Husband!Flins who has a habit of appearing beside you without making a sound. You’ll be looking for something around the house, muttering to yourself about where you left it, only to turn around and find him standing there with the exact thing in his hand. He never seems particularly surprised by this. He simply holds it out to you with that faint, knowing smile.
Husband!Flins who finds your ordinary human habits endlessly amusing. Not in a mocking way, but with genuine fascination. He’ll watch you get excited over a particular dessert or complain about the weather and look almost entertained by how seriously you take such little things. After all these years, humanity still manages to surprise him.
Husband!Flins who is remarkably difficult to embarrass, which makes teasing him almost impossible. You can make some ridiculous comment expecting him to get flustered, only for him to look at you with that perfectly composed expression and respond with something so unexpectedly clever that you're the one left speechless.
Husband!Flins who remembers conversations you had months ago far more clearly than you expect. You’ll casually mention something you wanted once and completely forget about it, only for him to bring it up later as though the conversation happened yesterday. He doesn't make a point of remembering. He simply does.
Husband!Flins who becomes strangely fond of hearing you talk while he works. It doesn't matter whether you're telling him an elaborate story or rambling about something completely insignificant. He'll continue whatever he's doing, occasionally humming in acknowledgement, but you can always tell he's listening. The lighthouse may be quiet, but he never seems to mind your voice filling it.
Husband!Flins who has an uncanny ability to tell when you're pretending to be fine. He won't immediately question you or demand an explanation. Instead, he'll simply stay nearby, making himself available without crowding you. Eventually, when you're ready to talk, you'll find that he's already been waiting.
Husband!Flins who occasionally lets his old-fashioned manners become almost ridiculous with you. He'll offer you his arm even when you're only walking across the room together, pull your chair out despite you insisting you can do it yourself, and somehow make handing you a cup of tea feel like a formal occasion. He finds your amused reactions more entertaining than he'll ever admit.
Husband!Flins who secretly enjoys when you interrupt his stories. He'll be halfway through some elaborate tale when you suddenly point out that he's told you this one before, and instead of being annoyed, he'll pause with a little smile and say that perhaps he simply enjoys telling it to you. It's one of the few ways he'll openly admit that he likes your company.
Husband!Flins who is much more mischievous than people would expect. His expression rarely gives him away, so you'll only realize you've been teased after the fact. He'll make some perfectly innocent-sounding remark, watch you slowly realize what he meant, and look entirely pleased with himself.
Husband!Flins who treats your belongings with almost absurd care. If you leave something somewhere, he won't casually toss it aside or move it without thought. He'll remember exactly where you tend to leave things and quietly return them there, because he's learned that your little habits are part of the life you've built together.
Husband!Flins who doesn't need constant conversation to feel close to you. There can be long stretches where neither of you says anything, simply sitting together while the evening passes. He seems especially comfortable with that kind of quiet, occasionally glancing over at you as though your presence alone is enough to keep him company.
Husband!Flins who, despite everything that has made him accustomed to solitude, never treats your presence as something ordinary. He may be perfectly capable of spending endless nights alone, but whenever you choose to sit beside him, he'll make room without hesitation. And perhaps that is the closest Flins ever comes to admitting just how much he treasures having someone beside him.
# 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.”
the concept of flins speaking fae to you. it’s an intimate act of love he saves just for you, a way to show how he adores you, how much he trusts you to share that part of him. he mostly just speaks in short phrases throughout the day – gentle good morning greetings when the moon has yet to yield to the rising sun, lingering farewells when he leaves to scout for the wild hunt, and the sweet nothings he speaks in your ear when he desires to see that pretty blush spread across your face.
and some times it’s not so intentional. some times his native tongue slips through his lips like reverent prayers when he feels the sweet wrap of you around his cock. you’re so warm it makes him feel feverish, desperate thrusts of his hips as he seeks your pleasure and his own; and despite all of his eloquence and etiquette, flins cannot help the occasional breathless curse word in fae when he watches you fall apart so beautifully underneath him.
flins getting his butt clocked by the reader (again) when it comes to flirting, or flins' nosy fae nature peeking out only to get humbled real quick. kind of a vision of my recent fae flins drabble if you squint..
Reader squirming and getting all flustered by Flins having his hands all over them, yeah, that’s it.
cw: (nothing really too nsfw, just a lot of touching & super suggestive), established relationship
it was common that your boyfriend would want to have his hands all over you all the time despite his words. i think that was the charm of your fae—he just… couldn’t help it when it came to you in some ways.
especially whenever you would squeak at the sudden hold he had you in even when he said he wouldn’t be around you too much today,
“and you know, we’ve been- my…. word— kyryll!” you exclaimed, a small high-pitched noise leaves you as well; describing your shock as you feel arms wrap around your waist.
