Chapter Text
Being Mother Superior of the Cloister of Somber Embrace meant a lot of things.
It meant hours locked in her office with her most loyal advisors planning. Plotting. Politicking. Standing over old, frayed maps, pushing pieces around a board, making grand plans to spread the word of Lady Shar by any, by all means possible. Nothing was out of scope for a Sharran on a mission. No method was ever too extreme.
Being Mother Superior also meant days and nights spent in the field spying. Seducing. Wearing tight clothes and elegant updos and kohl on her eyes and rouge on her lips and cheeks. It meant flashing coy smiles, slanted looks, and being bought many, many drinks that were furtively tossed into flower pots or over her shoulder; being offered gifts of jewelry, gold, clothes, please, anything for a night, just one night, or just one hour, one moment with you, beautiful.
It meant gaining someone’s trust only to break it right afterward.
Being Mother Superior also, mostly, meant weeks in the dungeon needling and questioning and torturing people. Old and young, hardy and frail–Sharrans did not discriminate. People who could bear them important information about the activity of Selûnites were always the first to capitulate. They were too soft. Unseasoned. Hopeful and believing the best of their captors…
People who could bear them important information about a duke or a duchess they could blackmail or turn to their cause (handmaids, stewards)–well now, there was a strong person, an unbreakable person. A person Shadowheart loved to needle (literally) with her own hands.
Needles, however fun they were to shove into bare flesh, did not always yield results. When they did not, Shadowheart turned to the flail. Shadowheart liked the flail, because she had a lot of core strength, arm strength that lent itself to being good with flails and maces. She could really go at someone without developing soreness in her arms. Her fidelians admired her for it, complimented her vigor and bloodlust often. Mother, you are so strong, so talented. Mother, you always inspire me to train more. Mother, you have the arms of a goddess…the arms of Lady Shar herself! The thighs too. The waist. The face. The hair. The everything.
Ah, sycophants, the lot of them. Each and every one, except for, perhaps, Nocturne, her oldest friend.
Nocturne was a straight shooter through and through…and had always, always been loyal to her. From humble beginnings of being bullied relentlessly by the other Sharrans, pushed around daily, picked on, spit on, hit and kicked for being small, for having stupid hair, for having a stupid name–Nocturne had always defended her. Nocturne had always stood by her side.
And now that Shadowheart had secured the highest possible position in Shar’s church, Nocturne was elevated greatly among the ranks of the Cloister.
But, see, there was just one small problem with having Nocturne as her right hand–
Nocturne was too…sweet. Too empathetic. Too compassionate.
Nocturne tortured as well as the best of them, make no mistake, but to her, torture was all clinical. She derived no pleasure from the activity. She did not glean deeper lessons from each bone she broke, each tendon she severed. And so Shadowheart allowed her to retain the post of Quartermaster to avoid getting her hands dirty, because Nocturne was special to her (friend, protector, guardian, someone who held her heart delicately in her calloused hands, and didn’t that just feel nice?).
That said, Shadowheart knew that she could not allow any of her other fidelians to cultivate such sweetness, no.
Sweetness did not make sense in her Sharran cloister. Timidity. Reluctance. Hesitation.
She had to stamp it all out.
…
Novice Clythe’s hazing was one for the record books. Shadowheart made sure of it.
Clythe, you see, was prone to bouts of timidity. He had a bit of a hard-on for her (much of a hard-on, actually, as evidenced by the various objects he held in front of his pants when in her presence), and flattering as it was to be thought of so…fondly, Shadowheart found his inability to speak in front of her annoying. He was prone to stuttering and misremembering and tripping in her presence, turning simple chairs and urns into workplace hazards. He was also prone to overenthusiasm as a way to demonstrate value, sometimes outright killing valuable targets when they needed a lighter touch.
Nonetheless, he was surprisingly good at reconnaissance and seduction, particularly of older women, in the field. The disparity between how he acted in front of his Mother Superior and other women baffled Shadowheart and most of the cloister at large.
