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· · · A WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING (SLIPPING) | STALKER!ASHVEIL X FEM!READER

Ashveil's curiosity about you tends to bring out the worst in him—enough for him to regularly trail you like a shadow while you remain blissfully unaware of his influence over your surroundings. But once mere whiffs of you are no longer enough, he finds himself inserting his way into your life instead, hoping to receive more of the goodness that is you. Now he's no longer sure if he can handle the consequences. His mouth opens far too easily, spilling compromising words before he can stop them, which raises the question of how much time he has left before you finally figure him out. | word count: 17,7k.

⟢ CONTENTS: not suitable for minors, yandere themes, plot & some smut, spoilers for ashveil’s lore and the quests up till version 4.1, sex that turns dub-con, stalking & breaking in, a bit of dark comedy, reader has a dog named princess, heavily focused on ashveil's perspective, angst (mostly regarding ashveil who struggles with self-worth and dehumanizes himself), suicidal thoughts, masochism, manipulation, slapping, threatening, intrusion of privacy, masturbation, unprotected & rough sex, come eating.

⟢ A/N: This story is loosely inspired by the TV show "You" (or at least what I remember of it from watching it years ago); though here, Ashveil is far different from Joe Goldberg. This is my first time writing for Ash, so I hope you enjoy the results. I also made a playlist that reminds me of Ashveil that might fit the story as well ♡(ᵔᴥᵔ). Divider source.

There is little in this world that Ashveil does not regret.

Across Amber Eras, his mind has gathered enough sins, corpses, and broken promises to viciously haunt him every night without fail.

The loss of life. The pain he has inflicted. The betrayals. Those linger longest, rotting and resisting loudly beneath his flesh—old wounds that have never healed properly that he only covers.

What he cannot fully bring himself to regret is meeting you, for better or for worse.

Even now, knowing well he keeps inserting himself into your story he has no place in, he cannot stop returning. Your warmth tends to obstructs any rational thought, luring him back to your doorstep at least once every month like clockwork. He keeps his old watch that shows delayed time in hopes for ruthless time slowing along, but when it comes to you, he fantasizes about days passing faster just so he can find another excuse to visit your house.

The warmth of another person, while elusive, fleeting, ready to be dispersed like dandelions, is also fulfilling and solacing. It is comforting in a way nothing else in the cosmos has ever managed to, and he suspects even aeons crave it. So he clings to yours with all the starving of a man offered scraps for the first time in years, foolishly hoping that one day you might fully envelop him in your sunlight.

People come and go; Ashveil wants to make you eternal in your goodness.

Like a kicked stray crawling back toward the hand that fed it, even if just once, he drags himself to your house again today.

He knows better than to use the front entrance. Your security camera reaches the spot clearly. Slipping through the ventilation system in the back is a safer option. More humiliating, perhaps, but at least that makes him feel like he has earned a quarter of right to be here.

Bless you for choosing a house tucked into the quieter backstreets of the Duomension City instead of one of those towering apartment complexes with security systems vicious enough to rival prison architecture—even just your hypothetical neighbors would be capable of throwing a wrench into his plans, an army made of hundreds of gawking eyes.

The sight greeting him after he kicks off his shoes is comforting, even if a certain element of it strives to make him less welcome.

Your dog, some breed of rather big posture, lies sprawled across the the living room floorboards like she’s the owner here. The moment her eyes crack open and settle on him, she sizes him up with the same unimpressed stare she always gives him—as though fully aware there are currently two dogs in the house, and that only one of them is actually wanted here.

“Oopsie. Did I wake you up, Princess?” he asks in the middle of letting out a yawn himself. “Sorry about that.”

Coming here this early means sacrificing another morning of sleep, but lately, he has been missing you(r home) too much to care. The city outside keeps growing louder and crueler, and it’s your house that remains one of the few places that still feels stagnant; he keeps it warm for you as you work.

Princess’s gaze finally shifts towards the treat sachet dangling from his hand. A spark of life finally enters her eyes. Unlike him, she’d never sell herself short.

“Yes, look what I brought you!” He grins, shaking the package lightly.

But even if she can hear the rustling of dried meat inside, she only swishes her tail once. She’s that spoiled by you.

Still, she rises from the floor with reluctance, and all dignified, she approaches him to collect her bribe. Ashveil crouches in front of her, scratching behind her ears while offering the treat with the other hand.

“I know, don’t give me that look,” he mutters with a whine to it. “Your mom definitely would not approve of me feeding you.” He even calls you a dog mom now. “Or approve of many other things for that matter…” he says wryly. “In any case… I’ll have to convert you to healthier snacks soon…”

She huffs through her snout, snatches the treat between her teeth, and trots off toward the kitchen. Her tail lingers around the corner for one last second before disappearing completely.

Ashveil watches her go, his own type of hunger burning at his loins already.

He makes his way toward your bedroom, no mistake in where he’s treading. The door shuts behind him, sealing his decision.

What he appreciates most about your room is the fact that it barely changes. The same wall color you must have once talked about with embarrassing enthusiasm, the same clutter of trinkets gathered over the years, the same hurried little messes left behind before work, the same scent woven stubbornly into the sheets and curtains and air itself.

This room is always there to welcome him while the rest of Planarcadia tears itself apart outside, on race towards greatness.

Or at least, he makes himself welcome here. Some vagabond he is.

He knows every corner already, yet he still finds himself looking around each visit, searching for tiny additions or changes. They are the intimate bridge connecting you and him, enough for him to feel included. They are also a proof that your life continues moving even when he is absent from it, a scary food for thought.

At the same time, he avoids touching most of your belongings whenever possible. Partially because of evidence. Mostly because he wants to preserve you exactly as you are, frozen safely in time for him.

Albeit, today, he possesses far less restraint than usual.

After confirming little has changed—while deliberately avoiding looking for too long at one particular object near your nightstand—he collapses face-first onto your bed with a groan.

His hand finds the tissue box automatically even with his face buried deep in your pillows. One tissue missing each month surely goes unnoticed. Three, at worst. Hopefully.

Your sheets envelop him in familiar warmth exactly as anticipated, just as they do whenever stress begins gnawing through him alive again and he runs here to his sanctuary. It takes all his self-control not to burrow completely beneath the blankets and pretend you are here beside him. If he crawls fully under the covers, he fears he may never want to crawl back out—some exhausted animal hibernating itself away for winter.

He inhales deeply, catching the remnants of your shampoo, your lotion, traces of your rushed morning routine still attached faintly against the fabric. The thought of watching you tending to yourself alone makes him dizzy; you deserve all the best things.

By the time he unzips his pants, his body already feels unbearably heavy with need. It’s been so long, since he ever felt that sort of desire, most of it being subdued by years of him pushing through with little ardor.

Ashveil presses himself into the mattress with a muffled sigh, grinding down slowly against the sheets while his thoughts drift somewhere nicer… and dangerous.

Your fingers combing gently through his hair, you telling him you want him here… that he can stay. A ridiculous thought suddenly surfaces in his mind too: if he commissioned an artist to paint you saying those words, would wishpower eventually bend reality enough to make it true?

Other fantasies creep in afterward.

You calling him disgusting while he desperately insists he can still be useful to you. Your hand gripping his jaw while he promises to behave. Teeth sinking into his skin hard enough to draw blood while he thanks you for it, for he can feel the misery pour out in torrents.

He supposes that both versions have their own rights, so long their manifestations are coming from you. So do they have potential to ruin him.

As he jerks his hips for the final time, the movement shifts your mattress enough to knock something off the nightstand. Ashveil sighs and reaches down towards the floor, nearly sliding off the bed entirely from the weakness now melting his limbs.

His mouth goes dry.

Your toy lies there beside the bed, still connected to its charging cable. You either use it often, or intend to do so after longer break.

It is sordid, the way his mind immediately wanders to the obvious regions: you spread on this bed and flushed with heat, thighs trembling around the toy you force into yourself, while soft sounds spill from your mouth into the dark. Maybe thinking of someone.

Hopefully him. The thought of it being anyone else strikes him with an equally unhealthy amount of anger and anxiety.

He wonders briefly whether your preference for toys over people is intentional rather than circumstantial. From everything he has gathered, you have not sought comfort from anyone else lately. Thankfully; that would complicate everything he has so carefully built between the two of you as your ‘friend.’

Modern relationships still confuse him somewhat. People seem to fall into each other’s beds so casually, or on Planarcadia, even for the sake of livestream challenges. He is selfishly grateful you haven’t been there yet.

All the more, he believes he could do you so much better than a stranger. He knows—not thinks, knows—he could please you better than some stranger ever could. He would know exactly where to touch, where to linger, where to soothe, where to provoke.

Where to bite.

And he would let you use him however you wished afterward, too. His thoughts have ranged through every imaginable scenario over the months: you gripping his hair, your teeth buried into his shoulder, your nails opening his skin… even you taking his breath away from above him, watching him plea you for mercy.

The sheer intensity of it suddenly overwhelms him, and with desire threatening to unfurl again, he springs into movement.

Inside your bathroom, he flushes down the mess he caught into the tissue and washes his hands thoroughly.

Your mirror is cruelly bright, framed by harsh white scene bulbs that expose every exhausted detail of his face. He stares at himself for a long moment before biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed, a reminder to keep going for there is still some things he owes you and other people.

Ashveil makes another empty promise. This is the last time, really. Not only because it is risky—it is rapidly not becoming enough anymore.

On his way out, he checks on Princess, she making your kitchen her playground too. Unfortunately, she has transformed the floor into a small field of crumbs.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Ashveil clicks his tongue and points at the small mess she’s made. “No crumbles at the crime scene, Princess.”

The dog lifts her head wearily. Begrudging, she licks the floor clean.

“Good girl.”

Although midway through cleaning, she stares at him with suspicion.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he laughs. “You’re still the favorite. You can make a bit of space for this old man, hm?”

For a moment, he considers staying around for a while longer, maybe to watch one of your favorite movies and take a bath. Ultimately, something gnaws at him to leave sooner than usual.

He checks his phone and as it turns out, he’s right.

Walking your dog through every corner of the the city has long since become part of your routine as a responsible owner. However, Princess still gets overwhelmed easily by the fulgent lights and noise of Duomension City, so whenever you can spare time, you like taking her to slightly less vibrant Seafeld City instead, accessed through one of the train lines of Planarcadia.

There are all kinds of people to encounter on the daily walk—or non-people, quite often. Navigating the streets has only grown more difficult over the years, each district louder and stranger than the last, as though every possible sensory experience is fighting for one’s attention at once. Those neon lights burn your vision from every angle, advertisements and TV presenters speak over one another through giant floating screens, imaginae creatures drift across the artificial sky, delivery bots zip recklessly between crows, and someone is always shoving a camera against your face.

The people themselves are no less extravagant: entrepreneurs, IPC workers, livestreamers, gangsters, artists, cult members, police officers, students, and occasionally, private detectives.

