[ 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?
[ Always kept on their toes, they've come to appreciate this sort of unpredictability. All too well, they know their sense of control has been iron-fisted, unable and unwilling to yield. Like water eroding a mountain, Tartaglia eats away at it. There's still a brief panic at losing control, and it flashes in their eyes. But it lasts a second. Each and every time, it shortens, bit by bit.
They let out a huff, as if really annoyed, as if they couldn't just release their grip and get away. He's close enough that they could close the distance between them, give into another kind of heat even for a moment. That touch tempts them even more. As if he's dragged his fingers down their spine, they shiver.
Easing into their worse behavior, they hook a leg around his hip and fist a hand in his jacket. Leaning in, their lips brush along the shell of his ear. ]
It'd be fair enough. Or maybe you could surprise me.
[ A murmur, low and hot and challenging. It doesn't last long. The polearm shatters into a hundred sharp shards, and they drop down to the ground. Even as they put a bit of distance between them, they don't look away from him. ]
So... surprise me. Show me something I've never seen before. You might get something good.
[ Presented the ultimatum, Tartaglia sneaks his fingers through Mira's hair until the seconds run out. Once more, he's spurned. Fine. So be it. Playing nice, he bears that stare Mira inflicts, the one that sets his blood to boiling. The drip of pain following pleasure scatters his focus, but he'd never forget this sweetness even in death. No worthwhile reward comes easily. Why fight, if not for the thrill? ]
Kidding around with me now? What happened to exacting vengeance?
[ Tartaglia swipes the flat of his palm over the agony-wet ache throbbing backhanded across his face. Left untreated, his oozy and battered cheek will fester. But who cares. However much he longs for gratification, denying his feelings isn't remotely an option. His mouth resembles a butcher's cleaving knife when laid bare: no pretenses in it. ]
No matter. How can I resist? I'll take what's mine.
[ With the dirt and grass under his heels serving as his only grounding tether, he invokes his Delusion. Electro crawls to heed his call, sparks falling through him like distortions in static. Mask slung down, Tartaglia reels forward where Mira falls back, one more newly-conjured blade spun to stab his sigil into them. The arc of his plunging strike is parabolic; glinting and sun-lit, catching the angle of writhing light and deepening shadows. ]
It'll come. [ They flash a grin. ] Let's see it, then.
[ What's his, huh? He's not wrong. The electricity prickles along their arms, down their spine. No time to get distracted when he's dashing forward. Even so, they can admire the vicious beauty of their dance.
Mira brings their polearm up, but it's a little too late: The attack lands on their shoulder. They grit their teeth against the pain, but a low whine still escapes. Still, they're not deterred. Alight in more ways than one, their eyes are bright, even as the blood slides down their arm. The window is narrow for the next move. What they try next is this: They hook the pole underneath his hand, spinning it in an attempt to knock the blade out of his hand.
Whether it lands or not, they pivot on their heel and stab the polearm into the ground. Icicles erupt from the ground, a sharp and deadly trail aimed at Tartaglia. They don't allow him or themselves to breathe too long. Launching forward, they stab at him, aiming for his shoulder and another at his arm. ]
Edited (wow what happened to my html) 2023-09-26 05:37 (UTC)
[ Presented the gleaming window of opportunity, Tartaglia sinks the knife— a soft cut but ineffably deep ache— until it finds a home in the curve of Mira's shoulder. In homage to all the time they've spent together thus far, he's always looking forward to the days ahead. Life is unbearably precious. From now until forever, he couldn't ask for more.
But maybe he cares to experience too much all at once, pain overlapping desire, fond of gentleness but not wholly above inflicting agony.
No closer or further than before to eking victory, his reflexes are late to arrive, a second or two out of balance as he yanks the blade out to block the spear's path. Hoarfrost rears up in brittle pearls around his boots, sealing him in place, and there's only so much he can do to shatter its enclosing cage by pouring electricity straight into the ground. The currents are strong but this fixation with taking risk after risk wins out; unable to dodge its trajectory, he meets it in kind. Ripping off the mask with a few mangled tugs, Tartaglia edges into the rest of their space, impressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the junction between Mira's neck and shoulder.
More senselessness in the end: blood's tilting into his show of affection, staining them where they're tethered in place. After that, he carves the moment open. Tartaglia's other hand flexes only once along their sternum as he shoves Mira down into the ice field, glittering and brutal. From above, his eyes are this watery blue, like rain cleaving itself against glass to leave fitful streaks on the pane. ]
[ If it weren't for their own accelerated healing, they'd be in trouble. It's the reason they're not afraid to take the hits. Cut them to the bone, flay them open. Only Tartaglia gets that honor, that showing of trust. Unconventional, but it fits them both neatly. They've come to expect this. Acceptance comes easily after that. Remind them that they're alive and here, their own person and his.
This close together, they feel that electricity. It sparks along their skin, their bones, igniting more than a fire inside them. Tartaglia is full of surprises. Welcoming every single one, they all but melt into him. Craning their neck for more, they're well aware he could do even more damage. Don't show your throat to a predator, they've heard, but they welcome this.
Breath hitching in their throat, their heart pounds against his hand. Their own twists into his jacket, holding on desperately.
