hallowed ground

SUMMARY

Her life’s greatest calling—to be a Dark Justiciar—is right at her fingertips. Shadowheart only needs to make sure everything goes according to her plan. If that included seducing their illustrious leader to swore utmost loyalty to her, so be it.

If only she herself didn’t falter.

NOTES

what if i fucked you inside my goddess’s temple to gain your undying loyalty and we were both girls?

See the end of the work for more notes.

The Gauntlet is completed, the Umbral gems gathered, and before them, the Shadowfell beckons. A dull throb in Shadowheart’s hand remains, a constant reminder of her fealty to Lady Shar.

They’ve set up camp within the temple, just before the entrance to the Shadowfell. The imposing figure of the Dark Lady looms above them, a vigilant sentinel. Her heart feels full to be this close to Her presence. Only a little bit farther and Shadowheart would find herself in Her holy embrace, the one thing she always longed for.

Tomorrow will be a momentous day for them. For her. A turning point that will alter their fates. But a liability remains; their leader, Marcy, has a tinge of unpredictability. Her silver tongue weaves words of enticement and subterfuge, often ending in the enemy’s own self-inflicted demise. Shadowheart cannot risk any interference in her calling to be a Dark Justiciar. It should not be much of a problem, she thinks, considering Marcy let her do the Gauntlet’s trials without question.

But a risk is still a risk, and she cannot tolerate even the slightest possibility of it going awry.

Seduction is considered a worthy Sharran interrogation practice, but in this case it would serve another purpose: a simple transaction. It proved effective for Astarion; she could see Marcy drained pale and bloodless almost every morning. For the vampire spawn, it secured survival, but for her, it will guarantee her destiny as a Dark Justiciar. She may even prove better at seduction than Astarion was. After all, she’s seen how the poor woman has been staring at her eve after eve. How utterly starved she looked for her touch. Even Astarion couldn’t sate Marcy’s hunger, it seemed.

Tomorrow will be Shadowheart’s day of glory. But tonight, there is work to be done still.

“I’ll take first watch tonight,” Shadowheart says. “As will Marcy.”

Marcy turns to her. Her lavender skin gleams like feigned moonlight under the dark light of the temple. “Me?” she says.

Shadowheart hums an affirmation and smiles. A not-quite-subtle invitation. “Who else?”

Wyll, sitting cross-legged near the campfire, raises an eyebrow. “You do know that means actually keeping watch, right?”

Shadowheart ignores him and beckons Marcy to her tent. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

The implication is not lost on Marcy, whose cheeks flush in an instant. Nevertheless, she follows suit, approaching her tent with the eagerness of a pup.

In the background, Wyll groans. “Fine, I’ll keep watch. Just don’t get too loud. Please. For my sanity.”

The interior of her tent is shrouded in darkness. In here, no one else may witness them except each other. It borders on sacrilege to engage in such acts on the hallowed ground of her Dark Lady, but this act is for Her. A necessary sacrifice she offers in the darkness, a step towards finally serving as a Dark Justiciar. Shadowheart senses Lady Shar’s eyes on her bared shoulders, thick and heavy.

“In light is presence; in darkness, absence,” Shadowheart mutters under her breath. A prayer, an offering.

She sees Marcy’s silhouette, limned by the faint light of the campfire, then her face and body as she draws closer. Her hand reaches and pulls Marcy by her leather collar; a gentle pull, as if testing the waters. Marcy’s lips part slightly, poised in anticipation, breath held in suspense.

“Thank you,” Shadowheart says in a soft whisper.

“For what?” Marcy replies, just as soft.

Shadowheart cradles her face, and Marcy leans in to the touch. “For letting me do the trials.”

“Of course, it’s you.”

She closes the distance, her lips on Marcy’s. A dull pain throbs on her hand at the touch. Shadowheart’s teeth grazes her bottom lip, testing the skin, then biting down. Marcy whines from the pain but she doesn’t pull away; instead, she deepens the kiss, tongue darting in to skim along the top of Shadowheart’s lip.

