The sun warms the living room, drawing lines in soft light through the blinds. Marius looks up at Nate to see it light a gentle halo around him. His breath is caught by the sight.
They’ve been together for a few weeks now, and still Marius can’t shake the quiet thrum of anxiety that beats in his chest when he thinks about it. Surely something this precious could never belong to him. He is scared, more than he ever has been, to have it ruined by his own hand.
But something else in Marius, something deep and poisonous, stirs in the pit of his stomach when he looks at Nate. He’s familiar with desire, but this is unlike anything he’s felt before - it burns in him, something devilish and wicked.
As subtly as he can he continues to watch Nate, following the trail of his fingers along a page’s edge, the gentle turn of his wrist as he flips to the next. This is where he gets caught, between worship and ruin. He’s never sure which impulse to act on; to scrape skin with teeth, to draw blood beneath his nails, or to kneel in reverence and beg for forgiveness.
This feeling, these temptations, so demanding in their presence, cause Marius’ trepidation. They stir within him, warring against his shame, his inborn guilt. He feels dirty, like this awfulness has rooted itself in him and he’s powerless to stop it, condemned to let it engulf him entirely. For someone so resolute this feeling overcomes him, contaminating every thought - from piety to corruption in an instant. Nate’s harmonious laugh, hand in loving hand, words sweet as honey; all precipitously twisted into a flash of fingers digging into skin, the phantom feel of breath against his neck, his name falling from Nate’s lips like prayer. Is this madness?
He looks again to Nate, sitting so serene and radiant in the evening sun, and Marius’ resolve shatters. This is worth perdition, he thinks, let me damned. Even as the fingers of shame make to pull him back to his senses, he is vanquished by the need to tear Nate to pieces, watch him come undone at the touch of his godforsaken hands, his desire in equal measure holy and wicked.
Carefully, Marius moves across the room to stand before Nate, somehow managing restraint as he gently runs his fingers through Nate's hair, denying the urge to give a sharp tug, to demand Nate’s attention.
“Oh,” Nate looks up. “Hello,” he smiles, his gaze following Marius as he settles himself into Nate’s lap, knees on either side, pinning Nate beneath him. Finally, Marius thinks. Nate lifts one hand to tenderly trace the curve of Marius’ cheek, the other resting so soft on the dip of his waist. Nervousness returns, briefly, as Marius hesitates to taint such innocent affection. But with Nate beneath him like this Marius is weak, and he surrenders easily. Forgive me, Father, he prays, for I am going to sin.
Marius brings his hand up to Nate’s throat and runs the tips of his fingers down the length of it, watching the adam’s apple bob as Nate swallows. He wonders for a moment how loud his heartbeat must sound to Nate, the heavy thumping of it nearly choking him, and has half a mind to apologize for it.
His fingers trail further, following the line of his collarbone. His eyes glance to Nate, who stares up at Marius with such pure tenderness it knocks Marius back on his heels. Nate takes Marius’ wrist in a delicate grip and brings it to his lips, graciously placing a kiss on his palm. His heart stutters for a moment and he feels it again, that sickening ache to feast on, to devour the sins of the flesh. To at last, at last, bear the ugly truth of his unholy desires and seek in Nate repentance.
He grips Nate’s chin and tilts his head, giving himself full access to Nate’s throat. “Take this, all of you, and eat from it. This is my body, which has be given up for you.” Marius can almost hear the echoed scripture. It festers in the pit of his stomach and he can’t help himself from digging in.
He starts with teeth, how could he not? He’d tear flesh from bone if he could, cut straight to the heart and hold it up to the light. He bites the soft skin of Nate’s throat, warmed sweetly by the sun, and listens to Nate’s gasped breaths like gospel. Filled with blind desperation to draw more sounds from him, Marius moves his fingers to tangle into Nate’s thick hair, nails scraping against the scalp as his teeth leave marks where neck meets shoulder.
