CHERRY ˚₊ · »-♡→ CHROLLO X YAN! READER X HISOKA
You don't knock right away.
You stand in the hallway for three full minutes—watching the flickering fluorescent light above his office door, heart racing like you’ve done something wrong.
Like you’ve already been caught.
You stare down at your ribbon-tied wrist. Red. Soft. Silky.
It’s ridiculous, you know. You’ve rehearsed your question a dozen times in your head. It’s academic. Safe.
But your body doesn’t believe you.
His voice is a melody wrapped in smoke.
Chrollo Lucilfer’s office smells like sandalwood and red wine.
Not the sweet kind. The dark, bitter kind that stains your mouth and makes you say things you regret in the morning.
The lights are low, drawn from a single antique lamp tucked behind a stack of leather-bound books. A candle flickers on his desk—its wax bleeding down like a slow death.
He looks up from his chair, framed by shadows and shelves.
“Miss Y/N,” he says. Not surprised. “Please. Sit.”
Your throat tightens. You obey.
The chair creaks beneath you. Your thighs press together automatically—not out of fear. Something worse. Need. Heat. Anticipation you didn’t prepare for.
“You had a question about the reading?”
You nod. “The section on heroic self-sacrifice… and devotion. It caught me off guard.”
“Ah,” he murmurs, folding his hands in front of his lips. “Yes. The illusion of noble decay.”
He stands slowly. The movement so smooth it feels choreographed. His coat shifts behind him like a stage curtain. You grip the arms of the chair.
“Tell me,” he says, walking to the shelf, “what disturbed you?”
“The implication that love is only authentic when it violates something sacred.”
He tilts his head. Selects a book. Then turns.
“Good.”
“Good?” you echo.
“It disturbed you. That means it reached something real.”
He places the book on the desk in front of you. Not yet handing it over.
“We are taught that love is symmetrical. That it’s shared. Fair.”
“But it’s not,” you whisper.
“No,” he says. “It consumes. And when it does, it leaves behind art. That’s the sacrifice.”
He leans against the desk, one hand resting on the edge. So close. His fingers curl, just a fraction.
“You’ve begun to understand that, haven’t you?”
“Your recent work—” he continues, eyes scanning yours, “—is unraveling. In a beautiful way. Lines fraying. Color bleeding. Composition losing control.”
“I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“That’s why it’s honest. Unfinished work doesn’t lie. It hasn’t been polished into fiction.”
You swallow. Loud in the silence.
Then he finally places the book in your hands.
“The Desire for Ruin” by Kuro Tazawa. A rare out-of-print copy.
Red ink stains the margins.
A cherry stem lies between the pages—pressed and dried, tied into a knot.
“Things rot when left untouched,” he says softly. “But sometimes, we offer them anyway. Not to please—but to provoke.”
“Thank you,” you whisper. “I… I’ll take care of it.”
He smiles—slow, deliberate, like the sun rising on something ancient.
You flee before your body gives away just how much it already has.
You don’t notice the extra weight in your bag until you’re halfway up the stairs to your apartment.
The hallway is still. Quiet. Too quiet.
The kind of silence that listens back.
Your fingers pause over the zipper, chest rising too fast. Something pulls at you. A wrongness.
You unzip your tote and find it.
A folded page. Old. Soft. Familiar.
You don’t even need to open it to know.
You recognize the grain of the paper. The frayed corner.
It’s from your sketchbook.
The one you burned last winter. Or thought you did.
Your hands shake as you unfold it.
A charcoal sketch—of you.
Lip parted. Collarbones exposed.
Your eyes wide and dilated, lashes smudged. Neck arched.
You remember when he drew this.
Not with pencil.
But with touch.
Hisoka had pressed you down into the mattress, one knee between your legs, his hand pinning both of yours above your head as he whispered:
“Look at you. You're a canvas.”
His fingers had trailed your skin like brushes. Painting bruises.
His teeth had left crescent moons on your thighs.
“You're a masterpiece, Y/N. And I ruin everything I love.”
Your body remembers before your mind does.
Heat curls low in your stomach.
Not just fear.
Shame.
Desire.
Recognition.
You blink down at the note scrawled across the image in violet ink:
“You look beautiful when you’re nervous.
Still as sweet as I remember.
But does he know how you sound when you’re begging?”
