Little more than a child. Barely a blink of a thing, snared between two covetous grips (and he knows about the differences in ages between worlds, but that hardly changes the fact that Leto was so young— add to it having all of his memories wiped clean, and oh, it's savagery fit for Cazador's table:) taking a pretty young thing and seeing just what happens when you unmake it in your name. Taunt and tease it. Rile it and watch it smolder unaware.
And if it fails in one way or another, you simply try again.
And again.
And again.
He fills his throat fill with heat that stings like blackened bile. Impotent and outdated, but thick within the hollow of his throat.]
They tortured you. [It wasn't about sex; Astarion's fucked enough shortsighted sycophants in his time to pinpoint the outline of those aimless footprints. If it had been about sensation alone in utter control, the rutting would've been the point: punctuation played out in penetration or gulping adoration— less than none care spared for the thing they used to that end. A thing to be used and put away, not crooning about his responses or lack thereof when he's been set up just to fail. The fall the thing that brings them glee; the glory that he can't say no.
They tore him to ribbons just to lie and call it fucking.]
Both of them.
[Did Isabela know about this?
When she took him to bed, that is.
On some level, Astarion thinks she must've. But intuition is still a different beast than insight: watching a beaten thing flinch at the first sign of an outstretched hand isn't the same thing as knowing what happened. If she was perceptive enough to know how to dance with him when he scarcely knew how to suck in breath without being told, or the shape of his body beneath the surface of his skin, then she wouldn't need words or truths; he'd be an open book comprised of a slim scattering of bent pages.
And in a way Astarion supposes it doesn't matter. What she taught Leto was enough to bring him back from that nightmare through the gentle rules of her splayed fingertips. There'd be no now if not for then— her then, that is.
Still, though, it's all a mess. Still, he can't stop himself from wading through the past when he asks:]
no subject
Little more than a child. Barely a blink of a thing, snared between two covetous grips (and he knows about the differences in ages between worlds, but that hardly changes the fact that Leto was so young— add to it having all of his memories wiped clean, and oh, it's savagery fit for Cazador's table:) taking a pretty young thing and seeing just what happens when you unmake it in your name. Taunt and tease it. Rile it and watch it smolder unaware.
And if it fails in one way or another, you simply try again.
And again.
And again.
He fills his throat fill with heat that stings like blackened bile. Impotent and outdated, but thick within the hollow of his throat.]
They tortured you. [It wasn't about sex; Astarion's fucked enough shortsighted sycophants in his time to pinpoint the outline of those aimless footprints. If it had been about sensation alone in utter control, the rutting would've been the point: punctuation played out in penetration or gulping adoration— less than none care spared for the thing they used to that end. A thing to be used and put away, not crooning about his responses or lack thereof when he's been set up just to fail. The fall the thing that brings them glee; the glory that he can't say no.
They tore him to ribbons just to lie and call it fucking.]
Both of them.
[Did Isabela know about this?
When she took him to bed, that is.
On some level, Astarion thinks she must've. But intuition is still a different beast than insight: watching a beaten thing flinch at the first sign of an outstretched hand isn't the same thing as knowing what happened. If she was perceptive enough to know how to dance with him when he scarcely knew how to suck in breath without being told, or the shape of his body beneath the surface of his skin, then she wouldn't need words or truths; he'd be an open book comprised of a slim scattering of bent pages.
And in a way Astarion supposes it doesn't matter. What she taught Leto was enough to bring him back from that nightmare through the gentle rules of her splayed fingertips. There'd be no now if not for then— her then, that is.
Still, though, it's all a mess. Still, he can't stop himself from wading through the past when he asks:]
How long was it like that? Your captivity, not—
[Hells, Astarion.]