Tʜᴇ Pᴀʟᴇ Eʟғ | Asᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ Aɴᴄᴜɴíɴ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
INBOX II
VOICE | ACTION | TEXT
[previous inbox]
VOICE | ACTION | TEXT
[previous inbox]
VOICE | ACTION | TEXT
[previous inbox]
VOICE | ACTION | TEXT
[previous inbox]
no subject
But let's be honest, he's distracted. Delighted, even, too busy scoffing out a noise of sheer amusement in retreat to bother derailing either of them now: he's invested in this now.]
I should've known you were only using me. [Tsk tsk.] Such a heartbreaker, that dashing Blue Wraith.
Ah, well! what goes around comes around, as they always say— I suppose it's high time someone got the better of me. [Something something someone worthy goes here, though he's busy tugging cattishly at the laces of his husband's shirt, smug as the nights are long.]
no subject
[It's a chuckle too endeared to be a proper scoff. With a swift gesture he catches Astarion's fingers, tangling them within his own as flirtatious resistance. Oh no you don't, not until you've earned it, though he doesn't make a move to fix his shirt where it's fallen open.]
And yet you never manage to help clean around here . . . how much advantage am I truly taking of you when you leave the bed unkempt and our clothes around the floor?
[Ignore the fact he himself does those things too. This is about Astarion, not Leto. Besides: he's a teenager, sort of. It's probably wired into his genetic code to be a slob. But someone two hundred, well, that's different, isn't it?]
Or is it only in corpse removal you serve? For I am certain I can utilize you more in that department— and you never actually did help me back then. You do not get credit simply from retroactive contemplation— stop that.
[That wandering hand, he means. He feels you, sir.]
Do not attempt to distract me.
no subject
My darling when would I ever be so wicked as all that? [His captured fingers twirl around the lace they've not been fully prised from, claws plucking at its borders like harpstring just to prove a point.]
By cleaning, I mean. Why— just imagine what the place would look like if I didn't keep our ecosystem comfortably arranged: you'd never find a thing when you needed it. [Purr purr purr— he's betrayed by his own vampiric physiology, apparently. Rumbling away inside the basin of his chest.]
Bodies included.
no subject
So our collective mess is a deliberate thing for my benefit? In that case, you do spoil me— and I need to work doubly hard to make up for my lack of gifts.
[His eyes flick up, a little smirk curving at his lips.]
And you are always up to something wicked, vampire mine. You realize if you seduce me now, you run the risk of dooming us to the circus? Karlach was particularly insistent, and was deterred only by my promise I would find something else that appealed. Mount me now, and I suspect she'll grow too impatient to wait.
no subject
....and then his nose crinkles.]
—eugh.
[Gods. Sophie's impossible choice: hike his virile husband's leg up over his shoulder here and now, or stay chaste and avoid an entire evening's worth of buffoonery, muppetry, and pint-sized frolicking at his expense.
The purring stops. He slumps— his claws gone lax and the lacework slipped away— chin dropped to the center of Leto's chest, gravity taking his expression and the slant of his ears down with it.]
Do you even know what else to suggest? Drumming up a suitable replacement sounds harder than carting corpses from your mansion.
no subject
Poor thing, [he drawls, and absolutely does not mean.]
As for alternatives . . . mm, not really. I thought you would have more ideas than I.
[Then again, they're both equally as foreign to Baldur's Gate in some ways, aren't they? Astarion's nighttime activities were limited to whatever venues would bring him prey, and as for Leto, well. He's only just getting the hang of dates and currency and such, never mind decent entertainment options. Hmm . . .]
I suppose . . . some kind of night market . . .?
[It's a limp suggestion, but he's trying. And anyway, he's busy tending to his poor, neglected, suffering-awfully husband, stroking fingers through his hair and serving as pillow. He isn't the one who needs to be thinking in this scenario.]
no subject
Mmm....[The idea isn't terrible, really. Local wares aren't as thrilling as prizes and games and all sorts of oil-painted nonsense, but then again few else would be, and more likely Karlach's simply looking for an excuse to be together. Close— or closer, at the very least. It's not the first time Astarion's considered that they might be missing their lost friend. The one he was— or replaced— something like that.] I suppose it might get the job done, although I imagine we'll need to sweeten the deal as well. Maybe a festival of sorts? We're nearing winter, there'll be lantern lighting soon enough. Try starting with that and see how you fare.
