[ The willingness to consume is so much like the willingness to be consumed. That's what fresh on his mind, like spilled ink across an unlined page or the sweat-damp touch of his hands, frisking up Mira with unremitting concentration. He ought to memorize it later, so it can follow him into his dreams: the preciousness of touch that could scald even the nerves, enamored with the sort of warmth that greets him so tenderly.
Tartaglia's trying for goodness, but he never quite hits the mark. His face betrays him, the shock momentary where he's cradling Mira, fingers seized up over that nasty, mangled scar come clawing into the skin.
Clutching their hand, Tartaglia entreats them to his shoulder as he unbuttons his shirt and sets it aside, too distracted to be neat with it. ]
Go ahead and touch mine.
[ Search him for all of his scars and blemishes all over his body, the proof he's lived so ridiculously and stupidly and all for himself. Like he has any claims to modesty, after falling such a long way down into the looming darkness of the Abyss. His eyes don't shine anymore, but he's happy enough when he takes to scooting down just enough to kiss those jagged edges that spiderweb Mira's chest and over their heart. ]
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Tartaglia's trying for goodness, but he never quite hits the mark. His face betrays him, the shock momentary where he's cradling Mira, fingers seized up over that nasty, mangled scar come clawing into the skin.
Clutching their hand, Tartaglia entreats them to his shoulder as he unbuttons his shirt and sets it aside, too distracted to be neat with it. ]
Go ahead and touch mine.
[ Search him for all of his scars and blemishes all over his body, the proof he's lived so ridiculously and stupidly and all for himself. Like he has any claims to modesty, after falling such a long way down into the looming darkness of the Abyss. His eyes don't shine anymore, but he's happy enough when he takes to scooting down just enough to kiss those jagged edges that spiderweb Mira's chest and over their heart. ]