#chrolloreader
—LOOSE ENDS
summary: neither you, nor chrollo can contain your excitement as you finally show him around the Yorknew museum; meanwhile you’re blissfully unaware that the reason why he arrived fashionably late is because he was rushing to finish disposing of the four corpses in his hotel foyer.
wc: 7075
tags: fluff, art history, graphic violence, masturbation
an: let’s not mention how long it took me to post this. i mean, not gonna lie, dating chrollo would be 90% him babbling about classic lit and art he hasn’t stolen yet. sorry to any christian chrollo fans, we’re getting kinda blasphemous this chap >:) (though, how many could really exist, chrollos the most blasphemous guy around)
The painting he stands before is a bleak thing, bathed in browns and reds, standing in sharp contrast to the other pieces that sit beside it; with their pastel skylines and flush landscapes, often accompanied by a naked woman or two. No, this was different entirely, and Chrollo was immediately drawn to it along the rows of hanging artworks.
“Good eye, that’s gotta be one of my favorites,” you commented, his brows raising in pleasant surprise.
Though he’d have to work on his phrasing, words coming off far too transparent, “It is?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Your face scrunched up into a frown, and while it was adorable, it wasn’t exactly the reaction he was hoping for.
“I meant nothing by it, I was just surprised,” Chrollo gestured towards the painting, “isn’t it a bit morbid for your taste?”
It was called Dante and Virgil, a tribute to the former’s Divine Comedy. On its canvas were two men, both bare, the larger man digging his grotesque fangs into the other’s neck, forcing him to the ground as his victim cried upwards in pain. Behind them were three spectators: an old scholar, a young poet crowned with a wreath of laurels, and a flayed, winged demon laughing at all four of them from above.
You just shrugged, fiddling with your hands to distract yourself, “Who’s to say what my tastes are, Chrollo? We haven’t exactly known each other long enough for you to find out.”
“…Fair point,”
His attention turned away from the Bouguereau painting, a smile toying at the edges of his mouth, “Then tell me.”
It looked as if your brain short-circuited, “I…what?”
“Tell me everything there is to know about you.” It seemed a bit fanciful saying it out loud, but those worries were quickly set aside when your voice hitched with surprise, pulling away to cover your grin in what he hoped was only embarrassment.
A nervous laugh bubbled up from your smile, awkwardly avoiding his gaze but being unable to hide the flush of your skin.
“Y-you—“ you sighed, frustrated, yes, but by now Chrollo knew you better than to think you didn’t secretly enjoy his compliments.
“Chrollo, can’t you just ask who my favorite painter is like a normal person?”
He shrugged, “But where’s the fun in that?” Raising a brow at his direction, you called his bluff, not that he was really laboring to look apologetic.
He raised his hands in mock surrender, “Alright, I’ll stop, promise. But you do make a good point, so tell me, who is your favorite painter?”
Your voice faltered, “That… might’ve been a bad example of a question. I don’t really have one, if anything I have too many.” You winced as soon as it left your mouth, cursing yourself for the stilted phrasing and immediately trying to correct yourself for fear of sounding dumb; but far from it, your answer only made him curiouser.
“I have a handful of favorites, don’t get me wrong, but It’s so hard to choose just one to last me forever,” encouraged by his silence, you went on, “I couldn’t even pick between my favorite movements, let alone artists. Surrealism, romanticism, baroque… eighteenth-century realism, too. There’s so many different painters I love in those genres that I couldn’t choose one.”
When you finished rambling Chrollo felt no less enthralled with your explanation than when you began. There was so much you weren’t telling him, miles of unhewn thoughts straining against soft, closed lips. It killed him a bit inside — knowing that if he just gave you a push in the right direction you might not have stopped talking, might’ve indulged him with the way your mind works ever further. Lord knows he wanted to hear it.
“I’m afraid my answer might sound a bit boring in comparison.” Unfortunately, he didn’t think of himself as as open-minded as you were, at least when it came to art. Ever since he could remember picking up a half-torn copy of a museum magazine from a pile of rubble as a child, he’s always had a favorite.
You frowned, “Try me.”
“Alright then. You’ve heard of Caravaggio?”
