#chrollo reader

[thirstyfangirl]

Okay somebody please link me some Chrollo/Kuroro x reader/oc/fem!kurapika stuff or I am gonna die, I'm at the end, I need content.

Yes, the Sheldon Cooper meme applies to me.

[bluesimba]

Burnt Afternoon

Fandom: Hunter x Hunter

Pairing: Chrollo/Reader

Warning: None.

The sheets that dip into the grooves of his body aren’t silk, but the way they slip and slink over him makes them look like the softest sheets on this side of the world. Passing over him, your eyes move to the window, where warm, almost burnt sunlight pries its way through the blinds. It should be just like it is in the movies—wake up next to him, he’ll crack open his eyes, you’ll both talk for a few minutes and sink into each other’s comforting presence, you’ll get up with some excuse (maybe it’s the morning breath, maybe your stomach throwing a temper tantrum), and he’ll keep you here, hand softly on your body or fluttering kisses on your neck. That’s the ideal, that’s what comes with a morning hazy glow.

But this isn’t an inviting morning, and this isn’t your relationship with him. At least, not a relationship like in the movies (are those even real?), because you both don’t function like that. Couldn’t function like that. Your bodies don’t fit together like long-lost puzzle pieces. Your eyes can lock across the room, but the fire, the spark—that isn’t how it is. Mostly. Kind of. Not exactly.

In the back of your head, a headache pulsates, crying, screaming for attention, to be fed by a “Not again” or maybe an “Already, huh?” and the knots in yours shoulders and neck dig, dig, dig themselves deeper until they’re buried in the cores of your muscles. Feels like it’s permanent, like you can almost never get rid of them, never ward them off. Except with him.

Stretching, there’s a soft shift next to you, a pressure that feels closer than it was mere seconds ago.

He says your name perfectly. His lips curl around the letters and make them into something magical, something he’s been the only one to do as if it’s a secret, lost art and he’s mastered it. He unearths something in you when he does it, and by the way you react—how your eyes immediately glide over to him, the way you come to life when you make eye contact—he knows it. You don’t mind, because the way he has your heart belting out anthems for him, beating for him, feels too good to stop. Feels too spellbinding to be real. Sometimes you wonder if it is.

“Yeah?” A quiet response; when the only other sounds are the rustling sheets and you both breathing, though, it’s not hard to miss.

There’s a quiet air floating between you two, quietly serenading, acting as the worn bridge for your hearts (the kind that misses a couple of planks, yet still gets the job done). By the way you both look at each other (how his eyes have the answers to your questions, how your eyes bring his to life with an enchanting spell), you both decide words can wait. They can always wait when you’re this close, so, so, close to a morning glow instead of burnt light from a nameless afternoon.

Your fingers trail up his outstretched arm. Cold, his skin doesn’t ward you off, doesn’t make you shy away. He lets your fingers trail over him. The look he’s got on his face, like he’s listening to a nostalgic lullaby and the bags under his eyes don’t drag his face down, squeezes your heart with a gentle reminder.

You don’t need to be like the movies to have this. He doesn’t have to be the perfect complement to set your name on fire when he says it. You both move at your own paces—not miles per minutes for someone else’s pleasure. Not like the movies.

And, as the afternoon fingers bend through the blinds, as you lie here with the knots in your neck and shoulders disappearing, with a man who can’t be fully understood, fully captured in a movie’s length, you decide this is better.

The burnt, nameless afternoon is where you stay.

[bluesimba]

Liar, Liar, Keep Lying, Please

Fandom: Hunter x Hunter

Pairing: Chrollo/Reader

Warning: This contains emotional manipulation, an unhealthy relationship, and implied nsfw; this isn't an ideal relationship and it isn't glorified in this fic. If you're uncomfortable with these themes, then I recommend you skip this fic.

“You can’t do this.”

The words that leave your lips are dry, drained, and pointless.

“I know—but let’s think of it as a compromise between lovers.”

Lovers? Chrollo says it with a charm and a practiced smile; twisting, the corners of his lips barely raise and his eyes almost look like they’re smiling. It’s fake, his smile, the way he moves and talks, everything. Even the way he breathes might be fake.

The room is large and shadows creep up on the sides of the walls, but the way he looks at you, how his gray eyes reach into yours and invade your thoughts, makes it feel like it’s shrinking. Small, smaller, so, so, so small. There’s a light shift in his facial expression, and your heart screams, telling you to leave, leave, leave, you’ve got to leave. He’s read you. He’s done digging through your expressions (and probably thoughts, too, he’s always been a master at mindreading).