Ashveil, the ace detective of the Ashen Detective Agency whom you have somehow become acquainted with over the past months, remains one of the strangest examples you have encountered yet, Even for a planet of Elation, where absurdity is the norm, he ranks high in just how odd things can get—enough to draw your curiosity.

But strange does not necessarily mean unkind.

If anything, you have found it alarmingly easy to pity him ever since your first meeting, unconsciously assigning him the image of something half-pathetic, half-endearing after only a single interaction.

Watching him struggle to pay for his food probably had not helped. Still, times are tough for everyone, aren’t they? And you are not heartless.

A friend in need is a friend indeed.

So the first time you met him in Dovebrook District—standing awkwardly between a frustrated customer and a delivery worker arguing over a failed order—you simply transferred the missing amount without thinking too deeply about it. A tiny gesture from a passing stranger should have ended there.

Instead, Ashveil accepted your kindness as something important, revolutionary even, and for reasons you still do not fully understand, it’s as if he has been trying to repay you ever since.

At this point, you have somehow acquired a deeply devoted assistant. He walks you home. Keeps an eye on whether anyone suspicious lingers nearby. Appears whenever you complain about a problem, often before you even properly ask for help. He listens to you ramble after difficult workdays with extraordinary patience, and once, after noticing you rubbing at your shoulders too much, he even insisted on massaging the tension out himself.

Safe to say, the two of you have grown rather close. Friends, maybe. In any case, you don’t have it in your heart to tell him to stop, seeing his enthusiasm.

If only you knew.

“Good morning.”

Speak of the devil. Ashveil holding his cane appears just as you cross the road toward the shopping district, weaving through pedestrians until he reaches your side with the ease of someone accustomed to navigating crowded street. He looks like he has only crawled out of fridge bed, suppressing a yawn behind his hand while blinking away the last traces of sleep, yet the moment his gaze lands on you, his attention sharpens completely.

“Morning, Ashveil,” you greet with a smile as you halt your walk on the other side of the street. “Did you get up just to see me?”

The tease slips out effortlessly. You mean nothing serious by it. After all, you texted him earlier that you managed to leave work ahead of schedule, and so now he has come to meet you. The fact he somehow knew exactly where to find you does not strike you as particularly strange anymore, even if you didn’t share your location with him. You simply assume he is a detective talented enough, just a one with abysmal commercial instincts and maybe a bit of bad luck.

Ashveil laughs immediately, a little too fast, eyes darting aside with flusher hidden beneath the performance.

“No,” he says at once, lifting his brows as though the suggestion itself is ridiculous.

Yes. Absolutely yes.

He skipped breakfast entirely and practically launched himself out of the agency the moment he saw you leaving for work through the security camera feed he absolutely should not have access to. Not that he’s tech-savvy. He had to save money for weeks to pay some dude to install this one shady app on his phone.

“I had a case this morning,” he continues smoothly, crossing his arms. “Very demanding. Didn’t even have time to grab coffee.” His voice turns dramatically mournful as he shakes his head. “Cruel world, isn’t it?”

“Oh no, what will my poor detective do without coffee?” you tease.

My detective. Well, technically you said my poor detective, but Ashveil’s mind catches on the possessive anyway.

My.

Poor is good too, admittedly. Poor sounds sympathetic. Tender.

No, no, no—pull yourself together, Ashveil.

Seriously, don’t do this to him. Don’t use that teasing voice like you actually care while meanwhile you are probably just making fun of him.

His thoughts briefly send another funny feeling into his throat this strange day.

“Ha ha ha!” he laughs again, a little louder than necessary before hurriedly redirecting himself. “Anyway. No pup with you today?”

“No. She’s probably still sleeping, buried under her blankets…”

Good. Running into your Princess could potentially create complications. He is yet to meet her officially, and he’s worried she might act too familiar with him, so he keeps telling you about dog allergy to keep her away.

You pull your phone from your bag and angle the screen toward him proudly, showing him a picture taken earlier that morning, before you’d leave for work. Princess lies cocooned beneath blankets with only the top of her head visible. “Isn’t she lovely?”

“Oh my goodness, she absolutely is…” he says with genuine delight, sounding dangerously close to squealing. He saw Princess less than two hours ago, yet somehow the sight of her grumpy face still melts him instantly. More importantly, you wanted to share this moment with him specifically, and that alone makes warmth spread unpleasantly through his chest.

However, there is an even cuter thing standing directly beside him. Because with how close you are standing, he has full access to your face too. It’s hard to not get distracted, watching the happy wrinkles of your eyes lifting.

He snaps his fingers in realization. “You look quite radiant today. New face cream?”

That explains why your pillow smelled so different this morning…

You blink at him, tilting your head, with “how did you know?” plastered all over your face.

“Well.” He shrugs with nonchalance, casually stepping back until he can lean against a nearby roadblock pole. “Detectives are supposed to notice minor details. Comes with the profession. To a discerning eye, there’s always something new to spot.”

Not that he’s as good at deduction or anything a detective would need to prosper like you think he is. It’s mostly Mr N doing important research. He's more of a hard-boiled type. But, you believing in his skills is extremely useful, so he doesn't correct you.

“Actually, it’s a serum,” you correct playfully, locking your phone. “But close enough.”

Good. Excellent even—you didn’t lie to him. It is indeed the serum's effect—he knows, considering he was standing in your bathroom this morning, staring directly at the bottle while trying not to think too hard about how you must look applying it with your gentle hands. How you’d apply for him too, willing to share. It’s simply safer not to sound too accurate in his observations. The last thing he needs is for you to start seriously questioning how much he notices about you.

Maybe all these detective tutorials he read yet barely sustained knowledge from at the beginning of his career are actually starting to come in handy—he does know you well by this point.

“Serum, cream, natural glow—whatever,” he says lightly. “You look good.”

Like, really good. Enough that he could eat you up. And you walk around, just like that? You better put a muzzle on him.

“Thank you.” You hesitate slightly before adding. “You… look well too.” You adjust your grip on your bag.

Ouch. The hesitation stings more than it should.

Ashveil snorts, waving his hand dismissively. “Ah, you don’t have to lie to spare my feelings. I know the eyebags are especially horrifying today.”

“No, I—” You look slightly panicked now, looking around as if searching for a clue. But the crowd passing by has its own business, sparing you little attention. You genuinely were trying to compliment him, but it came out half-assed. “I mean, sleeping in the fridge has to have some… beautifying properties, right?” you say it awkwardly, like you are trying very hard not to offend him. “The coldness of it.” Even if you still have no clue why he does that. You don’t want to make him uncomfortable by asking, in case it’s health-related.

Ashveil nearly laughs. He doesn’t know whether he should be offended or flattered that you tried to make him feel better.

“Sure,” he says dryly, “if your beauty standard is a product about to expire.”

You let out a nervous chuckle.

“But probably not as effective as you’re imagining,” he continues before clearing his throat slightly, visibly trying to move on before the conversation drifts somewhere sincere. He clicks his cane against the stone below his feet. “So, where are you heading? Shopping?”

You are usually still at work at this hour. Meaning if he had decided to linger inside your house even a little longer today and probably missed your text, things could have ended catastrophically wrong.

Manifesting the end of his friendship act with you.

You nod, lighting up again. “Uh, yeah. Like I have told you, work got called off because of some technical issues,” you explain with an easy grin, satisfied to catch some respite. “So I thought: why not go shopping?”

“Yeah, shopping’s always great,” Ashveil says a bit too enthusiastically, relief slipping into his voice before he can smooth it over. “Why don’t I… accompany you? I mean, strange events have been occurring lately…”

Weird folks muttering about happiness. Gang members surfing through the crowds. Streamers appearing to suffer from some sort of neuroticism as they become only more aggressive about content-making. It’s as if a wave of heat came across the planet and drove everyone mad.

“So you think I’m incapable of defending myself, detective?”

The slower flutter of your lashes paired with slight, naughty curve of your lips confuses him for a moment. You’re teasing him again, yet it seems different this time. Coy, challenging.

If he didn’t know better, he would think you were flirting with him. Or maybe you are—he does occasionally have his clients hit on him in the act of desperation. The possibility of you doing that makes it harder to breathe, and he glues his gaze onto your neck he for some reason suddenly thinks of kissing.

Let’s see: if he allows himself too much hope, it becomes embarrassingly easy to lower his guard around you—more than he has done so already—and that is never wise if he ever was wise. And yet, after all the blood and exhaustion he quietly spends in your name, surely he deserves a little indulgence every now and then.

Not that you have ever asked for any of it. But people get hurt easily in this city. He simply prefers preventing unpleasant outcomes before they can reach you, especially if it means avoiding situations where you feel smothered by having an obvious bodyguard attached to your side.

You go about your day. He ensures it remains a safe one. Simple and easy. Sure, you would probably be horrified if you ever discovered the full extent of it—not to jinx anything—but—

“Ashveil?”

Your hand settles gently on his shoulder, grounding him back to you.

He blinks, for a moment mesmerized by the worried expression directed his way. The way your warmth permeates him makes breathing more worth it. It’s no wonder he lets his guard down around you.

“Huh? Sorry.” He rubs his face, exhaling through his teeth. “I didn’t sleep well. I mean—not enough.”

“Oh… “ Your brows knit together instantly. “Then, you shouldn’t force yourself to hang around for my sake. It's simple grocery shopping. Go home and rest,” you reassure, so softly.

“Nah.” He adjust his hat, concealing his eyes more. “I’ll survive. I don’t sleep very well during the day anyway.” Those furbobo working below his agency make too much noise.

“Was that too much?” you mumble out, lowering your hand which greatly disappoints him.

“What was?”

“F-forget it.” You immediately retreat from the moment, suddenly fascinated by anything else happening on the street instead.

And then it hits him. You were flirting with him. Actually flirting. And he completely missed it because every coherent thought leaves his body the second you pay him too much attention.

At one point, he even genuinely wondered whether he was developing dementia, perhaps erosion-related, because how else was he supposed to explain the dizziness, the lapses in judgment, the complete inability to think straight that began plaguing him seemingly out of nowhere? Only later did he realize the symptoms always worsened around you specifically.

Which, frankly, feels far more terminal.

“Anyway, “ he says quickly, recovering for your sake too, “I’m tagging along. I’ll even carry your bags free off charge.” He presses one hand against his chest, as if speaking of noble sacrifice.

“You charge women for carrying their bags?” you ask, unimpressed.

“No! Of course not.”

“Don’t you take commissions for basically anything?”

“Correct.” He lifts one finger, about to make a point. “But never for gentlemanly behavior.”

The proud smile on his face makes you snicker.

“Well, if we are going together,” you glance towards one of the nearest coffee shops, “how about, coffee first?”

“That sounds great.” He really could use a cup. Maybe he’ll stop slipping in front of you so much.

