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    Summary

    “I want to hear you say it,” Sylvain murmurs, halfway entranced. When he glances up at Dimitri’s eye—eyes, now, one milky and pale while the other cuts straight through his heart—he feels them both start, a jerky kind of awareness that threads Sylvain like a needle. “Please.”

    Dimitri licks his lips, and there’s blood on his tongue. His lips are red with it. “Ask nicely,” he rasps, tilting his head back against the dirt. Sylvain’s eyes are drawn to the strong curve of his throat, the fluttering pulse of Dimitri’s jugular. “And I might.”

    Or: Sylvain gets lucky, but only because he is so terribly transparent.

    Language:
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