Work Text:
“I cannot wait to kill him,” Tartaglia thought to himself as he did his duty and opened wide, “for being such a slob.” As the hydrogunner’s member approached his waiting mouth, he could see just how much his work was cut out for him. It wasn’t terribly long. On that measure at least, Tartaglia should have no problem taking it just in his mouth, but it was nearly as wide across and its coating made it appear even larger. It smelled how it looked–hot, dirty, and increasingly complex as so many fluids came together. This one, the hydrogunner, was the fourth of the retirement party to receive the servicing, so the distinct scent of his own seed was mixed with that of the previous three, as well as La Signora, whom he had made gush like a fountain.
As the head passed his lips, Tartaglia considered he may have overestimated, but he was quickly corrected when the hydrogunner gripped the back of his head and pushed as quickly and deeply as he would go. Indeed, pressed against the very base, Tartaglia realized he had underestimated as he felt himself gag against the tip at the back of his throat, jaw locked in place lest he shred it with his teeth, though that was not an unappealing prospect. But that was not the job–the agreement.
“Alright, clean me up, boy,” the hydrogunner chuckled. He was clearly getting off on this, perhaps more than having spent a good ten minutes inside his boss’s perfection. Tartaglia shot him a look, one that he hoped showed his genuine contempt for this man without a hint of the excitement that he felt in his stomach, then proceeded.
As carefully as he could, he began to run his tongue around every side. Starting at the base’s underside, he pulled his head back slightly. The hydrogunner allowed it, though he kept his fingers well intertwined with Tartaglia’s hair. Taking in as much air and room as he could, Tartaglia adjusted his positioning and went back down, tongue carefully guiding the filth to collect near the base, then riding along and down to tuck into his cheek on the next move back. Thoughtfully, he continued all around the width until he had two pools at the back of his mouth, ready to be swallowed. “Dwuunn,” he said as best he could.
The hydrogunner let him loose and pulled out, clean as if he had washed it with his own hydro pistol. “Good, you’re up, pal,” he laughed, moving aside to reveal that the next retiree was already present. His bulk had blocked the thinner geochanter almost entirely. But the biggest surprise for Tartaglia was the new man’s hand wrapped around his long, still incredibly hard rod. It was covered in its own mix of fluids, like those that Tartaglia more suddenly than planned gulped down as he approached, but without any of the tell-tale signs of shrinkage or seed still spilling from the tip.
The geochanter put his free hand on his chin and tilted his face up to stare at the menacing sight. It looked to be at least the length of Tartaglia’s own face and as the geochanter stroked himself, small bits of the mess leaked through his fingers. “You’ve got an awful pretty face, Tartaglia,” he said, presumably smiling though Tartaglia couldn’t be sure, his gaze too focused on what was right in front of him, “glad to finally put it in its place.” On the final word, Tartaglia watched the veins pulse, the shaft throb, the propulsive jet from the head.
Despite himself, Tartaglia thought that perhaps this one should’ve been the hydrogunner, given the way the fluids blasted across his face. He was sure some of it had gotten in his hair as he could feel it from the point of his chin all the way to the crest of his hairline. It was a perfectly lined up shot too, straight across the middle, going over his nose and into his mouth, but landing between his eyes. As the tip touched his bottom lip, Tartaglia realized that it was still going, though much less explosively. He closed his mouth around it and sucked, making sure to get every bit of the geochanter’s hot warmth. Once he was certain he had gotten the last drop, he shoved his way down to the base, gagging as he did so, and with one fell swoop of his tongue and lips cleaned the length of it perfectly. Then, instead of swallowing it down, he stuck out his tongue to present it.
“Someone fetch me a kamera, I’d like to preserve this moment,” La Signora announced, approaching Tartaglia in his full subservience. Unable to help himself, Tartaglia smiled, taking the stolen seed back into his mouth. Fortunately, his saliva glands had been working overtime, so it quickly meshed into a miasma that he aimed straight back into the face of the now-former geochanter.
“Why I…” The geochanter stayed his hand only based on the chain of command and his knowledge that, even in this situation, he wouldn’t be able to hit a Harbinger and walk away with his life.
“Savor it,” he grinned. “Your retirement is well deserved.”
“Don’t be like that, Childe,” Signora chided.
“Like what, mistress Signora?”
“A brat. I’d say it doesn’t suit you–it doesn’t–but I can think of nothing that does.”
“Always a charmer. You know what doesn’t suit you–”
“Your mouth.” With that, she grabbed his head and for the final time of the evening, pulled his mouth open with a firm grip on his hair. His tongue lapped expectantly and as she placed herself upon it, she released everything that had been built up over the course of the retirement ceremony straight down his throat. Of all the dishonors placed upon Tartaglia, this was by far his favorite. It was the closing of the cycle and a reminder of the true dynamic of this play.
The retirement ceremony was something Tartaglia had happened upon by accident. On a rare occasion when multiple Harbingers had been summoned before the Tsaritsa, he had found himself exploring her domain on a sleepless night of uncontrollable restlessness. First, he had attempted to deal with the problem himself. His hand and saliva proved a reliable friend, but for whatever reason, once was not enough to meet his needs.
