Ruba Duck

☆° Moze likes hugging you from behind. He will appear out of nowhere and embrace you in his arms like he hasn't seen you in weeks.

☆° The moment you started dating he became extra attentive around you. He looks for potentional danger, analysing the streets, roofs, the people around you. One wrong look sent into your direction and he moves slightly in front of you.

☆° He's quiet but with you he speaks more. Not much more, because he's still Moze, but everyone close to him notices the small difference. Moze rarely tells or shows how he feels but when he grows close to you he admits his dark thoughts and tragic past.

☆° As I said before he's really attentive about you. Not only about your safety, but also how you feel. From just a look of your face or shift in your body he can tell if something is bothering you.

☆° He's solve of problem is different but when you're sad he tries his best to show care towards you. His first instict is to punish whoever made you feel like this because this is how he lived. But you. You are more fragile (mentally) so he tends to things like he thinks you would do.

☆° If you cry he appears in some way. Sitting next you. Standing near you. It's kinda awkard, but he wants you to let you know he's here if you need him. If you want to be comforted, he hugs you without a word. Moze doesn't know how to comfort with words but he will say some things in try.

☆° Moze secrerly wants you to learn self-defense but he won't bring it up ever. He worries a lot about your safety when he's not around because of his missions. In his line of work you can be targeted only because of your closeness.

☆° If you bring up you want to learn self-defense he will act like he didn't think about it before. Moze agrees on teaching you. Well..he's trainings are harsh, because he wants you to actually grow. The evil out there also won't be gentle to you so he won't be too. It still doesn't stop him from feeling guilty. Every bruise and scar fills up his stomach with unexplanable feeling (for him). He also everytime he gets you on the ground he uses his strenght to lower the fall and make it less painful.

☆° Moze is an avarage cook. But when he learns your favorite food and it is out of his talent he goes to Jiaoqiu to help him learn to make it. One day when you come home from work he surprises you with it.

☆° When Moze feels overwhelmed he comes to you. Most of the time it's after a long mission. He's first thing to do is cuddle you in bed, laying on top of you or next to you and bury his face into your shoulder. He will melt from the inside if you caress his back and sweetly ask about his day. He never answers. He doesn't want you to mix up with his work life.

☆° He's not one for PDA. There's a lot of danger out there and he needs to be ready for attack at anytime. But when you insist on holding hands with him he can't help himself but agree. But there's not much he will agree on in public.

☆° Moze doesn't show you off. No, that's not true. He is in fact talks about you much more than he talks about anything else. But only to the general and her medic. Moze doesn't want you to mix up with his work life but they are his family in some sort of ways. Even though he would never admit.

☆° Intimacy for him doesn't come easy. Moze is used to ignore his personal needs. When you hint your desire he doesn't know how to reciprocate it in the beginning. Later on he will allow himself to feel that way and messily but with intent he shows his sexual needs.

☆° If you're in danger he will not hesitate once. Of course, he still will be careful and proffesional about it but won't ever let someone harm you. Moze won't back down until you're safe.

☆° Moze swears to himself he's not the jealous type. But when there's someone you laugh with a bit too much or they smile way too wide he shift closer to you. From the outside he might appear unchanging but the temperature changes around him. Probably the other person will get the hint and try to leave as quick as possible. It's not even about that he doesn't trust you, but he doesn't trust anyone else.

☆° He likes listening to you. You can talk about the most uninteresting thing and his full attention still be at you. Sometimes he will hum showing you he still pays attention and doesn't want you to stop.

☆° Moze likes kisses on the cheeks. Every chance he gets he will press a kiss to your cheek. He likes it even more when it's out of nowhere and surprises you with it. He likes how you flush and avoid eye contact after.

☆° He loves cleaning and not really let you do any cleaning chores while he's around. Moze likes you see relaxed and also he trusts himself more with the work. There's nothing personal about it btw.

☆° Moze likes to follow you around the house. You went cooking he goes with you. You sat down onto the coach. He sits besides you. You could do anything and he would still be there with you. He likes your presence a lot.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

“do you want to get furboeats?”

you make a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a protest, still half-buried in the aftermath of a decision you’re going to pretend you didn’t make. the room he got in this shoddy love hotel is exactly as disreputable as he promised. creaky bedframe, cheap sheets, and a mirror bolted to the ceiling.

you catch your reflection in it and immediately regret looking. the bastard had left a scatter of bite marks and darkening bruises that would get you written up in any other line of work.

you drag a hand over your face. “are you going to explain what that is?”

at the foot of the bed, ashveil glances up from his phone, faintly pleased with himself. “oh. it’s a food delivery app. places like this don’t do room service.”

“tragic.”

