I absolutely love your Matrimony fic! It's so haunting and chill-inducing, and so well-written! That scene in the bridal shop... I could clearly picture the dress they chose for the wedding
Thank you so much!!! <3333 is2g asks like this make my whole lifeeeeee
I know she reeeeeeeally needs an update but I wanna get this next chap right⌠it will either be riveting or total cringe depending on how I do đ
Anyone else ever just thinking about the fact that gonâs challenge in trick tower was a candle that burned too brightly and quickly and he solved the puzzle by putting out his enemyâs even though he knew his would go out shortly thereafter, but it didnât matter, because he would win. And if he won, it would help his friends. And it didnât matter that he was getting hurt/burned during the process... because he would win. and then killua compares gon to light and gon is his light but gon is so talented and burns so brightly but perhaps too brightly like his candle in trick tower because he throws it all away to put out the light/life of his enemy despite knowing he will get hurt and his light will go out in the process because all that matters is that he wins, for his people, and to prove that he can to himself, because then it means something and he means something and heâs worth something
I would also like to point out that the candle imagery is SO present in episode 131
as gon makes his contract each candle goes out one by one to symbolize that the light and purity that he once had has gone out in order to take out his opponent only hurting himself in the process
i think someone else already pointed this out but gon's hair post transformation looks like smoke from a blown out candle wick
Just had a dream that I was playing genshin and raidenâs skill was called âautism testâ where she would throw one of those handguards like a boomerang and see if them samurai guys would chase after it đđđ
Please tell me u liked it, or at least it was acceptable- đ
okay so what happened was that I read it and wrote like 500words of filthy and horny comments in my reblog, but I accidentally selected all of it out and deleted it, and then I got so mad that I closed Tumblr and haven't opened it ever since âşÂ
@sukunasfavoritehole hopefully this is enough to tide you over until my ao3 finally gets an update hehe
Word count: ~7.3k
------
Youâre naĂŻve enough to believe Chrolloâs asleep. He loves that about you.
Warnings: NOT SFW, non -con thigh fucking, somnophilia, drugging, imagined not sfw scenarios etc
a/n: SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG IT WAS 3/4 FINISHED THEN I FORGOT ABOUT IT my sincerest apologies.
Also this is my first time writing smut so please go easy on me đĽ
Chrollo is very disappointed in you.
You let him kiss your cheek this morning following a deep sleep. You didnât reciprocate, though he continues to see your progress and knows that an ever-hopeful yet can be added to the end of that statement. To some extent, the allowance of such an act could be chalked up to his acceptance of you, flaws and all, willing to appreciate the neutrality of it as opposed to ardent rejection. In a matter of weeks, youâll be returning the gesture. And in a matter of months, youâll be doing it gladly. Warmth, or perhaps weariness, has slowly but surely seeped its way into your actions recently, your shaky hands finding a place in his, fingers interlaced.
Is that to say he was under the impression that youâd completely given yourself to him? Absolutely not. Thereâs fear in your smiles, as much as they may have metamorphosed from obviously and mockingly forced to meek and endearing. Chrollo has shown you all that you know he can do. This has been enough to keep you relatively restrained over the months. If he showed you all that he knows he can do, youâd most likely curl up into a ball and sob until you dried out. Thatâs not necessary, though. Itâll never be.
Like many things, it wasnât linear. It was a path that went upwards and downwards and forwards and backwards and in cycles, cycles that would always leave you curled up, sobbing in his arms, grasping onto him for whatever comfort it would give. But progress is progress, right?
Ignorantly, he began to believe the crumbs of affection, of acceptance, of acquiescence. Stupidly, he thought you were making progress. Itâs been a significant amount of time since he was last this naĂŻve. If he wasnât so disgruntled by your transgression, heâd most likely bask in the nostalgic feeling. But he canât, for the time being, because youâre trying to do something very rash.
As unfortunate as it is, youâre trying to leave him.
Itâs audacious, having thought that the monumental power difference between you two had been thoroughly demonstrated on multiple occasions, a well established and silently acknowledged fact of your travels with him.
Itâs irritating, although regarded with the same irritation as one would have with a pet goldfish trying to jump out of its tank. You silly thing, why do you want to abandon the place in which you are safe?
