of what happens when you close your eyes? ”
the click of Feitan’s umbrella handle is the only warning. the metal guard slides a fraction of an inch, revealing a sliver of polished, lethal steel.
“ You want... permanent sleep? ” Feitan’s voice is a low, guttural rasp, his grip tightening until his knuckles turn white.
Phinks just lets out a boisterous laugh, the sound bouncing off the damp walls.
“ Temper, temper. I’m just saying— if you keep moving that slow, the next mark is going to see you coming from a mile away. Maybe Machi can stitch your eyelids open for you. ”
Machi doesn't even pause her needle, but her voice cuts through Phinks’s laughter like a cold blade.
“ He’s already irritated enough, Phinks. If he burns the building down, you’re the one explaining it to Boss. ”
—
the morning light feels far more welcoming to you than it did to the man who just left the room. despite the scant few hours of sleep, you feel a humming, electric sense of satisfaction— a warm glow that seems to have settled deep in your bones.
you pull on a thick, black turtleneck, the soft fabric a deliberate choice to hide the dark, blooming evidence of Feitan’s lack of restraint. after smoothing down the collar, you step out into the common area, radiating a quiet, sunny energy that feels entirely out of place in the grim hideout.
Feitan is a dark blot in the corner of the room, his aura radiating do not approach, but you can’t help the soft, secret smile that tugs at your lips when your eyes catch the back of his head.
" Good morning, " you chirp, your voice light and clear, cutting through the heavy atmosphere like a bell.
the common area is a mess of half-packed crates and the sharp smell of gun oil. you walk in feeling a strange, humming lightness in your chest— a sharp contrast to the oppressive, leaden silence radiating from Feitan’s corner. you’ve pulled the black fabric of your turtleneck all the way up to your jaw, the material a soft but necessary shield.
Shalnark is leaning against a crumbling concrete pillar, flipping a small butterfly knife open and shut with a rhythmic, metallic clack-clack. he doesn't look up immediately, but as you approach, his hands go still.
he turns his head, his bright, emerald eyes scanning you with the detached precision of a scientist examining a specimen. a slow, thin smile stretches across his face— not quite warm, but definitely knowing.
“ You're making a lot of noise, ” he says calmly. his voice is pleasant, but there’s a cold, analytical edge underneath.
you blink, glancing around the quiet room.
“ I haven't said a word. ”
“ Not with your mouth, ” he counter-purrs, finally turning his full attention to you. he leans back against a crate, crossing his ankles. “ Your energy. It’s... loud. Very bright. It’s actually a bit distracting compared to the black hole sitting in the corner. ”
he flickers a glance toward Feitan, then back to you, his eyes lingering on the high, thick collar of your sweater. his grin widens, becoming something more pointed and mocking.
“ ...Whatever. ”
Phinks is adjusting his tracksuit sleeves with a bored expression, while Machi is standing by the door like a silent, sharp-edged sentinel. Feitan is a shadow among shadows, his umbrella gripped tight, his aura still simmering with a low-frequency irritability that makes the others give him a wide berth.
you’re finishing your own preparations, still feeling that lingering, electric hum of satisfaction despite the early hour.
Phinks glances around the room, his brow furrowing as he does a quick head count.
“ Where’s the short one? ” he grunts, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. “ We’re supposed to be moving in five minutes. ”
Shalnark doesn’t even look up from his phone, but a small, amused huff escapes him. “ Probably still in the back. She’s not exactly a morning person when she’s in the middle of a dream. ”
you realize with a start that Shizuku hasn’t made an appearance yet.
“ Someone go get her, ” Machi says, her voice flat. She flickers a glance toward the hallway, then back to the group. “ Unless we want to leave her behind and explain to Chrollo why we’re short a vacuum. ”
Phinks rolls his shoulders and looks at you, then at Feitan, then back to you. a slow, mischievous glint enters his eyes— the kind of look that spells trouble.
“ Hey, Feitan, ” Phinks calls out, his tone dripping with mock-innocence. “ Since you’re already so awake and energetic, why don’t you go wake her up? Or are you afraid you’ll accidentally take her head off because your nerves are shot? ”
Feitan’s grip on his umbrella tightens until the leather creaks. he doesn't move, his golden eyes fixed on a point on the wall with lethal intensity.
