ââââ kkami. 30s. she/her. asian. cancer sun. sag moon. infj.
archiveofourown | maplewood valley
this blog is dark content and selfship friendly. i may either post/reblog/write too much or none at all. follows and interactions will come from my main blog @not-akimoroll! inbox is open for whatever, though requests are dependent on my unstable energy levels. thank you for dropping by âĄ
most recent works.
âș STUCK IN THE THROAT OF GODS. tamsy caines. yandere. soft vore.
âș DREAMS ARE MADE, WINDING THROUGH HIS HAIR. tamsy caines. yandere. implied noncon.
âș AND THE CRASHES ARE HEAVEN FOR A SINNER LIKE ME. chrollo lucilfer. body worship. non-explicit sex.
caines tamsy.
âș
lucilfer chrollo.
âș
hayakawa aki.
âș I HEARD THE NEWS TODAY. hurt/comfort.
narumi gen.
âș SOMEONE HAS A CRUSH. fluff.
âș WITH INTEREST. fluff.
nagumo yoichi.
âș FROM EDEN. fwb. domestic fluff. mild angst. sfw.
Hello to all my Filipino mutuals :>> !! I have a petition here in regards to the recent issues revolving around the Pax Silica project and it gives a little context about it too! I'm not the biggest creator but I wanna do my part and share it with you all anyways. You can sign it and choose not to have your name showed if you want.
hey kitten. daddy needs to talk to you. your kink blog is great, but you are not highlighting the words correctly. kitten. stop highlighting. this is shit. did you seriously highlight that period. kitten.
yes i know this is serious (it's really not. i mean... look at him) but in my defense, it's that time of the month in which i am Possessed. by a rabid dog--
tamsy lets other men fuck you for his own satisfaction.
cw: smut, cuckholding, foursome between strangers, unprotected sex, oral sex, degradation, porn with one line of plot, sphereite!tamsy is a freak. i like to keep the smut scenes consensual in my fics but this one can read as dubcon, so please beware!
tamsy caines â fem!reader
"when you said youâd do anything for me..." tamsy starts, his thumb stroking your cheek with mock tenderness. "you meant it, didnât you?"
you're on your knees in front of him, bare and already trembling under the multiple gazes on you. across from you are three other men, subordinates tamsy personally handpicked and trusted enough to let touch whatâs his.
"yes..." you nod, lips swollen and wet from the sloppy kiss you just shared. "I meant it."
"good." he continues, voice laced with amusement as he leans down to grip your chin, his long hair falling forward to frame his face, effectively cutting off the rest of the room and trapping you in his sight. "because if you really are willing to do anything for me... it means I get to decide exactly what happens to you tonight. and if I say they get to share you..." he casts a quick, dismissive glance at his men before dropping his gaze back down to yours. "...then you just lie back, look pretty, and you let them do whatever they want to you. right?"
you look up into his eyes and give another slow, deliberate nod, not daring to speak out loud. satisfied with your compliance, tamsy pulls you to your feet and shoves you toward the bed.
"go on then, angel. don't keep our guests waiting, show them how well I trained you."
the first man steps forward without needing to be told - his hands roaming your hips briefly before they slide between your legs. you let yourself be handled, offering no resistance as he pushes you onto the mattress and spreads your legs open to admire the mess between them.
"sheâs soaked." he remarks. "you sure you havenât started without us?"
tamsy huffs from where he's now sitting back in his chair, eyes glued to you, his cock already half-hard against the white fabric of his attire.
you gasp when the strangerâs tongue slides up your pussy without warning, lapping at your folds while his fingers spread your lips open. you're embarrassed, the humiliation of being watched burning in your chest - yet every signle nerve ending in your body throbs with want, with the sheer satisfaction of knowing you're pleasing tamsy and will be rewarded later for being good.
it isn't long before you start moaning from the building pleasure - soft whimpers and sighs slipping out as your hips naturally begin to undulate in tandem with the man's eager mouth, your hands tangling into the bedsheets beneath you.
"donât go easy on her." tamsy cuts through the silence, that sweet voice of his never wavering as he crosses his legs. "use her mouth too, sheâs good with it."
just like that, the second man steps into your field of vision and unzips his pants to press the blunt tip of his cock against your lips. with the first one still lapping at your swollen folds and the other one still waiting for tamsy's instructions, you open your mouth and take him in.
for the next hour or so, all three of them take turns using you like a toy passed between hands.
one man fucks your throat while another fills your pussy, the third standing to the side and stroking himself over your tits as he watches you fall apart under them. you end up losing track of how many orgasms they pull from you after the third.
through it all, tamsy never looks away.
