Ultraviolet - Tumblr Posts

"No, he's not."

I just had to

I'm so sorry

No I'm not

Now this is actually more accurate, isn't it?

Real ones know what the THING is

Jack Davenport in Ultraviolet ep5:

me: He’s doing the thing!

mom: What thing?… smiling?

me: no, the thing

FREE FURRY ADOPT FOR WHOEVER MESSAGES FIRST

NAME: Ultraviolet (you may change)

SPECIES: Flit

GENDER: whatever you want

Message me abt it and I will send you the character without watermark

This is a species called a Flit I haven’t seen much about them (only 3 photos) and one of them was a false transparent base, so i fixed it up, the base maker’s watermark is on the leg

Species by @MORGUEMAW on sketchersunited.org

Colors from coolors.co

Ilia: So Velvet huh? they call you that because of the sweet smooth accent of yours?

Velvet: No it’s because it’s ma name.

Ilia: (Frustrated gay silence)

Milla Jovovich in Ultraviolet (2006)

lana del rey | ultraviolence | 2014

Hier Encore I.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

Synopsis: Yorknew Police Department Headquarters, 1995, April 10th. You are a director of public safety. The Phantom Troupe attacks the headquarters and takes you under the guise of a hostage situation. Even when the ransom is paid, you are never returned and assumed to be dead. After thirteen months of captivity, in 1996, on May 9th, you escape and try to learn how to live again somewhere far away from your captor. The payment of freedom comes with a steep cost, one that stains your hands so much that even if you drown them in bleach, the stain will remain there for the rest of your life.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, the reader is described as AFAB and uses she/her pronouns respectively, not SFW implications, misogynistic undertones (not from Chrollo), manipulation, references to religion, violence/gore, minor character death, and past stalking.

Word Count: 18k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Lacrimosa by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

4:00 A.M. by Taeko Onuki

My Girlfriend Is a Witch by October Country

Michelle by Sir Chloe

Sonne by Rammstein

Enemy by Imagine Dragons

Venus Fly Trap by MARINA

Maneater by Nelly Furtado

cult leader by KiNG MALA

Teacher’s Pet by Melanie Martinez 

"She looked like a vixen, and that’s what she was; she had all the instincts of a female fox. She was the proverbial predatory female. She had what she wanted, now, and she was content. There was just the getting completely away with it that counted.” – Gil Brewer, Sin for Me

i. “Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow."

The sitting rooms in these types of hotels have always been your favorite place to sit because of the scenery. There is almost always a large window overlooking whatever city you are temporarily placed in with your captor, making everything below you seem insignificant. You see nothing other than your faded reflection in the window and blinking city lights that are so small they seem like a city of stars. At the same time, you can only touch the framed glass panes or the couch you are sitting on. You can only hear Chrollo’s pleased hums and the occasional page-turning of his current novel. You cannot feel or hear the world outside, no matter how much you try to imagine such.

When you were working, you would use your phone to notify others of what you were doing at work or when you would arrive home, but now you can't feel your pants pocket where the phone was usually kept. It would vibrate or chime loudly as its duty as your alarm and messenger. The phone, once opened, would relay your family members’ voices, or your boss’, or your assistants’. Even if some voices were secretly irritating to you before, you feel compelled to admit that they are better than hearing nothing other than the squeaky wheels of a room service cart or the air conditioner. You cannot feel the rest of your work uniform, a classic white dress shirt and black tie. You cannot hear your co-workers’ drunken laughs as they cheer with large glasses of beer in their hands. A small thud catches your attention, making you turn your head in that direction. Chrollo is putting his book down on the coffee table in front of you two. It is closed, with the cover facing upward, and the title in a foreign language. His cup is empty except for a few drops, having been previously filled with black coffee. Yours simply has room-temperature water, still filled to the brim. You make eye contact for a second or two, his eyes calm and composed. Chrollo breaks it as his arm reaches out towards his coffee cup. He picks it up with grace, sipping quietly before setting it back down on its porcelain saucer. A small smile forms on his pale lips as he looks at you.

"You seem rather bored, my dear. Would you mind conversing with me?”

“No, I would not mind.” You say, your lips moving to mimic his own with precision.

“Marvelous. Would you like to talk about anything in particular?” Chrollo asks, his left arm moving to rest on the couch.

“Anything you would like to discuss.”

“If you insist.” He places one of his legs over the other; his posture is relaxed but his stare is suddenly intense. “There is something I would like to ask of you. Tell me, do you enjoy being here with me?”

“I do. I needed some time to adjust, but I like it here. I have fewer responsibilities than what I used to have.” 

“Wonderful.” Chrollo’s smile widens.

You know that he would not be pleased if you told him the truth; that you feel nothing for him aside from disdain. His softness would fade and give way to his true colors rapidly. An eye-catching crimson red specifically. It is the color of blood, danger, fire, some species of spiders and snakes… It is the color of danger and anger. Perhaps he would threaten to murder a dear friend of yours. Perhaps he would hit you. Perhaps he would isolate you even further by not returning for days at a time. Perhaps he will tie you to the bed. …Perhaps he will kill you. It would be easy, you know it from the bits of strength he has shown you. All it would take is a simple wave of his hand and–

“I enjoy having you here, beside me. Your presence is very comforting.” His eyes glimmer for what seems like less than a fifth of a second, a light that you learned only shows when he is curious about something.

“Did you want to ask me something?”

“I am glad you noticed.” His head tilts slightly to the side. “I do have something I want to ask you.”

“Well, what is your question?”

“Do you plan to try to run away from me?” His cold tone and facial expression are unlike the one he had a few moments ago. 

“No. I do not.” You shake your head and take his hand gently. “What better place is there to be other than having you by my side?”

Chrollo’s eyes seem to soften at your answer. His posture returns to one of no worries. His shoulders are not as tense. His breathing is a bit steadier. He looks at your hand with a slight smile. He leans a bit towards you. He squeezes your hand lightly. You put your head on his shoulder to further convince him to believe the lie. Your captor hums with a pleased voice.

He is cold to the touch. It is like your hand is in a blizzard, a small warm flame surrounded by snow. There is a slight stinging sensation. It is colder than literal ice on your skin. Chrollo’s grip is tender yet strong, making it clear that he does not want to let go of your soft hand. 

You feel his nose go into your hair and dare not do anything to stop it.

Your kidnapper inhales sharply and sighs fondly. His breath smells like mint; sharp, fresh, and cool. To distract yourself from the unpleasant truth, you look around the hotel room. There is a rose bouquet in front of you two, still fresh since you both arrived this morning. They are a deep burgundy color, similar to that of the city lights outside. The glass they were placed in is intricate with flower markings. The coffee table is rosewood by the looks of it, most likely polished right before you two came. The curtains on the sides of the large window are a fawn brown, obviously to match the roses. The carpet is a beige with chocolate brown swirl patterns on it. You try to follow one with your eyes but get lost in it after a few seconds. The couch you two are sitting on is beige as well. Perhaps the reason why this room is so dull is because of how colorful the city outside of it is. Designs like this are probably why this city has so many tourists. Either that or Chrollo chose its blandness specifically because he still wanted an aura of superiority, both literally with how high the hotel room is above and in spirit with the colors. It is ironic, but Chrollo’s white dress shirt is the brightest thing inside this room. You wonder if his clothing choice was on purpose too.

You know yours was. A black dress that stops just before your knees, with gold earrings and anklet. It is a part of your plan to lower his guard. You just washed your hair a few hours ago and put on a bit too much perfume. You walk with confidence yet not too much of it. It is similar to how you used to dress when you went to parties hosted by members of high society, tasked to butter them up a little to the higher-ups’ requests for funding public safety projects. Those people were pompous for certain, but still childish and easily fooled. Chrollo, on the other hand, is pompous but intelligent and a manipulator himself, hence why you have done this dance for the past thirteen months for him to lower his guard. You think it is working, but it is not time to escape just yet.

There are still matters that must be attended to. Like a possible escape route. You know that if you try to escape Chrollo in this hotel he will catch you quite quickly since this room is so small and he will for sure notice if the only hotel key is missing. Also, you note that you cannot know for sure whether or not Chrollo fully trusts you at this point. You plan to ask him to take you on a date tomorrow and then run away once you see an area with much fewer people. You will hide a change of clothes in your purse and change your appearance. You will use a false name from then on. You will try to notify your loved ones about your whereabouts and tell them to move within a few days to be safe just in case the Troupe knows where they live. Then you will try to go north then east using the money you have secretly been stealing from him. If he says no or still has a tight grip on you throughout the day, you will not try to escape that day and try within a few more months. You will repeat this process until you have escaped successfully. You must make sure that you have loosened Chrollo’s grip on you enough, otherwise, he will catch you quickly. Who knows what will happen after that? Who knows if you will ever get this chance again? The answer is most likely never.

“Your scent… it’s nice.” Chrollo whispers.

You bat your eyelashes at him as a response.

Chrollo’s eyes appear to be full of adoration. Your makeup is fully done, a style that you know your captor likes. Winged black eyeliner. Black eyeshadow. Dark red lipstick. Your hair is in a braid with your bangs just slightly covering your eyes. Your nails are painted a color to match your eyes.

Deep down, you worry if this is enough, too much, or too little. If it is too much, he will catch on fast, and you will pay dearly for the consequences. If it is too little, he shall not be impressed and not take you outside tomorrow. It has to be just right. Chrollo leans in closer, still making eye contact as you bat your lashes. His hand is still grabbing onto yours, but it seems to have gotten a little warmer because of the heat of your own. Either that, or you had gotten used to it.

“You truly are a sight… My girl…” Chrollo’s other hand makes its way to your cheek. There is a strong scent of flowers coming off of you. He leans in more until his face and yours are just inches apart. “You smell lovely… Let me taste you.”

You hide your disgust and nod your head. 

Chrollo’s lips touch yours. The cold hand that was holding yours also makes it upward toward your other cheek and squeezes lightly. His fingers are thicker than yours. His fingernails are in pristine condition as usual. His wrists are bony. His skin looks callused, but in actuality, it is quite soft. There aren’t any scars or injuries on them, which is remarkable considering what he does for a living. You wonder if those he killed had touched his soft skin and thought they were being strangled by silk instead of actual human hands. His lips are soft too. Chrollo’s kisses always were elegant and gentle, but you think that is because you have tried your hardest to not disobey him. You wonder if the people Chrollo extorted information out of knew the touch of his lips. At least some of them knew, you think. Chrollo is attractive to many people, both rich and poor. He had told you a few stories such as when he had a sexual relationship with an older woman who had a high-paying role in government and one day he ran off with all of the riches in her safe. She died soon after. Chrollo says she died of a broken heart. You don’t know whether he meant she was mentally heartbroken and was joking with you or she had her heart mangled by Chrollo during her last few minutes alive. You don’t think you want to know the answer either. 

Chrollo’s tongue starts to trace your lower lip with greed. You feel your heart nearly skip a beat. Let me out, you want to say. Let me out. It feels like you are black and blue all over from all the tall hurdles you had to jump through to make it this far. A voice in the back of your mind says that the outside will never heal your wounds, but giving in would. It is better to just give up, it speaks in the back of your mind with a forked tongue and unsettlingly calm tone. It would be better to just accept it. Perhaps Stockholm Syndrome is settling in, or it is just your hope for the future withering away.

Your kidnapper bites slightly on your lower lip and looks deeply into your eyes. His pupils are dilated.

You look down at his lips and notice the hue of your dark red lipstick.

Chrollo doesn’t seem to care as he pulls your face towards his own again. Either that or he did not notice it, but it is unlikely considering how perceptive he is. His cold hands hold your warm face in place as you feel his hot breath tickle your nostrils. His elbows go underneath your armpits and stab into the couch. You hear nothing except for his breathing because you look at the clock on the wall to distract yourself yet again. It is nearly midnight. 

Your perfume smells like dahlias and roses, which Chrollo has mentioned liking on you before.

His right hand pushes your right cheek into the arm of the couch and he starts to suck and bite your neck.

Your skin is soft as usual, looking like porcelain.

Chrollo has complimented it before. He has complimented your scent before. He has complimented your makeup before. He has complimented your hair before. You look beautiful, there is always a genuineness in his tone that would make you feel slightly sick like you were going to throw up whatever expensive fruit or chocolate you had eaten. You would never voice it though, because that would mean all the progress you have made to lower his guard would be for nothing. It would only make him test your sufferance further by doing unspeakable acts against you or your loved ones. The only weapons he has not taken away from you are your tactical mind and honeyed words. If you play them correctly, you will eventually escape and live a somewhat peaceful life. 

Chrollo moves upward toward your ear and nibbles at your lobe softly. “You are so beautiful, my precious.” He whispers. “So beautiful…” His perfume smells like sandalwood and musk. “Like a doll. Truly, you’re quite the sight to see…” Chrollo purrs.

His fingers trace the top of your hair.

“Like silk. So soft and gentle…” His fingers dance downward on your braid, twisting back and forth. “The shampoo I chose for you was a good choice.”

You smile.

“White jasmine…” A sweet and soft scent. Swirls of saccharine and fruit. A slight tart smell of citrus. Universally ambrosial paired with the bitter words that leave your syrup-covered lips; making a charming palette of a flavor similar to that of biting into a square of dark chocolate mixed with orange zest. The texture is not ever strange because of how well-crafted the chocolate is. It is not difficult to swallow but doesn’t melt in the mouth too fast either. The delicacy’s flavor stays in the mouth even after it is fully dissolved, coating each tooth in a substance that has a lovely bittersweet taste like honey mixed with black tea. “It suits you.”

*~*~*~*

1995, April 10th. The Phantom Troupe targeted the Yorknew Police Department Headquarters, one of the largest public safety headquarters in the world, killing 1,891 people. 

A lot of them were on the lower floors, scampering away to locked exits like stray, captured cats, clawing and screaming at the metal doors to open. You sometimes envy them, for their time with the Troupe was short. They knew how their fate was going to end; swift and twisted. A quick punch. A sudden stab. A loud blast of a firearm. They knew how they were going to die. They comforted each other as they were ripped limb from limb. 

You don’t know how you are going to die, or when you are going to die. You could die in a few seconds, a few months, or a few years. You could die by being shot, being poisoned, or being strangled. No one came to comfort you, and no one comforts you now. No one listened to your struggles and cries for help as you were pushed in a black car, gagged and restrained. No one helped you in one of your most desperate moments. 

You are tired of doing everything with the person that made your life a living hell. You want to go back to eating dinner at a restaurant and not feel an unwanted hand on your thigh. You want to go back to sleep with a loose arm around you and not a strangling one. You want to go back to talking to someone you like about a topic you like and not think your every move toward freedom is a gamble.

1995, April 10th. The Phantom Troupe targeted the Yorknew Police Department Headquarters, one of the largest public safety headquarters in the world, killing 1,891 people, leaving very few people to tell others of the tale. Perhaps you count, but you are presumed dead by the outside world so it wouldn’t matter anyhow. You are all alone and stuck in a situation akin to limbo. 

*~*~*~*

Chrollo keeps batting his eyelashes at you across the dining table.

His hair is well-kept, he is wearing a fancy suit, and his nearly black eyes are wider and brighter than when you saw him last. It is well past sunset, the sky outside the window a murky, livid color. He is humming now, staring at you rather than the uncut steak in front of him. You are about to stop playing with your food when–

“Black is a good color on you.”

Your head jerks up. His eyes are even more vivid, and focused, while yours are uncertain. Your hand stops moving your fork to your mouth and falls back to the table lifelessly. 

“Your dress,” he smiles.

“I…” You look down and close your eyes. You have to force your shoulders not to shake by thinking of happier times in your life. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” You refuse to look at him for it will show what you are feeling. Your heart beats so fast that you feel like you are about to go into cardiac arrest. “I have something for you, after dinner.”

He has just come back from another successful heist in this city. It makes sense.

“I’m not very hungry, Chrollo.”

He hums. “You are going to go hungry.” You hear him place his cup of wine back onto the table. “At least eat the radish soup. You need to eat your vegetables.”

As if brought to existence by his words, you smell the bowl of vegetable soup beside the uneaten steak. You mostly smell the tartness of the tomato slices, big and bright. Mint comes second, fresh yet light compared to the tomato smell. You don’t smell the radish, though, despite the chunks of them being large enough to hardly fit in your spoon.

You open your eyes and lift your hand to pick up the spoon in the bowl. You take a piece of radish in your mouth, quickly chewing the peppery vegetable.

You still refuse to look at your captor. You just try to focus on eating the soup so you can at least temporarily avoid his gaze. You are never this nervous when you are about to try to manipulate someone into doing what you say, but Chrollo’s eye for tactics is about the same as yours. When you are almost done with your soup, you suddenly hear Chrollo’s chair move, followed by footsteps.

“You’re nervous.”

You shake your head and take the last bite of your soup. “I am not. I am just thinking about something, dear.”

He grabs the hand that was holding your spoon. His thumb makes circles around your own.

You take some of the quietest and quickest deep breaths and look at Chrollo, the corners of your mouth turning upwards into another deceitful smile. “You don’t need to worry about me. You already work hard enough as it is.”

Chrollo hoists you up and hugs you. 

The window gives way to the starless night sky as dark as obsidian–the moon a slight crescent, and a snow white. It floats atop the carefully cut trees onto their tips and stays there, like a strung puppet in a finished puppet show, unmoving until called upon again by its master. 

“What is my beautiful [First] worried about?” He murmurs. 

“I was examining something.” Your fingertips graze against his palm. You plan to recreate the classic dance of Black Swan Pas de Deux, with you taking on the role of Odile. “Something most peculiar.” Your hand clasps onto his. “I am like a train. I can only run anywhere my rails take me. I suppose you are a new track I have yet to explore, and the only option is to move wherever it is you take me.” His hand feels warm, but not warm enough to comfort others. “It has been an unexpected journey with many stops, but it is my purpose to keep moving forward until the end. The end’s length feels far and I feel that only through death would the tracks cusp.” You stand up straighter than before and your breath echoes in his ear. “People focus more on the train’s condition than the tracks but the tracks are the most important part of the journey. Without tracks, trains would not exist. So, Chrollo…” You feel comfortably numb and not as timid as you were a few minutes ago. “How do you feel?”

You look into your captor’s eyes, and all you see is hell. The very gates of hell in the eyes of a human being. When judgment passes, all of your sins shall be weighed. The only way for your sins to disappear before that day is to lie. 

The Devil himself is waiting for the moment when your mask shatters and gives way to a horrid monstrosity. Only then can he punish you for your misdeeds.

“...How I feel, huh?” Long, silent fingers move like a spider’s legs up and down your back. He is now reciprocating your dance by playing the role of Prince Siegfried. The gramophone plays Beethoven’s Für Elise.  “I think you're a fascinating woman, darling.” His tone is gentle, contrasting with the usual coldness and detachment he carries so often. He moves his other hand to the side of your face and gently caresses your cheeks. “You're smart, creative, and strong. You have a unique charm that sets you apart from everyone else.” 

Like a rose, Chrollo’s thorns and stunningly beautiful features cut deep into both your psyche and the world around you. He has spent what feels like years trying to pluck your petals off one by one in a game of effeuiller la marguerite, the logic behind it being a bizarre combination of many things. His stalk, the axis that connects all his reasons, would be simple curiosity. He was curious to find out where your traits stemmed from, what and who made you the way you are today if you were hiding something nefarious behind that bright smile and kind voice of yours, and thus began his hunt for more knowledge. His calyx, a shield made of his in the form of sepals, represents how protective he is of his deepest, darkest secrets. He has buried them all beneath a temple of fake phlegmatism and honesty. The petals of his biggest and most colorful flower lead his admirers astray so they could never uncover the real Chrollo, which you think is a mercy in itself. Most of those who have seen his true self are buried along with it soon enough.

You want to take a lighter and light him ablaze so that he shall never reroot in the soil around him. The only way you can do such a thing is to play a game of effeuiller la marguerite as well. This is the path you must take to get your freedom back.

The key is to follow the hidden rules.

That means doing things you find repulsive but he finds lovely.

That means kissing him when he comes back. That means letting him do what he wants with your body. That means lying straight to his face when saying you are attracted to him. It will all be worth it in the end, you tell yourself.

You hum, acting like those words that leave his mouth are the things you want to hear the most.

“Those eyes, so grounded yet divine, are the only ones worthy of reverence.” His pale lips twirl upward like a ballet dancer’s arms. “I shall be honored if you choose me to be your apostle.”

“Do you see yourself when you gaze into my eyes, my beloved?”

“I do.” His voice seems breathless, almost drunk, his mind above the clouds and fantasizing about the future. Your eyes are similar to that of a small, round mirror that can reflect light just like the surface of a pond does. 

“I see myself when I look at yours as well,” You sigh with a pseudo impression of an amorous tone. “I suppose we are meant to be together.” Like an elegant ballerina, you relevé. “So, Chrollo…” Your lips are so close to his. Your voice is hushed, calm, and teasing. “I have a favor to ask.” 

His eyes light up with adoration, similar to how Romeo first saw Juliet at the Capulet ball. 

“Ask me for anything you wish for and I shall see to it that it is done.” The hand that is on your back clenches it a bit more.

“I would like to go somewhere tomorrow.” 

“Hm? Where would you like to go?” Chrollo’s tone is now a mix of curiosity and hopefulness. 

“The planetarium.” Your thumb circles his. “That is if you’d like to oblige my request.”

“Of course.” His fingers curl into yours. He smiles as he speaks, his tone soft and sweet. “I’d like to go to the planetarium with you, especially since you have such a desire to go.” There is a twinkle in his eyes.

“Perhaps afterward we can go to a cafe and sit in the park?”

“That sounds like an excellent plan.” He casts you an unfamiliar glance before your lips meet. You start to back away as he lets go of you, and you pick up your glass of water. You take a few sips before setting it back down on the table.

The absence of sound doesn't please you, as the music from the gramophone has ceased and Chrollo seems lost in thought. However, you're not bothered enough to not enjoy the silence. You are envisioning a future of peace, where your captor never finds you again. 

Donned in velvet attire and sipping on tea, you frequent the sandy shores, observing the ebb and flow of the ocean. Undisturbed, you create music with your violin for an audience of one; yourself. A life of uttermost pleasure.

“I shall prepare for tomorrow, then.”

Chrollo nods with a satisfied hum.

“Very well.”

You slink off into the bedroom, grab your purse, and pack the money you had stolen from Chrollo’s jackets and pants. It is not much, but it should be enough to cover travel fees. You also pack more comfortable clothes and shoes to run in. They are clothes you have never worn, so they are the clothes most likely to not be recognized by him.  You lay out a fancier outfit over your purse to hide it. 

Now all there is to do now is wait.

*~*~*~*

“Get in.” 

Your mouth is gagged with a tied scarf and your hands are restrained with handcuffs. There is no warmth in the monster of a man’s tone. There is only an open car door and a forceful push. Later, a slamming sound. 

You are covered in blood, your supervisor’s blood–he tried to use you as a shield against the intruders but was met with a bullet to the head–so much blood. Your dress shirt is as red as a traffic light or a ladybug, though you would prefer the traffic light because you signal to those still dying not to scream anymore, that there was no point in trying to delay the inevitable. There are small pieces of his flesh inside your mouth, you are certain of it considering that you can taste something metallic and flabby. Multiple small, flabby things. Your colleagues’ screams still ring in your ears; they hurt so much.

You can still hear the crunching of their smashed skulls and bones, the alarms, the emergency protocol announcement, the gunshots, the loud severing and ripping of muscle and fat, and–

“Greetings.” A voice, calm and placid. A man sitting beside you, visibly comfortable with one of his legs over the other. He moves his left arm and clicks your seatbelt into place, then does the same with his own. 

A blaring statement outside the car. “Two billion Jenny and she’ll be set free,” one of the thieves said, probably the one that pushed you into the car, “if we aren’t paid by next week she dies.”

“Do not worry.” The man beside you speaks in a lulling tone. “It is simply a ploy. We won’t kill you, I will make sure of it.”

You look down at your legs and shoes, considering what to do or say if the gag is ever taken off. 

A firm grip on your shoulder and a say of your name makes you look at him again. His eyes are filled with nothing but obsession and make your heart stop beating for a split second. “If I take this gag off of you, do you promise not to scream?” 

You nod, because what choice do you have other than being compliant? 

There is a pleased hum and a praise you cannot exactly remember, then the scarf is off and on the floor of the car. 

“I should introduce myself, shouldn’t I?” A warm chuckle. “My name is Chrollo, and… for now, just let me say that we are going to get to know each other quite a bit.”

*~*~*~*

“Stars are such wonders, aren’t they, dearest?”

You give an impressed hum as you look around and sit in your seat beside Chrollo. The room soon goes dark as the public speaker starts talking.

There is a single spotlight on her that is a bright white which contrasts with the pitch-black room. She bows as some of the audience claps, you included. You don’t think Chrollo clapped, though.

“It's been estimated by astronomers that there could be as many as one septillion stars in the universe.” 

“Yet there is only one of you,” Chrollo whispers in your ear.

The announcer speaks with a proud yet modest tone, not being too outward yet not being too quiet to not draw any attention to herself. “The Milky Way galaxy is home to over 100 billion stars, with the Sun being the most well-known.”

You are not the moon above, you aren’t even a star. You are simply a piece of an asteroid, soon to fade to dust in the cold, cruel darkness of space.

You look at him and smile. He smiles back at you.

“The creation of this universe brings me joy, for it has led me to cross paths with you.” The spherical walls light up and turn a dark blue and fill with holographic stars and meteors. “I’m glad.”

“These fiery balls are composed primarily of hydrogen, with traces of helium and other elements.” The speaker continues. “Each star has a unique lifespan, which can vary from millions to trillions of years, and their characteristics shift as they age.”

“The Sun is needed to sustain life in this galaxy, just like how I need you and you need me.”

You hum again and grab his hand gently. “You do not need to hang a legion of stars around yourself to show you are not Neptune, for I already know you are my Sun.”

“Should the sun disappear, the Earth would be devoid of light, warmth, and life.” It is like Chrollo had a vision of the future. “Initially, the planets would follow their orbits for a short while before eventually exiting the solar system. Although the sun's rays would continue to reach us for a brief eight-and-a-half minutes after its disappearance, the world would be plunged into darkness.”

“Within a week, temperatures would plummet to zero degrees Celsius, causing the demise of most flora and fauna.” Chrollo resumes. “As time passes, the atmosphere would also gradually disappear. The Sun is very important if you cannot tell.”

“I concur, beloved.”

“It’s a miracle the Sun’s warmth exists in the first place, or that this planet’s orbit was placed in the perfect environment.” Chrollo sighs peacefully, but you aren’t sure if he is in awe at the planetarium or you. “We wouldn’t have existed if this planet was made in a different area of the universe.”

“It is quite beautiful, isn’t it? Thanks to the Sun, now we have a bright future ahead of us all.”

His hand clasps onto yours. “I make a vow to you that our bond will never break, and we will remain inseparable for eternity.” His mouth is so close you feel like he is about to kiss your ear. “Do not worry about the details, for I shall take care of everything.”

*~*~*~*

There is one mirror. There are two hanging jackets. There are three lights above you. There are four paintings on the wall facing the entrance. Five vases contain your favorite flowers, two on the floor and three on the table. There are six rows of stone bricks, then carpet at the start of the stairs. Seven glass panes make up the decoration above the entryway. There are eight engravings on the locked wooden door, each of a flower or deer. Nine smells are coming from upstairs; garlic, cheese, tomato, onion, poultry, olive oil, butter, pasta, and basil. Let me out. 

It’s dark outside, but the chandelier above provides enough light for you to see that the door is still locked. As much as you want to mask your real feelings from your captor, you have to acknowledge the fact that you cannot breathe. There is a call from upstairs. You put your book down on the sole chair. There are ten steps leading to the second floor. 

There is one staircase leading to the third floor. There are two rooms: the living room and the kitchen. Three footsteps are approaching you. Four words leave Chrollo’s mouth, but you cannot remember them.

You cannot cry. You cannot do anything but smile and hug back. His embrace feels like it is burning your skin. He says something about your beauty. He grabs your hand gently. There are ten steps you take as he guides you to the stove.

There is one pot full of food. There are two plates. Three instruments are playing on the gramophone; violin, piano, and cello. There are four chairs near the kitchen table. There are five books, with one of them being an open cookbook. There are six candles on the table with the lights turned off. There are seven wrapped gifts on the table. There are eight seconds of Chrollo hugging you.

You unwrap the gifts. Matching necklaces with engraved names on them. A gold ring with rubies. A decorated photo of you taken from a Polaroid. A large box of your favorite chocolate. A butterfly pin. A velvet coat with a spider embroidered on the back. Chrollo’s smile almost makes you shudder.

There is one chair you sit in. There are two utensils before you; a fork and a knife. There are thoughts in your mind for three seconds; fantasizing about you stabbing him. There are four seconds of temptation before you ignore it. There are five seconds of silence before you say you love Chrollo. Gifts are celebrating six months of you being held captive. There are seven roses in the vase in the middle of the candles. There are eight bites you take of your food, and then force yourself to eat the rest through your nauseousness. 

Let me out.

*~*~*~*

The nutty smell of coffee brings you a feeling of slight warmth and relaxation. The chalkboard above the barista reads Carte Du Jour with white words, listing off the assortment of pastries, coffees, teas, and fruit-flavored drinks. Chrollo is ordering for you two, spending what feels like an unnecessary amount of Jenny on pumpkin muffins, chocolate croissants, and two espressos. The barista audibly gasped when he gave her a tip that can best be described as more than what she would make in a week. 

The two of you soon make your way to this city’s largest park and sit on a bench away from most people. There is a musician loudly playing clarinet nearby, but he is not close enough for you two to see him, and he is too invested in playing his instrument to notice anyone. The sun is well above the pond, making the ducks swimming in it almost glow. Chrollo is still holding the paper bag full of the pastries and his espresso, but you are holding yours in your hand.

He is still, visibly calm, and enjoying the sight.

You feel an invisible pressure on your neck. It’s just a knot in my throat, you think to yourself, closing your eyes. The sight of his stillness gifts you a veil of comfort so thin that if anyone were to touch it it would tear. I’m not going to die. But you can’t breathe.

Your heart tells you otherwise. You can feel, no, hear blood pulse to the very tips of your fingers. Your feet tell you otherwise. They are cold. They hurt. They are adhered to the ground. Your arms and legs tell you otherwise. There is nothing but pins and needles all over. This is your chance, the little voice in your head says with blind reassurance. Who knows when you will ever get this chance again? Do it now, and be quick about it. But you can’t breathe. You can’t breathe, and you have to try your hardest to stop the hand holding your espresso from shaking and falling on you. 

“Thank you for taking me here,” You smile the best you can, as usual. You try to not focus on your memories of Chrollo’s observation skills. “You made my day. This is one of the best experiences I have had in a while.”

There is sweat going down your forehead. Chrollo nods his head and smiles. You’re afraid, and you never are afraid. His head leans forward until your noses are barely touching. 

He is so close you can smell the mint in his mouth. 

“Of course, my dear. It is an honor to have you in my life, after all.”

“I… would say the same.”

He lifts his head slightly. “Spending time with you is always a pleasure. I would commit the gravest sins if it meant having moments like this forever.” You know that he is being literal. That is the reason you nearly shudder.

He is leaning in closer. You want to run. You have to run.

He backs away after kissing you, and that is when you strike.

You throw your espresso on him, its lid on the bench. You don’t focus on his reaction, because you are running as fast as you can with your purse.

You toss your heels to the side of an unknown road when your feet start to bleed. 

You change clothes in a rat-infested public restroom. You throw everything aside from your stolen money into a nearby lake in fear of a tracking device being on something. You cover the wounds on your feet with toilet paper and then put on sneakers. 

You put your hair up in a bun and cover it with a hood.

You wash your makeup off using lake water.

You soon get on a bus. Then another.

You then eventually take a train. For nearly three days you stay, hardly eating out of fear of vomiting due to nervousness. You walk the rest on foot until you have reached somewhere far, far away from that city. 

You steal money from those around you when needed. You threaten those around you when needed, threatening them to stay silent or their fate will end at your hands. You make use of a few kind-hearted people who let you into their homes when they see you, dirty and injured on the side of the road. They clean up your wounds, give you warm food, and you repay them with a simple, untrusting, and cold goodbye and leave without a trace. 

You move from place to place every few hours.

Then you move from place to place every few days.

Eventually, you move from place to place every few months. You ultimately settle into a town by the seashore, under a fake alias. You move into a cabin by the beach with no warmth other than a few candles and no entertainment other than books or writing. You eat the cheapest food the local saloon sells that day. 

The day you escaped was 1996, May 9th.

It is now 1997, August 3rd.

*~*~*~*

The speakers blare a sound akin to ambulance sirens. A man’s voice soon after, panicky and horrified. 

He spoke of evacuating as soon as possible through the emergency exits. An infamous terrorist group is in the building, he said. Then the sound of a gunshot, cries for mercy, then another voice. 

“Run, rabbits.” Whoever was speaking had confidence and arrogance. 

