#kuroshitsuji x you

[faintrustle]

[officialundertakersmoocher]

Being the Undertaker's Lover may Include...

This is given-he always wants to make you laugh. he wants every moment of stress to be replaced with a smile

he actually likes cooking and other domestic tasks, so he will love to have you in the kitchen with him trying his recipes

you will catch him staring at a cookie jar more often than you can catch him staring at other women

he's so extremely loyal after spending his time learning the value of life and relationships

he sadly often has nightmares but waking up to you is his greatest comfort

you will be most integrating into his life and will see all sides of him. he may not let other people know him well but you two know each and every detail of each other

no matter how many years you know each other he will treasure talking to you most, about everything and anything

he's super playful but he won't ever make your affections sexual, cuddling is cuddling

he will however give you silly butt taps if he catches you off guard around the house

hes always touching you and keeping you close, and savors every moment

despite knowing that you can protect yourself, he most likely won't ever let there be a situation where you would have to. he's super protective and honestly always lurking 💀 he'll know when you're in danger before you do

if you want a NSFW version lmk! requests open 📩

[married-to-google-translater]

Can I request Sebastian Michaelis x female demon reader where they decide to do the demon ritual version of marriage, which is binding their souls together for eternity. They probably use the vows from the corpse bride because they're beautiful and don't mention God or anything like that.

Sebastian Michaelis

Well, forever would be a really long time.

Such "contracts" would not be so common among Demons.

But Sebastian would really love you.

And Demons can be a bit possessive.

So this would be the best way to celebrate the eternal union.

You would somehow be a servant at the Ciel mansion.

That's how you met.

Sebastian would fall in love with you at first sight.

You would be a cat demon

:D

Do I even need to explain a more detailed reason?

You wouldn't get married right away.

You would get to know each other slowly but surely.

Sebastian would like to make sure you don't try to steal Ciel's soul.

Your wedding would be a small occasion.

Just the two of you, really.

Binding souls together would be a long and somewhat painful process.

Sebastian would get time off for the first time XD

When it was over, nothing would change.

Except now you'd be together forever.

[almondmilkcleanser]

𝐒𝐮𝐛𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 - O1

■ ` ♡ characters / fandom ; f!reader x sebastian michaelis - kuroshitsuji + in a binding agreement

■ ` ♡ tw ; begging ; dominance ; dirty talk ; cumming inside + more ;MINORS DNI

■ ` ♡ word count ; 1k+

■ ` ♡ a/n ; it feels SO good to be back. Tbh I was doing some self-reflection and was feeling so burnt out over my hobbies but enough about that. I’m back. And yes, after MANY requests I am making this smutfic a smut series! Hang on for the ride loves!

main menu | one-shots menu | prologue chapter

“There’s been a change in assignments. Y/N will no longer be serving in the kitchen for the time being. For now, she will be in the garden. With Finn.”

“Me?!” Finn pointed at himself, both bewildered and apprehensive. 

“But, Sebastian-“

“Yes, Sebastian.” Ciel chimed in. With his eyes still closed, tea in hand and his leg crossed over the other, he spoke up. 

“It’s not like you to just abruptly change assignments. Especially for newer members of the house.”

Everyone watched his expression, neither fearful or in worry. You on the other hand just stood there, looking any direction but at the Young Master and his loyal servant. When you did catch a glance Sebastian’s way, his brooding burgundy eyes met yours, sending shockwaves from the top of your head to the pits of your sex.

Stop looking at me that way! You would shout in your mind. But the memories of the previous rendezvous before you two played vividly in your mind like a cinematic motion picture. You could feel his fingers press against your flesh, massaging the base of your neck, tilting your chin upwards so your two mouths can reunite again, and again, and again. 

If only it was as cut and dry as your mind forced itself to make it seem. But this was anything but that.

‘What ever do you mean the three days don’t have to be consecutive?! Three days are three days!” You shouted, pulling the covers to your chest in a flush. 

“Heh,” Sebastian effortlessly yanked the covers from your grasp, making you cover yourself with your bare hands and shaky knees. He stood there, watching your expression in nothing but his unbuttoned butler trousers. You could see the indentation of his obliques trail downwards towards-

“Such a silly things between you humans. Always rushing the ink to dry before even comprehending the fine print.” Like a father would scold a child, he shook his head back and forth, sucking his teeth in the same motion. 

“Explain yourself, Sebastian!” You barked. “And give me back the cover!” You jolted on your knees to grab the sheet, only to be pulled up by the wrist by Sebastian. Your upper body dangled in front of him like fresh meat to a wolf. The chilled breeze crept down your back and between your sex. You just knew he could smell you. If not by his clenched jaw then by his bemused smirk.

“Demon days and human days are different my dear. That’s why we can easily be 1000 years old compared to the human equivalent of one. But I’ll humor you with basic math: a demon “day” equals to a human “week” while a demon “month” equates to half of a human “year”. Hence why we are so slow to age in numbers. But, I’ll be fair.”

He doesn’t have a choice!

“Since you have so easily shown me that my,” he inhaled the nape of your neck, emitting a growl from his lips. “Indulgences, are just too much for your delicate flesh to partake at such a high demand, I’ll map it out for you in easier conditions.”

You swallowed. Hard. 

“I have you to redeem my, hmmm, reward, within the span of 3 weeks. But when I do claim my reward, for that day, you are mine. For that entire day.”

“But-“ you stammered, not sure what to make of this deal. You surely wish he was more specific on his terms! “My work-“

“Don’t worry about your work. Just be prepared. I can either have you for three consecutive days or,” he grinned. It was that smile of a mischievous child who just got away with stealing a piece of bread.

“I can keep you on your toes. Never knowing when I’ll strike.” Suddenly, his eyes peeled open. Those warm chestnut brown eyes glossed into a devilish hue of burgundies and purples. He was enjoying the power. And you.. you enjoyed the want in his eyes. The hunger that you assumed every demon possessed. 

You enjoyed the danger. 

“You’re like a mouse in the dark and I am the preying cat. Don’t you agree?” You swallowed in response. Your mouth grew dry and your heartbeat thumped in your ears. 

“What about the Young Master?” Sebastian’s hands snaked around your waist. Tiptoeing around the damp goose-pimples at the base of your spine.  His eyebrow flinched at your inquisitions. He wished you’d stop worrying so much. 

“What about him?” He took it upon himself to pull you closely. As he inhaled the pheromones permeating off your body, your arms collapsed around his neck. He cupped your ass, palming its entirety in between squeezing the widest portion of your hips. As he continued to kiss your neck, your breath hitched. He was growing needy again, and so were you.

“I don’t want to be out on the streets,” sigh. “Sebastian.”

“Nonsense.” He popped his index finger into his mouth, coating it with spit. As the remnants of his saliva split between his mouth and his finger, he affixed it at the entrance of your pussy. It pleased him how wet and ready you were, but it didn’t stop you from arching your back to grant him easier access.

How long had you two been at it that night? When all this started the candle you’d lit in your chambers was freshly lit and burning bright. Now it was near the 3/4 quarter mark. 

“A beautiful creature like yourself just won’t do for the cruel cobblestones of London.” Your moans were getting louder. More lustful. More breathless. His one finger supplemented into two, then three. 

With his digits still massaging your insides, he laid you on the bed, never missing a beat or the rhythm of your womanly needs. 

“Three weeks.” Sebastian repeated. 

“Three weeks.” You confirmed. Holding your knees to your chest for a better view of your slicked entrance. 

“How many weeks?” He reached into his trousers, stroking his length to full mass. Once in position, he guided himself inside of you, his eyes lowered, jaw clenched, and brows furrowed. You felt fucking amazing. Better than any woman he’s accompanied throughout the ages. And the way you easily accomodated him made him want to ravish you more.

“Oh, god-“ you moaned, squeezing your breasts in pleasure. The length of his dick stretched you out, curved around your tightness, and rubbed every crevice of your body with the devil’s kiss itself. It was intoxicating to make love to a demon. Like your entire being was on fire and you willingly chose to be consumed by the flames.

“How many, lass? Don’t tell me you’ve averted to being a quivering mess already.” He tantrically stroked inside of you, precising his rhythm so you could feel every inch of him and him of you. 

“Say it, Y/N.” He demanded, upping his pace while holding one leg in the air. Although in slits, you could see his eyes flickering from brown to red until it remained its hellish hue.

“Three!” You cried out. “Three, Sebastian!” 

“Heh,” he pulled out, flipped you around, and lifted your hips into the air. Willingly, you let him pull your hair as he made his way inside of you again.

“That’s much better.”

There was an eerie chill in your chambers. And suddenly that same lazily flickering candle blew out.

END

NEXT CHAPTER

itag:

@preciousamethys

@two-pounds-of-crab-legs

@crow-like-shiny-things

@chrollohearttags 

@muvaginger 

[grimmweepers]

𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍𝐄𝐃: OCT 1ST

— ♤ 𝐩𝐚���𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Sebastian Michaelis x Female!Phantomhive reader

— ♤ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: reader is in her twenties, SFW but slightly suggestive, reader is ciel’s older sister who also has a pact with sebastian, reader wears a silk scarf around her neck to cover up her pact mark, confession, gothic, victorian english, forbidden love, power imbalance if you squint (masterxservant), timeline isn’t canon, calls you ‘my lady’, 2.7k wc

𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

a/n: this piece is the soft opening for my kinktober event! it's SFW but worry not! the actual filth will come very very soon. enjoy the read! the title is named after this song

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: bound by duty and pact, sebastian has served you and ciel for years. but as forbidden desires grow, the line between lady and servant blurs. on a still night, away from the world's noise, your butler confronts you and you discover that love is both perilous and powerful.

reblogs and interactions are always appreciated ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You never celebrate your birthday.

Your soul was traded long ago for a hand in retribution so now you'd prefer not to mark the passing of your limited years.

Each year was like another tally of how long it had been since the great fire, a stinging reminder of how long you've survived without your parents.

So while the rest of polite society makes birthdays an extravaganza with galas and banquets, you welcome another year by sending your staff on temporary leave and Ciel with them.

"Go into town and enjoy yourselves." 

This was non-negotiable but Ciel understood your reason better than anyone else. So off they went for their annual day of leisure—and bless the beating hearts of your servants for never questioning why you chose isolation as your way of celebrating. Distracting them with the best rooms at the local establishment was partially to blame.

When everything is said and done, the Phantomhive manor is always left sitting in a biting cold, allowing you to finally take in a fresh breath of solitude.

In the dead of night, the manor offered little light aside from the moon peaking through the windows, and with no maid or butler to tail you with a candelabra, your presence would only be known by the sound of your footsteps echoing in the halls. 

Each year on your birthday, you were no different from a ghost, only that you had a heartbeat.

You found yourself stopping at the ballroom entrance and after giving an almighty push to the wooden doors, they slowly groaned open.

Refined as it was, any semblance of glamour in this room disappeared when the doors shut behind you. The ballroom looked much smaller without its usual lighting; the shadows cascading from each corner made it haunting—almost derelict. Despite there being no party, you were still dressed for the occasion. 

Alone or not, you wouldn’t be caught dead looking poorly. 

Your pace remained slow as you strode toward the center, entertaining yourself with painfully accurate scenarios if you were hosting one of your usual gatherings. Poor Finnian would probably be running around, setting forget-me-nots to their respective arrangements; Baldroy would be cooking in the kitchen, trying his best not to light his dishes ablaze; Mey-Rin would be somewhere tripping over her own feet, and as for Sebastian…  Well, he’d be making sure it doesn’t get worse than that. As much as it pained you to praise Sebastian, he was always reliable even when faced with the toughest predicaments. Everything always seemed to run smoothly when he was around. 

This made you snort. 

Of course, Sebastian was reliable. His bustling duties are part of the contract and everyone would suffer if he were to breach it. 

Between the clicking sound of your shoes against the smooth hardwood, you thought about how many years had passed since creating your pact. Five years ago, you and your brother had nothing to lose except the one thing that made you humans—your souls. And even that was given up for him to be eternally bound to you.

The pact was purely transactional. 

Nothing more, nothing less. 

At least, that’s what you’d been trying to convince yourself for the last year. You’ve been through enough adventures together to dull a weak heart. If he held back within the first few years to preserve your professional relationship, you could feel his restraint chipping away the longer you stayed together. 

Was it wishful thinking or was a demon truly fancying you?

While the butler occupied your train of thought, you hadn’t realized you stopped walking. You gave yourself a moment to brush away the last of your thoughts and remained in the centre of the floor. The silver moonlight nodded at you through the glass roof and with open arms, you suddenly spun in a complete circle, basking in the empty ballroom in all its glory. At that moment you felt so easy, so yourself, so—

Thump.

You snapped your head toward the sound, your heart racing only a little. It came from the staircase, but it was far too dark to see who caused it or what. All that ease you had just felt left as quickly as it came. 

“Who goes there?” You called into the void.

Another thump. Footsteps. 

You sucked in your breath, kicking yourself for not carrying at least a dagger. Oh well, you mentally shrugged. In cases like this, at least you had somebody to summon.

With no answer, the figure began to emerge from the darkness as it reached the foot of the staircase and what was revealed made you want to scream a string of curses.

That bloody tailcoat! 

You’d be able to recognise who that belonged to even if you wore an eyepatch like your damn brother. “Oh for God’s sake,” you mumbled under your breath.

“Forgive me if I startled you, my lady.”

“What the hell is going on? What are you doing here?! And who's with Ciel?" 

"May I suggest for you to calm down—"

"As I recall, I sent everybody on leave. That includes you.” 

With a gloved hand over his heart, Sebastian bowed earnestly, “Ciel is being taken care of. I understand your need for isolation but it’s not often good for your mental state, my lady. I thought I could provide you with some company even if you wish to remain stoic.”

“You’re going against an order.”

He approached you slowly as if his sudden presence wasn’t the only thing he had up his sleeves, “I know I am and I know you’re capable of punishment at a later time. I’ll be happy to accept it if that means you get to experience something other than loneliness and silence on your birthday.” With a hint of a smile on his lips, he glanced at the silk scarf you had neatly wrapped around your neck, “Should you feel uncomfortable, you have the power to stop me by force.”

“You’ve gotten quite bold lately, haven’t you?” You crossed your arms and sighed. “So what next? Do I need to walk you through my impressive list of things I do whenever I—”

“There’s no need,” Sebastian took his last step in front of you before the ballroom suddenly came to life. The moon still shone as your main source of light but as if a delicate veil had been lifted, soft, orchestral music rippled inside the hall. There was nobody else aside from the two of you but you felt as though an entire symphony was hiding in the shadows. Leave it to Sebastian to wield the pleasure of music as a weapon, especially when it was the one indulgence you could truly say you cherished. 

“I’m guessing this is your doing?”

He extended his hand as a subtle invitation, bowing as he did. 

“Guilty as charged, my lady.”

Slightly reluctant, you accepted his hand but not without question. “Are you trying to butter me up with a dance?”

“That depends on whether or not it’s working,” He answered as he pulled you into a gentle waltz. You both move with natural elegance, light on your feet while the music ebbs and flows, and the melody feels familiar to you like you’ve done this many times before. You’ve danced with a handful of Dukes and Barons but nobody has ever led you around a ballroom as gracefully as Sebastian. He whirled you in a full circle and then pulled you close to his chest. You huffed in response.

