[awhkaiy]

𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡, 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡

TYLA

Est. nov 2004

oh. this person has a little mauve matchbook in their coat pocket and probably knows a suspiciously good café.

DIRECTORY :

01. about me

02. guidelines

03. tag system

04. wips

05. writing

06. masterlist — utc !!

GENSHIN IMPACT

+ priest lohen thoughts

+ closer than he meant to !! (the moment they realise they're in love) ft. wanderer, varka, lohen, illuga, flins.

MY HERO ACADEMIA

+ lethal warmth (pro hero katsuki bakugou)

[awhkaiy]

LETHAL WARMTH

We love pro hero Katsuki's hands. Yes, we. I’ve decided this is a group activity. 1.5k words.

Before meeting Katsuki in person, when he was just another hero you admired through the screens and posts on the internet, you had always wondered if his hands were warm. But at nights when winter felt closer and his body was pressed against yours, you found yourself gravitating towards him.

The bedroom was dark, save for the blue-grey bleed of early morning through the blinds, but you didn’t need light to find him. You just had to follow the heat. Sleeping next to Katsuki was like lying beside a furnace that had been left stoking all night.

You shifted, pressing your nose against the crook of his shoulder, inhaling the scent that was entirely, unmistakably him. It was a rich, heavy warm-sugar warmth—like caramelized butter and a hint of ozone—that clung to his skin no matter how many times he scrubbed himself down after a shift. Nitroglycerin. His body produced it like blood, a constant, sweet-scented fuel running just beneath his skin.

His right arm was thrown back across the pillows, heavy and relaxed. You slid your hand along his warm forearm, down to where the skin changed. To the rest of the world, Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight was a creature of terrifying precision and raw violence. They saw the gauntlets, the blasts, the recoil that shattered concrete. But here, in the quiet of your shared house, you felt the reality of what it took to carry that power.

You slipped your palm onto his. God, he was hot.

His palms weren't just warm; they were perpetually radiating a deep, dry heat, as if his internal thermostat was set ten degrees higher than the rest of humanity. It was the body’s way of keeping his sweat primed, his metabolic engine forever idling, ready to ignite at a millisecond’s notice. Your fingers traced the texture of his hand. The pads of his fingers were covered in thick, hardened calluses from a lifetime of controlling detonations. Along the edge of his palm and trailing down his wrist, the skin felt different—tighter, slightly rigid. Faded silver scar tissue from surgeries and ruined muscle fibers, the permanent receipts left behind by the battles he used to find himself in.

As you ran your thumb over the thick muscle beneath his thumb, Katsuki shifted. A low, gravelly grunt vibrated in his chest—a dry, morning sound. Even unconscious, his body reacted. Against your cool skin, his palm twitched, and a tiny, faint tink popped in the air between your hands. A micro-spark, no bigger than a fleck of dust, releasing a puff of warm caramel scent before disappearing into the sheets.

"Stop touching me, 's cold," he mumbled, his voice a deep, rough scrape against the quiet room.

He didn't pull his hand away, though. Instead, his heavy, scarred fingers slowly uncurled, stretched, and then folded completely over yours. His massive, heat-flushed hand swallowed you whole, trapping your cold fingers against the burning expanse of his palm. He pulled your joined hands down to his chest, trapping you against his side. The sheer contrast was ridiculous—his skin radiating enough heat to cure a chill in seconds, his grip heavy and absolute, but held with the exact micro-gram of pressure needed so as not to squeeze too hard.

"You're like a heating pad," you whispered into his collarbone, smiling softly, eyes half lidded with laziness.

"Shut up," he grunted into the pillow, his thumb making one small, deliberate stroke over the back of your hand before his breathing slowed back into the heavy, rhythmic rise and fall of sleep. "Go back to sleep."

His free hand moved to the back of your head, drawing you closer and tucking you against his chest, where the rhythmic beat of his heart slowly lulled you toward sleep. And you let it. The last thing you registered before drifting off was the warmth of his lips pressing softly against your forehead, a quiet promise that he would keep you safe.

