genuinely how do yall SEAn baddies keep your makeup and sunscreen on when you go out of the house?? it’s a cloudy 32C day today and the 5 mins walk to get to the bus stop made me sweat so much, if i was wearing any sort of products on my face it would’ve all melted right off
#tags-and-cw ★ NSFW! AFAB!READER DRABBLE. . . intimatacy rules, small banter, he's insatiable, you're both in your late 30's to early 40's, erectile overfunction (he has it BAD), he has body hair 'cause duhhh, established relationship (u guys are married here), i love casual intimacy, this is just sweet vanilla sex (dont expect anything kinky).
another late night where your beloved came home late. stacks upon stacks of paperwork had kept him long past sunset again, and by the time he finally stumbled into your arms he was little more than a walking corpse.
you would often find him passed out on the couch the next morning — an empty mug of beer still loosely clutched in his hand, snoring loud enough it could replace your alarm.
after a hearty meal he’d always claim he was only going to take a short nap.
twenty minutes, he’d say.
those twenty minutes inevitably turned into eight hours.
the next morning he’d whine about it, voice rough with sleep, insisting he had an awful night because your warmth wasn’t beside him.
(as if he hadn’t been drooling all over the damn couch.)
“insufferable,” you’d mutter, an exasperated scowl on your face.
varka would only laugh at that — loud, bright, utterly unashamed, 'cause of course he is, he's varka for archons' sake.
“but still yours, no?”
which was, (un)fortunately, true.
even if he gave you migraines on the daily. even if he was utterly unbearable sometimes.
varka was yours, as much as you're his.
decades of marriage had taught you many things about the man you loved. some grand, some small, some hidden in the quiet habits he didn’t even realize he had.
but you'd see them all, no mattter how miniscule they may seem.
you knew the way exhaustion settled into his shoulders after long days, knew the look of him when he walked through the door.
dim ocean blues, a crooked, tired smile, muscles aching beneath his coat.
these days he would simply press a quick kiss to your forehead before disappearing into the bathroom to wash the grime off his skin then spare a few minutes for mantaining his swords, talking about the day with you as he wipes and polishes them to perfection.
and inevitably, after a meal, he'd end up passing out just about anywhere but your shared bed.
you knew your husband very well.
which is why the moment he steps through the door tonight, you kmow something is different.
his eyes meet yours.
and the fire burning in them — sharp, bright, dangerously familiar — sends a shiver down your spine.
“i’m home,” varka whispers, boots heavy against the wooden floorboards as he crosses the room.
tonight he isn’t wearing his usual coat, nor the small pieces of armor that usually cling to him like a second skin. they’re nowhere to be seen. instead, he’s dressed only in a black shirt — the top buttons carelessly left undone.
half of his chest is exposed through the open buttons — scarred skin, a faint trail of blonde hair, and the familiar wolf-tooth necklace swaying faintly with each step he takes.
yet somehow, tonight, everything about him feels. . . different.
"sorry if i've kept you waiting," he places a light peck on the side of your lips, eyes gazing straight at you as he does.
predatory.
that was the gaze of someone who wanted to devour something — or in this case, someone.
warm, large palms rest just above the side of your hips, and you can feel the way he presses slightly, inching your body closer to his.
"no 'welcome home, honey' for me?" a deep chuckle spilled from him, soft with fondness, "finally got tired of your husband, hm?"
his eyes gleam with a certain hunger, tracing over the shape of your lips to the half-exposed cleavage of your dress.
varka does not lighten his grip, eventually pushing you further and further until your back hits the wall. leaning over until he's got you trapped between his frame and the wood now, faces mere inches apart.
you could hear the sound of his heartbeat, loud yet steady.
gulping the sudden nervousness, you were about to welcome him home as you usually did.
before you could speak, he captures you in a deep kiss, discarding whatever restraint he has. varka places a hand behind your head, softly caressing, before forcing your face closer into his waiting mouth.
he can barely keep it together, chest heaving with every rhythmic dance of his lips on yours.
"welcome—mmph—" kiss. "ahhn, home. . ." kiss.
you whine at his desperation, "varka—"
he groans into your mouth at the mere mention of his name, lips turning even more desperate. the sound rattles your bones, making you squirm against him.
and with how large the knight is, you're practically engulfed in his arms, body pressing onto the flimsy fabric of your dress until you eventually mold into one, until you eventualy feel it —
your face goes red immediately, and you hopelessly try to hold onto his biceps as he grinds the very obvious bulge against you.
you can hear every wet smack of his lips on yours, the lecherous sound bouncing off the sides of your throat into your ear. he's practically devouring you by this point, panting into the wet cavern of your mouth.
there’s a hunger in the way he looks at you, not for anything fleeting, but for the entirety of you — your voice, your laughter, the way you carry yourself
he needs you so bad that it's breaking him apart.
a small yelp escapes you when varka suddenly lifts you into his arms.
the motion pulls your lips from his, the kiss breaking too soon. he doesn’t go far, though — only tilts his head forward until his forehead rests against yours, breath warm against your skin.
your hands fumble to rest at his shoulders, steadying yourself in his arms.
"yeah, much better," he laughs, bright as ever, "my back was killin' me, leaned over too much."
varka's moved the both of you to the living room now, hs probably knocked into a few things on the way but the two of you are much too distracted to care.
