#asriel x reader

[yoursinisforgiven]

I WANNA DRINK YOUR WORDS LIKE WINE ──

pairing: asriel x reader (pet)

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

you are responsible for your own media consumption.

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

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

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

His mother.

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

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

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

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

But his mother. She was different.

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

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

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

Asriel and his father looked deathly similar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

──

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

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

That was, until Asriel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only something deeper.

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

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

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

For you, it was something else entirely.

It was proof.

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

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

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

He did not pull back.

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

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

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

Not as a master.

Not as something untouchable, unreachable.

But as a man.

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

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

──

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

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

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

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

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

But he was distant.

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

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

Someone had died.

Calem. You believed that was his name.

It should not have mattered.

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

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

You turned your gaze to him now.

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

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

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

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

A pause in a mind that rarely ever paused.

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

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

And truthfully, it flustered you.

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

So you broke the silence.

“Can I ask you something?”

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

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

“I can’t promise an answer.”

Of course. That was always the way of it.

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

“What does it feel like?” you asked.

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

There was a long pause.

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

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

A well-rehearsed answer.

A practiced deflection.

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

“Liar.”

His lips twitched, but he did not refute you.

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

After what felt like a lifetime, he spoke.

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

He paused.

”—it still surprises you.”

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

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

Calem? His father? Someone else?

Or was it himself?

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

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

His gaze slid back to you, slow, deliberate.

“It takes everything,” he said simply.

The words settled between you, heavy, final.

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

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

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

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

Nothing lasted.

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

One day, even Asriel would fade.

And perhaps, that was the cruelest truth of all.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The fire crackled behind you.

The snow continued to fall.

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

──

It was one of those nights again.

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

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

Mother Nature had moved on.

But you hadn’t.

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

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

No, not the party.

Her.

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

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

But there was one thing you could never take.

Asriel’s trust.

Maybe even something deeper than that.

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

And to her, he had given it freely.

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

He had assured you, hadn’t he?

He had told you he liked you.

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

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

His body.

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

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

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

And for a while, this was enough.

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

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

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

He always did.

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

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

Then, instead of retreating, he exhaled.

Slowly.

As if surrendering to this. To you.

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

And suddenly, that hunger returned.

Not for his body.

For more.

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

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

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

And still, he did not stop you.

So you bit.

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

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

It was him.

In his purest form.

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

With you.

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

This was the closest you would ever truly have him.

The closest he would ever allow you to be.

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

And you could not stop yourself.

“Do you love me?”

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

His body stiffened.

For the first time, he hesitated.

The silence stretched long between you, thick and heavy.

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

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

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

It was not rough.

Not demanding.

But lingering.

As if memorizing the taste of himself on your tongue.

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

“Don’t ask me that.”

His voice was quiet.

Not a refusal.

Not a rejection.

But something far worse.

Something that sounded like an admission.

Something that felt like surrender.

And yet, he stayed.

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

The world outside continued its dance.

The seasons would keep turning.

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

──

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

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

psps: thank you payton talbott 

tag list:

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

[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]

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)

[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]

OPIA ──

pairing: asriel x reader (pet) 

cw: dark content, descriptive gore (i kept it quite light!), child abuse (?) (mostly emotional and psychological), pet is not a morally good person, mentions of disability, mentions of blood, mentions of death.

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

Twelve months.

You had been under Asriel’s care for a full year now, and in that time, you had come to understand that he was a man of contradictions—complex and impenetrable, like a labyrinth with no clear exit. Every day revealed something new about him, whether intentionally or not, as though he found amusement in keeping you guessing.

In just a week, you had learned several things. Asriel didn’t smoke cigarettes, but tobacco—pure, unfiltered, and rolled by hand. You’d caught the faint, woody aroma clinging to his tailored suits and once saw a gold-plated lighter etched with an emblem you didn’t recognize. You never asked why he favored it over cigarettes. The potential reply felt daunting, like opening a door to a room you weren’t sure you wanted to enter.

He had a pronounced distaste for sweets. That became clear when one of his staff brought up a slice of cake—something delicate and extravagant, with layers of pale frosting and edible gold. You couldn’t recall him asking for it, so it was likely a gift. You observed, not watched, as the plate sat untouched on his desk for hours, the faint sheen of the frosting dulling under the room's warm glow. Four hours later, another staff member came in, and Asriel offhandedly instructed them to throw it out. No explanation, no second glance.

