#asriel cain

[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)

[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

[litmot-archived]

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.”

[nortonswifey]

ok... here's my general thoughts so far

- absolutely fun 😭💚 about 3 times i had to shake Nicole and tell her "i cant believe im playing deltarune" im really happy!

- the visuals are outstanding, they really upped their game since chapter 2. there's so much detail and polish and you'd notice it if you stared hard enough

- so much awesome sprites and animations... im throughly delighted

- tenna's animations is spectacular. i can tell they did some sort of rotoscoping on him. maybe he was animated 3d and rotoscoped

- he's like if caine became a tv host... hes amazing and charming

- his opening animation is so peak... it reminds me of classic/vhs styled commericals its really good 😭 the shameless ralsei plush promotion is so hilarious but i love it

enough about the quality, the story is very interesting

- found out how the way the dark world exists is when there's no light to shine the darkness - the darkness tries to make something out of nothing, like an illusion... which is The Dark World. ralsei explains that all the friends they made in the previous chapters are everyday objects that kris and susie walks into. lancer is just a spade card. queen is just a laptop. so and so forth . based on that logic, tenna is kris' television at home. it begs the question however, what is ralsei made of?

- tenna's existence is based off kris' tv, and it also means that he knows everything about kris' past and brings it into conversation (though its so offhandedly like how dare you 😭)

here's the interesting things he brought up;

1.) dess/december's presence... noelle's missing older sister. it seems like she was a punk, but she was always welcome to their home. also meant that she basically grew up with kris and their brother

2.) speaking of brother, asriel was mentioned a few times by tenna... how they always liked to ad lib the cooking show toriel loves watching. can only mean they really had a good sibling relationship... and that asriel liked magical girls at some point HWHSHSHSHSHS

3.) clearly tenna has seen kris' entire childhood before his eyes and i wonder if he knows what are they like when the SOUL isnt controlling kris

- there's a festival coming sometime later in the light world. it reminds me of ddlc's festival plot too, where they're all anticipating this festival. wonder if it comes important later.

- kris seems to not like tv? or at least, stopped watching tv. not much to analyze here but i wanted to mention it

- susie's attitude has drastically changed since chapter one, she really cares for ralsei and wanted him to be included in everything she and kris does together

- ralsei is such a pushover and he seems to struggle taking the leader role even when susie suggested it for fun. he always prefers to follow kris (and is always tailing kris when they played the video game in the game show). he also prefers not to listen to susie's ideas but if it happens, he just caves in and let her do her thing (its so fucking funny though)

now, for characters

- elnino and lanina are so fun, they're both amazing concepts because they play on the weather conditions (la niño/hot season and la niña/wet season) and they're lovers... who gets a little drama fit HSHDHDHSHS they're still not over each other but omfg the way they yearn for the other makes me laugh so bad

- ROULXS THE FUCKING THIRD WHEEL HES CASUALLY INSERTING HIMSELF IN THEIR RELATIONSHIPSJFBDHDHDHEJEJRH HES BISEXUAL BUT THEY'RE STILL RECOVERING HELLO?????? IM CRYING

- ELNINO AND LANINA ONLY GOT BACK TOGETHER BECAUSE OF ROULX'S CONDITION ("IF YOU WANT TO BE TOGETHER PLS DATE ME TOO") HOORAY FIRST POLY COUPLEDBBVFBFHDHDHF THEY'RE SO FUNNY

ive stopped playing for now, nic and i plan to continue it tomorrowyeyeyeyeg

[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,

[yoursinisforgiven]

I WANNA DRINK YOUR WORDS LIKE WINE ──

pairing: asriel x reader (pet)

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

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

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

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

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

His mother.

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

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

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

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

But his mother. She was different.

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

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

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

Asriel and his father looked deathly similar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

──

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

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

That was, until Asriel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only something deeper.

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

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

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

For you, it was something else entirely.

It was proof.

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

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

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

He did not pull back.

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

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

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

Not as a master.

Not as something untouchable, unreachable.

But as a man.

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

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

──

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

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

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

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

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

But he was distant.

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

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

Someone had died.

Calem. You believed that was his name.

It should not have mattered.

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

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

You turned your gaze to him now.

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

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

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

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

A pause in a mind that rarely ever paused.

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

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

And truthfully, it flustered you.

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

So you broke the silence.

“Can I ask you something?”

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

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

“I can’t promise an answer.”

Of course. That was always the way of it.

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

“What does it feel like?” you asked.

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

There was a long pause.

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

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

A well-rehearsed answer.

A practiced deflection.

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

“Liar.”

His lips twitched, but he did not refute you.

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

After what felt like a lifetime, he spoke.

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

He paused.

”—it still surprises you.”

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

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

Calem? His father? Someone else?

Or was it himself?

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

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

His gaze slid back to you, slow, deliberate.

“It takes everything,” he said simply.

The words settled between you, heavy, final.

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

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

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

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

Nothing lasted.

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

One day, even Asriel would fade.

And perhaps, that was the cruelest truth of all.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The fire crackled behind you.

The snow continued to fall.

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

──

It was one of those nights again.

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

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

Mother Nature had moved on.

But you hadn’t.

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

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

No, not the party.

Her.

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

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

But there was one thing you could never take.

Asriel’s trust.

Maybe even something deeper than that.

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

And to her, he had given it freely.

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

He had assured you, hadn’t he?

He had told you he liked you.

It had never even come close, close to what you truly craved.

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

His body.

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

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

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

And for a while, this was enough.

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

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

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

He always did.

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

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

Then, instead of retreating, he exhaled.

Slowly.

As if surrendering to this. To you.

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

And suddenly, that hunger returned.

Not for his body.

For more.

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

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

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

And still, he did not stop you.

So you bit.

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

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

It was him.

In his purest form.

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

With you.

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

This was the closest you would ever truly have him.

The closest he would ever allow you to be.

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

And you could not stop yourself.

“Do you love me?”

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

His body stiffened.

For the first time, he hesitated.

The silence stretched long between you, thick and heavy.

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

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

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

It was not rough.

Not demanding.

But lingering.

As if memorizing the taste of himself on your tongue.

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

“Don’t ask me that.”

His voice was quiet.

Not a refusal.

Not a rejection.

But something far worse.

Something that sounded like an admission.

Something that felt like surrender.

And yet, he stayed.

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

The world outside continued its dance.

The seasons would keep turning.

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

──

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

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

psps: thank you payton talbott 

tag list:

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

[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!

[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♥

[danganronpasurvivoraskblog]

Speaking of Afton. While searching for decent foes for Mikado Sannoji I’ve heard a lot of people suggesting he should go up against Vanny/Vanessa from FNAF and I honestly have to question these people because does she have ANY feats? Plus I feel like it’s a poor man’s Junko vs William Afton which given Mikado is the rare Fanronpa mastermind who ISN’T connected to Junko’s BS he shouldn’t be fighting a watered down opponent that Junko would face.

//Yeaaaaaaahhhh the connections are kinda flat on that one.

//If you want my personal opinion, I think Mikado's current best opponent is one of two characters: Asriel from Undertale and Caine from The Amazing Digital Circus.

//Asriel because both of them are magical reality warpers within the world of a video game, and Caine because both of them are magicians that hold a selection of wacky characters hostage in a digital world and subject them to endless torment.

//As for Vanny, I think she also has two good ones, one of which is pretty obvious, and both for the same reason: that being Sammy Lawrence from Bendy and the Ink Machine and Amanda Young from SAW.

//All three of them share the role of being victims of their series main villains (Afton, Bendy and Kramer) and converted to continue/convey said villain's purpose.

-Mod