#pariston

Summary: You and Your Husband, Pariston Hill, are getting ready for a large donation event for the Hunter Association, but just as you’re preparing to leave and show your husband your outfit, it appears you look 'too good'.

Author’s Note: This is going to be a miniseries (Yes, we getting suggestive [17+, barely, if you squintƪ໒꒰ྀི´꒳` ꒱ྀི১ʃ] with this one ૮₍ • ˕ - ₎ა♡⋆⟡˖ ) of my personal headcannons on how HXH men would react to you wearing a distracting outfit. If you have a request for who you’d like to see next in this little series, leave a comment and lmk! I hope you enjoy! ໒꒰ྀི๑ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ๑꒱ྀིა -ᵇᵇʸᵇˡᵒᵒʳᵒˢᵉˢ𐔌՞. .՞𐦯🩵

Part Two: "Distracting": Illumi Zoldyck

It was late evening in Swadarni City, and the hint of sunset added a warm glow onto your vanity mirror as you applied the final touches on your makeup. As you applied your lip gloss, you watched your husband put on one of his many ties, his signature grin already plastered on his face. 

You both were getting ready for a big donor event for the Hunter Association. It wasn’t the first time you heard about this event, but it was the first time you’d be attending as ‘Mrs. Hill’. In addition, this particular annual donation event brings in almost a quarter of the Hunter Association's funding, so it is a big deal, especially for Pariston.

As Vice Chairman, your Husband had a huge role to play, which, of course, he never shied away from as the man practically bathed himself in attention, not to mention the fact that he practically had his hand in every guest’s wallet as soon as they entered the room and laid eyes on his pristine smile and handsome face.

As you finished the final touches on your outfit, you stood up from the vanity and walked over to your husband. He was fixing the final touches on his suit until he froze for a moment as he saw you, and he immediately realized the attention may not be his tonight with how gorgeous you look.

He couldn’t tell if it was the warm sunset glow in your shared bedroom, the subtle sheen on your lips from your signature lip gloss, or your intoxicating perfume that mixed perfectly with your natural scent that caused him to pause.

Or at least that’s what he originally thought until he finally let the sight of you in that dress sink in, and his original assumptions were pushed aside.

God, that dress.

A dress that paired perfectly with his suit and hugged you in all the right places and more. With the way you’d look, it could easily be mistaken that this event was about something for you and not some stupid charity event.

“Well-..? What do you think?” You softly asked your husband as you straightened his tie.

“I think it’s beautiful, but may I ask what drew you to this…eye-catching ensemble?” Pariston said as he stepped closer to you, his hands resting on your hips.

“Oh! Well, I thought it’d look nice with your suit.” You hummed, taking pride in your dress choice.

“So you wanted to copy me?” Pariston said, already twisting your words before you could even process how to respond.

“Copy-? No, I wanted—“ You stammered, taken aback by your Husband’s sudden accusations.

“We don’t want the donor’s thinking you’re just some unoriginal trophy wife, do we?” Pariston condescendingly cooed at you.

“Well, no—“ You said.

“Perfect! I’m so glad we agree, darling. I must admit it’s a beautiful dress…so let me…take it off you.” Pariston said not bothering to wait for your reply, as he was already unzipping your dress.

Truthfully, He was jealous. Jealous of all the eyes that’d be on you. Eyes that’d usually be on him now on what’s his and he couldn’t— no. He wouldn’t allow that.

A sight like this should only be for his eyes, and as long as you’re with him, that’s exactly how it’ll be.

As his hands continued to move and maneuver your clothing, your damn narcissist of a husband kept talking as he slowly stripped you.

“You look so much better like this anyway, y’know?”

“Was this your plan all along? To distract me and try to get my attention?”

“Don’t act shy. You have my full attention now, and you’re going to love every second of it.”

As soon as your everything dress hit the floor, it was safe to say that you’d both be arriving late to the event.

Once you arrived, no matter how many times Pariston said it was because you took too long to get ready, That he just couldn’t bear to leave you behind, or whatever excuse he made up for the night, Anyone who saw the marks on your neck and the faint lip gloss stains on Pariston's collar could tell your lateness was simply because Pariston couldn’t keep his hands off you.

