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#black butler undertaker x reader

sleepingdeath-light · 1 year

Text

between the coffins ; 18+

requested by ; anonymous (31/10/21)

word count ; 952

content ; oral sex (fem receiving), semi-public sex acts, nearly getting caught

fandom ; black butler

pairing ; undertaker x female!reader

read also on ; ao3

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

Privacy was rare to come by when your lover was as in demand as he was — always being called away by a detective or a grieving relative or that pint sized earl or, well, the list goes on. It seemed you just never had a moment to yourselves and if it had gone on any longer you were sure you’d have just taken him in the shop, irrespective of whoever else was there so long as you got the relief you so desperately craved.

Though, thankfully, you didn’t end up needing to resort to such desperate measures.

Today had been the most quiet day you’d had in months at the parlour — not a single soul, human or otherwise, had even come by your doors since you’d flipped the sign on the front door to “open”, aside from one particularly lost traveller who was looking for a completely different establishment. It was almost as if death had taken a day off; like the world beyond your doors had stuttered to a stop, or the rapture had occurred and you two were the sole survivors left behind.

After four long hours of just sitting and waiting, eyes on the door and breath held in anticipation, your boyfriend finally spoke up and propositioned you. Urging you to hike your skirts up to your waist and sit on one of the unoccupied coffins in the most covered side-area of the main parlour — his grin rife with a mischief and lust that you had no intention of denying. So, naturally, you did exactly what he suggested, uncaringly tossing your shoes and stockings and drawers to one side and lifting yourself onto the cold, wooden surface — and grinning in antsy anticipation when he knelt between your legs and used his cold, large hands to spread your thighs wide apart.

You were finally going to get what you wanted, and you couldn’t fucking wait.

————

Your boyfriend was always happy to go down on you, to the extent that he seemed to get off on it alone. And he was damn good at it, playing your body with the same skill a professional musician would use to work their instrument: his long tongue traced the length of your slit, gathering your slick on the tip before he paused and swallowed and groaned before doing it all over again; occasionally his lips would wrap around your swollen clit and he’d suck on the sensitive bud, causing you to sigh and keen before he laughed and returned his focus elsewhere; his talented tongue would flit between your gushing hole and your sensitive clit — thrusting and swirling inside of you and circling and drawing figure eights onto your most sensitive part.

Every flick of his tongue and press of his lips against your needy pussy sent new waves of burning pleasure flowing through your veins and collecting at your core. The coil within you tightening as you were guided intentionally towards your release with a treatment that had your head spinning and your fingers entangling themselves in his long, grey hair. Twirling, twisting, pulling and tugging him forwards so he was as close as can be — so you could feel every twitch of his lips, every breath that escaped him against the surface of your cunt as he continued to eat you out with all the ferocity of a starved man presented with a feast. With all the reverence of a follower in prayer.

It wasn’t long before he had you moaning his name in a prayer of your own. Murmuring the syllables in the shape of a gasp and punctuating them with pleas and praise that morphed into moans and groans — the sort that came strongly from your core and had your head falling backwards until it hit the back wall of the parlour (or was it another coffin?). That had your grip on his hair tightening as you ground and bucked your hips into his mouth, arching your back as your pleasure began to mount.

Yes. Yes. So close, so tantalisingly close. Yes!

And then three worlds collided. Undertaker suddenly reached up, bending you damn near in half in the process, and slammed a hand over your mouth, silencing you as he stared at you through his bangs — yellow-green eyes glinting with mischief and warning. The bell above your front door clinked merrily, announcing a new guest as a familiar voice called out for your boyfriend, demanding his presence; the earl. You fell over the edge of climax and squirted your release so hard that you coated your boyfriend’s chin and your thighs in your juices.

Vision spinning and blotting with a disorienting white that bled when tears of overstimulation filled your eyes. Heart pounding violently against your rib cage, the sound deafeningly loud as it echoed in your ears, overpowering the demands of your company. Your limbs trembling and your body collapsing forwards as it all became too much and you were only held upright by the sheer strength of your lover, who skilfully guided you through your high as you mounted the peak and gradually came down — licking you just below your sensitive spot until your eyes focused again and he was sure you were okay to handle yourself.

Then, and only then, did he lick himself clean and wipe whatever he couldn’t get on the oversized sleeve of his coat. Then, and only then, did he poke his head out of your hidden nook and address your guests with his trademark grin and unnervingly giggly disposition.

Acting like nothing had happened whilst you were left a panting, sweating, fucked-out mess forced to bite down on your fist to keep quiet. What an ass — he‘s lucky you loved him…

#sleepingdeath #female reader #female reader smut #smut #smut fic #minors dni #minors fuck off #black butler smut #black butler x reader #kuroshitsuji x reader #kuroshitsuji smut #undertaker x reader #black butler undertaker x reader #kuroshitsuji undertaker x reader #undertaker smut

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speckle-meow-meow · 9 months

Note

Hello!! Could you do Undertaker x a reader who rarely ever smiles because they’re insecure of their dimples, and whenever someone points them out it kinda ends up as a mood killer for them? Please and thank you!! Have a nice day/night!!<3

You were born with beautiful/handsome dimples

You loved them as a child but as you got older you started to resent them

Whenever people pointed them out it killed your mood and made you very sour

Eventually you met a man who made you love your dimples

Undertaker loved your dimples

It eventuated your smile and laugh

He knew not to mention them to much do he didn't but he also showed you how much he loved them by kissing them

Which made you happy

He always made sure to lift your spirits whenever people mentioned your dimples

{Hello anon I hope you like this! And sorry ladies, Gentalmen, and those in between I know my posts have been short lately but I am INCREDIBLY busy. I hope you all understand!}

#x reader #gender nuetral reader #fluff #black butler #black butler x reader #Undertaker x reader #black butler undertaker #black butler undertaker x reader

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lilithizhere · 4 months

Note

I!!!! Cant!!!! Believe!!! I finally found someone who writes for all my favorite anime 😭😭 Thank you for existing.

Can I request some fluff with Undertaker please? How would he spend the anniversary date with his S/O? Do they cook something? do they go out? would he give them a gift? (Gender neutral pls <3)

I just need to read something about the loml before I go crazy 😮‍💨 Thank u!!

- ☁️

The Undertaker.

●So it was your guys Anniversary Date.

●With you and The Undertaker being retired Grim Reapers, and having lived in the mortal world for so long. You knew you guys could find something to do.