It knocks the breath out of them, the cold cutting deep through their clothes. Let them catch their breath, or don't. Either is fine. Their own body doesn't allow it; this time, it's not the cold that steals their breath. Shoulder aching, both pleasure and pain; his eyes trained on them; how vulnerable they are. Breathlessly, they manage a laugh. ]
You always do. [ Hot enough to melt the ice below them, their gaze blazes. ] What are you going to do with it?
[ Negotiating away the space, Tartaglia drops the mask outright, knifed all the way up and down his limbs where the spearpoint came clutching for fresh points of entry. No part of him has been left untouched; even the rush of victory creeps down his spine as he flexes the electro daggers past pliancy until they give way to force and abruptly shatter. Predictably, this is nothing but his everlasting death drive at work. Filthy and scraped and overdone, he steps into the shadow of Mira's fallen form. ]
Fine by me. I'll savor my win, Mira. See, behaving is a little beyond me right now. [ Forfeiting the high ground, Tartaglia crouches until they're closer together, his injuries freshly lamenting the gesture. His laughter's a thundercloud, overwrought where it lies at the bottom of his throat, ruined-sounding, half-open. And half-shut as well, as he slides onto a knee in the slushed and muddied-out ice. ] I wanted you too. Just like this.
[ Knelt-down, Tartaglia lacks a real justification for pressing their hands to touch at each fingertip, tilting into range so he can cozy up to Mira as if he didn't just stab hard enough to splinter bone and send them toppling. Noticeably, one thumb keeps passing and passing over their upturned palm, tracing static into the lines like chronic habit. ]
[ There's a glimmer in their eyes, the corners of their lips pulled up into a faint smile. As competitive as they can be, they're not at all disappointed with this. Confident, too bold, his thirst for victory all set their heart racing. Refuting that they want him is useless; they're a terrible liar, and why would they want to lie anyway?
Wanting them... It sends a thrill through them, cuts deeper than those electro blades. Reaching completely into them, into their heart and soul, they're caught off-guard. Lips parted, they look at him, at a loss for words. Two halves of them, one that knew it already, the other that always catches them no matter how many times he might say it.
And just as they've nearly recovered, he says that. Their breath sticks in their throat. This, too, is a marvel, a contrast: both of them battered and bleeding, but there's a tenderness and gentleness they're still not quite used to.
They swallow hard, vulnerable and exposed. Where it should scare them--and it does, of course--it makes them feel seen. Tartaglia has carved out a place in their heart, and despite the chill from the ice, it's a comfortable warmth that wraps around them. ]
You don't have to do anything different, [ they finally say, quiet and fond. Boldly, they intertwine their fingers and tug him in for a kiss, heat simmering just under the surface. ] I think the person you love has no complaints. As long as you're yourself, that's enough for them.
[ Weathering a beating or doling them out, Tartaglia's still at the mercy of Mira's mouth, sustained by their attention. If he only thumbs over their lips, maybe he could keep tracing all the sweetness they invite close. Lured under their touch, he's tempered into behaving for once, not nearly so handsy when overcome by kisses.
Hints of tongue, hints of teeth, mouth like a slowly broken vise to pry open. Wrenching off eventually, his knuckles stroke a path along that high, curving cheekbone, replacing some of the heat ebbed off by the cold. ]
Hey now, keeping things on the down-low? You can tell me what you like. I'll stay myself anyways.
[ Bled out of viciousness, he's shifting to drag them upright. Both of them are filthy but Tartaglia even more so, leaning solely on looks and gravitas alone to carry him through the conversation. Indecency comes second nature to him, playing hooky with busywork today to indulge in pleasure after pleasure with Mira. Remorse is but a footnote of a footnote in his mind. ]
Wanna head back? I'll treat you to a bath. [ Room service and a show, what a riot! Multitasking could be fun? Something of particular note: he hasn't moseyed in the direction of the hotel just yet. ] Though, before that... shouldn't you hold up your end of the bargain?
[ Give him his long-awaited hug. To the victor go the spoils and all that jazz. ]
[ Given the chance, they'd spend the day kissing him. It's the sweetness that follows the brutality, heightened by the way he makes their heart race. Breath caught in their chest, life breathed into them, he makes them feel things they didn't think possible. For themselves, at least.
Even though they can stand on their own, they lean into him, affection and warmth bundled up in how they look at him. ]
Well, if you insist... the bath is a good start to spoiling me.
[ The near-discomfort of asking for what they want is still there underneath the surface, but it's less intense than it used to be. Worse parts of them come out, coaxed effortlessly by him. Cracked open like it's nothing, they're more than content to indulge. And speaking of... ]
You did earn it. [ Not at all bothered, they wrap their arms around his waist, their hands curled in his jacket. Nestled against his chest, their ear pressed against his chest, they can hear and feel his heartbeat. Another reminder that they're both alive, brought together by a chance encounter. Peeking up at him, they give him a grin. ] How's this?
[ Is he ego placated so easily? As if. He's a voracious wreck that lives for the thrill of bloodsport and chaos. And yet, he's cuddling up to them like they've worn-down all of the rabidness inside of him to something gentle and docile and accepting of every slight. Softly, he deepens that sweet embrace until his heart's teetering full with it. ]
Another one, Mira. So I don't forget how it feels.