"it's not my fault you're built like a hilichurl tower." you quip, looking to the sides so you can avoid his peering eyes.
he flashes you a fond, crooked grin, resting his face on your chest. "hilichurl tower? surely, there are better structures to describe someone like me."
"like what, grandmaster?"
"a guizhong ballista?"
". . . i have no idea what that is."
varka lingers dangerously near your throat, warm breath brushing your skin.
"hah, don't worry, love— you'll find out soon."
you're sitting on his lap now, directly over the twitching bulge of his cock. your thighs flinch at every shift of his hips, feeling it brush over your warmth.
he's nipping at your exposed neck, leaving faint marks that you'll scold him for in the morning. though, varka could care less about the scolding he'll get when he has you exactly how he wants you:
flushed, trembling, and soaking wet.
the strap of your dress starts to fall off your shoulder, revealing the rest of your cleavage for him to stare at. he's mesmerized at how beautiful you look, finding it hard to believe he has you all for himself.
"have i ever told you how beautiful you are?" he rasps, unzipping your dress from behind. maybe it's because of the way he's speaking to you in that tone, looking at you with that gaze, but you suddenly feel like putty in his hands.
"many times, i believe you say it everyday."
he chuckles, "really?" pulling the dress down further until it's bunched at your hips. "s'pose i can't really help it when you make me hard every damn time i walk into this house."
you feel him lick and suck bruises into your skin, each mark blooming red and pink across the canvas of your flesh — a vivid display of his relentless desire for you.
"aren't you embarrassed being this shameless at your big age?"
even well past thirty, there’s still that same restless hunger in the way he looks at you, the same eagerness in the way his hands find yours. time may have carved new lines into his face and scattered scars across his body, but it has never managed to dull the way he wants you.
varka makes a show of caressing your thighs, pushing your skirt along with it, "shameless? i'm just being honest, don't you like an honest man?"
he sneaks a glimpse at the cotton underwear hidden beneath, swallowing the urge to push them aside and take you already.
"maybe if this honest man stopped seducing me everytime he came home, i'll like him better." you huff, carding your fingers through his disheveled hair.
he looks back up at you.
"oh?" varka smiles toothily, amusement rolling off him in waves, "so the lady screamin' for more last night was just a figment of my imagination then? the very same lady who rode me so well she—"
memories of last night started flowing into your head, causing you to fluster.
your hands immediately fly to his mouth, shutting him up for good, "okay! i get it, that's enough!"
you hear his muffled laughter through the gaps of your palms, his eyes crinkling with shameless amusement.
meanwhile you’re left flushed and needy beneath him.
it’s terribly unfair.
for all the years you’ve had this man wrapped around your finger, not once have you felt undesired.
if anything, there were moments you felt too desired.
his appetite for you was relentless — rivaled only by his well-known love for alcohol.
passion has never dimmed in your marriage,. you were in an eternal state of the so-called 'honeymoon phase' where the two of you fucked like rabbits and slobbered over each other anytime you can.
that never changed, even as varka traded the reckless, stubborn youth he once was for the measured, commanding man worthy of the grandmaster’s position.
you actually found it quite funny that the young boy who used to cause a ruckus everyday for valentine would mellow down into this boisterous but dependable leader.
he's changed so much over the years, turning into the pillar of strength in mondstadt — a legend among men.
and even so, he still acted the same with you, as if he was that same bumbling fool who professed his love to anyone who would listen.
varka might have changed — in ways that might seem inconsequential to anyone else — but deep down, he was still the same man you married all those years ago.
even down to that insatiable hunger he always carried for you.
your husband has you laid out on the sofa, legs wrapped around his waist — though they never quite meet around him, his broad frame simply too large, pressing you close in all the ways you’ve grown to know and crave.
"is it too much, hun?" varka asks, combing a hand through his hair to keep it away from his eyes, all so he could stare at the way your face scrunched up for him, kiss-swollen lips trembling from the stretch.
"need me to slow down a li'l?"
you vigorously shake your head, clutching at the large palm softly caressing your cheek, "no, no, keep going, please—"
varka laughs at your desperate cries, pushing a bit further into your warmth. it's always been necessary to prep you for hours before you could take him without much pain, and varka doesn't mind the extra work – he quite enjoys it actually.
but you don't have that patience, too needy and wanting to feel him inside you as soon as possible. he finds it very cute by the way, seeing you beg for it always gets blood rushing to his nether regions in no time.
"taking me so well," he whispers, kissing your forehead, "just a bit more, mhm? be a good girl f'me."
you whimper, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he starts to slowly thrust back and forth, and it immediately makes you even wetter, soaking him in your juices.
varka lets out a lengthy groan, throwing his head back when he feels you clench around him.
“fuck,” his brows pull together, beads of sweat trailing down the hairs of his chest. “relax a bit. . . gonna break me at this rate.”
varka chuckles lowly, an obscene grin curling across his lips.
"s-sorry. . . " you say, clinging to his arms like it's the only thing anchoring you to reality.
his wolf-tooth pendant sway with every delicious roll of his hips, nailing you to the cushion, the metal glinting under the dim-lighting of your home.
your eyes linger on the many scars along his chest and arms, each one waz a testament to the battles he’s survived — a symbol of courage, of years spent facing danger without hesitation for the sake of his lobed ones.
and yet it’s the very same body he uses to carry you to bed, careful hands far gentler than anyone could imagine.
the same arms that once raised a blade now wrap around you with an ease that feels almost tender, as if the weight of war and bloodshed melts away the moment you’re in them.
it always amazes you — how a man built for battle can hold you like something precious.
varka's lips found its way to the dip of your neck, licking anywhere he could while his hips gain a steady rhythm for the both of you.
and soon enough, you start to see blurry white stars along the edges of your vision.
decades may have passed between the two of you, yet varka’s desire has never learned how to calm itself. age has softened many things in life, but not this — not the way his hands still find you with the same urgency, thee same hunger as it did all those years ago.
time may wear down mountains, but it has never managed to wear down the fire he carries for you.
