âą features: ashveil x gn!reader, fluff, domestic fluff, food as love language, indirect kiss (itâs not important to the fic but i just thought to add it anyway LOL), not proofread
âą word count: 4,668
âą note: this is my contribution for this month ueueueue ,,,, i havenât done the 4.1 quest yet btw so if things donât align with the canon, then oopsies! but iâve seen ashveilâs in game messages (specifically the one where mr. n told the trailblazer about ashveilâs eating habits!) a lot on x so this inspired me to create this fic. enjoy!!
âą also on: ao3
âCan I help you?â
Ashveil stares down at the person on the other side of the door like heâs trying to decide if theyâre 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 itâs packed up and left him behind. So when someone knocked, it echoed up until even his own agencyâloud, annoying, and intrusive.
And here you are.
The first thing he notes is that you donât look like trouble. Not that ânot looking like troubleâ has ever stopped trouble before, but stillâyouâre just standing there, holding a bag that smellsâhe sniffs, subtleâgood. Really good.
âIâum, sorry,â you start, already sounding like you think youâve made a mistake. âI was looking for someone. Is Nihiluxââ
âNo,â Ashveil cuts in, leaning his weight against the doorframe like heâs got nowhere to be. Whichâreallyâhe doesnât. âShe doesnât work here anymore.â
You blink, as if you didnât expect the answer to come that quickly or maybe at all.
âOh,â you say, and then you start talking.
You ramble. The words spills out of you in uneven, apologetic wavesâabout Nihilux, about how sheâd often forget to eat, how youâd bring her food because sheâd get so caught up in her art that hours would pass and she wouldnât notice, how you werenât even sure if sheâd still be here but you thought youâd check anyway because itâs been a while andâ
Ashveil listens.
Thereâs 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 doesnât. Instead, he hums once, low in his throat, just enough to let you know heâs still there.
ââŠand yeah,â you finish, a little breathless. âSorry. I didnât mean to just⊠talk so much. You probably donât even care.â
âDidnât say that,â he replies, shrugging his shoulders.
Flustered, you look down at the bag in your hands.
âWell, since sheâs not hereâŠâ you say, holding it out toward him, hesitant but decided all the same, âyou can have this. I meanâonly if you want. It was for her, but itâd be a waste otherwise. And I already bothered you, soâŠâ
Ashveil blinks. âFor me?â he echoes, like he needs to hear it again to make sure he didnât misinterpret anything.
You nod quickly. âAs an apology for talking your ears off.â
He takes it.
âThank you,â he says, thumb hooking into the plastic as he lifts it slightly. Itâs warm and fresh. His stomach reacts immediatelyâtraitorous thing.
You smile, small and relieved. âOkay. Iâll go now,â you say, stepping back. âSorry again.â
And just like that, youâre gone.
He doesnât 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 donât.
He exhales through his nose and shuts the door.
When he turns back into the agency, itâs dim, cluttered, and quietly decaying in ways that have long since stopped bothering him. Bottles crowd every available surfaceâsome 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 itâs waiting for attention he wonât 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. Thereâs 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 andâ
Oh.
Thatâs⊠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.
Itâs been a long time since food tasted like thisâlong enough that heâd stopped expecting it to. Thereâs no bitterness, no stale aftertaste, no underlying sense that heâs eating something just because itâs there. Itâs warm, properly made, and unmistakably intentional in a way that most of what he consumes isnât.
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 itâs been missing. And by the time he realizes it, heâs already halfway through and still reaching for more.
The door opens behind him.
Ashveil doesnât turn around right away. He just takes another bite, slower this time, as if the interruption doesnât quite register as urgent. He hears soft and light footsteps padding closer, and only glances over his shoulder after he swallows.
ââŠMr. Ashveil,â Mister N calls. The Slumbernana Monkey stands in the hallway, small and still, holding a thin plastic bag filled with fruits that arenât clearly bananas. His gaze shifts from Ashveil, to the food, and back to him again. âWhere did you get the food?â
The detective hums softly, leaning his hip more firmly against the desk as he tilts his head back slightly to swallow. âSomeone dropped by.â
âSomeone did?â
âMhm.â He taps the edge of the container with his fingers. âThey 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 doesnât work here anymore.â
âDid you get their name?â Mister N asks.