Shadowheart pulls away, and for a moment, Marcy chases her lips, but she holds her firmly in place.

“You’ve been good to me, Marcy,” she says. “More than I can ask for.”

Before she can reply, Shadowheart pushes her to the bedroll, laid flat. She climbs over her, straddling her thighs. Her fingers drag down from Marcy’s neck down to her chest, meeting the buttoned seam flimsily holding her top together. She teases the fabric with a practiced finger, unclasping it with a flick. The cloth unravels and reveals freckled skin and the soft slopes of her breasts beneath. Shadowheart adores the sight, the beauty of her purple skin, the colour of night orchids, a perfect offering to Lady Shar.

Shadowheart bends close to her neck, her lips grazing against the hollow of it. As if on instinct, Marcy’s hand flies to the back of her neck, fingers raking through her hair. Shadowheart plants soft kisses towards her jugular and sinks her teeth into the skin, eliciting a low moan from Marcy.

Is this what Astarion hears every night? She sucks and bites on the flesh, bruising her with a deeper purple. Marcy gasps with every press of her teeth, and Shadowheart presses harder, determined to hear more. An image of Astarion sucking on Marcy’s neck flashes in Shadowheart’s mind, and her chest aches with something she cannot name. A claw of avarice comes down on Marcy’s arm, fingernails digging in, but the pain only seems to elate her more. Hardly a surprise, coming from the person who took pleasure in Loviatar’s love.

Her hand wanders around Marcy’s chest, fingers tracing the shape of her breast, pulling back the leather of her top to fully expose it. Shadowheart thumbs over the nipple, and Marcy groans from the touch, her own hands doing her best to unlace Shadowheart’s top, but to no avail.

“You’ve been a good girl,” Shadowheart says, her lips ghosting her jaw. “Such a good girl for me.”

Shadowheart lowers her head and pays attention to Marcy’s neck again, teeth grazing along her bruised skin. Her hand snakes down the drow’s body, her slender fingers stretching the fabric of her trousers and the waistband of her underwear. The telltale dampness moistens her fingers and Shadowheart has to fight down a growl rising from her throat.

Has Marcy been thinking, dreaming, of this? Shadowheart spreads the wetness around her skin and watches her intently. Marcy tosses her head back at the touch, her breathing becoming heavier. Shadowheart would be lying if she hadn’t thought about it, of this moment: this woman pinned underneath her, whimpering and begging for her mercy. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d made herself come with that image, and there is nothing finer than finally seeing it for herself.

Her hand aches with a dull throb, a pain she is growing accustomed to ignoring.

“Aren’t you eager?” Shadowheart purrs, taking in the sight of her.

She pauses, and the lack of sensation has Marcy opening her eyes and scowling.

“Don’t be cruel.”

“You think this is cruel?” she replies, a lilt to her voice. Her fingers presses on her clit and give it a single, firm stroke.

Marcy nods, desperate.

“Pathetic. This is nothing, not even close to cruelty.” Another press, another whimper. Just the way she likes it.

“Please,” Marcy says, keening.

Shadowheart leans closer, her lips inches away from hers. “Please, what?”

Marcy catches her in a wolfish kiss, teeth hitting lips. Shadowheart draws in a sharp breath at the sensation, biting back at Marcy’s lips in equal aggression. She pulls away and again Marcy chases at her, but she pushes her back down with her free hand. A glimmer of light reflects in Marcy’s eyes, reminiscent of a predatory feline. It would be menacing if only she wasn’t already on the verge of desperate pleading.

“Please touch me,” says Marcy. “I need you to touch me. Please.”

Shadowheart smiles. “Good girl.”

She resumes, her fingers stroking her clit in a consistent pace. Marcy bites back a moan and clings onto Shadowheart’s arm for purchase, nails digging in to her skin, bound to leave crescent moons in their wake. The sting is a welcome change from the ache in her hand.

“Do you want more?” Shadowheart says.

Marcy nods, the trace of a whimper leaving her lips.