“mmn? surprised, are we?” — your mind turned frazzled as he only held you tighter onto his chest. back on his body, his fingertips were always cold, you could feel it all over yourself whenever he would pull things like this on you.
even in front of your allies- close friends, companions...
whilst talking to lauma, he didn't stop, and unfortunately you start to grow into that fact that he does, but god you could never come to terms with how often it happens.
"we could start on redesigning the wall, it doesn't seem too safe for kids- oh fuck," you shivered when you suddenly felt a hand crowding around your shoulder.
"pretty... you left so early."
"flins, you can't keep doing this when i'm talking to people..."
"your face is so pretty when it gets a little dark around that."
gosh even at home he wasn't able to leave you alone, fuck that.
personal space doesn't exist when it's you two together romantically in a timeline, whether that be him kissing your collarbone, running his fingertips up your spine, massaging your thighs, etcetera.... you know, taking a bath. the regular things, the stuff that's supposed to be your own that turns 'yours' to 'ours'.
🏩 "𝑲𝒀𝑹𝒀𝑳𝑳 𝑪𝑯𝑼𝑫𝑶𝑴𝑰𝑹𝑶𝑽𝑰𝑪𝑯 𝑭𝑳𝑰𝑵𝑺," ◦ ₊ㅤ ﹙ flins has been... watching you for a while. Just quietly, almost always there, and it's beginning to unnerve you. Is he going to murder you?? ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა artist: official hoyoverse art plz reblog / like 2 support ⠀ ⃘໋ׅ♡ 𝑤.𝑐: 1.5k ⁀ ˳ ⟡
#⃝ 𝓦ARNINGS ◦ ₊ㅤ ㅤ﹙ sfw fluff crack flins is scary at first she/her pronouns used flirty flins only tooth rotting fluff you and flins both are being from snezhnaya before traveller got to nod krai just sweet fluff 2nd person perspective
໒ִ 𓈒ིྀ ˚ ℳINA'S 𝓝OTES ⫽ ୧ྀ ─ I have a c3r1 flins yes be jealous masterlist <3
KYRYLL CHUDOMIROVICH FLINS has been everywhere for the past few weeks.
You rarely used to see him in Nasha Town, but nowadays he was everywhere. It was as if you were going insane. Every time you turned around, you’d see that stupidly handsome face, or hear that gorgeously delicate voice of his. Was this the moon goddess’s granting your wish to get a devastatingly beautiful boyfriend?
There was no exaggeration. You opted to visit Speranza for quick meals at dinner time, only to turn and bump into his chest every time. He’d smile all sweetly and greet you, before you apologised and rushed off. You visited ineffa and Aino to fix your catalyst at Clink-Clank Krumkake Craftshop? “Have either of you—oh. Hello, my lady, it’s a surprise to keep bumping into you,” his voice would speak directly behind you. Your heart beating so fast every single time.
Then the fluttering feelings started to waver and you began to think about what it could all mean. Was… was Flins hunting you down? You knew the light keepers were dedicated to protection of the island, and you had seen a glowing lantern floating off the corners of the island one late night. Were you cursed now? Was there an angry spirit following you that Flins was dealing with?
You walked by the Curatorium of Secrets, and would see that flash of purple hair out of the corner of your eye. Picking up books at Mimisbrunnr Books and you would start to sweat nervously, feeling his familiar eyes on the back of your head. You tried buying Rye at Nuts 'N' Nuts, only to freak out and jump when you heard his voice behind you, thinking he was about to enact his murder plan or something, you rushed off with a singular “sorry!”
While you were busy rushing off with a whine, overthinking and already planning how your funeral would go, because Flins was definitely following you around to kill you and quietly dispose of you body. You had upset some sort of lantern spirit and it had snitched to the one light keeper that it could talk to, and now your fate was sealed!
"I'm sorryyyyyy, lantern ghost!" you whined, footsteps leading to Paha isle.
Flins watched you run off, his gaze soft and curious, but a small pout on his lips that went unnoticed. His eyes snapped back to the old shopkeeper when the man began to speak again. "Stop scaring her away, Flins," he sighed and packaged the Rye before handing it to the light keeper, "Just get it done by today," he said, face darkening, almost grim, and placing something extra into the bag.
Flins hummed, his face straight, as he paid for the Rye and took the bag. His eyes downcast. "I will… after all, I know where my lady is going. I'll be a gentleman, as always. Have no worries, Mr. Aleksov."
The old man nodded, handing Flins a packet of tissues. His grey, tired eyes only sparing Flins a glance before focusing on other customers. "Keep your hands clean, be quick and done with it." The words were quiet, but enough for a wandering Dori to hear, and look over confused with wide eyes.
"Are they… planning a murder?" she gasped, before smirking and looking off into the distance, rubbing her chin, "Heh, I could make good money selling caskets."
. . .
You had wandered over to Final night cemetery, walking slowly across the dark and gloomy terrain. There were ghost candles lit all over the place, and you could've sworn that you heard whispers around you. "save us… save ussss…" you shivered at your imagination, slowly walking up the hill area to try and find the lantern ghost you had seen last time.
