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itsgeecheebitch · 1 month ago

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Chrollo + cockwarming [yandere]

#16. Cockwarming for my 1k special.

cw: afab reader, non-consensual cockwarming, future non-con implications, a slightly painful experience, Chrollo plays games with reader. Word count: 3k.

Note: Thank you for sending in the request for the event ◡̈.

Chrollo’s tactics never fail to surprise you — perhaps you’d give him some credits for the creativity, if only the effects of his mischief weren’t so debilitating for your soul.

For a longer period of time, you managed to successfully evade his attempts to initiate sex with you... well, at least in the most significant form of unwanted touch. However, you have rested on your laurels for too long: you falsely assumed you were getting away with more than just being fingered by him at the end of the day.

He has outsmarted you, again, in some stolen overly concrete-walled flat.

As of now, there’s a shattering pressure to be located in your abdomen, as if something is digging up extra space that shouldn’t be made. Any squirms of your unadjusted body are diminished with Chrollo’s palm holding you close by your belly, your back against his chest. You’re warming and sitting on his lap and everything about it is wrong — you are maintained with only your t-shirt on, legs and crotch nude for him to split you on his cock also to be warmed.

He’s waiting — comfortably on the couch, unlike you — anticipating the moment your body will decide to relax and give his hardness more space to leash you from inside, rather than just be knocking against your cervix painfully. Sitting on top of his cock for the first time is certainly stressful enough to show up in how tightly your pussy squeezes him.

“Relax,” he mutters gently into your nape and one kiss is left where your back’s surface begins, although it only sets your nerves on fire more. Even his pants touching your naked legs is overwhelming. Worse, his hand travels from your belly to be between your spread thighs draped over his, then circles on your clit to work wonders — you do moan with shame. You’re wetter than you’d like to be, but your muscles still work against you. Your legs already hurt from the strain of slightly hovering your body above his lap, too uncomfortable to sit down on him fully, and he’s not helping with his arms around you forcing you to submit to gravity.

“Chrollo, please, I can’t do this,” you whimper out the plea, pushing your palms at the side of his thighs. The irrational side inspires thoughts you should have let him have you, since this is the key to ending what your predicament is about — you refused to sleep with him, so he’s piling up your compliance step by step by letting you get used to the feeling of being filled by him.

Because no, sex with him is not avoidable; of course, he could have simply forced himself on you, but he’s still acting out that damn role of a patient guy, one meeting you halfway. He stole you months ago, he praised and worshiped you for many more prior, it is only right he collects the fruit of his hard labor.

(While the truth is, he’s probably biding his time for fun — obtaining something is not as fulfilling as the chase for it. And you’re worth every pursuit. Not to mention, the nicer you are, the more normal he feels about intimacy with you; believe it or not, he’s not just trying to pretend to be a human, but be one also.)

Things are promising for Chrollo only: you’ve never allowed him to penetrate you before and it’s both humiliating and nerve-racking for it to finally happen. He’s taking what he shouldn’t be taking nor was he allowed to, and you’re rightfully scared. He might not see your negativity if you’re not facing him, though it’s redundant when anything else in your body speaks for itself.

“But you’re doing so well already. Just a bit—”, he announces his slight thrust up, one making you gasp and clench on his cock. “—more.”

He offers you a few extra of those shallow thrusts, until your head is collapsing on his shoulder with extortion, small sweat building up on your forehead already. Your fingers knead his thighs, nearly causing pain. You’re no longer as tense, able to sit down and handle him better, although who knows how long he’ll keep you here, split in half.

Your bodily perception is concentrated in your abdomen, still with your pussy tormented by the expansion of his girth, and it’s still uncomfortable; not even size-related, but coming from the intrusion this experience is not even his fingers given before this game started helped. Your eyes dart around the room only for your brain to fail to disconnect with some object to obsess about.

Whatever tears moist your lashline, he collects with his other hand; they’d be perfect for him to drink from, yet so far they are only a small amount in comparison to the waters you’ll produce once he’ll be able to fuck you properly.

Unwanted by you, there’s another type of ache to be felt — a sweet buildup spread across your tight hole, involuntarily begging for more friction. Need washes itself down your thigh. Your feet finally try to touch the ground and stand up to run away from it, but the arm crossing your front pulls you closer, so rapidly he’s pulling a creak out of the couch.

“Stay still,” he demands, slightly strained in his voice. Your squirms backfire against him as well — your walls rub around his cock or swallow it more with every jerk a bit too well, he’s nearly as desperate as you for more.

Resigned, you collapse your entire body against his chest, with your palms gripping onto the couch’s edge limply. At least you don’t have to see his interested or horny face. “Chrollo, how long do you plan to keep me like this?” you ask with reasonable anxiety. You may have learned some of his behavior but you are still akin to a novice in navigating his person, incapable of foreseeing more elaborate plots. He can be too unpredictable, and your ideas of him are ambivalent already.

“Well…” He gives up on your clit and rubs your hip instead; it’s meant to be soothing, except you are too paranoid about his hand deciding to wander lower again. “Perhaps a chapter will do. That is, if you behave,” he informs lazily.

So between ten to even fifty novel pages, depending on how over-detailed his picked author can get. “… And how long is it?” you gulp after asking the question carrying too many terrible answers possible.

“Hm, let me see…” Chrollo leans forward with you still on his lap and in his arms, this same angling his cock inside you to be curved and pressed into a spongier spot, that your toes curl from both pain and sensitivity. He picks up the book and leans back onto the couch, beginning to feel the tremble of your form. He keeps it over your head, while the other hand crawls under your clothing and teases your skin.

Every rustle of the page causes your heart to beat faster; he's either lying about the chapter’s length or it’s that long.

“Thirty one.” It’s as if you hear a death sentence verdict.

“Thirty one?! That’s gotta to be like an hour of reading!” you realize frantically. You don’t even count on it being thirty one, in case he decides you did something wrong and need to start another round.

“It seems this writer had an affinity for creating detailed landscapes,” his voice comes to be amused, well-aware what this means for you — warming his dick for an hour or so. “Shall we proceed or do you have any more input to share?” His point is clear: the more you protest, the longer you will be skewered like this.

All you can do is nod the back of your head pathetically into his shoulder. He’s right about that one thing. Running away is futile too.

First five minutes, despite how slow they pass, you manage to get through his ‘foreplay’ surprisingly easily. You're almost led to believe he has turned off his surroundings awareness, this much immersed in his little novel, as he’s simply letting you be. Your eyes trace shapes of the living room’s TV, then the gray-framed windows and its city paintings outside, ending with slight dust gathered on the glass coffee table. The texture of your top is smooth under your fingers. It’s nearly possible for you to shut off your bodily senses and not think of the way his cock is splitting you; besides, the pain has subsided already.

Or so you would have thought. The lesson — or should he say, the preparation for the starting of your sex life — wouldn't be successful if you simply tuned out the feeling of being penetrated by him. “Could you pass me my tea, love?” Chrollo asks with nothing but innocence.

It is just now you notice the teacup of thankfully not steaming tea on the glass furniture. There’s no way in hell for you to grab it and hand it over, not without spilling some on yourself, but it’s especially difficult to do so without experience similar to being gutted alive by his cock. Sitting on it vertically is intense already. “Chrollo… you’re doing this on purpose,” you accuse nervously, simultaneously hoping to annoy him enough for him to grab his drink himself.

“Doing what on purpose, exactly? There’s tea I’d like to drink. You know I drink tea. Considering our current arrangement, you’re the one who needs to grab it for me,” he informs calmly. You hate his logical reasoning, or how unperturbed he is besides a few silent gasps given when you move too much. “Otherwise, I’ll have to start our process over. Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”

You tense up at his clear threat. Losing a few minutes of progress is the least you want, so you acquiesce. You lean your body forward; you are smart enough to try to slightly pull out by raising your hips, but he chases you to it, as the hand that’s not holding his book forces you to sit down. “No cheating.”

You cry out, feeling as his cock’s head presses your insides a bit too deeply; to make things worse, he twitches, as if growing impossibly harder at your noise. You choose to force your body to move with more zeal and lean yourself forward, grabbing that stupid cup with a shaky hand. The worst is not over when you have to lean back against his chest with enough control in your muscles to avoid spilling the earl grey over you both.

You support the teacup’s saucer with your other hand, and slowly drag your body backwards.

When your back hits his chest again, you let out an exhale as if you just ran a marathon. “Thank you, darling,” he mutters when grabbing the porcelain, before he's pressing a kiss onto your neck from behind you. Even that is capable of creating more mess within your hole, as you already are sensitive all over you; now that kiss gets you wetter, as it was purposely aimed on the edge connecting jaw and neck.

For a sip to be taken, he has to halt reading for a second, dragging on your torture the same. After he’s done and sets the set away thankfully himself, he grabs his pages again; although, this time, he moves to adjust himself right after. His length stirs your juices, you clench on him, drawing out a bleat from you and deep sigh from him. You dig your nails into your thighs, chasing hurt as distraction, and your feet raise to rest on your tiptoes.

“Chrollo—” you tilt your head on his shoulder, able to catch his curious face in your side vision. “How many pages are you in?” you manage to utter through your constrained with emotion throat.

“Ten,” he mutters and glides his free hand’s fingers over your jaw, hungrily observing the unbecoming look on your face. You really are like this thanks to him only, and he could get drunk on your attention. If it were another person, perhaps he’d find their demonstrative ways, full of emotion and vulnerability to be deplorable. With you, he’s eager to unravel you.

“T-ten,” you repeat, barely calculating the portion in your addled head. About one third into the chapter, and you’re already losing your mind.

It’s not that you necessarily want him to grab and finally fuck you, but if you well know he wouldn't let you end things prematurely, you still hope for little something to make things feel less like you're lacking something — being edged from more pleasure. All those tiny, shallow thrusts from tiny movements, and all those stirs were enough to build up arousal proficient in creating chaos begging for scattering.

He’s conscious of that, eager to take advantage. “You know we can skip all of this if only you choose to let me have you fully. It’s inevitable, so…” he proposes, gently-toned and patient to sell you the deal further.

You immediately shake your head, instinctively terrified of the prospect. Your current situation may not be ideal or not-petrifying, yet you're still not ready for the main thing.

“Are you sure? I can tell you want something, not to mention…” his book is abandoned for him to reach between your messy thighs. “I can feel your misery all over me.” His fingers drag across your slit, smearing your wetness from your hole to your clit, where he stops to rub a few circles.

You shake on his lap, feeling ripples of a pleasure higher than before. Your calves strain as you bump your legs feebly try to raise your hips away from what he’s doing to you.“Please, stop,” you whine, attempting to clench your legs shut and stare ahead. Sadly, he doesn’t stop, not even feeling the pain from your thighs suffocating his bones.

Let him get you relief. Don’t let him get what he wants. Let him help you. Don’t let him win—

He chuckles: a stranger on the street would find it pleasant-sounding, but you know better. “I’m not so sure about your answer, so I'll ask once more — should we end this and move to better things, or should I keep reading?” his voice is pathologically calm.

“I…” you hesitate. That’s when he offers you a first, big thrust — a sample of what you can receive should you only ask. You try to get away from his lap again and again does he shove you closer to him. You scratch his pants and he thrusts into you again as punishment, you have no choice but to stop fighting.

“Yes?” he prods with amusement when you obey.

“Please, just…” you don’t realize you're opting for grinding your hips back at him, until a groan passing his lips lets you on the knowledge: you freeze.

“You have to use or words. I cannot let a misunderstanding happen, can I?” His thumb taps your clit and you go insane.

It’s not much love and desire speaking when you turn your head and suddenly kiss him, holding onto his bicep, if merely a desperation to let go of your gathered emotional tension. Regardless, your behavior is so unusual that even he appears surprised at first.

Chrollo is no fool to deny himself of your lips nonetheless. He grabs your throat to angle your head, kisses you for a few heated moments, then shoves his tongue into your mouth so lovely you get dizzy spells. When the kiss ends with your bruised lips, he puts his forehead against yours.

“Should I read your kiss as your ultimate decision?” He stares you into the eye, his breath grazing your skin and obstructing your clarity further. The hand that hasn’t left your throat rubs it softly, sweetly docile.

He’s hopeful, as his eyes say that. It’s not a pretty sight, only speaking of what he wants to do to you. How this is about further obtaining you, tying you to him, going as far as inspecting his ‘goods’ as well.

It’s scary, dehumanizing, and absurd. You’re reminded of what he’s truly after in that just one gaze. “N-no. I don’t agree,” you answer instantly.

Chrollo sighs with tad disappointment, only to smile with curiosity. Your decision is still beneficial for him. “Fine then. I suppose we should wrap things up and start over tomorrow?”

A mortifying silence follows. “What?” you take a lot of time to ask with shock.

“I’m not sure if you’re in the right shape to continue. We should try again later,” this mocking is said with a chaste kiss on your cheek, one not shutting your bemused mouth.

All of your progress just went to waste, all because you got impatient. Although, it’s not as if he had ever said cockwarminghim will be an event organized just once. In any case, he’s a winner — one that’ll be happy with having you in any form.

“Don't cry.” He murmurs bluntly and wipes your tears of frustration appearing seconds later. “You did well for your first time,” it’s almost a praise.

When he pulls out, you can feel the lingering throb, your hole pulsing desperately for more. Your legs are weak when he helps you stand up, he’s right there to seize your waist. “Let’s get you to bed. It’s late.” Maybe if you kiss him goodnight he’ll provide relief on his fingers, no matter you’re selling another part of yourself to him for a mere temporary distraction from your shitty hostage situation.

But Chrollo — he will welcome you in his arms with both the understanding of your struggle and the reminder of where you belong. He’s not so cruel to not try to at least act as a man capable of sympathizing with you.

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itsgeecheebitch · 2 months ago

Text

Lull

part 2 of Astray

note: the auxiliary member of the PT that is mentioned is the reader from @hypnoswrites's fic Onlooker

Chrollo x female!reader

Part 1 | Part 3 (coming soon)

Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of creepy behavior, mentions of torture

Word Count: 6k

It was nearing 2 AM when you found yourself making your way up the stairs to your unit. Given the late hour, it was deathly quiet in the apartment building, the only noises you could hear being the buzzing of the fluorescent lights above you in the walkways and your own shoes on the steps as you trudged your way upwards. No doubt all of your neighbors were asleep, having turned in hours ago. You would soon be doing that yourself, probably passing out as soon as your head hit your pillow.

Or maybe you would stay awake again while you stewed in your own upset emotions.

A sour look took over your face as you were fully aware that was the more likely outcome.

Due to the blanket of quiet that covered the building, the clinking of your keys sounded even louder as you pulled them out when you approached the door of your unit, as did the lock when you turned it open. A long, drawn out sigh left your lips as you opened your door and closed it, all the while you fought the urge to slam it shut behind you. Soon enough you were sitting on your couch, your bag on the floor next to your feet. Today had been a long day and you were exhausted. Even though you should probably head straight to bed, you wanted to take a moment to breathe and relax, and you leaned your head back in favor of staring at the ceiling.

….. There was a water stain set into the newly painted ceiling above your head.

Your expression soured when you saw that. So that dishwasher in the unit upstairs was still leaking, despite what the maintenance guy had told you. Great.

And evidently not all of your neighbors were asleep, as through the thin walls of your own unit, you could hear the distinct noises of bed springs creaking loudly that was accompanied by loud moaning.

At two in the morning? Really?

Reluctantly, you pulled yourself up from the couch, ignoring the way your body protested after managing to become comfortable. With heavy steps, you made your way to the small bedroom within the unit in an effort to escape your neighbors.

That time, you slammed the door.

Stumbling forward in the dark until you found your bed, you all but fell on top of it.

Unfortunately, your earlier prediction turned out to be correct, because as you lay there wishing for sleep, to temporarily escape into your subconscious, you weren't allowed even that. Because all you could do was stare up at the ceiling while thinking about how you shouldn't be here right now.

That this wasn't how things were supposed to be.

After that job at the Pelletier's – six fucking months spent being at the beck and call of those goddamn assholes and the rest of the uppity staff – you should have been done with this. That job was supposed to be your windfall, giving you the means to live a nice, comfortable life while you left your current occupation behind.

Escaping the illegal activity in which you supported yourself with was something you had wanted to do for some time now. Sure, there was a certain thrill that came with infiltrating somewhere and making off with whatever valuables your clients had bid you to, but you didn't want to do that forever. Because one misstep on your part, one person recognizing the face you were using, one ability that was able to see through your hatsu – any and all of those could come into play during a heist which could spell the end for you and the life you currently had. While what you had wasn't the best, you weren't willing to trade that for a jail cell.

Which was why the diadem job had been a godsend. It was well within your capabilities, and with the buyer being an old socialite with ties to the mafia through her late husband, she had the funds to pay the enormous price for that old piece of jewelry. She was desperate for it even, having an obsession with it that was well-known by those who knew her. Though the communications you had with her were brief and through her servants, Letizia Bianchi's claims of being directly descended from Princess Despoina were well communicated to you, which she in turn made the the claim that the diadem was hers by right. Why she felt the need to justify herself was unknown to you, if the history of her late husband was anything to go by.

Not only that, the princess in question had died in a bloody revolution with nothing to indicate that she ever had children before she was executed. Plus there was the fact that most historians agreed that she didn't appear to have any interest in men. But at the end of the day, you didn't care all that much what the reasons were as to why the Letizia wanted it. All you cared about was what you were going to be paid for the job.

And a twelve billion payout was enough to get you motivated to do your best.

So for the six months you spent in the Pelletier household, you learned the habits of the staff and owners, figured out the code to the vault, chose the best time to make off with it, and got everything together for your escape. All of that would be in exchange for an end to this line of work. “One last job,” you had told yourself.

That would have been the case had it not been for a certain thing – or rather, a certain group of people:

The Phantom Troupe.

You'd heard of them before this – anyone involved in underworld dealings at the very least knew the name, as the group of thieves had achieved something of a legendary status within a relatively short amount of time. They always struck out of nowhere, hitting their targets with efficiency and leaving nothing behind that could lead back to them. Were it not for the fact that almost all of the stolen items that ended up in their possession sometime after made it onto the black market, most people might have assumed that those items truly had been spirited away by ghosts.

Though not all of their actions were ones of violence and theft, as you had heard rumors of the troupe putting up the funds needed for various orphanages in a variety of more unfortunate areas of the word. But when you considered how out of line that sounded with their general MO and how sappy it seemed, you were inclined to think that was just a stupid rumor spread around for shits and giggles.

Rumors aside, the Phantom Troupe was a force to be reckoned with. Enigmatic and devastating, shrouded in a reputation of ruthlessness. Their deeds were many, and the incident at the Pelletier mansion was just another note on a long list of their crimes, with the Diadem of Princess Despoina being just another acquisition of theirs.

Except no.

Because against all odds, you had been the one to steal it.

You groaned, fighting the urge to smother yourself with the pillow as you pulled it over your head in frustration. Of all the screw-ups and mistakes you'd made in your life, you never would've dreamed that you'd fuck up so badly that you would put yourself on the Phantom Troupe's radar.

But how the fuck could you have known? How was there any way you could have known that the troupe would go after the Pelletier's at the same time as you? How could you have known that they had come to the same conclusion as you, that the best moment to take the diadem away was when the Pelletier's would be occupied with an event?

You couldn't. No one in the entire world could have ever predicted such a thing could happen.

But that didn't really matter, because even if you didn't mean for it to happen, you had stolen the troupe's intended mark.

Which only meant that, if they found you out, they would make sure you paid for it.

Fuck

You groaned again as you rolled over onto your front, keeping the pillow pressed against your face. You needed to do that, otherwise you knew your focus was going to go to the air vent on the wall that sat just above the floor. If that happened, you knew you'd spend the rest of the time you were awake staring at it with the image of what you had hidden inside of the vent etched into your mind: that of the cardboard box in which you had stuffed the diadem into because you didn't know where else to hide it.

Just another addition to the piece's rich – or perhaps sordid – history: from sitting atop the head of a princess to being stuffed into a maid's closet, then from a display case within a museum for everyone to behold until it moved to a display case within a private collection. And now in a vent, sitting there in the dark and unclaimed by the buyer. A piece that was worth billions yet you couldn't sell it, because if you tried, all it would take was one whisper to the wrong person for the most deadly group in the world to descend upon you and make the remainder of your life a living hell.

All because Letizia, who went as far as making a whole song and dance about how she was descended from the original owner of the diadem, chose to go back on the deal. Even with her being as powerful and well-connected as she was, not even she wanted to cross the Phantom Troupe.

And you didn't have any other choice but to accept it when you were told that. Because what were you going to do? Go to the police? Take her to court for not paying you and claim a breach of contract? Yeah right. That'd go over well.

You were stuck with no option other than to deal with it, to take on the jobs that would help you get by while she continued on as normal. That left a bad taste in your mouth, but the best you could do was to continue to work and hope for another high-paying job like one Letizia was supposed to pay for while you figured out what to do with the diadem at a later date.

Though as you lay there and told yourself such things, you were very well aware that another job as lucrative as the diadem one was unlikely to come about.

It wasn't supposed to be this way, you told yourself again.

Your thoughts went back to that night when you had stolen the diadem, the thoughts you were throwing around in your head as you considered the possibilities for your future. From laying on the beach with expensive drinks to staying cozy beneath a warm blanket in a nice lake house, or simply traveling where ever you pleased whenever you pleased. There had been no end to what you could have done for yourself once you had gotten your twelve billion.

But instead of enjoying that nice, comfortable life, you were left to rot in a shitty apartment, which was the best you could get after you had spent what was left of your savings just to get to the Begerosse Union. You wouldn't be able to leave this particular area for a while, more than likely, as you had burned several bridges professionally when you chose to take the diadem job. Because you could do the job yourself, and because of that, you wanted the payout all for yourself.

Any truly high-paying jobs wouldn't come for some time.

Another long groan left your lips as you shifted, pulling your head away from the pillow and turning to face the wall. You'd figure this out, you told yourself. You've been in worse situations and you've gotten out of them – this would be no different. It just feels worse because of the way you were stiffed. Another opportunity will come. Keep doing what you're doing for now, and it'll all work out.

As had become the norm for you, you fell asleep listening to your own disingenuous inspirational thoughts.

Chrollo's morning began in the same way it often did, with him waking up well before the sun had risen and being unable to go back to sleep after. That in turn had him passing the time by reading until the first rays of dawn properly graced the world. Depending on just how early he would wake up, the time he had before the rest of the world was also awoken could be as little as a single hour or as many as four, as his internal clock only had become more erratic as the years had went by. It wasn't ideal as it had caused the bags beneath his eyes to only become more pronounced, and despite his numerous attempts at looking, Chrollo had yet to find an ability that could help him sleep through the whole night. For the moment, he had resigned himself to the fact that he would likely never get a full night's sleep again.

At least the predicament had allowed him more reading time, and as the many homes and apartments he had across multiple countries were always stocked with various different book collections, it ensured that he would always have something on hand to read during those deadly quiet hours of the early morning.

On this day, however, things were different. He could only carry so much on him while he was traveling. As a result, he only had four books on his person, and he found himself faced with a predicament: reread the third book he had packed, or continue with the fourth one that he had stopped reading a while earlier when he found that he wasn't enjoying it?

He ultimately chose to pick up the third book for a second time, as he still felt no desire to attempt to finish that fourth book. How a book like that – one that he couldn't stand to finish – had ended up in his possession, he had no clue.

But as Chrollo opened up the pages of the third book for a second time that trip, his thoughts were less focused on the words on the pages and more on the fact that this journey was taking him longer than he had expected, with no sense of when it would come to an end.

No sense of when he would find 'Minette' again.

Upon thinking of the maid, Chrollo yet again found himself uncertain if he should be exasperated or impressed that the matter had gone on for as long as it had. At the very least she deserved a certain amount of praise for her disappearing act – just as it wasn't often that an outside force managed to interfere with troupe business as effectively as she had, it also wasn't often that someone could vanish so thoroughly that even he was at a loss as to how she had managed it.

At first he had been confident that finding her would be an easy matter, as the theory that she had left by boat seemed sound at the time. After stealing an item as valuable as the diadem, leaving the country entirely was the best move to take. Yet there had been no sign of her, even when Shalnark had helped in pouring over every available security tape and log of the passengers who had departed from the docks in the time frame after the maid had vanished. Even when they had searched beyond the limits of the coastal town in the event that Chrollo's hunch about that route being incorrect, there was nothing.

The maid he had seen in the mansion was nowhere to be found no matter where they looked.

As expected, that dampened the mood of the troupe once the heist was over. Not so much due to how the diadem had been lost, but that someone had managed to sneak away in the way that she had. Just like him, some of the others had been impressed while certain members were angry, but all anticipated that the maid would be found. If not by the manner in which you escaped, then by tracking you down when the diadem went on the market. Whoever you truly were, Chrollo had felt that you would attempt to sell it, as it didn't seem to him that you were the type to keep expensive baubles just for the sake of it. Even from his brief interaction with you, he was certain that this was just a job for you.

And yet, even months later, there had been nothing.

At first it made sense. With the mass-disappearance at the Pelletier mansion and the media circus that had followed, that you would lay low was expected. But now that the heat had died down and the news had moved on to other stories, leaving the events in that mansion as a mystery while those in the underworld had an idea as to what had happened, there was still nothing for him to pick up on. No shred of evidence, no whispers of the diadem being placed on the market. Absolutely nothing.

Only two things had been discovered that could potentially be connected to you, the first of which being a small fire that had been set in the dumpster of a church near the area of the Pelletier mansion. Why that had happened was still a mystery to him and it could have easily been a strange coincidence that it occurred on the same night as the heist. Either way, there was nothing to go off of in regards to that instance.

The other bit of information that had been discovered was the face of the maid showing up in an unexpected way. At Chrollo's bidding, Pakunoda had shared the memories of the maid with the rest of the troupe in the unlikely event that one of them might come across her after the heist. It was a long shot that any of them would happen to see her, and yet, not long after the troupe had dispersed for the time being, Kortopi managed to come across something that only left more questions: a story about a memorial being erected for a woman who had died in an accident in the Odrana region. The instant Chrollo saw the photo of the woman the article had listed he knew immediately that it was her; that was the face of the maid that he had been searching for.

But it only brought him to another dead end. The woman in question had been dead for more than five years now, and even if the face had been the same, the hair was wrong, as was the apparent height of the deceased. Once again Shalnark's services were used, this time to look into her history as well as that of her family, and there was nothing to be found. It truly appeared that she had died, and there was nothing to indicate that her family or anyone close to her had taken over her identity. There was no connection to the Pelletier's, either.

Thus Chrollo had been left at a loss once more, only having ideas as to what was going on without any concrete proof.

He needed to find you again. Not so much out of a desire to have the diadem as he had planned initially, but simply out of principle; no one was allowed to steal from the Phantom Troupe and get away with it. Some of the others were far more passionate about that belief and wanted you to pay severely. With one of those particular members being Feitan, who had offered to torture you to death once you were found, your fate would have been a miserable one had Chrollo not ordered the others to leave the matter of tracking you down to him. That had been enough to make them back away, as they trusted him to take care of the matter.

And he would take care of it. Though how exactly the matter would be settled depended entirely on the nature of your ability.

And whether or not he could steal it.

Chrollo blinked, snapping himself out of his thoughts as he found that despite how the minutes had ticked away, he was still only on the first page of the book he had chosen. Clearly, he wasn't able to focus on his usual way of passing the time. His own internal musings were simply too loud at the moment.

With a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, Chrollo shut the book and placed it onto the small coffee table that not far from him. He then stretched out slightly before he leaned back in his seat, glancing through the thin sliver between the curtains to see the world outside his hotel room. Unsurprisingly, it was still dark outside; dawn wouldn't come for a few hours more.

Unlike with most things in his life, there was little Chrollo could do right now other than wait. Wait for the sun to rise so he could continue with his journey, this time taking a flight to Canzas.

He'd never been to that city before. Had never even heard of it in any capacity, yet when he had been looking at the available flights, instinct had him choose that one.

A clear result of the ability that was now guiding him.

Chrollo stood up from his seat as he parted the blinds further and allowed himself a better look at the darkness beyond his window.

It had been months since the heist at the Pelletier mansion, and with no sign of where the maid or the diadem had gone, Chrollo found himself growing impatient. While waiting for you to slip up was an option, doing so when he had access to an ability that could speed up the process was a far better use of his time.

Thus, he had found himself enlisting the help of a woman who served as an auxiliary member of the Phantom Troupe.

It hadn't been a terribly long time that she had become associated with the troupe, yet there had been many times that her ability had come in handy. Intertwining fates, she called it. Using nen to link people together and ensuring that one day, the two that were linked would cross paths.

A hatsu like that was perfect to link particular troupe members with particular targets that had proved difficult to get to through other means. Because no matter the person, whether they were an ordinary person or a nen user, they weren't able to resist the link. No matter what the two would come to meet, someday, somewhere.

It wasn't the first time Chrollo had the auxiliary member use her ability on him, as he had bid her to use it once before so he could get close to an heiress who had an annoyingly competent security detail. But back then, it had only taken him a week to get to the heiress.

This time around, however, it was taking much longer to reach his target.

Though perhaps it was a miracle that the link was able to be made at all. The linking ability required an object that the target had touched, and all Chrollo had been able to produce were some bed sheets that had been at the bottom of the chute, ones that both he and you had landed on after jumping in. Aside from the linen cart you had been pushing when he came across you, that was the only thing he could take from the scene that he knew for certain you had made physical contact with. The only reason he had grabbed any of them was a precaution; in case he couldn't find you on his own, in case he needed to go to the auxiliary member for just this reason.

It was a good call for him to have taken that precaution. Had he not done so, Chrollo wouldn't be here at this moment, traveling a destination that was currently unknown, but where exactly he was headed wasn't that important.

What mattered was that this journey was guaranteed to have you at the end of it.

And what he would do when he found you…..

That would be determined once he found out the exact nature of your ability. Once he found you, once he had you secured, he could then take his time to learn about your hatsu. If he couldn't steal it, then it would be a simple matter to retrieve the diadem and dispose of you. As much as Feitan would bemoan the fact that Chrollo had denied him a torture subject, it didn't feel worth it to transport you overseas just for you to die by the torturer's hands. Better to take end things swiftly as opposed to dragging them out.

But if he could steal your hatsu, then things would be different.

There was always a certain amount of vexation he felt whenever he came across a hatsu that couldn't be stolen, especially when it was an ability that he knew he could put to good use if he could get control of it. Such was the case with the auxiliary member, who had carefully linked her own ability to herself so no one else could use it. Her taking such a precaution felt as though she anticipated that he might try to take it. While there had been some disappointment on his part, it ultimately still worked out in the troupe's favor as she was willing to work with them.

Her close relationship with Uvogin also meant that she was unlikely to betray the troupe, and if such a thing were to happen anyway, Uvogin would take care of it – as would Shalnark, he suspected, as the suspiciously placed cameras around her home were a good indication of his presence around her. What exactly was going on there wasn't entirely clear, but based on the knowing look Uvogin had shared with him when he noticed the cameras, the enhancer was at least aware of them. If Uvo saw no issue, then it wasn't Chrollo's place to question it.

But as for the issue that was you, Chrollo could only see you being willing to work with the troupe under duress, and even if you attempted to do so to save yourself, the rest of the troupe wouldn't be satisfied with that. The best outcome you had from this point onward was if he could steal your hatsu, because that would guarantee that you would keep your life.

And although he wasn't inclined to say it out loud, Chrollo found himself quietly hoping that your ability was one that he could take. In part for the sake of adding another useful hatsu to Skill Hunter.

But also because he wanted to see what would happen when he stole it from you. How would you react? How would you respond to him when he told you that your hatsu belonged to him?

What would you do when he made you powerless?

Chrollo smirked to himself. It wasn't the first time he had thought of such things. Even as far back as the night of the heist itself, he had found himself thinking of you often, wondering things about you, scrutinizing every second of that conversation he had shared with you in that brief amount of time you had shared.

He thought often of the brief glimpse he had gotten of you in that hallway – the real you. The one who had broken through the polite maid persona that you had been trying so hard to keep up in order to sarcastically suggest that he take care of you in order to make up for your lost income.

He thought of the brief look of panic that had hit you after you said that, when you realized that the sort of tone you had taken was not at all acceptable for what your apparent position was, and how you had scrambled to give a more polite response.

Both moments happened within seconds, but they replayed in his mind endlessly and to a point that what had started as a simple interest had grown into a mild obsession with who you truly were.

All because he made the decision to venture towards the Pelletier's living quarters before the heist had begun after seeing how lax the security was. All because he saw you seemingly at work and made the choice to toy with you a bit.

Those actions of his were what led to him seeing that side of you and had planted the seeds of obsession in his head. Had he not seen you personally and had that conversation, he may have delegated the task of finding you to someone else. But there he was, trekking across countries himself just so he could find you again.

Strange how simple actions that seem insignificant cause such monumental consequences in the way events play out.

