Title: Ferryman
Author: Neko-chan
Fandom: Kuroshitsuji (mangaverse)
Rating: M
Pairing: Undertaker/Charles Grey
Summary: [Takes place after "November the Second" and the manga's Sherlock Holmes Arc] Charles Grey didn't want to admit to himself that he was intrigued. But he was. Thus, the only solution that he could think of was to go out and beard the lion in its own den. (Un?)Fortunately for him, things don't go according to plan.
Author's Note: I~ have decided that Undertaker/Charles Grey is my crack pairing for this fandom. It started out as a teasing comment to mhikaru, I decided to write it because she flailed in horror… and then I realized that I actually really liked it. I know that very few people will ever be reading the stories that feature this pairing, but I don't caaaare. These are for me (and mhikaru, who inspired this pairing in the first place *laughs*). However, if anyone wants to draw me fanart, I would love you for all of eternity—and yes, BFF, I'm looking at you~ ;D
Ferryman
The scent that greeted Charles Grey as the Queen's Butler stepped into the undertaker's shop was one that was warm, exotic—a scent that reminded the agent of some of the missions that Her Majesty had used him on in India and the Far East. It was sandalwood, and it was something that Charles didn't expect as he slipped into the building.
Everything within the front room was dim—dark and light with very little light, only the highlights provided by that little amount of light showing what lay within: coffins, so many of them, and the pale-haired man scowled in irritation at his own sudden sense of discomfort. It was irrelevant to feel such things, especially since he had come down to deal out death to many of those who had threatened the Queen and who the Watchdog couldn't deal with in a timely enough manner.
He was a soldier, an assassin: he was used to death.
…but perhaps not the result of what happened once it came time to bury the body.
Shoving away the feeling to deal with later, Charles kicked at a coffin. "I know you're in here!" he shouted, voice filled with disdain for the man that he had come across on that road not that long before. "Come out, you bastard!"
The answer from the mortician came in a low, soft chuckle—a sound that echoed eerily throughout the building's front room—and a coffin against the far wall quivered as a black-tipped hand idly pushed the coffin's lid open.
"You shouldn't be so rude to the proprietor of a shop," Undertaker said as a slow, eerily teasing smile slid its way across his mouth. The black-clad man was always smiling, true—but it wasn't often that this particular smile graced his lips. It was only recently that it had begun to appear more and more often, ever since the fire at Baron Kelvin's. Dangerous and enigmatic, it was enough to make Charles Grey shiver slightly in response. "After all, it's usually the proprietor that has what you want most."
The Queen's Butler fumed in reply to that observation, and he let his back molars grind together in agitation so that the other man wouldn't get the chance to see just how much he irritated Charles. Once he had found out who the mysterious stranger was that had kissed him, the butler had done an investigation of his own: Undertaker—an alias with actual name unknown—was a strange man, always asking for jokes before being willing to part with his information.
The Queen's Puppy oftentimes came to visit this man, which did hint at the fact that the mortician's information was reliable. And it was this man who had information that Charles needed, information that would finally allow him to catch Ciel Phantomhive at his own corrupt game.
"Yes, I know," Charles eventually managed to get out, taking a moment and a deep breath to get his typically short temper back under control. "You have information that I want. But I also know the price that you ask from your customers: a joke that will make you laugh."
There was silence in answer to that, and Undertaker watched the pale-haired man as he tapped idly at his mouth with one long fingernail. When he eventually spoke once more, however, the creak had left his voice and he straightened slightly enough to glance completely at the Queen's Butler despite the fact that most of his body remained in shadow—and Charles knew that the mask had dropped at least partially from those few reactions.
"Have you heard of Charon?" Undertaker asked, and the question was so out of place that Charles hadn't been expecting it. Instead of replying, he blinked and was obviously taken aback by the undertaker's inquiry. The gray-haired man's smile just deepened further. "Charon used to be the ferryman who carried the souls of the dead across the rivers Styx and Acheron to take them to Hades. And one was required to pay the ferryman's toll—otherwise, that soul was left to wander the rivers' banks for a century."
Charles Grey was most assuredly intelligent, and he knew that this was going in a direction that he most likely wouldn't like. Still, though, he knew that the question had to be asked despite the sinking feeling that settled in the bottom of his stomach. "Your usual ferryman's toll is a joke. But since you told that stupid story, obviously the price has changed."
Undertaker laughed at that. "Just for you."
Irritated by the fact that he knew he was being bated, Charles shifted from foot to foot before giving up and finally asked the question that he knew that the other man was waiting for: "What price do I have to pay then?"
The shadows began to stretch then, and despite the fact that he was a brave man, Charles' breath hitched at the sight. Darkness settled upon the shop, and he could only watch as a mouse watched a snake ease its way closer, mesmerized by the predator's movements but knowing that what was to come wouldn't be at all in its own favor, and Undertaker moved through that darkness as if he was one with the element.
