#asriel cain

[yoursinisforgiven]

DIVINE ──

pairing: vic x reader (non–listener)

cw: reader is partially mute, reader is a mythic (banshee) both reader and vic are fluent in sign language, asriel and pet appearance, mentions of death, mentions of drugs.

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

The taunting creak of the gate signaled three possibilities, the same three every time, never deviating, never faltering. It was a cruel reminder of your reality, each groan of the rusted hinges enough to send a chill down your spine. 

One, the trader had come to feed you all. Unlikely. He rarely remembered his responsibilities, and when he did, it wasn’t out of compassion. The scraps were barely enough to keep you alive, a deliberate strategy to keep you weak but functional. Your stomach already churned with the meager offering from earlier. This option was off the table.  

Two, the trader had come to take someone away. Where to? No one knew for certain. The ones taken never returned, their absence hanging in the air like a ghostly warning. Whispers among the older captives hinted at something darker—an auction, a laboratory, or a collector’s gallery. Though some of the older mythics would have talks of different possibilities, each left a bitter taste in your mouth. 

Three, someone was to be sold. This was the most common, the most predictable. You had learned to read the buyers, to study them as they studied you. The fabric of their clothes, the set of their jaw, the gleam—or lack thereof—in their eyes. The way their gaze lingered on certain captives, their expression hardening with calculation or softening with feigned pity. 

Today was no different.

The gate groaned fully open, revealing the trader, his hulking frame silhouetted against the dull, gray sky. Behind him, a lone figure stepped forward—a man clad in elegant finery, his polished boots clicking against the uneven ground. His dark coat swept around his legs like a shadow, the gold embroidery glinting faintly in the dim light. Everything about him seemed wrong here, like oil on water—too smooth, too calculated.

You watched as he strolled down the row of cages, pausing at each one to inspect the tattered summaries pinned to the bars. Those small, crumpled pieces of paper were meant to say everything about you. Breed. Age. Price. It was a crude attempt at efficiency, but it felt like a mockery. Could you even call it dehumanizing when you weren’t human? Still, you weren’t an animal either—at least, not yet.

The man’s pace slowed as he reached Nahla’s cage—your cage-neighbor. She was a werewolf, strong and silent, her amber eyes dulled by years of captivity. She’d once told you she’d been here as far back as she could remember. This place wasn’t a second home; it was her only home. She sat in the corner now, her knees drawn to her chest, her gaze steady as the man lingered on her summary. He tilted his head slightly, his gloved hand brushing the paper before he moved on, his boots crunching against the dirt.

And then he stopped in front of your cage.

For a moment, he didn’t even glance at the summary. Instead, his gaze fell directly on you.

Dark eyes scrutinized you with a kind of intensity you hadn’t seen before. Was he studying you? Judging you? The silence stretched thin, and you fought the instinct to shrink away under his stare. His eyes roamed over you deliberately, taking in every detail—the sharpness of your features, the tension in your shoulders, the set of your jaw.

You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.

Finally, his lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Stand up,” he said, his voice low and smooth, with an edge of command.

You hesitated, the weight of the command sinking into your chest. What would happen if you obeyed? What would happen if you didn’t?

“Now,” he added, sharper this time.

You rose slowly, your legs stiff from hours—maybe days—of stillness. The chains around your ankle rattled as you straightened to your full height. The man stepped closer, close enough that you could see the details of his face: the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar cutting through his left brow, and the calculating glint in his eyes.

His gaze shifted downward, settling on the ball gag strapped tightly around your mouth. His brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his otherwise composed face. Your hands were unbound—free to remove it—so why hadn’t you? The question was painted clearly in his eyes, unspoken but heavy. You knew what he was asking, though you weren’t sure how to answer. There wasn’t a simple explanation, not one that could satisfy curiosity as sharp as his.

Before the silence could stretch too far, Nahla spoke, her voice steady but edged with caution. “A banshee,” she said, drawing his attention briefly. Her amber eyes flicked between you and the man, her tone laced with a quiet warning. “If they scream, it’ll kill us all—and anyone else unlucky enough to hear it.”

The man’s gaze darted back to you, his expression unreadable. You shifted uncomfortably under his scrutiny, the weight of his curiosity pressing down like a physical force.

Nahla continued, her voice softening slightly. “Do you know sign?”

The man’s head tilted, intrigued by the question. “I do,” he replied, his voice calm and measured, though a hint of suspicion lingered. He turned back to you, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “Is that how you communicate?”

You nodded slowly, the motion restrained, as if too much movement might shatter the fragile equilibrium of the moment.

“Good,” he said, stepping closer. His movements were deliberate, his boots crunching softly against the dirt floor. “Then speak.”

The chains on your wrists clinked softly as you raised your hands, forming signs with practiced precision. "Not by choice."

His brows furrowed deeper, his jaw tightening slightly. He studied your hands, processing the meaning behind your response. “You keep it on voluntarily, so it isn’t just some sick kink?” he clarified, his tone almost accusatory, though his expression betrayed a flicker of something else—just curiosity, perhaps.

"To protect." Your hands moved swiftly, the gestures sharp and deliberate. "Not just them—myself."

That seemed to catch him off guard. His head tilted slightly, as if he hadn’t expected you to admit as much. “From what?”

You hesitated, your fingers hovering mid-air. The words wouldn’t come, not in the way he wanted. The truth was tangled, messy, and far too dangerous to hand over to a stranger. Instead, you signed something simpler: "Mistakes."

He narrowed his eyes, as though trying to decipher what lay beneath that vague response. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, until Nahla broke it again.

“They’re not lying,” Nahla interjected quietly. “They’ve kept us safe. I’ve seen what happens without it.”

The man didn’t look at Nahla this time. His focus remained fixed on you, his gaze unyielding. “And what happens if I take it off?”

Your fingers twitched, but you didn’t respond immediately. The air seemed to grow colder as the question lingered, the implications hanging heavy between you. Finally, you raised your hands once more. "You risk everything."

For a moment, the man simply stared, his expression unreadable. Then, without breaking eye contact, he stepped back. “Leave it,” he said to the trader, his voice clipped. “I’ll take them as they are.”

The trader nodded briskly, his relief palpable. You barely had time to process the exchange before the clang of keys echoed in the air, and the sound of your cage unlocking sent a spike of dread through you.

It all happened too fast.

The trader stepped inside, a syringe clutched tightly in his thick hand. Its barrel glinted faintly in the dim light, and the sight of the viscous liquid inside made your stomach churn. Instinct took over, and you froze, your body stiffening like prey caught in the predator’s sights.

“Stay still,” the trader growled, his voice rough and impatient.

But as soon as his hand clamped around your arm, something inside you snapped. You thrashed violently, your movements erratic and desperate. The chains on your ankle rattled as you tried to pull away, your breaths coming in rapid, panicked bursts. Tears blurred your vision, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop.

“Hold them down,” the buyer ordered sharply, his tone cutting through the chaos like a blade.

The trader grunted as he tightened his grip, his strength overpowering yours. You fought harder, your nails scraping against his arm, but it was futile. The needle pierced your skin, and a cold rush spread through your veins.

The effect was almost immediate.

Your body weakened, your limbs growing heavy and unresponsive. You collapsed to the ground in a graceless heap, the world tilting and spinning around you. Panic clawed at your chest as your vision began to fade, the edges darkening until all that remained was a blurry void.

You could still hear them, though their voices sounded distant, as if coming from underwater.

“By any chance,” the buyer’s voice cut through the haze, calm yet pointed, “have you sold a vampire recently?”

The trader hesitated. You could hear the faint shuffle of his boots against the dirt as he shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not allowed to disclose that,” he finally muttered, his tone defensive.

“Not allowed,” the buyer repeated, his voice dipping dangerously low. You could barely make out his words now, your hearing fading just as your sight had. “Or unwilling?”

There was a pause, heavy and pregnant with tension.

“I don’t ask questions,” the trader replied stiffly. “I sell what’s brought to me. That’s the agreement.”

The buyer’s response was a murmur, too low for you to decipher. Your body felt like it was sinking, the weight of exhaustion pulling you down into an endless abyss.

The last thing you registered was the sound of footsteps approaching, steady and deliberate, followed by the faint swish of a coat. Then, everything went silent.

──

When you awoke again, the world around you had changed. Gone was the dim carriage with its swaying motion and muted lantern light. Instead, warmth enveloped you, the soft crackle of a fire whispering in your ears.

Your head felt heavy as you blinked into focus, the flickering glow of a grand fireplace drawing your eyes. The room was spacious yet intimate, its high ceilings framed by dark wood beams. Ornate furniture filled the space, rich fabrics and polished wood gleaming in the firelight. The air carried a faint hint of cedar and something darker, like aged wine.

You were lying on a plush sofa, the cushions soft beneath your body. Your arms were free, though the weight of the ball gag still pressed against your jaw. Slowly, you pushed yourself upright, your muscles protesting the movement.

You let your body fall back against the plush cushions, curling up on your side. The warmth of the fire seeped into your skin, lulling you into a fragile sense of comfort. The events leading up to this moment felt unreal, like fragments of a half-remembered nightmare.

Had you imagined this? Was this some cruel glimpse of peace before death claimed you again? Your chest ached as memories of your last death flickered through your mind—a chaotic storm of fear and pain. But here, there was calm. Here, there was warmth.

Until the footsteps came.

Two sets, deliberate and steady, approached from behind the couch. You froze, your body going rigid. Instinct screamed at you to run, to fight, to scream—but the gag strapped tightly around your mouth reminded you why that last option was impossible.

You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing every muscle in your body to remain still. Maybe they’d think you were unconscious, too far gone to be worth their attention.

The air shifted as someone moved closer, their presence looming over you like a shadow. Then, a hand fell on your thigh.

The touch was light, almost teasing, but it sent a jolt through you. You fought the urge to flinch, your breath hitching in your throat. The hand didn’t move at first, simply resting there, its warmth sinking through the fabric of your clothes.

The faint smell of cigarettes drifted to your nose, mingling with the smoky aroma of the fireplace. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was sharp enough to set your nerves alight.

“I know you’re awake,” a smooth, drawling voice said.

The voice was unfamiliar, rich with amusement and something darker you couldn’t place.

“The skin on your eyelids gives you away,” he continued, his tone light, almost playful. “Twitching. Terrible acting, really darling.”

Your heart pounded against your ribs. Still, you didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge him.

The hand on your thigh began to move, trailing in slow, deliberate strokes. It wasn’t harsh or violent, but the intimacy of it was unsettling. You clenched your fists at your sides, willing yourself to stay still.

For a moment, the touch paused, lingering just long enough to make you question what he’d do next. Then, without warning, a sharp, searing pain exploded across your cheek.

You jolted upright with a muffled gasp, your hand flying to your face. The burn throbbed angrily, the acrid scent of scorched flesh filling your nostrils.

The man standing over you smirked, a burnt-out cigarette still pinched between his fingers. His dark eyes sparkled with cruel amusement as he flicked the butt into the fire.

“There you are,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “Much better.”

You glared at him, your breathing ragged as you tried to process what had just happened.

He tilted his head, his expression maddeningly calm. “What’s the matter?” he asked, feigning innocence. “I was starting to think you might actually be dead.”

You raised your hands, your fingers moving swiftly in sharp, angry motions. What’s wrong with you?

The man’s brow lifted, his smirk widening. “Sign language. Interesting,” he mused, leaning back slightly as though to give you space—but you could tell he was studying you, dissecting your every move.

Why? you signed, your movements sharp, accusing.

“Why not?” he countered, his voice light, as if this were all just a game to him. He leaned against the arm of the chair, trailing his fingers lazily along the edge. “You’re far more entertaining awake. And besides…” He gestured vaguely toward your gagged mouth. “I needed to see how well you’d behave without screaming.”

You flinched at the mention of your scream, your hands instinctively moving to sign again, but he cut you off with a raised hand.

“No need to explain,” he said, his tone dripping with mock reassurance. “I’ve already pieced it together. You’re a banshee, aren’t you? One scream, and everyone in this room would drop dead on the spot.”

He leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “Terrifying, really. I like it.”

The man before you took a slow puff from his blunt, the tendrils of smoke curling lazily into the air. The sharp tang of it tickled your nose, but confusion clouded your thoughts. You had been so certain you’d smelled cigarettes earlier. Was this another trick of your senses? Whatever drug the trader had pumped into your veins seemed to toy with your perception, leaving you questioning what was real and what wasn’t.

Your gaze darted toward the doorway as a presence lingered there. A man stood framed in the warm light of the fire, his blond hair catching the glow. He had a casual air about him, though his piercing eyes suggested he missed nothing.

