[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.]
That isn't the case now, these prevarications gouging a noise full of only unbridled hurt, smothered only when Tartaglia bites down on the sound, gnawing his lips to bloody slivers. Hard to talk, wounded and wounding alike, entangled with Diluc and face-down in the dirt. His fingers are betraying him, closed and then spasmodically open— eager but in a different sense, struggling to contain the urge to wrench away when bored open.
Stupid and ridiculous, how little he's preempting by succumbing now. Really, he'd rather answer in kind, with a sharp tongue and all the witticisms that months in the Abyss and years of militarism have inculcated into him, but Tartaglia has no grasp on any of that now. Only restlessness, poured into him as he bows his head, struggling to get his breathing under control. Come on. This is just pathetic. ]
[Shameful, but not unexpected from a man so eager to get in his pants. Seems that isn't the case any longer, but this wouldn't be happening if Diluc had any intention of making this a pleasurable experience for either of them. As it goes, doling out punishment rarely comes without some kickback.
He'll earn Tartaglia's retaliation whether it finds him a week from now or a month, driving into him with relentless pressure, digging in, carving him out, making the weight of his mistakes too painful to ignore. It's a lesson for them both, isn't it? He'll leave Tartaglia to work out the moral on his own, pounding into him with bone-rattling insistence.]
[ It's just utter agony, down on the ground and suffering the tangible weight of that cock bearing down on him, the pressure so inconsolable that he's struggling not to lock up under it. These contradictions are whirling around in his head, except Diluc's closing him shut in them, and Tartaglia's no longer lunging to get away but to get closer. It hurts a lot less when the shaft of Diluc's dick is buried inside, raw and chafing but not so unbearable that he can't clench up around it. Nothing else to think about when the claustrophobia is only oppressive; getting railed into is the worst of it, white-knuckled when he's unable to deal with it well.
Sawed into, Tartaglia's attention is fragile, like something about to fall, only somewhat divorced from this moment. His thoughts aren't that dissimilar from his view from below, blurry and out-of-focus, save for the pain. That sensation breaks through his concentration, ringing like Tartaglia's just a chord to be struck, so vivid as to be piercing. Should it have been this way? If it's agony for him, then there's no way that Diluc hasn't been cursed for it, robbed of any consolation.
Some noises are ebbing out of him, but it's mostly just swears. The ache burning him is so dry and harsh that Tartaglia's largely preoccupied on his unwillingness to scream. ]
[It cuts both ways, but Diluc is inconsolable with a deeper pain, one that won't make it past his lips for fear of having to articulate it. All that grief spills out in how he handles Tartaglia, hands like vices around his hips so he can go nowhere while he breaks into him, yet against all odds, he doesn't attempt to move away.
Closer. Tartaglia moves closer, inviting pain and retaliation and anger in all the forms Diluc can give it to him. It was the same when they drew blades, wasn't it? He's drawn to the ache just as Diluc is drawn to doling it out, and they're both a little screwed up, aren't they, chasing pain where there ought to be pleasure.
Soon enough, the distinction between the two isn't clear enough to gauge anyway. Diluc exhales, filmy and ragged, yet he's only just begun. This is a first for him in innumerous ways, none of which he cares to highlight, nothing he regrets leveraging as a cudgel to beat into Tartaglia. What is there to lose that he hasn't already lost?]
...Why?
[It's a question with no real answer, none of them correct. Why is this happening? Why is Tartaglia allowing it? So many questions, but it's only that one word that makes it off Diluc's tongue.]
[ Scraping all of his ego out this way, jolting to wariness again under the severity of this onslaught, Tartaglia's less than attentive. He isn't certain what's being asked of him, initially. All of it comes off like forms of deprivation. It's his first time, and it might just be the worst of anything he's faced; it's also searing like a brand, and that's sort of mindless, too. Immobile as Diluc slams to the base of his dick, flush to the hips, there's no endgame so much as there is this deliriousness breaking into him.
Hazily, he's laboring to identify some pattern to the pace that Diluc's set, if it's chronic or intermittent, if he's impaling him under so illusion of control or if he's falling to pieces as badly as Tartaglia.
Held so taut, he can't last at all. The pain is sweet only as long as he opens himself to being mangled. If he'd been the one on top, would it have been exultant? Would it have felt a victory, tearing Diluc apart with his hands, claiming him like the spoils of war? But he's beneath him, and unable to run, Tartaglia's panting, forehead low to the ground, sweat-damp and shuddering all over. ]
... Didn't you need it?
