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isaut · 8 months

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𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆 (autumn, day 1)— f!reader x chrollo lucilfer. 3.3k/57k. ao3

i said i wouldn't post any of ten million jenny on this blog, but i can't help but be extremely pleased with this chapter. you probably need to read the rest of the fic to understand this ♡ reader is part of the dead dad club, there's dancing, builds off this fic and this one too. oysters are paired with beer. read notes from the underground here.

Standing in front of your mirror, you take in your figure. Head cocked to the side, hair shifting. Only in fitted trousers and a bra. Your fingers ghost over your stomach, over where weeks ago you’d been fatally wounded. Not at any fault of yours. Now, not even a physical scar remains. Instead, your fingers drift over smooth, falsely touched skin.

Your blouse hangs on the doorframe behind you. Time is ticking. There’s somewhere you need to be– It’s important to your psyche. Your concealer is sinking into your skin. But you can’t pull your gaze away from the clear patch of skin that should be marred by a deep, embowling scar.

“Darling?” Kuroro calls from the bedroom door. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, caught off guard by his presence. “Are you ready to get going?”

“Almost,” You reply, “I’m just finishing up. Could you get me a glass of water?”

“Of course,” Kuroro replies, and pads off.

You turn your attention back to your stomach— fascinated by your reflection in an unfamiliar way. Your gut churns out of anxiety. You wonder if she churns because she remembers being on the exterior of your body.

“Water for you,” Kuroro calls again from the bedroom door.

You leave the bathroom to take it from him. He doesn’t follow you into the echoing tiled room anymore. Not even to hold your hair back while you vomit— He's always bringing you a trash bin to empty your stomach in. You’ve vomited often recently. Unfortunately. Undeliberately. Unattractively.

You don’t know why you still worry about your appearance.

Kuroro is dressed for the cooling weather. Trousers and a turtleneck, tattoo covered by dark fabric. His fingers slide against yours as you take the glass from him.

“I’m almost done getting ready,” You say. “I’ll be ready to go soon.”

“Take you time.” Kuroro’s words kiss your forehead. “I’ll drive us in.”

You don’t want to argue about parking, but you equally don’t want to argue about how you’re getting to work. You simply don’t want to argue.

The leaves have yet to begin falling. They hang to branches, still green from the summertime and rustle in the cooling winds. The courtyard of your university is barren. Students aren’t back yet, and professors are squirreled away in their offices doing last minute preparations. You stand outside the building that houses both your office and classes, an unlit cigarette in your hand. Your work bag is slung over Kuroro’s shoulder, and shifts as he leans into your space to light your cigarette. His frame blocks the wind from whispering to you, and you find solace in the ashen smoke that fills your lungs instead.

“I would have loved to take classes here,” Kuroro comments casually.

You turn your head to blow smoke away from the two of you. “I think it would piss you off.”

“Do you?” You can imagine his eyebrow raising.

“Mhm. You’d argue all your grades.”

“You think that little of me?”

“You argue my students grades with me,” You reply. “I can only imagine what you’d do as a student.” Late nights. Wine glasses. Glasses perched on your nose. Watching Kuroro expectantly as he reads over the essay you’d handed him in frustration.

“I see it as more of a debate,” Kuroro replies, brushing off the comment. He lets his gaze linger over you. “Are you excited to be back?”

You do. The normalcy of it all is a welcome gift after everything you’ve been through. It feels like a warm heating pad applied to horrible cramps. Just enough to wean the pain. You take a deep breath of the chilling air, letting your cigarette dangle between your fingers.

“How much longer will I get to keep doing it?” You ask.

“It’s never my intention to strip you of the things you love,” Kuroro says. He rests his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “Maybe when we’re done here we can go get dinner and drinks at the jazz club.”

The idea is tempting. You think it over through another inhale. “Is anyone performing tonight?”

“I’ll investigate,” Kuroro says.

You take one last breath of the smoke, before dropping the butt to the ground and rubbing the box of your heeled shoe into it, firmly extinguishing the cigarette. “Let’s see how I feel when I get done here.”