"you poor thing." he finally mutters, standing up from his seat. at the same time, the man hovering over your face begins to groan, his hips twitching as he prepares to shoot another load down your throat - until tamsy places a firm hand on his shoulder to nudge him back. his cock suddenly withdraws from your throat, causing you to start coughing and sputtering - hot tears spilling over your lashes as you gasp for air, your chest heaving.
"aww." tamsy coos, his long fingers cupping your jaw to tilt your flushed mess of a face upward, forcing your eyes to lock onto his. "was that too much? they're being so rough, aren't they?"
"t-tamsyâ" you sob. it's is all you can get out in the state you're in.
"my, my... look at you. taking so much cock like a good little whore, letting other men stretch you open while I sit back and watch." he smiles, shifting his gaze to your tits, watching how they bounce and swing as you're being fucked. "you should see yourself."
your throat is raw, drool and cum dripping ungracefully down your chin and coating your chest, tears blurring your vision.
tamsy crouches beside you to brush a strand of sweat-slick hair from your face, admiring just how thoroughly fucked out you are.
"you think any of these guys will ever look at another woman the same way after they've had a taste of you?" he whispers, watching the heavy, unfocused flutter of your eyelids as they threaten to roll back into your skull from exhaustion. "... after they've had a taste of this sweet, perfect pussy?" his hand drifts downward, palm sliding teasingly over the curve of your stomach then dipping down until his fingers find your swollen clit.
the additional friction causes your entire lower body to spasm, your pussy clenching hard around the thick cock still buried deep inside you. a low groan rips from the guy's throat in response, his hands digging hard into your hips as his pace turns frantic. his hips piston into you a final desperate three times before he stiffens - spilling himself deep inside your pussy.
tamsy watches the contractions ripple through your body as your own orgasm follows, a wide, triumphant smile spreading across his face.
"good girlâŠsuch a pliant little doll." he whispers. then he looks over to his subordinates, the warmth instantly vanishing from his expression. "time's up, gentlemen. get out of my sight."
they know better than to argue.
once the door clicks shut behind them, tamsy stands up fully and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a clean handkerchief to carefully clean the fluids from your thighs, chest and face. his touch is almost tender again, a stark contrast to the rough handling you've endured over the last hour.
"there we go, pretty girl." he murmurs, a low, soothing purr as he tosses the soiled cloth carelessly onto the nightstand.
before you know it his mouth is on you, tongue dragging up the length of your swollen folds in a single devastatingly firm stroke, tasting the combined remnants of his men and your own slick. it's over as soon as it starts, a pathetic whimper tearing from your throat when he pulls back.
you watch as his hands move down to the waistband of his pants, finally freeing the rigid length of his cock that had been straining against the fabric the entire time.
"they were just the warmup, angel. now letâs remind this greedy little pussy who really owns her."
an: uuuh don't ever let me be horny at 4am. (might delete later)
A charity commission for @spacyst who donated to an animal ambulance! Thank you so much and have fun reading :D
  Warnings: Yandere!Chrollo x Reader, fem! Reader, established relationship, gaslighting, kidnapping, unstable and insecure reader, fear of violence, mentioned NSFW, emotional neglect, 5k words
âAnd then, I swear, they looked at me like I was the problem, which is ridiculous because I was literally just explaining what happened.â You punctuated the sentence with a small wave of your fork before stabbing another piece of pasta. âLike, I know I can get carried away sometimes, but I wasnât even being dramatic that time. He called it abstract! It wasnât even meant to be.â
Across the table, Chrollo hummed, which was, technically, a response.
You looked up from your plate as your story had reached its conclusion, idly twirling your fork through the sauce as irritation settled a little deeper in your chest.
He looked unfairly good.
His black hair hung loose around his face, still slightly damp from the shower he'd taken after getting home. Instead of the crisp black shirts and tailored, custom-made coats, he'd pulled on an old graphic T-shirt from some obscure band he liked. It made no impact on how put-together he seemed.
That annoyed you almost as much as the fact that he'd clearly put no effort into tonight's dinner while you'd spent nearly an hour deciding what to wear.
More than that, though, his attention wasn't on you.
His gaze rested somewhere over your shoulder, unfocused, as though whatever occupied his mind was infinitely more interesting than the story you'd been telling for the last ten minutes.
Silence settled, broken only by the quiet scrape of silverware against ceramic as you pretended to enjoy the food.
You werenât going to make a scene. You werenât. "...Are you even listening?"
"I am," he said, smiling to himself. He had been doing that often today.
Fucking liar.
