#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

[literary-motif]

I Don't Forgive You

Asirel Cain x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He rolled his eyes at your question.

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

Oh, today you would have a feast.

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

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

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

Asirel did not betray his thoughts. 

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

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

He chuckled nervously. “Right, man?”

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

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

For a moment, he contemplated ending Richard himself. 

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

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

He could do all that if he wanted to. 

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

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

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

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

“Agreed,” Asirel said, shuffling his papers.

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

“I’ll pass on the request.”

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

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

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

“Certainly not.” 

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

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

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

“That’s not what you should call me.”

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

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

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

“Play nice.”

[random-autie-fangirl]

#dreemurr is an anagram for murderer

:0

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[imakecoffinsforeveryone]

I drew a mini comic and voiced it myself

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

[strixcattus]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Serious mode

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's the first human isn't it

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

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

[fazbears-warehouse]

ANGEL DEMON ID PACK

requested by anon!!

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

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

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

[damontwo]

TADC x UNDERTALE au concept "Digital Underground"

Caine as Asgore

Bubble as Temmie

Able as Flowey/Asriel

Others who aren't in this picture

Jax as Pappyrus

Ragatha as sans

Gangle as Alphys

Zooble as Undyne

Kinger as Toriel

Kaufmo as Gaster? I guess?

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

[yoursinisforgiven]

SECRETARY ──

pairing: james x reader (non–listener)

cw: light dark content, smut, pwp (so much plot..), impact play, gunplay(?), afab reader, a little pain play,, sex in front of another person(?) (but not really), vaginal fingering, somewhat based off this movie, established relationship, reader and james are implied to have been together since highschool, age difference relationships (reader is implied to be somewhat younger than james), violence, mentions of gangs, reader is referred to as james ‘wife’, references to this fic, writer is a liar and didnt actually re listen to any audios because she's too lazy!

you are responsible for your own media consumption, the piece of writing contains dark content; it’s not suitable or meant to be enjoyed by all readers.

Perhaps you should have settled for something else—a simpler life.

To say you hated your job was somehow both an understatement and a dramatic stretch. It wasn't hate, not exactly. It was exhaustion, it was unease, it was the weight of something you couldn’t name pressing against your chest at odd hours of the night. A heaviness that settled in the marrow of your bones and refused to be shaken. Sometimes, it felt like a knot twisted tight around your ribs, only loosening when the lights went down and the city outside faded into darkness. But that darkness never lasted long, not here.

In the rare quiet moments between phone calls and schedules, between bloodstained suits and unreadable gazes, you found yourself drifting. You thought about a different life. Somewhere quiet. Maybe Maine—a small town with large plots of land, a comfortable house with a garden that smelled like lavender and thyme in the summer, not like the sterile walls of your current life. The house you lived in now, the one that never truly felt like home.

Perhaps it was ignorant to complain about living a life of luxury, a life James and Tara—

Tara. The name comes like a sting, sharp and sudden, slicing through the fragile calm you’d tried to build. The ache was immediate, a raw burn that spread through your chest, stealing the breath from your lungs as easily as it had the day you first felt it. That gnawing hole in the pit of your stomach—a hole that had never fully healed.

She had been a part of this. A part of him. And now she was gone, swallowed by the shadows of the past. But the memory lingered, gnawing at you, always reminding you of a life that could never be.

They had worked so hard to give you this life. To give everyone they cared about this life. A life that was always far too expensive to be simple, too soaked in blood to be pure. Still, that thought nagged at you. A simpler life. A smaller house. Maybe even a small garden. Maybe in another life.

The sound of the heavy-duty metal door—the one you'd insisted on having reinforced to be bullet- and explosion-resistant—creaks open, its metal scraping against the frame with a high-pitched screech. The kind of sound that makes your teeth ache, a sharp, abrasive noise that feels almost intrusive in the stillness of the room. The door slams shut with a force that rattles the thick windows, sending a tremor through the polished floors.

You flinch. Once, twice. Your grip tightens around the clipboard in your hands, the cool plastic pressing into your fingers as if the act of holding it might ground you. The pen’s smooth surface does little to help. It’s just an object, a small thing, useless in the grand scheme of things.

Then, James enters.

His jacket, once immaculate, is now in his hand, dangling like a discarded thing. Streaks of blood stain the fabric in long, uneven lines, a violent contrast against the dark fabric. The blood, a deep crimson, has already begun to dry, turning the material into something almost stiff—crusted like an old wound that refuses to heal. The sight of it twists something deep in your stomach, the sharp reminder that no matter how much you pretend, the blood of his work is never truly washed away.

His hands, always so steady, are now visibly trembling. Only slightly, imperceptible to anyone else, but you see it. It’s there, in the way he grips the jacket like a lifeline, his fingers white at the knuckles.

You can’t remember a time when the weight of him didn’t settle into the air around you. Heavy, suffocating. And yet, it was always this quiet pressure, never the explosion you might expect from someone so… well, like him.

He doesn’t say anything.

He never does when he’s in this state. No need. You know better than anyone that silence is a language all its own when it comes to James.

The anger isn’t like the rage you’ve seen in others. It doesn’t explode outward, tearing through the world with a destructive force. No, his is a different kind of fury—a quiet, restrained anger that lingers, always contained, simmering beneath the surface. You can see it in the tightness of his jaw, the subtle twitch of his left hand, the way his eyes dart to the floor for a fraction of a second, as if to gather himself before facing whatever he’s about to say.

But it’s there, and you can read it, the way you’ve always been able to.

The thick, cold air of the basement wraps itself around you as you step into the hall behind him. The Quetza’s—a stupid name, you'd complained to Warren once. Too hard to spell, too hard to remember for customers. Not that it mattered. The hotel was never meant to be memorable. It was meant to be a front— hallways always feel like a maze—narrow, dimly lit by harsh fluorescent lights that cast long shadows on the walls, the sort that never seem to leave, even when the lights are off. The walls are thick, reinforced with concrete, designed to keep whatever happens inside contained.

It’s a far cry from the house you’d imagined. A simple house with soft lighting and warm wood floors. But you knew, even as the thought crossed your mind, that this life was never meant for you. Not really. You’d always been a bystander, a reluctant participant in something much darker than you could’ve ever imagined.

James walks ahead, his bloodied jacket swaying slightly with each step, the dark fabric almost blending into the shadows around him. His shoes click against the polished floors in a rhythmic pattern that, if you listened long enough, could almost lull you into a trance.

You follow him out of the basement, the echoes of your footsteps bouncing off the walls, a reminder of just how far away you were from any notion of peace.

Maybe in another life, another world, you could’ve had that simple house. That small garden. Maybe James wouldn’t have blood on his hands every night. Maybe you wouldn’t know the exact shade of red fresh blood dried into. Maybe you wouldn’t have to stomach the weight of it all.

But then again, maybe you would.

