Chrollo and his obsession with having you close...
Chrollo loves having you on his lap.
You're sitting in a dingy bar, some old thing in a smaller town, only a few minutes from YorkNew.
It's not fancy or even remotely pretty but it has amazing corner booths, with each table having its own little nook, that makes it so incredibly cozy. The couches too are made of worn-out leather that has definitely seen better times, but you like it.
You're sitting on his lap, arms folded relaxedly on the table.
Across from you, Machi and Pakunoda are discussing a hunter that was being rude to them a few days ago when they were working with him to get some fancy artifact or something for a job (they don't mention that he's five feet under now, you don't need to know that).
The discussion is quickly dissolving into general complaining about people being rude and not showing any respect, especially in public.
You're chirping in every now and then with some story of your own work aquaintances and morning commutes on the train, the two women nodding along, having been in similar situations many times. But mostly, you just listen to them rant.
Chrollo's head is on your shoulder, arms snug around your waist as he listens to the three of you complain. From your place in his lap, you think he might even be drifting off, head heavy on your shoulder, but every now and then, he pulls you closer again or shifts his legs around underneath you, so he should still be awake.
He, of course, is very much awake and very much aware of what is happening around the four of you, guard constantly up, especially in public. But with Machi and Pakunoda across from him and his comfy position behind you, he's content to just rest against you and listen.
From this angle, he's in the perfect position to press little kisses into the side of your neck and he would be lying if he wasn't happily indulging in your scent, head resting right above where you sprayed your perfume earlier, smell mixing with your shampoo and something uniquely yourself.
It's so nice, he thinks, to have you so close, body pressed to his without any thought behind it. At some point you even sneak a hand in his hair and just smoothe your hands through it absentmindedly.
Chrollo thinks this must be what heaven is like, your weight pressing into him, solidifying that you are here even if he closes his eyes.
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.
A charity commission for @spacyst who donated to an animal ambulance! Thank you so much and have fun reading :D
Warnings: Yandere!Chrollo x Reader, fem! Reader, established relationship, gaslighting, kidnapping, unstable and insecure reader, fear of violence, mentioned NSFW, emotional neglect, 5k words
“And then, I swear, they looked at me like I was the problem, which is ridiculous because I was literally just explaining what happened.” You punctuated the sentence with a small wave of your fork before stabbing another piece of pasta. “Like, I know I can get carried away sometimes, but I wasn’t even being dramatic that time. He called it abstract! It wasn’t even meant to be.”
Across the table, Chrollo hummed, which was, technically, a response.
You looked up from your plate as your story had reached its conclusion, idly twirling your fork through the sauce as irritation settled a little deeper in your chest.
He looked unfairly good.
His black hair hung loose around his face, still slightly damp from the shower he'd taken after getting home. Instead of the crisp black shirts and tailored, custom-made coats, he'd pulled on an old graphic T-shirt from some obscure band he liked. It made no impact on how put-together he seemed.
That annoyed you almost as much as the fact that he'd clearly put no effort into tonight's dinner while you'd spent nearly an hour deciding what to wear.
More than that, though, his attention wasn't on you.
His gaze rested somewhere over your shoulder, unfocused, as though whatever occupied his mind was infinitely more interesting than the story you'd been telling for the last ten minutes.
Silence settled, broken only by the quiet scrape of silverware against ceramic as you pretended to enjoy the food.
You weren’t going to make a scene. You weren’t. "...Are you even listening?"
"I am," he said, smiling to himself. He had been doing that often today.
Fucking liar.
You slowed down eating, remembering the hour you’d spent on your make-up, doing it and then taking it off and redoing it. Knowing your high-strung mood was able to ruin the night, you’d begun the night much more casual, but when you realized he wasn’t going to talk, you’d grown nervous and started talking like a blabbermouth.
Maybe your story didn’t matter anyhow, especially to a man like him, but the fact he couldn’t even scramble up the tiniest bit of interest was killing you here.
If you ranked on his priorities, it must not be very high.
You gave a small laugh, trying to brush it off, still sounding very hurt even to your ears. “You don’t even know what I said.”
A pause.
He blinked innocently, and held steady eye-contact, as if compensating for the rest of dinner where he’d stared everywhere except at you. You even wore a push-up bra tonight and a plunging neckline to avoid having this happen again, but it seemed the days where you could look nice and have his full undivided attention on you were done.