Dawn was no closer to approaching as Chrollo continued to stare out of his window, his eyes drawn to the flicker of electric lights that sat within the darkness. The concept of sleep would no doubt continue to elude him, and his mind felt too busy to settle down and relax with any of his books. It would be several long hours of waiting before he could move once again, this time to take his flight to Canzas, which itself would be several more long hours of waiting.

And all of those hours would no doubt be filled with thoughts of you.

What were you doing now, Chrollo idly wondered.

What were things like for you after you had stolen the diadem?

What was your reaction when you found out about the troupe's involvement in the Pelletier's?

All questions he could only ask once he found you.

As had happened so many times now, your words echoed again in his head, where you made the off-handed comment about him taking care of you.

Depending on how things turned out, Chrollo felt that he may very well take you up on that offer.

This is bullshit.

You went so far, spent so much time and even came close to death – regardless of you knowing that fact at the time – and this was where you ended up?

She doesn't get to do this to you.

Not without paying for it.

Those thoughts struck you as you were eating your sad affair of a dinner: a microwavable meal consisting of chicken and pasta with a side of broccoli. Broccoli that you didn't realize until after you had opened the package had unpleasant looking brown spots in places that left you unwilling to eat it. Maybe you should've figured that would be the case considering it was a microwavable meal, but you had gotten it only because you didn't feel you energy to cook anything. That lethargy could have been due in part to a depression over how badly things had turned out for you.

What you didn't count on was just how much more depressed eating it made you feel, as if it was the physical embodiment of everything that had gone wrong for you since the diadem job. A shitty frozen dinner in a shitty crumbling apartment.

Meanwhile, Letizia was no doubt continuing on as normal, living the nice life you had wanted for yourself without a single care in the world, and she had more than likely completely forgotten all about you and the way she had wasted your time. You had given up a lot to pull off that job – opportunities and jenny from your own savings, not to mention your time and energy – and how did the bitch repay you? By flaking out and relying on the knowledge that there was nothing that you could do to make her pay up, nor could you easily take revenge, not without angering some important people in the underworld.

At this point, trying to get paid was a fool's errand – you weren't going to see the jenny she owed you. You accepted that.

But if she was going to screw you over with no remorse, then you were going to do the same to her.

And what better way to do that than to have her take the blame for the theft of the diadem?

Within an instant, you were on your laptop, searching Letizia's name to find out what you could on her current activities. With her being in the public eye, that was easy enough to figure out.

Less easy was figuring out how you could use the information you found to your advantage, and at the moment, there didn't appear to be anything that could help you. Letizia seemed to still be in Canzas at the moment, which likely meant that she was spending time at her main house in the area. That wasn't great for you. Preferably, she would be out of town when you struck, because with the amount of staff and bodyguards that surrounded her, it was simply a smarter choice to wait for that home to have as few people inside it as possible, and you didn't want to wait another six months infiltrating the staff and earning trust.

No, it was better to wait when she was away – on business or leisure, you didn't care which. Just as long as she and the army of people she employed were gone. Because once that happened, you could sneak into her mansion, place the diadem inside, and then call in an anonymous tip that a piece of jewelry related to a mass-disappearance was in her possession. With the rumors of her being connected to the mafia, the police would use that as an excuse to gain entry, and then everything would crumble for her.

In that way, you could get your revenge.

Of course, she would know it was you. She'd let her contacts know as well, not that they'd be able to do anything. You didn't give out your real name or even let anyone in the underworld see your true face for a reason, and even with all the power that people like Letizia had, none of them would be able to hunt down a person when they didn't even know their name or face.

You would need to leave the area after this stunt, just to be safe, and that would mean starting from scratch and with little to nothing to your name.

But that was fine. You hated this place anyway. And with your ability, starting over would be easy. You'd just been hesitant to go through with it before due to the hassle.

You didn't care now, because you weren't going to roll over and let people walk all over you, no matter who they were.

The thought of all of it made you feel a little giddy. If everything went in the way you wanted it to, she would be disgraced, and depending on how public things became, not even her mafia contacts would be able to protect her.

Not only that, but the Phantom Troupe's attention would be directed towards her as well. No doubt they would have wondered who exactly was responsible for foiling their heist, and with a person taking that blame, they could very well take revenge on her. That would be another worry taken off your shoulders. Whether she lived long or not, that wouldn't be your concern.

That's what you get when you screw over the people you hire, you old bitch.

You made yourself take in a deep breath. Once more, you were getting ahead of yourself. As much as you wanted to relish in the thought of her comeuppance, you needed to actually enact your revenge first. Based on what you were seeing from the news about her, you weren't going to get that chance any time soon.

But you could wait. You didn't have the patience for another infiltration, but you could wait for an opportunity to present itself.

And when it came, you would take it.

451 notes · View notes

itsgeecheebitch · 2 months ago

Text

Biting People You Like

Yesterday morning I had a thought. Now I have a 6.3k fic. Where is this motivation for the drafts dying to be finished... Neverthelesssss! Hope you all enjoy :D

Warnings: Yandere! Shalnark x fem! Reader, non-con nsfw, gore, descriptions of needles, vampires, financial abuse, kidnapping, reader is a lil weird, oral (male receiving)

At the reception desk, if the cracked counter and bulletproof glass could be called that, the attendant didn’t look up.

“Evenin’” He sounded as if the word had been chewed and spit out. His chair creaked as he leaned back, arms folded behind his head, a cigarette dangling from his lip though it wasn't lit. “Urgent or not?”

The blonde man in pink coming from the elevator stood barefoot, blood dripping steadily from the raw, mangled stump where his foot used to be. He held the severed appendage casually in one hand, as if it were a lost glove. Blood pooled at his feet, thick and slow, mingling with the stains already etched into the floor. “Is it more expensive if it's urgent?”

“No.” Leroy yawned so wide it cracked his jaw. “I’m just not feeling up to it.”

“In that case, it is.” The man nodded sagely, smiling like he was signing up for a membership card that’d save him a few bucks. “Very urgent.”

The attendant snorted and heaved himself to his feet, shoulders hunched like a dying crow. “It always is.” He turned and bellowed into the gloom beyond the desk.

“PIRA. COME HERE. THERE’S A CUSTOMER.”

You heard the call from the far end of the corridor, where you were finishing your third pass with the mop. The floor there was cleaner, sure, but it never stayed that way for long. Still, you were proud of the gleam you coaxed out of it.

“Comiiiiin’!” you called, dragging the mop bucket behind you. Today had been quiet. Just one poor bastard with a bullet through his ear. You’d patched him up, looped a piercing through the wound for flair. He’d liked it. Said he might make it a trend.

“Stop being so cheerful.” Attendant Leroy groaned out, stubbing his cigarette out on the floor you’d just mopped. You didn’t care, all that did was give you an excuse to mop it again, any excuse to walk through these halls again and again and again. “It’s too late for that.”

Not paying the comment any mind, you skipped towards the reception. Breathing deeply and trying to ignore all the bleach, in hopes of catching something more appealing, something that’d get the engine revving a bit more, something-

You froze mid-step like you’d slammed into a wall, your hands gripping the mop handle hard enough to splinter it.

That’s the stuff.

Rich. Electric. Absolutely intoxicating. It hit you like warm blood poured straight down your throat. Not the usual coppery tang of gangsters and junkies, or the muted junk you could find in suburbs. No. This was different. Refined. Complex. Sharp like citrus peel, warm like cedar and if you’d had any interest in wine, you could probably add seventy more descriptors. It didn’t matter.

The new customer smelled absolutely delicious.

You nearly doubled over from the intensity of it, throat tightening, hunger flaring like a second heartbeat.

Barely able to look up, you made eye-contact with the new arrival. He was a young man, probably mid-twenties, though you’d probably card him just to be safe if he asked you to buy him vodka. Wearing a fluffy pink sweater and denim pants that had been ripped, he looked quite unlike the usual ruffians that came down here. It’d been a while since you’d seen anyone that wasn’t wearing either a suit or a band tee.

His hair was a yellow-ish blonde, short with bangs, and you reckoned most would look idiotic with a haircut like that. You liked it on him. Made him seem like the one well-dressed guy at a Magic the Gathering tournament. Not that you’d ever been, but you could imagine.

Your voice came out shaky, reverent as you looked at the blonde man grasping his foot in the hall. “S-s-sir, are you perhaps a hunter?”

Leroy groaned without turning around, like this was an old, annoying tune. “Oh dear god, not this again.” He dragged a hand down his face. He raced towards you, took the mop from your hands and slapped you with the wet part, making you jump away and yelp. “Bad Pira! Bad!”

You hissed like a cat, backing off.

There wasn’t an answer, and Leroy beckoned the customer to follow him to the operating room. This was lightly surprising. Usually customers were heavily vetted to see if they were good for it, but apparently Leroy trusted this man would pay up. Interesting.

The man in pink just watched everything. If anything, he seemed amused. He trailed a finger along the tiled wall as he followed the attendant deeper into the hallway, his severed foot still tucked casually under one arm. He moved like he was floating. Like he’d never known pain in his life, like this was a minor inconvenience in his day.

“I remember this place very differently.” Shalnark mused.

“Most don’t remember it at all,” Leroy replied, pushing open the dented steel door to the back. “You’re one of the few to walk in here consciously.”

As the light from the operating room spilled out, you stood there,taking the mop from the floor, lips slightly parted, pulse quick and meaningless as the man walked past you. He hadn’t answered your question, and seemed a bit curious why you were staring at him so intently, but while missing a foot and walking into a surgery, one probably had more important priorities.

He smelled like everything you weren’t supposed to want.

And you already wanted him so badly.

Anesthesia was extra, and it seemed Shalnark was a thrifty man, as he just sat down on the bed and lifted up his stump to Leroy to handle. You’d followed after Leroy sent you a glare worth taking into account, and merely sat by the door, knowing your boss wouldn’t let you mop right now… Shalnark had bled all over the reception, and you’d been caught licking the floor one time too many. If you excused yourself now, you’d be hit with the mop again.

“So why’d you wanna know if I’m a hunter?” Shalnark asked as he was covered in surgical sheets and pushed back onto the cot.

“Don’t talk to her.” Leroy grumbled as he set up everything for the tourniquet. “It’ll give you a headache.”

Shalnark was still looking at you, and you couldn’t disobey that stare, not when you wanted to get into his good graces no matter what. You beamed. Too much. “Oh! I’m a vampire, and hunters smell really nice, so I-”

A clatter interrupted you as Leroy grabbed a handful of instruments and chucked them in your direction. “Stop! Telling! People! You’re! A! Vampire!”

You dodged most of them easily, but a scalpel caught you clean in the shoulder. You gave a small, involuntary "meep" as you pulled it out with a wince.

“It weirds out the customers,” Leroy muttered, already wiping off another tool on the bottom of his apron.

Shalnark blinked once, then slowly repeated, “A vampire? Like… for real?”

Leroy shot you a glare – the kind that promised more airborne scalpels if you opened your mouth again – so you just gave Shalnark a slow, dramatic nod the moment Leroy turned back to his work. You even put a finger to your lips.

Shh.

His smile widened.

The operating room had long since been cleared out. The blood mopped, the tools washed (enough), and Shalnark moved. Not to discharge, of course. Patients weren’t discharged here. They just left when they felt like it. Until then, he was free to use the room until some poor sucker came along that needed it more.

He hadn’t left yet.

Now he was laid out on one of the only intact cots in the recovery ward, which was really just a storage room with an IV stand, a cracked fan overhead, and a blanket that was washed at least once per year. You made sure of it.

You peeked around the doorframe again.

Still there.

Still alive.

Still smelling incredible.

His eyes opened without warning. “You checking on me again, Pira?”

You startled and bumped your elbow against a shelf of empty plasma bags, causing a hollow crinkle as they collapsed around you. “Nooo,” you said, obviously lying as you put back everything where it was supposed to be. “I was just… dusting. That shelf, for example.”

Shalnark tilted his head slightly, and suddenly smiled like you were being a very stupid animal. “You’ve dusted that shelf three times in two hours.”

You smiled shakily. “Only.. the best! For our customers!”

He hummed like he believed you completely.

You edged closer despite yourself. His bandaged foot was propped up on a pillow, elevated slightly, toes peeking out like the aftermath of a magic trick gone halfway. How Leroy had managed to attach the foot back on was a mystery to you, but you’d been scolded when you’d asked too many questions, so you tried not to care. Still, it had to hurt, didn’t it? He didn’t look uncomfortable. If anything, he looked bored.

You tried not to breathe through your nose.

Failed.

That same heady scent curled into your lungs again, and you had to clench your teeth behind your smile. Delicious. Too delicious.

He shifted just slightly on the bed. “So. Vampire, huh?”

You hesitated. Leroy had said to stop telling people. But… Shalnark already knew. And Leroy wasn’t around.

You nodded slowly, arms tucked behind your back. “Mmhm.”

“What’s that like?”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Everyone always talks about vampires like they’re these terrifying, soulless monsters. You’re more like… a raccoon someone tried to house-train.”

“Excuse me?” you gasped, hating the image he put into your head.

Sure, you weren’t any Dracula, with long black robes and a transylvanian accent, but you were cool! You were way stronger than any normal human, and you could do cool acrobatic tricks now. Another thing you weren’t allowed, though, since it’d been deemed childish to show customers you could do a backwards flip now.

“Not in a bad way,” he said, grinning now. “You’re just really enthusiastic and I bet you lick the floor when no one’s looking.”

“I don’t lick the floor!” you shot back in a shrill voice, insulted. Had Leroy told on you when you hadn’t been looking? How much did he know?!

“So. How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“And how long have you been,” he wiggled his eyebrows. “…. twenty-nine.”

“Since this year.”

“Oh.”

“The room smelled like old bandages and iron, which wouldn’t be remarkable if not for the way he still managed to cut through all of it. You'd told yourself you were only checking on his vitals, but you’d been standing in the doorway for a little too long to keep pretending.

Shalnark didn’t even look up from the half-shredded paperback.

“You know,” he said casually, flipping a page, “you really do have that whole ‘creature of the night’ thing down. Sulking in the doorway. Not coming in unless invited.”

You stiffened. “I'm not sulking.”

He looked up, grin lazy. “Lurking, then.”

You stepped in with an exaggerated sigh, arms crossed over your chest. “I’m checking your chart.”

“No chart on that clipboard.”

You looked down. Damn. Just a blank form with a doodle of a bat in the corner. You quickly tucked it under your arm. “...It's internal documentation.”

Shalnark watched you for a moment, something mischievous sparking in his eyes. “You really want a drop don’t you?”

You side-eyed him like he’d just suggested getting ice cream on a sunny day and then going for a swim after. Perfect. Now all you needed to do was drive this home, and you’d have convinced him.

Yippee!

Despite your internal cheering, he seemed rather non-plussed. “Haven’t I bled enough on the tools- the reception?”

“Noooo…” You groaned, sitting next to him on a dingy white plastic chair. “Leroy will yell at me. Last time he said he’d kick me out into the sun if I did something like that again. It’s bullshit. He just wants me here to tell him what type people are, or if they have diseases or something like ‘where’s the bloodclot Pira?’ meanwhile I’m suffering! Suffering I tell you!”

He let the moment stretch just long enough before saying: “Truly made undone by the blood…”

You blinked.

Your lips parted.

And then- “Did you just quote Bloodborne at me?”

He snickered. “Whoops.”

Your hand flew to the ceiling.. “I should throw you out of the bed right now.”

“Oh come on,” he said, laughing. “How could I not say it? You're a vampire working in a blood-soaked backroom hospital. It’s practically Yharnam down here.”

You tried very hard not to smile. You failed.

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, glancing away, “A corpse like me… should be well left alone.”

Shalnark sat upright, elbows resting loosely on his knees. The fluorescent light caught in his pale blond hair, and his boyish face was lit with a mischievous grin. Those bright, greenish-blue eyes sparkled.

“That’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” he said, absolutely delighted.

The soft thump of the ball in your hands broke the beat of silence that followed. You tossed it lazily back to him across the cramped hospital room. It was one of those cheap, half-deflated stress balls someone must’ve left behind, now serving as the only entertainment between the two of you. The sterile light overhead flickered slightly.

Shalnark caught the ball easily with one hand, fingers long and relaxed around it. He was sitting sideways on the visitor’s chair, legs drawn up so one foot rested on the seat while the other dangled loosely over the side. “Is your name really Pira?”

“No,” you answered, headbutting the ball back his way. “Underground hospitals aren’t a really good place to be casually tossing your real name around.”

“I guessed.”

“Pira the Vampiraaa~” you hummed. “I sound like a Sesame Street character.”

“Act like one too.”

“Shut uppp.”

“Would you be interested in a trade?” Shalnark asked on day three. He was already back to working out, carefully avoiding putting too much pressure on his recently amputated foot. Whenever you had a moment, you’d visit him. He seemed to appreciate it, even if he’d realized by now that most of it was just you trying to satisfy your hunger.

“What would you trade for a teaspoon of my blood?” he asked, a mischievous gleam in his eye.

“A teaspoon?” You shook your head. “That’d only make me more annoying. Just enough to get a taste, but not nearly enough to sate it. I can guarantee I’d become insufferable. Unless, of course, you want me hanging around the edge of your bed all night, begging for more.”

He went quiet for a moment, and when you glanced at him, you found him smiling with slightly glassy eyes.

“Oi,” you said, raising an eyebrow.

“Hm? Oh, sorry, I was thinking,” Shalnark muttered, snapping back to reality. “But okay, a teaspoon’s too little. How about... three sips?”

You folded your hands together, fully serious now. “What do you want in return? I can’t just give away discounts or something like that. Leroy would kill me.”

“Nothing like that.” He held up a small piece of paper. “There’s no cell reception here, and I need to get this message to a friend. Could you deliver it for me?”

You beamed and reached for the paper. “Sure! As long as it’s something I can deliver at night, I’m your courier!”

“How dependable.” Shalnark said, patting your head.

Shalnark was lounging on the bed, one leg casually draped over the edge, eyes glinting with amusement when he saw you enter.

“Mission accomplished?” he asked.

It’d been easy. You went to the address Shalnark had given you, handed the paper over to another tall blonde- maybe family?- and had returned sprinting, making a lot of passerby’s scared as you burst past them, drooling a little.

You didn’t bother answering him immediately. You could feel your fangs itching against your gums, your mind too clouded with the thought of his blood to focus on anything else. Without thinking, you grabbed his hand and yanked him forward, your gaze flicking toward his wrist.

“Three sips,” you said, practically purring with the anticipation of it. “I’ve kept my end of the deal. Time for you to keep yours.”

Shalnark’s grin grew wider, but there was a mischievous glint in his eyes. He didn’t pull away from your grip. Instead, he calmly let you pull him closer.

“You really are impatient,” he murmured, amused by your urgency. But then he tutted. “You’re not going to drink from just anywhere, though.”

You paused, looking up at him in confusion. “What are you—”

“Only my neck,” he said, voice firm, as if anything else was fully off the table. “I’ll let you drink, but not from my wrist.” He lifted his other hand and tapped his neck lightly, a gesture as deliberate as it was teasing.

Your brain hiccuped.

“Oh no, that’s—” You laughed a little too sharply. “That’s not necessary. The wrist’s fine. No reason to—”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want it?”

"No, no, no. I do. It’s just… I’d have to lean all over you… and it’s a bit… intimate," you muttered, suddenly finding the tile floor very interesting. "That’s why it’s... weird."

"You’re a vampire in a basement blood den. Now you have standards?"

You flushed visibly, unfortunately, and tried not to groan. “It’s different when it’s the neck.”

He just looked at you.

You swallowed hard. Then, without looking at him, you stepped in, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. Close enough to hear his heartbeat.

"This is dumb," you whispered, but you tilted your head anyway.

Before you fully reached him he grabbed you and placed you on his lap, moving you so you were sideways and in direct view of the neck he was showing you. You landed there with a muted thud, your knees brushing against his thigh, his hand still resting lightly at your waist.

For a second you were sure you’d jump up and walk away out of sheer embarrassment, but being so close now, at eyeline with the thumping artery calling your name, nothing was going to stop you. You ignored the indignation of the position and leaned forward, until your nose brushed against his skin.

You hesitated. For a single, suspended breath, your lips hovered just above his skin. Then, with a slow, deliberate inhale, you tilted your head and sank your fangs in. Shalnark didn’t tense, or give any other indication that you’d hurt him in any way. Blood filled your mouth, and like coming home, you forgot about anything else. You drank carefully. Three slow sips. Just three. The taste was worse than you’d feared.

Not because it was bad, but because it was too good.

His blood was warm and rich, saturated with life and something that shimmered just beneath the surface. Like lightning in water. A pure distilled form of life in every drop. You’d had a lot of blood by this point- a pint a day even- but this was the best tasting blood you’d ever encountered.

When you pulled back, your breath caught. You hovered there, close, lips barely parted, still tasting him on your tongue. You didn’t mean to look at him when you pulled back, but your eyes lifted anyway, and met his.

And for a heartbeat, neither of you said anything.

He looked… not smug. Just very still. His hand came up, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. It felt absurdly gentle after what you’d just done. Most people complained it hurt, yet he seemed like it’d tasted as good for him as it had for you.

“Was that good?” he asked, voice low.

You flushed, fangs already half-retracted, lips still red. “You’re not supposed to say stuff like that right after-”

But you didn’t finish.

Because he leaned forward and kissed you.

His mouth pressed to yours softly at first. When you didn’t pull away, he kissed you deeper, with a hand still at your cheek like he was grounding you, the other arm wrapped around you to keep you in place.

Your body betrayed you completely, and you’d blame the headiness the blood had caused. You leaned into him, one hand gripping his shirt like it was the only thing holding you up.

And when he finally pulled back, barely an inch, the magic was gone immediately and you just stood up from his lap as if you’d been struck by lightning and turned towards him, stunned.

“…Why’d you do that?” you asked, your voice barely audible.

He smiled, eyes still half-lidded. “Because I like you.”

“I should be mad at you,” you murmured in response.

Shalnark grinned boyishly. “You can bite me again if it’ll make you feel better.”

–

The next evening, you stepped into the recovery room with two Playstation controllers and a dumb excuse ready (something about needing to check his stitches or maybe the air circulation or whatever). You weren’t even sure what you were going to say. You just knew you were going to say something and he’d laugh, and you’d laugh and things would be back to normal.

But the bed was empty.

Sheets pulled tight.

You stared at the bed for longer than you meant to, controllers still in your hands. You shifted your weight. Set them down on the bedside table. Picked them back up.

Leroy passed the door at one point and muttered without stopping, “Pretty boy checked out this morning. Said he had business.”

You didn’t answer.

You stood there another minute, arms hanging awkwardly by your sides, lips still tinged faintly red from the night before. The taste of him had already faded, but the memory hadn’t. It was a bit much to ask of you to already forget the best blood you’d ever tasted, along with the weirdest kiss ever.

You just blinked once, like it was nothing, and turned on your heel.

There were floors to mop. Beds to prep. Gangsters to patch up. Nothing had stopped.

It had been five days.

Five days of patching up bullet wounds, dodging Leroy’s thrown scalpels and moping around because of a criminal that’d kissed you. You’d convinced yourself he wasn’t coming back, and you weren't really sure if you even wanted him to. It’d been three sips and a kiss. nothing important. Nothing to write home about.

So when the elevator creaked open and he stepped out with two massive black duffel bags, your brain didn’t register it for a full three seconds.

As Shalnark noticed you, his face was set to beaming. “Ah Pira! Good to see you again. Could you sit there for a bit, I need to discuss something with Leroy.”

Leroy threw a cigarette through the reception hall, missing your face barely. “What is it?”

“I have a business proposition for you.” Shalnark was grinning widely. “If you’d be interested.”

Leroy looked up from his crossword puzzle. “What you trynna scam me on?”

A part of you wanted him to have come back for you, but you didn’t dare believe that, so you thought of other reasons. Oh! He could be hurt, couldn’t he? You walked up to Shalnark, and tried to make eye contact with him. “Is everything okay? You aren’t hurt, are you? I don’t smell anything…”

Shalnark patted your head and reached into his coat.

You blinked, still locked in place.

Then- click.

A soft sound, metallic and final, right beneath your jaw.

You looked down slowly.

There was a collar now fastened snug around your neck. Smooth pastel purple leather. And hanging from the front, glinting under the fluorescents: a small, silver bat charm.

Your hand flew up to it instinctively. “What the hell…”

Shalnark just smiled, eyes gleaming like a cat who’d finally cornered something fast and hot-blooded.

“A gift,” he said, tone light. “Also a receipt.”

He turned to Leroy, who was entirely unbothered by your flailing confusion, and slid both bags his way. “I’m buying her. Open the bags.”

“I’m sorry…what?” you sputtered.

Leroy, skeptical as ever, approached with all the enthusiasm of a man expecting a trap. He unzipped one of the duffels and froze.

Stacks. Piles. Millions of Jenny, bound in bands and smelling faintly of fresh ink.

The second bag was the same.

Impossible to argue with.

Leroy blinked, then looked up at you, deadpan. “You’re someone else’s problem now.”

“Wait…what-Leroy?!” It wasn’t like you two were close in any capacity, but still, to backstab you so quickly was unexpected.

“Don’t give me that tone. That’s more money than this hospital’s seen in ten years. Clearly the boy likes you more than I do.” He was already pulling the bags deeper inside, eyes gleaming like a crow with a shiny button. “Honestly, I should’ve sold you months ago.”

You whirled on Shalnark. “You can’t just-! I’m an employee! The hospital doesn’t own my damn life!”

“Oh, I’m not buying you,” he said sweetly, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear. “I’m just securing exclusive rights to your time, attention, and very sharp teeth for the foreseeable future.”

You opened your mouth, closed it again, and pointed at the collar. “This is insane.”

“Would it be better if I put it on myself?” he asked, already reaching for the clasp with a smirk.

You batted his hands away, flushed and stunned, your voice dropping to a hiss. “You don’t own me, and I’m not your dog, and I’m not doing anything I don’t want to, like wear a collar!”

“Of course not.” His voice dipped, quieter, as if appeasing a hissing cat. “But I missed you. And this way, I don’t have to wonder where you are. There’s like ten trackers in there!”

You stared at him, breath caught somewhere between anger and something very childish. And the worst part was, your fangs had already started to ache again… just a little. “That’s stupid.”

Shalnark hummed and grabbed your hand, dragging you to the elevator. You were struggling, a little bit for show, but even as you exerted the strength of multiple full-grown men, Shalnark’s arms showed no exertion as he took you with him into the dingy metal box. “I’ll send someone for your stuff later. First, let’s get you settled in.”

Leroy’s voice echoed from down the hall: “Do not bring her back if she breaks anything. Or bites anyone important.”

It took two weeks before you stopped jumping up curtains and hissing at him whenever he entered a room. After the first week, you already weren’t mad anymore, but it was a matter of principle.

The new set-up, weird as it was, was a massive upgrade from your last arrangement. You weren’t begging for blood and stuck in operating rooms for hours. You weren’t sleeping in a blood-stained cot behind an IV rack. You were playing card games at 2 a.m. with someone who thought being bitten was hilarious.

Midnight walks became a thing. Cold city air, empty rooftops, and arcade runs where Shalnark stole everything that wasn’t nailed to the ground.

You also were never hungry. The blood was always fresh, and sometimes straight from the source if you pouted just right. You hated how fast you adjusted to that.

Still, you couldn’t just fawn over him, joke with him, sit on the couch like you were two normal people in a normal home watching trashy dramas. He’d kidnapped you. That had to mean something. That took some serious apologies and promises to change.

You received neither.

Shalnark didn’t apologize. He didn’t even pretend he would. He treated your resistance like it was a funny inside joke you two were having. And the worst part? After two weeks, you found yourself getting tired of pretending to care.

One night, he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, controller in hand, on the receiving end of some vulgar cusswords from some teens online. You were meant to be sulking. Instead, you sighed, stepped over him, and dropped onto the couch with a heavy, theatrical huff. When he didn’t even comment, you slid sideways and curled up behind him, back pressed to his. His body was warm.

By the third week, you didn’t wait for him to settle first. You curled up against him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your favorite thing was to be tucked under his arm during movies, legs across his lap while he scrolled through data pads for whatever jobs he actually had to do in between hanging out with you. Your head against his shoulder when the days got slow, his cheek nuzzling against you when you yawned.

It was just… he let you drink more if you acted nice… and he didn’t get mad at you, or throw scalpels at you, so why not?

The collar didn’t come off, though.

And still, night after night, you kept curling closer.

"You don’t have to act so nervous," Shalnark said, amusement thick in his voice as he leaned back in his ridiculous pink gamer chair, the kind that still had plastic wrapping on the armrests.

You were already halfway curled between his legs, hands awkwardly gripping the edge of the seat, trying to pretend you were not about to do something incredibly intimate in a chair designed for League of Legends marathons.

“I am nervous,” you muttered, fangs just barely pricking through your lip. “Because this is... dumb. And weird. And you’re laughing.”

“I’m not laughing,” he said, definitely laughing. “I’m just enjoying the view.”

You glared up at him.

“If it’s about blood and access,” he’d said earlier, draping himself across the chair like a cat, “you should try the inner thigh. Closest to the femoral artery. Super rich.”

And then, with a grin: “Plus, it’d be cute watching you get flustered.”

You’d of course said no, struggled, pleaded and tried to act tougher than you really were, but when push came to shove and he told you the only way you were getting his blood was if you cooperated, you knew you’d lost. You hated how well he knew your hunger.

Even if, truth be told, you hadn’t been all that secretive about it.

Now, with your face hovering embarrassingly close to his crotch, you were beginning to regret all your life choices.

You took a slow breath. Then another.

And leaned in.

The bite was quick, cleaner than your usual, probably because you were trying so hard not to screw it up. His breath caught, just a little, which surprised you because he barely reacted to pain of any kind, and his hand settled instinctively against your hair, patting it while you took multiple draws of blood, every mouthful sending your entire body into a satiating ecstasy unlike any other.

It was a hug, it was a meal on an empty stomach, it was a cigarette while drunk, it was plans getting cancelled when you weren't feeling up to them anyhow.

It was perfection.

When you pulled back, your cheeks were flushed, your fangs still tingling from the taste, and you refused to look at him.

“...Happy?” you mumbled, brushing your thumb across your lips.

“Very,” Shalnark said, absolutely beaming. “You look adorable when you're shy.”

“You're not allowed to be smug about this,” you warned, finally daring to meet his eyes and immediately noticing the tent mere inches from your face. “Wha-!”

Shalnark laughed as you tripped back, but all he had to do was lean forward and hook his finger beneath the damned collar you were made to wear, and you were right back where he wanted.

Technically being a vampire gave you more strength, technically. You were like ten times the strength you’d been when you were human.

Shalnark was stronger than that, way stronger.

He pulled you back into your previous position, head back against his thighs. He sat back straight up again as well, and his lips quirked as you tried to pull away as far from his cock as you could, feeling like this was very quickly going somewhere illicit.

“Let’s deal with this now, okay?” He said cheerily, tugging your face even closer, until your cheek was firmly rubbing against his bulge. “You’re not the only one with an appetite.”

You tried to protest, but Shalnark's grip tightened, holding you firmly in place. Your protests turned to a muffled whimper as he forced your face harder against his hardening bulge. The heat radiating from it was intense, even through the fabric of his pants. It pulsed against your cheek as it grew stiffer and more prominent with each passing second.

"Uhm...Isn’t that… Shouldn’t we…" you tried to say, but the words came out garbled and weak. Shalnark silenced you by pressing your face fully against his clothed erection, now straining against his fly. The musky scent invaded your nostrils, for once overtaking the usual scent of his you followed so blindly. You swallowed. “I feel like we're skipping some steps."

“C’mon,” He said lightly, “usually I don’t have to convince you to suck me off.”

You flushed completely. “Don’t be like that! Drinking blood isn’t supposed to be-”

“Well it is. I think it’s really hot.”

With his free hand, Shalnark reached down and undid his fly with deliberate slowness, his eyes boring into yours with a wicked gleam. Your breath caught in your throat as he pulled out his cock, already leaking with anticipation. It bobbed out obscenely, mere inches from your face, the head smearing pre-cum across your cheek.

Shalnark poked your cheek with his dick a couple times, as if poking you to see how you'd react. “Are you going to be a good girl, or do I need to wait until you get hungry again?”

His implication made a shiver of indignation roll up your spine. Was he implying you’d whore yourself out for his blood? That wasn’t- you’d never! Not even if you were starving. Not even if Shalnark was really handsome- which he was, admittedly- and really nice, and good to you and…

Once again, you swallowed and side-eyed the cock mere inches from your face. Shalnark grabbed the base of his cock and positioned it close to your lips, leaving just the last little bit of distance for you to close.

You felt heady, you felt extremely hot, you felt confused.

"Can’t you be a good little vampire slut for me?" Shalnark said, petting your head with his free hand. The motion felt familiar, and part of you was genuinely comforted by the affection, even if its goal was so obvious.

