Hi, I'm happy that you fell over this mess of a blog.
Call me Chesh, she/her, 24, INFP
I'm a pretty chill and honestly kinda akward person and love interacting with anyone who wants, so no need to be shy. As of now, this is a really young blog, since I honestly started out on Wattpad in like I don't know 2013? and then moved over to AO3 where most of my older stuff is so I'm still figuring everything out.
As of now, I'm mainly writing for Tokyo Revengers, Hunter x Hunter and Genshin Impact. I'd be happy to do asks as well as commissions and will get to establishing some rules about them at some point once I have figured out the interest in them and how this stuff actually works. I'm a law student so I will take time with writing in general, so please be patient with me
I honestly don't know exactly what I'm doing here, since I'm kinda a technology dinosaur so I'm hoping that the links that I'm putting in here will actually end up working. If they don't please tell me. I'll come around to creating a masterlist at some point once I figured out how to make it work.
Anyways, I hope you feel happy coming along with me on this blog ride.
I’m close to finally finishing the behemoth of a one shot I’ve been working on for a few months now. Stay tuned. It can only take a couple more weeks now
Title: The Village in Winter [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]
Synopsis: You meet a strange man in the museum one day.
Word count: 7500ish
Notes: yandere, autistic coded reader, kidnapping, manipulation, Chrollo is an asshole
Tuesday. Thursday. Saturday.
Each of these was a Museum Day. Well. Not officially. It wasn’t on some city-wide calendar or anything as glamorous as that. It was, however, a simple fact of life: every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, you came to your city’s famous art museum for the afternoon.
It was easy enough to take a long lunch during the week–the missing 2 hours on your pay wasn’t exactly something to weep over and if you wanted to cry, you could always come in an hour early to make up for it.
And you didn’t work on Saturday at all, so it was your time to spend as you wished. So why not spend it at the most famous museum in the city?
Maybe infamous was a better word. Outside news agencies never got tired of remarking about the dubious and potentially illegal origins of some of its works, rumored to be stolen hundreds of years ago by some king-or-another from a formerly favored lord.
The infamy wasn’t why you went, of course. You went for the art, dubious origins or otherwise. More specifically, you went for the paintings. Sculptures weren’t the same. They were often boring, blank imitations of life that captured nothing but smooth solid porcelain.
It was paintings that drew your eye and kept your interest. The brushstrokes, the way the lighting was specifically designed to pull people’s gazes this way and that; the hidden secrets behind a subject’s expression. All the little details that you could count on being there time and time again.
And so, like clockwork, you went there time and time again. To admire, to walk. Some of the guards and docents knew you by name at this point and, if they’d given it, you knew theirs, too.
It was nice to remember things when you went to the same place. It was nice, too, to visit the same paintings. The museum rarely moved pieces–it had happened only once in your memory–and that was especially ideal. Your steps and path could be familiar day after day.
What was not nice, however, was the fact that there was (today, of all days, a Tuesday) a man standing in front of your favorite painting at the exact moment you wanted to approach it.
The man’s presence wasn’t the not-nice part. (It was often nice when people admired the same things you did, because it meant they might ask you about them. And as many years as you had under your belt visiting these same paintings, these same steps, you knew quite a lot.)
The not-nice part was that there was a man standing in front of your favorite painting, and he was staring at (horror!) the wrong thing.
As you trace your familiar steps, coming agonizingly closer, you can see that he’s not looking at the painting but the frame. The frame! Of all things! He’s got his head tilted just-so, looking at it this way and that. Like he’s admiring it. He stops only when your footsteps get close enough to make it clear that you’re about to stop at the same spot.
“The frame isn’t period authentic,” you say, perhaps a bit too loudly, “There’s no point in looking at it.”
The man hums. You half-wonder if he’ll snap at you, people sometimes do.. But instead he looks back at the painting, as if he’s trying to see what you mean. “What makes you say it isn’t period authentic?”
His voice is low, a murmur. Out of respect for the museum, maybe, or he’s just embarrassed at being called out. You don’t bother trying to figure it out, because the question he asked is more than enough to have you ready to spill out the words.
“Well,” you begin, swallowing because you can already tell it’s going to take a while. “For one, it’s gilded with aluminum.” When he doesn’t respond, you smile, unbidden. “And of course, aluminum isn’t suitable for water gilding.” Your finger points to the frame (an unwelcome frame, in your opinion–but again, it was the painting, not the frame, that one ought to look at) and wiggles. “The era this painting was made, water gilding was the most popular. They certainly wouldn’t have used an inferior material like aluminum to do water gilding.”
“I see,” he says, after a moment. “Is that all?”
It is, naturally enough, not all.
“No!” You say, maybe too loud, because he raises an eyebrow. But you press on. “If it was just the frame material, that would be one thing. Not everything was water gilded, of course, it was just the most popular. But the real tell…”
And you might be reading him wrong (you do that a lot) but he does lean in, doesn’t he? Because he’s interested in what you have to say. You think. It would be welcome, anyway.
“The real tell,” you continue, pointing here and there on the frame. “Are the fasteners. Especially around the joints..” You press on before he thanks you, because he shouldn’t thank you before you give him the really important detail here.
“When the painting was made, they didn’t have keyed stretchers yet.” You point here, and there. “These made it easier to expand the frame, or make it smaller, simply by sliding the keys and tightening the screw. Before,” and there’s a laugh in your voice, “it was a pain when you wanted to take a painting out and swap it for something else. But with these newer ones, it was much simpler!”
There is a beat or two, and you wonder if he’s going to scoff and give you that smirky little smile people give when you’ve shared too much information that they apparently didn’t want. (Even if it was fascinating information, nonetheless.)
But he doesn’t. Curiously, and it’s a pleasant sort of curiosity, his smile isn’t smirky at all–it’s pleased. Happy, even, if your guess was as good as gold.
“Thank you,” he says, eyeing the frame–still the wrong part, you think–again. “I wasn’t aware that frames held such nuance.” He glances at you. “I appreciate your insight.”
Insight. Huh. No one has ever called it that before. Word-vomit, yes. Over-explaining, definitely. “Stuff no one cares about,” that one was pretty common. But insight–that was new. And it was, like his smile, perfectly pleasant. It made you feel almost fluttery.
“Most people don’t appreciate it,” you admit, too honest. “But the frame isn’t the important part of the painting, anyway…”
The next time he looks towards the painting he, thank goodness, actually looks at the painting within the frame. “Is this your favorite painting?”
“Of course.” The words come quick and sure.
“Why of course?”
Sometimes you wonder if other people have a switch that lets them choose when to hold back,
and when to indulge in their words. Because you find it very, very hard. Especially when it’s something like this, something like a painting you adore, something like being asked to explain why it is your favorite painting.
But this stranger asked about it, so even if this mysterious switch did exist, you certainly would have slammed the “full speed ahead” setting without hesitation.
“Well…”
This stranger gets to learn about it all. About the artist (Henri Lamorliere) and why he chose the subject (a village scene in the winter) and who commissioned it (a prince who owned the land and later died from complications related, presumably, to his gout) and how it ended up here, in this city, of all places. (That was, indeed, a longer story–involving said potentially dubious origins that you were more than happy to indulge in, considering the stranger’s interest.)
As for why it is, of course, your favorite–it is because of all the tiny details, small things, inconsequential and silly to most, but details that keep you coming again and again. A child depicting playing in the snow with friends; a couple ice skating, with one leg clearly losing balance, forever frozen before the young man falls straight on his bum; a woman with a bucket, frowning, staring into a frozen water well; a farmer carefully draping warm blankets over his horses; a streak of mud revealed underneath the pristine snow as a cart of firewood is pulled along; and on and on. It’s not just a painting, it’s a frozen moment, people forever engaging in these mundane or delightful or simplistic moments.
When you are done (and you must admit, you talked for quite a while) the man doesn’t roll his eyes or sigh or say that he must be off, which is very often the case when you talk too much.
Instead he, of all things, smiles.
“Thank you,” he says, and before you can ask why, continues: “How fascinating. I didn’t know the history of the piece as well I as I thought.” His eyes roam over the painting, the details you cling to. “And I never thought much about the scene being depicted.” He glances at you. “Not in the way you have, at least.”
It might be an insult. It might not.
“When you come here as much as I do, you learn a lot.”
He hums. Seems to consider something. And then, he asks:
“Would you like to share a coffee?” If you’re not mistaken, there’s a warmth to his voice. A bit of humor, too. Maybe he didn’t hate your diatribe about the piece, in the end.
But–well. It won’t work out, at least not without a concession on his part. (And yours, too, not that he’d understand it.)
“I only get coffee after I see the rest of my paintings.” A pause, something heated piercing the apple of your cheeks. “Um. They’re not my paintings. I didn’t paint them. I don’t have any work on display,” you explain, as if he needs that clarification. “I think of some of them as mine, because I visit them when I come here.”
Sometimes, when there’s time to ponder on it, you liken actions to machinery. It starts with thoughts. They go through a certain process before resulting in an expression or a word. That’s what you think of, now, as you watch this stranger taking in what you said. His own thoughts are no doubt moving through the cogs, being sent this way and that on some conveyor belt, ending in his final action.
Though it isn’t one you expected.
“Well then,” he says. “May I accompany you to see the rest of your paintings, so that I could join you for coffee?”
Huh.
It’s a break in the routine, sure. But he didn’t roll his eyes while you talked or quickly excuse himself to get out of hearing what you had to say. And if he was willing to listen, and follow your route, well–it might just be okay.
You don’t exactly plan to smile when you answer, but it creeps along your lips all the same.
“I suppose you could,” you say, and that smile quirks. “If you can keep up.”
“My name is Chrollo,” he replies, oddly, like it’s an answer.
–
Chrollo does, in fact, keep up. More than that, he engages in conversation with you, offering counterpoints, asking questions, even going so far as to ask how you learned such-and-such a detail.
Despite the interruption that he presents, it’s not unwelcome. It’s nice, actually, and as the afternoon goes on, you almost regret that there aren’t more paintings on your usual stop. But it’s not like the afternoon stops when you visit Boy and his Dog, one of the museum’s quirkier paintings; it is, yes, a Boy and his Dog. But the dog is wearing human clothes, and the boy is running wild on a broken leash.
(The painting always makes you smile. When the stranger asks why, you’re almost–well, perhaps actually–rude when you explain: “Because it’s all backwards, of course.”)
After Boy and his Dog comes coffee. And if your newfound companion is relieved to have finally gotten to the part he asked you about earlier this afternoon, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he watches; he watches as you approach the counter and the barista greets you by name, already starting your familiar order before you say a word.
“You come here often,” he says, and it’s not a question.
You nod and eye the pastry case. “It’s tradition,” you say, not taking your eyes off the goodies displayed inside the climate controlled glass. If they have fresh cinnamon buns, you get one of them. If they aren’t fresh, you stick to the prepackaged cookies. “Every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday.”
The glaze isn’t hard, but smooth, a bit of it still runny along the edges.
Fresh.
“One cinnamon roll, please,” you order. Then pause, because that isn’t quite right today, is it? “I mean, two.” But is that right, either? You eye Chrollo and something like a smile plays at the edge of his lips. “Er, well, if you’d like one, that is–”
“I would, thank you.” It’s a relief to not have to walk back the order, and the barista behind the counter swiftly bags them up.
Chrollo orders his own coffee before you can offer to add his to your tab, but that’s all right. At least you’re buying him the cinnamon bun. It’s nice to help others, especially someone who was patient enough to listen. (Not just listen, though, you remind yourself. Actively engage with you, which is far better. And more rare.)
You’re in the middle of your cinnamon bun–literally, fork stabbing the middle part first, which is the softest, gooeist part–when he speaks up.
“I enjoyed our conversation today.” Soft, almost as if he didn’t say the words often. Maybe, and this was perhaps too egotistical of you, he didn’t.
“Mm,” you say, because you really did want to eat that middle part first, and the explosion of sticky-sweet cinnamon goodness in your mouth prevented further words for a few moments. Something about this seems to amuse him, and he places a hand over his mouth before he chuckles.
“What?” There is still some cinnamon roll still clinging to your teeth.
“Nothing,” he murmurs, though it wasn’t nothing at all. “I was simply thinking that I might see you on Thursday. If that’s all right.”
Your mouth quirks. It’s not irritation that you’re feeling. Not really. But he was something new, a blip in your schedule. Still, he didn’t make a mess of things. He listened, and it was nice, actually, for someone to not shoo you away like some gnat the moment you got going on a favorite topic.
“It’s all right,” you say, mind still wavering, but voice already made up. “If you can still keep up.”
He snorts, and nothing more.
–
On Thursday, he’s there. Standing by your favorite painting. And staring, again, at the unimpressive, unimportant frame. Of all things–again!
“You–” And it’s strange, how easily the indignation bleeds into your words. “But I already told you about the frame–”
But when Chrollo turns, he’s smiling, and it takes you a few slow moments to realize that he was kidding. Ah. It was… It was a joke.
There’s a flush in your cheeks as you stuff your hands into your jacket pocket. “I’m not good with jokes,” you admit.
He stuffs his own hands in his pockets and you can’t decide if it’s intentional mimicry or if he simply does the same thing in an awkward situation. (And which of these options is better, really?)
“Nor am I, it seems.”
That, for some reason, makes you laugh.
Makes him laugh.
Makes the afternoon start off on a better foot.
Later on, after paintings and coffee, Chrollo insists on coming to the museum Saturday to see you again.
You don’t protest.
–
It’s remarkable how quickly Chrollo becomes a part of your daily routine, and how swiftly he moves from being solely within your once-tidy museum routine to the outside.
To things like asking you out to dinner, and when you explain that on Tuesday evenings after work you go home and make breakfast for dinner, he insists on taking you to a diner-style restaurant to maintain your breakfast meal while not intruding on your home life.
Which is considerate, you think, that he understands that you’re wary of inviting a relatively new acquaintance into your home. But–going out to eat is not what you usually do. At least he doesn’t comment when you fidget too much, when you don’t look in the waitress’s eyes as you order, and when you seem relieved when the check comes.
You like him better for it.
–
Chrollo doesn’t tell you that you’re doing things wrong. Which is nice. It’s not that most people tell you flat out that you’re doing something wrong, at least not since you’ve become an adult. But you can tell by their looks; pinched eyebrows and frowns, glances, murmured comments to their peers.
Chrollo does none of this.
Chrollo does, however, often forget how you like things; or rather, how you don’t like things.
He gets too close. A hand that brushes your thigh when you sit together for lunch or coffee, his arm slung around your shoulder when the museum gets too crowded and you start to feel the crush of it crawling up your back. A term of endearment slipped in at the end of the night. Goodnight, dearest.
Maybe it’s a lot to remember, or maybe he’s just forgetful. There are other options that sometimes sneak up in your mind–maybe he’s doing it on purpose–but they are swiped away so quickly.
Because it’s Chrollo. He listens to you, he actually pays attention to what you say. He doesn’t mind that you sometimes have trouble making eye contact or that you get flustered in ordinary situations.
More than that–
He’s your friend. Someone who listens, who has something interesting to say, who seems to actually care about you. He’s the first friend you’ve had in a long time, and you were willing to put up with his forgetfulness in order to keep that friendship alive and well.
Even if it meant having to bat his hand away from your thigh on more than one occasion.
–
It’s Friday evening.
Friday evening should be relaxing. The end of the work week, a time to grab a favorite frozen dinner from the freezer and relax in front of the TV with a show that you’ve seen a thousand times.
Once it’s over, you’ll turn on the news and you might work on a puzzle or write in your journal or slowly make progress on an embroidery kit you picked up 2 years ago and have only ventured into a few times.
You might do these things, except–well.
Except everything has fallen apart.
Your shaking fingers almost don’t manage to pick out Chrollo on your contacts, and it’s a wonder your phone doesn’t crash to the ground and break into a million pieces with how much your hands tremble.
“Hello?”
He barely gets the word out and you’re already blubbering into the phone, incoherent, words bubbling out with no time to make them more understandable. They choke out, stuttered and half-baked, before you finally beg for the one person who might understand your distress.
He manages the trek in record time, impossibly fast, but you don’t pay attention. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s here and you don’t even protest this time when he sees your sobbing form and immediately scoops you into his arms.
It’s almost comforting, the way he squeezes you, gives you something to feel grounded. One of his hands inches a bit lower on your back than you’d like but even that doesn’t matter, doesn’t even register, because his presence has calmed you down enough to spit out the terrible truth:
“They stole it.” You gulp in a great, heaving gasp. “The Village in Winter. Someone… someone stole it.”
Chrollo’s body tenses. The news drones on in the background, but it’s moved on to something less important now. As if something could be less important than this. There’s a great big hole where the painting used to be, on the wall, in your mind.
