#FOULWATERSÂ Â Â Êłá”âż Â á”á”á”á” Â ,   âââ  tartaglia , the eleventh harbinger ,  & the tsaritsa's vanguard , of hoyoverse's genshin impact . unaffiliated with the rpc . though i mostly follow canon , i take a lot of liberties with the lore  & universe to write tartaglia how i see fit . heavily inspired by : monstrous beings , eldritch abominations , gothic horror , and all the themes that revolve around each of those .
DISCLAIMER : tag suffers from very extreme bouts of psychosis that most often present as auditory  & visual hallucinations . if you are triggered by unreality , please take care following . tw for cannibalism , violence , gore , horror , religious themes , and more . written by ash ,  twenty - six , he  & they .
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characters who are so inauthentic. characters who only show what they want other people to see of them. characters who simply must have control over every part of themselves. do you even get it
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   when  you  pray  ,  what  do  you  pray  for  ?  this  is  the  house  that  built  you  ,  and  youâre  going  to  burn  it  down  .  what  is  a  home  ,  if  not  the  first  place  you  learn  to  run  from  ?
          for  him  ,  you  learn  the  art  of  being  [  DEAD  ]  .  (  ac  )
@almadaelââââ, Â no prompt, Â always accepting .
â  wait. did you mend this ?  â  dilucâs made it clear he doesnât like anything about his situation ( stitches that pull at sore skin, trapped with a harbinger  ââ  the enemy, truce or not currently withstanding ââ  for company who doesnât know when to shut up, frustrated and miserable about both ), but that doesnât mean he wonât appreciate the kind act in itself. heâs been taught to show gratitude, to be courteous to those who help ( even if, at times, itâs not entirely desired and more so through grit teeth ). thereâs precision and quality to his work, as though heâs been taught by a professional. itâs impressive. and considering a part of him had been deeply ashamed the moment he realized heâd likely permanently ruined the seams with his carelessness, he means it more than he thought he would.  â  thank you.  â  diluc meets his gaze.  â  that wasnât necessary.  â
tartaglia, eleventh harbinger, vanguard of her majesty the tsaritsa, doesnât play with his food. Â
thereâs meager fare on the road, and witnessing a superior swallowing down meat so raw itâs still wiggling is bad for soldier morale, or so heâd been told by signora. a dark cast sickly pall over an already dire situation -- how heâs learned to take his hunger pressed into the recesses, nooks and crannies where the smell of blood is thick and the air heavy ( down, down, down into a crack in the world, shattered sky through which nothing escapes / it all returns here ). he had learned to satiate with necessity, like taking medicine; a spoon of honey, to disguise the viscosity, the gradual slide settling cold sludge into his stomach. his motherâs favorite method of wrangling naughty, sickly kids into submission, when even the fever couldnât do the trick. itâs too bad honey doesnât disguise the taste of iron.
that is to say: by the third or fourth day, he has settled into the realization heâs going to allow one of the greatest thorns in the fatuiâs side... to live. heâd been at his mercy, after all, injured artistâs tongue spilling curses in dizzying array out faster than the blood. plenty of creativity for each subsequent threat, and none of the charm to go with it. yet he had assisted anyway. the wound had been the size of a fist, slashed down the middle and purpling âround the edges; the smell of blood had been so strong itâd made his teeth ache, and instead heâd stitched it together like he was any other pair of old socks under his tender care. thereâs a discomfort that comes from saving someoneâs life, too heavy to really focus on in detail; the awareness of how strange it is, the reversal of his own nature. it didnât feel wrong, but it didnât feel right either. just... irritating.
or maybe that was just a side effect of sharing a living space with mondstadtâs most frustrating man. how many times had he sewn him up, anyway? what he should say is: he isnât a medic. what he should say is: he isnât a seamstress.
( what he should say is : youâre a threat to the fatui, and i am a harbinger. itâs nothing personal ).
instead, he sits at the kitchen table with curved fingers âround the heavy weight of a sharpening stone, and blinks stupidly at him as he tries to comprehend exactly what heâs just said to him. ragnvindr, thanking him ? what a ridiculous concept. but itâs his chest, really, thatâs giving out, not his hearing. his mouth curves around the taunt even before itâs formed, a sinuous little thing. he doesnât let it complete, but itâs there anyway, no speech necessary. tongue between teeth clamped down, pink between lips parted in a smug grin.
