Venti recognizes this place.
Old ruins, overgrown and tangled, perched bird-like on a tiny isle of stone and sand. Ringed by the seas and winds, it's a place neither glider nor boat can reach. Only birds and elementals - and archons.
He wonders, as he watches himself land, why he's here. It's a peculiar sensation: this is his body. The one he has grown used to using, anyway, though clad in white instead of green. He feels his wings fold behind himself, feels every brush of his feathers over old stone paths as he walks through the ruins, but he cannot choose where to go. He cannot even raise his hand to cup a lush red aster spinning nearby. He realizes, listening to the strange, wild whistling of the wind: he's singing.
A soft old song, one from long, long ago. Of a bird in a cage, who chose to stay because it fell in love with its keeper. His own voice, his own tongue, but not his words.
(There is something to the lilt of his words that would send shivers down his spine, if he were not simply along for the ride. There is joy in his chest and something... something else.)
As he pads through the ruins, he recognizes changes.
Fruit trees and little gardens, tucked between the old, time-worn stones. The apple trees are lush, leaves glossy and apples heavy enough to weigh down the branches.
(Sweet, too. Perfectly crisp on the tongue, as he reaches out and snatches one, pausing his singing to take a bite.)
The leaves and dust have been cleaned away. Ancient braziers glimmer here and there with low-stoked, steady flames, and thick clusters of lamp grass planted along the pathways light the way.
To a little home.
It's fixed. The old stone mended, the roof intact. He can see curtains in the windows - set with new glass - and riots of flowers surrounding it, so lush their scent covers the sea breeze. Wind chimes jingle, and a homely curl of smoke winds up into the swirling clouds.
He can feel his pace speed up, wings flutter as he sings - high and bright - and his heart thrums in his chest, so strongly it aches-
Wait. It hurts it hurts, so sharp, like ice in his chest but he does not stop walking, shows no sign of feeling the awful, throbbing emptiness. He flutters his way inside, light as a feather, and Venti would choke, if he could.
The home is lovely. Goods from Mondstadt and Liyue, gathered magpie-like and lit by lamp grass and lanterns and crystal flies fluttering by the ceiling, their colors refracting again and again across the cold stone, turning it warm, dyeing the thick rugs even brighter.
But they can't compare to Kazuha.
Kazuha, standing before a little kitchen. Kazuha, wearing little more than Barbatos, his pale skin bared and lovely in the scattered glow. Kazuha, with his skin marked with bites and fingernail marks, his waist patterned with bruises Venti somehow knows fit his fingers.
(His robe shifts as he tosses away an apple skin; his thighs are marked as well. Littered with pink marks.)
And on his wrists, his ankles, delicate gold-woven baubles, set with glittering stones of anemo. On his neck, a golden collar, emblazoned with his symbol.
A Kazuha who belongs to him.
A Kazuha who turns to him and Venti's mind goes blank as this. Other Venti he's inside smiles, his chest filling with -.
( Mine, my dove, my Kazuha. Together, no one can steal you here, mine mine -)
"Kazuha," this other Venti says. Calls. Beseeches, begs. His hands go to his chest. Rest above the emptiness, the ache that grows ever fiercer as Venti notices the pink glow on his own cuffs where it should be green.
Notices Kazuha's eyes. Once sunset red. Now, luminous pink.
A horrible pink, a burning pink, and Kazuha's smile.
It's wrong. It's empty, but so, so full of Venti .
"Kazuha, it hurts."
Venti's voice whimpers in a way his body does not feel. The pain remains, but there's something else. Anticipation. A thrill that settles low in his stomach, his breath that hitches as Kazuha's wrong, wrong eyes go soft.
( Venti is all he sees. His god, so wonderful. So kind, so beautiful, so generous .)
As Kazuha comes to him and kisses him. His lips, so warm. His tongue, wet, tangled with Venti's as they gasp into each other's mouths. As Venti feels himself bite - tastes a tang of blood as Kazu whines with want.
He watches the pink in his skin glow brighter as Kazuha drops to his knees in front of him. Watches it pulse in time with his eager heartbeat as Kazuha kisses his cock like he worships it; watches his cock part his lips, feels his tongue press against his shaft, feels his throat flutter as Kazuha hums in unmistakable bliss from this alone. His eyes, lidded, and still over-bright. Fogged and hazy with lust, with love, with corruption seeped into his soul.
Venti gasps.
Venti moans, as Kazuha soothes him. He tangles his fingers into that beautiful hair - like woven gold, like sunlight - and his lips overflow with love for his disciple. So devoted, so pious.
It lights his every nerve with pleasure. It drowns the ache and fills his chest with something warm and bright - something blazing, stoked by Kazuha's tongue. Stoked by his muffled cries, the way he gasps for air but whimpers when Venti leaves him empty.
It's so wrong.
(It's so good.)
Venti loses himself in it. Sinks into that loving, welcoming mouth, into the foreign ecstasy the other-him revels in, drowns in, until he's not sure where he ends and the other begins.
