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"I want to take the lead this time," Ritsuka says. Their eyes glitter like stars, and Dantes knows at once that he is helpless to refuse them.
This, especially, he could not deny them: he would not put them through a trial that he refuses to undertake himself. Ritsuka would laugh at calling it a trial - they've made their pleasure well known. But as for Dantes, control is a precious thing to him, from control of his fate to control of his body.
(They have already changed his fate, haven't they?)
Dantes rid himself of all nerves long ago, or he thought he did. But the emotion he feels laid out on his back is difficult to identify as anything else. He knows there is a flush on his face, and Ritsuka's fingers haven't even breached him yet.
He has endured all sorts of pains and tortures without flinching: that is easy, second nature. This careful, slow stretch is an unfamiliar sensation. His spirit origin is not well suited for this gentleness, for Ritsuka's kisses brushed over his scars and soft praise as they spread him open. His claws tremble and tear at the bedsheets.
It is one thing to take pleasure from a willing body. It is another thing to be at pleasure's mercy, an inhuman sound tearing from his throat as Ritsuka finds his weakest point. The flames in his blood are no longer his to command, but Ritsuka's, dancing to the rhythm they set for him.
He is helpless in their hands, a creature of pure need unrecognizable to himself, and they whisper, "Just let go, Edmond."
And to them, only to them, he gives up control.