As the two of you get into walking side by side through the crowded streets, growing denser with every hour, a certain thought slowly forms in your mind. You’ve been meaning to ask him for a while now.

“How do you always find me, anyway?” you inquire curiously. “You do that a lot, you know.”

The question is innocent enough, but it still makes his guts churn.

Sure, you frequent popular areas, but Duomension City is enormous, sprawling endlessly in all that commercial enclosure of absurdity. But at some point, repeated coincidence stops feeling entirely convincing.

Ashveil opens his mouth, but he doesn’t explain himself immediately, deciding to be careful with what excuse he shall feed you this time. That’s the problem lately: he is becoming too transparent around you. The more truth he hides, the harder they become to contain, leaking out through careless comments and overfamiliar observations. How does one stay quiet about a person they're so terribly enamored with?

Nonchalance has never been his strong suit anyway, and he needs you that badly.

The fact you’re starting to notice certain patterns doesn’t help him either. People in Planarcadia move too fast to notice who revolves around them, too distracted by spectacle and noise and Phantasmoon Games and their own survival to question others too deeply.

Obviously, he cannot tell you the truth:

That he noticed you returning home during work hours through your own security camera feed—not that long after your message has told him—panicked something might have happened, and spent the last half hour discreetly trailing you to ensure you were alright.

So instead, he chooses the safer route. A little cruelty to balance things out. “You’re pretty predictable,” he says straightforwardly, yet not without wincing inwardly at how crude it must have sounded.

The manner in which he delivers his answer does have you scoffing. “Excuse me?” You cross your arms and tap your feet against the ground impatiently after you pause your saunter.

Ashveil raises both hands at once in surrender, scrambling to soften the blow. He still cannot afford you hating him. That would be the end of him.

“I mean your routine is predictable,” he corrects quickly. “Consistent. Which isn’t a bad thing, necessarily—it just means it’s easy to recognize patterns, especially for someone trained to notice them. But other people might not be as harmless as me, which is why you should be careful about sharing your location publicly, posting photos in real time, downloading suspicious apps, or—”

The detective lecture is intentional. If he keeps talking long enough, maybe you will forget to stay offended, jaded by his talk.

“Okay, okay,” you heave a heavy sigh. “I got the memo.”

It’s ironic, your stalker warning you about stalkers. If it was another guy stalking you and Ashveil found out, he’d drag him to a police station. Except, in his humble opinion, he hardly qualifies as one. Stalkers have nefarious intensions. He, on the other hand, is simply…concerned… Curious, perhaps excessively so, but ultimately helpful. If anything, unbeknownst to you, he has already prevented several unpleasant incidents from ever reaching you… or your awareness, on that score.

You have no idea how many people have looked at you too long; how many revolting thoughts storm behind strangers’ eyes, perhaps similar to his and that’s he knows it. And if that somehow makes him monstrous too, then at least let him be the lesser evil among all possible predators circling this planet.

He at least tries to constrain the beast.

“But,” he adds more lightly, “I pass through your district pretty often too. I’m always outside looking for clients, remember? We naturally run into each other a lot.”

Right. You have, in fact, witnessed him standing on sidewalks holding handwritten promotional signs like an absolute disaster of a businessman, desperately offering people business cards talking about two percent discounts with all the confidence of someone negotiating hostage terms.

“That makes sense,” you admit after a moment, scratching your cheek apologetically. “Sorry if I sounded accusatory or anything…”

“No,” he shakes his head fervently. “Absolutely not. Honestly, I’m happy that you’re staying vigilant. Better safe than sorry, right?”

Ashveil is annoyed, tapping the sole of his boot against the checkered tiles beneath the cafe table. Not even because you are paying for the coffee—though that certainly does not help his pride any, as he does think he should be doing better if he genuinely wants to impress you someday. Unfortunately, his earned money usually goes to other causes, first and foremost, and even if Pearl’s cases can pay handsomely, a big chunk of it goes to his old wounded friends in need of life better than his. First Fang duties.

From the small yellow table tucked near the windows, he has a clear view of you waiting in line at the screen register. The queue moves painfully slowly, bodies crammed shoulder-to-shoulder within the tiny pastel-colored space. You stand there patiently, studying the menu on the overhead screens cycling panels with ads and offers, despite having ordered here countless times already. Very cute, overall.

Unfortunately, you remain completely oblivious to the eyes drifting toward you from across the shop—or perhaps you have simply learned how to tune such things out after living in Duomension City long enough. Doesn’t matter, as Ashveil who has gained a nasty habit of overthinking about you notices them all immediately.

Eyes lingering over your body for too long. Eyes flicking towards your wallet. Eyes tracing the shape of your face while pretending not to stare. One man glancing between you and his phone and some weird attachment trap to it with growing interest. And Ashveil swears he is not merely being paranoid, not a victim of forgetting people’s innate curiosity.

He would gladly stand beside you right now if you had not specifically told him to keep thee table occupied. He already would have planted himself behind you like some feral guard dog pretending not to growl at strangers. Besides, if the coffee ends up being taken to go, your time together shortens considerably, and he would prefer delaying the inevitable end of this outing for as long as humanly possible. Choices, choices…

Then his instincts prove themselves correct. A man near the front of the line abruptly lifts his phone towards your face, livestream already active in app.

Ashveil sighs in vindication. See? He is right to worry. This city is full of freaks.

The streamer starts loudly rating people’s outfits for his audience, but his camera lingers on you for too long, drifting downward in ways that make Ashveil’s stomach tighten unpleasantly. When you politely ask the man to stop filming you, he merely laughs and steps closer instead, clearly encouraged by the audience reacting through the scrolling comments like some desperate.

Wonderful. For all intents and purposes, this man has just single-handedly reduced Ashveil’s guilt regarding stalking you by at least thirty percent.

As Ashveil rises from his seat, he shrugs his coat off onto the chair first. Spreading murderous intent throughout a coffee shop tends to alarm civilians, so he makes a genuine effort to calm himself down while approaching.

The streamer is still talking when Ashveil reaches him, coming up behind him like a ghost. Without warning, he casually presses the mute button on the small console panel on the screen.

“Hey—”

“Give me the phone.”

The streamer blinks, turning around. “What?”

Ashveil smiles pleasantly. “Take your hands off the camera,” he says quietly near the man’s ear, voice soft enough that the people around—you especially—cannot properly pick it up over the shop’s noise, “or I’ll make sure they come off literally.”

Meanwhile, he keeps his expression towards you entirely calm, meant to be reassuring.

The streamer goes pale almost immediately. Ashveil appears unassuming at first, but something about the shadowed look in his eyes, one of them twitching too, unsettles the streamer greatly. The cane Ashveil wields goes to press onto the guy’s feet nearly painfully too. “O-okay, chill,” he mutters nervously. “I didn’t know she was your girlfriend—”

“She isn’t.” Ashveil’s smile never wavers. “Is that the only reason you know how to behave?”

The man stares at him, dumbfounded.

And for one brief second, Ashveil wonders if something slipped through his expression—something hungry, older source, and certainly sharp enough to expose what truly sits beneath his skin.

Thankfully, the streamer backs away. “Whatever, man,” he scoffs weakly before hurrying out of the care with his livestream still running. Other people around look startled for a moment, confused about what happened, but they quickly settle back.

Ashveil watches him leave, thinking what a hypocrite he’s starting to become.

Standing here acting holier-than-thou and outraged over another man reducing you into spectacle while he himself encroaches your routines, sneaks through your house vents, and spends sleepless nights imagining how you feel beneath him.

Sure, he has not acted on the ugliest thoughts yet… But what happens if one day he finally does? He fights for justice, even at the cost of spilling blood, he hates hurting others, but when it comes to you, he breaks his own rules more often than not. Guilt exists in Ashveil’s heart for sure, but apparently not enough to set him back—not when it comes to you, his special person and sunshine.

“You good?” he asks once he reaches you, his hand settling instinctively between your shoulder blades as you quickly finish order, not wanting to break your promise about caffeine fill.

“Perfectly fine,” you insist. “Thank you.”

Still rattled, though—he can feel the tension in your posture as he guides you away from the line.

For a moment after you sit down, some awkward silence fills the air around you. He can tell you’re trying to act unaffected by the encounter, clutching your wallet, but he doesn’t press you on, letting you calm down on your own.

Shortly after, one of the screens blinks your order number already. With how fast-progressing things are today, automatized with these mechatron workers especially, it is no surprise. “Oh. It’s our order.”

He locates the counter and the tray waiting for you, patting your shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll pick it up.”

He’s back in the blink of an eye, while you’re still fumbling with your wallet.

Trying to tuck it away, with how shaky your hands are from the unpleasant encounter, you accidentally bump the coffee cup. In result, hot coffee spills directly over his gloved left hand.

Ashveil absolutely could have moved away in time. He simply chose not to.

“Ow,” he hisses, pulling his hand back with a scowl. “That’s savage.” Honestly, the phantom pain in his prosthetic arm hurts infinitely worse on daily basis—and tears at him during fullmoon.

You gasp immediately. “Ashveil! Oh my goodness, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine—”

“No, no, quickly, let me see.”

Before he can protest further, you are already grabbing napkins and reaching for his hand with frantic concern. The moment your fingers carefully pull at his white glove, something devastating its surroundings storms inside his chest. There it is again, that warmth.

You dab gently at his fingers with a napkin while muttering anxious apologies under your breath, entirely focused on making sure he is alright and disregarding old scars. Ashveil watches you in silence, fighting the embarrassing urge to lace his fingers through yours properly, and imagining two worlds connecting. When did he become so sappy?

Your touch is absurdly tender. He cannot remember the last time someone handled him with care instead of annoyance or lust.

Some self-proclaimed lone wolf he is.

It is reckless, really. Someone in his position of being chased by ranger should avoid attracting attention, should avoid becoming emotionally attached, should avoid indulging in moments like these unless they become necessities instead of luxuries. So much for staying low. He might have to disappear from this planet tomorrow and what would he even do about you then?

Unfortunately, Ashveil has never been particularly good at denying himself where you are concerned. If anything, spending the rest of his miserable live serving you while receiving small fragments of affection in return sounds close enough to paradise. In his most delusional visions, you and him run away to some tropics together.

He watches the concern pinching your brows together, almost paining him as much, and he briefly wonders, not for the first time, how someone can possibly be this kind to him without realizing the danger of it. If anything, you barely know anything about him, not anything under the surface. Because the uglier feelings he usually tries to curb follow behind. He wants to devour you entirely, leave no bones, until you form an union with him, so no distance could ever exist between you two again.

“There probably won't be a scar, I think,” you murmur nervously, still inspecting his hand. It’s really not that bad, as maybe a few splashes of coffee hit his hand and his glove soaked up the most. “But maybe we should get this checked anyway—”

“No need.”