You slowed down eating, remembering the hour youâd spent on your make-up, doing it and then taking it off and redoing it. Knowing your high-strung mood was able to ruin the night, youâd begun the night much more casual, but when you realized he wasnât going to talk, youâd grown nervous and started talking like a blabbermouth.Â
Maybe your story didnât matter anyhow, especially to a man like him, but the fact he couldnât even scramble up the tiniest bit of interest was killing you here.
If you ranked on his priorities, it must not be very high.
You gave a small laugh, trying to brush it off, still sounding very hurt even to your ears. âYou donât even know what I said.â
A pause.
He blinked innocently, and held steady eye-contact, as if compensating for the rest of dinner where heâd stared everywhere except at you. You even wore a push-up bra tonight and a plunging neckline to avoid having this happen again, but it seemed the days where you could look nice and have his full undivided attention on you were done.Â
Now he came home, showered, threw on some fucking graphic tee-shirt- it bothered you greatly- while you were looking overdressed. âYou were talking about someone misunderstanding you. Someone from your watercolor class.ââ
You stared at him.
Watercolor class.
You werenât deaf. Youâd heard the slight derision heâd unintentionally added when saying those words. How lowly you were. Boring him with a story about being slighted at a watercolor class. He didnât care, he didnât care, he didnât care.
You picked up your fork, before immediately placing it back down next to your plate, and realized how this scene looked, how civilian, how boring. He had to be restless out of his fucking mind, sitting here with you. The fact heâd even deigned to show up, to grace you with his time, and here you were, starting a domestic dispute with ravioli in front of you.Â
You couldnât help yourself. âYou just guessed.â
He had the gall to sigh. âI didnât.â
âYou did.âÂ
"I didn't guess." Chrolloâs voice was patient. Similar to the way someone speaks to a child throwing a tantrum over nothing. Heâd been doing that often lately, and it only made a shiver run down your spine. "You mentioned it three times this week. The instructor who kept correcting your brushwork in front of everyone."
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
Had you? You couldn't remember. The online watercolor class was something you'd taken up back then to fill the hours when he was gone, which was often, which was most of the time, and when Chrollo came back smelling like places you'd never see and people you'd never meet, you talked. Filled the silence. Apparently about your brushwork and the people who couldnât appreciate it.
"You think it's stupid," you said flatly.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." You said, feeling the edges of your mouth pulled down. âItâs not hard to figure out. Your face practically screams it.â
Chrollo set down his wine glass with a soft clink. The candlelight caught the cross on his forehead, made it look almost holy, which was laughable, which was insane, but here you were, upset that your boyfriend (was he your boyfriend? He'd never used the word) wasn't paying enough attention to your cleavage at dinner.
"You're being difficult,"Â
"I'm not trying to be.â You said, looking in a different direction just so he wouldnât notice the twitching of your lips. If you cried, this night truly couldnât be saved anymore. He wouldnât touch you when you cried, and it wasnât like he fucked you as often as he used to. âIâm just a bit upset.â
"Is there any need to be?"
God, you hated when he did that.Â
Made you feel like you were the one being unreasonable when he was the one who'd disappeared for two weeks without so much as a text. Last time he hadnât even woken you up to say goodbye.
"Forget it." You reached for your wine and took a longer sip than was probably advisable. "Tell me about your trip."
He mirrored taking the wine glass, but took a much more modest sip. "You wouldn't find it interesting."
"Try me."
"No."
Just like that. No. Like the conversation was a door he could simply close, and you didn't have the key, had never had the key, would never be given the key because you weren't good enough, werenât smart enough, werenât in-group enough, werenât-
You weren't enough.Â
That was the thing, wasn't it? You saw it in the way he looked at you sometimes, when he thought you weren't paying attention. Like he was constantly calculating your value and finding the sum wanting. You tried to meet his standards every day, but like your adoptive mother back in Meteor City had repeated to you daily âthe stench of a gutter rat would always follow youâ.Â
Chrollo had managed to prove otherwise for himself, but he was an exception.
You werenât.
Just a gutter rat wearing perfume.Â
"You know what?" Your laugh came out brittle, sharp-edged. "Fine. No problem."
You turned away, fingers trembling as you fixed your hair.Â
"I have someone anyway," you said, the words arriving fully formed, if a bit higher than your normal pitch. "Someone who actually wants to listen to me."
When he didn't respond you added more bullshit.
"He's in love with me, fully. I didn't think you'd mind, since you're gona most of the time anyway." You weren't sure if you were going too far, but your mouth kept spouting out words. "We've... had sex. Here."
That got his attention. For a second you wondered if heâd get mad, furious, even. Heâd demand to know who, and youâd hold onto the lie for as long as it took for him to realize how much he treasured you. Or even if heâd just touch you and say kind things to you out of jealousy and greed, that was fine too. Just anything.
You heard the shift in his breathing.
