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Wicander Halovar, priest of the Light, Bearer of the Filament, cowers in a chair made of fine wood and plush upholstery. Above him, so close that it’s all he can see, Halandil Fang looms, his face lined with sorrow and his eyes flashing with anger.
Did this happen before? It’s a confusing thought, one that’s completely driven from Wick’s mind when Hal grabs his face in one large (strong, Light above, so very strong) hand.
“You said you had it taken care of,” Hal growls, his face mere inches from Wick’s own. “You promised me.”
“Hal, by the Light, I swear, I didn’t lie to you. I thought— my parents agreed that hanging your brother was— it was my grandmother, she—”
“No more excuses,” Hal snarls, and then his lips are crashing against Wick’s hard enough to bruise as Wick finds his mouth suddenly filled by Hal’s tongue.
Wick should resist, should pull away. A priest of the Light must remain chaste in both thought and deed. To do otherwise is to be Dimmed, or even worse, Extinguished. Instead, his heart pounds as his cock fills almost to the point of pain, restricted by his smallclothes, which are embroidered with verses extolling the Light.
Hal is the one who pulls away, face twisted in disgust. “Your excuses taste foul.”
Wick blinks back tears. “H-Hal, I’m sorry—”
Hal grabs his arm, pulling him from the chair and tumbling him to the floor. In the brief second it takes for Wick to look up, Hal has somehow removed his pants and seated himself where Wick once was, his deep green cock (beautiful as the Light, a heretical thought that makes Wick’s own cock jump) stands proud and tall, drops of pearly white beading at the head to stream down like candle wax.
Hal grabs the back of Wick’s head. “Fill your mouth with something else,” he growls, and draws him forward.
Wick opens his mouth automatically, as if this was worship and he was about to receive the Filament laced water that was poured from the sacred chalice. Hal’s cock does not taste like the Light, but oh, how it fills him just the same, how it satisfies him even as he gags and chokes around it, tears flowing freely from his eyes. He can barely breathe as Hal fucks his face, and a distant thought comes to him that he might die like this. For the life of him he cannot bring himself to be anything but deeply aroused by the thought.
Hal comes without warning, his semen bitter as tears as it shoots down Wick’s throat. He can’t swallow fast enough, can feel the precious fluid pouring from the sides of his mouth. At the last moment, Hal pulls Wick away from his cock, letting the last of his spend stripe Wick’s face.
“Look at you,” Hal says with a sneer of disgust. “Disgusting. And at my brother’s wake, of all places.”
“I’m sorry,” Wick rasps, his head bowed.
“And this.” Hal presses his booted foot against Wick’s clothed erection. “You enjoy what I’m doing to you.”
“No!” Wick protests, even as he rocks his hips, chasing the sensation of pain becoming pleasure.
“A lie,” Hal snarls, pressing harder with his foot until Wick howls. “Just like you lied about my brother’s safety.”
“I’m sorry!”
Hal grabs Wick’s arm and hauls him to his feet. It only takes one of those big, strong hands to tear Wick’s smallclothes from his body. When Wick goes to cover himself, Hal grabs both of his wrists with one hand and drags him over to the plush velvet couch that has somehow replaced the chair. He sits, pulling Wick down with him, roughly laying Wick across his lap. Wick whimpers at the feeling of his cock against Hal’s thighs, then shouts when one of Hal’s big, broad oh so strong hands smacks him on the ass.
“This is how it’s going to go,” Hal says, leaning down to whisper in Wick’s ear. “I’m going to spank you, and for every hit you’re going to tell me just how sorry you are.”
Wick gasps and sniffles, nodding frantically. This is not unlike some of the rituals of absolution used in the Halls of Repentance. “H-how— how many times must I be struck?”
Hal bites Wick’s ear. “Until you make me believe you really are sorry.”
Hal’s hand is as heavy as judgement and as firm as faith. Every blow burns even as they cause Wick to rock forward, his cock, still shamefully erect, rubbing against Hal’s bare thighs. Wick knows he should focus on the pain, that earthly pleasures are nothing but ash in the Light, but his apologies are punctuated by moans as his body continues to betray him.
If you find release this way, your soul will be Extinguished. The thought feels like fact, and even though Wick whimpers in fear, he can’t stop his body from moving, can’t stop wicked, Shadowed pleasure from coursing through him. For all of his faith, he’s going to— going to—
“Wick!”
Wick gasps awake, eyes flying open at the sound of Tyranny’s voice. She’s standing over him, her eyes wide as she shakes his shoulder. “Wick— Your Radiance, I mean. You have to wake up!”
“I’m awake!” Wick sits up, dizzy from the transition between dream (Nightmare. He should call it a nightmare but oh) and wakefulness. He shivers, realizing that he’s soaked in sweat and, underneath the covers, painfully, shamefully hard.
“Oh thank the Beam! I was passing by your rooms and I heard you shouting. You must have been having a terrible dream.”
“Yes,” Wick says, his ass still stinging from phantom pain and his cock twitching. “A most horrible dream.”
