[ Attached: a photo of Tony captured in a mirror, holding up a pair of silk ties in the aforementioned colours in his free hand. He's wearing a shirt that skims the tops of his thighs, sock (plus garters) and, apparently, nothing else. ]
[ Catch local wizard who took an early morning trip to his little pocket dimension and has emerged two hours later to the aftermath of chaos flying so fast into this chat with two folks who can be just as prone as he is to launch themselves directly into harm's way— ]
[ The sound of some fumbling, on Shadowheart’s end of the line, as she tries to switch her phone to speaker with one hand; and then the unmistakable sound of their headboard bumping, at a rhythm, into the wall. ]
Yes? [ Breathless, distracted. ] Hold on, let me— Fuck, yes—
[ Oh. A significant amount of the stress coiled in him bleeds back out again, replaced with a few blissful moments of resigned acceptance. He left them both asleep in bed. What did he really expect? ]
[ The invite goes out and Tony and Shadowheart and Stephen do their duty, dress up to the nines for a night to remember, the lure of something to do enough to override any wisdom about how these things always, inevitably, go. They walk halfway to the new wing, a chance to stroll, chatter together in all their finery, enjoy one another before they have to share, and then Stephen opens a portal so they can arrive in appropriate style. And all is as it should be. There's drink and dancing, finger food and good company. Most if not all of the manor is here, and while that means there are people they'd rather avoid, it also, finally, means friends.
They have fun. He and Tony take turns - sometimes don't - making sure everyone's aware which lucky bastards Shadowheart will be going home with tonight: hands on her thighs through the slit in her dress, thumb on her pulse, a kiss to her nape or her lips or her wrist. It's a flex more than it's possessive (though in sight of certain parties the ratio's reversed), a desire to be close to her more than it's a flex. When she's dancing with friends, Stephen catches Tony in quieter corners: comes up behind him at the drinks table, mouthing at the skin behind his ear, murmuring low nothings and not following through. It's a good night for flirting with the people you'll go home with. A good night for flirting with the people you won't. Even apart, his and his rings are warm and bright around their fingers, silver solar system going through its orbits where it floats against her chest.
And then the announcement, once perpetual motion caged into seats, and it all starts to feel a little nostalgic. Fine clothes, fine wine, paddles on the table, wealth to be spent. Buzzed from sipping from who knows how many glasses, from a hand creeping high on his thigh and his thumb stroking into the hair at a nape, he doesn't think to worry. Not when numbers are called and people start moving. Not when bidding starts and collars click. It all seems in good fun, good spirits. Even when the two people either side of him hear their numbers announced and start to rise from their seats he's laughing at rolled eyes and at last-minute preening, readying his paddle, preparing to win.
He does win, after a fight. After strange eyes on him and smirks on thin, painted faces, bid pushed higher and higher until the rest of them drop away. But they do drop away. And when he finds the Rummage sisters, they take one look at him and tell him to enjoy his evening and come back to settle the bill tomorrow.
So he returns to the stage for his spoils, watches each outfitted with their own collar, feels pleasant tension coil up in his gut when they come to him, straightening his suit jacket and the knot of his tie, Tony running one finger down the line of Shadowheart's cleavage, Shadowheart meeting his eye. The two of them together are nightmare, a dream, revenge against his earlier teasing a dish best served as murmured, filthy little promises, warm hands between his jacket and his shirt, flanked again and with nowhere he'd rather be.
Let's go, he says, and they do, Stephen steered to somewhere with safe portalling space by a hand at the small of his back, another with its thumb through his belt loop. The portal carries them out of the auction room and into their own, the Cloak excusing itself rapidly when he tells it out and a sheet tossed haphazardly over Astaribun's run, laughing low and happy into the mouth of whoever finds him first while his hand finds the back of the other's head, drawing them in to take over the kiss as he leans back to watch them, breathing heavy, thinking. What to do with this? Where to start?
It doesn't matter. He doesn't have to make the choice. ]
Come on, then. [ A challenge, an instruction. Blue eyes gone dark, glinting in the warm light of lamps left lit. ] Show me what you've got.
[ It’s not so long ago that Shadowheart would have had careful armor up, at an event like this. She’d arrived in this place with tentative trust in only Gale and Astarion, expecting the worst of most everyone else she met; and while there are sharks in the water at the auction, Shadowheart feels safe. She can take care of herself, yes, but the men at her side won’t let anything happen to her, either. A novel thing, to have gentle warmth emanate from the jewelry at her throat even when Stephen and Tony are elsewhere—to have that mean that they’re still with her, always.
