Lex | she/her | 24 | multifandom | writing & personal | cancer
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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.
@s33k-gung1rl @moonkidxd @thebreadanon @askalldanganronpa @evadstra @stinkeri @silly-hypothetical @callywallyy @hyperfixatedmythosgirl @angeleyedxx @babyimanal1en @jalapenojelly @bordem-offical @cheekytownstudios @mydreamchaos @mationani @anxiousst4rr and ofc anybody I missed!!! I love you all ❤️
OH TY TWINN!!! @astoriaalt @l1fe1sp0ppli0 @sillyalienfromspace (silly Alien sorry for tag but u need to know) @jackie-is-just-here @janas0311 and anyone I missed!
We need to renormalize loving people everywhere we go. Regardless of how well we know them or how much time we spend with them. You can love so so many people and you SHOULD love so so many people!!!!
That said i love you too!! ʅ（◞‿◟）ʃ
@eekykins @astoryofsuchwoe @twistedpink @marionettou @maoisaraslove (you’ve already been tagged, but I still love you) @hakunakii @heartguidingstar @luna-nuko @crazy-anthem @crunchy-criss-1 @happyveryhappy @orcinusorcaa @paradisedisconcert @mondaymelon @gkattdoesstuff @bluesunflowerz I THINK THATS EVERYONE I REALLY WRACKED MY BRAIN. im sure i missed people though i SUCK at remembering @s. IF YOU ARE MY MUTUAL I LOVE YOU.
also putting this on here because ummm id rather tag my mutuals here from this blog LOL
@dragondelulu @moonlightindeepspace @dandy-lads @livhatesbabies @snoozer-crow @berrylus @hirayalia @luvzayne @violasepals @molilotus @txtworlddom @the-mrrrp @pink-caktus i love you all soso much <3
I'm tagging you right back+a few of my moots<3(and also all the ones Amia's already tagged that I know, I just didn't wanna double tag the rest of y'all ahejisekkdndjf)
Awww thank you so much for tagging me 🥹 This is genuinely so sweet and it made me smile.
Sending all my lovely moots warm hugs, flowers, sweet treats, and lots of love 💞 @yes-no-maybe-soo @honey-snail @mooyuun @ladyparamount @fandoms-x-reader
Naww, thank you ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ this is such a lovely sentiment and the sweetest tag game I've been included in
Passing this on to all my awesome moots! May each of you be safe, happy and healthy and may I continue seeing you on my dash for years to come ♡(ɔˆ ³(ˆ⌣ˆc)
awwwhh, this is so sweet, you got me kicking my feet and giggling over here. thank you for tagging and including me in this trend (and for always liking and reblogging my shit lol, it means a lot)!
sending my love and support to my mutuals (and to everyone else), I appreciate all of you! <3 @tomatop @dotfuzzy @ihe4rtme @dreahmdere @melancholic-daze @yandere-thirst @mizukilia @chrollosbiggeststan @sukunasfavoritehole @dabisgurlsworld @sucker-for-yanderes @blu3crescent @mymusehatesme @jupiter-lover @nurluvskurapika @lizaliza @laughing-eye-jack @irispetql
Note: I felt inspired and decided to whip up this piece of depraved garbage. I'm actually just procrastinating finishing my other fics. unedited and rushed as hell. enjoy some yan chrollo :)
Summary: your world consists of only one thing now: chrollo. He saved you from a life that felt like a cage, but he's about to remind you just how 'free' you really are. basically just porn with a sprinkle of actual plot.
It’s been six months since you quit your job. Four since you last spoke to your family. Your friends have stopped calling. Your world consists of a quiet, two bedroom apartment and him. He’s everything now. Your protector, your confidant, your lover. Everything.
Tonight, he’s fucking you on the livingroom floor. There’s a pile of sheets beneath you that Chrollo prepared in advance, which frankly, does absolutely nothing for your back. But hey, the thought was there.
Chrollo’s gaze is a bottomless void, and he holds it on you while he works his hips. He drags his cock out of you until just the head is nestled in your slick, swollen folds, making your cunt clench and twitch around him like a dying fish. Then he drives back in, a single, brutal slide that bottoms out deep inside you, stealing your breath and making his pubic bone crack against yours.
His expression unreadable as he thrusts into you. Slow and deep. Sliding in and out of your fluttering pussy with a pace that has your toes curling and back arching off the ground with every roll of his hips.
His rhythm suddenly falters as he buries himself to the hilt, hips flush against yours as he holds the position. Not moving anymore. The tip of his cock brushes your cervix, making you cry out and claw at his back. He doesn’t even flinch, not even when your nails scratch deep, bloody gouges down his spine.
“Do you remember,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck, his voice sounding oddly composed for the current situation. “When you told me you felt trapped in your old life?
Conversation? Right now? Really? Fuck that. That’s literally the last thing on your mind right now. You just want him to move again, to keep going, to put an end to this throbbing ache and let you come. And you’ll say or do just about anything to make that happen.
Your response tumbles out as a high-pitched, moaned yes—pathetic, desperate, and so fucking needy it embarasses you even as it spills from your lips. You agree way too fast, blurting out whatever the hell you think he wants to hear, barely processing his words at all. Because right now, you’re drowning in the fact that he’s gone completely still inside you, and you absolutely hate it. You were so fucking close and he just stopped.
The ache throbs deep in your core, hot, insistent, and borderline unbearable, clenching around his unmoving cock. Sweat glistens on your skin, trickling down your spine as your hips twitch and buck uselessly against his in frantic, wild desperation—chasing any scrap of friction, anything at all that might ease the burning need ripping through your body.
But it’s all so utterly futile. Your frenzied grinding provides no relief or satisfaction whatsoever—not even a hint—only amplifying your frustration and desperation, leaving you even more wrecked than before.
Though your pitiful actions accomplish absolutely nothing for you—hell, they actually just make things worse—they do, however, seem to satisfy Chrollo, who’s enjoying every second of this. Internally, of course. He’s not exactly an open book. Everything is meticulously controlled and hidden beneath an expression that doesn’t reveal anything he doesn’t intend to. Not like you’d be able to tell, anyway—at least, not with you being so deeply engrossed in your current dilemma, which has totally crippled your ability to form even a single, coherent or rational thought.
Chrollo peers down at you from above, watching you with an expression that’s almost teasing. Eyes half-lidded. Head tilted to the side. Lips quirked to the side. Like he’s studying a particularly fascinating passage in one of his books, not buried balls-deep inside you.
“Hm?” He hums softly, low and encouraging. That single hum laced with just enough insistence to make it clear he won’t accept your response as a proper answer to his question. As if your embarrassingly whiny and borderline incoherent moan wasn’t quite articulate enough for him.
“What was that?” He prompts gently, almost like he’s gently encouraging a student to elaborate on a half-formed idea. It’s not threatening, demanding, mocking, or anything else like that—it’s just a soft, patient, composed nudge. A gentle encouragement or push in the right direction. Subtly trying to coax a reaction out of you.
“I didn’t quite catch it.” There’s a slight undertone of mock innocence in his voice—indistinct and hardly noticeable, virtually impossible to detect. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
Much to your frustration and distress, Chrollo still hasn’t moved. Not one bit. His movements remain on pause. He’s still buried all the way inside your drenched pussy, which hasn’t stopped clenching and fluttering around him, not even once—something that hasn’t gone unnoticed by Chrollo, and interestingly enough, he finds himself mildly fascinated by it. You’re gripping his cock so fucking tight that for a brief moment, he actually worries you might be squeezing him hard enough to cut off his blood flow and circulation.
The thought is so absurd and downright laughable—not to mention, literally impossible—that Chrollo finds himself genuinely and uncharacteristically taken aback that his own mind had even entertained a notion like that. He quickly dismisses the thought entirely, categorizing it as nothing more than a fleeting and rare lapse in his otherwise impeccable composure.
On the other hand. You are literal seconds away from bursting into tears, genuinely thinking this torment would never end and you’d be left to suffer forever, when you suddenly notice a slight change in Chrollo’s body from where it hovers above you.
The arms that have been pinning and caging you in move as he adjusts their placement, his palms sliding along the floor as his stance widens, almost like he’s bracing himself for what's coming next. The hands that have been resting flat and relaxed on either side of your head twitch faintly, just once, as his fingers shift and adjust their hold on the wrinkled sheets beneath you. Clenching and curling even tighter around the loose fabric—to get a better hold. The muscles in his back tense and flex beneath your palms, his body stabilizing itself.
Your fucked-out brain barely registers any of this—his stance widening, his body bracing, his hold changing, his grip tightening. They’re all minor and insignificant adjustments that you normally, in any other circumstance, wouldn’t even notice or think twice about—let alone right now, given your current state of mind.
They all seem normal—just the natural, unconscious, and involuntary movements and functionings of the body—and don’t necessarily have to mean or indicate anything at all. But for some reason, they seem to trigger something in you. Something that manages to momentarily break through the sex-induced haze that’s completely surrounded and engulfed your mind. Every single nerve in your body suddenly goes off all at once, lighting up and firing-off signals that make your senses explode with a newfound alertness and warning. Your primal instincts are literally screaming at you. Danger, danger, danger!
Chrollo grants you with something that your overstimulated mind misinterprets as mercy—he finally starts to move once again. It’s not actually a mercy at all, not in the slightest sense, it’s actually the furthest thing from that. But you don’t know that, and it still sparks a tiny flicker of hope in you all the same.
He indulges in the slightest movement ever—torturing you, really, with never quite giving you what you really need—and pulls back by a fraction. An inch at most. No more than that. Slow enough that you feel every ridge and vein dragging along your slick, fluttering insides as he retreats, and gentle enough that your pussy instinctively tries to suck him back in, desperate and greedy. Like you’re terrified he’ll pull out completely.
You whimper, hips jerking up instinctively, chasing that loss. He doesn't let you suffer for too long. He relents by a fraction and pulls back another teasing inch, causing his hips to lift away from yours and the pain in your cervix to ease marginally as the head of his cock finally stops pressing against it.
He’s barely even moved—basically still bottomed-out inside you—but even the slightest sensation sends your trembling, deprived body into overdrive.
The gnawing, almost unbearable emptiness inside you—both literal and figurative—doesn’t last long, because Chrollo’s already sliding right back in again, filling the space completely as he rocks into you with a shallow, but absolutely brutal thrust of his hips. It’s a sharp and sudden motion that drives him all the way back inside you, punching the air from your lungs and leaving you gasping for breath. He slams into you with a force that somehow manages to shove him even deeper than before.
The force of his thrust has you sliding backwards against the floor, your body jolting up several inches from where you were pinned beneath him. You would’ve slipped right out from under him if he didn’t grab hold of your hips and catch you, his fingers digging in as he drags you back down onto him, holding you firmer now.
Chrollo stays buried, unmoving once again, drawing out the fullness until it’s agonizing, your body practically vibrating with overstimulation, thighs quaking around him while slick heat leaks down your ass, pooling on the floor in a messy puddle. He savours it by leaning his weight forward, pushing impossibly deeper until his cock is lodged so far inside you feel it in your fucking throat, grinding slow circles with his hips that mash his pelvis against your clit in torturous, unrelenting pressure.
He draws out the torment, rocking his hips in shallow, infuriating nudges—barely pulling out before sinking back in, over and over, each micro-thrust a wet, squelching glide that rubs his cockhead against that spongy spot inside you without ever building momentum.
He’s giving you the barest hint of relief without actually giving you any real satisfaction. It’s a bare minimum that does absolutely nothing for you. It’s just enough for you to feel just a little bit of something—to soothe the throbbing ache between your thighs by a hair and keep you exactly where he wants you to be—but not enough to give you what you really need.
It keeps your hopes from dwindling completely. Because if you lose all sense of hope, it would only create more of a hassle for him. He’d prefer to avoid any with unnecessary complications. If giving you scraps of affection saves him some trouble in the long run, so be it.
But most importantly, the chances of him accidentally overwhelming you or breaking a boundary—or God forbid, turning you off—are significantly lower when he’s not teasing you to the point of fucking tears. And he knows, he came very close to doing just that. So he immediately backed off. He won’t run the risk of ruining all the work he’s put into you over the last couple months by pushing you too far. It’d waste his time and effort.
“Well? Speak up,” Chrollo prods softly, again. He shifts just a fraction again, a deliberate flex of his pelvis that presses his cock deeper, grinding the base against your swollen clit in a slow circle that sends a fresh jolt of relief sparking through your core, only to yank it away by holding still again, leaving you with the maddening fullness and nothing else.
“Yes! Yes! Yes I remember!” You finally blurt out.
Chrollo’s lips curve into a knowing, ironic smirk against your throat—smug and laced with something darkly amused—seemingly pleased by your answer. Finally. The edge to it sends a brief flicker of unease through your haze of need. It’s not a kind smile. You catch the faint pull of it on your skin, warm and subtly mocking, as if he’s laughing at some private joke you’re not in on.
“And look at you now,” he continues, rewarding your response with an open-mouthed kiss on your neck, his breath ragged as his tongue traces a hot, wet stripe over your pulse. Finally, he resumes his movements once again. His hips snap forward, picking up pace—slamming into you even harder and faster than before. Not slow and deep anymore, but rough and brutal, each thrust jolting through you. “So free.”
hi! sorry if this is a weird question, but i was wondering what your thoughts are on yandere chrollo? do you think thats even possible/realistic?? he doesn’t seem like the type. what do you think he’d be like if he was yandere?