Now he came home, showered, threw on some fucking graphic tee-shirt- it bothered you greatly- while you were looking overdressed. “You were talking about someone misunderstanding you. Someone from your watercolor class.””
You stared at him.
Watercolor class.
You weren’t deaf. You’d heard the slight derision he’d unintentionally added when saying those words. How lowly you were. Boring him with a story about being slighted at a watercolor class. He didn’t care, he didn’t care, he didn’t care.
You picked up your fork, before immediately placing it back down next to your plate, and realized how this scene looked, how civilian, how boring. He had to be restless out of his fucking mind, sitting here with you. The fact he’d even deigned to show up, to grace you with his time, and here you were, starting a domestic dispute with ravioli in front of you.
You couldn’t help yourself. “You just guessed.”
He had the gall to sigh. “I didn’t.”
“You did.”
"I didn't guess." Chrollo’s voice was patient. Similar to the way someone speaks to a child throwing a tantrum over nothing. He’d been doing that often lately, and it only made a shiver run down your spine. "You mentioned it three times this week. The instructor who kept correcting your brushwork in front of everyone."
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
Had you? You couldn't remember. The online watercolor class was something you'd taken up back then to fill the hours when he was gone, which was often, which was most of the time, and when Chrollo came back smelling like places you'd never see and people you'd never meet, you talked. Filled the silence. Apparently about your brushwork and the people who couldn’t appreciate it.
"You think it's stupid," you said flatly.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." You said, feeling the edges of your mouth pulled down. “It’s not hard to figure out. Your face practically screams it.”
Chrollo set down his wine glass with a soft clink. The candlelight caught the cross on his forehead, made it look almost holy, which was laughable, which was insane, but here you were, upset that your boyfriend (was he your boyfriend? He'd never used the word) wasn't paying enough attention to your cleavage at dinner.
"You're being difficult,"
"I'm not trying to be.” You said, looking in a different direction just so he wouldn’t notice the twitching of your lips. If you cried, this night truly couldn’t be saved anymore. He wouldn’t touch you when you cried, and it wasn’t like he fucked you as often as he used to. “I’m just a bit upset.”
"Is there any need to be?"
God, you hated when he did that.
Made you feel like you were the one being unreasonable when he was the one who'd disappeared for two weeks without so much as a text. Last time he hadn’t even woken you up to say goodbye.
"Forget it." You reached for your wine and took a longer sip than was probably advisable. "Tell me about your trip."
He mirrored taking the wine glass, but took a much more modest sip. "You wouldn't find it interesting."
"Try me."
"No."
Just like that. No. Like the conversation was a door he could simply close, and you didn't have the key, had never had the key, would never be given the key because you weren't good enough, weren’t smart enough, weren’t in-group enough, weren’t-
You weren't enough.
That was the thing, wasn't it? You saw it in the way he looked at you sometimes, when he thought you weren't paying attention. Like he was constantly calculating your value and finding the sum wanting. You tried to meet his standards every day, but like your adoptive mother back in Meteor City had repeated to you daily ‘the stench of a gutter rat would always follow you’.
Chrollo had managed to prove otherwise for himself, but he was an exception.
You weren’t.
Just a gutter rat wearing perfume.
"You know what?" Your laugh came out brittle, sharp-edged. "Fine. No problem."
You turned away, fingers trembling as you fixed your hair.
"I have someone anyway," you said, the words arriving fully formed, if a bit higher than your normal pitch. "Someone who actually wants to listen to me."
When he didn't respond you added more bullshit.
"He's in love with me, fully. I didn't think you'd mind, since you're gona most of the time anyway." You weren't sure if you were going too far, but your mouth kept spouting out words. "We've... had sex. Here."
That got his attention. For a second you wondered if he’d get mad, furious, even. He’d demand to know who, and you’d hold onto the lie for as long as it took for him to realize how much he treasured you. Or even if he’d just touch you and say kind things to you out of jealousy and greed, that was fine too. Just anything.
You heard the shift in his breathing.
And then he laughed out loud, a full-on enthusiastic noise you'd not heard come from Chrollo ever before.
"Who would your lover even be?" Chrollo said after a while, leaning forward, placing his elbows on the table. “Can’t believe it. A sordid affair in my own house.”
