#chrollo brainrot

“Children?” You repeat, your voice not dissimilar to a mouse’s squeak. “Like, kids?” 

There’s a brief glimpse of amusement on his countenance, but he’s quick to redirect your focus. “Whichever word you prefer.” 

You study him. Presently, you’re sitting atop a barstool overlooking the area’s living space, while he leans against a nearby support column. He’s changed into his evening attire, a loose white shirt and gray sweatpants. You’re not so fortunate. You’re still paying for an indiscretion committed earlier in the week. Consequently, your wardrobe has been reduced to his preferred aesthetics. You’re wearing a black nightgown with thin spaghetti straps and lace embellishments.

Given your vulnerable position, risqué outfit, and his not-so-subtle interest in wooing you, the potential implications inspire discomfort. You shrink into yourself. What is he getting at? You’ve managed to avoid most of his physical advances, but you’re not delusional; if he willed it, you’d be at his mercy. You always feared he was operating on an invisible timer known only to him, each passing second bringing you closer to— 

“You’re overthinking things,” he notes. “I have no ulterior motives. I’m simply curious.” 

“Curious?” you repeat back, cautious. 

He nods. 

“What brought this ‘curiosity’ about?” 

Chrollo stares at you. You can feel his eyes dissecting everything, from your closed-off body language to your barely concealed hostility. 

“... I see,” he eventually says. “You won’t trust me without context. Very well. It’s nothing so grand. Though, in return for my honesty, I expect yours. Does that sound fair?” 

Feigning nonchalance, you shrug. “I guess.” 

He stands to his full height and walks over, pulling out the barstool to your left. He doesn’t intrude on your personal space, but his proximity has you shuffling to the right. He allows you your meager defiance. 

“Last night, I had a dream,” he starts. Then, a pause. He’s giving his word choice unusual consideration. “In it, we were married… or maybe not. Whatever the case, it was a far more conventional lifestyle. You had to take a phone call — with your mother, I believe — so you asked me to watch over two names I’d never heard before. They bore such a resemblance to you. Aside from their eyes, that is.” 

You wonder if he’s aware that he’s smiling. 

Chrollo clears his throat. “As I said, it’s nothing so grand.” 

It’s your turn to scrutinize him. You might not be a virtuoso in the art like he is, but you have your methods. What strikes you is how much of himself he revealed, unwittingly or by design, although the latter suits him better. He must have decided it was a worthwhile sacrifice for any insight you’ll give. 

“Kids… they always sounded nice to me, in theory. Except for when I was a teenager. I was vehemently against the idea then,” you can’t help chuckling at the memory. “I don’t know. I guess I came around to the thought again, but… it’d only be after I established myself. Solid career, housing, whatever. And, of course, the right partner.” 

You’re sure your side eye doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“Not that any of that is in the cards anymore. You’re not delusional enough to think otherwise, right?” 

The skin beneath his eyes crinkles. “And if I was?” 

“I’d fling myself off a balcony.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t say such things.” 

You begin picking at a stray thread on the hem of your nightgown. “Yeah, well, I wish for a lot of things that don’t come true.” 

“I suppose we’re alike in that regard.” 

“Gross,” you make a face. Pursing your lips, you hesitantly ask, “Was that really all you had on your mind? You’ve been so…” 

“So…?” He repeats, matching your inflection. It goads you along. 

“Pensive? Gloomy? Something to that effect. It’s like there’s this little rain cloud floating over you.” 

You motion to the space above his head where the proverbial rain cloud would be. 

“A few days ago, you said some choice words,” Chrollo recalls, much to your displeasure. You were hoping he’d leave that in the past. “They left an impression.” 

You swallow thickly. “I’m sorry.” 

Chrollo gives a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Lying isn’t one of your strong suits; I suggest avoiding it.”

While shifting around in your seat, you wish you could turn invisible. 

“During your little outburst, you asked if I was ‘happy’ with how things are. An interesting question, to say the least. I’ve given it some thought.” 

Svelte fingers graze your jawline. You stiffen up, every muscle seizing into place, as if you’d been paralyzed. His touch is gentle, almost featherlight. Your pulse quickens like you’re a lamb awaiting slaughter. Staring straight ahead, you desperately search for some object to fixate on. You settle on the support column. An avant-garde clock sits high on it, the bottom half of its frame drooping, as if it were paint splashed against a wall. 

