#asriel x reader

[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)

[bookiezzz]

FOR THRICE I HATH RETURNED❗️❗️ Hope you're doing good :3 for this request, I wanted to see if I could get some Headcanon's of OMORI's Kel, Undertale's Asriel (in young adult years if you don't mind writing him as if the buttercup tragedy didn't happen), & Dungeon Meshi's Laois with a younger brother reader! My thoughts were that reader's been getting very invested & skilled at painting recently, & he's made a spectacular portrait of his brother that's incredibly shy to show to him.

a/n: of course! im sorry this is so late, its been a super rough week for me, but i hope you enjoy!

Kel, Asriel and Laois with a younger brother reader

(who is particularly into painting!)

Kel

— Kel is like the #1 funnest older brother ever real

— He would love to hear you’re getting into painting and art! He would paint and draw with you, and always ask about it.. he’s pretty involved with all your activities.

— Always asking “any new paintings? any new drawings”, and always responds so positively to them, he truly loves them!

— he’ll compliment you on them and then give you a big hug !

— He would also encourage Sally and Hero to look at them as well :)

— So when you come to Kel, saying that you made a painting of him, he gets WILDLY ecstatic.

— in all honesty he would probably cry happy tears, so happy that you like him THAT much that you would paint him.

— But when he sees you’re a bit shy to show him, he’ll put his hand on your shoulder and tell you that he always loves your art! You’re so good at it!! and then you, cautiously, show him your painting of him.

— He smiles ear to ear and hugs you, just repeating thank you, and how good it is, and how he loves it <3

— If you let him, Kel would absolutely, 100000% hang it up in his room.

— He really loves this hobby and all of your paintings, and your talent!

Asriel

— im going to go a bit deltarune-esque on this one lmao

— Asriel is in college, but he still comes home very often to see you, his little brother, and Toriel <3

— He loves his family and doesn’t really like going long periods of time without seeing you both.

— So one day, he comes home and learns you’re into painting, when you excitedly show him a painting you’re working on in the common room!

— He laughs and smiles, saying it looks great. He never really knew you were that into painting; though you were always artsy.

— Asriel asks if you have any more paintings, and you take his hand, bringing him to your room to show him multiple paintings!

— he loves them, and he’ll talk to Toriel about them too!

— The next time Asriel comes home, you hug him and tell him you have a little surprise for him.

— you painted him! you just hoped he’d like it, as you worked really hard. Nonetheless, you were super nervous, trembling as you led your older brother to your room to show him.

— He just puts an arm around you, kneeling down, and telling you that he’s so excited, and that’s… weirdly soothing?

— You open your door and show him the amazing portrait, sitting on an easel.

— He gasps and blinks, a smile creeping onto his face as he kneels down to look at it intently.

— You’re watching nervously as he just looks all around it…

— he suddenly turns around and hugs you tightly! “Thank you.. I love this. This is a great way to come home!” Asriel whispers into your ear. You smile and hug tighter. “Please keep painting.”

Laios

— autism brother

— Laios is literally bouncing off the walls when you tell him you’re into painting. He’s super mega uber x100 excited.

— “THATS SOOOOO COOL”

— He would marvel over your paintings like no other, just admiring them!

— For the next few weeks, you’re working on a particular painting, and are very strict when you say Laois CAN’T see.

— He’ll just say, “Okay…”

— Until one day, you nervously blindfold him and take his hand into your room. You’re very nervous, but Laios’s goofy smile and excited laughs put you much more at ease.

— “1,2,3..” you untie the blindfold and Laios squeals and smiles, rushing over to the painting of him, in his armor.

— He starts talking about how much he loves it, straight up ranting, he says he loves you, and hugs you, multiple times!

— He’d show Falin and would be shaking her, saying: “THAT’S ME!!! ME!!!”

— he loves your paintings and you <3

[multi-fandoms-posts]

Oh please my Lord fuck me🔥😩

[5yearslateforthisfandom]

Okay, guys. Hear me out. This.

B is Asriel

C is female Chara.

A is our poor bi Y/n losing their mind.

Bonus points if they too are into each other.

[tainted-by-skeletons]

(Heya! I've seen all your likes on my post about Asriel. I know it's taken a while but I might get back into writing. I know that I'm usually fully boarded on the smut train but after going through Asriel's story I couldn't bring myself to taint him. I hope you enjoy this anyway! I'll add the next part soon!)

Adult Asriel X Reader (Part 1)

I have done it around 20 times. Reset. Over and over again. Obviously the first time I fought Asriel I was scared. He was so strong. Everything about him absolutely radiated power. The second time I fought Asriel I was still in shock over the fact that he was the tiny, annoying flower I was always followed by. The third time I started to realize some things. He wasn't as strong as he looked. Sure he had ten times the power of everyone in the underground. He was also able to recognize me after I reset. But… It seemed like his memories were only a faint dream. And soon enough he forgot me again. And I won against him every time. It was unfair to me. So I kept resetting. I did everything I could to figure out why everything happened the way it did. There had to be a way I could change it. There had to be a way I could save him. Part of it was pity for him, part of it was the hatred of my species. I think the real reason I wanted to save Asriel was for the people in his life who were left behind. And even the friends he could have made. It just wasn't fair to me that he would have to live without a soul in a body that didn't belong to him. It sounded like torture to me. So I kept fighting him in all his strongest states. I kept asking him for answers. And I kept trying to convince him to give me a chance. But my voice wouldn't reach him.

“After I defeat you and gain control over the timeline, I'll just reset everything.”

I would have loved to give him a chance to do that. But I couldn't die. Even if I tried to. And I genuinely tried. Something in my soul just wouldn't break. So I assumed there had to be another way.

“And you know what the best part is? You'll do it. And you'll lose to me again.”

Did he somehow know exactly what my plan was? To keep resetting like he wanted? But when it would happen he sure didn't seem happy. And he never knew either…

“I'm not ready for this. I'm not ready for you to leave. I'm not ready to say goodbye to someone like you again.”

But maybe part of him did? I could never find out. Because in those moments I was always paralyzed. I could only ever move my soul. After trying, and trying. I could only think of one way to communicate with him. No matter what he hit me with, I'd move my soul as close to him as I could get. I stayed there until he finally noticed.

“What are you doing?! Finally giving up?”

Finally. For the first time in who knows how long, something changed.

“... W- Answer me!”

With a wave of Asriel’s hand I could finally speak. It took me a moment to realize it as I raised my hand to my throat. Almost to check if my body and voice were still there.

“Hey! Tell me why you won't fight!”

I looked back at him. Startled.

“I can't. Not anymore. Don't you know how long we've been doing this? Don't you remember me?”

“Obviously I do! I'm completely in control of resets now! I know everything… you … did. Why. Why do you keep doing this? What's the point?”

“I don't want to lose you either! Don't you get it?! I can't go on knowing I'm leaving you behind. Knowing everybody will. It's not fair!”

“You're damn right it's not fair! That's why I'm keeping you here forever!”

“You can't. What are we going to do? Stare at each other for eternity?”

“You've come this far.” Asriel's eyes narrowed and his tone became harsh. “If you really care so much then why fight me up until now.”

“I don't just care about you! I won't let you hurt my friends either!”

“Oh yeah? So when you reset everything that means that everything they all went through just goes away? You know they can remember. You've seen it.”

Sans was absolutely aware of my resets. And I don't know how many others had the same deja-vu when they saw my face “for the first time.” I could almost tell when they would tilt their heads and hesitate to speak. Like the recognition was just barely registering.

Tears filled my eyes.

“I don't know what else to do! You won't let me just talk to you! I keep trying to- to tell you!-” I sputtered through sobs.

“Rrrrggh! All of you keep saying that! Like talking will solve everything. Like you can just tell me to care again and I'll be able to do it!”

“But you can! You have the souls now! Just let go of my friends!”

“What do you think they'll do when they find out I took the human souls. Aren't you human? Why let me take the souls of your people?”

“I hate humans. Why do you think I spend so much time down here?”

“You hate them? Your own species. Why.”

“Humans are even worse than you all think. That's why I can't just let everyone go to the surface. I know the hell waiting for them.”

“That's… that can't be true.”

[yo00ru]

I really want to write about Asriel and Reader, but idk if you guys would like content like that, it would be an adult Asriel anyway.