Before he could get another word out he was silenced by an admittedly cute gasp muffled by a hand over your mouth. Regretfully, your bearings reminded him too much of how you’d looked below him last week, lips stained with wine and drunk off his tongue. A shiver went down Chrollo’s spine, and he cursed his thoughts for betraying him now of all times. Thankfully you cut him off by snatching his hand into your own, shoes squeaking against the waxed floors while you dragged him off to who knows where. Walking at the brisk pace you set wasn’t difficult for him to keep up with, but he hadn’t expected you to yank his arm so hard.
“Darling, where are..?“ You led him through the wave of tourists, grip tough to keep him from straying too far. Chrollo almost laughed as he imagined what the two of you must look like to onlookers. He assumed something quite similar to the elementary students that interrupted your moment outside, with your hands clasped together in a link to not get separated, childish in comparison to the building’s academic atmosphere; his thoughts offset by your fumbled apology after stepping on a woman’s toe.
There was something in his voice that even sounded like he was smiling, “Where are you taking me?”
Chrollo felt the questions evaporate off his tongue when you spun around to face him, a stray piece of sunlight from a nearby window dappling yellow across your skin, eyes bright, answering with a grin of your own, “It’s another surprise, Chrollo, isn’t that obvious?”
You do this constantly to him. In the unguarded moments where he least expects them, you will do or say something so inconsequential and all in one moment he’s made aware of just how strong a sway you have over him. A simple, rhetorical question, and it’s taken him how long to respond?
“You and your surprises again?” He teased, but made no move to let go of your hand.
Chrollo surrendered to your direction, following in your footsteps with a weak smile. The museum passed by in a blur - from paintings to sculptures then back again - always returning to that same shade of marbled white.
He only bothered to take in his surroundings after your footsteps skittered to a halt, mischievousness a beautiful look on your face, following your arm’s curve as you pointed at what was printed above the next hallway’s entry.
His throat tightened after meeting your line of sight, rereading the epitaph twice over to be sure he wasn’t mistaken.
Embossed on golden plating above the hall’s entryway were the words ‘Amerighi da Caravaggio.’
He blinked, jaw slack.
“So? What do you th—“
The kiss he pressed to your lips felt more like muscle spasming, a reflex he couldn’t resist, rather than a decision. With both hands he cupped your face towards him, momentarily forgetting where he was, he pinched your jaw to keep you in place as he swiped his tongue along your bottom lip. A fraction of nen slipped through his fingers by accident, and with far too much force he crashed your lips against his, your muffled squeak only exciting him further.
A part of him despaired at how the kiss didn’t last, leaving an electricity tingling down his fingertips when he pulled away. He didn’t bother with masking his expression, not now, and not around you, a million thoughts racing through his mind so fast it began to give him a headache.
How long would it take to call his spiders to York New? Were there any paintings in the museum being sought after by high price clients on the black market? Those metal detectors aren’t up to code, so should he ask Shalnark to acquire an EPM? How many guards did he see when he walked in the building - how many cameras? Would an offensive attack have more benefits than a reconnaissance mission?
And above all others, there was one question he refused to ask himself.
Does he actually care about you?
You were a distraction to him, nothing more. A way for him to stave off the stress that came with being the Troupe’s head and, perhaps, you could give more insight into the long-running questions he harbored towards his identity. But why did it feel like he was trying to convince himself more than anything?
Already you’ve given him so much to think about by merely existing with him, blissfully unaware of the blood caked beneath his fingernails. He felt like an idiot for considering your relationship as anything other than a passing fancy or social experiment but you made it so difficult sometimes.
It seemed like everything you did was in some measured attempt to enthrall him. Hell, the morning you went down on him and after he dropped you off for your shift at the coffee shop, Chrollo spent the next couple hours pacing around his apartment, launching into a full-scale debate with himself on whether or not you were an assassin sent to kill him. In the days following, he’d spent his time digging into your history. An online footprint wasn’t hard to follow if you knew where to look. Birth certificates, medical records, proof of residence, all of it checked out. You were just as ordinary as you claimed, and he found himself at a loss of what to do next.
Unlike himself and his other spiders, you had no reason to conceal your emotions, wearing your heart on your sleeve like it was going out of style. It was unfairly entertaining to see the gears turn behind your eyes until your cheeks burned red — he could do it for hours if he had the time. Underneath his nose you’d managed to inspire a fondness in him for each of the mundane fascinations that surround you, and he felt disturbingly comfortable with all of it.