Your mind was going a mile a minute, and with big eyes, you kept looking between Shalnark and his cock, trying to figure out what to do.

…

It was probably best…

Best to keep everyone happy, right?

With a whimper of surrender, you felt your jaw unlock and your lips part, accepting Shalnark's cock into your mouth without much reconsideration. As your lips stretched around his girth, you felt yourself begin to drool, your tongue instinctively licking at the weeping slit at the tip of his cock.

Shalnark groaned in satisfaction, his grip on your hair tightening as he slowly pushed more of himself into your hot, wet mouth. "That's it, take it all," he moaned, starting to thrust his hips forward, forcing his length deeper down your throat with each push.

He set a steady rhythm, fucking your face with long, deep strokes as he enjoyed the feeling of your tight mouth engulfing his cock. Your eyes watered from the intrusion, but you couldn't look away from Shalnark's gleeful grin, not really sure where else to look.

Shalnark continued his relentless pace, fucking your face with deep, powerful thrusts. His balls slapped against your chin with each forward surge, your neck straining to accommodate him. Drool leaked from the corners of your stretched lips, dripping down onto your heaving chest as Shalnark used your mouth like a mere hole for his pleasure.

"Ahaha! I knew you’d be a quick study," Shalnark laughed, sounding euphoric, one of his legs wrapping around your neck, forcing you even closer. His eyes were gleaming with joy, and despite your discomfort, a part of you was happy to see you cause that. "Aren’t you an amazing little thing!"

He knew he was close, his thrusts becoming erratic and forceful. With a final, brutal slam of his hips, Shalnark buried himself to the hilt in your throat just as hot, thick ropes of cum filled your mouth. He groaned long and breathy, holding your head flush against him as spurt after spurt of his seed pumped directly into your stomach.

"Swallow it all down," he commanded breathlessly, his grip on your hair punishing as he ground against your face, working his cock to milk out every last drop.”Weren’t you hungry?”

Reflexively, your throat constricted around him, gagging and swallowing as best you could to obey his order. The taste of his cum was tasteless, like everything was outside of blood, but for the first time in your life, you were kind of relieved at it.

Finally, Shalnark pulled out with a wet pop, his softening cock slipping from your abused lips with a strand of saliva and semen connecting your mouth and his dick. He smirked down at your debauched state, taking in your teary eyes, spit-slicked chin and flushed cheeks with a wicked grin.

"Good girl," he praised, giving your hair a condescending pat, before rolling the chair back and pulling you up to sit on his lap. "Wasn’t that nice?”

Not exactly the word you’d have used, you thought as your body immediately relaxed in his grip, your legs over the handles of the stupid pink chair.

Embarrassed, you nervously played with the hem of your own shirt, looking anywhere but at Shalnark. In the back of your mind you could feel his cock still beneath you, now softened, but not put away yet. “...I don’t need to do that every time I drink… right?”

He looked surprised at the question, but huffed out a laugh and placed a kiss against the side of your head. “Of course not.”

You sighed in relief. “Ah, I see.”

He continued. “Sometimes I’ll want to do something else. Variety is the spice of life, after all.”

“Oh.”

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itsgeecheebitch · 2 months ago

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Yamato Endo | Wind Breaker | S02E12

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itsgeecheebitch · 5 months ago

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Just recently discovered that I have PMDD and ADHD. Now I need a stalker!yandere x blackreader fic where the reader is just as messy and dysphoric and ADHD-brained as I am.

#fanfiction #fanfic #yandere #black reader #reader insert #adhd #pmdd #mental health #stalker x reader

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itsgeecheebitch · 6 months ago

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WEAR HEADPHONES!

NSFW

3 mins of Sylus eating you out and then fucking you.

All audio except for the music comes from the games. No AI.

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itsgeecheebitch · 7 months ago

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Incitement

Anonymous requested a yandere Chrollo piece with a virgin reader. The option for NSFW was open so I went with that one👀

Warnings: mentions of death, violence, noncon, loss of virginity, smut

The metal of the chain-link fence was cold against your back, and the chill seemed to seep into you and run through your entire body as you pressed yourself against it. Maybe it was some sort of attempt to force open an entrance in the solid fencing, or maybe it was just to see if you could unlock superpowers in that moment and phase through it.

Whatever you could get to escape Chrollo, who stared at you from the alley’s entrance and blocked the only way out.

‘Climb over the fence,’ you said to yourself, glancing back to see how high the metal structure stood, if there was any chance you could scale it and make it back down on the other side before he could get to you.

“I wouldn’t try that,” he said calmly, “you would only hurt yourself if you did.”

'Like you care about me getting hurt,’ you would’ve spat out if you could still talk, but your throat was still aching from his earlier attack.

Keep reading

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itsgeecheebitch · 7 months ago

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Burst

the fic I wrote for @hypnoswrites's birthday this year, who asked for a fic with Razor💜💜💜

demon!Razor x reader

Warnings: mentions of execution, mentions of torture, blood, death, gore

Word Count: 7.5k

The thin, sharp point of the sewing needle pierced through the soft cloth effortlessly, the thread attached to the end gliding through the small in the fabric until it snagged to a stop, unable to go any further once it had run out. Adjusting your grip on the cloth, the process was then repeated as you pushed the needle back into the fabric to complete the stitch, the thread gliding through once more. And so it went, stitch after stitch while a sleeve slowly began to form in your hands, the long bit of fabric becoming more recognizable as such when your thread pulled the pieces together in a tight seam.

The art of creating should be one that was satisfying. To take a lifeless piece of fabric and give it shape, give it a form that made it useful should be something that would make the creator proud. Not only that they had the skills to create clothing, but to also see the satisfaction of those who wore it once it was complete. The pay was well, yes, but to see someone happy with the work you had created was an added bonus. To see the happy smiles while they twirled around in your clothing, posing in front of the mirror and offering you words of praise. It was nice to know they appreciated your work, and with that, knowing that you offered something of value. While there would always be difficult and ungrateful customers, the ones that you had made happy were what drove you forward.

There was no satisfaction to be had in your work now.

You felt a bead of sweat beginning to run down your forehead, and you lifted up your arm to wipe it away, staying on constant alert so as to not allow anything to stain the fabric you now held as any imperfection would not be tolerated.

Time was growing short.

Day would come soon, and with it, your execution.

You shuddered as you continued to sew, trying to hurry as you continued to sew up the sleeve that lay in your lap. Sitting on the floor of a cold room at the top of a foreboding tower, there was fabric strewn all over the small area, both cut and uncut, all assembled into particular piles so you wouldn't need to go searching for them once you got to the other dresses.

'Other dresses'.

You bit your lip in frustration, knowing there was no way you'd even get that far.

Hours of work since you had been thrown in here, and there wasn't much to show for it: a bodice with one sleeve attached, another sleeve that was only half-finished and the beginnings of a skirt. Outside of the dress you were working on, the six others only existed as cut up pieces and were in no way presentable. And even with what you did have complete, it didn't account for the detail that the dresses were meant to have. Nor for the fact that you were meant to complete seven immaculate dresses before that door was opened again.

Seven gowns for the lordship's wife and their six daughters, to be made in the finest silks, embroidered and adorned with jewelry, all of which had been stuffed into the space you currently occupied. That was the feat that would save your life.

You knew that it was impossible.

No matter what skill you had when it came to your craft, there was no way for you to be able to complete seven gowns of high quality in the span of a single night. But you thought that perhaps if you were to make at least one of good quality, the lady and her daughters would be entranced enough that they would beg for the lord to spare your life so you could complete the rest. At least for a week. That would be all you needed to complete those gowns to their satisfaction, you were sure of it.

If you were granted that mercy, you could then use the time you had in finishing the other six gowns to earn the favor of those seven women and convince them to let you go free, and in that way, you could avoid the agonizing death of being tied up while the flames burned in a pyre beneath your feet.

But that wouldn't happen if you couldn't complete even one of them. If, when the tower door was opened again, they saw that it was only partially complete, you would be hauled off to the town square and set alight for everyone to see and gawk at.

No, that wouldn't be what happened first.

You had heard of what happened to others who had been accused of witchcraft: they were tortured for hours before their executions, regardless of whether they denied the accusation or not. And when they were brought before the public, they were paraded around so they could be abused further by way of the crowd throwing stones, mud and whatever else was on hand and easy to throw. Only then would the execution begin, a slow, painful process that began with heavy smoke that filled up your lungs and ended by being engulfed in flames.

The thought of all of that terrified you, and as you heard the bells of the church ring out the time of one o'clock in the morning, you were spurred to go faster. As fast as you were able to without your work coming out shoddy, at least.

There was some relief that hit you once the second sleeve was finished and you were able to begin stitching it onto the bodice. Once that part was fully finished, you would be able to continue your work on the skirt, and upon the completion of that, you could add in the details that would entrance the women who held your fate in their hands. Hopefully enough so that your failure to produce seven gowns would be forgiven.

It would be forgiven, you assured yourself. As long as you could complete the one, you could save yourself.

So you continued to toil away as the hour grew later and later.

When the second sleeve was firmly attached to the bodice, you were able to turn your attention to the skirt, continuing where you had left off earlier. Once the skirt was finished and attached to the rest, you would need to add in the detailing, you reminded yourself. The embroidery for the accents, as well as the jewels that were expected to complete the gown. All of that detailed work required time and couldn't be rushed.

Was completing even one possible?

You bit your lip again.

It would be fine, you told yourself. You could do this much.

You continued.

Once the skirt was finished and you began to attach it to the bodice, you heard the church bells ring out twice.

Two in the morning.

Dawn would come at six.

It would be fine. After the skirt was attached, you could spend the remaining four hours adding in the details. That was enough time to make the gown a thing of beauty.

You'd never done it in such a short amount of time but you could do it, you told yourself.

At the risk of your life being lost, you could do anything.

You continued stitching fast while doing your best to keep them from being sloppy, and while you did so, you glanced over to the multitude of threads and jewels that had been placed in here alongside the fabric, going over in your head which ones you would use and what design would work best with this particular gown. While you had time, you wished to get this part of the work done with so you could get to those important details. So you sped up just a little bit more.

Your haste was your undoing.

You stabbed your finger with the needle.

Crying out, you dropped the gown while you pulled your hand away, bringing it up to your face to inspect the damage. Already there was blood dripping down your finger, more than you would've expected. And before you could think to pull your hand away further, a single drop of the red liquid fell from your hand and down onto the gown on your lap.

No no no no no no no-!

The blood droplet landed right in the middle of the sleeve, spreading out as it soaked into the fabric. You jumped to your feet, holding the gown with one hand while you looked for something to use to wash the blood out. It was still salvageable.

Except you only realized now that they hadn't given you any food or water when they locked you in here, and you were so focused on completing your task that it hadn't crossed your mind before.

There was nothing you could do.

No, there needed to be something-!

In a move of panic, you rushed forward as you looked for anything, anything that could save the sleeve.

Your state of panic was so great that you didn't notice when the edge of the gown came far too close to a nearby candle. Only when you heard the fabric igniting followed by the unmistakable smell of smoke did you realize the awful blunder.

You could go up in flames before the morning even came.

The next moments were spent frantically as you beat the flames out of the gown with both hands. The fire was determined to spread quickly and the flames were hot against the aching skin of your palms, but the fire ultimately was put out as quickly as it had started. But that meant very little to you in that moment.

You held up the bottom of the dress, falling to your knees once you saw the extent of the damage. There was no salvaging the skirt; the flames had traveled too far, leaving the fabric burnt and curled on the edges. And what hadn't been affected by the flames had managed to get your blood on it, complementing the sleeve which now had a large red blot marring the center of it. You would need to replace both of them completely.

Hours worth of work now meant nothing, and you would need to start over if you wanted a chance of keeping your life. You let out a shaky breath as you went over in your head all that would need to be redone. Only the bodice and second sleeve were usable. You were back to only having a bodice and a sleeve done, and you would need to redo the other parts. That would take time.

Outside, you heard the church bells ring out three times.

Three in the morning.

Three hours until dawn. Only three hours.

You were doomed.

In that moment, you fell into despair.

You were reduced to a sobbing mess in the middle of that room, realizing that your bid to save yourself had failed. It was too late now to start over. You wouldn't be able to get even that single dress done, and when they opened that door to find you in the middle of your half-finished project that was partially burnt, you would burn as well.

The lord had also told you that if you didn't produce the dresses, the punishment you would receive would be harsher than it would have originally, as he had no desire for you to waste either his time or that of his wife and daughters. All of them would be angry.

The horrors of torture would be worse. The pain would be worse. All of it would be worse.

And with you still trapped in that room with no way of getting past that locked door on your own, you found yourself begging for someone to help you. For someone to appear and take you away from this awful place, to save you from that horrific fate.

Please, you thought to yourself while you cried, clutching the ruined dress up to your face while the blood from your injured finger had finally staunched.

Please let someone save me from this.

I'll do anything

That heroic character who saw the truth of the situation and keep you from harm refused to appear, and you stayed where you were, unable to cease your tears at the hopelessness of everything. You were barely able to note when you heard the rain from the outside begin to hit the roof above you, starting out as a drizzle before becoming stronger, pattering against the tile of the roof.

But after a few moments, you noticed the next change faster: inexplicably, the room became cold. All of the heat that had built up from the many candles was gone, and you were suddenly shivering against the stone floor, your clothes and the fabric beneath you offering little protection.

Immediately recognizing that as strange, you pulled your head back up, wiping away a few stray tears as you looked about, uncertain as to what could have caused the change in temperature to be so drastic.

“Am I right in assuming that the pyre outside is meant for you?”

The male voice that spoke into your ear had you screeching as you scurried forward, crawling away on all fours before you reached the wall and turned to see who had managed to sneak up on you.

It turned out to be a man, one who was currently crouching down next to where you had been sitting moments before. A guard? Given his size and his build, he certainly could have been. But no. Based on the slightly tattered clothing he wore, he didn't look like one of them. At the moment it seemed more likely that the purple-haired man sitting before you was a prisoner like yourself. But he hadn't been in here before. You'd been alone for hours now.

You glanced to the door, expecting to see it open. Yet it was still shut tight, and you got the feeling that if you were to try again to push it open, you would be met with a solid resistance, the wood that made up the door far stronger than yourself.

How had he entered without you noticing?

Your attention was brought back to the man when he spoke to you again, a friendly smile on his face as he asked “well? Am I right?”

Despite your confusion as to how he had suddenly appeared, you decided it would be best to answer the man seeing that you were locked in a room with him. So after staying quiet for a few moments, you nodded.

He hummed.

“You must be accused of something awful, then. People aren't burned for just anything,” the man said, settling down on the floor in a seated position.

Instead of elaborating on why you were to be executed, you asked “who are you? How did you get in? Why are you here?”

He didn't give you the courtesy of an answer to any of your questions; instead he chuckled at you. It certainly felt as though he was amused by your frantic state, and that only had you feeling worse about him.

“Why are you here?!” you repeated.

He motioned for you to shush.

“You should keep your voice down,” he told you, “that guard outside is asleep for now, but that might not be the case for long if you keep going like that.”

There was sense in his words, and you quickly glanced back over to the door, worried at the possibility of any movement behind it. Both you and the mystery man would be in trouble should he be discovered in here with you, and no doubt he would suffer for attempting to help you escape.

…. Was that even what he was here to do?

You looked back to the man, uncertain of what to make of him.

You still couldn't fathom how he had gotten in without either you or the guard outside noticing, and you were at a loss as to why he was here at all. But he was right that you should keep your voice down.

Sensing that you were in a calmer state, he spoke again.

“To start with your first question, my name is Razor,” he said, adding “I don't think the answer to your second question is as interesting as you might expect.”

Razor settled himself further, leaning against the wall as he continued with “as for the third, I'm only here because you called for me.”

Called for….?

You realized what he was speaking of. The desperate plea of yours that was going through your head moments ago. Had you been speaking out loud when you said that? How could he have even heard that?

“You heard that?” you asked.

“Barely,” he answered, “you were lucky. You happened to ask at the right time and I happened to be around.”

Your eyebrows furrowed as you wondered what the time had to do with anything.

Razor continued before you had the chance to ask, saying “now that I've answered those questions of yours, how about you answer mine?”

“… On if the pyre is meant for me?”

“What else?”

You looked down to the floor, your eyes ending up on the burnt and bloody gown that sat between the two of you as you quietly nodded.

“Yes, it's for me.”

“And why is that?” he asked.

“I've been accused of witchcraft.”

He didn't seem all that surprised by your answer. His eyes went to the gown as well before they examined the rest of the materials in the room. At the sight of him glancing around, you noted something: Razor's eyes were unusually dark. No, not just dark. The irises were pitch-black.

Was Razor even human?

The thought was unexpected but the explanation made sense of certain things if true. Such as how he had appeared out of nowhere, or how he could have heard that desperate plea for help – that when you thought about it more, you were certain you hadn't said that aloud. Though the fear from earlier settled into you once more at this realization. How could you be sure that Razor was benevolent?

Spirits and fae were spoken of in whispers and tall tales, and usually done so with no small amount of fear. It was well known that most otherworldly beings didn't care much for the likes of humans, and most stayed away from the places humans had settled into, keeping to their places in nature that humans couldn't get to. And when an unlucky human did come across the path of one of those beings, the story would usually end in tragedy, with that person disappearing completely or their brutalized remains being discovered some time later.

If you disappeared right now no one would care

The depressing thought that came through was unhelpful and you told yourself to stop.

Then came Razor's next question.

“Why were you accused?”

You sat up more, trying to adjust your posture. He didn't comment on it, but you were worried you might have offended him with the way you ran from him earlier.

“A ship sank during a storm,” you told him.

At that, Razor actually seemed puzzled as he asked “a sunken ship? That's what this is about? Surely the people here would be aware that such things are common. What did the survivors say?”

You lowered your head as you said “there were no survivors.”

“None?”

You shook your head.

“There were witnesses who said they saw the crew trying to swim to shore, but that all eventually vanished beneath the water. Some claimed that they saw white hands pulling them under. The accounts of those witnesses led everyone to believe that the sinking was the work of something evil, and then one of the village women came forward to say she saw me orchestrating the whole thing on a hill near the bay.”

“So you're here because you were careless.”

“No!”

You leaned forward on your hands as you exclaimed “I had nothing to do with any of that! I was just as horrified at what happened as anyone else! My only crime was that I watched the ship as it sank. I had no power at all in that situation!”

It was after your outburst that you remembered to keep your voice down, and you slapped a hand over your mouth as you once again looked to the door.

Mercifully, nothing came from it.

“I'm sorry,” you said a moment later.

Luckily for you, he nodded as he said “it's alright. It's quite understandable why you would react that way, given what you're facing.”

How odd that you felt a tiny bit better just from hearing that. It did nothing to change what you were going through, but just that little bit of empathy gave you a small peace of comfort. The words he said next did as well.

“For what it's worth, I believe you,” Razor said.

“Thank you. I appreciate it,” you answered.

“I take it no one else did?”

You shook your head, saying “I only arrived a fortnight ago in search of work. No one here knows me.”

“So you were selected because you were the outsider.”

You nodded.

“Well, that explains what I saw outside,” Razor began. Then he looked about the room as he continued with “but I would like to know what exactly is going on with all of this.”

You sighed.

“A last-ditch effort to save myself,” you answered sadly, explaining as you said “the lord of the castle gave me one night before the execution after I told him I would make his wife and daughters fine gowns in exchange for my freedom.”

“How many?”

“Seven.”

“You set yourself up for failure,” Razor said bluntly.

“I knew that I could never make seven in one night,” you told him, “but I thought that if I could make at least one, they would allow me more time to make the rest, and from there I might secure my freedom.”

Razor said nothing before he looked down at the burnt and bloody dress that lay before him. In particular, he seemed focused on the smears of blood that had marred the fabric, and when he looked back up to you, his gaze went to the finger you had accidentally stabbed with the needle.

“Clearly, that plan failed,” he said.

You hung your head low as you admitted “it probably wasn't going to work at all. Even if I finished that one, it likely wouldn't be acceptable. All of this was just a desperate effort to push off the inevitable for as long as I could.”

Glancing back up at him, you then asked “unless you have some way for all of them to be done by the morning.

Razor gave you a flat look as he said “do I look like I know anything about making dresses?”

“…. I suppose not.”

The cold was beginning to bother you more now, and you wrapped your arms around yourself in an effort to retain some heat. You noted that the rain was coming down harder now, the water striking the roof with more force than the simple drizzle from before. Maybe that would push off your execution, you idly thought. If the wood was too wet to set alight, you might live longer than you anticipated. Though it would likely do nothing to save you from the torture. If anything, it would prolong it. You shuddered.

Razor was quiet, his gaze on you while he seemingly evaluated you.

He came to you because he had heard your cry for help, didn't he? Did he intend to help you, or was he only here to witness your misery up close?

You wouldn't know until you asked.

“I know you said how you got in wouldn't be interesting to me,” you began, “but… Would it be possible for you to take me out the way you got in?”

“No.”

The blunt answer was unexpected, and you looked back up as you blinked in surprise.

“Oh.”

Your voice was shaky now, and you were barely able to breathe out the words “why did you come here, then?”

“I was curious,” he answered.

…. Curious.

That was all. He saw the scene outside in the nearby village and wanted to know what that was all about. Now he knew, and he likely wouldn't stay around for much longer. And unless the rain delayed the execution, by noon tomorrow you would be sent up to the sky in a plume of darkened smoke.

Your fate was sealed.

With that realization, your spirit broke for the second time that night and you began to sob, overcome with grief while you curled into yourself with your head in your hands, tears obscuring your vision. The rain outside was beginning to come down harder, and in one spot of the room, a bit of the water was beginning to drip onto the pile of fabrics, but you were too distraught to notice.

“Why are you crying?”

Razor sounded genuinely confused when he asked that a moment later.

After a few moments of trying to compose yourself, you shakily answered “I-I'm really go-going to die tomorrow.”

“Why are you so certain of that?”

“Because you can't help me,” you answered just as your mind began going wild with many terrible thoughts.

You'll be cut up and stuck like a pig. Burning coals placed in and against you. Whipped until the skin of your back was raw and bloody. Placed inside horrific devices that would make you yearn for death.

The fire will be a mercy

Razor hadn't said anything, and with the way you held your head in your hands, you were too scared to look up, afraid that when you looked over to him again, you would find that he was gone, no longer interested in your particular set of unfortunate circumstances. Or perhaps he had never been there. Perhaps your mind had broken and you had made up a figure you could talk to, one who was willing to believe your side of the story and offer even the smallest bit of comfort but that the delusion was only able to go so far, only last so long before you realized what your mind was doing.

It was bitterly cold in that tower now, the many candles placed around the room doing nothing to keep you warm.

Then, above the sound of the rain, you heard movement in the room. That of someone climbing to their feet.

You didn't look up.

The footsteps you heard after were muffled by the way they stepped on the ruined gown and the other materials still strewn about the floor, but you heard the way someone came closer to you.

That someone then knelt down in front of you.

…. It sounded real. And you could sense that there was a person sitting in front of you, feel just how close they were to you.

Was Razor real? But if he was, why was he still here?

A large form suddenly overtook yours, and you gasped as two strong arms wrapped around your back and pulled you in close. Your head shot back up in time to see that it was Razor; he was still in here with you, and upon feeling his touch, you found that he wasn't any sort of hallucination. Without a word, he pulled you up from where you were curled against the wall and against his chest.

Razor was holding you.

Outside, the rain began to come down even harder, the sounds of the multitude of droplets descending from the heavens far more audible now on the stone tiles.

“Tell me,” Razor said, “what do you want?”

“… What I want? Why does that matter?” you asked.

“Because I'd like to hear.”

“Why?”

“Just tell me,” he said.

It was strange. Why was he interested in any of this? Why did he care enough about you to ask? What did he get out of it?

…. Who really cared if you were going to die soon?

Taking ahold of his shirt, you leaned your head against his chest as you answered “All I want is for them to not hurt me.”

Razor was quick to ask “and by 'them', you mean the inhabitants of this castle and the village beyond?”

You nodded.

“Say it aloud,” he ordered.

“Say what?”

“Say that you want me to save you from those people.”

“Why?”

“Because that's the only way I can save you.”

“….. You want to save me?”

“I do.”

Razor clutched you tighter as he continued with “so say it. Say that you want to be saved from all those who would wish you harm.”

Was that truly all it would take?

You questioned it in your mind for only a moment, as you were quickly reminded of what would happen once the guard came to collect you. Torture and death. Undignified, humiliating and painful. All before an uncaring crowd who only came to your execution so they could have an outlet for their anger at the previous tragedy or simply for the entertainment of watching you die.

You weren't going to go through that. You refused. You had done nothing wrong and you didn't deserve a fate like that.

“Please, Razor,” you whispered, “save me from all of them.”

The unexpected happened once again when Razor leaned down to place a kiss on your forehead. But you were given no chance to question that as you heard when the rain outside manage to come down even harder.

Then came the sound of thunder, a deep rumbling that shook the very foundations of the tower you sat inside. It almost sounded like the growling of an animal. The winds were picking up as well, whistling past the castle and through the buildings of the village beyond, forcing open the doors and shutters that had not been properly bolted shut. In the distance, you could hear a single voice exclaim in surprise.

A lightning bolt struck.

One that was so close and so bright that you could see the light that came from it beneath the door of your cell. The thunder that accompanied it was even louder than the rumbling before, and you pulled your hands away from Razor's shirt to cover your ears while the entire building shook violently.

Even with the protection over your ears, you heard as the guard outside was startled awake as he fell from his seat, calling out in shock.

More voices called out in the distance, sounding less surprised and more frightened.

And then the hail came.

It started off the same way the rain had, falling innocently upon the roof. The small pellets bounced off harmlessly, clinking against the tiles. But just like the rain, they began to come down harder, and the longer they fell, the more of them began to batter against the roof with even more force.

The guard outside left his post, hurriedly running down the stairway.

The hail came down stronger still, and you unintentionally whimpered, the noises from the outside worrying you the longer they went on.

Razor spoke then.

“You'll be fine. Just wait for it to be over,” he told you.

Something crashed into the room.

You snapped your head over to where the sound had come from, only to find that several of the candles had gone out. The howling wind was easier to hear now, as was the ever present thunder. And, while it was harder to make out now, you thought you heard similar crashing noises coming from outside the door, as well as voices that screamed out in response.

More objects crashed into your cell, and within moments all of the candles had been snuffed out. Now you were in the dark, the only bit of light coming from the lighting that raced across the sky above the tower.

You kept your hands over your ears while you cowered against Razor. He continued to hold you, and you felt him shift around you, positioning himself so that he shielded you from the worst of the storm that got in through the holes in the roof.

In the chaos that the storm brought in and around the castle, it took you some time to notice that the figure you were huddling against seemed…. Different. The body positioned above you felt larger, the muscled arms felt stronger than before and at the ends of his fingers, you felt claws that lightly pressed into your skin through the fabric of your clothing.

Even though you knew you would see very little if you tried to look up at what exactly was shielding you, you kept your eyes squeezed shut, too afraid that you would see something you shouldn't.

How you eventually fell asleep during that ordeal you would never know.

Droplets of water landing on your cheek were what roused you from sleep, and while at first you mindlessly brushed them away, once you to fully regained consciousness you shot up into a sitting position, remembering the storm of the previous night while you took in the state of the room.

It was in shambles. Ruined fabric strewn everywhere, jewels and threads scattered about, the door now hanging open on one hinge and a multitude of holes punctured through the ceiling, allowing in the dripping water and small streams of sunlight. Many of the jewels had been broken to pieces, torn apart by some unknown force. And after moving a sheet of fabric that you noticed had a hole in it, you found that whatever had pierced it had also gone straight through the floor beneath it.

Yet you were unharmed, and currently you were laying on top of your unfinished projects, a few of the larger pieces sliding off of you that seemed to have been placed on top of you while you had been asleep.

….. You'd been asleep. And you had been that way for quite a while, judging by what you could see of the sun through the roof.

No one had come for you?

You then looked to the door, and then realized that what you were seeing was wrong. Why had it been left open? Who had wrenched it open in such a way that it had been damaged?

Where was the guard? Where was the lord and his wife?

Where was Razor? Not here, that was certain.

Quietly, you pulled yourself to your feet before you approached the open door, keeping your footsteps light as you tried to listen for anyone who might be coming your way.

You heard no one.

And after exiting your makeshift cell and finding your way to the stairs, you stopped when you came to a small window, looking out at the village beyond. Even with the distance, you could see that the village had sustained just as much damage as the castle, if not more. And perhaps it was only because of that distance, but you couldn't hear any activity coming from there. No sounds of any villagers either attempting repairs or to go on with their workday as best they could. All of it was silent except for the distant sound of the waves from the nearby sea.

You continued going down.

The first person you found was a guard at the bottom of the spiral stairway, stiffly splayed out at the bottom of the steps, weapon still in hand. You didn't need to get close to see that he was dead. When you saw him first you stopped, not wanting to get any closer. The markings you could see on his armor and body worried you. But if you wanted to leave the tower, you needed to step over him. After a few moments of gathering up your courage, you descended again. Once you got closer was when you discovered the cause of his death:

Holes.

Dozens of holes that ranged in size were all over that had punctured through his body. The majority of them had struck him in the back, though when you carefully stepped around him, you saw that there had been a few that had struck him up top through the head and shoulder. He'd been standing when he was first hit, and whatever had pierced him had continued to do so until the storm had ceased. No doubt he had been dead long before then.

The thought of 'what could cause such a thing' was a brief one – you quickly caught sight of the hailstones that still littered the ruined hall, and you noted a few that were colored red, matching the blood that had oozed out of the guard's puncture wounds.

The hail had been strong enough to pierce through the roof, you remembered. If it had no issue with that feat, it had no issue going through human flesh.

How many others had died?

You began to wander the halls, stepping over hailstones and pieces of the castle that had crumbled in the storm's wake. Soon enough you were stepping over bodies as well, all of whom were in a similar condition as the guard you had first seen. You found other guards. Then servants. Then nobles. You recognized two of the lordship's daughters, both huddled together beneath a barely upright table, their desperate attempt at shelter failing miserably as the hailstones slowly melted into the blood around them.

All of them with riddled with holes.

No one had survived. No one other than you.

…. You needed to leave.

If anyone from the outside discovered this scene and found you the sole survivor, you would be questioned as to how you of all people had lived. That ran the risk of receiving more accusations and death sentences if you couldn't come up with a good explanation. No, it was better to take whatever food you could find in the kitchens and then travel as far away as you could for a fresh start.

No one needed to know the truth.

You only payed attention to the structure of the castle from then, limiting your attention to the bodies of the dead to brief glances. Some of the damage to the walls had been extreme enough that you feared parts of them could come crumbling down. Even more reason to leave this place.

The kitchen wasn't hard to find, situated at the lowest level of the building. There were bodies within that room as well, but you kept your focus on the contents of the room, immediately going to scavenging for the food that was still edible. A loaf of bread and a few apples were quickly placed into a bag you found nearby that appeared to be in good shape, and you slung the bag over your shoulder as you began a search for water. You wanted to make as much distance between yourself and the castle, so you wanted enough food and water to last you for a few days. If all went well, you would have found somewhere else to stay by then. Where that would be exactly or what you would be doing, you had no clue, but you would deal with that when the time came.

Catching sight of the closed door of a storage room, you began to make your way there.

Only you noticed the body that lay just before it.

Another servant, this time a man, who had been filled with holes like the rest. Only the state this particular body was in was different from the others you had seen. Parts of him were missing. Specifically one of his arms and pieces of his legs that had been torn away. With the way the meat of his flesh had been torn off, it almost looked as though an animal had gotten to this one.

What sort of animal could devour an entire arm and leave nothing behind?

Something snapped in half behind the storage room door.

You took a few steps back as your attention was now there, listening as a sickening noise echoed within the confines of that room. Another snap like that of a bone, and then the sound of tearing, like tough meat being ripped apart. A loud chewing sound followed, accompanied by unearthly grunting. And then a crunching noise that followed sounded as though whatever was in there had just broken a bone with the strength of it's jaw alone.

…. There very well could have been the remains of some large animal within that room, one that had been hunted the day prior.

But taking another look at the man who lay in the middle of the kitchen floor and the state he was in, the missing arm and the state of his legs, and you found yourself having a hard time believing that whatever was in there was feasting on a mere animal.

Leave now.

Before it turns it's attention on you. The water can wait.

With that, you held tightly onto your bag of food as you turned and swiftly made your way to the door that lead outside. You'd taken hold of the handle and you were about to pull it open when-

Stop

A voice that reverberated in your head made you freeze, and despite your best efforts to break free, you were petrified to that spot, still tightly gripping the handle of the door that lead the way to freedom.

Why couldn't you move?

The door to the storage room creaked open and you felt your blood freeze, your breathing coming in heavy as you were certain that whatever that thing was that was now coming out was going to kill you-!

Instead of a beast-like creature that you anticipated charging at you, footsteps sounded against the floor. They were coming towards you and you felt an odd feeling of deja vu.

