#&& digging holes and taking souls; oldschool undertaker

[brothersgrim]

OLD ASKS JAY IS FINALLY ANSWERING

Anonymous asked: 80s undertaker do u have just random thought when no one talking to you or is your mind just blank 

“....”

Well, it looks like that’s your answer. About as exciting as you can expect, really.

[brothersgrim]

Maybe they both needed this. The drink. The conversation. The quiet. The chance to breathe. 

They didn’t get many of those. 

He tugged his shirt over his head, ignoring how the fabric stuck to his skin. Sweat makes the fabric weigh heavier, just like exhaustion weighs down on his shoulders. One will be significantly easier to rinse away than the other. Still, just getting out of his gear helped. It’s shedding skin. Leaving the fight behind, at least for now - a temporary ceasefire in the endless war they both fought, for their own private reasons. He would carry the pain, the bruises, for a few days after, but he knew that. He’d signed up for it. (He deserved it.) There’s something novel about throwing on something clean. It’s new. It’s strange. It’s nice. It’d mean more laundry later, but that, at least, he was used to. It didn’t matter. 

Everything is folded neatly in his gear bag before it’s closed and slung over his shoulder. A breath in and out, and he closes his eyes for just a moment. The heat of the fight, of the ring, still radiates off of him, but he’s cold, so cold. (He’s always cold. The adrenaline crash and damp clothes don’t help.) He glances up when Bret speaks, but doesn’t interrupt. He nods at the agreement, looking back down at the bag hanging off his shoulder. After a night of work, neither of them would be picky. A drink was a drink. Quiet was quiet. 

The concern is strange. It’s foreign. Another thing they aren’t meant for. But… It’s not entirely unwelcome. Bret’s extended his hand before. The first time, yes, the Undertaker had shied back. Proverbial teeth bared to snap at the kindness offered. It hadn’t made sense then; it barely made sense now. But at least he’d learned, now, that it wasn’t going to be followed up with anything untoward. No violence, no manipulation. That made it even stranger, but not as unwelcome. 

“It’s fine.” He mutters, even if he knows Bret won’t listen. He cares too much. For whatever reason, he worries. And because of that, the Undertaker knows he’s going to be handed a bag of ice. Oh well. There are worse fates. He can’t help but scratch at the still-blooming bruise, almost subconsciously. And then, with a sigh, he adds,

“... But thank you.” 

[brothersgrim]

DRABBLE PROMPTS

@hauntogenic asked: [ sick ] sender cares for receiver while they are sick  —   liz & 'taker in a better world 

Something's wrong. He knows there is. He just won’t admit it. He can’t admit it. He has to be okay. 

He’s got a little one to look after, now. Jon. His boy. His world. It’s more than just him again. More than just his atonement. More than his punishment. He has to do everything he can to provide for his boy, and for Liz. They deserve the best. Not just the best he can give them - the best they can possibly get. They should be happy. They should be safe. 

He will do anything to keep them safe. Even work though this splitting migraine. He scowls, squeezing his eyes shut and grinding the heels of his palms against his temples. It hurts. It’s a splitting pain, a taut wire from the base of his skull to right behind his eyes prime to snap at any moment. He braces his hands on the sink. A breath in, a breath out, before he cut the sink on and splashed cold water on his face.

It didn’t really help. 

It didn’t matter.

He had to keep working. It's with that duty-bound sense of determination that he trudges back down the stairs. He can hear Liz moving in the kitchen. The clinking of the pots rings in his ears and echoes off the walls of his head. 

“Hey, babe.” She said. “I’m thinking of sloppy joes for dinner tonight; Jon’ll like them, and–” She stopped. He didn’t notice she wasn’t thinking about dinner anymore until her palm was against his cheek. “Whoa, easy. You okay?”

“Hn?” He blinked once, twice, bringing her into focus. Her lips stretched into a frown, her eyes (so blue, so gorgeous) searched his face for an answer to her question. 

“You were kinda swaying there. And you're pale.” 

“I’m always pale.” He grumbles, furrowing his brow and giving his head a shake even as he took hold of her wrist, keeping her warm, gentle hand against his skin. It’s comforting, it’s soothing, and it helps take his mind off the fact that he knows she’s right. 