“You show great promise, Clythe.” She liked to run her hand through his hair to make him shudder. “Keep it up.”
“Y-Yes, Mother. I’ll do my b-best…!”
To his hazing, she only invited her most brutal children. Nightmist, Owltalon, Gydd, and Uttermask. They four were in turn allowed to invite their own most brutal acolytes, all of whom were beyond honored to participate in such a sacred ritual.
Lord Astarion was also permitted to join after begging so much to join this one hazing in particular, darling, please, please, please, I’ll never ask for anything ever again in my life (a blatant lie, but it had been fun watching him, making him beg on bended knee). Shadowheart eventually relented after some toe kissing and sucking, and cunt worship, and an hour-long full-body massage with a happy ending. Sated and half-asleep, she had allowed him to bear witness on the very specific condition that he participate gleefully and with enthusiasm. No matter what happened.
I promise on my very own grave nothing less, my dear. I will be the most enthusiastic person there! I promise you this. I cross my heart and hope to die.
And so.
The hazing of Clythe happened on a new moon, as all hazings did. A new moon was a dark moon. And Lady Shar watched them most closely on dark moons.
It started with a kidnapping. They snatched Clythe from his bed and stripped him naked and bound his hands and feet tightly. They shoved a gag into his mouth and put a burlap sack over his head. (Standard fare for a hazing.)
Then they transported him, writhing and struggling, out of the dorms and deep, down into the grotto, to a small, hidden amphitheater that had been built and designed for this very purpose.
They forced him onto his knees and arranged themselves in a circle around him. They all, except for Shadowheart, wore masks that covered their entire faces: masks of glossy, obsidian black, decorated with blood red tears that dripped from their eye holes.
They chanted ancient Sharran credos in unison, voices echoing in perfect harmony around the cave.
Clythe had stopped struggling, realizing the spot he was in. He began to tremble instead.
Shadowheart tutted.
“Clythe Clevenger,” she began. “Are you a follower of Lady Shar?”
Silence. Then a quiet, muffled groan of agreement.
In Shadowheart’s hand was a whip. She tightened her grip on the whip’s braided leather handle. “Then tell me, follower of Lady Shar–why are you so scared? You are shaking like a leaf. I fear you might piss yourself.” She clucked her tongue. “...You had better not piss yourself.”
More muffled groaning. He shook his head vigorously.
“Good. Because if you do piss yourself and get all that piss all over my floor, I’m going to be very mad at you.” She fondled the handle of her whip before handing it to Uttermask, standing directly to her left.
“If you would please hold my accoutrements.”
Shadowheart stepped forward and loosed her outer robe of purple, letting it slide off her shoulders and slither off her body, onto the floor. She heard the quickened breaths of her disciples and of her lover, who smothered a low rumble in his throat.
She had dressed up for this occasion. She wore nothing but a long rope of black silk, knotted and tied expertly by Nocturne, that traced the curves of her body, wrapping around her neck, showcasing her bare breasts, her waist, the mound between her thighs. She’d not been able to see her reflection in the mirror, but she knew Nocturne had done a good job by the way she’d blushed and reddened when reviewing her handiwork.
Shadowheart yanked the sack off Clythe’s head. Removed the gag from his mouth.
He yelped and blinked by the candlelight and torches that lit the amphitheater.
Shadowheart stood still until he had a clear view of her.
And when his eyes finally adjusted to the light, his jaw dropped, and he stiffened, his nudity leaving him nowhere to hide.
“Is this–is this a dream?”
“No.” Shadowheart ran her hand slowly down her chest, between her breasts, then down, down over her belly, over the mound of her feminine core. Her hand dropped at her side. “This is not a dream.”
That was the cue for her fidelians to grab Clythe under the arms, forcing him upright.
Shadowheart repeated again. “Clythe Clevenger. Are you a follower of Lady Shar?”