There were days you found Katsuki going about his day, his hands handling each task with restraint he had to learn over the years. In combat, he could create spark-sized detonations to flick away debris or adjust a civilian's position without burning them. After work, you had learned that he's an expert knife handler in the kitchen, cuts vegetables with insane accuracy, and fixes gear by hand. Bakugou's version of gentleness isn't shy or soft-spoken. It's deliberate, because he was aware of how much destruction his hands could cause. So holding something delicate—a civilian's hand during a collapse, an injured animal, or someone he cares about—requires absolute, conscious intention.

When Pro Hero Dynamight reached out with a bare hand, he was actively suppressing the very essence of his Quirk. He held them without breaking or burning them. You always considered this his ultimate display of strength.

Then... there were days you'd catch him staring at his own hands.

The late-afternoon heat in the apartment was heavy, but the air coming off his skin was hotter. Katsuki sat on the edge of the low sofa, his forearms resting on his knees, head hung low as the quiet of a rare day off settled into his bones. His right hand was flexed open, fingers splayed over the coarse fabric of his sweatpants. Even at rest, they were broad, heavy things. The skin across the knuckles was thickened into pale, durable calluses—a lifelong trade-off for carrying nitrostarch through his pores. Faded, silvered lines traced the back of his wrists, faint mapped roads from surgeries and forced recoils that only a few people were ever allowed to look at for too long.

He closed his fist slowly, feeling the familiar, dull ache in the deep tissue of his palm. It was a dry, humming warmth—like holding a stone that had been sitting under a summer sun all afternoon.

Unbidden, a faint, rhythmic tink-tink-tink rattled off his thumb pad—micro-ignitions, harmless as static electricity, smelling faintly of burnt sugar and stale copper. He caught it immediately, his jaw tightening as he reined the spark back in.

Control.

He uncurled his hand again, reaching down to pick up a thin ceramic teacup left on the low table, a tea with dried jasmine you had left for him earlier. His fingers—calloused, scarred, built entirely for demolition—wrapped around the brittle porcelain with a precision so quiet it felt almost unnatural. No strain, no heat bleed, not even the whisper of a spark against the glazed rim. He lifted it, took a single swallow, and set it back down without making a sound.

He stared at his palm for a long moment, watching the faint pulse beneath the heat-flushed skin. The world called them weapons. But in the silence of his room, holding the quiet without breaking it, Katsuki knew better. They were just his.

The couch dipped under fresh weight, breaking the quiet. The sleeve of your shirt brushed his arm as you leaned back comfortably. Katsuki didn't turn his head, but his thumb brushed once against his palm—a reflexive check—before his hand dropped back onto his knee.

Your hand slid over his, soft and deliberately slow. The contrast was ridiculous. Where his skin was rough, calloused, and radiating that furnace-like thrum, yours felt cool. "You're burning up," you murmured, thumb tracing the thick, raised line of surgical pale skin that ran along the side of his wrist. "Did you skip the ice bath again after patrol?"

Katsuki let out a low, gravelly click of his tongue—that familiar, flat tch—but he didn't pull away. In fact, his fingers twitched open just enough to let you fit your palm squarely against his.

"Didn't skip it," he grunted, his voice dry and raspy from a full day of barking orders on-site. "Takes time for the heat to bleed off. You know how it works."

You didn't answer right away, just pressed a little firmer, your fingers lacing between his scarred knuckles. "They're so heavy," you noted softly, more to yourself than to him. "And loud. Even when you're just sitting here, I can feel the pulse in your thumb."

Katsuki's chest heaved in a silent, slow breath. His crimson red eyes stayed fixed ahead, his jaw working as if he were chewing on the annoyance, but the edge of his shoulder leaned a fraction of an inch into yours. "They're built to blow shit up," he said, his tone deadpan, utterly devoid of his old high-school posturing. It wasn't a brag anymore; it was just a statement of fact.

"I know," you murmured softly. "Which makes it weird how careful you are with them."

