chrolloswrld

[chrolloswrld]

Hello I just wanted to pass by and say that your chrollo scythe fic is amazing and I love it and I lowkey want a part 2 😓🫶🏼. But obviously it's up to you! Keep the amazing work!

already have a part two in the works!! i’m on vacation rn so it might take a week or so to come out but if u want, i’ll tag u. and thank u sm for the support, means a lot! :))

[chrolloswrld]

SCYTHE , chrollo lucilfer

author’s note. i know this oneshot isn’t either of the plots i mentioned in my last post but i picked up scythe again ( page 230, no spoilers please!! ) and needed to write a chrollo au bc it seemed so him!! i totally encourage u guys to read the book but i wrote this in a way that i’m confident even if u didn’t, it should still make sense! and there’s no spoilers! also question how many oneshots do i need to write before i make a master list bc i don’t only write for chrollo…

warnings. mentions of death. chrollo lucilfer /j

wc. 1.9k

YOU’VE ALWAYS HAD good intuition. It was a nice talent, like being able to wiggle your ears or fold your tongue, just useful enough to be impressive at parties or help avoid the wrong crowd, but never something that could change your life. Once, in the old world, it might’ve kept you alive. Back when people still died from age, disease, war, or misfortune. Before death was conquered, pain managed, and the world was ordered and controlled by the artificial mind called the Thunderhead.

But now? Everyone had self-healing nanites in their blood, and if something truly catastrophic happened—say, a car crash or a fire—you could be revived at a center within days. No one really died anymore.

No one except those chosen to. Scythes were the exception. Government-free and above any law, they were the only ones allowed to permanently end life. To keep population in check. To remind people that death, while conquered, still had a name.

So when you opened the door that evening and saw one standing there, your gut twisted, but not in surprise. It was that same useless intuition again. The faint whisper before a storm. But nothing that could stop the storm itself.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry or beg, either. You just frowned.

Most wouldn’t have dared. Fear makes people polite in the face of death. But you understood the futility. If a Scythe decided your time was up, then that was that. No amount of flattery or begging would matter.

“Hello.” He said, his eyes were the kind of black that didn’t reflect light. Just took it in. He stood outside your doorframe, not moving to enter.

The long white coat he wore shimmered faintly in the hall light, pristine and silent like snowfall. His hair was ink-black and swept back, not a strand out of place. He looked young, mid-twenties, maybe, but he could’ve turned the corner many times already, restoring his youth.

You nodded once. “Honorable Scythe Chrollo.”

He was popular enough, though a better word might be infamous, for you to immediately recognize him regardless of your identity. But you had actually met him once before, briefly.

People said he was elegant with his gleanings, in the way a medical tool was. Precise, efficient. Others said cruel.

“Honorable?” He asked, looking just slightly amused at your address.

“That’s your title, isn’t it?”

“It is.” He said. “Though most civilians just say ‘Your Honor.’”

“That’s due to ignorance.” You pointed out.

“I suppose so.” He admitted, after some time. “But can you blame them? Most would rather not think about Scythes at all. We represent something they’d rather pretend doesn’t exist.”

It doesn’t have to be dreadful, you almost said.

Not if the Scythe isn’t.

But you didn’t bother. You didn’t want this conversation to last longer than it had to. If he had come to glean you, better it be quick.

Your thoughts went to your nephew. He should be home from school in less than an hour. You didn’t want him walking in on your corpse.

“I have a nephew,” You said suddenly. Your frown deepened, but your voice stayed steady. “He’s coming back soon. If you’ve come to glean me, I’d prefer it happen now. He’s alone in the world aside from me. I ask that you alert my neighbors, or arrange for someone to take him.”

Scythe Chrollo didn’t react the way you expected. He didn’t offer comfort or impassiveness, something you’d expect from a Scythe. Instead, his expression softened with something similar to amusement.

“I haven’t said whether I’m here to glean you,” He said. Then, with a subtle shift of tone: “I smell soup. Chicken noodle?”

