ive made up my mind can i request anything to do with them personally feeding u? with any character u want, as long as you have fun making it!! (now that i think abt it, u could also incorporate it into alien aether LMAO)
ok so this is supposed to be cute but considering the character i decided to write for… well um.
Looking at the mess strewn all over the floor—scattered papers, shattered vases, and claw marks that you cannot explain—a poor witness would come to the obvious conclusion of bloody murder.
“Get that away from me!”
“Are you always this difficult when you’re feverish?” Lohen wonders, though the smile on his face betrays his feigned exasperation. He’s been smiling the entire time, which, frankly, irked you more than his attempts to poison you!
“I’m not poisoning you!” he laughs brightly—and he must not see how simply incredulous it sounds coming from him, of all people.
You growl. “I’ll call for help. I’ll scream. Lisa will kill us both.”
He swishes the vial around, looking muddy green and disgusting. “It’s just herbs, I'm pretty sure.”
“I can live without those!”
The yelling catches up to you in a sudden throbbing behind your eyes, interrupting your spiel with uncomfortable writhing and an unbidden whine. Lohen’s face drops, the playful mood vanishing for a second. He closes the distance soon enough, hovering anxiously in case you wobble in the wrong direction.
Lohen wipes off sweat that’s begun to accumulate on your forehead. “Do you want to stay confined to this room? I mean, I wouldn’t mind, but you’ll get all restless and blame me for not making you drink this.”
Your snarl twists into a pout, a foolproof look that usually gets you out of whatever he makes you do. But Lohen just watches with that infuriating quirk to his lips as you even bat your lashes. You almost think it worked, by the way his eyes flicker downward for a moment too long, but you still end up with your jaw in his hand, and the vial pressed against your mouth.
“I’ll kill you for this,” you swear, glaring with all your might. “Once I’m back in business, you’ll be out of it.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Lohen coos, tipping the concoction to your lips. The bitter taste of what seems like grass clippings and boiled Dendro Slime scalds your throat. You gag and grip his arm tight enough to hurt just to be petty, but Lohen makes sure you gulp it all, just as Barbara advised. “Once you can take more than three steps to the other room, you’re more than welcome, pretty.”
a/n so i know NOTHING about lohen but i wanted to write something for akagi!! there’s really no occasion, but i was just thinking about thawed the other day and thought to write something for this account. and eventually settled on writing a character i’ve never met ingame, like a true larper <- I’M NOT EVEN GONNA USE THE LOHEN TAG BRUH
ʚɞ It's just like seeing her for the first time again ʚɞ
⚘ Pairings: Phainon/Khaslana x Reader
⚘ Summery: With the Era Nova completed, your beloved Phainon has long taken the role of Worldbearing Titan, now bearing the name 'Khaslana'. Even so, neither of you have refused to forget each other. And now, as you visit the Titan with the Tribios, you find yourself in a troublesome situation with a slumbering god.
⚘ Tags: Fluff, canon divergent, Titan!Phainon, the Era Nova is true in this AU so all the Chrysos Heirs are now Titans, fuck Lygus, established relationship, basically Phainon being lovesick while bearing the Dawn Device and everything, #ilovemywife
⚘ Word count: 1k
⚘ A/N: Happy anniversary to Phainon and this blog, it changed my life, so have this slop i miss him so much omfg
Beneath the Dawn Device’s unwavering radiance lies a bustling Okhema. Action-Hour has just begun, and the merchants alongside the shopkeepers waste no time in opening their stalls, their voices already rising into the morning air. Bright fabrics are unfurled, polished wares arranged with care, and the scent of warm food drifts lazily through the streets.
Children’s laughter rings clear as they gather beneath Aglaea’s golden thread woven high above, daring one another to leap higher, to reach closer, as though they might grasp divinity itself. And between it all, the little Tribios flit through the streets like fragments of light—tiny, radiant guides leading humanity gently toward its countless destinations.
“Snowy, wake up!” Tribbie calls, her voice bright and insistent as it echoes toward the slumbering god before her. Behind her linger Trianne and Trinnon—the remaining fragments of the Passage Titan—quiet yet watchful, their presence carrying a weight far older than the lively city below.
Beside them stands you—Trianne’s so-called 'Worldbearing Star'. A title you have protested more times than you can count, one that feels far too grand, far too misplaced upon your shoulders. Yet they insist. To Trinnon’s logic, if the Worldbearing Titan himself bears Amphoreus upon his existence, then it is only fitting that his beloved be the guiding star that walks beside him through every phase—life, death, and all that lingers in between.
However, Khaslana does not stir at Tribbie’s call. He remains as he is—motionless, unbothered, slumbering like an ancient monument carved into existence. One pair of his arms continues to uphold the Dawn Device, unwavering even in sleep, as though such a burden has long since become second nature. You would argue it is a habit inherited from his human self. Despite being a tireless Flame-Chaser in the past, Phainon had never once passed up an opportunity to rest when it presented itself—and it seems even ascension has not rid him of that trait.