You tilted your head slightly, an unfamiliar buzz stirring in your mind. There was something about him—something just on the edge of recognition. But your thoughts felt sluggish, fragmented.

“Well?” the man in the armchair drawled, his voice cutting through the haze.

The blond man’s attention shifted from you to the speaker, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “They’re far different from my own pet,” he replied, his tone even yet laced with intrigue.

Pet?

Your hands twitched, an instinctive desire to sign a protest bubbling within you, but you hesitated. The way they spoke about you—casually, as if you weren’t a person but an object to be observed—set your nerves on edge.

The man with the blunt exhaled another plume of smoke, the tendrils coiling like serpents as he leaned back in his chair. “Different can be good,” he said, his voice low, as if sharing a private joke. His dark eyes flicked back to you, studying you with the same unnerving intensity as before.

The blond man stepped further into the room, his shoes clicking softly against the polished floor. He moved with an effortless grace, his presence commanding without being overtly aggressive. His gaze returned to you, sharp and appraising.

“How compliant are they?” he asked, addressing the man in the chair but keeping his eyes on you.

The man with the blunt chuckled softly. “Very, at least for now” he admitted, the corners of his mouth curving upward.

The blond man hummed thoughtfully, his head tilting as he considered you. “Banshee,” he murmured, almost to himself. “No wonder they’re gagged.”

A flicker of heat rose in your chest—embarrassment? Anger? Both? You shifted slightly on the couch, your bound voice screaming louder in your mind than any sound you could make.

The man in the chair noticed, his smile sharpening. “Ah, see that?” he said, gesturing toward you with the blunt still balanced between his fingers. “A fighter. I told you, didn’t I? Far more interesting awake.”

The blond man didn’t respond immediately, his gaze lingering on you. Finally, he spoke, his tone quieter but no less commanding. “And what’s your plan for them?”

The man with the blunt shrugged, a lazy, almost careless motion. “Haven’t decided yet,” he said. “They’re a work in progress. A puzzle I’ve yet to solve.”

You clenched your fists in your lap, your nails biting into your palms. Every word they exchanged felt like another layer of chains tightening around you.

The blond man took another step closer, his sharp eyes meeting yours directly. “Do you understand us?” he asked, his voice level.

You hesitated, unsure if answering would help or worsen your situation. Slowly, you nodded, the movement small but deliberate.

The man in the armchair exhaled a slow stream of smoke, the ember on his blunt glowing faintly in the dim light. He tilted it upward in a casual gesture, his dark eyes fixed on the blond man. “And how will they react?” he asked, his tone light but undercut with a sense of anticipation.

The blond man didn’t respond immediately, his expression unreadable as he calculated his answer. His sharp gaze flicked toward you for a moment, as if measuring your reaction even now. Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but deliberate.

“It’s likely they can already sense them,” he said finally, his voice measured and calm. “As for how they’ll get along...” He trailed off, letting the words hang in the air like the smoke curling from the other man’s blunt.

The implication made your skin crawl, Your instincts prickled, a low hum of awareness buzzing through your body. Whoever—or whatever—they were referring to, it wasn’t good.

The man in the armchair smirked, clearly enjoying the suspense. “Interesting,” he murmured, leaning back and tapping the edge of the ashtray with his blunt. The ash crumbled away, falling like gray snow against the polished wood of the table. “Do you think they’ll fight?”

The blonde man’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of amusement crossing his otherwise stoic expression. “Perhaps, that depends entirely on them.” he said, his voice almost a drawl. 

You frowned, your hands itching to sign something—anything—but the weight of the situation kept you still. Sense who? Or what? The vagueness of their conversation only deepened your unease, each word feeling like a thread in a larger, tangled web.

The man in the armchair tilted his head, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Interesting,” he murmured, taking another drag from the blunt. “I do love a bit of unpredictability.”

The blond man didn’t reply, but his gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, as though he were trying to read something hidden beneath your surface. Then, with a faint nod, he turned and began to walk toward the doorway, his shoes clicking softly against the floor.

Before he disappeared entirely, he paused, half-turning to glance back at the man in the armchair. “I’d keep a close eye on them,” he said, his voice low but firm. “They’re more perceptive than you think.”

With that, he vanished into the shadows beyond the room, leaving you alone with the man in the armchair.

For a moment, there was silence save for the crackling of the fire. The man leaned back, trailing his fingers lazily along the armrest. His gaze remained fixed on you, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“Well,” he said at last, exhaling a plume of smoke. “I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?”

You shifted uncomfortably, your body tense as you tried to decipher his intentions. He seemed in no hurry to explain himself, content to let the silence stretch.

Finally, he sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Tell me,” he began, his voice smooth and deliberate. “What does it feel like, knowing your voice could kill everyone in this room?”

The question caught you off guard, and your fingers twitch involuntarily. You didn’t answer, unsure if he even expected one.

“Take off the gag.”

At first, you thought you heard him incorrectly, but his gaze never wavered. The pressure of his words settled over you, thick and suffocating, like an invisible hand pressing against your chest. The fire crackled in the background, but all you could hear was the low hum of tension building in the room.

You sign quickly, a sharp motion of your fingers, “What?” The question hangs in the air, your confusion palpable, but you can feel his eyes boring into you, studying your every move, waiting for you to comply.

“You heard me,” he replies, his tone smooth and controlled, like silk slipping over stone. “I want to have a conversation with you. You can speak without screaming, can’t you?”

You hesitate, your mind racing. Was he testing you? Was this a game—or something more dangerous? Your fingers itch to sign again, to ask for clarification, but something in the way he watches you, the way his posture shifts just slightly, keeps you still.

“It’s dangerous,” you sign, your hands moving with purpose, a warning, a plea. The gag had been your protection, your barrier between the chaos and the world, the only thing that kept your power in check. To remove it felt like stepping into a trap with no way out.

He chuckles softly, the sound low and amused, but there’s a bite to it, like the edge of a blade just waiting to cut. “All part of the fun,” he murmurs, his eyes gleaming with something dark, something unpredictable. “Take it off, or I’ll do it myself. You’re not all that strong, are you?”

His voice lingers in the air, the challenge clear, the threat unmistakable. Every word drips with authority, with a quiet confidence that suggests he’s not someone accustomed to being denied. The tension in the room thickens, wrapping around you like a vise, tightening with every passing second.

You can feel your pulse quicken, your breath shallow as you weigh your options. The gag is the only thing stopping you from unleashing the full force of your voice, and yet, you know he’s right. There’s no way out, no way to avoid this. If you don’t remove it, he’ll make you. And if you scream… well, you don’t need to think too hard about the consequences.

But what if you could control it? What if, just once, you could hold back the power without the gag? Could you do it? Could you risk it?

The man in the chair leans forward slightly, his eyes narrowing with interest, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of his blunt, as though enjoying the tension more than anything else. He’s waiting for you to make the next move, testing you, like a cat toying with a mouse.

“Go on,” he urges softly, his voice a silk-threaded command. “Take it off. Let’s see how well you control yourself.”

You swallow hard, your throat dry, and for a moment, everything in you screams not to comply. The gag is your safety, your shield, and removing it would expose you to the danger you’ve always kept at bay. But then you think of the alternative: him taking it off himself, and the consequences that would follow.

With a resigned breath, you reach up, your fingers trembling slightly as they graze the edge of the gag. The leather feels foreign now, rough against your skin, as though it’s been a part of you for too long to simply discard. You pull at the straps with hesitant fingers, the room silent, the world holding its breath as you slowly, reluctantly, free yourself.

The gag falls away with a soft thud, the cool air rushing into your mouth—relief, but also something else. A string of saliva follows the motion, slick and uncomfortably noticeable, but you can’t focus on that. Not when his gaze is locked on you with such intensity. His eyes are fixed, and for a moment, it almost feels like he’s savoring the slow, deliberate way you exhale, as if the very act of removing the gag had unlocked something dangerous, something primal between the two of you.

His stare deepens, sharper now, and there’s something in it. It could be mistaken for lust, but it’s too cold, too calculating for that. It's something darker, more deliberate. The weight of his gaze presses against you like a physical force, making your skin prickle, your heart beat a little faster. It’s as if he’s undressing you with his eyes, peeling away every layer of control you’ve held onto, and you can’t help but feel exposed—vulnerable in a way you haven’t felt in a long time.

For the first time, you feel the full weight of your voice pressing against the back of your throat—raw, powerful, dangerous. It’s always been there, simmering beneath the surface, a constant hum, but now, with the gag gone, it feels as though it could tear free at any moment. A scream, a howl, something that could break the room apart. The thought of it sends a shiver down your spine, and your body tenses instinctively, ready to clamp down on the surge of energy inside you.

But his eyes don’t leave yours. His lips curl into a slow, mocking smile, like he’s seen something in you, something he’s been waiting for. The amusement in his expression deepens, but it’s not just amusement—it’s a dangerous sort of approval, as though he’s watching you dance on the edge of something he’s eager to see you fall into.

“Hel–lo.” Your voice comes out weak, barely more than a whisper, and for a moment, you freeze, shocked by the sound of it. It’s almost foreign to you, the way it feels in your throat, thick and raspy, as though it hasn’t been used in ages. The sound of your own voice feels like a betrayal, a raw, unfiltered thing that you've kept locked away, hidden behind the gag for so long. You blink, a wave of disbelief washing over you. Had you really spoken?

The man’s smile widens at the sound, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. He leans forward slightly, his posture shifting just enough to signal that he’s noticed—truly noticed—your voice for the first time. The air in the room thickens, charged with a new kind of energy as he watches you intently, studying you as though you’re a fragile thing that might break at any moment.

“What’s your name?” he asks, his voice casual but laced with something that makes your insides tighten, like a thread slowly being pulled taut.

You furrow your brows in confusion, instinctively opening your mouth to respond, but the words don’t come. It’s not that you can’t speak, but the sound feels foreign, as if it hasn’t passed your lips in years. Your throat is dry, tight, and the instinct to hold back is overwhelming. You hesitate, your fingers twitching by your side, before you finally give in and sign your name.

The man watches you closely, his gaze sharp and calculating. You can feel the weight of his attention on your hands as you move, watching every flick of your fingers as you form the letters. The air seems to hold its breath as you finish, waiting for his reaction.

He hums, a low, thoughtful sound, and then, without breaking eye contact, he repeats your name, slow and deliberate, as though savoring the way it feels on his tongue.

You watch him carefully, unsure of his reaction, but when his lips curl into a smile, a flicker of something unsettling stirs in your chest. It’s the kind of smile that feels like a game, one you haven’t been taught how to play.

“Say it,” he prompts, his voice almost coaxing now. “Mimic me.”

You blink, unsure of what he means at first, but then it clicks. He wants you to repeat your name out loud, to force the words to come out despite the hesitation in your throat. It’s a challenge, a test of your willingness, and a subtle way of asserting control over you.

You hesitate for a moment longer, your fingers still in the air from signing, before you open your mouth again. This time, you focus on the way the sound should feel, the way it should sound. It’s difficult, almost painful, but you push through, forcing the word out. The sound catches at first, rough and cracked, but it comes. Your name leaves your lips, tentative but real.

The man’s smile widens, and he leans back in his chair, the satisfaction in his eyes evident. He seems pleased, as though he has won some small victory. “Good job,” he says, his voice like velvet, smooth and dark. “You learn quickly.”

You feel a strange sense of accomplishment, mixed with unease. You’ve spoken your name, but now the air feels thicker, as though the words you’ve just uttered have bound you to something larger. His smile flickers again, this time with something more dangerous, more knowing.

You debate with yourself for a moment, your fingers twitching nervously at your sides, before you decide to speak again, your voice barely more than a whisper. “What i–ss yours?” The words feel clumsy, rough on your tongue, and as soon as they leave your mouth, you cringe inwardly, hating the brokenness of it. You can feel the weight of every mispronounced syllable, the way your voice seems to scrape against the air, jagged and raw.

But to your surprise, the man laughs—low and amused, a sound that vibrates through the room like a caress. His laughter isn’t mocking, not entirely; it’s more��� intrigued. He doesn’t seem offended by your broken English, but rather entertained, as if your struggle somehow amuses him. It’s a strange kind of validation, one that unsettles you even as it fuels something deep within.

For a moment, his gaze softens—just a fraction—but there’s still that unmistakable hunger behind it. He studies you, his eyes trailing over your face, and something about the way he looks at you makes you feel like a puzzle he’s just beginning to unravel. His amusement doesn’t fade, but it shifts, becomes more intimate. He’s savoring the discomfort, the uncertainty that radiates from you. It’s not sadistic, but it feels like he’s enjoying the tension, the delicate balance between power and submission, between your reluctance and his unyielding presence.

He responds, his voice smooth, deliberately slow, as though he’s savoring each word. “It’s Vic.”

