[ 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. ]
[ The willingness to consume is so much like the willingness to be consumed. That's what fresh on his mind, like spilled ink across an unlined page or the sweat-damp touch of his hands, frisking up Mira with unremitting concentration. He ought to memorize it later, so it can follow him into his dreams: the preciousness of touch that could scald even the nerves, enamored with the sort of warmth that greets him so tenderly.
Tartaglia's trying for goodness, but he never quite hits the mark. His face betrays him, the shock momentary where he's cradling Mira, fingers seized up over that nasty, mangled scar come clawing into the skin.
Clutching their hand, Tartaglia entreats them to his shoulder as he unbuttons his shirt and sets it aside, too distracted to be neat with it. ]
Go ahead and touch mine.
[ Search him for all of his scars and blemishes all over his body, the proof he's lived so ridiculously and stupidly and all for himself. Like he has any claims to modesty, after falling such a long way down into the looming darkness of the Abyss. His eyes don't shine anymore, but he's happy enough when he takes to scooting down just enough to kiss those jagged edges that spiderweb Mira's chest and over their heart. ]
[ They'd underestimated just how good his touch would be. Each trail his fingers make feel like a balm, something to chase away the loneliness they've felt for so, so long. It's almost too good, almost too much for their heart and nerves, lighting up like fireworks.
Without fully realizing it, Mira squeezes his hand gently before tracing the scars along his shoulder, his back. Just like he doesn't judge them for theirs, Mira doesn't think ill of his. It's proof of his struggles, how he'd clawed his way out and survived. ]
Ah.
[ A kiss, right over their heart, beating faster and faster. Just the simplest touch, making their pulse quicken. If he weren't holding them, if they weren't holding onto his shoulder so tightly, they'd have fallen by now. Still tracing along his, they murmur, ]
Thank you. For showing me yours.
[ A given, considering. But even as their breath catches on the words, there's gratitude there. What his scars are to him, they aren't sure. For them, it's something almost sacred, something that doesn't come easily. ]
... Don't get so worried. Most of them are old. [ Silvery and unhealed, long scratches that have cast thin and raised lines, places on the skin where the wounds mottled, jagged and uneven. ] You'd only know some of them were there with your fingertips. That's how long it's been for me.
[ Nothing painful in them anymore, whatever it meant to be bleeding and alone and afraid that he'd die just a distant memory now. ]
I like having them. If you think about it, we match.
[ Tartaglia admits his guilt to these offenses, the uselessness that comes with wanting to live so badly, even ruined and warped. Selfishness exists in everything he does, in this reversal with his hand draped on Mira's face and how his voice suffers so badly for the proximity to their scar. Too much vulnerability to confront here. ]
Can I take the rest of it off?
[ Is it alright if he lowers his guard and shows them everything? ]
[ Comforting them comes as a surprise. Just a few words, and Mira's heart aches. Not having this sort of closeness and care is what they're used to. Maybe that's what makes Tartaglia so dangerous.
Headfirst into danger and things that could hurt them, that's the way they've existed. So rarely is it a person, though. Breath coming out in a shaky exhale, they manage a quiet laugh. Their fingers ghost over more of those lines of no longer fresh pain. ]
Matching... I never thought that sort of thing. I like it, though.
[ Despite their boldness and how free they are with their touches and kisses, they hesitate for only a moment. It's not him. It's that step forward to complete vulnerability. Forehead resting against his, they nod. ]
Of course. [ Pause, then softly but resolute: ] I want to see all of you. I'll show you the same.
[ Just like the beginning of heartache, he hasn't yet reconciled himself to it. Not this pulse that's sinking in his chest or the sudden arrival of moroseness that Tartaglia has to deal with now, like he's caught up being ruinous or being ruined by them, like Mira can't possibly understand that he's more horrible than they could have feared. ]
You wouldn't want to see all of it.
[ Because Tartaglia's so filthy and appallingly desolate inside, because that isn't something he shows anyone, he might never live up to expectations. From up close, the blue of his eyes worsen like the deep plunge into the ocean. It's like staring at the end of a kaleidoscope and recognizing that there's nothing real there, just his sense of self dissolving into erraticism, nearly human but not quite whole, not anymore. ]
Sorry! You'll have to get off me for the rest.
