Aprylx

-angst, fwb senario, denial-

Tartaglia was a leech. An infestive, wriggling parasite that had wormed his way so deep into Diluc’s head he wasn’t sure if there was any hope of getting him out. 

On the outside, Diluc Ragnvindr lead a normal, relaxed life. He’d start his morning off with a cup of tea and toast, before heading out to check in with Tunner to make sure everything was going well in the grape fields. Sometimes, he’d meet up with Grandmaster Jean for a quick lunch, and if not he’d prepare himself for whatever afternoon meetings he had scheduled. Boring to most, but it was what was expected of him… Until Tartaglia arrived and screwed up everything. 

Tartaglia was a wildcard most of the time, and in fact the first time they’d met he’d invited Diluc to fight him… he’d only declined in the end was because they were in the middle of Dragonspine and if Tartaglia had pulled out his vision they both would’ve frozen on the spot. 

The only reason Diluc allowed the harbinger to follow him back to the winery was because he refused to be seen as a coward in his eyes, Diluc hated the Fatui with every single atom in his body, and he wasn’t about to allow someone as cocky as Childe to walk away without shutting him up…

It didn’t help Diluc’s case that the night after their first battle, he’d ended up taking Tartaglia against a tree anyway, dragging him back to the winery just to press a roll of bandages into his hands.

Diluc had sworn to himself that he’d never do it again, that the suffocating self-loathing he felt afterwards wasn’t worth being between Tartaglia’s thighs… He just wished he would actually listen when he told himself that. 

“You must be so glad my Tsartisa sent me out here again.” Tartaglia whispered to Diluc, his voice cutting through the darkness they were bathed in. “You should’ve seen how pissed Signora was when I got assigned clean-up, she just loves coming here-”

Diluc slapped a hand over Childe’s mouth, exhaling sharply through his nose as he tugged at the collar of his shirt, his eyebrows twisted in annoyance. “Do you ever shut up? You’re going to wake Adelinde.” 

The harbinger grinned against Diluc’s palm, before shifting his jaw so he could bite at Diluc’s hand, holding his teeth together before the other pulled away. 

“We’re both going to wake Adelinde if this goes well.” Tartaglia hummed, before shoving at Diluc’s shoulders so he was the one pressed down into the sheets now. He shifted to straddle Diluc’s hips, his eyes just barely visible in the low light of the room. 

Diluc suppressed the urge to spit in Tartaglia’s face, but the fingers that grazed down his now exposed chest managed to push back his hatred far to the back of his mind, and rather than strangling the harbinger, he dug his fingers into his thighs. “You make me sick.” “That’s why I can feel your dick against my ass, right?”

Tartaglia leant forward, his fingers yanking Diluc’s head upwards to meet his lips, and Diluc relented, letting his mind fall blank.

For whatever reason, Tartaglia always fell asleep quickly after they fucked. If they’d had any other type of relationship, Diluc would’ve felt pride in the fact his ‘lover’ trusted him enough to let himself be vulnerable enough to fall asleep… But the familiarity in the action just made Diluc want to throw up more. 

Tartaglia had long eyelashes, his face was soft and boyish as he slept, and when he was like this it was hard to tell he was responsible for so much death. Freckles dotted his pale skin, and unlike Diluc’s own freckles, they trailed all up his neck and across his face too, like spatterings of stars on his cheeks. Diluc turned away from him quickly, his back turned as he yanked his duvet up to his chin.

Diluc wished he knew what it was about Childe that made him want so desperately. It wasn’t fair that his heart burned so viciously for Tartaglia, that their bodies fit together like some cursed puzzle. It wasn’t fair that Tartaglia was the only person Diluc had ever felt a semblance of romantic love for…

Because sometimes when Tartaglia would visit, he wouldn’t start it off with a knife to Diluc’s throat, and sometimes, Diluc wouldn't greet Tartaglia by spitting at his feet… Sometimes they’d fall into bed like real lovers would, and they’d take their time. And it wasn’t fair that no matter how many other women or men Diluc would sleep with - which weren’t very many, to be fair - it wouldn’t ever feel half as good as it did when he was fucking Tartaglia

Diluc must’ve fallen asleep at some point, because when he opened his eyes again the sun was just barely peeking over the horizon, even the birds that nested around the winery were still asleep. Adelinde, nor the rest of the winery’s staff, would be awake for another hour or so.

Tartaglia was curled up against him, the slither of morning sun illuminating his pale neck… right onto a dark, teeth-shaped bruise that Diluc could very clearly remember leaving the night before. Well, it wasn’t like he didn’t have a few new marks himself- he had to remember to wear his fur coat that day to avoid anyone seeing it. 

Their closeness made Diluc’s skin crawl, and his stomach dropped right down to his feet, disgust seeping into his pores as he gazed at Tartaglia’s parted lips, the soft breaths that fell from between them. 

“Oof- What the hell?!” Tartaglia woke the second Diluc pushed him off the side of the bed, rubbing the back of his head as he glared half-heartedly up at the other. “A pinch would’ve been fine, hell, I would’ve preferred if you didn’t wake me at all!” 

“Get dressed, I don’t want to see you anymore.” Childe scoffed at Diluc’s monotone, rolling his eyes as he gathered the clothes they’d strewn across the room the night before.

“That’s no way to treat a comrade, the Fatui and Mondstadt are friends now, remember? Your precious Acting-Grandmaster let us set up camp.” Tartaglia said smugly, fixing his scarf around his neck so the hickey was just barely visible, like a trophy. Diluc wanted to be sick. “

Those dead blue eyes were suddenly right in front of Diluc’s face, a pair of hands on his shoulders. “I don’t even get a kiss goodbye? Who knows how long I’ll be here? I’d hate for you to get lonely, Firefly.” 

Firefly. The endearment in Childe’s tone was bordering on condescending, and even then Diluc wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull the other closer or push him away.

He decided on the latter, for his own peace of mind. 

“Geez, fine.” Tartaglia grumbled when Diluc went for his stomach, twisting away from his grasp before he headed for the window, pulling it open and swinging a leg over the sill. “You know where to find me.” 

And if Diluc’s heart ached when Childe dropped down from his window, he wouldn’t allow himself to acknowledge that betrayal of his body. 

Adelinde was the one to greet Diluc that morning, as she always did, a cup of tea and a plate of toast in her hands. She gave him a tight smile when Diluc sat down, sitting across from him once she’d given him the food. They sat in silence for a moment, before Adelinde cleared her throat, folding her hands onto her lap.

“Did your… guest need to leave in a hurry?” Adelinde noticed how quickly Diluc tensed, and she put her hands up quickly, shaking her head as she shot him an awkward smile. “You’re an adult now, Master Ragnvindr, I’m actually happy that you’re meeting new people!”

“Archons- Adelinde, please.” He dropped his face into his hands, scrubbing at his forehead as he groaned. “It’s not like that.” 

Adelinde didn’t look like she believed him, but she merely sighed, nodding. She picked herself up from the table shortly, leaving Diluc to his own devices. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he imagined a universe where he had brought Tartaglia down to breakfast, a universe where he didn’t call Tartaglia Tartaglia, but rather whatever name his mother had given him, before he joined the Fatui. Adelinde wouldn’t’ve left the moment Diluc shut her out, and actually, she probably would’ve gotten along with Tartaglia quite well. 