[magicalbunbun]

!!Remake!!

UnderLIFE

Papyrus is in royal guards as the right hand man of undyne,

Loves his family!

Royal guards protect the royal family (asgore family) and the multiverse, once they hear or feel something attacking the universe they will attack it back, and will keep on until it is defeated.

[yoursinisforgiven]

DIVINE ──

pairing: vic x reader (non–listener)

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

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

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

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

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

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

Today was no different.

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

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

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

And then he stopped in front of your cage.

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

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

You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.

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

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

“Now,” he added, sharper this time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It all happened too fast.

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

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

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

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

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

The effect was almost immediate.

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

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

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

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

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

There was a pause, heavy and pregnant with tension.

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

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

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

──

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

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

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

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

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

Until the footsteps came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why? you signed, your movements sharp, accusing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pet?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Take off the gag.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ──

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

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

[darkpetal16]

Devlog - Update 05-16-2023 for Ch6

Chapters available to play:

Chapter 1 - Mundane

Chapter 2 - Dreaming of You

Chapter 3 - In This City

Chapter 4 - A New Boss

Chapter 5 - One. Two. Three.

Chapter 6 - Lessons

Chapter 6 has been published. This is a chunky chapter that includes 10 "endings" including the very first special bad ending for Sans' route, another one for Wingding (ofc ofc), and another one as a general bad ending.

[bookiezzz]

Hiiiiii❗️ May I please request headcanons of Kazuichi, Kaito, and Gonta (danganronpa) taking care of a stressed-out male reader? (Also, I'm BIG, big on physical affection, just putting that out there)

a/n : thanks for the request!! And absolutely no inconvenience at all! I am familiar with dr1 but never finished dr2, nonetheless Dr3. definitely super happy with a Undertale request too. I had a lot of free time today so I will just finish this up now! This was super nice to write and I hope you like it!

Asriel, Papyrus, and Mettaton with a stressed-out male Reader

ASRIEL

ASRIEL is likely to pick up on your stress or burnout

I think he’d be very good at reading people, you most of all

So when he INEVITABLY picks up on your

new behavior or constant tiredness, he will try to come up with a gentle approach to the matter.

He would start holding your hand a little bit more, or hugging you from behind whenever he sees you

An occasional kiss on the cheek<3

At one point, ASRIEL begins with a more direct approach, straight-up asking you if everything’s been okay in regards to tasks, work, school, activities, your schedule in general

No matter your response, ASRIEL will inform you that he’s picked up on your change in behavior and encourages you to rest to the best of your ability

I’m SURE he would also ask you to go somewhere with him if you’re up for it!(meaning eating out, going shopping, an activity you generally enjoy!)

At the end of the day, he just encourages you to do whatever feels right and whatever helps you relax and feel good about yourself,,. he’s so sweet

ASRIEL will end it all off with asking to cuddle, relax, or spend quality time with each other, for some sense of comfort and normality.

He wishes you only the best, and hopes you relax more :(

PAPYRUS

PAPYRUS might take a bit to pick up on

But if your energy or playful manner slowly (or quickly, for that matter) depletes, he will start noticing that something clearly isn’t right with you.

And he doesn’t want to see you upset 🙁

He will come to you, genuinely concerned, and just quietly ask if everything’s okay right now

Or if he knows about the absurd amount of things on your plate and how it is maybe stressing you out, he’ll just ask “So. How’s [blank] going?”

IT MIGHT JUST BE ME but i feel like he would say some silly pick up line while asking and it kinda lightens up the mood jepshshsj??

“So, [Name], everything alright lately? You are seemingly less energetic the last few days. Maybe missing Vitamin… Me?”

followed by a mischevious “nyehehe..”

If you say it’s fine, he will most likely persist in asking until he gets an answer that he’s satisfied with.

If you say that you’re just a bit tired out (naming a specific cause or not), he picks up on that immediately and tries to play it cool. Just asking if anything will help, anything he can do, etc.

PAPYRUS engulfs you in a tight hug for a few seconds!

Hes going to look out for it more

Trying to steal you away from anything he deems as unnecessary, or anything he thinks can wait for later, and tries to spend more time with you

i know he will cook for you too

I think he would encourage you to not stress, take your mind off of it, and let it go!

METTATON

(you get a gif for this one)

I think METTATON would relate in a way, I guess?

I mean he IS pretty fabulous and has a busy, busy schedule

He would notice your behavior and at first, just tell you to take a break

When he realizes that may be impossible for you at the moment, he will share some ways to make the most out of everything, and to save time for yourself

That last bit, oh, that wasn’t an option.

METTATON will BRING you out and you will have a good time

There’s always a good time with METTATON, right ?

He tries as hard as possible to make you forget any problems and tries to relieve your stress

He would take you shopping, out to dinner, partying, or dancing

“Come on, darling! Live a little!”

If you are ever just sitting with him and he sees a worried expression, or that you’re dozing off, he’ll hold your hand or kiss your forehead/lips/cheek/hand (literally anywhere)

METTATON just wants his favorite boy, his darling to feel like himself again

He knows how fabulous you can be and how fabulous you are, and wants you to be happy, with your spark back.

[multi-fandoms-posts]

Amidst the Battle

X Men Masterlist

The battle rages around them. Screams echo through the air, and the ground shakes beneath the blows of the fighters. Y/N fights bravely alongside the rebels until a powerful strike throws her off balance. She stumbles backward and crashes hard to the ground. The impact steals her breath for a moment, and everything around her blurs.

As Y/N opens her eyes again, she sees a familiar silhouette bending over her. Lord Asriel stands above her, his expression stern, yet something soft flickers in his eyes something protective. He kneels beside her, his chest rising and falling heavily from the fight. "Y/N," his voice is calm despite the chaos surrounding them. "Are you hurt?"

Y/N blinks, her senses slowly returning. "Asriel..." She tries to sit up, but he gently presses her shoulder down, his hand firm and insistent, yet with a familiar tenderness.

"Rest for a moment," he commands softly. "You've taken quite a hit."

Despite the pain coursing through her body, Y/N can't help but take a short breath as she sees his serious yet protective expression. "You’re worried," she says with a hint of a smile.

He meets her gaze, his face close to hers, and for a moment, the battle around them seems to fade away. "Of course I’m worried," he murmurs, his hand moving from her shoulder to her face, gently stroking her cheek. "You are more important to me than you think."

Y/N's heart races, not only from the adrenaline of the fight but also from his closeness. His gaze is penetrating, filled with emotions he usually hides. "Asriel... I can't just lie here. You need me in the fight."

But he shakes his head slightly. "What I need is for you to be safe." His voice is firmer, almost commanding, yet as he leans closer to her, the mood shifts. His breath brushes over her lips, his eyes roaming her face as if trying to capture every moment.

"You’re stubborn," Y/N whispers, but she can’t hide the hint of tenderness in her voice. His closeness almost overwhelms her, the heat of his body and the unspoken desire hanging between them.

"And you’re brave," he replies, his forehead resting lightly against hers. For a moment, he hesitates, then he leans in closer, and his lips find hers. The kiss is raw, passionate, and hot—a contrast to the cold ground beneath them and the brutality of the battle surrounding them.

Y/N gasps softly against his lips, yet she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. She tastes the wildness in him, the longing that hides in his touches. His hand travels to her neck, holding her tightly as if he doesn't want to lose this moment, as if he wants to protect her above all else.

"Asriel..." she whispers against his mouth, but he interrupts her with another deep kiss, his tongue demanding, hot, and impatient. Her fingers glide through his hair, tugging lightly as she loses herself in him.

For a moment, only the kiss exists, the heat between them, and the world around them fades away. The fight is forgotten, her injury is forgotten there is only her and Asriel.

When he finally pulls away from her lips, he gasps softly, his forehead still resting against hers. "I won't lose you, Y/N," he whispers hoarsely. "Not now. Not in this war."

Y/N looks at him, overwhelmed by the words he so rarely speaks. "You won’t lose me," she says firmly, her fingers gently tracing his cheek. "I will fight by your side."

His eyes flicker, but he leans down one last time, pressing a brief but intense kiss to her lips. "Stay with me," he murmurs. "I need you."

She nods as he helps her to her feet. Their bodies still touch, the world around them rages, but for a moment, all that matters is the silent vow they've shared in that fleeting moment.

