4barbatos - Tumblr blog

4barbatos · 2 days ago

Text

✦ they don’t love you like i do

— 5wirl x fem!reader

cw: yandere themes, obsession, possessiveness, dubcon/noncon undertones, manipulation, stalking, semi-public sex, dom!5wirl (venti, xiao, heizou, kazuha, scara), degradation, praise, choking, jealousy, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, unhinged behavior, modern college au .ᐟ

you’re their darling.

the pretty little thing who sits in the front row — always prepared, always polite, always ready with a soft smile and a sweet “good morning.” you share your notes. help your classmates. laugh too easily. talk to everyone.

too nice. it drives them fucking insane.

because you don’t see it, do you?

how every word you speak feels like it’s meant just for them. how every smile you give someone else feels like a betrayal. how you belong to them — even if you don’t know it yet.

you’re the class sweetheart. the innocent little favorite.

and they’re going to ruin you.

venti — teasing dom / quiet obsessive

venti is dangerous in the way poison is sweet.

he smiles. always. calls you his muse in front of everyone like it’s some harmless joke — like he didn’t spend all night writing a song about how you looked in your lab coat. he’s sweet, helpful, always saying the right thing with that lazy smile, like he’s never serious about anything. like he’s not always watching. calculating.

but he only watches you.

he knows your schedule by heart. knows where you sit in every classroom. knows when you change your shampoo.

and he never says anything when he’s jealous.

no — venti waits.

he waits until you’re alone.

until the hallway is empty and the door to the org room clicks shut behind you.

until he can corner you, slow and smiling, like it’s nothing.

“you laughed a little too hard at his joke today, songbird��”

he tilts his head. gaze lazy.

his hand slides under your skirt like it belongs there — like this is routine — while his other pins your wrist back against the table.

“did you like the way he looked at you?”

“did it make you feel wanted?”

he speaks soft, gentle even, but there’s a heat in his voice that makes you shiver. his fingers curl inside you, slow and skilled, already soaking wet and he knows it.

“oh?” he breathes, lips brushing your ear.

“you’re trembling. does being caught turn you on, love?”

he kisses you then — slow, deep, tongue teasing like he’s trying to coax a moan from your throat just to say he can.

and he doesn’t stop touching you.

he fingers you right there, on the edge of the org table, rhythm precise, thumb brushing your clit in soft cruel circles while his mouth trails down your neck.

“so good for me,” he murmurs.

“i always make you feel good, don’t i? not him. me.”

and when you cum — shaking, eyes fluttering, biting your lip just to keep from moaning too loud — he hums in satisfaction, gently coaxing you through it with soft praises.

but he doesn’t move away.

he licks your release from his fingers, eyes lidded and dark, and leans in again, voice low and wicked:

“don’t worry. they won’t find out.”

“not unless you want them to.”

“…do you?”

he grins when you flinch, when you don’t answer fast enough, when your breath catches in your throat like you’re thinking about it.

“i could make you beg me in front of him, y’know.”

“you’d look so pretty saying my name with tears in your eyes.”

he brushes his knuckles over your cheek — soft. sweet. like he didn’t just ruin you in the org room at 1:57 pm.

“but maybe next time,” he says, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

“when you forget how mine you are again.”

xiao — aggressive dom / possessive beast

xiao doesn’t care about the setting.

you’re standing too close to another guy. you’re smiling. maybe laughing. and xiao’s there in an instant — jaw clenched, hands balled into fists, shoulders tense like he’s seconds away from violence.

he doesn’t say anything. just stares.

and when the guy brushes your arm — just lightly, barely a touch — it’s over.

he grabs your wrist. hard. doesn’t wait for an explanation. doesn’t care if anyone’s watching. you’re being dragged out of the org event, down the hallway, into the nearest stairwell.

you barely have time to gasp before he’s pushing you up against the cold cement wall, hands tight on your hips, breath hot against your neck.

“you’re mine.”

his voice is low. dangerous. shaking with restraint.

“they don’t get to fucking touch you.”

your head spins — from the adrenaline, from the jealousy bleeding off of him in waves, from the way his knee slots between your legs like he owns the space there. and he does.

you try to speak, maybe tell him to calm down, but he growls. actually fucking growls.

“don’t lie to me. i saw the way you looked at him.”

he unbuckles his belt with practiced ease. pulls your underwear down just enough to push your skirt up and thrusts into you like he’s punishing you for something.

and maybe he is.

he fucks you with no rhythm, no tenderness — just hard, fast, possessive.

“mine,” he mutters, over and over, teeth at your throat.

“mine. mine. mine.”

his hand comes up to clamp over your mouth when you cry out. eyes narrow.

“shut up. you don’t want them to hear you, right?”

you whimper against his palm — but he just grins. mean.

“actually… fuck that.”

he pulls his hand away, just so he can hear you moan louder. so the whole fucking stairwell echoes with the wet slap of skin and your ragged little cries.

“go on. let them hear.”

“i dare them.”

his fingers dig into your thighs hard enough to bruise. he’s panting against your neck now, voice raw, like he’s barely holding himself together.

and when you cum — body twitching, walls clenching around him, moaning his name like it’s a prayer — he follows seconds later, groaning into your skin as he spills inside you.

your legs nearly give out. he catches you. pulls you close. holds you like he didn’t just fuck the jealousy out of you in a stairwell.

“don’t make me do this again,” he murmurs. breathless. shaking. forehead pressed to yours.

“don’t talk to him. don’t look at him.”

you nod. weakly. what else can you do?

but you always do.

and he always snaps.

heizou — manipulative dom / jealous brat

heizou is such a little shit.

he flirts with everyone — professors, classmates, strangers at cafés. smirks when they giggle, winks like it means nothing. and when you roll your eyes or call him out, he just laughs.

“what, jealous?”

but the moment you laugh a little too sweetly at someone else’s joke, he snaps.

smile tight. gaze sharp. tongue pressed hard behind his teeth.

you don’t even realize he’s watching half the time — leaning against the wall, drink in hand, pretending not to care as you chat with someone else.

but he does. he cares too much.

later that night, during some crowded block party, he finds you alone in the hallway and grabs your wrist.

“you wore that outfit for them?”

“or for me?”

his voice is low. teasing, but there’s something mean under it.

he pulls you into the bathroom, locks the door behind him, and pushes you against the counter — breath shaky, eyes glassy like he’s already halfway gone.

“don’t play dumb. you know what you do to me.”

he shoves his jeans down, cock already hard, twitching as he guides you to your knees.

“go on.”

“show me you haven’t forgotten who you really want.”

and when you take him into your mouth — hot, heavy, desperate — he moans. actually whimpers, hips bucking, one hand bracing on the sink while the other finds your hair.

but he doesn’t stay soft for long.

the second you moan around him, the second his name slips past your lips like it’s instinct — his grip tightens, hand fisting your hair, dragging your head back just enough so he can stare down at you.

“louder, sweetheart.”

“let everyone out there know who you belong to.”

his voice is shaking. you’re shaking.

he thrusts deeper, rougher, forcing your eyes to water as he fucks your mouth like he’s trying to ruin you. like he needs to.

“don’t act innocent.”

“you knew exactly what you were doing out there.”

he holds your head still, makes you take every inch until you gag — and then pulls you off with a pop, chest heaving, a line of spit still connecting you to the tip of his cock.

“you drive me fucking crazy,” he breathes.

“and i think you like it.”

you don’t answer. can’t. but he leans down, presses a kiss to your swollen lips, and whispers against them like a secret.

“next time you wanna flirt with someone else…”

“remember how fast i can make you kneel.”

kazuha — poetic dom / soft-spoken psycho

kazuha is gentle.

that’s what everyone says.

he brings you coffee just the way you like it. shares his notes. calls you my dearest with a smile so soft it makes your stomach flutter. he texts you things like:

“the breeze reminded me of you today. i hope you’re warm.”

you laugh. call him cheesy. he only smiles.

“your presence eases the ache in my chest,” he says, like it’s nothing. like he doesn’t mean every word.

and he’s always so calm.

even when he sees someone else holding your hand.

he doesn’t yell. he doesn’t storm out.

he just tilts his head. blinks slowly.

“you didn’t mean to hurt me, right?”

“but you know what happens when you do…”

he still calls you darling when he drags you into his dorm. still speaks in a soft, honey-sweet voice as he pushes you down on the bed and slides your panties down your thighs.

his hand trembles when he touches you — but his grip never falters.

“let me remind you, love,” he whispers, mouth brushing your ear.

“you belong to me.”

and then he fucks you slow.

hips rolling, rhythm steady, every thrust deliberate. not out of kindness — but control. every inch of him inside you is a warning.

a punishment masked in affection.

his fingers dig into your waist hard enough to bruise. but his mouth?

his mouth never stops whispering.

“so perfect.”

“so warm.”

“you always take me so well, my love.”

he moans like you’re a gift. holds your gaze as he fucks you deeper, makes you cry out with every slow, devastating grind of his hips.

and when your legs start to shake, when your voice breaks on his name — he kisses your forehead.

“shh. don’t run.”

“you were the one who let them touch you first, weren’t you?”

you try to speak — maybe say sorry, maybe beg — but he just hushes you. presses you down harder. buries himself to the hilt and cums inside you with a soft sigh.

he doesn’t pull out.

instead, he leans over you, still throbbing deep inside, and brushes your sweaty hair off your cheek.

“i’m sorry i had to do that,” he says gently.

“but love is violent. and i love you so much.”

scaramouche — controlling dom / violent jealous freak

scara is obsessed with you.

he’s not quiet about it. he doesn’t pretend to play it cool. from the second he laid eyes on you, it was mine — loud, messy, and terrifyingly sure.

you never agreed to anything. never said yes. but he calls you his anyway.

“don’t sit next to anyone else.”

“don’t talk to them. they’re disgusting.”

“you’re mine.”

he gets mad when you’re late. blows up your phone with messages. shows up uninvited to your gen eds and glares at anyone who looks at you too long. even your professors are scared of him now.

and when he can’t find you?

“where the fuck were you?”

his voice drops when he’s pissed — low, dangerous. hands twitching at his sides like he’s restraining himself. barely.

but he never restrains himself for long.

one afternoon you’re chatting with a classmate. casual. harmless.

and then you’re being shoved into an empty classroom, bag hitting the floor, your back slammed against the chalkboard.

“you think this is a fucking game?”

his hand wraps around your throat. not tight — not enough to cut off air — but enough to make you feel it. to make your knees weak.

his other hand is already under your shirt, cold fingers pinching your nipple through your bra like it’s punishment.

“you wanna act like a whore?”

“i’ll treat you like one.”

he fucks you mean.

no buildup. no teasing. just fast, rough, desperate. pulling your clothes aside like they’re in the way, bending you over the teacher’s desk and thrusting into you with a low groan.

“fuck—you feel so good. too good—”

his nails dig into your hips, teeth sink into your shoulder. he marks you up like he wants everyone else to see. like he wants them to know what happens when they touch what’s his.

and when you gasp his name — maybe even try to push him off, trembling and overwhelmed — he just laughs.

mean. breathless. scary.

“you can’t leave me.”

“you’re already mine.”

“everyone knows it.”

he cums inside you like it’s his right. like it seals something permanent between you — hot, possessive, terrifying.

and after?

he doesn’t pull away.

he just presses his forehead to yours, breath ragged, cock still inside you as he whispers:

“next time you talk to someone else, i’ll fuck you in front of them.”