Your breath stutters.
You drop it like it burned you.
The floor feels unsteady.
You fumble for your phone.
No missed calls.
No messages.
No sign of forced entry.
No camera alerts.
You slam the door behind you and lock it.
All three bolts. Twice.
Your chest rises. Falls. Rises too fast again.
Your breath catches in your throat.
Another note.
Same violet ink.
Same unmistakable scrawl—loopy, chaotic, almost playful if it weren’t so sharp.
Your fingers tremble as you peel the paper free.
“You’re not hiding from me, darling.
You’re just giving me better angles.”
Your knees nearly give out.
Because now you remember what he used to say—
When he would straddle you, camera in hand, clicking the shutter as you squirmed beneath him.
“Keep your eyes on me, bunny. I only capture what’s mine.”
You press a hand to your mouth.
He’s been here.
Not days ago. Not weeks ago.
Not because he misses you.
But because he doesn’t believe he ever lost you.
She leaves her balcony door unlocked now.
Not on purpose.
But not by accident, either.
She used to double-check it three times. Used to draw the curtain. Now she leaves it cracked—just enough for the cold air to slip in. Just enough for a watcher to breathe her in.
And tonight, he’s the air.
Hisoka crouches on a rooftop across the street, gloved fingers steady on the edge of the ledge, camera balanced between his knees. The wind howls through the alley below, but he’s still as a gargoyle—and just as old, just as cursed.
Not heavy. But persistent. Cold. Silver.
The kind of rain that slides down his temple, catches in his lashes, wets his collar.
He lets it. Doesn't even blink.
He wears black tonight. Of course.
A wine-colored silk shirt clings to his chest, open at the throat, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His slacks are fitted, leather gloves slick and creased with wear. A long trench coat clings to his back, soaked through, but he doesn’t care. His hair is tied loosely at the nape, strands sticking to his cheekbones, damp and wild.
A single cigar burns between his lips, the tip glowing like a warning flare.
He takes a slow drag.
Exhales smoke into the wet wind.
“There you are,” he murmurs, voice low and spoiled with hunger.
Y/N stands at the window, barefoot, one sleeve sliding off her shoulder. She’s holding a book—his book. The one Lucilfer gave her.
Chrollo’s fucking book.
Chrollo’s fucking cherry stem pressed between its pages like a goddamn signature.
Hisoka’s teeth clench on the cigar.
That smug, sanctified bastard, he thinks, thinks he’s going to rewrite her. Mold her into his next tragic little thesis.
He flicks ash off the side of the building.
“No,” he whispers, licking a drop of rain from his lip. “She’s already been written.”
Hisoka lowers the camera and just watches.
Watches the way she shifts.
The way her eyes stay on the page, but her body betrays her—hips tilted, thighs clenched, chest rising too fast.
“He’s got your mind,” he murmurs. “But I had your whimpers. Your nails. Your blood.”
He remembers the way she slept:
Curled around his leg, mouth bruised, breath shallow.
The scent of sweat and candle wax between them.
The little gasps she gave when he whispered filth in her ear, the way her eyes rolled back when he pressed just hard enough.
She thought she could erase that.
But it’s etched in her.
He wrote his name on her lungs.
“He won’t touch you like I did,” he breathes, tracing her silhouette on the fogged glass with one gloved finger.
“He won’t make you sob without using a single word.”
Lightning splits the sky.
Thunder rolls.
Hisoka pulls something from his coat pocket. Gently. Reverently.
The one she wore the night she screamed his name loud enough to wake the neighbors.
The one he pulled off her throat with his teeth and tied around her wrist like a leash.
He runs it between his fingers now, careful not to crush the memory.
“Go ahead, little cherry,” he murmurs around the cigar. “Let him make you feel safe.”
“When he breaks you, I’ll be the one who picks the pieces.”
“And this time—” he grins, feral, “I’ll keep one.”
He walks down the fire escape, slow and deliberate. Boots clicking wet metal.
He reaches her floor. Strolls past her door like a shadow on two legs. The hallway light flickers once.
He leans down and slides a third note under the crack—two fingers pressed to the envelope like a kiss.
“Still watching. Still sweet. Still mine.”
He flicks the cigar to the floor. Stomps it out with a gleaming heel.
Then he disappears into the rain.
Before the moon even registers his absence.