Together, side by side, they plunge back into the fight, their hands still warm from the passion that held them together for that brief moment.

[tainted-by-skeletons]

(I know this isn't what I promised when I said I'd write an Asriel X Reader fic. And it's pitifully short. but I kinda just got an idea and couldn't ignore it. I also can't find it in myself to write lewd things about such a sweet boy! But you know what I can write? Muahahahaha... I blame k-dramas)

Adult Asriel X Reader (Final Part)

“What do you mean that can't be true?! You saw it yourself! Don't you remember what they did to you?” I shouted.

“Wait! How do you know that?!”

“I don't know why, but it seems that a lot of monsters know your story. I thought you knew. Since Alphys revived you as a flower-”

“What?! She did that to me?!”

“O-oh my god… you didn't know?”

“I woke up as a flower in my dad's garden.”

I held my hands over my mouth in shock. It was a horrible thing to discover, but I couldn't let him lose himself in anger.

“I'm so sorry. But! You know, everyone told your story throughout the underground. Everyone thinks of you as a hero. Please. If you just let them go then I know they'll forgive you! Especially if… if you take my soul. You can break the barrier and save them all. This is your story. Not mine. I won't let it be my story. And there's nothing you can do to stop me.”

Asriel's expression softened. But there was still fire in his eyes.

“You said you hate humans. If I took them to the surface and it's even worse than being trapped down here… will… Will everyone turn on me?”

“They'll understand. I know they will. Because monsters are good.”

“I don't think all humans are bad.” Asriel told me with a little smile.

“Then don't disprove that by trying to let me be the hero instead. I'm not giving up.”

“I know. Your soul is the color of determination. I know just as well as you do what that means.”

“Go find some good humans. Okay Asriel?”

Asriel hung his head low.

“I will.”

I felt like I died a lot during that journey. But it barely lasted a second. It was barely enough to even process. In fact, I didn't realize I had ever died before I started to get used to the feeling. But when I made the decision to let myself go, it was different.

My body disappeared again. I could feel my connection with it disappear forever. Yet, I could feel the warmth of Asriel's body. He held my soul, all that was left of me, in his hands. I was so close to his physical heart and I knew that I could sink into it if I wanted. So I did.

When I joined with all the souls, I understood them. I suddenly knew all of their stories. I could hear all their thoughts and communicate with them. In less than a second I learned things about all my friends that I had never known. But all except seven left soon after I joined.

That's right. Seven.

Asriel's Pov

It took a while for the monsters to trust me again. But they forgave me right away. It was painful to realize what I had really done to such good people. And they didn't even know half of it. Because of the power to reset, they didn't remember. I was the only one who knew everything. And I had to take responsibility for that.

I stood near the edge of the cliff we found when we first broke the barrier.

“Alphys… I killed the only good humans I know. If I’m going to live how they wanted…I'm gonna have to make it even by killing the bad monsters.”

[yoursinisforgiven]

HEAVENLY ──

pairing: isaac x reader (pickel) 

cw: smut, afab reader, pet and asriel appearance, references to this fic (envy), reader wears a dress (stops at about the mid thigh), public–ish sex, dry humping, isaac cums alot, pickel falls for peer pressure, nonconsensual use of drugs (aphrodisiacs), likely takes place after episode 12 of isaac’s series, vaginal fingering, cum eating, use of condoms (but also not, you’ll see), breeding without the intentions of pregnancy, spanking, unintentional humiliation, choking.

you are responsible for your own media consumption

"Too flashy?"  

You mumble under your breath, the question more for yourself than for Isaac, though you catch his reflection in the mirror behind you. The soft lamplight pools across the room, casting a warm glow that accentuates the dress’s intricate details. You turn slightly, letting the fabric shimmer as it clings and flows, elegant yet undeniably eye-catching.  

Your brows knit together as doubt creeps in, knotting your thoughts. You know you’re being indecisive—again. A small huff escapes your lips, frustration mingling with the nervous flutter in your chest. If this were just another night, you wouldn’t care so much about what you wore. But this wasn’t just any night. This was important. The kind of evening where first impressions were everything, where the way you carried yourself could shape conversations and leave marks that would linger long after.  

"Do you think it’s too much?" you ask, this time louder, your voice breaking the quiet tension of the room. You glance at Isaac briefly before your gaze darts back to the mirror, searching for reassurance in your own reflection.  

Isaac looks up from where he’s perched on the edge of the bed, his head tilting slightly as his eyes settle on you. For a moment, you’re unsure whether he’s assessing the gown or the way you’re fidgeting with its hem, smoothing invisible wrinkles in an effort to steady your nerves.  

“It’s perfect—” His voice is calm, grounding, but it carries the faintest edge of something deeper. You feel his eyes on you even before you see him move, his presence growing closer with each step. Goosebumps ripple along your neck as the sound of his footsteps nears.  

You meet his gaze in the mirror just as his hands find your waist, large and warm, their weight a comfort against the uncertainty stirring inside you. He leans in, his breath brushing your skin, and begins to press soft kisses along the curve of your neck, each one deliberate and unhurried.  

“—You’re perfect,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice low, carrying a sincerity that settles like a balm over your doubts.  

For a moment, the weight of the evening lifts, replaced by the steady rhythm of his touch and the warmth of his presence. You let out a small laugh, part relief, part affection, and lean into him slightly, your hands coming to rest over his.  

The tension in your chest loosens as his hands glide from your waist to your hips, pulling you closer. You let your head tilt back slightly, your smile softening as his lips brush just below your ear, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

“Isaac,” you murmur, half warning, half surrender, but the way his fingers curl against you makes it clear he’s already decided where this moment is heading.

“What?” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smirk you can feel against your skin. “Just making sure you’re feeling confident. Can’t have you second-guessing all night.”

His teasing tone melts into something darker as his lips return to your neck, a deliberate press that sends warmth cascading down your spine. You catch his gaze in the mirror, and the way his eyes darken makes your breath hitch.

“Careful,” you warn again, though it’s less convincing now, your voice catching as his hands trace slow, deliberate patterns over the smooth fabric of your gown.

Your protest dissolves as he turns you gently away from the mirror, his hands firm but careful, as though savoring the moment. The gown you’d been so worried about now feels like little more than an afterthought, forgotten in the heat of his touch and the promise in his eyes.

The evening’s worries blur into the background as his lips find yours, hungry and insistent, and the world outside your shared bedroom fades entirely.

──

A wave of nausea rolled through you, nerves twisting your stomach and surging like static through your veins. Your hands smoothed over the fabric of your gown, its soft shimmer catching the light. Despite the uncertainty that had gripped you last night, you’d grown to love it—partly because of its undeniable beauty, but mostly because of Isaac’s reaction. His touch, his gaze, his... reminders had left little room for doubt about how he saw you in it.

A faint smile played on your lips as your mind wandered. Perhaps your wedding dress would take a similar shape—sleek yet elegant. What would Isaac think of it? You could almost see him at the end of the aisle, waiting for you, his expression unreadable save for the soft warmth in his eyes. And what would he wear? Something sharp, no doubt. A black suit, tailored to perfection, his tie knotted just so.

The thought sent a flutter through you, but you shook your head, willing yourself to focus. This wasn’t the time to get lost in fantasies.

The heat of Isaac’s hand on your thigh brought you back to the present. Warm and steady, his fingers rested there with casual confidence, as if they belonged. You glanced toward him, taking in the sight that never failed to stir something inside you. One hand on the steering wheel, his eyes focused on the road ahead, his other hand resting possessively on your thigh. It was a simple gesture, yet it sent warmth pooling low in your stomach, a reminder of how effortlessly he commanded your attention.

Your gaze flicked to his wrist, where the sleek lines of his watch caught the light. The engraving, Vacheron Constantin, glinted like a quiet boast of his refined taste. Everything about him seemed deliberate, controlled—except, perhaps, the way his fingers lightly squeezed your leg, drawing your focus back to him.

Your eyes trace the sharp lines of his jaw, his expression relaxed yet focused. Sinful. That’s what came to mind. How shameful it was that a simple gesture—a hand resting so casually on your leg—could stir such warmth in you.

“You okay?” His voice broke through your thoughts, deep and calm, yet threaded with a faint curiosity.

You nodded, though your voice betrayed you with its softness. “Yeah… just thinking.”