Ashveil glances down at the half-finished meal. He shrugs. âI didnât ask,â he says. âThey left right after handing this over.â
His assistantâs eyes linger on him for a moment, his expression unreadable yet attentive. âAnd your stomach?â he asks after a beat.
Ashveil lets out a soft scoff. âItâs fine,â he says. Thereâs a slight pause before he adds, more honestly this time, âBetter than fine actually.â
âYouâre sure?â
âYeah,â Ashveil says, glancing at Mister N with the faintest hint of dry amusement. âI havenât died yet.â
A small silence settles between them.
After a moment, Ashveil lifts the container in a casual manner. âYou want some?â
Mister Nâs gaze lingers on the container, as if weighing the offer more seriously than expected. Then he gives a small, polite shake of his head.
âNo,â he says. âYou should finish it yourself.â
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.
âSuit yourself,â Ashveil mutters.
He shrugs it off easily and turns his attention back on the food. If anything, Mister Nâs refusal seems to settle something in himâpermission, 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 backgroundâthe clutter, the dim lighting, the hum of machineryâall of it blurring at the edges compared to whatâs 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.
Itâs not often that something lingers like this. Not just the tasteâthough that tooâbut the feeling of it. The care behind it. The fact that it hadnât even been meant for him at all, and yetâŠ
His gaze drifts, unfocused, toward the door.
You hadnât stayed long. Had barely given him time to ask anything, really. No name, no detailsâjust a bag of food and a hurried apology before disappearing down the hall like you were never there to begin with.
And stillâ
He wonders if heâll 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 sideâat the bag of fruit resting untouched atop the freezer.
If he doesâŠ
Wellâheâd have to say thank you. Properly, this time.
Since that day, Ashveil hasnât seen you again. Not that he was lookingâat least not in a way heâd 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, itâs subtle enough that he doesnât bother naming it.
Still, every now and then, the memory resurfaces. A passing thought while heâs staring at nothing in particular. The faint recollection of warmth that doesnât come from anything in the room. The taste of something that had no right being as good as it was.
Itâs annoying, honestly, because it lingers.
Itâs not enough to distract himânot enough to derail anythingâbut enough that, on occasion, he catches himself thinking that if did happen to run into you again, heâd say something. Just a quick acknowledgment, maybe. A simple thank you; tell you the food was good.
Thatâs all.
Which is probably why he wasnât expecting for it to actually happen.
âFresh air,â Mister N had said earlier. âIt would be beneficial for your health.â
Ashveil had stared at him for a long while, unimpressed. Eventually, he left anyway.
Now heâs 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 hereâless stale, less suffocatingâbut he wouldnât 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 flowâfaces he doesnât know, lives he doesnât care about, all carrying on with a sense of purpose he doesnât 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 looksâlike heâs confirming something.
Youâre real. Not a trick of memory, not something his brain conjured out of boredomâyouâre actually here, in the same space, close enough that if he wanted to, he could just walk up andâ
âŠ
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.
âHello.â 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 hadnât really expected muchâat 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 placeâand then youâre 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 hadnât prepared for. Thereâs a flicker of something in his chestâlight and unexpectedâand he canât quite pin it down before it settles somewhere deeper.
Flattering, he realizes. Weirdly so.
He hadnât thought he left much of an impression. Your interaction had been brief, barely anything worth remember on your endâor at least thatâs what he assumed. People donât usually hold onto things like that. And yet here you are, looking at him like youâre 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 senseâyou did give him food, after all. Itâs only natural to associate you with that.
âHello!â you greet him, voice warm despite the noise of the traffic. âItâs so nice to see you again.â
For the first time since he met you, Ashveil smiles. âThank you for the food last time,â he says. âThat was the first time in a while that Iâve had such good food.â
Thereâs a flicker of surprise across your face before it melts into something else, something almost shy, and then you laughâlight, a little flustered, like you donât quite know what to do with the compliment. âIâm glad you enjoyed my cooking!â
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. âDo you need help carrying those around?â
You shake your head almost immediately. âOh, thereâs no need! I can handle just fine!â
Thereâs no hesitation in your voice, no sign that youâre struggling in a way youâd admit, but Ashveil doesnât look convinced.