●You guys ended up baking and the Undertaker kept laughing because he spilt the Flour and it got everywhere. Including you.

●You looked like a Snowman and then as payback you hugged him Laughing.

●You guys made some delicious brownies, that your pretty sure he somehow put alcohol in?, and ate them all.

●The kitchen was a mess but that was okay. You guys can clean it another time.

●He gave you a very cool Skull as a Gift and you gave him a new Reaper Scythe since you thought he could use a new one.

●You guys cuddled, he kept tickling you, and chilled.

#the undertaker #black butler #black butler undertaker x reader #fluff #oneshot #funny #lol #fanfic writers

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sapphire-dreamsky · 1 year

Text

Alluring

Starring: Undertaker | Reader

Pairing: Undertaker / Reader

Trigger Warnings: Death is mentioned

If she had to use one word to describe Undertaker, it would be alluring. From his silvery locks to his little smirk as he would tease her relentlessly, all that he was, was simply alluring.

With green eyes shining with not only a youthful mirth but also with some veiled nostalgia that was incomparable to anyone else, he radiated of a special glow that could only belong to him. If she didn't know anything better, she would be certain that he was not older than thirty. But she knew the truth.

She remembered cold hands holding her tightly against his chest scared of letting her go, head stubbornly hidden in the crook of her neck as he broke down in a thousand pieces, tears dampening her nightgown. In that moment, long gone was the youthful alluring man. In his place, holding her as if she was his lifeline, was an old tired man who was more scared of loneliness than death.

She didn't know how to comfort him. Couldn't really. She didn't know his full story, his past was still a sensitive topic that he refused to speak about. And while she could fathom his pain, she could only understand one-tenth of his pain—to be forced to watch as everyone around you die while you forever remain the same young man you once was. Being so eternal that you witness the birth of a new era, only to watch it disappear centuries later; replaced by the birth of another one and a new way of life that you have to adapt to. You are not given a choice, you have to leave behind your old traditions to fit in with the new traditions and customs. A never ending cycle that he must face forever alone. Reincarnated as a being that looked like a human but not quite one.

"It's in the past now. I am nothing like the man I used to be. We are strangers."

So, she did the one thing she knew to do in these rare moments of fragility. She held him close, tried as much as she could to warm his frozen tired soul, to provide even for one moment, a moment of reprieve from the loneliness that traps his weary brittle heart. It wasn't much. She would never understand what he went through. She couldn't swear to stay with him forever. But it was enough for him. She cared and that was enough for his worn out heart.

He was alluring, whether he was smiling or crying. He will forever be alluring to her even when to the eyes of the society outside of their home, he is nothing but an eccentric mortician who you dread to meet.

#black butler undertaker x reader #kuroshitsuji undertaker x reader #undertaker x reader #black butler undertaker #kuroshitsuji undertaker

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ilyluffy · 1 year

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𝐻𝒪𝐿𝒟 ~ 𝒴𝒪𝒰 ~ 𝒟𝒪𝒲𝒩

𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐨 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮

𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬: sebastian michaelis + grell + the undertaker

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: smut {minors + ageless blogs dni!! you’ll be blocked}

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: gn!reader, hints of sun and dom!reader, size kink, rough sex, light body worship, hair pulling {more warnings under the cut}

{genshin impact edition}

{one piece edition}

𝐒𝐄𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐒

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: dom!sebastian, size kink, rough sex

sebastian is obsessed with the idea of making you look and feel small. so when he’s on top of you, fucking your senseless, he likes to place his hands on either side of your head. to sebastian, it looks like he’s caging you in and giving you no escape. that thought alone drives him absolutely mad. if he’s being particularly rough with you however and he needs to hang on to you so you don’t go flying away from him, sebastian with grip your hips so tight that he’ll leave bruises behind on your waist.

𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐋

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: bottom!grell, hints of sub!grell, slight body worship

grell very much prefers to be below you. so if they had their choice their hands would be gripping the sheets as you fucked. if grell is feeling particularly touchy then they’ll have their hands roaming your chest, on your shoulders, or maybe on your hips. just like outside the bedroom grell can be unpredictable so it all really depends on how they’re feeling in the moment.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: dom!undertaker, rough sex, hair pulling

if there’s one thing you can count on that’s feeling undertakers fingers grab chucks of your hair while he’s fucking you. one second he’ll be thrusting into you from behind the next thing you know he’s tugging your head back by the strands. he loves that surprised gasp of pain that you let out whenever he does it. undertaker’s not listening if you start whining about it because he knows deep down you’re addicted to the sharp stinging sensation.

2022–2023 © r-oronoa — do not repost or translate my work. likes, reblogs, and comments are welcome

#apollo writes ✎#sebastian michaelis #grell #the undertaker #black butler #black butler x reader #black butler smut #sebastian michaelis x reader #sebastian michaelis smut #grell x reader #grell smut #the undertaker x reader #the undertaker smut

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cherryskyies · 10 months

Text

Sebastian & Undertaker w an insecure s/o

trying desperately to make creative brain juice flow guys. sometimes my wording feels off but it's been a hot minute since I've been writing on a regular basis.

Masterlist || Navigation || ao3

Sebastian

Sebastian is well aware of your insecurities regarding your body before you tell him. He sees it in the way you suck your stomach in when his hand brushes against it, body stiffening when he chooses to keep it there.

He is not an idiot, but he cannot help but be confused as to why you see yourself in such a negative light; you're pure and soft, untainted by the evil surrounding you. Perfection in his eyes.

When the topic arises, his hand still against your flesh, you feel embarrassed. "Can I keep my shirt on?"

Sebastian pauses for a moment, "what if I blow the candles out?" he suggests, desperate to feel all of you, not needing the dim light to guide him.

You comply, still hesitant to know you'll be laid bare beneath him, but Sebastian is quick to toss your anxiety out the door with his skilled tongue.

He will fuck every ounce of doubt and insecurity out of you. Praise follows each thrust.

Undertaker

He has seen a lot of bodies in his life given his field of work and yours isn't anything he hasn't seen before, so why are you ashamed?

In his eyes, every bit of you is a work of art. He paints you in his free time but nothing he does fully captures your beauty.

"I've seen a lot in my life, doll," he starts, slender fingers tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, "but I have not seen a girl as alluring as you."

If he could explain you in simple terms he'd say heaven on earth, his very own angel.

Undertaker does his very best to make you comfortable, knowing your insecurities and determined to prove he adores every inch of your mind and body.