Tribbie glances toward you with a look that can only be described as troublesome, mischief and mild exasperation mingling in her expression. Beside her, Trianne looks far less amused—her posture already stiffening, as though preparing to scold the Titan himself. Truly, such laziness does not suit the Worldbearing Titan… at least, not in her eyes.
“Wake up, Snowy. We have a guest,” Trinnon tries again, her voice calm and measured, carrying a gentler authority.
It proves just as futile.
Tribbie sighs, long and dramatic, as Khaslana remains entirely unresponsive. You consider stepping in—suggesting that perhaps they should try again later, that there is no need to force themselves to wake him from such a deep slumber.
But of course, they are stubborn.
Trianne floats forward, drawing in a breath until her chest rises with the effort. “Little [Name] has come to visit you, Snowy!!” she calls out, her voice ringing with half her strength, determined to pierce through the thick veil of his sleep.
For a moment, the attempt crosses the possibility of a failure. Then—at last—one golden eye flutters open.
Relief ripples instantly through the fragments of the Passage Titan, their tension easing as Khaslana slowly begins to wake. His other eye follows, heavy with lingering drowsiness, and the Tribios collectively release soft sighs of triumph. Beside them, you cannot help the quiet chuckle that escapes you, light and unrestrained.
Where others might tremble before the Worldbearing Titan, you find yourself laughing more freely than anyone.
Khaslana lifts his head, the motion slow but effortless, his awareness settling over the scene before him. For a being of such scale, such ancient weight, he has retained an almost startling amount of his humanity. And the moment his gaze finds you—truly finds you—his expression softens, brightening into something unmistakably warm.
“Oh,” he hums, voice still touched with sleep, “I have four lovely guests.”
His gaze drifts over the group, but it does not linger long on the others. Inevitably, inevitably, it returns to you—carrying something quieter, something unspoken, as though the rest of his sentence exists only in the space between you both.
And you are the loveliest of all.
Trianne huffs, clearly irritated, though it is a fleeting thing—one that will undoubtedly fade within minutes. “We may be lovely,” she snaps, “but you certainly weren’t, with the way you were sleeping!”
A soft laugh escapes Khaslana, low and unbothered, as he tilts his head slightly to better observe the four of you. There is amusement in his gaze, gentle and unguarded—until Trianne fixes him with what is meant to be a warning glare. In practice, it resembles more a child’s attempt at intimidation than anything truly threatening.
Before he can respond, she turns sharply and flies off, her indignation carrying her forward. Tribbie follows with a small shrug, and Trinnon hesitates only briefly before trailing after them, leaving you behind in their wake.
You can only smile fondly as you watch them leave, their voices fading into the lively hum of Okhema below. You know well that none of them have taken anything to heart—bantering with Khaslana has always been one of their favorite pastimes, rivaled only by the hours they spend in Aglaea’s presence. It is a familiar rhythm, one you have seen play out countless times, and one that never truly changes.
Out of nowhere, something brushes gently against you.
You turn, only to find Khaslana already watching you—his immense form lowered, bringing himself down to your level with a care that feels almost reverent. There is a softness in his gaze, something warm and unguarded, as though the vastness of his existence narrows to you alone. One of his fingers shifts slightly, brushing against you in a motion meant to mimic a poke—a small, almost playful gesture he once did so easily, and now can only imitate.
“My beloved has taken time out of their day to visit me,” he murmurs, voice low and threaded with quiet fondness. “How could I ever ignore such a call?”
The way he speaks—so earnest, so effortlessly devoted—affects you no less than it once did when he was still Phainon. A devotee in every life, it seems. Some things, even ascension cannot change.
A soft smile curves your lips as you rest your hand lightly against his finger, grounding both yourself and him. “A flatterer, through and through,” you tease gently, though the warmth in your voice betrays you. You have heard words like these a thousand times before—yet they never quite lose their weight.
As expected, his response comes not in words, but in action.
A free pair of his arms begins to move, slow and deliberate, forming a quiet barrier around you. The world beyond is gently obscured, his towering presence shielding you from the eyes of Okhema. To him, you are something far more sacred than even a Coreflame—something that should not be witnessed carelessly, something to be hidden away from the gaze of others. Though, as always, you are quick to recognize the exaggeration woven into his beliefs.
Still, you step closer. Raising your hand, you let it come to rest against a small portion of his cheek. The contact is featherlight, almost insignificant in scale—a touch so gentle it should not register upon a being of his size.
Yet, it does and Khaslana stills completely.
For a fleeting moment, it feels as though everything about him—his breath, his thoughts, the quiet hum of his existence—pauses, just to feel that fragile, fleeting warmth. As though the vastness of the world he carries fades into nothing, leaving only the soft press of your hand against him.
