[Guess who has his sword back? Some weeks after their initial encounter, Tartaglia will find a letter addressed to him in his mailbox challenging him to a duel on top of the mountain— far away from any prying eyes or ears.
Sounds like Diluc finally has his sword back and is ready to kick some Fatui ass. See you there, trash.]
Whether by oversight or confidence, Diluc failed to specify an actual time to go with that date and location. Namely, it means that Tartaglia's ditched any sense of self-preservation (and decorum besides) to wait it out in a tree up on the peak in question.
Situated out there in the cold, he's unconcerned about vengeance coming for his throat any more than he is whatever grudge is compelling Diluc's loathing.
The realest countermeasures is also the one parceled without pretenses. Whenever Diluc deigns to arrive, he'll nock an arrow and bury it between those shoulder-blades to apply Riptide if allowed. So much for subtlety. ]
[look deep within yourself, also STOP GODMODDING ME??? WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS
He totally did specify a time and place contrary to rem's bullshit, and when Diluc arrives, his ears are perked. He hears the pull of an arrow being nocked and calls out his blade, and when it manifests on his back, that arrow is easily repelled.
Turning to the source of that arrow, Diluc readies his blade, points it at the man he's come here to kill.]
Hiding in a tree is cowardly, but I shouldn't have expected any better of you. Get down here and fight.
[ Jumping down, he's all glittery smiles, ever since catching sight of that blade. ]
You sure know how to impress. You've really been working hard not to disappoint! I didn't think you'd take it seriously. [ Does that mean Diluc's succumbed to hypocrisy? ] I'll really have to show you up, now.
[ Time to put this tomato under the hydraulic press. Tartaglia targets the bow head-on this time, aiming right between the eyes. It is, of course, another charged shot. Several, actually, a whole volley of them as he's weaving back through the underbrush, maintaining just enough distance to attempt spotting which side Diluc favors. Which side does he favor? And which side is the most vulnerable? ]
It's the blade he's dazzled by and not his opponent, Diluc doesn't fail to notice. But if that's the case, perhaps he ought to show him what this blade is made for, setting it aflame and swinging it in a wide arc to catch those arrows and vaporize each one.
Tartaglia may be studying him, but Diluc is no different, following the trajectory of his every shot, the dodgy movements he makes behind the cover of that underbrush. It's getting burnt with a sweep of his blade, and if Tartaglia doesn't move back into clearer territory, he'll be the one burning soon.]
...You're not very skilled with a bow, are you? What a poor choice of weapon.
[diluc is lefthanded in the comics and righthanded in the game so idk what you want me to say about which side he favors, all his sides are sidey idk]
[ Stop, he's enticed to this commitment to forego those words Diluc had spoken prior, unwilling to bow his head before the Harvest Goddess. Perhaps that hostility can reach him, now that he's willing to go to these lengths? Filing away the ambidextrous bullshit in this equation, Tartaglia surveys the mess Diluc's made of this place— fire devouring everything— then shoots an arrow up until it bursts water about him, clearing the vicinity of flames. ]
Make me pull out the stops.
[ Through the smoke fanned up and billowing, he's shot back up into the air, fast and then slow with how he's angling his bow, irregular with his shots so Diluc can't deflect them all with one swipe of that arduously heavy blade. All he needs is to land a single hit. ]
[So you're asking him to perform for you, Tartaglia? Don't count on it. Unlike his enemy, Diluc isn't here to show off or make a game out of what can only be a bloodbath, narrowing his eyes to hone in on Tartaglia through the veil of steam and ashen smoke.
His shots are irregular, the only upside of his inexperience with a bow, leaving Diluc to deflect only those which would do the most damage while the others whiff past his sides, drawing thin beads of blood to the surface of his skin.
But death by a thousand cuts is a poor offense, Tartaglia. Diluc's moving into the underbrush, bullying his way into the man's space, flames licking at his retreating feet with every step. A bow and arrow will do him no good if he doesn't think fast and get Diluc out of his face. No matter where he steps, Diluc moves to corner him, pushing him further and further into a corner with hot bursts of Pyro.]
It's a wonder you've survived this long. That ends today.
