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sleepingdeath-light · 4 months

Text

flirting with the reaper ; 18+

requested by ; a wattpad user (sweet seduction rewrite)

word count ; 2138

content ; sexually explicit content, dog-ear-ing of a book page, vaginal fingering, unplanned marriage proposal, implied piv sex

fandom ; black butler

pairing ; ronald knox x cis female reader

read also on ; ao3

note ; it’s been a long time since i’ve written anything for ronald and this one shot has kicked my ass for like five months so characterisation is probably a bit shaky — sorry!

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

The moment he walked — or, to put it more aptly, ran — through your bedroom door, he was all over you: lips on your throat, nimble fingers unbuttoning your sleep shirt and pushing it off of your body, free hand sliding beneath the band of your shorts to briefly toy with your slick cunt. It was delightfully overwhelming and your teasing remarks were constantly being interrupted by short bouts of laughter, breathy moans, and high pitched gasps as your beloved took full advantage of his position on top of you.

Hell, he barely even gave you the chance to dog-ear the page of your book and put it to one side before he had slotted himself between your thighs. But, then again, that eagerness was pretty par for the course with Ronald whenever he got home from a long day of work at dispatch, so you couldn't complain too much.

Especially not when he was doing such a good job with his hands.

He always started off slow, even now when you could feel the proof of his desperation for you pressing hard and hot against your hip and you wanted nothing more than to just lose yourself in him. Circling the pad of his thumb over your clit in languid movements that had you arching your hips up into his hand in order to experience some sort of friction against the frustratingly smooth fabric of his black work gloves. Leisurely sliding his index finger along your wet slit, just barely dipping the tip between your lips before repeating the routine once again — clit to hole, hole to clit, over and over again until you’re barely able to stop yourself from begging for him to just finger you already.

Then, and only then, will he start to properly touch you; he does like it when you’re desperate for him, after all.

It was just one finger at first, as always, and he seemed to take great pleasure in coaxing that pretty little moan of satisfaction from your lips as he ever so slowly pushed it in. You were already soaking wet and dripping with slick so it wasn’t particularly difficult for him to bury his middle digit up to the knuckle inside of you, but still he treated it as if it were some great Herculean effort to sink into your fluttering, gushing entrance — ever the dramatic, and if you weren’t so frustrated you might have even found his exaggerated huffing and puffing to be amusing. He settled like that for a few moments, seemingly basking in the feeling of being inside of you, before nipping sharply at the pulse point on your throat, soothing it with a wet kiss, and starting to finally fucking move.

As slowly as he’d pushed in, Ronald started to slowly retract his finger from you. Pausing briefly when only the barest hint of his fingertip remained in you before sliding back in once more. Settling into that relaxed, leisurely rhythm as he whispered to you, punctuating every push and pull, every in and out, with a remark that either had you groaning, snorting, laughing, or moaning as you soothingly ran your hands through his (by now already very messy) hair.

‘God you look so beautiful like this babe,’ he pecked the underside of your jaw and you couldn’t help but grin, ‘still can’t believe I get to call myself yours.’

‘How romantic,’ you snorted, ruffling his hair in such a way that he paused his ministruations to pinch the inside of your thigh before returning his focus back to pleasuring you, ‘did you share an assignment with Sutcliffe again by any chance?’

‘Hey! I’ll have you know I’m way more romantic than she is.’ He huffed against your neck. You doubted that immensely, but you didn’t comment on it beyond a brief airy chuckle, intending to keep the peace as you let yourself melt into the mattress beneath you under your love’s skilled touch.

Not that you would have had the chance to anyway, as almost immediately after he’d finished speaking Ronald’s previous leisurely pace dissolved into something more desperate and fevered. Clearly you’d gotten to him. Good. He always worked best under pressure.

—————

He never tended to half ass things — be that in his work as a reaper or in his relationship with you — and his current state was testament to that particular trait of his: the slight furrow in his brow that you could feel against your shoulder, the way he'd carelessly discarded his outerjacket and glasses to one side, his panting and grunting, the hardness of his neglected length against your body, and the way his hands ravished you were all clear indicators of just how dedicated he could be to your pleasure. Or, rather, proving his point through pleasuring you. Not that the distinction mattered much to you in the moment though, as the outcome was still the same.

And what a fantastic outcome it was: having gotten tired of teasing you, he'd slid two more fingers inside of you and settled into a rhythm that was faster, rougher, and much more involved (so much so that you could feel his wrist trembling from the strain as he continued to thrust those three digits into your gushing pussy and curl them straight into that spongy spot inside of you that had your toes curling and your head spinning); his free hand had wandered upwards to start toying with your chest as he rose to his knees in order to keep his balance, carefully tweaking and pinching and rolling each nipple and alternating between them until both were sensitive and pebbled for him — only then moving on to outright groping your breasts with his open palm and groaning appreciatively each time you arched your chest up into his touch; his occasional nips and wet kisses given to make you giggle and grin had shifted to a deliberate attempt to mark you — bites so rough and deep that you could feel the indentations of his teeth when you brushed your fingertips over your shoulder, and suckling kisses so harsh that you could practically feel them bruising over from the moment he pulled away. And he was all the more vocal for his roughness, uttering remarks that had your skin warming and the knot within you tightening whenever he pulled away from you for even the briefest of moments.

'So hot.'

'Perfect pussy.'

'Like it was made just for me.'

'Mine.'

'All mine.'

'That's my girl.'

'Don't hold back.'

'That's it, be as loud as you want, babe.'

After being together for as long as you had, Ronald knew exactly what to say and do to push you closer to the edge. Every word, every thrust of his fingers, every grind of his hips against you, and every kiss was done just right to get you where he wanted you to be. And, as much as you didn't want to give him the satisfaction — as much as you wanted to pin him to the bed and fuck him stupid instead of just laying there like a pillow princess — you just couldn't bring yourself to fight back, so you let him have his control for as long as he needed.

It had been a while since he was the dominant party in the bedroom, so you supposed you could let it slide this time.

Then again, with how tantalisingly close you were to climax it wasn't as if you were in any position to utter anything beyond slurred repetitions of his name and vague strings of syllables that were half moaned and half whimpered and sounded like something between a plea and a prayer. You were truly too far gone, too close to the edge, to do anything but lay beneath him and clumsily buck up into his hand as wave after wave of white hot pleasure crashed through your veins and fogged your mind.

And with a perfectly timed brush of the heel of his palm to your throbbing clit you were finally — fucking finally — sent over the edge of climax.

—————

It was everything you’d come to love and more; that paradoxical yet delicious combination of sensations that managed to be too much and yet not enough for your spent body and muddled mind to comprehend. The feeling of floating on air whilst being grounded by the feeling of his body on yours. The heat of your body beneath him as your veins burned with need contrasted with the distant chill of your slick as it gushed out of your cunt and coated your thighs. The deafening pound of your heartbeat in your ears and faintness of his voice as he whispered pure filth just below your ear, sounding as if your head were somehow underwater. The sting of your lungs as they begged for air and the need to cry out for and because of him until your throat was scratched raw and your voice so hoarse it was practically inaudible. The way your limbs trembled and felt all but boneless whilst you fought through to cling to him like your very life depended on it. The stars imprinted on the backs of your eyelids and the overstimulated tears that blurred and smeared the brightness of the waking world whenever you opened your eyes.

A beautiful jumble of contradictions that had come to define your sparse free time with Ronald between his endless overtime and your own work in the mortal realm. Perfectly imperfect, and so very fitting of a man like him.

Yet, through all of the blur and fog and pleasure, as you started to come down from that mind boggling high, your fogged mind managed to catch and latch onto a single thing he said. A short, half-groaned and half-moaned, sequence of words that sent a whole new wave of gooseflesh crawling up your spine.

‘Fuck! I can’t wait to marry you…’

And, through the dimming haze of climax and the post-orgasm exhaustion starting to settle in your bones, you realised that you couldn’t wait either. So you made it known by pushing past the roughness of your voice and the pain in your throat to whisper — well, pant —your response to him.

‘Why wait?’

You felt him pause for a second or two, lips lingering a hairsbredth away from your skin before he pulled away to look you in the eyes — or, well, he tried his best to anyway. Without his glasses his vision problems became all the more obvious, so you met him half way to mark things easier on you both.

‘Wait for what?’

If you weren’t so tired you might have just flicked him on the forehead for asking such an obvious question. But, as tired as you actually were, you instead settled for a deep and deliberate sigh and a pointed stare as you coughed through a brief explanation.

‘To get married, Ron. Obviously.’

He blushed at that — good, you thought to yourself, as he should for asking something like that — and gawked at you for a moment or two before he seemed to regain his composure and his features contorted into a grin somewhere between pure excitement and disbelief.

‘Really?’

‘Really!’ Another cough and wheeze. Ronald whispered an apology and chastely kissed your lips, a promise of fetching some water on the tip of his tongue before you grabbed a hold of his tie and tugged him back to you. ‘Aftercare later. We’re not done yet.’

Yellow-green eyes widened a fraction before he caught on and followed your unspoken — but frequently given — instruction as obediently as ever: dutifully unbuckling his trousers, tenderly pulling his straining cock free of its confines with a groan that sent a fresh wave of heat straight to your core, and shuffling back onto the bed so that you could comfortably straddle his waist. A familiar routine, certainly, but this time it felt much warmer for how he looked up at you — and how much more flustering that gaze became when you lovingly placed his glasses back on his face and he could actually see you again.

‘I love you,’ he whispered, placing an ungloved hand on your waist to help steady yourself as you positioned his tip at your wet entrance. ‘I can’t wait to do this for the rest of our lives — or, well, your life, anyway.’

