hihi is the INFP anon here hehe
could you do a smut of childhood friend reader x Illumi? Reader gonna be an INFP, preferably sub, and is from a clan who is close allies with the Zoldycks (which explains why they ended up being friends since childhood XD)
✦ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭 | 𝐈𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐢 𝐙𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐲𝐜𝐤 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐏!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 [𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭/𝐋𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧] ✦
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･
𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒐𝒓 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔: Hi INFP anon!! Good to have you here :-D Thank you so much for the request, I hope my writing managed to capture what you were looking for. I just made a few adjustments, like the whole 'childhood friends' dynamic, since I absolutely cannot see Illumi having friends under any circumstances, let alone dealing with the sensitive nature of an INFP (maybe that's just my perfectionist INTJ side, obsessed with logic and character analysis, and also stubborn enough to refuse to accept anything out of canon, lol). I tried my best to blend Illumi's canon essence with an INFP reader as much as possible, so I hope you enjoy it, anon. Happy reading, everyone! :-)
𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: Explicit Smut, Female Virginity Loss, Pain/Burning (detailed), Cry of Pain, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Submissive Reader, Possessive & Obsessive Illumi Zoldyck, Dark Romance, Non-Romantic/Possession-Driven Sex, Psychological Manipulation, Needle Play (light/sensory), Degradation/Objectification (implied/clinical), Clothing Destruction/Stripping, Biting & Marking (deep/bloody), Blood Kink, Post-Coital Interruption (aftercare-absent), Implied Murder/Assassination of Rivals, Canon-Typical Dark Themes.
The underworld of the Padokia Republic operates under silent gears. While the Zoldyck family dominates the peak of Kukuroo Mountain as the ultimate executioners, the preservation of their empire demands an invisible web to clean up the dust left behind by the massacres. That is where your clan becomes vital. Possessing a meticulous Specialization Nen, your family acts as the underworld's eraser, capable of manipulating information flows, rewriting records, and purifying the residual aura left by the executors after a Class-A job.
Such a crucial alliance demanded absolute guarantees. Nearly two decades ago, in the main hall of your parents' mansion—a suffocating environment decorated with heavy tapestries and the constant aroma of expensive incense—a pact was sealed. Your parents, fearing the greed of rival factions over the lineage of their only heiress, paid an astronomical price in gold bars and state secrets to the only family they could trust with your safety. Silva Zoldyck accepted the terms. But he did not send a common bodyguard; he sent his firstborn, the promise of the new generation of assassins, to be your private shadow.
Illumi Zoldyck arrived at your estate when he was still a boy, wearing dark training clothes, his black hair cut at shoulder length, and an impeccably straight posture that defied gravity itself.
To you, a child with an expansive, romantic mind, gifted with a sensitivity that made you see poetry even in the garden stones, his presence seemed like a mystery waiting to be solved. You wanted a friend. You wanted the human connection that the clan's isolation stole from you.
Your childhood memories are a mosaic of these frustrated attempts, small fragments of warmth colliding against a wall of absolute ice.
You remember running to him in the winter gardens, your tiny hands outstretched, offering your favorite round, brightly colored sweets. The child Illumi remained static under the shadow of a tree, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. He wouldn't even blink. Those large black eyes, round and devoid of any light or visible pupil, fixed on you. He didn't look at the candy; he looked at the movement of your muscles, the rhythm of your breath, calculating how many seconds you would take to react to an attack. Under his gaze, you felt like a tiny creature beneath a microscope lens. He was just waiting for you to bloom, watching your Nen potential develop the way a botanist examines an exotic laboratory plant.
Gradually, you learned to decipher his silences. You learned that the total absence of expression meant he was satisfied with your progress, and that the slightest millimeter arch of his eyebrows indicated a severe judgment of your posture.
But the innocence of your childhood was shattered on a spring afternoon. You were walking through the stone courtyards when you spotted Illumi crouching near a bush. A cat with soft, grey fur stood right before him. From a distance, the scene looked almost tender. The Zoldyck boy extended a pale hand toward the animal, and you smiled, thinking you would finally see a glimpse of humanity in him, a genuine affection directed at a living being.