[ Soothes nothing at all to fall so short in power still, inexperience like a short chain that he always has to abide by, transfixing him to one spot too long as he struggles to straighten his stance. Far too many of his arrows fall short or slice too shallowly, but there is one that does strike Diluc true. Wherever it is, high on the shoulder or low on the thigh or even between the ribs, that blotch of Riptide, radiating blue all the way through and pulsing like a heart, remains. It won't last long, not when the heat is this intense. But it does guarantee that Tartaglia will hit his mark.
No more sophistry, then. No more words, either. Tartaglia dismisses the bow to take up the spear, the line of it whirling and lake-cold, and lunges out. He isn't blending in with the shadows, not like this— too apparent in his intent, and too bloodthirsty for discretion— so he takes up the cavalier approach, the polearm sliding with enough blunt trauma to shatter Diluc's arm in three different places if he doesn't get the fuck out of the way. Mercifully, it'll only hit him once if he knows well enough to dodge.
Smoke's trailing it through; it shoots through the inferno like it's nothing, Tartaglia seeking to pin Diluc to the nearby boulder, short of sending him crashing down the mountainside. Despite everything, this does end today. ]
[It doesn't matter how poorly-shot those arrows are when the one that manages to slice cleanly between his ribs leaves him marked, an easy target in Tartaglia's sights. It doesn't matter how inexperience handicaps him when he's guaranteed to injure him with the next strike, so that's more incentive to stay hot on this man's trail, throw even more of himself into the act of hacking away at a man who has no right remaining on this earth.
So is it worth sacrificing his arm to distract Tartaglia? That remains to be seen, but while his left arm is crippled by his side, Diluc's right drops his blade to take him by the skull and slam him into a nearby tree. The force is so rattling, so injurious that it'd be a miracle of Tartaglia stumbled away from it without a minor concussion at the very least. Try and kick him down the mountain now, trash. He won't go down without a bloody fight.]
Sentenced to that concussion, the pain briefly renders him insensate, the moment blurring on him. Standing in the greenery or the acrid smoke, the heat has gone up like water vapor when Tartaglia ignores the ringing in his ears to shove Diluc back, cornered but unwilling to back down. Blood's on his face. He blinks it out of his eyelashes.
The headache is clawing up. It's on him now, white-hot and killing any higher thinking, and the comparison just gives out there, Tartaglia doesn't have any analogies for this. There's two of Diluc, then three of him, all advancing on him. Too close for comfort, when the space is claustrophobic and shrinking with the sputtering flames. Not too bad, though, he can still take this bastard on.
Dropping the spear, Tartaglia advances with the daggers instead, bare and violent with these urges as he goes in for the stabbing with clean finesse. All of the articulation lives in his hands, since he always fights like he's approaching death. Steadiness in the grip is necessary to carry out everything that's commanded of him. ]
[Nothing speaks to the quality of another's soul like how they act in the wake of grievous injury. Someone who cared to keep their own life would have backed down by now, so what does he call Tartaglia? Brave? Foolish? Does the distinction even matter?
Without his claymore, deflecting those daggers is a matter of hand-to-hand combat, but it's a relatively simple matter with Tartaglia's vision clearly betraying him. His refusal to yield still means he manages to land a cut or two, a laceration across his bad arm, but little more.
Frustratingly enough, they're evenly matched. Diluc waits until Tartaglia's swiped poorly with those watery blades and strikes the underside of his elbow, promising a fracture or a bruised bone at the very least.]
Give up.
[You're flagging, Tartar. Even Fatui scum must have some base desire to live and preserve its own life.]
The frustration comes to him unbidden, unable to so much as chaotically scrape away at Diluc, but death by a thousand cuts doesn't suit him either. Anger comes rising and Tartaglia's rising with it; his arm's been dislocated, on the verge of broken, and he isn't the testing the sprain in it so much as he's shoving it back into place with a hiss that rushes all the way into pain.