“let them see what they’ll never have.”

a/n: aaaaa i haven’t written yandere fics in sooo long so i had to TT i know i said i’d work on your reqs but i’m being so self-indulgent rn and i don’t even care !!!!! jk i’ll actually do them dw <3 just enjoy this unhinged little drabble in the meantime hehehe

25 notes · View notes

4barbatos · 2 days ago

Text

✦ heavens help the fujoshi

sypnosis: you are a devout girl — faithful, disciplined, and beloved by your church. you rise before dawn to pray, teach hymns to children, and clutch your rosary each night before bed.

but behind your devotional texts, you secretly read yaoi. and now, you’ve started shipping your childhood best friend with the bard who recently arrived in town.

there’s only one problem: you don’t know who the bard really is.

a/n: guys i know i said i’d work on your reqs first BUT. i was listening to confessions of a rotten girl and suddenly my brain was hit with the most unhinged fic idea 😭 this might actually be the funniest thing i’ve ever written. i was giggling. i was kicking my feet. i had to pause every few lines to wheeze into my hands.

btw this is dahlia x fem!reader (one sided tho xD) but also like… venti x dahlia if you tilt your head. honestly idek anymore 😭

you are a devout follower of barbatos.

every sunday morning, you wake before sunrise to kneel at your window, hands clasped in prayer as you whisper blessings to the wind. you wear your best dress — modest, pressed, with a tiny hand-stitched anemo vision near the collar. you polish your rosary until it glints in the morning light. you water the altar flowers. you sing in the choir. you stay after mass to help clean the pews and organize hymn books by alphabetical order. your collection of devotional texts is so extensive the church librarian once asked if she could borrow from you.

you are, in the eyes of your community, a perfect girl.

you do not curse. you do not gossip. you do not raise your voice. you attend confession twice a week, even when you don’t need to. the sisters say you are blessed. the elderly women pinch your cheeks and call you heaven-sent.

you do not think impure thoughts.

except you do.

you think about boys. you think about boys together. kissing. holding hands. brushing fingers in the candlelight. unbuttoning stiff uniforms. gasping into each other’s necks. you tell yourself it’s just fiction. just a passing obsession. a sinful phase.

you burn with shame every time. you cry about it for three hours and write apology letters in your prayer journal, pages stained with real tears and guilt.

“i’m sorry, barbatos. i didn’t mean to imagine that. i didn’t mean to enjoy it.”

and then you do it again the next night.

you met dahlia when you were six years old, the two of you seated side by side in the third pew from the front, legs swinging off the edge, too short to reach the kneelers. you shared crayons during sunday school. he stole the grape-flavored communion wafers just to make you laugh. when you cried after forgetting your memory verse, he recited it with you in a whisper, line by line, until you could say it on your own.

you’ve been pew seatmates ever since.

dahlia became a deacon two years ago. he wears the vestments like armor — precise, pressed, a perfect fit. he reads the scripture with a voice sharp enough to cut, each word laced with conviction. to everyone else, he’s curt. unflinching. impossible to impress.

but he softens when he speaks to you.

he always has. you think it’s just because you’ve known each other so long. that he’s just more patient with you, because you’re friends. because you grew up together. because he’s kind, in his own way.

you don’t like him like that.

he is stern. he is sarcastic. he scolds you when you skip breakfast before mass and sighs whenever you apologize for things you didn’t do. he pinches the bridge of his nose when you confess stupid things like:

“i imagined a blasphemous scenario again”

“i saw a fanart of two male knights kissing and i couldn’t stop thinking about it for three hours.”

he listens anyway. every other sunday. he waits for you in the confessional, silent and steady, as you cry your heart out and stumble over shameful, half-choked prayers. he absolves you with a quiet nod and tells you not to cry so much next time.

he is in love with you.

he always has been.

and you — so holy, so blind, so busy writing apology letters to barbatos for fictional sin — will never, ever know.

venti arrives one summer afternoon, carried in by wind and rumor.

no one knows exactly where he came from. some say he wandered in from the countryside. others whisper that he followed the scent of wine and wildflowers. all you know is that he showed up during the sunday procession with a lyre strapped to his back and a smile too bright for someone who’d just walked five miles through the heat.

you think he’s just a bard. a traveler. maybe a scholar passing through. a friend of dahlia’s, perhaps — though dahlia never mentioned him before, and dahlia never smiles at anyone like that.

you are wrong. so wrong.

venti stays in the village inn, but you see him every day.

he plays outside the chapel after morning prayers, sitting beneath the old sycamore tree with his legs crossed and his instrument in his lap. the first time you hear him sing, it feels like your lungs forget how to breathe. his voice is soft and weightless, like windblown petals. you can hear the holy in it. the kind of beauty that should be illegal. the kind of voice that makes saints weep and sinners confess.

you start staying after mass. at first, just a few minutes. then longer. sometimes you pretend to organize hymn books just to linger near the window where his music carries through the open shutters. sometimes you peek from behind the statue of barbatos, clutching your rosary like a shield, just to look at him.

venti talks to everyone. the altar boys, the flower girls, the old aunties who sell rosaries outside the gate. and somehow, he talks to you, too.

he calls you by name.

he tugs at your sleeve and offers you fruit from the market with a grin that makes you feel like you’re the one sinning just by being looked at.

you don’t know what to say. you don’t know how to act. you are not good with people like him — bold, unashamed, unholy in their beauty.

and then, one day, you see him laugh at something dahlia says.

and your brain — poor, sinful, overactive brain — betrays you.

what if they kissed.

what if venti leaned in just a little closer? what if dahlia grabbed him by the collar and pulled him in? what if they bickered in the vestry and made up in the candlelight? what if they fought like angels and kissed like sinners?

what if —

you choke.

you literally choke on the communion wafer you were holding.

and that night, you cry so hard your nose bleeds. you throw away your entire sketchpad. you kneel by your bedside for two hours whispering:

“i’m sorry, barbatos, i didn’t mean to think that, please don’t smite me, i love you, i swear—”

you do not know that the very archon you are apologizing to is the same man who winked at you from behind the altar that morning.

the sacristy is quiet that afternoon.

sun leaking through the stained-glass windows, filling the room with soft, holy light. you’re humming an old hymn under your breath, dahlia beside you in silence as he unwraps new votives. his sleeves are rolled up to the elbow. his hair’s a little messy. he smells like incense and old books.

you do not notice these things. not the way he keeps glancing at you. not the way his fingers brush yours when you pass him the lighter. not the way he looks at you like you’re made of everything he’s ever prayed for.

you’re too busy thinking about something else.

you say it like it’s nothing. a passing thought. just something that’s been on your mind lately, something you’ve written in your journal at least six times.

“you and venti look cute together.”

he drops the candle.

it clatters against the tile and rolls under a pew like it’s trying to escape the conversation entirely.

there is a long, painful silence.

“…what?”

dahlia says, voice flat. it echoes like thunder in the tiny room.

you don’t notice the horror in his face. or the way his hands suddenly go very still. you just keep going. calm. innocent. completely oblivious to the fact that you’ve just committed theological war crimes in front of the man who loves you.

“you have a nice dynamic,” you explain, as if you’re reviewing a fictional couple. “he’s playful, you’re sarcastic. it balances. it’s kind of cute, actually.”

a long, painful silence follows. the kind that feels like it should be filled with thunder. or at least divine punishment.

he stares at you.

he stares at you like you have just walked into the holy sanctuary with blood on your hands and a yaoi doujinshi in your pocket.

he doesn’t respond. he just slowly crouches to retrieve the runaway candle, jaw tight. you don’t notice the way his fingers shake. you go back to humming, completely unaware that you have just shattered his entire sense of spiritual and emotional stability.

that night, dahlia lies facedown in bed and screams into his pillow for forty-five minutes straight.

he kicks the mattress. he punches the air. he very nearly commits a second sin by almost tearing a page out of his favorite hymnbook.

“WHY IS THE GIRL I LOVE SHIPPING ME WITH OUR ARCHON,”

he whispers into the darkness, voice hoarse, soul crumbling.

“WITH OUR ARCHON—”

across the village, venti sneezes in his sleep and rolls over with a smile on his face.

venti finds out almost instantly.

not because you tell him — oh, no. you would never tell him. you can barely look him in the eye without panicking, let alone confess that you’ve been imagining him in blasphemous situations with your childhood best friend.

but he knows.

he knows because you keep praying about it.

because you whisper about it in the pews after choir practice, voice trembling, heart hammering, hands clutched so tightly around your rosary it creaks under the pressure.

because you write about it in your prayer journal with trembling ink-stained hands. entries like:

“dear lord barbatos, please forgive me for imagining brother dahlia pushing the bard against the chapel doors. i promise i am not corrupted. i simply have an active imagination.”

and venti — who is, unfortunately, the very god you’ve devoted your entire life to — the same god you whisper to in the quiet of dawn, the one you sing to in soft trembling alto every sunday, the one you imagine your brother dahlia kissing against the pulpit —

he reads every word.

it is, without a doubt, the most entertainment barbatos has had in the last hundred years.

so he feeds into it.

of course he does. he’s bored, and you’re adorable, and your devotion is a little bit insane in a way that delights him. how could he not?

he starts calling dahlia “dear.”

starts lingering too close during homilies. starts brushing hair out of dahlia’s face under the guise of fixing his collar. starts singing old hymns with lyrics suspiciously altered to sound romantic, staring directly at dahlia the whole time.

one day, he sighs dramatically and says,

“ah… if only i could be blessed with someone like you.”

while looking straight at him. right in the eyes.

you go home and sob.

you clutch your rosary like a lifeline. you cry into your prayer pillow. you tear out three journal pages and burn them in secret because they were too far gone. you fast the next day out of guilt and only drink holy water for dinner.

you do not know that venti is barbatos.

you do not know that the man you keep confessing to — your friend, the bard, the one you watch from behind the pews with wide eyes and sinful thoughts — is your actual god.

you do not know that dahlia has known this entire time. that he’s been silently suffering in the shadows of stained glass, listening to you gush about your “favorite dynamic” while internally screaming because your delusions now involve him and the anemo archon.

you are simply a girl.

a good girl.

a girl who wakes before dawn to pray.

who volunteers at sunday school and helps scrub candle wax off the floor.

who teaches children to sing hymns and then goes home to read yaoi behind her stack of devotional texts.

you are so, so devout.

you are so, so rotten.

and your god thinks it’s hilarious.

reader be like 😭😭😭 preach

#dahlia x reader #???????#dahlia brainrot #venti brainrot #dahlia x venti #venti x dahlia #venlia #genshin dahlia #genshin venti #genshin crack #genshin imagines #genshin fics #reader is so real #i love these two sm

46 notes · View notes

4barbatos · 3 days ago

Note

Hi! Just wanted to say thank you so so so much for doing my request of comforting venti!!! it broke me and then healed me in the best of ways ;-;

It all just felt like a big, warm hug to me, (which venti deserves-) and I really enjoyed reading it! Thank you!

ur so so very welcome anon <3 i’m really happy you enjoyed it, and it means the world to know it brought you comfort — venti deserves warm hugs and soft moments and someone to hold him through the hurt ;; thank you for taking the time to send such a sweet message !!!

i always love writing you guys’ requests — they inspire me sm and your support truly keeps me going 🫂

i’m still open for requests btw (even though i have like 5 drafts waiting to be posted hehe) so feel free to send in anything !! fluff, angst, smut — even darker/taboo themes are okay too, as long as they don’t involve incest (pleek TT that’s one thing i’m not comfortable writing)

thank u again for reading and being here <3

#venti brainrot #ily anon 💌#typed this half asleep #im so sleepy rn #i have schoo tmr #kill me

6 notes · View notes

4barbatos · 3 days ago

Text

✦ the weight of being known

venti x gn!reader

a/n: another request from anon — thank you so so much for sending this in <3 this one kinda broke my heart a little… venven is just. so full of guilt. he carries so much and still chooses to live, and that kind of quiet strength makes me so emotional :’( soft angst + comfort in this one, with just a little bit of light at the end. i hope it feels like being held 🫂

the door creaks open with a soft whine.

you weren’t expecting anyone this late — not even him.

but when you see him…

your heart aches like it recognizes a familiar kind of breaking.

he’s soaked through with rain.

not from a storm, but from standing in one. like he never thought to move. like he wanted the cold to settle into his skin and stay there.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t look up. just hovers in your doorway, fingers curled into the ends of his cape, curls stuck to his cheeks, dripping. like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to be here. like he’s not sure he deserves to be.

and you don’t ask questions.

you reach out. gently.

“come in, venven.”

his breath catches. at the nickname. at your voice.

you swear, for a moment, you see his lip tremble.

he steps in.

slow. like it hurts to move. like he’s not sure the floor will hold his weight. like the wind might scatter him to dust if he exhales too hard.

and the first thing he does is reach for you.

barely. just a handful of your sleeve. but it’s enough to make your chest pull tight.

like he’s scared you’ll disappear, too.

“i shouldn’t have come,” he mumbles, voice small, raw.

