#jvnluaa

The question had slipped out casually.

You didn’t even mean to ask it. Not like that, not like it was some grand romantic moment where you were supposed to be wearing a white dress and holding a bouquet. You were just two people, sitting on the couch in your shared apartment, wrapped in a blanket. There was popcorn between you, a dumb movie playing in the background, and the comforting scent of Kurapika’s cologne clinging to your skin after he pulled you into his lap halfway through the night.

Your fingers were tracing patterns into his shirt. His hand was on your thigh, warm and steady.

And somewhere between a yawn and a soft sigh, you mumbled, “Hey, how many babies do you want?”

Kurapika didn’t respond right away.

He was like that. Quiet. Thoughtful. He didn’t just say things to fill the silence. He considered every word, every answer, especially when it came to you.

You started to backtrack, nervous. “I mean—not that I’m like, asking if you want kids now. It’s just a question! Hypothetical. Totally casual. Like... like a late-night ‘what if’ scenario. Not a plan or anything—”

Kurapika’s fingers tightened slightly on your leg.

You stopped rambling.

He looked down at you, lips curled in that soft, knowing smile he reserved only for you. His golden hair fell slightly over his brow, and you reached up instinctively to brush it aside.

“I don’t think I should be the one to answer that,” he said gently.

You blinked. “What?”

Kurapika’s hand moved to yours, threading his fingers through them. He lifted your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles before resting your joined hands over his chest, where his heartbeat thumped calmly beneath.

“You’d be the one carrying the baby,” he said, voice low and sure. “That decision belongs to you.”

Your throat tightened.

Kurapika continued, his gaze never leaving yours. “Whatever number makes you happiest—zero or ten or anywhere in between—I’ll support it. It’s not my place to tell you what your body should go through. That’s not love. That’s control.”

You stared at him.

Soft, warm lighting bathed the side of his face, highlighting his gentle expression. There was no hesitation in his tone. No panic. No pressure. He meant every word.

“It’s for you to decide, hm?” he added quietly, almost a whisper.

You were speechless.

The silence stretched between you, soft and full, until your heart cracked under the weight of the emotion welling up in your chest.

“You’re gonna make me cry,” you said, laughing wetly.

Kurapika tilted his head, amused. “Because I said something honest?”

“Because you’re perfect,” you whispered.

He leaned in and kissed your temple.

“I’m not perfect,” he said. “But I love you. And I want everything we do—our life, our choices—to be shared. Not dictated.”

You melted into his arms, pressing your face into the crook of his neck.

Kurapika held you tighter, resting his chin on your head.

“You’d be an amazing father,” you said softly, your voice muffled by his skin.

“I’d do my best,” he murmured. “But I think the more important part is being a good partner to you. That’s the foundation of anything we build.”

You didn’t say anything for a while.

You just sat there, soaking in his warmth, letting the moment wrap around you like a second blanket.

Eventually, you murmured, “Okay… Maybe two. Kids, I mean.”

Kurapika chuckled. “Two?”

“One if they’re chaotic. None if they scream like banshees.”

He laughed, full and real, the sound vibrating through your body.

“Then we’ll start with none and see if the universe sends us quiet ones,” he teased.

You smiled against his neck. “And if they’re loud?”

“I’ll build soundproof walls. And get you noise-cancelling headphones. And probably cry in secret.”

You giggled.

Kurapika pulled back to look at you again. His eyes were so soft. So full.

“I’d raise a family with you,” he said suddenly. “Whenever you’re ready. Or never. As long as I get to come home to you.”

You kissed him.

And in that moment, you didn’t need anything else.

No baby names, no future plans, no timelines. Just this—Kurapika, his arms, his heart, and his quiet promise to always respect you, support you, and love you without condition.

Green flag?

You didn’t marry a man.

You married a vow.

A walking blade.

A grief-shaped god carved in human form.

Kurapika Kurta didn’t come to you with flowers or promises. He came with chains wrapped around his fingers, blood trailing behind him, and a pair of crimson eyes that had forgotten what peace looked like.

And yet, he loved you.

With precision.

With control.

With a passion so quiet, it burned beneath the skin like a fever.

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Morning in the House of Chains

The first thing you wake to is always the cold.

Kurapika rises before dawn. Always. Even after the rare nights when he sleeps beside you instead of slumped over books, intel, or maps of Phantom Troupe movements. The bedroom is often silent but never still. You can feel his presence even when he's gone—like the echo of thunder just outside the window.

