GENSHIN IMPACT

+ priest lohen thoughts

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

+ varka drabble !! 01

MY HERO ACADEMIA

+ lethal warmth (pro hero katsuki bakugou)

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.

✧ 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.”