[This is a mistake. Yet even in the process of committing to it, Dimitri can't seem to stop. The self-awareness alone isn't enough. It may even be worse, because he is staring down into the face of a decision he should not make—and still choosing to make it.
There is the element of seduction he already knows, and he can no longer deny that fact, not faced with Sylvain's sly look, those hooded eyes he'd wear in their dormitory and outside while knowing Dimitri watched him across the classroom or dining table with rapt enchantment. He had never thought he could be so attracted to another man. At first it had terrified him, and it was only Sylvain's familiar guidance that led him through the storm; a bond formed in childhood made more boyish and tender, exploratory, unjudgmental. He'd never denied Sylvain's handsomeness, it was clear in every pair of eyes he managed to lure in their youth. Enough to incite a dark, confusing, seeded jealousy in his gut each time he overhead idle gossip in the hallways of the monastery. It was not as though they'd ever promised anything to one another.
And yet, foolishly, he had...
It's like he recalls. Almost. Sylvain is pale and lean underneath him, toned curves of muscle, red hair messy on the sheets, mouth full and wide in the slash of a smirk. He's beautiful. His beauty is wasted on war, surely, just as it was wasted on every frivolous affair of the past. Wasted on a prince as unworthy as him. Wasted, now, on Adrestia. They do not deserve to possess him—but that was Sylvain's choice, and now...
Dimitri sucks in a sharp breath. That struggle is enough to bear, as easy as putting his hand on Sylvain's head and tangling his fingers into crimson strands, yanking at the roots to lift Sylvain's chin off the bed. It is the ache that is worse, attraction throbbing hot and low in his belly; he can feel himself harden in moments. The pressure against his groin is a sin. There's no disguising the considerable shape of that heavy cock through black trousers, even as he reflexively lifts himself onto his knees to escape the sinuous grind of Sylvain's slender hips. Running away.]
What do you know of who I am now? You left me years ago. [Gritted, disgusted at himself for being so aroused, furious at Sylvain for causing it in him again.] A quick death would be a mercy you don't deserve.
How many others have you bedded since? Did you seduce them as well? Did you make promises you never intended to keep? [All he's learned, he's learned from Sylvain. What can be said when he shifts again, driving a knee between Sylvain's thighs to force them wider apart, to expose everything between, from the slope of his ass down to the soft tuck of balls on the mattress, back forced into an arch by the hand still tight in his hair. His voice is a condescending hiss.] Tell me how you would rather be treated, Sylvain.
no subject
There is the element of seduction he already knows, and he can no longer deny that fact, not faced with Sylvain's sly look, those hooded eyes he'd wear in their dormitory and outside while knowing Dimitri watched him across the classroom or dining table with rapt enchantment. He had never thought he could be so attracted to another man. At first it had terrified him, and it was only Sylvain's familiar guidance that led him through the storm; a bond formed in childhood made more boyish and tender, exploratory, unjudgmental. He'd never denied Sylvain's handsomeness, it was clear in every pair of eyes he managed to lure in their youth. Enough to incite a dark, confusing, seeded jealousy in his gut each time he overhead idle gossip in the hallways of the monastery. It was not as though they'd ever promised anything to one another.
And yet, foolishly, he had...
It's like he recalls. Almost. Sylvain is pale and lean underneath him, toned curves of muscle, red hair messy on the sheets, mouth full and wide in the slash of a smirk. He's beautiful. His beauty is wasted on war, surely, just as it was wasted on every frivolous affair of the past. Wasted on a prince as unworthy as him. Wasted, now, on Adrestia. They do not deserve to possess him—but that was Sylvain's choice, and now...
Dimitri sucks in a sharp breath. That struggle is enough to bear, as easy as putting his hand on Sylvain's head and tangling his fingers into crimson strands, yanking at the roots to lift Sylvain's chin off the bed. It is the ache that is worse, attraction throbbing hot and low in his belly; he can feel himself harden in moments. The pressure against his groin is a sin. There's no disguising the considerable shape of that heavy cock through black trousers, even as he reflexively lifts himself onto his knees to escape the sinuous grind of Sylvain's slender hips. Running away.]
What do you know of who I am now? You left me years ago. [Gritted, disgusted at himself for being so aroused, furious at Sylvain for causing it in him again.] A quick death would be a mercy you don't deserve.
How many others have you bedded since? Did you seduce them as well? Did you make promises you never intended to keep? [All he's learned, he's learned from Sylvain. What can be said when he shifts again, driving a knee between Sylvain's thighs to force them wider apart, to expose everything between, from the slope of his ass down to the soft tuck of balls on the mattress, back forced into an arch by the hand still tight in his hair. His voice is a condescending hiss.] Tell me how you would rather be treated, Sylvain.