Impasse.
Yan Chrollo x F Reader
Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, captivity, Reader makes a joke about dying, discussions of parenthood, some not SFW implications. Word count: 2k.
Chrollo has been acting strange today.
You’ve been hesitant to acknowledge this shift. For better or for worse, the two of you have fallen into a routine. It’s a strained routine, yes, but it provides a degree of stability otherwise missing from your upended life. To put it simply, you bother him and he bothers you. There’s some nuance — for instance, your schemes are limited in scope, owing to a power imbalance so unfair you think the universe owes you a solid. Nonetheless, you’re proud to say you’ve hurt his feelings once or twice. Then there’s his part. He specializes in picking your brain, making you uncomfortable by pretending he’s normal, and making you uncomfortable when he quits pretending.
He's abstained from any of these behaviors since this morning. This pushes you past the ‘uncomfortable’ threshold, now you’re nervous.
This is made worse when he looks you dead in the eye and asks, “Have you ever wanted children?”
“Children?” You repeat, your voice not dissimilar to a mouse’s squeak. “Like, kids?”
There’s a brief glimpse of amusement on his countenance, but he’s quick to redirect your focus. “Whichever word you prefer.”
You study him. Presently, you’re sitting atop a barstool overlooking the area’s living space, while he leans against a nearby support column. He’s changed into his evening attire, a loose white shirt and gray sweatpants. You’re not so fortunate. You’re still paying for an indiscretion committed earlier in the week. Consequently, your wardrobe has been reduced to his preferred aesthetics. You’re wearing a black nightgown with thin spaghetti straps and lace embellishments.
Given your vulnerable position, risqué outfit, and his not-so-subtle interest in wooing you, the potential implications inspire discomfort. You shrink into yourself. What is he getting at? You’ve managed to avoid most of his physical advances, but you’re not delusional; if he willed it, you’d be at his mercy. You always feared he was operating on an invisible timer known only to him, each passing second bringing you closer to—
“You’re overthinking things,” he notes. “I have no ulterior motives. I’m simply curious.”
“Curious?” you repeat back, cautious.
He nods.
“What brought this ‘curiosity’ about?”
Chrollo stares at you. You can feel his eyes dissecting everything, from your closed-off body language to your barely concealed hostility.
“... I see,” he eventually says. “You won’t trust me without context. Very well. It’s nothing so grand. Though, in return for my honesty, I expect yours. Does that sound fair?”
Feigning nonchalance, you shrug. “I guess.”
He stands to his full height and walks over, pulling out the barstool to your left. He doesn’t intrude on your personal space, but his proximity has you shuffling to the right. He allows you your meager defiance.
“Last night, I had a dream,” he starts. Then, a pause. He’s giving his word choice unusual consideration. “In it, we were married… or maybe not. Whatever the case, it was a far more conventional lifestyle. You had to take a phone call — with your mother, I believe — so you asked me to watch over two names I’d never heard before. They bore such a resemblance to you. Aside from their eyes, that is.”
You wonder if he’s aware that he’s smiling.
Chrollo clears his throat. “As I said, it’s nothing so grand.”
It’s your turn to scrutinize him. You might not be a virtuoso in the art like he is, but you have your methods. What strikes you is how much of himself he revealed, unwittingly or by design, although the latter suits him better. He must have decided it was a worthwhile sacrifice for any insight you’ll give.
“Kids… they always sounded nice to me, in theory. Except for when I was a teenager. I was vehemently against the idea then,” you can’t help chuckling at the memory. “I don’t know. I guess I came around to the thought again, but… it’d only be after I established myself. Solid career, housing, whatever. And, of course, the right partner.”
You’re sure your side eye doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Not that any of that is in the cards anymore. You’re not delusional enough to think otherwise, right?”
The skin beneath his eyes crinkles. “And if I was?”
“I’d fling myself off a balcony.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say such things.”
You begin picking at a stray thread on the hem of your nightgown. “Yeah, well, I wish for a lot of things that don’t come true.”
“I suppose we’re alike in that regard.”
“Gross,” you make a face. Pursing your lips, you hesitantly ask, “Was that really all you had on your mind? You’ve been so…”
“So…?” He repeats, matching your inflection. It goads you along.
“Pensive? Gloomy? Something to that effect. It’s like there’s this little rain cloud floating over you.”
You motion to the space above his head where the proverbial rain cloud would be.
“A few days ago, you said some choice words,” Chrollo recalls, much to your displeasure. You were hoping he’d leave that in the past. “They left an impression.”
You swallow thickly. “I’m sorry.”
Chrollo gives a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Lying isn’t one of your strong suits; I suggest avoiding it.”
While shifting around in your seat, you wish you could turn invisible.
“During your little outburst, you asked if I was ‘happy’ with how things are. An interesting question, to say the least. I’ve given it some thought.”
Svelte fingers graze your jawline. You stiffen up, every muscle seizing into place, as if you’d been paralyzed. His touch is gentle, almost featherlight. Your pulse quickens like you’re a lamb awaiting slaughter. Staring straight ahead, you desperately search for some object to fixate on. You settle on the support column. An avant-garde clock sits high on it, the bottom half of its frame drooping, as if it were paint splashed against a wall.
You count the seconds as they pass. Two, four, ten…
His fingers tighten around your jaw and he turns you to face him.
