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colombina-s-arle · 1 month ago

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Wow🥹❤️‍🩹

I WANNA DRINK YOUR WORDS LIKE WINE ──

pairing: asriel x reader (pet)

cw: mentions of blood, direct mentions of sex, themes of obsession, mentions of death.

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

You hadn’t meant to watch—stalk, some might say.

Though, was it really stalking if you lived in the same house? And could you even call Asriel’s manor a house? The very word suggested warmth, comfort, the presence of something akin to belonging. This place was neither of those things. It was vast, sprawling in a way that made you feel like an insect lost in an endless maze, swallowed by corridors that led to nowhere, doors that opened to rooms you had never seen before and would likely never see again.

There were places in this world so large they became liminal, where the air itself seemed weighted with something that did not belong to the living. Asriel’s estate was like that—too silent, too grand, a shrine to something unspoken. The very walls seemed burdened by history, memories clawing at their gilded edges. It made you anxious, the sheer scale of it, how you could walk and walk and never reach an end. And yet, upon very rare occasions, as if fate itself had guided your steps, you would stumble across her.

His mother.

In the six months of your stay with Asriel, you had been greeted by only a handful of people. The isolation was deliberate, carefully constructed, as though the world outside the estate had ceased to exist the moment you set foot in its halls. But there were still others who drifted in and out of his orbit, satellites to his sun, and in watching them, you found small glimpses into his world.

First, there was his personal assistant. A woman who carried herself like a ghost unsure if she was truly seen. The brunette of her hair was always tied in a messy bun atop her head, strands perpetually slipping free, as if even her own body resisted containment. Her presence was a whisper, her voice softer than the rustling of paper, and her gaze never quite met your own. Had she been different—more confident, more alluring, more interesting—perhaps you would have resented her. But Asriel had no interest in her. She was a fixture, nothing more than an extension of his will, and in trade, you had no anger for her.

Then there was Vic, his right-hand man. If Asriel was ice, Vic was fire, warm in a way that burned rather than comforted. He was too teasing, too familiar, an irritant and yet—useful. You hadn’t liked him, not truly, but you had enjoyed his presence for one reason alone: he made Asriel react. And that was all you craved, wasn’t it? Him. His voice, his gaze, the slight shifts in his expression that others might miss but you had trained yourself to catch. Asriel was fascinating in a way that no one else could be. Everything about him demanded attention.

The chef and a few maids made up the bottom of the social hierarchy, their presence fleeting, insignificant. They were the ones you saw most often, interacted with the most, and yet, they barely registered in your mind. You watched them the way a bored child might gaze at the sky, tracing the shapes of clouds without truly seeing them. They were nothing more than background noise, furniture in a house too grand to ever feel like home.

But his mother. She was different.

You had seen her only a handful of times, always from a distance. A shadow in the halls, an echo of perfume fading before you could place the scent. She moved like a woman out of time, her presence lingering just long enough to remind you she existed, but never long enough to be touched. And yet, as you watched her now, she was utterly still.

Her gaze was fixed on the painting before her—a portrait. You knew it well. You had walked past it countless times, felt its weight press against you even when you tried not to look. You didn’t need to ask anyone to know the portrait was of Asriel’s father. And yet, every time you passed it, your eyes lingered. Longer than they should have.

You hadn’t cared for the man. That was ridiculous—you told yourself. You couldn’t feel anything for a man you had never met. And yet, there was something in his face, in the structure of his jaw, in the way his eyes had been painted with a depth that suggested knowing. Something that unsettled you. Something that kept your gaze lingering when it had no reason to stay.

Asriel and his father looked deathly similar.

The thought sat heavy in your mind, an anchor in the sea of your restless thoughts. The resemblance was uncanny, almost unsettling. You wondered if Asriel ever stood here, staring at the portrait as you did now. If he ever saw himself in the lines of his father’s face. If he ever felt the weight of expectation press against him like a hand on his throat.

You didn’t realize you had been holding your breath until the woman moved.

Her footsteps echoed through the hallway, soft but certain. She didn’t look at you as she passed, didn’t acknowledge your presence in the slightest. And yet, as she walked away, you felt as though you had just witnessed something sacred. Something forbidden.

You let out a breath, slow and steady, and turned back to the painting.

The eyes of Asriel’s father stared back at you, unreadable.

And for a moment, you wondered if he, too, had once stood in this house feeling just as lost as you did now.

