THIS IS NO PLACE TO WONDER. welcome to ✦𝐤𝐲𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐢✦ a portrayal of the lighthouse keeper 𝐅𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐬. taken from the genpact universe. as burned by shrimpy. 21+ she/her. an indie, private, highly selective, multiverse && multifandom writing blog for a lonely lantern fae. not affiliated with any rpc. heavily headcanon based off original lore and greek & folk mythos. mature/dark themes with mentions of the macabre and the supernatural. sporadic to low activity ✦BLOGROLL: aguilareye luxarrow
✦✦ 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 ✦✦ 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐒 ✦✦ 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 ✦✦
✦ Among the headstones, beneath the moon’s cold gaze, here lies eternally … predvestnik. vvaeritas. spurhill.
Even the most cunning soldier recognizes when he's been cornered. By his own hands and what he thought was knowledge of the fae language, which, Rerir is sure, is even funnier to the fae snuggling in his hold. However... there's no real anger in him. Not quite. A flicker of irritation, perhaps, redirected at himself for the impulsive decision.
This changes nothing between them, does it? The bond between them was already present, this confusing ping-pong between drawing their weapons in a lethal dance before ending up in the same bed, claws woven in long hair. It's confusing. It's exciting. The Sinner wouldn't know which adjective to pick best, which just makes the situation more garbled in his mind.
...Husband, huh. Something warm catches in his chest. '' You could try to sound a little less pleased about yourself, '' he grumbles, with no real bite. He'd never tell, but the damned fae is right: this has happened countless times already for them not to have fallen into rhythm with it. Almost absent-mindedly, he tucks a lock of indigo behind the pale skin of Flins ear, his other arm securing him better around slender waist. '' You wanted this. You did nothing to correct me- you wanted this. You wanted me. '' Of all people. Him. What a confounding concept...
Flins makes a quiet, pleased sound when Rerir’s fingers brush his hair back. Once they were claws, perhaps still are, but they are no longer sharpen to tear Flins to pieces. The strength and corruption still apparent in those abyssal hands, but now they are tame.
Gentle, even. It’s a small thing, such a simple gesture, but the fae leans into it like a creature that has discovered warmth after a long winter. His cheek turns slightly against the touch, dark lashes lowering as if savoring the moment. The sly grin Flins wore before softens at the edges, melting into something gentler, fond in a way he rarely lets himself be.
Flins stays tucked comfortably against Rerir, arms loose around the sinner's waist, nose nudging idly against the fabric at his shoulder. There’s a quiet little hum in his throat, content, thoughtful, and the sound of someone fitting himself into a place.
“You say that like it’s a revelation,” he murmurs, voice warm with amusement.
When Rerir’s arm tightens around him, Flins tilts his head just enough to look up at him. His smile turns crooked again, less victorious now, more knowing.
“How could I have stopped you? Of course I wanted it. However, it's no spell. It's not even vows the same fashion as how mortals marry. It is simply … poetry. A song from one own's heart, calling to another, joining them in reverie.”
Flins explains as he recalls the words and a tender smile draws across his pale features. It has been such a long time since he heard another speak the fae tongue. While they were some errors in pronunciation on Rerir's part, it was nonetheless beautiful.
Flins lays his head against Rerir's chest and closes his eyes, smiling softly. His nose brushes briefly along Rerir’s jaw in an affectionate little nuzzle, bold and unbothered. Then he sighs, content as a fox curled in stolen blankets.
Flins lets himself be caught with theatrical ease, laughter puffing softly from his chest as Rerir pulls him closer. The lightkeeper's arms slip around Rerir’s middle, the cape draping around him and enveloping him and his azure light.
The lightkeeper leans his weight against Rerir as though he belongs in his embrace, because apparently, he does as they are indeed married by fae law. Unbeknownst to the sinner, but perfectly calculated by Flins.
A slow grin curls across the fae's face, sharp and delighted, the kind of smile a fox might wear after stealing a hen and leaving no feathers behind.
