Chrollo Lucilfer x Reader x Feitan Portor PT.1
This is very very long I suggest you read when you got time to spare
The evening was loud with the chatter of the Spiders. A stolen feast spread across the table — wine, glistening meats, and enough laughter to make the abandoned warehouse sound almost alive. Shalnark leaned back in his chair, smiling as he explained some trivial observation, his hand gesturing too widely for someone who didn’t really need to prove a point. Phinks barked out a laugh, tossing his half-empty glass onto the table with a satisfying thud.
You sat among them, caught between the ripple of amusement and the sharp undercurrent of danger that never truly left this group.
Your gaze wandered, inevitably, to the head of the table.
The lamplight cast his features in shadows, unreadable as always. He wasn’t drinking, nor laughing, nor even pretending to engage. He merely turned a page of the book in his hands, as though the rowdy scene surrounding him was nothing more than static. His presence alone anchored the room, but he gave you no acknowledgment — not a glance, not a word.
It shouldn’t have bothered you. He was always like this. Detached. Cold. Distant enough that you sometimes wondered if he even remembered you existed outside of orders. And yet… there was a pull you couldn’t ignore, a weight to his silence that pressed against your chest whenever his eyes happened to lift from the page, even if they didn’t land on you.
“Hey,” Shalnark said suddenly, pulling your attention back. His smile was sharp but not unkind. “Don’t look so stiff. Relax. You’ll give yourself wrinkles before you even hit thirty.”
That earned a round of chuckles from the others. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the twitch of a smile tugging at your lips. Shalnark always did have that way — easing tension with a grin, disarming without trying.
“You’re one to talk,” you shot back. “You spend more time fixing your hair than anyone I know.”
Phinks roared with laughter. Shalnark only laughed too, lifting his glass in mock surrender.
For a moment, you allowed yourself to laugh with them.
It was then, as the sound left your lips, that you felt it.
Barely noticeable, like the scrape of a blade just out of sight. The faintest prickling at the back of your neck, the kind that told you you were being watched. Against your better judgment, your eyes flicked back toward the end of the table.
Chrollo’s gaze was on you.
Dark, steady, unreadable. The book lay closed in front of him now, one hand resting lightly atop it. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t frowning. He was simply watching.
The kind of watching that made your pulse skip.
And then, as though it had never happened, his eyes dropped back to the page. The spell broke. Conversation swelled again around you.
But you couldn’t shake the lingering chill of his attention.
Shalnark leaned closer, elbow resting on the table, and lowered his voice just enough that it felt like a private joke between the two of you.
“You’ve got a sharp tongue,” he said with a grin. “Bet you use it to get out of trouble a lot.”
Phinks snorted. “Or into it.”
That earned another ripple of laughter, and you rolled your eyes again — but it was impossible to hide the way your lips curved, how easy it was to fall into the warmth of their banter.
And once again, you felt it.
Chrollo hadn’t turned a page in several minutes. His thumb rested against the spine of his book, perfectly still. His dark eyes tracked the scene with that same impassive calm — only, every time Shalnark’s shoulder brushed yours, every time your laughter broke through the room, his gaze seemed to sharpen, just slightly, as though narrowing focus on a single detail of a painting.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t interrupt.
The air simply shifted, heavy and deliberate, until you found yourself laughing more quietly, answering less quickly, aware of every measured glance he sent across the table.
Shizuku, oblivious, tilted her head toward you. “You’re getting along with them pretty well,” she said simply.
Shalnark chuckled. “Of course she is. She’s fun. Right?” He turned back to you, green eyes bright.
That was when Chrollo finally spoke.
His voice cut cleanly through the noise — low, calm, carrying a weight that silenced the room in a heartbeat. Every Spider looked up. Even Shalnark faltered, his smile dimming just enough to betray surprise.
Chrollo closed the book in front of him with a soft snap.
No explanation. No shift in expression. Just an order.
The silence stretched. Then, without waiting for your reply, he rose smoothly from his chair and turned toward the darker end of the warehouse, footsteps measured, unhurried.
The Troupe’s eyes lingered on you, some amused, some curious, until the choice was no longer a choice at all.
Your chair scraped softly against the floor as you stood to follow him.
The air grew colder the deeper you followed him, until the laughter of the others was little more than a hum behind steel walls. Chrollo didn’t look back once. His stride was unhurried, perfectly confident, as though he knew you would follow regardless of what you wanted.
When he stopped, it was in a shadowed alcove where the flickering light above couldn’t quite reach. He turned only then, the book still in one hand, his face as unreadable as ever.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked softly.
It wasn’t really a question.
You opened your mouth, but the words stalled under his gaze. Calm. Sharp. Too sharp.
“You laugh easily with them,” he continued, voice low and measured. “I rarely hear you laugh at all.”
Your pulse kicked. “Is that… a problem?”
His lips curved, the barest shadow of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Not at all. It’s… enlightening.”
He stepped closer. You caught yourself pressing back slightly against the wall, though he hadn’t crowded you yet. His presence did that on its own.
“Tell me,” he said, tilting his head, studying you like another passage in one of his books. “Do you find Shalnark amusing? Or is it simply the attention you enjoy?”
The question was deceptively soft, but the edges cut.
Your throat tightened. You tried for defiance, though it sounded thinner than you wanted. “Does it matter?”
That small smile sharpened. In an instant, he closed the space between you, one hand braced just beside your head, the other tucking the book casually against his hip. His body didn’t touch yours — not quite — but the heat of him was undeniable.
“It matters,” he murmured, his voice pitched so low it felt like it brushed along your skin. “Because your attention is not as free as you believe.”
You sucked in a breath, chest tight, and for a heartbeat you swore his eyes darkened — something dangerous, something possessive flickering there before the mask slipped back into place.
Then, just as suddenly, he stepped back.
The distance felt colder than his nearness.
Chrollo opened his book again with a quiet motion, already turning away, as if the entire exchange had been nothing more than a passing thought.
“Don’t keep them waiting,” he said without looking back.