“Adam, you’re sick.” There’s a stern note to Liz’s voice, even as she teases her free hand through his hair, pausing only to wind a few locks around her finger. He closes his eyes and lets his shoulders fall with a huff. 

“How can I be sick if I’m dead?” He asks. She raises a brow. 

“You got me pregnant dead. Clearly something’s still working in there.” She thumped her palm lightly against his chest and he… Didn’t have a response for that. He opened his mouth, closed it again. There was a bit of triumph in her eyes as she gently pushed him back towards the stairs. “Bed, mister. You need rest.”

“But–”

“No buts.” She says in the same sort of tone she uses with Jon when he tries to climb the fridge. It’s enough that the only rebellion he offers is a quick glance to the back door before he relents. Fine. Fine, he’ll rest. (Not like he was ever good at saying no to her, anyhow.) He lets himself be guided up the stairs and she’s right, he’s exhausted. His feet feel heavy and he’s half-convinced that if she took her hands off his back he’d topple back down the stairs. He pauses in the door to their room, wiping his hand down his face. Liz’s hands move up to rest on his traps, kneading at the tense muscle and working her thumbs against the back of his neck. 

“It’s okay, big guy. You can take a day for yourself, I promise things aren’t going to fall apart. We’ll be fine. Go get out of your work clothes and lie down, I’ll see if we have any Advil left, okay?” He nods, keeping his eyes closed as he leaned back into her touch. How was he supposed to argue with that? And then she steps away and the air feels colder already, but he does as he’s told. He’s tugged a different old t-shirt over his head, a clean one that said ‘world’s best grandpa’ that Jon had seen at a thrift store once, when he’d still been learning to read, had only understood ‘best’ and insisted on getting for his father, but it’s soft and it’s comfortable and it’s not damp with sweat or heavy with dirt, by the time Liz is back. 

“Here.” She holds out a glass in one hand, a pill in the other. He accepts each; the medicine is bitter, but the cold, crisp taste of the water chases it away. He sits on the edge of the mattress and sets the glass down on the nightstand. As he slouches forward, she is there to meet him, scratching her fingers through his hair and placing a kiss on the crown of his head.

“I love you.” He mutters, wrapping his arms around her and tucking his face into her neck.

“Love you too.” She holds him just a bit longer before pulling away. “I was gonna get groceries when I picked Jon up anyway. I’ll see if I can get things for soup. And you better still be in bed when I get back, yeah? No sneaking off to get some extra work done.” He rolls his eyes, but it’s all for show - all for the laugh she graces him with. 

“Fine.” 

“Sweet dreams, grandpa.” She teased, flicking off the lights as she left. He was asleep well before his head hit the pillow.  It was a deep sleep. A quiet, dreamless sleep. He had no idea how long he was out - but a rich smell and fingers stroking through his hair eased him out of it. He grumbled quietly, shifted– stopped. Peeked one eye open. … It was hard to see from this angle, but he can just make out his son tucked under his chin, his own arm clutching the tiny body against his chest like a teddy bear. 

“Sorry.” Liz’s voice, quietly, from behind him. “I told him you weren’t feeling well, and- Well, here he is.” He sighs and leans back into her hand, closing his eyes again.

“‘S fine.” He says, then carefully props himself up on one elbow without dislodging Jon. “Soup smells good.”

“Yeah! It’s chicken noodle.” Liz reaches over him to the bowl on the nightstand. “Want some help?” 

“I’m gonna need it.” He smiles, nodding down to where their son continues to nap peacefully against his father’s bicep. “Only got one arm.”

[brothersgrim]

from liz. she WOULD leave if paul was around but she wants to beat paul to death so badly that it didn't feel right marking that down.

He's staring at the paper with his usual stoicism, all six-foot-ten of him, dark and tenebrous...

Which is why you would never know that mentally, he's kicking his feet. He is well and truly smitten. He folds the paper up, tucking it in his coat pocket, before pulling her close enough to kiss the top of her head.

"Always said you were perfect."

