krystalisedsoul

[krystalisedsoul]

I started my period today, which means it’s time to think about how Illumi Zoldyck would act if you started your period for the first time in the house.

Morning comes, and for once, you’re up before him. It doesn’t take him long to notice the bloody stains where you lay. As for where you are? He doesn’t have to think too hard about that either — your sniffles from the bathroom are hardly as muffled as you think they are.

You refuse to open the door, stubbornly sobbing and insisting that nothing is wrong. He holds onto the handle firmly, left with no choice but to force it open. There you are, curled up in nothing but a navy lace nightgown—one of many he’s filled your wardrobe with.

“You’re only embarrassing yourself further by locking yourself away. We both already know you bled the bed.”

He’s so mistakenly rude I can’t help but love it. But don’t get it wrong—he means well. He just doesn’t know how to say it without looking down on you. You’re not a Zoldyck (yet). You’re not an assassin. You weren’t raised with the training he had. You both know you are very much below him in practically everything, he doesn’t shy from constantly reminding you about that every day somehow.

And yet, he cares for you—in his own, twisted way.

“You don’t have pads.”

“Huh?”

”…Where are the pads?”

For the first time, you think you might have seen Illumi completely frozen. It didn’t last longer than a few seconds, he made sure to compose himself but his eyes turning to the cabinets let you know enough. A cold-blooded killer, sure—but when it comes to women’s health, he is painfully uneducated. It’s not exactly a topic his mother would have bothered to discuss with him. She was always too preoccupied with talking about him or his brothers, not about her menstrual state.

“A butler will take care of that after you shower.”

And just like that, you’re scooped into his arms and carried off to a separate room. Don’t worry—before stepping out, he made sure to tell the butlers to avert their eyes from my body. Could he have let you change into something else? Sure. But what’s the point of dressing you just to undress you again?

Surprisingly, Illumi isn’t the worst at helping with a shower. He’s respectful enough to let you clean myself, but that doesn’t mean he leaves. He stands right in front of the tub, his eyes locked onto your body—more specifically, the blood trailing down your thighs, swirling into the water. He watches intently, as if studying something foreign.

By the time you’re done, he’s already set out fresh clothes for you—another gown, this time black, with thicker material. It’s warm. Comfortable, even. It’s something you might’ve worn before he took you away. And to your surprise, he’s also brought out a pair of fluffy black knee-high socks.

“I don’t want to wear them.”

He doesn’t speak at first, just clenches his jaw. His hands twitch around the socks.

“You have no choice. You need to keep your body warm on your period—including your feet.”

I suggest not arguing again.

For one, Illumi really wants to see you wear those socks.

And two, he doesn’t mind teaching you a lesson about denying your fiancé’s wishes.

If you thought being on your period would earn you a little mercy, you were dead wrong. He knows you’re already in a lot of pain—and that’s exactly why the lesson would be more impactful.

Later that day, he has a job. An assassination, obviously. You don’t ask details, and he doesn’t offer them. But before leaving, he gives the butlers strict orders regarding your care—things they were probably already going to do, but now it’s no longer a suggestion. It’s an obligation.

And unbeknownst to you, while he’s out, he’s checking his phone in between the job. He’s reading their updates.

“She’s eaten only three bites of her food.”

“She’s gone to the toilet.”

“A used pad has been disposed of.”

Each message is clinical, precise. The way they talk about you is similar to how they’d report on a mission. Cold. Efficient. And Illumi prefers it that way.

You, on the other hand, have no idea he’s watching over you like this. You go about your day in pain, curled up in bed, pressing a warm water bottle against your stomach, trying to will away the cramps. You barely eat. You don’t move much. And eventually, the pain, the discomfort, the sheer exhaustion—it gets to you. You cry and lock yourself in the bathroom again.

That’s when Illumi comes home.

A butler must have informed him because he doesn’t waste any time. The lock on the bathroom door is meaningless to him. He forces it open just like he did this morning. He doesn’t speak, nor does he waste time in moving after quickly scanning your body.

