[ They let out a low laugh. That look on their face has melted away completely, given way to a lighter, more amused one. Without much concern for being in an open space, they move into his lap. Hands on his shoulders to steady themselves, Mira straddles him.
Being so close to someone like this, taking in their warmth... Mira handles it better than they'd thought they would. They're not going to back away, though, or run. It's so foreign and near-overwhelming, but they won't run. ]
As rough as I want? You're giving me too much power. [ They hum softly, pressing just the tips of their fingers against his cheek. ] Then, if you're ready...
[ Outlasting them would probably count as some form of sabotage. No running away now, with Mira on his lap. Every good fight is taken slowly, with great and exacting care. No reason why kissing shouldn't be handled with the same devouring attention to detail. Hot on adrenaline and this unfounded confidence, Tartaglia's holding onto his breath when that palm is smoothing over his cheek. Try as he might, he can't keep holding onto these thoughts fast enough, struggling to keep up the pursuit when his mind's draining out of any real enlightenment like a sieve. Come lift him out of helplessness, then. He's tired of being powerless.
Meeting their mouth, Tartaglia's soft and ungainly with his own, way too chaste before he thinks to shut his eyes to it. Tilting his head one way, he attempts to deepen it into disruptiveness, snared under this closeness. His heart's so loud, thudding up. His jaw's tight under it only initially, like a knife's been pressed to the softest part of his throat, but his lips part before long, licking over the lowermost one before he's prying to open them up with his tongue. ]
[ What strikes them first is that Tartaglia's clumsy with his kiss. Not that they're looking down on him for that or anything. Rather, they feel warmer that this is probably his first, and that he'd agreed so readily. Heat creeps up the back of their neck. It's the closeness, the beating of their hearts so fast. Their hand slides from his cheek into his hair.
He's a quick learner, which is both good and maybe a little dangerous. The brush of his tongue along their bottom lip makes their breath hitch softly, and they part their lips to let him in. Of course, they're not about to submit completely; they deepen the kiss more, pushing their tongue against his. ]
[ No one taught Tartaglia how to properly act, so he's on his worst behavior now. Nice and slow at first, but growing more and more immodest over time. First, with his mouth, then with his hand, softly applied to Mira's cheek to draw them closer and closer still.
To the exclusion of common sense, he's licking into their mouth with fervor, tracing along that upper row of teeth and then flush against Mira's tongue. Can't help this boldness even as someone so new to it all; if Tartaglia let fear rule him, he'd never get anywhere. So he embraces the mistakes, like the way their noses keep bumping together, and how often he opens to eyes just to stare unabashedly. ]
[ Worst behavior, sure, but it's not like Mira's complaining. It'd be easy to lose themselves in Tartaglia, but maybe that wouldn't be so bad. Kissing someone like this, just like this, all heat and slow escalation is new. Their hand curls around the front of his shirt.
Unlike Tartaglia, Mira's eyes are closed. Their face is flushed, eyebrows pulled together. Their hand tightens slightly in his hair, tongue pushing against his. Breaking the kiss, they bite down on his lip before pulling away just enough. Mira rests their forehead against his. ]
[ Amid the deviancy and all of these misdemeanors is something achingly genuine, transcribed in the preposterous smile on his face as Mira calls it """quits""". It's his victory, right? Although he can't call the shots, his hand gentles where it's nudging up against their face, tucking those strands of hair back. The gentleness is evident. So is the blasé treatment, taking the opportunity to peck Mira on the mouth one more time before lounging back.
Gaze drifting down to acknowledge the hand fisted up in his shirt, it comes up amused. ]
Teach me some more? Where should I touch you next?
[ They let out a little huff, but it's nice to hear. More than that, this sort of gentleness--or any at all, really--has always been hard to find. Part of them is still cautious and wary, unwilling to lower the walls around their heart.
It's nice, just like this. Even if it's just like this, it's fine. They'll be content enough.
Leaning into the touch, they steal another kiss before he can move too far away. ]
If I said "anywhere," we might have to find a more private place, [ they say lightly. With a hum, they loosen their grip on his shirt. Feather-light, their fingers brush along his neck. ] But it's up to you. I'm more than happy to follow your lead.
[ They're fine with anything, but they're not about to push him in any direction. ]
[ Tartaglia doesn't retreat from it, inhabited by this sort of fragile happiness that he's so afraid of crushing by virtue of what he is. Should he play things off slower? Maybe. Kind of feels like he's rushing into it, spurred on by their willingness to go along with him. ]
If you don't get off my lap, I'll have to carry you. If you've got any complaints, you should air them out now.