And then he laughed out loud, a full-on enthusiastic noise you'd not heard come from Chrollo ever before.
"Who would your lover even be?" Chrollo said after a while, leaning forward, placing his elbows on the table. âCanât believe it. A sordid affair in my own house.â
You didn't turn around. Couldn't. "Does it matter? The point is, I don't need your approval. Not anymore."
It was theatrical, ridiculous. As if it was even possible for you to ever love someone other than Chrollo, but as it seemed Chrollo had forgotten about how important he was to you, or at least about how important you were supposed to be to him, you didnât care. Sometimes you had to be the gutter rat wearing perfume and own it, rather than apologize for the scent underneath.
Chrollo suddenly stood up and walked over.
"You know," he said, pulling out his necklace from underneath his shirt, "for someone claiming she doesn't need my approval, you spend a remarkable amount of time arguing with me."
You glared at him as he lowered himself beside your chair.Â
Had you been moving too much during the conversation? Vaguely you remembered that he wouldnât have accepted that at all at the start. He preferred you motionless back then, just in his lap and holding onto him. At least back then he demanded your attention, and you could hardly understand where all that desire had gone.
And then he grabbed the key attached to the necklace and⊠unlocked the cuffs keeping your legs bound to the chair.
WaitâŠ
âWhat?â You said as he moved on to your other foot, pulling loose the cuffs, the skin underneath raw and scarred in a way theyâd been for years. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
You could hardly believe what he was doing.
âWhy.. why would you..â
"Iâve decided that I approve."
The words were so simple that for a second you wondered if you'd heard him correctly.
"What?"
When you didnât remove your ankles from the cuffs even though heâd unlocked them, he took them both off personally and stood up, placing the iron cuffs on their respective place in the corner of the room. Itâd been⊠what? Six years since youâd ever been as loosely contained as you were now.
Chrollo smiled gently and pet your head for a few moments. "I said I approve."
"You approve," you repeated, staring at him.
"Completely."
His hand slid from your hair to your cheek, cradling your face with a tenderness that didnât match the humor you could see swirling around in his eyes. Grey eyes crinkled as he stared at you, though youâd never been good at accurately reading exactly what was going on inside him.
For one reckless second, you wanted to close the distance between you. Kiss him. Apologize for whatever invisible line you'd crossed. Fix whatever had gone so catastrophically wrong that heâd release your chains like it was nothing.
âOf⊠what?â
"Of this affair you've somehow managed to begin," he continued, his tone taking on an almost exaggerated nonchalance. "I must admit, I didn't think you had it in you."
His gaze drifted lower.
"And since you donât need me anymore, these..." He tilted his head ever so slightly. "Those cuffs are no longer necessary, don't you think?"
It wasnât difficult to know what you looked like right now. Restless, scared, and utterly lost. Was he cutting you loose?! Â
âYou're confused.â His thumb brushed lightly over your cheek before he withdrew his hand entirely, as if even that small touch had become unnecessary. âI understand.â
âNo.â You stood too quickly, your legs buckling. Your hands caught the edge of the chair before you could fall.
He didn't reach for you.
That, more than anything, made your pulse race.
He simply watched you stumble with an amused glint in his eyes.âCareful.â
You stared at him, waiting for the inevitable. For him to sigh, to pull you back into his lap, to remind you how fragile you were, how it was all just a joke, how heâd cut off your legs if you ever truly cheated on him. Instead he merely walked back to his seat and raised his glass of wine to his lips.When you just looked at him, utterly lost, he chuckled.
âYou're free to walk around, you know.â He said.Â
You narrowed your eyes. "...You're not going to stop me?"
âWhy would I?â
His answer landed with horrifying ease.
âYou've been unsatisfied, havenât you? I wouldnât want to keep you against your will, now, wouldnât I..â
"Iâ"
"So stand."
You did.
Your knees trembled violently.
Without consciously deciding to, your gaze drifted across the apartment until it settled on the front door.Â
You hadn't been outside in months ânot onceâand somewhere along the way you'd stopped thinking about the door altogether. It had become just another piece of furniture, another fixture of the apartment that existed without meaning anything. Now, all at once, it seemed impossibly real. It was only a few meters away, an ordinary wooden door with a polished brass handle, close enough that you could cross the distance in seconds if you wanted to.
If you wanted to.
Your eyes lingered there a heartbeat too long.
Chrollo caught the movement immediately.
"You may leave if you wish."
"..."
"I won't stop you."
Your heart hammered so loudly you were sure he could hear it.
"What game is this?" you whispered. âAre you trying to be funny?â
"There isn't one."
"You've never..." You laughed once, short and breathless. "You've never let me walk anywhere alone."
"And now I am."
