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Fervor

— 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

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.

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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...

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