You snorted at the sentimentality, but still humoured him with a hum (that hurt more than you’d care to admit) and a chaste peck to the tip of his nose. Then, finally, you lowered yourself onto his length, savouring that delicious stretch as you took in every inch of him — not slowly, though, you were far too worked up for that.

Besides, you had forever to take things slow. One night of being a bit rough wouldn’t hurt, right?

#sleepingdeath #female reader #female reader smut #minors dni #minors fuck off #minors don’t touch #smut #smut fic #black butler smut #kuroshitsuji smut #ronald knox smut #ronald knox x reader #kuroshitsuji x reader #black butler x reader

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dawn-moths · 1 year

Text

“The Final Nail in the Coffin” (PART 2)

CHAPTER 7

Undertaker x Female Reader / Ron x Female Reader

word count: 13,000+

part 1 * part 2 * part 3 * part 4 * part 5 * part 6 * part 7

(Ron returns from hiding out in the Irish countryside and prepares to face the Black Reaper for the final time. You take matters into your own hands for once. With only a bullet to decide who loves you more, Ron and Undertaker settle things once and for all. In the end, a new deal is made. The only question you can ask yourself now is, was what you had to trade worth the final outcome?)

disclaimer/content warning: 18+ content! minors DNI! a little bit of smut (overall this chapter is also pretty plot heavy), descriptions of violence, abusive/controlling behavior, daddy kink, jealousy, cheating, welcome to the big finale everyone.

*ao3 mirror*

***

Ireland’s rolling green hills had turned white with snow, dark cracks forming in the fields where some of it had melted to reveal the dark earth beneath.

Even in the winter, Ron’s home country was beautiful, the land looking like one endless expanse of black and white marble, the only indicator that it was finite being where the clear sky met the edge of the horizon.

He’d found his way back home on a local fishing boat, the kind Scotsman who’d agreed to take him the short distance to the Emerald Isle turning down Ron’s attempt to pay him for his trouble by having the young man help with some menial tasks while aboard instead.

A few hours later, when those mammoth cliffs cast shadows over the crashing waves and both men had to crane their necks to view the sky, Ron was stepping foot back in a place that he never thought he’d ever return to. As he waved goodbye to the generous fisherman and began on his way through the slush covered land in his scuffed up oxfords, a strange thought occurred to him…

Who was I before leaving this place?

What made me so desperate to go?

Ron had spent a long time wandering, only remembering he had to actually survive out here for a while once his stomach began to growl.

He fished out what little funds remained from the inside of his blazer pocket, (his suit looking less than professional at this point, but what did he care?) counted the coins and the crumpled bills, and then headed into the nearest pub.

For the duration of his first pint, Ron simply observed. He listened in on the grumbling conversations of the older, much more rugged patrons, choosing a target to rob by the time his second round was halfway down. But then, as he tipped the glass back and swallowed the final drops of his watered down beer, the outlook of Ron’s risky fortunes seemed to shift.

“… Need to hire some help ever since the last farmhand had to head back to Edinburgh. S’shame. H’was a good lad… Hard worker too,” One of the men muttered to the friend beside him, both of their steins only a few more gulps away from matching Ron’s.

“This time ‘o year, chances are few to none,” his companion remarked with a hint of a scoff. “Kids these days’re too delicate. They don’ want to work hard. I mean, why would they when they can get some comfy desk job for the same pay? Hell. Double what you can afford, I bet.”

Ron perked up, glancing over his shoulder to try and get a better look at the faces the conversation belonged to. They were older men, perhaps in their mid sixties, and despite the thinning hair and deep wrinkles etched into their rough, liver spotted skin, they were in decent shape, all things considered.

“I can barely afford my own wages,” groaned the man, who Ron was beginning to assume was the owner of the farm, the more he surveyed his attire— dirt smudged overalls and worn work boots, a tattered denim jacket fraying at the seams sagging over his slightly hunched back. “Just barely keepin’ the boat afloat after last year’s medical expenses. If I get pneumonia again I’ll probably be done for. My wife’d never forgive me for makin’ her a widow…”

The farmer’s friend clapped him on the shoulder, casting a look of sympathetic encouragement upon him. He was just about to open his mouth to speak, when a younger, much more chipper voice chimed in.

“Sorry to interrupt…” Ron began, putting on his most charming smile as he slid into the empty wooden stool across from the two older gentlemen. “But I couldn’t help but overhear you’re looking for a farmhand?”

The two men exchanged skeptical glances before looking back to Ron. Then the farmer admitted, “I am. But I won’t be able to pay very much.”

“You got lodgings at this farm of yours?” Ron asked next, one eyebrow quirking up as he shifted into a slightly more comfortable and relaxed position.

“Out in the barn,” the farmer half shrugged. “Though, this time ‘o year I’m afraid it’s not too cozy.”

“Is it livable?” Ron inquired, leaning in a little closer to them. “I mean, would I technically freeze to death if I slept out there or…?”

The farmer explained there were a couple of quilts and a small fire pit that could be lit, so yes, it was technically livable, even if it was by a low standard. Ron asked if there would be meals and the farmer gave him a similar answer. Yes, but don’t expect anything fancy.

“Well then,” Ron concluded, flashing one of those boyish, bright smiles he was so good at making look authentic. Though, the kind he liked to host around you actually were real. This time, it was merely a mask, a way to put his targets at ease to ensure he ended up with what he wanted. Just a simple skill of a once-retired-but-now-due-to-unfortunate-circumstances-presently-active con. “If that’s the case, consider me your new farmhand!”

The three of them sat huddled at that bar table for a little while longer, the buzzing warmth of the alcohol coursing through their systems beginning to dull a bit and then seeming to fizzle out entirely the moment they set foot back into the cold winter air, before Ron and the farmer— who’d introduced himself as Shamus— parted ways from the third member of the trio and headed towards the farm.

Ron was available to start work immediately, conveniently for the both of them.

So, as the first night back in his home country blanketed itself over the land, having everything in order to begin “work” early the next morning, Ron found himself wrapped up in the hand stitched quilts on the upper level of Shamus’s barn, the embers of the dying fire glowing from the iron coal stove a few feet away.

He lay there, curled into a ball, and wondered how long he’d have to play this part until he’d formed a good enough plan to return and face what he’d run from.

There was a brief moment where Ron figured he could just stay here, start a new life, and perhaps live long enough to die an old man like Shamus seemed so convinced was going to happen to him someday in the not so distant future.

He could lay down his gun, wipe the blood from the lenses of his glasses, and burn that stuffy suit he’d had to wear while working for Undertaker over the coals currently keeping him warm.

He could start a new life, if only he could let go of you.

And it was you— your sweet smile and angelic laughter and naive innocence to the true horrors that writhed below a shallow grave, clawing to get free and poison your fairy tale world— that pulled him back to reality.

Ron spent a majority of the night tossing and turning, cursing himself for casting his phone into the sea. Although it had been an extremely necessary precaution, he’d give almost anything right now to be able to hear your sweet little voice, even if it were through the trembling, anxious voicemails he’d never had the heart to delete.

He wanted to be able to reread your texts, at least, his heart fluttering every time you punctuated one of your messages with cute heart emojis or sparkles or stars.

He wanted to feel the warmth of your body on his again— under his again.

He wanted you to be his— only his— and for him to be yours.

He wanted Undertaker to pay for what he’d done, to suffer, to perish.

And he would make it so, whether with the echoing shot fired from a silver pistol or with his own two fists closed around the scar that the Black Reaper wore with pride like a piece of priceless jewelry around his pale neck.

Whatever the means, Ron was going to fight.

He wasn’t ever going to start a new life, not until you had the chance to start over with him.

Then, and only then, could you both wake up from this day-dream-turned-nightmare.

And after three weeks, six days, and nine hours since Ron had made up his mind curled up under those quilts— three weeks, six days, and nine hours shivering out in the cold and breaking his back with the workload of practically running Shamus’s entire farm on his own— he changed out of the oversized overalls and denim jacket that had been lent to him and back into the blazer and slacks that he’d arrived in.

He checked the ammo left in the gun he’d kept hidden under his pillow every night, never putting it past Undertaker to have him tracked down even out in the middle of nowhere, and reloaded the silver pistol.

Ron left in the night, disappearing like a ghost, the only trace left to prove he’d ever been there at all being a few strands of ginger hair still stuck to the lumpy pillow up on the second level of the barn, and by the following afternoon, he’d landed back in London.

***

The mattress dipped to cradle your spine, Undertaker’s looming shadow casting over from where you lay beneath him.

Things had been tense since Othello’s funeral.

Different.

Unfamiliar.

Not just in Undertaker, but also within you.

Undertaker had sensed this. He’d sniffed out your dissatisfaction with him like a prized hunting hound and sought to eradicate it, tear through the flesh and the bones, devour it down to its very soul.

And you, ever the obedient little prey, had bared your neck to him and smiled as he’d sunk his fangs into your trembling pulse.

The only difference between now and before was, when he told you he loved you afterwards, you didn’t believe him.

And when you told him you loved him back, it was a lie.

Still, you both had needs you couldn’t quite deny. Needs that, when tended to, at least helped you forget, even if only for as long as the act lasted.

“You’re still my princess, aren’t you?” Undertaker would ask in a whisper, his hands caressing the soft curves of your body, his lips leaving gentle kisses down the line of your throat. “You’re still my good girl?”