[ Annoyingly, Tartaglia lingers when they nestle in, cozied up for a handful of seconds longer. When the moment breaks, he offers his hand in the semblance of politeness. While he isn't inclined to deceive, he is quite the conniving rascal. ]
Alright, alright, I've had my fun. May I?
[ Will they allow him to fold up their hand in his and lead them back to the hotel? Let him have his way and he'll annihilate them both eventually, but his smile verges into remorseless, the curve to his mouth soft and lingering and awful in its own right. ]
[ They wonder if it'll ever be enough. If there's even one world where this feeling of being held so close and lovingly like this, Mira doesn't want to find it. Aggressive and vicious and drunk on the desire to fight, or the sweetness of coming down from the rush of a battle, Mira doesn't love one side more than the other. It's him, in the end, with all of his jagged edges. ]
Mm. You're still greedy. [ Of course, so are they. Just like a cat, they nuzzle against him. Had they the ability, they'd be purring up a hell of a storm. ] But I am, too.
[ So they take his hand, fingers sliding into the spaces of his. Shamelessly, bringing his hand up to their mouth, they brush their lips against his knuckles. ]
That's all the fun for you? [ There's something near-suggestive there. ] Maybe I'll want something more when we're back.
[ Wrap them up in your arms, Tartaglia; don't let go for a moment, because when everything gets a little too loud (because of course they've noticed, how could they not, that something's very wrong with you, something that's only just reared its head, and maybe they can do something to ease that, too), all they want to remember is being suffocated by warmth and affection and everything they can and can't handle. ]
[ All screwed-up, he heads Mira off at the pass, thumbing their mouth after all those cradling kisses, cut loose from shame to have his fun. He'll have more fun soon, tracing the appetite out of their face, starting at one cheekbone and ending at the jaw. The truth is that Tartaglia will always belong to the Tsaritsa, even if just a little, prostrating before his shrewd and loveless god. But he can devote the rest of himself to Mira, hand-in-hand with them. ]
Watch what you say around me.
[ Words worth swallowing back a mouthful of blood and joyous temptation alike when he squeezes with his other hand, tight enough for Mira's fingertips to sting.
The walk to the hotel is a stately affair, verging well into uneventful. A couple whispers abound concerning the eleventh harbinger and his plus-one, none that Tartaglia pays any mind ascending the spiraling staircase. In their personal suite, he eases the door shut, already paying for the bruises rising on his skin: he's gentler with the lock, mindful of the aches that plague the skin. Waving Mira over to the bathroom is the obvious next step.
Leaning back against the washroom's sink, he lets the bathtub fill around the plug he's set, water rushing its way out of the spout. ]
You noticed, right? I can't quite control my Vision at the moment. [ By example, he demonstrates with a snap of his fingers: formless hydro puddling on the ground where it should fill his clutching grip. ] Lug it around like this and it'll only get in my way.
[ Plucking his Vision off its clasp on his hip, Tartaglia holds it out, the glassiness of it like some blue-streaked mirror. ]
[ Unremorseful, they grin. No way will they watch what they say, not when it riles him up.
Adrenaline's wearing off the longer they walk. Crossing the threshold into their room, the tension in their shoulders relaxes. Not from the fight, but from the eyes on both of them. Loneliness is a terrible thing, but so is too much attention.
The grip, matching his, loosens when he shuts the door. What doesn't, not entirely, is the anxiety, tension of another sort coiled-up and ready to snap. Of course they've noticed. There's always a sharp spike of not-quite fear (but close enough) when it's particularly bad. It's not that he's far from capable. His strength is one of the things they admire most. He wouldn't be standing here, with them, if he weren't so stubborn about surviving.
What they don't expect is the offering. Without hesitation, they reach out and cover the Vision with their hand. They don't take it, though, but their hand closes around his hand. ]
Of course I will. [ Absentmindedly, they brush their thumb along the side of his hand. ] There's no better person to keep it safe.
[ They won't fool themselves by saying there's nothing to worry about. It's hard to ignore the effects a Delusion has on someone. Tartaglia has a strong will, and he's a far cry from people who used them without knowing the danger. Besides--even a malfunctioning Vision is still a Vision. They're together more often than not.
It's not out of the question, but Mira doesn't plan to leave his side long enough for anything like that to happen. ]
I've never heard about anything like this. Have you?
If there are others, they've managed to elude notice. To my knowledge, this is something of a first.
[ His findings have proven inconclusive. Probing into the matter only cements its nature as something of an unprecedented case. Burning in the cage of their attention, Childe's smile stays very still. ]
Worried? I won't make a fool of myself when I've got your eyes on me. [ You in his corner, you in the part of his heart housing all of his tenderness. Dutifully, he bears the soft and tender onslaught of Mira's touch, then upturns their palm to relinquish his Vision into their possession. ] Until I've fulfilled the Tsaritsa's wish for our motherland— until I've brought this world to its knees— I won't let up.