It doesnât particularly make sense, though. Heâs checked his cards - nothing suspicious has been bought in his name. No travel tickets or prepaid car hire. Heâs even checked the jewellery collection - maybe youâd snatched up a nice necklace or bracelet or pair of diamond earrings to pawn off. But again, nothing. No suspicious bags have been packed. No loose tiles or floorboards or ceiling panels to hide supplies in. Your clothes are all neatly folded and hung in your wardrobe.Â
Youâve got something up your sleeve- something desperate and jittery and not fully thought out. Something that relies on luck and prayers far more than precision and blow-by-blow planning. He never particularly took you for a daredevil, but to see you get pushed to such a limit, to be forced against your own timid nature, is beyond satisfying. If he could pluck it out of you and analyse it under a microscope, heâd be elated. Or perhaps even, he supposes to himself, heâd be so fulfilled that he might abandon the current pathway of his life, aimless and bloody and cyclical, finally so consumed with his obsession over you that nothing else is valued in the slightest.Â
He canât say he didnât expect an ulterior motive for your apparent benevolence, at least initially, but for it to be kept up for this long? The stares felt almost too natural. The gradual lessening of your flinches when he placed a hand on your shoulder, the way your gaze would be drawn to him rather than away, even if only to flick away immediately - the subtleties were downright impressive. To be able to track everything simultaneously, to be able to remember to exhibit so many behaviours at onceâŚPerhaps he should be taking acting lessons from you.
Chrollo had watched you, humming a pop tune this morning, cheekily shaking your hips from side to side as you fried some eggs, over easy, the notes sometimes interrupted with a sharp inhale between your teeth when the oil spat just a bit too high and would burn you ever-so-slightly. A domestic sight.
Youâd let him give you another kiss on the cheek before he shrugged his coat on, giving you one last lingering glance before heâd walked out the door and into the hallway of the apartment, locking it with warm Nen made of comfort rather than capture. He gave you another cheek kiss (despite his ever-growing urge to dip lower) when he got home to the smell of spices and vegetables and the bubbling sound of a low simmer. You donât fight them anymore, and barely even recoil now, a result of steady but slight crossing of boundaries - his record was eleven times in one day (at least, his record for when you were conscious) when he was feeling particularly affectionate, although youâd definitely soured up by the end.
TheâŚfantasies heâd had of domesticityâŚthey were just that, werenât they? Fantasies, mere ideas that were appealing enough to fully flesh out in his mind. Whatever actions youâve taken, whether it be pecks to the cheek or folding his shirts, staining them with the scent of you, theyâve all been a means to an end. That certainly wasnât part of the fantasy.Â
Youâve been buttering him up like the thick slices of white bread next to his bowl. What a betrayal.
Tonightâs stew is spicy and chunky, served courteously by you. His palate is experienced from an adulthood of travel, wealth, and nights spent with gullible women who couldnât tell the difference between a Prince Charming and a swindler. Truly, there is little he hasnât at least tried. Including this.
So, if thereâs no other signs of you wanting to leave the comfort of the apartment and the familiarity of his presence, then what couldâve possibly cued him into your motives?
Itâs something tenuous, something that couldâve gone unnoticed to anyone else. Itâs something subtle, buried under layers of rosemary and thyme and paprika. But diphenhydramine is such an acquired taste. And itâs one thatâs made the past few weeks and months crumble to dust.
Oh, you sweet thing.
Acting as oblivious as ever, he spoons chunks of zucchini and carrot onto the bread, taking large bites, chewing and swallowing with purpose, the taste of the sedative lingering. He considers smacking his lips for good measure, to play around with you a bit, but eventually decides against it. Thatâll come later.
You sit across from him, silence between you two. Normally, heâd fill it with tales from his busy day - but youâve been so good lately, that heâs begun to refrain from doing that. Nowadays, he asks you what youâve been up to, every painstaking detail from your dull days without him. But thatâs only if youâve been good, or at least if heâs under the impression that youâve been good. As it turns out, you havenât been good, you arenât being compliant, and now he simply waits.
You stare into your bowl of stew, but he can tell youâre watching him in your periphery. Itâs so very fascinating, the way you absorb each mouthful he takes, washed down with frequent sips of water (thereâs no other substances in that, obviously). He takes another swill of the liquid, tilting his head slightly back, and in the corner of his eye, he can see the way you observe his Adam's apple bobbing with each gulp. Does it appease you, the sight? Does it intrigue you? Does it make you, even for a moment, reconsider what youâre about to do?
Chrollo pauses for a moment, before placing the half-empty glass back onto its coaster. He knows the smirk that comes onto his face is nothing short of wicked, but he truly canât help himself.Â
âAre you not hungry, my love? Youâve barely touched your food.â
Barely is an understatement. You havenât touched it at all, in fact. Stupid, really. He knows that you know that heâs observant - but that information is irrelevant in this situation, considering it doesnât take an keen eye to figure out your pattern of stirring your spoon around, picking up some carrot - even blowing on it for good measure - and nodding along with what few words he spoke initially, before giving an mhm! of agreement and letting it drop back into the bowl. You spend extensive amounts of time apparently fishing for just the right piece of zucchini, sorting through copious amounts of lentils (and seemingly taking the time to individually count them all), dragging chunks up the side of your bowl only to push them back down into the fray of assorted vegetables.