Diluc wondered what his father would’ve thought of Tartaglia.

His palms suddenly began to sting and Diluc realised he was digging his fingernails into them, his shoulder so tense it felt like he’d pulled something. 

By seeing Tartaglia as anything less than the enemy, he was putting Mondstadt in danger. He was putting everything his father had died for in danger. Every decision Diluc had ever made, the things… the people he’d sacrificed. It would all be for nothing, and just because Diluc didn’t have enough self control to not involve himself with the Eleventh.

-angst, diluc's time away from mondstadt, light smut-

Tartaglia wasn’t meant to fall in love with the flame-haired terrorist that Arlecchino’d brought in on his second day as a Harbinger. But Diluc Ragnvindr was a hard man to resist. He knew that now.   

The first time he laid eyes on Diluc, he really hadn’t looked like much; his hair was a deep, bloody crimson, the strands clinging limply to a pale and somewhat sickly face. He had bags beneath his shifty eyes like boulders, his flesh discolored from scars that clearly hadn’t healed correctly. His clothes were frayed at the edges and stained with dirt and his own blood in a way that screamed rugged, one-man army. Well, in Diluc’s defense, he had just faced the first and fourth of the Harbingers, alone. And that was what had first piqued Tartaglia’s interest. 

By some random chance of fate, Tartaglia had been assigned the job of ‘caretaker’ to the defeated prisoner rotting in the cellar. He found he was pretty good at it, actually. He’d faithfully wheel over a tray of mystery meat that barely passed as food, and perfectly dodge the forks Diluc would chuck at him the second the utensils were in his hands. Well, not like he wasn’t one for a good fight; he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the little tiffs Diluc would drag him into. Sue him. The man was in a cell colder than the peak of Dragonspine and he still burned so brightly- Tartaglia couldn’t help but be intrigued. His crimson eyes glowed like angry, defiant flames, and Archons, he would love to fight him one day. His fingers itched to just unlock the key and let him out of the cell for a moment, just so that the other man could lunge at him like a feral animal. 

Tartaglia was pretty sure it was over for him the first time they brushed skin. He hadn’t even realized he’d been imagining what that would feel like until Diluc had grabbed him by the neck when he stepped a little too close to his cell– they’d both just stared at each other for a moment, and Tartaglia had gotten so lost in the other’s eyes that he couldn’t even really feel his windpipe being crushed. 

Something had shifted after that. Tartaglia had never really believed himself one to love– too busy falling into the hell beneath the overworld and getting his ass handed to him by whatever foe the Tsaritsa tossed him into to consider it. Someone, like an actual person, loving him. Buying him flowers, sparring with him, holding his hand. And he’d love them back, with everything he had left in his heart. Love was supposed to be this sweet, perfect, silky picture– the kind painted with pretty pastel watercolors– so, then, where was the place for it in a world of battle, war and death?

It wasn’t until Diluc kissed him on a whim one day that it actually registered to Tartaglia what exactly it was that he’d been feeling. 

It was so very easy to fall for Diluc Ragnvindr, and even if Ajax subconsciously knew he was letting Diluc have far too much power over him, he was too addicted to let go. 

…

“...I can’t just let you, y’know, out.” 

Diluc raised an eyebrow at Childe when he spoke, crossing his arms as he leaned against the cell’s wall silently. Unimpressed. Unfazed. Childe merely groaned at the sight, his easy smile faltering slightly at the dissatisfaction of how little Diluc took him seriously. “C’mon, don’t look at me like that, Red. I’m no traitor.” 

Diluc just huffed, narrowing his gaze with that calculating lilt that always left Childe curious of his next move; a beat of steady silence passed between them before the prisoner relented, and then a smile graced his lips as he straightened up, taking a step towards him. He placed his wrists together, offering them to Childe.

“Sure you can.” He hummed easily, jerking his hands forward and tilting his head to the side. He was acting suspiciously calm, even if the resolve still burned carefully in his crimson eyes like a flame that refused to be put out. “You have the key, you’ve dangled it in front of me before.” 

Childe pouted at that, frustrating heat rising up the back of his neck again, as it always seemed to whenever he was near Diluc. Archons, he was speaking in this low, rugged voice that made him want to clench his fists in frustration. Infuriatingly calm and insufferably good-looking in this particular lighting. “Okay, I physically can,” Childe conceded, it being his turn now to cross his arms and give Diluc a playfully skeptical look. Trying to keep his amused, detached air– but even so, a hint of desperation leaked into his voice. “But you know I can’t.” 

Diluc rolled his eyes, still staring Ajax down with those deep, simmering eyes of his. Ajax tried to ignore how his resolve seemed to instantly waver. “Diluc…” “Tartaglia.” 

“Don’t-”

“Tartaglia.” 

Ajax bit his lip, before he closed his eyes in submission… because if he couldn’t see what he was doing, was he really doing it? 

God, wasn’t this cellar supposed to be cold? 

“Thank you,” came a low murmur from in front of him. Somehow the lack of sight only made Ajax more reactive to the other man’s voice; the way the words reverberated from the walls and shoved themselves down his throat, settling in his heated gut. Like they belonged there. Ajax had to fight to suppress a shiver when he felt Diluc’s hand on his bicep, a touch so gentle and unexpected Ajax opened his eyes to blink at him in slight shock. Diluc, of course, didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. “...Didn’t you say it was a brisk walk to your quarters, now? I’d like to see if they’re as grand as you made them out to be.”

And while they’d shared that kiss before– the kiss that had completely changed Ajax’s world–  this was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. This wasn’t fleeting. This wasn’t a quick impulse, an instinct, hot breath against his lips. This was far too intimate, now. And of course, there was no way he could dare to deny this request, not when it was something he had suddenly realized he needed. 

Diluc had pushed him up against the door of his room once they entered, his hand resting upon the harbinger’s hip as he stared into his eyes, his other hand moving to cup Ajax’s cheek. “Your eyes really are beautiful.” 

Fuck. 

Ajax had never really had his eyes be described as beautiful. Lifeless, on the other hand? Absolutely– the same words his father had used when he’d returned from that hellish trip down to the abyss. But beautiful, no. Never beautiful… and coming from the most beautiful man Ajax had ever seen, it meant a lot. Archons, he was a goner. “So- so are yours,” is all Ajax could say back, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment at the slight breathlessness of his voice already. Diluc chuckled softly as Ajax stumbled over his words, before he leant in slightly, breaths mingling, Diluc’s lips inches from his own. “You’re funny, Tartaglia.” And then Diluc slot their lips together softly, his hand falling from Childe’s cheek to claim purchase on his shoulder; meanwhile, Childe’s hands gripped desperately at the front of Diluc’s shirt, unsure on what else to do with them. All he knew was that he needed to grab something. He needed so many things, so many things only Diluc could give him. 