Chrollo steps in or rather, steps back, placing one hand on your chin–the sensation makes something itch down your back, but you ignore it, because such things can be ignored in a time of great distress. “You are truly upset,” he says, finally, slowly.
“Of course I am!” Your own hands come up now, grabbing the one on your chin, tugging it down so you can squeeze it with great abandon. Chrollo doesn’t seem to mind. “It’s all wrong–” It’s wrong, too, the way that other hand still rests far too low on your back. “It won’t be there. I love that painting. I love it and now when we go to the museum tomorrow, it won’t be there!”
Chrollo’s hand on your lower back begins to stroke. Maybe it’s soothing. Or meant to be; you have to give him credit, you think, for rushing over and trying to calm you down.
“We don’t have to be there,” he murmurs.
Which does nothing to calm you down at all, because of course–
“We do have to be there.” Bitterness sets your jaw hard. “We do have to be there, and it will be all wrong.” The thought of all those precious details lost to you forever, the stories you’ve wound through again and again in your head. Even the new routine of admiring them with Chrollo, who always takes interest in the wrong part of the painting–that will be gone, too.
And it’s wrong, wrong, wrong. The world feels worse for it. What would be the point of going to the museum, when you’ve lost some integral part of yourself, all thanks to the work of some lowlife thieves?
Chrollo finally pulls himself away from you, a frown set on his lips. He glances around your living room, the disrupted Friday evening routine that is begging to be set back into place without all the pieces.
“Have you had your tea? You always drink it while you watch the news, don’t you?”
You do. Yes. Not tonight, though. At least not more than that first sip before it was interrupted by the horror of the news report.
“I was too upset to finish it,” you admit. “It’s on the counter.” But if you could finish it, maybe it would help. Now that Chrollo’s here to set everything back into order. It wouldn’t make things right–nothing could, except the restoration of that pivotal painting–but it’s a start. A comfort.
“Could you…”
He’s already on his way to the kitchen, a hand slipping into his pocket. “Of course. I’ll warm it up for you.”
“Thanks,” you force out, the word heavy on your tongue. Yes. Thank goodness Chrollo is here to set things into place. He knows what you like and need, wandering hands notwithstanding. So it comes as no surprise when he emerges from the kitchen with a newly warmed cup of tea and you stumble on shaking legs to the sofa.
Microwaved tea never tastes the same, and it’s no exception here. It’s almost too bitter now. But you choke it down anyway while Chrollo sits next to you, eyes on the screen, the flickering bar underneath the next program that repeats the news about the museum break-in.
Theft suspected to be the work of professional thieves. More updates on stolen paintings will emerge as staff inventory the losses. At least three security guards found dead…
The world spins. Literally, the world spins, and you reach out a hand and stand up on reflex with the anxiety that spreads through your chest.
“Chrollo?” He’s there, sitting next to you, but he falls in and out of focus as your vision wobbles.
“Yes, love?”
“I don’t feel very…” The word never comes before everything goes black, and you only just register the awful sensation of falling and being caught in someone’s sturdy hands before you faint.
–
Someone has shoved cotton into your mouth. That’s the only explanation your mind comes up with when the world returns and all you can taste is stale dryness. Someone must have shoved cotton into your mouth at some point before the blackness and this bleary, foggy wake-up.
But why would they do that, and why does your head feel so fuzzy, and why does the world feel like it’s moving? There’s an awful sound underneath you too, almost like rushing and wheels mixed together, like heavy traffic or–or a train.
Oh. Oh, no.
Air comes in great gulping gasps as you heave yourself forward and sensations assault your senses. A leather seat underneath you, the sun dimmed by drawn curtains, warm, stale air, the sound of rolling wheels and ground underneath you–and Chrollo. Chrollo sitting your opposite, on the same type of leather seat.
You’re on a train. You’re awake and on a train and Chrollo is sitting in front of you.
It’s a dream. Maybe. That’s what you think as you swallow up the cotton feeling, smacking your lips, craving the realization that this is nothing but a bizarre nightmare.
But nightmares don’t feel like this. This is real. It’s your body that feels sluggish and heavy, your eyes blinking away an awful, long sleep. Your voice that croaks out the words that half-stick to the roof of your mouth:
“Chrollo? Where… am I?”
There’s another question that clings to the back of it–What happened?--but the low curl in your gut makes you avoid it for now.
Chrollo, for his part, looks appropriately serious for the bizarre situation you’ve woken up in. He leans forward, folding his hands together, as he scans your face. For what? An injury? Is that why you’re here? You fell and hit your head and the only solution was a specialist who is only available in the next city, so Chrollo booked you the first tickets on the next train and he didn’t have time to warn you before–
“Dearest.”
The low curling in your stomach squirms, too. He knows you hate those pet names. It was easier to ignore them back then. When the two of you were strolling through the museum or he was indulgently watching you reorganize your books. When you weren’t suddenly on a train, feeling like you got hit over the head with a hammer.
A strange place, a strange Chrollo.
An answer might come, but your mouth is still too sticky and Chrollo interrupts what you might have said, anyway.
“We’re on a train.”
After a moment, a slow word comes. “Yes.” You swallow. “I know that.”
Chrollo smiles. It might be indulgent, but all you can think is: has his smile always been so condescending?
“Do you know why we’re on a train?”
Well. It would be stupid to say “yes,” when you don’t know the answer.
So you spit out the runaround thought from earlier, though even to your ears, it sounds more ridiculous with every passing word.
“I fell and hit my head and the only solution was a specialist who is only available in the next city, so you booked the first tickets on the next train and you didn’t have time to warn you before–”
He doesn’t call you an endearing nickname (thank goodness) this time but instead his smile widens, just enough to make it look like he wants to coo at you. It’s gross and sticky and you rub at your arms to make some of the feeling go away.
“Stop that. I’m not a child.”
His smile doesn’t waver, which only sparks a rush of indignation. The world has stopped feeling quite so heavy and when you sit up, you move to pull aside the curtains, if only to find out where in the world you’re at.
The countryside that’s rolling by isn’t remotely familiar. All lush and green and pretty. Are you even in the same region? The same country?
“How… how long was I asleep?” No, that’s not the right question. “Why was I asleep? I don’t remember…” Falling asleep at all. And what you do remember doesn’t fit inside this puzzle. You’d been watching the news, and there was the terrible report about the theft at the museum, and then Chrollo came over, and you drank your tea. One plus one should equal two, not waking up on a train.
Chrollo hums, and the sound brings you back. The ground rolls heavy underneath you two, separated by the carpeted floor.
“I drugged your tea,” he says, plainly enough.
It can’t be what he said, though. You’re hearing things. Maybe you suffered a blow to the head. That might actually make things.
“You what… my what?”
“I drugged your tea,” he repeats. Calm and clear and you’re certain that you’ve heard him right this time, only it’s still all wrong. Because this is Chrollo. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t. But he did. He said so. So the only thing left to wonder is:
“Why would you do that?”
“I enjoy your company,” he says, still leaning forward. “Very much so. And it was time for me to leave town, but the thought of leaving without you, well…”
Now, there are no “right” answers to this question. No one ever catalogs the proper responses to a hypothetical question about drugging one’s tea. Still, what he tells you doesn’t sound like the sort of answer one should give.
Kidnapping someone for ransom, sure. Kidnapping someone because they found out some terrible secret and no one else can no, understandable. Kidnapping someone to kill them because you’re secretly a murderer, again, makes sense.
Kidnapping you because he likes you?
It’s so wrong, so out of place, that you don’t answer. Can’t answer. There’s something sticky keeping your mouth shut and that something is Chrollo’s lack of common sense.
And then, of all things, he puts a hand on your shoulder. Firm. Irritating. A touch you want to shake but when you try, his grip keeps you in place. It’s too much. Too heavy and personal. It was something to be brushed off before, swept under the rug while you focused on what you liked about him.
But now?
You must be glaring. There’s a moment where you take stock of your expressions. Your eyebrows feel low and heavy, so they must be furrowed. Your mouth is dry and open. And your eyes are… well. It’s understandable to cry.
Worst of all, though, is that Chrollo’s hand goes from your shoulders to your cheeks, and it’s when he wipes at your tears that you finally fling your body backwards with enough force that the back of your head smacks against the wall.
It helps, this pain. This motion. So you do it again. Move your head forward and then back, feeling the firm smack of the wood against your head.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
An ordinary person might look shocked. An ordinary person might cry out and tell you that you're hurting yourself.
Chrollo, however, simply looks like he’s admiring a painting. He takes in the details, his head tilting just so.
“I packed some of your favorite things,” he says after a while, over the sound of your skull smacking against the wall. “Once we arrive at our destination, we can unpack some of them. It could help you calm down.”
“I want to go home,” you reply, between thumps. “I want to go home.”
He doesn’t reply, which is as good as a “no.”
“I’m taking you with me,” he says, still calmly, like you aren’t trapped on a train, like you aren’t banging your head with increasing intensity against the wood.
“I don’t want to go with you,” is all you can say, helplessness straining your voice. “I want–I want–” And when you look around, all you can see are these walls, the window, Chrollo. There are a thousand things that you want right now, and none of them are here.
You want your old microwave with the 7 button that sticks so you have to push it hard every time, you want the pink flower rug in your living room that you’ve had since childhood, you want your pumpkin-shaped mug with the chip on the handle, you want your blankets and your bed and the alarm clock on the side table on the left side, so you can wake up and easily roll over to hit the snooze button–
It’s only when Chrollo says your name that you realize you’ve been saying all of this, to him or to yourself, you’re not sure. There’s something stupidly hungry in the way he looks at you. It’s in the way he listens, too. Like he’s hanging onto every word so he can pick them all apart, splaying them open to reveal something inside.
But what? And why?
He doesn’t tell you. Instead, he hums. It’s a low grounded sound. It makes you feel–and you hate it, it’s gross, this feeling–comforted. Almost. Sort of. The way it used to, when you were feeling out of sorts and he swooped in to get you off the ledge.
Only this time he’s the one who pushed you to it, first.
“I’m not taking you home,” he says with a finality that makes your body jerk. “But you can view me as your new home, if it helps.” The smile he gives is warm and kind and if you were sitting in the museum over a cup of coffee, maybe you’d believe it.
“But you can view me as your new home, if it helps.”
It doesn’t help.
–
Your upper arm hurts from the way Chrollo gripped you in the hotel lobby.
“Don’t try anything, dearest,” he’d said, on the way in. Quiet and calm and sticky on the dearest. He might as well have been telling you that he was ordering in for dinner. “I’ll kill everyone in this hotel if you do. I’d rather not have to clean up any messes tonight. I’m sure you understand.”
The words should have shocked you. Or maybe they did, and you’re still in such an inward frenzy that you can’t seem to react to anything within the freezing utter bewilderment of your present situation.
So you didn’t say anything, though he gripped you hard all the same. And now you’re sitting on some oversized sterile hotel room bed that smells too much like sharp laundry detergent. There’s a mint on the pillow. You bet it tastes like soap.
“We’ll be staying here for a few nights,” Chrollo murmurs. The pair of suitcases he’d brought in are on top of the bed, and there’s a shock to your system when he unzips one of them and you recognize what’s inside.
It’s filled with your things–your hairbrush, a wellworn paperback copy of your favorite book, a bottle of your tried-and-true face wash.
Your clothes. (Well. Some of them.) Right down to your underwear, neatly folded on top. Chrollo had–taken them. Touched them. Been through your things, clearly.
“You…” The word comes out all strangled, and heat rises to your cheeks for more than one reason. “You really…” You really kidnapped me, you really planned it out, you really went through my private things and plucked them up.
He takes the pause in your thoughts to crouch down, peering into your face like he might yank the words out himself.
“Yes? What is it?”
“You... you…” And the words you want to ask are stuck between your teeth until you force them out. “Why did you do this? It’s not just… it can’t be just because you,” and your mind reels to remember what he said on the train. “Because you enjoy my company.”
Chrollo says nothing for a moment. A whole lot of nothing. Your mind is working too fast and you expect him to smile or grin, expect him to give some terribly wicked speech like a villain in a movie you’ve seen a thousand times.
Instead he blinks. Instead he frowns.
Instead his hand reaches out to grip your chin and you don’t have time to register the uncomfortable buzz from being touched when says something so softly that you have to strain to hear it.
“Oh, dearest. Don’t you know?”
When your chin does try to jerk away from his touch, it grows tighter, even as his gaze seems to soften. It’s a strange look on Chrollo’s face. Chrollo has looked contemplative, yes; contemplative and intrigued and annoyed, even, when some museum-goers were being too loud for your liking. He’s even looked sympathetic.
But soft? It’s new. It’s unwanted. And the expression stays on his face despite both of those terrible qualities.
“I care for you,” he says, repeating his earlier words. “Not just as a friend. But…” He turns your head this way and that. It makes you feel like a prized horse at auction. “I believe… as something more.”
Not just as a friend…
Not just as a friend–
“Not just as a friend.” Your repetition comes out all stilted. Maybe because of the hand on your jaw. Maybe because the words seem to creak out of you, every syllable one step down the staircase you’d rather avoid descending.
Something like a film reel flickers through your memories. Little moments, brought back to the forefront with a disgusting clarity. Why had you brushed him off so often? Because you were lonely; because he was your friend. Or so you thought.
But the way he pushed past what you wanted so often seems calculated now. The times he sat too close and let his thigh brush against yours; the way he didn’t hear you, or so he said, when you’d asked him to please stop calling you those soft, sweet pet names. The times he claimed not to be hungry only to ask if he could share your meal afterwards–the way his fingers brushed against yours when he accidentally (or was it?) reached for a bite at the same time.
“The whole time,” you bite out, acid rising in your throat. Your fingers curl against your thighs and there’s a terrible urge to knock them into something. “Were you like this… the whole time?”
Amusement crinkles through the softness in his face. It’s just as grating as nails on a chalkboard. “Did you really not notice?”
Shame flushes through you, heating up your cheeks, your chest, the very air in the room. “Of course not,” you spit out, words sounding more stilted with every passing moment. “Most people wouldn’t notice–notice that.”
At some point, he’s let go of your chin, and you take the moment of the realization to scoot backwards on the bed. Away from him and closer to the dingy looking headboard, which might have been pretty once upon a time, but was now scratched and chipped.
“Of course they would,” he counters, climbing onto the bed like some sort of terrible cat. “And they have, with far less effort on my part.” He pauses, a smile. “Not out of any genuine affection, of course. Don’t worry about that. Only to get something I wanted.”
He’s closer, now. Too close. His hand cups not your chin this time, but your cheek, and there’s only a few moments in between his face and yours. What if he…?
“Stop,” you say, desperate, helpless. “Don’t touch me.” He doesn’t stop. He leans in closer and you smack against the headboard. “Why aren’t you listening to me?”
What he says makes about as much sense as jello salad. Which is to say, no damn sense at all. “I am listening.” The almost-coo in his voice makes you want to hurl. “I’m hearing what you can’t say out loud, that’s all.”
But that’s not true. Is it? There’s too much going on. He’s too close and this room smells like soap and you ought to be home, not here, with yourself, not Chrollo. The muchness of it all has you aching to get away and make sense of it all, some way, some how.
“I always say what I want to say,” you manage, but you can’t hide the question in it. Isn’t that true? Isn’t that how it’s always been? It’s why people tend to look at you strangely sometimes. It’s why you were often too much for them, when it came down to it.
“You think you do, my dear.” His thumb rubs against your cheek. The touch is sandpaper. “But there’s something else inside you, I think. Something stuck that I’d like to crack open and pull out, if I could.” The fondness in his tone is out of place with the world around you. “If you’d let me.”
You need him to stop touching you. You need him to get away. You need this entire room to vanish, the sight of it, the smell of it, the feel of the unfamiliar sheets underneath you. A sound comes out, something short, stacatto–
“No.”
And Chrollo doesn’t leave and his thumb keeps rubbing your cheek, so you bring your arm up, smacking him away. Only his arm doesn’t move at all. It’s like hitting a pole–sturdy and impossibly strong.
So you try again, and again, and the sensation of hitting his arm isn’t helpful or soothing. It only makes your breath come in faster, makes the world spin. His breath grows faster, too, and you can’t begin to imagine why.
“You’ll grow to like this in time,” Chrollo says, finally, a touch of a sigh in his voice. “You’ll grow to like me.”
“No,” you say again, even though it doesn’t help.
In response, Chrollo simply continues to stroke your cheek.
–
In his defense–not that you are defending him–Chrollo said nothing when you’d taken the first opportunity to abandon the bed and build something like a fort in the corner of the room. It wasn’t anything like the pop up tent you used to have as a child (then a teenager and, sometimes, in a pinch, as an adult) but it would do. A fort made from blankets and some of the bed pillows, despite the detergent stink.
Anything to avoid sleeping in the same bed as Chrollo. More than that, anything to be alone, or something like it. You rocked yourself to sleep and dreamt about the museum.