“Of course.”

Kuroro holds the door open for you, after you swipe your card against the reader. It’s so new, so electronic, that it stands out like a sore thumb against the gothic architecture of your building. There’s the old smell in the walls still, and the stairs still creak beneath your weight as you climb them.

There are a few papers in the wooden box attached to your door. You unlock the ancient, heavy door, the lock stuck from disuse over the summer, and it swings open.

Relief washes over you as you realize everything is the same.

Plucking the papers up, you walk into the office and immediately crack open the windows. A refreshing breeze passes through the stiff air. You sit at your desk, leaning back in your chair and closing your eyes. There are birds singing outside. Kuroro’s footsteps are silent as he crosses the room to your bookshelf, plucking one down at random.

He lets out a soft sigh as he sits, spreading his legs and making himself comfortable.

You crack open an eye to look at him. “Do you plan on simply following me around from now on?”

“You’ve never had a problem with it before, darling,” Kuroro replies, opening the book to its first page. It’s an old teaching copy of Hamlet, with hefty footnotes and bound in red. The cover sleeve has long since been lost. You gaze at it with some consideration.

“Context has changed,” You decide on.

“You’ve been made aware of the full context.”

Sighing, you right yourself. Pull yourself towards your desk. Power on your computer.

You hate how light your fingers feel as they tear across your keyboard. There should be a new ring on your left hand. There should be different memories in your mind.

Once upon a time, you were a regular at the jazz club. You used to lie to yourself and pretend you liked Old Fashioneds, when really all you cared about was the music and the atmosphere. You used to sit by yourself at a dimly lit table after a long week of classes and treat yourself to a few hours of mindlessness.

Kuroro opens the door for you, and it feels like it did years ago. A little younger, the same sparkle in his eye. It had felt like you were sharing such a secret back then, letting him into your life like this.

The atmosphere is just as sacred, just as clasping as it had been that same night. You can feel the itch on Kuroro’s mind to rest his hand on your lower back.

“Take a seat, and I’ll grab us drinks. What do you want?” Kuroro asks, too close to your ear.

“A mojito,” You reply.

The two of you peel in different directions. You, towards a familiar table with a candle in the middle of it. Him, towards the bar.

From the seat, you watch the band on stage set up. Music still plays through the speakers, easing through the atmosphere. You roll your shoulders back and try to relax into the dark room.

Kuroro places your drink on the table before you see him, startling you out of your lack of concentration. He slides into the seat across from you, taking a delicate sip of his drink. An old fashioned.

Sitting with Kuroro is pleasant, with something else to focus on. The club owners must have hired a new jazz singer, as you don’t recognize her. She’s young, with lipstick on her teeth. You wonder if she’s young enough that you’ll see her in a week, sitting in one of your classes.

Kuroro perks up at a familiar melody. “Dance with me.”

Turning your head from the entertainment, you feel resentment and want pump through your heart.

“For old times sake,” Kuroro urges, or, dare you say, pleads.

You take a sip of your mojito. You’re almost positive Kuroro slid the bartender a few bills to ensure your drink was stiffed of most liquor. Sensing your hesitation, Kuroro reaches his hand across the table and lightly rests it on yours. There’s a knowing look in his eyes.

The lights are directed at the band, so the only heat comes from your bodies. Kuroro’s hand is warm in yours. An older woman, who definitely thinks she’s being quiet, swoons as you pass her, being led to the dance floor.

It’s been a long time since you and Kuroro have danced. Weeks, even. Summer ended with no late nights dancing to accordions along the river. Unlike last year. And the year before that.

Kuroro takes one of your hands in his, the other resting at your lower back. You rest your hand on his shoulder in turn. He steps forward and pulls you close in one fluid movement. You tense, taking a deep breath.

It was the closest you’d been in weeks. Amber, vanilla and Egyptian jasmine fill your senses.

The man who stabbed you did not smell like this, your brain reminds you.

“We’re going to trip,” Kuroro murmurs against the shell of your ear. His foot taps against yours.