──

The car door opens with a soft groan of metal, a sound that feels almost sentient, like the vehicle itself is weary of its purpose. The air outside is cool against your skin, though it doesn’t feel like it should be—more a gentle reminder that no matter how much you try, you’ll never escape the chill of this life. It lingers, seeps into the bones, makes a home in the spaces between each inhale and exhale.

The Bentley’s interior greets you with a familiar, almost suffocating warmth. The cream leather of the seat molds against you like an old friend, but the seat feels a bit too empty tonight. A void where something should be—what, you’re not sure. Something intangible, something just beyond reach.

You slide in beside James, the motion smooth, practiced. You’ve done this a thousand times, but tonight, the air feels heavier, charged with something unspoken. The scent of leather surrounds you, mingling with the faint remnants of his cologne. It’s still there, but it feels distant, as if the man beside you isn’t the same one whose scent clung to your sheets, your clothes, the air around you. As if this is only a fragment of him, a ghost of a man wearing his skin.

The leather beneath your fingers is cool, but it always is—never too warm, never too cold. The car’s interior smells faintly of coffee, the dark roast still clinging to the upholstery as though it, too, could never be truly washed away. A detail so small, so seemingly unnecessary, but it sticks with you, lingers in the air like a ghost that refuses to leave.

James grips the steering wheel, his hands trembling just slightly. Not enough for the untrained eye to notice, but you do. His forearms are exposed, the crisp white of his dress shirt bunched up just below the elbows, revealing the taut muscles of his biceps. The veins stand out, dark against his skin, pulsing with the same tension that fills the car.

Had you not felt his anger hanging thick in the air, this moment could’ve gone a very different way—one that didn’t involve questions or bloodstained suits but instead ended in a tangled mess of limbs in the backseat.

But you feel it. And so does he.

The silence between you both is thick, suffocating. It stretches, expands, curls around the edges of the conversation that hasn’t even begun yet.

Finally, you speak.

“Did you kill him?”

The question is simple, direct, but it feels too heavy for the air between you. Words can be heavier than actions, sometimes. They can weigh down a moment, making it unbearable.

James doesn’t answer immediately. His fingers tighten around the wheel until his knuckles turn white, the soft leather creaking under the pressure. His jaw flexes, just slightly, a muscle ticking beneath the skin.

For a moment, the world outside the car window seems distant, distant enough to feel like you’re not really here. Not really alive. Just a shadow passing through a fog.

“What?” James asks, his voice low and even, but the tension is unmistakable.

The car is still not moving. The engine hums faintly, like a beast waiting to be unleashed.

You meet his gaze, steady and unwavering, despite the gnawing feeling in your gut, the unease creeping up your spine.

“I said, did you kill him?”

Your words hang in the air between you, a quiet challenge, a flicker of something dangerous.

“Why are you worried about the life of another man, a traitor nonetheless.” He spits, a tone full of envy and jealousy, sharp enough to cut through the silence.

At this, you scoff at his childishness, adjusting in the seat slightly. The car had now felt entirely too hot, suffocating in a way it hadn’t before. You move the notes and clipboard in your lap to the floor, the action slow, deliberate, a momentary distraction. As you do this, you speak, voice measured. “Because it’s important to get information out of these people, especially with everything going on with the Ve—”

“He tried to kill my nephew.”

James hadn’t yelled. No, he hadn’t. But he raised his voice, and the weight of it sent a surge through you. A ripple of something primal, something sharp.

But you aren’t one to act on anger, not immediately. You take a breath, let the moment settle. Then, you give him one last look—one of indifference, of quiet understanding wrapped in apathy—before turning to face the window as he begins to drive.

The city blurs past in streaks of neon and shadow, the rain beginning to tap against the windshield in uneven rhythms.

“Then I suppose he deserved it,” you murmur, not looking at him. But the words sink, settle between you both like stones dropped into deep water.

James says nothing. He just drives, and the road stretches endlessly ahead.

──

Three days.

For three days, not a word had been exchanged between you and James—not directly, at least. Pride and stubbornness never made the greatest duo, did they? A war of silence waged between you, neither side willing to surrender first. Three days of touchless moments, of quiet, stifled spaces where once there had been presence.

Not a word—at least, not directly. The necessities of work had forced the occasional exchange, brief and clipped, but there was nothing of substance. No offhanded comments, no stolen glances, no presence.

Three days of avoiding each other’s eyes in the morning, pretending not to exist in the same space. Three nights of lying in the same bed but never facing each other, your backs nearly touching yet never quite meeting. James had nightmares about Tara—ones he’d never mention. Never acknowledged the way his body would tense in the dead of night, the way his fingers sometimes twitched, as if grasping for something—or someone—no longer there. But you knew.

You knew that, when his eyes shut, Tara’s ghost was waiting for him on the other side.

You’d grown restless, waking at odd hours, staring at the ceiling until dawn painted the room in pale, gray light. The exhaustion carved into your skin, dark circles settling beneath your eyes like the ghosts of sleepless nights.

The days felt longer this way.

The car rides to the base were the worst. Silence stretched between you like an iron chain, unyielding and suffocating. No stolen glances, no shared words. Just the hum of the engine and the occasional sound of James’s fingers tapping impatiently against the steering wheel. He hadn’t stopped by your office either.

Instead, he’d been spending his time with Warden.

James never needed to tell you how he felt about the man; you knew. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t respect. It was something different, something purely transactional. If Tara hadn’t tied the two together, you had no doubt James would’ve put a bullet in him by now.

And with James’s absence came an odd sort of imbalance. Your office felt too empty. It was harder to focus. Emails seemed to multiply overnight, contacts needing approval, weapons shipments requiring clearance. It wasn’t that you weren’t capable—you had been handling these things long before James had made it a habit to visit you during his breaks—but the quiet gnawed at you in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Then—

Knock.

Just once.

You didn’t need to hear the voice behind the door to know who it was. Lexi.

The woman had a peculiar way about her—never knocking more than once, never announcing herself unnecessarily. Her presence was felt before it was seen, a force in the room even when she was silent.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open, revealing Lexi’s sharp silhouette against the dimly lit hallway. She stepped inside with her usual ease, her gaze sweeping over you like she was reading every emotion you weren’t saying out loud.

She was dressed like she always was—practical, dark clothing, not quite tactical but enough to blend in. Her boots barely made a sound against the hardwood floor, but you knew better than to mistake her quiet nature for gentleness. Lexi was one of the Wraiths’ more efficient executives, someone who could kill as easily as she could converse, someone whose loyalty was neither blind nor hesitant.

She stopped in front of your desk, tilting her head slightly. “You look like shit.”

You exhaled through your nose, rubbing at the bridge of it. “Thanks, Lexi. You always know how to make someone feel better.”

She smirked, but there was something knowing in her gaze. Something that said, I know exactly why you look like this.

Still, she didn’t push—not yet. Instead, she leaned against the chair across from you, arms crossed over her chest. “You’ve been working too much,” she observed, her tone annoyingly neutral.