“Use your words or I’ll stop.”

Her grip on Shadowheart’s arm tightens. “I want more. Please.”

Shadowheart takes her hand and pushes two fingers past Marcy’s lips. Her mouth closes around it, sucking and licking around the length of Shadowheart’s fingers. When she’s satisfied, Shadowheart pulls it out of her mouth and slides both fingers into Marcy, her wet cunt providing little resistance. Marcy’s grip doesn’t leave her arm and soon enough, her hips are thrusting upwards, desperate to have more of Shadowheart inside her.

“Promise me one thing,” Shadowheart says, and immediately Marcy nods before she is even told what to promise. Something tugs at her chest at the thought that she’d be this eager to vow to her despite not knowing the terms. Her blind faith would make her an excellent follower of the Dark Lady.

“Promise me,” she repeats, her fingers unrelenting, “Promise me you’ll never betray me.”

Marcy pants, catching her breath as she says, “I promise I will never, ever—” and the moment is cut short when she comes, her walls squeezing around Shadowheart’s fingers. In a flash, their consciousness merge together, and Shadowheart becomes awash with Marcy’s emotions: her ecstasy, her awe, her love. Before she can react, Shadowheart feels it, too: the heat on her cheeks, the moisture between her thighs, and then, her own fingers inside Marcy is inside her, too. She keeps going, fucking Marcy through her orgasm until she reaches the peak of her own pleasure. Shadowheart slows down and pulls her fingers away before she starts an endless feedback loop of orgasms; as enjoyable as that would be, the pain in her hand would not relent either.

I will never betray you, Marcy says, not out loud, but through their cerebral connection.

There it is: the loyalty she asked for, but why does the pain torment her still? Their connection is instantly severed by the searing ache in her hand, stronger than it should be. Marcy yelps, snatching her own hand away before realizing the pain isn’t hers.

“Shadowheart,” she says, taking her hand, glowing purple in the dark. Marcy presses a kiss on it, but it only hurts her more. She grimaces at the tenderness but doesn’t pull her hand away. Marcy continues, leaving a trail of kisses from her hand to her arm up to her shoulder.

“Let me,” Marcy whispers.

The pain subsides, and so she lets her. Shadowheart lays down beside her while Marcy climbs over to straddle her.

“My mistress,” says Marcy, a pompous smile on her face. “Let me ravish you.”

“Mistress?” she replies with an approving hum. “I quite like the sound of that.”

Marcy traces the line of Shadowheart’s jaw, languid fingers inching down her neck to her leather bodice. The sensation of her nails lightly dragging on her skin sends a shiver down Shadowheart’s spine. Marcy tugs on the fabric, struggling to take it off. Shadowheart laughs and guides Marcy’s hand toward the clasps on her back, arching her spine so she can reach. With a locked gaze, Marcy unfastens it, sighing as she sets her sights on Shadowheart’s bare chest.

Bending closer, she presses her lips on the swell of her breasts, traveling down to take the flesh in her mouth. Her hand attends to the other, rolling a nipple between her fingers. Shadowheart buries her hand in Marcy’s dark hair, close to the scalp, and gently tugs.

“Marcy,” she says, her breath hitching when Marcy lightly grazes teeth on skin.

“Mmm,” replies Marcy, her mouth still working at Shadowheart, dragging her tongue on the slope of her chest.

Shadowheart dearly enjoys the attention but her clit is throbbing with anticipation. She pulls at Marcy’s hair again, drawing her downwards.

“Why don’t you make that pretty little mouth of yours useful?”

“With pleasure, my mistress.”

“Less talking, more pleasing,” Shadowheart replies, her fingers still threaded around Marcy’s hair. She smiles, taking the hint and pulling off Shadowheart’s trousers with zeal.

Marcy raises Shadowheart’s thighs and lays them on her shoulders, planting kisses near the heated flesh between her legs. With growing impatience, she gives another sharp pull on Marcy’s hair, guiding it where she wants her to be. Marcy does not disobey and takes Shadowheart in her mouth, sucking and licking at her clit. Shadowheart tosses her head back, hips grinding on her face, drowning herself on the pleasure of Marcy’s deft tongue.

