#chrollo smut

[metaltasteslikeblood]

i have the filthiest priest!chrollo x reader fan fiction that’s been in my drafts for a while and idk if it’s worth posting bc omg

[tea-rae]

Ik this is not what I’m supposed to be working on right now but I cannot get this out of my head. Tw: free use, bondage, dubcon to be safe

As Chrollo’s darling you’re treated well; nice clothes, a comfortable bed, maybe you don’t have quite as much freedom as you would like but you don’t mind.

He’s handsome and charming, always asking you about your day, holding the door for you: the perfect gentleman.

It almost makes you able to forget the bad days. The days he grabs you by the elbow and drags you upstairs after a job goes wrong.

How he pushes you to your knees with your back to the bedroom door. You know what’s expected of you, and you comply, opening your mouth obediently.

Chrollo uses your mouth for however long he likes, sometimes tucking you under his desk so he can work while you warm his cock on your tongue.

Other times he keeps you bound and gagged all day, lying spread open on his bed for him to use at his leisure. You’re exhausted by the end, having taken him over and over with little to no reprieve.

He’s not unkind but he clearly cares little for your comfort or pleasure. To him you’re just a pretty face and a tight cunt, both of which exist only to serve and please him.

At a certain point it starts to feel nice, being used like this. The way he pounds into you, his hands digging into your hips while he nibbles at your ear, whispering all sorts of filth.

“This perfect cunt, all for me. So good at taking my cock, aren’t you?”

You moan for him, loud and unashamed. You’re not faking it either; Chrollo is skilled, even when he’s not trying to be.

He gives your ass a smack once he’s done, then leaves without another word, letting his release spill out of you until he returns for the next round.

@rotten-pomegranate

[osarina]

♱ THE IRON PRICE

FEATURING: chrollo lucilfer x fem!reader, former kurapika kurta x fem!reader

SUMMARY: you have an opportunity to give chrollo the revenge he has so desperately wanted for his childhood friend, but taking it will come at a cost. you wonder how things have changed so drastically that the decision isn't even a question anymore. but this decision has left you with a horrific understanding that there might not be anything worth saving in kakin.

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, kakin prince!reader, soulmate au, canon divergent, enemies to lovers, abusive relationship with tserriednich/grooming (not intended to be read as sexual), character death (not chrollo or reader), dark themes (carne levare, imperialism, etc), world & character building (i took some creative liberty with what we know for Plot purposes—particularly kakin, meteor city, the mafias, and many of the characters), age gap (reader is 20 for plot reasons—order of princes & relationship with kurapika) angst with (mostly) happy ending, wc: 16.2k

CHAPTER SPECIFIC WARNINGS: CARNE LEVARE!!!!!!! Carne Levare is probably the darkest part of this fic, and anyone who read the manga will understand. Obviously I will not be depicting any of these things in detail, but they will be references as past events as kakin prince realizes just how awful kakin is -> mentions of child kidnapping, child death/torture, implied child rape & rape generally, dehumanization of meteor city residents & children. reader has some of her own warnings too, just for general disillusionment and an identities crisis & this does start to set her down a bit of a darker path, but the main warnings are for carne levare and kakin's treatment of meteor city.

SMUT WARNINGS: sorry three rounds of warnings this time but all are pretty important. the smut is honestly fairly tame. unprotect sex ?? i think that's genuinely it LOL but i got one anon who asked me to like section off where the smut is going to be because they don't usually read smut, so I'll just say here for this anon, if you want to avoid the smut, i would say stop reading right after the part that goes "everyone deserves a chance to explore their bond. you shouldn't punish yourself for my sake" <- her recalling what was said to her in last chapter and then pick back up "you don't even really register as he eases you off of him"

AUTHOR'S NOTE: part seven WOWWWWWW WE FINALLY GOT TO THE SMUT ADFHAISDUFHASDF this chapter was quite fun for me, although I'm not going to add too much to the authors note this time because I don't want to spoil anything SO I HOPE YOU ENJOY!!!! all reblogs and comments are appreciated! even if you only just boost!

SEE: REQUIEM IMPERIUM SERIES MASTERLIST

“Get out of my face before I bash your head into the floor until you’re unrecognizable,” Benjamin says harshly the moment you step into the area he’s claimed on the upper deck of Tier Two. His guards turn a blind eye to his threat, but you can’t help but notice the three who exchange looks nervously. You’ll have to see if there’s anything there for you to pull at. “You have some nerve coming over here after how you acted last night.”

You give Benjamin the smile that you know he hates, watching the vein in his forehead bulge through his skin. You turn your gaze to his guards and say, “Leave. I have matters to discuss with my brother. Family business.”

Your lips curl up slightly when you see that the three who had exchanged looks with one another instinctively move to leave, not waiting for Benjamin to approve or deny your orders. So, you do have reach even amongst Benjamin’s most trusted—Luzurus was right, you have way more influence than you originally believed. You don’t know how you were so blind to it. Benjamin sneers when he notices, shaking his head.

“Go,” he barks, and his guards immediately make their way out of the general vicinity. 

Balsamilco Might lingers, brows furrowing as he looks between you and Benjamin. You give him an easy smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Unless you’ve somehow ascended to the station of prince from handler, that includes you,” you say, and then raise your eyebrows when he doesn’t leave right away. “You don’t think he’s capable of having a conversation without you hovering?”

That does the trick. Benjamin doesn’t like being seen as incapable in any regard, so he immediately throws a flinty look in Balsamilco’s direction. The man is displeased, but he nods and turns to leave. His gaze meets yours when his back is to Benjamin, and he gives you a sharp look.

He tells you silently, Tread carefully with him. You’ve already angered him enough.

You give him an easy smile back. I’m more than capable of handling this brother.

Balsamilco gives you a lingering look before he, too, follows the rest of Benjamin’s guard out of the corner he’s secluded himself into. Once the two of you are alone, you glance down at the chair across from your eldest brother.

“Do not make yourself comfortable,” Benjamin says harshly, as you make yourself comfortable in it. You lift your eyes back to him and give him a small smile, watching how his jaw flexes in barely constrained anger. He doesn’t want to make a scene here in the middle of an event, but you could probably drive him to it; unfortunately, as entertaining as it would be, that’s not why you’re here. “I had Balsamilco vet every man within five paces of me to make sure none of your little loyalists were posted near me. I would not be so foolish as to allow—” he spits the next word “—parasites to gather in my shadow.”

“And yet, three of them moved to leave the moment I ordered it. Either your vetting is poor, or your men are better than your pride. You shouldn’t fault them for showing deference to the only worthy heir,” you say airily. Luzurus’s confidence in you had not been boastful—he was right—your influence in the military does rival Benjamin’s now, and the man hates you for it. “I have to ask, do you regret sending me down to the southern border to deal with the Chimera Ants? It seems like all of your problems have stemmed from that one little mistake.”

Benjamin sneers at you. “Why are you here?” he asks instead, and you know the answer is yes, because Benjamin Hui Guo Rou would die before admitting he made a mistake. “Be quick with it.”

“I’m here because we have a common enemy,” you finally say, bracing yourself for his reaction, “and I think we could both benefit from a temporary alliance. I’m willing to look away from how you stormed into my quarters in the middle of the night last night, if you are.”

Your biggest gamble yet, considering how last night went down. You don’t know if this is the right path, but you’re running out of time, both you and Chrollo, so if you want to make any change to the empire before it devours itself whole, you need to do it now. Benjamin is bull-headed and aggressive, and he often acts before he thinks, but if you can get him on the same page as you, you’ll temporarily have the full force of the military at your disposal. With that type of power, you’ll have the chance to seriously weaken the Xi-Yu Family—and Zhang Lei.

And where better to start than with Zimo Longbao, the man whose hands are soaked red in the blood of children? Sarasa was just one in a ledger that must stretch back decades. Through him, you can uncover the machinery of their trade—the routes, the buyers, the officials who’ve turned their eyes away while the Xi-Yu grow fat on the suffering of innocents—and you can take the necessary steps for the people who come after to dispose of them.

Not vengeance—a purge. Rot like that doesn’t die quietly; it festers, infects everything it touches. If you can drag Zimo into the light, if you can peel back the mask and show the world what the empire is really built on, maybe you can burn the infection out before it consumes all of Kakin. Benjamin is a brainless mutt, but of all of your siblings, he’s the one you trust most to side with you in this regard. He despises the mafia families and has been quite vocal about pruning diseased branches from Kakin. He means you and your siblings, but you think you can convince him that the Second-Track Fakers are included in that, if he doesn’t already stand by it himself.

But if these are the pillars the Kakin Empire is built on, slick with the blood of innocents, is it really worth saving?

You push the thought from your head and clear your throat when you realize Benjamin still hasn’t responded. 

He’s staring at you blankly. “You must be joking.”

“I’m not,” you tell him, folding your hands over your lap. “Unfortunately, I’ve never been more serious. You and I are at a serious disadvantage—”

“Watch your tongue,” Benjamin says coldly, “do not imply I’m at any disadvantage compared to our siblings.”

“But we are,” you say unrepentantly, raising your chin. “Tserriednich has the Heil-Ly, Zhang Lei has the Xi-Yu, and Luzurus has the Cha-R. I’m sure you noticed the conversation taking place down on the lower deck—that alliance doesn’t bode well for either of us. We might have the military, but the military is constrained by the law, and the law prevents us from taking steps that our brothers can take freely unless you impose special martial law, which you don’t seem keen on doing.”

Benjamin’s sneer deepens, slow and contemptuous. “You’re not constrained by anything at all,” he says. “If anything, you’ve done a fine job proving you don’t need laws at all. Why bother with limits when you have terrorists in your pocket?” You raise your chin as Benjamin leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “I know the spiders spin their webs close to your door, and if you think calling for an alliance between us by beseeching me to see us as birds of a feather will stop me from having their corpses dangled as spoils and then thrown into the sea, you’re more foolish than I thought.”

“Let us get one thing straight,” you say thinly. “I would never stoop so low as to consider us birds of a feather. And I am here for your benefit before mine.”

He bristles instantly, veins at his temple throbbing. “Is that so?” he snarls.

“Indeed,” you say, lips curling up into a smile that only serves to piss him off more, “because you don’t stand a chance against Tserriednich. Not with the type of nen he’s developed.”

Hook.

Benjamin pauses, words processing through his small brain slowly. When his beady eyes narrow, you know that you have him. “That scumbag, Tserriednich, learned nen?” 

You hum, inclining your head slightly. “Like nothing I’ve ever seen before,” you say honestly. “He’s learning at an unprecedented rate.”

Line. 

You know that you don’t likely stand a chance against Tserriednich’s Ephemeral Ten, but you’re pretty certain that Benjamin wouldn’t either. Although your eldest brother is a beast—he might be able to brute force his way through Tserriednich’s ungodly advantage.

Benjamin’s jaw tightens, knuckles white in his lap as he fists his hands. You know it must kill him to ask you this, and you find distinct pleasure in the war that takes place. “What exactly are you proposing?”

Sinker.

You smile.

Benjamin instantly snaps at you. “I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“Don’t bark at me, dog,” you say before you can think better of it. Benjamin’s aura becomes oppressive in response to your words, lashing out so violently that you see his soldiers react on the opposite side of the deck. “Calm down. Can’t you handle some teasing?”

You relish a bit too much in the way his veins pop at the way you address him. You’re playing with fire, perhaps, and you probably should not, considering you’re aiming for a temporary alliance, but you can’t help yourself when it comes to Benjamin. He’s just too easy to get riled up.

“The smug bastard Tserriednich really did raise you to be his mirror. You’re disgusting to look at and listen to,” Benjamin scoffs, aura settling as she shakes his head and looks away. Benjamin’s insult lands like a punch to the gut. He rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck before saying lowly, “You’re pushing my patience. Speak your piece, or leave before you embarrass yourself further.”

“I think it would benefit us both to cripple the mafias while we’re on the ship. Particularly, the Heil-Ly and Xi-Yu,” you finally say, leaning back in your seat as you make your proposal. “We both know it wasn’t really the Phantom Troupe wreaking havoc on Tier Three, and if Zhang Lei and Tserriednich partner up, they’ll consolidate control of Tier Three and Tier Four faster than we can blink, and we don’t have enough men on the lower tiers to deter it. That partnership would be a knife aimed at both of our throats.”

Benjamin’s jaw tightens. You press the point. “Right now, we still have leverage. We control the decks, the passages through tiers, and the means of supply through the military. We can choke them, if need be, but I don’t think we need to go that far yet. I’m willing to bet that Zhang Lei won’t formalize an alliance with Tserriednich right away; he won’t be too quick to make an enemy of us. We need to make it clear that associating with Tserriednich will only serve against him.”

Benjamin exhales, crossing his leg over his knee as he contemplates your words. “And I assume you have a plan to… enlighten him of his mistake,” he says dryly, clearly waiting for you to get to the point.

You pause and then say, “I want Zimo Longbao’s head.”

“Get out of my sight,” Benjamin snaps immediately, pointing you away. “Insolent brat, constantly wasting my time. I insult Tserriednich by comparing you to him; you’re a bumbling idiot who would bring this whole ship to the ocean floor.”

Your eye twitches at the insult. “I know your brain is tuned to the… more hands-on aspects of ruling, but allow me to explain my reasoning,” you say, voice tight and jaw taut. “The Heil-Ly, Xi-Yu, and Cha-R think that they’re untouchable right now. I’ve spoken to Brocco Li himself; they’re too arrogant. They forget that they’re nisenmono. They think that they’re on the same level as us—” Benjamin’s lips curl up into a snarl. You knew that would get to him. “—I saw Zimo Longbao here, attending this event. We both know that their life is conditional on them forever remaining in the shadows.”

“We can’t have him killed just for making an appearance on the deck,” he mutters, seriously considering your words.

“We can do whatever we want,” you drawl. “We are princes, but that is not how I plan to get him.”

Benjamin pauses at your words and then lets out a huff of laughter, as though he didn’t expect you to say that. “Very well,” he says. “I won’t be dragged into some scheme to get me thrown into a holding cell. If I even so much as get a feeling that you and Tserriednich are conspiring to get me thrown—”

Your expression darkens. “I am not working with Tserriednich.”

“Do not interrupt me again. Know your place,” Benjamin orders, voice rising. You bite your tongue until it bleeds, waiting for him to continue. “If I even so much as get a feeling that the two of you are conspiring, I will snap your neck on the spot, consequences be damned. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” you say with a tight smile.

“Then, what’s your plan? If you go over the Justice Bureau’s head, we’ll both be thrown in a cell,” Benjamin says, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s quick to get on plan with you; his mind is set on obtaining information about Tserriednich—he’s always been too impulsive. “What are you accusing him of? We—”

“I plan to invoke lex talionis,” you interrupt, raising your chin, “for the crime of murder.”

Benjamin stares at you for a second, beady eyes wider than normal, and then he laughs. It’s a terrible, terrible sound. You think you would rather listen to the eternal wails of the dead than hear your eldest brother ever laugh again. But he laughs so hard that he slams his fist against the table between you.

“You’re crazier than Tserriednich,” he says with a manic smile. “Lex talionis hasn’t been invoked in half a century.”

“And yet, it is still good law,” you counter. “The Hui Guo Rou dynasty may invoke the law of retribution when it doesn’t trust the courts to exact proper justice on our behalf. That is the right we retained when our father agreed to implement democratic institutions thirty years ago, so the people could feel more heard. I will have blood for blood, and the courts cannot stop or punish me.” 

Benjamin stares at you, slowly realizing that you’re dead serious. He repeats, “You’re serious.”

“I am,” you agree. “This is the best course of action for us. If we hand this to the Justice Bureau, two things happen. One—it becomes a public process, and we’ll look like idiots. Trials, hearings, witnesses. That drags the story into the open for weeks, if not months, and we don’t have that time. During that window, Zhang Lei and Tserriednich have time to bury him under alliances, payoffs, whatever legal theater they prefer. They’ll shuffle the right men into the right positions, and Zimo walks away with immunity or a lighter sentence. Two—we lose the statement we need to make. We need Zhang Lei to know what this is: a warning. Zimo first, then Onior, and then him, if he continues to plot and whisper with Tserriednich. There’s too much in question if we give this to the Justice Bureau, and there’s too high a chance the plan backfires, and we look like fools, and it only solidifies their alliance further. It is better that we handle it ourselves and make our stance clear. We kill Zimo Longbao to punish Zhang Lei’s association with Tserriednich, and we will break the Xi-Yu without war breaking out on the lower tiers. Zhang Lei is not an idiot, and Onior has more children we can kill. Neither will push when they realize how serious we are about this.” 

Benjamin doesn’t look convinced.

“Supreme excellence consists of breaking the enemy’s resistance without fighting,” you quote at him, crossing your arms. “Therefore, the skillful leader subdues the enemy’s troops without fighting—captures their cities without laying siege, overthrows their kingdom without lengthy operations in the field. Without losing a single man, his triumph will be complete. If this escalates into conflict, we lose. All we have to do is kill one man to back Zhang Lei and Onior Longbao into a corner.”

“Do not quote Sun Tzu at me,” Benjamin snaps in response, lifting his hand to rub his lips contemplatively. “Let me think.”

Benjamin thinking is never a good thing, so you continue speaking instead. 

“We are the only ones who can do this without it becoming a circus. The military controls the decks and the supply routes; we control movement. We can confine, isolate, and remove Zimo swiftly in a way the law cannot. Hand it to the Bureau, and we hand the initiative to everyone else. Zhang Lei will exploit every legal loophole, Tserriednich will exploit the public and twist this into some campaign against us, and the Heil-Ly and Xi-Yu will exploit the chaos to consolidate power on Tier Three and Tier Four. If you authorize this, we’ll make sure Zhang Lei knows that there are costs to scheming that no court can smooth over, and he’ll think twice about cozying up to Tserriednich while the military is still the dominant force on the Black Whale. If we do not prove that the military still has control of the Black Whale while we still can, the vultures will start to feast.”

Benjamin’s eyes flick to the far side of the deck where his men are waiting. You wonder if he’s regretting sending Balsamilco away. Benjamin is the opposite of Tserriednich; he enjoys battle and war, but despises stratagem and politics. 

“You expect me to sanction extra-judicial killing,” he sighs, frowning. “That is why you want my backing.”

You roll your eyes. “It is not extra-judicial. I told you—”

“It may as well be,” Benjamin snaps. “Invoking the old laws—are you really ready to open that can of worms?” 

He makes a good point, but this is the way it has to be done. You’ll deal with the repercussions later. You start with Zimo, and then the Xi-Yu, and then the Heil-Ly—and then, depending on how Luzurus answers your question, you will finish with the Cha-R. By the time the Black Whale docks, Kakin will be purged of the blood-sucking parasites that have grown fat in the shadows. You’ll make sure of it.

“I am,” you say. “This secures both of our interests. We preserve military dominance, prevent mafia consolidation, and make sure the next move is ours.”

Benjamin doesn’t answer immediately; his thick fingers curl around his glass until the wine trembles as he considers your words. He asks slowly, “What is your ultimate goal here? You and Tserriednich like to believe I’m stupid, but I know very well this isn’t just about Tserriednich and Zhang Lei conspiring, and the Heil-Ly and Xi-Yu working together.”

You give the man a lazy smile. “You and I are not so different, big brother,” you drawl, watching his eye twitch at both the way you address him and what you claim. “I, too, hope to preserve the Great Tree of Kakin, but our siblings are not the only diseased branches that must be pruned.”

Benjamin huffs out a noise; you can’t tell if it’s a scoff or a laugh.

“Very well,” he finally agrees. “I’ll have a regiment go with you to acquire Zimo Longbao, and if it comes to it, I’ll back your decision to invoke lex talionis, but nothing sloppy. You’re playing with fire, and if this blows up, I will leave you out to dry. In exchange, you’re going to tell me everything you know about Tserriednich’s ability.”

You smile. “Deal.”

————————

With Benjamin’s backing, it’s not long before you’re marching Zimo Longbao up to your quarters. The older man trembles between the two of you as you make your way down the halls of Tier One, lips parting to ask questions but struggling to get a single word out.

You made the right decision. You know you did. You have to sacrifice your advantage over Benjamin when it comes to intel on Tserriednich, but it’s worth it. Going through the courts wasn’t an option: the Kakin courts would’ve never found Onior Longbao’s son guilty of anything, even if the corpses of children were dangled right beneath their noses. You don’t even think that most of the Kakin elites consider the residents of Meteor City human enough to call atrocities against them crimes.

Is it really worth saving, then?

The same thought that crossed your mind earlier passes through your head again, and it scares you that you don’t know the answer to it. There is good in Kakin. You know it, you’ve seen it. But it’s not—what if it’s not enough? What if it can’t justify all of the wrong with it? What if the only answer now is salted earth and blood and fire? Until there’s nothing left but bones and ash, so that nothing can grow from its toxic remains?

You think it is telling that Benjamin’s face twisted up in disgust as Zimo Longbao narrated his conquests in Meteor City. He spoke as though it were something to be proud of. He spoke of how he tamed the animals that prowled the junkyard. He spoke of how, before he took over, Meteor City was nothing—an untapped gold mine because no one wanted to set foot in ‘diseased’ land. He spoke of how he emptied orphanages and butchered men in the name of the Hui Guo Rou dynasty. He spoke of blood spilled in the face of futile resistance, food supplies burned as punishment for defiance, and how he beat the elders of the city into submission so thoroughly that their only choice was to bow their heads to the Xi-Yu. 

