hello! may i have one where reader brings home those cat cakes for hsr men/could you write their reactions? thank you!
ʚ♡ɞฺ main m.list ྀིᨯ — cw. fluff, established relationship
blade thinks its stupid. why would you want another companion when you already have him? he shrugs it off before he realizes how much of your attention is occupied by said cake.
one day you just find that he and your new buddy are having a staring contest before you set dinner down on the table. just two silent beings watching to see who's more strong.
"...are you two done yet, can we eat?" - "it has earned my respect. you may keep it."
mydei is very... very wary of the animal dessert thing. tries to intimidate it but it only gets the cat cake to like him more.
"my love, you better get this thing off of me." - "'dei... he just wants to spend time with you! he's harmless!"
he squints his eyes at the thing, and in response the small thing meows happily. you can tell he gives in by day seven when he's just lightly petting it on the head with reluctance. "i thought y-" - "shut it." it's a funny scene to see mydeimos defeated by a simple cat cake that sits upon the throne called his chest.
anaxa thinks they're ridiculous. "hah! you really think this cake deserves to live with u-" when he feels the sharp glance on his back. "that is our son, you can't be mean to him!" - "...okay."
as much as you think he might hate the little guy, he actually gets all into teaching kitty cake everything about algebra and anatomy at the same time. figures out kitty cake speaks an actual language too.
"meow!" - "very well said, son. i'm very proud." when you check back in from the kitchen, serving them new desserts you just learned how to make; "seems like you two are enjoying yourselves." - "mm. our son has learned logic."
caelus has interacted with them before, but questions how you ended up finding one and taking it home. doesn't really mind it though, just let it do what it wants, feeds it, give it water... if that's what they need.
"babe? are... oh." you walk into the the room, placing your coat on the rack nearby. taking a seat beside your boyfriend, you lean your head against his shoulder. "hey." he rings an arm around your shoulders to pull you closer.
"do you wanna name her?" tossing a piece of popcorn into is mouth, he leans his head on yours too. "we could do... like, kiwi?" - "perfect."
kiwi just continue to hop around in a circle.
sunday thinks its adorable, immediately scoops it up and sits all three of you down as if to formally welcome him into the family. for a man who would usually be neutral about most matters that didn't concern your wellbeing...
"must we name the little darling?" petting the soft fluff on his head, he places a kiss on your cheek before settling down beside you on the sofa. "only if you wanna, ruan mei gave her to me as a gift." you only fell pleased seeing how well they got along <3
your favorite thing to see was how the adorable little cat dessert would be seated beside the stove while he cooked you breakfast.
ashveil is a very welcoming father, honestly has just accepted the fact that he is a father to one now, feeds the cake whatever his diet is too. you find them just relaxing on the couch together, number one dad over here...
"hey! baby, look. i got him a little suit, matches mine. you like it?" he has the little guy in his arms when he's already got him draped in a coat.
they really bond over small talk. talks to the cat cake like its an actual kid, as if it were your kid before he got with you.
Ashveil, whose hugs are a little too tight whenever it’s time for you two to part
Ashveil, who’s quite old fashioned in his words of endearment—whether it be through the sweet nothings between you two or through the mundane act of comforting a lost child
Ashveil, who whenever you’d have food on your face, either due to eating in a rush or even as a result of baking, unconsciously devours it away—it’s a reflex at this point, forgive him would you?
Ashveil, who whenever the shadows in his arm flare up, finally finally leans on you for comfort after, letting you and Mr. N gently tend to the wounds
Ashveil, who relaxes during your routinely evening chats, often sharing some of his past with a melancholic but endearing look to his eyes, as you listen to him, and he to you, sharing an intimacy like a married couple of years
Ashveil, who relishes in the rare and few nights where he is able to sleep by your side instead of the cryosleep, grateful your ice ability too can reduce the phantom pain just a little
Ashveil, who at times, when he finds himself alone, is washed over by a sense of guilt due to the fear of burdening you with himself
Ashveil, who longs for nothing more than a peaceful retirement, letting himself naturally age and grow old together with you by his side, enjoying the calm of each day
Ashveil is an ace detective who takes all kinds of commissions. This one should be simple: show up, play dad, then leave. Offering to return free of charge wasn’t part of the plan.
⟢ FEATURES: ashveil x gn!reader, fluff, ashveil possibly being ooc (written before v4.0), the usual he fell first/love at first sight trope because i like my men down bad and yearning
⟢ WORD COUNT: (exactly!!) 1,900
⟢ NOTE: this is inspired by his character introduction. everyone say thank you ashveil for giving me the opportunity to write for a character that isn’t phainon <3 with this, i have accomplished my new year’s resolution ٩>ᴗ<)و yay for me!!!
⟢ ALSO ON: ao3
Ashveil is a detective.
That part is non-negotiable. It’s printed on his card, etched into his reputation, whispered about in places that smell like smoke and bad decisions. He finds things—people, truths, sometimes missing pets, sometimes missing Aeons, though it depends on how generous the pay is and how annoying the investigation would sound.
Ashveil also takes odd jobs.
That is not advertised on his card.
These include jobs like tailing someone’s ex to confirm if they’ve really moved on. Odd jobs like pretending to be someone’s long-lost uncle. Odd jobs where he has to act like a child’s parent for a parent-teacher conference.
He’s done it multiple times—in fact, parent-teacher conferences are easy. You sit, you nod, you pretend to care about spelling tests and quiz bees. You mirror concern just long enough to look convincing. And you don’t think too hard about why the real parents aren’t here.
He’s filled in all kinds: parents who were “too busy,” parents who “forgot,” and parents who decided money was easier than being there for their children.
Ashveil does the job well. It’s not difficult. Caring is easy to fake when you’re good at reading people. So when he takes this commission, he’s not expecting anything new.
It isn’t the same school he’s gone in before, but it might as well be. Same kind of hallways. Same chairs that look like they were designed more for aesthetics and not for humble adults’ comfort. Same posters about responsibility and growth and trying your best, all slightly crooked, all clearly printed by someone who believes very deeply in children.
It’s a different school, but it is the same routine—walk in with the kid, exchange pleasantries with the teacher, and pretend this is a normal arrangement that makes sense in a functioning universe.
He is prepared for all kinds of things.
He is, however, not prepared for you.
He hasn’t even fully stepped inside the room when he stops abruptly. The child he’s supposed to be acting as a parent for bumps into his back with a soft thud.
“Mister?” comes a small, confused voice from behind him.
Ashveil barely hears it because you’ve looked up.
You’re sitting behind your desk, sunlight catching just right on your face, expression open and friendly instead of wary or tired. He registers the room only distantly—the tables, the chairs, the walls filled with all kinds of drawings—because all of it fades around the simple, convenient fact that you are there.
“Oh, hi,” you say, smiling. “You must be a parent?”
Ashveil stops thinking.
No—correction. He thinks too much all at once.
Pretty, his brain supplies, unhelpfully. And then immediately after: young. Not in a way that undermines you—you’re just younger than he expected. Younger than any teacher he’s ever dealt with on jobs like this.
Most of the time, it’s men with tired eyes and coffee-stained ties, or older women with clipped voices and the air of someone who’s raised three children, taught thirty classes, and buried their patience somewhere around the previous decade. Women who could, very feasibly, pass as his grandmother.
You are none of that.
Ashveil realizes he’s been standing in the doorway too long.
“…yes,” he says finally, stepping inside like nothing happened. “I’m Adi’s father.”
Behind him, the kid relaxes. In front of him, you gesture toward the chairs, still smiling. And Ashveil sits, posture straight and expression composed—doing his best to look like a man who absolutely did not just fall a little in love at first sight. The kid drops into the chair across him, legs swinging.
“Hello again,” you say. “Thank you so much for coming in today.”
You’re really friendly, Ashveil thinks distantly. And something in his chest flutters at the sound of your voice, light and warm, and for a second he wonders if he misjudged how long it’s been since lunch.
He ate, though. A lot, in fact, so this can’t actually just be hunger.
“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat and forcing his brain back into place. “It’s no problem. I need to be there for my child, after all.”
He straightens a little in his chair. He just needs to pretend like a real, good father. It’s easy. He’s played more complicated roles for worse pay.
You beam at him anyway, like he’s just said something incredibly meaningful.
“Thank you for being here for them,” you say, and the sincerity in your voice makes his stomach do a slow, unpleasant flip. Then you glance down at your notes, blissfully unaware of the damage you’re causing. “I’d like to start by saying Adi is a joy to have in class.”
Ashveil hums, nodding along. Of course you’d say that—that’s usually how these meetings start. Compliment first, then slide into the concerns. He knows the pattern like the back of his hand now. Still, he finds himself leaning forward, like this matters more than it’s supposed to.
He listens. Mostly.
The problem is that while you’re talking, his attention keeps drifting—not away from you, but toward you. Your face, your expressions, the way your brows knit slightly when you’re choosing your words carefully. He realizes that staring is impolite, so he looks away for a second before looking right back again.
