#Illumi laments about killing you a lot

[envy-of-the-apple]

Yandere!Illumi Zoldyck x Reader

I haven’t written my man in soo longg. i claim to be an illumi stan but i only have like two fics for the guy. im so sorry illumi your dead fish eyes are the only eyes for me i swear. Highly inspired by this drabble made by flamingtrash. The way bestie writes illumi just lamenting just sends chills down my spine. 

Target

(Warnings: Yandere, stalking, murder, more stalking, planning to murder, mentions of suicide) 

Kill the husband, do whatever you want to the wife. 

His mission is one of the simpler ones. He considers this busy work. His target is a regular civilian, a break from the numerous other assassins, hit-men, nen-users he typically was hired to do. 

Still, Illumi takes his time, because every target deserves his vigilance, his dedication. It wouldn’t be right to just finish and go. He offers each life respect. 

He remembers the reason why your husband has to die. Bribery, company theft, among many other things. The men who wanted him gone needed for him to disappear completely, not a trace of him left behind. 

He has a feeling you wouldn’t go away just as easily. 

It was a love marriage. You two met right after you graduated college, and it bloomed from there. Coffee dates, light night strolls, candlelight dinners. Domestic activities. 

You loved your husband. Though Illumi isn’t intimate with the feeling, it’s clear to anyone who’s willing to watch. You’d been married for years, yet you still get so flustered at the mention of him. Twiddling thumbs, nervous laughter. 

Your husband loves you too. Maybe just as much. He’s not as quick to show it. He’s close to inheriting the company from his father. He has a lot of work to do. It’s probably why he’s doing so many gray things. Your husband is stressed. He knows one day this will all catch up to him. 

That day came when Illumi was handed 20 million jennies and a picture. 

He watches because making it look like an accident is much harder to accomplish than it sounds. He considers pinning the blame on you, before he discards the thought. Insufficient. 

But you really did love your husband. He isn’t usually so interested in his target’s marital affairs but he thinks he admires your loyalty. You’re so loving to him. Despite the busy lives you two lead, you manage to still think about him. 

Like today, when you’re setting up the breakfast table. You place two bowls, despite the fact your husband’s still asleep in the bed you two share. 

He’s been busy lately, constantly running from meeting to meeting. After a bit of scouting Illumi realizes that he’s only ever in two places: at the office, or in bed with you. Sometimes, just twice since Illumi has been observing, your husband crawls into a dark alley, filled with underdwellers, whispering about their latest schemes. He barely has time for breakfast. 

A routine is being set in place. You make two plates, continuing to bustle away in the kitchen as you wait for him. He’ll leave in a hurry, as he always does, yelling out a ‘bye darling’ before slamming the door shut. You’ll come out of the kitchen a few minutes later to see the bowls untouched, and then you’ll frown. Like you always do. 

And that worries Illumi because when your husband is gone and if you start putting together the pieces: always rushing everywhere, constantly being stressed, not eating breakfast anymore. He’d rather you be in the dark. He’d rather not waste his time killing you too. He wants you to play the part he set out to you; the heartbroken wife wondering how her husband could do this to himself when he was always so happy. 

Today, Illumi decides to intervene when your husband leaves like that for the fifth day in a row. You hadn’t even realized the intruder when he casually steps into the dining room, too busy in the kitchen. He decides to dispose of your husband’s bowl in the bushes, where the stray cats can have their fill. It’s clean when Illumi drops the dish back to its place on the table. 

You come out a few minutes later when Illumi safely retracts to his usual hiding spot. He watches you keenly, noting the perceived disappointment you have on your face like you’re already preparing yourself. 

And then you stop, staring at the empty bowl. 

A soft smile adorns your face. Your eyes crinkle. 

You look so happy, as you sit down, eating your own breakfast. It confuses him, just how happy a small action made you. 

It didn’t matter. This was good. If he kept this up, your husband’s demise would be a heartbroken tragedy, rather than suspected foul play. He shouldn’t be bothered by the details. 

Days later, he still thinks about your smile.

He watches you more than he does his target. 