[brothersgrim]

SEND 💭 TO GET A GLIMPSE OF MY MUSE'S MEMORIES! || ACCEPTING

anonymous asked: 💭 one for taker

“Teddy, is it… Safe?” It’s a woman’s voice. Her voice. It assumes that’s Ted’s wife. But it has no way of being sure. Ted always has multiple women with him. They all ask similar questions. They all get the same answer.

It wonders if the answer is rehearsed. It must be; it’s the same every time.

“Completely safe.” From the corner of its eye, the corpse can see Ted’s smile. It’s greasier than his hair. Sharper than any blade. Colder even than the corpse. “It won’t even move unless I say so! Watch.” Oh, how it hated that word. Nothing good ever followed. Not for the corpse, at least. 

Ted’s shoes clack against the tile. Polished marble, he’d said once. Imported. Cost a fortune and a half for some people, but me? Change between my couch cushions. And the fancy, imported tile is always so well-polished the corpse can see its reflection in it. It always tried not to make eye contact. 

Ted stopped in front of it. It hadn’t been told to look up, so it didn’t. Just stared at the buttons of his suit. They were polished and gleaming, too, but engraved enough that there was no reflection. A small mercy. It's the only mercy it gets as Ted jerks his hand, sending a splash of champagne into the corpse’s face. It doesn't flinch because it wasn't told to. It blinks without permission, but this is ignored. 

“See?” Ted addresses his companion. “Totally harmless.” The corpse keeps staring at the floor. The alcohol burns its eyes, its nose, its skin, but it does not move. Not even when Ted upends the rest of his glass over its head. It is still so, so far away in its mind, but it is difficult now. This does not smell like the whiskey its father preferred. The woman’s voice does not lilt like its mother’s did. 

“If you’re sure.” She sighs, tutting. Her heels clack quietly against the floor as she adjusts her feet. “I just worry about Junior.”

Junior.

Ted’s son. 

The corpse had seen him before. He seemed… Quiet. A special sort of quiet the corpse knew all too well, but that was occasionally hidden under a veneer of arrogance that was definitely from his father. 

“Oh, Junior will be fine.” Ted tutted. “He can be as rough as he wants. Nothing will happen.” The corpse didn’t brace itself, because it wasn’t told to, but it wished to itself that it had been. The backhand connects against its jaw with a sharp crack. The corpse’s head snaps back without permission. An all-too-familiar copper joins the alcohol that inadvertently flooded its mouth. It straightens its posture to once again stand as it’s meant to, its expression unchanging even as the champagne seeps into the fresh cut. It burns in an irritating way, cutting into the self-imposed fog and eating away at the edges of fabricated memory. Drowns out the recalled scent of grass and leaf mulch and petrichor, the same way Ted’s voice drowns out what the corpse thinks its brother sounded like, asking if it wanted to see if they could get cherries down without falling. It’s so hard to hear the phantoms over Ted’s laughter. (It so desperately just wanted to hear them again–) 

“Playing rough doesn’t bother it at all. Doesn't bother me, either.” 

“Oh, stop!” The woman laughed (it didn't sound like its mother’s laugh) and swatted at Ted’s arm. “The investors are going to be here any minute!” 

“Oh, you're right!” Ted smacked his palm against his forehead. “I almost forgot. We’ll have to take a rain check on that, sweetheart. And you.” The corpse looked up when it was addressed. Ted was facing away from it, his arm around the woman’s waist. He glanced over his shoulder to make eye contact with his acquisition. “Why don’t you go take a load off? Someone’ll clean you up shortly. Can’t have a shabby centrepiece.” Ted laughed as he left, pulling the woman closer. The corpse didn’t bother to look at her face and see if it really was Mrs. Dibiase or not. It was too busy trying to cling to another face, one warped by time and distance and grief and fire. In body, it is moving step by laborious step towards the bedroom Ted had set aside for it, champagne dripping through its hair and down its face, tinged red when it drips off the corpse’s chin. In spirit, it is thousands of miles and ten years away. The plush carpet is replaced with a dark hardwood floor, a well-loved rug stretched meticulously over it. There's a different voice, soft even as it - she - tuts at it - at him. 