And he spoke of hunts.

He sounded as though he were lamenting when he told you about them—and not lamenting that the hunts took place, but that they were forced to cease them once they reached an agreement with the elders of Meteor City. He spoke of it the way men of his generation spoke of the “good old days,” when they were allowed to do as they pleased, when they could descend on Meteor City’s outskirts with rifles and trucks and nets, rounding up the children who were “nimble enough to make it fun.”

“They were fast, you know,” Zimo laughed, chuckling faintly, eyes far away. “Like little rats. You had to aim low, always low. They tried to scream and scratch when we caught them, but eventually they’d give up and just lie there all tangled up. We’d make competitions out of it around the time of Carnevale.”

Carne Levare.

You’ve heard about it in passing, an old Kakin tradition that you never took part in, so you didn’t really know what it was and never cared to learn. Officially, it was billed as a royal tour—a “celebration of unity between royal and citizen”—and you took it at face value. It did not happen often, every ten years at most, possibly more; you were three or four during the first one that took place after you were born, and naturally, you did not attend because you were too young and still under Tserriednich’s thumb. Another took place two years ago, after you turned eighteen, and you were invited, but didn’t attend because you were busy with the Chimera Ants in the south.

“Yeah, it was most fun around the time of Carnevale—before we worked out a deal with the elders,” he continued wistfully. “Rounded them up en masse. We had to go through and figure out which ones were good enough to send over to the hosting village. We got to play with the ones that didn’t make the cut.”

You realize, a bit numbly, that if you were around three years old during the second-to-last Carne Lavere, then Chrollo and his friends would’ve been around eleven, and it’s likely that their young friend, Sarasa, had been hunted down by the Xi-Yu as meat for Carnevale.

When Zimo Longbao finally lifted his eyes, he sought absolution or approval or you don't really know what he sought from you and Benjamin, but he found only disgust, and he realized he had made a terrible mistake.

“Hey,” he laughed nervously when he finally began to realize that you and Benjamin were not laughing with him, “we only do what the true bloods want. You want meat, we get you meat. Not my fault some of you royals have peculiar tastes.”

“Where are you bringing me?” Zimo asks, voice thin. “The Justice Bureau is on Tier Two, I—”

“Shut your mouth,” Benjamin barks, and Zimo instantly does as he says, breath ragged as he realizes something is seriously wrong. 

“You didn’t know about Carne Levare?” you ask him quietly, looking at him from the corner of your eye. “You’re the firstborn prince.”

He snarls at you. “I don’t waste my time with festivities. Don’t ask me stupid questions.”

“Your multitude of appearances at luncheons and white parties would beg to differ,” you reply dryly. “What makes Carnevale different?” 

“What did I say about stupid questions?” Benjamin says through gritted teeth, giving you a look that promises bloodshed if you continue speaking to him. Clearly, he’s had enough of your presence for the day, which is about what you expect, considering how much he despises you and Tserriednich. Though he still answers your question, which leads you to believe that this situation has placed the two of you firmly on the same side for the time being. “The luncheons and white parties are insufferable, but most of my officers enjoy attending them. I only go there to keep up appearances.”

Makes sense, you think to yourself. Benjamin has always preferred training over anything else. When you were younger, he could only ever be found in the barracks or on the training grounds. You would spend hours watching him there when you had free time. It was how you learned to wield weapons—by watching him train. 

Then, which of your siblings participated? 

You fiddle with the cuffs of your uniform as the thought crosses your mind, suddenly very, very uncertain. Before you can reply, Benjamin whacks your hand. You draw your hand to your chest and give him an accusing look, but he only frowns deeply at you.

“You fiddle when you’re nervous. It’s unbecoming of a prince,” he tells you harshly. You think it’s his way of looking out for you, so you don’t snap back the way you usually would.

“Habit,” you say quietly.

“Break it,” he snaps.

Your lips curl up into a small smile, but you hide it from him before he can take notice. You exhale as you reach the door to your quarters, ignoring the way sweat dribbles down Zimo Longbao’s temple.

“You probably shouldn’t come any closer,” you tell Benjamin. When he furrows his brows at you, you elaborate, “If you plan to continue working with the Zodiac.”

Benjamin’s face twists up, nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply. He says sharply, “Kakin does not answer to the Zodiac. I am the First Prince. I am not obligated to report to them.”

Ah, you think to yourself, eyes widening slightly. You hadn’t forced his separation from the Zodiac into the terms of your temporary alliance. You knew you were already pushing it with having him back you in a crusade against the Xi-Yu, and you didn’t have enough leverage to bargain with.

Oh, Benjamin, I never took you to be one to go soft, you think to yourself, but you don’t voice your thoughts aloud because you know very well that if you did, he would instantly bring the Zodiac down on you. You enjoy antagonizing him, but you’re not stupid. 

When you open your door, the spiders are all waiting for you, as you expected. They came looking for you after you disappeared into the Tier Two barracks with Benjamin. Phinks and Feitan must have gone back up to your quarters in a rush when they realized that they lost track of you, because Machi and Nobunaga, who were supposed to be resting during the day, ended up finding you on Tier Four before you confronted the Xi-Yu Family underboss with Benjamin. Luckily, the two of them knew better than to approach you in that company, and they understood your signal when you silently told them to go back up to your quarters.

None of them look pleased with you. Machi is scowling, and Nobunaga refuses to look your way; both Phinks and Feitan wear irritated expressions, although you think it’s just Feitan’s resting expression. You suppose you can’t blame them, considering you made their job exponentially more difficult by running off with Benjamin, of all people. But it’s Chrollo who makes your nerves jump. He doesn’t look the best health-wise, and he’s clearly unhappy with you from the tightness in his eyes and lips.

You give him a half-sneer—as if he has any right, after his stunt the other day—but your expression quickly drops as Leorio’s words ring through your head, a heavy feeling settling over you. 

Shit. How are you supposed to tell him?

Zimo stumbles as Benjamin pushes him hard through the door to your quarters. His face is pale and drawn tight, sweat slicking his forehead, but his eyes are still sharp—the arrogant gleam of a man who thinks his name and family can still protect him. You almost want to laugh at the absurdity of it. 

Ah, Zimo, you have stumbled into the land of the godless. Names won’t buy you mercy here, and coin will not be enough to sate the blood you’ve spilled. You are in for your reckoning, miser.

He doesn’t understand yet, but he will soon.

Benjamin stands in the doorframe, bulk filling the frame thoroughly as his gaze flicks into your room. Disgust crosses his face at the sight of the spiders, and when you see them tense and shift, you’re quick to motion for them to wait. He looks back down at you without acknowledging them, “My end of the bargain is complete. Fulfill yours timely, or I’ll have you skinned alive.” The threat doesn’t hold the heat that it usually does. He presses his lips together before adding, “I do not care for Zhang Lei’s response. The Xi-Yu will be culled before docking. I will enact special martial law after we cross into the uncharted waters.”

You press your tongue to the back of your teeth, surprised by how much information Benjamin is offering you. You ask after a moment, “And… will we be united once it’s enacted?”

Benjamin’s jaw tightens. He looks seriously displeased as he considers your words, but then he says, “That is up to you. Decide if you’re that bastard’s pet or a prince. I will not align myself with one of his toys. Understood?”

“Yeah,” you reply, voice wavering slightly. You think this is Benjamin trying to be nice to you—in his own asshole way, of course. “Understood.”

“Good,” he tells you, flicking a disdainful look to Zimo Longbao, who still hasn’t looked back to see the other occupants of your quarters. He exhales through his nose, but then nods, turning on his heel to leave your quarters and return to his own. As he leaves, he orders, “Deal with this swiftly.”

“Yessir,” you say dryly.

“Watch your tone,” he barks, and slams the door shut behind him. 

You stare at your closed door for a moment before you turn back around to face the spiders. The irritation has been replaced with curiosity, wondering who it is that your eldest brother has sent sprawling on your floor. You look past them to Chrollo, breath hitching when you see that he’s already looking at you. He tilts his head to the side curiously when your gaze meets his, waiting for you to explain what’s happening.

 Your attention is pulled away when you catch movement from the corner of your eyes—Zimo trying to rise to his feet after Benjamin left. Your temper flares hot at the audacity, the arrogance of him thinking he still gets to decide when he stands in your presence, but you force yourself still, hand twitching at your side before you rein it back.

“Did I say you could stand?” you ask when he’s half-risen to his feet.

The man looks at you, dark eyes wide with confusion and disbelief. After a moment’s hesitation, he lowers himself back down to the floor, knees folding awkwardly beneath him. His voice wavers as he asks, “What is happening right now? I don’t—did I do something to offend you, my prince? I—I told you, I was only—”

You don’t need to hear him repeat that he only did what he did for your family. It will only make you sick again. Instead, you interrupt him and say sharply, “You have. Introduce yourself.”

Zimo lifts his head, finally realizing that it is not just him and you in the room. It takes a moment for him to recognize the people scattered about the room, but when he does, he blanches and looks back at you. “I don’t understand, I don’t—”

“Introduce yourself.”

Zimo shakes his head. He tries to rise to his feet, but he ends up falling back on his ass, gaze flicking across the members of the Phantom Troupe, landing on the spiders like a trapped animal realizing that there’s no way out. 

He understands now. You knew he would.

Zimo looks up at you, still shaking his head. “You would side with trash from Meteor City over your own blood,” he spits violently, eyes wild and arms trembling. You exhale, looking up at the ceiling. You don’t need to look at the Phantom Troupe to know they’re starting to realize what this is; the way their nen becomes heavier and oppressive tells you more than enough. “You bring shame upon the Hui Guo Rou dynasty, whore. You think spreading your legs for these criminals will—”

Zimo silences suddenly, and you glance back at him, realizing that Nobunaga’s blade rests against his neck, daring him to continue. You swallow the lump in your throat and push away the warmth in your chest at how he instinctively defends you, and you pointedly ignore the cold expression on Chrollo’s face as he stares down at the mafioso from across the room.

“I will introduce you then,” you say simply, ignoring the insult. “This is Zimo Longbao, the eldest son of the Xi-Yu Family boss. I…” 

You trail off, sighing and looking away. How do you even put something like this? You didn’t think this far ahead. All of the words you settle on feel dirty on your tongue; they make your skin crawl, your insides turn with so much disgust that you might throw up trying to speak them aloud.

Your family. Your blood. Your fingertips feel numb as you remember Chrollo’s words at your first dinner with him—his snide comment about Kakin’s blood-soaked money. Sick, you think, sick, sick, sick. An empire with pillars slick with the blood of innocents. None of you are free from culpability. You dined at dinner tables, shared bread and wine, with the same men who hunted children down like animals.

“Zimo Longbao, per his own words, was the one who tamed Meteor City for Kakin,” you finally say, gaze distant as you stare past the stricken man on the floor to the wall behind him. “It was by his hand that the elders were forced to deal with the Xi-Yu. One of the methods he used to force them to submit was making games out of hunting down children from the city. During the time of Carnevale, he would pick and choose which ones to send along for—” Your voice catches. You pause and then continue. “—for the royal family. The ones who did not make the cut… he and his men played with before disposing of the bodies back to the outskirts of the city. The last Carnevale before the elders and the Xi-Yu came to terms was seventeen years ago.”

The silence that follows your words is taut. You hear your blood in your ears, and your heart thuds so painfully in your chest that you wonder if you might die. You feel sick, like you should scrub your tongue, drain your body of the blood within it, and replace it with another’s. You can’t even bring yourself to look up at the Troupe to see if they’ve realized what you’re getting at.

 Machi is the first one who understands, voice broken as she rasps out, “Sarasa.”

And then it all happens in unison. 

“This bastard is the one who—” Nobunaga.

“All these years. Finally.” Feitan.

“You fucker, you like preying on kids from Meteor City? I’ll fucking—” Phinks.

And then: “Danchou, what should we…” Franklin.

You finally look at them—at him. His gray eyes are dark, and his lips are curved down slightly. You can’t figure out what he’s thinking. His expression is as unreadable as ever as he stares at you. For the first time in two years, you wish that your bond with him was stronger, that you could feel whatever he’s feeling right now, just to have an idea of what might be going through his head. 

After what feels like an eternity, he tilts his head to the side questioningly, Is this a gift?

“Do with him as you will,” you say after a moment, voice hardly audible. “I’ve handled everything else.”

“You’re going to let them kill me,” Zimo breathes out, like he’s only just realized. His anger dissipates as quickly as it formed, lips trembling. “My father, he’ll—”

“He’ll what?” you ask, ready to return to your bedroom before the Phantom Troupe unleashes hell onto the man. “Protect you? Stop this? Your father would bend over and take a rod up the ass if I ordered it. He won’t do anything. Nisenmono—that’s all he is, and you’re even less. He only lives at the mercy of the true-blooded members of the dynasty. That mercy can be revoked at any time, and he knows it.”

“Everything I did was for the true-blooded members of the dynasty,” Zimo shouts, eyes wild. Your nails bite into your palms—he’s right, a voice whispers in the back of your head, too far gone to be saved. Blood and fire. Salted earth. His voice breaks with desperation, “How is this fair? How is this fair? The King knew what we were doing; he would’ve put a stop to it if he thought we were doing something wrong. The Second Prince, the Third Prince, Sixth, Eighth—they’ve all had their share.” His face contorts between rage and pleading. “You can’t damn me without damning yourselves.”

Camilla. Zhang Lei. Tyson. Sale-sale. 

Are those the four who attended the last Carne Levare? 

You suppose it makes sense. Benjamin claimed he never attended, and he’s not one to lie. Tserriednich would see it as beneath him—too vulgar, too carnal, only for lesser men. You think there’s some divine irony in the fact that your two most loathsome brothers were among the ones who didn’t take part in this depravity. Tubeppa only cared about her research, so there’s no surprise there. Halkenberg probably wasn’t even invited; he would’ve been mortified. The children were too young.

Luzurus? He would’ve been ten during the Carnevale of seventeen years ago, and two years ago—well, he was barely conscious that year, doped into oblivion on whatever powder he could get his hands on. He spent most of the year under lockdown in one of the dynasty’s private hospital wards because Queen Duazul was afraid he was going to end up killing himself.

Camilla. Zhang Lei. Tyson. Sale-sale. 

King Nasubi.

You say after a too long silence, “You’re right.” Zimo inhales, lips parting, false hope flickering in his eyes. Then you turn your back on him to go to your bedroom. “Don’t mess up his face too much. I need to give Zhang Lei the corpse.”

There’s a commotion behind you. Your gaze flicks up to the mirror on your wall, and you see that Zimo Longbao has launched himself at your back, rabid and angry. Phinks was quick to step between the two of you, grabbing him by the arm and breaking it with a sickening crack before sending the man to his knees.

You get into your bedroom and slam the door shut before the screaming begins, but the thin walls do little to shield you from what’s taking place in your quarters. It is more than deserved, you remind yourself. When your eyes slide shut, it is a young girl’s body stuffed in a sack that is burned behind your eyelids, it’s a group of children searching for their friend, it’s Chrollo—seventeen years younger—with shaking hands and watery eyes, trying to be strong as he opens the sack and reads the note left with it so no one else has to.

You’ve done the right thing, you know it, but you find yourself full of dread instead of satisfaction.

Camilla. Zhang Lei. Tyson. Sale-sale.

King Nasubi.

You’ve known for a long time that your siblings are rotten. Camilla is all glitter and gorge, hoarding jewels and gowns as if they were the only thing that proves her superiority over everyone else. Zhang Lei is a venal fraud—always calculating, always ready to trade a mother or son for an advantage. Tyson and Sale-sale are self-serving oafs who only care for their own pleasures. They are walking embodiments of vice: pride, greed, lust, envy, gluttony, wrath, sloth. The Kakin princes have almost no virtue and far too many appetites. 

Even you—though you like to imagine yourself different—feel the pull of the same dark things. You feel the same hunger to be seen, the insatiable desire to prove yourself better, the thrill of cruelty when power bends your way. We are princes, you told Benjamin this afternoon, we can do whatever we want. You tell yourself that your voices are different, quieter—more controlled. But control is only another kind of vanity. You’ve envied, you’ve lied, you’ve wanted what wasn’t yours and taken it anyway, because you’ve been told that is your right as a prince and had no reason to believe otherwise.

In the right light, you are no better than any of them, just more skilled at hiding it.

You thought, maybe, that you could save Kakin, cleanse it of everything rotten, but you’re not sure if that’s even possible. Not when the rot has eaten the foundations upon which the empire was built upon. Not when the same corrupted blood that runs through the throne runs through you. There is no saving something born of blood and built on suffering. Kakin was never holy. It was never pure. It only wore the mask of civilization to hide the animal beneath.

You should feel satisfied having begun the purge of one of the most diseased branches of Kakin, but instead, you only feel very lost and alone.

Who are you if not a prince of Kakin? If Kakin cannot be saved, what is the point of you? What are you supposed to do? Who are you supposed to be? 

You don’t even notice the door to your bedroom open, not until you feel a hand brush your shoulder. Your gaze shifts up to the side, focusing on Chrollo. He’s frowning at you, something too close to concern in his eyes. You immediately shake your head and look away.

“What are you doing?” you ask him, voice tight. “Why are you in here? You should be with them.”

“I assure you, they’re more than capable of dealing with a single man,” Chrollo drawls, taking a seat next to you on the bed. He sits too close to you. The side of his thigh presses against yours, and your shoulder brushes his. Your lips part to tell him to move, but no words come out. His presence grounds you. “... Do you regret it?” 

“No,” you say, no hesitation, gaze shifting back to the wall in front of you. You feel his eyes lingering on the side of your face, but you don’t want to look at him. “He deserves whatever happens to him. If you’d heard the way he spoke—”

Like little rats. 

You had to aim low, always low.

“Are you worried, then?” Chrollo asks. He reaches out to skim his fingers against your inner wrist, and you have to fight a shiver. When you don’t yank away, he pushes his luck and slides his fingers between yours. His thumb traces the edge of your knuckles, and you find your eyes sliding shut. “About your brother’s reaction? The Third Prince, correct?”

“I’m not worried about Zhang Lei,” you scoff, turning your head to the side. “He is a coward. He won’t act against me if I have Benjamin’s backing. Even if I didn’t.”

You suppose you do Zhang Lei a disservice. It is less cowardliness and more intelligence that will stay his hand against you once you deliver him Zimo Longbao’s head. Once he realizes that Benjamin supports your bullshit invocation of lex talionis, he’ll understand that the two of you are united against him. Even putting aside the threat of the military and your combined influence, he is a smart man, and he’ll understand that this is a warning—after your display of nen at the banquet, he’ll think better of making an open enemy out of you. 

“Then what is it?” Chrollo presses, giving you a curious look. “What are you thinking?”

“What are you doing?” you ask him through gritted teeth, yanking your hand back from him. His brows furrow. You don’t know why your words become cruel, but they do. “Why are you in here with me, checking on me, as though you’re a friend or lover? I don’t need your concern. Go to your spiders and get revenge for your dead friend. Leave me be.”

To his credit, Chrollo doesn’t react to your harsh words beyond giving you a droll look. “And here I thought we were past this.”

You lose your fire. Your breath shakes as you exhale, palms flattening against your thighs. You’re still in your uniform, and the fabric of your pants is rough and heavy against your skin. You rub your hands up and down them once. Harsher the second time. Harsher still the third. Like you can grate off the disgust you feel. Chrollo stops you the fourth time, fingers closing around your wrist to get your attention.

“What are you thinking?” he asks again quietly.

You’re going to die. I’m going to die. My family is despicable. Kakin cannot be saved.

“You were right,” you finally say, staring down at how he’s holding your wrist. His fingers are cool against your skin. Too cool. You don’t want to look at him and see the nearness of death displayed plainly on his face, so you keep your gaze averted. 

“I usually am,” he drawls. When you tense, he smooths a circle over your skin—as a distraction or an apology, you’re not sure, but it works regardless. “About what?” 

“Kakin’s money—blood money. That first night, you said it as we left the restaurant,” you say. Your thoughts are all jumbled, and your sentences aren’t coherent. You don’t even know why you’re so upset right now; you shouldn’t be. This isn’t about you, this is… You catch Chrollo blinking slowly, as if wondering whether it really took you this long to reach that conclusion. “I knew it. I did. I just—I didn’t know it. I didn’t—”

“You’ve never had it put in front of your face like that,” Chrollo finishes for you, watching you curiously. “You’re sad.”

“I’m not sad,” you spit. “I’m not—”

“It’s okay to be sad.”

“I’m not sad.” Your voice rises unconsciously, and you shut down again, shoulders bowing inward, gaze turning to the ground. You continue quieter, “I am not sad. I—I knew they were rotten. My siblings. My father. I knew the mafias existed. I knew all of this.”

“Not all of it,” Chrollo notes, thumb resting on your pulse. “Not the extent of it.”

Your jaw tightens; you find yourself grinding your teeth. “They don’t even see people from Meteor City as human. Like—like they’re animals, like—”

“Trash,” Chrollo supplies. You finally glance up at him; his gray eyes are mostly emptied of emotion, but the corners of his lips are pinched, betraying his apparent apathy. “Unfortunately, that’s how most of the world sees us. It is not exclusive to Kakin.”