[Did Leto volunteer to be their negotiating ambassador? Apparently he is now.]
no subject
Hmm . . . no. They're your companions, Astarion.
[Don't you put this on him— even if he's arching his back to encourage the slow wind of Astarion's hands, still. This isn't his job.]
I negotiated you out of visiting the circus, and it was a trial, believe me. Karlach is not one to give up lightly. [It wasn't that bad.] You can be the one to promise them night markets and lantern lighting— and if Toril is anything like Thedas in the winter, you can sweeten the deal by promising them they can get their Satinalia gifts early.
Or simply take them to a bar. It need not be so complex. But unless you plan to bribe me— and flirtation is not a bribe, before your fingers wander— it is your message to deliver, not mine.
Nice try, though.
[Teasingly offered as he keeps up his slow carding through silver curls.]
no subject
No more than just the idle (read: petulant) snap of his teeth at the air closest to Leto's wrist, at least, hunting him down.]
Shrewd. [Churlish praise, and all-encompassing at that. This sort of gameness is worth its weight in gold within High Court— nevermind that it's worked against him now.] Did you think up the gift idea before you crawled into coffin with me, or was that just the bribe?
no subject
If I wanted to bribe you, Astarion, I would not do it with so paltry an offer as try taking them Satinalia shopping.
[Honestly, how would he bribe him? Spreading his legs is the most obvious answer, but it isn't exactly a bribe if Astarion can get it either way . . . hm. Some specialized kink, perhaps? An outfit? He hasn't worn that maid dress since that night at the sex shop, not to mention some of the harem-inspired ensembles he knows are still buried in one of their trunks. But it ought to be something that really counts, something that isn't easily accessible . . . hmm. He tips his head, considering his husband.]
I would offer you something far better. Something I know you crave— or at least did once.
[All at once his fingers knot at the base of Astarion's hair, fingers tightening their grip as he tugs just enough to be felt. Pay attention, and the point isn't pain, but to rile.]
You have not allowed me to dominate you since we arrived here. [A neutral statement, for it isn't a point of contention; he catches Astarion's eye, trying to communicate that.] I do not mind it. I enjoy the dynamics we have now— indeed, enjoy is too tame a word for what I feel when you take control.
But I would understand why.
no subject
Mmph. [Is slight. It stalls for time albeit not ungraciously. Like the flicker of his eyes slipping back and forth, he's only thinking.
The answer is evasive of him too, apparently. Something he'd not realized until now.
—add it to the pile.]
Do you remember what I said to you a while back?
Our little conversation about my....hunger. [Hunger is a keen distinction. Not his nature. Not his impetus or mere instinct. It's the cursed condition of his existence rather than the entirety of it, no matter how much it still eclipses. He likes to think there's more to him than that.
(Cazador would call it vanity. He can't quite argue.)]
no subject
[Oh, yes. He'd long since memorized those words, for it was the key to understanding such a vital part of Astarion and how he operates in this world. Leto loosens his grip, returning to working his fingers through Astarion's hair, as he regards him.]
You told me how instinctive hunger is the forefront of your mind. How your instincts scream at you to devour me in every way and form you can, and that such screaming never ends no matter how full you grow or how sated I may leave you. How you work to override it each and every moment we are together, forcing yourself not to look at me as prey, a meal, a sacrament nor a pet, not a consort that needs to be taught better— but me. Just me, as I am, and as we are to one another.
And I remember, too, how much toll it takes on you. How much you fight your own instincts just to stay with me, never mind treat me as your equal . . .
[He leans forward, bumping their noses together just once in silent adoration. Admiration burns fiercely in his gaze, quiet but all the more intense for it.]