[ Still, he's wrenching off his gloves one at a time, tugging off the scarf. The shirt's already off so Tartaglia works what he can of his trousers with Mira sitting on him, a little embarrassed but feigning confidence. That's how he is now. All he can do is bare himself like he's baring his soul. ]
[ As much as they want to refute him, they don't. Not now. Maybe down the line, maybe some time or maybe not at all. Some things don't need to be said when they can be shown. They don't know what this is, this thing between them. What they know is this: They want to follow these feelings.
It depends on him, though; if it's just one night, that's fine (but they've never been a good enough liar to fool even themselves). If it's more, then that's fine, too. At least they'll remember the pounding of their ruined heart, their lips against his, the feeling of careful hands against bare, wounded skin. As rotten to the core as they are, as much as they know their time will run out eventually, at least there's this.
Before they move off, they take his face in their hands and kisses him. The softest thing, but they hope it means something. Their expression is hard to read, but there's no uncertainty in it. ]
Well, I suppose.
[ Teasing, with a glint of mischief in their eyes, they slide off his lap. Following his lead, they make quick work of their own pants. The pounding of their heart could be painful if the desire in their eyes weren't there. ]
[ So many kisses he could drown in them. His breath's half-etched, spiking up in his throat, but Tartaglia's tugging every last obstruction out of the way so he can crash into the mattress with them.
For a moment, they're tangled up in each other, carrying on like Tartaglia isn't actually this wreck of a monster masquerading as a person. Slouching down, he can't help being immodest, cradling them close and looping their arms around him so he's up on top and Mira's lying beneath.
It's a little easier to stay levelheaded when he's got the freedom of movement. His fingers slope down, starting from their navel and drifting lower and lower, past their hipbones but stopping short soon afterwards, stalled in place. ]
Can I? [ So much for poise, when Tartaglia's red in the face, the flush brilliantly settled all over his skin. ] Do you mind?
[ Surprising even them, their laugh comes out effortlessly bright and warm. One arm stays around him. With gentle fingertips, they brush against his jaw, then up to cup his cheek.
The simplest motion, and they don't realize how they look up at him with something like wonder.
Giving up control is terrifying. Not being able to predict what'll happen if they relinquish that. Even in past encounters, they never let themselves be truly vulnerable. This, though--
Terrifying doesn't begin to describe it, but as their heart beats quick and fast and theirs, they're more than happy to take that leap. As much as they want to keep their eyes on him, they flutter closed, lips parted as that touch lowers.
His question makes their heart squeeze sweetly. They open their eyes, breath catching at the color in his cheeks. Matching that is their own flush, body hot and aching. That wonder returns, and behind it, something like a deep affection. ]
Yes. Of course, [ they breathe when they find the words, even if it's strained. ] Please.
[ Their arousal is obvious, but there's no embarrassment, only desire. ]
[ Maybe it's just docility of the heart coming around to greet him when Tartaglia's pulse is stuttering as far up as his throat. Held this kindly, all of his affection is welling up and he can't think his way out of it.
Overcome with complacency, Tartaglia doesn't have much else to say, what with being such a fool, like his namesake, like his alias. He can't even outrun the fatalism, that ever-present sense of hopelessness that ensures he'll die someday. The only thing he ever seems to do is live in the moment.
Foolish enough to keep pushing his luck, this stare stays pinned on them. Fingers probing down the length of their hard-on, it's difficult to gauge if Mira's halfway to an erection or already achingly stiff with a callused palm alone. Tartaglia's grip is considerable but he's patient enough to work them up to it. Coaxing them towards firmness with one stroke building into the next, he'd much rather move forward than retreat. ]
[ Underneath that stare, Mira feels almost too esposed.Like flesh stripped from the bone, almost. It should make them turn tail and run, and they'd be lying if they said they weren't considering it.
Could they really leave, though? That gaze isn't the only thing holding them in place. Warmth from another's body like this is hard to find. Cutting it off here and now would be the easier, kinder thing for them both. Cowardice has served them well this whole time, has helped them survive.
What is it about him, about this, that overrides that? It's not just his hand around their length, drawing out a gasp, a low moan. Terrified of falling apart completely, they hold onto his shoulders, rocking into his grip, and--
Oh. Mira swallows hard, then nods. Instinct nearly takes over and prompts them to ask if he's sure, but if he weren't, they know he wouldn't ask. ]
Yeah. [ They draw in a sharp breath, then laugh lightly. ] You're going to end up spoiling me, aren't you?
