#diluc.mssg

[darkvindr]

Oh, if he only had you in front of him —

A trail of sweat descends from his forehead to his neck, revealing a chest strewn with messy freckles and a blush that spreads to his ears. His breathing is accelerated now, heart rate increasing in level as his face remains lowered a portion, ignoring the myriad of lewd comments or hearts scattered across the screen.

If Diluc had you in front of him right now, he knows he'd end up breaking you.

Every time he flexes his muscles and his toned abdomen contracts, he has to give himself a moment to not get carried away by the sensations coursing through his body. Quiet, despite the fact that within hesitant pretense lies a palpable resentment, he can't stop himself from imagining you—he can feel your soft strands between his fingers as he pushes you down to the mattress, and almost feel his balls slapping against your ass as he forces you to take it all the way to the base. His imagination was a little active that night. Maybe it's the pent-up frustration. Maybe it's jealousy. Maybe it's the palpable desire, or the inordinate absence between the two of you.

He wants to gag you.

He wants to punish you.

He wants to make you cry.

The pocket pussy he's carved to your size doesn't have much satisfaction to offer him, yet as he slides it down his enlarged cock, thick veins throbbing under the friction that has him disproportionately sensitive—he falls surrendered to sensations that have him letting out heavy breaths, pumping his cock until that little pussy (just as tiny as yours -- can barely take him whole) is embracing him in full, lifting his hips so he can thrust hard. Brusque. Animalistic.

The desk moves with his onslaught, a glory for the camera with his pecs visible, his mouth being the only thing on his face that's appreciable for the audience as his lewd tongue lolls out, fangs accompanying every guttural moan that causes the virtual tips to multiply. The veins in his hands are framed under the aggressiveness of his own movements, stomach contracting at every stifled sigh or intonation of a name that is akin to a (Jaz-min, Jaz-min, Jaz-min), audible to red-blushed ears.

His cock is a marvel of freckled constellations that kiss his base, extension, veins, and thighs; he has a bush of crimson hair that makes a happy trail traverse to the center of his navel, where there is a piercing in his stomach, decorated with scars or cuts that extend to his back from all the late night fights or encounters he has ended up in. Dark ink tattoos reveal abstract messages covering almost his entire complexion, and one particular: “Jazmin's property” on his hip.

The mark burns on his skin—burns at every movement of his cock inside the toy, or descent of his own pre-seminal fluids staining the base, decorating his pretty cock in a slippery mess that becomes more latent with every thrust in and out, making him pull his head back. He can barely keep his breathing under control, mumbling a, “That's the way you like it, isn't it? Getting pounded like a slut. My pretty little slut.” His brain taking over the stage, voice a low octave, raspy from the suffocation taking over. The camera gave him an angle that made his thick thighs visible, heavy, cum-filled balls making him shudder. He imagines it's you. That it's your pretty pussy embracing him, enveloping him in a maddening heat; he almost loses his sanity as he closes his eyelids, his free hand holding the desk. It creaks beneath the brutal grip. “I'm going to ruin you. I'm going to make you cry. Because that’s what you want. So that's what I'll give you. I'll ruin you with my cock. I'll ruin you for everyone else.”

Almost frantic lunges, a heated face reddening to match his strands—watching Diluc cum and letting the gooey essence stain that pocket-pussy as he milks himself dry is an act of glory in itself, with his intimidating gaze descending for a single second into the camera. The clear, sticky liquid is coming out in light ropes of cum, but his mood is yet not affable.

It’s not your pussy.

“Stream ends for today,” He repositions himself, and begins to slowly pull out of the sex object, positioning it at one end of his almost busted desk. Many people are freaking out under his gaze, some disappointed, and some curious -- but he has things to take care of. “Certain things have happened that I have to take care of, so there will be no video until they're addressed.”

The moment he logs off and brings a hand to his messy hair, he knows he has a problem at hand:

Ajax, and his absurd closeness to you.

[...]

There are vehicles purring on the race track, the sound of skidding and euphoric screams flooding every space present. Neon illuminates the road in front of individuals looking to amass a fortune by betting in their favor, but of all, Diluc is one of the names that has been most prevalent in the high seasons.