You’re totally fine, you have absolutely nothing to apologize for! Those questions aren’t weird at all—I’m actually really happy you even asked, and I’d love to share my thoughts. There’s not a chance in Hell I’d ever keep my mouth shut when chrollo’s involved. Me? Not run my mouth about chrollo? Never. <3
note: I updated this post. here's the link for the new one.
Anywayssss...
Yandere Chrollo? Oh, it's certainly possible. I mean, anything’s possible with writing. But if we’re talking about the actual possibility of that happening? Like the odds of him going/being all yandere on/for someone? I’d say slim to none. Sorry. He’s honestly like one of the last characters I’d ever expect to be a yandere or even act yandere in any traditional sense.
Chrollo’s not your typical yandere. Like, at all. He wouldn’t look like one, wouldn’t act like one, wouldn’t feel like one—not visually, not behaviourally, not emotionally. Not in any traditional sense, that is. He’s basically the exact opposite of how yandere characters are usually portrayed. Nothing you’d normally expect or associated with that genre of character. No obvious obsession, no blatant possessiveness, no impulsive violence, no dramatic displays, no grand gestures, and definitely no cringy ‘you’re mine’ declarations.
That kind of stuff just doesn't fit my interpretation of Chrollo as a yandere, to be honest.
He doesn’t fit the stereotypical yandere mold. It’s just not realistic or accurate, at least not without heavily adjusting his canon character to make it even slightly fit the archetype. The literal definition of yandere—and all the usual traits that come with that label—pretty much contradicts everything established about him. Like, the man recites scripture and barely emotes, he’s basically a void dressed in a turtleneck. So do you really think he’d breakdown just because someone breathed in your direction? Absolutely fucking not. He’s not built for that kind of shit lol.
Realistically? It’d just seem like… Chrollo being Chrollo. His usual self. The same unreadable, soft-spoken, disgustingly poetic nightmare he always is. It wouldn’t be an instant, all-consuming fixation/obsession for a character like Chrollo. It’s not love at first sight or anything like that—he’d never even call it love, not in any traditional sense. Probably wouldn’t even say want or need, either. And it's not something that would completely overtake and dictate his life, either.
Instead, it’d be subtle and slow. Nothing overt. It wouldn’t even register as anything unusual right away—just a passing interest or mere curiosity. A reason to keep watching you, learning you, rearranging your life without you noticing.
He'd start by watching you, learning you, inserting himself into your life so naturally you don't even question it. Maybe he ‘bumps into’ you a few times too many, but always with some perfectly reasonable excuse like he just happens to be nearby. He makes it sound casual, like coincidence. Maybe he quotes something from a book you love but never told him about, making it seem like you have similar interests. Maybe he knows things about your life you never told him, but he brushes it off with that soft smile, like it’s no big deal. It's not creepy—it's charming. He’d make it all feel natural, like fate or whatever other bullshit he spins.
He wouldn’t kidnap you outright. That’s way too crude and not his style. Also, taking you by force risks traumatizing you, something he’d prefer avoiding all together because it would only make things more complicated for him. Instead, he’d orchestrate your isolation and pick apart your entire support system. He’d make sure your life outside him feels… empty and pointless. Friends and family start to drift away? Oh, they probably just got busy. Opportunities dry up? Must be bad luck or something. Work becomes too much? Maybe it's time to quit. Plans fall apart? Wasn’t meant to be. But hey, guess who’s always there for you?
He’d make himself indispensable. He’d be your confidant, your only constant, the one who always knows what you need before you even ask. And before you know it, there’s nothing left and you’re turning to him.
And it wouldn’t happen with just anyone, either. Chrollo doesn’t feel things easily. He’s emotionally detached by default, and rarely—if ever—expresses himself openly. But there are exceptions. The Troupe and its members, for example—those are among the few things he truly cares about, and typically always prioritizes above everything else. People love to call Chrollo emotionless, and sometimes characterize him as completely devoid of emotion and feeling—and hey, before anyone gets mad, I’m not judging. To each their own. Everyone is entitled to their own interpretation. But personally? That’s not how I see him. He’s not emotionless, and he’s definitely not clueless when it comes to feelings. He’s 1000% capable of feeling deeply and genuinely, and honestly? I think he understands emotion better than most. He just doesn’t express it in conventional ways. I’d actually argue he’s probably one of the most emotionally intelligent characters in Hunter x Hunter.
Anywaysss. I’m getting a little off track here, sorry lol. As I was saying, Chrollo wouldn’t develop that kind of fixation for just anyone. He doesn't do random obsessions. He’s too wrapped up in his own existential bullshit to fixate like that. He's not the type to spot someone cute in a crowd and suddenly go full yandere mode. It would take someone incredibly specific. Someone who fascinates him in a way he can’t quite articulate or understand, someone who intrigues him on a level that’s intellectual at first, someone who lingers in his thoughts even long after they’re gone, someone who makes him feel something rare, like genuine curiosity/interest.
You’d be an idea to him before you’re ever a person.
Even then, it would take time. A lot of time. Like, we're talking months, maybe years, before that interest morphs into something that even vaguely resembles yandere-level obsessiveness. Chrollo wouldn’t just wake up one day and imprint on some random person. It would be a painfully long and slow process.
Note: repost/revision of an ask/request that I answered. I didn't really like the previous format and I decided to add A LOT more to it. enjoy some good old yan!chrollo :)
Yandere Chrollo? Oh, it's certainly possible. I mean, anything’s possible with writing. But if we’re talking about the actual possibility of that happening? Like the odds of him going/being all yandere on/for someone? I’d say slim to none. Sorry. He’s honestly like one of the last characters I’d ever expect to be a yandere or even act yandere in any traditional sense.
Chrollo’s not your typical yandere. Like, at all. He wouldn’t look like one, wouldn’t act like one, wouldn’t feel like one—not visually, not behaviourally, not emotionally. Not in any traditional sense, that is. He’s basically the exact opposite of how yandere characters are usually portrayed. Nothing you’d normally expect or associated with that genre of character. No obvious obsession, no blatant possessiveness, no impulsive violence, no dramatic displays, no grand gestures, and definitely no cringy ‘you’re mine’ declarations.
That kind of stuff just doesn't fit my interpretation of Chrollo as a yandere, to be honest.
He doesn’t fit the stereotypical yandere mold. It’s just not realistic or accurate, at least not without heavily adjusting his canon character to make it even slightly fit the archetype. The literal definition of yandere—and all the usual traits that come with that label—pretty much contradicts everything established about him. Like, the man recites scripture and barely emotes, he’s basically a void dressed in a turtleneck. So do you really think he’d breakdown just because someone breathed in your direction? Absolutely fucking not. He’s not built for that kind of shit lol.
Realistically? It’d just seem like… Chrollo being Chrollo. His usual self. The same unreadable, soft-spoken, disgustingly poetic nightmare he always is. It wouldn’t be an instant, all-consuming fixation/obsession for a character like Chrollo. It’s not love at first sight or anything like that—he’d never even call it love, not in any traditional sense. Probably wouldn’t even say want or need, either. And it's not something that would completely overtake and dictate his life, either.
Instead, it’d be subtle and slow. Nothing overt. It wouldn’t even register as anything unusual right away—just a passing interest or mere curiosity. A reason to keep watching you, learning you, rearranging your life without you noticing.
He'd start by watching you, learning you, inserting himself into your life so naturally you don't even question it.
Before he ever even spoke to you, he watched. He’d sit in his car across the street or at a table in the corner of a cafe, and he would just… watch. Observe. Study. Learn. He memorized the way you chewed on your lip when you were concentrating, the specific rhythm of your breathing when you slept, the way your brow furrowed when you read something that troubled you.
He saw the cracks in your life long before you did. The coworker who was secretly undermining you, the lover who was growing distant, the family obligations that wore you down to a raw nerve. He saw every vulnerability, every weakness, every tiny fracture in your world. And he didn’t see them with sympathy or anything so mundane like that. Nothing so human. He saw them as entry points. He made a mental list of them with the same detached curiosity he would with a Nen ability.
To him, you weren’t a woman he desired. Not in the normal sense, anyway. He did want you, no doubt about that. You were a complex, beautiful, and flawed system that he was going to tear down and rebuild in his own image.
Maybe he ‘bumps into’ you a few times too many, but always with some perfectly reasonable excuse like he just happens to be nearby. He makes it sound casual, like coincidence. Maybe he quotes something from a book you love but never told him about, making it seem like you have similar interests. Maybe he knows things about your life you never told him, but he brushes it off with that soft smile, like it’s no big deal. It's not creepy—it's charming.
It’s raining—sheets of water blur the windows, creating tiny rivers that streak down the glass in messy rivulets. It’s one of those afternoons where everything feels washed out, where the outside world looks like a watercolour smear—all muted greys and dark silhouettes of slick streets, faintly lit by streetlights glowing through the haze. People huddle under umbrellas, their feet splashing in shallow puddles as they hurry along.
You’re at your usual spot in the back of a quaint little café in Yorknew City, tucked away in a corner booth, secluded from prying eyes and the bustle of others. A cup of coffee you’ve been nursing for the past hour sits in front of you, long gone cold, while you scroll aimlessly through your phone to pass the time.
The bell over the door jingles softly, barely audible over the steady patter of rain against the café windows, the low hum of voices, the muffled clatter of cups and saucers, and the occasional hiss of the coffee maker steaming milk. But somehow, the sound is enough to catch your attention.
You glance up, and there he is. The handsome, polite man you first met weeks ago, right here in this very café. Back then, he had approached you and struck up a conversation about the book you were reading. It was Dante’s Inferno. A work that, of course, he claimed to have already read. He’d also casually—and maybe a little too conveniently—mentioned it was one of his favourites. Naturally, he seemed curious about the person who was sitting all alone, spending their free time trying to decipher 14th century poetry.
Since that initial encounter, the two of you keep running into each other. Coincidence, you tell yourself.
Chrollo steps inside with the kind of urgency that only someone unexpectedly caught in a torrential downpour could pull off. Soaked through, slightly breathless, and mildly inconvenienced. Giving the impression that he ‘just happened’ to duck into the nearest shop for shelter, ‘just happened’ to be in the same neighborhood as you.
Shaking the water from his jacket and running a hand through his damp hair, he lets out a sharp huff of air, his mouth tightening into a grimace that twists briefly across his face.
To anyone watching, it all seems inconsequential—minor, trivial, completely ordinary. His actions appear natural, logical, even predictable. Just the normal, expected behaviour of a seemingly unlucky man, drenched to the bone and trying to escape the storm. Nothing more.
But it’s really not. With Chrollo, it’s all a performance. Everything is deliberate and manufactured. Designed and orchestrated. His movements, his gestures, his emotions, his words, his expressions—each one carefully planned, crafted, and conveyed with just enough authenticity to make it all seem believable and real.
His usual soft-spoken, detached, and unnervingly controlled demeanour slips just a tad. Though, the word ‘usual’ might not be the best choice when describing Chrollo’s demeanour—because there’s nothing typical about it, really. He’s capable of transforming himself into almost anything he chooses, at any given time. Like putting on a mask or slipping into a role. His demeanour depends entirely on what he chooses it to be—what kind of performance he decides to give, what the situation demands of him, what suits his needs, and what serves his goals best.
Chrollo lets his gaze sweep the shop briefly, as though searching for a place to sit, as though he hasn’t already spotted you. His hesitation is perfectly timed—just enough to make it seem like he’s debating whether approaching you would be intrusive. Then his eyes meet yours across the sea of customers, and his expression softens slightly. Intentionally, of course. A flicker of recognition, carefully and purposely designed to appear genuine.
He slowly makes his way over to you, his soaked boots making faint squeaks against the tiled floor. He stops at your table, ignoring the fact that he’s tracking water onto the floor.
“Ah,” he starts, his tone soft but confident. Like this moment was inevitable. “I thought I might run into you here.” His smile barely shifts when he adds, “though I can’t say I planned on doing so in quite this state.” His voice carries a hint of dry, self-depreciating humour as he gestures vaguely at the water dripping from his coat, brushing a strand of damp hair away from his forehead.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he continues, tilting his head slightly to study your face. “But judging by the look of your coffee…” He trails off, his voice dipping into just the faintest bit of teasing.
You glance down at the cold, untouched drink sitting in front of you, and his smile widens ever so slightly.
Without waiting for an invitation, Chrollo motions toward the seat across from you. “Do you mind?” He asks, but he doesn’t wait for a response before lowering himself and sliding into the booth. He already knows you’ll say yes. As he settles in, he removes his damp jacket, folding it neatly and setting it aside.
He’d make it all feel natural, like fate or whatever other bullshit he spins.
You’re in a bookstore you’ve only been to twice, tucked away in a part of the city you rarely visit. It’s your secret spot. The air smells like dust and decaying paper, and it’s quiet enough to hear your own heartbeat. As you reach for a worn copy of a book you’ve been hunting for ages, another hand brushes yours. You flinch back, startled, and your eyes meet his. Chrollo. Of course, it’s him. He offers you that soft, annoyingly calm smile.
“My apologies,” he says, his voice a low murmur that feels too intimate for the space between you. “I didn’t see you there.”
It’s the third time this month. A coffee shop, a gallery opening, and now here. Your stomach twists with a feeling you can't name—not quite fear, but something very close to it.
“What are you doing here?” You ask, your voice tighter than you intended. If this is actually just all an odd coincidence, the last thing you want to do is come across as a bitch.
