Matrimony.

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/46937611.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Rape/Non-Con
Category: F/M
Fandom: Hunter X Hunter
Relationship: Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer/Reader
Characters: Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer, Machi (Hunter X Hunter), Shalnark
(Hunter X Hunter), Phinks (Hunter X Hunter), Feitan (Hunter X Hunter),
Reader, Pakunoda (Hunter X Hunter), Uvogin | Ubogin (Hunter X
Hunter), Nobunaga Hazama, Franklin (Hunter X Hunter)
Additional Tags: Angst, Coercion, Yandere Chrollo, Horny Bastard Chrollo, Reader-
Insert, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Extremely Dubious Consent,
Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Consensual Kissing, Attempted
Rape/Non-Con, Aphrodisiacs, sacrilegious, Religious Imagery &
Symbolism, Ex-religious reader, Religious Guilt, Forced Marriage,
Kidnapped Reader, impending doom, poor poor reader, Mental
Breakdown, Accidental Self-Harm, Chrollo is Chrollo and it's not fun,
outdated ideas about chastity and virginity
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2023-05-04 Updated: 2023-09-08 Words: 20,923 Chapters:
5/8
 Matrimony.
by thesaltiestsaltine

Summary

In which Chrollo is tired of waiting, and decides to present you with a choice.

This story contains some dark themes, so please view at your own discretion.

Notes

Hiiiiiii everyone <3

This is my first fic I'm ever going to publish! (not my first time attempting to write one tho
lol.) You can also find me on Tumblr @the-saltiest-saltine, but this story probably won't be
updated there.

There's plenty of warnings, so please, PLEASE read the tags before reading.

For those of you choosing to proceed, enjoy <3333

 Sunday, 11:51 p.m.

He’s at it again.

What had started as a normal conversation had come to this spot once more.

Sitting on the edge of the bed with a book, your only form of entertainment, you’d attempted
to allow yourself to get sucked into its pages, escaping through a story for a chance at a brief
moment of levity, a distraction from your current unpalatable situation.

Chrollo, inquisitive as he is, had taken it upon himself to interrogate you on every detail -
title, author, date of publication, as well as your opinion on every character, plot point, and
sentence structure. But, as seems to be the trend these days, it devolved.

“And, on that point… would you say Wisana’s anger at her husband was justified?”

“No.” You kept your responses curt, as always, trying to keep the cross-examination as brief
as possible.

“Hmm. Interesting.” His eyes glinted with something you didn’t want to name.

He shifted closer to you, hand on top of yours. You’d wanted to snatch it away, cupping it
like he’d burned you, scrubbing and scrubbing under a running tap to remove any trace of his
filthy touch.

Before you could do any of that, however, he’d leaned in.

Since the day he first took you, you knew Chrollo wanted more from you than you were
willing to offer. At first, his demands for a conversation (poorly disguised as polite questions,
roping you into vulnerability) were met with your stubbornness. However, your ignorance
towards him could only last so long. Threats towards yourself were one thing, towards those
that had been left behind when he took you were another.

And so you caved in.

It was easy - you knew it would be - to let most of your thoughts, not all (that would be a
stupid decision), roll off your tongue. His ability to spark and hold a conversation was almost
admirable, however you didn’t want to idolise an individual like him in any way whatsoever.

You were an absolute idiot to think that it would sate him in the slightest.

By the fifth time he’d kissed you, you’d given up fighting him with your fists. Instead you
resorted to effectively trying to bite his lips and tongue off, withdrawing with a triumphant
look on your face and a copper taste in your mouth. And, oddly enough (or not odd,
considering the kind of person you were dealing with), he never seemed to get upset or angry,
giving you a passive smile (definitely fake, you deduced) and continuing on with his day as if
he hadn’t forced you into a treasured token of intimacy.
They were always one-sided. You would never initiate anything, especially not a kiss. You
made that pact to yourself the first time he’d pulled you against him, lips soft and gentle,
trying to coax you into his own rhythm as he held you, grip on the back of your neck
steadfast.

You suppose you should consider yourself lucky in one aspect.

Despite your evident opposition to any and all interactions with him, romantic or not, he had
always adhered to the hardest boundary you had on your body. While you’d never be overtly
gracious about it - it was the bare fucking minimum, after all - you felt some sense of relief
whenever he’d back away. At least, you tell yourself, it’s not today.

Your captor has backed off every time you’ve given him a hard no. That is, when you’ve
pushed him off you with all your strength, furiously screaming at him to stop for the third
time, him giving one final kiss to your neck before pulling away.

Chrollo Lucilfer wants to fuck you. He's made that clear. You, however, do not want to fuck
Chrollo Lucilfer.

Why would he even try? It’s beyond obvious that you would have your apprehensions about
intimacy with him considering the way he kidnapped you, teased you, tricked you, dragged
you from one location to the next with little to no consideration toward the living, breathing,
exhausted being forced to accompany him.

You know he’s wondered why this boundary exists. With his captivating looks and magnetic
charm, as superficial and insincere as it may be, you’re quite certain that he would have no
trouble getting into anyone’s pants. You can feel the pull too. He likes to caress your waist,
nip at your earlobe, whisper suggestive things in your ear. And sometimes, you almost give
in.

But you don’t.

You don’t, because you know that giving in wouldn’t just mean your satisfaction. It would
mean his satisfaction too. He would be able to quell his desire for your body, albeit
temporarily. He would be able to claim this win over you, holding your sudden clarity and
humiliation over your head forever. He would roll over and gaze at you triumphantly, sweat
sticking his hair to his forehead and a condescending smirk on his face.

The mere thought of this makes you want to peel off your flesh and scream at the heavens.

And, of course, there’s the issue of matrimony.

More specifically, a lack of it, combined with Chrollo’s pushing for something more.

You can’t do this. Without a ring, you can’t even begin to think about giving yourself to him
in that way.

You can’t exactly pinpoint why you think like this. There's some relatively forgotten, foggy
memories from your upbringing, but there’s no key event you can recognise that made you
the way you are now.

The few recollections you have come in small, neatly packaged bundles, adequately
categorised for rough chronological recall. Your parents stopping contact with other boys
your age before anything could come to blossom, school mothers whispering amongst
themselves about a young classmate getting pregnant, priests persuading you on the sanctity
of marriage. You don’t think any of these could’ve made a huge impact individually. To
dismiss a few adults would’ve been easy enough, though vehemently discouraged. To dismiss
your entire community was another beast entirely.

You don’t go to church now - you’re lucky if Chrollo lets you leave the house for half an hour
of sunshine, arm possessively curled around your waist as he guides you down the footpath
on a trail he chooses, never stepping on the cracks. But you also stopped going long before he
took it upon himself to remove you from your home. You’re hardly under any obligation to
save yourself for anyone, and honestly have considered yourself quite the feminist - forced
chastity until marriage, threats of eternal punishment or otherwise, you think, is misogynistic
and frankly outdated.

So why does your main excuse for your prudishness seem to revolve around that?

You’re fairly sure he’s inferred that you have a definite lack of experience in that aspect.
Chrollo’s proven himself inhumanly observant, asking questions it’s clear he already knows
the answers to.

He tried again tonight. A forced kiss, something that doesn’t entirely catch you by surprise
these days. He’d tilted his head, tongue running along the seam of your lips, trying to take all
you could give and more. Shit. It was happening again.

You could faintly sense his hands, roaming and squeezing and fiddling with the hem of your
nightshirt, in the small part of your mind that wasn’t consumed with his assault on your
mouth.

It barely took time to register.

Your hands, balled into strong fists, wasted no time in striking wherever you could, panic and
instinct not registering the futility. You could feel his smirk against your lips, ignoring your
nonverbal demand.

“S…Shtopf,” you manage to get out against his lips.

He didn’t listen. Instead, he adjusted his hands - one on the back of your head holding you
firm, and the one on your waist sliding down to your hip, holding you flush against a pressure
that was growing firmer by the second.

“Shtop.” He did not stop.

You bit his bottom lip with a primal viciousness, shoving him away as hard as you could.

“STOP!”
No metallic taste lingered on your tongue. You’ll have to bite harder next time.

He simply watched you, smirked, and threw himself on the bed.

“As you wish, darling.”

Biting back a snarky response and slamming the door, you made your way back to the living
room downstairs, deciding to postpone your ideas of a hearty eight hours of rest in favour of
evading his lascivious gaze.

You cast your book onto the coffee table, distaste staining your tongue at the thought of
returning to the novel that brought you into this predicament. You instead chose to stare out
the window behind the couch, chin placed on interlocked fingers as you take in the
underwhelming view of the carbon-copy neighbourhood held just out of reach, dim street
lights shining on well-kept bitumen.

Of course, with few things to entertain your mind with, your train of thought naturally
wandered the more anxious route.

Which leads you to now, sitting on the couch, as one foreboding thought bubbles to the
surface after another.

Is he going to come down? Will he try once more tonight, making it in the nick of time before
the day starts anew?

Despite his well-crafted aura of patience, you just don’t see this lasting much longer.

Deciding to bite the bullet, you make your way back upstairs to the bathroom, brushing your
teeth. If you manage to get to sleep in record time, he won’t harass you again tonight,
assuming he isn’t trying to ruin his once-weekly streak of transgressing your boundaries.

Wiping lathered toothpaste from the corner of your lip, you try to steady your heartbeat as
you make your way to the bedroom door. The lights are dimmer than before, so he probably
turned the ceiling lights off in favour of his bedside lamp. Your hypothesis is confirmed once
you muster the courage to open the door, your trembling right hand managing to gather the
strength to pull down on the handle.

Chrollo’s reading a book, as usual, propped up against the headboard with a multitude of
pillows and cushions. He does little more than briefly make eye contact with you to
acknowledge your presence. You’d better not celebrate yet.

You cautiously lift the covers, as if expecting him to have hidden some sort of bear trap to
hold you in place whilst he has his way with you.

“Don’t worry, darling. I haven’t hidden any aphrodisiacs in the mattress, if that’s what you’re
worried about.”

You scowl at him. He’s teasing, as usual.

To you, it’s less funny.

You still recall the night you sat across from him at the dining table, lips feeling fuzzy as the
last of your glass of red made its way down your throat, the steak in front of you long
forgotten. You still remember the burning feeling creeping up your spine, shifting
uncomfortably in your chair as the heat made its way to your cheeks. You still remember the
way he analysed you from across the table, a sprinkle of mirth in his eyes as he took in your
situation, calmly getting up to make his way over to you, taking your right hand in his left,
making it erupt in goosebumps, asking you innocently if something was wrong. If there was
something you needed.

You still remember the way you turned on your heel, chair clattering to the floor, shrugging
off the hand placed on your shoulder to encourage you to stay, the way you ran upstairs on
trembling legs, the way you locked yourself in the bathroom, not even knowing what was
happening. You still remember wondering if you had been hit with one of those Nen abilities
you’d briefly been informed about, if you’d been cursed with an incurable fever, if you were
going to die. But when you processed what was going on, in a brief moment of clarity
through your sickening haze, when you figured out what he had done to you, your first
instinct was to stuff towels in the crack beneath the bathroom door.

You couldn’t do this. Not with him, not now.

It’s just instinct, you told yourself. This too shall pass.

Please, God, make it pass.

The memory of his hand on yours played on repeat in your mind, sparks shooting downwards
as you rubbed your thighs together. Five minutes ago, you wouldn’t have even let him brush
against your arm. Now, all you could think about was his touch, the intense craving clouding
your mind. You had no way of telling the time in that bathroom, but outwaiting the effects of
the aphrodisiac in a setting so plain and unstimulating seemed like a losing game regardless.

Fine. You gave up, but not entirely.

You’d pressed your ear to the door. You couldn’t hear his breathing. Hopefully, it meant that
he wasn’t there. But, with your temperature rising and skin tingling like electricity, you found
yourself not caring as you stepped away.

Sitting down on the floor by the cupboard, you pulled the skirt he’d made you wear up and
your drenched underwear down, slick pooling onto the comparatively cold tiles.

Shit. Another moment of clarity. He might just break his way in anyway.

Dilated pupils scanning, you’d spotted a pack of razors in the basket by the shower. Placing
them next to you, they soon became a distant memory as your lucidity slipped through the
cracks of your desire, drifting away as your desperate hands got to work. Whether you had
planned to use the razors on him or yourself, you had no idea.

He never did come in. At least, you don’t recall it. Naively, you initially believed that that
was the end of it all. If you could resist him in that state, you could resist him in any scenario.
Although that was certainly not the end of his lustful endeavours, he’d never tried putting
aphrodisiacs in your drinks again. Still, you wouldn’t put it past him to do so once more.

Sliding into bed, you prop your pillow down and turn away from him. Your eyes finally get a
moment’s respite, being pulled down by sideways gravity. Tomorrow, you can wake up and
dodge his lips and forceful grip, but until then, you can allow yourself to be pulled into the
abyss.

Just as your thoughts begin to trail off, you hear some sort of mumbling from the mass next
to you, your eyelids slowly opening again. Shit, that’s Chrollo. Is he saying something?

A pair of strong arms wrap around you, pulling you into his chest.

“[Name].”