What a sight you must be — cheeks squished together, eyebrows high, lips agape. And then there’s him. He’s frowning, but aside from that, you can’t get a read on him. The intensity of his gaze holds you captive. Without warning, he leans forward, tilting his head slightly as he does so. You squeeze your eyes shut. You can feel his warm breath fan against your face, how he strengthens his grip, likely anticipating resistance.
“How can I be ‘happy’ when you’re still so adverse to my touch?” Chrollo whispers, his lips brushing against yours as he talks. You fight the urge to cringe. “What will it take to have you where I want you?”
After what feels like an eternity, he lets you go, but doesn’t move back.
You reopen your eyes. You’re more familiar with the man sitting before you, if only by a fraction. Even then, an unnerving atmosphere lingers, speckling your skin in goosebumps. You wrap your arms around yourself and exhale. The consequences from that day’s lapse in judgment have been manageable until now.
Your day-to-day existence is defined by a lack of control. Over where you’ll go, what you’ll do, even what you can wear. Chrollo is the composer of your life and you’re his pièce de résistance, whom he always makes adjustments to. You must match his tempo or scramble to catch up. This paradigm has slowly yet surely eroded you, sanding over your harsh edges until you’re soft to the touch.
You wanted to hurt him, wanted him to feel what jagged pieces remain, but now that you may have accomplished just that, you’re burdened by regret.
Not for what you did.
No, for what you possibly started.
“Chrollo.”
“Hm?”
“How much of me are you willing to destroy to get what you want?”
Chrollo lets out a low hum, as if the hypothetical you presented him with was nothing so unthinkable. This alone stokes your anxiety. Sometimes you wonder if this is not already the path you’re being ushered towards. He’s amassed victories, some small, others sizable. You’re far more docile now compared to when he first took you. Back then, you could barely function, panic ruled your every waking thought and seeped into your dreams, denying every respite.
“You have the wrong idea,” Chrollo asserts. “I don’t want to destroy any element of you. All I’d like is a change in perspective.”
You gawk at him. “Huh?”
“Haven’t I proven I’m not as terrible as you feared?” he questions, tilting his head. “I could’ve been every bit the monster you imagined me to be, if not worse.”
“Should I— do you expect gratitude, or something?”
Mirth dances in his eyes like flecks of ember. “It wouldn’t hurt, but no. All I’m suggesting is that you cease torturing yourself for the sake of pride.”
“I don’t get what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you, though?” he challenges, his confidence vexing. “Patience is one of the few virtues I have, but it’s finite. Your love of testing it grows tiresome.”
You watch as the thread you were tugging at snaps off, fluttering to the marble floor. Your trembling fingers long for another task to occupy themselves with. He sounds as composed as ever, yet beneath the façade, microscopic fissures are forming. You’ve been chiselling at him in your own way. Testing what you can go away with, what remains taboo. Have you finally stumbled into the latter?
Or was it something else?
Recalling the muted delight on his features when he recounted his dream, you frown.
You’ve always believed the human mind’s capacity to dream is its cruelest gimmick.
Nightmares are no stranger to scorn — those phantasmagorias that play feature length-films of your fears and insecurities. You’re made to be an unwilling member of the audience, every frame composed with malicious intent. These night terrors deserve their ill-begotten reputation.
What doesn’t get enough credit for hurting just as much, if not more, are lovely dreams. The idyllic, the picturesque, the unobtainable. They are a heartache you gladly hold the door open for. Once inside, your inner world is redesigned. The spectacle is so dazzling that you come to prefer it over reality. Dreams, both good and bad, are destined to end. For every long nightmare you awake from, there is a paradise you had mere seconds to explore.
From the corner of your eye you glance at Chrollo.
For such a greedy man, the dream he fondly recounted is so unremarkable, you almost find it pitiful.
“That’s quite the conundrum,” you murmur. “Oh?”
“You don’t want me to be debilitated by terror, but I’m still supposed to fear you enough to stay in line.”
“How astute.”
“Is there really no other way?” You ask, scrunching your eyebrows together. “Couldn’t you just let me go and share in my joy? Surely, that must be better than having me glare at you twenty-four seven.”
Chrollo chuckles, as if the suggestion you presented is a nonsensical fantasy.
“I’m not a good enough man to do that, love. You never noticed all the things I did. People are drawn to you. You’re equal parts endearing and naive, it’s an alluring combination. I can’t stand idly by and watch others take from you what I want most.”
“... How long were you stalking me, exactly?”
He gives an enigmatic smile. “I’ll leave that to your imagination.”
Before you can do just that, he gives your thigh an unwelcome squeeze.
“Let’s call it a night,” he says, his casual tone belying how the statement’s an order. “Tomorrow will be a busy day.”
You don’t bother voicing your newfound apprehensions. Instead, you wordlessly hop down from your seat, scanning your surroundings for a path to the master bedroom. The home is sparsely lit, but you manage to find your way. You pause at the lack of a second set of footsteps. Chrollo had gotten into the habit of walking audibly at your request, as you found his former silence ‘off-putting.’
You discover he’s yet to get up himself, seemingly lost in thought. “You aren’t coming?”
“In a moment,” he responds. "Go on ahead."
It feels like his eyes are on you even after you’ve left the room.
