#chrollo obsession

jjk series:

hiromi:

tears of a broken marriage ; chapter 1 ; chapter 2 ; chapter 3 ;

choso:

till obsession fucks us apart ; chapter 1; chapter 2 ; chapter 3 ; chapter 4 ; chapter 5 ; chapter 6 ; chapter 7 ; chapter 8 ; chapter 9 ; chapter 10 ; chapter 11 ; chapter 12

you are my destiny ; chapter 1 ; chapter 2

gojo:

yandere ! prince gojo x mermaid reader x yandere ! siren choso pt 1 ; pt 2 ; pt 3

professor reader x yandere! college student gojo ; pt 2 ; pt 3 ; pt 4 ; pt 5 ; pt 6 ; pt 7 ; pt 8 ; pt 9 ; pt 10 ; pt 11 ; pt 12 (completed)

The House Of Thorns - Yandere Sukuna x Reader x Gojo

House of Balloons - Yandere ! Gojo x Reader x Choso

toji:

serial killer toji fushiguro x reader ; pt 2 ; pt 3 ; pt 4 ; pt 5

geto:

party 4 U - yandere! reader x geto

✧˖°. ⚰️ 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃 °.˖✧ A yandere! Geto Suguru serial killer AU x reader

sukuna:

the House Of Thorns - Yandere Sukuna x Reader x Gojo

❝ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐄 ❞ — yandere sukuna x reader x yandere nanami kento!

aot/mha:

yandere!eren x single mom!reader x yandere! levi ; pt 2 ; pt 3 ; pt 4

Teacher's Pet - YANDERE! Aizawa x Reader

wlw oneshots;

yandere ! mei mei , soft dom! utahime , dom! shoko x reader | jjk female harem ; pt 1

sex addict! hanji zoe one shot x reader

obsessed! mikasa ackerman x reader (oneshot)

one shots:

demon slayer:

yandere! muzan x reader

vampire ! yandere muzan x reader

yandere ! doma x pregnant reader

yandere ! doma x human ! reader

yandere ! muzan x kidnapped reader

jjk:

sukuna:

yandere! sukuna x reader

yandere gangster ! sukuna x wife ! reader

dom! sukuna x sub! reader (bdsm)

kakeguri au w/ yandere! sukuna x house pet reader

choso:

yandere ! choso x reader

serial killer choso x reader

the milk man yandere ! choso x reader

toji:

yandere! toji x reader (strangers inspired) : pt 2

pound town

geto:

yandere ! geto x reader (fnaf inspired)

yandere ! geto x reader

yandere ! gojo x reader x yandere ! geto (threesome)

yandere ! geto x reader (purge inspired)

others:

obsessed therapist hiromi x patient reader

dom!reader x yandere! sub inumaki

yandere ! kurapika x reader (s&m)

aot:

yandere!eren x single mom!reader

nerdy armin yandere ! x reader

master list #1

— please support me on wattpad : @yandereslutt ! I am moving back to wattpad.

my dms are always open to requests, feedback, and critiques . i always aim to better my writing !

all characters are 18+ in any of my oneshots/series

prologue: I was just a lonely art student with red ink on my fingers and a thesis about hero ethics—until I met him. Professor Chrollo Lucilfer: velvet voice, scripture smile, and a mind sharp enough to cut me open. I should’ve stopped when the sketches turned into sculptures. When I started bleeding into my work—literally. But I kept going. Because I wanted him to see me. To remember me. But I forgot one thing. Hisoka. My ex-lover. My first sin. The one who left bite marks and came back with a grin. He sees what I’m becoming. He says it’s beautiful. Now they both want me. And I’m not sure who I’ll destroy first.

🍷 red ribbons. cherry juice. obsession like art. 🎀 welcome to my descent.

Chapter 1

prologue: I was just a lonely art student with red ink on my fingers and a thesis about hero ethics—until I met him. Professor Chrollo Lucilfer: velvet voice, scripture smile, and a mind sharp enough to cut me open. I should’ve stopped when the sketches turned into sculptures. When I started bleeding into my work—literally. But I kept going. Because I wanted him to see me. To remember me. But I forgot one thing. Hisoka. My ex-lover. My first sin. The one who left bite marks and came back with a grin. He sees what I’m becoming. He says it’s beautiful. Now they both want me. And I’m not sure who I’ll destroy first.

