˗ˏˋ EIN ˎˊ˗ she/her. 18+. enfp. 7w6. libra. filipino!
[LINKS] ── carrd (read for byf and dni) + masterlist + rules and request
[AFFILIATION] ── interwoven-fates and idolteyvat
[STATUS] ── on hiatus
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first of all, i only write sfw (maybe a little bit of suggestive). english is not my first language so please bear with me, i am trying (prepositions is my enemy). im still learning how to write (or type) so there might be errors, i apologize for that. i only write for genshin impact for now but i might write for another fandom soon. this account is my only blog so i do everything here (ranting, writing, etc.) please don't be shy to interact with me, let's be friends!
side blog ! @kiwein (i might turn it into a writing account in the future)
spamming is also okay! i do not mind :)
kazu-topia > ragnvdnir (yes, i changed my user)
manhwa theme;; medea solon from your throne. desktop theme;; whimsical by glenthemes
Right Where You Left Me by Taylor Swift but it’s with Varka who disappeared for an expedition for a while and came bsck only to realize that it was him who left but it was also him who stayed at the restaurant.
He left for years, leaving you, his dear friend, on Mondstadt.
When he returned, you were already someone’s bride. He stood on the Cathedral’s door as he watched you exchange vows with the man you chose to spend a lifetime with. When the priest asked if there was someone who wished to object the wedding, he tried hard to stay still and shut the words in his mouth when he saw how happy you were at the altar. He has always imagined you there countless of times before. But it seems like he forgot to imagine himself standing beside you in the middle as you hold the hand of your soon-to-be-husband.
He could not blame you for not waiting. After all, there was not an us between you two, just two best friends since childhood who happens to witness each other’s best and worst. All he left was a promise to return. And he would not blame you for not holding unto that promise because he did not make it clear— even he himself doesn’t know if he’ll come back alive. But he did risk it all just to come back and make sure he’ll confess his feelings to you by the time he came back. But even that seems too far now.
That’s why he’s not angry that you choose to settle down with someone not him. Someone who’s gonna stay and doesn’t have to choose between you and his duty because it was all for you at the end of the day. He’s angry at himself for not making his intentions clear. And now, all he felt is regret as he watched you say the word “I do”— not to him.
While the folks at the tavern were celebrating the glorious wedding and the Grandmaster’s return, Varka couldn’t bring himself to booze when the one thing he has ever wanted slipped away from his fingers. Even as the years passed, words swept with the wind that the corner spot of the tavern is unspokenly reserved for the Grandmaster as he mourns for a love that didn’t even exist while you announce the family that you were having soon.
a/n: varka really got me going back to genshin and writing…
#ode's-overture |☆| varka x fatui! reader "they say that a man who yearns is a man who earns, and varka is more than ready to cash it out. aka: a persistent push and pull between two foolish ex-lovers becomes mondstadt's most entertaining gossip to date!"
#tags-and-cw |☆| hurt/comfort, yearning, close friends to lovers to exes, miscommunications, varka is emotionally intelligent and mature, reader is an avoidant bum, black cat x golden retriever trope, MUTUAL yearning, reader is a fake idgafer, varka genuinely losing his mind, FRUSTRATING AS HELL, he wants that cookie so bad it hurts, implied suicide attempt (by reader)
the tsaritsa must've lost her damn mind.
...or lost it even further, if that was possible.
to think she'd personally assign you to mondstadt of all places – she knows damn well what went down a couple years ago with dottore. yet here she is, sending you to an early grave.
maybe the blizzard finally made its way to her head than just her cold, cold heart.
mondstadt itself wasn't the problem. it's a lovely place, filled with good alcohol and even better people.
it would've been a peaceful vacation if not for the fact that those same people absolutely hate your guts and everything the fatui stood for.
they'd burn you at the stake if they could.
being a high-ranking cog in the fatui's machine had its pros and cons. the pros being that you get a lot of money and authority; the con was that, once in a while, you get bullshit missions like this.
seriously, who thought it was a good idea to send a fatui captain to mondstadt where she personally helped il dottore of the harbingers conduct his experiments on the townspeople, resulting in casualties, and became the target of ire from the whole nation?
the tsaritsa, apparently.
it's even worse now that mondstadt's grandmaster is back and still kicking.
you honestly never thought you'd see the man again after parting ways all those years ago.
you had prayed to every deity there is that you'd be out of here by the time he came back, but it seems the gods hated you enough to decide that – yes, let's bring back your ex-lover who you were madly in love with but ran away from because of persistent guilt and insecurity. great.
you had genuinely considered leaving mondstadt.
like reaaally thought about it the moment you heard the news.
but that would just put a target on your back, and given that you had three months left before the mission finished and you'd be transferred back to snezhnaya, you didn't think it was worth the hassle.
so you decided to swallow your worries and do your best to fake a facade of nonchalance.
and hell, you were doing a pretty amazing job.
until varka himself walked up to you, with a lopsided grin and your favorite beverage in hand. your gut was telling you to run and hole yourself up in your office at that moment.
"hey! lookin' gorgeous as ever,"
the grandmaster of mondstadt, being buddy-buddy with a high-ranking fatui executive?
preposterous.
but at the same time. . . not really. some already knew of your history with him. they were there when you two laughed with your arms linked together, strolling through the streets with obvious hearts in both of your eyes.
luckily, most have already forgotten about you.
you shiver just remembering those old memories of your shameful youth.
"how've you been?"
he acts as if everything is perfectly normal, as though your parting words hadn’t broken something in him when you walked away.
varka doesn't even glance at the drink he places in front of you, behaving as if this is just another ordinary day from back when you were together – when he'd buy you a drink after knightly duties and ramble on about his day while the two of you shared a warm meal.
you look at the drink in front of you, "fine. mostly."
'he remembered, of course he would.'
you ignore the heat creeping up your chest.
varka lingers beside you, smile twitching, like he wants to say something else, but he decides against it and sits across from you instead.
the wood creaks when he plops down, adjusting himself until he finds some semblance of comfort. varka has always been too big for things; too broad, too tall, limbs hanging awkwardly past the edges like the chair was never meant to hold someone like him.
no matter how uncomfortable, he doesn't give it much thought. varka lifts his mug to his lips, taking a few small gulps, clearly trying to savor his time with you.
usually, he'd just guzzle it down in one go.
you stare at the people and stalls beside you, trying your best not to look at him. initiating eye-contact with him would mean an automatic loss, you knew this from experience.
"not gonna drink?" varka asks, taking another long sip of his own beverage. likely beer or dandelion wine again.
you hum, not even bothering to look at him properly when you answer.
"no, i'm alright."
he laughs, though it comes out stiff and forced. it doesn’t sound like him, and that bothers you more than you’d admit.
is he forcing himself to talk to you out of politeness? maybe. he’s always been that sort of man — the kind who can’t just walk away from people. that’s how rosaria ended up in his orbit. it’s how you did too, whether you wanted to or not.
"you sure? it's your favorite. you really gonna waste a good drink on a nice evening like this?
your reply is icier than dragonspine's mountain peak, "my tastes have changed over the years. it's not something i'd enjoy drinking now."
it's a jab at him. an obvious 'go away, you don't know me anymore. we aren't close like that'— just said in a more roundabout way.
varka is a gentleman, a knight through and through. he wouldn't bother a lady who clearly doesn't want his company.
but this isn't just any lady.
it's his lady.
— or at least, you used to be.
he knows you better than the back of his hand. knows that if he leaves just like that then it's truly over. you'd find some way to leave mondstadt as soon as possible, throw yourself into danger outside the city gates just to never look at his face again.
for as long as he'd known you, you've always had this bad habit of running away from problems. deep emotions never came easy to you, so you never knew how to handle it like how people nornally do.
varka would be a fool to not notice. and, really, he'd always been a fool for you, willing to stay ignorant so long as you'd be there to wrap him around your finger.
but you left him in that cold winter all alone without a jacket, didn't even bother to look back while you continued with live your life.
as if varka was nothing but a passing memory in your life, something you can easily walk away from.
his unfair, traitorous, and peppery beloved.
there he was in nod-krai, tracing your eyes among the stars, sighing like a mournful widow while he downed another cheap imitation of his homeland's liquor — and you never even bothered to write back.
he'd send you letters, anytime he could, talking about the mundane and not-so-mundane. there was probably a few very private information in there that he shouldn't have told to a fatui, lucky (or unlucky) for him, you didn't read any of them.
three long years.
not a single letter back.
three long years, of letters consistently sent to your home address in mondstadt.
three long years, where he hasn't seen or even heard from you.
three long years, without closure or explanation as to why you abruptly ended the relationship.
now that he can finally see you in the flesh, he feels relieved, it's as if the crushing weight on his shoulders had finally dissipated.
you're alive. safe and sound.
he was so worried back then, thinking you got yourself into trouble because you wouldn't write back. logically, he should have known you wouldn't answer because of, well, the break-up but those sort of things were irrelevant.
you two were close friends after all, even before the romance and late-night escapades. if you found him bothersome, you would have sent even a small piece of paper saying: "fuck off, varka." because you have done that before, and he kept that note on him ever since.
through the lonely hours of his expedition, he’d find himself staring at that scrap of paper again and again. it told him to fuck off. nothing more. nothing kinder. but it was written in your hand and somehow, that was enough for him to keep it.
maybe varka really did have a few loose screws. or maybe it's just when you're involved.
rather than write reports about the expedition, varka found himself asking jean if she'd seen you recently, asking how you were doing, and if you said anything about him. he found out late that you've completely left mondstadt, sold your old home, and went somewhere without anyone knowing.
typical you, running away again.
he can tell from the way your lips purse a bit before you smooth out your expression, the way you fake indifference by biting on the inside of your cheek. and he sees how your fingers twitch whenever he even slightly moves in his seat.
you're alert. very alert, and very much ready to run.