Not only was he exceptional on the track, but his BUGATTI Divo was an absolute beast. The drifting and speed capacity it achieved left him in first place multiple times, making him someone who was difficult to win to—feared on the road, on the streets, and in all areas of his life, he was not a man to be confronted by random individuals. Always carrying an expression of seriousness, hardened construction, and a dark eyeliner that anchored his gaze, followed by the leather jacket over his black turtleneck t-shirt. He was intimidating at best, not a guy to take lightly.

But, after everything, there was someone who didn't seem to get that message.

Someone ignorant, messing with what doesn't belong to him.

It's been seven days since Diluc spoke to you. Seven days of distance since your last discussion, having a specific reason: Ajax. You've mentioned him in anticipation, being that he was one of your oldest best friends -- a stupid brat who had taken over your routine, breaking into the stillness and calm to snatch you from his grasp. He started coming to visit, taking up temporary residence in your apartment, and taunting him to his face with morbid smiles and middle fingers as he took it upon himself to monopolize your time. Appointments he had scheduled with you were replaced by visits to the movies or expensive lunches sponsored by the aforementioned, and the shadow of his presence became so plausibly heavy that it pushed him to his limits.

He had never hated someone this way.

He had never wanted to kill someone this way.

He had never wanted to ruin someone this way.

He knows it's intentional, by how he discourses in his sense of vision, pacing you in front of his eyes as if he has the right to touch you, look at you, or even breathe your very oxygen. Hands sliding around your waist, wicked smiles falling on hostile lips—she prefers me—brown eyes examining him with derision—she’s mine—obsession just as catastrophic as his, sinking him in a tidal wave of emotions that melt his reasoning.

He has been with you for years. Diluc knows you wouldn't trade him for any man. He knows he's the only one for you. He knows that. He knows the argument had no reason to happen. It was a simple misunderstanding that has a solution, and he just has to reach out to you to solve it instead of letting that iron wall come between you.

But, he sees it. He sees the subtle dip and smile on that bastard's lips as he presents you with yet another expensive gift, or the way he holds your hand, intertwining (friendly—) fingers against yours —

“Diluc? The race is about to start.” It's Jean's voice, breaking through the muteness of his psyche. Pitifully, he sees only red, his knuckles cracking under semi-covered gloved fists. “Diluc? Are you ready?”

Red.

He is red.

He sees red.

Senses clouding, taking over his figure as he begins to cut tracts with distant complexions— when there's a ringing in his ears, disconnecting him from that astral stretch to leave a shadow of grudges; when there are grieving hearts dying under blazing fires of hatred /lively hatred, burning entrails and poisoning them with rot/; when dark boots skim the surface of one of the available food stalls, there is no trace of what Diluc was, nor what he will be.

He can see you frowning, probably annoyed after he doubted you. And he might give it importance — he might even pause for a second to vocalize things calmly, but he doesn't, looking at the dark curly-haired male with the challenging gaze. 

Would you dare?

“Sorry, have you lost something?” There's a cocked head, beefy chest against his, your silhouette being hidden behind a broad back. His blood is boiling. “Oh, of course. I forgot. Mimi doesn't want to talk to you.” A feigned tone of disappointment, almost as if he cares. Diluc, however, can see right through him. He sees how gleeful he is to push him away -- how set on it he seems to find himself. “I will put it nicely. Don’t be a burden, yeah?”

That's the thread, the snipping of the scissors happening in slow motion.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

Pupils dilating to the max —

She's mine.

“You, a good-for nothing…”

A hand on his neck, followed by a sharp slam to the ground —

“Who the hell do you think you are to be in her life?”

Soon, one punch follows another, and another, the thud against flesh alerting several individuals now crowding around the two figures. At that moment, there is no longer any connection to humanity. There are only fierce glares, knuckles drenching in blood, followed by quickened breaths or screams inciting the bloody encounter to continue taking presence.

“You have no right to even breathe her oxygen,” Another punch, knees around a suffocated complexion, broken breaths coming out with airy laughter. “You have no right to touch her. She's not yours. She'll never be yours.” Another punch. There's a spit of blood, but no arrest. His sanity has been deposited in endless hesitations, giving way to the ferocity of an unseeing beast. “She is mine. And if I have to beat you to death to prove it, I will.”

