[ Poisoned? Sure, in a way, as Tartaglia through his teeth to regulate his breathing, eyes shut and then open when he's tugged out of the haze by that remark. Reflected back in the mirror, his gaze is ocean-deep and feverish, cutting open a new low for him, but then again, he'd crawl upon the floor for power. Shame means so much less when he's just some exalted pawn. ]

I can handle it. ... This is nothing.

[ Clearly his throat so sharply doesn't do away with this awful energy when it's pried out of him, running like the faucet. He's past denying it, the expression on his face so blistering and induced. ]

Were you thinking I'd also let you do as you please with me?

[ Fresh out of any modesty, Tartaglia shuts the sink tap off. His stare's so hot and bruising, like he's begging to be thawed out or to lay waste to something, anything at all. ]

Or did you want it another way? To watch— as I conquered you, and had my way— until you surrendered to me, over and over.

[ Hurting for it, or thriving off the challenge? Which one is it? ]

Come on. Out with it already. No more misunderstandings.