“Ready to leave, I see.”

You recognized that voice.

And as soon as those words were spoken, you had control of your body again, allowing you to look over your shoulder to the figure who now stood behind you.

It was Razor.

He smiled at you and placed a comforting hand upon your shoulder as he said “forgive me for leaving you by yourself like that. You seemed like you needed the rest and I thought I'd take a look around before we left.”

“…. Before we left?” you repeated, asking “I'm going with you?”

“It's a fair trade for saving your life, don't you think?” he asked in return.

You looked about the room again, focusing on the hail that had managed to make it's way down there and the bodies within that were just as battered as the ones on the levels above. Everyone within the castle was dead. And then you remembered that the village was in the same state, if not worse. At this point there seemed to be little doubt that anyone there had managed to survive.

“You did all this?” you asked. You felt the horror in your own expression, that Razor was capable of so much destruction.

He raised an eyebrow at you, asking “why do you care? These people would have happily killed you if not for me.”

He misunderstood what you meant, but you weren't given any chance to explain yourself as he wrapped a hand around your shoulder and pulled you close.

“I'll protect you,” Razor said, “and all you need to do in exchange is follow my every order. That doesn't sound bad, does it?”

His black eyes were staring down at you again. Staring at you, daring you to disagree with him.

Do what he wants, your mind told you. And since your voice currently couldn't work, you gave a small shake of your head to answer 'no', that it didn't sound bad.

The fact that you felt otherwise was besides the point.

Razor smiled at you, and the squeeze of your shoulder that accompanied that indicated that he was pleased with you.

“We should get going,” he then told you. He pulled you away from the door and took the handle, opening it for you. You wanted to ask where you were going, but you still couldn't find your voice. When he held the door open and looked at you, you followed his silent order and walked out the door, clutching the bag of food while you kept your gaze on the ground in front of you. Razor was soon leading you through the desecrated courtyard, making sure you were never too far away from him.

And as he took you through the castle gate, you wondered just what sort of future was in store for you. Your gaze went back to the man – spirit? Demon? – as you wondered what fate was in store for you now that Razor controlled it.

181 notes · View notes

itsgeecheebitch · 7 months ago

Note

Okay that soulmate AU was bomb af. Could you do one with Chrollo? Soft yandere?

gotchu fam

insinuated to be red thread of fate au, but reader can’t see this due to no nen.

You mentally made a note for yourself to tell the janitor to oil the wheels on the cart. The cart was filled to the brim with books, and every time you had to turn, the front right wheel loudly protested the action. It wasn’t too loud, but in a library, silence was preferred, and you didn’t want to be seen breaking the very rules you enforced on the people visiting.

It was a busy afternoon, people of every walk of life walking about the rather large library. Most of the visitors today were students, but you also noticed some families with young children ready to pick out some easy books and other people browsing the stands. There was some small murmur among the people, parents asking their children what they wanted to read next or people asking questions to your colleagues, but it was quiet enough.

Your entire cart was filled with returned novels, most of them historical dramas. A new romance show had swept the nation and suddenly every man, woman, and child wanted to read medieval and renaissance romance books, though you doubted many of them actually finished reading considering the quick return of all of them.

Pushing your cart further, you asked a few people to part in order for you to pass, eventually reaching the dreaded romance novel section. You didn’t dislike this part of the job, but this section was notorious for people putting books in the wrong order.

You got to work, putting one book in after the other, and after ten minutes you had already finished putting away nearly half of the contents of the cart.

It was at this time that you noticed through the bookcase some new visitors sitting at a table nearby, a man wearing a long black fur-lined coat and his hair slicked back, and a pink-haired woman simply wearing a long-sleeved shirt with a vest.

They were sitting casually, and you wouldn’t have even noticed them if they hadn’t been speaking in a normal tone of voice. You couldn’t understand what they were saying but considering the number of people surrounding them trying to work, they were speaking a bit too loudly. This part was actually your least favorite, as you really didn’t like having to confront people all the time. Whenever it was a calm day, you would ignore such situations, but the surrounding people struggling to work forced you to actually do your job.

Leaning around the bookcase, you tried to make eye contact with either of them, which they caught on surprisingly quick. The woman first made eye contact back, her eyes narrowing slightly. The man was quick to follow, though as soon as he made eye contact with you, his eyes blew wide open with something akin to surprise.

You lifted your fingers to your lips, and to your delight, the woman made a curt nod.

Smiling, you lowered your hands, intending to get back to work, though the man was still staring straight at you. Maybe he recognized you from somewhere, though you could swear for a fact that you didn’t go to school with him, he was handsome enough that you would’ve remembered him.

As you turned back to the cart, you heard them continue their conversation in a lower volume, though the woman made a loud sound of surprise at something the man had said. Glancing through the bookcase, you wondered if you needed to step in again. Luckily for you, besides that outburst, they continued to speak through hushed whispers.

Wondering what all that was about, you continued emptying the cart, a sigh escaping you as you filled out the last one. Stepping back, your eyes scanned the shelves, seeing if everything was in the right place. You only had to move a few books to their rightful place before you were really done.

The only thing you had left to do was gather some books people had reserved, placing them behind the counter for pick-up. After that, it was time to go home and spend the rest of the night reading and drinking tea. A bright smile formed on your face as you imagined the space on the couch you’d occupy, a soft blanket covering you and a steaming cup of tea in your hand.

Your eyes glanced at the man and woman, though to your surprise they had left. You hadn’t even noticed them leaving, which confused you a bit. But well, you couldn’t keep an eye on everything, so you probably just didn’t pay attention for a while.

Seeing the finish line in sight, you grabbed the cart with a renewed vigor, pushing it forward.

You didn’t see the pair the rest of your shift, or the day after. It wasn’t for another week that you actually saw the man again, sitting in one of the reading corners with some philosophical book. His eyes followed you as soon as you came close, and a few times he’d asked you trivial questions like where the next volume or an earlier edition of a book was.

You hadn’t seen him today, which was both good and bad. You liked it when he was there, as he was always polite and quiet after the first incident. He smiled at you, and sometimes when the entire library was empty he would ask you questions and start conversations. You never really had enough time to really get into one with him, your co-workers always keeping an eye on slacking employees, but there was one small conversation that still made your heart bump in your chest.

The library had been nearly desolate at that time, and he was among the only ones still reading. You’d passed him while fixing some issue with the computers and he’d chuckled and initiated a conversation, seeing your despair with the program. Seeing as it was so slow that day, you’d responded with a smile and asked what he’d been reading all day.

It was something rather romantic, something you hadn’t deemed him the type for. When you voiced this opinion, he’d laughed and agreed with you. You were close to leaving again, when he suddenly asked you something, smiling softly at the cover of the book he was holding.

“Do you believe in soulmates?”

When you had responded that you didn’t really believe in such things, he’d closed his eyes, mulling your answer over. After that response, he seemed to be keen on returning to his reading, so you told him goodbye and returned to your work. In your head you wondered if you had said something wrong, wondering what he had wanted you to say instead. It was a bit of a stupid thing to ponder about, but the small crush you were developing made you think of the stupidest things.

Those conversations didn’t happen often though, and weeks passed with few words and lots of secret glances sent both ways.

Right now you were done with your shift, ready to make some quick dinner at home and relax the rest of the night. Wondering if you needed to stop by the grocery store before going home, you walked toward your car. It was pretty dark outside already, winter setting in too early for your tastes. When you reached your car and stepped inside, you put the key in the ignition. Twisting it around, pressing the clutch down, you expected the familiar rumble, yet no noise came out.

Your brows furrowing, you tried again and again, only for the same result to happen. Cursing, you grabbed your bag, stepping outside your car. You’d just closed the library, so no one there would be able to help you.

Throwing the hood of the car up, you wondered why you even bothered when the engine came in sight. You had little to no expertise with these things, not to mention the darkness obscuring the view. The only upside you could think off of doing this was that you could rule out the car exploding. There was no smoke, and you didn’t see fluids in places where fluids shouldn’t be.

Mentally kicking yourself, you didn’t even notice someone walking up to you until he stood right beside you.

“Are you having difficulties?” A voice quipped beside you, making you nearly yell out. Noticing it was your favorite visitor calmed you down instantly, though you still sent him an incredulous look.

“Please don’t sneak up on me.”

His smile didn’t falter in the slightest, his hands in his pockets. “I apologize, I thought you noticed me earlier. Do you need a ride home?”

Part of you was excited, this was the perfect opportunity to get to know him and maybe even learn his name, but another part of you was a bit skeptic. You could like him all you wanted, but there was no way a guy like him would even give you the time of day in that way. It was also late, and he’d shown up out of nowhere, even though the library had been closed for an hour already.

“No thanks, I’ll call someone.” Making up your mind, you sent him an apologetic smile. “Thank you for the offer though, I appreciate it.”

“Do you mind if I wait till you're picked up then? Wouldn’t want to leave you alone in the dark here.”

“Sure, thanks.”

Opening your bag, you scoured it for your phone, only to be unable to find it. You opened the car door, scanning the inside of the door and the passenger seat, only to find nothing. Checking your pockets again, even though you knew your phone wasn’t in there, you finally came to terms with the fact that you couldn’t find your phone.

“Ah, I seem to have left my phone inside.” You stated in a deadpan voice. The alarm was fully active now, and turning it off without any real incentive would only cause you trouble at work. You could already hear the sneer of your manager, making comments on your ‘addiction to electronics’.

With a slightly apologetic expression you turned to your now knight in shining armor.

“I really apologize, but do you have a phone I could borrow?”

“I’m afraid not.” He replied, a quasi-worried expression on his face. “But as I initially said, I can take you home.”

Not feeling like waiting outside for hours in this cold, or walking all the way home, you nodded and thanked him profusely. He waved off the gratitude, leading you with him to his car, which made you double-check when he approached it. You didn’t know a lot about cars, as stated before, but you weren’t blind, and this was a very nice car.

Sitting in the passenger seat, you did your best to make yourself as small as possible, feeling as if you were ruining the nice leather seat just by sitting in it. The man chuckled slightly, turning the ignition on. As he drove off the parking lot and you told him the address, you realized you didn’t even know his name.

“I’m y/n, by the way.” You began. “Though you might have read that off my id clip already.”

He didn’t respond immediately, but his eyes glanced over you before returning to the road. After taking another turn, he spoke.

“My name is Chrollo.” He replied. “And yes, I was aware of your name.”

The thought that he had paid attention to such small things made your heart bump slightly in your chest, and you tried to secretly glance at him. For a while, a comfortable silence sat between you. The scenery of traffic and suburbia flashed past you, and as he took the same route you usually did, you wondered if he also lived in the area.

“Not many people know this short-cut.” You said as the car slowed down in front of a stoplight. “You must come here often.”

“I am often in the neighborhood, yes.” If you didn’t know any better, you would’ve said that he was laughing at you, a slight mirth present in his voice. You didn’t want to pry, however, he was already nice enough to take you home. You didn’t want to be rude.

The first wrong turn you merely thought of as him taking another route, but when he went a whole different direction you asked aloud if he actually knew where he was going in the most polite way you could think of. He merely smiled at you, making a teasing comment about how he was surprised you didn’t know this shortcut. A few more minutes you remained silent, but when you realized he was going straight to the highway, you intervened.

“Not to be rude, but I really think you’re going the wrong way.” You said, a bit more pressing than the last comment you made. “My house is on the other side of this area.”

“I know.”

It only took those two words for your blood to freeze over.

“Are you making a detour?” You asked, voice a bit more shaken. “Can you tell me where you’re going?”

His hand went over you, toward the glove box, opening it. To your horror, you saw a needle lying right in the middle of the compartment, with cap and all. Before you found the chance to respond or even blink, you realized he'd already stuck the needle in your arm, pushing in the fluids.

“Wh-a, huh-“ You barely managed to react as the sting of the needle shifted into a loss of feeling in your entire arm, spreading rapidly to your other limbs. Even your head started to feel heavy, your eyelids fluttering.

Despite it all, you didn’t panic, instead you felt extremely let down. You didn’t know what you’d expected from him, but the prospects you associated with drugging were not on that list. Every sweet glance, small smile and witty comment he’d sent you in the library all flashing in front of your eyes as you met his now darker gaze.

He didn’t really show any reaction to his actions, but he held up his hand for you to see, though the red thread spanning between his ring finger and yours wasn’t visible to you, his eyes still focused on the road.

“You might not understand it now, but I am doing this out of love.”

Those were the last words you heard before everything went black.

1K notes · View notes

itsgeecheebitch · 7 months ago

Text

All That's Needed

A commission for the lovely @spacyst for a mafia! Chrollo x Reade. It got a bit long lmao so enjoy

Warnings: Mafia! Chrollo, yandere, lawyer! reader, female! reader, dubious consent, explicit violence, extortion, crime, breaking and entering, mass-murder, blood mention, slight nsfw, 11k words

Sometimes you wished fate had handed you different cards.

You’d seen the christmas movies, the main character always having a job that required hard work but also gave a lot of satisfaction, the entire setting coated in a dust of snow that never seemed to inconvenience anyone. You knew it was all romanticizing something that didn’t truly exist and that working in a lovely little boutique or a bakery had its fair share of hardships, but god did it look comforting. A wonderful house, without the stress from a massive mortgage. A sly best friend living nearby you’d go on coffee trips with. A handsome man come from the city, who you’d reteach the true meaning of Christmas, yadda yadda yadda. Your job would be to make others happy, and that alone made it a far cry from your current occupation.

Sighing as you scanned your card, you entered the building.

It’d already been a long day, but you still had a few meetings, all of which would generate more work for you. Comments like ‘maybe you can check out-�� or ‘have you read this and this?’ were helpful, but for once you wished someone would arrive at a meeting with finished tasks instead of more dead-ends to off load onto you.

Though, to be fair, even if someone offered to lighten your workload, you’d probably look upon them with a large amount of suspicion and decline. Control issues aside, there were very few colleagues you trusted enough, both on their level of skill and their loyalty to the cause, to work with you on this.

The stakes were too high.

It was one of the things that horrified you most about your job, being a prosecutor for the city of York New. Justice wouldn’t be enacted if you were anything less than perfect.

Proof of imperfection causing harm was everywhere: misinterpreted witness reports, faulty or late documentation, language barriers that weren’t solved by a half-decent translator. Before you’d been accepted to study law, you’d had some faith in the system, believing that errors would be caught in the end and empathy would have a place throughout the process. You’d been taught the rationale behind the rules, and as such you believed them rational. You’d been taught that this system separated man from beasts and assured some certainty that people would treat others as they wanted to be treated themselves, and while there were a lot of contexts in which law did just that, you quickly found out during your internships that law was also merely a tool to hide the true injustices.

A parking ticket. An overdue payment. An assault from one blue collar employee to another. All these cases gave the illusion of justice being served, but not once during your career had you seen anyone with even a modicum of power truly get what they deserved. Even if they were charged with this or that, it would only be because they got sloppy and some bigshots needed a scapegoat. The system at large was never punished, because at the bottom of it all, law wasn’t a means to enact justice, it was a means of control.

And the ones that controlled York New were despicable, a bunch of thugs that had had let the power go to their heads. The entire system was now built to sustain the excessive amount of underground dealings happening in the bowels of the city, every mom and pop shop extorted to finance laviscious lifestyles and bids for power. Every single person holding residency in the city had one or two stories about brushes with the mob, and it was an untold truth that as far as most people were concerned, the mafia was the government as far as practicality allowed them to be.

Still, to keep up the illusion that the legal system would look out for the little guy, there were light spots, the tricks of the powers that be thrown back in their faces with such brute force that they had no choice but to bend, lest they break instead. To achieve something like that one required a media circus, a strong case and a fair judge. With the attention of the masses, the odds of naked corruption would lessen significantly, though with the speed of the news these days, this alone wouldn’t win you your current case. You needed more. More proof, more case law, more time.

All of this especially because despite what the news had recently claimed about York New being safer than ever, corruption had never been more rampant, even if it was less visible to outsiders. It would only take a person one day in your shoes to realize this, you thought as you entered one of the rooms you’d reserved for a meeting with a colleague specialized in evidence-gathering specific to criminal law, an old woman with sharp eyes called Nimmegen, and you were instead greeted by the sight of a handsome young black-haired man with stormy eyes and a classical appearance.

Your breath had hitched, your eyes also quickly indexing the people standing behind him, the black-haired man the sole one seated, Nimmegen nowhere to be seen. For a second you wondered if you’d just merely misremembered the room number, but when the man motioned for you to sit down, you realized this was truly what it seemed to be.

No matter, you sternly told yourself, your expression hopefully masking the panic you felt inside.

The man, the root of all of your issues, opened his mouth to say something, but you took that moment to get yourself out of here.

“Mr. Lucilfer. I must apologize for wasting your time.” As you spoke he stirred his coffee, a perfect picture of corporate confidence. To your own ears you sounded like a robot, mechanically sounding out vowels you hoped would save you from this situation. “There are proper channels for contacting the opposition, and overtaking a confidential meeting between me and a colleague is not one of them. I’d be happy to speak with you on official terms. Good day.”

With those words, you turned around and left the room, closing the door behind you as you left. With quick strides and your breath thundering in your ears, you quickly walked towards the elevator. Behind you, you heard the door to the conference room open again, and your last name called throughout the garden of cubicles by someone other than fucking Chrollo Lucilfer, a few people looking up to see what was happening. You reached the elevator and pressed the button to go down, praying wordlessly for it to hurry up and arrive.

Footsteps behind you, though you did not want to look over your shoulders. This was an institutional building with tight security for obvious reasons, but the blonde man you’d seen stand behind Chrollo Lucilfer had been very openly carrying a gun, clearly having been let through without inspection. The odds of them starting a shoot-out here were low, but the fact that you were even considering the possibility had goosebumps forming all over your arm. The footsteps were getting closer.

The doors to the elevator opened and you stepped inside, past the two office employees stepping out, immediately pressing the button to the ground floor, following it up with the button that closed the doors faster, trying not to convey the haste you felt rush through your body. You couldn’t go home, that was not public enough, so a different office would probably be the best route. Even if they’d gotten through this buildings’ security, it’d hopefully take a while for them to arrange new access to your next destination. What you’d do once the sun was down was still up for grabs.

The doors closed and you looked up.

Right into Chrollo Lucilfer’s unimpressed smile.

While you couldn’t exactly see your own expression, it felt as if you were masking your continued shock pretty well, the straightening of your own posture as he waited for you to finish noticing him all the time you were afforded to start improvising.

“While I am sure my being here must’ve been quite the surprise, there was no need to flee the premises, miss.” He said, placing both his hands into his pockets as he nonchalantly went to stand next to you. “I came here to talk.”

“And as I said, mr. Lucilfer, I am open to a discussion through the proper channels.” You wouldn’t be strongarmed into settling for any less than this man’s complete and utter defeat, and if he believed you to have the conviction of the typical lawyer roaming these halls, he was wrong. Yorknew was rotten and infected with criminality because of him, and it would mean betraying everything you were to even consider any other course of action. You had to repeat these sentiments, lest fear of possible consequences would catch up with you. “Coming up to my place of vocation with armed guards is not one of those channels.”

Suddenly a thought occured. If you could find the camera footage of him and his posse entering the building, and waiting for you in the conference room, it would paint a very nice picture of the Phantom Troupe interfering with the legal process. Since the footage was property to your institution and they entered of their own accord, they wouldn’t have any way of rejecting its use in court.

Though you couldn’t imagine him not knowing that.

“I apologize for that.” He said, turning his head to look at you, a bid for attention you purposefully ignored. “But I am truly serious when I say that my appearance here was just to have a conversation with you. I’ve read quite a bit of your work, and now am probably becoming a part of it, so I wanted to put a face to the name.”

You didn’t reply, hoping your lacklustre expression faced toward the metal of the elevator door would do the talking for you.

There was no way he didn’t already know what you looked like. This legal struggle had gone on for years already. The amount of death threats, spam calls and blood soaked packages found outside your door were all way too targeted for him to not have even an inkling to what you looked like. The mention of now knowing your face was just another threat, just another sprinkle of fear to worsen the few bits of sleep you sometimes managed to get.

The elevator opened with a ting.

You stepped out of the elevator with haste, hoping he wouldn’t follow you out.

He didn’t make any moves to do so. “I heard about your brother.”

You cursed yourself as you immediately turned towards him, not hesitating even for a second. The obnoxious villain just stood there, a twinkle in his eyes and an easygoing smile on his face as he realized he’d caught your mask of professional behavior slipping with the angered scowl you had to certainly be wearing.

The mere mention of your brother, even without any syllable of his actual name mentioned, made a skittish feeling crawl up your legs, a childish urge to immediately run or cry or punch the one who broached the subject a common feeling. At least you weren’t tempted to act on the urges anymore, the control you’d managed to gain throughout the years truly an admirable feat.

With a slow and confident stride, like one approaching a skittish cat, he walked up to you, taking advantage of your short moment of livid paralysis. “I do not know anything out of firsthand experience, the entire affair being quite a while ago, but if you want, I can tell you what I know over dinner, no strings attached. You can even pick out the place if you worry for your safety.”

“I hesitate to agree to something like that.” You said honestly, your jaw tensing as you pushed down everything you felt to return to the professional state of mind that would protect you in this situation. “Primarily because I don’t see any reason for you to offer me something like that, no strings attached.”

“If you give me a chance to prove myself,” He said, motioning to the entrance of the building, the outside world beckoning you to go along with him, the blaring of traffic and the hum of people commuting audible even through the thick glass walls dividing you and them. “I could show you that this entire affair doesn’t have to be nearly as grim as it currently is.”

His words made a small smile appear on your face, your urge to maybe go along with his idea immediately cut short at his words. He found the case you’d created against him grim? Oh, dear, what a shame. You certainly didn’t want this infamous mob boss to be uncomfortable as he went to face the consequences of his actions. Had the numerous witness testimonies recounting the crimes of his underlings not been happy and cheerful enough? Was it costing him sleep? Did the paparazzi annoy him when he stepped outside?

Your brother would still be alive if it wasn’t for his kind.

Relieved to have refound your nerve, you let the smile on your face fade into a neutral, but confident gaze. “Thank you for your offer, but I must decline. And, again, mr. Lucilfer, proper channels, please.”

You turned around and walked away, trying to ignore the hefty weight of his gaze on your back. Eyes kept strictly on your destination of the door, your shoulders sagged with relief when you scanned your employee card at the gate and heard his footsteps move away. The security guard you’d just seen a mere ten minutes ago seemed surprised to see you leave so early, since you were usually the last to leave, but he didn’t note on it outside of a small greeting.

Still, dinner or not, this posed a problem.

If you had annoyed him with your refusal, odds were big he’d amp up the pressure. More goons trying to bribe you, more vague acquaintances being blackmailed into giving false testimonies to the press on how you were the real corrupt monster here, all to minimize the damages you could hail onto his organisation. Perhaps he’d go all the way and just kill you, break in your house and snap your neck before dumping your body into the river with concrete shoes. You doubted it, considering the image it’d sketch, but perhaps you’d pissed him off enough today.

After you returned home, taking multiple detours both in several taxi’s and on foot, you locked the door with every home security measure you could think of. A cabinet was pushed in front of your front door, you double-checked every lock on the windows and smashed several wine glasses that had been collecting dust in the back of your cupboard at every possible entrance. You scoured the house for every bill of cash you could find and put it all inside an envelope beside your bedside table, right next to a small bottle of pepperspray you’d had since college (you doubted such things went out of date) and a gun you’d bought impulsively in a fit of paranoia a few months back.

Every time you readied yourself for bed, you thought of more things to do, and as such you left the warmth of your blanket multiple times, each time with a new task. Closing every curtain while being very careful not to step on your homemade glass trap, collecting several large knives from your kitchen to include in your bedside table safety kit, double-checking the locks a final time. By the time you were sure you’d done every insane thing imaginable to make sure the intruder you were sure would come would have the worst time of his life breaking in, it was deep into the night.

Your eyes were wide open, and sleep would not come.

Sleeping pills were out of the question. What if you’d sleep too deeply and not notice something amiss? What if you slept through your alarm and missed your 9 am appointment with a fellow prosecutor to look over a previous case against the phantom troupe? It wasn’t an option, but as things were standing, you could barely blink, let alone lie down and let oblivion take you.

You sighed and made one final trip out of bed, grabbing your laptop and a cup of tea. If sleep wouldn’t come, you’d best make use of the time and work on the case. There were still several documents that had to be revamped, old case law you had to read just to make sure you were not missing a single thing, interviews to prepare and a few emails that had to be sent out before too long, most, if not all pertaining to the impromptu meeting of today. You hadn’t found a way to flip the meeting to something you could use outside of the possible camera footage, but you were tired, and perhaps one of your colleagues would see a way somewhere.

The blue light of your screen did not soothe, and concentration was far to be found, but you would continue regardless.

There was nothing else to be done.

Despite your fear of things escalating, life actually seemed to slow down in the days after the incident. You were left alone on your way to work, and hadn’t been faced with any surprise mob boss meetings since. Days were still long, and the work seemed endless, but at least you could grab a coffee every now and again without realizing you were being followed. It was either that, or the people who followed you now were more professional. Either way, you appreciated it, your paranoia feeling misguided for once.

At least, until you woke up one day and found a bouquet of flowers on your dinner table. You’d already been in the midst of calling the police when you found it, having noticed the glass by your bedroom door to have been swept to the side, but you were asked to come to the station if you wanted to file a claim, and you simply didn’t have time for something like that. Not when you needed to install new locks and buy new wine glasses.

A few uneventful days after that, it came as a slight surprise when you received an officially signed letter of Mr Lucilfer, sent through the right person, requesting a meeting with you. After you scanned the letter in and made sure to inform everyone you could think of on having received the request in case you went missing, you sat behind your desk and tried to formulate a response. An intern tried to come into your office at one point to bring you some coffee, but in a flash of fear, you’d sent them out the second they opened the door, immediately imagining them as a mole trying to intercept your response before you were ready to give it.

You felt bad as he left, the young man clearly upset, but you decided you’d apologize later, the email you were drafting right now feeling of much more importance.

The letter had specified a time and place, with the option to change both if you were otherwise occupied, and with a humorless chuckle you noticed that the request was for you to meet him at seven in a fancy restaurant, one you’d lived right next to in your student days. Calling it coincidence would be stupid, and you reckoned he’d chosen the place since he assumed you’d be dying to go there, since it was easy to imagine you having smelled the food every time you went back up to your student housing to down another cup of noodles and a granola bar. He was right, of course, and that terrified you.

You were paid enough to go there now, but when did you have the time?

Closing your eyes, you tried to picture the entire event. A meeting with Chrollo Lucilfer was not easy to arrange, or so you’d been told by several of the ex-mafia employees that had spoken to you (most were dead by now), so for him to want to speak with you at least painted the picture that you held somewhat of a strong hand. Strong enough to at least force him to act. If you remained professional and closed off, you could win information or at least some insight on the man whose organization you were attempting to bring down. He already seemed to know everything about you, so it would bring you on some more level playing field.

On the other hand, it was most definitely a trap.

The email you drafted so far was an acceptance of the offer to meet at the designated time and place, and you generally could trust your own instinct regarding these things, but something still seemed off.

You grabbed a small blue disposable cell phone you kept in your desk, hidden underneath several years worth of stationary, and sent a text to someone you would trust to at least give you a hint to the nature of this meeting. If the phantom troupe was allowed to have illegal informants in your institution, you weren’t above doing a little of the same. If he didn’t know, that would be an even better sign, since that would mean it hadn’t been discussed thoroughly in the top brass.

‘Is it a trap?’

A few minutes passed with you staring at the disposable phone like it would sprout legs and walk away if you didn’t keep it under a vigilant watch, before it buzzed. You grabbed the phone aggressively and opened the received text.

‘A trap worth springing <;3’

You took a deep breath, rubbed your eyes, and sent the email.

The Bronte, as the restaurant was called, was a sophisticated place, with avant-garde wall art and marble floors. The table cloths were pearly white and there were multiple sets of cutlery next to a set of plates that would be removed the second you ordered anything. Just for show, just to make it seem nice. When you walked in, the hostess didn’t ask for your name and immediately escorted you to a table in the middle of the restaurant.

Despite coming all this way for him, to see him sitting there still surprised you somewhat, like part of you couldn’t believe this was actually happening. He was dressed impeccably, but not in a way that made him pop out of crowds, certainly not one as upper class as this one. You were satisfied you’d also decided to dress appropriately, not just because of him, but because even the waiters seemed dressed to the nines, and having dressed business casual would’ve put more attention on you than the black cocktail dress you’d opted for instead.

It had pockets, one carrying an extra burner phone and the other a small pocketknife.

Just in case.

“Mr. Lucilfer.” You greeted as you reached the table, the hostess immediately disappearing to take your coat to the wardrobe. Those pockets were, of course, empty, the thought of anyone checking them having made you empty them of even the smallest lip gloss last night. “Good evening.”

“Good evening to you as well.” He motioned for you to sit, the exact same hand gesture he’d made in the conference room, and you decided even that if he looked decidedly nonchalant, he most definitely was not being casual about this affair. “You look lovely.”

“Unnecessary, but appreciated.” You said, half-seriously, feeling uncomfortable with the forced introductory small-talk. When he sent you a look, you sat down and placed your bag by the side of the table, out of the way of the staff. “I don’t want to immediately sit down and rush you, but I’ll leave the itinerary of this meeting to you, seeing as you requested it.”

“Straight to the point.” He huffed out a laugh. “I’d suggest we eat something first.”

“I don’t mind that, but could you at least give me some idea of what we are meeting for today?” You tried to smile disarmingly, but you’d been told by your public relations manager that you looked incredibly stressed and uptight even with a so-called ‘smile’ on your face. You remembered being rather upset by that comment for a few weeks, but it wasn’t like your job allowed you to be relaxed and happy. “If we are talking content today, I’d love to be able to mentally prepare a bit beforehand.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that.” Chrollo replied, waving away your comment. “Trust me when I say it isn’t an urgent matter.”

“I don’t want to be rude.” You did. You wanted to be very rude. If only this asshole would give you the reason he’d made you come all this way, because it’d better not have been just to taste test the paté with you. “But can you at least give some indication? Please?”

He sighed.

“Well. I had imagined we’d get to this part a little later, after getting to know you a bit better, but it’s fine.” If you weren’t mistaken, he sounded rather disappointed by the fact. “I brought you here today to hear my confession.”

The immediate acceleration of your heartbeat felt close to intoxicating, your eyes wide with confusion and shock as his words registered in your mind. He couldn’t be serious, could he? You didn’t want to look like a fool if you responded too seriously right now. “Could you clarify what you mean?”

“I’ll confess to whatever you charge me with.” He said calmly, leaning forward on the table. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“I am not in this specifically to annoy you, no, but if you are willing to confess things you’ve done, or were responsible for…” You held eye contact and waited for the catch to be revealed. There was no way he’d share all this without having some kind of play in mind. “I wouldn’t be opposed to this.”

“I imagined we would first eat something, but judging by your expression, you’d just frown through the entire meal.” Despite the harsh but true words, he seemed amused the very truthful statement. “You want to do this now?”

“Can we?” You said, your frown fading from your face like it’d never been there, hating how you sounded like a child asking for a present instead of a grown woman looking to indict a hated criminal. “I mean,” you coughed. “I’d prefer to do this right now. I’m not a very patient person, so I’d probably be bad company.”

When he opened his mouth to say something, you held up a finger and opened your purse to fumble through it, placing your phone down with the screen facing upward the second you found it. your finger pressing the record button quickly. “Before you continue, I’d like you to confirm your identity and your voluntary confession, made under no duress and recorded with permission. This conversation takes place in the Bronte, at approximately 8 o’clock on Thursday the seventh of January.”

He chuckled. “Despite being willing to meet me here, you’re very by-the-book, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I don’t mind you saying.” You wondered if that trick worked on others, and decided that it probably did. Insisting others be relaxed and ‘cool’ often made people make juvenile mistakes, social pressure making even the greatest mind revert back to the teenager not fitting into their group well enough. “But if you’ll humor me?”

“I’ll confess, but in return I want you to answer truthfully to whatever questions I have. We can do it in turns, so we both get the most mileage out of this. You can even cut out my questions and your answers in the audio file you send in as evidence, if that worries you.”

“That’s agreeable.” You had no idea what he’d want from you, but further loss of privacy was worth this confession. Everything was worth this confession. No judge would be able to look the other way with this kind of evidence, even if the manner of collection was a bit unorthodox. You’d leak it to some colleagues first, as was customary, and then to the press, making the source of the leak more obscure. They’d have a field day with this, so even if the Phantom Troupe managed to get this recording to be inadmissible, it’d be a large hit to their reputation and their hold on the legal system, especially if you could get some names of crooked judges and politicians. A video would be even better, but cutting out certain pieces of audio would be more noticeable that way, you reckoned. “So, if you would?”