"still, ah, with me?" varka asks, face still buried in the crook of your neck. his voice a soft and warm thing, contrasting the way his hips viciously slam against your soaking heat.
you could barely even garble an answer, moaning and whimpering his name at every hard thrust.
varka gently pushes your knees toward your chest, holding you close as he leans over you, his presence overwhelming in the small space between you.
you could feel every vein and throb of his thick cock, the way he stretches you out sooo good that it leaves you limbless.
he's got an arm under both of knees, locking them together, and pushing them to the side of his waist.
"take a deep breath for me," varka warns you, chuckling at the way your pussy seems to respond instead, pulsing around him with need.
he fucks you roughly, frantically pushing in and pulling out. bright red marks start to form on your ass, his pelvis repeatedly hitting against it.
every loud slap of skin makes you go dizzy, mind turning into mush as you let yourself get lost into the throes of pleasure.
your neighbors could probably hear you by now, moaning so loud that the sound bounces off the walls. varka could care less, more than happy to let you disturb the ones nextdoors — what are they gonna do? complain to the knights of favonius?
plus, hearing you sing his name like this, talking about how good everything feels and how he's 'too big' just pushes him off the edge.
he leans over to lick your lips, fingers brushing onto the side of your face.
"too much, hngh. . . "
varka laughs quietly against your ear, the sound deep and gravelly, “oh, but you love it rough. don’t you, pretty?”
your nearly roll to the back of your head, a line of drool slipping past your parted lips, "yes, i do! love it s'much—"
"really?" varka teases, voice low with desire. he wipes the drool with his thumb before bringing it back to your lips, "tell me how good it is then, c'mon, cry for me."
cry for me.
this is the only time varka would let tears run down your face willingly. he loves seeing how good he makes you feel, especially through the soft cries of his name.
"i love you! i love you!" you wail, feeling him speed up, the sounds of skin against skin getting louder. "ah! varka—"
he’s practically buzzing with adoration, every muscle taut and alive with each “i love you” that slips from your lips. even now, his heart leaps every time you praise him — a feeling that has never waned, no matter how many years have passed.
he bites his lip, letting his hips do the talking.
the sofa shakes with every brutal thrust, wood creaking under his weìght and strength.
he laughs, a low rumbling thing that makes your cunt throb, "fucking gorgeous, could never get tired of this pussy—hah, shit."
"could never, ever, get tired of you."
a mixture of sweat, drool, and cum is splattered across his meaty thighs and sticking to the trail of hair along his navel.
varka loves it when you make a mess — whether it’s around the house or on his cock. to him, it simply means his wife feels comfortable enough to let herself go around him.
and he loves it the most when you arch so beautifully in his arms, cunt clamping hard on him as you cum — you could call it an addiction with the way he groans at the way your eyes cross, whimpering his name.
"i love you too," varka whispers into your ear, leaving small butterfly kisses along the shell of it, "gonna—ugh—cum." he stutters, a low exhale leaving his lips.
your nails scratch down along his shoulders, leaving bright red marks but the pain doesn't register for him, too busy chasing his release.
not that something as small as a scratch could ever faze him.
his eyes never leave yours, following every tremble, every small gasp, as if he could memorize you whole. varka’s expression stays gentle, even as his hands leave indents on your skin — a silent tether, a promise you’re not going anywhere.
even through overestimated tears, you manage to see the silhouette of his face, desperate in a way he shouldn't be. after all, he had you nearly everyday, so why is it that he always fucks you as if it's your last?
varka presses down on you — hard. putting most of his weight onto you while you keen, cumming for a second time.
his hips goes completely still, filling you to the brim with all of his length.
all while he crashes his lips into yours — hungry, desperate, and all consuming, moaning into the kiss while your tears fall from overwhelming pleasure.
"sorry, honey. . . i don't think i'll be able to hold back tonight."
"ugh, maybe i should just go ahead and get married too. . . " one of the junior knight sighs dreamily, looking at the grandmaster's bright grin as he steps into the favonius headquarters.
his partner looks at him with a confused expression, "hah? what brought this on?"
the junior knight, palez, points over to varka, "the grandmaster gets to come home to a sweet, loving wife and a warm meal. . . that's why he's always smiley like that, look at how much he's glowing!"
"are you mentally ill?"
a suave voice cuts in, "oh dear, gossiping about the grandmaster's love life in such an open space, getting a little too chummy are we?"
kaeya and rosaria look at the two knights, and an air of chill sweeps through making them shiver. when put together, these two are no joke (outside of a tavern).
"s-sorry! captain kaeya, sister rosaria! it won't happen again." the two frantically salute, palms already getting sweaty.
kaeya laughs lightly, saluting half-heartedly as he walks away. rosaria follows right behind, her expression as icy as ever.
step.
step.
step.
". . . ."
"you think she's alright?" kaeya whispers, cringing at the thought of you being bedridden again.
rosaria can only scoff, massaging her temples as if talking about it was already giving her a migraine, "likely not. she hasn't gone to good hunter all morning which means she's. . ."