His slow hands glide over every curve and so-called "imperfection", leaving kisses followed by praise in areas you tense up.

It is his goal for you to see yourself in the same light he does and he will succeed; don't give him a challenge you don't want him to win.

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 6 months

Note

hi can i request yan sebastian, grell and hell taker meeting reader as their soulmate bit reader is more likely to believe soulmate is not real and theres not such things as true love or destiny

Soulmate | Yandere Black Butler

Naturally in a world where demons, rogue angels, and grim reapers run rampant love and procreation aren’t exactly expected. But their creators gave them an out—a symbol randomly given to someone stamped with a soulmate status. Many would consider it a weakness but many others would consider it a strength of its own. Either way for them a soulmate is one in a million and they’d be foolish to let you escape whether you believe it or not:

Sebastian Michaelis

“What a glorious surprise is this?”

He never expected to find his soulmate in the devout hater for all things non-human

He’s delighted with the challenge you offer

Always keeping him on his toes

What a treat

He only really has a problem when you start successfully trying to escape

Expect to be moved into the Phantomhive Manor pronto

Undertaker

“Hehehehe what a morbid turn of events.”

To have your rejection before the revelation of being his soulmate

But what can you really say when you’re supposed soulmate is a grim reaper

Who is more than delighted to experiment with the topic of death with anyone who you seem interested in you

He doesn’t see you as a weakness not until you prove it to him

Otherwise he’ll decide you need to take a permanent staycation in his care

Or keep you running either one works

Grell

“What?! You?!”

Doesn’t immediately get the connection

Whether its an obvious vision or a physical sign

He doesn’t immediately peg you for soulmate material

Especially when you scoff at the idea of that being even being a thing

But Grell isn’t a stranger to rejection

So your protests will mean nothing

Nothing more than a new side of you to learn about

And as your soulmate its a given that he know everything there is to know about you

#yandere sebastian michealis #yandere black butler #yandere kuroshitsuji #yandere x reader #yandere x you #lovelyyandereaddictionpoint #yanderexrea #yandere #yanderes #yandere grell sutcliff x reader #yandere grell sutcliff #yandere grell x reader #yandere undertaker #yandere undertaker: adrian crevan #yandere adrian crevan #yandere black butler x reader #yandere kuroshitsuji x reader

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aifanfictions · 5 months

Note

Write a story about (y/n) being the Phantomhive maid who helps Ciel and Sebastian with their cases and after going to the undertaker for information, Undertaker starts to slowly fall in love with (y/n)

Whims of the Reaper

In the grand halls of the Phantomhive Manor, (Y/N) continued her diligent work as the ever-graceful maid of the distinguished household. Each day, the bond with Ciel and Sebastian grew stronger, and her efficiency in managing the grand estate reached new heights. But, little did she know, the eccentric storm was brewing, ready to unravel the calm of her structured life.

The peculiar tale began on a foggy evening when a case took Ciel Phantomhive, the young Earl, and his loyal demon butler, Sebastian, to the Funeral Parlor run by the enigmatic Undertaker. The mortician had an unyielding fascination with death, and his macabre sense of humor was as peculiar as his profession. As they stepped into the dimly lit parlor, (Y/N) couldn't help but feel a shiver down her spine. The Undertaker's peculiar aura was impossible to ignore.

Undertaker emerged from the shadows with a dramatic flair, a morbid chuckle escaping his lips. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, gleamed with twisted interest as he welcomed his guests. "Ah, young Phantomhive and Sebastian! What brings you to my humble establishment today?"

With an air of mystery and mischief, Ciel explained the nature of their case, and Undertaker was immediately engrossed. His odd commentary, a unique blend of the morbid and the surreal, left (Y/N) both intrigued and baffled. Her wide eyes darted from Undertaker to her young master and his butler, trying to make sense of it all.

As the conversation continued, Undertaker's fascination with their case was overshadowed by his growing intrigue in the unassuming Phantomhive maid. (Y/N) stood near the door, her presence both calm and bewitched by the eccentricities she was witnessing.

Undertaker couldn't help but be drawn to her. There was something about the way she furrowed her brow at his oddities, her innocence contrasting his morbid world. He longed to unravel the mysteries of her heart just as he did with the souls that came into his care.

When the business was concluded, Ciel and Sebastian prepared to leave. Undertaker's eyes, however, were no longer on the Phantomhive Earl but on the Phantomhive maid who stood near the door.

Approaching (Y/N), he leaned closer, his breath chillingly cool on her ear. "You, my dear, are not like the others who grace my parlor. You see, I find your innocence utterly captivating."

(Y/N) blinked in surprise, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Thank you, sir, but I must be going now."

Undertaker's laughter danced with an eerie melody. "Oh, my dear, I hope to see more of you in the future. There is something truly delightful about your presence amidst all this death."

As (Y/N) stepped out of the Funeral Parlor, she couldn't shake the feeling that Undertaker was unlike anyone she'd ever met. His eccentricity and morbid fascination were a stark contrast to the life she led at the Phantomhive Manor. Yet, there was a curiosity in her heart, a yearning to understand the mysteries that lay beneath his peculiar exterior.

Unbeknownst to (Y/N), Undertaker's interest in her had awakened a dormant side of his own heart. His fascination for death and the unknown was slowly eclipsed by a desire to understand the living, to grasp the complexities of human emotion, and to delve into the enchanting depths of (Y/N)'s soul.

As the days passed, (Y/N)'s encounters with Undertaker became more frequent. His visits to the Phantomhive Manor, each more eccentric than the last, would soon become a peculiar routine. His fondness for tea parties, during which he regaled (Y/N) with tales of the dearly departed, gradually transformed into moments of lighthearted banter and shared laughter.

The Phantomhive household watched with varying degrees of amusement and concern as Undertaker, the eccentric mortician, attempted to court the Phantomhive maid with a perplexing mix of macabre curiosity and eccentric charm. While Ciel and Sebastian were ever watchful of the maid's safety, they couldn't deny the curious bond that seemed to be forming.

Undertaker's heart, hidden beneath layers of eccentricity and morbidity, began to beat in a way it hadn't for centuries. And for (Y/N), the journey was equally baffling and captivating, as she found herself inexplicably drawn to the reaper whose world was as mysterious as the afterlife itself.

Each tea party with Undertaker brought new tales, bizarre stories that ranged from tragic to utterly absurd. They reveled in laughter, the distinct camaraderie growing between the reaper and the maid, both trapped in a dance of eccentricity that only they could understand.