“It’s—” you start to say, but cut yourself off. Your lashes flutter. You see a group of kids running through the junkyard, a tape in hand; familiar faces on a stage, younger and happier, as they dub a video for the other children in the city. For a second, just a second, you understand it—the anger, the rage, the desire to burn the world down. You understand how they became this way, and—and then you remember Kurapika, gouged eyes, mutilated children, one hundred and twenty-eight clan members, and one survivor. You finish softly, “... not right.”

“No,” Chrollo murmurs quietly. “It’s not.”

“I didn’t know the extent of it,” you finally agree after a few moments of silence. “... I should have.”

Chrollo has the audacity to look amused. “What would you have done? You were a child.”

“I was never a child,” you snap immediately, closing off from him again. “I was a prince.”

Chrollo pauses, studying you with that unnerving stillness of his, and then amends, “Even as a prince, there was little you could’ve done. It runs too deep. You could dig until your hands bleed, and never reach the beginning. Leave any of it alive, and it spreads again—stronger for surviving you.”

Kakin cannot be saved, he says, in other words, what has been haunting you.

Kakin cannot be saved.

“Stop comforting me,” you bristle, pulling your hand away from him again. “I don’t need your comfort. Why are you here and not getting revenge for—” You stop yourself before you say her name. You don’t feel as though you should. “—your friend.”

Chrollo gives you an easy smile. “Did you consider, perhaps, that I’m the one trying to seek comfort from you?” he asks you quietly, and you falter. You turn your head to the side so that you can look at him, and he averts his gaze from you to the wall in front of him. 

His eyes are heavy, and his smile falls slightly.

He’s lying, you reason immediately. Chrollo doesn’t seek comfort. He doesn’t need it. Everything about him was carefully crafted to make other people unravel first. Comfort, to him, is leverage. Another form of control, dressed in gentleness. That’s what you tell yourself. You repeat it in your head like prayer. But—

But he looks… tired. Not upset or angry, not even as though he’s giving in to the pain that’s undoubtedly wracking through him, just… tired, grief that was never properly addressed, dulled by time but crippling all the same. And you remember when he fell apart on your bathroom floor, body betraying him to mortality, how he clung to the back of your flannel, how his nose unconsciously found your neck, seeking your warmth as he succumbed to the pain. You remember the child who curled up in bed crying, holding his arm as though the hatred carved into him could somehow bring him a semblance of comfort.

You slip your arm beneath his and reach for his hand before you can stop yourself. His fingers are far too cold as you slide yours between his, and when your forearm presses against his, you swear that you can feel the scars of your words digging into your skin through the layers of your uniform and his shirt. You look away when he looks down at your joined hands.

He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. You want to tell yourself this doesn’t mean anything, that you’re only humoring him, that this is pity, maybe, or guilt. A reflex. Something to convince yourself that you’re still human, that you haven’t become the same type of twisted monster as your siblings. The thoughts echo through your head as you sit there, fingers still caught in his, your pulse thrumming traitorously against his skin. 

When his thumb shifts, barely brushing the inside of your wrist, and he lets out a soft exhale, it doesn’t feel like manipulation. You think of saying it anyway, accusing him as a defense mechanism. The words form, sharp and clean, right behind your teeth. You even imagine how he’d answer: with that faint smile, the one that never reaches his eyes.

You don’t.

His hand tightens, just once, and then his breath rattles before he speaks. “We had given up,” he admits quietly, breaking the silence. Your gaze drifts over to him, and you see that his is still pinned ahead, a haunted expression on his face. “We tried for years—to find them. Every time we got our hands on one…” They would die before he could get any meaningful information. He lets out another soft breath, shaking his head, lashes fluttering. He repeats, “... We had given up.”

You don’t know how to reply to that, so you glance away and answer stiffly, “The Xi-Yu are trained to kill themselves the moment they’re in enemy hands. You wouldn’t have been able to get useful information out of any of them. That’s beyond your control.”

“Still,” he disagrees, shaking his head slightly. “Sarasa, she—” Chrollo’s voice cracks over her name in a way that’s impossible to fake. When he says her name, you can’t help but notice that his voice loses the refined cadence he’s taught himself to speak in, reverting back to the coarser dialect of Meteor City. Like he’s never dared to speak her name aloud since he left that part of himself behind, and doesn’t know how to say it in any other way. He finishes, after a moment of silence, “… Thank you.”

Instead of responding, you find your grip on his hand tightening. He notices, of course, he does. His gaze flicks down, and then his eyes slide shut. You can feel the tremor still running through his fingers. When you finally speak, you don’t know where you’re going with what you’re saying—you think maybe you’re just trying to fill the too-intimate silence.

“I didn’t think I would make it past the first night,” you admit after a moment, looking down at your lap. “I was… really ready to die. Benjamin, Camilla, Zhang Lei—I knew all three of them were gunning to take me out first, and I could’ve gone to Tserriednich for help but—”

But you would’ve rather died.

Chrollo hums, his thumb traces over his knuckles, grateful that you shifted the conversation from his own ghosts to yours. “I suppose it is lucky then—that you stumbled into us,” he murmurs, voice teasing, but there’s a weight to it that isn’t usually there, like he can’t force the levity into his tone as easily as he usually can.

“Maybe,” you agree softly. The next words you force out taste like ash on your tongue. “I… could really win this contest. I think.” You let out a shaky breath, blinking twice as you gather your thoughts. It’s your first time acknowledging them out loud. “The children are willing to renounce their claim for me. I have Luzurus’s support. I have a temporary alliance with Benjamin, and we’re going to rout the Xi-Yu and Heil-Ly, which will cripple Zhang Lei and Tserriednich. All that’s left is… Camilla, really. I think I could convince Tubeppa to relinquish her claim, and Tyson and Halkenberg hated the succession contest to begin with. I could really win. I think.”

You feel Chrollo looking at you, but you don’t dare to return his gaze.

“Is that what you want?” he asks.

And therein lies the problem.

You thought that if you could take the throne, you could fix it. Change things before they become too deeply entrenched. Before the rot reached the marrow. But you realize, maybe, that there is nothing to fix, because it is not broken. Kakin is working as it’s meant to, as it always has. It was never the ideal regime of the world, or maybe it was once, but the cycle that doomed the Yorbian Empire has already crossed the point of no return; you’ve never realized it until now. It did not begin with your siblings, probably not even your father—Kakin became a pit of vices and depravity a long time ago. Every inch of its glory and greatness was bought in blood. You were ignorant of it. Willfully even, maybe.

But then, what do you do?

If Kakin cannot be saved, you think again, then what is the point of you?

You’re a prince before you’re anything else. You’re a prince before you are a hunter. You’re a prince before you’re a friend. You’re a prince before you’re a daughter or a sister. You’re a prince before you’re a soulmate. You’re a prince before you are human. You don’t know who you are without your station, but how are you supposed to be a prince of an empire with foundations built on decay? How are you supposed to be king without just becoming another cog in a machine oiled with blood? You can’t fix something that has been rooted in rot for so long that it’s learned to call it tradition.

But if you don’t take it, then who will? One of your siblings? Someone who will only let the roots of corruption grow deeper into the empire’s foundation? Someone who will allow the rot to continue to spread? Someone who will let it thrive, even? What do you do?

You press your palm against your knee, like the pressure alone could hold you together. It feels as though you’ve been praying at an empty grave, beseeching a god that has been long dead for mercy. You wonder if this is how the prophets felt when revelations turned to silence. When the voice that once guided them fell quiet, and the heavens became nothing more than an expanse of cold, indifferent stars.

“What if it is?” you ask him, just to know his response

“Then I would give it to you,” he answers, without hesitation.

Your gaze snaps to the side. He’s already looking at you, and you look at him—really look at him—for the first time since you left this morning. The pallor hasn’t left his skin, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat along his temple that the low light of your bedroom doesn’t quite hide. His breathing is steady, but shallow, like he’s rationing each inhale, trying not to worry you. You see the exhaustion in the way he holds himself, and yet—

You can tell he means it. 

If you wanted the Kakin throne, he would give it to you. And you believe him, because—well, it’s what he does, isn’t it? It is what he’s best at: taking. He would take the throne, the same way he takes everything else. Chrollo Lucilfer, king of thieves, head of the spider—he would steal the crown and hand it to you on a silver platter, if you wanted it.

Why?

“Even if it meant nothing would ever come of the bond?” you ask him, because you are a prince and he is a thief, and there is no world where you can become king and keep him. No Kakin king can keep their soulmate, and you almost tell him this, but the words catch on the back of your tongue like glass. The thought shouldn’t sit in your gut the way it does; it shouldn’t feel like it hurts to say. 

Chrollo doesn’t look away. His eyes stay on yours, calm, distant, as though he’s already accepted the outcome you’re only just beginning to grasp. You wonder if he’s had an idea this would happen from the start; if he truly believed that you had a chance to win even when you were still scared and uncertain if you would make it through a single night, if he knew that when you won, there would be no place for him beside you.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “Even then.”

“Why?” you breathe out, and you think your fingers are trembling between his. You turn your gaze to the side when he lifts your joined hands to ghost his lips against your knuckles. “You said it yourself, it’s not like I can change anything. Kakin—” You’re about to say it out loud, you realize, and your tongue feels heavy, and your body feels numb. “—cannot be saved. There was nothing to ever save.”

“I don’t care about Kakin,” he says. He doesn’t say, I care about you, but he doesn’t need to. “If it’s what you want, then you’ll have it. I’ll make sure of it.” He gives you a humorless smile. “It’s what I’m best at anyway—stealing.”

“I don’t know what to do,” you admit, grip tightening on his hand. “I don’t think I ever wanted the throne. Or, maybe I did, I don’t know what’s mine and what’s Tserriednich’s anymore. Even what I made for myself away from Kakin—it was built in defiance of him. I have nothing that’s mine alone, free from his influence… That’s not the point. The point is, whether I want the throne or not, I don’t know what to do, because if I don’t do anything, one of my siblings will take over and things will, at best, remain the same, but more likely will become worse.”

He pauses, and you think that maybe he’s not just talking about Kakin when he murmurs, “Sometimes, the only mercy left for a dying thing is to let it die.”

Your gaze snaps to the side, focusing on him. He doesn’t look at you. You start to say, “You…”

“There is no cure.” Chrollo stares down at your hand, thumb running absently along your skin. Your heart thuds in your chest as you stare at him, lips parting to ask him how he knew, but he continues before you can. “I think I’ve known for a while now.”

You don’t know how to respond—not to that. Your grip on his hand has tightened unconsciously to the point that you think you might break it if you squeeze any harder. Your nails dig into the fabric of your pants, and your lashes flutter briefly.

“Leorio is still researching.” You hear yourself say, voice distant to your own ears. “You…”

Chrollo smiles faintly to himself, but he doesn’t reply.

You feel sick. Anger comes and goes in a hot flash. “How could you even say that to me? Don’t you know what you’re saying?” you demand. “That’s—”

Selfish. Selfless. You don’t know. Both, maybe. Neither. You don’t know how you’re supposed to feel, only that your chest aches and every breath feels too shallow. He doesn’t get to decide that, not when it means taking you out with him. Not when you still even had the time to understand what this bond means. Not when there’s still—

A chance. 

Not when there’s still a chance. Not when you’re finally starting to understand him, understand why the two of you were fated to one another. Not when it’s all finally beginning to make sense—the thing between you that’s felt like a curse for years. 

Maybe you are the selfish one, you realize. You’ve spent three weeks scorning and rejecting him, and now, when he’s finally accepted that death is imminent, you want to give him what he’s desperately wanted this whole time. 

“You can’t just give up,” you tell him. You try to sound angry, but your voice comes out too thin and strained. Pleading. “Leorio could still find something. Don’t be ridiculous.”

You think it’s only to placate you when he smiles lightly. “Of course,” he says softly, thumb stroking your skin. You can tell he doesn’t believe it, but you don’t call him out on it. After a pause, his fingers curl a little tighter around yours. “If—” He stops, frowning faintly, as though he’s trying to decide whether he wants to say it. “Perhaps when the Black Whale docks, we could figure it out together. Who you are without the throne and your brother. Who I am without…”

He trails off, eyes distant, unfocused. There’s something unbearably gentle in the way he says it, raw and genuine. But then he exhales, slow and almost soundless, and the moment folds in on itself. “It’s a foolish thought,” he adds, a ghost of a smile at his lips. “But still…”

And then—

He kisses you. 

No, you realize. You’re the one leaning in. You’ve lifted your hand to cradle the side of his face, fingers trembling where they meet his skin. His skin is cool beneath your palm, and he doesn’t react for a moment.

You were the one who kissed him. You are kissing him. The thought flickers somewhere in the back of your mind, but you push it away. You think, for a terrible second, that you made a mistake, because Chrollo does not kiss you back. His mouth is still against yours, and he doesn’t lift his hands to pull you closer. What happened that night in your bedroom after he defended you from Tserriednich was just a heat of the moment slip-up, a loss of control. Emotions were running high, and you had known it was a miscalculation right away, so why would you—

But then he exhales against your mouth, and the tremor that runs through him feels like the earth shifting, and one hand lifts to your waist while the other comes up to cover yours, where it rests against his cheek, anchoring you there. This kiss is not as careful as your first was. It is unsteady, desperate, and real in a way that terrifies you. The type of kiss that feels less like affection and more like confession. Every nerve in your body feels alight, your head feels fuzzy—it is fireworks, it is sparks, it is the universe sighing in relief as two halves click into place at last.

It is right. It feels right.

You think, maybe, that you want this.

You want him.

It’s an absurd thought, you acknowledge. Almost as absurd as the thought of the two of you surviving the Black Whale. Almost as absurd as the thought of a future with him, where the two of you find yourselves with one another. Still, absurd as it is, you think that it’s something you want. 

You’re only just beginning to understand him—you’re only just beginning to want to understand him. Chrollo Lucilfer is not a good man. He is ruthless, unforgiving, and deliberate in every cruelty he commits. He takes what he wants without remorse, and you’ve seen firsthand the wreckage he leaves behind. 

More than that, he is yours.

And you are his.

 Fate has deemed it so, and if soulmates are meant to be what you’ve always been taught they are: two halves of a perfect whole, sun and moon, dragon and phoenix, heaven and earth, then you want—need—to understand you and him as well. For your sake. All of your life, you’ve only known yourself in fragments and mirrors. You’ve always been what others wanted or expected you to be. You’ve known yourself as what you are to your brother (a doll), to your duty (a prince), to the crown (a contender), but never as what you are to yourself (who are you?). 

From the moment you were born, you felt lost and alone, incomplete. And with him, you think that you have the chance to know the rest. Maybe. You want to know what it’s like to be whole. Finally.

Everyone deserves a chance to explore their bond.

You shouldn’t punish yourself for my sake.

His lips slide messily against yours, and his grip is too tight to be casual. He presses you back against the mattress, body hovering half on top of yours, and you let him. His hand trails down from your hip to your thigh so that he can hook it around his waist, and you let him. His tongue brushes your lower lip, easing your mouth open for him, and you let him.

You let him.

His hips slot between your thighs, and his fingers slide behind your head to tangle in your hair. He tilts your head back, tongue dragging along the roof of your mouth. He kisses you like he can’t get enough of you, as though he would devour you whole if he had the chance. 

You wonder how long he’s been waiting for this—for you to give him a sign, a chance—and for a second, you think you’ve made a mistake. You’ve given a disciple proof of his god, and now he’s breaking beneath the weight of belief. His fingers tremble against you, and he lets out a noise caught between a gasp and a moan into your mouth. He tastes like blood, you realize, reminded too suddenly of his mortality, and as though he can taste or feel your hesitance, he cranes your head back roughly. 

A choked noise spills from your lips, lashes fluttering shut as his mouth moves to your throat, teeth grazing the pulse that races there. Heat pools low in your gut. You want this. Him. More. You feel like you’re going mad; you don’t know where this loss of control came from. Maybe it’s the stress of the day, the contest, three weeks of hell, two years of rejection, twenty years of suffering, weighing on you, body aching for some form of release. Or, maybe, this is just what happens when you give in to the bond. You’ve given it inch after inch, and now, finally, it’s taking everything, like two magnets that have been pushed too close together, snapping into place at last.

His breath is ragged against your throat, and you realize that he’s shaking. You don’t know if it’s from pain, the struggle to control himself, or just sheer need. There’s something almost reverent in how he touches you now, every movement fevered and desperate. You’ve become something sacred to him—or, you consider that maybe you always have been, since the moment your words appeared on his forearm, even when all he knew from you was hatred and disgust. 

His mouth moves down to your collarbone, and Chrollo groans into your skin, fingers working quickly to unfasten the buttons of your uniform top. You think of temples razed and altars drenched in sacrifice, of what it means to be worshipped by a man who’s only ever known ruin. He gets your top off, and his hand finds your face again, thumb brushing your jaw as if memorizing it, as if committing his god to memory.

You think you understand now what faith does to a man, and what belief demands in return.

“Is this—” he pauses as though he’s not sure he actually wants to ask, and then finishes, “—okay?”

He’s giving you an out, you realize hazily, lips parted as you look up at him. He looks beautiful. From this angle, and in this lighting, it’s hard for you to remember that he’s dying. His face is flushed slightly, and his eyes are glassy, but pleasure and need outweigh any visage of pain. His black hair hangs in his eyes, searching yours for an answer that you realize you haven’t given.

You nod, and he kisses you again. He cradles your face between his hands, kissing you deeper, and you lift your hands to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin through his thin button-up. Kissing him is addicting—you understand the lotus eaters, who would cast their lives away for another taste of the honey-sweet fruit that damns them, and you understand the mad maenads, who tore themselves apart in their devotion. Kissing him is like a delirium you don’t want to wake from, a fever that eats through reason until all that’s left is want.

His lips drag against your jaw, down your neck, and you let out a breathy noise—his name—and Chrollo groans, but then his forehead drops to your collarbone. You blink, confused at first, until you feel the tremor that runs through him. His skin is hot, too hot, and when you glance down, you see the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. Your hand smoothes over his shoulder blades as his body jerks, another coming up to cradle the back of his head, and your eyes slide shut when you hear him cough and something warm and sticky splatters against your chest. 

“Chrollo—”

“Give me a minute,” he says, voice low and hoarse. His breath comes shallow and uneven against your skin. He shudders, and the rasp that escapes his lips is more pained than pleasured. Your hands drop to his waist to ease him off of you, and you suppose it’s a testament to how weak he is when he allows you to shift him onto his back.

But then, his hands circle your thighs, and he pulls you right on top of him so that you’re straddling his hips. You gasp when you feel him pressing hard against your cunt, lashes fluttering slightly. A curse spills from his lips, and then a low groan, and you watch as his eyes half-knock back at the pressure, lips parting in a silent moan.

“Chrollo—” you start to say. We shouldn’t push it. Let me go get you the medication.

“Please,” he whispers. Chrollo Lucilfer, beneath you and begging—the sight of it makes you bite back a whimper, fingers tightening where you’re holding his wrists. “Let me have this.”

You hesitate; his eyes are wide and searching, throat bobbing as he waits for you to come to a decision. Your hand trails up his body to cup his cheek. His eyes slide shut as he leans into your touch. His lips are dotted with blood, and when you brush your thumb over his bottom lip, Chrollo’s eyes slide half-open, and he presses his head back into the pillow, taking the digit into his mouth.

Fuck.

You can’t breathe, heart in your throat as his tongue swirls around your thumb. His gaze is almost challenging, taunting, as he looks up at you, lidded, pupils blown wide. You want this, you think again. You want him. So badly that your chest aches, that your hips unconsciously roll against his when you shift to get more comfortable. He groans as you do, the sound vibrating around your finger.

You slide your thumb out of his mouth, to his jaw, and down to his neck. You rest it there as you lean in to kiss him again. His breath is hot against your mouth, shallow and uneven, but one of his hands comes up to hold the back of your head, the other gripping your hip hard. You can taste the metallic tang of blood when your tongue brushes his lower lip, but you ignore it, hands dropping to undo the buttons of his shirt.

One of his hands darts up to stop you, and you give him a questioning look. He doesn’t say anything, but you can see it all over his face: I don’t want you to see it. Let me pretend.

You exhale and drop your hands to his pants, fumbling to unbutton them. He lets out a low groan when you kiss the underside of his jaw, down to the hollow of his throat. His hips snap up instinctively, grinding against your clothed cunt.

“Shit,” he rasps, hands sliding up your thighs again to unbutton your pants. His lips press against your ear, and he lets out a broken moan when your teeth graze his pulse. “Shit, just like that.”

He helps you shimmy out of your uniform pants, lifting his hips as you slide his pants down just enough to free his cock. Your breath catches; he’s bigger than you expected, longer, his tip is flushed pink, leaking precum. He looks too smug for a man who can barely breathe when he sees how your gaze lingers, and you scowl at him, pressing your lips to his to swallow his moans when you wrap your hand around his cock, giving it slow, languid strokes.

“Ah, fuck,” he moans into your mouth as your grip tightens around the base of his cock. His hips snap up to fuck your fist, and he chases your lips when you pull back to breathe. “Fuck, fuck.”

You kiss him again. A second time. A third as you slow the snaps of your wrists. When he tries to roll his hips up faster, you bring your other hand down to still him. He gives you a sharp look, but is mollified when you press your lips to his again, tongue tracing the inside of his mouth.

