Chapter Text
Spots swam in Killua’s eyes. He couldn’t breathe. His feet hung in the air, kicking out but still out of range. He had no more weapons. Even after slicing his attacker’s arm to the bone, the man hadn’t flinched.
The man’s grip was even stronger than Gon’s—what was with people and using strangling as a method of subjugation? It was far too old school and very inefficient.
Killua wondered if it was the end. Perhaps it was what he deserved. He had done alright by his standards with the arsenal at his disposal. His bulletproof jacket was frayed; out of commission from taking several hits. He was sure his ankle was broken. His knives were either buried in bodies or snapped in half, his guns empty of bullets. On his body, blood caked his skin, and bruises bloomed beneath the dust.
He could hear Knov’s voice through his earpiece. He sounded tense. He told Killua to maintain his position, the rest of the JKG were almost there. If the situation were less dire, Killua would have cracked a smile—it wasn’t like they had anywhere else to go when they were in such urgent need of backup. The sheer volume of enemies, coupled with the drug usage, had been more than they were prepared for.
Hopefully Gon had made his escape. If it was just Killua, he could live with that.
Rammot touched Killua’s chin to admire him. The gang leader was more grotesque up close, bloodshot eyes and yellowing teeth, skin sagging from too much drug use and cigarettes in his younger days. Rammot spoke and Killua snarled back, ready to claw his face off with what lingering strength remained.
A bullet flew between them. It passed cleanly through Rammot’s forearm.
Rammot screamed. Blood spurted from his wound like a fountain. Based on his reaction, he hadn’t been brave enough to take the pills to stop the pain. He released Killua’s face, maniacally searching for the shot’s origin. When he looked up, he stopped. Killua mustered up the energy to look up as well.
Gon stood atop of a punctured metal shipping crate. A gun was in his hand, still smoking, and aimed at Rammot’s head. Gon was devoid of all emotion save for the hatred carved on his face, seconds away from exploding. His muscles strained against the tears in his shirt, wound like a bow with too much tension in the wire.
“Get your dirty hands off what’s mine,” Gon said, voice colder than the arctic, “every second you continue touching him will be an added hour of torture.”
Rammot’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. “How is this guy still not dead!?” he said, spittle spraying from his mouth, “just fucking shoot him—”
The windows of the warehouse shattered. Glass rained down.
Knov and a group of thirty other JKG members swung into the warehouse, guns trained on the other gang members. Their backup had finally arrived.
The man holding Killua up didn’t release him despite this new threat. Rather, he squeezed tighter. Killua gasped. Pain rippled around his throat and fire burned through his lungs. His vision blurred around the edges like a black fog—if he didn’t take a breath soon, he didn’t know if he was going to make it—
His eyes lost focus.
There was a loud crash. Suddenly Killua’s windpipe was free—his body instantly went into recovery mode. He took a grateful lungful of air and landed on his feet.
His attacker was on the ground. Gon had leapt from the top of the crate and planted a vicious knee to the back of his neck. Killua heard several bones crunch against the cement. Gon swung his arm up, then down again. Then up again. Then down again. The sound it made was like a sledgehammer. He was knocking all the teeth out of the man’s mouth, breaking his jaw, and fracturing his skull.
This display of strength was violent, brutal, and senseless. The fury on Gon’s face. The savagery. The complete disregard for the fact that the man, even while drugged, had been beaten so far into submission he could never recover. If he wasn’t dead, he would have wished he was. There was no doubt why Ging Freecss had decided to leave the JKG in Gon’s hands. Gon was a well of power which never ran dry.
Heat crawled up Killua’s neck. In that moment, Gon was capable of burning the entire world to the ground if it meant keeping him safe.
Around them, the rest of the JKG were taking down the remaining gang members. Rammot was yowling. The commotion caught Gon’s attention. He discarded the man on the ground and focused his attention on Rammot. Blood dripped from his fist, painting the blue butterflies crimson.
“Leave him,” he said quietly. “That one’s mine.”