[ Isn't that why he sent that stupid letter? So he could vent out all his aggression under the pretense of a fight? The anger that Diluc came here brandishing was so, so obvious, much further than some mere vendetta against the Fatui would provoke. ]
Immediately, he wants to laugh. Needing this, of all things... this frenetic push and pull, this outlet for all the anger and sadness that's been building up and up since arriving here, this senseless violence that feeds his more base instincts while the rest of him grows a little more hollow.
Maybe he did need this, but he doesn't need Tartaglia, and he makes that known by slamming into him with particular vehemence. Don't talk to him like you know him, like you understand what he needs. There's anger in Diluc's voice, but there's sorrow too.]
...Don't speak as if you understand what I need.
[And yet he does, sickeningly, this Fatui trash. Could it be that Tartaglia is just as angry, just as sad, bereft of purpose in a land where everything he's ever wanted has been taken from him? Are they the same? They're both hell-bound, but don't tell him they're the same. Don't tell him that this was meant to happen, needed to happen, to prove some larger point.
No matter how hard he pistons into Tartaglia, that wellspring of anger and sadness grows. Wishing to bring this to a swift end, Diluc pitches forward and wraps his hand around Tartaglia's cock, jerking at him.]
Don't pretend to understand. Open your mouth again and I'll kill you.
[ Stop it with the holier-than-thou complex, it isn't helping anything. Sanctimony never does, though. Fascinating (read: trite) shit to contemplate while aching and unfulfilled, knees dragged up to here and jostled again under a fever that won't mend itself. Shoved into the dirt, Tartaglia's filled up inside but that much more hollowed out for it, whether or not he's clenching at something.
Hurtful or long-suffering, this back-and-forth lacks any sweetness, and Tartaglia shudders with nothing else to seize upon, trying to think very, very little of what's currently transpiring here. It isn't working out. His cheeks are flushed hot with color when he yanks that hand off of his dick. Hurry up and finish or just leave him alone. Diluc doesn't get to play this off like it's a lesson in condescension or derive any satisfaction from him losing his wits. ]
How unlucky it is... you met me. Since you're so keen to ignore— what's right in front of you.
[ Coming on his own, strangled and quiet, Tartaglia's coping badly with what's dealt upon him. Heavy-handedness right up until the finish, and he's limp by the end, no closer to comprehension than before. Kill him, then, for saying something truthful, and not contenting himself with a lie. For his first time, it's horrendous, endlessly awful— and Tartaglia doesn't say much else, wiping his face with the hand that isn't yet broken, panting so profusely. Get off of him already. There's no point dealing with someone this dense. ]
[Rest assured, he's had his fill. There's no relief alongside release, harshly pulling out to spill over the dirt, unwilling to touch Tartaglia again once he's taken his hands off him.
He should end him here and now, put one more miserable insect out of its misery, but all the fire has gone out of Diluc. Tartaglia's lying there prone, vulnerable, bleeding out and concussed. It would be a simple matter to end his life, and some ways behind him, the scrape of metal on earth suggests Diluc has picked up his blade.
Then, silence. Death doesn't find Tartaglia, not today, and he can ask himself why Diluc left him face down in the dirt while he descends the mountain without another word. If Diluc knows why, he certainly isn't saying anything.
He should be unnerved by Tartaglia's words — Doubt you even understand what you need — but he's correct. What does he need? What does he want? What point is there to anything he does on this island? Left with more questions than answers, he has none to spare for Tartaglia, and so he goes.]
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no subject
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.]
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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?]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
That isn't the case now, these prevarications gouging a noise full of only unbridled hurt, smothered only when Tartaglia bites down on the sound, gnawing his lips to bloody slivers. Hard to talk, wounded and wounding alike, entangled with Diluc and face-down in the dirt. His fingers are betraying him, closed and then spasmodically open— eager but in a different sense, struggling to contain the urge to wrench away when bored open.
Stupid and ridiculous, how little he's preempting by succumbing now. Really, he'd rather answer in kind, with a sharp tongue and all the witticisms that months in the Abyss and years of militarism have inculcated into him, but Tartaglia has no grasp on any of that now. Only restlessness, poured into him as he bows his head, struggling to get his breathing under control. Come on. This is just pathetic. ]
no subject
He'll earn Tartaglia's retaliation whether it finds him a week from now or a month, driving into him with relentless pressure, digging in, carving him out, making the weight of his mistakes too painful to ignore. It's a lesson for them both, isn't it? He'll leave Tartaglia to work out the moral on his own, pounding into him with bone-rattling insistence.]
no subject
Sawed into, Tartaglia's attention is fragile, like something about to fall, only somewhat divorced from this moment. His thoughts aren't that dissimilar from his view from below, blurry and out-of-focus, save for the pain. That sensation breaks through his concentration, ringing like Tartaglia's just a chord to be struck, so vivid as to be piercing. Should it have been this way? If it's agony for him, then there's no way that Diluc hasn't been cursed for it, robbed of any consolation.
