(Yandere Sebastian x reader)
(Yandere Undertaker x reader)
The Undertaker’s parlor is flushed with a muted grey tone. The entire room is dark, and the fraction of light from the curtained window outside dwarfed by your form casts silver that sticks to the coffins that line the floor and walls. Coffins, coffins, coffins.
The parlor stays empty for a good while. You exist peacefully with all the souls stuck in the room.
You wonder for a moment you can’t spare, how it feels to limbo?
You hope whoever may find himself there, through the untimely demise he may have faced, will be wiped off the face of the earth like you’d been reassured rather than in a scary place like that- alone. Your heart twists. The dark does you or the boy no good- vivid dreamers.
Your mama showed you a picture book that had Bosch’s hell paintings on it once, years ago as a small child. You don’t remember which one, but she had told you your ears and tongue would be cut off to regrow, old wounds open once more and again. You wish you could ask your mother why hell resembled the world you had found yourself in.
You want to cry alone in the dark as it consumes you, it can be any dark as long as he is not around to watch.
“Heheheh,” a voice echoes chillingly through the room, you don’t know where. It’s not from pure disorientation this time- it’s simply untraceable. “Are y’eh ‘ere to be fitten’ to one o’ me coffin’s today, li’l lady?” the voice drawls teasingly, you stiffen.
“No! Not today!” You exclaim, you’d like to pretend the shock comes from the fear of the odd man’s arrival, not the embarrassment of slipping a tear in a foreign office- not that anyone could see that.
Of the things you couldn’t see, being a majority of things- you felt a sort of unease come over you as his voice echoes and bounces off the wall sort of like a shark circling prey came the illusion of him circling you, but how? The room was far too cluttered to be stealthy, at least at first glance. In the dark which your eyes accustom to, you make sense of the room in the gap of silence.
It’s a clever trick of the eyes. Your mama fell for this trick many times when you were a girl when she claimed your room was a mess to be functional. You’d beg to differ on those occasions, maybe it was messy to her. You could navigate it just fine, an untamed mess of scientific journals and economic reviews, history books and anatomy references. Your papa told your ma to leave you be. The thought runs bitter in your mind.
You really don’t want to believe your parents would do this to you, send you off bright eyed and starry to be disposed of- There was no indication of anything other than love. Is your understanding so disgustingly shallow and infantile- What does that make of you as a human being if your sense of love is something so blind?
Your nightmares, unlike the boy's, revolve not on the affairs of the horrible months, but the scenario if your mama and papa had intentionally sent you to that ship.
You don’t like to think about it, you decided when your wounds refused to heal the first and last time you cried from it. It’s a mystery you’ve overheard bits and pieces of during your time in kennel. Haughty robbers and assaulters would recite the facts of the tale to you when they’d enact their evil upon you. You’d requested a paper of the event upon your return, a whisper to the nurse so silent it was almost inaudible in your first bout of consciousness. You’d never thought about it then- until now.
“Sir, I’d like to discuss an urgent matter with you!” You squeak. You think the words spew from your mouth in an infantile way, the way your throat tightens and your eyes tear up, the way you pick at your hands.
“Ohoho! And what ma’ers would ye’ mas’er trust a fragile li’l kit’en like yeh?” The voice centers to the coffin centered at the end of the room, parallel to the door.
“Kitten?” you question innocently. You wonder how to phrase your next prose.
“Hehehe, yer li’l paws ye’ got fer hands, girlie.” Ah, your bandages lump your fingers together in an awkward fist. “Ye’ got ki’ty paws there!” He states redundantly, bursting into a choking gwuaffs, doubling over in the coffin he seemingly resides toppling over.
“Right.” You breathe lowly, inching closer. “How did you see my hands and I can’t see an inch of you?” You curiously remark, cautiously craning your back down you lift the toppled lid
“Because, this is my shop dearie. Shouldn’t I have an advantage in my domain?”