Thereâs almost a sort of jump in response to the words, ringing clear and well projected. But itâs contained above the shoulders - your head snaps to look at him, your eyes widening momentarily, staring into his own, trapped.
He can feel the shaky breath you take to steady yourself from over here, air stagnant and mouth dry.
âNo,â you reply, ânot particularly.â
He cocks an eyebrow at that, mouthing an oh before returning to his meal. It doesnât matter whether you take the bait or not, his suspicions have long since been confirmed. Confirmed, in the sternest sense of the word, syllables enunciated with force, the knowledge of your true intentions well recognised. Whether that displays on his face or within his interactions with you is inconsequential to the known ending of your silly stunt.
The sound of you chewing is enough to bring his attention back out of the bowl. Thatâs not fake.
So youâre eating it too? Itâs certainly a bold move, but one he wouldnât dare put past you anymore. You were always a clever one, one to be placed a mere few tiers below his own intellect.
He hasnât caught you swapping the bowl out for a fresh one. Maybe youâve mastered the art so quickly that even he canât notice?
No, not likely. Not in just a few months. Thatâd be impossible.
Your bites of pumpkin are preceded with the slightest hesitation, a quick breath to presumably psych yourself up to the self-sabotage. He hates to see you so scared when youâre properly sharing a meal with him like this, deciding to return to normalcy as a reward for your cooperation.
âTell me, darling, what did you get up to today?â
Your eyes flick to his, momentarily ensnared in the grey, before looking up at the ceiling to aid in the process of giving a verbal description of what you read, how you cleaned, how you entertained yourself with rearranging your meagre book collection (not his, that would be asking for trouble). The response is practically identical to every other time heâs asked the question, plain and unindulgent. Itâs boring, he thinks, even with the unacknowledged omission of the hours you spend staring at the walls and pacing around the living area. Heâs tempted to pry into how you decided on tonightâs dish, but decides against it. Not for lenience or mercy, but rather amusement. To give away what he knows now would simply be a waste of a situation youâll never attempt to put yourself in again.
If you knew what Chrollo knew, would you still bother to indulge him?
You stare at him for a moment, allowing him to draw things out, before nodding at the I see he gives in response. He gives a forward nod to your bowl, giving you gracious permission to eat again after starving you for the length of your interrogation, merciful as ever. Your fear is better contained behind a split secondâs confusion before you register the nonverbal instruction, picking up your spoon once more and eating with more confidence this time, taking exaggerated bites of zucchini that barely make it past your teeth, chewed excessively into grey paste before being swallowed. Maybe you reason that if you chew enough, you can break the drug down into something that wonât knock you out. A cute thought.
The spices stain your lips an enticing red, the chilli making them plump up so deliciously. If he kissed them, would they burn him? Would the capsaicin leave his lips tingling, a reminder of your soft touch?
He likes to think heâll know the answer soon.
Chrollo feigns sleepiness, furrowing his brows in mock confusion as he tells you that he canât quite keep his eyes open - perhaps he overdid it at work today.Â
Yes, work, as he loves to call it, like thereâs the possibility of him spending his time away from you at a desk, punching in numbers on a computer, monotonous and repetitive and damn, couldnât things just switch up for a day? Work, as in a beer-bellied husband whose idea of experimental fashion is changing which tie he wears with the same white button-up and black dress pants each day. Work, as in an assembly line employee who wakes up at three oâclock to be at the factory by four, ready and willing to make whatever sacrifices necessary to support his loved ones. Work, as in something at least vaguely respectable.
Work, as in literally anything other than stealing and slaughtering and scourging.
Chrollo relishes in the way your shoulders relax a little. Itâs almost too adorable. Chrollo also relishes in the way they tense up again when he adds how itâs suspicious really. I donât believe Iâve ever felt a tiredness such as this.
Thereâs an underlying anxiety in your pretty, pluckable, ever-so-slightly bloodshot eyes. Where others would be concerned for your health, he finds endearment, you precious thing. After admiring them silently for a moment, he announces that heâll be off to bed now, darling. Remember to be there for me when I wake.
He leaves you alone in the kitchen to stew in your unease.