🎣⸝⸝ Hunter x Hunter (2011). PSD "Wow" por @colour-source (com alguns ajustes). Obrigado pela sugestão, @elizabethsloann.

In these imagines you are in a relationship with these characters~ Any POV! SFW, but with underlying yandere themes for some characters. A long post so I put it under "keep reading"~ Characters: Kurapika, Leorio, Chrollo, Hisoka, Illumi, Pariston, Kite, Nobunaga, Pakunoda, Machi and Silva

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

𝑷𝒐𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅: 06/10/2026

𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 4.9k

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒐𝒓 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔: Hi everyone!! After a while, I’m bringing you another fic for Pariston. Honestly, I really love writing about him, and I barely see anyone posting stuff for him either (that’s what happens when you're insufferable, lol). I had this random idea a long time ago and finally decided to write it. Hope you all enjoy the read!! :-)

I have a lemon/smut that I wrote for him here: 𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐬 | 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 [𝐋𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐧/𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭]

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: Heavy psychological & sexual tension, manipulative & obsessive behavior, toxic dynamic (dark romance elements), mind games, Pariston being a highly manipulative/seductive psychopath, emotional chess, canon-typical behavior, elite Hunter reader, unyielding/composed reader, dangerous proximity, dark aesthetic, mention of poison/Dark Continent elements.

═════════ ✥.🐭.✥ ═════════

The metallic rattle of the doorknob turning was the final chord of a long, grueling concerto. When the electronic lock gave way with a soft beep and a sharp click, the accumulated weight of months seemed to crash down upon your shoulders all at once. It was the sweet sound of coming home—or the closest thing to it that the most luxurious hotel in that border capital could offer. You had fought tooth and nail, conquering impossible odds every single day to make it here. Every decision, every line drawn on the tactical map, every sleepless night fueling your Nen to keep your guard up culminated in this exact moment: the door opening to the blessed isolation of a high-end executive suite, a five-star accommodation reserved strictly for the Hunter Association's elite.

You stepped inside, dragging your feet heavy with combat boots. The dry, gray dust of the war-torn dirt roads flaked off the leather with every step, staining the polished marble floor and the pristine, plush carpet. With a deep sigh, you powered down your Nen. The sensation of your life energy receding back into your aura nodes, stripping away from your skin like an invisible suit of armor, was almost painful—yet entirely necessary. Your muscles, rigid from the constant tension of expecting an ambush at any second, finally began to loosen as the adrenaline ebbed away, leaving a void of pure physical exhaustion in its wake.

The mission had been an absolute success. Hundreds of civilians cornered in the valley had been evacuated in total safety through the escape routes you had meticulously engineered. There were no casualties among the innocents. There was no bloodbath like the Hunter Association's grim reports had predicted.

Leaning back against the heavy, solid wood of the closed door, you tilted your head back, savoring for a fleeting second a legitimate sense of pride and accomplishment. The plan had been brilliant. Your diversion and containment strategies deserved to be studied in the Association's training manuals.

Yet, as your heartbeat slowed to a normal rhythm in the comfortable dimness of the room, an unsettling feeling began to crawl up the base of your neck.

Something was off. A sharp edge of suspicion that your Hunter instincts utterly refused to ignore.

The local militia—a ruthless group of mercenaries, heavily armed with artillery and notorious for their sadistic brutality—had simply retreated. The moment your rescue forces crossed the engagement line, the enemy tanks rolled back. The soldiers abandoned their trenches. They didn’t fire a single shot. No warning flares were lit. They just... vanished into the morning mist, as though they had received a divine command to evacuate their own territory.

You bit the inside of your lip, forcing yourself to believe they had been intimidated by the sheer complexity of your tactical formation. "It was pure competence," you reasoned, trying to soothe the knot tightening in your stomach. "They saw they stood no chance against our strategy and pulled back to avoid casualties."

But the lie wouldn't stick. In the world of Hunters, where danger is as raw and cutting as a blade, things were never this easy. Triumph never came neatly gift-wrapped. That surgical perfection, that total absence of chaos and unforeseen variables during the execution didn't feel like a legitimate military victory.

It felt like a stage play, its script written by someone watching the entire performance from the comfort of a luxury box.