That got a reaction. Katsuki’s gaze flicked sideways, eyes sharp and heavy under furrowed brows. He looked at your joined hands—his massive, scarred, heat-flushed palm cradling yours like a piece of thin glass. A micro-spark popped against the air—a tiny snap no bigger than a matchhead, smelling of sweet burnt sugar. "Don't say stupid shit," he muttered, though his grip didn't loosen an inch.

He turned his wrist, folding his fingers firmly over yours, burying your cool hand completely in his heat. He bowed his head and pressed a tender kiss to your knuckles, his touch lingering even after he lifted his gaze to yours. With a slow, lopsided pull at the corner of his mouth, he added, "I'm not gonna break you. Now shut up and let me drink my tea in peace."

He didn't let go of your hand for the rest of the evening.

interactions, reblogs and likes are appreciated! this post belongs to © awhkaiy. do not repost or translate.

[awhkaiy]

how is your writing so good.WHAT DO THEY FEED YOU.

a balanced diet of insomnia and bad decisions. 💀 but for real, thank u so much i really appreciate the enthusiasm <33

[nata-mata]

[awhkaiy]

anon i hear you dw i'm cooking something with wanderer!!

[awhkaiy]

CLOSER THAN HE MEANT TO !!

ft. Wanderer, Varka, Lohen, Illuga, Flins.

( The moment they realise they're in love )

# sfw headcanon fic. gn!reader. just soft moments. the exact moment these guys realise that you mean more to them than they realised. No confessions, just that oh moment <3

✧ WANDERER (POST-NOD KRAI) 

Wanderer’s initial reaction to catching feelings won't be soft affection. It will feel like a trap he accidentally walked into.

The wind howling through the crags of Nod-Krai was sharp enough to scrape paint off iron, carrying the bitter tang of old frost and gunpowder. ​You were huddled near the dying embers of the braziers, trying to nurse a lukewarm cup of tea, when the air pressure shifted. A quiet thud sounded above you as boots landed on the wooden rafters. ​

Wanderer sat perched on the ledge, one leg dangling over the edge, his broad hat tilted low enough to shadow his face. He didn't look at you. He was staring out into the dark, barren expanse where the Abyss-corrupted night air rolled over the hills. ​"You're making too much noise," he said, his voice flat, cutting through the gale with zero effort. "And your fire is smoking. A blind Hilichurl could track you from three miles away." ​

"I didn't ask you to stay," you murmured back. ​

A harsh, scoffing noise escaped him. "Stay? Don't flatter yourself. The draft is better up here." ​But he didn't leave. He didn't move an inch. ​Instead, as a brutal gust of wind whipped around the corner of the ruined outpost, threatening to blow out your tiny fire entirely, the air around you suddenly went still. A faint, glowing swirl of Anemo rippled in a protective sphere around your small corner of the ruins, deflecting the freezing gale over your head like an invisible glass dome.

Below the brim of his hat, his hands were tense where they gripped the stone of his Vision. His knuckles were white. He was looking down at you now—his indigo eyes narrowed, dark, and terribly intense, filled with a complex, burning frustration that had nothing to do with the cold.

Pathetic, he thought, watching the way you leaned closer to the warmth he was maintaining for you. Look at you. Vulnerable. Soft. A single misstep in these borderlands and you'd be ash. ​

And the worst part—the part that made his chest ache with an old, bitter agony he thought he’d left behind in the Irminsul—was that if you became ash, he knew he would tear this entire region apart looking for the fire that did it. "Drink your tea," he muttered, turning his face away sharply into the biting wind, though the Anemo barrier didn't waver for a single second. "Before I decide to throw it into the snow.”

✧ VARKA.

The moment Varka realises he's in love with you, he goes quiet. Because he’s never quiet. He’s the guy who fills every silence with a boom of laughter, a clink of a glass, or a booming order. When a man who commands that much noise suddenly drops into total, uncharacteristic silence? That means something.

The table between you was strewn with the remnants of late-night work—spilled ink, burnt-out candle stubs, and an empty bottle of dandelion wine that Varka had finished an hour ago.