Ajax was fifteen when he had joined the Fatui. Before that he’d been stuck in the abyss, and after that he was too busy killing people and fulfilling his purpose of being a scratched up blade for the Fatui to stare at some pastel, watercolor-y painting of love and think, damn, I really need that. To say the least, human connection wasn’t exactly something he was used to– and from the slight tremble in Diluc’s hands he could tell they were in the same boat. Something selfish inside of him found satisfaction in that. 

But even so, Celestia above, being like this with Diluc- hell, being like this with anyone would be overwhelming for Ajax, but for Diluc especially… It made something in his chest ache with suffocating longing.

“Wait- wait…” A slight falter, a tinge of hesitation. Ajax looked away from Diluc’s questioning stare as he pushed at that broad chest gently, swallowing as he really considered what he was about to say. 

“Tartaglia?” Fuck it. It wasn’t like he had anything more to lose. 

“Ajax… It’s Ajax.” He breathed, looking right at Diluc once more. His lips quirked up faintly at the corners at the confusion in the other’s eyes with fondness and something bitter. “...My real name. Tartaglia- it’s ah… it’s kinda like a nickname… Fatui thing.”

Diluc looked stunned for a moment, clearly shocked that Ajax had revealed who he actually was– and for a millisecond, something flickered behind the impulsive desire in Diluc’s eyes, a flash of something entirely wrong and out of place. Diluc spoke before Ajax could let himself think about it any more. 

“Ajax, then. It suits you.”

Ajax couldn’t help but smile at that, moving his arms to wrap around Diluc’s neck and pulling them together once more. “Thanks… It’s, uh, been a while since anyone called me that.” Gods, he could get used to this. This addictive warmth, the gentle words and the sheer intimacy. Hearing his name, so pretty from the other man’s mouth. He hadn’t liked it much until he heard Diluc say it softly. 

Every kiss Diluc placed upon his lips was like a trail of fire. At first it was tentative, a little unsure like the man was holding himself back, but then it became hungry. Less careful. It was clumsy and a clashing of teeth and it was clear neither of them were all that good at kissing, but the shocks of pleasure that Ajax felt pulsing desperately through his body more than made up for it. It was almost alarming how quickly he became a breathless, pitiful mess, but fuck, he didn’t care. Diluc’s hands on him like this felt just as exhilarating as they would be if they were sparring. 

The more Ajax thought about it, what they were doing wasn’t really far off sparring; the way Diluc had pushed him up against his wall, the desperate grabbing at clothes and limbs, even how he was now being pinned to his bed as Diluc forced his way between his legs– though if this were a real battle, Ajax thought to himself dimly, he knew that sitting on the legs would be a far more suitable position to pin an opponent in.

“Ajax?” He snapped out of his clouded thoughts, looking up at Diluc with an unfocused, half lidded gaze. Ajax had never looked up at a person like this before and felt… oddly safe. “Are you still with me? You went a little limp.” Ajax ignored the heat in his cheeks as he glanced away from Diluc, clearing his throat quickly. “Sorry.”

Diluc shook his head, brushing away his hair as he’d done before. A wry smile on his swollen lips as he looked down at him. He was so tender, so gentle and yet defiant in the way he loved, he thinks. If only Ajax weren’t so lust-addled in his thoughts to notice the hint of self-loathing lingering carefully beneath that crimson gaze, fueling his desperate movements. “You’re funny.”

Ajax scoffed at those words, glancing back at Diluc as the other man narrowed his eyes into heated slits. “Is it that you don't want to continue?” 

“Continue? Like…” Ajax’s eyes trailed down and took immediate notice of the tent in Diluc’s pants. His mouth went drier than the Sumeru Desert.  “R-Right.” 

It wasn’t often that Diluc blushed, but he certainly was now as he shifted a little in an attempt to draw Ajax’s attention away from his crotch. “Don’t feel pressured,” he murmured, averting his gaze, “It’s just a reaction to… you.” 

Ajax shook his head quickly, swallowing the sand in his throat as he propped himself up, hyper aware of their faces being suddenly inches apart again. “N-No,” he found the words slipping from his parched mouth before he could truly process them, “I want to… I don’t- I don’t know…how. But I want it.” The ‘you’ was implied, and he really, really hoped Diluc picked up on it. 

Diluc smiled softly, nodding as he leant forward to capture Ajax’s lips once more, and a fire blazed furiously in Ajax’s gut, searing him from the inside out. 

Down in the abyss, before the real Ajax had died, leaving only a husk of the boy he once was, his master had told him to never let his guard down. No matter the situation, the people Ajax was with or the power he may have, he must never, ever let his guard down. 

Ajax found it hard to follow Skirk’s advice when Diluc Ragnvindr was making horrendously sinful noises into his ear and touching him with such heated hands. 

His field of vision narrowed completely to the man above him, the way his crimson eyes were crinkled in pleasure as sweat dripped down from his forehead… It didn’t help that Ajax’s brain seemed to be smothered in a blanket of his own pleasure, a knot tying in his stomach, tighter and hotter, with every pass of Diluc’s hand over his cock. 

Diluc had grabbed the both of them at some point, jerking them in tandem as he stared into Ajax’s eyes– Archons, why was it the eye contact above all else that did it for him?-- as he watched, in a heated daze, the way Diluc seemed to be searching his soul for something, gazing into his dead eye as if there were more.

Ajax hadn’t felt this alive in a very long time. He hadn’t felt this normal in even longer. 

Something dangerous began to snap in Ajax’s stomach, his arm moving to hook around Diluc’s neck and pulling him down so he could bury his face into his shoulder, a hushed gasp leaving his lips. He bit his lip as he felt his eyes roll back slightly– deep down, Ajax knew there was no way anyone would hear them, the palace far too big and none of the other harbingers ever coming near his room at this time of night– but that didn’t stop him trying to muffle himself. 

“Ajax…” Diluc breathed, his voice like pure honey in his ear, panting against his pale skin. It was easy for Ajax to pretend he wasn’t inexperienced when he’d talk with his subordinates, easy for him to lie about all the women he’d blown away while he was still a skirmisher… But there wasn’t anywhere to hide now, nowhere for him to act like Tartaglia should. Nothing between either of them, not with the way their bodies were pressed together, legs entwined, hips pushing in tandem, so horribly, painfully intimate. 

He came embarrassingly quickly following Diluc’s cry of his name, his mind going blissfully blank as he fell back into his pillow. The way Diluc collapsed on top of him soon after told Ajax he had met the same fate. Ajax didn’t hesitate, couldn’t hesitate, when he wrapped his arms around Diluc’s shoulders and pressed his face into his crimson hair. 

Ignoring the unpleasant… substance between them, Ajax had never felt more satiated, more alive and breathing. No battle had ever lived up to how it felt being wrapped up with Diluc, he decided. No, none even came close. 

Diluc lifted his head, a tired smile on his lips as he pecked Ajax’s lips gently, standing up from the bed and grabbing a nearby towel Ajax had left behind from a previous shower. “You know, you should probably put me back in my cell.” Diluc hummed, glancing over his shoulder at Ajax. 

Ajax gave a slightly shaky laugh at that, still breathless and trembling from pleasure. “Archons, do I have to?” He slurred, a content smile falling onto his face as he closed his eyes, sinking into his sheets. “I think I could fall asleep right now…”

“Open your eyes.” And of course, Ajax obeyed, staring into the fiery crimson he’d grown to love. Love. 