You gave a humorless chuckle. “Someone has to.”

“James would’ve been handling half of this.”

The name sat between you like a loaded gun.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you picked up a pen, twirling it between your fingers, letting the silence settle.

“He’s been with Warden,” you finally said, not bothering to mask the exhaustion in your voice. “And I doubt he’ll be stopping by anytime soon.”

Lexi raised an eyebrow, but if she was surprised, she didn’t show it. “So that’s what this is about.”

“This isn’t about anything.”

“Three days,” she reminded you. “Three days of not speaking to each other.”

You rolled your eyes. “And?”

Lexi sighed, shifting her weight. “And I think you both need to stop being so damn stubborn.”

There it was—the directness you expected from her.

You leaned back in your chair, running a hand through your hair. “James will talk when he’s ready.”

“Will he?” she asked, her gaze sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like he’s waiting for you to make the first move.”

That made you pause.

James—the same man who commanded an entire syndicate, who made decisions with brutal efficiency, who never hesitated—waiting for you? It was absurd. But the moment Lexi said it, something in you twisted uncomfortably.

The silence in the room stretched.

Lexi sighed again, pushing herself off the chair. “Think about it,” she said, already turning toward the door.

She stopped.

Turned back.

That smirk grew just slightly, something sly sparking in her gaze.

“Oh, and I need you to visit the lovebirds at the house,” she said casually, like it was just another task. “You know, the two-week reload?”

You blinked. “Lovebirds?”

Muttering the word under your breath, you tried to place the reference—until it clicked.

A small chuckle slipped past your lips. Elias and the Brewhouse survivor.

You remembered James mentioning it once, his voice laced with something dangerously close to amusement as he recounted the story of teasing his nephew.

Elias.

James had always spoken about him with a sort of exasperated fondness, though he’d never outright say it. It was in the way his lips twitched whenever Elias had done something particularly reckless, the way his gaze softened—barely—when he thought no one was looking.

Still, James had always been strict with him, always watching with that quiet, assessing stare of his. The way a wolf might watch a younger one in the pack, making sure he didn’t stray too far, but giving him just enough space to learn.

And now, Elias had his own person.

You glanced back at Lexi, raising an eyebrow. “Why me?”

She shrugged. “Because James isn’t going to do it, and I don’t feel like babysitting.” She shot you a look. “Besides, you could use the break.”

A break. Right.

You weren’t sure what was less appealing—the idea of stepping away from your never-ending inbox or the possibility of running into James before you left.

But still…

Elias.

It had been too long since you’d last seen him, long enough for the absence to settle uncomfortably in your chest. You hated the feeling—this quiet, nagging guilt, this weight that pressed against your ribs whenever you realized how much distance had grown between you.

Because there had been a time when he had been yours in a way. Not by blood, not by duty, but something else—something quiet and unspoken, something built in the space left behind by Tara’s absence.

You could still remember the way he used to cling to your side as a child, always looking to you first, always trusting you without question. How many times had you picked him up from school early, your voice light and teasing as you made up some excuse, as if it were just a whim? Just because. Just because there might have been someone waiting outside who shouldn’t have been. Just because James had sent you. Just because the world you all lived in was one where safety was never guaranteed.

Even after Tara died, you had cared for him as your own. Tended to his wounds when he got into fights, cooked him meals when James was too busy with work, sat with him in silence when the weight of everything was too much.

Somewhere along the way, though, things had shifted. Elias had grown older, more independent, more reckless. The closeness you once shared had become something less defined, stretched thin by time and circumstance.

And now, here you were—hesitating.

You sighed, rolling your shoulders back. “Fine.”

Lexi’s smirk widened, and she gave you a mock salute before slipping out the door.

──

The drive to the safe house felt like it could stretch into infinity, the thick silence between you and the car's interior heavy and suffocating. You had tried, for the first few minutes, to drown out the noise in your mind, but it kept circling back, like a vulture waiting to feast.

The last three days replayed in your head, over and over, each moment a jagged, painful reminder of how things had shifted. Your gaze kept slipping back to the memory of James walking past you, not even sparing you a glance, like you weren’t there.

You could tell yourself it hadn’t hurt. You could tell yourself that it wasn’t real pain, that the ache wasn’t something you could touch or see, not like a bruise or scar. But the sting was there, nestled deep in your chest, curling its fingers around your ribs. The kind of pain that doesn’t have a visible wound. And that made it all the more insidious.

But what was the point of dwelling on something that couldn’t be fixed? Wasn’t it pointless to think about something that wasn’t tangible? You should focus, focus on the mission, your mind told you, yet the silence felt like it carried the weight of an elephant.

By the time you arrived at the house, the sky had already dimmed, the sun dipping low into the horizon and casting long, golden streaks across the pavement. The world seemed to pause for a moment, held in the soft glow of the fading day. The house stood before you, inconspicuous—small, nondescript, tucked away from the prying eyes of the world, encased in layers of security that made it more of a fortress than a home.

Yet even as you stepped from the car, there was a tightness in your chest. It wasn’t fear, but something else. Something that gnawed at you, deep down. A sharp pang of something that was far too difficult to name. Remorse.

The notion of the safe house, the very place where everything was supposed to be safe, should have been a relief. You should have felt comforted by the idea of them here, tucked away, protected. But instead, that odd sense of bitterness settled in the pit of your stomach like a bad taste.

You knocked once—Lexi’s bad habit was rubbing off on you—, then instantly cursed under your breath. The gesture felt pointless. Foolish. The locks on the door were designed to be more than a barrier—they were a deterrent, and your knock could never override that. You didn't need to announce your presence. So, with practiced ease, you let your hand hover over the keypad, your fingers punching in the security code. A soft click sounded, and you stepped into the house.

The moment you crossed the threshold, the air shifted. The scent hit you immediately—the scent of spicy noodles, rich and inviting, tangled with something faintly herbal. It was warm, comforting in its own way, reminding you of something you couldn't quite place. The house was dimly lit, the kind of soft lighting that made it feel like a home, lived in but not untidy. On the coffee table, a half-empty mug sat, steam still curling lazily from the surface. Beside it was a well-worn book, its spine cracked and pages slightly dog-eared, evidence of frequent use. A jacket was slung carelessly over the back of the couch, sleeves uneven as though someone had discarded it in a hurry, a small but significant detail in the otherwise neat surroundings.

And then you heard it—the sound of laughter. Low, familiar, almost musical. It came from the direction of the kitchen, and for a moment, you froze, your heart skipping a beat. It wasn’t the kind of sound you’d expected to hear here, not in this house, not in this moment.

You followed the sound, your feet moving almost without thought, each step bringing you closer to the source. The kitchen was bathed in the soft glow of overhead lights, and there, in the middle of it, was Elias. His sleeves were rolled up, hands still damp from whatever he'd been doing, a dish towel slung casually over his shoulder. His dark hair was slightly damp as if he'd just rinsed off, and droplets of water clung to his wrists, catching the light in small bursts of brightness.

