corporeity | OPEN POST

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ic: open post

OPEN POST

— TEXTS, PROMPTS, STARTERS

[ There is no other way in which Gale would ever learn of this world first-hand — the artwork that remains unseen in topside galleries, the spidersilk armour the denotes their greatest warriors. The affair is wholly fascinating to witness, though the widespread nudity permanently flushes his cheeks.

Gale stumbles early on, extending a hand too far outward to point out a piwafwi cloak, intent on informing Shadowheart of its fireproof weave, threads so thin as to be imperceptible, incomparable to any other make, and yet it dissipates after more than an hour in the light of the sun. He ends up briefly tightening the collar at his throat, air rushing between his teeth, a soft sound caught but not wholly smothered.

He finds himself falling deeper into character after that, gaze lowered even as he commits the exists and stairways to memory. His flush threatens to spread to his throat and the tips of his ears, when Shadowheart strikes up a conversation in which his counterpart is very, very naked. He wonders if she knew this would be the case but didn’t ask it of him, anyway, despite the risks. As if proving the guest’s point, his wandering gaze delays his answer now, stuck somewhere around the drow slave’s chest.

Only belatedly does he realise she’s speaking about him — to him. Pet rattling around his skull, almost as captivating as the brilliant green of her eyes. Having no idea what she said, he decides agreement is a safe bet. ]

Yes, Mistress. [ Partly because he’d like her to keep looking at him and partly because it’s Gale, he continues, hoping this explains just about anything he’s fumbled. ] Apologies, Mistresses, I’m still being trained.

[ At least he remembers not to look at the other woman, even though it’s her question he answers — or perhaps it’s that he forgets there are other people here, when he looks at Shadowheart, the fine chain wrapped around her elegant fingers.

He hardly hears the drow answer. Ah, you see it in how he carries himself. Too tall, too proud. I could easily correct him for you. ]

That won't be necessary. [ To the drow's offer of correction. Shadowheart's fingers had loosened on the chain to release it, but they squeeze again near-protectively--which she can only hope reads as possessively--when the woman drags her disapproving gaze down Gale's body.

And maybe there is some possession to it, in truth. Shadowheart isn't opposed to sharing under normal circumstances, largely because she holds all of her dalliances at arms' length. But these are far from normal circumstances, and Gale is hers at this gala, not some party favor to be passed around. He plays the part so convincingly, with his long lashes and soft hazel eyes, the sweet flush to his skin when she asks anything of him. An easy partner for this mission, all things considered.

The part of Shadowheart that's out of practice (unfit for this, she thinks, not ready) wants to excuse them both and tease information from someone else. But this is just a reality of drow society: Shadowheart may have an invitation under a false pretense of wealth and importance, but she's still an outsider, a surface dweller who is lesser-than any of the drow nobility in this room.

And the woman is chatty, which is to their advantage. She introduces herself as Chandara, and has connections to the mercantile guilds of Menzoberranzan. As Chandara leads them to a sitting room off the main reception area, she shares more about the nature and provenance of the artifacts on auction.

The sitting room is no less crowded, but they find an unoccupied leather settee. Chandara sends her slave to get them drinks, and Shadowheart's eyes wander to the less-orthodox furniture interspersed throughout the room: spanking horses, elegant silver cages, a dark wooden cross against which a slave is being flogged.

Loviatar would expect all of her initiates to partake, Shadowheart supposes. For Lolth, it truly is just punishment for the men.

Gale is still standing beside the couch when Shadowheart sits. She wonders what he makes of all this, and supposes he'll speak up through the tadpole should he have any pressing thoughts. In the meantime, Shadowheart snaps her fingers, aware of Chandara's eyes on both of them. ]

Kneel. [ A steadying hand at the nape of Gale's neck when he does so, fingers curling into his hair. ] Good boy.

[ He hears the offer, if it can be called that, and Shadowheart’s swift counter, fleeting disquiet quelled by the leather flush at his throat, the knowledge that it’s Shadowheart holding the lead. There’s comfort in that, proof of her power over the situation. Gale lowers his gaze, aiming for subservience as the drow tuts. He’d forgotten that his performance reflected on Shadowheart as well, and he feels the same flare of heat as before, at the thought of disappointing her — and, conversely, pleasing her.

As such, he trails after her at pace, resolving to do better and stay focused. A rather poorly timed resolution, when they take their seat among all manner of devices. He, too, thinks of Loviatar, and the priest they met in the goblin camp. Then of Sune, and the Houses dedicated to her pleasure across Waterdeep. Mystra has no such temples, though he supposes his worship wasn’t so different, in the end.

The snap of Shadowheart’s fingers call him out of his reverie, and he eases to the floor with a slight creak of his knees. ]

Thank you, Mistress.

[ And he looks genuinely grateful, big eyes stretching that bit wider, mouth parted on a soft sound, awestruck by the praise. The feel of her hand in his hair.

How sweet, he hears Chandara say from faraway, as if through water. It strikes him, suddenly, that while Shadowheart commands him well, she still does so with affection. A cleric in true, even if she serves the dark lady. ]

You need to be crueller. [ Whispered through the tadpole, expression as soft as it was when she cradled his wrist. ] I can take it.

[ Shadowheart had told Gale the collar suited him, and she wants to tell him that this does as well: his easy obedience, the look of naked adoration on his face as he kneels for her. This isn't the first time Shadowheart has played pretend on a mission, so it's simple enough to remind herself that the hot squirm of interest in her belly isn't real. It only speaks to how well they've assumed their respective roles.

She wonders, too, how many years of practice Gale had with his goddess, and whether she gazes down with disapproval at her former Chosen on his knees for an agent of Shar. Good, she thinks, both for her Lady and herself.

Shadowheart's expression is unflinching as he connects their minds, but she knows Gale must feel the shame that flares briefly within her--because even feigned cruelty should come easily to a true Sharran. She shouldn't need to be reminded at all, and certainly not by someone who isn't of her faith.