âI insist,â he replies. âHereâlet me.â
Before you can properly protest, he steps out and reaches out, sliding the bags off your arms in one smooth motion with his free handâthe other still occupied with his cane. The shift in weight is immediate, the pressure gone before you can brace against it.
âWaitââ you start, a little startled, your hands hovering awkwardly. âYou donât really have to. I meanâ I donât want to trouble you.â
Ashveil adjusts his grip on the bags, barely sparing them a glance as he settles them comfortably at his side.
âYouâre not troubling me,â he says, like itâs the simplest thing in the world. âIf anything, you can think of this as payment for the food last time.â
âBut you donât need to anything to return the favor,â you insist, brows knitting slightly as you look at him. âI gave it to you because I wanted to, not because I expected anything back.â
âI know,â he says. âIâm choosing to do it.â
You open your mouth like youâre about to protest again, but the words donât quite come out this time. ââŠokay,â you relent, reluctant. âIf youâre really sure.â
âI am.â
The stoplight changes from green to red, the steady stream of cars slowing to a halt, and once the moment itâs 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 doesnât take long before the silence gives way to something easier.
Ashveil glances at you. âYour friend,â he starts, casual. âDid you find out where she mightâve moved?â
Thereâs a small shift in your expressionâsomething brighter. âI did, actually,â you say. âShe apparently forgot to tell me about it. Iâve started bringing her food again like before, so⊠sheâs eating properly now.â
Ashveil hums. âGood,â he says. âIâm glad you found her.â
You smile at that, and the conversation continues from there without much effort. He asks what you do, and when you tell him youâre a chef, he isnât surprised.
âThat explains a lot,â he murmurs, almost to himself.
You laugh lightly. When you turn the question back on him, he doesnât hesitate.
âIâm a detective,â he says.
âOh.â You blink, clearly intrigued. âReally?â
âMhm.â
The details that follow are sparse, but itâs enough to keep the conversation goingâsmall 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.
âJust set them down in the kitchen counter, please,â 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.
âIâll take my leave now,â he starts, already turning slightly toward the door. âThanks forââ
âWait!â
He pauses, turning around.
You hesitate only briefly before continuing, fingers fidgeting together for a moment as you glance at him. âWould you⊠like to stay for lunch?â
Ashveil smiles. âYouâre very kind,â he says. âBut are you sure? I donât want to be a bother.â
You shake your head immediately.
âOh, no, not at all!â you insist, words tumbling out before you can slow them down. âI really donât mind, I promise! I actually like cooking for other people more than just for myself, and itâs not like I had anything else planned anyway, and you did help me carry all of those groceriesâwhich you really didnât have to, by the wayâand you said you liked my food last time, soâ so itâs kind of like Iâm just, um, returning the favor? I think?â
He considers your words quietly, gaze lingering in a way that suggests heâs weighing more than just the offer itself.
âAlright,â he says, and your face brightens almost instantly, the shift in your expression so quick and genuine that itâs hard to miss.
âReally? Okayâ great!â you say, already turning toward the kitchen with renewed energy. âYou can just make yourself at home! Iâll, umâ Iâll start on the food.â
Ashveil nods. He doesnât 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 wonât 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 youâve done this a thousand times over.
Youâre meticulous, he thinks. Your hands move with certainty as you wash, peel, and cutâyour knife gliding through ingredients with practiced ease as if it already knows where itâs meant to go before it gets there. Nothing is rushed, but nothing is wasted either.
And you look comfortableâlike 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 simpleâbut also not simple at allâas making a meal. Itâs different from anything heâs used to, and he finds himself drawn to it in a way that doesnât 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 afterâyour eyes light up and a pleased smile forms like youâve just confirmed something you were hoping for.
Ashveil watches that too.
And he assumes thatâs all it isâthat youâll 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 youâre looking at him expectantly.
ââŠyou want me to have a taste?â he asks, almost dumbly. You nod.
Thereâs 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 surrealâlike his senses werenât prepared for something like this and are now scrambling to catch up.
Itâs not just good. Itâsâ itâsâ
Ashveil stills.
For a second, he doesnât move, doesnât speak, doesnât even fully process that fact that heâs already swallowed, because his mind is too busy trying to reconcile how something so simple can taste like this.
If thereâs such a thing as paradiseâhe thinks distantlyâthen this must be it. Because wow.