[ Tartaglia steps away, shedding clothes as he goes. Unbuttoning the lapels of his jacket, he's popping his shirt collar to pull it off by the sleeve. Boots dumped in the corner furthest from Mira, he's tugging down his trousers, the metal-heavy clink of his pauldron accompanying the thump of fabric he drapes on the rack. ]
Even so... unwinding is important, too! A warrior's condition is more crucial than you'd realize. Which is to say... [ Straightening up, he's stripped off nearly every layer save for shamelessness as he bends down to shut the tap. ] ... will you do me the honors? The fit might be cramped should you jump in after me, but we can make-do.
[ It's uncanny, how well he reads them, really. Mira clears their throat, and that's an answer all by its own. There's always going to be worry there. Whether its his safety, whether it's because bad things happen to people around them, it's hard to say.
But there's a warmth, deep and enduring, in their chest. They regard him with affection. Softening of their eyes, the way their jaw relaxes somewhat, they're likewise trapped by him and his gaze. Precious and special things don't come easily to them. Jaded by the world--worlds--as they are, when there's something that burrows itself in their heart (aside from that), they'd gladly lay their life down. ]
I'll stand next to you when that happens.
[ Really, they have no actual attachment to much of Teyvat. Snezhnaya, for the short time they'd been there, feels more like a home than anywhere else. Ringing truer is the fact that Tartaglia is theirs.
Sweeping their thumb along the face of his Vision, they're all too aware of how much trust he must have in them. They'll carry it over their heart, where it'll rest next to the shape of him. ]
As if I'll let that stop me from joining you. One of the best ways to unwind is spending time with the one you love.
[ They grin, following him in undressing. A kiss to the Vision, before they place it gently and carefully on top of their shirt. Starved for touch as they are, even after all their time, they're always looking for a chance to slip into his personal space. Which they do, crossing over to plant a hand on his chest, right over his heart. ]
Not that I'm complaining about our fight, because I never would, but how else are you supposed to clean us both up? It'd be a waste of water to take turns. Wouldn't want to do that, right?
I figured I'd take responsibility. It's my fault you're worse for the wear today.
[ Folding up his clothes doesn't mend that failing any, but Tartaglia is penitent enough. Everything's laid bare, inside and out— the parts of him ripped open on Mira's spearpoint and the bruises yet to blister, a heart-to-heart with their touch and the wounds they've made— when he sinks in the sloshing bath, little waves following his movements. ]
C'mere.
[ Circling their wrist, he tugs them in. Soothing three of his knuckles under their jaw, he edges in close, tangled in the closeness. ]
You'll hold still for me, right?
[ Try and behave for him. No funny business allowed when Tartaglia thumbs their cheekbone, then manages this delicate balancing act in the tub by reaching back around to grab the washcloth and soap. He's gentle when applying pressure, minding the places he'd cut. The blood's mostly dried; only flecks remain, red ebbing into the water. It's nearing the porcelain rim, bathwater threatening to leak and splash over. Tartaglia wipes the grime away but the memory remains, all of those injuries capsized in the skin.
Around Mira's scar, the jagged scar tissue waxing into a ferocious mess on the flesh, he kisses its outline, coming out sudsier for it. ]
[ They go easily, slipping into the water. Warmth seeps deep into their bones, soothing tired muscles. It doesn't compare to the heat between their bodies. What other option do they have but to melt against him? Like this, it's almost too easy to forget about everything else. About his Vision, about the ever-present dread that's creeped up on them since it started acting up. ]
Of course I will. [ The touch, gentle and thoughtful, relaxes them even further. It's not the first time they've remembered how easy it is to simply let things drift away, even for a short time. Any more of this, and they might get too used to the feeling. Their fingers play at the back of his neck, through his hair, sinking deep into it. ] Feels good.
[ An understatement, like many things, but speaking it outright makes it a thing that can be torn away in a moment. Their body language, how they sound and how they smile lazily, says so much more than any words could.
And speaking of. Words fail them even more at the press of his lips over their heart. Beating fast and hard, they watch him like he's the only other person in the world. It's always like this, when Tartaglia acknowledges it as something other than an ink-black blemish on their heart and soul.
They lean forward, touching their forehead to his. ]
I thought I already had, [ they joke, hand against his chest. Suds be damned, they tilt their head to brush their lips feather-light against his. ] In a way other people can see? More times than I can count. Just haven't figured out how.
Can't help you there. Guess it'll stay a secret between the two of us...
[ A bit depraved, given the damage he's utterly content to wreak on others. In many respects, he's physically intact, only truly mindfucked in the emotional sense. Most of the wounds he bears are internal, things the Abyss forcibly dragged out of him: bloodlust, irreverence, unremitting greed. Some days, those nightmares— fourteen and deathly afraid of the monstrosity he was becoming— seem to go on forever.
Rather modestly, Tartaglia presses two fingers to the raw cupid's bow of their mouth, staving off the kiss. ]
No distractions, Mira. You said you could behave, so keep your word. You can be good for me, can't you?
[ Or you can go ahead and suffer chastity for the indeterminate future? Tartaglia's content to glut himself on other pursuits, if need be.
That said, he's no stranger to hypocrisy. Scrubbing down their shoulders and the wet sprawl of their spine is the pretext of a touch that only deepens around the time Tartaglia's groping their ass in the bath. ]
It'd be nice if I could leave something on you... [ He's squeezing it with insolence now, fondling the left cheek, then the right one. ] ... or with you. I'd like to think I'm reasonable.