In the morning, you wake up and remember everything in one great gulping heave. Your body tenses when you hear Chrollo walking around the room–the sound of the sink, the toilet, the rustling of clothes–until his footsteps stop outside your makeshift shelter.
He pops his head inside without so much as a warning.
“Good morning. Did you sleep well?”
The glare he receives is enough of a response. He chuckles it away, easy as a gnat.
“I’d like to show you something. It’s a surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises,” you reply, voice tired and dull. He’s going to show you anyway. He knows it, and you do, too.
He holds open the drape of your fort but you don’t have the energy to be grateful that he at least didn’t drag you out of it. Your limbs feel heavy and awful as you crawl out, and the hotel room in the daylight looks no better than it did at night.
But Chrollo must have done some unpacking while you slept, because there are a few more things scattered around. His clothing, slipped into hangers. Toiletries–his and yours–on top of the chest of drawers.
And something set against the wall, covered in a plain black tarp.
The surprise, it seems. Curiosity prickles at you. Maybe it’s a good distraction from everything else. Maybe you’re just genuinely interested in what could possibly lay underneath.
Chrollo’s smile almost looks youthful as he tugs at the edge of the tarp, and you see a flash of black as he pulls it away, revealing the treasure underneath.
The Village in Winter.
It’s all wrong. It’s naked, without the frame, propped up in some hotel room surrounded by chipped furniture and laundry smells.
There is no air left in the room, no water left in your lungs. You could cough up a thousand years of dust right now and still not run out.
“You stole it,” you manage to say. Chrollo simply nods and looks for all the world like he’s showing you something he’s proud of; and he is, you think. Proud of everything. The urge to fall down swims through you, and you grip the wall.
“You were a great help,” Chrollo says, voice soft and confident and anything but assuring. “We were struggling with the best way to remove it without damaging the work underneath.” He tilts his head, just so, the same way he did that first morning in the museum.
Nothing is the same as that first morning in the museum.
The bar is draining every ounce of creativity and motivation to write out of me. I honestly just want to sleep but there is so much left to study for and it sucks, because I want to write but I also just want to sleep even more.
Suo gives me such soft dom aristocrat vibes. You know, the kind of man that would be soft and gentle with you? He'd speak gently, always, even when you were in the middle of an argument.
He'd pull out your chair, open doors for you, lead you by the small of your back, help you climb any sort of step or raised platform...
But...there's just something about him, you know? Something very authoritative without being aggressive.
The first time you noticed it was four months into your relationship.
He was over at your apartment when he got a text from his group chat with sakura and the others. Apparently, they'd gotten into a bit of a situation protecting a group of middle school girls, and they needed backup.
Suo hadn't wasted time in excusing himself, and then he was out the door. Or...at least he would have been, if he didn't notice you getting dressed to follow him out.
"Hm? Why're you getting dressed?"
You zip up your skirt, and then look up at him with pursed lips and eyebrows furrowed in determination, "I'm coming with you."
No way you were gonna miss a chance to see suo fight in person. In all the time you've known him, you haven't ever seen him fight, you'd only heard about it second hand from nirei.
Today, you were finally going to experience it for yourself.
Or so you thought.
From his place at the door, suo called your name, dragging out the honorific at the end in a sing-song voice, "don't be silly, of course you're not coming with me."
His smile was genial, soft around the corners, and he stood with his hands clasped at his back. You pouted at him. "But I wanna see you fight..."
He tilted his head a bit, studying you silently, and then he hummed, "mmm. Come here, please."
You found yourself obeying, feet moving toward him before you'd even fully registered the request. Your top half was still bare, and your skirt was light and flowy and short, reaching just enough to cover your upper thighs. So when suo lifted his hands, you naturally assumed he'd go for your waist or something. But he held your face instead.
Both his hands cradled your jaw, thumbs brushing over your earlobe. "Darling," he said, voice syrupy sweet, eyes gentle, "you're a smart girl. I know you understand why you can't come. Don't you?"
You gripped his wrists, getting ready to tell him that you'd follow him whether he liked it or not, but he cut you off. His hold on your jaw tightened just a bit, but his thumbs were still gently sweeping over your earlobe and the sensitive bit of skin underneath. You shivered.
"You're a good girl. You'll sit and remain good until I get back, okay?"
When you looked up into his eyes, you shivered again. His voice was still soft and gentle, but his eyes...
There was something in them you didn't quite understand.
But one thing was clear to you. What he'd just said was by no means a request.
Your shoulders sag and you nod.
Suo leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead, "that's my girl." Another on the tip of your nose, "so obedient for me. I love you."
Your heart fluttered in your chest at the praise. Was this how you were to find out you had a thing for praise?
You couldn't tilt your face up as his grip was still tight around your jaw, so you stood on your tippy toes, to signal that you wanted a proper kiss on your lips.
Suo chuckled, "ah, so cute." He placed a tease of a peck on your bottom lip, and then released you completely to place a hand on your door handle instead. "I'll be back soon, okay? Go soak for a bit, I know you must be sore."
You flushed pink up to your ears. Partly because he was right, and partly because he didn't sound the least bit apologetic about it. He was very gentle with you, as this was your first time, but you were definitely sore nonetheless.
But still. Did he have to say it like that? With that smile and those eyes?
He left after that, and you sulked all the way to the bathroom.
And then you thought about it. Wasn't he supposed to be a kind gentleman? What was with that gentle coercion?
I don’t know if anyone will be able to relate but, as the adopted sibling from the other family I often feel like I took my step siblings father away, sadly I haven’t found a solutions for that yet, I also often feel left out from my half siblings since we have an at least 10 years age gap between us. But tonight I found out that my older brother and me are so much more similar than I thought we were and it really meant something. So if there are people that feel the same, don‘t give up and keep searching
The nights that Chrollo hold you and you actually lean into him are the worst. In this existence, where you haven’t gained the privilege of walking outside again with him as your only companion, isolation comes natural.
The way his arms both constrict you as well as uplift you only worsens your desire to bite your arms and claw at your hair. It takes every muscle inside you to not move even the slightest bit, lest he find out about your inner turmoil and uses it against you.
You know he’s awake. He seemingly never sleeps and maybe it’s that knowledge that has you finally try to turn around and hide inside his chest, no matter how much you will curse yourself for your bout of weakness the next day.
You crave comfort, you crave finally feeling safe again and he is the only person left in his world that might be able to give that to you.
It’s still a battle within. To turn and feel relive if at least for a little while or to keep your pride and dignity for another day while drowning in your own feelings.
Chrollo is still beside you as if he doesn’t want to spook you, as if he knows exactly what battle you are fighting and wants to relish in the victory of having you turn to him out of your own volition.
After all, for him it’s simply a matter of time until you cave. And that you will. He knows that for certain.
The thought sickens you to your deepest core but it’s not like you’ll be able to forever live without even the slightest bit of comfort.
And tonight, when the voices in your head are simply too loud to handle on your own, without the option of gnawing at your own skin, knowing his retribution will always be more than you can handle, you slowly turn towards him.
Your hands carefully wrap around him, your face presses deeper into his chest and for once, Chrollo stays blissfully silent. He’ll torture you with his words tomorrow. Today it’s enough to know he won the battle while wrapping around you tighter than you can bear.
hello! You’ve mentioned having a vocab list a fee times now, could you please let us take a perk at it? Your language use is gorgeous, and I’d love to learn from you.
AH YES... my language pokédex!! i can't remember exactly when i started it, i believe it may have been around 2021 or so...? anyway, since i read a lot of older literature, i often encounter words i've never seen before. before i knew it, the list had expanded a lot. it's interesting to look back on since the first few words that i added all those years ago have become common in my vocabulary 😭
without further ado, here's the list (beneath the cut since it's like 400 words or so):
Physiognomy: the face or countenance, especially when considered as an index to the character: a fierce physiognomy.
Aver: To assert or affirm with confidence; declare in a positive or peremptory manner.
Jubilee: the celebration of any of certain anniversaries, as the twenty-fifth (silver jubilee), fiftieth (golden jubilee ), or sixtieth or seventy-fifth (diamond jubilee ).
Elysium: Paradise.
Nosology: a classification or list of diseases.
Reprobate: an unprincipled or depraved person.
Caprice: A sudden desire.
Laconic: Brief and to the point.
Malignity: Quality of having intense evil.
Misanthropist: Someone who dislikes others.
Despondency: Feeling downcast.
Expedient: (of an action) convenient and practical although possibly improper or immoral.
Paroxysm: A sudden uncontrollable attack.
Antipathy: Intense dislike.
Cogitation: A carefully considering thought about something.
Obdurate: Stubbornly persist in wrongdoings.
Undulation: A wavelike motion to and fro in a fluid or elastic medium propagated continuously among its particles but with little or no permanent translation of the particles in the direction of the propagation.
Abeyance: Abeyance means "a state of temporary inactivity." The word itself is commonly preceded by the preposition in.
Gibbous: Marked by convexity or swelling.
Noisome: Offensive to the senses and especially to the sense of smell
Ennui: A feeling of listlessness and dissatisfaction arising from a lack of occupation or excitement.
Halcyon: denoting a period of time in the past that was idyllically happy and peaceful.
Akimbo: with hands on the hips and elbows turned outward.
Translunary: located beyond the moon.
Piquancy: the quality of being pleasantly stimulating or exciting.
Avarice: extreme greed for wealth or material gain.
Vestige: a trace of something that is disappearing or no longer exists.
Proprietorial: behaving as if one owned a particular thing or person; possessive.
Wafture: the act of waving or a wavelike motion.
Nascent: (especially of a process or organization) just coming into existence and beginning to display signs of future potential.
Carouse: drink plentiful amounts of alcohol and enjoy oneself with others in a noisy, lively way.
Welkin: Sky or heaven.
Vivific: imparting spirit or vivacity.
Profligacy: reckless extravagance or wastefulness in the use of resources
Paracosm: A paracosm is a detailed imaginary world. Paracosms are thought generally to originate in childhood and to have one or numerous creators. The creator of a paracosm has a complex and deeply felt relationship with this subjective universe, which may incorporate real-world or imaginary characters and conventions.
Foible: a minor weakness or eccentricity in someone's character.
Acrimony: a rough and bitter manner.
Dilettante: an amateur engaging in an activity without serious intention.
Elan: enthusiastic and assured vigor and liveliness.
Ephemeral: lasting a very short time.
Equanimity: steadiness of mind under stress.
Facetious: cleverly amusing in tone.
Hedonist: someone motivated by desires for sensual pleasures.
Malinger: avoid responsibilities and duties, often by faking illness.
Non sequitur: a reply that has no relevance to what preceded it.
Panacea: hypothetical remedy for all ills or diseases.
Perfunctory: hasty and without attention to detail; not thorough.
Propriety: correct behavior.
Red herring: something intended to distract attention from the main issue.
Scintillating: having brief brilliant points or flashes of light.
Supercilious: having or showing arrogant superiority.
Sycophant: a person who tries to please someone to gain an advantage.
Paradisiacal: (of a place or state) ideal or idyllic; heavenly.
Nuptial: Relating to marriage or weddings.
Propitiate: win or regain the favor of (a god, spirit, or person) by doing something that pleases them.
Immemorial: originating in the distant past; very old.
Eidolon: an idealized person or thing.
Ataraxia: a state of serene calmness.
Menagerie: a collection of wild animals kept in captivity for exhibition.
Quixotic: extravagantly chivalrous or romantic; visionary, impractical, or impracticable.
Cavort: to prance or caper about.
Fubar: out of working order; seriously, perhaps irreparably, damaged.
Portent: a sign or warning that something, especially something momentous or calamitous, is likely to happen.
Subterfuge: deceit used in order to achieve one's goal.
Perspicacity: keenness of mental perception and understanding; discernment; penetration.
Curmudgeon: a bad-tempered, difficult, cantankerous person.
Peccadillo: a very minor or slight sin or offense; a trifling fault.
Supernal: being in or belonging to the heaven of divine beings; heavenly, celestial, or divine.
Loquacious: tending to talk a great deal; talkative.
Effulgent: (of a person or their expression) emanating joy or goodness.
Miscreant: a person who behaves badly or in a way that breaks the law.
Enantiodromia: the tendency of things to change into their opposites, especially as a supposed governing principle of natural cycles and of psychological development.
Univocal: (of a word or term) having only one possible meaning; unambiguous.
Exculpation: the act of freeing from guilt or blame.
Casuistry: the use of clever but unsound reasoning, especially in relation to moral questions; sophistry.
Punctilious: showing great attention to detail or correct behavior.
Polemic: a speech or piece of writing expressing a strongly critical attack on or controversial opinion about someone or something.
Punitive: inflicting or intended as punishment.
Expiation: the act of making amends or reparation for guilt or wrongdoing; atonement.
Apocryphal: (of a story or statement) of doubtful authenticity, although widely circulated as being true.
Despotism: the exercise of absolute power, especially in a cruel and oppressive way.
Insuperable: (of a difficulty or obstacle) impossible to overcome.
Panoply: a complete or impressive collection of things.
Elision: the omission of a sound or syllable when speaking (as in I'm, let's, e ' en ).
Centrifugal: moving or tending to move away from a center.
Heterogeneity: the quality or state of being diverse in character or content.
Sagacious: having or showing keen mental discernment and good judgment; shrewd.
Dyad: something that consists of two elements or parts.
Locus: a particular position, point, or place.
Recidivist: a convicted criminal who reoffends, especially repeatedly.
Prolix: (of speech or writing) using or containing too many words; tediously lengthy.
Anodyne: not likely to provoke dissent or offense; inoffensive, often deliberately so.
Edifice: a building, especially a large, imposing one.
Sepulcher: a small room or monument, cut in rock or built of stone, in which a dead person is laid or buried.
Milieu: a person's social environment.
Seditious: inciting or causing people to rebel against the authority of a state or monarch.
Neophyte: a person who is new to a subject, skill, or belief.
Precocity: exceptionally early or premature development (as of mental powers or sexual characteristics)
Indigent: poor; needy.
Interstices: an intervening space, especially a very small one.
Aperture: an opening, hole, or gap.
Inculcate: instill (an attitude, idea, or habit) by persistent instruction.
Ceilidh: a party, gathering, or the like, at which dancing, singing, and storytelling are the usual forms of entertainment.
Esplanade: a long, open, level area, typically beside the sea, along which people may walk for pleasure.
Tocsin: an alarm bell or signal.
Necropolis: a cemetery, especially a large one belonging to an ancient city.
Stolid: (of a person) calm, dependable, and showing little emotion or animation.
Cogency: the quality of being clear, logical, and convincing; lucidity.
Torpor: a state of physical or mental inactivity; lethargy.
Puerile: childishly silly and trivial.
Diatribe: a forceful and bitter verbal attack against someone or something.
Debutante: an upper-class young woman making her first appearance in fashionable society.
Ersatz: not real or genuine.
Alacrity: brisk and cheerful readiness.
Askance: with an attitude or look of suspicion or disapproval.
Palatial: resembling a palace in being spacious and splendid.
Expatiate: speak or write at length or in detail.
Calumny: the making of false and defamatory statements about someone in order to damage their reputation; slander.
Oneiric: relating to dreams or dreaming.
Appassionato: impassioned; with passion or strong feeling.
Threnody: a lament.
Idée fixe: an idea or desire that dominates the mind; an obsession.
Quondam: that once was; former.
Raison d'être: the most important reason or purpose for someone or something's existence.
Meritorious: deserving reward or praise.
Infirmity: physical or mental weakness.
Eclectic: deriving ideas, style, or taste from a broad and diverse range of sources.
Baleful: threatening harm; menacing.
Gracile: (of a person) slender or thin, especially in a charming or attractive way.
Exigency: an urgent need or demand.
Pathos: a quality that evokes pity or sadness.
Acumen: the ability to make good judgments and quick decisions, typically in a particular domain.
Apologue: a moral fable, especially one with animals as characters.
Imprecations: a spoken curse.
Antinomy: a contradiction between two beliefs or conclusions that are in themselves reasonable; a paradox.
Omphalos: the center or hub of something.
Exigency: an urgent need or demand.
Vertiginous: causing vertigo, especially by being extremely high or steep.
Mendacious: not telling the truth; lying.
Efficacy: the ability to produce a desired or intended result.
Indelible: (of ink or a pen) making marks that cannot be removed.
Pedagogical: relating to teaching.
Irascible: having or showing a tendency to be easily angered.
Effrontery: insolent or impertinent behavior.
Aphorism: a pithy observation that contains a general truth, such as, “if it ain't broke, don't fix it.”
Pithy: (of language or style) concise and forcefully expressive.
Divest: deprive (someone) of power, rights, or possessions.
Bight: a curve or recess in a coastline, river, or other geographical feature.
Swale: a low or hollow place, especially a marshy depression between ridges.
Anchorite: a religious recluse.