Your supervisor stands up from his desk and his guards pull out their guns. You look around for a way out. Screams from outside the office. Flesh being ripped apart. The evacuation door was locked, as much as you and the guards pushed and pulled. 

The main door was kicked open by a man taller than any you have seen, ripped apart by its hinges, and fell on the floor. The guards shot at him, but they reflected off of him like he was made of iron. He was fast, fast enough to smash their brains in with his mere fists. He laughed loudly, amused. Your supervisor grabbed you by your hair and put you in a chokehold. 

A gun was put to your head.

He threatened to shoot you. The threat was met with a gunshot behind his head, his body falling on top of you as he cried out for mercy, and his blood covering you from head to toe as someone dressed in black slashed his body again and again. 

You put your hands up and close your eyes, expecting the same fate as you hear his corpse falling off of you with a loud thud.

…

Instead, your wrists were grabbed and put in handcuffs. A hand on your shoulder and a pat.

“We can’t have damaged goods. You have been chosen to live… at least for now. Congrats.”

A push that blurred between light and strong. A walk out the office doors and to the elevator. A thumb pressing the down button. The elevator doors opened with an automated voice saying going down. Another button is being pressed, the doors closing, and jazz is playing.

One of them, the swordsman, asked how people working (or worked, really) could wait for an elevator every day to go to the top floor, saying how boring that would be if it was him. You cannot tell if he was joking with you or was genuinely curious. The elevator slowly goes down, the light at the top of the button selection decreasing from seventy to one. The doors open. Another push.

A walk out to the lobby.

“Oh, do you guys think that the pocket change from that dude will be enough to buy some snacks from the vending machines? I’m pretty hungry right now. Do you guys think so?”

A woman with magenta hair rolls her eyes and scoffs. “You are such a child, Uvo. You want to get snacks, now?”

Another scoff in response. “Hunger is part of the everyday human experience. Don’t think you are so above it, Machi.”

“Fine.” The swordsman speaks, clearly annoyed. He looks at you with a neutral expression. “Take her to the car and Feitan and I will get you snacks, my treat.”

The man wearing all black rolls his eyes.

“I never agreed to that.” He shakes his half-masked head. “I am also not hungry. We can also get food elsewhere. Vending machine food is expensive. Waste of money.”

Machi rolls her eyes in turn.

“Everyone is dead already.”

You are closing your eyes and imagining being somewhere else, anywhere else than here. A cafe. A ballet. Anywhere but here.

“I’m hungry.”

The swordsman punches him in the arm.

“Ow, Nobu!”

…

A man crawls on his arms towards you all, his legs ripped off. He cries out and curses as he coughs up blood. Curses for their family. Curses for eternal damnation. They are quickly snuffed out by Uvo’s punch and brain matter splatters all over the lobby floor.

Then silence.

The man called Nobu sighs, visibly exhausted. He looks at Uvo like he is two years old. He asks Uvo what snacks he wants. He responds with something meaty or cheesy, like jerky or something. An alright leaves Nobu’s thin lips and he asks you where the vending machines are.

You feel like you are about to soil yourself. Why the hell are they acting so normal after killing an entire building full of people? But with a shaky voice, you tell him that it should be on the 61st floor because that is where all the workers go to eat lunch. 

A damn it leaves his mouth then, and another roll of his eyes. But he thanks you, and he and Feitan go back to the elevators. 

Uvo and Machi stare at you. 

“Listen,” Machi finally talks to you. She tries to smile, but it doesn’t bring you any comfort. If anything, you feel like you are about to cry more at the sight. She puts her hand on your shoulder. “We don’t want to hurt you. Far from it, if that helps.”

It doesn’t. You just look down at your feet. 

A sigh. Another push.

“You could have tried to be more gentle, Uvo. Now she’s scared of all of us. What’s the boss gonna think?”

You stare at them. They glare at each other.

“Machi, she’s supposed to be our hostage, at least to the public eye.” He looks at the receptionist's desk, where the receptionist’s corpse lays, her neck bent to an acute angle. You look around for any possible escape route. You see one. The main entrance. 

You run fast. Until you are outside. Uvo’s arm wraps around your waist and pulls you back.

“Listen. We do not want to hurt you. But we have to at least seem like we are rough handling you.” His hands go on your shoulders and make you walk towards a foreign black car. “Sorry. But it’s for the best. I  promise.”

“Just put this on.” She wraps a scarf around your mouth, gagging you. 

“Hey, you’ll have a good life from now on. Trust us with that, at least. You’ll be happier now.”

Uvo pushes you, hard, when he sees police cars approaching. He opens the car door. A malicious smile appears on his face, like a mask he has just put on.

“Get in.”

You hope that whatever is in store for you isn’t as bad as what your colleagues suffered.

*~*~*~*

There is a man around your age who goes out around the same time as you to smoke by the beach.

He has dark hair with a slight purple tint, making you assume that it is dyed. It looks long and it is swept to the side, except for a quarter of it which is shaved. He has near-black eyes, but they don’t look as intimidating as Chrollo’s. If anything, they look slightly sorrowful. 

You go on the fishing dock as usual with a box of cigarettes and a lighter in your sweater pocket. The man is there, searching his own pockets and visibly frustrated.

“Do you want one of mine?”

He looks up at you. His eyes wander from your face downward towards your extended hand which holds an unlit cigarette. He doesn’t answer and just stares at it.

“I noticed you are looking in your pockets for one.” You smile, but as you usually do with fake kindness, not caring enough about him to get too close.

“I…” His eyes squint, slightly suspicious. Perhaps it takes a moment or two for him to realize you are talking to him. “Yes, thanks.”

“Hmm. You’re welcome.” You hand him the cigarette and you take another one out for you. You put it in your mouth as you pull out your lighter from your sweatpant pocket. “So, what is your name?”

He doesn’t answer, because he is looking in his hoodie pocket again.

“Damn it.”

You extend your lighter out to him. “Do you need a lighter?” He takes it. “You sure are forgetful tonight, huh?”

He presses the ignition button and orange flames arise. The end of his cigarette turns a yam orange. He hands your lighter back to you.

You do the same with yours. You then put the lighter back in your sweatpants pocket.

You inhale the puff of smoke that enters your mouth, an ash gray. You take the cigarette out of your mouth with two fingers and exhale. You then look back at the man, who just did the same thing.

“Thanks for the help.”

You smile.

“Of course.”

“I don’t think I have seen you before so you must be the one that just moved in, right?”

You nod. “Yes.”

“Cool. Out of all the places you could have gone, you chose this town.” He raises an eyebrow, visibly curious. “May I ask why?”

You fix your eyes on him, taking a few moments to process the unexpected nature of his question. He inhales his cigarette again and breathes out the smoke. 

“This town seems quaint.” You finally answer. “The locals are nice, the expenses aren’t that much, and the scenery is alluring.”

You use your cigarette again and use your other sweatpants pocket to fish out your portable cassette player along with your headphones. You then realize that you had forgotten your music tape at your house. You sigh and then put it back into your pocket. Footsteps get your attention and you see the stranger approaching the shoreline. He bends down and picks up a small rock. He throws it to the sea and it bounces; one, two, three, four.

It then sinks beneath the waves, and the man mutters something under his breath. “Should have been more.”

You take a few steps towards him.

“What is your name?”

“Sebaste.” His tone isn’t warm, but it’s not cold either.

You stare at each other for a few moments in awkward silence. Your tone is just as strange as his as you say, “My name is [First]. A pleasure to meet you.” You place your lit cigarette on the pier and stomp on it until it goes out. “Have you lived here your whole life?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Do you live with a family member?” You’re not sure where this question came from, but you are for sure more interested in him than you realize. He turns his back to you.

“Yeah.”

You look out into the deep and dark sea.

“I don’t have any family here.”

“Mmhmm.”

His voice is slightly dismissive, but you don’t think he means to be.

“It must be nice, having people you can rely on.”

He looks at you again, but you cannot tell what he feels.

You don’t look at each other after that. You look down at the items that line the beach instead. Even though they are indeed damaged, they feel more like treasures than whatever expensive gifts Chrollo gave you.

There are mostly large shells that are still vibrant despite it being nighttime as well as being covered in sand. They look like fragments of a broken rainbow when the moon’s light reflects in just the right areas. You have contemplated bringing one home and stringing it into a necklace. 

Sebaste takes his cigarette out of his mouth and points out to the ocean. There is no sound aside from the waves and occasional seagull calls. His two fingers trace the stars beyond the horizon. 

He says there is a constellation called the Hydra. According to Sebaste, during summer, the season of rebirth and peace, the Hydra constellation appears as a reminder of assured death to those below it, whatever arrogance mortals may have had disappearing in an instant. Their fates loom over them like the blade of a guillotine, knowing their hearts shall stop working eventually, the color of crimson fading like flowers in autumn. Memento mori, you suppose.

“You sure know a lot about nature.” You say.

“It’s interesting, but it’s not what I mainly like learning about.” He throws another stone into the sea. One, two, three, four, five. He throws his cigarette out into the ocean and watches the flame die out. “I’m mostly just coding on my desktop. That,” He lightly chuckles. “And playing games. Video games and board games, as well as comics. They are fun.”

You don’t know anything about those either, even more so than nature. “That’s nice. I… don’t know anything about those. They seem cool, though.”

He chuckles at that. You do too.

He turns to you and takes a few steps forward.

He says that that seemed sort of obvious considering how upright your posture is, and how polite you speak. He offers to play games with you sometime and lend you comics. He walks you to your house and says a warm goodbye.

Although the certainness of seeing each other again is unknown, this fleeting encounter holds a remarkable significance, because you don’t feel as alone as you usually do.

You don’t feel alone. It is a strange feeling.

*~*~*~*

You wanted to watch Sleeping Beauty.

“Beautiful.”

Chrollo wanted to watch The Nutcracker.

“Just beautiful.”

The dancers’ feet move with grace and precision as the orchestra plays. Green, yellow, and pink dancers. You let Chrollo have his way with which performance tickets to buy because you didn’t want to fight and lose all of your progress.

“Don’t you think so, dearest?”

You look from your compact mirror to him, your lipstick still in hand.

“Yes.”

Chrollo seems to be smiling, but you cannot tell because of how dark the theater is. It’s a miracle you can see your lips in your compact mirror.

“I spot something even more beautiful, however.”

You almost want to shudder as his hand reaches the one carrying your mirror. He closes the reflector gently. You are thankful for how dark the theater is now because it hides whatever lovesick expression he is wearing. He is the one paying attention to the ballet, while you daydream of being anywhere else.

There is a light chuckle. A light squeeze. A light whisper of a compliment you pretend to listen to. 

“So beautiful.”

…

“Thank you for taking me.”

It’s Christmas Eve. A fur coat covers you and keeps you warm. It is snowing, and the sight makes you slightly less nervous. 

You and Chrollo are walking out of the theater. Hand in hand. As much as you want to break away. Your captor soon opens the car door, and you sit down.

He goes to the driver’s side and sits down too.

The car soon drives away onto the salted road. 

“I had fun.” You try your best to smile. “I did.” You look out the window to the snow-covered, dead trees, as well as the reflection of your red dress and white coat.

Chrollo grins as he turns the steering wheel left. After a few moments, the car stops. “Wait here for a moment. I will be back in a few minutes.”

With that, he steps out of the car and leaves the key with you to make sure the alarm does not go off. 

He makes sure you lock the doors before walking away.

You don’t dare go sit on the driver’s side. You don’t dare touch the steering wheel or press on the gas.

You just sit with your thoughts until he eventually returns, and you unlock the car.

“I have something for you,” His voice is almost cooing, but is laced with honey. There is a large box in his hands.

He extends his arms out and you take it. He sits back down and closes the car door. 

“Open it,” He croons. You pull on the tied ribbon until the knot is undone. You take off the box’s lid. Macarons. Colorful macarons, all spread apart within the box just enough for people to see their fillings. Green, yellow, pink. But there are also a few white ones in the center with red filling. 

You thank him and he tells you the flavors. The green ones are pistachio, symbolizing good fortune in the years ahead. The yellow ones are champagne, symbolizing joy and celebration. The pink ones are flavored strawberry, symbolizing life. 

There is a nefarious twinkle in his eyes as he points to the white ones. The cookies are vanilla with a cherry filling. 

They symbolize renewal and love.

He says that the macarons illustrate your relationship well.

You agree, because what else is there to say?

*~*~*~*

Sebaste invited you to a summer night on the shoreline. He said there was something special going on tonight. 

Most of the townspeople are by the fisherman’s shop, overlooking the pier. They bring lanterns and are huddled together in their sweaters. Knowing Sebaste, he has probably gone somewhere more remote on the beach.

You are right. He is sitting on a picnic blanket with a few takeout boxes of food. He welcomes you with a grin as you sit down with him. There is sashimi, cheese-covered cauliflower, and fried calamari.

There is something behind him. But you don’t ask about it.

Sebaste is a rebellious loner, from what you have come to know from both the townspeople and himself.

He hardly has anyone over because of how judgmental his stepfather can be. He often fights with his stepfather and half-sister, and as a result, was forced to live in the basement as per his mother’s wishes to not cause any more problems. He loves his mother, he does, you can tell. She seems to love him too.

His room is often full of takeout boxes and used cigarettes, as well as video and board games and his desktop. The couch in his room always has comics and food stains on it. But you sit on it anyway to wait for him to finish his work before talking to you about whatever interest he currently is fixated on.

You sit on the picnic blanket and face the shoreline, your dirndl moving slightly with the wind. Your boots are covered in sand, but they are the only ones you have that will keep you warm while keeping the sand out of the inside of them. It’s just you, Sebaste, and the ocean.

Sebaste isn’t smoking for once, and neither are you.

You both agreed to focus on the ocean instead.

Sebaste gets a bit closer by scooting over. He is smiling gently, a smile you know hardly anyone else has seen. He takes a rock and throws it into the water, making it skip. One, two, three, four, five, six. He cheers quietly at his accomplishment, and you do too.

He looks at you.

He looks at your left hand that rests beside his right one. He moves just a hair closer. He clears his throat when you make eye contact. His pale cheeks are a slight pink.

“I…” he starts as his face turns away from you. His voice is a bit jittery. “I think I like you. Romantically.”

Does he mean it? His body language is slightly tense and his shoulders are uptight. His left hand comes out from hiding behind his back as he shows you a bouquet. There are blue thistles, purple sweet peas, and orange poppies.

He waits for a response as he turns to you again, visibly nervous.

*~*~*~*

You continue to try to pull away, but your efforts are unsuccessful.

Chrollo seems somewhat amused at your struggles, though he still doesn't force you to stop moving against his grasp.

"You're acting in a very ungrateful manner, my dear. I've given you this beautiful home and life that you couldn't even dream of on your own. You should be happy and thankful for what you've been given, not trying to escape from it. This is what love is. You are too young and immature to understand that, it seems."

"Love? Do you call this love? You're insane! Let me go!" Your eyes fill with tears as you try to pull away, and your voice breaks as you speak. "You're insane! You're insane and sick and disgusting! You're... you're..."

Chrollo still doesn't force you to stop trying to escape, and he doesn't raise his voice or grow angrier at your words. He just waits patiently.

"Monster... Disgusting... Sick freak... Monster..." Your voice is shaky as you continue to speak, and your eyes are filled with tears. "How can you justify this? What was wrong with my life before you? Why did you have to destroy everything? Why do you enjoy hurting me?" You yell and cry out, still trying to pull away, even though you don't seem to be hurting him.

Chrollo, once again, doesn't seem to be bothered by your words. As the alarm goes off, signaling your time out of restraints, he turns it off and drags you to the bedroom once again. Something tells you that you won’t be sleeping much tonight, less so than usual.

*~*~*~*

“Ah. I… like you too.”

“Really?”

You give him a genuine smile as you nod. “Yes.”

He smiles at that as his posture becomes more relaxed. You take the bouquet from him and set it beside your small backpack. Sebaste seems unsure for a second, most likely thinking that you have misunderstood his question. He thinks for a second or two as his face becomes laced with slight worry. You smile again as you take his hand gently. His face becomes bright red and you chuckle at the sight. He does too, but quieter.

His fingers then intertwine with yours.

He doesn’t smell of cigarettes like he normally does. You assume he put on cologne. Refreshing, sweet, and crisp. Pine cologne, with a hint of citrus. 

He bashfully giggles a bit more. He puts his free hand on the back of his neck.

“Does… this mean we are… dating now? Or is this just a fling or…”

Your grip on his hand tightens slightly. You both seem giddy. This is the first time either of you has felt this way. You seem to have sparked something in each other.

“If you want to, we can start dating.”

“Oh? You… actually like me?”

He seems confused or doubtful as to why you feel the way you do for him.

“Yes, I do. I like you. Would you like me to enumerate the reasons why?”

He looks unsure of it all like you will stab him in his back at any moment.

“You’re kind to those who are kind back. You’re willing to do anything for those you trust. When you trust, you trust wholeheartedly. You have interesting hobbies.”

Sebaste chuckles again. “So, beating you within six turns of Go Fish and collecting frogs covered in mud is interesting to you, huh?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone as unique as you. I mean that most positively and genuinely. Well, what do you like about me then? I’m curious.”

“Everything about you. The way you walk and talk, your hobbies, the way you present yourself. Everything about you is just so alluring and admirable. You are everything I am not.”

“I suppose we always love what we cannot have ourselves. Opposites attract, after all.”

He nods. 

The ocean starts to glow a bright blue. You look at it confused, with one of your eyebrows raised.

Sebaste giggles once more at your lack of knowledge of what is happening. “Every year, right before summer ends, jellyfish rise to the surface of the shore and glimmer.”

You’re too awed at the sight to put it into words. “Thank you for inviting me, I didn’t know about it. It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah. Beautiful.” He looks at you instead of the ocean.

*~*~*~*

You take a deep breath. You’ve come to pay what’s owed.

You knock on the door and wait for a response. After a moment, you hear footsteps approaching the door.

It opens and James is standing there. When he recognizes you, his face turns into one of triumph.

“Hmm, so you have come. Just like you promised,” he says to you in a voice a mix of arrogance and gratefulness.

“Yes. The… night you wanted.”

James’ expression changes to a wide grin. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down,” He says to you with a chuckle, stepping aside to let you into his apartment. “Come in, come in.”

He steps aside and motions for you to enter, closing the door behind you. It is for the greater good, you tell yourself. To get information out of James, you need to make him believe that you are interested in him.

James is very happy that you kept your word. He’s smiling widely.

“Come in, I told you that I would host a special evening for you,” He says to you, sounding sincere and eager to please. He takes your hand and leads you inside the apartment. “I have a surprise for you,” He says to you, leading you deeper into the apartment.

You have to play the part of the seductress to the best of your ability.

“What is it?”

The usual city apartment, it looks like. Messy and full of mildew from the floor to the ceiling. By the only non-musty window there is a plastic up on the ground with drops of water coming down into it from the ceiling. Drip, drip, drip. You can only hear the drips of water and you and James’ footsteps. You cannot feel your true emotions, because you have a job to do.

James brings you to the only lit room in the apartment; the dining area. The circular table seems to be made of poplar and has a dark stain in the center of it. There is a vase of dark red roses on the top, clearly just bought. The chair you sit in is squeaky and is also made of poplar. James is staring at you. You can only hear the dripping of water, the squeakiness of the chair, the broken air conditioner, and James’ chuckles. Drip, drip, drip. James is still smiling, and staring like you are a piece of meat. You suppose you are, at least to him and at least at the moment. You smell cigarette smoke and spoiled food. You lean down to smell the roses, but you cannot smell them because the foul stink of the rest of the apartment is so much stronger. You pretend to anyway, a pleased hum leaving your painted lips. His eyes are wide and unblinking. Another chuckle, and another drip, drip, drip. His smile widens even more as he looks at you.

“Close your eyes,” He says to you in a soft, commanding tone. “I have a surprise for you,” He adds. “I want it to be a surprise. Keep your eyes closed.” He pauses for a moment, waiting for you to close your eyes.

You cover your eyes with your hands. 

“That’s good, that’s good,” James’ smug voice says. “Just wait one minute.”

You hear his footsteps on the creaky floorboards quieting, making you assume he has gone elsewhere. You hear a cupboard opening and closing along with glasses clinking. 

“Now, remove your hands from your eyes,” James says.

You do as you’re told and remove your hands from your eyes. James smiles at you, revealing the surprise that he had promised. On the table in front of you are two wine glasses and a bottle of expensive red wine. Cabernet. "This is my special surprise for you," He says to you, still sounding sincere and excited. James pours both of you a glass of wine and places one of them in front of you. He then raises his glass and holds it up in your direction. He smiles at you charmingly and says, "To you, [First]. And to your beauty."

You smile at James and cheer with him, raising your glass and taking a sip of the expensive red wine that he's poured for you.

James smiles at you, still looking charming and sincere. "Tell me," He says to you, "What do you think of the wine?" He takes a sip himself, smiling as he savors the taste. "I always buy the best when I entertain a guest as lovely as yourself," He says to you with a wink.

“It’s good. But… I feel like it won’t compare to you.” You wink back at him.

James smiles and takes another sip of the expensive red wine that he's poured for you. He seems to like your subtle flirtation, as if it's having the desired effect. "Oh, don't worry," He says to you with a charming smile. "I've been looking forward to this night all night. You're just as wonderful and beautiful as I remember," He adds. "I can hardly wait to spend some time alone with you."

James takes another sip of the wine and continues to stare at you, still smiling.

“Am I as beautiful as you say?” You blink your long lashes at James, your eyes gazing into his with a gentle but seductive expression. Your hair is loose, gently framing your face, and you look ravishing.

"Of course," James says to you with a smile as he gazes back at you. He reaches out a hand and gently strokes a streak of your hair, letting it fall back into place after it has been gently moved by the gesture. "You're the most lovely woman I've ever seen," He says to you confidently.

“What do you like about me?”

"Every inch of you," James replies, still stroking your hair with a smile on his face. "From your eyes to your long lashes, your hair, your skin..." James pauses, looking into your eyes for a moment. "To your soft lips, your small, delicate hands," He adds, still stroking your hair lightly. He looks at you with a charming and passionate gaze, as if he can't get enough of your beauty.

“...Would you like me to kiss you? It would be our first.”

James looks delighted by your proposition and nods slowly, in response. He finishes stroking your hair with one last, gentle touch and gazes at you once more. "Of course," He murmurs, his voice softer and more passionate than before. He pauses for a moment before taking the initiative and leaning forward to kiss you slowly and softly. His lips press gently against yours, and he holds you close as he pulls you into a gentle, intimate kiss.

Drip, drip, drip.

It’s for the greater good, right?

You kiss back and return James' affection, feeling the heat of passion slowly build as the two of you kiss. You hold him close and slowly pull him towards you. The kiss is soft and tender, and although it is a rather chaste kiss, it leaves you breathless and feeling dizzy. After a few moments, you both come up for air to breathe, and James looks at you with a warm and sincere smile. 

"You're a wonderful kisser," He says to you softly. "I've always imagined it would be like this..."

At any cost, the greater good must come first.

“Should we take this to the bedroom?”

"Yes," James replies with a nod. "Let's go to the bedroom," He adds. "I can't wait to be alone with you." He takes your hand in his and leads you out of the dining area and into a small bedroom. You enter the bedroom and see a large, comfortable bed in the center of the room, with the moon shining through the window. James closes the door behind you and leads you closer to the bed.

You sit on the bed and open your arms. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

James smiles at you and steps towards you slowly. He takes off his jacket and throws it on a chair next to the door. He then comes closer to you and smiles, leaning forward to kiss you passionately. His arms are wrapped around you, and his body is pressed against yours. He begins to kiss you deeply and passionately, his lips lingering on yours for long moments.

James continues to kiss you, and as he does so, his hands begin to explore your body. He lets his fingers run down your arms, leaving soft, tender trails of affection on your skin. As his lips move to your neck, he begins to bite it softly. He starts to explore and taste every inch of your skin, leaving small marks of affection. You feel a jolt of passion and desire course through your body as you feel James' lips pressed against your neck and his teeth lightly biting you. As he continues to kiss and nibble your neck, he begins to breathe more heavily.

You pretend to groan and moan as James continues to kiss and nibble your neck. You lean your head back and close your eyes, trying to appear lost in pleasure. You feel his lips move down your neck, leaving little, soft bruises of passion. You let out another soft moan as he continued to kiss your neck, nibbling your skin and letting his teeth leave marks of affection.

"Do you like that?" He whispers to you, his voice deep and passionate. "More?" He asks, sounding breathless and eager.

Drip, drip, drip.

“More.”

James chuckles softly before moving his lips back down towards your neck once again. He bites your neck and kisses it again, this time leaving more marks of affection. You pretend to moan in pleasure once again, feeling James' breath against your neck.

"How does that feel, dear?" His voice is low and seductive. "More?" He asks gently, biting your neck once again.

“I want you to touch me all over.”

James pauses for a moment, his green eyes looking at you with a charming and seductive expression. He smiles at you, and you notice his eyes are filled with desire. "I want to touch you also," He says to you softly. His hand gently touches your cheek and strokes your hair. "Please, let me explore you," He whispers seductively. He moves towards you and gently pulls you towards him, kissing you softly before moving his hands towards your body.

As you feel James' hands start to take off your clothes, you begin to feel some of the passion and desire that James had shown before fade away. But as James continues to take off your clothes, you start to feel the heat of passion and excitement come back.

James seems intent on savoring and enjoying every moment of this moment with you, every moment of intimacy and passion. He slowly undresses you, taking off each piece of your clothing, as if you were the most precious and beautiful thing in the world. His touch is gentle, and his eyes are filled with desire.

Drip, drip, drip.

“Touch me, touch me everywhere, for your lips worship me.”

James pauses as he hears you speaking. He gazes at you for a moment, his face filled with a mix of passion and desire, as your words have left a deep impression on him.

"Oh, my love," He says to you softly. "My lips worship you," He adds, leaning forward to kiss you again.

His hands begin to run over your body, caressing you in all the right places. His fingers trace soft arcs over your skin, leaving trails of affection and passion wherever they go.

…

You find yourself standing in the middle of a large and eerie graveyard. The sky above you is dark and cloudy, with little sunlight filtering through the clouds. You take out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, lighting up a cigarette and taking a few puffs. As you lean against a gravestone, you see a figure standing in the corner of the graveyard, just watching you. You can't quite make out who it is, the figure looks like a shadowy silhouette, but you can see the orange glow of a cigarette in their hand as well.

It’s James.

As you take another puff from your cigarette, you see James stepping closer to you, his figure now becoming slightly more visible in the dim light. 

"Hello, [First]," He says quietly, the tone of his voice hinting at a slight twinge of concern for you. He takes a drag from his cigarette, his expression still difficult to make out in the shadowy light. "How are you feeling?" He asks, looking at you with a sense of curiosity in his voice.

“I see you kept your word.”

"Of course," James says, taking a soft puff from his cigarette. "I promised you, didn't I? I'm not one to go back on my word."

You notice James looking at your cigarette, seemingly a bit tempted by it.

"Can I have a puff?" He asks, looking at you with a tiny hint of a hopeful expression on his face. "I've been craving another cigarette for a while now."

James quickly steps forward, seemingly going in for a kiss, but you quickly duck out of the way and move away from him. He stops in his tracks, not wanting to make any sudden movements or startle you. However, he still looks at you with a tinge of frustration and disappointment on his face.

"You don't want to do anything with me, do you?" He asks as the light from his cigarette illuminates his expression for a moment. "Am I just not good enough for you, is that it?" He adds.

You keep your attention on your cigarette, ignoring James' frustrated expression and question as you take another puff. After a few moments of complete silence, James finally breaks the silence once again. 

"I knew you were like this," He says, his voice filled with resentment and anger. "I've always known you were like this," He adds, moving closer to you once again. "And yet, I still fell for you like an idiot." He pauses for a moment and takes a drag from his cigarette. "You're just... so damn tempting," He adds.

“...Hmm. It’s my specialty.” 

"Yeah, yeah, I know," James says, seeming slightly irritated. He takes another puff from his cigarette, the orange glow on it making his eyes seem brighter than usual in the dark. "You know, that was the reason I was attracted to you in the first place." He adds, his tone becoming a bit quieter. "Your specialty of seducing men... and women." This time, there was a subtle twinge of sadness in his voice. "You're just too damn gorgeous to resist, I guess." He adds.

“...It has its benefits. I don’t hate you, just so you know.”

It seems like James still hasn't given up in his attempts to kiss you, despite your repeated refusal earlier. He moves in towards you once again and leans in close to your face, his expression becoming a bit more excited and hopeful. That's when you see his gaze locked in on your lips, and you realize his next move before he even makes it. You quickly duck away from him, moving out of the way just in time to avoid his lips.

"I told you, stop." You say firmly, not wanting to give him another chance to kiss you. “It was a one-night stand. That’s all it was, and… it was for my matters.”

"Yeah, yeah, I know," James sighs, his tone becoming somewhat frustrated once again. He takes another drag from his cigarette, the light from it illuminating his face for a moment as he looks straight at you. "It was just a one-night stand," He echoes, seemingly to himself. "But... for some reason." He pauses for a moment and looks at you with slight confusion. "I still have feelings for you," He finally says. "Even though I know it's stupid to feel this way..." He adds quietly.

“It was just something I had to do.”

James seems to pause for a moment as your words sink in.

"What?" He asks, seeming slightly confused. "Do you mean... you had to sleep with me as part of an investigation or something?" He asks. "Or were you not attracted to me?" He adds. "You felt like you had to sleep with me, even though you didn't want to?" He stops for a moment to take a few more puffs from his cigarette, the light from it glowing orange in the dark. "Is that... what are you saying?" He asks.

You take a soft puff from your cigarette as James continues to look at you with a slightly frustrated expression on his face.

"I want the truth, [First]." He says, sounding more serious this time. "I want to know why you slept with me..." He takes a final puff from his cigarette before looking at you once again. "Was it because you were attracted to me? Or was it because you felt like you needed to sleep with me for some other reason?" He asks, his tone becoming a bit quieter again.

“...I suspected you of something.”

"A suspect, huh?" James says, sounding only slightly confused. "So this was all part of some elaborate plan to figure out who I was?" He pauses for a moment as he thinks about your words, taking another drag from his cigarette before speaking up again. "Was... Was I really that suspicious, [First]?" He asks. He seems slightly hurt by your words but still manages to hold on to his composure as he looks at you with a bit of apprehension.

“...You were. You drove me five hours to that seaside town without a second thought, even though your guard shift at that hotel had just ended. I had to know if you had other motives… aside from sleeping with me.”

"I guess that makes sense," James says quietly. "So, that's why you decided to sleep with me..." He adds, taking another drag from his cigarette before speaking once again. "Is that it?" He says, his tone sounding slightly less annoyed now. "You just wanted to gather information on me, and nothing else?" He asks. "Did you like, not enjoy your time with me in the slightest?" He adds with a tiny hint of disappointment.

You take a deep puff from your cigarette, the smoke rising upwards into the air before mixing with the gloomy clouds floating above. You can see James looking at you with a bit of disappointment on his face, but you just keep silent.

After a few moments of quiet contemplation, James finally speaks again.

"So, that's it, huh?" He says quietly, his tone becoming somewhat resigned. "You just... slept with me for information and nothing else." He takes another drag from his cigarette, the orange glow from the tip illuminating his face in the darkness.

“...That’s correct.”

"So... you don't like me?" He asks, turning to you with a hint of sadness in his eyes. "It was just... part of the job?" He adds. He takes another puff from his cigarette, his eyes moving back to looking at the clouds above. "Is there nothing else you like about me?" He asks softly, turning to you once again. "Not even a little bit?" You can see James' expression change, his heart is affected by your words. "Please don't be silent again," He adds quietly.

“…You aren’t useful to me anymore, so from this point forward you will not see me again.”

"Not useful to you, huh?" He says softly, sounding a bit hurt by your words. "So... now that you got what you needed, you're just gonna toss me out like a piece of trash?" He asks with a tinge of bitterness in his voice. "What happened to the [First] I thought I knew?" He says, sounding slightly frustrated. "Don't you feel at least a little bit bad?" He adds. "Even a tiny bit?" He takes another small puff from his cigarette before looking at you again with mild concern.

You start to lean away from him before he suddenly grabs you and pulls you towards him, the two of you now face to face. James then places his hand behind the back of your head and leans forward, trying to kiss you once again. Before you can get out of his grasp, he kisses you forcefully, pressing his lips against yours for a few moments as he tries to make you kiss back. Once James is done, he lets go of you, his expression still filled with passion and determination.

"Well?" He asks, sounding a little annoyed. "Where's your response?"

“...You know,” You throw your cigarette to the ground and step on it roughly, making a loud footfall noise as you squish it against the cobblestone. “I was going to let you go on with your life as I found no ties to the Spider.” Your hands go into your trench coat pocket. “But now you have forced my hand. Most unfortunate.”

James takes a moment to process what you had just said. “W… What?” He looks confused and panicked. “What do you mean by that?”

You display a smile, yet it lacks any semblance of kindness. 

“The Phantom Troupe? You’re… a part of the Phantom Troupe?” The man takes a few steps back in fear, a stark contrast to how he was just a few moments ago.