Sebastian resisted the urge to smirk, finding your flushed expression rather cute.

“I take it that you are displeased?” 

“No,” You dropped your shoulders, “But dancing with my butler wasn’t in my playing cards for tonight.”

“Yet here we are, waltzing in the ballroom,” he twirled you again before settling his hand around your waist, “Consider this a birthday present, my lady.”

You stared at Sebastian with confusion. He was the strangest person you’ve ever known. Despite him being the embodiment of somebody’s nightmare, you felt safe around him, but even more so when your eyes met. 

You hated it. 

“And why gift me something this year? What’s so different from previous years?” 

After all, he wasn’t always so stubborn.

He slid his hand to your lower back to gently dip you; as he reeled you back in, he held you closer than before, only stopping when your faces were inches apart. From here, he could smell a hint of your perfume and he could have sworn he felt your heartbeat. He hesitated for a moment as a tinge of guilt succumbs him, “Would you mind if I told you something… personal, my lady?”

You answered curtly with a nod.

“This year is different for two reasons. The first is that you’ve haunted my thoughts for quite some time now. And the second is that… you look especially beautiful tonight.”

Your feet had stopped shuffling at this point. You stood before him, ignoring that your heart had skipped a beat, “What are you trying to say?”

His eyes flickered over your face while his mind flicked over all the possible things to answer. Instead of responding to the question, he changed the subject slightly. 

“My Lady, have you ever been in love before?”

“I can’t say I have,” you blinked at him. “And what do you know about love, demon?”

You couldn’t help but assume that his version of love was wicked and cruel. You’ve seen him exploit the human condition more times than you could count. 

“I won’t pretend I’m an expert at love but in my long life, I could say I know things about it that you would hardly believe.” Sebastian smiled to himself, amused at the irony of being called a demon when these feelings were the most human they'd ever been. He traced small circles on your waist while shifting his other hand to the crook of your neck, never breaking his gaze as he freed the knot that kept your scarf in place. The scarf was discarded onto the floor but neither of you cared to look. “I’ve seen it in all forms and colours. Love is beautiful, despairing, and everything in between. Love can ruin everything you’ve ever built. It can be your biggest weakness or your greatest weapon. But more importantly, I know what someone looks like when they’re in love.” 

A brief silence followed as he allowed himself to take your hand once more and he could feel your grasp tighten so faintly when his lips hovered over your skin, “Pact or not, you have me wrapped around your little finger. But something is killing me. Would you like to guess what it is?” 

It was unbecoming of him but he kissed the back of your hand, leaving the pact mark on your exposed skin glowing — ultimately betraying every feeling you tried to suppress. You swallowed thickly before playing it off with a laugh.

“No. Enlighten me instead.”

“As you wish.”

Sebastian hummed as he began swaying you into a much slower version of a waltz, holding you so close you touched at the hip. He lifted your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his, but he was almost left entranced by how ethereal you looked with his mark on you. It wasn’t the first time seeing it but it was the first time he allowed himself to imagine the many other ways he could imprint you.

“Well, my lady, you have no idea how maddening it is to serve you, to watch over you, to constantly want to touch you, to hold you, while knowing that I cannot. It is pure agony. You could call that love, could you not?” 

You were barely able to continue speaking, the feelings you had also been hiding were threatening to bubble at the surface, “Well, I suppose you could.” While you rocked from side to side, he thumbed the skin around your jaw as if to ease whatever thought was wracking your brain.

Suddenly stepping away from you, Sebastian said, “Pardon my rudeness, but this is a reminder that my senses are far sharper than a human’s—” he then twirled you in three spins, and when you faced him for the final time, he caught you by the waist, “—so is it safe to assume you carry the same burden as I?”

This brought your waltz to a slow stop but the music continued to quietly play as if the ballroom became a whimsical world unto itself. As you got back on your feet, you rested your hands on his chest while your head hung low. It always frustrated you a great deal that he could read your soul like a book. All you could do was chuckle—earning a brow raise from the butler—but when you finally decided to look up at him, what remained of that chuckle was a rare and defeated smile. 

“You caught me,” you confessed.

In truth, he was surprised. He didn’t think your answer would come so easily, even letting out a quiet laugh of his own. Not counting your sadistic grins while you and your kin carried orders at the behest of the Queen, this was the first time he had seen you smile so genuinely in his presence—he couldn’t help but marvel at you. He found himself captivated by it but soon realised that despite your smile, you were just as flustered.

“I knew it,” Sebastian failed to prevent himself from squeezing your waist. No matter how many centuries had passed, humans always felt so fragile to him. You opened your mouth in a silent gasp but he leaned towards you, his voice a low whisper in your ear, “Now, I must tell you something else. However, you may deem it inappropriate.” 

A shiver went down your spine and even though you were aware you were alone, you quickly glanced around the room nonetheless, “As if this wasn’t already beyond inappropriate but be my guest.”

Sebastian carefully considered his next words but there was no way for him to conceal his desire any longer—he called your name but his voice was dripped with something you couldn’t put your finger on. “You’ve become so intoxicating, like sweet poison I willingly drink.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. All the words you had prepared died on your tongue immediately. Sebastian always prided himself on being a butler worth his salt, so in the years that you’ve been together, not once has he let formalities slip. You took a moment to think about the events that led you here and embarrassingly, the warmth you were already suffering with, deepened. He wasn’t addressing you as the Lady of the House nor as a butler. He was speaking to you as Sebastian Michaelis, a love-struck fiend.

His fingers brushed against your forehead gently, moving the hairs away from your eyes, studying you intently with a faint hint of wonder in his stare. He had always done his best to hide his attachment but you felt his arm around your waist growing more possessive,

“And seeing you smile—the sight of you is just mesmerising. It unravels me.”

You could feel the confusion and irritation and your mind melted down by his show of affection. “I wish the world would give me more to smile about,” you muttered in a heartbeat. 

As if your body had a mind of its own, you caressed his cheek and it was cold in comparison to your skin. 

“How damned am I to only smile in the presence of the wicked?” You continued. 

He closed his eyes and leaned into your hand—a low, contented hum slipped past his lips. If he could drift into a dreamless dream like this, he would. 

“Ah, but are you damned or destined?”

Under the cloak of night, you moved your hand against his lips, making his eyes flutter open in surprise.

What do you think, Sebastian? 

Now, it was his turn to smile. Sebastian began placing trails of hot, forbidden kisses down your fingers; you tasted soft and warm, drawing him in like a secret only the two of you shared. 

When he saw how all of the sharp edges and hard masks you used to hide behind were gone, he desired nothing more than to take you, hand in hand, towards a place with no promise of light. Despite it defying all conventions, Sebastian whispered with sincerity you had never heard from him before,

“A soul such as yours is so very tempting. Be it that you are doomed, I will enjoy burning with you to the fullest.”

a/n: thanks for reading! happy 1st of october!

© 2024 grimmweepers — do not repost, copy, translate, modify my work on any platform

networks: @pixelcafe-network @houseofsolisoccasum

dividers: @/astrumaur

[fanfictionsworld]

Can we plese please get a reader who's tired of Sebastian bullshit, like she's just there always facepalmed, not really attracted to him but treats him like every other boys (bitch lol). Like when he tries to charm her she just walks away with no expression, she's not even a tsundere or anything, just completely tired from the weirdness.

Okey i am so sorry for taking so long to write anything but here it is hope you will be satisfied.

Fem reader/Sebastian trying to impress but falling haha/reader is a bitch but a cool one which i love/Sebastians ego ruined hahah/

You are very difficult to him,which he hates.

You can not be impressed with anything he does and that eats him alive.

Why is this human denying me.

Like how i am beautiful,smart,i cook,i am everything any human could possible imagine,if not better.

He is alwasy thinking how he can step up his game with you.

No matter how hard he trys you alwasy find some way to not care or notice.

You avoid him everywhere.

If you possible see him in town with Ciel,you will say hi to Ciel and not spear him a glance..

Avoid all his questions of how are you,do you need any help with anything or are you free this afternoon,etc.

You just keep walking an completely ignore him while you shop

Which in truth is very irritating for him.

If he tells you any filrtatious compliment you just ignore him and keep walking.

And when you had enough of him you just top and say, ,,You need to stop folowing me around like a lost puppy you look desprate maybe you should do something better with your free time rather then stalking like a creep that you are.

To him that was like a dagger trough his hart.

He told you that which you responded with ,,Yes like you have one damon scum".Which he found incredibly attractive and he was deeply offended by that.

Of cours you did not care,you just walked past him wishing him a good day saying that he should you use him manipulative skill on someone else rather than you because you are not an imbecile to fall for it.

Sebastian watches as you walk past him,stunned and impressed.

He knows you will not fall for him,but is he going to pass on a challenge on seducing you of course not he loves playing cat and mouse with you.

[tabibitto]

Pretty Little Liar | Black Butler

m.list

CW: little angst, heavy smut, corruption kink, breeding kink

A/N: yk this was originally drafted for a comfort/fluff and somehow my horny ass made it into my first official smut on my page. Eat well bitches.

Demons need no rest.

Those of which are often spoken of with disdain, cannot feel. They cannot taste what humans think delicious, they have no need for the mundane things such pathetically weak animals cannot survive without.

Their contract's contents vary. Simple things as an assassination to spending an entire human lifetime with someone. Fulfilling their every need, all whilst hiding their satanic facade behind a mask:

A loving husband, a doting father, a caring butler. Each mask carried a new name, a new aesthetic and set of rules to play.

Tonight, he continued his ongoing three years as Sebastian Michaelis, butler to a small and truly incapable child if it wasn't for him. Though, many things in this world, if truly credited. Would belong to his dark and burning world of fire and blood. Demons did not exist to rule over their inferior prey, they were not to mingle with histories unless directly ordered to by their contracts

Nothing, he did was without the rules of his contract. But Sebastian was never one to ignore loopholes. After all, such rules could be boring or too restricting for his liking.

Truly, honest to heaven and hell alike, if any of his kind were to see what he used loopholes and spare time for they would spit in his face and send him back to damnation. An utter laughingstock, a disgrace to the arts of soul cultivation.

His demonic nature, weakened and tweaked by that of whom he was supposed to consume after a goal was met.

Human.

Such a pretty one at that, inside and out. A rare thing to find among specimens. Especially, with a soul begging, calling for him to take as his own.

Sebastian never made double contracts, he didn't like the hassle of pleasing two people at once....in this scenario of course ;)

And yet for you, he would do anything.

For as long as Lord Phantomhive lived, he was free to do and be with you as he pleased. With you the mask fell and revealed his true, playful and cunning self. You never seemed to mind

In fact you relished in it, abused and used it to your pleasure and he would wallow in you over and over. Letting your fragile being wrap and caress his own. In return for protection, sex, love, lies, death.

Whatever you wished for. That would only be fair. A thing he never gave and only demanded to receive. Selfish

And with you he still was, selfish. Sebastian wanted you all to himself. A delicious slice of cake, waiting to be cut into.

With the way you allowed him to split you open, and use you as he pleased after doing what you wished of him.

How beautiful..how foolish to stain your soul with such a vile vermin as himself. Fuck, he loved all of it

Corrupting your pretty head until all you could utter was his given name, relishing in his touch, verbally needing his body, his kisses, his spit, his cum to corrupt you whole until your body became one with his. Until Satan himself planted the seed of damnation deep inside, and Sebastian would spend eternity using, loving and lying to you.

Whatever pretty little lie it would be, you two would exchange empty words, read out a script of new lives in the human world over and over, cultivating a human, ripping into it alongside him..

"S-Sebastian! Seb...ngh.. Sebastian slow down p-please~" You pleaded, tears streaming down your face as you clawed at the hand clutching your throat. Gasping for air yet wanting him to take it from you. your body curling inwards into his hips. Wanting to runaway yet you couldn't... wouldn't move until he filled your little cunt to the brim with his corruption.

You knew what he was. Who he was. Yet that didn't stop you from wanting him in fact you needed his attention more. You demanded more of him, cruelly, lovingly Moreso then that master of his. Yet he didn't seem agitated like with every other living being in his presence

Sebastian almost seemed to enjoy your demands, he found your control over him amusing and he couldn't wait to see what you wanted next. His smug and knowing smiles a complete mockery of you, he knew full well you never were in charge once you were in his chambers

His frustration on everyone else, his need for his master's soul, his desire for your pussy wrapped around his cock, your mouth's snug fit on him. All of it taken out on your delicate body.

His frustration could never be with you. No his pretty princess was too perfect of a specimen for Sebastian to get mad at that's why he was your plaything during the day. Sebastian Michaelis was yours

But at night. During the witching hour you were reduced to a simple fuck toy, a cuddle partner, a friend, a lover, whatever he wanted you for you gave to him. You were his.

Sebastian let go of your reddening throat, and just as he heard you choke out a breath of life, he shoved your face into the pillows, pounding his hips down with all his weight into your quivering hole, muffling your screams into his bed, unused for years and only now did it begin to warm with your body lying next to his after every session.

"My..what a whore ive got all to myself...look at you~"

Sebastian shifted over in the bed and turned you around so you were facing the mirror on his wall. Roughly pulling your head back, wrapping a free arm around your waist as he made you watch yourself be fucked like the toy he loved you for

"You know im a demon, you know once my contract is over ill be done with you just as ill be done with him. My summoning was his doing, and my disappearance will all be his as well. And yet you so eagerly await me here every night for payment of all i do for you."

You heard every word loud and clear, yet as a response you could only babble about how his tip pushing into your g-spot with every thrust felt so good. Truly pathetic

"You like this don't you hmm? Tell me pretty, you like when i come and fuck this hole every night? Fill that pussy of yours full."

He spat dirty words into your ear, and his rough and hard thrusts increased in speed until he had to occupy your mouth with his to muffle your screams as he fucked you stupid.

"More! More please more more more moreee....fuck!" Squealing before growing silent, you trembled as you came, pulsating around him. Knees tingling into numbness.

After a moment of being on cloud nine, you were thrown down onto the bed, Sebastian pulled out and you whimpered at the loss.

Suddenly feeling your leg being yanked open in missionary, Sebastian pulled you to him, pushing your legs up into your chest as he aligned himself with you once more.

Taking away every ounce of rest you might have, every thought became his and nothing in this world was needed more then his cock rutting into you like the animal he was.

Use him, fuck him, love him.

Until lies become truth, love becomes pain, grief into joy, Sebastian be your plaything and you his.

And then he will cease from your life, mere dust in the wind.

A faint and insignificant memory of what could have been.

[blue-sterling0357]

Ciel with a s/o who uses a lot of sarcasm?

( I wrote a much as possible for my pea-brain..)

Ciel Phantomhive with a sarcastic! S/O

┠ Ciel is kind of confused but likes the little bit sense of humor you have in your tone…if you have any that is, he himself can be a bit sarcastic at times, but honestly people don’t often understand sarcasm from genuine and serious ways of talking, so he doesn’t do it too often, but you on the other hand…..