Then again, why shouldn’t he spend time with you? He wasn’t exactly known to deny himself pleasure. If he wanted something, he’d take it. It was in a thief’s nature. And yet, when he found himself in your presence, all he wanted to do was give.
Nowthat scared him.
Only after he realizes you’re looking to him for a reaction does he snap out of his thoughts.
The first thing he finds it in himself to say is, “I had no idea this was in Yorknew…”
He barely registers you lacing your fingers with his, “That’s not too surprising. It’s the museum’s newest exhibit, It only opened to the public about four months ago.”
As if possessed by his own curiosity, he stepped forward into the gala, pulling you along in his soft grip. Even before the two of you approached the first display Chrollo can’t help but air his musings out-loud while subtly bringing you closer to his chest.
“Still, I can’t believe I didn’t hear about something like this,” he mused, a breath of air through his nose all there was to constitute a laugh, “perhaps I should be making more use of my hunter’s license to gather information - though I find it does occasionally take the fun out of a job.”
You giggle absentmindedly, thinking nothing of his comment as you follow him into the gallery.
As soon as the two of you stepped into the gallery his gaze locked on to the closest display, recognizing it from one of the stolen or salvaged art catalogues that used to fill his shelves back home. The Calling of St Matthew.
It was probably Caravaggio’s most famous work, or at least among his most widely respected. It was a depiction of Matthew 9:9, “Jesus saw a man named Matthew at his seat in the custom house, and said to him, "Follow me”, and Matthew rose and followed Him.“ Chrollo wanted to roll his eyes at the drab wording, but couldn’t find it in himself when he was staring at the adaptation before him. Unlike other Christian paintings, Jesus himself is depicted in shadows, only his hand pointed straight at Matthew being illuminated against the dingy room. The man of the verse is shown at the end of a table with his head in his hands, surrounded by those whose faces are bathed in light and awe at the sight of their savior.
Chrollo wouldn’t go so far as to call it one of his favorites, even if he could objectively appreciate it, but it did make him realize something crucial.
What struck him was just how large the painting was; nearly ten feet tall and matching in width. Turning an unfocused eye along the hanging rows revealed most of his other paintings to be around the same height, throwing a sizable wrench into any upcoming heists. He’d have to think of some way to transport them out of the museum without damaging the canvases, and while he trusted each of the spiders with his life, the same couldn’t be said about trusting some of them to hold anything too delicate. He still doesn’t think he’ll ever fully forgive Uvogin for accidentally dropping that Ludaran vase worth thirty-billion jenny.
“I can hear the gears turning,” you squeezed his hand and brought him softly back down to earth, nodding towards the painting, “what do you think?”
“It’s beautiful, of course,” he would’ve left it at that, yet that wouldn’t’ve felt like a proper answer to your question, “but… I’m not sure what it is, but it feels as if it’s missing something.”
“Right?I think it feels too pulled back, like with the composition? It makes you feel too much like an observer - but hey, that might’ve been what he was going for - lots of Christian paintings are made like that. I think it’s meant to convey the ‘holiness’ of it all. Like you get to see God’s perspective while he watches his kid run his errands.”
It was as if you’d forgotten he was there for a moment, fully enveloped with your explanation to the point where, when you stopped, the silence caught him off-guard as well.
“I-I mean, that’s— It’s just something I read online, I don’t… It’s not like I have an art degree or anything—“
“I couldn’t have said it any better myself,” he whispered, slightly awed.
A blush rippled from where he disturbed the calm waters of your cheeks, and Chrollo found it hard to change the subject and end your embarrassment. Riling you up was far too much fun.
Unfortunately he had to cut his amusement short. Spending this much time with you naturally led him to pick up on your habits, and the fact that you were most likely doing the same with him was something he loathed to consider. This habit of yours in particular was one he wished to correct as soon as possible, careful with his tone so he didn’t startle you, “Darling, you shouldn’t doubt your own opinions so much.”
Your eyes expanded to the size of plates, amateurishly covering up your surprise with nervous laughter, “You… what? I don’t know what you’re—“
“You don’t have to defend yourself or try to answer me. Just think about it. Alright?”
“…okay,”you sounded breathless, staring at him with such wonder he almost staggered.