Truculent: eager or quick to argue or fight; aggressively defiant.
Proselytes: a person who has converted from one opinion, religion, or party to another.
Ignis fatuus: a will-o'-the-wisp / something deceptive or deluding.
Escarpment: a long, steep slope, especially one at the edge of a plateau or separating areas of land at different heights.
Euchred: (in the card game euchre) gain the advantage over (another player) by preventing them from taking three tricks.
Egress: the action of going out of or leaving a place.
Spancel: a rope for fettering or hobbling cattle, etc.
Antecedent: a thing or event that existed before or logically precedes another.
Lucent: glowing or giving off light.
Enfilade: a volley of gunfire directed along a line from end to end.
Phantasmagoria: a sequence of real or imaginary images like those seen in a dream.
Desiccate: : to dry up.
Putrescent: undergoing the process of decay; rotting.
Lugubrious: looking or sounding sad and dismal.
Crenelated: (of a wall or building) having battlements.
Nomenclature: the devising or choosing of names for things, especially in a science or other discipline.
Somnolent: sleepy; drowsy.
Empyreal: : of or relating to the empyrean : CELESTIAL
Suzerain: a sovereign or state having some control over another state that is internally autonomous.
Vestibules: an antechamber, hall, or lobby next to the outer door of a building.
Chancel: the part of a church near the altar, reserved for the clergy and choir, and typically separated from the nave by steps or a screen.
Emulous: seeking to emulate or imitate someone or something.
Gaiety: the state or quality of being lighthearted or cheerful.
Iniquity: immoral or grossly unfair behavior.
Insensate: lacking physical sensation / lacking sympathy or compassion; unfeeling.
Pall: a cloth spread over a coffin, hearse, or tomb.
Slatternly: dirty and untidy (typically used of a woman or her appearance).
Odious: extremely unpleasant; repulsive.
Eddy: a current of air or water running back, or in an opposite direction to the main current.
Diaphanous: (especially of fabric) light, delicate, and translucent.
Sedulous: (of a person or action) showing dedication and diligence.
Farrago: a confused mixture.
Ebullition: the action of bubbling or boiling.
Pecuniary: relating to or consisting of money.
Bellicose: demonstrating aggression and willingness to fight.
Nugatory: of no value or importance.
Rapacious: aggressively greedy or grasping.
Polymath: a person of wide-ranging knowledge or learning.
Autarkic: specifically : national economic self-sufficiency and independence
Anathema: something or someone that one vehemently dislikes.
Polyphonic: the style of simultaneously combining a number of parts, each forming an individual melody and harmonizing with each other.
Cerise: a bright or deep red color.
Affectation: behavior, speech, or writing that is artificial and designed to impress.
Dissimulation: concealment of one's thoughts, feelings, or character; pretense.
Sinecure: a position requiring little or no work but giving the holder status or financial benefit.
Querulous: complaining in a petulant or whining manner.
Solicitude: care or concern fo r someone or something.
Valence: the combining power of an element, especially as measured by the number of hydrogen atoms it can displace or combine with.
Je ne sais quoi: a quality that cannot be described or named easily.
Perdition: (in Christian theology) a state of eternal punishment and damnation into which a sinful and unpenitent person passes after death.
Compeer: the equal or peer of someone else; a close companion or associate.
Ignominy: public shame or disgrace.
Descry: catch sight of.
Portentous: : of, relating to, or constituting a portent
Sonorous: (of a person's voice or other sound) imposingly deep and full.
Mimesis: representation or imitation of the real world in art and literature.
Heuristics: the study and use of heuristic techniques.
Demarcation: the action of fixing the boundary or limits of something.
Poultice: a soft, moist mass of material, typically of plant material or flour, applied to the body to relieve soreness and inflammation and kept in place with a cloth / apply a poultice to.
Inimitable: so good or unusual as to be impossible to copy; unique.
Granules: Granule is a small compact particle of a substance.
Manacles: a metal band, chain, or shackle for fastening someone's hands or ankles.
Aureate: denoting, made of, or having the color of gold / (of language) highly ornamented or elaborate.
Coruscating: flashing; sparkling.
Euphonic: having a pleasant sound.
Concertina: extend, compress, or collapse in folds like those of a concertina.
Ligature: a thing used for tying or binding something tightly.
Philippic: a bitter attack or denunciation, especially a verbal one.
Gelid: icy; extremely cold.
Insouciance: casual lack of concern; indifference.
Conflagration: an extensive fire which destroys a great deal of land or property.
Eidetic: relating to or denoting mental images having unusual vividness and detail, as if actually visible.
Couloir: a steep, narrow gully on a mountainside.
Contiguous: sharing a common border; touching.
Vorpal: resulting in or capable of causing death.
Garroting: kill (someone) by strangulation, typically with an iron collar or a length of wire or cord.
Harangue: a lengthy and aggressive speech.
Diapason: a grand swelling burst of harmony.
Foment: instigate or stir up (an undesirable or violent sentiment or course of action).
Marcescent: (of leaves or fronds) withering but remaining attached to the stem.
Volant: (of an animal) able to fly or glide.
Clement: (of a person or a person's actions) merciful.
Perennially: in a way that continues for a long or apparently infinite time; permanently.
Ungues: a nail, claw, or fang.
Indefatigable: (of a person or their efforts) persisting tirelessly.
Juste milieu: the happy medium; judicious moderation.
Sequelae: a condition which is the consequence of a previous disease or injury.
Lambent: (of light or fire) glowing, gleaming, or flickering with a soft radiance.
Stalagmite: : a deposit of calcium carbonate like an inverted stalactite formed on the floor of a cave by the drip of calcareous water
Crepuscular: of, relating to, or resembling twilight; dim; indistinct.
Parlance: a particular way of speaking or using words, especially a way common to those with a particular job or interest.
Edification: the instruction or improvement of a person morally or intellectually.
Trenchant: vigorous or incisive in expression or style.
Otiose: serving no practical purpose or result.
Scunner: feel disgust or strong dislike.
Insouciant: showing a casual lack of concern; indifferent.
Puissance: great power, influence, or prowess.
Cupidity: greed for money or possessions.
Ribald: referring to sexual matters in an amusingly coarse or irreverent way.
Wroth: angry.
Concupiscence: strong sexual desire; lust.
Pestiferous: harboring infection and disease / constituting a pest or nuisance; annoying.
Ingénue: an innocent or unsophisticated young woman, especially in a play or film.
Canticle: a hymn or chant, typically with a biblical text, forming a regular part of a church service.
Lothario: a man who behaves selfishly and irresponsibly in his sexual relationships with women.
Dais: a low platform for a lectern, seats of honor, or a throne.
Defenestrate: throw (someone) out of a window.
Reveille: a signal sounded especially on a bugle or drum to wake personnel in the armed forces.
Punctilious: showing great attention to detail or correct behavior.
Carping: continually complaining or finding fault about trivial matters; difficult to please.
Pendulous: hanging down loosely.
Gregarious: (of a person) fond of company; sociable.
Usurer: a person who lends money at unreasonably high rates of interest.
Apropos: with reference to; concerning.
Torpor: a state of physical or mental inactivity; lethargy.
Mephitic: (especially of a gas or vapor) foul-smelling; noxious.
Nostrum: a medicine, especially one that is not considered effective, prepared by an unqualified person / a pet project or favorite remedy, especially one for bringing about some social or political reform or improvement.
Narcosis: : a state of stupor, unconsciousness, or arrested activity produced by the influence of narcotics or other chemicals or physical agents see nitrogen narcosis.
Diptych: a painting, especially an altarpiece, on two hinged wooden panels which may be closed like a book.
Tabula rasa: Tabula rasa is the idea of individuals being born empty of any built-in mental content, so that all knowledge comes from later perceptions or sensory experiences. This idea is the central view posited in the theory of knowledge known as empiricism.
Ineluctable: unable to be resisted or avoided; inescapable.
Coterie: A circle of people who associate with one another for a common purpose.
Furore: an outbreak of public anger or excitement.
Assiduously: with great care and perseverance.
Paucity: smallness of number
Facsimile: an exact copy, especially of written or printed material.
Quash: reject or void, especially by legal procedure.
Virulent: (of a disease or poison) extremely severe or harmful in its effects / bitterly hostile.
Pathogenicity: Pathogenicity refers to the ability of an organism to cause disease.
Expropriation: the action by the state or an authority of taking property from its owner for public use or benefit.
Circumspect: careful to consider all circumstances and possible consequences.
Embryonic: (of a system, idea, or organization) in a rudimentary stage with potential for further development.
Proselytism: is the policy of attempting to convert people's religious or political beliefs.
Corollary: a direct or natural consequence or result.
Terra nullius: is a term that refers to a “territory without a master.” It is a term used in public international law to describe a space that can be inhabited but that does not belong to a state, meaning the land is not owned by anyone.
Lachrymose: tearful or given to weeping.
Penury: extreme poverty; destitution.
Exactions: a sum of money demanded for a payment or service.
Entente: a friendly understanding or informal alliance between states or factions.
Parsimonious: unwilling to spend money or use resources; stingy or frugal.
Inchoate: just begun and so not fully formed or developed; rudimentary.
Aegis: the protection, backing, or support of a particular person or organization.
Execrable: extremely bad or unpleasant.
Prescient: in a way that suggests correctly what will happen in the future:
Obviate: remove (a need or difficulty).
Anathema: something or someone that one vehemently dislikes / a formal curse by a pope or a council of the Church, excommunicating a person or denouncing a doctrine.
Bifurcated: : divided into two branches or parts
Nous: common sense; practical intelligence / the mind or intellect.
Eschaton: the final event in the divine plan; the end of the world.
Aplomb: complete and confident composure or self-assurance.
Adulation: obsequious flattery; excessive admiration or praise.
Nostrum: a medicine, especially one that is not considered effective, prepared by an unqualified person / a pet project or favorite remedy, especially one for bringing about some social or political reform or improvement.
Corpuscle: a minute particle regarded as the basic constituent of matter or light.
Atavistic: happening because of a very old habit from a long time ago in human history, not because of a conscious decision or because it is necessary now
Truncate: shorten the duration or extent of / (of a leaf, feather, or other part) ending abruptly as if cut off across the base or tip.
Prefigure: be an early indication or version of (something).
Epiphenomenon: : a secondary phenomenon accompanying another and caused by it.
Dictum: a formal pronouncement from an authoritative source.
Hegemony: leadership or dominance, especially by one country or social group over others.
Gemeinschaft: social relations between individuals, based on close personal and family ties; community.
Moribund: (of a person) at the point of death / (of a thing) in terminal decline; lacking vitality or vigor.
Nouveau riche: people who have recently acquired wealth, typically those perceived as ostentatious or lacking in good taste.
Credo: a statement of the beliefs or aims which guide someone's actions.
Verboten; forbidden, especially by an authority.
Auri sacra fames: accursed hunger for gold
Pièce de résistance: an outstanding item or event.
Recalcitrant: having an obstinately uncooperative attitude toward authority or discipline.
Acerbic: (especially of a comment or style of speaking) sharp and forthright.
Vestures: clothing; dress.
Sillage: the degree to which a perfume's fragrance lingers in the air when worn.
Jingoistic: characterized by extreme patriotism, especially in the form of aggressive or warlike foreign policy.
Lightsome: free from care : lighthearted: airy, nimble
Apoplexy: incapacity or speechlessness caused by extreme anger.
Inimical: tending to obstruct or harm.
Plaintive: sounding sad and mournful.
Preponderant: predominant in influence, number, or importance.
Incontrovertible: not able to be denied or disputed.
Tautology: the saying of the same thing twice in different words, generally considered to be a fault of style (e.g., they arrived one after the other in succession ).
Aggrandisement: the act of increasing the wealth or prestige or power or scope of something.
Conciliation: the action of stopping someone from being angry; placation.
Rentier: a person living on income from property or investments.
Vicissitudes: a change of circumstances or fortune, typically one that is unwelcome or unpleasant.
Antipode: : the exact opposite or contrary
Philistinism: Philistinism is the attitude or quality of not caring about, understanding, or liking good art, music, or literature.
Rapacious: aggressively greedy or grasping.
Panegyric: a public speech or published text in praise of someone or something.
Espied/espy: catch sight of.
Flanderization: Flanderization is the process through which a fictional character's essential traits are oversimplified to the point where they constitute their entire personality, or at least exaggerated while other traits remain, over the course of a serial work.
Atavistic: relating to or characterized by reversion to something ancient or ancestral.
Obelus: a symbol (†) used as a reference mark in printed matter, or to indicate that a person is deceased.
Anathema: something or someone that one vehemently dislikes.
Chimera: : an illusion or fabrication of the mind
Obloquy: strong public criticism or verbal abuse.
Anomie: lack of the usual social or ethical standards in an individual or group.
Lacuna: an unfilled space or interval; a gap.
Encomium: a speech or piece of writing that praises someone or something highly.
Penumbra: : a space of partial illumination (as in an eclipse) between the perfect shadow on all sides and the full light.
Campanulate: (of a flower) bell-shaped, as in a campanula.
Delectation: pleasure and delight.
Hermetic: (of a seal or closure) complete and airtight / relating to an ancient occult tradition encompassing alchemy, astrology, and theosophy.
Remonstrance: a forcefully reproachful protest.
Bromide: a trite and unoriginal idea or remark, typically intended to soothe or placate.
Seraphic: characteristic of or resembling a seraph or seraphim.
Lugubrious: looking or sounding sad and dismal.
Beldam: a malicious and ugly woman, especially an old one; a witch.
Hale: (of a person, especially an elderly one) strong and healthy.
Ablation: the surgical removal of body tissue / the removal of snow and ice by melting or evaporation, typically from a glacier or iceberg.
Hecatomb: (in ancient Greece or Rome) a great public sacrifice, originally of a hundred oxen.
Endogenous: growing or originating from within an organism.
Plaint: a complaint; a lamentation.
Repatriate: send (someone) back to their own country.
Ablution: a ceremonial act of washing parts of the body or sacred containers.
Mercurial: (of a person) subject to sudden or unpredictable changes of mood or mind.
Presage: (of an event) be a sign or warning that (something, typically something bad) will happen.
Dappled: marked with spots or rounded patches.
Garrulous: excessively talkative, especially on trivial matters.
Adamantine: unbreakable.
Helter-skelter: involving disorderly haste or confusion.
Dyspeptic: ill humor.
Prima facie: based on the first impression; accepted as correct until proved otherwise.
Legato: in a smooth flowing manner, without breaks between notes.
Grouse: complain pettily; grumble
Proisoden: : an ancient Greek processional hymn sung by a chorus approaching the temple or altar of a god
Hyporchema: : an ancient Greek choral song and dance usually in honor of Apollo or Dionysus
Paean: a song of praise or triumph.
Denigrate: criticize unfairly; disparage.
Moiety: each of two parts into which a thing is or can be divided.
Palmy: (especially of a previous period of time) flourishing or successful.
Jocund: cheerful and lighthearted.
Bruit: spread (a report or rumor) widely.
Calumnious: (of a statement) false and defamatory; slanderous.
Blastments: A sudden strike or injury; a pernicious thing.
Appurtenances: an accessory or other item associated with a particular activity or style of living.
Carbunucle: a severe abscess or multiple boil in the skin, typically infected with staphylococcus bacteria / something, especially a building, that is unsightly or visually intrusive.
Mobled: : being wrapped or muffled in or as if in a hood
Inoculate: immunize (someone) against a disease by introducing infective material, microorganisms, or vaccine into the body.
Unction: the action of anointing someone with oil or ointment as a religious rite or as a symbol of investiture as a monarch.
Heterodox: not conforming with accepted or orthodox standards or beliefs.
Stochastic: randomly determined; having a random probability distribution or pattern that may be analyzed statistically but may not be predicted precisely.
Schadenfreude: pleasure derived by someone from another person's misfortune.
Oblique: neither parallel nor at a right angle to a specified or implied line; slanting.
Parquet: flooring composed of wooden blocks arranged in a geometric pattern.
Archly: in an amused way that suggests you know more about something than someone else does.
Chthonic: concerning, belonging to, or inhabiting the underworld.
Repartee: conversation or speech characterized by quick, witty comments or replies.
Chiaroscuro: the treatment of light and shade in drawing and painting.
Surcease: cessation.
Mea culpa: an acknowledgment of one's fault or error.
Peripatetic: traveling from place to place, in particular working or based in various places for relatively short periods.
Chrysopoeia: In alchemy, the term chrysopoeia (from Ancient Greek χρυσοποιία (khrusopoiía) 'gold-making') refers to the artificial production of gold, most commonly by the alleged transmutation of base metals such as lead.
Rebarbative: unattractive and objectionable.
Antiphony: antiphonal singing, playing, or chanting.
Psychical: another term for psychic (sense 1 of the adjective).