You count the seconds as they pass. Two, four, ten… 

His fingers tighten around your jaw and he turns you to face him. 

What a sight you must be — cheeks squished together, eyebrows high, lips agape. And then there’s him. He’s frowning, but aside from that, you can’t get a read on him. The intensity of his gaze holds you captive. Without warning, he leans forward, tilting his head slightly as he does so. You squeeze your eyes shut. You can feel his warm breath fan against your face, how he strengthens his grip, likely anticipating resistance. 

“How can I be ‘happy’ when you’re still so adverse to my touch?” Chrollo whispers, his lips brushing against yours as he talks. You fight the urge to cringe.  “What will it take to have you where I want you?” 

After what feels like an eternity, he lets you go, but doesn’t move back. 

You reopen your eyes. You’re more familiar with the man sitting before you, if only by a fraction. Even then, an unnerving atmosphere lingers, speckling your skin in goosebumps. You wrap your arms around yourself and exhale. The consequences from that day’s lapse in judgment have been manageable until now. 

Your day-to-day existence is defined by a lack of control. Over where you’ll go, what you’ll do, even what you can wear. Chrollo is the composer of your life and you’re his pièce de résistance, whom he always makes adjustments to. You must match his tempo or scramble to catch up. This paradigm has slowly yet surely eroded you, sanding over your harsh edges until you’re soft to the touch. 

You wanted to hurt him, wanted him to feel what jagged pieces remain, but now that you may have accomplished just that, you’re burdened by regret. 

Not for what you did. 

No, for what you possibly started. 

“Chrollo.” 

“Hm?” 

“How much of me are you willing to destroy to get what you want?” 

Chrollo lets out a low hum, as if the hypothetical you presented him with was nothing so unthinkable. This alone stokes your anxiety. Sometimes you wonder if this is not already the path you’re being ushered towards. He’s amassed victories, some small, others sizable. You’re far more docile now compared to when he first took you. Back then, you could barely function, panic ruled your every waking thought and seeped into your dreams, denying every respite. 

“You have the wrong idea,” Chrollo asserts. “I don’t want to destroy any element of you. All I’d like is a change in perspective.” 

You gawk at him. “Huh?” 

“Haven’t I proven I’m not as terrible as you feared?” he questions, tilting his head. “I could’ve been every bit the monster you imagined me to be, if not worse.” 

“Should I— do you expect gratitude, or something?” 

Mirth dances in his eyes like flecks of ember. “It wouldn’t hurt, but no. All I’m suggesting is that you cease torturing yourself for the sake of pride.” 

“I don’t get what you’re talking about.” 

“Don’t you, though?” he challenges, his confidence vexing. “Patience is one of the few virtues I have, but it’s finite. Your love of testing it grows tiresome.” 

You watch as the thread you were tugging at snaps off, fluttering to the marble floor. Your trembling fingers long for another task to occupy themselves with. He sounds as composed as ever, yet beneath the façade, microscopic fissures are forming. You’ve been chiselling at him in your own way. Testing what you can go away with, what remains taboo. Have you finally stumbled into the latter? 

Or was it something else?

Recalling the muted delight on his features when he recounted his dream, you frown.

You’ve always believed the human mind’s capacity to dream is its cruelest gimmick. 

Nightmares are no stranger to scorn — those phantasmagorias that play feature length-films of your fears and insecurities. You’re made to be an unwilling member of the audience, every frame composed with malicious intent. These night terrors deserve their ill-begotten reputation. 

What doesn’t get enough credit for hurting just as much, if not more, are lovely dreams. The idyllic, the picturesque, the unobtainable. They are a heartache you gladly hold the door open for. Once inside, your inner world is redesigned. The spectacle is so dazzling that you come to prefer it over reality. Dreams, both good and bad, are destined to end. For every long nightmare you awake from, there is a paradise you had mere seconds to explore. 

From the corner of your eye you glance at Chrollo. 

For such a greedy man, the dream he fondly recounted is so unremarkable, you almost find it pitiful. 