what he says is. â of course. â which is a ridiculous thing to say. theyâre enemies. there are a thousand things they should be doing that donât include sharing a house, sharing supplies, sharing food or weapons or skillsets. tartaglia -- ajax, really, since heâs shed the title at least for now -- thumbs at his bottom lip and returns to his task as if he hasnât just cracked right through the ice and plunged into the freezing cold. and even worse, he continues that reply when the brief silence becomes too uncomfortable to ignore. â are you surprised ? my sister taught me. katya. she hated taking those lessons alone, so she dragged me along. â
he isnât looking at him as he says it, but he can see his reflection warped in the surface of the sword. he isnât admitting anything right now. just a name, just an anecdote. nothing treasonous except for the fact diluc is even alive right now. â maybe you could thank her instead. â the sword goes abandoned, shoved towards the middle of the table in favor of propping his foot onto the edge of his seat, bent leg pressed to his chest to rest his chin upon the knee. he considers his company through a hint of self-satisfied amusement. no humor except them; the perfect joke. â it would probably be easier on your stomach than thanking me. â
     (   @foulwatersâââââ   )   :   â   kiss  &  tell   .   â          a kiss shared while holding your dying lover . hey marina .
          â   tag  ?  whatâs  wrong  ?   â
          he  has  looked  somewhere  between  upset   ( & . )   lost  all  morning  ,  mind  clearly  elsewhere  .  ayato  is  hardly  the  type  to  talk  about  feelings  ,  would  hate  to  bring  them  up  when  her  lover  may  wish  to  keep  them  to  himself   â   but  then  ,  if  there  is  any  support  he  can  give  ,  he  wants  to  .  it  is  the  least  he  can  do  ,  for  all  of  the  tenderness  he  has  taught  her  .  she  cups  his  face  in  her  hands  .
ache  never  ending.    itâs  never  known  anything  else,    and  if  it  did,    it  didnât  remember.    one  of  the  thousand  pieces  of  humanity  carved  away  from  its  silhouette  and  swallowed  whole  by  whatever  things  skirk  stuffed  into  this  body  in  her  selfishness.    its  selfishness.    you  called  out  to  me,    and  it  knows  sheâs  right.    she  had  no  reason  to  lie.    whether  he  stayed  or  not  meant  nothing.
so  they  didnât,    but  it  did.    it  stayed  right  here,    inside.    curled  up  in  this  chest  and  mind  and  howling  like  a  starving  beast,  feeding  of  every  single  desire  ajax  has  ever  had  and  taking  it  for  its  own.    even  now  it  lives  on,    feasting  on  the  life  it  takes  in  exchange  for  mending  its  wounds.    they  didnât  ask  it  to;    they  didnât  ask  for  this  price,           yes  you  didâââââ Â
guttural  yelp  when  spine  hits  floor,    spitting  out  the  blood  in  throat.    already  theyâve  both  mended,    it  knows  it,    it  knows  when  it  sits  upward  their  blood  will  just  be  blood.    it  doesnât  matter  who  it  came  from.    weâre  the  same  regardless;    hollow  shells  that  taste  rancid.
        â    you  think  âŠÂ    "           ah,    throat  still  sore.    words  slur  through  sloughs  of  blood.           "    you  think  i  was  trying  to  kill  you?    â
it  laughs.    sickly,    coated  in  iron.    pushes  up  on  palms,    heaves  through  the  itch  and  crawling  horror  of  its  mending  skin.    this  swimming  disgust           (  how  horrid  to  be  around:    two  nightmares  feeding  off  of  mutual  unease   )        makes  it  dizzy,    even  as  corpse  crawls  back  onto  knees,    trembling  like  a  ragdoll.     Â
â    donât  overestimate  my  kindness.    i  just  wanted  to  know  if  you  look  like  me  on  the  inside,    too.    "            teeth  bared  âneath  lips  stretched  just  too  wide.    canines  that  bite  into  its  own  lip,    still  bathed  in  streaks  of  its  own  blood.    hungry.    bored.    mad,    above  all,    desperate  to  crawl  inside  his  skin  andâperhaps  be  whole  again,    a  piece  of  something,    but  they  have  nothing  to  offer  one  another.    two  black  holes  donât  create  a  galaxy.   it  was  never  about  freedom.          "    arenât  you  curious       ?       â
a torrential downpour, but he thinks, with no small amount of irony, how it never used to rain in snezhnaya. even in the summer, morepesok was too cold; the breeze off the ocean carried with it the memory of winter, bracing chill that left even the edges of the sea crackling with ice. it sung like the abyss -- that black hole sound of clear ice, hollow and empty in the rising wind. a crack in the world, so far down that when he landed heâd barely made a sound, but maybe the crack had been in him first. when the wind comes, it winds through him in the same tone, same as it sounds ringing through the cavernous depths of ice snezhnaya houses in its bones. Â
the voice that reaches him through the bloodied fog of his mind, stored in the emptied cavity of his chest where all the worst memories have made their home, is barely even a voice so much as that ringing. his breath clenches tight in his chest. panic, he thinks. thatâs what this feels like. the world dimming around him until it is just two pinpoints of fractured light, reflections of each other in the vague & sinuous stillness of a lake.
