user73817

y/n is still in the trenches but this time it's a low maintenance long term situationship with sexy mean mafia probably gay emo boy mello

cw: toxic relationships, rough sex, choking, spitting (mentioned like once)

afab!reader, reader referred to as a 'girlfriend'

~ 900 words

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He isn't sweet or kind. You doubt if an inkling towards kindness has ever come to him his whole life. 

He’s callous and rude, spiteful in his words. Impolite and inconsiderate are two words that often spring to mind when thinking about Mello. Yet you can't recall any times he’s spat words of cruelty your way, perhaps you just don't know him well enough, but his voice sounds more quiet, somehow less abrasive when he talks to you. 

His hands never has any propensity towards such a frivolous thing like affection. Never lingers on the small of your back, never any kind of inclination to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The grip on your wrists both for when he drags you out from parties he doesn't want you at and for when he fucks you hard at night in his dark bedroom, is hard and unforgiving. There is nothing close to love or affection in his touch. You always feel the lingering pressure of his gloved, leather fingertips, another bracelet to decorate your wrist. 

He likes you most when you're prettied up so that you can leave him with mascara running down your cheeks and your lip gloss smeared into a pinkish stain across your mouth, the lingering traces of it transferred from your lips onto his, and down onto your neck. He’s rather talkative most of the time, always ranting about whatever menial thing annoyed him earlier in the day, but when night comes he pre-occupies his mouth with other things, the sounds he makes are his restrained groans and quiet curses, the sound of him undergoing his belt, and the clinking of his silver jewellery. 

Sometimes he wants to see you every night of the week, and other times he hasn't even texted you in months. You never know what goes on with him. You don't know where he goes when he disappears late at night and early in the morning, or even really what he’s up to when he’s unavailable for weeks at a time. Honestly you don't even really know why you put up with his constant hot and cold. Maybe it’s something in the way he spits out his words with such vitriol that you can't help but be captivated by everything he says and does, no matter the cruelty, or maybe it’s something in the way he spits in your open mouth as his cock splits you open. 

The grip of his hand, hard on your neck and wrists, is blatantly possessive, but you're definitely not anything resembling a girlfriend of his. You know for sure you aren't that, but you have no idea whether you’re exclusive or not, or even anything at all, and you know better than to ask Mello. Maybe he has a whole armada of other awaiting girls and guys, and you're nothing more than another body, blending into a ten foot wall of contacts in his phone. The possibility of Mello not seeing anyone but you in the way you do is slim at best. Maybe to him you're just his whore who awaits his beck and call. It wouldn't be all that surprising given the fact that he certainly fucks you like a one. Most of the time he rarely bothers to even strip, an undone vest and no shoes is already generous. 

You’d think he’s incapable of feeling anything resembling passion towards another person, besides maybe a passionate hatred or envy, but maybe if you’re just crazy enough, it can seem to you like there’s something more than just pure sexual desire in his touch. Something more than just an erogenous tease in the way he can't keep his tongue away from your throat, something more than just selfish satiation in the way he drags his ungloved hands across your bare torso, touching every inch of your skin as though he owns it. Maybe if you overthink things enough, there are small kindnesses within his tight leather exterior. He always lets you stay the night at his, even though he often disappears in the morning, sometimes after leaving your neck bruised and sore to the touch, he kisses your purpling skin softly. There’s always a kindness in the way he treats you after, wiping his cum off your sticky thighs, pulling your underwear back on when you're too fucked to. He doesn't hold you in his sleep, but he stays close, his face only a breath away from yours, you can even feel the heat of his skin. 

 On rare, quiet nights, he doesn't fuck you so hard, where he takes time in undressing you and then himself, where his hand holds your jaw, kissing you softly, tongue as deep in your mouth as his cock is inside of you, where he comes loudly, unlike usual, inside of you as his tongue prods the shell of your ear. 

You remember meeting him through Matt, he was unlike anyone you had ever met before. The way he spoke, the way he thought, the way he dressed, the way he carried himself. All of it was his and his alone. You don't have any expectation of how long whatever it is that’s going on between you and Mello will last for, it’s a miracle you’ve even managed to stay in his orbit for as long as you have. You’re sure that you’ll probably end up with him waving his silver gun in your face one day as he tells you he never wants to see you again, either that or one day he’ll just up and vanish entirely from your life.

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tbh even i don't know if y/n is mello’s girlfriend here

chrollo x reader drabble with vague allusions to sex. inspired vaguely by fishtail by lana because i love lana and the chrollo + lana combo is lethal

cw: none i think but chrollo is kinda weird and bit of a red flag

technically no explicit mentions of reader's gender but they wear dresses so idk

~ 600 words

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You doubt even he knows what he wants from you. 

Truly, Chrollo doesn't care for much at all in the world, only the Phantom Troupe and whatever captures his interest at any given time. He doesn't talk about things like the past, but you're sure it carries weight to it from the way the Troupe always put nothing but their utmost faith in him.

‘Hedonistic’ is the word you think of when you think of Chrollo, spoiling himself and the Troupe in the items he steals. Whatever shiny thing catches his eyes will be his. Sometimes you think that with the way he looks at you, perhaps you're just another shiny thing he wants to possess. 

He carries himself like a true gentleman, a well crafted veneer of class and sophistication. The slight bow when he meets others, straight posture, ironed suits, and his finely manicured hands.  