Your eyes snap open.

It’s spoken firmly. Although you hate his pet names, the lack of them has your gut twisting.

“You believe my patience is running thin.”

Of course you fucking know that, if all the wandering hands as you dozed off and soft grunts
you could hear in the shower were anything to go off of.

“That much is clear, you fucking creep.”

“Well,” he adjusts himself, removing his right arm from you and laying on his back, tilting
his chin back nonchalantly and gazing up at the ceiling instead of you, “you’re wrong. It ran
out long ago.”

Your stomach drops.

What is he going to do to you?

You start uselessly wriggling around in his grip. His left arm holds you tightly, preventing
you from even sitting up. All you manage to do is turn your head enough to look at the
ceiling, not even able to move your neck far enough to look at him.

This is it, your stalling is up, he’s going to pin you down and violate you in the worst way
and there’s nothing you can do about it and you’re not ready for this and it’s going to hurt so
much fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-

“Relax, my dear. I’m giving myself one last push. Consider it a mercy.”

You stop struggling, but your heartbeat won’t calm down. You wish that it would stop too,
and free you from this nightmare.

“I’m giving you a choice here.”

“Okay.” The word barely comes out a whisper, croaking out so faintly that you wonder if he
hears it.

“Allow me to make one thing clear: in exactly one week, you’ll be lying prettily beneath me
in this bed, and I will fuck you. I don’t care for the circumstances. I will fatten you with an
evening of oysters and gold leaf, pin you down, serve you glasses of Cabernet, taste you
while you sleep, tie you up, gag you, whatever is required for me to fulfil my desire.”

Tears that had been pricking your eyes begin to roll down in fat drops just below your
temples, soaking either side of the pillow.

“But I know how much it means to you. Let me reiterate: this is inevitable. However, I’m
willing to ease your worries of pre-marital relations. We can organise ourselves to be wed,
and all will be well.”

You’re limp and motionless, despair melting into the mattress beneath you.

“I’ll put a ring on your pretty finger, say my vows, you can come willingly, and I won’t use
force.”

You sniffle in response.

“Don’t be this way, my love. Like I said: it’s your choice. We don’t have to get married if you
don’t want to.”

Ah. Your choice.

 Monday, 9:04 a.m.
Chapter Notes

Hello again! Hope you like this update <3

This was supposed to be way shorter than the last chapter, but it ended up being almost
the same length lol

Some chapter-specific warnings - mentions of: forced marriage, non-con, ejaculation,

infantilisation sorta, and blowjobs; throwing up

Oh god, why is it so bright?

Your eyes crack open a little. It’s Chrollo, of course, yanking the blinds up and the curtains
open. You steal a glance at the digital clock on your bedside table. 9:04 a.m. Perhaps you
should get up.

“You need to get up, darling.”

Nevermind then.

He’s back at his usual antics, tone playful and cloying, getting a kick out of his attempts to
annoy you into submission. You can only groan in response, heavy eyelids closing once
more, a subconscious defiance that happens before you can process what he really said.

“Would you like to plan with me? I’ll be organising the catering today.”

Now that’s interesting: he’s giving you an option. And as much as you hate to play along with
his antics, play into your own downfall, having a fragment of choice, a thread to hang on to,
might just be what keeps you sane for a little while longer.

Before you can answer, you feel the bed dipping under his weight beside you. Tangled hair is
pushed away from your ear in a clean motion, the warmth of his breath sending tingles up
your neck.

“What do you say, hm?”

“Yeah, sure.” You mumble out, trying not to show how flustered you are. If he notices, you’re
almost grateful he doesn’t make a snide quip to further sink you into the pit of your own
humiliation.

Chrollo hums a sound of approval (like you fucking need it), before pressing a soft kiss to
your cheek. You feel his weight lift off the bed before you can even think of slapping,
scratching, punching him away. Although that doesn’t stop disgust making itself apparent on
your face.

Opening your eyes - and keeping them open this time - you stretch out your arms in front of
you and your legs beneath you, toes pointed. The feeling always relaxes you, and you can
feel your body begin to melt into the mattress, almost tempted to go back to sleep again. You
sigh as you force yourself into an upright position, the taste of your own morning breath
hardly inspiring a cheerful mood. Cracking your back, you turn to face him.

“So, you have any ideas?”

There’s a moment’s pause. Was he not expecting you to collaborate that easily?

“Yes, I’ve bookmarked a few websites for you to choose from.”

Websites? Damn, you never thought a man so consumed with the archaic ways of life, even
going as far as to write with a quill and ink when ballpoint pens became too modern for his
tastes, would first resort to using the internet when researching for something so clearly
important as this. You figured that he’d at least skim a newspaper or something.

“Downstairs.” He gets up, the expectation for you to follow automatic.

Sighing, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, hopping onto the cold floorboards.
Your feet, previously warmed from the soft sheets and mattress, immediately freeze.

After confirming that you’re being obedient for once, he turns around to go downstairs. You
follow him to the kitchen bench, pulling up a stool, the wood infuriatingly scraping against
the floor. His jaw momentarily clenches; brief, but observable by a captive forced to spend
most waking moments by his side. Good.

He brings out a laptop, something you haven’t seen in a long time. Are these going to be
large-scale orders?

“I don’t really understand why we’re doing this. Are there going to be guests?”

He chuckles. “That’s a key aspect of a wedding, is it not?”

You feel like an idiot. It’s probably justified. “Yeah, it’s just… who’s supposed to be
coming?”

“I’ve got a few people in mind.”

You don’t bother asking if you get to invite anyone along.

You shift to sit side-on to the bench. As it loads, your eyes can’t help but look at the URL of
the first site he’s saved, wishing you could look up missing persons reports in the search bar
instead. Although you don’t need to see any of yours to know all searches for you were
unsuccessful.
You’ll always be hard to find. Chrollo keeps you on your toes, dragging you kicking,
screaming, scratching, to wherever he sees fit. He gives you a multitude of fake names on
your passports, all coming from different countries. So far, no airport attendees have
mentioned the discrepancies between your apparent country of origin and accent. It’s
probably because they’re aware of the concept of immigration. That, and you don’t really say
much, too afraid of getting the people around you killed by creating suspicion.

One glance around is all you need to shut up. Coming in through the doors, a young couple
are gearing up for a week-long romantic getaway. On the travelator, a family of four go by,
the young kids a couple metres in front of their parents. They’re barely controlled,
overwhelmed with excitement - it’s been years since they even left their state, and now their
father’s managed to work his schedule to allow this trip, proudly announcing it to them a few
months prior. At the gate, an elderly couple are waiting to board the next plane, eagerly
holding their first-class tickets, ready to live their retirement to its fullest. These fleeting
moments don’t allow you to make a full judgement of their character, so you go with the
obvious choice: you don’t choose to sacrifice their lives for your meagre chances of escape.
Perhaps they’re all secretly horrible people who deserve nothing but the worst, horrible death
at the hands of Indoor Fish included. But you’ll never know. And they’ll never know that, for
a minuscule point in the timeline of their lives, you held their fate in your hands.

Will Chrollo give you the same last name as him on your passports after the wedding?
Probably, since you’ll flaunt physical evidence of your abstract bondage from then on. You’ll
be Mr and Mrs Barlow, or de Silva, or Hansen. If he changes your last name to Lucilfer, then
you’ll be even harder to find.

The site finishes loading. It’s fancy enough, offering a range of tastings of high-end
ingredient combinations, the pictured platters of finger food looking unusual enough to
probably boast an obscene price tag.

“Well, what do you think?”

You’re starting to have second thoughts about getting involved in this whole process. It’s
probably delicious. But you’re more than willing to skip out on eating it if it means you don’t
have to do this. Hell, you’d be willing to fast for forty days and forty nights if it meant he
wouldn’t stare at you the way he is now, clearly barely controlling himself from pouncing
through his morning hormones.

“It’s nice. I’d prefer something more sit-down style, though.”

You won’t be able to stand up and float around for nibbles after you walk down the aisle.
Then again, you might not be able to stomach the five courses advertised on the next website
he pulls up.

Your insides are twisting, your mouth filling with blood-tasting saliva. Oh no.

Breathe in, breathe out.

You shakily exhale.

Despite the scenario you’ve found yourself in, you must admit that this is an especially
generous act from Chrollo. You’ve been given more choices by him in the past 12 hours than
you have in months.

Would you like to marry your captor? What food would you like at your own wedding from
these pre-selected websites? What flavour cake do you want? How many tiers should it be?
Would you like the moment you’re fucked to be on your wedding night, or just another
Sunday? Would you prefer he cums on your face or chest?

You aren’t one for gratitude when it comes to Chrollo. Whatever lavish gifts he gives you are
stolen, laced with the blood of whoever was unfortunate enough to be in the general vicinity
of the scene of his burglaries.

You also hardly ever use them. You refuse to let him clasp the sapphire bracelets around your
wrists, the 24-karat gold necklaces around your neck, his touch lingering too long for
comfort, but not long enough for you to snap at him to get his slimy hands off you.

Four months ago, he tried to put a pair of emerald earrings on you, the deep green colour
twinkling, city lights shining on the gem from the floor-to-ceiling window of the York New
penthouse. You’d snapped your head away from him, swearing, screaming at him to fuck off.
If he wanted to take you out to a restaurant, then that’s all that should happen, with none of
these extra conditions added on. Your ears had long since been stained green from the pair of
earrings you were wearing anyway, the same ones you wore when he took you. Every
alternate pair he’d offered came with the expectation that he’d be the one to slide them in.

He hadn’t gotten visibly angry with you - it’s a streak he’s yet to break - and took you out
anyway. Of course, that didn’t mean he’d completely let it go. Between bites of salad and sips
of Chardonnay, he mentioned how the green would’ve matched your dress that he’d picked
out for you, or the roast asparagus that was paired with your steak, or the green lights shining
in the distance, creating a pleasant hue in the dining space as drivers, unlike you, were
permitted to move forward and choose their own paths. You’d glared at him, trying to
translate your anger into your facial muscles. He simply stared back, a passive smile on his
face.

You hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Obviously, he wasn’t happy that you weren’t
worshipping your kidnapper for treating you like some inanimate doll that he could groom as
he pleased. Too bad.

You hadn’t thought much of it, that is, until you woke up the next morning.

You stirred from your place on the couch, rubbing sleep from your eyes. He’d insisted, as
usual, that you sleep on the luxurious bed, curled up under his arm. Five seconds of weighing
the pros and cons told you that the leather couch was a better option. The unmoldable
surface, the thin blanket, the way light seeped in directly into your eyes as the sun first
peaked over the horizon - all were rendered mere inconveniences when compared to sharing
a bed with Chrollo. You’d made a beeline to the bathroom, emptying your bladder.

Something didn’t feel right. It’d been...quieter than usual, in a way.

Washing your hands, you’d noticed something strange in the mirror. Turning your head from
side to side, you realised what was wrong.

That fucker.

Your earrings, the ones that had spent weeks upon weeks in your ears, had been plucked
straight out. All that was left were the green marks from their steady oxidation.

You’d stormed into the bedroom, chucking a cushion onto his face, letting out a bundle of
expletives.

“What the hell is wrong with you, asshole?”

He’d barely stirred, definitely a ploy to piss you off more. You grabbed the bait with both
hands.

You’d shaken him by the shoulders, screaming at him to give them back. He’d simply
shrugged, patting the space next to him. You’d angrily obliged, just wanting to get them back
already.

“Sleep here tonight, love, then I’ll consider giving you some earrings.”

You’d practically leapt out of the bed in disgust, refusing to acquiesce to his demands. You
refused that night, and the night after that, and the night after that. Over the weeks, you got
used to not hearing their clink as you walked or shook your head.

But still… you didn’t want the holes to close up.

You finally gave up, asking him so sweetly, so politely, to just give you some earrings. You’d
slept in the bed next to him, just as he wished. Despite your fears of what it would entail,
strangely enough, he’d made no attempt to touch you, an intangible line separating your
bodies.

As you woke up after the first good night’s sleep in months, feeling the creases indented into
your face, there they were. The emerald earrings he’d offered you all those nights ago were
sitting on the bedside table.

As you reached for them, a hand grabbed your wrist, firm and frightening.

“Allow me, darling.”

And so you did. The holes had closed up a little, with some pain and blood as he pressed the
metal through. But you had to acknowledge that the earrings were positively gorgeous,
disregarding the way your ears were swelling up at the first intrusion they’d faced for a while.
At least he was nice enough to get you some disinfectant spray, holding your earlobes gently
as he spritzed it on. It was a simple trade: he’ll get to sleep beside you, and he’ll allow you to
keep your piercings.

You’ve religiously slept next to him every night since then, lest you have to beg him to take
you to a chemist to get your ears re-pierced. You don’t want to begin to think of what kind of
payment that request would incur.

The price of the earrings, of these hotels and houses, of these arrangements of caviar and
white truffle that he scrolls through, are pathetic pocket change for him. Yet he still feels
entitled to charge you to the fullest nonetheless, with obscene amounts of interest. Although,
you suppose, it’s hardly as if any of this is coming from thin air.