Thus, he had slipped into the nearby quarters of The Balladeer. Tartaglia is no stranger to love–he loves his family more than anything–and in turn is no stranger to contempt. That is what he and the Balladeer share, more than anything else, and in their way their mutual disdain had evolved into a kind of reliability. A trust. And trust, to the both of them, was the best substitute for love that one could have for relations. So, when their travels and impulses aligned, they would rendezvous.
Tartaglia entered The Balladeer’s room to find Scaramouche as he often did. Despite the cold that penetrates down to the bone of Snezhnaya–particularly in the Cyro archon’s own palace–the doll-like body was only clad in a simple pair of loose fitting shorts. Tartaglia’s body followed his pointing, throbbing lead. He clambered into bed with the gently sleeping figure and before anything else, took a moment to admire his antagonistic ally. The movement of his chest was almost imperceptible with the gentleness of his breaths. Only one who had been there as many times as Tartaglia would recognize the slight way his sternum expands and contracts, just below and between the twin scars across his chest and the nipples that stood puffed like a proper jacket for the cold. But no more than a few seconds passed before his insistence insisted.
Positioning himself behind Scaramouche, Tartaglia guided himself up through the brief pant leg until he reached Scaramouche’s waiting flesh. His first rubs were gentle and exploratory, parting the way just enough to get a sense of Scaramouche’s warmth and softness. The Balladeer whimpered slightly, but did not stir. That wouldn’t do, thought Tartaglia, he must share his ballad with the world.
Tartaglia pulled back, rewetted himself with his spit, and went at it again, just a bit more forceful this time. He glided up from the bottom, as high as he could, then back down again, careful not to thrust in prematurely. On his next movement up, he felt the Balladeer shift. Clearly his ploy was working as he felt the reason for the shift, Scaramouche’s own member was now enlarging, even from this simple teasing. Knowing how sensitive it was, it became his focus. He could coax it all the way out of its hiding place. He guided his tip across once, twice, and on the third knew it was as engorged as it would go. The low impatient moan that accompanied it was further verification that it was time.
“V-v-vermin,” Scaramouche let out. “I’m plenty ready. Cease your teasing or cease your life. It’s your choice.”
Tartalgia answered with a kiss on Scaramouche’s slender shoulder, then slid an arm across his hip and down into the front of his shorts. His fingers flickered across the hooded erectness as he pushed into the doll’s finely-crafted interior.
Tartaglia may never admit it out loud, but the sensation was always unbelievable–unlike anything else he had experienced in all of Tevyat. Well, almost unlike anything else. The closest sensation was the moment of transition between his vision and his delusion. It was wet, with bursts of electric current controlled by his plaything’s button under his fingertips. This was where their unusual trust was paramount. This was where their power was truly balanced, pressed close and working together, mutual pleasure at Tartaglia’s fingertips.
His strokes always had to be precise. Practice made for perfect and this was perfect. A throbbing shock ran through them both pressing their already impossibly close flesh even closer.
As best he could with the twist of their bodies, Scaramouche turned to face him. “Is that the best you can do… pathetic worm?” Tartaglia smacked the manhood under his command as he plunged once more all the way to his base, the force of which sent Scaramouche’s eyes rolling back, his mind temporarily short-circuiting. Through gritted teeth, he growled, “I thought you thought yourself more than an insect.”
“Watch your tongue,” Tartaglia finally whispered. “If your brain shuts down, you’ll bite it off.” With that, he increased his pace. The pulse of the electricity triggered by circling Scaramouche’s cocky sensitivity now was the pulse that they both shared. Their blood, their synapses, were perfectly in sync. The fingers stroke, the hardness throbbed which echoed in the tightening muscles that set the pace for the thrusting hips. Pulse pulse pulse pulse.
Another thrust inward was all it took. Despite his earlier self-escapade, Tartaglia had seed enough to spill for the both of them inside. They came together a few moments longer, basking in it. Under his touch, Tartaglia felt Scaramouche’s hardness soften in, felt his muscles relax to let their shared messy wetness begin to flow.
But as quickly as it had begun, it ended. Scaramouche pushed him away, “There. I’ve had my way with you. Begone now, parasite.”
Unfortunately, their anatomy was not exactly synchronized as Tartaglia’s still persisted. Tartaglia tried an exploratory kiss of one of Scaramouche’s large, soft nipples; a pinch of the other, but it only elicited a “hrrm.” Next, he tried for a kiss, and while Scaramouche’s lips were receptive, his hands were not when Tartaglia insisted again. Tartaglia tried a knowing smile, but at that, The Balladeer threatened, “I’ll fry you like a moth if you so much as think about my ass.”
Knowing his welcome had been worn, at least for this night, Tartaglia slipped away back into the castle with a smile, a salute, and a “Next time, then.” With his middle and pointer fingers, Scaramouche pulled down his eyelid and stuck out his tongue in a way of saying goodbye.