The irony wasn’t lost on him that what he wanted most from you, your insight, was the one thing you withheld. It was frustrating beyond measure, and he was starting to think you might need a push in the right direction.
Dark pools scanned the halls surrounding him, and keeping himself from eagerly drinking in the sight of every painting at once took more self-control than he’d like to admit.
But then there’s a flash of red at the corner of his vision, and the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile. Gently, his hands found themselves at your elbows, running up along the fabric until they rested comfortably on your shoulders.
With your back almost flush against him and using a millionth of the strength at his fingertips, he guided you towards another painting that made Chrollo’s fingers twitch just looking at it. It was a motor tick he acquired in Meteor City. Whenever he found himself staring at any kind of treasure he coveted, but was unable to immediately take, his palms began to fidget in anticipation. He remedied it easily enough by keeping his hands in his pockets whenever possible, especially during reconnaissance missions; which he had to remind himself he wasn’t currently part of right now. However, you were either kind or oblivious enough to ignore the stutter in his hands that still led you by your shoulders, something he was more than thankful for even if it left him a tad suspicious.
And as uncomfortable as it felt to admit it, Chrollo thinks he’s starting to understand the reason why he can’t shake that thief’s mindset. To envy, to want, the desire to keep everything for himself… Those beliefs were ingrained within him far too early-on as a child for him to be rid of them now, no matter how many years he’s spent outside the city. The thought comforted him, but not before it sent a chill down his spine. Because he’s enjoyed so little of life without the spider, it’s hard for his brain to rationalize any happiness that came from outside its circle.
The soft heat of your hand on his own was enough to bring him into focus as he felt his thoughts beginning to multiply, that same warmth beginning to infect his chest when he felt you relax into his arms; eyes closing as you made yourself comfortable in the crook of his neck.
Looking down at you gave him plenty of reason to table any thoughts for a later date, and he found his attention being tugged at from both ends; one by you and the other by a work of art he’s waited nearly all his life to see.
“The Beheading of Holofernes,”
He only realized he’d said the name out loud when you asked, “One of your favorites, too?”
Damn, he must be getting easier to read. “How could you tell?”
You shrugged, “We’re into similar stuff, and I was secretly hoping you’d say yes. It’s probably somewhere in my… top five? No—top three favorite Caravaggios.”
“Well, remind me to trust your intuition more often. I’ve wanted to see this in person since I was a child. Now then…” he didn’t let you dwell on the subject of his youth, instead trying to steer your attention back to the painting. Chrollo realized too late that guiding you from behind like this gave him far too many ideas - none of them sinless - all of which made worse when your steps faltered and accidentally pressed against his waistline.
Resolutely tabling any impure thoughts for a later date, Chrollo gently brought you forward before the oil painting’s unsettling gaze, “what do youthink?”
“Wha—“ He silenced any complaints with a knowing glance, and he had to admit, you feigned acceptance rather well, conceding reluctantly. After a pause you nodded, fixing a glare at the two women as if they had wronged you instead of Holofernes.
With the tip of your tongue poking out and brows furrowed in concentration you manage to string together a response, “It’s like… Judith wants to kill him, but she’s so disgusted by Holofernes she’s just getting it over with instead. Makes me think he probably deserved it.” You finished and looked to him for approval, almost going unnoticed as he was busy taking in the artwork himself.
“Are you familiar with the story of Holofernes? Because yes, he deserved it.”
The corners of your mouth winced, “No, don’t think so,” you hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed, “where’s it from?”
He crowed quietly, “I suppose a better question is, are you religious, darling?”
You held out your hand, awkwardly angling it in the air and shaking apprehensively, “Ehhh… n— I mean sort of? Not really. Why, Is it from the bible?”
He chuckled, laughing at his own joke, “The exact opposite, actually. The Book of Judith is a deuterocanonical addition to the bible, called an apocrypha— basically, it was an original text that predates even The Book of Revelations. The story goes that Holofernes was an invading Assyrian general sent from Nebuchadnezzar to exact punishment on the Jewish city of Bethulia for staying neutral in the nation’s most recent war. He spent weeks destroying shrines and razing cities to the ground; demanding that the Hebrew worship Nebuchadnezzar alone. Eventually the cities’ leaders decided that if no help arrived within five days, they would surrender themselves to the… Assyrians.” He made the mistake of looking back at your face near the end of his little lecture and it caused his voice to falter, a worshipful attentiveness in your eyes pinned all on him.