The kid kicks his shin under the table. Ashveil ignores it.
“They’re very imaginative,” you continue, flipping through your notes. “They’re a little distracted sometimes, but they mean well.”
“Don’t we all,” he says without thinking.
You look up at him, and for a moment, he wonders if he’s said something wrong. But then you laugh, genuine.
“I suppose that’s true,” you say. “Adi especially.”
Your smile lingers and Ashveil realizes he’s staring again. He forces his gaze back to neutral, and nods like a man who looks like he absolutely has his life together and is not sitting in a chair meant for someone else while pretending to be a parent to a child he technically just met.
And he did. He got a call last week asking for his services—if he could act as someone’s father for a parent-teacher meeting—and he agreed in exchange for, well… some candies. A whole bag of them actually. The client was a child, after all, and food is food; Ashveil isn’t the type to waste things like those.
It’s not written on his card, but he does remember putting posters with his assistant here and there about his services, printed and taped in various locations—bulletin boards near corner stores, a community center corkboard, some phone booths, and even the back wall of a laundromat.
He would’ve expected calls like those coming from tired guardians, maybe even older siblings. What he hadn’t expected was a small, hesitant voice asking if he could “stand in” just once. Just for a meeting. Just so someone would be there. So now here he is.
It’s fine, he tells himself. He’s done stranger things for less.
“This is my first time meeting Adi’s father,” you say, smiling. “You, I mean.”
That smile of yours is a goddamn problem.
Ashveil nods once, a little too quickly. “Right,” he says.
“You’d be surprised how often no one ever comes,” you continue. “During parent-teacher conferences, it’s usually just me and Adi. So… seeing you here today really puts my mind at ease.”
Something warm and sudden and unfamiliar tightens in Ashveil’s chest. He drops his gaze to his lap before he can stop himself.
“Work,” he says, flustered. Then he pauses, clears his throat, and tries again. “My work. It—uh, it tends to take up most of my time.” He exhales through his nose, glances up at you, then away just as quickly. “That’s why I couldn’t come before. Not because I didn’t— I mean— I wanted to, but you know, it just— yeah.”
Smooth, he thinks sarcastically. He risks another look at you then, brief and cautious, like checking for damage. You nod, accepting it without question, and that somehow makes it worse.
“But I’ll make time,” he adds, the words tumbling out before he can reconsider them. “From now on. I mean—when there are meetings like this. Or events. If he needs someone there, I can— I will come.” He shifts in his seat, posture straightening like that might pull him together. “I’ll figure it out.”
Your face lights up.
Ashveil’s brain stalls completely. He looks at the wall, the desk, at Adi, or just anywhere that is not your face because if he keeps looking, he’s scared he’s going to say something else he can’t take back.
“That makes me really happy to hear,” you say. Then, brightening further, “Oh—actually, that reminds me. In a few weeks, we’re having Parents’ Day.”
You explain it—games, activities, parents and kids together, laughter filling the school. Ashveil hears pieces of it, but most of his attention has slid sideways, locked onto the kid across from him.
Adi is staring at the floor now, shoulders tucked in, feet planted flat like he’s bracing for something.
Ashveil swallows.
“It would mean a lot if you could come,” you finish, expectant.
He looks at Adi. Then back at you. Then down again.
“Yeah,” he says, then winces internally and forces himself to try again. “I’ll be there. For Parents’ Day, I mean.”
Adi’s legs kick forward instantly, swinging again, faster this time.
Ashveil exhales, long and quiet, and tells himself that this reaction is completely unreasonable, and absolutely not your fault.
Even if it feels like it is.
“That’s wonderful,” you say, clearly delighted.
Ashveil nods, a little stiff, like moving too much might undo whatever fragile promise he’s just made. “Yeah. Uh… good.”
“Well,” you add gently, closing your notebook, “thank you again for coming in today.”
“Of course,” Ashveil says immediately, then clears his throat. “We should… We’ll get going.”
He stands, gesturing for Adi to follow. The kid hops down from the chair, still buzzing, legs kicking once for good measure.
At the door, Ashveil hesitates just long enough to regret it, then turns back. “I’ll see you on Parents’ Day,” he says, voice steadier than he feels.
You smile again. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”
And then they’re gone, the door clicking shut behind them.
Adi keeps pace beside him for exactly three steps before the question bursts out.
“Are you really coming, mister?”
Ashveil makes a face without meaning to, eyes flicking up to the ceiling like the answer might be written there. He slows, sighs, runs a hand over his face.
“…yeah,” he says finally. “I’ll be there.”
Adi lights up instantly—eyes wide, grin stretching across his face—only for it to flicker, uncertainty creeping back in just as fast.
“But,” the kid says, smaller now, “I don’t have anything to pay you.”
Ashveil snorts softly and reaches out, ruffling Adi’s hair. “Nah. It’s free of charge.”
Adi blinks up at him. “Really?”
“Yup,” Ashveil says, grinning, sharp and toothy. “Just make sure you put in a good word for me with your teacher, alright?”
“Okay!” Adi beams. Then he tilts his head, curious. “Do you like my teacher, mister?”
Ashveil hums, thoughtful, eyes drifting back toward the classroom door as if he can still picture you, smiling like you hadn’t just completely unraveled him.
“…yeah,” he says at last. “They’re really pretty.”
“Welcome to the «Insomnia Hotline.» I’m Ashveil, your midnight companion.”
The voice into your ear makes you shiver as you’re lying in your bed. The light of Phantasmoon filters through your curtains as the city of Planacardia buzzes with life outside.
Sleep has been dodging you for days, it has been running away due to the same thought: HIM. Whose voice you’re listening to like it’s a lullaby. That very divine voice which belongs to the man whose lazy smirks you see in your dreams, whose eyes seem to linger on you a second too long when he thinks you’re not looking, whose gentlemanly antics makes you flustered — the way he walks you to your door with his arm offered.
You stare at your phone for a long minute before dialing the number you've saved under "Emergency (Do Not Use Unless Desperate)" and before you can talk yourself out of it. Your heart hammers in your rib cage as if it’s about to jump out.
“Welcome to the «Insomnia Hotline,»” his voice flows through the speaker — rich, velvety, low. “No judgments here, listener. Tell me what’s weighing on your mind tonight.”
You swallow. You try to pitch your voice a little lower or higher to remain anonymous, even though you know it's pointless.
"Hi… I can't sleep. There's someone who's been stuck in my head for weeks. Constantly. Every time I close my eyes, I see his smile, hear his voice… the way he says my name. He's kind in this quite old-fashioned way — he’s a gentleman, walks me home, remembers stupid little things I said once. And I think… maybe he feels something too? But I'm scared to say it out loud. What if it's just in my head? What if I ruin everything?"
A beat of silence.
Then his voice returns, still smooth and confident, but you catch a tiny awkward hitch, a tiny shift in rhythm — that only someone who’s listened to him for months may notice.
“Well, well… That does sound like quite the predicament.” he says slower, maybe a bit hesitating, as if he’s trying to find the right words.
“A certain someone has stuck in your head, making sleep impossible. Your heart races at the mere thought of him, doesn’t it? Classic symptoms of an unsolved case of the heart.”
He clears his throat softly. You hear a faint noise — he’s shifting in his chair, perhaps running his gloved hand through his hair.
“But this someone maybe closer than you think,” he continues, a teasing and playful tone slips in, but with something almost shy. “Or perhaps — just a guess — he’s been losing just as much sleep, replaying every small interaction in his head, every brush of your fingers, every time you smiled at him.”
You bite your lower lip, and your face is burning.
“Advice for the caller, then: perhaps the next time you see this gentleman, you could tell him directly. No disguises. No anonymous lines. Just the truth. I suspect he’d be more than willing to listen. In fact…” He exhales. “He might even confess that the feeling is painfully mutual.”
A short pause.
“Get some rest if you can, darling,” he almost murmurs. “Sweet dreams. Or better yet… come make them real.”
The call ends.
You’re lying here, in your bed, and screaming into your pillow.
Across the city, in a studio, Ashveil stares at the console for a long, long moment with his ears turned pink. He leans back in his chair, removes his hat, and lets out a slow, shaky exhale.
“Damn it,” he mutters your name as he leans forward over the table, putting his elbows on it and leaning his forehead on his hands clasped together. “You really had to call and say all that…”
The man sighs again, already calculating how soon you show up at the agency. But deep down, the touch-starved man is giddy and already counting the hours until he can hear your voice in person again.
ʚɞ I just wanna be right where you are (oh, my love) ʚɞ
⚘ Pairings: Ashveil x Reader
⚘ Summery: A broke detective’s heart has lingered with a wealthy client he's serviced years ago— how ridiculous. But as you return to Planarcadia once more, he is elated by the invitation he's received from you, be it just a fancy restaurant. Unbeknownst to him, your actions harbor a deeper intention— and that is to court this insufferably dense detective.