Chrollo gestures vaguely to the shelves, his gaze unreadable. “Just browsing. It’s funny, isn’t it? How we seem to be drawn to the same places.” He doesn’t mention the book in your hand, the one you were talking about with a friend just last week over the phone. He doesn’t have to. He just looks at you, a flicker of something in his eyes before it’s gone, replaced by that placid charm.
“It must be fate,” he adds with a light laugh, and the word hangs in the air, feeling less like a sweet sentiment and more like a fucking death sentence.
He wouldn’t kidnap you outright. That’s way too crude and not his style. Also, taking you by force risks traumatizing you, something he’d prefer avoiding all together because it would only make things more complicated for him. Instead, he’d orchestrate your isolation and pick apart your entire support system. He’d make sure your life outside him feels… empty and pointless. Friends and family start to drift away? Oh, they probably just got busy. Opportunities dry up? Must be bad luck or something. Work becomes too much? Maybe it's time to quit. Plans fall apart? Wasn’t meant to be. But hey, guess who’s always there for you?
He’d make himself indispensable. He’d be your confidant, your only constant, the one who always knows what you need before you even ask. And before you know it, there’s nothing left and you’re turning to him.
You sit on the park bench, the autumn leaves crunching underfoot, but the chill in the air matches the one in your chest. Tears of frustration sting your eyes. Your friends just cancelled on you. Again. It’s the fifth time in two months, always delivered with some last-minute excuses that feel fake and insincere. Your messages are full of vague, half-assed apologies that sound more like excuses than anything else. It feels like everyone in your life is slowly pulling away.
And then he’s there. Approaching with a warm smile that falters the second he sees your expression. You’re so used to unexpectedly running into him by now you don’t even question it.
Chrollo sits beside you—not too close, never too close—and waits for you to speak first. He doesn’t need to push or pry for answers. He knows you’ll open up to him sooner or later. It’s inevitable. Only a matter of time. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong because he already knows what’s wrong.
He listens with that goddamn patient focus of his as you finally spill everything—the cancellations, loneliness, the anger, the feelings of abandonment and rejection.
When you’re done, he just hums. “People can be unreliable,” he says softly. His arm slides behind you, coming up to rest on the back of the bench. While his hand comes to rest on your knee, his thumb stroking in slow, soothing circles.
“They will always, eventually disappoint you.” He’s not telling you to cut your friends off. He’s smarter than that. He’s validating every ugly, selfish thought in your head. He’s making your isolation seem like growth, making your world feel smaller.
He leans in closer. “But I won’t.”
And it wouldn’t happen with just anyone, either. Chrollo doesn’t feel things easily. He’s emotionally detached by default, and rarely—if ever—expresses himself openly. But there are exceptions. The Troupe and its members, for example—those are among the few things he truly cares about, and typically always prioritizes above everything else. People love to call Chrollo emotionless, and sometimes characterize him as completely devoid of emotion and feeling—and hey, before anyone gets mad, I’m not judging. To each their own. Everyone is entitled to their own interpretation.
But personally? That’s not how I see him. He’s not emotionless, and he’s definitely not clueless when it comes to feelings. He’s 1000% capable of feeling deeply and genuinely, and honestly? I think he understands emotion better than most. He just doesn’t express it in conventional ways. I’d actually argue he’s probably one of the most emotionally intelligent characters in Hunter x Hunter.
Anywaysss. I’m getting a little off track here, sorry lol. As I was saying, Chrollo wouldn’t develop that kind of fixation for just anyone. He doesn't do random obsessions. He’s too wrapped up in his own existential bullshit to fixate like that. He's not the type to spot someone cute in a crowd and suddenly go full yandere mode.
It would take someone incredibly specific. Someone who fascinates him in a way he can’t quite articulate or understand, someone who intrigues him on a level that’s intellectual at first, someone who lingers in his thoughts even long after they’re gone, someone who makes him feel something rare, like genuine curiosity/interest. You’d be an idea to him before you’re ever a person.
Even then, it would take time. A lot of time. Like, we're talking months, maybe years, before that interest morphs into something that even vaguely resembles yandere-level obsessiveness. Chrollo wouldn’t just wake up one day and imprint on some random person. It would be a painfully long and slow process.
Note: I felt inspired and decided to whip up this piece of depraved garbage. I'm actually just procrastinating finishing my other fics. unedited and rushed as hell. enjoy some yan chrollo :)
Summary: your world consists of only one thing now: chrollo. He saved you from a life that felt like a cage, but he's about to remind you just how 'free' you really are. basically just porn with a sprinkle of actual plot.
It’s been six months since you quit your job. Four since you last spoke to your family. Your friends have stopped calling. Your world consists of a quiet, two bedroom apartment and him. He’s everything now. Your protector, your confidant, your lover. Everything.
Tonight, he’s fucking you on the livingroom floor. There’s a pile of sheets beneath you that Chrollo prepared in advance, which frankly, does absolutely nothing for your back. But hey, the thought was there.
Chrollo’s gaze is a bottomless void, and he holds it on you while he works his hips. He drags his cock out of you until just the head is nestled in your slick, swollen folds, making your cunt clench and twitch around him like a dying fish. Then he drives back in, a single, brutal slide that bottoms out deep inside you, stealing your breath and making his pubic bone crack against yours.
His expression unreadable as he thrusts into you. Slow and deep. Sliding in and out of your fluttering pussy with a pace that has your toes curling and back arching off the ground with every roll of his hips.
His rhythm suddenly falters as he buries himself to the hilt, hips flush against yours as he holds the position. Not moving anymore. The tip of his cock brushes your cervix, making you cry out and claw at his back. He doesn’t even flinch, not even when your nails scratch deep, bloody gouges down his spine.
“Do you remember,” he murmurs into the crook of your neck, his voice sounding oddly composed for the current situation. “When you told me you felt trapped in your old life?
Conversation? Right now? Really? Fuck that. That’s literally the last thing on your mind right now. You just want him to move again, to keep going, to put an end to this throbbing ache and let you come. And you’ll say or do just about anything to make that happen.
Your response tumbles out as a high-pitched, moaned yes—pathetic, desperate, and so fucking needy it embarasses you even as it spills from your lips. You agree way too fast, blurting out whatever the hell you think he wants to hear, barely processing his words at all. Because right now, you’re drowning in the fact that he’s gone completely still inside you, and you absolutely hate it. You were so fucking close and he just stopped.
The ache throbs deep in your core, hot, insistent, and borderline unbearable, clenching around his unmoving cock. Sweat glistens on your skin, trickling down your spine as your hips twitch and buck uselessly against his in frantic, wild desperation—chasing any scrap of friction, anything at all that might ease the burning need ripping through your body.
But it’s all so utterly futile. Your frenzied grinding provides no relief or satisfaction whatsoever—not even a hint—only amplifying your frustration and desperation, leaving you even more wrecked than before.
Though your pitiful actions accomplish absolutely nothing for you—hell, they actually just make things worse—they do, however, seem to satisfy Chrollo, who’s enjoying every second of this. Internally, of course. He’s not exactly an open book. Everything is meticulously controlled and hidden beneath an expression that doesn’t reveal anything he doesn’t intend to. Not like you’d be able to tell, anyway—at least, not with you being so deeply engrossed in your current dilemma, which has totally crippled your ability to form even a single, coherent or rational thought.
Chrollo peers down at you from above, watching you with an expression that’s almost teasing. Eyes half-lidded. Head tilted to the side. Lips quirked to the side. Like he’s studying a particularly fascinating passage in one of his books, not buried balls-deep inside you.
“Hm?” He hums softly, low and encouraging. That single hum laced with just enough insistence to make it clear he won’t accept your response as a proper answer to his question. As if your embarrassingly whiny and borderline incoherent moan wasn’t quite articulate enough for him.
“What was that?” He prompts gently, almost like he’s gently encouraging a student to elaborate on a half-formed idea. It’s not threatening, demanding, mocking, or anything else like that—it’s just a soft, patient, composed nudge. A gentle encouragement or push in the right direction. Subtly trying to coax a reaction out of you.
“I didn’t quite catch it.” There’s a slight undertone of mock innocence in his voice—indistinct and hardly noticeable, virtually impossible to detect. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
Much to your frustration and distress, Chrollo still hasn’t moved. Not one bit. His movements remain on pause. He’s still buried all the way inside your drenched pussy, which hasn’t stopped clenching and fluttering around him, not even once—something that hasn’t gone unnoticed by Chrollo, and interestingly enough, he finds himself mildly fascinated by it. You’re gripping his cock so fucking tight that for a brief moment, he actually worries you might be squeezing him hard enough to cut off his blood flow and circulation.
The thought is so absurd and downright laughable—not to mention, literally impossible—that Chrollo finds himself genuinely and uncharacteristically taken aback that his own mind had even entertained a notion like that. He quickly dismisses the thought entirely, categorizing it as nothing more than a fleeting and rare lapse in his otherwise impeccable composure.
On the other hand. You are literal seconds away from bursting into tears, genuinely thinking this torment would never end and you’d be left to suffer forever, when you suddenly notice a slight change in Chrollo’s body from where it hovers above you.
The arms that have been pinning and caging you in move as he adjusts their placement, his palms sliding along the floor as his stance widens, almost like he’s bracing himself for what's coming next. The hands that have been resting flat and relaxed on either side of your head twitch faintly, just once, as his fingers shift and adjust their hold on the wrinkled sheets beneath you. Clenching and curling even tighter around the loose fabric—to get a better hold. The muscles in his back tense and flex beneath your palms, his body stabilizing itself.
Your fucked-out brain barely registers any of this—his stance widening, his body bracing, his hold changing, his grip tightening. They’re all minor and insignificant adjustments that you normally, in any other circumstance, wouldn’t even notice or think twice about—let alone right now, given your current state of mind.
They all seem normal—just the natural, unconscious, and involuntary movements and functionings of the body—and don’t necessarily have to mean or indicate anything at all. But for some reason, they seem to trigger something in you. Something that manages to momentarily break through the sex-induced haze that’s completely surrounded and engulfed your mind. Every single nerve in your body suddenly goes off all at once, lighting up and firing-off signals that make your senses explode with a newfound alertness and warning. Your primal instincts are literally screaming at you. Danger, danger, danger!
Chrollo grants you with something that your overstimulated mind misinterprets as mercy—he finally starts to move once again. It’s not actually a mercy at all, not in the slightest sense, it’s actually the furthest thing from that. But you don’t know that, and it still sparks a tiny flicker of hope in you all the same.
He indulges in the slightest movement ever—torturing you, really, with never quite giving you what you really need—and pulls back by a fraction. An inch at most. No more than that. Slow enough that you feel every ridge and vein dragging along your slick, fluttering insides as he retreats, and gentle enough that your pussy instinctively tries to suck him back in, desperate and greedy. Like you’re terrified he’ll pull out completely.
You whimper, hips jerking up instinctively, chasing that loss. He doesn't let you suffer for too long. He relents by a fraction and pulls back another teasing inch, causing his hips to lift away from yours and the pain in your cervix to ease marginally as the head of his cock finally stops pressing against it.
He’s barely even moved—basically still bottomed-out inside you—but even the slightest sensation sends your trembling, deprived body into overdrive.
The gnawing, almost unbearable emptiness inside you—both literal and figurative—doesn’t last long, because Chrollo’s already sliding right back in again, filling the space completely as he rocks into you with a shallow, but absolutely brutal thrust of his hips. It’s a sharp and sudden motion that drives him all the way back inside you, punching the air from your lungs and leaving you gasping for breath. He slams into you with a force that somehow manages to shove him even deeper than before.
The force of his thrust has you sliding backwards against the floor, your body jolting up several inches from where you were pinned beneath him. You would’ve slipped right out from under him if he didn’t grab hold of your hips and catch you, his fingers digging in as he drags you back down onto him, holding you firmer now.
Chrollo stays buried, unmoving once again, drawing out the fullness until it’s agonizing, your body practically vibrating with overstimulation, thighs quaking around him while slick heat leaks down your ass, pooling on the floor in a messy puddle. He savours it by leaning his weight forward, pushing impossibly deeper until his cock is lodged so far inside you feel it in your fucking throat, grinding slow circles with his hips that mash his pelvis against your clit in torturous, unrelenting pressure.
He draws out the torment, rocking his hips in shallow, infuriating nudges—barely pulling out before sinking back in, over and over, each micro-thrust a wet, squelching glide that rubs his cockhead against that spongy spot inside you without ever building momentum.
He’s giving you the barest hint of relief without actually giving you any real satisfaction. It’s a bare minimum that does absolutely nothing for you. It’s just enough for you to feel just a little bit of something—to soothe the throbbing ache between your thighs by a hair and keep you exactly where he wants you to be—but not enough to give you what you really need.
It keeps your hopes from dwindling completely. Because if you lose all sense of hope, it would only create more of a hassle for him. He’d prefer to avoid any with unnecessary complications. If giving you scraps of affection saves him some trouble in the long run, so be it.
But most importantly, the chances of him accidentally overwhelming you or breaking a boundary—or God forbid, turning you off—are significantly lower when he’s not teasing you to the point of fucking tears. And he knows, he came very close to doing just that. So he immediately backed off. He won’t run the risk of ruining all the work he’s put into you over the last couple months by pushing you too far. It’d waste his time and effort.
“Well? Speak up,” Chrollo prods softly, again. He shifts just a fraction again, a deliberate flex of his pelvis that presses his cock deeper, grinding the base against your swollen clit in a slow circle that sends a fresh jolt of relief sparking through your core, only to yank it away by holding still again, leaving you with the maddening fullness and nothing else.