Was that what this was? Love? 

Ajax’s Tsaritsa spoke of love when he’d first joined the Fatui. After he was scouted by Pulcinella, she told him about her love for her nation, for each one of her subjects, for peace. 

She’d told Ajax that he had so much love in him, she was almost jealous. He hadn’t believed her at the time, but if this is how love felt, then he understood. It felt like his heart was going to explode right in his chest as he looked into Diluc. 

Perhaps that pretty painting wasn’t some unattainable dream after all. 

Something shifted in Diluc’s eyes though, that strange, out of place coldness Ajax had caught a glimpse of before– his eyes burned, but with more than lust and defiance and that courage Ajax was so terribly fond of. Something akin to a self-eating hatred that could only bloom from shame and regret. Wrong. Did Diluc feel guilt for loving Ajax so thoroughly? His eyebrows had drawn together the same way they had when they’d shared their first kiss. 

Ajax reached up to cup Diluc’s cheek much like the other man had done to him earlier, mirroring the wry smile he’d worn before. “Why so glum, Red?” He asked in a teasing lilt, despite his eyes holding nothing but a gentle kindness, like the endlessness of the ocean’s shore. 

Diluc was silent for a beat. Swallowed. He stood up, rolling his shoulders back, and that trace of fire wasn’t put out from his eyes but carefully masked with something not entirely there. “Your eyes,” He murmured, and even when he acted strange, Ajax felt terribly endeared, “They looked… bright.” 

The Doctor would say it was medically impossible, but Ajax was near certain his heart downright stopped as Diluc spoke. His eyes looked bright, he says. He leapt out of bed, barely taking a moment to grab the underwear he’d discarded before. “Diluc-” 

He grabbed Diluc’s hand, squeezing it as hard as he could, pouring every ounce of emotion he’d ever felt for him into the motion. Ajax missed the way Diluc’s entire body tensed, the way his face had shifted, and instead rushed to the small mirror he kept on his dresser. Tonia had given it to him before he left, their names engraved in the ivory frame. 

It was small enough to only capture his eyes when he brought it close. “Tsaritsa- You’re right!” A glimmer of something flashed in his deep, endless eyes, something new. All because of him-

“Ajax.” That was his name, wasn’t it? Archons, he couldn’t get over how pretty it sounded in Diluc’s voice. Ajax made a noise of acknowledgement, spinning around with the mirror still glued to his face. 

“I don’t know what you did, but-”

“I’m sorry.” 

Ajax barely had the chance to pull the mirror away from his face before he saw Diluc swing the candlestick by the bed across his skull, turning the world black in an instant. 

…

The news of the terrorist from Mondstadt’s escape was jarring when the Queen first heard it. How on Teyvat had the Ragnvindr boy managed to get out? When she’d allowed Childe to monitor the boy, she was sure he’d use it as an opportunity to prove his loyalty. 

“My Tsaritsa.” Her Captain lay in front of her, bowing his head; it was amusing in a way. They’d worked side by side for centuries now, and he still insisted on submitting like this. Always pragmatic and respectful, his voice carefully emotionless and guarded– like any good soldier. “We have found the one responsible behind the prisoner’s escape.” 

Now, her Knave entered, Childe in her grasp, dragged along by the collar of his uniform. A shame, really. She’d truly loved Tartaglia.

“My- My Tsaritsa- He tricked me!” Childe all but screeched, those eyes of his as dull and painfully lifeless as ever, betraying the anger he tried to express. “He seduced me! T-Tricked me into thinking he…” 

Childe trailed off, his head falling as, with a hard shove, he collapsed to his knees next to her Captain– who stood up in a second, falling back to stand beside her Knave. Childe’s hands clasped together in a prayer, his forehead pressing to the cold floor of the throne room. His voice trembled rather pitifully, despite him puffing up his feathers in a tragic attempt to look the part. “Please, I had no intention of letting him free! I… I was…” It was futile, he knew. So, he fell silent once more. 

The Tsaritsa didn’t tear her gaze from him for a second. “Capitano, Arlecchino. Leave us.” She hummed, her voice as melodic as the wind that passed through the frozen icicles of her land. They obeyed, of course, leaving her alone with Childe. 

She floated from her throne, standing in front of the boy she’d grown to love as dearly as the rest of her harbingers, moving close enough to lay a weightless, icy hand on the back of his head. 

Heartbreak was a painfully familiar emotion to her, as much as she’d learnt to suppress it; her bleeding heart would never truly be healed. Maybe that was where her fondness of Tartaglia came from? The sharp, throbbing pain of her youngest’s heart cracking in two was something she recognised in herself. The boy wasn’t a rat. Not intentionally, at least. 

Behind the heartbreak, she could sense utter disgust in Childe. Her eleventh was completely disgusted with himself, the taint of an outsider lingering on his skin… That, she was less sympathetic towards, but boys shall be boys, she supposed. 

“My Tsaritsa… I will not rest until Diluc Ragnvindr has payed for the harm he caused your nation.” Childe’s voice cracked at the words, the poor boy straining to sound as noble and unaffected as he normally would. But alas, even a blade like him wasn’t immune to scratches. 

She’d let Tartaglia live, she decided. Love wasn’t a crime, not alone– after all, in her younger, foolish days she’d let her own emotions cloud her judgement before– and Tartaglia was still a child, in the great scheme of things. 

“I know, my Eleventh.” 

This was a learning experience for Childe. She was certain her youngest wouldn’t let something as trivial as a teenage romance act as a distraction towards his true goals again. Not after that fiery prisoner had so mercilessly stamped all over his heart. 

The Tsaritsa then turned her back to him, returning to her throne once more and allowing the pain she’d felt from Childe wash off her back and ease into the cracks of the icy tile beneath her. She could only hope the rest of her harbingers could catch that Ragnvindr boy before he was away from the confines of her kingdom. She’d hate to let her Eleventh out of his cage before he was ready. 

…

Thousands of miles away in Mondstadt, Diluc Ragnvindr stood outside of Dawn Winery for the first time in almost three years. 

The journey had been hard, harder than the departure had been. He was supposed to have grown through all of this, to seek a vengeance for the tragedy that was his father’s death.

He blamed Tartaglia for blinding him for so long. 

He hadn’t meant to fall so deep into him, to let himself become victim to those deadened eyes— because as much as he’d tried to kid himself, he really had found Tartaglia beautiful. 

The eyes had been haunting him ever since he saw the flash of light in them that night. They’d been hovering over Diluc in every single dream he’d dreamt since leaving Zapolyarny Palace, etching themselves a place in his mind, carving themselves into his skin with a scalpel, right next to the suppressed guilt he refused to acknowledge. Taunting him. Eating at him like a damn parasite. So endlessly blue and giving, no matter what the world took from them. 

Diluc hadn’t meant to be captured by The Knave and The Captain, and he certainly hadn’t meant to fall so deeply for him. He refused to call him Ajax. It’d been an act that night, after all. The whispers, the tender hands, the carelessness, all of it. Nothing more than a means to escape, a distraction to ensure his victory. 