“Addie, you’re such a mess.” And she’d push his hair out of his face, getting a better look at the scrapes he’d collected. “It’s alright, sweet boy. We’ll get you cleaned up in time for dinner.” 

The corpse is lost in its escape. It does not need to think to follow its orders. It never needs to. It hurts less if it doesn’t. Its body will move on its own, and it can–

Huh? 

It’s stopped. It's only cognizant of the fact for two reasons: One, it wasn't TOLD to stop. Two, there's another voice telling it something. A young voice, an innocent voice, but it lacks the twang that the voice in his head, asking if they could go for a swim later, has. This voice was chasing the distant one, the remembered one, away, that sparked a dull irritation in the corpse’s mind. 

“Your face is bleeding.” The new voice said. The corpse stared down at blue eyes, a narrow face, immaculately-combed blond hair.  Not grey eyes, squishy cheeks, and messy curls. It hurts to look at the boy, but it's alright, because it wasn't told to look. It was only told to move. It turns its eyes up, away from that different innocent, damned face, steps around the boy, and keeps walking. 

“You’re going to make a mess,” the boy calls after it. It does not stop. “Dad will be upset.” 

You’re such a mess, Addie. It blinks against the alcohol that still burns its eyes, but it does not stop until it reaches its quarters. 

To most people, this room would be considered ‘nice’. A cream-and-gold colour scheme, a plush carpet, crown moulding, long, draping curtains, a big, comfortable bed. The corpse cannot sleep on this bed. It is too big, too soft, too strange, too clean. The corpse prefers the floor, though it has been told not to do that anymore. (‘What kind of man do you take me for?’ Ted had scoffed. ‘I want my property taken care of.’) This bed does not creak when the corpse sits on it. The duvet is brand-new, not worn with age and care. And the corpse knows, as it grips its own palm until its fingers ache, that the hands that clean it tonight will not be gentle.

And they will not care if it is ready for dinner.

[brothersgrim]

It’s been a long damn day. There’s sweat down his back, matting his hair. Threatening to frost over his skin. He glowers at his hand, the dark bruises blooming over his knuckles. There’s spatters of red across the pale skin, too. Some of it’s his, some of it isn’t. Yokozuna had given him a hell of a fight. He was going to be sore tomorrow, that was for sure. But he wasn’t going to dwell on that. 

He’d won. That’s what mattered. He’d won, so he’d get the payout. … It was strange to think that way. He’d get the payout. Him. Not Ted, not Love, not Fuji, and not Paul. 

Him.

His fist clenches a bit tighter before it falls to his side. Again, strange to think about. Strange to think at all - he’s too tired for this. He needs a rest. Actually, to Hell with that, he needed a drink. A stiff one. A stiff couple. He thinks he’s earned it. And that’s all that matters. Just him. Just him. … That was going to take some getting used to. He sniffed, turned to leave– 

Caught himself. He didn’t catch the person who just ran into him. He has to look down (he has to look down for most people) and blinks at the mass of blond hair and bewilderment that stares up at him. Shawn Michaels. The Deadman’s face shifts slightly, the ghost of a furrow in his brow belying his confusion. It seems like similar bewilderment is in Shawn’s expression, as well. The Undertaker tilts his head to the side even as he squares his shoulders. It doesn’t seem like Michaels wants a fight, but you could never know. 

The apology is met with a grunt of acknowledgement. He hadn’t really expected one; most people back here wouldn’t bother. They’d just start swinging. It’s a brutal yet simple law that governs the locker rooms, and he’s often grateful for its consistency. 

“What are you doing here, Shawn?” It’s blunt, maybe, but he often is. And he’s curious. “Thought you’d be celebrating a win.”