Across from him, perched on the kitchen island, was the brewhouse survivor— legs swinging idly as they watched Elias with an amused smile.

Neither of them noticed you at first. They were too wrapped up in their own quiet conversation, too comfortable in their own little bubble. For a moment, you just stood there, watching them both, and it felt like something unfamiliar stirred deep inside you.

Because this... this felt like something you had once dreamed of, something you had wanted—a life of simplicity, of warmth, of normality. It felt like something you could have had.

Then Elias’s gaze flicked up, and just like that, the moment shattered.

“You’re early,” he remarked casually, his voice low but not unwelcoming.

You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. “And you’re… domestic,” you said, the words escaping before you could stop them.

His lips quirked. “Don’t let James hear you say that.”

Beside him, the survivor smirked. “No, please, tell James,” they quipped, their voice dripping with playful sarcasm. “I’d love to see how that conversation goes.”

Elias shot them a look, one that was more bemused than irritated. There was something easy in the exchange, something so effortless that it almost made your chest ache.

You studied the two of them for a long beat, then spoke, your tone matter-of-fact. “You’re due for a reload.”

Elias exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, figured,” he said, a touch of resignation in his voice. His gaze flicked toward the survivor, a softer look passing between them, something unreadable. “Mind giving us a minute?”

The survivor hesitated, looking between the two of you for a moment before hopping off the counter, landing lightly on the floor.

As they passed, their hand brushed Elias’s—just barely, just enough to make you notice.

It was small. Inconsequential, really.

But to you, it was everything.

Once the survivor had disappeared down the hallway, leaving you alone with Elias, silence filled the space between you. The kind of silence that was too thick to ignore, the kind that made the walls seem to close in.

You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe a little more, your gaze sharp. “You’re getting attached.”

Elias didn’t even flinch, his expression cool and unfazed. “And?”

“And that’s not always a good thing,” you replied, your voice barely more than a murmur.

He huffed out a soft laugh, almost like he didn’t care. “Right. Because nothing good ever comes from caring.” The words were flippant, but there was an edge to them, a bite that made your chest tighten.

You didn’t answer. Because deep down, you knew that wasn’t true. Deep down, you weren’t sure he was wrong.

Elias studied you for a long moment, his dark eyes heavy with something unspoken. “James sent you, didn’t he?”

For a brief second, you hesitated, but then the words slipped out before you could stop them. “No.”

Elias raised an eyebrow, his skepticism clear.

You exhaled, more to yourself than anyone else. “Lexi did.”

Elias smirked, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Figures.”

A long stretch of silence followed, the air between you taut with unspoken tension. Then, just as casually as if he were discussing the weather, Elias leaned against the counter, arms crossing over his chest. “So... how’s Uncle James?”

Your gaze faltered, your eyes briefly drifting away. “He’s fine.”

Elias's voice softened, though it carried the same skepticism as before. “Right. And you?”

You hesitated for just a moment before replying, your voice tight, “I’m fine.”

Elias chuckled, low and almost amused. “You used to be a better liar.”

The words, soft as they were, landed with surprising weight. They weren’t cruel. They weren’t even particularly harsh. But they hit somewhere inside you, in a place that you hadn’t realized was still raw.

You opened your mouth to respond, to say anything, but—

A voice called out from down the hallway.

“Did you tell them yet?”

The survivor.

Elias groaned, tilting his head back in frustration. “No, because I knew you’d want to be here for it.”

Your eyes narrowed, your curiosity piqued. “Tell me what?”

The survivor appeared in the doorway once more, arms crossed and a gleam of amusement in their eyes. “Oh, just something funny we were talking about earlier,” they said, their grin widening. “You know—how Elias used to have a crush on you.”

The room seemed to fall into complete silence.

Elias’s entire body tensed, his posture stiffening, his shoulders rigid with barely contained annoyance. “I swear to God—”

The survivor’s grin only widened, practically oozing mischief. “What? It’s not like it was a secret.”

You could feel your own brows lifting, amusement flickering across your face.

Elias shot you a look—the kind that could only be described as a desperate drop-this-now type of look.

But it was too late.

A slow smirk tugged at your lips as you tilted your head. “Oh?”

Elias groaned, dragging a hand down his face in defeat. “You love making my life difficult, don’t you?”

The survivor simply shrugged, their grin unrepentant. “It’s a hobby.”

You leaned against the doorframe, your arms still crossed as you eyed Elias. “You had a crush on me?”

Elias muttered something under his breath, a low, irritated sound that made you grin all the more. He exhaled sharply, his eyes meeting yours with a look that was unreadable, distant. “It was a long time ago.”

You hummed thoughtfully, pretending to mull it over. “How long?”

Elias’s scowl deepened, and he finally snapped, “Does it matter?”

The survivor, clearly enjoying every moment of this, snorted. “I’d say... middle school? Maybe early high school? That’s what he told me at least.”

Elias shot them a venomous glare. “You weren’t supposed to—”

They raised their hands in mock surrender. “Hey, it’s not my fault you used to get all weird whenever they were mentioned.”

You raised an eyebrow, teasing. “Weird how?”

Elias groaned again, rubbing his temples in exasperation. “I hate both of you.”

The survivor merely grinned, clearly unbothered.

You couldn't fight the sharp tug at your lips, a mixture between the two’s laughter and bickering in the air and for the first time in three days, the silence didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

 ──

Knock!

The sound barely registered at first. It was quiet but firm, measured in a way that wasn’t intrusive but also wasn’t asking for permission.

Still, it brought the faintest pull of a smile to your lips.

You shook your head, already knowing who it was.

“Come in,” you called out, voice gentle, expectant.

You didn’t turn around completely. Lexi never took it to heart—at least, you didn’t think so. She had always been understanding of your divided attention, the way work swallowed you whole, the way your focus always seemed to linger somewhere just beyond the present moment.

Your gaze remained fixed on the screen in front of you, fingers hovering above the keyboard, the glow of the monitor casting faint shadows across your hands. It wasn’t the body of the email that held your attention—it was the name of the sender.

Your eyes narrowed slightly, head tilting as you read it again.

The unfamiliarity of it made something in your chest tighten.

A gut feeling.

A whisper of unease that slithered down your spine, settling at the base of your neck.

Still, you pushed past it.

“Hey, Lex, do we know an Asr—”

The sentence never fully left your lips.

Because when you turned, it wasn’t Lexi standing in the doorway.

It was a gun.

Close—too close.

Your breath hitched in your throat, every muscle in your body stiffening before your mind could fully process what was happening.

Recognition struck you in an instant. Not just the weapon, but this one in particular.

The double-barrel design was unmistakable.

An old-school relic, the kind rarely used in modern action—too impractical, too slow. It was a collector’s piece, meant to sit behind glass, admired but never wielded.