varka can't have that, not after so long. you'd dumped him right before his expedition, made him nearly lose his mind right after.
but for the sake of his people, he steeled his resolve and pushed through the heartbreak. he threw himself into the battlefield with a heavy heart and crawled out with it.
under the moonlight, varka dreamed of many things:
his home,
his family,
his fallen comrades,
and most of all – you.
he's dreamed of you so many times that varka never forgot how you looked despite the years. he calls it photographic memory, but it's really just delusions and grief.
coming home to mondstadt felt like a dream back then too. he'd spent hours mulling over his life and decisions, staring at the campfire with a look of melancholy which he'd promptly replace with a carefree grin once his soldiers came to check up on him.
but he'd done it. he came back safely, into the arms of his family and his people.
when he first spotted you in the crowd — that same eternal frown carved into your face, that same couldn’t-care-less attitude wrapped around you like armor — his body started moving before he even realized it.
like something inside him had already decided where he belonged.
he wanted to reach for you. to run his fingers through your hair, to pull you close and kiss you until you were breathless and angry and real again.
his chest had ached sharply, ribs pressing tight around a heart that suddenly beat too fast, too hard.
but you weren’t looking at him.
you were busy talking to someone else, scowling like everyone had personally offended you.
he could already imagine the sound of your voice — sharp, impatient — and the quiet click of your tongue that always followed.
you were just as beautiful as the day he lost you.
time seemed to treat you better than him. in fact, he'd say you aged finer than the best dandelion wine dawn winery could ever produce.
which, coming from him, was a big compliment.
suddenly varka felt a little insecure about his growing stubble and unkempt hair. he'd turned around to hide his face, a little shameful of his rugged appearance but kept his posture straight for the others who surrounded him, congratulating his return.
back then, you used to take care of that for him. tidying him up before he went to work. your gentle hands would brush against his cheek while you carefully slid the razor downward.
swipe.
and the stubble would come off, leaving a foamy residue on the razor.
you'd wipe the foam off his face with a softness reserved for him only, fingers lingering for a few more seconds necessary.
it had become his favorite time of the month – whenever you decided his beard had become too much of an obstacle to your kisses and promptly respond in kind with a pout and a threat to shave it off by noon.
but his veins turned ice-cold when he saw you in that uniform, the familiar fatui symbol on your jacket and the other fatui soldiers beside you.
varka thought you'd left it for good. you promised him that, for as long as you loved him, you'd never go back to the fatui. dottore had taken so much from mondstadt that it made you feel disgusted whenever you talked about your old occupation.
he had to confirm it for himself – that you didn't love him anymore, that what you two had was truly gone forever. maybe then he'd sleep a little easier instead of tossing and turning, thinking about what he did wrong and the things he could've done to salvage it.
"never thought you'd go back to your old job though. kinda weird seein' you in that coat after so long,"
he chuckles, gaze scanning you from head to toe.
"'doesn't suit someone as sweet as you."
your head automatically translates his words: so is it really over? no take backs?
it goes without saying that varka missed you —dearly, if he may add. if you didn't seem so annoyed, he would've already jumped across the table to embrace you in his arms.
"it's. . . " you trail off, unsure of how to answer. you wanted to say 'yeah, so what', but the words died in your throat once you finally took a proper look at the man in front of you.
since when had varka looked so. . . worn down?
it's pretty obvious he tried to clean himself up to the best of his abilities. he's (kind of) cleanly shaven, and his hair no longer resembled the bird's nest it did during his arrival. his coat is freshly cleaned too, leather polished to perfection, and the wolf fur sewn into it was brushed and unmatted.
the icy blue irises that resembled snezhnaya's famed ice lakes — an enchanting gradient that darkened whenever he's focused.
now they've turned into a dull and murky ocean; you could hardly see his pupils.
varka looked as handsome as ever, even when consumed by exhaustion. muscles more toned, new scars lining up beside old ones, wrinkles now a tad more noticeable than all those years ago.
this is why you didn't want to look at him.
you're already losing, feeling your resolve crumble to pieces. although you managed to salvage your expression, it felt like your heart was going to leap from your chest.
you decided that staying was too dangerous.
"sorry, i have to go." you stand up abruptly, almost tipping your chair over in the process.
varka panics, fumbling towards you, he manages to catch your hands by lunging on top of the table like an idiot, "stop running, please."
you flinch at his accusation, "i'm not, i simply have work to do. something a slacker like you would never understand."
varka chuckles, but the way his grip tightens says a lot, "i know, i know. . . 'm sorry for being allergic to paperwork,"
he finally stands properly, dusting his front while still holding onto your wrist, "but jean's given me a week or two to 'acclimate' back into mondstadt. so how 'bout we make use of it to finally have an actual conversation?"
varka knows if you wanted to rip his hand off yours, you definitely could. and he'd let you, of course, he'll try again tomorrow if that's what it takes.
but you dont. you stand rooted on the spot, glancing at varka with a look of shame. people are starting to stare, wondering what's going on with their troublesome grandmaster again but quickly avert their eyes when they realize the scary fatui captain was also there.
"varka, i. . ." your head lowers in embarassment, face burning hot.
the knight of boreas, patient as ever, leans closer while he waits for you to continue. he wants to personally hear it, every small whisper you could muster.
he doesn't need apologies, varka knows he's not entitled to such things. he can already feel himself bristle at the mention of 'varka' on your lips, missing the way you'd call out his name.
"can we do this another time?"
it shatters whatever expectation he had a few seconds ago.
varka sighs, low and trembling. his shoulders sag a little when he lets go.
for a moment you think that’s it.
that he'll step aside like the gentleman he is and let you disappear into the crowd like you always do. he knows how much you hate conforntations, he practically had to wrangle every small 'i love you's' from you back then, and he'd done them easily.
you’re already halfway turned when he speaks again.
"another time," he repeats slowly.
you pause.
". . . yeah."
he scratches the back of his neck, eyes drifting somewhere over your shoulder like he's carefully choosing his words – a rare thing for him to do.
"alright, yeah, got it. . ."
that simple agreement makes your stomach twist.
varka has never been the type to push you into corners. even back then, when you two fought, he would give you space to breathe. space to think. space to come back on your own terms.
because for him, loving things means setting them free. truly a man of his home, to bring mondstadt's teachings even in his love life.
you hated him for it sometimes.
because it meant he trusted you to return and this time. . . you weren't sure you would.
"i'll wait," he says, lightly as if it might harm you if he spoke even an octave higher.
your brow furrows. "for what?"
he flashes you a grin that feels far too familiar, warm and radiant as the morning sun.
"for that 'another time.'"
you stare at him, incredulous. the audacity of this man never fails to leave you shocked, no matter how many times you've seen it for yourself.
". . . are you serious?"
"totally serious, swore it on barbatos just now," he admits easily.
a small gust of wind passes the two of you, as if the wind itself was answering to his oath. it carries along the smell of wine, pastry, and home – mondstadt, whether you liked it or not, has always been home.
varka had been here, in this windy city, after all.
the smile softens, turning into something more intimate, "i'm always willing to wait for you, i think you know that already."
of course he is.
varka has always been annoyingly patient when it comes to you.
you click your tongue and pull your hand away fully, forcing a disgusted expression on your face, hoping it would hurt him enough to back off.
"well, don't wait too long. you might die of old age, grandmaster."
"worth the risk." he laughs, the sound rumbling from his chest and echoing into yours. it makes your stomach twist, heart aching from nostalgia.
you shoot him a glare before turning away again, this time actually leaving.
you don't look back, you didn't have to.
you can feel his eyes on your back the entire way down the street.
the rumors start the same day.
mondstadt is terrible at keeping quiet about anything, especially when it involves their beloved grandmaster.
you've known these people for years, back when you were still naively in-love and looked at the world through rose-tinted glasses. you made an effort before; you wanted to be more sociable like varka but people found it obvious how much you hated being bothered. so in the end, you gave up.
they say you two were an opposites attract sort of couple, and you had to agree. many told you it felt like an overexcited large dog was walking with a stoic black cat whenever the two of you strolled the streets together.
on your way to the market, you notice the stares first, then the whispers.
a pair of knights stop talking when you walk past, trying to sneakily glance at you.
one of the merchants near the plaza practically leans over his stall trying to listen whenever you pass by.
by the third day, someone had finally gained the audacity to ask you directly.
"so is it true?"
you pause mid-step, slowly turning towards a brown-haired bard leaning against the fountain. he had a face that screamed troublesome and nosy, lips that curled like it's ready to spread the next big scandal at some tavern.
a typical gossipmonger.
". . . what is?"
the bard grins even wider.
"that the grandmaster's been sniffin' around you again."
your eye twitches, "he's not a dog."
"debatable," the bard shrugs.
with the way varka acts, it definitely is.
you consider stabbing him, instead you settle for a deadpan stare, "mind your business, can't you see i'm a fatui diplomat?"
"hey, i'm just curious!" he raises his hands defensively. "whole city's talking about it."
of course they are.
mondstadt thrives on gossip like plants thrive on sunlight. also the people here genuinely have nothing better to do.
unlike in liyue where they talk about market values and recent price changes first before gossip or sumerians who'd rather debate and discuss academic papers – mondstadt had been too quiet and peaceful.
which means, even something as trivial like the grandmaster of mondstadt chasing after someone is suddenly important news.
"people say you broke his heart," the bard continues, strumming his lyre.
you freeze, lips twitching down to an even deeper frown. great, your day was ruined by some nobody and now you've become the talk of town.
". . . people assume a lot of things."
"yeah," he hums thoughtfully.
"but they also say the poor grandmaster's been lookin' like a kicked puppy every time you walk away."
you scoff and turn on your heel, "then he should stop following me."
the bard laughs behind you, lazily waving at you.