His head falls back against the pillow again, eyes lidded as he looks up at you. You suddenly feel far too seen as he looks over you, and you’re hyperaware of the fact that he’s stripped you of your clothes while he’s still fully undressed. Even when half-dead, he still somehow manages to look like he’s in control. His chest rises unevenly, the sheen of sweat along his collarbone catching the dim light, and you can see the black veins faintly curling from under the hem of his shirt.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, one hand coming up to cup your cheek. He presses his thumb to your bottom lip, the same way you did to him, and you let it slip into your mouth, lashes fluttering shut as he presses down on your tongue. “Mine. You’re mine.”

Your eyes open to shoot him a flinty look, even though you know it’s true, and he’s equally yours as you are his—he doesn’t need to say it out loud like that. His lips curl up into a lazy smirk at your defiance, and he pulls you down so that your nose brushes his, chests flush to one another’s. His thumb strokes your tongue lightly, fingers carding through your hair. 

“I want you to ruin me,” he breathes out, “won’t you?” 

Haven’t I already?

His eyes glitter like he knows what you want to say, but before you can speak, you gasp, eyes half-rolling back when you feel the tip of his cock glide between your folds. Your hands brace on his abdomen, sliding them beneath his shirt, nails scratching against his hot skin, and you feel how his abdomen spasms as he tries to restrain himself from snapping his hips up and burying his cock inside of you.

You don’t even realize you’re tensing until you feel his free hand glide up and down your thigh. “Breathe,” he murmurs, though his own breath falters. He pulls his thumb from your mouth to cradle the back of your neck, holding you there. You choke on air when you feel his tip start to sink into your cunt. He repeats, “Breathe.”

But it’s hard to breathe when you feel his cock stretching you out inch by inch. You pant as you try to steady your breath, body collapsing forward to be chest-to-chest with him, foreheads pressed together, noses brushing. He tilts the lower half of his face up to ghost his lips against yours.

“That’s it,” he soothes, fingers running circles over your skin. A pitched whine spills from your lips when he eases himself in a little deeper. You glance down and see he’s only halfway in. “Look how good you’re taking me.”

“Chrollo,” you gasp, voice breaking over his name. You kiss him to try to silence the lewd noises spilling from your lips. He turns his head slightly to the side so that you can’t muffle them, and something wet splatters against his cheek. “Chrollo.”

One of his hands comes up to wipe the tears you didn’t notice were sliding down your cheeks. He looks all too smug as he murmurs, “Ah, you’re crying for me. How sweet.”

You only find solace in the fact that he sounds just as wrecked as you feel. When he finally bottoms out inside of you, you think that you might break. Your lips are parted, but you can’t breathe, and you can hardly hold your eyes open. Chrollo’s grip on your thighs is bruising; his eyes are half-rolled back, and his thighs are trembling with restraint. 

You feel so full, you feel so—

Complete.

You try to say his name again, but it comes out mostly as a sob. He kisses you, and his breath is ragged against your mouth. You lift your hands to cup his cheeks, tilting his head back to kiss him deeper. You wonder if he feels it too, how inexplicably right it feels. You know, in this moment, that he was always meant to be yours; you were meant to be each other’s, and you can’t remember why you were against it for so long.

He rolls his hips up, cock dragging against your walls, and you gasp his name again against his lips. He holds your hips, moaning into your mouth as he snaps his hips up into you. He fucks you with a type of fervor that you don’t expect from a man who could barely hold himself up ten minutes ago. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, hiccuping over moans as he fucks you hard, nails digging into his biceps.

“I-I’m ‘nna—” you gasp, mouthing messily at his neck to try to ground yourself, but it’s hard when you feel the tip of his cock bullying so deep into your cunt, over and over and over and over again. Each breath is ragged, hitching into a whine, and it only seems to egg him on more, because one of his hands tightens on your hip, and the other comes up to your head to grab your hair, yanking you off his neck so he can see your face.

His eyes are glazed over, his lips wet and swollen, and curved up into a half-smirk. He looks so smug that it almost drags you out of your haze, but then he grinds you down hard, the tip of his cock pressing into that spongy spot deep inside of you, and you choke, head dropping so that your forehead rests against his.

He brushes his lips against yours as he whispers, “Cum,” and your world shatters. 

You think maybe you die—just for a second. Your voice breaks over a cry of his name, vision spotty and body shaking. He presses his lips to your open mouth, swallowing your sobs as he fucks you through your high. Your body prickles with numbness, squirming as pleasure shifts to overstimulation, but Chrollo doesn’t give you the chance to complain, fingers knotting in your hair as he keeps your lips to his, pace stuttering as he chases his own high. 

Your cheeks are wet, and you vaguely recognize Chrollo sliding his lips from yours to your cheek to messily kiss away your tears, and then—you think you cum again, abdomen tightening, eyes half-knocking back when you feel him grind his cock deep inside of you as he finishes. You aren’t breathing, you realize, light-headed as he groans into your skin, dragging his lips from your cheek to below your ear as he comes down from his high.

He kisses down the column of your throat lazily, stroking your hair until your body stops violently trembling. You stare at the pillow blankly as you come to—did you really just fuck Chrollo Lucilfer?

You don’t even really register as he eases you off of him. He winces as he sits up, and you see him glance around as if searching for something—the medication that Leorio left for him, probably. He gives you a lingering look, lips parting to say something, but then he seems to decide against it.

Your gaze follows him until he disappears into the bathroom, and then it drops to your lap. You feel sticky, too full, and your mind is far too empty as you reach over to your nightstand to pull on your nightshirt and cotton shorts. You pointedly don’t turn to look at him when you hear him re-enter the bedroom. 

It’s only when he asks, “Do you regret it?” that you finally turn your gaze to him. His expression is infuriatingly impassive, but his jaw betrays him in how tight it is as he waits for your response.

“No,” you find yourself saying—honestly at that. 

You don’t think you regret it, but you’re unnerved by how… right it felt. Despite what Tserriednich liked to imply, you hadn’t gotten around much in your time away, but you have had sex, and it never felt like this before. Not even with Kurapika. And you want to attribute it to inexperience, maybe, because you and Kurapika had been each other’s first time, and Chrollo is… well, Chrollo, you only need to look at him to know he’s got plenty of experience under his belt. But you know that’s not quite it, it runs deeper—you’d felt it in your heart, in your soul. You’d felt—

Complete, you think again. You’d felt complete. Being with him felt right in a way you’d never felt before, and that scares you.

“You should rest,” you murmur when he makes his way over to you. “You were barely able to hold yourself up a bit ago.”

He gives you an easy smile that puts you on edge because you know he’s going to say something aggravating. “Well, I was motivated.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks heating up. “Shut up,” you tell him with no bite. Then repeat, “You should rest.”

“We should talk,” he counters as he sits down on the mattress next to you. There’s a glass of water in his hand, and he offers it to you. “What do you plan to do now that you’ve had one of the Third Prince’s men killed?”

You take the water he extends to you, but frown when he doesn’t immediately let go of it. You give him a weird look when you see how his brows furrow, but then he releases it and gives you a questioning look. You brush off the oddness and take a sip, letting out a sigh.

“Wait for Benjamin to declare special martial law,” you admit, tracing your thumb around the rim of the glass. “We’ll use the military to rout the Xi-Yu, and then target the Heil-Ly. Then it’ll be chaos, probably. Every prince for himself. I’m not worried about most of them—Benjamin and Camilla were the only two who knew nen before the Black Whale set off. I’d be willing to bet that Benjamin is an enhancer, he won’t be trouble for me, and Camilla is probably a manipulator. A bit more worrisome, but nothing I can't handle.”

Chrollo hums. “You’re a manipulator too?” he asks, giving you a curious look. You furrow your brows at him. “Machi mentioned you used your ability against the guards stationed at your father’s quarters.”

“Oh,” you murmur, and then shake your head. “No. That’s another ability I developed. I’m a specialist—” You press your lips together tightly and add bitterly, “Another thing Tserriednich and I have in common, I guess.”

“And you and I,” Chrollo tells you lightly, his fingers grazing your hand as though he’s contemplating holding it, but decides against it. “What’s your ability, if you don’t mind me asking?”

You don’t answer right away, sighing as you look to the side. You feel tired, suddenly—the day has been too long, and you’re entirely too worn out. But you sigh and tell him, “It’s called Golden Standard. I set a condition and a punishment; the stricter the condition and the harsher the punishment, the greater the reward. My nen will adapt and amplify to fulfill the conditions I set, but if I fail anyway, I get hit with the punishment.” You smile a bit wryly as you feel the ghost of Tserriednich’s fingers bruising your cheeks as he says, You will be the ideal. “So long as I keep to the ideal, I won’t be punished.”

Chrollo smiles faintly, as though amused by the name. “Golden Standard,” he repeats, rolling the words around like he’s tasting them. “Fitting.”

You hum noncommittally, though it’s getting harder to focus. The edges of the room blur a little, the soft light from the lamp bending at the corners of your vision. You blink once, twice. Probably the exhaustion catching up to you—your fingers feel heavier than they should, and the glass trembles slightly in your hand.

He notices. “You lecture me about resting,” he notes, easing the glass out of your grasp. His touch is gentle, and your lashes flutter slightly beneath it. “I think it’s you who needs to rest.

“I’m fine,” you start to say, but you frown when the words come out a bit slower than you expect. You glance at the glass, now on the nightstand, and something inside you tightens, but you can’t place why.

“If you say so,” he agrees with a sigh. His gaze is soft, but there’s something calculating behind it that unsettles you. “Tell me more about the conditions,” he says idly, as though trying to help you stay awake. “How specific do they have to be? Can they apply to others, or only to yourself?”

You shake your head to clear your vision. You try to focus on what he’s saying, but you find yourself lost in his voice—it’s smooth, melodic, the kind that slips under your skin and makes you forget what you were worrying about.

“I… can set them for myself,” you manage, settling back against the headboard and blinking hard. “I haven’t tried setting them for others. I’m sure I could, if it centers on me making them do something, but… I—it takes intent. I need to do something, make something happen, meet a standard.”

“Intent,” he echoes, leaning in just slightly. His eyes catch the light in a way that makes it hard to look away. “Show me.”

Your first instinct is to refuse. What. You blink again, trying to push back the fog pressing in around your temples. “I’m not—” you start to say. “I can’t just…”

“Of course,” he interrupts softly, and the way he says it almost makes you forget he’s the one asking. “But you could give me a demonstration, couldn’t you? Just a small one.” His hand shifts to cradle yours in his, tracing soft patterns on the back of your hand. You stare down at it. Something isn’t right, you realize absently, because you can barely feel his touch. “You’ve explained it so well, I’d like to see it in practice. I’m curious. I told you back then that I wanted to know you better. A person’s ability is the best way to understand them.”

There’s something about the last sentence that makes your hair stand on end, but you can’t place why. Your eyes droop a bit, but you blink rapidly to pull yourself back together.

“What kind of condition would you set?” he asks curiously, tilting his head to the side.

You open your mouth, but no words come. Your throat feels dry. What is happening?

“It… depends,” you say. “Can be simple, can be more complex. Chrollo, what—”

“Then set a simple one,” he says gently, and you forget what you’re going to ask him. “For yourself. Nothing dangerous—just to show me. A demonstration, as you said.”

I didn’t say that, you did, you want to argue, but you can only blink at him. Your mind trips over itself. “But, I would have to—”

“A punishment too,” he realizes, as though understanding what you’re worried about. Your fingers tighten around the bedsheets, unsure. “Just a harmless one then. Something you can easily meet, with little risk. For example, ‘I will answer a question truthfully, or I will lose my voice for five minutes.’ That would work, wouldn’t it?”

You stare at him. He looks eager suddenly, gray eyes bright with anticipation as he waits for you to echo the words. Your thoughts are sluggish and disjointed. You look at the glass of water again, but he doesn’t let your gaze linger on it, lifting his hand to turn your face to him. His thumb strokes your skin gently, and your lashes start to flutter shut again beneath his touch.

“Yes,” you finally say. “That would work.”

“Then show me,” he presses.

Don’t show him. A beat of anxiety thrums through your chest. Something isn’t right.

“I… will answer a question truthfully,” you hear yourself say before your body can catch up to your brain, “or I will lose my voice for five minutes.”

Your aura stirs around you, faintly golden at the edges of your vision, before sinking back into your chest. You feel the contract take root within you, nen shifting to try to best help you fulfill the condition you set.

“Good,” he murmurs. There’s warmth in his tone, but it feels all wrong. “Now tell me,” he continues, his voice careful, coaxing, hungry. Something isn’t right. A person’s ability is the best way to understand them. Chrollo’s is— “Does there always have to be a punishment? Will your nen adapt to help you fulfill the conditions without a punishment?”

“No.” Your tongue feels numb, heavy in your mouth. You blink slowly at him. “It will adapt… just weaker. Not as helpful.”

“I see,” he breathes out, thumb resting against your pulse. You stare up at him as he helps you shift to lie down. He leans in to brush his lips against your forehead. “Thank you.”

“What… did you do?” you ask him slowly, your vision spotting. “Chrollo, what—”

He hesitates. For a moment, you think he won’t answer. The room swims—the lamplight bends strangely around his silhouette, and blinking doesn’t help you fight the spots and blurriness this time.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. The words sound soft, sincere, and terribly far away. You try to push yourself upright, but the motion is sluggish, your muscles unresponsive. He steadies you by the shoulder, gently keeping you down against the mattress. “I didn’t want to do it like this. Your ability… It’s extraordinary. And I need it.”

You know what he means even through the drug’s haze.

“Hisoka,” you breathe, and you feel the panic, even if you can’t feel anything. He’s going after Hisoka. “You—”

His gaze flicks away. In the dim, wavering light, he looks tired, cornered, far too small. “You never would’ve agreed,” he says quietly. “Not if I asked. You’d have tried to stop me. Gotten my spiders involved. Again.”

Your mouth opens, but you can’t push any words out.

“I don’t have the time to persuade you,” he continues, voice as level as always, but his expression betrays him, pained as he looks away from you. “You see what this is doing to me. I can’t drag it out any longer. Every day I wake up feeling less like myself. I have to do this on my terms, before he kills the rest of them. Before he finds me first. Before my body gives out.”

You want to tell him he’s being reckless, that fighting Hisoka Morow right now is suicide, but you can’t. You’re rapidly losing strength, mind pulled to the lull of the gentle void that threatens to consume you. The world narrows to the outline of his face above you. You need to—you need to tell the spiders, warn them what he’s planning to do. You try to take in a deep breath to yell for them, but his hand closes around your mouth to muffle the noise. You stare up at him, betrayed. 

He leans forward, resting his forehead briefly against yours. His skin burns with fever. Something wet slides down your cheek—you can’t tell if it’s him crying, or you. You don’t want to know. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again. “For using you like this. I… never wanted to take—not from you. But if I die without trying, then everything I’ve built, everyone I’ve lost—it means nothing.”

Your eyelids are too heavy now. You can feel him reaching for something—your hand, you can feel him pressing your palm against something hard. The cover of a book? The last thing you feel is the aching emptiness where your ability once was, and his lips against your forehead.

“Forgive me. I need to live long enough to finish what I started.”

[underrateperiodbites]

servile somnolence + Chrollo/reader

Your fingers are cold from the cup of ice cream, walking over with your fingers shrouding the petite pink mug. Chrollo’s contemplating like usual, but ever the great girlfriend, or whatever you are to each other that can be comprehended in the language you both share, you are giving him ice cream to help with the building of thoughts weighing on him, ever since he left that building with his friends. Well, not friends, members; Chrollo would never allow you to call him more than members in a cult, more than members in an amalgamation of bandits, the spider can be kind, the spider can be congenial, but Chrollo will never accept the weakness in that defeat. In that love.

Your brows furrow when you don’t find him on the couch, moving your gaze to the apartment’s balcony. It’s someone’s balcony, has always been someone’s, but now it’s yours; you share it for the glory of healing, inhaling a breath as you move to the screen door, letting it suction open before sucking close. He makes a hum of your presence, letting his gaze find you as you near him, toddling up to him with a smile of what you found in the freezer. “You moved,” you mumble as he parts his arm to you, letting him position you with a hand on your hip, to face him, back secure on the balcony’s glass whilst you look at scooping some sweet on the spoon. “It was too stuffy inside.” He lets his eyes dig down to your spoon as he takes it between his lips, licking it clean as he finds your eyes again.

“Good?” He hums in return, licking his lips. You focus on them as you take your own spoonful, savoring the share in your action as you nod in approbation. “Not even a day old,” you sigh wistfully, and he leans in, barricading you with his hands on the glass paling. You look up to him again with another spoonful. He takes it, you twist it in the cream another time before raising it to your lips. “Thinking of swimming?” He motions to your two piece, something that’s cotton, not meant for swimming but looks enough like swim wear to lounge in, with no surf guard, it’d be perfect to dunk in even if the grey clung to your skin, darkening the outline of flesh. You hum around the cleaned spoon. “It was stuffy inside,” you parrot, “My clothes can’t handle all of me 25/8, Chrollo.” With another load of food on the spoon, you lick at it in mischief, toying with the spoon until you garner his reaction.

He lets his hand, the same one as before, find your back again, your hand leaving the spoon for his shoulder, found bare and pertinent for your fingers to dig into the muscle. He leans down close to you ear, his strands tikling your cheek as you smile from the action, an incredulous scoff choking out of you after he promises, “I could swim in you for hours.” Your tongue laps at your teeth, the spoon back in the mug that’s dying in this heat as he takes it from you. It rests on the table near, his hand never once leaving your barely cladded skin as he peeks at your gaze once again. Given the chance, you let your chilled hand rest against his neck, inoculating into his hair as you smile from his gulp of air. “Swim in me for hours…” You ponder, not completely incredulous knowing him, but with his free time, his lack of Nen giving him this much free time, you fear hours would be such a degradation to his rue devotion. Massaging at the taught muscle of his shoulder, you lean into his ear with a whisper of a kiss, ”I think I’m appropriately dressed then.”

You pull away slowly, barely letting your lashes flutter as you meet his gaze, noses grazing one another like prints to sediment. His hand pulls you into him from your back, fingers dipping onto the band of your panties as you smile, and he kisses you, truly lets his lips taste the heaven that you’ve grown accustomed. He’s sweet, his tongue chilled in the vanilla of the cream as you let it slip against your own, your hands refusing to let go of his upper body as you let him push you closer, let yourself feel wanted by him in all the ways you’ve known him to want you. Your lips against his, his tongue sliding against your own in dedication, dipping you against the paling keeping you away from the ground, the views below as you moan, glide your hands against him and dig your face into him. He’s cheeky when he slips away, nibbling on your lobe before kissing down the side of your neck, wet and yet not chill like the ice cream, warmed from your touch as he moves to his knees of the patio.

He barely trails his lips down your frame so much as he inhales the scent of you in the sun of this world, the gaze flickering in the orange glow of the star. He rests his head against your hip, fingers now twirling the spread on your hips down slowly past the flesh of you, letting it find the floor for you to kick out of the way, humming in humor as your hand comes to his head. You find his gaze, eyes dark in desired devotion, necessary devotion to your form as his hand picks up your thigh, moving it to his shoulder. He other stays on your knee, massaging the bone covered in the flesh of you.

Your fingers keep the hair out of his eyes, loose and languid in this moment the sun shares with you, the air not polluted like it is in Meteor City. You aren’t there; you left and with that, everyone before you, everything you could’ve saved because you chose the devotion of him, not of others. Swallowing your tongue with a nibble of your front teeth, you let his finger part the flesh of you, near your cheek below and the flesh not wet besides, digging his thumb against you in grazes of the dry flesh. Your brows furrow, leg flexing when he finally kisses down you, the hair of you before finally greeting the soft velvet that resides below, neglected and curated to his tongue, how it picks up the cover of you, moving to flick the bud in such a slow stripe that you’re forced to groan in ascetic pleasure. He smiles; you ignore it for the shutting of your eyes, gripping of his air until he lets his lips lave against you, make out with the velvet as he lets his thumb circle your thigh.

He bathes in you, nose nudging against your hair as you move your hips against his face, his tongue diving past to lick at the nub of you, coat you in his saliva before slurping at the essence he can magnetize from you, stealing every bit he gets and profiting on it, using it to his own selfish desires of not cumming, of making you cum until the only word that finds you is his name. It coats you nonetheless, the wetness that he gives you from his cavern of a mouth, endless in his devotion to you with huffs, inhales of your scent and the shove of himself against you, the way he refuses to relent until you can feel the grip of him, his lips to you, gliding down, down, down to your entrance for his tongue to peek out, slurp at honey-like substance form inside of you. You think he curses at your sweetness, your sweetness rivaling the ice cream when he moves back to your clit, huffing again and moaning at your beating bud.

Your back arches, the heat boiling with in you as your head drips dangerously, hotly down the paling, your one free hand holding onto the secure paling as you breath the deepest bits of this Earth, moaning around nothing but the taste of him below, how you can carve your tongue with his, how you can taste him on your tongue, your profit to him as he grips your hips to him, angling you to grind against him, the texture his tongue provides to your aching core. Your nails scrape against his scalp, tugging him closer as you ride him, your chest ignited with dynamite that sparks with your eyes, the stars behind them that capitulate your emotions, to have him home and sick with will of contemplation, the sins of catering towards you on this balcony, so overtly for the rich which neither of you are, never wholly at least. Your moans are breathy and cries of his name screeches when your thighs shake in his hold, the ostensible slurp of his plump lips against your lower ones pained in commitment even as you tug at his strands.