[ Spoiling is an understatement. This is the first time they've allowed it, allowed themselves to selfishly take instead of giving. ]
[ In the service of degeneracy and these abstract boundaries between them, his grip splays out, like he can tamp down desire if he's only quick about it. Given all of these extremes in pleasure, Tartaglia drowns so easily. His touch pours over them only to pull taut at the last second, forcing them to fuck right into his fist with every other tug. Riding off of this high, there's so much scathing warmth here that it's a miracle he isn't burning clean out of his skin.
Insatiable with his touch, Tartaglia's fingers are stretched out, palming down their cock with deepening strokes. Beating them off isn't just a slick and unrelenting act, it's a bid for attention, trying to captivate them with just his hand when he pumps them from tip to base. It's probably a little filthy and obscene, letting all of his thoughts melt to nothing when Mira's hips cant forward with so much urgency. Tartaglia's hand flexes just once before clutching tighter, far more deliberate than before. Nothing that takes the edge off, voice unspooling by their ear. ]
[ Caught on that knife edge between pleasure and pain, Mira cries out. If this is how it's going to be, then they want this (him) again and again, until they're sick of him. Dangerous doesn't begin to describe him and whatever this thing between them is, because this is the sort of thing they can't resist coming back to.
Tartaglia doesn't hold back. Just the opposite: He pushes them past the limits they thought they'd known so well. No complaints here, though, because if they did they would have made him stop.
Undeterred and near-desperate for more, they fuck into his fist. Tartaglia's back is going to be a mess when all is said and done. Their nails dig in deeper, voice halfway to wrecked with every punched-out sound Tartaglia pulls from them.
Make them worse, huh? Mira turns their head and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his neck before biting down. ]
I'd like to see you try, [ they manage, sliding a hand into his hair and pulling hard. Right into his ear-- ] Ruin me.
[ Groping them to hardness, Tartaglia's testing his own patience. His hand encircles them only to clench up like a clutching vise when those fingers drag all over his back, wet and spasmodic and carving into ceaseless warmth. Pretty harsh flex on Mira's part to relent to gouging at his shoulderblades, needy and wanting and stranded in the slow dissolve of sensation. It's a head-trip to describe the feeling, pain immersed in unrelenting pleasure.
Fingers forcibly uncurling, Tartaglia's thumbing down hard on the slit of their dick, groan just that side of keening, run so ragged. ]
Keep talking like that and I'll split you open. [ Vying for acknowledgement, he's thawing out. Even this soreness falling into his throat around those teeth is nothing to the aching length of his cock, left ignored in favor of beating Mira off. ] I wanna fuck you until you break. Think you'd let that happen?
[ Thinking is pretty damn difficult right now, but they make a sound in the back of their throat, desperate and gasping. It's good, so good, and the idea of Tartaglia inside them, wrecking them--
Considering it? Of course they are. Even better if he fucks like he fights. Locking eyes with him, they don't bother hiding the way their face twists in pure pleasure, the way they arch their back and press their head back into the pillow, their own neck and throat exposed and slick with sweat. ]
If you don't fuck me until I cry-- [ Close, they're so close. Hips thrusting up into his hand, they don't look away, not for a second. ] --I'll kill you.
[ Tartaglia wants to destroy them. It makes them dizzy with pleasure, more than just physical. That desire is a powerful thing, and with one more hoarse cry, they spill over his hand. ]
[ Cradling them through all of that incessant throbbing, his hand comes away so slick and wet. Defiling, in one sense, like the yearning for air in the throat, breathless when he laughs. Some of Mira's spent release is spilling through his hand and he licks, runs his tongue up the long, smearing line over his own fingertips as he sits up, wiping away the rest. How bitter. ]
Normally, I'd... hold you to your word. [ It's a sweet promise, the remants of every failed attempt to strangle the dear life out of him lashing his skin. He'd welcome another go-around of their fight until he could crown Mira, lithe and warm and much too self-destructive, in utter defeat. ] ... But you're not cut out for that right now.
[ Tartaglia's much too young and a little unconscionable to regard the danger, looming over them to grip his own forming erection and beat off into stiffness. Only takes a few strokes, really, turned on and making a very bold attempt to splay Mira's legs open and press his palm along their inner thigh. ]
I only want you. [ Coy with all of his staring, his gaze flickers up only when he's pining for attention. ] Am I what you're after?