[ Or else he'll whisk Mira off, and who knows what'll happen then? ]
[ How quickly he replies surprises them. There's a definite attraction between them, true. That fight on the mountain had told them a fair few things about Tartaglia: He seems to always be chasing the next thrill, determined to follow through, and--
Something had sparked between the two of them, which scares them enough to be impossible to ignore. If they give voice to those sorts of thoughts, then it'll end badly, because the people they care about tend to get hurt. It's not quite enough for them to run away. The instinct is there, but it always is. Some things are worth sticking around for.
But they huff quietly, and while they're not embarrassed by too much, there's definite color in their cheeks. Admittedly, being carried sounds nice, but they'd probably perish on the spot.
They lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before getting to their feet. ]
Maybe one day I'll let you carry me. [ They hold out their hand. ] How about the inn?
I'll hold you to that. [ Make a promise like that with him and he'll ask for something too good to be true. ] Don't let go of me in the crowd.
[ Hands interlinked, Tartaglia walks on through the hustle and bustle of the pedestrians loitering in the avenue and towards the inn, minding that kiss that snuck up on him. Don't mind him swiping a thumb over his own mouth, softly tracing where those lips pressed up against his.
By now, he's no longer completely bankrupt, fetching enough coins to pay for an evening in one of the suites. Ascending a flight of stairs and shutting the door shut behind them both, Tartaglia breaks the handhold to plunk down on the mattress. Bouncing on it a few times proves the obvious: it's a king-sized indulgence, memory foam beneath the thick duvets. He's slowly sinking where he's sitting on the very edge of it. ]
The bed's nice. Can't complain about the view, either.
[ Haha, the curtains are drawn shut. Tartaglia's gaze isn't transfixed on their accommodations, only Mira, appraising them with a stare that could flay to the bone. ]
[ Don't think they miss that. Tartaglia keeps surprising them, but it's not like they mind. So often, they go through the same motions, day after day. Coming here has shaken that up, and it's nice. Very nice. So much so that they're going to have to watch their step.
Wouldn't be too bad if they missed, though. It's why they give his hand a little squeeze after he pays. They'd planned on paying, but he'd beaten them to it. Gestures like this are foreign, and it leaves them feeling a mix of discomfort and gratitude. ]
Hm... I think about here.
[ This, at least, is where they're confident when they so often second-guess themselves. Under that gaze, they feel warmer, pulse racing. Mira approaches and climbs onto his lap, hands braced on his shoulders. ]
You're right. The view is excellent.
[ Not a moment after, they lean in and press their lips to his. Behind closed doors, they're more comfortable. There's heat in their kiss, and it doesn't take long for them to deepen it and slide a hand into his hair. ]
[ Cute. He'll keep that bit to himself, since someone who's his senior wouldn't appreciate the sentiment any! Probably. Even that thought ebbs to nothing after a while, the red drop of his earring jangling when Mira sees fit to lavish him with kisses.
It's all shiver-inducing, but Tartaglia treats them to love-bites instead, feisty with his mouth and belligerent with the bruises he's busted that lower lip with. Licking into it, he eventually topples backwards on the bed, hair fanned out in this ginger halo. The bright shock of it clashes with his nondescript clothes and the inscrutable look on his face when Tartaglia breaks away, huffs coming up so softly.
Still rearing up from below, his hands go sliding underneath their shirt, coasting up the planes of Mira's chest. Do they accept this trespass? ]
[ Each bite sparks pleasure up their spine. Those pinpricks of pain mingle with the pleasure of it all, and it's hard to hold back the quiet, satisfied noise at the back of their throat. Teaching someone anything, especially this, isn't something they'd ever thought they'd do.
The appeal of it, though, is hard to ignore. Tongue pushing against Tartaglia's, Mira wonders just how much he's willing to let them teach.
With a small, affectionate half-laugh, Mira looks down at him. His expression is hard to figure out, but that's fine with them, they tell themselves. Whatever budding curiosity they feel, there's not enough time to dwell too much when his hands brush against bare skin. It feels good, enough that there's only a moment of hesitation before they pull their shirt off.
The reason for their hesitation should be clear: Despite how lean they are, how defined their muscles are, there's a nasty, jagged scar that starts at their right shoulder. It stops at the middle of their chest, extending to the left and forming a cage made of sharp, thorny vines surrounding and crossing over their heart. ]
[ They've been in Teyvat for a while now, and even though it's been a lot to get used to, there's nowhere they'd rather be. There's one thing, an important one, that they're not sure how to say to Tartaglia. It feels huge, larger than anything they've ever admitted. Trips them up just to think about it.