Your cheeks flushed, heat rising despite your best efforts to keep it at bay. You turned your head toward the window—it was nighttime. The blur of passing scenery is a feeble distraction from the warmth of his touch.

──

You knew you had arrived when the grand manor loomed into view, its towering stone facade shadowed by the dim evening light. Rows of expensive cars lined the roads like trophies on display, their gleaming exteriors a reflection of the kind of crowd you were about to face. Your hands grew clammy as Isaac pulled the car into a spot, the soft purr of the engine fading into silence. He wasted no time, stepping out and coming around to your side to open the door.  

“Always a gentleman,” you teased softly, though your voice wavered under the weight of your nerves.  

He offered you his arm with a slight smirk. You didn’t hesitate, slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow, holding on tightly—possessively, even. The warmth of his presence steadied you as the heavy oak doors swung open before you, two suited men pulling them aside with ease. One gave Isaac a slight nod, a silent acknowledgment of something you weren’t privy to.  

The air inside the manor was cool, the kind of chill that seeped into your skin. The stone walls, thick and oppressive, seemed to absorb the faint hum of life within. The corridors stretched endlessly, their grandeur undeniable but suffocating. The marble beneath your heels gleamed, reflecting the flicker of distant candlelight from ornate chandeliers above. Shadows danced along the walls, their movements like whispered secrets.  

Your heels clicked softly against the marble as you walked, the sound a sharp contrast to the muted classical music and faint laughter echoing from deeper within. The melodies mingled with the distant murmur of voices, weaving an ambiance of luxury tinged with unease.  

“Are we late?” you asked, your voice a near whisper, as though speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile balance of the atmosphere.  

Isaac glanced at his watch, the familiar glint of his timepiece catching your eye. “Seventeen minutes,” he replied, his tone as casual as if he were remarking on the weather.  

You brought a hand to your mouth, a soft gasp escaping. His smirk deepened as he led you up the grand staircase, its elegant curves spiraling upward like a work of art. From the balcony above, the vast entryway sprawled below, its polished floors gleaming in the dim light.  

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Maybe we wouldn’t have been late if you’d gotten out of bed when I told you.”  

You gasped, scandalized, and lightly swatted his arm. “Maybe I could have if you hadn’t stolen all sensation from my legs,” you shot back, a playful grin tugging at your lips.  

Isaac’s laugh was rich, low, and infectious. You couldn’t help but join him, the tension from moments before melting away in the shared humor. But the moment was short-lived.  

“Isaac?”  

The voice was soft, hesitant, as if unsure of its place in the room. It cut through the air like a subtle warning, halting your laughter in an instant.

At the base of the stairs stood a figure, their posture uncertain, their expression torn between indecision and something deeper. Something raw. Your heart skipped a beat as you noticed the ache in their eyes, a silent pleading that tugged at your chest despite yourself.

They were undoubtedly beautiful. No, more than beautiful—angelic. Their features were impossibly perfect, almost otherworldly, like something sculpted by the hands of a master artist. But there was something unsettling about their beauty, something too perfect, too intense.

You furrowed your brows, your pulse quickening. Something about them felt... unreal. You couldn’t quite place it, but their presence stirred something uneasy within you.

Isaac’s demeanor shifted instantly. His laughter faded, his body tensing as he regarded the person below. He said nothing, his silence heavy, measured.  

You opened your mouth, instinctively wanting to ask if they were all right, but the words caught in your throat. Before you could find them, the person mumbled an apology and turned abruptly, disappearing through the heavy doors at the bottom of the staircase.  

You stood frozen for a moment, the weight of the exchange settling over you like a chill. “Who was that?” you finally asked, your voice softer now, uncertain.  

Isaac didn’t answer right away, his gaze lingering on the door they’d just passed through. Then, with a shake of his head, “No one important,” he said. You fur your brows slightly at his dismissive tone.

He placed a hand on your lower back, guiding you further into the manor. But as you ascended the remaining steps, you couldn’t shake the image of the figure’s troubled face—or the lingering feeling that they had left something unsaid. 

 ──

As you entered the ballroom, the grandeur of the room nearly took your breath away. A sea of glittering chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, casting a warm, golden glow over the elegantly dressed guests who mingled in soft murmurs and laughter. The air was rich with the scent of expensive perfume and freshly poured champagne. Velvet curtains framed the tall, arched windows, allowing the faintest touch of moonlight to spill in. A string quartet played in the corner, their delicate notes weaving through the crowd like a distant lullaby, adding to the atmosphere of quiet opulence.

Isaac’s grip on your back was reassuring as he guided you further into the space. His posture was confident, almost regal, a man at ease in such settings. But as you walked with him, you couldn't help but feel the weight of all the eyes in the room drifting toward you. It was as if the room had paused, just for a second, in anticipation of something—a moment of collective awareness, where the air itself seemed to hum with unspoken expectations.

He steered you toward a group of men gathered near the far side of the room. Their voices were deep and authoritative, cutting through the ambient hum of the ballroom, filled with discussions of business deals, mutual acquaintances, and the kind of power that came with wealth and influence. As you walked closer, you could tell by the way they nodded to Isaac that he was a familiar presence here—expected, perhaps even revered. Their glances flickered between you and Isaac, curious and calculating, but you did your best to appear composed, to match Isaac’s unshakable confidence, even as an uncomfortable flutter stirred deep inside you.

Before you could fully immerse yourself in the conversation, a sharp movement across the room caught your eye. You froze, heart quickening, your gaze locking on a man and a woman standing near one of the marble columns. A scene unfolded between them that felt strangely out of place amidst the polished elegance of the ballroom.

The man was somewhat tall, his features sharp, his presence commanding. He held the woman’s wrist in a tight grip, pulling it forcefully away from his chest. The look on his face was one of pure distaste, as if her touch had somehow offended him. The woman, delicate and startled, tried to pull her hand back, confusion written all over her face, but he wouldn’t let her. His gaze shifted, scanning the room quickly—looking for someone, or perhaps something. 

A chill ran through you. Your heart skipped a beat, and for a brief moment, you thought his cold, penetrating gaze was aimed at you. But then you realized with a sudden shift in his attention that he wasn’t looking at you at all. His eyes were fixed on Isaac, who was gliding through the group with effortless confidence, completely unaware of the tension that had sparked between the two figures.

The woman, abandoned and disoriented, hesitated for a moment. She glanced at the man, her lips moving as if she wanted to say something, but no words came. With a dismissive flick of his hand, the man turned his back on her, leaving her standing there, frozen, a mix of confusion and frustration evident on her face. She glanced after him, a flicker of something in her eyes—perhaps longing, perhaps anger—but she didn’t follow him. Instead, she allowed herself to be swallowed by the crowd, her steps faltering as she hesitated, unsure whether to pursue or retreat.

Your gaze lingered on the woman for a moment longer, noting the sharpness in her eyes and the way she held herself with a mixture of dignity and something else—a sense of quiet desperation. It was a brief interaction, one that seemed to go unnoticed by the rest of the room, as the guests continued their conversations, unaware of the subtle drama that had just unfolded.

Isaac’s voice cut through your thoughts as the men he had been speaking to began to make their exit. They mentioned something about heading home, offering polite farewells before walking away, their conversations already fading into the distance. Just as the last of them disappeared from view, a new figure approached. You stiffened slightly as you recognized him—the man you had seen earlier.

He walked with a purposeful stride, his eyes never leaving Isaac as he approached. “Isaac,” he greeted smoothly, his voice tinged with amusement, as if he were smirking even though his lips never fully moved. 

Isaac’s response was flat, unamused. “Asriel.”

You couldn’t help it—a stifled giggle escaped your lips, the contrast between Isaac’s cool demeanor and Asriel’s calculated smugness making the moment oddly amusing. Asriel’s eyes flickered toward you for a split second, but his attention quickly returned to Isaac, as though you were an afterthought. “Here with your pet?” he asked, the words laced with condescension.

Isaac’s reply was instantaneous, but there was no warmth in it. “They aren’t my pet,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for interpretation.

Asriel didn’t seem phased by the sharp correction. “Speaking of which,” he continued, brushing a hand through his hair dismissively, “Have you seen my own? I’m afraid they had a little... tantrum and stormed off.” His eyes glinted with an almost sadistic amusement, like the whole situation was a private joke he was enjoying alone.