“Fine. My name is Chrollo Lucilfer, I am in charge of several operations under the name of the Phantom Troupe, and I have given this confession openly and under no duress. The date and time match the earlier mentioned data.” He took a sip of his wine while tapping on the glass with his index finger. “Is that sufficient?”

“It is.” Curious to find out what he wanted from you, along with granting yourself some time to think your first question through, you opted to wait a bit. “Since you offered to do this, why don’t you start with a question.”

“That surprises me. I thought you’d go right for the kill.” He said. “What drives you to want to dissolve my organisation so bad?”

You blinked and frowned. “You know why.”

“And yet I asked. Answer the question.”

“Fine.” You looked past him while finding the words, knowing already you’d cut out each and every one of these questions from the recording. It wasn’t relevant to the case to know how emotionally involved you were, and any kind of lawyer would use your sob story as a way to disqualify you as a prosecutor, mentioning how you were too ‘deep into the case’ to act objectively. Even you couldn’t deny their point, so it wasn’t a point that was allowed to be made. “Twelve years ago, I was the one to find my brother dead in my living room. It was suspected he had ties with the mafia, and he’d been telling me for a while that he feared things were going sour. Police didn’t report it, labelling it as a suicide, which motivated me to try and fix a rotten legal state where a sawed off neck can be considered a suicide as long as its convenient.”

Yeah, you’d have to cut out your own words. Nothing screamed unfit to practice law as openly denouncing the very system, at least according to the powers that be. Even if you’d try to spin it as a mere comment of irony, it wouldn’t be accepted. You took a deep breath, hoping you wouldn’t spit out so much dangerous material.

He nodded and didn’t say anything, so you continued.

“One of the charges that was dropped earlier last year was on the subject of the Phantom Troupe bribing and threatening employees of public institutions related to health, defense and governance to act in favor of the troupe. Creating policy, rulings, subsidies, that sort of thing.” You asked, “Do you deny these charges? And if not, can you name some names of those you bribed or threatened?”

“I’ll count that as two separate questions, so I get two questions after answering. Is that agreeable for you?” When you nodded, his expression got very serious, which you preferred to the casual and confident air he’d been emitting before, even if it had been fake. This felt like you were taken seriously and that you were winning. “In order to scale up several of our operations, specifically those related to business permits and violent acts that cannot be committed in more… private circumstances, we’ve made sure to install enough people in positions of power to ensure those operations run smoothly. Since these are our members first and foremost, bribes and threats are not often necessary, but it does occasionally occur.”

“And for names, the current chief of police, the entire board of auditing, judge Clover and judge Bertrand are the most notable of the bunch, I think. I am sure there are plenty more, but those are handled by other people. These are the ones I am personally familiar with.” As he spoke your fingers tensed against your skin, your nails painfully pressed against your own thigh to let the pain distract you from the anger that bubbled up at his list. “Is that to your satisfaction?”

Judge Clover had been the one to flunk the previous cases against the phantom troupe, and even worse, he’d been the one denying your appeal to revisit the cause of death for your brother. You remembered meeting him in his office, the faux sympathy offered through a handshake and a sharp nod, the sigh he’d let out when you tried to explain your own situation. The diluted excuse of coffee you’d been offered as an apology.

If you’d ever see him again, you hoped you’d be able to restrain yourself from pulling that tongue from his grotesque mouth and cutting it off right where it had started to rot.

The waiter came by with a bottle of wine that had been gifted by another guest along with a complementary basket of bread. Chrollo didn’t ask who had made the clear attempt to create goodwill, but allowed the waiter to fill his glass and yours anyway. If you had to guess, it’d been the man sitting by the bar, his entire persona seeming nervous and twitchy, his eyes going to your table constantly. You’d noticed before, but had assumed it was just someone who either recognized you or the man you were with. The latter had proven true.

He took a sip of the red wine.

With the waiter still at your table, you mirrored him, barely tasting anything, and smiled slightly. “It is.”

He smiled back and the waiter left, leaving you to think about the information that was currently gathering on your phone, specifically the magnitude of it. He could’ve just said yes and mentioned the names, but he went on and admitted to instating those people as well, as well as giving his rationale. Since Judge Clover had been the judge dealing with the previous court case against the phantom troupe, the admission that he was dirty would probably make that entire ruling void. If this evidence managed to get into court, you were nearly certain the amount of charges you could add on were a tenfold increase of the current case. There was no way he would let you walk out with this recording. No way.

He wasn’t an idiot.

There had to be a catch.

“Then I think it is my turn.” He placed down his glass. “Where were you while he was murdered?”

You still couldn’t tell why he was so interested in your backstory, but decided that you shouldn’t overthink it too much. The trap had yet to fully spring, and for all accounts it could be an attempt to psych you out. “My brother, you mean? Out on a grocery trip.”

“Hmm.” You could see he’d almost instinctively asked a follow up question, but had decided to remain quiet to think it over a little longer. “That’s being awfully succinct, don’t you think? After all that effort I made to answer your question fully. We’re both aware I could’ve said much less to earn your satisfaction.”

That was fair, and you didn’t want to end this game here yet. “Fine. He’d told me to go on a grocery trip for some chips. I knew we still had some, but he insisted. I went and when I returned he was dead. Whether it was a meeting gone wrong or he knew he was going to get murdered, I do not know, but when I got back he was dead.” You huffed, recollecting the darkest page of your own history. “Safe to say, the entire flooring had to be redone due to the amount of blood that had seeped through.”

There was no visible reaction to that statement and you narrowed your eyes. “Satisfied?”

He clicked his tongue. “Certainly.”

“Then ask your second question.”

“Did you like the flowers?”

You’d been in the midst of raising the glass to your lips again, your movements stilling as you processed what he meant. So they had been from him. “No. I find it rather off-putting that you managed to get those in my house without me being aware.”

“I would hardly call you being unaware.” He said. “The homemade traps you made were certainly unconventional and not really a sign of someone who doesn’t expect unwanted visitors. Either you are exceptionally paranoid or you suspected I’d drop by.”

The answer to that was that you were exceptionally paranoid, but that was not something you wanted to share per se. Ever since having your home life spoiled by a murder and dedicating your life to taking down everyone involved, trust and comfort had been luxuries not often afforded.

“I never would’ve suspected you personally.” Don’t taunt him, don’t taunt him, don’t taunt him. “I’d think the top man of the Phantom Troupe would spend his time a little better.”

To your relief, he seemed to find the slight jab funny, or he managed to conceal his distaste better than you were able to read him. “Never too busy for my favorite prosecutor.”

Huh?

Was that an attempt to psych you out or something, or was he failing at being funny?

Trying not to get distracted, you thought of further questions you could ask. Making him confess on current charges would be useless, since they were all minor offenses that you’d manage to link to the phantom troupe, and he’d probably be truthful if he said he had nothing to do with those. You couldn’t imagine him being aware of every murder and extortion practice happening within his organization. It wouldn’t hurt to ask, nevertheless, especially since he’d seemed rather forthcoming with information so far, but that only made you more suspicious.

Before you could think too long on it, you’d already spoken. “Why would you confess?”

“Oh, are we switching up the game?” If anything, he seemed happy you’d switched off the indicting questions. “I don’t mind confessing because you are not going to send this in as evidence.”

“Why wouldn’t I? This has been a lovely evening so far, but I am afraid that it won’t change my mind on the case itself.”

“Simple, because by the end of this night, you’ll delete the recording yourself.” He motioned to the entirety of the room, confident in his stature. “If only to save the lives of the people in this restaurant.”

You’d been breaking off a little piece of the bread on the table while he was speaking, so it took a while before you caught on to his threat. It was said so lightly, so casually, you’d have believed it fully had you hallucinated the sentence. Sadly, when you looked up, he seemed colder than ice, and you would’ve liked the look on him had it not immediately been connected to a possible catastrophe. Mass-murder was one of the charges that had been dropped during the early stages of the case due to lack of evidence, but that had been a massive show of corruption if you were to be asked, witnesses and reports disappearing like snow on a summers day. You knew how vile the man in front of you was, the cologne not masking the rotten personality you knew was hiding under that classical facade.

“That’s quite the threat, mr. Lucilfer.” You said coldly, placing the piece of bread on your plate, no longer feeling any sort of appetite. “Your invitation for today implied a certain level of civility between the two of us, or did I misinterpret that?”

“Have I been anything but civil with you? I’ve answered your questions honestly and have adhered to every demand you’ve given me so far.” He shrugged casually. “And your life is not in danger here, I promise.”

“Then what do you mean?”

He nonchalantly pointed behind you, making sure to make the gesture barely interpretable as such for any people watching along. Despite his efforts to make it casual, you looked over your shoulder openly, momentarily feeling a bit of satisfied spite when you re-met his gaze and saw his disappointment at your lack in tact. He wanted to play games, not you.

“The blonde woman over by the doors is an employee of mine. She’ll close the doors on my order if you do not delete the recording. After she closes the door, the two men sitting in the corner by the window will systematically kill everyone in this building, save for those under my employment and us, of course.” He leaned further forward, as if sharing a secret, despite not speaking nearly as silent as you’d have expected him to. If he was mirroring your bluntness, you didn’t like it, your eyes immediately checking the tables next to you if they were listening in. “Involving the media was smart in terms of self-preservation. With your presence being as big as it is now on the screen, you are right in assuming I do not find it worth the mess to kill you. However, now that you are in control of such incriminating evidence, you are a larger threat. I still do not mind you walking out with the recording, but it will cost you something.”

You scoffed. “What did the people in this place do to you?”

He twirled a finger around his glass. “Beside serving me spill for wine? Nothing. I’m sure all these people are well-rounded members of society.”

The table to the left was a round one, filled with women talking loudly about one of their relationships. It seemed one of them had gotten engaged a few weeks ago, but was a bit miffed her fiancée had since then not spent a single weekend with her, instead going on expensive golfing trips with his friends, under the gist of ‘getting it out of his system’ before the wedding. The table to the right was a mere two people, both on their phones, making photos of the food in front of them, whispering excitedly to each other on the quality and presentation of the dish. Neither table had heard what had been said.

“So.” While he was speaking like it was all up to you, he seemed quite certain on what would happen next. “What will you do?”

If he got his way, you’d delete the recording and go home, having gained nothing and lost parts of yourself you didn’t want a mafia boss to have. His angle for wanting to know all those personal things about you still eluded you, but odds were he’d done so to figure out how to stop you for good, or to freak you out with the knowledge that the one in charge of the institution you were trying to bring down knew exactly what kind of person you were. Any other reason was too childish for you to entertain.

The evidence would be gone, and you’d be back to fighting day and night for the slightest odds of justice. People would die while you’d work out a new solution. People would be extorted while you’d fall asleep by your desk. The citizens of your city would suffer, and you’d have to hope your best would be enough to make a change. You looked at your phone, the red dot blinking playfully. It had recorded everything, even the final threat. If he killed everyone here… not only would it further prove the validity of the recording… it’d re-introduce the mass-murder charge. The current case you had would not only get expanded, it’d be a done deal.

It’d win you everything.

“Give the signal.” You hoped he was bluffing, but were surprised by your own acceptance of the possibility that he wasn’t. This evidence would rid the city of so much trash, so many extortionists and murderers. The restaurant was full to the brim with happy couples and families, but a quick scan revealed that the setting was too posh and expensive to have kids running around. A bunch of rich socialites you could probably rationalize killing for the greater good, children you could not. “Do it.”

He sat up straight and blinked, suddenly looking much younger in his open confusion. “Seriously?”

Part of you wondered if you’d gone crazy, the endless sleepless nights and paranoia having made you lose reason completely, but that part was silenced by the confidence that this would shake up everything. The mere idea that your endless toil would soon end, in a catastrophe or not, gave you a rush that made it all feel like the right call. Instinct, right?

“Yes. Do it.” You mimicked him and leaned forward, grabbing your phone and sliding it your way while you steeled yourself. “Strengthen my fucking case.”

You’d probably be killed while holding the recording the second you got home, but you could leak it before then, make sure every journalist you knew got front page news. Killing you here would make the Phantom Troupe look bad, sure, but you were even more sure that holding the recording painted a target on your back the size of a skyscraper. You’d die, that was for certain, or you’d spent the rest of your life in jail right next to the filth you’d dragged down with you, the city knowing you’d let all these people be killed to save the rest.

But, god, it’d be worth it.

Wide-eyed with something you hesitated calling admiration, he closed the distance between the two of you and kissed you, a quick peck that was over before you could even register it. As you regained yourself and placed the phone in your bag, Chrollo dramatically rose up from his seat and addressed the entire restaurant. Most had not noticed yet, though as you looked toward the blonde haired woman, nausea rose inside you as you saw her move to close the doors. There was still a chance this was all a bluff, but the odds of it being such were declining at an alarming rate.

God, had you just sentenced everyone here to die?

Including yourself?

“Ladies and gentleman, may I please have your attention!” Chrollo exclaimed, fronting a dramatic and charismatic facade that hid the calculating and sinister man you’d seen lurk underneath. He didn’t have to speak loudly, those who recognized him falling silent and others probably expecting a proposal or something, a few clicks of photos being taken interrupting his speech. “I have an announcement for everyone present.”

The piano player started playing softer, before stilling completely, the restaurant falling eerily quiet, giving Chrollo every bit of room he demanded..

“As you all know, the city of York New has been facing threats of legitimacy for quite some time now. Corruption, extortion, violence, have become common place in this wonderful place, and few dare to stand up against it. Few, but not none.”

The nervous man by the bar tried to stand up and leave, but he was stopped by the blonde woman that had closed the door, his arm twisted behind his back and a hand slapped on his mouth to shut him up. Only a few people noticed.

“So let us all thank the city's most famous prosecutor, for defending this beautiful place from those who would do it harm, no matter the personal cost.” Being included in the speech made you panic slightly, not used to being put in the spotlight out of the blue. “You all must be eager to resume dining, but I am afraid that will not be possible. You see, the prosecutor has just finished gathering all the puzzle pieces needed to indict probably half of my entire organisation, and I’m afraid, you all are the cost of that decision. Rest assured, I am sure she will put all of your sacrifice to good use, all for the greater good.”

He addressed you and you felt the eyes of the entire room on you.

“Won’t you?”

Terrified and sick of being toyed with, you closed your eyes and answered the question you feared to be rhetorical. “I will.”

The sound of cutlery being indelicately dropped served as the start signal.

And then the gunshots started.

“Don’t say it.”

“What? You expect me to comment on the irony of this?” Chrollo traced the bars of the cell, smiling amusedly as he watched your frown deepen. “I’d never.”

You hadn’t expected him to visit, but now that he was in front of you, you could only scoff. Of course he’d come to gloat on the situation.

“Ha. Ha.” You were lying on your back on the bench inside your cell, a cold underground place in an undisclosed location, where you’d probably been for about a week by now. Two times a day food appeared through a latch, meaning Chrollo was the first person you’d seen in several days. You’d mainly slept, so even if someone else had visited, they hadn’t woken you up. “All this means is that it probably won’t be me. There’ll be someone else.”

“You underestimate yourself.” He leaned against the bars with his shoulder and crossed his arms, and as you turned to fully look at him, you noted that he was wearing a very similar suit to the one he’d been wearing to the restaurant. It looked good on him, so it was probably a staple. “You won’t believe the curses I’ve heard my lawyer utter ever since you came into the picture. You made quite the convincing case. In all the years I’ve been in charge, I’ve had to step in a few times, but I’ve never had to do anything like this. Even in its futility, I am impressed by what you’ve achieved.”

“And what did I achieve?” You stretched your hands above your head and pulled yourself up, tired of looking at him while laid down. It hurt your neck, though everything hurt after having slept on rock-hard plastic for the last week. You wondered how you looked, the grey scrubs your clothes had been replaced with not exactly the summit of design, and you hadn’t showered since before the incident. “Last I checked, it was me behind bars, not you.”

He tutted. “I thought we were not supposed to comment on the irony, but since you asked, you’ve achieved in garnering my attention.”

And your life had certainly not improved by it.

After the event at the Bronte, during which you’d had to throw out your heels for the ride home because they were so drenched with blood that you’d left behind red footsteps, coming home had been disorienting. During the taxi ride, you’d already sent the recording to every single journalist you knew, not bothering to edit out anything since your life was already void anyway, so when the door closed behind you, you’d been able to cry excessively. It was unfair that a monster like you was allowed to feel so saddened by what happened, but you couldn’t control yourself.

Two sleep pills, five drinks and an entire box of take-out later (a small part of you regretted not having had dinner at the restaurant), you fell asleep on the couch. You were awoken, maybe three hours later, by police sirens. You’d looked out the streetside window and had seen multiple vans with armed officers swarming outside your building, several groups going in. Panic hadn’t really set in, since it never stopped since the events at the Bronte, but there was no way you were escaping anything. Better to await the specifics to the situation and deal with it then.

Either they’d kill you, or Chrollo would probably meet you in the middle of the night and strangle you right in your bed, just to validate your paranoia one more time. In all honesty, you preferred it like this, when you knew it was coming. Didn’t mean you weren’t scared, but being tipsy helped a little.

Ah. You really wanted to check your messages for the responses.

A little late for that. You already heard them race up the stairs.

You’d immediately surrendered when they’d knocked down your door- they hadn’t knocked first- but nevertheless you’d been tasered and knocked out. When you woke up you were in familiar circumstances, a holding cell, just on the opposite side. An unfamiliar face claiming to be an attorney had told you what you were charged with, namely the mass-murder of the entire Bronte. To your surprise, you weren’t named an accomplice or an inciter, but the perpetrator. No mention of Chrollo. No mention of the blonde woman. No mention of the two men that had gunned down every person inside that restaurant.

You’d kept quiet, terrified at the situation and not entirely sure how to explain that this wasn’t what was supposed to happen.

You were saving the city.

Falsified and real images were shown as evidence, and even you had to acknowledge how well-made the fakes were. You at the table, Chrollo purposefully left out of the shot. You standing over some corpses with a look of determination. You holding a gun. You walking out of the restaurant, stepping over some bodies to do so, your entire attire splattered with red. That was a genius touch, you thought, remembering how it had only been your fingernails and heels that had been in contact with the blood.

Accepting that you’d lost was a heavy pill to swallow, knowing exactly how easily this evidence would breeze through court. For all the difficulty it had taken you to get even the slightest case against the phantom troupe, the corruption you’d meant to take down would ensure this would go by smooth. You’d probably never see daylight again, let alone live to see another week.

With a slightly crazed smile, you’d asked the attorney what had happened with the recording, the one you’d sent to all the journalists.

He’d raised a brow and asked you what you were talking about, meaning it’d all been for nothing.

You laughed mirthlessly at the thought of him thinking you were proud in having achieved this attention, knowing it was obvious as day what it had cost. “What an honor.”

“I’m quite serious.” For a second you lost his attention, a quick glance at his watch indicating that he didn’t intend to stay here for long. “I have people for this, but they all came to me like scared rabbits, crying about the prosecutor that wouldn’t leave them alone. One they couldn’t handle, and couldn’t force out of the picture. Everyone has a price, I wholly believe it, but nobody seemed able to find yours. Even I failed in that regard. Turns out, subtle tactics weren’t going to cut it.”

“So, what’ll happen now? I’m assuming I won’t make it to my own court case.”

“Definitely not, no.” He didn’t quite manage to sound apologetic about it.“You’ll kill yourself in a guilt-induced psychosis a few days before the hearing.”

“I see.” You put your hand in your hair, disliking how greasy it felt. “Can I make a request on the method?”

“Let me guess, beheaded with a wire?”

You fell silent.

He chuckled. “Wanting to leave a little hint to a prospective heir to your task is commendable, but I don’t feel like repeating this in five years.” He unfurled his arms and put one hand in his pocket. “And sadly the entire act has already been decided upon. According to the coroners report, you’ll have bitten through your own tongue. Your funeral will be held in private circumstances, with closed casket, and that will be that.”

“Why are you telling me this?” It was something you were curious about, but it wasn’t why you asked the question. Truth be told, you’d been bored out of your mind, despite the amount of sleep having proven wonders for your headaches. With how hasty he was acting, he probably wouldn’t stay for long, and if you could do nothing else, you’d love to waste more of his time. “Does it make you happy to have rid yourself of me?”

“On the contrary. I am doing everything I can not to rid myself of you. If I’d let you continue, I would’ve been forced to actually kill you.”

When you looked up at him in confusion, he continued.

“You won’t be actually killed, you’ll be safely transported to a more pleasant prison on my premises. It would be a waste of talent, of mettle, to have someone like you meet your end in this place. Instead, I wish to get to know you a little better, so let’s just call having to endure my company your punishment for frustrating my people so long.”

“What do you think you’re getting out of this?” You said, utterly confused. He’d kissed you that night at the Bronte, right before the occurrence that had put you in this situation, but you’d assumed it to be in appreciation of your lacking ethics, or a weird form of sexual gratification you were too repressed to understand, not something actually worth pursuing. “It has been my life’s mission, from the moment one of your underlings placed the decapitated head of my brother on my fucking doorstep, to ruin you, and everything you represent. I hate you, do not let my professionalism so far blind you to that. I’d suggest you reconsider and kill me, because you could lock me up in a room with a silk bed and feather pillows, but nothing will stop me from detesting you and doing everything in my power to make your life as miserable as I can.”

“There it is.” He crouched down, lowering himself to your level. “I quite enjoy that look on you.” He suddenly blinked and laughed to himself, covering his face in faux embarrassment. “Hahaha- I might be taking over a few bad habits from a colleague of mine.”

“Then I’d urge you to take over more of their bad habits and just kill me.” The humiliation you were imagining would be unbearable. What good would your commitment have been for if you allowed yourself to be turned into a puppet. You’d be no better than the pieces of shit that had obstructed you your entire life, like that waste of space judge Clover. “Or is that not enjoyable for you?”

“If your imagining I’ll keep you purely so I have something to fuck when I’m done doing whatever evil things you imagine me doing daily, you’re a bit off.” For him to vulgarly admit so bluntly what you’d been suspecting this was all for threw you off-guard. The very idea that you’d caught his attention in that regard being rather unsettling, especially since it spoke novels on what he considered arousing. “Not to say I’m not interested, because I am, but I am more interested in seeing whether or not I can break you in. Turn you from a thorn in my side to something a bit more useful.”

“I said everyone has a price, even you, but perhaps you need more incentive than most.” He stood back up to his full height. “How about you kiss me?”

You were still seated, growingly incredulous as he stepped forward to the iron bars, lining up his face in between, close enough to allow you to do so, not that you were inclined towards that point of action.

“Well since you’ve got me all figured out, incentivize me.” You said coldly, the dark and predatory look you read of his face only intensified by the artificial and blue-ish light coming from the ceiling. “Or did you think I would want to? Sorry, but I don’t think ‘framing me for a mass-murder’ is the flirting strategy you think it is.”

“Oh? I thought you’d learned by now that I am a man of my word, someone worth listening to. I can list some threats, events you’d be keen on avoiding, but we can also just skip that.” You opened your mouth to speak but he held up a hand, interrupting you. “While your life doesn’t seem all that precious to you, you want me to be destroyed most of all, particularly through that lovely legal system you place so much faith in. It’s worth everything, even an entire building full of the people you swore to protect. That is your price, and while I wont do anything rash for something so petty, I could be persuaded to allow your earlier request.”

Earlier request? You tried to remember the entire conversation, your mouth falling slightly ajar when you realized what he meant. The suicide. He’d said you would be registered as having bit your tongue, but he was offering to change that to a sawed off head. It’d cast major suspicion on your death, which you hoped would still be considered odd seeing as the timing was so spot on.

Your brother’s death hadn’t caused any ripples, despite everything you’d tried, the massive amounts of emails you’d sent to whomever you could think of. It’d been covered up, and your insistence on speaking on it had never made anything happen.

But…

He’d not been in the limelight when he died. or even before. He wasn’t killed after a very open legal battle, and he hadn’t made numerous public appearances on television before dying. If you died, allegedly at least, like that, surely there’d be outrage? Surely someone would play the part of whistleblower and blow a hole in this entire facade?

Chrollo didn’t seem to think it was possible.

He was sure of it.

Hope is a weird feeling, you thought as you stood up and walked up to him, pressing your lips to his for the shortest time physically possible. Swiftly, you pressed your lips to his for the briefest moment imaginable. Observing a hint of a smile on his face just before the kiss, you experienced a surge of frustration and shame. Determined not to provide him any satisfaction, you quickly withdrew.

Before you could step back, his hand was tangled in your shirt, and he forcefully pulled you back towards the bars, his mouth back on yours, quite a lot harsher than your chaste peck had been. You tried to pull back a little from his grip on your shirt, but he was stronger than you had thought him to be, his grip unyielding as he kept your lips locked with his. You felt his tongue brush against your lower lip, but there was no way you were going to open your mouth the slightest. It was just a kiss, you didn’t have to make out with him.

“I know what I said, you don’t have to make your case.” He laughed as pulled away and brushed his nose against your cheek, the look in your eyes probably telling him exactly what you’d been thinking. “Sure there’s nothing I can do to buy your enthusiasm?”

“I’m not a fucking prostitute.”

“Everyone sells their body, in some regard. And did you not just kiss me because I granted a request?” You felt your jaw tense at his words, his grip on your shirt still forcing you flush against the bars, the iron pushed into your chest. “Make another one.”

For all the ways you wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, your mind did immediately consider the ways you could twist this your way. He seemed to think himself invincible, especially like this, with you locked away and him on the other side, clearly the victor. It infuriated you, the mocking longing you wanted to wipe off his face. “Release the recording. Again. To every journalist in this city.”

“Ah, I’m sad to say it has already been destroyed.” He closed the distance a bit more when you leaned your head back to create some space, his breath flowing against your jaw. At this distance, his nonchalance seemed paper-thin, an obsessive fire lighting up the otherwise empty black eyes. “Your phone was replaced the night I brought you the flowers. All the risky contacts shifted to fakes, just to be safe.”

“You-!”

“Make another one.”

There was something demanding about his tone, and you really didn’t feel like finding out what would happen if you didn’t take advantage of the situation. He’d mentioned threats, and if they were anything in the ballpark of the Bronte, you couldn’t justify letting people die just because you were too prideful to make out with the person you hated the most, no matter how much it made your blood boil. Despite knowing you weren’t brave enough to reject him, frustration and anger made the words that came out of your mouth feel foreign to your usual composure. You wanted him to hurt. You wanted the people who’d put you here to hurt. You wanted them all to suffer and burn. “Kill that fucking judge Clover.”

His eyes widened, but he didn’t pull back. “I’ll do it.”

And though you had no reason to believe him, you did.

Fueled by anger, you kissed him again, this time making sure that there could not be made a single comment on your ‘enthusiasm’. He did not back down from the challenge you formed, responding to your kiss with equal, if not more, zeal.

It’d been quite a while since you kissed anyone, and certainly you’d never shared a kiss like this, but from the way Chrollo moved and toyed with you, despite you having initiated it, you knew you were out of your depth with an attempt to overwhelm him like this. If anything, by the time you felt your fire sputter out, he was still chasing you, not letting you have any space to catch a breath. He was the one who controlled the pace, and he decided when to stop. When he stopped locking his lips with yours, you felt suffocated and exhausted, your entire body feeling aflame.

The hand keeping you flush against the bars let go of your shirt, and you fell backwards ungracefully, only barely saving yourself from tripping onto the floor.

“As I said, you have potential. I am quite sure you can be an asset, given enough time.” He smiled softly when one of your hands went up to feel your lips, the skin bruised and plump. “But if that fails, I’m sure we can fill that time with other things.”

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itsgeecheebitch · 7 months ago

Text

Mea Culpa

Early fic for Chrollo's birthday (couldn't be bothered to wait for it tho)! I think this is my first fic in years where I do not have to add a warning for explicit violence :( waaa.

WARNINGS: Chrollo x Reader, Female! Reader, Explicit NSFW, Reader is married (not to Chrollo), Anxiety, Mentions of Panic Attacks, 5.6K words

Despite having adjusted the heating hours ago the house is still cold, though by now you’ve accepted that it’s just you. To deal with it, you changed into a thicker sweater, though now you’re annoyed with the scratchy feeling on your skin. On any other night, you’d put on the soft fleece hoodie hidden in the back of your closet, but that would counteract the effort you’d put in your make-up, so you refrain.

You sit at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee cooling in your hands, fingers wrapped tightly around the mug. The room is spotless, every surface wiped to a gleam, the smell of eucalyptus cleaner hanging faintly in the air. You spent the entire day scrubbing baseboards and dusting shelves, rearranging pillows and redo-ing laundry until the dryer was filled to the brim. Now, everything is still, waiting. The clock on the wall ticks softly, its hands creeping forward, marking each slow, stretched moment. You glance at it again, feeling a familiar knot of unease tighten in your stomach.

You tap your fingernails against the cup, stopping when the noise irritates you more than it soothes. The coffee is nearly cold, but you don’t drink it. You don’t really want it- don’t want the caffeine induced panic attack you’re sure to have if you finish it. You had needed something to do with your hands, some small ritual to fill the stillness, to distract from the prickling anticipation. You trace the rim of the mug, eyeing the front door, wondering if you’ll hear his car in the drive, if the headlights will sweep through the window any second now.

Nolen is late.

He didn’t say what time he’d be home. Maybe he doesn’t even know you’re waiting. You had spoken on the phone earlier, but he’d only said he’d arrive after dinner. You hadn’t asked him when he’d be back. You had just listened, your own voice tight, forgetting to ask anything after the announcement.

You take a breath, a shallow, careful breath, as if the wrong movement might disturb the silence you’ve built, the cleanliness you’ve created to stave off the restless churn inside. It feels like hours have passed, but when you look at the clock again, only a few minutes have slipped by. A car passes on the street, headlights flashing briefly across the living room wall, and for a moment, you think it’s him. But the car hums on by, leaving the street as empty and quiet as before.

This waiting, this quiet tension, is a bad habit by now, something you know as well as the itching of your sweater. You wonder if he’ll notice the way the floors shine, if he’ll see the arrangement of flowers he ordered for you which you placed on the mantle, soft lilac petals blending into the shadows as if they, too, are waiting for him to walk through the door.

You wonder if he’ll think it’s odd, considering you were the type to be fond of a little mess.

Then you catch yourself, realizing your grip on the mug has grown so tight that your knuckles ache. You force yourself to ease your grip, releasing it, setting it down gently. But your fingers keep curling into themselves, as if holding onto something you can’t quite name, something solid enough to anchor you against the pull of the night and the questions waiting just below the surface.

You close your eyes and listen for the sound of his keys in the lock.

The absurd stress of it all makes you feel like a fool. There’d be no need for it if you weren’t such a fucking coward and actually dealt with what was bothering you instead of just cleaning and waiting and drinking cold fucking coffee like any of it would make you feel better.

Any moment of inaction, every moment spent not calling Nolen and speaking to him is a moment that damns you more. It’s been months, how could you still sit here and pity yourself? He deserves more than this, and you serve no one with this wait for the inevitable.

There’s a noise by the door—a soft shuffle, the faintest creak, as if someone has brushed against the wood. You sit up sharply, heartbeat quickening, and place the cold coffee on the table, steadying yourself as you stand. Swallowing back the unease, you smooth your shirt, plaster a smile on your face, and head toward the entryway, summoning all the warmth and calm you can muster.

But as you round the corner, your steps falter, and the practiced smile drops from your lips.

It isn’t Nolen.

A man stands just inside the doorway, taking off his own coat. His figure is tall and lean, dressed in black that seems to meld with the shadows. Dark hair falls around his face, framing a pair of calm, unreadable eyes. After he hangs his coat, one hand rests lightly in his pocket, while the other brushes idly against his side, the gesture so relaxed it makes you grit your teeth.

The room feels even colder in his presence, the air thinner somehow, as though he has drawn all the warmth from the space. His expression is patient, his posture unbothered, as if you are the guest who has just walked into his home. Those dark eyes flicker over you briefly, noting the way you stopped mid-step, the way your face shifted from forced cheerfulness to shock and fear, and his mouth curves in a faint, inscrutable smile.

“Good evening.” He says.

"You can’t be here," you manage, your voice low, urgent, barely above a whisper. The house is spotless, every inch of it meticulously arranged and scrubbed, and yet his presence feels like a single, inevitable stain running through everything you tried so hard to perfect. "Not now."

He raises an eyebrow, his expression tipping toward amusement, but he doesn’t reach for his coat. Instead, he steps forward, brushing past you with that familiar, infuriating ease, as if he owns the place. You feel the heat of his presence as he walks by, leaving you frozen in place, unable to do anything but watch as he moves down the hallway toward the kitchen.

Your mind is reeling, but you manage to turn, your feet moving before your brain catches up, and follow him. "I’m serious," you say, more sharply this time, words strained. "He’s coming home any minute."

Chrollo stands at the kitchen sink, already filling a glass with water, the sound of it steady and unfazed. He doesn’t even look at you as he turns, handing the glass to you. "It’s fine," he murmurs, his voice quiet but certain. "I can’t stay long anyway."