Lying has never been their strong suit. Neither has being anything other than transparent, so maybe he knows. Whatever Tartaglia's done--and they know what it means to be a Fatui Harbinger, what they do to get what they want--doesn't matter too much to them. Willingly, they'd come along with him. If they really disapproved of all of it, they wouldn't be here.
So.
Admitting the thing they keep tucked inside. It's just three words, simple and short, but they also bring anxiety. A line they don't know how to cross. Something that could change everything... or change nothing. You saved me, they want to say. In more than one way.
It's been on their mind, though, recently. Like an itch they can't scratch, annoying and persistent. At least they dwell on it when they're apart from him; when they're with him, it's easy as breathing. Anxiety wiped away, because Tartaglia centers and grounds them.
But-- to the moment. Mira can't help but be amused while they're here in Fontaine. Just familiar enough to remind them of home, but in a rare, comforting way. If they can't--and they won't--show him a bit of their home, this is more than sufficient. Two homes, coming together. As far as they're concerned, Teyvat's accepted them. The Cryo vision dangling over their heart is enough proof for them. ]
You know, I'm a bit offended. [ No actual annoyance here. ] That you didn't take me here sooner. You'd better make it up to me.
[ Angled away, Tartaglia's form is loose where he's slouched back to sit, head tilted up in a way that leaves his face out of observable range. From behind, the Fountain of Lucine is rich on the senses, shiny frescos of gold carved into the bottom of its pool.
This little date doesn't curb his restlessness but nothing could be done about that regardless. His Vision's been malfunctioning as of late; he can't keep his power leashed when it's gnawing through him. Something's off.
Stuck in that raw, absurd feeling, Tartaglia's brooding right up until he isn't, Mira's voice railing for attention against one shoulder. Baited to respond, he reacts in two parts: the leveled stare and his sneaky fingers, crossing the threshold of politeness to press a cold-necked bottle of Fonta to Mira's cheek. Suffer. ]
Don't I amuse you enough? Here I thought you'd enjoy that last detour. I don't take just anyone to meet my family!
[ Even drowned in ingratitude, Tartaglia's smiley, way too flippant when he lifts his hand. ]
If you want your revenge, beat me to the punch. [ Think fast! Tartaglia goes in for the snuggly kill, wrapping Mira in a hug. Notably, he's got enough sense to hold the drink aloft so chilly soda glass isn't wedged up against their back as he lays waste to one ear. ] ... Offended, huh. Let's go at it until you're satisfied?
[ It's not that they haven't noticed. Just that they haven't pushed him to talk about it. All too well, they know that talking about something unpleasant isn't made any easier when it feels like an obligation. So, they leave that door open for him to walk through. Until then, they'll take care of him. They're pretty sure he can tell they're worried, as well as they know each other.
Pulled out of their thoughts, their own brooding, Mira lets out a startled yelp. It melts into a laugh. Surrendering to him, they wrap their arms around his neck, leaning into that warmth. Cheeky. Despite whatever's happening with his Vision and the deeper, darker thing weighing on his mind, they settle into something more comfortable. ]
That's the only detour I'll allow.
[ It'd been almost overwhelming, watching Tartaglia and his family. Less bitter, more sweet. By the end of it, Mira had fallen for him more. ]
Extremely offended. [ With a hum, they press a kiss just below his ear. Nevermind the looks they're getting from the passerby. Shame is difficult to feel when you're accepted for everything you are. ] I'll have to accept your offer.
When I win-- [ Look, they can be cheeky, too. ] --what'll be my reward?
Now you're getting ahead of yourself. I'm not one to take taunts lightly.
[ Even as Tartaglia fields the question, he lets it slide. Part of him should rile at the prospect of a loss; he's balancing his mortality and his will to live with absolute seriousness. But that's where the madness comes in, mixing business with pleasure, spoiling common sense with the prospect of eluding death at every turn. How depraved.
In the deadlock of an embrace, Tartaglia turns his hand on the forearm looped over his shoulder, jostling it as he's kissed so chastely. If he only drags his fingers under Mira's jaw and tugs them into closeness, he could deepen the moment into something unforgivably sweet. Miraculously, he abstains. ]
Make me yield and you'll know.
[ He disentangles. Playing keep-away with his own mouth, Tartaglia steps off from the scrutiny of those prying eyes and towards the main street, unfaltering when he offers up his free hand. Handhold time? ]
[ The push and pull, leaning back when there's a chance to give into each other--that's got a thrill of its own. Where once they were so careful, cautious, they've slowly begun to leave that behind. Bolstered by Tartaglia's confidence and audacity, his lust for fighting and pushing himself to the limits, they've managed to embrace those parts of themselves.