"uheee…. mr. purple lantern ghost, where are you?" you whispered, shivering before looking up at the lighthouse. The fog closing in around you.
The silence around you was deafening, and it was most definitely scaring you down to your bones. Taking you back to the night you had first seen that purple, glowing lantern.
It had been almost two months ago, when you had wandered over to Paha isle. You had seen some of the wild hunt nearby and killed them, before hearing whispers and hallucinating ghosts in the fog from your sleepiness. You had rushed over to Paha isle by mistake, going the wrong way instead of making your way back to Nasha town in your confused state.
"Oh," you had muttered, when the fog cleared up, and you had seen the lighthouse guiding you, instead of the comforting bustle of the town you lived in. You were about to turn around and make your way back, before you noticed the purple glow. Almost like it was calling your name, you followed and walked up to it through the fog, finding a floating purple lantern.
It was almost like it was magical, just hovering there, glowing. No one around.
The words of Aino had drifted back into your mind, as she had made you read story books with her and one of them talked about a magical oil lamp that granted wishes. "No one uses oil lamps in in Nod Krai, I bet its the magical lanterns that carry genies and wishes!" she had nodded confidently.
You weren't gullible, nor one to easily believe superstitions and follow them without question. Though… it couldn't hurt, right?
Your hands gently placed on the sides of the lamp, rubbing it gently, before you took them back and clasped your hands together. Squeezing your eyes shut and whispering, "puh-lease get me a beautiful boyfriend who's a gentleman and loves me and worships me, please, please, please!" you shook your hands before looking up at the sky with a sigh.
The lantern had flickered a little, as you hesitated before leaning down and placing a gentle kiss on the handle of it. When you pulled back, the lantern shook a little, making you step back worried, and look around confused. You had rushed back to Nasha town after that, brushing off the experience as a dream, until now.
"Am I gonna die? Oh mr. or mrs. lantern, I'm sorry for kissing your handle," present-day-you whined, before you felt a cold breath against your cheek.
"What are you doing, Miss Y/N?"
You shrieked, freezing up and quickly back away from the man, holding up your hands in front of him. It was the light keeper. The one you always took a second glance at whenever you used your see him, because whoever got to call him as his partner was destined with unimaginable luck. Flins looked unbothered and even tilted his head to the side, confused.
"I know what you're gonna say!" You whined out, and dropped to your knees dramatically. Flins was strong, he was scary, and even if he took your life because you had upset some lantern ghost, you probably wouldn't fight back just because you didn't want to ruin his beautiful face.
"You do?" his eyes widened for a fraction, before he hummed and nodded, holding the small bag to his side. "I see, I thought I was more… quiet about my advances." he muttered, rubbing his chin gently, in thought.
You sighed and nodded, head downcast, pouting and already thinking over your death. "I didn't know what I was doingggg.. the lantern was just… calling my name!" you gasped out, as he shook his head. "It was not," he corrected bluntly, making you sigh wearily. Your hands buried in the soil.
A few seconds passed, before you both spoke up at the same time. You blurting out your words. As he spoke eloquently.
"Please don't murder me!"
"Would you grace me with a potential romantic encounter, miss Y/N?"
You both froze, before meeting each other's eyes. equally confused. Flins eyes were narrowed, looking down in genuine confusion and slight shock. The most expressive you had ever seen him. Your eyes were widened, mouth agape slightly, and heat rushing to your face. Did… did the Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins just ask you out? On a date? Were you in heaven?
"What?" both voices spoke out at the same time.
Flins shook his head, looking at you utterly helpless and bamboozled as you stood up and dusted your hands off. “You’re not going to murder me…? B-but you were stalking me and obviously planning to kill me off because I upset the lantern ghost of Paha Isle!”
Flins looked side to side slowly before raising an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
You sighed and lolled back your head before explaining to him exasperatedly. “Two months ago, I went to this place, like—“ you pointed over to some shrubbery alongside a crumbling stone wall, “—over there! I saw this glowing purple lantern and I walked up to it and rubbed it and wished for a boyfriend,” you nodded to him in complete seriousness.
“…so what makes you assume that I’d hurt you for wishing upon a floating lantern?” He raised an eyebrow, beginning to smile a little, starting to understand what was happening. He really wanted to see the look on your face when he revealed the truth now. He had prepared a big speech explaining all of his feelings, but you had thrown his whole planned confession out the window.
You blinked, once, twice, before awkwardly scratching the back of your head. “I’m starting to see that I was being a bit… irrational,” you nodded slowly.
“A bit?” He smiled, before handing you the paper bag, to which you looked inside curiously. Rye, and…
“Cupcakes. I had Mr. Aleksov prepare them especially for your tastes,” he hummed to you, watching as your confused expression flickered up to him before your eyes widened. “Oh! Oh, right, because you were going to ask me out…” you nodded, before pursing your lips and looking up at him confused. “But we’ve barely spoken to one another before this, why the sudden interest in me?”