"You chained me to a chair."
"I did."
"You told me I'd never survive without you." You cried out. âThat Iâd be dead before daybreak if I ever left.â
Chrollo shrugged. "I believed that at the time."
"At the time?" you echoed, and you hated how disappointed you sounded.
His expression remained infuriatingly mild.
"People change."
"No," you said immediately.âNo!â
"No?"
"You don't."
For the first time, something almost amused crossed his face.
He moved past you toward the bookshelf, selecting a volume with the same casual interest someone might have in deciding what to read before bed.
"If you've grown tired of living here," he said without looking at you, "you're welcome to find somewhere else."
Your stomach twisted, but your disappointment melted into rage when you saw him sit down and open his book. He was so full of shit. SO. FULL. OF. SHIT.
"Well, fine.â You said, seethingly, âIâm done with this.â
You took one step toward the door.
For the first time in years, the door was unlocked and you could walk right out. Right into the real world. Itâd be a little breezy, being late into July, and you werenât exactly dressed for that, so with quivering legs you walked towards your bedroom, got a jacket, and without even looking at Chrollo another time, you left the apartment.
Itâd been close to six months since youâd gone outside, and it was years since youâd gone outside unattended.Â
Thereâd been no need to. Your life was good here. There were rules, there was structure, love, central heating, food, and no need to fight.
Considering youâd expected to die long before youâd reach your twenties, every day had been a gift with Chrollo. Every morning, waking up in a warm bed, next to the love of your life, felt like youâd been reborn and given a chance few residents from Meteor City were ever given.
The Chrollo of today was sanctified, in your mind, yet realer than ever, considering youâd lived with him for years and had been allowed to see his more human side more often. Back then, when you were young and starving for anything real, heâd been larger than life. He always stood far away, giving speeches and standing at the forefront of every event that was worth anything in Meteor City. When the Troupe left, and became a point of pride for Meteorites, they were as good as celebrities.
And then he came back. And you met him. Talked to him. He remembered you. Remembered the colour your headband had been, the one youâd worn for years while watching the troupe perform their original plays.Admiration had turned into love, and you remembered the first time youâd made love to him with perfect clarity.
He sought you out whenever he visited.
A lot had happened since then, a turning point was when youâd come back to your small room back in Meteor City and noticed it was completely empty, with Chrollo sitting on your cot, explaining that he was moving you, saying it was something he âfelt like doingâ.Â
Considering youâd been close to leaving Meteor City yourself, to try your luck in the outside world and probably die in some gutter after having your organs stolen (the outskirts of Meteor City were always looking for stragglers no one would miss) this wasnât something that troubled you greatly.
It started to rain, and you pulled up the hood of your jacket.
The rain came down in that miserable, persistent way that never seemed to commit to becoming a storm yet somehow still managed to soak through fabric, collecting on your eyelashes and dripping from the edge of your hood as you wandered without direction.
Your shoes were splashing through shallow puddles that reflected distorted neon signs and apartment windows lit by people who had no idea how extraordinary your afternoon had become, how the entirety of your entire life had shifted because one man had decided that after years of insisting the world would devour you the moment you stepped outside, he suddenly couldn't be bothered to stop you from opening the front door.
Every few steps you glanced over your shoulder, not because you were afraid of the strangers moving around you with umbrellas and shopping bags and phones pressed to their ears, but because surely, surely, eventually you would catch sight of the familiar silhouette that had followed you everywhere your life had ever allowed you to go, the black coat, the measured pace, the neutral expression that would eventually harden into irritation before he took your wrist and informed you that you'd made enough of a scene.Â
Every glance was met with disappointment.Â
The first ten minutes were infuriating. The next ten became insulting.
By the time you reached a busier district where storefronts crowded against one another and people flowed continuously across crosswalks despite the weather, the anger had settled into something uglier than rage because rage at least implied there was someone standing opposite you to receive it, someone listening, someone reacting, whereas this felt like screaming into a pillow for no oneâs entertainment.
You slowed near a crowded intersection and deliberately remained there while the pedestrian light changed twice, refusing to move with the current of people.
Chrollo had hated crowds. Hated strangers touching you. Hated not knowing exactly where your hands were, where your eyes were looking, who had looked at you in return. He would've been beside you already, fingers wrapping around your arm with deceptive gentleness, steering you away while calmly explaining that if you insisted on behaving carelessly he would simply have to make decisions on your behalf.
You needed him to do that!
How dare he make you dependent on him, and then just⊠lose interest?!
Nothing happened, though you did receive an annoyed shove from a man that was sick of you standing still in the middle of the crowd.