You quickened your pace, but stopped abruptly when the wind brought a muffled sound.
There was no affection. By the time you approached, the cat was no longer moving. Illumi’s hand wasn't stroking the fur; he held the animal by the neck with his fingertips, while his other hand slowly and surgically buried three long, round-headed needles directly into the feline's skull and spine. The creature died in a silent spasm, its eyes rolled back. Illumi pulled the needles back with a soft click, wiping the blood on the fabric of his own trousers, and lifted his face toward you. His countenance remained perfectly peaceful, washed of any cruelty or pleasure. To him, that was just a test of reflexes and anatomy. A routine exercise.
It was on that day that you understood the weight of the shadow protecting you. Illumi Zoldyck did not operate under the same feelings as the rest of the world. He was there because of a contract, and your life belonged to the scope of that mission.
The night of your transition of power transformed the clan’s mansion into a hub for cold negotiations. The main hall was filled with the murmurs of mafia bosses, Yorknew brokers, and influential figures from the underworld. Dark wax candles burned in iron chandeliers, casting long shadows across the stone walls. At the center of a long oak table, stacks of legal documents, intelligence reports, and the original contract bearing the Zoldyck wax seal awaited the final signature of termination. Upon coming of age, you assumed absolute control over your family’s data-purification business. Illumi Zoldyck’s nineteen-year assignment was officially complete.
Your father, his mind always focused on business expansion, used the event to align the next strategic move. While servants served wine in crystal goblets, he spread three leather folders across the table in front of you. Each contained the technical profile, Nen history, and assets of heirs from other prominent criminal factions in Padokia and the Azian Continent. He suggested that a political marriage to one of these suitors would consolidate the clan's security now that the protection of Kukuroo Mountain would no longer be active.
Illumi found out about the marriage plans in the most bureaucratic way possible: through an intercepted financial report detailing the division of assets and the dowries offered by the suitors to your clan.
He received the information in a temporary office on the edge of the estate, under the dim light of a desk lamp. The paper remained steady between his pale fingers. His black, static eyes scanned the names of the candidates and the clauses that provided the future husband with free access to your Nen abilities and your personal routine.
In Illumi's mind, a perfectly lubricated gear abruptly jammed. The logical calculation of his entire life was based on a single objective: ensuring that not a single scratch touched you, shaping your environment, and isolating your growth so that your power blossomed exactly under the parameters he deemed perfect. For the assassin, seeing those foreign names associated with your future did not trigger a feeling of human jealousy, but rather an alert of property violation. The idea of handing over the most valuable asset he had cultivated, protected, and watched over for two decades to weak, inferior men was unacceptable. The contract with your parents had expired, but the right of possession he had established over you was deeply rooted.
The silence of your private bedroom was the only refuge from the noise of the celebration downstairs. The room was spacious and elegantly decorated, featuring dark wooden bookshelves filled with antique volumes, soft cushions arranged near the window, and dim lighting from a few bedside lamps. The space perfectly reflected your introspective mind—a sanctuary where you could retreat and process the flood of thoughts and emotions the day had brought. Dressed in the formal attire of the ceremony, you leaned against the vanity, letting out a long sigh.
Without a single door opening or the window glass making the slightest sound, the temperature in the room plummeted. The air grew dense, heavy as lead, filling the corners of the room with an overwhelming pressure that sent your Nen instincts into high alert.
You didn’t need to turn around to know who was there. That murderous aura, cold and entirely devoid of any emotional fluctuation, was a signature you would recognize anywhere in the world. Illumi Zoldyck had emerged from the shadows cast by the window curtains. His long, black hair cascaded like a dark waterfall over his shoulders, and his large black eyes focused directly on you, gleaming in the dim light.
— Hi, Illumi — you said, keeping your voice as steady as possible while managing your breathing against the crushing weight of his Nen. You turned around slowly, resting your hands on the edge of the vanity. — How are you?
The assassin remained motionless for a few seconds. His voice came out soft and drawn-out, cutting through the silence with a linear cadence.