“Yes! Yes! Yes I remember!” You finally blurt out.
Chrollo’s lips curve into a knowing, ironic smirk against your throat—smug and laced with something darkly amused—seemingly pleased by your answer. Finally. The edge to it sends a brief flicker of unease through your haze of need. It’s not a kind smile. You catch the faint pull of it on your skin, warm and subtly mocking, as if he’s laughing at some private joke you’re not in on.
“And look at you now,” he continues, rewarding your response with an open-mouthed kiss on your neck, his breath ragged as his tongue traces a hot, wet stripe over your pulse. Finally, he resumes his movements once again. His hips snap forward, picking up pace—slamming into you even harder and faster than before. Not slow and deep anymore, but rough and brutal, each thrust jolting through you. “So free.”
Note: repost/revision of an ask/request that I answered. I didn't really like the previous format and I decided to add A LOT more to it. enjoy some good old yan!chrollo :)
Yandere Chrollo? Oh, it's certainly possible. I mean, anything’s possible with writing. But if we’re talking about the actual possibility of that happening? Like the odds of him going/being all yandere on/for someone? I’d say slim to none. Sorry. He’s honestly like one of the last characters I’d ever expect to be a yandere or even act yandere in any traditional sense.
Chrollo’s not your typical yandere. Like, at all. He wouldn’t look like one, wouldn’t act like one, wouldn’t feel like one—not visually, not behaviourally, not emotionally. Not in any traditional sense, that is. He’s basically the exact opposite of how yandere characters are usually portrayed. Nothing you’d normally expect or associated with that genre of character. No obvious obsession, no blatant possessiveness, no impulsive violence, no dramatic displays, no grand gestures, and definitely no cringy ‘you’re mine’ declarations.
That kind of stuff just doesn't fit my interpretation of Chrollo as a yandere, to be honest.
He doesn’t fit the stereotypical yandere mold. It’s just not realistic or accurate, at least not without heavily adjusting his canon character to make it even slightly fit the archetype. The literal definition of yandere—and all the usual traits that come with that label—pretty much contradicts everything established about him. Like, the man recites scripture and barely emotes, he’s basically a void dressed in a turtleneck. So do you really think he’d breakdown just because someone breathed in your direction? Absolutely fucking not. He’s not built for that kind of shit lol.
Realistically? It’d just seem like… Chrollo being Chrollo. His usual self. The same unreadable, soft-spoken, disgustingly poetic nightmare he always is. It wouldn’t be an instant, all-consuming fixation/obsession for a character like Chrollo. It’s not love at first sight or anything like that—he’d never even call it love, not in any traditional sense. Probably wouldn’t even say want or need, either. And it's not something that would completely overtake and dictate his life, either.
Instead, it’d be subtle and slow. Nothing overt. It wouldn’t even register as anything unusual right away—just a passing interest or mere curiosity. A reason to keep watching you, learning you, rearranging your life without you noticing.
He'd start by watching you, learning you, inserting himself into your life so naturally you don't even question it.
Before he ever even spoke to you, he watched. He’d sit in his car across the street or at a table in the corner of a cafe, and he would just… watch. Observe. Study. Learn. He memorized the way you chewed on your lip when you were concentrating, the specific rhythm of your breathing when you slept, the way your brow furrowed when you read something that troubled you.
He saw the cracks in your life long before you did. The coworker who was secretly undermining you, the lover who was growing distant, the family obligations that wore you down to a raw nerve. He saw every vulnerability, every weakness, every tiny fracture in your world. And he didn’t see them with sympathy or anything so mundane like that. Nothing so human. He saw them as entry points. He made a mental list of them with the same detached curiosity he would with a Nen ability.
To him, you weren’t a woman he desired. Not in the normal sense, anyway. He did want you, no doubt about that. You were a complex, beautiful, and flawed system that he was going to tear down and rebuild in his own image.
Maybe he ‘bumps into’ you a few times too many, but always with some perfectly reasonable excuse like he just happens to be nearby. He makes it sound casual, like coincidence. Maybe he quotes something from a book you love but never told him about, making it seem like you have similar interests. Maybe he knows things about your life you never told him, but he brushes it off with that soft smile, like it’s no big deal. It's not creepy—it's charming.
It’s raining—sheets of water blur the windows, creating tiny rivers that streak down the glass in messy rivulets. It’s one of those afternoons where everything feels washed out, where the outside world looks like a watercolour smear—all muted greys and dark silhouettes of slick streets, faintly lit by streetlights glowing through the haze. People huddle under umbrellas, their feet splashing in shallow puddles as they hurry along.
You’re at your usual spot in the back of a quaint little café in Yorknew City, tucked away in a corner booth, secluded from prying eyes and the bustle of others. A cup of coffee you’ve been nursing for the past hour sits in front of you, long gone cold, while you scroll aimlessly through your phone to pass the time.
The bell over the door jingles softly, barely audible over the steady patter of rain against the café windows, the low hum of voices, the muffled clatter of cups and saucers, and the occasional hiss of the coffee maker steaming milk. But somehow, the sound is enough to catch your attention.
You glance up, and there he is. The handsome, polite man you first met weeks ago, right here in this very café. Back then, he had approached you and struck up a conversation about the book you were reading. It was Dante’s Inferno. A work that, of course, he claimed to have already read. He’d also casually—and maybe a little too conveniently—mentioned it was one of his favourites. Naturally, he seemed curious about the person who was sitting all alone, spending their free time trying to decipher 14th century poetry.
Since that initial encounter, the two of you keep running into each other. Coincidence, you tell yourself.
Chrollo steps inside with the kind of urgency that only someone unexpectedly caught in a torrential downpour could pull off. Soaked through, slightly breathless, and mildly inconvenienced. Giving the impression that he ‘just happened’ to duck into the nearest shop for shelter, ‘just happened’ to be in the same neighborhood as you.
Shaking the water from his jacket and running a hand through his damp hair, he lets out a sharp huff of air, his mouth tightening into a grimace that twists briefly across his face.
To anyone watching, it all seems inconsequential—minor, trivial, completely ordinary. His actions appear natural, logical, even predictable. Just the normal, expected behaviour of a seemingly unlucky man, drenched to the bone and trying to escape the storm. Nothing more.
But it’s really not. With Chrollo, it’s all a performance. Everything is deliberate and manufactured. Designed and orchestrated. His movements, his gestures, his emotions, his words, his expressions—each one carefully planned, crafted, and conveyed with just enough authenticity to make it all seem believable and real.
His usual soft-spoken, detached, and unnervingly controlled demeanour slips just a tad. Though, the word ‘usual’ might not be the best choice when describing Chrollo’s demeanour—because there’s nothing typical about it, really. He’s capable of transforming himself into almost anything he chooses, at any given time. Like putting on a mask or slipping into a role. His demeanour depends entirely on what he chooses it to be—what kind of performance he decides to give, what the situation demands of him, what suits his needs, and what serves his goals best.
Chrollo lets his gaze sweep the shop briefly, as though searching for a place to sit, as though he hasn’t already spotted you. His hesitation is perfectly timed—just enough to make it seem like he’s debating whether approaching you would be intrusive. Then his eyes meet yours across the sea of customers, and his expression softens slightly. Intentionally, of course. A flicker of recognition, carefully and purposely designed to appear genuine.
He slowly makes his way over to you, his soaked boots making faint squeaks against the tiled floor. He stops at your table, ignoring the fact that he’s tracking water onto the floor.
“Ah,” he starts, his tone soft but confident. Like this moment was inevitable. “I thought I might run into you here.” His smile barely shifts when he adds, “though I can’t say I planned on doing so in quite this state.” His voice carries a hint of dry, self-depreciating humour as he gestures vaguely at the water dripping from his coat, brushing a strand of damp hair away from his forehead.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” he continues, tilting his head slightly to study your face. “But judging by the look of your coffee…” He trails off, his voice dipping into just the faintest bit of teasing.
You glance down at the cold, untouched drink sitting in front of you, and his smile widens ever so slightly.
Without waiting for an invitation, Chrollo motions toward the seat across from you. “Do you mind?” He asks, but he doesn’t wait for a response before lowering himself and sliding into the booth. He already knows you’ll say yes. As he settles in, he removes his damp jacket, folding it neatly and setting it aside.
He’d make it all feel natural, like fate or whatever other bullshit he spins.
You’re in a bookstore you’ve only been to twice, tucked away in a part of the city you rarely visit. It’s your secret spot. The air smells like dust and decaying paper, and it’s quiet enough to hear your own heartbeat. As you reach for a worn copy of a book you’ve been hunting for ages, another hand brushes yours. You flinch back, startled, and your eyes meet his. Chrollo. Of course, it’s him. He offers you that soft, annoyingly calm smile.
“My apologies,” he says, his voice a low murmur that feels too intimate for the space between you. “I didn’t see you there.”
It’s the third time this month. A coffee shop, a gallery opening, and now here. Your stomach twists with a feeling you can't name—not quite fear, but something very close to it.
“What are you doing here?” You ask, your voice tighter than you intended. If this is actually just all an odd coincidence, the last thing you want to do is come across as a bitch.
Chrollo gestures vaguely to the shelves, his gaze unreadable. “Just browsing. It’s funny, isn’t it? How we seem to be drawn to the same places.” He doesn’t mention the book in your hand, the one you were talking about with a friend just last week over the phone. He doesn’t have to. He just looks at you, a flicker of something in his eyes before it’s gone, replaced by that placid charm.
“It must be fate,” he adds with a light laugh, and the word hangs in the air, feeling less like a sweet sentiment and more like a fucking death sentence.
He wouldn’t kidnap you outright. That’s way too crude and not his style. Also, taking you by force risks traumatizing you, something he’d prefer avoiding all together because it would only make things more complicated for him. Instead, he’d orchestrate your isolation and pick apart your entire support system. He’d make sure your life outside him feels… empty and pointless. Friends and family start to drift away? Oh, they probably just got busy. Opportunities dry up? Must be bad luck or something. Work becomes too much? Maybe it's time to quit. Plans fall apart? Wasn’t meant to be. But hey, guess who’s always there for you?
He’d make himself indispensable. He’d be your confidant, your only constant, the one who always knows what you need before you even ask. And before you know it, there’s nothing left and you’re turning to him.
You sit on the park bench, the autumn leaves crunching underfoot, but the chill in the air matches the one in your chest. Tears of frustration sting your eyes. Your friends just cancelled on you. Again. It’s the fifth time in two months, always delivered with some last-minute excuses that feel fake and insincere. Your messages are full of vague, half-assed apologies that sound more like excuses than anything else. It feels like everyone in your life is slowly pulling away.
And then he’s there. Approaching with a warm smile that falters the second he sees your expression. You’re so used to unexpectedly running into him by now you don’t even question it.
Chrollo sits beside you—not too close, never too close—and waits for you to speak first. He doesn’t need to push or pry for answers. He knows you’ll open up to him sooner or later. It’s inevitable. Only a matter of time. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong because he already knows what’s wrong.
He listens with that goddamn patient focus of his as you finally spill everything—the cancellations, loneliness, the anger, the feelings of abandonment and rejection.
When you’re done, he just hums. “People can be unreliable,” he says softly. His arm slides behind you, coming up to rest on the back of the bench. While his hand comes to rest on your knee, his thumb stroking in slow, soothing circles.
“They will always, eventually disappoint you.” He’s not telling you to cut your friends off. He’s smarter than that. He’s validating every ugly, selfish thought in your head. He’s making your isolation seem like growth, making your world feel smaller.
He leans in closer. “But I won’t.”
And it wouldn’t happen with just anyone, either. Chrollo doesn’t feel things easily. He’s emotionally detached by default, and rarely—if ever—expresses himself openly. But there are exceptions. The Troupe and its members, for example—those are among the few things he truly cares about, and typically always prioritizes above everything else. People love to call Chrollo emotionless, and sometimes characterize him as completely devoid of emotion and feeling—and hey, before anyone gets mad, I’m not judging. To each their own. Everyone is entitled to their own interpretation.
But personally? That’s not how I see him. He’s not emotionless, and he’s definitely not clueless when it comes to feelings. He’s 1000% capable of feeling deeply and genuinely, and honestly? I think he understands emotion better than most. He just doesn’t express it in conventional ways. I’d actually argue he’s probably one of the most emotionally intelligent characters in Hunter x Hunter.
Anywaysss. I’m getting a little off track here, sorry lol. As I was saying, Chrollo wouldn’t develop that kind of fixation for just anyone. He doesn't do random obsessions. He’s too wrapped up in his own existential bullshit to fixate like that. He's not the type to spot someone cute in a crowd and suddenly go full yandere mode.
It would take someone incredibly specific. Someone who fascinates him in a way he can’t quite articulate or understand, someone who intrigues him on a level that’s intellectual at first, someone who lingers in his thoughts even long after they’re gone, someone who makes him feel something rare, like genuine curiosity/interest. You’d be an idea to him before you’re ever a person.
Even then, it would take time. A lot of time. Like, we're talking months, maybe years, before that interest morphs into something that even vaguely resembles yandere-level obsessiveness. Chrollo wouldn’t just wake up one day and imprint on some random person. It would be a painfully long and slow process.
Note: I've been on a sukuna kick, apparently. enjoy this little fic. may or may not expand on this at some point. :)
Synopsis: movie night with Yuji doesn't go as planned when Sukuna decides to make an unexpected appearance.
Warnings: violence, dub-con/non-con elements (mild. more hinted towards it than anything), sukuna is a dick to reader and yuji.