You didn't turn around. Couldn't. "Does it matter? The point is, I don't need your approval. Not anymore."
It was theatrical, ridiculous. As if it was even possible for you to ever love someone other than Chrollo, but as it seemed Chrollo had forgotten about how important he was to you, or at least about how important you were supposed to be to him, you didn’t care. Sometimes you had to be the gutter rat wearing perfume and own it, rather than apologize for the scent underneath.
Chrollo suddenly stood up and walked over.
"You know," he said, pulling out his necklace from underneath his shirt, "for someone claiming she doesn't need my approval, you spend a remarkable amount of time arguing with me."
You glared at him as he lowered himself beside your chair.
Had you been moving too much during the conversation? Vaguely you remembered that he wouldn’t have accepted that at all at the start. He preferred you motionless back then, just in his lap and holding onto him. At least back then he demanded your attention, and you could hardly understand where all that desire had gone.
And then he grabbed the key attached to the necklace and… unlocked the cuffs keeping your legs bound to the chair.
Wait…
“What?” You said as he moved on to your other foot, pulling loose the cuffs, the skin underneath raw and scarred in a way they’d been for years. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
You could hardly believe what he was doing.
“Why.. why would you..”
"I’ve decided that I approve."
The words were so simple that for a second you wondered if you'd heard him correctly.
"What?"
When you didn’t remove your ankles from the cuffs even though he’d unlocked them, he took them both off personally and stood up, placing the iron cuffs on their respective place in the corner of the room. It’d been… what? Six years since you’d ever been as loosely contained as you were now.
Chrollo smiled gently and pet your head for a few moments. "I said I approve."
"You approve," you repeated, staring at him.
"Completely."
His hand slid from your hair to your cheek, cradling your face with a tenderness that didn’t match the humor you could see swirling around in his eyes. Grey eyes crinkled as he stared at you, though you’d never been good at accurately reading exactly what was going on inside him.
For one reckless second, you wanted to close the distance between you. Kiss him. Apologize for whatever invisible line you'd crossed. Fix whatever had gone so catastrophically wrong that he’d release your chains like it was nothing.
“Of… what?”
"Of this affair you've somehow managed to begin," he continued, his tone taking on an almost exaggerated nonchalance. "I must admit, I didn't think you had it in you."
His gaze drifted lower.
"And since you don’t need me anymore, these..." He tilted his head ever so slightly. "Those cuffs are no longer necessary, don't you think?"
It wasn’t difficult to know what you looked like right now. Restless, scared, and utterly lost. Was he cutting you loose?!
“You're confused.” His thumb brushed lightly over your cheek before he withdrew his hand entirely, as if even that small touch had become unnecessary. “I understand.”
“No.” You stood too quickly, your legs buckling. Your hands caught the edge of the chair before you could fall.
He didn't reach for you.
That, more than anything, made your pulse race.
He simply watched you stumble with an amused glint in his eyes.“Careful.”
You stared at him, waiting for the inevitable. For him to sigh, to pull you back into his lap, to remind you how fragile you were, how it was all just a joke, how he’d cut off your legs if you ever truly cheated on him. Instead he merely walked back to his seat and raised his glass of wine to his lips.When you just looked at him, utterly lost, he chuckled.
“You're free to walk around, you know.” He said.
You narrowed your eyes. "...You're not going to stop me?"
“Why would I?”
His answer landed with horrifying ease.
“You've been unsatisfied, haven’t you? I wouldn’t want to keep you against your will, now, wouldn’t I..”
"I—"
"So stand."
You did.
Your knees trembled violently.
Without consciously deciding to, your gaze drifted across the apartment until it settled on the front door.
You hadn't been outside in months –not once—and somewhere along the way you'd stopped thinking about the door altogether. It had become just another piece of furniture, another fixture of the apartment that existed without meaning anything. Now, all at once, it seemed impossibly real. It was only a few meters away, an ordinary wooden door with a polished brass handle, close enough that you could cross the distance in seconds if you wanted to.
If you wanted to.
Your eyes lingered there a heartbeat too long.
Chrollo caught the movement immediately.
"You may leave if you wish."
"..."
"I won't stop you."
Your heart hammered so loudly you were sure he could hear it.
"What game is this?" you whispered. “Are you trying to be funny?”