His eyes narrow slightly as he watches you take in the sound of his name, the silence stretching between you as your brain works to process it. Vic. It feels like a key unlocking something inside you—suddenly, you feel like you're on equal ground with him, as if the conversation had shifted from being an interrogation to a strange sort of exchange. He’s no longer just a faceless figure looming over you; he's made himself real, tangible, with just a word.

You don’t respond immediately. There’s a strange mix of emotions stirring inside you, none of them making sense. You don’t want to feel vulnerable, not after everything. And yet, in this strange, twisted game he’s orchestrating, part of you—wants to feel vulnerable. It’s almost as if the very thing you’ve feared the most is what you’re craving. But then you mimic him, saying his name.

The smile on Vic’s face deepens as if he can read the shift in your thoughts, the way your body betrays the war inside you. He leans forward in his chair, his fingers tracing idly along the armrest, dragging lazily but purposefully. “You know,” he murmurs, his voice thick with a sort of satisfaction, “you’re far more interesting than I expected.”

You swallow hard, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you, and that twisted satisfaction builds, spreading like warmth across your chest. You hate how much it stirs something inside you, how right it feels to be caught in the middle of this moment, the tension and the unknown hanging between you like a carefully spun web.

It’s dehumanizing, yes, but in some twisted, insidious way, you’re not sure if you mind.

 ──

author's note: might make a second part if it's wanted, maybe a little pet x reader im not entirely sure yet.

a banshee is a mythical spirit from Irish folklore, often associated with death. it is believed to foretell the passing of someone by emitting a mournful wail or scream. the banshee is typically a ghostly figure whose appearance and nature can vary, but it is generally seen as a harbinger of death.

[cavipe]

Circustale designs part 2! Au belongs to @akirachuuu

To clarify, Blooky is Able, Caine’s brother (non canon).

Burgerpants is Jaaj, Jax’s sister (non canon but was created by gooseworx).

Chara and Clover are pomni’s siblings from the siblings episode (@sm-baby), I fucked up and I put the collars or whatever is called wrong :|

Flowey is abstracted kaufmo/ Asriel is kaufmo

Part one

[rhymeswithfart]

Full size versions of some of the six fanarts art I've done.

Since you're here, look at this:

Please read this story, share, and donate. Mahmoud Khalaff is a Palestinian living in Ireland, trying to rescue his family from the war in Gaza and reunite with them. His family has 8 members, including his children. The money will be used to evacuate his family to Egypt and support them there until they can reunite.

This campaign is #151 on El shab Hussein and nabulsi's list of vetted fundraisers here. €32,891 raised of €55,000 goal.

[sleepymuch]

So

I remember I made this AU and it was UT+tadc like I had so many good ideas for it

I don't know if I should work on the AU again

This was basically the character roles

Caine- Chara

Bubble- Player(the soul)

Pomni- Frisk

Ragatha- Toriel

Jax- not sure

Gangle- Alphys

Zooble- Undyne

Kinger- Asgore

Kaufmo- Asriel

[literary-motif]

I Don't Forgive You

Asirel Cain x Reader

Warnings: misogyny and profanities (you get to kill the guy that does it)

His sister's despicable ex shows up at Asriel's home. You get dinner.

“What?” Asirel asked curtly, picking up the phone.

His employee stammered, clearly taken aback by his harshness. Asirel was not usually this brash with the people working for him — being calm, collected, and polite fed his image better — but today his schedule was rather busy and he did not care to be inconvenienced by frivolous things. 

“There uh,” the employee cleared their throat nervously. He rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue impatiently. “There is a ‘Richard’ here to see you, sir.”

Asirel frowned, his eyes darting to his calendar. He had no meeting scheduled for today, least of all at his own home. “A what?” he huffed, distantly recalling the name being dropped in conversation before. 

Richard. It sounded familiar. His sister had talked about a Richard when they had last met.

“Send him up,” he said, placing down the telephone.

“Oh and Richard, that jock-type bad boy I was seeing?” she had said, waving her fork in the air between them as she got excited about spilling some tea. “He’s history. Never met a man that entitled in my life and that’s saying something considering the dudes I’ve met. Anyways—”

He had smiled fondly at her, continuing to eat the spaghetti as he listened to her talk about the cute woman she had met at the butcher shop. 

How had his sister’s ex found his way here?

The door to his study was thrown open violently, bouncing off the wall with a loud bang. A disheveled man stepped inside, not bothering with an introduction as he barged in.

He rubbed his forehead, already feeling a headache forming. He did not have time for this nonsense or whatever the hell this Richard wanted. He could see you standing in the doorway, silently hovering by Richard’s shoulder as you took in the scene before you and gave Asirel a raised eyebrow. 

You looked both incredulous and amused. ‘Who’s he?’ you mouthed, pointing to the guy and chuckling quietly at his behavior. Most of all, you were shocked at Asirel for allowing it. 

He rolled his eyes at your question.

“Listen, man,” Richard said, slamming his hands down on Asirel’s desk and looming over him in an effort to appear threatening. Out of the corner of his eyes, Asirel could see you slap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. Impassively, he continued to look at the Buffon in front of him as you licked your lips in anticipation. 

Oh, today you would have a feast.

“Listen, I don’t know what that bitch told you” — Asirel blinked, expression unreadable — “but I didn’t do shit to her, alright? She can come off her fucking high horse and call me back, yeah? Damn man, tell a woman to suck you off once and she gets all pissy, right?”

Your mouth hung open in shock, eyes wide as you looked at the Richard guy. Shit, the tea was real. Shit, oh that guy was dead. 

“That whore can’t tell me anything, yeah? Fucking slapped me when I pushed her to her knees, you hear me? Can’t believe I took her out for dinner for that. See, I’m a nice guy, but sometimes sluts just piss me off.”

Asirel did not betray his thoughts. 

The silence in the study was thick, laden with tension that the guy only now seemed to catch up on. His slight panting was the only thing breaking the silence as Asirel pinned him in place with a look. 

Richard suddenly grew uncomfortable as he took in the room around him, catching up to the fact that he was standing in Asirel’s quiet but threatening presence, whose aura seemed to darken with every second he breathed in his company.

He chuckled nervously. “Right, man?”

You could not contain your laughter anymore, snorting as you heard the guy’s heartbeat pick up in a sudden surge of fear. “Can I?” you asked, giddy with excitement as you tried your best to give Asirel convincing puppy eyes. “Oh please, I am literally begging you.”

“Just one moment,” Asirel said, slowly rising and taking one of his overflowing binders to slap it down on the guy’s hands, successfully getting them off his desk as Richard jumped back. He stared into the confused and fearful gaze of the scum sullying the peacefulness of his study.

For a moment, he contemplated ending Richard himself. 

It would be an easy thing. Asirel could beat him to death with one of the iron rods he used to tend to the fireplace beside him. He could probably beat him to death with his bare fists as well, watch as the life left his eyes and the useless jerk went limp in his grip for daring to talk about his sister in such a way.

He could kill Richard. Draw it out and have his screams of pain echo through the mansion until he tore his throat to shreds and all he could muster would be a strangled plea for mercy that Asirel longed to deny him.

He could do all that if he wanted to. 

Taking a breath, Asirel sat down again. “You’re not worth the effort,” he said, returning to his papers. “Don’t make too much of a mess,” he added as you stepped up to the guy, making him jump as he felt your breath on his neck. 

“What the fuck?” he exclaimed, trying to take a step back. You took hold of him, pushing him to the ground with no effort. 

His death was quicker than you’d liked, but Asirel did say not to make too much of a mess and the screaming and desperate pleading was annoying both of you. 

“Think I need an aspirin after that one,” you said, wiping the remnants of blood from your mouth. You were quite proud of yourself. Not a single drop of it had stained the carpet. 

“Agreed,” Asirel said, shuffling his papers.

“On a scale of one to ten though, he was maybe like a three?” you said, snatching some papers from his desk and disinterestedly leafing through them. “Tell your sister to get in touch with tastier people next time.”

“I’ll pass on the request.”

You laughed, tossing the papers back to him. Asirel reassembled the stack with a groan. “He had some balls showing up here.”

“He had no brain,” he said, resting his head on his hand and looking up at you sitting on the edge of his desk. “What kind of idiot thinks it is a good idea to seek out me to insult my sister? That is insane.”

“People are insane sometimes,” you said, stretching. “So, any crazy ex I need to be worried about when it comes to you?”

“Certainly not.” 

He fished out an aspirin, passing you the container. You took it in amusement, relishing that Asirel had not caught up on your joke. He would grunt at his absentmindedness come morning when you reminded him that drugs did not work on vampires. 

“I’ve never had the time for a relationship. You see how work takes up most of my life.” 

You hummed, running a hand through his hair, which he quickly batted away. “Good thing you’ve got me then, boss.”

“That’s not what you should call me.”

“Oh, I meant to tell you, but then I totally forgot. Sorry about that,” his sister would say the next time he called to check up on her, “I gave Richard your address. He wouldn’t stop bothering me and I honestly couldn’t take it anymore. Also, I thought your little pet would appreciate a home delivery, my treat.”

“They told me his blood left something to be desired and that you should choose your partners more carefully from now on.”

“Really? Well they’re not one to talk.”

“Play nice.”

[peppymintdreams]

Hiii I saw your master list and saw you didn’t have anything for asriel and I was wondering if you could maybe do something where pet needs a little tlc after a rough work day with him

Totally get it if he isn’t your cup of tea tho ✨

A Quiet Indulgence

Asirel Cain x Pet

The estate was pristine, quiet, and meticulously curated, just as Asirel liked it. Everything had its place—every marble tile, every glass of fine wine, every piece of furniture. Even Pet had a designated place in it, though their presence was often less visible, more subtle. Tonight, however, Asirel noticed the quietness in the air. A silence that spoke volumes.

Pet had returned.

The door opened, and Asirel didn’t need to look up. He could feel their presence, the slight shift in the atmosphere that told him they were standing there, waiting for him to acknowledge them. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed it: Pet was standing in the doorway, hands clasped behind their back, posture stiff yet expectant.

“Late again?” Asirel’s voice was smooth, amused, though the playful glint in his eyes betrayed the amusement he found in the situation.

“Forgive me, Master,” Pet said softly, lowering their head.

Asirel didn’t respond immediately, letting the moment stretch as he continued to look at the papers in front of him. Then, with deliberate slowness, he set them aside and turned his full attention to Pet. “You do know I don’t appreciate being kept waiting,” he said, his tone teasing yet firm. “Tell me, did you manage to find some new and inventive way to make trouble tonight?”

“No, Master,” Pet replied quickly, their voice tinged with a faint nervousness. “Everything went as planned.”

“Hmm.” Asirel leaned back in his chair, studying them with that calculating gaze that always seemed to see right through them. “And yet, here you stand, looking like you’ve barely survived the day. Should I be concerned?”

“I’m fine, Master,” Pet insisted, though their voice lacked its usual strength.

“Are you?” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. His lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “You don’t sound fine. Come closer.”

Pet hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping forward. Asirel’s gaze swept over them, taking in the slight tension in their shoulders, the way they avoided meeting his eyes. It was subtle, but he knew them too well to miss it.

“You’ve been working hard for me,” he said, his tone softening just slightly. “And yet, you look as though the weight of the world has been on your shoulders. Tell me, Pet—” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Have you been neglecting yourself again?”

Pet shifted under his gaze, their fingers tightening around the edge of their sleeve. “I only do what you ask of me, Master.”

Asirel chuckled, the sound low and amused. “A clever answer, as always. But I’m not convinced.” He stood slowly, moving around the desk with the grace of someone who always had complete control of his surroundings. “Come now, don’t look so forlorn. You’re too valuable to me to be falling apart.”

Pet finally lifted their gaze, meeting his eyes for just a moment before lowering their head again. “I’m sorry, Master.”

“Hmm.” Asirel came to a stop in front of them, his expression softening, though his tone remained teasing. “Apologies won’t do. You’ve done your job. You’ve earned a little indulgence tonight.” He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against their chin, tilting their head up so they had no choice but to meet his gaze. “But only because I’m feeling generous.”

“Thank you, Master,” Pet murmured, their voice barely above a whisper.

“You’re quite welcome.” He stepped back, gesturing toward the armchair near the fireplace. “Sit. Relax. I’m not cruel enough to keep you on your feet after such a long day.”

Pet moved to obey, sinking into the chair with a quiet sigh. Asirel retrieved a glass of water from the desk, placing it in their hands before settling into the chair opposite them. His sharp eyes never left them, watching the way they held the glass, the slight tremor in their fingers.

