@deilusn » unprompted ( always accepting ) : fingers that curl into black—then grip, pull. the closest thing they'll get to tender, borne of malice and stranded. clung to purpose, to scaramouche. mission. failure.
round and round they go. one step, two step, three step, four. to the maddeningly consistent rhythm of the drums, dancing between thunderclaps and emptiness. they know nothing. they know everything. tartaglia—childe—ajax—knows the lightning flash in violet eyes and only pulls harder.
hunters. hunting. what better prey than someone who knows every way there is to be found. to not be found. but scaramouche is clumsy in his anger, like childe is clumsy in his bloodlust. this is his third time catching up. his first time getting his hands on him.
" i finally got you, myshka. you don't think i'm going to let you just get away with a cheap trick and cheesy insult? "
( he will let him go for less. kiss / kill / scaramouche is getting away alive and they both know it. )
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐄, scaramouche had always thought – even far, far back, to the first time they had met – was that he was smart. just smart enough to get himself into trouble, to dip his hands into places they shouldn’t be, into the secrets & vulnerabilities that made the harbingers tick. they were a bunch prone to murderous intent on the best of days, let alone when someone had the audacity to rifle their hands around their innards, recontextualize their fleshy beating hearts into something that made sense. stupid, foolish idiot.
he won’t survive the week, he had thought. and then he had, which was his first mistake.
and here they are, ages down the line, innumerable mistakes since then. let it be known that this is far too close to being his last. there are a number of answers when the tsaritsa comes asking you to hunt down her wayward little god, none of which should be, yes, of course, right away. but he shouldn’t be surprised about that, either, because childe is a good hunter ( compliments dragged from between clenched teeth, bloodied lips, broken ribs ).
which is how he catches him, both shocked and not, somewhere around ritou. he’s almost free, just a couple more days from getting off this stupid island. like the shadow he was made to be, he’s kept to the corners and the alleyways, always a step out of reach of kind-hearted passerbyers just in case. the fatui were bold, but they weren’t dumb ( he resolutely is not thinking about the act of kindness granted to him by the priestess: lay low in ritou, and we’ll get you out. she had laughed after that. no promises for after ). well -- amnesty could only last so long when the hounds are baying.
those fingers dig into his scalp, curl round hair dark, and he’s surprised enough that it elicits sound from him. a pound of flesh for that. except, as they go in their dance, some corrupted tango someone forgot to add music for, childe is being wise enough to keep the circuit between them closed. distance is his most beloved friend, and if he were to unleash voltage right into the eleventh’s pliant flesh -- they both know it’ll come right back to him, and they’ll die together on these streets.
what a disgusting way to go. in childe’s arms.
so they dance.
he’s trying anything to get him to let go so he can shock him right back to the grave he should’ve sent him to the first time they laid eyes on each other. he isn’t below using dirty tricks, but they’ve spent so long half-inside each other, claws all dug into each other’s guts, that childe already knows everything. and it’s infuriating. a knee that meets the inside of the thigh instead of the destined target. a claw swiping at his face, inches away from taking an eye. and lastly, desperately, a knife drawn from the sheath tucked into the curve of his back, it’s blade caught moments before it finds purchase right in childe’s infuriating chest.
so he aims for lower. he kicks him in the knee. it’s not the most elegant solution, admittedly, but it achieves some kind of result, even if they both go down hard. he lands atop him, his teeth ringing high and clear in his skull with the gracelessness of their landing, knees bracketing either side of his hips. the ground beneath is wet and cold. half-frosted, like a faint kiss from snezhnaya.
violet arcs flash through narrowed eyes, plasma that dances in myriad of purple hues along the tips of his fingers. that restraint is needle thin. ( just how the eleventh likes it ).
“ i hate you. “ he says through gritted teeth. not the first time he’s insulted him, but maybe one said with the most meaning. a warning that he’s maybe an inch from plunging them both off that cliffside, and calling down the heavens just for the satisfaction of taking his life. “ i’m going to rip out your throat--- no, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? “
his fingers bunch in childe’s shirt, his wrist bracketed by a wise refusal to release him.
“ myshka. choke on your goddamned tongue. you're pathetic. “
punctuation that ends with yanking him up, their lips colliding in a meeting that is so desperately short of anything romantic, anything soft. tenderness like a slit throat, like a mouthful of blood. fangs catch and sink on his bottom lip until the taste of iron explodes in his mouth, disgusting and so uniquely human, and that manacle around his wrist loosens just the slightest bit----
he’s on his feet before either of them can blink, the sky dimming faint beneath his fury. there are clouds rolling in on the horizon, faint and ominous, their dark depths flashing with the light of the heavens. childe’s blood is on his mouth, a smeared line right across his jaw, like the last brushstroke on a masterpiece. he doesn’t wipe it away.
“ follow me again, and i’ll be the last thing you see. “
a last insult: he spits, saliva tinged red by childe’s own goddamned blood. the tips of his fingers match, all crimson and gleaming wet; his tongue chases the flavor along his thumb. the smile he gives is only a lighting change away from being a sneer. let him not observe too closely -- childe splayed on the ground below him, still unfortunately drawing breath. no hands on him. no retribution in sight.
he ducks into the safety of the crowd instead, the faint sound of thunder on his heels.