“No.” You say firmly. You hear James sigh in relief. 

“Thank God.”

“But,” You add, taking a few steps closer and still having that grin. “I promise you that soon, you will realize what I mean. Very soon, indeed.”

James laughs loudly and arrogantly like a crow’s caw. “You’re going to kill me?” He takes a few steps closer as well and crosses his arms, smirking. “Sweetheart, I don’t think you can even touch me.”

“Never say never.” With a smile on your face, you glance back while making your way towards the graveyard's exit. 

James angrily yells at you to come back, but you don’t listen and soon you are gone.

He better prepare himself for death while he still can.

…

You broke into James’ neighbor’s apartment.

Victor, you found out later, was his name. Not that it mattered much. He was reading a book, Crime and Punishment, on his couch and facing away from the entrance. He didn’t have any instinctual gut feelings that someone was in his home, standing above him with a blindfold, ropes, and a scarf. He had good taste in books, at least.

“Greetings,” You bend down to the slumped man, weeping with his hands and legs tied, his tears wetting the white blindfold. “I have a favor to ask of you. Then I shall let you go, alright?”

Your voice is soft, and gentle, like a mother speaking to her crying toddler. Like a Venus fly trap, your jaws will soon lower onto your unsuspecting prey. Tender fingers snake around the back of the stranger’s head and untie the gag. A shushing sound leaves your lips as a finger lays on them for a second or two. You roll on your ankles backward and stand up. You tell him that if everything goes well, he can leave. He simply nods, giving up right away.

Your hands go into your trench coat pockets for a second, worshiping the fur that lines them along with your forged ID card, portable cassette player, and flip phone. It is just to make sure they are there in your jacket and not left out as evidence of the performance about to happen. The guests of honor are James and Victor, and they will never know it.

Drip, drip, drip. Through the thin walls, you can hear the usual drops of water coming from James’ ceiling to the container he probably has there. Drip, drip, drip.

“I just need you to say a few words.”

Your demand is sturdy, not taking no for an answer. 

You open up a window and a gentle breeze flows in, making your braid sway from side to side. After a few moments of silence, Victor says that he will do anything if it means he can leave afterward. The floorboards are creaky and splintered and damaged from all of the feet, wheels, and canes that move on and off them. 

“Repeat after me.”

You look down on him like a God. He is nothing more than a dog.

James deserves this. That’s what you tell yourself. James deserves this. James deserves this for being scum and only seeing you as a possession. He deserves this. He deserves what you are about to do.

The sun is rising behind you. You bear resemblance to a masterpiece crafted with the utmost precision and the most vibrant pigments. Your arrival is akin to that of a deity. Drip, drip, drip.

You take your hands out of your pockets.

“Say the name James Ericsson. Please.”

Your stare is vivid, and even with the blindfold on you know that Victor has sensed its intensity because he says. “James Ericsson.”

You smile and your hands dance with one another in a sort of waltz.

There are cries of pain and the sound of bones bending like plastic straws coming from next door.

Victor falls to the ground, not breathing. It is done.

…

The photos were shown on the news, late at night to prevent younger children from seeing them.

There was nothing left of James' upper half.

There was a huge gaping hole in his skull where the brain burst out. The face was completely gone, caving in on itself. As his body was crushed by the invisible pressure, his chest and arms were ripped apart, the muscles and organs ripping out and sticking to the walls, and the larger pieces of meat slipped down with copious amounts of blood, accumulating on the poplar table adorned with dead roses and a shattered glass vase that had been broken. The rest of his stomach spilled out onto the floor beneath the table he had been standing next to. 

Victor was found dead at his apartment. There were no signs of a break and is presumed to have died of a heart attack or stroke. You were careful to attach and remove the blindfold, gag, and restraints so that no bruises or marks formed. 

It is somewhat regrettable, but there was no other way. You know that. It was for the greater good.

Right?

There was no other way, right?

You know that there was no other way, right?

Because there was no other way, right?

They had to die for the greater good, right?

Right?

…Right?

You ride one bus after another back to town with something inside you telling you that this is wrong. James’ screams, his snapping bones, the way his muscle and fat separated like he was a slain cow being cut into pieces by a butcher. Victor’s begging to be set free, and the way that he trusted that you would let him go after he did what you wanted. All of this is wrong, a little voice in the back of your mind says to you.

This isn’t a crime. It isn’t.

The rest of your brain tells you that.

It was a necessary evil. James deserved it, he deserved every ounce of pain you had inflicted on him through the thin apartment walls. You can imagine hearing the dripping of blood from the formerly white now red ceiling.

Drip, drip, drip.

…

You eat at your poplar dining table, alone, in a squeaky old poplar chair. You have only managed to take a bite or two of your food before feeling the urge to vomit. You drank half of your cup of water though, at least. You would have preferred bleach or soap, though. Something basic.

That way your insides would be scrubbed clean by the mix of enzymes, organs, bacteria, and a strong base. Your skin, eyes, and hair would be cleansed with the sweat and tears produced afterward. You pick up your spaghetti with your plastic fork.

Your stomach churns and it feels like it is eating itself. You run to the bathroom, overcome by nausea. An acidic smell and taste. They are both sour and nasty. 

You gag like you are being choked by a ghost or your guilty conscience. You are loudly gasping for air through your vomit-covered lips. 

Drip, drip, drip.

Plop, plop, plop.

Bile piles up in the toilet water, making it bright yellow. You hold onto the toilet seat like it is your lifeline. After a few more moments of heaving, you adjust your posture to be more straight.

You walk back to the kitchen and put the dinner food in your refrigerator. It hums as if it is pleased with how you are feeling. 

Drip, drip, drip.

There is some water leaking from the faucet. You put a cup under it and try to ignore what it reminds you of. You hope it goes away soon. You do. More than anything. 

You want it to go away, and you would do anything to make it stop. But you’re not a plumber, and the only nearest one is in a neighboring town a few hundred kilometers away and his fees are worth a few thousand Jenny. Even if he was nearer, you wouldn’t be able to afford his services. Most unfortunate for you.

You still feel like you are being strangled. 

Your neck’s muscles tighten and the tendons are sticking out. You aren’t going to die, but it feels like it. Everything hurts. Everything hurts and you are disgusted with yourself. But you have to keep going, for eternal freedom. 

Your skin is covered in goosebumps.

You want to vomit your organs out.

You want to scream until your vocal cords swell so much they cannot work. 

You want to swallow and cover yourself in bleach and soap and scrub yourself until your skin is rubbed raw and bleeding.

But you can’t, because you are living in a town now, one where the neighbors are so friendly and everyone knows each other. But you can’t, because someone will come to you, worried sick about you. But you can’t, because you are too appalled in yourself right now to lie to them and pretend you are better than them.

You cannot pretend you are cordial and graceful, because if anything you are sick. Sick and twisted. Your secrets mirror your repulsiveness. You want to lean away from yourself and run from yourself. 

But you can vomit your organs out.

But you can scream until your vocal cords swell so much they cannot work. 

But you can swallow and cover yourself in bleach and soap and scrub yourself until your skin is rubbed raw and bleeding.

That’s because this house is nearly impossible to find for most. Only the porch light is currently on, with the rest of the place in complete darkness. There are overgrown weeds and grass, trees, and fallen branches everywhere. You have tripped many times and almost broken something in the past. You are getting better, though.

This property can be the place where you bury whatever sins you have committed. No one comes here, and no one will come for you if you scream. No one will hear you because this property is cramped and large. 

But you are still living in a town full of people who all know each other.

What if someone hears you?

It is best not to think about it, you tell yourself.

It is best to just let it all out, you tell yourself.

It is best to ignore and lie to those who ask you about it, you tell yourself.

So you vomit again.

You scream so loudly you lose your voice.

You scrub your hands so hard under the sink with soap until they bleed and have scratches all over them.

No one comes for you.

Good.

*~*~*~*

You have always been someone who never takes the time to appreciate the beauty around you.

Your thoughts are constantly besieged by a multitude of voices. Unloving, taking pleasure in others' misfortune, outrage, fear, happiness, delicateness, peacefulness, besiege, schadenfreude, wherewithal. In due time, emotions will reach their boiling point, unveiling the authentic hues of your being; crimson red.

You can make people prefer you over the largest of diamonds with just a few words. Your words can be either their exposition or their denouement. 

But you can’t bring yourself to use Sebaste. This feeling is odd to you, but you don’t complain about it. If anything, you feel warmer than you ever have been.

Your emotions find themselves trapped in a state of indecision, teetering between self-centeredness and pure joy. Something has gone off course. You.

You, who was born with an innate desire to only help those who would help you in exchange. You, who never ventured out to explore the depths of your being, to discover the essence of empathy. You, who have always used others in an attempt to better humanity as a whole, to be in control of others. It is what you do best; being in control.

So, why does Sebaste, an impoverished man, interest you so much? Why would you be willing to give everything you have away just to make sure he has a good life? Why can’t you just leech off of him like you do with everyone else?

It cannot be denied that he holds the position of your greatest vulnerability.

But you cannot bear to discard him.

Even if you wanted to. Even if he wanted you to.

You cannot leave him. He holds your heart in his gentle hands, and you will never get it back. There it will stay far past when his body is deep underground and lost to time.

You would jump into the largest crimson tides if it meant he was waiting for you beneath the waves. In the end, the amalgamation of your emotions will birth a monstrous force, unleashing nothing but devastation.

A colossus. 

The devil that lurks within the deepest confines of your heart.

No exorcism or priest would be able to get rid of it. It will stay inside you until your last breath. Sebaste will eventually uncover the hidden transgressions within your soul, the deeds you committed to survive. The actions you took to elevate yourself above all others and everything else in this world.

In the future, when the stars twinkle no more, the moon loses its luster, and the night sky breaks apart, you will need to seek a new refuge to conceal your wrongdoings from the scorching beams of the sun.

If Sebaste ever were to discover the lies that are the foundation of the makeup used to cover your hideous, real face, or your sticky, sticky, crimson hands, what would be done to stop you? What would you do to stop him from leaving you?

You simply confine the devil into the smallest crevice of your heart, pushing it inside as far as it can go and locking the door. That way, if Sebaste ever were to delve into the labyrinth that is your soul, he wouldn’t find it no matter how much he looks. There the devil will stay even far after it starts rotting, and you promise yourself to keep it that way.

*~*~*~*

The flowers are in bloom. You don’t know what species they are though. The night sky is above you, cold, injured, and bleeding you. Your only physical weapon is your nails, your dull and split nails. 

It starts raining. You don’t have a home of your own, so you decide that a bus stop will suffice for now.

Every inch of you is shivering. Every drop of blood that you bleed hurts. The forest is deep and dark and cruel. If any animals were unaware of your presence, they surely are now considering how you howled in pain as your leg toppled into a bear trap, and howled even louder as you clawed it off with your bare hands, making them all scratched up. The cicadas are crying, even louder than you are. They only respond to your pain with shrill, grating noises and the flaps of their wings. You have nowhere to go that is nearby. Not with your injured leg that has large, deep, painful markings of the trap’s teeth on it. Aside from this bus stop that is in the middle of nowhere. You’re not sure if any bus at all is even on this route anymore, considering how rusty and broken down this stop is. 

You attempt to light one of the few matches you have left. It’s pitch black outside, and the match is your only source of light and warmth from the rain and the night. Your jacket is still caught in that tree, far away from where you currently are. Well, it wasn’t yours per se, but it was your only protection from the elements with its hood and heat. 

Your cries are wasted on your injuries. You know no one will come for you, aside from predators if you bleed out and are near death.

You cannot see anything, even the path of blood drops you most likely made as you gripped your injured leg and began moving once more to the poorly taken care of bus stop, ignoring the pain that shot up with every step. It’s too dark.

You aren’t going to die, but it feels like it.

Even if Chrollo knew where you were and was on the way, it wouldn’t matter. This forest is too big and you may die of blood loss before he even catches sight of you or hears your pained cries.

There are most likely predators here. Wolves, bears, hawks. Something is out there, watching you, you are sure of it. You know it. 

Eventually, the rain stops sometime after your match goes out and you close your eyes after refusing to rest for far too long. You catch a glimpse of the flowers, soaked with morning dewdrops and reflecting the sun’s rays. 

Ah.

Columbines. 

The usual white ones are called doves for a reason. They look like five doves nestled together from afar. The white columbines represent many things. Love. Innocence. Calmness. Peace. Foolishness. Winning. Ironic enough, you cannot relate to any of them.

You’re not in love with anyone. Your innocence was stolen from you long ago, far before you even met Chrollo. You aren’t calm, you are weeping. You aren’t at peace, you are internally fighting yourself as to whether to go back to your captor’s gilded cage. Perhaps you are a fool for running away from the warm blankets and fresh, expensive food. You aren’t winning anything aside from both regrets and desperate want for stability.

Maybe that is why these columbines before you are red. An eye-catching crimson red, as red as your wounds and the trail of blood left from it as you walked to the bus stop. They look like dead doves. They only represent three things. Passion. Terror. Trembling. You find a resemblance of yourself in them, as odd as it would sound to anyone who doesn’t know of or believe your current situation. 

The trap didn’t have rust on it, right?

*~*~*~*

Chrollo and Sebaste are both difficult to understand for you. However, they also could not be more different. This dynamic is similar to a newborn witnessing dawn’s sunrise blossom from the night sky. Both confuse you, for both are very similar yet very contrasting. 

Chrollo and Sebaste both know what they want and they would do anything to achieve it, as long as the people they love aren’t in any danger at the reward of attaining their desires. They only trust a handful of people fully while they ignore other people’s presence. They both have that dark brown hue in their eyes. They both wear darker colors. But Chrollo holds the past in high regard and loves history, meanwhile, Sebaste thinks of the future and modern times more so than the past and as a result keeps up with new technology and media. Chrollo looks at you like a hunter looks at a doe or rabbit, while Sebaste looks at you with purpose, for he knows who you are; an equal.

You look at them differently, too. 

You look at Chrollo with a facade in your eyes, as you pretend to accept your role in his theater by dancing the waltz and singing praises.

You look at Sebaste with veracity, for he is the only one to have ever earned your genuine admiration. 

If either were to see the cracks within the mask you wear if either of them saw what was underneath… it would all be over, wouldn’t it? Chrollo would know more about you than you ever did about yourself and use it against you. Sebaste would leave you all alone to rot away.

That is why you will play the role of a doting queen who hangs onto every word her lover tells her because it is the only choice you have.

It is the only choice you have, and all you ever can be.

It is all you ever will be, you say to yourself.

Hier Encore II.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

[Hier Encore I.]

Synopsis: Yorknew Police Department Headquarters, 1995, April 10th. You are a director of public safety. The Phantom Troupe attacks the headquarters and takes you under the guise of a hostage situation. Even when the ransom is paid, you are never returned and assumed to be dead. After thirteen months of captivity, in 1996, on May 9th, you escape and try to learn how to live again somewhere far away from your captor. The payment of freedom comes with a steep cost, one that stains your hands so much that even if you drown them in bleach, the stain will remain there for the rest of your life.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, the reader is described as AFAB and uses she/her pronouns respectively, not SFW implications, misogynistic undertones (not from Chrollo), forced tattooing, unhealthy relationships, manipulation, mentions of starvation, some minor Hunter x Hunter spoilers, violence, Hisoka showing up sorry about that in advance, minor character death, and stalking.

Word Count: 13.7k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Lacrimosa by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

4:00 A.M. by Taeko Onuki

My Girlfriend Is a Witch by October Country

Michelle by Sir Chloe

Sonne by Rammstein

Enemy by Imagine Dragons

Venus Fly Trap by MARINA

Maneater by Nelly Furtado

cult leader by KiNG MALA

Teacher’s Pet by Melanie Martinez 

“She looked like a vixen, and that’s what she was; she had all the instincts of a female fox. She was the proverbial predatory female. She had what she wanted, now, and she was content. There was just the getting completely away with it that counted.” – Gil Brewer, Sin for Me

ii. “I would not wish any companion in the world but you.”

You’re happy here.

You’re happy here, picking pumpkins and apples to make decorations and cook into pies. You’re happy here, harvesting sunflowers to put into glass vases around your cottage. You’re happy here, going into the farmer’s market and smelling freshly roasted corn and baked goods.

You’re happy here with Sebaste.

You’re happy here with Sebaste, who is always carrying gifts for you–lovingly ignoring your pleas to better learn how to budget his money–cookies, fried mushrooms, glazed yams, eggplant parmesan… your favorites. His too.

You hope he’s happy here with you too.

He says he does.

*~*~*~*

“Where do you want it? The neck, the leg? Lower, higher?” a voice, still trying to be cordial but exhaustion and annoyance overtook it halfway. 

The faux leather furniture squeaks slightly as it is pushed down a bit by you sitting on it. You try to adjust yourself as you lay on your stomach, the plastic beneath you crinkling. ABBA’s Lay All Your Love On Me is playing from the small radio, the audio slightly too quiet for you to make out what part the song was at, and also because of how loud the tattoo artist was as she asked Chrollo a few questions.

“The lower back.” he touches it with his cold finger, almost making you jump and run out of that parlor. “Somewhere around here.”

You try to close your eyes and imagine you are anywhere else in the world. Even a sketchy bar would be better than this tattoo parlor because at least then you could leave with no pain in your body. 

“Okay.”

“Thirty thousand Jenny, along with a million for keeping silent about this.” You hear a large bag filled with coins being placed on the table. The same bag that made the owner of this place go on his knees and kept repeating that there was no appointment necessary anymore. While the sound of money jingling would make anyone feel happy, it sounds like nails on a chalkboard to you. No one will ever know though, because you keep your mouth shut unless you have to say something sweet. “Feel free to count it if you wish. I will not stop you.”

“Nah. I’ll pass.”

“Alright then. Are you going to use a stencil first to show me what it would look like? I think that would be best.”

You hear a tired sigh. “If that’s what you want. I’ll take it out.”

Your legs want to run. Your heart wants to burst out of your chest. Your eyes want tears to come out in rivers. But you can’t.

You can’t because it’s useless and all of your progress would be ruined.

“Here we are.”

You feel thermal paper going on the spot just above where your butt is. 

“Looks good.” Chrollo hums, pleased. “Behave. I’ll be back soon.”

His voice is soft but still firm. He steps toward you and squeezes your hand lightly, his thumb rubbing circles around it. He hums again. You can only see his shoes from this angle, but you know he is smiling. You want to scream, but you can’t.

You nod, still not talking. You hear a praise leave his lips, but you’re too scared to pay attention. He thanks the tattoo artist and leaves. The door shuts behind him quietly. For a brief moment, you sigh with relief.

The tattoo artist also sighs. There is a nervous chuckle that escapes both of your mouths, the type where both of you know what would happen if either of you were to step out of line. You try to move your neck upwards to look at the posters on the wall. Most are Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell, with a few of Audrey Hepburn. The largest poster is of the 1953 film Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, with Monroe and Russell dancing above the title in revealing magician outfits.

The tattoo artist turns the dial on the radio, putting on I Put A Spell On You instead, which you'd rather listen to. 

The tattoo artist leans in closer and talks to you in a whisper. "I'm so sorry about this. I had to do it."

Your eyes are wide, but you manage to keep your calm. Your fingers are shaking. Chrollo's voice is in your head, telling you to be still or he'll know. You do your best to ignore it as the tattoo needle stabs your back, sending shivers down your spine.

The entire process takes five hours, with you zoning out after about twenty minutes. 

The tattoo artist lets out a heavy sigh and leans back in her chair. "We're done, darling. I hope you're satisfied with your new tattoo."

You're exhausted. Your back feels numb. You have zero interest in looking at your new tattoo. You just want to leave.

Chrollo walks through the door with an even bigger smile on his face. "Ah, she's done, is she? Let me take a look."

He walks closer and sees the spider web tattoo, the number zero being on top of it.

"Beautiful. Your tattoo looks amazing, darling." Chrollo stares deeply into your eyes. "Now, would you mind standing up so I can see you in full?"

His eyes wander around your body. Your heart drops as you stand up.

Chrollo looks from your head to your feet as you stand. With every inch of your body, he smiles more deeply. "You look amazing, my dear. Stunning." He runs his smooth fingers across your skin, tracing the design of your tattoo. "Well, I'm satisfied with your new tattoo." He grabs your hand and pulls you towards the door. "Now, let's head back to the room. Don't you need to sleep? It's been a tiring day."

He stares at your tattoo one last time before reaching out and touching your back, tracing the black spiderweb pattern. You want to cry, but you can’t. You feel both the physical and mental pain silencing you. So, all you do is nod. 

Nothing is worth the risk.

The tattoo artist doesn’t look at either of you because of the intense guilt she feels.

The December weather outside only makes you want to shiver more.

Life is death. Death is a blessing that allows the weak to rest. Death is life. Life is a curse that allows only the strong to reap the rewards.

*~*~*~*

Even after all this time since the incident happened, your lower back still hurts. 

It burns whenever you touch it–like your skin is on fire–but it may be more mental than physical.

There is no scarring, thankfully, and because it is on your lower back, it can easily be hidden. Perhaps that was the point of the placement, for only if you do not have a long shirt or high-waisted pants would anyone see it; and only Chrollo was the only one you were allowed to be nude with, not that you had any choice.

It is the 21st of October, 1998. Sebaste now sleeps in the same bed as you. He talks in his sleep sometimes, about celebrating Halloween with you or his mother. It’s cute, you think. The photo frame beside the bed has a Polaroid photo of you and him, both smiling brightly. It’s a gift from his mother to you in more ways than one. Whenever your paranoia is set off, you hold it in your arms until you have calmed down. 

You loved Robin like you would your mother, and aside from Sebaste, she was the only one you would regularly talk to. She is kind to you, and once gave you hand-carved furniture as a gift when Sebaste first introduced you to her as his girlfriend. On colder days she brings you a pot of her homemade pumpkin soup and chatters away as soon as she sets foot in your home. She was talkative, very talkative, which funnily enough contrasts with Sebastian's introversion.

*~*~*~*

“What will you do to stop people from knowing I am still alive?” 

The question you asked, mere days into your kidnapping, came when you were lying down, restrained. You did not mean to sound aggressive, but you think you did by accident. Your nervousness is making you lose your touch, it seems. 

“If you would like to know, my dear, I shall tell you.” Your captor responds, sitting on a chair beside the bed. 

You want to scream for help. You want to demand him to take the silk binds off of you and run for the hills. But you can’t, because you know it would be useless. You have to wait for the right moment.

“I want to know.”

A book covers the lower part of his face, but his eyes still look down on you from your helpless position. The Brothers Karamazov. How fitting.

“We will request more money for your release.” Even though you cannot see half of his face, you know he is smiling from how pleased his voice sounds. “So much money that the authorities will simply give up on you, money that simply cannot be paid.”

Here you are, with a silk scarf tied around your wrists, not too tight but not too loose, and another binding your legs. He got rid of the handcuffs when he returned with you to a penthouse, wanting in some sense to make sure you were at least partially comfortable. Perhaps the handcuffs were just to ensure the public thought that you were a hostage taken for ransom. 

“Four million, sixteen million, perhaps twenty million for just a cut of your hair, maybe fifty million for a photo of you in your presumed last moments.” There is a pause, with you finally being able to hear your rapid heartbeat hidden behind a mask of calmness. “They will give up on you eventually, and the world will continue to go on as it always has.”

You silently wish that you could turn your hearing off like a light. There is such depravity, devotion, and greediness in his tone. 

“Maybe they won’t.” Your eyes keep moving around the room to avoid his intense stare from above. “Maybe they’ll know whatever body you plant is fake. Maybe they’ll locate me. Maybe they’ll… they’ll pay everything off.”

“That does not seem plausible, my sweet.”

You are holding back a sea of tears.

“Even though you think so, there is quite a small chance that will happen. That chance will only dwindle as the price increases, I am afraid. Money is far more important to governments than human lives in all cases. You know that, don’t you?” Chrollo says, his voice slightly teasing, turning a page of his book. “Perhaps it is for the best that they think you are dead though, angel, with all of the… dealings you have done when you thought no one was watching. You are quite resourceful. It’s something we have in common, you know.” 

You know that you’ll only make this situation worse if you try to fight back anymore.

You just look up at the ceiling and count the tiles, waiting for the moment he unties you.

One, two, three, four, five, six…

*~*~*~*

You liked gardening before your capture, and still do. As a hobby, you grow plants that are suitable for the fall setting. You cook with them when they have matured enough, or give them to Robin if you have too much of them. You especially like yams because they can be cooked into both sweet and savory dishes. A duplex trait you love.

It keeps your mind off of Chrollo.

You got yourself a new watering can recently. It can hold more water for your plants and it is prettier than your old one. It is a metal one, the spout rose freshly cleaned from rust by your gloved hands scrubbing for what felt like a millennium. It was worth it. The water compartment has purple lilies and white jasmine flowers on its bottom half. There are also a few butterflies, bees, and praying mantises among them. It’s cute and comforting to you.

This new life is also just as cute and comforting to you. You feel a sense of stability now that you aren’t forced to go from place to place by your captor or in fear of being caught by him. There is a sweetness and simplicity to it all. You get better sleep now that you share a bed with someone you love rather than someone you hate with all your being. You wear sweaters and sweatpants instead of those revealing shirts and short skirts, being free to dress warmly for once. Even when you were given tights as a reward for good behavior, they always were not nearly enough to make you stop shivering. Whenever you go to a clothing store in the town you avoid the section with clothes that are meant to show off collarbones or thighs. You’d rather die than wear them, even in the scorching heat of the summer months, bearing the rolls of sweat that appear on your face and your back.

*~*~*~*

The clothes are too tight. It’s hard to walk like this.

Everything itches. 

You would love nothing more than to take your clothes off right here.

One of your hands goes to the upper part of your back while the other goes near your spine, your arms almost hugging you from how odd their placements are. As much as you fidget, you cannot seem to get that one spot, until you feel someone else scratch it gently.

“Here?”

You sigh, relieved as Jean’s nails move up and down, subduing your discomfort. 

“The bodice is almost strangling me, and they gave me ballet slippers twice my size.” You groan as you sweep your bangs to the side so you can see what is in front of you. You start walking with Jean away from the stage and into the darkness of the hallway where the dressing rooms are.

“Don’t you think you can buy a new pair?” A well-meaning question, but their tone doesn’t stop you from dryly laughing.

“I’m not the one who had the lead role.” You walk to the door with the number four on it, twisting the handle and pushing it backward. “This is just a sideshow, anyway. As soon as I get that promotion, I’m getting out of here and moving to a different Yorknew district. One with a name that does not claim to be a saint.” Upon entering the dressing room, you raise your arms towards the ceiling and emit a low, discontented sound. “Hilland or Kingstown, hopefully. Those have the highest crime rates, after all.”

“Saintshore isn’t that bad.” Jean leans on the door and begins to take off their shoes, their quality much higher than yours. Your eyes go back between your vanity and theirs, both of which have bouquets piled on top of each other, along with other gifts. “The audience loves you, you know.”

“Then why was I the deuteragonist yet again?” Your hands shift through your mound, separating the flowers from everything else. Some chocolates, makeup, perfume, confessional love letters… nothing to pay much attention to, as usual. Frustration overtakes you, but you don’t let it show. 

“I mean it. Everyone loves you. You rival my popularity most of the time.”

Another dry laugh from you. “Then my dog days should be over by now.”

“Perhaps they will soon.” You don’t need to look in the mirror to know that Jean is smiling, trying to comfort you as they always do. “I think you’ll be okay. You have plenty of potential and you are admired by many here, from the patrons to the staff.”

“If those people loved me as much as they say they do, then I wouldn’t be in this dress and instead be living in a penthouse, living a life of luxury without working a single hour.”

“Maybe that will happen someday. You never know.” A hug from behind. “Maybe you’ll be swept off your feet tomorrow by some charming, tall stranger. Like those meet cutes from those movies you like watching.”

“If only, Jean. If only.”

*~*~*~*

Robin took you to the library today because you had mentioned that the few books you had were getting boring. She told you that she had never taken for an answer when you said you didn’t want to bother her. She then grabbed your hand and pulled you all the way here, repeating that you were never an inconvenience to her and that she loved you. She accompanied you to the horror section, remembering your fondness for the genre as you had mentioned a few days ago. That and Halloween were just around the corner.

You were glad to have someone to talk to while Sebaste was busy working in his office, at least.

Robin was chattering away, talking about random stuff that she remembered or events that happened when she was younger. A few weeks ago, she went on a tangent about the history of execution methods and how it related to racial segregation, and if you were being honest it was interesting to listen to. You learn a lot from Robin this way, even things like carving you learn more from her words and less from her movements. 

As much as her interests are varied and odd, you cannot deny that Robin is very knowledgeable. Whenever Robin is present, it's as if you're engaged in a conversation with an old buddy or a younger sibling passionately discussing their interests, even though Robin is significantly older than you. If it wasn’t for the fact that there are many small sections of white hair amongst her ginger locks and her wrinkles, a stranger would probably have assumed that she is your little sister.

You love her and trust her.

“What about this one?” Robin asks, holding out a book with the title We Have Always Lived In The Castle on its monochrome front. 

If you recall correctly, it’s a Shirley Jackson work. Someone recommended it to you a long time ago, you think. You can’t remember who exactly, though. It was not Chrollo as he was not the most interested in horror to begin with. All that was on his bookshelves were books relating to philosophy or something else in that vein.

At present, the library houses a mere handful of people. The librarian, the village teacher with two visibly tired children. A girl about your age with bright purple hair and a black leather jacket with tiny spikes on its cuffs and a white skull on the back of it. A man who looked a bit older than you was reading a book with his other hand on his chin looking zoned out in a way. 

*~*~*~*

There is a pleased, wanting moan coming from behind you on the bed. 

“We’re finally alone, baby…” 

Don Dario lays on his bed, large enough to be used by at least five people. The frame is made of agarwood, and the headboard is crested with what you assume is pure gold, considering how rich the Don is. The pillows are encased with wine red and medallion yellow silk. So are the curtains of the canopy. The blanket is doused in similar shades, but slightly darker than you think. If you choose to lie down, you could see the painted inside of the marquee, but you don’t want to. You do not want to sleep with this slimeball. So you simply sit at the corner hoping the Don would just give up and let you go.

“Don’t be shy, baby.” His knees are stabbing into the mattress and he is quickly unbuckling the belt of his crimson velvet robe, moaning and chuckling with excitement. “Come on, pussycat. Come to Daddy.” Even though you refuse to face him, you can envision how he is licking his lips as you hear his mantle being thrown to the floor. “No need to keep playing hard to get. Nobody’s here aside from you and me. I know you want me, darling.” 

Click, click, click.

He crawls on all fours to your backside and then to your right side, still cooing and cawing. You finally look at his eyes, and you see the direction they are facing; downwards. After a slight scoff from you, though, he looks upwards towards your face. “You’re so cute, you know. I feel like I will never get tired of looking at you.”

Click, click, click.

“You like me too, don’t you?” There is a smirk on his face, making his double chin even larger and making you in turn narrow your eyes. “You must, at least a little bit, right? Everyone wants a piece of me. But I don’t mind if such a pretty girl like you wants to get a bit more than you were told that you would get. You will, if you promise to come back, that is. For another round.”

There is a whisper of a glare in your eyes, and when Don Dario notices this he simply laughs haughtily. 

“Now, now, sweetie.” He puts a hand on your shoulder. “I always keep my word. You just have to do your part and everything will be fine.”

“I never said I would do this, you forced me to be here.”

The grip tightens and you wince. “When I saw you on that stage, I knew I had to have you. I was feeling generous. I still am.” His voice is now cold and demanding, the opposite of how it was just a few seconds ago. “I’ll pay off your debts and have a word with your boss, I promise, if you do as you are told.”

“Asshole.”

Click, click, click.

There is a murmur of fondness from Don Dario’s mouth, but you don’t care enough to make out what he said. 

“You know no sane woman would sleep with you willingly, and so you order your lackeys to grab one by the hair and drag her to your room. Quite pathetic, wouldn’t you say?”

Don Dario rolls onto his back and cackles like he is being tickled. “This kitten is trying to use her claws to fight a lion! How adorable.” You want to throw up.

Click, click, click.

A flash.

“What was that?” You ask, irate. 

“Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” Your neck turns to see him start to unbutton his shirt, the golden letters and medals of the many necklaces around his neck smashing against one another. “Just a few mementos, and also to make sure you don’t say anything… crummy.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Call me whatever you like, but one way or another you’ll do what I want.” There is a sudden grab of your hair as you are forced to lay on the mattress roughly. The touch of the velvet beneath you, despite being soft, also feels like molasses on your skin and makes you feel slow and heavy. “Let us not wait a second longer, my bride for today. Be good for me and maybe I’ll even send more money your way in the future.”

You want to cry out for help, but his henchmen are right outside his bedroom door in case you try to run. It would be useless. You wouldn’t be let go and all that would result from it is you being pushed and shoved back into Don Dario’s arms eventually. He would find you if you ran. 

You decide not to fight anymore. You’re exhausted and there would be no point in the long run. You nod and the genuine smile that appears on Don Dario’s face is a terrifying sight to you. At least you would get that promotion and the money to pay off your debts, even if it hurts to walk in the morning.

