#diluc ✦ predvestnik

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@predvestnik​:  heart-eyes diluc:  represses every possible clue that childe likes him bc he can excuse fooling around, he can excuse wishful thinking, but he cannot excuse actually believing there’d be feelings involved here.

damn their sex is just gonna be so good huh.

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@predvestnik​

we're not so different, 2021

[ccaptain]

what ghost haunts you?

the ghost of the damned.

you rot with the need for something more than what you have. the ghost is built up of the feeling of stagnation. you find it staring at the ceiling with sleep - blurred vision ; this is the third night you have met its eyes in the early hours of the morning. you tear yourself apart looking for comfort, for validation, for acceptance. but it never feels quite enough. you ruin everything you touch, despite every attempt to be more than what you have always been. you would sculpt yourself as something perfect for those around you, but you are no artist. when albert camus wrote, “be silent, heart; there is no hope!” when lucille clifton wrote, “maybe i should’ve wanted less. maybe i should’ve ignored the bowl in me, begging to be filled.” when taylor swift said, “i’m still on that tightrope, i’m still trying everything to get you looking at me.”

tagged by: @duelmarks KISS ♥ tagging: @predvestnik, @daybreakrising ( gimme the usual wrio & vautrin and if u feel like it gallagher too ♥ ), @resolutepath ( DILUC ), & everyone else who wants to have a go

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@predvestnik / @vohunara asked:

      ❝ To the Winery's Master,

The letter delivered to the winery is sealed with the mark of the Eleventh. It's bulky, bulging softly in specific areas as evidence that the sender wanted to fit more than envelope is meant to comprise. The Fatui courier bears a stern expression while delivering it, almost, if only discreetly, apologetic for setting foot where his kin is openly unwelcome.

      Whose blood runs hotter than the plumes of a Phoenix's wings,       And redder than fathomless flames:

The package itself is nothing grand, nor opulent. Opening it reveals a single page which outermost sides have been adorned with the feathers of a consecrated red vulture, their position on the paper carefully avoids the small, message in the center, and they retain the elemental warmth of the slain beast.

Sea salt, sage and ash — its ink is faintly scented, too.

      Happy birthday.

      — Yours truly,    Tartaglia ❞

DILUC the amount of grace required of him by the courier's presence alone is gargantuan—there'd been no intention to leave his chair tonight. the empty hearth has been stared into so long, it's now a discoloured rectangle on the fatuus' face. stiff, clipped words of 'gratitude' exist only because there is one single cause to accept anything at all from anyone in those colours- & even then he'd— accepted rather quickly.

it's thoughtless: the jagged edge of his nail digs in beside the vein of his wrist, drags until an edge far sharper / in the mind, will lower the volume of its- bullying. today of all days, one's dallying with- —feels specifically traitorous.

the letter is tossed onto the little table beside his chair only to be picked up again in a matter of seconds. the easy acceptance of it makes him feel strangely ill. oh- strange, because joyous. it's probably not even tartaglia, anyway. oh yes, they'd make him crave comfort just to twist the knife on this day—fuckers will have taken note & know the opening created. the possibility of this all being one big, petty scheme should be more credible. it feels a bit like sanity that it is not. hrm.

—oh. well, that's-

the broad pad of his thumb glides across the down at the base of a quill. ( surely he hasn't slain-? such a noble... pray that ecosystems have not been lain waste to for the sake of a gift. no matter how endearing that would be. ) his calluses make its softness impossible to feel,- "ah..." -there is heat, though. slightly frenetic heat - of a flame made solid, perhaps. ( the controlled, never leashed intent in deep eyes. ) it is the perfect quality of a sleepwarm body, lacking only the pulse that means he's here.

diluc can't breathe for it.

funny how a man can be brought to his knees just to pray.

laughter's bark is muted in the seat cushion of his father's armchair. the letter / its gift, is dropped back onto the side table with all the gentle care he shouldn't be able to muster. rather than grip the seat, he pulls at his hair. hair his father gave him. lala lala laaa. "thank you,-"