"especially since he's looking so refreshed then she's probably. . . " kaeya trails off, silently praying for your recovery.
speak of the devil.
kaeya straightens up, smiling like normal. rosaria rolls her eyes, wincing at the loud voice.
"oh, hey— it's you two! thank barbatos! mind doin' me a small favor?" varka greets them with an enthusiastic wave, a bright, boyish grin on his face.
and he shall appear.
"jean's gonna tie me to the desk at this rate," varka grumbles, "so i was hoping you two could drop this off for me—"
he shoves them something warm wrapped in cloth, rosaria takes it and perks up at the familiar smell of food — it's your favorite dish from good hunter.
kaeya shares a look with her, looking back up at varka with a sly grin, "of course, leave it to us."
.
.
.
it's just another day at mondstadt.
oddly enough, you woke up that morning with your stomach feeling warmer than usual.
it's probably nothing.
#it's-your-captain-ari-speaking ☆ i was listening to sade while scrolling on twitter dot come when i suddenly came across such a golden tweet that inspired me to immediately open my tumblr drafts to goonwrite.
I KNOWW ITS ASS...im sorry i just wrote this in between other longfics.....just...take rhis for now...ill edit it when i have time
btw just a funny thing i added but he laughs/chuckles a lot in this fic, this is bcs i went through his voicelines and istg — this guy always has to let out a "AHAHAHAHAHA!" or "hahahaha. . . " or even a small "heh." like omg shuuut up....he just be hootin' and hollerin' all over mondstadt bro 😭😭 he is soo happy to be alive.
i asked the gc for a title, and 8 out of 11 people voted for "AITA for fucking my wife too often??" while the rest either voted/recommended "a case of erectile overfunction" or "HOPPIN' DIH DIH DIH" which cracks me up a bit.
anyways brought to you by this #truthnuke of a tweet lol:
Sister says we have to practice writing. I told her I don't like writing. She said write anyway.
So I'm writing to you.
Remember yesterday? You threw my fishing rod into Cider Lake because I wouldn't let you use it. You stood there with your arms crossed, looking so proud of yourself. I was furious. I wanted to push you in. But then you jumped in to get it for me and came out shivering with that stupid, triumphant grin. And I wasn't angry anymore.
I think you're the best person I know.
Don't tell anyone I said that.
—V
To the girl who fell off the tree
You're an idiot.
That's the nicest thing I can write. You're a big idiot.
Who climbs to the highest branch of the oldest tree in Mondstadt just to prove they're not scared? You. You do that. And then you fall and break your arm, and I have to carry you all the way to the cathedral while you cry into my shoulder and get snot all over my shirt. I told you not to climb that high. I told you a hundred times. But when you looked at me with those eyes, I couldn't say no. I never can.
Your arm looked wrong. All bent. I wanted to throw up. But I didn't. I just kept walking and told you stupid stories until you stopped crying. You fell asleep before we got there. Your head against my neck, your breath warm, your tears still wet on the collar of my shirt. I stood outside the cathedral for a long time before going in. Just holding you. Just pretending.
Don't do that again. Please.
—V
To the girl who hides in confession booths
You were found asleep in the confession booth again. The parish came to dinner tonight and told my father about it. Said you told him you were "contemplating divine silence." My father laughed so hard he choked on his bread. I laughed too. But inside, I was thinking about how you always find the best hiding spots. Remember when we played hide and seek with all the kids in the city, and no one could find you for three hours? Everyone gave up and went home. I kept looking. I found you in the bell tower, reading a book you'd stolen from the library. You looked up and smiled and said, "Took you long enough."
I sat with you until the sun went down. We watched the whole city from up there, all the lights coming on one by one. You pointed to your house and said, "That's where I sleep." You pointed to mine and said, "That's where you sleep."
—V
To the girl who fell in the fountain
Remember when we were at the market and you leaned too far over the fountain trying to see the coins at the bottom? Remember how you fell in?
I remember. I remember how you came up shivering, your hair plastered to your face, your dress ruined. I remember how everyone stared. I remember how you started to cry. And then I remember jumping in after you. Fully clothed, boots and all. Standing in that fountain with water up to my waist, just so you wouldn't be alone. We walked home soaking wet, leaving puddles everywhere. Your mother was furious. Mine was too. But you laughed the whole way, and that was worth every scolding.
I'd jump in a thousand fountains for you.
—V
To the girl who isn't afraid of anything
There's a stray dog near the windmill. It's hurt its leg bad, and it won't let anyone near it. The adults say it'll die soon. They say there's nothing to be done. You've been bringing it food for three days. I know because I followed you. Today it let you touch it. I watched from behind a barrel as you sat in the mud, not caring about your dress, and let the dog sniff your hand, and then very slowly, very gently, touched its head. It whimpered and leaned into you. You stayed with it for hours. I stayed too, watching. When you finally left, you were crying. You didn't think anyone saw.
I went back later with my father's old cloak. I wrapped the dog in it and carried it to the healer. Cost me all my saved coins, but they fixed its leg. I told the healer to tell you someone found it and brought it in. Not me. Just someone.
You smiled for a week after that. That was enough.
—V
To the girl who wants a blue bird
The traveling merchant came through town with his painted wooden birds. You wanted one so badly. A little blue one, with glass eyes. You stood at his stall for an hour, just looking at it.