____________
Now heâs lying in bed, on the side closest to the door, limp as anything. It doesnât matter whether his facade convinces you or not, heâll have you in his arms by morning. The blinds arenât fully down, leaving a pleasant blue hue that gives him a good visual of most of the room. Your side of the bed is still firmly tucked in from when he made it this morning, after running his hands up and down your arms until youâd given a great shudder and shoved him away - a pitiful attempt that heâd impishly gone along with.Â
Anticipation tickles his nose and prods at his heart. Childishly, he wants you to get over with it already, to sprint in, swinging a knife wildly, or cue him to start the chase with a slam of the front door so violent that the hinges threaten to crack. Itâs unfortunate how your faux compliance conditioned him to be unable to accept a halt, or even slowing, of progress.
Ah, some solace - he can hear your footsteps come up to the door, attempting, albeit poorly, to be quiet. Or maybe they are quiet, to the average man, but someone well-versed in the art of stealth can practically see the way you tiptoe closer. The faint sounds paint a detailed visualisation of your movements - the balls of your feet lifting from the ground, the flexing of your toes, the dorsiflexion at your ankles, the soft thud of your heels hitting the ground.
The bedroom door creaks open, a thin streak of light hitting his eyelids, making him see an ever-so-slight orange behind them. He might be able to visualise your walk accurately, but the same cannot be said for your face. Are you fearful, lips downturned and eyes wide? Are you determined yet cautious, eyes narrowed and lips pressed into a thin line? Are you smug? Condescending? Grinning from ear-to-ear, excited to finally have what you believe to be freedom?
Youâre not, he discerns.
Instead, you huff a sigh, a sweet note that makes his heart jump, a small flutter that could only be instigated by you. Itâs a sigh of relief. The door is shut. He expects another door to be slammed, too - the front door, hinges quaking as you sprint to the stairs as far as you can, too scared to wait for the elevator (and for your sake, he hopes youâve brought a pair of running shoes - youâre on the 35th floor, after all). But that doesnât happen.
Instead, he can hear the clanking of bowls and dishes, the smooth schwip as you push breadcrumbs off the chopping board into the bin with the back of the serrated-edge knife, and how you place said knife into the block without taking another one out.
So youâve decided against stabbing him tonight? How agreeable.
In fact there seems to be no malice in the way youâre stacking the bowls, no scraps of extra force in how you shut the fridge. Whilst the sounds of your cleanup are nothing short of a ruckus to his alert ears, thereâs an intentional tenderness he can hear. A conscious effort to be as quiet as possible with somebody sleeping peacefully in the next room.
Itâs a gesture heâll interpret in the best way he can. Even if he knows heâs deluding himself that you want to be quiet for his own peace rather than so you can escape, heâll be sure to bring up the former as reasoning for your actions over the next few days, regardless of how youâll spit venom at him, hissing that he couldnât be more wrong.
Next is a movement he didnât expect in the slightest.
You come back to the bedroom, with a pile of fabric in your hands - clothes, maybe? He thought youâd be off and away as soon as possible, or you wouldnât get close to him again at the very least, standing patiently by the door until whatever youâre waiting for had occurred.Â
The quiet-ish footsteps make their way past him this time, and straight into the ensuite.
Thereâs the soft sound of clothes falling, and then the tap is turned on.
YouâreâŚshowering before you leave?
You really are a good teacher of the quirks of humanity. Logical as ever, heâd most certainly take no time for hygiene practices if it reduced his chances of being able to go on a small, liberating adventure. But perhaps thatâs part of the plan? Do you not want to have a speck of dirt on you so you donât smell bad? Will you hide out at a fancy gala, and have to be as fresh as possible? Are you trying to wash off Nen, perhaps?Â
No, that would never work, and heâs certain you know this too. Still, the idea of a little hopeless fire in you, taking a precaution you know is futile, makes his lips twitch.
So many questions, few of them answerable at present. His mind is stimulated so wondrously, for once not finding boredom in the predictability of human behaviour. Heâs truly chosen well.Â
And then thereâs something else, rising above the sound of the rushing water, above the drain gurgling it down, greedily gulping it away.
Youâre humming.
Itâs relatively random, most likely improvised, and slightly off-tune, but endearing all the same. He can taste the notes, sweet and soothing, running down his throat smoothly and pooling warmth in his belly.Â
You heave a sigh, and the tune changes. And then he recognises it.
Itâs something he heard as a boy, back in Meteor City. Heâd hear it at night, walking back to whatever semblance of a refuge he had with Franklin and Shalnark, past the hamlets of the younger children. Letting himself get lost in it, he can feel himself crawling to shelter on scraped knees, walking on calloused heels, eating stale bread, all accompanied by the faint smell of garbage, a smell that years of exposure had waned to a neutral accompaniment of the setting, rather than an inconvenience or hazard.
Despite the unhygienic nature of it all, itâs sweet. Itâs these memories - memories of grime and rot and infection - that are the most pure. The most uncorrupted. Theyâre full of innocence and hope - just like you.