Yet, there was something that Undertaker couldn't quite put into words. A feeling that defied logic, a longing that went beyond the realm of morbid fascination. He found himself entranced by the way (Y/N) would touch her fingers to her lips when she was lost in thought, or the way her eyes sparkled with innocence when she found his bizarre tales amusing.

His attraction to her was a complex tapestry of desire and intrigue, woven with the threads of both life and death. He couldn't help but wonder what it was about her that had captured his reaper's heart.

(Y/N) too found herself intrigued by the peculiar reaper. She had never met anyone like Undertaker, whose eccentricity was a stark contrast to the rigid world she had known. His stories, while bizarre, held a unique charm, and she couldn't help but feel a strange fondness for the mortician who found delight in death.

Yet, as Undertaker slowly unraveled the enigma that was (Y/N), he couldn't help but wonder if there was room in his heart for a love that was as unconventional as he was. As the days turned into weeks, his courtship of the Phantomhive maid took on a new dimension, a blend of eccentricity and longing that defied the boundaries of life and death.

As the eccentric reaper and the charming maid embarked on this peculiar journey of affection, the Phantomhive Manor witnessed the unfolding of a love story unlike any other. The grand halls that once echoed with secrets were now filled with the whimsical laughter of a reaper who danced with the living and a maid who dared to uncover the mysteries of the afterlife.

And so, amidst the eccentricity and the enigma, Undertaker and (Y/N) were drawn into a love that was as peculiar as it was profound. It was a tale of fascination, an eccentric affection that challenged the conventional understanding of love, and it would continue to unfold with each bizarre tea party and every morbidly delightful encounter.

In the grand halls of the Phantomhive Manor, where secrets and enigmas abounded, the most unconventional love story was in the making, and it would continue to unravel with each tea party, every eccentric tale, and every moment of laughter that defied the boundaries of life and death.

NOTE! This story was generated by OpenAI

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sleepingdeath-light · 10 months

Text

undertaker smut alphabet ; 18+

written to accommodate trans, cis and neutral inserts

will also be posted on wattpad and ao3

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

A — Aftercare

what are they like after sex?

Aftercare for him usually consists of him making you laugh so hard that you cry whilst he cleans you up and checks you over for any major injuries — or anything that could become a major concern otherwise. After that's said and done he'll shoo you to the bathroom whilst he fetches you something small to eat and a drink of water to help you recover. Then, if it's late at night, the two of you will lay down together and he'll stay by your side rubbing comforting circles on your back as he holds you close, watching as you slowly drift off to sleep.

B — Body Part

their favourite body part of their partner and themselves.

Though it might sound strange at first, given his propensity to keep them hidden, he's actually quite fond of his eyes. Granted this is mainly because of your — as well as previous partners' — fascination towards them and the benefits that come with that (after all, by reaper standards they're dreadfully plain). He enjoys having the ability to make you fluster and clam up by giving you a single look, the ability to turn you from bratty to obedient just by brushing his fringe to one side; it gives him a sort of power over you that he relishes in and that he'd happily make use of until it stops having that same effect on you (which he quietly hopes never happens).

He's also pretty open about his partialism towards...

(Fem!Reader) your chest. This preference of his is by no means impacted by the size of your chest as it's not necessarily about a specific look for him — it's more so about the fact that it's your chest that he's looking at. He adores smaller breasts that he can fit easily into his hands just as much as he's fond of larger breasts that are impossible to ignore no matter how many layers of clothing you wear. He's as much of a blatant pervert around you either way because he's attracted to your body because it's yours — so unfortunately (or fortunately) there really is no escape from his relentless affection and staring. But, at the very least, you needn't worry about him staring at any other women because as long as he has you he's never even going to give them the time of day — no matter what their chest looks like.

(Masc!Reader) your stomach. Flat or round, muscular or soft, hairy or smooth — as long as it's yours this reaper is not going to hold back when it comes to showing his appreciation for your stomach. Marking, groping, commenting on it during dirty talk; you name it and he's probably done it several times already by the start of a new week and he's not even the slightest bit guilty if you try to tease him about it. Undertaker just wholly lacks shame in that regard (in most regards, honestly) and commenting on his attraction is more likely to get him to increase his affections than it is to embarrass him. Though, at the very least, his relentless attention leaves no doubt regarding his appreciation for you and your body (and if you're insecure about your stomach for whatever reason then he's more than happy to try and help you boost your confidence).

(Neutral!Reader) your throat. Undertaker absolutely adores your neck and all of the things it does to him: the way it arches so perfectly when you throw your head back and moan in that deliciously sinful way when you're riding him, hands planted on his chest and his on your waist as you whimper and cry and sob with a force that makes your throat bob; the way it fits so perfectly in the palm of his hand as he lightly chokes you — a playful gesture, not a threat — that he can feel every breath and swallow and beat of your heart beneath his scarred hands, such a perfect fit that it's almost enough to make him believe in fate; the feeling of your pulse jumping beneath his deceptively soft lips and tongue as he trails kisses and licks and love bites along the column of your throat — nipping at it playfully and humming against your skin as you whimper and gasp under his attentions. Yes, he quite likes your throat indeed.

(Trans Masc!Reader) your stomach. His fondness and perversion is going to be apparent no matter what you actually look like because he's attracted to your stomach — not just men's stomachs in general. You are the main factor in his preference, you are the reason he looks at your body with all of the lust and appreciation that he does, so you have nothing to worry about when it comes to other men stealing his attention. Whether it's on the hairier or smoother side, whether it's softer or more toned, whether it's flat or round; he's always going to find a way to comment on/touch/mark it in a way that will leave you breathless and flustered. Or, in other words, expect to have plenty of bite marks on your abdomen and don't expect to make it through the day without some perverse comment being spoken or his hands mysteriously finding their way under your shirt to touch up your stomach when work is slow, because you will be thoroughly disappointed (or pleased if that's something you happen to enjoy).

(Trans Fem!Reader) your chest. This attraction of his isn't impacted or fuelled by the size or shape of your breasts — whether they're flat, more muscular, smaller, larger, softer, even or not — as much as it's fuelled by the fact that they're yours and once he found you it's like he stopped noticing other women existed. He's equally attentive (well... perverted) about your chest if it's on the flatter side as he is if it's on the larger side, and wearing anything at all that shows it off is guaranteed to have you bent over the nearest table and fucked into oblivion. Undertaker may not be subtle about his attraction, but at the very least it leaves no room for doubt in regard to his feelings for you (even if he can get a bit unintentionally rough at times with his marking).