"There isn't one."
"You've never..." You laughed once, short and breathless. "You've never let me walk anywhere alone."
"And now I am."
"You chained me to a chair."
"I did."
"You told me I'd never survive without you." You cried out. “That I’d be dead before daybreak if I ever left.”
Chrollo shrugged. "I believed that at the time."
"At the time?" you echoed, and you hated how disappointed you sounded.
His expression remained infuriatingly mild.
"People change."
"No," you said immediately.”No!”
"No?"
"You don't."
For the first time, something almost amused crossed his face.
He moved past you toward the bookshelf, selecting a volume with the same casual interest someone might have in deciding what to read before bed.
"If you've grown tired of living here," he said without looking at you, "you're welcome to find somewhere else."
Your stomach twisted, but your disappointment melted into rage when you saw him sit down and open his book. He was so full of shit. SO. FULL. OF. SHIT.
"Well, fine.” You said, seethingly, “I’m done with this.”
You took one step toward the door.
For the first time in years, the door was unlocked and you could walk right out. Right into the real world. It’d be a little breezy, being late into July, and you weren’t exactly dressed for that, so with quivering legs you walked towards your bedroom, got a jacket, and without even looking at Chrollo another time, you left the apartment.
It’d been close to six months since you’d gone outside, and it was years since you’d gone outside unattended.
There’d been no need to. Your life was good here. There were rules, there was structure, love, central heating, food, and no need to fight.
Considering you’d expected to die long before you’d reach your twenties, every day had been a gift with Chrollo. Every morning, waking up in a warm bed, next to the love of your life, felt like you’d been reborn and given a chance few residents from Meteor City were ever given.
The Chrollo of today was sanctified, in your mind, yet realer than ever, considering you’d lived with him for years and had been allowed to see his more human side more often. Back then, when you were young and starving for anything real, he’d been larger than life. He always stood far away, giving speeches and standing at the forefront of every event that was worth anything in Meteor City. When the Troupe left, and became a point of pride for Meteorites, they were as good as celebrities.
And then he came back. And you met him. Talked to him. He remembered you. Remembered the colour your headband had been, the one you’d worn for years while watching the troupe perform their original plays.Admiration had turned into love, and you remembered the first time you’d made love to him with perfect clarity.
He sought you out whenever he visited.
A lot had happened since then, a turning point was when you’d come back to your small room back in Meteor City and noticed it was completely empty, with Chrollo sitting on your cot, explaining that he was moving you, saying it was something he ‘felt like doing’.
Considering you’d been close to leaving Meteor City yourself, to try your luck in the outside world and probably die in some gutter after having your organs stolen (the outskirts of Meteor City were always looking for stragglers no one would miss) this wasn’t something that troubled you greatly.
It started to rain, and you pulled up the hood of your jacket.
The rain came down in that miserable, persistent way that never seemed to commit to becoming a storm yet somehow still managed to soak through fabric, collecting on your eyelashes and dripping from the edge of your hood as you wandered without direction.
Your shoes were splashing through shallow puddles that reflected distorted neon signs and apartment windows lit by people who had no idea how extraordinary your afternoon had become, how the entirety of your entire life had shifted because one man had decided that after years of insisting the world would devour you the moment you stepped outside, he suddenly couldn't be bothered to stop you from opening the front door.
Every few steps you glanced over your shoulder, not because you were afraid of the strangers moving around you with umbrellas and shopping bags and phones pressed to their ears, but because surely, surely, eventually you would catch sight of the familiar silhouette that had followed you everywhere your life had ever allowed you to go, the black coat, the measured pace, the neutral expression that would eventually harden into irritation before he took your wrist and informed you that you'd made enough of a scene.
Every glance was met with disappointment.
The first ten minutes were infuriating. The next ten became insulting.
By the time you reached a busier district where storefronts crowded against one another and people flowed continuously across crosswalks despite the weather, the anger had settled into something uglier than rage because rage at least implied there was someone standing opposite you to receive it, someone listening, someone reacting, whereas this felt like screaming into a pillow for no one’s entertainment.
You slowed near a crowded intersection and deliberately remained there while the pedestrian light changed twice, refusing to move with the current of people.