“Mm, look at that,” he hums, voice lilting with mischief. “Much like how we fought countless times. I, caught up in your arms. You must enjoy this, seeing me like this.”
...Why is there a shovel in his hands? He didn't picked THAT up. He totally did not. '' ...Aren't we already both dead? Why would we need to dig graves? ''
"I can't be that afraid if I'm going to make sure you're alright, Sir Flins." His expression is flustered for only a moment before it improves and slides back to the cool expression he's known for. "If you'd rather me not visit, I won't." A lie that he's sure Flins even knows, considering how he worries.
“If you truly didn’t want to visit,” Flins continues with a tilt of his head, eyes warm and far to perceptive. “You wouldn’t have wrapped your concern so carefully. Lies like that are built to protect the speaker, not the listener.”
His gaze lingers on Illuga’s face and composure snaps back into place like a practiced spell. He shifts towards the direction of the lighthouse, voice lowering into more a gentle sound.
“You’re welcome to make sure I’m alright and this outpost is up to Ratniki standards. Come, squad leader," Flins adds, almost absentmindedly. "I even have tea prepared."
A smile ghosts across Flins' face, small, crooked, but not unkind. He's amused in a quiet way, like he’s found another coin for his collection.
“You're not afraid anymore, Young Master.” He says with voice soft as moss over stone. “Twas not long ago when you stood upon the beach of the lighthouse did the whispers and shadows of Final Night Cemetery made you … pale.”
@kyryii ──── .✦. ──── Flins tilts his head curiously, pale eyes staring at the delusion on Tartaglia's waist. How curious. The snowland fae rarely uses his electro moon wheel, but this situation calls for it. A gloved finger taps the harbinger's delusion and The Lightkeeper sends a spark, zapping them both with a charged connection. "Huh," is all Flins says with their hair sticking up.
he had been chatting about everything and nothing at once, counting the stars in the sky and waves crashing quietly on the shore while the heat of alcohol lingered on his tongue and made his every word sound funny. It is easy to give in to the quietness under the moonlight when unwelcome shadows avoid lurking around the Lightkeeper's Lighthouse, even easier to dive into the comfort of conversation when the only corruption prevailing is his.
Childe's tale of something lived across the continent pauses under the intensity of Flins' stare, its ending postponed in favor of following the Ratnik in his interest.
If he expects a question, it doesn't come in a way that allows for an answer. Instead, the Eleventh's body tenses with electric currents coursing along every part of him; his back, taut from habit and discipline, arches feebly in an attempt to dispel the surge of lunar energy, and his delusion reacts with short sparks.
The energy drifts quickly with a faint crackle, but its effects are still felt on his scalp and tingling on his extremities. And as it seems, it isn't unique to him.
Somewhere, deep in his throat, a laugh threatens to escape as he extends his hand above Flins' head, hovering back and forth as means of toying with the strands of hair fanning outward like a purple halo of flyaways and leftover static. ❛ You look like you're receiving radio signals from the moon. ❜
I need to spread my rare crossship agenda. Hear me out: Flins x Phainon 👀
Phainon is dog coded. Dogs and most animals are scared of Flins, but not this giant sopping wet dog of a samoyed. Very curious of the fae. Phainon has golden flames, Flins purple. Moon & Sun coded or Day & Night.
Consider this interaction:
Flins speaking a fae incantation:
Phainon, his ahoge sticking up with genuine surprise to hear Amphoraen outside of Amphoreus, and he replies in Greek: is that a poem? That sounds lovely.
Flins: ?????
Aedes Elysiae may as well be hyperborea at this point. The golden fields … the golden house 👀 @predvestnik so right for that.
[savor.] sender deliberately slows their rhythm, intent on lasting as long as possible. + [check-in.] sender pauses every few thrusts to ensure receiver is handling things okay. // bats my lashes at you
Nod-Krai's aurora lights filter through the frost-cracked windows of the lighthouse, casting ethereal shadows across the darken humble home. The obsessive Rächer of Solnari has claimed the enigmatic Lightkeeper this night, not in the fury of their usual battles, but in a tense surrender forged from their tangled enmity. Flins lay beneath the sinner on a bed of snow-dusted furs, his thin and lithe form arches with a mix of guarded defiance and raw need.