“That’s quite the conundrum,” you murmur.  “Oh?” 

“You don’t want me to be debilitated by terror, but I’m still supposed to fear you enough to stay in line.” 

“How astute.” 

“Is there really no other way?” You ask, scrunching your eyebrows together. “Couldn’t you just let me go and share in my joy? Surely, that must be better than having me glare at you twenty-four seven.” 

Chrollo chuckles, as if the suggestion you presented is a nonsensical fantasy. 

“I’m not a good enough man to do that, love. You never noticed all the things I did. People are drawn to you. You’re equal parts endearing and naive, it’s an alluring combination. I can’t stand idly by and watch others take from you what I want most.” 

“... How long were you stalking me, exactly?” 

He gives an enigmatic smile. “I’ll leave that to your imagination.” 

Before you can do just that, he gives your thigh an unwelcome squeeze. 

“Let’s call it a night,” he says, his casual tone belying how the statement’s an order. “Tomorrow will be a busy day.” 

You don’t bother voicing your newfound apprehensions. Instead, you wordlessly hop down from your seat, scanning your surroundings for a path to the master bedroom. The home is sparsely lit, but you manage to find your way. You pause at the lack of a second set of footsteps. Chrollo had gotten into the habit of walking audibly at your request, as you found his former silence ‘off-putting.’ 

You discover he’s yet to get up himself, seemingly lost in thought. “You aren’t coming?” 

“In a moment,” he responds. "Go on ahead."

before moving in with you Chrollo didn't know about your lounging habits

so when he comes home after a long day to see you in nothing but his oversized t-shirt and some underwear? oh boy does it get him going

he'll wrap his arms around your waist and plant kisses on the crook of your neck

"i think that shirt looks better on you than it does me, darling"

he likes sliding his hands underneath the shirt to feel you up (which may or may not have led to something else ;) )

Chrollo is a thigh man and I will stand by that to my grave so seeing you in minimal clothing like this is one of his favorite things

he started casually leaving some of his old shirts around just for you to take them

after he gets used to this he'd greet you with a kiss and a slap on the ass when you walk by

he likes to sit on the couch with you in his lap, one arm wrapped around your waist and the other hand caressing your thigh

he likes planting sweet kisses on your face while holding you like this

there's just something so endearing about you wearing his clothes

he probably pinches your legs occasionally to see you jump or to get on your nerves

since you're comfortable walking around bottomless around the house Chrollo eventually starts walking around shirtless

is it comfortable to him? yes, but is he also trying to get a reaction out of you? absolutely

It was right after uvogin died and the troupe was in shambles months after he had taken and imprisoned you

He gets home and just try’s to hug you at first but when you keep pushing him away he snaps

He grabs you by the hair and throws you on the ground telling you all about how nice he was, letting you do what you want, letting you get away with all the attitude and how it wouldn’t be sliding anymore

He grabs you by the hair again and pulls you into the bedroom still talking about how you had so many chances to live him all the way there

When he gets there he throws you on the bed and just rips all you cloths off so he can tie your hand and feet to the bed frame

He gives you a long talk before he actually gets on top of you and unbuckles his belt to take his cock out

He’s gonna prep you and talk you through the whole thing but it won’t make it hurt any less because he’s still forcing himself on you like your nothing and he can do whatever he wants

When you try to wiggle away from him he goes crazy and just starts fucking you, gripping you hip with one hand while the other is wrapped around your neck as a constant reminder who’s the boss in this scenario

When he’s done you gonna have bruised thighs, a sore throat, dry eyes from all the crying and visible bruises all about your body but the worst will be the shame that lingers from being taken by someone you hate

He’ll just leave you there tied to the bed with no blankets on while he goes to clean himself and then goes to sleep in his room with you still there

  You don’t find the need to chase the impossible ideal this time. One doesn’t need to be a linguist expert in order to know no malice or warning is present in his voice, though one might need a bachelor’s degree and over four decades of experience in psychology to know he truly means nothing behind his calm demeanor. 

   You sign yourself to a fate you’re unsure of, and though it’s foolish, there’s nothing you can do anyway. You’re stuck with him, in a moving four-wheeled compartment, that’s also stuck in traffic. 

