#chrollolucilferxreader

When you were warned villains won't give you happy endings, but the warning never reached you...

The Cathedral was just a whisper of Nen coating the halls like a persistent burr; the residual in this place was always trapped, like this was all it knew and a few candles were the only source of light in the moon was pale, Chrollo had a half-restored journal open on his lap, the hexagon showing the six Nen types was indefinitely flawed if compared to the research now if this particular technique would be applied the backlash would increase like a drunk person's antics, insensible but, the sheer idiocy of such a theory and the tragedy was a twisted melody he could appreciate a broken Nen ability connected so deep with the user's aura it was a double edged sword which defied some of the most rigid rules of Nen the last time he saw something like this was with the Nostrad girl it seemed, Chrollo did not dwell on that thought to much he had other matters to attend to with an easy elegance he set the journal book down it's unassuming purple tint a stark contrast to the grim finality of the book.

The December air had its own candour of snowy patterns in the city; city people were never bothered by the snowflake games that could be played, rooms would be lit with firewood, heaters, the warmth seemed ever present even in a city like Yorknew, but he would be leaving the city. Another city would feel the aftereffects of the chaos the Troupe had brought, including ruined auctions and a massacre. Chrollo held out a single piece of what looked like a typical grocery store receipt, almost reverently folded and tucked at the underside of his dark blue coat, before making his way to the location.

Every two days, usually at Tuesdays, Thursdays and occasionally on the Sundays Chrollo stopped by a cultural looking Jazz bar, the melancholic air was fresh like a time capsule but with a bizzare twist it might as well belong well into the 80's or if blended right into the early nostalgic 2000 's, his eyes found the woman with surety, tucked at the furthest corner from the usual dance where patrons moved about their days her dress was elegant, he found himself adding it to a curation that's what it felt like. A dance with a stranger who moved through the world half traveller when he boarded a train, there almost seemed to be like a destination or at least an illusion of one before he was back to being a wanderer. "Good evening, Miss. Have you eaten?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper, his obsidian eyes finding the woman, her features illuminated under the lights of the jazz bar. It was perfectly polite, just like the stranger was.

"I was just about to" " she answered, her fingers paused on the page, the noise around the cafe, the buzz of the familiar city charm seemed almost laughably irrelevant, Chrollo's smile gentlemanly and utterly maddening at the familiar routine.

They dinned as usual on these days, the handsome stranger would cut out slices of the fishes separating the bones with an almost ritualistic grace before picking it up with his chopsticks to her plate the wine was a familiar but the berries seemed to be grinded just a bit deeper it just was, it was painfully obvious, "Would you like dessert? The Tiramisu I believe is made with a sort of finality to it, the taste changes when one chooses to indulge in it" he explained no more than that. The woman's curiosity was piqued, "How would you know that, Mister?" she asked, taking the offered fish, the spices never overwhelming, which was washed easily down the crimson wine.

"What makes you think I'd be having a late-night coffee craving?" The man chuckled, his voice soft with amusement, how wonderfully he played the role, the woman thought as she took another bite. "You wouldn't want to miss such a delight before we check in", he said, sipping the wine himself.

The tiramisu was exactly how the man guessed it would be; it was perfectly balanced; the cream was fresh like a late-night indulgence slightly skewed towards Chrollo.

It happened as the weeks would pass by, this handsome stranger who seemed to have a ledger of secrets, and a private indulgent library of works, works from fictitious grievances to mock the irony, to Nen diagrams old and new to find the in between lines to create a blend of victory, it was his life.

The young nights dipped across the enclosure. Each inn was a perfect curation by Chrollo, the temperature just cools enough to make each slip of his hand across your skin tingle half with anticipation, and drunkenness which had nothing to do with the earlier wine she had, her eyes would find his, which seemed to hold hers. Those eyes alone had so much to say, but said nothing at once. She could only feel his hands mapping out the frame of her body like an orchestrator who was writing his beloved masterpiece, but just hadn't decided the ending yet. Maybe it could be an ongoing story? He found himself unable to decide.