â youâre-- youâre always trying to kill me.  â a hissed response through half-chattering teeth. he clamps down until his jaw aches, until he feels the pain like a reminder. something to drag him back out of the depths, out of the abyss, out of the loss. if he thumbs the edges of his ribs, the core of his heart, heâd feel nothing but the outline of what used to be there -- he knows it, he does! heâs too afraid to even look for fear of being right.
( what did you take from me? what did you take from me? repeated over and over, but when he parts his lips all he says is --- )
â weâre nothing alike. youâre nothing!  â this is what heâd been in the depths, inside the skittering, wet darkness. the way it had plastered itself on his skin, in his skin, sunk in and spread like a slow rot. a panicked, terrified animal that had only calmed with a weapon in its hand. he craves it now. the comfort of fingers curved over a familiar handle, the pulsating ebb and tide of the waves.  â iâm me and youâre--  â nothing! an imitation! a ghost, something dead that isnât dead and something alive that isnât alive! but his mind seizes on every accusation, caught in the flesh like a bur. what if heâs the imitation? what if heâs the ghost?
his breath leaves him. a slow death rattle. he curls his fingers into the rapidly cooling pool of blood, the congealed mass of it sticking to his fingers. heâs going to be sick.
a whisper thin end.  â youâre nothing. weâre nothing.  â
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@deificdeceitââ, no prompt,  always  accepting .
There's a low snarl as he finally pins the young Harbinger against a wall. Teeth bared as he looks down at him in disappointment. "I believed we could have had some amicable relationship between us Ajax, but you make that difficult. Avoiding me at every turn. And for what? Because you cannot face who I am? Or are you still feeling hurt over the betrayal?"Â
He tuts. âAt least take the time and effort to learn the full story before making a decision.â Without care he invades more of his personal space. Trapping the eleventh between himself and the freezing ice wall. âA shame really.â He states. Sounding remorseful yet not showing it as he lowers his head. âIâd have loved to continue our relationship.â Tongue extends, slowly licking a long strip upon tags neck. Taking his time to savour the moment and see how he reacts.(he remembers the days when he did this and Ajax simply laughed in amusement at his silly antics)
âBut we canât can we?â Tone bitter. âYou believe there is nothing more between us.â With small growl, sharp teeth are bared once more and he strikes like a starved python. Teeth latch on Tartaglia's neck in a vice like grip. Teeth piercing soft squishy flesh. Drawing blood that tastes coppery with hints of the foul darkness of the Abyss within it. Yet, he doesnât spit it out. Instead he relishes in the taste. Swallowing not one but two mouthfuls of the hot liquid that spills from Tartaglias neck.
Satisfied, he unlatches carefully. Holding Childe in place, just to not nick him once more. (how kind) Tongue latches on to lick the blood stained neck, cleaning it as well as once can with an open wound. Once finished, he steps back, licking the blood of his lips as he looks down at the man he once considered his friend. (Maybe even his lover if they where brave to admit it.)
âYou may work for the Tsaritsa for now. But remember my love. In the end, your heart and soul will always belong to me. Even if you donât realise it.â
the problem with his treacherous heart is how awfully it craves forgiveness.  in another world,  in another light,  it wouldnât be such a problem.  dust off the remnants of a relationship scattered into pieces and set to the arduous task of restoration  --  difficult work,  but not impossible.  instead,  he seethes.  he imagines zhongliâs throat beneath his hand,  his blood on his tongue.  a grotesque artwork of every desire heâs ever felt,  good or bad,  mangled into each other until he canât separate one for the other.  how many nights has he laid in bed now,  playing it all over in his head?  an endless performance behind his eyelids:  opening act,  closing scene.  the betrayal he had felt;  an endless pit in the core of his stomach that demanded recompense.  satisfaction.  revenge or flesh or something to satiate the gnawing.