Silence settles between you. It lingers, unbroken, stretching into minutes as he remains there, unmoving, basking in the small flame of your touch. You can tell, even without him saying it, that he is fighting the pull of sleep. That familiar heaviness threatens to claim him once more—after all, even your voice alone has always been enough to lull him into rest.
“How was your day, Dawnlight?” the Worldbearing Titan finally murmurs, his voice softer now, almost drowsy. His sunrise-gold eyes flutter open again, seeking you out as though he fears you might disappear the moment he closes them.
Those eyes…
They have never changed. Still loving. Still unbearably, hopelessly devoted—no matter the life, no matter the form.
Once, long ago, Phainon had asked you the same question, his head resting against your chest as he sought refuge in the sound of your voice. Back then, it had been a simple wish—to fall asleep without nightmares, to let your voice be the last thing he heard before sleep claimed him.
Now, stripped of his mortal shell and reborn beneath the Era Nova, Khaslana waits for that same answer.
Not for the sake of conversation— But in the quiet hope that, if he listens closely enough, he might drift into sleep once more… and dream of a world where he can hold you once more.
even when i'm quiet, i love you baby, i promise - phainon x gn!reader
naturally, it's impossible to know how to appropriately react to finding out that your lover has intergalactic levels of power.
well, you always had known phainon was destined for great feats and even greater heights, but it was daunting to confront that reality now. he looked so... untouchable with his wings and halo that spanned an armslength, the sight of his second form engrained into the crevices of your mind as you try to comprehend how that beautifully frightening being is someone you have the nerve to deem a lover.
the truth of amphoreus was one blow to your gut, and the second one was approaching now. you know the sound of his footsteps like the flowers know the sun, like the leaves blow to the wind, like the way amphoreus was always fated to reach the new dawn.
one with him in it this time, and that was a gift in itself.
he emerges from the shrubbery not too long after and you watch as his eyes light up, phainon naturally gravitating to you. even after all this time, all these cycles, he gazes at you like he's falling in love for the first time.
"i've been looking for you," is all he says as he sits down next to you on the stone ledge. you glance down at your hands in your lap and hum. "why are you hiding all the way out here? it took me a while to find you."
"i wanted some peace and quiet," you tell him, "i didn't worry you, did i?"
he shuffles closer, knee touching your outer thigh. you don't miss the way that he tries to shrink down, as if finding a way to be in your line of sight, magnetised to your personal space. "no, i just wanted to be with you. what are you thinking about?"
you could be honest. you could be coy. it's a matter of time before the truth comes out to him, he's always known how to pull it out of you.
however, this time it feels like he knows what you're thinking about, he's just waiting for you to confirm it, but his patience was wearing thin.
the dromas in the room; you still haven't asked him about his other form, nor have you properly talked to him since amphoreus took shape again, too overwhelmed by the bizarreness of peace, too helpless in the face of... just being able to do what you wish to do, too uncertain of how to move when there is no time limit on happiness.
this state of tranquility is here to stay. no more chasing prophecies, mad titans, undergoing trials, the warm sky overhead was a testament to that.
"there's a lot that i am thinking about," you say, watching the clouds float overhead.
"am i... in any of those thoughts?"
"plenty. majority," you glance back over to him.
"it feels like you've been avoiding me, y'know," he grumbles and he shuffles around a bit before his head finds comfort in your lap, effectively pinning you to the spot, as if securing it so that you wouldn't run away.
from the conversation or from him.
"i'm still the phainon you know, i'm still your phainon, and i know there's so much i still owe to tell you, but at the end of the day, and if you allow it, i'll come back to you, no matter what."
it's funny that such a powerful being- a majestic, divine, being such as himself, found it worthwhile to proclaim your ownership over him, to devote himself to such an arbitrary thing such as love when he could burn through stars and galaxies and find himself at the apex of creation.
your fingers follow the pathway to his hair and begin playing with the strands.
"can i... see your other... form, please?" you ask.
"are you sure? i mean, i could never deny you of anything but," he raises himself off of you, meeting your eyes. "i don't think you should see me like that."
"please?"
his eyebrows furrow for a second before he nods. he didn't want to make you ask a second time, weak to your whims in the first cycle, and still just as weak after the conclusion, quickly rolling off you and onto his feet.
suddenly, the man standing before you completely transforms in the blink of an eye. a flash passes, not bright enough to hurt your eyes, but fast enough that white hair has turned into blond, his past regal blue, white and black gowns have turned into stone, chest carved with golden cracks form.
his golden eyes are intimidating, a face so perfectly sculpted that it feels like you're seeing the stone statues you loved admiring as a kid. only this time, his presence is so captivating yet chilling, an oppressive warmth radiating from him as he watches you admire him.
"you're... breathtaking."
he laughs. quick, breathy, but relieved that you are yet to run away.
he might not know what to do with himself if you did.