His gaze, sharp and unyielding, locks onto yours, holding you there in the charged silence. "So we’d better hurry."

Your face flushes with heat, mortification prickling over your skin at the casual way he says it, as if it’s all so simple. As if there’s no risk, no one waiting to walk through the front door any second. You pull your hand back, gripping the glass tightly, grounding yourself with the cool press of it against your palm.

“Chrollo,” you begin, struggling to keep your voice steady, “you really have to go. I mean it. If he sees you here—if he even suspects—” You glance over your shoulder, half-expecting to already see Nolen in the hall, looking at Chrollo’s coat with a furrowed brow.

But Chrollo just watches you with that infuriating calm, the slightest lift of his brow the only acknowledgment of your words. There’s no hint of worry on his face, no urgency or concern; if anything, he seems amused. He lets you finish, listens in silence as you fumble for some way to get him to understand the gravity of this.

“Please, Chrollo, you can’t just show up here whenever you feel like it,” you continue, voice growing thin as the seconds stretch, each one an unbearable risk. “It’s not safe.”

He lets the silence stretch between you, once again making you feel like hours are passing with each in- and exhale. With an almost languid indifference, Chrollo lifts his wrist and taps his watch, the soft tap of his finger on the glass echoing faintly in the stillness.

Asshole, you think.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, anxiety making way for the truly traitorous feeling of anticipation as you realize there’s no winning this discussion. There never was. This entire conversation is one big deja vú, the words you’ve spoken identical to ones you’ve spoken before.

Some part of you wants to be relieved by his confidence. He’s smart, way smarter than you could ever claim yourself to be, and so if he says it’s fine, it should probably be fine. The only reason you can’t find his certainty to be calming is because you’re fifty percent sure he wants to be caught one of these days.

His smile reaches his eyes as he leans forward and says. “Though I don’t mind waiting a little more, if you want to make it a little more exciting.”

Okay- you’re seventy percent sure he wants to be caught.

The worst part is that you can’t curse him. Can’t yell at him and tell him that he’s a monster and should leave you alone. You brought this on yourself. By keeping quiet and letting him drop by again and again, your struggle feeling more feigned every time he drops by. And even if you did make it feel and sound convincing, not only to yourself, but to him, he was always sure to remind you that it was a little late to act like you were a passive and unwilling participant.

A year ago, Nolen had told you there would be a guest for dinner. He hadn’t offered much more than a name—one that Chrollo had admitted to being fake a week after meeting you—and a vague explanation about “Hunter business,”. You hadn’t pressed him for details, merely nodded and scrolled the internet for recipes.

When Chrollo arrived, there was an intensity about him that unsettled you. He was polite, even warm, though his manner was precise, every word and gesture chosen with careful purpose. You’d caught yourself stealing glances at him during dinner, and each time, he’d seemed to notice a faint glint of amusement in his dark eyes that left you feeling inexplicably exposed even when you pretended it was all because of some anecdote Nolen was telling.

Halfway through the evening, Nolen’s phone buzzed with an urgent call. He’d excused himself, stepping into the hallway, his muffled voice tense as he spoke to whoever was on the other end. When he returned, his face was taut with frustration, and he’d given you an apologetic look, explaining that he had to leave—something had come up, some crisis he couldn’t ignore. He’d promised to be back soon and had barely looked at Chrollo before he left, muttering something about him being welcome to stay as long as he liked.

And that’s when it started.

Left alone with him, the air had shifted, an unfamiliar tension settling in. Chrollo lingered at the table, his posture relaxed, but his gaze unwavering. There was a quiet intensity in the way he watched you. You’d felt a thrill of unease, but beneath it, something else, something you weren’t ready to name. When you began clearing the plates, his hand had covered yours, stopping you mid-motion.

It was just a brush of fingers, nothing more, but it was as if a current had jolted through you. He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t tried to coax or flatter; he simply stood close, his presence unraveling your every attempt at composure. There was a part of you that had wanted to turn away, to pull your hand free and break the spell of the moment, but you hadn’t. In a haze of uncertainty and guilt, you’d let him guide you toward something you didn’t want to want.

Since then, he’d returned every few weeks, each visit like an unspoken promise of more.

You knew it was wrong—each time he left, you’d tell yourself that it was the last, that you wouldn’t let him pull you in again. And yet, no matter how hard you tried to prepare, each time he returned, that resolve melted under his steady gaze.

Even when you’d tried to finally put an end to it all, three months after it had started, nothing had changed. It seemed he didn’t mind forcing things along a little, and you disgusted yourself by not being all too hard to force.

You hated the pull he had on you.

If Nolen had been a bad man, perhaps you would’ve been able to forgive yourself a little, but even that wasn’t the case. He was hard-working, sweet, and you’d known you’d be home alone a lot when he’d told you he was a hunter. Even though he’d been frustrated lately, stuck on desk duty after something of his had been stolen (you still hadn’t been told what), he was a good man to you, and you were going to have to grapple with being a terrible wife.

Your phone buzzes.

You glance at your phone, and your heart drops as you read the message from Nolen. Got tied up. Won't be home till late. Don’t wait up, it says. You stare at it for a long moment.

Chrollo notices you’ve frozen and tilts his head. “Something up?”

But the silence feels thick, and before you can second-guess yourself, you clear your throat and tell Chrollo, voice quiet, “Nolen won’t be home until late.”

He pauses, then laughs softly, the sound rich and knowing, his eyes glinting with amusement. He tilts his head, studying you with that same infuriating expression he always wears when he feels he’s gained an edge over you.

“If you didn’t want me here,” he says, his voice a smooth murmur as he steps closer, “you wouldn’t have told me that, would you?”

You feel heat rise to your cheeks, a defensive retort on the tip of your tongue, but he only raises an eyebrow, waiting. His gaze is calm, self-assured, and you’re painfully aware that, deep down, he’s right. A part of you did want him to know. A part of you is a monster that doesn’t care about being a horrific person, as long as you can get away with it.

He reaches out, brushing his fingers along your cheek, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You don’t want me to go.”

You open your mouth, but no words come, your breath caught as his hand settles at the base of your neck, drawing you in.

Before you can form a response, he smiles again, almost mockingly, then leans in, brushing his lips over yours in a way that makes everything else fall away, leaving only him and the quiet, undeniable truth of your own traitorous self.

If the woman who’d been swept off her feet by Nolen saw how you were acting today, how you’d been acting these past few months, she’d be disgusted with you. She’d renounce you and promise herself that whatever happened, she’d never cheat on her wonderful, amazing husband like you were consistently fucking doing.

Fuck.

Your breath hitches as Chrollo's lips press against yours, the kiss deepening instantly. You feel a rush of desire despite your internal screaming, your body responding to his touch even as your mind rebels. His tongue traces the seam of your lips and you part them with a soft sigh, letting him claim your mouth in a searing kiss.

The two of you stumble towards the bedroom, a tangle of limbs and desperation. Clothes are shed, tossed aside in their frenzy to be skin to skin. When the sweater is thrown across the room, you make a sound of elation, finally rid of that scratchy fucking feeling. You gasp as Chrollo's hands find your breasts, his thumbs teasing your nipples through the fabric of your bra into hard peaks. You arch into his touch, a moan escaping your lips.

Your knees buckle at the side of the bed and you fall backwards. He’s on you in an instant, and you feel Chrollo's weight settle on top of you, his chest pressing against your body.

Your legs fall open automatically, granting him access. He rips your panties away with a sharp tug, leaving you bare and exposed. Cool air hits your heated sex a moment before his fingers delve in, stroking and teasing. He whistles approvingly, fingers hurriedly delving under your panties to stroke your slick folds. A gasp tears from your throat at the first touch. You're already so wet, so ready for him.

He doesn’t say anything about it, but the eye-contact you have with him while he drags his finger across your folds is damning enough.

You shake your head frantically even as your body betrays you, grinding against his hand shamelessly. He slips a finger inside you, then another, pumping slowly. Your inner walls clench around the digits, craving more.

"You must’ve been pent up," Chrollo murmurs, capturing your lips in another searing kiss. His tongue plunders your mouth, mimicking the thrust of his fingers. You moan helplessly, lost in sensation. “I’ll make sure you’re fucked well enough to erase all that, since he can’t manage to do so in my absence apparently.”

Even as your bodies move together, you feel a twinge of unease. Chrollo's filthy words whispered in your ear make you cringe. You try to quiet him, to stifle the part of him that revels in this depravity, but it's a losing battle.

"Shh," you whisper, your fingers pressing against his lips. "Please, not now."

Chrollo pauses. A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face, and you know you've lost.

He flips you onto your back, pinning your wrists above your head. "You don't want me to stop," he growls, his hips grinding against yours. "You like it when I tell you how I’m going to fuck you. Don't you?"

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the moan that threatens to escape. You shake your head, denying him. But your body tells a different story, your hips rising to meet his, begging for more.

Chrollo chuckles, low and dark. "Liar."

He releases your wrists to unhook your bra, tossing it aside carelessly, joining the rest of your clothing on the ground. Your breasts bounce free, nipples pebbled in the cool air. Chrollo dips his head, drawing one nipple into his mouth. You cry out, back arching off the bed.

Your hips writhe shamelessly, seeking more friction. Chrollo obliges, adding a third finger, pumping harder, faster. Your moans grow louder, more desperate. You're so close, teetering on the edge of something intense and overwhelming.

Tears of frustration prick your eyes. You know you shouldn't want this, shouldn't want him. Nevertheless you speak, as if your mouth is the sole part uninhibited by this damned guilt that eats you up.

"I need...I need you," you whimper, hating the weakness in your voice.

Chrollo's eyes glitter with triumph, but if he wants to say something, he doesn’t do it.

He pulls his fingers free, leaving you empty and aching. Before you can protest, he's shedding his pants, freeing his cock. You swallow hard, equal parts terrified and excited.

He settles between your thighs, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance. You tense instinctively, bracing yourself for pain. But when he thrusts forward, he's sickeningly gentle, letting you adjust to his size inch by delicious inch.

You gasp at the stretch, the sheer fullness. It's familiar, in a way that you know shouldn’t be the case, like a secret cigarette outside a bar after having promised to quit for real. Chrollo stills once he's fully seated, giving you a moment to adapt. Then he starts to move, slow and deep.

Each thrust sends sparks shooting up your spine, building the pressure low in your belly. Your nails rake down his back, scoring his skin. He groans, hips snapping faster, harder.

The room fills with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, your moans, his grunts of pleasure. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his ass, urging him on.

Chrollo hooks your knees over his elbows, nearly bending you in half. The new angle has him hitting that spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyes. You see white, your vision blurring.

"There you go," he pants, fucking into you relentlessly.

Your body moves on pure instinct, hips rising to meet each punishing thrust. Chrollo's fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to bruise as he pounds into you, the force of his thrusts shaking the bed. You feel like you're flying apart, unraveling at the seams.

"Don't fight it," he purrs, licking the shell of your ear. "You love this. Love how I make you feel."

You want to deny it, but the words stick in your throat. Because he's right. Despite the guilt twisting in your gut, you do love this. Love the way he claims you and makes you forget everything but the feel of his body against yours.

The headboard slams against the wall, a staccato beat matching the pounding of your heart. Your orgasm builds like a tidal wave, threatening to crash over you at any moment.

He lifts your hand to his face and presses a lingering kiss to your wedding ring, a gesture that makes your chest tighten with conflict. His eyes witness the resentment you cannot suppress, but before you can open your mouth to curse him, he’s already busy trying to make you forget his constant taunting.

Chrollo changes the angle slightly and you let out a choked scream, toes curling. Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, back bowing off the mattress. Distantly, you hear Chrollo moan as he finds his own release, hips slowing down as he empties himself inside of you. It’s filthy, and wrong, and so, so good.

If you were a better person, you’d clean up and send him out.

If you were a better person, you’d text Nolen that the two of you needed to talk.

If you were a better person, you wouldn’t immediately find Chrollo’s lips again and settle yourself on top of him, to ride his cock like a fucking whore and repeat your betrayal over and over again, salivating at the thought of just one more time-

You look at the ceiling after the fourth round and for the first time honestly admit it to yourself.

‘I’m scum.’

You’d hoped the revelation would be accompanied with some catharsis, yet all it does is make you feel even worse.

When both of you lack any energy to continue, you just relax, settling down. Despite it all, Chrollo doesn’t even seem phased, beside a thin layer of sweat making his bangs stick to his face. You yourself are a mess: your lips are swollen, your entire body is clammy and any part of you that isn’t bruised is covered in bodily fluids.

The bedroom is steeped in silence, broken only by the quiet rustle of sheets as you lie facing away from him, your back curled defensively, as if you could block out the weight of his presence beside you. Chrollo shifts, stretching out in the darkness, his hand trailing deliberately along your shoulder. He lingers there, content in the heavy quiet, and you feel his eyes on you, studying you with an unnerving patience.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice cutting through the stillness, smooth and almost tender, “if it didn’t tear at you so much, you wouldn’t be nearly as beautiful to me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, biting back the sting of his words. A sick ache settles in your chest, a knot of shame and anger twisted together, so sharp it feels like it could splinter inside you.

Your voice comes out small, strained. “Why do you keep coming back, Chrollo?” You don’t look at him, but your grip tightens on the edge of the blanket, as if holding on could steady you against the mess you’ve let yourself fall into. “It’s not like I ever asked for this.”

He tilts his head, his eyes dark and steady, a glimmer of something like amusement touching his lips. “Didn’t you?” He brushes his fingers down your arm, the touch deceptively gentle, meant to unsettle rather than soothe. “Or is it just easier to pretend it’s my fault?”

The words sink in. You want to push him away, to pull yourself back from the edge, but instead, your voice cracks. “I didn’t—” You choke on the words, barely holding them together, your face burning with the weight of the truth. “I didn’t ask for this, Chrollo. I don’t want it.” The first tear slips free, followed by another, until you’re fighting to hold back a full, ugly sob. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

You can’t even say his name. Not when you’re in bed with Chrollo. It feels like Nolen would know if you did.

“But you just can’t help yourself?”

“No.” You hate that question, knowing that it’s true, but he’s only asking it for another confirmation of your guilt.

“You know, that’s the part of you I adore most,” he says, his voice almost tender. “The part that still clings to him, that hates what this is—despite giving in each time. Knowing you destroy yourself with guilt, and yet… you choose me anyway.” There’s a flicker of triumph in his eyes, a cruel glimmer that ignites as he holds you there.

It makes you nauseous, seeing him revel so much in the ego boost of having you bend to his whims again and again.

Before you can gather the strength to turn away again, he pulls you to him, his mouth capturing yours, and you feel the weight of his satisfaction in the way he kisses you. His lips press harder, drawing out every last ounce of your remaining resolve, breaking it down with a careful, practiced ease that leaves you breathless and raw.

When he finally pulls back, he holds your gaze, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, one hand resting possessively on your back, as if securing you to him. He studies you quietly, his fingers brushing over your cheek with an intimacy that both warms and chills you.

“And I do love you, you know,” he says finally, his voice low, as if he’s revealing some carefully guarded secret. He watches your reaction closely, as if testing how deeply the words will sink in, how much they’ll unsettle you. “In my way, at least.”

Despite knowing his confession shouldn’t mean anything to you, you search his eyes, trying to find the sincerity beneath the words. He strokes a strand of hair away from your face, letting his hand rest at the base of your neck.

“Isn’t this easier?” he murmurs, his thumb tracing slow circles over your skin, sending a strange thrill through you. “This way, you’re… taken care of. It saves me the trouble of worrying about you. Your husband provides you with a life I can’t offer—not consistently.” His lips curve in a faint smile, as if this all makes perfect, practical sense. “And I’d never have to worry about you needing more from me than I can give.”

The explanation feels practiced, like something he’s rationalized into a neat arrangement, but something in his tone is off.

You swallow. “So that’s it?” Your voice comes out thin. “This is just… the simplest way to have an available fuck, as long as it doesn’t complicate things for you?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care about you.” The words come softly, but there’s a finality in them. “And yes,” he adds, after a pause, his tone almost playful, “this is the easiest way. I don’t pretend to be someone who would devote myself to domestic comforts and constant companionship. You wouldn’t want that version of me, anyway.”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words don’t come out right. You shake your head, frustration bubbling up. "You say you care about me," you begin, your voice steady despite the chaos in your chest. "But you don’t know anything about me. And I don’t know shit about you either! I don’t even know who you really are. I don’t know what you do for a living, or where you came from. You’ve never told me anything about yourself. About you."

He remains still, his gaze flicking over you with a small, almost amused smile playing at his lips. The silence hangs between you for a moment before he responds, his voice soft but deliberate.

“You know enough," he says simply, as if that’s the end of it. "I don’t need to tell you my entire life story to prove anything. You know who I am to you. That’s all that matters.”

You shake your head.

“No,” you insist, your voice rising slightly. You dig your fingers into the sheets. “I don’t know enough. You’re... you’re a stranger to me. You talk about love, but I don’t know who you are when you walk out that door. What’s your life really like? What do you do when you’re not here, in my bed, in my life? As far as I know, you could be walking right back to a family and some poor wife you’re abandoning.”

He breaks out in laughter. “That’s what you’re afraid of? You don’t have to worry, I don’t have a family in that capacity.”

“Chrollo—”

His laughter fades as he goes still, eyes locking with yours.

“You know enough,” he says again, his tone almost indulgent. “I’m as genuine as I can be with you. I’m here. With you. That’s all that matters.”

You search his face, looking for any crack, any sign of deception. But all you find is calm certainty, an impenetrable mask that makes you feel smaller.

You open your mouth, about to ask another question, when Chrollo leans in, his lips brushing your ear in a quiet, almost soothing whisper.

“Does it really matter?” he asks, his breath warm against your skin. “You know what I’m here for. And so do I.” He presses a kiss to your neck, slow and deliberate, as if to erase the question before it can form fully.

“I think you’re lying to me.” You say, suddenly. “About something. I don’t know what, but I can feel it.”

Chrollo’s gaze sharpens, and for a moment, you think he might actually answer, might allow you a moment of honesty. But instead, he leans down, pressing his lips to your forehead in a lingering kiss.

“This,” he says quietly, “is all the truth you need.”

Chrollo watches you closely, his gaze lingering on the way your brow furrows, the way your lips press tightly together as you search for answers you believe will give you some clarity. The uncertainty in your eyes amuses him. You think that by demanding more—by trying to peel back the layers of him—you’ll uncover something that will make everything fall into place.

If he was honest about even one aspect of his day-to-day life, it’d shatter the fragile tension between you two, and he’s not ready to destroy that balance yet. But your insistence—it’s something else. It’s not just anxiety of sleeping with a near-stranger; it’s something more fun.

You need him to be something he’s not, something you want him to be. Your words, your tone, they show it—this desperation for reassurance that somehow, all of this can still make sense. That you can hold on to something solid, something real.

He smiles faintly to himself, amusement flickering in his eyes.

You love him. You might never say it out loud, and you might never admit it to yourself, but he can see it now more clearly than ever. It’s all there.

But that’s your dilemma. You love your husband, love the life you’ve built, and yet, here you are, asking him questions you already know won’t satisfy you. It’s not the answers you want. It’s the reassurance that you're not making a mistake. That he’s not just a fleeting, dangerous mistake in your life. You need a justification, something to quiet the chaos inside you, some explanation that justifies your betrayal.

He lets the silence hang between you, stretching it out.

When even you seem to realize the futility of the conversation, he leans back, folding his arms behind his head, a quiet smirk tugging at his lips.

In his mind, he imagines you learning the truth. The weight of it pressing down on you, cementing your own belief that you’re a terrible person. He can almost taste it—how you’d pull away, how you’d try to reconcile the man in front of you with the man he really is, and how you’d struggle to understand how you could ever have let someone like him into your life. The dissonance would be too much. The confusion too overwhelming.

Would you still look at him the same way? He can almost see it—the disgust in your eyes, the judgment, the attempt to justify your own actions, to explain away how you let someone like him into your life- into your bed. Or maybe, just maybe, he wonders, you’d find yourself ignoring it, denying every bit he admits.

But then, he wonders... would you stay as you are now? Willing, through a thin facade of uncertainty and guilt, begging for answers that’ll make it all feel less like you’re a bad person?

The more you search for that balance, the more he enjoys it. You might not admit it aloud, but he’s already won.

And for now, that’s enough.

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itsgeecheebitch · 7 months ago

Note

favorite fic? of yours and in general

I don't feel like picking and choosing between my own fics so instead I wanna share some fics written by my fellow yandere writers (some of which I may have shared in similar asks in the past but idc I wanna share them again):

from @hypnoswrites:

Chrollo vs a blacklist Hunter (I really enjoy how fast and how easily Chrollo was able to handle that situation, from cleaning up the body to controlling reader)

Illumi uses a needle on reader (love the way poor reader's mind is addled in this one and how easily she disregards the violent scene due to Illumi's influence. love the ending as well, it's so chilling)

Uvogin x reader x Franklin (two big men - my greatest weakness❤️❤️❤️)

vampire Razor (idk how to summarize this one accurately there's so much going on and I love it all so much)

apocalypse AU with Pakunoda (Paku my beloved❤️❤️❤️)

from @ddarker-dreams:

Chrollo's birthday (love me some Greedy Chrollo)

third party recognizes reader while she's out with Chrollo (poor reader tried SO hard to keep the guy away AND keep Chrollo appeased😭)

aftermath of Chrollo's darling being kidnapped (all of the conversations that Lock's readers have with Chrollo are always great to read but this one in particular sticks out in my mind and I love it)

Feitan's darling runs away (THAT FUCKING ENDING OMG)

Scaramouche's darling distracts him (I know next to nothing about Genshin Impact but I really enjoyed this fic❤️❤️❤️)

from @cherrysha:

ABO Uvogin (this fic lives in my head rent free)

Uvo's darling has a nightmare (there's something scary about how Uvo is so violent in trying to find her and how it contrasts with how gentle he is after. the anxiety she feels from her nightmare which then turns into comfort when he has her in his arms)

reader tries to kill Hisoka (poor reader😭)

god AU with Franklin (I love love love the buildup to Franklin's true reveal in this fic. how Franklin's presence is there within the temple once reader visits, but it's only when she finally collects the proper materials that he appears for real before her. plus the addition of reader possibly being in danger if she fails at the task he's set for her. there's a lot of buildup and dread in this fic and I love it)

Meleoron x reader (this fic is just cute as hell and I need to share it)

from @after-witch:

Feitan saves reader after she's been kidnapped (I've definitely shared this one before but that isn't stopping me from sharing it again bc this fic is amazing from beginning to end❤️❤️❤️)

one night stand with Feitan (I just love the way reader and Feitan end up connecting and how reader being herself is enough to make Feitan decide that he wants to keep her)

vampire Chrollo x reader (this is another fic that has so much going on that it's hard to get all of my thoughts on it out. it's just such a fun read and I love The Lost Boys vibes)

Chrollo's patience runs out (just Bastard Chrollo at his finest)

Uvogin retrieves his darling (in these kind of fics you just KNOW that Uvo will be getting his darling after they run, but it's always a wonder as to how that happens and what Uvo's reaction will be)

from @absolute-flaming-trash:

Hisoka buys his darling a gift (using bungee gum as a LEASH omg)

Hisoka looking for his soulmate (I really liked this version of the 30 seconds soulmate au❤️❤️❤️ it was interesting plus it offered more opportunities for reader to annoy Hisoka lol)

Chrollo and kidnapped reader (poor reader😭)

Illumi punishes reader (😳😳😳)

Mahito asking about love (anything with Mahito is generally fucked up due to him being.... himself. but this one had some moments that were kinda cute. like the description of Mahito laying on the bed reading a magazine, or the way he's described looking at reader. but all it takes is for one word and the mood feels dangerous again. also it's currently raining rn so reading this fic feels appropriate)

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itsgeecheebitch · 7 months ago

Text

Just Friends (König x F!Reader)

How to Make Friends 1/4 (Word count 5.4 k)

Summary: König is a horny, creepy killing machine obsessed with a shy, kind reader who has a raging knife kink.

Tags/warnings: 🔞 Eventual smut, eventual violence, angst, dark romance, canon divergence. Crack treated seriously. Yandere undertones, implied stalking, panty stealing, major character death, size kink, voyeurism, possessive sex, twisted, fluffy feelings. Loner boy/gentle girl dynamic. Protective!Obsessive!Top!König. Reader works as a cleaner at the base. She is described to have hair and prefers to wear dresses off work. Not safe or sane but mostly consensual.

A/N: AU where König (sadly) isn't a colonel and doesn't have a t-shirt as a hood but an... actual hood. Please heed the tags lovelies 🩷

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

No one sees a cleaning lady.

Cleaners are invisible. People remember them only when their desks start to gather dust, when their floors are full of mud. No one sees her except the tallest guy in the building: the guy who everybody seems to ignore, just like they ignore her.

It doesn't take long to see why. He's different, and not just because of the mask he's wearing.

She sees him playing with knives. He throws them in the air leisurely, catches them by the handle, and never misses the catch. He flicks them from side to side, spins and whirls the blades in motions she can't even see because they're so swift.

It's pure magic. And they're not dull training knives; they're sharp as a razor, vicious, tactical – but that doesn't make them ugly. They're quite stunning, and she's caught staring more than once.

His movements are not what she'd exactly call precise and fluid. They're urgent, antsy, made to relieve stress of some sort. He's stimming with the knives. Alleviating pain or frustration. The rest of his body is still; only the ice-blue eyes flicker on the blade as he focuses all his attention on the dance. Sometimes he just stares at them, turns them around as if checking the edge, as if it wasn't evident that they're deadly and sharp. That's how she knows he takes good care of the things he loves.

He's fascinated by them, just like she is. And it's not just the knives; she's fascinated by him.

Others cast side eyes, nervous looks at him. Even some of his fellow operators look at the man like he's a lunatic. And perhaps he is, but she can't help it.

She's mesmerized.

It all changes when she accidentally walks into a meeting room while there is a briefing going on. Apparently, no one considers her a threat or a potential spy because she is summoned in before she rushes to close the door, and so she goes on about her day while the soldiers are already wrapping things up.

The hooded giant is there too, leaning back in a chair too small for him, this time playing with a butterfly knife. It's the smallest, daintiest thing she has yet seen in those hands. He always has gloves on, but that doesn't make the flashy flipping look any less dangerous.

She starts by dusting the side tables so she is not in the way. This time, she vehemently does not want to be seen. Save perhaps by the knife maniac.

The man even helps her with cleaning: he picks up some of the objects he can reach so she can wipe the surface more easily. It makes her cheeks grow hot, but she cannot bring herself to thank him. She doesn't dare to make a single sound while there is a meeting going on and their captain is still speaking, but she gives her thanks through her eyes and her smile, and the man looks at her like she's some kind of saintly sight.

The look in those blue eyes is starstruck. Almost… obsessive.

It should send ice to her stomach. But it doesn't.

He continues showing off with the knife as she moves to the other side of the room. He does it to mess with her head or entertain her, delight her, perhaps - the man already knows she’s intrigued by his vast collection of blades.

It's a bit creepy. The man as a whole is a bit creepy, but she only feels a rush, a high that turns her monotonous work day into a thrill.

"König. Would you mind?"

The sound of the flicking blade stops, and she is possibly the only one in this room who misses the noise.

"Entschuldigung."

He speaks, and the voice sends ripples across her scalp. It's twisted and amused, as if the man gets off on annoying the shit out of his workmates.

"English, please..."

"My apologies."

The blade is tucked somewhere in his pocket and the man named König leans forward on the table. Slightly hunched over like that, he looks even more intimidating than before. The playfulness is gone, and he looks fiercely professional. More shivers are sent down her spine.

König…

König is the reason she still keeps working in this odd little compound, the base of some special operations unit that requires an insane amount of security checks and secret contracts and confidentiality agreements just so she can clean the floors from their soddy footprints.

König is the reason she starts to put on some mascara in the morning, tie her hair in a high ponytail, or braid it in two little braids so she would appear cuter if she happens to pass him by in the hallway. He's the reason she opens not one but two buttons of her blouse before she starts the day. He's also the reason her underwear is soaked in the middle of a boring shift.

He appears in her break room to borrow coffee. And not once, but twice during the same week.

"You're running low again?"

"Eh… Ja."

He's shit at lying, though. She is relatively sure by now that he's here only because he wants to see her.

"I'll bring it back. I mean–I'll buy you some."

He seems a bit shy, like her, and combined with the fact that he still chooses to seek her out already gives her sleepless nights. It makes her far more confident than she has ever been with people.

His accent, his voice, are pure fire. She feels sinful for thinking about how he would behave in the bedroom, how he would talk – after all, it already sounds like he's breathless and strained, already sounds like he's working her open with whatever monster is hidden in those pants a bit too small for him. He walks with a wide lounge, and she just knows it's because he is so big down there.

"You do that," she gives him a particularly flirty smile and revels in how it makes him even more distraught. It's quite fascinating how the same man can exude barely repressed bloodlust one moment and stupefied silence the next.

He returns the very next day to bring her a package of coffee. The same brand he borrowed twice already is set on the table in front of her with tense shoulders. She has seen the man relaxed only when he’s achieved that alluring flow state with his knives.

"Hier."

"Why thank you."

He simply stands there, switches weight from one foot to the other, and shrugs.

"I'll be going then."

But he doesn’t leave. Not right away. He watches her with that icy, burning stare, and she cocks her head.

“Bye,” she chimes with a soft smile – the guy is simply too cute. His restless twitching stops; he freezes where he stands, blinks – and then turns and walks out the door like a robot.

. . . . .

She's not supposed to be here. Or, she is, but he's not.

No one’s supposed to be here when there's the sign on the door. The men's showers are supposed to be cleared once a week for good scrubbing, and she only has 30 minutes to do that. It's once a week, less than an hour, there's a sign, and still, some jerk has to walk right through it.

No one sees a cleaning lady.

No one appears to even care about the fucking sign.

But then she sees who exactly has disrespected her humble position. It's a shock to see that familiar black hood with two eye holes on it thrown on the bench. Next to that, the khaki-colored cargo pants, a black shirt, and those gloves, all in a heap – this guy is not the most orderly, perhaps.

And she takes a fucking peek inside the showers because the door is, for some unfathomable reason, transparent, see-through glass.

The first thing she sees is muscle. Just wet, powerful cords of muscle slapped on the tallest man she has ever seen or would probably ever see.

He's a vision: godly, almost. Then she notices what he's doing.

Of course he has to be fucking fapping on top of everything.

Her throat is dry and her hands are numb as she watches how he leans on the tiles with one hand and works himself with the other. The body hair on the guy is so pale that he basically looks neatly shaved, save for the short hair on the top of his head – the man's nothing but sleek, dripping muscle through and through.

He sounds weak when he's masturbating; the noise that echoes in the showers consists mainly of frail, high-pitched grunts.

She's wet in no time, and it doesn't help that he looks frantic, almost violent, while jerking off. It's a sloppy frenzy, and the sounds of wet, angry slapping make her heart beat so fast that the rush of blood in her ears nearly drowns the noise.

The man has big hands, but his cock still looks massive inside one. She knows she will copy-paste the image of that long cock, slick with water and soap, in her mind over and over again while releasing some tension herself. Of course it's big because he's big, but the length of it is simply outrageous – she cannot comprehend how he can fit himself in his pants, even when soft.

His whole upper body tenses abruptly, like a huge cord of cable; he throws his head back, his hips jerk forward and he goes catatonic – the cum shot that follows would shoot a meter away if it wasn't stopped by the wall. The spurts of his load are equally as fierce as the fap, and she feels faint.

And why the fuck is she even standing here in the first place?

And then he…

He drops his head, turns a little to the side, like he’s known she has been here the whole time.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck-

She can only see his eyes from behind the arm still leaning on the wall. That heated glare is not furious, but nor is it benevolent: it's simply pure, manic lust.

She turns and rushes from the locker room like she has just seen a monster.

. . . . .

"Hey."

If he's here for coffee or for her, she doesn't know. Or, perhaps she does, but she's also so unbelievably ashamed and embarrassed that perhaps it's no surprise that he seeks her out in the break room since she has avoided him everywhere else for two days.

"Hi."

Her weak voice is followed by silence, and she doesn't turn, even when she knows he's still behind her. Something in the air, some part of atavistic instinct tells her he's standing right behind her.

"You here for more coffee?"

He still doesn't say anything, and she begins to freak out.

"König… I'm–God, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have–"

"Did you like what you saw?"

Her heart shoots up her throat, and her stomach churns, almost starts to eat itself from the pure terror. But it's nothing compared to what he says next.

"I was thinking of you," the calm voice reaches her ears like a tall wave, making her even more woozy than she was in the men's showers.

"I'm– sorry, what?"

"Your mouth… Breasts. If you're tight."

She finally turns, doesn't even try to conceal her horror tinged with incomprehensible, strange lust.