🍷 red ribbons. cherry juice. obsession like art. 🎀 welcome to my descent.

˖°࿐ •⁀➷

Chapter 1 - ˚₊ · »-♡→ Cherry

The first time you see him, he’s not standing at the podium. He’s sitting. Legs crossed. Elbow resting on the edge of the desk like it belongs to him—because it does.

Chrollo Lucilfer is already halfway through a paragraph when you walk into lecture ten minutes late, red ink still drying on your wrist where you scrawled today’s date.

“Art,” he says, voice low and unhurried, “is not a means of expression. It is a negotiation between mortality and meaning. The artist dies; the art persists. But that persistence is rarely honest. It’s curated memory. A fabrication of truth.”

Your pulse stutters.

There’s a stillness in the room you’ve never seen in any other lecture. Not even during midterms. Heads tilted. Fingers frozen above keyboards. No one dares interrupt. Even the TA sits silently in the corner, as if he’s the student.

You slip into your seat near the back and slide your sketchbook from your bag. Not your notebook. Not your laptop. You’re not sure why. Maybe it’s the way he speaks—slow, deliberate, like each word was etched into his tongue with a scalpel.

“I won’t waste your time with rubrics and requirements,” he continues, flipping closed the book he’d been reading from—The Ethics of Aesthetic Violence by D. Heller. You know the cover. It’s been on your shelf since freshman year.

“If you're here, it’s because you want to dismantle illusions. That, or you're scared of the world outside the gallery.”

Your pen trembles. You pretend to sketch the sleeve of his coat. But you’re drawing his hands. Long fingers. Silver ring on the index. The only thing that gleams in the dim lecture hall.

Chrollo Lucilfer. Visiting professor. Guest lecturer from the Aurelius Institute of Metaphysical Ethics. Teaching only one seminar: “Art, Death, and the Self: Postmodernism in Heroic Society.”

You’d signed up on a whim.

You thought it would be academic. Abstract. Another self-indulgent course designed for students who liked hearing themselves speak.

You didn’t expect him.

By the second class, you know his routine. He always arrives early. Wipes down the podium himself. Brings his own chalk, even though no one uses the blackboards anymore. He writes the lecture title in cursive.

Today’s:

“Obsession As Authenticity: Creation in the Wake of Destruction.”

You nearly drop your pencil.

He opens with a quote by Nietzsche, then segues into Marina Abramović. Discusses beauty in brutality. The ethics of performance. The boundaries between creation and suffering. Students are squirming. Some scoff. A few drop the class after the first week.

But not you.

You hang on every word.

“Pain is not theatrical if the blood is real,” he says, watching the class. Watching you. “And devotion, my dears, is not obsession—unless it becomes art.”

“If love is a form of control,” Chrollo muses from the podium, “then obsession is simply… commitment without a leash.”

The class stirs. The sound of her voice causes waves of chills in your spine. Your eyes slightly widen as a confused expression comes over your face.

“You disagree?” he asks the room. Silence. Then his eyes cut toward you. “Y/N?”

Your throat tightens. He never calls on people. He just speaks and lets you drown in it.

You meet his gaze. “Obsession implies surrender. Love is… mutual.”

“Is it?” His head tilts. “Or do we only believe in mutuality because we want to be consumed at the same rate we devour?”

Your lips part. “That sounds like fear talking.”

He smiles. Slowly. “No, Miss Y/N. That sounds like truth.”

You don’t blink. You are confused by the sudden interaction between the two of you. This is the first time you meet him and yet you are captivated by his words and the sound of his voice. Sweet yet deadly.

You start researching him. Not in a normal way.

You call it “thesis research” when your roommate asks why you’re in the library until 3 a.m., elbows deep in philosophy journals. You tell her it’s for your senior project—something about Applied Ethics & Heroic Society Studies. Technically true. But that’s not why your fingers twitch when you find an old photo of Chrollo at a gallery in Prague, standing beside a wax figure of himself with a gash through the chest.

“Existence is performance,” the quote beneath it reads. “Immortality is found only in interpretation.”

