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“Does it hurt?”
“I’ll live.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Ging winced as Pariston poured alcohol onto the wound with exaggerated care, like he was seasoning a meal instead of treating an injury, then pressed down just a little harder than necessary.
“Well, its what you got,” Ging scoffed—until the pain snapped through him and shut that down fast.
Pariston hummed thoughtfully, head tilting as if he were genuinely evaluating the reaction, a small, amused curve to his lips.
“Shit-” Ging hissed, “I'm glad you're enjoying this because I'm not.”
Pariston only shrugged, already reaching for the gauze, movements unhurried, almost lazy. “Okay. Stop moving and shut your mouth for a moment while I wrap this.”
“What does shutting my mouth have to do with anything?” A glare ignited in Ging’s honey-colored eyes.
“Nothing, really.”
Pariston looked up at him with an icy glare—one sharp enough to kill a man.
But not this man.
If anything, it made him ecstatic (horny). There was a challenge there.
And Ging loved a challenge.
“How did you get this, anyway?” Pariston asked, his gaze drifting from Ging’s face as if suddenly very invested in looking busy, hands moving with deliberate precision through the emergency kit.
“Te lo diría, pero prefiero tirarme de un edificio, además, te ves bastante atractivo envolviéndome así.” Ging replied plainly, watching him from under his lashes, fully aware Pariston wouldn’t understand a word of it.
Pariston paused for half a second—just long enough to register the tone—before resuming his search, posture straight, movements meticulous. “Ging, you and me both know I don’t have the faintest idea what you just said.”
A corner of Ging’s mouth tugged upward. “Yeah,” he said lightly, eyes lingering a little too long on the line of Pariston’s neck, “it’s funnier that way.”
Pariston exhaled through his nose, fingers tightening briefly around the gauze before smoothing it out again. “Charming,” he replied coolly, though the slight stiffness in his shoulders suggested he was far more aware of Ging’s attention than he cared to admit.
Ging reached for his pack, dragging it off the dusty ground before digging inside and pulling out a flask. Smooth silver, dented and dinged, wrapped in tooled leather worn dark with age and use. The initials G.F. were pressed into it, softened by time and familiar hands.
“You really shouldn’t be drinking,” Pariston said, not looking at him as he reorganized his own pack, he made room for the emergency kit.
Ging took a hefty swig anyway. “Yeah, probably,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “But I really don’t care. Plus,” he added, tilting the flask slightly as if in offering, “this shit’s good.”
He went in for another sip.
“Here,” Ging said, offering the flask to Pariston. “It’s from Whale Island. Gon brought it back—actually, it’s from an old buddy of mine. You know, the guy could make some good-ass money if he wanted to.”
Ging’s muscles slowly relaxed. Well—about as much as they ever did when Pariston was around.
“I don’t drink what you drink,” Pariston said, finally looking up at him. Unfortunately, Ging noticed—noticed that Pariston somehow looked more attractive than he had a moment ago, which was deeply inconvenient.
“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad. Just try the shit,” Ging said easily. “I wouldn’t offer it if I didn’t think you’d like it.” He cocked his head slightly, an almost reassuring gesture that didn’t match his grin.
A heavy sigh slipped from the blond hunter. “Fine. Just this once.”
Pariston took the flask, turning it in his hands for a moment, fingers tracing the worn leatherwork before lifting it. Ging’s gaze dropped—tracked the movement, lingered as Pariston tipped his head back, watched the line of his throat, the subtle bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.
Then Pariston froze.
“Goddamn it, Ging,” he sputtered, lowering the flask. “That’s fucking moonshine.”
Ging erupted into booming laughter, sharp and unrestrained, only cutting himself off with a wince as pain flared through his side.
“Yeah,” he managed between laughs, eyes bright. “Told you it was good.”
That icy glare Ging loved so much was back—sharper this time, dangerous enough that it looked like Pariston might slit his throat where he stood.
Which, unfortunately, only made Ging more ecstatic.
He wanted more. Wanted to push it further, to see that cold, dark glare crack—to watch it shift from controlled and lethal to something messy. Pathetic, even.
The thought sent a slow thrill through him.
Ging huffed out a breath, half a laugh, shaking his head slightly. Shit. That moonshine must’ve been really good if his mind was already going there.
Or maybe Pariston was just that good at getting under his skin.
Either way, Ging didn’t look away.
“Oh, calm down. It wasn’t even that bad,” Ging said as he pushed himself to his feet, snatching the flask back out of Pariston’s hand as he passed.