It had to have been an act. 

That was what he’d been telling himself the moment he noticed Tartaglia had fallen for him. He’d only seen it as an opportunity to escape, and these trivial feelings of regret shouldn’t be plaguing him like this. 

Diluc had been bursting with rage for a long, long time. His hatred was what had fueled him in the past, but now he was just tired. The hatred in his blood was stale, a candle that had burnt down to the wick. It had once filled his every bone with molten lava, swirling around like a bad drink. His father’s limp, cold body. His dead face, bloodied and disgustingly violated by blades of cold steel and the fire of Fatui delusions. But he finds now that it’s become self loathing, consuming his own flesh and wielding him like a vessel that simply served to kill and take advantage of anything at hand. 

What had any of it been for if he was just doomed to fail? He’d almost killed his brother, he’d abandoned his nation, his friends, his vision, only for him to regret abandoning a harbinger. 

Hatred for the Fatui was Diluc’s main motivator before, but what energy would he gain from only hating himself? 

Adelinde had rushed him inside the Dawn Winery the moment he knocked on the door, pulling himself out of the haze of his mind for just long enough to get himself settled in front of the fire he’d spent his childhood sitting in front of. 

He didn’t notice it when his heavy coat was pried off his body, when a steaming cup of tea was placed in front of him. He didn’t look up when his brother finally showed himself, an icy blue vision strapped to his belt mockingly. Diluc didn’t  hear a word he said. 

Instead, he found himself reaching subconsciously into his pocket once Kaeya had left, his fingers trembling. 

The clump of ginger hair in his hand was something he’d allowed himself to take on a whim.  His mind was still racing from Tartaglia’s confession, the pain that must’ve surely shot through him as Diluc had swung the candlestick at his head. 

He’d failed as a son. As a brother, and as a leader. He’d abandoned everything his father had left for him. And still, his foolish heart had the gall to mourn someone part of the very organization that brought him his grief and his father’s grave. 

Diluc swore to himself, then and there, that he would never fail again. He locked down the agony that shot through his chest when he threw the bundle of hair into the fireplace, finding it entirely misplaced and itching like a bug beneath his rotted skin. 

-angst, sh (kinda), baizhu-centric-

In retrospect, Baizhu should’ve known what he was getting in to when the second of the Fatui Harbingers had suddenly decided that courting him was more important that any task the Tsaritsa could set for him; though Baizhu slowly got the idea– over several years of acquaintance with him– that Dottore had never cared all that much for the Tsaritsa’s commands anyway. Of course not. The Doctor was far too centered around holing himself up in his own research, never taking commands from anyone unless it was to further his own means. Archons forbid her majesty wished him to leave the comfort of his dark, impenetrable cellar for any reason at all, lest he be in a foul mood the rest of the week. Always eagerly itching to return to his many obsessions; Baizhu, being one ever-growing in prevalence. 

It’d been almost nine years since Baizhu had first met Dottore. He’d been living in Sumeru then, getting his life together after he finally graduated from the Akadeymia– now a fully licensed doctor with plans to move away to Liyue. Suffice to say, things had been going quite well for him. Unfortunately, the freedom that came with a sense of independence was short-lived— something Baizhu would soon come to learn. 

Dottore had been upfront with him from the beginning. Baizhu knew he was a harbinger, knew about his clones, and, of course, his less than savory… experiments. And, to begin with, he’d simply thought The Doctor was so enraptured with him because of the odd circumstances of his illness. 

He supposed that wasn’t too far off. 

Because now, whenever Baizhu would make the gruelling trip up to whatever abandoned, icy Snezhnayan town Dottore had managed to find himself in to visit the man, he’d end up spending the majority of his trip holed up in The Doctor’s lab. For research, of course, since apparently spending hours being poked and prodded at like some scientific marvel in the dimly-lit cold of a sterile basement was extremely beneficial for the advancement of the human race. 

It felt like the only time he wasn’t under a microscope was in the evenings, when Dottore was so pent up from his lack of results that he couldn’t do anything else but fuck Baizhu into his mattress like a frustrated, preening dog. There was nothing careful or tender-loving about the dark bruises that lingered on his hips, or the bites on his neck; the way the skin would flare up angrily, like a passive aggressive reminder that it was Baizhu’s fault for existing. It was exhausting.

In Dottore’s defense, though, he’d sometimes have these rare moments of clarity where he’d actually express the grief he felt over Baizhu’s illness– well, in his own unique way. Whether that be a particularly manic episode consisting of furious scribbles on loose leaf or impulsively throttling a fellow segment that had dared to make himself known in a daze of emotion, Baizhu supposed he should find it endearing how much the Doctor cared. The man was possessive by nature, so for a natural force to have its hands around Baizhu’s neck, intimately sucking the life out of his beating heart, well, it simply drove him mad… that is to say, madder than he already was. Dottore’s need to cure his lover was almost visceral, and Baizhu could sympathize with him for sure, but couldn’t they at least take a stroll around Snezhnaya at some point? It never snowed in Liyue or Sumeru, and even when he was visiting Snezhnaya, Baizhu still hadn’t really experienced it. Of course, asking Dottore to be conventionally romantic was like asking a hilichurl to play nice with the children, please. 

It wasn’t even that Dottore was a bad lover. For the most part, he was actually quite doting when he wanted to be, but Archons, it’d be nice to sleep in for once without Dottore shaking him awake every morning with the “latest experiment he hasn’t tried yet”. 

They’d argued about it the night before; Baizhu had arrived in Snezhnaya a week prior– Bubu pharmacy in safe and capable hands with Qiqi and whatever intern he could pay the least amount of mora for– and, after a cross back and forth, they ended up sleeping in separate beds. Baizhu had felt ever so slightly faint that morning and, consequently, spent the rest of the day with Dottore’s hands all over his body as he was pricked and poked with various needles. He supposed it was his fault for expressing his concerns. His punishment for being a concerned significant other. He should be grateful he’d never received the same treatment as Dottore’s past patients, but it didn’t make him any happier about being at the receiving end of questionable methods of extrapolation for hours on end. 

Regardless, Baizhu had finally put his foot down, declaring that for the rest of his trip, Dottore wasn’t allowed to take him anywhere near his lab. They both knew that if Dottore really wanted Baizhu in his lab, there wasn’t much he could do to stop him; however, Dottore was surprisingly obedient when it came to Baizhu’s threats against their sex life, it turned out. Baizhu could allow himself the satisfaction of an inkling of control. Especially when it came to controlling something as unruly and infinite as the second harbinger. 

Although, waking up alone and cold wasn’t something Baizhu was used to whenever he’d visit his lover; but he couldn’t find it in himself to complain when it was the morning sun’s rays rousing him rather than Dottore, the sweet melody of a Snezhnayan robin drifting in through the windows of their bedroom. 

Baizhu had banished Dottore to the living room after their argument, locking the door of the bedroom in a half-assed effort to show he meant business. The door had been broken into, of course, but at least Dottore had the courtesy to be quiet about it when he had– though the most surprising thing was that it didn’t seem Dottore had broken in to sneak into bed with him; instead, the left side of the bed appeared untouched… strange.