You barely register it when he pulls you up and into his lap. His arms encircle you in a stiff, calculated embrace—comfort, if you could even call it that. There’s no warmth in it, no soothing words, no gentle hushes against your ear. Just silence. Heavy and suffocating.

And yet, you cling to him.

Not because he is soft, or safe, or kind—but because he is here. Because there is no one else, nothing else, no arms but his to fall into. It is an instinct more than a choice, the way your fingers grasp at him, the way you burrow into his shoulder despite the rigidness of his hold.

Like a moth drawn to a flame—not for warmth, not for comfort, but because it is the only light in an endless dark. Because even as it burns, even as it consumes, it is still better than being alone in the cold.

[krystalisedsoul]

this was mostly description practice help, ill post another part to this after my period 🥲

Cafe Nero

Yandere Illumi Zoldyck x Reader

Summary: Illumi, having finished his job for the day, ventured into town and encountered the cafe his grandfather recommended heavily to him.

Notes: just Illumi getting butterflies seeing the reader lol

Word Count: 1154

The city breathed in the damp, metallic air of an approaching storm, its streets slick with the faint sheen of rain that had not yet fallen. Streets wound like veins through the urban body, pulsing with the life of countless strangers who moved with the aimless purpose of ants beneath a magnifying glass. Lanterns flickered weakly against the encroaching dusk, their light swallowed by the shadows that pooled in the alleys and clung to the edges of buildings like stains. Illumi moved through the throng of bodies with the ease of a shadow slipping through cracks, his presence unnoticed, his existence unacknowledged. The crowd parted around him as if by some unspoken instinct, their laughter and chatter fading into a muffled hum that did not touch him. He was a void, a silence where sound should have been, and the world seemed to bend itself away from him, as though afraid to acknowledge what it could not understand.

Neon signs buzzed overhead, their garish colors bleeding into the twilight, while the scent of street food—sizzling meat, fried dough, and spices—mingled with the acrid tang of exhaust. It was a place of life, of noise, of chaos, and yet, in the midst of it all, there was a pocket of stillness.

Illumi stood at the center of the sidewalk, his presence an anomaly in the bustling crowd. He did not move, did not flinch, as people flowed around him like water around a stone. His black suit, impeccably tailored, seemed to absorb the light, its fabric undisturbed by the wind or the press of bodies. The collar of his shirt was stark against his pale skin, and the silver pin at his throat caught the flicker of a passing headlight, a brief, cold glint in the dimness. His gloves, black and fitted, rested at his sides, their surface smooth and unblemished, as though untouched by the grime of the city.

His face was a study in calm, its features sharp and symmetrical, as though carved from marble by a hand that valued precision above all else. His eyes, dark and depthless, scanned the crowd without interest, their gaze passing over the faces around him as though they were little more than shadows. His hair, long and ink-black, fell in straight, unbroken lines around his face, its stillness a stark contrast to the wind that tugged at the coats and scarves of those who passed him by.

The device in his hand buzzed softly, its screen illuminating with a message from his client. The words were brief, devoid of unnecessary sentiment: "Payment sent." Illumi’s expression did not change, but there was a subtle shift in the set of his jaw, a faint tightening that spoke of satisfaction. His lips, pale and finely shaped, did not curve into a smile, but there was something in the stillness of his face, a quiet intensity, that hinted at the cold pleasure he took in the completion of a task.

Around him, the crowd continued to move, their voices rising and falling in a cacophony of sound. A child laughed, high and bright, as they darted past him, their small hand clutching a balloon that bobbed in the air. A vendor called out, their voice hoarse from hours of shouting, offering steaming buns to anyone who would listen. But Illumi noticed none of it. To him, the world was a blur of motion and noise, a thing to be observed but not engaged with. He was a fixed point in the chaos, a stillness in the storm.