You laughed under your breath, but it came out brittle, almost hysterical, because perhaps he was watching after all, perhaps he was hidden somewhere above the street or across it, comfortably invisible, waiting to see what you would do now that he'd granted you this ridiculous little experiment in independence, and if that were true then you refused to give him the satisfaction of behaving exactly as expected.
And if that were true, then you refused to give him the satisfaction of behaving exactly as expected.
So you did the opposite.
You crossed streets without checking as carefully as you should have, lingered outside bars where loud conversations spilled into the rain, wandered through narrow alleyways that instinct alone insisted were terrible ideas, and every time your pulse lurched with anticipation because surely this would be enough. This would be the moment he'd step out from the shadows with that soft, disappointed sigh that somehow always sounded more frightening than anger.
The longer he didn't show up, the bolder you became.
You started talking.
At first it was harmless. Small conversations with strangers waiting at crosswalks or sitting beside you on a bench, comments that drifted naturally into stories before either of you quite realized it. You spoke about the Phantom Troupe, watching their expressions shift as you calmly insisted they were real and casually revealed some names, some info, some confidential stuff youâd picked up over the years.Â
Sometimes the strangers humored you. Sometimes they looked concerned. Most simply excused themselves at the first opportunity.
You told them anyway.
You described their members, their abilities, the crimes everyone knew they'd committed and the ones no one else possibly could have known about, your voice growing steadier every time you repeated the story.
No one believed you. At least not to your face.
Which somehow made it even easier.
In a department store, while pretending to browse kitchen appliances, you noticed an unattended whiteboard set up to advertise some sale. Someone had left a handful of dry-erase markers beside it.
You hesitated for all of three seconds.
Then, with a grin that felt almost delirious, you uncapped one of the markers and began writing.
THE PHANTOM TROUPE IS CLOSE
Beneath it, you listed every member you could remember, adding the spider logo, fragments of information that made perfect sense to you and would look completely unhinged to anyone else who happened to walk by. You even scribbled a warning beneath it all.
IF YOU SEE THEM, RUN.
When you stepped back to admire your work, a woman pushing a shopping cart slowed beside the display, reading the board with growing confusion before glancing suspiciously in your direction.
You smiled at her and walked away.
Your heart hammered so hard it hurt.
By the time you stepped back onto the open street, the rain had dwindled to a light drizzle, and you carried yourself with the strange certainty of someone who had already died.
There was no version of this where Chrollo simply let it go.
He had never tolerated betrayal, unless it served him, and he despised half-assed plans like these. You had spent the afternoon telling strangers about the Phantom Troupe, writing their names where anyone could see them, scattering pieces of their existence into the world with reckless abandon. If he hadn't been watching before, surely he would be now.
Sooner or later, he would find you.
And when he did, there were only two possibilities.
Either he still loved you enough to drag you back home, lock the door behind you, and keep you alive at his side...
Or he'd kill you where you stood.
Oddly enough, you found yourself hoping for one of those outcomes.
Because the only thing you couldn't bearâthe only thing that made your chest tighten until you could hardly breatheâwas the possibility that none of it had mattered. That he had truly grown indifferent. That you could scream his secrets into crowded streets, carve the Phantom Troupe's name onto every wall in the city, and he still wouldn't think you worth coming after.
Death was terrifying.
But indifference was unbearable. You would not accept becoming forgettable.
The night had grown⊠cold.
Youâd been sitting on a park bench close to your home for a few hours now.Â
Waiting.
The realization began creeping in with nauseating slowness that he might actually have meant every word he'd said, because he simply...didn't care enough anymore to interfere, and somehow that possibility hurt infinitely more than the years of chains and locked doors ever hadÂ
Because captivity at least required some sort of attention whereas indifference required absolutely nothing at all.
If he cared even a little , he'd have to come closer now. He'd just have to go outside. He'd have to find you. You werenât even far. He could probably find you within a few minutes. It wasnât hard.
You waited.
Nothing.
NOTHING.
The absurdity of it ignited another flash of fury so hot that your vision blurred, and before you could stop yourself you began entertaining another set of increasingly childish, increasingly desperate ideas solely because they all shared one purpose: making him react.Â
You could walk into the nearest police station and tell them your âboyfriendâ had kept you imprisoned for years. You could flirt openly with some stranger, kiss the first attractive person who smiled at you, sit in their lap if necessary, just to see if heâd hear and care about it. You could disappear entirely, board the first train leaving the city without checking the destination, and wait to see whether he'd appear in the carriage before the doors closed.
Every fantasy ended exactly the same way.
With him not coming.
With him remaining exactly where you'd left him, comfortably seated with his book, turning another page while the apartment gradually cooled around him and the side of the bed where you slept remained empty for the first night in years.
You stood up from the park bench.