Some noises are ebbing out of him, but it's mostly just swears. The ache burning him is so dry and harsh that Tartaglia's largely preoccupied on his unwillingness to scream. ]
no subject
Closer. Tartaglia moves closer, inviting pain and retaliation and anger in all the forms Diluc can give it to him. It was the same when they drew blades, wasn't it? He's drawn to the ache just as Diluc is drawn to doling it out, and they're both a little screwed up, aren't they, chasing pain where there ought to be pleasure.
Soon enough, the distinction between the two isn't clear enough to gauge anyway. Diluc exhales, filmy and ragged, yet he's only just begun. This is a first for him in innumerous ways, none of which he cares to highlight, nothing he regrets leveraging as a cudgel to beat into Tartaglia. What is there to lose that he hasn't already lost?]
...Why?
[It's a question with no real answer, none of them correct. Why is this happening? Why is Tartaglia allowing it? So many questions, but it's only that one word that makes it off Diluc's tongue.]
no subject
Hazily, he's laboring to identify some pattern to the pace that Diluc's set, if it's chronic or intermittent, if he's impaling him under so illusion of control or if he's falling to pieces as badly as Tartaglia.
Held so taut, he can't last at all. The pain is sweet only as long as he opens himself to being mangled. If he'd been the one on top, would it have been exultant? Would it have felt a victory, tearing Diluc apart with his hands, claiming him like the spoils of war? But he's beneath him, and unable to run, Tartaglia's panting, forehead low to the ground, sweat-damp and shuddering all over. ]
... Didn't you need it?
[ Isn't that why he sent that stupid letter? So he could vent out all his aggression under the pretense of a fight? The anger that Diluc came here brandishing was so, so obvious, much further than some mere vendetta against the Fatui would provoke. ]
no subject
Immediately, he wants to laugh. Needing this, of all things... this frenetic push and pull, this outlet for all the anger and sadness that's been building up and up since arriving here, this senseless violence that feeds his more base instincts while the rest of him grows a little more hollow.
Maybe he did need this, but he doesn't need Tartaglia, and he makes that known by slamming into him with particular vehemence. Don't talk to him like you know him, like you understand what he needs. There's anger in Diluc's voice, but there's sorrow too.]
...Don't speak as if you understand what I need.
[And yet he does, sickeningly, this Fatui trash. Could it be that Tartaglia is just as angry, just as sad, bereft of purpose in a land where everything he's ever wanted has been taken from him? Are they the same? They're both hell-bound, but don't tell him they're the same. Don't tell him that this was meant to happen, needed to happen, to prove some larger point.
No matter how hard he pistons into Tartaglia, that wellspring of anger and sadness grows. Wishing to bring this to a swift end, Diluc pitches forward and wraps his hand around Tartaglia's cock, jerking at him.]
Don't pretend to understand. Open your mouth again and I'll kill you.
no subject
Hurtful or long-suffering, this back-and-forth lacks any sweetness, and Tartaglia shudders with nothing else to seize upon, trying to think very, very little of what's currently transpiring here. It isn't working out. His cheeks are flushed hot with color when he yanks that hand off of his dick. Hurry up and finish or just leave him alone. Diluc doesn't get to play this off like it's a lesson in condescension or derive any satisfaction from him losing his wits. ]
How unlucky it is... you met me. Since you're so keen to ignore— what's right in front of you.
[ Coming on his own, strangled and quiet, Tartaglia's coping badly with what's dealt upon him. Heavy-handedness right up until the finish, and he's limp by the end, no closer to comprehension than before. Kill him, then, for saying something truthful, and not contenting himself with a lie. For his first time, it's horrendous, endlessly awful— and Tartaglia doesn't say much else, wiping his face with the hand that isn't yet broken, panting so profusely. Get off of him already. There's no point dealing with someone this dense. ]
... Doubt you even understand what you need.
no subject
He should end him here and now, put one more miserable insect out of its misery, but all the fire has gone out of Diluc. Tartaglia's lying there prone, vulnerable, bleeding out and concussed. It would be a simple matter to end his life, and some ways behind him, the scrape of metal on earth suggests Diluc has picked up his blade.
Then, silence. Death doesn't find Tartaglia, not today, and he can ask himself why Diluc left him face down in the dirt while he descends the mountain without another word. If Diluc knows why, he certainly isn't saying anything.
He should be unnerved by Tartaglia's words — Doubt you even understand what you need — but he's correct. What does he need? What does he want? What point is there to anything he does on this island? Left with more questions than answers, he has none to spare for Tartaglia, and so he goes.]