You blinked. “I was making dinner.”

There was a silence, one of those quiet gaps that social expectations usually filled in with small talk or invitation. You didn’t extend either. You were growing irritated.

“You’re unlike most people I meet,” He said. Not as a compliment or judgment. Just a fact.

He studied you, head tilting. And then you noticed it, a glint of recognition sparked in his expression. “Were you ever apprenticed to a Scythe?”

You hesitated, but lying would serve no purpose. “Yes. Briefly.”

“What happened?”

“I was deemed unfit.”

“Why?”

“I spoke out. Criticized decisions I wasn’t supposed to question. I don’t regret it. I would’ve made a terrible Scythe.”

He didn’t speak right away. Then, for the first time, he stepped forward into your house. You didn’t stop him, but you didn’t turn your back either. You weren’t dumb—you feared death. And if it was going to happen, you wanted to see it coming.

“I disagree,” He said softly. “I think you might’ve made a better one than most.”

You didn’t argue. “I’m honored you think so.”

That made him smile, a subtle shift, like something rare and almost reluctant.

“That might be the kindest thing you’ve said to me since I arrived.”

Your brows drew together. He hadn’t said it unkindly, but it still unsettled you.

“Why should I be kind?” You asked plainly. “You have the authority to kill me if you feel like it. And instead of doing it quickly, you’re standing in my doorway, making conversation. It’s manipulative, whether or not you intend it to be.”

“I’m not here to glean you,” He said at last, as though the thought had just now become relevant enough to mention. “I came to glean someone a few floors above. But on the way down… I smelled soup.”

He paused, almost reflective. “Chicken noodle. It was my favorite when I was young. I used to get sick a lot.”

You didn’t ask why that detail felt important to him. You turned and walked into the kitchen instead, finally willing to turn your back, now that you knew he hadn’t come for you.

“My nephew wasn’t feeling well this morning,” You said, keeping your voice neutral. “Said his stomach hurt, but he still wanted to go to school. It was his friend’s birthday.”

You didn’t mention that he barely ate breakfast. Or how pale he looked. Or that you were anxious, calling out work and staying home, waiting for something to go wrong.

“What’s his name?”

“Do you really want to know?” You asked. It was a stupid question, you knew it, but the words slipped out before you could stop them. You didn’t want to say it. You didn’t want your nephew’s name lingering on a Scythe’s mind. Even one who claimed he wasn’t here for blood.

“You don’t want to tell me.”

“I guess I don’t.”

“I won’t make you.” He didn’t seem offended, or even surprised at your hesitation. He wandered toward the small dining space beside your kitchen and sat down slowly, folding his hands atop the table like an elderly man settling in for tea, not one who had just delivered death upstairs.

“I always find it curious,” He mused, “how people think knowing a name gives power. It’s true, in a way. But rarely the kind people think.”

You didn’t answer. You were pulling bowls down from the cabinet, moving on autopilot now. The soup had been simmering for an hour, thick with vegetables and soft noodles. It smelled like comfort and warmth—two things that felt almost comically at odds with the presence of a Scythe in your home.

“It’s a good instinct,” He added, his gaze following your hands. “Not giving me the boy’s name.”

You turned to look at him. “You said you weren’t here for him.”

“I’m not.” He tilted his head slightly, the soft fall of his black hair brushing the collar of his coat. “But I am still a Scythe. It would be foolish of you to forget that.”

There was no threat in his voice. That somehow made it worse.

You brought over the soup—one bowl—and set it down in front of him. “You can have this one. I’ll make another.”

He looked almost surprised. “You’re offering me food now?”

You shrugged. “You said it used to be your favorite.”

He picked up the spoon. His fingers were slender, graceful, like a pianist’s. He took a careful bite, then closed his eyes briefly. “Still is.”

You sat down across from him. The quiet between you wasn’t tense, but it wasn’t relaxed either. It was… waiting. Like the moments between lightning and thunder.

“I don’t understand you,” You said finally.

He glanced up. “Good.”

You frowned again.