Staring into the silent, opulent room, where the only sound was the nearly imperceptible hum of the central air conditioning, your intuition whispered a chilling warning: you had made it out of the war unscathed, but something told you that an even greater danger was waiting just ahead...

The sense of security in the world of Hunters is an expensive illusion, but that high-end presidential suite had been engineered to sell exactly that: absolute isolation. With its reinforced panoramic windows and an electronic locking system linked directly to the Hunter Association's security grid, the room was supposed to be an inviolable sanctuary. A place untouched, vacant, and silent, waiting only for your well-deserved rest.

But it wasn't vacant.

As you reached out and flicked the wall switch, the room’s recessed, ambient lighting hummed to life, bathing the polished marble in a soft glow. That was when your eyes caught the intruder. Resting right in the center of the polished glass coffee table, completely shattering the sleek, minimalist symmetry of the luxury space.

There was a bouquet sitting there.

You took a step forward, your entire body tensing in a purely defensive reflex. Your eyes narrowed as you focused on the object. These were no ordinary flowers, the kind you would find at any local flower shop or that a conventional admirer would send to your hotel. They were exotic, beautiful, and profoundly unsettling specimens. The petals were thick, a red so dense and saturated that under the suite's indirect lights, they appeared almost entirely black. They were flawless. There wasn't a single withered edge, no structural imperfection; they looked like velvet sculptures tailored for a funeral palace. They exuded an aristocratic elegance that felt artificial in its perfection, yet completely out of place in the surrounding environment.

A knot formed at the back of your throat. A completely foreign, overwhelming realization hit you: raw surprise. You realized, with a sudden internal jolt, that you had never received a bouquet of flowers from anyone in your entire life. Not a birthday gift, not a romantic surprise, nothing. But whatever subtle warmth that realization should have brought was instantly choked out by a cold shiver running down your spine.

Before you could even take another step, the scent reached you. It was a sweet, intoxicating fragrance that drifted through the central air conditioning, invading your nostrils with a subtle aggressiveness. It was terribly familiar. A scent that reeked of fake smiles, newspaper camera flashes, and grueling political meetings at the Association headquarters.

Taking slow, calculated steps, keeping your eyes glued to the flowers as if they might strike, you approached the glass table. Tucked between the dark stems at the exact center of the arrangement was a small, high-quality textured envelope. Inside, a small card displayed impeccable handwriting. The lines were drawn with surgical, artistic precision—elegant fountain pen curves that clashed violently with the informal, infuriating contents of the message:

"To my favorite Hunter. Congratulations on the flawless victory. :-) :-"*

Your stomach churned violently. The taste of pride and triumph you had been savoring seconds ago instantly turned to ash in your mouth, souring into pure gall. You didn't need to re-read the signature or the childish emojis to confirm who was responsible for such audacity. The sweet fragrance and that gorgeous handwriting had already betrayed the sender long before.

It wasn't luck. It wasn't competence. It was him. Pariston Hill...

Your mind barely had time to process the outrageous breach of your suite's security when your Hunter instincts triggered a red alert. A nearly imperceptible sound cut through the silence—the soft rustle of the silk curtain draping the massive glass balcony on the third floor. The night outside was pitch black, but the indoor lights cast a shadow that made your blood run cold.

With a terrifying, silent agility, the slender, blonde silhouette emerged from the darkness of the balcony, stepping past the threshold of the glass and gliding into the luxurious room as if he were its rightful owner. He made no sound. He hadn't triggered the motion sensors and had bypassed the electronic locks as if they were smoke, catching you completely by surprise in your own moment of vulnerability.

Pariston Hill took two steps forward, his light-yellow suit impeccably tailored, without a single wrinkle or speck of dust from the war zone tearing the country apart just outside. His hands were elegantly tucked into his trousers pockets, and that brilliant, angelic smile was plastered across his face, his golden eyes gleaming with pure amusement as they locked onto your shocked expression.

—Do you like them? They're rare. They only bloom in the Dark Continent; their venom paralyzes the nervous system within minutes if touched without gloves," Pariston said, his voice dripping with a false innocence and a childish sweetness that made your stomach twist with revulsion.