This wedding will be funded by Jenny profited from the stealing of countless pieces of art,
history, and culture. The mere thought of how he gained these makes your stomach churn
dangerously, your imagination conjuring up forcibly buried images of the few times you tried
to start a public scene, back when you were freshly captured prey, back when you thought
you were just dealing with a weak, delusional idiot who couldn’t take no for an answer.

You swallow a mouthful of your own saliva, your glands working in overdrive.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Phew.

You aren’t going to thank him for any of this. Does he want you to? Does he expect you to?

Probably. You can imagine him towering over you as you look up at him, face slightly tilted
up and doe eyes wide. He’d definitely like that.

Thank you, Mr Leader Thief of the Phantom Troupe. I’m so grateful you decided to spend a
small portion of your blood money on the wedding you’re forcing me to take part in for the
sake of my own morality. You can handle it all perfectly, can’t you, only precious constant in
my life? You’re doing all the hard parts by yourself, you truly are so good to me, my perfectly
consensual provider. Here, allow me to give you a blowjob for your troubles. Oral doesn’t
count, right? God won’t smite me for making you feel good like you deserve, right? I love
you, you know that?

Ugh.

Maybe your vision was a little too vivid. You’re trying to focus on the vegetarian quiches that
another company offers, reading through the flavour combinations. None of them sound good
to you right now, with cold sweat breaking out on your forehead. Even the thought of water
makes you feel queasy.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Your stomach isn’t settling.

“Is everything alright, darling?”

No, it’s not, for a multitude of reasons. You can’t voice any of that, however, considering
how desperately you’re fighting off the waves of nausea that pummel you relentlessly. You
give a head gesture that wavers somewhere between a nod and a shake.

You choke a little on the saliva that fills your mouth, fighting the urge to cough.
Breathe in, breathe out.

You burp into your mouth, deep from your stomach. It’s one of those kinds.

You pant lightly, trying to keep your trembling hands steady. You briefly make eye contact
with Chrollo.

Breathe in, brea-

Lurching forward, you retch bile onto the floor.

 Tuesday, 1:10 p.m.
Chapter Notes

Hello <3333
This is the longest chapter so far (~3.5k words), hope it was worth the wait!!!

Chapter-specific warnings: annoying Chrollo, food sounds (ahhhhh drives me up the fkn
wall), cannibalism mention (?), gross imagery

The day has gone by both hair-pullingly slow and unbelievably fast. You’d spent the better
part of the morning tossing and turning in bed, trying to sleep the day away. Groggily pulling
yourself out of bed, you’d skipped lunch in favour of a few sips of water, choked down at the
kitchen bench.

You weren’t sure you could handle much more than that, in more ways than one.

“…and after that, we’ll walk down the aisle together. I can think of few things more
romantic, can you?”

Chrollo’s monologue at you about what his expectations were for the wedding had you not
only bored, but pissed out of your mind. Another reminder that although you had technically
chosen to have this wedding, he was still calling the shots.

Fuck him. Not literally, though.

“Uhh… yes?” You’d zoned out long ago.

He smiles slightly, without the slightest hint of sincerity, humming an off-putting note.

“You weren’t listening, were you? How unfortunate.”

He rests his chin on his hand, looking at you with what he probably thinks is fondness.

You personally refer to it as obsession. The grey is too grey, a void that longs to be filled by
you. If you aren’t careful, you’ll get sucked in.

“What’s the point of this being my choice if you’re going to make all the choices for me?”

“An interesting question indeed.” Interesting, huh? You resist the urge to launch into a
screaming rant about how much of an ass he’s being. “I hardly view it that way. After all, it
was you who agreed to marry me, was it not? I never made the choice to marry you, I simply
proposed the idea. Was verbal consent to this not enough to constitute your permission? Shall
we make a contract?”
He’s trying to get you to second-guess yourself, regard for the circumstances of your
concurrence conveniently forgotten. You won’t back down. “Don’t bother. I hate all of this.”

He remains unfazed. “If it troubles you so much, my love, then you are always welcome to
call off the wedding. I’ll even go to the liberty of making all the cancellations.”

You’d prayed he’d abandoned that annoying quip after yesterday’s disaster. Your prayers
have always remained unanswered. Whatever deity may or may not be watching over you
seems hard-pressed on never giving you a break.

It’s this calmness, this false liberty, this apparent act of charity that drives you up the wall.
On a technical level, you can’t argue with his statement because it’s true: you agreed to this
wedding. Chrollo suggested it, but didn’t proceed with planning until you allowed it. And
still, you are hardly left unreminded that disagreeing is just as easy, in the physical sense at
least.

It’s easy to revoke your agreement, as long as you’re able to ditch a lifelong apprehension
within five days. You have 120 hours to ponder over it, argue with yourself, and repress
familiar thoughts in favour of a change that won’t even benefit you.

Not while you’re stuck with him, at least. And if Chrollo gets what he wants, as usual, then
that’s looking like the rest of your life.

He takes your lack of response as an answer - perhaps a sign of submission if he’s feeling
delusional, or defiance if he’s looking for a reason to punish you. The slightest of smirks
plays on his lips as he turns his attention back to the invitations he’s hand writing with a quill
and ink. Pretentious bastard.

You turn your head to the side to look at it.

“...Shalnark?”

Shalnark. You’ve heard that name before. Chrollo sometimes calls someone on the phone by
that name. You’ve been to troupe hideouts before, barely able to make eye contact with the
people whose mere presence is intimidating enough to make your breathing turn to strained
gasps, chest squeezing at the weight of their company. Names being spoken vaguely register
in the back of your mind as you desperately try to entertain yourself with whatever book
Chrollo gives you. If he’s feeling more dickish than usual, he won’t give you anything,
leaving you to pick at the hems and loose threads of your clothes, or write curses into the
dust-laden surfaces, or just stare around. Anything to help you avoid the details of his
endeavours. Sounds weave their way through your subconscious. Feitan…Shuzuku…
Bolenoth…Matcha…

This Shalnark…He’s blond, right? Shit, you’ve seen at least three blonds over the months.
Well, you’re pretty sure you can rule the woman out. So is Shalnark the one that doesn’t stop
smiling, or the one with the resting bitch-face?

Well, you’ve gotta make a guess. Okay, resting bitch-face it is.

“Yes, I’ll be inviting him. Are you opposed to his attendance?”

Well, the truth would be yes. Anyone who voluntarily spends even a moment in the vicinity
of Chrollo is not welcome within yours. But it’s not like you can voice that right now.

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then.”

He turns his attention back to his work, annoyance poking and prodding at your chest. You
want it to jab his. You want to snap, to bite.

“So, will you be running all of your invitees through me?” You sink your teeth in, however
shallow it metaphorically may be. “Will you seek my approval for everyone you want to ask
along?”

He looks back up at you, gaze genuinely considerate. “Is that what you want?”

You momentarily pull back, licking the wound you’ve made. “Yes. If this wedding is a joint
effort, then guests should be allowed to attend at both of our discretion.” Saliva stingingly
seeps into the cut.

“Then at both of our discretion it shall be.” A pang of fear zaps through your chest as he gets
up, tingles reaching your numb fingertips. “I will write a list for you to assess.”

Instinct tells you to thank this man for acquiescing to your demand without much question.
Common sense allows you to keep your mouth shut.

Chrollo makes his way over to the fridge. Four rhythmic steps are all he takes before
stopping, opening it in one flawless motion, save for the squeaking of the door. He grabs out
an apple, smoothly sliding the fruit drawer open to get it. It’s a Liberty. Ouch.

From the knife block, which magically disappears every time he’s not around, he grabs a
random handle - relatively small sized - and checks the blade. He slides it back in.

“Not good enough for His Highness?” You really can’t help it.

He ignores that.

He returns to his place at the kitchen bench, pulling out a switchblade from his pocket. A
warning, perhaps? A threat?

The intricately engraved blade, covered in little overlapping diamonds, pierces the flesh of
the apple. It slides deeply before being levered upwards, popping off a small chunk of the
fruit. Jammed between his thumb and the blade, it makes its way upwards, into his awaiting
mouth.

The next piece is far more civilised. Faster than your eyes can track, he makes two clean
slices vertically, grabbing the newly-crafted segment before it can fall. That, too, makes its
way to his mouth, juices softening his lower lip.
Crunch. Crunch.

He chews in a way that is, to you, obnoxious, although spending an extended period of time
involuntarily cooped up with the same person is bound to make even their most inoffensive
habits unbearable.

He pierces a newly made slice on his knife. “Would you like some?” He asks politely
enough, holding it out to you. You shake your head in response.

“Are you sure?” He edges the piece closer to you, tilting his head a little. Your stomach
growls, reminding you of today’s unintended fast.

You chew the inside of your cheek. There’s no way you’re going back on your word now. If
he can catch you out on this, he’ll only be more tempted to further push your boundaries.

“I’m sure.”

Shrugging, he tugs the piece straight off the knife with his front teeth. You can see the way it
crunches beneath his molars, juice frothing by his tongue before his lips seal, chewing with
his mouth closed like the gentleman he masquerades as. The sound of it getting mushed up,
pulverised beneath the bones, combines with the wet sound of his saliva in the most repulsive
way. Goosebumps form on your skin as you resist the urge to cringe.

Crunch. Mush. Crunch. Slosh.

He might as well be chomping right next to your ear right now. There’s not much fat on his
cheeks to protect you from the maddening sound. Such is the price of such prominent
cheekbones and a strong jawline, the gorgeous bastard.

You wonder how that jawline would hold up if you grabbed him by the dark roots and bashed
his face against the bench, incisors knocking straight out against the marble.

The sound of him swallowing his mushed-up apple soup makes you want to rip your ears off.

“You’re hungry. You need to stop denying yourself so much, darling. You’ll get yourself all
pent up.”

The implications aren’t lost on you. His words are like parasites - it’s all too easy to let them
weasel their way through your ear, wriggling through the canal. If you don’t proceed with the
utmost caution, they’ll suffocate your brain, coating your thoughts and exposing your
innermost white matter for him to manipulate, chewing up the mass and spitting it out your
nostrils.

You don’t respond to that, at least not verbally. Resisting the urge to chuck the rest of your
glass of water into his face, you quickly stand up, knocking your stool over. The clattering
sound definitely scares you more than it does him, if at all.

You sprint up the stairs, skipping every other step, reaching the bathroom door. Before you
enter, you take a quick glance over your shoulder to see if he’s bothering to follow you. He’s
not bothering.
The urge to hit him with the nearest blunt object, kick down the door, run as fast as your legs
could carry you, permeated your psyche with every breath you took whilst under his
suffocating “care”. But now? Background plans, scattered and easily dismissed in dingy
crevices of your brain, shot their way to the forefront of your brain the moment he gave you
this choice.

You need to get out of here. You refuse to give in, to spend the rest of your life this way.

You lock the door behind you, turning the light on. Newfound determination sharpens your
senses, eyes scanning the presented scene methodically.

Now, where are those razors?

You can’t quite remember how that night ended. The last thing you remember is letting out a
strained shriek as you found your sixth release, voice hoarse and legs numb. You’d woken up
next to Chrollo, who’d rolled over and asked you how you were feeling.

Well, you weren’t feeling your legs, that was for damn sure.

You’d huffed, tears threatening to cloud your vision as you shied away from him. You’d
dangled your legs over the edge of the bed, and done a little swing to hop onto the floor.

You didn’t make it very far.

The moment your legs were given any weight to hold, they’d given out, knees plummeting.
Before they could hit the floor, a steady hand wrapped around your waist, followed by
another behind your knees.

“You looked like you needed a little help.”

Internally, you’d thanked him for saving your patella. Externally, you’d called him a cunt.

You rummage through the basket by the shower, no luck, unless soap-encrusted shampoo
bottles are the new razors.

Perhaps the cupboard? A quick skim of the shelves gives you your answer.

You’re seriously considering smacking him with the toilet brush if all else fails.

It’s the bathroom of all places - there should be plenty of potential weapons or tools around.
Razors would’ve helped you slash at his chest. You could’ve probably made some sort of
awful chemical concoction, if there was anything more than travel-sized bars of soap and
bottles of hair products. Even one of those value-sized bottles of shampoo could’ve been
used to knock out some of his brain cells, given the right opportunity.

It’s like some sort of celibate gathering. There’s nothing fucking here.

Exasperation tugs your shoulders down. You drag your despondent form to the bedroom,
ruining Chrollo’s expert bed-making as you tuck yourself in, ready to continue sleeping the
day away.
Before you can get too comfy, however, another idea enters your mind.

Glancing to make sure the door’s closed, you lean over and open the bedside table drawer.
You’ve checked it well enough over the weeks, but you still rummage your hand through the
scattered hair ties, hand cream, and copy of Pride and Prejudice. Nothing, as expected.

Now, time for a slightly different course of action.

Sliding out of bed and squatting in front of the drawer, you slide it out. The hollow space is
relatively unremarkable, only with a dusty hair tie that must’ve fallen -

A silent gasp leaves your lips.

There’s a glint in the corner. You reach out. As your hand makes contact with cool metal,
your chest fizzes. It takes a bit of vigour to pull the object out of its firmly lodged spot,
regarding it in your shaky palm.