“i didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“like what?”

he laughs. and it’s… not a real laugh. it’s hollow. like a cracked flute.

“like myself.”

you don’t push him to explain.

you just take his hand. quietly. and he lets you.

you lead him to your room — past the soft hum of the lamp, past the warmth curling from the blankets, past the version of him that smiles for everyone else. you grab your softest blanket from the bed — the one he gave you last winter. the one that smells like apples and wind and something that could be home.

you wrap it around him. gentle. slow. like you’re trying not to scare a bird out of flight.

he hesitates. of course he does.

like he thinks he’ll ruin it just by being close. like he thinks he’ll ruin you.

but you sit down first, pull him with you — and when his knees hit the bed, he folds like paper. into your arms. into the hush between your breaths. into the silence he never lets himself have.

he curls up against your chest, blanket and all, and hides his face in your shoulder.

it takes a minute before the shaking starts.

then two more before the tears come.

you let him cry.

you let him fall apart without fixing it.

because that’s not what he needs. he just needs to be held.

to exist without a song in his throat.

to ache without an audience.

to breathe without pretending he’s not lonely.

eventually, between the quiet sounds of his sobbing, he whispers:

“do you think… if you met me without the music, without the wind, without the archon name… would you still love me?”

his voice is quiet. raw. like it’s been buried under centuries of silence, and tonight was the only time he dared dig it up.

you blink. your arms instinctively tighten around him. just slightly. just enough to tell him he isn’t floating away.

“you think that’s all you are?”

he swallows. doesn’t answer.

he doesn’t have to.

you already know the answer.

“everyone loves the bard,” he says eventually, and you feel the tension coil tighter in his chest, like the words themselves are too heavy to carry. “they love the voice. the songs. the way i make sadness sound beautiful.”

his breath stutters.

“but no one wants the storm behind the song. the silence after the strings go still. the empty cathedral. the aching ribs.”

“no one wants the dead boy i wear like a disguise.”

his voice breaks — and this time he doesn’t try to hide it.

“not even me.”

your chest aches. it physically aches. not just for him — but with him.

you press your palm to his back, fingers splayed right over the place where a heartbeat used to be.

the one that stopped a long time ago.

the one that somehow still hurts.

and very quietly, like a promise:

“then you’re stronger than anyone i’ve ever met.”

he goes still.

so, so still.

like the words caught in his throat. like he doesn’t know how to hold them.

“what?”

“you lived,” you say, slow. steady. like the words have weight. “in his body. not because you had to. not because you forgot. but because you remembered.”

your hand moves gently through his damp curls, untangling them like you’re untangling grief itself.

“you remembered everything. the pain. the past. the name no one calls him by anymore.”

your voice softens, like wind through open windows.

“and you still stayed.”

he shudders under your touch, his fingers curling tighter into your shirt.

“that’s not weakness, venven,” you whisper. “that’s freedom.”

he shakes his head, helpless.

“it doesn’t feel like it,” he breathes. “it feels like… punishment.”

you hold him closer. like you could shield him from every century he’s ever had to carry alone.

“because it’s the kind that hurts,” you say. “the kind no one writes poems about. the kind no one claps for.”

you pause. swallow.

“it’s the kind you choose. when it would’ve been easier to let go. easier to disappear into the wind. easier to forget he ever existed.”

you tilt your head down, rest your forehead against his.

“but you didn’t. you chose to stay. to carry him with you. to keep singing anyway. even when it breaks you.”

he doesn’t speak.

he just clings to you. quietly. desperately.

like you’re the only thing that still makes sense.

and then, after a long moment:

“you really think it’s me you love?”

his voice is so small. so scared. like a child asking if he’s real.

you pull back just enough to meet his eyes.

and you see it all there.

the bard. the god. the boy. the grief.

and underneath it — a flicker of something soft and scared and still learning how to be loved.

“i love the one who showed up in the rain even though he thought he wasn’t allowed to.”

your fingers brush his cheek, thumb catching the tear there.

“i love the one who asked if he was more than his songs.”

you lean in. kiss his forehead.

“i love the one who stayed.”

he breaks.

he falls into your arms like the wind finally gave up fighting the ground.

and you catch him.

you hold him tighter.

like the wind doesn’t have to run tonight.

like it’s okay to land.

you let him cry again. not from loneliness this time — but from something heavier. something older. something that’s been waiting in his chest since the day he decided to live in the place of a friend who couldn’t.

you don’t speak. just hold him.

you feel him soften. slowly. like something inside him finally stopped bracing for loss.

and eventually, he falls asleep on your chest.

breath syncing with yours. face tucked against your skin like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of being wanted.

his hands stay curled in your shirt like he’s still afraid you’ll vanish.

you don’t. you stay.

you let him listen to your heartbeat until he believes it.

because it’s still there.

still warm.

still alive.

and so is he.

a/n: i kind of fucking hate myself for writing this. i hate thinking about him being sad. but it’s also… real. this guy has been through so much. too much. and i think i’m gonna burst into tears actually

#venti x reader #venti x you #venti x y/n #venti fic #venti imagines #venti angst #venti fluff #???#venti brainrot #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin fics #i hope u guys dont kys after this

68 notes · View notes

4barbatos · 3 days ago

Text

✦ seatmate!venti drabbles

— modern high school au

fluff + mild crack .ᐟ ( fem reader )

a/n: this one’s requested by anon !! tysm for the idea <3 i enjoyed writing this sm hehe :3 hope you like it too !! pls keep sending silly venti fic ideas i am thriving off of him being annoying and in love.

✦ seatmate!venti rests his head on your shoulder and pretends to be asleep so you won’t make him move.

“venti, get off.”

he fake snores. loudly.

“you’re literally awake.”

“shhh,” he whispers. “you’re my pillow now.”

you sigh. he smiles. ten minutes later, he mumbles,

“you’re really warm…”

you don’t move.

✦ seatmate!venti asks if you two can be lab partners “in life.”

“venti, it’s just chemistry class.”

“exactly,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. “chemistry.”

“no.”

“denial is the first step to love.”

✦ seatmate!venti writes your name in his notebook with his last name.

“what are you doing.”

“manifesting.”

you look. there’s a little “mrs. venti” in cursive surrounded by sparkles. he’s coloring it in with glitter pen.

✦ seatmate!venti makes you a playlist titled “songs that remind me of us (even tho we’re not dating YET)”

“this is literally just twenty versions of ‘can’t take my eyes off you’.”

“and???”

“…and it’s kind of good.”

“so you admit it.”

“i didn’t say that.”

✦ seatmate!venti calls you his “favorite distraction.”

“you’re staring at me again.”

“yeah. i have a type.”

“what, people who ignore you?”

“people who look cute when they’re trying not to smile.”

✦ seatmate!venti keeps sending you notes during class even though you’re sitting right next to him.

you unfold the fourth one in five minutes. it says:

“do you like me?

☐ yes

☐ yes but in denial

☐ venti please shut up”

you circle the third box and throw it back at his face.

✦ seatmate!venti insists on carrying your bag even though it’s literally heavier than him.

“venti you’re going to snap in half.”

“then i’ll die doing what i love.”

“being annoying?”

“carrying your heart. and also your alarmingly heavy physics binder.”

✦ seatmate!venti gets jealous when someone else borrows your eraser.

“who’s that?”

“albedo. he asked for my eraser.”

“do you give everyone your erasers or am i just not special anymore.”

“…venti.”

“this is worse than betrayal. this is heartbreak.”

✦ seatmate!venti brings you snacks and calls it “wooing.”

“i bought you chips.”

“you got these from the vending machine.”

“with my own two hands. for you. because i’m courting you.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“you’re welcome.”

✦ seatmate!venti keeps calling you “my muse” while doodling on the corner of his notes.

you glance over. it’s a badly drawn stick figure with little sparkles around it.

“is that me?”

“yes. look how radiant you are.”

“…you gave me three strands of hair.”

“it’s called art style.”

✦ seatmate!venti makes a dramatic scene every time you’re absent.

“the sun didn’t rise yesterday,”

he says when you come back.

“i was gone for one day.”

“i wrote you a poem.”

“venti.”

“would you like me to perform it.”

✦ seatmate!venti keeps quoting love poems dramatically when you pass him a stapler or something.

“i would staple the stars to the sky for you.”

“venti i just asked if you’re done with the assignment.”

“and i am. done. with pretending i don’t love you.”

“i am begging you to be normal.”

✦ seatmate!venti sends you good morning texts even though you literally see him in class an hour later.

“good morning sunshine 💚 did you sleep well? i had a dream we got married. anyway see u in biology hehe”

“please go back to sleep”

“can’t. thinking about u. also i haven’t done the homework pls help”

✦ seatmate!venti says “i love you” every time you lend him a pencil, but today he says it a little too soft. a little too real.

you hand him a mechanical pencil without looking. he takes it and says, like always,

“i love you.”

it’s routine by now. he says it every time. you never respond.

but this time, it’s quieter. gentler.

you glance at him.

he’s not even looking at you. just focused on his notes, twirling the pencil between his fingers like nothing happened.

“venti,” you murmur.

he hums.

you open your mouth to say something — then the teacher calls on you and you lose your nerve.

you don’t bring it up again. but you don’t take your eyes off him for the rest of the period, either.

#venti x reader #venti x you #venti x y/n #venti imagines #venti fluff #venti crack #venti fic #venti brainrot #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin fics #aaaaaaaaaaaa #i #love #him #isy drabbles 💌

72 notes · View notes

4barbatos · 3 days ago

Text

✦ forgive me, father (for i came)

venti x dahlia x fem!reader

then had a ménage à trois ...last friday night .ᐟ

cw: threesome (dom!venti & dom!dahlia x sub!fem!reader), spit-roasting, overstimulation, light dumbification, degradation and praise, blasphemous religious themes, rough sex, oral (receiving + giving), light choking, name-calling, drunken decisions, semi-public buildup, reader being very very down bad. idek atp it’s unholy.

a/n: jesus. this fic nearly took me out 😭 had to do actual research on what goes down at an american party bc obviously i’m not american (if u thought i was…… respectfully get out). also i was gonna post this at 2am but i deadass fell asleep mid-edit while “last friday night” was blasting in my left ear.

had this festering in my drafts for like a week because my brain refused to cooperate. finishing it felt like fighting for my life in the trenches, but i’m glad i pushed through bc i kinda love it??? dahlia being a repressed religious perv is sooo real to me. venti has a god complex and i’m not stopping him. man thinks he invented pleasure. praise be.

also! modern college au, everyone’s legal and consenting, and ready to make terrible decisions <3

you didn’t even wanna come to this party.

like, genuinely. you had an exam next week, a half-written paper, and a half-dead social battery. the last thing you needed was to be shoulder-to-shoulder with a bunch of horny undergrads blasting katy perry like it was 2010 and shame didn’t exist.

but your roommate was hot and persuasive and already four shots in when she started dragging you by the wrist.

“i swear,” she slurred, her glitter eyeshadow half-smudged and confidence turned all the way up to eleven, “you need to get dicked down or at least dance, girl.”

you brought a water bottle and wore a thrifted denim short. crop top optional, dignity minimal. you figured you’d hover around the snacks, say no to three drinks, and dip early with your gpa intact.

you weren’t expecting to find god.

or rather — two boys who made you forget him completely.

it started off normal. crowded house, colored leds, somebody grinding to a weeknd remix in the living room. your roommate disappeared ten minutes in, presumably to go make out with that guy from her econ class who looked like he cried after sex.

you were posted by the kitchen counter with your “water” (spiked, probably) and a vague plan to ghost as soon as someone tried to rope you into flip cup.

suddenly you heard a familiar voice, buried under the bass and drunk laughter. something warm and deep, with a laugh you remembered a little too well — like the echo of a bad idea, like the first sip of communion wine that was definitely not grape juice.

you turned your head, scanning through the haze of neon lights and sweaty bodies until you saw him.

“wait,” you said, freezing mid-step. “is that—”

you blinked through the crowd. tilted your head. no fucking way.

“dahlia?”

and like some kind of divine punishment, he looked up right as you said it. head tilted. curls a little longer now. smile the same. pretty as always, just older — more grown into himself. less sunday choir, more sunday morning regret.

you stared. he stared back.

and he smiled. slow. familiar.