“Yes…” you’d gasp when his fingertips ghosted over your ribs, cold touch trailing down to your hips, your thighs. “Yes, Daddy…” You’d lace your manicured little fingers through his long, silvery hair and close your eyes as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your expensive lace panties, slowly pulling them down. “Always… Always…”

The winter’s chill seeped in through the latticed windows this time of year, giving the house even more of a draft than usual, the frigid air causing fresh waves of gooseflesh to raise all over your body, your sensitive nipples furling tight until Undertaker took them into his warm mouth— just about the only thing warm about him most days.

You’d keen, arching your back to push further into the heat of his mouth, the feel of his wet tongue leaving sloppy, languid kisses to your breast almost making you wish these physical acts still held any semblance of real romantic intimacy.

Even when he’d lower his head between your thighs, hitching your legs over his broad shoulders and spreading you wider for him, marveling in the taste of you like you were made of the sweetest nectar, sugar-ripe fruit so tender it was ready to burst, you still felt you were merely going through the motions.

Sure, the way you’d throw your head back and one of those delectable little moans would pitch high in your throat was real. The ecstasy your lover granted you again and again until you were sore and spent and defiled to his satisfaction, even that was real, in the moment.

But in the moments that came after, once you’d been cleaned up and cuddled into his side, the fantasy that you’d once lived had faded to a pulsing ache of uncertainty and regret.

How long had it been since you’d felt like things were perfect? Like things were too good to be true?

How long had it been since an “I love you” was said and received as sincerely as a vow?

How long were you going to pretend?

How long had you been pretending before you’d noticed?

When you realized it had probably been forever, as far as Undertaker was concerned, that was when that hairline fracture that had nearly healed in your heart split itself all the way back open, cracking down to its core, shattering, the pieces bleeding out all the love and adoration you had left until all that remained was an empty, withered husk in your chest.

But, if there was one thing Undertaker knew how to do— even better than buying back your affections with lavish gifts and extravagant vacations— it was how to revive what had once decayed, breathe it back to life with any means necessary.

With every drag of his hips that hit that sweet spot deep inside of you. With every sharp line that your nails carved into his back. With every single utterance of “Daddy” and “angel” or “princess”, you two were slowly but surely stitching yourselves back to each other like a patchwork of love and lies and longing for something you might never really make whole again because, you’d come to realize, it had been made of shattered fragments from the start.

Undertaker had scars on the outside, sure. But just because yours weren’t as deep or as visible as his didn’t mean you were without.

If he ever found you a corpse laid out on one of those cold, metal tables, a razor sharp scalpel in his hand to cut you open with, he’d peel back your layers and retract in horror, your insides embedded in a careful quilting of scar tissue, every insecurity and lie and bit of spiteful resentment criss-crossing your cadavernous state like the intricate embroidery of the imported curtains of the master bedroom, marbled into your marrow and impossible to be carved out.

But Undertaker would never allow your corpse to become cold, much less cut open.

He hadn’t worked this hard for this long to just give everything up now.

Othello or no Othello, the Black Reaper wasn’t going to quit.

It was something he and a certain loose end had in common.

***

Grell stood at the docks that night, hugging his red trench coat tighter around his body as an icy breeze blew by, and stared out at the blackened sea sloshing against the harbor in a tired, dazed state.

Whether Grell was pacing the streets or speeding down the empty back roads or hacking up some poor bastard in the basement of headquarters, there hadn’t been a day that had gone by since the incident without Othello popping into his mind.

The skittery little scientist had been more of an influence among the Aurora Society’s ranks than any of them had realized, and that wasn’t even coming from a standpoint of professional contribution.

Othello had been a friend to each and every one of them, in his own strange and twisted way.

He’d been a friend, and now he was just a corpse.

Not even.

There hadn’t even been enough left to consider him a corpse.

Now, he was just some charred fragments placed into a coffin and buried six feet deep out of respect.

And Grell knew Ron had done it— had something to do with it at the very least— but still…

Even after spinning the story every which way over these past few weeks, Grell still couldn’t find it in himself to truly hate Ron.

And that, perhaps, was the most disturbing part about what had happened.

Grell tipped his head back to the sky, the moon nearly full and looking big enough to swallow up the few flickering stars that poked through the fog. He sighed, hung his head, and then turned on his heel to stroll back down the docks and head home.

Not two strides later, he stopped dead in his tracks.

At the opposite end of the salt-rotted planks was none other than the traitor, the escapee, the murderer.

Ron gave a timid wave, a hesitant smile, and simply greeted his old colleague with a weary, “Hey…”

For a moment, Grell felt relieved, his next exhale catching halfway in his throat when he remembered what his former friend had done, and a deep, frightening scowl etched itself onto his face. He marched towards Ron, each step gaining more speed, more ferocity, and just when he was on him, he drew his ruby dagger and went to drive the blade down.

Ron caught his wrist, the two of them putting up a brief struggle, but Ron knew that there wasn’t any real fight behind Grell’s action. Tears began to mist in Grell’s green eyes, and slowly but surely, his attack began to lose its strength.

“Why…?” Grell hissed through tightly clenched teeth, blinking away his emotions the best he could, giving one last try and thrusting the knife down before going limp in Ron’s grasp. Ron simply shook his head, and then Grell was lowering the knife and sliding it back into its home on the back of his belt.

Neither of them said anything for what felt like an eternity, just stared each other down, one emerald gaze trying to apologize while the other was hoping to intimidate.

“Undertaker is gonna kill you, y’know,” Grell then stated with only a hint of malice, trying to hide a sniffle in his sleeve before adjusting his coat and smoothing down his windswept hair. “You’ll die before you see her again.” Ron’s stare didn’t relent, merely shifted from sympathy into steel, wishing that Grell would just make this easy for him. Not that he deserved it. “I figure that’s why you even bothered coming back,” Grell went on in the prolonged silence, looking Ron up and down with a distasteful scrunch of his nose. “Either that, or you really do have a death wish.”

“Maybe,” shrugged Ron, his voice sharp. Resentful. “But before he can kill me, he’ll have to find me.”

Grell scowled at Ron, incredulous, mouth hanging open with several sentences on the tip of his tongue— pleads to beg him to just forget this and disappear, warnings that he’d never be able to outrun the Black Reaper forever, words to challenge him to see what would happen if he dared try whatever it was he was planning— but he couldn’t seem to pick a place to start.

The redhead then straightened his posture, cleared his throat, and spoke with an air of superiority as he responded, “This was never going to be a hunt, Ron. It’s a delivery. You’re going to walk right into Undertaker’s trap and make it easy for him.”

Ron paced past Grell, stopped at the very edge of the docks, and said with his back facing the man who’d just tried to kill him a few minutes ago, “We’ll see about that…”

Grell let out an exasperated sigh, trying to act like he didn’t care one way or the other if Ron threw his life away like this, but deep down, a small piece of him was on his side.

They’d been friends at one point in the not so distant past too, after all. And, for Grell, losing one friend to a sudden, violent end was enough.

“So, I’m assuming you don’t want me to mention that I even thought I saw you around here then?” Grell asked, holding back not even an ounce of attitude.

Ron hesitated, taking in the salty scent of the sea, savoring the way the air felt a little thicker down by the docks. Then he turned, faced Grell, and replied with an almost chipper tone, “Actually, if he asks, tell him I’ll be waiting where our first deal was made.” He nodded to himself, as if only realizing that was a good idea the moment it left his mouth. “Yeah…” he pondered, turning back towards the rolling waves. “I think that’ll work just fine.”

Grell shifted his stance, one hand on his hip as he used the other to swish a curtain of his crimson hair over his shoulder from where the wind had blown it forward. He clicked his tongue and gave a curt response of, “Anything else, your majesty?”

Ron took in another deep breath of the ocean air, wishing he could’ve seen the water during the daylight one last time, preferably at sunset when the waves looked like liquid gold as they touched the peach tinted sky on the horizon and rocked against the cargo ships, his entire world a pale shade of serenity for just those few fleeting moments.

“No,” he told Grell. “That’ll be all.” And when Ron glanced over his shoulder to meet his friend’s gaze that time, he looked an awful lot like he was saying goodbye.

***

“And then what did he say?” Undertaker pressed, an uncharacteristic sense of urgency in his tone.

Panic.

Rage.

Vengeance.

“Nothing,” Grell replied from the other end of the call, sounding a little worried himself upon hearing the boss so uneasy. “He just said he’d be waiting where you two did your first deal. Said that was all.”

Undertaker absentmindedly chewed on his lip as he rolled that information over in his mind a few times. The place where him and Ron had made their first “deal” had been Undertaker’s section of the supply docks— the very place Grell had just run into him. What angle was he pulling?

Unless…

Normally, that wouldn’t have posed such an issue. But tonight, obviously unbeknownst to Ron, Undertaker wasn’t at the estate with you or sitting in his private office at headquarters, staring out at the city he was soon to control, soon to own. Or so he thought.

No, tonight, Undertaker and you were enjoying some winter holiday festivities in a quaint little tourist town a couple of hours away. He’d promised to take you shopping and treat you to whatever you wanted, allowing you to pick out an extra dessert at the renowned bakery located in the central square to bring home with you if you acted on your best behavior.

You two had been out all day, only planning on heading back home once the shops closed around nine. And, seeing as it was only currently six, you were pretty disappointed when Undertaker informed you after his tense phone call that you two would have to end your outing early.

“I’m going to be dropping you off at headquarters, sweetheart,” he explained, opening the car’s passenger side door for you, trying to keep a lightness to his tone even as you pouted and whined. “It’ll just be for a little while. Daddy just has some business to attend to and then he’ll take you home and let you pick out a movie for us to watch, alright?”