Words: 1.2k
You’re sprawled out on Yuji’s crappy dorm bed, the kind that creaks like it’s about to give up on life any second. The room smells like cheap ramen and that faint, boyish sweat he always carries after training—kinda comforting, honestly. Both of you are huddled close together under a thick blanket, shoulders pressed close as you share a bowl of popcorn. You’ve got some raunchy, braindead comedy playing on his laptop, the device is propped up by a stack of manga at the foot of the bed.
Then the movie hits this dumbass joke—stupidly simple, one of those things that has both of you bursting out laughing. Yuji throws his head back and lets out that warm, boyish laugh you love so much, the one that rumbles deep from his belly and shakes his whole frame. His laugh is one of your favourite sounds in the entire world—warm, boyish, full of that easy joy he carries around like it's nothing.
You’re giggling too, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye, even as the scene moves on.
But his laughter… it doesn’t stop. It lingers, even as the moment passes. You glance at him, confusion knitting your brow. It just keeps going on and on and on, and something about it feels off. It’s deeper now, rougher, like a low vibration trying to crawl out of his chest. For a split second, you hear a second sound layered beneath it—almost like you imagined it. But you didn’t. It’s a low, arrogant rumble, creeping in like it’s stitching itself into his voice from the inside out.
Yuji’s eyes immediately fly wide with panic, the tone of his own laughter beginning to change, twisting into something utterly wrong. It's still coming from Yuji’s throat, but it's not his laugh anymore. It’s a full throated, arrogant bellow now, dripping with contempt and malice. He presses a palm flat against his face, as if trying to physically hold the wrong sound in. But it catches in his throat anyway, twisting into a fit of guttural coughing that doesn't sound right either—too rough, too broken.
Concern immediately replaces your amusement. “Hey, you okay? Breathe, dummy,” you say, patting his back.
He waves a hand dismissively, but he’s clutching his neck now, knuckles white, whole body trembling like he’s about to snap. As if he’s physically forcing something back. His facial muscles fight to hold the shape of his familiar, happy grin. He bows his head, trying to stifle the fit.
A new sound forces its way through the pained gasps. A low, grating chuckle, broken and uneven, ancient and mocking. It sharpens into this cruel edge, no longer amused—it’s straight up mockery now, a low, rumbling cackle that vibrates in his chest with a power that feels ancient, wrong, like it’s been buried for centuries and just clawed its way out.
Your smile falters, melting from your face as you push yourself up into a sitting position. “Yuji?”
No answer. His hand drops, but the laughter keeps going, shedding every bit of his warmth like dead skin.
Your blood runs cold. You watch, frozen, as his head, still tilted forward, slowly raises. The eyes that meet yours are not Yuji’s. The once warm, honey brown colour you’ve become so familiar with has been swallowed by a malevolent, blood red crimson.
Then you see it—the slow creep of black ink unfurling across his skin, intricate lines tattooing over his cheeks, down his neck, vanishing under the collar of his uniform. His shoulders, still shaking from the ‘laugh’ a moment ago, now shudder with a different energy entirely. The body in front of you—Yuji’s body—stretches and rolls back against the headboard with this lazy, arrogant grace that’s completely foreign to him. Like a king lounging on a throne.
A slow, languid smile spreads across his lips, cruel and chilling, holding zero warmth—just pure, mocking amusement. The laughter finally fades into a low, contemptuous chuckle that sends ice down your spine.
This isn’t Yuji. The realization hits you like a gut punch. This is Sukuna. The curse that’s been lurking inside him, the one Yuji’s always fighting. You’ve never actually met the bastard, but oh, he knows you.
“This is what passes for entertainment in this era?” He drawls, his attention focused on the laptop, as if you’re not even here. “Pathetic.”
That’s the only catalyst you need. Primal fear overrides every rational thought in your mind, and you find yourself moving before you even realize it. You scramble off the bed in a frantic mess of limbs, your feet slap against the cold floor as you bolt for the door in a blind panic. There’s no plan, no logic, just pure, desperate instinct. You don’t even know what you’re doing—you’re just trying to get out, to get away, to put as much distance as humanly possible between you and the thing grinning at you from across the room.
You’re mere steps from the door—fingertips barely grazing the handle—when a sudden, paralyzing pressure slams down on you. Your body locks mid-stride, every muscle seizing uncontrollably as you find yourself pinned in place by something you can’t see.
The invisible force spreads across every inch of the room, air growing heavy as cursed energy fills the once peaceful space. It’s crushing, almost suffocating, thick enough to choke on, and it’s not even a fraction of his power.
You’re frozen in place, your outstretched hand trembling just inches from freedom. “And where do you think you’re going?” A massive hand suddenly clamps down on the back of your neck.
A choked gasp escapes you as you’re violently yanked backward, your feet leaving the floor entirely before you’re thrown through the air. You land hard on the mattress with a painful thump, the impact stealing the breath from your lungs, blanket tangling around your legs. In a single, fluid motion, he's over you, caging you in with his body.
Sukuna’s gaze sweeps over you, a slow, deliberate appraisal that feels more violating than any touch. He’s looking at you, really looking at you, for the first time without the filter of Yuji’s consciousness. He’s seen you before, of course. He’s been a silent, unwilling audience to every conversation, every shared joke, every moment of your friendship. And you know, with a sickening certainty, that he has found it all utterly, excruciatingly boring. He’s been a prisoner in the gallery of Yuji’s mind, forced to watch the brat’s pathetic, saccharine daydreams of you.
The weight of him is immense, pinning you to the mattress. He plants his hands on either side of your head, leaning down until his face is inches from yours. You can smell him—old blood and something else, something vile and indescribable, like a forgotten tomb.
“The brat thinks of you often,” Sukuna muses, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve grown so bored of watching the brat drool over you like a lost puppy.”
Note: I've been neglecting sukuna lately, so I whipped this up. it's super rushed and unedited. my bad. hope you enjoy still :)
Warnings: NSFW, overstimulation, orgasm denial, choking, blood play, dub-con, face fucking, sukuna has a whole list of warnings himself lol.
Words: 1.6k
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
Sukuna? Aftercare? Hah, that’s a good one. This guy's not exactly the cuddly type. If you're lucky (or he's in a rare mood), he might just let you collapse against him. He's not gonna wrap you in blankets or whisper sweet nothings in your ear. Don’t expect that from someone who literally slaughtered half of Shibuya just because.
Instead, picture him lounging back like the king he is, maybe letting you slump against his chest while he traces over the marks he left all over you. Maybe a “get up, we’re not done yet” kinda thing.
B = Body part (their favourite body part of and their partner’s)
On himself, it's gotta be his arms/hands—those massive, four-armed bad boys that can pin you down, lift you up, choke you out, or rip you apart (figuratively, of course).
On you, though? Your neck. It's your throat that gets him going. Something about wrapping his fingers around it, feeling your pulse race and throb erratically under his grip.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum)
Messy as hell. Sukuna doesn’t hold back—he’ll fill you up like it’s nothing. Marking his territory inside and out. He gets off on watching it drip from you, dripping down your thighs and pooling beneath you.
He might even smear it across your skin if he’s feeling particularly sadistic that day. Or make you lick it off his fingers. And with his stamina? It’s not a one-and-done. He can go again and again, turning the whole thing into a sticky, filthy mess that leaves you soaked and spent.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Deep down (way deep), he kinda digs it when you fight back a little—not enough to actually pose a genuine challenge to him. Because you never could. Deep down, it turns him on more than blind obedience ever could, but good luck getting him to own up to it.
E = Experience (how experienced are they?)
Experienced? The dude’s been around for centuries, conquering everything in sight. He’s got experience that’d make anyone else look like an amateur. Obviously. He knows every trick, every spot, every way to make you scream. He’ll teach you that real quick, but expect to learn the hard way.
F = Favourite position (this goes without saying)
Whatever gives him the most control, and whatever humiliates/degrades you the most. He’s not picky, honestly.
Though, I doubt he’d ever let you ride him or be on top in any way. He needs to be the one in complete and total charge of everything going on lol. You, your body, the pace (fast, slow, hard, gentle, rough), etc. Definitely an ego thing.
Think him looming over you in missionary, those four arms locking you in place while he fucks you hard and deep. Or doggy, where he can wrap your hair around his fist and yank your head back.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment?)
Goofy isn’t in Sukuna’s vocabulary. He might let out a low, mocking laugh if you squirm or beg just right, taunting you with something like, “is that the best you can do?” But actual humour? Absolutely not. He might find your reactions amusing, though.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they?)
He’s a curse, so grooming isn’t exactly high on his list of priorities. And he doesn’t give a fuck if you like it trimmed or not. But everything’s neat enough. Hair that matches the reddish/pinkish mess on his head.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
He is not intimate at all. It’s possessive and obsessive ownership rather than romance.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Doesn’t bother much. Masturbation’s a rare boredom killer for Sukuna—why even bother when he can have the real deal? But if you're not around and the urge hits (or he’s reallllyy got absolutely nothing better to do), he'll handle it. Quick, rough, and brutal. It leaves him more irritated than satisfied.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Oh boy, where to start? Domination through and through, with bondage using those extra arms to tie you up, impact play (spanking, whipping, you name it), choking, and degradation that has him calling you every name in the book. Throw in primal play, where he hunts you down like prey, and maybe a blood kink with bites that draw just enough to taste.
L = Location (favourite places to do the do)
Anywhere he damn well pleases—thrones, ruins, your bed, doesn't matter. But his personal favourite would probably be his domain.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going, etc.)
Power. Seeing you submit, beg, or even resist in the slightest just to be overpowered. A hint of fear in your eyes? Instantly hard.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Anything that flips the script—don't even think about trying to dominate him, tie him down, or top him. That’s a hard no, and it'll end badly. Nothing that makes him seem submissive in any way. Weakness is a big turn off for him too. And if you're not putting up some sort of fight, he'll lose interest real fast.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Receiving. Kneel before the king lol. Oral's a power play for Sukuna. Receiving is straight up worship.
You on your knees while he fucks your throat (hard and fast, slow and gentle, don’t matter). His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging and using the strands as leverage. He jerks his hips forward in these sharp, demanding thrusts, shoving your head down at the same time until you're taking him all the way, nose brushing against his pubic bone as you choke and sputter around him. Forcing you to take him deeper in your throat. He holds you there for those agonizing seconds, loving the way your throat tightens and gags, before pulling back just enough to let you sputter and gasp. Only to do it again.
He absolutely loves it. He also doesn’t hate giving, but it’s definitely rare. Not something that happens often, and depends entirely on his mood.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Fast and rough, always. He’ll start slow to build the torment, then ramp up to brutal, deep thrusts that stretch and fill you up. Sensual? Only to fuck with you.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Loves ‘em—anytime, anywhere. If the mood is right, he'll bend you over for a fast, hard fuck and walk away smirking. Happens often, he's insatiable.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Absolutely takes risks. He’ll experiment with just about anything that pushes hard limits and boundaries. Because why not?
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Endless. King of Curses, remember? He can go for hours, multiple rounds, until you're a trembling mess. You’ll be the one tapping out, not him. He lasts as long as he wants, drawing it out or finishing quick to toy with you.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
Toys aren’t really his thing—he’s got cursed energy and four hands for all the torment he needs—but if you’ve got some lying around, he'll snatch ‘em up just to fuck with you more. Like, clamping a vibrator against you while he edges the hell out of you, or using chains to bind you tight, watching you squirm. On himself? Hell no, that's beneath him. He’d rather make you do the work. Why bother at all?
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Unfair is his default. He’ll tease you mercilessly—edging, denying orgasms, mocking and taunting you—until you’re a begging, sobbing, incoherent disaster beneath him. He doesn’t care if you come or not, this is all for him. Not for you.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Not super loud. Definitely groans every now and then, but he’s not overly vocal in that sense. Because he’ll be too busy laughing, mocking, taunting, or threatening you to be moaning in your ear.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
He loves using those extra mouths when he’s fucking you. They’re versatile as hell. He'll manifest the mouth on his stomach while he's buried inside you, pounding away, so it can lap and suck at your clit at the same time—eating you out while he fucks you senseless. Oh, and don't forget the palm mouth. He loves slapping a hand over your mouth to muffle every sound you make, then popping that extra tongue out to shove it down your throat.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Sukuna's equipped like the monster he is—massive, veiny, and thick enough to stretch you to your limits. Intimidating just like the rest of him. Two dicks? No, but it’s thick, long, and curved just right to hit every spot.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Sky high. Sukuna’s drive is feral and insatiable. He’s always ready. But you’d never know it. He keeps that shit under wraps.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Sleep? What’s that? He doesn’t crash right away—more like watching you pass out while he plots world domination or round two. He’ll just recline there, eyes half-shut, smirking as you pass out from the exhaustion he inflicted on your body. If he drifts off at all, it’s light, like he’s barely actually sleeping at all.
Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, and imbalanced power dynamics.
Word count: 1.1k.
Every torrent begins with a single drop.
Regardless of how devastating it will become, there must be a starting point. Without a beginning, there can be no end. Catastrophe, in its infancy, appears harmless enough. It nurses on indifference and is reared by the foolish if not understandable wish that once matured, perhaps it won’t be so terrible. And so it settles, falling like sediment to the bottom of a pond and entering a dormant state until roused.
What drew it from the depths of your subconscious couldn’t have been mundane if you tried.
A bathroom lock.
