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Wallowing in self-pity inside his freezer is something he has come to see as part of his daily routine, the insecurity biting into him as much as the shadow in his arm. That is until light suddenly floods his eyes. After a few seconds of annoyed blinking, those grey eyes focus, and he stares into the cheeky expression of you, bent over him.

"Good afternoon, you sleepyhead!" You greet him cheerfully, taking a few steps backwards so he can get out of the big metal box. "I'm always surprised that you get cases at all when you lay in here like a corpse most of the day..."

With an annoyed moan, he gets up and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm too old to work early in the morning. Most crimes happen at night anyway."

"You still don't look a day older than me. And your hips work better than mine," you grin. 

Pink floods his cheeks as he tries to stutter something in response. It would be a funny comment, a jab at his age, if he didn't know exactly what you’re alluding to. Aeons forbid a man still get some action at his age. It’s not like you’ve ever complained, after all.

"Come on, get up. Today is my day off, and I want to spend the day with my boyfriend. And no, I will NOT get into that freezer."

"Oh come on, it's cozy! Just gotta stay cuddled nice and close, it's really nice in the summer."

"Well I’d rather not catch a cold, thank you very much."

Ashveil laughs. A freezer turned cryocapsule really isn’t the best place to cuddle, and since his tiny, cluttered office has nothing better to offer, it's time to take the little walk over to your apartment so you two can spend the day glued to each other (and the couch, most likely)..

As he stands up, his limbs crack, back feeling sore. Ouch. This scrap of metal may be able to keep you young for several centuries, but the cramps and tension in his muscles afterwards is something he never looks forward to. Always the same with this damned thing.

Holding out his cane for him, you type something into your phone in the meantime. "Do we wanna watch the new episode of the show we started the other day?"

Just as he’s about to answer, he notices the little spider caught in your hair. Poor thing. He carefully reaches forward to remove the tiny stowaway before you can notice. Then it happens: a scream. Not just any scream: red-faced, trembling, breathing heavily, you press yourself against the wall, hands clasped tightly over your mouth.

Ashveil can only stare. At his cold prosthetic hand that just brushed over your nape, at your body and how you make yourself so small. He stares into your eyes, wide open. Full of shock, surprise... So pleading. 

This is the first time he has seen this expression on you.

"Are you okay?" he asks carefully, hoping that he didn’t hurt you by mistake.

You stutter. "YES! Uh-" your voice breaks, and it takes a few attempts until you can speak again.  "I- uh, your- your hand is cold, and- I. Uh, I-"

So the cold? Is that it?

Again, he lifts his freezing fingers and gently runs those metal claws over your skin, and the whimper in your throat floods his bloodstream with want. Such a beautiful sound, so sweet, unlike anything he has heard from you before. Ashveil needs to hear it again. Panic floods your eyes, uncertainty flickering and looking for an escape, and he’s quick to cage you against the wall with his healthy arm.

"Ah ah ah. Don't run away," he rasps, voice low and sultry as he presses his chest against yours, keeping you pressed against the wall. God, how your heartbeat hammers against him. He gently pinches your chin between his thumb and pointer and lifts your gaze to his. "Or do you not like this?"

If you didn't like it, you would have complained a long time ago. This silence is making him so, so ravenous. Do you even know what you’re doing to him right now, looking so utterly helpless?

You swallow. "I- I do, just-"

Ashveil has never wanted his hand back as much as he does now. The things he’d do to feel the throbbing in your veins, the things he’d sacrifice to feel the trembling of your skin. A metal fingertip gently moves from your cheek, tracing your vein, wandering further and further down your neck, until his hand disappears into your shirt. An icy claw gropes your chest.

"A- Ah-," you moan, biting your lip. "Ashveil..."

"Shh. It's all right. Just let go," he whispers. "I'll take good care of you, dear."

Though I was joking? I wasn't. My creative writing club has an NSFW session each semester, and this time, I got temperature play as a prompt. Who would fit better than our dear detective who sleeps in the freezer? If this sounds a bit off from my usual writing, I had to translate everything, so be nice.