[ Someone sane would withhold these filthy urges. Luckily, he's deranged, so he wastes no time bouncing them on his lap. The compulsion to smack that bottom is unbearable. ]
[ A secret. They'll keep it that way, collecting them and locking them away for only the two of them. After so many years, they've learned to keep things at arm's length. Keep something close, and you're bound to lose it. Either you tighten the grip and clutch it tight to your chest, or you stay detached from everyone and everything.
Another gift from Teyvat, then, one they're loathe to share or give away. The only option is to keep Tartaglia close, through the good and the bad, even when he's on his worst behavior. They wouldn't have him any other way, with all the things he hasn't said or told them. Secrets again, buried deep down. It doesn't bother them, because they'd be a hypocrite if it did. They have their own.
And it's becoming more difficult to keep them. Resting just beneath their skin, it's like an itch that'll never be scratched. Fear? No -- it's just trying to figure out how to open them up and lay them bare.
Maybe he can tell when they're too in their head. Always him, to drag them out of it and center them. It's impossibly cruel to not be able to kiss him, but they don't try to push their luck. Besides, there's something that gets to them when he coaxes that obedience out of them. If it were anyone else, they wouldn't be so keen, but it's that unsaid desire that lives solely on his praise.
Praise kink? Not at all, except when it is. ]
I'll be good. [ Arching into his touch, it's gone far too soon. Any touch can wreck them, if it's him. Lucky for both of them, he's very generous with it, and it draws from them a quiet huff. Keep up appearances, and all that. The flush on their cheeks has nothing to do with the heat rising from the water. ] One of us has to be. [ And, teasingly-- ] I'll tolerate it only if you're having fun.
[ As if they're complaining, ever. Go ahead and give it a smack, since they're not going to stop him. ]
There are a lot of jewelers around. Maybe we could get each other something.
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blankpoint) wrote2023-01-01 03:09 pm
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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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They let out a huff, as if really annoyed, as if they couldn't just release their grip and get away. He's close enough that they could close the distance between them, give into another kind of heat even for a moment. That touch tempts them even more. As if he's dragged his fingers down their spine, they shiver.
Easing into their worse behavior, they hook a leg around his hip and fist a hand in his jacket. Leaning in, their lips brush along the shell of his ear. ]
It'd be fair enough. Or maybe you could surprise me.
[ A murmur, low and hot and challenging. It doesn't last long. The polearm shatters into a hundred sharp shards, and they drop down to the ground. Even as they put a bit of distance between them, they don't look away from him. ]
So... surprise me. Show me something I've never seen before. You might get something good.
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Kidding around with me now? What happened to exacting vengeance?
[ Tartaglia swipes the flat of his palm over the agony-wet ache throbbing backhanded across his face. Left untreated, his oozy and battered cheek will fester. But who cares. However much he longs for gratification, denying his feelings isn't remotely an option. His mouth resembles a butcher's cleaving knife when laid bare: no pretenses in it. ]
No matter. How can I resist? I'll take what's mine.
[ With the dirt and grass under his heels serving as his only grounding tether, he invokes his Delusion. Electro crawls to heed his call, sparks falling through him like distortions in static. Mask slung down, Tartaglia reels forward where Mira falls back, one more newly-conjured blade spun to stab his sigil into them. The arc of his plunging strike is parabolic; glinting and sun-lit, catching the angle of writhing light and deepening shadows. ]
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[ What's his, huh? He's not wrong. The electricity prickles along their arms, down their spine. No time to get distracted when he's dashing forward. Even so, they can admire the vicious beauty of their dance.
Mira brings their polearm up, but it's a little too late: The attack lands on their shoulder. They grit their teeth against the pain, but a low whine still escapes. Still, they're not deterred. Alight in more ways than one, their eyes are bright, even as the blood slides down their arm. The window is narrow for the next move. What they try next is this: They hook the pole underneath his hand, spinning it in an attempt to knock the blade out of his hand.
Whether it lands or not, they pivot on their heel and stab the polearm into the ground. Icicles erupt from the ground, a sharp and deadly trail aimed at Tartaglia. They don't allow him or themselves to breathe too long. Launching forward, they stab at him, aiming for his shoulder and another at his arm. ]
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But maybe he cares to experience too much all at once, pain overlapping desire, fond of gentleness but not wholly above inflicting agony.
No closer or further than before to eking victory, his reflexes are late to arrive, a second or two out of balance as he yanks the blade out to block the spear's path. Hoarfrost rears up in brittle pearls around his boots, sealing him in place, and there's only so much he can do to shatter its enclosing cage by pouring electricity straight into the ground. The currents are strong but this fixation with taking risk after risk wins out; unable to dodge its trajectory, he meets it in kind. Ripping off the mask with a few mangled tugs, Tartaglia edges into the rest of their space, impressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the junction between Mira's neck and shoulder.
More senselessness in the end: blood's tilting into his show of affection, staining them where they're tethered in place. After that, he carves the moment open. Tartaglia's other hand flexes only once along their sternum as he shoves Mira down into the ice field, glittering and brutal. From above, his eyes are this watery blue, like rain cleaving itself against glass to leave fitful streaks on the pane. ]
Do I have your attention now?