“You were supposed to be dead!” Rammot said, snapping back to look at Gon, voice rising higher and higher in pitch. Sweat dripped down his face. His shirt was soaked. “I was supposed to take over the underworld, but now everything’s gone to shit!”
He frantically spat at anyone who was close enough to listen. “Shoot him! He’s a sitting duck, he’s completely open! Don’t just stand there!”
His words may as well have been paper against a wildfire. He stood no chance. Killua watched as several gang members turned their guns on Gon, desperately trying to defend against his steadily approaching presence.
Gon picked a man off the ground and used his body to absorb the bullets before returning the attack shot for shot. He didn’t say a single word. He only kept moving forwards. His eyes never left Rammot.
Gon didn’t need anyone’s help. In his current state, he could take down the entire warehouse by himself. He didn’t spare the remaining gang members a shred of his attention. He just continued advancing towards Rammot, who was struggling to remove his gun from its holster. He finally succeeded, whipping out the weapon and shooting several rounds at Gon. His bullets missed pathetically, so much so that Gon didn’t even move to dodge as they sailed past him. Rammot fired some more rounds. Those failed too.
The closer Gon got, the more panicked Rammot grew. Rammot fumbled with his clip, reloaded, and shot again. This time, Gon only tilted his head slightly to the left, the bullet sniping a lock of his hair. The rest of the shots either hit the ground or were embedded into the steel post behind him.
Rammot’s hands trembled. He swore, fingers pulling the trigger again, but he was out of luck. The gun clicked, empty.
He was a cornered mouse who had nowhere left to hide, and Gon was an apex predator whose patience had run thin.
Rammot threw his weapon to the side. Gon was only a few feet away and still steadily encroaching. Out of options, Rammot scrambled for something in his pocket. His search paid off—his face lit up when he drew out a vial of red pills. He cackled before shoving all the contents in his mouth, chewing voraciously.
“You’ll die, Gon Freecss! And I’ll be the one to do it!” he said as he gnashed the pills between his teeth, white powder sticking to his mouth, “I’ve kept a whole stash of these for myself. Now I’ll blow your fucking brains out, you bastard! I’ll beat you until you can’t remember your own name, then I’ll cut off your fingers while you're still awake, and then all your other body parts—then finally take your head and send it to your aunt as a gift! Just imagine the expression she’ll make…that fucking bitch has what’s coming to her...! And then, once I put a knife in her neck, the underworld will be mine for the taking...and the JKG will have nothing left. Your legacy will crumble into the dust. You lose, you lose, you lose!”
Rammot swallowed.
The effects were immediate. His laughter turned to coughing, then choking as his body failed to absorb the contents he ingested. His eyes focused in and out. Sweat beaded on his skin. He began convulsing and foaming at the mouth. A few seconds ticked by before his knees hit the ground, and he clawed at his throat, blood dripping from one of his nostrils. It was more than his system could process. Gon looked down on him, blank apathy on his face, before landing a single, heavy blow to his stomach.
The drugs were ejected from Rammot’s body as he threw up. Gon hit him again. The gang leader fell unconscious, body slumping against the floor, vomit dripping down his chin, fingers still twitching.
“Take him into custody,” said Gon with disgust, “I can’t have him dying on me just yet. I owe him five hours of torture for Killua, and then another two for mentioning Aunt Mito.” He shot Rammot’s leg a couple of times for good measure, blowing apart his kneecap and effectively ensuring the man would never walk again. A JKG member arrived to swiftly cuff Rammot up, then he dragged him away from the fray which was quickly winding down.
With their leader gone and the effects of the drugs causing more harm than good, the remaining gang members gave up. Killua didn’t know, nor did he care, about what would happen to them. It didn't matter. They were rounded up and led out of the warehouse.
Gon nodded to Knov. “Place the bombs. I want this whole place demolished within the hour.”
“Yes sir,” said Knov. “And the money?”
A JKG member ran over with the phone he had collected from Rammot’s body and gave it to Gon. Gon placed it in Killua’s hands. The screen was cracked and covered in grime.