He stands in the hallway now, bathed in soft morning light that slides over his pale skin like a confession. His blonde hair, usually neat and proper, is tousled from sleep. He’s wearing only his slacks, chain rings still wrapped around each finger even in sleep, like a priest who refuses to remove his rosary.

“Don’t move yet,” he says, voice soft.

You sit up anyway.

He turns.

God, those eyes.

They’re black now—tired, thoughtful. But you know what hides beneath them. That scarlet storm. That blood-born fury.

He crosses the room, kneels at your side. Kisses your hand.

That’s his version of I missed you.

You press your forehead to his. "Did you dream of them again?"

A slow nod.

“I always do.”

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Midday – Life with a Weapon

Kurapika doesn’t eat often. When he does, it’s more for your sake than his. He always prepares tea, precisely measured, steeped exactly 3 minutes. He sits across from you with a stack of reports, eyes flicking to you every few minutes to ensure you’re still safe, still real, still here.

He’s not paranoid. He’s just learned what it feels like to lose everything.

He’s overprotective in ways that feel less like jealousy and more like strategic obsession.

“You didn’t answer your phone earlier,” he says, too casually.

“I was in the shower.”

“Next time, bring the phone.”

You arch a brow.

He doesn’t smile.

Kurapika doesn’t joke unless he’s disarmed. And that’s rare.

He reaches across the table. His hand wraps gently around your wrist. You feel the metal of his chains brush your skin. It’s his way of marking you. Not for possession—but for protection.

“You’re my only remaining weakness,” he murmurs. “If something happens to you, I won’t stop myself next time. I’ll go too far.”

Too far.

He says it like there's a line he hasn’t already crossed.

But you know better.

Kurapika lives in a place beyond morality.

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Evening – A House That Watches

He never lets his back face a window. Every curtain in the house is drawn before the sun sets. Every door is locked, bolted, double-checked.

You once tried to tease him.

Called him paranoid.

He turned to you, eyes glowing crimson in the dusk-lit room, and said, “Paranoia is a luxury for the living. What I am is prepared.”

That night, he didn’t come to bed.

You found him hours later, alone in the study, chain blade in hand, his expression so distant you thought he might vanish if you blinked.

You touched his shoulder.

His reaction was immediate—violent.

He grabbed your wrist, twisted it instinctively, eyes wild. Then, realizing, he let go, dropped to his knees, and whispered, “Forgive me.”

He kissed the palm he nearly broke.

And you did forgive him.

Because you love a man who was never allowed to heal.

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Night – The Weight of the Scarlet Eyes

Kurapika sleeps only when your heartbeat is steady beside him.

He wraps himself around you—not like a lover, but like armor.

One arm over your waist.

One leg hooked around yours.

Chains gently coiled at the small of your back.

You wake up some nights to the sound of his breathing—ragged, choked.

The dreams come often.

The Clan.

The eyes.

The Troupe.

You press your fingers to his face.

He grabs your wrist in the dark—but softer this time. He’s still dreaming.

His voice cracks as he whispers, “Don’t take them… please. Not hers…”

He thinks someone’s stolen your eyes now.

You hold him tighter.

When he wakes, drenched in sweat, you’re already there, anchoring him.

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The Way He Loves You

Kurapika doesn’t love like others.

He loves you like an oath.

Like blood on parchment.

Like a secret only whispered between murders.

His affection is in the way he teaches you to protect yourself.

In the way he carves talismans into the wood frame of the door.

In the way he makes lists of anyone who’s looked at you too long.

He won’t say it aloud often, but when he does, it shatters something inside him.

“I love you,” he says one night, after a mission, his knuckles bloody. “And if they take you from me, there won’t be a world left to punish.”

You believe him.

Because the boy you married is gone.

Only if you are comfortable

➥ Of course! I’m sorry if it took a while.

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Steam & Stolen Glances

The bathhouse was quiet, save for the faint sound of water rippling against stone. You’d been training all day—your muscles heavy, your shoulders aching—so when Kurapika suggested you both take advantage of the hot spring near camp, you didn’t think much of it.

Until you realized you were sharing the same pool.

It was a wide, natural basin surrounded by rock and mist. Steam curled lazily into the evening air, clinging to your skin. You sank into the heat with a sigh, the water lapping just above your collarbones.