Their bodies intertwined, sweat-slicked despite the chill, and abyssal claws pin Flins' wrists above his head, the pink-red blotches of Abyssal energy pulsing faintly on Rerir’s exposed skin.
Flin’s chest heaves as he feels the pressure entering him slowly, inch by deliberate inch, savoring the tight heat. Flins' lips part in a soundless plea, swallowing the gasps and moans in his throat and not giving the sinner the satisfaction of being devoured. Rerir stills above him, his muscular frame taut with the same iron restraint that had sustained him through centuries of fragmentation.
The hunted now the hunter savors the victory regardless and Flins can see the sinner wants this to last; eternities if he could manage it, longer than the Wild Hunt's endless pursuits. No rushed release, no frantic chase. Just the exquisite torture of prolonged ecstasy, a twisted reprieve from their cycle of conflict.
With a deep, measured thrust, Rerir buries himself fully and Flins clenches around him like a vice forged in lunar-charged thunder. He rolls his hips once, twice, in a languid rhythm that teases the edges of pleasure without tipping over, and the sinner’s crimson cape drapes aside like a bloodied banner.
Whimpers escape, his legs wrapping around Rerir's waist, urging him deeper, faster, but Rerir slows even further, dragging out each withdrawal until only the tip remains before easing back in with agonizing care, his white hair falling messily over his partially wrapped face.
Rerir murmurs something Flin doesn’t catch, his voice a gravelly rumble against Flins' ear, echoing the obsession that had drawn him to reclaim what Flins unwittingly held.
His heart, now metaphorically and literally.
He pauses mid-thrust, holding perfectly still, buried to the hilt. His single exposed serpetine eye locked onto Flins, searching for any sign of discomfort amid the flush of arousal, the black slit pupil narrowing like a predator's.
Flins does not need this care, this comfort, not from the madman he was hunting.
“En-enough, Sinner.” Flins speaks, his breath hitching and its usual cultured poise fractures under the intensity. “You win this bout, but… you will not break me.”
This vessel body of his quivers, hips bucking instinctively, and Rerir's grip on his thighs keep the fae grounded. Satisfied, the sinner resumes, thrusting in a slow, undulating pattern, three deep strokes and then a pause. Each time he halted, he leans down to lick and kiss at Flins' neck, tasting the salt of his skin mingled with the faint scent of seaside fog, whispering assurances laced with his conflicted fixation; the murmurings of a madman who ensure the snowland fae is still with him, lost with him in the corruption of this joining.
Flins can't hold them much further and he moans, his fingers digging into the furs, and body arching as Rerir's cock throbbed inside him, stretching him to his limits without mercy; the Abyssal energy humming between them like a forbidden bond. Hours stretched into what feels like lifetimes, the aurora outside mirroring the building storm within. Rerir's control was ironclad, his rhythm a deliberate torment, unbroken even by the distant howls of Nod-Krai's wilderness.
Rerir growls beside his ear and Flins moans against his neck, "Yours. Take … be mine."
The pauses grow longer, the trusts deeper, and Rerir's hands roam Flins' body, teasing his chest, stroking his leaking cock; building the pressure until Flins is a writhing mess, tears of frustration and bliss building in the edges of his eyes. His electro sparks dance across Rerir's bandages. Teasing him also, a last fleeting attempt to defy the sinner.
The vessel body finally cracks and Flins arches his back, shuddering gasps, and Rerir quickens just enough to drive them both toward the edge with a surge that echoes their battlefield clashes. Flins feels every pulse, every lingering moment of their union, and the Abyssal power shared between them flares briefly like a shattered moon.
They collapse together, breathless and sated, the aurora lights fading as the sinner holds the lightkeeper close, more manic whispering. Flins heavies, catching his breath, and he repeats again with a dried whisper:
