Lucilfer (ChrolloxReader)

Chapter 63

‼️CONTENT WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS CONSENSUAL SEXUAL CONTENT‼️

My body twitched to life at a feathery sensation against my forehead, gradually pushing through the thick, disoriented sheen of morning awareness. I felt my eyelids flicker when the soft touch on my skin departed, and I willed enough strength into my legs to stretch in place, my limbs trembling satisfyingly and working out the slight stiffness in my bent knees. I was warm, pressed up against a smooth source of muted heat, but cool fingertips pushed lightly into the crown of my head, sending a relaxing chill down over my arms, which were still swathed in the fleecy fabric of a heavy sweatshirt.

After a long, peaceful moment, I opened my eyes, adjusting to the gray haze of the natural illumination in the room, Chrollo's room, the room I'd come to love and regard only as a safe place. It was dim, and easy on my groggy gaze, the dusky color patterns always familiar to me and just as welcome as the smokey, woodsy scent of sweet lavender with musky, uncertain undertones. First, I focused on the ornate carving of the tall wardrobe, and then down to the small downy rug placed under it, and lastly, on the bare torso I was snuggled up securely against, half covered by the wine red blankets and being the reason for my warmth.

I was on my side, pressed into Chrollo's body, while he was laid on his back—I could feel one of his arms above my head, the lean shape of his bicep flexing gently as he continued to bury his fingers into my hair, further rousing me from my unconsciousness. As feeling blossomed throughout my own fingers, I realized my hand was draped over his abdomen, and I carefully curled it into a loose fist, and then out again, reveling in the taut structure of his stomach.

I'll miss waking up next to you, pretty Chrollo.

Aside from anything else, aside from nights of desire and salacious words, aside from listening to him play the cello or the piano, or performing reckless heists and discovering the unknown intricacies of his character, I would miss waking up in the morning, knowing each of those things were ahead of us, my form being fitted perfectly into his or vice versa. I felt the most clarity in the morning towards what must happen, his departure and my plan and two months in solitude or looking into the eyes of the only one I truly feared would put my lover in danger—it all felt like less anxiety, when I slowly came to life beside Chrollo and was put at rest with the relieving assumption that nothing could hurt us, that I was strong, and that he was capable.

I found it interesting, how selfish he perceived himself to be. If he were selfish, what would that label make me? No—I didn't believe he was selfish, or at least, not to the degree he saw in his heart. Of course, there was societal selfishness; he cared nothing for those he didn't trust or see pieces of himself inside of, and his search for purpose often translated to selfish, hedonistic whims. But with me, he was so flawlessly selfless. Every human experiences thoughts which might perform the action of convincing them against what they, in reality, want, because thoughts are uncontrollable and emotions can be wayward. But Chrollo so often carried the willpower to differentiate those thoughts from the genuine knowledge of how love functioned, how unconditional it was, even when it contradicted what his mind wished.

Selfless lover of mine.

Once more, I felt the brush of his lips against my forehead, and I inhaled, tilting my face up to gaze into his eternally gray irises, flecked with tints of hazel and amber. His head was turned to the side, his lashes lowered in a composed reverie, his wavy black locks splayed dramatically over the pillows and around the tattoo, his ears and temples. My lips flitted upwards, and I dragged my fingers up over his chest and neck to place my palm against his cheek—he breathed out blissfully, blinking once and smiling back.

"Good morning," he whispered, his voice low and raspy and gentle.

I always felt tingles crawl over my skin at the sound of his tone in the morning—it was far too similar to the way he sounded whenever he was alight with passion.