Kurapika was across from you at first, his hair damp, loose strands clinging to the sides of his face. He sat with his eyes closed, his breathing slow, almost meditative.

And that should have been calming—except your gaze kept drifting over him.

The sharp lines of his collarbones just above the water’s surface. The way droplets slid down his neck, disappearing beneath the water. The faint tension still visible in his shoulders despite the heat.

You realized you were staring and quickly looked away, but the heat on your cheeks had nothing to do with the bath.

“You’re awfully quiet,” his voice broke the stillness, smooth and low in the steam.

“Just relaxing,” you said, hoping he couldn’t hear the slight waver in your voice.

He opened his eyes then, those piercing irises softened by the mist. His gaze swept over you—not lingering inappropriately, but thorough enough to make your pulse skip.

“You still look tense,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “Move closer.”

You blinked. “Closer?”

He tilted his head. “If you stay on the opposite side, I can’t help you.”

Against your better judgment—or maybe because you wanted to—your body obeyed. You waded forward through the warm water until you were sitting just in front of him.

The space between you was suddenly nothing. You could see the way the steam curled around his shoulders, the faint shine of water droplets clinging to his skin.

Without a word, his hand rose from the water, fingers brushing against your arm as he guided you to turn around. His touch was warm—hot, even—and deliberate.

“You’re overworked,” he murmured near your ear. “Your muscles are tight. Let me loosen them.”

His hands settled on your shoulders first, the slow, careful pressure making your breath hitch. His thumbs pressed into the knots beneath your skin, and you had to bite your lip to keep from making a sound.

The heat of the bath combined with the deliberate movements of his hands left you dizzy. Each glide of his fingers was firm but precise, tracing down the line of your spine before sliding back up to your neck.

The proximity was intoxicating—his breath ghosting against the side of your face, the faint shift of the water every time his knees brushed the back of yours beneath the surface.

“Better?” he asked softly, though his hands didn’t stop.

“Y-yeah…” your voice came out quieter than intended.

He moved closer still, his chest almost touching your back now. You could feel the faint rhythm of his heartbeat where his arm occasionally brushed yours.

His fingers slipped higher, gently tilting your chin so your head rested back against his shoulder. From this angle, you caught the faint scent of his soap, clean and faintly herbal, mixing with the mineral warmth of the spring.

You swore his gaze dipped to your lips for a fraction of a second before returning to your eyes.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The water steamed around you, the silence heavy with something unspoken.

“Careful,” he said finally, voice low. “If you keep looking at me like that, I won’t be able to focus on helping you.”

Everyone knew you and Neji hated each other.

It wasn’t a secret.

You argued during every mission briefing, clashed in every sparring match, and exchanged insults in front of the whole clan. It was so bad, even the higher-ups started assigning you to separate teams just to avoid the constant bickering and the tension in the air.

But no one knew what happened after hours.

No one knew what happened when the doors closed, the lights dimmed, and the walls became your only confidants.

Neji wasn’t just your rival. He was everything you couldn’t stand—perfect, prideful, and impossibly good at everything. And yet, somehow, when the two of you were alone, you found yourself tangled beneath him, his hands gripping your wrists, his hot breath on your neck.

You hated him. But the way he ruined you? Made your body crave him in ways you couldn’t ignore? You fucking loved it.

It was supposed to be a mistake the first time.

A simple, heated argument that turned into a furious, need-driven kiss, teeth clashing and hands grabbing, pulling, ripping clothes off.

And it wasn’t supposed to happen again. But it did.

Now, you found yourself alone in his room for what felt like the hundredth time. The door was locked. The windows were sealed. No one would ever know what was happening between you two.

“Still hate me?” Neji growled, voice low as he hovered above you, eyes dark, pupils blown. His hair hung loose, strands sticking to his face from sweat. His bare chest pressed against yours, skin warm and slick. You could feel his heartbeat against your ribcage.

You glared at him, barely holding onto your composure. “I hate everything about you.”

He smirked, his lips brushing against your ear. “But not this.”

He shoved his knee between your thighs, his muscles rippling with every movement. You gasped, heart pounding as his scent surrounded you. The sharp, intoxicating mixture of sweat and something distinctly him.

“Neji—” you started, voice barely a whisper. But before you could protest, his lips crashed into yours, hard and bruising. The kiss was anything but tender, filled with all the hatred and the need that had been building up for months.

