[ he's rudely woken up by tall, dark and deranged. mostly because he feels the air knocked out of him again as his face hits the scratchy linens, his weight heavy against his back as he feels something pressing against the curve of his ass. it's not like he's not aware of the effect he has on people. sylvain knows he's charming. handsome. attractive. devastating, and painfully so. when dimitri decides to shove him onto his bed on his stomach instead of snapping his neck, sylvain wonders if it'd be easier if he just told him he was going to surrender. less of a hassle, and at least, as far as he's concerned, more honest than anything else.
grim, bitter thoughts run through his head, self-deprecating: does he like the view from behind? does he enjoy his body? he smelled like he'd run himself a bath, skin chafed raw from the cold in some self-flagellating gesture; did he think of him and willed himself not to be aroused? was he trying to explain to the dead that lust isn't something to be easily killed? he could laugh. does. it's a struggle to do it with his face against the mattress but his shoulders are shaking. now that he's had a bit of rest, dimitri can add something awful to his memories: laugh like honey. laugh like rich chocolate. the way sylvain turns to look at him sideways, lashes long and beautiful as it frames his treacherous eyes. did you seduce me? yes. yes. always. sex is a weapon. one he is proficient in, deadly with.
two can play this game. if he won't be killed, if he can't make a decision, then he will force the king to move. a gambit for a play.
sylvain arches his back and grinds his ass against his crotch as he struggles to free himself from his weight. to no avail, of course. dimitri has him immobile. but the point isn't the struggle. it's the slow movement of the body. the arch of it. the deliberate push and grind, the soft smile. i am not that boy anymore, he says. he repeats. like a prayer. a chant. ineffective against what he can't control. lust, like fear, is an honest emotion. it supersedes all else. that's why it has to be controlled. mastered. utilized where necessary. the body remembers. the body doesn't forget.
sylvain grins. ]
... No, your highness. You aren't.
But you have the appetite of a man condemned, and one who isn't easily sated.
[ with rest comes his fangs. baring them against his proverbial prince. what does he like? what does he want? he will make him confess with his body. he will make him learn how to pray. how to be afraid. all men are the same in bed. a prince is no different. and where dimitri is cold and his skin feels raw, sylvain is soft and warm, the mattress underneath him heated by his body like a furnace. ]
And if you have to repeat it to yourself, you're probably not certain who you are, still. So spare me.
[ he licks his lips. ] This is an odd way to try and kill a man, you know. But I believe in you, I'm sure you can make it work.
[ if. if.
c'mon, break my heart. break me. sylvain is a mess of sharp emotions and keen arrogance. the way he is right now, the difference in temperatures, he wants dimitri to make good with what he doesn't want to do. you know you want to. break me, you brat. ]
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grim, bitter thoughts run through his head, self-deprecating: does he like the view from behind? does he enjoy his body? he smelled like he'd run himself a bath, skin chafed raw from the cold in some self-flagellating gesture; did he think of him and willed himself not to be aroused? was he trying to explain to the dead that lust isn't something to be easily killed? he could laugh. does. it's a struggle to do it with his face against the mattress but his shoulders are shaking. now that he's had a bit of rest, dimitri can add something awful to his memories: laugh like honey. laugh like rich chocolate. the way sylvain turns to look at him sideways, lashes long and beautiful as it frames his treacherous eyes. did you seduce me? yes. yes. always. sex is a weapon. one he is proficient in, deadly with.
two can play this game. if he won't be killed, if he can't make a decision, then he will force the king to move. a gambit for a play.
sylvain arches his back and grinds his ass against his crotch as he struggles to free himself from his weight. to no avail, of course. dimitri has him immobile. but the point isn't the struggle. it's the slow movement of the body. the arch of it. the deliberate push and grind, the soft smile. i am not that boy anymore, he says. he repeats. like a prayer. a chant. ineffective against what he can't control. lust, like fear, is an honest emotion. it supersedes all else. that's why it has to be controlled. mastered. utilized where necessary. the body remembers. the body doesn't forget.
sylvain grins. ]
... No, your highness. You aren't.
But you have the appetite of a man condemned, and one who isn't easily sated.
[ with rest comes his fangs. baring them against his proverbial prince. what does he like? what does he want? he will make him confess with his body. he will make him learn how to pray. how to be afraid. all men are the same in bed. a prince is no different. and where dimitri is cold and his skin feels raw, sylvain is soft and warm, the mattress underneath him heated by his body like a furnace. ]
And if you have to repeat it to yourself, you're probably not certain who you are, still. So spare me.
[ he licks his lips. ] This is an odd way to try and kill a man, you know. But I believe in you, I'm sure you can make it work.
[ if. if.
c'mon, break my heart. break me. sylvain is a mess of sharp emotions and keen arrogance. the way he is right now, the difference in temperatures, he wants dimitri to make good with what he doesn't want to do. you know you want to. break me, you brat. ]