And with that, he left you standing in the shadows, your pulse racing, your skin prickling, unable to decide if he had scolded you, warned you, or claimed you.
The next night, the Troupe gathered again — not around food this time, but around maps and piles of loot strewn across a battered table. The atmosphere was sharper, more focused, though not without its usual edge of arrogance.
You leaned over the table to trace a line on the map, marking one of the planned routes. The paper crinkled beneath your fingers.
“Smart,” Phinks said from behind you, his voice rough but amused. He leaned in close enough that you could feel the heat of him at your shoulder, one heavy hand braced on the table beside yours. “Didn’t think you’d catch that. Most people don’t.”
You glanced at him, arching a brow. “And here I thought you didn’t think much of me at all.”
He smirked. “Maybe I’m reconsidering.”
The words hung heavier than you expected. Phinks didn’t bother to hide the way his eyes dragged over you before he straightened, still grinning, still planted far too close.
The room was busy, everyone arguing over routes and strategies, but that familiar prickle at the back of your neck told you instantly: you were being watched again.
When you lifted your gaze across the table, you found him.
Silent, still, seated with his hands folded loosely over his book. His expression was as calm as ever, but his eyes… his eyes were locked on the space between you and Phinks. On how close he stood. On how easily you had let him.
“Something wrong?” Phinks asked lightly, following your gaze. His smirk faltered just slightly when he saw who you were looking at.
Chrollo didn’t look away.
The pause stretched until the air itself seemed to weigh heavier. Then, finally, Chrollo’s voice cut through the room, low and steady:
“Phinks. Switch with Shizuku.”
Phinks blinked, jaw working, clearly ready to argue — but the weight in Chrollo’s tone silenced him before he could. He muttered under his breath, gave you one last glance, and shifted away.
Shizuku wandered over in his place, oblivious, scribbling notes on the map as though nothing had happened.
The meeting continued. Conversations picked back up. But every so often, your eyes betrayed you — flicking across the table, only to find Chrollo’s gaze still anchored, unblinking, fixed not on the map, not on the plans, but on you.
As though reminding you without a single word: your attention is not yours to give.
Later that evening, the Troupe scattered in small groups instead of crowding together. Machi sat on a crate, stitching a tear in her sleeve. Shizuku was humming faintly to herself, polishing her glasses.
You were perched on the edge of a table, idly spinning a knife between your fingers.
“Careful,” Feitan muttered, his sharp eyes flicking to your hand. He leaned in the shadows, arms folded, but his tone was sharper than usual. “You’ll cut yourself.”
You smirked. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
His eyes narrowed, and though his mouth didn’t move much, you caught the faintest twitch of something almost like amusement. “Not before a fight.”
The exchange was simple, fleeting — but Feitan’s attention lingered longer than expected, his gaze flicking over you, assessing in that way only he could. His presence pressed at you, different from the others — more dangerous, more unpredictable.
And then, as always, you felt it.
Chrollo was seated a short distance away, book in hand, but you realized he hadn’t turned a page since Feitan spoke. His eyes were on you again, steady, calm, the faintest chill seeping into the air between the three of you.
Feitan caught it too. His gaze slid from you to Chrollo, and in that sharp silence, something unspoken passed between them.
Feitan’s mouth twitched again — this time not with amusement, but with something closer to defiance.
Chrollo closed his book with a soft snap.
“Feitan.” His tone was light, but final. “I need you outside.”
No explanation. No elaboration.
Feitan’s eyes lingered on you one second longer before he disappeared into the night without a word.
You sat frozen, fingers still wrapped around the knife handle, heart hammering in your chest.
When you finally dared to glance back, Chrollo’s gaze hadn’t moved. Still on you. Still steady. Still unreadable.
Only when he opened his book again, turning the page as though nothing had happened, did you let yourself breathe.
The days blurred together in the way only life with the Troupe could — constant movement, jobs stacked one on top of another, nights broken up by stolen spoils and laughter that never quite felt safe.
You found yourself drifting toward Feitan more often than not.
He didn’t talk much — he hardly talked at all — but there was something almost comforting in that. No teasing like Shalnark. No heavy-handed jokes like Phinks. Just a steady, watchful presence that didn’t demand you perform.
Sometimes, when the noise of the others grated too sharply, you found him in the corner sharpening his blade or mending his cloak. You didn’t ask permission before sitting nearby. He didn’t tell you to leave.
“You’re loud when you laugh,” he said once, out of nowhere, his voice a low rasp.
You blinked. “Is that a complaint?”
“Observation,” he said simply, eyes flicking toward you with the faintest glint. A pause. Then, almost grudgingly: “Not unpleasant.”
It was the closest thing to praise you’d ever heard from him.
The next time you laughed around him, his eyes caught yours for a beat too long — and though he didn’t smile, something sharp and knowing lingered there.
“Getting cozy with Feitan, huh?” Shalnark teased one night, nudging your side. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
Phinks barked a laugh. “Good luck with that. Guy’s about as warm as a corpse.”
You shrugged them off, but you could feel eyes on you from across the room.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just sat in his chair, book open in his hands, gaze heavy as stone.
It was impossible to tell if he was watching the group in general… or you in particular.
But the longer Feitan’s shadow lingered near yours, the more you felt it. That silent, smothering pressure.
Like a blade waiting to fall.
Whenever the Troupe split off into pairs, somehow you and Feitan ended up together. He never asked, and you never insisted — it just happened, like gravity.
At first, the others joked. Shalnark teased you relentlessly, Machi raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and Phinks muttered about you having a death wish.
But over time, the jokes quieted. Because whatever it was between you and Feitan, it wasn’t fleeting.
You’d grown used to his silence, the way he answered only when it mattered. You learned to read the flicker of his eyes, the tilt of his head, the way his shoulders loosened just slightly when you were near.
And he… tolerated you. More than tolerated — he kept you close. Sometimes, when the others were too loud, too brash, you caught him standing just slightly between you and them. Not protectively. Not possessively. Just there.