“i adapt.”

you stare at the ceiling instead of him, which is arguably worse, because the mirror insists on showing you both anyway—him intact and already bored, you looking like you lost an argument with a wild animal. which, to be fair, you did.

you don’t know why you keep coming back.

not a single soul has seen la mancha in years, and since your last encounter with the old wolf, you’d gotten good at moving on and letting certain names rot where you left them. you thought you’d finally kicked it, this particular vice filed neatly under mistakes you made when you were younger and significantly dumber.

but then the ipc decided to broadcast the supplicants of the phantasmoon games in planarcadia, and there he was—second place like a bad habit with a leaderboard.

you should’ve ignored it.

instead, you tracked him down.

again.

“so?” ashveil prompts. “you eating or sulking?”

you close your eyes. “i was aiming for a conversation.”

he laughs, patronizing, right before crawling back on the bed and settling between your legs.

“you always say that.”

half an hour later, the food arrives in a crumpled paper bag that looks like it lost a fight on the way up. ashveil nudges it open with one hand, already halfway disinterested, and passes you a burger like this is the most normal follow-up to what just happened.

you take it. because, evidently, this is your life now.

for a while, the room settles into something quiet—just the faint hum of whatever passes for infrastructure in planarcadia, the rustle of paper, the soft give of the mattress every time one of you shifts.

that’s when you notice it.

his arm.

you’ve seen it before, of course. hard not to, when he makes no effort to hide it. but you’ve never had the misfortune of staring at it this long, this closely. the prosthetic is sleek where it should be, functional where it needs to be, but the shadows... they move beneath his skin, curling and crawling like veins of some sinister power. like something lying in wait.

your gaze drifts lower, to the nails driven clean through his wrist. they were not decorative in the slightest. no, they had one purpose only.

containment.

you don’t realize you’ve stopped eating until he speaks.

“if you stare at it any longer,” ashveil comments lightly, “it might start thinking you’re interested.”

“…is that supposed to be reassuring?”

“no,” he says, taking another bite. “it’s supposed to be advice. monsters get attached to attention. best not to encourage them.”

you hesitate. because you can’t quite tell if he means the thing in his arm or himself.

he glances at you then, and smiles. it’s the same as always: easy, unreadable, the expression of a man who knows more than he’s willing to share. his slate-gray eyes, deep enough to pass for calm until you look too long, hold yours for just a second too much.

“you said you wanted to talk, rookie.”

you frown. “i haven’t been a rookie for an entire amber era.”

“oh?” he tilts his head, faintly amused. “time does get strange when you’ve spent half of it in cryo-sleep.” a shrug. “either way. ask. i’m feeling chatty tonight.”

you look down at your burger instead.

it’s absurd, really. the whole thing. the phantasmoon games, his participation as a supplicant, and the fact that you’re sitting here at all. nothing about planarcadia fits the logic you’ve spent your life relying on, and somehow, someone like la mancha fits into it perfectly.

you swallow, then decide to ask anyway.

“why here?”

ashveil hums, like he didn’t quite catch it. “what’s that?”

your grip tightens slightly around the wrapper. “why did you choose this place as your graveyard?”

that gets his attention. because you’ve spent long enough chasing his shadow to know the difference between evasion and interest, between something he’ll brush off and something he’ll circle. you don’t chase him, you bait him.

this, you’ve learned, is how you make a wolf stop running.

ashveil doesn’t answer immediately. he leans back on one hand, the other resting loosely over his knee. the arm that imprisons something more dangerous than he is stills, and for once, the shadows subdue like they’ve been told to behave.

“no one here asks questions that matter,” he tells you plainly. “not quite like you do, rookie.”

you glance up to meet his eyes, but they’ve drifted somewhere past you and the dingy walls of the love hotel. somewhere you can’t possibly reach.

“places like this,” ashveil continues, “they don’t care who you were. what you did. what followed you here.” a pause. “things get lost in the noise and the fanfare.”

you don’t like the way he says that.

“you don’t strike me as someone who wants to be lost.”

he huffs in amusement. “no?”

“no.”

“…everyone ends up somewhere they can afford,” he says finally. “this just happens to be mine.”

you stare at him. it’s not an answer. not really. but it’s closer than anything he’s given you so far.

your eyes flick back to the nails in his wrist. the way they hold something down that very clearly does not want to stay there. the faint, almost imperceptible shift of shadow beneath metal.

you look away first, because you’ve never learned how to hold the intensity of his gaze. no matter how many years or systems or selves you’ve shed along the way.

“whatever you say,” you mutter. “ just… keep in touch with boothill and rappa sometime. they worry about you more than you deserve.”

for a moment, he says nothing.

but you’ve spent enough time tracing the outline of this man to recognize when the version of him that slips through your fingers gives way to something more tangible. the faraway look dissolves, and what takes its place is warm in a way it has no business being.

the mattress dips as ashveil leans in, crowding you back without force. his prosthetic hand braces somewhere beside you, the other settling at your hip, and suddenly you’re aware of him in a way that has nothing to do with how you knew him in your memories, and everything to do with him now.