“I–I am.” He nodded, eyes wide.
“Does Lady Shar permit her followers to lust so blindly after their Mother Superior?” she asked.
“I–N-No…probably not,” he said shamefacedly.
“Then why do you do it, Clythe?” Shadowheart brought her hands to her breasts, cupping them, titillating her poor little Clythe by rubbing her thumb over her pink nipples, hardened in the cool air of the cavern. “Why do you lust after me the way that you do?” She rubbed and tweaked and pinched. “...Are you an idiot, Clythe? Are you stupid?”
“N-No! No! I don’t know–!” He shut his eyes and looked practically constipated with the way he strained to come up with an answer. “I’m not–I’m not stupid. I just–I don’t know, I’m so sorry, Mother. My lady! I’m sorry…” He was weeping crocodile tears, sobbing without any of the wetness that would drench his cheeks if he were actually crying.
Shadowheart chuckled low in her throat. “You are pathetic, boy. Dare I say you are unworthy of the honor being bestowed upon you tonight?” Shadowheart extended an open palm. “My whip, please.”
“No, no!” Clythe yelled.
Shadowheart instructed the fidelians holding him to turn him so that his back was to her: the perfect canvas for her lash. They forced him onto his knees again. Shadowheart flicked her wrist, and the lash slashed him with a crack.
Clythe howled. “My lady, please! Please–”
“Crying out while being flogged is not Sharran behavior.” Shadowheart lashed him again, and he whined. “Haven’t I taught you better than this?” She whipped him again. “Haven’t I taught you the value of silence, novice? To be quiet. To walk in shadow.”
Another lashing. Another lashing. She was creating an artful web of lacerations on his back. “Riddle me this, Clythe–how is it you can seduce all these beautiful women out in the field, but you cannot even look me in the eye?”
“Because they’re not you! ” he offered quickly. “They’re not you, Mother Superior. Only you–ow!”
“And what’s so special about me?” she asked. “Little old me. I may hold a higher ranking than the rest of you–I may be Lady Shar’s Chosen, but I am merely a woman, like any other. Why do you crave me so?”
“Because you are so–beautiful–umph –”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Shadowheart wiped the blood off the whip with her hand. She licked her soaked palm. “Mmm. My, my. You taste wonderful, novice.”
And, because she was a good and thoughtful lover, she offered her bloody palm to Astarion, who tilted his mask up enough to reveal his lovely, fanged mouth. “Why thank you, Mother…” he purred. He lapped up the blood on her hand.
“I treat those closest to me very well,” she said, gesturing for Clythe to be turned around again, to face her on his knees. “Would you like to be close to me, Clythe?”
His boyishly handsome face was scrunched in pain. “...Y-Yes…”
“Pardon?” She put a hand to her ear. “I cannot hear you.”
“Yes, Mother,” he said more loudly. “I would like to be c-close to you…”
“How close?” Shadowheart tilted her head and took a step toward him. “Is this close okay?”
He stared at her through hooded eyes and did not reply.
“Answer me,” she barked.
“Y-Yes,” he said. “This close is okay–”
“Liar.” She took two more steps, three steps, four, until her roped cunt was directly in front of his face. “You wanted me to be this close, did you not? In your heart of hearts…” The rope split her pussy lips; she ran her fingers over her lips, freshly shaven for this event. “You want to be close to this. You want to look at it up close…” She parted her pink lips, pink inner folds for him. Showing off her cunt, split by the fibers of a silk rope, already growing slick by this little display.
Clythe could not look away. He gulped and stared at her wet, pink cunt. Her fidelians bent him further down so that when he glanced upward he could stare directly up at her entire sex, which she held open for him to examine.
His cock was weeping, goddess bless him. He began to bleed out of one of his nostrils. “Mmmph…”
“Do you want to see my hole, novice?” Shadowheart ran her hand through his hair. Gripped his hair tight. “...Would you like to lick it?”