Your senses chase the familiar cologne, and you take another breath, letting yourself relax into Kuroro’s hold.

It’s like riding a bike. You remember where Kuroro is going to move, remember that he’s going to guide you. Memories of trying to learn how to dance flash through your mind– Kuroro’s apartment, newly invited over. Dressed in a satin button down of his, him in the matching satin sleep pants. Nothing but blossoming romance.

“What are you thinking about?” Kuroro murmurs. His hand slides lower, over to your hip to brace you before he indulges you in a shallow dip.

“Us learning to dance,” You murmur back, “And about your cologne.”

Fond memories come to Kuroro’s mind, and he smiles softly. “We have such a good time together.”

You must agree. “We do. We did.”

Kuroro makes a pitiful wounded sound in the back of his throat. “Think in the present, darling.”

“I am,” You say.

Displeased with your response, Kuroro dips you once more. You gasp and grab the back of his neck, shooting him a look.

He gives you a devilishly charming half smile.

“Are you having fun?”

“I am, in fact,” Kuroro replies. “I’m in a jazz bar, dancing with the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Not an object, you tsk at him. Reflexively.

“Apologies,” Kuroro amends, “The best person who has ever graced her presence in my life.”

You don’t move your hand from the back of his neck. “That’s better.”

Over Kuroro’s shoulder, you can see a woman watching you. She’s older, with a two piece outfit and gaudy jewelry. She’s watching the two of you with hearts in her eyes, a certain desire for what you have. To an outsider it must look quite nice– Two attractive young people dancing at 7 o’clock in the evening just because they can.

If only she knew whose hands rested upon you.

Would she still swoon? Would she still wish her husband would get off his ass and bring her out on the dance floor as well? Would she still look upon Kuroro with desire?

The last thought causes jealousy to sink her claws into your core, which unfairly feels warm.

“Ease up your grip, darling,” Kuroro murmurs against the shell of your ear.

Immediately you relax your hand, not having realized how tight your grip had become.

You can feel Kuroro smile. “Did you see our admirer?”

“She isn’t admiring me.”

“No?” Kuroro’s pinkie finger dips below the waistband of your trousers for a moment. “I am.”

You hum, casting your gaze down to your feet, watching as you move with Kuroro, almost subconsciously. You flick your eyes upwards, to meet Kuroro’s burning gaze. “You are?”

“I’m never not.”

“Double negatives confuse me.”

“I’m always admiring you.”

Warmth floods your face.

Kuroro takes a breath, exhaling slowly.

“What is it?” You ask.

“It would be foolish of me to share,” Kuroro says, shaking his head slightly.

“You love telling me things.”

“I do,” Kuroro smiles just a bit at that. When he speaks, his breath mingles with yours. “I was thinking about how badly I want to kiss you right now.”

“That is foolish,” You confirm. You get another wave of amber. Your words are caught on an exhale. “Be a fool.”

“What’s changed?” Kuroro asks, curiosity coming before desire.

You swallow. “I’ve enjoyed today.” He has you lean against him, before returning back to the somewhat simple step you’d fallen into. “I’ve been reminded of a few things.”

“Old times?”

“Old times.”

Kuroro doesn’t know when the next time is he’ll be able to press his lips against yours. There’s a firm understanding he must make this one count, must make this one better than anything penned on paper.

Old times would have this be the final straw, the moment where it’s time to leave. You’d be in some slinky number and he’d be down to his buttoned shirt, which has the top buttons loosened on it. The both of you donning a sheen of sweat, sore feet.

So, for old times sake, Kuroro grants you one final dip, lowering himself with you. He captures your lips in a kiss, pulling you back up with your lips still locked. He tastes like smoked bourbon and oranges, bitter and sweet.

You pull away, slow as you can. It feels sinful to take such solace in a kiss.

“Let’s get out of here,” You suggest. The room suddenly feels far too hot, as if summer’s lingering heat had consolidated within the club. You can feel eyes on you, which isn’t as pleasing sober as it is drunk.