For a moment, he remained there, his gaze fixed on the screen in his hand, the faint glow of the device reflecting in his eyes. Then, with a movement so fluid it seemed almost inhuman, he slipped the device into his pocket and stepped forward. The crowd parted around him, their movements instinctive, as though some primal part of them recognized the danger he represented. He did not look back, did not pause, but continued down the street, his footsteps silent against the pavement.

The neon lights flickered overhead, their colors washing over him in waves, but they did not touch him. He was a shadow, a void, a thing apart from the world around him. And as he disappeared into the crowd, the street seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, as though it had been holding its breath the entire time he was there.

Illumi stopped, noticing a café standing at the corner of the square, its windows glowing with a warmth that felt almost obscene in the grayness of the evening. Steam curled against the glass, obscuring the figures inside, but Illumi’s gaze passed over them without interest. ‘Cafe Nero’, his grandfather had mentioned this place, the drinks and bakery becoming one of his favourites when visiting town. Seeing as he finished his work for the day and it wasn’t too late, he decided to make his way to the door.

His eyes, dark and unblinking, were drawn instead to the girl seated near the window. She was a burst of color in a monochrome world, her laughter spilling into the air with a carelessness that felt almost violent. She leaned forward, her hands animated as she spoke, and the people around her leaned in as if pulled by some invisible force. They orbited her like planets around a sun, their faces bright with the reflected glow of her presence.

Illumi did not move. He stood at the edge of the square, his stillness a stark contrast to the fluid motion of the crowd. His hands, gloved and precise, hung at his sides, but his fingers twitched faintly, as though plucking at an invisible thread. He did not know her name, nor did he care to. Names were trivial things, labels for objects that held no meaning. What he saw was not a person but a disruption, a ripple in the carefully ordered fabric of his world. She was wasteful, her energy spent on frivolities—laughter, conversation, connection—things that served no purpose, things that could not be quantified or controlled. And yet, she lingered in his mind like a splinter, small but impossible to ignore.

The wind shifted, carrying with it the faint scent of coffee and pastries, and for a moment, the sound of her laughter reached him. It was a bright, discordant note in the symphony of the city, and it cut through the silence of his thoughts like a blade. His jaw tightened, the faintest flicker of tension betraying the smooth mask of his expression. He turned away, his coat swirling around him like a shadow given form, and disappeared into the crowd.

But the thread remained, thin and unbreakable, tugging at the edges of his consciousness. As Illumi set on his journey back to his mountain, his expression did not change, but something in him shifted, like the slow, inevitable turn of a key in a lock.

[krystalisedsoul]

Cafe Nero

Yandere Illumi Zoldyck x Reader

Summary: Illumi, having finished his job for the day, ventured into town and encountered the cafe his grandfather recommended heavily to him.

Notes: just Illumi getting butterflies seeing the reader lol

Word Count: 1154

The city breathed in the damp, metallic air of an approaching storm, its streets slick with the faint sheen of rain that had not yet fallen. Streets wound like veins through the urban body, pulsing with the life of countless strangers who moved with the aimless purpose of ants beneath a magnifying glass. Lanterns flickered weakly against the encroaching dusk, their light swallowed by the shadows that pooled in the alleys and clung to the edges of buildings like stains. Illumi moved through the throng of bodies with the ease of a shadow slipping through cracks, his presence unnoticed, his existence unacknowledged. The crowd parted around him as if by some unspoken instinct, their laughter and chatter fading into a muffled hum that did not touch him. He was a void, a silence where sound should have been, and the world seemed to bend itself away from him, as though afraid to acknowledge what it could not understand.

Neon signs buzzed overhead, their garish colors bleeding into the twilight, while the scent of street food—sizzling meat, fried dough, and spices—mingled with the acrid tang of exhaust. It was a place of life, of noise, of chaos, and yet, in the midst of it all, there was a pocket of stillness.

Illumi stood at the center of the sidewalk, his presence an anomaly in the bustling crowd. He did not move, did not flinch, as people flowed around him like water around a stone. His black suit, impeccably tailored, seemed to absorb the light, its fabric undisturbed by the wind or the press of bodies. The collar of his shirt was stark against his pale skin, and the silver pin at his throat caught the flicker of a passing headlight, a brief, cold glint in the dimness. His gloves, black and fitted, rested at his sides, their surface smooth and unblemished, as though untouched by the grime of the city.