┠ When people ask blatantly stupid and obvious questions, Ciel has this horrible urge to use sarcasm to answer them but he doesn’t as he’s a high man but you have no fear and so you give all those answers he’s thinking but won’t speak out…

┠ People can’t even say anything to you, as you’re not their servant or kid and are a s/o of THE CIEL PHANTOMHIVE! They don’t obviously want to get ripped to shreds by his and the butler’s passive-aggressive comments or they may not be seen again….honestly depends…

┠ Sebastian honestly understand everything you say if Ciel can’t, and he tries hard not to laugh cause honestly you’re the only one who has a sense of humor in such a time, god people are miserable and especially the demon he has to serve a puppy who yaps all the time….

┠ Ciel cannot count the time you answered sarcastically to someone and they tried to make sure they don’t do anything rash…..Makes up as it is quite funny seeing the people’s reactions, it’s priceless and very funny….

┠ And you not only answer that way to other people but the servants as well obviously…and hey obviously don’t understand you, until Sebastian gives them a remark on how dumb they actually are…

┠ At times Ciel also doesn’t understand you…..until Sebastian says, “Please forgive bocchan, dear, he is still only a child~” while Ciel is slapping and hitting him, blushing and yelling “SEBASTIAN HOW DARE YOU CALL ME A CHILD, I HAVE A LOVER AND ALREADY OLD ENOUGH!”….And you’re in the background only giggling at them…

┠ Ciel having a sarcastic S/O means, he will have be laughing or getting annoyed and mad at you for speaking in sarcasm while Sebastian just stands there grinning to himself….He knows, he’s a bit dense, but stop it for god’ s sake!

[dawn-moths]

"Epitaph"

Undertaker x Female Reader

word count: 15,900+

(requested by @anxious-chick // After running into the mysterious guest known as “Undertaker” at several of Rachel and Vincent Phantomhive’s weekly parties, the two of you eventually take an interest in one another, even if your part in that begins as somewhat reluctant. However, over time, as you grow more comfortable around one another, you find perhaps there's a reason you two were destined to meet, starting with the fact that he's the first one to show you physical touch isn't something to be afraid of.)

disclaimer/content warning: 18+ content! minors dni! plot heavy in the beginning (sort of slow burn) with smut at the end, loss of virginity, best way i can describe this is like a one-sided reluctant acquaintances to lovers lol, bittersweet ending, some mentions of drinking/alcohol.

*ao3 mirror*

***

The cemetery beyond the mortuary was empty at this time of night, the small, early morning hours just beginning to creep over the horizon, staining the dark velvets of night with a fine veil of ghostly greys, the moonlight breaking through the thick shield of clouds overhead. Through the latticed windows of the kitchenette, silver beams slipped through the glass to lay on the cool tile floor, the table by the sill where you used to sit and read your mystery novels now overgrown with houseplants.

It was all he had left of you— ferns and pothos and calatheas.

Houseplants, and the loop of your hair that was preserved behind the glass of his mourning lockets.

Out of the countless bodies he’d seen through death, tended to and prepared to be placed perfectly in their eternal resting place, you had been the most beautiful and the most heartbreaking.

It had been years since he’d shed even a single tear over one of the deceased— decades— maybe even over a century— but for you, after all this time, he guessed he still had a few lingering shreds of humanity left in his crypt of a heart after all. No matter how far he tried to bury his grief, his mourning, your passing had finally been the thing to unearth it.

Standing before your headstone beneath the kitchen window, facing the direction of the setting sun, your favorite time of day, tracing the letters of your name with his sullen chartreuse gaze, slivers of emerald slipping through the gaps of his curtain of silver bags, he just let the tears fall. If anyone else had been around to see, they would’ve never believed the funeral director was actually crying over one of his corpses.

But you had been so much more than just a body, once upon a time. It haunted him to think one day he might be the only soul left to remember you’d even existed at all. But then again, those were all memories he still held dear. He could recall them as if they’d occurred only yesterday, could see the curve of your profile from across the room, feel the way the dip of your waist fit perfectly into his palm, hear the lilt of your laugh, able to amuse you with anything he said if he really wanted to once he’d finally deciphered your sense of humor.

Those days were over for you now, but he could still relive pieces of them, their echo reverberating through his mind as soon as he plucked the first string on one. No matter how melancholy the tune, the melody was still just as sweet.

Strolling away from your resting place, venturing further into the garden of graves that lay beyond, he began to hum a quiet song to himself, one he’d heard time and time again back when you two had first fallen into each other’s orbit. Despite the sadness, it made him smile. He wished he would’ve asked to dance with you sooner, danced with you more, once he’d finally gotten the chance.

He could almost feel the waltz welling within him, doing a turn and imagining your hands clasped with his, twirling you gracefully, allowing you to unravel just far enough to give the illusion of breaking away only to return to him, wearing that mischievous smile he so adored.

How he longed to revisit those nights in more than just his memories— the mysterious gatherings, the lavish parties, no matter what menagerie of wealthy, well-bred guests were in attendance, his interest always locking in on you.

But even he couldn’t have guessed, back then, that he would’ve ever grown so attached as to weep for you once you were dead…

***

It had all began at one of the Phantomhive’s illustrious, notorious nighttime banquets, each and every guest hand picked and carefully curated, placed strategically within the mansion’s hosting perimeter, down to the seating arrangements at dinner and the order in which the carriages arrived to deliver you all home at the end of the event.

The first few times you’d been invited, you hadn’t a clue why you were there. Because what could Vincent and Rachel Phantomhive possibly want to do with a local news column writer such as yourself? They’d barely spoken to you upon your arrival, too busy mingling with the more important guests, but as you’d awkwardly skirted the corners of the room, the neglect had given you the opportunity to do what it was you were best at.

Survey the crowd.

People watch.

Discover the strengths and weaknesses of your fellow party-goers all while remaining anonymous and tucked away into the shadows.

It was how you’d quickly began to rise through the ranks of the journalists at your press department, sniffing out mysterious stories and the savage truths behind them before anyone else even had the chance to pick a direction to start in.

To yourself, you thought it just made you a good journalist. To others, it made you dangerous.

And if anyone besides the hosts of the evening knew just exactly how lethal you could become with a pen and notepad in your hand, they’d all be anxiously vying to convince you they weren’t like other arms dealers and black market traders or any other less-than-ethical variety of underworld rat skittering through London’s secret mazes.

But that had all been a part of Vincent and Rachel’s plan. Have you stir things up just enough to have the vermin scatter, then all they’d need to do would be to divert them towards the trap.

By the fifth time you’d accepted their ominous invitation— why you kept returning despite the uneasiness it all gave you, you weren’t sure, other than your innate curiosity and just so happening to have most nights free from your busy work schedule— your hosts had finally found it appropriate to introduce themselves to you personally.

Even before you’d begun attending the parties, seen the infamous Phantomhive’s with your own eyes, you’d heard the rumors— not just of their wealth, but of their beauty as well.

Rachel and Vincent both bore striking appearances. They had this air about them, something you just couldn’t put your finger on, that made you both weary and trusting of them on sight. Like a siren singing from a rock near the shore, they lured you in with their elegant charms, but get too close and you’d find yourself drowning.

“Ah, there she is,” Vincent had said as he and his wife gracefully approached you. “The woman of the hour. Welcome, welcome.” You gave them a respectful courtesy, bowing your head and clutching your skirts, hoping to hide how your hands had begun to shake, your nerves getting the better of you.

“Thank you for having me,” you replied, trying to sound actually grateful instead of skeptical. You were going to keep your confusion to yourself, just let it go and enjoy being able to attend while it lasted, but then something inside you decided against it and you asked, “But— and excuse me if this is out of turn— why, exactly, have I been invited…?”

Rachel and Vincent both laughed and, for a moment, all air of intimidation seemed to disappear from them. Until they’d looked at each other, then looked back at you, smiling like cats who’d just caught a mouse and intended on teasing the poor creature for a bit before sinking its fangs down into the rodent’s throat.

Vincent leaned in, close enough to make you flinch, close enough to raise a slight heat into your cheeks. “Because, my dear journalist…” he’d whispered, “Rachel and I have a very important favor to ask of you.”

The favor in question, as it turned out, was more so a job. The Phantomhive’s couldn’t be discovered as double agents or else their entire cover operation would be blown, so naturally they sought out second hand services. But your willingness to spy on their guests for them didn’t come for free. They’d never even dream of inferring that you work without compensation of some kind. So, in exchange for your services, they were willing to put in a good word for you at the top newspaper in all of London.

“Just take your pick of the columns,” Rachel had said with a sly wink. “Any one your heart desires, do this for us and it shall be yours.”

At first, it almost seemed, and felt, too good to be true. But you were tired of getting stuck with the inane, mundane, and oftentimes completely domestic stories handed off to you by the other men at the office. If you came in with a headline worthy story, it was always one of them who got to claim it, making you do all the work only to sign it off with their name, as if any one of them could ever even hope to be half the writer— half the detective— you’d been with half the time in the game.

It was tempting, though, what was it they said about temptation again? Something about surrending to it in case it never came your way again?

Perhaps that was the reason you’d been so inclined to accept their offer in the end. Because, if they really were the sirens you suspected them to be, this opportunity felt like a liferaft tossed out to sea. You’d already made the mistake of drawing too close to the beast. Now all you could do was grasp onto the first thing that could help you escape the icy waters unscathed.

So, from there on out, every event of theirs that you attended you made sure to stay diligent, deceptively demure as you shied away from the thickest crowds, wearing clothes that looked nice enough to blend in but not so extravagant as to be the center of attention, your hair fixed into an elegant, albeit modest updo, always seeming to be holding a glass of whatever alcohol was being served that night that never found itself empty. Although, unlike most of the other guests, that wasn’t because the servants kept coming around to refill it. You had to stay focused, so, raising the rim of the crystal to your lips, you merely pretended to drink, yet another way to blend in.

However, despite the fact your eye for booking someone as shady or salacious was a very sharp, very skilled one, there had been one guest that, no matter how hard you studied him, how carefully you watched, gave nothing— absolutely nothing— away as to why he belonged in the room among the rest of the guests.

You were supposed to be the secret outlier, you thought, and the man’s presence haunted you from one week into the next. By your second soiree as a spy, you’d already gathered ample information on the ones you’d deemed guilty, still keeping a watch on the others out of the corner of your eye while you continued trying to dig a deeper hole for the rats to fall in, but at the end of that night drifting around the manor like your own kind of phantom, you still came up empty on your mystery man.

Until the very end, just as you were about to head out to the carriage arranged to take you home.

“I must say, Vincent,” his gravelly voice sounded from a little further into the main foyer, the remnants of a laugh fading off the end of his words, “If the Queen knew her watchdog had such a sense of humor, I think she’d prefer to take you on as her personal entertainer instead.”

You stopped, pretending to search your purse for something as you listened in.

The Earl let out a devious chuckle of his own, going on to reply, “Yes, but if I did that, then who would be around to entertain you, Undertaker?”

You clasped your purse shut with a muted click and continued towards the carriage. For tonight, you had all you needed. And though it was just a title, barely even a name to know him by, the moment you got home and scribbled down the ten letters of Undertaker onto your growing web of information gathered from these parties, you could already sense that he was the key to the biggest mystery you’d been faced with yet.

***

Though you couldn’t see his eyes through the thick silver curtain of his hair, from across the room you knew— could practically feel it as a fresh wave of chills spiked up your spine— that Undertaker was staring straight at you. You stared back, lips slightly parted as your next breath caught halfway up your throat, his silent acknowledgment of you making you feel suddenly naked, vulnerable under his recognition.

He offered you a mischievous crack of a smile, all teeth, and a playful, waggling wave of his black-nailed fingers. You felt your cheeks heat, feeling startlingly self-conscious, though not entirely sure why, and turned to excuse yourself to the nearest washroom to collect yourself.

Staring down your reflection in the mirror, you reminded yourself why you were here. To investigate. To uncover. To expose. Not just for the promotion that had been generously promised to you, but for the sake of the common good as well. Or, at least, that’s one of the stories you’d started telling yourself to make your duplicity to all the people who you’d pretended to enjoy the company of a little less guilt-tripping.

Besides, the Phantomhive’s also knew you couldn’t resist a cause where injustice was being done, and while it sort of made you sick to watch this group of miscreants chatting and laughing like they’d never harmed the orphaned or the sick or the poor week after week, you knew, in the end, their evil would not prevail.

Resolute in your mission here once again, you exited the washroom, intending to migrate back into the lion’s den, when all of a sudden that familiar, bone-chilling voice sounded from behind you, making you flinch.

“You know…” Undertaker began, who’d been leaning against the nearest wall before pushing off with one shoulder to lessen the gap between you, the layers of black fabric he wore lightly billowing behind him with each heel-to-toe step. His arms were crossed, and his shadow began to creep over you, seeming as if it could swallow you up at any moment. But still he wore an amused grin like he was about to tell a charming joke and was simply awaiting the perfect moment to deliver the punchline. He continued, “The guest list of these parties changes every week, yet, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, there are only ever two who get invited every single time…”

You had noticed that actually, keeping the little tidbit of information close to your chest, sometimes purposely acting like it was your first time attending such a gathering if you noticed the roster was entirely fresh, but he was right.

The only other person besides yourself who graced the Phantomhive manor on a weekly basis, other than the Phantomhives themselves, of course, was the silver shadow known as Undertaker. The man had been nearly as elusive and calculating as you had thus far, but now, it seemed, he wished to show part of his hand.

Undertaker cocked his head to one side, seeming to study you through the shaggy fringe concealing half his face like a mask, and said, “Sort of odd, don’t you think?”

And it really wasn’t his sudden and unexpected presence that had caught you so off guard. You were used to potential targets confronting you, whether to try and scare you off from a possible story they were at the root of or convince you there was nothing to see here. This, however, was different. Because the increased pounding of your heart and the sudden loss for words didn’t seem to be out of fear, but, perhaps, out of the kind of flustered intrigue that comes with finding a stranger very, very attractive.

“I, uh…” was all you had time to say before Vincent Phantomhive was approaching from down the hall, seemingly with something urgent to discuss with Undertaker, giving you a smile and a nod as if to say keep up the good work before he and his guest continued down the hall and disappeared around the next corner, all that black fabric fluttering in his wake.

You spent the remainder of the night distracted, off your game, growing frustrated with yourself and with him for having your thoughts interrupted by that shining scar that cut diagonally across his pale face, the lilting hum to his tone that had indicated something you didn’t even dare explore, even within the confines of your own imagination, and all those long strands of silver that looked like threads spun from moonlight.

Needless to say, you didn’t gather much intel that night, and you were honestly just counting down the hours until it would be time for you to go home. But as each guest departed, one after another, their carriages formally announced to be awaiting them, something else strange and rather off-script happened to you.

Normally, you were among the middle group to say your thank yous and goodbyes to the hosts before exiting through the grand entrance, heading down the curved double staircase before being whisked away back into the grey-toned city. But tonight, after watching the last of the guests thank the Phantomhives for their glittering hospitality and departing the manor, you found you were the final guest that remained.

You, and, much to your dismay, surprise, and general curiosity, Undertaker as well.