"oh, he definitely won't."
unfortunately, the bard is was correct. maybe he was also secretly prophet of some sort.
as expected, varka does not stop.
he doesn't corner you again, he doesn't grab your arm, nor does he demand answers. instead, he simply. . . appears.
sometimes he's leaning against a wall when you're fresh out of a meeting, that same scowl prominent on your face.
sometimes he's chatting with the tavern owner when you step inside, and he'd immediately brighten the moment he sees you.
once you nearly ran straight into him outside the city gates and he just blinks down at you like it's the most natural thing in the world.
just like everyone else in mondstadt, of course he'd have nothing better to do too. what were you expecting? for him to leave you alone? yeah right.
it's wishful thinking at best.
people here would latch onto anything interesting, trying to alleviate the boredom of the nation's quiet evenings.
and mondstadt had always been a city that thrives on three things: wind, wine, and gossip.
lately, however, the wine industry has been facing stiff competition.
because nothing – absolutely nothing – has been more entertaining than watching their beloved grandmaster try to court this terrifying fatui captain who was clearly ready to punch him in the face.
the rumors had started small as they always do, from the quiet corners of mondstadt's walls where knights had nothing better to do but talk.
and talk they did.
someone from the tavern swears they saw varka buying two drinks at the bar.
which would be normal, no one would be surprised by his large appetite when it came to alcohol. he is considered mondstadt's biggest alcoholic, next to a certain green bard.
except he doesn't usually sit across from a fatui captain who looks like she'd rather jump off stormterror's lair than share a table with him.
the bartender watches the whole thing unfold, completely absorbed to the point he forgot he had customers he should be serving.
varka's smiling.
you looking like you’re planning his funeral.
he leans over to charles and whispers, "five thousand mora says they used to date."
charles snorts.
"five thousand says they're still dating."
by the next day, the story has evolved.
a fruit vendor insists she saw the grandmaster chase you halfway across the plaza after you tried to leave, it made for quite a dramatic scene. straight out of fontaine's famous plays.
a knight swears varka vaulted over a merchant stall to catch up. he was laughing during it too, all while you tried to stop him from becoming the knight's embarassment.
"that man is pushing forty and still jumping over tables for romance," someone more sensible comments with a shake of their head.
"how inspiring."
"you mean concerning?"
inside the tavern, the knights are very invested. it is their grandmaster after all, why wouldn't they be a little nosy about it? in fact, it was the only thing they've been chatting about as of lately.
a small crowd has gathered around one of the tables.
rosaria sits nearby, pretending not to listen while absolutely listening. she remembers you well, and reckons that others might soon.
jean pinches the bridge of her nose, already looking more exhausted than usual. although she never planned on going out, diluc and the others had insisted.
meanwhile kaeya looks like he's having the time of his life.
"i'm telling you," one knight says, slamming his mug down, "the grandmaster is down catastrophic."
"define catastrophic." one asks, clearly drunk off their knockers.
the man gulps down his ale before sporting a serious expression, "he smiled at her while she insulted him."
another knight gasps, eyes blown wide.
"not the smile."
"the soft one."
"oh my barbatos. . ."
someone whistles.
kaeya leans back in his chair, nursing a cup of wine in his hands, "ah, young love."
jean looks baffled. "they're both over thirty."
"exactly, vice-grandmaster."
it gets worse when people realize something else.
the fatui captain?
she's the same woman who used to walk around mondstadt with varka years ago. back when he was still a young hot-headed knight who chased after battle and glory.
arms linked like you two would never part ways, laughing as if there's no tomorrow, the one who suddenly disappeared without a word.
suddenly, the entire city remembers.
"wait."
a florist nearly drops her bouquet.
"they're exes?!"
instantaneously, scenes of varka's annoying giggling everytime you two were together, and the way you'd smile shyly whenever he kissed you on the cheek or held you close by the waist had all came back in the citizen's memories.
now the gossip becomes unstoppable.
people began to quietly placing bets: how long until they reconcile?
three days.
a week.
someone claims they'll be married by windblume.
someone else says the fatui captain will stab him first.
mondstadt had become a mess, watching over the developing romance with a hawk's eye. some even tried to secretly help by mentioning your location to varka every now and then.
meanwhile, you are completely unaware of this massive development in mondstadt's social network.
your soldiers are too scared to say anything to you in fear of your anger and other people sure as hell won't say it to your face.
rosaria, on the other hand, finds the whole thing too interesting so she keeps quiet about it too, even if you two talk regularly.
so you've been completely left in the dark.
mostly because you're too busy trying to avoid the giant knight who keeps appearing everywhere.
the market.
the plaza.
the tavern, all of them.
once even outside your lodging.
completely coincidental, or so he says.
"'didn't think i'd find you here," varka says cheerfully when you walk out the door and nearly run into him.
you stare at him, "are you stalking me."
"nope."
he gestures vaguely, "i live here."
you narrow your eyes, ". . . this is the fatui's personal lodging."
"yeah well,"
he shrugs, grinning, "i got lost on the way."
'you have lived in mondstadt all your life, you got to be kidding me.' is what you shout in your head, but all that comes out of your mouth is: "oh, okay."
and unfortunately, everyone sees this interaction.
everyone.
a group of merchants nearby lean toward each other immediately, while the knights snicker in amusement.
"that's them."
"oh archons. . .
"look at how awkward they are."
none of these bother varka. if anything, he fuels their gossips with stories of his own. nothing too personal, just short anecdotes of his time with you.
like that time you two fought a dozen ruin guards together,
or that one evening where he caught you asleep on the couch with razor safely tucked in your arms,
ah, there was also a time when you would take rosaria out for shopping, spending his mora like it's dirt.
he's written so many letters about it, reminiscing the past like the lovesick fool that he is.
you hate to admit but you've always kept those pesky things – varka's letters, that is. though you never had the heart to open a single one.
it's mainly due cowardice.
on nights where you felt especially vulnerable, you'd take one out just to feel it on your palm, like it could solve all your problems. like it could alleviate your guilt. like it could bring crepus back.
you hated yourself ever since that incident with il dottore.
guilt had eaten you from inside out, turned you into someone unrecognizable. you avoided diluc religiously during your time in mondstadt, slipping away whenever he saw you. if you didn't, you might’ve just broken down in front of him.
kaeya was much harder to avoid, the cavalry captain was practically everywhere. so you just ignored him everytime he tried talking to you, or answered with quipped sentences.
indirectly, you contributed to crepus' death. killed the father of two wonderful sons. killed a man who was loved by many.
you helped raise those boys. crepus trusted you with them, even after he knew your occupation. acted likr you wouldn't hurt a fly.
a young fatui stationed in mondstadt, awaiting orders from a harbinger. that's who you were.
you joined for the money, the authority, glory, power. to be larger than what you really were.
the ragnivindrs welcomed you into their home, served you food, and gave you a room.
and yet you. . .
in the end, your conscience caught up to you. the blood on your hands were too red, reminiscint of his hair.
the others never blamed you for it, especially varka.
so you did it for them. you had loathed yourself to the point of near-death. not that you ever told varka about that specific incident, it would break him.
the cliff was especially windy that night.
you only backed out because of that weird bard who was taking a stroll at that time. venti, he was just varka's drinking companion to you back then, before you learned of his true identity as the anemo archon.
to think barbatos themselves would stop you, at least he didn't say anything to anyone. the bard respectfully kept his mouth shut, and you can appreciate that.
during his three year expedition, varka had sent a total of seventy-two letters, some with several pages based on how thick the envelope was, others that probably barely had three sentences.
you knew that because you counted every single one, like a fool.
they were kept neatly inside a small wooden box tucked beneath the false bottom of your luggage – a stupid hiding place, really, considering you checked it far too often for it to mean anything.
the envelopes had long since lost their crispness. the edges softened from being handled too much, the ink on some of the older ones slightly faded.
snezhnayan winters were unforgiving to paper.
sometimes you wondered if he wrote them while drunk.
sometimes you wondered if he stopped writing when he realized you weren’t answering but the dates on the envelopes told you otherwise.
two weeks. they always arrived every two weeks, sometimes more when he's in a particularly tough spot.
even when you moved away from mondstadt, even when you changed addresses, even when you made it very clear that whatever you had with him was dead and buried.
varka still wrote, persistenntly like the lack of response didn't bother him.
you never opened a single one.
not the first. not the seventy-second.
stared at it, sure but never more than that.
because opening even one meant acknowledging that he still existed in your life somehow, and that was too risky and dangerous.
dangerous for him.
dangerous for you.
dangerous for the fragile excuse you called moving on.
so the letters would stay sealed.
like nasty wounds you refused to clean because you were convinced you deserved to hurt for it.
the cathedral bell rings somewhere behind you.
you blink and mondstadt rushes back into focus around you — merchants shouting prices, the scent of apples and bread drifting through the air, the steady murmur of civilians who have no idea their city once nearly destroyed you.
your hand is still resting against a crate of fruit.
you don’t remember walking here.
“— hearin' me?"
varka’s voice again, closer this time.
you glance sideways.
he’s standing beside you, arms loosely crossed, watching you with an expression that’s softer than usual. not teasing. not amused.
just observing, taking you in with a reverent look on his face. it's as if he's making up for the times he couldn't see you, and this time he's burning your image in his memory.
you hate that look a lot, makes you remember the past too clearly.
“you zoned out,” he says casually, in that usual raspy tone of his. “been doing that a lot lately.”
you scoff lightly, turning away from the stall, “i always did that.”
“yeah,” he agrees easily.
then, after a moment, “not this bad though.”
you don’t respond.
instead, you pick up an granny smith apple, inspecting it like it’s the most fascinating object in the world.
anything to avoid looking at him.
anything to avoid the weight of that quiet attention.
varka doesn’t push, he never really did.
instead he glances at the apple in your hand, then back at you, "you used to hate green apples."
your eyebrow twitches. ". . . tastes change.”