Anachronism: a thing belonging or appropriate to a period other than that in which it exists, especially a thing that is conspicuously old-fashioned.
Abstruse: difficult to understand; obscure.
Patina: an appearance or aura that is derived from association, habit, or established character / a superficial covering or exterior
Apotropaic: supposedly having the power to avert evil influences or bad luck.
Adumbrate: report or represent in outline / foreshadow or symbolize.
Bathos: (especially in a work of literature) an effect of anticlimax created by an unintentional lapse in mood from the sublime to the trivial or ridiculous.
Baroque: of, relating to, or having the characteristics of a style of artistic expression prevalent especially in the 17th century that is marked generally by use of complex forms, bold ornamentation, and the juxtaposition of contrasting elements often conveying a sense of drama, movement, and tension.
Exegesis: critical explanation or interpretation of a text, especially of scripture.
Concentric: of or denoting circles, arcs, or other shapes which share the same center, the larger often completely surrounding the smaller.
Inconcinnity: : lack of suitability or congruity : inelegance
Solicitude: care or concern for someone or something.
Can you recommend any yandere Phinks, Uvo or Hisoka fics? (bc the Hisoka one you mentioned was so good xD)
ofc!
fic recs for these characters from @hypnoswrites
Supper - hitman Phinks taking a call while he tortures a dude (warnings: torture and mentions of death)
Groundwork - college AU Phinks being a dumbass and also putting reader in mortal danger (warnings: injury, kidnapping, mentions of death, a lot of blood)
Philantropy - an alternate scenario following the events of Uvogin fighting Kurapika (warnings: injury, gore, home invasion, nsfw, non con)
Warlord Uvogin - this is the first fic I ever read by Ram! (warnings: death, kidnapping, mentions of nsfw)
Vengeance Tastes Bitter - reader is completely unprepared to fight Uvogin (warnings: mentions of death, torture, violence, piss, nsfw, non con, kidnapping) (I gotta stop myself there otherwise I'll just post links to all of her Uvo fics lol)
To Prove Oneself - Hisoka and reader meet in an elevator (warnings: Hisoka)
reader heals Hisoka - I love the ending🤤 (warnings: blood, injury, Hisoka being a pervert)
fic recs from @cherrysha
Craving - vampire!Phinks (warnings: blood, death)
oral scenario with Phinks - reader fucks around and finds out (warnings: non con, abusive relationships)
The Chase , Part 2 - reader tries to take down Hisoka; it ends badly (warnings: depictions of violence, nsfw/noncon in the second part, Hisoka not being very nice in general)
Feel - smut fic with Uvo (warnings: nsfw)
Comfort - reader with depression with Uvo (warnings: nsfw, mental health)
Run - I know I've shared this Uvo fic before but I don't care this fic lives in my head rent free~ (warnings: a/b/o, nsfw, dubcon)
fic recs from @after-witch
Best Regards - reader runs into Hisoka on the Black Whale (warnings: non con, injury)
And if the Lights Are All Out - Uvogin retrieves reader (warnings: kidnapping, death, gore)
The Road Not Taken - reader tries to run from Uvogin (warnings: kidnapping, threats of violence)
Break Up - Uvogin punishes reader's new boyfriend (warnings: torture, gore, death)
Comin' In Hot! - kidnapped reader and Phinks share a meal and a movie (warnings: mentions of kidnapping, mentions of abuse)
fic recs from @ddarker-dreams
Songstress - reader is an idol and Phinks is her fan (warnings: death, violence, kidnapping)
and while it's a Chrollo x reader series, Hell Within Reach does have some cute Phinks moments
fic recs from @absolute-flaming-trash
Ribbons and Regrets - Hisoka is jealous reader hasn't bought him any gifts for his birthday (warnings: stalking, implied noncon, jealousy)
late night road trip - reader and Hisoka pass the time with a chat (warnings: mentions of kidnapping)
taking a bath with Hisoka - D: (warnings: implied noncon, implied abuse, reader's mind is doing poorly)
sorry for my inactivity here’s a Chrollo fic for your troubles
Warnings: death, kidnapping
Word count: 6.9k
The dark, clouded skies overhead threatened to burst open with rain at any moment, much to your disappointment. You were hoping that the weather would be good when you went out with him today. A nice day with lots of sun but wasn’t too hot – that was what you’d been counting on. Days like that made it hard for you to feel sad, and you hoped it would be the same for him.
But despite a decent temperature, the clouds loomed overhead and blocked out the sun completely. That only left you feeling nervous.
What made that feeling worse was the fact that there weren’t a lot of people here, the threat of rain was compelling most to stay at home. Not an unreasonable stance to take, but it was bad timing for you. A busier atmosphere in the cafe would have made you feel a bit more at ease, but when the only other company you had were the two waitresses who were currently wiping down empty tables and an elderly couple taking their time with their lunch, it was hard to feel like you had any safety in numbers.
Then again, the cafe could’ve been filled to the brim with patrons and you likely would’ve still had the same problem. Because no matter how many people were around you, it wasn’t like that changed anything when you were sitting across from your boyfriend and trying to build up the nerve to tell him something that he wouldn’t be happy to hear.
With the way things were outside of the cafe and how nervous you felt, you almost wanted to cancel your date entirely and move it to a different day, but you’d forced yourself to go through with it, knowing full well that if you dragged this out any longer, it would only get worse for you.
You needed to break up with Chrollo.
But you needed to do it in a way that didn’t end in him being angry with you.
Tiny Chrollo snippet that came to me before falling asleep
His hand is around your waist and his body is entangled with yours. It makes sleep difficult to come by. You feel like you can barely breath recently. His presence is sucking every piece of joy out of you.
Trying your hardest to fall asleep, it’s probably around midnight now, you might have moved a little too much because he asks you:“ not tired yet?“ You‘re not sure if you should deign ihm a response but you‘ve been good lately. So good in fact that you‘re even allowed to wear your favourite pyjama. A set consisting of an old tee- and some shorts. Not the flimsy dresses he usually has you wear.
And because you‘ve been good lately and you don‘t want to ruin your night prematurely over something that doesn‘t matter you answer him.
„I am. Maybe it‘s a full moon tonight? You know how I get on those.“ You bite back the bile that wants to rise up your throat at the fact that he indeed knows you well enough now to know full moons make it harder on you. Chrollo answers with a hum. Apparently sated for now as he pulls you harder against him.
You try not to take note of your racing heart or the tiny tremor that wants to develop in your legs. You don‘t want to be held but you fear he can ascertain those thoughts far too easily. You swear you can already feel him push and prod in your mind even though you‘re rather sure his book doesn‘t grant him the ability to read minds just yet.
But still. You try relaxing your muscles. Try calming down your heart. You’re scared. Been scared since he took you.
But you‘ve been good lately so you try to suck up all the goodwill you can find in him until he makes a request you won‘t be able to comply to.
note: the auxiliary member of the PT that is mentioned is the reader from @hypnoswrites's fic Onlooker
Chrollo x female!reader
Part 1 | Part 3 (coming soon)
Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of creepy behavior, mentions of torture
Word Count: 6k
It was nearing 2 AM when you found yourself making your way up the stairs to your unit. Given the late hour, it was deathly quiet in the apartment building, the only noises you could hear being the buzzing of the fluorescent lights above you in the walkways and your own shoes on the steps as you trudged your way upwards. No doubt all of your neighbors were asleep, having turned in hours ago. You would soon be doing that yourself, probably passing out as soon as your head hit your pillow.
Or maybe you would stay awake again while you stewed in your own upset emotions.
A sour look took over your face as you were fully aware that was the more likely outcome.
Due to the blanket of quiet that covered the building, the clinking of your keys sounded even louder as you pulled them out when you approached the door of your unit, as did the lock when you turned it open. A long, drawn out sigh left your lips as you opened your door and closed it, all the while you fought the urge to slam it shut behind you. Soon enough you were sitting on your couch, your bag on the floor next to your feet. Today had been a long day and you were exhausted. Even though you should probably head straight to bed, you wanted to take a moment to breathe and relax, and you leaned your head back in favor of staring at the ceiling.
….. There was a water stain set into the newly painted ceiling above your head.
Your expression soured when you saw that. So that dishwasher in the unit upstairs was still leaking, despite what the maintenance guy had told you. Great.
And evidently not all of your neighbors were asleep, as through the thin walls of your own unit, you could hear the distinct noises of bed springs creaking loudly that was accompanied by loud moaning.
At two in the morning? Really?
Reluctantly, you pulled yourself up from the couch, ignoring the way your body protested after managing to become comfortable. With heavy steps, you made your way to the small bedroom within the unit in an effort to escape your neighbors.
That time, you slammed the door.
Stumbling forward in the dark until you found your bed, you all but fell on top of it.
Unfortunately, your earlier prediction turned out to be correct, because as you lay there wishing for sleep, to temporarily escape into your subconscious, you weren't allowed even that. Because all you could do was stare up at the ceiling while thinking about how you shouldn't be here right now.
That this wasn't how things were supposed to be.
After that job at the Pelletier's – six fucking months spent being at the beck and call of those goddamn assholes and the rest of the uppity staff – you should have been done with this. That job was supposed to be your windfall, giving you the means to live a nice, comfortable life while you left your current occupation behind.
Escaping the illegal activity in which you supported yourself with was something you had wanted to do for some time now. Sure, there was a certain thrill that came with infiltrating somewhere and making off with whatever valuables your clients had bid you to, but you didn't want to do that forever. Because one misstep on your part, one person recognizing the face you were using, one ability that was able to see through your hatsu – any and all of those could come into play during a heist which could spell the end for you and the life you currently had. While what you had wasn't the best, you weren't willing to trade that for a jail cell.
Which was why the diadem job had been a godsend. It was well within your capabilities, and with the buyer being an old socialite with ties to the mafia through her late husband, she had the funds to pay the enormous price for that old piece of jewelry. She was desperate for it even, having an obsession with it that was well-known by those who knew her. Though the communications you had with her were brief and through her servants, Letizia Bianchi's claims of being directly descended from Princess Despoina were well communicated to you, which she in turn made the the claim that the diadem was hers by right. Why she felt the need to justify herself was unknown to you, if the history of her late husband was anything to go by.
Not only that, the princess in question had died in a bloody revolution with nothing to indicate that she ever had children before she was executed. Plus there was the fact that most historians agreed that she didn't appear to have any interest in men. But at the end of the day, you didn't care all that much what the reasons were as to why the Letizia wanted it. All you cared about was what you were going to be paid for the job.
And a twelve billion payout was enough to get you motivated to do your best.
So for the six months you spent in the Pelletier household, you learned the habits of the staff and owners, figured out the code to the vault, chose the best time to make off with it, and got everything together for your escape. All of that would be in exchange for an end to this line of work. “One last job,” you had told yourself.
That would have been the case had it not been for a certain thing – or rather, a certain group of people:
The Phantom Troupe.
You'd heard of them before this – anyone involved in underworld dealings at the very least knew the name, as the group of thieves had achieved something of a legendary status within a relatively short amount of time. They always struck out of nowhere, hitting their targets with efficiency and leaving nothing behind that could lead back to them. Were it not for the fact that almost all of the stolen items that ended up in their possession sometime after made it onto the black market, most people might have assumed that those items truly had been spirited away by ghosts.
Though not all of their actions were ones of violence and theft, as you had heard rumors of the troupe putting up the funds needed for various orphanages in a variety of more unfortunate areas of the word. But when you considered how out of line that sounded with their general MO and how sappy it seemed, you were inclined to think that was just a stupid rumor spread around for shits and giggles.
Rumors aside, the Phantom Troupe was a force to be reckoned with. Enigmatic and devastating, shrouded in a reputation of ruthlessness. Their deeds were many, and the incident at the Pelletier mansion was just another note on a long list of their crimes, with the Diadem of Princess Despoina being just another acquisition of theirs.
Except no.
Because against all odds, you had been the one to steal it.
You groaned, fighting the urge to smother yourself with the pillow as you pulled it over your head in frustration. Of all the screw-ups and mistakes you'd made in your life, you never would've dreamed that you'd fuck up so badly that you would put yourself on the Phantom Troupe's radar.
But how the fuck could you have known? How was there any way you could have known that the troupe would go after the Pelletier's at the same time as you? How could you have known that they had come to the same conclusion as you, that the best moment to take the diadem away was when the Pelletier's would be occupied with an event?
You couldn't. No one in the entire world could have ever predicted such a thing could happen.
But that didn't really matter, because even if you didn't mean for it to happen, you had stolen the troupe's intended mark.
Which only meant that, if they found you out, they would make sure you paid for it.
Fuck
You groaned again as you rolled over onto your front, keeping the pillow pressed against your face. You needed to do that, otherwise you knew your focus was going to go to the air vent on the wall that sat just above the floor. If that happened, you knew you'd spend the rest of the time you were awake staring at it with the image of what you had hidden inside of the vent etched into your mind: that of the cardboard box in which you had stuffed the diadem into because you didn't know where else to hide it.
Just another addition to the piece's rich – or perhaps sordid – history: from sitting atop the head of a princess to being stuffed into a maid's closet, then from a display case within a museum for everyone to behold until it moved to a display case within a private collection. And now in a vent, sitting there in the dark and unclaimed by the buyer. A piece that was worth billions yet you couldn't sell it, because if you tried, all it would take was one whisper to the wrong person for the most deadly group in the world to descend upon you and make the remainder of your life a living hell.
All because Letizia, who went as far as making a whole song and dance about how she was descended from the original owner of the diadem, chose to go back on the deal. Even with her being as powerful and well-connected as she was, not even she wanted to cross the Phantom Troupe.
And you didn't have any other choice but to accept it when you were told that. Because what were you going to do? Go to the police? Take her to court for not paying you and claim a breach of contract? Yeah right. That'd go over well.
You were stuck with no option other than to deal with it, to take on the jobs that would help you get by while she continued on as normal. That left a bad taste in your mouth, but the best you could do was to continue to work and hope for another high-paying job like one Letizia was supposed to pay for while you figured out what to do with the diadem at a later date.
Though as you lay there and told yourself such things, you were very well aware that another job as lucrative as the diadem one was unlikely to come about.
It wasn't supposed to be this way, you told yourself again.
Your thoughts went back to that night when you had stolen the diadem, the thoughts you were throwing around in your head as you considered the possibilities for your future. From laying on the beach with expensive drinks to staying cozy beneath a warm blanket in a nice lake house, or simply traveling where ever you pleased whenever you pleased. There had been no end to what you could have done for yourself once you had gotten your twelve billion.
But instead of enjoying that nice, comfortable life, you were left to rot in a shitty apartment, which was the best you could get after you had spent what was left of your savings just to get to the Begerosse Union. You wouldn't be able to leave this particular area for a while, more than likely, as you had burned several bridges professionally when you chose to take the diadem job. Because you could do the job yourself, and because of that, you wanted the payout all for yourself.
Any truly high-paying jobs wouldn't come for some time.
Another long groan left your lips as you shifted, pulling your head away from the pillow and turning to face the wall. You'd figure this out, you told yourself. You've been in worse situations and you've gotten out of them – this would be no different. It just feels worse because of the way you were stiffed. Another opportunity will come. Keep doing what you're doing for now, and it'll all work out.
As had become the norm for you, you fell asleep listening to your own disingenuous inspirational thoughts.
Chrollo's morning began in the same way it often did, with him waking up well before the sun had risen and being unable to go back to sleep after. That in turn had him passing the time by reading until the first rays of dawn properly graced the world. Depending on just how early he would wake up, the time he had before the rest of the world was also awoken could be as little as a single hour or as many as four, as his internal clock only had become more erratic as the years had went by. It wasn't ideal as it had caused the bags beneath his eyes to only become more pronounced, and despite his numerous attempts at looking, Chrollo had yet to find an ability that could help him sleep through the whole night. For the moment, he had resigned himself to the fact that he would likely never get a full night's sleep again.
At least the predicament had allowed him more reading time, and as the many homes and apartments he had across multiple countries were always stocked with various different book collections, it ensured that he would always have something on hand to read during those deadly quiet hours of the early morning.
On this day, however, things were different. He could only carry so much on him while he was traveling. As a result, he only had four books on his person, and he found himself faced with a predicament: reread the third book he had packed, or continue with the fourth one that he had stopped reading a while earlier when he found that he wasn't enjoying it?
He ultimately chose to pick up the third book for a second time, as he still felt no desire to attempt to finish that fourth book. How a book like that – one that he couldn't stand to finish – had ended up in his possession, he had no clue.
But as Chrollo opened up the pages of the third book for a second time that trip, his thoughts were less focused on the words on the pages and more on the fact that this journey was taking him longer than he had expected, with no sense of when it would come to an end.
No sense of when he would find 'Minette' again.