“You know,” he said after a moment, his tone light, almost conversational, “I sometimes wonder if you forget you’re mine. You push yourself so hard, and for what? To impress me?” He smirked. “You already have my attention, Pet. There’s no need to work yourself into the ground.”

Pet’s grip on the glass tightened slightly. “I only want to do what’s expected of me, Master.”

“And you do,” he replied smoothly. “But even I can tell when you need a moment to breathe. So take it. Just this once.” He leaned back in his chair, his smile softening into something almost fond. “I can’t have you breaking down on me. Who else would I play with, and give attention too?”

Pet looked down at the glass in their hands, a faint hint of a smile playing at the corners of their lips. “Yes, Master.”

“Good pet.” Asirel’s voice was low, almost a purr. “Now, enjoy this little reprieve while you can. Tomorrow, you’ll have plenty of chances to prove your loyalty again.” He reached out, brushing his fingers lightly against their hand. “But for now, you’re here. With me. And that’s all I require.”

Pet’s shoulders relaxed, the tension from the day slowly melting away under his gaze. They weren’t free—not by any means—but in moments like this, when Asirel’s attention was fully on them, it was easy to forget the confines of their world.

And for tonight, that was enough.

[MINT NOTE]: i really hope this was enjoyable i tried my hardest with what i could get from the current audios and answers from tumblr ask saku got. I'm just happy i got somewhere and i do apologize for how long this took TvT

[random-autie-fangirl]

#dreemurr is an anagram for murderer

:0

I did not realize that, but I probably should’ve hah, oh dang, but thanks for the spelling tip :)

And Asriel is an anagram for serial! So together it makes serial murderer =) (Can you imagine Chara bursting to a fit of giggles just after realizing this (like right at the beginning of the Asriel fight?) "Oh, the universe does have such a wonderfully ironic sense of humour at times, does it not?" An inapropriate but very Chara response)

And then we have the rest of the family, Asgore is very obviously a murderer (as the six souls can attest) and then Chara....you can count attempted murder, but I think I have something more interesting actually.

Okay so, due to file attribution theory, we know that Chara had their own save file but they just never used it, (which makes sense since Asriel describes determination as the power Chara was trying to stop and they think very negatively about people being above consequences, and resetting helps negate consequences), I think that Chara might have been able to reset back to the beginning and save both themselves and Asriel when they died to the villagers, but they didn't. Because his and their deaths were the consequences of the plan failing, and that they didn't see the point of continuing or trying again once they had already failed. (I mean, think about it, Chara is confused about being alive again specifically because their plan failed).

To put it bluntly, Chara got to the game over screen, saw the will you persist question and clicked no. But Asriel was with them too, and by letting themselves die, Chara also chose to let Asriel die when they could have saved him, and that to me is what makes them a ...Dreemurr. (and yes, murder-suicide still counts as murder).

Which is sort of why I don't like the old adage "Chara only killed one person. Themselves." No, they killed their brother, no matter what timeline you're talking about, they killed Asriel. Don't forget that. C and A, ....Cain and Abel, maybe it was always meant to end this way (or maybe it didn't have to, if it was anyone else, but Chara seems to think the very notion of defying fate is blasphemy). "I would follow in your footsteps, I would erase myself from existence" But the first time round, Asriel didn't have a choice, did he? He had to follow in their footsteps, because Chara dragged him along with them.

And then we have Toriel, Toriel, no matter how you cut it didn't kill anyone but well...she divorced Asgore before the game started and she says in the game itself that she doesn't consider herself nor want to be a Dreemurr anymore,

So it might be an unfortunate truth that the Undertale dreemurrs are murderers but I guess Toriel got away and dropped the name before the family curse could get her. Good for her!

And...yeah, the Undertale Dreemurrs, there are some edgy theories about Kris accidentally killing Azzy or whatever but I just think it's like...Undertale and Deltarune are different games, Toriel's name is still Toriel despite not being the Tutorial segment anymore so I think the anagram didn't carry over between games and it doesn't mean anything anymore. (plus surely if the dreemurrs are murderers thing carried over, it would surely apply to Deltarune's version of Asriel and Asgore)

Anyway, you're welcome for the spelling tip! :)

[imakecoffinsforeveryone]

I drew a mini comic and voiced it myself

I really like when Leviathan and Cain interact and decided to also remember the scene from Undertale with Asriel and Chara

[strixcattus]

Stuff about the narrator, stuff about the narrator...

There's this moment with Snowdrake's mum in the true lab "you laugh and keep laughing, it's so funny you can't stop, tears run down your face", so it seems that laughing off or laughing at bad things might be a habit, especially since apart from the puns, other topics for jokes include

Cain's deathbed ("If you laid down here, you might never get up")

A child who "slept in the soil" (though the other "dirty jokes" you can get here are two children playing in a muddy flower garden and a child who ate pie with their hands...so those were nicer, at least)

Frisk's imminent death, multiple times (like a wry joke about each bomb with Mettaton or checking the forcefields)

"Smells like nightshade and bleach" (when fighting whimsalot, is that a joke even?)

"If you're cuter, monsters won't hit you as hard" (explains why accessories raise defence but it's terrible phrasing. In the demo it was just "monsters will be reluctant to hit you" much better)

Putting 5 punch cards in a box will result in Frisk making a smiley face with them, and then when you take one out and say "HaPPineSs Is fLEetinG" because they're a loser edgelord

Serious mode

In certain battles, the jokey item names will be removed and the flavour text will get silent. This happens only three times, when Tori stops attacking and starts saying she can't save even a single child, during the entire duration of the Asgore fight and during Asriel's breakdown (and of course the rest of Asriel's fight is not in serious mode, when they're calling out the attack names, the tone there is excited and childish and playful)

Oh, and Asriel's phonecall, when the narrator says "it's a voice you have never heard before", the line comes out slow, double spaced like the narrator's shocked to hear him. Due to fun value events, you can get a random call from Alphys before you meet her but that doesn't prompt the same reaction, so maybe it's not an "unfamiliar" voice that does it?

When fighting Asgore, after like the third time trying to talk, the narrator will say "seems like talking won't do any more good" every time, except for the 9th time where the line is "seems all you can do is FIGHT", it changes back on the 10th time.

"statistics determine everything about you. Everything you are is but a slave to these tiny numbers." From the demo handbook, numbers, statistics, get everything to the highest it can go, yeah...

Remember me talking about the humans save files, yeah? Well, the first one, the empty one, it jumps into action during Frisk's run and while it still never resets, the file autosaves at certain points.

Seeing as the narrator isn't omniscient, some things they know start to stick out, like knowing where Cain died or "It's a family photo. Everyone is smiling." We saw what looked like a photo with them, didn't we? everyone else was smiling but Cain had their face covered in flowers...

In hard mode, Tori actually makes snail pie and Frisk makes a face but narry still thinks it smells wonderful, this is just funny because the narrator describes snail pie as an acquired taste (as in something you grow to like through eating it over and over) and Tori sure makes a lot of them

The narrator really does like Undyne calling her "the heroine who never gives up" and being generally rather gushy and complimentary (To the point where it almost comes across as mean to Frisk, unlike MK, they know full well that Frisk is Undyne's target, know Frisk can hear them and still gush about Undyne constantly, harsh). It's almost like Undyne is their favourite monster or their idol in the same way Papyrus's is Asriel, in life, Asriel didn't want to kill anyone even as they struck at him, and Papyrus never kills Frisk (he's the only one who fights and doesn't kill, even Tori can if you're not careful).

And well... Undyne is more like...Cain? The one willing, even happy, to kill six humans for the sake of monsterkind's freedom. Running a child through with a spear, poisoning oneself with a plant that makes you vomit blood, not for the faint of heart but someone has to make hard choices, right?

Sometimes the Narrator can be pretty bitter and angry, acting as if the pacifist route will amount to nothing worthwhile, "you gave the cheapest gift of all... friendship", they say Frisk's offers of friendship are cheap and worthless lip service, "try as you might, you continue to be yourself" they initially think Frisk staying themselves is a bad thing. They once open a book to the exact page that shows humans in the worst light possible, "here's a random page" when it's normally "you open to the middle" "fearful of further attacks, we retreated", they don't like Frisk, (someone made a graph of the way Narrator treats Frisk over time, they fling a lot of insults in the ruins). They don't like Frisk, they don't like humans in general, that's why they like Undyne!

The coffin was empty, right? So where are they buried?... Well it is a custom to put the remains of a monster on/near their favourite thing so their essence can live on there, and Tori deliberately planted a patch of Cain's favourite flowers (she has seeds in a drawer, remember?) in the ruins where we first fall? Are they buried there? Did poor Frisk fall on the misanthropic child's grave, Frisk sure has enough determination to revive a ghost, don't they? And the right colour soul?

And of course, saving the lost souls seems to take knowing them personally? Sharing good memories? But Frisk doesn't know Asriel and has no good memories to speak of, so how is he saved? ...Well, we do see someone's memories every time we die or fall unconscious right? Maybe they can help?

It's the first human isn't it

I've just gotten back to the story of the first human in my current run and I feel like it makes more sense that Asriel ended up in a flower given that he died in the garden and his dust was scattered there. So if the human was buried under the flowers we fall onto at the start of the game...

Why the hatred of humans, though, then? Just because of what happened to Asriel?

[fazbears-warehouse]

ANGEL DEMON ID PACK

requested by anon!!

Names: Abel, Asriel, Beau, Blaise, Cain, Damien, Emi, Ezra, Lilith, Selene, Seth

Pronouns: wing/wings, holy/holys, unholy/unholy, pure/pures, impure/impures, heaven/heavens, hell/hells, omen/omens, faith/faiths, light/lights, fire/fires, halo/halos, horns/horns, angel/angels, demon/demons

Identities: angelimonaffectis, Angelabomination / Demonabomination, ANGDEVIC, Helvenfluid, LIMBODAEMIAL, Duopurdeic, daimoangelic, Angemonic, Demonicangelic & Angelicdemonic, demoangeaffectis, CONTRADICTIM, ANGEDEMONIC / DEMOANGELIC,

[damontwo]

TADC x UNDERTALE au concept "Digital Underground"

Caine as Asgore

Bubble as Temmie

Able as Flowey/Asriel

Others who aren't in this picture

Jax as Pappyrus

Ragatha as sans

Gangle as Alphys

Zooble as Undyne

Kinger as Toriel

Kaufmo as Gaster? I guess?

I know others have done this already, but I wanted to do my own take!

[yoursinisforgiven]

ECHOES ──

pairing: asriel x reader (pet) 

cw: mentions blood and cuts, mentions of guns, story takes place prior to vic's death.

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

“They’re sirens in the water,” you muttered, the words laced with venom, the threat hanging in the air like a blade. “They’d sink this ship if I asked.”

The venom was intentional—meant to rattle him, to stir a flicker of fear in his eyes. But the man standing before you, Asriel, didn’t flinch. Instead, he gave you a look—one that you couldn’t quite place. Was it indifference? A touch of amusement? Perhaps both.

He didn’t even seem to notice the weight of your words, as if nothing you said could break his composure. His focus remained fixed on the phone pressed to his ear, his voice low and smooth as he spoke to Lilian, the woman you had pointed out.

You could hear her with perfect clarity, her voice cutting through the static of the line as though she stood right next to you. The sound of her laughter echoed, light and careless, like music in the background. And, beneath her voice, you could pick out the murmured conversations of her maids, their words sharper and more distinct than any human could perceive. They spoke of trivialities, soft as whispers, their idle chatter drifting in the air like perfume. Yet it was enough for you to hear every syllable—every detail—as if they were right there in the room with you.

It wasn’t that you disliked her. No, it was something far more insidious. Jealousy had no hold on you—not when there was nothing she had that you couldn’t destroy. You could wipe her from existence in the blink of an eye, if you so desired.

Except for one thing.

Asriel’s trust.

That was the one thing you couldn’t claim, the one thing you could never take. His voice, soft on the phone with Lilian, held a warmth that didn’t belong to you. That unwavering bond between them—so simple, so absolute—was the one thing you couldn’t shatter with your power.

You could hear the inflection in his tone, the way he responded to her—casual, yet tender, with a quiet affection that stung. No matter how much you tried to drown out the sound of his words, you knew, deep down, that there was a distance between you that your strength could never bridge.

The ache settled into your chest, like a slow burn, but you didn’t show it. You couldn’t. You were a predator. And predators don’t flinch.

You give Asriel one last hard look, though if you were being honest with yourself, it wasn’t one of anger or frustration—it was something far more vulnerable. It was a look of longing, of yearning, a desperate plea to be seen. To be loved. You swallowed the ache that swelled in your chest, the heat of it threatening to burn through the cool detachment you had so carefully crafted.