“hm,” he doesn’t argue, just hums thoughtfully like he’s filing that information somewhere in his head.
the silence stretches between you two again – comfortable for him, agonizing for you.
then —
“you really never read them?”
the question lands gently this time. no accusations or bitterness.
just quiet curiosity, as if he’s asking about something trivial — the weather, perhaps — and not about the years he spent writing to someone who never answered, let alone read those writings.
you feel something tighten in your chest.
". . . no.”
you don’t look at him when you say it and for a moment, varka doesn’t respond.
he just takes it in.
the way a man might take a punch – steady, breathing through it, deciding what to do with the feeling afterward. doesn't mean the sting isn't there though.
“ah,” he says after a second.
no disappointment dripping from his voice, just quiet understanding.
you finally glance at him.
he's leaning against the empty stall with that sheepish smile you remember too well, arms crossed and shoulders light.
“well,” he continues, shrugging lightly, “that explains why none of my jokes landed.” he's laughing lightly, eyes crinkled like crescents.
you stare at him.
". . . you wrote jokes in those letters?”
“course i did,” he replies offhandedly. “can’t send seventy-two letters without at least trying to be entertaining,"
seventy-two.
"wouldn't want you to get bored and drop them halfway through. . . though i suppose that didn't really matter since you never read them."
he says it so casually.
like he didn’t just confirm that he kept count too.
you look away again, focusing back on the apple in your hand.
“. . . i really can't with you."
“yeah,” he agrees without hesitation.
then he grins, a little crooked.
“i was pretty desperate.” he admits, looking directly at you.
you almost drop the apple, a small but traitorous churning in your stomach – something dangerously close to elation.
varka laughs quietly when he notices.
not loud enough to draw attention, but warm enough that it sends a strange ache through your chest.
"don’t look so shocked,” he adds. “i’ve never been subtle.”
that part, unfortunately, is true.
subtlety was never varka’s strength.
back then he was the type to sling an arm over your shoulders in public, laugh too loud at your dry remarks, and proudly tell anyone who would listen that the scariest woman in mondstadt was his.
and somehow. . .
that hasn’t changed.
he leans slightly against the stall now, giving you space instead of crowding you, as if he's scared you'll retreat off somewhere again.
“but hey,” he says after a moment, voice lighter, “good to know they didn’t end up in a fireplace somewhere.”
you hesitate, "i kept them.”
the words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
varka pauses, eyes widening for just a fraction.
he smiles. a soft damning smile – relieved in a way that’s almost embarrassing to witness.
“yeah?” he says, chuckling like he can't believe it.
you nod once, stiffly, ". . . don’t read too much into it.”
“wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies immediately.
and you know he means that.
varka was always like this, he never forced meaning into your actions, never demanded explanations you weren’t ready to give.
he just. . . accepted what you offered.
even when it was very little.
the wind passes through the market again, rustling the banners overhead
you place the apple back into the crate.
"you’re not curious?” you ask
“about what?”
“why i didn’t read them.”
varka hums, thinking about it.
then he shrugs, “i figured you had your reasons.”
simple as ever.
he pushes himself upright from the stall, stretching his shoulders like a man who just finished a long shift instead of someone reopening old wounds.
“besides,” he adds casually, glancing down at you with a grin that’s just a little too familiar, “you’re here now.”
you blink.
he gestures vaguely between the two of you.
“means we can talk instead."
your stomach twists, because that’s the problem, isn’t it?
talking.
talking meant explaining, explaining means admitting and admitting means facing the thing you’ve spent years running from.
varka watches your expression shift, and whatever he noticed, he doesn’t comment on it.
instead he picks up one of the apples, tossing it lightly in his hand. bright green, similar to the glazed pottery in his office. the one noelle got for him.
“y’know,” he says thoughtfully, “i always wondered which letter would’ve convinced you to punch me first.”
you shoot him a flat look.
"punch you. . . ?”
“yeah,” he says easily, “figured if you were mad enough to hit me, at least i’d know you read one.”
you stare at him, long and silent.
stoic as ever.
then you mutter, " you're an idiot.”
and for some reason, varka looks ridiculously pleased about that.
"you should really read them, i think it'd help in sorting out your thoughts."
you didn’t mean to open it.
that’s what you told yourself, anyway.
the box sat on the small desk of your rented lodge room, exactly where you had thrown it earlier that evening. the wood creaked softly under the weight of the letters — three years’ worth of them.
three years.
thirty-six months.
seventy-two envelopes.
every single one addressed in the same familiar handwriting – messy, large, and impossibly hard to ignore.
they say a person's handwriting shows who they are as a person. you think it's pretty accurate.
you stared at the parchment like they might bite.
the confrontation from earlier replayed in your head for the hundredth time.
"you should really read them."
you clicked your tongue irritably, an expression of storm crossing your face at the memory. you nearly clenched the paper in your hands.
"easy for you to say,” you muttered under your breath.
the room was quiet, comfortable. mondstadt’s night air drifted in through the open window, carrying distant laughter and music from the taverns below.
your fingers drummed against the table.
then stopped.
your gaze drifted back to the box, already feeling like you were gonna do something you'd regret.
one letter wouldn’t hurt.
just one.
totally not because you care, just to prove to yourself that whatever he wrote back then didn’t matter anymore.
that was all. . . nothing more, nothing less.
your hand moved before you could reconsider.
you grabbed the oldest envelope, letting out a low exhale.
the paper was slightly yellowed now, edges softened from time and travel. the wax seal had the knights’ insignia pressed into it, it travelled through the official system, addressed specifically for you.
roasaria had kept them while you were gone then gave them to you when you came back. you had been confused then, wondering why the box was so heavy.
"i think you should read these," she had told you, with that monotone voice of hers.
like father, like daughter. she had grown to resemble him ever more as the years passed.
your stomach twisted.
for three years, that seal had remained untouched.
you stared at it for a long moment. then broke it, the sound of cracking wax felt far louder than it should have.
you slid the folded paper out slowly, biting your lip while tried to calm your beating heart.
the ink hadn’t faded, despite the yellowed margins.
varka’s handwriting was rough and messy — letters slanted and uneven, like he had written it quickly.
you unfolded the page our eyes scanned the first line.
to the love of my life,
hey!
i’m writing this while the horses are dozing and the campfires are still warm. we left mondstadt a few days back. the wind here doesn’t just bite, it feels like it's whipping me through my coat.
the men are in good spirits, all of them big talk and brash laughter. seems like they can’t wait to prove themselves out there in the battlefield. the world’s harsh out here though, you’d tell them that.
you always did enjoy pointing out when i was being dramatic.
HAHAHAHAHAHA! i can imagine it already!
also i know you're gonna complain about how informal this letter is but i'm more used to this with you. remember when you once sent me that "report" with just two sentences? heh, i'm chuckling a bit just remembering it.
i'm not gonna act like strangers with you and do the whole poetic letters thing, i think we're well past that.
anyway, i miss the sound of mondstadt at night. that odd little lull between the last laugh in the tavern and the faint music from the cathedral door. it felt safe. homey. you made it feel lighter.
i’m fine. truly. i miss you, but i’m fine. don’t let that worry you. i just wanted you to know this much, i’m always thinking of you and i love you.
forever yours, varka.
without realizing it, you have slowly started to smile.
you pick up another without realizing, tearing into it with a certain hunger – as if you've held back for far to long.
to [name],
today was hard loud. too loud. a confusing sort of problem you can’t talk your way out of with jokes. or alcohol.
i don’t mention it to worry you, you’re more capable than you give yourself credit for. you’d handle whatever this world threw at you with that indifferent expression and sharp wit of yours.
when it was quiet again, i found myself thinking about the time we hid from a storm under that half‑collapsed stone wall in windvale. you were so annoyed about the mud on your boots, but you laughed anyway. i think that was the first time i heard you laugh back then, i knew from then on that you've doomed me and my heart to be forever yours. did you cringe just now? hahaha...
i’m okay. the other soldiers are okay, some are lightly injured. i tried my best, i really did
i miss you a lot, i think i've started to hallucinate your voice when i was out cold earlier. the injuries aren't that bad i think.
write back when you can, okay? only if you aren't busy.
with love, varka
it must have been something serious for him to be this shaken up. maybe it was the reason he changed course.
not like you can ask the past.
you pick out a more enlarged envelope, it must've contained so many pages.
to the one i hold dear,
not sure why i’m writing this. probably because i can’t stop thinking about you. maybe because i miss mondstadt, maybe because the weather here is actually driving me insane and makes me feel like shouting your name into the wind (don’t worry, i didn’t, the men would call me crazy HAHA).
so, crepus. i know you blame yourself. don’t. don’t even start rolling your eyes at me, i can see it. you didn’t intend any of it. none of it. i know you feel responsible, i can feel it from here, and i’m not even psychic....or maybe i am? for you.
i know you carry more guilt than anyone should, and i’m not here to tell you to shrug it off. i know you didn’t intend what happened, and i know you tried to make it right however you could. but i want you to hear it anyway — you didn’t kill him. you weren’t supposed to be the one to save him, and if anyone deserved blame, it wasn’t you.
but really. you tried. you always try. hell, you’ve probably tried more than anyone else. and yeah i know, it still hurts. it's messy as hell. life’s messy. we all know that.
okay, let's start somewhere lighter.
today, some locals tried to teach me to cook this really amazing chicken stew. let me tell you, it was really bad. i mean, truly BAD. fire everywhere, soup that looked like mud, and me, i had stood there like a fumbling idiot and for a minute,i thought about you. about how you’d probably sigh, mutter something sarcastic, and then hit me lightly with your book for somehow fucking up soup of all things and i laughed. yeah, instead of helping wirh dealing with the fire, i couldn't help but laugh.
don’t tell fred, he was the most pissed about the broken pot.
i miss the stupid, trivial things with you. the way you ignore me half the time but i still feel like i matter. the way you chew your lip when you’re annoyed. the way you… well, you.
i can’t promise you that the expedition will end soon. can’t promise you anything really. except this though: you will always live rent free in my thoughts. i’m worried about you. i’m rooting for you. and if you ever want to... not talk, not answer, not forgive, not anything...i’ll still be here. maybe writing more ridiculous letters. maybe climbing more ridiculous mountains. maybe trying to cook more ridiculous meals and failing.