Upon thinking of the maid, Chrollo yet again found himself uncertain if he should be exasperated or impressed that the matter had gone on for as long as it had. At the very least she deserved a certain amount of praise for her disappearing act – just as it wasn't often that an outside force managed to interfere with troupe business as effectively as she had, it also wasn't often that someone could vanish so thoroughly that even he was at a loss as to how she had managed it.
At first he had been confident that finding her would be an easy matter, as the theory that she had left by boat seemed sound at the time. After stealing an item as valuable as the diadem, leaving the country entirely was the best move to take. Yet there had been no sign of her, even when Shalnark had helped in pouring over every available security tape and log of the passengers who had departed from the docks in the time frame after the maid had vanished. Even when they had searched beyond the limits of the coastal town in the event that Chrollo's hunch about that route being incorrect, there was nothing.
The maid he had seen in the mansion was nowhere to be found no matter where they looked.
As expected, that dampened the mood of the troupe once the heist was over. Not so much due to how the diadem had been lost, but that someone had managed to sneak away in the way that she had. Just like him, some of the others had been impressed while certain members were angry, but all anticipated that the maid would be found. If not by the manner in which you escaped, then by tracking you down when the diadem went on the market. Whoever you truly were, Chrollo had felt that you would attempt to sell it, as it didn't seem to him that you were the type to keep expensive baubles just for the sake of it. Even from his brief interaction with you, he was certain that this was just a job for you.
And yet, even months later, there had been nothing.
At first it made sense. With the mass-disappearance at the Pelletier mansion and the media circus that had followed, that you would lay low was expected. But now that the heat had died down and the news had moved on to other stories, leaving the events in that mansion as a mystery while those in the underworld had an idea as to what had happened, there was still nothing for him to pick up on. No shred of evidence, no whispers of the diadem being placed on the market. Absolutely nothing.
Only two things had been discovered that could potentially be connected to you, the first of which being a small fire that had been set in the dumpster of a church near the area of the Pelletier mansion. Why that had happened was still a mystery to him and it could have easily been a strange coincidence that it occurred on the same night as the heist. Either way, there was nothing to go off of in regards to that instance.
The other bit of information that had been discovered was the face of the maid showing up in an unexpected way. At Chrollo's bidding, Pakunoda had shared the memories of the maid with the rest of the troupe in the unlikely event that one of them might come across her after the heist. It was a long shot that any of them would happen to see her, and yet, not long after the troupe had dispersed for the time being, Kortopi managed to come across something that only left more questions: a story about a memorial being erected for a woman who had died in an accident in the Odrana region. The instant Chrollo saw the photo of the woman the article had listed he knew immediately that it was her; that was the face of the maid that he had been searching for.
But it only brought him to another dead end. The woman in question had been dead for more than five years now, and even if the face had been the same, the hair was wrong, as was the apparent height of the deceased. Once again Shalnark's services were used, this time to look into her history as well as that of her family, and there was nothing to be found. It truly appeared that she had died, and there was nothing to indicate that her family or anyone close to her had taken over her identity. There was no connection to the Pelletier's, either.
Thus Chrollo had been left at a loss once more, only having ideas as to what was going on without any concrete proof.
He needed to find you again. Not so much out of a desire to have the diadem as he had planned initially, but simply out of principle; no one was allowed to steal from the Phantom Troupe and get away with it. Some of the others were far more passionate about that belief and wanted you to pay severely. With one of those particular members being Feitan, who had offered to torture you to death once you were found, your fate would have been a miserable one had Chrollo not ordered the others to leave the matter of tracking you down to him. That had been enough to make them back away, as they trusted him to take care of the matter.
And he would take care of it. Though how exactly the matter would be settled depended entirely on the nature of your ability.
And whether or not he could steal it.
Chrollo blinked, snapping himself out of his thoughts as he found that despite how the minutes had ticked away, he was still only on the first page of the book he had chosen. Clearly, he wasn't able to focus on his usual way of passing the time. His own internal musings were simply too loud at the moment.
With a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, Chrollo shut the book and placed it onto the small coffee table that not far from him. He then stretched out slightly before he leaned back in his seat, glancing through the thin sliver between the curtains to see the world outside his hotel room. Unsurprisingly, it was still dark outside; dawn wouldn't come for a few hours more.
Unlike with most things in his life, there was little Chrollo could do right now other than wait. Wait for the sun to rise so he could continue with his journey, this time taking a flight to Canzas.
He'd never been to that city before. Had never even heard of it in any capacity, yet when he had been looking at the available flights, instinct had him choose that one.
A clear result of the ability that was now guiding him.
Chrollo stood up from his seat as he parted the blinds further and allowed himself a better look at the darkness beyond his window.
It had been months since the heist at the Pelletier mansion, and with no sign of where the maid or the diadem had gone, Chrollo found himself growing impatient. While waiting for you to slip up was an option, doing so when he had access to an ability that could speed up the process was a far better use of his time.
Thus, he had found himself enlisting the help of a woman who served as an auxiliary member of the Phantom Troupe.
It hadn't been a terribly long time that she had become associated with the troupe, yet there had been many times that her ability had come in handy. Intertwining fates, she called it. Using nen to link people together and ensuring that one day, the two that were linked would cross paths.
A hatsu like that was perfect to link particular troupe members with particular targets that had proved difficult to get to through other means. Because no matter the person, whether they were an ordinary person or a nen user, they weren't able to resist the link. No matter what the two would come to meet, someday, somewhere.
It wasn't the first time Chrollo had the auxiliary member use her ability on him, as he had bid her to use it once before so he could get close to an heiress who had an annoyingly competent security detail. But back then, it had only taken him a week to get to the heiress.
This time around, however, it was taking much longer to reach his target.
Though perhaps it was a miracle that the link was able to be made at all. The linking ability required an object that the target had touched, and all Chrollo had been able to produce were some bed sheets that had been at the bottom of the chute, ones that both he and you had landed on after jumping in. Aside from the linen cart you had been pushing when he came across you, that was the only thing he could take from the scene that he knew for certain you had made physical contact with. The only reason he had grabbed any of them was a precaution; in case he couldn't find you on his own, in case he needed to go to the auxiliary member for just this reason.
It was a good call for him to have taken that precaution. Had he not done so, Chrollo wouldn't be here at this moment, traveling a destination that was currently unknown, but where exactly he was headed wasn't that important.
What mattered was that this journey was guaranteed to have you at the end of it.
And what he would do when he found you…..
That would be determined once he found out the exact nature of your ability. Once he found you, once he had you secured, he could then take his time to learn about your hatsu. If he couldn't steal it, then it would be a simple matter to retrieve the diadem and dispose of you. As much as Feitan would bemoan the fact that Chrollo had denied him a torture subject, it didn't feel worth it to transport you overseas just for you to die by the torturer's hands. Better to take end things swiftly as opposed to dragging them out.
But if he could steal your hatsu, then things would be different.
There was always a certain amount of vexation he felt whenever he came across a hatsu that couldn't be stolen, especially when it was an ability that he knew he could put to good use if he could get control of it. Such was the case with the auxiliary member, who had carefully linked her own ability to herself so no one else could use it. Her taking such a precaution felt as though she anticipated that he might try to take it. While there had been some disappointment on his part, it ultimately still worked out in the troupe's favor as she was willing to work with them.
Her close relationship with Uvogin also meant that she was unlikely to betray the troupe, and if such a thing were to happen anyway, Uvogin would take care of it – as would Shalnark, he suspected, as the suspiciously placed cameras around her home were a good indication of his presence around her. What exactly was going on there wasn't entirely clear, but based on the knowing look Uvogin had shared with him when he noticed the cameras, the enhancer was at least aware of them. If Uvo saw no issue, then it wasn't Chrollo's place to question it.
But as for the issue that was you, Chrollo could only see you being willing to work with the troupe under duress, and even if you attempted to do so to save yourself, the rest of the troupe wouldn't be satisfied with that. The best outcome you had from this point onward was if he could steal your hatsu, because that would guarantee that you would keep your life.
And although he wasn't inclined to say it out loud, Chrollo found himself quietly hoping that your ability was one that he could take. In part for the sake of adding another useful hatsu to Skill Hunter.
But also because he wanted to see what would happen when he stole it from you. How would you react? How would you respond to him when he told you that your hatsu belonged to him?
What would you do when he made you powerless?
Chrollo smirked to himself. It wasn't the first time he had thought of such things. Even as far back as the night of the heist itself, he had found himself thinking of you often, wondering things about you, scrutinizing every second of that conversation he had shared with you in that brief amount of time you had shared.
He thought often of the brief glimpse he had gotten of you in that hallway – the real you. The one who had broken through the polite maid persona that you had been trying so hard to keep up in order to sarcastically suggest that he take care of you in order to make up for your lost income.
He thought of the brief look of panic that had hit you after you said that, when you realized that the sort of tone you had taken was not at all acceptable for what your apparent position was, and how you had scrambled to give a more polite response.
Both moments happened within seconds, but they replayed in his mind endlessly and to a point that what had started as a simple interest had grown into a mild obsession with who you truly were.
All because he made the decision to venture towards the Pelletier's living quarters before the heist had begun after seeing how lax the security was. All because he saw you seemingly at work and made the choice to toy with you a bit.
Those actions of his were what led to him seeing that side of you and had planted the seeds of obsession in his head. Had he not seen you personally and had that conversation, he may have delegated the task of finding you to someone else. But there he was, trekking across countries himself just so he could find you again.
Strange how simple actions that seem insignificant cause such monumental consequences in the way events play out.
Dawn was no closer to approaching as Chrollo continued to stare out of his window, his eyes drawn to the flicker of electric lights that sat within the darkness. The concept of sleep would no doubt continue to elude him, and his mind felt too busy to settle down and relax with any of his books. It would be several long hours of waiting before he could move once again, this time to take his flight to Canzas, which itself would be several more long hours of waiting.
And all of those hours would no doubt be filled with thoughts of you.
What were you doing now, Chrollo idly wondered.
What were things like for you after you had stolen the diadem?
What was your reaction when you found out about the troupe's involvement in the Pelletier's?
All questions he could only ask once he found you.
As had happened so many times now, your words echoed again in his head, where you made the off-handed comment about him taking care of you.
Depending on how things turned out, Chrollo felt that he may very well take you up on that offer.
This is bullshit.
You went so far, spent so much time and even came close to death – regardless of you knowing that fact at the time – and this was where you ended up?
She doesn't get to do this to you.
Not without paying for it.
Those thoughts struck you as you were eating your sad affair of a dinner: a microwavable meal consisting of chicken and pasta with a side of broccoli. Broccoli that you didn't realize until after you had opened the package had unpleasant looking brown spots in places that left you unwilling to eat it. Maybe you should've figured that would be the case considering it was a microwavable meal, but you had gotten it only because you didn't feel you energy to cook anything. That lethargy could have been due in part to a depression over how badly things had turned out for you.
What you didn't count on was just how much more depressed eating it made you feel, as if it was the physical embodiment of everything that had gone wrong for you since the diadem job. A shitty frozen dinner in a shitty crumbling apartment.
Meanwhile, Letizia was no doubt continuing on as normal, living the nice life you had wanted for yourself without a single care in the world, and she had more than likely completely forgotten all about you and the way she had wasted your time. You had given up a lot to pull off that job – opportunities and jenny from your own savings, not to mention your time and energy – and how did the bitch repay you? By flaking out and relying on the knowledge that there was nothing that you could do to make her pay up, nor could you easily take revenge, not without angering some important people in the underworld.
At this point, trying to get paid was a fool's errand – you weren't going to see the jenny she owed you. You accepted that.
But if she was going to screw you over with no remorse, then you were going to do the same to her.
And what better way to do that than to have her take the blame for the theft of the diadem?
Within an instant, you were on your laptop, searching Letizia's name to find out what you could on her current activities. With her being in the public eye, that was easy enough to figure out.
Less easy was figuring out how you could use the information you found to your advantage, and at the moment, there didn't appear to be anything that could help you. Letizia seemed to still be in Canzas at the moment, which likely meant that she was spending time at her main house in the area. That wasn't great for you. Preferably, she would be out of town when you struck, because with the amount of staff and bodyguards that surrounded her, it was simply a smarter choice to wait for that home to have as few people inside it as possible, and you didn't want to wait another six months infiltrating the staff and earning trust.
No, it was better to wait when she was away – on business or leisure, you didn't care which. Just as long as she and the army of people she employed were gone. Because once that happened, you could sneak into her mansion, place the diadem inside, and then call in an anonymous tip that a piece of jewelry related to a mass-disappearance was in her possession. With the rumors of her being connected to the mafia, the police would use that as an excuse to gain entry, and then everything would crumble for her.
In that way, you could get your revenge.
Of course, she would know it was you. She'd let her contacts know as well, not that they'd be able to do anything. You didn't give out your real name or even let anyone in the underworld see your true face for a reason, and even with all the power that people like Letizia had, none of them would be able to hunt down a person when they didn't even know their name or face.
You would need to leave the area after this stunt, just to be safe, and that would mean starting from scratch and with little to nothing to your name.
But that was fine. You hated this place anyway. And with your ability, starting over would be easy. You'd just been hesitant to go through with it before due to the hassle.
You didn't care now, because you weren't going to roll over and let people walk all over you, no matter who they were.
The thought of all of it made you feel a little giddy. If everything went in the way you wanted it to, she would be disgraced, and depending on how public things became, not even her mafia contacts would be able to protect her.
Not only that, but the Phantom Troupe's attention would be directed towards her as well. No doubt they would have wondered who exactly was responsible for foiling their heist, and with a person taking that blame, they could very well take revenge on her. That would be another worry taken off your shoulders. Whether she lived long or not, that wouldn't be your concern.
That's what you get when you screw over the people you hire, you old bitch.
You made yourself take in a deep breath. Once more, you were getting ahead of yourself. As much as you wanted to relish in the thought of her comeuppance, you needed to actually enact your revenge first. Based on what you were seeing from the news about her, you weren't going to get that chance any time soon.
But you could wait. You didn't have the patience for another infiltration, but you could wait for an opportunity to present itself.
She woke up in a dingy dungeon. Pulling up her head resting against her chest in an uncomfortable arch she looked around dazed for a short second.
There was brick and those bloody steel doors she had hoped to have seen for the last time in her life five years ago.
Evidently her luck wasn't on her side and the brothers had decided to just start with reintroduction right from the get go. No need to ease her into it after all.
Looking up she realised why her arms were hurting as much as they were. Someone had strung her up by her arms, allowing her feet to reach the floor only barely. She remembered that punishment with a shudder. It had been the one that had stuck for the longest time.
Needing to rip her eyes away from the shackles around her wrists she instead decided to look up.
They had redressed her. Into a white dress. Oh the irony.
She closed her eyes with a sigh. If it was anything like back then there would probably be a zipper on the backside for easy access.
The young woman could smell the wetness in the air around her. Could hear the water from the canal that was probably only one corridor away. The room would fill up just the tiniest bit when it rained. She remembered how her ankles had gotten cold back then. She probably would have died from pneumonia, if Raito hadn't found it upon himself to take her back to the house the next day. Sure it had been for Sex but she had been grateful nonetheless to not die like cattle.
She wasn't sure he'd feel as merciful this time.
But then again. If she died now, there would be a lot less pain coming her way. Had to stay positive after all.
“I see you've already started reminiscing the time you had to spend down here last time.”
The voice was harsh and poignant. Perfect pronunciation, every syllable was exactly where it was supposed to be. She wouldn't have needed to open her eyes to know who stood before her this time.
But alas. She didn't need to make it worse for herself.
“Yo, wass'up, Reiji.”
She tried to sound as calm and collected as her palpitating heart allowed her to. It was unfair. Stuck in the position that she was in, she couldn't force her body not to react. She was starting to shiver and she wagered she wasn't hung up for long enough yet to blame the cold iron restraints.
“Your manners are deplorable.”
He had the nerve to look delighted while saying that. It was in his magenta eyes. They were practically glowing from anticipation.
“Don't see the point to be honest,” she sassed back while subconsciously trying to move backwards. Those little tells would probably be the death of her in here.
“You have a lot to relearn. We shouldn't waste anymore time.”
Yeah, she definitely hadn't missed the exhilaration in his timbre. And she definitely hadn't missed the way his shoes sounded against the stone coming closer and closer or the jingling of the keys as he came inside her cozy little cell and doubtlessly hadn't missed the leathery feel of the riding crop being brushed against her face while another hand slowly opened up the zipper on her back.
She knew that trying to brace herself wouldn't work. The hits would always come unexpected. He'd wait if he needed to. Reiji was patient like that. She'd rather get it over with as quickly as possible. Of course that wouldn't be something he allowed, but a girl could dream.
As the first ruthless hit met her back and made her scream she tried finding her mind palace again. The place she had learned to escape to during those times five years ago. It was the harsh reality that it was as difficult as it had been that first time.