You struggled beneath him for a moment, but he only pressed harder, pinning your wrists to the bed as he slid his thigh between your legs, pushing your hips into the mattress.

“You’ve been begging for this,” he muttered against your lips, his breath ragged. “Don’t pretend you haven’t. You think I don’t know how much you want me?”

The thought of it made you shiver. You hated it. You hated how your body responded to him, how every part of you was drawn to him even though you knew you shouldn’t be. You hated that you needed him this way.

“I don’t,” you hissed through clenched teeth, but your hips couldn’t help but grind against his thigh. You felt the way his cock hardened against you. Fucking hypocrite.

Neji’s eyes flickered with something dangerous. “Liar.”

Before you could protest, he flipped you over, pressing you into the sheets. His hands gripped your hips, forcing you to feel every inch of him as he positioned himself behind you.

“You’re gonna keep denying it?” he murmured. “Deny how much you need me to fuck the attitude right out of you?”

Your heart skipped a beat, your breaths shallow as he held you still. You couldn’t even think straight. Every inch of your body was screaming for him, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing you admit it.

But then his hand slid down your body, over your back, and between your legs. He didn’t ask. He never did. His fingers found your clit, rubbing circles that made your body betray you even more.

“Neji…” you moaned softly, unable to stop yourself.

He chuckled darkly. “That's more like it.”

Then, without warning, he slammed into you, filling you completely. The air was knocked from your lungs, and you gasped, hands clutching at the sheets as your body instinctively arched beneath him.

“Still hate me?” he growled, his hips slamming against yours, each movement sending waves of pleasure and frustration through you.

Your mind was foggy with need, every ounce of you aching to feel more of him. Your nails dug into the sheets, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room as his thrusts became harder, faster, and more unforgiving.

“I—I fucking hate you,” you gasped, not caring how weak you sounded. “But I can’t stop—fuck—this.”

“Good,” he muttered. “Then let go, and I’ll make sure you remember exactly why.”

Your body trembled with each punishing thrust, the way his cock hit all the right spots making your thoughts scatter. You were so close. You could feel it building, pressure rising with every stroke.

“Neji—I’m—”

“Cum for me,” he demanded, his voice rough with lust. “Show me how much you need this. Show me how much you need me.”

You screamed as the orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, your body convulsing beneath him. Neji didn’t stop, his thrusts relentless as he fucked you through it.

When he finally came, it was with a guttural moan, and he collapsed on top of you, both of you panting, sweaty, and tangled in the sheets.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, just lying there, feeling the aftershocks of your bodies’ connection. You were breathless, your mind still fogged with the intensity of it all.

Finally, Neji smirked against your neck. “Still hate me?”

You managed a weak, breathless chuckle. “I think… I think I hate you even more now.”

Kurapika was just… sitting there. Reading. Calm, quiet, and utterly unaware of the mess he was making in your head. His book lay open on the table, but it wasn’t the pages you were staring at.

It was his hands.

The way his fingers moved — precise yet elegant — as he turned the page. The faint scrape of his nails against the paper. The way the tendons in his wrist flexed when he reached for his coffee.

You swallowed hard. This is stupid.

“You’re staring.”

You jolted, heat rushing to your face. Kurapika’s sharp gaze flicked up from his book, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I wasn’t,” you said quickly, turning away.

“You were.” He shut the book with a soft thud, resting his arm on the table — and you hated how your eyes betrayed you again, flicking straight back to his hand. His fingers flexed slightly, like he knew.

“You keep doing that,” Kurapika said, voice softer now — curious, almost amused.

“Doing ?”

His gaze flicked to his hand. “This.” He curled his fingers deliberately — slow, controlled — before splaying them wide again. “You’re obsessed with my hands.”

Your heart shot to your throat. “I am not.”

“Oh?” Kurapika leaned in slightly, resting his chin against his palm — the same hand you’d been eyeing all day. “Then what were you thinking about?”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out.

“You know…” Kurapika’s voice dropped lower — softer, but no less dangerous. “If you’ve been imagining something…” His fingers lifted from his face, hovering between you like an invitation. “Why don’t you just show me?”

“Wh-What?”

“You heard me.” His hand drifted closer, fingers curling slightly. “What was I doing with my hands whenever you thought about them?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “I—I don’t know…”

Kurapika let out a soft sigh — then, to your surprise, he reached out and shoved his thumb against your lips.