He was in the middle of a story, broad arms resting on the dark oak, spinning some utterly ridiculous tale about a northern bear that had allegedly tried to steal his boots during the expedition. He was leaning in, loud and animated, his laughter rumbling low in his chest like distant thunder, waiting for you to call him out on his obvious exaggeration. Instead, you just reached across the table.

You didn't say anything grand. You were just exhausted—eyelids heavy, voice soft—as you casually reached out, plucked the stray goose feather clinging to his lapel, and set it aside. Your fingers brushed the worn leather over his collarbone, trailing down for a split second to pull his askew cloak back over his broad shoulder so the draft from the window wouldn't catch him.

It was an entirely unconscious gesture. Instinctive, domestic. The action of someone who had simply gotten used to looking after him when he forgot to look after himself. And right in the middle of a syllable—Varka went dead silent. The sudden lack of his voice hit the room harder than a slammed door.

You blinked, looking up from his cloak, expecting to see him grinning or rolling his eyes. He wasn't. The lazy, theatrical warmth had entirely evaporated from his face. He sat completely motionless, his massive frame utterly still, blue eyes fixed on your hand where it still lingered near his collar.

"Varka?" you murmured, frowning a little. "Did I...?"

He didn't answer immediately. For three long seconds, the only sound in the office was the ticking of the grandfather clock and the howl of the wind outside the glass. In that quiet, you could practically see the gears turning behind those sharp eyes. The boisterous old lion was gone, replaced instantly by the seasoned commander—a man who had just recognized a massive, terrifying shift in the terrain and realized he was completely exposed. He wasn't scared; Varka didn't do fear. He was just... stunned by the absolute weight of it.

Ah, the thought struck him with the force of a broadsword. I’m done for.

Slowly, his chest rose as he let out a long, quiet exhale—no laugh, no joke attached to it. "No," Varka said softly, his voice dropping an octave, losing every drop of its usual performative flair. It was surprisingly rough, grounded, and entirely intimate. He reached up, his massive, calloused hand covering yours where it rested on his chest, gently trapping your fingers against the steady, thumping heat of his heart. He leaned back just an inch, his gaze locked onto yours with a terrifyingly clear, undivided focus.

"You didn't do anything wrong," he murmured, his thumb rubbing a slow, heavy circle over the back of your knuckles. A tiny, somewhat helpless curve touched the corner of his mouth—not his Grand Master grin, but something painfully real. "Just... stay right there for a second. Let me catch my breath."

✧ LOHEN

For a fighter used to sharp boundaries—someone enters your space, someone leaves your space—the concept of someone's presence remaining behind after their physical body has left is entirely foreign. It disrupts his internal logic.

The muffled rhythm of rain was tapping against the stained glass, casting long, fractured shadows across the stone floor of the archive. Lohen was leaning against the heavy oak table, arms crossed, trying his absolute best to look like the picture of composed authority. You were leaning over a spread of old maps, your shoulder brushing his sleeve every time you reached to trace a faded trade route.

"So," you said, not looking up, though the faint curve at the corner of your mouth gave you away. "If the shipment is delayed at the pass, your brilliant grand strategy collapses before the week is out."

"It won't be delayed," Lohen countered smoothly, though his eyes flicked down to where your hand rested on the parchment. "I sent the patrol out hours ago. Unlike some people, I don't leave my logistics to luck."

"Right. You leave them to terrifyingly precise planning and zero sleep." You finally looked up, turning toward him. You were standing entirely too close—close enough that he could see the tiny flecks of gold in your eyes, close enough that the soft, warm scent of bergamot and rain swept right past his carefully maintained defenses. Lohen’s throat went dry. He opened his mouth to deliver a sharp, witty comeback, but the words completely dissolved on his tongue.

"What?" you asked, tilting your head, amused by his sudden silence.

"Nothing," he said, stepping back just half an inch—a defensive maneuver he’d never admit to. He cleared his throat, forcing his usual smugness back into his voice. "Just waiting for you to finish cluttering my desk so I can actually get some work done."