Pariston didn’t utter a word. He just watched as Ging moved toward the cliff just outside the cramped cave they’d been sharing. For a brief moment, Pariston genuinely considered pushing him off the edge.
But then—no. Seeing the aftermath of what happened when Gon got upset with someone had taught Pariston better than to risk that particular mistake.
The strong current below slammed into the rocks, crashing waves throwing salt spray into the air. It coated Ging completely, scrubbing the scent of alcohol from his breath and clinging to his clothes and skin. He breathed it in slowly.
Watching the sea helped. It always did. It reminded him of nights spent under open skies—dreaming, wanting, wishing, worrying.
Still, no matter how calming the ocean was, there was a looming presence behind him.
Pariston.
Ging knew he could never fully relax around him. Never. Pariston was too sly, always planning something, always two steps ahead. And yet—
What if he just let himself unwind a little?
He’d been on the move for almost a year now, no breaks, barely enough time to sleep—let alone take a night off. Especially with his closest rival—friend? No. Definitely not friend.
So what, then?
Eh. Whatever.
All Ging knew was that he wanted to have some fun.
He lowered himself onto a rock near the edge, elbows resting on his knees, gaze fixed on the sea.
And still—he could feel it.
Paristson’s eyes on his back. Cold. Unblinking. Waiting.
Ging didn’t turn around.
He smiled anyway.
Finally, after a few minets of sitting by the sea, the looming presence shifted.
Pariston moved.
He rose from where he’d been standing, footsteps slow and deliberate as he made his way toward Ging. No matter how much he hated the man—how irritating, reckless, and infuriating he was—there was something about Ging that drew him in. Something he hadn’t bothered trying to name, let alone resist.
The sea wind tugged at Pariston’s coat as he stopped a short distance away, close enough to be felt but not touched. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.
“Ese abrigo se ve ridículo. Se vería mejor en el suelo,” Ging teased, eyes still on the sea. He knew exactly what he was doing. Knew this would piss Pariston off even more than he already was—and maybe, just maybe, push him far enough.
“Ging,” Pariston warned. “If you insist on speaking your mother tongue, then I may suggest you translate.” His tone was precise, clipped—thinly stretched patience wrapped in politeness.
Ging finally looked up at him, honey-colored eyes bright, a slow grin spreading across his face. “You really want the actual translation?”
“What else would I want, Ging?” Pariston replied coolly, every syllable edged with condescension.
“Bossy,” Ging muttered, then leaned back slightly, eyes locking onto Pariston’s. “That coat looks stupid. It’d look better on the ground.”
There was a glint in his eye as he stared Pariston down.
He knew it the moment it happened—
He’d reached the breaking point.
Pariston’s eye twitched.
The icy glare was still there, sharp and dangerous—but softer now. Not by much. Just enough to notice.
“What are you saying, boar?” he asked coolly.
The nickname landed with weight. Boar—the one Pariston only used when he was irritated. Or prurient, as Pariston liked to dress it up with one of his ridiculous, oversized words.
Ging’s grin only widened at that.
Yeah.
He’d definitely hit something important.
Ging stood, closing the distance in a single step. He grabbed Pariston by the lapel and yanked him down to eye level, grip firm, unapologetic.
“I think you’re smart enough to know what I mean, Paris,” he said lowly.
Their faces were close now—too close for comfort, close enough to feel each other’s breath. The sea roared behind them, but neither of them paid it any mind.
Pariston didn’t pull away.
In fact, he leaned in closer.
“Oh, am I now?” Pariston murmured, voice smooth, almost amused. His hands stayed at his sides—deliberately neutral—but he didn’t try to pull away. If anything, he tilted his head just enough to make the distance between them feel intentional.
That softer edge to his glare sharpened again, curiosity slipping through the ice.
Ging’s grip tightened slightly on the lapel, knuckles brushing Pariston’s chest as the sea wind whipped between them. “Don’t play dumb,” he said quietly. “You’re bad at it.”
A breath passed between them—slow, measured. Pariston’s eyes flicked briefly to Ging’s mouth, then back up, a calculated move that made the moment stretch.
“Bold words,” Pariston replied coolly. “For someone who’s injured.”
Ging huffed a low laugh. “You gonna do something about it, rat?”
For a heartbeat, it felt like the cliff edge disappeared entirely—like the only thing that existed was the space between them, tight and electric, waiting to snap one way or the other.
Pariston smiled.
Not warm.
Not kind.
Dangerous.
In an instant, Pariston had him by the throat, fingers firm as he dragged Ging into a deep, bruising kiss—hard, hungry, and unapologetically lustful. It stole the breath right out of him.