Chrollo had hated crowds. Hated strangers touching you. Hated not knowing exactly where your hands were, where your eyes were looking, who had looked at you in return. He would've been beside you already, fingers wrapping around your arm with deceptive gentleness, steering you away while calmly explaining that if you insisted on behaving carelessly he would simply have to make decisions on your behalf.
You needed him to do that!
How dare he make you dependent on him, and then just… lose interest?!
Nothing happened, though you did receive an annoyed shove from a man that was sick of you standing still in the middle of the crowd.
You laughed under your breath, but it came out brittle, almost hysterical, because perhaps he was watching after all, perhaps he was hidden somewhere above the street or across it, comfortably invisible, waiting to see what you would do now that he'd granted you this ridiculous little experiment in independence, and if that were true then you refused to give him the satisfaction of behaving exactly as expected.
And if that were true, then you refused to give him the satisfaction of behaving exactly as expected.
So you did the opposite.
You crossed streets without checking as carefully as you should have, lingered outside bars where loud conversations spilled into the rain, wandered through narrow alleyways that instinct alone insisted were terrible ideas, and every time your pulse lurched with anticipation because surely this would be enough. This would be the moment he'd step out from the shadows with that soft, disappointed sigh that somehow always sounded more frightening than anger.
The longer he didn't show up, the bolder you became.
You started talking.
At first it was harmless. Small conversations with strangers waiting at crosswalks or sitting beside you on a bench, comments that drifted naturally into stories before either of you quite realized it. You spoke about the Phantom Troupe, watching their expressions shift as you calmly insisted they were real and casually revealed some names, some info, some confidential stuff you’d picked up over the years.
Sometimes the strangers humored you. Sometimes they looked concerned. Most simply excused themselves at the first opportunity.
You told them anyway.
You described their members, their abilities, the crimes everyone knew they'd committed and the ones no one else possibly could have known about, your voice growing steadier every time you repeated the story.
No one believed you. At least not to your face.
Which somehow made it even easier.
In a department store, while pretending to browse kitchen appliances, you noticed an unattended whiteboard set up to advertise some sale. Someone had left a handful of dry-erase markers beside it.
You hesitated for all of three seconds.
Then, with a grin that felt almost delirious, you uncapped one of the markers and began writing.
THE PHANTOM TROUPE IS CLOSE
Beneath it, you listed every member you could remember, adding the spider logo, fragments of information that made perfect sense to you and would look completely unhinged to anyone else who happened to walk by. You even scribbled a warning beneath it all.
IF YOU SEE THEM, RUN.
When you stepped back to admire your work, a woman pushing a shopping cart slowed beside the display, reading the board with growing confusion before glancing suspiciously in your direction.
You smiled at her and walked away.
Your heart hammered so hard it hurt.
By the time you stepped back onto the open street, the rain had dwindled to a light drizzle, and you carried yourself with the strange certainty of someone who had already died.
There was no version of this where Chrollo simply let it go.
He had never tolerated betrayal, unless it served him, and he despised half-assed plans like these. You had spent the afternoon telling strangers about the Phantom Troupe, writing their names where anyone could see them, scattering pieces of their existence into the world with reckless abandon. If he hadn't been watching before, surely he would be now.
Sooner or later, he would find you.
And when he did, there were only two possibilities.
Either he still loved you enough to drag you back home, lock the door behind you, and keep you alive at his side...
Or he'd kill you where you stood.
Oddly enough, you found yourself hoping for one of those outcomes.
Because the only thing you couldn't bear—the only thing that made your chest tighten until you could hardly breathe—was the possibility that none of it had mattered. That he had truly grown indifferent. That you could scream his secrets into crowded streets, carve the Phantom Troupe's name onto every wall in the city, and he still wouldn't think you worth coming after.
Death was terrifying.
But indifference was unbearable. You would not accept becoming forgettable.
The night had grown… cold.
You’d been sitting on a park bench close to your home for a few hours now.
Waiting.
The realization began creeping in with nauseating slowness that he might actually have meant every word he'd said, because he simply...didn't care enough anymore to interfere, and somehow that possibility hurt infinitely more than the years of chains and locked doors ever had
Because captivity at least required some sort of attention whereas indifference required absolutely nothing at all.
If he cared even a little , he'd have to come closer now. He'd just have to go outside. He'd have to find you. You weren’t even far. He could probably find you within a few minutes. It wasn’t hard.