“But—”

Ashveil pats your hand before finally letting his fingers curl around yours under the guise of reassurance—gently, as though he anticipates breaking you, though in truth, he can't take more of your touch and remain alright. The heat rushing through your skin soaks into his pores, rewriting whatever here might have started withering, and he imagines the vines of your kindness climbing his healthy arm in search for his heart already thrumming. “Now, now,” he says softly, smiling goofily again. “I’m not that delicate. I promise.”

You finally laugh a little, the remaining tension loosening from your shoulders. You even squeeze his hand twice, sending chills through him that have him shifting in his seat.

“For what it’s worth, it’s good coffee they serve here,” Ashveil praises after he takes a sip. He lets your hand go first, reluctantly.

“Yeah?” Your expression brightens even more. Truly precious. “I'm glad. It’s my favorite place.”

Of course he already knew it was yours. He memorized that months ago. Still, hearing you willingly bring him somewhere important to you makes his chest flutter strangely, as though his lungs are suddenly filling with cleaner air than the city normally allows him.

You realize something soon after. “You know, Ashveil…” You stir your drink absentmindedly. “I feel like our conversations tend to be pretty one-sided…”

Ashveil stills.

“And I feel bad about that,” you continue. “So I thought that maybe I could ask you more things about yourself instead?”

That genuinely catches him off guard. He deliberately steers conversations toward you whenever possible, preferring to keep attention away from himself, yet somehow you interpreted that imbalance as your own failure instead.

It’s dangerous, this type of care.

“Hm. Well.” He chuckles nearly in a jitterily manner, scratching his cheek. There is little to share that doesn't compromise your safety, and little to reveal that doesn’t pain him these days. He’d look like a bleeding heart anyway. “I don’t know if there’s that much interesting stuff to learn about me. I mostly just work, eat, and sleep.”

“I’m not someone that special either,” you protest, leaning closer. An outrageous lie, in his opinion. “Yet we talk about me all the time,” you continue. “So I’m sure there’s something. Like…” You purse your lips in thought—another thing he finds cute. He can imagine a lightbulb shining above your head as you come up with something. “What’s one of your dreams?”

“My dreams?” he repeats, taken aback.

You could have asked about his favorite color. Food. Movie. You went straight for his throat instead. How touching. How scary.

Ashveil glances around the cafe. Different people fill every table: students, workers, exhausted commuters, streamers, couples, strangers. Loud, messy, and imperfect people, all trying to carve out somewhere to belong beneath the endless neon of this planet. If he stares long enough, he almost expects ghost from his part to emerge from the crowd and remind him that eventually he will lose you too.

It would be far wiser of him to give you some common crap, about money or fame. To say something simple and cheesy about retirement for a tropical island full of cheap sandals, happy dogs, and warm beaches. And yet, he naturally clings to the idea of you wanting to understand him, to take some of the burden off his shoulders even if guilt would strike him after.

“I think…” He hesitates. “I wish everyone could have a place for themselves in this world.” His voice lowers slightly. “Somewhere they’re allowed to exist safely. Somewhere warm enough to return to at the end of the day.”

You listen carefully—sincerely, digging dagger into his heart this way.

“No one should have to survive alone, or barely, if it can be helped,” he admits after a moment, fingers drumming once against the cup. “I know that’s naive, though.”

“Hm.” Your smile softens immediately. “I think it’s a beautiful dream, Ashveil.”

Your words aren’t dry or dismissive. There is no mockery in your voice. You seem to earnestly appreciate his answer and he cannot stop staring at you like this, his grey eyes gaining fragility over that sharpness from the moments ago.

You truly are a devil. Because he suddenly becomes aware of the hypocrisy sitting inside his head, both sides clashing there everyday. Pronouncing what he doesn’t deserve.

A man who claims to care about justice while quietly invading your life piece by piece out of selfish desperation. A man who wants to protect your freedom while simultaneously wanting you closer and closer until the line between affection and possession disappears completely.

Maybe someone would side with him and tell him, “you deserve this after everything you have went through, old man.” But he doesn’t wish to be a dead weight to you just because he’s broken.

They say ignorance is a bliss. They are darn right. Self-awareness does nothing except lets the guilt and greed eat him from the inside.

“It is beautiful,” he says quietly, his grip on the cup tightening, “but not realistic. Most people never reach that kind of haven no matter how hard they try. Luck, or gods, they decide almost everything eventually.” His mouth pulls into a solemn smile. “I get front row sears watching that happen.”

You fall silent after that, as if you don’t know whether you should let him keep talking or nip it in the bud before the whole day has its charm ruined.

When you give him that uncertain look, a mix of worry and awkwardness, he suddenly realizes what an absolute mood killer he must be for a shopping trip. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to murder your spirits.” He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his nape as he leans safely away from you.

“No.” You shake your head. “I asked, remember? And I’m happy you answered honestly.”

He nods, strangely affected by that response. “Thanks,” he murmurs, almost shyly. He should be the wiser, protective figure here, as someone far older than you. “I appreciate that.”

For a moment, he simply drums his fingers against the table, watching the vivid reflections ripple across the windows. Then he abruptly straightens.

“So!” His usual grin returns. “Shopping?”

“Totally.”

“Dogs used to have much less choice. So did consumers, honestly. Would you look at how fast things change?”

“You sound like an old man,” you remark from beside him with a snort, your attention never leaving the enormous shelves packed with enough pet food brands to sustain an army of spoiled pets.

The pet industry has been thriving for decades already, capitalism evolving into some grotesque creature of its own. Colorful packaging stretches endlessly across the aisle, each product screaming promises about healthier fur, stronger teeth, shinier eyes, happier digestion, longer lives. Even the bags themselves are glossy enough to rival cosmetic advertisements.

Ashveil stiffens slightly beside the shopping cart.

“Come on, who even needs all this? This is a supermarket. Not a pet shop,” he says defensively.

“Well, apparently my dog does.” You crouch briefly to inspect a lower shelf. “Princess has gotten really picky lately. Too much variety ruined her forever.”

“Yeah?” He folds his arms and smirks. “They used to hunt, can you imagine?”

“The most she hunts is my slipper after I accidentally drop it.”

Ashveil suppresses a laugh.

If only you knew. Princess can become vicious whenever she wants to. The first few days he started visiting your house, she nearly tore into his ankles on sight. Funnily, a stranger breaking into her home is not what offended her the most. That ranked secondary compared to the fact that the treats he brought were chicken-flavored instead of beef. She had made enough outraged noise to nearly expose him entirely before finally driving him back out through the window and land inside a dumpster. H u m i l i a t i n g.

As you’re finally about to pick something, Ashveil instinctively stops you, his cane pointing.

“Your dog doesn't like that one.” The words slip out far too naturally. Too easily, sure, born from the need to be right; you tend to lower his defenses with how wonderful you are to him, leading to him saying compromising things like that.

Your hand pauses midair. His confident statement picks up your attention. Not would probably dislike. Not even might prefer something else. A definitive certainty.

“How do you know that? You haven't met my dog yet.” Your expression sharpens with mild offense rather than suspicion, thankfully. To you, it merely sounds like someone rudely claiming superior knowledge over your own dog instead of accidentally exposing himself as a home-invading creep.

His heart stills right there by this damn pet food aisle. Think fast, think fast, think fast, you old man—

“No, however—” He clears his throat. “You told me her breed before, remember? And I’ve worked around all kinds of dogs over the years, well, unfortunately at the cost of a big allergic reaction. You start collecting their characteristics.” His hand waves vaguely towards the shelf. “That one’s too light. She probably needs something richer. More iron.” He nods sagely, then adds to his wisdom, “That breed’s basically halfway to becoming a shark. Bloodthirsty creatures.”

He’s lying because he’s not even that good at deducing. Storing information about you comes easily for him, but he’s mostly operating based on intuition and luck.

“You think so?” You give him the benefit of doubt because your furball does deserve the best.

“Yes!” He clasps his hands together. “Can’t go wrong with beef.”

He knows this especially because he once at the same dog treats himself, being broke enough to consider it economically reasonable. The nutritional contents are close enough to actual jerky, enough for one to decide that what society thinks doesn’t matter.

“Hm… it’s just… I don't want her eating too much fat.”

Right. He almost forgot until this morning where he saw Princess. Continuously bribing your dog into silence with treats may eventually become a genuine health concern. And Ashveil loves dogs enough to acknowledge this prospect. Still, switching her away from her from her current favorite will absolutely trigger aggression, so he needs to help transition her carefully—if he wants to preserve diplomatic relations within the household.

“Just don't overfeed her and it should be fine.”

He also ought to avoid Princess for as long as possible. Which is becoming more and more difficult as you (un)fortunately walk her a lot. He can’t always text you and ask you if you’re with your dog—even with that allergy thing as his bargaining chip—if sometimes he appears spontaneously. If Princess were to openly recognize him in front of you…

The two of you continue wandering through the store afterward, slowly filling the cart with a mix of necessities and smaller indulgences. The city’s supermarkets always feel overstimulating, packed with fluorescent lighting, brightly colored displays, robotic promotional mascots chirping abut discounts, and giant hanging screens advertising products loud enough to follow customers across entire warehouse. Ashveil is more accustomed to the darkness of his refrigerator, but with you around, those elements become somewhat bearable.

He naturally takes notes of what you get.

At some point, you toss something sweet into the basket beside him. Ashveil glances downward.

“You remembered.”

“Well, you liked it last time.”

Something embarrassing tickles his cheeks. You cared enough to remember what snack he likes and to get it for him. Spending money on him, when he should be spending it on you.

As you two continue forward, his own brain remains busy memorizing absurdly tiny details about you: how you absentmindedly compare expiration dates twice before buying something, the way you tap the cart to the rhythm of the music playing in the background, how you narrow your eyes whenever calculating prices in your head. Domesticity looks good on you and he’s happy to be part of it.

By the time the shopping bags are finally filled, the crowds outside the supermarket have thickened.

“Thank you for joining me today, Ashveil,” you say while adjusting the bags against your arm—not letting him hold them. “I should probably head back before the city gets even too crowded.”

“Fair enough.” He still reaches towards the heavier bag. “Let me walk you home.”

“No, there’s really no need.”

He looks at you with confusion.

“You already did plenty for me today,” you add with a small smile.

“It’s not a problem,” he insists, holding onto the side of the bag. “Seriously, the streets get worse around this hour, and—”

“Ashveil. Please.” For the first time, your tone turns firmer. Resolute, oh the horrors.

It does make him burn, nearly sending shock into his body, and he’s about to overthink again.