“holy shit,” you mumbled. “literal church boy dahlia. the pervert.”

your friend turned her head, already halfway through her third drink. “the what?”

you grinned, cheeks flushed. “he used to moan during prayer.”

she choked. “you’re kidding.”

“senior youth retreat. i was there. it was dark.”

you didn’t mean to talk to him again. not really.

you were supposed to be getting more water — in the loosest sense of the word — and maybe scoping out the snacks before your roommate dared someone to dance on the dining table. but somehow, you ended up pressed near the kitchen counter with him, sipping vodka-disguised hydration and laughing a little too easily against the tune of an early-2000s party playlist.

like the past didn’t hum under your skin.

like you hadn’t spent whole years pretending you didn’t think about his lips when you closed your eyes.

“you still go to church?” you asked, voice looser now, a little slow from the alcohol. your eyes flicked down to the rosary slung around his neck, a glint of silver nestled above exposed collarbones. the chain dipped beneath his half-unbuttoned shirt — a silk one, of course, because dahlia didn’t know how to dress normally.

“every sunday,” he said, tilting his head, elbow resting behind you like he always needed to trap you somewhere. “confession, too.”

you raised a brow. “must be a long-ass session.”

he grinned. “only when i think of you.”

you choked. coughed. wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

“you’re disgusting,” you muttered, trying not to smile. “jesus wept.”

“probably because you wore that skirt to sunday school.”

you gave him a look. “you wore fishnets to a baptism.”

“we all have our moments.”

you snorted, flicking his arm. “blasphemous freak.”

he leaned in, mouth close to your ear, voice low: “missed you too, sweetheart.”

you were about to recover — really — when a new voice cut in. higher, smoother, soaked in flirt and casual sin.

“hey,” someone drawled, “who’s your friend?”

you turned your head.

and immediately forgot how to breathe.

the boy standing there looked like temptation had crawled out of a lana del rey song and decided to make itself fashion. crop top riding dangerously high on his waist. eyeliner smudged like he’d fucked and cried in it. messy red eyeshadow painted over his lids like sin. earrings glinting with every lazy tilt of his head. thigh chains. layered necklaces. a smile like he already knew every filthy thought in your head and was ready to make it worse.

he looked at you like a cat watching something twitch.

“venti,” dahlia muttered beside you, voice already tight. “this is y/n.”

venti’s eyes didn’t leave your face. “oh. hi.”

your brain short-circuited.

he tilted his head, smile curling. slow. knowing.

your heart did a little skip. then maybe a cartwheel. maybe a confessional-level sin.

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. you blinked, twice, trying to remember how words worked.

venti’s gaze dragged down and up in one unashamed sweep — not even pretending to be subtle. when his eyes met yours again, they sparkled. and then he smiled wider.

dahlia rolled his eyes so hard it looked like a prayer for patience. “she’s mine.”

you scoffed immediately. “she’s not,” you said, turning fully toward him — maybe too quick. maybe too flustered.

venti was still watching you, smug like he’d already won.

your knees wobbled. traitors.

dahlia noticed. of course he did. he stepped in closer, hand ghosting over your hip like he had to remind both of you where you used to belong.

“you’re drunk,” he muttered, low.

“so are you,” you shot back, voice breathier than you wanted.

venti’s grin sharpened like a knife. “i’m sober enough to know i’d make her feel better than your holy hands ever could.”

he took a sip from his red solo cup, and when a drop slipped past his lip, he caught it with his tongue.

your soul left your body.

dahlia made a sound halfway between a scoff and a growl. “you’re going to hell.”

venti shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “with her? gladly.”

you exhaled. shaky. already fucked in the head. already thinking about what it’d be like to be ruined between them — choir boy and chaos incarnate.

you had a paper due monday. a hangover waiting to ambush you. a party full of strangers that wouldn’t notice you disappearing.

and god definitely wasn’t here tonight.

“so,” venti said, stepping closer — dangerously closer — until your shoulder nearly brushed his. he smelled like wine and spearmint and something sweet you couldn’t name. “what brings a girl like you to a party like this?”

“roommate dragged me,” you replied, trying to sound casual. your voice came out thinner than expected. “i have an exam next week.”

“mm. you study hard?”

“i try to.”

he smiled like you just handed him ammunition. “you look like you need a break.”

“she doesn’t need your kind of break,” dahlia muttered, shifting beside you. his palm skimmed the curve of your waist, familiar and territorial.

venti, unbothered, leaned past you to grab a bottle off the counter — something green and half-empty — and poured a finger of it into his cup. he offered it to you with a smirk.

you didn’t take it.

“i’m already drunk,” you said.

“so am i,” he replied, “and yet i’m still making excellent choices.”

“this isn’t an excellent choice,” dahlia said, tugging you a little closer.

“what, sharing a drink or stealing your girl?”

you almost choked.

“i’m not his girl,” you said.

dahlia’s fingers tensed.

venti’s eyes glittered. “well, if you’re not his… can i have you?”

you blinked at him.

and maybe it was the alcohol. maybe it was the way he was smiling like he’d already won. maybe it was the ghost of dahlia’s breath on your neck, the memory of his hands under your skirt at sixteen, the fact that you felt so alive for the first time in weeks —

but you said it. blame the devil, the vodka, the look in venti’s eyes. you said it anyway.

“are you two gonna keep talking,” you asked, voice low, “or are you gonna fuck me?”

a beat of stunned silence.

then —

“dibs,” venti said, instantly, voice light but laced with something that made your spine straighten. “i call dibs.”

“you can’t call dibs,” dahlia snapped, sharp and bristling. “she’s not some fucking prize.”

venti only smiled, stepping closer with that same lazy, dangerous charm. “sure feels like i’m winning something.”

“i talked to her first.”

“you also tried to claim her like a parking space,” venti shot back, glancing at you with a knowing gleam. “she said no, remember?”

you blinked up at them, half amused, half unhinged, stomach doing flips and thighs already pressing tight.

“jesus,” you muttered, “this is the worst threesome negotiation ever.”

venti leaned down a little, voice dropping as he looked you straight in the eye. “oh, love. this isn’t negotiation. this is foreplay.”

you might’ve blacked out for a second. just a little.

then dahlia was suddenly behind you, crowding close enough for his chest to press against your back, one hand low on your waist, mouth right next to your ear.

“say the word,” he murmured, “and i’ll take you upstairs right now. don’t even have to look at him.”

venti hummed. “but she wants to. don’t you, pretty thing?”

you turned to look at him.

his tongue was running along the edge of his bottom lip, slow and knowing, fingers playing with one of his necklaces. he was watching you like a dare. like he already knew what decision you were going to make.

your mouth went dry. your body didn’t.

“you’re both,” you said, exhaling, “so fucking annoying.”

“but hot,” venti reminded, cocky.

“and talented,” dahlia added, already pulling you subtly toward the hallway. “you remember.”

venti’s hand was on your other wrist before you realized it, cool and confident. “i promise i’m better.”

you didn’t even know who led you up the stairs — one of them pushed the door open, the other tugged you inside, both of them crowding close as the music faded behind a slam and the click of a lock.

heat. hands.

someone’s mouth on your neck. someone else’s fingers at the hem of your shorts.

“dibs on her mouth,” venti said, already dropping to his knees, smiling like the devil as he looked up at you.

“you’re such a slut,” dahlia muttered — but he let go.

“i am,” venti grinned, tugging your hips closer. “and she’s about to be, too.”

you barely had time to breathe.

venti’s hands were already gliding up your thighs, warm and smooth, dragging your shorts and underwear down in one practiced, greedy motion. the grin never left his face. not even when he kissed the inside of your knee and said, in the sweetest voice you’d ever heard:

“hold still for me, baby. gonna make you sing.”

you almost said something smart — almost — but then his mouth was on you, and the words evaporated. tongue hot, slow, teasing. his thumbs held your thighs open with a surprisingly firm grip, and then he moaned into your pussy like he’d just tasted something divine.

your knees buckled.

“fuck,” you gasped, one hand shooting out blindly until it hit dahlia’s arm. you curled your fingers into his shirt. “oh my god—”

“told you she’d sound pretty,” venti murmured against your cunt, before licking another long stripe up the center and flicking your clit with his tongue.

“and i told you to shut up,” dahlia muttered, but his voice was hoarse. his hand found the back of your neck, thumb stroking the edge of your jaw as he leaned in to kiss your temple. “you like his mouth, baby?”

you whimpered, nodding helplessly.

“yeah, she does,” venti said smugly. “she’s dripping. such a good girl for me, aren’t you?”

you would’ve protested — maybe — but then he sucked, lips wrapping around your clit and tugging just right, and the pleasure hit like lightning.

your hips jerked forward. dahlia caught you.

“venti,” you whimpered, “fuck—i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” he said sweetly. “let go for me, pretty thing. cum all over my tongue.”

you did.

shaking, gasping, clinging to dahlia’s shirt like a lifeline while your thighs trembled around venti’s head. he groaned, licking you through it, hands firm on your ass to keep you steady.

when it was over, he kissed the inside of your thigh like a reward.

“so sweet,” he murmured, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “might get addicted.”

you were still trying to catch your breath when dahlia gently tilted your face toward his.

his eyes were dark.

“my turn,” he said.

you didn’t realize you were grinding against venti’s mouth until he groaned, loud and thrilled, hands squeezing your thighs to keep you there. your head spun. your hips jerked. he loved it.

“needy girl,” he gasped against you, tongue flicking quick and sharp. “use me.”

you whimpered.

behind you, dahlia cursed under his breath, pushing your bra up to mouth at your tits, teeth grazing your nipple just rough enough to make you jolt. “fuck, baby. so sensitive. you’re gonna cum already, aren’t you?”

venti pulled back just enough to grin against your skin. “she’s close.”

“she always was easy.” “she’s perfect.” “she’s mine.”

you gasped, nearly choking on your own breath.

“then why’s she whining on my tongue?” venti said, smug, dragging it over you again — and god, it was filthy the way he moaned like he’d been starved for this, like the taste of you was his favorite kind of poison.

you cried out, trembling hard enough that dahlia had to grip your hips tighter to keep you upright.

“venti—venti—fuck—”

“cum for me,” he said sweetly. “be good and make a mess on my face.”

and you did.

with a cry that split the air, you came hard — shaking, hips bucking, vision dark at the edges. venti didn’t stop. he ate it up, humming, licking through your orgasm like he was trying to memorize it. like he wanted seconds.

maybe thirds.

you barely had time to catch your breath before dahlia was spinning you, lips crashing into yours — rough, messy, starved.

“still mine,” he muttered against your mouth. “she might’ve got you first, but i get to fuck you.”

venti wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes shining. “we get to fuck her.”

dahlia didn’t argue this time.

you were dizzy, your knees barely holding, your pulse still too fast. but you didn’t care.

not when dahlia was walking you back toward the bed, pushing you gently down, stripping you slow like you were something precious and ruined all at once. not when venti crawled up beside you, kissing your neck, your jaw, your collarbone — every inch dahlia wasn’t touching.

“gonna take care of you,” venti whispered, fingers ghosting down your stomach. “you’ll let us, won’t you?”

you nodded. breathless.

“use your words, baby,” dahlia said, already undoing his belt. “what do you want?”

you looked between them — wrecked and warm and starving — lips parted, thighs trembling, mouth slick with spit and want and everything you weren’t supposed to be.

your voice barely came out a whisper.

“…both of you.”

venti beamed. radiant. unholy. like a prayer turned inside out.

“god bless.”

“god hates us,” dahlia muttered, already pushing your thighs further apart, climbing over you like he owned you. “and i’m about to make you forget every prayer you’ve ever known.”

your breath hitched. your whole body keened.

then came the first thrust — deep, deliberate — and the air punched out of your lungs in a messy, wrecked sound.

you didn’t even know whose hands were on you anymore. one gripped your throat just enough to make your vision blur at the edges, another curled around your hip, dragging you back against their pace like you were made for it. venti was saying something — words you couldn’t catch, not when your brain was sliding like honey through your skull — but his mouth was wet and hot and everywhere, his tongue licking into your teeth like he wanted to taste the exact second you broke.

dahlia growled in your ear, low and dark, his grip bruising.

“say it,” he rasped. “say who’s making you feel this good.”