You waited.
Nothing.
NOTHING.
The absurdity of it ignited another flash of fury so hot that your vision blurred, and before you could stop yourself you began entertaining another set of increasingly childish, increasingly desperate ideas solely because they all shared one purpose: making him react.
You could walk into the nearest police station and tell them your ‘boyfriend’ had kept you imprisoned for years. You could flirt openly with some stranger, kiss the first attractive person who smiled at you, sit in their lap if necessary, just to see if he’d hear and care about it. You could disappear entirely, board the first train leaving the city without checking the destination, and wait to see whether he'd appear in the carriage before the doors closed.
Every fantasy ended exactly the same way.
With him not coming.
With him remaining exactly where you'd left him, comfortably seated with his book, turning another page while the apartment gradually cooled around him and the side of the bed where you slept remained empty for the first night in years.
You stood up from the park bench.
"...Come on," you muttered beneath your breath, staring at the wet pavement as tears fell down your face. "Come get me."
You lasted another hour before you decided to walk up to your own doom.
The freedom that had felt so impossibly vast when you first stepped through the apartment door had quietly collapsed into an exhausting absence of direction, every street asking you to decide where to go next when for years those decisions had simply... never been yours, and somewhere beneath the anger you found yourself wondering whether Chrollo had known that would happen, whether this entire miserable afternoon had been another one of his carefully arranged lessons whose purpose you wouldn't understand until long after it was over.
Having returned home, you stared up at the familiar windows for several long moments.
The front door opened exactly as it always had, and the dinner table welcomed you, the food still plated and cold. The candles were still burning, so you walked towards them and blew them out.
The apartment was silent.
The bedroom door stood open.
Chrollo was already in bed.
One lamp burned softly on the nightstand, casting warm amber light across the room, and Chrollo looked up only briefly as you appeared in the doorway. He was sitting upright, a book in his hands, his black hair loosely framing his face. You’d feel better knowing he’d not just gone to sleep during your entire ordeal, but you could tell by how far he was in the book that he’d truly just sat down here and read.
"Welcome back," he said, with no real emotion behind it.
You pushed some wet hair back and walked towards your closet, grabbing some dry clothes. Better to act like nothing was wrong and postpone your own death. You'd rather be throttled in your sleep. "I came back."
The silence stretched.
You hated it, and silently took off your wet clothing, the cold having seeped through to your bones. It didn’t matter. After you’d taken your pants off, you swallowed down some feelings as you placed the garment on the floor, not caring to walk towards the hamper. You were exhausted, cold, but still felt more awake than ever. Another deep breath, and you broke the silence. "You really weren't going to come after me."
His voice drifted through the darkness, and you could hear the cold amusement layered underneath his voice."You came home, didn’t you?"
You didn’t have to think about your response. "I wanted you to."
The words escaped before you had the chance to reconsider them.
You hated how small they sounded.
"I know," he said quietly. “But I can tell you had fun, didn’t you?”
Your chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt. God, he had to know what you’d done. And if he didn't yet, he would know soon enough.
Something inside your chest twisted painfully.
You fidgeted with the dry shirt you’d grabbed, putting it on so you could avoid looking at him. “I’m not cheating on you.”
He huffed out a laugh at your attempt to change the subject, closing his book and placing it on the nightstand. “I know.”
Taking a deep breath, you suddenly decided that this was another hell in itself. You’d returned, he probably knew about your misdeeds, there’d be punishment (or not, you still couldn’t figure out how he felt), but this half-and-half treatment walking on eggshells was horrifying.
You crossed the room before you could think better of it, climbing onto the mattress with movements that felt strangely unfamiliar after spending the entire day convincing yourself you wouldn't return, and for a moment you simply looked at him.
As you climbed on top of him, feeling yourself wear a determined expression, he merely met your gaze with impassive gray eyes.
At least he didn’t push you away.
You leaned forward first.
The kiss was tentative at first, more a question on whether or not he was okay with this, your lips barely brushing his as though expecting him to turn away at the last second simply to prove that he could, but he didn't.
His hand rose slowly to cradle the side of your face, familiar enough to make your throat tighten, and he returned the kiss without any passion from his side, leaving you with the unsettling feeling that he was allowing you to choose every inch of the distance between you.