Which maybe makes it easier for her to tighten her grip on the hair at his nape, very aware of Chandara's eyes on them. She yanks with one hand to hold him in place, and strikes him open-palmed across the cheek with the other: sharp enough to make a satisfying crack, but not so hard that he'll bruise. ]

You should do these things without my asking, you know. [ Shadowheart releases Gale's hair, shifts her firm grip to his jaw as she leans in. ] Do you see any other slaves hovering awkwardly when they should be at their mistress's feet?

[ Without looking, she feels Chandara's demeanor shift just enough at their display. It's satisfactory, for now. Shadowheart relinquishes her grip and leans back against the settee, crossing her legs, the slit in her gown exposing ample thigh at Gale's eyeline. She wonders, for a brief moment, whether he'd remove her heels to massage her sore feet, press his mouth to the smooth skin of her calf, her knee, to make this all the more convincing.

It's not entirely wise to let the tadpole's window linger open a hair longer than it should, not so wide that he's privy to all of her thoughts, but just enough that he gets a flash of that imagery. Shadowheart convinces herself that it will keep him quiet, for a moment, that it can serve a purpose beyond her own self-interest.

Chandara's slave comes back with fresh drinks for the two women, and Shadowheart lifts her chalice in a toast to Chandara, back to business. ]

Now, where were we?

[ Difficult to tell whether the shame is hers or his own, flaring white-hot as she grips the scruff of his neck, nails scraping tender skin. He did disappoint her, he was right, he knew it — jeopardising her mission and wellbeing both — a spiral that could consume him, if not for the sudden impact of her hand. He stills, stunned by the sting or the wanton sound he makes in the aftermath, flushed from cheeks to chest. Gods above and below. It’s a relief, for his tender skin to smart, to have an answer and consequence in his flesh. Chandara notices, too, an approving noise in her throat, for how well he takes his punishment. Proof that he must have taken it before — that Shadowheart observes their customs regularly, rather than performatively. Good.

For Gale, however, there’s only one person in the room, occupying the whole of his vision and mind. With her hand gripping his jaw, the slant of her perfect mouth close enough to kiss, it takes him a moment to realise the images of her — of him — are instructive, rather than fantastical. His eyes widen a fraction, features slackening, only to bow his head in penitence, the door separating their minds slamming abruptly shut, the barest frisson of pleasure eking through the crack.

It takes him a moment to recover, mind slipping somewhere it hasn’t before, at least on this plane. Distantly, he can hear Chandara crowing about the recent renovations to the manor and its bespoke vault, tucked at the back of the wine cellar below them. A tad gauche, in its dramatics.

Gale shifts closer on his knees, acutely aware of his restricted movements (and the sudden tighteneds in his leather trousers). Subservient before her, as if she, too, is a goddess. Isn’t she? With her long legs and luminous skin, bared only for the purpose of worship.

He bends his head to her knee, deferent, before he slides both hands along the back of her calf, fingertips gliding along the firm muscle before brushing the soft skin behind her knee, the barest brush up her thigh. The interlocked chain means his hands need move in tandem, despite how his thoughts splinter, so he narrows his focus to a single point, kissing around her knee — the first angle visible to their audience — then down the side of her calf. His thumb arcs over the knob of her ankle, and he looks up at her through his lashes, entirely longing, as he slips her heel from her dainty foot, pressing two fingers into the arch.

Rather than continue, he lowers his hands to the floor, pulling his collar taut, forcing a bend in his back, and stealing the breath from his lungs: A final offering as he waits for her to uncross her legs, so he can begin again. ]

[ Shadowheart realizes she's walking a knife's edge a moment too late. It's been a long while since she's sought any real pleasure, preoccupied as they are with cults and mindflayers and other mortal dangers. And it's not that Lady Shar forbids these things, either. She only warns against attachments, distractions.

Gale is sufficiently distracting, the moment he puts his lips to her knee. His beard scratches pleasantly against her skin, his mouth warm, fingers kneading just-so into aching muscle. Shadowheart sets her goblet down, having tasted none of it--drow have a fondness for poison that she doesn't wish to test--and rests a hand low on her belly, breathing discreetly into it as she attempts to keep listening to Chandara. The wine cellar is trapped, the vault is well-guarded, and the artifacts will be held there for the next tenday until auction payments are made in full. (It sounds more than likely that some of these items will be paid for with blood.)

Chandara spots a cousin across the room, and Shadowheart shouldn't feel the relief she does when she excuses herself with her slave in tow. She lets go of a fluttery breath through her nose, chest rising on her next inhale as she looks at Gale, cautiously opens their connection again. ]

I'm beginning to wonder if this won't be so easy as a quick in-and-out tonight. [ All business, but as she speaks she uncrosses her legs. Slowly, deliberately offering Gale a view he'd normally have to earn--but hasn't he? He's done everything she's asked without complaint.

She wears nothing to support her breasts tonight, nipples peaked through the delicate fabric of her gown (because of him, the same way he fills out his leathers because of her), but she is wearing panties. Black satin, tiny due to the cut of the dress, the fabric snug and a touch slick against her lips.

Gale can probably smell her, from his vantage, a thought that makes Shadowheart feel dizzy as she crosses her other leg back over, dangles her heel within reach. Walking a knife's edge, the both of them. Distracted by each other in plain sight of two dozen drow. She doesn't give him full purview of her thoughts, but the tadpole opens her enough that he'll feel what's simmering under her skin. ]

What are your thoughts?

Edited (typooo) 2025-02-10 04:32 (UTC)

[ There’s an element of guileless to Gale, who expects nothing of Shadowheart now but nonchalance, the performance of disinterest close enough to reality, when she’s never shown a particular preference for him before. Yet he feels her tremble under his fingertips, wonders at discomfort until she parts her legs for him. He hadn’t thought of the ramifications so plainly, when he leaned back on his haunches and waited for permission to continue. He finds it impossible, now, to consider it in anything but the basest terms, her milky thigh giving way to the dark line of her panties, directly at his eye-level. His mouth seems suddenly dry. He’d seen, shall we say, more enthusiastic service from the other men in his position on their way in, and the memory of that may very well slip through their connection (though he keeps the image of himself bending that bit forward, pressing her thighs an inch wider, from escaping).