“y-you both—” you gasped, hands scrabbling for anything to hold onto. “fuck, please—”

“aw, look at her,” venti cooed, voice syrupy, cocky, cruel. “can’t even think straight. how many times has she cum already?”

“four,” dahlia grunted. “maybe five.”

“mm. not enough.”

you whimpered as venti dipped between your legs again, tongue unrelenting, too much — too much — but god, you didn’t want it to stop. didn’t want to breathe if it meant they’d stop touching you like this, worshipping you like the altar you were never meant to be.

you moaned — high and helpless — when dahlia’s pace picked up, slamming into you like he was trying to fuck his name into your spine.

venti grinned up at you from between your thighs, lips wet and swollen.

“gonna make her forget the alphabet.”

“already did,” dahlia panted. “she went stupid after the second orgasm.”

you didn’t deny it.

you couldn’t. your brain had been fucked clean out of your head, scrambled like eggs, your only thoughts left were their names and the way they made you feel — raw, perfect, ruined.

and still they kept going. and you let them.

you let them, because you were already too far gone. because your body begged for more even when your mind shattered. because you’d never felt this good. this full. this taken.

because whatever sins you’d committed to get here?

you’d do them all again. twice. in heels.

god was gone. and you were still moaning.

it didn’t matter anymore. not with your legs trembling open, cunt puffy and dripping, drool sliding from the corner of your mouth as you moaned pathetically around venti’s cock.

“ohh, look at her,” venti cooed, breath shaky, voice teasing and airy as he fisted your hair. “baby’s all fucked out already, and we haven’t even finished.”

“slut,” dahlia muttered behind you, hands digging into your hips as he snapped his into yours. “you came again, didn’t you? just now. again. fuck—your pussy’s still squeezing like she wants more.”

you whined around venti’s length, eyelids fluttering. your arms couldn’t hold you up anymore. your thighs had given out ages ago. they kept you upright between them — barely — venti’s cock hitting the back of your throat while dahlia was still pounding into your soaked, overstimulated cunt like he was trying to fuck the brain out of you.

maybe he already had.

venti moaned, hips twitching as your lips hollowed around him. “you’re drooling, pretty girl,” he gasped. “so messy. god, i love it. she’s not even blinking, look—she’s gone, dahlia.”

“good,” dahlia growled, pace still brutal. “she wanted to act like she didn’t want either of us earlier. needed a reminder.”

venti chuckled, breathless. “she’ll forget her name at this rate.”

you tried to answer — to say fuck you or i hate you or please or more or something, anything — but your voice was gone, throat raw, thoughts mush.

“mm-mm,” venti murmured, noticing the twitch of your brows. “don’t think. just feel.”

you whined again — this time, deeper. desperate.

dahlia leaned forward, hand sliding up to wrap around your throat from behind. “you gonna cum again for us, sweetheart?” he rasped into your ear, hips still slamming into you. “gonna cream all over my cock like a needy little toy?”

you gasped around venti, tears finally slipping from your lashes.

venti groaned, tilting your head up to look at him. “god, she’s crying,” he whispered. “you’re so fucking pretty like this, y’know that?”

you made a wrecked little noise, drool sliding past your lips as you nodded.

dahlia grunted. “fucking knew she liked it. knew you were a dirty girl the second i saw you in that church dress.”

your cunt clenched violently.

“fuck—again?” dahlia moaned. “she’s—she’s gonna—”

you broke.

legs kicking, arms trembling, a scream caught in your throat around venti’s cock as your body convulsed, heat flashing white as you came hard — your sixth? seventh? you couldn’t tell — clenching so tight around dahlia it made him swear, hips jerking once, twice, before he buried himself to the hilt with a groan.

venti whimpered. “ohh, fuck, baby—fuck—gonna—gonna—”

he pulled out just in time, coming hot and fast across your tongue and lips, his hand under your chin to tilt your face up, make you take it. you let your mouth fall open, drool and spit and come spilling messily down your chin.

“that’s it,” he gasped, voice sweet and fucked. “good girl. good fucking girl.”

you whimpered — barely conscious, twitching.

dahlia pulled out slow, watching your slick drip down your thighs. “fuck, look at that mess,” he muttered, thumb brushing your clit just to watch you flinch. “soaked the sheets. hope your roommate’s proud.”

venti collapsed beside you, sweaty and blissed out, grabbing your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

you blinked at him, dazed. “mmnnh.”

he grinned. “no thoughts. just cock.”

“mission accomplished,” dahlia muttered, flopping beside you on the other side.

you weren’t even sure which of them kissed your shoulder.

you just knew your legs didn’t work, your soul had left your body, and if god had been here tonight —

he definitely left mid-threesome.

you woke up to the sound of someone snoring and someone else — singing.

acoustic. badly. with feeling.

“…living in a material wooorld, and i am a material giiirl—”

your brain hurt. your legs hurt. your entire existence hurt.

you cracked one eye open.

and immediately regretted everything.

venti was sitting cross-legged on the floor, wrapped in a blanket like some sleep-deprived prophet, strumming an actual guitar (???) you swore nobody had brought to the party. eyeliner smudged halfway to his temples, red eyeshadow still smeared across one cheek like war paint. his lips were shiny — glossy, even. god only knew why.

he grinned when he saw you awake.

“morning, sunshine! you moaned like a pornstar in your sleep.”

you blinked.

rolled over.

and immediately saw dahlia, shirtless, face buried in a pillow, groaning like he had just been born into suffering.

“kill me,” he rasped.

you sat up slowly, blanket clutched to your chest, realizing three things at once:

1. you were wearing dahlia’s shirt. inside out.

2. venti was definitely wearing your bra like a headband.

3. someone had written “slut sandwich” on the fogged-up mirror in lipstick.

“what the actual hell happened,” you croaked, throat wrecked, dignity in shambles, and your legs about two steps away from quitting the entire concept of balance.

“sex,” venti answered brightly from the bed, still shirtless, still smug. “lots of it. possibly illegal in some countries.”

“definitely illegal in a church parking lot,” dahlia added, not even opening his eyes. “and probably a few states.”

you flipped them both off with shaky fingers as you stumbled toward the bathroom, every muscle in your body filing a complaint.

“don’t forget to hydrate!” venti called after you, far too cheerful for a man who’d literally begged to cum in your mouth five hours ago.

you grumbled something about exorcisms and shoved the bathroom door open, clinging to the sink like a war veteran. mascara smudged. knees bruised. bite marks blooming like artwork down your collarbone. you didn’t even want to check your hair.

you’d barely closed the door behind you when you heard:

“hey dahlia?”

“what.”

“did we actually high-five while spit-roasting her or was that just something i dreamed about?”

a pause.

“nah. we definitely high-fived. you yelled ‘teamwork makes the cream work.’”

venti wheezed. “oh my god. i’m hilarious.”

you slammed the bathroom door shut like it owed you money.

god, give me strength, you prayed silently. and maybe a therapist. and a gallon of electrolytes.

…also maybe another round after brunch. if they behave.

a/n: guys imma be honest this only got finished bc of @ventisslut <3 ily mother. bless 🙏 if it weren’t for u i’d probably still be staring at my docs unfinished and untouched (like me)

331 notes · View notes

4barbatos · 4 days ago

Text

✦ dad!venti x mom!reader drabbles

— fluff + crack .ᐟ

a/n: aaaaa i enjoyed writing this so much TT one of the drabbles is actually based on a request from one of u guys (ILY!!!) but the prompts wouldn’t leave me alone. they just kept bouncing around in my brain like “write me. write me.” and i folded immediately.

i don’t think this’ll be the last time i write about this version of venti because oh my GOD. dad(dy) venti brainrot has me in a chokehold. like. help. might spiral and write a whole mini-series if y’all let me 😵‍💫

also this one’s in a modern setting !! but still has some genshin themes — like venti still being an archon bc i am not letting go of that man’s godhood LMAO. timeline?? logic?? never heard of her. anyway sorry if this is messy my brain is fried 💔

thank u for the love, the requests, and the patience <3 u guys keep me inspired even when life (school) is body slamming me in the face.

freshly delivered betrayal

you were exhausted.

sweaty, sore, shaking from adrenaline, body still catching up to the fact that you’d just given birth. the world was still a little fuzzy at the edges when the nurse gently placed your newborn on your chest, tiny and warm and squirmy.

your breath hitched. tears welled in your eyes as you looked down at him —

and then you blinked.

paused.

frowned.

“…why the fuck are his eyes glowing.”

“venti,” you said slowly, voice flat, “why are his eyes glowing.”

across the room, venti was openly sobbing into an anemo slime plush he’d brought in “for emotional support.” he sniffled dramatically, cheeks shiny with tears.

“he’s so beautiful 🥺”

“THAT’S NOT AN ANSWER.”

you tilted your newborn slightly toward him, finger jabbing gently at your son’s face.

“his irises are literally glowing. bioluminescent. mint green. sparkling. like a lantern. what did you do.”

venti tiptoed over like a guilty dog caught chewing the curtains.

“he just… looks a little like me, that’s all—”

“a little??”

you looked back down at the baby.

same eye shape. same impossibly long lashes. same little button nose. same stupid smug smile that somehow managed to exist on a minutes-old infant.

he blinked up at you slowly, glowing eyes twinkling like he already knew something you didn’t.

“oh my god,” you muttered, head thudding back against the pillow. “i suffered through nine months of nausea and joint pain and demonic pregnancy cravings just for this child to come out looking like your tiny clone.”

venti practically preened. “right??? he’s perfect. he’s a masterpiece. he’s my greatest song come to life—”

“no. no poetry. not while he’s still steaming fresh from the womb.”

the baby yawned.

a breeze gently rustled the ends of your hair.

“did he just—” you turned slowly to look at venti.

“minor atmospheric shift,” he said with a dreamy smile. “nothing dangerous. probably.”

you closed your eyes in defeat.

“i need him to wear contacts immediately.”

milk crimes

you were half-asleep on the couch, baby snoozing peacefully on your chest, when venti tiptoed in with the most suspicious expression known to man.

his eyes darted around like he was about to commit a federal offense.

you cracked one eye open. “…what are you doing.”

“nothing,” he said way too fast. “just checking on my beautiful wife and her beautiful child and her…” his gaze dropped an inch lower. “beautiful… assets.”

you gave him the look.

he smiled like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “you look full.”

“i am.”

“painful?”

“not really,” you muttered, adjusting your shirt. “just heavy.”

he plopped down beside you, hands neatly folded in his lap. “i could help.”

you squinted. “you mean like—”

“to relieve you,” he said, putting on his innocent bard voice. “out of love. and generosity. and public service.”

“venti.”

“just a few sips—”

“venti.”

“i promise to burp afterwards.”

“GET. OUT.”

he ducked your throw pillow like a pro and grinned as he scampered away.

“the offer stands!!”

you sighed and looked down at your baby.

“don’t grow up weird like your dad,” you whispered.

‘ho’ly baby

the thing about having a baby is you hear a lot of nonsense.

gurgles. squeals. high-pitched shrieks. the occasional babble that sounds dangerously close to profanity. you’ve learned to tune most of it out — smile, nod, survive — until today.

“ho,” your baby says, looking you dead in the eye.

you blink. slowly. “…what did you just call me?”

venti, traitor of all traitors, gasps like he’s been struck by celestia itself.

“OH ARCHONS—”

he’s on the floor. sobbing. wheezing. clutching his stomach like he’s been impaled by a divine spear. the baby giggles. claps his chubby hands and says it again — “ho!” — and venti actually screams.

you stare in horror. “maybe he meant hello—”

“HE’S A GENIUS,” venti howls, now fully writhing. “MY SON’S FIRST WORD WAS HO.”

you’re half tempted to throw a throw pillow at his face. maybe a lamp. maybe the baby.

you scoop your son into your arms. “no. no. we say mama. not… ho.”

he blinks at you. pure innocence. then opens his tiny mouth and goes:

“ho.”

venti lets out a sound that can only be described as feral wind-chime laughter. he’s howling so hard the picture frames are rattling. you’re genuinely concerned he might pass out from joy.

(it took hours to calm everyone down.)

that night, while rocking the baby to sleep, he mumbles something against your collarbone — soft and slow and sleepy.