A strangled noise escapes Nate and Marius’ starvation claws at him deeper. Nate’s fingers dig into the skin of Marius’ hips, pulling him closer. “I am going to eat you alive,” Marius promises, lips grazing upward, a sharp tug on Nate’s hair. Nate shudders under him.
He draws back to admire Nate’s tarnished skin and watches as the marks begin to fade. A sort of frustration knots in him at the realization he can never truly stain him, never leave his mark. Nate below him is breathless, hair spilled over his forehead.
“Take this, all of you, and drink from it. This is my blood, which has been given up for you.” The echo rings, and he is thirsty for it.
He pulls Nate by the chin and draws his lips to his own, hunger growing ever still, Never enough, he thinks. He licks and tastes and bites at Nate’s mouth like he’s trying to turn him inside out. Nate, the sacred thing he is, can do nothing but allow himself to be devoured.
Marius pulls back just enough to watch Nate’s expression as he slowly, deliberately, rolls his hips into Nate’s. A sinister sense of control boils deep within him as he watches Nate’s eyes roll back, blinking shut as a choked breath escapes him. Eyes never leaving Nate, Marius creeps his hand downward, teasing Nate in a way he knows is torturous. He can’t help it, not while he’s hypnotized by Nate's heavy breaths washing over him, or by the way Nate’s eyes can’t seem to focus, or - especially - by the way Nate’s fingers dig harshly and painfully into the skin of his hips. A deeply sick part of him relishes in knowing he’ll have rich, plum coloured bruises to remember this by.
His hand reaches Nate’s jeans and he’s shocked for a moment at how hard Nate is, practically throbbing against his palm even through the thick fabric. But he’s not done yet, he’s finally taken control and he’d be a fool to give it up so easily. Instead, he glances up through his eyelashes to watch Nate as he hooks a finger into the hem, dragging it slowly along the width of it. Their lips still a breath apart, Marius swallows the stuttered sigh that escapes Nate.
“Please,” Nate breathes, and Marius nearly blacks out. Not once has he heard Nate so breathless, so desperate and wanting. But Marius wants more, he wants to make Nate cry and beg and whine. He has never felt so ravenous in his entire life.
With some sense of mercy Marius unbuttons Nate’s jeans. He slips his hand under the fabric and grabs the hard length there, palming gently through his boxers. Nate’s head lulls, eyes squeezed shut, savoring the slow pleasure of Marius’ hand. Marius pauses, grasps Nate’s throat just below the chin, and tilts his head back up. “Eyes on me,” it’s little more than a whisper but even he is shocked by the demand in his voice. Nate swallows and looks up at Marius in trembling awe. Oh, Marius thinks, oh this is what I’ve been missing.
His hand resumes its ministrations for just a moment before he lifts his hips to finally free Nate from the strained fabric. He grips Nate in his hand, earning him a rumbled moan as he moves in slow, languid strokes, and hums in satisfaction as Nate’s hips jut up to chase the movement. He rubs his palm over the tip before slowly easing back down the length and Nate’s hands are back on his hips, shaking with restraint. Something about it, Nate’s tenderness in contrast to Marius’ torment, warms Marius’ heart and he leans down to kiss Nate, full and tender. Nate moans into it, a hand coming up to cup Marius’ cheek, as careful and patient as ever.
“You are so beautiful, Nate,” Marius breathes against Nate’s lips, and a low whine spills out of them. Marius is awestruck. This is my doing, he thinks, my hands, my mouth, my words, and suddenly he understands the act of divine creation. He follows Nate’s mouth as he writhes under him, watching him in wonder, breathing in every precious sound Nate offers. This is my doing, he repeats to himself, and a prayer forms on his lips. Our Father, who art in heaven, the words whisper in his mind.
