.✦ ݁˖𝐎𝐡 𝐆𝐨𝐝, 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩?⋆˚࿔
A/n: I've got alot of requests with a flins fanfic so here it is now! I also tried to do a little experiment with the ghosts and I'm hoping that it did not turn out to be too weird...
the ghosts think they’re funny
Flins has always loved things with history.
Not the pristine, untouched kind of beauty—no. He favors the softened edges, the gentle wear that proves something has been held, chosen, survived. Coins dulled by centuries. Gems with hairline fractures that catch the light just right.
So it isn’t surprising, really, the way he loves you.
You notice it in the quiet moments. The way his thumbs linger when they find a scar, how he never rushes past the places you instinctively try to hide. When you flinch, he pauses immediately.
“May I?” he asks, every time. Always asks.
When you nod, he traces the mark with reverence, like he’s committing it to memory. Like it’s something rare.
“I like these,” he tells you softly, pressing a kiss there later, deliberately. “They mean you lived.”
Your insecurities don’t stand a chance against him. Not when he’s so gentle. Not when he’s so relentlessly affectionate, turning every blemish into something cherished.
Most people don’t see this side of him.
To them, Flins is composed to a fault—polite, well-spoken, distant in a way that makes him feel untouchable. Like he exists half a step out of time. Growing close to him takes patience. Trust.
But once you do, he softens. For you, and only you.
He opens doors, offers his coat, checks in constantly. Your comfort is his quiet religion.
What he doesn’t realize is how obvious his feelings are.
Not to you yet but to the ghosts.
They whisper when he passes. Drift closer when you’re around. You don’t hear the words, just the soft, conspiratorial hush that follows him like a shadow.
When he finally catches one of them gossiping, he clears his throat.
“That’s quite enough,” he says politely.
The first prank is harmless. You’re sitting with him in his shelter, rain tapping against the roof, when a cold breeze snakes around your ankles. You gasp softly, startled.
Before you can say a word, Flins is already moving, shrugging out of his coat and draping it around your shoulders, hands warm and steady.
“They’re being rude,” he mutters under his breath.
Behind him, a ghost knocks over a stack of books with a dramatic crash.
You jump. Flins exhales slowly, clearly mortified.
“Oh,” you say, then laugh. “They’re… playful.”
The ghosts absolutely lose it.
Over the next few days, they get bolder. Lights flicker whenever you sit close. A phantom cough sounds suspiciously pointed when Flins’s hand lingers too long near yours. Once, a translucent hand shoves his shoulder forward just as he’s leaning in to speak—sending him far closer to you than intended.
Later that night, you find him tense, pacing slightly, jaw tight.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “They shouldn’t involve you.”
You shake your head. “I don’t mind.”
You’re tired. Bleary-eyed. Shaking just a little from the cold and the long day. You look up at him without realizing what that expression does to him—open, trusting, exhausted.
Something in his chest aches.
He hates that his body reacts, heat coiling low at the sight of you like this. It feels wrong to want you when all he wants is to take care of you.
But he can’t take it anymore.
He cups your cheeks, palms warm, thumbs brushing softly beneath your eyes. He takes one breath, commits your face to memor
It’s gentle. Careful. Almost reverent.
He pulls back instantly, horrified. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have-”
You grab his coat and pull him back in.
Somewhere behind him, a ghost cheers.
Flins forgets everything.
When he finally breaks the kiss, cheeks flushed pink, he clears his throat and takes your hand.
“It’s cold,” he murmurs, embarrassed but smiling. “We should go inside. Somewhere… private.”
He ignores them completely.