A sudden tug at the collar of his jacket, a headbutting settling on his nose —

Crimson liquid drips down the nasal organ, and soon, another punch as a counterattack, but a cackle leaves bloodied lips, followed by unfocused eyes. “You punch like a little bitch.” A toothed laugh, crimson with blood, followed by foreign knuckles against one of his cheekbone. “Shut the fuck up.”

Between two entities whose perception of belonging over you are different, there's just screeching inciting appreciable violence, with crude punches and elbows flying all over the place.

The only sure thing is, if Diluc has to rip him to shreds or break his bones to be the only man in your life, he will. Because you are his. His, and no one else's.

No bastard will change that, because he who tries, will end up gagged under the weight of his kicks, or until his instincts render them unrecognizable.

Diluc.

"I just…", there is a long, deep sigh that is flooded with frustration as she looks at the little stick adorned by three mochi balls of different colors each. "I don't know, it's stupid, you know? We were… fine and then all of a sudden the fights started. I've never seen him like this and it's—" she takes a bite of the food, her cheeks filled with its sweet taste. "—absurd, and I don't know what to do. A week, a fucking week without speaking to each other, we're silent, we eat in silence, we sleep in silence… Dude I'm freezing at night because he doesn't hug me."

Her lips let out a little whimper as she starts on the second mochi ball. "We haven't even kissed." her eyes widen, pointing at his lips in disbelief. "It's like he's not there at all…but I won't give in. He has to learn his lesson, and— " mouth filling with food one last time, tossing the small wooden stick into a nearby trash can as a heavy snort rolls off her tongue. "—and I'm so sorry, darling. We were supposed to have a nice evening before you left but here I am, rambling about problems with my boyfriend who doesn't seem to understand that I have the right to have male friends." she bangs her head against his shoulder, not being able to understand how the situation got to such a point that you are not even able to look at each other.

There is a stabbing pain in her chest, gnawing at her senses and thoughts as her mind travels back just a few days. Her thoughts don't remember him ever being angry, always keeping a low and calm countenance, knowing how to deal with situations in a mature and rational way so that there would be no misunderstandings, but it's like… If something specific had been broken. As if all that had been a mere facade to hide the real Diluc, a beast with a fire in his eyes brighter than the crimson of his tousled hair.

"I promise, next time I'm the one visiting you, we still have so much to catch up on."

"Bet, you're going to have me two hours early waiting for you at the airport." there's a smile and a slight bump of the shoulders as the taller one hesitates for a second before handing her a small box. "Thought it'd cheer you up."

"What is this?" The girl holds the small blue velvety box, her favorite color by the way, between her fingers with extreme delicacy, opening it carefully to find a beautiful gold plated necklace, adorned with a small heart in the center, the same jewel she had paid her attention to a few days before when they were taking a quiet walk in the center of the city. Eyes shining and wide open at such beauty, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand and fixing her gaze on him again in disbelief. "It's —Oh my God, it's beautiful, you… You really didn't have to, I—", the words get stuck in her throat, content is plastered on her face and cheerful tone but before she can say something corny and be able to thank him properly, a red hair floods her sight.

It all happens too fast, a frown takes over her expression and the large figure of her friend lands in front of her, a couple of tension laden words are exchanged but before she can take matters into her own hands, her boyfriend is providing punches to the curly one's face, he looks… unrecognizable. Like he's someone completely different from who he used to be.

There is the crack of bones, the deadening sound of knuckles being smashed against flesh and a few drops of blood even soaking the floor and part of her shoes along with words full of deafening venom in front of her eardrums.

There's a moment where the crowd of people becomes suffocating, and before she realizes it her hands pull the red-haired man's arm hard, hard enough to pull him off the top of the other's body, quickly going to the aforementioned and helping him up. "Fuck fuck fuck—," she says under her breath at the sight of a black eye, a broken nose and prominent bleeding that seems unwilling to stop to the point of staining his t-shirt, along with swollen cheekbones tainted with a strong crimson color. "Shit, Ajax," she calls his name with a palm to her cheek until a little blood trickles down her fingers. The boy looks up with a small whimper of pain leaving his lips, but the gesture he makes with his head in the direction of the exit gives her the pass.