But he wasn’t looking in your direction. He never did when you needed it most. His attention remained fixed on the phone, his focus unwavering, lost in a conversation you had no part in. A conversation with her.

With a soft exhale, you turned and walked away.

The deck was quiet, the hum of the yacht’s engines a low, constant vibration beneath your feet.

You sank into one of the plush, luxury leather chairs, the cool surface of the seat pressing against your skin with a strange comfort. The leather, soft yet firm, clung to your body in all the right places, its chill a contrast to the heat of your body. It was almost as though it could sense the tension in your muscles, and for a moment, the sensation of the leather against you was the only thing keeping you grounded. The slight creak of the seat under your weight echoed in the quiet, but you barely noticed it—your mind was elsewhere, lost in the turmoil of your own thoughts.

The sea breeze tousled your hair, its salt-laced fingers tugging at your senses, as if urging you to breathe in deeply, to lose yourself in the vastness of the ocean. The deep, rhythmic crash of the waves against the hull was both soothing and suffocating—each wave a reminder of the distance between you and everything else. Between you and him.

For a long moment, the world felt small, the deck a solitary island in the middle of the sea. The soft thrum of the yacht’s engines, the faint sound of Asriel's voice in the distance, it all seemed to blur together in a wash of noise, leaving you alone with the weight of your desires, your fears, your endless wanting.

──

One gentle sway of the yacht shifts beneath you, pulling you from your state of rest—not sleep, for vampires didn’t need sleep. But the motion stirs something within you, rousing you from a moment of stillness. You sit up, feeling the steady hum of the ship beneath your skin, but it's not the subtle motion of the waves that has disturbed you.

No, it's the smell.

Rich. Metallic. The unmistakable scent of blood.

It hangs in the air like a veil, faint at first, but undeniable. You inhale sharply, your senses sharpening at the scent. You don’t panic, for it isn’t Asriel’s blood—you would have recognized it immediately, felt it in the air, tasted it on your tongue long before it could reach your nose.

You rise from the leather seating, the warmth of the material now dissipating beneath your body heat, leaving you feeling slightly chilled as you step away. The blood scent pulls at you like an invisible tether, urging you forward with an undeniable compulsion. You follow it with steady, predatory precision, your footsteps silent on the smooth deck. It leads you down the narrow corridor to the galley, the gentle sway of the yacht barely noticeable to you now, though your senses are sharp, acutely aware of every subtle change.

As you approach, the sounds from within the kitchen become more distinct: the rhythmic sizzle of oil in a pan, the crackling, the sharp, angry popping as something burns. It’s not the usual calm, calculated motions of Asriel’s chef. Something is off.

The moment you step inside, the scene unfolds before you, almost too quickly, like a play you’ve already seen but can’t look away from. The galley is small and immaculate, a stainless steel kitchen that gleams with meticulous care. Every surface polished, every utensil in its rightful place, except now—now, it’s chaos. The scent of blood grows stronger, filling the space and mingling with the acrid smell of the burning oil.

Asriel’s chef, a woman you’d seen before, is clutching her wrist tightly with one hand, the other bracing herself against the marble counter. Her face contorts in pain, eyes squeezed shut, as though the effort of staying upright takes all her strength. Her apron is stained now, though it isn’t from food. A streak of crimson runs down her arm, pooling in her palm, dripping onto the floor in silent drops. She’s pale—almost too pale—and the blood that stains her skin doesn’t seem to belong to her.

You observe her for a moment, the scene playing out slowly in your mind. The woman’s breath is shallow, quick, like a panicked animal. She seems lost, disoriented—perhaps her brain isn’t even fully processing the pain, too overwhelmed by the shock of it all. She presses her wrist tighter, as though trying to force the blood back inside her skin. Her movements are erratic, frantic. It’s almost… beautiful. The way the blood pulses from her wound, each beat of her heart spilling more and more of it, leaving trails in its wake.

Her response to the pain is… intoxicating. Her body quivers, her breath ragged, a broken sob escaping her throat, and something deep inside you stirs—a sharp, aching hunger, the raw urge to take, to feed.

You take a slow, deliberate step forward, the sound of your movement lost in the distant hum of the yacht, and you can almost feel the air around you thickening with the scent. It clings to your skin, coats your lungs. It is almost too much to bear.

“You’re bleeding,” you say flatly, your voice smooth, devoid of any emotion. It cuts through the silence of the kitchen like a knife, and though the words are simple, the way you say them makes them feel like a demand.

She doesn’t respond right away, her eyes still squeezed shut, her hand trembling as she presses against her injury. She sways slightly on her feet, and you can tell she’s on the verge of collapse. The sizzling in the pan continues behind her, but it’s background noise now, drowned out by the rising crescendo of her blood, her suffering.

You move toward her with slow, measured steps, the sound of your feet muffled against the smooth tiles of the galley floor. Her presence in your field of vision is almost too sharp now—the way her body jerks in panic, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. As you close the distance, you see the flash of fear in her eyes, wide and unblinking, as if she’s only just realized you’ve been there all along. The scent of her anxiety—sharp and metallic—mingles with the iron-rich tang of blood, intoxicating in its rawness.

Her pulse quickens, the rhythm of her heart picking up speed like the warning drum of a coming storm. You stand before her now, towering, your presence all-consuming. Her breath catches in her throat as you reach out, your fingers wrapping around her wrist with inescapable force. The grip is tight, unyielding—there is no chance for escape, no room for her to retaliate. She doesn’t even have time to scream, her shock rendering her frozen in place, her body trembling under the weight of your touch.

Her wrist comes to your mouth with terrifying precision, her skin cold, wet with sweat. You can feel the frantic pulse of her heart beneath your fingers, each beat a desperate plea for survival. The taste of her blood—fresh, rich, and warm—hits your tongue almost immediately, and you savor it as if it’s a long-awaited feast. The metallic tang is a sharp contrast to the sweetness that follows, flooding your senses, igniting a fire deep within you.

She shudders, her body going stiff, the fear radiating off her so thick it’s almost palpable. You can feel her tremble in your grip, though she doesn’t dare move, too terrified to resist. If she were brave enough, if she had any strength left to fight, she would have struggled. But instead, she is motionless, caught in the web of her own helplessness, caught in your gaze, caught in the moment.

Your tongue glides over the wound, savoring the taste of her blood, a slow, almost languid rhythm, as if you have all the time in the world. You feel the edges of the wound close beneath your touch, the flesh knitting itself together with a delicate, almost intimate precision. The blood stops flowing, the rawness of the injury fading as if it had never been there at all. In mere seconds, the wound is healed completely—there is no trace of it left.

You drop her wrist from your grasp without a word, the action as smooth as it is cold. Her hand falls to her side limply, her fingers twitching slightly as if still unsure of what has just occurred. The air around you feels heavier now, thick with the lingering taste of blood and the broken quiet that remains between you. She stands frozen, silent, and you know she won’t move until you allow it, too consumed by the terror of the moment to do anything else.

"Be more careful." The words are spoken with chilling detachment, slipping from your lips like a command, though you don't pause to see how they land. You exit the galley, leaving behind the faint scent of iron and the lingering aftertaste of blood, the warmth of the kitchen’s heavy air still clinging to your skin.

As you step into the hallway, the sleek, polished wood of the yacht’s floors beneath your feet creaks with every stride. The dim, ambient lighting from the brass sconces lining the walls flickers slightly, casting shadows that shift like ghosts across the opulent interior. The walls themselves seem to hum with quiet luxury—fine mahogany panels gleaming beneath the golden accents of the trim, and plush carpeting underfoot so soft it feels like walking on clouds. You catch the faintest scent of the ocean, a briny tang that lingers, but it’s quickly drowned out by the faint but growing sound of Asriel's voice drifting from the cabin.

You slow your steps momentarily, though curiosity doesn’t quite reach you. Their whispers, too purposeful and private, catch your sharp hearing, but you brush them off without thought. A flicker of irritation stirs in you, but it’s quickly gone. What could it possibly matter? The yacht could sink into the vast ocean beneath your feet and you’d swim to shore—perhaps dragging Asriel with you if he so wished it. A life without this gilded cage seems more appealing by the moment. But for now, the yacht holds you in its grip, even if the walls of luxury around you do little to make you feel alive.

You move past the cabin, your footsteps silent as you glide down the hallway with effortless grace. The yacht hums softly beneath you, a deep, resonant pulse that seems to echo the beat of your own heart. The grand hallway opens up into a larger atrium—a spiral staircase leading down to the lower decks, its bannister winding elegantly up to the upper floors. In the center of the room stands an enormous chandelier, its crystals glinting softly in the dim light, casting fractured rainbows across the marble floors.

But your mind is elsewhere, back with the woman and the blood-soaked apron she had left behind in her panic. You can almost hear the soft slap of her shoes against the cold stone, her hands still trembling where you had left them. Surely, you think, there must be more aprons stashed somewhere on this ship. A vessel of this size, this opulence, was bound to have supplies hidden away, tucked into corners and closets that few would ever think to open.

With a breath that is more like a soft hiss, you continue down the hallway, each step purposeful. The quiet whispers of the driver and Asriel are now distant behind you, the only sound that of the faint lapping of water against the yacht's hull. It is almost peaceful now, this space of luxury, yet it holds no comfort for you. It’s simply an empty shell, filled with gilded expectations and silent agreements.

As you pass the door to another lavishly decorated room, your fingers brush lightly against the polished doorframe. A slight shift in the air catches your attention—a slight tug at the edges of your heightened senses. You pause for a brief moment, staring at the door, wondering if there's something more to discover hidden inside.With a gentle twist of the doorknob, you feel a sharp twinge of irritation when it doesn’t yield. Your brows furrow slightly, the cool metal of the handle beneath your fingers offering no more resistance than the air around you. Locked.

A low, frustrated exhale escapes you as you stand there, briefly contemplating the absurdity of it all. Why keep secrets?The thought lingers for a moment before you're already moving, your body shifting with feline precision. You call out the words spoken with calm authority, “Master!”

You don’t need to raise your voice—he’ll hear you. He always does. The silence that follows is only a brief breath before the unmistakable rhythm of heavy footsteps reaches your ears. Powerful, purposeful, and calculated—the steps resonate through the quiet halls of the yacht, a perfect reflection of the man you know all too well.

Soon, the footfalls stop, the presence behind you solidifying with the weight of his arrival. You turn your head slightly, catching the flicker of his annoyed expression before he steps fully into your line of sight.

“Do not yell,” he says, his voice sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade. Each word is precise, heavy with irritation, and his narrowed gaze locks onto yours with a force that makes the air between you seem thinner. "You know where I am. Find me."

A flicker of amusement sparks in your chest, momentarily dulling the sharp edges of his words. This game—this endless tug-of-war for control—it’s a dance you’ve perfected together. But you won’t let him pull you along so easily. Instead, you lean casually against the doorframe, tilting your head as the faintest smirk tugs at your lips.

“Sorry,” you reply, voice dripping with mock sweetness. “I didn’t want to interrupt your private conversation with the captain. Is the ship sinking? Should I sound the alarm?”

The sarcasm is a sharp edge, cutting clean through the tension, but his expression doesn’t waver. He’s practiced, you know—so practiced at this. The façade he wears is almost too perfect, a mask of calm that only infuriates you more.

The yacht’s opulent surroundings seem to close in around you, amplifying the weight of the moment. The soft hum of the engines vibrates faintly through the polished wooden floors, a subtle reminder of the mechanical heart powering this floating palace. Dim, golden sconces cast a warm glow along the corridor, their light flickering like distant stars against the smooth, paneled walls. Everything about this place is deliberate—crafted for control, for luxury—but in this moment, it feels as if you’re the only disruption in its pristine silence.

Asriel shifts slightly, the sound of his coat brushing faintly against his frame reaching your ears. It’s subtle, but you’ve spent enough time with him to read the signals beneath the surface. That slight movement, the smallest narrowing of his eyes—it’s irritation, buried beneath layers of his careful composure.

“The door is locked—I want it unlocked,” you say firmly, gesturing toward the offending door with a pointed look.

His gaze follows the subtle movement of your hand as it brushes the doorknob, pausing there briefly before returning to lock onto yours. His expression remains infuriatingly calm, though the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips hints at restrained amusement.

“I don’t have the key,” he says, his tone so even, so maddeningly composed, that it feels almost like mockery.

“Liar,” you snarl, the accusation slipping out with more force than you intended, your frustration boiling over.

His response is a low, velvety laugh—a sound devoid of warmth, but rich with the kind of satisfaction that only comes from being one step ahead. “We both know you’d feel it if I were lying,” he counters smoothly, his words precise and cutting. The weight of his confidence presses against you like a tangible force, as though he’s daring you to argue.