Ging didn’t let go.
If anything, he leaned into it, hands already moving, impatient fingers fumbling with the stupid jacket that was very quickly becoming a problem. They staggered backward together, steps messy and uncoordinated, until Ging’s back hit the cave wall with a dull thud.
Pariston followed without hesitation.
His hands were greedy—always needing more, never satisfied. One stayed at Ging’s throat, anchoring him there, while the other slid from his ribs, wrapped around his waist, and dipped lower, possessive and deliberate.
Ging growled into the kiss, finally getting the damn jacket undone and practically wrestling it off Pariston’s shoulders.
“Hey—be careful with that,” Pariston muttered as he broke away just long enough to complain, breath uneven. “It was expensive.”
“Oh, shut up and take this off,” Ging shot back, voice caught somewhere between playful and cold, already tugging insistently.
Their eyes locked again, tension thick and undeniable, the cave suddenly feeling far too small for the two of them.
Pariston started to remove his jacket slowly, deliberately—revealing the white shirt beneath, loose enough to move with him yet fitted enough to leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.
The slowness was pissing Ging off.
With a sharp huff, Ging grabbed the jacket and yanked it the rest of the way off, tossing it aside without ceremony before pulling Pariston back in and crashing their mouths together again. The kiss was rougher this time, impatient, all teeth and intent.
Ging’s stubble grazed Pariston’s face as he pressed in close, the contact drawing a quiet, surprised breath from him before he caught himself. Pariston’s hand slid instinctively to Ging’s side, fingers curling into fabric as if grounding himself—or maybe claiming space.
The sight of Ging, shirtless after Pariston’s treatment, was far too enticing for his mind to resist. Every inch of him called to be memorized, traced, claimed—so that even when Ging inevitably left again, he’d know exactly what it felt like, exactly what he had.
Greed won over restraint. Pariston’s lips trailed over the lines of Ging’s neck, following the veins, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath his lips—thump… thump… thump—a rhythm that made the air between them almost unbearable.
He didn’t hold back. Not entirely. He made sure to leave his mark, subtle but unmistakable. He never knew where Ging would be next, or how long it would be before he saw him again—but wherever Ging went, there would be proof: Pariston had been here.
Proof that he was his.
It didn’t take long for Pariston to want more. More of Ging. More of his presence, his body—more of everything.
He moved down to his collarbones, lingering over the sharp planes that always seemed to shimmer, now slick with saliva and faint marks from Pariston—just the way he liked it.
The rise and fall of Ging’s chest grew faster the lower he went. He knew he was dragging it out, and the knowledge made him thrill to it even more. Torturing him, testing him, watching him squirm—it was exactly what he wanted.
Pariston’s hands found the sensitive peaks, brushing against the black hair that framed them, careful but insistent.
“Shit,” Ging gasped, a sound half frustration, half need, and entirely Pariston’s doing.
Lust washed over Pariston, sharp and demanding. Every sound Ging made only made him want him more—wanted to claim him, mark him, make it clear to any whore that he fucked next that, Ging was his.
The rat sank lower against Ging’s firm chest, fingers brushing over scars and hair, tracing the lines he knew so well. Ging’s gaze burned into him, urging him to go faster, to move lower—but this time, Ging didn’t get what he wanted.
Pariston’s mouth found the sensitive peaks he’d just been teasing with his hands, circling, lingering, pressing, doing everything he could to draw a reaction.
Ging’s usual stoicism didn’t stand a chance. His body betrayed him, twisting and writhing under Pariston’s touch, helpless against the precision and intent of the man who had him completely.
Pariston savored it, letting every subtle gasp, every tremor, every fleeting reaction fuel the thrill of control.
Pariston let his hands wander lower, teasing, giving Ging just enough satisfaction to keep him from lashing out—slapping him, biting him, doing something reckless.
The lower he went, the more Ging’s body betrayed him. Muscles quivering under Pariston’s touch, heat pooling in places he couldn’t hide. Every gasp, every shiver fed Pariston’s obsession, made him want more, made him want to see just how far he could push the hunter.
Then Pariston’s hand met him where he was hardest, cupping him firmly.
Ging’s head fell back, a long, low moan escaping his lips.
Pariston’s hand tightened, moving with deliberate pressure, teasing and stroking, drawing out every sound, every reaction. He could feel Ging trembling beneath him, body arching, hands gripping at air and at him, trying to anchor himself while Pariston took full control.
“Gods… Paris…” Ging gasped, voice rough, uneven, betraying everything he’d been holding back.