[ They're about to object, to tell him that it's fine. Nothing they can't handle. Something stops them, though. Looking up at him, their heart squeezes tight, renders them breathless. For once, it's not the thing inside them that makes their heart ache.
For once, it's something much sweeter. Almost painfully, their breath hitches, and their eyes widen. There's no hiding from this or him. Terrifying, definitely... but maybe that's not at all a bad thing. Because Tartaglia's words, the way he looks at them, that touch against their thigh all leads to the same thought: They never stood a chance.
An answer doesn't come yet. It's hard to talk when words escape them, so their first answer is this: They wrap their arms around his neck and pull him down to kiss him. Filled with too many emotions to do anything but this, their kiss is fierce, desperate, like their life depends on it.
When they finally pull away, they press their palm against his cheek and touch their foreheads together. Trailing their other hand down between his legs, they wrap their hand around his cock and stroke one, twice, three times. ]
You are. [ Another kiss, sweeter and shorter. ] You're the only one I want, too. No one else.
[ Long past reproach, moment's escalating like some deep-seated fever. No time to break for air in the end. The kiss storms through him, his breath fracturing when he's groped back. There are plenty of things Tartaglia should relay, stripping Mira down with his gaze like he could flay them to the bone. But he falls short of all of that, indulging in the hints of tongue as his hand skews down, down, down.
To that end, he's just some wanting creature, haphazardly ransacking his clothes where they're pooling on the bed. It's cold, the bottle of lube and the uncapped lid, more than a fair amount of it dribbling into his hand and onto the sheets when pouring it into his palm. He can't be neat with it. He doesn't bother, and it hasn't quite warmed up yet as he urges their legs to ease apart. All of this very literal dick-stroking doesn't distract him any, singleminded with his intent. ]
Watch me, then. Keep your eyes on me.
[ Going after Mira with the intent to shatter their nerves, Tartaglia can't help blurring the lines between pining and obsession. Urging a finger inside the confines of their ass is a shameless act, made to displace them; he's thumbing around the hole only afterwards, hand crooked as he curls the first finger. Very slick of him, like he isn't working to split Mira open on his touch from rubbing so incessantly. ]
[ It isn't at all difficult to break them open. Eyes on him, they spread their legs more, and even though they feel so exposed and vulnerable in so many ways, it's that first push that makes them forget. Breath hitching sharp and near-painful, it's a moment or several before they relax around his finger.
His gaze pins them in place. No matter what, they know they couldn't look away. They don't want to. There's something about being seen that leaves them equal parts terrified and wanting--wanting him, to feel him, to hold him tight and never let go.
Control is a tricky thing for them. They cling tight to it, because if they don't-- No, it isn't the time for that. Putting themselves in Tartaglia's hands, he's the first to touch them just like this. Too fast, too thoughtless, they'd let it happen as easy as breathing air.
He's the first they'll let inside in every way.
Mira's hands fly to his shoulders and hold on tight. Nails dig into his shoulders, and they stare up at him with wide, hazy eyes. Already half-lost in the curl of his finger, lost in the way he's determined to wreck them from inside, it's like nothing else exists but this. ]
[ Anticipation is running down the length of his spine, baiting something more depraved than fucking them to ruin on his hand. His gaze flickers up, then down again, brought abject and low. Sweet with his hand, he's coaxing Mira to yield to the intrusion, eased with one finger and then sharply plunging in with two. Tartaglia's working them open with such filthy intent, sloppy from the outset and only getting sloppier.
Rubbing Mira to rawness from the inside, he's getting off on the messy, singleminded focus when its turned solely upon him alone. It's a hot, wanton feeling, stalled in place when all that politeness and decorum drops away from Mira's face so that deep, swallowing hunger takes its place.
Plugged up on his hand, Tartaglia scissors his fingers apart, heinous and sweet when he resumes shoving past the flexing rim and the taut ring of muscle. So maybe he's a little attention-starved as well, craving approval so monstrously that he smiles under these delights. ]
Give me your worst, too. I insist.