You had no money. Your family couldn't spare any. I watched you walk away, and I made a decision. I stole it for you. I know. That's wrong. Stealing is wrong. I'm not proud of it. But I couldn't stand seeing you want something and not have it. I snuck into his stall while he was at the tavern. Took the bird. Left three copper coins I'd saved from chores. It wasn't enough, and I knew it. But it was all I had. I left it on your windowsill that night. Didn't knock. Didn't stay.
The next day, you had it in your hand. You kept touching its wings, its eyes, its little painted beak. You kept smiling. You asked everyone who gave it to you. No one knew. You'll never know.
That's okay. The smile was enough.
—V
To the girl who punches boys
A boy called me clumsy today. In the market, in front of everyone. Said I walked like a baby deer, all stumbling and awkward. Before I could even react, you punched him. Right in the face. Knocked him flat. He was two years older than you. Twice your size. Didn't matter. You hit him so hard his nose bled.
His mother came to your house that night. Your mother made you apologize. You said sorry through clenched teeth, and I could tell you meant none of it. Afterward, you found me at the training grounds. You sat next to me on the beam where we carved our names and you said, "No one calls my friends clumsy."
I wanted to kiss you. I didn't. I never do.
But I wanted to.
—V
To the girl who reads too much
You borrowed a book from the library today. A thick one, with no pictures, about saints and miracles and things I don't understand. "Why do you read so much?" I asked. You thought about it. "Because books take me places I can't go. Because they show me people I'll never meet. Because they make me feel things I wouldn't feel otherwise."
"That sounds sad," I said.
You shook your head. "It's not sad. It's... more. Life is just one thing. Books are everything."
I didn't understand then. I think I understand now.
You were right. Life is just one thing. But you... you're everything.
—V
To the girl who prays
You've been going to the cathedral more lately. Not just for services, but in between. I see you there when I walk past. Kneeling in a pew, hands folded, head bowed. I asked you once what you pray for.
You said, "I don't pray for things. I just... talk. To someone who listens."
"Does anyone listen?"
You smiled. "I think so. Not in words. But in... feelings. In peace. In knowing I'm not alone."
I wanted to say: You're not alone. I'm here. I'll always be here. But I didn't. I just nodded and walked away. I don't understand prayer. I don't understand faith. But I understand you. And if being in that cathedral makes you happy, makes you peaceful, makes you feel less alone then I'm glad you go.
Even if it takes you further from me.
—V
To the girl who told me
You told me today.
After choir practice. You grabbed my sleeve and pulled me aside, and your eyes were so bright, so certain. You said you'd received your calling. That you'd enter the novitiate next spring.
I said, "That's great. You'll be the best nun ever." You laughed and punched my arm. "You're supposed to say congratulations, you idiot." Congratulations.
I walked home and sat on the roof for three hours. Mother called me for dinner. I didn't go down. I'm writing this by candlelight, and my hand is shaking. Not from cold. I should have said something else. I should have said "Don't go." I should have said "I love you." I should have said a thousand things. But I didn't. I never do. You'll be a nun. You'll wear a habit and pray for people you'll never meet. You'll give your whole life to someone who never answers.
And I'll be here. Watching. Wanting. Writing letters I'll never send. This is stupid. You're happy. That's what matters.
I'll keep this with the other ones.
—V
To the girl who is leaving me
Tomorrow you take your vows.
I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be writing this. I shouldn't be anything to you anymore. But I'm sitting in the barn, where we used to hide during thunderstorms. It's late. Everyone's asleep. I climbed through your window an hour ago and I watched you sleep for a while.
You looked peaceful. Happy. Like you'd already gone somewhere I couldn't follow.
I wanted to wake you. I wanted to say something that would make you stay. But what could I say? What could I offer that compares to what you've found? Nothing. I'm nothing. Just a boy with a sword and a stack of unsent letters.
So I left. I climbed back down and walked here, to the barn, and I'm writing this by the light of a lantern I stole from your kitchen. Tomorrow you'll kneel before the altar. You'll speak the words. Poverty, chastity, obedience. You'll give yourself to Barbatos, and I'll stand at the back of the cathedral and I'll watch you become someone I can never have.
I should have fought harder. I should have said something years ago, when we were children and the world was simple and loving you didn't feel like a sin. But I didn't. And now I never can.
Goodbye.
—V
To the girl who saw me during your vows
I wasn't going to come.
The ceremony. Your final vows. The moment you became truly, completely theirs. I told myself I had training. I told myself I had reports to file. I told myself a hundred lies.
But I came.
I stood at the back of the cathedral, where you couldn't see me even if you looked. And I watched you walk down the aisle in your white robes, your hands folded, your head bowed, your face so peaceful it hurt to look at. You knelt before the altar. You spoke the words. Poverty, chastity, obedience. Each one like a knife.
And when you rose, when you turned to face the congregation for the first time as a devotee of the Anemo Archon, your eyes swept over the crowd, over all those faces, and for one impossible moment, they stopped. On me. You couldn't have seen me. You couldn't. I was too far, too hidden, too much a coward to step into the light. But your eyes stopped. And you smiled. Just a little. Just for a second.
Then you looked away, and the moment was gone, and I slipped out the side door before anyone could see me crying. I walked to the training grounds and broke three practice swords against the dummies. Then I sat on the beam where we'd carved our names and I didn't move for hours. I should have fought harder. I should have said something. Anything.