"i'm sorry, i'm sorry,"

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                                                                            QUESTION           @predvestnik​​​​​   ↤   accepting    ::   HE’S A 10, BUT...   ↩

‘ He isn't a ten. He's more like a bad, incomplete joke: seven, eight, nine. ’ Honestly, this was meant to target one Master Diluc, but can be about anyone—

DILUC  the rag in his fist creaks. red eyes drop to it with an incredulity that peers further inward: down into the tight, discomfiting squirm of his chest.       oh. i’m going to be sensitive about this. fantastic.  how mean. to be bullied like this, after a smooch? after allowing him to feel vulnerable & stupid & delicious—

it’s certainly impossible to guess what has his cheeks grow ruddy all over again:  the memory, or this shameless return to the norm.  perhaps it should be a blessing...

                            “ugh.”

 at least it asks for no delicacy in return. it wouldn’t be rude not to feel. no weeping maiden stands in line to curse his lineage for an affront she should have expected, angled for. ( no. no, that’s him right now, isn’t it? holy sh- )         don’t have to feel anything about this. ( right. because that was ever an option. )

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@predvestnik

I did meet some of the most insufferable people. But, they also met me.

Shane Madej

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                                                                             CONTINUATION                    @predvestnik​​    ↤    from here    ::    CORNERED   ↩

DILUC  “as well i should.”      oh. well- that-

run, breathe the vestiges of sense. the heat of his gaze darts to the door into the kitchen- has to know but can’t ascertain the location of the back door beyond childe. there is a tall ( infuriatingly so... ) slab of snezhnayan cornering him against his own bar, &-

                  & something low in his belly trembles for this.                traitorous, traitorous—

his cheeks are still catching up to the look in blue eyes.

—it’s worse than hunger. something light & weak, weakening him. there is strength in this monster man on more levels than initially presumed, & with breath skating along skin these facts sit in the middle of his being like a child amid scattered toys. their prominence feels so innocent.

        more than one figment of nightly imagination has proven that deceptive.

i- you- listen, you uncouth foreign fuck-

instead, diluc’s face shifts away - unwilling to heed anything but the safety that is shame. it’s a fence sitting sort of safety, however. given childe’s nature to push, there is no real salvation in inertia. ( & when he has been instigating for weeks? the fucker doesn’t seem to back down from a challenge unless to rile his opponent up. )

‘uhm’ manages to mute itself in the press of his lips. “...” in, & out, the breath at his ear is warm & knows him frightfully. ( there is nothing better than being s e e n. ) heat is a sharp sliver that cuts directly into his core; lead by those words that come from that mind behind those all-seeing eyes...          fuck.            he’s going to have to— visit someone, pay for something. this is- embarrassing, there’s no need to feel so intensely when- dammit, he wasn’t supposed to take this seriously! ( or something. sensible thought is proving elusive. the frustration at suffering consequences is not. )

“there is no next move.” begins lord ragnvindr. he has not moved an inch. neither has the weight of his desperate gaze on the kitchen door. “...merely testing a theory.” will a fainting follow the heat in his face? wouldn’t prefer to be unconscious around the harbinger, but it’d spare him his own folly.        it’s one thing to need closeness. another to crave it here.

                        strong warm smart hungry

                childe wants him & his ears are ringing. childe teases & his mouth grows wet. childe looms & boxes him in & t a u n t s & he wants nothing more than to kiss or punch or both at once. maybe most of all he wishes to be kissed with that same ridiculous audacity.

        bold as all get out

“you’re imagining things.” when in doubt? project. at least it’ll keep childe busy smarmily dissecting that instead of encouraging m o r e. “i’ve merely been-” nearly swallows his tongue. shrinks—from the cold hard fact that he has not moved away yet more than the actual body that makes him want to stay, “returning the favour.” breath shivers where confidence does not. fuck, fuck, fuck. “you enjoy,” tempting me “—attempting to...                    harass me.”