It felt as if for a moment he was standing at the head of a Troupe meeting, all eyes on him with ears so inclined to what he had to say. But this wasn’t the Troupe, something he had to keep reminding himself. You had no brutal respect for him forged out of blood and sand— you just enjoyed sharing the same space as him, a bright smile spilling onto your face at the mere sound of his voice. So unafraid, and blissfully ignorant.
You gestured your head towards the gruesome painting, “I like where this story’s going.”
“The next night, a Hebrew widow named Judith snuck into the Assyrian camp. With the advice of an old maid, she seduced Holofernes into drinking and dance until he was drunk enough for her to easily saw off his head with a scythe,” you whistled lowly, eyes looking over the oil rendition of the woman in the painting, “the next night she returned to Bethulia with Holofernes’ head, freeing the city.”
“…Good for her. I mean, no wonder it was edited out of the Bible, that’s way too awesome of a take on women.”
Chrollo couldn’t catch himself before some snort of laughter left his nose, and admittedly his ears turned pink when you acknowledged the sound of it.
“Are you sure you haven’t read it?” He quipped, turning the two of you down the hall, “but you’re right, it’s one of the only ethical murders I can think of in the whole book. Everything else is just… Religious zealotry that might look mad to us, but mundane to whatever old man wrote it down.”
His words must’ve unlocked some buried memory from the depths of your mind as you tapped excitedly at his wrist, “Ohhyeah,totally! Like with the father of Issac, right? So fucked up, and I’m sure that’s nothing compared to some other Old-Testament scariness you could tell me about.”
Oh, he could go on for hours.
And it felt like he did. The two of you arrived at the museum before the sun had even reached its peak, and after what felt like a few minutes had passed, Chrollo was blinded with the red glow of the sunset when the two of you walked by the occasional window. Time does fly when you’re having fun, but therein lies the problem, doesn’t it?
He cursed himself for how much he enjoyed your audience, it was unbecoming of the spider’s head to feel so… normal. He didn’t deserve it— More than that, he shouldn’t be seeking it out in the first place. When you graced him with your audience, he’d sometimes pull his hand away from your shoulder expecting to see a bloody handprint staining the skin. Just the same, Chrollo couldn’t help the words spilling from his mouth when you asked him to continue.
Your voice squeaked adorably, frame wracked with a yawn that stretched your arms out taut; scrunching up your nose before snugly pressing your back into his chest, finding a home in the crook of his neck.
His breath hitched, suddenly gripping your shoulders to keep you still.
“What’s wrong?” Wide eyes turned to ask him, unaware as always.
Chrollo plastered a placid smile on his face, “It’s nothing, really. Just a cramp.”
The way you kept pace in front of him was a double edged sword. On one hand, you walked in step so closely it was impossible not to accidentally press his hips against the small of your back. However, if he moved away from you, his imminent problem would become readily apparent to anybody who glanced in his direction.
If he could do so discreetly, he’d hit himself for the thoughts running through his head right now. Yes, he blamed the unfortunate circumstances that interrupted him the previous night, but that didn’t make him feel any less depraved.
See, it wasn’t enough that you were cameoing in his thoughts, filling out his already crowded head, but it was starting to affect his performance as the Spider’s leader.
He didn’t have this same issue over the few weeks spent with the Troupe after meeting you in that coffee shop, even with your copy of Dorian Gray burning a hole in his pocket. But of course, that was before he’d taken you to his hotel room, before you closed your legs around him as he tried to pull away; before he learned what you tasted like— damn, this wasn’t helping.
“Chrollo, is everything alright?”
“Of course, dear. What were you saying about Botticelli?” Awkwardly returning to your theories about the Italian painter, helped him shake the breath he was holding.
Yesterday he spent a mere twenty-four hours without you beside him, and that was seemingly all it took for his outraged subconscious to plague him with dizzying memories of your flesh the rest of the day; culminating that night when he gave into those temptations and tried to stave off his thoughts the way any other man would. With his hand.
He was quiet, as he always was whenever he touched himself, although his lips stayed parted for the dry breaths that escaped them. The covers lay bunched around his thighs, no longer sparing him the embarrassing sound of his own flesh as it seemingly echoed around the room.