You were sure your carriage would be pulling up any moment now, and so you hung close to the doors to search out the horse pulling it through the dark. You hoped this served as an indicator you wished to be left alone with your own thoughts, but, alas, that looming shadow of a man who’d suddenly and quite unexplainably taken an interest in you was hovering by your side again like a crow waiting for you to drop some crumbs.

“Do you think it’s true?” he unceremoniously prompted, voice hushed to a low, sultry whisper, making the thin hairs on the back of your neck rise with suspense.

You cast him a glance over your shoulder, trying to act indifferent and completely unbothered. “Do I think what’s true?” you asked, an edge of irritation splicing through your forced boredom.

Undertaker breathed out a knowing chuckle, something from beneath his wide sleeves clinking and chiming together lightly before he applied more pressure to silence it. He then cleared his throat and said, “This place, they say it’s haunted, you know.”

“And?” you pressed, and though you were trying to make it seem like you couldn’t have cared less, your skin was crawling with the anticipation to know more, more, more.

“And,” he mimicked, leaning in a little closer to you, testing to see how far you’d let him invade your personal space, “do you think it’s true?”

You turned to face him, scrutinizing him now, a crooked mask to hide your true intrigue, wanting nothing more than to reach up and gently push his bangs away from his eyes just to discover what color they were beneath the curtain that so carefully protected that information. You wanted to trace the lines of his scars, especially the one wrapped around his neck like a collar, a chain, a reminder of something horrific he’d once endured, and learn the story behind every single mark.

You wanted to learn his name, his true one, not just his job description or whatever morbid title Vincent had given him as part of some kind of inside joke they shared.

You opened your mouth to say something— what, you weren’t entirely sure— but just then, the feeling in the air seemed to change, an energy charged in the small space between your bodies, the scent of a storm carrying on a breeze, an invisible electricity sparking through you, lacing through your bones and frizzling your brain.

“They say sometimes you can feel them touch you,” Undertaker continued, and for a moment, just a mere hair of a second, you swore you could see a glint of light shimmering from behind his bangs, a flash of emerald here and then gone again before your eyes could even register the color. “They say it’s heavy, and cold as ice, like a stone lifted from a freezing sea, the sensation coming and going as quick as a breath in a winter’s breeze…”

The first time his pale, cold hand had brushed against the dip of your waist it had already been too late. His long, lithe fingers had lingered there for but a moment, just long enough to allow the shape of his touch to drape itself upon your body, the memory of it a thrilling, frightening thing. But when you’d flinched away, drawn in a sudden, sharp gasp under your breath, he retracted. Still, despite the new distance put between you two, he wore that mischievous smile, his broad shoulders shivering with the containment of some kind of mean laughter.

It was then that your carriage arrived, the Phantomhives’ butler announcing this to you, but just before you could turn and leave, Undertaker said, “Remember, miss journalist, sometimes the answers to our biggest questions are found in the things we can’t see…” as he slinked back off into the dark, leaving you standing in the center of the foyer alone.

If you hadn’t seen Vincent interact directly with him just earlier that evening, you would’ve deduced that he was the very spirit he’d warned you of, but then, about halfway home as the carriage traveled over the country’s uneven terrain, you realized something even more terrifying.

You’d never told him you were a journalist. The Phantomhives had assured you that no one besides themselves were to know, lest your cover and this whole operation they’d gotten you involved with be blown.

It kept you up at night, his words, his scars, his touch. But now you had an entirely new mission, one that was all your own.

And that was to discover just exactly who, or perhaps, what, this man called Undertaker truly was.

***

Some time passed before there was another party, what with the celebration of the Phantomhives’ sons’ birthdays and the Christmas holiday falling a little under two weeks apart. But, with the arrival of the New Year of 1885 quickly approaching, you weren’t surprised when you received yet another one of the crisp, cream and gold colored invitation cards in the mail announcing a grand celebration event at the manor.

This would be the biggest crowd you’d hidden amongst thus far, though, surely, you thought, the Phantomhives didn’t intend for you to be working too hard on such an occasion? Besides, you’d already turned in the extent of information you’d been able to gather on their people of interest. As far as you were concerned, this case, or at least your part in it, was closed. They’d already assured you they’d hold up their end of the deal as soon as you chose your desired position at the new press company you’d be working at come the new year too. Now, all you had to do was sit back and relax as the hours ticked down until midnight.

At least, that’s what you would’ve been able to do if not for the incessant appearance of him.

All night, Undertaker seemed to trail you like a shadow. No matter how many times you tried to slip out of one room and into another unnoticed, tuck yourself within a new crowd, folded between different nobles, it was only a matter of minutes until you looked over and saw his pale figure swathed in layers of black. A few times, he even dared to give you one of those cheeky grins and teasing waves, as if tormenting you was his most favorite game, and every time you met the gesture with a huff of a frustrated sigh and a swift turning on your heel, heading off to pick at the many food options set up around the different rooms or grab another drink as a servant carrying a tray of them passed by, not pretending to sip this time but actually allowing yourself to indulge.

But you should’ve really known by now that showing your back and trying to ignore him was probably your worst bet at actually being left alone. He was like a naughty child, continuously doing that which would get him the most reaction or attention, despite the consequences. And, like the tired parent who would do just about anything to get the child to behave, you eventually caved in and gave him exactly what he wanted.

“What?” you asked, walking right up to him where he was leaning against a wall, your arms crossed and attempting to wrestle your features into a look of grim displeasure rather than fluster-fueled nervousness. It was like a spell had suddenly been released into the air once you two were standing face to face, your prior agitation slowly but surely melting away until all you could focus on was the way his silver hair caught the dim light and those scars that just barely peeked out from his collar and curtain of bangs as if too shy to properly say hello.

“Good evening to you too, miss journalist,” he sarcastically greeted, though you detected no hint of malice, merely an air of teasing charm. Instead of irking you that time, the sentiment made your cheeks heat. You pretended to cough and look away, hoping it wasn’t showing too clearly on your face. He gestured to the party encircling you both, an endless, overlapping barrage of laughter and conversation filling the room, and asked with a slight raise to his voice, “What a wonderful way to ring in the new year, don’t you agree?”

Frankly, you realized you were still far too sober to be in this situation right now, but when you searched the room for any more of those silver trays holding flutes of bubbling liquid, you found, for once, there were none in sight.

“Listen,” you said, lowering your voice despite the loud chatter that tried to drown it out, clearly still in the investigation mindset despite your earlier resolution to enjoy a night away from work, “let’s just stop with the smalltalk. Off the record, why don’t you just tell me what it is you want and why I have to be a part of it?”

When he found it appropriate to laugh at this notion, one of which you were sincerely serious about, you found yourself flaring more towards anger than intrigue. “What’s so funny?” you hissed, suddenly wanting nothing more than your own shadow to hide inside of when you glanced around and noticed a few other party-goers trying to listen in on your conversation. You were used to coveting and collecting gossip, not being the source of it.

But Undertaker seemed largely undisturbed by the growing sets of eyes landing upon your shared corner of the ballroom, flicking one black-nailed finger beneath the hem of his fringe to wipe away a tear of amusement before replying through a chuckle-laced breath, “You are, my dear. Simply hilarious.”

Wanting to turn and stalk away from him again, you resisted the urge, now determined to beat him at his own game, the rules of which you still weren’t entirely clear on. “Oh, so you like jokes then?” you baited, a smirk beginning to curve up on your lips now. “Well why didn’t you just say so? How about you and I make a deal then?” At this, Undertaker’s expression turned comically inquisitive, regarding you with a new kind of focus, his silence prompting you to continue. “If I can tell you something funny enough to make you laugh before the end of the night, you leave me alone after that.”

“And if you lose?” he posed, beginning to circle you until it was your back towards the wall instead, a hunter closing in on its prey. “What do I get if I win?”

You took a moment to think about that. You didn’t have much to give, if you were being honest. So you made the mistake of asking him, “What do you want?”

The smile that carved across his pale features then sent another one of those cold, electric shivers down your spine, and instantly you regretted allowing him so much freedom in choosing his prize. Tapping his chin with a finger as he pretended to sort through his options, he quickly and proudly settled on, “How about you have dinner with me?”

Aghast, you truly didn’t know what to say. Wanting to play it cool, not show how ridiculous the idea seemed to you when stated so shamelessly out of the blue, your throat bobbed with a particularly hard swallow and your voice shook slightly as you began to say, “That’s really what you want?”

Undertaker nodded, his smile not faltering. “That’s what I want.”

Not happy with the consequences but still clearly up for the challenge, you steeled your expression and agreed with a semi-confident, “Alright then. All I have to do is make you laugh before the clock strikes twelve,” and then I’ll never have to be bothered by you again. Should be easy, if he thought you were so hilarious without even trying.

However, as you searched the far corners of your mind for a joke or anecdote you thought would knock him out on the first try, you suddenly found your temporary confidence dying like an ember fading out in its hearth. You resided in the world of logic and facts, not entertainment and tomfoolery. You had a sense of humor, sure. Someone in your line of work had to, once in a while, lest they go mad when constantly being reintroduced to the bleakest parts of humanity.

Finally, you recalled a particular story that you’d nearly cried at upon hearing the first time, you’d laughed so hard. Surely, this was the one. You remembered it perfectly too, only, the further you ventured into telling it without so much as a twitch of a smirk appearing at the corner of Undertaker’s lips, the more you began to sense that you’d been lured right into a trap.

“Amusing,” he stated, monotone and mocking you. “But if you want to win, you’re going to have to do a lot better than that.”

You stood there, staring at him, seething, knowing this had all been according to his plan all along. You figured you could always just find a moment to slip away from the party and into one of the carriages already lined up outside before the new year rang in, perhaps voiding this odd and informal little contract you two had entered into together, but a part of you also knew that, whether a week or a month or a year from now, you’d find yourself faced with him again some way or another. Perhaps it was better to just keep trying even if only to prove to yourself you’d fought instead of running away.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you taunted, some of your indignance slipping through the vengeful grin spreading across your lips, “I’m just warming up.”

Undertaker tapped his wrist, miming where a watch would be, if he wore one, and said, “Tick tock… Only five more hours till midnight.”

And thus the game began.

***

Every hour that passed, with every attempted joke that was told without the desired reaction, the more dejected you began to feel.

And now, with less than half an hour to go, you’d already accepted your imminent defeat.

There had been a few times you could tell he was seriously having to hold back, the promise of a chuckle choked out behind his teeth or a burst of a laugh strangled somewhere deep in his chest before it had time to rise from his lungs. He had a lot more self control than you would’ve originally given him credit for, that much you couldn’t deny, but it almost seemed the brunt of his amusement came from how each attempt you made became more desperate, some of the words leaving your mouth shameful enough to make your mother faint had she been around to hear you say them, digging up the darkest, most shocking lines you’d ever uttered in your entire life.

You were a few drinks over the limit of caring if any of the other ladies in attendance that night heard you saying such depraved things in public, and to a man you barely even knew on top of it all, but one thing was for certain.

Undertaker was cracking.

You’d nearly gotten him on a few of the last ones, suddenly grateful for all the horrid things you’d heard the men exchanging and laughing about in the press office— another place you were used to acting like a shadow within. Though, even if you felt like you were maybe getting closer to winning, your dignity would lose regardless. You felt as if you were stooping to some unacceptable level you’d normally turn your nose up at, behaving in such an undignified way, yet the itch to prove him wrong and reclaim your pride was hard not to scratch, and right now there was only one way to do so.

“You know,” Undertaker said, only fifteen minutes to midnight, “I will admit, you’re really starting to make me regret entering the mortuary field and wishing I’d gone into journalism instead. Do your colleagues truly say such audacious things?” Just then he nearly made himself laugh, though you figured that wouldn’t count.

By now, you had a few cards left to play, having saved your best ones for the final hour, just in case, though that bank had nearly run dry. You had one last ridiculous tale left up your sleeve before you’d truly have to hang your head and admit defeat, and for a moment, you let hope get the better of you. It truly seemed this would be the one to best him, and as you loudly and, thanks to the several glasses of champagne flowing through your veins, very confidently delivered the perfect punchline, you counted the seconds until he’d inevitably burst with laughter and be forced to forgo his mission to unexplainably irritate you.

But he swallowed it down, dousing it with his next and final gulp of champagne, having drank nearly as much as you throughout the night, probably more, yet somehow unaffected, and as he sighed out a satisfied exhale, sans the expected howl of laughter, your expression of victory crumbled down to forlorn.

“Are you kidding me?” you confronted, clearly fed up— with him, mostly, but also with yourself— before you began stammering out a mess of jumbled syllables proclaiming how this entire thing had been rigged in the first place.

“Technically there’s still a few minutes,” Undertaker reminded you, nodding towards the grand clock adorning the mansion’s foyer. “Though if I were you…” he leaned in, so close his lips were practically pressed against your ear, his breath tickling the side of your exposed neck, “I’d just count myself lucky you didn’t wager a kiss at midnight in the case of your defeat.”

Between the warmth of the alcohol and the dizziness those words had just washed over you, you feared for a moment you might faint, your posture suddenly swaying before Undertaker instinctively reached out to help steady you, both his palms pressed firmly to your waist, reminding you of the night he’d tried to spook you with ghost stories and gotten a little too close for your comfort.

Only this time, you didn’t flinch away instantly. Instead, you allowed his hands to stay there for a moment, staring up at him with perhaps the softest expression you’d worn all night. You felt your mouth opening, though again found yourself unsure what you would say, when suddenly, faster than you were ready for, the chorus of counting down the seconds until the new year filled the room and startled you back to reality.

You pulled away from his orbit, smoothing down your skirts with your sweaty palms, and turned your gaze to the smallest hand on the clock, barely mouthing the numbers of the countdown until it was only ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two…

“Happy New Year!” Undertaker chanted, shouting out with the crowd but looking straight at you, as if the celebratory words were meant for only one person in the room. He raised his empty glass your way, wearing one of those sinfully sly smiles, and said, now only loud enough for you to hear, “How’s next Friday at seven sound, hm?”

You could barely understand what he was talking about. You were already too far gone. All you could remember at that point was the sinking feeling of dread laced with a familiar sense of excitement, as if you’d just been the key witness to a very important event and now had the chance to give the first testimony of the case.

But isn’t this what you’d wanted all along? A way to get closer to him and uncover whatever it was he was hiding— because you knew he was hiding something.

Your initial intrigue had never really faded, no matter how much you’d tried to convince yourself you loathed him, that he was insufferable, more trouble than he was worth. But, then again, if it was answers you wanted, it should be easy for you to get them.

You’d always been good at solving mysterious events. How would solving a mysterious person really be any different?

***

You’d upheld your end of the bargain and joined Undertaker for dinner, which had been stranger than fiction but a rather good story to file away for your personal collection. Much to your surprise— and perhaps slightly to your disappointment— things had started and ended with dinner. Just dinner. You’d tried to pry, tried to get him to open up, learn more about him, but somehow he always found a way to seamlessly direct the topic of conversation back around to you.

You’d decided he maybe wasn’t so bad afterall, had even agreed to do it all again sometime. 

But now, a year later, there were no more parties. 