Inflammation or the beginnings of blood loss are greeting Tartaglia, and he reels and grapples at Diluc to bonk him on the head with his own. How graceful. Fair's fair. So is this: lodging the knife in Diluc's hand so he's sent plummeting down to the ground with him, concussed or mangled or fallen victim to his resolve. ]
[Stupid indeed, but he's not faring much better than Tartaglia with his broken, bleeding arm accounted for. He isn't seeing double, nor triple, but the blood loss makes him slow, his reaction time poor but not as poor as Tartaglia's.
That headbutt smarts, but not nearly as much as the other wounds he's inflicted upon him, but it doesn't need to. It succeeds in knocking him off his feet and to the ground, but grappling Tartaglia's shoulder, he's taking him down for the count with him. The knife in his palm? Patently unnecessary, but he yanks it out of the ground with a hiss and beats the side of Tartaglia's head with the handle.
He's knocked them both to the ground, but Diluc isn't down for the count yet. His aim is poor, what damage he's able to inflict in Tartaglia in this state poorer, left gasping up at the man when the pain in his arm supersedes his ability to beat him senseless with it. A moment to recover is all he needs. Surely, that's all he'll need.]
[ Not that much allure in it, a victim of opportunity that can't outrun this harrowing ordeal with some asshole who hates Tartaglia for merely existing. Can't be helped at all, down on the ground and unable to even seize his fingers around that throat when his body won't obey him. One arm's unusable. The other one is caught in a feeling Tartaglia can't outlast at all, gone numb when it isn't driving him crazy under the pain. Even with Diluc given out to breathlessness beneath him, it's starting to feel a lot like one of them will die.
Huffing and flippant, Tartaglia bites off any further retort in favor of shoving their mouths together. Retaliatory and invasive, he's converging on him with all the adrenaline he couldn't leave behind. The weight of this gesture is heavy on his backbone and bleeding into everything, shoving him down so Diluc doesn't do anything particularly uncouth, like bash his head in again at this junction. ]
[Tartaglia's response is as shocking as it is unwanted, blood thick and acrid on his tongue where they meet somewhere in the nebulous in between. Diluc laughs some harsh bark of a laugh, adrenaline pounding in his ears, the sheer absurdity of the moment driving him to lift a heel and kick the small of Tartaglia's back, but his lips don't break that kiss.
It's all driven by momentum, threading his tongue into that mouth to coax out Tartaglia's and bite it bloody. He's given Diluc nowhere to go but further into him, and so be it. He won't cede as much as he'll make him regret coming anywhere near him, blurring the line between violence and closeness to such a blatant degree.
[ Stay so belligerent and get eaten. Fronting for nothing, Tartaglia's imprisoning him here for the lack of any better alternative, lip gnawed into this wet, acrid mess, parting them for the next biting trespass.
With Diluc's tongue in his mouth, he's drifting out of one offense to commit another. Not enough strength for the knives to keep their form, splashing to nothing when he's yanking down that collar to apply himself more constructively, teeth ragged and scraping down that throat to bruises that'll languish for days. It tastes like blood, all of it, bitter and metallic, all of these feelings rusting in his mouth as he ignores the pounding on his back to divest Diluc of any modesty. If he's wearing a coat, it's coming off. ]
[It burns, deeply and corrosively, heat spreading down from his lips to his throat to the vulnerability of his neck. He should be sick of this by now, being knocked down and stripped away like he has anything left to lose, but he treats it just as he had before: with no small amount of violence and heat.
Tartaglia's trespass is allowed only long enough to retaliate, hissing under the pressure of his teeth to tear at the back of his shirt, promising to send him home in tatters if he survives this ordeal at all. His jacket is done away with by Tartaglia's hand, but he removes his gloves of his own volition to claw at his back, draw angry red lines down the skin where he's left it bare.
There's nothing passionate here, only anger and adrenaline and a desire to divest as much of Tartaglia as he's divested of him. An eye for an eye with hostility to spare. His breath his hot and rushing against the side of Tartaglia's neck, but there's nothing warm about it. Nothing inviting.]
[ Too much violence glinting here, like an unsheathed blade he keeps tempting to bite his throat. Too much crassness and unpredictability here to call this anything but a risky venture into inanity and a danger that he can't cut himself loose from. All he can do now is play to his own strengths, back itching with all of that newfangled pain.