“For you, rabbit,” he said.
Killua made short work of the password on the device and transferred the remaining five hundred million jenny into his account. The funds looked pretty in there, all the zeroes lighting up his screen. But it made him feel a little empty. The adrenaline and thrill of the fight had left him and the exhaustion was settling in. His broken ankle throbbed. His muscles hurt. And of course, there was the matter of Gon.
After this, Killua said he would give Gon his answer.
Gon wanted him as his right-hand man. Permanently. That meant they would be closer than blood brothers and more intimate than lovers. Did Gon understand what he was asking? Was the same offer still in place?
More importantly—did Killua want it?
He took a look at Gon. His shoulders were bruised and bleeding. His pant legs were a different color than they were when he first arrived. There was blood coagulating on his face and rubble in his hair. But the frigid man who had decimated Rammot and the rest of the gang members was no longer, and it was just Gon again—the Gon with a slightly flirtatious smile, hands in his pockets, and eyes the color of whiskey.
“Why did you do it?” said Killua.
“Why did I do what?” Gon answered.
“Why were you so angry towards the end of the fight?”
“I don’t know, Killua,” said Gon in a tone that indicated he knew but was going to make Killua work for it, “why do you think I was so angry?”
“…Because they touched me.”
“Ding ding ding! One point for the rabbit,” said Gon.
“You said something else too. You said I was yours,” said Killua.
“Because you are,” said Gon.
Knov muttered something that sounded like “I’ll wait in the car” and sprinted off.
“In what way?” Killua asked, probing further. “As in, I’m your right-hand man? As in, I’m a member of the JKG and under your protection?”
Gon took a step closer. He was still grinning but Killua had spent enough time watching him to see that beneath that expression, he was nervous.
“Oho—when you said you would be ready to talk about it after we enacted the plan, I didn’t think you meant immediately after. I was hoping to take you out to dinner first.”
Killua pursed his lips and took a step closer as well. Something dark crossed over Gon’s face.
“For all your earlier bravado, you sure can’t muster up the words when I ask you to. Say it. Why am I yours?” said Killua.
“You might like me less if I say it,” Gon said. “I don’t want to ruin my chances. Are you sure I can’t take you out for dinner first?”
“Stop dodging the question. Be upfront with me. It's never stopped you before.”
When Gon didn’t say anything, Killua took another step closer. Then another, and another, until they were standing chest to chest, and he could see his own reflection in Gon’s eyes. The smell of gunpowder wafted in the air. It mingled with Gon’s scent.
Gon reached out and carefully cupped Killua’s face in his palms.
“Ah,” he said softly, “what are you doing so close to me, Killua? If you stand so close after being so aggressive, I’m going to eat you, you know?”
“I’m hoping you do,” Killua answered.
Gon swallowed. Killua waited for him to speak again.
“Well,” Gon said finally, “you said you wanted the truth, right? If you must know, I’m terribly in love with you.”
Killua’s breath caught in his chest.
Gon continued. “Ever since we met—ever since you held that knife against my throat—I’ve wanted you. My skin itches whenever we’re apart. I have to touch you. I need to. Sometimes it’s nearly impossible to resist, and those times are the hardest because I crack, and—my god, if only you knew the things I’ve thought about doing—with you, to you—you’d understand.
“I want to take you to my bed. I want to worship you. I want to wreck you and build you back again, I want to carve a hole inside your chest and bury my soul there. I want your hands to touch my heart.”
Killua was melting from the inside out. Magma, wild and chaotic, threatened to burst from his skin like a grenade without a pin. His entire being swelled with desperate desire. It was just Gon—his hands on Killua’s face and the print of the tiger beneath his shirt—but no one had ever wanted Killua in this way before. No one had ever loved him in this way before. And Killua had never felt the magnitude of such a want, of such a love, until Gon had ensnared him with the promise of forever.
However, Killua’s inability to respond was taken as a rejection. Gon cracked a smile and tried to play his confession off.