He curtly nodded, before taking out the familiar glowing purple lantern and fading before your eyes. It only took 2.3 seconds for you to connect the dots, his figure reappearing when he saw that shy, “oh my god, what have I done?” look on your face.
“I was the lantern you wished upon,” he told you gleefully, tilting his head to the side with a teasing smile.
A whine escaped your lips, as you were contemplating burying yourself in the soil right then and there. “After hearing about your wish, I thought that you were a gorgeous young lady that deserved love, and after the… kiss,” he nodded, watching your eyes squeeze shut and hand cover your face. “I thought that I deserved to give you love. I never planned to stalk you, per se, but every time I tried to strike a conversation or anything with you…”
“I ran away,” you nodded, letting out an embarrassed whine and finishing his sentence.
He hummed, before taking the bag from your hands and offering you the cupcake. “My hands are pretty dirty,” you shrugged, still embarrassed and hating yourself inside your brain. “STUPID STUPID STUPID” kept bouncing around in your head.
Before you knew it, the cupcake was pressed against your lips, heat rushing to your cheeks and the tips of your ears, you took a bite out of it. Being fed by possibly the most handsome man in all of Teyvat.
“I’ve had a crush on you for a while…” you mumbled, swallowing and beginning to talk to him softly, as he listened carefully. “You saved me from the wild hunt around a year ago, and ever since then I’ve just thought you were so cool, and strong, and handsome,” you were whining, hands covering your cheeks shyly.
He didn’t hesitate, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss against your lips.
You froze, before feeling his lips dart out and lick up the tiny bit of icing on the corner of your lips, making your squeal embarrassed and quickly look away from him. Hands covering your face, heart beating faster than it was when you thought he was about to kill you.
“I hope you’ll entertain me for that date, my lady,” he spoke softly against your ear, smiling as he knew exactly what he was doing.
genre: cold duke of the north trope, slight royal! au
summary: how ironic ! you're the eldest daughter of a disgraced household, sold to the rumoured beastly ratnik of nod-krai. but is he really that threatening or just a misunderstood recluse?
word count: 1.5k
a/n: may flins wanters be flins havers !! my brain has been rotting with this trope for so long, i'm sorry for not finishing the prev event requests yet (im getting through them trust trust) !! flins forever proving that chivalry is NOT dead <3333
depending on how well this fic does, i might make a part two :3
rumours are a powerful weapon. they can manipulate easily, transforming a social recluse into a demonic creature of nightfall.
“kryll chudomirovich flins, ratnik who fights the wild hunt.”
just one tiny push and that whisper in the night, passed along from mouth to mouth, hidden by powdered fans amongst idle noblewomen, wavers and warps, becoming besital and monstrous in nature.
“kyrll chudomirovich flins, as monstrous as the wild hunt.”
in a futile attempt to claw back a semble of honour and wealth for your crumbling household, your generous father had offered his eldest daughter to the feared ratnik, living in isolation in the north of nod-krai.
the region’s most sought-after designers worked tirelessly to create your extravagant wedding dress, inspired by the latest fashion trends. throughout the preparation of your wedding, not a peep was heard from the ratkin’s representatives, apart from one elegantly handwritten note: leave everything under my tab.
the day of your wedding, attendants scurried around the mansion, preparing for your departure, maids surrounded you, pulling and tightening strings on your dress, smacking more powdered makeup on your face. meanwhile, your stepmother sat regally in her plush divan, watchful eyes not missing a single detail.
“more rouge on her cheeks.” she drawled, disdain for this alien of a child hidden under a mask of polite smiles and pointed comments. dissatisfied with the tardiness of your maids, she stood up abruptly from her chair, dusting away invisible specks of blemish from her eyecatching red dress, before slinking across the room to circle you, eying you up and down.
“shoulders back.” she tutted, the guard of her fan harshly striking down on your shoulders.
you bit back a wince, the thought that today would be your final moments with this archons-forsaken family forever doing little to ease your anger. nevertheless, you squared back your shoulders, lest this vile witch decides upon a more severe punishment than a singular hit of the fan.
“head up.” the tip of her fan tapped in warning under your chin, tilting your head up at an uncomfortable angle.
“better.” an affirmative word of praise, though not one that let pride bloom in your heart, only a dejected sense of lonely isolation. this was the bare minimum expected of the eldest daughter of your father, the daughter from his first wife.
a pretty portrait, a valuable asset for your father to trade away, to the highest bidder, a bird in a cage, whose only tricks were etiquette, several foreign languages and elegant needlework.
with a warning glare, your stepmother stopped at the doorway, but not departing without a final caution. “do not mess this up for your family.”
the chatter of your maids fills the room after your stepmother leaves, empty praise falling naturally from their lips, desperate to ease the tension in the air. instead, their comments are a constant reminder that you will become a sacrifice to the ratnik of the north, a fatty meal for this monstrous creature.
regardless, you think to yourself, this fate is better than what your stepmother would have in mind had the duke not accepted your father’s proposal.
having completed their work of dressing up the bride to look like a porcelain doll, the final few maids depart from their room, the room falls into a hushed silence, easing your headache, caused by both the neverending conversations right by your ears and the wear on your mind from planning your escape routes once you arrive in the north.
quietly, the door cracks open once again. in the reflection of the mirror, you catch sight of your nanny’s greying hair. your beloved nanny, one of the few who had looked after you so lovingly, gently patching up every injury after being punished by your stepmother, was here to see you off.