“Give daddy some sugar, baby.”

Every hair on your body stands on end as you nod.

You are nothing now but a Mignonne who is forced to be swept off her feet.

“Lay all your love on me.”

*~*~*~*

The newspaper today had an odd headline, to say the least. Especially because this town is so far away from the Saintshore district of Yorknew. It would take forever to get to it, not that you would ever want to return to that place that should be categorized as a nuclear dump if anything. The food was greasy. There was always a whiff of smoke, either from the smokers or the many, many cars, and rusty needles on the ground below you if you set foot outside. Not that there would be a point in going for a walk as Saintshore was practically unwalkable except for a few suburban areas and a small portion of the poorly taken care of parks. 

Mobster Don Dario Niccolo Found Beheaded In Alleyway was not a title you had ever thought would be read or even seen by you or anyone for that matter, but it makes sense. Dario was not short of enemies who would do anything to kill him or at the very least sabotage his business affairs with other criminals. He always had the limelight on him, whether his deeds were good or bad. That gave him the nickname of the uncrowned king of Saintshore. You don’t feel bad for his family or his ‘friends’ in the slightest. That is one person who is part of your unwanted past gone, after all, and someone will be there to get the blood-soaked inheritance and probably continue the Niccolo legacy to take more money.

You’re happy to be far away from that district and from the Phantom Troupe, almost enough to get you on your knees and worship the stars above you. 

*~*~*~*

His movements are always silent, never betraying his presence with the sound of footsteps. You never hear them coming.

He does it on purpose, you think, to keep you on edge and to catch you in any act of escaping he suspects you will do.

He’s right if he does expect you will try something, though.

His earrings glimmer in the moonlight, hypnotizing you with their beauty. His eyes glimmer too, his irises reminding you of the pitch-black sky that is above you two and this picnic blanket. His teeth remind you of pearls sold in unpurchasable jewelry shops. At least you feel hypnotized, because you do nothing as he takes your hand, not even flinching. Like the devil, Chrollo is beautiful. But the beauty is only hiding what lurks beneath the surface; a monster.

“Open wide, dearest.” The chocolate-covered strawberry leans closer, pale fingertips holding onto its dark green leaves. “This is romantic, is it not?”

Maybe you can blur out his words for a bit longer to again remove the bitter taste in your mouth. Then only the sweetness of the scenery in front of you would remain, hypnotizing you yet again.

*~*~*~*

When you step out of your house’s door, it is like you are instantly transported back to four years ago; the last time you celebrated Halloween.

All the houses on every block have decorations of some kind, whether going all out with animatronics supposed to resemble monsters like the popular Bays’ house or a measly jack-o-lantern standing out amongst a poorly taken care of front yard like the lone Mr. Hyde’s house. Perhaps the weeds only increased the scariness for the children and were done on purpose. Ah, weeds. How horrifying. All of the houses also have candy to give out to the trick-or-treaters, from Ms. Alson’s house down the street to the unpopular Blissetts’, your neighbors. In Ms. Alson’s case, she is giving out handmade gift bags to everyone who passes by, even adults. However, the Blissetts only put out a smaller-than-life basket of candy corn with a ‘take one’ sign next to it. Terrifying.

“Trick or treat. Give me something good to eat!” The kids chanted, running around in circles as they all wore costumes.

*~*~*~*

As you ponder the origins of this situation, you diligently search for any missteps on your part. Chrollo, in his typical fashion, remains silent about the expression on your face as your mind races. He always waits for you to speak first, yet you are certain he is aware of your thoughts. Together on the balcony, he feigns interest in his book, his sunglasses serving as a disguise to conceal the gaze fixated upon you. What could you have possibly done to cause such a high-ranking criminal to be romantically interested in you? Did you meet somewhere before? Did he see you from afar and become obsessed with you that way?

“You look rather nice with only my shirt on.” A hand is placed on your bare thigh, squeezing the meaty flesh gently.

“When did you first start liking me?” Your vocal tone emerges with a softer and huskier quality than initially intended. You discreetly clear your throat, contemplating whether a repetition of your words is necessary. Chrollo's gaze is fixated upon you, yet you avoid meeting his eyes, instead directing your attention towards the captivating spectacle of the sunset. The hues of yellow seamlessly blend into orange, which seamlessly blends into red, the colors melding together without complete separation. He affectionately applies more pressure to your thigh, emitting a gentle hum. This shirt serves two purposes: to allure him, ultimately facilitating your escape, and to maintain a facade of modesty, despite it being the most conservative garment available in the hotel room. Your loathing for him burns fiercely within, yet you must never allow it to manifest outwardly.

When you fixate on the sunset, you wonder to yourself if you perhaps can distract yourself from the sensation of his hand caressing your thigh.

Placing his book on the table near the outdoor couch, he leans in your direction and gently draws you onto his lap. You make no resistance, acknowledging the potential advantage this holds for your scheme. After all, even if you tried, he wouldn't allow you to escape.

“I mean if you don’t mind. If you don’t want to tell me, I won’t get mad.” You lean in, Chrollo’s hair slightly tickling your nostrils. “It’s your choice.”

“You’re right in that aspect. It is my choice.” He hums and you can picture his eyes behind his sunglasses shifting upwards in reminiscence. The arm around you pulls you in closer so that your nose is right next to his neck. “But I’ll tell you if that is what you want. I was in Saintshore and saw you dancing in a ballet.”

“Which one?” You mumble, not even surprised that he knew your side job before you were promoted. You can smell his cologne; musk, sandalwood, rum, and vanilla. He always sprays just a bit too much, not enough to make you cough but enough for you to smell it whenever he is close. Not that you would ever tell him that, as that would ruin your plan and he is self-aware enough to know what he is doing. 

“Swan Lake. You played an excellent Odile, beloved.” His hand brushes your arm while the other dances on your thigh still. The queen of the black swans.

“That’s it?” You ask, and Chrollo responds by having his hand over upward from your thigh to your bangs, brushing them to the side. 

“You were just so graceful. You still are just as beautiful, you know.” He kisses your forehead and you try your hardest to not flinch. As you gaze at the sunset, you make a conscious effort to divert your attention from the affectionate tone in his voice. He passionately shares his journey of falling in love with you, while his hand gently rests beneath your shirt, and you sense something hard beneath you. It’s best not to think about it too much, you tell yourself.

*~*~*~*

Two years, five months, twenty-two days, twenty-three hours, and five minutes.

That is the duration of time that had passed since your triumphant escape, about half the duration accounting for the time it took for you to reach a considerably distant location from the place where you were held prisoner.

Tickets to films, musical adaptations, ballets, stage adaptations, and operas. Piles upon piles of novels, fashionable clothes, and delicious food that were more expensive than anything you had ever bought before your capture. Everything was given to you in the blink of an eye, all aside from freedom. 

Memorabilia like heart-shaped sunglasses, flared sundresses, lingerie made with lace and silk, violas, violins, cellos, croissants, cream puffs, macaroons, rings, necklaces, chokers, thigh highs, garter belts, short skirts, sheer tights, and hotpants were all given to you without you even asking. You only wore them and played them and ate them when it would help you with your escape plan, which you guessed was all the time. You became the archetype known as the temptress, a symbol of lust and desirability. Unethical, a Queen Bee, mysterious, wanting, and seductive. But you also had to become Chrollo’s sweetheart at the same time. A princess from a fairytale, a coquette, gentle, sweet, and alluring. 

*~*~*~*

The bedroom is suffocating to you. It was too clean, too pristine, the walls having all furniture mounted on it tidy with not a speck of dust or dirt. There is a low hum of the air conditioner that is above hung paintings that were both stolen and bought legally. A pendulum clock above the bed with its hand swinging from side to side with a constant tick-tocking sound. The blanket restraining your wrists was tied to the headboard, the half that was all things considered a piece of your part of the bed. He doesn’t restrain your legs anymore, a reward you suppose for good behavior, for not trying to kick him whenever he touches you or at the very least within your range. Similarly, he doesn’t gag you anymore for not screaming and crying and demanding to be let go.

He sometimes feeds you and sometimes lets you feed yourself. He brings you whatever you want to eat whenever you want to eat. Pastries, cheese, bread, pasta, all of it you have access to, all you have to do is ask for it. If you don’t request anything, the meal will be something nutritious and balanced, like steamed rice and broccoli with tofu and miso soup. One time you refused to eat, clamping your mouth shut like a toddler as he gently tried to guide a metal spoon to your lips. 

You tired your neck out that way and gave in about an hour later, though the food was ice cold by then.

You don’t refuse to eat anymore. You don’t do a lot of things you want to do anymore. You are scheduled as to when you can and cannot walk within the penthouse like you are his dog. The only room you have privacy in is the bathroom, when the silk restraints come off and you can walk around freely, as small as the room is. Though it is windowless, and there would be nowhere to hide if Chrollo ever decided to open the lockless bathroom door. 

If you are good, he lets you watch movies or shows on the television, he’ll read to you, one time he even gave you some of your old things from your apartment, putting them on the table beside you. If you are bad… On days that you are bad, he ignores you, aside from when you ask to go to the bathroom, he describes the brutalness of the murders he has committed in great detail as you squirm, or he will tickle you for an hour straight until your face is red with tears and you can hardly breathe.

“I’m willing to wait.” 

He repeats this every time you try to tear the blanket off of your wrists and ankles, every time after you cry and scream your lungs out, every time you refuse to look at him and at yourself in a desperate attempt to control at least one thing; your imagination. He wants you to break and leave only your vulnerable, core self. You could never resist the pull of rebellion forever, your thread of patience always eventually snapping and forcing yourself to tie it back together. You could never resist what lays dormant in the deepest crevices of your heart; a chained-up beast. 

“With time, all pain fades.”

*~*~*~*

Maybe he is right in that aspect. As much as you want to deny it, with every passing month you were held captive, what Chrollo does then surprised you less and less. You sort of became comfortably numb to it all, only focusing on escape and not how much he touched you everywhere and told you sweet nothings both in and out of bed.

*~*~*~*

“The bathroom is well stocked with all sorts of soaps and shampoos and creams, as well as any other necessities you will need for this.” Chrollo says as he presses one of the mirrors above the sink, the mirror opening and revealing more products than are at the rim of the bathtub already. As always, his voice is calm. 

You have never heard him angry before, or sad before, and you don’t want to. You don’t know what he would do if you pushed him to that point. That is why when Chrollo had told you that he wanted you to bathe him as a reward for you being so good these past few weeks, you agreed. You had just graduated from being restrained from the bed to being able to walk around the penthouse freely, and you don’t want that taken away from you, especially so soon.

“And I expect you to do a good job.” He adds, bringing your focus back on him and not on the restraints he had tucked away in his closet a few days ago. “There might be other rewards for you if you do so.”

“I know.” You mutter and pull the handle above the bathtub. Water starts to flow and warm up. You want to ask him if those rewards would be for you or him, but you can’t bring yourself to. Rewards from Chrollo are always a gamble, ranging from making bread to him bringing you a spider lily plant home to gifting you clothes that showed off your collarbone to you sitting on his lap as he read. 

“Good girl,” Chrollo says, watching as the tub begins to fill with water and he closes the mirror with a soft click. “And if you’re a very good girl,” He pauses for a moment as the edges of his lips bend into a smirk from what you can see in the foggy mirror. “Who knows what kind of reward I might just give you.” He turns to you, his face still covered by a sly smile. “That is, of course, if you’re a very good girl.”

As much as you try to stop it, your eyebrows furrow slightly at his statement, unsure of what to think. All he does is chuckle.

“Why don’t I make this as fun for you as possible?” In his hands are narrow glass vials, each a different color. From the grainy appearance you can see from each bottle, you can safely assume that they are bath salts. You are right as Chrollo puts them each on the area around the sink one by one. “After all, you’re going to be taking a bath with me.” He pauses for a moment, allowing his words to hang in the air. “I hope you’re excited, darling.” He leans in close and presses a kiss on your forehead. “You’re going to enjoy this very, very much, I promise.”

“I know.” You mutter again as you step forward toward the sink, and Chrollo steps back a bit for you to see the options of bath salts. As you expected, there is a wide variety of scents. Floral aromas such as lavender, rose, cherry blossom, and vanilla. There is also a selection of sweet scents, like strawberry and apple, while at the same time, there are some muskier, darker scents, like cinnamon and sandalwood.

You have no say in your hell. You don’t want a say in your hell.

You pick up the narrow periwinkle flask labeled as lavender with shaking hands. As the warm water in the tub fills your bathroom with the sweet smell of lavender, you hear Chrollo speak up from behind you. 

“Good choice, love.” He says, his voice filled with anticipation as he speaks. “Now then, I think it is about time for you to give me that bath.”

You hate how you automatically nod, and how Chorollo coos as he starts unbuttoning his shirt.

*~*~*~*

You still have trouble having baths in the village bathhouse because of him. You have trouble doing a lot of things you had no problem doing before. You sometimes wake up and because of Sebaste’s dark hair and white skin, you mistake him for Chrollo for a few moments of drowsiness and almost cry and scream. When you are brushing your hair, you style it the way you like it but almost consider putting it in a style Chrollo likes, just in case you see him that day out of pure chance and bad luck. Whenever you see a book that used to be on Chrollo’s shelves, you almost buy it or borrow it so you can burn it later.

*~*~*~*

“What are you looking for, dollface? Treasure? Get rich quick schemes, history?” a voice, still trying to be cordial but curiosity and wandering eyes overtook it halfway. 

The faux leather furniture squeaks slightly as it is pushed down a bit by you sitting on it. You try to adjust yourself as you sit down on your butt, crossing your legs. ABBA’s Lay All Your Love On Me is playing from the small radio, the audio is slightly too quiet for you to make out what part the song is at, and also because of how loud the construction is outside.

“You are a Hunter, aren’t you?” You lean in slightly and make direct eye contact with him, putting on a slight smile. “I would like to know more about a certain Spider if you catch what I am saying.”

You hate how the man looks at you, confusion clear on his face. You knew it would be risky coming here, but you have no other options.

“Why them?”

You place a large bag filled with coins on the table. “The thirty thousand Jenny fee to talk to you, along with a million for keeping silent about this.” You now see the man’s eyes glitter with greed as he smirks. Some people were just too easy. This feels like child’s play compared to Chrollo with the lengths you would have to go to manipulate him. “Feel free to count it if you wish. I will not stop you.”

“Nah. I want to get straight to business if you don’t mind.”

“Alright then. What do you know about them? Tell me everything.”

The man leans back and looks at the cracked ceiling. “Just be warned, pretty little lady, if they come after you it’s not my fault. You’re asking for trouble.”

You’re annoyed at him keep calling you pet names. You want to slap him. You want to say you would rather not be here at all. But you can’t.

You can’t because it’s useless and all of your progress would be ruined.

“Just one sec.”

He takes another drag of his cigar and exhales, the smoke erupting from his nose onto your face and almost making you loudly cough.

“I’ll tell you.” He smiles, the cigar still wedged between his two golden teeth. “You young ones are so dumb. You aren’t even a Hunter, dollface.”

His grimy voice is like nails on a chalkboard to you. He takes the cigar out of his mouth and his finger taps on it, making some of the burnt parts fall onto the ashtray. He hums again. You just want your information so you can go. You don’t want to do small talk, especially with this prick.

You nod, still not talking. His grin widens at that. He raises one of his hands and a man in a suit and sunglasses comes out of the shadows and hands him a folder, leaving straight afterward without making a sound. So you have unwanted company.

You almost let out a sigh then. The man whistles a tune unfamiliar to you as he looks through the file. He then throws it in an uncaring way towards your side of the table, the folder letting out a slight thump as the paper makes contact with the wood. He whistles a bit more and puts one of his legs over the other. He sighs and your disdain for him only increases by then.

He leans toward and taps on the document inside, some of his cigar ashes staining it.

He grabs the bottle of liqueur beside him and pours some into his shot glass, his many golden rings shining underneath the dimmed lights. "Here is all the information we have on them. It is troublesome how little we know about them."

Your eyes are full of annoyance, but you manage to keep your calm. You lean forward and read through the paper in front of you. You have to do this. You have to do this to make sure that your freedom is everlasting.

To read the entire page took only a few minutes at most, the man being truthful in the fact that no Hunter knows them very well despite the Phantom Troupe being much more than infamous.

The man lets out a heavy sigh and leans back in his chair. "Sorry, miss. We know hardly more than you do, but I’ll try to tell you anything else we found out recently."

You want to let out a sigh again. The paper is littered with stains and leaves residue on your fingertips. This is necessary, you tell yourself. Though you just want to leave.

The man clears his throat to get your attention and holds up one of his fingers. "According to my resources, the Spider has recently lost a leg. They quickly gained another to replace it, unfortunately."

It indeed should not be surprising considering how many enemies the Phantom Troupe has, but it is a bit to you.

"We don’t know which one. That’s the most we know of the situation." He stares deeply into your eyes. "I don’t have any other information to give you, I’m afraid."

His eyes wander around your body. Your heart drops slightly as he grabs the folder and closes it.

You don’t stand up, instead briefly gazing at the liqueur bottle. The man smiles more deeply then, and you feel like you are about to throw up. "You know, you’re very pretty, miss. Just beautiful." His hand moves toward you in one brief motion, to which you respond by leaning away, "I don’t bite, no need to be scared." You stand up. "Now, now, dollface. We should talk a bit more, don’t you think? Maybe I can even drive you back to your place later, or mine."

You scrunch your nose in disgust and begin to walk out of the room. He does not physically stop you, but he mumbles insults under his breath. Slut, whore, the more unoriginal ones. You just ignore them and leave.

That guy was an asshole, but at least you got something out of it.

You wonder which Spider has died.

You hope that it was Chrollo, but that would be near impossible.

Chrollo is hardly known about, after all. There was hardly any information about him anywhere; from the news to the people you question and bribe. You don’t know anything about him either, despite being previously a captive of his. Perhaps even Chrollo does not know much about himself, or at least that is what you theorize.

To entirely free oneself from his clutches, one would need to strike a pact with the devil.

*~*~*~*

Sometimes you think you are an escaped ballerina from her music box. You were always in the same position and only did what you were told.

All you have were the walls of the orchestrina and Chrollo. Without him with you in those many penthouses and hotel rooms, you had no one and could speak to no one. Even when you had escaped by shattering your silk-clad, bleeding feet, some small scattered porcelain pieces of you are left behind for him to find.

If you ever told Sebaste the truth, it would all be for nothing, wouldn’t it?

You would be back to being on the run, trying to pick up whatever ceramic drops from you to avoid leaving a path of breadcrumbs that would lead him directly to you. Just one mistake is all it takes, and it would all be over in a flash. You would try to fix it as quickly as you can, but it wouldn’t be enough, because one day his grabbing hands will grab the soles of your feet, and there you will stay forevermore, attached back onto them, never being able to leave his palms.

A few breaths would kick the door down. The windows would rattle. Weeds would sprout in your garden. You would smell cigarette smoke because the palm of your hand would be back to being used as his ashtray. Everything would burn to the ground. 

You don’t want that. God, you do not want that. More than anything in this world.

*~*~*~*

There is someone in your home.

There is someone in your home, and you don’t think they are here to kill you.

There is someone in your home, and although you don’t think they are here to kill you, they do not come with the best of intentions either, though.

You think they are in love with you. Love may not be the best to describe it, you think, maybe obsessed or infatuated instead.

Whoever breaks into your home regularly leaves you gifts; flowers, cards, clothes, and other things they know you like. They must have been stalking you for quite a while before doing this because hardly anyone you know knows what your favorite instrument or candle scent is.

Sometimes they go on rants in the letters they send to you once or twice a week. Sometimes they bring you trinkets, usually hairpins or porcelain figurines. One morning you woke to find a bag of coffee grounds, your favorite brand but also quite an expensive one. When you used them that very morning, they praised you greatly with a long note the next day. However, when you refused to eat the slice of strawberry shortcake that was put on your kitchen table and threw it away in your bin, there was no note whatsoever.

You don’t think they cared, or at least didn’t want to let you know they cared. The amount of gifts put in your apartment only increased every time you ignored the last present. They kept getting more and more expensive, too. Whoever is in your home is either filthy rich or does not know how to budget their money well. 

Sometimes you hear the lightest of breaths when your back is turned and you are sitting on the sofa, watching a comforting movie. They are fast and good at hiding because whenever you try to catch them in the act there is nothing behind you. 

Every time you try to tell someone, they say to just install more security, more locks, cameras, and invest in self-defense lessons and tasers and alarms. You have tried that, and nothing works, the gifts and trinkets keep coming.

No one believes you and your stalker knows it. Every time you try to report it and get shut down, there is a mocking chuckle from behind you when you come back home.

You aren’t alone, you’re with them, but you wish you were because then you would at least be able to rest. You wish you were alone in the dark.

…

There is someone in your home.

There is someone in your home, and you think they want you.

There is someone in your home, and you know you don’t want them.

…

You’re tired. You don’t know how to express it.

It’s nearly midnight and you just want to take out your resentment on something. You just want to be alright. You lock your apartment door behind you and walk from the entrance to your small sitting area. You sit on the couch, ignoring the large box on the table beside it. Instead, you grab the basket of VHS tapes on the floor, shuffling through them with both your hands.

Billy Madison. Perfect. You take it out.

Your fingers tap against the front of the tape, your other hand scratches the back of your head and rubs the back of your neck, and your feet shake.

Your stalker must have turned your lamp on when you were out working, maybe for you to see the gift, because you know you didn’t. You don’t care to address the box or them right now, as you are used to it by now.

You snap the VHS tape in half with both of your hands.

All this world does is hurt you, so who can blame you for wanting to hurt it back?

It was a shitty movie anyway. A horribly written plot. Horribly written characters. You were never really a fan of comedies, especially those with a spoiled rich kid as the protagonist. You were going to throw it out even if you didn’t break the tape. You want to demote that assistant who gave you that as a joke.

But that would be petty, and it was a joke. You just wish he got you Gone with the Wind or The Princess Bride or Romeo and Juliet or something like that instead. You could go for a romance movie right about now, especially one with a forehead kiss. You love forehead kisses.

You throw the smashed VHS tape in the garbage.

You could swear that you heard a chuckle as you did so.

…

There is someone in your home.

There is someone in your home, and they put a gift beside your bed as you sleep.

There is someone in your home, and they put an unused VHS tape with the title ‘Romeo and Juliet' on your bedside table before you could wake up.

There is someone in your home, and they give you a forehead kiss before slithering off again into the dark.

You know they won’t stay there for long, but you foolishly hope that they will.

Dark goldenrod, rich black, gray, baby powder, blood red.

*~*~*~*

There is someone in your home. You are sure of it.

The placement of everything is slightly off.

The perfume bottles and makeup products in your bedroom are slightly tilted, and your figurines are placed in places where you know you didn't put them, like finding your cat music box on your vanity when it is always by your bedside table, and your bed is slightly unmade. You feel a gaze whenever you are at home and when you are just about to fall asleep, you hear the soft clicking of a camera. You hear the floorboards creak, too loud to be your dog’s. You know Sebaste would never do those things because he is in his office all day working, even when you are in bed already.

Your kitchen is dirtier than usual. There are always some fallen, dried leaves on the floor even when neither you nor Sebaste had gone outside that day. Some of your food is missing, like the leftover pancakes you planned on eating. Sebaste claims to have not eaten them, and you know he is telling the truth. 

It is not just your paranoia. There is someone in your home, watching you.

That same person is most likely watching you outside your home too. You feel a gaze wherever you are.

Whenever you go to the library to read something, you always feel someone looking at you whenever you are paying attention to the books, turning their gaze away the moment you look around. Whenever you pick up takeout from the local saloon, you feel someone staring at you in the corner, blending in with the rest of the dancing, friendly villagers. Whenever you are at the farmer’s market, you feel a gawker behind you, hiding behind one of the stalls, one filled to the brim with boxes and boxes of produce. Whenever you turn your head as you are walking to your cottage, you hear quickening footsteps, running farther and farther away. Whenever you are in the town’s museum, you can sense someone near you in the same exhibit, pretending to pay attention to the artifacts and not you.

Their eyes feel intense like you are made of gold. Something sellable at an auction or something to be stuffed into a penthouse and never see the light of day again. Within your blood flows aureate brilliance to them. You are something to be used, to be fed to the wolves.

You found a few muddy footprints in the bathroom coming from the window above it a few days ago. They are too big and too misshapen to be your dog’s, and they don’t look like the footprints that Sebastian's sneakers leave behind. You clean it up with a mop and some spray. As much as you want to be, you cannot say you are exactly afraid, but a few tiers below that.

You are cautious, sure. You make sure your doors and windows are locked before going to sleep now as well as double checking them in the middle of the night. You cannot say you are afraid, though. You are plotting to catch them in the act, and you don’t think someone afraid would confront their stalker.

You keep doing your usual routine. Wake up, boil water for coffee, wash your face and brush your teeth, make coffee and breakfast, and eat said breakfast. You prefer this life to the one you ran away from by a landslide, still, even though your stalker is somewhat ruining it. Chrollo would treat you like a glorified dog.

Sit, stay, and roll over.

Good girl.

Here is a treat.

You think Sebaste is the only one keeping you from snapping and hunting down your gawker with a bow and ax. Ironically, he still doesn’t know about them. But that’s alright with you. You prefer it.

His routine mirrors yours. He makes coffee for you some days. He eats with you. He walks the dog with you. Then he goes to his office to work.

This is a life you are happy with. You aren’t going to let your stalker ruin that for you.

You are not going to tell Sebaste either. It is much better if you handle this problem on your own. Solving problems on your own is what you are used to, after all. Sebaste could be in danger if you tell him. You’re in danger, and you don’t want him to share your fate more than he already is.

Sebaste is the one person in this world you can trust wholeheartedly. You want to protect him, and you would give up everything if it meant he would be happy and safe. So, you buy a taser, some pepper spray, and a pullable alarm, and learn how to hold your keys in just the right way so you could be able to use them as weapons in case your confrontation with your stalker goes sour.

You have planned what to do with your stalker if things do go as you intended. An abandoned shed, a chair, zip ties, and some… equipment if they do not tell you everything they know right away. 

*~*~*~*

Once upon a time, there was a princess who had a terrible curse placed upon her by a witch when she was an infant. Everything she touched would die in but a few moments. One day, she got tired of living alone on the outskirts of her kingdom, banished when she was near adulthood, and set out into the woods to search for someone to be her first-ever friend. 

However, what she discovered was a malevolent man exuding an overwhelming aura of greed. 

She hated him. She hated him with all her being, from how he looked to how he spoke to how he treated her; everything he did she disliked. 

So, a few days after meeting him in the forest behind her cottage, the princess asked him to touch her face. He did, gently caressing her cheek with his palm and fingers. As his hand made contact with her delicate visage, the princess gently shut her eyes and silently counted to five. But when the princess opened her eyes, she was horrified by the sight in front of her. 

The stranger was still there, alive.

…

The unexpected visitor revealed himself as King Death, who is in relentless pursuit of a bride who embodies purity and possesses a power comparable to his own. 

"To discover an angel as calm and radiant as the morning doves and dew is an immense stroke of fortune." 

Uttering these words, he ensnared her with a gaze as binding as a wedding vow, his eyes devoid of light and depth, unlike anything the princess had witnessed in her secluded little forest. Without delay, he then accomplished his task with an air of satisfaction.

…

Princess Blossom bemoans her unfortunate circumstance, trapped in a desolate garden devoid of life and sunshine. “Do you have not an ounce of mercy for me or anyone?" 

Across from her, King Death relishes in the corpse beneath his feet, a lifeless dove's remains, its once pristine white feathers now drenched in crimson, reminiscent of cherry wine. “If you think a bird is beautiful, just wait until you find it dead, dearly beloved by life itself until its last breath.”

…

In the palm of King Death rests a delicate flower in bloom. In a casket adorned with white wisterias lies his cherished bride, eternally his. "A blossom as lovely as you, my rose, should not wither away so easily." Her eyes exude a captivating beauty, a reflection of innocence mingled with fear. "What troubles you, causing such tremors? It cannot be the chill in the air." Though she trembles with fear, he hungrily consumes her terror as the flowers around her wilt.

…

“The nearer you are, the more I break! Have you always been this cruel to us mortals?” Princess Blossom bangs on the wood above her, the coffin sealed shut and buried six feet underneath the beautiful grass, stars, and flowers. She hears someone coming to dig her out, but that hope is replaced with fear as soon as she realizes the sound is coming from beneath her. This is King Death’s reply to her question; to take her to the underworld where only his eyes will see his radiant queen forevermore.

*~*~*~*

It’s necessary, you tell yourself. If there was any other path you could follow, you would have taken it. At least, you think you would have.

Your stalker follows you everywhere. You know it, they know it, but Sebaste doesn’t know it. They probably have seen you in the abandoned shed preparing everything, and either are preparing themselves for confrontation or not taking you seriously. 

You hope, for their sake, that they are doing the former. You hope, for their sake, that they will simply tell you all they know without you even bringing them to the shed. You hope, for their sake, that they will simply do that. But you know it won’t be that easy. Either this person is obsessed with you or was paid to follow you.

If your stalker indeed fits into the latter category, they are certainly in for an unpleasant surprise. You won’t let them get away. You won’t let them do anything other than cry, say what they know, and beg for mercy. Eventually, they will have no voice box to scream with, and only blood will come out of their mouth instead of any sound. 

You will make sure of it.

You made a vow with yourself to make sure of it.

You have no choice other than to be cruel. You know that, and you hope your follower knows it too. It would be far less trouble for either of you that way.

You have to protect yourself and Sebaste, no matter the cost. You love him too much to lose him. He is in the house and you are outside, defending him. You will do anything to make sure he is alright.

So, you wait. You wait for hours.

There is someone outside your home. 

You are sure of it.

You are going to confront them here and now.

You aren’t afraid. You are merely cautious. You don’t want Sebaste to hear any struggling or cries.

Through the window, you smell warm, fresh coffee being brewed in the French press. Sebaste has always had a bad habit of drinking coffee late at night. But it’s alright, he most likely has to work a bit more anyway.

You wait until your thoughts go numb with a lack of sleep. You slap yourself in the face, hard, to keep yourself awake.

*~*~*~*

If one were to compare, this penthouse resembles a work of art in a museum.

It is untouched by dirt and if the small flames of the candles on the table where the television is placed didn’t move from side to side, you would forget anything aside from you and Chrollo could move. Everything shares the same color palette, and there are no warm hues aside from the roses on the vanity in the bedroom and modest fires. Rose ebony, gunmetal, reseda green, silver, periwinkle. Black. Black, black, black, like one day someone decided to cover the counters, walls, and chairs in soot or charcoal. 

It is like whoever designed this had won a lifetime supply of ink paint and decided to use it in different concentrations. Rich on the desks and the vanity, but lighter in some areas like the walls, showing designs of olive roses. The farthest you can go here is to the balcony or lean on the door of the entrance like you could pass through it like a portal if you wished hard enough. You cannot jump from the porch, if you remember correctly the room number is 20008. You are twenty floors off the ground, and you know that you cannot survive a plunge from that high up. 

You feel like a canary in a hanging birdcage. 

You can only tweet and look pretty. You cannot leave unless your captor is there with you every step of the way. You are only allowed to do what you are told to do and not what you want to do.

This is an impeccable, foolproof, ideal enclosure for any imprisoner.

All is flawlessly pristine, to the point of nausea for anyone trapped inside.

You can only chitter and peep like the baby bird you are forced to be. You can only be cradled within suffocatingly loving arms. Chrollo is like your shadow, following you to every part of this place, treating you like a porcelain doll or a pet. You don’t dare act outside of the role you were given because then you know your detainer won’t be pleased with you and your chances of escape will be even lower than they already are.

“Dearest?”

There is that sickeningly sweet voice again, from beside you. He does not know how to shut up, not that you would bother telling him such. You are here, in his domain and his clothes and eating his food. You have no say here, and he knows it.

“Yes?”

You try your best to replicate the tone of a doting, little lover. You don’t fiddle with the skirt of the short dress you were given. According to your kidnapper, your solitary pair of jeans and single hoodie has ‘vanished under enigmatic circumstances’ and thus gave you this attire as compensation. Asshole.

You are waltzing whether you like it or not.

It is how you act that chooses whether you are pulled with puppet strings or not, though.

“You look beautiful.” His tone is so sincere that it almost induces a nauseating urge to vomit directly onto him. “So beautiful.”

You feel like a statue only brought here to be gawked at. He is always touching you in some way, most of the time it is your thighs that are held captive by being caressed with hands akin to velvet. You let him because what else can you do? You would want nothing more than to push him away and run out the door but you simply cannot. You are trapped here, and using Chrollo with honeyed words and passionate kisses is your only key out. You cannot stay in this consolidated coop any longer or you will break.

If you falter, you will never get out of here.

If he catches you in the act of escaping, you will never be free. The silk restraints will be replaced with shackles. A mile of running only means an inch of a chance of escaping. You don’t want to die here. You don’t want to die with rotting, choking hands around your neck.