   “The music’s good.” Is all you say, and he hums in understanding. 

     Silence falls over the two of you again.

   You almost brought back the colorful reverie you were in before he decided to interject, until he reached for his phone to change the music. Oh, bluetooth, the convenient technology you are. His phone is located on the right of his steering wheel, far away from your reach. If he had reached for the audio system you would’ve been (maybe) able to slap his hand away. 

   “Hm, I’d rather you pay attention to me.” The lilt in his voice is unmistakable. And you almost gag, was that an attempt in flirting? Blegh.  

   “I’ll just stare at the cars,” Headlights and astigmatism can make a good duo, you remind yourself. 

   Chrollo hums again, You can almost laugh, so being stuck in your own daydreams and practically doing nothing is unacceptable, but staring at cars is alright? 

  You stare at a car, observing the way the light that emits from it’s headlights become blurry in your sights, they almost take shape of stars in your opinion. 

   So you set your sights on a particularly small black car in front of you, must be a Toyota or Avanza or something. You can’t tell, it’s got four wheels and headlights, so it’s a car. You could care less about what it is. That is why you weren’t all so interested when Chrollo took you a look into his….Rolls… Rolls what? Oh, right, Rolls Royce. It’s a fancy one, you can tell. He was exuding quite an air of importance when he was leading you towards the high-end vehicle located in the restaurant’s parking lot, there were some on-lookers around that spot that expressed interest at the car. It means something when even people of the middle-upper class are showing interest.

   Whatever ego that had probably swelled within Chrollo must’ve popped like a balloon, or so you hope, because you did nothing more than give him a thumbs up before letting yourself in the passenger’s seat. You also didn’t miss the way he was preparing to tell you about the car’s compartments and specialties that made it cost years of labor. Ah, you’re certain he didn’t gain this vehicle from labor, though. 

   Fancy car or not, everyone’s equally stuck in this traffic. 

   Fancy car or not, doesn’t determine that the song played inside the compartment is free from your judgment or not.

   “What song is this? You ask, although you know the answer. You somehow need an assurance that he is lucid. 

   “Please, please, please, by The Smiths.” He says, pleasant with his song of choice. 

   What an ironic song and artist of choice. 

    It’s harder to hide in a cackle than a scowl, you’d almost forgotten. Any voice you let out threatens to come out as sharp laughter and any breathe you intake threatens to become a wheeze. You could hardly contain yourself. 

   “Oh…” Is all you say before pausing, afraid anything else you will say will turn into a rowdy session of laughter. Unsure if you should speak further or not. But the inquisitive look he offers you somehow serves as a push rather than something that usually wants you to further seal your lips shut in fear you would say the wrong thing and earn his silent ire. It’s far, far harder to hide a cackle than a scowl, but months of training yourself to hide certain expressions whenever Chrollo is around has paid off. “What about Frank Sinatra?” 

 Chrollo smiles. Is he delighted that you find interest in one of his favorite artists? Though he’s never said it outloud, every long night drive has its silence filled with at least one Frank Sinatra song. 

   “Would you rather I change the song, dear?” He offers. And you would say yes, but this is one of the rare, rare moments where you are given the opportunity to take a jab at him. Although it’s nothing as deadly as anything a leader of the Phantom Troupe has faced, you won’t kill him or even hurt him for very long. But you are willing to do anything, at this point. 

   You feign the most pleasant voice you can muster, “Hm… That’s not really what I meant. I just didn’t think you’d listen to The Smiths.” 

   He lets out a small laugh, “Really? I have always listened to older songs around you, I suppose. I wouldn't say I like it… Hm, but it’s an interesting band.”

   So he does like it! 

   “Why do you think so?” You inquire further before adding, “Do you like this song a lot?”

   “Are you intending to interview me, (Name)?” Chrollo cocks his eyebrow, but it is only meant to tease you. 

  “Must’ve picked it up from someone.” A relentless pursuit, you press on further, “Okay though, but answer my question.” 

   Silence falls over him, as if he were in his own state of thinking so deeply, but you know it’s mainly a pretense. Whatever he wishes to say after, you know it must’ve been something he had thought of before. In any other situation, this silence often serves as to let a dreadful situation simmer in your mind.  But this time… Ah, you’re quite unsure. 