“Of course, darling,” Kuroro says, a soft smile on his face. He wraps his arm around your waist. “Do you want to pick up food on the way home?”

Your fingers dance along your bottom lip. For old times sake…

It’s oysters on the balcony. A decadent treat from the restaurant across the street. The moon is rising, you’re smiling, enjoying the mood you’ve been set in. Kuroro’s dusted off the record player for the occasion— He’s placed Dvorak’s Serenade for Strings upon the turning plate. The gentle instruments wash over you.

It was the first concert you went to together, had shyly held hands and pretended not to care as you asked him to come up for drinks.

The evening, it’s charming, you can’t deny that. With how the time has passed, you half expect Kuroro to begin reciting poetry to you.

Kuroro takes in your appearance. The way the night’s lights caress your skin, the way you effortlessly slide another bite of oyster into your mouth and set the shell down with a tink. Instead of your trousers, you’re dressed in pyjamas, with freshly washed skin. He can smell the roses, cucumber and shea butter combination in the cooling air.

He poses a question. A safe one, one that he's posed a million times before. One that’s gotten him as close to you as he is now.

“Have you read any good books recently?”

You glance over at him, then shift your body towards him. Indulge him in familiar conversation. “I reread Notes from the Underground,” You say.

Kuroro’s brows raise. He matches you, turning his pyjama-clad body towards you. It’s like riding a bike, it’s like dancing, talking to you about Dostoevsky. Over beer, over oysters, in the newly-autumn air.

“You always said it was one of your favorites,” You continue, closing your eyes. “I’ve always been fascinated by it, but I can see why it would resonate so deeply with you.”

Kuroro sits quietly and listens. You flutter your lashes open. “You’re just not spiteful.”

“No?”

You sigh. “It was… It didn’t make me feel good that I resonated with the Underground Man.”

“You resonated with him?” Kuroro inquires, head tilting in interest.

“I don’t know how to describe it… But I think I finally understand the spite of Fydor’s work. I’ve done so much… Research on it, so I logically understood why his protagonists carried that tone but… Now I get it.”

“Are you spiteful?” Kuroro asks.

You swallow thickly. “I keep… Thinking. About how you just…” You sigh. “Jesus fuck, I have no clue.”

Kuroro can’t help the chuckle that reaches his lips. You pick up your beer bottle and take a pull from it.

“When he talks about romantics,” You say, setting your bottle back down on the table. Glass clatters softly against mosaic. “About the difference between a Russian romantic and a German romantic and a French romantic.”

Kuroro hums. “Hmm… something about understanding everything, seeing everything far more clearly than positive, practical minds?”

You shake your head and stand. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be right here,” Kuroro replies easily, leaning forward to pick up his own beer. He exhales into the night sky. Regret invades his senses.

You come back moments later, flipping through a hand-sized, weathered copy of Notes from the Underground, filled with tabs and annotations. Kuroro knows this copy well, he remembers the first time he found it in your office, how he had devoured all your comments, all the parts you called attention to for your own sake and your students.

Finding the page you were looking for, you clear your throat as you sit back down. “He’s a man of breadth and scope, our romantic, and the greatest fraud of all our frauds.” You close the book and set it on the table. “It has new meaning to me now.”

“Ah,” Kuroro says. “Doesn’t he frown upon the romantics?” ‘

“I think he hates himself for being a romantic.”

Kuroro laces his fingers together, looking away from you off to the skyline. “I think being a romantic, whether it’s Russian, or German, or French, is a double edged sword. If I was a pragmatic man, I wouldn’t have made the choices that I have. But… I think there’s a certain human aspect to being a romantic. It’s in our nature… The Underground Man might despise the fact that he shares traits with the romantics, but he is driven to express himself romantically. Not in the romance sense–”

“But in the literary sense,” You finish for him.

Kuroro smiles softly, smiles wistfully. “Exactly.”

“I agree,” You admit. “I keep having the same spurts of… What does he call it… these lofty spurts where I think about us. And today… Today I realized that nothing’s changed. Everything has changed but nothing has.”

A beat of silence passes.