@deilusn » unprompted ( always accepting ) : hug me!! bring it in!!!!! oh would ya loosen up???? would ya??
a bad attempted at averted course, his hands flying up a moment to late to catch at the ginger’s wrist, black nails biting down until the skin turns bone white beneath his grip. a low, extended hiss of annoyance, as if he is a cat flaring for effect ( he may as well be; his irritation holds the same warning ). he considers a host of options -- a well delivered kick to his shin, maybe, or a couple hundred volts straight to his nervous system -- and thinks how upset pierro would be with him if he did that.
not that he cares, but he’s sick of the talks. all anyone around here wants to do is talk. he’s sick of talking. his fangs ache.
“ get your hands off me, dog. “ deceptively delicate hands, palming a chin to force him to look down, the opposite hand curled in the collar of his shirt. it’d be so nice if he could just tug and tug until -- shlick -- it cut through the meat and bone, just like that. unfortunately, he has his doubts on the integrity of cloth for a task like that.
( dottore would be so fucking proud ).
“ get on your knees and apologize, now. “ he shoves backwards, teetering the eleventh back onto the balls of his feet. “ unless you’d rather fry? “
a threat he has no fear acting upon. already, tendrils of purple energy work at the tips of his fingers, dancing light upon the contact he makes on the other’s chin. it’s only the grace of the tsaritsa sparing her beloved harbinger now. and maybe soon not even that.
leans over && deviously licks at the bit of exposed throat ; and then affectionately bites .
his initial reaction, regrettably, is to tip his head and let the beast at his throat, crimson hues blinking slowly. it's an eerily comforting gesture, he finds that he wants childe close to him without the immediate need to burn him to ashes, and he would almost say that it's pleasant-
until he bites, and diluc hisses an annoyed sound through his teeth. fingers lift over his shoulder and tangle in a tight fistful of ginger hair, yanking mercilessly to wrench his head back.
"that hurts, you animal. couldn't just be gentle for once?"
@deilusn : ❛ you are … extraordinary . ❜
↳ i hope you dance / accepting .
𝙾𝙷 , 𝙷𝙾𝚆 ... 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚈𝙰𝙺𝚂𝙷𝙰 𝚆𝙰𝚂 𝚄𝙽𝚂𝚄𝚁𝙴 𝙾𝙽 𝙷𝙾𝚆 𝚃𝙾 react , even when the grip around battleaxe tightens & legs bend — crouching low . amber eye holds it in its gaze , not once leaving , even when their surroundings played into their opponent’s hands . one might say they relish a challenge — however the odds were stacked against them . [ a war - weapon enjoying a good fight ? how outlandish — sarcasm intended . ] they leapt & bound at childe without hesitation , swinging axe behind & then forward : angling its arch down towards its shoulder . qiáng can go on for hours , & they know this one was capable of keeping up — & more . but they , veins overflowing with adrenaline , attempt to goad it the second they begin another attack .
“ i suppose you could call food weaponry. ” it’s a lazy, but thoughtful hum that passes over her lips in the dimming light of the day. fingers and feet tired from work, the smell of garlic and chili lingering on a greased apron, xiangling sways back and forth between the partition of counter and stove. “ still, no one should ever make food with an intention to hurt. it’s nurturing, protective . . . ah, i guess that makes it like a shield, huh ? ”
a soft sizzle fills the air and her tongue clucks as she finally levels. why did the traveler drop him off here again ? “ but that still doesn’t answer my questions, what don’t you like to eat ? can’t have an unhappy customer. ” @deilusn
he should feel sick. guilty. he should apologise and back off, he should turn on his heel and leave and never look back. he should take this as a sign that he's passed his own breaking point, should change, should-----
❝ you're beautiful, ❞ he says instead. reaches out, cups freckled cheeks in blood-stained hands. his smile is as cold as the seas he commands, eyes finally alight. fear looks good on him, when it finally settles into diluc's features.
thumb sweeps across a dark circle, a terrified eyeline. spreads carnage across the violet skin as childe leans closer, brushes their noses together, stares into wavering red and sees him.
❝ it's a shame you don't scream, too. ❞
( it's wrong. this is all wrong. he's wrong. he's been wrong since he fell, since he was born. )
when was the last time he felt fear? not just the fear that lingers in the shadows at the back of his mind, stoking the fires of self-doubt and begging the questions he doesn't want the answers to (who am i? can i ever heal? when will i move on?), but something much more primal--this is sheer terror, the animal instinct to survive, the cold, sick feeling that kicks in when flight wins out over fight. he's only been this close to death once before, and he's dizzy with the realization that once again, he's put himself at the mercy of a harbinger.
you're so stupid, you never learn, he's tearing you to pieces and you're obsessed with the pain. do you even want to escape?
"you're sick," there's some bite to his tone, but it's feeble and betrayed by the way his voice shakes; his skin crawls when he hears just how weak he is, frozen in riptide's grasp. he's so weak.
"get the fuck away from me," shaking fingers grasp at his collar, try to shove him away, but his fire, his fierce strength, has long abandoned him. he's helpless, "let go-"