{ 𝑆𝐻𝐴𝑊𝑁 𝑀𝐼.𝐶𝐻𝐴𝐸𝐿𝑆 // 𝐶𝐿𝑂𝑆𝐸𝐷 𝑆𝑇𝐴𝑅𝑇𝐸𝑅 } || @brothersgrim

Another night, another bullshit evening spent alone all because the ex wanted to remain as such despite the lingering glances cast in passing. Of course, there was always a chance Shawn was imagining the looks from Bret. It could have been all in his head; a bit of wishful thinking so to speak, but Shawn couldn't be entirely certain given their history. All the same, Shawn was equally stubborn and proud. He'd sooner swallow hot coals than beg someone for their attention. Naa. He knew how to make the feeling go away. If he was knocked out in bed, he didn't have time to think or even dream about pink and black.

And so as soon as Shawn's match was over, the blond kept his head held high --- at least long enough to get past a few glaring looks and hushed whispers from coworkers --- before turning the corner towards his locker room. A sigh of relief left him as he walked, head hanging low accompanied by slumped shoulders. His mind was everywhere but on where he was going. It was so routine now that his mind could be far off but his feet would still carry him where he needed to go. And so he collided head on with one of the last people he intended to piss off --- on purpose anyway.

Stumbling backwards, he looked up, blue eyes widening briefly before he managed to mumble out a quick apology. Had it been anyone but the Undertaker, he might have taken their head off just because and stormed off. But it was Taker, and he couldn't be sure Mr. Tall, Dark and Creepy wasn't REALLY capable of sending his soul to hell so he thought the better of dropping a slew of F bombs. Instead, he politely made to walk around him. This was not the kind of smoke he wanted tonight.

"Sorry. Didn't see ya coming."

[brothersgrim]

Modern Quotes!

@teardownheaven asked: "You've got to make a statement. You've got to look inside yourself and say: What am I willing to put up with today?" Meg is just staring at the sky, gesturing wildly as she speaks to emphasize her words and emotions. She's having a Time. (for either spook <3)

They both stare at her, then each other, then at her again. She's clearly dealing with something. It’s probably best to let her vent. It’s Kane who speaks first.  

“Are you…” A pause as he glances back at his brother. The Undertaker shrugs, so Kane continues. “... Alright?” It’s a question with an obvious answer, but he doesn’t really know what else to ask. This is Meg. Meg isn’t known for subtlety. (To be fair, neither are they. That’s why they get along so well.) … But he still thinks this is a lot. Something must have happened. 

That’s fine, though. They have the afternoon free if she needs them to hold someone down while she punches, or any help hiding the body.

[brothersgrim]

HURT/COMFORT

@excellentexecution​ asked:

i would never hurt you.

The prettiest lie ever told. The most obvious. To live was to hurt. Whether that was hurting oneself or hurting others, or, most likely, both, it was inevitable. He had learned that the hard way. He would continue being reminded of such for the rest of eternity. And Bret… He’d learn. Sooner or later, he would learn. 

It didn’t have to be intentional. Many times, it wasn’t. People left, people died, people said the wrong thing or acted in ways they didn’t understand. All of those things hurt. And people in their line of work were fickle, selfish beyond all else. Even more so than humanity already is. They would do anything to advance their own goals, not caring about anyone else. 

This was especially true for those dealing with the Undertaker. Once bitten, forever shy, as the saying went. 

It was a bittersweet understanding, because Bret looked like he really believed himself. As if he honestly meant it. 

The Undertaker says nothing, only hums a flat note and buries his face in his arms. He’s not sober enough to articulate any of this. He’ll do that in the morning. 

For now, he’s too busy leaning against Bret - it’s warmer that way.

[brothersgrim]

TO, ADAM, NAME: "Liz." AGE: "20." DO YOU LIKE TO CUDDLE?: "You're always so cold, I have to warm you up. I run hot, too, so we're a good match, big man." CAN WE MAKE-OUT: "Do you want to? I always want to." A NIGHT IN OR A DINNER OUT?: "A night in's nice, but I might have some money to treat you to the nicest spot in town, if you'll let me. Let me spoil you." ICE CREAM OR CHOCOLATE COVERED STRAWBERRIES?: "Chocolate strawberries. Oh, does sorbet count? I think you'd like sorbet, it's not too sweet. I should buy some." WHAT MAKES YOU A GOOD VALENTINE?: "That's not really for me to decide, is it? I'm pretty sweet, though. Really only to you, but that's what makes it special." WOULD YOU COOK FOR ME?: "I love cooking for you. Remember that one time I poured way too much pepper onto those omelets I made? It was bad. We both couldn't stop sneezing, there was just this big ol' pepper dust cloud. But you still said it was great. I'd cook for you any day of the week, baby." WOULD YOU LET ME COOK FOR YOU?: "If you want to! But I'd wanna help you. I like it when we cook together. Maybe we could try making something together?" ALWAYS YOURS, LIZ

VALENTINES APPLICATIONS || ACCEPTING

Always yours.