Yes, I remember, Astarion. I will never forget.
no subject
That admiration is mutual, now.]
It's not a voluntary thing. I know you know that, but I don't just mean about the matter of just starvation or mere prey drive— I mean it in regards to you, too.
[His smile quirks. He sounds like a professor when he inhales next, sucking in enough air to cover a no doubt weighty second act— or maybe just like Gale, going by Leto's common metric these past few months.]
When we're....intimate, as I've confessed before— and don't take this personally darling, I've seen your prowess against my siblings, you're no lightweight mortal thing— but you are still mortal. [Still a beating heart and finite blood. Still fresh and young with life enough to snuff like wind across a flame.] It takes everything in my power just to touch you as I do. Our give and take is measured the way you— [a beat, and then:] mm, the way a dedicated broker would handle fine crystal: conscious, and deliberate, and all too passively aware of how even the lightest of his careless touches might break.
[If it sounds belittling, it's because he knows it is. Perhaps no less aggravating than being a spawn compared thralls or waiting servants. Compared to even honored guests— for there's nothing quite so disquieting as standing shoulder-to-level-shoulder with someone that embodies your own thoroughly defined limits. The niggling thought hissed betwixt your ears of why not— why them and not you? A set of eyes and ears and limbs no different than you own. No different than you used to be— or are — so why not me. Why you. You're no better.
And indeed, Astarion would admit it easily: he's always been the lesser of them.
He's just the one with fangs.]
And yet the more you put me to heel, the more I ache to meet you in that challenge.
Not so much prey, but competition— something we vampires have, shall we say, a bit of a....
[Tsk.]
....a bit of a complex about.
[The tail end twists, his laughter closer to embarrassment than anything else, as if admitting to only the most minor of faux pas in public setting— like, say, dressing for a festival instead of a soirée, or confessing one's forgotten the Duke's thrice removed cousin's name right to his face, or. Well.
That your reckless animal mind sees your husband as competition. That sort of thing.]
no subject
How can he not? When even the wrong tone can set him off some days, of course every teenage instinct in him rears up in snarling defense over something that sounds like you're too delicate to handle me. It's like holding red in front of a minotaur, and his mind does all the work necessary to fill in whatever gaps remain: you're too childish, you're too weak, now bend over and take it like the pretty little consort you're meant to be . . . for a moment, his eyes flash as his lip curls back in preemptive snarl—
But of course, Astarion isn't saying that.
And of course, Leto is so much more than his teenage instincts.
So: reset. Reframe. Take a soft breath and let his adult thoughts flow forward, soothing his stinging ego and allowing himself to understand what Astarion is really trying to say.]
So each time I attempt to dominate over you, every vampiric instinct within you is demanding you put me in my place?
[That must be putting it politely, for it's rare Astarion feigns off his embarrassment nowadays. So put you in your place, yes, but brutally so. Viciously enough that the other person— vampire, mortal, or otherwise— won't dare to dream about trying again, at least not for a long while. And when your lover is mortal and possesses a body that has so many limitations . . .
For he has no doubt Astarion would take their sex farther if he could. How many times has he sweetly mouthed the darkest kind of threats against his consort's throat? I'll leash you to this bed and fit myself between your thighs, breeding you until you forget anything but how to mewl my name; I'll choke you on the span of my cock until you pass out drooling my come in satiation, only to wake and find yourself still locked there . . . oh, Astarion would have long since done such things if he thought his Leto could survive it hale and whole. It's a savage cruelty no mortal was ever made to withstand, and yet even so, they've edged closer to it. Their play in the sex shop, yes, and that night in the forest . . . it's about excess, yes, but safety, too. When the whole world regards you as an abomination that needs to be put down, of course every instinct will howl at you to assert yourself as the most dominant creature again and again.
Leto's eyes flick up. It's not ideal, but what is? And if it's the death knell for any hopes Leto might have entertained about topping again, well, so it goes. He hadn't been lying before: he really does enjoy submitting to his mate. But there's something about the way Astarion presents this that leaves space for just a glint of suggestion.]