Lifting his gaze serves him no better, seeing (or imagining) her peaked nipples in her gown, the uneven rise and fall of her breath. His mouth parts, as if to ask her something, tongue running along the back of his teeth — only to press together again, lips quirking faintly. No talking. Eyes on them, even if they’ve drifted to a greater distance.

Best to focus on the task at hand, which happens to include at least the appearance of devotion. Easy enough, for one experienced in the art. He sweeps a hand up her calf, kneading the newfound tautness in her muscles. Nerves? No, the heat seems to double as she relinks their minds. Hard not to feel a little — intoxicated by it.

He caresses her ankle, cupping the back of her foot as he slides her heel free, before answering her. Buying time, skimming off the top of the surface tension. His beard scrapes along her soft skin, not yet kissing her, despite beginning that way the first time. ]

We take our time. [ As if it’s simple, and perhaps it is, to Gale, who thinks through about a dozen routes forward in the span of seconds. Like a game of lanceboard. He presses his mouth to the underside of her thigh this time, daring, before travelling downward. ]

Ask one of the family, perhaps the youngest sister in the violet gown, about finer vintages than the green being served. She seemed… vexed. [ By the toast her elder sisters led on welcoming their guests, a double act that did not require her support. ] A House of this stature is like to keep Deepwine for those who know to ask — and deserve to be impressed. [ It famously travels through Skullport in Waterdeep and sells for thousands. As an afterthought, ] And it’s divine, besides.

[ Not the point: A private moment with the sister would show them the way to the cellar and then the layout of the space itself. As an added bonus, one looking to prove themselves is also like to boast. ]

[ Shadowheart takes up her goblet again, and keeps half an ear on the ambient conversation behind their settee, an arm draped elegantly across the back as Gale tends to her. They're of no particular interest to the drow, and they're not the only non-drow, either, as the mercantile guilds secured invitations for a handful of other surface-dweller representatives.

That's the sweet spot for a mission like this, really: important enough to be in the room, but not so important that they attract undue attention.

She feels strangely steadier the moment Gale lays out a lead for them. He is clever, not just all talk. On first impression, when they all believed they would hastily find themselves a healer and go their separate ways, Shadowheart had written Gale off as all ego and bluster, a potential liability at worst.

It's not that she was entirely wrong. She just didn't have the whole picture, and even now she's not so sure she does, as they begin to unfurl in different ways while alone with each other. He's sweet, and unexpectedly thoughtful, and for a brief, unguarded moment Shadowheart wishes this room held only the two of them and a bottle of that Deepwine he speaks of.

She doesn't give quite that much away, through their connection. She guards her own side while he speaks, a soft bloom of heat where he kisses her thigh, and composes herself as she lowers her barriers to respond. ]

So you have been paying attention. Good.

[ As if this were all a test she's been administering. As if she hadn't been flushed and wanting, moments ago; but now her desire is coiled tight in her belly again, ready to be used rather than threatening to use her.

Shadowheart tilts her head just so, glossy lips curved into a smile as she hooks a finger into the ring at Gale's collar in the middle of a kiss to her calf, stilling him and tugging so he has to look up. She voices the next thought aloud, with no small amount of amusement. ]

I was beginning to worry that I was distracting you.

[ Whatever passed between them in that moment seems to dissipate, a veil lifted, and Gale — accepts it. Nods, when she affirms the nature of their companionship (businesslike), though his skin prickles when she names him good. They’re in the clear, he thinks, until she tugs on his collar, supple leather pressing against his throat. Gale hitches a breath, suddenly absorbed by her presence, looking at her with surprise-slackened features. ]

You — [ Were. Are. His hands slide down her leg, not to ease the pressure at his throat but to increase it, as the chains pull taut. Grounding. Lightly punishing, for having misstepped as her partner in and outwith the game. ] The fault is my own, Mistress.

[ That is to say, of course she was. He thinks of how the other drow had offered corrections for such behaviour and wonders at Shadowheart’s intentions now. Not enough to question her beyond the faint arch to his brows, mind. She hasn’t misled him before, and she looks — so beautiful like this, peering down at him.

(It’s merely that he recognises when she’s up to something.) ]

[ Gale's cheek is still pink where she struck him. A more uniform shade than his flush, which mottles sweetly across his nose and up to the tips of his ears. Shadowheart's bent slightly forward, slender arms framing her cleavage at Gale's eye level as she loops a second finger into his collar.

It's a little mean. Certainly not necessary for their objectives, and arguably a distraction when they should be doing as Gale suggests and seeking out the youngest Agrach Dyrr sister. But the night is young, the auction itself still hours away, and if they're to remain a convincing pair...it can't hurt to play, for a moment. ]

We'll have to work on your training when we get home, won't we? [ The knuckles of her free hand graze his cheekbone, jeweled rings on her index and ring finger. She presses them in, sharp, where she struck him before, before relenting. ]

Unless you can think of a suitable exercise in obedience while we're here. [ With all manner of implements and furniture at their disposal. Shadowheart is deliberately careful with her framing: an opening for Gale to decline without arousing suspicion, if this is too much. ]

[ Gale leans up on his knees, unconsciously drawing closer as Shadowheart hooks a second finger into his collar. It’s too easy to give into the fantasy, the world suddenly narrowing to the two of them. They’ve the whole night, and if Shadowheart — if she’d like to — his breath stutters once more, steadying only when he tips his cheek into her soft knuckles, rings cool at his cheek, lashes fluttering. ]

I rather think a more immediate correction suits. [ Than home, their borrowed flat, where the gossamer illusion of intimacy might dissipate. His voice scrapes his throat, low and yearning. The choice has never been his, exactly, though Mystra has peered into mind before, unspooling his desires, unasked. ]

Steal my breath, [ tugging on his collar, her elegant fingers in his mouth — ] mark my flesh, [ with the back of her hand, or any of the implements he saw as they took their seats. ] whatever you wish.

[ His flush deepens. ]

—Please.