"I'll be back, I promise I'll be back, yeah? Ei—" she calls after her friend on the other side of the counter, ironic without saying more since she can't cook. "—Can you take care of him while I'm gone, please, I have something to take care of."

The girl silently nods before helping him up, giving her the opportunity to be able to turn around and face her biggest problem.

Diluc fucking Ragnvindr.

There's a sleeve grab in between, her hand gripping the man's wrist tightly with a charged fury that she hoped he could feel between her fingers her great anger. Leading them without saying a single word quickly until they reached an uninhabited little alleyway blind to thr eye of the crowd showing up for the illegal races as they did every night.

Her heart pounding, hands shaking lightly as she releases him and a lump making its presence known in her throat that elicits only words laden with resentment.

"Are you out of your mind? What the actual fuck was all that about?", and for the first time she deigns to look at him. "My friend, Diluc, my fucking friend, are you serious? I can't believe you did all this when I only asked you for one fucking thing, I haven't seen him in years and this is how things end? You broke his nose, you disfigured his face and it would be a miracle if he didn't go blind in one eye, you know? Are you happy with that? You acted like a fucking animal out there, seriously, what's your problem?"

"I've given you all of me, I think I proved to you more than was in my power that I'm yours." At this point the tears come of their own accord, anger and frustration mixed in little salty drops sliding down her rosy cheeks. "Everything— everything I left behind. I left my family, I left my home to come here and be with you, I want to believe that this is just a stupid misunderstanding and that things will go back to normal." now standing in front of him she sees it more clearly. "So I give you ten minutes to start talking or I swear my legs won't tremble to turn around to go get my stuff and go back the way I came, I don't care how many months — how many years I end up crying over you."

[s-aoki]

There is a sensation that climbs in his ribs, working its way into his gut until the mere act of breathing is suffocating. It is a sensation that, in extreme fascination, he must admit is memorable—a longing that bursts into a tidal wave of enviable disproportion just at the instance when he thinks he is too libertine to control the flow of his emotions. Diluc never believed his mistakes were reparable. In the end, countless scars scattered across his body remind him of the constant inability he possesses to make amends, though the mere thought of doing so is a nice one to hold onto.

Even with that in mind he can't stop himself, his eyes roaming over your figure, a rough, unapproachable expression on his face. Since you started working here, his relationship with you hasn't been the best of all... Far from it, actually—you were like cats and dogs. The third day of your first shift you spilled wine on his shirt, blushed so much and apologized multiple times (your cheeks were adorable, by the way, when they were tinted red) and in return, he just scoffed, giving his back to you.

What had caused that abrupt action on his part he didn’t know in depth, but that was what sealed your future interactions. Not only did you avoid him like the plague, but the conversations you shared were fraught with tension, overwhelmed by your palpable resentment and his absolute inability to communicate properly. Truth be told, from the first instance Diluc saw you, he felt something prickle in his chest—he would burst into a disproportionate heartbeat, in rapid breathing and nightly sighs spent with his hand on his cock as he moaned your name under his breath, wishing it was your lips around the tip, or your lovely, pretty eyes focused on his gaze; you reduced yourself to his fantasies, soft hands in his russet hair, honey kisses on the freckles on his cheeks and nose, or his back, or all of him—

But when he visualizes you at a distance conversing with a client amiably, his thoughts might be interpreted differently, and your hatred seems to multiply just a little bit more at his impertinence. (No—he swears it's not unhealthy. It's not insane to imagine breaking bones or punching the teeth out of your own clients. That would be against the legality of his business, and Diluc was a single father of a three-year-old girl. There was nothing immoral about him. He had child support to pay.)

Except, of course, his fantasies about his hot employee, her captivating figure, and her charming accent—oh, and when you speak Spanish? Diluc is ecstatic—or everything about her, driving him crazy until his concentration on everything is dull.

Today, fuck the Gods and his luck, it’s one of those nights. Those nights when the music blares loud, Come On, Let's Go on the speakers, alcohol dancing from corner to corner with inebriated office workers, or parents who are likely to be very late that night. The only thing different? He couldn't overlook it. His eyes never leave your figure, nor the orange-haired boy smiling flirtatiously at you. This is stupid. It's really stupid. Everything would have been simpler if he was nicer, or used eyes of: “Fuck, you're beautiful.” instead of: “Fuck you.”