But I didn't. And now I never can.
—V
To the girl who still lives in every corner of this city
I saw you today. At the cathedral.
I was delivering a report to the Deaconess, and there you were, walking through the cloister with another sister. You were in your full habit, like you'd always worn it. Like you'd never worn anything else.
You didn't see me. You stopped to talk to a child who was crying about something. You knelt down, right there on the stone, mud soaking through your robes, and you listened. Really listened. Then you wiped her tears with your sleeve and said something that made her laugh. I stood there like an idiot, holding my report, watching you walk away.
You were always good with children. Remember when we used to watch the little ones during festivals so their parents could dance? You'd tell them stories about brave knights and clever maidens. They believed every word. So did I, honestly. I went back to the headquarters and swung my sword until my hands bled.
I don't know why I'm still writing these. I should burn them. I won't.
—V
To the girl who once told me she was afraid of thunderstorms
The storm outside is ridiculous. Even for Mondstadt. Thunder shaking the walls, lightning so bright it hurts through closed eyes. The whole camp is shaking.
I hate storms.
No, that's not true. I used to love them. Remember? We'd sit in your family's barn and watch the rain come down, and you'd count the seconds between lightning and thunder, and I'd pretend I wasn't terrified. You knew, though. You always knew. Halfway through, you'd lean against my shoulder and fall asleep, and I'd stay awake the whole time, just so you wouldn't be alone.
I wonder who you lean on now. I wonder if you ever get scared anymore. You seem so steady, so certain. Like you've found something to hold onto that won't let go. I'm glad. Truly.
But tonight, in this storm, I miss you so much it feels like someone's sitting on my chest.
—V
To the girl with the blue wooden bird
The Nod-Krai expedition is official. We leave at dawn. It will be years before I return. If I return at all. They asked me what I wanted to do before I left. Say goodbye to anyone special. Settle any affairs.
I said no. But I went to the cathedral anyway. Late at night, like always. I stood in the shadow of the bell tower and looked up at the windows, wondering which one was yours. Wondering if you were awake, if you ever thought about me, if you ever wondered why I always seemed to be just out of sight.
I thought about climbing the wall. Like when we were kids, and I'd sneak into your room to show you the stars through your window because your parents wouldn't let you out after dark. I didn't climb. I left something instead. Small. Hidden in the garden wall. A little blue wooden bird, with glass eyes. I carved it myself. It's not as pretty as the merchant's, but it's mine. All mine. You won't find it. Or if you do, you won't know it's from me.
But I'll know.
—V
To the girl who would hate this place
We've been traveling for months. I'm writing this by firelight, huddled in a tent while the wind screams outside like something wounded. Nod-Krai is endless snow, endless grey, endless cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones and stays there.
You would hate it. You always complained about Mondstadt winters, even our mild ones. I remember that one year when it snowed for three days straight, and you refused to leave the cathedral except for absolute necessities. I brought you soup every evening "from the kitchen," but really I made it myself, burning my hands on the pot, ruining three batches before I got it right.
You never asked who made it. You just thanked the cook and drank it by the fire, wrapped in blankets, your nose red from the cold that snuck through the ancient windows. I wonder if you still get soup brought to you. I wonder if anyone makes it just the way you like it, extra pepper, hold the onions, with bread for dipping.
Probably. You're easy to love. You always were. The others are asleep. I should sleep too. Tomorrow we push further north. I should be thinking about strategy, about survival, about the mission. Instead, I'm thinking about your laugh. The way it echoes in the cathedral during choir practice, even when you're trying to be quiet. The way it used to make me smile, no matter how terrible my day was.
I haven't heard it in so long.
—V
To the girl who made me promise to come back
You never actually made that promise. I realize that now, writing this. You never asked me to come back. You never asked me for anything. But I remember something you said once, years ago, when we were sitting on the city walls watching the sunset. You said, "The world is so big, Varka. I hope you get to see all of it." And I said, "I hope you're here when I get back." You laughed and bumped your shoulder against mine. "Where else would I be?" Here. There. Everywhere but where I can reach you.
We found ruins today. Ancient things, buried under the ice. The kind of place that makes the hair on your arms stand up, that makes you feel like you're being watched by something older than the gods. I went inside alone because I needed a moment away from the men. Away from the constant pressure of leading, of deciding, of being the one they look to when things go wrong.
Inside, the walls were covered in paintings. Faded, crumbling, but still visible. People dancing. People praying. People loving. I stood there for a long time, looking at a painting of a man and a woman with their arms around each other, their faces turned together, their bodies curved toward each other like they couldn't bear to be apart. And I thought about you.
I thought about all the times I could have held you. All the times I could have turned my face toward yours. All the chances I let slip away because I was too scared, too careful, too convinced that your path and mine could never cross. I was wrong. I know that now. But knowing doesn't change anything. You're still there, in your cathedral, living your life. I'm still here, in this frozen wasteland, living mine.
And neither of us will ever be the people in that painting.
—V
To the girl who never liked silence
You used to hate silence. Remember? You'd fill every empty moment with humming, with chatter, with questions you didn't really want answered. "Why is the sky blue?" "Where do the birds go when it rains?" "Do you think the wind gets lonely?" I asked you once why you couldn't just be quiet. You thought about it for a long moment and then you said, "Because if I'm quiet, I might miss something important. Someone might say something, and I won't hear it. Someone might need me, and I won't know." You always needed to be needed. That's why you became a nun, I think. Not because you were particularly holy, but because you needed to be useful. To matter. To be the person someone turns to when they're scared or sad or alone.