A screwdriver. It’s tiny, the handle barely the diameter of your thumb, and barely the length
of it too. Like it was broken off a fully-sized one. Maybe it was.

God, was this a trap?

There was no way Chrollo would be blind enough to not see what you’d do if you found it.
He definitely checked the house before you’d moved in. Any optimism-inducing events or
objects have to be regarded with the utmost suspicion, you’ve learnt. But what good will
pessimism do in a time like this? If there’s any chance of getting yourself out of here, then
you’ll grab it firmly, grip as strong as Chrollo’s when he pulls you in for a kiss.

Never mind that - your mind’s buzzing. It’s full of ideas and excitement and, for the first time
in months, hope.

Not only is it useful, it’s versatile. You could try jamming it into the door lock, buying
yourself an extra half second as you escape through the bathroom window. You could try
unscrewing the hinges on the front door, sprinting to freedom in suburbia as your bare feet
dodge bits of broken glass on the tarred roads. You could roll over in bed and look at him
lovingly as he sleeps before ferociously gouging his eyes out, popping them like pimples and
squeezing out the vitreous humour, draining it into a jar and marinating tonight’s chicken in
it, or maybe turning it into some sort of specialty cocktail.

Your skin crawls at the thought of that; perhaps it’s a little too far. Still, you aren’t entirely
opposed to the idea of making a mockery of his pain, swearing through his eulogy before
pissing on his vandalised grave.

But if you’re going to do that, you need to find a hiding place.

You can’t just carry this thing around all day. You don’t trust his wandering hands to not
catch the slight bulge of the metal up your sleeve, or in the underwire of your bra, or tucked
into your underwear.

You need to gather your thoughts if this is going to work. Breathe in, breathe out.
The bed is your first best bet. Turning around, you shove it under the mattress. Not right at
the edge, primed and ready for snatching up as Chrollo’s form beside you falls limp as his
breathing deepens. But rather right where your torso lies as you try to daydream about a life
where you can freely roam the streets and choose what you eat and visit your loved ones,
rather than about who’s next to you.

You’ll be able to sleep on it for now, in both senses, until you can find the perfect opportunity
to strike or stealth or unscrew.

It’s not a light or thin mattress by any means. It’s thick and piled high with a plethora of
pillows and a duck-down doona and is apparently Savoir, not that you particularly know what
that means. As you draw back from your work, you can’t see it under there. There doesn’t
seem to be a bulge, but your standards have to be higher than that in a situation like this.

Pulling back the covers, you slide in, lying in your usual sleeping position. You don’t think
you can feel it. You shift around a bit. If your judgements were correct, it should be
positioned somewhere from your belly button to the top of your sternum. There isn’t a
sensation there…unless…

Shit, what’s that you’re feeling?

Is the sudden poking feeling a phantom sensation? There’s no way it’s actually happening,
you felt nothing ten seconds ago. Did the screwdriver manage to shift somehow, even under
the weight of the mattress?

You toss and turn, the feeling not subsiding. How can this be? Tucked under your torso, you
thought it was going to be the perfect place.

He’ll find out, you just know it. He’s going to be able to feel it, in some sort of soul-crushing
Princess-and-the-Pea-esque destruction of your plans and morale.

Grabbing it out again (it’s in the exact same position as before?), you shove it into your
underwear - you pray he doesn’t appear and try to feel you up - before turning your attention
to another potential hiding spot: your wardrobe.

Shoes are out of the question. If you refuse to put anything on, fear of being stabbed in the
foot or walking lopsidedly or otherwise, he’ll know. You won’t bother with pant pockets as a
long-term hiding place, either.

You flick through your many jumpers, eyes darting to the door every two seconds.

Flick. Glance. Repeat.

Nothing seems quite right. You aren’t going to go for one in the middle, that’d be too
obvious. You also can’t go for one right at the edge, that’s also too obvious. Halfway between
the two? Well, that’s the next best place to go for. But if you know that, then Chrollo
definitely knows that.
Most of them are too thin to hide a screwdriver anyway. Half of them don’t even have
pockets. If you even bother taking this risk, he’ll find it. He’ll punish you, like your wedding
won’t be punishment enough. And he’ll love it, as much as he pretends not to.

The bedroom’s a bust. You don’t want to re-insert the screwdriver into its original spot at the
risk of breaking the wood. You slide your wardrobe shut, your own reflection coming into
view on the other side of the door.

You stare at her. She stares back.

Turning on your heel, you take a breath before opening the door, half-expecting Chrollo’s
waiting form to be on the other side, head cocked to the side as he oh-so-politely questions
what you were doing in there. Thankfully, he’s not there.

Ten steps is what it takes for you to get to the bathroom. There’s no grace to be found in the
way you attempt to shut the door quietly, locking it behind you. The resulting sound is the
door equivalent of a whisper-yell, voice furious and strained and squeaking.

Okay, take two. Whilst you had no luck finding a weapon here, there shouldn’t be any
shortage of hiding places.

Your first instinct is in the cupboard above the sink. It’s such a typical place that you almost
want to skip it completely, but it’s worth a try regardless.

Opening the mirrored doors again, it’s relatively bland, hence your previous annoyance.
There’s a couple of spare toothbrushes, the pack half-ripped open. There’s a couple
painkillers, the aluminium pack snipped neatly so that only two remained. Chrollo had
always snipped the packs that way, rotating through them when you’d informed him they’d
been used. There’s a tube of teeth-whitening toothpaste he bought, slightly misshapen from
where you’d squeezed. There’s a bottle of mouthwash, almost empty from constant usage
after vigorous gargling following his “affections.” There’s a white bottle of Chrollo’s shaving
cream, although you’ve never seen his razor when it wasn’t in use. There’s a spare tube of
toothpaste, still in its box-

Oh.

Could that work? Could you put the screwdriver inside the box?

There’s plenty of toothpaste still left inside of the tube that’s already open - more than could
possibly be used in five days by two people. The chances of you needing to open your
proposed hiding place are slim to none.

Still, there’s a far higher chance of him moving the box, for whatever reason, even if he
doesn’t use it. Having two rattling objects inside is a dead giveaway, but replacement
presents its own set of problems. Throwing the toothpaste away is hard when you’re sure
he’d be checking the bins, especially in a situation like this. You don’t want to hide the tube,
either, considering how hard it is to hide something considerably smaller. There’s also the
issue of the considerable weight difference.
If you could somehow conceal the screwdriver inside of the tube, it would be far more
effective than any of the places you had previously considered.

There’s safety scissors in the kitchen, supposedly for opening packets. If you could make
some sort of slit in the tube, you could shove it in. If you could make a slit in the nozzle, you
could squeeze it sideways before sliding the screwdriver in, replacing the clap so he would be
none the wiser. Yes, that could work.

Please, God, make it work.

Something wriggles in your stomach, but for once, it’s not anxiety.
 Wednesday, 4:33 p.m.
Chapter Notes

Things go quite downhill for reader.

Honestly, I have no idea how I’m supposed to explain this one. Please, God, forgive me
and my laptop.

Chapter-specific warnings: masturbation mention, mean asf Chrollo, just…i don’t even
know

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Even when you can’t see him, Chrollo proves himself to be forever a nuisance to you.

Currently, you’re situated in bed, alone for once, lying back against a stack of pillows that
could only be described as absolutely plush. A traditional fairytale collection storybook lies
in your lap. You are as comfortable as you can be given your current predicament.

There has been quite the…metamorphosis of emotion since you hid the screwdriver in its
final spot. Excitement turned into determination, into doubt, into worry, and finally full-
blown panic. Luckily, your hyperventilating had died down a few hours ago. Right now,
you’re oscillating somewhere between doubt and anxiety, clammy palms clutching the
storybook with a white-knuckled grip.

The bedroom door opens, gently, as if to not frighten the delicate little bunny, the precious
creature he pretends to see you as. As if he isn’t forcing you to choose between two evils of
your own corruption, your own violation.

“Tell me, darling. Why are you reading here?”

What a peculiar question.

“Because it’s comfortable.” It’s a simple answer that he most likely could infer.

He gives a hum. It’s not contented.

“Come out.” His left hand beckons you over.

You don’t want to put up a fight, considering what you’re hiding.

You wordlessly roll yourself out of bed - steady now - and follow him downstairs to the
living room. He plops himself on the couch, patting the space next to him. An unspoken
order.
Your first instinct is to give in. The last thing you want to start is an argument. If he gets too
close, you don’t know whether you’ll be able to push him away, put up the fight you usually
do.

There’s a comfort in knowing his comfort. If he’s happy, if you’re obedient, he’ll be so
caught up in his own contentment that you might get him to let his guard down enough to
escape, stab his shoulder, do something.

But it isn’t really that simple, is it?

If you were to follow all of his orders, he’d know that you were buttering him up. You don’t
doubt that he would know what for.

In order to keep a healthy amount of suspicion on his part, you have to show a healthy
amount of defiance on yours.

And thus you opt for the other end of the couch.

Sitting down tenderly, you have to adjust your position more than once. He definitely notices.
Finally settling with your right leg on top of your left, you try to distance yourself from your
own tension with a story you’re hardly even invested in.

You try, but fail.

You can’t relax at all, each slight movement threatening you with piercing pain that you don’t
want to feel under any circumstances. You’re spending an unprecedented amount of time on
each page, having to reread each paragraph several times, anxious thoughts of him snapping
preventing you from processing most of the words in your vision. You pray, to no god in
particular, that he doesn’t observe your scarce page turning. Which you know is futile, really.

“Is everything alright, darling?”

There it is.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You don’t bother looking up from your book, trying to feign indifference
lest you arouse suspicion more than you already have.

“You don’t seem fine.”

Fuck. Any response on your behalf will surely be used to dig a deeper hole for you, yet a lack
of response is sure to do the same.

“Well, considering I’m about to be married off and fucked against my will, perhaps I’m not in
my most zen state.” Your quickly thought up snark makes tears prick your eyes for the nth
time today, yet another time you are forced to face the truth about your future with him.

“As I’ve already told you darling, if you would rather not get married, you’re under no
obligation to.” His voice shows no signs of hostility. Looking up from your book, neither
does his face.
You could only describe it as softness.

“I’ve made my decision.”

“And I respect it.”

You scoff. Respect. A word Chrollo wouldn’t be familiar with if it jumped out of one of his
stupid books and smacked him across the face, a man who’d made a hobby of desecrating old
remains of culture and history for his own personal gain, before slaughtering all witnesses
and selling it off to the highest bidder.

Actually, no.

He is familiar with it. You’ve seen the way he regards his - what he refers to as, accurate or
not - associates. When you can’t avoid all the details of his work, you observe with horror.
You observe how he plays to their strengths, maximises their deadly potential in his
assignments. Unlike you, they follow his requests to the letter. And when they come back
with a job well done, he never thanks them - that would be preposterous for a man like him -
but instead takes his unfair share with due grace and celebrates with them, bottles popped
open and glasses filled, like his subordinates are somehow his equals, or could ever be
viewed in that manner.

Chrollo is familiar with respect, but it is apparent that it is not within his nature to extend that
respect to you, nor anyone or anything else outside of his circle of “associates.”

You don’t dignify him with a response, burying your nose back into the original version of
Sleeping Beauty, praying for some more time to escape into a fantasy world before you
escape your captor for good. Avoidance of any further conversation is necessary to avoid
giving yourself away.

You hear him sliding closer to you, directly by your side. Never a good sign. Your body
tenses, muscles pulled taught and hairs standing up. You pray, to no god in particular, that he
won’t seize the opportunity to touch you in this vulnerable state.

“I must say, [Name], I had no idea that you were beginning to reciprocate my feelings.”

What?

Rage once again burns within you. You’ve hardly ever given him anything more to work with
than the most vindictive vitriol you can muster, much less any evidence of his sick feelings
even being somewhat reflected in yourself. You want to shove the screwdriver down his
throat, to pierce his epiglottis, to make him choke on the metal as he bites down on your
forearm, canines cracking.

In a fashion not unlike his, you opt for nonchalance.

“Not likely.”

And you leave it at that.

Chrollo, however, doesn’t.

“Oh?”

Before you can react, your book is taken from you. Not necessarily snatched, per se, but most
definitely leaving your grip and sight. It’s hardly forceful, but the slight movement makes
you jolt, more as a form of bracing yourself rather than actual pain.

“For fuck’s sake, Chrollo, give -”

“Tell me, [Name], if you don’t want me to touch you, then why have you been spending so
long in the bathroom, hm?”

No.

“Tell me, darling, have you been touching yourself to the thought of me?”

He knows. He fucking knows.

“I can hear your groans in there, you know.”

Yet you never found pleasure in them, rather trying to stifle them with wads of toilet paper in
your mouth, stained a light red from where you bit your tongue without them.

You can’t start crying. Not now.

Breathe in-

Fuck. You can’t. You must’ve not been breathing before, and every new breath is light and
shallow. Pins and needles tingle your cramping hands.