It wasn’t a question or a suggestion, no matter how hard he tried to trick you into thinking it was.

But that was alright. You wouldn’t mind seeing Grell, if he was there. Plus, you just might be able to guilt Undertaker into letting you have an extra treat during the movie.

And Undertaker didn’t think this would take long. He just planned on walking right up to Ron, shooting him in the head, dropping his body into the harbor, and then heading back to his baby.

About halfway to headquarters, the car ride especially silent, you muttered out a timid, “So… what’s going on? Is everything ok?”

You saw Undertaker’s jaw clench, heard the slight squeak of his black leather gloves gripping the steering wheel harder. “It’s nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about, princess,” he replied, the forced pleasantry in his tone a little strained, like a glass on the verge of shattering from a high-pitched vibration.

After another extended beat of quiet between you two, you asked, “Is this about Ron?”

The silence that haunted the car the rest of the way to headquarters was answer enough.

***

It only took about five minutes after being dropped off at headquarters for your anxiety to build.

It began like a slow drip of ice in your veins, the familiar inkling that something wasn’t right repeating in your mind with every increasingly frantic beat of your stuttering heart.

After ten minutes had gone by, you were starting to spiral into a bottomless pit of worry, all the what if’s clawing at your insides and beginning to draw blood.

Twenty minutes later, having found that pacing the upper halls where it was mostly quiet wasn’t doing much to help, you returned to the meeting room where Will was working on completing some paperwork— Undertaker had hand delivered you to his supervision before leaving in a hurry— the stoic man barely looking up as you reentered, fidgeting and clearly upset.

“When will Grell be back?” you asked, voice breaking a little as you felt the panic swell, breaths growing shallow and beginning to make you lightheaded.

William sighed, the scratching of his pen making your skin crawl as he signed over another dotted line and placed the sheet on top of the pile of completed assignments. Then he replied in that bored, somewhat irked drone of his, “I don’t know.”

You swallowed, shuffled on your feet, then opted to pull out one of the chairs at the far end of the long boardroom table and sit down. The ticking of the wall clock suddenly sounded too loud, a constant, even click without a beginning or an end. How long had it been now, you wondered, since Undertaker had dropped you here and sped off? How long would it be until he returned, possibly covered in blood— Ron’s blood, presumably— with his green eyes dark with the cruelty of a fresh kill?

“Do you— Can you tell me what’s going on?” you blurted out next, wringing your hands together under the table and bouncing your leg, staring urgently at Will, who now shifted his downcast gaze to meet yours, his action of signing the next line frozen as he answered, “No, I cannot.” He held your stare for only a moment more, then resumed his work.

“Well—” you persisted, Will letting out an agitated sigh and slumping slightly in his chair, very clearly frustrated with your constant interruptions. “Is Un— Is Daddy gonna be ok? He seemed really worried about whatever it was and I just—”

“Alright! I’m back—” Grell spoke as he entered the room, stopping short once he saw you, the look of exhaustion on his face quickly replaced with a comforting kind of fondness as he changed his tone and said, “Ah! There you are! Why don’t you and I leave Will alone and go take a walk down to the breakroom?” He winked at you, lowering his voice as if trying to keep a secret from his colleague who was only a few feet away, and bribed, “I’ll even split the red velvet cupcake I’ve been saving with you, if you want?”

Under any other circumstances, you would’ve giggled and gone without any hesitation, Grell playfully reminding you that it would be our little secret. But now, all of that adorable defiance was gone. All that was left in its wake was the pinched brow and slight frown that painted your worry.

“Before you go,” William addressed Grell, standing from his chair and carefully adjusting his pen so it lay perfectly parallel to the remaining papers, “I need a word.”

There was a pause then, and when you looked back to Will and saw him giving you that silently patronizing glare that said that this conversation wasn’t for your ears, your shoulders slumped.

“We’ll only be a minute, darling,” Grell assured you, placing a hand on your back and beginning to guide you out of the room with a sharp toothed grin. Right before he closed the doors, Grell said, “I’ll give you the bigger half if you’re patient, m’kay?” and then they were both gone from your view, the confidential discussion probably holding the answers to all your questions yet locked away behind the heavy, elegantly carved mahogany.

For a minute, you’d shifted back into compliance, leaning against the opposite wall and waiting for them to conclude like a good girl. But then, your curiosity always getting the better of you, you crept up to the doors and pressed your ear to the crack, hoping that maybe, if you stayed as still as you could and focused, you’d be able to make out some of what they were saying.

“… Said something… their deal,” you could just barely make out Grell speaking in a hushed tone, catching the confusion that was woven into his annoyance. “… Offered him backup… didn’t want it.”

There was a long pause, and you slowly put a little distance between yourself and the doorway. If they’d seen your shadow moving from under the door, you didn’t want to be caught with your ear pressed to it when they swung it open to double check they weren’t being overheard. After a little while with no sign of their suspicion, you continued to listen.

“… Settle it alone?” Will murmured, his low voice a little easier to make out.

“Something like…” Grell responded slightly louder. “But he should… Guy’s got a death wish.”

All you could think about was Ron, the memory of his carefree, boyish smile and soft, strawberry blonde hair flashing through your mind one second, then the image of his glasses smeared with blood, his charming emerald eyes drained of their sparkling light as his corpse lay crumpled at the bottom of a shallow grave the next.

You winced at the thought, praying to a god you probably didn’t even believe in for him to be spared, whether by retreat or nonlethal retribution.

“… Meeting him?” You cued back into Will’s voice, closing your eyes and holding your breath as you desperately tried to gain as much detail in their whispered words as you could.

“As far as I know… Told me a long time ago…” Grell replied, his attempt at secrecy loosening as his voice lost some of its hush. “First place they met were the docks.”

The docks.

Ever so carefully, you backed away from the door, tip-toeing down to the end of the hall before taking off running.

You had all the information you needed to know how to stop this.

And you would stop this, somehow, someway, so long as you weren’t already too late.

***

The clouds moved fast overhead, thick and dark and swallowing the glowing moon.

Ron had been waiting here— at the abandoned yard just off the edge of the supply docks— for what felt like an eternity, every single sound that wasn’t the sloshing of the waves or the whistling of the chilly breeze setting him on edge.

But he had to remain calm, reclaim his composure, and be ready when the time came.

Because Undertaker would show up eventually.

Ron knew he wouldn’t be able to resist, so long as Grell had passed on the message like he’d told him to.

So he waited.

He waited and he thought of you.

“Well, I’ll admit…” Ron whirled around as he heard the familiar rasp of Undertaker’s low, dangerous voice, drawing his gun immediately and taking a defensive stance. “When Grell first told me the news, I didn’t believe it.” Undertaker strolled closer with an eerie amount of nonchalance, though not with his guard completely down. “I thought, ‘well, I just have to see this for myself.’” He felt the weight of his gun in his coat pocket, casually slipped his hand over it and rested his gloved finger on the trigger.

A gust of strong, frigid wind howled through the docks, sending the silver ribbons of Undertaker’s hair flaring out wildly around him, the rumbling that drummed in the distance warning of the downpour that was on its way.

Undertaker’s smirk dropped, only a dark, vicious malice shining in his narrowed eyes. “But here you are… Ever the persistent little rat, aren’t you, Knox?”

Ron steadied his aim, swallowing hard and lining up the barrel with the Black Reaper’s forehead. “Better a rat than a snake,” he spit, applying a little more pressure to the trigger. He wished there was more daylight left to see how beautiful it would look once all that silver and black was stained with bright, deadly red. “Or a fucking psycho trying to play his hand at being God. Tell me, did you always plan on killing her or was that a more recent development?”

Undertaker’s smile returned as he pulled the pistol from his pocket, the weapon recently polished and craving fresh blood.

He let out a cold, cruel chuckle in response to Ron’s question.

“I bet you even know exactly how you’re gonna do it, too,” Ron went on, growing more enraged and impatient by the second, thunder growling louder as it echoed across the waves. “I know you’re not gonna cut ‘er up. No, that would be too gruesome… So which is it?” He took a lurching half step forward, the gun shaking in his hand. “Poison? Pills? Or maybe you’ll just wrap your hands around her throat and squeeze till she stops movin’, is that it?”

Still, Undertaker offered no clarity on the matter, merely continued to stare self-righteous and unblinking at his adversary across the graveyard of the docks.

“Yeah… Bet you wouldn’t mind leavin’ those kinds of marks on ‘er. Ones that’ll never let anyone forget who she belongs to! You sick—!”

“Are you done?” Undertaker called over, the baritone of his voice cutting through the shrill desperation of Ron’s.

Ron gripped the gun in both hands again, letting out a shuddering exhale as he prepared himself to do it— prepared himself to kill an unkillable man, to kill a god.

“Yeah,” he answered, barely loud enough for anyone besides himself to hear. “I’m done.”

Undertaker raised his arm, taking aim.

“Finally,” he scoffed, a sinister smirk carving itself across his scarred face. “Something we can agree on.”

***

Having faith in yourself had never been an easy thing for you.

It was always, “No, don’t do that, do this instead,” or “Aw, you look like you’re having a hard time. Here, why don’t you let me do it for you?” or “Are you really sure that’s what you want?” and any other number of condescending coos that carefully concealed the attempts to make you feel like you needed to rely on others, whether for decision making or taking care of yourself or any other matter of things you’d long lost track of keeping count of.

But as the Uber you’d hastily ordered on your phone sped down the twisting highways, each turn lending a narrower road than the last the closer you got to the coast, you clutched your determination with a death grip, knowing it wasn’t just your future at stake if you let it slip from your grasp.