Changsheng was worryingly absent when he finally pulled his glasses onto his face, noticing the place where she usually curled up on the bedside table was empty. With a pang of anxiety, he hoped Dottore hadn’t done anything to her. Baizhu knew of his Doctor’s disdain towards the snake, but it wasn’t like she’d cursed Baizhu specifically with the illness. He’d insisted on explaining that to him, but of course, Dottore had tuned him out in favor of letting whatever poison that spun the gears in his brain dictate his decisions. Always so practical and stubborn, his Doctor was; and so obsessed the mania bubbled up and spilled out of the pores in his skin like acid, all green and sickly and loving.  

Changsheng could fend for herself, though. The most Dottore had ever managed to do to her was pull out a half-shedded scale, though it did mean she then refused to leave from Baizhu’s neck the rest of the trip– thoroughly cock-blocking the doctor from his supple flesh. 

Baizhu pulled himself out of bed after ten minutes or so had passed. He felt particularly spacey as he ambled into the bathroom, reaching mindlessly for the toothbrush he always kept on the side of the sink… ah, also gone. How lovely. 

Whatever game Dottore was playing with him, Baizhu was already sick of it. He’d think his lover would learn his lesson but… well, actually, who was he even kidding? Of course that damn doctor wouldn’t learn his lesson. Not even if it killed him. How could he, when he thought mistakes were merely set backs, and accidents a means of improvement in methodization? 

Baizhu sighed to himself as he left the bedroom with an unpleasant taste in his mouth and frustration bubbling in his chest. And, as Baizhu passed a mirror in the halls, he caught a glimpse of his uneven braid, a clump of hair missing from the tail. That little- 

“Zandik!” Baizhu’s voice was slightly scratchy from just waking up, but he knew damn well that if Dottore was in the house, he’d hear him. “Explain yourself!” 

He stormed into the living room, where he’d left Dottore the night before- he didn’t even need to enter the room to know it would be empty, but still, the least Dottore could’ve done was clean up the duvet he’d used when he slept there. But of course not. In fact, the duvet appeared intentionally messy, tactfully so, as if messed up with purposeful, gloved hands than actually laid upon. All to feed the idea that his Doctor had actually slept. Baizhu knew better. The missing toothbrush, the broken lock, Changsheng’s disappearance, his hair, all of it was pointing towards some inane experiment Dottore’d cooked up in the middle of the night, and Bazihu could feel his lungs fill with more than the itch of sick. They burned with frustration, at the antics of an utterly insane lover that he couldn’t ever predict or hope to truly understand. No, frustration was an understatement far too generous to describe the emotion tearing his chest.

He wanted one day- one moment where he and his lover could be normal, as normal as they could be. Dottore couldn’t even give him that.

The lab was in the basement of the house, and if Baizhu were feeling any other way, its closeness would be convenient; but now it only served as a reminder of how his illness meant more to Dottore than his actual self. That’s truly what it felt like at that moment; Baizhu was just another one of The Doctor’s experiments, no matter how well he was treated under the microscope. He was a flower, wilting from age, and his pale green petals being ripped apart so tenderly and carefully by the harbinger’s gloved fingers made it infinitely better than being violently plucked from the stem, because what else could love be if not consuming you from the inside out? 

Baizhu made a beeline for Dottore’s lab– the glow of fluorescent lights from the gap under the closed door only confirming his suspicions– and he yanked it open without care. 

“Zandik, could you find it in yourself to go one day-” 

Whatever words Baizhu was about to speak died on his tongue the moment he laid eyes on the view before him. 

Dottore was deathly pale, his crimson eyes droopy and bleary as he stared back at his lover, squinting slightly as if attempting to focus. His head slumped to the side lazily, his shoulders like sunken boulders, his lab coat wrinkled and spattered with a couple splashes of sickly crimson like a bad painting. In front of him were three petri dishes, one with a clump of Baizhu’s silky hair, one with the bristles of his toothbrush, and the third with a few silvery scales, blood crusting at the base of them. Separated carefully and sterile, like he was handling something greater than himself. And the bag of blood hung up beside him, attached to a pale arm with a thin wire that sucked the warmth from his flesh like a leech. The icing on the cake, Baizhu thinks, is the steel scalpel sticking out of his forearm like a machete buried in the gut of a boar. 

But he didn’t think that, because all he saw was blood everywhere. Coating the walls, filling his throat, and he prayed he would choke, because this truly couldn’t be real. 

“Zandik-” Baizhu’s voice cracked as he looked at the doctor. 

“One day without…?” Dottore sounded weak as a lazy grin twisted itself across his face, slightly manic and not entirely natural. He pulled the scalpel out from his arm nonchalantly, the instrument clattering somewhere on the floor as he struggled to push himself out of his chair. He was clearly light headed from blood loss. “If you’re about to tell me to get out the lab, I think I’ll… first have to lay down a little while once I’ve finished this round of tests.” 

The scene was something out of those novels Qiqi would tell him about after the girl spent the day with Hutao. Blood dribbled out of the gash in Dottore’s arm, dark and disgustingly slow as it dripped leisurely down between his yellow-tipped fingers; he reached his uninjured arm out for Baizhu, stumbling forward toward him like a drunken man.

“What… What have you done?” Were the only words Baizhu managed to force out, his eyes glued to the wound. All traces of the anger burning so viciously in his broken lungs seemed to vanish for a moment out of pure shock and appallment and horror. “Why- Why?” 

Dottore followed Baizhu’s gaze with unfocused eyes, humming noncommittally at the sight. He shook his hand a little as a few blood drops fell onto his floor. “I should clean that up, actually. Contamination and all… would be a nuisance.” He muttered to himself dryly, tutting under his breath like he was mildly inconvenienced, before looking back at Baizhu. That awful grin found its way back onto his face as he spoke plainly. “Don’t… look at me like that. This is why I’ll always be the more ambitious scientist between the two of us. I’m not afraid to innovate,” He shook his head, a sudden jerk, as if ridding himself of a particularly annoying itch. Baizhu felt scared. “Something you can’t seem to understand.” 

Baizhu sputtered, overwhelmed by the utter nonsense leaving his Doctor’s drunken mouth, “This isn’t innovation, Zandik-” 

Dottore shushed him, meandering over to the sink that sat in the corner of his lab and half-heartedly dabbing at the wound. “This whole time, I’ve been placing the results of your various tests against each other for comparison,” He continued dismissively, speaking to Baizhu like he was a child and puttering around his lab like he wasn’t about to pass out from blood loss. “Mm, and honestly, my own ignorance is to blame for that. I truly don’t know what I was thinking. An utterly amateur mistake. What results would yield from… simply comparing how much worse you were getting?” He laughed at himself before deciding that was enough cleaning of his injury to suffice. 

Ah, here comes the anger once more. It flared in Baizhu’s tired chest like the heat of a hundred suns, as he stepped toward Dottore and quickly reached to catch his wrist. “No,” Baizhu hissed firmly, “Don’t you-” His sentence died on his tongue as Dottore met him halfway, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him forcefully towards the petri dishes he’d set out. His blood clung to Baizhu’s skin, a few drops sinking into the fabric of the shawl Ningguang had gifted him a few holidays ago. He felt utterly nauseous. 