Your breath hitched. Eyes wide, you stared up at him — half shocked, half paralyzed.

“Open,” Kurapika said quietly.

You obeyed before you could think — your lips parting just enough for him to slide his thumb into your mouth.

Your face was burning, but you couldn’t stop yourself — your tongue flicked across the pad of his thumb, tentative and unsure.

Kurapika’s gaze darkened. “Deeper,” he muttered.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you leaned forward, lips closing around his thumb. Your tongue swirled over the digit, slow and deliberate, and you swore you felt his breath falter.

“You’re… really bad at hiding things,” Kurapika muttered — but his voice was thinner now, strained in a way that made your pulse race.

You opened your eyes just in time to see his pupils blown wide, his breath coming faster than before.

“Didn’t think you’d actually…” He trailed off, clearing his throat like he was trying to gather his composure. Slowly, he drew his thumb from your mouth — wet, slick, and shining in the low light.

Kurapika stared down at his hand for a moment before his gaze flicked back to you.

“You’re lucky,” he murmured, voice lower now, “that we’re not somewhere more private.”

Your breath caught. “And if we were?”

Kurapika’s smile was faint — dangerous. His fingers traced your jaw, thumb skimming the corner of your mouth again.

You weren't always like this. Not really.

Sure, you always had a vivid imagination, a tendency to drift into your own world when things got quiet. But this… this wasn’t just daydreaming. This was deeper. Sharper. You knew the difference between fantasy and reality—God, you knew. But that never stopped the ache. The way his name sat on your tongue like a secret. The way your chest constricted when he looked at the camera in that scene—as if you were the one he was searching for.

Kurapika.

You told yourself it was harmless. Just a character. Just a story. But somewhere along the way, you stopped looking at him like a drawing on a screen and started seeing him in the in-between moments of your life. The silence before sleep. The stillness on your bus rides home. The way your fingers hovered over your phone screen, rereading the same quote from him for the fourth time that night.

“I do not fear death. I fear only that my rage will fade over time”

You whispered that line once. Into your pillow. Into the dark. Into the nothing that was your room at 3:41 a.m.

Pathetic, right?

Sometimes you imagined what he'd say if he saw you like this—wrapped in a blanket, eyes puffy, watching that one episode again, the one where he clutches his chains like they’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart. He’d probably stare at you, impassive. Maybe he’d frown. Maybe he’d be gentle. Maybe, if you begged hard enough, he’d sit beside you. Let you rest your head on his shoulder. Let you pretend—just for one night—that you weren’t so achingly human and he wasn’t so utterly fictional.

But that’s not how it works.

He’ll never know you.

He’ll never know the way your heart twists when you hear his voice.

He’ll never know the tears you cry when he mourns his clan.

He’ll never know how you’ve memorized the sound of his silence, the weight of his grief, the unbearable gentleness beneath his fury.

He’s not real.

But your love for him is.

And that? That’s what makes this whole thing unbearable.

You don’t talk about it, not really. Not with anyone who’d get it. Your friends would laugh—or worse, pity you. So you just keep it all inside. You write. You read fanfiction, drowning yourself in alternate universes where you exist beside him. Where your fingers brush his under a moonlit sky. Where he finally lets someone in, and that someone is you.

And God, how you yearn.

It’s the kind of yearning that eats away at your ribs. That slips into your lungs like smoke. That makes you look at real people and feel… empty. No one sees you like he does—not even when he isn’t looking.

Sometimes, you wish you could rip him out of the screen. Hold his face in your hands and whisper all the things you’ve never said aloud.

“I know you’re hurting. I’d carry that pain if I could.”

“You don’t have to be alone.”

“I love you—and I wish that could be enough.”

But your hands would pass through him, wouldn’t they? He’s a ghost you keep chasing through pixels. A phantom stitched into your dreams.

And the worst part?

Your marriage to Chrollo Lucilfer does not begin with a kiss.

It begins with a choice.

A gaze across a blood-slicked floor.

A voice that spoke like scripture unraveling in the dark.

A hand outstretched—not to save you, but to ruin you beautifully.

He didn’t say “I love you.”

He said:

“There is a place beside me. Cold, yes. But eternal. Come, and I will make you part of the story.”

And you went.

Because some people don’t fall in love.

Some people drown in it.

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Morning in the House of the Spider

The room you wake in is not warm.