C — Cum

anything to do with cum.

When he cums, it’s in a shockingly large amount, more than enough to fill you up to the point of bulging and leaking, or to coat your face/thighs/ass/chest with ease. It’s standard in texture and colour, of course, and the only thing differentiating him from a human man (or even himself before he became a reaper) is that he’s completely infertile as a result of his death. This means that he’s able to creampie you without any risk of conception even if you’re able to get pregnant — which he’s more than thankful for as he much prefers to release inside of you and watch it leak out (or watch you try and stop it from leaking out).

D — Dirty Secret

what is their dirty secret?

He’s only ever regretted sleeping with one person and that was one of his supervisors back at reaper dispatch. He can’t even recall why they had sex, just that it was a terrible experience all around and that he ended up doing everything he could to avoid them until he was moved to another department entirely (for different reasons, of course). This particular situation contributed heavily to him banning hair pulling in the bedroom and if asked the most you’ll get is a grimace and a rather telling touch to the back of his scalp — almost as if he’s remembering something that he’d really rather not think about at all.

E — Experience

how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?

He has quite a bit of experience with both casual hookups and actual relationships, including his on-again-off-again, several decade long affair with a noblewoman and many, many one night stands with humans and his old colleagues back at reaper dispatch. So, needless to say, he knows what he's doing when it comes to getting someone off.

F — Favourite Position

what is their favourite position?

As long as he’s inside of you, he’s not particularly bothered about the position you’re in — all that matters to him is that you’re both enjoying yourselves. So if you prefer cowgirl/reverse cowgirl, doggy style, missionary or anything else then he’s happy to accommodate that and will do so without hesitation.

G — Goofy

how serious are they in the moment?

Undertaker takes very little in his life seriously, only ever dropping his cheerful facade when it's absolutely necessary, so it's safe to assume that he'd try to bring laughter and joy into the bedroom. He's always joking around and not afraid to laugh at himself if he makes a mistake, just generally doing whatever he can to keep the mood light and comfortable for you both (heaven knows his home and profession can be pretty gloomy so it's nice to have a bit of reprieve from all of that — even reapers can get a bit bored of death at times). The only exception to this is if you're being punished or engaging in a type of play that requires a great deal of focus in order to be done safely and look out for signs of distress (such as consensual non consent or breath play/choking).

H — Hair

how well groomed are they?

He's pretty apathetic to body hair and unless you start to express discomfort during sex because of it, he's not going to bother with trimming/shaping it. Much like his hair, his pubes are soft, grey and decently long — curlier and thicker than the hair on his head, but not by very much — and concentrated in a bush about the base of his length and a small, spattered path leading to it from about midway up his stomach.

I — Intimacy

how romantic are they in the moment?

This entirely depends on the mood at the time and what sort of play you’re engaging in — though he’ll always be romantic during aftercare no matter what came before that. Generally speaking, however, he does show his care through his humour and by making sure that you’re comfortable during and after the fact — being implicitly caring even if the moment calls for him to be a bit rough.

J — Jack Off

how often do they masturbate? how?

Masturbation, for Undertaker, is done because of a need, a desire, and he treats it as such — making it quick and dirty and effective so that he can return his focus to his work as soon as possible. He’ll duck into a side room adjacent to his storefront (dark and cramped and uncomfortable but private enough), hurriedly unbuckling all of the belts that constrict his waist and pelvis and brushing his robes out of the way before pulling his straining cock out of the near-painful confines of his leather clothing. Then, with one hand balled into a fist and placed in his mouth to bite down upon, he’ll make quick work of himself: long, quick fisting of his dick from root to tip, occasional rough groping of his balls, rubbing circles on the slit of its head and so on. Just doing anything and everything he can to ensure a hasty climax until he finally succeeds with a low, muffled grunt and a stuttered thrust forwards as he spurts onto his fist and wrist — returning to the front of house after taking a minute or so to clean himself up and come down from his high. There have been many times where he’s nearly broken his nails whilst doing this but, thankfully, the worst has yet to happen.

K — Kink

what are some of their kinks?

Given he wears leathers and chains as part of his work uniform, and that his previous employ was at reaper dispatch, it would be safe to assume that he's pretty kinky. A small selection of the things he's into includes:

Bondage (decorative and practical — on you)

Impact play (on you)

Breath play (on you)

Blood play (both)

Degradation & praise (giving)

Public play & free use (both)

Collaring (both)

Overstimulation (on you)

Edging (on you)

Clothed stimulation (both)

Marking (both)

L — Location

what are their favourite places to have sex?

Undertaker is pretty much happy to have sex anywhere and everywhere — he just doesn’t have that same sense of shame or propriety that humans or even other reapers do. That being said his favourite places are the most convenient to you both, so: around his workplace, anywhere in your home and empty gravesites/graveyards (or, in other words, the places where he spends most of his time).

M — Motivation

what turns them on?

There are a lot of things that can turn Undertaker on when it comes to you and he’s not shy about letting you know exactly what those things are. Some of these things include: showing off his preferred body part of yours (stomach/chest/throat), flashing him with the fact that you’re not wearing underwear, sneaking under the counter when he’s working to get him off, and just outright telling him that you want him to fuck you. All of these are pretty much guaranteed to get his attention on you, but using a combination of them is going to make sure that you won’t be able to walk straight the next day.

N — No

what won't they do in the bedroom?

Undertaker is pretty possessive and has an underlying fear of losing you in one way or another, meaning that he outright refuses to invite or involve anyone else in your sex life. Especially not any demons or angels — he may have stepped back from his role as a reaper but he still hates both with a passion. He's also cautious about how he goes about dangerous forms of play and won't do anything involving extreme breath play (drowning/suffocation) and he isn't at all fond of having his hair pulled (it's uncomfortable and a pain to get unknotted afterwards so he just barred it from the bedroom entirely).

O — Oral

do they prefer to give or receive? how good are they?

When it comes to oral, Undertaker’s stance is: the messier the better. If his face isn’t covered in your cum and you’re sweaty and panting and drooling then he’s done something wrong — and, similarly, he loves nothing more than being able to make a mess of your face/chest when you’ve gone down on him. Though he doesn’t have any preference either way as long as some sort of mess is made.