He rests his chin against your stomach, blinking up at you as his fingers glide against the softness of you, moving to the ache of your core and slipping inside- scissoring his fingers unlike what you’ve known him to do, tight twists and slips against your spongey spot deep inside, prodding with his pointer and middle until the ridges of his knuckle curve perfectly against your walls. Your whine is pitched, broken and splayed at the edges as he kisses your stomach, up it as he places your leg down delicately, letting the wetness coat his fingers until he’s close enough to your chest, hand reminiscent on your lower back as he kisses against the cloth. He bites kisses into you, his teeth lingering on the flesh that pools as you cling to his hair, fingers scratching at the glass as you squeak, “Chrollo.” It’s met with a smile, as always, a hum of humor you’ve both grown to enjoy in the philosophy of your lives entangled, like your hands in his hair. He kisses your cheek after asking, “What’s wrong, love?” Close to your ear he breathes, “I thought you’d let me drown in your deluge.”

Your brows furrow, targeting the slopping sounds he pulls from you as you moan out, strangled by the pleasure, “Just-” It’s bitten between your teeth, “Fuck me with your dick- Or-” You coil against him, feeling tingles build within you as he continues even with your hand gripping the veins of his wrist. “Or what,” he hums, and you glare up at him, spitting, “I’ll bite you.” It’s deep and rich when he chuckles, someone rich could never, and his fingers pull out of you to spin you around, your hands gripping the glass yet again. You only let a gasp singe your lungs before looking back to find him, yet again, on his knees. He peels you apart, letting his lips kiss at your entrance before his tongue plunges into you like the tease he’s always been. Your toes curl against the flooring, leaning into the glass as you whine in stimulation, your chest breaking as his takes every bit of your essence.

His tongue explores you like an aged bottle of wine, perfect on the counter and never gathering dust at its continued garnering of attention. He’s fine in the precise use of his tongue, letting it poke out and peel through your folds, dampened by your own self and his work of ascetic care. He keeps you parted, letting his lips kiss against your entrance again, tongue diving into the juices dripping from you as his hand grips the flesh of your behind, digging his nails into you like the nail to a coffin. You are trapped in this pleasure, the way he rips building fulfillment from you, rips the heat from you time and again before his grip trails against you like always, moving you back into his face to rind against him, use him as you please- and you do please, especially when his fingers tease at your crying clit again, your own lips parting for tears to drop as you call him name until it’s all your brain can fathom.

Your whines are met with the intense precision of his eating, the dedication in his tongue diving into the gum of your walls, not struggling to take all of you as his fingers knot against your bud, letting it tell him what you need, circle after circle of his pads against your velvet until your hips jolt against him, your lips peeling apart in a cry of his name yet again as he smiles, and takes as he pleases, ascetic barely a definition either of you can share, but you’d take it in the moment of his eating, his meal better than the ice cream, you can hear him swear.

Finally, he stands with his hands still on your hips, steadying you as he tries to make you find your foot, shoulders numb against the bar of the glass paling. With the furrow of betrayal to your brows, he kisses your shoulder, using one hand to undo his pants as he keeps the other firm on your hip. When his pants are down enough, the knowing rip of a condom dropping to the floor, you dare to grumble, “Dick.“ You don’t care if he hears what he is, how mean he can be in the seeking of your pleasure to him, his pleasure in yours, but you do gasp before his words, feeling his tip covered with your slimy essence not neglected on his fingers. “So you’ve mentioned wanting.” Any rebuttal that coats your tongue cold-sweet like the ice cream is lost, your hands twisting on the glass as he lets his tip tease you.

He doesn’t completely press in, needing a moment to find the perfect angle, btu when he does, Heaven clings to your eyes, stars an oblivion in your chest’s heaving, the air stripped from your lips and lungs as he slowly lets go of himself inside of you. It’s long, the veins finding you even through the rubber as he slowly angles your hips to his liking, forcing your back to stay arched, your eyes to stay shut and squeezing out every bit of him inside of you as he get closer and closer- not just his hips to yours, but the way his hand holds onto yours on the bar, gripping your digits as they flail form his determination to be whole inside of you. You lean into the kisses to your shoulder, the panting he lets himself breathe, vulnerability, as you succumb to the length of him, rapaciously breathing as you realize how deep inside he is in you.

Then his hand moves to your tummy, pressing where he rests unwittingly- no, wittingly with a cheeky smile never suppressed against the bone of your shoulder, your hip twitching enough to feel the fat tip of his length prod your plush spot deep inside, begging him with kisses to fuck you fast, fuck you ruthless, deep and precise like he is when he eats at you. Your brows furrow with a whine succumbing to your tongue, pulling at the fingers looped with yours. “Chrollo,” you gasp, his nose nuzzling into the side of your neck before he hums deeply your scent, your essence against him. He doesn’t draw it out for long, kissing your with his teeth, a peck of the skin between them before you curse out the sky for watching you below him, standing barely as his will fucks you.

His dick is big, has split you time and again with no use to the stretch, to ingraining him inside of your warmth as he slowly stripes you of him, your body aching from any movement, aching from none. The hot and cold behavior plagues you, strikes you while he massages your waist, letting his fingers dip into the flesh of you, nails scrapping over the surface before he’s half-way out, pushing back in slowly. It’s another stretch, your body unwilling to accommodate, so he has to resort, time and again, his pleasure to you, how he can make it pleasurable when there is no shrink to him.

He peels his hand from you, letting it rail lower than his other one, scooping up the saliva of your pussy as he brushes his cupped palm against your clit. It begs him for attention, for how crude he is to multiply when his fingers twist against your nub. Your legs wish to sink to the floor, but he doesn’t allow you, arms tightening on your waist as he slowly slips from you, yours walls still tugging against him, but this time pulsing, squeezing his length and begging for his attention as he immediately sinks back into you, the clap of his hips to yours resounding in the empty surface of this apartment. You cry out, hand moving to his forearm, gripping onto it, but if the crescents your nails leave strike him, he gives no indication, licking your neck with praises all the more.

You’re close like before, your toes twitching, hands tightening as the ring of you around him squeezes, hot like boiling water, the steam rolling over you when he gasps at your pleasure, letting his hips smack harshly against yours, peel back slowly until he can repeat, his circles as tight as your walls, given to you by the grace of the air that blows through each of you, your own hips slipping back into his, matching him as he breathes your own name, bruises your own flesh with his desire for you as he cum, not filling you but reminding you of how much he’s grown inside of you, taken from barely touching you as you squirm from your cum, picked up by his arms against you, holding you against the balcony’s paling of someone’s apartment.

You lean against him, his head nuzzling into your neck as you look up at the clear sky, dipping into honey as you take a breath of it. Without thinking, without think of the melted ice cream or how being without Nen has affected Chrollo, you comment, “You are still much of a man, Chrollo.” You feel his brows furrow; your hands card through his hair as you sigh against his hm to your skin, to your question of mind. “Even without your Nen, I’d bask in the glory of your touch, of your tasting words if only to get a glimpse of what we are. Do not, Chrollo, doubt your emotion when it comes to how great of a man you are. You are…” Your fingers smooth against his cheek. “Everything.”

You feel it then, what you are that language cannot contain. Maybe you can’t either, one day ice cream not enough, the sweetness of you not enough for this life. But you don’t let anything, but the softness of his breath wash over you; his hips parting from you, “It’s not that simple, but thank you.”

a/n; anytime im insecure abt literally anything, I reread my writing, skim through it, blink at even a modicum of the sentiments, and suddenly im healed, intrinsically and extrinsically. This is probably what having no depression is like, and im, honestly. Here for it

Also i was thinking of doing memes in the beginning (I actually like elderly I swear) but you'll get it if I go through w it, just 1 meme for each fandom or random drabble I have... now that I typed it out, seems like too much work. I'm gonna write the arle/reader/neuvi thin now (how tf do i spell that man's name!??!?!?!?)

[underrateperiodbites]

manmade misery + Chrollo/reader

There’s a man following you. He was behind you some time ago, trailing you to the beat of your feet upon the hotel’s carpet. You lost him when the elevator shut, but you knew his eyes as you knew your home; you’ve been caught.

Since it’s the umpteenth time, it’s not that big of deal, the big deal comes with how much you’ve packed and how many nights you’ve wasted renting. Chrollo can watch you as much as he’d like, but the elevator moves faster and you’re on the top floor comparative to his hideouts and spiders. You’re completely free, no matter if he already knows you’ve stolen from one of his victims, the people he’ll most likely kill before you’re able to leave.

He doesn’t like liabilities; it’s odd because he is, but you don’t care for confabulations on his worth with yours, you don’t care that you have no one, not even him; you can’t care because he’s already in your hotel room.

It’s open, windows curtained as of now but spanning the entirety of the bed’s surroundings. It’s still not made from this morning, when you tossed and turned and toyed with your pamphlet of what person would be best to pilfer from. You’ve decided a rich man, relatively around Chrollo’s age, but it’s lost on you that notion that he may feel, that you hope he does as he rests on your bed. His legs are spread; on the corner of your bed, he rests with one hand on the softness of your mattress. You like it harder; you don’t know his preference. His fingers toy with his bandana, too loose in his hold, a gust of wind could take it, or you could.

You peregrinate the expanse of your hotel’s living room, lifting one leg at a time, bending it back at the knee to discard your high heels. They find places amongst the rest of your clothes, including the other outfits you decided against, then the slip of your panties, bending only a smidge to tease him as they part like feet on fresh snow. You’ll find them again, make them disappear before you do without him; the sun doesn’t leave with snow. “Never took you as a stalker, Chrollo.” He looks up, his eyes of grey brown raising to your countenance, looking down at him and waiting for his reply. He almost seems kind here, right in front of you as you look down, on your bed you will never share, in this room you don’t; Chrollo is kind, and at the very least considerate. He’d hate you, you hope, for adopting those terms for him. “You didn’t tell me this was where you were heading.” You face away; the bed’s elevated enough for him to reach, his arms slight aid, your zippered dress.

“I never tell you many things, Chrollo.” His fingers linger, for only a moment as they cradle the thin item, slipping it down until it reaches your lower back. You’re cold open like this, your bare back to him with the air of the hotel you booked yourself. You want to know what he thinks, how quickly you’ve climbed, if he too augurs your ultimate downfall because you’re alone. The dress finds the floor and you kick it to the side, facing to him. He looks into your eyes; you aren’t an object you’re someone to him; you’re someone to someone. “My name’s too long on your tongue.” You smile, your fingers like his to the bandana, only for his face, prints grazing the smooth touch of his pallid skin, slowly gliding to his hair, one parting for his ear, the other grasping the back of his skull. He’s too kind like this, too human-like from the one you’ve known in your life. You wonder how long it’s been changed.

“Too soft, you mean-” An attempt at a kiss is silenced by the lips of his on yours. He doesn’t taste like anything, but there’s a hint of sweetness to his lips; you like cherries and you think he had one or two at the dessert table. You took some form the cakes, and maybe he did too. Maybe he’d take them from your lips in another time. You breathe into him, letting your lips engulf his as he mirrors your actions. He’s warm against you, not horribly so, but warm enough to not be a corpse, to not be a stand-in, but someone you know in this room; you’ve known for a long time before this. The bandana’s somewhere on the bed; he goes for your hips, bae save for the grip of his palms on you.

It’s hot then, his touch is burning up your skin because it’s colder where your skin’s forgotten him. It’s hot as you let your lips smooth against his, as his tongue tickles yours between your lips, licking at them, never parting them or crossing the line; you can taste him enough with the tip of his tongue, and you hope he can taste you too, the desire that drips from the parting of your lips. You crave him in this heat of a hotel neither of you could afford; except you’re both insidious, you’re both so very insidious. In this hotel room, you think he likes the pearls on your neck, his hands sliding against your back, trying to make their way up, up, up, and then they don’t. They stay on you, push you into him as your lips glide into his, almost coalesce, for once being above him.

He’s pressing into you, trying to peck at you from below as you hips find a light grind against his formal pants, you don’t want to acknowledge it, but you’re already hot between your legs, vibrating from just his lips against yours, the taste of the tip of his tongue. He takes a breath of you one last time looking up at you with his own lidded lids. Your chest is heaving more than you assumed, his breath barely a feather against the tip of your clavicle.

Your fingers beside his ear find their way to his maw, tentatively tickling the expanse of his pallid skin. He’s not sickly perse, just pale with eyes too dark in their brown. Your thumb grazes the gloss of his lips from yours, your tongue tasting the bit of him on your own lips, taking one final breath before you ask, “What’s my punishment for getting caught this time?” He doesn’t speak, only stands up to you again, your chin slowly dropping from his maw to his chin, only for him to pass your lips for the lobe of your ear. “Lay down,” he says, “close to the edge.” You huff, barely peremptory to him as you twist in his hold, sitting beside him before he stands.

He’s still attired in his suit; you’re starch naked. Not feeling the chill of the hotel, only the lack of his hands around you, feeling against you as the cuffs of his shirt surrounds you, hugs you like the sheets you lay on. Slowly, you find your elbows on the cushion, and when he moves to take off his jacket, you move to lay completely flat on the bed. Your view is of the ceiling, smooth without even a swirl of tools. No residue so you can forget you’re human, can die by the bite of a bullet just as these people who made this room for you. For anyone, really. There will be others. He takes your thighs, inches close to one and you lift both of them up to meet his broad shoulders, gone is the fabric of his sturdy jacket, found is the cotton of his sleeves, though they feel a bit looser, maybe not as strong as cotton something more breathable and thin enough. He must’ve known, he had to’ve known you’d be here, spotting his biggest victim for their pearls.

His hands smooth along the expanse of your thighs, one wrapping around the top as the other lifts the bottom of your other. His thumb digs into the weight, pushing it up so much your toes curl from the air and his eyes hitting your sopping core. His other almost pinches the top of your thigh to soothe it, grabbing the flesh and plucking it between his thumb and pointer, barely soothing it until he settles as close as he can to your Heaven. He lets his hand dip down it; back and forth does he move before settling on your inner thigh, resting right before your pussy.

You tamp a moan, barely licking it back to your throat as your hands move against the bed, fingers toying with a cloth before you realize it’s his bandana. You take a breath of an idea, his own air slipping against the stickiness of your core. Accidentally, you think he’d say, the mischievous smile you can feel without looking is enough words for the two of you. Your lungs expand, shutting your eyes and toying with the cloth as you wait for him. It’s better this way, not knowing what he’ll do because at the end of the day he’s yours; and you’re somewhat his. You’re somewhat his as he touches you like you’re Heaven on Earh, that delicate and that undeserving of tainting. But you are tainted; he tastes you as a man starved.

At first it’s innocent, the way his lips kiss against your beating clit, only once, lingering on the taste of your heat, awaiting him before he pauses, a gasp you swear you hear until he leans in again, not even a moment later. His tongue darts out this time, and whilst he might be slow, savoring the taste of his favorite meal, you can tell it’s feigned, you can tell he’s teetering off of the cliff, your knees twitching from separation. His tongue refuses to stop, slowly licking up more of you, slowly exploring more of Heaven under man’s touch. with your eyes still shut, you imagine the tuffs of his hair, mused from the way your thighs twitch in his hold, begging to shut but also greedily letting him separate them.

His tongue slips it way into your folds, and his lips suction around your clit for a moment, tongue flicking against the hot bud before he kisses against it, headily slurping up every scrap of your essence inside of his mouth. You’re ashamed to say it, would never to his face, but he’s good at the way he eats you, touches you like you know something you both can’t admit. His hands burn against you, sear prints into you like boots in snow. He’s the sun melting you, grinding his face further into you, his tongue not as soft but just as delicate, dedicated to your melting core from the warmth of his mouth. You don’t want to say it, but it feels like a home you’ve never had, it feels like the warmth of a blanket, the shivers you let out in the morning wanting to be shared with him.

His tongue finally finds your entrance, his lips thick against your core, as if he’s taking every bit of water from an icicle; he meets your entrance with his lips first, a kiss once before another teases you as you’ve always known him to tease. It’s never enough, not speaking of, not admitting what you both feel beyond the air of this hotel. It’s never enough and when your fingers tickle his on your thigh, moving it up towards your clit, you think he understands without what you’ll both never say. His tongue dives into you, spears you like slamming a head onto a table. It hits you all at once, the feeling of something so strong and slimy twisting inside of you.

His tongue is as greedy as your hole is, pulsing for a moment as he jabs it inside, one, twice, never enough to reach the entirety of you, but it makes up in girth and the heat of him inside of you. It’s burning you; it’s fire first found as he gets closer, and then even closer to touch your clit. His fingers craze it, nails trimmed and perfectly greeting the fragile bud of yours. He barely touches it before your first moan; it wrecks you the way his tongue does. Hotter and hotter you burn with a jagged breath in your chest. It’s never enough, not until you feel the swirls of his three fingers, letting your hips raise nominally to meet his passion in precision. You can feel the heat rise within you, burn you much more than his touch.

Only it’s because of his touch that you can feel the heat within you want to come out. Your eyes finally open, the wrap of his bandana around your wrist, held in the same palm before you lift yourself up. That same garbed hand captures his black strands, grasping at him with his eyes barely open to spot you, but they do as much as they can when drowning in the heaven of you, when you start moaning like an alarm and force him closer to you, force the tongue of him deeper and deeper until the pulse of your walls comes crashing down and all you know is the wind of your slacked hand agaisnt him and the bed. You fall back against the sheets as his fingers slow, from tight circles that ebbed on too much and too little, from his tongue jutting into you, licking against you like honey at the bottom of the barrel. He slows and your back doesn’t know the bed sheets as you do now, falling against them from satisfaction, not a mission as earlier today.

“Are you okay,” he asks, and you look up, the grasp of your gratitude slipping from your grasp, the pearls marring your neck, too cold, too distant, and worse, still on you. ”Would be better…” You inhale, your hands moving to his wrist as he rises, stands before you with his cheeks awash with pink, like he was out in the cold, warmed by a fire in front, and his hair mused yet still effortlessly put together, as well as his eyes, steeped in the softest of emotions. You don’t look away, you exhale, “If you’d just put it in.” The noose is wrapped, the bandana against his wrist to share with your own; left to right.

You pull him towards you and he follows, his lips raised at the corners, not impishly as yours have been known to teeter, but pleased, satisfied, shown candy in a wrapper and trying to guess which hand. “You’re eager,” he says, his hand moving against his pants. Your brows furrow into each other, staying on his eyes as he lets himself settle between your legs. “And you aren’t?” It’s not genuine, and yet it seems like it, sounds like you’re sincere in this moment. His wrist bound to yours is raised, his fingers tickling yours like you’re something special. Like you’re someone to someone even outside of this hotel room. Why did you pick this hotel room?

“I’d never proclaim apathy towards you.” His lips touch you and your legs wrap around his hips, your other unoccupied hand reaching for his member. You slip into his boxers, moving to grasp the length, its thickness wider than you’ve ever known. You don’t part from his eyes, choosing to jerk him as you stare straight ahead. If you look hard enough, pause for a moment, you know you can see yourself in them, worse, you can see a future with him and you, with him and you and the troupe and how happiness can find you. But you’ll both die in the end, you know it, so you take a breath and say his name, “Chrollo.” It’s soft enough that the hum of the hotel’s AC could counter your tone, your unknown tone by the tongue, but it doesn’t for Chrollo. Oh, your competent Chrollo His unoccupied hand finds yours touching the length of him. He replaces you, holds you hand to take it away from him as he moves himself against you.

It’s slick when he slips down, the heat of his tip, stick with his own pre to stick to you as he slips down your nerves already tastes, splitting your folds and finding where he once was moments before. He’s so good, it’s all you can think about, how much he wants to please you, what’s more, how much he likes to please you. Your lungs wrack with a breath, your fingers slipping into his as your other moves to his shoulder. He looks away for a moment, catching on your entrance before his hand moves as close as he can to his tip, to where you two share a nominal kiss, like in the beginning. He takes a moment and your heel presses into him again; he gets your agog reverie and slowly lets his tip slip past the hold of his hand to the hold of your Heaven.

The stretch is all you know, spreading you apart as if you were stuck together, inside your shell and he’s digging you out of the covers, only you’re deeper into them. You must have some strained countenance, contrasting with the wrap of your legs, for he dips down, his hand moving to your hip, angling it to the height of his hips, slowly grinding down into you. He slips deeper as his lips find you again, just as deeper. He lets them slide into yours, lets himself devour you as you devour him, distracting you from the strain of your entrance and only the pleasure that sparks like a cod ot plug.

You feel electricity singe your veins, your fingers digging into his shoulder, dragging up to his neck, then back to his hair to tug at him. His hips are slowly fucking into you, forcing your thighs to strain as hy wrap tighter and tighter around him. His hips have yet to meet, nevertheless he pulls back slightly, enough for your walls to beg him to return without a whine form your lips. You’re breathless kissing him, and he’s dedicated to your breath as he thrusts further, the tip of him hot and sticky inside your gummy walls, drowned in your arousal.

Your lips bruise each other, your gasp lost in his maw as his hips pull back, more tension found form the break not given, his lips kissing agaisnt your bottom lip before his fingers massage agaisnt your hip, his others squeezing your fingers as they spread, legs shaking with their hold on him. You feel his tip inside of you, slowly removing himself from so deep, leaving your walls to ache, bereft of the weight of him. He slips back inside just as you whine a breath, and it catches in your esophagus, lost in the sound of his member deep into your walls, finally hitting your special spot, his hips flat against yours.

