He sits in his throne with his legs crossed and his chin resting against the cradle of his knuckles, observing his prey with just the faintest glimmer of emotion that crosses between complacency and malice.
His enemy stands in front of him – stands, not kneeling, not groveling – Dark Glass is far too proud for that, far too strong and obstinate to submit without some added force of external persuasion.
He goes through all the ways he can break his enemy and make him submit… and realizes it'd be far too easy to use physical violence to destroy this man.
Placido was never one to appreciate excessive bloodshed or slaughter. He wanted to defeat his opponents, utterly crush them, humiliate them and drag their sense of self-worth in grime before throwing it back into their faces—watch them struggle and squirm against the bonds of fate, as if they were actually able to change their predetermined futures—but simple, plain killing… there was no satisfaction in that.
His mouth clenches in a sliver of a grin as he presses his boot between the crux of his enemy's legs. Glass' body immediately stiffens up… well, the rest of it anyway—though it isn't long before there's a hard bulge protruding from the man's pants, the skintight tautness of his riding suit making the swell even more apparent.
Dark Glass grits his teeth, his calm, composed façade cracking. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut behind the visor as if he doesn't want to witness his own body betraying him.
Placido smirks, rubbing the sole of his boot further into the man's crotch. He gauges Glass' reaction as he alternates between hard, grinding strokes and gentle, circular motions.
"Hoh… you like that, don't you?" he drawls. "This is rather interesting…"