You were desperate. You’re still desperate. And desperate people do desperate things - things
they never thought they would do. And when you found the screwdriver, you searched many
places to find the perfect hiding spot. Under the mattress, in the pocket of one of your
jumpers hanging up in your wardrobe, in a tube of toothpaste. The last one seemed perfect, so
there it went.

But what if he decided to use the toothpaste?

No, he wouldn’t. If you replaced the cap as neatly as possible, fixing any dents in the tube,
and replacing the tape on its box perfectly, then he would be none the wiser.

He had to be oblivious. It was the only chance you had for escape.

It was truly stupid to rely on a trait you knew your captor didn’t have to finally leave.

Oh god, he would look there, wouldn’t he? He would notice, and he would punish you and
you would never have a chance of finally leaving the all too familiar setup of domestic
prisons and finally having your life back again and four days from now he was going to take
what he wanted-
You could not let him find the screwdriver at any cost. And when your anxieties became too
much to bear, you resorted to extremes.

And you hid it in the only place you wished, you hoped, you prayed, you begged he wouldn’t
look.

He can’t look.

You shake your head. A little too vigorously. He’s wrong, this is all wrong -

“Remove it for me, dear. Or shall I take it out for you?”

You bury your face in your hands, “Stop, I don’t understand-”

“You understand exactly what I’m talking about.” His voice grows colder by the second.

Just stop. You don’t want any more of this.

Please, God, make him stop.

“That’s- Thats not-”

“Darling-”

“STOP! STOP IT!”

The words tear from your throat with utter animalism and anguish.

You’re hopeless. It’s hopeless.

It’s hopeless, it’s silly, it’s juvenile, childish, idiotic. He’s staring at you, unimpressed, like a
parent waiting for their toddler to stop having a silly temper tantrum. It was moronic to think
that this could ever work. Unscrewing the hinges or the locks on the door would’ve taken too
long. He was alert, even in his sleep. And now here he sits, eyes safely unpopped within his
skull, and you’re still here, being verbally picked apart.

“You poor thing. It must hurt so much.”

You know that. You know that. You don’t need him to dictate your experience to you, as if
he’s the one who’s been dealing with the uncomfortableness, the perturbation, the pain of it
all.

He strokes your cheek in a mock form of comfort.

Rising to your feet, you make a direct line to the bathroom. Chrollo makes no attempt to stop
you.

It’s of no use to have any hope right now, what few embers you previously had being
stomped out with his cruelty. But you pray, to no god in particular, that the screwdriver’s
removal will be less painful than its introduction.
Chapter End Notes

Hiiiiii <3 hope that chapter wasn't too fucked up lol

Some news about this fic: I'm going into exam season, which lasts until about mid-June.

😭
So I'm afraid the chances of me getting another chapter out during that time are slim to
none

(but the next chapter is gonna be slightly spicy so hopefuly it'll be worth the wait)
 Thursday, 11:14 a.m.
Chapter Notes

Helloooooo <33333

😭
Sorry for starving you all, this chapter ended up being wayyyyyy longer than anticipated

My research for this chapter consists of bridal websites and Say Yes to the Dress clips
on YouTube. Please kindly forgive the wild inaccuracies.

It’s a bit spicy ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) also a warning for imagined non-con (but isn’t that pretty much
every chapter?)

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Your punishment came soon enough, in an expected form.

You couldn’t say that a wedding dress fitting had been a direct result of your attempt to one-
up him, considering it had to be done at some point. But the manner in which Chrollo
announced to you, voice flowing like melted sugar, that you were going to a high-end
wedding boutique certainly felt like a stab to your chest nonetheless. At least it wasn’t a stab
anywhere else.

The car is mostly silent, the Rolls Royce interior almost disorienting with its lack of sound.
He’d proudly announced the brand to you when you first landed at the airport, alliterated
syllables rolling off his tongue with the utmost eloquence that the brand advertises. You
wondered why he was bothering, believing that the only other time you’d be in it, or even see
it, was going to be when he dragged you off back to the airport, ready to take an express
airship to the next suburban or high-rise hell he had planned.

It’s an immense surprise to be seeing the suburbs pass by, turning into the city after a while. It
would be a welcome one under most other circumstances. The concrete structures and your
captor are all too imposing on you, weighing heavy against your sternum. Skyscrapers
suffocate the car. The vehicle suffocates its occupants. The driver suffocates you, trapped at
the bottom of the hierarchical pileup with thousands of pascals straining your ribs.

Restlessness, stomach-churning and anxiety-driven, wraps its writhing tendrils around your
chest and squeezes. You pick at the hairs on your left forearm, little bubbles of pain popping
in their roots, firmly embedded in the sensitive skin.

“Nervous?”

You flick your eyes up to catch Chrollo’s own flicking back to the road. You nod, barely.
His hand makes its way to your forearm, squeezing it in what’s probably intended to be a
tender gesture.

“Don’t be. I don’t want you to needlessly stress yourself about this, darling.”

It’s an unfortunate side effect of your current situation. He’s the troupe’s boss. Not your boss.
It’s not like he can command you to feel something, or lack it.

He pulls into a set of classy-looking shops, with sleek and minimalist logos, a variety of
impractical (and therefore most likely expensive) fashion displayed in their windows. In
particular, there’s one that has a variety of white dresses presented prettily behind the glass,
presumably pinned and clipped and fiddled with to be tailored to the mannequins, veils
draping over and behind the faceless heads. It’s certainly an accurate representation of how
you’ll look in three days’ time.

You can safely assume that that’s your destination.

There’s a train station opposite the spot Chrollo’s backing into (with much difficulty, to your
utmost pleasure), with one stopped by right now. People - regular people - embark and
disembark, their faces too far away for you to make out many features. The sight brings a
small spark of something, but it’s not hope. More a throw-away idea, immediately dismissed
yet unhindered from growing.

If you could trap him inside the car (he seems pretty caught up with searching for a different
spot, after all - so you could take advantage of that!) and sprint up to the station, you could
hop on a carriage, fare evading be damned. It’s a minute offence compared to what he’s been
up to. You could speed away on the rickety tracks, taking a journey to God knows where. You
could plop yourself down and catch your breath, your legs having gotten their first real
stretch in months. Through clusters of shops and vandalised tunnels, freedom would tickle
your fingertips. It’s a really, really pleasant daydream. But it’s just that - a dream.

You know it wouldn’t work. He’d appear at the next station and stroll in, calmly taking the
shit-stained seat beside you, and strike up a conversation with tense undertones. Even if he
didn’t, trains stir up some painful memories. The worst part is that you once regarded these
memories with an element of fondness. Not particularly intense, but something to lighten up
your day if you were feeling down.

Activating the parking brake and turning off the engine, your captor turns to you, making an
announcement.

“I’ve got a gift for you.”

You simply blink at him, with no real expectations of what it could be. Perhaps a necklace to
go with your dress, or a temporary spider tattoo, or a morning after pill.

It’s none of those things.

Instead, Chrollo takes out a small jewellery box, too small to hold a necklace or bracelet.
Your stomach drops.
You start, “I…don’t really wa-“

“But that’s irrelevant, isn’t it my dear?” His tone gains apathy, “I didn’t want you to hurt
yourself in the name of futility, yet you chose to do so regardless.”

The unsolicited reminder of yesterday’s ordeal inspires you not to retort.

Left hand firmly gripping the bottom of the box, his right hand flips the top open. You stare at
the ring, mouth slightly agape.

The bastard has taste, as much as you hate to admit it.

It’s gold (most certainly the real thing, rather than gilded), with a diamond perked at the top
(most certainly extracted by a child in some decrepit mine in the NGL, rather than lab
grown). Oddly enough, the jewel isn’t as big as it could possibly be. It’s hardly a
disappointment - most senses of materialism were vanquished once you were drowned in
priceless empty offerings - but you know a man like him would feel obligated to go all out,
even if the result was somewhat ridiculous. Instead of there being one thick piece of metal to
create the band, there are two thinner ones, with some sort of detailed engraving between
them.

“It’s handmade.” An extra claim to impress you, or maybe so you’ll think its authenticity
could potentially seep into its giver, a little genuineness by association. Probably the latter.

You take a closer look at the detail - and it is impressive, admittedly. Leading up the sides to
the diamond, there’s a set of crisscrossing thin bars between the outside two, barely the width
of sewing needles. They’re intricate and asymmetric and you can’t imagine how long it took
to make, considering Chrollo’s previous claim.

The small gold bars are like a sort of ladder; like a weaving; like a netting.

Like a web.

The realisation of it is enough to make you audibly groan, eyes rolling so hard that you
almost catch a glimpse of your brain.

“Fuck it. You couldn’t pay me to wear that.”

His eyes widen slightly, giving a smile that’s all lip. “I was operating under the assumption
that you were one for tradition. Do you truly not want an engagement ring?”

You aren’t going to let him put words in your mouth.

“Tradition would’ve required you to get down on one knee before presenting me with this.”

He chuckles, and it looks beautiful, unfortunately. “I know. You are one for tradition, darling.
I can’t say I personally share the sentiment.”

He takes your limp left hand, sliding the ring on. It fits perfectly. You both make eye contact
as he cups the hand between both of his.
“I suppose this makes me your fiancé now. Congratulations, darling.”

The train departs, wheels squealing against the tracks. It reminds you of discarded tickets.
Tapped rail passes. Nights out. Sprinting to stops. A simpler time. Your worst mistake.

The sound of the car door slamming alerts snaps you out of your reminiscing. Chrollo
quickly hops out of the car, opening your door and offering his hand to you. You opt to not
take it, ignoring the way he raises an eyebrow at you, and hop out, flats hitting the car park
bitumen in a less than graceful manner, trying to ensure your slip dress doesn’t ride up as you
slide out of your seat.

Despite your nonverbal defiance, a hand is placed on your shoulder, gently gripping, and
you’re led to the expected shop. It’s cutesy enough, with a little bell on the door ringing a
cosy note as you’re greeted by racks upon racks of white, the sight almost overwhelming
when paired with the ivory walls. The sight is almost sterile, the apparent lack of human
presence uncanny.

It turns out you’re the unobservant type, considering how Chrollo jerks you to the left, face to
face with the reception desk. Clicking the computer mouse and her pen sits a middle-aged
woman who seems deep in thought, almost looking like a guard of sorts to the door not too
far behind her.

You look at her, but she doesn’t seem to notice you. You shift your eyes to Chrollo, who’s
already looking at you. The grey irises hold a hint of delight in them, as well as annoyance.
Does this bitch refuse to acknowledge you exist? Such is the state of the outside world today.
A true tragedy, I would never treat you this way.

You stare at him expectantly. His facial expression morphs to something that probably
matches yours. Go on, beg for some attention. Plead for her assistance.

You’re not 100% sure if it’s a test of sorts, and lived experience - your most prominent
teacher in your predicament - urges you to not fall for the possible bait. Failure of this test has
proven to be far more punishing to the unknowing innocent in each scenario. Physically, that
is.

Your lips remain tightly sealed, as do his. Verbally asking for his permission to talk to her
would be oh-so-helpful, but is unfortunately out of the question morally considering she’s
barely two metres in front of you. Although, you suppose, the comfort of being guaranteed
failure by such a gesture would alleviate the stress of the current situation. You failed, and
she’s staining the wall, but at least the test is over.

Chrollo’s barely blinking. Finally breaking eye contact, you take a silent step forward.

How do people usually speak to strangers again? What’s the best way to go about this?
Should you be energetic and chirpy, playing the part of a giddy bride-to-be? Or will that
simply anger him, envious of the exuberance you’re affording to someone who’s supposed to
be insignificant? Should you be reserved, careful not to hurt his ego? Or will that anger him
too - are you even trying to pretend that things are normal? This isn’t going to end well, is it?
Please, God, let her live.

Your chapped lips peel apart, half-dried saliva encrusting the border between wet and dry.

“Um…” You start, almost wincing as she sits up to attention and a pleasant smile suddenly
appears on her face, “Ex-”

“Hello,” Chrollo introduces assertively, her eyes flicking over to him and returning the
greeting, “I’m here with [Name] Thompson for 11:30.”

She repeats your alias to herself, eyes scanning the computer in front of her, “Ah, yep! Right
this way,” she says, getting up and beginning to walk to a different section of the shop.

You fucked that one up, didn’t you?

You wait for Chrollo to take the first step - which he does, but not before sliding the hand on
your shoulder down to your waist. You try your best to suppress the shiver that tries to make
its way up your spine, a tingling forming where his fingertips lie. You take the opportunity to
wet your lips with your tongue as you make your way over, making the dead chunks of skin
hanging off them a little less visible.

“Evie!” The woman calls, getting a muffled Yeah?! in response. So there’s yet another living
person in this shop? Your previous assumption that this place is devoid of life is proven
wrong yet again.

You both follow her around the corner, into a more isolated fitting room of sorts. Inside
stands a much younger woman than the first, covering her mouth as she chews something.

“We’ve got Thompson here,” your guide gestures to you, getting a muffled mhm! before
turning to walk away. “I’ve got to re-do the hem on Cinder’s skirt. Take good care of her!”
She calls as she rounds the corner.

The young woman swallows as she bounces up to you.