As you expected, Chrollo’s hand squeezes your inner thigh. “Thank you, Chrollo.”

From the look in his eyes, you can tell he wants so much more than just those words.

*~*~*~*

Footsteps. Calm, poised ones. There is no sound of stray branches snapping or dead leaves crunching. Footsteps of one who knows what you plan to do. 

You do not recognize him. His eyes are as bright as gold yet as hungry as a wolf’s, unblinking. If he was a word, it would be dangerous, in bold, yellow, large, lit letters.

His hair is as pink as bubblegum. His nails are quite long, pointed, and painted black. He has a teal star on one of his cheeks and a yellow teardrop on the other. With his mere presence, he towers over you in height and strength and everything else possible. He is as odd-looking as a clown, you note to yourself. 

“I had heard the Spider had lost and gained a leg.” You say as the grip on your knife gets much stronger than before. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

“Correct, my dear.”

“Which one did you replace?”

“Fourth.”

“So Omokage then.”

“I think. Can’t recall right now.”

You scoff at that. “Can’t recall, huh?” The stranger’s grin stays on like a sticker of a smile that was placed on his face where his actual one would be.

“It doesn’t matter who died, I defeated them and that is all that matters. There is no use in remembering the name of a rotting corpse.” 

“I would thank you, but you have the same mission as he probably did.”

“Whether you like me or not does not matter either, I am here either way.” One, two steps closer. “I am here either way and there is nothing you can do about it, my dear.”

“I never liked Omokage, anyway. He always treated Luna so poorly.”

“Who?”

“The captive that was forced to be his doll of some sort. Though I assume she is dead by now, right?”

The man shrugs his shoulders and laughs. “Probably.”

“Was wherever you all buried her marked if somebody even buried her at all?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I do remember something about a body being put in a dug-out hole by Machi.”

At least she was given that, you guess. “How did she look?”

“There was hardly a body to bury if I remember correctly. It looked like someone took a skeleton and put leather over it.” Another amused chuckle.

“So she starved to death then. Slow and painful and probably chained up. He always restrained and gagged her before he left, after all.”

The man yawns, disinterested. He is not even paying attention, is he? 

“If you ever find out where her grave is, please put a jasmine flower on it for me. Jasmines were her favorite.”

“If I remember. Why are you asking so much about her anyway?”

*~*~*~*

Luna is kind to you, so kind. Despite being taken by such a monster that treats her so horribly, she still manages to smile whenever she talks to you, albeit how rare those times were. You remember one time she wore a turtleneck, the only one she was allowed to wear according to Chrollo, to cover the bruises on her neck, arms, and collarbone. Another time she wore a surgical mask, though because of how bright the teal color was it did the opposite of what Luna wanted it to do; not attract more attention to her face. Omokage only let her wear it because he thought it would “humble her”, whatever that fucking meant. Luna never hit him or at the very least tried not to, even when he broke two of her fingers in front of you. It was a punishment for asking for five more minutes to chat with you. 

“It will all be okay.” It is a repeated saying of hers.

“I know it will.” She would always answer that when you asked how she knew that things would get better. She repeats the saying and her answer both to you and to herself when the times get tougher than they usually are for her. She looked out for you and tried to make your situation better by telling Chrollo how good you were to her. Omokage only ignored and glared at you when you tried to do the same for her. You hate Omokage. You do, with all your being. You hated him more than you did all the other Troupe members.

You hated Omokage more than Chrollo even, which is quite the accomplishment if you say so yourself.

Chrollo thinks it is funny. At least you think he does. Maybe that is why you see Luna more than you do the other “Webs”, as you captives are named.

“It’s okay if he hurts me, I won’t hit him back. Violence is not the answer, it only creates more.” She grinned as she said that, one of her front teeth missing. “He’ll die one day and then I will be free.” It is clear to you that if she continues to think that way, she will break. “You’ll be there to tell Number Zero to free me, right? Then I can go home.” 

She is always such an optimist. It’s a trait you wish you had. You almost wish you could trade places with her because at least Chrollo does not treat you as his punching bag, though you suppose being his plaything isn’t much better. 

“I’ll do the same for you if Number Zero dies. At least then one of us would be free, either way, the ball rolls.” Her light is fading, you can tell by how she looks at you, how her blue eyes don’t shine as much as they used to. “I’ll do anything to make sure he listens.” She is going to break soon. You want so badly to stop it. You want to save her. But you can’t. “I mean it. I’ll do anything if it means you’ll be free.” 

You know she means it, and it brings you so much more pain than if she didn’t. She unintentionally twists her knife further into your heart

“It will all be okay. I want you all to be happy. You all deserve it.” You want to tell her that she does, more than you do. She deserves a good life, a normal life. “We are friends, aren’t we?” You can’t bear to tell her the truth of what will happen if either Omokage or Chrollo dies. “Friends look out for each other.” 

She placed a kiss on your forehead then, before Omokage could stop her. She was dragged back by him pulling on her long sable hair as she cried out in pain. He called her a whore and pulled her out of the room. Neither she nor Omokage came back to the room that day. 

*~*~*~*

“She was so sweet. She didn’t deserve to die like that at all.”

“I am Hisoka, by the way.” He bows, the smirk still being plastered on his face without faltering.

You take a few steps back as he approaches further, trying to remain some distance apart from him. “Stay back.” Hisoka hums and merely comes closer.

“If the description I was given and what you know checks out, you must be [First]. At least, I hope that’s who you are, for your sake.” He smiles and he moves forward. “You have certainly been going on a few little adventures, haven’t you?” 

“...Yes.” He stares down at you. You know that to him; you are a mere rubber toy to twist until your head pops off. 

His gaze shifts to your house, behind you. “You certainly are resourceful; I’ll give you that. The life you have built for yourself was made from nothing. Quite admirable.”

“Do you mean that?” You ask, your voice both cold and inquiring as to why one of the members of the Phantom Troupe is here, in front of you and your house. But you already knew the answer.

“I do.” His voice seems somewhat truthful, but you can tell he wants more.

“Why are you here, Number Four?”

“Now, now. No need to be so aggressive.” He puts his hands up in a mockery of surrendering as he goes back to looking down on you. With the dying trees and debris behind him, he sticks out like a sore thumb. “I have a favor to ask of you. Nothing more, nothing less.”

The way he looks at you, a look of one that is about to skin a poor, defenseless doe.

“What kind?”

“Simple. Tell me all you know about the boss.”

“What would I get in exchange for telling you such information?”

“I will not tell the other Troupe members of your location.”

“Is that a threat, Number Four?”

“Oh, no, it is not a threat. It is a potential promise if you don’t listen. While you are at it, you can also tell me about yourself. I believe we haven’t had an actual conversation before if the boss told me the truth that you have been on the run from him for more than two years.”

“Don’t be greedy, Number Four.”

“Oh, no.” Hisoka grins with a proud smile. “I believe you are the one being greedy, my dear.”

“...you’re not the first person to tell me that.”

“You ran away from a life of luxury and comfort. Surely you feel at least somewhat foolish for doing such a thing?”

“Perhaps.”

“The boss is quite displeased with you, though I assume you know that by now. He has been searching high and low all over for you.”

“I’m quite aware, Number Four. We both know I don’t intend to go back.”

He nods and hums. “I know. That is why if you still want to play house with your precious boy toy, you’ll do what I say.” 

You scoff and look to the side. “He is not… just a plaything. He is different.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” He looks off to the woods. “Plus, I believe there is a rat in your midst. I am sure you have noticed. If you tell me what you know, I’ll trap him for you.”

“You mean you’re not…” Your posture slightly relaxes, but soon firms up once again when you realize that you have two people following you now; Hisoka and your mysterious stalker.

“No. I’m not. So, will you accept my offer, darling?”

“Why does such information matter to you?”

Hisoka shakes his head, still smiling. “That doesn’t concern you, my dear. Now, tell me what you know if you don’t want the rest of the Troupe being here in a matter of mere hours.”

You’re happy here.

You’re happy here, being independent once again. You’re happy here, having stability and not fearing a sudden, gruesome death where you die alone with no one but your captor. You’re happy here, being able to find some humanity within yourself.

You’re happy here with Sebaste.

You’re happy here with Sebaste, who is in the house, blissfully unaware of the laurel crown placed on your head, its thorns digging deep into your skull and dying the tips of it crimson red. He doesn’t know of the invisible scars that mark your body, a gift from the very pits of hell’s flames.

He will remain in that place, never knowing of anything you have buried underground.

He will stay, no matter the cost you will have to pay.

You’re happy here with Sebaste, and you’re not going to let anyone take it away from you.

“Do we have a deal?”

The moment your lips part, the words that escape your mouth are the ones Hisoka longs to hear.

Hier Encore III.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

[Hier Encore II.]

Synopsis: Yorknew Police Department Headquarters, 1995, April 10th. You are a director of public safety. The Phantom Troupe attacks the headquarters and takes you under the guise of a hostage situation. Even when the ransom is paid, you are never returned and assumed to be dead. After thirteen months of captivity, in 1996, on May 9th, you escape and try to learn how to live again somewhere far away from your captor. The payment of freedom comes with a steep cost, one that stains your hands so much that even if you drown them in bleach, the stain will remain there for the rest of your life.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, the reader is described as AFAB and uses she/her pronouns respectively, not SFW implications, misogynistic undertones (not from Chrollo), unhealthy relationships, manipulation o’clock, references to religion, mentions of starvation, some minor Hunter x Hunter spoilers, the reader has a panic attack, violence/gore, Hisoka showing up again sorry, minor character death, and stalking.

Word Count: 7k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Lacrimosa by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

4:00 A.M. by Taeko Onuki

My Girlfriend Is a Witch by October Country

Michelle by Sir Chloe

Sonne by Rammstein

Enemy by Imagine Dragons

Venus Fly Trap by MARINA

Maneater by Nelly Furtado

cult leader by KiNG MALA

Teacher’s Pet by Melanie Martinez 

"She looked like a vixen, and that’s what she was; she had all the instincts of a female fox. She was the proverbial predatory female. She had what she wanted, now, and she was content. There was just the getting completely away with it that counted.” – Gil Brewer, Sin for Me

iii. “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”

This morning, as you opened your eyes, a throbbing migraine greeted you. The aftermath of a nightmare always brought forth such a wretched morning. The reason behind these intense headaches following a night of unsettling dreams remains elusive, yet their unwavering arrival each morning remains an undeniable truth.

Perhaps the throbbing in your head stemmed from those restless evenings when you ingested copious amounts of caffeine to ward off sleep and reduce the likelihood of haunting visions of your former abductor returning for you.

Or perhaps it was how you sometimes cried in your sleep during those nightmares, curled on your side to prevent Sebaste from seeing your tears. Or perhaps it was the fact that you always pretended you were fine the morning after, holding back a sea of tears, and eventually, the fear piled like some sort of karmic debt. Perhaps it was all of those things combined. It would make sense. You still don’t know the exact reason, though. You were only aware of one thing–a throbbing headache that seemed destined to accompany you throughout the entire day like an unwanted hitchhiker. At least it was the first of November now, you guess.

No children at your door until midnight to collect candy from you and Sebaste. Maybe it was the constant opening and closing of your door and your repeatedly saying “treat” to the children that caused your migraine, now that you think about it. This village had most of the kids and some adults trick or treating, amounting to almost twenty people knocking on your door at different times of the day, some multiple times a day, to ask you for candy that you will give them if you do not want to get tricked. After sunset, you just put a bucket of candy at your door and called it a day, not wanting any other disturbances for the night. After a few minutes of rubbing your eyes and yawning, you eventually encouraged yourself to get up. You dragged yourself to the bathroom, your head throbbing and bouncing around as you groaned.

As usual, the morning after a nightmare you had of Chrollo resulted in you not being able to undress and take a shower. You have tried a few times. Whenever you closed your eyes and had your shirt or dress above your head, about to take it off completely, you would feel a presence behind you. You would immediately cover yourself back up and quickly turn on the lights.

Every time after a nightmare about Chrollo, you would practically be reduced to being an eight-year-old again. Sebaste sleeping next to you was the only way you could calm down a bit. On days Sebaste was on trips or sleeping at a friend’s house or just traveling in general, you would take your pillow and your blankets to the couch in the living room to sleep there as that is where your brightest lamp was. 

“It doesn’t matter.” You mutter to yourself, splashing cold water on your face to become more awake. 

On nights Sebaste was gone, you would always fall into an irregular slumber where you would jolt yourself awake every time you heard that calm and collected voice enter your dreams. You never cried when Sebaste was there, you only cried when he wasn’t. Even though crying sometimes made you less likely to go back to sleep, you had to express your fear sometimes, as rare as those times were. 

“What doesn’t?” Because of your exhaustion, it took you a second to realize that voice was Sebastian’s. But as soon as you put the dots together, the corners of your mouth curled upward slightly. There he was, behind you, yawning with his hair ruffled and large spots of black makeup still around his eyes, smudged.

Your head feels slightly better already.

You walk up to him and kiss his cheek, some of his white face paint getting on your lips. It feels dry and bitter, but you don’t mind it. If anything, you find it sort of endearing. Sebaste was so tired and drunk from celebrating Halloween with his friends that he had forgotten to wipe off the cosmetics. 

He was hungover, groaning and massaging his temples.

You feel hungover too, all without a single drop of alcohol in your bloodstream.

He hugs you and puts his head on your shoulder, his still-worn skeleton costume smelling like chemicals and beer. Perhaps a rest day would be good for you two.

“Nothing.” You say as your arms wrap around him. “Don’t worry about it.”

*~*~*~*

Tears stream down your face as you struggle and fight to push yourself off of your captor’s lap. Your efforts seemed futile, however, as you simply were not strong enough to push him away. No matter how hard you try to break free, his grip on your wrists and legs is too tight to fight off. The only thing you could do was to try your best to wipe away your tears and snot with the sleeves of your gray hoodie, the only long-sleeved shirt you were allowed to wear. 

With a heavy heart, shaky breath, and even shakier hands you stop fighting. Chrollo pulls you closer to him, praising you with sickeningly sweet nothings.

Chrollo's smile is almost cruel as he gazes down at you, mockingly.

“You’re so good, aren’t you?” He coos, and you find yourself likening his tone to the creaking sound of a rusty door opening. 

“At what?” You mutter, your voice cracked.

"At pleasing me." He whispers, his mouth hovering close to your ear. "You're quite the siren, you know that? Those tears of yours look rather beautiful on your cheeks." With that he gives you a gentle kiss on the tip of your nose, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Just like the rest of you," Chrollo whispers. "Stunning."

Chrollo hears your cries, yet he does nothing to console you. To him, a wounded animal is nothing but an attractive sight. He continues to kiss and nuzzle your neck, whispering loving and yet cruel words in your ear. You can feel his body pressed up against your own, your movements limited by his strong arms.

"Your tears are delicious, darling." He mumbles. "Just like the rest of you."

Chrollo can feel how your body trembles against his own, and this only serves to stoke his desire even further. He enjoys these displays of pure, genuine emotion. He trails his fingers up your arms and to your face, slowly caressing your tears away from your cheeks. 

"I didn't think that someone as gorgeous and charming as you could be so adorable when she cries." He whispers. "It's like your entire personality changes."

Chrollo's eyes travel down to you once more, taking in your face and your body with a slow, predatory gaze. He traces a finger all along your collarbone before moving it slightly lower.

"Look at you," He whispers. "You're like a painting come to life. It should be no wonder that I wanted to steal you." 

With that, he plants a kiss on your cheek, his touch as light as a feather. His breath blows against your skin, making you shiver. Your cries are music to his ears. The sound of your genuine anguish is something he finds intoxicating.

"That's it, darling," Chrollo whispers, his voice becoming increasingly husky and deep as he continues to shower your neck with kisses. "I know you want this just as much as I do."

His arms tighten around you yet again, his grip almost painful.

You look at the clock above the television. There are twenty minutes left before you are placed back in those silk restraints. You don’t know whether this is a good or bad thing for you.

*~*~*~*

Your stomach is warm from having the pleasant, wholesome dinner Sebaste had made. Eggplant parmesan and lemon salmon with amaranth, kale, and garlic. Delicious. He claims that he is a bad cook and that you are better at this stuff than he is, but you think otherwise. You hum happily as you feel comforted.

For the first time, you truly feel safe and protected because of how well Sebaste treats you. He is kind and caring, the opposite of what his stepfather says about him. Your heart and mind are still filled with anxiety but you know that Hisoka will keep his word and not tell the Phantom Troupe of your location. He does not seem to be a liar, despite being many other things. That gives you a twisted sense of comfort, in a way. 

But you can’t help but think about Chrollo.

You remember the moment after the massacre. You remember everything.

Your emotions from that day are still alive in you. You feel the same terror, the same fear, the same horror when you remember being tied up, all alone in Chrollo's penthouse.

You can't help but think of those emotions again now, as you're in your bed, trying so desperately to sleep. You remember the shock you felt and the terror. You remember how you desperately begged Chrollo to let you go, but he just kept coming at you, so soft yet so cruel.

You try hard to not remember. It is best not to think about it.

No, it's something that you try very hard not to remember but you still do. You remember the time Chrollo kept touching you. When he spoke in that sickening way as if he cared for you. All those touches, the words from his foul mouth. You remembered the feeling of that day. The coldness of his touch. The cruelty of his words.

"I’m willing to wait." 

That sentence is stuck in your head.

You do your best to distract yourself from those terrible memories, but they keep haunting you.

No, you don't want to go that far back in your memories, your mind tries to stop you. You don't want to remember those days.

When you think of the ways you kept seducing Chrollo to lower his guard, you feel disgusted.

You try to forget it.

You try to make those memories go away.

But they won't leave you alone.

You focus on them. Those memories, those feelings.

For some reason, you can't get them out of your mind.

You remember Chrollo's gifts, the way he slid clothes and jewelry onto your body like another chain. The bribes. The touches.

The fear, the helplessness of not being able to do anything to stop him. Of being forced to do what he wanted you to do. That desperate feeling of wanting to do anything if it means that you will escape.

You try to make that feeling go away, but it keeps following you. It keeps haunting you as if it is trying to punish you.

It's hard to forget those experiences.

It's hard to forget those memories.

It’s hard to forget Chrollo.

You don't want to think about them. But you can't help it.

The horror, the disgust, the helplessness.

A flashback washes over you.

It takes you to those days.

The gifts.

The touches.

The helplessness. The pain.

I want to go home.

That is what you wanted most and still do.

You feel yourself there again, in that horrible place.

Your body is shaking. The memories wash over you.

You see Chrollo's face, and you feel sickened.

The flashback hits your mind, and you feel completely alone, overwhelmed with fear and sadness.

You want to forget, but you can't. The memories are still there, haunting you.

You close your eyes. You feel yourself transported back to those days. You feel the cold shackles of the chains that bind your hands together. You feel a hand squeeze your inner thigh. You look up and you see Chrollo smiling at you. You feel like you'll go insane. You feel scared beyond belief. Chrollo's sick smile and his dark eyes, staring right back at you. You start crying. You scream in fear and despair. It's a nightmare. It's a horrible nightmare. You wish you could forget.

"Someone help me!” You scream.

Nobody can hear you.

It's like you're in a bubble, and the world around you doesn't exist. It feels like you're alone in here, and you can't get out of this flashback. You're reliving the nightmare in your head, and you can't stop it. The flashback continues.

"I’m willing to wait," Chrollo mocks you, saying those same words he said those days.

You see him there, in your mind. His eyes, his smile, staring back at you. Your heart is filled with fear, and you close your eyes and scream. You want it to stop. You don't want to see the cruel and mocking face of Chrollo, those words from his mouth.

You close your eyes and scream.

All your fears, all your anger, all your hatred. It's like being back in that hell, once again. You feel completely helpless, and you just want to get out of this nightmare. But you can't stop it. It's in your head.

The memories feel so real. The cruel words, the fear, the loneliness. The gifts and the shackles and the threats. It's like being back in that room again. It's like nothing around you is real.

The flashback continues, and your mind takes you deeper and deeper into the darkness, into the nightmare. Your breath is shaking, and your face is covered in cold sweat. Your heart is racing in your chest.

"I’m willing to wait," Chrollo says, once again.

Your eyes are closed, and you curl up into a ball.

You feel those cold shackles on your legs, those cold chains on your arms.

You hear Chrollo's mocking and cruel voice. You see his face, smiling at you. You see him in your mind, watching you. Taunting you. You can't even see Sebaste or the room, because it feels like everything is gone, and you're back there. It's like going back to that day again.

The flashback continues, taking you to the darkest corners of your mind. You feel the silk blankets covering your legs. The tears of despair, the frustration of being unable to do anything else. You hear the cruelty of his words, and you see his mocking smile. You feel alone, trapped in your mind. You can't see anything else, the world around you is gone. You're in a dark room with him. Just a little girl, at the mercy of a monster.

The memory continues to haunt you. You're trapped in it, and you can't get out. You see everything around you as if it's real. You feel the cold handcuffs and the velvet restraints. You feel the fear, the desperation. The helplessness of being completely under his control. You hear his cruel voice, his words mocking you. You see him there, smiling at you in your mind. You're trapped in his sick reality, and you don't know if you'll ever escape.

"I’m willing to wait," he says.

He's mocking you again.

You try to forget every memory of him, every memory of what he did to you. But you can't. Your mind won't let you forget, and that's the worst part. These memories are stuck in your mind, and you don't know if you'll ever forget them.

You try to block them out, and you scream again.

You scream for someone to help you. You scream for anyone to come and save you, but no one hears you.

Suddenly you hear Sebastian's voice. He's here with you.

Your memories fade away, and you find yourself in your bedroom again. You're safe. It's gone. Your mind is filled with relief. It was all a memory after all. A nightmare. But you still feel a bit shaken. You know these memories are still deep in your brain. And you fear that they'll surface again in the future. It's a terrible feeling. Your body still feels cold, and your heart is still beating fast.

Sebaste is looking at you with a concerned face. He's still here with you. He doesn't know what happened, but he feels concerned about your well-being. You want to tell him what happened, but you don't know if you should. You don't want to worry him any more than you already just did. But, you do feel the need to talk to him, to share what's on your mind.

You scramble backward when he touches your legs. "Don't touch me!" you cry out through your tears. You're still caught up in the nightmares, and you're terrified. "I'm not going back!" you scream.

Sebaste stops, his expression filled with concern.

"Hey," he says, gently. "Calm down," he says, his voice soft and reassuring. "Calm down," he says again, holding his hands up and showing you that he's not going to hurt you. "You're safe. No one's going to hurt you." 

He tries to move closer, but you move backward again. He doesn't want to scare you. 

"It's okay." he says, "It's okay, you're here, in the present. Nothing terrible is going to happen."

“Please don’t hurt me.” You beg, hyperventilating.

"No, no," Sebaste says, his eyes full of concern. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to lock you up. I'm not going to do anything to you."

He steps closer again, but you move away.

"It's okay." he says, "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help you."

He tries to show you that he's not going to do anything to you, he's trying to reassure you. He speaks slowly and softly, trying to comfort you. You take a deep breath and try to calm down. “You're safe." he says, "Calm down. I don’t know what happened to you in your past, but just know you are safe here."

“I never could tell you, I never could… I never could.”

Sebaste frowns. "You know," he says, "You don’t have to face all the troubles this world gives you by yourself."

 He moves even closer, slowly and carefully.

"I'm not going to do anything to you," he says, "I'm not going to hurt you or punish you." He's trying to calm you down and soothe your mind, but he knows how difficult it can be. "It's okay," he says, "you're safe, calm down."

“Please don’t hurt me like he did.” You cry out.

"Shh, shh, I'm not going to hurt you like he did," Sebaste says, confused yet trying to be comforting. He doesn’t know what you are talking about but he is trying to understand you. He's speaking in a soft and gentle voice, trying to calm you down. "I'm not going to hurt you," he says, "I'm not like him, whoever he was. It’s okay, you're safe here. No one is going to hurt you here."

You start crying loudly, your eyes filled with tears. You can't seem to stop them. The fear keeps growing inside you.

"Please calm down," Sebaste says, "You're safe here. No one is going to hurt you."

He's trying his best to sound reassuring and comforting, but you can't stop crying. The memories keep coming back, haunting you. He's trying so hard to reassure you, but you're terrified. You're scared of him and the memories are still fresh in your mind. 

Out of impulse, you run out the backdoor before Sebaste can stop you, claiming that a walk would help you calm down.

*~*~*~*

You assume it is dawn right now from the view outside the bedroom windows, but it does not bring you any comfort. Even as the darkness quiets down and gives way to the sky changing from pitch black to teal to salmon pink, a beautiful sight all things considered, it does not change the fact that you are still here, sleeping with silk restraints and tied down to the bed. You can’t speak because you have been gagged as usual, though if you can take Chrollo as a man of his word for once, the gagging will stop soon. You wish you could speak freely, feeling a feeling near a bird having its vocal cords removed. Is this karma for what you have done? If you ever escape, would that be considered your last chance from whatever power is above you?

You have never been religious. That and if there was a God out there somewhere, why would they unleash upon you such a twisted fate? Is this judgment from the divine? Has the court been adjourned, and the suspect not even being there to witness her trial let alone sentencing? Perhaps a successful escape will be the only way for it to reopen. Refrain. 

You can practically hear a judge’s mallet slamming, ending the trial before you can even arrive. Death sentence for you. If you get out of here, maybe there would be an appeal.

If you try and rebuild yourself, whether you are still in captivity or not, would that be your saving grace? Will the heavens above worship the very ground you walk upon, you being what it truly means to be human? What you do next could determine whether or not that can become reality or you are just deluding yourself yet again. False visions can lead to failure, no matter how small that blindness to reality is. 

My Lord, give me one more chance.

That is what prayers are like, right? Maybe, maybe not. You just hope that if the divine does answer your prayer, it will be soon and not the last one. 

Judgment has passed, but you aren’t giving up.

The sunrise is pink now. You are tired. Your mask is fading into watercolor and shattering the faux stars around you. You and the devil lay side by side in your hell; this bed.

You sometimes think sleeping Chrollo is an entirely different person.

Half of his hair is always tangled, the half that was making contact with the mattress. His forehead tattoo however stays in view no matter how messy his hair turns up, not that that meant much. He sleeps on his side every night, facing you in a fetal sleeping position. He is either holding you in his arms with an iron grip or at the very least has one of his palms on one of your cheeks.

Whenever he would wake up before you, he would gently rub your shoulders and mutter sweet nothings in your ear. Sweet nothings like how you looked divine while you slept and oh, just a bit longer and this adjustment period would end. This would be followed by a kiss somewhere on your upper half, then what you would like to eat that morning. You often chose buttered toast or oatmeal, something warm and comforting. You hardly ever liked cold dishes anyway. He would come back a few minutes later with whatever item you requested and feed it to you, or if you have been particularly receptive to his touches and honeyed words, he would untie one of your wrists and sit you up, letting you feed yourself. You have found out that the chance that he would let you feed yourself increases with dishes that don’t require a knife or fork, for obvious reasons.

He never ate in front of you in the bedroom. On times when you were unrestrained for an hour or two, you would occasionally see him with a cup of black coffee or some bread or a pasta dish, but it was indeed rare. You think you eat more than he does. You once dreamt that he had forgotten to eat so much that he died of malnutrition, which is still one of your favorite dreams if you are being honest with yourself. It was funny. So funny that you woke up chuckling. Thank goodness Chrollo was asleep. Or at least pretended to, you wouldn’t put it past him after all.

“Good morning, beloved.”

“Good morning.” You mutter, still half asleep. Your captor chuckles at that and leaves a chaste kiss on your cheek. You yawn and turn over to him the best you can while still being restrained to the headboard. You blink once, twice, three times in total before you can see the cross on his forehead. “What time is it?”

*~*~*~*

You go to the old shed that is on the other side of the farm.

You unlock the door with your key, disrupting the spider webs that have been made both inside the lock and on the doorframe. There are no bright lights as only your house, the coop and the barn have electricity for heating and the radio, though Sebaste likes working on his desktop so you have let him install new cables in his office. 

“Bonjour.” There is a smile on your face, but it is one as cold as the beach’s ocean. 

The corpse remains fastened to the chair with its arms attached to the handles with zip ties. 

Half of the top of his skull was caved into itself from a quite obvious strike of a hammer, leaving some dried brain matter on its surface with a trail of blood leading from the crack at the center of the crevice downward to his lips. His eyes were gouged out with the optic nerves still in place making them move from side to side if a fly or rat had touched it or had started to eat it.

If you ever were to eventually dump the body, you would need to at the very least hide the inside of his mouth as the corpse had no teeth and some maggots had started to make the near-black gums their new home. You would also have to tear out the eyeballs and close the eyelids. You didn’t want to leave anyone who finds the body to be too traumatized, after all.

It would also be harder to identify that way. No one knew of someone who had willingly their mouth and eyes sewn shut, after all, and also the top of his head hardly had any hair from all of the yanking you had done yourself, the bottom of the shed being littered with it along with dust, urine, blood, and other bodily fluids. 

Hisoka knew the human body well, unsurprisingly considering he is a member of the Phantom Troupe. 

*~*~*~*

The bruised and battered man brought to you was a mix of what you were and were not expecting.

He had short hair that was shaved on its sides and slicked back with a tad too much gel. There was a small part of it that was black in the back while the rest of it was an unnatural dark yellow, like Dijon mustard in a sense, making you assume that he was born dark-haired. 

His face was an odd mix of round and oblong, his nose asymmetric and bulbous.

His lips were thin and looked cracked, his breath smelling so much of garlic, booze, sweat, and cigar smoke that you smelled him before you saw him.

He was short and thin, small bits of dried skin sticking among his black and blue cheeks and one of his eye areas, forehead, and his broken nose. He had dark brown eyes and a poorly taken care of mustache that looked like it hadn’t been washed or brushed in at least a week. The man seemed to be half unconscious by the looks of it, Hisoka certainly did not hold back on him. Not that you complained about it.

“Into the shed, then?”

The Spider’s voice is like bubblegum in a way; sticky, too sweet, artificial.

The man, thrown at your feet just a minute or two prior, groans in pain. His voice is grainy, and croaky, akin to a dying frog. Slimy, loud, and almost gross. If it weren’t for Sebaste, you would still hate them. For that reason only, you then move from the image of a frog or toad to a jackdaw. Annoying, and loves shiny things, if the many golden jewelry the man has around his neck and wrists were any indication of such.

They both are just gross.

Sticky, sticky, sticky. Slimy, slimy, slimy.

“Yes, there’s a chair inside for him in the center.”

“I know,” Hisoka says, his smile widening into a smirk. “I saw it.”

You choose not to pry any further, Hisoka has proven to be a man of his word and a key ally. However, he is no chess piece for you to control; whether he is a king, knight, or pawn.

He moves on his own. If what he says is true, even Chrollo does not control him, letting him do whatever he wants. You have both recognized how strong Hisoka is to either side. He plays a double agent to get twice the rewards in the end, whether that reward is simple amusement or riches.

You would like to think that your voice is like bittersweet chocolate with almonds. Sweeter than its dark counterpart, but more bitter compared to its milk one. Slightly dry or crumbly. It has an unlimited shelf life if stored in the dark and surrounded by cold air.

“Your tools are cute.” Hisoka murmurs as he drags the man by his broken leg and throws him into the chair with a hard slamming sound. “Adorable even, I’ll be sure to use some.”

“Feel free. Be sure to zip-tie him first.”

“Should I though? It’s not like he’s getting very far anyway.”

“Just do it please.”

Hisoka chuckles as he obliges your request. 

“There. Happy, princess?”

“Never call me that again.”

He shrugs and laughs, the sound nearly causing your ears physical pain as your stomach recoils onto itself. You hope he will oblige that request too, if he is in a good mood right now. Hopefully. All Spiders loved bloodshed from the looks of it, and torturing a man is probably child’s play to him. To Chrollo and Feitan at least it was. 

You still have nightmares of those who were tortured in front of you.

It was in the early days of your capture. You think those sessions in Feitan’s basement were to instill fear in you, with your cries and begging to not see it anymore. Not that you could run, Chrollo made sure Feitan chained you to the wall with the longest chain he had, which wasn’t much, but perhaps it was a small mercy along with the stool you were given. During those rather unfortunate meetings, Feitan would rarely ever talk to you and Chrollo would either be sitting beside you or partaking in the gruesomeness himself with his book. 

“Very well, little beauty,” His praise feels more like a threat. “Should I slap him awake now or after the tools are set out?”

You don’t answer, instead trying to remember what specific techniques they used. It wasn’t hard, not to your own surprise. 

“I’ll do it after, then.”

He opens the spare closet this shed came with and whistles. You think if Hisoka ever was surprised, you think that would be how he would act. 

Three pistols, bullets both blanks and not, and a taser are on the top part. Multiple knives litter the second shelf, most being taken from your kitchen. A large hammer is on the floor level, the kind used for tenderizing meat, along with cleavers and a large orange chainsaw. A birthday gift from Robin, as odd as it was. At least now you would be able to use it.

“Nervous? God, you can’t get any cuter, can you?”

You start thinking whether or not this deal was a bad idea, but stomp out the thought.

Hisoka is valuable. You cannot lose him in this game.