[ Is he the only thing on their mind? ]
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This close together, they feel that electricity. It sparks along their skin, their bones, igniting more than a fire inside them. Tartaglia is full of surprises. Welcoming every single one, they all but melt into him. Craning their neck for more, they're well aware he could do even more damage. Don't show your throat to a predator, they've heard, but they welcome this.
Breath hitching in their throat, their heart pounds against his hand. Their own twists into his jacket, holding on desperately.
It knocks the breath out of them, the cold cutting deep through their clothes. Let them catch their breath, or don't. Either is fine. Their own body doesn't allow it; this time, it's not the cold that steals their breath. Shoulder aching, both pleasure and pain; his eyes trained on them; how vulnerable they are. Breathlessly, they manage a laugh. ]
You always do. [ Hot enough to melt the ice below them, their gaze blazes. ] What are you going to do with it?
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[ Negotiating away the space, Tartaglia drops the mask outright, knifed all the way up and down his limbs where the spearpoint came clutching for fresh points of entry. No part of him has been left untouched; even the rush of victory creeps down his spine as he flexes the electro daggers past pliancy until they give way to force and abruptly shatter. Predictably, this is nothing but his everlasting death drive at work. Filthy and scraped and overdone, he steps into the shadow of Mira's fallen form. ]
Fine by me. I'll savor my win, Mira. See, behaving is a little beyond me right now. [ Forfeiting the high ground, Tartaglia crouches until they're closer together, his injuries freshly lamenting the gesture. His laughter's a thundercloud, overwrought where it lies at the bottom of his throat, ruined-sounding, half-open. And half-shut as well, as he slides onto a knee in the slushed and muddied-out ice. ] I wanted you too. Just like this.
[ Knelt-down, Tartaglia lacks a real justification for pressing their hands to touch at each fingertip, tilting into range so he can cozy up to Mira as if he didn't just stab hard enough to splinter bone and send them toppling. Noticeably, one thumb keeps passing and passing over their upturned palm, tracing static into the lines like chronic habit. ]
Clue me in. How should I treat the person I love?
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Wanting them... It sends a thrill through them, cuts deeper than those electro blades. Reaching completely into them, into their heart and soul, they're caught off-guard. Lips parted, they look at him, at a loss for words. Two halves of them, one that knew it already, the other that always catches them no matter how many times he might say it.
And just as they've nearly recovered, he says that. Their breath sticks in their throat. This, too, is a marvel, a contrast: both of them battered and bleeding, but there's a tenderness and gentleness they're still not quite used to.
They swallow hard, vulnerable and exposed. Where it should scare them--and it does, of course--it makes them feel seen. Tartaglia has carved out a place in their heart, and despite the chill from the ice, it's a comfortable warmth that wraps around them. ]
You don't have to do anything different, [ they finally say, quiet and fond. Boldly, they intertwine their fingers and tug him in for a kiss, heat simmering just under the surface. ] I think the person you love has no complaints. As long as you're yourself, that's enough for them.
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Hints of tongue, hints of teeth, mouth like a slowly broken vise to pry open. Wrenching off eventually, his knuckles stroke a path along that high, curving cheekbone, replacing some of the heat ebbed off by the cold. ]
Hey now, keeping things on the down-low? You can tell me what you like. I'll stay myself anyways.
[ Bled out of viciousness, he's shifting to drag them upright. Both of them are filthy but Tartaglia even more so, leaning solely on looks and gravitas alone to carry him through the conversation. Indecency comes second nature to him, playing hooky with busywork today to indulge in pleasure after pleasure with Mira. Remorse is but a footnote of a footnote in his mind. ]
Wanna head back? I'll treat you to a bath. [ Room service and a show, what a riot! Multitasking could be fun? Something of particular note: he hasn't moseyed in the direction of the hotel just yet. ] Though, before that... shouldn't you hold up your end of the bargain?
[ Give him his long-awaited hug. To the victor go the spoils and all that jazz. ]
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Even though they can stand on their own, they lean into him, affection and warmth bundled up in how they look at him. ]
Well, if you insist... the bath is a good start to spoiling me.
[ The near-discomfort of asking for what they want is still there underneath the surface, but it's less intense than it used to be. Worse parts of them come out, coaxed effortlessly by him. Cracked open like it's nothing, they're more than content to indulge. And speaking of... ]
You did earn it. [ Not at all bothered, they wrap their arms around his waist, their hands curled in his jacket. Nestled against his chest, their ear pressed against his chest, they can hear and feel his heartbeat. Another reminder that they're both alive, brought together by a chance encounter. Peeking up at him, they give him a grin. ] How's this?
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[ Is he ego placated so easily? As if. He's a voracious wreck that lives for the thrill of bloodsport and chaos. And yet, he's cuddling up to them like they've worn-down all of the rabidness inside of him to something gentle and docile and accepting of every slight. Softly, he deepens that sweet embrace until his heart's teetering full with it. ]
Another one, Mira. So I don't forget how it feels.