The way he lives is contagious, and Mira's content to be afflicted.
Standing, they take his hand, sliding their fingers between the spaces of his own. Intimacy like this is quiet, but they're always hungry for his touch. Sparking in their blood is the desire to let go, surrender to the high of battle. ]
There's an open space outside not too far from her. Perfect place, right?
So you were expecting this. Planning to put me through the wringer?
[ Between soda-fizzy sips of Fonta, he tests the contours of Mira's fingers against his own. Thumbing along the bumps of their knuckles is too telling; he can barely restrain himself, confined only by the gentleness he's shown. Lowering his guard, Tartaglia moves out of the monotony of simply being led along to match Mira's pace. ]
Not that it's hard to admit. I've been looking forward to today.
[ Too bad he's insatiable. Soothing the bloodlust that lurks inside his skin and tears its way into all of his dreams probably needs a more reprimanding touch. Then again, he never learns. One step eats another and Tartaglia feeds the momentum by lengthening his stride. ]
When I win, spend more time with me. A second date, at least. And— another hug would be nice. Biggest one you can pull off.
[ It's nearly impossible to forget how they'd met. Atop that snowy mountain, from the very start, they'd been testing each other. Sometimes they wonder if there were any other way they'd begun what this is.
Mira doesn't mind. With that testing, clashing of strength, there's security in it. Knowing they're embraced for every part of them, even--especially?--the uglier parts.
So, it's easy to be with him, to laugh quietly, fondly. ]
I had a feeling this would happen, yeah. [ A squeeze to his hand, a teasing little smile. ] When you win, huh? Big words. Your conditions are nearly too much for me, but... I guess I can agree.
[ And here they are. The field is large, large enough for them to go all-out. No worries about falling off a mountain here. Before they pull away, they're not subtle about bring his hand up and brushing their lips against the back of it. It lasts a moment, gentle and natural.
[ No use feigning remorse when it's never on his mind. Tartaglia could say so much less: the only way to reconciliation is combat. He's goofy and cringe and long past excuses for his ongoing commitment with being a filthy nuisance all the time. Yet even push comes to shove. Surprise, surprise— he gets thrown for a loop like anyone else. Retreating back into the sanctity of personal space, Tartaglia laughs, shivery and rattled. ]
Can't get enough? You really have it out for me...
[ Kisses stretched hot on his throat or unfolded over his glove do insidious, fucked-up things to his concentration. Fill him up with that feeling. Keep preoccupying him. His attention isn't sitting with the empty bottle he sets down at all, staring only at Mira's hand where it's tensed around the shaft of that spear. ]
Come on, then. Show me a good time.
[ Calling upon his Vision today is like dredging up a memory several times misplaced, his usual daggers wavering in and out of solidity. Still, Tartaglia's confident slipping into an offensive stance as he advances, tossing the first pure hydro knife clean at Mira's pole-holding arm. Pivoting hard, he doesn't check to see if it's neatly struck its mark in favor of attempting a second blow with its twinning blade. ]
[ He's right: They really can't get enough. Being alive is one thing, but truly living is another. Before him, they're not sure they knew what living felt like. Going through the motions, unable to let their guard down for even a second.
They grin, watching him intently. ]
Keep saying stuff like that, and I won't be able to behave.
[ As if they do around him. Maybe it's far from good behavior, anyway, the way they feed off each other. A cycle of battle, constantly testing each other, pulling back and coming together. His confidence bolsters their own.
Anticipating the first blow, they shift and pivot on one foot to get a wider berth. It's fine to take the second hit, returning it with three quick jabs. They don't give him a chance to breathe just yet, aiming at his side as they sweep the flat side of weapon against his side. ]
[ Subjected to brute force, Tartaglia's capacity for pain shows itself. Craziest thing about the initial collision comes well before the rush of adrenaline, deflecting what he can and yielding to the rest of the damage. One blistered palm later and Tartaglia's fingers sprawl over the pole to push them backwards, cutting into his own defenses. ]
Who wouldn't want to make a mess out of you?
[ Tartaglia opens the conversation with a self-imposed risk, jerking up a knee so it bashes them sideways. If it connects, he insolently repeats the motion. If it fails, he's sweeping one leg to knock them both off-balance until there's enough room for air. Either way, he's cramming some distance into the equation.