“No.”

“No?” He mimics your fear with his ever-eternal smirk on his face. “You know, I think I am starting to know why the boss was so taken with you.”

Hisoka is much bolder than Chrollo ever was. This can both hurt and help you in your situation. You have to think carefully of what to say and do while in his presence.

As Hisoka retrieves the tools, a silent exchange unfolds between you and him. One by one, he delicately arranges them on the petite table positioned next to the chair. He hums a melody unknown to you, but it sort of resembles carnival music. You wouldn’t be surprised if it was.

He goes back and forth between the table and the closet slowly. He brings forth a tool like a cat bringing its owner a dead bird before going back for another. You think this is for dramatic effect. Chrollo and Feitan both love a dramatic buildup before the finale, after all, so Hisoka should too.

Eventually, when all the tools are laid out, he pauses and puts his pointer finger and thumb on his chin in contemplation. 

“Ah, which to use first… hmm,” He grabs your wrist and pulls you in closer to him, his other hand playing with your hair. You try to get away, but his grip tightens as he chuckles. He then pats your head and adjusts your bangs so they aren’t as ruffled. “Which do you think, dear? Maybe the tweezers or-”

He stops himself as he picks up a pin cushion from the now bare closet floor, with a few needles and thread beside it. “Ah, this brings up some memories, doesn’t it, my dear? Our dear sewer. Should I say hi to her for you?”

You shake your head as your eyebrows furrow. “How are you supposed to do that? If she knows it came from me she’ll come for me. She’ll bring me back.”

“True. I could say it was anonymous.”

You think he’s just playing around, teasing you. He wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t do that to his new plaything.

If she wasn’t a Spider, maybe you would have accepted. She was nice to you and even taught you how to sew once. It was after a meeting and she had noticed that you had a small hole in your dress, a detail both you and Chrollo had missed. Chrollo trusted her enough to let you not be at his side for a few minutes, knowing that she would give you right back to him. 

“You’re really lucky that this shed is on the other side of your property, my dear.”

“I know.”

You cannot truly be free without getting your hands stained, you tell yourself.

*~*~*~*

Your stalker turned out to be Dario’s eldest son.

A legitimate heir, it would seem. He was stalking you to make you his wife, eventually. He wanted to get rid of Sebaste. He kept screaming insults as he died, and also promising to take good care of you as your husband, which only pissed you off and amused Hisoka further. 

It was Dario’s dying wish for the stranger and you to marry.

Disgusting.

*~*~*~*

You had learned what exactly Nen was today. You did not expect to, all things considered. You were just traveling on foot trying to find some shelter after leaving yet another dirty motel room.

Another individual shared your idea, journeying alongside you toward the unknown destination this path would unveil. You didn’t speak to each other until there was a fork in the road. It was raining and muddy, making you almost slip and fall into him. That was when you finally took a good look at him. He was short, around your height, had worn clean clothes, and had well-kept short black hair with purple highlights.

He seemed to be able to take care of himself well. When he stared back at you, he crossed his arms and scoffed. His face contorted into one of disgust, you think. 

Perhaps he was also comparing you to him. Your hair was soaking wet from the rain as you had lost your only jacket, the jacket you stole from some unsuspecting teenager. The indent that the bear trap left on your leg was still there, covered in dried blood, with you wincing every time you took a step. Your clothes were tattered and stained with sweat, water, and blood. 

Despite you two being the same height, this man seemed to tower over you, staring down at you like you were some sort of pest to him. His lower lip was slightly droopy because of the scowl he had on his face. It was like you were responsible for this man’s suffering or the heavy rain. 

Both of your pairs of eyes looked exhausted, though. The stranger had a few cuts on his otherwise flawless and pale cheeks and some of his makeup had washed away from the rain, showing his large eyebags. Your cheeks had purple bruises and cuts twice as deep, your eyebags even bigger than the man’s.

Is he pitying you? Hating you? Envying you? He seems unreadable, the only emotion shown on his face being disgust and slight anger. Does he want to fight you?

You sure hope not. Hopefully, he will choose one of the paths and walk it and you will take the other.

You nearly flinch as he speaks.

“Who are you?”

Your mind runs through tens of fake names and titles given to you by those you have encountered in the past. “Just a wanderer.”

He scoffs again and turns to the side, clearly not buying your lie.

He stomps his foot down, the mud splashing your bare feet. 

“I’m not stupid. Who are you?”

You both look down at your feet at the same time.

Your feet are covered in injuries from the past few weeks, a large infection on your right one screeding yellow pus. You didn’t have enough funds to buy medical supplies and thought that just going on walking would be the best option, much to your future self’s pain. 

You’re so smart, yet so dumb.

“A runaway.”

He nods as a mocking smile appears on his face.

“Good. You have a functioning brain it seems.” His voice is full of so much fake sugar that it makes you sick. “No wanderer would ever be in as bad a shape as you are in. What did you run away from?”

Should you tell him the truth? He obviously knows something about you. Maybe you could tell him a half lie, tell him that you ran away from an abusive family that is after you, or a crazy ex. The second one wouldn’t necessarily be a lie after all. Maybe you could just laugh it off like it is some joke between two acquaintances, but you know he wouldn’t like that at all. So, you think of an actual answer.

A good one.

“I ran away from…” You hesitate to speak, fearing the repercussions that may follow if you reveal the truth. “A kidnapper.”

His mocking smile fades, his mouth falling into a flat line. “Who is?” You want to cry but you can’t.

You don’t want him to know. He can’t know. You can’t run because of your leg. You can’t keep all of your suffering under lock and key and never tell a soul. It has to eventually get out, like you have.

He keeps staring at you with those cold blue eyes of his, not amused, and takes no nos for answers. He wants to know.

“Go ahead.” His voice is bitter like the blackest coffee.

Why is he asking you this? Does he know you? Is he a Spider?

“The Phantom Troupe.” You finally say as your head drops back down again. “The leader mostly. I… I ran away a few weeks ago.” You shiver, and you don’t know if it is because of the cold rain or the man’s gaze. You sniffle. “I… I have no money. No home.”

There. You got it out to someone.

Hopefully, nothing bad will happen to you now, right?

“Believable. Understandable.”

He takes a few steps closer, and closer and you stand still like you are trapped in stone. You make eye contact again, and there is a softness in his eyes that makes you feel slightly warmer. He nods.

He looks down at your leg, at your feet, your hands, your arms, and your face.

“I’ll help you then.”

*~*~*~*

“I’m back.”

You want to apologize to him. You want to hug him. You probably hurt him.

You hurt him while he was trying to help you.

You set your coat down on the coat rack by the entrance, took off your shoes, and started walking up the stairs to the living room and kitchen area. You heard water rushing from the faucet and scrubbing. Sebaste seemed to be paying too much attention to washing the dishes to notice you. 

“I just want to say that I am sorry. I am.”

Your voice inadvertently trembles, exceeding your intentions, but the circumstances render it unavoidable. The aftermath of your intense outcry on the distant side of the farm leaves your throat with a lingering ache. Permeated by a cold sweat, your neck becomes speckled, and your arms quiver as you position yourself behind him. Your gaze darts aimlessly, evading direct contact with him as he pivots in your direction.

To the kitchen towels. To the tiles on the floor. To the refrigerator. 

As he dries his hands, silence prevails. Uncertain of his gaze or whether he caught your words, your anxiety fluctuates. It is essential to remind yourself daily that he is not Chrollo.

He is not Chrollo. 

Right?

He can’t be. He is too good of a person. You care about him.

There is a ring of the doorbell, and Sebaste walks off without saying a word, frowning.

When he opens the door, it is like the Devil himself rose from hell to collect you.

Hier Encore IV.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

[Hier Encore III.]

Synopsis: Yorknew Police Department Headquarters, 1995, April 10th. You are a director of public safety. The Phantom Troupe attacks the headquarters and takes you under the guise of a hostage situation. Even when the ransom is paid, you are never returned and assumed to be dead. After thirteen months of captivity, in 1996, on May 9th, you escape and try to learn how to live again somewhere far away from your captor. The payment of freedom comes with a steep cost, one that stains your hands so much that even if you drown them in bleach, the stain will remain there for the rest of your life.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, the reader is described as AFAB and uses she/her pronouns respectively, not SFW implications, misogynistic undertones (not from Chrollo), unhealthy relationships, manipulation o’clock, body transformation (not on the reader), references to religion, violence/gore, minor character death, and stalking.

Word Count: 5.9k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Lacrimosa by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

4:00 A.M. by Taeko Onuki

My Girlfriend Is a Witch by October Country

Michelle by Sir Chloe

Sonne by Rammstein

Enemy by Imagine Dragons

Venus Fly Trap by MARINA

Maneater by Nelly Furtado

cult leader by KiNG MALA

Teacher’s Pet by Melanie Martinez 

“She looked like a vixen, and that’s what she was; she had all the instincts of a female fox. She was the proverbial predatory female. She had what she wanted, now, and she was content. There was just the getting completely away with it that counted.” – Gil Brewer, Sin for Me

iv. “I must be cruel, only to be kind.”

“Greetings.”

One emotion comes after another on Sebastian's face: confusion, fear, distrust, and many more.

“Hello.” His voice is tight. “Do you need something?” He asks, putting his hands on the doorframe as a precaution.

“I have just come to ask you a few questions.” Chrollo answers, his voice as calm and collected as always. He isn’t even looking at Sebaste, his focus is placed on the inside of the cottage. He knows that you are here.

“Like what?” Sebaste asks, his body tensing up.

“My dear, come out.” He calls out to you, his voice as soft as it usually is.

“I’m sorry?” Sebaste questions, his shoulders strained upwards. “I’m right here.”

Chrollo pays him no mind, instead still looking over Sebastian's shoulder. He hums, looking at one object in the living room at a time. The black sofa by the television was old with the bottom left corner of it torn, white stuffing no longer being covered there in that spot. The carpet below Sebastian’s feet, the colors fading because of age. The creaky poplar floorboards. The pots of plants where the kitchen’s checkered tiles and the living room’s wooden planks meet, where you are hiding. Your eyes meet and his eyes are as empty as ever, perhaps even emptier, like black holes in the ground that aim to swallow you whole.

“Come out, my love.” He repeats himself, his tone sickeningly sweet to the point of mockery.

“Excuse me?” Sebaste asks, his voice slightly cracking.

“Dearest.” His gaze is still on you. It is intense and you feel a pressure on your neck like you are being strangled by him. You can’t breathe.

“I’m here.” Sebaste moves his hands downwards on the doorframe. “I’m right here.” His eyebrows furrow. “I’m right here. Don’t ignore me.” He’s upset.

“Hmm.” He leans in slightly. “She hasn’t told you anything, has she?”

You can see Sebastian's feet through the leaves of the tall plants take a step or two back at Chrollo’s question. “What?”

He still is not making eye contact with Sebaste. “Honestly, I expected that you would have left her by now, or at the very least be on your knees begging for mercy from me. Little liar.” Once more, a gentle hum escapes his lips as he leans in, drawing himself nearer. “But that is alright.”

Sebastian's feet move backward yet again. “What?” He knows. “Hello? What are you talking about?”

Remaining composed, Chrollo gradually advances towards Sebaste. “My dear, aren’t you going to greet me? I missed you.”

As an innate response to his words, your muscles contract, causing your entire body to become rigid.

“Come on out,” Chrollo continues, his smile getting wider. “We haven’t seen each other for more than a year. It feels like a millennia since I saw you last. My heart still beats for you, though, and always will.”

“Leave,” You finally say, your voice almost as shaky as you are. “Go away.”

Sebaste and Chrollo are now both looking at you, but their gazes are different. Chrollo looks at you like a hunter looks at a slain doe or rabbit they are about to eat, while Sebaste looks at you with confusion and fear, for he knows what you are; a liar. “Come closer. Let me see you.”

You shake your head from side to side until your neck cramps and you feel slightly dizzy. “Leave, go away.” You repeat, your voice still shuddering. 

“I would take you more seriously if your voice was not quivering, beloved.”  You can perceive the mocking tone in his voice. “I want to see your beautiful face not covered by the foliage of a dying plant.” His smile is getting bigger and bigger by the second, you swear to yourself. “Come on now.”

Once more, you vigorously shake your head, refusing to comply. “Leave.”

Sebaste continues to call out, desperately trying to catch his attention, but he remains unfazed, humming to himself. Fear is evident in his expression and the urgency of his voice. Concern grips you, for both Sebaste and yourself.

“Come closer, please. Come greet me.”

You squirm behind the tall plant. “No, go away, leave.”

“I won’t.” His smile fades as he looks down at Sebastian's arms still holding onto the doorframe like it was their lifeline. It is actually, you realize.

Sebastian's face contorts into a frown, while he straightens his posture even further, assuming a defensive stance. “If all you are going to do is bother my girlfriend and not talk to me, you have to leave.”

“No.” Sebaste is finally acknowledged by him, but this time his voice lacks warmth, sounding firm and icy. “Step aside.”

The urge to run engulfs you. You want to run into the forest. You want to run until your feet bleed and your ankles are twisted and bruised.

“Why would I do that?” Sebaste hisses angrily. “Leave. All you are doing is being a creep to my girlfriend. Leave or I’ll call the police. Now.”

Chrollo simply leans in closer to Sebastian's ear. “Step aside. Please.”

Sebaste scowls. “Leave. Now.”

Run, run, run. Despite your determination to hold your ground, you start to relent under Chrollo's unrelenting gaze, eventually taking a step forward as instructed. “Ah, that’s better. Good.” As Chrollo's stare intensifies, you find yourself averting your gaze towards the ground, towards your bare feet. “Look at you, my poor thing. You have nothing more to say, don’t you?” He coos like a parent watching their baby take their first steps.

“I’m calling the police.”

Sebaste delves into the depths of his hoodie pocket, where his phone resides, leaving a portion of the doorway unguarded by his arm. The urge to plead with Sebaste, to convey the futility of it all, arises within you. However, you find yourself incapable of doing so. 

In one swift motion, Chrollo grabs the cell phone away from Sebastian’s hand and throws it on the ground, a loud smashing sound reaching your ears. It’s only more pronounced by a boot stomping and crushing it like it was some sort of bug.

“Come closer, dearest.” He says, and your feet move, your mind compliant. You move closer and closer, until you are a few feet behind Sebaste, who looks both fearful and confused.

“Call the police,” Sebaste tells you, the stress in his voice is more than obvious.

You just stare, emptily. There is no point in running over to the kitchen to grab your phone, because Chrollo is quick and thus would run quicker, quicker than you ever could. You, poor you, would fall in vain in the Spider’s hunt for the fly that made it out of the web alive.

“Call the police. [First], call the police.” You would love to appear as a saint, but bright crimson stains your hands and eats at your very being. The floorboards creak and crack beneath you as you walk closer and you hope that the planks will simply break and let you fall into an infinite void where you will never be sentenced for your crimes. 

“My lady of sorrows, as beautiful as ever.”

You should have hidden your tracks better.

“Call the police, [First].” You should have watched out for any targets on your back.

You should have watched out more for the eyes looking at you in the night because you only caught one pair. “Your love is like a warm summer’s day, and it will always be mine, all mine.”

You wanted a normal human life. You wanted a normal human death.

But you are caught in the Spider’s web and encased in silk yet again, so you can’t have either of those things. Now, all that you can have that you want is to cry.

“Call the police.” Sebastian's trembling voice echoes once more, filled with fear. Desperate to find solace, he reaches out for your hand, only to be met with the unexpected rejection of a slap. 

You’re so stupid. So, so stupid. Your brain feels numb like it is rotting away inside of you, slowly but surely.

“Call the police. [First]. Go get your phone and call the police.”

“All I want is to hold you in my arms and know that you are mine.” You hold everything Chrollo has ever said to you inside of you where your heart used to be. It weighs you down more than a broken heart ever would.

“[First]. Call the police. What’s wrong?”

The world is now monochrome once more. You feel the place where warmth used to be within you. But now all there is is ashes. There is nothing but ashes. Your lungs hurt from all the filth.

“Stop it.” Disgusting, you are disgusting, Chrollo is disgusting.

You wanted to see the whole world. But you are now back to being trapped in the spider’s web and you cannot do any of those things now. A butterfly with a hole in its wing caught in its web. 

“What’s wrong? Call the police. Go. Now.” Disgusting. “[First]?” Disgusting. “[First], why aren’t you doing anything?”

“Stop it.” Your voice cracks like how you wanted the floorboards to. “Just stop it.”

“Go get your phone.” Sebaste continues, deaf to what you are trying to tell him. “Go. Now. Go.”

Your head hurts. Your stomach hurts. You want your pajamas on. You want to sleep. You wish you never ran away because now hell will be unleashed on Sebaste and you as punishment. You wish you would have just made a pit stop in this town and continued being on the move. You wish you were more tactical. You wish you had never been born at all. Disgusting. You’re so disgusting and stupid and tired.

You find yourself uttering every part of it, stammering through the words, pausing to catch your breath, pleading for Sebastian's survival, hoping to just return to whatever luxurious penthouse or hotel room Chrollo is currently staying at, imploring to have a private conversation with Chrollo about this matter in his car, away from Sebaste.

As soon as you finish begging for Sebastian's life and open your eyes, you see the book in Chrollo’s hand. With the realization of what is about to happen, tears finally fall from your eyes onto your bare feet. 

The cry that escapes your lips is a unique one, unlike any other. It is choked, desperate, animalistic, raw, and undeniably genuine.

“Don’t! Please! Wait! Chrollo!”

Chrollo looks at you and you immediately shut up.

“What are you doing?” Sebaste asks, stepping away, his entire body shaking. “Answer me. What are you doing?”

Chrollo's gaze turns towards him, bearing a facial expression that ranks among the most dreadful you've ever witnessed.

He doesn’t respond with anything more than a hum and a quick turn of the pages.

You’re too afraid to speak.

You look at the floor and close your eyes again as you continue to cry.

You hate the book. He has never used it on you, but you know what it can do. Perhaps if Chrollo is in a good mood at the moment, Sebaste will merely have a curse placed upon him and he will go out the door with poor, wailing you, his grip on your wrist strong enough to almost break it. 

A foolish thought, you remind yourself.

Chrollo wasn’t known for his mercy, after all.

Sebaste is as good as dead.

Perhaps he is even worse than dead.

He could be tortured. Starved, eaten alive, poisoned, or has all of his bones broken bit by bit.

You are scared to open your eyes. But you are also scared to have them remain closed.

As you look at what is in front of you and ignore the noises around you, you deprive yourself of any mercy.

It is what you deserve.

“[First]?”

“Don’t.”

“[First], what is happening?” Sebaste points to Chrollo with a look of pure fear, his eyes looking like they are about to burst from their sockets. “What is he talking about?”

“I said don’t. Just stop.”

Sebaste stops in his place, his body shaking so much it looks like he is about to fall. “What?”

“I’m sorry.” It is a genuine apology. “But speaking will only make the pain worse for both of us.”

Chrollo hums again and nods at you, still flipping through the pages. Engaging in acts of rebellion will only exacerbate the situation.

The book stops turning and Chrollo points to a page. “I found it.”

His words are barely audible, drowned out by the piercing cries of anguish. Flashing lights; magenta, red, teal, and black.

Sable scales are sprouting from Sebastian's alabaster skin, each one covered in blood and pierced flesh.

His scleras are a shade of light coral. His eyelids are getting smaller and smaller by the second.

His irises get darker, almost to the hue of ink, matching the scales that are all over his body covered in little bits of torn skin. His knees collapse on themselves as you stand still, looking with both disgust and fear. His elbows fold as his arms lessen in length, his hands bonding with his clavicles. 

He is still screaming.

You want to tell him to stop, that there was no point. It’s already too late for either of you.

But you can’t.

You refuse to look at Chrollo, who is no doubt smiling at the horrifying tragedy unfolding in front of you two.

You just look at Sebaste with pitying, guilty eyes.

He does not look at you.

You deserve it, and he deserves to at least have that choice in the matter.

Whatever Chrollo is doing to him, there is no doubt in your mind that you deserve at least twice as bad of a fate.

But you don’t fear death. Not anymore. You know Chrollo does not plan to kill you, that death is not in the cards he is holding. He would never let go of his favorite toy. So, you fear the unknown. You fear whatever harrowing methods Chrollo is going to use on you. There is no doubt that they will be far more psychological than physical.

You sit and stay, like a good dog does, even though every fiber of your being is telling you to run out the back door and into the forest. So, you wait. You wait until he is done. You won’t speak or move unless you are told to. You give up all control and pretend to want to be dragged by a leash instead. You hide your true feelings behind a mask and not overplay your hand. That is how you become a dog.

Good girl.

Chrollo takes out a few Polaroid photographs from his suit pocket and lays them out on the table. One of them is the gore-stained walls of James’ apartment, his lower half the only part that is still whole. The second is Victor’s collapsed, untouched body on the wooden floorboards. The third is of your stalker’s rotting corpse in your abandoned shed, his head lowered and his partially gouged eyes swinging in the cool breeze. You can’t pretend to be better anymore. You can’t hide what you have done anymore. He knows.

You reach for the photos, grabbing them off the table then crumble them into balls, tearing them apart into shreds and watching them fall onto the ground.

Chrollo doesn’t stop you. He simply stares at the torn pieces that lay at your bare feet. He hums. It’s the most horrific sound you have ever heard. It is a mix of hilarity and hunger. When he smiles, his teeth look like a shark's. They are razorlike and look sharp enough to cut flesh, though they appear the same as yours. Although his appearance may deceive others into perceiving him as angelic, you are aware that he is anything but, just like yourself.

He knows. He knows.

Chrollo takes a step forward toward you but stops abruptly. He hums again. He looks upward towards your face and you make eye contact. Your brain starts screaming signals to run.

He knows of the lies that are the foundation of the makeup used to cover your hideous, real face. He knows of your sticky, sticky red hands, stained with crimson sin. He knows of the devil that lurks within the deepest confines of your heart. He knows that no exorcism or priest would be able to get rid of it. He knows that it will stay inside you until your last breath. He knows of the hidden transgressions within your soul, the deeds you committed to survive. The actions you took to elevate yourself above all others and everything else in this world.

He knows everything. He knows what you have done.

The stars twinkle no more. The moon has lost its luster. The night sky has broken apart. You cannot hide your wrongdoings from the scorching beams of the sun. Your skin burns. Everything hurts.

He knows.

He looks down at you like he is a king. Arrogant. Tenacious. He is not even a star to you. He is less than the small pieces of meteorites floating in the vast Milky Way, fading away more and more by the second. This life was too good to be true. You have failed and as a result, you have lost everything. 

You cover your head with your arms and run, tackling Chrollo to the ground. He falls onto the kitchen floor with a hard thump. You punch him, but your knuckle hurts as you do so, Chrollo’s face like an iron wall. You yelp in pain and withdraw your fist, using your other hand to pull out the knife from your sweatpants. You haven’t even made a dent into him, did he even feel anything?

Chrollo's laughter resonates as if he finds your actions incredibly amusing. He proceeds to articulate the harsh reality, a truth that is both unpleasant and acrid. “So, you were the one that committed those murders. As expected.”

No. No. No. No.

As you falter, Chrollo’s hands firmly grab the upper parts of your arms and push you off, the amount of power used being nearly enough to throw you against the glass cupboards of dishware and decorations. Instead, the back of your head collides with the wall next to the wooden back door, the paring knife flying out of your hand and landing a few inches away. A pained cry escapes your lips as your vision blurs for a second. He’s on top of you in an instant, his eyes dark and predatory, and your positions suddenly reversed. 

The blade, you have to get it back.

As you try to reach out for it, Chrollo grabs your wrist with an abnormal amount of strength. “I wouldn’t pick that up if I were you. It would only prove a point for me.”

Run. Run. Run. You have to run, like a small child running up the stairs when the lights are off, fearing what could be lurking in the dark. 

Life. Death. Free. Cage. Run. 

No, this can’t be happening, this is just a bad dream.

“Struggle all you like, we both know how this will end.”

“Shut up. I’m not going anywhere–”

“You are. You will stay wherever I place you because I am not falling for your tricks a second time, my little witch.”

No. This is just a bad dream. You close your eyes and try to wake up, shaking your head and begging for Chrollo to be just a figment of your imagination. You try and try, but you can still feel the crushing feeling of Chrollo’s grip on your bruised wrist and the weight of his body on top of yours. This is real, and this is happening.

Your mind goes blank as you open your eyes, your body being directed by raw, pure fear. Your forehead crashes into Chrollo’s, making him back up a few centimeters and let go of your wrist. Your torso crawls toward the blade like an animal whose legs are caught under a boulder or a bear trap. Your elbows bend and you try to move forward. You are just about to grab the knife when there is a yanking of your hair backward. You holler out as your spine is twisted peculiarly, your upper body facing downwards towards the knife while your lower body is facing upwards towards Chrollo. 

“Let go!”

“You certainly are stubborn.”

Your fist smacks him square in the jaw and he lets go. Your hand grips the knife, and you start swinging it around, blinded by emotion. You manage to cut into his right cheek as he spits out some blood from your punch. You try to gouge out one of his eyes, but his dexterity causes his head to duck just in time. Your body shakes with a mix of alarm and hate. You try to aim for the space between his eyes, but he grabs your wrist with one hand and your tricep with the other and starts twisting them in two different directions, making you wail. There is a sudden snap that is louder than your cries. You scream as you drop the knife and caress your broken arm. Chrollo grabs the blade and throws it far across the room. 

Chrollo’s body seems to relax a little, so you kick him in the face and try to clamber away from him. His nose bleeds, but it does not look broken. You are as desperate as a doe trying to escape the bullets of a hunter’s shotgun. 

Run. Run. Run. 

“You’re not being good. You’re not being good at all.”

Run. Run.

With the last bits of strength you have, you withstand the agonizing pain in your arm and kick Chrollo in the stomach with both of your legs, so hard that even you wince. He backs up as he chokes on his saliva. Some of the blood from his nose jumps onto your face and you can taste the flavor of metal. He falls backward and hugs his abdomen. He is off of you at long last. For the quick moment he is in pain, you stand up quickly, clutching your unusable limb. You run as fast as you can towards the paring knife. You bend down and grab it in a rush of panic. 

Run, rabbit. Run.

Chrollo pushes you down onto your stomach, your back facing him. He grabs your broken arm and pulls it, his foot on your spine to keep you there. It bends like rubber or bubblegum. You start to flail around like a fish out of water. You gasp for air as you cry out in pain. His other hand grabs the back of your head, raising it slightly before pushing it down hard onto the wooden planks. The life you have built for yourself, everything you have worked towards, the colorful, sweet world you have made, all shatters into splinters before your very eyes.

Picking pumpkins and apples to make decorations and cook into pies, harvesting sunflowers to put into glass vases around your cottage, going into the farmer’s market and smelling freshly roasted corn and baked goods, cookies, fried mushrooms, glazed yams, eggplant parmesan, learning to love someone for the first time.

It was all for nothing. It was all for nothing because Chrollo found you. Chrollo found you and enacted his revenge. You wail a strangled, desperate breath. A raw and real breath. 

You stop struggling at long last, like a toy that has run out of power from its battery. All that fighting and you have hardly made him use his true strength.

You are weak. You cannot go anywhere. You are a rabbit with nowhere to run. Murder. Death. Theft. Crime. Manipulation. Love. Chrollo’s blood is still in your mouth and it’s bitter and dry, like you had just eaten sand in a desert or oceanless beach. It chokes you, both physically and mentally.

No.

The fish that used to be Sebaste looks up at the ceiling, lying on its side. An unblinking, wide eye. Dull. Cloudy. Empty. Unforgiving. Confused. Weak. Its corpse lays before you two and starts to stink like the back of a butcher’s shop. 

I hate you.

That is what its eye tells you.

Traitor. Fool. Devil. Maneater. Tainted. Killer. Freak.

This is all your fault. Why did I have to die? Why are you still alive? You lied to me. You said you loved me. Liar. 

Liar. Liar. Liar.

Pathetic.

Your feet are still cold.

If only you could have died too. If only you could have died beside him. You don’t want to die in whatever hotel room or penthouse Chrollo will shove you in, within four suffocating walls and soft sheets that cost more than your monthly rent. You don’t want to die there, you want to die anywhere else. You are not ready to die. Tunnel vision overtakes you, with only one objective in mind.

Just stay alive.

Just stay alive.

That is your one wish to the stars above.

It hurts.

Everything hurts.

You are being burned alive by your desire to both live and die.

...

You don’t think before you do it.

You don’t try to stop yourself before, without any hesitation, your legs propel you forward, forcefully thrusting the backdoor open with your functioning arm. Anguish, fury, remorse, and sorrow engage in a fierce battle for dominance over your every move. As you dart deeper into the dark and densely packed forest behind your cottage, the only sounds you could hear are your own ragged breaths and pounding heart. It was as if the forest was trying to swallow you up, closing in with every passing step. No moonlight or stars pierced the thick layers of leaves and branches overhead.

The darkness is like a thick fog, blurring your sight and limiting your visibility. You could not see Chrollo behind you, but your instincts told you that he was. There was no hint of a breeze to take some of the edge off, with even the birds and chipmunks being completely silent.

The pain was excruciating. With every jostling step, your broken arm jolted around like a wooden toy, threatening to send you down to the ground any second as it kept getting caught in vines and hitting tree trunks. You could not afford to stop running.

You don’t see anyone following you.

Your feet are starting to bleed and leave a few red drops of blood with every rushed step you take. You don’t care about it because instinct has taken over your mind.

You trip over a large root on the ground and fall sideways right on your broken arm, making you scream from the intense pain shooting up. As you try to get up and caress your broken arm, you stumble downhill into a pile of dead leaves. 

Your mouth is full of them, making you hardly able to breathe as you spit them out. 

If it were any other time, you would have considered it funny.

But not now.

As you rise from the ground, your hand instinctively shields your mouth, preventing any inadvertent sound that may invite unwanted attention. The pursuit of Chrollo, if not already initiated, has undoubtedly commenced.

He’s after you. You know this. He came back into your newly rebuilt life and destroyed it right in front of your very eyes. 

You know he can hear you, but you cannot hear him. You never know of his presence until he is too close, that is how it always has been. That is how it is now. Chrollo has forever possessed superior speed, strength, intelligence, attractiveness, and wealth, making it impossible for anyone to ever match his prowess, even if they desired to do so.

You hate him.

You hate him, and he’s here for you again.

No.

How did he even find you?

Hisoka promised.

He promised you that your location would be undiscovered.

He lied to you, didn’t he?

Maybe lying isn’t the exact word.

Maybe he technically did keep his promise, because the Troupe didn’t show up in a matter of a few hours.

Chrollo showed up in a matter of nearly twenty four.

Your gasps for air and silenced cries are paired with a call of your name.

“Oh, you poor thing. Scared half to death.”

His words are as soft as they are cruel.

“Mater Dolorosa.”

You force yourself onto your feet again to run, sensing the voice behind you up the hill getting louder and louder. But when you move to run, you wince in pain and look down at your swollen red ankle.

It is so dark that you can’t see anything aside from yourself, the world around you being painted monochrome by the black night sky’s palette. 

There is nowhere to run, is there?

You have used up all of your luck getting this far, and have to pay the price.

You are out of time. You cannot dream of sweet escape anymore.

“Do you remember my touch? I touched you so sweetly. My darling girl.”

You would turn if you could, but the pain shooting out from your ankle prevents you doing so and almost makes you fall into the leaves again instead. “You took me away.” 

Moving in a circular motion, Chrollo gradually positions himself in your line of sight, his imposing figure standing tall before you. “It is a thief’s nature. I could not resist the temptation to steal you.”

Chrollo is a prime illustration of the extreme measures some individuals are willing to take in order to have you in their embrace. 

Your beauty has captivated every person you have encountered, evoking reverence from all. It is both a blessing and a curse, a double edged sword, both the thing that worships you and tortures you. 

Your sweatpants are covered in dirt stains and pieces of dried grass and leaves, your hoodie in a similarly horrible condition. Your hair had come undone, cascading in delicate wisps that obscured your vision, reminiscent of a spider's delicate web. There is nowhere to hide.

“Oh, how I love you.” Chrollo smiles and the way it reaches his eyes makes you squirm more. “Shall I enumerate the reasons why?”

…

The car ride was silent for a while. You would have preferred it if it stayed that way. But Chrollo could never stay quiet for long, even if you asked nicely, so he turned the dial of the radio and began humming along. In all the months you were with him, the only constant presence in your otherwise bleak, depressing life. 

The song he chose felt like yet another kick to the stomach. ABBA’s Lay All Your Love On Me. Of course he would play that.

As much as you hate doing so, you focus on the way your heart beats with each turn and bump along the road. He was calm, still so calm, even after this two year long escape. You are certain that this is the calm before the storm, and it was only a matter of time before everything came crashing down on you. More than what already had fallen. 

To claim that you were on edge would be an understatement. 

“Do you know what will happen now?”

With your heart pounding and mind consumed, you can't help but startle at his words, despite your readiness.

“...No.”

He lets out a small laugh, reducing the music's volume to a slightly muffled level.

It only makes you feel like you are about to go into cardiac arrest.