                               agh. hunger aches through the body. it’s all he can do to tense his fists in the pockets of his slacks & stay still. ( gripping the counter- That He Owns -would have him holding the fucker’s hands. ) a low buzz spreads through his veins. his ears ring. when ginger strands tickle from his chin to his brow bone diluc finally blinks. “...” it’d be so simple to tell childe to back off & yet he cannot bring himself to do so.

“where’s your professionalism, harbinger?              fraternising with the enemy.”

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                                                                    QUESTION               @predvestnik​    ↤    accepting    ::    ¥ RATINGS    ↩ ¥ Let's go, Diluc. Let's go, Dottore. 

Put ¥ in my ask and DILUC will rate your muse on:

Looks: 0 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | a solid 6.5 | 8 | 9 | 10 Personality: 0 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 Attraction: 0.5 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 Would they date them: yes |

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Favourite thing about them:  the sheer unyielding determination. it is done better justice by a word like ‘devotion’. no matter how much of an ass the man is, ( not to mention how much a of a degenerate, but. y’know. not to mention ), there is no denying the value of someone so riveted to their own word. a herald of whatever change they intend to make. ( the way the breeze shifts through his hair when he moves. the deeply disquieting way those dead eyes see through him; every live edge, every catatonic facet. the way he never stops, & permits diluc not to either. )

Least favourite thing about them:  the change he intends to make. ( the way no breath has felt like breathing unless drawn under his duress. the way hatred stops feeling monstrous in the face of someone just as bad; that such thoughts have become acceptable---that he’s no longer sick with knowing the lack of difference between them. the way he- the way... he. )

bring me to life.mp3

Put ¥ in my ask and DOTTORE will rate your muse on:

Looks: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 Personality: 0 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 Attraction: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 Would they date them: yes | lmfao what.

Favourite thing about them:  pin cushion, & the spongiest kind. which matters because... you take two incongruent organic parts, mash them together, & when out rolls something fully functional and in possession of its personality ( though whether that’s its original one is unknown ) -- now that is ... stimulating. if only the little shit weren’t so allergic to needles. & a hands on approach. or just the fact he is to be dissected within less than a literal inch of his life-

( the corner of his jaw with its smattering of freckles. such cockiness backed up by such power & yet, not nearly as much foolishness as that often generates. the power of will required to tell emile no. the self-possession. dignity. the live-wire fact that he can handle what dottore would dish out, be it strapped to a cot or bent over the lab table. mmm. but anyway, back to science. )

Least favourite thing about them:  that little bitch is infinitely younger than he & yet. so much more emotionally mature. & look, listen - generally dottore doesn’t give a fuck about things like that. emotional maturity doesn’t often progress his research; there’s rarely a need for diplomacy that cannot be outdone by the temptation of knowledge or application of force ( or the inverse ). but. the little shit seems cocky about it, & that’s enough to make the blood creep under his nails.

Were It Not For The Laws Of Ur Mom, I Would’ve Strapped You To A Cot Already.

[visionheld]

Many would quickly crumble under such an intense gaze from an individual as dangerous as the man before him. Diluc, however appears unaffected, his crimson eyes holding Childe's gaze with a steady determination.