. . .
you stare at the page, the words repeating in your head. slowly, the tension in your chest eases. your shoulders slump, almost imperceptibly, as if you’d been holding a mountain there for years and it’s finally letting go.
the ache of guilt, that gnawing voice you’d carried through every mission, every night alone in your quarters, every time you saw kaeya or diluc and felt the shadow of what happened – softens and melts. and for the first time in years, you allow yourself to breathe without pain.
“…i miss you,” the letter rambles on, and yes, he’s laughing somewhere between the lines, trying to lighten the weight of his own words. “…i miss you like an idiot who forgot how to breathe properly. and yeah, probably like a fool who thinks you’ll read these letters and understand me better than anyone else ever could. probably correct. you always have been better at understanding than i am. smart girl, aren't 'ya?"
among the pages were badly drawn doodles of landscapes and other knights. a few notes here and there of the fauna and some pressed flowers.
passionate as he was with them, they've always looked more like something children would scrawl on the walls.
the expedition’s been long. longer than i thought it would be. there’s a lot of snow out here and not much else to look at, which leaves a man with too much time to think.
unfortunately for me, most of those thoughts end up being about you.
before you get mad. . . i’m not saying that to make you feel bad.
i just figured i should be honest.
you always said i talked too much anyway.
i keep that scrap of paper you gave me tucked in my coat pocket. it's the letter you didnt even bother to put in an envelope, just shoved it at me during the small expedition to the port.
the one where you told me to fuck off.
real classy message, by the way.
the knights laughed pretty hard when they saw it.
i told them it was the nicest thing you’d ever written to me.
…that part might actually be true.
still, it’s in your handwriting. so i kept it.
a ridiculous man, varka was. and yet you couldn't help but fall for him ever further.
i’ve written to you. . . i don’t know. . . fourthy? thirty-six? maybe more. i’ve tried jokes, i’ve tried being serious, i’ve tried being clever, and all i end up with is a mess of ink and tears. not that i cry. not in front of anyone. but,you make me feel like i could.
and he'll continue until the seventieth, would probably reach over a hundred if the expedition went on for longer.
i keep thinking of the old days. walking through mondstadt, you complaining about the the loud noises, me pretending to know what i’m doing whenever i'm with you, and you. . . just you. laughing, making sure i don’t make a complete fool of myself.
i miss that. i miss you.
sometimes i dream about grabbing you, threading my fingers through your hair, shaking you gently, and saying, “don’t ever leave me like that again.” sometimes i imagine you laughing, sometimes screaming, sometimes just glaring at me like you always did and i can’t stop thinking about it.
how much have you tortured this man during his expedition? to think he'd be this lovesick.
he seemed completely fine whenever the two of you bickered earlier in the market. and he'd been almost carefree with the way he treated you in the past week.
you never thought he'd be yearning this much for you throughout the years.
by the way, i heard from jean that you've left mondstadt.
without even telling rosaria or razor? do you know how worried they were for you?
listen, if you’re mad at me, fine. if you hate me, also fine. if you never want to see me or our kids again, i’ll survive. maybe. barely. but they won't.
at least let us know. at least don’t leave them in this limbo of imagining you somewhere out there, alive, safe, and completely unreachable. come back home
come back to mondstadt.
you're cruel and yes, i’m whining.
sue me, i guess.
so. yeah. if you ever decide to show up again, or write me back, or even yell at me through letters for being an dumbass (this one's likely), i’ll be here.
rosaria thinks you're being an idiot and complicating things in your head again, don't tell her i told you though. razor thought you had died or something, he looked for you in the forest everyday.
don’t make me climb dragonspine's peak for you. seriously. the climb is ridiculous. and the wind? don’t even ask.
…miss you.
don’t open this if it makes you mad. do open it if it makes you smile. do whatever you want, just know that you’re not alone.
sorry for rambling so much. not really though.
still infatuated with you, varka.
"our kids," you huffed, "did just fine without me."
you're not that cruel, you sent birthday presents and letters during special holidays to the two of them. never late. never forgetting.
also what's this about rosaria complaining to varka instead of talking with you? the favoritism is appalling.
she never even mentioned it when you came back!
razor too! why didn't he tell you about this?
they'd sided with varka all along in your kind-of divorce.
you laugh quietly at that. it comes out more as a choked sound than anything else, and you feel some of the years of silence, of self-loathing, slip away.
not fully, it's never that easy. but it doesn't feel as suffocating anymore.
your hand trembles over the letter. your eyes sting with unshed tears. and for the first time in a long, long time, the guilt doesn’t grip you. the blame isn’t yours. it was never yours.
and somewhere in the back of your mind, a thought slips in: varka. . . he never stopped caring. he never stopped watching over you. even across continents, across frost and snow and war, he never stopped.
you curl the letter to your chest, closing your eyes, letting the wind from the open window carry away the heaviness you’ve been carrying for years.
and maybe, just maybe, you allow yourself to hope.
hope that you’re not alone. hope that varka was right. hope that it’s not too late.
the city is quiet tonight, as it should be.
it's nearly midnight, barely anyone walked the streets by then. those who did were either drunks on their wobbly way home or people who had a lot on their mind.
like you.
you’re sitting on the cathedral steps when he finds you. it seems even the grandmaster took midnight strolls every now and then.
it's something you already knew and accounted for. after all, the two of you used to do it all the time. you'd drag him out for some fresh air when things got to stuffy, and he'd feel better right after.
varka doesn’t say anything at first. he just sits beside you, shoulder brushing yours, like he used to.
"did you? y'know – read them?" he says eventually.
you stare at the moon, "i read your letters."
he exhales slowly, "yeah. figured."
then you say the thing you've avoided for three years – ". . . i didn't leave because i stopped loving you or anything stupid like that."
varka’s head turns, eyes focused. he's leaning a bit lower now, wanting to hear everything. the things you've withheld for years.
you keep looking straight ahead, afraid to look at the man beside you.
"i left because i didn't deserve to stay."
another long pause, you feel your shoulders tense at the way he stays quiet.
then varka laughs, softly. like it's being whispered to the wind and not to you.
it's not mocking you, just. . . tired.
"you idiot."
you finally look at him.
he’s smiling, sad and warm all at once.
"you decided that on your own?"
"yeah," you murmured, feeling your face heat up. for all the times you called him immature, you had ended up doing something more stupid.
he leans back against the steps, thinking.
"well."
". . . well?"
he glances at you, blue eyes steady.
"next time you ruin my life, at least talk to me about it first."
you blink, ". . . that's it?"
"what were you expecting?"
"definitely not something like this. i had, at least, expected something more emotional for our official reunion."
you're scowling now, clearly displeased at his lukewarm response.
he nudges your shoulder lightly,
"i already did the dramatic suffering thing for three years, in foreign lands too."
he really did.
aside from usual dreams of past memories, he'd also get small flashes of what-if's and could-be's, one where you had completely moved on with another man. where you built a home without him in it.
he hated those the most, varka would wake up in an irritated mood, take it out on training, and pretend the woman he loved wasn't several hundred miles away and actively ignoring him.
the injuries he sustained didn't feel quite as real compared to the hollowness of his heart when you'd left him. even as the distance between you two got larger, he only grew more impatient to be reunited with you.
and out of every absurd ambitions he had over the years, from slaying a dragon to becoming mondstadt's hero, there was one that he could never hope to throw away – a wedding, with you as his bride.
it's childish. you called it stupid back then, saying that a marriage wasn't necessary as long as the two of you bad each other.
but varka had truly desired it from the moment he'd seen your eyes twinkle at the mention of a wedding. nothing grand. just something for you, him, and family.
you've always thought loving someone as capricious and bland as you would be a chore. that varka would find you tiring to deal with, and leave you alone one day. because of that, distance had become your shield and ruin, building walls so high it could rival starsnatch cliff.
but the knight of boreas wouldn't have gotten this far without being persistent.
a devoted man through and through. for him, loving you was easy. too easy. he was almost concerned how effortless it was. no distance, lack of communication, or dramatic break-up could ever stop him from adoring you.
varka had never loved you because it was just that – easy, effortless, and undemanding. in between the cracks of your heart, he found something worth fighting for, worth taking care of, someone worth all the pesky troubles and headaches.
he'd found you.
his love was simple but enduring. more than casual attraction, akin to pure adoration and endless devotion, just as he'd do anything for his beloved nation. people can call you heartless all they want, but even the sting of your glare could warm up his clumsy, beating heart.
you could carve it out and he'd thank you.
you already did, actually.
mondstadt’s wind was warm now, sunlight peeking through the walls. it carried the smell of dandelions, wine, the faint sweetness of cider drifting out of the tavern when the doors opened. sometimes music too.
"you staying?"
your chest tightens, ". . . maybe."
'yes.'
varka smiles. not big or triumphant.
just relieved.
"good enough for me."
the cathedral bells chime behind you once again, this time signalling a future you've dreamed about for far too long.
#conductor's-afterthoughts ☆ dont @ me, ive been hacking away at this for a week now and ive nearly given up halfway through. . . this actually hurt my head so bad. . . can you tell i completely threw away my original plot at the end and just started to ball it out.
theres something awfully romantic about being so infatuated by a person who cant help but run away from everything when it gets too much, you'd chase after them and think, 'why am i not getting tired of this?' and realize it's something you won't mind doing for the rest of your life.
i think i like those romances the most. i am a flawed person after all, so for someone to accept and cherish these flaws without it affecting them mentally would be a dream.