Behind his eyelids was nothing but pure, unadulterated sin. He hadn’t had much time in the moment to internalize what you looked like without your clothes, but he’s always had a knack for quickly memorizing details, and he swears he’s perfectly committed your body to memory.
In his thoughts he was back in the same bed with you as that fateful night, but instead of you falling asleep, this fantasy of his just pleaded for more with your voice, wrapping soft legs around his waist, around his shoulders, taking him in so deep until he finally couldn’t think anymore.
Each gasp your figure made in his head brought him closer to the edge, at last he could feel the tension in his stomach start to snap. That is, until the shrill sound of a doorbell managed to grow louder than the beating of his heart.
Chrollo hesitated for just a moment, weighing out his options, before groaning with annoyance rather than relief and yanking his boxers back up his legs; doing the same with the nearby trousers he’d discarded in a hurry. He didn’t bother tracking down his button-down, too frustrated to care. The only other thing he grabbed before making his way towards the yapping bell was his trusty Ben’s knife, barely concealing it behind his leg in case the one at the door happened to be you. But he knew that was just wishful thinking on his part.
With each step towards approaching the entrance, Chrollo cast out with his en, disturbed to feel almost nothing behind the wooden barrier. Even non-nen users like yourself gave off some fraction of aura, similarly to any living being. Which could only mean that someone was trying to conceal themselves.
Eyes darkening as his hand made contact with the cool metal of the doorknob, he rested his back against the wall so that when the door opened he would stay concealed as the intruder came barging in.
Predictably enough, in came four mercenaries dressed to the nines with some kind of armored SWAT mesh. All it took was one clean flick of Chrollo’s wrist, and off came the first man’s arm, falling to the floor with a satisfying thump.
The screams would be a problem, of course, he unfortunately didn’t live alone on this floor, and he doubts his neighbors would be prone to ignoring the noises Chrollo was currently muffling beneath his hand. But after carving his knife along the intruder’s throat he let the body fall away from him, spraying both the spider and the other three mercenaries in a copper spectacle.
Frozen in time, he would’ve called the sight of blood splattering in slow-motion through the air as equally beautiful and unsettling as he saw you.
But it wasn’t all for show. Two of the three assailants couldn’t dodge the spray of red in time, showering their helmets in viscous gore, leaving Chrollo the opportunity to gut the closest of the two, sending him howling into his balled up fist to badly hide the pain. The third person - their leader, Chrollo assumed - wasted no time trying to issue commands, instead brandishing a blade of her own and made a beeline straight for the nape of his neck.
A few wisps of sheared black hair floated to the floor as he narrowly dodged the attack, gaining a fraction of distance before he faked an opening, concentrating nearly half of his energy into his balled up fists, baiting her to stab towards a specifically unguarded spot on his chest.
She went for it, thrusting forward the tip of her sword to pierce his heart. Bullseye. Chrollo flipped his Ben’s knife in a fluid arc through the air above her incoming blade, smirking once he caught the familiar handle in his dominant hand, now close enough to cage in the point of the attacker’s weapon with the poisoned knife’s odd, rectangularly serrated edge.
The two instruments collided in a spark of metallic friction, neither budging until Chrollo thought to use the two-handed weapon against her. Shifting his weight, he managed to direct her attack towards their right, angling both their arms out in something that might’ve looked like a tango.
That is, until Chrollo used his now free hand to reel his arm back and punch her square between the eyes, feeling the bone and cartilage of her nose crunching underneath his knuckles.
She couldn’t even make a sound of pain before her brain knocked against the wall of her skull, sending her into either a coma or serious brain damage.
Three down, one to go. When he turned his gaze to the last man standing and saw the pitiful look of fear, Chrollo groaned, annoyed he couldn’t have killed him and saved the woman for questioning instead. He was the picture image of terrified.
The would-be mercenary ripped off his helmet to see at some point, vizor stained with gore, and for a second Chrollo mistook his shock of red hair for blood, briefly worrying that he killed the man before interrogating him first. One look, and the Spider knew he’d have him singing in no time. Whenever Chrollo summoned his hatsu the next lungful of air he drew was heavy, filling his lungs with an energy that desperately wanted to escape its bodily prison, focusing it all into the palm of his hand until he felt the warm, familiar leather against his fingertips once again.