There’s a whisper of air that makes it past the base of your neck; past the high collar Sebastian dressed you in and past the bandages that keeps your skin from falling apart.
The realization registers in your mind. You yelp, a sharp unguarded sound from a part of your vocal chords you hadn’t tapped into since the last time you screamed. The haze you had been made familiar with in your head suggested years ago despite the haunting recency of it all, you were completely sober now.
You don’t flinch anymore per say, at least you say you don’t. You hadn’t come under any threat that you hadn’t invited yourself, so you’d ration it’s the feeling of something natural like breath being introduced that makes you stumble out of shock. It’s your instinct that makes you spin around to see your offender- an instinct they couldn’t bleed out of you if they tried.
Now tumbling backwards towards the coffin, towards the worst omen you’ve ever seen if you were to believe in such things. The omen of looming death halts when an iron grip that reminds you of Sebastian in sheer strength alone grips the wrist of the arm meant to brace your fall back, another your waist. Suddenly, you’re being pulled flush to skin and bone- The man.
Your heartbeats are flush. You can’t feel his. You don’t feel much of him at all, rather you feel your own heartbeat pounding in your ears utterly racing. You feel the heat embed into your skin, trapped in your wraps like a sauna.
His face. Long scar, messily stitched, not gaunt but sharp and angular. Wide mouth with alabaster lips, hardly flushed from his face. Most hidden by the long silver fringe. You see a long angular nose that peaks out- proportionate to the rest of his face. You’d wager he’d be handsome if you could see all of him, perhaps that’s the proximity talking. That’s the blood rushing from your heart to your head. Adrenaline you hadn’t felt in an age, useless associations.
“Sorry.” You say rather dumbly, you think.
“Eheheh! No worries, kitty!” He’s back to being hysterical, the thrill of the scare on its back legs.
“What can I do for yeh?” He asks calmer this time.
You dig round your pockets with your free hand and pull out a letter complete with the Phantomhive seal. “My lord would like for you to remain in our services.” The hands that hold you grip you noticeably tighter. That’s when you notice long, long nails poking you through your dress and wraps.
“Phantomhive, eh? Seems I’m never truly done with them. I fix a bond with any I get myself wrapped up in.” He mutters lowly more for himself than you, it is an unexpected development you ration- Ciel’s return isn’t public yet.
“I understand your shock, but any accounts or settlement that was used as reimbursement for your services is in working order once more, I have some documents as further proof if you’d like to verify.” You reply coolly this time.
“Oh, li’l thing. I’ll serve the Phantomhives as long as ‘ey keep me satisfied. I’ve got no use for the Queen’s coin, after all.” he says neutrally in his upbeat tone.
You’d only drafted up a general account of past transactions, but this man wasn’t on any. You had brought it along for proof of a well run estate but it seems rather useless.
“I see, I shall provide Earl Phantomhive with your statement.” You nod understandingly, tugging at the hand on your wrist. He relents and lets your wrist and waist go.
“I’ve served many Phantomhives- almost like a dog to a bone, yeh see. ye’ll have to remind me which one I provide my services to, missy.” You bristle at the nickname, keeping an eye on him as he watches you adjust your bearings. Far more relaxed and watchful than yourself, now munching on a…bone shaped biscuit that resembles dog treats.
“You serve Earl Ciel Phantomhive.” You reply not too sharply.
“Ohoho, Ciel Phantomhive, is that right?” He bears down condescendingly. You feel a bead of sweat press onto your brow, a fleeing feeling overtaking you.
“That’s right.” You reply simply instead.
“I could have sworn it was the other one that survived, what was his name again? Ah, yes-”
“Ciel Phantomhive,” You cut him off sharply this time, “Is the rightful heir to the Phantomhive earldom and the sole survivor of the manor’s attack sir, I’m sure you’re quite mistaken.” You almost heave.
“Oh my, how does a li’l thing like you know that for fact, who do you happen to be in the grand scheme of things?” he smiles more sardonically, almost mourning you read.