“Why me?” you asked him once as you walked through the ruins of a half-emptied town, the air heavy with smoke. “You don’t let anyone else hang around you this much.”
Feitan didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked toward you, unreadable. Then, finally, he said:
“You’re quiet when it matters.”
It was the closest thing to an admission you’d ever get.
That night, you laughed at something small — a rare slip of humor at his expense — and to your surprise, he didn’t scowl. He didn’t snap. He just looked at you, head tilted, like he was cataloguing the sound.
It was such a small thing. And yet it stuck with you, curling in your chest.
But not as much as the weight you felt later, when you walked back into camp and caught Chrollo watching.
He was leaning against a crate, book closed in his hand, posture relaxed, expression calm. To anyone else, he looked utterly indifferent.
But his eyes… his eyes followed you as you crossed the room, followed the way Feitan drifted just behind you like a shadow.
And for the first time, you thought you saw it — not in his face, not in his body, but in the cold, deliberate steadiness of his gaze.
Subtle. Controlled. Hidden beneath layers of calm. But there.
It started with training.
Feitan had been sharpening his blade when you wandered too close, restless and itching for movement. He looked up once, gaze sharp, before flicking it back to his weapon.
“You should practice,” he said simply.
You raised a brow. “Are you offering to spar?”
His lips twitched, almost a smirk. “You’ll lose.”
The fight was quick, brutal, and nothing like the playful spars you’d had with Phinks or the others. Feitan didn’t hold back — his movements were precise, fast, every strike calculated to cut. You were forced to keep up, blood singing in your veins as you blocked, dodged, retaliated.
For once, he wasn’t a shadow lingering nearby. He was right there in front of you, sharp and relentless, and you matched him as best you could.
When he finally knocked the weapon from your hand, the flat of his blade at your throat, you were panting, sweat dripping down your temple. He was calm, not even winded, his dark eyes fixed on you.
“Better than before,” he muttered.
You blinked. “That’s… a compliment?”
A short pause. Then, with the faintest tilt of his head: “Maybe.”
The corner of your mouth twitched upward despite yourself. His eyes caught the expression — and lingered
For a moment, too long, neither of you moved.
Then Feitan stepped back, sliding his blade away, his face unreadable again.
But the air between you had shifted.
And you weren’t the only one who noticed.
When you looked up, you caught a flicker of movement from the edge of the training ground.
He was standing in the shadows, arms folded, book tucked against his side. Watching.
The kind of watching that made your pulse skip, that made the sweat cooling on your skin feel suddenly cold.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t approach. He only turned away after a moment, his stride calm, controlled — but you felt it all the same.
And for the first time, the thought hit you sharp and undeniable:
You were playing with fire.
It started with small gestures.
Feitan never reached for you, never spoke more than necessary, but there were moments you caught — a hand lingering near yours when adjusting stance, a nod that lingered longer than it should, the way his dark eyes followed your movements with interest.
During one late-night sparring session, the two of you faced each other across the worn training ground, the firelight flickering against your skin. You lunged; he blocked, your hands brushing for just a moment longer than needed.
“Again,” he said, voice low, almost a growl. “Try to anticipate me this time.”
You stepped back, catching your breath, heart hammering. You noticed, as always, the subtle shift at the edge of your vision:
He stood just beyond the circle, arms folded, book tucked against his side. His posture was calm, his face unreadable, but the weight of his gaze pressed down, subtle but unyielding. You could feel it across the distance, the quiet control he exerted without moving a muscle.
Feitan didn’t seem to notice, but you did. Every flicker of his attention toward you, every cautious motion, was amplified under Chrollo’s watchful eyes.
The air was taut. Every laugh, every mistake, every shared glance between you and Feitan felt magnified, charged with tension.
Later, when you walked past Chrollo to leave, he didn’t stop you. Didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
And yet the intensity lingered.
The nights that followed, these small dances continued. Feitan’s quiet attention became a balm you sought, but each time your closeness grew, Chrollo’s gaze followed.
He never acted in the moment. Never touched. Never spoke.
But every subtle interaction, every whisper of trust with Feitan, made it impossible to ignore the truth:
And you could feel it, in every glance, every step, every breath
It was a slow burn. A trap. A warning.
And you loved it — even as your chest tightened with anticipation.
The warehouse was quiet now, the rest of the Troupe scattered for the night. The only light came from a single lamp, casting long shadows across the crates and weapons strewn across the floor.
“(Y/N),” Chrollo’s voice broke the silence. Low, calm, commanding.
You froze where you stood, heart hammering. His gaze had already found you — that impossible, unreadable stare that made your chest tighten, your skin prickle.
“I need you,” he said simply. No explanation. No emotion. Just certainty.
You followed, almost automatically, feeling the pull of his presence stronger than any words. The warehouse felt enormous, yet somehow the space between the two of you shrank with every step.
Once you were in a secluded corner, away from the edges where light spilled, he finally spoke again.
“You’ve been… careless.” His hand brushed against your arm, almost imperceptibly, just enough to make you shiver. “Laughing too freely. Spending too much time with Feitan. It’s… unwise.”
You swallowed, chest tight. “I—”
He raised a hand, stopping you before you could continue. “Don’t speak.”
His eyes held you captive, dark and steady. The book at his side was forgotten; all his attention was on you now. His fingers brushed along your jaw, slow, deliberate. The touch wasn’t soft — it was commanding, possessive, precise.
“You think you can enjoy someone else’s attention without consequence,” he murmured. “But every glance, every laugh… I notice. I always notice.”
You shivered under his gaze, under the weight of his hand, under the quiet but undeniable threat behind his calm words.
Then, impossibly, he stepped closer. The heat of his body pressed against you, and for the first time, you felt it fully: that silent, controlled jealousy that had been simmering these past nights.
“Do you understand?” he whispered, close enough that your breath mingled.
“Yes,” you breathed, though your voice shook.