— I executed two targets on my way to Yorknew this afternoon. My body is operating at full efficiency, [Y/N]. Thank you for asking.
You blinked, processing his typically mechanical response, before the reality of the situation hit you. You straightened your posture, crossing your arms.
— What are you doing here? I thought our contract officially ended a few hours ago. My father already signed the termination papers with your clan.
Illumi took a step forward, his shoed feet moving soundlessly across the carpet. He ignored your question about the paperwork. His eyes shifted a millimeter toward the nightstand, where the three leather folders containing the suitors' profiles lay.
— The Eastern Padokia faction is on the verge of a civil war due to cargo embezzlement — Illumi began, his voice calm and surgical, as if reading a bureaucratic report. — Their heir, whose profile is in that first folder, has an unstable Nen highway and spends most of his time in underground casinos. He would be dead in less than six months, dragging your clan’s information flow down with him. The second one, from the Yorknew mafia, uses synthetic drugs to expand his manipulation aura. His brain will be atrophied before he turns thirty. And the third wouldn't pass my family’s basic poison resistance test. They are weak. They will waste your potential. They will break you.
His tone was so completely washed of human emotion that the sheer precision of his analysis left you momentarily breathless. You took a deep breath, trying to regain control of the situation.
— That is none of your business anymore, Illumi. The Zoldyck contract is over. I am the leader now, I need to move forward and do what is best for my clan's political security.
Illumi’s aura expanded with a silent snap. His Nen flooded the room like a suffocating fog, causing the wooden furniture to creak under the pressure. He took two swift steps, eliminating the distance between you and pinning your body against the firm wood of the vanity. His proximity was intoxicating; the subtle scent of expensive fabric mixed with the almost imperceptible metallic odor of his latest mission filled your senses.
— My family's contract is over, [Y/N]. Mine is not.
Illumi tilted his head to the side, his black hair sliding over his shoulder. He raised a pale hand, touching the side of your neck with the tips of his cold fingers, right over your pulse point. The pressure there was light, yet the intent of control was absolute.
— My father received payment for the time I spent guarding your borders and your gates — he whispered, his drawn-out voice brushing against your ear, sending a icy shiver down your spine. — But the time I spent shaping your reactions, watching your mind develop, and ensuring your Nen blossomed without any interference... that does not belong to the Zoldyck records. It belongs to me. I watched you grow step by step. Every line of your progress was calculated by my eyes. Did you truly think I would allow inferior men to lay their hands on the only thing I cultivated with such precision? You are my most valuable investment, [Y/N]. And I never give up what is mine.
His pitch-black eyes, completely devoid of pupils, locked into yours. There was no anger, no conventional passion; there was only the mathematical certainty of a predator that had decided to lock its prey into the ultimate cage.
⚠️ [ NSFW / LEMON WARNING ] ⚠️
The pressure of Illumi’s aura did not diminish; it molded around the two of you like a solid wall, isolating the bedroom from the rest of the world. He did not act with haste, anger, or the savage desperation of someone who fears interruption. Every single movement of his was devoid of anxiety, guided by the surgical calmness of a predator that knows its prey has nowhere to run. With a firm, inevitable pressure against your shoulders, he guided you toward the bed, forcing you to step back until the edge of the mattress made you yield.
You sank into the sheets, and the weight of his body followed immediately. Illumi pinned you there, using the exact distribution of his own weight and the superior strength of his pale arms, which bracketed either side of your head, locking you against the mattress.
Raising one hand, he used his cold fingers to slowly trace the lines of your face, contouring the curve of your jaw and sliding down the side of your neck. The touch was light, yet entirely stripped of any romantic warmth; his black, static eyes inspected you inch by inch, like a proprietor evaluating the integrity of a valuable asset in his personal collection.
For you, the proximity of that bottomless gaze and the realization of his ownership triggered an overwhelming overload of emotions. Your introspective, deeply sensitive mind, which had spent years secretly digesting every silence and every glance from that assassin, collapsed under the weight of nearly two decades of accumulated sexual tension. There was no room for logic or for your clan's diplomacy. Feeling the racing rhythm of your own heart against his cold fingers, you yielded completely to the domination. The suffocating weight of Illumi's presence, which had always intimidated you, transformed into the only sanctuary your mind recognized. Beneath his control, you finally accepted what your intuition had long whispered: you had always belonged to him.