As insurmountable as he was, he crossed the stretch of distance, placing a hand between the two of you, perhaps more abruptly than he expected. His countenance was darkened, and his eyes had slid to you in an act of inertia, startling the giggling boy who paused from his hunting intent.

“Jazmín, I don't think I pay you to chat.” There it was, his abruptly hostile tone. Fuck. He wasn't making the situation any easier on himself. Then, his eyes drifted to the guy. He’s a threat. “We don't distract employees either. I do believe you won’t be bothered if I take her back with me, would it?”

The boy cleared his throat. “Huh? I, In fact…”

“It’s irrelevant.”

He didn't even let him finish, holding your elbow and the tray that held several empty glasses in the other. Maybe his grip was stronger than he anticipated. Maybe he wished he could stop feeling that warmth of jadedness in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, he wanted to say that he really likes you a lot—fuck, he wants you so badly—but he just murmurs, very low, close to your ear:

“Behave yourself,” A quiet whisper, inaudible. His hand, unexpectedly, descended to your waist, gripping the material of your shirt softly, but not to the point that is something you can’t perceive. “I wouldn’t want to reprimand you in my office. Don’t make me do so, yeah?” It is possessiveness. It is borderline sick, perhaps, that he feels a need to possess. To fuck you senseless. To grab your elbow and just take you to his office where he will indeed make sure you’re naked on top of his desk, his red angry tip brushing against your cunt, his hands and your soft thighs… Fuck. “Be good.”

—Diluc.

The music echoed through the speakers of the place, it was soft but loud enough to overshadow most of the voices in the bar, but all in all it was a pretty quiet night compared to the others. There were people coming back from their jobs with a lot of weight on their shoulders, drowning their frustrations in a glass of vodka, friends catching up after a long time and laughing when remembering old memories from when they were younger, and the occasional lonely person trying to get through the night alone. It was just... perfect.

"Stop it.", there's a chuckle accompanied with a little smack to his shoulder. "I'm working now, Childe, you're gonna get me fired."

"Oh c'mon, pretty. Just sit down a little, you've been going back and forth all night."

"Yeah, that's what I have to do.", a soft smile appears on her face as she sees the pouty lips of the ginger begging for a little of her time. "You can bother me later, now give me your order already."

But before the young man can even formulate a response, he is brutally interrupted and a messy flame-colored hair appears on her radar. And instantly she knows she's in trouble when his serious countenance and withering gaze settles on his friend, providing him with a curt, stern reply and then pulling her away from the overwhelming environment.

The situation was strained, based on careful glances and it was like walking on eggshells, everything she said or did could be used against her. Every day being greeted by dark eyes and limited interactions that made her feel out of place, but it was all so she could pay the rent for her tiny apartment.

Still remembering the first day with a bittersweet taste on her palate, just trying to be nice with the mere goal of being able to work in a decent work environment and comfort, but now her eyes show her resentment that she doesn't know if there is any coming back from.

"I wasn't doing anything.", the space is small, her back hits the cold wall of the hallway, causing a wave of shivers to grow across her skin. "How do you think I can do my job if I don't talk to customers?"

She looks up at her boss, there is a fire in his eyes but this time it is different, and his words only make an anger grow inside her, pushing her off the cliff and sending her over the edge.

Her hands grip the material of her uniform tightly, her blood burns deep inside her and a wave of adrenaline rushes through her veins as her cheeks are tinged a warm crimson color.

It was enough.

"The only thing we're going to your office for is to sign my resignation." she whispers through her teeth when she has him close enough, her curious eyes watching the freckles adorning the bridge of his nose as her breathing becomes heavy. "I'm sick of your fucking attitude, I tried countless times to be nice with you but useless. You're useless, Ragnvindr."

Her words are sharp, her point fingers touching his heavy chest, feeling his increasing breathing under her finger tips. A «you need to get fucked.» burns in the tip of her tongue but instead she says; "I'd rather sleep on the street than keep working one more day in this fucking hell hole. I'm done."