Your brow knits tightly as his words settle in. Damn him, he’s right. You’ve always been able to tell when he’s lying—the subtle shift in his heartbeat, the smallest change in his breathing, the things he can’t control no matter how well he hides it. But this time, everything about him radiates truth. Steady. Controlled. Honest.

And yet... If he doesn’t have the key, where is it? Asriel isn’t careless. He doesn’t lose things, and he certainly doesn’t let anyone else hold power over him—at least, not without reason.

“Master,” you say, your voice colder now, suspicion lacing every word. You use the title deliberately, a reminder of the authority he so arrogantly assumes. “This is your yacht. If you don’t have the key, who does?”

His lips curve into a faint smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Instead, his gaze darkens, a glint of something unreadable flickering there—amusement, perhaps, or maybe something more sinister. He takes a measured step closer, his presence looming larger as the dim, golden light catches on the sharp lines of his face.

“I don’t have the key,” he repeats, his voice dropping to a lower, silkier register, “nor do I know where it is.” His words are deliberate, each one sliding into the space between you like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit. “This wasn’t always my yacht—it used to belong to my father.”

The revelation hits like a crack of thunder in the confined luxury of the hallway. Your grip on the doorknob tightens instinctively, the cold metal biting into your palm as your mind races to piece together the implications. His father. That single word carries a weight that tugs at the edges of your thoughts, conjuring fragments of stories you’ve heard but never questioned too closely.

Asriel’s father. A man whose name was spoken in whispers, whose legacy loomed large over everything Asriel now claimed as his own. If this yacht was once his, then the key’s absence isn’t just an inconvenience—it’s a warning, a thread tugging at something larger and more dangerous than you’d anticipated.

Asriel watches you closely, his dark eyes gleaming with an almost predatory satisfaction as he takes in your reaction. He doesn’t need to say it outright—he knows exactly what his words have done, the way they’ve set your mind spinning, unraveling the confidence you’d held just moments ago.

“Why didn’t you mention this before?” you demand, your voice edged with frustration and something closer to dread.

“Would it have changed anything?” he replies smoothly, tilting his head slightly as though genuinely curious. “The key is gone, and the door remains locked. Whether it’s my problem or a remnant of my father’s, the result is the same.”

“You don’t know where it is,” you echo, your grip tightening further. It’s not a question—it’s an accusation. A challenge. And yet, beneath it all, a flicker of unease gnaws at the edges of your thoughts.

He takes another step closer, his presence now consuming the space between you. The faint hum of the yacht’s engines thrums beneath your feet, a steady rhythm that feels unnervingly distant compared to the charged silence enveloping you both.

“No,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze fixed unflinchingly on yours. “But if you want it badly enough, you’ll find it. Or...” He pauses, his lips curling into a small, cruel smile. “Perhaps the door was never meant to be opened.”

The finality in his tone sends a shiver down your spine, his words hanging in the air like a challenge you’re not sure you’re ready to accept. You feel the weight of his gaze linger a moment longer before he steps back and walks away, leaving you alone with the locked door and the storm of questions now brewing in your mind.

Your eyes follow his retreating figure, watching the way his shoulders shift with each deliberate step. He walks with the kind of measured grace that only someone fully aware of their power can possess. Even now, with his back to you, he exudes control—a maddeningly smug presence that makes your fingers itch to wipe that knowing smirk from his face.

As soon as he turns the corner and disappears from view, you tilt your head slightly, letting your other senses sharpen in the absence of sight. You listen carefully, picking up the subtle rhythm of his footsteps against the polished hardwood floors. The sound grows fainter, then shifts—wood creaks faintly, followed by the soft rustle of fabric brushing against railings. He’s on the deck now, the faint hum of the engines blending with the gentle lapping of waves outside.

You wait a moment longer, ensuring no one else lingers nearby. The dim hallway feels heavier in his absence, the golden sconces casting elongated shadows that ripple against the door. Once certain you’re out of the sightline of prying eyes, human or otherwise, you let the mask of patience slip.

Stepping closer to the door, you press your palm lightly against its surface, the cool wood smooth beneath your fingertips. You lower your head, studying the lock with a calculating gaze. A quiet breath escapes your lips—a final gesture of control—before you apply just enough force.

Your strength is precise, surgical. The lock gives with a muted crack, the sound muffled by the luxurious surroundings. The resistance vanishes almost instantly, and the door swings inward with a low groan, as if yielding to a power it had no hope of resisting.

The moment stretches, the open doorway revealing a dust covered room—what you assumed to be furniture covered in a white protective cloth though some things had been left out. If you had an alive heart it would be pounding in your chest, not from exertion, but from the anticipation that buzzes in your veins like an electric current.

The air inside is heavier, cooler, carrying a faint scent of leather and aged wood. Shadows ripple across the room like secrets waiting to be uncovered, and every detail feels sharp, deliberate. You pause for a beat, your senses on high alert as you take in the space before stepping forward, the faintest grin tugging at your lips.

As the door eases shut behind you, a thought flickers in your mind—if Asriel knew you’d done this, his reaction would be explosive. But for now, he’s on the deck, unaware. And here, in this hidden room, you’re one step ahead.

The room is larger than you expected, its size concealed by the muted lighting and the shadows that seem to cling to every corner. Your first step inside lands softly on the plush, patterned rug that spreads across the floor, muffling the sound of your movement. The air carries a faint trace of something familiar—polished wood, ink, and an undercurrent of rich leather.

Your gaze sweeps the space, taking in the understated opulence. Directly ahead, a grand piano dominates one corner, its sleek black surface reflecting the dim, golden light of a nearby sconce. The lid is closed, but a single sheet of music rests atop it, its edges slightly curled as though it has been handled often. You move closer, the faint scent of varnish tickling your nose as you trace a finger lightly along the smooth edge.

To your left, a painting hangs on the wall, its heavy frame ornate and gilded. The artwork itself is a masterful display of stormy seas, the waves roiling beneath a darkened sky. Lightning forks through the clouds in stark white streaks, the scene almost alive with its vivid detail. You lean in, noting the artist's signature—a name you vaguely recognize, one synonymous with old money and prestige. This wasn’t just a decoration; it was a statement, one that screamed history and power.

Turning away, your attention shifts to the large desk at the far end of the room. It’s a commanding piece of furniture, carved from dark mahogany, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen. The desk is cluttered, but not chaotically so. A brass lamp casts a pool of warm light across the surface, illuminating a meticulous arrangement of items: a crystal inkwell, a stack of parchment, and a leather-bound journal with its spine worn from frequent use.

Curiosity pulls you forward, the weight of the room’s secrets pressing against your chest as you slide into the chair behind the desk. It creaks softly beneath your weight, the leather cool against your skin. You reach for the journal first, the leather supple beneath your fingertips as you flip it open. The handwriting inside is sharp, deliberate, each stroke of the pen exuding purpose.

The first page contains a list of names—some you recognize, others you don’t. Beside each name are cryptic notations, symbols that could be shorthand for alliances, debts, or something far darker. You frown, turning the page, and your breath catches slightly as the entries shift to something more personal.

Philosophical musings fill the pages, interspersed with diagrams and quotes from thinkers whose names stir faint memories from your schooling. Nietzsche. Hobbes. Machiavelli. Each entry delves into themes of power and governance, weaving a narrative that feels chillingly intimate.

"Power is not given—it is taken. And once taken, it must be wielded with precision."

The handwriting seems to grow sharper, more deliberate with that sentence, as though the words themselves had been carved into the page.

You push the journal aside, your eyes catching on a stack of loose papers pinned beneath a paperweight shaped like a coiled serpent. Sliding the papers free, you skim the contents. They’re drafts of speeches, fragments of proposals—plans for restructuring governance, systems of control. You see phrases like “efficient consolidation of power” and “eliminating redundancy in hierarchy,” and your stomach tightens.

This isn’t the idle scribbling of someone enamored with theory. This is a blueprint—a cold, calculated vision of how the world could be reshaped under one iron-fisted ideology.

Your fingers linger on the edge of the desk—dust clinging to the natural oils on your fingers, your mind racing. The opulence of the yacht, the careful curation of this room—it all points to a man obsessed with control, with legacy.

You crouch slightly as you pull open the first drawer, the wood sticking slightly before giving way. The faint creak is swallowed by the ambient hum of the yacht. The contents are a mix of seemingly mundane items, but as your eyes scan over them, they each take on an unsettling significance.

The first thing that catches your attention is a lipstick tube lying on its side. The casing is a rich metallic gold, its surface etched with faint scratches that speak of frequent use. It’s heavier than you expect as you pick it up, the weight solid and deliberate in your hand. You twist it open, revealing a deep, blood-red shade, worn to an angled nub. The color is bold, striking—a shade that demands attention. A faint smear of it lingers on the inside of the cap, a careless mark that feels oddly human in this otherwise pristine, sterile room.

You hold it in your hand for a moment, contemplating the strange urge rising within you. Maybe it’s the sudden, odd connection you feel to the room—or maybe it’s the sensation of wanting to break away from the cold emptiness around you. With a deep breath, you swipe the lipstick across your lips. The color feels bold, almost daring, as if it has a history of its own, something buried just below the surface.

The cool, smooth texture glides effortlessly, and as you step back to examine yourself in the mirror, the sight of the deep red against your skin seems to pull something out of you, a rush of warmth you hadn’t expected. It doesn’t feel entirely like you, but in some strange way, it does. It feels like you’ve put on a mask—one that hides parts of you while exposing something else. The lipstick seems to transform you, making the sterile surroundings feel just a little less cold, a little less unfamiliar.

For a fleeting moment, you wonder why this shade—why this specific color? There’s something about it, something familiar yet distant. But the feeling vanishes almost as quickly as it came, replaced by a quiet unease. You quickly reach for a tissue to blot your lips, as though you can erase the sensation that’s crept into your chest. The red stain on the tissue seems to pulse with its own energy, an unspoken invitation that lingers in the air.

Setting the lipstick down, your fingers find a stack of papers beneath it. The sheets are yellowed with age, tied together with a ribbon that’s frayed and darkened at the edges. You untie it carefully, the fibers threatening to disintegrate under your touch. The topmost page is folded in half, and as you open it, elegant, looping handwriting fills your vision.

"My dearest," the letter begins.

The ink is faded, but the words are legible, each one carefully chosen, brimming with emotion.

"When I close my eyes, I see your face, though I know I should not. You haunt me in the quiet moments, in the stillness of the night, when I am most vulnerable. To love you is a betrayal to myself, and yet, I cannot stop."

The name signed at the bottom sends a chill down your spine, “Aurora” 

The unknown name sounds indifferent on your tongue. You unfold another letter, then another. Each one is more passionate than the last, speaking of stolen moments, secret encounters, and the unbearable weight of unspoken truths. Aurora’s voice is desperate, yearning, but there’s an undercurrent of fear, as though she’s writing these words knowing they could fall into the wrong hands.

"If anyone discovers this, it will ruin us both. But I would rather face destruction than live without you."

The letters leave you unsettled, the intimacy of them clashing with the cold opulence of this space. Who was Aurora? And why were her words hidden here, tied so carefully and preserved for what seems like years?

You return the letters to their drawer and move to the next one. It sticks slightly, and you have to tug harder, the wood scraping against itself as it opens. Inside, a gun lies nestled among other items.

The firearm is an older model, the kind you’d expect to see in an old war film or tucked away in a display case. Its once-polished finish is now dulled, and faint scratches mar the surface of the barrel. The handle is worn smooth, evidence of frequent handling. You pick it up carefully, the cold metal sending a shiver through your fingers. The weight feels ominous, heavier than it should, as though it carries the burden of its history.

You flip open the chamber. Your stomach tightens.

One bullet is missing.

A dozen questions swirl in your mind, each one more troubling than the last. Why keep an outdated gun here? And what happened to that single, missing round?

Swallowing your unease, you place the gun back and reach further into the drawer. Your fingers brush against something hard and angular. Pulling it free, you find a cassette recorder, its edges scuffed and buttons slightly worn. A small tape is already inside, unmarked save for a faint scratch across its surface.

You press the eject button, the tape popping out with a faint click. Turning it over in your hands, you find no label, no indication of what might be on it. Sliding the tape back in, you hesitate, your finger hovering over the play button.

When you press it, the recorder whirs softly to life.

For a moment, there’s nothing but static, the faint hiss crackling in the silence. Then, faintly, a voice emerges—a man’s voice, low and steady, carrying a weight that presses against your chest.

“To lead is to sacrifice,” the voice begins, deliberate and unyielding. “Loyalty is a currency. Those who understand this thrive. Those who do not... fall.”