Illumi can’t help himself. You’re so distracting. He doesn’t understand why. He should have been done with this mission weeks ago but he’s still here because he can’t understand you. 

You’re normal by any standard. Completely average. You work a desk job, and come back home when you get off the clock. You have normal friends. You have a normal family. Nothing you do should surprise him. 

But you do, nearly every day. He realizes you have these faces you show to others. Towards your co-workers, you’re polite and resigned. People who you’re closer to, family, close friends, your husband, you’re more sincere. You smile more. It’s fascinating to watch you switch depending on who you interact with. 

It shouldn’t matter because everyone has different faces. Everyone does this, this is basic socialization in regard to his targets. You aren’t special. 

Sometimes, Illumi catches himself wondering what face you would show him if you two ever met. 

You’re so disgustingly normal as you sit in the living room of your house, watching a TV show he hardly cares about. You don’t seem to care either, more interested in babbling on the phone to your friend about some nonsense at work. 

He should just kill you off too. It would be easier, less work on his part. It’s not like his clients care about what he does with you. You are an anomaly, but in the grand scheme of things, you are dispensable, irrelevant to his job. You won’t matter. 

You shouldn’t matter. 

You’re clumsy, it’s a common trait Illumi has noticed. You show your skill off almost every day. Take this moment, for instance, as you get up, you nearly drop your phone, catching it in the knick of time. You laugh to your friend about it in relief and Illumi thinks you wouldn’t be a good fit within his family. He strangely doesn’t mind your helplessness, however. 

He catches himself again. He curses. He really should just kill you. 

It’d be so easy to, it’s not like you made it hard. You don’t have any combat experience, you don’t even realize he’s there, right behind you, watching you work away in the kitchen as you continue to talk to your friend in utter obliviousness. 

He’s close enough to smell your perfume. 

When you turn, he’s back in his perch, onlooking the window. As usual, you don’t spot any evidence of the stranger being in your home, close enough to touch you. You continue stirring away a dish, still on the phone. 

He really should just kill you. 

Illumi thinks your friends serve their purpose. 

Since he is unable to interrogate you, your friends do it for him. They get you drunk in the restaurant you three had booked weeks ago, tipsy on a strain of alcohol he’d barely consider strong. It’s enough to spill your deepest secrets he could never uncover himself. A childhood past files could never tell him. 

Your friend makes a comment about how the kid version of you would probably be scandalized at how you turned out. A slurred laugh bubbles out of your lips. Illumi thinks it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. 

“You sound just like my husband,” You say with mirth. Your friend frowns. 

“Speaking of him…are the two of you okay? He didn’t show up to the dinner party last week.” Your husband hadn’t. Instead, he’d left you alone while he went to go and make more blood money. You frown, like you’re remembering it too. 

“Yeah,” You murmur, “He’s been busy lately. It’s something at work.” 

“Has he been specific?” Another friend presses. You look pensive. 

“Not really,” You respond. They frown at eachother, casting a knowing look. 

“Stop,” You say, your voice losing all humor, “It’s not like that. You two think so lowly of him. He’s not that kind of man.” And it’s true. Your husband doesn’t cheat. He bribes and launders instead. 

“He’s been…really tired lately. He sleeps like a rock all night, but in the morning it looks like he hadn’t even gotten a wink. His eye bags have eye bags.” You frown, taking another sip of your drink. “I always feel so guilty, like I should be doing something.” 

“Have you tried speaking to him about it?” One asks.  

You smile without mirth. 

“He doesn’t talk to me. Sometimes-sometimes I feel like he really wants to, but is afraid to, which is so stupid. It’s like he doesn’t know that I’ll love him no matter what he does.” 

Illumi believes you. He really does. He suddenly realizes that if your husband admitted everything he’s been doing right now; you’d forgive him, you’d accept him, you’d still love him.

You’re so loyal to him. Only him. Even when your husband doesn’t really deserve it, it was love. True love. 

That’s why he was so drawn to you. He wanted a wife just like you. Hell, if he had a perfect wife, he’d launder, and bribe, and steal to keep you too. 

He leaves after that. The mystery was solved. He could finally complete his mission. 

He wastes no time getting to your home, getting to his target. 