"this ghastly form is nothing more than a vessel for all the rage and hatred that has manifested for thirty three million cycles. you shouldn't... see me like this too long"
you frown, shaking your head. "i want to. it just breaks my heart that life has given you so much pain."
"it's worth it because we are here now."
you open your arms, inviting him into your embrace. gently, with the same care that one would approach a sleeping chimera with, he melts into you. you bring your forehead to his, interlinking your hands behind his neck, feeling khaslana's warmth thrum underneath your touch.
this is the face you could spend your whole life knowing.
"after everything that has happened, i should be the one comforting you," you murmur, traces of a smile lingering in your tone. "i love you. that much will never change."
you watch as your words settle into his mind and he closes his eyes, a breath of relief passing through his lips. then, he kisses you, slow but consuming because now that he has all the time in the world, he can spend forever with you, and he plans on savouring every second.
⟢ features: ashveil x gn!reader, fluff, domestic fluff, food as love language, indirect kiss (it’s not important to the fic but i just thought to add it anyway LOL), not proofread
⟢ word count: 4,668
⟢ note: this is my contribution for this month ueueueue ,,,, i haven’t done the 4.1 quest yet btw so if things don’t align with the canon, then oopsies! but i’ve seen ashveil’s in game messages (specifically the one where mr. n told the trailblazer about ashveil’s eating habits!) a lot on x so this inspired me to create this fic. enjoy!!
⟢ also on: ao3
“Can I help you?”
Ashveil stares down at the person on the other side of the door like he’s trying to decide if they’re real or just another thing his brain coughed up out of boredom.
The office is quiet in the way it only ever gets when everyone else has scattered off somewhere. The Furbos are gone, Mister N is gone, even the usual background noise feels like it’s packed up and left him behind. So when someone knocked, it echoed up until even his own agency—loud, annoying, and intrusive.
And here you are.
The first thing he notes is that you don’t look like trouble. Not that “not looking like trouble” has ever stopped trouble before, but still—you’re just standing there, holding a bag that smells—he sniffs, subtle—good. Really good.
“I—um, sorry,” you start, already sounding like you think you’ve made a mistake. “I was looking for someone. Is Nihilux—”
“No,” Ashveil cuts in, leaning his weight against the doorframe like he’s got nowhere to be. Which—really—he doesn’t. “She doesn’t work here anymore.”
You blink, as if you didn’t expect the answer to come that quickly or maybe at all.
“Oh,” you say, and then you start talking.
You ramble. The words spills out of you in uneven, apologetic waves—about Nihilux, about how she’d often forget to eat, how you’d bring her food because she’d get so caught up in her art that hours would pass and she wouldn’t notice, how you weren’t even sure if she’d still be here but you thought you’d check anyway because it’s been a while and—
Ashveil listens.
There’s something oddly nice about it. The way your words tumble over each other, the way you circle back and correct yourself, the way you keep glancing at him like you expect him to shut the door any second now.
He doesn’t. Instead, he hums once, low in his throat, just enough to let you know he’s still there.
“…and yeah,” you finish, a little breathless. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to just… talk so much. You probably don’t even care.”
“Didn’t say that,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders.
Flustered, you look down at the bag in your hands.
“Well, since she’s not here…” you say, holding it out toward him, hesitant but decided all the same, “you can have this. I mean—only if you want. It was for her, but it’d be a waste otherwise. And I already bothered you, so…”
Ashveil blinks. “For me?” he echoes, like he needs to hear it again to make sure he didn’t misinterpret anything.
You nod quickly. “As an apology for talking your ears off.”
He takes it.
“Thank you,” he says, thumb hooking into the plastic as he lifts it slightly. It’s warm and fresh. His stomach reacts immediately—traitorous thing.
You smile, small and relieved. “Okay. I’ll go now,” you say, stepping back. “Sorry again.”
And just like that, you’re gone.
He doesn’t go back to his office right away. Instead, Ashveil lingers by the door, fingers resting loosely against the handle as he stares at the empty hallway like it might shift and give you back if he waits long enough. He almost expects the sound of hurried footsteps returning, like you might realize you changed your mind and went to retrieve the food you gave him.
You don’t.
He exhales through his nose and shuts the door.
When he turns back into the agency, it’s dim, cluttered, and quietly decaying in ways that have long since stopped bothering him. Bottles crowd every available surface—some empty, some not, and none of them particularly organized. Pills sit scattered where they were last left, and papers cover the walls and desk in uneven layers, their contents faded into irrelevance even to him. The computer hums steadily in the background, and the freezer in the corner hangs slightly open, leaking cold air into the room like it’s waiting for attention he won’t give.
He ignores all of it.
Instead, he clears a small space on the desk with a sweep of his arm, sending a few sheets of paper sliding to the door, and sets the bag down. There’s nowhere to sit, so he leans his weight against the edge of the desk, glancing at it for a moment longer before opening it.