He loves to read, and you can tell, Chrollo, ever the quiet romantic. He can speak endlessly on anything, with a wealth of knowledge beneath his expensive belt. A thief in the skin of a Victorian nobleman. He always insists on taking you to fancy restaurants in Yorknew, even though he always makes you two leave without paying. Gifting you artfully crafted bouquets and expensive jewellery that he almost certainly didn't pay for. Sneaking into orchestras and ballets with no tickets, yourself dressed in the fine jewels and pretty dresses he gets for you, and him in his patent leather coat over his well tailored black suits. 

Sometimes at night, before either of you are tired, he’ll read to you whatever limited edition classic he made off with from a private auction, his soft voice lulling you to sleep. Or perhaps it’s more of a siren’s song than a peaceful lullaby. As you fall asleep, you always feel it, the soft press of his lips against your forehead, right where he has the tattoo on his. 

But at times his gentlemanly charade slips, the facade of a well mannered man falls for just a moment.

You’ll never forget the way he so intently looked at the scarlet eyes of the Kurta, fixated on them, watched them, severed and put into jars surrounded by a yellowish liquid, and faint trails of blood. Like he just couldn't get enough of the sight, a light smile touching his mouth, eyes unable to tear themselves from the sight, needing to indulge himself in the pleasure brought from his spoils, over and over again. 

Sometimes it seems like he wears that same expression when he’s on top of you, with his hair down, shadows cast from his brow to his eye, the flat of his torso splayed across yours, and you can feel every inch of his skin pressing against yours, the slight digging of his hip bones against your flesh. That same fascination and intensity in his stare, boring deep within you. You can feel his attention fall to every minute reaction your body gives up. How he knows every way in which you respond to his touch. His slender hands clench your waist like they're his to hold onto so tightly. His tongue unable to leave you, his eyes drawn to the sheen of his saliva on your skin. He kisses your knees gently after you bruise them on the tough hotel carpets in front of him. He leaves bruises decorating your neck and collarbone for you to wear alongside the necklaces he gifts you. Sometimes he bites down hard, not hard enough to bleed, but hard enough to remind you that he’s the only one allowed to rough you up and treat you kindly after. In all fairness, Chrollo's the only one you let treat you in such a way, the only one who would treat you in such a way. 

And perhaps it is all just a charade, an evocation of old-timey traditionalism to mask his selfish desire to possess you like another one of his stolen treasures. Or maybe he does just want to treat you nice, take you out to rooftop dinners under a setting sun, show that, in a gentlemanly way, of course, he maybe feels something akin to love for you.

You wouldn't know. You doubt even he knows. Chrollo has always been enigmatic, even from when you first met him. And just maybe, he is to himself, too.

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y/n is in the trenches of a situationship with early mid 2000s unintentional male manipulator loser gamer boy matt

cw: semi-toxic relationship, rough sex, choking, he cums in you (cw needed (?)), a lot of run on sentences idc

afab!reader, reader referred to as a 'girlfriend'

~ 500 words

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He always says it as he cums inside of you, almost inaudible, sliding off his tongue like another breath. “I love you.” he says. Yet, when morning comes, you always wake up to an empty bed. 

In the dead of night he touches you so gently, whispers so kindly into your ear, feels the inside of your mouth with the very same tongue he uses to kick you out in the morning. When he says “I love you”, and fucks you like he means it, you really believe it. 

But when he acts like you're his dirty secret when morning comes, talks bad about you to your face and behind your back, and has those nights where he fucks you hard with his hand tight around your throat, and only bothers to undo the fly of his jeans, pulling his cock out of his boxers, and leaving his belt to bang up the inside of your thighs as he carelessly uses you for his own gratification, you can't help but feel like just his whore. It’s on those nights when he doesn't even grant you the privilege of staying over for the night, or a ride back to your place, when you walk home in the cold night, scantily dressed, with your ripped tights on, shivering with the beginnings of fingertip shaped bruises on your neck and waist, your underwear wet with his cum, lip gloss nothing but a smeared pinkish tint all around your lips, and mascara running down your face, that you wonder if he just says the words “I love you” to keep you complacent and always returning to his unmade bed. 

But there’s always such a sincere look on his face when he spends time with you beyond the realm of his dingy bedroom, the way he hangs onto every word you say even when he couldn't care less about whatever topic you talk to him about, laughing at all your jokes, even when they're not funny, and the way he always wants you around even if he’s just mindlessly gaming all day. Matt even asks for your help when he dyes his hair with that shitty black box dye. He always tells you to leave when Mello comes over to his place, yet seems to like the way you and Mello get along. You can never quite wrap your mind around the way you’ll spend a night crying and alone, wondering if you mean anything at all to Matt beyond a good fuck, and then the very next morning he’ll wrap his arms around you and kiss the back of your bruised neck as you make coffee in his kitchen. 

You’d think he barely considers you a close friend, and you certainly aren't his girlfriend, but he’s always your most recent text message and phone call, and it feels like you spend more time with him than you do anyone else in your life. He once told you that you, Mello, and his plug were the three people he sees the most often. Yet nothing ever changes between the two of you, he never gets serious with you, never pulls you close, but never pushes you away either, always keeps you just at arm's length. You spend so much time with him but it still feels like you know nothing about him. You just don't get him at all.

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