Lastly, he was oddly good at chess—a true opponent, unlike any you had faced in years, perhaps ever. His moves were calculated, precise, and measured, as though each piece on the board was an extension of his own will. He was relentless in his strategy, dissecting your defenses with the patience of a surgeon. You’d grown to appreciate the challenge, the way the game seemed to strip away the veneer of civility and reveal the raw intellect beneath.

You were in the middle of a match now, one that had stretched over an hour. Your knight had just backed his queen into a corner, a small triumph that brought a faint smirk to your lips. But before he could make his counter, one of his staff interrupted, stepping into the study with a quiet urgency.

“Master,” the servant said, glancing at you briefly before returning their gaze to Asriel. “Your mother requests your presence downstairs.”

Asriel sighed, the faintest trace of irritation crossing his features. Rising from his chair with a grace that seemed almost practiced. He gestured toward the board. “Don’t touch anything. I’ll return shortly.”

That had been two hours ago.

You sat alone in the now-quiet study, the chessboard untouched. The warm amber light of sunset filtered through the windows, casting long shadows across the room. The ticking of a nearby clock filled the silence, a constant reminder of the time slipping by.

Impatience gnawed at you, but you made no move to follow him. Asriel hated being trailed, and you weren’t in the mood for another lecture on boundaries. Still, the longer he was gone, the heavier the air in the room seemed to grow, like the mansion itself was holding its breath.

You leaned back in the chair, letting your gaze drift to the chessboard. His last move had been almost audacious, a move that seemed reckless at first glance but revealed its brilliance upon closer inspection. You couldn’t help but admire the way his mind worked, even if it frustrated you to no end.

And then you heard it.

A deafening screech tore through the stillness, raw and unnatural, like metal scraping against bone. It reverberated through the walls, setting your teeth on edge and making the fine hairs on your arms stand on end.

Your heart lurched. The sound was wrong, an intrusion into the carefully controlled order of Asriel’s world. You pushed yourself to your feet, your chair scraping loudly against the floor. The study, once a haven of quiet contemplation, now felt claustrophobic, every shadow seeming to stretch and twist unnaturally.

You closed your eyes briefly, focusing on the rhythmic thrum of Asriel’s heartbeat. It wasn’t difficult to locate—it stood out like a beacon against the muffled quiet of the mansion. His pulse had spiked slightly, an unusual deviation that you could only attribute to the screech. Whatever had caused it, it had unsettled even him, and that was no small feat.

Following the sound, you navigated the winding halls with precision, your steps silent on the polished floors. The heartbeat led you to the drawing room, a grand space you had rarely visited, its towering doors slightly ajar. You pushed them open just enough to slip inside, the faint creak of the hinges masked by the low hum of voices.

The scene before you stopped you in your tracks.

Asriel’s mother was seated on one of the ornate chaise lounges near the hearth, her posture regal and composed, as though she were posing for a portrait. She exuded an air of quiet authority, the kind that demanded attention without effort. You’d never spoken to her directly—had barely even seen her during your time here. Yet now, there she was, the center of the room’s gravity.

Asriel stood beside her, his hands clasped behind his back in a stance that was equal parts deference and control. His expression was a strange mix—annoyance flickered in his eyes, but there was something else beneath it, something rarer. Surprise.

Asriel never showed surprise. He prided himself on his control, on his ability to foresee every outcome, every deviation from his plans. If the unexpected ever dared cross his path, it was because he had allowed it. Yet here he was, his usual composure slightly cracked, as though the earth beneath him had shifted.

And then your gaze fell to the small child cradled in his mother’s arms.

The child couldn’t have been more than seven months old, their tiny form swaddled in a blanket of soft cream. Their head lolled slightly against her shoulder, one chubby hand curling unconsciously into the fabric of her dress. The child’s presence was so starkly out of place in this world of power and cold precision that it almost felt surreal.

You inhaled sharply, the scent of the child reaching you before your thoughts could fully form. It was faint but distinct—innocence, untainted and fragile, laced with a warmth you hadn’t encountered in years. The reaction it stirred in you was immediate and visceral, your instincts surging to the surface before you could suppress them.

You watched the baby intently as their tiny eyes fluttered closed, only to reopen a moment later—not a blink. You were certain of it. The movement was deliberate, almost searching, though it lacked focus. A second later, another cry broke the silence, soft but plaintive, cutting through the tension in the room like a knife.