His stomach drops stones. He must have been a bother to you, all clingy like velcro no matter how politely he disguises it as concern. Maybe you finally noticed how excessive he has become. Or worse—maybe you noticed something deeper beneath it all, and the situation is far more catastrophic than he initially thought. Or maybe you are replacing him—

“I don’t mean to be overbearing,” he says carefully, suddenly hyperaware of every word leaving his mouth. “I’m just worried about your safety. You know what Planarcadia’s like lately. All these gangs…” Even if he befriended some of them. “Weird people…”

“I know.” Your features soften lightly, though they maintain its seriousness. “But having someone worry over me every second isn’t exactly good for me either. I do try to be careful, so…”

You finally have made a boundary. You are reasonable, yet it still feels like you kicking him in his ribs.

“I see,” he says after a moment, forcing himself to let go of your purchases. “That makes sense.” It does, which is the worst part. “But call me if anything happens,” he adds, unable to fully stop himself.

“I will.”

You smile again afterward, gentler this time, seemingly relieved he accepted the request without argument. Then you leave.

Ashveil watches you gradually disappear into the moving crowd, your sunny figure swallowed little by little, and he thinks the lights above don’t hold candle to you. The city suddenly feels even louder even for its norm, unbearably so.

He stands there for another moment before finally turning away himself with a heavy sigh, shoulders lower than before. His invisible tail is curled, more of a dog, not wolf. He already knows, with miserable certainty, that he is going to spend the next several hours replaying this interaction over and over until he successfully convinces himself that you must secretly hate him now. A grown man, now unwilling to eat the food you bought him, just so he can cling to a piece of you for a bit longer.

No. Forget it. He can’t leave it like that. What if there’s someone waiting for you? He didn’t see you contacting anyone when strolling with him but he needs to make sure you’re not cheating on him. Not that it’s cheating, but you get the gist, right?

Yet as it turns out, you really reach home on your own. He trails you right under you reach your door. Well, at least he knows you’re safe.

Ashveil doesn't remember the last time he’s been this scared.

Your call reaches him in the middle of the night, cutting through the rattling hum of the refrigerator compressor. His phone vibrates violently against the metal lining and skids away from him, and in his panic co catch it, he nearly smashes his forehead against the surface. It doesn't help he’s been talking in his sleep again, barely getting any sleep immersion that he thought he was about to experience sleep paralysis too.

For one terrible second, he thinks something has happened to you. That maybe it isn't a dream.

But, honestly, once he manages to answer and hears your voice properly, half of him is simply relieved. You sound panicked, yes, words tumbling over each other in disarray, but you called him. After your boundary-giving and his walk home with his tail between his legs, you still reached for him first.

That alone nearly distracts him before his finally brain finally catches up to what you are actually saying. A receipt. Something wrong inside the house. Suddenly, he is wide awake.

“Hold on—” He pushes the fridge open and sits upright like a corpse rising to life. “—you’re saying you think someone broke into your house?”

“But I can’t tell!” you blurt out shakily. “I found this receipt right as I was getting ready to sleep, and things feel weird, and I checked the cameras but there’s nothing there, nothing seems missing, and maybe I’m overreacting but—”

Ashveil’s stomach drops. Did you finally notice something? Did he accidentally scatter evidence?

No. Impossible. He always checks carefully. He takes pictures beforehand, recreates every angle afterward, makes sure everything remains exactly as it was before he arrived. It’s the least he can do. He is meticulous about these things… Usually.

“Hey. Hey, calm down.” He rubs down his face, forcing his voice to be calmer despite the sudden adrenaline flooding him.” Don’t wind yourself up. I’ll come over and take a look first, okay? Don't call the police yet.”

“Why not? It's their job!” you ask with confusion.

“Well…” He stands quickly, tugging on his pants with the free hand. “Unless there’s direct proof of forced entry, they might turn you away. Let me check things out first before you stress yourself too hard.”

There is a brief pause, filled with your frantic breathing.

“O-okay. Come quick, please.”

The call ends.

Ashveil stares at the dark screen for one second before bolting like a complete lunatic. Mister N looks up in alarm as he watches his boss rush through the office half-dressed and visibly panicked.

“Ashveil, what on earth are you doing?”

“No time for explanation!” he blurts out while shoving his boots on and grabbing his cane. “Emergency!”

By the time he reaches your street, his thoughts have already escalated into increasingly catastrophic scenarios. You found other traces as well. You are suspecting him and this is a trap with police awaiting him at your house. Or worse, someone else truly did break in.

You open the door almost the instant he rings the bell.

And don't you look miserable. Your eyes are red and glossy with tears, shoulders tense beneath your sleep clothes, fingers clutching the edge of the door. You look at him as if he might as well be your last hope.

His eyes soften. “Hey,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “Pretty lady, rest assured, everything will be alright. Breathe for me,” he says gently, fixing a loose lock of your hair from your face. “You’re shaking.” Sight of you like this is the most difficult one to take. And it’s probably his fault.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper shakily. “It’s probably something stupid and I’m making a big deal out of nothing—”

“No.” His voice firms from the seriousness. “You’re right to be cautious. Especially these days.” His hands settle carefully on your shoulders. “How about you make yourself some tea while I look around, hm?”

You hesitate but you end up nodding. “Okay. I’ll make you one too,” you say nicely and his heart skips a beat even now.

He smiles encouragingly, stepping inside and hanging his coat.

Before retreating toward the kitchen, you suddenly turn back and hand him the receipt you kept in your robe’s pocket.

“I’ve never been to this konbini before,” you explain anxiously. “Or at least not recently. Sometimes I stop at random stores during walks with Princess, but…”

“I see.”

Ashveil scans it quickly.

The receipt goes:

a loaf of bread

instant coffee

instant noodles

10 x bunches of bananas

.

Fuck.

All thoughts leave his body for a moment and it’s all tension taking over his body. It is his receipt.

The bananas are for the monkeys at the agency, since they enthusiastically accept payment in fruit and occasionally riot when undercompensated. It must have slipped from his pocked earlier while he was distracted grinding himself into your mattress like a pathetic animal in heat. Which should have not happened, since he does document everything before moving around your house specifically to avoid mistakes like this.

Yet lately, around you, he has been getting sloppy. Well, more than usual.

With you in the kitchen, he at least has been granted several minutes to unravel this blunder in peace. And what an absolute sad sack he was; he survived deadly fights only to be taken down by a grocery receipt?

By the time you return with tea and invite him over to your cozy sofa laid out with blanket, he has mostly reconstructed his composure.

“I’ve got good news,” he announces, leaning back—and trying not to get distracted by your scent and warmth radiating off of you. Not it’s not the time! Even if you look especially adorable with some sleepy weariness attached to you. “There’s no sign of forced entry anywhere. Locks are intact. Windows too.”

“But how did it get inside?” you ask immediately, looking at him intensely. “I keep my windows closed.”

Ashveil hums thoughtfully, trying to appear more visceral than practiced. “Well…” He staples his fingers between his spread thighs. “Think about it this way. If someone was skilled enough to enter your home unnoticed, avoid the cameras, leave no signs of entry…” He points with his head at the receipt on the coffee table. “Would they really leave behind something this obvious?” Okay, maybe he would. “You probably carried it inside accidentally without noticing.”

Your tight expression slowly relaxes. “Yes,” you admit with relief, “that actually makes sense.”

“Exactly.”

You exhale deeply, tension leaving your shoulders. “Though, that person must really like bananas.”

Ashveil laughs despite himself. It’s a good thing you don’t know about his little monkey companion. And, he’s quite happy that the crisis is over.

But right as he thinks he should go, you suddenly wrap your arms around him. He freezes. Your face presses into his chest while your fingers curl weakly into the fabric of his shirt, seeking comfort. Seriously, what’s going on with you lately? You’re getting bold.

“Thank you,” you say softly. “I owe you big time.”

“What for?” he asks quietly, voice strained.

“For coming here.” You tighten your hold slightly, your own heart racing. “You've been… doing so much for me lately. Honestly more than anyone else has.” Your laugh comes out small and tired. “Living on this planet is such a hassle sometimes.”

Oh, you poor thing. It should be him apologizing to you. You are there thanking him for protecting you from fears he himself created. The guilt born behind the thought nearly has him speaking in protest, yet… he still craves your affection. He wouldn’t be able to shoot down your call for a bit of TLC either.

He says nothing. His arms embrace you, as his chin goes to rest atop your head. It’s an amazing feeling, holding you. Right somehow. A selfish, surely monstrous for these reasons part of him almost wishes you would cry again solely so he could continue comforting you like this a little longer.

Your hearts sync together and he swears he’s never felt more alive.

Eventually, you tilt your head upward, revealing yourself to him in your vulnerability. You’re softer than ever, even needy with your eyes pleading, enough to suddenly lean closer.

Ashveil genuinely cannot process what is happening. Surely you are not in love with him already. More likely, your emotions are scrambled from fear and relief and exhaustion, with your brain desperately searching for comfort after making yourself half-sick. Living alone as a woman must get scary for you sometimes.

And maybe your offering merely is done to feel safe, grounded and soothed by someone else, but Ashveil doesn’t care about the reasoning when your lips brush his. When it happens, the universe seems to narrow down to contain only the two of you.

He’s still frozen, as no single nagging or feeling thought has ever predicted you kissing him willingly. A distant worshiper fitted his calculations better.

You mistake that hesitation for rejection and begin pulling away almost immediately, embarrassment flicking across your hot face.

He quickly realizes what he’s accidentally taking for granted, and the thought of letting this go is maddening. So his hand catches your waist and pulls you flush against him.

The second kiss is nothing like the first. Full of desperation and hunger, he kisses you like a listless man discovering something worth going after centuries, mouth moving against yours with enough intensity to leave him dizzy. One of his hands presses firmly against your back while the other one—always the left hand—rests at your jaw lightly, as though he still cannot believe this is real.

You take it one step further in response, as your fingers slip into his long hair and tug that he sighs blissfully before you straddle him. You deepen the kiss with an urgency on your own.

All of this has him realizing what a fool he was. You must have wanted him all along, at least somewhat—or needed even. But whatever it is, it makes no difference at the moment. Your weight on his is real and tangible.

Take all you want from him. Feed from him. Make this broken-legged wolf worth something.

It’s easy for his hands to start roaming over your body the moment you kiss him again, restless palms mapping across you as though he’s trying to commit terrain to his memory before it vanishes before his palms. Your robe vanishes first, peeled away from your shoulders and discarded carelessly onto the other side of the furniture.

He knows he was never supposed to end up here. Not like this, through your main entrance. Not in your arms instead of the imagination of the scene, not with with your sun surrounding him from every direction, not breathing against your lips while your hands anchor so trustingly around his shoulders. From the very beginning, he was meant to remain distant.

The moment you helped him pay for that meal in Dovebrook and somehow altered the chemistry of his brain, he should have simply appreciated you from afar and keep moving like every other lonely idiot in the galaxy. Instead, he kept chasing you. First by curiosity, then by intention, then by outright compulsion until it finally wasn’t enough and he decided to make his official appearance, playing your friend by using all that he has learned about you. That shtick with you helping a broke man pay for his food was a perfect icebreaker to start seeing each other, so was you being so friendly from the beginning. Naive too perhaps, believing in his good intentions to express gratitude.