“Hi!” The enthusiasm is forced, to a degree much smaller than expected, but its underlying
imperfection leaves you feeling oddly comforted, “I’m Evie. What was your name again?”

You play your obligatory role in preventing the slaughter of everyone in the vicinity,
permitting yourself to speak. “[Name],” you announce, shaking the hand she’s stuck out. It’s
soft, with a slight clammy heat. It’s something utterly human.

She turns to Chrollo, “And you are…” She leaves him to finish the sentence, which he does
in a voice far less croaky than yours.

“Great to meet you guys!” if she actually knew who you both were, even ultra-customer-
service-mode might not stop her from omitting the pleasantry. “Hope you’re both excited!”

“Oh,” Chrollo turns to you with a beaming smile, teeth exposed, “we most certainly are. It’s
been quite the wait!”
Habit allows you to plaster a passive smile on your face, lips ever-so-slightly upturned so
your revulsion doesn’t make itself too apparent. It’s something you’ve been doing for a
while, mastered at a young age due to the parental scoldings you got for looking bored during
Saturday sermons and Sunday homilies. It bled its way into your everyday life, at school, at
friends’ houses, or anywhere in public, really - anywhere where there was a chance you could
be witnessed, interpreted, analysed by someone other than your creator. You can’t say it was
purely a psychological shield, considering you’ve been told you look nice, pleasant,
agreeable - certainly more palatable descriptors than sufferer of resting bitch-face.
Lamentably, however, it’s been mistaken for approachableness. You wish you hadn’t felt
compelled to mould yourself to the assumption, telling yourself that it’s only a two-minute
conversation. Just bear with it.

There is a very notable individual in your current vicinity who, regrettably, got confused
about it.

Evie gives a polite laugh at his lovestruck performance, which, admittedly, is incredibly
convincing.

“And when’s the big day?” She’s asking you.

“Oh, uhhhh…” You give a glance to Chrollo, “this Sunday, I think?”

He nods.

She looks a little confused, the edges of her mouth turning downward and brows
momentarily twitching into a frown as she tries to keep up her attitude.

“That’s…quite soon!” She tries to put forward a positive lilt. Truly admirable, that’s better
than you could ever do.

“Indeed it is,” he smooths things over without skipping a beat, “but we trust that we can find
something perfect here.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will!” No opportunity to sell to you is missed, salesperson mode truly in
action.

“Don’t worry about it, Evie,” you hear the woman’s voice call from around the corner,
prompting Evie to turn around, “we’ve got it all covered.”

You’re sure the announcement of the date isn’t a surprise for her, with a clear authority in the
store. You’ve heard Chrollo making plenty of phone calls over the days, voice alluring and
persuasive as ever. You have no doubt he’s had few issues getting these businesses to work
fast, whether through charms, money, threats, or otherwise.

Evie turns back to you. “Anyways, what were you looking for?”

Another question directed at you. There’s so many styles, so many patterns, so many cuts,
and you never expected to have to make your decision so hastily. What was expected to be a
dream of many months is now a snap decision made with a trembling voice and cold sweat
on your brow.

Oh no. She’s waiting. She’s staring at you. You’ve got to come up with something, before
Chrollo takes it upon himself to talk about what he wants, what he’d like to see, what he
thinks would be best, it’s all about him, him, him-

“Conservative-” you blurt out with a bit too much force, “I mean… I wouldn’t want to show
off too much, you know?”

“Right, right…” she muses, seemingly unfazed by your practically nonexistent social skills,
“So you’ll definitely want it down to the floor.”

You nod. “Oh,” you add another requirement, remembering the lingerie Chrollo’s presented
to your disgusted face on many occasions, “and nothing sheer either.”

She gives a hum of acknowledgement at that. “So we’ll leave as much to the imagination as
possible!”

Well, temporarily, that is.

You’re almost overjoyed as she beckons you out of the room without asking Chrollo what
he’d like to see. That’s right, it’s up to the bride what she’ll wear. You’re the bride, so you’ll
decide what you wear.

Oh, fuck. You’re the bride. You’re going to get married, you’re going to get married to him,
and you don’t even like him in the slightest-

“Grooms don’t usually come to our fittings!”

You’re torn out of your steadily increasing frenzy by Evie’s voice, talking to Chrollo as she
takes you both out of the fitting room and back to the main area of the shop. Gesturing for
him to sit down on the Ottoman bench in the middle of the room, he obliges, his eyes never
leaving you. The words are almost sung, presumably brought upon by ideas that you’re a
sweet, involved couple. That you communicate with each other openly. That you’re both
ecstatic to finally be betrothed.

“I simply couldn’t help myself,” you’re getting to see his charm on others in action, “I
needed to see a little of what’s to come.”

You’re sure he does.

Evie giggles a little too hard at that, his charisma clearly working. She stops herself suddenly,
sparing a glance of both caution and apology at you. You’re hardly offended, biting back the
selfish urge to wingman her into taking your place.

“Anyways,” she quickly moves on, “let’s get started!”

She guides you to a rack, unhooking one of the dresses and comparing it with your height.
“Well… that one’s a bit long, but it should be okay…” she frowns, “It’s just a bit hard to get a
rough idea without your sizings, so I’ll have to go grab the tape.”

Evie turns on her heel, presumably to go do just that, bounding up to the reception desk as
she sticks her hand out to the other worker.

“Tape, please. Or,” she gestures forward, most likely to the door behind the other woman, “is
it in the back?”

She doesn’t even look up from the computer, muscle memory guiding the older woman’s
hands as she grabs the tape off the desk and places it in Evie’s palm.

“Thank you. Do we have a size, Mara?” She turns to you before the other woman can
respond, “Do you know what size you are?”

The woman you now know as Mara answers before your lips can have a chance to part again.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got all the measurements.”

You don’t want to know how Chrollo got those.

She takes her eyes off the computer this time, searching through a stack of papers and pulling
a sheet out, handing it to her younger colleague. Evie gives a quick glance over it before
making her way back to you, beginning to usher you back into the change room as Chrollo
stays where he is, ready to appraise whatever comes out of it.

“So, for requirements,” she starts, pulling back the curtain and shepherding you inside, “I’ve
got conservative and nothing sheer,” you nod, “Anything else you’d like? Any specific
colours, trails, lace, necklines, veils…?”

More choices.

Would you like your dress to be black, like he’d want, or white, like he’d also want? Do you
want a veil, so he can pull back the thin fabric, exposing yet another stolen possession,
unwrapping the gift that makes its way to him? Should there be lace, tantalising enough for
him to blame you for his temptation? Should it be short sleeve, exposing your biceps for him
to grope? Should it be backless, for him to trace patterns into the exposed skin? Should it be
the finest, most expensive fabric on offer, with a price tag you know your fiancé’s wealth can
easily cover? Or should it be the cheapest, thinnest material on the market, easily giving way
beneath his fingers as he rips it off you?

“Just a regular white would be fine. I don’t mind if there’s no veil.”

“Okay then,” she taps her chin, “I’ve got a few ideas. Sit tight!”

She pulls the curtain shut, leaving you alone in the sizable room. For the most part, it’s fairly
bland, save for a pile of textile supplies on a far desk (which, funnily enough, doesn’t even
have a chair). The floor-to ceiling mirrors force you to get a glimpse of yourself, to your
disappointment.
After a few minutes of twiddling your thumbs, the curtain pulls back so suddenly and with so
much force that you almost scream. Luckily, your body settles on a far less histrionic
inaudible gasp and jolt.

“Alright, I’ve got dress number one here!”

She toddles over to you, drawing the curtain shut behind herself. You’re still.

Evie taps the spaghetti strap of your dress. “Well? Come on!”

Her instruction is lost on you for a moment, wondering what the hell this girl wants from you,
oh God have you spent so much time away from other people that there’s a new social norm
or unspoken message that you aren’t aware of and now you’re going to look like a blundering
idiot and if you fuck this up any more these people are going to realise that something’s not
right and the moment they express that in any way Chrollo will get his book and he’ll flip to a
page that-

Oh, right, the dress.

Wait, shit.

She wants you to…take your clothes off? In front of her?

You’re dumbfounded for a second, heart rate tripling before you remember that that’s literally
what you’re supposed (and expected) to do. Still, the thought of exposing yourself to anyone
is hardly comforting.

Trying to not sweat too much, you carefully unhook the straps from your shoulders, letting it
fall down in a heap around your ankles. Today, your strapless bra and seamless underwear
won’t follow.

Evie spends barely a second processing what she’s presented with, consumed with her task at
hand: getting you back into a clothed state once more. You keep your gaze downturned,
trying not to think too hard about what she’s strapping onto your skin. At least it’s soft.

“And…Ta-da!”

After she’s done doing the last of the adjustments, you take a millisecond glance into the
mirror, barely. Your most vigilant observation is that there’s a lot of white. Not that you’re
particularly surprised or anything. You muster a meek nod, more of acknowledgement than of
approval.

“That’s all? It’s gorgeous, really!”

You squeak out a thank you, voice cracking by the first syllable.

A steady hand is offered to help you get out of the dressing room, which you take with
gratitude. The curtain is pulled back, exposing you to the man outside as you’re guided out in
front of him.
Chrollo’s eyes take a slow, calculated drag up your body, lingering on your exposed biceps a
little, a hint of a smirk pulling at his eyes more than his lips. The game of dress-up and his
subsequent reaction irritates you immensely, rubbing at your skin and tickling the hairs of
your neck and picking at the dry skin of your lips in the most irksome manner.

“Well?” You borderline hiss at him. Come on, say something. Use your words and don’t trip
up on them, asshole.

He softens again, taking a breath.

“It’s lovely,” he says simply.

Lovely. Pleasant, agreeable, nice. Not exactly plain, but thankfully not a complete assault on
the eyes. A sight that anyone could process, with structured shapes and a clear outline. A
wedding dress should be lovely. A woman’s demeanour should be lovely.

“Just lovely, huh?” Evie pokes back, “I think it’s brilliant.”

“Yes,” he gives a small chuckle, “I could hear your ravings from in there. Dare I say I almost
got spiteful for not being the first to see this.”

Almost? Knowing you, not likely.

You apply damage control wherever you can, however snarky it may be.

“Well, you shouldn’t be,” you almost flinch as Chrollo flicks his eyes, then his head over to
you, “don’t worry about the comments,” you almost add a spiteful darling to the end of that
order, “it’s only a few minutes delay before you get to see it.”

Do you get it now, little boy? Just sit and wait patiently, then you’ll be in for a big treat!

Despite the bold provocation on your behalf, your captor doesn’t back down.

“What a relief. For a moment there, I thought she was going to ask you to marry her instead.”
There’s a playful lilt in his voice.

How he’s able to pull off a line like that, you have no idea. The banter draws the
unsuspecting third party in even closer, none the wiser as to the circumstances of your fitting.
If she knew how hard your heart pounds with each word that leaves her lips, she wouldn’t be
playing along with any of this.

“Yeah,” Mara calls from the front, gathering some papers and opening the door to the back,
“she’s got a bad habit of only chatting to engaged couples. Some get jealous.”

She gives a shrug. The door slams behind her.

You can take a joke fine. You can’t, however, take memories about the fragility of Chrollo’s
jealousy, and its gory aftermath. Giggling nervously is the best you can offer in response.
You hear the sound of another train coming through the station. Despite the previous
disembarkment rate you saw, there doesn’t seem to be much activity around here. For an area
that seemingly is a hub for public transport, it seems oddly dead.

“Oh, don’t worry!” Evie evidently registers the horror that briefly overcomes your visage (-
and damn, you thought you were getting better at controlling your expressions), “Everyone
who comes in here is taken.”

Excuse me, miss, is this seat taken?

Your breath hitches. The train leaves.

“Anyways,” she continues on without a care, “go get a closer look!”

She grabs your arm once again to begin to lead you to a long mirror between the racks. You
take a step forward, stumbling a little on the long fabric, but Evie helps to steady you.
Luckily, with each step, the fabric gets easier to dodge.

“Damn, this thing is long…” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

“The heels will fix that,” Chrollo butts himself into your external ponderings, “it’s nothing to
worry about.”

You don’t answer as you settle in front of the pristine surface, busying yourself with taking in
the woman in front of you.

The dress is short-sleeved, modest and relatively simple enough that maybe he’ll ogle you
ever-so-slightly less as you walk down the aisle. Small threads of glittering white create
barely visible dainty patterns across your chest. The high-neck style cuts off Chrollo’s access
to everything, to your comfort.

It’s slightly too big around the waist and small around the hips and thighs, making the fabric
bunch up around your waist. What was originally a floor-length dress is now ending on your
mid-calf, and any more walking is bound to make it ride even higher. Not ideal.

“It’s nice…” You trail off a little, before quickly gathering the courage to continue, “But I’m
not sure if it’s the right one for me.”

“Well, you’ve got to give it a chance! What do you think?” Evie’s attention turns to Chrollo.

“I’m inclined to agree, unfortunately.” His tone is full of mock disappointment, gaze drifting
from the dress to your face, “It is beautiful, but certainly could be more so. There’s a missing
element, I feel. It’s deceptively simple, and it would take a truly observant eye to notice the
finer details.”

