Trinkets
You and the Undertaker (start to) share a hobby of collecting things.
Warnings: Repeated mentions of slight gore and general macabreness?
The Undertaker had collected lots of trinkets over the years. It was forced to happen when one had been around for so long, and had seen so much of the world as he had.
Most of the trinkets were rather morbid in nature. He’d always thought it funny, humans making things about death that he, a dead man, could collect. That amusement didn’t fade just because he stopped working as a reaper.
He’d been pleasantly surprised to find that you loved his little, morbid keepsakes just as much as he did, if not more.
He’d find you staring at them from time to time. Admiring them almost. Bones from different animals - and sometimes humans - made up in jewelry and collected in jars. Dead flowers pressed in books or hanging in bouquets from the walls and ceiling. A necklace with a little vial containing real, still fluid, blood as a centerpiece. Miniature caskets, human skulls…
Everytime he called you out on it - „Getting distracted, dearie?“ „Those are all the unidentifiable bones. They’re so old and weathered that even I can’t tell you what they came from.“ „If you drop this I’ll have to make a new one, using your blood.“ - you jumped a little and gave him those big, guilty eyes. It was hilarious.
When your birthday came around, he decided to gift you your own macabre trinket to stare at and touch however much you wanted. If it was also a bit of a test to see to which extent you’d welcome him his morbidity into your life, then that was just a nice bonus.
He started of small. A bouquet of dead flowers, your favourites. They looked more beautiful in death than they did in life if you asked him.
Considering the positively beaming smile you gave him in return, you thought the same. As thanks for his ’’trouble’’ he got a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He would’ve blushed if he still had the heart for it.
From then on, the gifts increased in both their macabreness and frequency. He used every excuse he could find to make you a gift. And if he couldn’t find any excuses, he just made them up.
After a little while, you had your own personal collection of morbid trinkets. Some the Undertaker had given you from his own stash, some he had procured just for you.
He had seen them once, all collected in your little room behind the morgue. They were all proudly displayed on the walls and shelves. That first bouquet he had given you was hung behind your bed like a dream catcher.
For your next birthday he’d planned a special gift. He sat up late night after night to finish it, making sure that it was perfect. It wasn’t a trinket in the traditional sense, but he found it fitting nonetheless.
Considering your delighted gasp upon seeing it, you thought the same. He’d made you a coffin. Personalized specifically to you, with everything you’d told him you’d like and a few gaps of knowledge filled in by what he thought you’d like best. All completed by the bouquet lying within it - something stolen from your stash for once.
From anyone else it would’ve been nothing short of a death threat. From the Undertaker, it was nothing short of a love confession. This time he got an excited hug and a kiss on the mouth for his trouble.