──

Spring had come and gone, slipping past like a whisper, unnoticed. Then summer followed, heavy and relentless, the air thick with heat that pressed against your skin, suffocating in its insistence. Fall was gentler, fleeting, a brief interlude before winter finally settled in.

You had never cared much for the turning of seasons. They had always been just another nuance of time passing, an inevitability, something that came and went without your notice.

That was, until Asriel.

It was under his care that you learned the cold suited you far more than the sweltering heat of summer. Winter was the only season in which he allowed you close.

It started simply, in small things. The way he let you linger near him, tolerated the way you sought his presence as though drawn by an unseen force. He would let you sit at his feet as he worked, his fingers idly running through your hair, a thoughtless gesture, but one that left you aching. Some nights, when the air was cold enough that even the walls of his grand estate could not keep the chill at bay, he would allow you in his bed—not for pleasure, not for anything so crude, but simply to be.

He was never a man of excess. Never indulgent, never careless. But in the winter, something softened in him, if only slightly.

And with time, when you had earned it, he gave you more.

The closest he could be to you, the only way he would allow himself to be.

There was no hunger in it. No frantic, breathless desperation.

Only something deeper.

It was in the way his hands traced your skin, slow and reverent, as though he were memorizing every inch of you, as though he feared the moment he let go, you might disappear. In the way he pressed against you, his warmth seeping into you, driving out the cold that had settled in your bones long before winter ever arrived.

There was a quiet sort of intensity in the way he held you—as if he was trying to make sense of you, as if he was trying to understand something neither of you could put into words.

For Asriel, it was control. It had always been control. Even now, even as he allowed himself this moment with you, he held himself with restraint so absolute it nearly broke you.

For you, it was something else entirely.

It was proof.

Proof that you were real, that you were here, that despite the vastness of the world and the emptiness you had carried for so long, there was something tangible in this.

You could feel it in the way his lips brushed against your throat, not in hunger, not in possession, but in something softer. In the way his fingers intertwined with yours, gripping so tightly, as though grounding himself as much as he was grounding you.

And when it was over, when silence fell over the room like a heavy snowfall, he did not turn away.

He did not pull back.

Instead, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing steady, grounding. A hand remained against your back, keeping you close as though reluctant to let the moment slip away entirely.

His grip tightened—just slightly. A silent acknowledgment. A quiet understanding.

The fire in the hearth crackled, casting flickering light across his features, illuminating the depth in his eyes, the weight he carried. He was unreadable, as he always was. And yet, here, in this moment, you felt him in a way words could never describe.

Not as a master.

Not as something untouchable, unreachable.

But as a man.

A man who allowed you closer than anyone else ever had.

And for now, in the stillness of winter’s night, it was enough.

──

Outside, the world had unraveled into a quiet kind of chaos.

Snow had fallen in relentless sheets throughout the night, layering upon itself in thick drifts, soft yet unyielding. It blanketed every surface, swallowed the earth beneath it, rendering the once-vast acres of Asriel’s estate into something uniform, untouched. It was as though nature had decided to wipe the slate clean, erasing the past with each flake, muffling the world into silence.

From where you sat, curled in the deep seat of the bayside window in Asriel’s study, it felt like watching the aftermath of something ancient. A cleansing. A rebirth.

You had claimed this spot months ago, a small corner of his world where you could sit and watch the estate stretch endlessly before you. The glass was cool beneath your fingers as you traced idle patterns against the condensation. The fire behind you crackled softly, a steady warmth against your back, licking at the air in gentle protest against the cold pressing in from outside.

The study smelled like cedarwood and aged paper, like something old, something that had seen lifetimes before you ever arrived. It was Asriel’s scent, too—subtle, refined, something that had settled into the very foundation of this place, seeping into the leather of his chair, the parchment of his documents. You inhaled it absentmindedly, as if it might somehow pull him closer.

But he was distant.

Even now, sitting at his desk, pouring over something in front of him, he felt far away.

He had been on the phone for a while. You hadn’t cared enough to listen closely, not at first, letting the low hum of his voice become background noise as you lost yourself in the snowfall. But certain words had pried their way into your consciousness.

Someone had died.

Calem. You believed that was his name.

It should not have mattered.

People died every day. Death was the only true constant in this world—indifferent, unrelenting, a hand that took without mercy and without hesitation. Everyone faded, in the end. Even those who thought themselves untouchable.