I turned to you once. Do you remember? It was after my first real battle. I was seventeen, and I'd killed a man, an enemy, a threat, someone who would have killed me if I hadn't acted first. I know it was justified. I know it was necessary. But knowing doesn't stop the dreams. I found you in the garden, late at night. You were supposed to be in bed since novices had strict rules, but you were there, sitting on the bench, looking at the stars. You didn't ask why I was crying. You didn't ask what happened. You just moved over, made room, and sat with me until the sky started to lighten.
I didn't say thank you. I should have said thank you. Here in Nod-Krai, the silence is endless. Acres of white, miles of nothing, hours of wind and snow and the sound of my own breathing. I've learned to tolerate it, even appreciate it. But sometimes, late at night, I miss your voice. I miss the way you filled the world with sound, with life, with yourself. I wonder if you're quiet now. I wonder if the years have taught you to sit with silence, the way they've taught me. I hope not. I hope you're still humming during chores, still chattering at the orphans, still filling every empty space with the sound of being alive.
Someone should.
—V
To the girl who loved the wind
Today we climbed the highest peak in the region. The weather cleared unexpectedly, the first clear day in months, and from the summit, we could see forever. Mountains and valleys and rivers, all of it white, all of it frozen, all of it beautiful in a way that hurt to look at. The wind up there was fierce. It tore at our clothes, our faces. Some of the men had to turn back. But I stayed at the summit for a long time, just letting it howl around me. And I thought about you.
You always loved the wind. When we were children, you'd stand on the city walls with your arms spread wide, eyes closed, letting it whip your hair and dress around you. "Can you feel it?" you'd shout over the gale. "It's alive, Varka. It's alive." I never understood what you meant. Wind was wind, just air moving from one place to another.
But today, standing on that peak, I understood. The wind up here doesn't care about you. It doesn't know you exist. It tears through you like you're nothing, like you're less than nothing, and for a moment you understand your place in the world. You're small. You're temporary. You're a breath, here and then gone. But you're also here. Right now, in this moment, you're alive. The wind proves it, because you can feel it, can fight it, can stand against it and refuse to fall.
You taught me that. You taught me that being alive means feeling things, even when those things hurt. Even when they tear through you and leave you gasping. I'm still standing. Still fighting. Still refusing to fall.
But gods, I miss you. I miss you like the wind misses the places it can't reach.
—V
To the girl I should have told
One of my men died today.
His name was Henrik. He was twenty-three, from a farming family near Springvale. He joined the Knights because he wanted to see the world, to prove himself, to make his parents proud. He had a sweetheart back home, a girl named Liesl who he wrote to every week, even when we had to burn precious supplies to keep the ink from freezing.
We were crossing a glacier. The ice gave way. One moment he was there, walking beside me, complaining about the cold. The next, he was gone. We couldn't even recover the body. I had to write the letter to his parents tonight. To Liesl. To tell them that their son, their sweetheart, their Henrik won't be coming home. It's the worst part of this job. Worse than the cold, worse than the fighting, worse than anything. Sitting here with a pen and paper, trying to find words that will somehow make it better, knowing there are no words that will make it better. I thought about you while I wrote. I thought about all the letters I've written you over the years, all the words I've put on paper that you'll never read. And I wondered: if I died tomorrow, if the ice swallowed me the way it swallowed Henrik, would anyone write you a letter about me?
Would they tell you that I thought about you every day? That I carried you with me through every storm, every frozen night? That the only thing that kept me going sometimes was the hope that one day, somehow, I'd find a way to tell you? Probably not. They'd write a formal letter, full of duty and honor and empty phrases. They wouldn't mention the way your laugh sounds like bells. They wouldn't mention the barn during thunderstorms. They wouldn't mention the wooden birds hidden in the garden wall. Only I know those things. Only I remember. And if I die here, in this frozen wasteland, those memories die with me.
I should have told you. I should have said the words out loud, where someone else could hear them, where they could survive beyond me. But I was a coward. I am a coward. Still writing letters I'll never send, still hoping you'll somehow know, still too afraid to take the one step that would change everything. Henrik won't get to be a coward anymore. He won't get to make mistakes or have regrets or wish he'd done things differently. I will. I'll carry this cowardice with me for the rest of my life.
Unless...
No. There is no unless. There never was.
—V
To the girl who probably forgot me
It's been years since I saw the cathedral, since I walked the streets of Mondstadt, since I stood outside your window watching your shadow move across the curtain. Four years since I left that bird in the garden wall. I wonder if you found it. I wonder if you've found any of them. Probably not. You have more important things to think about.
We've found something. Something wrong. Traces of the Abyss. Not just traces. Something active. Something growing. I've seen the Abyss before. We all have. But this is different. This is old. This is patient. This has been waiting. I'm sending a message back to Mondstadt. Official report, full of careful words and measured assessments. But the truth is simpler: I'm afraid. Not for myself, I've made peace with whatever happens to me. But for the men under my command. For the people back home. For you.
If the Abyss rises here, none of us will be safe. Not me in Nod-Krai. Not you in your cathedral. Not anyone. I should tell you to run. To leave Mondstadt, to go somewhere far away, to protect yourself. But I know you won't. You'll stay with your orphans, your prayers, your duty. You'll stay because that's who you are, the girl who couldn't bear to miss something important, who had to be there when someone needed her. I need you. I've always needed you.