He’s not just a professor. He’s a philosopher-artist. He’s been teaching under aliases for years, leaving behind cult-like fanbases in every institution. Some call him a genius. Others, a manipulator. There are rumors he once dated a student who disappeared mid-semester. Nothing confirmed.

You save everything.

Every blurry panel discussion. Every review of his exhibits. You print out a short essay he wrote titled “The Artist as a Corpse” and annotate it in red ink, circling phrases like “sacrificial muse” and “emotional vivisection.”

It gets worse after the third lecture.

That’s when he learns your name officially. You can tell by the way he said it the first time. When he says it again… its almost like the sound of honey falling down his tongue. Fuck.

You stay after class. Pretend to ask about the reading, but really you just want to hear him talk. Up close. His voice is worse in person. Like velvet dragged over a blade.

He looks at your sketchbook—open to a rough study of his profile. You try to close it, but he stops you.

“That’s me.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Sorry. I—I draw during lectures. It helps me focus.”

“You’ve captured something raw. Even the way you drew my ring.. I am excited to see what else you bring to my class.”

“It’s unfinished,” you stammer. “Good.” He tilts his head. “Unfinished art is honest. Before the ego polishes it into fiction.”

You nod. You don’t know what you’re agreeing with. You don’t care.

“I look forward to your thesis. Surprise me.”

You float home.

From that day on, he becomes your focus. Your only focus.

You stop drawing anything else. You tell yourself it’s research—embodiment, muse studies, metaphysical ethics—but your studio fills with images of him.

Charcoal outlines of his collarbone. Sculptures made from wax and cherrywood. A miniature bust, carved from soapstone, buried in a velvet box beneath your bed.

You’re not eating as much. You’re not sleeping.

Your professors think you’re evolving. They praise your new work for its “visceral intimacy.” Your advisor says she’s never seen you more inspired.

But you’re not inspired. You’re unraveling.

One night, he plays music before lecture.

Just once.

You arrive early—your first time—and he’s there already. Leaning back against the desk, flipping through a book. A low melody drifts through the room.

Your heart stops.

He looks at you. Smiles.

“Beautiful choice, isn’t it?”

You nod, unable to speak.

You’ll remember this moment forever.

After class, you stay behind again.

He doesn’t stop you this time. Doesn’t speak. Just watches—as you approach his desk and set the small glass jar down between you.

A collection of dark, glistening cherries. Their stems still wet.

“I picked them for you,” you say, voice softer than you intended. Your hands tremble, but his gaze never leaves yours.

“Do you have a garden?” he asks, lifting the jar—deliberate, unhurried—and setting it gently back down like something sacred.

“Yes,” you nod. “Just a small one… on the balcony of my apartment.”

He selects a single cherry and brings it to his lips. You hold your breath.

He bites.

Juice spills across his lower lip like wine. He doesn’t wipe it. Just lets it linger there.

“They’re sweet,” he murmurs, voice velvet-wrapped and low, his tongue catching the last of the juice.

You swallow.

“Thank you,” you manage. “Have a great rest of your day, Professor Lucilfer.”

His smile curves slow and knowing. Not surprise. Not gratitude.

Recognition. As if he’s been waiting for you to bring him something red.

He picks it up. Turns it in his fingers. Then bites again.

The juice stains his lips red.

You exit the hall breathless. Skin flushed. Heart pulsing like you’ve just confessed a crime.

You think you're alone.

“Still bleeding red for the wrong man, huh?”

The voice is silk. Too familiar.

You freeze. Turn.

Hisoka.

He leans against the stairwell wall like he never left. Same grin. Same wild eyes. Like he never watched you walk away six months ago. Like he never broke your ribs and kissed the bruise afterward.

“You look good,” he says, pushing off the wall. “Still got that twitch in your eye when you're turned on.”

You step back.

He follows. Not touching. Just hovering—always a breath too close.

“You’re wasting it on him, you know.” “Go away.” “I will. But not before I ask…” He leans in. His breath brushes your cheek. “Did he even thank you for the cherries?”

Your throat tightens.

He chuckles. “Didn’t think so.”

˖°࿐ •⁀➷

Chapter 2 - ˚₊ · »-♡→

The Things We Offer

You don't knock right away.

You stand in the hallway for three full minutes—watching the flickering fluorescent light above his office door, heart racing like you’ve done something wrong. Like you’ve already been caught.