"Charming as always, Lohen." You laughed, a quiet, rich sound that seemed to hum right through the quiet archive. You rolled up the map, tucking it under your arm, and patted his shoulder as you passed. "I'm leaving. Try not to miss me too much."

"Don't hold your breath," he called after you, watching as you headed for the heavy arched doors.

"Goodnight, Lohen."

"Night."

The heavy oak door clicked shut with a soft, final thud, the latch catching in the frame. The sound echo-canceled the energy in the room, leaving behind a sudden, heavy stillness. Lohen didn't move. He stood by the oak table, intent on grabbing his coat and heading out. But as he stepped forward into the space where you had just been standing, the air felt different. Thicker. Warmer. He caught himself inhaling—a slow, deep breath he hadn't planned on taking—and the faint, unmistakable trace of bergamot washed over him.

Lohen froze mid-step. He stared at the empty space in front of him, his chest tightening unexpectedly. His body leaned in just a fraction—an instinctual, unbidden impulse to catch the tail end of the scent before the cool draft from the window swept it away entirely.

What are you doing?

The thought hit him like a splash of ice water. He straightened up abruptly, a sudden flush of heat crawling up the back of his neck. He was a knight, a tactician—he tracked movements, anticipated strikes, read battlelines in seconds. Yet here he was, standing completely alone in a silent room, leaning into the lingering perfume air like a fool, trying to hold onto someone who had already left. He covered his face with one hand, letting out a breath that was half-sigh, half-disbelieving laugh.

Gods above, he thought, his heart hammering a stupidly fast rhythm against his ribs. I am in so much trouble.

✧ ILLUGA

For Illuga, love isn't just a sweet feeling—it’s an existential crisis. His immediate instinct won't be to jump in; it'll be to keep a protective distance to keep you safe from his "curse.” Wanting to survive for you becomes his greatest hurdle and his greatest growth.

Illuga’s voice carried over the wind with the crisp, ringing clarity of a drawn blade. "Third squad, fall back to the treeline! Hold the perimeter, don't break formation!" ​Efficient. Absolute.

In the heat of an ambush, he moved like water and struck like iron, stepping smoothly between a bleeding scout and an incoming blow, his shield taking the brunt of the impact with a heavy thud. He didn't flinch, he never flinched. Taking the hit was second nature—a bill he paid willingly every time he brought his people home breathing. ​It was only after the dust settled, when the silence of the forest crept back in, that the exhaustion set in. ​

He was crouched by the supply crates, methodically wrapping a strip of linen around his bruised forearm, when you sat down beside him. You didn't ask permission. You just reached out, took the bandage from his hands, and began fixing the messy, hasty job he’d done on himself. ​

Illuga opened his mouth to tell you he was fine, that there were others who needed the medic’s kit more, but the words died in his throat. You weren't yelling. You weren't even scolding him. But the quiet, sharp tension in your jaw, the gentle precision of your hands as you worked... you were angry because he’d thrown himself into the line of fire again. You were hurt because he treated his own life like an acceptable loss. ​

"Illuga," you murmured, your voice low, almost a whisper over the rustle of the leaves. "Stop treating your life like a spare part."

His chest tightened—a sharp, sudden ache that had nothing to do with the combat. He looked at you, really looked at you, tracing the exhaustion line under your eyes, the dust on your cheek, the fierce, stubborn concern glowing in your gaze. For years, he’d believed his life belonged to the ghosts he left behind. He was a shield, and shields were meant to break eventually. ​But as your thumb brushed softly over the back of his hand, anchoring him to the present, the realization hit him like a physical weight: If I break, I shatter them. ​

"I'm sorry," Illuga said quietly, his voice losing its commander’s edge, softening into something raw, human, and deeply tender. He covered your hand with his own, his large, calloused palm warm against your skin. "I'll... I'll be more careful. I promise."

And for the first time in his life, he actually meant it. Not just to win the fight—but to make sure he came home to you.