ANYWAYS. was this good? i was genuinely losing my shit guys. i took 30 minutes to proofread it this time, thats right! i actually read through the whole thing! proud of me? u oughta be. i had like several hundred searches just being "synonym for [word]"
bestfriend!satoru, who got stuck in a thunderstorm the one day his car was in the repair shop. the closest place he could crash at was yours— and you said “yeah sure” like it was nothing, like it didn’t make his heart leap into his throat just thinking about being in your space, your room, your bed. you tossed him a towel and told him to shower before he got sick, completely unaware of how his brain short-circuited at the idea of using the same bathroom you did.
bestfriend!satoru, who stood in your bathroom, towel around his neck, staring at your shampoo bottle like it was some sacred relic. he hesitated before opening it, fingers lingering over the cap just because it was something you touched this morning. he shouldn’t be blushing over this. he shouldn’t be this happy over the thought of stepping out of the shower and smelling like you. but he is. god, he is.
bestfriend!satoru, who uses your shampoo and stands there an extra second just to breathe in the scent, imagining for a stupid fleeting moment what it’d be like if this was normal for the two of you. if sharing things, if smelling the same, if being tangled in the same space wasn’t some one-time thunderstorm accident but an everyday routine. something domestic. something soft. he dries his hair a little too slow, just buying himself time to calm his racing heart.
bestfriend!satoru, who walks back into your bedroom wearing the spare clothes you gave him—clothes that are too small on him, your old hoodie stretching across his shoulders. you laugh when you see how it fits, and he wants to bottle that sound. he grumbles and says you shrunk in the wash but truth is, he likes it. likes that he’s literally wrapped up in you.
bestfriend!satoru, who tries to act normal when you flop down on the bed and pat the space next to you like it’s the most casual thing ever. “you can sleep here, i don’t care,” you say, scrolling on your phone. he stands there awkwardly, hands shoved into his pockets, trying to play it cool even though his brain is screaming. you don’t even look up, and he’s both relieved and offended at how unaffected you seem.
bestfriend!satoru, who finally sits down, stiff and a little too careful, like if he moves too fast he’ll ruin something fragile. you nudge him with your foot, telling him to relax, it’s just a bed. but it isn’t just a bed to him. it’s your bed. your pillow. your blanket. and when your shoulders brush, barely there, he has to swallow hard just to breathe.
bestfriend!satoru, who watches you talk about something random, your voice calm like this is the most normal thing in the world. the streetlights cast soft shadows across your face and he memorizes all of it. the way your hair falls. the way your eyes slowly grow tired. the way you yawn and don’t bother turning away from him. he wants to tell you you’re cute. he doesn’t.
bestfriend!satoru, who nearly malfunctions when you say, “if you’re cold later, just take some of my blanket.” you say it offhandedly, but to him it sounds like a confession. like a promise. like something couples say. he nods too quickly, cheeks pink, and looks away. you don’t notice, still scrolling, completely unaware of the war happening in his chest.
bestfriend!satoru, who lies awake next to you, listening to the rain and the soft sound of your breathing. you fell asleep so easily, like you trusted him without question. like him being next to you was safe. he stares at the ceiling, wide awake, heart doing somersaults. he thinks about the shampoo. the hoodie. the shared bed. the storm outside. the quiet inside. and something in him aches with a kind of hope that terrifies him.
bestfriend!satoru, who whispers your name even though you’re already asleep, just to hear how it sounds in the dark. he reaches out like he’s going to brush a strand of hair away from your face, then stops himself halfway. instead, he tucks his hand under the pillow and sighs softly. if this is all he ever gets— just this one night, just this one moment of pretending something soft exists between you— he thinks maybe it’s enough.
i miss hurt/comfort the next fic will be hurt comfort i love hurt comfort mmmmmmmmm
thinking about being dubbed “the parents of the knights of favonius and, by extension, mondstadt!” with varka. unofficially. against your will.
the kids? love him — adore him, even. carefree demeanour, laugh so loud and unapologetic it brings a twitch of the lips to even the coldest of hearts, blinding smile and an endless stream of adventurous tales to boot, it's really no wonder they come flocking to him the second he's within sight. usually when he's around the main town, a group of them in varying ages will crowd around, eagerly hanging onto every word he says.
you merely sigh, exasperated, as some cling to his biceps, shrieking with unadulterated glee as he spins around with that booming laugh of his, their bodies twirling in a manner you're positive will have them stumbling and swirly-eyed the moment they try to find their footing. it doesn't take long for you to step in and tell the easy-going grand master to slow down, lest he wants to deal with a gaggle of nauseous kids. as always, he listens, reducing his speed until their dangling feet stabilise on the ground with ease. well, if you ignore the children's whining, boasting how they can handle some measly spins, “just like a knight should!” with puffed chests, that is.
you beg to differ when the first few times this happened they ended up in the knights of favonius' infirmary with upset stomachs and bile threatening to spill onto your shoes.
unlike with the young, impressionable children who get starry-eyed at some exaggerated story varka all-too happily recites with theatrical gestures and dramatised reenactments, the knights and members of the order are more grounded. they have their obvious respect and admiration for the man, of course, but they're also more... well-acquainted with his laid-back demeanour, to put it lightly.
case in point, jean doing her best to urge the grand master shirking off his duties to sign a stack of paperwork piled on his desk. it never gets too high; not when jean is the one to eventually handle it. (sure, he does his work, but that’s only when he’s not on some expedition or out training some knights or doing archons knows what.) you often find her buried in work within her office, holed up without having taken a single break. of course, that workaholic streak of hers ends the moment you step in and practically force her to take a break — a quick breather facing away from the documents, a stroll outside, some food and water to have before she returns to hyper-focus mode.
there will be times where you’re cleaning your equipment while listening to eula ramble about how, “hmph, the grand master should take things more seriously. yes, he is strong, but that gives him no right to be so lax about everything. i still haven’t forgiven him for not taking our spar seriously, and—” and so on. amber will sometimes be there too, adding in her own thoughts about the matter before facing a rebuttal of sorts from eula, while mika adds his own comments about how his training with varka had been. the commotion usually ends in the latter being complimented in some way on his improvement before the trio suddenly have you in their clutches, dragging you out for a meal at good hunter “before a certain grand master returns and steals you away!” is more or less what they mean in their own… unique ways.
oftentimes you find yourself on the receiving end of the knights’ pleas. appearing at the infirmary with looks of admittedly rather pitiful displays of desperation, you’re stuck listening to their rambles about varka’s monster training, practically on the verge of tears as they beg you to put a stop to this madness (read: varka’s training and sparring sessions) before they lose any more soldiers (read: before any more knights pass out from varka’s freakish stamina) since, “you’re the only one we can trust! he only listens to you in times like these!” in other words, they’re using you as a shield.
well, you’re a good shield regardless, since he does eventually put a pause to the training for the day. the brave knights behind you sink with relief before trying to resuscitate their fallen comrades as per usual, while the man responsible for the situation merely ambles up to you in delight, chattering about his day and asking you about your own, as though the knights aren’t putting on a performance in front of you.
archons, even diluc looks on with a barely concealed grimace when varka downs yet another hefty cup of dandelion wine during the nights he's behind the counter in angel's share, often accompanied by an expression akin to pity when turning his gaze to you, knowing you will be the one to drag the drunkard back to his quarters. even so, you're almost certain varka exaggerates his drunken stupors more often than not when there are times he appears more lucid than someone who downed three barrel's-worth of strong alcohol should, but hey! who are you to judge a man and his almost inhumane-levels of alcohol tolerance?
(oh, you know, just the physician who has to deal with his whines and complaints about a hangover you're ninety-nine percent sure he is horridly exaggerating the morning after when he finds himself in the infirmary. you still tell him “i told you so,” after situating him with some cool water and using your abilities to ease his discomfort.)
you're not a couple, just two friends who have endured many trials and tribulations expected of a bright-eyed knight-turned-grand master, and a nervous wreck of a trainee-turned-head physician.
the older folks like to think otherwise. the seemingly all-knowing smiles when passing by the two of you when together in the city, the barely concealed snickers upon finding their esteemed grand master trailing behind their beloved physician like some overgrown puppy, the fond chuckles when you act as though you are fed up with his antics only to give in to his whims barely a moment later…
yeah. you’re really not fooling anyone. well, maybe the youngsters, but they’re bound to realise mr grand master’s very obvious affection isn’t as one-sided as it appears sooner or later.
(during the weinlesefeist when mika hands you a letter separate to the one he read out upon his return, you act nonchalant as the weight of varka’s penmanship sits heavy in your palm. upon finding time for yourself in the late evening in the infirmary, an exasperated smile tugs the corners of your lips as you practically hear his voice read aloud the letter’s contents.)
(perhaps, upon his return, you ought to bring up the idea of making things official with him; officially a couple, and officially the “parents of the knights of favonius and, by extension, mondstadt!” as you’re lovingly dubbed by the people. maybe.)
the sound of footsteps from people roaming around the gallery and whispers among themselves, still, couldn't make you take your eyes off satoru gojo.
gojo's standing beside you as he rambles about the art piece in front of you two as if he's not an art himself makes your chest tighten with warmth. how can anyone be this beautifully blessed?
he's standing there casted by the warm light with his tousled hair and slightly askew glasses, beaming in a way that makes anyone who passes by believe he's blessed by helios—god of the sun—shining brightly while unaware of his surroundings.
it wouldn't be a wonder if he's really blessed by helios himself.
“personally, flamboyant art pieces suit me better. there's something about art with vibrant colors, don't you think? the way painters are able to compose the colors without making it clash is brilliant—”
you nod at every single word he says, ears tuning in to listen to the melody that's his voice. a voice that's sweet as honey, a warm cup of hot chocolate during winter, and one that puts the greatest composer in shame. a bewitching melody.