Chrollo didn’t smile. Didn’t relax. But his hands moved — one sliding to your hip, the other brushing a lock of hair from your face. Not tenderly. Not gently. Possessively. Claiming, without force, without a word.
He leaned in, lips barely grazing your ear. “You are mine. Even when you think you’re elsewhere.”
A shiver ran through you, electric, burning, undeniable.
His hands roamed slowly — over your waist, down your sides — exploring, testing boundaries, claiming the space he already owned. Each touch precise, controlled, yet charged.
Then, with a subtle shift, he pressed against you, just enough to make your knees weaken, but he didn’t rush. Not yet.
He wanted you aware. Wanted every nerve ending, every heartbeat, every pulse to know: he was there, in control, and he had been watching all along.
“Look at me,” he whispered. His thumb brushed your lower lip, forcing your gaze to meet his. “Every moment with anyone else, you think you’re free. You’re not.”
And in that command, in that possession, in that quiet, calculated dominance… you felt it.
Chrollo was done waiting.
The silence between you and Chrollo felt suffocating. His fingers lingered at your jaw, pressing lightly, forcing you to hold his gaze. His eyes were unreadable, but you felt the sharp weight of something deeper — something darker — simmering there.
“I’ve been patient,” he murmured, each word calculated, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip with quiet precision. “I’ve watched. I’ve allowed. But patience is not permission.”
Your breath hitched as his hand trailed down, slipping to your throat, not squeezing — just resting there, testing the way your pulse jumped beneath his touch.
“Every time you smiled at him. Every time you let him stand too close…” His hand pressed more firmly at your neck, a subtle claim. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”
You parted your lips to speak, but his grip tightened slightly, silencing you.
“I told you not to speak.”
The command lanced through you, your body tensing under his authority. His other hand slid lower, brushing across your hip, then your thigh, deliberate in every movement. He wasn’t rushed. He wanted you to feel his control in the slowness, the inevitability.
Chrollo pressed you back until your shoulders hit the cold wall of the warehouse. His body boxed yours in, but his composure never cracked. He leaned close, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.
“You belong to me,” he whispered, breath warm, voice low. “And tonight, I’ll remind you.”
His hand slipped beneath your shirt, cool fingers skating over your stomach, tracing lines upward until they cupped your breast. He rolled your nipple between his fingers, slow and purposeful, watching your reaction with detached intensity.
Your back arched involuntarily, a soft sound escaping your lips.
“Quiet,” he breathed against your neck, though the faint curl at the corner of his mouth betrayed his satisfaction. His thumb flicked, harder this time, drawing another gasp he immediately swallowed with his mouth.
The kiss wasn’t tender. It was claiming. His tongue slid against yours, dominating the pace, his hand at your throat tightening just enough to make your head spin.
When he finally pulled back, his lips were wet, his eyes darker.
“Do you let him touch you?” he asked, almost conversational, as his hand slid lower, fingers grazing the waistband of your pants. “Does he hear you gasp like this?”
A sharp squeeze at your throat. “What did I say?”
You swallowed hard, nodding instead, and his grip eased — rewarding obedience. His fingers slipped past fabric, brushing the heat between your legs. He exhaled softly, like he’d been expecting this all along.
“Already wet,” he murmured, stroking slow, deliberate circles over your clit. “And it wasn’t for him.”
Your knees buckled, and he caught you effortlessly, his hand working you with devastating precision. He watched your face, studied your every reaction like a page he could read and memorize.
“Mine,” he said simply, fingers sliding lower, dipping inside you with a slow push. You gasped, walls clenching around him, and his lips brushed your ear again. “Every sound. Every tremor. Mine.”
He fucked you with his fingers slowly at first, measured, his palm pressing against your clit just enough to make you writhe. He never rushed. Every thrust was deliberate, designed to unravel you piece by piece.
Your head fell back against the wall, breath ragged, body trembling. “Ch—Chrollo—”
His eyes sharpened, hand tightening at your throat again. “You forgot yourself.”
The reprimand came with a harder thrust of his fingers, curling them deep until your vision sparked. You whimpered, clamping down on him, your body betraying you.
He smiled then — a small, cold, victorious curve of lips. “That’s better.”
His pace quickened just slightly, enough to send you spiraling. Your body tensed, pleasure building sharp and unbearable.
“Come,” he ordered softly, voice low and steady in your ear. “Come for me. Show me who you belong to.”
The command hit as hard as his fingers did, and you shattered, crying out despite yourself, body convulsing around him.
Chrollo watched, eyes dark and calm, as though committing every detail to memory. His fingers slowed but didn’t stop until you were wrung out, trembling against the wall, your breath ragged.
Only then did he withdraw, bringing his slick fingers to his lips. He sucked them clean, slow, deliberate, eyes locked on yours the entire time.
“Good,” he murmured. “Now you understand.”
He leaned in, brushing his mouth against yours, not kissing — teasing. “This was a warning.”
And with that, he stepped back, leaving you shaking against the wall, your body still burning, your heart racing — and the undeniable knowledge that you were his, whether you admitted it or not.
The next day, Chrollo was the picture of indifference.
He gave orders, discussed routes, delegated jobs — as if nothing had happened in the shadows of that warehouse. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t so much as glance your way longer than necessary.
And yet, every time you caught his gaze across the camp, you felt it: the memory of his fingers inside you, his hand on your throat, his voice telling you who you belonged to.
He said nothing — he never did — but his sharp eyes tracked the subtle shifts in your demeanor. The way you tensed when Chrollo entered the room, the way your gaze flicked away too quickly.
One evening, while sharpening his blade, he spoke without looking up.
He glanced up, just briefly. “Yes. By him.”
Your throat tightened. The denial sat on your tongue, but you couldn’t force it out. Feitan didn’t press. He just went back to his blade, the rasp of steel against stone filling the silence.
Later that night, you found yourself sparring with him again. It was different this time — his strikes slower, his movements almost… protective. He let your hand linger against his chest when you pushed, let his fingers graze your wrist when he corrected your grip.