Each kiss pressed to the pulse over your neck seemed to whisper like a ghost that would follow her, and she would wonder if she'd meet this Stranger again. He spoke about ancient cities like he was the architect of it all, and he just happened to share a few of his musings with her along the way until she stopped by the cafe to find the man in their usual place, engrossed in another book in a language she could not make out.

Her hand would tangle across his strands; they fell between her fingers like ink, impossibly soft. He would look at her as if daring her to meet his lips first, but it had these strings, a musical note he was composing just for these nights.

His tone was almost conversational, picking on the strangest things. The woman found herself leaning in to hear him, "Miss, tell me, is there anything you desire I can bring to you?" he asked, pressing her to the luxurious mattress. The leader of the troupe truly felt like he was unravelling.

Suggestive themes hinted, skip if not comfortable.

The rain had been beating down relentlessly against the Yorknew pavements in a never ending drawl, however, even the fresh downpour couldn't wash away the scent of greed and lust which seemed to be the everyday mood of Yorknew now that the auctions were fast approaching rumours spiralled endlessly, civilians hung in thick crowds trying to decipher every line in the daily newspaper as if every line held a code, that could mean the slight difference in life and death. Parents warned their children about monsters lurking around every street corner, the nights grew heavier with more secrets than ever, some people stayed as far as they could, and some wouldn't indulge over them like whiskey on a sad night.

As the nights hung over loosely, maybe the secrets had already been spilt, maybe an assassination attempt, a first one or a second one, it was hard to keep track, or no one really bothered. It was the same story every year on repeat.

Your missions dragged longer, more tenacious as every pebble seemed to echo in the lonely night, the comforting hum of the headphones no longer drowned the noise the world seemed to offer in interest. So, maybe this was the best you had just a small distraction a few moments that's all just till you feel like yourself again, now as you sat hunched over the dimly lit bar, it didnt even have neon lights, the bar seats was usually empty and a soft jazz played not the type people would prefer for escapism but, it somehow drowned the endless orders, the silence a litte at the, counter your legs tucked your heels scruffing the tile now and then.

"It's leaking again...it got all jammed again, the water got ice cold, there was no way to restart it either, and it's like the old landlady just can't bear to see me, despite the mostly rent she is spreading rumours a lot more than usual. I swear if the ceiling dusts on me one more time I might as well pack up and leave."

Chrollo heard your complaints not with a meaningless chatter, or a mindless company, his whiskey sat in front of him like a prop, it almost looked like it belonged to him. It was the kind of stillness Chrollo offered that made you feel heard, and truly, almost studied; he didn't try to fill in the empty silence with comforting words. Still, his presence, magnetic with undertones of danger, offered you the strangest comfort. It was like a fleeting moment of your day, you would vent for an hour or two, telling him the most mundane problems, and there was something about talking to a total stranger who had been with you for no more than a few hours, and you found yourself leaking all your secrets to him.

Then night after night, it was almost like a dream, a ghost of his touch near your collarbones, his lips met your pulse points more than your lips, the lust that should've defined these moments was almost like a sinful Altar that existed for this moment alone, like this was always supposed to happen.

Seconds would turn to minutes by the quiet motel room, the only sounds would be the ruffling of bedsheets as the cool air would kiss your warm body underneath him, time was fickle as these moments every morning like a phantom he would disappear but a single note a poetic verse would be written that reminded you it wasn't a dream.

"It happened all over again, I wonder when you confess all your secrets to me, do you regret it, sweetheart?"

"You shouldn't be reminding me of a book I long forgotten"

It was like with Chrollo, everything was a pre-written verse that had just been waiting to peel open. Time was fickle; once you got tangled with the spider, the walls seemed to really close in on you.

You shouldn't be doing this, but maybe Whiskey would've been the safer choice for you chrollo didn't burn your Throat he made you willingly hand over your journal and thank him for it, his touches on your skin felt like peeling back an old book page by page with the storyline already known and written. You were his, you just didn't know it yet.

Just another session of journaling, tea at 5am before the world gets to loud, slow down and take a deep breath.

'Collections do not leave the collector unaffected. The art of collecting results in a certain turn of mind' ~ Douglus Wilson.

Tracklist...

🖤 Sad Girl- Lana Del Rey

🖤 Young And Beautiful-Lana Del Rey

🖤 Snow On The Beach-Taylor Swift and Lana Del Rey.