And they’re unbearably handsome together. Shadowheart’s grown to like modern formalwear, the crisp cut of a well-tailored suit, the way a silk tie feels wound around her fingers. By the time the auction kicks off properly, Shadowheart is tipsy and utterly failing to keep her hands to herself (though they’ve all failed at that since dressing together, Tony helping zip her into her gown, Stephen on his knees securing the clasps on her heels).
There is something about the collar that shifts her center of gravity, beyond the obvious magic laced into it. It’s not-quite shame—Shadowheart’s not shy about her partners or her body, though there are things she does like to keep private, just for them. She thinks of the commune, maybe: the way her body wasn’t fully her own, split between the two of them and Saber, power shifting in tidal waves rather than ripples.
She hasn’t said this in so many words (hasn’t felt it since the commune, maybe, with ownership an explicit part of the night’s proceedings), but she would do anything they asked without magic binding them. If this collar were nothing but a strip of leather she’d be theirs without question. Not because she needs to give herself away, anymore, but because she trusts them.
It’s a heady feeling, by the time Stephen portals them back to their room. He could ask them to do whatever he wishes and instead he says show me and of course they’re barely free of suit jackets and shoes (Shadowheart’s heels still on, sharp and glittering) before the three of them are in bed together: Shadowheart pushing Stephen back against the headboard, straddling his lap to give him a long, filthy kiss before retreating to let Tony surge in.
It takes some effort—and restraint—to extricate herself. Shadowheart keeps this in their dresser rather than her nightstand, still relatively new: a leather harness in dark purple with silver hardware and a long, slender dildo. She’s used it on Tony, once or twice, but not yet with Stephen present. Her back turned to the bed, Shadowheart can still feel eyes on her (as they should be) while she slowly unzips her gown and lets it pool around her feet, left in a sheer open-cup bra and ouvert panties.
Her heels stay on. By the time she returns to the bed, harness snug around her hips, her boys are considerably more disheveled and Tony’s making filthy noises around Stephen’s cock. Shadowheart locks eyes with Stephen as she settles herself on her knees behind Tony, deft hands winding around his middle to make quick work of his belt, giving him a squeeze through his slacks before she undoes the zip. ]
He has a clever mouth, doesn’t he? [ Conversationally, watching Tony’s head bob in Stephen’s lap as she tugs his trousers and underwear down around his thighs in one easy movement before palming his ass, giving one cheek a sharp squeeze, ] Though I do wish it were less occupied. I like to hear him beg.
[ A snap of her fingers at Stephen, then, pointing to the nightstand drawer. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@strange
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Sad that I'm out of merch.
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1/2
You want me to give him what it took me months and procuring a pocket dimension to earn? Pass. Out of budget.
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It's Christmas
But I haven't forgotten what happened.
[ So, genuine question - ]
Okay?
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[ Attached: a photo of Tony captured in a mirror, holding up a pair of silk ties in the aforementioned colours in his free hand. He's wearing a shirt that skims the tops of his thighs, sock (plus garters) and, apparently, nothing else. ]
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Going to need to see them both separately.
[ What a shame that this will require a couple more photos. ]
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video @punkprincessxoxo (light nsfw)
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Shall we do some pole inversions together the next time you’re at the Slip, Tony?
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text @shadowheart
How come both of your cocks are still normal?
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Anyway, apparently people here are experiencing transformations. And mating cycles.
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couple hours after the angelus network post, voice
Are you both okay?
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Yes? [ Breathless, distracted. ] Hold on, let me— Fuck, yes—
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Alright. Good.
[ Now is not the time for an erection, so. ]
Don't let me interrupt.
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backdated to january auction 1st night
They have fun. He and Tony take turns - sometimes don't - making sure everyone's aware which lucky bastards Shadowheart will be going home with tonight: hands on her thighs through the slit in her dress, thumb on her pulse, a kiss to her nape or her lips or her wrist. It's a flex more than it's possessive (though in sight of certain parties the ratio's reversed), a desire to be close to her more than it's a flex. When she's dancing with friends, Stephen catches Tony in quieter corners: comes up behind him at the drinks table, mouthing at the skin behind his ear, murmuring low nothings and not following through. It's a good night for flirting with the people you'll go home with. A good night for flirting with the people you won't. Even apart, his and his rings are warm and bright around their fingers, silver solar system going through its orbits where it floats against her chest.