“—arts similar to david hockney's matches me better. do you know that one piece he did? a bigger grand canyon? i adore that one. wait, no, i love that piece. he's really talented in color coordinating everything. at one glance, looking at the color palette may or may not be able to gave someone stroke, but he—”
gojo stops mid sentence when he turns his head at you, catching you staring at him with an intensity that makes his heart skip a beat.
your eyes shimmering brightly and gojo swears that your eyes have become the night sky, raining with stars.
he shakes his head at the thought. that's an understatement, paying no justice to your ravishing eyes. the pair of eyes that are piercing through his are more than a night sky— your eyes are the galaxy itself.
“why are you stopping?” you asked with a slightly tilted head as a soft smile painted your face.
he blinked once, twice. the cerulean eyes locking with yours, warm and soft, as if you just handed him the whole universe. with a hint of nervousness.
“uh … i— you're staring at me.”
“should i not?”
you bite your lower lip when he shakes his head frantically, cheeks turning rosey while you hold yourself to not bite his cheeks.
“no, that's not what i meant! you just, uh, you … nevermind. forgot what i said.” he looks away, fingers fumbling against each other. “... why are you staring at me like that?”
oh dear god.
it should be illegal for anyone to look like him, really. or at the very least, near him. however, standing beside him in a room cast with lights enough to shine the whole room, you doubt there's anyone similar.
because now, in the midst of people walking around both of you, you're struck with a realization that he doesn't look as if he's blessed by the god of sun anymore.
he's the sun itself.
satoru gojo is more than enough to lighten up the room— galaxy, even.
“i love hearing you talk,” the words slipped before you realize it. though now, you'd take this any other day. no one knows if you'd ever find the courage to say that in the future, so you settle for a slip from the lips.
he blinks, again. the enchanting sculpted face painted with a deeper shade of pink as his gaze fell to yours. gojo's mouth opened and closed, too struck to even let a single word past his lips.
in the moment filled with a sense of belonging, you find yourself standing in front of him— offering yourself without a word, wishing for him to see your heart that you're handing to him.
after a while, he let out a soft exhale— sounding like he's facing defeat and settling down on his knees, asking for mercy.
well, he is at your mercy.
“... it's just mindless stuff,” gojo muttered. eyes darting everywhere again, but you.
you let out a soft chuckle at his words, “does it matter to you?”
at that, his eyes fall onto yours for the umpteenth time today and his chest suddenly feels as if it's full of something he only ever felt with you. a feeling that he helplessly tried to bury now out in the open and raw for anyone to see.
love.
he nodded at your question—quite bashful—and you couldn't help but fall deeper to the sun he is. “if it matters to you, it matters to me.”
one sentence, nine words.
you didn't say much, he knows. nonetheless, it was more than enough to make gojo's heart do a little somersault and make his breath hitch.
he opened his mouth before closing it again. that same action repeats for six minutes. and you wanted to tease him, really. however, your heart is doing the same thing he does. a little somersault with hints of screaming from how fast your heart beats.
“you're … do you … want to grab coffee, after this?” he asked as his glasses slid from the bridge of his nose, before he quickly fixed it. sheepishly.
you laugh at his question, at how silly he looks. “are you asking me on a date?” the question caught him off guard and the already pinkish face turned one of maroon.
his hand went to run through his already messy hair, unable to look at you. “yeah ..?”
“thie is a date, no? art gallery date. or this is not a date for you?”
gojo feels his body burning in embarrassment, wanting to dig a hole and bury himself from how stupid he has been this whole time.
should've stayed at the dorm and played digimon. or dungeon and dragons.
well, anything but making a fool of himself.
and before he's able to say anything else that could embarrass himself—he thinks—you already reached his hand and tangled it with yours to pull him away from there.
“let's watch the sunset while drinking coffee,” you said as you look over to him from your shoulder with a smile that gojo swears could leave him undone.
but, if it's in your hands, he's more than willing to do it himself.
DEAREST ☆ my take on nerdjo! i wrote this sleepy, so pardon for any mistakes.
the room is quiet except for the soft hum of the monitor and the faint rain tapping against the hospital window. the storm outside feels far away.
you’re half-asleep, tired in every way a person can be, but there’s a small, perfect weight on your chest: warm, steady, breathing.
gojo’s sitting in the chair beside your bed, elbows on his knees, hair a mess and blindfold hanging loose around his neck. he looks nothing like the smug sorcerer everyone knows, his face is too soft, too real.
“you should sleep,” you mumble weakly.
he shakes his head without looking up. “nah. i’m good.”
you almost laugh, but it comes out weak. “you’ve been sitting there for hours.”
“yeah,” he says quietly, eyes on the tiny bundle in your arms. “can’t really look away.”
the baby shifts, lets out a small sound, and gojo instantly freezes, like one wrong move could break the world. it’s ridiculous and sweet all at once.
you nudge him gently. “you should hold her, you know.”
he hesitates, which is funny, considering he’s fought curses the size of buildings. “what if i… drop her?”
“satoru.”
he blinks at the sound of his name. you’re too tired to tease him properly, so you just smile, and that’s enough. he reaches out finally, slow and careful, and you help him guide his hands. when the baby settles in his arms, his whole expression changes,the usual brightness quiets, replaced by something softer, something almost fragile.
“hey there,” he whispers, voice low, like he’s afraid of breaking the moment. “you’re… really tiny.”
you can’t help laughing. “that’s how babies work.”
he glances at you, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “yeah, but still. kinda crazy that something this small exists. and looks like you.”
you close your eyes, exhaustion heavy, but you can feel him looking between the baby and you, like he’s still trying to believe either of you are real.
“you did good,” he says after a moment, barely audible.
“we did,” you murmur back.
and when the thunder rolls again outside, he shifts closer to the bed, tucks a blanket around you both.
the strongest sorcerer in the world sits in a too-small hospital chair, holding the most delicate thing he’s ever touched, and for once, he doesn’t need to protect anything, just stay.
nerd!gojo would 100% ask you out with pickup lines written on flashcards, except he still manages to fumble it in the cutest, painfully awkward way.
like he walks you back from the campus library, heart doing backflips the whole time, mumbling through every possible version of a pickup line under his breath.
you reach your dorm and he suddenly stops, clutching this little stack of flashcards like they’re sacred scripture.
“uh, wait, before you go” he says, clearing his throat way too hard.
he flips the first card, “did you, uh... did you f-fall—” flip “from the— wait, did—” flipflip “oh uh, it must’ve— from the heavens... hurt?... uhm that’s why—”
and then the cards just explode out of his hands. they’re everywhere.
“shit, fuck— no, wait,” he’s crouched down, scrambling to pick them up, voice cracking, “you’re just— so.... so pretty, I can’t, I had it written down..”
you’re trying not to laugh because he’s so earnest and hopelessly flustered, mumbling curses while his cards are literally labeled things like ‘smile here’ and ‘pause for effect’
he looks up at you, red as a cherry as he fixes his glasses up with his wrist.
and god, this nerd is so pretty like that. so hopelessly red and flustered that you can’t help it— you lean in and kiss him, soft and quick.
he freezes. totally still. then blurts out, voice a shaky whisper,
maybeee bringing back the king of curses into the modern era and keeping him restricted by a binding vow was not a good idea. but really, when does jujutsu society ever make a good decision?
and, maybe, making 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 a teacher and electing you as his guide was a bad move all around. for various reasons.
well, for one. he was rude. secondly, painfully old fashioned so now you're teaching him about cellphones. and lastly?
uh, he wants to eat you.
no, not in the sexy way. not in the 'spread your legs and lemme feast' way. ryomen sukuna actually, wholly, truly. . . wants to sink his teeth into your flesh, and consume you.
“just a bite.” he offers and nudges his chair closer in the teacher's break room. you bite you sandwich and shift further.
“no.” you're muffled, but firm, cutting him a glare over a tomato.
at first this unnerved you. when you were introduced to him and the first thing this bastard did was lick his teeth and grunt that you must taste like the finest of wine. you assumed innuendo.
you were proven wrong when the fucker lunged at you and had to be yanked back by gojo.
now? you're far too used to it.
“this is injust.” he motions to your sandwich, like your combination of lettuce, bacon and tomato was a federal crime. “you are allowed to eat your pathetic, favourite foods. why not me?”
you shoot him another look and nudge the bowl of miso over to him. “you said miso was your favourite.”
“I lied. I want you.”
“I don't know what cannibalistic charm you think you have but it's actually fucking creepy.”
more of dad!caleb cuz i cant stop imagining him with his kids — continuation of caleb's part from daddy's home
“Pipsqueak,” Caleb calls softly from the kitchen, apron tied over his bare torso, “do you think if we let the boys name their baby sister, she’d end up being called ‘Laser Tank McBoomBoom’?”
You: "Caleb, we agreed you would stop letting them watch that animated war documentary..."
He swore he’d raise warriors. Confident, honorable little men who could stand on their own. But he didn’t expect fatherhood to punch him in the face with such feral emotional force.
The three sons—ages 8, 6, and 4—are literal hurricanes. Every morning, Caleb has to do tactical briefings just to coordinate breakfast.
Firstborn: Tactical genius. He will hide your car keys just to test your survival instincts. Secondborn: Chaotic gremlin with a cereal addiction. Constantly has jam on his cheek. Thirdborn: A toddler who punches like a tiny moose and calls Caleb “Cap’n Dad.”
They follow him everywhere—out on runs, in his office, even when he’s cleaning weapons. And instead of yelling, Caleb sighs, lifts them all like sacks of potatoes, and growls, “Alright, men. Time for mommy’s goodnight kisses or I’m assigning pushups.”
Then came the miracle: his daughter. His baby girl. After the third boy was born, this man was in shambles. On his knees, holding your hand dramatically in the hospital like,“Please, God, no more mini mes—I love them, but pipsqueak, I need a mini you. Just one. Just one.”
And God said bet.