When he’s receiving, he much prefers to be sat down with his legs spread and you knelt between them. One of his hands his messing with his hair, twirling it between his fingers and pushing his silvery bangs out of his face so that he can get a good look at you in this submissive position. He’ll talk to you until he’s no longer able to: instructing you on where to suck and hum and lick, praising you for doing a good job, lovingly degrading you for being so willing and eager to get on your knees for someone like him, etc. Voice low and airy in a way that only he could pull off, his tone and his words shaking you to your core and sending sharp waves of pleasure straight to your core. Then, as he starts to get close, his pitch will start to increase and he’ll start panting — long nails scratching lightly at your scalp as he starts to guide you along his length, sentences devolving into disjointed degrading and praising phrases degraded into breathless single-word instructions into incoherent moans and grunts and groans as he grits his teeth and starts to fuck your mouth. Getting rougher and rougher, jerkier and jerkier, until he finally climaxes and spurts his cum either into your mouth, onto your face or onto your chest depending on your established boundaries and where you happened to be when he climaxed.

If you have a vagina, he loves being able to lay down between your legs whilst eating you out. He’ll tie his hair back and have you bend and spread your legs, pushing your thighs apart and holding them in place with scarred hands whilst he leans down and devours you like a man starved. Yellow-green eyes practically fluorescent with want as he stares up at you through pale eyelashes, eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement as you writhe and arch and squirm under his touch — unable to stop himself from moaning and groaning against you from his own excitement. Long tongue (you never realised just how long it was until now) skilfully trailing along your sex: tracing a thin — then thick — stripe along your slit and gathering your slick which he swallowed and groaned over, dextrous muscle dipping into your dripping hole and precisely thrusting into the spongy spot inside of you, thin soft lips encircling around your clit and sucking. Pressure, pleasure, too much and not enough. Falling into a rhythm that had your hands flying to the back of his head as you ground and bucked your hips down against his mouth — smearing your release over grinning lips and pale cheeks as you came, too far gone to register his pleased giggles as he licked and sucked you through your climax.

If you have a penis, then he prefers to have you mount his face as he pleasures you from below — getting so into your pleasure that you can see him bucking his hips up into nothing whilst he gets you off. Dual colour eyes peer up at you between your thighs, half lidded with need and arousal as he moans and groans around your dick yet still glinting with that shimmer of mischief that you adore. His mouth is everywhere on you, with him making full use of his lips and teeth and tongue to give you as much pleasure as he can: kissing his way along your shaft, sucking on the tip, deepthroating you in a way that has you doubting his possession of a gag reflex, massaging your balls with his free hand, nibbling on the skin of your pelvis close to the base of your length, and so on. Bringing you closer and closer to the edge with every kiss, hum, suck, moan, hum and nip until you finally fall over the edge with a particularly forceful downward rut of your hips against his mouth. Hands in his hair, head thrown back, cock buried in his throat and spurting your load into his mouth (which he eagerly swallowed), panting and heaving as he continues to suckle and jerk you through your climax — completely unbothered by the absolute mess he’s made of himself in the process (mouth and chin and cheeks covered in spit and sweat and cum from his efforts). Not stopping until you’re so overstimulated that you’re barely able to whimper and squeak out your pleas for a break, at which point he’ll help you stabilise your shaky legs as you stumble off of him (laughing lightheartedly the whole time).

P — Pace

are they fast or slow? are they rough or gentle?

No matter what speed he chooses to abide by (whether that’s due at his own discretion or due to your preference — he’s equally comfortable going fast and slow, so it really does depend on you), Undertaker is naturally going to be somewhat rough with you. The extent of this roughness will vary due to a variety of reasons (boundaries, preferences, mood and so on) but it’s always present to some degree because he’s naturally much stronger than you and he sometimes forgets how stark that imbalance is in the moment. Though if you dislike roughness then he’ll make an effort to hold himself back, even if he does unintentionally slip up on occasion.

Q — Quickie

what is their opinion on quickies? how often would they have them?

Given his high libido and busy schedule (between his legitimate work as an undertaker, his role as an informant and his place in the aurora society), quickies become something of a staple in your relationship to ensure that you’re both able to get off as much as you need. Initially they’re something fun and risky, synonymous with giggly semi-public acts between appointments when you’re too needy to keep your hands off each other — naive and innocent and deeply in love and lust all at once. But as his work becomes more demanding of his time, quickies will become less fun and more of a necessity — the only chance you have to get off between all of the meetings and funerals and tests and blood drawings. It’s difficult but the two of you deal with it as best you can.

R — Risk

are they willing to experiment?

For Undertaker risk is just a natural part of sex and he’s more than eager to experiment with all sorts of toys, play and language — public, private and anywhere in between. Of course he has his limits, as discussed above, but other than that he’s game for pretty much everything that you suggest and will insist on trying any (non hard-limit) suggestions at least once before you agree on a stance as a couple.

S — Stamina

how long can they last? how many rounds?

Whilst he can initially come across as pretty weak due to his unique facade and slender frame, Undertaker is still a reaper — and an extremely notorious one at that — and his stamina reflects his status as an undead entity. As a baseline he’s able to last much longer than you (potentially upwards of five to six rounds if you have the time) but he limits himself to whatever best suits you, stopping and adjusting his pacing to make sure that he’s also satisfied by the time you reach a point where you need to tap out, whether that’s after one round or three.

T — Toys

do they own any toys? do they use them on their partner?

Before you two met he’d already collected quite the array of toys from all over the world, having picked up a great deal both during and after his tenure as a reaper. Amongst his large hoard of toys are all sorts of penetrative (dildos, plugs, beads), stimulative (sucking, vibrating), restrictive (chastity cage/belt, ropes/silks/chains, stretchers), pain play (whips, paddles, canes) and sensation (heat sensitive items, blindfolds, feathers) based toys and he’s happy to use whatever you enjoy or whatever you want to try. He’s not the sort to push you any which way and will only suggest things based on what you’ve enjoyed in the past — he’s content with going at your pace.

U — Unfair

do they like to tease?

Being a tease is his default state and he’s unlikely to relent or stop entirely unless you ask him to do so or otherwise show signs of discomfort with his actions/language. Otherwise you’ll be exposed to a wide variety of teasing methods: orgasm denial and edging, calling you ‘desperate and ‘needy’, mocking you for being so ‘desperate’, degrading and humiliating you and not stopping until you’re sobbing and begging him to do exactly what you want. Some of his favourite methods are: having you strip and show him how aroused you are, subtly touching you up in public before acting like nothing happened, mocking/repeating the sounds and pleas you make during sex, and having you work to earn your orgasm (riding his boots/thighs, pleasuring him first and repeating his humiliation) — but, again, he works around your boundaries.