The smell hits him immediately and—
Oh.
That’s… yeah. It smells good.
He reaches in, not bothering to look for utensils, and takes a bite.
The effect is immediate: he stills, jaw going slack for a second before he actually chews, like his brain needed a moment to catch up with what just happened.
It’s been a long time since food tasted like this—long enough that he’d stopped expecting it to. There’s no bitterness, no stale aftertaste, no underlying sense that he’s eating something just because it’s there. It’s warm, properly made, and unmistakably intentional in a way that most of what he consumes isn’t.
He swallows, then takes another bite.
And then another.
And another.
And another.
Somewhere along the way, the pace picks up without him noticing. His hand moves before he thinks about it, reaching back into the bag again and again, like something in him is trying to make up for something it’s been missing. And by the time he realizes it, he’s already halfway through and still reaching for more.
The door opens behind him.
Ashveil doesn’t turn around right away. He just takes another bite, slower this time, as if the interruption doesn’t quite register as urgent. He hears soft and light footsteps padding closer, and only glances over his shoulder after he swallows.
“…Mr. Ashveil,” Mister N calls. The Slumbernana Monkey stands in the hallway, small and still, holding a thin plastic bag filled with fruits that aren’t clearly bananas. His gaze shifts from Ashveil, to the food, and back to him again. “Where did you get the food?”
The detective hums softly, leaning his hip more firmly against the desk as he tilts his head back slightly to swallow. “Someone dropped by.”
“Someone did?”
“Mhm.” He taps the edge of the container with his fingers. “They were looking for the former president of Furbobo Weekly. Said they were a friend of hers and that they usually bring her food. I told them she doesn’t work here anymore.”
“Did you get their name?” Mister N asks.
Ashveil glances down at the half-finished meal. He shrugs. “I didn’t ask,” he says. “They left right after handing this over.”
His assistant’s eyes linger on him for a moment, his expression unreadable yet attentive. “And your stomach?” he asks after a beat.
Ashveil lets out a soft scoff. “It’s fine,” he says. There’s a slight pause before he adds, more honestly this time, “Better than fine actually.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah,” Ashveil says, glancing at Mister N with the faintest hint of dry amusement. “I haven’t died yet.”
A small silence settles between them.
After a moment, Ashveil lifts the container in a casual manner. “You want some?”
Mister N’s gaze lingers on the container, as if weighing the offer more seriously than expected. Then he gives a small, polite shake of his head.
“No,” he says. “You should finish it yourself.”
Ashveil studies him for a second, searching for any sign of hesitation or hidden interest, but finds none. Mister N simply steps further into the room and places the thin bag of fruit on top of the slightly open freezer.
“Suit yourself,” Ashveil mutters.
He shrugs it off easily and turns his attention back on the food. If anything, Mister N’s refusal seems to settle something in him—permission, maybe, to keep going without restraint.
So he does.
He digs in again. Bite after bite, steady and unthinking, until the world narrows down to taste and warmth and the simple act of eating. The room fades into the background—the clutter, the dim lighting, the hum of machinery—all of it blurring at the edges compared to what’s right in front of him.
Across the room, Mister N remains.
By the time the container is nearly empty, his pace finally begins to slow. He leans back slightly, exhaling through his nose as he looks down at what little remains.
He just stares at it briefly. Then, almost absently, he finishes the last bite. Ashveil rolls his shoulder, shifting his weight as he sets the empty container aside.
It’s not often that something lingers like this. Not just the taste—though that too—but the feeling of it. The care behind it. The fact that it hadn’t even been meant for him at all, and yet…
His gaze drifts, unfocused, toward the door.
You hadn’t stayed long. Had barely given him time to ask anything, really. No name, no details—just a bag of food and a hurried apology before disappearing down the hall like you were never there to begin with.
And still—
He wonders if he’ll get to see you again.
The thought comes easier than expected, settling somewhere in the back of his mind as he glances once more at the now-empty container and, briefly, to the side—at the bag of fruit resting untouched atop the freezer.
If he does…
Well—he’d have to say thank you. Properly, this time.
Since that day, Ashveil hasn’t seen you again. Not that he was looking—at least not in a way he’d willingly admit.
Days pass the same way they always do. Work comes and goes in irregular bursts, and the agency remains just as cluttered, just as dim, just as stagnant as ever. If anything changed, it’s subtle enough that he doesn’t bother naming it.
Still, every now and then, the memory resurfaces. A passing thought while he’s staring at nothing in particular. The faint recollection of warmth that doesn’t come from anything in the room. The taste of something that had no right being as good as it was.
It’s annoying, honestly, because it lingers.
It’s not enough to distract him—not enough to derail anything—but enough that, on occasion, he catches himself thinking that if did happen to run into you again, he’d say something. Just a quick acknowledgment, maybe. A simple thank you; tell you the food was good.