Breathing evened out, he straightens, beckoning Mira with a tilted blade. Newly summoned, it breaks and reshapes like sea form as Tartaglia flips it once, end-to-end, on its sharpest edge. ]
[ A shiver traces its way up their spine. Yes, mess them up, take them apart and put them back together. Not just anyone would enjoy such an invitation. Trust, safety, security: It should contradict the nature of what they are, but he's won their loyalty.
Their agility has always been one of their strong suits. The thing in their chest lies dormant, weakened from the separation of its world. The effects still linger, though, and they're more than content to take advantage of it. A benefit for both of them.
That is to say: They jerk out of the way, but it's the leg sweep that gets them. With a grunt, they stumble back and stab the polearm into the ground to steady themselves. Their blood is boiling, almost enough to suffocate, and they breathe out before straightening. ]
Mess me up? Is that a promise?
[ Act up, cause a scene, uncaring if anyone sees. Mira dashes forward, then pivots behind him. Act fast, or the whole maneuver won't work: They swing the pole around his front and catch it, slamming it back against his chest. Had their height difference be closer, they might have caught him at his throat. If they manage to pull it off, they aim for his legs, sweeping their own to keep him from recovering before pulling the weapon back to kick at his back. ]
[ Lured on by that spearpoint like some unveiled threat, he lobs the knife with the intent to impale, missing them by mere millimeters. Erring hard into audacity, his expression stays measured. Banking on Mira's willingness to put themselves to the sword for insensible reasons isn't all that difficult; deep, deep down, Tartaglia's the same.
Wanting and cagey and restless like he has been for weeks going on weeks, he accepts the unhinged trajectory that polearm takes to yank it closer where others might've forfeited ground. Only two steps later and unholy claustrophobia veers to greet him; their faces aren't far apart when he's leaning down, dragging the weapon and Mira alike into terrifying range. ]
Just an invitation.
[ His left cheek's a whole smear of red where the gouging metal edge has sliced into the skin, cutting him open. Good thing Tartaglia is obscenely tall; he couldn't heft the spear up until someone vertically-challenged like Mira dangled on their tiptoes otherwise. ]
Where should I start? [ Annoyingly, his palm's cradling the opposing side of Mira's face, soft and boyish with his touch. ] Here?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
blankpoint) wrote2023-01-01 03:09 pm
gently reposts my last tag
Hmm. I wonder.
[ They let out a low laugh. That look on their face has melted away completely, given way to a lighter, more amused one. Without much concern for being in an open space, they move into his lap. Hands on his shoulders to steady themselves, Mira straddles him.
Being so close to someone like this, taking in their warmth... Mira handles it better than they'd thought they would. They're not going to back away, though, or run. It's so foreign and near-overwhelming, but they won't run. ]
As rough as I want? You're giving me too much power. [ They hum softly, pressing just the tips of their fingers against his cheek. ] Then, if you're ready...
[ They lean in, pressing their lips to his. ]
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Meeting their mouth, Tartaglia's soft and ungainly with his own, way too chaste before he thinks to shut his eyes to it. Tilting his head one way, he attempts to deepen it into disruptiveness, snared under this closeness. His heart's so loud, thudding up. His jaw's tight under it only initially, like a knife's been pressed to the softest part of his throat, but his lips part before long, licking over the lowermost one before he's prying to open them up with his tongue. ]
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He's a quick learner, which is both good and maybe a little dangerous. The brush of his tongue along their bottom lip makes their breath hitch softly, and they part their lips to let him in. Of course, they're not about to submit completely; they deepen the kiss more, pushing their tongue against his. ]
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To the exclusion of common sense, he's licking into their mouth with fervor, tracing along that upper row of teeth and then flush against Mira's tongue. Can't help this boldness even as someone so new to it all; if Tartaglia let fear rule him, he'd never get anywhere. So he embraces the mistakes, like the way their noses keep bumping together, and how often he opens to eyes just to stare unabashedly. ]
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Unlike Tartaglia, Mira's eyes are closed. Their face is flushed, eyebrows pulled together. Their hand tightens slightly in his hair, tongue pushing against his. Breaking the kiss, they bite down on his lip before pulling away just enough. Mira rests their forehead against his. ]
You're a very quick learner.
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[ Amid the deviancy and all of these misdemeanors is something achingly genuine, transcribed in the preposterous smile on his face as Mira calls it """quits""". It's his victory, right? Although he can't call the shots, his hand gentles where it's nudging up against their face, tucking those strands of hair back. The gentleness is evident. So is the blasé treatment, taking the opportunity to peck Mira on the mouth one more time before lounging back.
Gaze drifting down to acknowledge the hand fisted up in his shirt, it comes up amused. ]
Teach me some more? Where should I touch you next?