But this one had been wielded.

The craftsmanship was still immaculate, the metal polished to a high shine. But the wood handle—deep, aged mahogany—bore subtle signs of wear, the kind that came from use rather than time.

And there, delicately etched in gold, were two sets of initials.

Yours and his.

The realization coiled in your gut like a vice.

You had bought this gun for James on your anniversary.

Now, it was pressed against your temple.

The cool metal sent a shiver down your spine, its biting chill cutting through the heat of tension that had been festering beneath your skin for days. It was grounding, in a way. An undeniable, inescapable truth—one that existed outside of speculation, emotion, or doubt.

“James.”

His name left your lips in a slow exhale, more acknowledgment than question.

The weight of it settled between you, thick, unmoving.

Your eyes lifted, trailing up the length of his arm, past the unwavering grip of his fingers around the handle, until they met his gaze.

James stood before you, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable.

But his eyes—

There was something in them.

Something deep and simmering, a storm barely restrained.

You had seen James angry before. You had seen him ruthless, had watched him drenched in blood that wasn’t his own, had witnessed the quiet, deliberate way he handled betrayal, vengeance, violence.

But this—this was different.

There was no unrestrained fury spilling from him. No eruption of rage. No cold, clinical detachment.

This was something worse.

This was James at his most dangerous.

Quiet. Controlled. Unknowable.

The gun didn’t waver.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, but your voice remained steady.

“That’s a hell of a way to start a conversation,” you murmured, tilting your head ever so slightly, enough to feel the barrel shift against your skin. “I assume you have a point to make?”

James didn’t blink.

“You tell me.”

His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that came after a decision had already been made, when there was nothing left to debate.

A pause.

A slow inhale.

Your fingers curled against the edge of your desk—not in fear, but in frustration.

This was a game.

And James never played unless he had already won.

Unfortunate for him, you were a sore loser.

Your hand moved swiftly, reaching for the desk drawer.

A fraction of a second.

The whisper of wood sliding against metal.

And then—

The weight of a Wraith-issued pistol in your grip.

The weapon felt unfamiliar, heavy in a way that wasn’t just physical. A weight not of metal, but of something deeper—history, expectation, consequence.

You rose to your feet, the barrel of your gun snapping upward in response.

For the first time, James moved.

One step forward.

You stepped back.

Another.

You mirrored him again, your body tense, heartbeat hammering against your ribs.

And then—

A miscalculation.

Your back met the desk.

You flinched, just slightly, but it was enough.

James took another step forward, closing the space between you in an instant.

The air between you thickened, electric, charged with something that was neither fear nor anger, but something far more dangerous.

Your fingers tightened around the pistol, but James—James simply stared.

Not at the gun. Not at your stance.

At you.

Like he was seeing something beyond flesh, beyond the moment, beyond the choices that had led you both here.

Like he was searching for something.

And the worst part?

You weren’t sure if he had found it.

You swallowed, your breath shallow, uneven.

“I suppose this is the part where we decide who pulls the trigger first,” you murmured.

In truth, you hated the feeling of the pistol in your hand. No, more than that—you hated the idea of it being pointed at James, at the man who, despite everything, was still your husband. It felt unnatural, wrong in a way that clawed at your insides, turning your stomach with something heavier than guilt.

Your fingers trembled as you slowly lowered the weapon, placing it down on a pile of untouched documents littering your desk. The paper crinkled beneath the weight, the stark contrast of cold steel against soft parchment feeling like a metaphor too on the nose to ignore. A quiet surrender. One you weren’t sure if James would accept. One you weren’t sure you even wanted him to.

Something unspooled inside you at the action, some tightly wound tension unraveling at the edges, leaving nothing but raw vulnerability in its wake. You tried to speak, to bridge the impossible distance between you, but the words snagged in your throat. Your voice came out broken, fractured around the edges of something unspoken.

“I—I’m sorr—”

Before the sentence could fully leave your lips, James moved.

Faster than thought, faster than hesitation, faster than you could ever hope to react. His lips crashed against yours, swallowing whatever apology had been lingering there, whatever trembling confession you had been on the verge of making. The force of it pushed you backward, your body yielding instinctively as you found yourself sitting atop the desk, papers scattering beneath you.

The sound of his gun hitting the floor barely registered.

What did register—what consumed you entirely—was the way his hands gripped your hips, fingers pressing into your skin with a desperation that felt almost bruising. Like he was trying to ground himself in you, like he needed you as much as he needed air, as much as he needed control. And for once, James wasn’t in control.

There was nothing careful about the way he kissed you. Nothing measured, nothing restrained. This wasn’t the cold calculation of a man who always thought three steps ahead. This was reckless. This was need, raw and unfiltered, bleeding through the cracks of whatever dam had finally broken inside him.

You gasped against his mouth, fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself in the sheer intensity of his presence. He responded in kind, his hands sliding up your waist, pressing against your ribs, dragging you against him until there was nothing left between you but heat and breath and the lingering taste of everything that had been left unsaid.

For all the years you had spent beside James, watching him, learning him, understanding him in ways no one else ever could, there had always been a distance. A line he never let himself cross, a carefulness to the way he touched you, spoke to you, held you. A constant battle between what he wanted and what he was willing to take.

That line was gone now.

His grip on you tightened as his lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, trailing lower, the rough scratch of his stubble sending shivers down your spine. He exhaled against your skin, hot and unsteady, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. It was the first sign—maybe the only sign—that this wasn’t just hunger.

It was fear.

Not fear of you. Not fear of the gun that had been pointed at him only moments ago.

Fear of loss.

Fear of what had nearly happened.

Fear that for the first time, he had looked at you and seen a stranger holding a weapon, rather than his wife.

You felt it too. The weight of it. The lingering ghost of that moment still hung between you, a silent specter whispering of everything that had been fractured.

Your fingers found his face, cupping it between your palms, forcing him to meet your gaze. His pupils were blown wide, dark and stormy, like a sea caught in the eye of a hurricane. He looked at you the way a drowning man looks at the surface of the water—like salvation, like the only thing keeping him from slipping under.

You swallowed hard, the emotion thick in your throat, the remnants of a sob still threatening to break free.

“I never wanted—” Your voice wavered, cracking under the weight of what you wanted to say, what you couldn’t. “James, I—”

James’ lips pressed against yours again, but this time, it wasn’t the frantic desperation of before. It wasn’t wild or reckless.

It was slow. Deep. Unyielding.

It was a claim.

A reminder of exactly who he was. Exactly who you were to him.

Your breath stuttered, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt as if holding onto him might keep you grounded, might keep you from slipping under the weight of what was happening. But there was no grounding yourself when it came to James. He was gravity and chaos all at once, pulling you into his orbit with a force you could never resist, no matter how much you tried.

And you weren’t sure you even wanted to.

