#UGHHHHHHHH MY HEART IS SPILLING OVER DAMMIT!!!!

[blackbutler-readerinsertsandjunk]

Fuck it. I really like how you write Undertaker so could you please do an undertaker x reader, dealers choice? Could be fluff, le comedy, or ANGST, surprise me 💕

I apparently jump on angst when it comes to Undertaker, OOPS-

You think endless years of life and loss have shattered your lover into pieces.

Whatever else he may be, you believe the UNDERTAKER is a very, very broken man.

How long has he even been alive for, you wonder? How many people has he lost over his lifetime? Other than the vague fact of, All of them. You don’t want to be another one, but… he knows better than anyone else the cycle of life and death.

It’s simply obvious that he thought he could put a halt to it.

It’s sad to watch him, as you see him now, in this derelict church, sitting among rotted pews and jagged pieces of smashed-in stained glass. There are vines and flowers everywhere; you get the distinct sense that he doesn’t think it’s a beautiful thing.

… This whole place. It reminds you of his heart. Maybe that’s why you assume he doesn’t think it’s beautiful, because he has a very low opinion of himself by this point.

Living has eroded his self-image to nothing, like water beating a rough stone until it’s perfectly polished. You think this place is beautiful, in a melancholy sort of way.

You think he’s beautiful, in a melancholy sort of way. In a contrast to this place, he hasn’t let the new blossoms of moving on grow over him. He’s rooted himself, allowing the memories of his losses to consume him and make growth impossible.

You lower yourself next to him, and it’s telling that he barely even moves. He doesn’t look at you, he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t let his grip loosen a single bit on the chain of mourning lockets that are wrapped around his long nails and draped over his fingers.

God. You can only imagine what’s running through his mind.

You’re quiet as you lean your head against his shoulder. Any words you can think to say sound hollow when they ring in your skull, so you don’t say anything. You just sit, and exist next to the person you love more than anything in this world.

Finally, he’s the one to break the silence.

“It never gets better, y’ know.” His thumb runs over the locket resting in his palm. His eyes are weary, red-rimmed with the evidence of someone who’s cried until he has no tears left, and continued crying regardless.

You tilt your head with a soft hum. A request for elaboration.

The breath he takes is a gasp for air after breaking the surface of nearly drowning. “That’s what ev’ryone told me. ‘It’ll get better.’ ‘Time heals all wounds.’ ‘What do y’ think they’d want y’ t’ do?’”

His hand might crush the locket if that weren’t the very thing he’s been trying to avoid with every effort he’s made. “It’s a bunch of shite. It doesn’t get better. It never heals. An’ how the hell would anyone else know what they’d want me to do? There ain’t no movin’ past a hole in your chest that keeps gettin’ bigger and bigger, somethin’ that ain’t there but it feels so damn heavy y’ can’t get outta bed sometimes.”

He swallows, and it’s audible, and he finally turns to look at you. Fluorescent green eyes are only hidden from you by a film of tears. Suddenly, every scar you can see dotting his body makes you think he’s stitched together with nothing but memories.

As if that’s all he is anymore. A vessel for the memories of all the people he’s ever loved, instead of being the person he used to be.

“I don’t want to let go.” It’s spit out furiously, a response to a question you haven’t even asked yet. He brings the lockets close to his chest and curls into you. “They’re all gone now, (Name). My mum… my dad… the first one I loved… all the other family and friends and lovers I cared about since then…”

He looks up at you, pleading with you to understand.

“They’re gone,” he says in a voice that’s barely a whisper. “If I don’t remember ‘em… if my life goes on jus’ the same as it did before I lost ‘em… don’t that mean I didn’t actually love ‘em? But I did… I did, darlin’… jus’ like I love you.”

The way he says it makes it abundantly clear: if he thinks he didn’t love all those people, and that he didn’t love you, because he moved on after losing them, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself.

Once again, everything you can think to say seems like a blade to shove and twist in his already gaping wounds.

So you put your arms around him, and hold his broken pieces together as best you can, and murmur a declaration that feels louder than it sounds. “I love you too, Adrian.”