He elaborated, gently: “It’s a dangerous thing to believe you understand someone like me. Someone who kills for a living, even if sanctioned. If you begin to see me as fully human, you might forget the nature of what I do. And if you see me as a monster, you’ll never stop flinching in fear. Both are mistakes.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to understand you.”

“No. But you’re curious.” He gave you a look that saw too much, and you hated how it made your stomach twist.

“I used to be,” You admitted. “When I was an apprentice. When I thought I could do it differently. Make the Scythedom better.”

“And now?”

“Now I just want to survive. And keep my nephew alive.”

“A modest goal. Humble.” He took another bite of soup. “Most people who fail out of the Scythedom never really let it go. It stains them.”

“I don’t think I was ever meant to carry that kind of power. Not without losing myself.”

That made him pause.

Then: “Do you believe I’ve lost myself?”

Your first instinct was to lie, to say something neutral or clever. But that same cursed intuition tugged at your spine, telling you it mattered how you answered this question.

“Yes,” You said. “Don’t all scythes do?”

Chrollo didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He just stirred his soup gently, watching the broth ripple in the bowl.

You almost expected him to rise, to thank you for the meal and go. Instead, he spoke again. “Do you ever think of what your life would’ve been like, if you’d made it? If you’d become a Scythe?”

“No. Because I’d rather focus on the life I do have.”

“That’s a rare skill,” He said, almost kindly. “I envy that.”

The front door creaked open.

Your heart seized—but it was just your nephew, kicking his shoes off in the entryway. You stood immediately, but Chrollo held up a hand.

“I’m leaving.” He rose gracefully, the long coat brushing the floor like a curtain of snow. “I won’t disturb him. Or you.”

You followed him to the door.

“ Scythe Chrollo—”

He stopped, just before crossing the threshold. “Yes?”

You hesitated, then asked, “Why did you really come?”

He glanced over his shoulder, smiling faintly. “Because you once said something during your apprenticeship. At a conclave. You said, ‘We cannot wield mercy only when it’s convenient.’”

You blinked. You barely remembered saying that.

“I remembered it,” He said. “And I thought, anyone who could say that aloud in a room full of killers might be worth a conversation.”

He nodded once and stepped out.

The door shut behind him without a sound.

You didn’t move for a long time.

In the kitchen, the soup pot still simmered gently. Behind you, your nephew’s small voice called, “Is someone here?”

You answered him calmly. “Just someone passing through.”

But your intuition, your strange, half-useless gift, stirred again, whispering something else. Scythe Chrollo would be back.

But not to glean you.

[chrolloswrld]

guys i have a wip but it involves hisoka and i can’t write his personality / dialogue for shit. 😔😔 he’s js freaky yk ?? also have another oneshot involving reader haunting chrollo tho so might post that one before. uhm this is me coming out to say i write on notes and on light mode.

[chrolloswrld]

ART HEIST , chrollo lucilfer

authors note. she finally posts again ??? i’ve been thinking about this idea for so long and i wanted to turn it into an actual series but anytime i’ve tried to write a multi-part fanfic i haven’t gotten past chapter two so take a completed oneshot for now. ending was ambiguous bc i was lazy sorryyy. erm can u tell ik nothing about art. lowk a lot of time jumps

warnings. stealing? like that’s it. chrollo’s normal in this ( as normal as he can get )

wc. 1.1k

THE GALLERY WAS sterile. White walls, white light, white wine in thin glasses tipped between conversation. People milled in circles, clinked glasses, and spoke in tones of admiration or derision, depending on how many eyes were nearby.

You stood tucked in a corner, watching.

Your painting hung beneath a track light that washed it in pale warmth, making the brushstrokes shimmer—oil on canvas, a ghostly woman reaching for something unseen just outside the frame. It was disturbing, purposely so. No nameplate, no acclaim. It was a last-minute addition, hung crookedly between two larger, more marketable pieces.

“Beautiful,” someone murmured behind you.

You turned.