A sharp gasp escaped your lips the moment his hands found your waistband, fingers deft and practiced as they worked the button free, then the zipper, peeling away the fabric with an ease that left you dizzy. There was no hesitation, no second-guessing, just the rough, insistent press of his palms against your hips, pushing your pants down, dragging them lower, lower, until they pooled at your ankles before being carelessly discarded to the floor.

The rush of air against your exposed skin sent a shiver racing through you, a stark contrast to the heat radiating off of him, to the way his touch lingered, possessive and intent.

"James—" Your voice broke on his name, a mixture of warning and something else entirely—something breathless, something unsure, something dangerously close to surrender.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the sight of him—disheveled, breathing heavy, eyes dark and unreadable—sent another thrill of anticipation coursing through your veins. He reached for his belt, the soft, deliberate sound of metal sliding against leather filling the charged space between you.

"Yeah?" His voice was low, hoarse, barely more than a rasp, like he had already decided what was going to happen but was still giving you the chance to stop him.

You swallowed hard, hands bracing against the desk beneath you, trying to find some semblance of control, some way to slow the dizzying pace of whatever this was.

"Here?" The question barely made it past your lips, almost swallowed by the pounding of your own heart. "Really?"

For a moment, James didn’t answer. He just stood there, belt now undone, the fabric of his shirt slightly rumpled from your grip, his jaw tight, eyes unreadable. And then, slowly, his hands found your thighs again, his touch steady, almost too gentle given the tension that crackled in the air between you.

"You think the place matters?" His voice was quiet, but there was something lethal beneath it, something simmering just beneath the surface. "After what just happened? After I had to look at you and see a weapon pointed at me instead of my wife?"

A sharp, visceral ache twisted in your chest at his words.

Because it was true.

For a fraction of a second, you hadn’t been his. You had been someone else entirely.

And James—James wasn’t the kind of man to let something like that go.

His grip tightened, fingers pressing into your skin with just enough force to make you gasp, to remind you of exactly who was in control, exactly who had always been in control.

"Tell me," he murmured, voice like velvet wrapped around steel. "Do you feel like stopping?"

Your breath hitched.

Because he already knew the answer.

And before you could even part your lips, before you could even beg for his touch—

The phone rang.

The sharp, intrusive sound sliced through the thick, heated air between you, shattering the moment, tearing you both from the precipice of something inevitable. The weight of it still lingered, heavy, suffocating, clinging to your skin like the heat of a dying flame.

For a split second, neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed.

The only sound was that damn ringing, sharp and insistent, like a sneering reminder of the outside world—a world that had no place here, not in this charged space, not in this fragile, dangerous moment where time had threatened to stop altogether.

James tensed first. You felt it in the way his hands stiffened against your thighs, fingers pressing into your skin with just enough force to make you shiver. You saw it in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his lips pressed into a thin, tight line, his eyes flickering—just once—to the phone.

And then, under his breath, barely above a whisper—

“Fuck.”

A single, venomous syllable that mirrored the exact thought already running through your own mind.

Your stomach twisted in frustration, the fire still burning low in your veins, aching, demanding, unfulfilled. Slowly, reluctantly, your gaze flickered to the phone, its screen glowing mockingly atop the pile of scattered documents on your desk. No name—just a string of unfamiliar numbers, impersonal and meaningless, yet somehow powerful enough to sever whatever fragile tether had held you and James suspended in this moment.

Your fingers twitched against the polished wood beneath you, torn between answering and letting it ring, between responsibility and the undeniable pull of the man still standing between your legs, still caging you in with the heat of his presence, still looking at you like he hadn’t quite decided whether to let this interruption slide or take matters into his own hands.

The phone rang again.

You swallowed hard, exhaling sharply through your nose before forcing yourself to move.

Reaching over, you grabbed the receiver, the weight of it suddenly feeling heavier than it should have, like lifting it was some kind of defeat. You brought it to your ear, inhaling deeply, forcing down the heat still simmering beneath your skin, forcing your voice into something neutral, something professional, something entirely detached from the way James was still standing too close, still watching you with that dark, unreadable gaze.

"Good afternoon." The words slipped from your mouth, smooth, practiced—effortless. The same professional cadence you had used countless times, honed over years of training, of suppressing every raw, unfiltered emotion that threatened to spill over in the heat of the moment. "Speaking."

But there was a tremor in your chest, something that had no place in your voice. You weren’t sure what had caused it—You tried to stifle it, tried to disguise it with a cough, but the damage was already done—the sound escaping in a way that felt almost damning. And you weren’t sure which was more responsible for it: the name that came through the receiver, clear and unfamiliar yet laced with something that sent a whisper of unease crawling down your spine… or James.

James, who had moved the second your attention was divided.

James, who had pulled you down from the desk with ease, his strength effortless, practiced, the shift so sudden and fluid that you barely had time to process it before you found yourself turned—flipped—your palms catching against the wood as your chest pressed to the cool surface, your lower half snug against him.

James, who now stood behind you, solid and unmoving, his presence burning through the thin layer of your remaining clothing, his grip firm where his fingers splayed against your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

You were trying to focus. Trying to concentrate on the call, to maintain the control you had so carefully built over the years. But the longer you stood there, the harder it became.

And then there was the name that had just been introduced to you, the name that had you instantly questioning everything.

The email. The sender. The message.

Your stomach twisted, and you could feel the weight of it, the gravity of the situation, pulling you down, suffocating you with a thousand unsaid words. The name had triggered something in you—something darker, something buried. Your fingers tightened around the receiver, almost too tight, as you fought to regain some semblance of composure.

But you couldn’t. Not when James’ lips brushed against your ear, a soft, barely audible breath against your skin, the proximity of his body making it impossible to focus on anything other than him.

The name. The email. It all felt like a distant noise—so far removed from the chaos James was stirring in you.

With a shaky breath, you forced yourself to speak again, but the words stumbled over your tongue, each one more difficult than the last.

"Y—yes! I had received it," you managed, voice catching in your throat. The stutter was involuntary, a reflex in the wake of the pressure building inside you, the whirlwind of emotions, the way James was consuming every inch of you, both physically and mentally. "I—I apologize, I didn’t get the chance to read it—"

Your words faltered, and it wasn’t because of the call itself. It was because James had shifted again, his grip tightening, pulling you further into him, the subtle movement of his hips against yours sending a ripple of heat through you that made it even harder to concentrate. You could feel him, the heat of his body seeping into yours, and your mind was hazy, your thoughts tangled in knots.

The name, the email, all of it was fading into the background as the tension between you and James tightened further, like a noose, squeezing the air from your lungs and making it nearly impossible to think straight.

Then, a name you recognized.

Vic.

It snapped you back for a moment. You nodded instinctively, as if the man on the other side of the phone could somehow see you. It was a strange, disorienting reflex, a last-ditch attempt to retain some semblance of professionalism, some thread of the woman you had been moments ago.

“Yes, I’m quite familiar,” you said, voice still trembling, betraying you in ways you couldn’t stop. “Will he be scheduling a meeting as we—”

Before you could finish, before the sentence could even hang in the air, James moved.

