⟢ 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 😔💔
Phainon can't fully control his other form just yet.
➵ Notes; A request made by a lovely anonymous customer!
➵ Warnings; Possible OOC, needy (or clingy) behavior from Phainon, and canon details being incorrect!
It started off simple—you 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 limbs—It'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.
“.. You're here.” He breathes out, his words aren't meant for you. “You're.. Here..” His arms tighten around your body. Confirming the weight of you against his chest.
“Don't leave me, Angel. You—You scared me...” he buries his face in the crook of your neck. Seeking that familiar warmth. “Don't leave me, okay?” 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 nature—held up from being one of the Chrysos Heir, solidified by the endeavour of fighting for a chance of tomorrow in an otherwise doomed world—admittedly, 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 him—you'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 be—you'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. “.. Phai?” Your call receive no answer. You furrow your brows. “Honey?” 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.
“.. How long have you been awake?” 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, “when you held my hand. I woke up.. I thought you needed something.”
“.. Oh.” 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.
“.. Can you continue..?”
“Hrm?”
“Kissing my hand.. You—You were in the middle of that.” He clarifies. Unable to control the strain in his voice. “Please.” 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. “.. Can I look at you while doing so?”
“Of course,” 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 tighter—more 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.
“.. I love you.” 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.
“.. Honey,”
“.. I'm sorry. I couldn't—” he squeezes his eyes shut. The heat rising up to his cheeks as he tries to subdue his body back to its original state. “.. I promise you, I didn't mean to.. Transform.”
“it's okay.” You chuckle, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. Ignoring the burning sensation that greeted your palm. “.. I didn't think I had this much of an effect to you.”
Phainon—no, Khaslana visibly squirms. Unable to deny your words. “.. You uttered it without warning and I couldn't control myself.”
“I like it.” you admit, without shame.
He blinks. “.. You..”
“It's like a reward, you know? I made you feel so loved that your wings sprang up.” 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.
“Hey, you haven't answered me.” 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, “Love doesn't begin to describe the adoration I hold for you.. But—”
He leans up, and now it's you whose breath hitches.
“I love you too.” his lips, filled with so much warmth and deep affection, finds it's place against your own.
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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 accurately…"
^ these are the plushies if anyone was curious/has not seen them