The touches weren’t purposeful — not like Chrollo’s. But they were there, and they were soft in comparison.
You caught yourself laughing again, breathless, and Feitan’s lips twitched, almost a smile.
And then you felt it — that weight.
He stood in the doorway this time, not hiding, not waiting in shadow. Just watching, calm and silent, while you and Feitan circled each other like something unspoken was building between you.
The room stilled. Feitan noticed him too — his eyes flicked briefly toward Chrollo, sharp and wary.
But Chrollo said nothing. He didn’t step forward. Didn’t stop you.
He only turned, leaving the doorway, the faintest trace of something cold in his eyes.
And that promise clung to you long after, making every touch with Feitan feel heavier, riskier, closer to something dangerous.
Days blurred into each other, your pattern with Feitan only deepening. He became the constant you didn’t realize you craved: silent, steady, sharp enough to challenge you without breaking you.
During one spar, he pinned you hard against the ground, his blade at your throat — but he didn’t press. Instead, his dark eyes lingered, holding yours in a rare moment of stillness. His weight hovered over you, not suffocating, but heavy, grounding.
Your lips parted, breath shallow, and for a fleeting moment it felt like the world had narrowed down to just you and him.
Then his blade shifted, withdrawn in a swift motion, and he stood, offering no explanation. Just Feitan, as ever.
But something had changed.
Later, in the camp, when you brushed too close reaching for supplies, his hand caught your wrist — light, precise, deliberate. His gaze cut to yours, unreadable, but he didn’t let go right away.
And you didn’t pull back.
The air between you was charged.
You knew who was watching.
Chrollo’s presence loomed before you even turned. He sat at the far end of the room, book open, eyes lowered — but you felt it all the same. The tension. The stillness. The patience.
It stretched into hours, into days. Each time you drifted near Feitan, Chrollo was there. Always in the periphery, always quiet, always letting you think you were free — while making it clear you weren’t.
Until finally, one night, he acted.
You’d just finished sparring with Feitan again, sweat slick on your skin, adrenaline still buzzing. You lingered too long when he corrected your stance, his hand steady at your waist.
That was when Chrollo’s voice cut through the space like a blade.
You froze, heart pounding, before nodding and stepping away from Feitan. You felt his eyes linger on you, sharp and suspicious, but you followed Chrollo without hesitation.
He led you into the same warehouse corner as before, the shadows thick around you. When he finally turned, his book was gone, his hands free — and his composure razor-sharp.
“I warned you,” he said softly, too soft. His hand slid to your throat, pressing you back against the wall, not hard enough to choke, but hard enough to remind you of his strength. “You disobeyed.”
Your pulse thundered beneath his grip. “I—”
The pressure increased, silencing you.
“You let him touch you,” Chrollo continued, eyes narrowing slightly, though his tone never rose. “You let him linger where he shouldn’t. And you enjoyed it.”
His other hand gripped your hip, fingers digging in.
He kissed you then — if it could be called that. His mouth crashed onto yours, teeth catching your lip, tongue pushing past any resistance. It wasn’t affection. It was a claim, brutal and undeniable.
When he pulled back, your lips were swollen, breath ragged.
The command was quiet, calm, but it brooked no hesitation. His hand guided you down, fingers tangled in your hair, his eyes sharp as he looked down at you like you were both possession and offering.
His hand in your hair didn’t yank — it guided.
The pressure at your scalp was firm, fingers sliding through, settling at the nape of your neck until your pulse matched the rhythm of his grip.
He tilted your head up, making you look at him. Even in the dim light his eyes were unreadable; his expression wasn’t lust, not warmth, but something heavier.
“You don’t move until I say,” he said, low, steady.
He didn’t push himself into your mouth yet. Instead he drew his thumb along your lower lip, smearing the sting from his kiss, watching the way you trembled.
It wasn’t teasing. It was instruction, rehearsal, control.
“You kneel because I allow it,” he murmured. “You breathe because I allow it.”
He shifted his grip, still not shoving, still not giving you what you thought was coming. His hand on your jaw tilted your face a fraction, studying you the way he studied a book: a page to be turned, a diagram to be memorised.
“You think Feitan sees you,” Chrollo said, voice calm. “He doesn’t. He sees what you want him to see.”
His thumb pressed under your chin, forcing your eyes back to his.
For a long moment he simply stood over you like that — one hand in your hair, the other on your face, holding you there while his body loomed just a breath away. It was slow, deliberate, suffocating.
Then, without warning, he dragged his thumb down from your lip to your throat, tracing the pulse there. His other hand moved to the back of your head, cradling rather than yanking, guiding you closer but stopping just before contact.
“You’ll take me when I decide you’re ready,” he said, each word a promise. “And when you do, you’ll remember who made you kneel.”
His thumb brushed back up, slipping past your lips, pressing against your tongue until you opened for him. The small motion made your cheeks burn; he watched it happen with that same unreadable expression.
“Good,” he murmured, voice still low. “You’re learning.”
He pulled his thumb free and brought it back to your throat, palm open, holding you still. He wasn’t rushing. He wanted you to feel the way his composure filled the room, to understand that every second you waited on your knees belonged to him.
“You’re going to stay right here,” Chrollo said softly. “Hands behind your back. Eyes on me.”
It was all control, all anticipation. The tension built not from what he did, but from how he did it: slow, cold, deliberate, making you hyperaware of every inch of his body and every inch of space left between you.
Your knees ached against the concrete, but you didn’t shift. His command was too absolute, his gaze too heavy.
Chrollo let the silence sit between you, hand still at your throat, as though he wanted you to hear the echo of your own pulse. He didn’t move until you started to fidget, the restless energy showing in your shoulders. Only then did he reward you with the smallest motion: the slide of his thumb along your skin, a reminder of how completely he owned the space around you.
“Patience,” he murmured. “You’ll learn it with me, or not at all.”
He released your throat only to drag the back of his hand down your cheek, almost tender, though the edge beneath it was sharp. His fingers dipped briefly into your hair before returning to their grip at the nape of your neck, keeping you in position.
