“...Was that adequate?”

Flins’s pallid complexion, so rarely touched by colour, now bore the faintest flush. Appearing as a warmth rising to the apples of his cheeks, which crept to the tips of his ears. The sight of it contrasted sharply with his usual stoicism, a carefully impassive mask he so often wore. Yet this was a side of the Lightkeeper only you could draw forth.

As a Lantern Fae, Flins’s life had always been one of peculiarities. Strange, at least, when held against the customs of humankind. He lived alone in a lighthouse amidst a cemetery of his fallen Ratniki comrades. His power sprang not from the Moon Wheel pinned neatly behind his coat, but from the deep inheritance of his fae blood. And unlike mortals, he did not take sustenance by mouth; rather, he burned it in the azure flame of his lantern, absorbing its essence through the flame itself.

Centuries had passed beneath his gaze. He had wandered the snowy tundra's of Snezhnaya, watched eras rise and wither into parchment and ink, and currently, served as a Ratnik upon the sandy shores of Paha Isle. He had learned to mimic human ways...yet not even in those long years had he once imagined a day when he would be entangled in a mortal’s affection.

Perhaps there was something special about you. Something that breached the walls of his heart—the very same one that had been content with solitude. Content with endless battles against the abyssal creatures of the Wild Hunt. Content with the noble duty of keeping the soil beneath his lantern safe.

And like a blessing, you had been patient with him. It had been long since last he had known intimacy, and the manner in which fae expressed their devotion was far different from the ways of humankind. Kissing had been a foreign thing to him. In fact, he had once thought the act unseemly—yet now it was becoming something he could begin to comprehend.

Flins’s lips bore a slight swell from the unfamiliar act, though outwardly he remained composed. It took much to unsettle a centuries-old fae, but if there was anyone who might succeed, it was the mortal he now held close with his arms.

Unlike his complexion, his indigo hair lay in perfect order. Sharp strands fell across his brow and cascaded like a waterfall down his back, their tips fading into a stark white.

Flins’s yellow eyes—dull in hue, yet gleamed faintly now with a quiet interest—flickered across your face before turning aside. He knew it was unbecoming to avert his gaze; a gentleman ought to maintain eye contact. Yet to look at you any longer threatened to undo what composure he still held.

“Forgive my tardiness, my love.” Flins murmured at last, his gloved fingers tracing softly over the back of your hand. He inclined his head in a subtle bow, then raised his eyes to you once more.

“Once again, if you will. You are most persistent in schooling me in mortal affections…and I find I lack the will to deny you.”