Always yours.

Always yours.

He's been reading those words over and over and over again. ... Of course, the other things sound nice, too.

"Nicest spot is with you." He says, pressing his face into her hair.

"But we can go to this new place, too."

[brothersgrim]

They’ve always been like that. Wild, vicious, and prideful. Letting years of anger leak out through the cracks of a cruel existence. Did it matter who their fury was meant for? No. Not anymore. (Perhaps it never had.) It was overflowing and all-consuming. Anything or anyone who got close would be swept away.. 

This time, the one who got too close was him. Steve was a tsunami like this - but he refused to drown. He snarls, all gnashing teeth and bared fangs. Fighting is in his nature. Violence is what he is. So it’s instinctive when he lashes out again, face twisting into a snarl when Steve launches his threat. 

“You can’t hold your own against one of the Harts.” Bitter after having been left in the ring. Bitter about having been cast aside again. Furious at having been challenged. “How in the hell do you ever expect to beat me?” It’s a low blow, and he might regret it when the heat between them cooled. He might want to say sorry. Maybe buy a drink or two to drown their sorrows. But now, when bruises sprawled fresh across his skin and aches still nestled against his bones, there was no way he would back down. He steps forward to close the gap again, shoulders drawn back and green eyes blazing. 

“You’re the one who got lucky.” He points a finger at Steve’s chest, weight shifting restlessly, “Lucky I don’t do something to fix that mouth of yours right now. Hell, you’re lucky I don’t kill you!” The betrayal had cut deep, had left him raw and guarded. Neck still ached. Head still pounded. Blood still boiled after being stabbed in the back. Not once, as far as he was concerned, but twice. What was it that Steve always said? 

Don’t trust anybody. 

“You ain’t ever taking this gold off me, Austin. Not like this.” 

@deadmenanddemons // cont.

somewhere between his first and second beer, he made up his mind to apologize. the deadman was an unintended victim. wrong place at the wrong time, caught in the crossfire of steve’s war with a ghost from his past. 

wild blonde hair and furious brown eyes fixed on him with a menacing gaze. the sole of a boot stomped down on taker’s chest, a clear message sent to its true target — there was no escape.

somewhere between his second and third beer, anger and pride clouded his judgment, and that was a hell of a lot easier to navigate than remorse. easier to shove the undertaker against a wall in his dressing room and growl in his face than it was to admit he was wrong. 

coughed up the excuse of looking for an equalizer while the deadman was left to deal with the brunt of punishment meant for steve. held his own against the foundation — punching, kicking, slamming bodies to the canvas once the surprise wore off and earned nothing but stunner for his trouble.

and somewhere beneath the haze of a blinding temper, guilt twisted deep in steve’s gut. it’s not green eyes and dark hair he envisions as he presses his weight into the undertaker. he is not the person steve wants to hurt, but in that moment, he does not speak the language of repentance.

a curious expression passes over steve’s features for as long as he is allowed the close proximity. evaporates in the instant rough hands shove him back and he rebounds enough to stand his ground. oh, there was plenty he wanted to say.

i’m sorry they hurt you. i’m sorry i left you. i’m sorry.

“i don’t appreciate gettin’ dropped on my head, you big dead son of a bitch.” comes out as a snarl instead, just as empty as he feels. steve takes a step forward to close the distance again, fists clenched at his sides. 

“you got lucky. i had every intention of taking that pretty little piece of gold from around your waist tonight. you and me — we ain’t through. not by a long shot.”