And yet, something in Asriel’s tone had shifted, just enough for you to notice. A fraction of a degree. A subtle weight pressing against the usual evenness of his voice.

You turned your gaze to him now.

He was still seated at his desk, fingers pressed lightly against the bridge of his nose, his other hand resting on a stack of papers, a signature half-written.

Then, as if he could feel your eyes on him, he lifted his head.

Your gazes met, and for a moment, nothing else existed.

His expression remained unreadable—neutral in the way only Asriel could manage, composed to the point of near perfection. But something flickered beneath the surface. Not grief, not exactly. Something else. A consideration, perhaps.

A pause in a mind that rarely ever paused.

Then, without warning, the corner of his mouth curved into the faintest smirk.

It was almost cruel, how effortlessly he could shift, how he could be on the phone speaking about death one moment and then look at you like that—as if the world hadn’t just taken something from him, as if he hadn’t just buried whatever reaction he might have had beneath layers of indifference.

And truthfully, it flustered you.

You shifted slightly where you sat, pressing your palms against the windowsill to ground yourself. The warmth of the fire suddenly felt too much against your back, an intrusive heat reminding you of how much you wanted to be closer to him, how much you craved something he only gave in fragments.

So you broke the silence.

“Can I ask you something?”

Your voice was quiet, but it cut through the space between you both like the edge of a blade.

He watched you, tilting his head slightly, as if weighing whether he should allow this.

“I can’t promise an answer.”

Of course. That was always the way of it.

You hesitated, then turned your gaze back toward the snow outside, watching the wind stir the drifts into phantom shapes that disappeared as quickly as they formed.

“What does it feel like?” you asked.

There was no need to clarify. You knew he would understand.

There was a long pause.

Then, slowly, Asriel leaned back in his chair, fingers interlacing as he regarded you with something almost akin to curiosity.

“You assume I feel anything at all,” he said at last, voice even, unaffected.

A well-rehearsed answer.

A practiced deflection.

You huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh, wasn’t quite anything at all.

“Liar.”

His lips twitched, but he did not refute you.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, eyes drifting to the fire, watching the way the embers shifted, glowing bright before settling back into their steady burn.

After what felt like a lifetime, he spoke.

“It’s like waiting for the cold to reach you,” he murmured. “You know it’s coming. You feel the air shifting, the warmth fading, and yet, when it finally touches you—*”

He paused.

”—it still surprises you.”

You watched him, heart pressing against your ribs in a way that felt too much like mourning.

You didn’t know who he was speaking of anymore.

Calem? His father? Someone else?

Or was it himself?

The thought lodged itself in your throat, sharp, painful, something you didn’t dare voice.

Instead, you asked, “And when it does?”

His gaze slid back to you, slow, deliberate.

“It takes everything,” he said simply.

The words settled between you, heavy, final.

And yet, despite that finality, you could feel the ache in them. The quiet admission buried beneath the carefully measured syllables.

He had lost things. Many things. Too many things.

And no matter how much power he wielded, no matter how tightly he held onto control, he would continue to lose.

Because that was the nature of all things, wasn’t it?

Nothing lasted.

Not the warmth of a fire. Not the feeling of skin against skin. Not even the illusion of invincibility.

One day, even Asriel would fade.

And perhaps, that was the cruelest truth of all.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The fire crackled behind you.

The snow continued to fall.

And between the two of you, in the space where words had always failed, something unspoken remained.

──

It was one of those nights again.

The kind where the world outside felt too much, where the air was too thick in your lungs, where the ache inside you had nowhere else to go but him.

Winter had surrendered to spring, its cruelty buried beneath the soil, softened by the gentle insistence of life pushing its way back into the world. The scent of blossoms clung to the edges of the estate, creeping in through the open balcony doors, carried on a breeze that was neither too warm nor too cold.

Mother Nature had moved on.

But you hadn’t.

The weight of the afternoon still clung to you, a wound that had not yet begun to heal.

Lilian’s party had stirred something raw inside you, something you had spent too long trying to ignore.

No, not the party.

Her.

It wasn’t hatred. You knew hatred well—it was sharp, consuming, a thing that burned hot and fast. But this was something else. Something slow and insidious.

Jealousy had no place in you—not when you had never allowed anyone to take what you wanted. Not when you could rip anything from this world as easily as drawing breath.