  Chrollo finally speaks,  “I’ll answer you of course.” The smile he gives you is anything but nice when you are very much aware of the condemnation those same lips bring you, “On the condition you’d kiss me after.”

  “Okay.” To his surprise, you agreed rather quickly. If that’s the sacrifice you need to make, then so be it. A kiss to soothe his soon-to-be sour, scorned face!

  He is satisfied, you can tell. He puts his elbow against the steering wheel, resting his face against his palm. “I don’t know why you’re suddenly interested, whatever designs you have in your head… Hm, I’ll know of it soon.” 

   No one fucking asked damn. You internally deadpanned, impatience is gnawing at your throat. He reminds you of how you’d write your essays when you have to reach a certain minimum word count by relentlessly dragging around a topic and beating around a bush so much that you end up writing a novel rather than an assignment. Ah… To make him anything alike to you doesn’t sound very right. Whatever, you digress. 

   Chrollo finally, finally starts. And you’re excited, elated, jovial- ah every synonym of the word happiness comes into mind. You can put any thesaurus at shame by now. “I remember the first time we met, you called me something of a hopeless romantic. At that time, I had only laughed because I found the sentiment rather off. Such nonsense. Me? An idealist of love? Love has always been a tool for me. You could only dream.”

   You cut to the chase,“Mhm, although you’ve found a contradiction because you actually enjoy those sappy songs right? Okay, what’s next?” 

   “You know me very well (You smile, excited). But that's not all (you frown, deflated).” Sweet, saccharine drips off of his voice. “I’ve never paid attention to such things, not for myself at least. I don’t ‘relate’ to those kinds of songs. But ever since I met you, it felt as if the world had shifted for me.” 

  He doesn’t stop, and for once you are glad he isn't, “My world has shifted and taken a hole in itself, one that has been carved into the shape of you.” 

  It is interesting how he is able to muse so freely about you, in front of you. Where is the shame and decorum?

   “And I do quite like this song, in all honesty.” His gaze meets yours, and grey eyes bore into your soul. “It really does remind me of the one I love so dearly.” 

   Please, please, please, let me get what I want… Those lyrics loop in your head over and over again. You should be sick with the abundance of affection he has for you that makes you seethe. And you would claw at the leather seats, avert your gaze, and try to block him out as much as you can. But tonight, you feel fucking amazing. 

  You can barely handle it. 

   “Dude, come on,” Your voice is off by an octave and you swear you can burst. Chrollo on the other hand finds satisfaction melting off of his face over the term being used to refer to him, outright calling him a bastard or a monster might be better. You make it a mental note to call him ‘dude’ more. “The Smiths is for losers.” 

   …

   “Pardon?’ 

   “The Smiths is for losers.” You repeat yourself before adding, “It’s for guys who can’t get any, for guys who waddle in sadness for something they can’t get, guys who are always up their own ass. Condescending guys who are secretly insecure, manipulative guys, guys who play guitar and get sad then do weed…” You are kind enough to give a long-winded further explanation.  Chrollo does not share the same sentiment. 

  Chrollo’s countenance seems unchanging at first, but it is not a waste, for you saw a split second of confusion, then something of offense written on his face before it smoothes out into the uncannily still expression he always wears. His lips open, then close, as if he’s mulling over an answer.

   “Are you insinuating I am that type of person, dearest?’ 

   "I mean if the shoe fits...? Well, what do you think?"

    He sighs like it’s obvious,  “That you made the wrong accusation over baseless data.” 

    “I’m not accusing you of anything!” You hold your hands up in mock defense, “Just telling you something everyone kind of agrees on. Things don’t have to be written in numbers or books… Sometimes it’s just a consensus. Everyone and their mom agrees on it."

   You are relentless tonight, so you continue again though Chrollo prompts nothing from your newfound talkative nature tonight, something you’re sure he would actually love in a different situation. 

   “These are the kind of guys girls avoid you know? People call it something of a warning. Like, ‘avoid guys who listen to The Smiths’.  I don’t mean to generalize or anything, but guys who listen to songs like that don’t end up to be very well in the head. And I also don’t mean to believe rumors but… Well…” You cough awkwardly, but it’s meant to deliver an unspoken message you know will only further test his ire. But you think you have had enough fun for tonight, you don’t wish to turn the night sour for you after all.