V — Vocal

how loud are they?

He’s not loud but he’s definitely vocal — never going much above a whisper but speaking to you for as long as he’s able to before dissolving into a string of groans, grunts, pants and moans. You’ll have a complete commentary rife with praise and degradation and humiliation — instructions and repetitions of what you’re saying, even — from the moment he propositions you (or vice versa) through foreplay until you’ve finished and are basking in the afterglow. A private one way conversation where he’s the only one able to do much speaking and you’re only able to respond with whines and whimpers and body language: writhing, trembling, bucking and arching. So, to reiterate, he may not be particularly loud but he’s very very vocal in bed.

W — Wild Card

a random headcanon for the character

He probably has a bit of a thing for partners who have undergone types of body modification — whether that’s piercings, tattoos or something less socially acceptable than those two. The idea of someone going out of their way to alter their body and change their appearance through means that are inherently painful is extremely attractive to him; it shows a level of dedication, to him, that’s extremely admirable. He’d also probably get a few piercings of his own after he left reaper dispatch (both intimate, like nipple and genital piercings, and otherwise, like ear or tongue piercings).

X — X-ray

what's under their clothing?

Whilst his length is much longer than average, it’s decently slender and smooth — with few notable ridges or veins along it, but he does have a Prince Albert piercing in the tip. The colour is pretty consistent along the shaft, given that he’s uncircumcised, but the tip is a slightly darker shade than the rest of his dick.

Y — Yearning

how often do they want sex?

He has a pretty high libido but he's become accustomed enough to ignoring or taking care of it himself that he's not particularly effected if you have a lower sex drive than him. Though this does mean that he's pretty much already aroused and happy to have sex whenever you proposition it to him.

Z — Zzzzzz

how easily/quickly do they fall asleep after the act?

Undertaker vehemently refuses to fall asleep until well after you — sometimes not going to sleep at all — because he's so terrified of losing you. He's lost dozens of people over the years, people he'd loved and cherished gone in the blink of an eye (Vincent, Claudia), and you are the person whom he cares for the most which makes him all the more frightened of losing you. So, no matter how tired he may be, he'll lay beside you for hours watching you sleep: tracing the rise and fall of your chest with his eyes, stroking the calloused pads of his fingers along your pulse, smiling with endearment and relief with every whimper and gasp and snore and nonsense phrase that escapes you as you slumber. Constantly looking for signs that you're still alive, still with him, and that he's not alone — he's not lost you, not yet. But he pretends to sleep as to not worry you, closing his eyes and quietening his breath whenever he notices you starting to stir, not wanting to worry you with his lack of rest and making up some nonsense tale of the dreams that he'd had overnight.

#sleepingdeath #gender neutral reader #minors dni #minors fuck off #minors don’t touch #smut #smut hcs #smut alphabet #kuroshitsuji smut #kuroshitsuji x reader #kuroshitsuji undertaker x reader #undertaker smut #undertaker x reader #black butler undertaker x reader #black butler x reader #black butler smut

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snake-cabin · 3 months

Text

"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)

#kodis requests #undertaker #undertaker x reader #undertaker x you #undertaker x y/n #kuroshitsuji undertaker #undertaker black butler #black butler undertaker #black butler #black butler fanfiction #black butler x reader #black butler x you #black butler x y/n #kuroshitsuji #kuroshitsuji smut #kuroshitsuji fanfic #kuroshitsuji x reader #kuroshitsuji x you #kuroshitsuji x y/n

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sapphire-dreamsky · 1 year

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midnights become my afternoons

Starring: Undertaker | Reader

Pairing: Undertaker x reader

Type: Angst | Comfort

I wake up screaming from dreaming

One day I’ll watch as you’re leaving

And life will lose all its meaning

His hand was always cold. It didn’t matter if it was in the middle of summer, the heat of the blazing sun beating down on the city. His hand was always freezing, the scars rough against the palm of her hand. Some days, she would trace them with her thumb, mind going somewhere far from the city, to a time where she wasn’t born yet, where he was standing there, alone or with someone he once cherished. His long white hair tied with a black ribbon dancing with the wind, his left hand—the very one that was grounding her to the present— holding his death scythe, eyes mechanically following the list that would atone his sins in hand.

She cannot imagine how he was feeling back then. The tales that he is comfortable enough to share all describe a man who is foreign to her. To her, the man he once was, and the one he is now are two completely different people. She doesn’t know if she would have loved him as much as she loved him now. She fell in love with the goofy mortician. The one who cracks the worst of jokes sometimes. The one who is called mad. But she would burn the world if someone dares to hurt him. And she knows he would do the same for her if she so much as requested it.

When the city is asleep, the yellow glow from the streetlamp being the only light outside, and the noises of people shouting died down, they were the only ones that mattered. They were no longer two faceless and nameless figures in society. It was just him and her lying on a bed in a small apartment on the second floor, quilt protecting them from the outside world.

In this little apartment, he can just be him. He can let his walls down, whisper his fears, anxieties and regrets. He trusts her enough to not turn his fears into weapons pointing at his deepest insecurities. He puts all his worries in the palm of her hands, not expecting any grand gestures of love but only understanding and patience. He hopes she knows where he is coming from when his thoughts become too loud and he shut her out in fear. He prays she doesn’t walk out of the door when his fears overtake her sense of being; when his mind turns her into a ghost that is confirming all his deepest fears. He is accustomed to waking up alone, did it for more than a century. But now that she sleeps next to him, her leg thrown over his waist and arm tightly wrapped around him as if he was a teddy bear, he doesn’t want to wake up without her warmth anymore.

He is comfortable. He found some peace in a world that constantly changes and grows while he remained frozen in time.

#black butler undertaker #kuroshitsuji undertaker #black butler undertaker x reader #kuroshitsuji undertaker x reader #undertaker x reader

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officialundertakersmoocher · 6 days

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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 📩

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melinoelliones · 9 months

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BLACK BUTLERS COMING BACK BLACK BUTLERS COMING BACK BLACK BUTLERS COMING BACK BLACK BUTLERS COMING BACK BLACK BUTLERS COMING BACK BLACK BUTLERS COMING BACK BLACK BUTLERS COMING BACK BLACK BUTLERS COMING BACK BLACK BUTLERS COMING BACK BLACK BUTLERS COMING BACK BLACK BUTLERS COMING BACK

Say hello to my husband <3 I was tryna wait till October to do Black Butler shit but now I gotta....