You feel thoroughly spread thin, forgotten all want of him inside, replaced with a want for him to move, to fuck as deep as he can into you, bruise the spot inside meant for the stickiness of his tip, how hot and heavy it is when you’re angled like this. Your lids flutter like the sun in the sky, his already on yours, lidded from how tight you’re squeezing him, the miss of him so deep inside. Your tongue darts out of your lips to lick against his, parted nominally from the warmth you give him in return.

He reciprocates the action, his tongue immediately twisting with yours, kissing with the slimy muscles in your mouths, slowly moving to attack him in his own mouth, sliding inside the sweetness of the cherries he ate, that you share in consuming, trying to reach every bit of him that you haven’t known in the longest while. Maybe retallying, he lets his hips slip from against you, raise as much as they can with your desire so tactile. His hand slowly leaves your hip the moment his return. It’s fast yet slow, tantalizingly adept in your body commingling with his.

Your toes curl, legs twitching in their hold against him. Your chest heaves with the pearls, a breath taken for his own tongue to finds your own cavern of spit, digesting every bit of you, exploring as much of you as he can when his hips dig deeper, grinding agaisnt your special spot. His hand presses your leg lower, letting himself find your clit yet again, any work needed in your mind left to him. He takes it again, barely lets any space find you even if it’s straining for him, to let his thumb swirl against your hot bud. It’s so much pressure, him against you, taking your air, and mapping out your body, never changing for him. You think, with the pressure building up to your lungs, the way your tongue barely takes from him, instead swallowing as much of his spit as you can, you’ve only ever grown with him, you’ve only ever tasted this side of him and grown with that aptitude, knowing that outside, how sneakier you are is not what you need.

You can be as sneaky as you can here, as you have been. His hips collide once agaisnt with you, pulling as far away as they can before the heat of his tip twitches agaisnt the gum of your spot, deep inside. It knocks against your head, that pressure that builds and boils, roils under your blood so much that it heats delightfully for him to touch you, his fingers poking into your tummy and fingers and hips lips grasping at your own. You can be sneaky, but you must know how to be sneaky and coy, how to let him know you’re there without knowing you planned it. Of course you know where he is, and of course he never will you. You can feel death warn you, breath into you as he parts, spit licked on his lips as they are yours. “I’m gonna cum.” You nod, airy as you swallow any plea that may have made it’s way to yours lips, still you think you admit defeat, “Please Chrollo, please make me cum.”

He does, the pearls moving against your clavicle, raising and lowering as your chest does, breath caught and released in the cage of your lungs, how the heat that’s boiling in your stomach deluges your senses, his touch on your clit precise as his hips grind into you. It’s his tip twitching that sets you over, your thighs shaking as he makes your insides putty, hot magma that scalds your skin pretty, your head hitting against the blankets as you moan his name, loud with desperation put to the side. He satisfies you, and something stick lands your stomach when you slowly come down form your high. You’re on your hotel bed with your ex-best friend, and you’re sticky with each other. You wish he kept kissing you.

He takes the pearls from your neck delicately, his fingers as lithe as they’ve always been. His bandana is still in your grasp, a trade-off perse. “If I didn’t know any better,” you start, rubbing against your neck where he touched, lifting up your head to look him straight on. You’re still where you were, only sitting up, irrevocably closer. “I’d say you were taking care of me- like a vocation.” He looks at you unlike that, unlike what you need him to; he looks at you like you want as he dissents. “Not a vocation.”

Your brows twitch in a furrow, tease into one as you parrot, “Not?” “A penchant,” he breathes, not like he had to think, not like he needed to find the word, but like it’s the truth, like the soft placidity to his tone is all that you need to know. You’re as close as you’ll ever be moving forward, and you don't care to question why. You stand, moving to find you suitcase. “I’m staying at a hotel back at home; you should find me there.” You find it, right next to a robe for the bathroom. You fold the bandana as you want, placing it inside a pocket before taking the rob you were already going to steal before leaving tonight. “I should,” he questions, parrots as you slip on the robe, looking back one last time. “You should.” You’ll never say it, but maybe, just maybe he will before you both die eternally encompassed in this regretful guilt.

[underrateperiodbites]

overwhelming addiction + Chrollo/reader

You feel warmth before you wake your eyes. It’s fuzzy, the blankets silky against your smooth skin, but you conscious no matter how fuzzy clings onto the warmth of the sun shining from the wide windows surrounding your penthouse view. It’s a random job Chrollo’s doing, so you expect to wake without him, but you’re getting fairly exhausted by his intention of work. Sure, you might be naked in your bed, awaiting him to return, but he didn’t. The perfect man you’re dating hasn’t returned for twelve hours, long after he promised, so your naked reverie does little to quell the dissatisfaction brewing under your skin.

You open your eyes with a rub of your knuckles, moving to sit onto your knees as you let the sun gulp down every inch of your bare figure. The sheets leave nothing to the imagination, pooling over your feet as you stretch, groaning at the chill of your muscle. You stare the wide windows down, moving to stand with a leg slipping sideways off of the edge you laid. It’s breathtaking, freeing to be so high and peer over those you commingle with. You’ll be back soon, make some changes soon, but you’re up now. Is it bad you crave to be down? “Good morning.” Your eyes widen, immediately directed to Chrollo fresh out of the shower. His hair’s not damp, perfectly styled for the day, but he’s only wearing a towel around his muscled skin.

It’s a good morning now, but you won’t let him know that. You deadpan. “When did you get home?” He shrugs. “Last night.” “How late last night,” you ask, turning with a cross to your arms. He doesn’t let his eyes dip, raising a brow and cocking his head as he replies, “Not long after you tumbled into Sleepville.” You cock on in return. “Sleepville?” He lets a laugh slip against his teeth, airy as he finishes, “You always knock out like a light; I wasn’t going to disturb your needed rest or do things without your permission.” You roll your eyes, moving to the sheets exasperated. “Well, the things you didn’t do to me, have made me irritable.”

He hums, watching you and trying to hold your eyes with his, intrigued, amused. “Irascibly horny, you mean?” You don’t respond, moving to dip back into the sheets, knees delving into the softness before the sheet wraps around your back. You try to move onto your back, letting your legs slide back before you, but Chrollo never lets your eyes shut before his touch finds you. “Baby,” he calls, his palm against the dip of your back. Your eyes shut without acknowledging him. He pokes again with a lilt of his voice, “My sleeping beauty.” This time, he dips to kiss your shoulder, your hand moving to shove him off, but he catches it, making sure his full lips mark your pulse, his teeth teasing the lines as he finally grabs your pouty attention. “You gonna let me make it up to you,” he inquires, your glare only defining like sharpened ice, crystal clear that you are not going to respond.

He hums, calculating your behavior, before biting your wrist, delicate yet still with a sting to your bone as you pull to sit on your side, like a mermaid holding your marred wrist. “Chrollo!” He comes closer, encircling you with his hands dipping beside you. “Rude-” His nose bumps against yours, guiding your lips to his slowly, giving you enough time to pull away for further revenge, but you never do. Instead, you glide into his lips, brows still furrowed but softening as his lips slowly guide yours into eating him. As if this were his punishment, albeit he enjoys it too much, you do as he wants, gulping down every bite of his lips with your own. It’s nice, to glide against him and feel him be suffocated with you, how he takes it and even presses back into yours before letting his lips linger in the tug of your bottom teeth.

It’s soft and kind, passion mixing between your teeth as if Aphrodite were tickling your hair, pushing you into him with your hands clinging onto the strong muscles of his arms, clinging up with the graze of your nails before you can claw into the ghostly skin of his shoulders, the muscle like dough as you mark him as yours, yours tongue swiping against the tug to his bottom lip. He’s the one though, that dives back into your lips, tongue first to anchor you back into the sheets, your head resting prettily on the pillow as your breath is stolen by each want of his, your brows furrowing in consideration of your squeezed lungs as a hand of yours moves to his hair, tickling the edges that cling to his neck. The shivers that wrack through him pull him from your lips, but not before he pecks you lingering in the wet bruises before he rests his head against yours. “You always taste so sweet in the morning-”

You grumble a whine, “Chrollo-” He pulls away, letting his hands slowly move from beside your head as he immediately kisses down to your neck, even more lingering as he pulls at your hips. “Nuh-uh, I’ve yet to get a full taste of you yet.” His breath is shallow, eyes wide and pleading as he looks from your chest, teeth grazing your when he proposes, “Let me take care of what I irritated, hm?” As if addicted to tasting any naturally wet bit of you, the moment you give your nod, his infectious, coy smile glides into your skin, kissing down to peck each of your nipples, swirling his tongue and teeth in tease, lapping up the pebbling buds alternatively. Each moment you’re left without reprieve until his hands grind down on your hip’s flesh, digging into every bit of soft skin he can grasp as his kisses move down your stomach without a real pattern. You just know the moment he reaches your mons pubis, he’s drunk again, like the cool glass warms his hand into sweating, even the aroma, the clang of the glass is peremptory.

Your insides must call to him as a siren, nothing in the way he moves or the way you gasp from his sudden addiction, deters him in his desire, his addiction into you. He grasps onto your hips, moving your thighs over his shoulders as he presses into you, letting his tongue slide up your folds, parting them like wrapped food. As if he wants your mercy, your forgiveness in his sick selfishness of your pleasure, he focuses on your clit, laving with quick flicks of his tongue, refusing to relent as your back arches, hips digging into the mattress below you, your body stappled to him in his arm’s stability.

Sensitivity decants from his tongue up to our lips when he doesn’t stop, when he shakes his head against his, moves to kiss and swathe his tongue around your bud beating against his tongue. It’s like a punching bag, like the Preist has refused to accept the worship at someone’s altar. You feel Holy, oddly, as he digs into you, like retribution has found you for wanting a desire and having to wait even a moment to spot his pretty greyed eyes beneath you, below you tugging at your clit, moving with precision enough to get your first orgasm to tangle in your toes, shaking your ankles in pure satisfaction as you succumb to the sheets, grasping the silk before your heat explodes, his fingers digging into the fat of your thighs, pulling and stretching them absentmindedly as he loses himself yet against to your pussy.

It’s the hottest craze of alcohol when he relents with a slurp, only succumbing lower to the testament of your entrance, wettened and dripping in his favorite satisfaction. You can barely get a breath out before it pitches into a moan from his tongue slithering into you, grasping at the edges of your cum, your taste deluging onto his textured tongue as he curls against you, jutting his tongue in and out until he slowly takes nothing form you. This is where his selfishness comes in as your body ignites to the sun’s light, your voice reaching the ceiling when his desire far outweighs yours. You could ask him to stop, plead, but until you make it clear that there is nothing left in your desire for him, that you truly are done, he’s not stopping.

It’s foolish to think he was ever trying to gain your mercy or affection, plead his case to a jury when the jury was all waiting for the green to float from his wallet. It’s foolish to think he can hear your pleas of overstimulation as your hips start to pull away from him, his arm weighs like a detrimental decision ono your stomach, crossing you as a seatbelt before his other fingers torture you with his attention to detail. He afflicts your clit, already soft and malleable, to his maneuvers, swirls down to your wetness seeping from his sloppy slurping of your essence, before greedily using the supply between your messy thighs to aid your clit’s presence.

Searing- it’s searing when he softly applies pressure to the perfect extent, pulling our yet more echoes of pleasure from you. It’s not matter when you try to close your thighs around him or when you try to squirm away from him, Chrollo refuses to let his addiction go, as if you’re afflicting him with your desire for reprieve. He’s making you come to fast, and if he does this, he’ll not even stop to care for the deluge to the sheets. He’s determined to make you responsible for his pleasure of you, and it burgeons deep inside of you, his glare of petulance, his immoveable grip on any soft bit of you, the way his tongue refuses to stop the assault to your walls- It all burgeons until you feel the seeds start to sow into your eyes.

His tongue swirls your entrance once he feels you’re close, plunging back inside though this time faster, no leisure in his desire to make you cum as you start to cry from it, cry from how deeply devoted he is to your before you can feel the different patterns he draws on your clit, each letter distinct as he moves his hand up- up- up to your chest, letting his thumb flick a bud continuously- again for his pleasure as you unwittingly grind your hips down onto his tongue. It’s wet- messy- sloppy- some other adjective that you can feel take your body with some heat as if the sun’s attention to you was more than the morning but every bit of night too. Your finger’s flight to his hair is instinctual until you’re gripping the orgasm out of him too, wetting the sheets further until you can feel him slowly subside, follow the grip of his hair like a tug of his heart string as your other hand finds his shoulder just as before.

You don’t let him kiss again, not with the heat slowly leaving you to singe him. The agitated huff of your lips only breathes life into that simper of his. Instead of that kiss from before, you’re the one to bite into him first, shove him roughly into you and force your lips to swathe every bit of yourself from his teeth. He relinquishes wittingly, moaning as you scrape against the skin of his shoulder, dig into the soft hair on his head. You part with a string and breath of determination. With a swirl of your tongue to your top lip, you agree, “You are right, I taste good.” He sighs shakily, brows creasing in affirmation as his eyes flitter between yours, “Divine,” he continues, “like heaven if it could ever grasp your divinity.” You stumble over words, haughty with his heat, “Your tongue might just be as good out of me as within.” He dives down to kiss your cheek, your fingers already finding space around his neck. “I enjoy the latter more.”

The whisper only makes your eyes roll, letting that hide your ever-growing affection for him before you make a firm decision, slowly letting your hands drop to the tautness of his chest, calling, pushing, “I want it from the back, this time. Your face’s deluged with too much entertainment.“ His smirk only grows wider, much to your abashedness, before he grabs you up against him. “Anything for you.” He maneuvers you around, guiding your hips with his, dick right between you two, gently, as your knees kneel between his. He starts with kissing against your shoulders, ghosting whilst savoring the soft flesh slowly relaxing underneath his touch. Even though he’s not between your thighs anymore, he finds a way to your hearth, letting his touch linger on your hip before the other slips down against your waist, tickling the flesh like a ghost and their living lover as he finds your mound again, not even daring to hide his need for it when he comes into contact with the sensitive bud of you.

You’re sue you moan, but you don’t even think your legs twitching or grip tightening on the sheets causes him even a bit of pleasure to his tip as he moans against your shoulder, breathy with desire of Aphrodite as he shuts his eyes. His touch doesn’t linger, frozen, on your skin for long, the grip to your hip massaging to your tummy, moving past that to your waist as if a seatbelt to his antics. His thumb grazes under your breast, letting the digit tickle it as he starts swiping against your velvet bud, encased in so much wet you bet even his tongue would slip on it. He builds you with his touch, a pant against your skin as he continues kissing, mauling the slip of your skin as he digs his face into the crevice of your neck and shoulder. You let your hands find his hair again, a shared favorite between the two of you as you slowly grind against his palm, delicate yet sharp against your clit, wetness pooling out between your thighs like the echo of stalactites to a cave’s floor.

You moan with him as your fingers wind in his hair, tighter when you massage the surface you tugged. You moan his name; he responds with a hum of amusement enough to light the conduit of a canon .It stretches deep within you, the way he ingrains his desire for you in your bones, as if there were no other thing he’d do, if it could pay, if there were a metal for who could devour you fastest without even a hint of wanting to stop, needing to, he’d win in every way set. It’s teasing and pulling at you, the way he lets his fingers gently take you, slip down against your folds but not between them, easing you with his rhythm before nuzzling his face with his own. There’s that hint again, that digs at you, and you dig at him in return, daring to moan in jest, right against his jaw you gnaw on, “Ah, Boss.” You feel it before you hear it, the way his jaw strains and his digits jolt for a mere moment, and then there’s that groan lodged in the back of his throat, not in warning perse but admission of his like to the title. You feel the smile stretch your lips, but you never do get to laugh completely, the words founded in the lost bit of you, how you could’ve hazed, you like, when I call you boss, hm, how you could’ve been like him.

His fingers take every bit of you, his hand grasping at the breast that hasn’t been completely devoured by his desire as you writhe against him, hips jutting into his palm as he kisses your cheek again, letting your eyes fall to the drip between your thighs as he licks at your ear with his words, “I thought you were particularly whiny for me.” He doesn’t pause his ministrations, no part of him breaks from your pleasure as your hands cramp, crumble from him. You’re not able to grip his hair, instead choosing to let them fall to his hand against you, the other poking at his bent thigh as your thighs threaten you with the overstimulation of your hearth. “Maybe you want to be under me like this, hm, let me take you all over the world and eat- be served between your thighs like the sun to the grass.” You can feel it calling in your blood, the way he speaks to you, the way he groans and moans, the way his hands are just perfect or dare you say the way you know he’ll cry if you let him part from you, refuse to let him make you cum, crumble with him a top or below, just somewhere near your hearth.

“Chrollo-” You don’t know what happens first, what bites off your tongue first, his throaty laugh of words or your whiny pitch of shaking. “I bet it feels really nice- so nice you’re going to cum so hard for me, right? Cum so hard for your strong overworked boyfriend?” It’s harsh, the reality of what pours out between your straining thighs, incapable of stopping his ministrations even as you yell for him to calm down. He continues to breath against you though, instructing you with his own pants of desire against your ear. It comes crashing down and he follows you, molds you against him even as you squirm and screech from the refusal to let his fingers stop, up until you dig your nails into his wrist, his fingers so sloppy and pruned holding onto yours, letting you calm for a moment before it comes again from your own fingers- rubbing with his instruction against your clit, teasing down the squirting before you rip your grip from him, leaning completely onto his front. “Chrollo,” you think you cry.

He doesn’t hum in tease anymore, he kisses you and holds onto your middle as he prompts, “Too much, baby?” You take a moment, drained of taunting for a heave of your chest as you shake your head against him. He moves his one arm, grabbing something before shifting you back with him, urging you forward as you eyes peel open to the bed in front of you, bare of the pillow where you head once lay. “Your hips can rest on his,” he elucidates as he gently lets you rests below him, his lips once again coming to your back, though this time they trail to your spine, stopping when his hands need to adjust your hips on the pillow. You warn, almost afraid he’ll go back between your thighs, but it’s weak, it’s waned, “Chrollo.” He snickers, you still don’t have the energy to rebuke, btu it does fuel your fists in cramping against the sheets. “Honey, I’m staved off for now. We need to leave in a few so this is the perfect breakfast.” He sits up behind you, your legs still between his as he lines his length up with you.

Somehow a condom was retrieved, but you can still feel the heat of it, the wetness of his fingers having clawed onto you and now stroking onto him as he lets his tip slip up against your wetness, catching on your hole that twitches in trepidation of him. He makes no comment, one hand still squeezing onto your hip, this time in reassurance as he slowly lets his rubbered mushroom prod into you. It’s hot and wet and slimy and his dick is hard as he presses into you. It’s still tight, it’s always tight but it’s as if you’re letting boiling water waft steam at you; overwhelming as much as it is copacetic. That feeling, you fear, may never be too much when it comes to him, when it comes to how big his girth is when it breaks into you. You hear his groan but don’t notice as he stares down to where you meet, your hands grip into the sheets loudly, you think they might rip from underneath the mattress, the hand once on his girth now migrating to one of your wrists, letting his thumb prod onto the back of your hand, his other four feeling the beat of your rising heart.

It strikes you everywhere, engulfs you everywhere- the pleasure he gives you as he slowly grinds into you, his length so much, too much that your feet twitch, ankles crossing with a whine of overwhelming despair in your desire to him. Still, he makes no comment, most likely his addiction just as overwhelming as your overstimulation. Regardless, once you’re both connected, his hips on yours, his other hand slips to your lower back, barely letting the heat of you engulf him fully before he’s tugging out halfway, prodding back in to reach that special spot, kissing it as he has your lips, swathing you in pleasure that makes your feet jolt up nominally. Your chin rests on the bed, eyes finding your skull as his hand traps yours, clamping down after alleviating the pressure to your lower back.

You can barely whine, his lips to your head, poking by your ear as he instructs, “I know it’s deep, but you need to breath deep for me- that’s the only way I’m fucking you.” You choke on his words, throat swallowing back every bite of complaint as you moan loudly, breathily when you feel him slowly start rocking into your special spot, massaging the gummy texture before he decides you’re getting adjusted. He praises, so pleased with you it makes his lips strain in gratitude, “There’s my good girl.” A moan capitulates your lungs as you struggle to take the pace of him, his hips slamming down to your raised ones. It’s wet and messy, the sounds you hear echoing in the bedroom too big for the two of you, the sun still angering your senses as your hand flexes underneath him, your other wrist straining in its stead as he focuses on your pleasure with him, his pleasure inside of you.

You don’t even have a moment before it builds deep within you, before it starts to tickle your toes, singe your veins with so much power of desire that you struggle to breath, struggle to comprehend how long it’s been before he dives back down to kiss over your shoulder, his moans so loud it sounds as if an alarm rings inside of you. And it does, in a sense, that heat building in your hearth, lit by a Goddess herself as you recall his fingers, his attention to you, the slip of your velvet and bud, the way he refuses to stop, and the way he kisses you- takes you as he likes because it is as you prefer alongside him. Your legs squirm against the fabric again, and this time he gives you a reaction, a heave and then the split of his lips over your shoulder, but this time there’s a dulled pressure, a dig into your soft skin as you feel your thighs clench, your entrance squelching too much as the lava pours from you, this time your shaking forgotten for the loudest moan into the sheets you’ve ever made, Chrollo pulsing into you before you feel the weight the condom catches, the cries that tear from you as he slowly lets the two of you down from your highs.