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It's nice, just like this. Even if it's just like this, it's fine. They'll be content enough.
Leaning into the touch, they steal another kiss before he can move too far away. ]
If I said "anywhere," we might have to find a more private place, [ they say lightly. With a hum, they loosen their grip on his shirt. Feather-light, their fingers brush along his neck. ] But it's up to you. I'm more than happy to follow your lead.
[ They're fine with anything, but they're not about to push him in any direction. ]
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[ Tartaglia doesn't retreat from it, inhabited by this sort of fragile happiness that he's so afraid of crushing by virtue of what he is. Should he play things off slower? Maybe. Kind of feels like he's rushing into it, spurred on by their willingness to go along with him. ]
If you don't get off my lap, I'll have to carry you. If you've got any complaints, you should air them out now.
[ Or else he'll whisk Mira off, and who knows what'll happen then? ]
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Something had sparked between the two of them, which scares them enough to be impossible to ignore. If they give voice to those sorts of thoughts, then it'll end badly, because the people they care about tend to get hurt. It's not quite enough for them to run away. The instinct is there, but it always is. Some things are worth sticking around for.
But they huff quietly, and while they're not embarrassed by too much, there's definite color in their cheeks. Admittedly, being carried sounds nice, but they'd probably perish on the spot.
They lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before getting to their feet. ]
Maybe one day I'll let you carry me. [ They hold out their hand. ] How about the inn?
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[ Hands interlinked, Tartaglia walks on through the hustle and bustle of the pedestrians loitering in the avenue and towards the inn, minding that kiss that snuck up on him. Don't mind him swiping a thumb over his own mouth, softly tracing where those lips pressed up against his.
By now, he's no longer completely bankrupt, fetching enough coins to pay for an evening in one of the suites. Ascending a flight of stairs and shutting the door shut behind them both, Tartaglia breaks the handhold to plunk down on the mattress. Bouncing on it a few times proves the obvious: it's a king-sized indulgence, memory foam beneath the thick duvets. He's slowly sinking where he's sitting on the very edge of it. ]
The bed's nice. Can't complain about the view, either.
[ Haha, the curtains are drawn shut. Tartaglia's gaze isn't transfixed on their accommodations, only Mira, appraising them with a stare that could flay to the bone. ]
Now, where were we?
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Wouldn't be too bad if they missed, though. It's why they give his hand a little squeeze after he pays. They'd planned on paying, but he'd beaten them to it. Gestures like this are foreign, and it leaves them feeling a mix of discomfort and gratitude. ]
Hm... I think about here.
[ This, at least, is where they're confident when they so often second-guess themselves. Under that gaze, they feel warmer, pulse racing. Mira approaches and climbs onto his lap, hands braced on his shoulders. ]
You're right. The view is excellent.
[ Not a moment after, they lean in and press their lips to his. Behind closed doors, they're more comfortable. There's heat in their kiss, and it doesn't take long for them to deepen it and slide a hand into his hair. ]
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It's all shiver-inducing, but Tartaglia treats them to love-bites instead, feisty with his mouth and belligerent with the bruises he's busted that lower lip with. Licking into it, he eventually topples backwards on the bed, hair fanned out in this ginger halo. The bright shock of it clashes with his nondescript clothes and the inscrutable look on his face when Tartaglia breaks away, huffs coming up so softly.
Still rearing up from below, his hands go sliding underneath their shirt, coasting up the planes of Mira's chest. Do they accept this trespass? ]
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The appeal of it, though, is hard to ignore. Tongue pushing against Tartaglia's, Mira wonders just how much he's willing to let them teach.
With a small, affectionate half-laugh, Mira looks down at him. His expression is hard to figure out, but that's fine with them, they tell themselves. Whatever budding curiosity they feel, there's not enough time to dwell too much when his hands brush against bare skin. It feels good, enough that there's only a moment of hesitation before they pull their shirt off.
The reason for their hesitation should be clear: Despite how lean they are, how defined their muscles are, there's a nasty, jagged scar that starts at their right shoulder. It stops at the middle of their chest, extending to the left and forming a cage made of sharp, thorny vines surrounding and crossing over their heart. ]
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omelette du fromage
Lying has never been their strong suit. Neither has being anything other than transparent, so maybe he knows. Whatever Tartaglia's done--and they know what it means to be a Fatui Harbinger, what they do to get what they want--doesn't matter too much to them. Willingly, they'd come along with him. If they really disapproved of all of it, they wouldn't be here.
So.