âWhat do you think?â you ask, eyes bright with anticipation. âDo you like it?â
Like it? The thought echoes in his mind, almost incredulous. Like isnât even enough of a wordânot even close, not something that could possibly hold the weight of what he just tastedâbecause it feels like trying to contain something vast inside something far too small.
He loves it.
Itâs almost absurd, reallyâhow something can taste this good, how youâve managed to take what he already thought was the best meal heâd 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 wasnât expecting to experience again. And yet here you are, proving him wrong in the span of a single taste.
âI do,â he finally says, though even that feels like an understatement. Thereâs a brief pause before he exhales softly, something almost like disbelief slipping through.
âItâsâŠâ he starts, then stops, brows furrowing slightly as if heâs searching for the right word and finding none that quite fit. ââŠbetter than the last one.â
Which, considering everything, says more than it should.
âIs that even possibleâŠ?â 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.
âIâm so happy you like this one as well!â you say, a little breathless, a little embarrassed, but unmistakably pleased. âI canât wait to finish cooking so you enjoy it in its full glory!â
Before Ashveil can respond, youâve already turned back to the stove, slipping right back into your rhythm like nothing happenedâlike his reaction didnât settle somewhere warm and lasting beneath your ribs.
His gaze drifts briefly to the pan, then back at you.
Me too, he muses.
He canât wait to eat.
Ashveil doesnât realize how much heâs eaten until thereâs barely anything left.
The plate in front of him is nearly empty, reduced to scattered remnants that wouldnât even qualify as a proper serving anymore. He leans back slightly, gaze lingering on whatâs left.
âŠRight. He could finish it. Easily.
The thought comes without hesitation because thereâs no doubt about itâif he wanted to, he could clear the plate in seconds. Thereâs no fullness weighing him down in any way, no real resistance from his body that would stop him. If anything, thereâs still that lingering pull, that subtle urge to keep going, to chase the taste just a little longer. Butâ
His eyes flick up briefly, landing on you. Youâre still eating, slower than he had been. He looks back at his plate.
Heâs already had three servings. Thatâs⊠more than enough. Without much ceremony, he sets his utensil down and nudges the plate just a fraction away from himself. Thatâs where it ends.
He knows he wants more. He also knows he doesnât need it. Andâmore importantlyâhe doesnât want to look greedy.
The thought is faintly amusing, enough that the corner of his mouth twitches just slightly. Itâs not something he usually concerns himself withâappearances, impressions, any of thatâbut 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 conversationâwhatever remains of itâsettles 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.
âThank you for the meal,â he says, voice low but genuine. âIt was very good.â
That feels insufficient. It is insufficient. But for now, itâll have to do.
He turns toward the door, already expecting that to be the end of itâthe natural conclusion to something that, realistically, shouldnât have extended this far to begin with.
âWaitââ
He pauses mid-step. Thereâs a brief beat before he turns back, brows lifting ever so slightly in quiet question.
You hesitate, just for a second, before speaking. âDo you want to take some food home?â
Ashveil blinks. ââŠhome?â he echoes, like the concept needs a moment to settle.
You nod, already moving toward the kitchen. âThereâs still plenty left,â you explain, voice a little quicker now, like youâre trying to justify it before he can refuse. âAnd you said you liked it, so I figuredââ
âYou donât have to do that.â
You pause, glancing back at him.
âIâve already had more than enough,â he continues. âThree servings isââ he huffs lightly, almost amused under his breath, ââgenerous, to say the least.â
âThatâs fine,â you insist. âI made a lot on purpose.â
Thereâs no hesitation in your expression, no polite obligation dressed up as generosityâjust something straightforward and sincere, offered without expectation. It makes refusing feel unnecessarily difficult
ââŠstill,â he starts, though thereâs less conviction behind it now, âI donât want to impose.â
âYouâre not.â
Youâve already started packing the food before he can argue further, moving with that same easy decisiveness heâd noticed earlier, like this outcome had been decided the moment the thought crossed your mind.
ââŠalright,â 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.
ââŠthank you,â he says.
You walk him to the door after that.
He adjusts the container in his hand, already calculating how long itâll last, how best to portion it, how Mister N will probablyâ
âYou can come back whenever, you know.â
Ashveil pauses.
âI donât mind cooking for you.â
He stills, before turning his head slightly, just enough to look at you.
