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ᴠᴇɴᴛɪ—ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ; ᴏᴠᴇʀ-ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ; ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴏᴀɴᴀʟʏꜱɪɴɢ
He’s the type to lurk around shadowy corners and vet your companions from a distance—observing every touch, every breath, every whisper of flirtation on the wind. When they get too close, he won’t step in to remove them if he sees you disengage them quick enough; he trusts you to know when to stop them.
(He trusts you to infer what’ll happen if you let them close.
Trusts you to recall the sight of crimson on brick walls and heads displayed on pikes.)
He’ll keep his gaze locked onto them, gritting his teeth tighter with every hand that slips against your shoulder; every slightly suggestive smile has him clawing at his own arms, imagining you falling for it. After every miniscule action, he’ll lurk just a tiny bit closer.
When a tavern-goer gets the smallest bit handsy with you in the evening, he’ll watch—he'll observe the way you smile nervously, the way you try oh-so gently to remove his hands from your person; he’ll observe the slight quiver of your lips and wonder, eyes narrowing, if you’re enjoying this. Are your lips quivering in want? Desperation? Fear? Or is it something else entirely? He can’t help but ponder, restlessly, about the possibility that you’re doing this to get under his skin. If, perhaps, you know he’s watching you. Knows he’s observing every little detail of your interactions with narrowed eyes and lips pulled taut.
But his brain will kick into overdrive once the touching increases to a level far past acceptable—a hand ghosting your breast, the other hovering over your waist with familiarity that does not belong there.
He’ll flit over to you with practiced grace and a smile so forced it looks painful; he’ll slide an arm around your waist, press bitten-torn lips to your cheek (oh-so smooth and tempting,) and ask, cold—cutting, if he can help them instead. He’ll watch as the colour drains from their face, their body quivering, wanting desperately to dart away from him—from you, who seems to be the cause of his hysteria.
And he’ll smile, cruel and aware, at the way you subconsciously cling to him in response—fight or flight kicks in, your skin writhing beneath his touch, but you’ll barrel into his chest nonetheless.
You’ll cling to him like nothing else matters, like he’s all you have.
And he’ll allow himself to watch you, gently, before guiding you home; he’ll see you to your door, exchange goodbyes—you’re grinning at him; is that love, despair, sadness, lust? (Oh, he hopes it’s lust.) Prays, ironically enough, that it’s love—and be on his merry way.
But he won’t head home.
Not yet.
He’ll extend the wind’s reach to find the man from before, the one that touched his Windblume without a second thought; he’ll shoot arrow after arrow into his back and relish in the screams of terror, of pain, as blood trickles down his skin. There’s red everywhere, and he thrives in it. He makes quick work of disposing of the body—disembowelling isn’t a tedious process once it becomes familiar, and the dismembering of the corpse thereafter is always a quick thing for the more experienced; he’s always able to chop the parts up finely enough that they aren’t noticeable.
That they don’t bob up to the surface when he tosses some into the lake, feeds some to the foxes lurking nearby, and buries the rest.
Then, he moves on.
And, later, when the blood has been scrubbed away and no trace of his presence here remains, he’ll watch the sun dawn on a brand new day. He’ll find you, then, sitting at Good Hunter with a plate full of differing breakfast foods—a weird amalgamation of main courses and side dishes, courtesy of Paimon’s far-from-picky palate.
He’ll converse with you as normal, internally whisper that he loves you and he knows you didn’t mean to lead that man on, but that it’s okay because he understands and the man is gone now, forever- tells himself that it’s all worth it because you’re all that matters to him.
He’s not lying, after all—he'll sooner burn Mondstadt to the ground with a torch in his hand than allow you to slip away from him.
Because even if you try to run, the wind cannot hide you.
It will tell on you and reveal you to him every time.
But you won’t leave—will you? Where would you even disappear to? Liyue? Inazuma? Sumeru?
He’ll always find you.
How else is he to protect you?
But you don’t need to know that just yet—after all, he can’t scare you away. What if you panic? What if you try to run, to leave?
He doesn’t want to tie you down, not physically, but he will if he needs to—he needs you.
He can’t be without you.
And you must need him—why else would you seek him out whenever you return to Mondstadt? Why else would you come to watch him perform in Angel’s Share?
There’s no other explanation that makes sense. Not to him.
You need him.
So he’ll ensure that never changes.
[...]
“They only need me,” He hums with a sneer, uncharateristic on his usually carefree face; the woman before him quivers, fear laced into every breath that escapes her lips. “You were foolish for ever thinking you could take them from me.”
She looks at him as if he’s going insane, her pupils blown wide and her mouth trembling with trepidation. “I wasn’t- I didn’t mean to- I didn’t know they were spoken for!”
‘Quick to defend herself too,’ Venti muses, an arm crossed over his chest. ‘She must have rehearsed this at least twenty times during the journey over. That, or it's the terror in her eyes. No matter. I don’t care. The end result will be the same.’
“You still touched them, did you not?” He sighs as if he’s telling off a troublesome child and not threatening a woman in some darkened back alley. Which, really, if someone insists on touching what’s his, they’ll be treated like a child. After all, it is childish to take someone’s property.
To take a god’s property.
And everyone knows how much Venti adores anything that he claims as his.
The woman across from him sputters, tears welling in her eyes. “I only asked them-”
“If they wanted to get to know you personally. Oh, I heard every word. Saw you drag your finger up their arm—press your chest up against them. Everything.” Venti replies breezily, exhaling slowly as he rolls his shoulders. “I wonder why you think they’d ever deem you worthy of their presence. An insect requesting personal time with an ethereal being like them? It just doesn’t add up,” The knife in his hand glistens, flicking upwards. In a singular motion, a digit is left to lay on the cold cobble below. Blood spurts from the stump left after the removal of the appendage. Venti sighs at the mess. “Look at the mess you’ve made. Do try to keep the alley clean. Angel's Share is just next door. I’d hate for Master Diluc to think I was responsible for this.”
She screams, raw and petrified, and he cocks a brow.
Another slash. Another finger gone.
If you don’t want me to remove the rest, he thinks, his thoughts slow, I’d suggest you stay silent.
“For each time you make a sound that I deem too loud,” He starts, twirling the bloodied knife between his fingers. “I’ll remove another finger. If you still can’t hold your tongue, we’ll move onto toes. Then limbs. You get the idea.”
The joke is on her, though, because any noise is too loud for him in this little game she’s playing.
So when she whimpers softly, staring at her severed finger in abject horror, Venti tuts—brings the knife down swiftly to remove yet another digit.
“I wonder how many fingers you’ll have left by the time we’re done.”
And he grins because his fun has only just begun.
If you touch a god’s things, be prepared for the consequences—because they’ll never take the merciful approach.
Not if it’s for you.