⚘ Tags: Fluff, Reader is wealthy, shared past, heavy romantic tension, emotional vulnerability, themes of insecurity, slow burn, long fic, Narrator and Ashveil deeply care about each other, lovesick Reader, dense Ashveil (dw he becomes a yearner), sensitive Ashveil, lowk lunch date, subtle intimacy, that's all i guess
⚘ A/N: I'm so scared to post this, it's my first long fic 😭 I deeply apologize if it's ass, um I'll move onto werewolf!Ashveil fic 💔 I have so many ideas for that one
Soft clicks of polished heels echo faintly along the narrow staircase leading up to Furbobo Weekly’s assigned building, each step carrying a weight far heavier than the sound suggests. The doorknob turns with a quiet creak, and the door shuts behind him with a dull finality.
Into the cramped storage room they generously call an office enters the Ace Detective of the Ashen Detective Agency—though tonight, there is nothing “ace” about the man before it.
Ashveil’s posture is slumped, shoulders caved inward as though the world itself has pressed down on him. His hat tilts just enough to shadow his face, but not enough to hide the unmistakable signs of defeat—of humiliation that clings to him like a second skin.
Across the room, Narrator stills. His fingers freeze mid-scroll over the detective’s phone before he slowly sets it aside, eyes narrowing with quiet concern. Something is wrong—terribly so. Without a word, he climbs down from the desk, small feet padding softly against the floor as he approaches.
He finds Ashveil crouched in front of the fridge. Then, as if the world outside has become too unbearable to exist in, the detective pulls the door open and folds himself inside, retreating into the cold like a wounded animal seeking refuge.
“Mr. Ashveil?” Narrator calls, his small hands gripping the edge of the fridge door.
No response.
Only silence greets him. Narrator waits. One minute stretches into two, then three. The quiet becomes suffocating—until, faintly, he hears it.
A shaky breath.
The soft, muffled sound of someone desperately trying to keep themselves together.
The monkey’s expression falters. His grip tightens slightly against the fridge door as his chest aches at the sound. Whatever happened out there… it was not something trivial. Not something the detective could simply brush off with his usual dry humor and stubborn pride.
“…Mr. Ashveil,” he tries again, softer this time.
It takes time—far too much time. Gentle nudges, hesitant questions, and patient silence slowly chip away at the detective’s defenses until, at last, the truth spills out in fragments between uneven breaths.
Sparxie. A trickster disguised as a streamer.
A competition with a name far too grand for something so ridiculous—Planarcadia Super Debate King Big Prize.
And Ashveil… had lost. Not just lost but miserably. Publicly and spectacularly.
For a man who builds his entire identity on wit, deduction, and being right, the blow lands deeper than most would understand. Beneath the sharp tongue and composed exterior lies someone far more fragile—someone who feels every failure twice as hard and remembers it ten times longer.
Narrator’s ears flatten. A quiet, simmering anger begins to rise within him, small but fierce. Without another word, he hops back onto the desk, his tiny fingers flying across the keyboard with startling speed.
Reports are drafted in rapid succession. Complaints, formal accusations, and several strongly worded demands—each more aggressive than the last. Somewhere in between, he includes a very specific request for fifty kilograms of bananas labeled under “emotional damages.”
How dare they humiliate his beloved detective like that?
How dare they make him cry?
The furious clacking of keys finally comes to a stop. Narrator exhales, tail flicking sharply before his gaze drifts back toward the fridge.
Ashveil hasn’t moved.
The anger melts as quickly as it came. With a quiet sigh, Narrator hops down once more and climbs into the fridge without hesitation, settling beside the detective despite the biting cold. His small hand reaches out, gently patting Ashveil’s back in slow, careful motions.
“Detective…” he calls softly.
“I’m so pathetic, Mr. N…” The words are hoarse, barely held together between quiet sobs, and they strike deeper than any insult ever could.
Narrator’s chest tightens painfully. He shifts closer, attempting to wrap his arms around Ashveil in something resembling a hug. It’s clumsy—awkward, uneven—but earnest in a way that matters more than perfection ever could.
“You’re not pathetic, Mr. Ashveil,” he murmurs, voice steady despite the ache in it. “It’s okay to be wrong sometimes.”
Ashveil doesn’t respond immediately, but the tension in his shoulders eases, if only slightly. The quiet sobs begin to fade into softer breaths.
Seeing that small change, Narrator carefully pulls away and scrambles out of the fridge. He rummages through the desk with purpose before returning just as quickly, pressing a few neatly folded credits into Ashveil’s hand.
“There are new desserts trending in Duomension City,” he says, gentler now. “You should go try one.”
For a moment, there is nothing but silence.
Ashveil stares down at the credits as though they weigh far more than their value, his fingers curling slowly around them. Then—gradually, almost hesitantly—a smile breaks through. Small, fragile, but real.
“You’re too caring, Mr. N,” he murmurs, reaching out to gently pat the monkey’s head.
Narrator huffs softly, though his tail sways with quiet satisfaction.
Ashveil exhales, pushing himself upright with a stretch, joints popping faintly as he regains his composure. The gloom hasn’t disappeared entirely, but it loosens its grip just enough for him to breathe again.
Food helps. It always does.
He straightens his clothes, adjusts his hat, and makes his way toward the door with renewed—if slightly forced—determination.
“I’ll bring more bananas for you too, Mr. N,” he says over his shoulder. “Just wait for me.”
But just as his hand reaches for the doorknob, he stops. Something feels… off.
A tug in his chest. A strange, unexplainable pull—like the faint echo of a scent he hasn’t yet caught, or a memory waiting just out of reach.
Without thinking, he turns back. His steps are quicker now as he crosses the room and reaches for a neatly covered bottle of cologne resting on the desk, fingers wrapping around it with quiet certainty.
Narrator watches the entire exchange unfold, eyes glinting with knowing amusement. “Going on a date, Mr. Ashveil?” he teases, voice light but not without intent.
The reaction is immediate. “What? Of course not!” Ashveil blurts, nearly fumbling the bottle in his haste. “Don’t you think I’m too broke to be going on dates?”
His ears flick like a wolf's with mild panic, his expression bordering on genuine bewilderment—as though the very suggestion is absurd enough to have been whispered by Aha themself.
Narrator hums, thoroughly unconvinced. He casually peels a banana, holding another with his tail as if the moment requires no further attention.
“This humble assistant merely asked a question,” he replies, tone deliberately neutral. “No need to be so worked up, Mr. Ashveil.”
He takes a bite, chewing slowly before adding—almost as an afterthought, “Though, I heard [Name] has been touring around Planarcadia.”
Silence.
Ashveil freezes on his spot. The name hits him harder than anything else that day—harder than the loss, harder than the humiliation.
Right.
You.
The realization crashes into him all at once, sudden and overwhelming. Without another word, he turns sharply and strides out of the office, the door slamming shut behind him with a resounding thud.
Narrator stares at the now-closed door for a moment. Slowly , a smug grin spreads across his face. “…That’s at least twenty kilograms of bananas secured,” he mutters to himself, thoroughly pleased.
The lively streets of Duomension City are nothing out of the ordinary—if anything, they are too alive. Lights spill from every corner, laughter rings endlessly through the air, and above it all, the Phantasmoon stretches wide across the sky, its ever-present grin casting a strange sort of comfort over the chaos below. It is a city that thrives on indulgence, on spectacle, on joy so excessive it borders on absurdity.
And somewhere within that endless current of noise and color walks a lone wolf—one with all the direction of a lost cub.
Ashveil weaves through the crowd with furrowed brows, glancing from one shop window to another, each display more extravagant than the last. Towering desserts glisten under warm lights, their prices displayed just beneath in numbers so steep they may as well be mocking him.
Too expensive.
Far too expensive.
His grip tightens slightly around the credits in his hand, thumb brushing over their edges as if hoping they might multiply through sheer will. Narrator had given him enough for something, surely—but in a place like this? It barely scratches the surface.
“…Maybe I should just get bananas,” he mutters under his breath, half-defeated. “Cheaper. Practical. Efficient.”
It would benefit both him and Narrator. No unnecessary spending, no regrets. A perfectly logical solution.
And yet— His steps slow.
Because logic has never quite worked when it comes to certain things. His thoughts are abruptly cut short when something shifts—subtle, instinctive, impossible to ignore.
A scent.
Faint at first, weaving delicately through the overwhelming mix of sugar and spice that fills the street. But to him, it stands out instantly—familiar in a way that settles deep in his chest before his mind can even catch up.
That scent… It means—
“Boo!”
The voice comes from behind him, bright and playful, and it hits him all at once.
Ashveil freezes for half a second—then his ears shoot upright, perking with a sharpness that betrays just how quickly his body recognizes what his mind has yet to process. He turns around, almost too fast, only to be met with the very presence that scent had promised.
You.
Standing there like you’ve always belonged in his path. And suddenly, something in him feels… full.
“Knew you’d be here,” he says, recovering quickly, a trace of pride slipping into his voice despite everything.
It’s almost ridiculous—how the only time his deductions seem to work flawlessly is when it comes to you.