A tch sound from behind her–Astarion, of course, huffing in outrage. “Ahem –”
“Would you like to lick my hole, Clythe?” Shadowheart repeated over her lover’s protestation. “Would you like to stick your tongue into my cunt?”
He just kept looking up at her pussy. Nodding. “Y-You know my answer is yes…”
“You probably can’t even see my little hole. Here, let me show you.” The rope had a bit of slack. She pushed it to the side and spread her legs so that he could get a good view of her pussyhole. “Is that better, Clythe? Can you see up into my cunt?”
He nodded quicker, quicker. “Yes, yes…I see it. I see you.”
Shadowheart grabbed one of her breasts, squeezing it in her hand. “And do you like what you see?”
“I l-love it,” he answered quickly. He was drooling out of the side of his mouth.
Shadowheart ran a finger through her pussy juices, which had coated her sex quickly, and used her dirty, wet finger to wipe the drool off the side of his mouth.
“Unggggghhh…” Clythe groaned…in time with a low, feral growl sounding behind her.
Arms wrapped around her waist. Astarion picked her up off the ground, covering her mound with his hand. “Oh no, no, no, my dear. It is laughable you think I’d let you get away with something like this, pet. Hah!”
“You promised to be good!” she shouted, squirming in his grasp. “Let go of me!”
“Never. Not if you’re going to act like a complete and utter whore for another man.” He tightened his grip around her waist and snarled into her ear. “Looking is one thing. Touching is another.”
Shadowheart saw her fidelians fidget nervously, uncertain what to do. She stopped struggling.
“Please, Astarion. We can come to a compromise. Put me down.”
“No. I don’t think I will.” He brushed a knuckle over her sex. “In fact, allow me to take this little hazing ritual from here.”
“Astarionnnn!” she whined and groaned. “Put me down! This is my session–”
“Fine.” He let her slide unceremoniously toward the floor, making sure she felt every inch of his erection beneath his ceremonial robe. “You are now down. But I am still running this show.”
“No. Stop it,” she hissed. “You are undermining my role–”
Astarion wrapped her braid around his hand and yanked, hard.
“Owwww!” she cried, grabbing at her scalp. “Astarion!”
“I told you, pet. It’s my turn.” He pulled her head back even more, and it hurt, ow, ow, ow–it felt best not to fight him, to let him manipulate her body into whatever position he saw fit: that being with her feet on the ground and legs spread so that her cunt was visible to Clythe yet again.
“Sharran novice, Clythe. My horny little friend. We meet again.” Astarion punched him hard in the face. Clythe’s head snapped back. The fidelians holding him forced his head forward.
“Astarion!” Shadowheart snapped. “Stop it.”
“I thought you might have learned your lesson the last time we discussed this matter,” Astarion continued, ignoring her. “When I told you how often I fuck this pretty little pussy.” Astarion spread her lips himself, pushing the rope again to the side so that Clythe may better examine her hole. “This is where I fuck her, most of the time.”
Clythe looked at him through a shut, swelling eye. “Y-Yes…”
“Am I not lucky, novice?” Astarion forced her legs further apart, widening her hole. “Take a closer look, it’s alright. I won’t bite.”
Clythe could barely open both his eyes, but he was no idiot. He looked, and he looked intently.
“Fidelian Uttermask. Would you kindly start to stroke Clythe’s cock?” Astarion purred.
Shadowheart whined and struggled against him. “Astarion–no–”
“Astarion yes, my pet.” He pulled mercilessly on her braid.
Shadowheart held in her gasps. “Astarion, for the last time–”
“Stroking, Uttermask. Let’s see it.” He snapped his fingers at her fidelian, who, to Shadowheart’s chagrin, obeyed. Stroking Clythe’s cock with a bare hand.
“That’s nice, isn’t it?” Astarion asked. “It must feel good to have your cock stroked and rubbed while looking at your Mother’s beautiful, wet little hole. Mmmmmmm.” He pushed his middle finger into her canal.