But I'll never say it. And you'll never know.
—V
To the girl who gave me courage
The Abyss rose today.
Not fully. Not completely. But enough. They came pouring through, creatures of shadow and corruption, things that should not exist. We fought for hours. We lost good men. I killed more of them than I can count. I'll dream about them tonight. I always do. But I'm still here. Still standing. Still fighting.
When we were children, you used to call me brave. Remember? After I fought those older boys who were teasing you, after I stood up to your mother when she was unfair, after I climbed the tallest tree in Mondstadt just because you said you wanted to see what the world looked like from up high. I wasn't brave. I was terrified, every time. I just didn't want you to know. But you knew. You always knew. And you called me brave anyway, because you understood that courage isn't about not being afraid. It's about being afraid and doing it anyway. I'm afraid now. More afraid than I've ever been. The Abyss is here, and it's growing, and I don't know if we can stop it.
But I'm still fighting. Still standing. Still refusing to fall. Because somewhere, in a cathedral in Mondstadt, you're probably praying. Not for me, you don't know what's happening, but for someone. For the orphans, for the sick, for the world. You're on your knees, hands folded, eyes closed, And somehow that gives me strength.
I can believe that I'll see you again.
One more day. One more fight. That's all I need to get through. Just one more.
—V
To the girl who taught me how to hope
The fighting has been constant for months. The Abyss pushes. We push back. They push again. We're losing ground, slowly, but we're losing it. I've stopped counting the dead. That's terrible, isn't it? That I can no longer put numbers to the faces, to the names, to the families who will never see their sons again. I still write the letters. I just don't count anymore. But tonight, for the first time in weeks, there's a lull. The rifts are quiet. The creatures have withdrawn. My men are sleeping. Actually sleeping, not just pretending.
And I'm sitting here, writing to you, because it's the only thing that keeps me sane. I found something today. In the ruins of an old watchtower, buried under centuries of ice. A book. A journal, really, written by someone long dead. A knight, I think, from some forgotten order. He wrote about his home, his family, the woman he loved. He never went home. I found his bones in the tower, still wrapped in his cloak, the journal clutched to his chest. I read the last entry. He wrote: "If anyone finds this, tell her I thought of her at the end. Tell her I loved her. Tell her I'm sorry I couldn't come home." I buried him in the ice. Said a few words. Took his journal.
And I thought: that's going to be me. Someday, somewhere, I'm going to die alone, and no one will know that I thought of you at the end. No one will tell you that I loved you. No one will say I'm sorry. Unless I write it. Unless I say it. Unless I stop being a coward. I'm going to come home. I'm going to find you. And I'm going to tell you everything.
I promise.
—V
To the girl who waits
Do you wait? Do you ever think about me, wonder where I am, hope I'm alive? Or have you moved on, found peace, forgotten the boy who used to climb and leave birds in your wall?
I don't know. I'll never know. But I hope you wait. Just a little. Just enough.
The Abyss is retreating. We're pushing them back. It's slow, brutal work, but we're winning. The rifts are closing. The corruption is receding. Another year, maybe two, and we can go home. Home. I've been gone so long I barely remember what it feels like. Warmth. Green things growing. The sound of the fountain in the square. Your voice. I remember your voice. I could never forget your voice. Someday, when I come home, I'll find you. And I'll say the words.
I'm coming home. Wait for me.
—V
To the girl in all of my letters
The Abyss is broken. Not destroyed, you can't destroy the Abyss, but driven back, sealed away, pushed into the dark places where it belongs. The rifts are closed. The corruption is fading. We've won. We're coming home. I'm writing this on the last night in Nod-Krai. Tomorrow we begin the long journey south. Years of cold and death and fighting. Years of writing letters I never sent.
I have a stack of them now. Thick as my arm. Every one addressed to you. Every one full of things I should have said out loud, years ago, when we were young and stupid and had all the time in the world. I'm going to give them to you. I don't know how. I don't know when. I don't know if you'll even want them. But I'm going to find you, and I'm going to put this stack of paper in your hands, and I'm going to say… I don't know what I'm going to say. Maybe nothing. Maybe the letters will say it for me.
But I'm done being a coward. I'm done hiding in shadows and leaving birds in walls. I'm done pretending that what I feel for you is anything less than everything. I love you. I've always loved you. I will love you until I don't exist anymore. And when I get home, you're going to know it.
fanfic isn't an act of activism by the way. it's a fun hobby. writers write whatever they want for themselves as their silly little getaway/self-care. if you want "more representation" of something in fanfics, then you write fanfics about that thing you want. nobody is stopping you. but saying other fanfic writers as a whole are "the problem" or are "to blame" for "not including xyz" or "not writing about xyz" just isn't how fanfics and hobbies work.
i like when huge, broad, muscled men’s bodies get softer as they age, making their muscles look even bigger…. feel even heavier when all their weight is pressing down on top of you….
is it just me or he looks extra charming and handsome here? also ough the sons of calydon really love and care for him so much, even trying their best to make a (pretty yummy looking) cake. the little chibi even has a similar expression, it makes him look like he’s smiling to himself while eating the cake
this fake nonchalant man, I SAW YOU CHALANTING AND BLUSHING
baratheonpilled
germansingergirl
kianamaiart
theartofmadeline
dailybridgerton
tangentwithtanner
titsay
romaincrisis
gummygunk