You tilt your head, letting out a soft hum before shaking it in exaggerated disappointment. “Aw shucks,” you sigh, “and here I thought my surprise actually worked.”
His lips curve into a smile—soft, unguarded, the kind that appears so rarely it feels almost unfair when it does. “Don’t let that make you gloomy,” he replies, voice gentler now. “I’m glad you’ve returned.”
He doesn’t ask when you arrived. Doesn’t question how long you’ve been here, or why he hadn’t noticed sooner. He already knows the answer he’d get—nothing concrete, nothing he could follow. People like you move in ways that don’t leave trails behind.
And yet, somehow… you always find your way back to him. The thought alone is enough to make your heart stutter.
You force your expression into something composed, something polite—anything to mask the way your pulse quickens at the sight of him. That smile of his, so soft and unassuming, threatens to undo you in ways you’re far too familiar with.
“Since we both have some free time,” you begin, carefully steadying your voice, “why don’t we go out for lunch?”
For a brief moment, there is silence.
His ears perk even higher, if that were possible. His eyes practically light up, a glassy shine settling into them as though you’ve just offered him something divine.
“Of course! Of course!”
There it is.
That unfiltered enthusiasm. That shameless excitement. The way his entire demeanor shifts at the mere mention of food—it’s almost endearing how little he tries to hide it.
And that is exactly why you like him so much.
You let out a fond huff, shaking your head lightly as amusement softens your expression. There’s something so simple about him, so genuine, that it cuts through all the noise of a place like this.
And for you—someone who rarely lingers anywhere for long, who treats planets like passing stops rather than destinations— even a single moment like this feels like a victory.
The walk to the restaurant is, by all means, ordinary. The streets remain just as lively, the crowds just as loud, the Phantasmoon still grinning down at the city like it knows every secret worth keeping.
And yet, you are distracted. Hopelessly, shamelessly distracted.
Your attention drifts again and again to the man walking beside you, your gaze flickering toward him whenever he isn’t looking—or at least, whenever you think he isn’t. Dear Lan… he’s gorgeous.
It’s not just one thing, either. It’s everything.
The way he holds the brim of his hat so absentmindedly, like it’s second nature. The quiet depth in his voice when he speaks. The sharpness in his eyes, dulled just enough by something softer—something human. Even the way he walks, relaxed yet purposeful, as though he exists in his own rhythm separate from the rest of the world.
Truly, who could blame you?
With a quiet sigh, you force yourself to look ahead, focusing on the road and the restaurant drawing closer in the distance. It wouldn’t do to get caught staring again.
Unbeknownst to you, however— He’s already noticed.
Ashveil’s ears twitch ever so slightly, catching the subtle shifts in your attention, the weight of your gaze even when it lingers for only a second too long. He doesn’t turn to look, doesn’t call you out on it—but he notices.
He always notices. And yet, just as quickly, he dismisses it.
There’s a stubborn sort of denial rooted deep within him, one that refuses to entertain the thought for even a moment. You— someone wealthy, influential, someone who moves through worlds like they belong to you— couldn’t possibly be looking at him like that.
There’s no reason for it. Not in his mind.
He isn’t particularly striking, not by his own standards. Not compared to the kind of people you must surround yourself with.
So whatever that look is— It can’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean anything.
By the time you step into the restaurant, all of those thoughts are swept away entirely—replaced by something far more immediate.
Food. (holy fatass)
Ashveil doesn’t hesitate for even a second. He practically guides—no, drags—you toward the nearest available seat, his earlier gloom nowhere to be found as anticipation lights up his expression. It’s almost amusing, how quickly he shifts, how transparent he becomes when something as simple as a good meal is within reach.
Though, really, you wouldn’t expect anything less from someone who orders Dogdash more times in a year than most people would admit to.
“Let’s see, what can I order…” he murmurs under his breath, leaning slightly forward as he picks up the menu.
His voice dips just a little, thoughtful, focused—and the sight of him like this is almost endearing. Like a wolf presented with something indulgent, something he doesn’t get to have often.
His metallic finger trails slowly across the menu, scanning each item with careful attention. And then, he sees the prices. There’s a pause. A barely noticeable flinch.
It’s subtle, but you catch it instantly. “Don’t hesitate,” you say, your voice gentle, familiar. “Order anything.”
The reassurance is simple—but it lands heavier than you intend.
Ashveil stills— and just like that, the doubt creeps back in. It’s quiet at first. Then louder.
Why?
Why would you say that so easily?
Is this some kind of test?
His grip on the menu tightens slightly as his thoughts spiral in ways he can’t quite stop. You’ve known each other for years, and yet—this part never changes. That quiet uncertainty, that inability to fully understand why you treat him the way you do.
Why someone like you would be so generous toward someone like him. In the end, he relents—but only halfway.
He orders a few dishes, carefully chosen, deliberately modest. The cheapest ones he can reasonably pick without drawing attention to it.
Safe, predictable ones. But you notice immediately. Of course you do. Though, you don’t call him out on it.
Instead, you smile politely at the server and proceed to order—without hesitation—the most expensive items on the menu.
Ashveil watches in silence as the order is written down, as the server nods and walks away. And he understands. You won’t force him. You won’t push him. But what he refuses to take for himself— You’ll give to him anyway.
The realization settles somewhere deep in his chest, quiet and unfamiliar. And for reasons he can’t quite explain—
His heart skips.
“So,” you begin, resting your chin lightly against your palm, your gaze fixed entirely on him, “what commissions have you received recently?”
The question is simple. Casual. But the way you look at him— It throws him off completely.
“O-Oh, uh…” he stumbles, momentarily caught off guard before clearing his throat and straightening slightly. “A missing bunny, a trip to the vet for a dog, a new missing person’s case and… yeah, that’s about it.”
His voice steadies as he speaks, falling back into something more familiar. Something safer.
You hum softly in response, as though his words are far more interesting than they actually are. As though he is. Your gaze never leaves him. Not even for a second.
This time, he notices. Truly notices.
Ashveil falters mid-thought, the weight of your attention finally becoming too obvious to ignore.
Did you always look at him like this?
There’s something different in your eyes. Something warmer, something far too intense to be brushed off as politeness or habit.
A faint flush creeps across his cheeks before he can stop it, and he quickly averts his gaze, focusing on anything else—his glass, the table, the passing server—anything but you.
“…Weird,” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself.
He doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t understand you. But one thing is certain— Whatever this feeling is, whatever strange pull you seem to have over him— He’s going to figure it out.
The plates clink softly as the food arrives, the rich aromas filling the space between you both. The server gives a polite smile and quietly retreats, leaving you in a familiar bubble of shared moments.
By now, the restaurant staff hardly blinks when they see you two; your presence has become routine enough that the subtle commotion you cause passes almost unnoticed.
Ashveil doesn’t waste a second. He leans over his plate, taking a deliberate bite and closing his eyes in unrestrained appreciation.
“Now that—that’s what I call good food!” he exclaims, speaking more to himself than to you, the words spilling out in a rapid, almost jubilant babble. Each bite seems like a small triumph, every chew a fleeting declaration of joy.
You watch, quietly amused, letting him speak while you take your own careful sips and bites. His conversation flows freely, unfiltered: the persistent struggle with limited funds, the latest absurdities of Narrator, the new cases he’s been chasing, and the antics of the Furbo crew. Everything pours out in a rhythm you know as well as you know him, a familiar dance of words and thoughts that feels comforting in its predictability.
“Anyways…” he clears his throat, lowering his voice just slightly, as if he’s hesitant to intrude on the space of your shared comfort.
“What brought you back to Planarcadia this time?” The question is casual on the surface, but there’s an edge of curiosity under it—genuine, pointed, and unavoidable. After all, this bustling, chaotic planet of Elation isn’t exactly the most convenient place for someone like you to linger.
You let out a soft sigh, lifting your cup of tea and letting the warmth seep into your fingers. “For a business meeting,” you murmur, letting the words hang between you. “I’ll leave soon.”
It’s a lie.
A flimsy one, yet it drapes perfectly over the truth you can’t bring yourself to admit. The real reason for your return isn’t the meeting, isn’t the schedule, isn’t the errands or obligations you so easily claim.
It’s him.
Always him.
And even as you speak, a faint weight presses against your chest—the thrill, the anxiety, the quiet joy of being near him once more. You sip your tea, hiding the flutter in your heart behind polite words, letting Ashveil continue to eat and talk, unaware that the true meeting—the one you’ve both unknowingly circled—has already begun.
Ashveil chuckles softly, a faint exhale of resignation escaping him. "Ah, of course… you are the busiest person I’ve ever known." His voice trails off, tinged with disappointment, irrational though it may be. Even after all these years, part of him wishes time could stretch a little longer when you’re near.
You tilt your head, curiosity laced with amusement, and ask lightly, "How’s Mister N?" The question carries an unspoken edge, a subtle bait you know he won’t see coming.
The detective frowns briefly, recalling the morning’s exchange with Narrator. “He’s alright. Mentioned you this morning, actually.”