It was only then that Baizhu realised Changsheng was in a cage on the end of the table, either asleep or unconscious, and a scab on her back where her scales should’ve been. Bile began to rise in his throat.  

“I realized, of course, that this entire time I should’ve been comparing your results against my own.” Dottore monologued as he stood behind Baizhu, his hands on his shoulders as he pushed him towards the dishes. “-Using your DNA and juxtapositioning it with my own positive control, I’ll be able to isolate whatever particular variable has infected you at the genetic level, assuming the history you gave me was correct. I’ve been playing with the idea that the disease is ingrained into your being, but I haven’t been able to prove it until now-” Dottore’s explanation became static to Baizhu’s ears, his gesturing hand and silky pragmatic voice only barely registering to him. The image of his lover’s bleeding arm was tattooed into the back of his brain. Even the thought of Dottore sitting there, huddled up alone in his cold, dark lab and sinking a scalpel into his arm was enough to make Baizhu want to hurl up the breakfast he didn’t eat. 

Dottore’s madness wasn’t new to him. Baizhu had known the Doctor for enough years now for his eccentricities to be commonplace in his life– but this was beyond any of that, wasn’t it? Selfishness coming with self-destruction, fused half-hazardly together like a recipe for something truly disfigured beyond recognition; beyond hope.  

“Zandik-” He managed to get out, his voice tight. 

“-As for the scalpel, I needed a skin sample. It’s been a while since I’ve had to take one of those, excluding Changsheng, but it being a snake-”

“Zandik.” Firmer this time, slightly shaky. 

Dottore sighed, letting go of Baizhu and turning him around so they could see face to face. He raised an eyebrow in annoyance, the way it would when an experiment failed unexpectedly or one of his segments said something utterly foolish. Though it faltered slightly seeing the paleness of horror on Baizhu’s skin. “Baizhu, this is all for your own benefit. I know you’re looking for the longevity of your life too-” 

“Not like this.” Baizhu let out a trembling sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You- You’re bleeding all over me.” 

A twitch in the Doctor’s eye, as if offended. “You’re more than used to seeing blood-” “Can you just stop?!” Baizhu snapped, venom clinging to his voice in a way that few had ever heard. That was because he rarely raised his voice– he didn’t often have enough air in his lungs to support a yell– and, hence, he was rewarded with a coughing fit when he did. He supposed Dottore simply brought out another side to him. Endearing. 

Dottore’s arrogant expression fell, replaced with a slightly robotic one– a careful look of indifference– as he gripped Baizhu’s shoulder a little too tightly. “Dear, don’t push yourself.”

Baizhu pushed away his hand with a sudden sense of desperation, his fingers digging into the metal table beside him for purchase. “Stop!” He wasn’t sure what he was telling to stop, his idiotic lover or the pounding of his head. Perhaps the burning in his lungs, or the trembling of his brittle limbs. The doctor merely sighed, reluctantly taking a few steps back, his foot tapping impatiently as he watched Baizhu recover from the coughing. They stood in silence for a moment, Dottore staring at him with a deadpan look as if he was waiting for Baizhu to explain his behavior. “I told you it was an accident,” He started again, with that infuriating air of intellectual superiority, “I already took a gallon of my blood the normal way, why would I switch methods? I merely needed a skin sample.” 

As if that explained it all. 

Baizhu all but collapsed into the chair Dottore’d been sitting in before, all the anger leaving his body, only to leave behind the suffocating despair that clawed its way up his throat and settled in a pitiful lump. “I can’t believe you.” 

To that, Dottore’s eyes narrowed slightly. He pulled over a chair of his own, tensing his jaw as he considered how to break the silence. Still all too casual and pragmatic for a sane man, even while taking Baizhu’s hand in his own. The type to initiate romantic gestures because it would ‘show more positive results’, masking his tenderness beneath a wall, even now.  “I told you I’d stop at nothing,” He insisted, “This cut is merely a representation of the lengths I’ll go to to ensure we’ll be together— something as trivial as mortality can easily be defied.”

“I didn’t ask for you to stop at nothing.” Baizhu retorted weakly, but all the fight had left his body— there was no convincing Dottore, something he thought he had long accepted but now, realizing that perhaps he never would. “What… What did you do to Changsheng?” He decided to ask instead. 

Dottore tutted again when Baizhu pushed himself out of the chair, watching with snake-like eyes as his lover trudged over to the small cage the snake was locked in. “Nothing noteworthy. It will be fine by tomorrow. Though it was interesting to discover that even spirit snakes are cold-blooded.” 

Baizhu said nothing and unlocked the cage; the snake lifted a tired head in response to him, forked tongue darting out her mouth. He trailed a shaky finger over the scab on her back, squeezing his eyes shut when he felt her ice cold scales. “Don’t look so distraught.” Dottore mused with a slight edge of condescension, “I do not harm the snake for fun. Antivenom is made from the snake that bites you, it’s not absurd to assume that she could be your cure, too.”

Baizhu wordlessly collected Changsheng into his arms, slipping her into the pocket of his shawl as he turned back to Dottore. His expression is neutral, carefully so, his lips pressed in a decidedly thin line as he offered the only thing he could think of. “Let me clean the wound.” And while Dottore opened his mouth to protest, he took one look at Baizhu’s greyed face and relented with a begrudging huff of stubbornness. 

“This is pointless. You, getting upset, patching me up like I’m a weak and helpless patient of yours.” Dottore scoffed, closing and locking the door of his lab behind them. “Do you seriously think that if you pout enough I’ll stop trying to save your life, Baizhu?” 

Archons, Baizhu just wanted him to shut up for once in his life. But he couldn’t find the words, his throat too tight and his brain too muddled. His heart beating too weakly, his hands still trembling at his sides with adrenaline. 

I am ruined.

Half jokes aside (I fuck you not I am crying as I type this), fantastic piece of literature, linked below if you haven’t read it yet.

WRIOSARIA NATION RISE

As someone who downloaded ZZZ about 3 weeks ago (give or take), fueled solely by Lighter promos and edits, WHY ISNT LIGHTER X NICOLE A THING?

- I understand that they never meet in the story (…as far as I’m aware, I just started the 2.5 quest) but that’s the whole point of a rarepair, right??

Idk I just think as a society we aren’t capitalizing on the dynamic of GORGEOUS CUNTALICIOUS BEAUTIFUL WOMAN and awkward hopeless romantic man- Which I could also go on a rant abt bc I LOVE how they characterized Lighter, but anyway.

I just think they’d be so cute together, ‘he makes me laugh’ type shit (even if Lighter is SUPER FINE too, don’t get me wrong)

The main reason I’m ranting is just bc I cannot find ANYTHING on them - and before someone comes for me, I have nothing against the Lighter/Wise or Belle ships (they’re honestly super cute as well, Hoyo did an AMAZING job w/ the dialogue), I just think we need to expand our horizons a tad, BC I CANT STOP THINKING OF NICOLE IN PLACE OF THE MC IN THE LITTLE TEXT THINGS.