You swallowed the knot of fury rising in your throat and forced your body to relax. Years of dealing with the bureaucracy and political traps of the Association had taught you the most valuable lesson of all about the man standing before you: Pariston Hill fed on extreme reactions. If you screamed, showed fear, or made your visceral hatred for him explicit, you would only be handing him the exact banquet he craved.

So, you merely let out a long, heavy sigh, crossing your arms with a cold serenity you had practiced exhaustively in the mirror.

— Pariston, explain this to me — you requested. Your voice came out perfectly calm, measured, without a single tremor of hesitation.

Behind that radiant smile, Pariston’s chest tightened with a delicious mixture of frustration and fascination. He hated how well you knew how to contain him, but at the same time, it was that exact refusal to give into his game that kept him utterly obsessed. Most people broke, cried, or tried to kill him; you simply treated him like an inconvenient logistical problem. To his twisted mind, your calculated apathy was the greatest challenge of his life — and the most addictive stimulus he had ever experienced.

Pariston let out a soft, airy chuckle, a fake, boyish melody that echoed off the suite's marble walls. He slipped his hands from his pockets and strolled over to the coffee table, extending an index finger to stroke, with extreme lightness, the edge of one of the venomous black petals.

— Ah, (Yn)-chan... always so direct, so composed — he cooed, tilting his head to the side. His golden eyes gleamed with a shimmering malice. — What is there to explain? It’s merely a humble tribute to your success. Although... we both know that 'success' is such a malleable concept, don't we?

He turned to face you, crossing his arms over the pristine chest of his yellow suit.

— The local militia, the mercenary generals... did you truly believe they retreated because they read your troop deployment in the valley? — He let out a dramatically theatrical sigh, feigning pity. — Oh, my dear. They wanted your head on a silver platter. They spent the last three months orchestrating four different ambushes along the routes you planned to use. One of them included a heavy bombing of the northern village last Tuesday.

The air in the suite seemed to grow suddenly denser, though Pariston kept his tone of voice light, as if gossiping about the weather.

— So, I had to step in — he continued, his smile stretching even wider, his white teeth gleaming under the dim lights. — I made a small agreement with their leaders. I told them, very gently, that if they fired a single bullet in your direction, or if a single one of their men made you bleed... I would personally use my entire fortune and influence to fund the complete eradication of their country. I would cut off their supplies, arm their rival factions, and watch as their land turned to ash. And, well... they are monsters, but they aren't stupid. They packed their bags and vanished.

Every word he spoke cut like a thin, invisible blade into your chest. The psychological impact was devastating, striking your pride as an elite Hunter right where it hurt the most.

Your entire masterpiece of a strategy, the sleepless nights calculating every move, the legitimate pride you felt upon seeing the civilians saved without bloodshed... none of it had been because of your plan. Your effort was real, your sweat was real, but the final outcome had been entirely controlled, sanitized, and guaranteed by his hands behind the scenes. You hadn't won a war at all; you were just another character performing perfectly in a children's stage play whose script and safety were entirely bankrolled by Pariston Hill.

— Why? — you asked.

Your voice carried neither the tremor of indignation nor the sharp edge of hatred he so deeply coveted. Instead, you stared back at him with unwavering emotional stability, holding the golden gaze of the man before you as if you were merely analyzing a poorly written report. Your heart beat in a steady, calm rhythm; your mind remained in absolute control. You knew exactly who you were and how much you had bled to become an elite Hunter; the fact that he had rolled the dice behind the scenes did not erase your strength — it only proved how pathetic he was for needing to control the world around him.

Shifting your weight to one side, you let out a short, soft, genuinely amused chuckle, adopting a bold stance that few in the Association would ever dare to display in front of the Vice Chairman.

— Do you really spend this much time and money on me, Pariston? I’m starting to think your political calendar is entirely empty... or that I’m the only thing interesting enough to drag you out of your office. It’s almost cute how hard you try to be my guardian angel.

Pariston took a step forward. The distance between you vanished, and the surrounding air seemed to evaporate as his aura subtly expanded — a golden, dense, and unnervingly warm pressure. The expression on his face flickered for a millisecond, his political smile giving way to something deeply unsettling. His features softened into an almost tender, hypnotic, and breathtakingly beautiful gaze. On any other man, that focused look and close breath would look like the signs of genuine, overwhelming love. But from him, coming from that soul-deep hollow creature, it was the most terrifying thing you had ever witnessed.