A strange sensation stirred in your stomach, churning uneasily. Something about the child unsettled you in a way you couldn’t quite place. Your brows furrowed, and you balled your fists tightly, the sharp tips of your claws pressing into the flesh of your palms. The sting grounded you, anchoring your fraying composure. You stopped just before breaking the skin—not out of self-preservation, but because you didn’t want to inconvenience Asriel.

“They’re blind.” you said aloud, the words escaping before you could stop them.

 ──

The world you had known—its rigid structure, its cold, calculated balance—was no longer the same. It wasn’t the child’s fault, you told yourself. It wasn’t their presence, fragile and small, that disrupted the tenuous order of things. No, it was everything else. The way they cried, piercing the silence of the mansion like a jagged blade. The way their existence seemed to demand attention, care, reverence even. The way Asriel’s mother hovered over them, her presence cloaked in something darker than mere affection.  

In those first weeks, you avoided the child entirely. It wasn’t difficult; the sprawling estate offered ample opportunity to keep your distance, to pretend the intrusion hadn’t happened. Yet, despite your best efforts, the child lingered. Their presence stretched beyond the walls of the nursery, seeping into the fabric of the house like an oil stain, impossible to ignore.  

You convinced yourself it was the disruption you resented, not the child. Not the way their cries seemed to pull at something buried deep within you, something that you had long since locked away. Not the way Asriel’s attention, sparse as it was, occasionally flickered toward the infant with something that resembled... interest. It wasn’t affection; it couldn’t be. Asriel was not a man who gave himself to such trivial emotions. But whatever it was, it was enough to stir an unfamiliar unease within you.  

You hated the way the child seemed to demand things without asking, without even knowing. Their blindness, their fragility—it wasn’t a choice, you knew that. But still, it grated on you, like a splinter buried too deep to remove. A part of you, the part you tried to ignore, whispered that they were weak, vulnerable in a way that made you want to look away.  

And yet you couldn’t.  

They were always there, in the periphery of your mind. You caught yourself listening for their cries, for the soft murmurs of the maids as they tended to the child. You noticed the way the mansion seemed to shift around them, the way Asriel’s mother moved with a new kind of purpose, as though the child had become the axis around which her world revolved.  

But it was Asriel who unsettled you the most. He spoke of the child sparingly, his words clipped and measured, revealing nothing of his true thoughts. When you saw him with the child, it was always the same: calculated care, movements precise and deliberate, like a man playing a role he had rehearsed a thousand times. Yet there were moments—fleeting, almost imperceptible—when something in his expression softened, when his gaze lingered on the infant for just a moment too long.  

It made your skin crawl.  

You began to resent the child, though you couldn’t say when the feeling first took root. Maybe it was the way they disrupted the order you had come to rely on, or maybe it was the way they seemed to pull at parts of you that you had buried long ago. Parts of you that you didn’t want to acknowledge, let alone confront.  

The resentment grew, twisting itself into something dark and unrecognizable. You found yourself imagining the child as something other than they were—something parasitic, feeding off the house, off Asriel, off you. You envisioned their cries as demands, their fragility as a trap designed to ensnare. You told yourself it was irrational, that the child was innocent, blameless. But the thoughts persisted, creeping into your mind like shadows in the corners of a room.  

One evening, you found yourself standing outside the nursery door, the faint sound of the child’s breathing just audible through the heavy wood. You hadn’t intended to come here; your feet had carried you without thought, without intention. The door was cracked open, just enough to see inside.  

The child lay in their crib, their small form barely visible beneath the soft blankets. They were silent now, their face peaceful in sleep. For a moment, you felt something stir within you—a flicker of something warm, something unnameable. But it was gone as quickly as it came, smothered by the weight of your resentment.  

You turned away, the shadows of the hallway swallowing you whole.  

The resentment festered, feeding on your thoughts, your silence, your distance. It became a part of you, as much as the mansion had, as much as Asriel had. And you began to wonder if the child was a mirror, reflecting the parts of yourself you didn’t want to see. The weakness, the fragility, the helplessness.  

You hated them for it.  

And yet, you couldn’t look away.