It is not an unknown feeling to me— though I know you feel such things far more keenly than I, [he adds hastily, just in case Astarion took that as refusal to take this seriously.] But it makes sense.
[It makes sense, too, why Astarion so deftly avoided explaining all this before now. Far easier to simply redirect than actually admit there's an instinctive part of you that eternally wants to strip away your husband's dignity and sexual power for no other reason than that he might be competition.
Poor thing, he thinks without really thinking at all, and brushes his knuckles against the curve of Astarion's cheek. His poor vampire, who still frets there's some line of savagery that will send Leto running.]
Then is it something you no longer wish to try? Or . . . something we need take precautions during, but not forego entirely?
[He won't insist either way, for he has made too many demands without fully understanding Astarion's vampirism.]
no subject
[Unknown, that feeling. No— not feeling, urge. Dark and deep enough to come with its own gravity of sorts, and stronger than the sort of undercurrents that leave even the finest swimmers drowned, or so he hears. It's been ages since he last went swimming, and Rialto doesn't count.
His eyes shift towards the corners of Leto's expression. The borders of his face and the way it lays beneath fringed hair grown long (almost time for a trim, he thinks, despite knowing he'll forget again in half a second).
And then forgets.
His own emotions too quick to cling to the knee-jerk thought of no longer wishing to try at all, which— ]
—no.
[And he has to force the alarm, or urgency, or whatever it's called that's boiled up inside him to slide back out towards dissolution, shaking his head all the while.]
No, I— [The words are still too quick.] It's one of the things I miss dearly from our time in your world. [The bruises on his inner thighs in Thedas. The way it burned so sweetly to feel his body boil as he gazed up at his lover in low light, marked by pale tattoos and the burning in green eyes, gods.] I'd sooner give my claws to Godey than give that up completely.
[Had he told Leto of him? He can't remember— and besides, that's not the point, anyway. (Even the phantom traces of Leto's fingers at his scalp, he longs for it. Feels himself crane towards it through desire, knowing full well he'd prove incapable of ceding.) The bloody dichotomy.]
But precautions, though....
[Hm. Leto might be onto something, there. The line of his focus wavers for a moment; the bridge of his nose wrinkles from deep thought.] We could....
Yes, that might actually work. The reason why I lose control is because I'm overwhelmed, after all— by you, by my own monstrous proclivities— if we took it slow, or— [hm. Hmm. The gears are turning. The wheels spinning in their moors.] If we had some sort of way of alerting each other when it proves to be too much. When I prove to be too much. A word or a warning or something....
no subject
(Godey, and just like any other name Astarion mentions, it goes into a little vault in the back of his mind. Never once has the name passed his lips, and though Leto can suspect just why that might be, it's a conversation for another time. This is about them).]
You could tell me.
[Thoughtfully said. It's not, like, the greatest answer in the world, but he's working on it. Absently his fingers play with the edge of Astarion's shirt, not teasing so much as preoccupying himself with his favorite person.]
Or . . . taking it slow seems a good plan. Letting you grow more and more submissive by deliberate degrees, measuring out your own reactions each and every step . . . [Hot, honestly, in a particularly clinical way.] I could make a point to check in with you. Not at every turn, but . . . often enough. More often than we usually do, to see if you find your instincts rearing.
[That said:]
Vá nuitha has worked well for us in the past. [His own safeword, rarely called out save for one miserable, cramp-filled night.] You could adopt it yourself— you speaking Elven is an easy reminder for both of us that things are not as they should be.
We could also fit you with precautions beforehand. Slipping out of bindings or gags is easy for you if you truly wish to, I know, but it offers a few seconds of pause. The time it takes you to become a bat or mist is time enough for me to—
[Eugh. His face twists as conjure up a spell tries to line up on his tongue.]
— counter you, in my own way.
[They'll go back to the idea of shared instincts soon enough, but one thing at a time.]
no subject
And there again, he laughs. Only this time it's not apologetic. This time he's all here.]
I'd be telling you every five seconds.