[ He won't quit the foreplay if they aren't halfway to unraveled and begging for it. ]
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blankpoint) wrote2023-01-01 03:09 pm
no subject
[ 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? ]
no subject
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?
no subject
[ 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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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? ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
Tartaglia's trying for goodness, but he never quite hits the mark. His face betrays him, the shock momentary where he's cradling Mira, fingers seized up over that nasty, mangled scar come clawing into the skin.
Clutching their hand, Tartaglia entreats them to his shoulder as he unbuttons his shirt and sets it aside, too distracted to be neat with it. ]
Go ahead and touch mine.
[ Search him for all of his scars and blemishes all over his body, the proof he's lived so ridiculously and stupidly and all for himself. Like he has any claims to modesty, after falling such a long way down into the looming darkness of the Abyss. His eyes don't shine anymore, but he's happy enough when he takes to scooting down just enough to kiss those jagged edges that spiderweb Mira's chest and over their heart. ]
no subject
Without fully realizing it, Mira squeezes his hand gently before tracing the scars along his shoulder, his back. Just like he doesn't judge them for theirs, Mira doesn't think ill of his. It's proof of his struggles, how he'd clawed his way out and survived. ]
Ah.
[ A kiss, right over their heart, beating faster and faster. Just the simplest touch, making their pulse quicken. If he weren't holding them, if they weren't holding onto his shoulder so tightly, they'd have fallen by now. Still tracing along his, they murmur, ]
Thank you. For showing me yours.
[ A given, considering. But even as their breath catches on the words, there's gratitude there. What his scars are to him, they aren't sure. For them, it's something almost sacred, something that doesn't come easily. ]
no subject
[ Nothing painful in them anymore, whatever it meant to be bleeding and alone and afraid that he'd die just a distant memory now. ]
I like having them. If you think about it, we match.
[ Tartaglia admits his guilt to these offenses, the uselessness that comes with wanting to live so badly, even ruined and warped. Selfishness exists in everything he does, in this reversal with his hand draped on Mira's face and how his voice suffers so badly for the proximity to their scar. Too much vulnerability to confront here. ]
Can I take the rest of it off?
[ Is it alright if he lowers his guard and shows them everything? ]
no subject
Headfirst into danger and things that could hurt them, that's the way they've existed. So rarely is it a person, though. Breath coming out in a shaky exhale, they manage a quiet laugh. Their fingers ghost over more of those lines of no longer fresh pain. ]
Matching... I never thought that sort of thing. I like it, though.
[ Despite their boldness and how free they are with their touches and kisses, they hesitate for only a moment. It's not him. It's that step forward to complete vulnerability. Forehead resting against his, they nod. ]
Of course. [ Pause, then softly but resolute: ] I want to see all of you. I'll show you the same.
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You wouldn't want to see all of it.
[ Because Tartaglia's so filthy and appallingly desolate inside, because that isn't something he shows anyone, he might never live up to expectations. From up close, the blue of his eyes worsen like the deep plunge into the ocean. It's like staring at the end of a kaleidoscope and recognizing that there's nothing real there, just his sense of self dissolving into erraticism, nearly human but not quite whole, not anymore. ]
Sorry! You'll have to get off me for the rest.
[ Still, he's wrenching off his gloves one at a time, tugging off the scarf. The shirt's already off so Tartaglia works what he can of his trousers with Mira sitting on him, a little embarrassed but feigning confidence. That's how he is now. All he can do is bare himself like he's baring his soul. ]
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It depends on him, though; if it's just one night, that's fine (but they've never been a good enough liar to fool even themselves). If it's more, then that's fine, too. At least they'll remember the pounding of their ruined heart, their lips against his, the feeling of careful hands against bare, wounded skin. As rotten to the core as they are, as much as they know their time will run out eventually, at least there's this.
Before they move off, they take his face in their hands and kisses him. The softest thing, but they hope it means something. Their expression is hard to read, but there's no uncertainty in it. ]
Well, I suppose.
[ Teasing, with a glint of mischief in their eyes, they slide off his lap. Following his lead, they make quick work of their own pants. The pounding of their heart could be painful if the desire in their eyes weren't there. ]
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For a moment, they're tangled up in each other, carrying on like Tartaglia isn't actually this wreck of a monster masquerading as a person. Slouching down, he can't help being immodest, cradling them close and looping their arms around him so he's up on top and Mira's lying beneath.
