Corruption (Yandere Various x Reader)

Yandere Undertaker x Reader /Prejudice

A/N: After 84 years, I'm back in track. I hope everything is well by you. Things are getting along on my side, of course with a few hiccups along the way. What can I say, that is life for you.

Now trigger warnings for those of you who need them (I seriously hope you don't): Mentions and descriptions of corpses, period-typical sexism.

Requested by @fallen__soldier 

It was all your fault. Frankly, who else is to blame for your own misfortune but you. That is fact; it is set in stone, undisputable like the sky is blue and the earth revolves around the sun. A bit of a shame, when everybody told you that you'd one day dig yourself a hole that you wouldn't be able to claw yourself out of. Now you pray to the Almighty that said ditch wouldn't become your grave. Ironic, considering your overenthusiastic host.

If you could only remember how you wound up in this mess, then you could learn from your mistakes. Sadly there are gaping holes in your mind, as if somebody mercilessly ripped the recollections out of your consciousness leaving behind ghastly tears and discarded like a frayed piece of film. Most distressing.

Still, what the blazes did you do to earn your own freak show?

Of course, it was because of your vices, because of your countless mistakes that bared you from the gates of heaven – you were too cocky, too nosey with fingers that grew light as you wore the most infuriatingly charming smile you could muster. Not passive, not so pure that it was holy, clean as the driven snow – perhaps your fate was god's divine retribution.

But did it really warrant this madness?

You didn't even know his actually name, just the silly moniker everybody called him. To you it was so weird to refer to your only human contact as Undertaker. The man was an enigma, betraying so much for it to be only obfuscating, a clouded glass cover that obscured the things beneath it.

Was he a man? Was he a human at all?

Intuition told you otherwise, through you'd never pander on the notion for very long, it made you queasy. Partially it was because you were shredding your own humanity, how couldn't you in your new environment?

The carriage jostled underneath you and you suppressed a hiss as you bumped against the cushioned interior. All you had around you was darkness, your festering, deprecating thoughts and the sweet smell of decay that permeated the coffin. Hopefully the wretched stench would be the last you'd have to deal with the dead and him in a long while.

Meanwhile, with your body squished in a claustrophobic space, barely able to really move a limb and thus only having your mind to entertain yourself, you took a plunge in the past.

Such sentiments you had for your captor, ones that were influenced by prejudices that had been ingrained with you before you had even heard of him. They had only been affirmed during your stay.

For long you already had a neat box to put people in that made their living from the dead. It was what you had learned after all, that every person has their place in the world – be it as somebody else's door mate or as a destined governor over life and death.

The Undertaker fitted so perfectly in the category you had assigned him to, that you'd never dream of being something else. He was a natural outsider, a pariah, shunned by the living as it was instinctive of them to detest death. Even your old, penniless mother had been wise enough to impart such wisdom to you:

"Those who spend too much time with the dead become dead themselves. In the end they are just walking and talking corpses", she had lectured you, you obediently at her knee besides the small fire that barely warmed the small hovel you grew up in.