The hotel you’re staying at boasts a rich history. This can be felt in the bold, borderline ostentatious design choices, from the columns in the lobby reminiscent of Greek pillars to the aureate trimmings that spread like overgrown ivy across every surface. A little garish, yes, but forgivably so. The bellhop who spoke a mile a minute rattled off an impressive list of previous guests: movie stars, princes, even the occasional crime lord, though their addition was spoken in a quieter yet no less reverent tone.
Chrollo, ever the budding comedian, commented on his hope that they no longer hosted untoward figures.
“Oh no,” the bellhop rushed to reassure. “That was all so long ago. No one but the best stays here these days, sir.”
Chrollo cast you a sly look. You rolled your eyes, annoyed by the smile his remark nearly elicited.
A wave of nausea crashes upon you at the memory. You stand still, like a criminal caught in the act, your hand glued to the doorknob, which served as the catalyst for all this rumination. After a lengthy pause, you feel along the ridges, desperate to disprove your earlier epiphany. Palpable dread builds like a thick mucus in your throat with each passing moment. The doorknob, embellished with carvings of daffodils, does have a lock. An easy find, despite the ornamentation. Your hand recoils as if you touched burning coals. Exhaling shakily, you step back. It’s then that a question surfaces from your subconscious like a bloated corpse.
When did you stop locking the bathroom door?
At first, it was a given; your unspoken right. Although you recognized the futility, it provided a semblance of comfort. Sure, if Chrollo wanted to, he could easily break the door down. You weren’t a fool. The act extended beyond practicality. For you, it was a display of defiance that restored a semblance of self-control. Thousands of times, across multiple continents, modes of transport, and habitations, you’ve fiddled around until the telltale click greeted your ears. It became second nature. Taking a shower otherwise was inconceivable.
Doubts swarm around your head like mosquitoes. The pestilence insists on a thorough investigation; anything less is unacceptable.
You want to tell yourself it was just this once. An outlier, easily justified and swept under the rug. Except, deep down inside, you know better. No, this wasn’t the first time. You might be unable to pinpoint exactly when you stopped engaging in your little ritual, but in a way, that’s worse. This is indicative of a larger trend. Your thoughts plummet toward self-flagellation. The question you asked yourself previously morphs into its true, odious form:
When did you stop fighting back?
Not long after he first kidnapped you, he prophesied this development like the soothsayers of old.
“You’ll be difficult, for a time,” he calmly explained. Nothing you said — or screamed — phased him. If anything, it steeled his resolve. He continued, undeterred, “You’ll thrash about, push yourself to the brink, and in doing so, gain nothing for your efforts. Disappointment will give way to exhaustion. You’ll find that I’m a patient man. I promise you this — a day will come when the revulsion you regard me with fades. We’ll settle into a rhythm, and eventually…”
He smiled then, pleased by the future he envisioned.
“... you’ll realize your struggle was more for you than for me.”
The air, still thick with shower steam, oppresses you. He was right, you think, perspiration dappling your freshly washed skin. You consider the bathroom vanity. It’s nothing but self-condemnation for the sake of it, yet twisting the knife deeper feels necessary somehow; a form of penance. Your personal belongings — cosmetics, skincare, hygiene products and the like — are lined up on the right side, as you’ve come to prefer. At some point, even this display of complacency escaped your notice.
There is a hypnotic, almost seductive quality to routine. It beckons and promises much should you heed its call. You blink madly, like waking from a long dream. A routine, you frown. I have a routine with the man who took everything from me.
Arrive at a new destination. Inquire how long you’ll stay. Anything less than a few days, you don’t bother with unpacking all your luggage. You get the bare minimum out. Anything longer than that, though, necessitates some effort. Clothes are hung up, a grocery list is put together, inquiries made about your potential itinerary, local customs, and climate. A barbed word is thrown in here and there, but the venom has faded, the fangs that once delivered them softened.
You hear Chrollo call out for you, his voice muffled by the door.
“Is everything alright?” he asks. “You’re taking longer than usual, love.”
The word usual punches you in the gut, echoing in your mind like a haunted refrain.
“Y-Yes, I’m—” you clear your throat, disliking the brittle quality of your voice, “I’m just— finishing up.”
Though you can’t see him, you can imagine his expression, the dark quality of his eyes as he sifts through every detail you unknowingly betray of yourself.
The pause that follows is excruciating. He has a sixth sense for detecting your dishonesty, even if he doesn’t address it immediately. You loathe the anxiety brewing in your gut, not for the discomfort itself, but the underlying implication: you don’t want to disturb this uneasy stalemate. It is a fragile thing, razor thin, primed to shatter in an instant.
“I won’t be much longer,” you add.
“There’s no rush,” his reply is instant, cool and tranquil as an autumn breeze. “I’ll be here.”
Your frown deepens at the sound of his footsteps retreating. He’s capable of moving undetected. When he makes noise, it’s by design. Is he trying to soothe your nerves? Or set them further aflame? Whatever the case, you can’t stay cocooned in here forever. You’ll have to go out and face him eventually, this man who has ruined and rebuilt you.
You take a deep breath and reach for the handle, your thumb brushing over the lock.
Opening the door, you make a promise to yourself you may be unable to keep.
what if the reader tries to escape Chrollo and gets caught and she fears punishment so she tries to seduce him?
Note: this was fun lol. This actually inspired me to write a fic for this too. It goes along with it. I'll be posting it separately since it's pretty long. :)
Chrollo doesn’t let go of his fascinations easily–antique books, Nen abilities, valuable artifacts, and even people—he likes to keep them close. Unfortunately for you, he’s very fascinated with you. You could run to the other side of the world, change your identity, start a whole new life, and he would still find you. He’s fucking relentless. Absolutely nothing can keep you safe from him. Call it love, call it obsession, call it whatever you want, it doesn’t make any difference when you’re trying to get away.
Predictably, your escape failed—and you’re fucking terrified of being punished. Understandably so, Chrollo can be fucking horrifying. But he’s never raised his voice or hand at you, ever. That's not his style. Still, it’s only natural to expect punishment when caught doing something wrong, even though right and wrong is somewhat subjective in this scenario.
I highly doubt Chrollo would be anything less than calm and composed when he catches you. He’s not the type of person to get emotional easily, even in the most unfavorable situations. His calm, charismatic, and methodical approach has always worked for him—why change now? Because he seems somewhat detached for the most part, I don’t think Chrollo would reveal anything he’s thinking or feeling when he confronts you. He wouldn’t be angry or raise his voice, and he definitely wouldn’t act impulsively or resort to physical violence.
The only thing Chrollo would intentionally reveal is his disappointment—with you and your futile attempt at escape. It wouldn’t be genuine, of course. He’s only doing it because he knows the effects it’ll have on you. Depending on the circumstances—his mood at the time, or whether you’ve tried to escape before—he might use subtle threats to make it crystal fucking clear that there’s no escaping him. He tries his best to avoid violence of any kind with you, it's not something he enjoys or feels is necessary. He’d rather hint at the consequences of your actions—not just for you, but for your friends, your family, and anyone involved in your escape.
Chrollo strikes me as the type who would rather make someone fear what could happen than actually carry out a punishment. He might feel like that method provides the best results? Less disobedience and more compliance, without completely breaking someone? Who knows.
Anywayssss. Your fear about being punished for trying to escape wouldn’t surprise Chrollo, he already expected that. But you trying to seduce him would be very surprising, he never expected that. He’d hide his surprise and confusion well, barely letting anything show—maybe just a brief change in his body language, but that's all. Considering the kind of man Chrollo is, he probably wouldn’t want you to know that you had actually managed to throw him off guard, and that definitely influenced his reaction.
I’d imagine that Chrollo’s feelings for you would also play a part in how he’d react to the situation. He is attracted to you, both physically and emotionally, and you trying to seduce him would really test his limits. In his mind, he might be imagining fucking you right then and there, thinking of all the things he could do to you. But he knows better than to act solely on feelings, and prides himself on self-control. During your time together, Chrollo made sure he never crossed any lines with you, understanding the importance of appearing gentlemanly, composed, and caring. He knew that making you feel uncomfortable—more than necessary—would do little good, so he carefully maintained his image. As selfish as it sounds, he did it for himself more than he did it for you.
Chrollo’s also very smart. It wouldn’t take long for him to realize that you’re probably only trying to seduce him so you can avoid being punished. He’s seen people do all sorts of things under the right amount of pressure, but this might be a first. The fact that you’d try to manipulate him—and in that specific way too—was amusing. But he wouldn’t stop you, no, he’d rather sit back and observe for a bit, probably contemplating how to deal with you.
If Chrollo does decide to ‘entertain’ your attempts of seduction, it's because he wants to, not because you succeeded in seducing him. Maybe he’d play along because he wants to see just how far you’d go? Maybe he’s been feeling a little pent up lately, and this is the perfect opportunity to satisfy his needs? Either way, Chrollo never does anything without a purpose.
In this case, Chrollo would use the situation as an opportunity to teach you a lesson. Don’t expect much leniency from him. Running away was a betrayal, and that’s not something he’ll forget, or forgive easily. Still, he can’t help but feel slightly impressed with how you handled the situation. He knows you’re scared, but instead of giving into your fear—like he would’ve expected—you made a cunning move, attempting to manipulate him. And it might have worked, too, if you weren’t trying to manipulate him. But that tiny bit of respect you managed to gain doesn’t mean you’re off the hook from being punished.
If Chrollo does decide to punish you, he wouldn’t be overly cruel with it. Fear can be a great motivator, but he wouldn’t overdo it. He doesn’t want to traumatize you, no, that would only cause more problems for him in the long run. Instead, he’d opt for something subtle and far more effective, something very intimate. Chrollo is no stranger to using unorthodox methods of punishment, and he wouldn’t hesitate in the slightest to employ them if they served his purpose.
Chrollo would intentionally draw out the situation, allowing you to touch and kiss him, while using that sweet voice of yours to whisper some cock-hardening words into his ear. He’d be patient and play along with your game—calmly responding to your advances with some of his own—making you think that you’re winning, but you’re not, and you never will.
He gives you just enough rope to hang yourself with. He’ll let you take the lead, at first. He’ll remain almost passive, his dark eyes tracking your every move, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. It’s a test. He’s giving you the rope, watching with detached curiosity to see how you’ll hang yourself with it.
As you're whispering all that filthy shit in his ear, pressing your body against his, he doesn’t just passively take it. He actively rewards you. He plays along. He doesn’t just passively let you grope him. That would be too obvious. Chrollo is a master of performance. He commits to the role.
As your hands tremble while unbuttoning his shirt, he’ll cover them with his own, steadying them. He’ll lean into your desperate kisses, meeting your frantic energy. It feels like acceptance, like he's being won over. He’ll let out a soft hum of approval, a low sound in his chest that vibrates against your lips, making you think, it’s actually working. He is doing the bare minimum to give you the maximum amount of false hope.
When you kiss his neck, a low groan rumbles in his chest. When your hand slips down to grope the front of his pants, his own hand comes up to grip your hip, pulling you closer. “Is this what you want?” he’ll murmur, voice like silk. “To be close to me like this?” He’s giving you positive reinforcement, at the bare min, meticulously crafting this illusion that you're actually getting to him. He wants you to feel like you’ve successfully manipulated Chrollo Lucilfer.
The flip. The goddamn switch. This is where it all changes. It happens when you’re at your most vulnerable—when he’s finally inside you, deep and warm. You’d be riding him, thinking you’ve won, that this is your escape from punishment—moaning his name, nails scratching down his chest, convinced your little seduction’s got him wrapped around your finger.
No big dramatic moment, just a shift in his grip, his fingers suddenly clamping down on your waist to pin you in place, halting your movements mid-thrust. He’ll hold you still, fully impaled on him. You’re balancing on the edge, pussy clenching around him, so fucking close, and he just... stops. His eyes meet yours, that calm detachment back in full force, a smirk curling his lips as he says, casual as anything, “you didn’t really think I’d let you off that easy, did you?”
“Did you really think this would work?” He’ll ask, his hips giving a single, slow, thrust that’s devoid of any genuine feeling. He’ll start to move again, but the rhythm is all wrong. It’s too fast, too shallow, or too brutally deep, designed for his pleasure and your discomfort. He’ll watch your face, your desperate expression, and his lips will curl into a mild smirk. “You ran from me,” he’ll whisper, each word punctuated by a rough shove of his hips, rolling into you.“You betrayed my trust.” Thrust. “And you thought you could fuck your way out of the consequences?” Thrust. “How naive.”
This is where the real cruelty comes in. He’s going to use your own body against you. He’ll fuck you—with his fingers, his mouth, his cock—and he will be an expert at it. He knows exactly how to drive you up, how to make your breath catch and your toes curl. He’ll pull out just enough to use his thumb to grind mercilessly against your clit while he fucks you. He’ll drive you to the absolute brink, your whole body convulsing, begging to come. You’ll be sobbing, pleading. And just as the wave is about to crash over you, he’ll stop everything. Completely. He’ll pull his thumb away, still his hips, and just hold you there, impaled and trembling, while the orgasm withers and dies inside you.
“Patience,” he’ll murmur, leaning down to kiss you sweetly, a horrifying contrast to the torment he’s forcing you to endure. He’ll do this over and over again. Bringing you to the brink, then snatching it away, until you’re sobbing, a desperate, incoherent mess, begging him to just let you come. He’ll let you recover for a moment before whispering, “let’s try that again,” and start the entire agonizing process over. Leaving you in a constant state of wired, overstimulated agony.
He overstimulates the fuck out of you after the edging, not letting up even when you finally cum, slamming into your oversensitive cunt until you’re writhing, tears streaming, body betraying you with orgasms that border on painful.