The last piece of clothing that had separated you from him—the fabric that had barely shielded you from the storm you knew was coming—was torn away with a swift, practiced motion. A soft, lingering sensation connected you to the discarded fabric as it fluttered to the floor, the connection leaving you exposed, raw.

You couldn’t help but gasp, the sharpness of the air hitting the wet skin making the moment feel infinitely more intimate, infinitely more exposed than you had ever intended.

And then, the sound of James’ low chuckle—low and almost mocking—whispered across the back of your neck.

"You don't even need any prep, do you?" His voice was quiet, the words slipping out with that same predatory calm that always made your pulse race, always made your heart skip in a way that felt both thrilling and dangerous.

Before you could even register the full impact of his words, the sharp sting of his hand landing against your mound cut through the haze of your thoughts, and you couldn’t contain the gasp that followed. It was a reaction, involuntary, the shock of it jolting through you, making your entire body stiffen.

It wasn’t just the physical sting.

It was the way he had pushed you to this point, the way he was controlling the pace, the rhythm, even of your breath. It was the absolute knowing in his touch, the calculated way he seemed to anticipate each and every response you would give before it even left your body.

And then, as if to add insult to injury, the man on the other end of the phone chuckled.

It was a low sound, thick and full, like something dark and ugly. A sound that, for a brief moment, made your stomach twist in humiliation.

Had he known? Had he heard?

The thought, the possibility of it, made you falter. It made your heart skip in a way that wasn’t just nervous—it was something worse. Something deeper. The question lingered, pulling at you like a thread unraveling a tapestry, revealing more than you wanted to see, more than you could process.

But James? He never wavered. Never once broke the rhythm. His focus remained on you—on making sure you were both lost in this moment, trapped in it, unable to look away.

Without missing a beat, James moved. The shift was so sudden, so precise, that it stole your breath in an instant. The warmth of his hand was already there, and before you could even process what was happening, he was deeper—his fingers pressing inside of you, stretching you, claiming you with a force that sent a shock through your entire body.

You gasped, your chest tightening, your pulse hammering in your ears. Every nerve felt like it was on fire, the feeling of him—of being claimed—almost unbearable in its intensity.

“Look how needy you are.” James’ voice was low, thick with something darker, something that made your stomach tighten in a strange mix of exhilaration and dread. The words weren’t a question; they were a fact. He spoke to them with the kind of certainty that only he could wield, his hand holding you firm, his every touch deliberate. “You love this, don’t you?”

You couldn’t answer. Not right away. The words were lost, caught somewhere in the heat, in the shock of the moment. Every inch of your body felt exposed, raw, as if James had already stripped you bare in ways that went beyond the physical. It wasn’t just your clothes that were gone—it was everything.

Then, just as the wave of sensations started to overwhelm you, a voice broke through.

“Is this a—bad time?”

It was a question, but it wasn’t a question. The tone was light, mocking even, as if the man on the other end of the line could sense the disruption, the tension hanging in the air. He didn’t sound concerned. He didn’t sound apologetic.

It was almost as if he was amused.

Your throat tightened, and for a brief moment, you wondered if he knew. If he really knew what was happening. You couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, the voice on the other end wasn’t just a casual interruption. No, it was almost as if it was feeding into the chaos, like it was part of the game being played, unaware—or perhaps completely aware—of the fire it had just thrown gasoline on.

James’ grip on you tightened, his eyes burning with that same unrelenting intensity, a glimmer of something almost amused in the way his gaze flickered to yours. You could hear his breathing deepen, feel the subtle shift in his posture, the way his movements grew more deliberate, more controlled.

He didn’t say a word.

But the way he pressed against you, the way his fingers curled, the way his gaze never left you—it was a silent statement, a clear declaration that there was nothing, not even the intrusion of a phone call, that would pull him from this moment.

As the voice on the phone continued to linger, the mockery in his tone impossible to ignore, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of it all crashing down on you. The walls were closing in. The tension was building to a breaking point. It was a game now, and you were trapped in it—no way to escape, no way to retreat.

James's fingers pumped relentlessly into your sopping wet cunt, plunging in and out, stirring up your juices until they dripped down onto the desk beneath you. The obscene squelching and schlicking sounds filled the office, punctuated by James's harsh pants and your own breathy moans.

He curled his fingers inside you, pressing against that spongy spot on your front wall that made your toes curl and your back arch. James rubbed and massaged your G-spot with ruthless precision, determined to make you fall apart on his invading digits.

"You’re taking it so well," James taunted, his voice dripping with lust and amusement. "I bet you wish it was my cock stuffing this greedy hole instead of my fingers, don't you?"

His thumb flicked and rubbed your clit with brutal efficiency, sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your core. James could feel your velvety walls clenching and fluttering around his pumping fingers, trying to suck him in deeper.

Slick juices coated his hand, dripping down to pool on the floor below as he fingered you with wild abandon. James's other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place as he fucked his fingers into your needy cunt with punishing force.

His other hand gripped your ass, squeezing the taut globe roughly as he fingered you. The sound of your arousal filled the office, the obscene squelching and schlicking of your juices coating his pistoning fingers a lewd symphony.

The voice on the other end of the line cut through the haze of your thoughts with unnerving precision. It was almost as if he were savoring the moment, the weight of his words landing in the stillness of the room like a stone dropped in water, sending ripples of discomfort through your already overloaded senses.

“I’ll call back later,” he said smoothly, as if everything were normal. As if your world hadn’t just been twisted, as if James’ relentless pace hadn’t already stripped away any semblance of control. "Save the number."

The words hung in the air between you like a threat, or perhaps a promise, you couldn’t quite decide. There was no urgency in his voice, no rush. Just that same mocking, detached amusement that made the situation feel even more surreal. He knew. He knew what was happening. He could hear it in your breath, in the tension in your voice, in the silence that followed his request.

You swallowed hard, trying to regain some composure, but it was impossible. The connection was cut before you could say anything more, but his final words echoed in your mind, reverberating through your thoughts long after the line went dead.

Your hands moved instinctively, reaching down, desperate to grasp his wrist, to hold onto something solid. But it was futile. His pace, his rhythm—too fast, too relentless—left you barely able to focus on anything other than the overwhelming sensations flooding your body. It was as if his movements were designed to blur everything else, to leave you without any clear thoughts, only fragmented sensations.

Your fingers barely grazed his wrist before your hand fell back uselessly, and for a moment, you were nothing but lost in the haze, tangled in the chaos he had woven around you.

James abruptly pulled his soaked fingers from your dripping cunt, leaving you feeling empty and aching for more. You heard the obscene slurping sounds as he sucked your juices from his digits, cleaning them with lewd relish. The sound of his belt buckle jingling—His belt was already undone, the leather strap dangling loose–and his zipper lowering filled the air, followed by the unmistakable rustle of fabric. Then, with a low groan, James freed his thick, hard cock from the confines of his slacks.