Killing the man was easy. Illumi barely breaks a sweat. Your husband is dead, and at his feet, within seconds. 

Then he waits. 

He waits for you to come home, he waits for you to see the scene. He decides that he’ll let you grieve for thirty seconds. Half a minute, before he breaks your neck, and then you’ll join your beloved. 

He isn’t usually so gracious, but he feels indebted to you. He’s grateful that you showed him that something like this exists. Utter devotion. He wants someone like you in his life. Someone who will smile and laugh and be intertwined with him, forever. 

He’ll pay it back by giving you time with your husband. It’s the least he can do. 

The door clicks an hour later. He patiently waits. Waits for you to see your lover, waits for you to scream, waits for you to see him. He’ll give you thirty seconds. Just thirty seconds. 

Forty-five seconds pass. 

Your eyes meet his first. 

You smile. 

“Hey.” 

You’re intoxicated. He can smell the wine from your lips as you stumble forward, lightly tripping on your heels. He’s close enough that you fall into him. He could have moved away, avoiding your clumsy body, letting you fall on a heap to the floor. 

He’s never minded your clumsiness. 

Illumi stays, gently pressing his fingertips into your shoulders, stabilizing you. You’re so soft under his touch. Delicate. He’s suddenly afraid a single move might snap you in half. 

You laugh, and although your voice is heavy with alcohol, it’s so light and free. You look at him, really really look at him. Your eyes are glimmering and he’s wondering if the night sky itself was etched into your eyes. 

“My hero,” You say so so lovingly and it clicks. 

You think he’s your husband. 

Why else would you be so happy? You can’t see him that well, not with your poor eyesight, an average human’s ability. Not when you’re so drunk off of the sweet wine he can practically taste from your lips. 

You don’t see the dead body right at your feet. You just see Illumi. 

Still, he doesn’t pull away. You don’t either, choosing to wrap your arms around his waist, drawing him closer. You’re so warm. You fit perfectly against his body. 

If he presses himself any closer, if he brings his hand up, right by your neck, and squeezes just so slightly, he’d be able to feel all of you. The blood pumping in your veins, sending oxygen, nutrients, everything that keeps you here. You’re alive. You aren’t dead, not yet. That’s why you’re so warm, not a cold corpse. 

He thinks he prefers you this way. 

“Sorry I was so late,” You’re slurring your words, but he understands them anyway, “I hadn’t seen the girls in a while. Hope you’re not too mad.” 

He doesn’t reply. You don’t seem to care, pressing up against him again. It feels so intimate, he’s not used to this. For once, in the many years he’s lived without doubt, he’s stuck. 

You managed to do that to him. Disarm him. You are surely the most dangerous opponent he’s had to face. 

You’re pulling away, a pout on your lips. 

“I knew it, you are mad,” You sigh, “Is there any way you can forgive me? Maybe…” 

You don’t finish your sentence, pressing up, messily pressing your warm lips to his. He’s kissed before, he’s not unnerved to the notion of touch, contact. 

But he can taste the ambrosia on your tongue. It’s addictive. 

“Sorry,” You whisper when you pull away. He doesn’t want you to. “I’m sorry.” 

You’re looking at him again, and your eyes are simmering, smoldering with a feeling that looks so dirty. You’re looking at him with absolute adoration and he strangely feels like he’s about to break. 

“You forgive me, right?” 

He makes his decision when you intertwine your hand in his, leading him to your bedroom. He makes sure you avoid stepping over your husband, guiding you away from the body. You’re giggling in his arms, caressing his hands. His face. 

Why would he give a fuck about having someone like you when he could just have you?

When you reach to turn on the bedroom light he’s quick to intervene, pinning you against the bed. Your intoxicated mind is eager to forget, clumsily reciprocating. 

He reaffirms his decision when he bites your neck, hearing you moan and writhe beneath him. 

He’ll keep you. After all, he’s worked so hard over these years. He deserves an award. 

You’ll love him, the same way you loved your husband, the rotting corpse he hopes will burn somewhere far far away from you two. 

And if you don’t. That’s okay too. Illumi has more than enough love to go around.