When he’s rid himself of his condom, he’s pulling you up with soft words, leaning back so you can rest in his lap while recharging, soaking into him while he massages your skin again. “Do you want to know something?” You mumble, eyes still shut against his neck, “Hm, what is it?” He leans against your ear, whispering, “I did my fortune, and you came up.” Your eyes blink open, suddenly replenished without a sip of water as you let a rhetorical slip from your stunned lips, “I’m sorry?” His eyes flit between yours, taking them in with his own. “It said a star is very lonely without the world.” Your brows furrow, and his simper is back, but this time gentler, this time it’s him. “So you’re my world?” “You shine so much onto me you’ve singed me as your own, sweetheart, there’s no rescinding me now.” You slip back into him silently, your touch finding his fingers with yours, his lips your forehead. Meant to be. “Like I’d ever want to.”

[underrateperiodbites]

payback in cards + Chrollo/reader

It was simple, you knew Chrollo would win the bet, but you still wanted to play the game. Why? Simple, Hisoka owed you a favor. You’ve been buttering him up for the past few months as you’ve lounged with your boyfriend around, and in return for some information, Hisoka let you win a card game against Chrollo with his bungee gum. You’ve long tuned out his explanation of how he was going to help you win, but you sat with Chrollo playing cards in the middle of everyone’s work, and unsuspectingly bet him with a breath to his ear the dirtiest want you had. If you lost, you’d be the one in chains, to say the least, but Chrollo lost; Hisoka let you win your desire for the simple cost of Chrollo’s deepest secret.

You just made up one, but it didn’t matter if Hisoka found out the white lie you told when he found Chrollo later after your desire; you slammed the card in front of his face, the matching set with the others. You won.

And now he’s tied to a chair.

It’s with his guidance of course, a heat to your cheeks as you let him hum to the knots on his wrists, forever with his precision mimicked in your hands as you straighten from behind the chair. You note his flexed back, his skin a toned pallid nude except for the cloth of his boxers. Your fingers dip onto the wood of the chair, sturdy and thick enough for your nail to graze his back, ghost it whilst your prints drag along the rim of wood. You eye him, his expression not terse in the slightest, not irascible but forgiving, willing to see this through, amused for the most of this moment. You take a nominal breathe, letting your eyes bite every bit of his bare skin and the slowly growing mound between his legs.

You stand between his spread legs, making him look up at you from the languorousness to his features, his body willing almost too much to find himself at the end of a lost bet. You cup his cheeks, massaging the soft bones of his cheeks. You rub them as you desire, taking in his features for one more glorious second before you start guiding your hand back through his strands, finding the band wrapped around his forehead. It drips from him, clouding his luscious lashes for only a moment as he shakes out his hair. You help him, always soft in your movements, gliding the hand left on his cheek to his hair, fingers pressing into his scalp and combing through the thick silkiness of his loose strands. It’s something you’ve grown used to practicing, this softness in his features found only for you, this dedication to your pleasure you don’t entirely hate, but even in this act you can still feel the heat coiling around your lungs. You’d usually do this after sex, after he wrecked what hearth you have between your thighs. Wetness to heat, to a home you can see in his eyes, the desire for at least.

You have too devoted of a boyfriend. Is that… wrong to lament?

Your brows furrow as his lip twitches, maybe the notion of your untangling of his hair spared between both of your minds. Another lamentation to note; you spend too much time with him. “What?” He weighs his expression as you pull away slowly. “Are you sure you can handle this?” Your brows dip in irritation, at the mock nonexistent in his tone but the confidence drowning his vocals. “Are you seriously doubting me when you’re tied to a fucking chair, baby?” “I’m just saying.” You roll your eyes, fingering the headband to your liking. “Fuck you,” the proclamation left on the air without a second thought is met with his own sharp tongue, like two swords in a battle. He’s hot when he fights, even if it’s just witty banter with you. “I’m waiting for that, actually.” Your eyes find his, mischief slowly aligns with your hum as you lean forward, the band held between your hands. “Then be a good boy for me.”

He quirks a brow, but there’s this coruscant glare to his dark eyes. You fear submission is ingrained in your wrists as you spot him from below you. “Close your eyes,” you mutter, greedily lapping at the tattoo on his forehead, the way his eyes shut without so much as a hesitant strain. You’re greed itself as you tug the fabric onto him, leaning down to get the knot right. He never shuts up when you need him to, muttering into your neck, “You smell nice.” You huff, as if the compliment still doesn’t remind you of his love, of the heat that coats your cheeks. “Pervert.” His voice’s gravely in his dissent, “You’re the one tying me up.” You lean against his ear, fingers ghosting over his strands as you complete the knot with a thought whispered, “You’re guiding me, Chrollo, like always.” You lean back, standing yet again as you find what’s between your boyfriend’s legs, having grown significantly irritated in its cloth hiding spot. You can tell he can feel your smirk of amusement as he shifts his head away from your gaze. Ever the one to mutter, you breathe as you lower yourself to the floor, “I guess I do smell nice.” He makes no acknowledgement of you, so you make him acknowledge every ridge of you he’s grown accustomed to when he’s on top, when his tongue’s sharper, hands bigger.

Your hands find his thighs, kneading the tense muscles like snow in the summer you wish to bite into, cannibalize as you lean your head against his forgotten straining. You nuzzle further into him with your lips, letting them graze over him, barely caught in a peck as they press along his softness, tongue darting out to lick a strand along his inner flesh, finding his lack of a reaction like a cold shower. Chrollo lost the bet, but of course he’s still with pride. If it were you, implausible, but if it were you that lost, you surely would be an abashed babe in the knots not like his stolid stature frozen in his desire of composure.

You move your lips kiss up his clothed him, moving to his abs as you bite a bit of fat well-placed on his stomach. It’s not deep, but there are faint marks slobbered in red from where you bit onto him. He does tense at that, and you pull back satisfied, moving to kiss along his other thigh after brushing off your lips. You start at the inside of his knee this time, kissing along the collum of bone before your teeth poke out again, grazing the flesh like he does your neck, time and again with the faint intentions of teasing, like feeling before tasting divination on his tongue.

One of your hands is on his abs, still soothing the cut into his abs and making sure you accidentally drop onto his crotch, brushing over the growing sensitivity as you move along his other leg. The hand closest to you massages where you leave, at first starting below his knee just for some attention then advancing further with your hot breaths along his thigh, mauling him with your teasing tongue, hot and wet inside of your mouth before letting it cool against his heated skin. It lingers, the way your thumb dives into the meat now wettened with your actions, you linger in the win you’ve procured as fair as you could’ve. It’s tasty on your tongue, and it’s tantalizing as you find his bulge bigger than you ever could’ve known, strained and wettened on the fabric. You smile as you raise from the band of his boxers, letting your fingers walk up the cloth of it, both now honed on the thick band around his hips.

He must know you’re staring, admiring the pre that coats him so overtly, and you think you get what he means when he says it addicting to see you before you see him, to know what affect he has on you that you soak through your panties time and again. You huff a chuckle, his neck rolling back as you breathe directly onto him. You luck only grow with him as you slowly tease the band of his boxers, nails poking the flesh as you slowly tug it down, his member tugged along with it until it hits against his belly. It’s heavy, the tip flushed mean, and the length strangled with veins as his arms are.

It’s a heavenly sight, divination found in the way it twitches, your gasp subsequential as you toss his last item of clothing aside. You’re left in your undergarments and shirt still, well his shirt you usually sleep in, but you’re both too excited to sleep in the sheets, but play in this chair he usually works in. Your hands find both of his thighs again, right on the meat of the insides, closest to the heat that bobs between, begging with such emotion for you to tie yourself against him. You drool, again reminiscent of Chrollo as he is between your thighs, only you’re merciful, you’re not as selfish as him, you’re just more sadistic.

You lean your lips onto the rob, staring where his sweet pre begins and letting yourself messily glide down to his balls. He’s straining himself, your eyes fluttering to the strength of his chest and arms as he doesn’t fight, perse against the restraints, but tests them. You get the distinct notion he was, and even now, playing along with you for you, not himself, but so you could, potentially make him act on his desire for you. You wonder if he can get out of the rope and then hope against it. You’ve yet to start and his squirming is cute. Your curled lips gain his huff through his nose. Your lips press delicately into his balls, then your tongue darts out right onto them, moving up the line of him with the flat of your muscle. He’s tasty, smelling of freshness as your lips find his tip. You suction against the heat, irritated at your tantalizing taste of him, how you savor him, and he can’t you.

Your tongue darts to the slit, licking up the white that leaks from him as you adjust. Your hand moves to his base, ghosting around the bob of him as you make out with the suave head. Your eyes still stay on him as much as they can, flickering to the restrain pouring off of his features and down your tongue as your tease his base, gripping it snuggly in your prints, finding it greedy for your touch of warmth, his tip twitching right when you pull away for a breath. Staring down at your reaction, your thumb comes up to the wetness of his tip, swiping against the mess you made and the mess he’s aiding as you swirl your palm against him. It’s a swift action you’ve almost forgotten how to do with his insistence on your pleasure, how even now he seems he might crumble from his lack of experience here with you. Only you.

You lean back up to his abs, kissing against them and lowering yourself back over to his bite, making sure your thumb is rocking back and forth along his tip like an itch of hair. He gives you something them, not just the creak of his neck, but the jerk of his leg, antsy breath strangled form his throat as you lave up the mark, indents more prominent and surely not to fade with the rope burns he’ll surely have. You move back over to his dick with a huff of cheeky fruition onto his sensitivity. Just as his lips open, most likely going to pour out something other than his seamless breaths of frustration, your mouth finds his dick, trying your best to get the most of him down your throat, hot and wet and soaking up every taste of his cleanliness as you press against his thigh with your other hand, digging your nails into him whilst your other hand slowly slips down his member, coating in the drip from your lips.

Your eyes are squeezed shut when he says it, but you can already picture him desperate from being unable to see you, touch you, taste you. “Oh honey,” he moans, brows as furrowed as yours as you nominally back up, letting him rest slightly uncomfortable in your throat as you swallow with a light choke to your throat. Your fingers find their way into a fist on his thigh, thumb tucked into your palm as you focus on breathing against him, his length still lodged well into your mouth and more than prodding at the back of your saliva. Your hand moves for help, your focus waning as you try to maneuver your hand to squeeze around him, gripping around him with a flexibility in your wrist you’ve almost lost. If his addiction to between your thighs meant you lost your efficacy for his dick, you have to applaud him for the success.

Regardless, you start slurping him up, moving your head in tandem with your hand. When you go up so does it, and when you go down it backs away first. Your mouth is also straining to meet the grip you naturally have below. It makes your hums border of moans of pained pleasure, giving him all he needs when he’s always given you what you need. Of course, this is payback for all those moments of your pleasure he took like jade blooming form roses. You think he’s blooming from them as you take a gulp of air, raising from holding your breath under the steamed water of a hot tub. You swallow wetly, all the mess down your throat so you can take into consideration how good you’re being. It’s not the best, you know he won’t admit, but you’re rusty, reddening orange around your nails that his guiding words would aid, but he’s determined to let you guide yourself. You are the one who won after all.

You blink your eyes back into focus form the pressure having left your throat, you move your hand efficiently, letting the lube of your saliva aid in its rejuvenation. Your other hand is leaving its cramped state too, supplanting his thigh for his balls, massaging them with deft attention as you let your eyes fix onto his reaction. You’re getting better, you can tell by his arms still strained behind his back. He’s barely squirming yet, focusing on his breathing as he likes you to do when you cum, when you both come together so you can inhale and breed into each other.

You let your head rest against his thigh, knocking into him so you can relax nominally as you focus your efficacy to your prints, your palms, your wrists and arms stringing muscles out you forgot you had, work this well. That seem to garner his attention, a reaction so soft even if he’s unable to use his hands to show you the attention of his love. He lets his thigh tense, foot digging into the flooring so he can give you some reprieve. But never once does he offer to take over, he knows you want this, he’s just making sure he can handle it too, with you at your own pace. You bite him, ravaging from a kiss to teeth back to a kiss of affection, it gives you his genuine hum of humor at your usual antics and you return to your position before, only this time you don’t strain your throat nearly as much.

You focus on teasing him, letting your tongue lave over his heated tip, dipping past the mushroom to the veins below, your hands stringing any set of pleasure from him, focusing closest to his tip and covering any amount you can’t, your other hand dipping in warmth as it continues the massage of his weight. He’s struggling now, not squirming or straining himself, but struggling to keep up with your ministrations as you eyes stick to where his are closed. You can taste his breath; how hot it is and how desperate he is to keep his moans and groans inside, incapable with how close he is, how his tip twitches and how your tongue laves at the added taste of him, savory on your buds.

Finally, he lets out this shaky breath that can only be described as defeat, a curse never leaving him but the jolt of his leg, the strain of his muscles as he chases you with his hips, that’s what makes your actions speed up, your lips continuing to focus on his mushroom tip, sucking as delicately precise as you can before you can taste him, your hands squeezing against ever bit of him as he finally comes undone. It’s hot and sticky as it paints your saliva, your throat catching up in bursts as you swallow the taste of him down, can finally ingrain it into you like you’ve wanted to since he went between your thighs and made you incapable of reciprocity through lips.

Your hand leaves his length, the other still holding his heaviness and massaging the overstimulated tension from him as your hand glides against his tensed abs, head slowly starting to bob, up and down, licking his tip and sucking up his length before your hand finally reaches past his ribs, tangles in the tension and grabs at his chest, his pert nipples tweezed subsequently by your lingering touch, your greedy touch of him like he has of you. You don't know whether to shut your eyes or not, but you can tell you’re taking affect like the pills he steals, unraveling at the seams when he moans as if he were in porn, draining from his throat as his eyes must roll back with his throat, his second orgasm so quick, so pathetic that you think it’s inevitable when his weight strains, his hips buck as his release drowns your hot throat another time, though you can’t quite keep up.

You pull back, his dick spurting thick strands as if he hasn’t cum in forever. You only fucked three days ago, mission get ahead of pleasure because in them there is some pleasure given, some teases. But not like this, not as your hand moves form waist back to his length, letting it coat in the few strands that don’t drown the flooring in himself. He’s panting in groans as you let your hand gather up his excess, licking up your palm in a way you know he wishes to witness. You ignore him, finally parting and letting his exhaustion of breath grip him release him tightly. He’s still hard, at least with one more load in him for you to take inside. If not them two more, three more. You’ll gauge how tired you are of riding him and how deeply you want the consequences of tying him up, later.

You lap up any remnants of him with a sturdy stand, your tongue wrapping around the cage of your teeth as you finally get to undress. You start with your shirt, tugging it up and over your head with all adroitness of a baby seal. Moving onto your chest, you let the clasp sting the air, he strings of fabric swaying between your grasp as you finally let it hit the messy floor of your antics. A smile coats your lips as he finally gathers himself. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he gently advises, and you have to, incapable of keeping it between your ribs, you let the guffaw taint his audacity.

He persists, “I’m serious, you might be wet enough, but you need prep.” You bend over after commenting to remove your panties, “I don’t.” It’s affirmatively petulant, but he doesn’t care, commenting as you toss your panties to the exit. “You do-” “Chrollo Lucilfer, let me fuck you.” You near him them, leaning over with your hands on his shoulders, fingers coating the back of the chair. He scoffs a smirk up, irascibly amused, letting his tongue poke his cheek. You’re close enough and he knows it, so when he leans up to touch your lips with his words, you let him, “Finger yourself on top of me, and then you can ride me.” You feel it, abashed irritation at his insistence of knowing you better. You’d throw a fit under different circumstances, your fits meaning banter with him in the middle of teeth clashing and throats bitten.

You look down at his dick, bobbing as if to say high with his not even drained stamina. You let the thought pass, but you wish Hisoka never accepted your offer. Instead of giving him a verbal response, you move to cup his cheek, your other hand sticking your pointer and middle together, letting him know of your approbation as you tickle them past his lips. There’s no resistance as you find his hot tongue tainting your fingers. It’s hot- heating yourself as you don’t think you’ve ever had him suck on your fingers. Maybe when he was drunk and deliriously desperate from your pussy, he had you taste yourself on his tongue whilst fingering you, then had you clean yourself off of his fingers with his own tongue mixing into yours. It was sloppy, obscene, but you’re above him now, so you angle his jaw to your liking, and you find the back of his throat amusing, as if showing him what you went through with two loads.

Yet he doesn’t gag, just sucks up your fingers with the lingering taste of himself on them, but you know it’s because this is the only way he can touch you with some sort of control, the only way he can taste you that you’ll allow today. You pull them out, strands of saliva as thick as rivers coating your two digits as your hand moves to his shoulder, eyes dedicated to the mess of your fingers. “Lucky,” you mutter, hinting at his lack of a gag. He lets a smile part from him in a huff as if your fingers were the drug to him, you are a drug just from fingers alone, with no pleasure to him but you.

You should’ve told Hisoka this, that would’ve been something, right? Not like the lie of his allergy. You’re honestly allergic to his devotion, but Hisoka’s never wanted you, he’s wanted to destroy him, and now you are without a care for the clown. Your knee finds the chair’s seat, poking a bit onto Chrollo’s thigh as to avoid the mess you made on him, the heat of sensitivity. You let your wet fingers drag down the collum of his throat, to his shoulders and teasing his bicep before the chill of his salvia finds your pussy, your moan soft but enough to tease him into tensing again, to crave the breath of you against him.

Your fingers tap onto your folds, so slick and chilled by his lips and the air as you slide them into your, curving into the wetness of your vulva. It’s a contrast, one that makes you shake at how searing your hearth is, how blessed it is to feel this divine, this wet in comparison to your fingers. It adds to your desire to cum, how deeply ingrained it is in your being to crave Chrollo’s fingers, how thick boned they are, how they screw into you until he knows when you can’t cum anymore. It’s satisfaction on top of yearning as you feel the spit he always adds to you find a home in your fold. You graze your clit with the length of your fingers, moving down to swirl against your entrance. You're teasing to tease him with your reactions, to poke at him with your breaths fanning across his face, the call of his name and them, as if a cherry to the cream a top of you, the squelch, wet and rapacious as your fingers scissor inside of you.

He’s right, it’s a tight fit, and even if you have a thought of him eating you out so much is for his entrance subsequently, you know it’s false. He’s addicted to you, you can find it in the way he leans up to try and find you above him, to try and kiss him as you ebb and flow to his ministrations. And then worse, worse, worse, more when he whines, “Please, let me kiss you- any bit of you, I’ll take, whatever way you want me to be I will. Please, baby, I’ll do whatever you want for our eternities together.”

You struggle and don’t even dare to hide the most likely debasing sentiment behind your giggle. You let him, your fingers curving in the barely loosening heat of you. It’s sticky as you fuck into yourself, and what’s messier than the sounds dripping from you is the call of his desperation, how he’s greedy, planting his lips onto your bare skin and digging into every bit- bite of flesh he can get, inhaling greedily your scent and letting his tongue taste you. You move against him, your unoccupied hand finding his head as you pull him against you.

Your fingers slowly find their grind into you, the wetness of yourself heating up like you’re above flames, engulfed in the desire of Chrollo so desperate and yet deeply at your mercy. His tongue wipes at your nipple, digging into the flesh of you as he moves up to kiss at it, ever the gentle boyfriend as he worships at the beginning of your altar, the highest point as he is uncaring for the twitch of his dick, how it begs for your heat as it drips down your fingers. A hot mess that finds you as you’re unable to grind down into your G-spot. You give up when he whines against you of your taste, how you’re so good, so fucking addicting. You lose it and shove your pussy-drenched fingers in his mouth.

The word willing doesn’t even begin to describe how deep he is when in love with you, when finding your taste on your fingers, maybe a bit of him inside of you, a bit still lingering on your prints as they’re engulfed by his tongue, split between and drank from as if you were a drink, as if you were the straw leading him to the rim of the cup for a better grasp of the juice. When you pull away completely, letting your grip leave him, so you can stand and adjust to the mess building between your legs, drowning your skin in it, you can feel the disappointment in his groan before it even bubbles out of his chest like thunder of Zues.

He heaves, taking a refreshing breath that must stain his lungs painfully lacking your essence. He swallows desperately the vestiges of you and that is the last you allow yourself to see before turning around, grasping his wet and hefty length in your hand before lining it up with your slick, dragging it into your wetness that sears as you grind against him. He tries to aid you again, letting his hips move with yours as much as they can.

You try to make yourself as teased as possible, as built into you like cement and bricks this desire for Chrollo inside of you until you can’t take it anymore. I teats at you, chatters you teeth, grasps your wrists together with blood decanting from your eyes- you need him so deep inside of your pulsing core. It waits for him, no matter the struggle, the strain of your body as you let his tip submerge in your essence, just barely waiting at your entrance with the fat tip of him slowly twitching up against your dripping heat. You let your moan free, wrack from you as his own does when you finally let him pop himself inside.

It’s like he’s a coral and you’re of the ocean, taking all he can from you, every bit of your energy and resolve and giving you every bit of revived pleasure, renewed rapacity. You feel it fill you with his length, sinking back into his lap as you slowly let go of his dick. It’s still a tight fit even with the light prep you did, trying to persuade his member to stop digging into you by rocking up and down, but it seems that your own essence refuses to let the veins of him go, refusing to let even a second of him go to waste outside of you. It’s tiring, but all the more pleasing to win this battle with him.