Undertaker had demanded you delete all of your ride-sharing apps once he, along with any of his most trusted men, became your personal chauffeur, saying he didn’t trust complete strangers with his precious baby. But, lucky for you, you’d redownloaded them out of spite one day and your mom’s credit card was still connected to the account you’d long lost use for.

Until tonight.

Right now.

When it was just the stroke of luck you needed to escape.

“We’re getting close,” you informed the driver, constantly glancing from out your window to where the little pulsing blue dot that marked your current location inched closer to the sea.

It had just begun to rain, little drizzle drops misting the windshield, the stuttering rubber sound on one of the broken wipers only making you more anxious.

“There!” you pointed towards the shoulder of the road right up ahead, the driver upping the speed of his wipers as the rain began to hit the windshield a little harder. He gave you a skeptical glance from the rearview mirror, passing the spot you’d just directed him towards. You clicked your tongue and rolled your eyes, scoffing out an agitated, “Here, just stop here.”

“But…” the driver— some guy in his early thirties by the looks of him— began hesitantly, only starting to slow to a stop once he caught the scowl forming on your face from the back seat. “It’s the middle of the road. There’s nothing even out here. And it’s—”

You exited the car and slammed the door, taking off down the steep slope of the hill that ran down the other side of the highway barrier, hearing the tires squeal as they momentarily hydroplaned over the slick pavement.

You could see the docks from here, just past a makeshift lot littered with abandoned or broken supply crates— the big, steel kind that get packed onto freight ships— even through the darkness and the fog and the rain that was slowly but surely morphing into a downpour, the harsh winds whipping up your skirt in a jittery frenzy and raising painful goosebumps over the skin of your bare legs.

You could see the docks, but no Undertaker or Ron.

Panic struck you like an arrow, sudden and razor sharp, your breath quickening faster than you could keep up with.

Because maybe you’d been too late after all.

Maybe Ron was already dead.

Maybe you were next.

As tears welled in your eyes, mixing with the rain that soaked your hair and streaked down your face in fast drops, you felt your chest heaving. Felt the tightness that twisted in your heart like a knife being turned in an already open wound. You clutched your fists to your stomach and doubled over, opened your mouth, and let out a sound that you’d never heard yourself make before.

The echo of your scream may have been drowned out by the thrumming of the storm, but you’d heard it loud and clear— the sound of your heart breaking. The sound of not being enough. Never being enough, no matter how hard you tried.

But still, you hadn’t come this far not to see it with your own eyes.

So you took off running down the hill, nearly stumbling with every step over the soggy earth, your shoes and socks drenched and stained with dark mud, and you didn’t stop until the hill tapered off onto flat land again, the old, rusted shipment containers that probably held any number of nefarious and ghastly goods at one point or another haunting the graveyard of the docks like eerie, rectangular guardians.

So close, you thought as you slowly staggered to a stop, feet sinking further into the mud. So close, but always too far.

But that’s when you heard it.

A single gunshot, ringing out through the hissing of the rain.

You froze, a gasp caught halfway in your throat.

And then, as if possessed by the past self you’d nearly lost— given up willingly, all for the sake of this life— you took off sprinting.

You wouldn’t be too late this time.

You’d make it or die trying.

***

Blood seeped through Ron’s fingers as he clutched his shoulder, his breath fogging before him as he panted out short, stuttering exhales, the rain washing away the tiny clouds along with the red that it dragged further down his sleeve, dripping off the end of his shivering fingertips.

He’d tried to fire off a few shots after he threw himself behind the cover of one of the shipment containers but Undertaker had been too fast, too swift as he sought refuge behind an adjacent crate. His triumphant chuckle bounced off the confines of the metal husk, the faint echoes taunting Ron out of his hiding place and back into action.

“Undertaker!” he bellowed, sharp and growling like the warning bark of a dog on the end of its chain. He tried to take aim from around the corner of his cover but saw no clear pathway for a successful shot. “Fuck it!” Ron spitefully snarled to himself, counting his ammunition before sliding the clip back into the pistol.

He had two shots left.

The next words he spit under his breath were, “Better to die fighting than a fucking coward.”

And Undertaker could sense Ron drawing closer, could picture him moving ever so cautiously until he figured he’d have nothing left to lose and then waste his last two bullets firing in blind rage. So, as this dance with death they’d both been partners in for so long was nearing its end, the Black Reaper figured he’d give his underling some parting words.

“I just find it all amusing,” Undertaker began, “that you ever gained any sense that you could win. The very notion of you even standing a single chance to begin with makes me laugh.” The end of his taunt was peppered with a forced snicker, which gained the exact result Undertaker was hoping for.

It stirred Ron’s rage.

Much more, and he would become reckless. That was all Undertaker needed to make himself more deadly. And so he went on, “I know this makes no difference to someone like you, but I love her. I loved her long before you and I’ll love her long after. And she knows it.” Then, just to himself he muttered, “Despite it all, she knows it…”

“You’re going to get her killed!” When Ron’s voice called back, he was closer now, putting Undertaker on higher alert as he readied his gun. “And, whatever your fucked up definition of love is, it’s sick and twisted and she deserves something better! Something without all your conditions and punishments and lies!”

Ron was coming up on the corner of the crate then, keeping quiet to better focus and trying to steady his breathing and shaking hands, biting back a wince as his shoulder throbbed in pain. When he rounded to face the opening of the hollow metal tunnel, gun raised and ready to fire off his last two shots the moment his vision caught silver, he froze.

“Shit—” he swore through clenched teeth, quickly taking cover in the now empty space and trying to apply a little pressure on his weeping wound. It was hard not to visualize his own death when he pulled his hand away and saw it completely stained with red.

Undertaker had slinked away at the last second, so now Ron had no idea where he could be. Every crate would be like pulling the trigger in a game of Russian roulette, each time he turned to aim down another tunnel possibly being the last step he took before being forced to his knees by a bullet or blood loss.

Undertaker moved about the abandoned yard like a specter, gracefully waltzing from one cover to the next despite all the soggy earth beneath his feet, the rain only picking up its incessant drumming, tapping out an anxious beat that reverberated through the metal tunnels every time he slipped into another one of the crates.

A shiver wracked through him, bones and all, as the cold rain trickled down the back of his neck, his pale silver hair now turned a sleek shade of steel as it stuck to his forehead and the back of his long black coat, also soaked through.

This place was an obstacle course, even on the best of days. But now, with the relentless storm drenching everything in sight and dulling the most vital of senses, each step held potential danger, every decision, no matter how simple, became a grave one.

But even so, this did not deter Undertaker from exposing his location.

“Everything I do is because I love her!” he shouted, having a vague idea of Ron’s current whereabouts. “Can’t you see? It’s because I love her that I’m willing to go so far, to do every single thing I’ve done that you’ve deemed wrong or evil!”

Ron tried to pick out his voice through the rain, trying to focus on the rough edges that frayed from Undertaker’s silken baritone. Was there perhaps a tremble of trepidation woven within his words? Perhaps if this were anyone other than the Black Reaper. Ron knew it was most likely the cold that was causing his tone to shiver, but tried to convince himself otherwise for his own sake.

“We’ll be together forever, her and I,” Undertaker continued, speaking lower this time, not necessarily caring if Ron heard him but wanting to recite his fantasy out loud nonetheless. “I’ll fulfill Othello’s dying wish to see the reanimation technology brought to fruition and with that her and I will be preserved for the rest of time.”

He’d release it to the world too, eventually. At least, to anyone able and willing to pay the outrageous price for eternity.

“I burned it all down, remember!?” Ron called out. Undertaker stiffened from his hiding spot. How had Ron managed to close in so fast? As Ron crept closer to the next shipment crate, he spit under his breath, “Good luck swallowing all that ash for immortality.”

Ron turned and took aim down the tunnel, the one he was sure his enemy would be standing in the center of, but flinched when once again the area rendered itself empty. Then, from behind him, that low, sinister confidence spoke.

“Not everything,” Undertaker said, that cruel smirk curved up on one side of his face. Ron whirled to face him, his finger on the trigger.

And so two more gunshots mingled with the hiss of the pouring rain.

***

Even when your chest began to burn, lungs constricting as you sucked down gulp after gulp of the frigid air…

Even as your legs ached, running as fast and as hard as you could, the rain pelting your skin as wave after wave of the freezing drops hit your body like hundreds of tiny needles…

Even as the mud drenched and ruined your expensive, designer clothes— as mascara ran down your cheeks in splattered black streaks— as you kicked off your shoes entirely because, although they were one of your favorite pairs, they were only slowing you down and your feet went numb as the drowned ground soaked through your socks…

Even then, you wouldn’t slow down.

The gunshots rang out through the graveyard of the docks, splicing through the downpour and making you gasp, your next step staggering, before you took off in yet another painful sprint. But it wasn’t long before the hazy silhouette of two familiar figures came into sight through the darkness.

You stopped short, tried to call out in between your panting breaths, but no one heard you over the storm.

If they couldn’t hear you, they’d have to see you.

So you kept running.

Sure enough, it was Undertaker and Ron. You knew it all along— knew it months and months ago when you’d first started to mess around, long before the flirtatious texts and the secret sex and all the other interactions that had betrayed and challenged Undertaker— that things might end up this way. With Ron lying on the ground with a bullet through his shoulder and a gash across his temple, blood pouring from both wounds as Undertaker stood over him, aiming his gun down at the boy you might’ve been able to love in a different life.