These qualities make you think youâll leave him.
Upon remembering this, heâs tempted to barge in and ruin your peace, eager to hear your inevitable yelp and nervous laugh as he quizzes you about tonightâs events. But he doesnât. Your lullaby is too enjoyable, the tune far too agreeable to stomp out yet. Resisting sin by committing another, he decides he doesnât want to kill this mockingbird, if only to selfishly continue to hear it sing.
Few moments have come like this since you came to be with him. Theyâre all short-lived in comparison to the cold life heâs had, a firecracker popping on his tongue, fleetingly filling his mouth with syrupy sweetness before quickly dying off, barely an aftertaste to be savoured. Heâs scratched them all down in an old leather journal with a quill and ink, lest he forgets what it feels like, or how to get that feeling again, but thankfully theyâre scratched even deeper into his psyche.Â
Youâd been agreeable enough for a reward of a dinner somewhere several stories up, city lights shining behind you, framing your hair beautifully. You were reluctant at first, turning your nose up at him and the priceless food in front of you, opting for the bottle of red wine instead. It wasnât supposed to be gulped down with such vulgarity like that, but that was part of your charm and by your second glass you were giggling and halfway through your third you looked at him right in the eye, cheeks tinged pink, and you smiled a smile that youâd forget by morning but he wouldnâtâŚ
Heâd returned to the villa after a long day to find the fans blasting, and you slumped over on the couch as credits rolled on the screen in front of you. Heâd flicked the TV off, not before noting the rom-comâs name, and regarded you, with your deep, even breaths and singlet strap falling down. He picked you up and carried you to bed, laying you down on the thin blankets, fixing your strap despite the small voice that called to him to take off the thing entirely. Your head rested on the pillow, your face not scowling for once, and youâd huffed the sweetest of sighsâŚ
Thatâs the kind of moment this is.
Thereâs no thought of what heâll be doing with the troupe tomorrow, or in a week, or what move to make next depending on what you decide to do. Every nook and cranny of his mind, every convolution of his brain is filled with the thought of you. Tonight, itâs warm and viscous, slowing time and cutting both of you off from the rest of the world; the rest of its filth.
In this moment, he can see himself in the shower with you. Heâs across from you, lathering body wash onto his shoulders, letting the foam run down his back. All the while, he keeps his gaze on you, watching how your hands run over your body, soap running along your sternum, between your breasts, along the curve of your hips, your ass, all whilst you hum that tune⌠shit, he canât let himself get hard now. He manages to drag himself out of the daydream, barely, just managing to claw himself to the surface of reality.
Caps are popped open and the lathering of soaps can be heard over the course of your performance, with a finale of the tap being turned off. Thereâs a fumbling of fabrics before you come out, followed by yet another move he doesnât expect.
You walk up to the bed, peel the sheets back, and lie down beside him. You then roll onto your side, facing him. After a few moments, you prop yourself up onto your elbow.
A moment of nothing. Youâre frozen, as is he. Calm before the storm, he prepares himself to catch your wrist and hear you shriek.
You lean over.
And then thereâs a featherlight sensation on his forehead, right in the middle of his tattoo.Â
Had it been a split second later, he wouldâve opened his eyes and turned to face you with a smirk as you screamed. But itâs not a split second later, itâs now, and now youâre kissing him. Thereâs no real benefit for doing such a thing that he can identify right now - perhaps you know heâs awake, and would like to make amends? Surely you know that that wouldnât be enough to satisfy him.
The contact sends an electric zap to every corner of his body, although he manages to not make himself jolt. Months of stifled desire bubble up from his insides, desire thatâs spent so long smothered by rationale of better outcomes and forcing himself to think of his bloodied obstacles and late nights alone in the shower. As often as his lips find their way to your forehead, unfortunately the reverse doesnât occur even half as much.
You pull away, like youâre hesitant about what youâve done, like youâre waiting for him to snap his eyes open and sit up with inhuman speed, ready to pin you down or tie you up or even slap you for tonightâs inconveniences. But that doesnât make sense, because hesitation is supposed to occur before such an intrepid act, not afterward.
After receiving apparent confirmation that youâre not about to be attacked, he can sense your head slowly but surely coming to rest on your pillow. You shouldnât strain your neck like that, someone like you could get hurt over time.
The back of his shirt is peeled up, slowly, delicately, and he has to focus to keep his breathing even.
There you lie, staring at the twelve-legged spider etched into his skin, his number a pale contrast to the black ink, practically jumping out at you.
0.
Itâs your reminder, he supposes, of what he is. Theoretically and legally nonexistent, practically traceless. Zero evidence. Zero remorse. Zero morality.