“ I understand that you're new in town. ” Whether they're aware of it or not, no one steps foot in Mondstadt without their arrival reaching the nobleman. But few have made an entrance that commanded immediate direct attention like this. “ In light of your naivety, I will do you the service of enlightening you. Anyone among the people of Mondstadt will be able to inform you that I am a man of my word. ”

Gloved hands instinctively hover over the claymore hilt at his side, still making eye contact with the other as he makes his wordless threat. “ But if you would prefer to challenge my words, that can easily be arranged. I hear as well that you're more of a man of action. Is that right, Tartaglia? ”

@visionheld ( Diluc ) asked from here: ❝ you’ll regret sticking your nose in my business. ❞ / visionheld from diluc LOL

( 𝐵𝑎𝑙𝑑𝑢𝑟'𝑠 𝐺𝑎𝑡𝑒 3 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 )

      ❛ Tell me, Master Diluc— ❜ The intercepted envelope held between Tartaglia's fingers is flicked towards its real recipient. It travels the distance separating the two men steadily, as if it has never been tampered with by another. ❛ —Do you truly believe what you say? ❜

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                             QUESTION     ↤  @predvestnik  ::  SOME MEME SOMETIME  ↩

❛ you have to step out of this darkness and let them see you for who you are, like i have. ❜ For Diluc! c:

DILUC have you seen me or have you stepped out of the darkness?

the banked embers have burnt out / his eyes dull. it's not them i'm worried about. the opinions of the masses—meaningless. a petty nuisance, just like their frivolous attempts to make it matter. what those dear to him think is a keen matter,- manageable when it must be. let them be judge & jury, but he is the executioner.

   "i thought this to be a mood, but. it's been years now, so i suppose it's who i am." what's the point of explaining this to one so chipper about his misconduct. the way tartaglia's shoulders look to be those of atlas, same as his—yet they carry themselves so differently. perhaps that isn't something to look down on, but the thought of turning an accepting eye toward a slate so chiselled full of sin it's splintered... roils the stomach. there is no-one else to punish lord ragnvindr without consequence, & why would he stoop so low as to not judge himself anyway? what is there to being good if it is only in name.

a crime is a crime. that he's not done away with himself means he's been more than cheeky. ( maybe it would be nice if tartaglia could see that - but the need for something softer, for something to grow from razed / fertile soil ... is just another sin. besides. they're both brutal. )

"if you knew what i'd done to my family, you wouldn't suggest the same."

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                                                                                  QUESTION         @predvestnik​​  ↤   accepting   ::   💦 FOR A SEXUAL FANTASY  ↩

        💦 Puts this in Diluc's hands. Oopsie

DILUC  ...a sigh. all the world constricts around the core of him / melts the backdrop of bookcases & quills until it is so fused with his essence that it can only conduct the same intensity of emotion.                   to be asked so simple a question, & have a world’s worth of an answer. ‘sexual fantasy’... to crave something so fiercely it must be held between one’s teeth. to have, or to starve. to know precisely what would satiate every aching empty corner of his body-       the immediate is a visual of him / a vision of impish cunning. diluc sits back in his chair, at its little desk by the window—the winery has a smaller library than the estate, but it does well to cloak the thoughts that are meant to be quiet in a suitable layer of anonymity.

                                what does he want?

makes the mouth wet with need / the mind a fizzing contraction around only one thing, capable of so many others.           —to be made to feel with all that voracious indomitability...

suppose it’s a blessing he only asked about the sexual. “i—suppose i would. appreciate.” really, the more superficial fantasies are likely to be so tame as to inspire mockery. “...ugh.       i wouldn’t mind if you held me down for it.” sweet fucking mercy, that just happened. diluc sinks low in his chair - difficult feat to accomplish, given its rigid back. his kidney takes the armrest like a champ. “i enjoy...” oh fuck celestia. his chin tips up- defiant. rat bastard already knows what he does to him; he shan’t ( again ) be given the satisfaction of watching him struggle with it. “...knowing how much you are capable of.”                     the force of it will remind him of the keen mind that has dismantled him into neat little parcels of lust:  to be opened at tartaglia’s leisure. one at a time, all at once. tearing his cardboard composure to shreds with a glee that is startling.

            there is nothing sexier than the man himself,        & he’s not about to say it.

[ccaptain]

which imaginary illness do you have?

Melancholic Pneumonia.