That’s all.
Which is probably why he wasn’t expecting for it to actually happen.
“Fresh air,” Mister N had said earlier. “It would be beneficial for your health.”
Ashveil had stared at him for a long while, unimpressed. Eventually, he left anyway.
Now he’s outside, one hand tucked into his pocket while the other rests loosely around the handle of his cane. His shoulders are slightly hunched, his stride unhurried, the cane more of an extension of habit than necessity as he walks with no real destination in mind.
The air feels different out here—less stale, less suffocating—but he wouldn’t go as far as to call it refreshing.
He follows the sidewalk without thinking too hard about it. People move around him in a steady flow—faces he doesn’t know, lives he doesn’t care about, all carrying on with a sense of purpose he doesn’t share.
And then, he slows.
And there you are.
Standing at the edge of the street, waiting for the stoplight to change. Grocery bags hang from both of your arms, the thin plastic stretched taut from the weight of whatever it is you bought. You shift slightly where you stand, attention fixed on the traffic passing by as you wait for your turn to cross.
Ashveil comes to stop a few steps behind you. For a moment, he just looks—like he’s confirming something.
You’re real. Not a trick of memory, not something his brain conjured out of boredom—you’re actually here, in the same space, close enough that if he wanted to, he could just walk up and—
…
He exhales softly through his nose. Right.
This is it then. The chance.
He straightens just a little, before finally closing the distance between you.
“Hello.” The word comes out casual, low, just enough to catch your attention without startling you. Your head turns at the sound of his voice.
Ashveil hadn’t really expected much—at most, a polite glance, maybe the brief confusion of someone trying to place a stranger. Instead, recognition settles in almost immediately, and he sees it happen. The slight widening of your eyes, the way your expression brightens like something just clicked into place—and then you’re looking at him properly.
It catches him off guard.
For a moment, he just stands there, his grip on the cane adjusting ever so slightly as the moment lands in a way he hadn’t prepared for. There’s a flicker of something in his chest—light and unexpected—and he can’t quite pin it down before it settles somewhere deeper.
Flattering, he realizes. Weirdly so.
He hadn’t thought he left much of an impression. Your interaction had been brief, barely anything worth remember on your end—or at least that’s what he assumed. People don’t usually hold onto things like that. And yet here you are, looking at him like you’re genuinely glad to have recognized him.
It does something to his stomach, an unfamiliar flutter that makes him shift.
He frowns faintly to himself, already dismissing it. Probably just hunger. It makes sense—you did give him food, after all. It’s only natural to associate you with that.
“Hello!” you greet him, voice warm despite the noise of the traffic. “It’s so nice to see you again.”
For the first time since he met you, Ashveil smiles. “Thank you for the food last time,” he says. “That was the first time in a while that I’ve had such good food.”
There’s a flicker of surprise across your face before it melts into something else, something almost shy, and then you laugh—light, a little flustered, like you don’t quite know what to do with the compliment. “I’m glad you enjoyed my cooking!”
Ashveil watches the way you react, the way your grip shifts on the plastic bags hanging from your arms, and his gaze briefly drops to them. The thin handles dig int your fingers slightly where the weight pulls down, and you adjust them again without really thinking about it. He frowns just a little.
He lifts a hand, pointing at the bags. “Do you need help carrying those around?”
You shake your head almost immediately. “Oh, there’s no need! I can handle just fine!”
There’s no hesitation in your voice, no sign that you’re struggling in a way you’d admit, but Ashveil doesn’t look convinced.
“I insist,” he replies. “Here—let me.”
Before you can properly protest, he steps out and reaches out, sliding the bags off your arms in one smooth motion with his free hand—the other still occupied with his cane. The shift in weight is immediate, the pressure gone before you can brace against it.
“Wait—” you start, a little startled, your hands hovering awkwardly. “You don’t really have to. I mean— I don’t want to trouble you.”
Ashveil adjusts his grip on the bags, barely sparing them a glance as he settles them comfortably at his side.
“You’re not troubling me,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “If anything, you can think of this as payment for the food last time.”
“But you don’t need to anything to return the favor,” you insist, brows knitting slightly as you look at him. “I gave it to you because I wanted to, not because I expected anything back.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m choosing to do it.”
You open your mouth like you’re about to protest again, but the words don’t quite come out this time. “…okay,” you relent, reluctant. “If you’re really sure.”
“I am.”
The stoplight changes from green to red, the steady stream of cars slowing to a halt, and once the moment it’s safe, the crowd begins to move, carrying you and Ashveil along with it as you step off the curb and into the crosswalk.
For a while, the two of you walk quietly, your pace naturally adjusting to match his, but it doesn’t take long before the silence gives way to something easier.
Ashveil glances at you. “Your friend,” he starts, casual. “Did you find out where she might’ve moved?”