They were still a ways away, but close enough to recognize your sopping wet shape the same as you did theirs if only they looked over. You tried shouting again, shrieking for them to stop, your throat going raw as new claws of desperation raked their hooked talons through your vocal chords.

But still no one heard you. And, if they did, they deemed you unimportant. An issue to be dealt with once the matter at hand was settled.

You were tired of being a side character in your own god forsaken life. So, as absolutely terrified as you were, you marched forward, each step nearly sending you slipping or sliding or sinking, yet each step was more sure and strong than the last.

You locked your gaze on Undertaker, praying to some invisible force to spare you just a few more seconds before the reaper claimed Ron’s life, and saw Undertaker’s mouth move. Only then did you freeze for a brief moment, trying to read his lips but to no avail.

The look on his face told he was saying something vital— something about the deep pinch of his sparse, silvery brow, his emerald eyes squinting and nose scrunched as a bitter snarl pulled up one corner of his mouth, teeth bared and glinting like he was ready to sink them into the nearest jugular and tear with all his might— something meant only for the ears of a dying man and his executioner.

When Undertaker put both hands around his gun, raising it to fire the final shot, you snapped out of it, kicked back into action and not stopping until the Black Reaper— the love of your life, the worst man you knew, the warden who’d clipped your wings only to keep you locked away in a pretty cage— finally noticed your presence and dared to look your way.

“Stop! Stop—! Wait!” You came stumbling forward, Undertaker’s formerly vicious and terrifying gaze melting to something cold and stoic before softening to an emotion caught between concern and rage upon landing his sight on your severely disheveled state.

You practically skid to a halt, standing before the barrel of Undertaker’s gun and holding out your hands as if that had the power to stop a bullet from exiting the chamber the moment his finger pulled the trigger. You didn’t even know if Ron was still alive or if you’d been too late, but still, you had to try.

“Please— Please! Please don’t! Please don’t kill him!” You begged, your eyes flicking back and forth between Undertaker and the gun, part of you wondering if this might be how you met your end after all. Because Undertaker wasn’t lowering his weapon. He was hearing you, yes. But was he really listening?

“Sweetheart, please,” Undertaker growled, low and menacing, his stare narrowing at you like he was trying to decipher whether you were an ally or an adversary. “Step out of the way.”

“You can’t!” you continued desperately, your heart hammering in your throat and making every syllable quiver with fear and adrenaline. “You can’t kill him! Please! I’m begging you!”

Undertaker clicked his tongue, stepped forward and swatted you out of the way as if you were nothing more than a pesky little fly, but you grabbed his arm with every ounce of strength you had left. It wasn’t much. Even on a day you hadn’t just sprinted through the freezing, pouring rain you could’ve never hoped to have faced him and won. But Undertaker must’ve felt your desperation, because again he hesitated.

He hesitated and heard you out.

Besides, it wasn’t like Ron was going anywhere.

“Remember—!” You began, already choking on your words, a powerful sob wracking through your chest, hollowing you out, perhaps never to be whole again. “Remember the first time we met! Do you remember who you were then? How you were?” You were searching his eyes for any hint of understanding, any shred of hope that he would heed your words, that he’d remember any sliver of himself that wasn’t this— that wasn’t vengeful and vicious and violent.

“You were so kind…” Your voice cracked, shoulders beginning to shudder as tears filled your eyes, unable to hold them back as the rain pulled them down your face. “You were so gentle… You— You were the first person in a long time to show me any kind of consideration!” Undertaker lowered the gun, though still kept his finger loosely on the trigger. “And I thought it was all too good to be true!” You sniffled, the end of your sentence garbled from all the tears and rain running into your mouth. “Sometimes I still think it is, but—” You took a chance, let go of his arm, and slowly reached for his pale face. As you touched his chilled skin, the downpour turning him clammy, you looked deep into his eyes— the same eyes you’d seen gaze upon you with all the love in the world one minute only to glower at a man he was soon to execute the next— and said, “I love you. God, I love you…”

You closed your eyes for a moment, wanting nothing more than to touch your forehead to his. To be in some place warm and familiar and safe in his arms. To go back to a time before all of this, before you’d known you loved a monster and would still choose to love a monster even after you learned its darkest, most ugly parts…

But all you had was now. And, now, you had to save not just Ron, but yourself and Undertaker as well.

Because you would lose more than just Ron if Undertaker pulled that trigger.

You’d lose everything— your mind, your home, the man you really did love, despite it all…

“But if you do this—” You began again as your eyes snapped open, and while they were still bloodshot with tears, your stare cut deeper than daggers, deadly. “If you do this I will never love you again. Do you hear me?” You curled your grip around his jaw a little tighter. Sort of like how he did to you when you were being an insolent little brat in bed, warning you that, if you didn’t listen to Daddy and behave, an ample punishment would be soon on its way.

Undertaker didn’t respond, but by the way his throat bobbed with a nervous swallow, you knew the message was sinking in, no matter how reluctantly.

“But if you let him live…” You softened, slowly removing your trembling little hands from his face to hug around his waist, pressing your cheek to his soaked coat, pretending you could hear a human heart beating underneath and not the eerie humming of a hollow corpse. “If you let him live, I’ll love you forever and ever… For the rest of my life and whatever comes after…” You looked up at him, the rain finally beginning to die down a bit as you blinked drops from your eyes, and held your breath as you hoped even a fraction of what you’d said was being taken seriously by him.

When Undertaker placed his non-lethal hand on the small of your back, pressing you a little closer to his chest, you gulped, the breath you’d been holding in forced to exhale shakily through your nose.

“You don’t have to be a bad man,” you told him, a small, soft smile quivering up on your lips, all the color drained from them on account of how cold you were. “I’ll forgive you for everything you’ve ever done, to me or anyone else… Every last thing…” You returned to his embrace, cold as it was, and tried to trick yourself into believing the words leaving your mouth. “I’ll forget all of it… Just spare him, please.”

And then, just as quickly as the storm had rolled in and wreaked its havoc, it was reduced to a misty drizzle, a ghostly fog forming in its wake across the land, floating over the surface of the waves in swirling tendrils rimmed with silver by the moon.

Headlights cut through the gloom, Grell’s cherry red Lamborghini speeding towards the three of you and stopping with a skid, him and Will jumping out and rushing towards all the commotion, both looking dire, though neither had their guns drawn.

Everything after that was mostly a blur.

Undertaker told you to go with Grell, and when you refused, he told you that if you went with Grell he’d spare Ron. You knew he was lying, so you stubbornly insisted on staying right where you were.

Undertaker then ordered his men to take you by force, and even as you kicked and screamed and fought with everything you had, you were no match.

You were afraid all of it had been for nothing.

But as you sat in the car, Grell in charge of keeping you from escaping and running right back towards the scene, you watched the rest unfold, the world beyond the car silent and uncertain.

Undertaker and Will talked back and forth in a rapidfire fashion, though you could only really see Undertaker’s face. He looked more than furious. He looked wrathful. But a gasp hitched in your chest when you saw William kneel down and help Ron up, who, though bloody and battered, seemed to still be breathing.

With Ron half slung over Will’s shoulder, the two of them began to stagger away, disappearing further into the mist. Meanwhile, Undertaker stood in the center of it all, as still as a statue, the gun clutched loosely in his hand as it hung by his side and he watched them go. He could still shoot. He could still win. But he must’ve believed you, for all he did was wait until they were completely out of sight. Then he came back to retrieve you from Grell’s car.

“Come, my love,” he beckoned, extending a hand to you, which you took more out of fearful necessity than trusting relief. “Let’s go home.”

***

By the time Ron came to, he was sitting with his hands bound in the backseat of a car in the middle of a runway, a small jet parked and ready for takeoff just across the way.

His head was pounding, his shoulder was bandaged, his heart was broken, but he was still alive.

He was still alive…

“So he was really serious…?” Ron asked, his voice gravelly and defeated, as he met Will’s steely gaze in the rearview mirror. “He’s really gonna let me go, after all that…?”

Will remained silent, just continued to stare, his expression unreadable.

Ron let his head loll back against the headrest, a sickened smirk lifting one side of his lips. “Or is he just flying me somewhere far away to do the deed…? Y’know, so I can’t haunt his territory…” He breathed out a weak chuckle. If he were talking about anyone else, he probably would’ve been joking. But with Undertaker… who knew what someone like that man really believed.

Will turned the key in the ignition, the car humming back to life. “This is a kindness, you know,” he finally spoke, not even bothering to glance over his shoulder into the backseat. Not that he had to. Ron had no strength or weapons to fight him with, let alone the intention. Still though… They had worked together all this time. By some people’s standards, that might’ve made them friends, to some degree. Though, in this line of work, Ron supposed, loyalty only lied with oneself.

Will let out a troubled sigh, quietly cleared his throat, and said, “Undertaker wasn’t sure how coherent you were during the initial discussion and asked me to repeat the stipulations of this deal to you before sending you on your way.” Only then did William turn halfway to gaze into the backseat, though the look he gave Ron wasn’t a comforting one. It was almost pleading, as if to say, don’t waste this chance you’ve been given.

Don’t waste this gift.

“Yeah, whatever, go ahead…” Ron droned, as if he were merely bored during a long drawn out meeting and not about to have his entire life unwillingly changed forever.

William faced forward again and began to recite the terms and conditions Ron, like most deals made with the Black Reaper, had no choice but to follow or face certain death. And so the rules of Ron’s newfound freedom were as such…

If he ever showed his face in England ever again—

If he ever tried to contact you in any way, shape, or form—

If Ron tried to exist anywhere near the sphere of you and Undertaker’s world—

Then Undertaker would— with God and the Devil and every other holy or haunting higher power in between as his witness— finish what he’d started that night between the abandoned shipment crates that lined the graveyard of the docks.