You carry the past with you, it clutters up your lungs. The golden sand of beloved memories, the rainbow of missed opportunities you still agonize over, the dust of a life spend doing mostly banal things. They escape you with every breath, your cough stained with impossible colors. In a way the dust reflects your constant forgetting of the past - the hundreds of things you let go of every day to make room for hundreds more. You are choking on your own past, the architect of your own demise, each breath sour and harsh. Letting go of the past now won't do you any good - it's far to late already, your melancholy is already flooding your lungs. Enjoy a few last breaths of the present. The past is catching up quick.

tagged by: i stole c: heoehoehehoe tagging: my pookies @predvestnik @resolutepath (diluc!), @daybreakrising (either wrio or vautrin or both or you can pick the muse) + everyone else. steal from me

[ccaptain]

   @predvestnik​ asked: 👫 // it’s gayin’ time! 

   i. there’s a thing or two that kaeya is constantly doing to childe when he speaks, and it’s either drawing a circle with one of his fingers over one of his pecs, or using the same finger to gently twirl and play with his earring. Why He Do That? mainly because he’s an asshole! he aims to distract childe until he’s red in the face. sometimes he can’t resist flustering him a bit by just touching him. it’s a thing that childe has trained him into, being unaware of needing physical touch and simply going for it. often it’s accompanied by his trademark smirk. he’s just Bastard like that

   ii. when childe leaves, kaeya fills, and i mean FILLS, his entire bed with the clothes that he left in the closet. he’ll lay those on himself like a blanket and on his pillows and he’ll lay over those, just content to pretend that he’s still sleeping in childe’s comforting scent. if he finds a wrinkle or two in his clothes when he’s back in mondstadt and asks about it, kaeya will get flustered about it. oops...

   iii. childe’s lap is kaeya’s Finest Spot To Sit On at the tavern. right in front of diluc’s salad. unabashedly cuddling up into his boo as they drink the evening away. 10/10 pillow to sit on.

   iv. seeing kaeya going around with a silver and red, dangling earring left to him by his Fatui Sweetheart is way more common than you think. happens with a dark crimson scarf too. he Childe-fies himself when he’s not here.

[ccaptain]

@predvestnik: Grapes taste the best when freshly stolen from the Dawn Winery. The crunch is simply superb, as is how it stains Childe's fingers while he lavishly snacks on them, lounging in Kaeya's couch and every now and then pushing one in the knight's mouth.

   that much is very true! it's the perfect season to snack with perfectly round grapes with a tender skin, melting in one's mouth and devoid of pesky seeds. it tastes like candy, more than fruit. Kaeya's eyes close in pure bliss each time Childe feeds him one, almost purring as he chews in what is clear bliss.

   Diluc can certaintly do without a few, the absence barely noticeable compared to how many he'll reap to test some new wines. granted, he'll have to take culpability for that- but it's a sweet thing he'll do to cover for a little Ajax-flavored mischief. it's very much worth it, to laze around and be fed delicious treats. 

   and to spend some time cuddling with his boyfriend. a very just retribution, yes...

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                                                 DASH COMMENTARY ↤    absolutely MClosing it    ::    ‘ CHAEYA ’    ↩

DILUC  SINKS HIS HEAD INTO HIS HANDS.  why the fuck do all his baby brothers have the worst taste in men, ACROSS THE MULTI-VERSE?!?

                      he’s going to go bald & die.

     no, he can’t see it. shut up.

[ccaptain]

IF, for once, i have to follow canon....... once the festival is over, i picture kaeya avoiding diluc or the dawn winerys people until his dread boils over. may get drunk because the memory of what his father told him isn’t pleasant, judging by the expression on his face. maybe for the first time actually feeling bad enough that he can hide a little behind @predvestnik

so to lighten the mood i just picture kaeya (who knows all the little halleys and crooks and secret spots of the city) being chased on foot by diluc (who knows mondstadt like the palm of his hand) doing parkour around the fucking city walls. honestly we laugh not to cry