Zero.
Then-
One, two, three.
Your lips mark a trail up his spine, at the bottom of the abdomen, right in the middle of the zero, on its head. Donât shudder.
Once your deed is done, you pull back. There you lie, staring at the twelve-legged spider etched into his skin, so silent that youâre barely breathing.
The fabric of his nightshirt is guided back down. You roll over and proceed to go limp, succumbing to the drugs intended for him.
What was that?
Youâre not touching him anymore. He can sense the gap between your bodies, one that he would close every night, pulling you close.Â
Was it a relief? To go to sleep without him touching you?
Youâd always stirred up such a fuss about his arms being around you as you slept.Â
It had always been a cause for seething rage on your part, later argument, later whining, and more recently huffing. Even last night, the stiffness before you fell asleep was a cause of his own discomfort. But you didnât have to deal with that tonight, and now youâve fallen asleep in record time. He canât say it was just from the pills.
Did you change your mind on leaving after you felt their effects? It doesnât seem likely that youâd ditch all that to sleep. Rather, that you wanted to sleep on your own terms.
Heâd spent so much time concerned with stopping a potential escape, that he didnât stop to consider that maybe, just maybe, that was never the goal to begin with.
And now Chrollo rolls over to face you, gently tugging on your shoulder to pull you onto your back.
Youâre serene as ever, a sight to behold.Â
He brushes the back of his knuckles along your hair, feeling its texture, so light that his calloused hands - hands that have seen many a bruise and burn and slice and hangnail caught and ripped on the job - almost canât feel it. Your exhales come out more as huffs and sighs now compared to gentle breathing, and he allows a chuckle (one that he finds incredibly endearing, as much as youâve let your disagreement to that sentiment be known, preferring to describe it with wounding words such as âcondescendingâ and âgratingâ) to slip past his lips.Â
It reminds him of you when youâre awake, when you used to try so hard to be difficult for him, when you used to scream and scratch as heâd spoon you, grip ironclad, until all you could do was huff and puff and plead with him (and as much as he enjoyed your attempts to compromise, this was something he simply could not relinquish) and eventually, your cursing would die down, your muscles would go limp, and youâd fall asleep.Â
Sometimes the sun would be up by the time you relented, and your breaths would be the heaviest then. It was amusing, how quickly youâd switch. One second, you were cussing him and his troupe out, the next, you were a paragon of tranquillity, the visage of an angel before him. Heâd pray you love him.
He wants to grab your jaw, hold it firm, and kiss your lips as hard as he can. He wants to tilt his head and take and take and take. He wants to keep taking even if your breathing lightens. He wants to keep taking even if your eyelids flutter open, hazy doe-eyes looking at him with dozy confusion.
Well, heâd never deny his own indulgence.
Leaning in, he presses a kiss to your forehead, just as you did to him.
The touch is as gentle as he can make it, as gentle as he can permit himself to be. Thereâs a split second of what he could almost call fear, an image of accidentally squeezing you too hard and hearing your bones snap flashing in his mind.
He rubs his thumb over where his lips previously were, feeling an unanticipated wetness left behind.
Itâs then that Chrollo realises his mouth is full of his own saliva - whether that was because he was so entranced by your actions that nothing else mattered, body as limp as he could allow, or because, like some sort of filthy animal, he couldnât help but drool at the contact from you, starved for it like a hyena, he doesnât know. He swallows. Thatâs better.
And now for the main event.
He dips down to your lips, and lightly presses his own against them. The feeling is so heavenly, he wonders if you really are an angel. If you were one, would you bless him? Would you destroy him?
If you were to know what heâs doing, would you hate him more?
He pulls away.Â
The journey to get here was sizable. Memories of tonight flash by; your cooking, your conversation, your shower. Your humming.
Ah. The tune he heard as a boy. Innocent, naĂŻve, hopeful.
Well, heâs a man now. And far less innocent.
He lets out a hum of his own, deep and rumbling.
Chrollo moves to straddle you, peeling the duvet and sheets back, layer by layer, unveiling the best present heâs ever gifted himself. Just moving into such an intimate position is enough to send pangs of heat downwards, the hardness he fought against earlier returning with an urgency.
For a moment, he tries to fight against it.
Is it to save himself from your hatred? Is it to save you from what heâs planning?
Itâs neither, he discerns, as the attempt was doomed to fail before it even started. He knows it was never meant to succeed.
His groin only throbs harder, aching for friction. Itâs a spur-of-the-moment thing, the way he presses it against your clothed crotch, rocking back and forth, the slight relief just momentary as his desire only grows.