“I get it…” Ron scoffed. “So I’m banished…” He slumped forward and rolled his neck, a few popping sounds filling the bleak silence of the car along with his stifled groan. “Well…” he sighed, forcing one of those charming grins despite it all. “Where ya takin’ me, Captain? New York? L.A.?” His playful attitude took a hit as a new realization occurred to him. “Or is he droppin’ me in the middle of the sticks somewhere I don’t even speak the language?” He leaned back in his seat, scoffed a little as he mumbled, “Though, if it were somewhere in the tropics, I don’t think I’d mind…”

“First of all,” William corrected, placing one hand on the wheel while the other adjusted his glasses, “I’m not taking you anywhere. You’ll be going with some of the others. Up and comers who have something to prove about loyalty and responsibility…” He almost rolled his eyes just then, the closest thing to sarcasm he might’ve even shown in someone else’s presence. “But they will not harm you, rest assured. And second…” he paused, trying not to grin as he confirmed with a hint of satisfaction, “You’re being sent to New York.”

Ron perked up, unable not to feel a little relief that at least, as much as he hated every facet of his current situation, he’d have more than one kind of entertainment to distract him from the misery that was sure to settle over him like dust over a forgotten antique the longer he had to be away from you.

He asked, eyes wide and shining, “As in, New York, the city, New York?”

Will nodded, turned up his radio a few notches just to drown out the silence. “New York, as in, the city, New York,” he repeated.

Ron had to stifle a chuckle when he recognized the song quietly playing was, “Moving to New York” by the Wombats. How long had it been since he’d listened to music? I mean, really listened to music? Like nodding along to his favorite songs and letting himself get lost in the beat, clumsily singing to the melody of which all the words he did not know?

“So… what?” Ron quirked up an eyebrow, skeptical. “He’s flyin’ me to New York City free of charge and then…?” He let what remained of his vague question linger in the air, the final chorus playing out as Ron imagined all kinds of horrors and hardships— like being dropped off and left to figure the rest out on his own with no money or contacts or phone and a bloody suit and cracked glasses to wander the streets and commit who knew what kinds of crimes just to survive.

He’d done it before, he supposed, and back then he hadn’t even had a suit. So, perhaps, by those standards, things wouldn’t be too bad after all.

“And then,” Will explained, “it’s up to you. So long as you abide by the terms and conditions—”

“Then I’m really free…” Ron sighed out in reverence, unable to fully accept it as truth, though the way his hands shook and he couldn’t wipe the wide, borderline maniacal smile from his face spoke to just how much he wanted to believe it. His voice nearly cracked when he hung his head and repeated in a whisper, “I’m free…”

“Oh, and I suppose I should also mention,” added William, “that there is a rather modest apartment waiting for you.” Ron’s head shot up, meeting his colleague’s— former colleague’s— gaze with an unamused expression.

“Very funny,” Ron said, monotone.

But Will wasn’t joking.

Ron wondered what the catch was, then remembered that his freedom and the housing that came with it were all being paid for with the ultimate price— never being able to see or hear from you again.

So Ron got on that plane.

He sat with his hands bound for the entire eight hour flight and stared out the tiny oval window at the ocean below until land finally returned to view.

He let four unknown, bespectacled faces escort him into an unmarked car and drive him through all the glittering lights and blinking signs that decorated Times Square.

He gazed upon the streets he would learn to call home with a childlike wonder, taking in all the whimsey and mystery and debauchery the foreign city could offer at merely a glance.

And, the moment he was delivered downtown to his small, albeit nicer than he’d expected, apartment complex, the bindings on his wrists were cut, and his door clicked shut and locked behind him…

Ron began to scheme.

Because he still wanted to kill Undertaker. And he would. But he could only do that if he was alive. So, for now, Ron would respect this so-called deal that Undertaker had conjured up. He’d respect it just until he had a working plan in order and could retaliate accordingly.

Ron walked further into the apartment— his apartment— and stood in the middle of the living room. It was sparsely furnished, but at least there was a couch, so he plopped down on it and let out a sigh as he sunk into the cushion, flinching when he leaned too far onto his injured shoulder.

He remembered all the afternoons and evenings spent next to you on the couch in Undertaker’s mansion, how sometimes you’d let your thigh rest against his, allow your body heat to bleed through the fabric of his trousers while you read your book or scrolled on your phone or watched a movie. How, sometimes, when you got tired waiting for Undertaker to return if he was working later than expected, you’d rest your head on his shoulder, curl into him for warmth and comfort.

Ron closed his eyes, let his head lean back, his hand lightly brushing against the vacant spot next to him. The spot he imagined you’d one day be sitting by his side after he’d won this battle once and for all.

Ron smirked. It was but a tired twitch of an ill-intentioned smile, but it held all the disdain he needed at the moment.

In the empty, quiet apartment, thousands of miles away from the man he so wished could hear this decree, Ron muttered, “You should’ve killed me when you’d had the chance…”

He saw your smiling face flash through his mind, no longer even having a photo on his phone to remember it by.

But, amidst his sorrow, his mourning, Ron found it in himself to laugh.

He then understood why Undertaker always cackled after a kill. How the low, menacing chuckle soon grew into an uncontrollable chorus of insatiable laughter.

He didn’t know how long he went on like that— head thrown back and mouth stretched impossibly wide as a stitch formed in his side— but once his crazed hilarity died down to sporadic giggling, everything soon returned to silence.

“Yeah…” Ron said, going into the kitchen with the intention to retrieve a glass of water, but instead found an unopened bottle of Undertaker’s favorite, expensive whiskey, a black satin bow tied perfectly around the neck under the guise of being a gift, but what Ron really knew was a reminder, a warning, a threat.

He twisted the top and poured himself a generous glass, some of it sloshing out onto the counter before he threw the whole thing back and swallowed it all in one go. He slammed the glass— one of three that he’d found in the otherwise empty cabinets— on the countertop and let out a long, hissing sigh as the alcohol burned through his system.

He dug his fingers tighter around the crystal glass.

“You really, really should’ve killed me.”

***

You and Undertaker sat inside the black 1953 Rolls-Royce Dawn Drophead for a long time after he’d retrieved you from Grell’s car, the silence that hung between you two heavy enough to sink you to the bottom of the sea.

You were still trembling, still in shock from the whole ordeal, but half of your shaking was probably due to how cold you were, Undertaker’s thick black coat draped over your shoulders but doing nothing to quell your violent shivering.

“Look at you…” he finally cooed, seeming to snap out of his own shock, gently reaching over to brush some soggy strands of hair away from your forehead and trying not to feel too guilty when you first flinched away from him. “You’re a fright. You must be freezing…” He started the car, the heat kicking on at full force now that Undertaker had decided to grant you that small mercy.

As he began to pull away from the docks, he said in that same sweet, caring tone, as if he hadn’t just traumatized you beyond belief, “I’ll draw us a bath as soon as we get home. And you haven’t even eaten yet, you must be starving. Just say the word and I’ll make you whatever you want.”

You remained silent, your jaw locked as your teeth clattered, though even if it were easy for you to speak right now, you still don’t think you could’ve.

What more was there to say?

You’d signed your life away, agreed to become the perfect, pretty little prisoner that Undertaker had always wanted you to be so Ron could have his own life spared and gain his freedom.

What higher form of love was there than such a sacrifice?

As the fog that floated near the water gave way to a dark stretch of road, you wished that you could’ve looked into Ron’s green eyes one last time, felt his calloused thumb stroking gently along the top of your hand, heard his boyish laugh, seen that charming smile, been able to express to him even a fraction of what he’d meant to you.

But now he was gone from your world forever, so all you could do was hope he knew— across lands and oceans and time— that what you’d felt for him was the real thing. No matter how brief the love you’d shared was, no matter how reluctant, every last bit of it had all been real.

And so you’d send a silent prayer in your mind every night to him, a wish that maybe one day you’d see him again, whether from far off in the distance or passing on the street. A part of you even hoped you’d see him with his arm slung around another girl, that he’d be smiling and gazing at her the same way he used to smile and gaze at you. At least then you’d know he was happy, that he’d found a way to love someone he could actually have.

That’s what you hoped for him. You hoped he got to have what you never would get to. And that was a love as pure and as free as what you’d spend the rest of your days skillfully pretending you and Undertaker shared.

As you pulled up to the gates of the estate grounds— the iron wrought bars surrounding your beautiful cage— you said to Undertaker, no sweetness or innocence or any of those other disgustingly fabricated sugar-coated tones you’d adapted to take around him present in your voice, “If you don’t honor the promise you made to me and let Ron live, wherever you’re taking him…” Undertaker stopped the car halfway up the driveway, caught completely off guard by your own low, dangerous tone. “I can promise you that you will lose me.”

You looked over at him with a menacing gaze, one you’d learned to imitate directly from him, and felt a sick satisfaction when you caught just a flicker of fear behind his otherwise blank stare, concluding with, “So you better not think you can just kill him when I’m not looking. I will find out.”

You held each other’s stares for what felt like an eternity and an instant all at the same time. Then Undertaker looked back out the windshield, continued to creep up the horseshoe driveway to the front steps, and put the car in park.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” he smirked, turning the key in the ignition and killing the lights on the dash. “I can assure you, if Ron were to be killed, it would be by my hand and my hand alone.”

He stepped out of the car and came around to open your door for you, offering said hand to help you out which, for possibly the first time in your life, you didn’t take. You stood there and watched as he closed your door behind you, pulling his damp coat further around your shoulders as a new chill began to slither up your spine.