The laughter that issues out of Tartaglia is thin and careless, too, those fingers biting into his skin until they find purchase on the skin. Still not fully awake yet, burdened by this headache and blood loss besides, he's frisking open Diluc's shirt, all while his mouth is pooling with so much blood. Panting, he spits the rancor out of it, then lowers his hand to wrench off that belt next. Looks like he'll just keep going. ]
[Ridiculous is what this is, but which of them is truly absurd when Diluc is stooping to Tartaglia's lows? Is he punishing him? Teaching him a lesson?
Regardless, it's adrenaline and spite that urges him to knock Tartaglia off and reverse their positions, knees bloodied where they dig into the soil on either side of him, staring down at Tartaglia like there's any reason to be found in those eyes. There's nothing, nothing at all to be found in eyes so deep and dark, Diluc's hand coming up around Tartaglia's throat like he might choke the reason from his lips if he tries hard enough.
He isn't stopping the advancement of Tartaglia's hands, nor is he holding down particularly hard on his throat, guttering at him low and quiet.]
Are you that eager to be torn apart?
[This is your one chance to side with reason and back out, Tartaglia. This is your one chance to be spared.]
Not at all. I'm eager to tear into you, though. I think you'd show me an interesting sight.
[ Derogatory and vain besides, Tartaglia takes that hand to the thinnest part of his throat with no particular malice, ringed with all of these bruises that Diluc's poured all over his skin. Crossing his mind again and again are all of these filthy thoughts that he does need to keep at bay, so he isn't causing strife and undue chaos everywhere he goes.
His motives should be grander than simple boredom; but lying here on the ground, halfway to concussed and still tasting Diluc in his mouth, his fingers are clambering up to clutch at that soft baby-face. So stupid, how soft this guy looks. Really, if he had the strength, he'd punch him back down until he was gasping to be forgiven. ]
[It's worse having his face touched, worse having those hands fit around his features like he's being mapped out, studied, memorized. He has half a mind to smack Tartaglia, but he doesn't, flipping him around so that offensive face is half-buried in the dirt and grit.]
Serve you? Hardly. You've come to me looking for punishment, so don't expect anything less.
[It's pretty clear what Tartaglia's after, but he'll give it to him on his own terms, yanking his belt free from its loops and casting it aside, Vision and all.]
[ Gasping into the dirt, Tartaglia doesn't so much as outwardly react when his Vision's stripped away. Fuck, he didn't deprive Diluc of his own. Hard to keep track of it through the acrid haze of smoke filling up his line of sight, but he isn't fighting him off, either, as he struggles to keep his breathing relatively even. It's fine. ]
Sure you're not the one seeking punishment here?
[ Someone's got issues that need reconciling with. ]
[What pitiful resistance. Tartaglia isn't objecting to his punishment, so Diluc continues, wrenching down his pants and underwear both. So many chances to call it off, so many chances to preserve his modesty and ego both, and Tartaglia takes none of them. Spreading his cheeks open wide, Diluc harshly spits.]
And you would consider prostrating yourself before me punishment?
[What an ass backwards way of thinking. What's the boner situation here, rem? Is Tartaglia more of a freak than Diluc's given him credit for?]
What about this is prostration? [ Not that he's groveling, even now. He's far too cavalier for that, although he won't be able to save face for long. Even he can't turn away from pain inured to him, breathlessness swallowing him up. A bit humiliating if he thinks about the position, though, this undercurrent of bitterness seeping into everything. ] I'm not forcing your hand now, am I?
[ Take some culpability already. This isn't any real punishment, so much as it is a way for Diluc to rationalize what's occurring right now. ]
[You know what? Fine. Morbid fascination dictates that he reach down and grope around to confirm his suspicions, but he doesn't appreciate that accusation, so he squeezes harder than is strictly necessary.]
You've changed your tune rather quickly. What happened to your eager hands?
[Or were you undressing him to kiss his booboos, Tartaglia? There's no attempt to rationalize this beyond pinning the blame solely on Tartaglia, lining up to slowly, painfully shove his way inside of him. It's pain on both ends, but Diluc wouldn't have it any other way. Tartaglia asked for this.]