A small, prideful smile curves your lips as you nod, murmuring under your breath, "As he should."
Of course he did—you’d made the effort, slipping a few extra bananas to ensure your presence was spoken of favorably. Ashveil, for all his perceptive powers, was far too dense to notice the careful intentions behind your actions.
He huffs, feigning annoyance as he shakes his head. "You could be a little humble," he teases, though there’s no conviction in his words. His gaze drifts to the empty plates on the table.
Leaning back against the cushioned seat, he rubs his belly with exaggerated satisfaction. "That was great. Thank you again, [Name]."
The praise makes your heart flutter wildly. For someone accustomed to wealth and refinement, your behavior feels embarrassingly juvenile—like a high-schooler hopelessly in love. You can almost imagine the next steps: lunch, confession, marriage… if only it were that simple.
Before your fantasies spiral further, the server returns with the bill. Ashveil glances at it, only to recoil at a figure large enough to cover three months’ rent. He retreats into his seat, a flush of self-consciousness washing over him.
Despite the countless times he’s visited this restaurant, the shame never seems to fade. Table manners, portion sizes—he had overlooked them all.
You step up, paying the bill, leaving Ashveil to quietly escape to the street outside, embarrassed and self-reproachful. Even now, standing in the warm hum of Duomension City, he chastises himself. How could he have been so careless, so unaware?
As you emerge, content with what you’ve mentally labeled a ‘date,’ Ashveil rushes up beside you, fumbling over his words. "[Name], I… I apologize for my behavior back there. I should have… I mean, I ought to be more mindful of my manners, especially around someone like you—"
His voice quivers, teetering toward self-deprecation, and you can’t help but feel a pang of tenderness. He’s so earnest, so caught in the weight of his own insecurities, oblivious to how utterly endearing he is.
Gently, you reach out and take his hand. The touch—soft and grounding—anchors him immediately. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Ashveil. I wouldn’t have invited you if I truly disliked your manners.” Your smile is soft, reassuring, and betrays nothing of the frantic beating of your own heart beneath it.
Aeons, you scold yourself silently. Why on earth did you hold his hand?
Ashveil freezes, eyes wide and lashes fluttering, cheeks dusted with a faint, telling pink. “Oh… thank you for the meal, then… I… I appreciate it,” he mutters, voice quietening to a hesitant murmur. His hand instinctively rises to his hat, tilting the brim to hide the faint warmth spreading across his expression.
Reluctantly, you release his hand, letting it fall back to your side. "You don’t need to thank me. I’d love to spend time with you again."
The words, gentle and unwavering, land on him like a soft weight he wishes he could carry forever. A part of him longs to clutch onto this moment, to keep it suspended in time. But before he can respond, the chime of your driver’s call interrupts, and reality tugs you both forward.
Ashveil watches as you step into your vehicle, hand waving lightly. Instinctively, he mirrors the gesture, prosthetic arm rising where the warmth of your touch no longer lingers. Even so, the feeling remains—an unfamiliar flutter deep within his chest.
For once, the farewell doesn’t sting like it usually does. Even a detective, so trained to notice everything, cannot decipher why his pulse races at such a simple touch, such soft words. This fondness—this warmth—he realizes, is what he has been craving around you all along.
And for the first time in a long while, Ashveil allows himself to wonder: perhaps the heart is its own kind of case, one that even he can’t solve—yet.
The gentle glow of the Phantasmoon spills over the quiet streets of Dovebrook District, painting the world in silver and soft indigo. Somewhere tucked away in a still, shadowed corner, a small figure perches silently—Narrator, the slumbernana monkey, eyes fixed on his companion.
Ashveil lies curled within the fridge, his chest rising and falling in even rhythm, left hand clutched protectively over his heart.
Ever since returning home, the detective has refused to use that hand, muttering under his breath about how sacred it is, how nothing else should touch it.
Narrator doesn’t question, doesn’t press—he knows the truth without needing it explained, knows the invisible thread connecting Ashveil’s joy tonight to you, to the warmth and care you’ve so carefully poured into him.
For the little monkey, two wishes weigh lightly but firmly on his mind: that the stash of bananas he’s earned grows ever larger, and that the Ace Detective—proud, brilliant, and sensitive—remains as serene and content as he is in this fleeting, perfect moment.
Watching Ashveil sleep, a small, satisfied sigh escapes him. If happiness could be bottled, this would be the night to store it, tucked safely away for tomorrow and all the days after.
A/N: Awooo Ashveil awooo no lc awooo i canr do this anymore awooo i need his lc awooo *starts howling or smth*
pairing : Ashveil x male!reader
summary : Ashveil's stressed from work and in pain so you decide to comfort your boyfriend and relief him of some of his pain.
tags : ashveil x male reader, fluff, hurt/comfort, some angst, comfort, reader calls Ashveil "Ashie", Ashveil thinks he doesn't deserve love, reader has healing abilities
word count : 1.1k
a/n : fluff because I need to give this man a hug.. also sorry if it's a bit ooc
Request are open !!
Ashveil sank down on the bed next to you with an exhausted groan. He had been going from one place to the next to conduct some research on a case the entire day. Needless to say, he was beyond exhaustion.
As your eyes scanned over your beloveds body, you noticed the way his arm seemed to tremble slightly and the soft knit in his eyebrows. His phantom pain was acting up again.
You had known about his condition ever since before the two of you had started dating, your abilities were able to cool down his body similar to the effects of his cryo chamber. You could cure him of his pain, albeit it only temporarily.
Your hand slowly traced up his left arm as you laid down next to him. His body felt like it was burning up. Ashveil turned his head slightly and looked down at you. His eyes always drew you in without any effort at all, like a moth to a flame. You leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips.
"You seem exhausted," you said in a soft tone, to which Ashveil responded with a whine. He turned over onto his side and buried his face into the crook of your neck. He was always so whiny, it reminded you a bit of a puppy sometimes.
"I was working so hard, but sometimes even the greatest detectives can't solve a case within a day... can you believe that?" You couldn't help but giggle softly at the pouty look on his face. You brought up your hand and gave his cheek a soft pinch.
"Oh, wow... you poor baby." Your voice was laced with sarcasm and Ashveil sighed.
"My deduction skills are the greatest, but this one just seems too tough to figure out even for me..."
"Ashie, you know your deduction skills suck," you deadpanned and Ashveil sweatdropped nervously. He knew you were right, most of the time, he just didn't want to admit it.
"All those years, all those countless opponents I've faced, yet the words of my beloved boyfriend end up being the most hurtful thing I've ever heard," he whined, pressing his face into you chest.
Your hand moved to the back of his head and you gently threaded your fingers through the long strands of dark hair fading into white. You always admired how soft your boyfriends hair was, despite the fact he didn't have any special hair routine.
A soft laugh rumbled in your chest as you flipped him onto his back and moved to straddle his waist with your thighs. The detectives breath hitched slightly and his hands found their way onto your waist. You loved the way the tips of his ears seemed to glow a soft shade of red now.
"Are you hungry? I can make you something to eat and help you with the pain." You gestured towards his right arm and the startled expression on his face morphed into a slightly more pitiful one as he glanced at his right arm.
His eyes drifted back over to you, "you sure?" He was still not quite used to someone genuinely wanting to stick around him for a while, much less do something for him without wanting anything in return. You often enjoyed to spoil him, not just with love but with your money too. You were relatively wealthy after all. Although, he often seemed to feel guilty whenever you spent your money on him, no matter how much you reassured him that it was alright with you.
"Of course," you replied, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before you got off of him and disappeared into the kitchen. You figured you would settle for something easy to stomach; pancakes. Ashveil always appreciated those.
You began humming softly as you moved through the kitchen, preparing a batch of pancakes for the exhausted detective. In the mean time, Ashveil had settled on the couch and was quietly keeping an eye on you, while trying to block out the pain. Just seeing you seemed to make him feel a bit more at ease.
Once you finished preparing the pancakes and placing them on a plate, you brought them over to your boyfriend. You set the plate down before him and settled down behind him. You wrapped your arms around his waist and activated your ability.
Ashveil was always quite grateful for that ability of yours, since it meant he was able to actually sleep in bed with you instead of isolating himself in his fridge. He only used the refrigerator now whenever you weren't around or he just needed some place to hide in to wipe his tears.
You felt the way the tension in his body slowly subsided, and he was able to enjoy the pancakes without stinging pain in his right side making it hard for him to form a coherent thought.
You paid close attention to him as he ate, "does it taste good?" You brushed some hair behind his ear. Ashveil hummed in response as he held a forkful of pancake up to your lips. You obliged, letting him feed you, before nestling your face back into the crook of his neck.
A comfortable silence settled between you as he ate the meal you had made for him. You could feel the way his chest rose and sank rythmically with each breath he took, and the soft beating of his heart. You could stay like this for hours.
Once he finally finished, you cleaned his plate and put it away, then laid back into bed with Ashveil.
