[Scenario] Ashveil: A Midnight Caller
cw: self-indulgent, possible OOC, female reader.
“Welcome to the «Insomnia Hotline.» I’m Ashveil, your midnight companion.”
The voice into your ear makes you shiver as you’re lying in your bed. The light of Phantasmoon filters through your curtains as the city of Planacardia buzzes with life outside.
Sleep has been dodging you for days, it has been running away due to the same thought: HIM. Whose voice you’re listening to like it’s a lullaby. That very divine voice which belongs to the man whose lazy smirks you see in your dreams, whose eyes seem to linger on you a second too long when he thinks you’re not looking, whose gentlemanly antics makes you flustered — the way he walks you to your door with his arm offered.
You stare at your phone for a long minute before dialing the number you've saved under "Emergency (Do Not Use Unless Desperate)" and before you can talk yourself out of it. Your heart hammers in your rib cage as if it’s about to jump out.
“Welcome to the «Insomnia Hotline,»” his voice flows through the speaker — rich, velvety, low. “No judgments here, listener. Tell me what’s weighing on your mind tonight.”
You swallow. You try to pitch your voice a little lower or higher to remain anonymous, even though you know it's pointless.
"Hi… I can't sleep. There's someone who's been stuck in my head for weeks. Constantly. Every time I close my eyes, I see his smile, hear his voice… the way he says my name. He's kind in this quite old-fashioned way — he’s a gentleman, walks me home, remembers stupid little things I said once. And I think… maybe he feels something too? But I'm scared to say it out loud. What if it's just in my head? What if I ruin everything?"
Then his voice returns, still smooth and confident, but you catch a tiny awkward hitch, a tiny shift in rhythm — that only someone who’s listened to him for months may notice.
“Well, well… That does sound like quite the predicament.” he says slower, maybe a bit hesitating, as if he’s trying to find the right words.
“A certain someone has stuck in your head, making sleep impossible. Your heart races at the mere thought of him, doesn’t it? Classic symptoms of an unsolved case of the heart.”
He clears his throat softly. You hear a faint noise — he’s shifting in his chair, perhaps running his gloved hand through his hair.
“But this someone maybe closer than you think,” he continues, a teasing and playful tone slips in, but with something almost shy. “Or perhaps — just a guess — he’s been losing just as much sleep, replaying every small interaction in his head, every brush of your fingers, every time you smiled at him.”
You bite your lower lip, and your face is burning.
“Advice for the caller, then: perhaps the next time you see this gentleman, you could tell him directly. No disguises. No anonymous lines. Just the truth. I suspect he’d be more than willing to listen. In fact…” He exhales. “He might even confess that the feeling is painfully mutual.”
“Get some rest if you can, darling,” he almost murmurs. “Sweet dreams. Or better yet… come make them real.”
You’re lying here, in your bed, and screaming into your pillow.
Across the city, in a studio, Ashveil stares at the console for a long, long moment with his ears turned pink. He leans back in his chair, removes his hat, and lets out a slow, shaky exhale.
“Damn it,” he mutters your name as he leans forward over the table, putting his elbows on it and leaning his forehead on his hands clasped together. “You really had to call and say all that…”
The man sighs again, already calculating how soon you show up at the agency. But deep down, the touch-starved man is giddy and already counting the hours until he can hear your voice in person again.
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