“You do, don’t you? You have always been a smart one.”

Your broken arm aches under the slight pressure of the seatbelt pressing against it, your ankle being only slightly cushioned by the insulated carpet beneath.

Chrollo has never hurt you before, aside from restraining you in the early days of your capture. Though, you know if you had blamed your ankle on him and told him, he would tell you it was your fault for running barefoot in the dark.

He hopefully will give you a brace or pillow for it when you both arrive back to wherever your temporary location is.

“My freedoms will be taken away.”

As he nods, a smile plays at the corners of his mouth, revealing a slightly sinister undertone that would easily deceive any unfamiliar observer.

“That is a start. But,” Pausing momentarily, he directs his gaze towards you, only to swiftly return his attention to the path that lies ahead. “What particularly? Give me an example, please.”

He is definitely planning something. Maybe you'll inquire about the source of his inquiry, or perhaps you'll force a trembling grin and pretend his question is nonsensical, aware that he's already aware of the freedoms you've gained during your time in confinement. Yet, he would persist then, and repeat his query. You could respond by acknowledging his authority to strip away any privilege he deems appropriate, a fact that both of you know to be true, but deep down, you understand that he desires a real, logical answer.

Whether this is a genuine question or something that will be used to mock you in a moment or two, you have no idea.

“A freedom like…” Your answer will probably be spawned into existence, making you wary of how to respond to his question, but you know you have to because you have no choice in this hell. “Like being able to move freely around.”

He only taps his fingers on the steering wheel in a melody unlike the one playing from the car’s speakers. “How so?” Welcome once again to the realm of eternal damnation.

You contemplate turning away from him and looking out the window instead. But that would cause you more physical pain from your arm moving against the car seat and more mental pain from you knowing you will not be able to go outside again for at least a while. That is, if you are ever allowed to go outside again. If you can ever escape again. He wants another answer. He is not satisfied. But, then again, when is he ever?

You don’t dare look away from him as he stares at you, not at the road, at you. You practically feel like your stomach is dropping out of your body and onto the insulated carpet, staining parts of it crimson red from the blood and a discolored version of its once licorice color from the stomach acid. 

“Go on,” You could imagine the feeling of his fingers and yours intertwining and starting to squeeze your throat. 

Thum, thum, thum. Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun.

“...Restraints.” You wish you could just dissolve like seafoam in the sea. “I’m not sure which ones you want to use. The metal ones or silk ones most likely.” The sensation of suffocation creeps in, as if the air itself has turned putrid and malevolent, weighing heavily on your chest. Your vocal cords are raspy, resembling the aftermath of regurgitating and subjecting them to the corrosive effects of gastric acid. “Maybe gag me or tie my legs together too. Or both, it depends on if you are in a good mood right now or not, right?”

He nods slowly, never taking his eyes off of you. His gaze feels unsettling, for there is no trace of anger in his eyes, yet you can sense his fury.

“That is one, yes. What else do you think will happen when we get back, my dear?”

The road is empty. There are no deer or geese or ducks crossing, only you and Chrollo. Animals have always had better judgment of human character, after all.

You hope that the place you are going to at least has a nice view.

“Tell me.”

Sweet Hibiscus Tea.

Yan Shalnark x F Reader.

Synopsis: After a day of finally trying to face your social anxiety, you walk home alone. The roads are empty, quiet, and eerie. But you are almost home now, aren’t you? You are not going to cry anymore. Just when you think life is starting to turn around for you, it goes in the exact opposite direction. 

Warnings: Yandere themes, violence, kidnapping, misogyny, not SFW implications, psychological horror elements, manipulation, panic attacks, Shalnark being an asshole, unhealthy relationships, and stalking.

Word Count: 5k.

Can be considered to be within the Hier Encore universe.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Look Who’s Inside Again by Bo Burnham

Things She Said by Chris Garneau

Baby Bride Rag by Roar

Butch 4 Butch by Rio Romeo

Appetite of a People-Pleaser by Ghost and Pals

Valentine, Texas by Mitski

I’m Yer Dad by GRLwood

Cry Baby by Melanie Martinez

Freaks by Surf Curse

Neighbour by Mother Mother

“You stay soft, you get beaten; only natural to harden up.” — Mitski, Stay Soft

*~*~*~*

Regardless of how much time has passed, this convenience store always remains the same.

There is always the familiar, tired face of the clerk behind the cash register, her gaze never on you or any other customer who walks in and out of the doors, a simple, muted hello being the only proof that she noticed you.

The lights dim and blink without fail, fading from white to a shade of daffodil to dark flaxen before disappearing and resurfacing yet again as alabaster. No matter how black the night sky is, the less-than-bright illumination never changes.

Neither does the rest of the scenery.

Next to the payment area are two vending machines, with one not functioning. It is dead, with the glass broken by a punch that left a large gaping hole in the dead center. Once when you accidentally touched the front wall while bending down to get your can of lemonade from the working one, it left a sticky residue that had you rubbing your palm on your sweater for what felt like an eternity. It somewhat helped, you guessed, but it also stained your clothes. The vending machine to its right was always out of most sweet drinks, often leaving you with the choice of coffee, lemonade, green tea, or water.

You don’t buy any snacks aside from strawberry Pocky and, if you are lucky, a chocolate bar.

But you do buy meals here because it is cheap. Usually fish with miso or a salad, but there have been times when you can find a premade sandwich.

The total cost comes to between 500 to 1000 Jenny. There is always a poster that claims the cashier is the employee of the month, though you are certain that she is the only one who works there.

The only thing that ever changes is the calendar behind her. The past dates are crossed out in red ink that is in the form of thick, scraggly lines. They remind you of the drawings you used to make as a child when your father was too busy screaming outside your door and your mother was too powerless to do anything but cry and yelp as he hit her. One time you drew them fighting, and when one of your maids saw it, it inevitably found its way to his desk.

Needless to say, he was not happy by any means.

*~*~*~*

The calendar behind the worker reads the 17th of April, 1998. On this day in 1985, your first and only ever friend, the head gardener’s apprentice, went missing. When you eventually gathered up the courage after waiting for hours outside, you went to your father’s room to ask where she was.

“She has been removed from the premises for distracting you instead of doing her job.” The answer you got was to the point, because when has he ever been warm to you? “I made sure that she had learned her lesson before she died. She was in pain the whole time. It was a shame to put a bullet between her pretty eyes. But at least she had a bit more use to me beforehand.”

You cried and cried until you threw up.

That is when your mother, the usual bandage over her left cheek this time, came in and sat on your bed gently, sadly.

She patted the area next to her and slowly you stood up from the floor where you kneeled as you sobbed and went over. She asked you if you wanted a hug and you said no. She responded with a simple nod, respecting your answer. But then what she said next turned your tear-stricken face into a glare.

“She’s alive.” She muttered, along with thanks to God and a hold of the cross on her neck. 

“...What?”

Your mother shushed you when she heard footsteps coming to the door. When the sound eventually leaves further into the hallway, she leans into your ear while pointing to your vanity. Your gaze leads you to the dusty cat statue made of garnet.

It got shattered a little while ago when a maid cleaning your room accidentally made it fall to the floor. You felt bad for her as she was a new hire, so you never told anyone aside from your mother. You knew that if your father, the head of this household, ever found out he would punish her severely, even when he did not care for the statue at all. You got to choose, if you were lucky, which part gets whipped or cut off.

“Yes.”

Her short answer leaves you almost jumping up out of your seat. “...Huh?”

“At last week’s banquet, she caught the attention of your father’s wealthiest business partner.” She turns to the curtains covering the lone window in your room, her back now facing you. “She was tricked into boarding a car when the driver claimed you were inside waiting for her. To the partner in question, she is nothing but another pretty face to add to his collection.”

At the slight turn of the doorknob next door, you two go as still as wax people in a museum. “Why did he lie to me?”

“Why? Well, he certainly did not want you rebelling against his decision.”

“But I have never rebelled against him before.”

“I know.” Your mother lets out a sharp laugh, salty and sour. “I know you are always trying to be good, trying to stay under the radar. I know, I know because you are a lot like me. but now I am going to teach you a lesson about your father and the world at large. Remember that a man’s resentful attitude will always result in a woman’s agony, physical or otherwise, always. However, when things go right for a man, a woman is either praised like a dog or ignored until something goes wrong because it is never enough.”

You can’t breathe. “But why? Why, why, why? What did I do wrong? What could I have done right?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. There is nothing you can do or could have done. No matter what, your faults will always be found. That is how most men are raised, to find, and how most women are raised, to hide.”

“...”

“Men’s hearts are such cruel, small things. Oftentimes they can only fit themselves in them, but there have been times where even they cannot fit.” She is still holding onto the cross charm on her gold necklace, firmer than she has ever held you. “They are cold, are or are almost dead. There is no room for people like you and me. No room at all. All they see us as is something to own, something with no feelings whatsoever, and whose only purpose is to please no matter the cost. Such pigs, all of them.” She murmurs some prayers that you cannot hear. “I want you to be better. I want what is best for you, what I never have been able to accomplish; run and live.”

She opens the drawer beside your bed, and you don’t do anything to stop her. It is not like you can hide anything, from her or anyone else in this house. Whatever is buried eventually resurfaces. She pulls out your rarely used bible, a thick layer of dust on the leather cover. It smells and makes you cough. She doesn’t though.

“At least your father does not force you to read this day and night.”

“Mmhmm.”

“It is one of the few things I appreciate him not doing, I do not want you to grow up hating the church.”

“I know.”

“He has made you hate a lot of things already.”

She turns the pages, dust flying around the cold air.

“He made me hate a lot of things too. Blankets, steaks, cameras. The color white, the color black, the color red. The sounds of belts unbuckling, the sound of laughter, the sounds of doors opening and closing and locking.”

You don’t say anything, only looking at her hands. Only in the dark can you not see her scars, her blooming wrinkles, and the bruises that are always fresh. 

You don’t say anything, because you have learned from a very young age that you are her only listening ear. You are the only one who keeps her head on her shoulders. You don’t say anything, because she is right. He has made you hate plenty of things. But, but, but. But you can’t hate him, and you can’t hate your mother.

You can’t hate her, because who knows what she would do when she finds out that no one cares about her pain in this hell?

“Mother.” You mutter, putting your head on her shoulder as you scan the text on the page that she selected. She does not stop you. 

“Yes, [First]?”

“Do you hate me?” You ask, trying so very hard to not let her see the tears that threaten to come out of your eyes. “Because… because… if I wasn’t conceived, you wouldn’t be here hurting, would you?”

You could swear that you heard her heart skip a beat.

“...I would not be here, yes.”

She is honest, for once. You know at least some of this situation is all your fault.

“Do you hate me?”

“...”

“Mother, please answer me.”

You hear a sniffle as she starts mumbling the words written. “‘A gracious woman gets honor, and violent men get riches.’”

You choose not to press on the subject. You don’t want her to suffer anymore.

*~*~*~*

You buy an orange-flavored Ramune soda, a pack of pork ginger instant ramen, and strawberry Pocky.

The total would come to about 600 Jenny if your quick calculations are right. You could get something extra, like a topping for your ramen or some chips. But would it be wise? You have never been someone who finishes their plate after you had ran away, so what if you just waste your money?

So, you decide not to get anything else.

You walk to the cash register.

You hear an explosion from the back of the building. Small sparks of white and orange. The lights go off before you can place your chosen items down, and you can hear the employee cursing under her breath. The breaker. What happened?

“Damn it, I don’t get paid enough for this shit.” She grumbles, putting her thumb and pointer finger on the bridge of her nose, rubbing. “No raises whatsoever. Only one here. Without me, this place wouldn’t be working, ungrateful pricks.”

Fighting the way your heart rate shoots up, you decide that talking to her would be best. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to someone aside from your boss, right? 

Maybe your anxieties would quell, and you can eventually graduate to talking to your co-workers, that would be a dream come true for you.

You haven’t had a friend, a real friend, ever since Rose was taken from you all those years ago. You still cry whenever you think about her. You miss her. Is she dead, is she alive?

You still blame yourself. If only you hadn’t talked to her, maybe she would still be with you. What kind of adult would she have been? A kind one, a responsible one? You would still be friends at least, wouldn’t you? Or would she grow to hate you, if she didn’t already?

You keep telling yourself that she wouldn’t and didn’t, but that is not what your mind tells you.

Is she dead?

You could picture a rotting corpse six feet under. An unmarked grave. Glassy, dead, amber eyes looking upward to anyone who looks down, helpless, pleading. You always liked them, always complimenting them much to Rose’s shy chuckles. She was so pretty, that much was true. You could only imagine how beautiful she would have been as an adult.

Her looks were a personal gift from God, the heavens, and the angels.

But if she didn’t have them, would she not have been treated like she was in the estate?

“Erm, excuse me,” You mutter, taking a few steps forward. “If you want I can go check it out.”

It is what Rose would do. She always liked helping others. You just wish that people would have appreciated it more and seen past her appearance. It was a double-edged sword. It helped her become the head gardener’s apprentice but also caught the attention of both your father and his business partners. You felt bad for her, and still do.

The employee turns around, her confusion prominent despite the dark. 

“Erm,” You mutter, looking down at your hands and entangling your fingers in one another. You could feel the heat rushing to your cheeks in embarrassment. “Is that okay?”

It takes a few moments to respond. Her surprise was unexpected, as you never spoke to her outside of asking her if she had change or telling her you hoped that she had a good night. Rose would be better at this kind of thing. You once had a dream that at a fast food joint, an adult her would order for you and correct the staff when they put pickles on your burger. It’s what could have been, funny moments like that. She had always been the one to take charge, you following her like a lost puppy.

You miss her so much.

So much.

The worker slowly nods. “...Okay.”

“...It’s in the back, right? The breaker.”

This is so awkward. Rose would be better. You wish she was here. Or your mother. Anyone.

“...Uh. Um… I like your eyeliner.” As soon as you say that, you curse at yourself, not wanting to sound like a creep. The woman’s confusion becomes even more prominent.

“...Thanks, and yeah, it’s in the back.”

“...Okay.” Jesus Christ. You turn away from her, the heat on your cheeks hot enough to be mistaken for a fever. This is not what Rose would have done.

“...You can leave your stuff here.” She says, and you quickly spin your heel and put your items on the counter. “It’s not like they are going to grow legs and run off, so relax.”

“...” You both chuckle, and you feel slightly better. “...Thanks. I’ll go now.”

“...” You start walking. “Wrong way.”

You stop.

It takes you a few seconds for you to move back to first base and go off in the opposite direction. As soon as you open the creaky steel door, strong rain and cold wind greet you, along with a loud clap of thunder and lightning.

Perhaps you could go back and get your umbrella from the stand by the door. But that would be even more awkward.

“Stupid. Stupid.”

“If we are lucky, the wind simply detached it or something. Not the best at this sort of thing, though.”

“I don’t think breakers detach.” You could picture her shrugging and scoffing at your murmur. “Sorry. Sorry. Just… sorry. I’m the best at this sort of thing either.”

You close the door behind you and start looking amongst the pitter-patter of the raindrops and gusts that nearly make you fall over. 

Stupid. Why do you make everything so weird? Rose would have been so much more charismatic. It was one of her strongest traits after all.

Stupid.

It’s hard to see. Trying not to trip over stones and cracked cement, you grip onto the wall and walk forward. Soon, you feel something.

“Ew, ew, ew!” You cry out, quickly moving your hand away from the slimy slug. “Ew!”

“You okay?”

“Uh, nothing. Just a bug. Yeah, just a bug.”

You hear a chuckle. Stupid.

“Sorry!” You exclaim, almost bowing your head. “Sorry! Really!”

Making sure you don’t touch the slug again, you keep moving.

Eventually, you find the breaker. But it wasn’t what you were expecting by any means. The damage almost looks like it was done on purpose, the way it was open and covered in soot. Did something get to it?

The breaker that exploded was a mass of melted metal that had been blown apart from the intense amount of heat and pressure. It was now barely recognizable as a single unit–parts of it scattered across the cement path and others having been fused and becoming something else entirely. The metal had been melted and blown upwards in the sheer force of the explosion, coating parts of the wall, wet grass, and roof with small, solidified droplets of metal. The ground around the remains of the breaker is burnt and scarred with traces of the immense fire that had consumed it.

It seems the rain put it out.

“No hope for this, huh?”

“Hey,” The employee calls out. “How bad is it? If there is nothing you can do, come back inside.”

So, you do.

The way she turns at you is robotic almost. A smile is on her face that was not there before. She nods when she sees you. Something tells you to not approach.

“It exploded into molten metal.”

“Oh well.”

Under the stormy skies, her gaze turns pale. Her eyes, seemingly captivating, lack any hint of vitality, while her lips curve in a disarming and saccharine manner. A shiver runs down your spine as you meet her gaze, every fiber of your being urging you to flee. Deep within your primal instincts, an innate awareness stirs, recognizing the smile as a charade, a mask of humanity that ventures into the realm of unease: akin to an artificial being adorned with synthetic flesh or a wax figure encased in glass. Those lifeless, white eyes, coupled with a forked tongue and an unsettlingly beautiful countenance, leave you with an undeniable sense of mistrust.

“You’re not mad? Really? Um…”

Something is off. What happened? She looks more like an imposter than anything else. But if she is, where did the real cashier go?

“Don’t worry.” She says, her voice oddly chipper and no longer confused by your awkwardness. “It’s fine. I’m quitting anyway, so it’ll be my boss’ problem.”

You turn your head. “Really?”

She nods. Something is off.

“Like really?”

You blink multiple times and you don’t think she does. She just stands there. Slowly, she nods. Something tells you to run yet again.

“Um… um… okay. Okay. I’ll just pay and leave. How much does it come up to?”

She shakes her head.

“Um. I have to pay. It’s thievery if I don’t.” You get closer. “It’s the law.”

“It’s fine.”

“I can’t just not pay.” You say, taking out your wallet from your sweater pocket. “That’s stealing. It’s wrong.”

Every action she takes is measured and precise, and she seems to move like a machine rather than a person. It’s as if she’s been programmed to act and talk in a certain way, and she doesn’t seem to have the ability to break out of that. She simply stares at you, not speaking.

Run.

You undo the metallic button, hearing the shuffling of paper Jenny within your wallet. “Um. Let me pay. Please.”

She simply shakes her head again.

“It’s fine.” The employee says, the smile still plastered on her face. There is quite more than a hint of blankness and detachment in her expression. She speaks in a mechanical and emotionless manner, her words delivered as though repeated from a script of carefully chosen sentences. Her movements are quick and precise, putting your chosen items in a plastic bag. There is no life or energy in her actions, instead, she moves like a mindless machine, performing her tasks before her without showing any personality of her own. Is it better to just accept it?

What should you do? What shouldn’t you do? Is she joking? Should you leave?

What would Rose do?

One of her hands grasps onto the plastic handles and she holds it out before you. There is no authenticity or warmth. Her eyes are blank. What happened? Should you ask? Should you just take the bag without saying anything further?

“Okay,” You murmur, obeying her silent command. “I hope you don’t get into any trouble though.”

*~*~*~*

Boss (9th May 1996 17:45)

Did you find anything?

Boss (9th May 1996 17:45)

Feitan found her heels nearby along with some blood, so she couldn’t have gotten very far.

You (9th May 1996 17:45)

Nothing yet

Boss (9th May 1996 17:47)

Try checking the stores nearby.

Boss (9th May 1996 17:47)

From the blood trail, she is most likely injured from running and trying to fix herself up in some sort of shelter.

Boss (9th May 1996 17:48)

She may have also discarded the rest of her clothes, not just the heels, and is currently wearing something else.

You (9th May 1996 18:15)

I found a dress and jewelry at the bottom of a lake

You (9th May 1996 18:18)

(image sent)

Boss (9th May 1996 18:20)

That’s it.

Boss (9th May 1996 18:20)

Disappointing. I’ll send over Pakunoda to ask people nearby.

You (9th May 1996 18:20)

K

You (9th May 1996 18:21)

Don’t cry, I’m sure we’ll find her soon :) 

Boss (9th May 1996 18:22)

I wasn’t crying.

Boss (9th May 1996 18:22)

I just thought she came around already.

Boss (9th May 1996 18:23)

This will set our heists back weeks.

Boss (9th May 1996 18:24)

She has planned this out for more than a year, it seems.

*~*~*~*

Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun. Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm. You can’t hear anything else. The sounds sting your ears like an aggravated hornet. 

The darkness around you is solid, more so than the cracked, aged concrete path beneath your shoes. There is a tiny light in the distance; a streetlamp.

Silence.

“...”

“Have a good day!”

“...Thank you.”

Let there be light.

“Um…” You can’t see anything. The sounds… stopped. “...Time to go home.”

But the pain stays. 

It feels like a drill. 

It hurts.

“...” You feel deaf and blind. No, maybe something even worse. “...”

You turn around, to the dark convenience store, and you see the cashier still staring at you. “Have a good day!”

“...”

“[First]?”

…How does she know your name? Did you say it to her in the past?

When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.

“[First], dear.” She starts waving as you look at her. “[First]. [First]. [First]. [First]. [First]!”

There is nothing but emptiness. Is your name all she can say? What happened to her? It is like she has regressed. Like a storm cloud in summer, you do not wish for this pain. Now you feel deaf and blind and mute now. 

You almost wish that you were dead. All there is is pain. Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun. Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm. 

Interruption. The sounds returned. Is this good? Is this bad? Does it matter at all? 

You walk. You don’t speak. Only walk. You can’t breathe. You can only move. Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun. 

Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm. 

A hand clamps over your mouth.

You drop the plastic bag from shock, and then you finally hear something other than those sounds; glass shattering.

“Sh…” A voice, calm, along with the smell of oranges. “It’s okay.”

“...!”

“Don’t scream.”

The touch of lips, a man’s lips, on your ear, thin and hard. 

“Breathe. Just breathe for me, okay?”

But you can’t. The wind goes down your throat. It is suffocating. You can’t breathe. You smell oranges and something rotting, blood.

It stinks. It fucking stinks.

Christ. Get away. That stink. That fucking stink. Your body rejects it by continuing to not breathe.

“Sh… Breathe. Just breathe, for me, for you, for us.”

“...St… Sto-”

“Sh…” The voice is sweet, not at all sour, like candy. “Calm down. Nothing bad is going to happen. Just breathe. You’re going to pass out.” The lips and the scent of his breath are like salted leather in a butcher’s shop, stinky and rotting. “Calm down. Don’t worry.”

“...Sto… Si-”

“Breathe. Sh… It’s okay. Breathe.”

“...Ge… Sti…”

“Sh… Breathe. Breathe, [First]. Breathe. [First]. Breathe. Breathe. It’s okay. Don’t worry about all this. Breathe.”

When you finally do, you gasp, desperate. “...Huff… Huff… Huff…”

Get off of me, I can smell you. 

“There we go!”

Your vision clears up a bit. “...Huff… Huff… Huff…”

“Just keep breathing.”

“...Huff…”

You can smell him. You can practically taste him, with his mouth so close to you.

“Whew! That was a close one!” The man exclaimed, wrapping his other arm around your waist.

Pain. Get off of me. I can smell you, I can hear you, I can taste you. Get off of me. Please.

The pain still stays, in your chest and your ears, and your head. Oranges. Blood.

Get off of me.

Please–

A pain in the back of your neck and you go limp.

Darkness. Then pain again. You can’t move. You can only breathe. Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun. Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm. 

*~*~*~*

SAINTSHORE SPACE THEATRE

UNDER THE DIRECTION OF RANDOLF URASLEF, GRETEL JAMES, AND QUINCEY J. ORATICE

PAUL DONSHEL CELESTE BAKER   ANNE CROAKS

AND

THE GREAT COMET THEATRE COMPANY

SWAN LAKE

ADAPTED BY MUSIC WRITTEN BY PYOTR ILLYICH TCHAIKOVSKY

INSPIRED BY THE CHOREOGRAPHY OF JULIUS REISINGER

WITH THE WONDERFUL CAST OF

(IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE)

Odette, the White Swan………………………………………………………….JEAN YVETTE

Odile, the Black Swan……………………………………………………………...JUNO LILOU

Prince Siegfried……………………………………………………………(the name is illegible.)

The rest of the list’s names cannot be read just like Prince Siegfried.

“She is simply beautiful. Just so beautiful. Simply wonderful, perfect.”

As the spotlights ignite, their scorching beams engulf you, causing you to shield your eyes with futile resistance. The sheer force of the light overwhelms your feeble defense. An ethereal audience erupts with exuberant cheers, applause, and whistles, resonating from vacant seats. Champagne flutes collide, men erupt with hearty laughter from their very core, and women unleash piercing screams akin to banshees.

The temperature rises and the noise intensifies, repeatedly, enveloping you in a symphony of overwhelming sensations.

Onlookers casually share their thoughts.

“Get off the stage, we want to see the play, not some stagehand!”

“Boo!”

“Fuck off!”

You run off crying.

“Where is that Odile girl?”

You run into a dressing room. One used by a woman wearing a black dress. She is so pretty. Her long strawberry blonde hair falls off her bare shoulders, clearly just done with a flat iron. There is a burning smell in the air. Smoke. When her gold eyes meet yours, she marches towards you and slams the door shut.

You can almost hear sobbing coming from the other side. Cries.

“So lonely…” The woman mutters. “When will it ever be enough?”

The voice sounds familiar. Her eyes. Her hair.

Nostalgia. Memories you would much rather forget. The basement. The imaginary ripping of clothes and tears and men’s laughter.

“I can’t do this much longer…”

Someone else knocks on her door. You want to scream.

“Come out, dearest.”

The devil. Tall with curved horns and a forked tongue. You want to warn her. 

You want to save her. “I’m not going to harm you, I am going to make you happy.”

You are so focused on whether the woman opens the door or not that you do not notice what happens next until it is too late. A clawed hand on your mouth. A tongue licking your ear. Tasting your sweat. Your tears. Laughter. The rest of the world disappears, and the only one there aside from you is the one behind you.

Sh… Sh… Sh… Sh… Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun. Whunnnnnn, wooooooo, ummmmmmm. 

Get off of me. Please.

“Breathe. It makes things more fun for me.” The voice echoed like you two are in a cave.

You gasp for air, and the smell of blood and oranges fills your nostrils.

“...Huff…”

“That’s better.”

You turn around. There is a body of a man. 

But the scaled, furred, horrifying face of a demon.

“Good.” He says, smiling his sharp teeth. “Deep breaths, in and out, come on.”

You do what he says. He praises you again, you think. But you can’t hear it. Either that or you simply do not pay attention to it. What happened to the woman? 

“...”

“We should go.”

The woman. The devil, this other… thing.

“...Rose…”

The demon laughs.

“Wake up.”

*~*~*~*

The first things you hear come from a happy man’s voice. “My boss’ girlfriend ran away more than a year ago you see, and he’s been heartbroken ever since. I want to prevent that kind of loss from happening to me. Real pretty one, too! He didn’t expect it, but I don’t blame her. After all, she’s been held captive for more than a year, she had to try to escape eventually.”

…The first thing you feel is lace on your neck. A collar.

It does not tickle or hurt. It itches. 

A cold hand plays with it, and it almost chokes you. At your discomfort, the man laughs.

“You are so cute.”

Something metal is on the collar, and it blinks a small red light.

Ultraviolet Catalogue.

“I either use the cards I was given or get crushed under the weight of the world. Surely, at least one of you can understand that, yes?”

Warnings: Typical yandere themes, violence/gore, and sexual implications.

Pairing: Yan Chrollo x F Reader. (feat. Yan Phantom Troupe x OCs/Readers.)

→ Introduction.

You are trapped in a web of unfortunate circumstances.

But like a butterfly with a hole in one of its wings, you are not content with waiting to be rescued, instead choosing to claw your way out, even if you may not survive outside of the nest. Your only option is being like the spider that trapped you, entangling the other butterflies in your own webs. They follow you like moths to a flame, naive to the fact that your words are as sharp as a spider’s pincers. 

You are constantly caught between your two natures, changing between both in the blink of an eye. There is no middle ground, for your morality and inner core have been taken from you long ago. To you this is a twisted game where the only rule is unspoken; do whatever it takes to survive.

→ Divisions.

Main Story.

CHAPTER I / Hier Encore.

CHAPTER II / Sweet Hibiscus Tea.

CHAPTER III / Cradles.

CHAPTER IV / Duet.

CHAPTER V / Teeth.

CHAPTER VI / We’ll Meet Again.

CHAPTER VII / It’s Over, Isn’t It?

CHAPTER VIII / Play Date.

CHAPTER IX / All For Us.

CHAPTER X / Problems.

CHAPTER XI / Star of the Show.

CHAPTER XII / Custer.

CHAPTER XIII / Escort.

CHAPTER XIV / After Dark.

CHAPTER XV / Sea of Sin.

CHAPTER XVI / The Sound of the End.

CHAPTER XVII / Choking on Flowers.

CHAPTER XVIII / Worms.

CHAPTER XIX / Nobody.

CHAPTER XX / Tiny Light.

CHAPTER XXI / The Rebellion.

Side Stories.

(to be added)

Misc.

(to be added)

Razzmatazz.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader x Yan(?) Hisoka.

[Ultraviolet Catalouge.]

Synopsis: You are a dancer with no stage and no audience. Hisoka’s carrot and stick may just fix that.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, the reader is described as AFAB and uses she/her pronouns respectively, dub-con, cigarette usage, manipulation, mentions of body transformation, religious imagery, mentions of minor character death, humiliation, voyerism, oral (male receiving), masturbation, orgasm denial, the start of Stockholm Syndrome(?), and mentions of past stalking.

Word Count: 5.6k.

Can be considered to be within the Hier Encore universe.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Rich Girl by Gwen Stefani (feat. Eve)

Always Forever by Cults

So Beautiful by DPR IAN

Décolleté by Kenshi Yonezu

Introitus by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

Villainous Thing by Shayfer James

La petite fille de la mer - Remastered by Vangelis

Tonight You Belong To Me by Patience & Prudence

Tear You Apart by She Wants Revenge 

A Little Death by The Neighbourhood 

*~*~*~*

i. “Watch and pray that you may not enter into temptation. The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” (Matthew 26:41)

A dead leaf is pressed against the balcony window. 

“Dearest? Why are you awake so early?” 

The storm outside must be getting worse. The lightning is so bright, despite the sky itself being so dark. The thunder is getting louder too, and more frequent. Your senses choose to blissfully ignore the devil behind you to enjoy the scene ahead. This apartment is so high up that the tempest feels closer than it would if you were on the ground. A cup of tea is in your right hand. Your left is limp and stuck to your side. 

“Dearest? Dearest?”

The drink is a pleasant shade of light brown, with an even more pleasant vanilla and bergamot aroma tickling your nostrils. After much consideration from Chrollo, you were given fresh tea leaves that came from some expensive store that has locations all over Yorknew. The cost for a measly ten tea bags was ten thousand Jenny. 

Chrollo said it could not be helped to get only the best for you.

It couldn’t be helped, like everything else he had ever done. It couldn’t be helped, like how you escaped nearly two and a half years ago.

It couldn’t be helped, like how Hisoka betrayed you and left you to rot.

Or to burn.

You wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted both to happen to you.

Chrollo’s hands are slow to touch your neck, but his front was already pressed against you a while ago. They feel cold–dead, almost.

His right hand lingers just above your collarbone, while the left pinches your chin gently. His lips kiss your nape, and you resist shivering. While it would not show you are cold, it would show your cowardice. The only way to tolerate Chrollo is to ignore him as best as you can without him getting unbearable. It’s your new strategy, as the old one from back then is now dead.

There are no new sounds. Only the rainfall and Chrollo’s sighs. Then from the distance, you could have sworn you heard a knock. But you choose to ignore that too.

“Come back to bed.” 

“I wanted to see the first spring shower.”

His hands lower. You let him do that. You make him do that. 

“You made tea this early?”

“Yes.”

Chrollo’s chin rests on your shoulder as he looks down at his kneading hands.

“May I try some please?”

Before you can answer, he tips his head further down, expecting a reward for attempting to be a gentleman. You lift your right hand and he takes a few sips. His hands don’t hold the cup. He lets you–no, makes you–do that for him.

“It’s delicious.”

The clock above the living room television reads 01:01. 

The sky lights up as it is forcibly torn apart. The clouds have yet to show the dawn’s colors, and you suspect Chrollo would like it to be that way forever.

“It’s good… very good,” The praises fall from his forked tongue like morning dew dripping from a single blade of grass. “As soon as the cup is emptied, please lay to rest up for what is to come. I would hate to see my darling exhausted. Please…”

You feel three separate sensations behind you. They do not all come at once.

“Let me grant your request fully on my end, and you shall fulfill it on yours as well.”

The first is the feeling of the pain of pleasure. It came with the start of more pecks on the back of your neck. They trace the dark spots Chrollo had left, the ones that have yet to fade. 

The second is the pain of nothingness. It takes the form of a wall to remind you what he is and what you are.

The third is the pain of having company.

It exists as a reaction to the erection pressing against your lower back.

ii. “When the devil had finished all this tempting, he left him until an opportune time.” (Luke 4:13)

You started wanting to smoke again. 