Minimalist. Stark. High windows where moonlight lingers far longer than sunlight dares.

He sleeps next to you like a king fallen from grace—shirtless beneath black silk, pale skin against ink-dark sheets, a rosary still looped around his wrist. He doesn’t sleep often. But when he does, it is near you. Always near you.

Chrollo wakes with no startle.

No groggy disorientation.

Just presence.

His eyes open, and they see you—truly see you. As if he’s trying to memorize your soul before the day strips it from you.

“You’re awake,” you murmur.

He leans forward, presses his lips against your collarbone, lingering like a prayer.

“Of course. I dreamt of you.”

He doesn’t mean it romantically.

He means it philosophically.

You are his dream.

His obsession.

The last thing in this world he cannot dissect or fully predict.

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The Way He Moves Through the Day

Chrollo moves like a man who owns every room—but mourns each one he walks through.

He’s always in black.

Not for fashion.

But because he considers mourning a lifelong discipline.

He reads before speaking.

He watches people like a god amused by ants.

But around you?

There’s a reverence in his gaze.

He touches the small of your back lightly in public. Not to show affection, but to remind you: You are not forgotten. You are always known. Always claimed.

The Phantom Troupe often watches you two in silence.

They don’t understand how he can kill with a smile one moment, and hours later, sit beside you with his head in your lap, quoting ancient texts about fate, entropy, and the meaninglessness of life… with his fingers tangled gently in yours.

But they don’t need to understand.

They just accept:

He doesn’t bleed for them.

He bleeds only for you.

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When He’s Gone

When Chrollo leaves, he doesn’t say goodbye.

He leaves a page open in one of his worn books. A message hidden in poetry. A single glove folded over your favorite mug.

He disappears for days. Weeks.

You don’t question it.

Because you understand the paradox of loving Chrollo Lucilfer:

You are both everything to him—and nothing.

You are the final tether to something real, and yet he could vanish into the void at any moment without looking back.

But when he returns?

He never walks in.

He appears.

Black coat, blood-slick boots, eyes void of guilt.

And always—always—he says:

“I missed you. Or at least, the shape your presence makes in the silence.”

He doesn’t ask if you missed him.

He already knows.

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When He Touches You

Chrollo is not rough.

He is precise.

His fingers trace your throat like a sacred path.

His hands are cold, always, but they warm only for you.

When he kisses you, it’s not with lust.

It’s with thought.

As if each movement means something. As if each brush of lips is one verse in a holy text only the two of you understand.

He whispers things like:

“If I lost you, I wouldn’t rage. I would simply burn the world in silence.”

“Your heartbeat is the only rhythm that breaks through the noise.”

“You are the only variable I never wanted to control.”

He does not possess you.

He includes you—in his madness, in his rituals, in his universe of scripture and slaughter.

And when you say his name—truly say it, with devotion, not demand—his eyes close, and for one moment, the chaos in him quiets.

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Night – Ritual, Power, Worship

You once asked him why he sleeps beside you when he could be anywhere, alone in the dark, building plans inside his head.

He answered:

“Because gods do not sleep. But men do. And I want to remember I am still human while I have you.”

He doesn’t hold you like a lover.

He surrounds you like a religion.

One arm draped over your waist.

Fingers ghosting your pulse.

Always listening for your breath.

Always tracking your dreams.

Sometimes he wakes before you, watching.

Always watching.

Reading you like scripture.

And when your eyes meet his, he doesn’t smile.

He says, softly:

“You’re still here. Good.”

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To Love Chrollo Means…

Accepting silence over promises.

Being the one place he returns to after death dances in his shadow.

Being quoted poetry instead of affection.

Watching him kill and knowing he does it with full control—and no regret.

Feeling his gaze like a cathedral collapsing over your body.

Knowing he would destroy everything if the universe took you.

But most of all?

Being the only thing he cannot understand.

And yet, the only thing he cannot be without.

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Final Whisper Before the Next Chapter

One night, he murmurs against your bare shoulder:

“I was never supposed to belong to anything but death. But now you sleep beside me—and I fear I have become real.”

And you answer:

“Then let me be the only lie you ever believe.”

You never expected love to come in the form of a lightning storm—feral, fleeting, always on the edge of vanishing. But that’s exactly what Killua Zoldyck was: a flicker of lightning with the soul of a goddamn hurricane. You didn’t fall into love with him. You collided.

It started with silence.