"Thank you," he mumbled, watching you snuggle up against his side, while his arms wrapped around you once more. You always fit so perfectly into his embrace, like it was meant to be.
"Don't mention it," you replied, resting your head on his large chest.
"No, really... I don't deserve all these favours, yet you insist on giving them to me for free. I don't even know how to repay you." You blinked your eyes open again and raised an eyebrow, looking up at him again.
"Repay me? Ashveil, I'm your boyfriend. You don't have to repay me for the bare minimum." You placed a hand on his cheek and gently traced your thumb across his skin in a soothing manner.
"Hah... yeah, guess I'm just... not used to it." He smiled back at you, leaning into your touch. You just sighed in response, it always made you feel so warm inside, knowing you were able to make the one that practically saved your life feel happy and loved.
ⓒ stxrlitlibrary, do NOT copy, steal, translate or repost my work anywhere else.
Hi. I finally wrote for him. Too many of you mischaracterize him and it started pissing me off 😭😭
warnings: none? idk. angst if you squint at the end. this can be read as platonic or romantic. pls don’t mention spoilers i only recently finished 4.1
word count: 4.8k
You came here when it would either be the least crowded or have no visitors at all: a late night on a weekday. It’s perfectly empty.
Swirling machines, water tossing over itself with suds drowning it, then stopping. Next, it spins in the opposite direction, thoroughly repeating the process. Clothes tossed repeatedly and soaking and darkening, finally given the proper attention they deserve.
You stare at your reflection as you crouch in front of the space in boredom, the washing machine and wet clothes being provided as your entertainment momentarily.
It’s that day again—inevitable day again.
Nothing is able to be worn, favorite clothes stained and used, and the hassle of lugging around a laundry cart to and fro.
The place is a bit dingy, yet up-to-date. Rows lined with the latest models of washing machines—yet only few work, while the dryers were rowed along the walls, posters of what’s trending on the paint-chipped walls.
If you excuse the missing pets and persons.
The seats, too, are dingy; the hard plastic is worn and in need of replacing, but not as dire to where they’re falling apart. It’s like any old laundromat.
It's quiet too. The glass windows showcase the perpetual night sky and the abundant colors that outshine the moon's stead, glowing neons around every corner outside of it. Almost looking like a different world when compared to the homely, warm atmosphere of the mat.
Your sneakers squeak as you stand upright, knees now sore from being crouched too long, and you trudge towards one of the open seats on the wall. Just to keep watch of your machine.
You remember the last time you didn’t; you almost got into a fight with a person who had the audacity to literally take out wet clothes and toss them idly on the tiles, making room for their own dirtied laundry.
The nerve of some dickheads, you sigh internally, irritated just by recalling it.
“Oh, it’s you," a person says with the surprise of recognition in their tone. "Hey, kid.”
The warmth of familiarity strokes your ears. Shorter than the speaker, you’re met with his chest first, but you can recognize that smooth, relaxed voice anywhere. That hair of his as well that spills down his shoulders in a long gradient, darkness bleeding into grey—as if his growing age bleeds from the ends first rather than the roots.
“Hi, detective.” Your gaze finally meets his, initially welcoming.
But you quirk a brow.
The renowned detective stands before you as an ordinary civilian. His softly smiling frame stands there without his hat, or his usual get-up at all, actually, as he greets you with a nod, his long fringe swaying in tandem. The older man is dressed in very casual wear: a plain t-shirt with some floral patterns and knee-length shorts… and sandals.
Ashveil holds a small bag of laundry over his shoulder and raises a brow at your quizzical expression, “What? Can’t wear the get-up all the time, now can I?”
You shrug. He’s right.
He sets the bag on the cool tiles and unties its knot, intrigue decorating his voice as dark strands spill off his shoulders more from the movement, “Interesting coincidence that we both ran out of clothes to wear today.”
You watch silently as he pulls out regular button-ups, slacks, shirts—you reflexively turn your head when he starts pulling out underwear. You, instead, direct your gaze to your relaxed reflection in one of the out-of-order machines as he separates his lights and darks spontaneously—why in the middle of the aisle rather than one of the tables?
“With how you seem to barely have any clothes, I’d assume you’d be here often.”
You pause, slowly smiling in half curiosity and half joking. “Unless you wash them in the sink?”
Ashveil laughs. “That would be cheaper, I guess,” he holds the heap of clothing, managing to skillfully separate his light clothes from the dark, seeing as he doesn’t have many, and looks around, “but they don’t get thoroughly washed that way.”
He curiously peeks around, his head easily peeking over the aisles, in search of a free washer. Working, preferably, since the reason this place is so empty is because its also spare in its running equipment. The taller man walks past you still humbly looking, bundles of clothes under his arm and dragging his laundry bag behind him.
You watch as he drops a common white sock, then you sigh, unwilling to pick it up. Ashveil glances over his shoulder, hearing the noise, then looks down.
Ah, oops.
Unhurriedly, he hums to himself idly and doubles over, letting go of the poor, dragged laundry bag and trying to pick up the dropped sock, but he ends up spilling more clothes from the top of the pile. This silly old man.
You sigh again, now convinced.
“Alright, alright. I’ll help,” you walk in front of him. He glances up at you with a grateful, tired smile and remains in his crouch as you double over to pick up the dropped clothes. His hair, so long that it easily flows onto the floor in dark waves, moves from the subtle shift.
“Thanks, kid.” A shirt gets plopped onto the pile.
His light eyes follow your hands. “So,” another sock gets picked up and plopped onto the bundle, “how’ve you been? In school?”
You hum in thought as you gather the last portion. “Not yet. College is definitely necessary,” you lift your head with a shrug, “but I just want time to myself.”
The dark-haired man nods with an understanding expression and releases a sigh, as if the weight behind your words immediately pulled out something repressed in him. “Tell me about it.”
You pause your gathering, looking down at the floor then to him blankly.
“Ashveil.”
“Hm?” He follows your gaze, then snorts through his nose at the amusing sight, “Whoops. Guess that dropped too.”
You lift your nail at the lonely underwear with a pointed, deadpan expression. “I’m not touching that.”
He shakes his head with a laugh, eyebrows raising under his unruly fringe. “No worries. I appreciate the help anyhow.”
Instead of touching what’s touched his nethers, you considerately hold the bundle from toppling over again when he leans forward to grab the underwear.
The two of you finally stand up after completing the minimal task that he made, and you grab Ashveil’s laundry bag attentively, not feeling like dealing with him dropping clothes again from leaning forward to grab it. He mutters an appreciative thanks while looking for any open washers again.
He looks down at you with a brow raised, “See any open ones?” Usable ones, really.
You point overhead, “Towards the back.”
He nods and walks towards the back, sandals noisily slapping in the quiet mat. You wordlessly follow after him. Unlucky for him, it’s as if the back were a forbidden area.
Graffiti was painted along the sides of the washers, yet the circular display glass was thankfully untouched—able to do its job in displaying the soon-to-be-washed clothes. Ashveil relaxes his shoulders in relief, then pops open one of the washing machines.
You gently set his bag next to him while he tosses in the light clothes carelessly, flicking his wrist with every toss.
He repeats the process with the dark clothes and closes the little door with his hip as he stands upright. The older man drapes the empty bag over his shoulder as he pats his sides, looking for something.
While he does that, you round the corner to check up on your own washing machine. Still tossing and turning clothes.
When you look back at him, the taller male is standing dumbfounded with his laundry card in his hand, tapping the scanner and unsuccessful with each attempt. Red popping above the dark keypad with every click of him tapping it. You slowly cross your arms at the sight as his eyebrows furrow.
“Did you forget to add cash to it?” A knowing lilt in your voice.
He sighs and lowers his head, shoulders sagging and almost slumping against the machine as he comes to terms with how he's sadly broke. “More like I can’t. I was praying I had some left.”
Ashveil frowns as he looks down at the card wistfully, “Everything went to utilities and food… and the phone bill.”
His gaze is that of a kicked puppy's when he looks back at you, only to have his eyes widen at your outstretched hand. As if a golden aura shone from it.
“Here,” you raise your own card and wave it playfully, “I stocked up on mine. Doubt you have any quarters to save you neither.”
He immediately brightens up, as if he's that dejected puppy being given a treat, and pockets his card. Ashveil takes yours with a thankful expression and pats your head, more appreciative of the little coincidence of seeing you today with every passing second. “You know, out of all the youngsters I’ve met, you’re the best of them.”
You snort and place your hands on your hips, grinning at him, “It’s because I’m always footing a bill for you whenever we see each other.”
His ears redden as he hovers the laundry card above the scanner and pauses its pursuit, almost too embarrassed to use it now after your mention. He sighs and closes his eyes, “Now I’m humiliated.”
He taps the card. The red dot becomes green. “… a gentleman should always be treating the young ones instead of the other way around.” He repeats the action at the second washer, then smiles down at you sheepishly, lightly chucking as he rubs the back of his neck.
“I’ll pay you back. It can be whatever you'd like.” He hands you your card back and readjusts the sack on his shoulder, “I keep my promises as well.”