It's a little easier to stay levelheaded when he's got the freedom of movement. His fingers slope down, starting from their navel and drifting lower and lower, past their hipbones but stopping short soon afterwards, stalled in place. ]
Can I? [ So much for poise, when Tartaglia's red in the face, the flush brilliantly settled all over his skin. ] Do you mind?
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The simplest motion, and they don't realize how they look up at him with something like wonder.
Giving up control is terrifying. Not being able to predict what'll happen if they relinquish that. Even in past encounters, they never let themselves be truly vulnerable. This, though--
Terrifying doesn't begin to describe it, but as their heart beats quick and fast and theirs, they're more than happy to take that leap. As much as they want to keep their eyes on him, they flutter closed, lips parted as that touch lowers.
His question makes their heart squeeze sweetly. They open their eyes, breath catching at the color in his cheeks. Matching that is their own flush, body hot and aching. That wonder returns, and behind it, something like a deep affection. ]
Yes. Of course, [ they breathe when they find the words, even if it's strained. ] Please.
[ Their arousal is obvious, but there's no embarrassment, only desire. ]
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Overcome with complacency, Tartaglia doesn't have much else to say, what with being such a fool, like his namesake, like his alias. He can't even outrun the fatalism, that ever-present sense of hopelessness that ensures he'll die someday. The only thing he ever seems to do is live in the moment.
Foolish enough to keep pushing his luck, this stare stays pinned on them. Fingers probing down the length of their hard-on, it's difficult to gauge if Mira's halfway to an erection or already achingly stiff with a callused palm alone. Tartaglia's grip is considerable but he's patient enough to work them up to it. Coaxing them towards firmness with one stroke building into the next, he'd much rather move forward than retreat. ]
Is it alright if I use more than my hand on you?
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Could they really leave, though? That gaze isn't the only thing holding them in place. Warmth from another's body like this is hard to find. Cutting it off here and now would be the easier, kinder thing for them both. Cowardice has served them well this whole time, has helped them survive.
What is it about him, about this, that overrides that? It's not just his hand around their length, drawing out a gasp, a low moan. Terrified of falling apart completely, they hold onto his shoulders, rocking into his grip, and--
Oh. Mira swallows hard, then nods. Instinct nearly takes over and prompts them to ask if he's sure, but if he weren't, they know he wouldn't ask. ]
Yeah. [ They draw in a sharp breath, then laugh lightly. ] You're going to end up spoiling me, aren't you?
[ Spoiling is an understatement. This is the first time they've allowed it, allowed themselves to selfishly take instead of giving. ]
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[ In the service of degeneracy and these abstract boundaries between them, his grip splays out, like he can tamp down desire if he's only quick about it. Given all of these extremes in pleasure, Tartaglia drowns so easily. His touch pours over them only to pull taut at the last second, forcing them to fuck right into his fist with every other tug. Riding off of this high, there's so much scathing warmth here that it's a miracle he isn't burning clean out of his skin.
Insatiable with his touch, Tartaglia's fingers are stretched out, palming down their cock with deepening strokes. Beating them off isn't just a slick and unrelenting act, it's a bid for attention, trying to captivate them with just his hand when he pumps them from tip to base. It's probably a little filthy and obscene, letting all of his thoughts melt to nothing when Mira's hips cant forward with so much urgency. Tartaglia's hand flexes just once before clutching tighter, far more deliberate than before. Nothing that takes the edge off, voice unspooling by their ear. ]
I'll make you worse.
[ Sorry about roughing you up, Mira. ]
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Tartaglia doesn't hold back. Just the opposite: He pushes them past the limits they thought they'd known so well. No complaints here, though, because if they did they would have made him stop.
Undeterred and near-desperate for more, they fuck into his fist. Tartaglia's back is going to be a mess when all is said and done. Their nails dig in deeper, voice halfway to wrecked with every punched-out sound Tartaglia pulls from them.
Make them worse, huh? Mira turns their head and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to his neck before biting down. ]
I'd like to see you try, [ they manage, sliding a hand into his hair and pulling hard. Right into his ear-- ] Ruin me.
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Fingers forcibly uncurling, Tartaglia's thumbing down hard on the slit of their dick, groan just that side of keening, run so ragged. ]
Keep talking like that and I'll split you open. [ Vying for acknowledgement, he's thawing out. Even this soreness falling into his throat around those teeth is nothing to the aching length of his cock, left ignored in favor of beating Mira off. ] I wanna fuck you until you break. Think you'd let that happen?