And then the announcement, once perpetual motion caged into seats, and it all starts to feel a little nostalgic. Fine clothes, fine wine, paddles on the table, wealth to be spent. Buzzed from sipping from who knows how many glasses, from a hand creeping high on his thigh and his thumb stroking into the hair at a nape, he doesn't think to worry. Not when numbers are called and people start moving. Not when bidding starts and collars click. It all seems in good fun, good spirits. Even when the two people either side of him hear their numbers announced and start to rise from their seats he's laughing at rolled eyes and at last-minute preening, readying his paddle, preparing to win.
He does win, after a fight. After strange eyes on him and smirks on thin, painted faces, bid pushed higher and higher until the rest of them drop away. But they do drop away. And when he finds the Rummage sisters, they take one look at him and tell him to enjoy his evening and come back to settle the bill tomorrow.
So he returns to the stage for his spoils, watches each outfitted with their own collar, feels pleasant tension coil up in his gut when they come to him, straightening his suit jacket and the knot of his tie, Tony running one finger down the line of Shadowheart's cleavage, Shadowheart meeting his eye. The two of them together are nightmare, a dream, revenge against his earlier teasing a dish best served as murmured, filthy little promises, warm hands between his jacket and his shirt, flanked again and with nowhere he'd rather be.
Let's go, he says, and they do, Stephen steered to somewhere with safe portalling space by a hand at the small of his back, another with its thumb through his belt loop. The portal carries them out of the auction room and into their own, the Cloak excusing itself rapidly when he tells it out and a sheet tossed haphazardly over Astaribun's run, laughing low and happy into the mouth of whoever finds him first while his hand finds the back of the other's head, drawing them in to take over the kiss as he leans back to watch them, breathing heavy, thinking. What to do with this? Where to start?
It doesn't matter. He doesn't have to make the choice. ]
Come on, then. [ A challenge, an instruction. Blue eyes gone dark, glinting in the warm light of lamps left lit. ] Show me what you've got.
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And they’re unbearably handsome together. Shadowheart’s grown to like modern formalwear, the crisp cut of a well-tailored suit, the way a silk tie feels wound around her fingers. By the time the auction kicks off properly, Shadowheart is tipsy and utterly failing to keep her hands to herself (though they’ve all failed at that since dressing together, Tony helping zip her into her gown, Stephen on his knees securing the clasps on her heels).
There is something about the collar that shifts her center of gravity, beyond the obvious magic laced into it. It’s not-quite shame—Shadowheart’s not shy about her partners or her body, though there are things she does like to keep private, just for them. She thinks of the commune, maybe: the way her body wasn’t fully her own, split between the two of them and Saber, power shifting in tidal waves rather than ripples.
She hasn’t said this in so many words (hasn’t felt it since the commune, maybe, with ownership an explicit part of the night’s proceedings), but she would do anything they asked without magic binding them. If this collar were nothing but a strip of leather she’d be theirs without question. Not because she needs to give herself away, anymore, but because she trusts them.
It’s a heady feeling, by the time Stephen portals them back to their room. He could ask them to do whatever he wishes and instead he says show me and of course they’re barely free of suit jackets and shoes (Shadowheart’s heels still on, sharp and glittering) before the three of them are in bed together: Shadowheart pushing Stephen back against the headboard, straddling his lap to give him a long, filthy kiss before retreating to let Tony surge in.
It takes some effort—and restraint—to extricate herself. Shadowheart keeps this in their dresser rather than her nightstand, still relatively new: a leather harness in dark purple with silver hardware and a long, slender dildo. She’s used it on Tony, once or twice, but not yet with Stephen present. Her back turned to the bed, Shadowheart can still feel eyes on her (as they should be) while she slowly unzips her gown and lets it pool around her feet, left in a sheer open-cup bra and ouvert panties.
Her heels stay on. By the time she returns to the bed, harness snug around her hips, her boys are considerably more disheveled and Tony’s making filthy noises around Stephen’s cock. Shadowheart locks eyes with Stephen as she settles herself on her knees behind Tony, deft hands winding around his middle to make quick work of his belt, giving him a squeeze through his slacks before she undoes the zip. ]
He has a clever mouth, doesn’t he? [ Conversationally, watching Tony’s head bob in Stephen’s lap as she tugs his trousers and underwear down around his thighs in one easy movement before palming his ass, giving one cheek a sharp squeeze, ] Though I do wish it were less occupied. I like to hear him beg.
[ A snap of her fingers at Stephen, then, pointing to the nightstand drawer. ]
Lubricant, please.