   …Or so you thought. 

   “So I’m just trying to say that you should treat me a little better, you know what I mean? I’m putting up with a lot” Everything you say here are meant to be a 50% insult, 30% jab, and 20% jokes. But the last thing you said, you can’t lie and say that you hope he’d take further thought on that. You yearn to hopefully be able to get out of the hotel room that serves as your grandiose cage more, and when you do, you aren’t being watched by an unknown amount of eyes that you know trail on to you by the shadows. That is all you wish for, really. That is to say, you can only wonder what his standards are for ‘treating you better’. 

   Ah, the smile he has on his face is different from before. This one is a sign that your fun is coming to a quick halt. 

   “So that’s what you’re getting at? Resourceful little minx you are.” 

   Why is he sounding so delighted over your insults, is he a masochist? Is he stupid? It’s your turn to cock your eyebrow. 

  “Have you enticed me in this long-winded conversation simply because you wanted to be treated a little better? And the way you had agreed so quickly to that kiss… " He puts a hand to his chest, a mockery of an apology. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to be so blind to your need for affection. You've gone through lengths to communicate your need, I'm very grateful."

  You let out a humorless laugh, “Pardon?” He is just truly-! Argh, whatever! “Did you not hear anything else I said?” You make sure to enunciate your words properly, afraid he might have some sort of hearing problems, well he does and you’re certain it has a name. What was it again? Oh right, an unfortunate combination of delusion and selective hearing… 

  “I know you tend to turn a little childish when you can’t get what you want. That’s not a quality many men like either. So, be a little kinder to me, won’t you?” 

  “Women don’t usually like mass murderers either. Anyone in their right mind, actually.”

   He hums, “That orange container of pills by your nightstand says otherwise. Not the best defense, try again?” 

   “You'd have some too, you just don't have any because you don't go to therapy."

   “Hm, keeping up that attitude won’t make me kiss you any sooner.” 

   “Then I’ll gladly keep this attitude!” 

   Unfortunately you don’t. You’re angry enough to have the energy to spew a million insults at lightspeed against him, but too angry to form a coherent thought that you’re certain would give him a decent jab. And to be frank, you’re rather spent. When you (reluctantly) asked Chrollo what time it was, thankfully he gave you a proper response. A quick tap of his phone showed that it was two and a half hours above your usual bedtime. The clothes you have aren’t the most comfortable either, while it’s not short they certainly expose areas where the wind would have too much fun dancing over. 

   Traffic is clearing as you can see the hotel you are both staying in come into view. You relax at the sight. You can almost feel the warm bath you will be soaking yourself in, what scent will you choose tonight? Rosemary, lavender… Ah, you can smell them already. You prompt to close your eyes for a moment of rest, but you find yourself sleeping on the rest of the way back.

   You feel fingers combing your locks stirring you awake, they’re Chrollo’s, obviously. Although you are half conscious, you recognize that scent of sandalwood and amber anywhere, as much as you’re ashamed to admit it. 

  “Do you want me to carry you?” Chrollo asks, and you murmur something in between a noise of annoyance and a ‘no’. He chuckles at this sight. “Alright then.” 

   He gives a soft peck on your lips, it’s warm. You almost lean in when the warmth of his lips leave yours, this half-conscious state gives him a moment of your vulnerability he has set his eyes on,  the one he relentlessly pursues after so much. But you know that even when he has a grasp at your vulnerability, it won’t stop him from digging for more. Greedy, ruthless man that he is, he will never stop. 

  “You are absolutely precious, you know that? Even if your mouth tends to run without care” Is that condescension or admiration in his voice? Pity, you can’t tell in the state you are in. You’re drunk from the lack of sleep and the future victory you have in mind. 

  “Before I answer that…” Your voice is barely above a whisper, Chrollo merrily leans in closer to hear you. Your lips ghost by the shell of his ear… 

  …

  “Name five songs from The Smiths. Are you like an actual fan or is it just FOMO?” 

   He just sighs.