He regards your unsuspecting face. Stunning.Â
Restraint is draining faster now, but still is present just enough to stop him from grinding any harder despite the urge. But if heâs to stop his movements, heâll need a different kind of stimulation.
He bunches your shirt up, pulling, sliding a hand under your back so he can slip it off your arms and neck.
Now your chest is bare. How ravishing.
His fingers hook under the band of your sleep pants, dragging them off in a clean motion.
And now your legs are bare. How alluring.
He doesnât take your underwear off - that would simply be crude, and he doesnât need to tempt himself anymore. If he got the privilege (or right, considering your standings) of seeing you fully nude, as opposed to having a single layer covering the most tantalising part of you, heâd be oh-so-inclined to do something regrettable. His logic fights to win space within his buzzing thoughts, fingers daring to twitch as his imagination fills in the gaps of what the thin black layer forces to be left to it.
Chrollo parts your thighs for good measure, the maximum he can allow himself at this moment. Itâd be impossible to not let his hands and gaze trail up them, observing how as he roams upwards, your flesh gets softer, warmer; how the flimsy fabric canât hide all of your darker flesh; how your lower lips are pressing against the cloth, visible despite the darknessâŚ
God, youâre so fuckable.
Thereâs a pretentious voice in his head, albeit muffled, that cries protests at the use of such a word to describe you. Youâre something far more than that - beautiful, exemplary, one-in-a-million, ethereal. Surely your mouth would be better put to use having a fulfilling conversation with him, a conversation he can dissect and steer and puppeteer, as opposed to just opening as wide as it can to accommodate his cock, taking it as deep as your gag reflex will allow, barely able to breathe, much less talk. Although, he thinks with a faint, deep groan, twitching in his pants, thatâs certainly a hypothesis Iâll have to test.
With the sight of your breasts, nipples hard and skin goosebumped from the chill of the room, itâs decided. Just because making his cheeks warm and his cock rock hard isnât your most prominent trait, doesnât mean that you arenât absolutely exceptional at it.
Temptation isnât something heâs inclined to resist, brushing a thumb over your nipples before leaning down to take one into his mouth. He swears he can hear your breath hitch as his tongue swirls around, breathing getting slightly lighter. An eager hand reaches for the other one, kneading as gently as he thinks he can.
Soft is the first thing he thinks. Your flesh is so soft, so delicate, so tender. If you were awake, heâd vocalise his compliments - and do so loudly, unrestrained.
Your breathing changes as he points his tongue to lightly flick at your nipple repeatedly. Chances are youâre being taken out of REM sleep, but your consciousness doesnât matter at this stage. And some part of him hopes for it, brief images flashing in his mind of barely-open teary eyes slowly rolling to the back of your head. Theyâre obscene, so utterly immoral to even fantasise about, yet even the split-second thought makes his stomach jump, shivering a bit as he feels himself be almost overcome by them.
He canât help but slightly wet his lips in anticipation, relishing in the knowledge that his instincts are being held back with the slightest thread. If he moves even slightly faster than his rational, calculating, non-carnal mind intends, then itâll snap. Heâll snap.
Almost trembling, he reaches across to his bedside table. The movements are imprecise, but heâs sure this practice will allow him to execute them with much more grace for the inevitable time youâll be awake. Yes, youâll be awake and whining and heâll wet his lips in anticipation and be met with your lingering taste and youâll want him as much as he wants you-Â
He almost falls forward as his own lust threatens to overtake him. Focus on the necessary steps.
Taking a shuddering breath, he leans down to pull open the drawer, to find a bottle hidden at the back, purposefully concealed behind an upright copy of Tess of the DâUrbervilles. Quickly shifting his weight back, he pops the cap open, spreading some of the slick contents onto his fingertips. With his free hand, he pulls down the loose elastic of his pyjama pants, shucking them off, the cold air making him quiver slightly.
Timeâs running out.
The movements are trembling, sloppy as he pours lube onto his length, and then onto your spread thighs. Thereâs a frantic inertia of sorts, a mad momentum - the more he does, the faster he has to go, the anticipation making his stomach swell and dip. Heâs really going to do this. Itâs really going to happen, and itâll be amazing.
There. Done. Everythingâs ready.
Chrollo takes a shaky breath, gripping just above your knees, and squeezes your thighs around his dick.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Your thighs are warm from the duvet, perfectly cosy and wet from the lube for his cock.
Little time is wasted as he begins to thrust his hips, trying not to give himself too much too soon. The steady pace is slowly increased, little by little, a fragile incline so he can drag this out for as long as possible.Â
Can you feel it? Can you feel the warmth radiating from him? Is there some part of your mind thatâs awake, but canât do anything to stop him? Or better yet, is eager to please him?