“ Do it yourself, ” Feitan rasps, his voice a jagged shadow of its usual self.
Shalnark lets out a bright, airy laugh, finally pocketing his phone. “ I think he’s worried if he goes back into the sleeping quarters, he might not come back out. It’s a very... high-pressure environment back there this morning. ”
he gives you a pointed, sidelong look, his smile sharp and knowing.
“ Go on, ” Shalnark nudges you playfully.
“ You’re the only one here who doesn't look like they're ready to murder someone. Go see if Shizuku’s actually alive under those blankets. ”
—
the hallway is narrow and damp, the stone walls holding onto the chill of the dying storm. as you pull away from the heavy atmosphere of the main room, the silence back here feels almost surreal. you push open the heavy wooden door to the sleeping quarters, the hinges letting out a soft, rhythmic groan.
Shizuku is nothing more than a static mound under a pile of grey wool blankets. she hasn’t moved an inch despite the noise of the Troupe prepping just a few walls away.
you lean over the cot and give the mound a firm shake. “ Shizuku. Wake up, it’s time to go. ”
there’s a muffled hum from beneath the wool. slowly, the blankets slide down, revealing a mess of short, dark hair and a face that looks entirely untroubled by the concept of time. she blinks, her eyes unfocused, before reaching for her glasses on the floor.
she slides them onto the bridge of her nose and stares at you, her expression as flat and empty as a calm lake.
“ Oh, ” she says, her voice light and airy. “ Is the mission over? ”
“ It hasn't started yet. Everyone is waiting. ”
Shizuku sits up slowly, the blankets pooling around her waist. her gaze drifts upward, fixing on the high, dark fabric of your turtleneck. she tilts her head to the side, her eyes narrowing behind her lenses with a clinical, detached sort of curiosity.
“ You're dressed for winter, ” she observes. her voice is devoid of Shalnark’s mockery or Machi’s sharpness— it’s just a statement of fact. “ But the humidity is 82%. I saw it on the news before I fell asleep. ”
she reaches out a pale hand, her fingers hovering near the edge of your collar.
“ Did you get a throat infection? ” she asks, her tone genuinely puzzled. “ Or did Feitan lose his temper and try to squeeze the life out of you again? You look very... muffled. ”
she blinks once, her head tilting to the opposite side.
you simply give Shizuku a small, noncommittal shrug, refusing to let her blank-faced logic break your stride. while she slowly begins the process of finding her boots and summoning Blinky, you finish pulling your gear together. you double-check the tuck of your turtleneck in a cracked shard of a mirror, ensuring every mark is hidden, and then turn to head back out.
when you and Shizuku finally emerge into the main hall, the atmosphere is pulled tight like a bowstring.
Phinks is leaning against the exit, arms crossed over his chest. he checks his watch and then looks at the two of you, his eyes lingering on you just a second too long with a smirk he doesn't bother to hide. “ Finally. I thought we were going to have to send a search party to drag you out of there. ”
Machi doesn't say a word; she simply pushes off the wall and heads for the door, the silent signal that the grace period is over.
Feitan is already halfway to the exit, his back to the room. he hasn't looked at you once since you walked back in, but the way his shoulders are set, rigid and defensive— speaks volumes. as you pass by him to reach the door, the air around him feels several degrees colder, a sharp, biting frost that smells faintly of the night’s lingering electricity.
Shalnark falls into step beside you, his phone already back in his hand. he doesn't look up as he speaks, his tone breezy and conversational. “ Nice of you to join us. Try to keep up, okay? We wouldn't want you getting... distracted... again. ”
the city streets are a labyrinth of grey concrete and stagnant puddles, reflecting the dull, overcast sky. the Troupe moves with a synchronized silence, weaving through the morning crowds like shadows passing through light.
Feitan is at the head of the formation, a dark, jagged silhouette. he moves with a stiff, agitated grace, his umbrella tapped rhythmically against the pavement with a sharp, metallic clack that sounds like a countdown. he hasn't looked back once.
you, however, feel bold. the lingering warmth of the night hasn't faded, and his visible irritation only makes the urge to poke the bear more irresistible.
you quicken your pace, dodging past Shalnark to pull up alongside Feitan. he doesn't acknowledge you, but the line of his jaw tightens until the bone looks like it might snap.