All that had been left in the wake of the once pristine and lively Phantomhive manor was ash and the crumbing, scorched remains that had outlasted the fire. Not even the children had survived, and though you’d only seen them a handful of times as their nanny had led them up the grand staircase by the hand to put them to bed just as the first batch of guests were beginning to arrive, it still made your heart twist with the tragedy of it all.

At least they’re together, you tried to console yourself as you stood before Rachel and Vincent’s graves, your previous hosts reduced to nothing but a matching set of stones sticking out from the cold earth. You wouldn’t exactly have considered them friends, per se, more so something closer to employers, but you couldn’t help it. You’d grown more attached to them than you’d originally intended.

“Do you think it’s true?” a familiar voice suddenly asked from right behind you, making you jolt and turn to face him. You’d already known it was Undertaker, yet, as you tried to meet the glimpse of green you’d once caught shielded behind all that silver, you still found a part of you was surprised to find him standing in the same graveyard, as if having completely forgotten he was, after all, a mortician. 

“Do I think what’s true?” you asked, a slow wave of deja vu rolling through your mind.

“That humans really go to a better place after they die…?” The way he said it, gazing almost longingly down at the tombstones as they lay still and heavy on the frost-laced grass, made you start to see him in a new light. He was holding a shovel in one hand. You realized he’d probably been the one to dig the ditches and then bury the couple six feet deep.

Instead of giving him an answer though, you instead turned your view back to the graves, reading their names, their dates of birth and death, and then, carved beneath the proof that there were indeed people sleeping beneath the slabs, the matching epitaphs marking the smooth stones.

“Potentia Regere…” you repeated, more to yourself than anyone else. “What does it mean?”

Stabbing the shovel’s sharp tip down into the ground, Undertaker simply stated, “Power to rule…” It was the Phantomhive’s motto, in a sense, the latin words appearing on the family’s coat of arms. You were just about to make a comment about how surreal it all seemed, the fact that something that quickly had become so commonplace in your weekly schedule was now no more, but then the gentle clinking of a mysterious sound you’d heard before interrupted your reminiscence.

“What is that?” you asked, searching for the source. When Undertaker gave you a confused look, you clarified, “That sound? I’ve heard it around you before…”

“Ah…” he answered, a small, sad grin cracking on his lips. Then he pulled a brassy strand of several lockets from beneath his coat, the mementos chiming together more aggressively as he dangled them before you. “That would be these.”

As if requesting permission to take a closer look, you shyly cupped your hands out before you, allowing him to settle the chain into your palms for further investigation.

“They’re beautiful…” you sighed, inspecting each one individually, reading the names spelled out in neat cursive scrawl, the different shades of the hair tied into simple loops and pressed beneath the glass. Some of the dates engraved went back far before you were born, and, though his age often presented itself as ambiguous, definitely far before Undertaker could’ve been in this business. Though, instead of inquiring about this curious detail, the journalist part of you always hungry for answers, for the truth, you just swallowed and said, “There’s so many…”

In reply, Undertaker offered, “Well, I’ve known the Phantomhive family for a very long time.”

You handed the lockets back to him, watching as they disappeared back between the many folds of black fabric, and then the two of you stood in silence before the graves for what felt like a long time, the only sound the quiet whisper of the winter breeze.

Without even realizing, you found yourself crying, crystalline tears welling in your eyes, sparkling on the edge of your lashes, and then rolling down your cheeks in pairs. You tried to stay quiet, as if that alone could hide the emotion from the man standing directly beside you. And he wanted to reach out the moment he’d seen the tears welling, toss his shovel to the side and pull you into his chest, just let you cry into all his dark clothing until you had no more tears left.

But he remembered how you’d flinched the first time he’d tried to touch you, withdrawing from his proximity as if it were a plague. So instead, he settled for reaching for your hand, which was clenched into a fist and trembling by your side. That time, you didn’t pull away. Just shot him a sort of terror-struck look before your gaze softened and you used your free hand to cover your mouth, catching the first sobs that escaped through your lips, even giving his hand a squeeze as if to help ease your own pain.

Sensing that, perhaps this time, his touch was actually offering you some comfort, he decided to chance gently pulling you into his side, one long, slender arm snaking across your shoulders and back, hand rubbing up and down your arm as your body continued to shake with sorrow.

“I don’t even know—” you began, voice cracked and broken as you sucked in panicked, gasping breaths, “why I’m crying. I mean— they were— I was— it’s just—”

I know, he wanted to say, giving your shoulder a light squeeze, hoping the message was still delivered despite being unspoken. I know, you’re in pain right now.

And I’m sorry.

Human lives were so fragile. The only thing more delicate were their emotions.

Once you were finally able to catch your breath and calm down a little, you seemed to register his touch and quickly, albeit much more elegantly than before, distance yourself from it, clearing your throat as you settled your stance across from him, unable to meet his eyes— or at least the space that they should’ve been— that time around.

“I suppose we won’t be seeing each other quite as often anymore,” you noted, trying to force a smile, but it just came out crooked and sad. “I know we didn’t start off on the right foot but…” You paused, feeling yourself wanting to hold the rest of your sentiment back but then forcing yourself to say it anyway. “I guess what I’m trying to say is I’m glad we both skirted the edges of those parties before.”

Now you allowed yourself to look up and offer him a new kind of smile, this one bittersweet and almost apologetic. And he could feel you already trying to sever the invisible tie that loosely stretched between you two, the purpose of your shared proximity suddenly gone and therefore pointless.

You were just about to turn and bid him farewell when he spoke, more urgent than you’d heard him yet. He said, “Would you like to join me for some tea?”

You considered him, as if this were another one of his games, a riddle to solve. “Wha— Now?” you asked, as if it were the most preposterous proposition anyone had ever presented you with.

“If now suits you,” he said, trying to regain some of his composure, pulling his coat tighter over his shoulders as the wind picked up. “I can’t say it’s as grand as the Phantomhive manor, but where I live isn’t too far from here.” He smiled again, soft and soothing, as he continued, “Though, I can promise the quality of the tea is just as refined.”

It was his last ditch attempt at making a joke in the current situation and, over the more personal time you’d spent with him, you’d come to gain a new appreciation for his dark sense of humor, so you gave a timid nod and said, “Alright then. Lead the way.”

He dropped the shovel and started walking, you trailing beside him over the stone spotted hills.

***

Undertaker’s living space was indeed a far cry from the luxurious, spanning halls of the Phantomhive manor. It couldn’t even really be considered a house, as far as you could tell. It was, in all honesty, a mortuary practice that just happened to have a small kitchenette and an even tinier bedroom hidden behind a curtain in the back. You supposed it made sense when he’d said he didn’t live far from the cemetery, when that was his workplace. But you didn’t care right now. The tea in the mug between your palms was hot, the aroma sweet as the steam rose from the surface of the liquid, Undertaker generously leaving the small jar of sugar cubes on the table before you to scoop in to your preference.

He was sitting across from you, your legs nearly intertwined under the cramped table, Undertaker more relaxed while you just tried to stay within your own personal space. Again it occurred to him, your aversion to physical touch, and he took a moment to study you, as if tracing the features of your face beneath the thin black netting of the mourning veil or the intricate lace detailing of the collar of your dress— black, to match him for once— could uncover your truth to him, your past.

“Been to a lot of funerals in your time, I imagine…” you commented, suddenly overwhelmed by the pressing silence, the steady ticking of the wall clock unbearably awkward. “If I may ask, what made you choose this line of work to begin with?”

Undertaker took a sip of his own tea, which tonight was bitter and black. It would’ve surprised you to learn he usually stirred several cubes of sugar into his tea, no matter the strength or blend of it. Looks could be misleading, this you knew first hand from all the undercover work you’d done, as well as the many apparently innocent faces that had turned out to be gruesomely guilty. But also, on the opposite hand, some people really did show you exactly who they were right from the start.

You were starting to think maybe he was nestled somewhere in between.

“It’s a solitary kind of life…” Undertaker replied, masking loneliness under a grin. “I suppose, at the time, I was suited to it.” He gave a shrug as he raised the cup to his lips again, like that answer didn’t pave way for a hundred more questions.

“At the time…” you repeated. “Meaning, not any longer?”

You weren’t even sure what the purpose of that inquiry was. Normally, every question you posed was carefully chosen, hand-picked in order to serve a specific purpose that would paint a broader picture of the overall story.

Undertaker’s picture had so far just been one big canvas filled in with black, a few streaks of silver, and a flicker of green. There was no clear shape, no clear narrative, but suddenly, by slipping into something a little more specific, something to fulfill your own personal curiosities rather than that of straightforward facts, it was like you’d decided to take your own brush to an artwork you’d only ever been an observer of.

You were not a painter, but sometimes even an inexperienced hand could craft a masterpiece.

Undertaker’s smile didn’t falter, but something in the lines of his figure tensed, as if you’d shone a light into all that darkness expecting a gruesome beast, only to find there was something vulnerable living inside after all. Something genuine. Something lonely. Something you could relate to.

“How about you answer me something…” he began, pitching his weight slightly forward to lean closer to you over the table, his chin now resting in his palm. “You don’t like being touched…” At first, he said it more as an observation than a question. Then, after allowing discomfort to fill you during the pause, he concluded with a curious and perhaps even slightly sympathetic, “Why?”

At this statement, you felt yourself stiffen. Undertaker didn’t so much as flinch, just continued to consider you as if you were a puzzle he was trying to solve, working through every angle before making his first move. After a while, with you offering no answer or comment to this, he added, “If you’d rather not talk about it—”

Your throat bobbed with a thick, dry swallow, as if you’d just been caught for a crime you’d tried desperately to cover up, like the word GUILTY was branded into your forehead. Your mouth opened and closed and opened again, some excuse or alibi withering and dying on the tip of your tongue. Then you said, “It’s not that I don’t like it, I just…” You were absentmindedly toying with a piece of frayed lace off the hem of your sleeve, searching for a believable story to tell him that wasn’t a complete lie, but also wasn’t the entire truth either. But then you sighed, defeated, and looked him in the eyes, that glint of emerald peeking through, and admitted, “It’s just hard for me. I’m not used to it, it’s… complicated.”

The legs of his chair scraped softly against the uneven hardwood as he leaned in even closer, his arm draped over the surface, palm facing upwards, beckoning you to reach into it, to give him a chance. You glanced from his hand, a scar crossing over the love line etched into his alabaster skin, then back to his face, wishing you felt brave enough to take his invitation, wanting to, but finding the fear of physical contact swelling inside of you like a balloon that was one breath away from bursting.

It was so hard for you to trust. It always had been. Had only gotten harder since you’d entered into your current line of work, all of humanity’s ugliest sides revealed to you on a weekly, sometimes even daily basis. But what did you do when you got scared while chasing a story?

You felt the fear and you did it anyway.

So, hesitantly inching your hand closer to his open-faced palm, merely hovering there for a moment, as if trying to figure out whether this was some kind of trap or not, you finally allowed yourself to make contact, fighting the urge to pull back upon the first flinch of his fingers beginning to curl around your own.

Once his hand had completely closed around yours, it was as if all the tension gathered within your frame burst like a firework, the glittering embers giving way to something uncharted. Something new, and slightly nerve-wracking, but pleasant all the same, once you actually allowed yourself to enjoy it.

Undertaker stroked his thumb along the top of your hand, his long, cool fingers brushing delicately against your soft skin, and you felt your next exhale stutter, eyes threatening to well with tears for an entirely different reason now.

“Perhaps I can show you…” he said, the words merely a whisper on his pale lips, “that there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

When you met his gaze then, it was like seeing him for the first time, both of his emerald eyes on full display, as if he’d just decided you were worthy of his trust, to know and keep his secrets the same as he seemed so intent on knowing and keeping yours.

There was still a small part of you that wanted to protest, that had the urge to pull away and put as much distance between you and him as possible. But that voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well now, distant and unintelligible. What took over was a voice you’d never heard before, one you didn’t even think you had, and all it was telling you was to allow yourself to fall. That he would be there to catch you when you did.

***

Your breath hitched before his fingers even made contact with your skin, eyes fluttering closed, like you thought not seeing would make accepting what was about to happen any easier.

“I’ve got you…” Undertaker murmured, the cold press of his palm finally reaching your cheek. He gave you a moment, patient with you while you allowed yourself to relax against his touch, your gaze slowly opening and glancing up to meet his eyes. Being this close, you came to realize they weren’t just green, like you’d originally thought, but laced through with a webbing of ambers and golds, a thin ring of teal rimming the edge of each iris. You’d never seen eyes like that before, dangerously entrancing, enticing, and it once again resurfaced the notion that the question wasn’t necessarily who he was, but what.

“See?” he smiled, not a hint of malice or mischief tucked into the corners of his mouth that time, only gentle reassurance. “I’ve got you.”

You placed your hand around his wrist, grip light, just to let him know you wanted a little more time to let this sink in. He was right. There was really nothing to be afraid of. Only, your quick-fire heartbeat still seemed to want to convince you otherwise.

There’s nothing to be afraid of, you kept repeating in your mind, nothing to be afraid of.

You let your view of him slip shut again as he slowly moved his fingers further back to lightly comb through your hair, finding the pin that had been holding it in place and pulling it free, your locks spilling down from the tightly wound coil of a bun that had been perched at the back of your head.

He’d never seen you with your hair completely down, every Phantomhive party that you’d attended making sure to tie it back, keep it out of your way, so you could stay focused on your job and not find yourself fiddling with it. He gently combed his fingers through it, disturbing a few loose knots, smoothing it down and laying it over your shoulders after removing the veiled hat from its place on your head.

“Such a shame…” he remarked, voice still low and soothing. “You’ve been hiding such beautiful hair all this time.” You remembered his mourning lockets, the different shades of strands that had been encapsulated behind the glass. You wondered if anyone would ever grow to love you so much as to always keep a lock of yours on their person. The notion made your lonely heart pulse with a dull ache.

Letting out a stuttering exhale, you now set your view upon the cascade of silver that framed all those black clothes of his, the strands almost sparkling under the low light as they shifted from white to grey and back again depending on how he moved. What you wouldn’t give to be able to carry a strand of it around, secured in a locket and resting against your heart, like capturing a sprinkle of stardust to call your own.

“Can I…” you began to ask, trying to swallow down the slight tremble in your voice as you gingerly reached one shaky hand forward. “Can I touch your hair as well?”

At this, Undertaker let out a silky hum of a chuckle, his long fingers finding the nape of your neck and resting there as he replied, “But of course.”

You let your fingertips brush against the silky silver, threading your fingers through and lightly dragging them down, not a single tangle or knot to be found. You wondered how long it had taken him to grow this much hair, how often he must have to brush it to keep it so pristine, how many others had admired or envied it the very same way you were now.

“Would you like to come closer?” he asked next, catching you a little off guard. You let your hand fall back to your lap, his returning to rest on his knee, and your eyes filled with uncertainty. Then he added, “Only if you’d like, of course.”

You scanned his form, unsure exactly what he meant by come closer, though, based on the way he was sitting, you could only really think of one possibility and the mere suggestion alone was enough to make your cheeks heat and your head spin.