“I saw them on our way inside,” Isaac replied, his voice cool, almost bored. “They called after me—Keep it on a tighter leash, it’s dangerous.”

You froze, the harshness of Isaac’s words striking you. ‘It.’ The way he referred to a person with such impersonal detachment—it unsettled you, the cruel dismissal hanging in the air. It was a stark contrast to the warmth he had shown you moments before. You furrowed your brows at Isaac, unsure of how to process the casual cruelty of his tone, or if the words themselves carried a deeper meaning.

Asriel, however, seemed delighted by the exchange. His laugh was low, mocking, as he glanced from Isaac to you. His eyes lingered on you for a moment, assessing, before shifting back to Isaac. He was toying with both of you, and you could see it—he was enjoying it entirely too much.

Isaac didn’t seem to notice or care, his gaze flickering over the room as though searching for something—or someone—else to divert his attention. His eyes landed on a group of women clustered together near the far side of the ballroom. They were elegantly dressed, no doubt the wives of some of the men in attendance, their laughter soft and insincere, like the rest of the evening’s delicate façade. Isaac turned back to you, his posture still immaculate, but there was something unreadable in his eyes.

He leaned down toward you, his voice low, almost casual. “Why don’t you join them?” he suggested, his words almost too casual, as though the decision were yours to make, but there was an unmistakable edge to his tone. You weren’t sure if he was offering you a choice, or subtly pushing you away. Either way, you felt the weight of his suggestion, a quiet command wrapped in the guise of an invitation.

Your brow furrowed as you glanced in the direction Isaac was looking, at the group of women, their laughter light and the soft clink of their glasses mingling in the air. A part of you wanted to refuse, to stay by Isaac’s side, but the other part of you felt an unsettling pull—something about the way Asriel and Isaac spoke, the tension that still lingered between them, made you feel like an outsider in a world you hadn’t quite understood yet.

Despite the unease gnawing at you, you found yourself walking toward the group of women. It felt almost absurd, as if you were back in primary school, hesitating at the edge of a playground, wondering whether or not you’d be accepted. The weight of their gaze, though polite, felt like a quiet judgment you couldn’t shake. You couldn’t help but feel like an outsider in a world that was already perfectly in place.

The women were gathered in a tight circle, their laughter light, their conversations flowing effortlessly. As you approached, they turned their heads, their eyes briefly assessing you before their expressions softened into warm, inviting smiles. They looked like they belonged here, each of them effortlessly at ease in the opulence of the ballroom, dressed in gowns that shimmered with wealth and grace.

"Well, well," a woman with dark hair and a knowing smile said, tilting her head as she looked you up and down. "Isaac's latest, I assume?" Her voice was smooth, like velvet.

You smiled nervously. "Yes, that's right. I'm just... trying to get to know everyone."

One of the other women, a petite brunette, grinned. "You’ve certainly come to the right place, darling. But don’t worry, we’ll help you fit right in."

You felt an unfamiliar pressure mounting in your chest, as if they were already measuring you up, assessing where you stood. The woman who spoke before raised an eyebrow, studying you with curiosity. “So, how did you meet Isaac?” she asked, her tone polite, but there was a subtle edge to her words. 

You shifted your weight awkwardly. “We’ve known each other for a while,” you said carefully. “Just… recently started spending more time together.” Lies. a mask you wore to shield yourself from the questions you weren’t sure you wanted to answer.

“That sounds interesting,” the raven-haired woman chimed in, glancing between you and the others, clearly interested in what you’d say next. “What is it about Isaac that’s so... irresistible?”

Before you could answer, the woman with dark hair spoke again, her voice light but with a sharp undertone, “I’d be careful. Men like him don’t usually settle down.” She let out a soft laugh, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Not that you should expect that, of course.”

The words hung in the air like a subtle warning. You felt your heart skip a beat, but you pushed the thought aside, trying to mask your discomfort. “I’m not expecting anything,” you said, your voice steady, though you were unsure of your own feelings.

Another woman, a blonde with a sharp chin, tilted her head, sizing you up. “No expectations. That’s a good approach,” she said with a smirk, her voice casual but calculating. “Just enjoy the ride, darling. Life’s too short to overthink it.”

You nodded, trying to smile, but the words felt hollow. As the conversation shifted to something lighter, you felt the attention shift from you, but the undercurrent of subtle judgment remained. For a moment, you wondered if you truly belonged here.

Then, as if on cue, one of the women— the raven-haired beauty—held out a delicate glass of champagne to you, her expression almost playful. “Here, try this. You’ll feel much better.”

You hesitated, looking at the glass. There was something almost predatory in the way she was offering it, but her smile was warm, and the others were watching expectantly. The pressure mounted, the subtle challenge in the air. You couldn’t back out now, not without feeling like you’d just failed some unspoken test.

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Come on, it’s just one drink. It’s harmless.” She pushed the glass toward you again, her voice sweet but firm, as though it were an unspoken rule you couldn’t break.

You took it, and drank it.

The group of women exchanged pleased glances, and for the briefest moment, you felt a sense of belonging. You’d crossed an invisible line, done something small to cement your place in their world. But as the liquid settled in your stomach, you couldn’t help but feel a creeping sense of regret. Had you made a mistake? Had you just given in to something that felt wrong? You glanced back at Isaac across the room, his figure easily spotted among the crowd, but he was talking to someone else, his attention elsewhere. For now, you were alone in this strange, glittering world, caught between the allure of its opulence and the nagging sense that you weren’t truly meant to be here.

The women continued to chat, the conversation flowing around you, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being pulled further into a game whose rules you didn’t fully understand.

"See?" the blonde woman said, smiling at you with a knowing glint in her eyes. "Wasn’t so bad, was it?"

You couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the atmosphere, but you felt a sense of ease flood over you, a dulling of the sharp edges of your self-doubt. For a brief moment, you felt like part of the group, like you’d passed some invisible threshold. 

But just as quickly as it had come, the feeling was replaced with something else—a deepening unease that you couldn’t quite place. You looked around, catching glimpses of the other guests as they mingled in the ballroom, their conversations a blur of names and deals and laughter. 

As the night wore on, the conversation turned to idle gossip, and you found yourself talking more freely, offering your opinions in an attempt to fit in. The words came easily, the alcohol loosening your tongue, but somewhere in the back of your mind, the feeling that you didn’t truly belong here grew louder.

One of the women leaned closer to you, her voice low, “You know, you’re really starting to fit in. Just keep playing the game.”

You nodded, unsure of what else to say. The evening felt like a game you hadn’t agreed to play—yet here you were, caught in it, taking another sip of the drink in your hand, and wondering how far you were willing to go to keep up the charade. 

The conversation turned to more casual topics, and soon you found yourself swept into the rhythm of the group. They spoke of the latest social events, the fashion, and the discreet gossip that swirled in the upper circles of society. You listened, offering the occasional comment, feeling the pressure to fit in, to be part of the group, as though your every word and gesture were being scrutinized.

──

The night wore on, the laughter and chatter of the ballroom slowly blending into a dull murmur around you. You sat next to the blonde woman who had offered you the drink, her presence still warm and welcoming, though something about the evening felt off. She had taken a particular interest in you, leaning in every now and then to share intimate details about her life. Her husband, she explained, treated her poorly, often leaving her feeling neglected and alone. You could hear the vulnerability in her voice, and you wanted to listen, to offer some comfort. But something else was tugging at your focus—something you couldn’t shake.

As she spoke, you could feel the growing heat within you, the sudden warmth spreading across your skin. Your mouth was dry, and you swallowed nervously, a strange pressure building in your chest. Your heart beat faster, and you realized, with growing discomfort, that it wasn’t just the warmth of the ballroom that was affecting you. No, there was something in that drink.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, arousal had pooled underneath you. your fingers tightening around the glass as the sensation inside you intensified. You looked down at the champagne in your hand, your thoughts racing. The heat coursing through your body made you feel dizzy, lightheaded. It was like a fire building inside, a quiet but insistent force you couldn’t ignore.

You blinked, trying to focus, but the room around you seemed to blur at the edges. Your gaze instinctively flicked to Isaac, who was still conversing with a group of men across the room, his figure confident and composed. But even from across the room, you felt the pull, the strange sensation tugging at you, a magnetic force that seemed to center on him.

