[His shoulder hurts. It's the most bleak awareness, trivial in the moment, with Sylvain trapped beneath him and whispering those platitudes like a prayer. The pain is a sore, throbbing blister awakened from the agitation of being probed by those fingers from before; he can't clear the fog of it from his mind. Not even hitting the body under him had helped. It is a constant drum in his head—that song of violence, coaxing him to do more, to make it worse, to go all of the way. Men cannot be conquered into submission except with brute force. How long ago had he learned such a difficult lesson, and how many years had he foolishly believed he could change anyone with diplomatic words alone?
So easy to turn Sylvain over onto his back. So easy to fit his hands around that slender throat, above the collar of the black armor he's still wearing. Dimitri is like a possessed wraith on top of him—half in shadow, the palest part of him all of the naked, scarred skin of his upper torso. White, because Faerghus gets so little sunlight, and he's shut himself up in a self-made grave since leaving his home country. He is an indomitable force over Sylvain. His grip on that throat squeezes, and there's no doubt that if he tried, he could likely snap Sylvain's neck with that Crest-poisoned strength of his.
Sylvain keeps on breathing. Still alive.]
My will? [It's a hiss, Dimitri not caring if his weight is crushing the man beneath him who was once a cherished childhood friend.] Must I? Was that your plan all along, then? Oh, I should have known.
[The paranoia in him has reached a new height as everything falls into delirious place. His words come quicker, fanatic.]
You seduced me. At the academy, that was always your goal, was it not? To lure me in like the slut you are, so that when you betrayed me for those monsters, it would create a weakness to be exploited. It would be used against me. And now they've sent you back to finish it, haven't they? Did you think I would fall all over myself, the same little boy infatuated with your sweet, duplicitous playacting?
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So easy to turn Sylvain over onto his back. So easy to fit his hands around that slender throat, above the collar of the black armor he's still wearing. Dimitri is like a possessed wraith on top of him—half in shadow, the palest part of him all of the naked, scarred skin of his upper torso. White, because Faerghus gets so little sunlight, and he's shut himself up in a self-made grave since leaving his home country. He is an indomitable force over Sylvain. His grip on that throat squeezes, and there's no doubt that if he tried, he could likely snap Sylvain's neck with that Crest-poisoned strength of his.
Sylvain keeps on breathing. Still alive.]
My will? [It's a hiss, Dimitri not caring if his weight is crushing the man beneath him who was once a cherished childhood friend.] Must I? Was that your plan all along, then? Oh, I should have known.
[The paranoia in him has reached a new height as everything falls into delirious place. His words come quicker, fanatic.]
You seduced me. At the academy, that was always your goal, was it not? To lure me in like the slut you are, so that when you betrayed me for those monsters, it would create a weakness to be exploited. It would be used against me. And now they've sent you back to finish it, haven't they? Did you think I would fall all over myself, the same little boy infatuated with your sweet, duplicitous playacting?