The ramblings of an artist

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.