 ──

You hadn’t loved the child, of course—not unconditionally, and certainly not in any way that could be described as instinctual. That part of you, the so-called “motherly instinct,” had withered long ago, buried under years of disillusionment and the weight of your own existence. Celeste, they called her—a name whispered by the maids with a kind of reverence you couldn’t bring yourself to understand. Heavenly, Greek, apparently. You supposed it was fitting in some ironic, cosmic way, though the thought left a bitter taste in your mouth.

Asriel had not loved her either. That much was clear. Whatever semblance of interest he had shown in those early weeks had dissipated by the second month of her stay. His care—if it could even be called that—was conditional, transactional. He had no patience for fragility, no use for something that could not serve his ambitions. You saw it in the way he passed her off to the maids without a second thought, the way his gaze barely lingered on her anymore, as though she were a piece of furniture that had lost its novelty.

And yet, there you were. Stumped. At a loss. Confused.

It wasn’t that you pitied her, though the thought had crossed your mind once or twice in fleeting moments of weakness. No, it was something else—something that gnawed at the edges of your thoughts, refusing to be ignored. Celeste unsettled you. She was too small, too quiet, too fragile. Her blindness was a fact, not a tragedy, yet it lingered in the air around her like a specter. She existed in a state of perpetual vulnerability, and it made you feel something you didn’t want to name, didn’t want to acknowledge.

The resentment was still there, of course, simmering beneath the surface. You resented her cries, her helplessness, the way she disrupted the fragile balance of your life. You resented the way Asriel’s mother seemed to dote on her, as though the child were some precious jewel she had unearthed. But more than anything, you resented the way Celeste made you feel.

You hated the way she lingered in your thoughts, uninvited and unwelcome. You hated the way her tiny, blind eyes seemed to see right through you, even though you knew it was impossible. You hated the way her presence seemed to strip away the carefully constructed walls you had built around yourself, exposing something raw and vulnerable beneath.

And yet, despite all of it, you couldn’t stay away.

You found yourself drawn to her in ways that defied logic, ways that made your skin crawl. You caught yourself lingering outside her nursery, listening to the soft rhythm of her breathing. You watched her from the shadows, the way she curled her small fingers around nothing, as though grasping for something just out of reach. You told yourself it was curiosity, nothing more. But the truth was far more complicated, far more unsettling.

Celeste was becoming a mirror, a reflection of parts of yourself you had long since buried. Her fragility, her blindness, her vulnerability—they were all things you despised, things you had spent years trying to erase from your own existence. And yet, here they were, embodied in this tiny, helpless creature who had done nothing to deserve your hatred.

There were moments—brief, fleeting moments—when you felt something other than resentment. A flicker of... what? Compassion? Pity? Something softer, something that made your chest ache in ways you didn’t fully understand. You didn’t want to feel it, didn’t want to acknowledge it. But it was there, stubborn and unyielding, like a weed growing through the cracks of your carefully constructed facade.

And then there were the dreams.

They started small, subtle—a faint echo of her cries in the distance, a shadow of her form at the edge of your vision. But they grew darker, more vivid, more intrusive. You dreamed of her tiny hands reaching for you, of her blind eyes staring into yours, accusing and unrelenting. You dreamed of her cries, not the soft, plaintive wails you had grown accustomed to, but something sharper, more piercing.

You woke from these dreams drenched in sweat, your heart pounding in your chest. You told yourself they meant nothing, that they were just fragments of a restless mind. But deep down, you knew better. Celeste had taken root in your psyche, and there was no escaping her.

The resentment, the confusion, the strange, unnameable ache—they all churned within you, a chaotic maelstrom of emotion that you couldn’t sort through, couldn’t control. Celeste had become a part of you, whether you wanted her to or not.

And slowly, imperceptibly, you began to change.

 

──

The mansion is colder than usual tonight, the silence pressing on you like a heavy fog, thick and suffocating. You stand at the door of her room, that same unsettling pull drawing you toward her, even though every part of you wants to turn away. You can’t—won’t—ignore it this time.

You open the door slowly, the soft creak of the hinges echoing in the stillness. Inside, the air is warm, heavy with the scent of lavender and milk, a stark contrast to the chill in your bones. The crib is bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight slipping through the curtains, casting delicate patterns across the room. There she lies, curled up, her small body barely visible beneath the weight of the blankets.

