[It does. It does. Danarius' touch was loathsome, despised and repulsive— but it was a constant. The magister had a taste for sadism when it suited him, but more often than not he preferred routine: for Leto to tend to him the same way he always had, mouth or hands or slickened cinch bouncing atop his prick, and oh, how his master had doted on him. False affection, to be sure— and even now, sometimes he'll shiver beneath Astarion's hands in the aftermath, a little overwhelmed in the best way by what something real feels like. You were so good, come here, amatus, his hands endlessly gentle, fussing over cleaning Leto instead of ordering him away, come here, affection so genuine it hurts).
But at least that false affection was better than Hadriana's seething torment.
But oh, that sigh. That barest exhale, and his heart is already thundering for the sliver of praise he'd heard before. The phantom push of a cool nose against his cheek, nuzzling in praise as he gathers him close . . . it will be a few days more before he's home, and oh, Leto prays the time passes swiftly, for he misses him so. He knows what expression Astarion wears as that little sigh slips out, and he can no more help chasing after it than he could breathe.]
What was it like, with Cazador?
[For he knows the vampire was— is, Leto realizes, his stomach dropping— of a far crueler breed than Danarius. Having the magister's focus was not an inherently bad thing, but with Cazador . . . ah, who can say if it's better to be sent out or ignored?]
no subject
[It does. It does. Danarius' touch was loathsome, despised and repulsive— but it was a constant. The magister had a taste for sadism when it suited him, but more often than not he preferred routine: for Leto to tend to him the same way he always had, mouth or hands or slickened cinch bouncing atop his prick, and oh, how his master had doted on him. False affection, to be sure— and even now, sometimes he'll shiver beneath Astarion's hands in the aftermath, a little overwhelmed in the best way by what something real feels like. You were so good, come here, amatus, his hands endlessly gentle, fussing over cleaning Leto instead of ordering him away, come here, affection so genuine it hurts).
But at least that false affection was better than Hadriana's seething torment.
But oh, that sigh. That barest exhale, and his heart is already thundering for the sliver of praise he'd heard before. The phantom push of a cool nose against his cheek, nuzzling in praise as he gathers him close . . . it will be a few days more before he's home, and oh, Leto prays the time passes swiftly, for he misses him so. He knows what expression Astarion wears as that little sigh slips out, and he can no more help chasing after it than he could breathe.]
What was it like, with Cazador?
[For he knows the vampire was— is, Leto realizes, his stomach dropping— of a far crueler breed than Danarius. Having the magister's focus was not an inherently bad thing, but with Cazador . . . ah, who can say if it's better to be sent out or ignored?]
Was it easier when it was only his touch?