And the story behind tonight is ridiculous too. His own stupidity caused the panic that led you into his arms in the first place, somehow winding up in his favor and he now gets to touch you openly.

He cannot tell whether you have actually started developing feelings for him or whether you simply want somebody to fuck after a stressful night, but it hardly matters anymore—either possibility leaves him incredibly flattered, and both are still better than being shut out entirely.

Prurient thoughts about you have been rotting his brain for way too long anyway.

“Nice place, by the way,” he murmurs between kisses, mouth brushing yours as his hands beneath your shirt.

“Just the place?” you tease softly before nipping at his lower lip.

“Well, the owner is just as nice, if not better…” he answers against your mouth, the words dissolving into another kiss right as his fingers begin pushing your pajama shirt higher—

A sharp bark cuts through the room. Both of you jolt before separating.

“Princess!” you exclaim at the exact same moment he does, turning toward the hallway opening where your dog stands glaring sleepily in his direction.

Shit. He absolutely forgot about her so did you in the heat of the moment.

That bark is absolutely aimed at him, though thankfully not in the way it could have been. More annoyed than alarmed, really. He suspects Princess came looking for snacks and found herself offended by the fact he arrived empty-handed tonight.

As you try to shoo her away, Princess plants herself stubbornly in place and barks at him again.

“Ugh, she doesn’t like strangers…” you sigh apologetically.

Yes, strangers. It’s good that’s what you think.

“No worries.” Ashveil crouches in front of the couch despite the cold sweat trying to break across his spine. “I like all dogs, and they like me.”

“That’s not how this works—”

He extends his hand anyway before you can finish objecting. Princess sniffs him for approximately two seconds before visibly recognizing his scent and immediately losing interest, turning away with the dramatic disappointment of someone realizing there are really no treats involved in this interaction. Pretty rude after everything, he thinks.

Ashveil gives her a few quick pets for appearances before she finally trudges off again.

Her indifference doesn’t surprise him, though it does surprise you.

“Huh. Seems that she likes you enough.” If liking someone was tolerating their presence enough to let them stay.

You do not question it further, thankfully. People love convincing themselves animals instinctively recognize good souls or hidden kindness, and Ashveil is not above benefiting from that kind of superstition.

He just smiles smugly and stands up. “Told ya.”

You laugh softly, amused by this ridiculous interruption in making out. “Sorry about her. Now… where were we?”

Before he can answer properly, you surge toward him to kiss him again and wrap your arms around his shoulders, nearly knocking him backward with the force of it. He moves instinctively; his hands catch your thighs and hoist you up with a surprising ease right before he pins you against the nearest wall.

“Detective,” you breathe out, sounding genuinely surprised once his palms settle against your ass, rough in their grip. “I didn’t know you had that in you.” You measure him.

“It’d be a little bit boring if I had shown you everything about myself right away, no?” he teases lowly. You really don't know the half of it, let alone what lies inside his arm.

As you laugh again, so prettily at that, he kisses you properly. Mouth full of unbearable hunger, voracious for you. It’s beyond his wildest dreams, the fact that he can be here with you, touching you, that he resents the thought of wasting just a second.

His hat gets in the way, so he tears it off and throws it somewhere behind him without looking.

Them your hips grind experimentally against the growing hardness trapped beneath his pants, and the sensation nearly knocks the breath from his lungs altogether. This is much better than it was in his head, he can feel his underwear sticking up already.

Ashveil hisses into your mouth, his grip on you momentarily faltering before it becomes even tighter.

“You're vicious…” he mutters hoarsely, fanning your face from how close it is. You look just as incredible from this close, looking at him with so much desire heavily hanging your eyelids down—succeeding at reigniting his lust after many years as well.

“I thought you could take that?”

“Just you wait,” he says roughly.

He carries you toward the bedroom with no delay, kicking the door shut behind him the second he steps inside. The sight of your bed nearly short-circuits his brain for entirely separate reason, a morning memory colliding with present reality, but the victory of his dreams coming true brings him back onto earth.

Upon being thrown at your bed, you can take in only one breath before he’s all over you again, nudging your legs open with his knee so he can take the space between your thighs. There’s little barrier of your pajama, yet his hands first dip beneath your shirt, palms flat against your skin before reaching your breasts he kneads to your pleasure.

“You just know how to stir chaos…” he murmurs against your jaw before dragging slow kissed down the side of your neck, each lingering long enough to leave warmth blooming. He could easily snap his fangs here and see you writhe, so he holds your life without you knowing.

You shiver beneath him yet still manage to tease ever so sweetly, chuckling softly, “Me? And what did I do, pray tell?”

What didn’t you do?

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he growls softly against your skin. “And looking at me like that doesn’t help me at all.”

But whatever clever reply you had in store dies beneath another kiss, deeper this time, his tongue pushing into your mouth the instant your lips part for him. He sighs at your taste.

Clothes begin disappearing quickly afterward, your hands tugging frantically at his ridiculous layers while he strips himself and his dignity down with little patience. Something tears through the process, seams ripping loudly, but he barely notices or cares.

By the time he reaches your clothes, you aid him by kicking off your own pants, down to your panties he then removes for you. He allows himself to take one look at you, burning the image of your nude form—perfection, in his mind—onto his memory forever. You stare back at him, your chest heaving as you squirm like a bunny in anticipation, overheated from his intrusive gaze.

His mouth travels everywhere once he finally gets obstructed access to your skin, kissing and biting and suckling at the softest parts of you with barely restrained greed. He stays especially at your throat, not only because he enjoys the sounds he can pull from you there, but because your pulse beats beneath his mouth so vividly alive that it almost hypnotizes him. Warm blood rushing beneath delicate skin as he licks a stripe downward with flat tongue, life spilling through your veins with abundance, trusting him enough despite his existence that has included centuries spent around death and hunger.

You tilt your head back further for him without hesitation, your chest rising in irregular intervals. He holds you down by your hips whenever you whimper louder or grind against him again and make him moan too.

Ashveil groans softly against your neck before dragging his tongue over the marks already rising there, his hand sliding lower at last until his fingers slip between your thighs. The wetness waiting there draws a shaky breath from him, something feral in him satisfied once he realizes just how affected you already are.

He wishes he could bury himself between your thighs properly and spend hours there pleasuring you, learning every reaction your body can offer. Worshiping you. Unfortunately, his patience stopped existing the very moment you kissed him—so fingers it is, in hope it’ll ease at least some of the upcoming discomfort for you.

One long finger of his left hand slides inside your pussy first, then another soon after, and he watches your expression shift beautifully as he stretches you open. You moan for him, and only him.

“Look at this…” he mutters, dazed by the sight of you. “You’re soaking already. Pretty thing’s been thinking about this, huh?”

His thumb presses lazily against your clit while he keeps thrusting his fingers into you at a rhythm that grows rougher whenever you make especially sweet noises for him, occasionally stretching your hole up as he opens his digits too. With how tight you are, he cannot imagine his survival once he fills you.

“Ashveil…” You saying his name like this can probably earn you anything, even if it’s not his real name.

Hearing that, his mouth goes back to occupying itself at your chest before finally closing around one nipple with a low groan that vibrates through you. He makes them protrude as he switches between both sides, adding to the whirpool in your abdomen. Meanwhile, he grinds himself against the mattress, trying to relieve some of the painful pressure building beneath his boxers.

You dig your nails into his back, keeping him close while your other hand slips into his dark hair, at the nape of his neck.

“Ashveil… just fuck me already…” you whine, your voice trembling enough for tears to begin gathering at your lashes.

“What’s gotten you in such a hurry?” he murmurs now back against your mouth he must keep kissing, still teasing despite the fact he’s hardly an better. “You’re usually more patient that this.” Like has any right to talk. He’s been one second away from pouncing on you the moment you kissed him.

“Don’t tease,” you complain. “It’s been a while…”

He knows that well.

“Ah, so you’re just using me to get off?” he taunts lightly as he deliberately sinks his fingers deeper and watches your mouth open. Some insecure corner of him still threatens to take the possibility seriously instead of as rightful.

“No…” You pull him closer again, frustrated already. “Stop being such a detective. I need you. I want you.”

He’s even more dizzy after you say that.

Ashveil exhales shakily before finally pulling his fingers from inside you and licking them clean with a low groan. The sight alone makes butterflies rush through your stomach, something about the contrast between his usual shabby demeanor and the hunger in him now going straight to your head.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “I’ll give you what you want. You shouldn’t even have to beg me for it…”

He lets you help him tug his boxers down, and he nearly finishes from the expression crossing your face once you finally see him fully, resting against his abdomen. Your hand wraps around his cock experimentally, pumping him a few slow times while smearing the leaking pre-cum across the tip with your thumb.

His head tips back immediately. It feels too good, enough that he momentarily fears he’ll really come before even getting inside you.

So he grabs your hips instead, grounding himself by dragging his cock through your folds first, coating himself in your slick with rough little thrusts that make your breath hitch. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist while your fingers clutch tightly at the sheets beneath you. Then he spits directly onto your cunt. You tremble, arching your back.

Once he finally pushes inside, breathing becomes difficult for different reasons.

He’s big. Bigger than you expected, and with how ridiculous Ashveil can sometimes be, it’s strangely easy to forget how imposing he actually is physically until moments like this. The stretch burns at first, enough to force a gasp from your throat, but the discomfort quickly melts into warmth and fullness that leaves your legs shaking around him.

One steady thrust and he’s inside your pussy completely, his balls resting at the curve of your ass.

“A-Ash-sh-veil—” your voice breaks as he starts moving immediately after, pace rough from the beginning as though control abandoned him entirely the second he felt your hot walls envelop him like a perfect, sunny day. Each thrust drags your body with it slightly, his hands bruising you, as the mattress creaks beneath the force of it while his breathing grows harsher against your mouth.

His eagle look only leaves you more flushed.

You notice his prosthetic arm gradually warming against your skin, heat pulsing strangely through the surface and dark seams alike, but whatever curiosity you once had about it you restrained from the fear of disrespecting him dissolves quickly once he hits another spot inside you that leaves your brain mushy. It’s your first time together, yet he already knows your body this well…

You're face to face while losing yourselves like this, both forced to watch each other abandon any pretense of friendliness in real time. Ashveil makes no effort whatsoever to suppress his own sounds either, low and ecstatic moans spilling from freely from him every time you tighten around his cock. He kisses your mouth before leaving more bites across that have your back arching, rinse and repeat.

Soon your legs are pushed nearly against your chest and the angle changes enough to make you cry out properly. He reaches impossibly deep like this, while your legs wriggle in the air uselessly as he keeps forcing your walls to adjust to his size.

“Please… it’s too much…” You whine out as you throw your head back against the pillow.