Celeste’s face is scrunched in discomfort, her tiny brow furrowed even as she sleeps. Her breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps, a sign of the restless dreams that plague her fragile, vulnerable mind. Her lips part slightly, and the faintest whimper escapes her, a sound so small, so helpless, it seems to pierce the quiet of the room.

And then, it comes—a soft cry, barely more than a tremor in the air. It’s not loud. It’s not demanding. It’s just... a plea. A simple, raw sound, desperate in its fragility. Her tiny hands stretch out from beneath the blankets, reaching for something, anything, in the air, as if she knows that the world is too large for her. Her fingers splay, grasping at the emptiness, her little chest rising and falling with each soft, shaky breath.

Another cry. This time, it’s a little louder, a little more insistent. She wriggles in her sleep, her arms flailing helplessly, her blind eyes squeezed shut as though the darkness itself is a threat she cannot escape. Her voice cracks, the sound of it so pure, so innocent, that it feels like a knife twisting in your chest. 

Why did they bring you here? The question burns through your mind, but it’s not a question for her. It’s for the world that has made her so small, so utterly dependent. She’s just a child—a helpless, broken thing in a world that doesn’t care about her. 

Her cries grow slightly louder, her voice trembling, and despite your resolve to turn away, you find yourself moving toward her. Every instinct screams at you to leave, to escape the weight of this responsibility, but your feet carry you forward. You approach the crib cautiously, your heart pounding in your chest, as if you’re walking toward something you can’t control.

Celeste’s tiny hand jerks out again, her fingers curling into the air as though she’s reaching for you. She’s so small, so fragile, her blind eyes fluttering open and closed as she searches for something, anything—you—to hold on to.

You reach out, your hand trembling as it hovers above her. The moment your clawed fingers brush against her soft skin, the world seems to still. Her tiny fingers curl around yours, their grip weak, but there. The warmth of her touch radiates through you, and for a moment, it feels like the world outside of this room has ceased to exist. 

Celeste’s cry falters, but she still clings to you, her little hand grasping at yours with a desperate urgency. It’s not the cry of a child asking for food or comfort—no, this cry is something deeper, something primal. It’s the sound of a being who has been abandoned, who is reaching out in the darkness for something to hold on to. 

You can feel her dependence on you, the weight of her need, and it stirs something in you. Something you can’t name. Something that makes your chest tighten and your thoughts spiral. It’s not hunger. It’s not a simple instinct to feed. There is no hunger here. Only the raw, aching pull of responsibility, of something that feels like care. 

Her cries grow softer now, the desperation fading as she settles into your touch. But the stillness doesn’t last. Another cry, louder this time, more frantic, breaks through the calm. Her small body shifts, her limbs jerking as if trying to escape from some unseen terror. She reaches out again, and you can almost feel the weight of her desperation, the sheer terror of being alone in this cold, dark world. 

The sound of her cries fills the room, sinking into your bones, twisting your insides. Her helplessness is suffocating, and you can’t escape it. This is not hunger. This is not something you can justify as survival. This is something else. Something that makes you want to shield her, to protect her from the world that would never give her a chance.

You lean over her, the weight of her cries pressing down on you like a thousand hands. You can end this now. You can spare her from everything, from the cruelty of this world. She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t deserve to suffer, to live in a world that will never be kind to her. She deserves peace. 

You lower yourself toward her, your fangs aching, but you hesitate. You look at her tiny, trembling body, her blind eyes still searching, and the thought that you could end it all for her—for her own good—grows louder in your mind. 

You can save her. You can make it stop. 

But as you lower your fangs to her fragile neck, something inside you snaps. It’s not hunger. It’s not survival. It’s something else. Something darker. Something that makes you question everything.

And then, as your fangs sink into her skin, you realize—this isn’t hunger. This isn’t an act of mercy. It’s the twisted manifestation of care. A care that is broken, warped, and cruel. A care that should never have existed.

You pull back, your mouth filled with her blood, but you spit it out, the taste of it bitter in your mouth. You can’t do it. You can’t pretend this was for her. You can’t pretend that you’re saving her. Because in the end, it was never about saving her. It was about something far more selfish. Something that has broken you. 

And now, as she lies there, her small body still in the crib, you understand. You’ve taken her life. Not out of hunger. Not out of mercy. But out of something far more terrifying—care for something you can never truly understand.

──

author's note: i just finished cevyk’s series and im so inlove with him.

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