✧ FLINS 

Flins uses death and his graveyard as punchlines. He’s the guy who teases you about having a plot picked out for you. The moment of realization hits when he tries to make one of those dark jokes about you—and suddenly finds the concept utterly revolting.

The air around the Final Night Cemetery was always biting, carrying the sharp scent of frost and turned earth. Flins walked with his usual measured, soundless grace, the azure light of his lantern casting long, eerie shadows against the gravestones.

You were walking beside him, bundled heavily against the Nod-Krai chill, complaining good-naturedly about the morbid route he’d chosen for your evening stroll. ​

"Come now," Flins purred, his voice a smooth, cultured hum as he tilted his head to look at you. His pupil-less yellow eyes caught the blue light of the flame. "It is perfectly peaceful. In fact, I was just admiring a spot under the weeping willows over there. It gets wonderful moonlight. I could reserve it for you, if you'd like?"

It was a standard line. A tease meant to draw out that exasperated little sigh he found so endlessly fascinating. You rolled your eyes, laughing breathlessly as a puff of white fog escaped your lips. "Keep it up, Flins, and I'll make sure you're the one who has to dig it." ​

He opened his mouth to deliver a perfectly timed, elegant retort—but the words died in his throat. ​The moonlight hit your face, illuminating the pink flush of the cold on your cheeks and the vibrant, undeniable warmth of your life against the frozen backdrop of his cemetery. ​Suddenly, the thought of you under the earth, cold and still beneath the willows, flashed through his mind. For a creature who had lived for centuries, who treated death like an old colleague, the imagery felt like a physical blow. The joke turned to ash. ​

The azure flame in his lantern violently hissed, flaring so bright it painted the snow in stark, electric blue. You blinked, startled by the sudden light, and looked up at him. "Flins? Are you alright?"

For a long, agonizing second, the Lightkeeper simply stared at you, his perfectly composed mask fracturing as an unfamiliar, suffocating possessiveness curled tight in his chest. He didn't want you as a memory. He didn't want you as one of the beautiful, tragic tales he told to travelers. ​"Yes," Flins finally murmured, his voice dropping an octave, entirely stripped of its usual teasing lilt.

He stepped closer, the graceful movement swift and almost predatory, until he was shielding you entirely from the biting wind. He reached out, his cold, gloved fingers gently but firmly adjusting the thick collar of your coat to cover your neck. ​"I just realized," he said softly, his golden eyes unblinking, "that I would very much prefer you stay above ground for a long, long time. Please... do not speak of digging graves tonight.”

interactions, likes and reblogs are appreciated! this post belongs to © awhkaiy. do not repost or translate.

[alkaliss]

nemophila

[awhkaiy]

Imagine the intimacy of resting your forehead against your f/o's.

Your foreheads meet a little awkwardly, not the seamless, cinematic press people imagine, but a careful alignment that take a second to find. Your nose nudge his on the way in, soft and clumsy, and neither of you pull back far enough to fix it. Your breaths overlap immediately—too warm, too loud, each inhale feels against the other’s upper lip, a shared rhythm that refuses to settle. This close, vision becomes useless; his features blurs into color and shadow, your lashes just a dark flicker at the edge of his sight.

It is disorienting, being that near and seeing almost nothing, forced instead to notice everything else—the slight give of skin against skin, the faint shift when one of you adjusts by a fraction, the way your breathing keeps brushing, interrupting, insisting. It isn't comfortable, not exactly. It is too close, too real. And maybe that is the point—there is no distance left to perform across, nowhere to look but into the small, unsteady space between you and him, where even silence feels shared.

[awhkaiy]

Priest Lohen in mind today. Heavily leaning into his hare-like instincts and Gothic Catholic themes. Because Priest Lohen is a menace as much as he is hot. You cannot convince me otherwise.

Imagine Father!Lohen whose faith teaches restraint, contemplation, and ritual...but whose nature is lightning. He doesn't slowly become angry. He goes from quietly praying to slamming someone into a stone pillar because they insulted an orphan. Five minutes later he's back in the chapel whispering, "Forgive me, Anemo Archon. It happened again."