You finally reaching the hilt of his length, feeling the stickiness of your spot to him, how it attaches like flowers to cactuses, and it feels as such too, wanting an orgasm so sweet with the heedful reality of your tension together. You don’t know if he needs you to steady, but you need to for your own sake of not coming, of not being stuck together for all eternity like this, though you’d love it all the more. Your hands find any bit of his legs, his knees as you toss a look behind at him. Under the blindfold you catch the blush, knowing the sweat dripping down his forehead from your touch and you can already admire how his chest heaves with muscles meant for you to only touch.

You moan, revived by his mere presence to yours as you claw into the meat of his legs, pushing up and arching your back as you barely make it halfway up him. Your core crumbles, landing back into him with a slap that has you both crying out in pleasure. You pick yourself up though, determination singing your nails into him, an uncommented upon pain as you push yourself again and again with the weight of him lodged in your throat still. You almost kick yourself for asking this, for maybe not moving him to the bed or daring to think he could help you with gentleness in this situation. He’s stuck and you are to him, and the tears come quickly, not from regret but form how hard it actually is when getting Chrollo beneath you. He lets you do as you please, but you both know he’s the one in control no matter the pace.

With cold salt on your lips, you sniffle back the ache in your back, the ache burgeoning in your thighs and before Chrollo can even comment you grind against him, move your hand to your clit as you dig your feet into the ground, using every bit of muscle you haven’t in the longest time to feel the pleasure coursing through you. Chrollo likes to give you pleasure, so maybe he’ll approve of your haste, how you rub your clit with that still-damp hand and grind back onto him. Maybe he can feel the pleasure you give yourself as you squeeze against him, swirl your hips and heave a moan, abysmal in the depths of your desire, your pleasure being fulfilled as your hand shakes form how tightly you’re finding the coil in your clit.

Chrollo has to understand as his own self pulses, twitches inside of you whilst you squeeze him for all his life, hot as if in a sauna, steamed together as you make everything a combined by the hips, your breathy light and heaving whilst his groans grow in detriment. You look back at just the right time, his Adam’s Apple bobbing the moment you feel your toes curl, lips molding into pained pleasure when, finally, you cum for the first time of the night, and hard. So much so you barely notice when Chrollo cums with you from how wet and soppy you are, how deep the pleasure runs and aches through your thighs, sobbing back the pleasure with a lean against his chest.

You’re not even the least bit surprised when his arms encircle your waist, a little giggle leaving you before you hand tugs at his blindfold, the other holding onto his hands on you. “Baby.” You hum in return, hot against him with pleasure. “Wake up.” Your eyes follow into the fog of your dream to the reality of lying against your side in Chrollo’s bed. He’s there not completely clothed but enough for the chill of spring in this hotel. “Wha…” Your lips fail you when he swipes the drool from your lip, ignoring how it twitches to his lips as he offers the cool liquid to your lips.

“You need fluids, c’mon.” You start drinking with his help, then gain your arms from the bed as he massages you thigh absentmindedly, still lingering near the cup as you gulp loudly as if reverted to a that baby seal. “Good girl,” he offers after you pull the cup away from your lips. You’re still drenched in the dream, blearily looking around with wet lips you don't care to clean, instead, industriously focused on the retained exhaustion between your thighs. “Did… What about the bet?”

He hums a chuckle, letting his fingers wipe off the leftover water on your lips. "Hisoka told me.” Your face falls, actually shocked. “I… lost?” “The bet? Babe, no one’s allergic to water.” At your irritated face, he moves to take the glass, lips to your face. “I am when given by you.” He kisses your cheek, as if taking away your tired irritation with the drained glass. All for you. “I didn’t go too hard, did I?” The glass sits on the bedside table, a thud barely acknowledged as he leans into you, fingers still finding a way to massage the tension he gave you of pleasure. Your face scrunches playfully. “No, you’re just a dick.” He shrugs, too nonchalant. “I do have a pretty big one.” Your eyes widen. “Chrollo!” He laughs in turn.

a/n; there were inspirations for this... ill find them soon

[underrateperiodbites]

hunger and taste + Chrollo/reader

There’s a man on your land. It’s not yours, you shouldn’t call it that, but there’s a man you do not know, here, with you, leaning against a wall as you tug down sheets your father set out to dry last night. It’s midday; you’re a shut-in. That’s not the problem is, your father spoiling you isn’t either, the problem is that there’s a man you do not know of, on the land that isn’t yours, but knows you. Gaia knows you. This man is not the Goddess of the Land. So, you stall, not like a deer caught between headlights, but having heard human feet crunch- no, boots that humans wear with their rapacious, greedy needs, seeking you with a shotgun, wanting to shoot a deer and use up its life. You are content wasting away; your father is content with it, and you are more than content listening to his laments only for this share of the life you want to live. Solitude: you want solitude, and you do not have it here. You have anxiety on two long legs wearing a suit. Where is your father?

As if hearing the sheets, not rustle, but stop rustling, he looks back over to you, on another’s building peering into yours. You drop the sheet and run into the house, locking the door. Foolish? Absolutely. Childish? Only the youngest age of a toddler. But are you alone now? Yes, even with your heart thundering like a stampede’s ground, even with the eyes you can still feel on you, calculated, pedantic, experienced, and grey-browned eyes. He’s… hot.

And besides that, he’s also outside where you have left the laundry you promised your father you’d take in long before midday, but you wanted to sleep in and you are your father’s only child, only living relative. He understands you want to waste away, to lie in depression and have no one pick you up. He understands you think too much for your own liking and how you will find your way once he dies, no matter if he thinks so or not. He’s young though; and so are you, so you do not worry about anything but the laundry. And that hot man outside. Waving a hand in front of your hot face, heated like from the steam of drained water, you tug at your dress’s v, the soft and stretchy brown cotton not so much aiding in your cool down as making his face reappear, over and over again, from the soft touch of the fabric on your thighs, your thighs against each other, your hands just a bit too shaky as one touches the side of your waist. Yeah, maybe being in your solitude was actually more of a hindrance than you wanted to admit, but you only need to worry about the laundry, not that hot man, or how hot you are.

Dreadfully, there is a knock on the door you just entered, just slammed shut in your haste to keep the thoughts of him away, of you in your just-woken-then-frazzled state. It’s your father, you know it by the knock, but still, you wince at the notion that a, there’s a sheet that needs rewashing, and b, the man has left. Taking a breath, you let your knuckles smooth over the heights of your cheeks, letting your palms fall onto the skirt of your dress and wash away any of the sweat that’s accumulated in your heat of the moment. With your hand finding the doorknob, you open the door, hiding behind it a bit as you weaponize your tongue to make your father ignore the mess you didn’t take care of. Might be able to refuse to as he laments your whining most. Spoiled is an understatement, you are loved, cared for. “Father-” With your brows raised in the middle, a pout already sprouting like the buds you water on the windowsill, you find the man there, head tilting to block the heat of Helios.

Hot blades of mellow shine around him, his face angular but soft, exhausted even with the sun’s brightness, and his head is covered by an old headband seemingly. He stands there, in front of you, and you more than shy behind the door, less petulant as you are abashed by knowing another stranger, besides your fellow nosy neighbors, parse your bratty behavior. Blinking once, a flutter of your lashes and a drowning of your tongue in the forgotten words to your father, he hums, “Is this your residence?” Your bottle lip wobbles for words, eyes dragging down to the ground as you shake your head. “No?” You swallow, shutting your eyes and calmly relaying to the stranger, cheeks heating as the water boils again. Makes to spill and burn you: your thoughts, you mean. “No, my father is the owner of this house.” He weighs his head again, entertained almost, no, pedantic. He knows what he’s doing; you hate being easy to read. “But you do reside in it now.” You nod again, still unable to keep much eye contact while he makes sure to keep his flittering eyes on yours. “Yes; he is out on a job.”

He hums. “A hunter, right?” Your eyes dart up to his; he knows more than just your countenance. “Why do you ask?” He lets his face be kind, lets his face maneuver from his cheeky facade to a soft understanding. “I am an old friend of his. I was wondering if I could come in while I wait for him.” You need to do the laundry, pick it up, but your home is tiny, your home is piquant, so you let him in. You let him in because you are just fucking horny, and you aren’t a hunter, you aren’t your father, you have desires in solitude, desires solitude can’t reach. With a creak of the wooden floorboards from his entrance, you shut the door behind him, letting your hands find the cold handle and singe you in headily. You turn on your heels as he stands there, letting your hand gesture to the table a bit away. “Please, sit and I’ll give you water. It’s fresh from the springs.” He sighs in thanks, pulling out a chair that scrapes against the old boards; you crave for more from here, crave for something good that he doesn’t feel ashamed in being in. No, that you don’t. You like your solitude, but Gods would you like someone else to like it too.

As the water decants into the thin, translucent glass, you take it with both hands to the man sitting down, natural in the space you refer to as your own, as your father leaves and returns each time with you stayed curled with your books and fantasies of nothing more than monotony. You wish for nothing more than the man before you. Offering it to him, he takes it, letting his fingers, long and thick, boned and muscled, tickle against your own stretched around the glass. You take a breath as nominal as you can, your touch’s taste of skin that’s not of you, that’s a part of this humanity of the globe. You know he knows your countenance is as thin as the glass, is as see through as it, as fluid as the water in its state. So, you let your hands shakily brush against the comfortable cloth you wear. He takes form it, letting it graze his full lips and make his throat swell with the liquid, that bob of his bone, his tongue darting to his bottom lip. He doesn’t stay sitting for long, and you look to where the glass lands, on the edge of the table, right teetering between safety and normality. “You seem a bit preoccupied in your mind.” You swallow. “In my mind?” He weighs his head. “Don’t you have a guest n your… lands. Shouldn’t your attention be on me?” You look up to his eyes again, a bit darker, his countenance maybe, nominally, a bit as yours, a bit easy to read as yours. With books, you think he’s easy to read.

Your lips part, and you swear your heart jumps to your tongue. “Deviate.” He leans into your presence. Quirking a brow, he confirms your thoughts of him being of an easy read. The easiest. “I am?” He’s indulgently, haughtily pedantic. “Then why are you looking at my lips-” And you kiss him for it. Say fuck him with your lips on his, your tongue tasting what humanity you can find in the memories of his words in his mouth, mixing with your own. Knowledge isp assed between you two this way, you swear, with his hands more so, with your hands finding his shoulders and pulling him into you, down into your lips with his still wettened with water, that liquid clear and calming and freeing as you rink from his fountain of memories. You feel his hands slide against your sides, your dress adjusting to him just as you always will, as you’ve always dreamed of, reached down between your thighs and never were able to quite find it. He does, letting you wrap around him, your body pushing into him as he lets you, lets you move into his being like you do your solitude, shocked into the house with a thumping heart, a heart between your lips that smooth against his own, one hand moving to cup your cheek, to let his fingers groove against the skin and glide you into him when walking. His legs between your own, his back turning as his hand slips up the dip of yours. He gently touches you, but rapaciously, unlike boots in their bloodthirst, but quick fingers like yours in their deep desire for satisfaction.

It’s gentle even as your rump comes in contact with the table, face moving against his, but his hands quick to raise you onto the table, letting them dig into the clothed flesh just so he can guide you against his front, his groin with a sigh of a groan, his lips plumped, bruised with yours and all the saliva of words never said, of actions threading through the words. He doesn’t part, rather choosing to shove his head into yours, bump your face away so he can trail wetly down your being, first swiping beside your cheek to your jaw then licking and letting his teeth graze against your neck, his hair tickling you as you move to finger his thick strands, breathing out need as he finds the sensitive divot of your neck. Your fingers tug at the knot of his headband, whining when it takes more than a moment to be removed, cascade down to the floor. You greedily pull at his roots, letting your eyes act as sponges to his beautiful fluid looks. He shows desire in his rouged cheeks, in his wettened and bitten lips and his panting breathes.

You tug at his suit’s jacket, his being getting closer only after removing it, letting you fumble with his top buttons whilst he tangles with the bottom ones, headily meeting yours in the middle and pushing them aside as he leans back to tug off his shirt. Free and bare and not even a bit chilled with the hot sun-drenched atmosphere, he leans into you, moving his hands back to your bottom, only to tug your dress up from the length it provides, the coverage, before the thick straps on your shoulder are gone, and you are left in your loose cotton panties. He lets his breath hitch when met with the sight between your legs, still clothed but Heaven-high because he is a man of Gods; he’s driven between your legs be a Gods-given desire, purpose, by a need as he tugs them apart and up, nominally ignoring the catch of shock in your voice. He moves too fast, but with so much fervency, you do not bid him too much mind. You feel his breath one the drenched cloth, and you will never care.

He looks up at you, his body hunched, maybe awkwardly uncomfortable, but he’s uncaring as he moves down your body, laid on the sturdy wooden table you eat on, and he devours you first with his eyes, almost pleading, not so much servile as they are devoted. He breathes, intoxicated, suffocated of air even if your legs are loose in his hold, his hold tight on you like the control of your hands on a book. “Forgive me for I will die without at least one taste of you.” Your hand, shaky and unfamiliar for so long with this desire, unless on pages to your shaken eyes of information, you thread a few fingers in the loose strands of his hair. “You’re forgiven, my deviate.” He eats you on the table you eat, this man is in your land, diving into it as you garden to your plants, and you can imagine more of this, of this desire. If he were to rest under you by the windowsill and bathe between your thighs, a leg perched on the kitchen counter whilst he grips and tugs at your flesh. Or here, now, pages to prints of his grip, his fingers tugging the cotton aside for your pussy. His fingers dig into your thigh, his shoulder shoving your other. Nothing is getting between him and the meal before him, his breath fanning once, shaky, before he dives into you as a man starved.

It’s an art when it’s him, it’s a passion, it’s a destiny as he licks at you, slow at first, one stripe, one flick, one moan, groan against you and you swear a tear shed from his eyes as he whines for more of you, laments as you’ve never heard, know to respond to before. Your hand loses his strand quickly, threading through his hair before it becomes too much to even hold, to even focus on his now-rejuvenated face, brows furrowed in focus as if he were on a mission like he should be known for, and his tongue is as dexterous as his hands with your skin, digging into them because this is his mission, sloppy and tantalizing. His tongue is wet, hot, parting through you and taking all of his fill, piling every bit of his saliva into you, moving his hand up to shove your thigh away, to let his fingers graze against your mons pubis, to graze and pat against your sensitive, soft nub. Your chest heaves, your stomach rolling as you arch back, fall against the table. You can feel the split of his smirk but pay no mind for the damage he does to you for his pleasure, damage necessary like burning grass for more to grow. You will do more than grow here, you will burgeon into the nubs of flowers on the windowsill.

You open your eyes to see them and note one’s in full bloom like you are about to be. Auspicious. Your eyes shut again, tight as something slippery slides deep into you, stretching you and letting your squeeze down on the deft muscle of pink and heat, making you hotter and hotter by the second, even his prints, calloused and matched with the Earth’s design of nature, heat you until your core is the Earth’s temperature. You feel it build, feel the softness collide with an unrelenting force of nature, sweat and slick dripping from you as you tense, look over to him as he continues, letting the water fall from you, ebb in sweet tufts down his messy lips, his throat bobbing yet again in that attractive, necessity of this man unrelentingly book-bound.

As you look to his eyes, it’s as if his starving has been satiated, but he is greedy, he is filling his cheeks so much that he refuses to relent, and it’s then that you realize the glass to his eyes, the whine of a door pried from him as you try to push at his being, try to not feel the twitches in your being, the heat pooling in your core, an onslaught from the one before. It’s too much- too much. But he doesn’t hear you, he doesn’t find you entertaining, as necessary as your pussy, his tongue diving in yet against and playing with you like a meal he will never end. He finds purpose in it, and you give note to his own hand between his legs, grinding down on the bulge as he gets his fill. It’s hot, and you beg, you plead, you whine as you do so spoiled and so kempt to solitude of your own, finding another to enjoy it with you, desire it like you’ve always wanted, to let himself inside of you. But he tugs, he pulls, he pushes, he pressed as much as he can into you, ignoring his need between his legs when you fuss, you move, you twitch, you lift yourself away from him. He tugs you, a jolt to the table subsequently, to his mouth, a greedy lick to your clit, pulsing and twitching and growing in sensitivity as he pulls yet another orgasm for you, though this time wetter, this time as Earth-quaking as you feel, wracked with pleasure, and wresting with the desire to breathe but the lust to continue.

He stops gently, kisses up your body, a bit sweaty and all the messy, and he as this smile on his face, pleased not only with his self, but pleased with the taste of you. Drunk. He is drunk on you. Deviate is not for him; a fairy tale is. Kissing one cheek, he breathes, “You are the sweetest dessert I crave all day. The only craving, and I wish to do it again, if I can.” He kisses your other and you let your led-boned hands find his biceps, his hands massaging your hips. You moan out a promise, “After you cum in me.” His brows furrow and he groan intensely, letting his head find your neck as he whines, “Fuck, you make me insane.” You huff, finding a little energy return to you from his desire, his holy desire. “This can be your treatment, then.” He huffs, pulling away only as much as he needs to undo his pants the upmost necessary amount. “Next time, definitely.”

You giggle, light and fluffy like the sweet you need to bake, letting it wrack through you just as your cum did, only this one energizes you as you tug him back to you by his bicep. “Fuck me as you ate me.” He breathes a breath of desire again, one that wracks through him as he slips into you, and you feel it twitch, feel it split you open like his tongue did, only thicker, only it feels like a puzzle piece in the center, a picture-perfect sensation wracking through you and him. You can feel his lust strangle him, his head now on your collarbone, and you can feel the dig of his mark on your slick skin, your toes curling as you wrap them as much as you can around him. He lets you, digs himself into you with so much control, so much softness that you think you’ll melt before he can even cum.

Your back arches, nudity against nudity, nipples and skin of sweat, albeit your skin is softer, slacker with fulfilled tension than his with tense fulfillment. It’s a nice contrast though, makes your hands grasp at every morsel of his muscles, at the flex of his back, letting your nails graze against him, make him shiver, to know this man you have not seen has come into you with a request you can fulfill, will cum into you with a request you both share, a desire you both carve with your teeth. You can feel every ridge od him, the fulfillment that suffocates your throat as he bumps his hot, sticky tip agaisnt your spot, your gummy spot that kisses his as his words kiss your lips. “Feel good?” You moan your approbation and kiss him. He moves, he fucks- he fucks you sharply, tugging his dick out of you and then slowly letting it slide in, bumping against your spot, and then the tension builds until the band snaps, his hips snap against yours and he mutters against your lips praises you’ve missed, mutters with sweat beading his thick hairline.

You feel your body shake with his thrusts, with his desire as he humps, digs into your flesh, his hands on your hips, then moving to grip at your waist, the outside of your thigh, his words finding your ears as he pushes deeper and deeper becomes more erratic and builds you up, making sure you cum onto him, from him. It’s possession that grasps him here, that haughtiness that will never leave with tease. He ebbs with you, flows with you, finds every bit of you in every bite of him, so when the table shakes, it’s because he loves you, because this isn’t a man you didn’t know, it’s a man you love, and loving is knowing. And he knows to touch you gently, to swipe his thumb between your bodies and let your back arch off of the table, shock coursing through you as you find your flowers again, his tongue poked with his teeth in determination. He swirls it, raises himself to thrust into you at an angle. All you feel is fullness, all you feel is sharp calculation, experience with your body, pedantic haughtiness. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he sings it in his touches as he lets the table rock and the water spill when you cum, when he spills into you, when he wants to feast on you yet again because he’s deep in you, deep in you and deep on you, hugging you up into him with his strength and your pliancy. You feel the love fill you up and spread deep inside of you, make you extra warm and extra sweaty because you’re too spoiled for chores, you just want your brain numb from him, not the world.

When you take a breath, head resting on his shoulder, you note his smell of laundry, his thumb rubbing circles on your lower back and pressing you against him. He’s twitching a bit, and he’s yet to calm down his rager, but it’s never just on round with you two, you both know each other too much for that. You are each other’s missing puzzle pieces in one another’s puzzle. The only pieces that matter You swallow; throat parched from his own lips. “You know,” you barb, “these fantasies you flesh out of me are very delicious after your long missions.” He hums, and you pull away to whine as he bites right back, “Better than the books you read?” “Chrollo!” He squeezes your sides as you pull back, keeping his grip on you steady to make sure you’re okay; to selfishly take more of you like you like him to.

You look into his eyes, rejuvenated. “When’s your next mission, again?” He weighs his head, still flitting his eyes between yours. “Not for a long time.” You smile, leaning up to him as you mutter, “Good, because I know of something you can do with your time.” You can feel his grip find your thigh, grip the flesh like before only with more fervor, now sealed with a promise of eating more of his fill. “Oh, yeah?” He leans against your lips with the question, his brow arching and eyes lively. You smile against, mere moments from his lips, massaging his shoulders as you elucidate, “Yeah, the sheets outside. My father’s coming and he’s expecting the guest bed, now make haste, Loverboy~” He huffs a chuckle. Pulling away with his eyes still on yours, not your lips, he comments, “Deviate. Tease.” There’s a man that parts from the land, but not for long. Never long for you.