[And there is not a shred of doubt in his mind as he says it.
Now he understands. What was murky and unsure suddenly comes in abrupt focus, and oh, if his heart doesn't ache for understanding. The terror of knowing you are echoing what your master did to you; the fear that you are little more than a broken thing incapable of cherishing anything but that abuse. Remembering all the revulsion and hatred and grief you felt, and here you are now, reenacting it— oh, gods, yes, he does know that feeling.
Inhale, exhale. He will not fumble this in his haste to assure Astarion.]
Astarion, you wish for— for a reflection, not a recreation. You do not beg me to torment you, or use you, or whore you out. But there is a thrill to, to reenacting what we have gone through. I—
[No, this isn't right. He's circling it, and it's not that he's wrong— but this isn't what he means. Leto hesitates, trying to think of his own experiences before Astarion. Not the first night, no, but . . . those nights with Isabela when she would push him to submit. When she would have him worship her, whimpering and begging for her cunt, servicing her and getting nothing in return. Or worse: when they would fight. When she would push him into things, faux-force meeting good-natured rivalry, the two of them eagerly rutting as they tried to assert their respective will. And he got off on it, oh, yes, but . . .
There was always that drop. That fear.
He had never told Isabela. That wasn't the kind of friendship they'd had. She would have been sympathetic, maybe, in her own way— but then again, her way was always to brush past it, ignoring the past in favor of focusing on the future, and he knows he would have lashed out if she had done that to him. So he wrestled with it on his own, and gods help him, for it had taken years to understand. Even now he does not think of it very often if he can help it, an uneasy question in the back of his mind— but everything is so different when it comes to Astarion.]
. . . . I feared the same when I wore a collar the first time.
[Oh, how cautiously they'd approached that, and yet how easily it had come that night. It helped that Astarion had worn it first, of course; it helped that Leto knew that the other man did not think of it as anything save a kinky addition to their evenings. But he'd fretted that night, nonetheless. He'd dreamed of Tevinter and iron locks, a heavy weight around his throat and pressing down on his shoulders, and woken nauseated by his own inclinations.
And yet they'd played with it again. And again. So many times that it became something ordinary, easily added or removed.]
Perhaps our enslavement changed us in some way. I do not know if we would be inclined to the same things if we had been born and grown into freedom. But I know this: I do not long for Danarius when you set a collar around my throat. I do not miss him when you call me catulus, or praise me, or push me into serving you. There are echoes, maybe, but . . .
You do not miss Cazador when we fuck angrily. You do not force me to become him when I turn cold and cruel, and put you in your place. And . . . there is something to be said, I think, for doing something with someone you love.
You put a collar on me, when I swore I would never allow it in all my days. We have spoken of you controlling me like a puppet, when I spent my life freeing myself from that. But I allowed those things because some part of me thrilled in them— and in knowing that this time, I did have the power to make it end.
no subject
[And there is not a shred of doubt in his mind as he says it.
Now he understands. What was murky and unsure suddenly comes in abrupt focus, and oh, if his heart doesn't ache for understanding. The terror of knowing you are echoing what your master did to you; the fear that you are little more than a broken thing incapable of cherishing anything but that abuse. Remembering all the revulsion and hatred and grief you felt, and here you are now, reenacting it— oh, gods, yes, he does know that feeling.
Inhale, exhale. He will not fumble this in his haste to assure Astarion.]
Astarion, you wish for— for a reflection, not a recreation. You do not beg me to torment you, or use you, or whore you out. But there is a thrill to, to reenacting what we have gone through. I—
[No, this isn't right. He's circling it, and it's not that he's wrong— but this isn't what he means. Leto hesitates, trying to think of his own experiences before Astarion. Not the first night, no, but . . . those nights with Isabela when she would push him to submit. When she would have him worship her, whimpering and begging for her cunt, servicing her and getting nothing in return. Or worse: when they would fight. When she would push him into things, faux-force meeting good-natured rivalry, the two of them eagerly rutting as they tried to assert their respective will. And he got off on it, oh, yes, but . . .
There was always that drop. That fear.
He had never told Isabela. That wasn't the kind of friendship they'd had. She would have been sympathetic, maybe, in her own way— but then again, her way was always to brush past it, ignoring the past in favor of focusing on the future, and he knows he would have lashed out if she had done that to him. So he wrestled with it on his own, and gods help him, for it had taken years to understand. Even now he does not think of it very often if he can help it, an uneasy question in the back of his mind— but everything is so different when it comes to Astarion.]
. . . . I feared the same when I wore a collar the first time.
[Oh, how cautiously they'd approached that, and yet how easily it had come that night. It helped that Astarion had worn it first, of course; it helped that Leto knew that the other man did not think of it as anything save a kinky addition to their evenings. But he'd fretted that night, nonetheless. He'd dreamed of Tevinter and iron locks, a heavy weight around his throat and pressing down on his shoulders, and woken nauseated by his own inclinations.
And yet they'd played with it again. And again. So many times that it became something ordinary, easily added or removed.]
Perhaps our enslavement changed us in some way. I do not know if we would be inclined to the same things if we had been born and grown into freedom. But I know this: I do not long for Danarius when you set a collar around my throat. I do not miss him when you call me catulus, or praise me, or push me into serving you. There are echoes, maybe, but . . .
You do not miss Cazador when we fuck angrily. You do not force me to become him when I turn cold and cruel, and put you in your place. And . . . there is something to be said, I think, for doing something with someone you love.
You put a collar on me, when I swore I would never allow it in all my days. We have spoken of you controlling me like a puppet, when I spent my life freeing myself from that. But I allowed those things because some part of me thrilled in them— and in knowing that this time, I did have the power to make it end.
It is different. I promise you, it is.