There’s a small shift in your expression—something brighter. “I did, actually,” you say. “She apparently forgot to tell me about it. I’ve started bringing her food again like before, so… she’s eating properly now.”
Ashveil hums. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad you found her.”
You smile at that, and the conversation continues from there without much effort. He asks what you do, and when you tell him you’re a chef, he isn’t surprised.
“That explains a lot,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
You laugh lightly. When you turn the question back on him, he doesn’t hesitate.
“I’m a detective,” he says.
“Oh.” You blink, clearly intrigued. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
The details that follow are sparse, but it’s enough to keep the conversation going—small exchanges, bits of curiosity traded back and forth. By the time you reach your apartment building, it almost feels the walk passed quicker than it should have.
You lead him upstairs, the familiar surroundings closing in as your unlock the door and step inside, holding it open for him as he follows you in. The space is modest but lived-in.
“Just set them down in the kitchen counter, please,” you say.
Ashveil nods once and does exactly that, placing the bags down with care.
For a second, he just stands there. Then, as if remembering himself, he shifts his weight back, hand adjusting around the handle of his cane.
“I’ll take my leave now,” he starts, already turning slightly toward the door. “Thanks for—”
“Wait!”
He pauses, turning around.
You hesitate only briefly before continuing, fingers fidgeting together for a moment as you glance at him. “Would you… like to stay for lunch?”
Ashveil smiles. “You’re very kind,” he says. “But are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother.”
You shake your head immediately.
“Oh, no, not at all!” you insist, words tumbling out before you can slow them down. “I really don’t mind, I promise! I actually like cooking for other people more than just for myself, and it’s not like I had anything else planned anyway, and you did help me carry all of those groceries—which you really didn’t have to, by the way—and you said you liked my food last time, so— so it’s kind of like I’m just, um, returning the favor? I think?”
He considers your words quietly, gaze lingering in a way that suggests he’s weighing more than just the offer itself.
“Alright,” he says, and your face brightens almost instantly, the shift in your expression so quick and genuine that it’s hard to miss.
“Really? Okay— great!” you say, already turning toward the kitchen with renewed energy. “You can just make yourself at home! I’ll, um— I’ll start on the food.”
Ashveil nods. He doesn’t wander far. Instead of taking a seat somewhere in the living room, he steps over the kitchen island and settles there, positioning himself just off to the side where he won’t be in your way.
From there, he watches.
You move about your kitchen, pulling ingredients from bags and cabinets and the refrigerator, setting things down with a familiarity that suggests you’ve done this a thousand times over.
You’re meticulous, he thinks. Your hands move with certainty as you wash, peel, and cut—your knife gliding through ingredients with practiced ease as if it already knows where it’s meant to go before it gets there. Nothing is rushed, but nothing is wasted either.
And you look comfortable—like this space was made specifically for you or maybe the other way around.
Ashveil admires it. The passion, the ease, the care you put into something as simple—but also not simple at all—as making a meal. It’s different from anything he’s used to, and he finds himself drawn to it in a way that doesn’t feel forced.
At one point, you lift a wooden spatula from the pan, bringing it up to your lips to taste. Your shifts almost immediately after—your eyes light up and a pleased smile forms like you’ve just confirmed something you were hoping for.
Ashveil watches that too.
And he assumes that’s all it is—that you’ll go back to cooking, or maybe take another taste for good measure. So when you repeat the motion, lifting the spatula again, he thinks nothing of it. At least not until you turn and extend it toward him.
He blinks, momentarily caught off guard, his gaze shifting from the spatula to your face, where you’re looking at him expectantly.
“…you want me to have a taste?” he asks, almost dumbly. You nod.
There’s a brief pause before he leans forward slightly, accepting the offer without further question.
The moment it hits his tongue, everything else falls away.
The flavor is immediate and overwhelming in the best possible way, rich and layered and warm in a way that feels almost surreal—like his senses weren’t prepared for something like this and are now scrambling to catch up.
It’s not just good. It’s— it’s—
Ashveil stills.
For a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t even fully process that fact that he’s already swallowed, because his mind is too busy trying to reconcile how something so simple can taste like this.
If there’s such a thing as paradise—he thinks distantly—then this must be it. Because wow.
“What do you think?” you ask, eyes bright with anticipation. “Do you like it?”
Like it? The thought echoes in his mind, almost incredulous. Like isn’t even enough of a word—not even close, not something that could possibly hold the weight of what he just tasted—because it feels like trying to contain something vast inside something far too small.
He loves it.
It’s almost absurd, really—how something can taste this good, how you’ve managed to take what he already thought was the best meal he’d had in years and somehow surpass it. The first time he tasted your cooking, it had already felt like a rare exception, a one-time thing he wasn’t expecting to experience again. And yet here you are, proving him wrong in the span of a single taste.
