Devotee to Whom

by Loy

Summary:

After a tumble of religious doubts, Wick has a wet dream.

Set ambiguously in the forests of Timmony before they reach Sloak

Notes:

Hey this isn't perfect but more writing on these three needs to be out there so have it. I have thoughts for a chapter 2 and 3 but no guarantees or promises!

Wicander laid in a thin sleeping bag that he had been too polite to complain about. After all, it was the rest of his companions who had done all the work of making up the camp. It was Kattigan who had made the fire. And really, shouldn't that have been Wick’s responsibility, as a bearer of the light?

But the light wasn't real.

Or, it was. Of course it was— he knew that. It was just. Well.

There were… pretenses.

“All right, all bright.” He mouthed to the flickering flames, long since left alone with his thoughts as the rest of his party slumbered.

Yes, his faith was real. The light— something— was real. The distilled goodness of the universe flowed through him, even if it wasn't quite the ichor engraved into his skin.

Bloodlines…

He didn't like the idea that he was only holy by birth. What did that mean for those who were devout outside of his family?

Yes— like Teor Pridesire.

Wick let his gaze drift from the flames of the campfire to the beastman. He had forgone a sleeping bag, curled in a half-seated pose against a tree, arms folded across his broad frame, chin tucked against his chest.

He sat on the cusp of the firelight, barely visible. But he hadn't stripped from his armor to sleep, and the metal shone even in the distant shadows. Slivers of white and gold danced across his dark figure, a reminder of the holy purity Teor possessed.

Yes, because the Light was real. It wasn't just some… familial gift. Some lie he'd been told all his life. There was proof of the Light right in front of him.

Shame bubbled up in Wicander's throat as he mentally carded through all the verses he'd lived dutifully by. He remembered his grandmother's face, the amusement in her eyes when he confirmed that he had not sullied himself with dimness.

Sex, alcohol, drugs, cursing.

His gaze shifted to Tyranny, curled into a ball on her own sleeping bag. Having forgone blankets due to her natural warmth, she was plain to see— tail flickering to some unseen dream, a quirk of a smile on her lips.

If the Light Wicander knew was a falsehood, maybe it was true that none of those things actually mattered, in the grand scheme of things. Maybe he was a fool to scold the aspirant for drinking, or cursing. Once, when he was younger, he'd even argued that alcohol should be valued by the light, with how it was an accelerant.

Maybe the tenants he had followed all his life weren't only necessary, but was it possible they were wrong?

He rolled onto his shoulder, turning away from everyone, away from the light. Stains of purple and orange dotted his vision against the blackened forest.

He whispered a prayer under his breath, marveling at each word he'd once been so comforted by. Doubt swirled in his mind. These were just words that had been written to trick the masses. He'd been told that. But what else could he recite to affirm his devotion?

His devotion to… what, exactly?

He sighed, watching the orbs in his vision shrink and grow.

A faithless person would swear, if they felt like this. It was an appropriate moment. A reaction to frustration. Yes, Wick was frustrated.

He moved his lips, shaping a letter. It didn't really matter, did it? It could even be a good thing. No one really knew what the light actually valued.

But he couldn't say it.

He blinked rapidly against the dampness forming in his eyes, breathed out in a forced, slow exhalation.

He was fine. It was fine. The light would guide him. He just had to have faith.

With those racing, ever changing thoughts, he fell into a restless slumber.

 

Wick was on a bed.

He couldn't feel the plush down of his mattress, but it was there beneath him. So too were the sheer curtains which framed his bed in the Halovar estate, drooping in delicate folds and glittering like stars.

He was naked, for some reason. And not alone. Tyranny was above him, hair curling on his collarbone, tickling. Her eyes stared into his. Her lips, plump and pink, mouthed words he could not hear.

“T— Tyranny?”

He pushed up onto his elbows, only to be quickly pushed back down into his pillows by a wide-spread palm. He could feel each of Tyranny's fingers, hot and curling into his skin, nails scratching tantalizingly against him.