"Your toll to this Charon is another kiss," came the eerie, chuckling reply. Charles shivered slightly at that, reaching down so that he might rest the palm of his hand against the hilt of his sword. He knew better than to draw it—Undertaker had proven himself surprisingly fast and the Queen's Butler didn't want to chance the risk that the mortician might somehow take his sword completely away from him in some way or another.
Charles Grey, after all, had learned not to underestimate this particular man.
"A kiss? You want a kiss from me?" the butler asked, tone dubious.
"Mmm," Undertaker hummed in agreement as he stopped before the pale-haired man; Charles looked the other up and down, brows just a little bit furrowed as he considered and weighed his two options: to give in and pay the toll, or to not pay the toll and walk away without the information that Her Majesty had requested he fetch. With those two being the only options that presented themselves to Charles…
The choice was clear.
His fingers dug into Undertaker's long hair, using that weakness to his own advantage as he dragged the mortician closer. Head tilting up, he roughly bit the other man's bottom lip before pressing his mouth to Undertaker's in a bruising kiss. He punished the mortician for the price that he had asked, wanting to make sure that the black-clad man would get no pleasure from this kiss.
Once again, Charles Grey underestimated the man he was dealing with.
Undertaker laughed into the kiss, catching Charles' hands in a movement that was as fast as a cobra's strike; he pinned the butler's hands above his head with one hand, slamming the shorter man up against the wall. The kiss that he returned in kind was just as brutal, as rough—perhaps just as hungry and as possessive as Charles' own—and the Queen's Butler gave a quiet snarl in reply as he parted his lips.
This was a type of passion that he didn't mind indulging in, came the hazy, desire-edged thought as Undertaker's long, black nails dug into his wrists, the other man's fingers as strong as any restraints that had caught Charles Grey before.
The kiss deepened, became even more rough with the twining of tongues and the scraping of teeth against one another's mouths—drawing blood in some cases, bruising skin in smug self-satisfaction in other areas. There was nothing gentle about this kind of passion, and the man that began to work at the front of Charles' pants with his free hand knew this: there was nothing kind about Charles Grey, which suited Undertaker just fine. There would be give and take, and the mortician would have what he wanted with no particular attachments in the end.
Charles hissed in pleasure as Undertaker wrapped his fingers around his cock, the gray-haired man's grip squeezing teasingly at the base of the butler's erection. He bucked, silently—certainly arrogantly—demanding that the taller man begin to stroke, and it was with bemusement that Undertaker denied him that.
"What was it that you came to ask me?" the undertaker murmured in inquiry, eyes sharp and gleaming beneath his bangs as his thumb rubbed idly at the head of Charles' cock. The other man's breath stuttered out for a moment before he began to tug at his captured hands, wanting to free himself if the only thing that Undertaker intended to do was taunt.
"You buried Sebastian Michaelis," Charles snarled as he glared up at the hidden, essentially masked, man. "There was a report at the graveyard that something unusual happened—that Michaelis came back to life. Is this true?"
"No," Undertaker said with a quiet chuckle, now starting to stroke with fingers caressing the thick vein along the underside of Charles' cock. The man moaned huskily, eyes falling shut as he dipped his head to press his lips against the bend of the gray-haired man's throat, Charles' teeth nipping at Undertaker's pulse point before biting down to bruise the skin beneath his mouth.
And, in a way, Undertaker was telling the truth about the question that Charles had asked (before he then became much too distracted, of course): Sebastian Michaelis was never alive in the first place, so how could he have come back to life? Demons transcended the balance and stepped slightly to the side of the line that divided Life from Death.
But Charles Grey didn't have to know that.
(Because, of course, what the Queen's Butler didn't know couldn't hurt him~)
Undertaker's smile was sly and mischief-ridden as he eased down to his knees before the Queen's Butler, lips parting to show that—at times—the ferryman would make paying the toll worthwhile. The only sounds that Charles then made—no more questions, of course—were soft snarls of pleasure, moans when Undertaker explored the length of his cock with his tongue, his cry of release when he found his orgasm.
After that, however, came acerbic commentary when they fucked and Undertaker hadn't yet found his prostate, with Charles bent over Undertaker's low table as he snapped at the other from over his shoulder—and, when the taller man did finally manage to do so, the commentary disintegrated into incoherent, greedy cries that egged Undertaker on until they were both exhausted and sated, sprawled halfway over one of the mortician's coffins.
Perhaps, Charles thought as he greedily bit down on the curve of Undertaker's shoulder to mark the man before allowing the typically black-clad (but now nude) man to stand up to retrieve the bone-shaped biscuits for a snack, it was worthwhile to pay the ferryman's toll.
…and perhaps he would return again.
Perhaps.
End.