“oh?” he murmurs. “and you’re not worried about me? the ranger who gatecrashed ahatopia the moment they caught my scent again?”

the brush of his mouth is barely there, but his teeth sink into the lobe of your ear without a second thought. the smallest reminder of what he is, of what he’s always been.

it would be easier if he were simpler.

if he were cruel, or careless, or even just honest in a way that could be pinned down and understood. but ashveil has never been any of those things, and you do not pretend you’ll ever untangle him into something comprehensible.

he is what he is: a question without a clean answer, a man who carries too much and explains too little, and you’ve long stopped asking him to.

that is the only reason he lets you catch him.

the only reason he lets you stay.

“i didn’t say that,” you sigh, the words thinning at the edges as his mouth ghosts along your throat.

ashveil answers with a quiet hum before the distance you’d tried to carve out collapses entirely, and he pulls you back into something you know you will never quite learn to refuse.

because as long as he’s still here—as long as he’s still something you can find if you look hard enough—you can afford to ignore the rest. turn a blind eye to the parts of him that don’t make sense.

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.

The two of you frequently go out on book dates. Local libraries, shops, it doesn't really matter, so long as Hugo's wearing a mask anyways. During these, there's a common trend of you guys getting into light hearted debates, sharing opinions and thoughts about books you wouldn't really do with anyone else.

On the topic of books, he enjoys annotating them a lot to keep his thoughts organised, so whenever you borrow one of his novels, you feel like you're having a little peek into his mind between the pages.

He's also a chronic info dumper, whenever the topic of something that he enjoyed reading comes up, he'll be talking about it to you for hours on end. Not to say you mind though, you find it very endearing whenever he does so. (Also when he uses onomatopoeia to emphasis certain points.)

He likes to maintain physical contact a lot. Keeping you close, holding your hand in public, wrapping his arm around your waist, standing right behind you before resting his head on your shoulder. It's never really sexual, just intimate, steady, warm. He also really likes showering with you, no proper explanation as to why.

Hugo practically never gets visibly flustered, and despite your best efforts, you've never managed to get more than a small 'oh' or slow, unsure blink. But, truthfully, he does get internally bashful every time you try something.

He'd never willingly say it to you, primarily because he doesn't think it's necessary, but he plans things out meticulously. Valentines, your birthday, Christmas, etc. He thinks about it fairly often when they roll around, and always spoils you with the best gifts, along with things you'd mentioned offhandedly only once or twice. Yeah, he really listens when you talk.

lorenzo treats you like a sibling he chose. he trash-talks you relentlessly, steals your water bottle, throws an arm around your shoulders mid-run. but the second someone else steps out of line? he’s in front of you without thinking.

snuffy notices how you ground lorenzo. you laugh at his theatrics but don’t encourage recklessness. when he starts spiraling, you pull him back with a joke, a look, a reminder. snuffy clocks it immediately, you’re stabilizing each other.

sometimes snuffy remembers his old teammate, the one he lost, when he watches you both. the way you play with heart instead of ego, the way lorenzo lights up when you succeed, like it matters just as much as his own goals. it hurts. but it also heals something.

during breaks, you and lorenzo sit on the grass arguing about food, music, or whose fault a failed drill was. snuffy pretends not to listen. but when he later adjusts the training schedule to include more recovery time, it’s because he heard you complain about exhaustion.

snuffy never interferes directly in your dynamic. he believes in autonomy. but he protects it quietly, shutting down media distractions, setting boundaries, ensuring you both stay mentally safe. 

lorenzo thrives under snuffy’s guidance because snuffy doesn’t try to tame him. he gives him structure without crushing his spirit. you see it. and you mirror that same patience when lorenzo pushes too far.

there’s a moment after a particularly good practice where snuffy catches lorenzo slinging an arm around you, both of you grinning like kids. for a second, snuffy allows himself to imagine a future where football didn’t destroy what he loved. where players could stay human.

snuffy never says it out loud. but when he watches you walk off the pitch together, tired, laughing, alive, he feels something close to pride, as someone who learned too late what truly mattered… and is determined to protect it for you.

being with you is the best thing that’s ever happened to kaiser. he knows that. he feels it every time you smile at him, every time your fingers slip into his, every time you curl up on his couch like you belong there.

and that’s exactly the problem.

you make everything feel easy. kaiser doesn’t. he never has.

you’re gentle with him without making a big deal of it. you read his silences better than his words. you never push too hard, never ask for more than he can give, even though a part of him thinks you should—thinks he should be better for you.

the first week after you got together is perfect. the second week is perfect too.

it’s the third when the doubt starts eating at him.

it’s small at first—little things.

you brush his hair back from his face one morning, soft and sleepy, and kaiser freezes because no one touches him like that. no one ever has.