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kicking tartagliass
Sounds like Diluc finally has his sword back and is ready to kick some Fatui ass. See you there, trash.]
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Whether by oversight or confidence, Diluc failed to specify an actual time to go with that date and location. Namely, it means that Tartaglia's ditched any sense of self-preservation (and decorum besides) to wait it out in a tree up on the peak in question.
Situated out there in the cold, he's unconcerned about vengeance coming for his throat any more than he is whatever grudge is compelling Diluc's loathing.
The realest countermeasures is also the one parceled without pretenses. Whenever Diluc deigns to arrive, he'll nock an arrow and bury it between those shoulder-blades to apply Riptide if allowed. So much for subtlety. ]
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He totally did specify a time and place contrary to rem's bullshit, and when Diluc arrives, his ears are perked. He hears the pull of an arrow being nocked and calls out his blade, and when it manifests on his back, that arrow is easily repelled.
Turning to the source of that arrow, Diluc readies his blade, points it at the man he's come here to kill.]
Hiding in a tree is cowardly, but I shouldn't have expected any better of you. Get down here and fight.
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I wanted to test your reflexes!
[ Jumping down, he's all glittery smiles, ever since catching sight of that blade. ]
You sure know how to impress. You've really been working hard not to disappoint! I didn't think you'd take it seriously. [ Does that mean Diluc's succumbed to hypocrisy? ] I'll really have to show you up, now.
[ Time to put this tomato under the hydraulic press. Tartaglia targets the bow head-on this time, aiming right between the eyes. It is, of course, another charged shot. Several, actually, a whole volley of them as he's weaving back through the underbrush, maintaining just enough distance to attempt spotting which side Diluc favors. Which side does he favor? And which side is the most vulnerable? ]
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It's the blade he's dazzled by and not his opponent, Diluc doesn't fail to notice. But if that's the case, perhaps he ought to show him what this blade is made for, setting it aflame and swinging it in a wide arc to catch those arrows and vaporize each one.
Tartaglia may be studying him, but Diluc is no different, following the trajectory of his every shot, the dodgy movements he makes behind the cover of that underbrush. It's getting burnt with a sweep of his blade, and if Tartaglia doesn't move back into clearer territory, he'll be the one burning soon.]
...You're not very skilled with a bow, are you? What a poor choice of weapon.
[diluc is lefthanded in the comics and righthanded in the game so idk what you want me to say about which side he favors, all his sides are sidey idk]
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[ Stop, he's enticed to this commitment to forego those words Diluc had spoken prior, unwilling to bow his head before the Harvest Goddess. Perhaps that hostility can reach him, now that he's willing to go to these lengths? Filing away the ambidextrous bullshit in this equation, Tartaglia surveys the mess Diluc's made of this place— fire devouring everything— then shoots an arrow up until it bursts water about him, clearing the vicinity of flames. ]
Make me pull out the stops.
[ Through the smoke fanned up and billowing, he's shot back up into the air, fast and then slow with how he's angling his bow, irregular with his shots so Diluc can't deflect them all with one swipe of that arduously heavy blade. All he needs is to land a single hit. ]
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His shots are irregular, the only upside of his inexperience with a bow, leaving Diluc to deflect only those which would do the most damage while the others whiff past his sides, drawing thin beads of blood to the surface of his skin.
But death by a thousand cuts is a poor offense, Tartaglia. Diluc's moving into the underbrush, bullying his way into the man's space, flames licking at his retreating feet with every step. A bow and arrow will do him no good if he doesn't think fast and get Diluc out of his face. No matter where he steps, Diluc moves to corner him, pushing him further and further into a corner with hot bursts of Pyro.]
It's a wonder you've survived this long. That ends today.
no subject
No more sophistry, then. No more words, either. Tartaglia dismisses the bow to take up the spear, the line of it whirling and lake-cold, and lunges out. He isn't blending in with the shadows, not like this— too apparent in his intent, and too bloodthirsty for discretion— so he takes up the cavalier approach, the polearm sliding with enough blunt trauma to shatter Diluc's arm in three different places if he doesn't get the fuck out of the way. Mercifully, it'll only hit him once if he knows well enough to dodge.