[brothersgrim]

Send me “💭” for my muse to blurt out a thought they’ve had about yours || ACCEPTING

@excellentexecution​ asked:

💭 // From excellentexecution. <3 <3 

"I can't figure you out. Why do you keep involving yourself? Why do you care?" He looks up from behind the mess of hair, brow furrowed and eyes searching. “This isn’t your business. You can just walk away - so why don’t you?”

[brothersgrim]

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

@excellentexecution​ asked:

“Oh, your hands are like ice. We need to get you out of here.“ // For Take from ExcellentExecution <3 

He blinks. Looks down at his hands. His brow furrows and a trace of a frown flickers across his features as he turns his hands this way and that, studying them as though there might be some kind of change. 

There isn’t. 

“They’re always cold.” He says bluntly, letting his hands drop to his sides. And it was true; he hadn’t truly been warm since his heart had stopped beating. “The chill of death is inescapable. I have accepted that my fate is to–” 

Oh.

Hart’s already opened the door. 

The Undertaker stands, staring, unmoving, in the parking lot. The door is still open. Bret seems like he’s waiting for something. 

For him. 

Even though he hasn’t been told to, the Undertaker can’t help but glance over his shoulder towards Ted’s car. It gleams in the dim light of the parking lot, freshly repainted and waxed. The Deadman wondered without permission where he’d gotten the money for that. Had it been paid for by the Undertaker’s matches?

Did Ted even need that money?

Of course he didn’t. Nobody needed to drown themself in opulence like he did. That was why– 

Bret was still waiting. The door was still open. Ted was nowhere to be found. … Did this count as an order? 

…

Maybe it did. He was going to pretend that it did. 

With one final glance to that shiny, shiny car, the Undertaker tugs his hat lower on his head and follows Bret Hart inside.

[brothersgrim]

TRUTH HURTS

@excellentexecution​ asked:

“Can’t you tell they love you?” // From Hitman. <3 

“What?” He blinks. Stares. 

There’s a confused furrow in his brow, a suspicious set to his jaw. What is that supposed to mean? It’s strange.

Suspicious. 

He looked back over his shoulder, back towards the curtain. He could still hear the crowd, roaring and screaming in a frenzy. For him, or for the people who’d come out next? He wasn’t sure. Ted was still out there, so wasn’t it for him? Even thinking about it felt… Odd. He was here to fight. To make money. To protect the home. It was a necessity. A duty. 

An order. 

It wasn’t meant to be enjoyable. And yet– He looks back at Bret. Then back to the ring. For a moment, he lingers there. Listening to the voices from beyond the curtain. Dwelling on what Bret had said. 

And then he bows his head, tugs his hat down lower, and leaves without another word. 

[brothersgrim]

sacredandwild‌:

“You ask me like I’m meant to know.“ His voice monotone and posture held high, just like he was working a job or waiting to receive orders of some sort. He could have easily stayed at the house or even hung out at the mansion while Jewel did her thing at the funeral home with Agma, but she insisted she wouldn’t be too long. Yet, there he stood feeling like he was about to be interrogated by the keeper.

He was never a master of conversation, a much bigger fan of being in the background and observing and learning through that, not sitting through idle chatter while waiting around.

He took in that scent again and while the Undertaker had the smell of death on him, he also smelt dead, yet didn’t have that other scent he was used to through dealing with vampires occasionally. So he was curious, but he’d never speak of it.

It was rude to ask people how they died, after all.

Silence filled the air for a few brief moments before he spoke again, this time giving something of a half turn to get a small glimpse of him. “Manyeo come here often?”

A raise of his brow. Curious. She didn’t tell him? He glanced back to the house. What was going on in there? He might need to look in on it. ... For now, though, he wasn’t at ease enough to leave this stranger in his yard. Too risky. For who? The yard, or the stranger? Yes, to both, in different measures. Either way, it’d be best that he stay here. (But he wouldn’t be happy about it.)

The question drew his attention back to the moment at hand. He nodded once.

“Sometimes.” It’s a simple answer, but honest. she’d started to come around more often; She used to be here all of the time. But he couldn’t set his calendar by it. She did what she did, and the rest of them just had to accept it. That’s how it worked. How - as he’d recently been reminded - it had always worked. This stranger was new. He didn’t remember her ever bringing anyone else along. (Then again, he was quickly learning that his memory was not necessarily accurate.) 