A few days after you were brought back here, the craving for pitch-black smoke arrived due to no Sebaste being here to keep it at bay. He was not your only source of light, but he was the brightest one. Bedside lamps, the lit windows of buildings up high, the moon… nothing compares to someone long since withered away. You can still see, but not as good. Even the cigarette lighter from the night you met, the last memento you have of him, pales in comparison. 

The path ahead you still know, but just barely. You have no plan, no map, no route for what is to come. You are not acting like a rabbit running from a wolf, fearful and skittish, but you are alone nonetheless. You have more desires than just to live, though. You don’t let yourself be caught, but you still sneak into the hunter’s lodge to eat whatever scraps you can find. 

You refuse to let yourself fall into ruin but tempt the thought that your captor will. 

You tempt him like forbidden fruit so you can reap whatever rewards come next.

*~*~*~*

Shadows cover the better half of Hisoka’s body, but even then you know it is him. “Hello, princess. Fancy seeing you here.”

The edges of your mouth move downward, but you hold in what you want to say.

The grip on your shoulder does not cease entirely, but enough for you to slip away for a moment. The smell of grass and pollen is fresh as petals dance in the air.

Your skirt flows with the wind as you walk slowly, carefully, towards the familiar stranger. This country is known for having what is known as “The Eternal Solstice”, and so your white dress is the perfect last addition to this perfect painting. You’ll send the artist your regards soon enough, he is right in front of you after all. 

“Number Four.” Your voice is not cracked so much that Hisoka would not be able to hear you, but still enough for you to attempt to clear your throat after those two words are spoken. “What are you doing here?”

“The same reason you and the boss are here.” Between the index and middle finger on his left hand, two cards are stuck. The Queen of Hearts and the Ace of Diamonds.

“You’re lying.” The response is more immediate than you would have liked, but your anger overtakes your want to be cordial unconsciously. 

“Am I?” Hisoka asks, putting the two cards on his palm and pressing his hands together. In an instant, they are gone. “Why else would I be here then?”

“You want to mock me.” You hiss, gripping onto your skirt so tightly that the delicate fabric may break. “After everything I told you, after everything I did… you stabbed me in the back.”

A sigh. “And here I thought you would hear me out. Sad, really.”

“It’s too late for that.”

“Oh? Is it?” You choke on your words in an instant when you see a familiar silver cube no bigger than the length of your pinky in Hisoka’s right hand. “Remember this?”

Your eyes don’t possess as much rage now, and their gaze lingers elsewhere. The clown chuckles.

“That’s my girl.” He uses his thumb to open the lighter and then uses the same finger to amit a weak flame from it. “Come closer.”

You do what he says like a puppet on a string.

“Put out your hand, lovely.” You obey. When Hisoka’s own approaches with your treasure, your eyes light up. 

…

It is only one word that stops you from moving entirely.

“Cigarettes.”

iii. “And give no opportunity to the devil.” (Ephesians 4:27)

Like church bells, Hisoka’s offer rings in your ear longer than you would have liked. The words said are worse than a parasite, clinging onto a body long after both are dead.

They refuse to exit. They simply sit and stay. No matter how much you attempt to kick them out, they always come back.

“What do you think of the deal, my love?”

Ah. Should you make your real feelings known? Or simply play pretend?

In Chrollo’s world, though, all his mirrors are shattered, while yours remain whole.

Everyone lies, but only you are figured out one way or another, sooner or later.

“I think we should accept.”

iv. “When you ask, you do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives, that you may spend what you get on your pleasures.” (James 4:3)

“Ladies first.”

You follow the scent of candles and the temptation of a past where you were not content, but happy.

The start of the path is the bedroom’s doorway.

Something else drags you to the bed. Something foreign, but just something as well known to you as unbuttoning the front of your dress. It waits. It is patient. It is alive and here and oh so very excited.

Lust. It gathers from Hisoka and Chrollo… and you. It is the weapon you used to use against everyone to further your own goals, but now the sword’s blade is pointed at you.

You feel the sensation of Hisoka’s hand on your ass, and it stays there.

“Get moving, princess.”

Something looms over the bed. A shadow darker than the night’s sky itself. It stares at you with a singular eye–the orb brighter than the full moon outside. You blink, and then it disappears.

You then sit at the very corner of the bed in wait, crossing one leg over the other. Your movements aren’t as robotic anymore–they feel… raw, animalistic almost–and you hate that, but love it. 

The shadow lingers over you once more.

Love it? Have you truly fallen this far?

You, who has lost it all. You, whose soul is now stained with the blood of those you despised and adored. You… loving this feeling?

This isn’t you.

This is wrong, you tell yourself. Your entire life has been all about self-preservation. After being kidnapped, that want only grew and grew.

Has being on the run for two years made you this soft? This pliable?

Disgusting. This is disgusting. You are disgusting.

“Just do what you two normally do,” Hisoka says, crossing his arms as he sits beside you. “I’m all for it.”

Chrollo’s hands lower as his back bends forward, and you raise your hands.

He’s gentle as usual, kissing the air around your left earlobe to ease you further into this.

Button after button, the black dress gets a bit looser. The dress is put above your face like that of a bride’s wedding veil. Wait, you think, it is more like the attire of someone attending a funeral. You like this idea more after pondering on it. It ensures for at least some time you still have hate in your body. So, you love the touches no further. Your posture goes back to that of a statue.

Chrollo is the first to say something about it as soon as the dress is fully off, allowing him to see your facial expression and body language. You aren’t looking into his eyes anymore. Your legs are no longer crossed. Sebaste really made you vulnerable, didn’t he? He posed no threat to you then, but he does now. He does now. His palms no longer caress your cold heart, but his ghost curses it with warmth only found within hell’s flames.

“Are you thinking about him again?” Your eyebrows cast downward as you look at his feet. The heels of them connect and then spread out. It reminds you of a flower, in a way. “Well?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Chrollo knows this line well. Every time he mentions that man, you recite it like a preacher or an actor.

You want to believe the lie that you speak of all the same. You want to delude yourself so you regress into the calculating being you once were.

You don’t want to get hurt again. He can understand that. So he keeps himself from mentioning Sebaste any further for the night. As a bonus, Hisoka’s fun won’t be ruined.

You really have bloomed, he thinks. All it takes is a bit more time to see you at your most beautiful.

Not that you never were beautiful, of course.

“Ah, my apologies.”

He steps to your left side and grasps at the clasps of your bra. He treats each one delicately like they are gifts from the divine. Would he betray them, if they existed and he believed? You would ask, but you’re unsure as to if you would like the answer he responds with.

“You’re forgiven.” You nearly huffed.

Hisoka thinks that reaction is adorable. Unlike what the rest of the Troupe may think of you, you are just a small child in an adult’s body. Your wants are simple, and so are your tantrums when you don’t get what you want.

“Careful,” He says, his smirk wide.

“I know,” Chrollo responds, his eyes only on you. “You wouldn’t let me go anymore if I didn’t apologize here and now.”

So he’s being ignored now?

“Get it over with,” You almost hiss, looking back at both of them. “Usually you’re much rougher than this.”

Hmm? A facade?

Hisoka considered this when he asked for Chrollo’s consent. Chrollo has no real identity, he knows that well. So because of that, he isn’t surprised.

“You know why I’m taking this nice and slow, don’t you?”

You don’t say anything for a while after that.

Your arms are no longer raised when Chrollo pulls your bra off of you. Your midriff’s rolls coil into one another as your spine proceeds to move further down until you are at eye level with Chrollo’s pant’s zipper. Hisoka stifles the urge to laugh when he hears something akin to a pig’s snort coming out of you. You’re cute.

Quite cute.

Revulsion is something most things have experienced, and you are no exception. It’s bitter, like the blackest coffee, but also sweet and sour like a whole lime was cubed and boiled in a pot with it for hours until it turned into a blob of horrid distaste. After all, unveiling your captor’s erect cock was not for the faint of heart. Hisoka really cannot blame you for everything you have ever done to get away from Chrollo.

Perhaps he should join in on the action, just to feel some of the poison’s effects.

Chrollo takes off his shirt and throws it to you. That’s the signal Hisoka needed before undressing too. Even though he will not be touching you, he will have to be careful to not be too pushy with you two.

“Have you heard Magcub got a new girlfriend?” Hisoka crushes a speck of dust between his sharp nails. “Apparently she’s a veteran. Must have taken a bit of force to get her under control.”

“Why exactly did you agree to this?” You ask, grasping onto Chrollo’s forearms and having your nails dig into his pale skin. He doesn’t seem to mind, as he is more focused on already kissing your neck. 

Hisoka doesn’t know if this is a form of rebellion or pettiness, but either way, he cares as much as Chrollo does–which is not at all.

There is a dark red lipstick on the vanity, still open and no longer having any edge. In fact, it looks like there are only a few more days worth of use left in the tube. You must use it quite often. When neither of you looks, Hisoka points with his Nen in effect. It flies into his hand like a domesticated bird. 

He stores it in one of the pockets of the pants he so eagerly discarded from his person. For a moment he expected Chrollo to turn and demand for him to give it back, but instead, there was still no reaction whatsoever. 

“You don’t let me smoke at all, so why?”

Chrollo sits down next to you, sliding his hand up and down your thigh. “To be completely honest, I see this as a mutually beneficial situation. All parties involved get rewarded for their sacrifices, no matter how small.” He brushes some of your hair with his fingers. “You get your cigarettes, Hisoka gets his… delight, and I… I get to feel heaven once more.”

Heaven? Well, if your voice can be seen as an angelic choir, who can stop him from praying at your altar? Hisoka certainly cannot. Chrollo is the only one who can choose to no longer claim to have sanctuary there. 

You don’t have the power to strike either of them down.

“Tch. If I were a seraph, I would have never let darkness like you thrive in this world. Never.” Chrollo looks up at you and touches the bridge of your nose with his finger. “That I promise.”

“Hmm,” He murmurs. Then, a shake of the head. “You don’t mean that, my love.”

“I do.”

Your hands are trembling. Your mouth feels dry. Your head hurts.

“Why do you enjoy hurting me?”

“Can you hurry?”

His head turns to the side. The gesture can be seen as a heartfelt one by many. “Are you feeling less prudent this evening, darling?”

“You’re being quite ungrateful, you know.”

“No.”

Chrollo’s expression doesn’t change. For what feels like forever, his lips are so close to yours that you can smell the mint in his breath. But for a moment, you could have sworn it was smoke instead.

Your brain must be playing another trick on you.

“Am I the only thief to have ever indulged with and in you?”

You don’t answer then, either.

Hisoka starts to stroke his cock–it’s covered in green veins with the end getting pinker and pinker by the second. His hands then rest on the part of the bed neither of you chose to take, the left side. He bends backward as he looks down at himself, proud. He groans.

“You’re pushing the bed.” You glare at Hisoka as you spur out angered words without a second thought.

You’re avoiding talking about your feelings again. Hisoka knew that you refused to even when you were with Sebaste. He considers bringing you to an aquarium when Chrollo is busy, but then he buries the idea. Perhaps that would be too cruel. As much as you hate Hisoka, Hisoka enjoys your company too much–and he doesn’t want Chrollo to take you away.

Not yet. Not now. Not ever. While he could have not ratted you out much, much later, after you and Sebaste married, perhaps, Hisoka wanted to see you more strung up.

As a bonus, Chrollo was very pleased with him, further cementing his reputation among the other Spiders.

Hisoka decided not to kill you to enrage Chrollo, so it was the safest option in all aspects.

“Fix it.” You demand. With your lips busy, Chrollo decides to kiss your neck instead.

Hisoka puts his arms up with a mockingly innocent expression on his face. “Very well, princess.”

Your nose wrinkles again.

“Eyes on me,” Chrollo whispers as he pecks softly.

Hisoka isn’t sure if you heard the man, because as he moves the bedframe back to its original position, you continue to seethe.

Your wrists are grabbed and dragged above your head. That quickly gets your attention. You look at Chrollo wide-eyed, but not surprised.

The vow isn’t sealed with the sudden kiss, but it is a start. With your mind hazy from everything, you kiss back.

I don’t want him, your brain almost screams before it goes unconscious. [First] [Last], the woman who has led many people to their demise by being selfish, wanting to be ravished by the very man she abhors? Pull yourself together, and call off the deal.

Your near-dead heart beats once more when Chrollo touches you, though.

I feel alive.

His tongue is an intruder in only name. It swipes across your teeth and picks up tiny pieces of fruit with every crevice it overtakes. Before it dies, your skull demands you to bite. Spit. Run. But you want to be here, so you don’t do any of those things. 

Not like you could have, anyway.

“How beautiful,” Chrollo murmurs as his tongue collides with yours. “How soft.”

You aren’t pleased with his teasing. “Just make it happen.”

“Oh, how you have thawed,” His mouth retreats upward to your ear, hissing and rattling away. “You’re so eager now, dearest.”

His fingers let go of your wrists, wandering down to your stomach, your hips, and then your ass. He squeezes the flesh as he takes your greedy tongue yet again. His hands move up slightly as he pushes you onto his lap. Your knees sink into the bed with a slight creek of the mattress. Must be the coils. Or the bottom of the frame.

Or… was it you, somehow?

“Careful you don’t fall, princess.”

Hisoka is now facing away from you two, his chin in between the only two pillows you use. Perhaps he knows that, either from the smell they give off or how they are both one of your favorite colors.

But somehow, someway, he knew what you two were doing, in typical Hisoka fashion.

Well…

It’s not like either of your actions are vague.

“Chrollo…”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Can… you hold my back?”

Chrollo raises an eyebrow as he nods his head. “Of course.”

His left hand caresses your spine as you bend backward. Has all that ballet training stuck with you, even after these few years? Chrollo has the answer already in his smiling brain.

Two fingers on the free hand coil up, while the middle, the pointer, and the thumb remain as straight as a line. Two tips enter and curl while the third strokes up and down and side to side. Your clit follows your heart, accepting the guests with open arms. The lips clench, not wanting to let go.

“You always took them well,” He chuckles. 

Shut up. 

Shut it.

But your mouth is nothing without its brain, so it continues to moan while your heart continues to live for the chase.

“Don’t… Don’t stop,”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Hisoka hasn’t said anything else for some time, and you all know you hope it continues to be that way. He continues to sniff the pillows as he rubs himself against the mattress. You make a mental note to ask for cleaning service tomorrow, or maybe if Chrollo is in a good mood he will do it.

“I… I’m close, I’m so close, I…”

“Not now.”

You fool. You should have never made that deal.

“Don’t be upset. I’ll let you eventually.”

“Please…”

You squirm as you close your eyes, in a desperate attempt to hide what you have become. A prideless harlot bouncing on her captor’s lap. Can you really fall further into hell now? You are already so below that the morning’s star is nearly invisible to your eyes.

“Patience is a virtue, darling.” He says as if that would change anything about this situation.

When Chrollo lets go of your back, you almost crash onto the floor below. 

“Careful now,” Hisoka teases, still not looking back. “I told you so.”

The words aren’t noticed, because now you are busy rubbing your inner thighs together for some sort of pleasure.

Chrollo shakes your hands off his shoulders, and then you collapse.

For the first time in a while, you feel physical pain. You don’t feel your heart dropping or your mind going hazy or both being tempted by unimaginable things. No.

For that reason, though, it only hurts for a moment.

Then…

Then, it is gone.

Now only pursuit remains. You’re on your knees in an instant and attempt to stand. A hand plays with your hair and keeps you where it wants you to be. On the ground. Desperate for a single note of sweetness in a flavorless black sea.

Bitterness as well.

Then, the need to pursue leaves your body as it knows what is going to happen next.

Bliss.

Warmth.

Harmony.

…Self-destruction.

How unfortunate for you, that that the last thing is all your heart wants.

You open your mouth not for the first time or the last time this evening. Your imagination envisions all the desserts and drinks you have downed using the same tongue, and the same lips. Half of you is disgusted at the thought. The other half does not care in the slightest.

The member slides in like it belongs there–like it is part of you; somehow, someway. It’s as salty as the sea, not having the taste you wanted in the slightest, but you allow it to continue pressing against your hard palate. 

He thrusts up and down. Precum pools below your tongue and stays until you can’t breathe. You swallow it down in mere moments.

It’s thicker than syrup would be, but it is just as sugary. The smell is pungent like chlorine, but not as irritating. 

“Simply lovely,” Chrollo looks up at the ceiling, a light pink blush on his pale cheeks. “You always took me so well.”

A few minutes pass.

But… to you, it feels like just a second or maybe three.

Chrollo groans one more time as he orgasms, warm liquid running down your throat as his cock plunges in and out of the dark at least ten more times.

Then it exits, signaling the end of the fourth act.

Chrollo pats his thigh and finally allows you to stand up. The mattress sinks again as you climb on top of him. Once more Hisoka hears the creak sound. The source of the sound is still unknown to him.

“You’re so wet already, darling.”

Chrollo moves his hands to your legs as he pulls them apart and sees the sweet pleasure point in between. 

His thumb goes up and down, playing with the tiny tip as you spread yourself further on his lap. 

But… But…

But Chrollo doesn’t lift his hips to connect you two? But Hisoka is still fucking your pillows to his heart’s content? But you still haven’t seen any proof of either of them bringing the cigarettes? But Chrollo hasn’t made reservations to that restaurant you wanted to go to? Or…

You don’t know where you were going with that thought, that “but”.

It fades like morning’s dew falling from the grass into wet soil. It is so miniscule. So insignificant. Its destiny was made from the start. It has no use in this world; it is just a sign of something that has already happened.

You grip onto Chrollo’s shoulders for dear life, like you will fall into the depths of hell should you lose the embrace. Should… you lose yourself here, on this bed, it will mean the death of you.

“Your hands are cold.” The only thing that moves is Chrollo’s eyelids moving up and down.

“Why did you stop?”

“Hm?”

“Why… did you stop, Chrollo?”

“I did nothing of the sort.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Isn’t it normal to take breaks before resuming sexual activities?”

He’s lying; you can tell by the way he smiles and looks up at the ceiling again.

But… you don’t tell him you know.

You. Don’t Say. Anything.

“Calm yourself, dearest.”

His voice is as sweet as ever, you think.

Sometimes, when you are good, it takes all the bad feelings away…

Oh. Oh. You didn’t realize you were crying. You didn’t realize panting, hyperventilating.

“What… How long will it be?”

“Don’t worry,” Chrollo whispers, leaning close to your ear. “Only a moment longer.”

When he finally enters after what feels like an eternity, your eyes roll to the top of your head.

v. “Do not let your heart turn to her ways or stray into her paths. Many are the victims she has brought down; her slain are a mighty throng.” (Proverbs 7:25-26)

The clock above the bed frame reads 23:03.

You hug your pillow as you turn your body to the right.

Hisoka is no longer here, but the pressurized point on the mattress is still warm when your fingertips graze the middle of it.

A pair of arms caress your torso in a sort of hug, gently dragging you backward. A recognizable tongue slithers up and down the back of your neck. The bruises there don’t hurt anymore, but you are certain they will be harder to cover up than the others. You can see from the corner of your eye that the bathroom light is on and that the bathroom’s door is wide open. 

“What is he doing?” You mumble, putting your face further into your pillow.

You already know the answer, however–as much as you attempt to forget the obvious fact and the burden of your imagination. Then, you hear them both moan at the same time. At least you think so. You could have just thought up Hisoka’s since he is farther away, but Chrollo is right behind you.

“You did good…” Chrollo whispers, pecking your left shoulder.

“Of course I did.” You huff. “I never let down people who keep their word.”

You then hear the shower’s water running.

“He’s going to waste all the good water,” You grumble, rolling your eyes. “I wanted to take a bath.”

“You could always join me,” Hisoka says, his voice nearing exclamation.

You sigh. Of course he can hear you.

“I’ll pass.”

“A shame.”

The door then closes.

You sit up from the bed and pull up the blanket just enough to cover your privates. “He isn’t staying for the night, is he?”

The man beside you balances his head with his right arm, looking up at you.

“...Is he? No?” You ask. Chrollo’s only response is to pull the blanket back down. “Yes?”

“No.” He finally responds, laying on his back. “Knowing him, it’s safe to assume that he’ll be gone by midnight. Unless you ask him to stay, though I highly doubt you would. But he does have a soft spot for you, you know.”

“Mmhmm,” You groan. “If you say so.”

The front of your head suddenly aches. You rub your temple, scowling.

“What’s wrong?” Chrollo’s head tilts, and for a moment you can see something akin to concern on his face. It’s close to the real thing–too close for your liking. When looked at at just the right angle, all its flawlessness fades and only the uncanny characteristics remain. 

Your response is nothing less and nothing more than the slight creak of the bed frame as you turn to your bedside table.

Cigarettes. At least twenty of them. There couldn’t be more than thirty, though. But they are real cigarettes. Not the fake ones Chrollo attempts to place between your teeth whenever you ask to smoke. Not the bubblegum he gives you after a particularly heavy meal whenever you ask to go outside and sit somewhere near a person using a cigar or cretek. 

No, they’re real and here and they’re yours.

“Nothing,” You answer, sighing again.

You feel the part of the mattress that is behind you dig deeper. Chrollo inches closer and closer until the little bit of distance between you is a mere dip. Then it turns into a line so small not even the tip of your pinky finger can fit. The hug is more unbearable than it was before.

But then the discomfort goes away. Something in the back of your mind realizes that this, everything that this is, is horrifying. Nothing hurts you anymore, but everything can be much worse now.

Everything can be so, so much worse now. Dead anchovies piled up high in fishing markets will remind you of Sebastian's last moments, his unblinking eye still staring into you.

Smoke made of nicotine will remind you of Hisoka now, and not the beach where you met the love of your life. 

Train tracks, yams, calamari, roses, wine, lipstick, bookmarks, purses, wallets. Lighters, phones, card games, video games, computers, scarves, sunglasses. Being grasped from behind and being pushed and slapped around.

“It’s been forty-five minutes.” You say nonchalantly, almost bored, after a while, after looking up and behind you to the clock. 

Chrollo doesn’t respond–he doesn’t have to. You already have enough pieces to put the puzzle together on your own.

“He wants to stay,” You close your eyes. You don’t take deep breaths or quick breaths, just hardly notable ones. “Doesn’t he?”

Silence.

You know if Chrollo did respond, it wouldn’t be anything as nice as a “no” or a “yes”.

“Fine,” Your heart rate slows, but you attempt to not show it. “Don’t tell me.”

The silence isn’t as eerie as Hisoka’s laughter, but it still grasps around your neck just enough for you not to breathe normally. 

You don’t say “good night” to people anymore–that right is only reserved for those long since taken by death.

You hope it will be at your beck and call too, one day.

Something already is.

It is only a matter of time before you know what it is.

One day, when you either eat or be eaten.

One day, when all of your patience finally comes to fruition.

One day, when this play’s final act plays out in front of an unwilling audience.

One day.

Heaven Can Wait.

Yan (College AU) Juno x GN Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, stalking, manipulation, descriptions of violence, implications of dub-con sex (not with the reader), Chrollo is the worst, and unhealthy relationships.

Word Count: 1k.

Can be considered to be an honorary part of Hier Encore. (Or as a standalone for a soft yandere hot woman)

*~*~*~*

You could have chosen a better place to eat. Everything was less than half the usual price compared to the more expensive places, yes. But the customer service was ghastly though, the food was near inedible, and everything smelled of cigarettes. Cracked white bowls and filthy cups littered every table, including the one you two are sitting at.

Well, Juno thought, at least I can smoke here.

That would ruin the mood though, perhaps. She wants you to only have the best opinion of her after all. She wants it so bad that she has dressed up to the nines for a simple late-night fast-food run. Like a single cloud hovering in a bright blue sky, she stands out like a sore thumb.

It’s half past midnight now, much later than she usually stays up on her days off. Not that she had many off days, to begin with. It’s a prison of her design honestly; always wanting to know more and do more sometimes gets her nowhere.

But most of the time it gets her somewhere.

It was easy enough to befriend you, having moments not too intimate but not too distant either.

Yes. Yes… you remind her of him, in some ways.

You tell her sweet words and your touch is as soft as the pillows she sleeps on. Those were not the only traits Sebaste had Juno sees in you, though.

You’re not the most aloof person she knows, that easily goes to Camus, but you still don’t know how to control your facial expressions much. You like the beach, but not necessarily like the ocean’s water. 

“How can you just eat all of that?”

“Pardon?”

You point. Juno looks down at the many empty plates on her side of the table, all piled high on one another and all having a thin layer of red sauce inside them. There must have been at least five, she thinks. She was too zoned out to feel the spice of the food most likely. 

Your bowl, on the other hand, was more than half full. Your side of the table was also covered in little splotches of hot sauce, while hers remained mostly clean. You were avoiding the vegetables maybe, or maybe you didn’t have as high of a spice tolerance as she did. Juno is undecided on which one would be more likely.

…Has… she really eaten this many bowls while her imagination roamed free?

She has dealt with far worse pain. Though around forests in the middle of the night only to be threatened with a taser was on the much lower end of the spectrum of unfortunate situations she has been in, the spiciness was somehow even lower. The device was set to the lowest setting, but her skin still felt like it was about to jump out of her body and run away. Being held with an ax right below her neck while another hand held her up by her hair was another one only slightly above the last two. She only had a slight cut just above her collarbone when the grip loosened and she was able to leave.

But she cannot tell you all of that; she wouldn’t want you in more danger than she has already made you be in.

“I’ve simply dealt with far worse… ‘dishes’, [First].”

You look confused at her answer but decide not to pry – another trait she loves about you, your ability to not invade others’ privacy – and decide to instead delve into the now cold cup of admittedly diluted green tea you ordered mere minutes ago.

*~*~*~*

When Juno locks the door behind her, she notices the tall lamp by her desk is on. It’s no mere coincidence, she knows it, but somewhere deep down she hopes that tonight it will be. Hell has to take a break sometimes, right? 

Juno has to remind herself that though the demons may have today to do whatever they please, Lucifer himself does no such thing. He enjoys making life for others unbearable – he lives for it.

She can’t make out Chrollo’s face because of the book he covers over it.

“The Collector, huh?” Juno sets her purse on the coat rack along with her cardigan. Her high heels come off soon after, though they do make a blunt thump when she puts them by her dorm’s entrance. Chrollo just turns a page, almost as if he is ignoring you entirely, almost as if this is his home and not yours. “I recommended that one to you, did I not? I thought that perhaps you could metamorphose into a better person if you see the damage you could potentially do to your crush.”

Her teeth push against each other as she says the last word.

“Is that how my lovely girlfriend greets me after cheating on me in the middle of the night?” He looks down at his watch – one of the many he wears on the regular, though she can swear that this one was the most expensive from the little diamonds around the outer rim of the clock. “At such a cheap place too.”

“A crush is all I am.”

“Are you now?”

Chrollo doesn’t even look at you as he stands up, the book still covering his face as he steps towards you. His posture is upright like it normally is, but his suit is without a tie and the button-up is a third way undone. He must have been in quite a rush to break in here – she hopes he did.

“Then what are they to you, huh? A crush as well?”

She shakes her head, and somehow he sees it because he nods in response.

“Then what are they?”

“Something you are not.”

“Are they really, Juno?”

Slowly but surely the book falls to Chrollo’s side – a blood-red curtain that does nearly nothing to hide the scene about to be revealed to the audience. The actors are not there and neither are the special effects done by the stagehands, but the props stay where they were placed.

It’s horrifying.

She struggles to come up with a coherent answer to the question despite her expecting it. It is like Chrollo used his damn book without even opening it – her painted lips feel dry and her freshly washed hair feels like it is about to fall off from stress. It is like a diabolical curse has been put over her like she will become a haggard old woman with a humpback in mere seconds. If that did happen, Chrollo would have her beg for months on end until he is satisfied.

She doesn’t want that.

She doesn’t want that any more than she wants you to get hurt because of her.

She doesn’t want you to see her hideous real face, nevertheless Chrollo’s.

You’ll stay with her, won’t you? You’ll stay until her flesh rots and your flesh rots and Chrollo’s flesh rots. If you allow her, she won’t let go of you even when she is long dead. Her pretty nails will dig into your skin and refuse to leave. You’ll stay – because you are all she has left in this cold, uncaring world. 

“Don’t hurt them.” Her fingertips hold onto her skirt like they are flies and it is a spider’s web.

He points – a clear order, a clear demand.

“Get on the bed then, dearest.”

hiii i wanted to ask u about h.e. reader's mbti . i feel like she'd be an entj, entp, or enfj... maybe even an intp, istp, or infj? i feel like she simply pretends to be nice and just goes >:( when she loses patience with people or what she wants she cannot have

my time has come.

hier encore reader's MBTI is INTJ in my opinion, but feel free to want to type her as something else! she is technically a reader insert, after all.

introverted intuition

reader is always on the move and always thinking ahead (until an unknown factor like hisoka ruins her plans). she enjoys being good at whatever she sets out to do and often attempts to plan even at the very last minute. she attempts to listen to what is logical to her and her alone pre character development. it could be stealing a car after threatening the owner with a fake ID. it could be making sure the waiter gives her her wine ten minutes sharp post her ordering it and them claiming it will be ready in ten minutes or less. depends on the situation. whatever floats the queen's boat. she dislikes when other people take the lead (and thus take control over her) because her ideas in her opinion are as beautiful as the ocean view. even if they can seem "daunting" to others as she puts it, her mind is the only thing of value to her. no one else's.

extroverted thinking

while miss juno doesn't really ask other people for their opinions on matters important to her, she does in fact listen to her big wrinkly brain and promptly do whatever she feels is necessary at that moment. despite her planning and planning for what is essentially her entire life, there are still moments that catch her off guard. chrollo and hisoka especially most of the time. they often like to live their lives on the edge (especially the latter one... cough cough). impulsivity makes no sense for her when she is grounded in logic and not emotion. when she is taken over by her feelings though... no bueno for anyone who gets in her way and is unable to fight back.

introverted feeling

this function doesn't really show until post partial character development! after sebaste (who in my opinion is an ISTP) is on the scene, hier encore reader is slightly more inclined to put the foreign subject known as "feelings" into her decision making. she enjoys the company of one person now instead of zero (quite the big improvement), and thus even puts his feelings into account too. just as a safety precaution in case her logical side goes south though. how romantic.

extroverted sensing

this last function actually is shown before introverted feeling in my opinion! juno wants to connect to people but in a much unhealthier way than a healthy INTJ would. she wants connection through control to better connect with herself. she copies the few people she finds inspirational to get them to like her. with the even fewer people she likes, she sees the control aspect as a way for them to know her better. they do the work for her.

i feel like this is a prime example of extroverted thinking and introverted feeling fighting:

*~*~*~*

Your heart tells you otherwise. You can feel, no, hear blood pulse to the very tips of your fingers. Your feet tell you otherwise. They are cold. They hurt. They are adhered to the ground. Your arms and legs tell you otherwise. There is nothing but pins and needles all over. This is your chance, the little voice in your head says with blind reassurance. Who knows when you will ever get this chance again? Do it now, and be quick about it. But you can’t breathe. You can’t breathe, and you have to try your hardest to stop the hand holding your espresso from shaking and falling on you. 

*~*~*~*

i just think she's really gorgeous... when she is post character development (which isn't in the main story yet) i know she'd treat me well. like a princess even. <3

a layout of all darlings' mbti/enneagrams/tritypes (most unnamed but they will be eventually):

juno lilou - INTJ, 1w2, 125

nobunaga's darling - ESFJ, 1w2, 126

feitan's darling - ENFP, 7w8, 739

machi's darling - ISFP, 9w1, 926

hisoka's darling - ENTJ, 4w5, 486

phinks' darling - INFJ, 6w5, 612

adele annette amsler - INFP, 4w3, 496

franklin's darling - ISFP, 7w6, 749

shizuku's darling - ENFJ, 2w3, 271

pakunoda's darling - ESFP, 7w8, 784

bonolenov's darling - ISTP, 9w8, 963

uvogin's darling - ESTJ, 1w9, 154

kortopi's darling - ISTJ, 4w5, 468

I need some happy Juno facts to cope with the fact that my wife is like twenty feet under in shit. (I'm obsessed)

your wish is my command, anon. anything for a fellow juno enjoyer. 🫂

characters not yet named all have their own names for juno, depending on when in life she has met them. her favorite is june because unfortunately she couldn't see the summer sun her first year in captivity.

her favorite season is spring but says it is autumn. (she wants to seem cool.)

she's somewhat talented at baking, but an absolute horror when it comes to anything else. she can't even boil water without leaving questionable stains on the walls and floor like a nuclear explosion happened in her kitchen. she's much better at measurements than, you know, actually cooking, hence why she lets the oven do all the work heating-wise.

she almost became a doctor and not a public safety official. maybe that would have had a better outcome for her...

loves the movie perfect blue and will not accept any critiques. the same thing for goodfellas, the godfather, and the silence of the lambs. her favorite movie is actually beauty and the beast, not that she will ever admit it because once again she wants to appear cool (and who knows what chrollo would do).

i love her :)

As the sunlight recedes into the horizon, moths, wasps, bugs; insects of all kinds gravitate and amass to any newfound light source they may find.

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