His hand rose slowly, his calculated movements mimicking an almost human gentleness. He placed the back of his hand, with his long, cold fingers, directly against your chin. The thermal shock of his freezing skin against yours was immediate, yet you refused to flinch. Pariston tilted his head slightly, applying a fraction of pressure, just enough to guide your face a centimeter upward, forcing you to look straight into the golden abyss of his eyes.

— Do you truly think this is about my time, my dear? — His voice dropped into a dense, velvety, and terribly intimate whisper. — Don't be so simplistic. The outside world is full of gears that are easy to predict, of people who shatter under the slightest breath of pressure. But you... you look at me and you don't try to decipher me, you don't beg for my approval, and above all, you don't give me the privilege of watching your composure break. This defiant coldness of yours is the only mystery I have left in an Association that is so terribly boring.

He slowly licked his lips, his brilliant smile returning with an intensity that bordered on madness.

— I won't have a bunch of incompetent mercenaries ruin my favorite toy. No... I want you to climb every single step. I want you to reach the very top of the world and become the most powerful, brilliant, and untouchable Hunter in this entire Association. I want to see you burn so brightly that everyone else fades into shadows. So that, when I finally decide to pull the rug from under you... your fall is absolutely unforgettable. — His face drew another centimeter closer, his cold fingers still firm beneath your chin, his breath warm against your skin. — Until then, my dear, I am your greatest protector. No one in this world has the right to hurt you, to make you bleed, or to break you... but me.

Those final words of his drifted through the suite's air conditioning, heavy with a sick promise that would make even the most seasoned Hunter draw back in sheer terror. To be the sole focus of Pariston Hill was the equivalent of holding a death sentence signed in fountain pen alongside a smiley face. But you merely held his gaze. Slowly, with a calm that made Pariston’s smile flicker ever so slightly at the edges of his lips, you brought your hand up to his wrist. You had no intention of attacking him; you simply wrapped your fingers around his cold ones, exerting a quiet firmness that forced him to let go of your chin.

You took two steps back, breaking the suffocating gravity field he created, and averted your eyes from the golden abyss of his pupils. Your footsteps echoed softly against the marble as you walked back over to the glass coffee table.

Your eyes focused once more on the exotic flowers. Under the suite's dim lights, the red-black petals seemed to absorb the surrounding brightness, exuding that sweet, dangerous fragrance.

— You know something, Pariston? — your voice broke the silence of the room. There was no sarcasm, no anger. It was a clean, honest, and incredibly steady tone. — I have never received a bouquet of flowers before. From anyone. Not for a birthday, not as a surprise, let alone from an admirer.

You extended your free hand and, maintaining absolute control over your reactions, brought your fingertips close to the velvety petals, stopping a mere millimeter away from touching the deadly Dark Continent venom. You let out a short, soft chuckle, never breaking your gaze from the arrangement.

— It is genuinely pathetic that the first one came from a political psychopath who deployed an entire country's army just to stroke his own ego.

Pariston remained motionless for a second, his arms still slightly suspended in the air where he had previously held your face. The line of his smile, which had flickered at your physical rejection, expanded once more. But it was no longer the plastic smile of press conferences or the childish mask he wore to irritate the Zodiacs. It was something genuine, sharp, his golden eyes gleaming with the kind of euphoria a predator feels when finding prey that refuses to run.

He let out a low chuckle, a sound vibrating straight from his chest, before slowly walking to the other side of the glass table, mirroring your stance.

— Aaah..., (Y/n)-chan... you truly are a fascinating creature — he said, leaning his upper body forward, resting both hands on the edge of the glass and locking his gaze onto yours. — Most people are so incredibly shallow. When I step onto their chessboard, they break. They scream, they cry, they beg, or they simply lose their patience entirely and try to use brute force to drive me away. It’s so... boring. It is like playing chess against someone who flips the board the moment they lose a single piece. There is no intellect, no grace. Just the emptiness of predictable minds.

He extended his hand, pointing at the single millimeter of distance between your bare fingers and the venomous petals, his eyes tracking your boldness with an almost sickening admiration.