The embarrassment must’ve shown on your face, because a quiet laugh trailed after his next exhale as he assured you, “If that’s too much for you you’re still welcome to sit by my side…” And then, knowing you had a habit of accepting challenges, he added on, voice sultry and only slightly sinister, “Though, if you’re worried about your skirts getting in the way, I’d gladly assist you in removing them and—”

“Oh, just hush for once, will you?” you cut him off, growing a little indignant and far more flustered than before. Even so, you still found yourself standing, eying his lap wearily as you approached, both hands curled into tight fists around your skirts, lifting them a little as you went to settle over the tops of his thighs, having to take purchase on his shoulders for balance halfway through assuming this position.

You’d never been this intimately close with another body before, not since you were very small and your mother had scooped you up in her arms and carried you off to bed, your little legs lightly wrapping around her waist and not wanting to let go, wishing she’d let you sleep in her bed to help keep the nightmares away.

But now, being at this age, in this body, and feeling the press of him as you relaxed with your legs straddling his hips, things were much, much different.

His hands brushed against your waist, hovering there before finally settling, giving you time to adjust to the foreign touch. “Is this alright?” he asked, his voice a mere whisper. “If you need more time, I can—”

“No,” you interrupted, your voice also quiet, forcing your gaze back up to his, as if to defy your hesitance. “No, this is fine. I’m fine.”

“You know,” he murmured, his lips pressed close to your ear, his breath fanning featherlight over the shell of it, and you could practically hear the way he was suppressing a smirk, “I must say, it really is a surprise how a woman as striking as yourself has gone this long without being spoken for. So which is it? Too particular to find the right partner or too spoiled by being overwhelmed with choice?”

You coughed out an abashed chuckle. “No, nothing like that…” you said. Then, falling more somber, “It’s more like… Being alone has just always been so much easier. I don’t have to answer to anyone. I don’t have to pretend. I get to do as a please whenever I please and…” You flashed him a guilty look. “I guess I never saw myself as the marrying type, so…”

Undertaker stared at you, all that chartreuse alight as if finally seeming to uncover what he’d long been looking for. Then his expression softened and he said, “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Before you had time to think up some kind of rebuttal or rebuke, his fingertips were tracing the hem running up the side of your funeral dress, the dulled touch registering on your hips, then your waist, through your clothes, sending a gentle, ebbing wave of chills over your flesh, a delicate ghost of a gasp just barely sighed through your lips. His other hand came up to caress your neck, thumb brushing tenderly across your jaw, your cheek, allowing you time to decide you enjoyed it and sink deeper into his palm, the cool touch of his skin helping to soothe you.

And then, before you knew it, he was kissing you, taking the rest of your breath away as the hand that had found your waist began to roam, the careful path of his contact curving around to the small of your back, up towards your shoulder blades, your collar bones, down your arm to find the sensitive skin of your inner wrist, brushing against the faint thumping of your wild pulse just to feel the life humming from inside of you.

What surprised you even more was that you were kissing him back, leaning into the warmth of his mouth, chasing his tongue when he playfully tried to pull away, testing to see if you’d follow, if you’d try to seek him out once you got a taste. He let out a low chuckle, putting only enough space between your lips to look you in the eyes, see the way your pupils had blown wide with lust all from some simple touching and kissing alone.

“I wonder…” he murmured, that lilt of mischief stitched back into his tone, “if the other men who attended those parties ever fantasized about having you like this…” He then lightly took your chin between his lithe grip, slowly turning your view to face an old, dusty mirror perched against the wall, exposing the reflection of you straddling his lap, his hands touching you in a way you’d never let another man touch you before, and you felt your entire body catch flame, molten embarrassment welling from within the pit of your stomach and flooding up towards your head, the sudden, stifling heat making you dizzy with desire.

Undertaker sighed a puff of a laugh against the side of your neck before his lips found your throat, sucking a light bruise there, making something within you flutter, arousal flaring to life before settling to a slow, steady roll. And despite wanting to look away, shame halfway to choking you, you couldn’t tear your gaze from the view of your two bodies intertwined like this.

All this time, you’d thought it would be scary, being this vulnerable with someone, giving up that kind of control, but it wasn’t. It was like floating, rising from your body and leaving all the worry behind, allowing your world to become merely yourself, him, and the small, dimly lit room.

It was simple.

It was nice.

And, for once, everything just felt right.

But as his kisses became more messy, more urgent, and his hands were reaching under your skirts to knead at the bit of bare skin available on your upper thigh, his eager fingers hooking under the hem of your stockings, you felt yourself tensing, slipping from the moment as the fear of moving too fast flashed across your thoughts like a lighthouse beacon— just quick enough to warn of the oncoming danger that would befall you if you ventured too close to the rocky shore.

“Is this alright?” he asked, slowing down a little then, and you swore you heard something almost insecure flicker in his voice.

You took in a deep, grounding breath, nodded, and said, “It’s alright… I’ll tell you if it’s not,” and that was all the validation he needed to continue, his cool palms a relief against your heating skin, hands continuing to knead at the plush of your upper thigh, though a little more gently this time, fingertips nearly brushing against where you ran most hot and needy for him, causing a broken whine to escape your throat. Undertaker wondered if you’d ever heard yourself make those kinds of involuntary, beautifully obscene sounds before, if you’d ever pleasured yourself late at night once you finally found yourself alone, or if even the idea of that had been too much for you to bear.

He intended to introduce you to each and every one of your lovely, lustful notes tonight, wanting to discover just exactly what he could do to elicit specific moans or whines. You’d be upset with him if he told you his plan, surely, yet still, he couldn’t help himself.

Similar to how you couldn’t deny yourself a challenge, he had a habit of overindulging himself with his games.

“Wait…” you murmured, pulling away from the cradle of his chest just a fraction. “I want you to…” You swallowed, finding a lump in your throat that stuck like a dry pill, afraid to say what rested on the tip of your tongue. You looked at him through your thick curtain of lashes, almost feeling like you could cry again, so many intense emotions to face in a single day mixing together in your head. “I want you to take my clothes off…” The last half of your request all but withered and died into a pathetic whisper by the time it left your mouth, averting your gaze then.

Part of you expected Undertaker to tease you for your request, to try and rile you just to see the adorable look your face made whenever you were mad at him, but he didn’t. Instead, he hummed out a satisfied note, beginning to strip you of the many layers of your funeral attire one by one until all you were left wearing was your silky underclothes and stockings. He went to remove those as well, but you stopped him before he could, growing bolder in asking for what you wanted when you suggested he let you undress him first.

Unlike you, this was not Undertaker’s first experience with sex. It was, however, the first time he’d allowed someone to see all his scars in the fading daylight, usually preferring to hide them behind the shadows herded in by nightfall and the dimly candle lit rooms of London’s most high-end pleasure houses.

But he supposed this put you both on more equal ground, so he didn’t mind. Plus, he hardly thought you’d find them newsworthy enough to go around sharing to anyone who might ask. He also supposed, like you, he had some things that were complicated to explain too…

“Kiss me…” you sighed, your hands lightly settling back on his shoulders as you now stood mere inches apart, breathing in each other’s oxygen like the thick opium smoke that wastfed though the East End.

That time, neither of you seemed to hesitate. Hitching one of your legs up, a big palm splayed under the back of your thigh to keep it in place over his hip, Undertaker had your back pressed to the wall, the hard length of him that seemed to be growing more impatient by the minute nudging further into you until he couldn’t help but grind against your lace-clad core, pulling one of those delicate, delicious whines from your throat, swallowing it down into his own mouth and trading it for one of his choked-out groans as he pressed his erection even harder against you, both of you hungry— starving— for one another’s bodies by now.

You hadn’t even realized your hand had migrated down between his legs, just barely beginning to cup the bulge of him in your inexperienced little palm, until you felt him twitch beneath his underwear, suddenly gasping and going a little rigid with uncertainty again.

He was kissing you deep, the fervor of it all dying down a little once he sensed your hesitation. “Go ahead,” he panted, holding your chin between his fingers, searching your gaze, pleading with it. “Touch me. It’s ok…”

So you did.

You attempted to stroke what strained through the thin fabric until he just couldn’t take it anymore and reached under the waistband himself to free his cock from its confines, hissing through clenched teeth once it was in his hand, soon passed off into yours.

Truthfully, you were only half sure of what you were supposed to do. You’d heard some of the few ladies you’d grown close to occasionally share— or perhaps overshare— some of the details of their marriages, sex lives included, and whether they were bragging or complaining or just making a comment in jest, you’d picked up bits and pieces here and there throughout the years.

Whatever you were doing though, you seemed to be doing it right, because before long, Undertaker seemed to be losing any composure or control he had left. He braced himself against the wall with his forearm, hunched over you as a thin sheen of sweat began to break out over his pale skin like glazed alabaster, grunts and growls and groans slipping from his lips while you gripped him in your palm, hand sliding easily along his velvety length as more and more of his pearly pre-cum gathered and began to drip down the shaft.

“Fuck—” he swore, and for a moment, you feared you’d hurt him in some way, pausing and looking up at him with an apologetic worry tugging at your features. But then he was smiling at you, chest still heaving with labored breaths, but wearing a glow of pride. He’d meant it earlier when he’d said you kept finding ways to surprise him, but this was on an entirely different level. If he hadn’t already known what you did for a living, he would’ve guessed you hailed from one of London’s aforementioned brothels, the ones that only served the elite or those tied to them.

Though he was sure you still had some things to learn, he was glad he was laying claim to you first.

He’d be lying if he said he’d ever be willing to share you with anyone else after this.

“Don’t look so afraid, my dear,” he cooed, slowly beginning to guide you towards his tiny bedroom nook, your eyes locked on him, trusting he wouldn’t let you trip as you walked backwards, holding his hands to help steady you. “We’re only just getting started…”

Before you knew it, the backs of your knees were hitting the edge of the bed, you collapsing back to the mattress as Undertaker climbed atop you, all that silky silver hair creating a canopy around you as he admired the way you looked splayed out beneath him. It was too bad you were a fragile human, your years so numbered when compared to the countless ones he’d already lived and the countless more he’d experience long after you were gone. He wished there were a way he could keep you like this forever— so beautiful, so his—  but he knew that living souls weren’t as easily frozen in time as things like mementos and photographs.

If only he’d met you a few decades from now. Perhaps by then, he’d have found a way…

Before he could dwell on it for too long though, he became distracted with removing more of your clothes, the last shred of his lost somewhere along the short distance from the kitchen to the bed, and seeing you fully exposed to him now, presented in your rawest, ravishing state, it took his breath away.

He’d seen many bodies in his life, living and dead, only a handful of them on both sides that he’d truly considered stunning. But yours…

Yours was nothing short of divine. 

He wanted to touch every inch of you, learn your figure in a way he’d never forget. He wanted to know that, even long after you were gone someday, he’d still be able to remember the exact shape of your breasts, the raise of your ribs as you drew in breath and the dip of your waist, the soft curve of your tummy and the plushness of your thighs.

He wanted to be able to rewatch this night over and over again in his head, rewinding the film reel until it frayed, each and every frame already burned into his memory.

“Hey…” you spoke, quiet and concerned as you reached up to cup your little palm to his jaw, tracing the line of the scar that cut diagonally across his face by his cheek. “Is something…?”

Before you could utter the word “wrong”, Undertaker cradled his hand over your own, sinking closer into your touch now, soaking in its human warmth, and smiled for a moment, attempting to mask the melancholy behind amusement. “Are you sure you still want to do this?” he asked you, and it was then that any and all lingering uncertainty you had went out like candle flame swallowed by a strong breeze. You nodded, told him you were sure.

A part of you was still scared, but not of him. Just of the unknown.

Feel the fear and do it anyway.

You were choosing to trust him, but once you’d made up your mind about it, there was no going back. That’s just the kind of person you were, the kind of person he’d discovered you to be.

So, trying to help you further relax, he continued to reintroduce you to his touch, discovering the places you liked best and paying special attention there, earning more of those sweet, lilting mewls and whimpers that he’d quickly become so addicted to, until it came time for him to explore the most intimate parts of you, preparing you for what was to come.

“You’re beautiful…” you swore you heard him sigh, your pounding heartbeat drumming in your ears and drowning out the quieter sounds. As soon as he so much as brushed a teasing finger through your soaked folds, still careful to be gentle with you, you let out a choked cry, gripping his biceps for support, needing something— anything— to anchor yourself to.

“Just relax…” he said, voice low and soothing as he applied a little more pressure, spreading your growing slick further around, marveling at the way your sensitive little bud was already pulsing in pleasure, tight hole fluttering in anticipation. But you took a deep breath and tried to follow his instruction, allowing your body to sink further into the mattress. Praising you as he began to massage slow, skillful circles onto your clit, he said, “Just like that… So good, my beautiful girl…”

And then that thick, sticky heat was filling you from the inside again, threatening to spill out. It was unlike anything you’d ever felt before and you didn’t want it to stop. For a moment, you wondered if this was all somehow some sort of very vivid dream, a fantasy, fearing you’d wake up to find you’d never even gone to visit the graves at all. But the way the sensation gripped you, body and mind and soul, was telling you otherwise, every nerve alight with the intensity of it all.

Warning you what he was about to do next might be a little uncomfortable at first, Undertaker slipped one of his slender fingers inside of you, causing you to wince at the slight soreness the sensation provided, but as he slowly pumped it in and out of you, helping you get used to the feeling, eventually you were wet enough that he could insert two, the stretch from his fingers alone causing a small squeak of pain to escape your throat, but still you didn’t want him to stop.

As he began to carefully scissor his digits inside your tight cunt he continued working on stimulating your clit to distract you from the discomfort. The mix of pleasure and pain was almost enough to put you over the edge, your back arching off the bed and your neck craning as you felt the coil winding tight within your core threatening to snap. Gasping out a curse, legs trembling as the crescendo crashed over every nerve in your body, you came undone for the first time that night, the high that filled your veins mixed with the fading adrenaline making your brain melt into a hazy, sated state.

He was whispering something to you then, pressing gentle kisses along your forehead, your temples, your nose, your jaw, as his sweet sentiments were lost amidst the thumping of your pulse between your ears. You exhaled a shuddering sigh, eyes fluttering closed, feeling as if you could drift right off to sleep. But there would be plenty of time for rest later.

Undertaker still wasn’t done with you yet.

Sliding his thick cock between the dewy petals of your folds, he guided you back to the waking world, being the most tender he had with you yet. “Are you still doing alright?” he murmured, brushing a few stray strands of your hair away from your face and behind your ear. He was gazing down at you like he couldn’t even believe you were there, with him, like this, the angel he’d lured into his underworld.

You gave a feeble nod, gasping when you felt the tip of his cock catch on your fluttering little hole. In all truth, you weren’t sure how he was going to fit. You just hoped he’d prepared you well enough, though knew the first time would be the most trying.

“Just breathe…” he instructed, interlocking his fingers with yours, your hands pressed into the mattress on either side of your head. “Take as much time as you need. Just relax…”

As the first inch or two fought its way into your tight entrance, your body reflexively tensed to combat the pain. The stretch of him took your breath away, fragile, sensitive skin feeling as if it were about to tear to allow him more room, teetering on a razor’s edge of arousal and agony. But he was talking you through it, whispering reassuring praises into your ear, waiting until he felt your body adjust to him, rigidity melting away as he continued to pepper featherlight kisses across your skin, letting you squeeze his hand as hard as you needed to until the sensation subsided.