Chrollo Lucilfer habits revolve in an almost dark romantic subplot like a Gothic novel that was taken from an archive most of it's texts were smudged with ink, the book seemed to have survived just because of the leather bound journal, the pages yellowed with age the fountain ink was almost scribbled like the author themselves couldn't decide if they wanted the words on the pages to be read, or was it better to keep that inky distance?

He overconsumes almost like a law in his system; he was a thief who put half the world in disarray. The dissonance was a blur. In search of an identity, it was such a fickle thing for Chrollo. It was an endless, never-ending quest; he could travel through oceans, he was a bibliophile, he collected books, memories, experiences, abilities and even people.

You would watch him, seated on his armchair a book in your lap, the page not turned for quite some time your hands stilled at a page, you would watch him restore a book from the auction which was passed arounf like an artifact the mafia men, organisations would spend hours decoding the cryptic language in hopes of discovering a valuable nen ability, that they could hoard around a fragile sense of power and Chrollo pried on such ambitions. Information was always at the tips of his fingers, the vast collection of bandit' secret had just a touch of what he needed to bring the book to life before he would place it on his shelf.

Now, you found tacked-up notes written in his elegant cursive when you opened a rustic book out of curiosity. Chrollo's mind was a web of what a wanderer might store; he was an encyclopedia of his own strange system, which drew in danger from the underbelly of Yorknew and Meteor city. Those tucked-in notes were historical references, word meanings, some annotations, and an invitation for you to join in his parade. You didn't know if that was flattery or something uniquely tempting.

Chrollo would keep a leather-bound journal in a black or forest green journal, folded around the pages a commonplace notebook of all sorts, nihilistic quotes from Russian authors, and some authors whose entries were long confiscated or already buried in an archive. The quotes were emotionally clinical his opinion carried a weight of a fog it was the same direction Chrollo did when he was faced with conditional nen, studying the nen for hours then each condition broken, loopholes found and abondoned then the nen ability was used better than the original nen user, and you don't know if this man who quotes romantic quotes in the quite epilogue of your room, where plush pillows, warm throws cocooned you, the steady beat of his heartbeat, the scent of danger, husk, an undertone of temptation, candlelight flickering. You couldn't tell if this man had reverence or if he was just a demon taking coverage in a collector's soul. That decided you were now the book he wanted to read, and Chrollo never abandons a book halfway.

His protective fury ignites when you, his lover, are in danger, or harm threatens you. He had long accepted that death followed him; it was how he moved through his life with that detachment. But, to lose you was to lose the warmth of your fingers when she holds his hand, he was a mastermind who could orchestrate the fall of a civilisation his whole demeanour had been an ink blanket of the night sky endlessly calm, distant to a commoner's eye, endlessly calm, secrets filtered in each touch, but there were stars now embers.

He was no saint, he wanted to give back the world anything it had taken everything from dragged it like a broken glass just to hear how it breaks like a opera with to many high notes, his identity was a Shred extinguished before the fullstop, his sense of belonging was with his family, the spiders they would dig the underbelly of any auction, any neon city lights, any soil to make a mark, it didn't matter if it was through blood. They were children, childhood was a luxury they couldn't afford, to grow up too fast.

It was all he knew to collect, for something tangible he held in his hand, he embodied the term 'wanderer' more prominently, but even wanderers in their journey needed a safe space, a harbour where the journey ceased to exist for a fortnight.

For Chrollo, it was you who was the wishtree. This time, he wasn't reading the lines of absence; he had grown to accept it as his everyday, a constant, but now he was reading for your presence.

The steady rise and fall of your chest, as you slept enveloped in the warmth of a blanket he would place around you the weight of his hand, a promise, a vow someone like Chrollo would not make lightly information was a weapon, emotions and memories could be twisted to poison and the world preyed on such delicacies. He would shield you from the world that was too loud.

For someone like Chrollo, who was used to being the ghost of another page, another day in his own story, he was always just passing by, collecting dream vials. You know how dangerous it was; you made a man like Chrollo fall for you. He was a dangerous paradox.

Damnation and Salvation could not exist on the same day, the same way you can't lose your sense of time and navigation at the same time, now he could.