[ Shadowheart, added through the tadpole after the fact, as if to prove he knows what he’s asking for. ]

[ There's the smallest flicker of surprise across Shadowheart's features at Gale's suggestion. She'd half-expected him to shy from taking this further, no matter how keen he may seem-- how keen he feels, through the brief windows of their connection.

It interests her. Not something she would have admitted before they went off together on this mission, much easier to write Gale off as a man who could find himself devoted to any beautiful woman.

Maybe he still is, but Shadowheart is willing to entertain her own seed of curiosity, his puppy-dog yearning. ]

Aren't you eager? [ Voice low, a brief sweetness in the brush of her knuckles down his jaw before she rises from the settee and pulls him up with her, by his collar.

Her gaze sweeps the room, taking inventory on what's occupied and who's watching. A flash of violet silk through the doorway, just arriving and just their luck: the youngest sister will be privy to their show.

Shadowheart leads Gale by his chain to the dark wooden beams in their x-formation, decorated with spiderwebs of silver mesh, with fastenings for wrists and ankles. Some of the implements are truly grisly-- spiked and sufficiently coated with blood. She still needs Gale conscious and in one piece, preferably.

There is an untouched leather flogger, though, with heavy falls. Shadowheart picks it up to test the weight: the leather is buttery-soft, reminding her of elk, but it will hurt if used correctly.

She sets it aside, for the moment, aware that a handful of people are beginning to watch them with mild interest as they sip their drinks. Shadowheart focuses on Gale's hands, unclipping the chain from his cuffs so he has full range of movement in his arms again, but only as long as it takes to re-cuff him to the cross. ]

Take off your shirt, then face the cross. [ Shadowheart feigns disinterest as she circles him with flogger in hand, testing a slap against her palm. The leather stings, almost pleasantly. ]

You'll take ten lashings to start, and you'll count each of them. Understood?

[ For a moment, Gale thinks he overplayed his hand. That Shadowheart meant only to perform for the disaffected crowd. To tease him, at most, never intending for fantasy to cross into reality. His devotion as amusing to her as it’d been to the ladies of Sune, when he last visited their temple, tittering and cooing over his famed position on his knees.

But she touches him gently and tugs his collar — the very thing she bestowed upon him with a care that earned his devotion for the night. He rises to his feet after her, gaze fixed on her slender fingers, travelling along the musculature of her arm to the winsome round of her shoulder. Despite his clever observations earlier, he fails to notice the younger sister’s entrance, let alone the other eyes that snag on their walk to the, ah, implements.

You would follow her here? asks a voice that isn’t his own, low and resonant, surely conjured from memory. A Sharran. To holy places, only ever traversed at the behest of a goddess.

A counter occurs to him immediately, petulantly, defiantly: She isn’t a Sharran. Well, she is, but not in some anonymous, reductive sense. She’s Shadowheart. As complex and compelling as the expanse of the night sky, constellated with lights that lay seemingly beyond one’s reach — but only to the eye of the amateur. The astronomer knows that starlight stretches toward us from the past, not away into the future, rays travelling for hundreds of thousands of years to reach the spot upon which you stand. ]

Understood, mistress.

[ Voice scratchy, caught in his throat. Grateful for instruction, he complies swiftly, pulling his shirt overhead and folding it atop a nearby bench. Thinking, briefly, on his human form, with all its vulnerabilities and imperfections. Can’t help but cast a look over his shoulder to Shadowheart for a final assurance. His brow wrinkles at the sight of the flogger — less pliant than anything one could conjure in the astral, and subject to the physics of the mortal plane — then smoothes as he meets her bright eyes. Not at all like her namesake. Worthy of trust.

And what of worship? As he faces the wood, he wonders if Shadowheart would brook tenderness, were they were alone. If she’d gentle the smudge from m his wrists with her battle-calloused fingers.

His own (unmarred by gliding through the air or penning copious notes) catch on her palm as she cuffs him. Approving or needful. He has his answer in mind, regardless. ]

— Thank you.

[ Shadowheart remembers few specifics of her training, or her missions before the artefact. Any memories that rise to the surface of her mind, jogged by scent or circumstance, dissolve just as quickly in a flood of dark water. Fragments of fragments, at best.

But she knows she was taught to be clinical about these things, always. To feel neither remorse nor any degree of sadistic pleasure when tailing or torturing a mark, lest she face punishment of her own.

If Gale were Sharran as well, he might be tasked with said punishment. A way to keep recruits from becoming too fond of one another. He's so sweet that Shadowheart can hardly picture it--though her mind supplies an image of him in battle, the force he's capable of using against an enemy. Were he to bend her over a bench and smack broad palms across the tender flesh between her ass and thighs, leave her skin heated and red, he'd no doubt soothe her after. Cooling magic with those same hands, clever in their spellwork. He's a man built more for soothing, she's sure. For pleasing, as he's already hinted at tonight, practiced in the art thanks to his former celestial mistress.

An unnecessary fantasy, all from watching Gale peel off his fine shirt, baring a flex of muscles across his broad shoulders. Not a fighter's physique, but handsome, and easy to appreciate--which more than a few women in the room do, with titters of amusement. The audience sends another flare of possessiveness through her, even though the audience is precisely the point.

If Gale is looking for assurance in Shadowheart's eyes, in his last look back he gets, instead, a hot flush of shame across her pale cheeks. Caught in the realization that their connection through the tadpole was open for said assurance, and instead her idle thoughts likely slipped through, more damning than the curated ones she's allowed him so far.

She closes it abruptly, with a sharp exhale through her nose. Cinches the second cuff more hastily, heels clacking on the stone floor as she positions herself a short distance away. Best not to think--just do.

The leather sings, not quite the crack of a whip but a softer smack as the heavy tails hit one shoulder blade, a flick of her wrist to hit the other. It will hurt most in the beginning, but Gale can endure it. ]

[ It takes him too long to realise that Shadowheart has cracked a window in her mind, light filtering through the gap. The slivers that slip through make little sense. Broad, handsome, mine. A flash of a pale ass that can’t possibly be his own, but a hand that could be. Olive skin, warm undertone, dark hair on the knuckles, sinewy-strong from casting. His own thoughts come syrup slow, prevented from reaching a definitive conclusion by the cuffs, which tease his right wrist but dig into his left, drawn too tight in Shadowheart’s haste. No fine finger slipped underneath to test the give as she had elsewhere.