You kissed him again before the first one had truly ended, harder this time, closing the space between you until your bodies were nearly pressed together. Your fingers slid into his hair almost desperately, curling through the dark strands as you tugged him closer—not enough to hurt, only enough to erase the last few inches separating you, enough that you could convince yourself he was real, that he was here, that he was still yours.
When you finally drew back, neither of you spoke.
His thumb brushed once across your cheek before his hand fell away again.
You let yourself fall down beside him almost automatically, facing him, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing in the darkness while the events of the day refused to settle into anything that resembled understanding.
The room was warm, you were holding onto him, he wasn't leaving you or killing you, yet.
It’d have to be enough, for now.
You wrapped your arms around his chest and pulled him as close as was physically possible, unaware of the fond glint in Chrollo's eyes as he watched you tear yourself apart.
some Chrollo things i found/realized on my rewatch + reread of hxh
- he has REALLY bad posture. in the PT base during yorknew, when Chrollo is reading a book, he is literally hunched over and his back is at like a 45 degree angle🥺
- he’s very smug and cocky. after his fight against Zeno and Silva, he asks with a smirk to Zeno “if we were in a fight, who would win, you or me?” and chuckles knowingly when Zeno replies. during Chrollo vs Hisoka, Chrollo says that he is “100% sure that i am going to win”
- his personality switches depending on who he’s with. with the troupe, he’s logical and stoic—never losing his temper. when he’s with Hisoka, he’s much more relaxed and friendly + smiles much more often. when he’s with someone older, he’s respectful.
- he doesn’t seem to mind celebrations/parties. he’s seen drinking with the troupe in a manga panel after the auction.
- he seems very self aware of his handsome appearance, as he lured Neon in + most of the abilities in his book are from women.
- in terms of physical strength, Chrollo is 7th in the Troupe —above Bonolenov, Nobunaga, Shalnark, Pakunoda, Shizuku, and Kortopi, making him MUCH MUCH MUCH stronger than even superhumans such as Gon and Killua. (I love this fact for some reason)
- he had many similarities to Gon and Kurapika as a kid. (read Ch. 395-397, which is the Troupe backstory. it has a lot of cute baby Troupe member scenes🥺)
- he has a habit of covering his mouth with his hand whenever he is thinking deeply about something or connecting the lines.
- he knows a shocking amount about the Kakin Empire (in the manga), even more so than some of the Princes of the Kakin Empire.
- he seems to have a habit of smirking whenever something is going according to plan or when something went according to plan. he also just seems to enjoy smirking in general.
- his favorite color seems to be purple due to much of his outfits being some sort of variation of purple.
- in official arts + mobage cards, he seems to have dark circles under his eyes. in the yorknew city arc, he is also the only troupe member who didn’t sleep during the entire arc, meaning that he seems to have some sort of insomnia.
- in mobage cards, Chrollo seems to have a habit of fidgeting with his clothes. (pulling off his tie during the Christmas mobage card, playing with his hat, etc,.)
- he is very athletic, considering how at the end of yorknew city when he was left nen-less on those plateaus, he managed to climb down and find shelter all by himself.
- he is also very rich, since on average, every Zoldyck assassination costs around 1 billion—Chrollo managed to afford to assassinate the 10 Dons, meaning 10 billion Jenny.
- Chrollo doesn’t seem to care whenever someone is being disrespectful towards him or the troupe.
- Chrollo seems to have a particular fondness for suits, as he is often seen wearing a suit in official arts
- Chrollo often wears clothing that covers much of his body
- Chrollo seems to have the traditional values of a chivalrous man, meaning that he respects women quite a lot and makes sures to keep them safe. Chrollo made sure to catch Neon in the most respectful way when she “fell” (he literally could have just grabbed her by the arm and it would have been fine), he made sure to keep Pakunoda + Machi + Shizuku in the same team during yorknew (there were no men in their team), and during the Chrollo vs Hisoka battle, none of the female spectators (or even the commentator) were harmed.
———
AUGHHHHHH CHROLLO ILYSM PLEASE LIVE UNTIL THE END OF THE SERIES😭🥺😫❤️CHROLLOOOO UR MY BBY AND ILYSMMMMM😭😭😭🥺🥺🥺🥹🥹🥹❤️❤️❤️😫😫😫💕💕💕