Noticing your total surrender through the relaxation of your muscles, Illumi slid his hand down to the clasp of your formal attire. With the same methodical precision he would use to defuse a security mechanism, he undid the buttons and ties of your clothing. His fingers did not grope with urgency; he parted the heavy ceremonial fabric inch by inch, exposing your skin to the cool air of the room until you were completely vulnerable beneath him. The sophisticated garments that represented your political leadership were discarded onto the floor the same way your parents' contracts had been: completely irrelevant now.
Before using his hands directly on your exposed body, a metallic gleam caught the light between Illumi’s long fingers. Two of his Nen needles, long and round-headed, appeared within the dimness of the room.
You did not pull away, even though your instincts were sharp. He did not intend to pierce your Nen highways to turn you into a mindless puppet; he wanted something deeper. With calculated slowness, Illumi dragged the cold steel tip of one needle across the curve of your bust, traveling millimeters down the contour of your ribs until it reached your inner thighs. The contrast of the freezing metal against the warm temperature of your skin caused every hair on your body to stand up in an involuntary shiver. He pressed the tip of the needle subtly, just enough to test your sensitivity and elicit a low, hitched gasp from your throat.
Illumi tilted his face, observing your body's immediate reaction to the clinical stimulus. Satisfied with the tremor that rippled through your thighs, he stowed the needles away with a swift flick of his wrist and replaced the metal with the direct touch of his cold palms, flattening them against your bare skin and locking his control over your hips.
Illumi’s cold palms on your hips were not an invitation, but an imposition. Before moving forward, he initiated foreplay with the same surgical patience he dedicated to his targets. His long fingers slid into the space between your thighs, touching you with a technical precision that ignored any sense of haste. He pressed and stimulated the exact right spots, testing your body's reactions while his black eyes tracked every gasp, every involuntary twitch of your muscles, and the initial wetness that began to coat your skin. He was mapping you out, understanding the mechanism of your pleasure the same way he knew human anatomy.
When he deemed your body minimally prepared under his clinical touch, Illumi positioned himself between your legs, aligning the rigidity of his own member against your still narrow and intact opening.
He did not ask for permission. With a firm, linear, and continuous thrust, Illumi began to penetrate you. The moment his length forced past the barrier of your virginity, a sudden wave of burning and pure tension struck your lower abdomen. The sensation of the rupture was a sharp, tearing pain that caused your inner muscles to squeeze in shock around him. The impact of losing your virginity tore a sharp, breathless little cry from the depth of your throat, a sound echoing through the room that exposed the definitive invasion of that untouched space.
Your body tended to arch back, trying to escape the pain, but his hands pinned your hips to the bed with the rigidity of iron cuffs, keeping you trapped as he finished burying himself completely inside you, filling you to the absolute limit.
— Look at me, [Y/N] — Illumi commanded. His voice didn't change its pitch; it remained soft, drawn-out, and devoid of fluctuation, echoing right above your face. — Do not close your eyes. Look at me.
You forced your eyelids open, tears from the recent pain blurring your vision before locking onto those immense, bottomless black eyes. He demanded your gaze the entire time because he wanted to witness the exact process of capitulation. He wanted to see the precise moment your introspective mind gave up any logical resistance, accepting the absolute control and the pain that came from him.
As the initial discomfort began to be subtly replaced by a dense, pulsing heat, Illumi began to dictate the rhythm of the act. His movements were relentless, deep, and possessive—a methodical pace that left no room for you to catch your breath. Your submission manifested in the way your trembling, surrendered body molded perfectly to his commands, arching when he demanded it and absorbing every heavy thrust.
He possessed you with a silent, almost frightening intensity. The silence of the room was broken only by the low, short, and stifled groans that escaped Illumi’s throat whenever your inner walls squeezed him, mixed with your own ragged, breathless gasps. There was no room for romantic declarations or empty promises of love. Instead, Illumi leaned his body forward, pressing his damp lips against your ear while maintaining the steady motion inside you.