His face was a study in calm, its features sharp and symmetrical, as though carved from marble by a hand that valued precision above all else. His eyes, dark and depthless, scanned the crowd without interest, their gaze passing over the faces around him as though they were little more than shadows. His hair, long and ink-black, fell in straight, unbroken lines around his face, its stillness a stark contrast to the wind that tugged at the coats and scarves of those who passed him by.

The device in his hand buzzed softly, its screen illuminating with a message from his client. The words were brief, devoid of unnecessary sentiment: "Payment sent." Illumi’s expression did not change, but there was a subtle shift in the set of his jaw, a faint tightening that spoke of satisfaction. His lips, pale and finely shaped, did not curve into a smile, but there was something in the stillness of his face, a quiet intensity, that hinted at the cold pleasure he took in the completion of a task.

Around him, the crowd continued to move, their voices rising and falling in a cacophony of sound. A child laughed, high and bright, as they darted past him, their small hand clutching a balloon that bobbed in the air. A vendor called out, their voice hoarse from hours of shouting, offering steaming buns to anyone who would listen. But Illumi noticed none of it. To him, the world was a blur of motion and noise, a thing to be observed but not engaged with. He was a fixed point in the chaos, a stillness in the storm.

For a moment, he remained there, his gaze fixed on the screen in his hand, the faint glow of the device reflecting in his eyes. Then, with a movement so fluid it seemed almost inhuman, he slipped the device into his pocket and stepped forward. The crowd parted around him, their movements instinctive, as though some primal part of them recognized the danger he represented. He did not look back, did not pause, but continued down the street, his footsteps silent against the pavement.

The neon lights flickered overhead, their colors washing over him in waves, but they did not touch him. He was a shadow, a void, a thing apart from the world around him. And as he disappeared into the crowd, the street seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, as though it had been holding its breath the entire time he was there.

Illumi stopped, noticing a café standing at the corner of the square, its windows glowing with a warmth that felt almost obscene in the grayness of the evening. Steam curled against the glass, obscuring the figures inside, but Illumi’s gaze passed over them without interest. ‘Cafe Nero’, his grandfather had mentioned this place, the drinks and bakery becoming one of his favourites when visiting town. Seeing as he finished his work for the day and it wasn’t too late, he decided to make his way to the door.

His eyes, dark and unblinking, were drawn instead to the girl seated near the window. She was a burst of color in a monochrome world, her laughter spilling into the air with a carelessness that felt almost violent. She leaned forward, her hands animated as she spoke, and the people around her leaned in as if pulled by some invisible force. They orbited her like planets around a sun, their faces bright with the reflected glow of her presence.

Illumi did not move. He stood at the edge of the square, his stillness a stark contrast to the fluid motion of the crowd. His hands, gloved and precise, hung at his sides, but his fingers twitched faintly, as though plucking at an invisible thread. He did not know her name, nor did he care to. Names were trivial things, labels for objects that held no meaning. What he saw was not a person but a disruption, a ripple in the carefully ordered fabric of his world. She was wasteful, her energy spent on frivolities—laughter, conversation, connection—things that served no purpose, things that could not be quantified or controlled. And yet, she lingered in his mind like a splinter, small but impossible to ignore.

The wind shifted, carrying with it the faint scent of coffee and pastries, and for a moment, the sound of her laughter reached him. It was a bright, discordant note in the symphony of the city, and it cut through the silence of his thoughts like a blade. His jaw tightened, the faintest flicker of tension betraying the smooth mask of his expression. He turned away, his coat swirling around him like a shadow given form, and disappeared into the crowd.

But the thread remained, thin and unbreakable, tugging at the edges of his consciousness. As Illumi set on his journey back to his mountain, his expression did not change, but something in him shifted, like the slow, inevitable turn of a key in a lock.