Not the romantic kind—the dangerous kind. The kind that chokes a room before the kill. That’s how Killua moved through the world: barefoot, silent, impossible. The air felt heavy in his presence, as if even oxygen bent to his will. He didn’t smile easily. He didn’t trust easily. He didn’t breathe easily unless you were near. And somehow, that earned you his ring, his bed, and his name beside yours.

Now, every day begins like this:

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Morning

You wake to find Killua lying beside you—not curled, not soft, but poised. Always. Even in sleep, there’s something predatory about him. His white hair is chaos over your shared pillow, and the silver-gold strands catch the morning light like a blade. His arm is flung over your waist in a way that feels possessive, not tender. His body heat is a warning and a comfort all in one.

You turn, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

His voice, gravel and silk, grumbles, “Didn’t I tell you to let me wake first? You’re defenseless like this.”

But his arms only pull you closer.

There’s always that edge. His love is wrapped in steel wire. He doesn’t know how to be soft. But he learns—with you.

In the kitchen, he leans against the counter, shirtless, scars mapping his back like a cartographer’s sketch of war-torn history. You trace them sometimes. He lets you. No one else ever could.

You cook while he watches, not because he can’t—he just finds a strange peace in the domestic rhythm you create. He never had a real home. You are the closest thing he’s ever known to one.

He drinks black coffee, cold. “Poison tastes better,” he sometimes says with a wink.

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Afternoon

Killua’s afternoons are rarely idle. He’s restless. Boredom in him is dangerous. It means he needs a fight, a mission, or your body beneath his, clawing something primal from his core to keep the beast within him calm.

Today, he’s on edge.

His footsteps echo down the hallway as he returns from a job—silent, until he throws his blood-stained hoodie into the corner like it offended him.

He doesn’t speak. You don’t ask.

You meet him in the hallway. His eyes—those electric, icy sapphires—lock onto yours. There's storm beneath his skin. Killua doesn’t cry. He bleeds through action.

So, you pull him close, push your fingers through his hair, and he buries his face in your neck, inhaling like he’s suffocating and you’re his only air.

“Still human,” you whisper.

“Barely,” he answers.

But that’s how it’s always been. You are the anchor that keeps him from slipping back into assassin mode entirely. And he hates how much he needs you. It makes him feel weak. But he still clings to you like your warmth is the last thing holding his bones together.

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Evening

He showers for too long. Sometimes you join him. Not for the romance—but to wash away the blood and ghosts he can’t name.

Dinner is quiet, unless you provoke him into debate. He’s sharp-tongued when he wants to be. Arrogant. Clever. You play the game because you love seeing that glimmer in his eyes—the spark of a killer who thinks, schemes, and loves only you.

“Why do you always cook too much rice?” he asks, smirking.

“Why do you always eat it all?”

“Tch.”

That sound. That little Killua sound. It means he’s smug and flustered. You’ve learned to decode the assassin’s language of sighs, glances, and half-smiles.

Later, he pulls you into his lap on the sofa. His fingers play absently with yours, tracing the bones, always checking for weakness, for tremble. You rest your head on his shoulder.

He whispers, “If anything ever touches you, I’ll erase the entire bloodline.”

You don’t doubt him. He means it. And not as a promise. As a certainty.

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Night

At night, Killua becomes the boy he never got to be.

Sometimes he can’t sleep. Too many memories slither beneath his skin. Needles. Screams. The quiet grin of Illumi. The suffocating halls of Kukuroo Mountain. You’ve seen the aftermath—when he wakes up in cold sweat, hands crackling with nen, breath shallow, teeth gritted in ghostly terror.

You always reach for him.

“You’re not there anymore,” you whisper.

“I am,” he says. “It’s always there. It never leaves.”

But you hold him anyway.

Because even thunder needs a place to land.

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Love with Killua

Loving Killua Zoldyck is like loving the storm: beautiful, destructive, rare.

He doesn’t say I love you often. But he shows it in every deadly promise, in every calculated glance when you’re threatened, in every time he lays awake to make sure you’re breathing.

He doesn't need your protection. But he wants your warmth. That’s far more dangerous.

He tells you things no one else will ever hear: the number of people he’s killed. The nightmares he can't shake. The guilt he doesn’t understand. The electric thrill of murder that still hums under his skin like a drug.

He wonders sometimes if he’s still human.

You remind him: “You’re mine. That’s all that matters.”