'The body isn't meant to be in a constant state of panic. It's paramount you learn to let go. Those memories will be with you for a long time but you can not allow your body to remain in fear. That will kill you one day.' She remembered her therapists words clear as day.
She'd need to find little escapes once more. Allow her body and mind to relax from time to time.
Somehow she'd make it out again.
She'd find Yuki.
She'd set her free.
That was the mantra she kept repeating with each and every hit that met her back.
Reiji too had only been done after getting a bite from her neck even though her back was sticky with with her blood. She remembered dimly that Reiji had reprimanded her for getting his glove soaked. That would be another thing she would have to learn to live with again. Everything inside her screamed to not let them treat her like that, but her voice had long gone hoarse and even though it would hurt more in the long run, it was always more satisfying to get in cutting remarks when they least expected it.
Her arms were starting to scream to be let down. The fact that she had been jostled around by Reiji for quite some time hadn't helped that either but she also knew that it would be a long time before they would give her a reprieve. At least another three hours.
She couldn't help the way that tears were slowly starting to run down her face. It simply hurt a fucking lot.
God she was pathet- no.
Gritting her teeth, she tried getting a hold of the floor. If she could let her arms breath for just a second. It wasn't her that was pathetic. It was them and their bloody parents who hadn't loved them enough.
It was one of their familiars that she rarely saw around the house that let her up after some more time had passed. Reiji had probably not trusted any of the brothers to do it and hadn't deigned to do it himself either.
She should probably take it with a smile though. Not meeting another brother for now meant that she would actually be able to relax.
Rolling her shoulders and rubbing her wrists she sat down, careful to not lean against anything with her back. This would be a hell of a time.
Maybe she should try to sleep a little. Choose her battles so to speak. She wondered if it would finally be Ayato to show up next. It wasn't like him to not be the first. Probably had very strict orders then.
Not that he usually followed them.
Rolling into herself on the cold floor she tried not thinking of the cold she would very definitely get.
The young woman hadn't slept for a long time when a shocked cry woke her up. With bleary eyes she needed a moment to make out the figure stood in front of her.
The sight made her sick.
It was a young blonde girl.
“Oh my god, are you alright? What are you doing here? Who are you? You need to leave!”
Sighing to herself she sat up. So that was the current sacrifice, huh.
“You should leave,” she tried to tell her, “I don't think the brothers will be very happy with me talking to anyone who isn't them right now.”
The girls eyes widened. “Were you sent by the church as well? But you look older. I've never seen you before.”
God this was a joke, wasn't it. She was completely new still. Fucking hell.
“I just had the misfortune of coming with a good friend a few years ago.”
Apparently it hadn't been the right answer, because the girl in front of her just grew more hectic and anxious.
“Have you been down here ever since?”
That one nearly made her laugh.
“Nope. Just getting my 'reintroduction' as the manner police said.”
She looked puzzled at them. “Who are you talk- wait no. I'm sorry. My name is Yui. What is your name.”
Yui? God had to be laughing cynically right now. That had to be a cruel joke.
“My name is not important. Call me whatever you want. You'll quickly realise no one calls you by your given name here anyways. Maybe it's better that way too. That way at least that won't get tainted.”
The girl named Yui swallowed at that. A deep fear setting in her eyes. It was better that way, the older woman reasoned. Fear kept you alive in here after all. It made sure you stayed on your toes. She was surprised though to see a look of determination too though. She was stronger than she let on then. That was good as well.
“Do you need a blanket? I can bring you one.” Yui offered.
She was kind hearted too. That in fact while not surprising, wasn't good.
“The brothers haven't given me one yet. Hence, in their eyes I don't deserve one yet. Do yourself a favour and don't. They'll take it away, and punish you and me. I don't think you want that.”
Yui had tried to argue with her, but didn't get another word out of her so she had left dejected.
It was better that way.
This time she was woken up by her stomach growling. It would take a few days till she got any food though. Maybe they would at least remember to give her water. Hell. By now she'd take the damn cranberry juice. She remembered liking cranberries back when she had first come here. It had been the first thing they had taken from her.
“I couldn't believe it, when Raito told me he had found you!”
Looking up at the loud arrogant sounding voice she wasn't surprised to find the read had in front of her.
“What can I say, we all have bad luck once in a while.”
Ayato looked grim. He was still angry then. All of them had far too fragile egos. Though if Ayato was visiting now at least that meant she had only two to go. Shu would probably only greet her once she fell over his damn knees in one of the corridors of the house. He wouldn't walk down here himself.
If she didn't hate him that much, maybe she'd feel sorry for his untreated depression.
“I see you've met Pancake. She's tasty you know. Much sweeter than you.”
Was that supposed to hurt her in some way? Make her jealous? If so it was a dreadful attempt even for Ayato.
“Reiji told me to bring you some cranberry juice,” he went on - hah, had she said it or had she said it? Fucking Cranberry juice.
Sadly, that evidently wasn't the only thing Ayato had come for, she realised as he came into her cell as well.
So much for hoping.
“I however think, you haven't deserved to drink anything yet. Not by a long shot. You haven't even apologised. You always were a proud little thing. I'm glad that's back. The proud ones are always a lot more fun you know,” he paused as if he had to think. She knew it was a ruse. They never had to think. They always already knew exactly what they wanted. But this way she could start contemplating. And the guess she had right now was absolutely disgusting. “I think you should beg for it.” He told her, sealing the proverbial casket.
Ayato and her had played that game as well in the past.
She had ended up begging. It had taken about four days though. She wasn't sure she'd be able to take four days now. Maybe two, but she needed something to drink.
She contemplated her options. They were bleak but she really didn't feel like kneeling in front of this sad excuse of wasted donor organs.
“Staying silent, huh? Man, I missed this you know?” He asked mischievously while forcing her onto her feet and shoving her outside her little cell.
That was weird. And really not something she had anticipated. What was going on?
She didn't need to think long when he stopped in front of another door. This one was made out of iron as well, but there was now way for her to know what was on the other side of that door.
She had heard about that room from Yuki once. She remembered how she had told her about it. It had been a punishment from Shu back then.
Fuck no. She didn't want to go in there. No, no, no! She was starting to struggle in his hold and it simply made Ayato laugh.
“I wondered if she had ever told you. Apparently she scratched the wall a lot. Maybe you'll find some old blood. Not that you'll see it. We'll see each other in a day or so.”
With that he viciously shoved her inside, probably revelling in the sob she hadn't been able to suppress.
She wasn't able to glimpse even the tiniest thing before the door shut close behind her and she was alone once more.
Only this time she was unable to crush the memories slowly filling up her brain.
Yuki and her had met at the all girls school of their church. Yuki had been an orphan just like her so the two of them had hit it off right from the start. Yuki had been a kind girl. Always a smile on her face. Always ready to help and while she had been shy she was also always ready to defend someone weaker than her. Yuki had been her role model. Back when they first started becoming friends, she had wished to become a woman like her. During the time here in this mansion her light had dimmed quickly, unable to reconcile their cruelty with her kind hearted nature.
Brushing her hand against the walls she tried to find the remnants Ayato had spoken off. She hadn't been able to feel anything but the cold stone.
It reminded her too much of what Yuki's body had probably felt like that last night. She had paled so quickly.
Swallowing down the tears that already wanted to find their way down her eyes she realised then, that she wouldn't be able to hold out in here too long.
Crumbling into herself the young woman tried to breath herself into a calm state of mind. A panic attack wouldn't help her now.
If she had been in a sound state of mind back when Ayato came around, if she hadn't been thirsty and hungry and scared and just so so tired, she probably wouldn't have begged. Even with her mind packed into her mental palace, her therapists voice soothing in telling her that sometimes it was okay to do something you saw as humiliating and awful if it meant you survived and that the body would always fight to survive, she felt the disgust deep in her stomach poisoning her heart.
Kneeling in front of the vampire, telling him exactly what he wanted to hear, she wanted nothing more than to rip open his chest the same way he had done with Yuki.
He must have been in a good mood, because he let her out after that and back in her dingy dungeon he gave her the cranberry juice.
He watched her while she drank which she found weird at first. The suspicion evaporated though when she saw him eyeing the shackles again. That's what it was then.
Back to being strung up.
Great.
He had at least given her a longer leash. She was at least able to fully stand on her tip toes. It gave her room for movement. To keep the strain of her arms for at least a little. Ayato left without taking a bite out of her and she was grateful for that. If he had come any closer she probably would have attacked him. And that would have landed her right back where she had just begged her way out of.
'Call it what it is. You have to sit with your feelings in order to be able to sort them out. Address what you felt and allow the feeling. Feelings are a part of you and you can't control them. You can only recognise and understand them.'
So yes. She had begged for the juice and she had felt disgusted and that was okay. In here she needed a game plan. In here she only had herself to rely on. And if that sometimes meant to make exceptions then so be it. The only thing she wouldn't let them touch was her inherent self worth. And despite begging this early on, despite taking what they gave she would always have that. It wasn't something someone could take from her if she wasn't willing to give it away. They were horrible people and she would simply have to try and survive them once more.
It was nothing more and nothing less.
With the cranberry juice having soothed her throat and sleep visiting her even if rarely, she was awake and not too close to loosing her mind, when Yui came to visit her once more.
The girl looked more tired and scared this time. She was probably hoping for companionship. The older woman wasn't sure she was willing to give that once more.
Yui was dressed in a school uniform this time around. It was different from the one she had had to wear back then. They had changed schools then. The reason for why the mansion was this far out made all the more sense now.
“Oh my god,” the poor girl looked sick, when she looked at the older woman, “are you okay?” Yui asked scared.
“Oh you know, just hanging in there,” The older woman cursed the fact that she couldn't move her fingers enough to form two finger guns. That would have given it some more pizzazz, “what are you doing down here again? You should really get yourself a hobby if this is your idea of fun.” She joked.
Yui still shocked, tried to gather her thoughts, before answering with a sigh, obviously having chosen to not address her weird mood. “I don't know what to do. I'm scared of exploring the house because I don't want to run into anyone.”
She laughed at that. “Yui, you have obviously explored enough to find the cellar. Twice now. As long as you stay clear of the west wing you should be fine.”
The west wing. It still made her frown. It was an ugly abomination and she begged to God, she didn't need to come there ever again.
But then again. Kanato had yet to show up. And she feared she already knew what he had planned for her.
Needing a change in topic she looked at Yui again and spoke before she could ask her about it:” You believe in God, right?”
Yui perked up at that even if there was a defensiveness in her stance. “ There's a small chapel here on the grounds. Don't ask me why, I never went myself, but I once heard it was the only place you'd feel somewhat at ease. I never understood it. My relationship with the big man up there isn't all that great after all, But maybe it'll help you.”
Yui seemed hesitant when she asked her question, but at least she asked. She would be proud of her for at least that. “Don't you believe in God anymore?”
Closing her eyes for a second she had to admit, she had walked straight into that one.
“Little word of advice,” she decided to frame her answer, “ hold onto your convictions. Hold onto your God. Never allow them to take what matters most to you. They won't be able to hurt you in a way that matters if you hold on to at least one thing.”
Yui was silent after that for a little before nodding. “Thank you for your advice. If you don't want to tell me your name, would it be okay if I think of one?”
The girl was precious, she'd give her that. With a restricted head movement, showing her nonchalance, she allowed Yui to do whatever she wanted.
“Is it okay I call you Tomomi then?”
That had actually made her smile.
Tomomi was a pretty name.
“Wisdom and beauty, huh? Don't worry, I won't let it get to my head.” She told Yui with a light laugh. Yui smiled back at her.
Hi guys this is our cat Nero and we desperately need your help. He‘s been at the vet since Monday now because of a blockade in his urethra and needs emergency surgery. Anyone who wants and can help financially please go to the link you see below. Anyone else, please just spread this around through rebloggs so this can reach as many people as possible.
You should totally make a 2nd part for 'Taiyaki for the Soul' it was so good
Hi there 💙💛
Thank you for your request.
Due to the popular demand, I decided to give it a go.
Again, I would like to stress out. I’m not good with 2nd parts. If I write something as a one-shot it usually does not turn out good when I add a 2nd part, but I’m a people pleaser, so here it is. 😊 I hope you will enjoy it.
@ninabellaka, @ajmiila02, @royalmuffinsworld
Attention: Please read PART 1 first!
Title: Taiyaki for the Soul PART 2
Pairing: Manjiro x Reader
Genre: Fluff |Warning: some angst since I chose Bonten Mikey | Words: 4.8K
‘Not again,’ you heard your cashier groan loudly all the way from the register into the small back kitchen where you were finishing your daily cleanup.
Drying your hand in the towel, you peeked out from your spot making sure you wouldn’t be seen by the customers who were picking something at the counter nearby.
Your cashier, a middle-aged woman, you grew to find essential in your line of work since she dealt with your customers so swiftly and well, noticed you and came closer, ‘It happened again. I pick up, and I know they’re there, but once I speak they end the call.’
You offered her a small smile and shrugged your shoulders, ‘Maybe, they wrote the number wrong and didn’t want to waste your time.’
She shook her head not impressed by the idea at all before she returned to the register as the customers already made their choice and wanted to buy some of your snacks.
You returned to the small kitchen putting the towel away thinking.
Mikey-kun, was that you?
It had been over a month since the man with short silver hair and empty eyes came into your back kitchen and baked taiyaki with you. And despite trying not to bring your hopes up because he didn’t promise you anything, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. Being a shy baker in Tokyo, there weren’t many if any interesting things happening in your life and although you tried to look at the bright side of this as it was a good thing, you couldn’t seem to settle your mind or your heart.
Every time, you heard the small shop phone ring, you paused your movements on the dough and held your breath.
Mikey-kun, is that you?
You couldn’t keep the phone with you as your hands were always covered in flour or some other ingredients, and you wouldn’t want to get it dirty. All you could do was hold your breath and eavesdrop on your cashier as she either spoke with a customer or once again groaned when the call was cut short.
Of course, your heartbeat speeded up every time, she did groan and you quickly tried to get to the phone yourself just in case, but every time you did you were both left confused as the number was hidden and impossible to dial back.
‘That’s very bizarre,’ said your cashier, and you agreed with her quietly.
At night, alone inside your bed upstairs, you wondered, if it truly was your mystery tattooed taiyaki-lover. Your fantasy took you to all kinds of scenarios, but again, you were a rather ordinary baker, so everything too out of the ordinary seem like you were trying to be more interesting than you truly were. It should frighten you, and it did because he was still a stranger, but at the same time you could still picture how happy he looked talking to you. And that small fact, that it was you who made him look that way overshadowed any doubts you might have had before.
Sighing, in the present time, you put the towel on the pile for you to carry them upstairs to wash later tonight.
The idea made you scold a bit as it truly underlined just how much of an ordinary person you were. It had to be why you were clinging so much to the idea of Mikey ever coming back. Those few hours with him were the most you felt like you did something outside your comfort zone in… well… ever. Even if it was just doing your favorite activity and talking. He was a stranger, who appeared outside your shop and as bizarre as it was, who you dragged inside and taught how to bake taiyaki all the while talking as if you were on a date close friends.
You swallowed feeling a bit embarrassed and mentally scolding yourself for even thinking that. He was a stranger. An interesting stranger with haunting dark eyes, who would have kissed you if you didn’t stop him.
A stranger with a story that keeps me up at night.
You waited for your cashier to finish as you always did and then proceed to clean up the front shop and prepare it for another day. It was a routine now. One which you were so used to, you would probably get insomnia if you didn’t end up doing it every day.
You cleaned up, check all the doors and windows if they were locked, and started to go upstairs when it happened.
The sound of the phone ringing coming from downstairs was almost as loud as thunder in the silence of your building, and you moved before you could stop yourself, rushing back toward the counter and hitting your ankle against its side in the process.
You hissed but managed to snatch the phone before it finished and called out breathlessly partly still in shock and partly with hope, ‘M-mikey-kun?!’
You caught your breath feeling like a fool for doing so. The eagerness felt almost pathetic, and still, it could not be helped. Even the off chance, that it might be him was enough to keep you going.
You don’t know if it’s even him.
He’s a stranger.
Please, let it be him.
There was a soft almost breathless chuckle, and your heart skipped a bit, ‘Sounds like you missed me.’
You closed your eyes and took a deep breath a smile pushing against your lips before you could even stop it.
You lied so poorly, ‘Just a little bit.’
He hummed, and you wondered if he could tell, and if he was smiling just a little bit too, and if he was the person who constantly called hoping you would pick up, and if he wanted to come again, and if…
You sighed and covered your closed eyes with your palm feeling your heart speed up as you giggled.
There was a sound, something like a gasp or a deep hoarse inhale, you couldn’t be sure, but in the next moment he spoke, ‘Are you busy today?’
‘No,’ you answered all too quickly and honestly.