You stare down at your ribbon-tied wrist. Red. Soft. Silky. It’s ridiculous, you know. You’ve rehearsed your question a dozen times in your head. It’s academic. Safe.

But your body doesn’t believe you.

You raise your hand.

Knock twice.

“Come in.”

His voice is a melody wrapped in smoke.

You push the door open.

—

Chrollo Lucilfer’s office smells like sandalwood and red wine.

Not the sweet kind. The dark, bitter kind that stains your mouth and makes you say things you regret in the morning.

The lights are low, drawn from a single antique lamp tucked behind a stack of leather-bound books. A candle flickers on his desk—its wax bleeding down like a slow death.

He looks up from his chair, framed by shadows and shelves.

“Miss Y/N,” he says. Not surprised. “Please. Sit.”

Your throat tightens. You obey.

The chair creaks beneath you. Your thighs press together automatically—not out of fear. Something worse. Need. Heat. Anticipation you didn’t prepare for.

“You had a question about the reading?”

You nod. “The section on heroic self-sacrifice… and devotion. It caught me off guard.”

“Ah,” he murmurs, folding his hands in front of his lips. “Yes. The illusion of noble decay.”

He stands slowly. The movement so smooth it feels choreographed. His coat shifts behind him like a stage curtain. You grip the arms of the chair.

“Tell me,” he says, walking to the shelf, “what disturbed you?”

“The implication that love is only authentic when it violates something sacred.”

He tilts his head. Selects a book. Then turns.

“Good.” “Good?” you echo. “It disturbed you. That means it reached something real.”

He places the book on the desk in front of you. Not yet handing it over.

“We are taught that love is symmetrical. That it’s shared. Fair.” “But it’s not,” you whisper. “No,” he says. “It consumes. And when it does, it leaves behind art. That’s the sacrifice.”

Your breath hitches.

He leans against the desk, one hand resting on the edge. So close. His fingers curl, just a fraction.

“You’ve begun to understand that, haven’t you?”

You nod.

“Your recent work—” he continues, eyes scanning yours, “—is unraveling. In a beautiful way. Lines fraying. Color bleeding. Composition losing control.”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“That’s why it’s honest. Unfinished work doesn’t lie. It hasn’t been polished into fiction.”

You swallow. Loud in the silence.

Then he finally places the book in your hands.

“The Desire for Ruin” by Kuro Tazawa. A rare out-of-print copy.

Red ink stains the margins.

A cherry stem lies between the pages—pressed and dried, tied into a knot.

“Things rot when left untouched,” he says softly. “But sometimes, we offer them anyway. Not to please—but to provoke.”

Your hands tremble.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “I… I’ll take care of it.”

He smiles—slow, deliberate, like the sun rising on something ancient.

“I hope it changes you.”

You flee before your body gives away just how much it already has.

You don’t notice the extra weight in your bag until you’re halfway up the stairs to your apartment.

The hallway is still. Quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that listens back.

Your fingers pause over the zipper, chest rising too fast. Something pulls at you. A wrongness.

You unzip your tote and find it. A folded page. Old. Soft. Familiar.

You don’t even need to open it to know.

You recognize the grain of the paper. The frayed corner. It’s from your sketchbook. The one you burned last winter. Or thought you did.

Your hands shake as you unfold it.

A charcoal sketch—of you. Lip parted. Collarbones exposed. Your eyes wide and dilated, lashes smudged. Neck arched.

You remember when he drew this.

Not with pencil. But with touch.

Hisoka had pressed you down into the mattress, one knee between your legs, his hand pinning both of yours above your head as he whispered:

“Look at you. You're a canvas.”

His fingers had trailed your skin like brushes. Painting bruises. His teeth had left crescent moons on your thighs.

“You're a masterpiece, Y/N. And I ruin everything I love.”

Your body remembers before your mind does. Heat curls low in your stomach. Not just fear. Shame. Desire. Recognition.

You blink down at the note scrawled across the image in violet ink:

“You look beautiful when you’re nervous. Still as sweet as I remember. But does he know how you sound when you’re begging?”

Your breath stutters. You drop it like it burned you.

The floor feels unsteady. You fumble for your phone.

No missed calls. No messages. No sign of forced entry. No camera alerts.