You could feel your body reacting, growing warmer under his presence, even from afar. But this...this wasn’t right. You quickly turned back to the blonde woman beside you, your voice barely a whisper. 

“W...what was in that drink?” you managed to ask, your words slurring slightly, though you tried to steady yourself. “It’s really—good...”

The blonde woman’s smile widened, and she leaned in closer, her voice low and almost soothing. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s just champagne,” she replied, her tone casual, almost too casual. “But there is something else in there... just a little popper.”

You blinked in confusion, your mind struggling to catch up. “Poppers?”

She chuckled, her eyes glimmering with something almost too knowing. “Aphrodisiac, honey.” she clarified with a wink, as if the answer were as simple as breathing.

A cold wave of realization washed over you, and your heart skipped a beat. Your pulse quickened, and the room seemed to close in on you. “Aphrodisiac?” you repeated, your voice hoarse.

She nodded, her gaze steady as she studied your reaction. “Just a little something to help you relax, darling,” she said, her lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s a common thing here, especially for... special guests. Men only want one thing, might as well make it somewhat enjoyable for us ladies too right?”

You could feel your stomach churn with a mix of anger and confusion. The heat inside you seemed to grow, and you suddenly felt vulnerable, exposed. You tried to keep your composure, but it was difficult. Your mind swirled as the reality of what was happening settled into your chest, tightening like a vice.

Your eyes instinctively sought Isaac once more, but he was still deep in conversation, unaware of the turmoil you were now drowning in. You felt a mixture of betrayal and helplessness—how could this have happened? Why hadn’t you noticed sooner? The blonde woman’s presence seemed to amplify your discomfort, but you couldn’t pull away. You couldn’t leave, not yet.

As the heat continued to build, your thoughts started to blur, and you felt a sudden pull in your chest. The woman’s words echoed in your mind, and you realized that you weren’t just fighting the growing warmth inside you—you were fighting to keep control, to keep yourself from slipping into whatever game they had planned for you.

You had to find a way out of this.

The warmth inside you continued to grow, and despite every attempt to focus, it became harder to keep control. The room seemed to spin ever so slightly, the lights growing too bright, the air too thick. The woman beside you continued talking, her words blending into a soft hum in the background as your focus wavered. Every inch of your body seemed to ache, a kind of restlessness pushing at the edges of your mind.

You needed to focus, but the desire to be near Isaac, to feel his presence, had intensified. It was like a magnetic pull you couldn’t resist, drawing you toward him even though you knew you shouldn’t be feeling this way. The heat that burned in your chest now seemed to consume your every thought.

Without thinking, you stood up abruptly, excusing yourself from the blonde woman’s conversation, her voice following you with a soft chuckle that only fueled your unease. You stumbled slightly as you moved through the crowd, your legs unsteady, but you couldn’t stop. Isaac’s figure loomed ahead, still surrounded by his conversation, his back to you as you approached him.

As you neared, you realized how out of place you must have seemed. There was something desperate in your movements, something needy, and you couldn't stop it. The moment you reached Isaac, you placed a hand on his arm, feeling a surge of heat course through your fingers at the touch.

Isaac turned, a slight flicker of surprise in his eyes as he met your gaze. “Is something wrong?” he asked, his voice cool but with an edge of concern.

Your voice came out softer than you intended, almost breathless. “I—I need you,” you said, your words feeling foreign even to yourself. “Please.”

His brow furrowed as he assessed you, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. But before he could respond, the man he had been speaking to earlier interrupted, stepping forward with a slight smirk. “Everything alright, Isaac?”

You barely registered the man's presence, your focus still on Isaac as you felt a deep, gnawing need take over you. It was like something was clawing at you from the inside, demanding attention, pulling you towards him.

Isaac’s gaze shifted between you and the man, his expression unreadable, before he gave a quiet, almost dismissive nod to the other man. “I’ll be fine,” he said curtly, his voice returning to its usual calm composure. 

Then, turning to you, his tone softened, but only just. “Come with me,” he said, his hand sliding onto the small of your back. 

You nodded eagerly, feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on you. You couldn’t think straight anymore, and you didn’t want to. The heat inside you was all-consuming, and all you wanted was for Isaac to take you somewhere quiet, away from the eyes of everyone else.

As you moved together, you caught a glimpse of the blonde woman’s eyes, watching you from across the room. Her smile was wide, knowing, and it made your stomach twist even more.

But Isaac's hand on your back was grounding, and you allowed yourself to follow him. You needed to escape the sensations that were overwhelming you, but deep down, you were starting to wonder if there was any way out at all.

──

Isaac’s hand was firm on your back as he guided you through the maze of the ballroom, his pace quickening now that you were away from the prying eyes of the crowd. The tension in your body only increased with each step you took. You could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on you, and the heat that had been building inside you all evening was becoming unbearable. The hallway ahead was dimly lit, leading to a small restroom tucked away from the main gathering.

Isaac’s jaw was tight, his expression unreadable, but there was a subtle shift in his energy, as though something had clicked into place. You could feel his presence next to you, his body close, and yet it was as if there was an invisible wall between the two of you, one that only seemed to grow the further you moved away from the noise of the ballroom.

When you reached the restroom, Isaac opened the door with a firm push and ushered you inside, his movements swift but not harsh. The room was cool, the polished marble floors and gold accents adding a sense of luxury, but the air between you both was heavy, charged with something else.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click, and then he turned to face you, his eyes narrowing as they took in your pale face and the discomfort that seemed to radiate from you. “What happened?” he asked, his voice low, tight with an edge of concern that you hadn’t heard before.

You swallowed hard, the words feeling thick in your throat. Your body was still trembling with the effects of the drink, and your mind was a haze, but you forced yourself to meet Isaac’s gaze. There was no use hiding it from him now. “The drink,” you said, your voice shaky. “The woman gave me something in it... something to make me... feel different. I—I didn’t know what it was at first. But now�� I feel like I can’t think straight, Isaac. There’s something wrong. I didn’t know what was happening.”

Isaac’s expression hardened as he listened to your words, his features sharpening with a visible flash of anger. His eyes darkened, and for the first time, you saw a crack in his usually composed exterior. His jaw clenched tightly, and his fingers curled into fists at his sides.

“What the hell did she give you?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, each word dripping with fury.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice faltering. “She said it was a... aphrodisiac. She told me it would help me relax, that it was something they do here for... special guests.”

Isaac’s face twisted with disgust, and his hands clenched tighter. “I should’ve been there,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, his tone venomous. “I should’ve been watching. You’re not supposed to be left alone with people like that.” His eyes turned back to you, a look of regret clouding his usual control. “I never should’ve let her near you.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to say anything, the weight of his words sinking deep within you. You had never seen Isaac like this—his anger was palpable, filling the room, and yet it was not directed at you. It felt as though he was angry at himself, as though he was blaming himself for letting this happen to you.

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, his voice softening, though it still carried the edge of his previous fury. He stepped closer to you, his hand reaching out to rest gently on your shoulder, his touch almost apologetic. “I should’ve been more careful. I never should’ve let anyone get close to you. This is on me.”

You felt a swell of emotion inside you, the combination of his apology and his anger, but also the overwhelming pressure of what you were feeling. The heat inside you had not abated; if anything, it had only grown stronger. You could feel the intensity in your body—something between desire and panic—and you had no idea how to fight it. You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come out right.

Isaac studied you for a moment, his gaze unreadable, before he exhaled sharply.

“It’s not your fault, Isaac. You didn’t do this. I—this wasn’t your fault.”

Isaac’s brows furrowed, his eyes locking onto yours, searching for something in your gaze. “But I wasn’t there. I should’ve been more careful. You—” He stopped, his words trailing off, and the anger shifted into frustration. He took a step toward you, his voice low but urgent. “I should’ve never let anyone near you like that. I should’ve protected you.”

You felt a wave of something soft, a quiet understanding stirring within you, even as your heart raced with the aftermath of everything. The heat, the dizziness, the overwhelming feeling of loss of control—it was all there, but so was the fact that Isaac was trying to make it right.

“No,” you repeated, but this time, you stepped forward, closing the space between you. “You don’t need to protect me from this. I’m not a child, Isaac.” You reached out, gently brushing your fingers against his chest, feeling the hard beat of his heart under the fabric of his shirt. “I know you care, but this wasn’t your fault. You can’t always be everywhere at once.”