The man looked disinterested, which was the first sign he meant it. Dark hair, half-lidded eyes, a quiet tilt to his smile like he’d been let in on some private joke. He didn’t hold a wine glass. He didn’t wear a name tag. But there was a quiet wealth surrounding him, the kind that didn’t need to be flaunted with designer bags or luxury cars.

“I didn’t paint it to be beautiful,” you said before you could stop yourself.

“No,” he agreed. “You painted it to be remembered.”

You shifted, moving your weight onto your other foot. “It doesn’t matter what I painted it for. No one’s looking.”

“They will,” he said, like it was a fact and not wishful thinking. “Eventually.”

“Eventually is a long time to wait.” You exhaled, scratching your arm. “Most artists die before anyone realizes their work mattered.”

“Then perhaps they painted the wrong things.”

You looked at him.

“It’s not about painting the wrong thing,” you said slowly. “No one remembers anything that doesn’t cause a stir.”

“The Mona Lisa wasn’t famous until it was stolen. And how many people cared about those thirteen paintings before they were stolen from the Stewart Garden Museum in 1990? Some did, sure, but you can’t deny that the unsolved heist brought global notoriety.”

His gaze sharpened, just enough to register the shift. “So you’re saying art becomes immortal through theft?” There was a glint in his eyes, like the idea genuinely amused him.

You frowned. “Not all art. And I’m not saying stealing is noble or anything. Just that fame isn’t built on talent alone. It needs attention—scandal, mystery, obsession. It’s not about painting well. It’s about being seen.”

He turned to you then, full-on. “Then maybe it should be stolen.”

The words hovered in the space between you—absurd and disarming.

You laughed, dry and humorless. “If only I had the nerve.”

—

Two nights later, the Phantom Troupe gathered in the half-dark of an empty building across the street from the gallery.

“It’s not even valuable,” Machi said, arms crossed, pink hair catching in the moonlight. Her voice was sharp as glass. “Why bother?”

“Not everything we take has to be priceless,” Chrollo murmured, flipping through his leather-bound notebook in his hand.

Nobunaga snorted. “You getting soft on us, boss?”

Chrollo didn’t answer. He was watching the gallery through the window, eyes on the painting. “Some art is worth stealing simply because the world doesn’t realize it yet.”

Shalnark leaned in over the blueprints, propping his chin on his hand. “So this is for fun, then?”

“Symbolism,” Chrollo corrected. “I’m curious what people will make of it when it vanishes. Maybe it’ll finally matter.”

Feitan snorted, lounging like a shadow in the corner. “You bored.”

“Perhaps.”

“Or,” Pakunoda said from the doorway, arms folded, “you’ve just taken an interest in something… or someone.”

At that, Chrollo finally smiled but made no attempt to reply.

The Troupe had come for something else—a gilded heirloom, locked behind reinforced glass and tagged for a black-market auction. That was the real job.

But as Chrollo passed the corridor where your painting hung, he paused.

There it was again. The ghost. Still reaching. Still ignored.

Chrollo studied the strokes again, slower this time. The longing in the hands, the quiet plea in the figure’s posture. It wasn’t perfect. There were mistakes in the anatomy, wildness in the shading. But it wanted to be seen. It begged for it.

Chrollo tilted his head. He remembered your voice.

“The Mona Lisa wasn’t famous until it was stolen.”

He didn’t need it. But now he wanted it. Not for profit. For legacy. For you.

“I’ll return for it,” he murmured, half to himself.

He lingered another moment, then turned down the corridor after the others.

When Chrollo came back, Pokunoda and Phinks flanking him, the painting was already gone.

The frame was there. The wall light still humming. But the canvas had been pried from its mount. A screw dangled loose.

Phinks stared at it. “What the hell?”

“Someone beat us to it?” Pokunoda asked, glancing toward Chrollo.

Chrollo smiled, eyes fixed on the empty space. “Apparently.”

He reached out and touched the wall, like he could feel the echo of the painting lingering in the wood.

Then he turned on his heel.

“Let’s go.”