Smoke's trailing it through; it shoots through the inferno like it's nothing, Tartaglia seeking to pin Diluc to the nearby boulder, short of sending him crashing down the mountainside. Despite everything, this does end today. ]
no subject
So is it worth sacrificing his arm to distract Tartaglia? That remains to be seen, but while his left arm is crippled by his side, Diluc's right drops his blade to take him by the skull and slam him into a nearby tree. The force is so rattling, so injurious that it'd be a miracle of Tartaglia stumbled away from it without a minor concussion at the very least. Try and kick him down the mountain now, trash. He won't go down without a bloody fight.]
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Sentenced to that concussion, the pain briefly renders him insensate, the moment blurring on him. Standing in the greenery or the acrid smoke, the heat has gone up like water vapor when Tartaglia ignores the ringing in his ears to shove Diluc back, cornered but unwilling to back down. Blood's on his face. He blinks it out of his eyelashes.
The headache is clawing up. It's on him now, white-hot and killing any higher thinking, and the comparison just gives out there, Tartaglia doesn't have any analogies for this. There's two of Diluc, then three of him, all advancing on him. Too close for comfort, when the space is claustrophobic and shrinking with the sputtering flames. Not too bad, though, he can still take this bastard on.
Dropping the spear, Tartaglia advances with the daggers instead, bare and violent with these urges as he goes in for the stabbing with clean finesse. All of the articulation lives in his hands, since he always fights like he's approaching death. Steadiness in the grip is necessary to carry out everything that's commanded of him. ]
no subject
Without his claymore, deflecting those daggers is a matter of hand-to-hand combat, but it's a relatively simple matter with Tartaglia's vision clearly betraying him. His refusal to yield still means he manages to land a cut or two, a laceration across his bad arm, but little more.
Frustratingly enough, they're evenly matched. Diluc waits until Tartaglia's swiped poorly with those watery blades and strikes the underside of his elbow, promising a fracture or a bruised bone at the very least.]
Give up.
[You're flagging, Tartar. Even Fatui scum must have some base desire to live and preserve its own life.]
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[ Stupid works out.
The frustration comes to him unbidden, unable to so much as chaotically scrape away at Diluc, but death by a thousand cuts doesn't suit him either. Anger comes rising and Tartaglia's rising with it; his arm's been dislocated, on the verge of broken, and he isn't the testing the sprain in it so much as he's shoving it back into place with a hiss that rushes all the way into pain.
Inflammation or the beginnings of blood loss are greeting Tartaglia, and he reels and grapples at Diluc to bonk him on the head with his own. How graceful. Fair's fair. So is this: lodging the knife in Diluc's hand so he's sent plummeting down to the ground with him, concussed or mangled or fallen victim to his resolve. ]
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That headbutt smarts, but not nearly as much as the other wounds he's inflicted upon him, but it doesn't need to. It succeeds in knocking him off his feet and to the ground, but grappling Tartaglia's shoulder, he's taking him down for the count with him. The knife in his palm? Patently unnecessary, but he yanks it out of the ground with a hiss and beats the side of Tartaglia's head with the handle.
He's knocked them both to the ground, but Diluc isn't down for the count yet. His aim is poor, what damage he's able to inflict in Tartaglia in this state poorer, left gasping up at the man when the pain in his arm supersedes his ability to beat him senseless with it. A moment to recover is all he needs. Surely, that's all he'll need.]
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Huffing and flippant, Tartaglia bites off any further retort in favor of shoving their mouths together. Retaliatory and invasive, he's converging on him with all the adrenaline he couldn't leave behind. The weight of this gesture is heavy on his backbone and bleeding into everything, shoving him down so Diluc doesn't do anything particularly uncouth, like bash his head in again at this junction. ]
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It's all driven by momentum, threading his tongue into that mouth to coax out Tartaglia's and bite it bloody. He's given Diluc nowhere to go but further into him, and so be it. He won't cede as much as he'll make him regret coming anywhere near him, blurring the line between violence and closeness to such a blatant degree.