[ Messy virgin sex could be fun? Consider it. ]
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Considering it? Of course they are. Even better if he fucks like he fights. Locking eyes with him, they don't bother hiding the way their face twists in pure pleasure, the way they arch their back and press their head back into the pillow, their own neck and throat exposed and slick with sweat. ]
If you don't fuck me until I cry-- [ Close, they're so close. Hips thrusting up into his hand, they don't look away, not for a second. ] --I'll kill you.
[ Tartaglia wants to destroy them. It makes them dizzy with pleasure, more than just physical. That desire is a powerful thing, and with one more hoarse cry, they spill over his hand. ]
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Normally, I'd... hold you to your word. [ It's a sweet promise, the remants of every failed attempt to strangle the dear life out of him lashing his skin. He'd welcome another go-around of their fight until he could crown Mira, lithe and warm and much too self-destructive, in utter defeat. ] ... But you're not cut out for that right now.
[ Tartaglia's much too young and a little unconscionable to regard the danger, looming over them to grip his own forming erection and beat off into stiffness. Only takes a few strokes, really, turned on and making a very bold attempt to splay Mira's legs open and press his palm along their inner thigh. ]
I only want you. [ Coy with all of his staring, his gaze flickers up only when he's pining for attention. ] Am I what you're after?
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For once, it's something much sweeter. Almost painfully, their breath hitches, and their eyes widen. There's no hiding from this or him. Terrifying, definitely... but maybe that's not at all a bad thing. Because Tartaglia's words, the way he looks at them, that touch against their thigh all leads to the same thought: They never stood a chance.
An answer doesn't come yet. It's hard to talk when words escape them, so their first answer is this: They wrap their arms around his neck and pull him down to kiss him. Filled with too many emotions to do anything but this, their kiss is fierce, desperate, like their life depends on it.
When they finally pull away, they press their palm against his cheek and touch their foreheads together. Trailing their other hand down between his legs, they wrap their hand around his cock and stroke one, twice, three times. ]
You are. [ Another kiss, sweeter and shorter. ] You're the only one I want, too. No one else.
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To that end, he's just some wanting creature, haphazardly ransacking his clothes where they're pooling on the bed. It's cold, the bottle of lube and the uncapped lid, more than a fair amount of it dribbling into his hand and onto the sheets when pouring it into his palm. He can't be neat with it. He doesn't bother, and it hasn't quite warmed up yet as he urges their legs to ease apart. All of this very literal dick-stroking doesn't distract him any, singleminded with his intent. ]
Watch me, then. Keep your eyes on me.
[ Going after Mira with the intent to shatter their nerves, Tartaglia can't help blurring the lines between pining and obsession. Urging a finger inside the confines of their ass is a shameless act, made to displace them; he's thumbing around the hole only afterwards, hand crooked as he curls the first finger. Very slick of him, like he isn't working to split Mira open on his touch from rubbing so incessantly. ]
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His gaze pins them in place. No matter what, they know they couldn't look away. They don't want to. There's something about being seen that leaves them equal parts terrified and wanting--wanting him, to feel him, to hold him tight and never let go.
Control is a tricky thing for them. They cling tight to it, because if they don't-- No, it isn't the time for that. Putting themselves in Tartaglia's hands, he's the first to touch them just like this. Too fast, too thoughtless, they'd let it happen as easy as breathing air.
He's the first they'll let inside in every way.
Mira's hands fly to his shoulders and hold on tight. Nails dig into his shoulders, and they stare up at him with wide, hazy eyes. Already half-lost in the curl of his finger, lost in the way he's determined to wreck them from inside, it's like nothing else exists but this. ]
T-- Tartaglia.
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Rubbing Mira to rawness from the inside, he's getting off on the messy, singleminded focus when its turned solely upon him alone. It's a hot, wanton feeling, stalled in place when all that politeness and decorum drops away from Mira's face so that deep, swallowing hunger takes its place.
Plugged up on his hand, Tartaglia scissors his fingers apart, heinous and sweet when he resumes shoving past the flexing rim and the taut ring of muscle. So maybe he's a little attention-starved as well, craving approval so monstrously that he smiles under these delights. ]
Give me your worst, too. I insist.
[ He won't quit the foreplay if they aren't halfway to unraveled and begging for it. ]
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