“(Name)” You swallow tightly. “I am firsthand witness to Ciel Phantomhive’s uptaking as heir. Though you may deal in rumors sir, a first hand source will always bear the truer story.” you say with a grit.
“Is that so,” he says tentatively. A dawning of understanding you’re grateful you don’t need to elaborate upon sits upon the frown bearing on the edge of his mouth. “If I may add upon me’ grave of contacts-” he giggles stupidly at the joke. “What do they call ye’ (Name)? Who bears the name as ye’, weepin’ upon yer grave?” Your face twists.
“No one but the earl. (Name) Phantomhive.” You say, because you like the idea of Ciel at your grave rather than the alternative.
“Phantomhive. I’ve dug many graves for Phantomhive, too many for me’ liking.” He says slowly, his smile doesn't grow with his words.
“Ye his wife? Coulda sworn he was engaged to that little Midford-Phantomhive poppet, yer a bit old for him, no?” he giggles, regretting his past words.
“NO!” You screech in horror. “Sister.” You clarify, shaken by the thought.
“Are yeh? Can’t see yer face, but I coulda sworn there was no such thing, unless I knew the boy’s father less than I thought- or he was hiding some dark twisted secret!” He giggles.
“He considers me such, he bore the name upon me.” You clarify. “So I am.”
“Whatever you want to call it doesn't deny the truth of it.” you say flatly.
“Heh, I’ve had all sorts of dealings with your Phantomhives, I wonder how I’ll deal with yeh, (Name) Phantomhive.” he states rather menacingly.
“I look forward to it.” You say hotly.
“Now, don’t be so tense li’l missy, missy ki’ty, missy Phantomhive!” He simpers, “What’re yeh looking so dreary for! It’s almost like ye got the dead on yer back!” He cackles once again at his own jest.
His laughter, he’s at ease once again. It’s infectious. You find yourself cracking a smile.
“Sir grin reaper over here…” you mutter sharply with a foreign giggle bubbling in your throat, laughing seemed like years away.
He pauses. The shop goes silent. You flush because you can’t stand being not funny.
He bursts into a cackling, falling over, stomach clutching, snorting laugh.
“Oh, missy, dont’cha know? Laughter is the best payment?! oh, ye’ got a head of wealth on yeh!” He wheezes from his position on the floor, you can’t help but grin.
“If the coffin fits?” You say puzzlingly. His laughter doubles.
“It was not that humorous!” You deadpan.
“Afraid you got the dead rolling over, missy!” He cries from the floor.
Sebastian didn’t know what to expect when he went to retrieve you. He didn’t have a gauge for your social competence other than utter failure.
In fact, this was the first time you’d be out and about un-chaperoned. You’d both set just as dawn broke, his young mistress is quiet when recovering from rest, the brilliant orange of dawn slipping into a striking blue then inevitable grey the closer they got to London, it seemed to Sebastian at least that the city held its own oppression that even the rich couldn’t fully escape.
He’d actually taken less liberty in your treatment out the door, it’s not like you’d know what to correct him on or even care. Breakfast for his lord had been served by Tanaka, (Who had just rejoined the household as the steward mere days ago, his rest and recuperation being hindered by his age.) Breakfast had been prepped yesterday as you oversaw Sebastian’s work. You could rationalize the act being your work as “Lady of the House” but you had just graduated from babying him to his newfound competence in the kitchen. You’d solely responsible for passable food being put on the table for a near month, it was obvious to Sebastian’s displeasure. Southern comfort food- slow cooked beef you called “brisket” that you’d leave on a makeshift smoker all day, heaping american style breakfasts, american sweets like a berry cobbler, and a mix of all that and some sort of mexican influence that was a surprise to the young lord’s taste buds. Those were some of the notable examples. Other times, she and Sebastian would have clumsily followed European cooking or in a pinch, made food from her homeland. The boy would eat the food with little complaint when it was obvious (Name) had a helping hand in making it, his temperament had little reservations for Sebastian himself.