You’ve disappointed her. It stings no less for being inevitable. His only relief comes in the form of a punishment he surely deserves. The stinging not-quite-pain that rushes to his head, dizzying. ]

One.

[ Not at all like the Weave, which never burns, only heats. Never marks, only covers, fills, surrounds. He jolts at the first and second lash. Feels the orb warm his chest by the third, its faint glow drawing the attention of their mark, of all people. What a charming little modification. He hardly has time to think something snide, with his most relentless mistress at work. Slaves should be seen and not heard, he knows, gasps quiet but there. A low moan loosed on the — fifth, he guesses aloud correctly — for Shadowheart alone. Or so he hopes, with most onlookers still at a distance. Hips hitching for want of friction, he counts six twice which, of all things (nudity and degradation and a bloody audience) is what shames him. Earns him an eleventh strike, certainly.

He thinks of the times Mystra wanted him to err, to lose his ability to think straight, any brilliance waylaid by human need, mistakes multiplied by the overwhelm of Her attention. Proof that he needed her in the fabric of his desperation. She would never be reduced to this, twitching and panting. Unable to remain wholly still but keeping his glassy eyes forward, his position proper. ]

[ She should check in with him, as the orb flares. Stabilized, she knows, but for a moment Shadowheart imagines a flash of oblivion. It's how her desire feels to her, the tips of her ears pinking at Gale's moan, a threat to their cover and their mission both.

She manages to tut at the miscount, the flick of her wrist tighter and meaner on seven. Shadowheart prepares a verbal admonishment for the eighth, when Vlon Agrach Dyrr smoothly interrupts, a cool hand on her shoulder.

Surely your slave deserves something meaner than leather, for his failure. The room's eyes are on them, and she's forced to agree.

Gale's shoulders are reddened already, heat brought to the surface by each thud of the falls. Shadowheart hasn't yet drawn blood, but she imagines that's what Vlon is angling for when she steps in.

So Shadowheart returns to the rack of implements, thinks of Abdirak's dagger and the stains on his wall and floor, then a flash of deeper memory: someone strapped to a chair, screaming, a table covered in knives and scalpels and fire-hot tongs, Shadowheart's hands coated in a spray of red.

It shouldn't unnerve her the way it does. She's within Gale's range of vision when her hand falters a moment, before she covers the flinch by grasping the handle of another flogger with thinner tails, each tipped with pointed steel.

Apologies will have to come later, though she allows a flicker of eye contact before she returns to her place behind him, where Vlon praises her choice. ]

To fifteen then, slave. Twenty if there are further miscounts.

[ Coolly, to a pleased murmur from the crowd. This will sting more sharply, she knows; this will leave lashes on Gale's back, though Shadowheart will do what she can to ensure they won't scar. Better to finish this quickly, for both of their sakes--and so she begins the rest of his whipping in earnest, leather cracking against his already-tender skin. ]

[ Distantly, as if heard through a stretch of deep water, he notes Vlon Agrach Dyrr’s judgment. He agrees, even as his back muscles tense, arms going similarly taut as his fingers curl inward. An attempt to seek purchase and comfort in the constancy of the cuffs. He could cast any number of spells, incinerating his bonds or arming his body, but any protective measures would reflect poorly on Shadowheart, if discovered. And the pain is the point, for the drow. Having read every book he could find on the topic, he knows this. They’ll want for bruises, welts, blood. Proof of penance in the flesh that was never his to guard in the first place.

And you deserve it. For failing Shadowheart. For dishonouring Mystra. In this moment, the two are more closely aligned than he would prefer. It helps, though, to regress to his prior role as a consort. To imagine the safety of the Weave, blanketing his limbs. (And among the old fantasies, the familiar aches, to think of Shadowheart’s hand on his jaw, the lush velvet of her voice when she named him good). He doesn’t dare do more than meet her gaze, wishing to count her daggered lashes but forcing himself to bow his head toward Vlon, eyes downcast in reverent submission.

Her answering laugh sounds almost approving. Almost.

He manages a doleful, yes, mistresses. His teeth unwisely snag the inside of his cheek before the first strike with the finer, sharper, more undeniable implement. Counts with a warbling breath, then, despite the copper in his mouth and silver smarting at his back. He can take it. He knows he’s had — not worse, but more — alighting his veins, running rivulets down his spine. As such, he reminds himself the answer isn’t to fight the sting or reject the sensation, but to sink into it like a boiling bath.

Sweat gathers at the small of his back, the nape of his neck. By the time they reach eleven, his drawn-out gasp over the metal nicking his shoulder is a reedy, needful thing. Lost in the sensation of it, the syncopated rhythm that keeps him quite literally on his toes. He still notes the pain of the fourteenth, the widening of a wound. Perhaps that’s why he fails to celebrate the finality of the following strike. Half-slack against the wood and painfully hard in his tight trousers, he only wonders if he’s earned the reprieve, not whether or not it will come. ]

[ The whip draws blood, by the end, mingling with Gale's sweat as his muscles shake. Shadowheart hasn't used anywhere near her full strength--and has seen him take flaming goblin arrows to the chest, and worse--but it's still more than she'd expected to subject him to, tonight.

And yet you should be willing to do anything for the Dark Lady, and this is nothing. Her betters would sneer at her for feeling the pang of remorse over a brief flogging. Child's play.

Vlon engages her in conversation, as if her slave weren't still shackled to the cross (he is, after all, meant to be a prop rather than a party with agency), and Shadowheart at least has the presence of mind to ask her about the wine. Pleased, she promises to show her their family's cellar after she's made a few more rounds for the sake of their mercantile sponsors.

Which means Shadowheart has some time, once Vlon drifts away. She presses her palm to the small of Gale's back to let him know she's there, perhaps foolishly gentle. A slip of care that she'll say is because she doesn't want him to faint on her, should anyone question it.