[ Annoyingly, Tartaglia lingers when they nestle in, cozied up for a handful of seconds longer. When the moment breaks, he offers his hand in the semblance of politeness. While he isn't inclined to deceive, he is quite the conniving rascal. ]
Alright, alright, I've had my fun. May I?
[ Will they allow him to fold up their hand in his and lead them back to the hotel? Let him have his way and he'll annihilate them both eventually, but his smile verges into remorseless, the curve to his mouth soft and lingering and awful in its own right. ]
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Mm. You're still greedy. [ Of course, so are they. Just like a cat, they nuzzle against him. Had they the ability, they'd be purring up a hell of a storm. ] But I am, too.
[ So they take his hand, fingers sliding into the spaces of his. Shamelessly, bringing his hand up to their mouth, they brush their lips against his knuckles. ]
That's all the fun for you? [ There's something near-suggestive there. ] Maybe I'll want something more when we're back.
[ Wrap them up in your arms, Tartaglia; don't let go for a moment, because when everything gets a little too loud (because of course they've noticed, how could they not, that something's very wrong with you, something that's only just reared its head, and maybe they can do something to ease that, too), all they want to remember is being suffocated by warmth and affection and everything they can and can't handle. ]
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Watch what you say around me.
[ Words worth swallowing back a mouthful of blood and joyous temptation alike when he squeezes with his other hand, tight enough for Mira's fingertips to sting.
The walk to the hotel is a stately affair, verging well into uneventful. A couple whispers abound concerning the eleventh harbinger and his plus-one, none that Tartaglia pays any mind ascending the spiraling staircase. In their personal suite, he eases the door shut, already paying for the bruises rising on his skin: he's gentler with the lock, mindful of the aches that plague the skin. Waving Mira over to the bathroom is the obvious next step.
Leaning back against the washroom's sink, he lets the bathtub fill around the plug he's set, water rushing its way out of the spout. ]
You noticed, right? I can't quite control my Vision at the moment. [ By example, he demonstrates with a snap of his fingers: formless hydro puddling on the ground where it should fill his clutching grip. ] Lug it around like this and it'll only get in my way.
[ Plucking his Vision off its clasp on his hip, Tartaglia holds it out, the glassiness of it like some blue-streaked mirror. ]
Can you keep it safe for me?
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Adrenaline's wearing off the longer they walk. Crossing the threshold into their room, the tension in their shoulders relaxes. Not from the fight, but from the eyes on both of them. Loneliness is a terrible thing, but so is too much attention.
The grip, matching his, loosens when he shuts the door. What doesn't, not entirely, is the anxiety, tension of another sort coiled-up and ready to snap. Of course they've noticed. There's always a sharp spike of not-quite fear (but close enough) when it's particularly bad. It's not that he's far from capable. His strength is one of the things they admire most. He wouldn't be standing here, with them, if he weren't so stubborn about surviving.
What they don't expect is the offering. Without hesitation, they reach out and cover the Vision with their hand. They don't take it, though, but their hand closes around his hand. ]
Of course I will. [ Absentmindedly, they brush their thumb along the side of his hand. ] There's no better person to keep it safe.
[ They won't fool themselves by saying there's nothing to worry about. It's hard to ignore the effects a Delusion has on someone. Tartaglia has a strong will, and he's a far cry from people who used them without knowing the danger. Besides--even a malfunctioning Vision is still a Vision. They're together more often than not.
It's not out of the question, but Mira doesn't plan to leave his side long enough for anything like that to happen. ]
I've never heard about anything like this. Have you?
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[ His findings have proven inconclusive. Probing into the matter only cements its nature as something of an unprecedented case. Burning in the cage of their attention, Childe's smile stays very still. ]
Worried? I won't make a fool of myself when I've got your eyes on me. [ You in his corner, you in the part of his heart housing all of his tenderness. Dutifully, he bears the soft and tender onslaught of Mira's touch, then upturns their palm to relinquish his Vision into their possession. ] Until I've fulfilled the Tsaritsa's wish for our motherland— until I've brought this world to its knees— I won't let up.
[ Tartaglia steps away, shedding clothes as he goes. Unbuttoning the lapels of his jacket, he's popping his shirt collar to pull it off by the sleeve. Boots dumped in the corner furthest from Mira, he's tugging down his trousers, the metal-heavy clink of his pauldron accompanying the thump of fabric he drapes on the rack. ]
Even so... unwinding is important, too! A warrior's condition is more crucial than you'd realize. Which is to say... [ Straightening up, he's stripped off nearly every layer save for shamelessness as he bends down to shut the tap. ] ... will you do me the honors? The fit might be cramped should you jump in after me, but we can make-do.
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But there's a warmth, deep and enduring, in their chest. They regard him with affection. Softening of their eyes, the way their jaw relaxes somewhat, they're likewise trapped by him and his gaze. Precious and special things don't come easily to them. Jaded by the world--worlds--as they are, when there's something that burrows itself in their heart (aside from that), they'd gladly lay their life down. ]
I'll stand next to you when that happens.
[ Really, they have no actual attachment to much of Teyvat. Snezhnaya, for the short time they'd been there, feels more like a home than anywhere else. Ringing truer is the fact that Tartaglia is theirs.
