[ 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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
blankpoint) wrote2023-01-01 03:09 pm
no subject
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?
no subject
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?
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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?
no subject
[ 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?
no subject
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.
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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.