You donât seem to think much of it. To you, itâs probably just a polite offerâsomething 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 doesnât land lightly.
Come back whenever.
Ashveilâs 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 mcâs 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 đđ
Phainon can't fully control his other form just yet.
â” Notes; A request made by a lovely anonymous customer!
â” Warnings; Possible OOC, needy (or clingy) behavior from Phainon, and canon details being incorrect!
It started off simpleâyou woke up before him.
With the sunlight beaming past your curtains, bathing your bodies in its warmth. A large arm laid over your midriff, taking away your ability to move. If you were to attempt to, Phainon would drag you back against his chest without delay.
After an incident of waking up and finding you missing from your side of the bed. In matters of seconds, your dearest husband stumbles out of your shared chamber. Tripping over his own limbsâIt's remarkable how his composure seemingly disappears when it comes to you.
His eyes, previously the color of the vast sky, lit up in the glow of molten gold. He searches for you. Swinging open any closed doors with a desperation never seen in the Deliverer. But once he spots you, the blue returns in a slow blink. He let out a shaky sigh before approaching you. His steps unbalanced and sluggish.
â.. You're here.â He breathes out, his words aren't meant for you. âYou're.. Here..â His arms tighten around your body. Confirming the weight of you against his chest.
âDon't leave me, Angel. YouâYou scared me...â he buries his face in the crook of your neck. Seeking that familiar warmth. âDon't leave me, okay?â he brushed his lips over the surface of your skin, enticing himself into indulging. Tethering over the line of need.
With the way he reacted, anyone would assume you had been taken by Thanatos themselves and recently returned to your love. Although the real reason is much simpler, so simple it makes him look rather ridiculous, you went out to quench your thirst.
In the end, you allowed your husband to continue holding you. Planting kisses over the side of your head, drifting down to your neck, before stilling in the crook of your shoulder as he weeps over the terrifying experience of losing you. No matter how short it was.
And now that Phainon has made a one-sided, unspoken rule for you. You're stuck beside him until he gains consciousness. But from the gentle rise and fall of his chest, it seems you'll be here for a while. Made apparent when you feel him shifting against your back, tucking your head under his chin.
While you don't necessarily verbalize any complaints regarding your husband's⊠persistent natureâheld up from being one of the Chrysos Heir, solidified by the endeavour of fighting for a chance of tomorrow in an otherwise doomed worldâadmittedly, it gets overwhelming having him constantly be there.
You feel terribly guilty for enjoying moments of peace without having him bound to your side. And you can't even blame himâyou've heard about the unfortunate destruction of his home. Having everything he loved burnt away in the sea of flames, leaving behind the ashes of memories for one to carry.
It must've been painful and you can't fathom how isolating it is to be the lone survivor. His village being reduced as a mere cryptic tale, a reminder of how little to nothing left there is to proof its existence.
Instead of falling down into despair, the lost only pushed him to regain it all back. Fill up the void left behind by the scorching flames.
You eyes flicked over to his half open fist. Catching the golden glint of the wedding ring. Despite how familiar the sight have become, your hand grasp hold of his palm. Finger curling, barely covering the surface.
Phainon's left hand always remained hidden under a layer of fabric. Black colored glove. Which he wears only one. Specifically on this hand. Perhaps it's Lady Aglaea's personal preference for unsymmetrical style.
From his palm alone, you could see the ramification arising from his relentless voyage under the title of Deliverer. The one bringing an end to suffering.
He claimed to feel grateful in being chosen by the prophecy because if not for it, he would've been a wandering soul on the battlefield instead of returning home. To you. It was his attempt to reassure, after seeing the worry your gaze held when you found him injured.
Gently, you pull his palm closer to your lips. Tracing over the faint scars left on the callous skin. You're able to feel each one. A scratch that glide across his palm to the rough later formed over the pad of his thumb.
You rest a kiss over the surface. Closing your eyes for the moment, and while there are moments of doubt in your marriage, you cannot deny the love you two hold for one another. No matter how intense his version may come out to beâyou'd stay. For it meant being with him.
Hah..
You really are a hypocrite.
The muscles in his fingers twitch, giving him away.
You freeze. In an attempt to see his face, you tilt your head but to no avail. â.. Phai?â Your call receive no answer. You furrow your brows. âHoney?â it seemed calling him by the sweet pet name had an instant effect, as you feel him shift above before he buries his face into your scalp.
