Correction Necessary
hurt/comfort, 5k, on AO3
Laurent knew, of course, that he could not subdue Damianos with force. Not with any weapon he could physically wield, not with his bare hands. He used to think he could get the job done with words, but they also failed him. Whenever he meant for a cutting remark or a scalding observation, his traitorous heart would provide a reminder of hurt brown eyes, and his tongue would stall, heavy in his mouth.
Rendering Laurent practically helpless.
Vulnerability was not something he wore with ease. Was not something he could get accustomed to. Was not, in fact, something he was willing to bear, for anything at all in this world, apart from Damianos, and… even for him it was a task of gargantuan proportions. It was difficult to keep his restless nature in check: it kept wanting to slither around worse and worse schemes, crueller and crueller manipulations, anything that would allow him some leverage. It was a difficult thing, to have none. Too difficult.
But planning against Damianos was not something he could do. Anymore. He had already hurt him more than was permissible, to anyone of this earth; he was already indebted to him. (Another form of vulnerability). Justice would be grossly violated if he attacked the man who helped him. Also they were married. And in love. And it didn’t quite do, to scheme against one’s own husband.
Still—and worse. A wedding band was another tie to an entity he could not match in any field. Damen was stronger, his reach was longer, he was more beloved, and more rightly so. He had the moral high ground forever against the man who had him whipped to near death, who kept him in chains, who had him raped. If—when he decided to strike against Laurent, it would only be understandable. And he would succeed, because Damianos always succeeded, in whatever ambition. He took not one but two kingdoms. He negotiated brilliantly with any opposition, no matter how dire (the Veretian council, the Empress of Vask, Laurent, on his worse days). He was undefeated in the arena. He was, Laurent thought sourly, a god.
And Laurent was Laurent: puny, pretty Laurent, who never had one success of his own to claim. First he trailed around his brother, then—his uncle, and now, this. Damianos was the one who handed him his first victory. Has been handing them ever since. And Laurent couldn’t even give his life for him, when it mattered. Useless, always.
He could not—fathom this feeling. Vulnerability like an open wound, cutting into him sharper and sharper with every turn. It seeped into all the spaces eaten away by his anger, corroded on his bitterness. It terrified him. And Laurent was not one to take fear lying down.
And so, he went for the only course available to him: acceptance on a fast track. To vanquish his fear of being vulnerable, he would make himself the most vulnerable he’d ever been, and force himself to remain there until the horror ebbed away. It was what he did with his fear of spiders when he was five. And of sex when he was somewhat older. And—no, there were no others. Well.
That was why he suggested the ropes (Which Damianos, predictably, exchanged for satin ribbons). And the blindfold, and the gag. A reckless plan with no fault. It would work, because it had to. He would break, because he had to.
It didn’t take long.
Gradual, at first, until it was not anymore. First, the blindfold went on, and the world extinguished, sputtered out. Then his wrists, attached to the bed post, and then his ankles, one at a time. It was happening. Now. He was breathing, mostly. Darkness grew. And grew. And grew. And Laurent was, irrevocably, immediately, entirely, afraid.
The gag in particular was difficult, inserted into his dry mouth, secured with a cloth. As per requested. Laurent, naked on the mattress, had to force his muscles so still it actually burned. The pain helped, but only slightly; it… in his chest, this cavity that should not exist, opening into a bottomless, hungry pit. Terror. It was familiar in the most distant of ways. An exaggeration of something he knew intimately, a roaring hellfire from the heat that always simmered in his lower belly. Terror, it was terror, it was terror.
Ah.
It didn’t matter that Damianos was slow, that his hands moved softly. Perhaps it even made it worse. Laurent’s heart slammed against the tender flesh of his throat, trying to climb its way out. He was strangely cold. He was burning all over. He had already surrendered to absolute, obliviating fear.
Ha, he did take it lying down, then.
The laughter died, putrid in his mouth; the blindfold was wet. His mind was spinning. He was a small animal ensnared in a trap. He was thirteen years old. He was kneeling in a bloody chiton; he was not human; he could not even plead for mercy. Terror owned him. Down he fell.
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