“morning,” you whisper.

and kaiser thinks: you deserve someone who smiles back easily.

later, you show up at his apartment with homemade food because you “didn’t want him living on bread.” you say it casually, but kaiser feels something twist in his chest.

you stand in his kitchen, humming while you reheat everything, and he can’t stop staring at the way you fit there so naturally.

you deserve someone who knows how to take care of you like that.

he tells himself it’s fine. he can push the thoughts away. he always has.

but then you say something simple—something that breaks him more than any fight could.

you’re curled up beside him on the couch, your legs over his, head on his shoulder. he has an arm around you; his hand rests on your hip, warm and steady. you shift closer and sigh softly.

“i’m really happy,” you say.

kaiser’s heart stumbles.

he should say “me too.”he should kiss your forehead. he should let himself be happy with you.

instead, he goes quiet. too quiet.

you pull back just a little. “kaiser?”

“what.”

“you okay?”

he nods. it’s a lie. you know it.

you sit up, facing him. “did i do something wrong?”

kaiser’s breath catches. “no. you didn’t.”

“then what’s wrong?” your voice is soft, careful, like you’re afraid he’ll shut down completely.

he looks away. he hates himself for that.

and then—barely audible— “you’re too good to me.”

you blink. “what?”

kaiser clenches his jaw, eyes fixed on the floor. “you heard me.”

you stare at him, confused and concerned. “kaiser… i’m with you because i want to be. you know that, right?”

he shakes his head once. “you say that now.”

“i’ll say it tomorrow too,” you insist. “and the day after. and the day after that.”

“you don’t get it,” he mutters. his voice cracks just slightly. “i’m… i’m not easy to be with.”

“i know that,” you say gently.

he flinches.

you grab his hand before he can pull away. “and i don’t care.”

he finally looks at you, eyes sharp with something scared and vulnerable and raw. you’ve never seen kaiser look scared before. not like this.

“i want you,” you whisper. “not some perfect version of you. you.”

“why?” he breathes, almost desperate. “why me?”

“because you try,” you say simply. “because you’re honest. because you care more than you let yourself believe. because when i’m with you, i feel… safe.”

kaiser’s lips part, like the words made something inside him break open.

“and,” you say, leaning closer, “because i love you.”

the world stops.

his breath stutters in his chest. “don’t say that.”

“why?” you whisper. “because you think you don’t deserve it?”

he says nothing, but his silence is answer enough.

you lift his hand to your chest, pressing his palm over your heartbeat.

“you do,” you say. “even if you don’t think so yet. i’m not going anywhere.”

kaiser looks at you like he wants to believe you and hates himself for wanting it so badly.

he says your name—quiet, trembling.

then he whispers, “i’m trying.”

you smile, soft and small. “i know.”

he leans in first this time.

your foreheads touch, breathing mingling, and kaiser exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

his voice is barely a breath when he says it:

“i don’t want to lose you.”

“you won’t.”

“promise?”

“promise.”

and for the first time, kaiser nods. slowly. like he’s finally letting himself trust something good.

he curls into your chest, and kaiser wraps his arms around you—tight, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, but gentle, like you’re something precious.

because you are. and even if he’s not ready to say it out loud, he loves you in a way that feels like it’s tearing him apart and putting him back together at the same time.

he presses his face into your neck.

“thank you,” he whispers.

you smile against his hair. “for what?”

“for not letting go.”

take a look!! : masterlist

REQUESTS ARE OPEN GANG!!!!

a/n: i think im soooo funny🥹✌🏻 anyway im low on goon and u needa jack it top 5 ptv songs😈

Omg this man is so complicated </3 i love him but i think he's not a good partner. He's not a hopeless case, but it will be difficult to deal with him being your boyfriend.

So, he's definitely letting his past affect the relationship, especially at the beginning of the relationship.

Talk to him and be very patient, he will understand and try to change, but know that it won't be quick or easy.

Contrary to what people say, I actually think he would not cheat on his s/o. I mean, he wants to be loved, and he knows well that to be loved, loyal is important.

When he's in a good mood, he can be very clingy to his partner.

He's not a monster, after all, but please explain to this man that his past doesn't justify his actions.

Don't get me wrong, sometimes he's a sweetheart to you. And at the end of the day, maybe he tells you that he's trying his best just for you, because he loves you so much and certainly would feel empty without his s/o (obviously he didn't tell you this last part, that would hurt his ego even more lol).

When he's feeling down, he will do anything to avoid you, because he doesn't want you to see the fragile side of him (maybe that will change with time).

He likes to feel superior, to dominate and to control you and your life, but he would pretend that he's not manipulating you, and letting you think that you are taking your own actions of your own free will.

When anything goes wrong he automatically blames you.

But don't worry, this all will be gone with time, conversations, and trust, he will slowly start to become a better boyfriend for you.

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