You can hear a faint whine. No, you can feel it. You can feel him whining against the top of your head.
â.. How long have you been awake?â the thought of him feigning sleep this whole time is rather embarrassing to know.
Phainon didn't give an immediate answer, but his fingers curl against yours. Cupping your hand in his fist as he pulls you close. He takes a whiff of your scent. Once he's satisfied, he murmurs against you, âwhen you held my hand. I woke up.. I thought you needed something.â
â.. Oh.â You nearly forgot how much of a light sleeper he is nowadays. He has a habit of waking up early, so you should've known being awake before him is already odd on its own.
The two of you stay like that, ignoring how much brighter the outside world is by each passing seconds.
â.. Can you continue..?â
âHrm?â
âKissing my hand.. YouâYou were in the middle of that.â He clarifies. Unable to control the strain in his voice. âPlease.â He added softly.
You huff. It's a one-of-a-kind type of intimacy. One you never imagined for yourself, it always seems distant and out of reach. Yet, here you are. â.. Can I look at you while doing so?â
âOf course,â he loosens his hold, allowing you the chance to shift your position to your other side. Once you're facing him, his hold returns. Perhaps even tighterâmore eager.
You lift your hands. Still curled together in a ball. You lay your lips against the side of his hand. A faint whimper escapes him. You drift down, a kiss to his wrist.
â.. I love you.â The words came out naturally, a spontaneous moment amidst your intimacy.
When the air between you began to rise in temperature is when your eyes flick up to meet his. Wide in shock.
And, although you never left his side this morning, his blue eyes are overtaken by the swirling gold. Glowing brightly. His pristine locks is burnt away in a slow, flickering flame as the blonde underneath makes its appearance known.
Next thing you know, you're shuffled closer to his chest by the two charred wings that have emerged from his back. Forming a cocoon around you.
â.. Honey,â
â.. I'm sorry. I couldn'tââ he squeezes his eyes shut. The heat rising up to his cheeks as he tries to subdue his body back to its original state. â.. I promise you, I didn't mean to.. Transform.â
âit's okay.â You chuckle, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. Ignoring the burning sensation that greeted your palm. â.. I didn't think I had this much of an effect to you.â
Phainonâno, Khaslana visibly squirms. Unable to deny your words. â.. You uttered it without warning and I couldn't control myself.â
âI like it.â you admit, without shame.
He blinks. â.. You..â
âIt's like a reward, you know? I made you feel so loved that your wings sprang up.â you couldn't hold back the giggle that escapes your lips.
Khaslana huffs, unable to respond and choosing to bury his face into your chest. His wings closing in even more, responding to his emotions.
âHey, you haven't answered me.â You feign offense, brushing past the golden locks. Playing with the longer strands of hair.
He let out a soft laugh, unable to hide his smile. His lifts his head, cheek pressed against your collarbone as he whispers, âLove doesn't begin to describe the adoration I hold for you.. Butââ
He leans up, and now it's you whose breath hitches.
âI love you too.â his lips, filled with so much warmth and deep affection, finds it's place against your own.
Thank you once again for trust us with your order! Forgive us for the long wait time, we hope this matches your expectation!
We'll be waiting for more customer orders, please feel free to check us out! Of course, don't forget to check our guidelines.
We hope you all enjoyed this meal, until next time.
god bruh if only earthtooz can get this fic out but instead earthtooz is working on it at a SNAILS PACE WE BOUT TO SEE 2030 EARLIER THAN EX HUSBAND PHAINON LMAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
omg earth that phainon is like a mini treat to ease me into getting back on here (sporadic log in) anyways hai
OMG MHIEEEEE it has been so long, thank u for using ur sporadic log in to send in an ask <33 this is so perfect today was my first proper post in... months... welcome back :3
haihai!! how have you been? i hope life has been treating u well ^-^
wow recent post is doing better than i thought i was estimating 50 likes! happy to announce we've already exceeded that! thanks guys! i love all of you!
phainon x gn!reader fluff, set post-ampho in a perfect world, cipher meddling, pre-relationship.
"and why do you have such a large plushie of phainon?" you stare down at the toy that cipher has thrust into your arms.
its likeness to him is uncanny; from the strands of his snowy hair to his overly complicated outfit that was hand designed by aglaea, every component of phainon was captured so well that this truly looked like a one-to-one replica. whoever designed and produced him has obviously put great care into his design.
except...