“I do,” he finally says, though even that feels like an understatement. There’s a brief pause before he exhales softly, something almost like disbelief slipping through.
“It’s…” he starts, then stops, brows furrowing slightly as if he’s searching for the right word and finding none that quite fit. “…better than the last one.”
Which, considering everything, says more than it should.
“Is that even possible…?” he mutters, more to himself than you.
You fluster almost immediately under the weight of his attention, the way his gaze lingers making you take a small step back, a shy laugh slipping past your lips.
“I’m so happy you like this one as well!” you say, a little breathless, a little embarrassed, but unmistakably pleased. “I can’t wait to finish cooking so you enjoy it in its full glory!”
Before Ashveil can respond, you’ve already turned back to the stove, slipping right back into your rhythm like nothing happened—like his reaction didn’t settle somewhere warm and lasting beneath your ribs.
His gaze drifts briefly to the pan, then back at you.
Me too, he muses.
He can’t wait to eat.
Ashveil doesn’t realize how much he’s eaten until there’s barely anything left.
The plate in front of him is nearly empty, reduced to scattered remnants that wouldn’t even qualify as a proper serving anymore. He leans back slightly, gaze lingering on what’s left.
…Right. He could finish it. Easily.
The thought comes without hesitation because there’s no doubt about it—if he wanted to, he could clear the plate in seconds. There’s no fullness weighing him down in any way, no real resistance from his body that would stop him. If anything, there’s still that lingering pull, that subtle urge to keep going, to chase the taste just a little longer. But—
His eyes flick up briefly, landing on you. You’re still eating, slower than he had been. He looks back at his plate.
He’s already had three servings. That’s… more than enough. Without much ceremony, he sets his utensil down and nudges the plate just a fraction away from himself. That’s where it ends.
He knows he wants more. He also knows he doesn’t need it. And—more importantly—he doesn’t want to look greedy.
The thought is faintly amusing, enough that the corner of his mouth twitches just slightly. It’s not something he usually concerns himself with—appearances, impressions, any of that—but here, now, sitting across from you with the aftertaste of something genuinely good still lingering on his tongue… It matters. A little.
Besides, you should eat too.
Eventually, the plates are cleared, the conversation—whatever remains of it—settles into something softer until it naturally reaches its end. Ashveil rises not long after, adjusting his grip on his cane as he prepares to leave.
“Thank you for the meal,” he says, voice low but genuine. “It was very good.”
That feels insufficient. It is insufficient. But for now, it’ll have to do.
He turns toward the door, already expecting that to be the end of it—the natural conclusion to something that, realistically, shouldn’t have extended this far to begin with.
“Wait—”
He pauses mid-step. There’s a brief beat before he turns back, brows lifting ever so slightly in quiet question.
You hesitate, just for a second, before speaking. “Do you want to take some food home?”
Ashveil blinks. “…home?” he echoes, like the concept needs a moment to settle.
You nod, already moving toward the kitchen. “There’s still plenty left,” you explain, voice a little quicker now, like you’re trying to justify it before he can refuse. “And you said you liked it, so I figured—”
“You don’t have to do that.”
You pause, glancing back at him.
“I’ve already had more than enough,” he continues. “Three servings is—” he huffs lightly, almost amused under his breath, “—generous, to say the least.”
“That’s fine,” you insist. “I made a lot on purpose.”
There’s no hesitation in your expression, no polite obligation dressed up as generosity—just something straightforward and sincere, offered without expectation. It makes refusing feel unnecessarily difficult
“…still,” he starts, though there’s less conviction behind it now, “I don’t want to impose.”
“You’re not.”
You’ve already started packing the food before he can argue further, moving with that same easy decisiveness he’d noticed earlier, like this outcome had been decided the moment the thought crossed your mind.
“…alright,” he relents.
By the time you return, handing him the neatly packed container, he takes it without further protest, his fingers brushing briefly against yours in the exchange.
“…thank you,” he says.
You walk him to the door after that.
He adjusts the container in his hand, already calculating how long it’ll last, how best to portion it, how Mister N will probably—
“You can come back whenever, you know.”
Ashveil pauses.
“I don’t mind cooking for you.”
He stills, before turning his head slightly, just enough to look at you.
You don’t seem to think much of it. To you, it’s probably just a polite offer—something said out of kindness, out of habit, out of the same easy generosity that led you to hand him food in the first place. But to him, it doesn’t land lightly.
Come back whenever.
Ashveil’s grip tightens around the container in his hand. He could brush it off. Treat it like nothing. Let it pass the same way most things do. That would be the easier option.
end note: ashveil when he tasted mc’s cooking for the first time:
was aiming for this to be much longer but i kind of ??? lost my motivation writing halfway so ummmm yeah. sorry about that (?) !!!! my brain is on thesis mode and not fanfic writing mode rn unfortch 😔💔