In the aftermath, Chrollo doesn’t gloat—he’s too composed for that shit. But the way he holds you close, stroking your hair while your body’s still twitching from the overload, it’s clear. This was his plan all along. You feared punishment, so he gave it to you wrapped in the sex you offered, ensuring you’ll think twice before trying to escape or seduce your way out again.
I’m not finished the fic that’s supposed to go along with this.
Soooooo…
Would you guys prefer I split up the fanfic that goes along with this into two parts (you’ll get the first part literally right now, but you’ll have to wait for the second part) or just wait and post the full one (you’ll have to wait a bit bc its unfinished)?
Note: I've been neglecting sukuna lately, so I whipped this up. it's super rushed and unedited. my bad. hope you enjoy still :)
Warnings: NSFW, overstimulation, orgasm denial, choking, blood play, dub-con, face fucking, sukuna has a whole list of warnings himself lol.
Words: 1.6k
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
Sukuna? Aftercare? Hah, that’s a good one. This guy's not exactly the cuddly type. If you're lucky (or he's in a rare mood), he might just let you collapse against him. He's not gonna wrap you in blankets or whisper sweet nothings in your ear. Don’t expect that from someone who literally slaughtered half of Shibuya just because.
Instead, picture him lounging back like the king he is, maybe letting you slump against his chest while he traces over the marks he left all over you. Maybe a “get up, we’re not done yet” kinda thing.
B = Body part (their favourite body part of and their partner’s)
On himself, it's gotta be his arms/hands—those massive, four-armed bad boys that can pin you down, lift you up, choke you out, or rip you apart (figuratively, of course).
On you, though? Your neck. It's your throat that gets him going. Something about wrapping his fingers around it, feeling your pulse race and throb erratically under his grip.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum)
Messy as hell. Sukuna doesn’t hold back—he’ll fill you up like it’s nothing. Marking his territory inside and out. He gets off on watching it drip from you, dripping down your thighs and pooling beneath you.
He might even smear it across your skin if he’s feeling particularly sadistic that day. Or make you lick it off his fingers. And with his stamina? It’s not a one-and-done. He can go again and again, turning the whole thing into a sticky, filthy mess that leaves you soaked and spent.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Deep down (way deep), he kinda digs it when you fight back a little—not enough to actually pose a genuine challenge to him. Because you never could. Deep down, it turns him on more than blind obedience ever could, but good luck getting him to own up to it.
E = Experience (how experienced are they?)
Experienced? The dude’s been around for centuries, conquering everything in sight. He’s got experience that’d make anyone else look like an amateur. Obviously. He knows every trick, every spot, every way to make you scream. He’ll teach you that real quick, but expect to learn the hard way.
F = Favourite position (this goes without saying)
Whatever gives him the most control, and whatever humiliates/degrades you the most. He’s not picky, honestly.
Though, I doubt he’d ever let you ride him or be on top in any way. He needs to be the one in complete and total charge of everything going on lol. You, your body, the pace (fast, slow, hard, gentle, rough), etc. Definitely an ego thing.
Think him looming over you in missionary, those four arms locking you in place while he fucks you hard and deep. Or doggy, where he can wrap your hair around his fist and yank your head back.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment?)
Goofy isn’t in Sukuna’s vocabulary. He might let out a low, mocking laugh if you squirm or beg just right, taunting you with something like, “is that the best you can do?” But actual humour? Absolutely not. He might find your reactions amusing, though.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they?)
He’s a curse, so grooming isn’t exactly high on his list of priorities. And he doesn’t give a fuck if you like it trimmed or not. But everything’s neat enough. Hair that matches the reddish/pinkish mess on his head.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
He is not intimate at all. It’s possessive and obsessive ownership rather than romance.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Doesn’t bother much. Masturbation’s a rare boredom killer for Sukuna—why even bother when he can have the real deal? But if you're not around and the urge hits (or he’s reallllyy got absolutely nothing better to do), he'll handle it. Quick, rough, and brutal. It leaves him more irritated than satisfied.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Oh boy, where to start? Domination through and through, with bondage using those extra arms to tie you up, impact play (spanking, whipping, you name it), choking, and degradation that has him calling you every name in the book. Throw in primal play, where he hunts you down like prey, and maybe a blood kink with bites that draw just enough to taste.
L = Location (favourite places to do the do)
Anywhere he damn well pleases—thrones, ruins, your bed, doesn't matter. But his personal favourite would probably be his domain.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going, etc.)
Power. Seeing you submit, beg, or even resist in the slightest just to be overpowered. A hint of fear in your eyes? Instantly hard.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Anything that flips the script—don't even think about trying to dominate him, tie him down, or top him. That’s a hard no, and it'll end badly. Nothing that makes him seem submissive in any way. Weakness is a big turn off for him too. And if you're not putting up some sort of fight, he'll lose interest real fast.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Receiving. Kneel before the king lol. Oral's a power play for Sukuna. Receiving is straight up worship.
You on your knees while he fucks your throat (hard and fast, slow and gentle, don’t matter). His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging and using the strands as leverage. He jerks his hips forward in these sharp, demanding thrusts, shoving your head down at the same time until you're taking him all the way, nose brushing against his pubic bone as you choke and sputter around him. Forcing you to take him deeper in your throat. He holds you there for those agonizing seconds, loving the way your throat tightens and gags, before pulling back just enough to let you sputter and gasp. Only to do it again.
He absolutely loves it. He also doesn’t hate giving, but it’s definitely rare. Not something that happens often, and depends entirely on his mood.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Fast and rough, always. He’ll start slow to build the torment, then ramp up to brutal, deep thrusts that stretch and fill you up. Sensual? Only to fuck with you.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Loves ‘em—anytime, anywhere. If the mood is right, he'll bend you over for a fast, hard fuck and walk away smirking. Happens often, he's insatiable.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Absolutely takes risks. He’ll experiment with just about anything that pushes hard limits and boundaries. Because why not?
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Endless. King of Curses, remember? He can go for hours, multiple rounds, until you're a trembling mess. You’ll be the one tapping out, not him. He lasts as long as he wants, drawing it out or finishing quick to toy with you.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
Toys aren’t really his thing—he’s got cursed energy and four hands for all the torment he needs—but if you’ve got some lying around, he'll snatch ‘em up just to fuck with you more. Like, clamping a vibrator against you while he edges the hell out of you, or using chains to bind you tight, watching you squirm. On himself? Hell no, that's beneath him. He’d rather make you do the work. Why bother at all?
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Unfair is his default. He’ll tease you mercilessly—edging, denying orgasms, mocking and taunting you—until you’re a begging, sobbing, incoherent disaster beneath him. He doesn’t care if you come or not, this is all for him. Not for you.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Not super loud. Definitely groans every now and then, but he’s not overly vocal in that sense. Because he’ll be too busy laughing, mocking, taunting, or threatening you to be moaning in your ear.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
He loves using those extra mouths when he’s fucking you. They’re versatile as hell. He'll manifest the mouth on his stomach while he's buried inside you, pounding away, so it can lap and suck at your clit at the same time—eating you out while he fucks you senseless. Oh, and don't forget the palm mouth. He loves slapping a hand over your mouth to muffle every sound you make, then popping that extra tongue out to shove it down your throat.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Sukuna's equipped like the monster he is—massive, veiny, and thick enough to stretch you to your limits. Intimidating just like the rest of him. Two dicks? No, but it’s thick, long, and curved just right to hit every spot.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Sky high. Sukuna’s drive is feral and insatiable. He’s always ready. But you’d never know it. He keeps that shit under wraps.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Sleep? What’s that? He doesn’t crash right away—more like watching you pass out while he plots world domination or round two. He’ll just recline there, eyes half-shut, smirking as you pass out from the exhaustion he inflicted on your body. If he drifts off at all, it’s light, like he’s barely actually sleeping at all.
Note: I've been on a sukuna kick, apparently. enjoy this little fic. may or may not expand on this at some point. :)
Synopsis: movie night with Yuji doesn't go as planned when Sukuna decides to make an unexpected appearance.
Warnings: violence, dub-con/non-con elements (mild. more hinted towards it than anything), sukuna is a dick to reader and yuji.
Words: 1.2k
You’re sprawled out on Yuji’s crappy dorm bed, the kind that creaks like it’s about to give up on life any second. The room smells like cheap ramen and that faint, boyish sweat he always carries after training—kinda comforting, honestly. Both of you are huddled close together under a thick blanket, shoulders pressed close as you share a bowl of popcorn. You’ve got some raunchy, braindead comedy playing on his laptop, the device is propped up by a stack of manga at the foot of the bed.
Then the movie hits this dumbass joke—stupidly simple, one of those things that has both of you bursting out laughing. Yuji throws his head back and lets out that warm, boyish laugh you love so much, the one that rumbles deep from his belly and shakes his whole frame. His laugh is one of your favourite sounds in the entire world—warm, boyish, full of that easy joy he carries around like it's nothing.
You’re giggling too, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye, even as the scene moves on.
But his laughter… it doesn’t stop. It lingers, even as the moment passes. You glance at him, confusion knitting your brow. It just keeps going on and on and on, and something about it feels off. It’s deeper now, rougher, like a low vibration trying to crawl out of his chest. For a split second, you hear a second sound layered beneath it—almost like you imagined it. But you didn’t. It’s a low, arrogant rumble, creeping in like it’s stitching itself into his voice from the inside out.
Yuji’s eyes immediately fly wide with panic, the tone of his own laughter beginning to change, twisting into something utterly wrong. It's still coming from Yuji’s throat, but it's not his laugh anymore. It’s a full throated, arrogant bellow now, dripping with contempt and malice. He presses a palm flat against his face, as if trying to physically hold the wrong sound in. But it catches in his throat anyway, twisting into a fit of guttural coughing that doesn't sound right either—too rough, too broken.
Concern immediately replaces your amusement. “Hey, you okay? Breathe, dummy,” you say, patting his back.
He waves a hand dismissively, but he’s clutching his neck now, knuckles white, whole body trembling like he’s about to snap. As if he’s physically forcing something back. His facial muscles fight to hold the shape of his familiar, happy grin. He bows his head, trying to stifle the fit.
A new sound forces its way through the pained gasps. A low, grating chuckle, broken and uneven, ancient and mocking. It sharpens into this cruel edge, no longer amused—it’s straight up mockery now, a low, rumbling cackle that vibrates in his chest with a power that feels ancient, wrong, like it’s been buried for centuries and just clawed its way out.
Your smile falters, melting from your face as you push yourself up into a sitting position. “Yuji?”
No answer. His hand drops, but the laughter keeps going, shedding every bit of his warmth like dead skin.
Your blood runs cold. You watch, frozen, as his head, still tilted forward, slowly raises. The eyes that meet yours are not Yuji’s. The once warm, honey brown colour you’ve become so familiar with has been swallowed by a malevolent, blood red crimson.
Then you see it—the slow creep of black ink unfurling across his skin, intricate lines tattooing over his cheeks, down his neck, vanishing under the collar of his uniform. His shoulders, still shaking from the ‘laugh’ a moment ago, now shudder with a different energy entirely. The body in front of you—Yuji’s body—stretches and rolls back against the headboard with this lazy, arrogant grace that’s completely foreign to him. Like a king lounging on a throne.
A slow, languid smile spreads across his lips, cruel and chilling, holding zero warmth—just pure, mocking amusement. The laughter finally fades into a low, contemptuous chuckle that sends ice down your spine.
This isn’t Yuji. The realization hits you like a gut punch. This is Sukuna. The curse that’s been lurking inside him, the one Yuji’s always fighting. You’ve never actually met the bastard, but oh, he knows you.
“This is what passes for entertainment in this era?” He drawls, his attention focused on the laptop, as if you’re not even here. “Pathetic.”
That’s the only catalyst you need. Primal fear overrides every rational thought in your mind, and you find yourself moving before you even realize it. You scramble off the bed in a frantic mess of limbs, your feet slap against the cold floor as you bolt for the door in a blind panic. There’s no plan, no logic, just pure, desperate instinct. You don’t even know what you’re doing—you’re just trying to get out, to get away, to put as much distance as humanly possible between you and the thing grinning at you from across the room.
You’re mere steps from the door—fingertips barely grazing the handle—when a sudden, paralyzing pressure slams down on you. Your body locks mid-stride, every muscle seizing uncontrollably as you find yourself pinned in place by something you can’t see.
The invisible force spreads across every inch of the room, air growing heavy as cursed energy fills the once peaceful space. It’s crushing, almost suffocating, thick enough to choke on, and it’s not even a fraction of his power.
You’re frozen in place, your outstretched hand trembling just inches from freedom. “And where do you think you’re going?” A massive hand suddenly clamps down on the back of your neck.
A choked gasp escapes you as you’re violently yanked backward, your feet leaving the floor entirely before you’re thrown through the air. You land hard on the mattress with a painful thump, the impact stealing the breath from your lungs, blanket tangling around your legs. In a single, fluid motion, he's over you, caging you in with his body.
Sukuna’s gaze sweeps over you, a slow, deliberate appraisal that feels more violating than any touch. He’s looking at you, really looking at you, for the first time without the filter of Yuji’s consciousness. He’s seen you before, of course. He’s been a silent, unwilling audience to every conversation, every shared joke, every moment of your friendship. And you know, with a sickening certainty, that he has found it all utterly, excruciatingly boring. He’s been a prisoner in the gallery of Yuji’s mind, forced to watch the brat’s pathetic, saccharine daydreams of you.