Not because he's evil. But because he's fast. Mind, body, emotion. Everything fires before he can fully process it.

Hares survive by reacting before they think. So Lohen's impulsiveness becomes biological as well as psychological. He notices movement before everyone else, answer before questions finish. He's already climbed over the altar before the bishop realizes what's happening. And his companions are just standing there like

"...How did you even get up there?"

I also love how this changes the traditional religious symbolism in fiction. Instead of representing perfect virtue... He's constantly wrestling with sin, wrath, pride, impulsiveness, maybe even doubt.

Every day is a conscious effort to align himself with what he believes. That struggle makes him feel more believable than someone who is effortlessly saintly.

And unpredictability in Lohen is such an interesting trait for someone deeply religious. Most clergy in fantasy are portrayed as orderly, measured, predictable. Priest Lohen could be the opposite.

One day he's silently illuminating manuscripts. The next he's fistfighting a vampire with a candlestick because he decided that was faster than reciting the full exorcism.

I wanna shed light to another layer that feels almost poetic. A prey animal has no luxury of believing the world is safe. They're always scanning and always anticipating. That constant alertness is seen in Lohen, it makes him seem erratic to others, when in reality he's noticing details everyone else misses—Someone's hand twitches toward a hidden dagger? He's already moved. A chandelier chain starts to snap? He has shoved three people out of the way before anyone hears it.

People call him impulsive because they can't see the thousand tiny observations that led to that split-second decision. So you get this fascinating contradiction: He appear chaotic, even aggressive... but Lohen's instincts are frighteningly accurate. Mondstadt confess his outbursts, yet those same outbursts often save lives. Lohen desperately want to embody the calm ideals of his faith. While the very nature that makes him feel "unworthy" is also what allows him to protect others.

So what happens when Lohen finally starts taking notice of you? His attention isn't calm. It locks on.

If someone catches his interest, he starts... observing. Not in a creepy way, More like an animal trying to understand something unfamiliar. And you can feel his stare on you, like an ice cube held to your spine. But when you turn around, it's just Father Lohen. He doesn't break his gaze but the smile he gives you makes it easier to ignore the way your heart rattles your ribcage.

Lohen couldn't tell anyone if they were to ask him what your favorite color is. But he knows the little things—the way you skip the first step coming into the church. The way your fingers tap on the wooden pew when you're thinking, he's memorised the rhythm even. He doesn't realise it until he's laying wide awake at night, in his room that consists of only a chair and a bed. One arm tucked under his head, his other hand resting on his chest, fingers drumming the rhythm he's seen you do countless times.

Being a priest in a fantasy religion like the church of favonius also gives him an excuse. If anyone, like the grandmaster, Varka were to point out his interest on you. Lohen would simply answer with a smile and a sly tilt of his head. "Oh, I'm simply making sure all pilgrims feel welcomed."

"Sure, Lohen," Varka's voice rumbles from his chest, amused and teasing as he fixes the younger man with his blue-eyed gaze. "That's definitely why you've memorized exactly how many sugar cubes they put in their tea."

I also don't think he'd idealize people. He's observant enough to notice flaws almost immediately. The interesting part is...they don't bother him. Older priests often find him in the church's garden, his tasks paused for his thoughts. If you stand close enough, you'll be able to hear him talking to himself—

"Oh." His voice is low, thoughtful, a gloved hand brushing his chin. "They're stubborn... They lie when they're embarrassed... They're terrible at taking care of themselves."

Then a pause. The wind sweeps past him, spreading out the dried leaves he had been trying to clean up.

"I should probably make sure they eat."

There's a very hare quality to that curiosity. It's energetic, restless, almost impossible to suppress. One moment Lohen is bouncing between three unrelated topics, the next he's gone completely still because you said something that genuinely surprised him. For someone who lives on instinct, the rare person who can consistently surprise him might become the most compelling mystery in his world.

hi! also this is my first post on this blog. i have so many thoughts about priest lohen. lmk if you want more. my asks are always open + reblogs and likes are appreciated <3