“And if you don’t want dinner,” Gon said in a slightly strained voice, “I can give you something else to eat instead—”
Killua cut him off and smashed their mouths together. Gon groaned, hands instantly flying off Killua’s face to hold him at his waist, yanking him so their bodies were flush together. Killua grabbed fistfulls of Gon’s shirt, opening his mouth immediately and with reckless abandon.
Their kiss was the pull of a riptide, one which Killua allowed himself to drown in so he could walk on the ocean floor.
They licked into each other’s mouths. Their teeth clacked together. Killua tasted blood and spearmint. He impatiently pushed his hands up and into Gon’s shirt, feeling his racing heart and the dips and swells of his body, and Gon moved to splay one large palm over Killua’s ass like he had been waiting for an eternity to feel him there. He squeezed. Killua moaned, sinking further into a boneless heap, relying on Gon to hold him up. They kissed and kissed and kissed, drinking in each other’s presence, gasping for breath, biting with teeth, lips moving until they had memorized the shape of each other’s mouths several times over.
Something hard and hot pressed against the inside of Killua’s thigh.
Fuck, he would have said if his mouth wasn’t otherwise preoccupied, fuck, fuck, fuck.
If they weren’t in a warehouse, Killua would have slid his knife under the buttons of Gon’s shirt and pulled it apart till every one of those glorious tattoos was exposed. He would have bitten at the edges of ink, scratched his fingernails down lightning stripes and corded muscle, until Gon groaned his name and took him. They would have thrown off their clothes and tangled their limbs together, desperately seeking the heat of their bodies and the glide of skin against one another. And then, in the morning, Killua would wake first so he could memorize the patterns on Gon’s body in peace. If he was caught, he would lie to him, say he still couldn’t remember one or two as an excuse to gaze at the art branded on his skin for just a little while longer.
But alas—given their choice of location, all of this would have to wait.
Killua broke away. There were stars in Gon’s eyes. His lips were red from the force of their kiss.
“How was that for a meal?” Killua asked.
“Seconds please,” muttered Gon, and then he was diving in again.
-
Perhaps it was the aftermath which tied everything together. Gon watched from the comfort of the car as the warehouse exploded in the distance. The destruction cast a large plume of smoke into the sky, showering sparks and flames across the waters. The JKG members had already warned the nearest fire department so the surrounding woods wouldn’t be at risk. Killua, having fallen asleep after his ankle had been tended to, snored lightly against Gon’s shoulder.
“There’s been a bit of a development,” said Knov quietly from the driver’s seat.
“In regards to my relationship or to other matters?” said Gon.
“Other matters. But I suppose I should congratulate you on successfully convincing Killua to join our ranks.”
“Hm,” agreed Gon absentmindedly. He threaded Killua’s fingers in between his own, marveling at the steady pulse beneath his skin.
Knov spoke again. “Our informants have tracked down the source of the drugs. They’re being manufactured in Neo-Green Life. A guy named Gyro is spearheading the operations.”
Neo-Green Life. That was a country Gon had not heard of for a long time.
“Neo-Green Life? The NGL?” he mused. “A single square foot there has more filth than the entire city of YorkNew. It’s a hellscape.”
“Yeah. But despite that, Gyro has a good supply chain going. There are several ports in YorkNew delivering and distributing the drugs. Since NGL has strict shipping regulations, he’s likely gotten the government in on his plans,” said Knov. “His network is unfortunately already in place.”
“And what about the drug?”
“The lab deconstructed the latest pill. When a small dose is mixed with some other ingredients, the resulting compound is basically a stimulant. Pretty standard for people looking for a hit. But the side-effects are likely to be pretty severe, and won’t appear for at least a few years after consumption. We think this is what Gyro is after.”
Gon thought about it. He didn’t like getting involved in drug deals. It was a messy business, made all the more complicated by the number of incompetent people that could fuck it up. Not to mention, NGL was a bit out of his jurisdiction, and from the sound of it, Gyro already had a plan. Was it worth it to enrage the underground king of a different country? Could Gon win a subterfuge war? Out of habit, he spun Ging’s ring around on his finger, mulling over his choices.