He strains out a hiss through gritted teeth, peppering kisses over your exposed neck, trying his best not to bite. The pace increases yet again. His eyes are fixated on the mound in your underwear, a more sinister form of curiosity burning within.Â
What does your pussy look like?
He wonât use En, thatâs just cheating. He wonders and ponders and conjures up the most filthy images his mind can muster. A warm, tight hole that clenches for him as he slips in and out, teasing you. A pretty clit for him to tease with his fingers as you whine, for him to suckle on as you choke on sobs of pleasure. Folds for him to run his tongue through as you rut your hips against his face; for him to run his tip along, collecting your slick.
He imagines how his cock would look disappearing inside of your cunt, how your grip would be so suffocating, how your tits would bounce as he fucks it (because shit, theyâre already moving so vigorously now, as he holds his strength, and he canât even begin to picture what theyâd look like if he loses control buried deep inside you, repeatedly stuffing you to the hilt as you cry out). He imagines how youâd tighten around him, babbling something incoherent as you wrap your arms and legs around him, and oh fuck, he canât pull out now. He imagines the tension snapping, giving a rumbling groan as he shoves himself into you as deeply as possible, eyes screwing shut and burying his face in the junction between your neck and shoulder, riding out his high with a few shallow thrusts.
And finally, he imagines how his cum would look leaking out of your pussy, twitching and swollen from a nice good fuck. The afterglow. The squeak youâd give if he fingered it back into you, growling at you to not waste a drop, keep it all inside for me.
The thought makes his hips stutter a little, threatening to slip out of the plushness between your thighs. Once he regains his rhythm, though, theyâre speeding up, relentlessly fucking himself into your thighs over and over, kneading the flesh as he squeezes them tighter and closer.
Chrollo cups your face with a single hand, and leans in.Â
Itâs the second time heâs properly kissed you tonight, and it feels fucking amazing. Your soft lips, your soft thighs, theyâre all working together to make his head swim in bliss. Youâre working to make him feel good. Yes, him. Nobody else. Youâre his.
The thoughts run wild. He has as little control over them as he does his hips.
How would it feel to fuck you in some other position? How would it feel to flip you onto your stomach, pulling your hips back to meet his, as he stuffs himself into your sopping cunt over and over, watching your ass bounce? How would you cry out at the way his balls slap against your swollen clit, building up the pressure inside you until you just canât take any more?
How would you grind on top of him? How would you moan as you bounce, tilting your head back as you stretch yourself on his length, panting? How many times could you do it until your legs trembled uncontrollably, forcing yourself to impale yourself on his cock just one more time? When heâd plant his feet on the bed firmly and thrust his hips up, grabbing yours and bouncing you in time, would you wail, or simply slump over, completely unable to form a thought as you cum around him for the nth time?
Youâre flexible enough to fold into a mating press, right? How deep could he go? How fast could he go? How would your beautiful skin look covered in love bites?
The coil of pressure within him grows even tighter even faster, balls slapping against your thighs, hips pistoning rhythmlessly.
If he asked, oh-so-nicely, for you to get on your knees and please him with your mouth, would you oh-so-sweetly do it? Would you suckle his swollen tip? Would you tease him with a glint of mischief in your eyes? Would you find his most sensitive spots and exploit them? Would you trace your tongue along the veins? Would you massage his balls? Would you let him control the pace, a hand intertwined in your hair? Would you look up at him as you tear up, doe-eyes wide and eager to please? Would you rub your pretty pussy while he shoots thick ropes of cum down your throat, pressing your nose against his pelvis?
Yes, he decides as the coil begins to snap, you would.
Chrollo comes to a sudden halt, choking out a rich groan in a low timbre. The noise becomes more strained as he rides out the high, the overwhelming euphoria becoming just a bit too intense as it begins to morph into overstimulation. Once heâs sure the momentâs over, he lets go of your legs, pulling back to catch his breath and admire his work.
Ropes of cum paint your chest, some making it as far as your neck, your chin. Itâs beautiful, the unruly mess heâs made - no, the mess youâve made of him.
Youâre a real beauty, you know that?
The bathroom tiles are cold against his feet as he grabs a washcloth to clean you up. Itâs sad to see it go, to a primal extent, but itâs probably for the best to ensure he doesnât get any ideas for a second round tonight.
For future nights, though? The chest heâs covering up will soon be exposed soon enough.
Heâll have to get more sleeping pills. You simply must try this again soon.Â
Next time, heâll taste you. The time after that, youâll taste him. He can hardly wait, nor can he stop the dull throbbing starting up in his groin again.
He sates himself for the time being with the knowledge that the time after that, youâll be awake.