“How…?” The man murmured with a slack jaw, and despite the threat Chrollo posed, he was hard pressed to look away from where Bandit’s Secret appeared in his hand. His feet rooted to the floor, forgetting how to run away.
That’s when something managed to give Chrollo pause - the man’s eyes widened, brows furrowed, as confusion ruled his expression even more than fear - for a moment he looked too shocked to be scared of the man covered in the blood of his comrades - and that’s when he realized,
this man didn’t even know what nen was.
Chrollo was baffled at how someone so unequipped could have managed to track him down. It only reinforced his suspicions that there was some ringleader giving these goons their instructions, but to hire soldiers without any abilities at all? It speaks to either a tight budget, or a disregard for the lives of his subordinates. Or both.
Regardless, whatever surprise a regular person must have at seeing a book appear out of thin air was starting to wear off. But before he could make a break for the open doorway, Chrollo had already flipped to the perfect page, so familiar with his hatsu by now that he didn’t even need to look down once at the book.
“Black box.” As Chrollo spoke, he willed the stolen ability into existence, void springing from his fingertips and consuming the illuminated world around them. The man must’ve seen the creeping darkness out of the corner of his eye, desperately throwing his hobbling mass towards the beckoning light of the hallway he thought was a sanctuary. A primal scream ripped from his throat when his fingers grazed that light, thinking that perhaps he’d actually escaped. That is, until the void fully consumed them both, swallowing up his shrieks before they managed to reach the outside world.
When the man’s screaming didn’t stop Chrollo only had to look at the small pool of blood beginning to grow at his feet to guess the reason why. His hand really had grazed the barrier of the doorway, and what parts of him made it outside were severed, more cleanly and efficiently than he gave the stolen nen credit for. He counted the pads of three partially dismembered fingers, cut as if by a perfectly timed guillotine stationed at the top of his door frame.
Rolling his eyes, he realized that hilariously the man’s now constant screaming was what fully killed his erection.
‘That must say something good about me, that I take no pleasure in their screams. I don’t even like them,’ he thought bitterly, already feeling the onset of a headache, ‘this is why I leave the tortue to Feitan…’
“Alright then,” The cowering mass on the floor gave no indication that he heard what Chrollo said, “You haven’t found me in the best of moods, unfortunately, so you’d be smart to answer my questions.”
His footsteps seemed far too loud in the four by four box, the echoing click of his approaching heels managed to snap the man out of his stupor, whirling around to look at him. He must’ve looked like the grim reaper to the poor fool, who scurried blindly into the corner before realizing there was truly nowhere left to run.
“Wh..a-whatareyou?”
Chrollo answered as impassively as possible, “I am the man who’s going to kill you.”
Another wave of terror washed over his face, taking in the sparse surroundings like a wild, cornered animal,“P-Please, I… I have a wife—“
“You must not know what’s going on, or how I’ve trapped us here,” to his credit, as scared as he was, the man at least tried to stay quiet, “you might even be inclined to call it magic.”
“Did your boss even tell you who I am?”
Hesitantly, the mercenary shook his head no.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Chrollo could feel his headache get worse. Instead of saying anything, he just extended his forearm tattooed with the Spider’s brand.
Luckily his migraine might not be made any worse, as the truth of his identity finally shut up the man’s whimpering, mouth agape but silent.
“Now then, continuing with the metaphor, you could say this box I’ve trapped us inside is a kind of spell. And, like any magic spell, It’s bound by conditions. To put it plainly, this box won’t disappear until one of us dies.”
One thing Chrollo never got right with torture was timing. He ended up rushing through his rehearsed threats because he always grew impatient with saying them time and time again. Why did it take so long for people to wrap their heads around nen?
Admittedly, he’d had a frustrating night - a difficult day altogether, a litany of inconveniences and sour news regarding the logistics of his next heist, and there was no you to take his mind off things - his voice’s bite catching himself off-guard, “Christ, nod if you understand.”
Vigorously, the amateur hunter bobbed his head. Whether he grasped the situation or not didn’t matter, Chrollo just had to get the information he needed and be done with it.
He tried toning back the irritation in his voice. As they say, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.
“You saw me dispatch your superiors. Be honest with yourself, you wouldn’t stand a chance against me one on one. However, If you answer one simple question, I promise to make your death as painless as possible,” Chrollo didn’t have to elaborate on what would happen if he refused.