“You want to be touched,” he continued, matter-of-fact, as if he were pointing out the weather. “But not by him. Not by anyone else.”
The words made your chest tighten. He said it like law, not choice.
His other hand trailed down your collarbone, then lower, until his fingers brushed the top button of your shirt. He didn’t undo it. He only rested there, applying the faintest pressure, enough to remind you of what he could do.
He leaned down then, just enough for his breath to ghost over your ear.
“Every time you let him stand too close… every time you laugh with him… remember this moment. Remember how easily I can strip it all away.”
His words sank into you, low and venomous, until you were trembling more from anticipation than fear.
When he finally drew back, he smoothed your hair with almost unnerving care, the way a priest might straighten a page in a sacred book. Then his hand returned to your jaw, tilting your face upward again so you couldn’t escape his gaze.
“You’ll stay like this until I say otherwise,” Chrollo said. “Kneeling, waiting, empty.”
He stepped back only a fraction, enough to loom but not enough to free you. His thumb stroked your lip again, lingering at the corner of your mouth, before pulling away to let you ache in the silence he left behind.
Your thighs had begun to tremble from kneeling, a dull ache spreading through your calves. Chrollo hadn’t moved for what felt like minutes, just watching, letting you feel the weight of the position he’d put you in. His thumb was still at your lip, the faint pressure a constant reminder of who was dictating the pace.
When he finally shifted, it wasn’t hurried. His hands slid down from your face, one into your hair again, the other to his belt. He undid it with a quiet efficiency, eyes never leaving yours.
“I told you you’d stay empty,” he said, voice even, “but I never said I would.”
He guided you a little closer with the grip at the back of your neck. Not rough, not a yank — a steady, unyielding pull that gave you no room to think. His fingers threaded more firmly into your hair, his palm pressing against your scalp as he freed himself with the other hand.
For a heartbeat, he just stood there like that, hard and heavy in front of you, the scent of him hitting your nose before the reality of it. Then he tilted your head up until you were looking at him through your lashes.
“You’re going to take me,” he murmured. “No hands. Just your mouth. Until I’m finished.”
He didn’t shove himself in. He traced himself along your lips first, slow enough to leave a slick line, making you open a little at a time. Only when you parted did he ease forward, the weight of him filling your mouth gradually, his other hand keeping you still.
“Good,” he breathed, as you adjusted around him.
He set his rhythm with the same precision as everything else he did. Not frantic thrusts, but measured, deep strokes, sliding over your tongue until you gagged softly and he held you there just a fraction longer than necessary. His thumb stroked the side of your neck, feeling the movement of your throat as you swallowed around him.
“Look at me,” he said quietly.
When your eyes met his, something flickered there — not heat, not tenderness, but possession. He rolled his hips a little deeper, sighing softly at the friction, his fingers tightening in your hair as his composure started to fray at the edges.
“That’s it,” he muttered, almost to himself, the low sound vibrating against your lips. “Stay there. Take me. Don’t stop.”
He used your mouth like that for long, drawn-out strokes, until his breathing went heavier, his thumb pressing harder into the side of your throat. When he was close, he held you still, forcing you to take every inch of him until his muscles went taut.
The sound he made when he finally spilled into you was quiet but sharp, a hiss between his teeth. He kept you there, still and kneeling, while he shuddered through the last pulses, his grip in your hair firm enough to keep you in place but never cruel.
Only when he’d finished did he exhale and ease his hold, pulling back slowly. He used his thumb to wipe the corner of your mouth, smearing what he’d left behind as his breathing settled back into its usual, measured cadence.
“You’ll swallow,” he instructed softly. “Then you’ll stay exactly as you are.”
His tone was calm again, as if nothing had happened, as if you were just another piece in one of his quiet rituals.
The bitter tang lingered on your tongue, heat still burning your throat as you swallowed like he told you. His hand remained at your jaw until he felt it, until he was satisfied you hadn’t disobeyed.
Only then did he release you.
The loss of his touch made you sway slightly on your knees, but he didn’t reach to steady you. He straightened his clothes with a casual precision, tucking himself away and fastening his belt as though nothing at all had happened.
Chrollo glanced down at you, calm and unreadable, the faintest curve of his mouth like an afterthought. “You did well,” he said, voice low and measured. “For now.”
He brushed his thumb along your cheek, not tender, not cruel — just a gesture to remind you who had placed you there in the first place.
He didn’t lift you, didn’t offer comfort, didn’t give you the release that still ached low in your belly. He walked away, retrieving his book, sliding back into the same quiet seat he’d occupied before — a silhouette in shadow, unmoved, unbothered.
And you were left on the floor, the cool sting of the concrete seeping into your knees, his presence weighing on you even from across the room.
The ache between your legs felt unbearable in the silence. But you stayed where you were, because you knew he meant it — you’d remain kneeling until he decided otherwise.
You weren’t sure how much time passed. Minutes. Longer. All the while, his eyes occasionally lifted from his book, flicking over you in casual, possessive checks. As though you were no different from a weapon or an object, waiting to be used again when he chose.
The cement chilled your skin until it ached. Your knees had gone past pain and into numbness. You didn’t know how long you’d been there anymore; time felt as thick as the air in the warehouse.
Chrollo sat exactly where he had been, book open, legs crossed, his profile all calm angles. If not for the faint dampness still clinging to his lower lip, you could almost believe the last few minutes hadn’t happened.
Your pulse jumped when you heard a door somewhere in the hall open and shut. Footsteps—quiet, light—approached.
He appeared in the doorway, eyes flicking from you to Chrollo. He stopped mid-step, his head tilting just slightly, a tiny furrow between his brows. You could see him take in your swollen lips, the way you were still kneeling, hands behind your back, and how Chrollo didn’t even look up from his page.
Feitan said nothing, but the silence was pointed.
Chrollo turned a page in his book. “We’re in the middle of something,” he said mildly, without glancing up. “Leave.”