You try your best not to scowl at that one. Can Evie tell what he’s doing?

“I fear that perhaps our photographer may not be able to accurately capture it.”

You silently scoff. Nice cover up.

You take it upon yourself to speak up once more. “The fit is definitely a big drawback for
me.”

Whilst social norms are no longer second nature, the reminders of how to be normal aren’t
bouncing around in your head anymore, at least. Be polite. Voice your issues with assertion,
but not aggression. Don’t forget the smile.

“Well, nothing that a little time and thread couldn’t fix!”

Not that time is particularly in abundance right now.

You’re finding your rhythm again. With each word that passes your lips, you learn how to
talk again. The art of interaction is being re-learned faster than anticipated.

You can now take it upon yourself to gather more information in order to ensure the event
runs as pleasantly as possible.

“Will the fabric bunch up, though, if it’s like this?”

“Oh, we’ll tailor it for you!”

“So it isn’t by design?”

“Well…yeah.”

“So it’ll bunch up regardless?” The thought of everyone staring at your ass isn’t a comforting
one.

“Maybe,” she sighs a little, contemplating, “probably yes, but trade secret…” she leans in
close, “you could be wearing a rubber duck on your head, and most people wouldn’t even
notice.”

I couldn’t help but notice your novel.

“But I’ll get something new for you. Sit tight!”

You can’t tell whether she’s referring to you or Chrollo, but he sits back down anyway. Able
to walk freely, you make your own way over back to the dressing room. The curtain is
yanked shut behind you, leaving you to stew in your own thoughts.

Did Evie think that was weird? Can she sense the tension between you and your apparent
fiancé? How many other couples has she seen like this? Is there any possibility that she-

The curtain shifts slightly for a second, and your heart almost bursts in your chest.

Shitshitshitshitshitshit-

It seems to just be the fan, though, as it soon sways back to its original position. Forced entry
is no longer a threat. Currently, that is.
…It wasn’t just the fan, was it?

You pick at the ring with your left thumb, twisting it around and around and around, hooking
you nail under the diamond, rubbing the web pattern with its pad. A few more minutes of
building suspense leads you to the ever-terrifying climax: Evie hobbling in with a new dress,
still white.

You turn around without needing an instruction, presenting her with the zipper on your back
which she drags down at a moderate pace. It’s the same general process as before, but with a
twinge less fear. He wouldn’t walk in while you’re changing. He wouldn’t. Not with both of
you here. It wouldn’t make any sense for him to do that.

If only you had Chrollo’s skills of persuasion.

This round gives a new addition to your dress-putting-on process: a veil. The comb’s teeth
scrape your scalp as it’s slid into place, made certain of its security in your hair with a little
jiggle. You make extra special care to concentrate on whatever specks and patterns you can
find on the carpeted floor.

You pretend to look at the mirror for longer than you actually do. It’s cold. You shiver, barely.

“Alright then?” Evie asks with her head cocked.

“Yeah…”

“Don’t be shy!”

The moment the final word leaves her lips, part of the heavy weight on your shoulders is
lifted. So you’re shy now. That’s just an inherent trait rather than a state inflicted on you by
someone else. You’re not kidnapped, you’re shy. You’re not socially inept from months spent
mainly in the company of one other person, you’re shy. You’re not cautious about opening
your mouth in front of other people because you’re terrified of his reaction if you even
slightly mess things up, you’re simply shy.

You give a small smile in response, desperate to play along with whatever innocent
assumptions she makes about your temperament and predicament. Although, in a perhaps
not-so-shy move, you take the lead in getting yourself out of the change room.

Chrollo seemingly hasn’t moved an inch from where you last saw him. He’s leant over on the
Ottoman with his forearms resting on his lower thighs, although that’s quickly corrected to an
upright stance.

He jumps to his feet with almost as much enthusiasm as you had when ripping open the
curtain. The only notable difference is intent. Whilst your zeal could be attributed to your
eagerness to get this over with, the look on his face tells you he’s greedy to drag this out for
as long as possible.

You walk past him with what’s intended to be little hesitation. Intention, unfortunately,
doesn’t mean shit when you stumble a little to narrowly avoid a shoulder check. It’s easy to
steady yourself, but fingers quickly wrap their way around your bicep regardless. The touch
is so gentle yet grounded, the shock almost feeling like a burn. You can hear another train
pull into the station.

“Don-“

What’s supposed to be the start of don’t fucking touch me gets sooner cut off by your glottis
than your tongue, the words a whisper forever lodged in your throat. The fingers are off you
before you can get the urge to remove them with your own, leaving a slight tingling in their
wake.

“Steady now.”

You don’t even bother starting.

You find yourself in front of the mirror again, staring at more white fabric. This dress is ever-
so-slightly more risqué than the last, but is still conservative enough. Luckily there’s no
tailoring needed below the waist, but it’s still compromising elsewhere. Whilst the sleeves are
slightly longer, stopping just above your elbows, the scooped neckline fills you with dread.

Focus on the positives. The veil is long and flowy and pretty and is a certain compliment to
your face. An exposed forearm is better than an exposed forearm and bicep. Exposed
collarbones are better than exposed areolas. Any scrap of cloth covering your body is better
than nudity. You give a huff, letting your arms hang limply.

“Are you comfortable in it?”

“It’s fine enough.”

“Actually,” she says, fiddling with the neckline, warm fingertips brushing against your
clavicle, “we should try a different neckline. These ones have a habit of being…potentially
problematic.”

You can hear the hiss of the doors closing.

“In what sense?”

Sense and Sensibility? I must admit that it’s still on my to-read list. Tell me, do you
recommend it?

“Well, you know…” she gives a vague waving hand gesture, “riding down and everything.
Do you use fashion tape a lot?”

You shake your head. She gives an understanding smile.

“Most brides don’t. There’s no point in having to learn on such short notice, that’ll just add
more stress. We can work with another.”

She’s definitely not wrong about the stress, but instinct tells you that she might be attributing
it to the wrong reasons.
“Welp!” She straightens her posture, tone dripping with witty exasperation, “Definitely
wouldn’t want any slip-ups happening!”

A grating voice from a peripheral figure pipes up, “Surely that wouldn’t be a drawback.”

You scowl, resisting the urge to make a scathing comment about how Evie’s seen more of
your cleavage within one hour of meeting than he has since he first met you, the assistant in
question giving a chuckle that barely lasts a second.

“But regardless, I’m sure that compared to the previous one, this is certainly an
improvement.”

Ah, the lesser of two evils. Exposed ass or exposed cleavage? You decide.

You just shake your head lightly, turning so you can get a better glimpse of the chilly part you
can sense behind you.

“I can feel the, like, cold patch back here,” you comment vaguely gesturing to your exposed
lower-middle back.

“Yeah. This one’s only got partial back coverage, but I still reckon it covers a lot.”

I, myself, am partial to the works of Dickens and Brontë.

Shit. Not now.

“Not enough, I’m afraid,” the tears are gulped back, chest deflating, “the lower parts of this
thing are seriously pushing it.” You keep your pseudo-smile maintained the whole time, not
wanting to come off too brash.

Evie brings her thumb and index finger to her chin, placing it in the nook between them.
“Hmmm…” the gesture of thought is exaggerated with the way she swishes her lips from
side to side in an “o”, but not mockingly so, “I think there’s…a couple with the same sleeves
but more back coverage… for most of what we’ve got, what you don’t show in back or
shoulders is made up with what you show in arms.”

“Well, I’d definitely be more okay with showing my shoulders than my back,” the words
come out lightly, opaque strands of spit stretching from your lips as you regain your
composure, “but neither would be preferable.”

Her hand is dropped, a look of relief on her face.

“Oh! Well that sorts things out nicely then. So this one’s definitely a no then?” She turns
from side to side, making sure to get a nod of approval from both yourself and Chrollo,
“Okay then, back in, back in!” She waves your exasperated self back to the dressing room,
yanking the curtain shut once more.

The sound of hangers dragging across racks is accompanied by vague muttering of what was
most likely originally an internal monologue. Not dissimilar to how, in a different era, your
lip-syncing whilst cooking would gradually devolve to a full-on karaoke session, off-key
enough to make a deaf man’s ears bleed. Or how you’d narrate your entire morning routine to
an intangible and invisible audience, full to the brim with commentary on the smallest of
details.

It’s a shame you can’t broadcast your thoughts and feelings so carelessly now. You never
know who might be listening, waiting to twist every word into a means of manipulation, one
that allows them to hole you up for months and grope your flesh and force you to smile when
you want to scream and slide a fucking annoying ring onto your finger that rubs against the
two adjacent ones so irritatingly and you want to just rip it off and chuck it-

Evie peeks her head through the curtain, some white fabric peeking through as well,
presumably another dress in her arms. For now, the ring stays where it is.

“I know you said that you didn’t want anything sheer,” you can tell she’s preparing herself to
test that boundary, “but would it be ok if it was just the sleeves?”

Evie’s someone you’re far more willing to allow such a transgression.

“I…guess? I don’t know.”

It’s definitely a yes for her, as she begins to approach you once more. The process begins
once again, plucking the veil from your hair and unzipping the previous dress to replace it
with the next as she fiddles with lace and smooths out crumpled areas, before the familiar
slight-itch-slight-ache from the veil’s comb makes itself temporarily welcome on your scalp.

“Well, turn around and take a look!”

The instruction’s clear this time. You want to skip it, but avoidance of confrontation leads
you to turn, dragging your eyes upward as you take in the woman presented in front of you.

You stare at her.

She stares back.

The dress is made of a delicate white lace, zipping up beautifully onto your form. It’s
strapless with a sweetheart neckline, showing off the shoulders and collarbones you know he
loves to nip at. You can already imagine it: him placing his hands on your exposed shoulders,
dragging his thumbs along your clavicles, whispering in seductive tones about how good you
look. How he could just eat you up right now.

Evie comes into the background, your eyes flicking to focus on her moving lips. “You look
amazing! Don’t you reckon?”

You don’t respond, lost in analysing the obscene amount of detail put in the dress.

You can see an embroidery on the veil that matches the lace, or at least it seems to with what
little you can see from this stance. Perfect. Perfect for him.

Resigning yourself to your fate once more, you pull back the curtain. Whatever feedback he
gives won’t change your opinion on this wedding.
You drift your sullen gaze up to his face.

Chrollo’s said every dress looks good on you. But with his eyes wide and lips slightly parted,
you have reason to believe that this one has his largest seal of approval.

“Darling,” he says, voice slightly breathy, “you look truly enchanting.”

The underlying authenticity of his statement is uncanny. You’ve hardly seen a sincere side of
him since you were taken.

He stands up, taking slow, steady strides towards you. In your periphery, you can see Evie
smiling, mouthing a silent “aww” as his hand caresses your cheek. Her current thoughts are
probably different to yours.

Please don’t. Just stay the fuck back.

Calloused hands rest on your shoulders, and you can almost taste the warmth in your cheeks,
what you’re guessing is rage and fear brewing into an unholy concoction. You take a
purposeful step backwards, making him raise an eyebrow. It’s not in surprise, though, no. It’s
a warning. You really want to be difficult with a witness within evisceration vicinity?

Respect for your fellow man, for those who are outside of your circle of associates, stops you
from continuing your backwards journey, chin and gaze lowering. Eye contact is difficult to
maintain, reappearing after a deep breath.

Chrollo’s right hand drags itself down, barely tracing the curve of your breast and waist
before clutching your left hand, thumb tracing circles over your veins. He brings it up to his
lips, not kissing your hand, but rather the diamond on the ring he bought you. His eyes refuse
to leave yours, shame clearly a foreign concept to him.

There’s a moment, tense and brittle and frozen in time, where you’re terrified he’s going to
pounce. He’s going to tackle you to the ground and rip the dress off, before momentarily
being snapped out of his animalistic trance by Evie’s sharp gasp. Yes, that’s right, there’s a
witness here. I can’t have anyone witness me indulging in what’s solely mine, for my eyes
only. Witnesses must be dealt with in any criminal undertaking, as is habitual. Evie’s going to
have a pen jammed into her jugular before she can even exhale, or maybe her heart will
simply stop with fright before he can make a move, dead before she hits the floor.

Instinct once again will take over Chrollo before there’s any confirmation of her death, his
focus settling on - in his eyes - an infinitely more appealing woman. Tenderness will be a
long forgotten concept as he shoves himself inside, muffling your screech of pain and
powerlessness and grief and loss and tearing with a cupped left hand. The only pause will be
Mara’s discovery of your situation, a split second of shock before she meets the same fate as
Evie. Chrollo’s breath will suddenly hitch, hissing a groan through gritted teeth before he
promptly gets up, fixing himself back into his pants as he regards your unmoving form on the
floor. He’ll scoop your limp body up off the tattered dress and carry you back to the car, the
stained fabric left behind. Finally, a splash of colour in an otherwise bland, monochrome
setting.
He doesn’t pounce. No prayers needed.

Instead, Chrollo chooses to turn to Evie.

“She’s quite the sight, isn’t she?”

Evie excitedly nods in agreement, confirming what she told you. “Absolutely.”