“dada.”

you freeze. slowly turn your head to where venti is standing, slack-jawed in the doorway.

he floats two inches off the ground for the rest of the week.

you need a nap. and a new baby. one that doesn’t already have his father’s entire personality copy-pasted into his dna.

childless hours

“can you hear that…”

venti murmured from his perch on the kitchen counter, one leg swinging idly as he tilted his head like a curious little bird.

you froze mid-step, blinking at him from the hallway.

“…hear what?”

he closed his eyes dramatically.

“…nothing.”

you furrowed your brows.

“…oh.”

nothing. no crying. no cartoons. no rattling toys or lullabies from the baby monitor. just… silence.

venti cracked one eye open and grinned at your expression.

“we could literally do anything.”

you raised a brow.

“anything?”

“nap,” he said, counting on his fingers. “eat snacks without hiding. walk around naked. have sex in the kitchen—”

“venti.”

“what? i’m brainstorming.” he slid off the counter, walking over with a cheeky little bounce in his step. “you’re the one who said anything.”

you sighed, already feeling your resolve slipping under the weight of his grin.

“we were gonna clean out the closet.”

“the closet will still be there,” he said sweetly, wrapping his arms around your waist. “but this silence? this glorious, blessed silence? she may never return…”

you squinted at him. “you’re so dramatic.”

“and yet…” he leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper, “you’re still about to get on the table.”

your mouth twitched. he was right.

“…fine,” you muttered, hands already sliding up his shirt. “i’m getting on the table.”

venti beamed, practically vibrating.

“best day ever.”

first day blues

you tried everything. his favorite outfit (the one with little anemo swirl patches). his lunchbox packed with windwheel apple slices and star-shaped cookies. even the “you’re so brave” speech — the one that usually worked during dentist appointments and dark rooms.

but your son was currently a sobbing mess in the living room, face smushed into your shoulder, tiny fists clutching your hoodie like he’d never let go.

“but mamaaaaa i don’t wanna go to schoo— 😭😭😭”

you hadn’t even had coffee yet. your back hurt. and your heart? obliterated.

venti knelt beside you, trying his best to help without crying himself.

“don’t you wanna make new friends? show them your wind trick?”

“NO.”

“what if you bring mr. bard bear with you? he’s brave, right?”

“NOOOO!!!”

venti glanced at you helplessly, and you gave him the go ahead, bring out the big guns nod.

he leaned in, voice gentle.

“what if i give you one of mama’s special cookies?”

your son sniffled.

“…two?”

he paused.

venti gasped, clutching his chest.

“negotiator… just like his dada…”

somehow — somehow — you managed to peel him off your chest, bribe him into the car, and drop him off in his new classroom. you watched through the glass window as he sat at the tiny desk, eyes still watery but clutching mr. bard bear like a battle buddy.

you and venti didn’t even speak on the walk back to the car. it wasn’t until you both sat down and the silence settled that it hit.

“this is bad,”

you whispered, staring straight ahead.

venti looked pale.

“i think i’m gonna puke.”

“i miss my babyboy,”

you sobbed, dragging your hoodie sleeve across your cheek.

“i wanna go back and steal him.”

“we should’ve homeschooled.”

“we don’t even know math.”

“i’ll learn it!! for him!!”

you ended up crying in the car together for twenty minutes — full-on emotional meltdown, heads pressed together, tears blending. you probably looked feral to anyone walking by.

eventually, his teacher came outside with a small smile and a thumbs-up.

“he’s doing great,” she said gently. “he made a friend already. and he shared his cookies.”

venti sniffled.

you clutched his hand.

“our boy is so brave,” you whispered.

venti wiped his face. “we did so good.”

sick day cyclone

you were hoping it was just allergies.

it had to be allergies.

but then your baby sniffled, sneezed — and the entire living room turned into a category five wind cyclone.

“OH MY GOD, NOT AGAIN—”

you yelled, ducking just in time as a baby sock flew past your head and slapped itself to the wall like it had a vendetta.

the baby giggled. another sneeze. the curtain rod snapped in half.

venti came sprinting into the chaos, towel slung around his waist, toothbrush still hanging from his mouth like a war whistle. his hair was dripping. his eyes took in the scene.

“…is the baby sneezing cyclones again?”

“DOES IT LOOK LIKE HE’S NOT?”

your toddler hiccuped — and summoned a tiny tornado that sucked up three pacifiers, a juice box, and one of your houseplants. the couch moved. you were gripping the baby gate like it was a lifeboat.

venti calmly walked into the storm, scooped the baby into his arms mid-gale, and swaddled him into a blanket burrito like a seasoned wind mage dad.

“poor little stormcloud,” he said softly, brushing his fingers through wild curls. “guess we’re not going to daycare today.”

you stared at the overturned furniture. your hair was sticking up. your coffee was gone. the plant was rotating gently in the corner.

“…NO SHIT.”

daddy behavior

it started with a toy being thrown.

then the rug got flipped.

now there were three mini-tornadoes spinning around the living room like some kind of cursed carousel, and your child — your terrifying, smug little wind god of a child — was sitting in the center of it all like he was preparing to ascend to celestia.

you were on the couch. exhausted. defeated. trying to drink your coffee while your living room got obliterated.

venti walked in, towel around his neck, hair damp from a shower. he paused at the door, took one look at the absolute storm zone, and sighed like he aged ten years on the spot.

“enough.”

his voice was low. calm. but firm. like thunder muffled by clouds. not loud, not angry — just heavy.

the wind dropped instantly.

your son froze mid-giggle, eyes wide, like he’d just been personally called out by the anemo archon (which, technically, he had). one of the mini tornados fizzled mid-spin and dropped a throw pillow with a pathetic little thud.

venti stepped into the wreckage slowly. not mad — just serious. the kind of quiet that meant: you’ve gone too far, little guy.

“we don’t throw storms when we’re upset,” he said gently, crouching down in front of him. “you have your words. use them.”

your toddler looked up at him with the world’s tiniest pout.

“but i—”

“i know,” venti said, softening. “i know, baby. but it’s not safe. and mama is tired. do you see the mess?”

your son blinked. glanced around the room like he was just now realizing he may have caused a small-scale natural disaster. his mouth wobbled.

“…sowwy…”

venti opened his arms. “come here, little stormcloud.”

your son launched himself into his chest like a comet.

venti caught him, lifted him easily, held him close — pressing a soft kiss to his hair.

“no more tornados today, okay?”

“…mkay…”

then he looked at you over his shoulder, smiling with that sweet, windswept softness that made your knees weak.

“wind crisis averted,” he said.

you blinked.

you put your coffee down. very slowly.

“…don’t talk to me right now.”

venti blinked.

“huh? why?”

you fanned yourself with your hand, cheeks hot. sweating.

“because i’m extremely turned on and our child is right there.”

venti flushed red, nearly dropping your son.

“o-oh. i see. um. bedtime is in two hours—”

“i need you to stop talking immediately.”

archons help you.

caught in 4k (by a toddler)

you and venti were just sitting on the couch.

your son was asleep. the apartment was clean for once. and venti — lounging in a loose hoodie with messy curls and that lazy, lopsided smirk that practically begged to be kissed — looked good.

so you kissed him.

you were halfway into your fifth kiss — straddling his lap, fingers tangled in his hair, venti making those soft, whiny sighs he always did when he was losing his mind over you — when the bedroom door creaked open.

you both froze.

dead silence.

then came a very small, very confused voice from the hallway:

“mama… are you eating dada’s face?”

you screamed.

venti made an unholy choking sound.

you launched yourself off his lap like the guilty heathens you were, nearly knocking over a throw pillow in the process.

your toddler stood there, sleepy-eyed, holding his plushie by one ear like it had just seen horrors. he blinked slowly.

“…why were you sitting on his tummy?”

venti, still red-faced and dazed, whispered hoarsely,

“wind… take me now…”

you slapped a hand over your face.

“baby, it’s—we were just—”

“adult stuff,” venti croaked.

“yes,” you said quickly. “very boring adult stuff.”

your child tilted his head, still suspicious.

“like taxes?”

you and venti locked eyes.

“…sure,” you said.

he frowned. “i don’t like taxes.”

“same,” venti mumbled.

you sighed, got up, and scooped your son into your arms.

“okay, little stormcloud. back to bed.”

he nestled against your shoulder, yawning.

“mama… don’t eat dada again, okay? he looked scared.”

venti let out a small dying noise behind you.

you didn’t stop laughing for the next ten minutes.

three peas in a chaotic pod

sunday morning in the windblume household looked like this:

venti in an oversized hoodie, hair sticking out in all directions. you in mismatched pajamas and fuzzy socks. your son in the middle of the living room, wrapped in a blanket like a dramatic little burrito, yelling “I AM WORM” for no apparent reason.

“should we be concerned?”

you asked, sipping coffee from your world’s-best-mama mug.

venti was lying on the floor next to your son, chin propped on his hands.

“nah. this behavior builds character.”

“he’s been rolling around yelling for ten minutes.”

“ah, so you do see the family resemblance.”

you raised a brow. “you mean your family. i was a normal child.”

venti gasped. “a boring child, you mean.”

your toddler suddenly flopped over onto venti’s back and went,

“wiggle wiggle worm!!”

venti immediately started flailing in sync.

“AAAA HE’S TRANSFORMING—HE’S BECOME A SUPER WORM—”

you put your mug down and sighed, grinning.

“i married an archon. i gave birth to a demigod. and somehow, i’m still the only adult in this house.”

“technically i’m over two thousand years old,” venti said from the floor.

“and mentally seven.”

“mentally seven and a half, thank you.”

you rolled your eyes and dropped down beside them, gently tugging your son out of his burrito blanket and into your arms. he squealed and clung to you immediately.

venti rolled over and rested his head on your lap, letting out a soft, content sigh.

“best seat in the house.”

your son crawled up and squished himself between you both, tiny hands patting your cheeks.

“mama pretty. dada stinky.”

venti gasped. “you traitor.”

“i win,” you hummed.

you didn’t get much done that day — laundry was forgotten, dishes piled up, and your to-do list went untouched — but you did get exactly what you needed:

a full heart. a warm couch. and your two favorite people tangled up beside you, giggling like it was the only thing that mattered.

…because it was.

a/n: OMG i posted this without the actual part that was requested 😭 i think i accidentally deleted it while cutting a drabble last minute (congrats to the three people who saw it before it got removed LMAOOO). anyway !! the original request was from @astronomerzin tysm for putting this idea in my head 🙏 ily fr TT i had so much fun writing it and i’m definitely gonna do more dada venti x mama reader stuff soon heh <3

#venti x reader #venti x fem reader #venti x y/n #venti x you #venti fluff #venti crack #venti fics #venti imagines #venti brainrot #dad venti #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin fics #more dad venti fics soon #probably #maybe #don’t quote me #i am unstable #isy drabbles 💌

168 notes · View notes

4barbatos · 4 days ago

Text

✦ a song you’ll carry

venti x fem!reader

cw: dom venti, unprotected sex, breeding kink, overstimulation, creampie, cockwarming

a/n: here’s the nyaaasty breeding smut as requested 🥳 thank u for ur patience while i fought for my life in school 💔 i love u all sm even when ur insane (esp when ur insane actually)

i’ll be posting dada venti x mama reader drabbles after this… heh >:3 baby’s got wind powers and everything. next will probably be your requests (maybe.. i’m flaky. let’s be real) i am but a humble girl trying to survive deadlines and write degenerate things about venti at the same time.

you’re not sure what hour it is anymore.

the room smells like him. like wind and sweat and sex. your legs have given up long ago — every part of you trembling, raw, soaked — and venti is still buried in you like he can’t stand to be anywhere else.

his hips roll into yours slow, deep, deliberate. every thrust is like a sigh — not desperate, not rough. just full. so full.

he’s already cum inside you more times than you can count.

and he’s still not done.

“how are you still so tight around me…?” he murmurs against your skin, voice cracked and dreamy. “you’ve been milking me for hours, windblume, and you’re still sucking me in like you want more…”

you do.

you whimper. your fingers curl into the sheets. every lazy grind of his cock pushes more slick out of you, warm and wet between your thighs. it’s leaking out in thick, sticky drips. you can feel it. you can hear it, too — every slow roll of his hips wet and messy and filthy.

venti moans against your neck. “you feel that? all mine. you’re keeping it in so well… mnh, that’s it, love. stay open for me.”

you’re babbling now — his name, half-formed words, something about how it’s too much — and venti just smiles. kisses your cheek. cradles your face in both hands and presses his forehead to yours.