She was very slick. When he pulled away, a wonderful little dollop of her cream topped his finger.
“This is my favorite flavor in the world,” Astarion said, rubbing his thumb and middle finger in her slime. “Look at this texture. Oh, it is perfect.” He pulled his fingers apart, then pressed them back together. Then apart again, making her juices dangle. “...Do you want to taste it? ”
Clythe was panting, having his cock stroked by another man. “Yes. Y-Yes, I want to taste it! Please!”
Astarion tossed his mask onto the floor and popped his middle finger into his own mouth, sucking it dry. He did the same with his thumb. “Oops! Sorry, darling. Maybe next time.”
“Ahh…” Clythe continued to pant, looking disappointed. “Yeah…”
“You know, I usually just go straight to the source.” Astarion knelt in front of her suddenly and pressed his mouth to her pussy, smooching her all over, sloppily, wetly, before making out with her clit. Shadowheart squirmed, holding his silvery curls tightly in her hands. He kept teasing her sensitive little bud and licking each one of her folds thoroughly, cleaning each flap of its juices on all sides. It felt heavenly and sloppy and dirty, fuck, he'd never eaten her out in front of an audience before…
He began to jerk the silk rope between her legs, tugging repeatedly, making her tremble and moan at the silky friction of the rope against her clit.
“Astarionnnnn–wait–”
He kept doing it, flossing her sweet cunt as if it were his job, fuck, fuck, she was going to cum like this…
“Squirt all over Clythe’s face, darling, he’s begging for it.” He slid his middle finger inside of her again, fingerfucking her just the way she liked it, rubbing and itching and hitting that spot right there, right on her wall that made pleasure build and crest in her spine, fuck, she was cumming–
Astarion adjusted her so that she was right over Clythe's face when she came, shaking all over, squirting her slippery girljuices onto him.
“Oh, goddess–” Clythe himself was cumming all over Uttermask's hand, as he licked his lips and all around his mouth where she had ejaculated on him.
“It's wonderful, is it not?” Astarion drawled, still on his knees. Licking his own lips. Then standing and pressing his fragrant mouth to hers. She let him kiss her as she felt herself slouch heavily against him and fall into a sated, sleepy daze…
“You know, Clythe–I’m not so bad myself.” Still supporting her by the waist with one hand, with his other hand, Astarion pulled up his robe and pulled out his cock, to stroke himself. “Certainly, the flavor of Mother dearest stands alone in the pantheon of delectable flavors, but I find myself to be quite alright. Would you like a taste…?” he asked coyly.
Clythe nodded and grunted. “Yes… yes…”
Astarion brought his cock to the boy's face and rubbed the fat head of himself over his forehead. “Tilt your head back and open your mouth, would you?”
Clythe did just that. Tilting his head back. Opening his mouth with his tongue out.
Astarion stroked himself over his mouth. “Am I not a generous lord? Letting you taste both your Mother and myself?”
“Yes. So generous,” Clythe said. “So, so generous.”
“It's a pity you are already so devoted to Mother here. I could use a cute little thing like you in my service.” He kept stroking himself. “...Perhaps we can share.”
Clythe shut his eyes and nodded. “Wonderful. Let's share.”
“Oh, but it'd be a sharing of you and you alone. I'm not going to share Shadowheart with you ever again.” Astarion kissed his girl's forehead. “She is mine. And mine alone.”
“U-Understood. Understood.”
“Do you really?”
Clythe opened his one good eye, wide and frantic. “Y-Yes, my Lord!”
“You’ll never pine over your Mother Superior again?”
“Y-Yes, my Lord! That's right!”
“Then promise me. Tell me who she belongs to…”
“You, my Lord! You and you alone!”
“That's right.” Astarion came, spurting semen into Clythe’s mouth, onto his waiting tongue. “I'm so glad you learned your lesson, novice.” He touched Clythe’s cheek. “Now swallow.”
Clythe did just that.