He blinked up at her, eyes catching on the movement of her mouth.

‘Your radiance,’ he read on her tongue.

Something swirled deep beneath his stomach, pleasure quickly morphing into shame. No, no he'd been warned against such things. He'd almost fallen once— dimmed his spark with a forbidden affection. He knew this was wrong.

 

Soft fingers cupped his cheek. He looked up from Tyranny's lips, flitting briefly on her eyes, hazy and half closed. Past her, as he craned his neck to its full extent, he saw Teor.

He was no longer in his bed. He was… floating, really. There was nothing else there. Whiteness. Just him, Tyranny, and Teor. His head lay against the beastman’s abdomen, firm and shifting with steady breaths.

Teor blinked down at him, slow and reassuring. The unease in his stomach subsided.

Fingers stroked Wick’s jaw, his cheek. Grazed his lip, pulling it down until a clawed finger slipped delicately into his mouth.

His tongue curled around the finger, lips pursing to close around it. His eyes did not stray, lingering on the soft kindness offered by the older man.

Warmth pressed against his chest, soft mounds pushing against him— it took a minute for him to realize what it must be that he was feeling. His eyes widened, but as he moved to look, Teor’s hand kept him still.

Fingers scratched down his torso, gliding down his sides. Softness, sharpness. Sensation sparked in his groin as Tyranny touched lower and lower, circling the crease of his thighs and hips.

Hair pressed against his throat, something warm and wet. A tongue. A kiss, a bite.

He flinched, body flexing against the sudden pain. His legs kicked up, suddenly feeling thighs and hips. A tail curled around his ankle.

Teor leaned down, and as his finger slid from Wick's mouth a tongue replaced it. Wick gasped. It was large, engulfing, surprising in texture— nothing he could quite describe. He reached up, finding purchase in the thick fur of Teor's mane. Fingers clasped desperately at a knotted braid, a thumb grazed the soft velvet of Teor's ears.

Tyranny's body moved against him, hips rolling against his cock.

‘Oh, light!’

This was good. This was wrong. Was it? Oh, brightness. He wasn't sure. He'd wanted this before. Fought the sinful desire, but what was sin if god was false? Not false, but… Was— should he—?

Fingers slid down his thigh, grasping his ass. Nails dug in cruel and sweet, and wet warmth plunged him into blinding pleasure. He kissed desperately at Teor, not knowing what else to do. Sharp teeth knocked against his nose, an unheard rumble coursed through his skull.

A furred hand curled over his stomach, pressing flat. Tyranny rolled against him, stroked the back of his thigh. Her breasts shifted against his chest and he really, really wanted to touch them.

He reached out, fingers grasping. A sudden pain knocked into his fourth finger, and he gasped in pain.

The dream crumbled around him. He awoke looking at the muddled green of a forest cast in the orange hues of dawn, tangled in his bedding. He was lying on his stomach, arm outstretched and folded against a rock.

“Ow!” He cried, because it hurt.

A furred paw stopped nearby.

The rest of the camp was awake. Several people were looking at him thanks to his outburst.

He realized with growing horror that he was not in any condition to be observed.

“Everything alright, Your Radiance?”

He tugged his arm back from the offending rock, pumping a Cure Wounds into himself. It stop this finger from throbbing, but he still fared poorly below the belt.

He scurried into a seated position, covering himself in bedding. “Q-Quite alright, yes, I'll be but a moment!”

He glanced through white eyelashes up at Teor.

Could he tell? Had he noticed?

Hazy memories of a dream washed over Wick, and he prayed he wasn't blushing.

Teor’s feline nostrils flexed. Oh light, what could he smell that a human couldn't?

His whiskers twitched, and he walked away with an amused expression. “Yes, well, we will be heading out in approximately 20 minutes. Be presentable.”

A sour, poisonous heat flooded over Wick.

“R-right!”