— But not you. You don't try to flee the labyrinth; you simply rebuild the walls as you walk through it. You accept the weight of the move, you read the board perfectly, and you still find the space to call me pathetic with the calmest voice in the room. Having your cognitive intelligence and those sharp intellectual faculties playing my game, at my level... it is the greatest gift I could ever ask for. — He slowly licked his lips, his voice dropping into a tone of pure ecstasy. — Call my ego whatever you like, my dear. But admit it: watching the entire world dance to our waltz behind the scenes is a marvelous feeling, isn't it?

Instead of backing away from his confession of pure ecstasy, you took the initiative. With a slow, deliberate step, you walked around the glass coffee table, closing the distance between you until there was no space left at all. In an absurdly bold move, you leaned in, standing face-to-face with the Vice Chairman. Your faces were so close that your breaths mingled in the suite’s dim light, mere millimeters away from a kiss that felt inevitable, yet carried the suffocating tension of a minefield.

Pariston stilled. His entire body froze, his golden eyes widening ever so slightly as a sudden rigidity took over his shoulders. He, who had spent his entire life predicting and controlling every human reaction around him, was caught completely off guard by that magnetic, intoxicating proximity.

You tilted your head slightly, letting your gaze flicker down to his lips before locking back onto his golden pupils.

— Pariston... — you cooed.

Your voice came out in a soft, velvety, and dangerously seductive tone — a melody whispered directly against his skin that made his pulse jump beneath the fabric of his suit. Pariston caught his breath, every single one of his intellectual faculties focusing obsessively on you. His smile vanished completely as he waited, in a trance of pure delight and anticipation, for what would come next. He thought he had you in the palm of his hand. He thought he had won.

That was when you shattered his illusion with the sweetest, sharpest truth.

— I hate you... — you whispered, your lips nearly brushing his, your soft voice maintaining the same cruel sweetness. — So, so, so, so, so much... I hate every single fake smile you wear, I hate the way you breathe the same air I do, and I hate the fact that you think you own my destiny.

You let out a short, cold chuckle against his face, holding the proximity for one more second before adding:

— You want me to reach the top of the world just to pull the rug from under me? Then brace yourself, Pariston. Because when I am up there, I will make sure the only fall the world ever witnesses... is yours.

The silence that followed your declaration was absolute, cutting through the air like a Nen blade. Pariston remained completely still, but the transformation that took place within him was terrifying. The mask of the brilliant politician, the boyish smirk, and the aura of fake innocence simply melted away, revealing the true essence of the monster inhabiting that yellow suit. His golden eyes, usually half-lorn in mockery, widened fully, locking onto you with a manic, almost feverish intensity. His pupils dilated as he digested every single "so much" that left your lips. There was no anger in his features, no offense. There was only a twisted ecstasy, a satisfaction so deep and violent it bordered on pure masochism. You had just handed him the greatest banquet of his life.

Slowly, his chest rose and fell in a deep, shaky inhale, as if he were savoring the oxygen stained by your hatred. His smile returned, but it wasn't the one from before; his lips stretched past their normal limit, baring his teeth in a predatory, genuine, and chillingly insane expression. He began to tremble slightly — not out of fear, but from the shudder of pure physical pleasure that your promise of mutual destruction sent through his nervous system. Pariston took a step back, breaking the millimeter of distance between you, and brought one hand to his own face, covering his eyes for a second as a silent vibration of laughter shook his shoulders. When he uncovered his gaze, the sickening devotion gleaming within it was almost palpable. He looked like a man who had just found his God, or his perfect executioner.

The atmosphere in the executive suite was so saturated with tension that one could almost hear the snap of electricity between you. But you, with that unwavering composure that always disarmed him, decided to dictate the next move. A sudden idea sparked in your mind — a bold play to reclaim total control of the room. Without any rush, you turned your back on the golden abyss of his eyes, walking with calm, measured steps toward the private wine cellar built into the room's rich wood paneling.

— Well, since you're already here... how about we open a bottle of wine? — your voice cut through the dimness, light and fluid, completely shifting the heavy mood of the suite. You slid open the cellar's glass door and pulled out a vintage bottle, sporting an expensive label the Association had undoubtedly footed the bill for. — We should celebrate, shouldn't we? A toast to my flawless victory... and to the secret sponsor who went through all the trouble of paving the road just to watch me walk it.