What to do, what to do.
He had just caught a prize which would keep him busy. Killua had finally stopped running and was right where he belonged—curled up against Gon’s side. Gon wanted to take things slow for a bit. Court him. Lavish him with gifts and attention. Kiss him. Take him on dates. Demonstrate, over and over again with his body, that Gon should be the only one on his mind. The task of hunting down a drug manufacturer was entirely unappealing.
But his rabbit was not the type of man to sit still. He wouldn’t want to lounge on the couch or bark orders from the comfort of his desk. He was a person driven by ambition—someone who didn’t mind getting his hands dirty for the sake of entertainment—and he wouldn’t let Gon live it down if such an interesting opportunity passed them by.
Gon looked down at Killua’s face. It was free of any and all tension. His breathing was easy.
“I will take a month off to recover,” said Gon. “During this time, gather all the facts. I want contacts, drug routes, and any other details you think I’ll need. Under no circumstances are you to get involved with Pariston. There’s a pretty high chance he already has ties to the drug ring.”
Gon hadn’t forgotten how Pariston had offhandedly suggested using substances to bed a woman. For that, Gon would extract every ounce of information from him before he killed him. Politicians were a dime a dozen in YorkNew, and more than enough of them had requested the JKG’s involvement in their campaigns. Pariston was expendable.
“I’m putting you in charge,” said Gon.
“Understood,” said Knov.
Their car hit a pothole in the road. Killua opened his eyes, fully alert. He sat up.
“Are we back yet?” he asked.
“Almost,” said Gon, “we’re about twenty minutes away from headquarters.”
Killua sighed and leaned back down. He buried his face into Gon's neck.
“I was hoping we would be back already,” he murmured.
“And why’s that?” asked Gon.
“Hm. Personal reasons.”
“Personal reasons?”
Killua’s response came as a lick. He pressed the flat of his tongue soundly against Gon’s neck, warm and wet, and Gon felt his self-restraint grow razor-thin in the span of a second. His hand jumped to Killua’s thigh, gripping the muscle in what could be perceived as either a warning or encouragement.
Killua took it to mean the latter.
He opened his mouth wider. His teeth scraped against Gon’s skin. He nibbled on Gon’s collarbone, ignoring the grime and sweat, spending extra time on the borders where ink bled into nothing, worrying the flesh between his teeth. Gon was doing his best to stay still but it was proving rather difficult when the object of his affections was pressing every single one of his buttons with deliberate intent.
Killua bit down. He was marking his territory, sucking a damning bruise onto Gon’s neck. As if Gon hadn’t already been his from the start.
Killua leaned back to admire his handiwork. Street lamps flashed across his earrings, tiny fireflies shining within the obsidian. Then, he looked back at Gon.
His expression was nothing like Gon had ever seen before. It was pure sinfulness, hunger and cunning tied together by the prettiest ribbon on a gift box. When he grinned, the cut of his teeth appeared even sharper—more animal than man. If someone had said his rabbit was actually a wolf in disguise, Gon would have believed them.
Killua looked like a predator who had gotten exactly what he wanted.
Gon wondered if it was really him who was hunting Killua the entire time, or the other way around.
Killua crawled into his lap. His thighs pressed flush against Gon’s legs, and he plastered their chests together so when Gon inhaled, he could smell the clean scent of detergent under the dust on their clothes. Words no longer came to mind. He couldn’t think clearly, not in this position. No man could have resisted temptation like this.
Killua casually brought both arms up to rest over Gon’s shoulders.
“I was hoping to cash in on your promise,” he said. “You promised that you’d show me the tiger again in a more…intimate setting.”
Then, to further emphasize his statement, Killua dug his fingers sharply into the seam of Gon’s pants, both too close to and also too far from something else, possessive and unrelenting. Gon swore. Killua pressed harder and rolled his hips down.
They weren’t going to make it in time to get back to the JKG. And Gon was done waiting.
So to that, he could only growl low in his throat, pull across the privacy screen, and push Killua down and into the leather seats.