"Jesus…"

The ice between them is broken, but at what cost – and the anxiety she had mistaken for cuteness reveals something psychotic underneath. He still looks at her with the same stare, even when she tries to make it clear that this approach makes her want to vomit. He doesn't move, only towers over her like a hulking shade, and she darts from the break room, completely soaked and on the verge of tears.

. . . . .

There's a knock on her door the next morning, so early that she wonders who the hell could be up at this hour other than staff. It's like… five-thirty. She's so sleepy that she doesn't quite think it through as she throws only a t-shirt on before strolling to the door.

What the f-

König shoves the flowers almost in her face as she opens the door, and she has to yank her head back. All the sleep is gone in an instant, and she curses in her mind that she's standing here in only a tight t-shirt and a black pair of panties.

"I'm sorry. Please, accept my apology," he says like a poorly rehearsed actor while watching her thighs and what's between them. Her nipples shoot up, and not from cold.

"Uh… sure," she tries to sound neutral while accepting the flowers, if not his apology. He takes a step back after making sure she has truly taken the gift, and she instinctively lowers the bouquet down to shield herself from his searing gaze. She knows she's a hypocrite, having masturbated at the memory of him last night. Twice.

He has his hood on, and wears the eternal black shirt, padded gloves and some cargo pants, but there’s also an overload of gear on him. Pouches and pads and wires and ammo - she even catches a grenade or two. There’s a gun strapped to his thigh, and the shoulder pads make his already broad shoulders look even more wide. He looks so… tactical, so in his element that her instincts tell her it wouldn’t do shit to slam the door in his face and retreat back to the safety of her room. This soldier would just barge through the plywood.

And where did this guy get flowers at this hour of the day? No florist can possibly be open. Then she notices they're not exactly the kind of flowers she has seen at a shop.

Has he picked them from outside…?

"I thought you liked me."

His explanation makes her heart melt a little. He's so straightforward, so utterly without any charades or roles, that it makes her feel like she's the one who has disrespected him with her games. After all, she has done nothing but flirted 24/7 with the poor man for the last week. Of course he only thought she was interested.

"I do. I do like you."

His eyes light up with uncontained hunger. "Can I come in?"

Nope. Big mistake.

"Uh, I don't think that's a good idea."

"Ok. I'll be going then."

He turns on his heels and is ready to go like nothing ever happened.

“Wha-… König, please, wait.”

He halts on command, turns back, looks at her solemnly. The only thing that gives his confusion away are his eyes, which flicker from her puzzled stare to her mouth, occasionally to the bouquet covering her nether areas.

"Could we just be friends?" She offers him rather desperately.

He merely shrugs.

"Never had any friends."

For some reason, this guy has already started to live rent-free inside her head. She simply can't get him out. And she's intrigued, even when the sanest option would be to stay away from a creepy lunatic like him.

"I can be your friend."

Fuck, what did I just say, what the fuck did I just–

"Sure. Why not," he says immediately. "You just want to be friends?"

She resists the urge to facepalm right then and there in front of him. The guy is not only socially awkward: he's in a state of denial.

Some of his friends – or at least, teammates – pass them by. Kyle, if she remembers correctly, and a Scottish man they call Soap. They both smile at her kindly. It's the first time these men have ever paid her any attention; actually, this is probably the only occasion anyone pays attention to König either. They are both suddenly visible.

"Hey König, don't go harassing our cleaning lady. We got a plane to catch."

König stares somewhere behind her as Soap speaks. His eyes are covered with glass, and she knows that look all too well. The tallest man in the building is dissociating while the two soldiers march by behind him with raised eyebrows and pursed lips: a mocking gesture only she can see.

She watches the scene with an odd pity. It appears they step into existence only when they're together – an unfamiliar setting and an odd couple, the object of ridicule for people who probably claim themselves to be normal.

"I think it would be best, yes," she whispers when the hall is quiet again. She has to start her day soon, and he has a plane to catch - no one else is awake except one hard-working woman and a few operators about to leave on an early mission. She feels the strangest sorrow as she realizes that he wanted to drop by with some flowers and his apology before leaving some place he might never return.

The man gives her a last once-over before taking his leave. He nods slowly, never breaking their gaze: an odd, gentlemanly move.

"Just friends, then."

. . . . .

It is the hottest day yet, and the guy walks around with his black hood even then.

Her new friend.

She's outside, trying to catch some fresh air and sunlight after spending another 8 hours inside a buzzing facility, and somehow, some way, the tall enigma of a man always finds her.

He angles his walk towards her as if he only happened to pass by at the same time she was lounging against the wall and looking at clouds drifting in the sky. In truth, she has an odd, yawning suspicion that she is being stalked nowadays. One of her underwear has gone missing, and she's wretched because her first thought upon finding it gone was the solid assumption that he had stolen them. Which further meant that the man had broken into her room.

But there's also flowers. Every morning when she opens her door, there's a single flower awaiting her. Sometimes, two or three, and not from a store, but from outside, from nature.

He's courting her, and she feels stupidly like a little princess because of those homely yet thoughtful gifts. She doesn't throw them away: they gather on her table, on her window sill, in a little water glass on her bedside table.

She's far too kind, that's what people always say, but she's also neck-deep into this goddamn creep at this point to do anything about it. The building is full of muscled men, men who are decent, and she chooses this… gift-bearing perv to crush on. In her judgment system, she's basically asking for it at this point.

"How are you?"

His accent lingers in the air between them, and she can't help it: it always brings a rush of heat on her cheeks and a rush of wetness down below when she hears him speak.

"I'm good. Just… good. How about you?"

"Sehr gut."

Perhaps the underwear has simply gone missing while washing laundry: it's not unusual when at least 20 people share one washing machine.

And they're only friends. Friends don't steal each other's underwear. Friends ask how they have been, how their day's gone.

"You look nice."

But the summer sun pales in comparison with the heat of that stare. Friends might compliment each other, but they don't look at each other like that.

She feels grungy enough while cleaning, not to mention in the bland, saggy clothes she has to wear every morning, so it can't be a surprise that she likes to put on an effort after the day is done. The citrus-yellow dress she has this afternoon catches his attention like she's a whole circus in town.

"You always look like an angel," he elaborates further, and she has to prevent herself from taking support from the wall upon hearing his compliment.

"Oh.. Thanks," she smiles, and he answers it: the faint creases around narrowing eyes are enough proof of that. "It's so hot… Do you ever take the hood off?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you take it off before bed?"

Oh god.

That sounded weird. She meant to ask if he took it off before sleeping.

Well, 'before bed', 'before sleeping'… What's the difference, really?

Still, he reads into it like a hawk for a seemingly socially graceless case.

"Depends if I'm alone or not," he says. Definitely thinks she's flirting with him again. Talk about sending mixed messages…

Friends, friends. We're just friends.

"Where are you from, by the way? Are you German?"

"No. Austrian."

"Oh. It must be beautiful there at this time of year."

"It is. I would still trade all of Austria for you," he says without any clumsiness, even though the pickup line is awful, one of the worst she has heard – and god, still, those big hands, that fire and ice stare makes her feel high as a kite. The image of him plowing her with the same pace he fucked his hand won't leave her alone.

"König… Just friends," she warns while feeling how another pair of panties is already ruined. She's so wet it's not even funny anymore; it makes her annoyed.

"Ok."

He says ok, but she knows he won't yield. She’s been far too kind for far too long and won't be losing this guy's interest anytime soon.

"How's work?" She tries to patiently show him how to be fricking friends, even if one party is constantly undressing the other with their eyes. As if she's not doing the same…

"You really want to know?"

"Sure."

"Had to scrub intestines from my shoes all night," he says casually. She can only blink and watch how completely distanced and indifferent he seems about something so sick.

"Everything's a mess when you use a knife," he explains further.

"Uh... I'm sure it is."

"Do you regret that you asked?"

"No. Well, perhaps a little."

He crosses his arms over his chest and looks proud; only seems pleased with himself for succeeding in scaring her even more.

"That's why I scrub guts and you scrub floors."

"I guess so," she agrees to his ever-authentic way of saying things how they are. He's a soldier: she can’t change that fact no matter how he or she puts it. Decent guys did the exact same things he did; they just didn't go around telling shy girls about the gory details of their work.

"Do you like knives?"

Nor did they ask things like this. They would ask if she wanted to go see a movie or have a lovely dinner that would end in a kiss and an exchange of phone numbers.

"Um. Yes, I think they're beautiful."

Her response causes a short, deafening silence, a few blinks. The wind catches his mask, but it never rises: she notices he's not only undressing her body, but also her soul with those eyes. Patient, like he knows all her secrets and loves them already.

"What would it take to be more than friends?"

His sudden change of subject is almost as shocking as the devil-may-care account of his work. She is feeling unusually wild; the warm weather and the yellow hues covering the distant horizons make her want to lie down on the grass and pull him on top of her. She thinks of him sliding up the fabric of her cutesy dress, thinks of him opening his pants to get that huge cock out and force it inside.

"Well… You could… Ask me out, for starters?"

"What if you come to my room and I'll show you something," he offers instantly.

As nice and naive as she may be, she's sure the only thing he wants to show her is his cock. Which she has already seen, technically speaking. Which she would like to see again, heaven forbid.

She is slightly breathless and wonders if the heat on her cheeks is visible, if her lips are a bit fuller than usual from her thoughts. Perhaps that's why she resorts to a counteroffer as if she's bargaining here. As if she can't say no.

"Uh.. How about you come and pick me up for dinner this eve–"

"Ok."

He nods with full-blown promise in his eyes and leaves right away, a little too content, and she realizes she has made the worst mistake of her entire life. She will never get a man of his size out of her room if she lets him in and things go awry.

In a hurried decision, she decides she will simply leave him blue-balled at the door. She simply won't go to dinner; she certainly won't let him in. She doesn't have to, even if and when she has to watch him mope for the rest of the year.

She will tell him they're not friends, they're nothing anymore, and that's just it.

She goes, determined and her mind set, to shower, only to notice that she's more soaked than the pool of soap water gathering at her feet. Her body simply betrays her at every turn. Perhaps she should masturbate, just in case, so she won't be weak-willed when he arrives at her door this evening. Yes, that's a brilliant idea, one of the rare good ones she’s had these past few days.

“Jesus–"

By the time she enters her room, wet and throbbing, he's already there.

"How did you get in?"

He shrugs his shoulders like he always does.

"You asked me to visit you."

He doesn't even answer her question about him breaking into her fucking room. He's standing right next to her dresser and a bra she had thrown on one of the open drawers, and she knows right then and there that he's the panty thief.

"Yeah, but… I thought you'd knock or something."

"Sorry."

If you shrug I swear I’m going to…

"Where do you wish to go?"

He's standing there like a contrapposto statue, narrow hips deliciously tilted and with an obvious erection in his pants. He doesn't seem to feel ashamed about it, and it makes her even more wet.

She has a murderous giant in her room, a killer who's visibly turned on by the sight of her underwear, perhaps the lingering scent of her perfume, too… and he's asking where she wishes to go eat tonight so he might have a chance to bang her afterward.

"Do you like Chinese?"

He shrugs as an answer, and she sighs.

"I need to change. Could you turn around?"

The eyes behind the hood regard her with curiosity, but the man does as he is bid. She takes out a floral dress and a more comfortable bra and walks further away to the bed to change. König faces the wall while she gets undressed with trembling hands. She’s sure the man will turn around, march to her, and simply have his way with her before she gets the dress on. Some sick part of her even yearns for it.

But he doesn't. Instead, his head tilts a little to the side, and his hand rises to gently brush the lace of her bra while she's in the most vulnerable position she's ever been with this man. It's an almost equal violation of her privacy as it would've been to turn, but her tongue is tied. And she only now notices he's not wearing gloves.

König is caressing her underwear with no fabric whatsoever between his skin and her chastity, and it makes her breath grow heavy like they're living in the 18th century.

"All set," she says, voice tight, and he lowers his hand and turns as if he has done nothing wrong.

The evening, however, goes far better than she had hoped. Or feared.

He buys them dinner, drinks one beer. They even have a perfectly healthy, civil conversation. She helps herself to a bit of wine to calm her nerves, and they discuss what their dreams used to be before they landed the jobs they currently have.

He reveals he wanted to be a sniper and that he prefers to work alone, but to her question on what went wrong with all that, he merely answers he was 'too clumsy.'

What the man is really trying to say is that he's simply too big. Detectable, loud, and tall.

He hints at being bullied at school and in the army, and she feels even more sorry for him, curses in her mind – if the guy's tactic is to get a girl by being a hot loner with a tragic tale of woe, it sure is working for him.

"Are you afraid of me?" He asks when there's still tension between them, tension that should have melted by now.

"A bit, yeah."

"Is it because of the hood?"

His voice is softer, and she realizes that he's really trying: trying to tone down whatever beast rages inside him, trying his all to be normal instead of some tormented madman.

"No, not exactly," she confesses and feels a sting in her heart when he looks defeated. She almost feels like a bully, too. She wants to take the guy in her arms and shush him to sleep so he would wake up less haunted. But that's not how this goes: she cannot fix him, and even if she could, she has no right to.

He takes her back to the base and stands at her door again. The halls have fallen silent, everyone's asleep at this hour, and her heart is still hammering in her chest.

"Are we still just friends?" He stares at her from the darkness of the hood, shoulders slightly hunched, trying to make himself appear smaller. Less intimidating.

"I…I guess so."

"You think I'm weird, don't you."

His next question is more of a statement. And all she wants to say is no, even if it's a lie. The guy is… not evil; it's just that he certainly isn't sane and sound, either.

"Um… I… Uh-"

"You're the one who watched me in the showers," he points out as if they're keeping score on who's more of a perv.

"Yeah. I guess I'm the weirdo here," she laughs nervously, then almost bites her tongue. He only cocks his head a little to the side and repeats his earlier question.

"Did you like what you saw?"

"Well… yes, ok? I did. Why else would I–"

"It's ok. I understand. I don't mind."

"Well, it was still rude of me to do that." She guides her gaze to the floor, then up at his polar stare that makes her want to swoon in the hopes that he will catch her. "Didn't you notice the sign on the door?"

"I did," he said, and the corners of his eyes slowly gather a few wrinkles. Smiling again.

She shakes her head slowly, scoldingly, and notices how that smile only deepens under the hood. Then his face – or what little can be seen of it – straightens.

"Am I harassing you?"

Wow. Well, at least the poor guy is trying to self-reflect. But something tells her there's more than some new-found awareness of his late behavior at work here.

There's bitterness... Exclusion.

Loneliness.

"No," she tries to comfort him. Another facepalm moment: she is basically telling a stalker she likes being stalked. That this sort of wacko shit was approved of. So this is what it has come to… Years of being invisible apparently did things like this to people.

"Or maybe a bit," she says as a spineless afterthought.

"Do you want me to stop?"

In all honesty, she is drunk on his attention. The obsessive behavior, the relentless wooing, romantic gestures accompanied by a stare that says he wants to plow her until she is a limp heap on a bed stained with tears and cum.

"König… Are you lonely?"

He shrugs, and she wants to grab him. Shake him.

"Are you?" He says with an unusually deep voice.

"...Yes."

Her voice is as fragile as can be, but the hall echoes her confession like it's a loud song. The eyes under the hood look at her softly, longingly: she hasn't even noticed how soft they can sometimes be.

"You don't have to be."

There's simply no use in denying it: she wants this guy to fuck her, no matter how creepy or weird he is.

She grabs a fistful of his shirt and pulls him inside.

5K notes · View notes

itsgeecheebitch · 7 months ago

Text

As Fate Would Have it

red thread of fate soulmate! AU with Razor x reader

this fic now has a Part 2 written by @hypnoswrites! please read Man-Made Destiny once you've read this part!

Warnings: kidnapping, mentions of death

Word Count: 12.2k words

He hadn't said anything to you.

After returning to your hotel room only to immediately be jumped by the man who had clearly been laying in wait for you, he had yet to utter a single word, instead staying quiet through the process of grabbing and restraining you. Even when you had tried to kick and scream when you realized that you were being attacked, he didn't explain anything or mutter out any curses when you were successful in hitting him a few times. Not even to mock you when it was clear that you were lacking the strength needed to do any sort of damage to him.

It was only for a short period of time that your limbs were free, and now you were laying on the hotel bed, your wrists bound behind your back, your ankles tied together and a washcloth from the bathroom having been forced into your mouth in order to keep you quiet.

Earlier you were crying and screaming into the material of the makeshift gag, the terror of the situation overtaking you. But when nothing further happened, you managed to calm down enough to keep quiet, and now you were waiting for what he intended to do from here. With how tightly he had bound you, there was no scenario where you got out of your constraints on your own. Which meant there were only two possibilities: a third party would find and untie you, or he would untie you himself.

The first possibility seemed incredibly unlikely.

That second possibility seemed like it would only happen if he viewed you in a positive light.

So you stayed quiet, hoping that your silence would be interpreted as submission.

Currently the man was across from where you lay on the bed, sitting forward in the chair that had been placed in front of the window. In the initial attack, all you had truly registered was how much taller and stronger he was in the way he had picked you up and threw you onto the bed without any effort. Now that things had calmed down and you were trying to be smart about the moves you made, you were able to take in the details you hadn't noticed before. Like his short, spiky purple hair and his prominent cheekbones.

The way the light from the nearby lamp hit him somehow made him feel even more intimidating than he already was, the shadows almost creating an ominous aura about him. As if you weren't scared enough of him already.

At least he wasn't touching you anymore. After he'd gagged you, his hands stayed on you while you continued to struggle. And even after your struggles had died down completely, they stayed there, occasionally to gliding up and down your body while he stared at you.

What exactly those dark eyes were seeing when he stared at you in that way that felt so intense, you couldn't begin to imagine.

It was a relatively recent development that he'd had enough of it and moved away from the bed, shifting the blinds of the window slightly to peek out before sitting down across from you, watching you with a pensive look on his face.

Being that you were now in a calmer state, you wished you could ask him why he was doing this. What he wanted and what he planned to do with you.

…. It wasn't completely true that you wanted to know the answer to the last one; you were too scared that he would tell you that he planned on ending your life. Or maybe he was planning on selling you. Both of those things happening was also a possibility.

How much time had passed since you had first entered your room was unclear – you kept your gaze on him, waiting to see if and when he would act.

When that time finally came and he did speak, it surprised you.

“This must be terrible for you.”

You blinked when you heard his voice for the first time, but continued to keep quiet, waiting for him to continue.

“I kept thinking of what I should say,” he told you, “what I could say to make this easier on you, so you could understand what's going on. And while I don't think that I'm terrible when it comes to words, I've never found myself more stumped than I am right now.”

He sighed as he added “if only you could see it, or if I didn't have to get back so quick, it wouldn't be this way. I wouldn't have needed to do this to you.”

'Do this'?

Tears began to fill your eyes again, and despite how you had told yourself to keep quiet, you tried to speak. Desperation drove you to beg for your life, something that could've been a horrible decision if he was easily angered, but his eyebrows raised slightly while he hummed.

“You want to say something?” he asked.

You nodded eagerly.

He considered you a moment before he got to his feet, returning to sit on the edge of the bed and placing one hand firmly on your shoulder.

“I'll take this out,” he began, motioning to the washcloth before adding “but make sure you don't scream. It'll only end badly for you.”

You nodded again, this time in a much more steady manner as you were desperate to show that you were calm and wanted to cooperate.

The man was satisfied with that, and he pulled the washcloth out of your mouth, freeing your tongue from the taste and texture of the heavy fabric that had grown wet from your saliva. You couldn't help but cough for a moment, relieved to get that out of your mouth. All the while he kept that hand on your shoulder while also being prepared to gag you again if you got too loud.

But you followed his instruction, and he seemed to relax some when moments passed and you didn't start screaming.

Then you spoke to him.

“Sir,” you began, “please don't kill me.”

At that, he smiled.

“Ah, that was what you were worried about, was it?”

He squeezed your shoulder reassuringly as he said “don't worry. You aren't going to die.”

“R-really?”

“Really.”

He pulled you up into a sitting position and moved your legs so they were placed over his lap. With how your wrists and ankles were still bound, it felt awkward, but you didn't dare make any move to try and free yourself. Not right now.

“It would be terrible for me if you died,” he said, “so believe me when I say that's the last thing I could ever want.”

You didn't understand how exactly that could be bad for him, but you nodded as if you did.

“Um, so,” you began, “can I ask what exactly it is that you do want?”

“For you to come with me.”

“Come with you? Wh-where?”

“An island.”

“… An island?”

He saw the way your eyebrows furrowed and patted you on the cheek as he said “I feel all of this is something that will make more sense if you see it rather than have me explain it to you. So while it might be confusing for now, I promise it will become clear in time.”

“For now,” he continued, “I need your full cooperation.”

“….. So you can take me to an island?”

“Yes.”

You wanted to ask what happened after that, but he spoke again before you were able to.

“You can't use nen, so we'll need to go the long way to get there,” he said, “we'll be leaving tomorrow.”

What the fuck is nen?

That thought flashed through your head before you focused on the second part of his sentence: leaving tomorrow?

“I-I'm supposed to head back home tomorrow,” you told him, “people will notice when I don't come back.”

“Then we'll have to get going early.”

He smiled as he said that, speaking as though this was a last-minute trip that you were a willing participant in and brushing off what you said completely. Like the fact that there were people who would notice once you were gone wasn't a concern to him. He didn't care that he was taking you away from them. He didn't care that you didn't want to go with him.

And there was nothing you could do about that. After all, the first thing this man had done was prove to you that you couldn't fight him off.

As much as you wanted to scream and yell at him to let you go or cry out for help in the hopes your neighbors would hear you and call for help on your behalf, at best all that would do was get that washcloth stuffed inside your mouth again, and that was at best. If you wanted any chance of getting away from this man, you needed to get him to trust you enough so his guard relaxed.

It was the only way.

“With that said, we should get some sleep,” he told you, patting you on the cheek again while he added “we have a long drive ahead of us, and once we start, I want to make as few stops as possible.”

He gently pushed you back onto the mattress before moving your legs off of his lap and standing back up.

You were compelled to speak again when he began to walk away.

“Can I ask one last question?”

He paused, turning to look at you as he said “of course.”

“Who….. Who are you?”

He smiled at you and answered with his name.

“Razor.”

There was little sleep to be had that night. While the bed in the hotel room was incredibly soft and comfortable, it was hard to sleep when you had a kidnapper nearly twice your size laying next to you. The feeling was made worse during the times of the night when he put a hand on you again, running up and down your side with experimental touches. He knew you were awake during those times as well, as more often than not you weren't able to keep in the scared noises that came from your mouth whenever his hand brushed near your neck or went lower than your stomach, still fearful of his intentions. He didn't reprimand you, likely because you were doing your best to be quiet. But he didn't stop either, not seeming to care at all how much this was distressing you. To top it off, your arms remained bound, forcing you to try and rest in an uncomfortable position that guaranteed you would lose sleep no matter how soft the mattress was.

Dawn had barely cracked when Razor got up, shaking you awake when it felt like you had just barely gotten to sleep. Your tiredness was definitely showing even with how hard you tried to be alert, because he chuckled at you.

“Don't worry,” he told you, “you can sleep in the car if you need to.”

However, the moment you were placed in the passenger's seat, you were wide awake again. And as Razor drove you away from your hotel and down the highway in the opposite direction of the airport, despair settled in the pit of your stomach. You were being kidnapped, and you were doing nothing to stop it because there simply wasn't anything you could do.

So you sat there silently with your hands bound again as he took you, and the only saving grace of the situation was the fact that he'd tied them in front so you were a bit more comfortable this time.

Razor stayed silent as well while he kept his focus on the road.

An entire day passed with barely anything being said. You didn't say anything unless he spoke up first, and when you did speak, it was just to let out a “yes” or an “okay” to whatever he told you to do. Like when he tossed you a protein bar and told you to eat, or when he told you to keep your hands on your lap so no one passing by might catch sight of your bound wrists.

Cooperate fully. Make him think you were too scared to go against him. Wait for him to let his guard down.

The worst moment was when he stopped the car to fill up the gas tank, and he allowed your wrists to be free once more as he let you out to use the nearby restroom. Before letting you go, he whispered a warning as he told you not to get any stupid ideas. You didn't need any clarification: there was only one person at the station that you could see, standing away from the pumps so they could smoke their cigarette in peace. With only them seeming to be present, trying to get help here was a stupid idea, and one you would only do if you had no care for the innocent bystander who would undoubtedly suffer because of it.

It was when you were leaving the bathroom and heading back to the car that you felt heavy. Razor's eyes were fixed on you when you stepped out, and the sight had you frozen for a moment.

You didn't want to go to him. Every instinct in you was telling you to run, run as fast as you can and don't look back until you find somewhere safe.

But he was expecting that.

Despite the laid back body language he displayed, a gut feeling told you that he'd be on you the instant you tried getting away from him. That same gut feeling told you that it was better not to anger him. Even if he said that he didn't want you dead, how the hell could you trust a man who had kidnapped you?

You walked back to the car, albeit slowly. If your pace was enough to annoy him, he chose not to comment on it, though the instant you were both back in the car he restrained your wrists again.

Razor drove well into the night, not stopping to rest even when you felt it was too hard to keep your eyes open. You fell asleep like that, and when you woke up early the next morning with an ache in your neck, he was still driving, and you wondered if he had slept at all that night.

After another breakfast of an energy bar and bottled water, you got up the courage to ask him a question.

“How far will we be driving?” you asked.

“Until we reach the coast.”

“Ah.”

That would take a while, then. You weren't that close to any oceans. So it would be a long time spent being around him in the small space of the car.

At least he couldn't do anything to you while he was focused on the road, right?

Turning your attention to the window, you saw that the highway you were on was now slowly filling up with traffic. It was still early morning, thus the morning traffic was merging on the road. Much to Razor's displeasure, as you heard him make an annoyed grunt when he was forced to slow down the speed of the car.

It was disheartening to know that the trip would last that much longer.

You expected that today would be a repeat of the previous: he would say very little aside from ordering you now and then, and you would keep quiet and do as he said. The less you needed to speak with this man, the better.

But then he spoke up.

“You seem tired; are you sure you don't want to sleep more?” he asked.

It took you a few moments to reply, and during that time he glanced over to you. That was what spurred you to respond.

“I don't think I can,” you answered.

“If the front seat is too uncomfortable for you, I can pull over and you can move to the back.”

“I'm okay.”

“… I see.”

You kept your eyes averted from him, not sure what all of this was about but not wanting to poke the bear to find out. Why was he pretending to look out for your well-being? God, all you wanted was to be away from him.

But now with the traffic forcing him to drive far beneath the speed limit and the already long road you had ahead of you, getting away from him wouldn't come any time soon. And now it seemed that your previous question had encouraged him to talk to you, as Razor broke the silence once again.

“You're free to talk, if you'd like.”

“…. I'm okay.”

You didn't say anything after that, and once a few moments had passed, you sensed his gaze on you again when he looked over to you.

“You're getting bored of doing nothing but sitting, aren't you? Why don't you tell me about yourself?” he asked.

The fuck did that mean?

You shook your head, and you felt his confusion grow as he continued to watch you.

“You seemed more eager to speak the other night,” he commented.

Probably because I was panicked from getting jumped in my hotel room, you thought to yourself. Now you didn't want to say anything, or even know anything about what would happen to you. The previous day you had spent in silent dread only built up your paranoia and your fear and you didn't want to hear some story from him that was undoubtedly untrue all to keep you calm for the journey.

You didn't need to know the details of what would happen, the scenarios in your mind that slowly began running wild being all that you needed to guess as to what your fate would be at the end of all this. You were definitely going to die; the fact that he didn't care about you seeing his face seemed like proof of that.

So why give him the satisfaction of feeding you false hope that things wouldn't be as bad as you thought they would be?

Although…..

You had to admit that the island story felt like a weird lie to feed you. Surely he could've come up with something better, some reason that wasn't quite so mysterious. Then again, you couldn't think of any good lie to feed to someone who was being kidnapped.

But again, why in the world would he say that?

The traffic around you was starting to get better when you voiced that thought.

“Why do I need to go to the island?” you asked.

“Because I need you,” he answered.

“For what?”

He didn't answer, and you glanced back over to find that Razor's smile had fallen as he kept his gaze on the road. It didn't seem like he intended on answering you. If that was the case, then you should leave it be. No sense in angering him unnecessarily. He was the one in control, not you.

But he eventually surprised you when he chose to speak again.

“Unfortunately,” he began, “that's one thing I can only explain once we get there.”

“Oh.”

That again.

“Is there a reason why you can't explain now?” you asked.

“Because it may be a bit too difficult to believe simply hearing it.”

“So leaving me without answers for however long you lug me around is the better option?”

Your regretted saying that as soon as the words left your lips. It had been too forceful, too angry and not in line at all with the role of captive you were meant to play. Him not doing much to you had you growing too comfortable, too bold, and Razor obviously noticed it too as he looked over to you with one of his eyebrows raised.

One look from him was all it took for every fear to return, and you went back to cowering in your seat, mumbling a soft “sorry.”

He hummed but said nothing further.

An uncomfortable silence was now in the air, interrupted only by the way Razor tapped his finger against the steering wheel.

You noticed something then: a piece of teal colored string that was wrapped around his pinky. One with some sort of design printed all over it, though it was too small and too far away from you to make out any details.

Your eyebrows furrowed. With the way he'd been touching you that first night, shouldn't you have noticed that before? Then again, how could anyone be paying attention to such fine details after what you'd been going through in that moment?

Ultimately, you took your attention off of that; whatever that was, it couldn't have mattered.

“Have you ever seen my face before today?” he asked.

It was late in the afternoon when he asked that, the third day since he had kidnapped you playing out without much talk aside from the orders he would give you whenever he stopped to refill the car's tank. Despite the talk you had the previous day, he didn't push further to make you speak to him. Maybe the last conversation felt just as strange for him as it had for you.

Evidently he was moving past that now as this new question hung in the air.

Your eyebrows furrowed, but instead of asking him why he was asking, you looked at him and tried to recall if there was any spot in your memory where you had seen his face before all of this. There was a reason he had asked, right? He wouldn't just ask such a thing randomly, right?

Maybe he'd been stalking you for a long time.

As hard as you tried, however, you came up blank in terms of any previous memories that involved your kidnapper, and after a few moments you slowly shook your head “no” in response.

For some reason, Razor actually seemed relieved at that, smiling as he said “that's good.”

“…. Why is that good?” you asked against your better judgment.

With that smile still on his face, Razor shook his head as he replied “I'd rather not go into it. I don't want your opinion of me to go any lower.”

…. What?

“Why would my opinion of you matter?” you asked.

Now Razor seemed confused, glancing over to you while asking “why wouldn't it matter?”

Why wouldn't it matter?

Was he fucking serious?

“Because I've been kidnapped?” you responded, “because I have no say in any of this? Because you were waiting in my hotel room for me, and then you tied me up on the bed? Because it's pretty amazing that I haven't died yet, and there's still a good chance that everything you've been saying to me is a lie so you can keep me calm before you gut me like a pig and dump me in a ditch somewhere.”

He wasn't smiling anymore, his expression now turned serious. You should've been worried about how it didn't seem like he was paying attention to the road.

You should also stop talking. The way you were going right now, you were liable to say something bad that would upset him.

But did it matter if you upset him if you really believed he was going to kill you?

“After you did all of that, why the fuck does my opinion of you matter?” you asked, “why do you care about how your kidnapping victim feels? If you weren't such an awful person, you wouldn't have kidnapped me in the first place. How the fuck can you sit there and be worried about if I like you or not?”

Razor pulled the car over to the side of the road.

Fuck

You averted your eyes as you started to shake.

He'll do it here. Shoot or strangle you and then dump you in the back. Take whatever it was he wanted from you and then throw you away like garbage. That would be the way your life would end, and you were powerless to stop it.

There was no chance of survival, and there was nothing you could do but prepare yourself for the inevitable.

He's gonna kill me he's gonna kill me he's gonna kill me

Razor placed his hand on top of yours.

Your heart leapt into your throat and you jerked your body away. The furthest you could go was the door, slamming your hands on the window as you ended up against it, pressing yourself against it as far as you could while tears began to fall. This was it. You shut your eyes, waiting for something bad to happen. Either metal being placed against your flesh or his hands wrapping around your neck. Maybe even a plastic bag placed over your head.

Why did he need to pick you?

Why couldn't he have left you alone?

You flinched again when you felt his hand on your shoulder. As this time there was nowhere else for you to go, his hand stayed.

Nothing more than that.

It took you a while to realize that he wasn't doing anything else. With however many minutes had passed with you hyperventilating and crying, he hadn't moved forward with any action other than the hand that he had placed on your shoulder.

After realizing that you were still alive when everything was telling you that you should be dead by now, you came to another realization: the way his hand was placed on your shoulder was almost as if he had done it as a way to comfort you.

His hand was warm where he touched you. Were it not for the horrible situation, it just might have made you feel a bit better.

By that point your cries had quieted down, and he took that as an opportunity to softly speak your name.

You glanced over at him through blurry vision.

