[ 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. ]

... Doubt you even understand what you need.