Isaac stood still, taking in your words, his expression still etched with guilt. “I should’ve been watching out for you,” he muttered, almost to himself, before looking down at you, his gaze softening as you continued to reassure him.

“You were there for me, Isaac,” you said, your voice steady now, even though the heat still simmered inside you. “You’re here now, and that’s enough. Please… don’t blame yourself.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, you reached up, cupping his jaw gently with your hand. His breath hitched at the touch, and you could see his internal struggle playing out across his face. “Please, Isaac,” you whispered, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “Stay with me.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, just stood there, his eyes locked onto yours, the flickering candlelight from the restroom’s sconces casting shadows across his face. You could feel the heat between you growing, not just from the drug still working its way through your veins, but from something else—a tension, an electricity in the air that felt impossible to ignore.

Then, as if something finally gave way, Isaac leaned in slowly, closing the distance between you. His lips brushed against yours with a careful hesitance, like he was waiting for you to pull back, to stop him. But you didn’t. Instead, you deepened the kiss, your hands threading into his hair as his grip on your waist tightened.

The kiss grew more urgent, more desperate, as though you both needed to reassure each other that this moment was real, that you weren’t just victims of a situation that you couldn’t control. Isaac’s hands slid to your back, pulling you closer, your bodies pressed together, the heat of his touch mixing with the warmth still rising in you.

For a brief second, the room seemed to disappear. The distant hum of the ballroom, the lingering discomfort of the drug, the world outside—it all faded as the kiss consumed you both.

Isaac pulled away just slightly, his breath ragged against your lips. “I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “Not now, not ever.”

You didn’t answer him with words—there was nothing left to say. Instead, you kissed him again, this time with everything you had, as if the kiss itself would somehow erase the fear and confusion that had clouded your mind.

And in that moment, for a fleeting second, nothing else mattered.

Isaac's hands roamed your curves, desperation fueling his touch as he gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him. Your breath caught in your throat at the sudden contact, feeling the hard length of him through the fabric of his tailored trousers. The heat pooling in your core intensified, the aphrodisiac coursing through your veins demanding more.

"Isaac," you gasped, your fingers fisting in his dark hair as he trailed kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat. His lips found your pulse point, and he lingered there, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin as he felt your heart racing beneath his touch.

With a low groan, Isaac's hands slid down to grip the hem of your dress, his fingers slipping beneath the silky fabric to caress the bare skin of your thighs. He gripped your legs, his thumbs rubbing slow, teasing circles on the sensitive flesh as he slowly inched the dress up, exposing more of your skin to his hungry gaze.

You arched into him, a soft moan escaping your lips as his fingers brushed against the lace edge of your panties. The damp fabric clung to your heated flesh, the evidence of your arousal unmistakable. Isaac's eyes darkened with lust as he felt the dampness, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he growled, his voice rough with desire. 

His fingers pushed the lace aside, and he stroked your slick folds, his touch maddeningly slow and teasing. You bucked against his hand, desperate for more friction, more pressure, anything to ease the ache building inside you.

Isaac chuckled darkly at your reaction, his fingers delving deeper, two digits sinking into your tight, clinging heat. "Greedy" he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "So hungry for my touch."

You could only whimper in response, your hips rolling against his hand as he began to pump his fingers in and out of you, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing the sensitive nub in tight, circling motions. The pleasure was intense, the drug amplifying every sensation until you could hardly think straight.

Isaac's other hand slid up your body, pushing the top of your dress down to expose your breasts to the cool air of the restroom. Your nipples pebble, Isaac leaned in, capturing one of your hardened nipples between his teeth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak as he sucked hard. His fingers never ceased their relentless assault on your dripping sex, plunging in and out, curling to stroke that spot deep inside that made your toes curl in your heels.

Your head fell back, a sharp cry of ecstasy tearing from your throat as the dual assault on your breast and sex pushed you closer to the edge. Isaac seemed determined to make you come undone, to prove that he could give you the pleasure you craved, that he could wipe away the lingering traces of the drug-induced haze and replace it with the clarity of your shared desire.

He released your nipple with a wet pop, his lips trailing kisses up the swell of your breast, over your collarbone, until he reached your mouth once more. He kissed you hard, his tongue delving inside to claim you, to make you his.

"Come for me," Isaac demanded against your lips, his voice a low, urgent growl. "Let me feel you come apart in my arms."

His words, combined with the relentless rhythm of his fingers and the press of his hard, clothed cock against your thigh, proved too much. With a silent scream of his name, you shattered, your sex clenching and fluttering around his fingers as wave after wave of intense, mind-numbing bliss crashed over you. Isaac’s free hand moved to your neck, his fingers wrapping gently but firmly around it, applying just enough pressure to send a shiver down your spine. His eyes locked onto yours, the intensity in his gaze unwavering.

“Quiet,” he murmured, his voice low, commanding, though there was no malice in it—only a subtle warning. The air between you thickened with a mixture of heat and tension as he held you there, his grip almost protective, as if daring anything or anyone to threaten this fragile moment.

Isaac worked you through your climax, his fingers never stopping their movements until the last aftershock had left your body trembling. As you slowly drifted down from the high, he pulled his fingers from your still-spasming sex, bringing them to his mouth to suck your essence from the digits.

"Delicious," he murmured, his eyes locked onto yours, dark with satisfaction and lingering desire.

Before you could respond, he captured your mouth in another searing kiss, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, the flavor of your shared passion igniting the embers of your arousal once more.

As the kiss deepened, Isaac's hands slid down to grip your ass, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist as he turned to press you against the cool marble wall of the restroom, the chill a stark contrast to the heat of your skin.

Isaac's hips rolled forward, grinding his clothed arousal against your sensitive, dripping sex. The rough fabric of his trousers created a delicious friction, stoking the embers of your desire back into a raging inferno. You gasped into his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders as you clung to him, needing to anchor yourself amidst the overwhelming sensations.

Isaac's hands slid under your thighs, squeezing the soft flesh as he held you aloft with an almost bruising force. He tore his mouth from yours, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down the column of your throat. You tilted your head to give him better access, a breathy moan escaping your lips as his teeth grazed your collarbone.

"Fuck, I need to be inside you," Isaac growled, his voice strained with barely restrained desire. His words, crude and vulgar, sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine. You could feel the thick outline of his erection straining against his trousers, the heat of him scorching your core even through the fabric barrier. The ache between your legs intensified, your body yearning to be filled, to be claimed by this dominant, demanding man.

Isaac's fingers found the hem of your dress again, pushing the material up and over your hips to pool around your waist. His hands slid around to cup your ass, kneading the globes roughly as he ground his clothed cock harder against your lace-covered sex. The damp fabric of your panties clung to your swollen folds, the evidence of your arousal coating the delicate lace.

"You're mine," Isaac rasped, his breath hot against your ear. “Say it."

He punctuated his demand with a sharp thrust of his hips, the head of his cock catching on your clit through the fabric, sending a jolt of pleasure radiating through you. Your back arched, pressing your breasts against his chest, the hard points of your nipples straining against the confines of your dress.

"I'm yours," you gasped out, your voice ragged with need. "Only yours, Isaac."

Isaac's eyes flashed with a dark, primal hunger as he tore your panties away, the flimsy lace offering no resistance to his brute strength. He tossed the ruined garment aside, his large hands gripping your bare ass, fingers sinking into the soft flesh hard enough to leave bruises. The cool air of the restroom hit your exposed, dripping sex, making you shiver and clench around nothing, aching to be filled.

“Look at you” He coo’s, words punctuated by grinding the thick ridge of his erection against your naked, swollen folds, the rough fabric of his trousers creating a delicious friction that made stars explode behind your eyelids. You could feel every rigid inch of him, feel the heat of his flesh even through the barrier of clothing, and it made your core clench and flutter wildly, a fresh gush of arousal flooding your core.

With a low groan, Isaac reached into the back pocket of his tailored trousers and withdrew his wallet. He flipped it open, his fingers deftly plucking out a small, square packet. Tearing it open with his teeth, he pulled out the condom, tossing the empty wrapper carelessly aside.