Idk I could be completely wrong abt then you can yell at me 🙄 - and I can’t wait to find out that Nicole is secretly like 13 or SMTH and I’ve been silently shipping SMTH compeltely illegal 😭😭

…As far as I’m aware she is not though - ANYWAY.

The only thing I want you to take away from this is the CONSIDERATION of them… and also I need a ship name cuz Nighter or fucking Licole isn’t gonna cut it 😭🙏🙏

RANT INCOMING

I’m honestly so disappointed with how ts ended 😭 - it just felt so lazy… like pretty much since Choso’s death (Not an exact timeframe, this is just how I remember it) I feel like the whole thing has gone down hill.

It feels like Gege has completely lost interest in having a coherent story, not only writing wise, but you can also see a drop in the panel quality art-wise (IMO)

We know little to nothing about SO many characters.

-Yuji’s Domain Name

-Megumi’s Complete Domain

-NO SUKUNA BACKSTORY, like WHAT?!??

And even though Gojo isn’t in my top 5 characters, the fact he was just FORGOTTEN??

No funeral, no mourning, in 270 they were ragging on him for what he didn’t do during the fight w/ Sukuna 😭

Like not even a LITTLE sympathy? Nothing from Megumi - Gojo pretty much RAISED him.

Idk… I’ve seen arguments like ‘Gege is put on such a tight schedule! He needs to figure it all out in a week!’

While I agree that being a Mangaka is HARD - as a writer myself I understand writers block and everything, then having to draw on top of that… it’s tough.

…But did Gege not plan out his story before writing…?

As I said, JJK had such a strong start and middle. I LOVE the culling games arc and I am beyond excited for that to be animated… but I can’t help but feel the ending was lazy.

And to reiterate again, Gege left out a shit ton of stuff… and then him trying to make up for it with 270 which was just a history lesson that no one asked for - a history lesson about 200 chapters too late at that… and with Mei Mei??? Cool ig?

I love JJK with all my heart, don’t get me wrong… but the story is ass 😭

And I can’t help but to compare it to shows like BSD (which, in fairness, is Seinen not Shonen, though I feel like the early seasons of BSD and the current seasons of JJK are pretty comparable… and this is strictly comparing the BSD anime, not manga…. Also, I’ve not finished BSD - halfway through s4 - but my sister LOVES IT, so I feel like I’m somewhat qualified to bring this up… maybe??)

The characters in BSD are so complex - their relationships, their personalities and their actions… we know a good chunk about most characters on the show - and it’s not like it’s ending anytime soon (AS FAR AS I KNOW - could be wrong) so what we don’t know we’ll find out, right??

The power system is decently understandable - to me at least - and the writing does a good job of telling the watcher this, without having to just explain it - like in 270.

My point is- BSD took time in crafting its story, its a monthly manga and there’s 40 or so pages per chapter… and I’d much prefer waiting and getting an in-depth story than whatever the hell this recent chapter was.

Anyway… Honestly I’m still just sad abt Sukuna getting turned into a FUCKING BLOB.

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

Kugisaki saying ‘Rolling out!’ was my final straw.

I didn’t proof read this so if I said something completely wrong or off topic… ehhh, wouldn’t be the first time.

Thanks for listening to my TedTalk… and idk maybe read my ao3 I have some pretty okay stuff on there.

LawLight vignette ~ 753 Words

Lawliet had already accepted that his life was in the hands of Kira long before he met the man. 

A hard pill to swallow, perhaps, but it was some kind of karma he supposed; after all, how many times had a criminal's life been in his hands? 

But why did it have to be Light? - No, that was a stupid question. It had always been Light, Lawliet knew it from the start.

Light was Kira, Light will always be Kira. 

And Kira as a concept is wrong. No human - because regardless of what Light believed, that's all he was, human - should dictate who lives and dies. Justice had never been that simple. 

Lawliet knew this. He’d spent countless nights staring at Light as he slept, praying that the curtain of purposeful ignorance would rise and he could see the man for who he truly was. 

Begging whatever real god there was to cure him; to take this diabolical human and force Lawliet to see him as anything less than an equal. 

But then Light would wake up- glowing amber eyes would snap open and bore into his, and Lawliet seemed to forget that he was handcuffed to Kira. 

He wished he knew how Light had managed to escape from himself- how he’d managed to forget the thousands of lives he’d taken, and Lawliet hated himself for being grateful for it; because if the culprit had no memory of the crime, had it even happened in the first place?

Well… yes. But he could pretend. 

He could pretend that Light was Detective Yagami’s son, a student at To-Oh and the only person who’d ever matched his wits… It wasn’t like he had to pretend the last part was true though.

He could pretend that, when he stared back, he didn’t see a glimpse of red. 

Lawliet mourned his own death when the handcuffs were removed, and he mourned the death of Light Yagami. At least Light’s death had been quick, only a touch of the death note.

His own would have to wait, after all. 

He’d already made preparations with Watari, or, more accurately, he’d said his goodbyes; because L Lawliet was the greatest detective in the world and he knew what was coming. 

And once more as he stood on the roof, bells ringing in his ears, the rain sinking into his skin, he knew what was coming.

Because it was Kira’s eyes that looked back at him as they stood in the rain; he understood that now. 

Was he even pretending anymore? Lawliet couldn’t tell. Maybe for the rest of the task force, but not for him. 

He was grateful for that. 

In front of the task force, Lawliet could pretend that his suspicions for Light were only that- suspicions- and not painful truth. 

When Light pressed a towel to his wet hair, he could pretend that there was even an ounce of affection behind the action. 

When he felt Light’s eyes on him as he explained his plan to test out the thirteen days rule, he could pretend that it was because the case was so damn close to being solved that he could taste it. 

Even as Watari died on the other side of the screen, as all the data was erased from almost a year of non-stop work, a tiny part of Lawliet pretended that it was an accident. That he’d get another year to build back everything they’d lost, that he’d get another year with Light. 

And then his heart stopped. 

Even though Lawliet had long accepted that his inevitable death would be by Kira’s hands, it didn’t make the pain in his heart any less - whether that was from the heart attack he was suffering or not. 

When Lawliet felt an arm around his neck and a cotton shirt in his fist, he could almost pretend that his last moments wouldn’t be staring up at his murderer but rather the only person he’d ever felt close to loving. 

A brief thought crossed his eyes as he looked at Kira’s smile. 

Light Yagami and Lawliet were made for eachother. 

L and Kira were not. 

As bells rang in his head - the same bells that would be rung at his funeral in a few days - Lawliet could almost pretend that there was regret in Kira’s eyes. 

He hated that his life didn’t flash before him, like it was meant to. He could only see his eyes, whether they were amber or red. 

You better not forget me, Light Yagami.

Also on Ao3 ~

' That volcano was right, he wasn't cut out for this. Not the cursed energy, not being a student at Jujutsu Tech- He should’ve died that night. He wanted to have died that night-

“Itadori. You’re going into a panic. You need to open your eyes.” '

' He had tried so hard to find the positives… To keep remembering what his grandpa had said.

When had everything become so twisted?

Yuji really didn’t hate many things, but he was starting to hate how hopeless he’d begun to feel. '