‘Oh, that’s not a very cool response,’ he teased you a bit, but before you could answer, he spoke again almost like he didn’t want you to overthink it or grow upset about it, ‘Can I come over? I…I have a few hours to spare, and I…,’ his voice grew softer and quieter, but still loud enough for you to hear, ‘I want to make taiyaki with you again. Can I?’
You smiled to yourself at how tender the question sounded almost like he was a child asking if he could have another sweet, ‘Yes, Mikey-kun. When will you come?’
‘Thirty minutes,’ he said, and you quickly started to walk to the front, ‘Alright, I will keep the door unlocked for you and turn on the oven again-’
‘DON’T!’ he said all too quickly and sharply almost making you think he was talking to someone else and panic before he spoke again, this time much quieter than before, ‘Don’t unlock it until I’m there.’
You paused waiting if he would continue, and to your surprise, he did only sounding, even more, quieter than before now, ‘It’s dark, and anyone could be on the streets now.’
Your chest expanded with the warmth from feeling touched by his concerns at the same time as it ached because it sounded like he knew what could happen in the dark when anyone could be walking the streets.
Still, you nodded even if he couldn’t see you and returned to the small kitchen where you wouldn’t be seen to prepare the over and ingredients, ‘It’s alright. Call me when you’re outside, I will go and unlock the door for you then.’
He seemed to relax at your words, ‘I will hold you up to that.’
You did just that. You prepared the red beans pasta as well as other flavors to spice it up and the dough before you took a seat on a stool waiting for Mikey to call your business number again.
Only once the phone rang, did you rush to the front door.
Your eyes caught his shadowy figure because of a nearby streetlight, and even before you opened the door, you could tell, he was looking at you through the glass window.
‘Hi,’ you said as you stepped aside to let him in.
Only when he stepped inside, and you properly saw him from the light coming from your back kitchen, did you finally realize a part of you almost believed he wasn’t really in the first place? It was easy to understand why. It seemed too bizarre to have happened in the first place. For shy hard to communicate with others, you, to bring someone into your shop and spend hours with them talking like you were good old friends? It was almost unimaginable, but here he was.
He looked the same as last time. Exactly the same. His clothes were dark, and a bit depressing, and if you didn’t know better, you would assume they were the same ones. Everything from the dark loose pants and black thin sweater to the flip-flops that made him look like he stepped out from his apartment nearby for a smoke.
His face looked the same too. You almost forgot, how he looked. How hauntingly handsome he looked even if there were dark circles under his eyes and this aura around him like he needed to be held or stayed the far away from. People often forgot new faces, but even so, you were certain until the day, you would die, you would forever remember his dark empty eyes that threatened to suck you in and drown you if weren’t too careful.
Your throat felt dry, and you looked away from his lazy yet intense gaze noticing there was something different about him.
‘What’s that?’ you asked motioning to the simple white plastic bag that so leisurely hung from his wrist.
It seemed he needed to blink at you before he glanced down as well as if he forgot he had the bag with him and shrugged his shoulders, ‘I figured if you wouldn’t let me pay, the least I could do was bring some goods to cover those we will use.’
Your lips curled into a smile, ‘That’s a very sweet thought,’ you said honestly feeling touched that he would think up something like this, ‘Thank you, Mikey-kun. It was really thoughtful of you.’
He looked at your face again and seemed almost less exhausted now with something close to life radiating from his dark eyes as they kept looking at your face, ‘It’s nothing. You make big deals out of small things, you know?’
‘Not true,’ you said a bit stubbornly and far too quickly, but it seemed to have lightened up his mood some more because he chuckled, ‘Yes, yes, my sister would have the same face you do whenever I teased her of such things.’
You thought someone else might have felt self-aware that he saw something from his sister in you, but the idea made you smile because the way he spoke about her before and now showed that he truly cared for her, ‘It’s only normal to be upset when you’re being teased, Mikey-kun. Let’s get started, alright?’
He followed you to the back already familiar with the surroundings immediately changing into the spare slippers you laid out before and reaching for the spare pink apron, ‘Can you tie it for me?’
You chuckled a bit since he once again looked a bit like a child when he asked it like that, but you still quickly went behind him and tied the apron with a single bow behind him momentarily taking a moment to steal another look at his tattoo.
He glanced at the piece of fabric with a fond face before you brought him to the sink and helped him properly wash his hands noticing how he let you do almost everything for him making it impossible to feel like you were being too pushy.
‘I like when you do that,’ he said suddenly as if he could read your mind.
Your eyes blinked and looked over at his, ‘What?’
His smile was small and soft, the kind he had before when he was reminiscing about his past, ‘Kenchin always took care of me like this. He would tie my shoes and feed me if I asked him to.’
You rose your eyebrows upon hearing, ‘He sounds like a really good friend and person.’
‘The best,’ he agreed, but then something about his softness stopped, and he looked at you turning that softness into something even sweeter but more intense, ‘Don’t worry, you’re pretty great too. But you need to try harder if you want to be my number one caretaker. You should feed me taiyaki right into my mouth this time,’ he said and opened his mouth pointing a finger inside.
The teasing got to you, and you laughed embarrassed shoving him weakly, ‘No, thanks, I rather stay second best.’
The amusement behind his dark eyes was evident enough, but it helped when he let out a small chuckle and got to the counter, ‘So, can you remind me a bit? I didn’t really repeat what you taught me at home.’
You giggled but nodded and pointed to what he needed to do next. He caught on easily, but it seemed he really liked when others helped him out because he often asked you to direct his hands and check things for him all the while talking about his childhood, friends, and family again.
‘Say,’ you said at one point while you were finishing another batch waiting for the first one to finish in the oven, ‘Was it you who kept on calling and hanging up?’
Your heart was in your throat as you asked. You didn’t want to upset the young man who seemed to be even in a better mood than he was last time. Even if your previous encounter was brief in the grand scheme of things, it seemed like he wasn’t like this as often as he should be as he could be, and something about that made you try harder to keep the mood light and casual than you ever did for anyone else. Yet, it shocked you after a while how easy it seemed to have happened. Even if you were essentially still strangers, with the baked goods smell and warmth around you, it was impossible to be anything but in a good and light mood.
And with such a good mood, you probably felt like you could keep it going no matter what you would say or do so you asked.
You knew it was partly a mistake even before Mikey’s hands visibly paused and a look of absolute emptiness passed his face, but once it did you felt so much worse.
Your hand instinctively reached out and touched his cover by the apron chest so you wouldn’t dirty his dark clothes, ‘I’m sorry.’
His eyes blinked, and it was as if whatever he was thinking a moment was forgotten and his mind cleared up before he looked over at you and then your hand on him.
Self-aware and embarrassed you pulled it away and started to work again, ‘I just wanted to say. I’m happy, you called,’ you admitted feeling even more embarrassed, but at the same time feeling you wanted to take his mind off whatever crossed it before, ‘I did miss baking taiyaki with you.’
His entire face softened and a small smirk pulled against his lips, ‘Ah, careful, I will think you’re only using me as free help.’
You grinned hoping to chase your humiliation away, ‘Don’t say that, Mikey-kun. I pay you well with delicious taiyaki after all.’
‘Half of which I make,’ he pointed out and stepped closer to your side before you felt his lips whisper far too close to your ear, ‘You should give me something sweeter to keep me working hard for you, you know?’
You covered your ear on instinct as you felt his breath against it feeling your whole face warm up.
He seemed to take great pleasure from this as he was smiling rather pleased with himself when you glanced at him again as he returned to finish his share of the workload.
It’s like he’s a different person.
You shook your head trying to calm down before the timer went off again, and you pulled the first batch out of the oven.
You had to chase Mikey’s hand away so he wouldn’t get burned as he tried to snatch the treat before the two of you then finished the next batch.
‘How come this was the first time you picked up the phone?’
The question caused you to stop working for a second since a moment ago it seemed he didn’t wish to return to the topic.
‘I work back here, so this lady who works as my cashier usually picks up the phone. My hands are always covered in something,’ you explained finishing the final fish treat and watching the young man’s next to you reactions, waiting.
‘Would you answer if you knew it was me?’ he asked sounding almost shy and his refusal to meet your gaze even if he finished his own last taiyaki assured you that he did in fact feel shy when he asked that.
You smiled a bit to yourself and put the treats on the pan before you went to put it into the oven. Knowing that your face was protected by having his back to him, you could blush freely as you admitted, ‘Maybe if you waited longer in the line, you would have found out.’
You felt your heartbeat was too fast as you were never good with this sort of flirtingif it could even be called that.
You put the batch into the oven and closed it with your back still turned to Mikey waiting until you would feel confident enough to turn around again. You wished you were brave enough to sneak a look and see if you made him flustered as much as he made you.
But before you could find your inner peace, and not feel so hot and embarrassed, you felt a pair of strong arms move around you.
You let out a small gasp as you found yourself pressed against a firm body and a pair of arms were hugging you around your neck keeping you close all the while you heard a soft yet needyvoice say, ‘I wanted to hear your voice. I kept on telling myself that I would just hear it, and…be done with this. But when you finally picked up…,’ he sighed and you felt his forehead rest against the back of your head all the while feeling your body was warming up not just from working in your hot back kitchen, ‘I felt so happy when I heard your voice, I wanted to see you. Warm,’ he laughed a bit and you heard his smile even if you couldn’t see it, ‘When I think of you, I feel warm and cozy. You’re like a nice fluffy dream.’
Your eyes closed as you allowed the feeling of being held like this to take over every corner of your body and change it in a way you didn’t think you cared for, but now felt you needed more than anything. It was so long since someone held you and made you feel like this. You felt like you couldn’t breathe in the best way, ‘I was happy to hear your voice too, Mikey.’
All too fast, the arms let you go, and the sudden lack of his touch was almost painful. You understood what he meant about warmth because now despite the hot working oven in your kitchen, you felt chilly out of Mikey’s hold.
When you turned around Mikey was already with his back to you standing in front of the counter and chewing on one of the already cooled-off fish-shaped goods, ‘So good.’
The mood changed, and you felt like you did something wrong, but you didn’t know what. You felt like something shifted between you now, that would cause your sweet and casual mood to be ruined with tension now.
He didn’t say anything else, just kept on eating without looking at you. Not one glance or word, and you couldn’tstand it.
It was too much. You felt like you would start to cry at any moment simply just by looking at his back turn to you.
I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.
‘I-I’m sorry,’ you whispered, and your voice broke a bit at the end, ‘Whatever it is I’m sorry.’
His hand paused from taking another treat, ‘Don’t…say it like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you’re hurt…because of me,’ he said quickly into the silent back kitchen, and your eyes fell to his hand again noticing how it shook mid-air, ‘I shouldn’t have come.’
Your eyes widened, and your feet moved before you could stop them.
Fingers dug into his forearm at the same time as he made a step perhaps to simply look at you or to leave, you didn’t know, but your body felt like it couldn’t take the chance.
Please, don’t leave just yet.
‘Why?’
His face was different than before. Different than that empty, exhausted, and lazy look he usually had. Different than those rare rays of pure joy he showed at times talking about good times from his past. Different than the amusement whenever he teased you. Different than the intensity right before he was about to lean down to your face. Different one than you ever saw.
Broken
His tongue darted out and licked his lip that moved despite no words coming out for a moment, ‘I’ll stain you.’
The only sounds in the kitchen after that were those made by the turned-on oven.
You blinked your eyes adjusting to their normal size as you stepped closer pressing your side against his. Your body immediately started to warm up, ‘What?’
‘I’ll stain you,’ he said again as if it would explain everything, and somehow it did without revealing anything at all.
‘You won’t,’ you said strangely calmer than you felt with your heart beating so fast.
He shook his head and shut his lifeless eyes so tight it must have hurt before he let out a small and weak, ‘Stop.’
‘You won’t.’
‘Stop saying that!’ he snapped now rather harshly and looked at you making you see just how upset he was. Angry. You didn’t know if it was at you or himself, and strangely, you found yourself wishing it was you because you hated the idea, that he would be at himself.
You held his arm tighter, ‘You won’t.’
‘You don’t know me,’ he broke free with ease and his dark eyes turned into daggers as they cut into your face, ‘You don’t know me! I’m a stranger! I’m…I’m a monster.’
You remained silent, but your face didn’t change. His words were desperate more than angry. He wanted to convince you. He wanted you to understand, you could tell, but it seemed he didn’t understand at all.
‘You’re not,’ you said and saw how his lips twisted into a nasty-looking grimace before he spoke again, ‘I’m the leader of Bonten.’
That for once made you pause at least for a moment.
Your lips parted and a simple ‘Oh,’ fell out.
‘The hell?’ he asked looking at you in disbelief now just as the timer went off again, and you went to pick up the fresh batch from the oven and turn it off.
You gathered your thoughts as you did since this always helped you out before you set the treats aside, ‘I didn’t know you were the leader. But I figured you were a part of it.’
You looked over at Mikey.
He remained frozen in place with his dark lifeless eyes on you and the rest of his face unreadable, ‘You knew?’ he asked or breathed out quietly, and you nodded curtly, ‘I saw your tattoo the first time we met. It’s all over the news. You should hide it better if you want to stay anonymous,’ your poor attempt at a joke didn’t land on fertile grounds, and you mentally cringed turning partly away to compose yourself.
Mikey took a step closer to you, and you looked right at him again unafraid only embarrassed a bit by how much you wanted to look at him, ‘Then you know what I do,’ he rose his hands, ‘You know I’ll stain you. I won’t mean to,’ absolute pain shifted across his face before he shook it away with a shake of his head, ‘But I will. My family, my friends …everyone. I’m covered in it, and if I stay too close, you will get dirty too. You…you’re the first person who got me to smile and laugh in forever. You talk to me, and I feel like I’m really here with you. You’re so warm, good…,’ he kept on shaking his head, but his eyes were still on you, ‘clean, I can’t…I won’t have your blood on my hands too.’
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. So rather hesitantly because you weren’t confident when it came to these things, but you knew right now, Mikey needed you to be, you took hold of his hand. All the while your heart was beating loud enough that in the silence of your back kitchen and empty bakery. He had to be able to hear it as well. His hand was rougher than yours, but not by much. You were a baker after all. You worked with dough all your life. It didn’t feel bad to hold it or that it held you when his fingers interlocked with your own.
‘But I’ll stain you,’ he said so weakly almost like he didn’t believe it anymore. Almost like he just said it because he had to not because he wanted to. Almost as if he wanted you to tell him that he was right and let him go.
I won’t.
You swallowed your saliva and along with it your insecurities for a moment reaching your free hand over to the cooled-down and almost forgotten at this moment batch of taiyaki before picking one up.
You felt his eyes on you the whole time as you carefully brought it in front of his mouth and with a smile, no matter, how awkward because of what you were doing you said, ‘Open up, Mikey-kun.’
His eyes were desperate, almost pleading as if asking you to reconsider, but you knew you couldn’t, not after he first appeared in your life and baked with you. Not after he took that card and called you.
You looked away for a moment, ‘I think about you at night before I fall asleep. I can’t stop,’ you licked your lips letting out all you felt inside. You were just an ordinary you, a little baker in a small shop on some random street. It wasn’t bad. You preferred it. But maybe every once in a while, you could be someone else, ‘and I don’t want to.’
There was silence for a moment before you felt Mikey’s free hand snatch your wrist.
Your eyes shifted to his face again only to see him take a large bite out of the fish-shaped treat all the while gazing into your eyes almost like he was accepting your agreement even though you didn’t say anything out loud.
He kept on holding your wrist all the while eating the taiyaki from your palm until all you had left were crumbs of the sweet fish.
‘Can I kiss you now?’
‘No,’ you said immediately feeling your face growing hot and almost tearing your arms from Mikey’s hold, but he didn’t let you.
Instead, he blinked confused, ‘Why not?’
You shrugged your shoulders looking away knowing you were acting silly after all of that, but you couldn’t seem to help yourself, ‘I still don’t know you that well.’
‘You know more about me than anyone who does work with me,’ he deadpanned, but you didn’t budge, ‘I don’t even know your full name.’
He watched you for a moment almost making you look at him to see his expression, but before you would you felt him leaning toward you.
Your heartbeat spiked, and your throat felt dry.
Even if you tried to keep your gaze off his, you could still see the lazy smirk playing across his face when he got too close to yours, ‘Sano Manjiro.’
You wished it didn’t if only to hold your ground a bit longer but hearing him say it brought a smile to your own lips.
You rose your gaze to his excited and full-of-life eyes, ‘Okay.’
He let go of your hands in favor of taking a hold of your waist right before his face finally reached yours.
The next day, your cashier asked for the shop phone, but you told her it was fine and kept it by your side. When it rang, even if your fingers were covered in flour or chocolate, you picked it up anyway. Careless, if you left stains on it or not.
Koniec
A.N: Thank you for taking the time to read this. I apologize for the mistakes. I hope you and your loved ones are alright. Have a lovely day. 💙💛