And the rat? He only smirked, savoring it, knowing exactly how much power he had in that moment—and how utterly, completely Ging was his.
Pariston finally dropped to his knees, the movement slow and deliberate, as if he wanted Ging to feel every second of it. His lips traced along heated skin, kissing and marking just above the waistband of Ging’s pants, teeth grazing lightly before he tugged the fabric down just enough to bare more skin.
There—along the trail of veins and dark hair—something in Pariston snapped.
The sight alone was enough to make him ravenous.
He lingered there, mouth open against Ging’s skin, breath warm and intentional, leaving marks that were unmistakably his. Ging’s body reacted instantly, tension rippling through him as Pariston took his time, savoring the way control shifted so completely into his hands.
Pariston smiled against his skin.
He wasn’t done—not even close.
As Pariston tugged his pants lower, inch by deliberate inch, Ging’s composure unraveled with it. The farther the fabric slipped, the worse state he was in—breath uneven, muscles tight, every nerve alight.
Before long, the gray pants pooled around his ankles, leaving nothing but a thin barrier of underwear standing between Pariston and the fire he’d started.
Ging could feel it—heat flooding through him, a warm flush spreading across his skin, made sharper by the cool, salty air rolling in from the sea. The contrast was almost cruel. Almost unbearable.
Pariston looked up at him from where he knelt, gaze dark and intent, taking in every reaction, every telltale tremor. He didn’t touch. Not yet.
That last scrap of fabric remained between them.
And the waiting—
the deliberate pause—
was torture.
Pariston moved his hands deliberately, almost reverently. Long, slender fingers brushed against Ging, skimming over the last remaining scrap of fabric like it was both a boundary and a promise. His touch was light—too light—sending sparks racing through Ging’s body despite the restraint.
He dragged his knuckles slowly along the line of Ging’s hips, thumbs pressing just enough to remind him they were there, that Pariston was in control of the pace. The fabric did little to dull the sensation; if anything, it made it worse, turning every pass of his hands into something agonizingly precise.
Pariston lingered, letting the moment stretch, watching Ging react to every careful movement. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to.
The waiting did all the work for him.
Pariston caught the fabric between his teeth, biting down just enough to tug it lower, drawing it down to match where Ging’s pants had already fallen. The gesture was slow, deliberate—taunting in a way that made Ging shudder despite himself.
Then, finally, Pariston let it fall.
He eased back, hands retreating, giving Ging a moment of space after all that teasing—after winding him tight and leaving him there, breathless and flushed, skin still buzzing where Pariston had touched him.
The pause was almost cruel.
Pariston looked up at him, eyes dark, unreadable, lips curved with quiet satisfaction.
Pariston took Gings hard cock in his hands slowly stroking It was just enough to make Ging’s head fall back against his shoulders, a soft, helpless sound slipping from his throat despite himself. Pariston moved slowly—agonizingly so—and Ging bucked under his touch, instinctively trying to force him to speed up.
It didn’t work.
Pariston’s grip tightened, firm and unyielding, pushing Ging’s hips back against the stone wall and holding him there. The message was unmistakable. This wasn’t a negotiation. This wasn’t Ging’s pace.
He leaned in close, presence heavy, breath warm against Ging’s skin as he held him exactly where he wanted him.
Control settled in like a weight.
Pariston would take his time.
And Ging would wait.
Paris's breath lingered on Ging's throbbing cock before slowly working his way onto Ging's tip while still stroking to get him ready for all of Paris. Bobbing slowly along Ging, he was slowly working his way down Ging's thick and veiny shaft, hands now groping at Ging's ass.
“Shit—” Ging gasped between ragged breaths. “You could speed up a little, but fuck—” He broke off, panting, heat coiling tight and restless inside him, spilling out in uneven exhales.
Pariston didn’t oblige.
If anything, he slowed.
His grip held firm, anchoring Ging exactly where he wanted him, fingers digging in just enough to remind him who was in control. he let Ging out of his mouth. He leaned in, close enough that Ging could feel his breath along his skin again, lingering, deliberate—almost mocking.
“Oh?” Pariston murmured softly, tone calm, composed, maddening. “I think you’re managing just fine.”
He drew the moment out, stretching it until Ging’s muscles trembled, until every nerve felt overexposed. Each measured movement stole another sound from him, another sharp inhale, another involuntary reaction Pariston filed away with quiet satisfaction.
Ging’s head tipped back, frustration and need tangling together, his body betraying him with every breath.
Pariston watched it all—unhurried, intent—taking his time like he had nowhere else to be.
And Ging hated how much he loved it.
But it still didn’t feel like enough.