"...Come on," you muttered beneath your breath, staring at the wet pavement as tears fell down your face. "Come get me."
You lasted another hour before you decided to walk up to your own doom.
The freedom that had felt so impossibly vast when you first stepped through the apartment door had quietly collapsed into an exhausting absence of direction, every street asking you to decide where to go next when for years those decisions had simply... never been yours, and somewhere beneath the anger you found yourself wondering whether Chrollo had known that would happen, whether this entire miserable afternoon had been another one of his carefully arranged lessons whose purpose you wouldn't understand until long after it was over.
Having returned home, you stared up at the familiar windows for several long moments.
The front door opened exactly as it always had, and the dinner table welcomed you, the food still plated and cold. The candles were still burning, so you walked towards them and blew them out.
The apartment was silent.
The bedroom door stood open.
Chrollo was already in bed.
One lamp burned softly on the nightstand, casting warm amber light across the room, and Chrollo looked up only briefly as you appeared in the doorway. He was sitting upright, a book in his hands, his black hair loosely framing his face. Youâd feel better knowing heâd not just gone to sleep during your entire ordeal, but you could tell by how far he was in the book that heâd truly just sat down here and read.
"Welcome back," he said, with no real emotion behind it.
You pushed some wet hair back and walked towards your closet, grabbing some dry clothes. Better to act like nothing was wrong and postpone your own death. You'd rather be throttled in your sleep. "I came back."
The silence stretched.
You hated it, and silently took off your wet clothing, the cold having seeped through to your bones. It didnât matter. After youâd taken your pants off, you swallowed down some feelings as you placed the garment on the floor, not caring to walk towards the hamper. You were exhausted, cold, but still felt more awake than ever. Another deep breath, and you broke the silence. "You really weren't going to come after me."
His voice drifted through the darkness, and you could hear the cold amusement layered underneath his voice."You came home, didnât you?"
You didnât have to think about your response. "I wanted you to."
The words escaped before you had the chance to reconsider them.
You hated how small they sounded.
"I know," he said quietly. âBut I can tell you had fun, didnât you?â
Your chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt. God, he had to know what youâd done. And if he didn't yet, he would know soon enough.
Something inside your chest twisted painfully.
You fidgeted with the dry shirt youâd grabbed, putting it on so you could avoid looking at him. âIâm not cheating on you.âÂ
He huffed out a laugh at your attempt to change the subject, closing his book and placing it on the nightstand. âI know.â
Taking a deep breath, you suddenly decided that this was another hell in itself. Youâd returned, he probably knew about your misdeeds, thereâd be punishment (or not, you still couldnât figure out how he felt), but this half-and-half treatment walking on eggshells was horrifying.Â
You crossed the room before you could think better of it, climbing onto the mattress with movements that felt strangely unfamiliar after spending the entire day convincing yourself you wouldn't return, and for a moment you simply looked at him.
As you climbed on top of him, feeling yourself wear a determined expression, he merely met your gaze with impassive gray eyes.
At least he didnât push you away.
You leaned forward first.
The kiss was tentative at first, more a question on whether or not he was okay with this, your lips barely brushing his as though expecting him to turn away at the last second simply to prove that he could, but he didn't.
His hand rose slowly to cradle the side of your face, familiar enough to make your throat tighten, and he returned the kiss without any passion from his side, leaving you with the unsettling feeling that he was allowing you to choose every inch of the distance between you.
You kissed him again before the first one had truly ended, harder this time, closing the space between you until your bodies were nearly pressed together. Your fingers slid into his hair almost desperately, curling through the dark strands as you tugged him closerânot enough to hurt, only enough to erase the last few inches separating you, enough that you could convince yourself he was real, that he was here, that he was still yours.Â
When you finally drew back, neither of you spoke.
His thumb brushed once across your cheek before his hand fell away again.
You let yourself fall down beside him almost automatically, facing him, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing in the darkness while the events of the day refused to settle into anything that resembled understanding.Â
The room was warm, you were holding onto him, he wasn't leaving you or killing you, yet.
Itâd have to be enough, for now.
You wrapped your arms around his chest and pulled him as close as was physically possible, unaware of the fond glint in Chrollo's eyes as he watched you tear yourself apart.Â
obsession with tamsy except the one wish willow is truly just a scam but sadly for you he's an unhinged bastard who's interested in making your sweet, quiet wish fully realized.
notes. prompt #29 but this is mostly written as a loose interpretation of hozierâs song hence the title. tagging @maplewood-valley <3
Nagumo knocks and shortly the door opens. From stunned to elated to quizzed, he gathers your expression as they stumble into one another in a matter of seconds.