He’ll be done playing pretend soon.

“A compromise? Chrollo, you can’t keep taking everything away from me.”

Stupid, you’ll make him angry. He’ll kill you—you know this. He doesn’t need you like you need him.

Unchanging, his expression is the same. If you were anyone else, anyone who didn’t know Chrollo, then you’d think that he’s being patient, considering, even, by his expression alone. That’s not how things are. That’s not how things will ever be with him.

A shift in the atmosphere comes a second later. He’s walking now, no longer at a moderate length away; slow, deliberate, and heavy, his footsteps thunder in your ears along with the rapid torrents of blood your heart pumps. Your eyes are burned onto him. Not glued, not clinging, something more powerful, more intense. Circling you, that’s what he likes to do.

Chrollo never walks straight to you. Once, he said that it was because he liked seeing all of you.

Your feet move, and your body tenses. Still tracing his movements, your eyes are focused.

The exits are too far away.

Closer, closer, closer—

“I suppose so, yet you’ve gone along with it. Why? Are you tired of us now?”

He’s in front of you and stands tall. Poised and collected, he’s everything he’s always been—this is Chrollo. Eyes ghastly, he’s reading your facial expression again, digging around.

You know he’s provoking you. Don’t—

“You know that isn’t it! You know how much I love. . .”

The words dry up and shrink back into your throat. Launching into a frenzy, your mind panics, squabbling in every possible direction, wanting to get away, to hide until his watchful eyes can’t find you anymore. There’s a pleased gleam in his eyes. He knows, and he knows that you know. That’s what makes it so fun and enjoyable, the fact that you’re walking on eggshells around him, how you’re being so very mindful about what spills out of your mouth. It’s stupidly endearing how your eyes widen; he takes special note of how the red blood vessels in your eyes strain.

Dipping down (sluggishly, reminding you that he’s the one in control), he’s nearly eye level with you. Nearly. Never completely your equal. A tense moment of silence drags on between you two as his eyes dissect you.

Everything is unbearably quiet, and his soft breaths that caress your face sound like cannon fire.

“Is that so? I’m glad. I’d find it unsavory if you didn’t return my feelings anymore.”

A gulp.

Delicately, he moves one of his nimble fingers around a lock of your hair, feeling it with his finger pads, before moving it back behind your ear. It’s something so small, so tender, but it blasts a shiver down your spine, a shiver that clamps its boney hands around you. The shiver rides on your spine from start to finish.

“It’s getting late,” he comments. Your eyes shift to the nearest window and see the night sky swaddling everything that you can see; the day ran away, tucked behind the horizon, leaving you here.

Your nerves are shaking.

“I should get going,” you say, voice awkward, somewhere between shaking and ghostly.

Lethargically, without a single ounce of worry or hurry (because he knows you’ll always be here. Even if he leaves with the door open, he knows you’ll be here), his frosty hands slink around you. Resting on your upper back first, they glide down to your waist, chilling every inch of skin.

“I wouldn’t want you to get hurt,” he says; his voice sounds like sugary honey steadily dripping, sounds like he’s got all the time in the world with you, here, in this still, unmoving room. “Spend the night.”

It comes abruptly.

Chrollo pulls you closer to him.

Rushed thoughts of your skin grazing against his flushes your cheeks. They turn a deep red, powdered with a cocktail of emotions you can’t pick apart. It’s nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary. It’s the way he says it, like he’s inviting you into a sculpted throne room. Whispering something else into your ear—

The way his lips move, how they curl just right, don’t. . .

The way your body relaxes gives it away, and even if you can’t see it you know that a satisfied smirk tugs at his mouth.

You know. He knows.

He’s got you.

He’s always had you.

Standing up, towering, confident, never your equal, he takes your hand in his. Lacing his fingers with yours together easily (too easily, almost), his hold on you is gentle, ever-present.

This isn’t. . .right. Stop. . .

“Chrollo, I—”

Keep going! Don’t give in!

One glance wipes it all away when his head turns to face you. Beneath his familiar clear gray eyes, he renders you weak, helpless, submissive.

“Yes? What is it, darling?”

“I. . .I love you, Chrollo.”

A familiar smile plays with the edges of his lips.

“I know, [Name]. I know.”