As her pleasure builds, the pain on her hand does too, and Shadowheart funnels that ache into gripping at Marcy’s hair even more, thrusting into her face and chasing her release. Marcy’s name escapes her lips as she reaches her peak, and this time Shadowheart closes her mind to avoid accidentally merging it with her again. Even with that, the warmth of something she dares not name washes over her, followed with the horrific epiphany that the warmth is coming from herself. Warmth she feels toward Marcy.

Forgive me, Lady Shar, she thinks, her mind still closed off. I only have love for You, I swear it.

Meanwhile, Marcy climbs over her and kisses her. Shadowheart tastes herself on her mouth, licking Marcy’s lips clean.

“Does it still hurt?” Marcy pulls away, takes her hand and brings a soft kiss to it.

“Only a little,” she replies.

“Liar.”

Marcy lays beside her, their warm bodies touching, her breasts on hers. Their lips lock once again, a slower and more tender kiss this time. So soft, so gentle. Such a strange, alien sensation, but Shadowheart welcomes it all the same, her hands roaming around Marcy’s body. Marcy’s leg hooks around hers as she brings herself closer, and Shadowheart feels the wetness on her thigh as she starts grinding on her.

Shadowheart’s mind fogs with desire, making her sit up and lift Marcy’s leg on her shoulder to join themselves together. She gasps at the contact, drenched and slippery, while Marcy takes hold of her hips, as if she couldn’t get close enough. Their ragged breaths and the wet sounds of their grinding fill the tent, both unconcerned with the amount of noise they are making. Shadowheart lets the pleasure dim her better judgement, giving in to nothing but lust and greed, wanting nothing else but this: Marcy underneath her, their bodies close, her pleading moans, name on her lips, both of them cumming again and again until they couldn’t take anymore.

The thought of it makes her shudder and come hard all over Marcy, drenching each other even more. Marcy claws at her arm, her eyes going wide and bright, gasping Shadowheart’s name as her hips jerk forward with her orgasm. As she rides the high, still clouded with desire, Shadowheart unwittingly lets Marcy into her mind again. Again, she feels the warmth of Marcy’s love and passion, and instead of driving it away, Shadowheart lets herself get drunk in it, laying back down to kiss her, their bodies still entangled together.

Her heart swells with affection. Her thoughts clear out, disconnecting from Marcy and leaving only one thought behind: I don’t want to lose this. The solitary thought terrifies her, but she dives further. A stream of thoughts comes flooding in: I don’t want to lose her. I don’t want anyone else to have her. I want, I want, I want. This newfound possessiveness is foolish and selfish, Shadowheart knows, and she should be ashamed, really, because this is blasphemy. It’s sacrilege. All of this goes against Her doctrine. She should not care. She should not get attached. All things in life lead to loss. The throbbing pain in her hand agrees. The Dark Lady sees all, knows all. There’s no hiding from Her, especially not in this darkness.

“Whatever happens tomorrow,” Marcy says, cradling Shadowheart’s face. “Whatever it is you need to do…” her voice quivers, a slight falter. She clears her throat. “Whatever it is, I trust you. I will never betray you. I—” she stops herself again, then continues, softer this time, “I will never betray you.”

Shadowheart recognizes the terror in her voice. It is what her own thoughts sound like. Does Marcy know what she needs to do? Does she know of the grim and destitute path of a Dark Justiciar? Does she know of the expectation, the pressure, the—

Her aching hand throbs in pain.

With a sigh, Shadowheart caresses Marcy’s cheek. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

A lie to soothe the ignorant.

In the darkness of her tent, they hold each other close. Shadowheart has succeeded. She has their leader’s loyalty. Her path to becoming a Dark Justiciar is all but sealed. And yet, her hand still aches with the disdain of her Dark Lady.

NOTES

Shar disapproves

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