You slam the door behind you and lock it. All three bolts. Twice.

Your chest rises. Falls. Rises too fast again.

Then—

You see it.

Taped to the window.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Another note. Same violet ink. Same unmistakable scrawl—loopy, chaotic, almost playful if it weren’t so sharp.

You step closer.

Your fingers tremble as you peel the paper free.

“You’re not hiding from me, darling. You’re just giving me better angles.”

Your knees nearly give out.

Because now you remember what he used to say— When he would straddle you, camera in hand, clicking the shutter as you squirmed beneath him.

“Keep your eyes on me, bunny. I only capture what’s mine.”

You press a hand to your mouth.

He’s been here. Not days ago. Not weeks ago.

Tonight.

And he’s watching again.

Not because he misses you.

But because he doesn’t believe he ever lost you.

Hisoka’s POV

She leaves her balcony door unlocked now. Not on purpose. But not by accident, either.

He can tell.

She used to double-check it three times. Used to draw the curtain. Now she leaves it cracked—just enough for the cold air to slip in. Just enough for a watcher to breathe her in.

And tonight, he’s the air.

Hisoka crouches on a rooftop across the street, gloved fingers steady on the edge of the ledge, camera balanced between his knees. The wind howls through the alley below, but he’s still as a gargoyle—and just as old, just as cursed.

It’s raining.

Not heavy. But persistent. Cold. Silver. The kind of rain that slides down his temple, catches in his lashes, wets his collar. He lets it. Doesn't even blink.

He wears black tonight. Of course.

A wine-colored silk shirt clings to his chest, open at the throat, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His slacks are fitted, leather gloves slick and creased with wear. A long trench coat clings to his back, soaked through, but he doesn’t care. His hair is tied loosely at the nape, strands sticking to his cheekbones, damp and wild.

A single cigar burns between his lips, the tip glowing like a warning flare.

He takes a slow drag. Exhales smoke into the wet wind.

“There you are,” he murmurs, voice low and spoiled with hunger.

Y/N stands at the window, barefoot, one sleeve sliding off her shoulder. She’s holding a book—his book. The one Lucilfer gave her.

Chrollo’s fucking book. Chrollo’s fucking cherry stem pressed between its pages like a goddamn signature.

Hisoka’s teeth clench on the cigar.

That smug, sanctified bastard, he thinks, thinks he’s going to rewrite her. Mold her into his next tragic little thesis.

He flicks ash off the side of the building.

“No,” he whispers, licking a drop of rain from his lip. “She’s already been written.”

“By me.”

Hisoka lowers the camera and just watches.

Watches the way she shifts. The way her eyes stay on the page, but her body betrays her—hips tilted, thighs clenched, chest rising too fast.

“He’s got your mind,” he murmurs. “But I had your whimpers. Your nails. Your blood.”

He remembers the way she slept: Curled around his leg, mouth bruised, breath shallow. The scent of sweat and candle wax between them. The little gasps she gave when he whispered filth in her ear, the way her eyes rolled back when he pressed just hard enough.

She thought she could erase that.

But it’s etched in her. He wrote his name on her lungs.

“He won’t touch you like I did,” he breathes, tracing her silhouette on the fogged glass with one gloved finger. “He won’t make you sob without using a single word.”

Lightning splits the sky. Thunder rolls.

Hisoka pulls something from his coat pocket. Gently. Reverently.

A ribbon.

Her ribbon.

The one she wore the night she screamed his name loud enough to wake the neighbors. The one he pulled off her throat with his teeth and tied around her wrist like a leash.

He runs it between his fingers now, careful not to crush the memory.

“Go ahead, little cherry,” he murmurs around the cigar. “Let him make you feel safe.”

“When he breaks you, I’ll be the one who picks the pieces.”

“And this time—” he grins, feral, “I’ll keep one.”

He walks down the fire escape, slow and deliberate. Boots clicking wet metal.

He reaches her floor. Strolls past her door like a shadow on two legs. The hallway light flickers once.

He leans down and slides a third note under the crack—two fingers pressed to the envelope like a kiss.

“Still watching. Still sweet. Still mine.”

He flicks the cigar to the floor. Stomps it out with a gleaming heel.

Then he disappears into the rain.