“it’s never too much,” he breathes. “not when you look like this. not when you’re so perfect underneath me…”

he thrusts deeper.

you scream.

he huffs out a soft, shaky laugh. “there you are.”

you feel his hand slide down — palm pressing into your lower belly, right where his cock hits. you gasp.

he groans.

“hahh… you’re so full of me i can feel it right here…”

your stomach flutters under his touch, and it makes him throb inside you.

“do you want it?” he asks softly. “do you want me to fuck a baby into you?”

you sob out a yes. it’s pathetic. it’s all you have left.

he kisses your forehead and whispers, “good girl.”

and then he fucks you like he means it.

he lifts your legs onto his shoulders, folding you in half with a sweetness that makes your chest ache. he rocks into you slow and hard, every thrust hitting so deep your breath skips. he kisses every inch of skin he can reach — your knee, your ankle, your belly. he watches you with this look of awe, like he can’t believe you’re real.

you shatter again on his cock, and this time he moans like he’s coming with you.

you don’t even register it until you feel it: his cum flooding you again, impossibly hot, impossibly thick. you’re already stretched wide and messy and ruined from everything before, but he’s still holding your hips down and filling you up like it’s his job.

“gonna take, i just know it,” he breathes. “you’re gonna carry so well, love. you’re gonna look so beautiful round with my baby…”

you shiver. you tighten around him again without meaning to.

he curses under his breath. “don’t do that. don’t—you’ll make me—hah—”

you feel it. again.

another load, another wave of cum pumping deep into you, and his head falls against your chest as he groans your name into your skin.

your body is trembling. his cock’s still twitching. you can’t stop shaking and he loves it.

he kisses you slow.

and then he stays inside.

doesn’t move. doesn’t even think about pulling out.

you’re too sensitive. too full. and he’s not done.

he shifts to his side and pulls you into his arms without slipping out — like he belongs there. like he was meant to stay.

“you’re gonna sleep like this,” he says, soft and sleepy. “need to keep you full… just for a little longer…”

you whimper. he kisses your shoulder.

“thank you,” he murmurs. “thank you for letting me love you like this.”

you’re already falling asleep when you feel him harden again inside you.

and venti, smiling, whispers against your neck:

“…one more time, sweet thing. just one more.”

#venti x reader #venti x fem reader #venti x y/n #venti x you #venti smut #venti fic #venti brainrot #venti imagines #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin fics #genshin smut #dom venti #real #i need his cum inside of me too #jealous

44 notes · View notes

4barbatos · 6 days ago

Note

xiao fic plz 🙏

hell yeah

#thats all i have to say #cant write rn i have school #fml #this is a reassurance post #im alive and i WILL be writing xiao #and all ur requests #mwa #ily anon 💌

7 notes · View notes

4barbatos · 8 days ago

Text

✦ windborne dreams

venti x fem!reader — fluff .ᐟ

a/n: i don’t even like kids (or men, for that matter) but this fucking whimsical bard is making me spiral. i was listening to let the wind tell you and immediately started thinking about how soft he is with klee…

i would let this man breed me. i would give him five kids and a sixth just for fun. i would wake up every two hours to rock our crying baby just to watch him sleep next to me with his little braids all messy. i’d raise a whole damn choir of wind-babies if he so much as looked at me with those sparkly teal eyes.

venti if you’re reading this please come home we’re ready for you. the crib is built. the room is prepared. my uterus is primed 🙏

you know, you always knew venti was good with kids.

he’s light on his feet. kind with his words. sings silly songs. conjures apple winds. pulls endless flower crowns from nowhere. lets them braid his hair, climb his back, steal his lyre, chase his robes, tug his sleeves, and never once looks anything but delighted.

you just didn’t know he was this good.

“venti! venti!! look what i made!!”

a little girl runs up to him holding what appears to be a very questionably structured dandelion crown. you barely have time to stop her from falling as she skids into his legs, shouting something about how she made it “just for him!!”

“wahhh~! you made this for me?” venti gasps, placing a hand to his chest like he’s been blessed. “my lady wind, it’s even prettier than the crown the anemo archon wears!”

she giggles, glowing. “but you are the anemo archon!”

“ehh? who told you that?” he teases, kneeling down. “was it little timmie again? that boy’s got a big mouth.”

“nu-uh! i saw it in a book!”

venti gasps, clapping his hands together. “a book! well, if it’s in a book, then it must be true!”

he lets her carefully — so carefully — place the uneven dandelion mess on top of his hair. the little crown leans sideways, two flowers fall off, and the whole thing looks like it’s gonna slip off his head if he moves a muscle.

he doesn’t move.

not even an inch.

you watch his face go all soft and gentle when she pats his cheeks with dandelion-stained hands and gives him a thumbs up.

“you look like a real archon now!”

“then i must be!” he chirps.

and then, when she skips away to rejoin the other kids, venti sits back in the grass — still wearing it.

“you’re gonna sneeze that whole thing off in five minutes,” you say, coming to sit beside him.

“if i do, will you make me a new one?” he leans over and bumps your shoulder. “actually, how about a matching set?”

you laugh. “i have dignity. unlike you, apparently.”

venti lays his head dramatically in your lap. “dignity is overrated. this is the real way to immortality,” he gestures vaguely to the sunny clearing around you, dotted with children screaming and laughing and covered in grass stains. “being cool enough to win the approval of eight-year-olds.”

you hum, brushing grass from his bangs.

he’s smiling so easily. his lashes are soft. the little dandelion crown is barely hanging on to the side of his head. you reach up and fix it for him without even thinking.

“…you’re really good with them,” you murmur.

he blinks up at you. “…hmm?”

“the kids,” you say softly. “you’re so… patient. and sweet. and silly.”

his lips part like he wants to say something, but you gently run your fingers through his hair to keep him quiet.

because you’re not finished.

“you let them feel big. strong. important. you listen to every single story they tell, even when they get the details wrong, even when they’re making it up as they go. you don’t correct them. you don’t talk down. you just… make them feel like their words matter.”

you exhale.

“i think you’d be a really good dad.”

there. you said it. you’ve thought it before — dreamed it, even — but saying it aloud makes something tight curl in your chest.

you glance down at him again and —

he’s staring up at you.

eyes wide. glowing.

his cheeks are a little pink.

“you think so?” he says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it.

“i know so,” you say. you thumb at the corner of his mouth. “you’re already halfway there.”

venti’s breath hitches.

his hand finds yours.

and he squeezes it — gentle, but firm. deliberate. like he wants to anchor the moment, hold it there in your joined palms.

he looks like he’s about to cry.

“i never thought someone would say that about me,” he whispers. “i don’t really… think about the future much. i’ve always lived in the moment. i kind of have to.”

you nod, listening.

he turns his face into your palm.

“but when you say it like that… it makes me want to think about it.” he looks up at you with that same windswept, storm-washed expression — soft, but swirling. “makes me want to think about ours.”

you stare at him.

“…ours?” you whisper.

“mm.” he kisses your wrist. “ours. someday. if we want.”

your throat clenches.

because of course. of course venti wouldn’t pressure you. he’s not one to say “when,” he says “if.” he always gives you the sky in open palms and lets you choose.

but you want to choose him.

you want a home. a family. a garden full of flower crowns and bad grass braids and wind-chased laughter echoing through the house. you want venti — your venti — singing lullabies on the porch swing and cradling your baby like they’re the most sacred melody he’s ever held.

you want him. you already have him.

so you lean down and press your forehead to his.

“then let’s think about it. together.”

his breath trembles. he nods.

and when he smiles again, it’s the kind that comes after a storm. all clear skies and green things. full of the kind of quiet joy that makes you think —

maybe this is what the wind was trying to tell you all along.

#venti x reader #venti x fem reader #venti x you #venti x y/n #venti fics #venti imagines #venti fluff #genshin venti #genshin barbatos #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin fics #venti brainrot #im having a terrible case of baby fever rn #pls impregnate me #i cried while writing this

153 notes · View notes

4barbatos · 9 days ago

Text

EVERYONE WAKE UP VENTI BDAY ART IS HERE !!!!!!!!!

#holy fucking shit #im tweaking so bad rn.#I ACTUALLY TEARED UP #IM GOING ISNANNEJSJS I LOVE HIMSSOMCUCJ #venti brainrot #venti #barbatos #genshin impact #AAAAAAAAAA HES SO FUCKING PRETTY #my husband.

52 notes · View notes

4barbatos · 10 days ago

Note

hi!!! just wanted to say:

THANK YOU FOR HAVING READER BE GENTLE WITH VENTI IN THE LAST POST!!!!!

like, literally almost every fic I see when venti is being a sub with reader is when the reader is being mean, and I can't help but feel sad whenever I read those?? Cause I don't want to call him mean names or be rough?? Let me be gentle and comforting to this silly (grief-ridden) guy???

And then I read your post w/ sub venti, and it's PERFECT. They're so sweet with him, just want to love him, and I LOVE it!!!!! they're so gentle with him, and that's all I ever wanted!!

Also, I LOVE how much of a lil gremlin you made venti in the more fluffy posts!! but how you also don't disregard his more serious side at the same time!!!

You pay ATTENTION to this guy, and you have my FULL respect for that!!

Hope you have a wonderful day!!!!! :D

AAAA THANK U SM FOR THIS SWEET SWEET SWEET MESSAGE ANON 😭😭😭 this actually got me tearing up icl 💔 thank u sm for the kind words im so glad u enjoy my work !!! i appreciate ur sweetness so much <33

im really really happy u like how i write him :3 i do love writing him as a silly little bard (bc he is) but i also try my best not to mischaracterize him, bc let’s be honest… there’s WAY too much of that going around and it makes me so sad :( he’s so much more than just a chaotic drunk or “femboy twink” or whatever people reduce him to for the memes… like yes i joke about him a lot (bc i am severely down bad) BUT I NEVER PLAY ABOUT HIS CHARACTER !!!! he is so much more than the fandom’s “twink femboy” meme. he’s strong and selfless and sad and complicated and i think he deserves to be loved with care.

so thank u thank u thank u again for noticing that… it means the world <3

hope u have a lovely day too anon !!!! mwah take care !!

my actual reaction after reading ur message:

#i love u for seeing him like i do #venti brainrot #ily anon 💌

14 notes · View notes

4barbatos · 10 days ago

Text

✦ divine right (to be ruined)

don't need candles or cake just need your body to make

sub!venti x dom fem!reader

cw: oral (f!giving), vaginal sex, praise kink, mild overstimulation, whiny venti, soft dom fem reader, aftercare implied

a/n: i was GIGGLING AND RIPPING MY HAIR while writing this oh my god i love venti so much… writing fics isn’t enough i need to FUCK HIM. i need him carnally. i was going insane writing this because i literally listened to him whimper last night and it kept replaying in my head. i’m so down bad my mouth is foaming.

also !! i’ll be starting on your requests next week since i’ll be super busy this week TT thank you so much for being patient — i swear i’m not ignoring you !!! i’m just a girl (with like 2 brain cells and a caffeine addiction).

venti does not ask to be worshipped.

he jokes about it, sure. sings songs about adoration, about offerings and feasts and festivals thrown in his name. sometimes you roll your eyes and tell him not to let it get to his head, and he just grins with a sparkle in his eye and says,

“too late, my windblume. i was born divine.”

and then you kiss him quiet.

but on his birthday… you decide to let him feel like a god.

“lay back, birthday boy.”

your voice is velvet in the candlelit bedroom, low and warm and dripping with promise.

venti stares up at you from the pillows, flushed and blinking slow, curls messy and legs already parted for you. bare. breathless. beautiful.

you sit on your knees between his thighs, hands stroking slow up the soft expanse of them — so delicate, so pretty, twitching with each touch.

“i want to take care of you tonight,” you murmur. “let you feel what you always give me.”

his breath catches.

“you don’t have to do all that for me,” he says, already whimpering a little around the edges.

you smile. “but i want to.”

you lean in, lips brushing the inside of his thigh, then the other. he squirms, biting his lip.