And yet, Ashveil still seems unsatisfied. Every thrust seems to leave him wanting more than the last time, his expressing growing more and more wrecked each time you moan for him, as if no amount of closeness could ever fully scratch that terrible hunger rooted inside him. Deeper, harder, faster—

“Fuck…” he groans loudly, adding to the ongoing noise reverberating against your bedroom walls. “You’re so good to me, baby… Just keep taking it like that…” He leans in closer to your face and his forehead presses briefly against your before he snaps his hips against your ass harder again. “Gonna make you come so hard.”

The praise only makes you clench tighter around him, and you mewl. Ashveil swears under his breath and grabs the headboard before he loses control completely, letting one of your legs slip down. Unfortunately for you, it only gives him more force behind each trust.

“S-slow down…” you gasp. “You're gonna break my bed…” you say, but it’s all a ghost of rationality speaking for you as you pull him closer by his shoulders.

“You need it. I know you do,” he growls.

He keeps fucking you like this, your nails dragging down his back hard enough to leave marks while he shudders beneath the sting of it. He likes the pain; likes the proof you’re overwhelmed enough to claw at him.

He lets your other leg go, so he can let thick globe of saliva suddenly spill from his mouth onto your cunt before he rolls it across your clit with slow but heavy circles of his thumb, watching your eyes roll back the same way.

“W-wait…” you say eventually.

“Just a bit more, pretty girl—”

“No, Ashveil…” you whimper.

He slows down rough to look at you properly, even if it comes with difficulty. “What is it?”

“M-more lube,” you admit breathlessly. “I’m getting sore…”

Maybe it’s not the sexiest interruption, but some concern flickers across his expression… even if frustration triumphs over the feeling.

“Don’t worry,” he says quickly, “I’ve got it.”

Still half inside you, Ashveil reaches automatically toward the nightstand beside the bed, already opening one drawer before clicking his tongue in annoyance.

“Dammit, you moved it to the other drawer.” These words slip out without him thinking.

The room goes still.

Ashveil freezes when he notices you tense up.

“Why you looking at me like that?” he asks carefully.

“How did you know it was moved?”

“What?”

“You said I moved it.”

He stares at you, in a way that makes your stomach tighten unpleasantly. It makes him look much more different, like he dares you to oppose him further.

“We’re seriously discussing lube logistics in the middle of sex?” he asks with irritation, already opening the second drawer instead. “Relax. Nightstands are the most obvious place imaginable to keep it.”

“Yes, but…” You swallow. “How did you know I moved it?”

“I thought you mentioned reorganizing your room before.”

“But I didn’t—”

Before you can continue, he squirts lube over himself and pushes fully back inside you in one rough thrust, effectively knocking the thought from your head altogether.

“Just focus on me,” he says more sharply now. He doubts he can stop at this point anyway.

More unease brews in your guts despite the pleasure right beneath. You try speaking again, but he thrusts deeper immediately after and your protest dissolves into a broken gasp instead. Tears spill freely down your cheeks from sheer overstimulation while your hands press weakly against his shoulders as if attempting to still keep him away.

Then he flips you onto your stomach. The sudden movement knocks the breath from you entirely, and you’re once more surprised, and maybe a bit concerned by his strength. Your face is pushed into the pillows while Ashveil lays his weight over your back as he drives back inside your hole again, his long and thick cock hitting your pussy hard. He doesn’t want you seeing how wrecked and pathetic he looks, yet he craves to be as close as possible.

He pounds into your hard enough to force little sobs from your throat and make it nearly painful, one hand gripping your hip while the other presses against the back of your neck to keep you still beneath him. You squirm like one of his preys underneath him, feeling the sharp sting of his sweaty skin clashing with yours, but he ignores the way you scratch back at him from the intensity, soiling the pillow from your tears.

“Stop overthinking,” he grows near your ear, tickling your sensitive skin with his long hair that flows to his tempo. “And take it properly.”

The command sends another flush of heat through you despite everything.

You’re trembling uncontrollably by now, pleasure building too fast for your body to keep up with. Ashveil isn’t far behind either, judging from the way his thrusts keep losing rhythm whenever you squeeze around him especially tightly. You can feel the ways he’s pulsing as he keeps you so full.

Then his hand slips beneath your stomach again to rub over your clit unceremoniously. It doesn’t take him much before your orgasm crashes through you so violently, your vision whites out for a moment. Your mouth falls open soundlessly against the pillow while drool dampens the fabric beneath your cheek even more, your body twitching helplessly underneath him as wave after wave keeps hitting.

The way you tighten around him finally send him over the edge too. A broken grunt tears from his throat as he collapses heavily against your back, his cock spilling thick warm inside your cunt in long bursts.

For a good minute, neither of you moves, catching your breaths. You shake, feeling sweat stick to you all over your body.

Then Ashveil slowly pulls out, watching his release leak down the inside of your tights.

Before you can sit up fully, however, he catches your waist.

“No. Not yet,” he growls.

He pushes you back down, and drops between your legs before you can properly process what he’s doing. The first drag of his tongue through the mess between your thighs makes your entire body jerk violently.

“Ashveil—”

He groans against your hole instead, licking into you eagerly while cleaning you up, as if to either remove his stain from you or keep the part of you inside his body. He cannot stand wasting even this final intimacy between you.

It’s too much, and you’re far too sensitive post-orgasm. Yet every attempt to squirm away only results in him tugging you back harder while your cries grow increasingly pathetic against the pillows. His tongue pushes deep inside you, gathering every drop, before returning to your clit again, licking up every trace of wetness and cum alike with shameless greed until another smaller orgasm wrings through you embarrassingly fast.

By the time he finally lifts you upright between his legs afterward, your thoughts feel sluggish and disconnected. Still, little things begin surfacing unpleasantly through the haze now that the intensity has faded enough for your brain to function again.

All these months of him appearing where you are, just excused by his supposedly excellent detective skills. Knowing your dog’s tastes. That random receipt. The way he moved through your bedroom without hesitation. The way Princess calmed down too quickly—and, now come to think of it, he didn’t have any allergic reaction either.

The drawer thing.

Ashveil occasionally said something dumb, yet everything was somehow explained, but the drawer thing now bothers you especially. You feel so stupid, believing you should have done your research about him before getting friendly better, no matter how lonely you might have been yourself.

You notice the way his hold on you firms, as if he became aware of the dilemma that rules and shifts in your body language. You're scared at the thought of what he might do should you tell him that truth.

“You good?” he asks quietly, holding his face in the crook of your neck.

“Yeah,” you answer automatically, though uncertainty bleeds through your voice. “I just need to…” Then you try pulling away.

He lifts his head and eyes you suspiciously. “Something wrong?”

“No,” you say tiredly. “I just wanna use the bathroom.”

Ashveil watches you carefully for a longer moment before finally loosening his hold.

You stand up impetuously despite your shaky legs and begin gathering your discarded clothes against yourself.

“I see,” he says slowly. “I’ll wait here.”

But he does not believe you for even a second, his heart hammering in sudden distress. The moment you leave the room, he quickly dons on his clothes. Quietly moving closer to the hallway, he listens.

He can hear your voice, muffled and nervous—speaking on the phone.

Oh no.

He moves fast, pushing through the door. By the time the call starts connecting, he’s already behind you, snatching the phone from your hands before you can even notice him.

With your hand managing to grasp at least the bottom half of the device right in time, you quickly disconnect the line.

“Hey,” he says sharply, breathing heavily and trying to retrieve the electronic, “who are you calling? I told you the police would be useless in this situation.”

“I-it wasn’t the police!” you blurt out, lying. Your eyes open wider. “Wait… How would you know that.”

Shit. He just keeps implying things. “Who else would be you be calling at this hour?” he asks, bitterness rising into his voice. “A friend? So you can tell them you regret sleeping with me already?” He glares at you.

Yet his thoughts spiral into something much more fragile than the sense of disrespect. Real, honest fear he hadn't the occasion to experience in a while.

Please. Don’t ruin this for him.

“That’s not it—”

“Then what is it?”

“I wanted to…” Your voice trembles. “Order us some food.”

“You said you were going to the bathroom.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Then show me the phone.” His hand tugs on the phone you still clutch. “If what you’re saying is true.”

“That’s weird,” you say defensively, shrinking back. “You should trust me more.”

“And you should stop looking at me like I’m about to kill you.”

The words come out far worse than he intended, as Ashveil can see you flinch.

Silence stretches between you both and that damn phone, suffocating and ugly, until finally the pressure snaps and you can’t hold it in anymore.

“Were you the one stalking me?” you ask with small dread. “Breaking into my house?”

Ashveil stares; then he laughs through his nose, disbelieving, and steps closer to pull you against him before you can retreat further.

“What are you talking about?” He twist off and puts your phone aside on the small table before his hands settle on your arms in attempt of comfort. “Oh, I get it now. You’re exhausted all that happened tonight, and your mind is playing tricks with you. That’s understandable, sweetheart, so we should just rest—”

“It all makes sense now though!”

“What.”

“All those weird comments you kept making!” Your voice rises despite your worry he’ll snap. Even that rough sex seems worrying in hindsight. “You showing up everywhere I go, acting like you know things you shouldn’t! The lube thing! Someone breaking into my house and somehow knowing exactly what they were doing—”

“It's not what you think it is!” he butts in, while nearly shaking you.

“That’s what people always say when it is what you think it is!”

Alright. Maybe you’re correct. Still, you are missing important nuance here!

Ashveil exhales deeply and rubs a hand over his face, more exasperated than angry. “Okay. Fine,” he acquiesces. “Maybe some things looked strange. But have I ever hurt you?”

The questions stops you from trying to pull away from his hands.

“So you can believe me when I say I don’t have bad intensions.”

He’s not denying it. He’s explaining it, sounding like someone already aware he has crossed too many lines to convincingly pretend innocence.

You feel bile come up to your throat, stuck in terror. He is your stalker, and you just have slept with him.

All those walks together, “accidental” or “deduced” meetings, all those services right in time— You can’t believe how blind you’ve been, but you don’t even want to imagine how many times he may have followed you, watched you, entered your home. You have a worse issue on your plate, your safety compromised.

You finally go for the door.

The second you bold away from him, ripping yourself from his grasp, Ashveil’s expression changes into something vicious.

“Come back here!”

You sprint through the apartment, heart pumping so hard it makes you taste blood. Unlike him, you know this layout—no, scratch that. He knows it too, much to your fear, and he’s fast.

You barely reach the hallway before strong arms hook around your waist from behind and lift you off the floor. You scream immediately as you kick and thrash against him.

“Let me go!” you scream. “Help me—”

He curses under his breath and quickly sets you down again to clamp a hand over your mouth so the neighbors cannot hear you.

“Hey, stop screaming!” he hisses desperately into your ear. “I’m not going to hurt you. You just need to listen to me for five minutes.”

You fight him anyway, digging your heels against the floor while he attempts to drag you backward, trying not to actually manhandle you harder than necessary.