[See? There's humor in wry truth. Double that when Leto's face wrinkles with distaste, nipped at and harried by sharp fangs that only feign their bites.
(He loves him.
Gods alive, he loves this one. This small, wondrously mortal thing.)]
Because bindings and magic— unless you're inclined to ask for lessons in hypnotism from dear Gale [teasing, yes, but there's a reason Astarion's suggesting it, and it isn't just for the houndish way they play,] I'd only be spurred on by those precautions. The restraints, the— well, anything along those lines.
They rile. In the best of ways of course with you, but still.
[His grin cuts sharp.]
No. I think we've little choice but to tame the monster the old fashioned Vá-nuitha-shaped way,slow as it might be.
Although I've— honestly I've never tried anything like this before. I've nothing in the way of guarantees this won't be vexing just for nothing.
I'd understand if you didn't want to.
no subject
[Just as swift a reply as Astarion's own had been, but this time it's assurance, not panic, that weaves within his low tones.]
There is nothing about any kind of sexual venture with you that I would find vexing. Even if we have to stop or reroute, still, it would not be time wasted. Besides: I wish to not only so we know your limitations, but . . . I've missed this too, Astarion. You on your knees or bent in front of me . . .
[Gods, it's a sweet thought. Astarion on his knees and his lips wrapped around the swell of Leto's prick, one hand jammed between his thighs as he mewls for how his mouth is getting fucked. Astarion splayed out on their bed, a collar around his throat and his back arched into a sleek curve for how Leto holds the leash taut, bouncing him forward atop his prick and watching as his body comes right back over and over and over . . .
Well, anyway. There's no sense in getting lost in fantasy— not just because Astarion had just said he couldn't yet do restraints, but because he doesn't want to inadvertently rile his husband. In lust or violence it barely matters, for there's no time to play and precious little room to do it right now. Still: he returns that sharp grin with a flashbang smile of his own, wry and unrepentant.]
It makes for a sweet sight.
[But ah . . . he tips his head, inadvertently bumping their noses together.]
Did you mean that? About hypnotism. Do you think it a good idea?
[Whether or not he's comfortable to learning it is secondary. There are many uncomfortable things he has endured in his life; he will bear one more if it means Astarion feels safer.]
1/2
Mmph. Haven't the slightest, sweetheart.
[No, really, he doesn't.]
But you've done rather beautifully with it since we started testing the waters, and if you can do it, I'd like to think I might follow in your footsteps somewhat undisastrously.
What....mm. [Hold on. Let him try again. He's only seen this from the other side of things, through a violent haze of satisfaction and utterly carnal lust, unbridled. And it's not as if he's mindless in those moments, true, but observant?
Hardly.]
2/2
....What is it like for you?
[If Leto's sharp, he might see it for what it is: fear.
Astarion's afraid to ask.]
no subject
It was . . . comforting.
[Start there: with words he wouldn't ever confess to another. Not unusual for them, but notable all the same.]
Comforting in a way that I have not felt in many, many years . . . perhaps not ever. Certainly with no one else but you. It was a release of all obligation and endurance. No longer was I tasked with remembering how to be silent, or even refraining from instinctive pleas for you to stop . . . I could simply be— and yet still have enough power to make it stop. It was not helplessness, but . . . something close enough to pass, and yet far enough to find comfort in it, rather than repulsion.
[He exhales slowly through his nose, hot air puffing faintly against Astarion's cheek, as he thinks. He scours through his memories, sinking into the sensation of being so utterly out of control . . . to drift so carelessly, knowing that there was nothing he could do or say beyond simply take it, knowing all the while that he was safe.
And that's the other half of it, isn't it? No less vital than the first.]
I would never do it with anyone but you, for you are what made the difference. My trust in you is absolute, and there has never been a doubt in my mind that no matter what turn the night took, it would be one we both thoroughly enjoyed. And I was right, was I not? In the sex shop, even in the forest . . . I thrilled in all of it.