Sweeping their thumb along the face of his Vision, they're all too aware of how much trust he must have in them. They'll carry it over their heart, where it'll rest next to the shape of him. ]
As if I'll let that stop me from joining you. One of the best ways to unwind is spending time with the one you love.
[ They grin, following him in undressing. A kiss to the Vision, before they place it gently and carefully on top of their shirt. Starved for touch as they are, even after all their time, they're always looking for a chance to slip into his personal space. Which they do, crossing over to plant a hand on his chest, right over his heart. ]
Not that I'm complaining about our fight, because I never would, but how else are you supposed to clean us both up? It'd be a waste of water to take turns. Wouldn't want to do that, right?
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[ Folding up his clothes doesn't mend that failing any, but Tartaglia is penitent enough. Everything's laid bare, inside and out— the parts of him ripped open on Mira's spearpoint and the bruises yet to blister, a heart-to-heart with their touch and the wounds they've made— when he sinks in the sloshing bath, little waves following his movements. ]
C'mere.
[ Circling their wrist, he tugs them in. Soothing three of his knuckles under their jaw, he edges in close, tangled in the closeness. ]
You'll hold still for me, right?
[ Try and behave for him. No funny business allowed when Tartaglia thumbs their cheekbone, then manages this delicate balancing act in the tub by reaching back around to grab the washcloth and soap. He's gentle when applying pressure, minding the places he'd cut. The blood's mostly dried; only flecks remain, red ebbing into the water. It's nearing the porcelain rim, bathwater threatening to leak and splash over. Tartaglia wipes the grime away but the memory remains, all of those injuries capsized in the skin.
Around Mira's scar, the jagged scar tissue waxing into a ferocious mess on the flesh, he kisses its outline, coming out sudsier for it. ]
Ever think about leaving your mark on me?
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Of course I will. [ The touch, gentle and thoughtful, relaxes them even further. It's not the first time they've remembered how easy it is to simply let things drift away, even for a short time. Any more of this, and they might get too used to the feeling. Their fingers play at the back of his neck, through his hair, sinking deep into it. ] Feels good.
[ An understatement, like many things, but speaking it outright makes it a thing that can be torn away in a moment. Their body language, how they sound and how they smile lazily, says so much more than any words could.
And speaking of. Words fail them even more at the press of his lips over their heart. Beating fast and hard, they watch him like he's the only other person in the world. It's always like this, when Tartaglia acknowledges it as something other than an ink-black blemish on their heart and soul.
They lean forward, touching their forehead to his. ]
I thought I already had, [ they joke, hand against his chest. Suds be damned, they tilt their head to brush their lips feather-light against his. ] In a way other people can see? More times than I can count. Just haven't figured out how.
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[ A bit depraved, given the damage he's utterly content to wreak on others. In many respects, he's physically intact, only truly mindfucked in the emotional sense. Most of the wounds he bears are internal, things the Abyss forcibly dragged out of him: bloodlust, irreverence, unremitting greed. Some days, those nightmares— fourteen and deathly afraid of the monstrosity he was becoming— seem to go on forever.
Rather modestly, Tartaglia presses two fingers to the raw cupid's bow of their mouth, staving off the kiss. ]
No distractions, Mira. You said you could behave, so keep your word. You can be good for me, can't you?
[ Or you can go ahead and suffer chastity for the indeterminate future? Tartaglia's content to glut himself on other pursuits, if need be.
That said, he's no stranger to hypocrisy. Scrubbing down their shoulders and the wet sprawl of their spine is the pretext of a touch that only deepens around the time Tartaglia's groping their ass in the bath. ]
It'd be nice if I could leave something on you... [ He's squeezing it with insolence now, fondling the left cheek, then the right one. ] ... or with you. I'd like to think I'm reasonable.
[ Someone sane would withhold these filthy urges. Luckily, he's deranged, so he wastes no time bouncing them on his lap. The compulsion to smack that bottom is unbearable. ]
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Another gift from Teyvat, then, one they're loathe to share or give away. The only option is to keep Tartaglia close, through the good and the bad, even when he's on his worst behavior. They wouldn't have him any other way, with all the things he hasn't said or told them. Secrets again, buried deep down. It doesn't bother them, because they'd be a hypocrite if it did. They have their own.
And it's becoming more difficult to keep them. Resting just beneath their skin, it's like an itch that'll never be scratched. Fear? No -- it's just trying to figure out how to open them up and lay them bare.
Maybe he can tell when they're too in their head. Always him, to drag them out of it and center them. It's impossibly cruel to not be able to kiss him, but they don't try to push their luck. Besides, there's something that gets to them when he coaxes that obedience out of them. If it were anyone else, they wouldn't be so keen, but it's that unsaid desire that lives solely on his praise.
Praise kink? Not at all, except when it is. ]
I'll be good. [ Arching into his touch, it's gone far too soon. Any touch can wreck them, if it's him. Lucky for both of them, he's very generous with it, and it draws from them a quiet huff. Keep up appearances, and all that. The flush on their cheeks has nothing to do with the heat rising from the water. ] One of us has to be. [ And, teasingly-- ] I'll tolerate it only if you're having fun.
[ As if they're complaining, ever. Go ahead and give it a smack, since they're not going to stop him. ]
There are a lot of jewelers around. Maybe we could get each other something.