Attention in the room has turned from them, at least, now that the show is over. Shadowheart doesn't speak as she uncuffs Gale from the cross, refastening his lead long enough to murmur a quiet pass without trace to keep eyes off of them, for a moment. She guides him toward a set of metal doors she knows lead out to a balcony. While the Underdark may not have fresh air, it will at least afford them some privacy.

The balcony is blessedly unoccupied, when the doors creak open. There's an adjacent waterfall in the rockface the house is carved into, which masks sound well enough; after a sweep, to ensure there isn't anyone above or below them, Shadowheart finally turns her attention properly to Gale, unclasping his cuffs and giving him the full range of movement in his hands and wrists. Likely stiff, by now. There's a stripe of red across the wrist bone, where she'd been careless and fastened too tightly, and Shadowheart gentles her thumb over it. ]

Gale. Look at me. [ Her voice low, earnest as she holds both of his hands in hers, gaze finding his face. ] You were so good, you did so well.

[ His hands are cold. She should have a look at his shoulders, but Shadowheart is focused elsewhere: standing close enough to smell his sweat, gently rubbing warmth back into his fingers. For a moment, a flash of having done this for a friend at the Cloister, in secret--after being told to hurt them, too. A fatal weakness in caring at all, but Shadowheart won't move forward until she's certain Gale is all right. ]

Edited 2025-07-01 23:27 (UTC)

[ The time between the end of his punishment and the quiet of the balcony blurs, his pleasure-pain addled mind tracking only his stumbling and the bob of Shadowheart’s updo ahead of him. He feels — raw, exposed and aching for something he can’t pinpoint (beyond the obvious, recalling how the vee of Shadowheart’s legs opened to him as he kneeled).

Upon release, he doesn’t immediately stretch his arms. His shoulders ache from his position on the cross, and his wrists — he winces as Shadowheart gentles the worse of the two, though he also ducks his head, called closer by the cadence of her voice. Not a tone she often uses with him, mind, unless he’s been injured terribly. And this is nothing compared to arrows in the gut or demonic claws in his flesh. At worst, he’s bleeding. Bruised like overripe fruit.

His attention lifts, a pup starved for affection. Good good good good — it eases the set of his shoulders. ]

Did I? [ voice tight, eyes slowly clearing, then searching. Her hands seem so small, trying to encircle his wrists. Movement and awareness come back to him in stages, as though he were a rusted automaton shaking off the dust. ]

I suppose I didn’t incinerate anyone. Or implode.

[ Trying and failing for humour, visibly torn. His focus catches on the crease in her brow, which has only ever signified concentration before but now seems pained. Softer, then: ]

Apologies for my misstep. It was never my intention to place undue pressure upon you.

Edited 2025-07-02 07:48 (UTC)

[ Gale comes back to her from somewhere far away, and the tightness in Shadowheart's own posture eases. She feels responsible for him, tonight, in a way she might not on an endeavor with their usual suspects. Lady Shar and the Mother Superior may not care about Gale's welfare, but it will reflect poorly on her if he's incapacitated before they get what they need.

Foolish of her to be soft with him, on the other hand. But she finds herself needing it as much as he does, for a moment: a breath to remove their masks, re-attune to one another.

Shadowheart may not default to the warmest bedside manner, but she still knows how to soothe. Not channeling her magic (in case they have true need of it later), but timing the thump of Gale's pulse beneath her thumb before sweeping her hands up his arms, always keeping contact, anchoring him. ]

Hardly the worst pressure I've endured, in our time together. [ A touch sly, now that they're back on even ground. Her thumbs massage the taut skin across Gale's collarbone, working their way up to the leather at his throat. She slips her fingers beneath, to once again test the give, watching the bob of his larynx before moving to his jaw. ] Nor your worst mistake, I'd wager.

Though I hope that wasn't your first flogging. [ Pressing slow circles to the spot just behind Gale's ears, fingers massaging the base of his skull, the sweat-damp hairs at his nape. She's hardly a breath from him, close enough to kiss; close enough to melt into him, more than aware of the tent in his trousers (sizable, which makes her own pulse twitch). Shadowheart neither melts nor kisses him, though her breath deepens as she attunes to Gale, swaying a little on her feet. ]

Edited (collar!!!!) 2025-07-02 20:38 (UTC)

[ Whyever is she touching him, when he troubled her so? He wants to asks. Prepares to, even. His breath catches, lashes stuttering and thoughts scattering as she touches his throat. He thinks about her cinching the collar tighter. About her hand squeezing and releasing at her leisure, until she chokes out his needless, anxious thoughts. The image of her all that matters, swaying like a metronome. If anything slips through the tadpole’s tether, he’s in no place to notice it, let alone stop it.

She missteps only once. Not your worst mistake serves as a damning reminder. Crumples his expression, all too vulnerable to Shadowheart in this moment, when such a comment would normally make him look away or retreat inward. His worst mistake is obvious, after all, etched into his skin and the contours of his mind, pain receptors alight even when none hold the whip in hand. If she weren’t so attentive, so vital, so steady, he might snap shut like the ancient and wretched tome the damned him.

As it stands, his hands hover on either side of her waist. Not touching until she speaks again. Not yet holding, even then. Perching. ]

[ softer, ] It’s not so — physical, in the Weave.

[ With the awareness of his still damp hair, the stinging aftermath of the wound on his shoulder. He shakes his head, a slight thing so as not to dislodge her touch. Gale wishes to say more, but he finds himself unable to locate the words in the fog. It’s like an unmaking. Like a flaying of the soul, not the body. The pain is there, when it’s housed in the mind, but it’s secondary to the overwhelm. ]

So I suppose it was. My first.

[ A beat, in which his fingers finally curl into her sides, one hand splaying lower, over the swell of her hip. Ruching the fabric, thinking of slipping underneath. Wanting to, more than anything. They’re close enough that he could kiss her, though he surely hasn’t earned the right. ]

Shadowheart. [ Her name rumbles low as his thoughts coalesce into action and stretch toward her. The flash of her open legs recurs. He leads for the first time tonight, nudging her toward the balcony railing. ]

Could you — would you allow me to do better?