Sebastian didn’t have much experience in the Americas, he’d consider himself adapting to European sensibilities the most, though you couldn’t call him expressly from one place- He decided that the American taste was often against his aesthetic, or what he gathered from (Name).
She gave smiles too easily. It confused him. She was easy to smile at most things- morbid things too he remembers, though there haven’t been any recent instances. You could tell what she’s thinking quite obviously, though her face and form being obscured, Sebastian felt disgust at the thought of colorful expression; an iris amongst daisies, a sheep dyed red in a flock. Both ready to be picked off, in his opinion.
He won’t deny he’s been neglecting your supposed status where it would matter, but he’s a bit short staffed and you’re the willing participant when it comes to running the household. He won’t deny your general competence for most matters being helpful, in return, he’s learned to find you infinitely more tolerable than his brat master.
He stalks across the streets of London too quickly to be considered normal or appropriate, but he found himself in a crowd that favored the next brightly colored contraption rather than the shadow it cast. Perhaps the quickness in step came from her, the urge to come to her. To see what had been made of her, Sebastian would open the mortician’s door and there would be a macabre sight to see, something interesting.
His quickness in step is a reflection of time, he wants the time to go by so quickly. In the blink of an eye, Sebastian would be leagues better at what she had introduced him to. He knew it, she knew it, that’s just the way this arrangement worked. It’s adorable their lives centered around each other like fledglings, Sebastian wanted their lives to orbit a couple suns or so until the day she noticed he was superior to her in every way. It’s no hard feelings, but it’s his nature to want to be better than a human in the things that they call human.
Most of all, Sebastian wants to see what she’d do when she’s the one who needs helping. When there’s no one to save so maybe she’d finally back off of his meal.
There’s many games like the carriage he’s willing to play with her so long as she doesn't touch his food.
That desire, for a thing like him obviously would manifest into something more curious and twisted- He wants to see her desperate and jealous, rotten so perhaps her soul would be worth the chase rather than a bump in the long road ahead of him.
Sebastian shakes off the thought. He’s simply just high strung because of the pint-sized brat he’s got himself saddled with. With less proximity (Name) would be an afterthought, she’s rather low maintenance and little to complain.
Despite the speed riding on his coattails, Sebastian reaches the funeral parlor at half past four like promised, the winter turning spring so very early in the season does little to halt the sun from setting London into pre meditated shadow. Sebastian sees (Name) just as he started: in a bout of glorious sun.
The light from the door opening catches the silver of the soft jingling bell, the open door centered an illusion of some opening to hell springing from the floor.
The light catches, and the first thing that Sebastian registers in that dingy little shop is you, perched securely on a coffin with dog treats and a beaker of tea. It’s awfully domestic, you’d gotten comfortable, your dress is draped intentionally fixed so you could sit. Petticoats draped over catching the shadow over the new golden glow. Your legs curl at your side like a new born fawn.
Your laugh curdles something within him, apparently, you’re an easy laugh too.
There’s a man on the other side of the coffin just as comfortable as you, the Undertaker- obviously. Watching him coax laughs out of you like a cheap whore for a coin. Except whores lie and cheat their way to the top, the sound that bubbles from your throat has all the vocal implications for genuine. The brat had told him that you had done just that at one point, but he hadn’t seen an ounce of it since arriving in this plain. Could this be some scheme of yours to get in the Undertaker’s good graces?
“Sebastian?” You mutter a bit dreamily. Talk and sweets had gotten you drowsy, the aching dip of the sun cast a golden brown looking light from the curtain’s cast. The job had been done hours ago, written contacts and verbal obligation had been enough- these things aren’t meant to leave a paper trail of “I shall obey”.
The Undertaker hadn’t moved an inch since the door had swung open, his back towards the intruder of grand time the two of you were having, but the feeling of hair raising overtook you. He hadn’t moved an inch since the door opened, since you uttered the name. Not a muscle twitch, no cheery greeting.