“darling [name],” she breathes, eyes glossy at the sight of you in a wedding dress, cheeks reddened with rouge and lips lined with vibrant ink. her rough hands caressed your cheeks, careful not to smudge the makeup on your face. her eyes search around your face, committing every freckle into her memory.
“may your life be an easy path from now on.” unable to bottle up that wave churning inside of you, you throw your arms around your nanny, tears threatening to spill over and ruin the image of that painstakingly painted doll.
“don’t cry,” your nanny soothed, her hands patting your hair, aware of the numerous pins hidden within the hairstyle. she looked around fervently, before pressing a small wrapped handkerchief into your hands.
“for the journey,” she whispered, a twinkle in her eyes, before reaching into her own hair and sliding out her hairpin, silver colour but the best a commoner could ever afford. she tugs hard at both ends of it, revealing a hidden blade within. “this deadly secret is something i hope you'll never come to use”
reaching behind you, your nanny nestles the hairpin amongst the rest of the sparkling jewels adorning your hair, giving your hand one more reassuring pat before leaving the room again.
though the whole household, staff and family included, have gathered out the front to send you off, you barely pay them any mind. that is, until your younger stepsister manages to wiggle out from behind her mother’s exaggerated dress and engulfing you in a hug.
“safe travels, sis!” she whispers in your ear, smiling through her tears. “send me lots of letters!”
you sneak a glance at her mother’s face. something tells you she wouldn’t receive them, no matter how many you write.
behind her powdered fan, your stepmother’s eyes narrow, whether it’s displeasure at her daughter clinging onto the bride in such an unsightly manner, or because she caught sight of that plain hairpin amidst your hair accessories, you’d never know.
with a heavy thud, the carriage door slammed shut, drawing a line between your old life, as the unwanted daughter of the first wife, and your uncertain future, as the to-be wife of a rumoured monstrous duke.
if the nobles had seen your departure, with a skeleton crew of guards and maids, they would have scorned you. although a disgraced household, their eldest daughter was being wedded off, even a lowly baron’s daughter would have been ashamed to be seen with such an entourage.
yet, tonight, you were grateful for lack of company in your carriage. it left you with silence, the rumble of wheels on the road background noise to your racing thoughts. once alone, you felt like you could breathe easier, that your every move wouldn’t be reported back to your father.
unwrapping the package nanny gave you, the warm, spicy scent of cardamom made your stomach grumble. you thought back to the times you stole away to the library, eating lakkaberry krumkakes while studying the maps of nod-krai.
between your family’s estate and the dukedom, there lay a heavily wooded area of forest. rumour had it that every night, a strange fog of purple mist would slither through the trees, poisoning the wildlife, turning them into vicious monsters of the wild hunt.
as the sun slowly sank below the horizons, throwing its dying rays through the trees. the branches of the forest seemed to reach closer, grabbing at the intricate decor of your carriage.
the horses stamped their hooves, tossing their heads and snorting anxiously. your guards exchanged worried glances, their grip on their weapons knuckle-white. they were not getting paid enough for this shit.
from within the purple mist of the forest came that spine-chilling groan. shuffling feet inched closer, dragging across the foliage of dead leaves and snapping tree branches. a grunt, closer than before and seemingly coming from all sides.
one of the guards began to pray to the moon goddess. a maid screamed. another guard dropped his sword. in a moment of frenzied chaos, the entourage fled, swallowed by the hungry purple mist.
left alone, the silence inside your carriage became thicker, almost stifling you in its stillness. you shrank back in your plush seat, hand reaching for that hairpin nanny gifted you. from behind your veil, you could make out the humanoid silhouette of the wild hunt, a blazing purple flame where their head should be.
grunting, they ambled closer, fists pounding against the carriage.
from out of the tendrils of mist, sparks of crackling blue began appearing. with each calculated zap and pop, the wild hunt began to fall. a pair of flaming blue eyes seemed to watch you from the mist.
the wild hunt began to fall back, the light of the blue flame too strong for them to handle. metal sang out as the polearm-wielding saviour came to your aid, fighting off the heavy axes of the larger monsters.
soon, the grumbling and singing of metal died away, until only the occasional crackle of electricity could be heard, radiating from a lantern, hanging from a polearm.
with a soft click, the carriage door opened. your blue haired saviour, with flaming blue eyes, bowed with a flourish.