The cadence of his words is mesmerizing, each syllable precise, as though crafted to reach deeper than your ears—into your core. Something about the voice tugs at the edges of your memory, familiar yet distant, like a dream you can’t quite place.

You lean closer, the hiss of static punctuating his pauses as the tape continues.

“They tell you power is a burden,” the voice goes on, softer now but no less commanding. “But that’s a lie. Power is a gift, one given only to those willing to bear its weight. The world doesn’t need dreamers or saints—it needs those who can make the hard choices.”

The words twist in your mind, unraveling convictions you didn’t even know you held. A chill runs through you, not from fear, but from the unsettling truth in his tone.

“Take loyalty, for instance. People say it must be earned, but they’re wrong. It is bought. With trust. With fear. With love. Currency changes form, but the exchange remains. And when loyalty wavers, when the currency runs dry, you must act.”

A sudden surge of unease prickles at your skin. His voice feels too close now, as if the static itself is alive, vibrating with his presence.

“Sometimes, the hardest choice isn’t to let go—it’s to hold tighter. To force their hand. To make them see. That is sacrifice.”

You close your eyes, his words washing over you like waves. They’re intoxicating, pulling you into their rhythm. Yet, beneath it all, the question lingers: Why does this voice feel so familiar?

The tape clicks, a brief silence stretching like the intake of a breath before his voice resumes.

“Philosophy fails because it speaks in abstracts. Morality is a tool of the weak. Every law, every rule, every so-called virtue, exists to maintain control. To bind those too blind to see their own chains. Ask yourself: what binds you?”

The question cuts through the room like a blade, sharp and precise. You exhale, realizing you’ve been holding your breath. The hissing static fades slightly, as if the tape itself is waiting for your answer.

“Do you believe in what binds you?” he continues. “Or are you afraid to let go? Fear is the greatest chain of all.”

The voice shifts, its timbre softening, almost conspiratorial.

“I’ve stood at the crossroads, where conviction meets reality. I’ve made choices that would break lesser men. Aurora told me once that love was my weakness. But what is love, if not the ultimate currency? Would you spend it? Would you wield it? Or would you let it wield you?”

Aurora. The name catches your breath. It’s her again, woven into this enigma. The voice deepens, resonating with an almost hypnotic quality.

“I told her once that love is a tool, like any other. I didn’t mean it. Not entirely. But I knew she’d never understand. She saw love as salvation. I saw it as ruin.”

A pause stretches, long enough for the silence to feel oppressive. When the voice returns, it’s quieter, filled with something you can’t quite place—regret, perhaps.

“They say time heals. It doesn’t. It just dulls the edges, makes them easier to wield.”

Your stomach tightens. The room feels colder, smaller. The weight of his words is unbearable, as if he’s speaking directly to your soul, unraveling the certainties you’ve built your life around.

You glance at the recorder, your hand twitching as if to stop it, but you can’t. You have to hear more. You have to know.

“Ask yourself,” he says, the finality in his tone striking like a gavel. “If you stripped away the chains—fear, morality, love—what would remain? Would it be you? Or would it be nothing?”

The tape clicks again, then falls into silence. You stare at the recorder, your mind racing, your heartbeat loud in your ears. The familiarity of the voice gnaws at you. You know it. You know him. But the answer lies just out of reach, like a shadow on the edge of your vision.

You sit there in silence, the weight of the man's words pressing heavily against your chest. The room feels different now, the air thicker, the golden light from the sconces muted as though the room itself had absorbed the gravity of his message.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you hover over the tape recorder, unsure if you should press rewind or simply eject the cassette and walk away. But you can’t move. The voice—his voice—still echoes in your mind. Every syllable felt personal, aimed directly at the walls you’d carefully constructed around your beliefs.

Your gaze drifts to the desk, the open drawers now a scattered mess. Among the letters from Aurora, the lipstick, the aging gun with its missing bullet, you search for something—anything—that might connect to the voice.

Your eyes settle on the notepad tucked at the corner of the desk. The top sheet is blank, but a faint indentation is visible, the shadow of words scrawled on the page above it. Without thinking, you grab a pencil from the drawer and carefully shade over the blank page, the faint imprint of the previous message slowly revealing itself.

The words come into view, and your heart skips:

"For every act of rebellion, a consequence. For every bond broken, a scar remains. No one escapes the weight of their choices. Not even me."

You swallow hard, the knot in your stomach tightening. There’s a chill creeping down your spine, a sense that you’re unraveling something you were never meant to see.

On the corner of the desk, a dusty wooden box catches your eye. You lift the lid cautiously, revealing an assortment of personal trinkets. A tarnished cufflink, an old wristwatch with a cracked face, and a folded photograph. You pull out the photo and unfold it carefully.

It’s a picture of a young man standing beside a woman. She’s smiling—her eyes bright with life, her arm looped around his. His expression, however, is stoic, distant, as if his mind is miles away. Despite his youth, there’s something unmistakably familiar about his features. It’s him. It has to be.

You turn the photograph over, finding a date scribbled in the corner: 12/08/—the year worn out over time. Beneath it, a name: Aurora.

Your breath catches. She wasn’t just writing to him—she was with him. The questions multiply in your mind, but they’re swallowed by the growing sense of unease.

Your attention shifts back to the tape recorder. The tape has stopped spinning, the soft hum of the mechanism gone. But you can’t help wondering if there’s more. Carefully, you eject the tape and flip it over, your fingers brushing against its worn plastic casing.

You press play.

The hiss of static fills the room again, a sharp contrast to the overwhelming silence. You brace yourself as the voice returns, softer this time, like a whisper carried on the wind.

“I didn’t set out to become this,” he begins, his tone laced with something you hadn’t heard before—vulnerability. “But the path we walk isn’t always the one we choose. Sometimes, it’s the one forced upon us. You understand that, don’t you?”

Your breath catches, a strange sense of being addressed directly washing over you.

“People talk about change like it’s a choice. It’s not. It’s a reaction. A survival mechanism. You adapt, or you die.”

The voice pauses, a faint inhale audible before continuing.

“I adapted. I made choices I wasn’t proud of, but I made them. Because the alternative—failure—was worse. Do you see that now? Can you understand? Do you understand—Asriel?”

The moment the name slips from his lips, a cold shock runs through your veins, paralyzing you in place. Your body tenses as if the world has just shifted, as though reality itself has been recalibrated. 

A sharp knock on the door startles you, the sound shattering the spell of the recording. You whip your head toward the noise, your heart pounding in your chest.

You curse under your breath, the words sharp like a dagger as you ball your hands into fists. The claws digging into your palm are a stark reminder of the tension building within you. You're preparing for the inevitable punishment Asriel would surely hand down for this intrusion—though, to be fair, he never explicitly told you not to enter this room. Still, the weight of defiance presses down on you, and you brace yourself for the inevitable confrontation.

But before you can settle into the anger, the sharp crackle of a voice slices through the silence, drawing you out of your spiraling thoughts. It's not Asriel.

“Why, what are you doing in here?” The voice is teasing, light, almost mocking, but there's a weight to it. Something old, something familiar. It’s like a breath of air, cold and unsettling, right behind you. You turn, and the presence is impossible to ignore. There he is, standing just a few feet away, the smirk playing at the corners of his lips as if he’s watching you struggle with something invisible.

Vic.

"Nothing," you snap, the sharpness in your voice betraying a tension you hadn’t realized you were holding. The words come out colder than intended, but you can’t quite bring yourself to apologize—not with him standing there, staring at you with those knowing eyes. Eyes that have seen too much, too many things hidden in plain sight.

Vic just chuckles, his gaze sliding lazily over the room, soaking in every detail with a look of quiet recognition. It’s almost as if the space itself is drawing out memories—memories that feel far older than you could have imagined.

"Didn’t think I’d see inside here again," he mutters, his voice a mixture of nostalgia and something darker, something he doesn't quite say aloud. The words hang in the air like smoke, dense with meaning, and you catch a flicker in his eyes, something fleeting, something lost. For a split second, he looks like a different person—someone not quite as sure of himself as he usually appears.

His gaze drifts over the polished surfaces, the paintings that adorn the walls, the piano that sits like an untouched relic in the corner of the room. His fingers twitch slightly, as if they’re itching to touch the keys, but he doesn’t move. He just stands there, like the room itself is a memory too heavy to bear.

The silence between you stretches, thick and uncomfortable. It’s strange—Vic never had a presence quite like this before. He’s always been the playful one, the mischievous one, but now… there’s something more, something hidden beneath that surface. Something familiar, yes, but also distant.

The room feels smaller now, suffocating even. The weight of history presses against your chest, but you refuse to let it show. The temptation to ask Vic about his time with Asriel's father, about the man he served before Asriel, lingers in the back of your mind like a gnawing itch. You want to know so badly, but something—some unspoken understanding between you and Vic—keeps your mouth shut.

Instead, you look down, your gaze drawn to the dusted-over wooden floor beneath your feet. The floorboards are worn, their natural wood darkened by years of use. There’s something oddly comforting about their age, as though they, too, have seen things that no one will ever speak of. Things that can never be forgotten.

Vic’s voice breaks the silence, though it doesn’t sound entirely unexpected. It’s smooth, like he’s already anticipating the next step in this strange dance between the two of you.

“Asriel requests your presence,” he says, his tone casual, but with an underlying sharpness.

You freeze for a second, your thoughts spiraling. Had Asriel known you were here? Had Vic seen you enter? The questions float in your mind like smoke, but you don’t voice them. Instead, you stay silent, swallowing down the curiosity that bubbles to the surface.

You walk past Vic, the sound of your steps echoing faintly in the otherwise quiet room. Your fingers curl around the tape recorder, still hidden from his view. It’s all you can do to keep your focus on the present, ignoring the heavy weight of the past that presses in from all sides. The tape. The words on it. They’re important, more important than anything else right now.

As you near the door, you glance over your shoulder, expecting him to be behind you, but his presence is palpable, even from a distance. Vic hasn’t moved. His eyes are on you, unreadable but sharp. You can feel his gaze like a weight against your back.

“Are you going to tell Asriel I was in there?” you ask, your voice laced with the hint of defiance, though the question is much more loaded than it appears. You can feel the tension between you, thick like fog, and for a moment, everything feels suspended in time.

Vic doesn’t immediately respond. He steps closer, his movements slow, deliberate. He’s studying you, watching the way your hand tightens around the cassette recorder as if it’s the only thing grounding you in this moment.

His lips curl into a teasing smile, the kind that feels more dangerous than lighthearted. “Are you asking me not to?” he replies, his voice dripping with amusement, but there’s something else lurking beneath the surface—something darker.

You stiffen, the question hanging between you both like a tightrope, but you don’t break. You hold his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away.

 

──

The room is quiet except for the soft, rhythmic hum of the yacht’s engine beneath you, the world outside the massive windows shifting as the sea stretches endlessly. The dining hall is a portrait of elegance, the large mahogany table gleaming under the dim, warm lights hanging from the ceiling. The atmosphere is rich, almost oppressive in its luxury, as if the very air inside was infused with opulence. The faint scent of saltwater mingles with the faint traces of expensive perfume in the space—an odd juxtaposition of nature and excess.

Asriel stands before the window, his silhouette outlined against the darkening sky. His back is to you, but there’s something about the way he holds himself, the posture of a man both in control and lost in thought. You can see the slight movement of his shoulders as he inhales deeply, as if savoring the fleeting moment before the inevitable conversation.

You pause just outside the threshold, your heart skipping as you glance down at the decorative vase where you’ve carefully hidden the tape. The weight of it—the knowledge of what’s on it—makes the air around you feel heavier. The fragile porcelain vase is unassuming, yet perfect for the job, its delicate design a stark contrast to the secrets it now holds.

When you step fully into the room, the sound of your shoes clicking on the polished floor cuts through the silence, and it seems to pull Asriel from his reverie. He turns to face you, and in that instant, his gaze locks onto yours. His eyes—always sharp, always calculating—immediately flicker downward, settling on your lips. 

“Where did you get that?” His voice cuts through the silence, sharp and commanding. It’s not an innocent question; it’s an accusation wrapped in the guise of curiosity, a demand for answers.

You swallow, the instinctive tension in your throat reminding you that you’re being watched, every detail of your body language under his scrutiny. Your fingers brush the lipstick lightly, as though to confirm its presence, the color bright against the otherwise muted tones of the room. You feel his gaze lingering on it, like he’s trying to piece together some hidden meaning.

“I brought it with me—on board,” you say, the words flowing easily despite the lie they carry. The truth doesn’t come as quickly, nor does it feel safe to utter aloud. You know him well enough to know that he won’t buy this, not completely. But for now, the lie seems enough to hold off whatever is coming next.