Admitting the thing they keep tucked inside. It's just three words, simple and short, but they also bring anxiety. A line they don't know how to cross. Something that could change everything... or change nothing. You saved me, they want to say. In more than one way.
It's been on their mind, though, recently. Like an itch they can't scratch, annoying and persistent. At least they dwell on it when they're apart from him; when they're with him, it's easy as breathing. Anxiety wiped away, because Tartaglia centers and grounds them.
But-- to the moment. Mira can't help but be amused while they're here in Fontaine. Just familiar enough to remind them of home, but in a rare, comforting way. If they can't--and they won't--show him a bit of their home, this is more than sufficient. Two homes, coming together. As far as they're concerned, Teyvat's accepted them. The Cryo vision dangling over their heart is enough proof for them. ]
You know, I'm a bit offended. [ No actual annoyance here. ] That you didn't take me here sooner. You'd better make it up to me.
https://youtu.be/fB7G-xbU1xc?si=If7QQvcxHd62hbXy
This little date doesn't curb his restlessness but nothing could be done about that regardless. His Vision's been malfunctioning as of late; he can't keep his power leashed when it's gnawing through him. Something's off.
Stuck in that raw, absurd feeling, Tartaglia's brooding right up until he isn't, Mira's voice railing for attention against one shoulder. Baited to respond, he reacts in two parts: the leveled stare and his sneaky fingers, crossing the threshold of politeness to press a cold-necked bottle of Fonta to Mira's cheek. Suffer. ]
Don't I amuse you enough? Here I thought you'd enjoy that last detour. I don't take just anyone to meet my family!
[ Even drowned in ingratitude, Tartaglia's smiley, way too flippant when he lifts his hand. ]
If you want your revenge, beat me to the punch. [ Think fast! Tartaglia goes in for the snuggly kill, wrapping Mira in a hug. Notably, he's got enough sense to hold the drink aloft so chilly soda glass isn't wedged up against their back as he lays waste to one ear. ] ... Offended, huh. Let's go at it until you're satisfied?
[ Please spar with him. He's been so deprived. ]
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Pulled out of their thoughts, their own brooding, Mira lets out a startled yelp. It melts into a laugh. Surrendering to him, they wrap their arms around his neck, leaning into that warmth. Cheeky. Despite whatever's happening with his Vision and the deeper, darker thing weighing on his mind, they settle into something more comfortable. ]
That's the only detour I'll allow.
[ It'd been almost overwhelming, watching Tartaglia and his family. Less bitter, more sweet. By the end of it, Mira had fallen for him more. ]
Extremely offended. [ With a hum, they press a kiss just below his ear. Nevermind the looks they're getting from the passerby. Shame is difficult to feel when you're accepted for everything you are. ] I'll have to accept your offer.
When I win-- [ Look, they can be cheeky, too. ] --what'll be my reward?
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[ Even as Tartaglia fields the question, he lets it slide. Part of him should rile at the prospect of a loss; he's balancing his mortality and his will to live with absolute seriousness. But that's where the madness comes in, mixing business with pleasure, spoiling common sense with the prospect of eluding death at every turn. How depraved.
In the deadlock of an embrace, Tartaglia turns his hand on the forearm looped over his shoulder, jostling it as he's kissed so chastely. If he only drags his fingers under Mira's jaw and tugs them into closeness, he could deepen the moment into something unforgivably sweet. Miraculously, he abstains. ]
Make me yield and you'll know.
[ He disentangles. Playing keep-away with his own mouth, Tartaglia steps off from the scrutiny of those prying eyes and towards the main street, unfaltering when he offers up his free hand. Handhold time? ]
Remind me where we're headed next!
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[ The push and pull, leaning back when there's a chance to give into each other--that's got a thrill of its own. Where once they were so careful, cautious, they've slowly begun to leave that behind. Bolstered by Tartaglia's confidence and audacity, his lust for fighting and pushing himself to the limits, they've managed to embrace those parts of themselves.
The way he lives is contagious, and Mira's content to be afflicted.
Standing, they take his hand, sliding their fingers between the spaces of his own. Intimacy like this is quiet, but they're always hungry for his touch. Sparking in their blood is the desire to let go, surrender to the high of battle. ]
There's an open space outside not too far from her. Perfect place, right?
[ Impatience growing, they lead him along. ]
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So you were expecting this. Planning to put me through the wringer?
[ Between soda-fizzy sips of Fonta, he tests the contours of Mira's fingers against his own. Thumbing along the bumps of their knuckles is too telling; he can barely restrain himself, confined only by the gentleness he's shown. Lowering his guard, Tartaglia moves out of the monotony of simply being led along to match Mira's pace. ]
Not that it's hard to admit. I've been looking forward to today.