“Hallowed be thy name,” He whispers into Nate’s mouth as he runs his thumb across the tip, and Nate, even through the fog of pleasure, is quick to answer; “Marius," whispered in faith like Marius has never heard. Still untouched, Marius nearly comes undone at this. He rocks his hips, a selfish act, but Nate seems to come back to himself enough to notice that Marius is still fully clothed. Nate’s hands make quick work of unbuttoning Marius’ shirt, fingers delicate yet fumbling. He’s barely pushed it from Marius’ shoulders before Nate’s mouth is on him, clutching him in his arms, hand at the base of his neck, the other pressed firmly on the flat plane of his back. Oh, he thinks, so this is devotion, and nearly melts away. Nate removes Marius’ hand, his face still pressed into Marius’ neck, to fervently tug and pull at Marius’ trousers until finally, he too feels the warm evening sun on his skin.
Marius knows Nate well enough to tell that, despite being near possessed by lust, he still hesitates to take more. But Marius is greedy and raises himself onto his knees, Nate’s hands moving again to grasp his hips, face pressed into Marius’ ribs, breathing heavy against his skin. “Oh, Marius,” Nate breathes. Nate looks up at him again, and the expression on his face is nothing short of worship.
Marius can’t seem to form words, can’t seem to think of anything but the heavenly sight before him. He takes Nate in his hand, sinking himself down slowly until he’s reached the hilt. Nate clutches Marius again, a strangled cry muffled into his neck. A stuttered breath leaves Marius. Rapture, he thinks, salvation.
They move together in sweet rhythm; shared breath, skin to skin, and still not close enough. “Marius,” Nate keeps breathing, a hymn, and never has Marius been more certain that there is sanctity on earth.
They crest the hill together, mouth to mouth, swallowing each other's pleasure, hands gripping and tugging, yet gentle and soothing. They collapse into one another, holding each other up, their chests heaving. Nate seems to come back to himself first, and runs his fingers so tenderly through Marius’ hair, lips leaving the whisper of a kiss on his throat.
And here, with their bodies pressed together like praying hands Marius realizes these desires were never wretched, never sinful. If this was sin, what could be virtue? Marius had never felt anything holier than this.
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Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading! I haven't written or posted fanfiction in 10 years, so please tell me what you think :)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles - Mishka Jenkins
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Male Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Characters: Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell, Original Male Character(s), Marius Eliot
Additional Tags: Marius is trans, and treacherously in love with Nate, I don't care about canon Marius was raised Catholic, hence the... everything in this fic, Fluff and Smut, Shameless Smut, Religious Guilt, Marius is horny but trapped in Catholic guilt, Hand Jobs, Foreplay, Gentle Sex, Tender Sex
Summary:
They’ve been together for a few weeks now, and still Marius can’t shake the quiet thrum of anxiety that beats in his chest when he thinks about it. Surely something this precious could never belong to him. He is scared, more than he ever has been, to have it ruined by his own hand.
But something else in Marius, something deep and poisonous, stirs in the pit of his stomach when he looks at Nate. He’s familiar with desire, but this is unlike anything he’s felt before - it burns in him, something devilish and wicked.
Late Spring and a slow dance. They’re learning each other in increments.
Dusk is just starting to hit its leisurely stride when Nate, bouquet-handed and lightly cologned, climbs up the staircase of the Ontario Village Apartment Complex with a flutter of anticipation beneath his ribs that makes him feel remarkably human. Or rather like he’s chasing the dregs of humanity.
He threads his free hand through what wavy strands the customary leather strip didn’t catch at the nape of his neck as he goes. His fingers used to gravitate to a necktie and before that a cravat, but modern simplicities in fashion have stalled this habit. When was the last time someone he courted had stoked such a nervous reaction in him? (Years long past. Maybe even decades. He doesn’t disregard the time like Ava, but he is finding it harder to quantify as it tolls by.) And when, he notes with some amount of self-deprecation, did he start using the long length of his legs to skip steps in excitement? Nathaniel Sewell is not someone who normally abandons propriety and skips up stairs.