For a heartbeat Feitan didn’t move. His eyes stayed on you, narrow and unreadable, then shifted to Chrollo’s. There was a flicker of something—challenge, maybe—but then he stepped back and melted into the corridor again. The door clicked shut.
Only when you were sure you were alone again did Chrollo speak.
“You wanted to be seen,” he murmured without looking at you. “You were.” He marked his page and finally closed the book. His eyes lifted to yours, the calmness returning like a blade sliding back into a sheath. “Now you know what it costs.”
He stood, moving with his usual grace, and came to you at last. His hand slid under your chin, tilting your face up. He studied you the way one might study an artefact: noting every tremor, every flicker of defiance or submission in your expression.
“Stand,” he said quietly.
Your legs wobbled as you obeyed. He didn’t help you; he simply watched you struggle to find your balance, then reached up to smooth a strand of hair from your face. The touch was startlingly gentle after everything else.
“You’ll eat, then you’ll rest,” he said. “When I want you again, I’ll come for you. Not before.”
His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth one last time, wiping away the last trace of him. Then he turned and walked away, leaving you standing, your body aching and your head full of him.
Two days later, after another spar, Feitan had been sharper than usual, movements quick, precise, designed to keep you pinned, your body straining under his weight more than once. And each time, his eyes lingered too long — on your mouth, your throat, your wrists. Testing. Pressing.
Chrollo had been watching again, silent as ever, though this time he didn’t wait until later to act.
When you left the training room, bruised and aching, you caught the shift in the air behind you. Feitan hadn’t followed you. Chrollo had gone to him.
You lingered just past the door, breath shallow, and heard the scrape of steel against its sheath — deliberate, not aggressive.
“Chrollo.” Feitan’s voice was low, clipped. “What you do with her. Not my problem.”
“But when you leave her like that, on the floor? When you let me see? That’s sloppy.”
The silence that followed was heavier than any threat.
Then Chrollo’s voice, soft, measured. “You think I wasn’t aware you saw her?”
Another pause, then the faint shuffle of feet on cement, Feitan stepping closer. “You’re testing me.”
Chrollo’s tone didn’t waver. “I’m reminding you of your place.”
The quiet stretched taut, and though you couldn’t see, you could feel Feitan’s grip tightening on his sword, the urge to act restrained only by something sharper — calculation.
“You treat her like a weapon,” Feitan rasped finally. “You forget weapons cut both ways.”
Chrollo chuckled softly, not amused, but entertained. “And yet, you’re the one bleeding.”
The sound of footsteps — Chrollo moving, calm, unhurried — until his voice drifted closer to where you stood just outside.
“Stay away from her, Feitan. She belongs to me.”
No raised voice. No threat. Just a fact, as quiet and immutable as law.
The door opened, and you barely had time to step back before Chrollo slipped through, book in hand, expression perfectly composed. He didn’t acknowledge that you’d been listening, didn’t need to. He simply brushed past you, his presence pulling you along in his wake.
Feitan didn’t follow. But you felt the weight of his silence like a blade at your back.
The clash came sooner than you expected.
It wasn’t planned — nothing in the Troupe ever was — but the air was heavy, brittle, ready to snap.
Chrollo had pulled you into his room, as he always did, silent until his back pressed to the door and his hand slid up your thigh, fingers ghosting higher with deliberate patience. You were already pliant against him, already breathing too fast, when the knock came.
No — not a knock. The door simply opened.
Feitan stepped inside without hesitation, blade in hand, eyes cutting first to Chrollo, then to you. He said nothing, but the intent radiated off him: a warning, a claim, a challenge.
Chrollo’s hand didn’t leave you. His thumb pressed higher, teasing, reminding you who had you pinned.
“You’ve grown bold, Feitan,” he said softly. “Interrupting me here.”
Feitan’s eyes narrowed. “You flaunt what you think is yours. I take it as invitation.”
Then Chrollo smiled — small, cold. He shifted, guiding you down onto his lap, his hand sliding beneath your clothes in one fluid movement. Your breath hitched, body arching despite yourself.
“Invitation?” Chrollo echoed, his lips brushing your ear. “No. This is demonstration.”
His free hand captured yours, dragging it down to where he was already hard beneath his trousers. He forced your palm against him, making you stroke him while his own fingers slipped against you, slow, calculated, sending sparks racing through your limbs.
“You see?” he murmured, eyes fixed on Feitan as he worked both of you at once. “She obeys. Even with you watching. Especially with you watching.”
Feitan’s jaw tightened, blade twitching as though he might draw it — but he didn’t move. He watched, silent, his stare heavy on every sound you made, every tremor running through you as Chrollo pushed you closer to the edge.
Your hand worked over him under his guidance, his breath deepening against your throat. His fingers inside you matched the rhythm, slow but unrelenting, until you were gasping, torn between shame and unbearable need with Feitan standing less than a meter away.
“Look at her,” Chrollo said, his tone still maddeningly calm, though his own hips pressed harder against your palm now. “And understand. She’s mine.”
The words hit harder than the pleasure itself, forcing you to ride the wave of his control while Feitan’s stare carved through you.
And when Chrollo finally spilled hot and sudden against your hand, his groan low against your neck, he didn’t let you come. His fingers slowed, retreated, leaving you trembling and aching, unfinished — but marked.
He licked the taste of his own release from your palm, his eyes never leaving Feitan’s.
“Do you understand now?” he asked quietly, voice edged in steel.
Feitan didn’t answer. But the blade’s tip scraped against the floor, slow, promising.
A brush of his shoulder against yours in the corridor. A spar that went on a beat too long, his weight pinning you harder than necessary, his breath grazing your ear as he leaned in.
“You tremble different now,” Feitan murmured once, when his blade hovered at your throat. “Not from fear.” His eyes dropped lower, to your mouth, then lower still — to where your body pressed against his leg, helpless, aching. His lips curled faintly. “He leaves you empty.”
You shoved him off, snarling, but the heat in your belly betrayed you. He didn’t chase — just smirked, filing away the reaction like a knife tucked in his sleeve.