"why is he crying?"
little fabric tears dot his eyes and its small frown really makes it seem as though he's truly upset.
"don't judge a book by its cover, little y/n!" the titan of trickery scolds, "this one was the most popular! i stole him off the shelves just for you because he was one of a kind, everyone in planarcadia was a fiend for this specific one."
"you got one just for me?" you ask, looking up at her with a puzzled expression. "why me?"
"don't act like you don't want it, dear y/n."
you glance away, embarrassment creeping up your neck. you regret telling her about your (huge) crush on the hero. "do they enjoy watching people cry or something?"
"i don't know and don't care, i'm still waiting on a thanks, you know."
"thank you, cipher," you hold the soft plushie against your chest, "i'm glad i have an adorable version of phainon now."
she chuckles, "you should give plushienon a kiss to cheer him up!"
"don't call him plushienon, and i'm not kissing a toy!"
"aww, c'mon, it's just the deliverer boy, what's wrong with that?"
"it's embarrassing and juvenile!" you murmur, hiding behind the tufts of white hair.
"it's embarrassing to show the love of your life some affection?" she pouts, dramatising a pout. "this isn't even him, what will you do when it is the real deal?"
"fine!" you huff. "i'll kiss him!"
she giggles, satisfied. you press a fleeting kiss to his covered forehead, the fabric soft underneath your lips. you don't linger long, getting ready to sass cipher with a quip, but the words die on your tongue when you notice something unbelievable.
the small frown and teary blues that plushienon previously had have morphed into a beaming smile and bright eyes, the sudden change catching you off guard.
what is this elation magic- you swear he was crying before!
"little y/n, you look like you've seen a ghost! what's wrong?" cipher asks as she studies your expression with great amusement. "surely kissing him can't be that unenjoyable-"
you turn him around, "why is he happy all of a sudden?"
she begins cackling, her tail whipping. "oh my! i didn't know this thing was going to be true to life!"
"did you do something to him? you didn't use your trickery powers, did you?" you ask wildly, looking at him again to make sure that he was still smiling- and indeed he was. in fact, it seems as though he's grinning wider.
"this is brilliant! wow, i didn't think the deliverer's obnoxiously obvious affection for you would transcend into inanimate versions of himself as well!" the demigod is beside herself now, holding her stomach with tangible glee.
"hey! what do you mean affection? and obvious?"
"you'd find out if you just show him!"
"no!" you shriek, holding the big plushie to your chest now as your flustered cries get hidden by the bustling nature of okhema's markets. "i'm not showing phainon anything!"
an all-too-familiar voice pipes up from beside you. "why not?"
this is the worst day of your life. phainon absolutely can not see you holding a large plushie of him, and he can not know that you discovered it had the ability to change expressions as soon as you kissed its fabric-covered forehead.
cipher, however, had other plans.
"deliverer boy," she greets, "you have many fans outside amphoreus, did you know that? while i was in planarcadia, i found this!"
she gestures to the plushie that you have pressed against your chest. for a moment, the two stare at you expectedly. it is with great embarrassment that you reveal the item in your arms, unable to make eye contact with the white-haired before you.
"is that me?" he questions, "am i⊠crying?"
"isn't it so cute? wouldn't you agree, y/n?" cipher prods.
"i don't think it's cute because it's crying!" you murmur, trying to defend what is left of your dignity.
"so you think it's cute because it's lord phainon?"
"cipher!" you wish the ground could swallow you whole.
"anyways, what's more important is that y/n has found an interesting discovery by kissing plushie-you's forehead. why don't you show the great hero of amphoreus?"
you frown, the heat in your cheeks now unbearable. with a grumble, you turn around so that your back was towards the pair, not allowing either of them to see you peck the plushie's forehead. turning around, its frown has now transformed into a beaming smile, delight completely painting over its previously-woeful expression.
phainon is quiet for a moment and you brace for the worst, your heart thumping wildly in your ears as you wait for him to be offended or disgusted by your discovery.
instead, it is him who completely rips the carpet from underneath your feet.
"interesting, they've captured me scarily accuratelyâŠ"
^ these are the plushies if anyone was curious/has not seen them