When you gave birth to your daughter, Caleb held her like she was forged from moonlight and stardust. “...She’s so small. She’s got your little nose. Look at her—look at this angel. My heart hurts. I think I’m dying. Oh god, I’m dying. She smiled. She smiled at me. I’m dead.”
His daughter has him wrapped. Around. Her. Finger. She’s the only person allowed to scribble on his important documents with pink glitter pen. She gets lifted with one arm while he stirs soup with the other. She wears his colonel cap that drags down over her eyes and waddles after him calling him “Dada-bear.”
And when she falls asleep on his chest? Caleb won’t move an inch. His arm could go numb, a wild bear could break in—he’s not moving. And the boys? They worship her. She’s their princess, their boss, their chaos commander. She throws her toy rabbit? The boys hold a funeral. She wants cookies? They raid the jar and deliver like knights on a quest. Someone says she can’t do something? All three yell “YES SHE CAN” in unison and begin stacking cushions so she can fly.
Sometimes at night, you catch Caleb sitting on the floor of the nursery. All four kids asleep around him, his daughter curled in his lap, his fingers gently stroking her hair. He looks up at you with the softest smile and says, “...You know, I thought commanding fleets would be the biggest legacy I’d leave. But these little monsters…? They’re everything. And she—” He gestures at your daughter, all snuggled up, “She’s gonna run this whole damn galaxy one day. And I’m gonna be her biggest supporter.”
it’s been two years, you think to yourself as you stare at the clothes you laid on the bed, the ones satoru wore that day in shinjuku — the black shirt, the loose pants, his haori.
you find yourself doing the same thing this year too — taking out those clothes, looking at them, reliving the past for a moment, then quietly folding them away and placing them back in the closet. maybe it’s becoming a ritual, you think — one that brings back that terrifying ache in your chest, coiling around your heart and settling in your lungs until it’s too hard to breathe.
behind you, footsteps approach softly, a pair of arms soon wrap around your waist, calloused hands coming to rest gently over your navel. you place your hands over his, fingers brushing the faint scars beneath your palms — the ones that were carved into him that day, the same day you thought you were losing your entire world. they rose goosebumps in you back then, but now, you find yourself grateful for them every single day. because, if the scars are there, if you can feel them against your skin with every touch, it means he’s still here too — right beside you.
you smile despite yourself, softly, just as satoru’s chin finds the crook of your neck.
“you’re doing this again?” he asks. “you know, you could just come stare at me instead of staring at those… or wait—” he grins, “—are you trying to tell me something? want me to put them on for you?”
“i never want to see them on you”, you reply, too quickly maybe, your hand squeezing over his, almost protectively. “i… i don’t even know why i’m doing this…”
“the first option still stands”, he says as he turns you around — “there, that’s better”, he whispers, one hand cradling your cheek while the other tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear before both settle at the small of your back, his eyes soft as they meet yours. “you should look at me, not at those clothes like they’re the last piece of me you have left”
“…i thought i lost you that day. the feeling still haunts me”, you say, voice unsteady and wavering, eyes already brimming with tears from the sight of his clothes and the memories flooding back.
his lips brush your forehead, pressing a soft kiss to it, before resting his own against it. “i would never die, pretty. i thought you knew that”
“then what about all those notes you left behind?” you ask, voice shaking. “…like you were already expecting to die… like you knew you wouldn’t come back…” the words breaking apart as they leave you.
he laughs softly as if trying to ease the heaviness in you. “i was just practicing my doodling”
“liar”
he gasps, “how rude”, before leaning in to kiss the tip of your nose. “i would never die. because if i did and left you behind, how could i possibly rest knowing all those men would think you’re suddenly available? i’d be turning in my grave”
a choked laugh escapes you finally. “you really think i’d fall for someone else? have a little more faith in me, silly”
“oh, baby, i trust you”, he pulls you even closer. “it’s them i don’t trust. i know exactly the kind of men who’d line up the second they thought you were free. and that alone—ugh— pisses me off”, he scowls. “i’d have to dig myself out of the grave just to beat them off”
“maybe i’d flirt with them on purpose. just to make you come back”
“so cruel” he fakes another gasp. “you’re going to be nothing but trouble if i leave you alone, aren’t you?” he sighs. “i have no other choice, i’ll just have to stick around forever, die when you die”
“and you’re so sure we’ll die together?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
“pretty, don’t be ridiculous”, satoru gives you a look like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “do i look like the kind of man who’d let his wife go to the afterlife alone? surrounded by all those dead men waiting to see a new face around to make a move on?”
you snort. it seems like that stubborn refusal to share you with anyone else is what will keep him by your side, both in this life and beyond.
nerd!satoru who yaps nonstop about the multiverse while you’re just trying to eat your lunch, waving his hands around dramatically as he explains the concept of alternate dimensions with half a rice ball in his mouth and crumbs stuck to the corner of his lips. who pokes at his food with a mechanical pencil because he forgot his chopsticks again, and then insists with wide eyes and a mouth half full, “technically, pencils are just wooden utensils for intellectuals.” he gets giddy over a new graphing calculator update like it’s a new iphone drop, tapping the screen like it’s a baby animal, and once dragged you into a 40-minute rant about ant communication hierarchies while you were just brushing your teeth, half-asleep and mouth foaming with toothpaste.
he has no less than ten tabs open at all times—reddit conspiracy theories, physics forums, a paused youtube video on quantum tunneling, a spreadsheet titled “do cats defy newton’s laws?”, a google doc labeled “reasons why kissing might be a form of molecular alignment,” and none of it has anything to do with the assignment he’s supposed to be doing. he zones out during lectures, doodling black hole spirals, equations shaped like hearts, and cats in lab coats in the margins of his notes. once, he drew you holding hands with a worm in a bowtie and captioned it “me and my universe.” somehow still manages to get top marks every single time, even though he once turned in an assignment with a greasy fry stain in the corner because he used it as a napkin in the library mid-cram session.
he mutters the weirdest things under his breath like “i feel like a misaligned proton today” or “the moon’s energy was too sarcastic last night” and you just blink at him like🧍♀️while sipping your drink. he wears mismatched socks on purpose and says, “it’s a metaphor for duality.” has five alarms labeled “wake up genius,” “ur gonna flunk,” “your girlfriend will leave you,” “pls satoru,” and “EMERGENCY: CUTE, PRETTY AND SCORCHINGLY HOT GIRL WAITING” and still manages to sleep through all of them unless you call him. his glasses? perpetually smudged, held together with washi tape. his notebooks? an unholy fusion of complicated theorems, grocery lists, pressed flowers, cat doodles, love notes to you, and a page just titled “top 10 reasons why my girlfriend is cuter than entropy.”
his laptop is a biohazard—dusty, overworked, full of files like “time_is_an_illusion_final_FINAL_reallyfinal_actuallyfinal.pptx” and “uRwrong_iMright.docx.” the case is covered in anime stickers, tiny equations, stars drawn with glitter pen, and a wrinkled polaroid of you sticking your tongue out that he keeps taped on like it’s a sacred relic. he listens to lo-fi while studying and pauses every few minutes just to sigh dreamily and whisper, “this part sounds like you looking at me for the first time.”
and yet… he’s so fine it’s borderline illegal. tall, messy white hair that sticks up in all directions and defies every known force of nature, ice-blue eyes that melt when they look at you, and a cocky little smile that makes your chest hurt even when he says things like, “do you think our cells are spiritually linked?” he doesn’t even try to be charming—he just is, like he spawned with a flirt trait.
you fw it. you fw him. every unfiltered ramble, every hyperactive explanation about wormholes or why he thinks bees are secretly time travelers. the way his voice speeds up when he’s excited, and how his hands start waving like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra of nerdiness. you don’t even bother trying to follow every word—you’re just watching him, heart doing somersaults, because he’s so beautiful when he’s passionate. and the fact that you never laugh at him? only ever smile and let him go on? yeah. that cracked his emotional firewall a long time ago.
so now he’s all sunshine and sparkles around you. a literal bundle of joy. grinning at his phone like a middle schooler when you text him “lol ok.” kicking his feet while giggling, voice memos full of stuff like “what if we held hands inside a particle accelerator 😳👉👈” sent at 2:13 a.m., followed by three minutes of him wheezing into a pillow. he calls you his “favorite constant,” even if you don’t get the joke. and if you do? he twirls his hair, blushes, and stares at you like you just split the atom and made it cute.
he makes playlists named “gravity got nothing on how hard i fell for you,” draws you in lab coats saying “ur the thesis to my hypothesis,” keeps your photo in his pencil case and shows it to random people like “this is my girlfriend. she understands my quantum jokes.” if they blink weirdly, he’ll just smile and say, “it’s okay, not everyone gets theoretical perfection.”
being loved by you makes him goo. makes his neurons do the macarena. you make all his bizarre little pieces light up like neon signs. you walked into his strange little world and said “yeah, i’ll stay,” and now he’s rearranging every cosmic thread to make sure it’s perfect for you. adds fairy lights. labels his notebooks “our theories.” buys matching pens. you made his chaos feel like a cozy little planet. he buys you plushies shaped like atoms and puts your name in the acknowledgements of his lab reports. tells people “she’s the reason the data graphs came out prettier.”
nerd!satoru who’s helplessly, hopelessly, tooth-rottingly in love with you. who grabs your hand mid-ramble just to feel you close. who brings you hot cocoa and explains entropy like it’s a bedtime story. who kisses your forehead and tells you “you’re my favorite anomaly in this whole universe.”
and he thanks you—not in grand declarations, but in the quiet moments: when he scoots closer to you without saying a word, when he tugs on your sleeve with glassy eyes after a long day, when he looks at you after an hour of nerding out like you built the whole galaxy just to hear him talk.
his world was spinning way too fast. then you walked in and gave it gravity. and now he orbits you—and he’s never been happier to revolve around anything in his life.