instead,  he has only this:  avoidance,  which is certainly not doing anything to combat the growing hunger,  the growing whispers of abyss-tinged shades that drag him to sleep dreaming of zhongli beneath him gasping  --  in pain?  in pleasure?  whatever,  whatever.  he canât tell the difference.  maybe he never could.  ( all of it leads to the same place / covetous longing disguised as fury,  fury disguised as bloodlust,  bloodlust disguised as desire ).
a tangled knot he canât hope to unweave,  so he doesnât even try.  he isnât afraid of anything.  he crawled out of that abyss into the noonday light of a day he canât remember,  sloughed off skin for a wolf underneath.  but maybe,  maybe,  ( maybe zhongli brings him close ).  thatâs the cornered thing talking when he has him trapped,  ice against his back spreading shivers and goosebumps down sun-freckled arms.  liyue had left its mark and he wishes it hadnât.  he wish he could sleep.  he wishes he was left alone to suffer and pine and gnaw it out  --  the desperation and the hurt  --  like the desperate self-cannibalization of an animal trapped within the jaws of a trap. Â
amicable relationship,  he says,  and tartaglia hisses out his answer between his teeth.
he doesnât want to talk.  he doesnât have anything to say.  all those words will do is curl around his tongue and singe him like settling his hand into a fire.  if he gives room for one,  theyâll all spill out,  this awful sickness thatâs hollowed him out and made a home of him since he stood bereft in the echoing halls of the northland bank for the last time.  he isnât going to say anything,  except he is.  bristling before heâs even thought it through.  scrambling hands shoving and pushing at the body beneath  ( dig in,  dig harder,  tear at this stupid mortal body until he can find the divinity beneath and finally,  finally lap at it all he wants ),  snarling as he palms the edge of one sharp jaw and pushes.  it does little.  of course it does.  heâs immovable as rock.  he wants to laugh,  delirious with the fury of it all.
â  there is nothing between us.  youâre---  youâre nothing---  â  cornered animal,  snapping at any hand that gets too close.  zhongliâs has always been the closest.  idiot.  fool.  naive child.  the tongue on his neck is warm,  and he shivers despite himself.  â  donât tell me you have regrets.  you made your choice.  â
blustering,  of course.  he isnât a liar by nature but he is by trade.
â  i shouldâve killed you right there---  â  itâs a thought halted in its tracks the moment teeth pierce,  dissolving into a high-toned gasp that catches in his throat and rattles.  archons.  fuck.  he thinks a sudden,  dizzying array of panic-tinged phrases,  all in language his mother would disapprove,  but heâs gone lax even before they come to fruition.  fluttering lashes,  dark crescents casting shadows along his cheekbones,  his head tilting as if to give better access.  the clawed hands that dig into shoulders do so now with a violently altered purpose.  itâs all so muddled in his chest.  he canât even tell what he wants.
to end it all:  his lips part on a single,  quiet moan,  fluttering like the sudden nausea in his stomach.  heâs going to be sick.  the shadows at the corner of his visions,  abyss-tinged peripheral,  have gone suddenly silent.  an audience at rapt attention.
his tongue curls around a curse.  around zhongliâs name.  around his heart.  he shoves again,  and this time the bastard actually unlatches.  the altogether wrong choice,  as he pulls back,  and he can see the gleaming shine of blood on his lips.  fuck.  fuck.  and then for good measure,  he thinks it one more time.  against the walls of his archonâs palace,  he wobbles and worships anotherâs name.  it is not a great feeling.  of course he vocalizes exactly what heâs feeling right now,  the sudden plunging sensation of realizing heâs fallen from a cliff and hadnât even noticed until he hit the ground.  love,  he thinks,  which is an awful lot like desire.  love,  craddled by the ice at his back and the warmth in front of him.
oh,  heâs so fucked.
â  i hope you enjoyed that.  â  dazed,  flat ocean eyes staring up at him,  a hand sliding to cup over the fresh wound,  slick with his own blood.  itâs already gone cold and tacky on his skin.  a foolish,  fleeting thought,  but he wishes zhongliâd warm it with his mouth.  at least here,  the desire doesnât quite make it to his face.  â  itâs all youâll ever have of me.  â
he digs in with fingertips until he feels the well of pain.  the world roars back to life like a furnace,  like the coal drops of his blood.  malice-coated maw releasing to slam into the otherâs sternum.  if he were stronger,  he could drive in until he could feel his heart.  he could take it out himself.  a replacement,  for the one he stole from him.
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