Reminder, how I interpret these characters may be different to how YOU interpret them, don’t jump me if you dislike what I say. X fem and X gn reader

This is more on the Undertaker before his ass takes off the hat side, so the jokey cheeky Undertaker. ALSO MANGA SPOILERS FOR THE LETTER W!!

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He’s probably giggling to himself and mocking the noises and phrases you said during sex LMAOOOOO. Really tho he’ll defo pull the blankets over you and feed you one of them dog bone biscuits, kisses in abundance, nothing too crazy as he will probably leave while you sleep do to fuck knows what.

B = Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He loves our whole body, he examines it like crazy and he says it’s so “he can fit us for a coffin one day”...... I feel like he loves our throat though 100%

On him, he loves his hands and he takes VERY good care of them, fresh set n everything we all saw that shit

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Enjoys doing it on your entire front, all of it, top to bottom

Also loves it down your throat, you can never take it all at once so watching it trickle down the corners of your mouth alongside your spit and tears is everything to him

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Enjoys doing stuff while he has customers present, if you make a noise or people get suspicious he’ll laugh or do something stupid to get people off it

He has shamelessly got off to the thought of you, maybe even your underwear

He begs and he enjoys doing it

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He is quite experienced I’ll be honest

F = Favourite position (this goes without saying)

Riding in all ways possible, he wants you on him, grinding up against him whilst he helps you. Watching your needy face try to take everything in has him grinning like a crazy man

Missionary where your legs are over your head pretty much. You pushing his hair to the side as he’s panting and whimpering slightly, you know he’s close but he won’t stop

Any position where you are half hanging out a coffin, kinda like stuck in a wall but your stuck half out a coffin? He probably made a custom one JUST for this. Hearing your moans echo off the walls of the coffin keeps him going.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Very goofy, keeps the jokes going THROUGHOUT

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

It’s pretty wild down there imma be real

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He is always making jokes and sometimes being cocky but he’ll always show an intimate side straight after

“F~Fuck just like that, please please keep going” he’d choke out laughing, mocking what you had just moaned out. “Don’t give me that face, I want to hear more of it” he’d laugh once more at your pout, pulling you into a kiss whilst pushing deeper into you.

Sum like that

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

A lot and he has NO shame in it. It’s pretty shocking how often he can do it. Sometimes he’ll stay pent up just to get off when he knows you’re coming home as he knows you love when he’s a whimpering n babbling mess, maybe you’ll even decide to help him out?

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Blindfolds, he loves to mess with ALL of your senses while you can’t see

Knife kink and blood but its SUBTLE. You may or may not have seen him store away a bit of your blood though, wonder what he’s saving that for…..

Restraints, wants to tie you up around his shop

Toys for both of you, watching you desperately cry out to cum as he keeps turning off the vibe

Choking, he enjoys doing it while thrusting into you with full force, hearing you choke out moans and mumbles while he tightens his grip

Dacryphilia for sureeee, would examine your face and wipe your tears while fucking into you with no remorse. Even lets out a giggle or two while at it

“Well would you look at that, you’re crying my dear, such a pretty specimen indeed. Cmon you can hold out for me, just a bit longer and i’ll make you feel so so good”

Not sure if its a kink but pussy eating. He will sit there for as long as he can just eating you out till you're completely numb from the waist down.

"You haven't used your safeword yet you've cum 4 times in a row, is it too much for you yet hehe? Cmon, let me wipe those tears, you're too pretty to cry. Now how about I make it 6 times, or even 10 AHA, can you take all that my sweet sweet doll? Let's see shall we?" he'd smirk whilst shoving a couple digits into your already sopping core, tongue already making its way to your swollen clit. He would go on all night long if he could.

L = Location (favourite places to do they do)

Every corner of his store, if you can see it, you've done it there. Favourite would probably be on his desk though.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

YOU! JUST YOU! You are something he’s never seen before and the way you make him feel is unmatched.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn-offs)

Anything outside the shop or on ONE specific coffin.... Whats in there?

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He’s a munch, yes I said it

Begs to have you on his face, even if that beg is in riddles or him twisting the narrative

“Hehe cmon, you know you want to, have a seat my dear, it's all yours”

“I want to taste you just once more, cmon don’t be shy, I won’t bite, unless you want me to hehe”

He also loves receiving too though, you under his gown, even when customers are in and he’ll be giggling while starting to fuck your face on the other side of the desk

“Aha, look at you, you did brilliantly. You barely made a peep whilst they were here, such a special specimen indeed” he’d coo, pulling back his cloak to ease you off his cock, your tears mixed with his release rolling down your lower face.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He’s cheeky as fuck. Would start slow, then speed up to a perfect pace then as you are close slow all the way back down, to the point where it's technically edging and you can’t even get off. I can hear him giggling now

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He says “Come on my love, we can make it quick” then ya’ll are at it for an hour. Ultimate LIAR. It gets boring in his shop so ya’ll still do it often anyway

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Hell yeah but he knows you will never get caught. Just for entertainment you defo tried to get caught but he covered it up swiftly

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He can go for a hot minute, like 5+ rounds. With his personality people could think otherwise but absolutely not.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

A sucker for a toy. He defo made a pocket pussy using YOURS, so when you aren’t with him he has a replica but he knows it's not exactly the same. Also has a vibe, he has sensitive nipples and we take FULL advantage of that

He loves to use toys on you too though, watching how they make your body react is quite fascinating. He can tell the difference between fake and his real thing though and he adores it, your needy face begging for the real thing is everything. Only he can make you feel certain ways

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Too much, but the orgasms he makes you reach after are always worth it

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

When he’s seriously into it he only grunts and dirty talks, otherwise it's the opposite, whimpering and cursing under his breath

“How does that feel my dear? You like it deep don’t you”

“Your body takes it so well, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to keep g~going much longer”

“Listen to yourself, all this dirty talk from such a sweet specimen?”

“A girl like you should be walking the streets of Soho, yet here you are taking the cock of an Undertaker. How did I get so lucky to have the dirtiest of them all stroll through my doors?”

“Aha, keep going love, i’m not finished just yet”

W = Wild card (a random dirty headcanon for the character)

Would consider making you into a puppet when you die and keeping you for…. Personal reasons

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Dude is pretty big so imma say 8/9 inches, more on the slenderish side but veiny

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Unusually high

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterward)

He doesn’t, he’ll pretend to but go off once you’re asleep. Dudes got things….. to do.......