“I can always count on you for being…dead on arrival.” You blindly throw out- it’s probably half past four exactly knowing Sebastian. Sebastian promptly ignores the snickering man on the floor, moving towards your stationary posture.
“My lady.” Sebastian’s gaze trails Undertaker’s form, seemingly laid back. “I see you’ve made yourself acquainted.” He continues rather sharply.
“Oh yes, quite,” You reminisce. “He’s a riot, lord knows you and Ciel have a humorous bone in your bodies.”
“My bones are punctual, my lady.”
“Stiff crowd.” You mutter as no one laughs.
“See, they just don’t land on occasions like these.” You whisper even lower. Sebastian may be a charmer, you’d be blind not to see it. He’s charming- But he’s not funny. He’s charming, but he’s unable to elicit certain emotions out of people, humor being one of them on the average occasion.
The Undertaker snickers, the stiff spell wearing off. He giggles at you, “Phantomhives aren’t typically the humorous type, I’m sure that involves their company. I’m sure they would rather pay in gold than me’ special currency.” His head jerks towards Sebastian and says no more.
“Oh sure, the one you got now will make the dead roll over in the grave. A real jester, that boy” You nod.
“Hehe, if a little miss would look the part, the dead would be ready to drag ye’ rolling, kicking, and screaming.”
“I am NOT sleeping in one of those things, Undertaker!”
“Sorry, Sebastian.” You sigh, reluctantly rising. You pause.
“You’re not helping, Undertaker”
Undertaker pauses, leaning forward and ready to assist you in some way. The way his hands reach for you he’d be willing to pick you up from your shoulders.
There’s no way to tell for sure what his true intentions may be; Sebastian briskly scoops you up in his stiff frame more dead than most times he’s held you.
“My lady, we must be back in time to finalize dinner preparations.” He says tonelessly, already heading for the door. You flush a bit, you don’t want your friend thinking you incapable is your childish thought emerging.
“I can walk by myself!” You protest, loosening the grip on his coat. The part of you that has survival instincts advises against pushing him off of you.
“And who are you, mister?” Undertaker pipes up. He’s standing behind Sebastian, you can’t find any logical explanation to how he found himself there so quickly.
“I got caught up in this delightful li’l missy, I didn’t gather who ye are, rude, rude, rude of me!” He murmurs, his tone is humorous and something else you’re trying to place…careful?
“Sebastian Michaelis, Phantomhive head butler.” He says rather blandly. “The lady and I have matters to attend to, I do apologize. It’s getting rather dark and unsafe for a lady.” he says just as intentionally.
“Oh, this li’l lord’s got a lot of cogs, eh butler? How utterly confusing!”
“The li’l lady will find no danger in the dark in me’ shop: She’ll find peace in fact. All me’ patrons eventually end up ere’ y’see…” He trails off after gesturing to you with a pointed finger, his fringed gaze focusing on your expression the way his neck cranes forward. Sebastian narrows his eyes avoiding the man’s attention instead narrowing in the final brilliance of the setting sun. Looking at him bathed in light, his eyes are a more brilliant red bordering fuchsia.
“What kind of butler would I be if I couldn’t protect my Lady?” He retorts customarily.
He laughs like the idea amuses him.
“Make sure she and her li’l brother don’t end up e’re too early!” He snaps with a sharp laugh, collapsing in on himself like the idea was not only humorous but preposterous.
You stiffen at what feels like an omen, the grip Sebastian has on you tightens a moment.
Undertaker waves lazily from the front of his shop as you’re toted onto the carriage.
“Buh-bye, li’l missy, make sure ye’ come back to me whole!”
You nod small and wave as you cling to Sebastian, you feel like a cat stuck in a tree.
You don’t utter a word on the carriage back.
A/n: Trying not to write (Name) getting cracked by Undertaker and Sebastian is my no nut november jsyk