“I think the Underground Man desires to express himself romantically too,” You whisper. “Because he’s human.”

Kuroro thinks about all the people he knows, everyone he’s come into contact with. About the relationships he’s seen blossom, about the relationships he’s cut short.

“Do you think he’s ashamed of it?”

Kuroro glances over at you. “Of viewing the world through a romantic lens?”

You nod.

Kuroro takes a deep breath. You look beautiful, half illuminated by the warm lights of his apartment, half by the twinkling nightlife. “No,” Kuroro decides on. “I don’t think he is.”

You lick your lips, nodding again. “I think he’s annoyed he can’t stop seeing the world like that. And… I think that’s where I recognized myself.”

Kuroro hopes, deep down, that you’re circumventing something he desperately wants you to tell him. He’s always admired your adoration towards the universe’s care– Or perhaps it was the guiding palm of your deceased father– that kept you upright. Perhaps this time, he’d be kept upright too.

He doesn’t know how many more months he can lose, how many more can be shaved off his own lifespan.

#chrollo x reader #saintchrolloism #i feel like im gonna get my characterization of chrollo destroyed here #or my understanding of the underground man #i havent read the book in almost a year please cut me some slack #dead dad club slay #by ophelia

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atwas-meme-ing · 2 years

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Just saw a comment on FB calling the 60's sitcom version of The Addams Family "the most functional tv family".

No freaking kidding! I mean, look at it: Gomez was treated as the head of the house. Morticia was supportive of Gomez, never put him down, respected his authority- and Gomez, at the same time, respected her boundaries ("Morticia, that's French!" "Gomez, later, we have an important matter here" "Ah, yes, later"). They supported each others ideas, goals, dreams, and rarely, if ever, called them silly.

Their kids were well-behaved, knew the rules, and followed them. Yeah, they did some really weird things, but they were not out of line with their family. They were taught to respect their parents, because their parents respected each other and their kids (this is a very important distinction, because respect is learned by watching, not by being lectured).

Anyone who came into their house was welcomed as family. Crazy old Uncle Fester, who arguably causes more trouble than any other single character in the show? Chide him a bit for threatening to shoot someone in the back, perhaps, but he still gets his own room. Grandmama needs someone to look after her in her old age? Set her up with a crystal ball and a gypsy tent in the living room so she can carry on her profession as a fortune-teller while still being surrounded by family. A detached hand that somehow managed to come to life has nowhere to go? Take him in and set him up with a system of tunnels under the house and boxes that open only from the inside so he has a private place to feel comfortable while still being a part of a family. Got a butler that looks a bit like Boris Karloff and is somewhat introverted and doesn't like to talk? Pay him well, give him decent servant's quarters, thank him for everything he does and let him know at every opportunity just how much he is appreciated, and give him as much time at the harpsichord as he wants (besides, he plays it beautifully and the whole family loves to dance). Heck, there were times that Lurch was treated like he was Gomez or Morticia's brother or something- I mean, there was a whole episode where Lurch's mother came to visit, and Gomez and Morticia pretended they were the servants- of their own house!!!

And then Cousin Itt has his own miniature room for whenever he comes to visit, and the entire family, instead of insisting that he try to get over his speech impediment, just learned how to understand him. Gomez made arrangements for his mother-in-law, Granny Frump, to get pampered beauty treatments at a high-class health spa, and insisted that Granny Frump was a lovely woman (and if you haven't seen that episode, Granny Frump was played by the same actress who played the Wicked Witch of the West). Morticia's sister Ophelia had a terrible habit of body-slamming Gomez, for whatever reason, and while Gomez didn't seem terribly fond of her (understandable), he never turned her out of the house, and he never said a bad word about her, because she was his wife's sister, and he loved and respected Morticia too much to disrespect her family.

And anybody that came into their house was treated just as well as the rest of the family.

It's never been expressly stated just what the Addamses are. Witches? Vampires? Ghouls? Maybe just a conglomeration of supernatural creatures? Whatever they are, they're one of the best examples of a loving, respectful family I ever saw.

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