“ You're walking very fast... ” you murmur, leaning in just enough so your voice doesn't carry to the others. “ Are you trying to run away from your thoughts? ”
Feitan’s pace doesn't falter, but his silver eyes cut sideways, a lethal, amber flash beneath his dark fringe. “ Do not push luck, ” he rasps, his voice still carrying that wrecked, gravelly friction from the night before. “ I am in no mood for games. ”
“ No? ” you let your hand drift toward his, your fingertips grazing the dark fabric of his sleeve for just a fraction of a second—a touch light as a breath but heavy with intent. you lean closer, your voice dropping to a private hum. “ That’s a shame. You seemed very... invested in the games we were playing a few hours ago. You certainly didn't seem to be in a hurry to leave then. ”
the rhythmic clack of his umbrella stops instantly.
he halts in the middle of the sidewalk, the suddenness of it forcing Phinks and Machi to swerve around you both with knowing, annoyed glances. Feitan turns to face you, his presence looming and dangerous. he’s close enough that you can feel the radiating heat from his chest, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure, concentrated molten steel.
“ You think you are clever, ” he breathes, his voice a low-frequency vibration that you feel in your teeth. he steps into your space, his hand coming up to grip the handle of his umbrella so hard the leather groans.
he leans down, his face inches from yours, his gaze dropping pointedly to the high, dark collar of your turtleneck before snapping back to your eyes.
“ Be careful, ” he warns, his voice dropping to a whisper that is pure, unadulterated threat. “ Or I give you reason to wear that sweater for a month. ”
the sidewalk becomes a sudden, static bubble in the middle of the city's morning rush. the rest of the Troupe has drifted to a halt a few paces ahead, and the silence is heavy. Phinks has his arms crossed, looking between the two of you with an expression of pained disbelief, while Machi simply stares at a distant rooftop, her patience visibly thinning. Shalnark is the only one watching with blatant, clinical amusement, his head tilted as he waits to see if Feitan actually snaps.
you don't flinch. instead, you meet that molten, murderous glare with a slow, deliberate blink. you reach up, two fingers grazing the edge of your high collar, adjusting the fabric with a languid grace that is pure provocation.
“...I'd love to, ” you breathe, your voice a soft, honeyed challenge that carries just enough weight for him to hear. “ But... I think your... not feeling well right now. Whatever. Maybe when you’ve had a nap. ”
you give him a final, devastatingly casual smile and step around him, falling back into stride with a spring in your step.
the silence behind you is deafening.
Phinks lets out a sharp, incredulous bark of a laugh, shaking his head. “ Man, I've seen people face the Zoldycks with more self-preservation than that. You’re either the bravest person in this city or the most annoying. ”
Shalnark just whistles low, his eyes bright. “ I give it ten minutes before he tries to incinerate the entire block. That was... bold. ”
Feitan remains frozen for a heartbeat longer, his knuckles white as he grips his umbrella. he eventually exhales a sharp, jagged breath and starts walking again, his pace more aggressive than before, his head down as he tries to bury the frustration— and the memory of the night—under a layer of lethal focus.
the morning sun finally begins to tear through the stubborn, bruised clouds, casting long, sharp-edged shadows across the damp pavement. as the group moves deeper into the industrial heart of the city, the playful friction of the morning starts to submerge beneath the cold, professional weight of the mission ahead.
the towering skeletons of unfinished skyscrapers loom over you, and the air turns metallic with the scent of grease and impending rain.
the Troupe settles into their familiar, rhythmic silence. Feitan stays at the very edge of the formation, a dark, vibrating needle on a compass that refuses to point north. every few minutes, his gaze flickers toward you, sharp and unreadable, before he snaps his attention back to the horizon.
the private war between the two of you hasn't ended; it has simply evolved, settling into a simmering, electric truce.
the city is waking up, loud and indifferent, but for the Spiders, the world is still narrow, dangerous, and perfectly contained within the shadows they cast.
by the time you reach the mission objective, the night is a ghost, tucked away into the dark corners where memories go to wait. but as the first sounds of conflict begin to echo in the distance, you catch one last look from Feitan— a promise of a reckoning that will be far less quiet than the morning.
this is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.
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( sorry i have no dividers )
I dont upload smut, this was supposed fluff but somehow turned different...