— You were raised under my eyes — he whispered, his warm breath contrasting with the dangerous, icy tone of his words. — Every part of this body was protected by me. Do you truly think I would let another man touch what is mine?
The pace in the room became overwhelming, a mathematical cadence turning into a suffocating urgency as the heat between your bodies reached its saturation point. Illumi’s thrusts were deep, driving against your depths with a force that detached your mind from any reality outside that mattress. The sensory overload paralyzed your senses; tears of pleasure and exhaustion spilled freely down your temples as you dug your nails into his pale shoulders, completely surrendered to the control he exerted.
At the absolute peak of pleasure, when the friction and internal tightness indicated the imminent climax for both of you, the fine line of Illumi's millimeter control snapped for the first time in his life.
Incapable of containing the surge of possessiveness gripping him, he buried his face abruptly against your exposed skin. Illumi sank his teeth deeply and violently first into the curve of your shoulder, and then moved up to the side of your neck. The pain of teeth tearing through skin mingled with the spasm of the orgasm rolling through your abdomen. It was a savage bite—surgical in its location, yet brutal in its execution—leaving a bloody, indented teeth mark in your flesh: an indelible visual signature that you had been marked by a Zoldyck for the rest of your life.
As you let out a muffled cry against his shoulder, Illumi’s body went completely rigid. With one final, deep lurch, he spilled himself inside you with overwhelming possessiveness. The hot rush filled your interior in pulsing waves, flooding your core and ensuring his warmth remained embedded deep within your body long after he was gone. He stayed heavy on top of you for a few long seconds, his breathing finally audible against your bleeding neck, sealing the new contract with the fluid of his own lineage.
The echo of the climax still reverberated through the walls of the room like an invisible shockwave. The sensation of the dual orgasm was overwhelming—a complete collapse of all your senses. Beneath Illumi's weight, you felt your core contract in rhythmic, violent spasms, an electrical pulse rippling up your abdomen, numbing your introspective mind. It was a mixture of pure exhaustion, the throbbing of your newly torn flesh, and a wave of heat that seemed to fuse your aura with his. On the other end, the assassin’s body discharged its built-up tension with rigid finality; every single one of Illumi's muscles locked to its absolute limit before relaxing a millimeter, a subtle tremor traveling down his spine as he emptied himself completely inside you. For a few long seconds, the room's silence belonged only to the synchronized sound of your ragged breathing and the dense warmth binding your bodies together.
Then, with the very same swiftness that the short-circuit had occurred, his mechanical coldness returned.
Without showing any fatigue, lethargy, or post-coital attachment, Illumi pulled away. He rose from the bed in one fluid, continuous motion, instantly regaining his steady, snapshot posture. His black, static eyes returned to their usual emptiness as he gathered his clothes from the floor. With his customary calculated elegance, he dressed himself, smoothing out the dark fabric and aligning his long black hair over his shoulders, ensuring not a single strand looked out of place.
However, when he turned to look at you—still lying among the disheveled sheets, bare and vulnerable—there was a subtle shift. The apathy remained, but his gaze now carried the quietude of a deeply satisfied owner. You were an asset inspected, tested, and properly sealed under the Zoldyck stamp.
Illumi walked soundlessly to the edge of the bed. He leaned over you and raised a pale hand, dragging his cold thumb along the side of your neck. With light pressure, he wiped away the trickle of blood seeping from the fresh bite mark on your skin, observing the contrast of the red against his fingers. He brought his thumb to his own lips, cleaning the trace with surgical indifference.
— Your clan will not need to worry about the new suitors, [Y/N] — his voice came out soft and drawn-out, cutting through the room’s cool air with a freezing promise. — None of them will survive until dawn.
He turned his back, stepping toward the window from which he had emerged. Before disappearing completely into the shadows of the Padokia night, he cast one final, analytical glance your way. The contract with your parents was finished and signed on paper, but the new terms he had dictated on that bed were vital, personal, and lifelong. You belonged to him, and the underworld would know it by the marks you now carried in your flesh.