Pariston watched your every move. His chest was still rising and falling slightly from the impact of your hatred, but the mention of wine and your audacious invitation made him tilt his head, his eyes gleaming with renewed curiosity. He stepped closer to the counter, tracking your hands as you poured the ruby liquid into two crystal glasses with surgical precision.

— A toast from you, (Y/n)-chan? — he cooed, his voice dripping with that familiar, melodic false innocence as his long, freezing fingers wrapped around the crystal stem you extended toward him. — What a fascinating honor. I gladly accept. After all, watching you receive my... investment with such elegance is the finest entertainment I could ever ask for.

You took your own glass, swirling the liquid slowly before raising your eyes to meet his. A sharp, daring smirk played on your lips.

— Just watch your intake, Pariston... — you said, holding his gaze over the rim of the crystal, your voice dropping into a soft, dangerously ambiguous purr. — Otherwise, you might just end up in my bed.

The silence that followed was charged with a purely malicious electricity. Pariston froze with the glass mere millimeters from his lips. His eyebrows arched subtly, and that manic look from before gave way to an expression of raw magnetism and provocation. His smile curved, slow and predatory, returning the innuendo in kind without a single shred of hesitation or shame. He took a step forward, closing the distance until his aura brushed against yours once more, his golden eyes gleaming with a twisted desire that mixed lust, rivalry, and danger.

— That would be an interesting experience, (Y/n)-chan... — he replied, his voice dropping into a raspy whisper thick with palpable malice, his gaze raking slowly down your body before locking back onto your eyes. — I would love to see how far your composure holds if things... deviate from the script between these sheets. Who do you think would break first?

His question hung suspended in the air, thick and heavy like the scent of the Dark Continent flowers guarding the suite. You didn't answer with words. Instead, you raised your glass in a silent movement, clinking the edge of his crystal with a sharp snap that sealed the challenge. Your eyes locked over the rim as you took your first sip, the full-bodied, bitter taste of the wine gliding down your throat without breaking focus from that golden abyss for even a single millisecond.

Pariston followed suit, mirroring your gesture as he drank the ruby liquid, his eyes half-lorn and his pulse visible against his slender neck. This is no peaceful celebration, but rather, the beginning of a silent war fought in inches, where the breath of one dictated the heartbeat of the other.

As the glasses came to rest back on the marble, the distance between you seemed to shrink even further. Pariston’s long, freezing fingers slid along your waist with agonizing slowness, not quite gripping you, merely testing the limits of your precious composure. The palm of his hand lingered against your side, the warmth of your skin through the combat uniform drawing his chill like a magnet. You didn't flinch. Instead, you stepped closer, pressing your chest against his, feeling the pristine fabric of his yellow suit beneath your fingers as you flattened your hand over his sternum, holding him firmly in place.

— We will never know, Pariston... — you whispered against his lips, your soft voice once again pulling that delicious rigidity from his shoulders. Your lips brushed lightly — an ephemeral, electric touch that promised everything and delivered nothing. — Because I don't intend to let you find out. Not tonight.

A low, raspy, genuinely affected chuckle escaped his throat. The malice in his golden eyes was almost unbearably sharp. He leaned in, pressing a chaste, yet absurdly firm and lingering kiss along your jawline, just beneath your ear, sending a shiver through your skin before he slowly pulled back.

— You are relentless, (Y/n)-chan... — he murmured, his voice thick with anticipation as he took two steps backward toward the balcony from which he had emerged. He adjusted his collar with his usual elegance, the political mask returning to his face, though his golden gaze remained anchored to you like an invisible chain. — I can wait. After all, watching your ascent knowing how sweet our collapse will be... is worth every single second.

With his final words, right before turning to leave, his intense eyes still fixed on you like a wild predator, he blew you a kiss, emphasizing the sound of his lips with a sharp wink.

The blonde silhouette glided into the darkness of the night through the balcony glass, vanishing with the same ghostly ease with which he had entered. The silk curtains rustled gently before the room fell dead silent.

The last one i made for fun .

And here's pariging 🤷‍♂️and a killugon drawing I made

some messy doodles of my favorite characters before i go to sleep. 🍅🌀