All that matters is their disciple, their dove. His pretty lips plump and red, his perfect—beautiful eyes gleaming bright, so bright and shining with tears, his cheeks so flushed. His body, so trained, so eager as Venti pulls him off his cock that he turns around on hands and knees, and tugs down his little shorts without hesitation.
(His cock, cute and flushed. Drooling pre onto the thick rug below.)
Ah.
Venti teases his fingers across his lovely ass, across familiar—new marks, and kisses one.
Another. Bites and purrs at how Kazuha whines.
How he whines louder as Venti tugs the plug inside him out and cum spills free.
( He should be full. Always. )
And oh - the divine way he cries out as Venti sinks his cock into him in one easy thrust. So slick, so ready.
So, so good to him.
Venti ravishes him. The pace he sets is brutal, but Kazuha does not object. He only cries out louder, only thrusts his hips back into him as the sound of Venti fucking him fills the room.
(Pink, spiraling spells glow across Kazuha's skin. Pink and green, entwined across his back, through the glowing stones set in the collar, in the bangles. Venti cannot bring himself to care as he watches his hands refresh them. Watches his hands bind Kazuha's soul to him, as his body drowns him in pleasure.)
It could be this way for you , he hears a whisper.
His hips snap forward.
You could do it, too , it says.
He pushes Kazuha's head down against the floor, sinks even deeper into him, moans at the feeling of his walls clinging to his cock.
He wouldn't fight it. He trusts you , it coos.
The pink glow is near blinding. The pleasure coiled high and tight, his heart beating so hard, so fast, he thinks he might break.
He loves you , it says, and Venti's hips stutter.
He keens, his wings flaring outwards, as pure ecstasy floods his body. As his fingers dig into the marks on Aether's waist and he pumps him full of cum until his lovely stomach plumps with it.
(As Kazuha cums untouched, hands on his own belly. Feeling himself gifted so much. So much, so precious, so generous. )
They both still, briefly.
Kazuha's teary eyes gleam pink. His cheeks as flushed as roses, his lips parted, his skin shimmering with sweat.
The spells across his skin, glimmering like sacred art, like stars plucked from the heavens.
(Like his star, plucked, and so pretty speared on his cock.)
Venti laughs. A warm, soft little thing. He strokes Kazuha's back and relishes the way he shivers. The way he clenches around him and Venti's eyes flutter shut.
His hands slide back to Kazuha's hips.
It could be like this , he thinks, snapping his hips forwards.
This could be us , he thinks, as he spills his seed inside Kazuha, again and again, until his thighs are trembling, and only desperate whimpers fall in gasps from his mouth. Until he sobs at the slightest touch, until Kazuha has nothing left to cum.
But Venti does.
It would be easy , a little seed in his chest promises, as Venti fucks Kazuha in front of a mirror placed nearby and watches. Watches his face, watches his eyes, watches the way Kazuha reaches for him with trembling fingers but never pushes him away. Never looks away, both their eyes luminous pink and full of each other. In a world of pleasure, of just the two of them.
(Venti sings so sweetly as he cums. Kazuha's eyes flutter shut to his song, to the so good ache of Venti filling him, using his body to soothe away the pain. He would rather be nowhere else.)
We could have this.
The two of us, never-parted.
All you'd need to do , it hums, as Venti collapses to the bed with Kazuha: long-exhausted, long asleep, with his cock still sheathed and warm inside him. His Kazuha.
All you'd need to do is cage him. And he'll love you forever.
___
Venti wakes up. It takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings; no longer the isolated ruins. The island cradled by the winds.
It's their tent.
He glances to the side.
Kazuha lays there, lost in sleep. His eyelashes long and lovely, his face relaxed.
It's a familiar sight.
But today... Venti shuts his eyes.
His cock strains in his pants. Longs to return to that warmth. That... dream. That other him.
That Kazuha he loved a thousand ways. That Kazuha always waiting for him, his eyes for none but him. That Kazuha who would sleep next to him like this, but with his body littered in the marks of his love.
Venti bites his lip.
He... he can't. He can't have that.
But.
He opens his eyes again.
(A spark of pink flickers there, in the depth of clear green.)
He looks at Kazuha. Reaches down into his own pants, and moans quietly into his hand as he strokes himself.
He wants.
( Wants him, wants his love, his eyes. Wants him to never leave. To never look away. Wants him, body and soul- )
His hand stutters, his rhythm falters as he thinks of glass-bright eyes, of promises whispered to him by his other self. Venti cums.
His cum, hot and sticky on his fingers. Dripping as he watches Kazuha through lidded eyes. Dripping as he traces those soft—familiar lips, slips a finger onto that wet, hot tongue.
He remembers every mark. Every night spent tangled, every spot that made Kazuha scream in pleasure.
Every bit of gleaming spell work, and how right it looked emblazoned on Kazuha's skin.
(The pink spark flickers.)
One day.
His dove.