They found you two blocks away, in the alley behind the gallery, half-hunched in the cold. Your breath fogged in the air as you clutched the canvas to your chest like a stolen child.

“You beat me to it,” Chrollo said quietly.

You jumped, turning. The painting shifted under your arms.

“You—?”

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets. The streetlight hit his face then, casting half of it in gold. The other half stayed shadowed, unreadable. “I had the same idea. For different reasons.”

His voice was calm. Pleased, even.

“You really did steal your own work.”

You looked down at the painting. “It felt ridiculous until I was already doing it.”

He tilted his head. “What will you do now? Call the news? Submit an anonymous tip? Feed the storm?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted to see if I could.”

“That’s the start of most things worth doing.”

You looked up at him. “You weren’t joking, were you? Back at the gallery.”

“I rarely do.”

A silence bloomed between you. Heavy, but not awkward.

Then: “Are you going to take it from me?”

He stepped even closer. “That depends.”

“Do you want it back in the world? Hung on another wall, forgotten again?”

You didn’t answer. But silence was an answer in itself.

—

By morning, the painting was hitting international news.

Unknown Work Stolen in Midnight Gallery Heist — No Security Footage, No Leads.

It was all anyone could talk about. Who had taken it. What it meant. If it was performance art, or a statement, or the first in a string of copycats.

But the original painting was gone.

And so were you.

[chrolloswrld]

DEVILS ADVOCATE , chrollo lucilfer

authors note. this is inspired by something @ddarker-dreams said about chrollo giving insane hot takes just because he loves to debate with reader. i thought the concept was great and wanted to write about it. ignore the title, this is my first post and i couldn’t think of anything remotely creative ( edit : title change bc i got the idea from a reblog )

warnings. implied kidnapping, references to murder, yandere chrollo?? idk he’s a good a man savanah!!!

wc. 1.1k

THE TELEVISION HAD been murmuring in the background for a quite a while now, a steady intrusion against the sterile quiet of the penthouse’s white concrete interior. The noise was constant but idle, like an insect tapping against glass. It chipped away at the silence that had settled across the gold-veined marble floor—silence that felt less like peace and something more similar to mold. One no amount of diluted bleach or thieved luxury could cleanse.

Book in hand, you’d long since stopped paying attention to whatever the flatscreen was spewing. Well, ever since the news segment had started. The screen had started whispering names you sourly recognized. Names Chrollo had unforgivingly erased.

Chrollo’s victims didn’t stay gone—not really. They resurfaced on the news ticker, in black-and-white photos, in interviews with the families left behind. The television, in all its flickering dullness, had become a confessional. Sometimes it felt like it was absolving you—just a little—by reminding you hadn’t pulled the trigger. You’d just stood nearby and let the gun fire.

And speaking of killers—

Chrollo sat across the room, legs tucked beneath him like a monk in prayer, except monks didn’t shamelessly read over their victim’s shoulder or wear silk robes bought from dead men’s riches. He read without apology, eyes snapping between the lines with a speed and precision that made you read faster. In all honesty, he was probably ten pages ahead.

“You dog-ear your pages,” Chrollo observed casually, treating your everyday actions like you were a never-before-seen specimen. Funnily enough, he sounded slightly peeved. You could see him as one of those people who thought bending in pages was a crime against all books. Maybe it should’ve scared you. He’d probably slit throats for less.

Then the news anchor’s voice sharpened, gaining weight. Not emotion exactly—just the strain of someone trying not to show it. You reached for the remote, ready to change the channel, maybe turn the television off completely. And save yourself the emotion turmoil that was brought upon seeing the victims names and faces

Instead, when the screen cut to footage of a man walking through prison gates, you turned the volume up.

The older man squinted against the sun like it was an alien force, blinking into a world that had moved on without him. Bold words took over the screen:

[ WRONGFULLY CONVICTED

DEATH ROW ]

The anchor spoke: “Leon Fitz spent nearly fifteen years on death row for a crime he didn’t commit. Today, newly uncovered DNA evidence proved his innocence, leading to his release.” The image shifted—his photo, broadcast again. Eyes worn down by time, a life stolen. 