“Well, you’re going to have to just get over it,” Tyranny says briskly. “I came to tell you that the Photarch is on her way to see you.”
“My grandmother?” Wick tries to pull the covers up to his chest but Tyranny yanks them away, exposing him and the erection that’s straining against his smallclothes. “Tyranny! This is inappropriate!”
“As an Aspirant, it’s part of my duty to make sure that I help you look and be your best self at all times,” Tyranny tells him. “And you can hardly be your best like this. You’re so Dim right now it’s a wonder I can see you at all!”
Wick bursts into tears. “Oh Tyranny, even you can see my shame! I did have a horrible dream, full of promises of pleasure and pain that have dimmed my Spark!” He stumbles out of the bed, wrapping one of the blankets around himself. “I need to go to the Pools of Cleansing immediately, then the Halls Of Repentance where I will be whipped and salt rubbed into my wounds—”
“There’s no time!” Tyranny shakes her head. “We’ll just have to do the Ritual of the Chalice right here, it’s the quickest way to Reignite your Spark!”
Wick blinks in confusion. “But the sacred Chalice is in possession of the Photarch, and she can’t see me like this!”
“No, not that Chalice, silly— I mean, Your Radiance.” She grabs the Book Of Embers off of his night table and quickly turns the pages. “Embers, Chapter Six, Verse Nine. ‘Your Aspirant is a Chalice for the Light, from which one may drink when the Spark grows Dim.” She holds the book out to him. “See for yourself. There’s pictures!”
Wick takes the book from Tyranny and squints at the page. The words are luminous, hard to read, but the pictures (has the Book of Embers always had pictures?) are very clear. “Oh, oh my.” He looks up from the pages— and the book falls to the floor from his suddenly nerveless fingers. “Tyranny!”
Tyranny is laying on the bed completely nude, her pink skin glowing from within. Her breasts are firm, nipples gleaming golden with drops of Filament, and rivulets of Filament trail down her thighs. She holds out her arms to him. “Come. Drink.”
Wick does as he is bid, all but falling upon her in his zeal to fill himself with the Light. He sucks at each of her nipples in turn, thin streams of Filament dribbling onto his tongue, burning and sweet. He feels the Shadows from his dream begin to recede, but it’s not enough. “More,” he gasps against her skin. “I need more.”
“I am yours to drink from,” Tyranny says. “Let me make it easier for you.”
Tyranny arranges him on the bed as she pleases, then reaches for his underwear, drawing them down and away.
“Wait!” Wick half sits up. “My shame—”
“It’s all right,” Tyranny croons soothingly. “This is part of the ritual. While you drink from me, I must draw the Shadows from you, so that you may have more room inside you for the Light.”
“But—” Wick protests weakly, confused. “Then you will be Dimmed.”
“One cannot be Dimmed while providing service for the Light,” Tyranny says solemnly as she climbs onto the bed and positions herself over Wick. Thick, shining drops of Filament drip from the white hair on her Secret Chalice onto his face, making him gasp in exquisite pain. “Even the most Shadowed of acts can be transformed.” Her flesh, glowing pink and shimmering with Filament, descends upon him. “Now drink from your Chalice.”
Wick, ever obedient, does as Tyranny bids him, his mouth working against her, his tongue coaxing Filament from her core. It burns as it all but pours down his throat, but it is a scouring, cleansing pain, and he writhes as Tyranny moans in religious ecstasy above him.
“Yes, my Radiance! Drink deeper! Deeper!”
Wick can barely breathe but he doesn’t falter, drinking all that she can give him. He’s so full of Light, fuller than he’s ever been, and then Tyranny’s mouth is upon him, drawing the Shadow out of him and he is so full of Light that it has nowhere to go but out of him and into her as he spasms in divine ecstasy, tears of joy burning as the Light— the Light—
The light of the sun shines through Wick’s bedroom window as he wakes up gasping, doused in sweat with warm stickiness cooling at his groin and tears drying on his face. He sits up, hands over his mouth in horror at the blasphemy his mind committed in his sleep and his body has carried out. He stumbles to the washbasin, stripping off his defiled undergarments to be burned later, and scrubs at his thighs with a damp washcloth.
Oh he is surely Dimmed, Flickering, on the edge of becoming Extinguished. He must atone, be washed and scoured until he is cleansed once more. He must endeavor to keep his Spark strong enough that he can resist such dreams. If his mind and spirit are Luminous, his body will follow, he—
There’s a knock at the door and Wick freezes, washcloth in hand.
“Wick— I mean, your most Splendid Radiance— or is it Luminous Radiance? Splendid Luminousness?”
Wick makes a sound unbecoming of his title, high pitched like the squeak of a mouse, and scrambles for his clothes.
“Anyway,” Tyranny continues. “There’s someone here to see you—”
Later, he’ll have to atone later. Right now the best thing to do is throw himself into his duties. Yes. He’ll think only of his devotion to the Light. Not Hal’s strong hands against his backside, not Tyranny’s chalice—
Wick’s unrepentant cock twitches as he opens the door.