The weight of him is immense, pinning you to the mattress. He plants his hands on either side of your head, leaning down until his face is inches from yours. You can smell him—old blood and something else, something vile and indescribable, like a forgotten tomb.
“The brat thinks of you often,” Sukuna muses, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve grown so bored of watching the brat drool over you like a lost puppy.”
Note: I've been on a sukuna kick, apparently. enjoy this little fic. may or may not expand on this at some point. :)
Synopsis: movie night with Yuji doesn't go as planned when Sukuna decides to make an unexpected appearance.
Warnings: violence, dub-con/non-con elements (mild. more hinted towards it than anything), sukuna is a dick to reader and yuji.
Words: 1.2k
You’re sprawled out on Yuji’s crappy dorm bed, the kind that creaks like it’s about to give up on life any second. The room smells like cheap ramen and that faint, boyish sweat he always carries after training—kinda comforting, honestly. Both of you are huddled close together under a thick blanket, shoulders pressed close as you share a bowl of popcorn. You’ve got some raunchy, braindead comedy playing on his laptop, the device is propped up by a stack of manga at the foot of the bed.
Then the movie hits this dumbass joke—stupidly simple, one of those things that has both of you bursting out laughing. Yuji throws his head back and lets out that warm, boyish laugh you love so much, the one that rumbles deep from his belly and shakes his whole frame. His laugh is one of your favourite sounds in the entire world—warm, boyish, full of that easy joy he carries around like it's nothing.
You’re giggling too, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye, even as the scene moves on.
But his laughter… it doesn’t stop. It lingers, even as the moment passes. You glance at him, confusion knitting your brow. It just keeps going on and on and on, and something about it feels off. It’s deeper now, rougher, like a low vibration trying to crawl out of his chest. For a split second, you hear a second sound layered beneath it—almost like you imagined it. But you didn’t. It’s a low, arrogant rumble, creeping in like it’s stitching itself into his voice from the inside out.
Yuji’s eyes immediately fly wide with panic, the tone of his own laughter beginning to change, twisting into something utterly wrong. It's still coming from Yuji’s throat, but it's not his laugh anymore. It’s a full throated, arrogant bellow now, dripping with contempt and malice. He presses a palm flat against his face, as if trying to physically hold the wrong sound in. But it catches in his throat anyway, twisting into a fit of guttural coughing that doesn't sound right either—too rough, too broken.
Concern immediately replaces your amusement. “Hey, you okay? Breathe, dummy,” you say, patting his back.
He waves a hand dismissively, but he’s clutching his neck now, knuckles white, whole body trembling like he’s about to snap. As if he’s physically forcing something back. His facial muscles fight to hold the shape of his familiar, happy grin. He bows his head, trying to stifle the fit.
A new sound forces its way through the pained gasps. A low, grating chuckle, broken and uneven, ancient and mocking. It sharpens into this cruel edge, no longer amused—it’s straight up mockery now, a low, rumbling cackle that vibrates in his chest with a power that feels ancient, wrong, like it’s been buried for centuries and just clawed its way out.
Your smile falters, melting from your face as you push yourself up into a sitting position. “Yuji?”
No answer. His hand drops, but the laughter keeps going, shedding every bit of his warmth like dead skin.
Your blood runs cold. You watch, frozen, as his head, still tilted forward, slowly raises. The eyes that meet yours are not Yuji’s. The once warm, honey brown colour you’ve become so familiar with has been swallowed by a malevolent, blood red crimson.
Then you see it—the slow creep of black ink unfurling across his skin, intricate lines tattooing over his cheeks, down his neck, vanishing under the collar of his uniform. His shoulders, still shaking from the ‘laugh’ a moment ago, now shudder with a different energy entirely. The body in front of you—Yuji’s body—stretches and rolls back against the headboard with this lazy, arrogant grace that’s completely foreign to him. Like a king lounging on a throne.
A slow, languid smile spreads across his lips, cruel and chilling, holding zero warmth—just pure, mocking amusement. The laughter finally fades into a low, contemptuous chuckle that sends ice down your spine.
This isn’t Yuji. The realization hits you like a gut punch. This is Sukuna. The curse that’s been lurking inside him, the one Yuji’s always fighting. You’ve never actually met the bastard, but oh, he knows you.
“This is what passes for entertainment in this era?” He drawls, his attention focused on the laptop, as if you’re not even here. “Pathetic.”
That’s the only catalyst you need. Primal fear overrides every rational thought in your mind, and you find yourself moving before you even realize it. You scramble off the bed in a frantic mess of limbs, your feet slap against the cold floor as you bolt for the door in a blind panic. There’s no plan, no logic, just pure, desperate instinct. You don’t even know what you’re doing—you’re just trying to get out, to get away, to put as much distance as humanly possible between you and the thing grinning at you from across the room.
You’re mere steps from the door—fingertips barely grazing the handle—when a sudden, paralyzing pressure slams down on you. Your body locks mid-stride, every muscle seizing uncontrollably as you find yourself pinned in place by something you can’t see.
The invisible force spreads across every inch of the room, air growing heavy as cursed energy fills the once peaceful space. It’s crushing, almost suffocating, thick enough to choke on, and it’s not even a fraction of his power.
You’re frozen in place, your outstretched hand trembling just inches from freedom. “And where do you think you’re going?” A massive hand suddenly clamps down on the back of your neck.
A choked gasp escapes you as you’re violently yanked backward, your feet leaving the floor entirely before you’re thrown through the air. You land hard on the mattress with a painful thump, the impact stealing the breath from your lungs, blanket tangling around your legs. In a single, fluid motion, he's over you, caging you in with his body.
Sukuna’s gaze sweeps over you, a slow, deliberate appraisal that feels more violating than any touch. He’s looking at you, really looking at you, for the first time without the filter of Yuji’s consciousness. He’s seen you before, of course. He’s been a silent, unwilling audience to every conversation, every shared joke, every moment of your friendship. And you know, with a sickening certainty, that he has found it all utterly, excruciatingly boring. He’s been a prisoner in the gallery of Yuji’s mind, forced to watch the brat’s pathetic, saccharine daydreams of you.
The weight of him is immense, pinning you to the mattress. He plants his hands on either side of your head, leaning down until his face is inches from yours. You can smell him—old blood and something else, something vile and indescribable, like a forgotten tomb.
“The brat thinks of you often,” Sukuna muses, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve grown so bored of watching the brat drool over you like a lost puppy.”
Note: I've been neglecting sukuna lately, so I whipped this up. it's super rushed and unedited. my bad. hope you enjoy still :)
Warnings: NSFW, overstimulation, orgasm denial, choking, blood play, dub-con, face fucking, sukuna has a whole list of warnings himself lol.
Words: 1.6k
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
Sukuna? Aftercare? Hah, that’s a good one. This guy's not exactly the cuddly type. If you're lucky (or he's in a rare mood), he might just let you collapse against him. He's not gonna wrap you in blankets or whisper sweet nothings in your ear. Don’t expect that from someone who literally slaughtered half of Shibuya just because.
Instead, picture him lounging back like the king he is, maybe letting you slump against his chest while he traces over the marks he left all over you. Maybe a “get up, we’re not done yet” kinda thing.
B = Body part (their favourite body part of and their partner’s)
On himself, it's gotta be his arms/hands—those massive, four-armed bad boys that can pin you down, lift you up, choke you out, or rip you apart (figuratively, of course).
On you, though? Your neck. It's your throat that gets him going. Something about wrapping his fingers around it, feeling your pulse race and throb erratically under his grip.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum)
Messy as hell. Sukuna doesn’t hold back—he’ll fill you up like it’s nothing. Marking his territory inside and out. He gets off on watching it drip from you, dripping down your thighs and pooling beneath you.
He might even smear it across your skin if he’s feeling particularly sadistic that day. Or make you lick it off his fingers. And with his stamina? It’s not a one-and-done. He can go again and again, turning the whole thing into a sticky, filthy mess that leaves you soaked and spent.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Deep down (way deep), he kinda digs it when you fight back a little—not enough to actually pose a genuine challenge to him. Because you never could. Deep down, it turns him on more than blind obedience ever could, but good luck getting him to own up to it.
E = Experience (how experienced are they?)
Experienced? The dude’s been around for centuries, conquering everything in sight. He’s got experience that’d make anyone else look like an amateur. Obviously. He knows every trick, every spot, every way to make you scream. He’ll teach you that real quick, but expect to learn the hard way.
F = Favourite position (this goes without saying)
Whatever gives him the most control, and whatever humiliates/degrades you the most. He’s not picky, honestly.
Though, I doubt he’d ever let you ride him or be on top in any way. He needs to be the one in complete and total charge of everything going on lol. You, your body, the pace (fast, slow, hard, gentle, rough), etc. Definitely an ego thing.
Think him looming over you in missionary, those four arms locking you in place while he fucks you hard and deep. Or doggy, where he can wrap your hair around his fist and yank your head back.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment?)
Goofy isn’t in Sukuna’s vocabulary. He might let out a low, mocking laugh if you squirm or beg just right, taunting you with something like, “is that the best you can do?” But actual humour? Absolutely not. He might find your reactions amusing, though.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they?)
He’s a curse, so grooming isn’t exactly high on his list of priorities. And he doesn’t give a fuck if you like it trimmed or not. But everything’s neat enough. Hair that matches the reddish/pinkish mess on his head.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
He is not intimate at all. It’s possessive and obsessive ownership rather than romance.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Doesn’t bother much. Masturbation’s a rare boredom killer for Sukuna—why even bother when he can have the real deal? But if you're not around and the urge hits (or he’s reallllyy got absolutely nothing better to do), he'll handle it. Quick, rough, and brutal. It leaves him more irritated than satisfied.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Oh boy, where to start? Domination through and through, with bondage using those extra arms to tie you up, impact play (spanking, whipping, you name it), choking, and degradation that has him calling you every name in the book. Throw in primal play, where he hunts you down like prey, and maybe a blood kink with bites that draw just enough to taste.
L = Location (favourite places to do the do)
Anywhere he damn well pleases—thrones, ruins, your bed, doesn't matter. But his personal favourite would probably be his domain.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going, etc.)
Power. Seeing you submit, beg, or even resist in the slightest just to be overpowered. A hint of fear in your eyes? Instantly hard.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Anything that flips the script—don't even think about trying to dominate him, tie him down, or top him. That’s a hard no, and it'll end badly. Nothing that makes him seem submissive in any way. Weakness is a big turn off for him too. And if you're not putting up some sort of fight, he'll lose interest real fast.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Receiving. Kneel before the king lol. Oral's a power play for Sukuna. Receiving is straight up worship.
You on your knees while he fucks your throat (hard and fast, slow and gentle, don’t matter). His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging and using the strands as leverage. He jerks his hips forward in these sharp, demanding thrusts, shoving your head down at the same time until you're taking him all the way, nose brushing against his pubic bone as you choke and sputter around him. Forcing you to take him deeper in your throat. He holds you there for those agonizing seconds, loving the way your throat tightens and gags, before pulling back just enough to let you sputter and gasp. Only to do it again.
He absolutely loves it. He also doesn’t hate giving, but it’s definitely rare. Not something that happens often, and depends entirely on his mood.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Fast and rough, always. He’ll start slow to build the torment, then ramp up to brutal, deep thrusts that stretch and fill you up. Sensual? Only to fuck with you.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Loves ‘em—anytime, anywhere. If the mood is right, he'll bend you over for a fast, hard fuck and walk away smirking. Happens often, he's insatiable.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Absolutely takes risks. He’ll experiment with just about anything that pushes hard limits and boundaries. Because why not?
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Endless. King of Curses, remember? He can go for hours, multiple rounds, until you're a trembling mess. You’ll be the one tapping out, not him. He lasts as long as he wants, drawing it out or finishing quick to toy with you.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
Toys aren’t really his thing—he’s got cursed energy and four hands for all the torment he needs—but if you’ve got some lying around, he'll snatch ‘em up just to fuck with you more. Like, clamping a vibrator against you while he edges the hell out of you, or using chains to bind you tight, watching you squirm. On himself? Hell no, that's beneath him. He’d rather make you do the work. Why bother at all?
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Unfair is his default. He’ll tease you mercilessly—edging, denying orgasms, mocking and taunting you—until you’re a begging, sobbing, incoherent disaster beneath him. He doesn’t care if you come or not, this is all for him. Not for you.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Not super loud. Definitely groans every now and then, but he’s not overly vocal in that sense. Because he’ll be too busy laughing, mocking, taunting, or threatening you to be moaning in your ear.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
He loves using those extra mouths when he’s fucking you. They’re versatile as hell. He'll manifest the mouth on his stomach while he's buried inside you, pounding away, so it can lap and suck at your clit at the same time—eating you out while he fucks you senseless. Oh, and don't forget the palm mouth. He loves slapping a hand over your mouth to muffle every sound you make, then popping that extra tongue out to shove it down your throat.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Sukuna's equipped like the monster he is—massive, veiny, and thick enough to stretch you to your limits. Intimidating just like the rest of him. Two dicks? No, but it’s thick, long, and curved just right to hit every spot.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Sky high. Sukuna’s drive is feral and insatiable. He’s always ready. But you’d never know it. He keeps that shit under wraps.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Sleep? What’s that? He doesn’t crash right away—more like watching you pass out while he plots world domination or round two. He’ll just recline there, eyes half-shut, smirking as you pass out from the exhaustion he inflicted on your body. If he drifts off at all, it’s light, like he’s barely actually sleeping at all.