Then unexpectedly, Princess arrives.

The barking explodes through the house once she sees you in your distress, loud and and furious enough to make Ashveil panic too.

“Princess!” you cry weakly against his palm, the sound muffled.

The dog only gets louder, teeth bared now.

Honestly, the betrayal stings Ashveil a little. After everything, all those treats and secret visits over beef jerky, he really thought they had achieved some sort of understanding. He could be her second owner. Even her dog father, in a horribly domestic fantasy he occasionally indulges in when particularly lonely.

Turns out Princess is more like a queen of this kingdom, and she’s still loyal to you, choosing you over treats alike.

She’s a good girl which he should praise her for, but her timing is still extremely inconvenient.

“Princess,” Ashveil warns, “quiet!”

She barks even harder, not liking his tone at all. His pulse spikes at the thought of your neighbors hearing her and finding it alarming.

Ashveil hates himself for what he says next. “Tell her to stop,” he says coldly from behind you, “or I'll make her stop.”

It sounds a threat enough to you, as your sobs burst violently against his palm. It’s unbelievable he’s been such a bastard all along, now betraying you in the worst way imaginable for a pet owner.

He doesn't want to hurt the dog and he’d probably cry afterward if he actually had to, but the fear has already pushed him to resort to more extreme measures.

“If I move my hand,” he says more gently now, “will you calm her down without screaming again?”

You nod, terrified for Princess’s safety. So slowly, he lets go of your mouth.

“P-Princess.” Your voice shakes terribly. “Go. We're just playing.”

The whine you hear in response tugs at your heart.

“Please,” you beg her.

Princess hesitates for another second before reluctantly retreating down the hallway, her tail low.

Ashveil exhales in relief.

“See?” he says quietly, not sure if he’s reassuring you or himself. “Nobody’s getting hurt.”

You don’t answer, still scared, so he continues, “Listen.” He slightly eases his grip on you, though not enough to let you break free easily. “Here’s what's going to happen.”

But your terrified brain only hears: “here’s what’s going happen to you.” Especially if Ashveil he no longer looks like your strange detective anymore. He’s bigger, stronger, and definitely capable of vile acts. In a way no amount of self-deprecating humor of a pathetic dog at your doorstep can soften now; a broken-legged wolf finally cornered yet still having it in him.

Ashveil’s own thoughts are spiraling just as badly. He doesn't know what Mister N would do if he suddenly dragged home a terrified woman in the middle of the night. And if you disappear entirely, there’s every chance somebody connects him to you eventually, and he refuses to ask Pearl for help in something so revolting. You pass through with him by your side often, enough for some of the public to recognize you two.

He doesn't want your relationship destroyed completely either. Even with your trembling in fear in his arms, the desperate parts of him still want to salvage it.

“You and I are going to talk,” he says after brief pondering, trying to even out his breathing. He has to stay strong for the both of you. “You’re going to listen to me properly and realize I mean no harm.”

Right as he lets you go, his hand finds yours before leading you back towards the bedroom that now feels claustrophobic. Your obedience as you follow him is no more than anxiety towards repercussions.

This time, he sits down on your against the headboard with you trapped on his lap, arms wrapped around your waist while you remain stiff like a prey in freeze mode. The moment he presses his face into your shoulder, all of that aggression turns into something weary.

Yet the fear he’s going to hurt you cannot leave, no matter how much he exposes his belly.

“It was one time,” he murmurs weakly. “Just this once.”

“I don't believe you.” You squirm on his lap, bracing your hands against his shoulders, but he only tugs you closer.

“Someone experienced at breaking into your house would not leave something as stupid as a grocery store receipt.”

Well, he would, but…

And to you, that sounds like a sound argument to you. However…“That doesn’t prove your innocence!” you argue with tears of fury prickling your tears as you glare down at him. “You could have gotten comfortable! And even if it were to be one time thing, that doesn’t make it okay anyway!”

“I know.” His voice cracks, quieter. “I know it doesn't. I just… needed to be close to you,” he looks you deep in the eyes as he says that, all sad-sappy. Then he hides himself in your shoulder again. “I’m sorry if it makes me look disgusting. Or frightening. Perverse. I know how it sounds.”

It’s a touch-and-go situation. One wrong sentence and perhaps you'll hate him completely. Or maybe you’ll pity him again. Or maybe you’ll find him even more disturbing, demanding that he disappears from your life entirely—he’d break apart like tawdry pottery right after.

As the admission settles heavily over your already addled head, his body suddenly jerks. You feel warm tears hit your skin, those that he cannot stop for once.

Truly a selfish man he is. After years committed to altruism in the act of redeeming himself, here he is, trying to have something for himself again.

At first, you almost think he's taking it deliberately—and some part of him is, leeching off your empathy. Ashveil is not stupid; he knows exactly how soft-hearted you are, and how difficult it is for you to stay angry at someone visibly suffering.

However, the tears themselves are real, falling shamefully no matter how tightly he clenches his jaw.

“I have no one left,” he says shakily, crumbling at your expense. “Do you understand that? I scrape together enough money to keep the lights on, I sleep in a damn refrigerator to ease my arm pain, people either hate me or want something from me, and then…” His grip around you tightens so much you almost suffocate. But he needs to hold onto you. “Then you happened.”

Your chest tightens painfully and it's not his because of his iron hold. All these weeks of him following you, hesitant at first, doing acts of service for you—wordlessly demanding to be useful. Lighting up at a simple nice sentence or trying to impress you dumb ways.

You thought he's just a people pleaser, someone who in the end wants to help everyone. Yes, he seemed a bit lonely, but you didn't anticipate this extent of grief.

“But why…” Your own eyes water even more from the pressure of his woes. “Why wouldn't you just ask to spend time with me normally? We already saw each other all the time…”

“It’s… different.”

“Different how. Are you being stupidly prideful or something?”

Ashveil goes quiet for a longer moment again. The real answer sounds pathetic. Saying “I wanted to be near you even when you weren’t choosing me, as humanly possible” is not something most people would admit aloud.

“No. I…” he weighs his words carefully, “I didn’t want to suffocate you. I know what I’m like, once I care about someone, I…” He laughs weakly through the tears. “I get attached, deeply. So I thought if I stayed nearby quietly, it wouldn't burden you.”

“And that warrants breaking in?” You look at the top of his head, your lip trembling at the thought.

“No,” he admits immediately. “To be fair, it sounds insane when said out aloud.” Another small laughs escaped him. “Cowardly.”

“Were you stalking me too?” you ask again.

“Define stalking.”

You stare at him with disbelief. “Ashveil!”

No denial makes it clear to you.

He lifts his head, speaking frantically as it occurs to him that you’re at your wits’ end, he willing to admit at least something so you could find it within your heart to forgive him. “Fine!” He wipes his eyes aggressively with the heel of his palm, the other hand still holding your waist. “I followed you a few times. But only because Planarcadia’s dangerous and you have absolutely no survival instincts sometimes and—”

The slap cuts him off sharply, his head turning from the impact. He looks back at you slowly, smiling wistfully. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I deserved that.”

He’d take that over you leaving him. You still haven't tried to kick him out—not that he’d let you succeed in it easily—which he desperately takes as a positive sign.

“Don’t stop,” he says with a quiver, tears still stubbornly clinging to his lashes. “Keep hitting me if you want, if it makes you feel better.”

And so you do.

It's easy to let anger overtake you after everything. Your palms strike his shoulders, his chest, his face once more, while something twists furiously inside you, wanting him to stop looking so miserable. He should stop acting like a kicked dog after frightening you half to death.

“How could you do something like this?!”

“I know

“You lied to me.”

“I know.”

“You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

Yet Ashveil only takes it, not trying to defend himself, only making sure you don't leave his lap; as though punishment is preferable to the thought of you leaving him.

However, seeing him crying properly again, looking all the more shaken and choking on his sobs, the sight snuffs the rest of your anger out before you can continue. The lamp beside your bed shines light on how worn out to the bone he is, painting ugly caricature of the man you believed to know differently. The guilt, even if misplaced between you two, tears you apart.

“Stop being so meek!” you yell, starting to cry on your own. “I don’t know what happened to you, but…”

You truly don’t know and he doubts you’d want to know. Or maybe you would, striving to understand him as part of your empathy, and you’d simply frown upon the truth. About Kronstadt, La Mancha, battles full of hunger and destruction, companions reduced to fragments of themselves… About phantom pain and endless revenge, vendetta and the hunt, centuries spent surviving when he no longer wishes to.

“Hey, hey…” he murmurs, trying to bite down his tears. “Hey, it’s okay…” Slowly, he pulls you both back down onto the mattress, holding you and your trembling body against his chest. “We don't have to talk about all that tonight,” he whispers softly. “You’re exhausted.”

You do realize you should push him away, scream again, throw him out and never let him near you afterwards.

You must be insane or gullible or stupid or anything such, for you let him stay by your side. You curl yourself closer to him, needing some reassurance. You can’t pinpoint whether you're simply overwhelmed and he’s the nearest comfort to reach, you're just lonely on your own, or if somewhere along the way, Ashveil genuinely did become important to you. The responsibility now feels forced onto you anyway.

That choice to accept his touch elates his chest for a moment, he nearly laughs from the joy. Forgetting himself about his typical concerns and the price to pay for them should they be overlooked, he tucks your head under his before starting to rub your back. Holding you like this is as wonderful as he imagined.

“Can we…” he begins, a bit less torn, sniffling out the last sobs. “Can we try again? No more secrets like that this time.”

There will be secrets, of course. Things he can never safely tell you. But smaller ones, perhaps…

“I’ll be good for you. To you,” he promises like his life depends on it. “I need you.”

“I don’t want you to be good for me!” you cry out into his chest. “Just… be.”

The words affect him more than anything that has been done so far. Words he doesn’t deserve and that he mustn’t endorse, words that he still chooses to selfishly cling to. If he perhaps has only a few years left, he wishes to shine bright under your light.

“Then…” He swallows hard, his ears ringing from the surge of happiness that went suddenly through him; at least, the closest thing he’s felt to it in ages. A small ray of sunshine, overshadowing his guilt and dullness for a moment. “Will you let me stay near you?”

You know you shouldn’t. Every nerve in your body screams at you that this is wrong, unhealthy being the least intimidating and meddlesome part. He violated your privacy, lied to your face, manipulated you, and frightened you so badly you though this night might become your last.

But how can you feel anything but cruel when Ashveil cups your face so carefully, lifting your gaze at his, and looks at you as if you have handed something dying an unexpected reason to keep breathing? Perhaps some weak part of you recognizes that loneliness more than you would want to admit.

Against all reason, you nod your head against his palm.

Ashveil smiles.

Unlike yours, it isn’t a pretty smile at all.

If you’re still here, thank you for reading! <3 Comments and reblogs are appreciated.

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