You pat his back understandably as you pocket your card, head nodding. “I know, I know.”
You turn around and walk around the aisle towards your seat near your own washers, and he follows suit. “You’re typically independent, so I don’t hold it against you when you need a crutch.”
You then tilt your head back to peek up at him, eyes glinting with mischief and greed, “So I’m just racking up your favors until it’s so big that you can’t possibly refuse mine.”
He playfully tsks, “Racking up? You might as well be holding a grudge against me. Pretty dangerous of you.” He plops beside you when you finally sit at the lounging chairs, hard plastic cold against his exposed legs. “I’ll be sure to have my eyes open.”
Knowing it’s gonna be a small while, Ashveil stretches out his legs and lifts his arms above his head, yawning and setting one arm behind your chair as he fully settles his weight. You’re already playing some arbitrary game when he closes his eyes and slumps in the chair, relaxing himself fully.
You kick your legs out as well, knee bumping his, and he cracks open an eye. They shine with interest.
“What’re you playin’?”
“Some solitaire game. Just to pass the time.”
He tilts his head as he sits up, long hair all over the place for a moment, so he cards his fingers through them, pushing the long strands back in place. The light-eyed man examines the thin screen. “Huh…" leaves his lips, almost fascinated with the idea of young people playing old people's games. He wouldn't be surprised if you had majong on your phone too.
He has Wordle on his, so he gets the brain teasers appeal.
"No, you know,” he waves a hand as his voice becomes lighter, “flashy ol’ multiplayer? With pretty characters that people spend hundreds on.”
You keep your eyes glued to the screen distracted as you stack a spade onto another, “Nope.” You do, but card games can be just as fun.
He tilts his head. Still a bit amused at the idea of you liking Solitaire. It's a bit adorable too.
He leans over your shoulder more and plops his cheek atop your head, now equally distracted with the silent game. His finger then points at a stacked line, “You can put that in the lineup to add more points.”
“I know, I just like waiting.”
He squints his eyes, confused, then shrugs.
Eh, everyone has their weird quirks, he thinks.
You briefly then lift your head. He takes his cheek from atop your head when you do and looks down at you curiously, “Wanna give it a go? I think they have a poker game on here too.”
He blinks.
“Sure.”
The off-duty detective takes the phone and holds it with his prosthetic hand, and pauses for a moment as he squints at the phone. “Where’s the Poker Mode?”
You point at the corner, subtly understanding this is one way his age shows, “It says other versions right there.”
He squints his eyes more, borderline closing them, as he brings the screen closer to his face.
“Don’t you wear reading glasses?”
He relaxes his features then looks back at you with a smile, “I left them at the agency.” You snort, “The room. You barely have an agency.”
Ashveil shrugs, “It’s not easy being broke.”
He holds your phone as you swipe to exit the app, then open Settings. You set the font to a larger scale for him, “You should get a glasses string to have them around your neck. For conveniency.”
His eyes watch your hand, “It’s better to have them at a safer place than replace them after every outing. I’m not exactly one with the luxury of peaceful walks.”
You hum with a nod, understanding the kind of life he lives. When you return to the app, the font is on the scale only someone old could register, and you give him the agency to continue playing on your Cards apps.
You soon lay your cheek on his shoulder, watching him as the next half hour is spent between you two exchanging your phone between one another. It's nice. Very peaceful. The sound of running machines, the buzz of the lights, and the noise of outside bring everything together.
Ashveil soon gave you your phone back, having had enough fun with the old game.
You silently go back to playing another game of Solitaire, and the repetitive actions on your little screen lull him to drowsiness as he watches. The sound of machines running, the silent noise of your taps, and the buzz of lights flickering above become the perfect atmosphere for him to doze off.
His cheek goes back to lying on your head as he closes his eyes, the heaviness of his lids winning over him.
You don’t mind. This kind of nap is probably different from cryosleep. A bit warmer and welcoming, you presume.
Though his weight gradually becomes a hard feat to manage, having you nearly struggle to be upright in your own seat. You close your phone with a sigh as his long tresses begin to spill onto your shoulder as well. It’s only until your washing machines chime with being complete that you have to wake him up. His own dings afterwards.
You poke Ashveil’s side one time.
He doesn’t budge.
You then sneakily wiggle your fingers under his ribcage, and he immediately lurches out of his sleep with an uncharacteristic loud squeal. The awakened man holds his side as if he'd been hurt, whips his head side to side, then looks at the culprit.
He relaxes while sighing out a laugh, “That is... one way to wake me up.”
“Our laundry is done.” Your eyes twinkle, entertained.
He nods. Ashveil takes himself off of you and stands up, not bothering to cover his mouth when he yawns and stretches—shirt rising and exposing his stomach.
Wordlessly, he holds out his hand, and you pull yourself up, stretching too with a sigh. Briefly, he departs from you to walk towards the back, sandals slapping in his wake, while you have the advantage of only needing to walk across to retrieve your washed clothing.
Hurriedly, the drenched clothing is hauled into those carts available in the laundromat and is hastily pushed towards one of the dryers, droplets trailing after you. You quickly pop open one of the dryers, then another, and toss the wet clothing inside, dampening part of your shirt in the process.
Done with the deed, you tap your card again on the scanner.
Cue the one who also needs it appearing, trudging with two carts, sopping wet clothes wetting the tiles. You try to ignore how he slides on the water, and a sandal flies off. High in the air like a cartoon gag.
You cover your mouth to mask the laughter almost bleeding through, and he sighs tiredly as he hops on one foot, muttering about his misfortune.
“I can tell you’re not trying to laugh. Go ahead.”
You can hear the sarcasm in his voice, and it prompts you to laugh out a cackle at the sight.
The detective nearly plays hopscotch just to slide his toes back into a worn-out sandal.
He grunts in relief when he slides it back on, but has to dodge the puddle that accumulated under his cart from the wet clothes in that little time spent hopping around.
Ashveil arrives next to you and pops open two dryers quickly, already having made enough mess on the floor and wanting the clothes to be finally finished.
When he closes them, he fishes around in his shorts but is reminded of his lack of funds when you tap your card on his arm.
Your fingers brush when he sighs from the umpteenth time, the kind of thing only a person tired of life can feat. “Thanks… again.”
You nod. Smiling at his too common woes.
He taps your card on the scanner, and the cycle begins. Fortunately, this part of the process is quicker than the brunt of it.
The both of you sit back down at the seats, and the older man is dozing off again, content with leaning his weight on you while you struggle to remain upright... again. You want to complain, genuinely, but you’ll let him have these small moments of peace with you.
He can barely find them as is after all.
His drowsy form lets you play with his bigger hand as he drifts in and out of consciousness, only tethering to reality to make sure you don’t accidentally readjust his prosthetic.
“Careful, sweetheart.” He mumbles lowly, eyes barely open as he leans on you.
You hum and curl his fingers, inspecting the intricacy aligning the cool metal fingers. “I won’t touch it. Just observing.”
He closes his eyes, trusting you to keep your word. “Mmm…” he shifts closer to you, bigger body needing some smidge of warmth; he has no choice but to be cold all the time. “One little nudge, and it’s enough to have you as a missing person’s report.” You lower his hand and run your hand along his scarred arm, cast in black—it's either his arm rotted into a darkness or a detached sleeve. The latter, you hope.
“I doubt it’d be a case that’ll span some time.”
He huffs a laugh through his nose and turns his hand over, large palm covering yours and cool metal caressing your skin. “I’d wipe myself from the universe if that were a case,” his deep voice gradually becomes slurred, getting tainted with sleep.
You watch his fingers squeeze yours, and you smile.
Killing innocent civilians would be his last straw, you suppose. You understand. Well, as much as you could by judging what he typically revealed. He’s a sappy, old tired man at heart. Seen too much, done too much.
And part of you believes he wants more than just a temporary rest.
…
“So,” he watches as you fold another one of his shirts in a method he’s never seen before. Quick, efficient, and a simple little rectangle.
“You don’t have to do this,” he raises a brow as he leans his arms on the table, “or is this another favor added onto the big one I’ll be needing to repay?”
The both of you are still inside the laundromat, standing at the vacant tables for accessibility and near the glass windows. Clothes are finally dried and it’s almost time to head home. For you, a warm bed, and for him, a little chatty assistant and a cramped freezer.
“Another favor added on,” you smoothly answer as you stack his clothes into a neat pile. Yours is long done, but you decided to continue the task, offering to do his after seeing how tired and exhausted he was.
He clicks his metal fingers on the table, glinting with the neon lights from beyond the glass. “Right,” he drawls, “should’ve expected that.”
You point at him as you look between the stack of boxers and the older man. “I’m still not touching that.”
The dark-haired man laughs, “How come?” He rounds the table while brushing his hair behind his back, “They’re warm and clean now,” voice teasing, as if he’s almost trying to persuade with a tempting idea. Which it wasn’t.