“Who do you work for?” The million jenny question didn’t get much of a response out of him, although he at least seemed conflicted; hanging his head to keep from looking Chrollo in the eyes.
After a moment of silence the Spider took a few steps forward, ignoring the flinching of his victim as he approached. Crouching down on his haunches so that he was at eye level in front of him, Chrollo waited silently for his reply.
“I… I can’t.” The mercenary tried to look anywhere other than his eyes, misty tears beginning to brim in his own.
Chrollo’s hand shot forward, grabbing his jaw and forcing the redhead to meet his gaze.
His words were measured carefully in his head before speaking them, “You’re going to die here. Are you going to die protecting the secrets of the one who signed your death warrant? The one who sent you to me, knowing that if the mission went well, you wouldn’t be coming back alive? Or will you die giving me a name, so that you can rest easy in hell knowing your boss is right behind you?”
“That’s not it,” The man’s teeth were grit, forcing the next words out of his throat, “I want to tell you, but he… he knows my wife’s name.”
Something in his voice made Chrollo hesitate. It didn’t sound like a dead man trying to talk his way out of the grave. It sounded far too honest.
“…You weren’t lying about that?” Chrollo found himself whispering his thoughts out loud without even realizing it.
Now it was his turn to fall silent, having no idea where to go from here. The man took his wide eyes as an indication to continue, futility wiping his face with the back of his sleeve.
“No!” He snapped, genuinely offended, a look of horror passing over him after realizing he’d mouthed off to a member of the Phantom Troupe, yet he let it slide.
“H-Her name’s Rhea… Rhea Cainhurst.” The redhead swallowed his fear, and looked him straight in the eyes for the first time that night.
“I fucking swear to you she knows nothing about this — about any of this. If she… If you… fuck—“ he seemed at a loss for words, his expression of something beyond desperation - although Chrollo’s seen the same many times before - left him feeling distinctly unclean.
Quieter than a mouse, the man barely squeaked out a question of his own, “Would you keep her safe..? If I… If I told you everything?”
There it was again. It felt like there was a river rock nesting in the pit of his stomach, shoving against his organs to make room. And yet despite how distinctly not okay his body felt, his mind was instantly made up on what to do the second the man spoke his peace.
Chrollo gave him the slightest nod, mouth fixed in a line. The mercenary must’ve had a similar talent for reading people by their eyes, because there was shockingly little doubt harboured towards the truth of his promise. The poor bastard had nothing to trust him with other than his word, and yet when Chrollo obliged him it was as if the weight of dying itself was lifted off the man’s shoulders, which now sagged with relief.
He was a member of the Phantom Troupe for Christ’s sake, since when did he start giving people dying wishes?
“I was hired by this bigshot hunter, all I have is his name and I only met him once. Toni Owada. He didn’ tell me anything about the Troupe - not a goddamn thing,” his voice trailed off into a grimace, cartilage grinding against plaque, “he just gave me an address and,” the man meekly looked up towards his St. Peter’s sigil, “…and said to report back if there was a guy living there with a cross tattooed on his forehead.”
He scoffed, “Congratulations.” It was a less than adequate lead, but he’d take what he could get.
However, If this Toni was anyone competent they’ll likely take the deaths of his subordinates as good of a confirmation as any that he was staying here. He’ll have to find a new hotel, preferably one closer to Burghnew, a small-town offshoot from the city, where you once mentioned your apartment was located.
For a moment Chrollo considered going back on his promise, leaving the man’s lover to whatever fate had in store for them, but as he brandished his butcher’s knife, fear flashing in the lamb’s eyes, something in his reflection managed to convince him that doing such a thing would only make the stone in his stomach grow heavier.
“Alright then, a deal’s a deal. I promise to keep your… ‘Rhea Cainhurst’ safe.” The man gulped, nodded, and braced himself for death.
But right as Chrollo went for the kill, the man hesitated, “W-wait!”
And he hesitated in turn.
“…tell her that I’m sorry for not telling her the truth—”
On hearing that, a panic he hadn’t felt since leaving the city shot through him, slicing the man’s throat almost down to the spine, nearly decapitating him; and as his blood sprayed all over his chest, he found himself flinching.