A brief, knowing silence stretches between you, filled only by the subtle, steady rhythm of your breathing. Asriel’s eyes narrow slightly, his lips pulling into a tight line, and then, almost too casually, he lets out a soft murmur.

“Looks like a shade my mother would wear.”

His words hang in the air like smoke, curling and twisting into something you can’t quite decipher. The mention of his mother stirs something within you, a ripple of discomfort. You know enough about his past to understand that his mother’s legacy—whatever it may be—is a topic Asriel doesn’t entertain lightly. His tone, though matter-of-fact, carries an undertone of something more complex, something that feels like it might be both a question and an observation all at once.

“She must have impeccable taste,” you say, your voice steady, though there's a slight tremor in the words as you step closer to him. You wanted to be near him, always did, even in moments like this—when the space between you seemed to hum with the unspoken things neither of you dared to say.

Asriel's gaze remains on the water, the vast expanse of it reflecting the fading light of the day. There’s something distant in the way he looks out, something far away, as though he’s searching for something beyond the horizon. He doesn’t immediately respond to your words, his focus unbroken, but the quiet weight of his presence fills the room.

Then, he speaks, his voice smooth and low, pulling you back into the moment. “You helped the chef?” The question is simple, but there’s a depth to it—something more than casual curiosity. It reminds you of earlier today, the encounter with the woman who had needed your help, and the feeling of being useful, of being needed in a way that mattered. A small flutter stirs in your chest.

“I just healed her wound,” you reply softly, your eyes still on him as he stands by the window, his silhouette framed against the darkening sky. His profile is sharp, the line of his jaw set in a quiet determination, the muscles of his neck taut as though he’s been carrying a weight for far longer than anyone can see.

Asriel's head tilts slightly toward you, his gaze finally shifting from the water. There’s no mockery in his voice when he speaks again, no teasing edge that you’ve come to expect. “Good job, pet,” he says, the words falling from his lips with an unexpected tenderness. “I’m proud of you.”

The way he says it catches you off guard. It’s genuine, unguarded—a rare thing from him, and it stirs something deep within you. You feel the warmth of it spread through you, curling like a slow fire in your chest. For a moment, you almost forget the ache in your bones, the way the distance between you and him has always felt like a stretch of endless miles, impossible to cross.

You look up at him, seeking something—his approval, maybe, or perhaps just the connection that’s always felt so elusive. But as you meet his gaze, something shifts in the air between you. For the briefest second, you see something there, something in his eyes that feels older than either of you, something that pulls at the corners of your heart in a way that isn’t entirely new.

His gaze still lingers on the water, but you’re acutely aware of how close you are to him now. Every breath you take feels sharper, like a tremor in the silence. And yet, there’s a quiet comfort in it. You can’t help but think back to the faces of those you’ve loved—long before Asriel, long before Ivan. There’s something about his profile, the sharpness of his features, the way his brow furrows as he looks out across the water, that reminds you of someone else. Someone from a time you thought was buried, a person whose presence still haunts the edges of your memories.

For a fleeting moment, it’s like a door has opened, and through it, you see the faintest outline of another face—a man you once loved, the one who had shown you tenderness long before this moment. The memory stirs, bittersweet and heavy, and it lingers there, like the faintest echo in the back of your mind. You feel the ache of it, that old loss, the way love once held you close and then let you go.

But then the door shuts, and Asriel is there again, solid and real in front of you, his presence filling the room with an intensity that no memory can ever quite match. And as you look at him, your chest tightens, caught between the echoes of the past and the raw, aching reality of now

──

author's note: i missed writing for asriel, i don't entirely know where i was going with this nor if it makes sense. (asriel's dad is definitely so hot)

[better-page-sage]

Garbage Self-Insert Undertale AU

Name: BPSTale

Part joke, part serious, all stupid. Also, even though this AU has f/os in the major character roles, there will be no self-shipping in this. Sorry folks.

Frisk - Me!!! At least the Picrew version of me. Not much is changing about my personality.

Chara - Alastor (Hazbin Hotel)! I know that Chara isn’t the one who caused the genocide in actual Undertale, but nobody is really looking at this anyway, so Alastor causes the genocide in this AU. Color me stupid lolz.

Flowey - Chikn Nuggit! I just feel this role would be funny, especially the idea of the Omega form being Chikn’s god form.

Toriel - Kinger (TADC)! He keeps whatever place replaces the Ruins dark for his own sanity. Plus, protective father figure. Followers of my blog know exactly where this is going lolz.

Napstablook - Greavard (Pokemon)! Little shy ghost pup. I know he’s more outgoing than Napstablook, but I felt this role would be cute.

Sans - Rudy (ChalkZone)! I’ve made Rudy Sans in a couple of other AUs, but we don’t talk about those because they were even worse than this one. This version of Rudy is a bit more outgoing than Sans, but a bit lazier than himself in the cartoon. 

Papyrus - Snap (ChalkZone)! He’s just like himself in the show because Snap already has Papyrus energy. 

Grillby - Dib (Invader Zim)! He’s had more success as a restaurant owner than a paranormal investigator. At least his restaurant is based on ghosts and aliens.

Monster Kid - Kitty (Kitty Is Not A Cat)! I felt she would say a bit more than “meow” in this AU, but only a bit! She’d probably say things like “Hi!” and “Let’s go!” or “Stop!” if you do a genocide run. She wants to be a part of the royal guard just like her friends! 

Mad Dummy - Mimikyu (Pokemon)! Angry ghost in a cloth costume? Yeah, it’s the same.

Undyne - Kuromi (Sanrio)! Edgy emo critter with soft bunny gf. She denies the fact that she’s cute and the fact she likes cute stuff.

Temmie - Squeakoid (Animal Crossing)! Sqeakoid shop, bottom text.

Alphys - My Melody (Sanrio)! Precious little bun! She loves kawaii stuff and anime (especially Sailor Moon)!

Mettaton - Sprigatito/Meowscarada (Pokemon)! Sprigatito is the Box Form, Meowscarada is the EX Form, and the NEO Form is just Meowscarada with a glock. 

Muffet - Charlotte (Making Fiends)! She’s gone a little nuts looking for a friend and thinks that wealth can help with that. 

Gaster - Penny (ChalkZone)! Rudy used to be her assistant before the incident involving the CORE replacement.

Asgore - Caine (TADC)! He’s a bit more outgoing than Asgore, but I wanted to do some Royalteeth angst. He feels bad for what he did to the six souls because it drove Kinger away and resulted in the death of the next role.

Asriel - Pomni (TADC)! She’s pretty much the same as she is in the show.

Mad Mew Mew - Dedenne (Pokemon)! Well, more like a robot Dedenne, but still.

Amalgamates - Catnap (Poppy Playtime), Snom Pincurchin and Pyukumuku (Pokemon), Kaufmo (TADC), Izzy Moonbow (MLP ANG), Vendetta (Making Fiends), Rainbow Dash (MLP FIM)

Royal Guard - Thorn (KINAC), Alexander and Eliza Hamilton (Hamilton musical), Petal (KINAC), Skrawl (ChalkZone), Larry and Geeta (Pokemon S/V)

Human Souls - Queenie (TADC), Isabelle (Animal Crossing), Beetlejuice (Beetlejuice, specifically the musical), Tattletail (Tattletail), Gregory (FNAF SB), Mirabel Madrigal (Encanto)

Feel free to suggest characters from the previously listed fandoms for other roles! I also will answer questions in the unlikely event that they're asked.

[apjtheartist]

Series, games and movies I want to make fanart of.

Maybe some of them will change and maybe the order will change.

Do any of you guys have any requests or ideas you want me to try?

The only rules are no real human or too realistic

And it has to be character from an animation

The amazing digital circus - jax ✔️- pomni ✔️- Ragatha ✔️ - Gangle ✔️ - Kinger ✔️ - Zooble ✔️- caine ✔️ - bubble ✔️ - kaufmo ✔️

Lego monkie kid - MK ✔️- Mei ✔️- red son✔️ - macaque ✔️- monkey King ✔️ - nezha request✔️ - lady bone demon✔️ - ao Lie ✔️- mo ✔️- demon Bull King ✔️ - princess iron fan - peng - pigsy - tang - Sandy - Jin - Yin - azure lion

Tales of Arcadia - jim - claire - toby - Douxie - aja - krel ✔️ - varvatos vex ✔️- angor rot - archie - aarrrgghh!!! - Blinky✔️ - nari - Nomura - Draal - notenrique - Deya ✔️- Walter -

Jack skellington ✔️

Mystery skulls - arthur - lewis request - vivi - mystery - shiromori - ???

Undertale - frisk - Flowey ✔️ - Toriel - sans - papyrus - undyne - alphys - mettaton - Asgore - asriel - chara - monster kid ✔️- napstablook - muffet

Junkrat - Roadhog (I think)

Sundrop request ✔️- Moondrop ✔️ - glamrock freddy - glamrock chica - roxanne Wolf - Montgomery Gator - vanny - dj Music man

Hilda - Hilda ✔️- twig ✔️- David - Frida - alfur - tontu Alpha - tontu beta - jellybean

legend of vox machina - percy

Bendy - Bendy ✔️ - Boris - Alice Angel - Sammy -

Helluva boss - blitz - loona- moxxie - Mille - Sallie May ✔️ - stolas request ✔️ - Octavia - stella - Striker - asmodeus - Fizzarolli✔️ - beelzebub - mammon - chazwick - cletus - collin - Keenie - Deerie - robo Fizz - glitz - glam ✔️ - verosika mayday - vortex - Wally Wackford

Hazbin hotel - Charlie work in progress - vaggie - Angel dust request ✔️- fat nuggets - husk - Alastor - rosie - niffy - vox - lilith - lucifer - Adam - Lute - mimzy - Molly - Baxter - egg boiz - Cherri bomb - crymini - Sir pentious -Katie killjoy - kee kee

The vampair Series - missi ✔️

Youtuber - let me explain studios - mogswamp

Sly Cooper - sly Cooper - Bentley - Murray - carmelita montoya fox

ROTTMNT - raph - Leo - Mikey - donnie

Smallfoot - migo

kipo and the age of wonderbeasts - Kipo

[thewhumpcaretaker]

Hey, I was wondering. What do you think about a sorta preggers situation? Like, it could be John helping Gigi/Georgia through a tough pregnancy (with a VERY anxious Asriel), or maybe his lover being pregnant. Uncle!John versus Hubby!John HCs, if you will.

He gives off “spoils them rotten without question” energy in both situations in my head. But I like seeing platonic/familial John compared to romantic John.

Maybe a bonus “how he treats his child/nibling”?

@alice-of-hightable @asriel-boudreaux-hallowed

Thanks for the ask!! Hmmm, that's an interesting distinction to explore. I think the main difference would be that as an uncle/outside figure, he would leave a lot of that care and comfort to the person's partner (in this case, Asriel). Whereas, with his own lover, he'd be

TW: pregnancy scenarios

Uncle!John: He'd end up caring for the caretaker instead. He'd spend a lot of time talking with Asriel about what it means to him to be a father and how to take care of Gigi. He'd make sure that Asriel takes some breaks instead of just worrying 24/7. He'd tell him that he's going to be a great dad and that Gigi is a lot tougher than she appears. Of course, he'd also bring gifts for Gigi and would be there for her as well.

But with his own lover, the care would be on another level.

Husband!John: John would want to be as involved as possible throughout the pregnancy. He adores the whole idea of having a family, and especially the idea of creating a person with the one he loves most. He would be sooo excited, reading fairy tales to the baby while they're still in the womb and putting all his efforts into setting up a playroom for them. And of course, his lover's health and happiness is top priority for him throughout the whole process. He'd feel such wonder and respect for what they're going through, and would do everything he can to make them comfortable. He'd give constant massages and any food that they want when they're having cravings, and he'd contact the best doctors that he can find (and he can afford any doctor in the world). His paranoia about safety would go through the roof during this time, too. He would be baby-proofing the whole house and would be very scared of what the High Table might do to use his child against him, as they've done to Caine and Sofia in the past. If he isn't already out of the underworld, he absolutely would be at that point and would be very private about his family life.

[that-lazy-animator]

Am bord so here an idea of TADC + undertale.

Inspired by multiple people

Here are the characters so far

Will be changed depending on suggestions so feel free to adjust your ideas!

frisk = pomni

Alphys = gangle

Undyne = Zooble

Papyrus = Able

Sans = Caine

Toriel = Ragatha

Asgore = Kinger

Flowey = Jax (Unsure)

Mettaton = ???? (attempted to make Queenie for some reson)

Asriel = ??????

Chara = Kaufmo (unsure ?????)

(Note any character who have ??? Are characters I I haven't deciding on yet)

That's really all it would be obvious places to be a you.

In your guy suggestions would really be very very nice

Bye♥