You retreat from the pile of boxers and roll your eyes. “They don’t need to be folded anyhow. Feel free to experience their warmth and cleanliness.”
You then pause, noticing an important detail.
Your sneakers squeak as you turn towards your bagged clothes. “No part of your suit was in the clothes I folded.”
Ashveil raises an eyebrow, confused, while opening his laundry bag and begins to stack up the clothes inside carefully—not wanting your consideration to unfold with careless tossing. “You honestly believe I’d just toss in my suit with my regular clothes?”
He faces the bag as he deposits each folded piece of clothing slowly, schooling you on how to treat expensive wear. “It has to go to the cleaners, not to some laundromat."
Ashveil brushes back a long strand when it spills over his shoulder, continuing the spiel with a concentrated face. "The coloring would fade, the clothes would rip, and it would most likely come back fitting tighter than it should if I washed it as if it were regular garments.”
You hum as you watch him, leaning on the folding table with the neons shinning on the side of your face. “Know from experience?”
“…yeah.” He breathes out, either reminiscing about the experience or remembering the pain of the hassle.
You watch as he finishes stacking the clothing and carelessly tosses the underwear and socks into the bag.
At least they won’t stick to the bottom of it.
Now that everything's settled, it's time to go home. Before you can lug your bags into the moving cart, Ashveil is beside you before you can touch the handle.
“Please, let me do it.” The older man effortlessly lifts the bags and stacks them atop one another in the personal cart, veins streaking across his arm from the weight. “Allow for this to be the beginning of me repaying my debt.” Ashveil quips.
You snort, “It’s still gonna be owed back in a huge one.”
“I presume so.” The corners of his mouth softly.
And the favor continues when he pushes your cart out of the little laundromat, heaving his own bag over his shoulder. The veins on his arm bulge as the muscles flex, becoming more defined under that loose shirt he wears.
The taller man’s sandals slap and stick to the streets while your sneakers let out an occasional squeak. The streets are vibrant yet silent, everyone having gone to sleep, while you and the older man trudge down the sidewalk peacefully.
It's a very nice peacefulness. Cool air running its fingers through his long strands, dark sky, and enough light from the street-lamps.
“Are you sure you’re fine?”
He snaps out of his daze, “Mm? Oh, this?” He bounces his laundry bag while shaking his head, “If you knew what I faced back in my day, asking a question like that would be the last thing on your mind.”
You stare at the sky, “Regardless of what you did, you’re old now.” You look down at his prosthetic hand, languidly swinging by his side, “And your age isn’t only shown in your speech. It’s in your hands and neck.” Generally, you mean.
The words of time speak in the smallest ways; crow's feet on the eyes, veins prominent on the hands, neck a little sunken in, forehead wrinkles—all the cute things that should be seen as a blessing.
He blinks surprised, “Really?”
You smile up at him, soothing his supposed worry. “You don’t have that, though. You look as if you could pass as my age… or my father rather than grandfather.”
“Ha, ha. Very comforting,” sarcasm bleeding through his voice.
You giggle and playfully bump your hip into his, and he staggers for a second. Automatically, you laugh as he almost loses his balance despite the weight of the holding cart having him grounded. “You’re like any old man when you’re not dressed in your uniform, you know? It’s like you’re another person.”
Ashveil steadies himself and goes back to pushing the cart, huffing at your antics. “I didn’t think I needed to keep up my guard more around people I'm actually comfortable around.”
You smile up at him innocently, and he, childishly, nudges you with his elbow, making you stagger. For him, it was a brief little push, especially with knowing how strong he truly is.
But Ashveil boisterously laughs when you almost trip and fall despite not giving any strength into the push. “My bad! I wasn’t aiming to have you almost kiss the ground.”
You huff and immediately try to kick his shin, but he’s already using the cart as an obstacle between you.
Ashveil smiles at you sweetly with eyes closed, hair whipping to the side from the outside's wind, and the next thing you know is that you’re chasing after an old man, annoyed but laughing loudly. And he’s being chased after someone he could have disappear with a lift of his pinky.
In an actual literal sense, too. His bag of laundry is long placed on the ground, plopped beside yours in the heat of the chase.
Ashveil puffs out a hearty laugh the moment you manage to tackle into his chest, his bigger body not budging from the attack at all. He steadies you as he places a hand on the small of your back, careful of disturbing his prosthetic and careful of being too rough with you.
You balance yourself by placing your hands on his hips, and he stares down at you through his messy fringe with a brow raised, a lopsided smile on his lips. “First you push me, next you chase, and now you’re handsy?”
“Oh, stop it. You would’ve said how it makes you uncomfortable if you didn’t like it.”
He smiles and tilts his head, his dark strands shielding you both as you stand in the middle of the sidewalk. “Can you deduce if I’m either saving face,” he sways with you for a moment, a sweet action, "or if I genuinely like your closeness?”
You look through his strands, back at the cart of laundry in thought, then smile when the chill of his other hand plants itself on your lower back. You reach your hands towards his face, and he smiles more at your warmth, a juxtaposition to his, his cute little Cupid’s bow more prominent.
Ashveil's light eyes crinkle at the edges when you cup his cold cheeks, “Now just what are you doing? Was torturing this poor old man’s heart with an impromptu cat and mouse game not enough?” His last comment sounding more of a statement than a question.
He leans into your hand when you brush one of his longer strands behind his ear. “Perhaps to brush up on your senses.” You reply.
His smile widens, and that white in his eyes seems to shine brighter. “The ones I have aren’t already good enough?” He leans his head back, slowly wrapping his arms around you in a loose hug, as he stares at the moon and little, tiny dots of stars staining the sky, “Though, I feel like there’s some truth to that.”
Being secluded for some time has dulled what was once sharp, too busy staying out of sight to notice the most important parts of him losing its vitality.
You feel like air change when he pulls you into a hug, feeling melancholic, and you end up burying your cheek into his chest.
“You’ve got some muscle for an old guy.”
The long-haired man immediately tosses his head back as laughter shakes his body, and your head moves in tandem with his rumbling chest, your lips curling into a grin from the pretty sound coming from his lips. “That’s definitely one way to continue this banter.”
His fingers delicately move up your spine and cup the back of your neck, lifting your head to meet his warm gaze. “You know, I didn’t think doing laundry would actually soothe my heart.”
You feel his cold hands roam to cup your cheeks and take in your features, as if this was either the last time he’d see you like this or imprinting your carefree expression in his mind. Occupied with every bit of the past and barely a bit of the present; this admiration being a tiny sliver of what he should appreciate.
His metal thumb brushes your cheek as he becomes silent for a moment.
“Can I pay,” he lowers his head, “part of the favor now?”
You nod, and you immediately giggle when his lips press against your forehead, his cold lips cherishing your warmth and happiness.
Ashveil then brings you closer to him and covers you fully; his bigger body curls over yours as he hugs you close. His fingers delicately move from your cheeks, and his arms wrap tightly around you, biceps urgently pressing into your back.
The older man's cologne, soft and lulling, and the scent of laundry wash over your senses as you both stand there.
His cheek lies atop your head as he closes his eyes, almost forgetting the both of you are standing in the middle of the sidewalk. You, too, hold him, but his grip lasts as if he won’t see you the next day. As if he’s holding you and holding this present so securely as to comfort himself, to make sure it isn’t fleeting and remains.
And knowing what’s to come, perhaps it will or perhaps it won’t.
He slowly cracks open his eyes and is met with white. Frost clouding his vision and flurries of flakes descending.
Right.
That memory was some time ago.
The restlessness begins in his arm again, and he sighs through his nose, a gust of white fog joining the rest surrounding him.
The detective closes his eyes again.
Let’s see if he’ll be able to continue that memory when he dreams again.
He likes biting you and licking you. If you and him are cuddling he will randomly nibble at your cheek or lick your neck and nuzzle his face into your neck as you giggle.
He likes when you play with his hair or scratch his head. He’ll lay on your chest while you run your fingers through his hair and even tilt his head to get you to scratch the right spot. He’ll grumble if you even stop for a second.
He loves taking naps with you and cuddling. He hates when your naps are interrupted or if you get up, he’ll mumble and sulk when you leave.
He's very clingy and always wants your attention, if you’re doing something he will follow you around like a lost puppy.
He’ll steal your food a lot. You’ll be eating with him and he’ll have puppy dog eyes and you already know he just wants a bite of your food. Or he’ll even be sneaky about it and take a piece of your food when you’re not looking.
he’ll tease you a lot, but the second you tease him he turns bright red and becomes a stuttering mess
When someone flirts with you he always appears like he can sense it and will be passive aggressive to the person but once they leave he acts like a sad puppy that wants your attention, he becomes clingy and touchy.
he loves when you bake him food, he already loves food and when it’s made by you it makes it even more special
He loves giving you kisses, he’ll give you a kiss whenever he can. If he hasn’t seen you in awhile he’ll give you kisses all over your face and even as you’re giggling telling him it tickles, he won’t stop until he is satisfied.
I’ll probably add more or changes some once 4.1 comes out!!