You felt the scorching heat of it before you saw it, the swollen head brushing against your ass, smearing your dripping arousal onto your skin. James's cock was thick and long, the veins along his shaft pulsing with need.

"Look at what you do to me," James muttered, gripping his length and slapping it against your ass cheeks. He rubbed the leaking tip through your soaked folds, coating himself in your slick juices. James's breathing grew heavier, harsher, as he notched the head of his cock against your entrance.

James gripped your hips bruisingly, fingers digging into the flesh as he lined himself up. With one brutal thrust, he slammed forward, burying his thick cock balls-deep into your fluttering heat. A guttural groan tore from his throat at the exquisite sensation of your silken walls gripping him like a vice.

James's hips pistoned wildly, slamming into your ass with brutal force as he fucked you over the desk. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air, mingling with your wanton moans and James's guttural grunts. Sweat dripped down his chest, splattering onto your back as he rutted into you like a man possessed.

"I fucking love you," James panted harshly, his voice rough with lust and emotion. "Goddamn, I love you so much." He punctuated his declaration with a particularly hard thrust, grinding his pelvis against your ass.

Suddenly, James leaned down, his chest pressing against your back as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His lips brushed against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers cascading down your spine.

"I love you," James murmured softly, his voice low and filled with tender affection. "I love you so fucking much."

He placed a gentle kiss on your cheek, a stark contrast to the brutal pace of his thrusts. The tender gesture made your heart swell, even as your body was wracked with pleasure. James's love, even in the heat of the moment, was a balm to your soul. “James–” You croak out, words caught in your throat at a partially brutal thrust, “---I love you too” 

"I'm going to fill this pussy up," James promised darkly, his cock throbbing and pulsing inside your fluttering walls. "Pump you so full of my cum, everyone will know you belong to me."

ames's words, dripping with love and dark promise, sent a thrill of ecstasy shooting through you. He could feel your velvet walls starting to quiver and clench around his pistoning cock, your orgasm approaching rapidly.

"That's it, baby," James encouraged, his voice a low, seductive rumble in your ear. "Come for me."

His hand snaked around to your front, finding your aching clit. He rubbed the sensitive nub in tight, fast circles, his calloused fingers providing the perfect friction. At the same time, James slammed his cock into you with renewed vigor, the head ramming against your cervix with every thrust.

The dual stimulation proved too much, and with a sharp cry of James's name, your climax crashed over you like a tidal wave. Your pussy clamped down around James's shaft, gripping him like a silken vise as you came undone.

He thrust into you one, two, three more times before burying himself to the hilt. With a guttural groan, James began to unload, his cock pulsing and jerking as it unleashed a torrent of hot, thick cum deep inside you.

Wave after wave of James's essence flooded your spasming channel, your womb quickly filling with his potent release. You could feel the warm, sticky fluid sloshing inside you as James emptied his balls, marking you, claiming you from the inside out.

You lingered there together, your bodies entwined, hearts still racing. The office was a chaotic mess, papers scattered across the floor, furniture out of place, the remnants of everything that had just transpired. But in that moment, the world outside faded away. All that mattered was the connection between the two of you, raw and intimate, grounded in the silence that followed.

Still breathless, James muttered under his breath, his voice low and casual, as if it were just another question in the midst of everything that had already unfolded. “Hey… who was that?”

It took a full thirty seconds for the fog in your mind to clear, for the reality of his question to cut through the haze of your body still humming with pleasure. Then, it hit you—the phone call. The voice on the other end. The name.

“Someone named Asriel?” you managed, your voice barely more than a whisper, as if saying it out loud would somehow change everything.

James’ expression shifted just slightly, his gaze darkening for a fraction of a second. The air between you both grew thick with something unspoken, a tension that seemed to stretch and pull in every direction.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence hang, thick and suffocating, as if weighing the consequences of what you’d just said.

His fingers, which had been lightly tracing your skin, stilled, and you could feel the change in his demeanor, like the calm before a storm.

──

author's note: no clue how this got so long omg.

tag list:

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

[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

[strixcattus]

Oh, oh shoot! Gotta hurry up!

So how do we know the Narrator's even a real person on the pacineutral routes?

I mean... "Hey now! You aren't made of money!" They're able to take over occasionally, like when you try to give more money to gyftrot.

"it's so funny, you can't stop, tears run down your face... what, you didn't do that?" They're able to converse with Frisk during the fight with Snowdrake's mum or this... "Look at all these toys! ...They don't interest you at all", being excited at the toys, realizing Frisk feels differently, and then reacting to that...odd?

Their knowledge set can be pretty weird sometimes, like knowing what golden flowers are immediately but having to read about "water sausages", or the fact that the check function is supposed to give advice but the narrator will give the most basic, useless observation if it's a monster.... that they wouldn't know about "he likes to say nyeh nyeh", and with Mettaton, they give an entirety dud option because they just don't know what to do, if you pick burn "this is probably what you'll do if things continue in this manner" (Thanks, Narry!) (They know about froggits for example because that's about the species rather than a single, specific monster)

And then there's the fact that ghosts (and only ghosts) seem able to hear them "this monster doesn't seem to have a sense of humour" (to napstablook)/"oh, i'm real funny"(napstablook responds) (this was already there in the demo)

And then there's the rare first person text when running away "I'm outta here" "Don't slow me down" "I've got better to do" so... apart from the fact that narry actually shows opposite opinions to Frisk sometimes, this is what proves that it's not just Frisk's inner monologue in second person and is fact another person talking directly to them.

So now that's out of the way, what are some of the easiest facts about the narrator we can glean?

They're human (naturally, they talk about pop culture, know what the usda is, and even know about determination (yeah, all the kids could reset. Toriel mentions deja vu for all kids, and Asgore isn't at all surprised to know he killed Frisk multiple times. Also, looking in the files, we can see Cain's save file was never used but... "determination...that power you were trying to stop", that seems more like a dislike for the power than a lack of it. (Which, yes, means they probably could have reset and saved Asriel and themselves when being attacked... but didn't. You'll see why... but well, that's why I call them Cain) moving on

They're a child, around the same age as Frisk and Asriel, hence the excitement for toys and the "butts pie" joke and the neverending impatience.

They're a... ghost? But in the same undead way that Flowey and the almagamates are rather than the type of monster

They're tied to Frisk from near the beginning, much the same way Azzy's essence is tied to his flower (though they don't speak instantly. The first room is silent, but if you meet flowey then backtrack, then you'll get narration)

This is also just part 1, chew on this while I write the rest (or after)

Chewing on this chewing on it. First human?

Well. I'm still approaching Snowdin trying to build up the nerve to kill Papyrus (which is something I probably would have done by accident the first time around had I not been so bad at combat, since I hadn't realised I could win by sparing him, but it's not as though that makes this any easier), so there's time yet.