“my lady, sorry for the unsettling welcome. i am kryll chudomirovich flins. allow me to escort you to my manor.”
Kade's note : yeah, this is genuinely just me yapping about their hands for 3k words. Idk what else to tell you.
FLINS's hands are abnormally long, as expected of a fae. the tip of typical human hands only reach the upper thigh or lower hip. His hands, however, easily start mid-thigh, his fingertips brushing the top of his knee when standing upright. His skin is sickly pale, hinting towards an off-white but when exhausted, he struggles more to maintain his human appearance ; the ends of his fingers and the tip of his pointed ears slowly grow into a faint nuance of indigo, reminiscent of his original form.
Against popular belief, Flins's hands are cold. They do not possess a single hint of warmth his lantern form could suggest. When linking your hands together, they feel like walking through thick mist, but no water droplets taint your skin.
His touch is always fleeting, like the winter's breeze on a sunny day, reminding you it's cold presence before its return. At first, you simply thought the playful fae wished to tease you, but you soon came to realize it was an insecurity engraved deep into the metal caging his soul.
Flins is scared of his nature, and he is scared of hurting you with it. That's why his hold never lasts long. A permanent contradiction between his desire to keep you close to him until you inevitably vanish and he is left to wander once more in that immortal path he follows, and his wish to push you away to protect you from himself.
Warm would be underselling the feeling of holding DURIN's hands. They feel like cupping Teyvat's artificial sun in one's hands. Nonetheless, holding them doesn't hurt, it feels like fulfilling a thousand childish dreams.
Although comfortable, they aren't truly soft. His fingers are leaning towards the chubby side you'd often see on a child, a contradiction to his adult face and height. More often than not, he bears a few injuries on them, be it scratches, cuts, burn marks, and if those aren't prominent against his pinkish skin, it is the band-aids that cover them. Cute little things, decorated with a thousand animals such as dolphins and butterflies. Those injuries obviously come from his eagerness to learn more about the world he's been reborn into. To touch, to explore, to feel, to understand. Even he sometimes ends up with burn marks from going 'fishing' with Klee.
When the sun dips and he finally comes home after a whole day of running around Mondstadt, you never hesitate to sit with him on the couch, gently tapping the antiseptic on his cuts and patching up his hands. Never forgetting to tease him about the dirt beneath his nails before ordering him to take yet another bath.
WANDERER, whose hands are a pale pinkish color. They almost seem white until they flicker slightly and catch a hint of light, artificial or not, and gleam in an unnatural manner. They aren't quite long but not short, either. A reasonable size, although they are quite thin in width. His joints are quite visible as well, the thin artificial ball of his articulation coming into contact with the phalanges making a low sound, like shallow wood entering contact with another when he moves. One you can only hear when he runs his hands through your hair on an early morning or during those few deafeningly silent seconds when he comes to join you in bed.
They are cool to the touch, and although well polished, your fingers sometimes pause on an indent or two on his fingertips or open palm. Depending on how deep those are, you can catch a flicker of the translucent fluid that powers him up. In normal circumstances, it is hard to discern. However, when using his anemo vision, the fluid flows quicker and glows a lovely shade of cerulean.
All in all, when holding you, Wanderer's hands are firm but never harsh. As if you were a fragile china doll he fears letting go would break.
WRIOTHESELY's hands burn like the warmth that runs through one's hands after prolonged time in snow. His skin is that pale ivory shade hinting slightly towards a sand-like color, although you only know so from seeing more of his body beneath his usual attire. His hands alone do not suffice to discern the exact color of his skin. They are marred with too many scars of past battles and dark gray bandages. In fact, many cuts of his vary in shade : while some remain slightly lighter than the rest of him, long past the final stage of healing, others never fully do and stay a dark crimson or a variation of pink, making it impossible to tell which patch of him is truly the skin color he'd been born with.
They are of a normal size, although leaning towards width rather than length. His knuckles are a slightly darker shade than his ivory skin. Some of them in a slightly different position from yours, for they probably hadn't healed the way they were meant to.
Dark body hair grows on the back of his palm and the outer side of his forearm. It isn't too much, simply enough to notice it.
Ultimately, the inside of his palm contrasts nicely from the outside; it's soft and smooth but you rarely get the chance to simply hold them since he'd much rather placing them on your hips or around your shoulders. However, if you do manage to stop those teasing gestures and grab a hold of his hands, placing gentle kisses along the length of his marks, that man will melt on the spot.
LA SIGNORA's hands are elegant and graceful. A rich, healthy beige shade without a single blemish upon them. They are lukewarm and faintly smell of sakura bloom flowers due to the hand cream she had shipped to Shneznaya from Inazuma.
She has them manicured once a month at her favorite salon, often choosing a color that goes along her fatui uniform, such as deep crimson with a simple, timeless black or white lace design. They are soft to the touch and relatively small. When you both lay down on your shared bed after an exhausting day, she finds the action of running her nails on the back of your forearm or threading through your hair quite relaxing.