He knew enough to know this wasn’t an ordinary person. Nobody who spent time with Jewel ever was. He wasn’t entirely sure what this one did, though. He wasn’t inclined to ask. That sounded like too much of an ‘I show you mine, you show me yours' type deal.

That was off the table. Nobody outside of the family had to know. 

“You know her well?” 

[brothersgrim]

RANDOM ASKS || ALWAYS ACCEPTING

Anonymous asked: For zombie taker what was like like cross paths with Roddy pipper

He stares at nothing. He barely moves. … He blinks. 

“He was…” A pause. “An opponent.”

… Oh. It looks like that’s all you’re getting from him.

[brothersgrim]

@excellentexecution || from [x]

The bottle is empty now. Empty and used up. He could relate. He turns it around in his hands just once more before setting it on the floor. He keeps it within the edges of his vision, just to be safe. Don’t knock it over. Don't make a mess. Don't ruin it. He glances over at Bret, curiosity and caution alike filling his gaze. Even sitting beside each other, it feels like there's some sort of gap between them. 

He has seen the Hitman before. Of course he has; they’ve fought before. They’ve stood across from each other in the ring and exchanged blows. Why? He doesn’t know. Not really. Because it was a job. Because he’d been told to. The same reasons he did everything. Not like it mattered. Not like he had a choice. But it wasn’t often he saw Bret outside of the ropes. (He didn’t see many people outside the ropes, actually.) They had crossed paths a few times. And in those instances, Bret had always been bewilderingly kind. It never made sense to him. He had wondered about it. He had asked, once, and still isn’t sure he believes the answer he got. Whatever the reason, Bret stayed the course. It just made him even stranger. … The Undertaker keeps staring. 

Bret looks so different when he isn’t fighting. Dark, wavy hair still damp with sweat, but not matted or wild. Breathing calm and measured. Shoulders relaxed. There was a look in his eyes that the Undertaker didn’t quite understand. Something he couldn’t place. Something wholly foreign in the chaos that was their lives. He didn’t know what to make of it. 

…

He looked away. It’s easier to not think about it. Besides, he hasn’t been told to. So he doesn’t. And then Bret catches him off guard again. He’s good at that. When they’re in the ring, it feels like equal footing. It makes sense. Every blow has a reason, even if it isn’t a good one, and the intent is clear. Outside of the ring, he never knew what Bret was thinking. The aforementioned kindness was perplexing. Bret should hate him. He should hate Bret. Logically, they shouldn’t be sitting here. They should be suspicious of each other. And in a way, he was still suspicious of Bret. He had to want something. People always wanted something. The hand that fed was often clawed, the food it offered laced with poisons. And yet here they were. And yet this is what they were doing. And yet this is what they had done before. Not usually in Ted’s locker room. Not usually when Ted would be back so soon. (When he would be angry. When he would make it worse. When you make things worse. You always make things worse.) 

“It’s fine.” His voice is still hoarse, flat, but the words are his own. That’s still new. Saying what he wants to is a luxury. He tries not to abuse it. And… And it is fine. This is fine. He’s fine. They’re fine. He doesn’t find himself minding Bret’s presence at all. 

“You, uh…” He swallows, staring down at his hands. “You fought well tonight. too.” … It’s a start, at least. Being social is difficult. Yes, he’s watched people talk. Sometimes they talk at him. But holding conversation wasn't something he practised often. Maybe that's why he finds himself so unsure of what to say next. (Especially when his well-being was the topic.) 

“I’m fine.” He repeats. That much, he knows to say. It’s what he always says. He’s always fine. It's easier that way. Easier to act as though nothing bothers him than face the horrors of the world. He wants to work for Dibiase. The money is good. It makes sense to him. He’s fine. He is always fine. He is–

“... Books?” That makes him stop. And he stares again. He blinks, looks down, and snorts. “Let’s hope…” And he pauses, though there may be the slightest twitch of the corner of his lips, the ghost of a smirk. “That it’s not contagious.”