“Now, I do believe a bath and a hot meal is in order.” Undertaker extended his hand to you once more and, that time, you gave him the courtesy of taking it, allowing him to guide you back inside.

From then on, that night was never spoken of again. Slowly but surely, things returned to normal and you fell back into your role as Daddy’s perfect little princess. But, unlike how things were in the past, you were no longer a pawn. You’d become the queen opposite Undertaker’s king, always making the right moves and ready to put him in checkmate if he ever betrayed his word.

And, yes, sometimes the act ceased to be false and slipped back into something more natural. But every night, as your heart sang its silent prayer from the other side of the world, you reminded yourself of the life, and love, that you could’ve had.

I hope that you’re happy, you’d wish for Ron. I hope that you’re free.

And, sometimes, if you got lucky, you’d be able to meet with him in your dreams.

***

Snow blanketed the gardens beyond the mansion windows, all the wilted flowers and bare hedges made beautiful by the fresh layer of shimmering white as more fluffy tufts of gossamer flurries swirled around the winter wonderland.

It was almost Christmas. Just a few more days before Undertaker showered you with diamonds and Chanel and maybe, if you were really lucky, the kitten you’d seen in a petshop window in passing a few weeks ago that you’d practically begged him for.

It had been an entire year since the downpour by the docks changed all your lives forever. An entire year since Othello’s funeral. An entire year since the basement of headquarters had been burned to a demolished char, and since rebuilt, the tragedy paved over with shiny new linoleum.

The mansion was adorned with all kinds of special, sparkling decorations per your usual request since you’d started living with Undertaker a few years back, and tonight Grell and Will had been invited over for dinner.

Still though, the grand dining table was so much emptier without Ron and Othello. So much lonelier.

Even though you hadn’t known Othello that well, you could tell what he’d meant to Undertaker, could hear the sadness and the loss that laced its way into the toast he made that night about how, despite their differences, the scientist had been the closest friend he’d ever had. They’d known each other since their university days, after all. They’d shared the same impossible dream, nevermind the diverging intentions.

The hardest part for you though was, of course, Ron’s absence. But as you stared out the window at the snow falling like magic, enjoying the rare, merry and peaceful atmosphere that had filled the house over these past few weeks in preparation for the holidays, you couldn’t help but smile and hope that, wherever he was, it was snowing there too.

You hoped that he’d taken care of himself, that he’d found a path that brought him happiness. You hoped that he’d found love and been able to be loved in return. But even if he hadn’t, you still hadn’t given up on loving him from afar.

It was during occasions like this, where everyone— everyone who was left, anyway— came together that were the hardest for you. The urge to send him a text or leave a voicemail was always resurfacing, but there was no way for you to do something even as simple as that anymore. Undertaker had replaced your phone with the latest model soon after the whole ordeal, and while all of your other contacts had remained, it was like a gaping hole in the list of alphabetical names where Ron’s used to be with a cute little ice cream emoji next to it.

For a long time, you thought maybe Ron would try and contact you somewhere down the line, perhaps using the sneakier method of reaching out to you through social media or somewhere untraceable by Undertaker that wouldn’t show up on phone records, but so far you’d heard nothing. Though, the naively optimistic piece of you that was left, no matter how small, still held out hope.

For now, perhaps the silence was for the best. It didn’t help with how much you missed him, but it did make it easier for you to maintain your persona. So when Undertaker noticed you staring off into space, a melancholy look on your face as you lounged on the couch after dinner, taking some alone time while the other men talked, and he asked you, “What’s wrong, darling? Is everything alright?” it was easy for you to snap out of it and give an adorable smile, crafting the honey-glazed excuse of, “Sorry! I just felt like I forgot something but I think I remember it now,” as you reached up to him, motioning for him to either lift you into his arms or join you on the couch where you could better cuddle up to him.

He chose the second option, feeling a sense of relief when you migrated closer to him, snuggling into his chest and seeking comfort in his familiar scent, his expensive but subtle cologne lulling you. “What did you remember?” he asked you, gently combing his long fingers through your hair like he tended to do.

You smiled— a precious, vicious little grin— and climbed into his lap, intertwining your fingers behind his neck and humming out a lilting note before giving him a peck on the cheek. “I just remembered to tell you I love you, is all!” you lied.

Though, today, it wasn’t so much a lie as it was a cover up. Because, today, you did love him. You’d started loving him again a few months back. You’d made him work hard enough for it what with all his lavish gifts and luxury vacations and the fact that he’d become far more lenient when it came to punishing you for any bad behavior or rule breaking.

You were probably going to love him for many months to come, too— many years. That, you realized, was much more complicated to control than your cute little persona. Your head could be fickle as often as it wanted, but your heart…

Your heart could never lie.

And while your mask would crack one day and completely fall away, perhaps never to be worn again, that day wasn’t today. And whenever Undertaker spoke of this love lasting forever, in life and death and anything that came after, you wondered if that were true.

If there really was a way to make it last forever, would you even want it?

You were broken from your conflicting thoughts when Undertaker invited you to join him and the boys downstairs where you’d been denied so many times before. You knew all they did down there was play pool and drink and talk business more often than not— things that would bore you, no doubt— but you were just happy to be included rather than sent away, so you eagerly agreed as Undertaker stood and guided you by the hand to your least visited part of the house you’d come to call home.

And that night, as you watched all of them joke and laugh and drink like they were merely old friends and not killers or cons or conniving criminals, you thought that, at least for moments like these, the act you had to put up was worth it.

For this— to feel like you belonged somewhere, belonged to and with someone who loved you more than life itself— you could play your part. You could live this life and maybe even enjoy it without having to pretend. And, whatever was to follow, be it next week or next year or decades from now, even after death came to claim you, you could deal with that when it arrived.

Because you were happy.

However fleeting, right now, you were happy.

***

The snow in New York was less serene than how he remembered it in London, but no less picturesque. The way the colorful lights glowed through the frost and made the hustle and bustle of the city a little quieter, a little slower paced as the usually packed streets thinned out the more white that covered the ground…

Ron wished that you could have seen it.

As he gazed out his apartment window, delicate ice lining the edges of the pane like elegant froths of lace, he fantasized that one day you would.

He’d found a bartending job not long after his abrupt arrival last year. He’d been a fast learner, put his free time, of which then he’d had an abundance of, into honing his new craft. It had helped take his mind off of you when the regret started gnawing on his heart. That, and it ensured he’d get better tips at the end of the night to continue paying for the apartment he’d learned hadn’t come completely free past the first month.

But on nights like tonight, when he had off from the usual face-paced, high energy and social setting of his job, Ron liked to be alone. He liked to sit near the dim lamplight, a quiet playlist filling the space from the small speaker on the kitchen counter, and think about you. He liked to imagine what kind of dress you’d be wearing, thought of you giving a graceful twirl and letting out one of those adorable, angelic giggles as you did so. He also sometimes thought of undressing you, devouring the sight of your matching lingerie that, one day, would be for his eyes only.

He imagined just holding you, letting you fall asleep safe and sound in his arms, of himself dozing off as his head rested atop yours.

He imagined going through mundane, daily life with you— of cooking dinner together and folding laundry, making the bed and going for walks down your favorite market streets on sunny days, of people watching in Central Park while you pointed out all the dogs you thought were cute.

But, as he’d become accustomed to during his daydreams and fantasies, the good images and memories would soon become replaced by betrayal and bloodshed. Because, just like Undertaker, Ron intended to finish what he’d started.

There had scarcely been a day when Undertaker’s final words to him hadn’t rung out though his mind, the promise of a man who was so sure he’d been victorious only to have that promise rescinded into a threat.

“You have given me more than one cause to start a vendetta,” Undertaker had scorned. “So I’ll make sure to repay you for all the trouble in your afterlife tenfold.”

At the time, it had all sounded like a bunch of jumbled nonsense to Ron’s hazy brain, between the bleeding and the rain he wasn’t even sure he’d heard him right. But now Ron recognized those words for what they were, or rather, what he’d reforged them to be.

They were the driving force for his own revenge, the teeth gnashing at his heels and reminded him to run, run, run.

But not away from the danger. Oh no, not away.

Ron would throw himself to the wolves he’d once hunted with and reemerge as the hunter carrying their pelts. He would make them wonder if they’d ever had teeth at all the next time he flashed them a smile. And he’d make sure that you— lovely, lonely, lost little lamb that you were in their world— would never have to bow down to their tyranny again.

Because Ron had a vendetta of his own to settle. But for now, he allowed himself to watch the snow fall and imagine you already safe by his side.

***

(Wow. So that’s the end everybody. I don’t know what else to say besides I really hope you enjoyed it and are at least somewhat satisfied with the way things ended up.

Back when I was writing the first chapters over a year ago, I asked for some feedback on who people thought the reader should end up with— Undertaker or Ron?

I got sort of mixed reviews, but honestly back then even I wasn’t quite sure how this all would end. I guess you could call this ending “ambiguous”, but I’m satisfied with not strictly choosing one side or the other.

I do have one last prologue chapter that I’m going to be releasing sometime in the future of how Undertaker and Reader met, but after that, I’d say this series is probably done. Though maybe I’ll release short little tidbits of additional scenes/ideas if I get the inspiration.

Anyway, I just wanted to give one last big thank you for reading this series! It’s been quite the roller coaster for me in many ways, as well as oddly therapeutic in others. I already have my next Undertaker x Reader project in order too, so don’t worry, I’ll be writing for him again very soon.

Thank you so much again <3 See you next time!)

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