âYouâre early.â
âI was already around the area.â
The words fall from his lips with practiced ease. You hum, nodding slowly as you regard him. A beat passes, then another, before the hinges groan.
âSorry âbout the mess. Iâm cleaningâwell, was.â
When you step back, he reveals what heâs been shielding: white tulips, a dozen of them nestled in layers of sheer blush-pink paper. Cinched at the base is a silk ribbon in the same delicate color, holding them in place. Nagumo crosses the threshold, the door clicking shut behind him as he seals himself in. Your fingers graze against his own as he hands them over.
âFlowers?â
The word echoes into the quiet entryway, sounding confused more than anything as your gaze nearly burns a hole through him. He bends down, neatly aligning his shoes next to yours; an action that feels like it belongs to a different life.
âThey were half off.â
âOh, good.â You sigh in mock relief before turning. âAlmost romanticized the gesture for a second there.â
For once, neither of you rush into your usual habits where a conversation is nothing but a mere afterthought. No hurried tearing of each otherâs clothes. No fumbling in the dark. No guessing whether heâll land on the couch or the bed. Distant are the nights where he stays for an hour or two. Maybe three if heâs exhausted enough to linger, longer if youâre chatty enough to humor him. And as always, it ends the same wayâyou, evidently satiated, smiling lazily from the tangle of sheets, murmuring, Lock up for me, yeah? as he peels himself off of you.
Instead, Nagumo follows a pace behind, taking in the apartment, the scent of coffee mingling with the crisp morning breeze coming in from the windows, the curtains dancing as dust motes glitter through the dappled sunrise. He drops himself on the couch, reclining next to a stack of neatly folded clothes. Itâs as bright as it is out and itâs the first he is seeing your life in the lightâthe first he is seeing you this way.
To his left, the running water in the kitchenette adds to the soothing silence as he watches stray strands of your loose bun falling on the nape of your neck, wondering if they tickle. The stemsâhow delicate they are, like your fingersâhow easily they give under the blade as you trim them. Drops of water spill as you transfer the flowers to a glass jar, its label barely there.
Nagumo nods when you offer coffee.
Your hand is warm on his shoulder when you set down a pink mug. Steam rises, hazing his vision as you disappear and return carrying a basket of fresh laundry. Your white dress flows and moves with you, hanging daintily over your shouldersâshowing the curves of your collarbones and the moles across your back. Without any makeup on, skin dewy from light exertion, you look homey. All this unfolds slowly right in front of him and it is something Nagumo isnât used to.
On the balcony, he watches you hang damp sheets on the line, each one familiar enough for him to feel the texture beneath his fingers. Your arms are raised, back turnedâa profound trust you have as your bare feet shuffle around. Nagumo supposes he gets the appeal. The lack of edges. This fragile peace. The kind of softness that feels more dangerous than any gun.
Your phone buzzes facedown on the table. He peers and the name registers in his mind in an instantâyour ex. Without hesitation, he rejects the call, turns it off and tosses it into the heap of clothes yet to be folded.
Nagumo almost chuckles out loud, because yes, perhaps his frequent visits in this part of town have finally begun messing with his head. It is hard to explain, even to himself, this sudden grip of desire for something he knows he will never have; something he has long denied himself of.
Ten. Maybe fifteen. He imagines himself years from now where the hardness of his life has melted. He imagines having a civilianâs back, not hunched or tensed for a blow, but sore from something stupid and wonderfulâlike fixing a leaky sink or sleeping too long in a shared bed. He imagines another version of this morning where he isnât just a guest watching, but holding the same exact basket as you argue over something so meaningless. Perhaps he bought the wrong detergent or forgot to take the trash out the night before. He wonders what it would be like if his first thought upon waking was the smell of your hair, or the softness of your body against his, or simply the weather outside.
âYouâve been staring. Need anything?â
Youâre standing right in front of him now and, as you look down on him, the urge to say something delightfully strange invites itselfâthat you look like an angel, that you were made for him, perhaps to save him. But no one says things like that to people they only sleep with.
âNothing.â is what he settles for. âJust wondering if I can be of help.â
âBut Iâm all done,â you smile, and itâs like the sun breaking through the clouds. âActually, Iâm about to take a shower. Join me?â
Perhaps itâs true that this place is the closest he will ever get to heavenâa lie that he lets himself believe for a couple of hours. And for it to be true, he would have to scrub his soul raw, and even then, itâs still not enough.
He glances at the flowers he broughtâbeautiful, fleeting, and destined to witherâjust like the vision heâs had about you just now. But no matter. That life is not for him anyway, for he is not that kind of man; he is not like other people.
Nagumo is nothing like you.
âYeah.â He forces his lips into a reflection of your smile. âLetâs go.â