Not to mention that I knew if I commanded you to cease, you would. [A pause, and then, gently:] I mean what I say. Do not take it as blind adoration, for I would not expect you to stop if you were in the midst of a frenzy, nor indeed even recognize who I am— and I have no qualms about dissuading you in other, blunter means.
But you are still you when you control me. You always have been, frantic with lust or not. I told you before, I think, and I mean it still today: you have never become someone I don't recognize when we are together, not even at your most sadistic.
[He pauses for a moment, underscoring that, before continuing.]
I do not know if it would be the same beneath my magic, but I suspect so. And if it is not and you dislike it, we will stop. And if it is the same and you dislike it, we will stop. And that will not necessarily mean that I will never dominate you again— simply not in that fashion.
[Is that enough? But ah . . . there's one more bit.]
And it was thrilling, Astarion. I would not have agreed to it time and again if I did not thoroughly enjoy it. To give over every bit of myself to someone I knew would safeguard it more preciously than his own life . . . I felt both powerless and powerful in that moment, knowing that it was at my own behest rather than forced out of me by my master.
I cannot tell you if you would enjoy it. You would have every reason to despise it, and I would not blame you for that. But . . . I can only tell you for my part, I remember those evenings often, and warmly so.
no subject
It sounds wonderful.
In ways he'd never let himself admit at first, like an old, bad habit with a slow-sweet burn; in ways that were transparent as cracked glass to anyone who'd known him past the walls that he'd built up— Cazador first amongst them, but there were others, too— not all of them in Faerûn. Some he'd never even bedded, much to his chagrin. And it was a weight in the pith of him there, so gnarled and knotted around the only seed of truth he never wanted brought up to the light (and yet ached for it still). The tension in the line, the cessation of himself—
And to listen to it now, so much more than that.
His tongue's pressed flat against the roof of his mouth, against the backs of all his fangs. He'd held it there at first to stave off apprehension, and now it's fascination that's the dose his tongue is keeping at bay; not senseless enough in wonderment to lose sight of the fact that it is— as leto says— about them. And why it sparks is too damned new to disentangle, for a year ago he'd have claimed it nothing more than what they'd talked about before: the pleasantness of the yoke that shaped their shoulders, the exertion they never had to think to choose. Instead he sits up on one elbow, taking in more of the striking elf beneath him just to study those deep eyes.
The wellspring of thought that gathers right behind them.]
Really....?
[ —isn't, for the record, what he wanted to say. It slips out before he's noticed, and so deprived of false air that it winds up coming off as reedy as a whisper in the process, earning a few sidelong blinks of telegraphed agitation. There and gone again.
Good start, Astarion.]
I always thought you were capitulating for my sake.
no subject
No.
[Well—]
The first time, perhaps— though I would not call it capitulating. I was apprehensive, but I was intrigued, too, or else I would not have brought it up. Besides: we had spent a week discussing it beforehand. I had time to think it over, and that made all the difference. But after that first time in the sex shop . . . no. It was nothing like capitulation. I will not say it is my favorite thing we have ever done in bed, but . . . really, Astarion. It's thrilling to give you that power. It's thrilling to see what you do with it.
[For a moment his mind flutters back to the sex shop, but Maker, he can't linger there for long. Not if he wants to keep them chaste, at any rate. Ears and cheeks a little warmer, he clears his throat and continues:]
And truthfully, amatus . . . it's intriguing to see what you do desire. I enjoy that aspect, too. Knowing that you can cater me to your fantasies, and knowing that I am enacting whatever it is that thrills you most at the time . . . that, too, has appeal. Whether that be with— [there's the briefest of hesitations, and then:] — with dressing up or simply seeing what kind of poses and positions you prefer . . . it grants an insight to you that I might not otherwise have.
[He tips his head.]
Does the thought of the opposite appeal?
no subject
For once, Astarion listens.
For once, Astarion's attention isn't fleeting (although neither is his smile). The flush spread of imagined warmth across his neck isn't either, for what it's worth, but in this case he stays positioned exactly as he is, bringing up a few chilled fingers to coil tightly round Leto's own, the scrape of his claws catching (light) against his own cheek by proxy.