Inch by inch, he worked his way deeper, and when you needed him closer, needed his chest pressed to yours to feel the stuttering beat of his heart, he obliged, scooping you up to straddle him again, both of you upright, face to face, him helping you begin to bounce lightly on his cock.

As the pace began to pick up speed, nearly every thrust into you had one of those melodic moans or lilting whines clawing their way up your throat, mouth remaining agape with silent cries as you felt yourself once again approaching that steep edge. With your head thrown back, neck exposed to him, Undertaker took the opportunity to suck a few more bruises into the column of your throat, his teeth grazing your racing pulse, choking on his next growl as your cunt clenched around him painfully tight.

He gave one more harsh thrust upward into your wet heat, feeling you come undone, glistening arousal staining you both, before forcing himself to pull out, finishing no more than two seconds later as his warm, sticky seed spilled over your stomach and thighs, mingling with the sheen of your pleasure as it mixed between both your bodies.

Both of you were panting, shallow, ragged huffs fanning against each other’s skin as you slumped over him, completely spent, and he wrapped his arms around you, keeping you close, never wanting to let you go.

He’d have to, eventually, but for now, he allowed himself to pretend you couldn’t be touched by things like disease or disaster or death, erasing your mortality from his mind, even if it were just for the duration he’d have you in his arms.

Suddenly, he was speaking your name, a gentle breeze of syllables leaving his lips as he rubbed soothing circles against your spine, coaxing you back to consciousness. Without lifting your head from his shoulder, all your limbs heavy, blood flowing slow and sweet as if your veins had been filled with honey, you nuzzled further into the crook of his neck and breathed in his scent.

His question barely registered to you, causing you to mutter out a sleepy, “What…?” which caused him to quietly chuckle, feeling the light mirth rumble through his scarred chest.

“I said,” he repeated, “Are you feeling alright?”

You felt more than alright. You felt fantastic, but not in the loud, excited, energetic kind of way.

More like waking up after a long, much-needed sleep, still floating off the edge of your dreams, feeling tired but fulfilled.

Once the high faded, you were sure you’d feel the soreness, a dull ache already beginning to pulse between your legs, but you didn’t necessarily mind.

It would just be another reminder of him and the time you’d spent together.

And, truthfully, there was so much you wanted to say then. Like how you’d never thought you’d be able to connect with someone in this way, feel completely safe in their hands, even feel— dare you say it— loved.

But instead, all you managed in reply was, “I’m ok…” before you felt sleep swooping back in to claim you.

As you drifted off that time, you briefly wondered what a life with him would be like. If you’d eventually have to learn to call this curious place home, a cemetery sprawled across your backyard, a closet full of funeral clothing. Or if perhaps he’d be willing to trade some of his darkness for the pale light of your apartment, if he’d remember to water your flowers while you were at work and leave scraps out for the stray cats that came begging by your front door.

And if those within your circle— the ones who were always badgering you about when you were getting married or if anyone was currently courting you— would be surprised if you told them that, yes, you’d started seeing someone despite the numerous occasions you’d written off such partnerships as just not for you…

They’d surely have some opinions on the matter, and that would even be before they saw him standing at your side.

But let them gossip, let them talk, you figured.

You didn’t care what people said, what they thought. You just wanted to be able to see him again, to be with him again, and for a little while, at least, discover all the things fear had once convinced you that you’d never get to experience for yourself.

***

A few years after your first night spent with him, having had many more in all the time between, fate had called you away, choosing to relocate further up north once your mother grew ill, spending her remaining days by her side. Once she was gone and you found yourself back in funeral blacks, for some reason, you’d decided to stay. You’d written Undertaker, of course, and for that first year apart the back and forth correspondence had been quite regular.

You awaited his letters with a childlike giddiness, excitement unfurling its wings within your heart whenever a black envelope sealed with shining silver wax appeared among your mail, already beginning to tear it open before you’d even gone back inside from retrieving that day’s delivery from the mailbox down the hill from your late mother’s home, the house you now called your own.

You’d sit down to write him back the moment you finished reading the last word of his looping cursive scrawl, elegance and sharpness somehow occupying the same space.

But then, after so much time away from London, away from the life you’d grown so accustomed to, you’d found yourself growing lonely. Only, this time, instead of the dull ache your former solitary life had nurtured within you, the pain was now a knife’s stabbing edge, carving a hole out in your heart until it nearly became too much to bear.

Until you’d eventually met someone. Another man whose hair was just beginning to grey at the temples, yet nothing like Undertaker’s silver shine, and whose eyes were a deep forest green, not the startling chartreuse of your former lover’s gaze. 

Six months later, you wrote back to London to inform Undertaker of the wedding that would be held in the spring. He’d congratulated you, though was glad it was only on paper— if he’d been forced to fake a smile and sweeten his words to you in person you would’ve known it was a lie, seen the heartbreak etched onto his face as obviously as one of those jagged, shining scars— and after that, the flow of the letters slowly came to a halt.

You had ten beautiful years with your husband until death’s kiss touched him, leaving you a widow and, once again, alone.

By then, the north had become so small, its claws closing around you until it began to resemble a prison, a cage.

You fled, returning to London, unsure whether you were running from things you wanted to forget or towards a flame you thought you might rekindle.

But in all that time away, you’d gotten married. Perhaps it was unfair to assume Undertaker hadn’t done the same.

However, once you found him, grateful the funeral parlor was still right where you’d left it nearly fifteen years ago, you entered the shop, expecting to be greeted by a man who was all at once familiar to you and also not, surprised to find him just as you’d left him like an image out of an old photograph.

You’d expected time to have touched him, run its fingers through his hair, turning silver to ivory, leaving the first signs of laugh lines cupping his smile and crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes, similar to the ways it had begun to touch you. The sight should’ve brought you comfort but instead you found yourself feeling…

Uneasy.

The years had passed for Undertaker as quickly as the season’s had changed for you. But as you inched, slowly but surely, towards the winter of your life, there wasn’t even so much as a veil of frost creeping in to cover him.

Somehow, he had remained exactly the same, no matter how many days, weeks, months, or years went by.

You’d planned to smile and say something like, “It’s been a while, so I understand if you don’t recognize me,” but what came out of your mouth instead was a gasp and, “You’re—” before Undertaker stopped you.

“—Just about to sit down for some afternoon tea,” he filled in, his grin widening as if he’d been expecting you. And then, before you even had a chance to process the theories that were beginning to blossom in your brain, each one more ridiculous and paranormal than the last, he asked, “Would you care to join me?”

Your mouth hung open, any and all remaining questions dying on your tongue, a few sputtering squeaks catching in your throat before you closed your lips, cleared your throat and said, “Alright then.”

The time you spent sitting at that little table, legs nearly intertwined once more as you sipped at your cup of Earl Grey, two cubes of sugar stirred in, made you feel like no time— not years or over a decade— had passed at all since you’d seen him last.

Nothing had changed— truly nothing. Not his looks or his humor or the way being around him just made you feel calm.

He’d been in the middle of regaling some amusing tale to you from while you’d been away when all of a sudden you realized your eyes were welling with tears. His bout of laughter died down to a stark stoicism once he noticed, leaning forward, reaching out to rest his hand over yours, the familiarity of his cool touch only making more tears race down your cheeks in shimmering pairs.  He asked, “My love, whatever is the matter?”

You choked on a sob, gave his hand a squeeze. “I just missed you…” you admitted, trying to smile, though it just came out crooked and sad.

With his other hand, fingers partially warmed from holding his cup of tea, he lightly brushed away your tears, rubbing the back of your hand with the pad of his thumb, soothing you until your sobbing subsided.

Then he said, “I’ve missed you, too… In more ways than you can even imagine.”

You felt a new wave of sorrow threaten to wrack through you. Something akin to guilt. To shame. To mourning the life you could’ve had if only you’d come back sooner. If only you’d stayed.

“But please,” he continued, gazing upon you with concern now. “If you’re weeping on my behalf, don’t. Now that you’re here, we can just pick up where we left off… A human life is only so long, after all…”

You looked at him, half confused, half afraid, and he almost told you then. Told you that he wasn’t like you, wasn’t burdened with the fragile shortness of a mortal life. But he didn’t.

He wanted you to ask first. Wanted to hear you say the words you’d been wondering since the very first night you met.

And you would, eventually.

But for now you just wanted him to hold you while you finished your tea and try and make up for so much lost time.

***

Twenty years later, you were unmarried, plagued by the illness that had claimed your mother, and had long given up tracking down shocking stories to fuel your own morbid curiosities.

But you were not alone.

You’d remained in the funeral shop, though made several more cozy additions to its decor over the years— a couple little houseplants dotting the windowsills, your mother’s cookbook placed up in the cabinets of the little kitchenette, lace hems and embroidery on the pillowcases fluffed upon the freshly made bed.

This place had become home before you’d ever even made the decision to stay, though perhaps that was more due to Undertaker’s proximity than anything else.

Even as your joints grew stiff and your movement became sluggish, your hair greying and your eyesight failing, Undertaker still remembered to remind you how beautiful he thought you were, how much he loved you, how you’d always be his most favorite girl. He’d dance with you by the light of the moon, leading you in a lulling waltz as he hummed out a melancholy tune. He’d carry you to bed when he found you sleeping in a chair, whatever mystery novel you were reading open face-down on your lap.

To experience love in this way was the greatest gift either of you had ever received, the devotion binding at times, yet there was still one last secret you had to uncover before you didn’t have the chance to anymore.

It wasn’t until you were nearing your life’s end that you finally asked him, “What are you?” and he actually gave you the truth.

“So you’re the dark cloaked figure who comes to guide souls into the afterlife, are you?” you joked after he’d given a surprisingly detailed explanation of what he was— what he’d been, before he’d defected— and what he’d continue to be no matter how long he tried to hide behind the mask of the eccentric funeral director. You coughed out a weak chuckle from where you lay tucked into bed, reaching out to run your rigid, wrinkled fingers through his long silver locks. Dreamily, quietly, as if only to yourself, you muttered, “I should’ve known…”

“I wanted to tell you…” he admitted, “Before, I mean…”

“No,” you said, “it’s better you didn’t. I don’t think I would’ve understood back then. I wouldn’t have been able to handle it.”

Now, with your death so imminent, learning his identity actually made the thought of your final breaths more comforting. Because you now knew dying would feel like falling asleep in the arms of a lover, gentle and safe. Protected. Cared for.

And when that fateful day finally came to pass, it was Undertaker who claimed your soul, wanting to be the first and last person to lay their hands on it, not intent on allowing any of those dispatch drones to touch it with their sharp tools and sterile indifference. 

He dressed your body, laid you in your coffin, and dug your grave. Though it wasn’t in the cemetery among all the other headstones. It was right outside the kitchen window, where your houseplants continued to grow, the sun rising to shed its soft golden light upon the room through the eastern window and bathing the place in deep amber as it lowered below the horizon in the west, your favorite place to sit and drink your morning tea and read in evenings.

Losing you was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but whenever he was feeling lonely, he’d wander out and look down at your name etched into the smooth, pale stone, read your dates to himself, reciting them like a prayer.

You had been so much more than just an epitaph, once upon a time, but at least now Undertaker could come visit you as often as he liked, and tucked beneath his coat, pressed safe behind the glass of his lockets, was a strand of your hair, a piece of you he could carry with him for the rest of his days.

***

(A big thank you to @anxious-chick for your request! I hope it’s ok I sort of took your concept and ran a marathon with it lol, but once I started developing some plot I just got really into it and couldn’t help myself haha. Thank you for being so patient with me as well, I sincerely hope it was worth the wait.

Anyway, thank you to everyone for reading. I’ve been wanting to write for Undertaker again for a long time and I’m glad this opportunity presented itself. Hope everyone has a good day and remembers to be kind to themselves. See you next time <3)

[officialundertakersmoocher]

Hi, I was so excited when I saw there is still someone writing for Kuroshitsuji and, more specifically, for Undertaker (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡ since your fixed post said you're accepting requests, I hope you don't mind if I send one. @yaboisbullshit wrote something that won't leave my mind (I hope they don't mind that I have tagged them, I'm new on Tumblr and don't know the proper etiquette ╥⁠﹏⁠╥). Anyway they wrote about a scene in "Who framed Roger Rabbit" in which we have, basically, Jessica Rabbit simping over Roger Rabbit and I would love to see Undertaker, Sebastian and Ciel's reaction to some girl who is basically a Mary Sue (beautiful, smart, maybe a noble) who's Undertaker's partner and a total simp (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠) like, he's just eating his biscuits and she's giving him heart eyes lol. Anyway, sorry for the long ask and thanks a lot for your writing, whether you do my request or not (⁠✿⁠^⁠‿⁠^⁠)

and i would love to write it!

Undertaker's Not so Secret Admirer

Synopsis: The Undertaker's shop is filled with odd visits, but he never expected one such as this.

It started as a normal day in the Undertakers shop, slow as usual for the small funeral parlor.

A certain earl makes his way down the streets of the late 18th-century England, a black clad butler by his side and a mission underway. The earl strides himself with purposeful intent and a will that cannot be stopped by many, but as Ciel entered the familiar establishment that day-he stops in his tracks at the sight that he catches before his eyes.

A young woman with a bright aura sits by herself at the center of the parlor on a plush couch in the center of the parlor, giving a giddy wave to the Phantomhive boy.

Not only had Ciel never seen anyone besides his own company adorning the parlor, he also had never seen the parlor fit for human company in such a way.

Ciel gives his butler companion a puzzled look, though receiving nothing but silence from the female counterpart.

The two boys stand in the doorway in stunned silence before the younger boy decides to take charge, yelling into the darkness, "Undertaker...!"

The man in question bursts through the side door, holding a platter of tea and cookies which was obviously prepared in advance.

"Phantomhive, perfect timin', make 'rself at home." He states with a mischievous grin glittering his lips.

The earl seats himself with his butler near and watching. Ciel notices that on the opposite side of the couch, the woman has now adorned a doding expression at the sight of the funeral parlors owner.

She sits with her legs crossed and her palms holding her chin, heart eyes practically bearing through her head. Meanwhile, The Undertaker giggles as he seats himself opposite to them. The young earl starts to feel as if he is witnessing a game that he was not invited to play.

The Undertaker, on the other hand, seems to be more than entertained by these ongoing events.

"I apologize for interrupting you while you have guests, however, I have some business to di-" Ciel starts, however he is quickly interrupted by the sounds of the seemingly love-struck young woman sitting across from him.

Practically squealing in her seat from excitement, the young woman seems to be giddy to speak to The Undertaker and at the notice of his silence, the mystery woman jumps up from her seat and slams her hands on the table.

"Oh gosh, i'm sorry! I've just been so excited to meet you...!" She is now leaning over the coffee table, practically soaking in the rest of personally space that Undertaker has to spare.

The Undertaker bursts into laughter at the sentiment.

"Oh god, I've just heard so much about you. They said you were good looking, but I could've never imagined how right they were," she continues, voice growing more and more smitten as she trails off.