Tartaglia followed his stiffness like a dowsing rod throughout the rest of the estate. His goal, at this point, was to tire himself enough that his body must respond, but still it was not enough. That was when he came upon it. The retirement ceremony. La Signora spread wide with a vanguard between her thighs and a cicin mage descending upon her face. Around them, eagerly awaiting their turn, stood four other Fatui of different rank.Though he was no fan of Signora, perhaps this would be the pleasure he sought.
From a quiet place, he watched each take their turn. As he watched, he came to the conclusion La Signora was either having immense fun or was the finest actor in the whole world. Each partner seemed to delight her in new and different ways, yet in common it seemed as if they had been lovers forever. She was perfectly locked in, able to move however the rank-and-file desired her. But the most impressive thing was her face. She always commanded her demeanor, even as her mouth curled into an O of pleasure, even as her jaw slackened and eyes rolled back, and especially when red faced and sweaty, she met their gaze and with her look demanded their finish. Each and every one came on command, such was her power.
When the last one, a simple agent–perhaps some sort of diplomat in her attache–was finally removed from her by the vanguard, having such tremblings from his legs still that he was unable to walk properly, Tartaglia’s eagerness perked up even more. Perhaps he could convince her he was due a turn. But as he began to move from his hiding place, he saw what was really going on.
As his lips finished licking hers, making certain he had received every last drop, Tartaglia contemplated this game. The best substitution one could have for love in relations was trust. Trust shifted the dynamic of power. Distrust did much the same. For hours, Signora had shown exactly how much she distrusted and disliked Tartaglia, encouraging the others to treat him like a broken toy, lowlier than even Scaramouche’s verbal jabs would suggest him. A plaything getting one last use before its trip to oblivion. Of course, he was the only one here whose role that was not.
Signora stepped away from him, pushing him to the ground without another thought. She turned to address her retirees. “As I have said, I wished to repay you for your loyal service. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Lady Signora,” the geochanter replied.
“It was a helluva night, for sure,” the hydrogunner agreed. The other assembled men grunted and nodded their same assertions.
“I only wish,” she continued, “that loyalty had been extended to me.”
Every single time. Without fail. Tartaglia could hardly believe it. This was his seventh retirement ceremony, sixth as a participant, and yet it always caught him just how surprised they all looked. Granted, they didn’t know coming into it that they would be retired, but, well, if you mess with La Signora, you ought to know the consequences.
His timing was perfect. He managed to catch the hydrogunner when his eyes were open wider than they perhaps had ever been before, some word of disbelief riding the point of Tartaglia’s hydro blade as he caught it from the throat and pulled it out of the man with the end of his cut. He felt the chill go up his spine as the temperature of the room dropped rapidly, mirroring the cold of home. Despite that, he grew, his excitement that had been building barely able to contain itself any longer.
CRAAKK! His fist shattered the geochanter’s icy head and a few quick blows to the frozen body ensured a most painful death if the cold hadn’t already numbed him over. The Amenoboxer bruiser tried to put up a fight, but Tartaglia was too fast. Despite their coming from the same home, the boxer clearly had lost his tolerance for the cold and allowed a little ice in his veins to slow his body. Tartaglia did not. He swiftly stuck a hydro blade in either side of the man’s chest, then shifted the form slightly and while leaving them embedded, pulled back the newly formed bowstring. The resulting arrow shot through the boxer’s heart and out his back, fully shattering the head of the frozen pyroslinger behind him.
The last, an agent without any sort of powers, Signora had taken care of herself. He seemed to be the ringleader, given how many icicles she had impaled his body with. He was like a flower with petals of ice. Satisfied that they were all dead, or at least that she no longer cared whether they lived or not, La Signora turned her true power upon the corpses, burning them away to nothing but ash.
Finally, her attention turned back to Tartaglia. “Are you quite satisfied, Childe?”
“I am.”
“What transpired here remains secret and safe?”
“It does.”
“Are you ready?”
Damn his tone, begging and simpering like a hungry dog as he said, “Yes, please.”
“Yes, please, what?”
“Yes, please, mistress.”
Then, as had happened every time since he had first discovered her murderous retirement ceremony and threatened to cut it off, she wrapped a hand around his length and made that same powerful, demanding eye contact that wordlessly told him her expectation. All that he had built up watching, allowing himself to be used, allowing himself to be degraded, pretending that he did not have the upper hand as the one who knew not just this, but any of La Signora’s secrets, burst forth from him and spread itself across her hip and thigh. It’d barely be perceptible, the whiteness on her pale skin, were it not so thick. She loosened her grip, her elegant hand covered in it too.
She gripped his face then, much gentler than he had been handled so far this evening, in a way that if he didn’t know better, he’d almost consider caring. “You did well. Our secrets stand. Tomorrow will be a long day. I’ve no further use of you tonight.” She squeezed his cheeks and wiped her hand away, leaving him covered in whatever of his own mess was not currently sliding down her leg. “Go away.” And so, satisfied at last, he did.