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Kyrie’s lap is so warm against his cheek, and she smells so very lovely. Like home, even with the incense thick in the air diluting her scent.
“Nero,” she murmurs, and she looks so much like an angel like this, her lovely head wreathed in light as he gazes up at her, a halo of brightness in this dim room. He tries to reach for her, but he cannot; chains rattle accusingly at his attempt. He stills. They are too noisy, he won’t be able to hear her beautiful voice.
Her hands are free, though. They touch his face, stroking his skin, dusting his hair out of his eyes. She is so gentle, even as his head lolls clumsily around the expanse of her thighs. “This is an honor,” she tells him, and of course it is. It’s silly of her to think he doesn’t know that. He gets to see her in her ceremonial garb, all radiance and beauty and effortless, holy grace. He gets to smell her, gets to feel her touch on his bare skin. Of course it’s an honor. “Even if it hurts, don’t forget that, alright? This is an honor, Nero.”
This is an honor.
“‘M naked,” he informs her, because he’s pretty sure that’s a faux pas. He should not be naked in front of a lady, even if he is receiving an honor. Probably especially then. But she just smiles her beautiful smile and runs her thumb soothingly along his cheekbone.
“I know,” she says, always so soft and indulgent. “It’s alright. Clothing would dull your connection to Him. ”
Right, of course. Kyrie is so smart. He smiles, closing his eyes and relaxing into her. This is an honor.
“Are we ready to begin?” A different voice, smooth and deep and familiar. Nero’s smile widens.
“Credo,” he calls out, and he means for it to be sort of loud but the word only barely manages to tumble out of his mouth. Oh, well. “‘M naked,” he tells him, because he should probably know that too.
“I know, Nero. Hush, now. Just relax.”
Nero makes an affirmative noise deep in his throat, trying his very best to release any tension left in his muscles. Not that there’s really any there to begin with, but he wants to do as Credo asks. He wants to make him proud.
Nero hears some shuffling, and the sound of a metal container being opened. He considers opening his eyes to see what it is, but it’s so very difficult to maintain curiosity right now. He’s just so comfortable, and Kyrie is so warm and smells so nice.
“Bless us, O Savior, in uniting this soul with Your flock. In humble accordance, we doth anoint this vessel, and pray that You bestow upon him Your grace and Your guidance.”
A baptism prayer? He’s already baptized though, that doesn’t make any sense. Nero cracks open one eye to take a peek at Credo, just to see what he’s doing, and he sucks in a shocked breath at the sight.
Credo is standing just to the side, head bowed as he prays over the container of holy oil in his hands. On its own, such a sight wouldn’t be so shocking, but the man is nearly nude while he does it, dressed only in a gossamer robe that does nothing to conceal the raging hard-on he’s sporting right at Nero’s eye level.
There are people surrounding them too, faceless, features hidden beneath white robes and gold-embellished cowls. He doesn’t recognize this windowless room, this amphitheater, this altar he’s chained upon. He thought he’d been everywhere in Fortuna. Shadows dance ominously in the flickering candlelight, joining the enshrouded figures in their silent vigil.
Hey. Come to think of it, what the fuck is going on?
“Nero,” Kyrie whispers as her brother continues his prayer. “Relax. This is an honor.”
This is an honor. Credo ascends the steps, kneeling above him on the altar. This is an honor. He dips his fingers in the oil, continuing to mutter prayers as he draws strange symbols on Nero’s body. This is an honor.
“Th-that… tickles…” Kyrie shushes him, running her fingers gently over his lips. It burns, a little, in truth, his skin turning red and irritated under Credo’s fingers. He shuts his mouth, laying perfectly still while his body is marked in the name of the Savior. It’s a bit enchanting to watch, honestly, despite the faint pain. He feels more like an observer than a resident in his own body at the moment, anyway.
“… and cleanse him of his sins, O Savior. We offer you this tribute, in the name of Your love. Through me, Your humble servant, may You feel his devotion.”
Credo seems to finish, then, finally raising his head to meet Nero’s wide eyes. He gives a reassuring smile, and that helps, a little, but Nero can’t seem to help the way his muscles are tensing. He’s trying so very hard to relax.
He dips all four fingers into the oil, then, and Nero feels his breathing go quick and shallow as he parts his robe and slicks his cock with it.
“Relax, Nero.”
“Relax.”
“It will hurt less if you relax.”
“This is an honor.”
This is an honor.
“Look at me, Nero,” and so he does, wrenching his gaze from where Credo is lining himself up between his legs to stare up at Kyrie. He feels panicked. He can’t slow his breathing. Why can’t he relax like they want? “Just keep looking at me, okay?”
Nero opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a primal scream as his brother enters him.
It burns, like the oil on his skin but so, so much worse on his sensitive, fleshy cunt. The stretch, too, is unbearable, too much, too fast, too painful. He wasn’t ready. He could have been ready if they’d only asked, he would have spread himself for Credo whenever he wanted, why is he chained like this? Why is he restrained? He thrashes, but he cannot move, weakened by the holy elixir in his blood and forced open on this cold stone slab. He hadn’t noticed how cold it was until now, too focused on Kyrie’s warmth and smile. He hadn’t noticed how uncomfortable it is to be so open and vulnerable. So, so vulnerable. Utterly helpless, and it burns.
Kyrie pets him, attempting to calm him in his agony, shushing him, calling his name, begging him to relax. He wants to relax, but the burn is so deep, it’s spreading everywhere inside him, it hurts, it hurts. He’s crying, he thinks. It’s hard to tell.
“Pray with me, Nero.”
Pray. Yes, he can pray. He can pray. It’s never helped him before, but maybe it will now.
“My honored brethren,”
“My honored brethren,”
It hurts it hurts it hurts.
“We come together,”
“We come together,”
Credo’s hands on his waist, so large. Grounding. How long he’s wanted to feel him like this; if only it didn’t scald him so.
“To unite as one,”
“To unite as one,”
He breaks off into a sob. Kyrie pets his hair. Credo fucks him so, so deep.
“Against those that are damned,”
“Against those that are damned,”
The stretch hurts less, though the oil still burns. He can smell his own blood, mixed with all the incense, from the violence of their coupling, and it makes his mouth water. Kyrie leans in over him, kissing a tear from his cheek.
“We show no mercy,”
“We show no mercy,”
Kyrie is flushed where she smiles above him.
“For we have none,”
“For we have none,”
The pain is still pain but it’s something else, now, too.
“Our enemy shall fall,”
“Our enemy shall fall,”
Credo shifts his angle and Nero falters in his prayer, crying out. Kyrie bites her lip. Credo groans.
“As we apprise,”
“As we apprise,”
Nero’s back arches, as much as it can against these restraints. It hurts, it really does. He can hear his own pulse in his ears.
“To claim our fate,”
“To claim our fate,”
Oh,
“Now and forever,”
“Now and forever,”
Kyrie shifts beneath his head, rubbing her thighs together, and he can smell something more than just home between her legs,
“We'll be together,”
“We’ll be together,”
Credo lifts his hips and Nero screams again but it’s not from the burn anymore,
“In love and in hate.”
“In love and in hate.”
This is an honor.