[ Voice thick, not uncertain in the least as he falls to his knees. Seeking her honest answer, though his hands trail down her thighs, index finger hooking on the slit of her dress. ]

Edited 2025-07-03 15:17 (UTC)

[ The mistake is a comment off-hand, meant only to encompass fumbles during their time together. Perhaps a reminder of why she's not their leader in efforts of persuasion, as Shadowheart realizes too late what she's evoked, for Gale. His face crumples, and it pains her--tangled strangely with his slips of desire, her hand on his throat, both of them breathless.

And then she realizes she's about to kiss him, to smooth that wrinkle of grief from his brow when he responds to a query she'd promptly forgotten. Her knuckles at his jaw, pressing over the pretty ring of his collar as Shadowheart considers the admission between his words. That Mystra had punished him, when he was hers. Something she'd known implicitly, of course, but now has an image for in her mind's eye, Gale strung up with ropes of light.

He touches her, finally, and for a moment Shadowheart is slow to follow, surprised by the building ache in her, in this quiet space where they're not playing a part. Had foolishly thought, perhaps, that she could remain detached through the night the way she imagines she used to (but doubts, even now).

The railing is cold against the small of her back, and she curls both hands against it, an anchor. Her breath deepening before Gale has sunk to his knees, desire coiling tightly between her legs. He'll find her wet, already, as he had before. ]

Yes. [ The calculations she runs through for their mission are clumsy. The balcony door is not locked, Vlon Agrach Dyrr will eventually come looking for them. But Shadowheart wouldn't be the first to put her slave on his knees for her pleasure, tonight.

She wants to touch him, but keeps her fingers tight around the railing. Shifts her stance, spreading her legs for him, the fabric of her dress pulled taut across her thighs. ]

Show me.

[ The singular downside of this path is that her affection ceases. He can hardly think to complain, however, when her regard intensifies. He sits back on his haunches, briefly caught up in admiring the picture of her, lit by the purple and blue bioluminescence of the Underdark, so like the hues of the outer planes. A goddess in her own right, though he doesn’t dare say it aloud. Blasphemy twice over, when they’ve sworn themselves to the heavens. His hand wanders, slipping under her thigh, the dark curtain of her gown parting so he retrace his steps from the lounge. A kiss to her calf, the crest of her knee. Teeth scrape up her thigh, his beard dragging over sensitive skin. The hand at her hip tightens, thumb pressing into the slight fabric to find the divot at her hip.

She’s wet. He can see it. Can catch the scent, edging out her perfume. Can feel it on the seam of her panties, two fingers dragging over the damp, palm angling to cup her her sex through the fabric. His mouth parts, but he doesn’t lean forward yet. Drinking the whole of her in, first. Waiting, perhaps, for her to change her mind.

And sighing with relief, when she doesn’t — then with satisfaction, when he tugs the black satin aside and sinks into her, tongue lapping at her folds. Without haste, intent to savour, even with their plans for the night. ]

I wonder, [ regaining some semblance of self, in this familiar ritual. ] if it will surprise you to learn I’ve a talented tongue.

[ Warmth there, that hadn’t been allowed in the presence of others. That he still doesn’t risk voicing aloud, lest they find themselves watched or interrupted. She tastes divine. He knew she would, unable to keep himself from thinking it or humming his approval. ]

[ It's impossible not to be affected by him, the way he looks at her. Pure devotion, pure longing. Shadowheart understands, suddenly, why his goddess wanted him all to herself--feels a thrill at the fact that he now wants her, even if only for the night.

She can't allow herself to imagine otherwise (desire that stretches beyond the trappings of this mission, even if she's seen it in stray glances, his hand touching hers in thanks after a healing) because it will crack her facade as mistress. Besides, any imagining is soon unspooled by the grounding reality of Gale's teeth pleasingly sharp at her inner thigh, clever fingers rubbing her through her panties. Her leg trembles and then stills, as she grinds her heel into the stone beneath it.

There's a gala they mean to rob on the other side of that door, full of drow that could kill them, and Gale's tongue is inside her.

Shadowheart doesn't remember-- Of course this isn't the first time, but in some ways, it might as well be. She hasn't had anyone since the nautiloid, since her memory was wiped clean for the artefact mission. Only her own idle hands in her tent, sometimes imagining Gale's in their spellwork, that fantasy slipping through where their connection remains open, wide, dangerous with the truth of his desire for her and hers for him.

Her knuckles are white against the iron latticework of the railing, and Shadowheart anchors a hand at the back of Gale's head, not yet exerting pressure. ]

Boasting when you've only just started? [ Aloud, a husky thread in her voice giving her away even as she tries to tease. Shadowheart's hips begin to rock with the cadence of his tongue, slick for him, her cheek tipping against her shoulder as she watches Gale get to work. ] How very like you.

[ Couldn’t say whether it’s his fantasy or hers, a glimmer of dexterous fingers slipping inside her. Regardless, he doesn’t oblige. Having promised a different kind of performance, he stretches his thumb toward her clit to round and press in tandem with the flick of his tongue. Trying out different rhythms until they find the pace together, with her rocking hips. Leaning up to lick deeper into her. The opportunity to serve settles him, but the chance to please galvanises, chain lightning ricocheting from vertebrae to vertebrae. Collared and kept, used and useful. It’s a revelation, after a year of stumbling through the dark.

When she finally touches him, his own grip tightens in turn. The party and the pain blink out. Her charcoal lashes seem endless. ]

Is it boasting, [ A laugh in his red mouth, breathless from his ardour. The cut of his jaw is tinted lavender from below. ] if the results are observable and repeatable?

[ Ever the academic, a penchant that calls back to the last time he engaged in intimacy of this kind. Schoolboy fumbling. Of course, even then he knew to apply himself, to please anyone who doubted him. And if he hoped that his godly paramour might be jealous of his attempts at rakishness, well, it hadn’t mattered at all. Not to his knowledge, anyway, though he hasn’t strayed from her since.