There’s a moment, weighty and chest-crushing, where you think that this is the only
confirmation she needs. Spousal consent, particularly the masculine kind, is powerful and all-
encompassing enough to excuse your own. Patriarchal values aren’t dissimilar to Chrollo’s;
ownership over a woman entitles him to make any and all decisions for her.

Thank you for making all the tough decisions for me, Mr Leader Thief of the Phantom
Troupe. It’s such a relief that my dim-witted brain doesn’t have to be exerted!

She doesn’t do that.

Instead, Evie turns to you. “You like it too?”

Generosity presents itself to you, a welcome consideration that’s far more legitimate than
anything your fiancé could give you. It’s warm and selfless and a solace that innocence is
best at providing. Slight shock turns to something smooth and pleasant, settling in your belly
nicely as your agreeable smile finds its way back onto your face, but this time with the eyes
to match.

“Yeah,” you say, not actually caring for the dress itself, “let’s go with this one.”

There. It’s over.

Seemingly pleased with the consensus, Evie grabs the measuring tape and a few safety pins
out of her pocket. She makes her way over to you, giving you a few instructions to lift up
your arms and relax and stand up straight and stand on your tiptoes as she measures you and
pins back excess fabric and lace. You’re left in a more well-fitting dress that looks slightly
weird, with small flaps of fabric left to hang around your waist, pinned out of the way. She
makes her way out of the room, singing something about checking and confirming and
recording measurements. She makes her way past the reception desk to the back room,
leaving you alone once more.

Leaving you alone with him.

As soon as she’s out, Chrollo’s got one hand on your back, holding you close, and another on
your waist, fiddling with the pins and excess fabric.

“Really,” he says, “I meant what I said. You look stunning.”

You grab at his wrists, trying to pull away. “I don’t care, Lucilfer,” he won’t let up, “just let
me go!”
He’s observing you again, like he’s caught a mythical beast in a cage. His eyes are looking
downwards, looking at you, but his head is as upright as ever.

“You’re nervous again, darling.”

That’s not what you would call it.

“Know that it was never my intention to have you feeling this way.”

That's definitely a lie.

“I want you to enjoy everything about your special day, including the lead up to it. And
especially what comes after it.”

Tears begin to blur the bottom of your vision. Not now, dammit. To your horror, something
else begins to blur the corners of your mind.

You begin to rebut, “Just shut-“

He quietly shushes you, smile more playful and condescending than truly understanding.
Chrollo places a kiss to your hair, inhaling the scent, before leaning down.

“You went to the trouble of trying to prep yourself for me yesterday. I swear to you, darling,”
he’s practically purring in your ear, warmth beginning to spark inside of you, “I’ll guide you
through it. I’ll prepare you for everything, so you don’t have to. If you let me, it’ll feel so
good. I promise.”

No. You don’t want to give into this temptation.

The hand on your back slides lower, cupping the soft lace of the dress. When he leans in, you
try to instinctively turn away so he can’t have access to your lips. But there’s a different
target this time.

You gasp as you feel his lips on your neck. They’re soft and well-kept, every area they touch
exploding with warmth. Your hands subconsciously reach up to fist at his jacket, desperately
trying to give yourself some grounding in this compromising state. Focus.

It’s an intimate gentleness you’ve not seen from him before. This doesn’t compare to the
previous frenetic attacks of his lips from the the top of your head to your collarbones. Despite
the protests in the back of your mind, you want to see what else you can get out of this. His
jacket is silky against your fingers, and his lips are plush against your sensitive, bare flesh.

He’s your kidnapper. Your life is miserable, thanks to him. You don’t even want to be here.

But it feels so nice. You want more. You can’t allow yourself any more. You want more. You
can’t have more.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Fuck.
You inhale the scent of his cologne, rich and alluring. Your body melts into his hold as you
exhale. He adjusts his grip, both hands gliding down to cup your ass, kneading the flesh as
your mind is consumed with sensations.

His lips hold a steady rhythm, with equal amounts of time between each press to your
exposed skin.

You palm at his face, trying to push it back with weak arms. The cloth around his forehead
slightly slides out of place, exposing the bottom of his tattoo. It’s such an intimate sight. He’s
so close. Fuck.

With your attempts to push him back proving useless, you resolve to keep them limply at
your sides. You try to focus your concentration on keeping them still, but as his lips flutter
their way up your neck, they can’t help but twitch at the contact. You’re faintly aware of the
heat that’s beginning to press up against your hip.

All thoughts melt away as he captures your lips with his own. As far as you’re concerned,
you’re the only two people on the planet. His lips are gentle and smooth against yours,
consuming you with the scent of clove and the lingering taste of this morning’s mouthwash.
You allow yourself, bit by bit, to be worked into his flow, needy and pent up.

To your dismay - which you only slightly chastise yourself for - he pulls his lips away from
yours. Chrollo grabs you by the hips, pushing his hardness into you.

“Do you feel that? Do you feel what you do to me?”

Disgust pools in your chest. Heat pools in your core.

“St…ah...”

He’s utterly desperate, hungrily nipping at the junction between your neck and shoulders.

“[Name].” It’s spoken with the utmost reverence, voice breathy.

It’s intoxicating, his pull more tempting than ever. Maybe, just this once…

He squeezes, and it’s like a jolt to your psyche.

What are you doing?

Your nervous system changes its route. Frantic arousal turns to anger, your hand winding up
before you can stop to think of the consequences.

You slap him, as hard as you can. Your adrenaline-fuelled hit isn’t very accurate, but it’s got
enough force to leave your right hand throbbing. A glimpse of your work reveals the skin on
his left cheek has gone a faint red, the light damage something you should pride yourself on.

You manage to pull yourself out of his arms (actually, no. He lets you go), and you
immediately put a few paces of distance between the two of you. A look around the corner
doesn’t help your panic, not seeing anybody in sight.
“Could somebody please help me get out of this?” You call out, trying to not let your voice
waver but failing miserably, “Evie? Could you please help me get out of this?”

No response.

“Hello? Evie??” You’re seriously freaking ou-

There she is.

“Ahhhh!” She gives a meek little wave of her hand as she power-walks over to you, “Sorry,
sorry!”

Chrollo lingers for a moment - forehead cloth now fixed - making your heart skip a beat as
you think he’ll follow you to the dressing room, forcing you to bite your tongue as you strip
in front of him.

He doesn’t. Instead, he calmly strides back to his seat and plops himself down.

You and Evie both start making your way back to the dressing room, tears (formerly of
desperation, now of relief,) no longer threatening to fall.

“Alright,” she announces to you, “let’s get this thing off.”

Getting off so soon? A pity.

The feeling of her unzipping the dress cues you to let out a deep exhale, shrugging the fabric
off. The resultant feeling of relief is short-lived, replaced by an exposed, burning feeling. You
practically tear off the veil, feeling a few hairs getting ripped out by the roots. Your slip dress
is frantically tugged back on, the loose satin finally allowing you to breathe after all this time.
Deep breaths are sucked in as you wipe your clammy forehead with your inner forearm,
following Evie back out as she bounds at least twenty steps ahead of you, quickly
disappearing.

Chrollo’s out there, of course, eyes immediately landing on you.

He opens his mouth, but you shove your way past him.

“I need to use the bathroom,” is all you say.

He smirks, but makes no physical attempt to stop you.

You make your way over to find Mara behind the reception desk again. Neutral-passive-smile
is back, a fresh start, a retake of your pitiful earlier self-introduction.

“Hi! Is there a bathroom here?”

She nods and points. “Just over there, love. Take a right, and you’ll see it.”

You thank her and nod, your smile dropping before you fully turn away. Each step to the
bathroom is far less stable than it probably looks, your head swimming with thoughts that
have you internally self-flagellating. The cooler air of the off-white bathroom hits your
burning cheeks in a nauseating manner, immediately freezing the thin layer of perspiration on
your body. You can’t hold back this shiver, teeth chattering slightly. Stumbling would be the
best way to describe how you make your way to the nearest stall, barely locking the door
before throwing yourself down. You manage to slam down the toilet lid before your legs give
out, breaths shaky.

A storm rages inside you. If you give in, it’ll swallow you whole, hurtling you onwards in its
rapine. It’ll whirl you around, smiting you, imprisoning you within its winds. It’s a circle of
Hell you never want to see.

Breathe in, breathe out.

You pull down your underwear.

It’s drenched.

How? How could your body betray you like this?

No, no, no. It’s not a betrayal, it’s a natural response. It’s human. You aren’t to blame for this
reaction, you’re an adult, you’re allowed to feel desire.

You’re allowed to feel desire towards him of all people? Is that really how you’re going to
justify this?

Even in your outrage, the phantom feel of his lips against your neck makes you shiver. The
ghost touches of his hands caressing your cheeks, your waist, the curve of your hips, they
linger tantalisingly. A tiny voice in the back of your mind urges you to go out and invite him
into your stall.

Gathering some toilet paper, you wipe the slick off your underwear before pulling it back up,
much to the inner protest screaming at you to take it off and do something about this. You try
to stand back up, but your trembling legs give out, bringing you back down onto the toilet lid.
You just wish you could have the pleasure without the devil of a man that’s supposed to come
with it.

You’ve just got to think chaste thoughts. You need to distract yourself.

Lust is a deadly sin. How many hinges are on this door? One, two, three. The hinges have to
be on the inside so you can’t remove them. The stall door opens inwards. You could kick it
shut if he tries to come in. How many sinks were there? There doesn’t seem to be many stalls.
Maybe one or two. I’d say three at the absolute maximum.

The heat in your cheeks and throbbing in your groin dies down a little. Fuck, now you’re
focusing on it again. You know he didn’t slip anything into your breakfast, yet it almost feels
like an aphrodisiac. Maybe it’s something more supernatural. Maybe it’s Nen - you wouldn’t
put it past that fucker to pull such a stunt.
You remember the concept. It’s what those Indoor Fish are. It’s what keeps the front door
locked. It’s what seared the flesh off the hotel receptionist you’d tried to flag down for help
many months ago. And it’s what left the witnesses of that incident, excluding you and its
perpetrator, with their heads on one side of the lobby and their bodies on the other.

Chrollo’s given a few explanations in the past, commonly referring to words that you hadn’t
the slightest idea the meaning of. You’d paid attention as much as you could without getting
yourself dragged in, without running the risk of turning his monologue into a conversation.

There are six types, you recall. Manipulation, Emission, something like Empowerment,
Creation, and…Transfiguration? There’s also Specialisation, you know that for sure. That’s
what Chrollo is, a Specialist. You’re pretty mad that he gets to call himself special, he doesn’t
need any more strokes to his ego.

You hope you’re a Transfigurer. You’d like to turn him into a ferret, to make him dance and
squeal for you as you throw him around and dangle him by his tail. You’d like to turn him
into a cockroach and impale him with stilettos. You’d like to turn him into a pretty fox, as
cunning and astute as his human form, and throw him to coat makers, ready to be flayed alive
and tossed aside, pink and slick and deaf and blind and whimpering.

Your lessening arousal seems to be a good sign. If it’s dying down like this, then it must not
be Nen, right? If Nen gives you the power to kill an entire room of people in the blink of an
eye, then an aphrodisiac effect would last much longer than this.

What was once solace becomes a horror.

So this reaction was within your control. Who are you going to blame for this response now?

Gathering the strength to have another attempt at standing, it proves successful. You see
yourself out of the stall (and Chrollo’s not waiting outside for you, thank God), and start
pumping liquid soap into your cupped left hand. The feeling of your new ring is foreign as
the soap froths up under the tap, annoyingly scraping against your right hand as you rub them
together. It catches on the paper towel as you dry your hands, bursting through the wet
material and ripping it apart. It doesn’t really make a difference though, at the end of the day.
The towel was going to get chucked in the bin anyway.

The journey back out to the front is an odd one. Each step feels more like a glide, and your
mind is in almost a haze. What’s happened today seems more like a distant memory than
another step towards your impending doom. The dress you bought was nice. The sales
assistants were nice. The temperature in here is nice. A woman should be nice.

Your fiancé is at the reception desk, talking to Mara. You catch the ending of a conversation,
one that involves the apparent discussion of excitement and nerves.

You sail past Evie, who’s steaming a dress with her upper incisors driven into her lower lip.
The concentration is broken the moment you come within the vicinity, her practically
whipping around with a warm smile.

“Glad you liked that one! I’m honestly so excited for you!”
 You give your flustered thanks, before beginning to turn back to face your destination. She
doesn’t seem to get the message though, stepping closer and patting your left arm.

“It was lovely to meet you. Good luck for your big day!”

You’ll need it.

Continuing to coast your way over to Chrollo, who’s shaking hands with Mara, your legs
practically move on their own. Maybe it’s Nen. Maybe not. Was moving around always this
easy? You feel like you’re floating.

Evie’s last words to you almost don’t register as she waves goodbye.

“Bye! Hope it all goes well, hope everything’s pleasant!”

It’s been very pleasant to talk to you. Thank you.

Chapter End Notes

hope you enjoyed <33

im gonna be honest, I shocked myself with that car bit bc for some reason I immediately
pictured right-side driving/cars when my country has the opposite??? Wtf is happening
to me
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