But there was one thing you could never take.

Asriel’s trust.

Maybe even something deeper than that.

That was the one thing that was beyond you, the one thing that could not be stolen, could not be forced. It had to be given.

And to her, he had given it freely.

His voice had been warm when he spoke to her—his usual cold restraint softened, his words lighter, effortless. It was unbearable to witness, that ease, that simplicity, when everything between you had been a battle, a war waged in glances and distance and the desperate pull toward something you could never seem to hold onto.

He had assured you, hadn’t he?

He had told you he liked you.

But like had never been enough.

It had never even come close.

And so now, when the weight of it became too much, when the emptiness threatened to devour you whole, you sought the only thing he could give you.

His body.

The feeling of him inside you, the slow, aching push of him filling the space that nothing else could. The way his hands gripped your hips, held you there, as if to remind himself you were real.

It was desperate without being frantic, intense without being rushed. Every movement was slow, deliberate, as if he was memorizing you.

As if this was the only way he knew how to give himself to you.

And for a while, it was enough.

For a while, the ache in your chest quieted, dulled beneath the press of his body against yours, beneath the warmth of him, beneath the way he let you take him in fully, completely.

But even as the pleasure crested and ebbed, even as your breath steadied and the room settled into silence, the ache remained.

Because you knew that soon—too soon—he would pull away.

He always did.

So before he could, before the inevitable distance returned, you reached for him.

Your claws pressed into his skin, too sharp, too deep, your grip tightening in a silent plea. You felt the slight hitch in his breath, the way his body tensed beneath your grasp. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, instead of retreating, he exhaled.

Slowly.

As if surrendering to this. To you.

You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, lips brushing over his pulse, feeling the steady rhythm beneath your mouth—warm, alive, utterly human.

And suddenly, that hunger returned.

Not for his body.

For more.

“Please,” you whispered against his skin, voice quiet, reverent.

He did not answer. But his hand curled against the back of your neck, fingers pressing into your skin in a way that said, Go on.

Your lips parted. Your fangs scraped against the tender flesh of his throat, a ghost of a threat, a silent question.

And still, he did not stop you.

So you bit.

The moment your fangs broke skin, his breath shuddered against you, his entire body going still beneath you. A sound—soft, barely there—escaped his lips, more exhale than voice, more reaction than control.

His blood spilled warm into your mouth, rich, intoxicating, sinking into your veins like fire.

It was him.

In his purest form.

You drank slowly, savoring every drop, every heartbeat that sent more of him into you. Your hand slid into his hair, gripping slightly, not to restrain him—he never fought you—but to keep him there.

With you.

His fingers twitched where they held you, his breathing uneven, the tension in his body not one of fear but something deeper, something darker.

This was the closest you would ever truly have him.

The closest he would ever allow you to be.

When you finally pulled back, your lips were stained dark, your breath shallow. His pulse still beat strong beneath your mouth, still steady, still his.

And you could not stop yourself.

“Do you love me?”

It came out as a whisper, but it might as well have been a scream.

His body stiffened.

For the first time, he hesitated.

The silence stretched long between you, thick and heavy.

Then, before you could break, before you could pull away, his hand found your face, tilting it up, forcing you to look at him.

His thumb brushed over your lips, smearing the last trace of his blood, his expression unreadable.

And then, slowly—so softly it hurt—he kissed you.

It was not rough.

Not demanding.

But lingering.

As if memorizing the taste of himself on your tongue.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven.

“Don’t ask me that.”

His voice was quiet.

Not a refusal.

Not a rejection.

But something far worse.

Something that sounded like an admission.

Something that felt like surrender.

And yet, he stayed.

His hand remained in your hair, his lips barely a breath away, his body still pressed against yours.

The world outside continued its dance.

The seasons would keep turning.

And maybe, just maybe, Asriel would stay just a little longer.

──

author's note: i accidentally deleted the ask but yes i will be continuing the vic x banshee series!

ps: im so sorry about how bad this came out, im currently working on another asriel fic as well, i didn't have much inspiration for this one :c

psps: thank you payton talbott

tag list:

@ysawdalawa @rain-soaked-sun @tanksbigtiddiedgf @sdfivhnjrjmcdsn @lil-binuu @colombina-s-arle @xxminxrq @souvlia @meraki-kiera

#zsakuva #sakuverse #pet #asriel cain #so good girly!!!

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