More often than not, she'll use the newly acquired nail size to gently nudge the skin of your stomach and revel in the way you jump and squeak at the action regardless of how many times she's done it.
LOHEN's hands are built for combat first, everything else comes second. His palms are broad, fingers strong. The kind that easily close around a weapon or an opponent's wrist. The skin is rough and layered with various callouses, especially on the tip of his fingers and the heel of his palms. They origin most likely from repeated impact rather than just weapon use. His knuckles are constantly bruised, and if not, they are in some form of healing stage from said bruises. Those appear in the form of faint yellows and purples, overlapping themselves as if the lighter ones didn't have enough time to disappear properly.
Sometimes, you happen to run across bite marks or crescent-shaped indents on his hands. Hadn't you known him better, you would've thought they were from constantly fighting around. However, they are, in fact, self-inflicted. Worst of all, he doesn't even bother hiding them, nor his other injuries, if anything, he often presses into them absentmindedly, like testing the pain.
Lohen likes sensation in whatever form it may appear. His hands always seek it ; whether it's tapping against a surface, squeezing something or someone, dragging his nails across skin just to watch it turn red under the sharp pressure and, of course, dragging his thumb against your pulse point, pressing just enough to feel it jump beneath his touch.
Despite all of that, there's a quiet calculated precision to how he uses them, he knows exactly how much force to apply, where to press to hurt, and, surprisingly, how to avoid hurting you when he chooses not to. Thus, when tending to your injuries, his hands become uncharacteristically steady and careful, his movements slower than usual. He doesn't comment on it, but his touch lingers a few seconds longer than necessary, like he's reassuring himself that you're still intact.
A subtle contradiction arises in his mannerisms, his hands can bruise, restrain, break yet when resting on you they feel anchoring rather than threatening, like a soft, cold breeze one may feel under the shade on a hot summer day. He understands pain intimately, so, with you, his hands are always hovering between inflicting and protecting, deliberately choosing the latter, most of the time.
ILLUGA's hands are solid and steady in a way that feels like they were made to hold weight —be it a weapon, responsibility, or you. They are slightly larger than average, with broad palms and thick fingers that don't quite match any of the elegance he might otherwise carry. The skin is rough, not from neglect, the callouses that linger it sit mostly along the base of his fingers and palms, earned through repetition rather than recklessness (cough— Lohen).
His warmth is consistent, not overwhelming, just enough to be grounding. His grip is firm and reliable, never crushing, never hesitating either, like he always knows exactly how much strength to use. There are scars but fewer than expected, sure, there are a few of those old, pinkish gashes that travel up his arms to his neck but mot much more. Some thin lines from cuts across his knuckles and perhaps one or two deeper ones along the side of his hands. They are all cleanly healed, though, suggesting proper discipline when treating them.
When he takes your hand, there's no teasing or fleeting touch ; he holds it properly, fingers interlocked securely. Additionally, he has a habit of resting his hand on you mindlessly, be it on your shoulder when standing beside you or the small of your back when guiding you through a crowd. It's not possessive, nor intentional, simply instinctual.
He rarely fidgets, but when he does, it comes in the form of rolling his wrist slowly or flexing his fingers like he's remembering the weight of his polearm.
His hands are not expressive in the way other's are, but they are honest. Everything he does not say tends to show in how he holds you, steady, present, and unwilling to let go unless you ask.
SUNDAY's nails are always short, although it is not because he cuts them, but because he has the nasty habit of biting them until he reaches the skin beneath. Additionally, the skin of his cuticles often peels. Thus, it is not uncommon to see reddened skin or dried blood where he must've ripped it off.
His hands are as soft as his pretty white feathers, smooth to the touch and comfortable to hold. They are lithe, his joints slightly more prominent when holding onto something with some amount of effort.
There is a certain grace in the way they move, like a bird dancing to attract a mate. They hypnotize you in the way they gently hold the thin foot of his wine glass, fingers gently circling the rim or how they move when maneuvering those golden, thorned ropes he uses on field. A measured action that hides both softness and strength.
All in all, you rarely get a proper chance to admire the pale, smooth skin of his hands because he'd much rather wear those dark, navy, gloves, much like he enjoys wearing that overly complicated outfit that is both unbelievably frustrating and highly appreciated in its asymmetric glory.
DAN HENG is a Vidyahara, by definition, he is cold-blooded, and thus, his skin is also quite cold ; thus, holding his hands is a must in your relationship.
His hands vary slightly depending on the form he's currently in ; in his typical, human disguise, they look underwhelming in their simplicity. Pale small hands, sometimes slightly clammy, short nails and visible joints. Nothing unusual save for the occasional paper cut from sorting through archives. In his Vidyahara form, however, his hands become slightly more interesting to look at.
