MEMOIRS OF A GRAVE FLORIST I Chrollo x Reader

I. The Abattoir

We cannot ignore the cadaver of corpses in rows right in front of us, the insatiable smell of rot, haughty rough on my nasal vestibule. The hooks, once supporting the weak feet of men and women—some with remaining pieces of chunks of flesh still attached have not been properly cleansed, now rust with a sinister crimson. The abattoir leaves me in thought of what vestige proper deaths they may have wished to have. The truth is a haggard thing. I was due at the mortuary in a couple of hours to wove the hundreds of roses and carnations into wreaths and bouquets, all of which, within as little time as the ceremony was over, would wither and perish in the cold.

I stepped out, the winds were harsh tonight, slapping my swollen ponceau cheeks, my breath hitched, I shiver, I sniffled. It was the middle of December and the days would only get colder and darker. Nature has taken back the railing of the crackling concrete stairs which made you wonder when they'd finally crack under your weight, down it, it leads you out towards the empty one way road. 

The car on the side of the road was responsible for taking me home, it was on the side of the road closest to the thick forest, the driver still inside the abattoir. I often forget he's there, he comes and goes as he pleases from months to weeks.

 In my head he's the nomad pig, but I call him Mister Priest.

He's never told me his name when I ask. 

He's dressed in freakish attire, a quaint mix of religious symbolism and dark grandeur. Three rosaries, each differing in length, hang around his neck like solemn ornaments, the longest one reaching down to his abs, its cross defying convention by being inverted, a provocative statement. His toned physique is layered with a long flowing black leather jacket with a rim of fir around the collar; another upside down cross at the back, it drapes gracefully over his frame.  His pants are cinched at the waist by a gleaming silver belt adorned with a unique cross, its shape deviating from the traditional, boasting a distinctive squareness. 

Mister Priest, well... I cannot say much about him. I've only met him a week back, he seems to be at the abattoir looking for someone, whether he is looking for a living human or a corpse is still a mystery to me; but he offered to take me to the mortuary after the heavy snow storm started to accumulate.

The doors from the abattoir creek eerily open, there he is. I wait for him to pass ahead of me to follow him. His car was not one that seemed to be of a person lacking of wealth, he took to my side to open my door for me.

"Thank you" I mumbled, lowering my head and slipping into the car. He acknowledges my thanks with a slight nod.

Mister Priest is at the driver's seat turning the car on with a single key. I turn to the GPS on his car's display and type in the address.

"No need." Mister Priest interrupted without looking.

A subtle crinkle formed on my nose as I cast a sidelong glance his way. Despite our occasional encounters at the abattoir, I remained in the dark about his true intentions. I bit the inside of my mouth. Whenever he visited the abattoir, he seemed more interested in prying into my affairs than attending to his own. His persistent meddling had become an irksome presence, interrupting the normal course of my routine.

"So the creepy Mister Priest knows where I work too?" I challenged him, him and his prude way of speaking.

"It's a part of my work as well, no need to get so hasty Y/n, and I'm not a priest. " He scoffed, having me roll my eyes.

"I'm sorry I meant unemployed Cult Leader."

"What I am doesn't matter."

The seriousness in his voice prompted me to avert my gaze. Doubt crept in, casting shadows over my thoughts. I couldn't help but wonder whether accepting his offer had been a wise choice. 

His words interrupt my thoughts.

"Why do you work as a grave florist? Florist seems normal enough, why do you work with the dead?" He 

Just as I was about to speak, the car swerved violently on the icy roads, sending me into a panic. I let out a startled shriek, my fingers clutching desperately at the door handle as I was jolted back into my seat. As the car steadied, my heart raced, adrenaline coursing through my veins. His sudden return only added to my disarray.

"What the fuck Priest?"

I struggled to regain my composure, attempting to steady my breaths, but my wide-eyed stare betrayed my inner turmoil. My hair cascaded in disarray across my face. Frustration and impetuosity surged within me, mingling with the chaos of the moment.

"You can barely even handle a swerve but you can look at dead bodies being mutilated." He laughed. Its as if he was trying to unravel me—no he was trying to break me open.

"You did that on purpose?" I arched a brow.

"No the roads are icy, also we're here."