So little can escape the consequence of their gravity, after all.]
More than you could know.
[Comes easy. Whispers through him. The rest not so much, but he's learned to trust with Leto that the answers simply wander in according to their whims over time— or they won't.]
And I can admit beyond the tantalizing thought of letting go of....[his fingers squeeze; his nod does the lion's share of gesturing towards the rest of him.] all this. [The endless hunger pangs, the predatory slant in his within his stare that casts his prized companionship as food, the urge to bite, to rend, to dominate and burn with bitter jealousy— and fear. ] I'd like to know you, too.
More than I do now. More than I might otherwise, as you said.
I've satisfied plenty of unbridled desires over the years— but it's yours I want to understand, without anything else involved.
[His next inhale runs thin, whittled by jagged borders.] Mmn. It was such a treat to see you in fine silk and lace though, wasn't it....?
no subject
[For Astarion to have the ability to let go if nothing else, for that is a gift he dearly wants to offer his mate. Even if nothing else pans out, gods, he wants his amatus to know some peace. To not have to fight himself every minute of every hour of every day not to eat nor brutally ruin his chosen mate for no reason other than instinct . . . oh, for that, Leto would do almost anything.
Besides: he does want to share that part of himself more. He wants to give that gift to Astarion, not just because his amatus deserves it, but because he wants him to have it. He wants them to know one another on every level they possibly can, and this is part of it. It's something beyond fantasy and into the realm of pure desire, and while it's not as if Leto has ever been shy about sharing those fantasies, still . . . still, there's so much more to discover together. Especially when it's been such a long time since Leto has topped, and they've both undergone such changes . . . oh, yes, he wants Astarion to know every one of his newfound fantasies here.
That said:]
But we ought to discuss this more. I know what you do and do like, but I would prefer we go over such things before I take control. Things that you do not wish me to do or say, or even ways in which I should not stand, or senses you do not wish to lose . . . I do not mind surprising you with my own desires, but I would know of yours, too.
[They'd had the same talks before Astarion took control of him, of course, but . . . mmph. It all feels so different on the other side. The thought of having that kind of power over Astarion is both thrilling and unnerving all at once. Thrilling for the thought of being able to finally assert himself as dominant again, watching as his vampiric mate is made into a vessel for all of Leto's darkest fantasies, knowing all the while that he wants it . . . oh, yes. Oh, yes, and it will only start with forcing him on his knees. There's a whole world of things that he might want to try, and all the time in the world to enact them.
But unnerving for two reasons. The first: this entire exercise skirts so much closer to Astarion's trauma than it ever had Leto's own. There can be no room for misstep when it comes to something so extreme, and he'll have to be rigorous when they dive further into consent. Perhaps even moreso than they were when it was Leto on the other end, for he will never forgive himself if something goes wrong while he's in power.
But they will. He knows even now that they will.
It's the second part that preys at the edges of Leto's mind. For there's a growing thought that using his magic (his magic, still such an uneasy phrase even now) to control Astarion is . . . gods, he doesn't have the words for it. Not hurtful. Not troublesome. Not something that sends him reeling into flashbacks, for there are none; certainly Danarius had never controlled him so thoroughly, and while he's sure some poor soul in Tevinter has been bewitched by blood magic before, it's not as if Leto ever saw it.
And it isn't doing it to Astarion, either, for he wants to. He does. It's just . . . perhaps he will have to work through his own tentativeness, just as he had when it came to him being controlled. Perhaps they'll start small, just as they had with collar and leash, just to see what happens.
(And so Leto can see, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is not becoming the very person his master was).
In any case: that's for later. It takes him a few seconds too long to come out of that revere, but when he does, it's with a blink: oh, soft and a little doeish, and so distracted is he that he forgets to be flustered over what they speak of. Which is for the best, because what comes out next isn't hedged, but rather the plainly spoken truth:]
It need not be the only time you see me in such outfits.
(no subject)
(no subject)
1/2
2/2
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)