Whatever Pariston gave him was never enough—not when Ging wasn’t the one in control, not when he couldn’t crack that composure and force those icy eyes to give him something real. Submission. Heat. Anything but that calm, infuriating restraint.
Ging’s hands clenched against the stone behind him, jaw tight, breath coming fast as frustration burned just as hot as the need pooling low in his gut. He wanted to take, to flip this, to see Pariston unravel the way he was being unraveled now.
Pariston noticed. Of course he did.
His gaze lifted, sharp and knowing, meeting Ging’s with that same cool intensity—only now there was something darker underneath it. Interest. Satisfaction. Challenge.
“You always want more,” Pariston said quietly, almost fond. “And you always forget—”
He leaned in just enough to make Ging’s breath hitch.
“—how much I enjoy denying you.”
The tension snapped tight between them, electric and unresolved, neither willing to yield first.
And that—
that was exactly why neither of them could ever walk away.
But Ging couldn’t take any more of this.
It wasnt enough—never enough. The tension inside him had coiled too tight, snapping slow and irritating, just shy of relief and far past patience. It burned in a way that made his skin buzz, his thoughts narrow.
There was only one way this got better.
Gings rough, calloused hand shoved Pariston back—hard enough to break contact, just enough space carved out for him to push himself off the wall and straighten. In a single motion, he turned the tables, looming over Pariston now, forcing him to look up.
The shift was immediate, heavy, deliberate.
“Solo si hubieras acelerado un poco,” Ging said coolly, the condescension in his tone clear enough that translation wasn’t necessary.
His eyes locked onto Pariston’s, daring, demanding.
The message was unmistakable.
You had your turn.
Now it’s mine.
Ging starts with a slow steady rhythm, his cock now slick with Pariston’s spit.Hands still tangled in dirty blond hair, he picked up the pace. His grip tightened, grounding himself there as his gaze hardened, locked onto those deep rivers of darkness he could lose himself in for hours if he let it happen.
The world narrowed.
Before long, he felt it—the coil in his stomach drawing tighter, winding with slow, relentless pressure. His breathing turned rough and uneven, coming faster now, chest rising and falling with effort. Every breath scraped on the way in, burned on the way out.
Focus fractured.
His eyes clenched shut, jaw tight, body trembling with the strain of holding on as the tension built higher and higher, threatening to spill over into something he could barely control.
But then it stopped.
A rush of relief swept through Ging all at once, sudden and overwhelming. His heart thundered in his chest, still racing wildly, his breathing ragged and out of control as he struggled to steady himself.
When he finally opened his eyes, Pariston’s—once sharp, dark, and unflinching—were shut tight now, lashes lowered as if shielding himself from the storm Ging hadn’t been able to hold back. His face was flushed, marked by the moment, breath uneven as he kneeled there, unmoving.
The cave was silent except for the distant crash of the sea—and the sharp, echoing sound of something hitting stone, each drop loud in the stillness.
Ging began to clean himself up as soon as he got his pants back on. The moment he was decent, he dropped to a knee in front of Pariston, who was still flushed, hands clumsily trying—and failing—to wipe Ging off his face.
The sound of the slap cracked through the small cave.
Pariston’s head snapped to the side, a sharp red mark blooming on his cheek almost instantly. Ging’s hand followed, fingers gripping his jaw hard enough to force him to look up.
“If you ever try that again—” Ging started, voice low and dangerous before switching languages, something harsher, something Pariston would feel more than hear. “Si vuelves a hacer algo así, no seré tan amable.”
The warning didn’t need translation.
The tone alone was enough—cold, controlled, and final.
Whatever game they’d been playing had just found its line.
Ging was already moving, crossing the cave to grab his shirt and leave Pariston to clean himself up. He’d barely taken two steps when long, well-manicured hands wrapped around his waist from behind.
gings attention snapped back instantly, his glare sharp enough to cut a man in two.
“You really think we’re done?” Pariston murmured into his ear, voice low and messy, breath still uneven.
“You had your chance,” Ging replied distantly. “And you ruined it, Paris.” There was a chill threaded through his words, deliberate and unmistakable.
Pariston’s arms tightened around him, clinging like he had no intention of letting go. “I know you, Ging. You’re not done. You’re just being a brat because you didn’t get your way.”
Ging let out a humorless scoff. “I’m the brat, right of course I am.”
He pulled free coldly, breaking Pariston’s hold without looking back.
Pariston was left standing there—flushed, silent, and unsteady—
like a kicked puppy who hadn’t quite realized the game was over.
but the game was never truly over.