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With Diluc's tongue in his mouth, he's drifting out of one offense to commit another. Not enough strength for the knives to keep their form, splashing to nothing when he's yanking down that collar to apply himself more constructively, teeth ragged and scraping down that throat to bruises that'll languish for days. It tastes like blood, all of it, bitter and metallic, all of these feelings rusting in his mouth as he ignores the pounding on his back to divest Diluc of any modesty. If he's wearing a coat, it's coming off. ]
no subject
Tartaglia's trespass is allowed only long enough to retaliate, hissing under the pressure of his teeth to tear at the back of his shirt, promising to send him home in tatters if he survives this ordeal at all. His jacket is done away with by Tartaglia's hand, but he removes his gloves of his own volition to claw at his back, draw angry red lines down the skin where he's left it bare.
There's nothing passionate here, only anger and adrenaline and a desire to divest as much of Tartaglia as he's divested of him. An eye for an eye with hostility to spare. His breath his hot and rushing against the side of Tartaglia's neck, but there's nothing warm about it. Nothing inviting.]
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The laughter that issues out of Tartaglia is thin and careless, too, those fingers biting into his skin until they find purchase on the skin. Still not fully awake yet, burdened by this headache and blood loss besides, he's frisking open Diluc's shirt, all while his mouth is pooling with so much blood. Panting, he spits the rancor out of it, then lowers his hand to wrench off that belt next. Looks like he'll just keep going. ]
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Regardless, it's adrenaline and spite that urges him to knock Tartaglia off and reverse their positions, knees bloodied where they dig into the soil on either side of him, staring down at Tartaglia like there's any reason to be found in those eyes. There's nothing, nothing at all to be found in eyes so deep and dark, Diluc's hand coming up around Tartaglia's throat like he might choke the reason from his lips if he tries hard enough.
He isn't stopping the advancement of Tartaglia's hands, nor is he holding down particularly hard on his throat, guttering at him low and quiet.]
Are you that eager to be torn apart?
[This is your one chance to side with reason and back out, Tartaglia. This is your one chance to be spared.]
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[ Derogatory and vain besides, Tartaglia takes that hand to the thinnest part of his throat with no particular malice, ringed with all of these bruises that Diluc's poured all over his skin. Crossing his mind again and again are all of these filthy thoughts that he does need to keep at bay, so he isn't causing strife and undue chaos everywhere he goes.
His motives should be grander than simple boredom; but lying here on the ground, halfway to concussed and still tasting Diluc in his mouth, his fingers are clambering up to clutch at that soft baby-face. So stupid, how soft this guy looks. Really, if he had the strength, he'd punch him back down until he was gasping to be forgiven. ]
Eager to serve my needs?
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Serve you? Hardly. You've come to me looking for punishment, so don't expect anything less.
[It's pretty clear what Tartaglia's after, but he'll give it to him on his own terms, yanking his belt free from its loops and casting it aside, Vision and all.]
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[ Gasping into the dirt, Tartaglia doesn't so much as outwardly react when his Vision's stripped away. Fuck, he didn't deprive Diluc of his own. Hard to keep track of it through the acrid haze of smoke filling up his line of sight, but he isn't fighting him off, either, as he struggles to keep his breathing relatively even. It's fine. ]
Sure you're not the one seeking punishment here?
[ Someone's got issues that need reconciling with. ]
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And you would consider prostrating yourself before me punishment?
[What an ass backwards way of thinking. What's the boner situation here, rem? Is Tartaglia more of a freak than Diluc's given him credit for?]
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What about this is prostration? [ Not that he's groveling, even now. He's far too cavalier for that, although he won't be able to save face for long. Even he can't turn away from pain inured to him, breathlessness swallowing him up. A bit humiliating if he thinks about the position, though, this undercurrent of bitterness seeping into everything. ] I'm not forcing your hand now, am I?
[ Take some culpability already. This isn't any real punishment, so much as it is a way for Diluc to rationalize what's occurring right now. ]
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You've changed your tune rather quickly. What happened to your eager hands?
[Or were you undressing him to kiss his booboos, Tartaglia? There's no attempt to rationalize this beyond pinning the blame solely on Tartaglia, lining up to slowly, painfully shove his way inside of him. It's pain on both ends, but Diluc wouldn't have it any other way. Tartaglia asked for this.]
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