[ Too bad he's insatiable. Soothing the bloodlust that lurks inside his skin and tears its way into all of his dreams probably needs a more reprimanding touch. Then again, he never learns. One step eats another and Tartaglia feeds the momentum by lengthening his stride. ]
When I win, spend more time with me. A second date, at least. And— another hug would be nice. Biggest one you can pull off.
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Mira doesn't mind. With that testing, clashing of strength, there's security in it. Knowing they're embraced for every part of them, even--especially?--the uglier parts.
So, it's easy to be with him, to laugh quietly, fondly. ]
I had a feeling this would happen, yeah. [ A squeeze to his hand, a teasing little smile. ] When you win, huh? Big words. Your conditions are nearly too much for me, but... I guess I can agree.
[ And here they are. The field is large, large enough for them to go all-out. No worries about falling off a mountain here. Before they pull away, they're not subtle about bring his hand up and brushing their lips against the back of it. It lasts a moment, gentle and natural.
They step back, eyes bright, polearm in hand. ]
Ready when you are.
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Can't get enough? You really have it out for me...
[ Kisses stretched hot on his throat or unfolded over his glove do insidious, fucked-up things to his concentration. Fill him up with that feeling. Keep preoccupying him. His attention isn't sitting with the empty bottle he sets down at all, staring only at Mira's hand where it's tensed around the shaft of that spear. ]
Come on, then. Show me a good time.
[ Calling upon his Vision today is like dredging up a memory several times misplaced, his usual daggers wavering in and out of solidity. Still, Tartaglia's confident slipping into an offensive stance as he advances, tossing the first pure hydro knife clean at Mira's pole-holding arm. Pivoting hard, he doesn't check to see if it's neatly struck its mark in favor of attempting a second blow with its twinning blade. ]
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They grin, watching him intently. ]
Keep saying stuff like that, and I won't be able to behave.
[ As if they do around him. Maybe it's far from good behavior, anyway, the way they feed off each other. A cycle of battle, constantly testing each other, pulling back and coming together. His confidence bolsters their own.
Anticipating the first blow, they shift and pivot on one foot to get a wider berth. It's fine to take the second hit, returning it with three quick jabs. They don't give him a chance to breathe just yet, aiming at his side as they sweep the flat side of weapon against his side. ]
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Who wouldn't want to make a mess out of you?
[ Tartaglia opens the conversation with a self-imposed risk, jerking up a knee so it bashes them sideways. If it connects, he insolently repeats the motion. If it fails, he's sweeping one leg to knock them both off-balance until there's enough room for air. Either way, he's cramming some distance into the equation.
Breathing evened out, he straightens, beckoning Mira with a tilted blade. Newly summoned, it breaks and reshapes like sea form as Tartaglia flips it once, end-to-end, on its sharpest edge. ]
Go ahead and act up. I'll let it slide.
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Their agility has always been one of their strong suits. The thing in their chest lies dormant, weakened from the separation of its world. The effects still linger, though, and they're more than content to take advantage of it. A benefit for both of them.
That is to say: They jerk out of the way, but it's the leg sweep that gets them. With a grunt, they stumble back and stab the polearm into the ground to steady themselves. Their blood is boiling, almost enough to suffocate, and they breathe out before straightening. ]
Mess me up? Is that a promise?
[ Act up, cause a scene, uncaring if anyone sees. Mira dashes forward, then pivots behind him. Act fast, or the whole maneuver won't work: They swing the pole around his front and catch it, slamming it back against his chest. Had their height difference be closer, they might have caught him at his throat. If they manage to pull it off, they aim for his legs, sweeping their own to keep him from recovering before pulling the weapon back to kick at his back. ]
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Wanting and cagey and restless like he has been for weeks going on weeks, he accepts the unhinged trajectory that polearm takes to yank it closer where others might've forfeited ground. Only two steps later and unholy claustrophobia veers to greet him; their faces aren't far apart when he's leaning down, dragging the weapon and Mira alike into terrifying range. ]
Just an invitation.
[ His left cheek's a whole smear of red where the gouging metal edge has sliced into the skin, cutting him open. Good thing Tartaglia is obscenely tall; he couldn't heft the spear up until someone vertically-challenged like Mira dangled on their tiptoes otherwise. ]
Where should I start? [ Annoyingly, his palm's cradling the opposing side of Mira's face, soft and boyish with his touch. ] Here?
[ Eye for an eye and all that jazz. ]
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