The next time, he pushed harder.
You’d stayed behind after a job, muscles sore, head buzzing, when Feitan cornered you against a wall. His hand pressed flat against the surface beside your face, his body close enough that you could feel the tension radiating off him.
“Does he make you beg?” His voice was quiet, sharp. “No. He makes you wait. Makes you ache.”
Your pulse hammered. You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.
Feitan tilted his head, studying you with that same flat, cutting stare. Then his hand ghosted lower — not touching, just hovering at your hip, enough to make you lean back against the wall.
“He won’t let you come,” Feitan whispered. “But I would.”
Your knees weakened at the blunt promise, shame heating your skin. He didn’t press, didn’t touch you where you wanted it most. He only leaned back, the faintest grin twisting his mouth as he let the words sink in.
“Think about it,” he murmured, before walking away.
That night, when Chrollo pulled you into his room again, you couldn’t stop the thoughts circling. His hands on you were careful, controlled, denying you more than giving. And every time his fingers slowed, every time he pulled back just before you tipped over the edge, Feitan’s words stabbed through your mind.
He won’t let you come… but I would.
And Chrollo noticed. He always noticed.
It happened after a raid. Everyone was tired, scattered across the hideout in varying states of bloodied satisfaction. You’d slipped off to catch your breath, pressing your back to the cold wall of an empty corridor.
That’s when Feitan found you.
His eyes raked over your flushed face, your restless hands. He didn’t need words to know what it meant — the denial Chrollo had been grinding into you night after night.
“You burn,” he said, voice flat but edged with something sharper. “Not from fight. From him.”
You shook your head, but the heat between your thighs betrayed you. He stepped closer, close enough that the metallic scent of steel and blood still clung to him.
“You want release?” His tone wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.
Your throat worked. “…Yes.”
The smirk that ghosted across his lips was small, vicious. He didn’t waste time — his hand slid under your clothes, fingers finding you already slick, already aching. His touch was nothing like Chrollo’s: rough, fast, merciless. He didn’t tease. He didn’t hold back.
“Pathetic,” he hissed, watching your legs tremble as he worked you harder, faster. “One touch and you break.”
You bit your lip to smother the moan that rose, but it slipped free anyway. Heat flooded your veins, your body arching helplessly against the wall as his hand brought you to the edge — and this time, he didn’t stop.
The climax tore through you, raw and sudden, your cry swallowed in his palm when he clamped it over your mouth. He held you there until you sagged, trembling, against him.
Then he pulled back, licking his fingers with a wicked grin.
“He never gives you this,” Feitan murmured. “Remember who did.”
And he left you there, shaking, your body still humming with the aftershocks.
But you didn’t have long.
That night, Chrollo summoned you. His gaze lingered the moment you stepped inside — too sharp, too knowing. He didn’t need proof. He could see it on you: the looseness in your steps, the faint satisfaction in your eyes that he hadn’t allowed.
“You’re glowing,” he said softly, almost amused. “And I didn’t grant it.”
Before you could answer, his hand closed around your throat, pulling you flush against him. His eyes burned colder than you’d ever seen.
“You forget,” he murmured, “your body is mine. Every gasp, every shiver, every release.” His thumb pressed hard under your jaw, making your pulse pound against it. “You will not come for anyone but me.”
He shoved you onto the bed, straddling you, his hand pinning your wrists. This time, there was no patience, no calculated denial. His movements were sharp, demanding, his voice a constant murmur against your ear:
“Say it. Say you belong to me.”
And when he finally let you fall apart beneath him, wrung out and broken open by his hand and his mouth, he didn’t stop until your voice was raw from saying it again and again.
When he was finished, he left you trembling, marked, spent — not from tenderness, but from possession.
“Remember this,” Chrollo said as he wiped his hands clean. His gaze locked with yours, calm once more. “If Feitan gives you release, it’s because I allowed it. If he takes you further…” His smile curved, sharp as a blade. “…then he signs his own death.”
A few nights later, the trap closed.
You’d been left aching again — Chrollo’s hands had been slow, his voice soft but implacable as he pulled away at the last moment, leaving you trembling on the sheets.
“Patience,” he murmured, brushing your cheek like he hadn’t just denied you. “Show me you can wait.”
Then he left, book in hand, without another glance.
Hours later, you found yourself alone in one of the training rooms, fists clenched, body still humming with need. That’s where Feitan appeared.
He didn’t smirk this time. His eyes were dark, serious, his body a coiled spring as he approached.
“You’re shaking again,” he said quietly. “He left you empty again.”
You tried to step back, but he followed, his hand catching your wrist and pinning it lightly against the wall. Not a threat. Not yet.
“I can do more than just finish you,” he murmured, leaning closer until his breath brushed your neck. “I can give you what he won’t.”
His free hand ghosted over your stomach, down to your hip, fingers pressing just enough to make you tremble.
“You think he’ll kill me for this?” Feitan’s lips curved faintly. “He will. But you’ll remember before he does.”
His fingers slipped under your waistband, finding you slick, needy, just as before. But this time he was slow, careful, circling, teasing, coaxing you higher instead of just dragging you there. His mouth brushed your ear as he whispered:
“Tell me if you want it. Or tell me to stop. This time, you choose.”
Your heart hammered. The choice was real — more real than anything Chrollo had ever offered.
What you didn’t know was that Chrollo was already watching.
Hidden in the shadows, his eyes were as unreadable as the pages of his book. He’d set this up deliberately, leaving you aching, knowing Feitan would come. This was his test.
Would you break? Would you take what Feitan offered, knowing it meant betraying Chrollo’s control? Or would you deny yourself, even when your body screamed for it?
The air between all three of you vibrated with it — temptation, control, risk.
Feitan’s fingers pressed a little deeper, his thumb circling, drawing a low sound from your throat. “Decide,” he hissed. “Him or me.”
And from the shadows, Chrollo’s voice slid out, soft and deadly:
click here for chrollos ending
click here for feitans ending