His pale hands gain faint patches of scales along their length. Most often on the side of his fingers or on the back of his palm. They are a faint translucent color similar to that of his skin, although they gain a slight shade of cerulean. The tips of his fingers feel slightly colder than the rest of his hand, almost like touching marble, and his nails become sharper, akin to claws. Nevertheless, he always treats you with utmost care, controlling every flick of his wrist to avoid accidentally hurting you.
Speaking of scales, it is a must to speak about shedding seasons. While in his human form, the effects are minimal : it appears as fine, translucent flakes along his wrists, fingers or knuckles, similar to dry skin save for the ever-present shimmer the scales keep. In his dragon form, however, the shedding is more visible, thin slivers of old ones slowly begin to appear on the small patches of scales, occasionally peeling back.
When the shedding period approaches, the scales along his hands become slightly duller and rougher, losing their usual smooth sheen. Additionally, he grows more sensitive to touch for the new scales beneath are still delicate. He tends to hide his hands when it happens, a quiet embarrassment he rarely speaks about. However, if you help brush the loose scales away, he becomes noticeably still, unused to someone treating the process as something natural instead of strange. The newly revealed scales beneath are smoother, darker, and colder, glimmering faintly like polished jade under light.
Sometimes a thin scale catches on fabric or bedding, leaving behind a tiny iridescent fragment you’ll later find on your sleeve. During heavier shedding cycles, he prefers holding your sleeve instead of your hand, worried the rough edges might scratch you —though you often take his hand anyway.
The lack of care ANAXA holds for himself is most evident in his hands. They aren't dirty per se, but they carry a quiet sort of neglect one shows to an object deemed unimportant. His skin is pale to the point of appearing almost translucent, stretched thin over protruding joints, and darkened veins that trace along the back of his hands like fragile, branching features. His fingers are long and precise, built for delicate work rather than strength, often stained with ink or chemical residue. His nails are uneven, sometimes chipped, not out of carelessness, rather out of disinterest. When holding some sort of tools, his hands are perfectly steady, the only time they don’t betray exhaustion.
Now, his hands are starkly different from one another. The "normal" hand, as one would call it, is cooler than average, not unnaturally so, simply cold like his body is constantly put under pressure —which, it is. Sometimes, you can catch slight tremors when it stays idle, their intensity varying based on how much he's eaten or slept. The callouses on this hand are minimal, limited to where pens or instruments rest, mostly on the last joint of his ring finger. This is the hand he tends to use when interacting with you, brushing against your sleeve rather than your skin, adjusting something near you over touching you directly.
His altered hand possesses skin that is etched with bold, unnatural red markings, dancing between being too precise to be accidental and too invasive to be natural. The gem embedded within the back of his palm feels warm, wrongly so, like something alive where it shouldn't be. When you touch it, the temperature is inconsistent, warm at the core, and cold at the edges. Additionally, there is a faint pulse beneath the surface, not quite matching that of a human's. His fingers on this hand move with slight delay or over correction, sometimes too swift while others not enough. Once in a while, the markings might dimly glow or produce little, subtle heat. He rarely uses this hand casually, for he wishes to alter as little as possible with the markings.
He treats his own body like an ongoing experiment, and his hands are no exception. To you, however, his hands hold quiet symbolism. One closer to reason, control and undeniable humanity, while the other represents his defiance, curiosity, and self-inflicted transcendence. Together, they make his touch feel like a constant imbalance ; one careful, the other dangerous, yet both undeniably his.
Ultimately, he doesn't initiate touch often, still, he doesn't pull away when you do. When you take his normal hand, he allows it, although his fingers remain slightly tense at first. If you take his altered one, he stills completely, watching you closely as if awaiting some kind of disgust or rejection. When he finds none, his grip give a faint squeeze, the warmth of the gem seeming to stabilize for a few instants before going back into it's temperature frenzy. Afterwards, he is much more likely to stand closer to you, letting his hand brush yours, lingering slightly longer than before with feelings that feel blasphemous to name.
AGLAEAS's hands are warm, like slipping into a bath after a long day of labor. Speaking of baths, it is in the bathhouse that you most see her, often indulging in shared intimacy among gentle waves.
Due to the prophecy, Aglaea has long lost her vision. Relying strongly on her golden threads to keep track of the world around her. With you, however, she perhaps indulges herself a tad bit more. Choosing to run her hands through the arch of your brows, the slope of your nose, the line of your jaw, the steady bumps of your spinal cord. Memorizing it all. And those gentle touches leave warmth behind them, when she ceases, you feel her touch still.
Additionally, with her impaired vision, she is unable to properly paint her nails as she used to before. Thus, she relies on you to cradle her ivory, rosy hands in yours as you gently coat her nails in that familiar shade of gold.
When she does decide to leave the bathhouse and take a stroll around Okhema, she takes great pleasure in hearing you yap on about what you've done that day or what you're seeing currently with her at your side, hand in hand.
@ k4dewashere ✦ all rights reserved — do not feed my work to AI