You frowned, not out of pity, but out of anger. Frustration. Even understanding, though you knew better than to equate gilded captivity with iron walls. Still, both were cages. Just different brands.

“That’s so stupid. They need to get rid of the death penalty.” You muttered, to no one in particular, but regret stewed in your gut when he turned.

Chrollo moved with the slow grace of someone who’d been waiting for an opening. Like a predator picking up the scent of something interesting.

“Why is that?” he asked, too casually. The question was innocent enough, but the amusement in his eyes betrayed him. He wasn’t curious. He was entertained.

You glared at him. “Because an innocent man almost died. That’s reason enough.”

“But he didn’t die,” Chrollo said, leaning his cheek into his palm. “So the system worked, didn’t it?”

You sighed. “Are you really going to play devil’s advocate on this?”

“Why not?” He shrugged. “I’ve worn worse titles.”

“It’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

You set down the book; you’ll find out the cliffhanger tomorrow. “Do you have any idea how many people get wrongly convicted? And not all of them get lucky like this guy. Some do die. There is no room for error when the punishment is death.”

Chrollo drummed his fingers on the velvet armrest. “And what about people like me? The ones who aren’t innocent. Surely you’d rather see me executed than fed three meals a day in a comfortable prison?”

You stared at him. “This isn’t about you.”

“No?” He smiled faintly. “You’ve wished me dead before.”

“That’s different.”

“How so?”

“Because I’m not the state. I don’t get to decide who lives and dies—and I shouldn’t.”

Chrollo tilted his head. “But someone has to. That’s what justice is, isn’t it? People making choices. Judgments. Consequences. Collateral.”

“Satisfaction is not justice,” you snapped. “You want revenge? Fine. But don’t package it as morality. If you kill someone and call it ‘justice,’ that makes you… well, you.”

He gave an exaggerated wince. “Ouch.”

You ignored him. “Besides, human lives shouldn’t be deemed as collateral. If we have the option to avoid it, we should. And putting life-and-death decisions into the hands of imperfect people? Elected officials and emotionally charged juries? It’s corrupt by design.”

Chrollo considered that for a moment, “What about closure for the victims’ families?”

You narrowed your eyes. “As if you care about victims.”

“I don’t,” he agreed easily. His lack of hesitation sickened you. “But that doesn’t make the question invalid.”

“Maybe it brings relief,” you conceded, “but is that relief worth executing someone who didn’t do it? Because it happens. More than it should. And the fact that we accept that risk? That we normalize it? That’s barbaric.”

“Then what about deterrence?” he asked smoothly, without missing a beat. “Doesn’t the death penalty stop future crimes?”

“There’s no evidence to back that. Most killings are emotional, impulsive. People don’t stop mid-homicide and think, ‘Wait—what are the sentencing guidelines in this state?’”

“I do,” Chrollo argued.

You gave him an unimpressed look. Chrollo leaned back, watching you with open amusement.

Then he laughed—a soft, delighted sound. That to you, sounded like nails on a chalkboard. “You’re so passionate when you argue. Your devotion to your ideals is downright charming.”

You rolled your eyes and ignored the compliment. “So you agree with me. Half your points were hypocritical,”

“Hmm,” he murmured, dodging the question. He leaned forward, voice low and intimate in way that was unnerving. “I just like watching you fight for something. It’s… refreshing.”

You didn’t reply. Partly because you were tired of debating, and partly because that look in his eyes—the one that mixed mischief and composure—always left you with the sense that he already knew how this argument ended.

Then, with a slow, almost affectionate motion, Chrollo reached out and tugged you closer, one hand curling around your wrist as he rose to meet your gaze.

“Let’s save this for tomorrow,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’d hate to waste a good debate when we’ve got all the time in the world.”

And just like that, the conversation ended. Not with a conclusion. But with control, hidden beneath a velvet smile.

“Whatever.”