“venti,” you whisper, voice like a secret, “don’t you think you deserve to be worshipped? adored? devoured?”

he shudders.

“…yes,” he breathes. “please…”

you press your mouth against his skin, kisses soft and slow and reverent.

“then let me.”

you start with your mouth.

you tease first — just a flick of your tongue, just enough to make him gasp. then you suck him in slow, inch by inch, letting him feel how much you want him. how much he means to you.

his hands clutch the sheets. his thighs tremble. he’s panting already, so needy, so sensitive.

“ngh… ah—ahh, p-please,” he moans, “it feels so good, you’re so—hah—good to me—”

you pull back with a pop, eyes locked on his as you stroke him with your hand, slick with your spit.

“of course i’m good to you, love,” you murmur. “you deserve it. every bit of it. do you have any idea how beautiful you look like this?”

he flushes deep, biting his knuckle, whining.

“so sensitive already,” you coo. “don’t worry, i’ll take it slow. i’ll make you come when you’re ready. when you need to.”

“i need to—” he sobs, back arching as you lick a stripe up his shaft and kiss the tip again, just to watch him shake.

“not yet,” you say sweetly. “be good for me a little longer, birthday boy.”

when you finally sink down onto him, it’s slow. excruciatingly slow.

venti’s whining into your mouth, kissing you like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane. his arms are around your waist, pulling you close like he needs you to stay.

you’re grinding down into him, soft and deep and slow enough to make him feel everything. to remind him how good he feels inside you. how good he makes you feel.

“look at you,” you pant, holding his flushed face in your hands. “taking me so well. making me feel so good. is this what you wanted for your birthday, love?”

“yes,” he whimpers. “yesyesyes—nghh, you feel so good, i—i can’t—”

“shhh,” you kiss his jaw, his neck, the tip of his ear. “you’re doing so well, baby. just relax. let me ride you nice and slow. let me make you come again. i’ll give you everything. you just lie there and take it.”

his head falls back against the pillows, eyes glassy, mouth open in a moan.

“you’re perfect,” you murmur, moving a little faster now. “perfect boy, sweetest thing, my pretty little god—”

“hnnghh—!!”

he comes with a gasp, body arching hard into yours, thighs trembling beneath your hands.

you don’t stop.

you can’t.

by the time you finally let him rest, venti is ruined.

legs shaking. lips kiss-bruised. tears clinging to his lashes like dew. he’s babbling something sweet and senseless, his arms looped weakly around your shoulders as you press soft kisses to his damp forehead.

“that was…” he starts, voice hoarse, “that was… wow.”

you laugh, breathless, resting your forehead against his.

“too much?”

“not even close.” he smiles, dazed. “you made me feel like…”

his voice trails off.

“like what?” you ask gently.

“…like i was the one being prayed to.”

your heart stutters.

you lean in and kiss him. not like before — this one’s soft. grounding. full of everything you couldn’t say with words.

when you pull back, he’s still staring at you.

“can i say something really sappy?” he whispers.

you smile. “go ahead.”

he kisses your nose.

“if this is what it’s like to be worshipped,” he says, “then i want you to be my only devotee.”

#venti x reader #venti x you #venti x y/n #venti x fem reader #venti fics #venti smut #bf venti #venti imagines #hejJhwhakanIWNKAOAKA #sorry i tweaked mid typing #venti brainrot #GOD I LOVE HIM SM IM TWEAKING SO HARD RN #genshin x reader #genshin fics #genshin smut #genshin imagines #I FUCKING LOVE VENTI HAPPY BIRFDAY TO MY BOYFRIEND

158 notes · View notes

4barbatos · 10 days ago

Text

✦ sfw alphabet with venti .ᐟ

a/n: another venti fic today yay !!! ventination how are we feeling ;3 AAAAAAARGHHH I LOVE THIS LITTLE BARD SO MUCH WHY ISN’T HE REAL. i’m gonna sob. genre’s fluff + mild crack btw!! bc when am i ever normal about him. never.

also this one’s with a gn!reader (FINALLY), and it’s extra self-indulgent bc it’s venti day and i can do whatever i want <3 pls enjoy !! let me know if you screamed cried threw up

a — affection

clingy clingy clingy. he attaches himself to you. sometimes literally. he’s in your lap. on your back. wrapped around your leg. you cannot cook, clean, walk, or breathe without him whispering “don’t gooo :(” into your ear like a very needy wind spirit. he also kisses you for fun. not even for love. just because he can.

“i’m kissing you because i love you. and also because your face is cute. and also because i’m bored. and also because—”

b — bonding

his idea of quality time is literally doing nothing but existing beside you. staying in bed all day, tangled in blankets, talking about nonsense or just listening to the wind outside. you’re warm, you’re soft, you let him stick his cold feet on you — you’re his home.

sometimes you’ll be reading and he’s just… lying on your stomach, playing with your fingers and humming to himself.

“isn’t this the dream, love?”

yes venti. yes it is.

c — cuddles

velcro boyfriend. no like actually you cannot get him off. you tried once and he made the saddest noise in history and you immediately apologized and cuddled him for the next two hours.

he likes to be the little spoon. he likes to be the big spoon. he likes to be the entire utensil drawer.

clingy in sleep too. once you woke up and he was hugging your leg like a koala. didn’t even remember how he got there.

“the wind carried me 🥺”

venti. get off my ankle.

d — domestic

he does not know how to live like a normal human being. this is a man who thinks eating apples for every meal is normal behavior. but when he’s home, he tries to help… and fails gloriously. he washed your clothes once and turned all your whites green. tried to cook and almost summoned a hurricane in the kitchen.

“it was a culinary experiment!”

“venti. it was toast.”

you still love him though. it’s the effort (and his cute little apron) that counts <3

e — ending ( no angst !!!!!! not on his bday 😡)

you said “we’re over” as a joke because he ate your dessert and he. took it. seriously.

his pupils dilated. his smile dropped.

“y/n… please. no. i’ll never eat your sweets again. i’ll write you an apology song. seven verses long. i’ll drown myself in cider—”

you never pranked him again. okay maybe once more. but then he cried and you folded. he’s so dramatic 😭

f — fiancé

he’s proposed to you 47 times. and counting.

one time he gave you a ring made of dandelion stems. another time he kneeled on one knee with a piece of shiny rock he found while drunk.

you’re not legally married. but emotionally? spiritually? cosmically?

absolutely soul-woven together.

g — gifts

venti gives gifts like it’s breathing. a flower tucked behind your ear. a leaf shaped like a heart. a napkin with a poem scribbled in cider-stained ink. once he brought you a glowing crystal and said “i stole the moonlight for you.”

you keep them all in a box. it’s overflowing. he calls it his love archive. you’re keeping it forever.

h — hugs

clingy. obsessively clingy. will hug you out of nowhere. from behind. from the side. from under a table. if you say you’re cold? hug. if you say you’re sad? hug. if you say nothing at all? still hug. he once said your arms are his “emotional support enclosure.”

i — i love you

says it twenty times a day. sometimes directly, sometimes in completely insane poetic metaphors.

“if i were the wind, i would always carry you home. that’s how much i love you.”

“i’d trade a thousand songs for one second in your arms.”

bro just say ily.

you think he’s so poetic it hurts. you’re so in love you’d probably cry over a leaf if he said it was shaped like his feelings.

j — jealousy

he’s not possessive, but oh he gets pouty.

you laugh a little too hard at another bard’s joke and suddenly venti’s in your lap going “do you still love me? 🥺”

you say yes. he goes “okay, just checking.”

he’s fine after you reassure him. just a soft boy who wants to be your favorite always.

k — kisses

EVERYWHERE. forehead, cheek, neck, knuckles, shoulder, ELBOW??

you asked him what the elbow kiss meant and he went,

“it symbolizes the bend in the journey of our love.”

bro WHAT.

he kisses your temple and whispers songs. kisses your hands when you’re tired. kisses your lips when you least expect it.

you are the most kissable person alive and he is on a lifelong quest to prove it.

l — little ones

he doesn’t see himself as a dad figure, which is hilarious given the “protector of mondstadt” title. but he loves kids. he lets them braid his hair, teaches them silly songs, floats them around with gentle breezes. he always makes them laugh. he says he likes hearing joy.

“they laugh just like the wind. freely.”

you once caught him having a tea party with toddlers outside the cathedral and using a falsetto voice for every stuffed toy.

he’d be a great fairy godfather though.

m — mornings

chaotic but soft. you’re the early riser. he is not.

“noooo y/n don’t leave the bed, i haven’t absorbed your warmth yet :(”

“venti i need to shower—”

“bring the bed with you :((”

you always kiss his forehead before leaving and that gets him to stop whining. he says it’s “morning fuel.”

eventually you drag him out of bed by the ankles.

n — nights

he thrives at night. writes songs, sings under the moon, sometimes disappears to chase shooting stars and comes back with flowers. when you’re together, he hums lullabies while playing with your hair. performs a new poem every other night.

“this one’s titled ‘ode to the soul who makes my heart waltz like the wind.’”

venti. pls.

o — open

venti hides a lot from the world. but not from you. he lets you see the quiet parts of him — the sadness, the ache, the parts that remember what he’s lost. he lets you hold him during the silence. you’re the one person he feels completely safe with. his heart is all yours.

p — pet names

oh boy. he doesn’t even use your name anymore.

“windblume.”

“darling.”

“my muse.”

“ethereal sparkle of my soul.”

“sugarplum rainwhistle of the northern breeze.”

he makes up nonsense just to see you roll your eyes. but his favorite is whispered softly at night, when he thinks you’re asleep —

“mine.”

q — quirk

when he’s deep in thought, he starts playing invisible harp strings. like literally air-harping. sometimes he unconsciously hums your name into the wind. one time you heard it echo off the mountains.

also: sings when he’s nervous. badly.

“🎶 i accidentally knocked over your vase but it’s okay because i’m still cute 🎶”

you forgave him. immediately.

bonus: somehow always smells like apples, no matter where he’s been — also makes random wind currents when he sneezes 😭

r — romance

he is so romantic it’s ridiculous. candlelit serenades. letters tied to birds. composing songs just for your laugh. he once made a whole musical just to say he missed you. this man breathes love. flirts like a second language. you’re dating a walking sonnet.

s — support

always in your corner. he hypes you up like you’re his favorite idol. he says things like “you’re the only melody i’ll ever follow.”

will write a diss track against anyone who upsets you.

t — thrill

he loves surprising you. wind-rides, unexpected songs, pulling you into a waltz mid-walk. he keeps life interesting. sometimes too interesting. like that time he tried to turn your room into a “floating love nest.” it floated. for ten seconds. then collapsed.

8/10 execution though.

u — understanding

venti’s the type to read your mood like music notes. he knows when you’re sad even if you don’t say a word. sits beside you quietly, offering his presence like a warm breeze. he never pushes, just waits. waits until you’re ready. he’s patient. he’s yours.

v — vows

you’re not married, but he’s written so many vows. every poem is a promise. every kiss is a contract. he once made a pinky promise under a tree and said,

“this is stronger than any ring. the wind will remember.”

you believe him.

w — wild card

once tried to ride a wind current into your bedroom window while drunk.

got stuck halfway and just. hung there.

you had to yank him inside by the cape.

he said, “the wind failed me… but you never do.”

you threw a pillow at his face.

x — xoxo

you receive approximately 102 hugs and kisses per day. minimum. he keeps count. proudly.

“gotta meet the daily love quota!”

he’s annoying. you’re obsessed.

y — yearning

he’s the type to ache when you’re apart.

writes you full ballads. sends them via wind.

once got sick because he missed you so hard he forgot to eat.

don’t leave him alone for too long or he’ll spiral into a dramatic monologue about your absence.

z — zzz

sleeps with his eyes slightly open. snores quietly. not loud. but he mumbles.

you’ve woken up to him sleep-singing.

once he tried to sleep-float and hit the ceiling.

now you make him wear a heavy blanket.

#venti x reader #venti x you #venti x y/n #venti x gn reader #venti fluff #venti crack #venti fics #venti imagines #bf venti #venti brainrot #sfw alphabet #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #genshin fics #AAAAAAGGDHFHFHDILOVEHIMSM #dies

131 notes · View notes