The Undertaker cannot seem to stop his fit of laughter now.

"Actually, young master, I believe we shall leave The Undertaker to this company. It would simply be improper to do otherwise..." the butler spoke, silently guiding his master up from his seat. The earl mutters some very confused phrases on his way up out the door.

The Undertaker tilts his hat towards the earl on his way out and he watched as the young woman seats herself once again. She tries to hide her flushed expression, sipping from her tea cup once again.

The Undertaker clicks his tongue several times as he raises from his seat and heads towards the door which had been left agape. "Ahaha.. Oh dear," He says, wiping a stray tear from his eye from giggling too much.

The Undertaker leans his back against the door, closing the remaining gap between you and the outside world.

"Now, if you planned on coming here to present such a hilarious show such as that one in hopes that I would tell you about myself.. you could have just asked." His voice lowers more and more as he goes on and begins to slowly creep towards where you stay seated.

The sudden realization that all of his attention was now placed on you had you blushing profusely. You attempted to cover your face with your gloved hands, however your sense told you that he already knew how flustered you were.

You let out a nervous giggle as The Undertaker approaches you, placing one hand behind you on the back of the couch and the other on the arm of it- you were essentially trapped.

"So, my dear, what is it that you wanted to know...?"

[married-to-google-translater]

This is for Ciel

Ciel Phantomhive (older)

It would be really shocking to come back and find out that someone had broken in while he was gone.

It was even worse to hear that you were injured.

Ciel would be sorry.

He would also blame himself.

Ciel should have protected you better.

You two live together after all.

And Ciel feels responsible.

Since he is the "Queen's guard dog" you would be in danger too.

And he wouldn't want to lose you.

Ciel would be a bit overprotective now.

Sebastian should be with you almost all the time.

You could protest but Ciel wouldn't listen.

He will also get you the best care available.

Ciel wishes you a speedy recovery.

He would try to work less.

Taking care of you would be important.

But when he was at work like the previously mentioned Sebastian would be with you.

You're going to get a lot of gifts when you're hurt.

Ciel does everything to make you feel as comfortable as possible.

[almondmilkcleanser]

“You’re my nasty girl, aren’t you?” -Sebastian

Imagine Sebastian unhinged and in full on demon mode. The traditional formalities are over with.

y'all hoes asked for this prompt TWICE so get ready for the meal!

masterlist | main menu | oneshots

The candlelight's weeping wax slid down the metal holster as the sounds of your bed's squeaks echoed in the engrossed bedroom. You could barely contain yourself as Sebastian positioned himself behind you, his palms molded around your hips, fingernails embedded in your supple, glistening flesh, and his athletic frame suited behind you.

It was a maiden's fantasy come true. To feel the entirety of Sebastian's dick inside of you, stretching your walls and pulling on your perverted flesh. His balls slapping against your quivering cunt as your moans echoed from wall to wall. You tried to run from his thrusts, you attempted to bounce forward as he rammed inside of you, but he wasn't having any of that.

Sebastian was there to fuck. Sebastian was there to fuck you, and it wasn't going to go any differently than what he planned for inside of his head.

"My my my..." his words sounded stiffened as he felt your pussy clench against him. The heated vibrations of your honeypot reverberating against his pole, sending shockwaves up and down his flesh. He was about to fucking lose it.

"Maybe I should refrain from fucking you more often. Look how much she misses me." He repositioned one of his hand to trace the lower portion of your spine with a smile, continuously drilling inside of you. his pace never faltered, but each thrust felt deeper and deeper. He french kissed your cervix, further marking your womb as his own. Both of your bodies were drenched in sweat, the candle wick coming closer and closer to its base but neither of you wanted to stop. Neither of you were going to stop, to be quite honest.

"Look how she pulls on me. She wants me here, huh? She absolutely adores what I do to her. Look-" he pushed deeper, making you cry out into an orgasm. As your hips convulsed on their own accord, he reached forward and grabbed you by the front of your neck, pulling you to his chest with one hand and wrapping his arm around your hips with the other, perfecting his stance to pound in you rigorously.

"Such a dirty girl. Constantly ravishing for me." He kissed your neck, growling in your ear as he felt all of you at his mercy.

"That's right. That's fucking right. Release all over me." his hand found its way to your clit, rubbing it vigorously back and forth, wanting to take it a step further.

"Oh, Sebastian, pleaaaaase!" You couldn't hold it! Your animal like cries bellowed in your bedroom as the clear liquid escaped from your crevices and soaked the bed. A smile of accomplishment spread across Sebastian's face.

"That's right." he was so pleased with you and himself. But his pounding didn't stop. Mixtures of your fluid, eachother's sweat, and the sticky viscosity escaping your pussy stained your pussy and ass as he continued to fuck the living daylights out of your begging pussy.

“You’re my nasty girl, aren’t you, Y/N? I bloody love it. Every fucking bit of it.”

send me a prompt

[faintrustle]

SEBASTIAN MICHAELIS

[fanfictionsworld]

A rabbit and a wolf

sebastian x fem reader/obssesive behavior/stalking/confident but easily embarrassed reader/you could say self-indolgent

A loud gasp escape your lips,the sound of bed hitting the wall was matching the sound of your lips.Sebastian without mercy pound your pussy like there was no tomorrow and how could he not you were the sweetest most annoying thing in the world,but you were his.Your back being blown out you could not take it any more,it was good so fucking good.You know better then to anger him but my god was the anger in the sex so good.You could barley think of anything.Eyes rolled to the back of your head fifth orgasam coming and you could not even speak.Yelling his name and your pussy being filled to the brim was amazing.In a second after coming from yet another high he was back in you again,going hard destroying your insides like it was nothing to him,and you were loveing it.God yes you were strong and independent and he knew that ,but god did he wanted to break it and maybe some part of you wanted that.Pulling you out of your thoughts was a loud slap on your ass which caused you to moan even more.,,What is it my slut you like that,i can feel your pussy clench around my cock whore."Oh god did you love that nickname.Yes you were a slut but for him,for his cock and no one else and it felt good.,,This fucking pussy is mine,all mine,your body your soul is mine do hear my rabbit,if you so much as look or speak in any mans direction i will kill him and you,i will fuck you until your fucking pussy remembers how her master is,do you hear me little rabbite,well do you", pulling your hair your fucked face closer to his you could barely say anything but mumbling yes was enough for him.His pace become faster and harder he was hitting all the spots his cock was piercing threw you.You could not think your brain was just about his big fat cock destroying you and you enjoying it.As you grew close to the high you screamed so hard you were sure you woke up the whole building.Finishing you lay there on the bed breathless,unabel to speak Sebastian took you to the bathroom washed you dressed you.,,Darling how are you feeling was i to hard,did i hurt you"Sebastian asked looking form some bruise he might have left knowing he was to lost in the moment.,,No i am fine and you were perfect as alwasy darling,but maybe next time do go a bit harder i can take it." you said mischief in your eyes ,,Oh really well you little minx i will be sure to remember that now gets some rest my love."

[tabibitto]

Always Yours | Sebastian Michaelis

m.list

cw: fluff, smut, angst, toxic relationship, butler x master, oneshot, gender neutral, main character death

A/N: should i make a mini series about something like this?

Upon a summon, a demon negotiates a price, and a deal. What to give and take.

As a creature of sin, he of course, tries to make the best bargain for himself. With you, it was different. The first of contracts in over 500 years where the terms were of equal measure, in your gaze and his.

Sebastian, as you named him. Promised three things to you: Pleasure, Protection and Absolute Service. In service, he swore honesty, he swore loyalty, as both a butler and a lover. He swore to "care" for you.

Whether you looked at it as genuine kindness or the simple task of taking care of a lesser animal was up to you.

In this Loom of Fate, where you had no real future. No heirs for your earldom, where your work in your manor and buisness was for naught, you still worked hard and gave it your utmost devotion.

It amused him—watching as you worked and packed your schedule for seemingly no reason. In a hundred years you would be forgotten, but the demon supposed that this was another little quirk of the complex nature of humans.

Sebastian often pondered weather you did this to feign a sense of normality, or weather it made the perfect excuse for him to...destress you.

He teased you about it before, that there was no need to work so hard for his cock and attention. In response you had slapped him, and rode him harder that night. It was never brought up again.

You never did answer his question as to why pretend to be normal. Then again, he didn't say anything when you asked why he would pretend to love you. And unlike your usual stubbornness, you dared not to press when the chatty demon suddenly grew quiet whilst he washed your hair.

You never learned whether his silence was an answer in itself, or because...he didn't know either.

Sebastian took care to remember everything you mentioned you liked and hated, without your orders to do or not do. He insisted he always take care of your hair and body. Never allowing you to lift a finger when he was around. Sebastian always had a new excuse

Chivalry, Duty, Honor. Trivial ideals that mattered not to him.

How Sebastian took gentle care to prep you and love you the first time you urged him into your bed.

How you insisted he was the only one who could, because he was your loyal slave who would never open his mouth and boast nor gossip of his Lady in bed, to which he agreed

Sebastian would not dare, contract or not to allow another man nor woman know of your pretty moans and expressions, how you quivered around him and uttered i love yous and stay with mes that nearly convinced him of your affection.

In return, he uttered the same sweet nothings to you.

He tore apart anyone you wished dead, brought you their heads and tongues like a proud pet when you requested.

Sebastian knew it was not distrust that made you ask for proof of death. You were just as twisted as he and it made him crave your own demise even more.

Deep down, where his heart was supposed to be. Sebastian knew he loved you, he was obsessed with you and would do anything for you. His own addiction made him nurture and love your soul even more, each time he kissed you, he could faintly taste the delicacy he has cultivated for years, and would fuck you hard to satiate his thirst for your soul.

he fed you, bathed you, fucked you, loved you

he gave you everything you never had

In return, you fullfilled your own end of the contract.

you were a loyal lover to him. Never pleased nor been pleased by another man or woman then Sebastian himself. Turned down every marriage proposal and attempt to court you. Danced with no one unless absolutely needed

Never smoked nor did drugs to preserve your soul's taste, though you did enjoy wine and liquor.

You called him when in danger or if someone tried to force themselves on you, and he protected you, held you as cried and trembled, Comforted you as you wanted.

Making gentle love to you, kissing you, hugs, cuddles. Watching over you while you beat and tortured men to death. Brought you whatever parts you wanted, mailed the rest to their homes as a warning.

Sebastian would never dare himself say he loved you. He would never think it possible. Demons and Angels could not love nor hate. The divine and damned existed for a sole purpose, to carry out the word of the lord, or bring damnation to humanity. He was the latter, nothing more or less.

With you he could pretend he was someone, someone more. Someone who could come home, who could love and live. He would lay awake at night, and pretend you meant your words. Your confessions. Allow himself to feel

What Sebastian would say, is that he was simply possesive and obsessed with you. And if he had to call it love for your sake...and his. So be it.

Until the day when he would please you one last time before tearing you apart as he came. Relishing in your screams and cries, as much as it destroyed him to do such a vile thing. He would enjoy you. Every inch, every drop of you was his.

Sebastian Michaelis would love every inch of you until then. And bury himself into starvation with your body, to love and be loyal to you, his mistress. Until the end of time.

Because there was no one like you, would be no one like you. You were everything he wanted and would ever need.

Even if his stomach ached for even a cheap soul, he would ride it out until death. As punishment for making you suffer, and to keep his promise to you.

usque ad mortem im tua

[anonimusunnoaniswriting]

Shark Week with Sebastian | MDNI 18+ only | Period sex, blood ofc, gentle Sebastian, ambiguous era, smut, obviously, could be gross use your fucking discretion | I'm PMSing. Cramps are fucking awful stope.

Of course Sebastian knows. He keeps track of it better than even you. Sometimes even reminding you of its approach.

(Victorian era!)Sebastian has knowledge from all parts of the world so while other ladies bleed freely, feeling uncomfortable and having to repeatedly change clothing, you are offered a makeshift pad, with special cloths torn and arranged by the demon himself. (Modern!) Sebastian knows what pads, tampons, and menstrual cups are too he buys and stocks them for you. Making sure you have plenty for when you need.

Sebastian also makes sure you have hot honeyed tea to help soothe your cramps and sweet treats to go with it as well. Cakes, biscuits, chocolates.

And when all else fails, Sebastian knows a little massage will help you better than anything else anyway.

He starts at your feet. Carefully pulling and prodding at each toe and your skin. The ache that settled in your muscles immediately scream relief as his supple fingers glide across atop the expanse of your body. You can feel him- edging dangerously closer- closer- closer to your core.

You can't help wiggle. Despite having had this happen before it feels awkward for you to having him touch you while you're bleeding.

Sebastian moves further up, loosening the tight knots in your waist and back. His long fingers expertly knowing just where to rest, where to press down, where to be hard and where to be gentle. You're mere putty in his hands, shaped into a creature of desire.

You can feel your core grow warm. Heat blossoming in your abdomen as Sebastian bends down to lay a chaste kiss to your shoulder. "My lady, it seems you are in more pain than I initially thought... Perhaps a more personal massage will help better."

You giggle. A personalised massage...was that what it was called?

You see him out of the corner of your eye pull his glove off with his teeth – a sight you aren't still accustomed to. His blackened nails glint in the dim light, cold and unforgiving; desperate to taste the warmth you have to offer.

He flips you onto your back with as much ease as if he were lifting a kitten and while keeping his eyes on you, pushes his fingers into your bloody cunt. There's next to no barriers, and the feeling instantly shoots up right to your navel, sending signals to your brain that are too many and too quick for you to comprehend.

His thumb finds your nub, and he circles it, round and round, barely touching the button while pumping two long fingers in and out your hole. The blood drips down your ass and onto the bed where Sebastian had strategically placed a thick towel for you.

"Seb-" you breathe a sigh of relief feeling the fingers prod at your gummy walls. "Sebastian, don't stop. It f-feels so good.

"I wouldn't dream of it, my Lady."

His lips press against your skin, sinking into the plush fat of your tender breasts. Your senses are heightened making it difficult for you to reign in the cries that escape between your teeth, but it only seems to spur him on as he picks up pace.

When his lips latch around the hard pebble of your nipple, you gush warm wetness below. A dribble that amplifies the obscene squelches. But the demon remains unfazed.

His mouth suckes on your breast in a slow deliberate repetition, breathing life into your orgasm. A rhapsody of pleasure that builds in you, spiralling upward as his fingers curl inside and his thumb teases your clit over, and over till you feel yourself peaking. White hot and shuddering, you come, spilling blood and your release over the hand at your entrance.

Sebastian releases your nipple with a pop and looks down at you with flashing red eyes; your chest rising and falling with each deep breath. A part of you suddenly disappointed with how short it was.

"Is my Lady satisfied?"

"Y-yes."

"Liar."

Your cheeks reddened. Of course he would find you out. Yet the tall figure swooped in and captured your lips in his. You heard the soft sound of fabric moving and felt him push into you gently. His lips dropped from your mouth, to your jaw, your neck, fingers finding purchase in the formerly neglected nipple.

"Let's fix that shall we?"

I think I'll write for Agni next. Man had BDE and I need him. Why are the white haired men always so pretty to me ughhhh