He was frowning and his eyebrows were furrowed, but he didn't seem angry.

Razor actually looked sad.

“Are you really that scared of me?” he asked.

Tears continued to roll down your cheeks as you nodded, and that only seemed to discourage him even more.

“Even after I told you that I'm not going to hurt you?”

“How can you expect me to trust anything you say?” was your response.

Razor stared at you, his hand still on you. His lips began to part as if to speak, but then he turned his head away from you, looking out through the windshield and at the highway before him.

“Can't argue with that,” you heard him mumble.

Then he removed his hand and returned his attention to driving the car, pulling back out onto the road and continuing on.

Neither of you said anything for the rest of the drive.

It was late when Razor decided to stop for a bit, pulling off of the highway and renting a room from a small and rather seedy-looking motel. He'd left you in the car while he went to get a room, and while he still warned you not to try anything, his tone wasn't quite as harsh as it had been those times earlier. It was as though he was trying to be more gentle with you.

You didn't respond except to nod silently.

Now it felt like you were repeating the situation from that first night: the both of you on the bed with you feeling incredibly unsafe while trying and failing to get any sleep. The biggest difference this time was that the mattress of the motel was uncomfortable as shit, and you shifted every few minutes as you tried to find a spot that felt nicer.

At least you weren't sleeping in the car again, you told yourself.

He was still awake. Although you tried not to pay attention to him, it was hard to keep your eyes averted whenever you turned to face his direction. More than once the two of you made eye contact, and immediately after you would turn away. You would have stayed facing away from him if only the goddamn mattress wasn't so awful. And shouldn't he be asleep by now?

The fact that Razor was still awake and alert after three days of what appeared to be constant driving wasn't normal; who the hell could go that long without rest? How had the two of you not yet died in a car crash?

Maybe kidnappers were built different, you dryly thought to yourself.

“…. Do you want to watch anything?”

Razor's voice interrupted that thought train, and you noted that his tone was soft again when he asked, but you shook your head as you stared straight ahead at the wall next to you.

He hummed, and it sounded like he was disappointed.

But for some reason that wasn't the end of it.

“What can I do to make you trust me?”

….. He had some nerve to ask that, after everything. Was he aware of that? Probably. Despite that odd thing regarding your opinion of him, he was pretty self-aware on how wrong all of this was. You'd be justified in ignoring him, though. Razor would probably recognize and understand that, as well.

…..

Even if you were justified, what good would that do you?

After a moment, you remained where you were but pulled your arms upward, holding your bound wrists in the air for him to see.

A few seconds passed and nothing happened.

You figured that his lack of action meant “no”, and with a sigh, you began to pull them back down.

Razor grabbed them.

For a second, all you felt was panic at his sudden touch. You were reminded of that first night and how powerless you were.

It only lasted a moment, however, as Razor grabbed at the zip-tie and, with a slight tug, snapped the plastic off of you. Within a moment, your wrists were free.

… Were they supposed to break that easily?

“Is that better?” Razor asked.

“…. Yeah.”

He pulled away, his eyes remaining on you after. And now that he had done as you wanted, there was a certain level of expectation in the air, such as you would look at him and have a conversation. A proper one.

Continuing to ignore him now seemed like it would be a bad idea.

So you sat up, turning around on the bed so you were facing him. He seemed pleased by that, so that wasn't bad.

But fuck he was intimidating.

Surely after the past few days your fear of just looking at and speaking to him should have gone down somewhat, but no. Looking at him head on while he had his full attention on you had your palms beginning to sweat.

You grabbed the pillow you'd been resting on and wrapped your arms around it as you held it close. Maybe that was pathetic but it made you feel better.

“Ready to talk?” Razor asked.

“Depends on what you have to say,” you answered, “if you're going to tell me that you'll be knocking out my teeth before you feed me to pigs then I'd rather you not say anything.”

He let out an exasperated sigh.

“I told you that you're not going to die.”

The firmness was back in his tone, and you sensed that he was getting to the point of being aggravated.

You looked away as you held the pillow tighter.

“Okay,” you breathed out, “I'll believe you. But then….”

You inhaled before you spoke.

“I want to know why you're taking me. And I don't want an excuse about needing to wait until we get to wherever. I want answers now.”

“I've been pretty cooperative, so I at least deserve that much,” you added.

You glanced over and then away again, still nervous about his potential reaction. While he didn't seem to have anger issues, he more than likely had limits when he was pushed too far. If he wasn't going to kill you, he could keep you alive to experience worse.

A second quick glance revealed that he was staring at that string around his finger.

Then he made eye contact again as he asked “do you think you could listen to what I have to say with an open mind?”

“Uh, sure?”

Razor didn't seem as pleased about the uncertainty that made it's way into your voice, but after a moment's hesitation, he seemed to resolve himself as he spoke again.

“Do you believe in soulmates?”

You blinked.

“….. What do you mean?” you asked.

“That there are people in this world who are connected and are meant to be together?” he explained.

“Connected how?”

“By a force that's invisible to most,” said Razor, “like a red thread that you can only see if you have the ability to look.”

What

You blinked again, not sure of what to say.

“I… I guess I've never thought about it,” you began, “if I'm being honest, I'm really not sure.”

“I see.”

Again, there was disappointment in his tone.

Despite being worried to question him, you hesitantly asked “is…. Is there a reason why you asked?”

You had a bad idea as to why he'd mention such a thing. But you held onto hope that this tangent about soulmates was just his way of trying to make a joke so you felt better. Or maybe he was bringing up something this random just to fuck with you. Even that wouldn't be too bad.

He answered your question with a question of his own.

“What would you do if I said we were soulmates?” he asked.

“….”

…. Oh god.

This entire time you'd been convinced that Razor was going to kill you, no matter how much he said otherwise. And if not that, maybe that he would sell you off to someone. Now you were learning that all of this was happening because he was crazy. He'd seen you and was pushing some sort of fantasy onto you while justifying it with the notion of 'soulmates'. That had been all he needed to feel no guilt over tying you up and kidnapping you – because in his mind, what he was doing was right.

Of all the combinations he needed to be, why did he need to be both mentally unstable and unreasonably strong?

That was the other important thing: regardless of his sanity, he still posed an incredibly dangerous threat physically. As he continued to watch you while he waited for you to say something, you were aware that it would be a bad idea to flat-out say 'no'. Better to play along at least somewhat.

“…. I don't know,” you eventually told him.

Razor let out a soft sigh as he said “you think I'm insane, don't you?”

“N-no. Nothing like that,” you replied.

He hummed, and the way he hummed sounded as though he didn't believe you. Then he reached over and began to caress your cheek, making you cringe internally. While you wished you could get his hand off of you, you told yourself to deal with it for now.

“I wish I could show you proof – I really do,” Razor said, “but I'll get into some serious trouble if I use nen while I'm out here.”

That word…. He'd mentioned it before, though you still had no idea what it meant.

“So it needs to wait for the island?” you asked.

“Exactly.”

“…. Okay.”

Better to not make a fuss, you told yourself. Act like you're potentially open to the delusions he's spewing out. Delusional people prefer it when others agree with them, right?

Still, to find out that he had taken you because of such a reason….

The worst case scenario now was that you wouldn't get away and you'd be stuck playing out Razor's romance fantasy with him. At least you wouldn't be dead, right?

…..

It might be a good idea to get off of the soulmate subject, at least for now. And since he was mostly willing to be open and honest with you, now might not be a bad time to question something else he had said.

“Can I ask something else?”

The fact that you were changing subjects was obvious, but he seemed to accept it as he pulled his hand away as he answered “go ahead.”

“Why did you ask if I had seen you before?”

For some reason, that question was the one that had him frowning, and he tore his gaze away from you as he sighed.

“I don't know that you want to hear that answer,” he told you.

“Why?”

“It's not pleasant.”

“So?”

“… I'd rather we wait a while before we get to that discussion,” Razor said.

“I don't want to do that,” you replied.

He grimaced at your response, but oddly enough he didn't seem to be getting upset as he had been when you made that comment about him killing you. Maybe that was why you were spurred to push for him to speak.

“You said you want me to trust you, right? Why not answer?”

“Because you won't be happy with what I tell you.”

“Can it really be worse than what you've done to me so far?” you asked.

“If you can imagine the sort of crimes that get someone sent to death row, then yes.”

“…. Oh.”

Razor turned his head towards you, and you got a certain sense of “I told you so” when he looked over.

What he did couldn't have been any small crime – given how easy it had been to imagine him killing you, murder was the first thing you thought of. But even then, convicted killers didn't always get sentenced to death. There was that guy from Zaban who had literally torn his victims to pieces and while he had gotten over 900 years in prison, the fact that he hadn't been put to death was mind boggling to many.

So just what had Razor done to get himself on death row?

And why was literally everything about this only managing to become worse and worse?

“Why were you sent to death row?” you whispered after a few moments.

It wasn't much of a surprise when he took a bit to answer, frowning again as he stared off at the space in front of him. He didn't want you to know anything about this for some reason.

But eventually, he answered.

“I killed some people,” he said.

“How many?”

“You don't need to know.”

“Why did you kill them?”

“Because I could.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

That's horrible, you wanted to say. But you refrained. Not only because it would be pointing out the obvious, but it probably wouldn't do any good saying that to a man who admitted to something as awful as murder.

Because I could

The words echoed in your head, and you couldn't help but note how there had been a distinct lack of remorse in his tone. Almost as if he didn't care about the lives he had snuffed out for no reason.

A weight settled in your chest at that thought. Why it did remained unclear, but you found yourself wanting to make this better somehow.

“Do you feel bad about it?” you asked.

“What?”

His confusion was evident.

“Do you feel bad for killing those people?” you clarified, “if you could do it all over again, would you leave them alone?”

Why you now wanted so badly for him to agree with what you said was also unclear. Razor was a kidnapper and an admitted murderer – one who was bad enough that he earned himself a spot on death row. Why did it matter to you whether he was sorry for what he'd done?

But regardless, it seemed that was what your heart wanted.

Razor hadn't answered you, and in fact, he was looking at you as though you had grown three heads.

… That wasn't a good sign.

After a few moments where it seemed he was trying to pick his words carefully, he spoke up.

“I don't see much value in thinking about things I could've done differently in the past,” Razor answered.

Then he reached over to you.

While this time you didn't flinch or jerk away, you stiffened immediately, the pillow you held becoming squished between against you as you anticipated him putting his hands on you again.

Surprisingly, Razor paused when he saw your reaction, seeming thoughtful as he watched the way you sat, virtually petrified on the bed with a terrified look on your face.

Could he really blame you? He just told you a lot that warranted being worried about him. Even moreso than before.

Evidently he didn't, as he pulled his hand back and smiling at you again as he said “the important thing is what's happening now, and what our lives will be like from this point onward.”

“So let's not focus anymore on that,” he added.

Stop talking about it, was what he meant.

“Okay,” you whispered, nodding in agreement.

Razor seemed pleased with that.

Not long after he told you to rest up, and within a few minutes the lights were off. Once more you needed to try and get some sleep while you lay next to your kidnapper, and the only saving grace was the fact that he was keeping his hands off of you this time. But while you tried to get some meager amount of sleep, you weren't able to focus much on his semblance of respecting your personal space. Instead, there was only one thought going through your head in that moment:

He wasn't sorry

Your wrists weren't tied up when you left the motel the next morning.

That was nice.

And while Razor wouldn't let you out of the car, he did stop at a restaurant to get you a to-go order of pancakes when you asked him to. Eating them in the moving car was awkward but you appreciated that he humored your request.

That was also nice, even if it had the potential of being your last meal before Razor took you to that island.

The knowledge soured the meal somewhat, but as much as you hated to admit it, you weren't so sure now that you would be escaping him. Razor hadn't given you any opportunity to take advantage of, and even with him giving you a bit more freedom of movement, he made a point to lock you inside the car during the time he was gone.

That made sense. After everything, you couldn't see him being foolish enough to leave you alone without having taken some step to secure you beforehand. It was actually pretty surprising that he was giving you the freedom he was after what he'd told you in that motel room.

Though maybe it wasn't too surprising when you considered the fact that he wanted you to like him. While the soulmate thing was complete bullshit, that was what Razor believed. So it made sense that he would want you to feel good about him since he planned on keeping you with him from now on.

That last part had never been said, but you got the sense that would be what happened if Razor got his way.

The rest of your life being spent playing into this man's delusions….

You would have shuddered at the thought if not for your fear that Razor would notice it.

“We'll be driving through the rest of the night,” he told you some time later, “and by tomorrow morning we'll have made it to our boat. From there it won't be too long of a journey to the island.”

You nodded along, though hearing what he said caused a pit to form in your stomach.

Once you were on that boat, the chances of escape were next to zero. It would be better to throw away any thoughts of escape if you were to reach that point.

To try and get away while on the water would be suicide.

He asked you questions every now and then, and though it wasn't as strong as it had been the previous night, you felt that pressure like you needed to answer him in exchange for the kindnesses he had shown you.

So you did what he wanted, and every time you glanced to him after, you saw a pleased look on his face.

You should've felt bad for him. Razor was the one who clearly had a lot of issues – things that, if he was a bit more mentally well, he probably wouldn't have done. Maybe. But then again, you were the one being dragged along with him against your will, so your sympathy could only go so far.

The sun was setting when Razor pulled over to another gas station to refill the tank. This was probably the last stop like this that you'd be making, if what Razor said earlier was correct.

The hand drier in the bathroom was still roaring when you left, only to be muted once the door shut behind you. As you had done a lot over the past few days, you immediately headed back towards the car as you knew your kidnapper wanted you to.

Only this time he wasn't watching you like a hawk.

Razor was by the car as the tank continued to fill, leaning against it as he stared out into the distance. Your gaze followed his, and you found that he seemed to be staring at a factory that sat in the distance, if the long, rectangular building accompanied by several smokestacks were any indication. Or perhaps he was looking beyond that, at the city that which was several miles away but still visible from where you stood. Or maybe it was just the sunset. It was at the time of day where the sky was at its prettiest.

Instead of entering the car once you returned, you went to his side and stood next to him, copying the way he leaned on it. He glanced at you, but said nothing about what you were doing. He only returned his gaze to the sight in front of him.

And then an odd expression morphed onto his face.

One that was almost wistful.

“Are you okay?” you asked cautiously.

Razor seemed surprised, looking back at you as he asked “why?”

“You look a little sad, I guess.”

“Do I?”

He looked back in the direction of the factory and the city that sat far off in the distance, and that wistful expression returned. As much as you wanted to ask him what he was thinking about, that question felt like it might be too intrusive and could potentially cause a bad reaction from him, particularly if it involved his past. He really didn't want you to know much in regard to that.

He let out a sigh.

“I guess I am, a little bit,” Razor said, “this is the last time I get to be out and about in the world like this. Once we get back to the island, I know I'll never leave again.”

“Never?” you repeated.

“Never,” he said, “the purpose of leaving the island every so often was to find you, and now that I have, there's no reason for me to come out here like this.”

He leaned his head back, now looking at the darkening sky above him as he added “I knew it was coming, but I didn't think it would bother me, knowing that this is the last time I can walk around like I'm free.”

“… Are you not?”

“Not really.”

“Why?”

“Death row convict.”

“Ah. Right.”

You went over the new information in your head.

“So you can't leave the island once you go back?” you asked, “is it a prison?”

He let out a short laugh.

“It's a prison for some of us, but even then it's nicer than any traditional prison you'll find,” he said.

“Us? There are others like you?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “but don't worry, you won't need to interact with them.”

You nodded, though your eyebrows furrowed as you thought on it a bit more.

“Will I be able to leave at all?” you asked.

“No.”

You sighed.

“Figures.”

Kicking at a bit of rubble by your foot, you said “so, the plan from here is to go to an island where we'll never leave, and then just….. Hang out there forever?”

“There's a bit more to it than that.”

“Hm.”

When Razor reached for you that time, you didn't flinch or shy away. And when his hand settled on your shoulder, you didn't give much reaction other than to look at him.

“It won't be that bad. The places you'll be able to go to are the nice ones,” he said.

“…. It's still really depressing that I can't ever leave once I get there.”

Razor smiled at you, and this time the sadness he felt was even more obvious.

“I know.”

Then he stood up straight, announcing “we should get going.”

You nodded, and you wordlessly walked around the car to get to the front passenger's seat.

When you were both in the car and after you'd buckled up, something else strange happened.

Razor reached out and pulled you towards him, your head resting on his chest while he kept you in something that resembled a hug.

“I do regret that you've gotten dragged into this,” he whispered against your hair, “I really mean that. While I can't do anything to stop it, I'll do my best to make it easier for you. I promise.”

In that moment, you had no insights as to what Razor was truly thinking or feeling, no clue that everything he'd just said was a genuine promise from him that he intended to keep. So you had no idea how his heart skipped a beat when he felt your hands reach up and hold onto his jacket. You had no idea of the relief that filled him when you moved in closer and reciprocated his hug.

“I trust you, Razor.”

As those words were whispered from your lips, you had no idea that, in that moment, Razor truly believed that he had your acceptance.

There was no one else on the docks when you got there in the morning, arriving early enough that the morning mist was still present as Razor navigated the car through various warehouses and massive walls of shipping containers. Was it unusual for such a place to be completely empty at this time of day? You weren't sure; you didn't know enough about this kind of place to be able to tell what was normal or not.

All the sight did was guarantee that no one other than Razor would witness the last moments you had on the mainland.

Eventually the car came to a stop not far from the edge. Just as he had said, there was a boat sitting in the water. It wasn't anything new as it looked quite battered, but presumably it would make the journey that Razor wanted it to.

Though it would be morbidly funny if, after all of his efforts, it were to sink in the middle of the trip.

“Let's go,” Razor told you.

He stepped out of the car, and after a few moments, you copied the action.

The smell of the ocean air hit you after you got out. You stood there, your hand gripping at the top of the door to keep yourself steady as you looked out at the water before you, and then the boat.

One last leg of the journey, and then you'd be stuck with Razor for good.

…..

No one would ever find you, probably. Your disappearance had more than likely been reported by now, but all efforts to find you would be focused on that hotel you'd been staying at and the surrounding area; who would ever think to look for you on the water? Even if someone remembered seeing your face and informed the authorities, how would they reach anything other than a dead end once they got to the shoreline? You didn't have the time to leave some sign of you behind, nor could you with Razor undoubtedly watching you as close as he had been. You couldn't do anything.

Once you stepped on that boat, you weren't getting away from him. To try and do so would be suicide, you reminded yourself.

Your grip on the door became harder and breathing became more difficult the longer you stared at the boat.

I don't want to go I don't want to go I don't want to go

And again you asked why he needed to pick you.

Razor's voice saying your name forced you away from your thoughts, and you turned your head to see that he had your luggage slung over his shoulder and a concerned look on his face as he watched you. Your internal freak out wasn't as internal as you thought it was, then.

Swallowing a few times, you eventually asked “can I just….. Can I have a minute?”

“…. Alright.”

Then, to your utter surprise, Razor turned and began walking towards the boat.

Leaving you behind.

……

Was this some kind of test? Or maybe…. Did he think that since you were now at this point, he could relax a bit in watching you? Was he that confident you weren't going anywhere?

Razor continued making his way to the boat without a single glance back at you.

Your heart began to beat hard against your chest as you realized: you could run.

If you waited until he reached the boat and then made a break for it, you might just have a decent head start. If not to escape the area completely, then to find someplace to hide. Maybe find a phone and call for help. If it was a landline phone, they should be able to figure out your location without you needing to try and figure out where you were exactly.

If he caught you, it'd be bad for you, sure. But….

As he went further and further away, you were acutely aware that this was the first chance you had gotten to make an escape. The only chance you had. Were you really going to waste it by being too afraid of him?

….. No.

For once, you were going to take control of the situation.

And you were leaving.

You kept watch as Razor stepped off the dock and onto the boat, your things still in hand as he made his way to the cabin. Your hand was still gripping the door, your knuckles becoming pale from how hard you held onto it.

When he went inside. That was when you would run.

Once he stepped through the low doorway of the cabin, you did just that.

You pushed off from the door and you ran.

All you heard was your shoes on the dock and your own heartbeat in your ears as you propelled yourself forward. That felt a bit odd; you would have expected to hear him call out in anger on seeing you running. But at you reached the end and turned a corner past a line of containers, you didn't hear anything from him. There was no indication he even noticed that you had fled.

That was even better. While he would notice soon enough, every second you got with him being unaware would help in aiding your escape. You could do this. With every step forward you took with no sign of Razor coming after you, your confidence grew.

And then, after exiting the row of containers and reaching a warehouse, you saw a godsend:

A man.

He stood at the end of the structure, standing with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on you once you rounded the corner. With black hair sticking out of a odd blue cap and the rest of his blue and white clothing looking slightly worn, he looked raised an eyebrow as he took in your disheveled state.

You, on the other hand, felt relief upon seeing him. This was someone who could help. If you could explain what was happening, he could get you away and call the police. Then all of your problems would be over.

You could go home.

So you ran towards him, calling out “sir! Please, help me!”

He said nothing, but when you stumbled as you reached him, he took his hands out of his pockets so as to steady you, keeping his hands on your arms while you grabbed at the long blue scarf that hung from his neck.

“Please,” you said again, gulping as you did your best to maintain your composure, “I've been kidnapped. We need to get out of here and call the police.”

“Kidnapped? Who would kidnap you?” the man asked.

“He-he said that he's a death row convict,” you began, “he was waiting for me in my hotel room, and he tied me up and took me with him. Now he's trying to take me to some island and he says I can't ever come back.”

When the man didn't immediately respond, you got a bit more frantic as you cried “I swear, I'm not making this up! I've really been kidnapped, and I need the police before he tries to get me again! All of this is true!”

The logical part of your brain knew that getting hysterical wouldn't help you. But you weren't able to be completely logical in that moment. Now that you were so close to escape, you couldn't control yourself. You needed him to listen to what you were saying.

Finally, the man nodded.

“I believe you,” he said.

Relief rushed through you as you smiled, and you held onto his scarf tighter, unwilling to let go of this lifeline.

You spoke to the man again, asking if he had a phone, or better yet, if he had a car, and if he knew how far away the nearest police station was. He didn't really answer, though perhaps he couldn't with the way you were rambling in that moment. But you noticed when he looked past you and down the path that you'd just come from.

Your eyes followed his gaze and just like that your words died in your throat as your grip on the man's scarf became tighter, this time from fear.

Razor was there. Staring at you.

And for the first time, you saw true anger in him. Those dark eyes glared at you across the distance as he saw you in this unknown man's arms.

He's going to kill me

You looked back to the man, ready to beg for him to help again, for him to get you out of here before Razor murdered both you.

The man spoke before you could.

“Is this them, Razor?” he asked.

…. Huh?

He knew Razor's name?

How? You hadn't told this man what your kidnapper's name was. You were certain that you hadn't.

“Yeah,” your kidnapper answered.

Razor was talking to him? Not flying into a murderous rage and killing you both? The nonchalance of his reply was also a shock.

“Huh. I'm a little surprised,” the man said as he looked back to you.

“Surprised at what?” Razor asked. He started to walk forward at a moderate pace, taking his time while he kept his eyes fixed on you.

“That they got away from you,” the man answered.

You tried pulling away from him then. But the grip he had on your arms was ironclad, and no amount of wriggling would free you.

This man was far, far stronger than he looked.

“That was an error in judgment on my part,” Razor answered, coming to a stop as he had now reached the two of you by the warehouse.

“I'm sorry to have made you step in, Ging,” Razor added.

Ging?

The man who held you laughed.

“I don't mind,” Ging answered, “saves you the hassle of catching them again, right?”

“Right…..”

Razor's voice trailed off as he stared at you again, and with him being so much closer this time, you felt your entire body shudder while your heart beat pounded in your chest again, now being caused by pure, unadulterated fear.

He was so, so mad.

Ging then smiled at your kidnapper.

“Well, aside from this little mishap, everything else work out well?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Razor answered. His attention finally went back to Ging, and you felt like you could breathe again.

“Glad to hear it.”

Ging was saying something else to him but you couldn't completely hear it. You still tried to slip your way out of Ging's fingers, but it was no use; he wasn't letting go unless he wanted to. Tears were welling up as you continued the futile effort. And somehow, the fact that he wasn't even acknowledging your attempt to get away only made it worse.

Why? Why did Ging need to be here to catch you? Why did you need to have such awful luck?

What was going to happen to you now?

You didn't want to find out, and so despite knowing that there was no hope of getting away now, you still tried.

If there was such a thing as divine intervention, you wanted it right now.

“Ah, Right. Before you go, I need to see that you haven't used your nen,” said Ging.

Instead of answering, Razor held up his hand, showing the teal bit of string that was still wrapped around his pinky.

“Just needed to check,” Ging told him, “we'd both be in trouble if that was broken.”

“I know.”

“Well, now that we've gotten that out of the way-”

Finally removing his hand from where he'd been gripping you, Ging unexpectedly turned you around and pushed you, causing you to stumble forward.

Right into Razor.

He wrapped his arms around you instantly, and his hold on you was immediate and unforgiving, gripping you to the point that it hurt. Like with Ging, you wanted to struggle. You wanted to try and do everything in your power to break free of him.

But unlike with Ging, there was an air around Razor now that felt dangerous.

No, worse than that.

It truly felt like he was ready to kill someone.

And with that aura that surrounded you to the point that you felt like it might actually smother you to death, you couldn't bring yourself to fight against him. It was all you could do to keep your feet planted firmly on the ground.

Meanwhile, Ging and Razor were continuing their conversation.

“Think your replacement will be happy to see you back?” Ging asked.

“They'll probably just be relieved that they'll be done overseeing my duties,” Razor answered, “it usually takes them a few days after before they're at one hundred percent power again.”

“Well of course. The emission system was designed with specifically you in mind. There's no way anyone can run it as smoothly as you do.”

“Yeah.”

Despite his short answer, there was a hint of pride within Razor's voice, and the heavy air around you lifted somewhat.

Ging then looked back to you, smiling as he said “and now we've got this one, it'll be even better than before.”

And just like that, the air was suffocating again. It was like Razor had briefly forgotten the way he had been upset with you only to be shortly reminded of it.

Did Ging know that would happen?

…. Did he do it on purpose?

“Well, I'll let you get going then,” Ging then said, “I'm sure there's a lot you need to talk to them about.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, and you're free to use your hatsu now if you need to.”

Razor nodded as he said “see you, Ging.”

Ging waved in response before he turned away.

Razor did the same, one hand remaining on your arm as he began to drag you behind him.

Except your legs didn't want to work, still feeling weak and like they would bend beneath you at any moment. You stumbled along for only a few steps before he bent down to pick you up and throw you over his shoulder.

He handled you roughly as he did so, the breath in your lungs pushing out with a sharp gasp before he continued along. Again he was holding you tightly after, as if with the intent to bruise, like he wanted to leave marks on your skin beneath your clothing. You frequently felt the way his fingers twitched, like he was fighting the urge to do something violent. You were crying now, but your throat was too clogged up to make any noise.

The position you were now in allowed you to watch Ging as he walked away from the two of you. His hands were in his pockets again and he walked at a relaxed pace.

If you weren't so terrified of Razor you might have screamed at the man who gave you back to your kidnapper. Maybe wish torture and death upon him.

But you didn't dare let any noise escape you now.

Why did this need to happen to you?

That thought repeated itself through the entire walk back to the boat while you quietly cried atop Razor's shoulder. Like that very first night, he had yet to say anything. And once you reached the small flight of stairs that led down inside the boat, he moved you off his shoulder.

He pushed you down the stairs just as quickly and you tumbled down into the darkness.

Despite the short fall, it still hurt when you landed, your arms taking the brunt of it. However, you barely let out a pained groan afterwards, instead quietly sitting upright before you curled in on yourself, nursing your bruised arms. It still felt like a bad idea to say anything. Even though Razor hadn't come down, you still felt that air around you. Something bad was going to happen shortly.

The sound of an engine coming to life and reverberating through the small vessel caught your attention, as did the way the boat began to move away from the docks and out onto the water.

Perhaps that meant he wouldn't come down. If he was too busy driving the boat, then you would probably be left here until he reached his destination. That wasn't bad. If he took some time away from you, then maybe he wouldn't be as upset when he saw you again.

Deciding on that being what was most likely to happen, you settled down on the floor, anticipating a long, lonely journey.

Someone's hand grabbed at you in the darkness.

Now you screamed.

On instinct, you tried to pull your arm away. Your attempt was unsuccessful, and the hand hauled you up to your feet.

Another hand grabbed at you, this time clamping down onto your leg. No matter how hard you tried to kick them away, you couldn't escape their grip.

Someone else grabbed your legs, wrapping their arms around one of your knees so you were unable to move. At that same time, someone else grabbed your free hand, and both of your arms were stretched out away from your body, making it even harder to struggle.

You still tried, though. Even when a body came up from behind you and hooked their elbows beneath your armpits, you did everything in your power to wiggle out of those hands that held onto you.

If only that had been enough.

Within moments you were completely immobilized, your body held down by the multitude of hands that had come from the darkness. The only thing you could do was scream, and the ability to do even that was taken away when a large palm slapped over your mouth. Tears continued to stream down your face.

The lights were suddenly turned on, forcing you to close your eyes while you heard Razor descend the small flight of stairs. It took a few moments of blearily opening your eyes before they adjusted to the light, but when they did, you found Razor standing in front of you.

But you weren't able to keep your focus on him for long, not when you saw who was holding you. Several men dressed in white and blue, their blue caps covering their eyes.

….. No, not men.

Things.

They weren't human. They couldn't be. Despite their humanoid shapes, the wide smiles that were filled with the dangerously sharp teeth wasn't something any human you knew of possessed. The pure white skin was also a sign that these weren't human. Not just from the sight alone, but from how that skin felt against your own. It felt artificial, and their touch was completely cold. And while you weren't able to see any of their eyes due to the blue caps adorned with numbers, every single one of them was looking right at you, smiling at you while they held you down.

Your breathing became harsher as you began to truly panic, your sobs muffled by the hand that kept you silent. You were quickly becoming lightheaded.

Somehow, the one that was covering your mouth realized this as they pulled their hand away, and you took in a few desperate gulps of air before you focused on Razor again.

His expression was just as grim as it had been when he was outside.

“Trust is an awful thing to break,” he said.

He stepped forward, and your body tensed as you tried to back away from him. Unsurprisingly, the grip those creatures had on you remained strong.

“It can take a long time to build up even in the best of circumstances, and then it can shatter completely with a single lie,” he continued.

“Or a single act.”

Razor stood before you now, towering over you with a dark look in his eyes.

“I thought we had an understanding,” he said to you, “after what we talked about, after what you said to me yesterday, I really thought that we had gotten somewhere. That even if you didn't entirely understand it, the soulmate connection was enough to keep you from running,” he continued.

“But you were lying through your teeth about everything, weren't you?”

His expression when he said that was too scary and you looked down, focusing instead on the creature that had wrapped it's arms around your knee.

You weren't allowed to look away for long as Razor grabbed you by your face and forced you to look up at him, being forced to maintain the uncomfortable eye contact.

Unable to keep yourself calm, your breathing came in harsh as you stared back at him.

And for some reason that seemed to have an effect, as the look on his face softened ever so slightly.

Razor sighed.

“Maybe…. Maybe this hurts a bit more than I expected because we're soulmates,” he thought aloud, “maybe I thought, even without the nen, that you would understand faster because the connection should have been enough.”

“I-I'm – I'm not-” you began.

He moved his hand up so it covered your mouth, cutting you off from whatever excuse he felt would fall from your mouth. Now that you were again unable to speak, you sniffled against his hand while the tears that ran down your cheek met with his fingers.

The boat was still moving, and had seemingly picked up a bit more speed as it continued forward through the water. It was going further and further away from the land, further and further out to the open ocean. You remembered what you had told yourself before:

You weren't getting away now.

Resigning yourself to your fate, you slumped over in the grip of those monsters, your body going limp. Continuing to resist now was thoroughly meaningless.

And some part of you said that it always had been.

It was still quiet; Razor said nothing more, you only continued to quietly cry and those creatures hadn't uttered a single word the entire time. The only things that kept it from being completely silent were the hum of the engine and the sound of the waves that hit the hull of the boat.

When he pulled his hand off of your mouth, you said nothing, continuing to stare up at him as you bit your lip.

Then Razor smiled.

“Ah well. Us being soulmates doesn't mean that we won't make some mistakes now and then, right?”

Despite the pleasant expression on his face, the mood in the room was anything but. Even when he used his thumb to wipe the tears from your face, the action lacked any sort of kindness. There was still a smothering aura that surrounded both him and you, though now it had significantly lessened.

But that didn't make him feel any less dangerous.

“We have several hours before we get to Greed Island – that's plenty of time for us to become acquainted properly. And I'm sure that by the end of it, we'll have both learned some things about each other.”

The smile on Razor's face had never looked more menacing.

“After all, if there's anyone who can forgive me about what I'm about to do, it'll be my soulmate, right?”

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