Gale doesn’t think of Mystra now, not while nosing into the warm, snarling heart of his mistress for the night. His fingers spread her dark curls, her tenderest flesh, and he devotes himself to her fully. No more teasing or bragging to be had. Every thought narrows to her, beautiful perfect worthy. How fortunate that he’s an old hand at denial, else he’d surely spend himself and beget a worse punishment for them both. ]

[ Shadowheart is unused to praise. This she knows even without the specificity of memory, because Shar is not a goddess who praises her acolytes. Beautiful racing through Gale's thoughts doesn't bring a pink flush to the tips of her ears, but worthy does. Isn't that all she's ever wanted to be?

Her breath comes less evenly, making soft sounds through parted lips with each roll of her hips against his eager mouth. Desire strung tight down the curve of her spine, the arch of her back, her thighs trembling a little with the scratch of his beard against her cunt, in contrast to the wet heat of his tongue.

Her fingers twist in Gale's hair, pulling sharp at his crown. Shadowheart will manage to keep herself upright, but she imagines a more comfortable venue: straddling his face in their bed, where she doesn't intend to let him rest. A strange gift, to have privacy and comfort awaiting them at the end of the night rather than a campfire and bedrolls. She'll ride his cock, too, with the leash for leverage, her cunt clenching against his tongue at the thought. ]

[ He half-feels, half-experiences the reverb of her shiver on the heels on his compliment. This, he understands even through the haze of pleasure and denial, knowing he himself yearns for acknowledgment of the same kind.

A dog with a bone, he doubles down. Worthy of service, thought as his jaw begins to ache. The memory of the first lashes on his still-burning skin makes him whine. An act of service for her, not the mission. Of trust, warbled as his hips hitch into the air, nothing but the drag of fabric to ease his aching cock, when there’s no friction to be had that isn’t bestowed by Shadowheart herself. Of adulation, his mind working at praise and his tongue devoted to pleasure. Or the reverse, frankly, with any number of spells at their disposal. Thoughts and fantasies inchoate: The spectral fingers of a mage hand encompassing crossed wrists (hers, slender and pale, then his, sun-kissed and cuff-marked), or tightening around the base of his cock to keep him hard and waiting for her. Tricks used for one more expectant than indulgent, in another life.

She rewards him not with the curl of her lips around his name, but with her hand on the lead, her fingers in his hair. He doesn’t have to imagine the cord looped around her strong hand or the flex of her forearm, having seen it when she wound him close earlier.

Please. Hold the lead. Use him. Keep him. Please please please. Come on his tongue, now fucking her in earnest. Ride his cock until he’s spent. No, until she’s satisfied. He groans, wanton even among the slick sounds of their coupling.

Whether he comes first or she does matters little, with their minds linked and sensations doubled. He’s gone somewhere deeper, safer than he did while shackled, by the time his tongue slows and fingers gentle, idly gathering her arousal as he sits back. The picture of dazed satisfaction before her, hair mussed and eyes lidded. You needn’t invoke hynotic pattern or charm to slacken the workings of the mind, it seems, even one as ceaseless and twisty as his own. ]

[ Perhaps it's because they've been skirting the edge of this all night--from the moment Shadowheart clasped his cuffs and collar at their flat, roles assumed--that she crests into overwhelm faster than expected. Or perhaps it's just Gale, tongue as clever as he'd promised, lapping at her folds and ever-offering more: of himself, his service, words and fantasy thickening the heat between them. The mage hand filling her, filling him, and she imagines it in addition to his tongue and his fingers, close to too-much. ]

Gale--

[ Aloud and louder than she should be, even with the cloak of pass without trace still blanketing their aura. The iron railing digs sharp between her fingers as Shadowheart comes with her hips grinding helplessly against Gale's mouth, gasping into the aftershocks, her vision blotted out by stars.

It takes her a moment to see him again, her inner thighs tender and slick from his mouth and her own juices. Panting, she manages, ]

Up. [ Using Gale to steady the wobble of her legs, as much as anything, shifting her grip on his hair to the chain at his throat to tug him back to his feet. Her cheeks and chest are flushed pink, bangs clinging sweat-damp to her temple when she presses herself close, hooking a leg around Gale's hip to dig her heel into his calf, breathless. ] Kiss me.

[ He’s performed better here than he did on the cross, he knows that, even if she hasn’t told him so. A part of him wonders if he ought to keep going. Tilting up on his aching knees, he’s not all there, lost in the sight and sound of her. Drowning in the depths of their shared satisfaction.

But Shadowheart grasps his collar and pulls him from the water. Can’t recall where to put his hands, so he ends up clasping the rail behind her. A wise move, when she hooks her leg around his as if he’s steady or strong. If anything, he’s softer, more vulnerable for having given her a kind of worship he thought behind him. His other hand lifts to cup the heart of her jaw. There is no world where he denies her anything, in this moment, least of all something he himself wants. The pert pink of her mouth seems just as lovely, as impossible, as the warm flush of her body, the bob of her chest while she fights to even her breathing. He takes it in quick and greedy, unwilling to keep her waiting. ]

—Yes, mistress. [ Both a tease and not, caught in the vortex of this role and his existing inclinations. How many times do you intend to love a woman who can’t love you back?

He kisses her as if starved, despite the sticky-sweet taste of her still on his tongue, wetting the rough of his beard. Any chaste or shy instincts have gone the way of his dignity tonight. His bare skin presses against her silken dress, her soft curves. ]

[ Shadowheart doesn't hold back, doesn't tease or deny: she meets Gale in the kiss with a soft, helpless sound, both hands moving to loop around his neck, one tangling in the hair at his nape. She tastes herself and shudders, the accompanying clench of arousal almost painful in the immediate aftermath of her climax.

She wants him. Not just to satisfy her own need, nor to keep him tied to her and this mission. She wants to keep kissing him, their bodies pressed close, a sweetness she hasn't experienced since-- She doesn't know. Maybe never. It's new to her, either way, his heat and his clever tongue. ]

Good boy. [ Gasped against his mouth, more earnest than she means to be as she surges into another kiss, and another, unable to keep herself quiet. Shadowheart knows better than to get distracted like this, with so much at stake, but Gale is distracting. ]

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