He undid his belt with quick, efficient movements. The leather slipped through the buckle, the sound of it hitting the marble floor loud in the charged silence of the restroom, he popped the button of his trousers, lowering the zipper with a soft hiss.

Your breath caught in your throat as he tugged his trousers and boxers down, just enough to free his throbbing erection. It sprang forth, long, thick and hard, the swollen head an angry pink and already glistening with precum. Your mouth watered at the sight, your core clenching with anticipation.

"Do you really want me to take you here?" Isaac taunted, his voice a low, rough rasp as he tore open the condom packet with his teeth.

He rolled the condom over his impressive length with practiced ease, the latex stretching taut over his thick flesh. Once sheathed, he gripped your thighs harder, his fingers digging into the soft skin hard enough to leave imprints. With a sharp spank to your ass the stinging slap of his palm against your skin making your sex clench and flutter wildly around his pistoning cock. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red lines of passion in their wake as you clung to him, meeting his fierce thrusts with the roll of your hips. “Answer me.”

“Here—please Isaac” You beg, your voice hoarse.

Isaac's eyes darkened with lust and a hint of something wilder, more primal, as he lined himself up with your entrance. The thick head of his cock nudged against your slick folds, parting them easily, teasingly. He could feel the heat radiating from your core, could sense how desperately your body ached to be filled by him.

"Breathe, my love." Isaac murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble. 

As if on cue, he thrust forward, sheathing himself inside you with one powerful, decisive stroke. A guttural groan tore from his throat as your tight, wet heat engulfed him, your walls clenching and fluttering wildly around his thick girth.

"God" Isaac groaned, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he began to move, his hips snapping forward and pulling back in a relentless, driving rhythm.

He set a brutal pace, pounding into you with deep, powerful thrusts that had your entire body jolting with the force. The obscene slap of skin against skin echoed through the restroom, mingling with your wanton moans and Isaac's harsh, ragged breathing.

Your nails raked down his back, leaving red lines of passion in their wake as you clung to him, meeting his fierce thrusts with the roll of your hips. Isaac's hand slid up your body, cupping one of your breasts, his thumb and forefinger pinching and rolling your nipple between them. He leaned down, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your throat, his teeth grazing your racing pulse before he suckled hard, marking you as his.

Lost in the throes of passion, neither of you noticed the condom stretching taut around Isaac's pistoning shaft, the latex straining with each deep, driving thrust. It was only when a sharp, snapping sound cut through the fog of lust that you both froze, your eyes widening in realization.

"Please, don't stop," you begged, your voice high and breathy, tinged with a note of desperation.

Something primal and possessive flashed in Isaac's eyes at your wanton plea. With a low, animalistic growl, he captured your mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep to claim you utterly. At the same time, he began to move again, his hips surging forward in hard, deep thrusts that struck that secret, hidden spot inside you with every plunge of his shaft. He began grinding his pelvis against your aching clit, the rough friction sending you hurtling over the edge. Your body convulsed beneath him, your sex clamping down on his length like a vice as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you.

You could feel the hot, heavy spurts of his seed flooding your core, painting your insides with his essence. It was a deeply intimate, primal moment, the two of you locked together in the throes of mutual climax, joined as closely as two people could be.

Isaac collapsed against you, his weight pressing you into the wall as he struggled to catch his breath. He peppered your face with soft kisses, his touch almost reverent as he traced the contours of your cheekbones, your jaw, your lips.

As the waves of your shared climax subsided, Isaac slowly pulled back, his softening length slipping from your tender, well-used sex with a gush of combined fluids. You both winced slightly at the sensation, the intimate act leaving you feeling deliciously satisfied yet oddly empty.

Isaac carefully set you back on your feet, his hands on your waist to steady you until you found your balance. Your legs felt like jelly, trembling slightly as they took your weight once more. He kept you pressed against him for a moment longer, his chin resting atop your head as he held you close.

"Be careful, love," he murmured, his voice a low, concerned rumble. "I don't want you collapsing on me now."

He reluctantly let you go, taking a step back to survey the disheveled state of your clothing. With deft fingers, he smoothed your dress back down over your curves, his touch lingering on the swell of your hips, the dip of your waist. He retrieved your ruined panties, a wry smile tugging at his lips as he held them up, assisting you by putting them back on.

"Looks like these won't be needed any more tonight," Isaac quipped, tossing them carelessly into a nearby wastebasket. He tucked his own shirt back into his trousers, doing up the button and zipper with quick, dusting off his blazer with his hand all in efficient motions.

Isaac then took your hand in his, interlacing your fingers with his own. He brought your hand up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. Offering you his arm once more as he leads you out the restroom. “You're exhausted” He says, “Let’s go back home.”

As you and Isaac descended the grand staircase, the weight of the night seemed to press down on you more than ever. The echo of your footsteps reverberated in the cool, marble corridors. The doors opened ahead by the same two men from earlier before. The chill of the night sent a shiver through you, and without hesitation, Isaac slipped his blazer from his shoulders and draped it over yours, pulling it tight against your frame. The warmth of the fabric immediately wrapped around you, but there was still a heaviness in the air, a subtle tension that clung to you both as you made your way into the night. His hand brushed against your back, his touch firm and reassuring.

Standing near the doors, leaning casually against the wall, was the figure you had seen earlier—the one you had recognized as “Asriel’s pet.” They were impossible to ignore, even now. Their beauty was ethereal, as if sculpted by the hands of some unseen artist—too perfect, too captivating. The moonlight danced off their features, accentuating every sharp contour and the way their eyes seemed to glow with an unsettling intensity.

You looked up at Isaac, instinctively waiting for his reaction. As you both drew nearer, the figure’s eyes flicked to you, a slow and deliberate gaze that seemed to take in every detail of your exposed legs. The way they looked at you sent a chill down your spine, a feeling that almost bordered on possessive. A smirk stretched across their lips, and you could feel the weight of their gaze before they spoke.

“Must’ve been a fun night,” they said, their voice dripping with mockery, sharp and pointed. There was a cruelty in their tone, but beneath that, something darker, more dangerous—almost predatory.

Confused, you furrowed your brows, not quite understanding the insinuation. But then, your eyes dropped to your legs, and the sickening realization hit you like a wave—Isaac’s essence, the remnants of your intimate moment, was trickling down your leg. A hot flush of embarrassment burned through your chest, but before you could react, Isaac’s grip on your hand tightened, his body stiffening as his jaw clenched in barely contained fury.

“Stay close,” he muttered under his breath, his words low but firm. His gaze locked onto the figure, filled with an icy, silent threat. Then his attention turned back to you, his eyes softening momentarily as his hand moved to steady you, the concern for you outweighing the rage that simmered beneath the surface. “Don’t pay attention to them.”

The figure, still leaning casually against the wall, continued to smirk, their eyes flickering over you with an unsettling amusement. They didn’t push further, but their silence spoke volumes—mocking, daring, almost as if they were watching you both, waiting for something to break.

Isaac, sensing your unease, led you away, his body moving closer to yours. He guided you with a firmness that conveyed both his protectiveness and his anger, the night air colder as it bit at your skin. As you walked past the figure, you couldn't help but glance over at them once more, and in that moment, the figure’s eyes locked onto yours.

They mouthed something, their lips curling into a smile as they spoke the words that sent a shiver down your spine. "See you soon." The smirk on their face deepened as they gave a small, deliberate wave, the motion almost mocking as you walked away.

Your pulse quickened at the thought of their cryptic words, the warning behind them making your skin prickle. You looked up at Isaac, who kept his focus ahead, his anger still apparent in every step he took, but he offered no explanation.

By the time you reached the car, you could feel the cold still clinging to you, the remnants of the uncomfortable encounter sticking in your mind. Isaac opened the door for you, the tension in his body still evident as he held your gaze for a moment longer than usual.

“Sleep,” he said, his voice softer now, though there was still a firmness in it. “I’ll cook for you tonight.” There was something comforting in the simplicity of his words, and as you climbed into the car, you allowed yourself to relax just a little, despite the lingering unease. Isaac started the engine, the soft hum of the car providing a strange sense of normalcy after everything that had just happened.As the car rolled out of the manor's driveway and into the night, your mind continued to whirl with the figure’s haunting presence and those words—“See you soon.”

──

author's note: dedicated to the anon who referred to me as dear, if it matters to anyone at all i imagined isaac wearing this watch.