RPF: Quiet Sin (Michael/James)
Title: Quiet Sin
Author: restlesspuppy
Pairing: Mcfassy
Rating: R
Warnings: Dub-con, implied non-con, slash and smut.
Summary: The AU in which James is a prince and Michael is a soldier.
A/N: Look, I don't know. This is what happens after hours of studying ancient Rome.
-
The minutes before the sun rises are always the longest - it seems they like to take their time, to spread their tendrils wide before they rise above the horizon to comb through the hills and trees, fill the darkness with light, to flood through open windows and doors and kiss drowsy eyelids awake.
But one soul remains restless. On the move since long past midnight and with little incentive to rest any time soon. His movements are all lithe and graceful, a deadly elegance and grace. Lethal and quiet like the night, the daylight wants to turn away form him; it’s not his time nor his place, but he’s tempted; where’s the talking snake? It almost seems fitting.
He lands silently upon the marble balcony, his thin form nothing but a dark shape against the stark white of the palace, as if it’s trying to reject him; to turn him away just like the daylight - you don’t belong here it all seems to whisper, but Michael hasn’t ever been one to listen to rhyme or reason. The curtains drift in the midsummer breeze, wafting in the gentle air, reaching out to him, enticing him in with lingering strokes. He lifts a scarred hand to move them from his path, he peeks past, and there’s a sleeping form in the sheets of the too-large bed. The pale metal headboard and footer gleam in the blue sunlight, and the white sheets settle crumpled over the alabaster form.
For a time; he can only look. It’s beauty. Plain and simple, the sight before him is sent from heaven itself. A slumbering angel, dark locks framing creamy skin, rosy cheeks and bright lips. The sheets crumple at his waist, and his chest lifts and falls with each breath. He’s entirely at peace, at his most vulnerable. Michael runs his tongue along his bottom lip, and he steps through the doors, his boots are heavy against the floorboards, and he approaches the bed, measuring each step, until that face is turned to him. He longs to wake him, to see those glimmering eyes focussing on him - but he doesn’t. He reaches out, hand hovering but inches from the round of the prince’s shoulders, but he doesn’t touch. He’s afraid. As if his touch alone will shatter him, destroy his chastity, his etherial demeanor.
Impatience gets the better of him. He clambers upon the mattress, draws the dagger from his hip - it glints in the pale sunlight - and he settles the flat edge against the throat bared before him. His other hand reaches up to curl around one of those rosy cheeks, and he whispers a soft;
“James.”
Those eyes flutter, and then peek open - and Michael sees the moment the knife registers. Those eyes snap wide, frightened and blue, unblinking up at him.
“Good morning.” He murmurs, “Don’t you panic, now.” His voice is nothing but a low rumble, and he feels James exhale, Michael leans down and brushes his lips over James’ own, plump and red. A prince with the lips of a whore. Yes. Michael has always thought so.
The knife draws away, and he stands from the bed. He feels James sit upright, feels those ever curious eyes upon his back as he rounds to the dresser, a tall mirror stands there, gifts Michael with his own reflection.
“Does my father know that you’re here?” James asks, his voice soft and quiet, everything Michael’s isn’t.
“No.” He answers, looking from the mirror to James, at last. “Come here.” He says. He watches James hesitate, his steel eyes daring him to refuse Michael’s demand, but he moves. He’s bare under the sheets, and the sunlight kisses him just right - his pale skin like alabaster in the calm glow. He comes to a stop a foot from Michael, and he slips the dagger back into his belt.
“Come.” He urges again, dirty fingers hooking around James’ thin waist, pulling the boy into him. He stumbles a step, before he allows himself to be pulled flush into the older man, Michael’s armor digs into his skin.
For a moment they remain still. Michael’s hands roam over the expanse of skin before him, greedily mapping out every curve and bone. Lingering over his chest and over his waist, he reaches down with both to splay his fingers over James’ backside, and he squeezes the fleshy mounds, and James’ breath catches. Loud enough for him to hear.
“Look.” Michael murmurs, and when James looks up, he nods at the mirror, and as James’ eyes meet his through their reflections, he gifts him with another squeeze.
“Look at you.” Michael appraises, “You don’t realize it, do you?” James’ hands come up to grip his forearms, nails digging into his chainmail, “You don’t see why this has been torturing me. You need to.” He swallows, thick and heavy, “You need to understand me.”
One of his hands releases James, and skates up along the ridges of his spine, crowns each vertebrae, reaches the base of his neck and traces the line of his jaw, before pressing at his lips. James understands, and parts his lips, takes the offered fingers within his mouth, and laves his tongue along the rough pads of Michael’s fingers, his gaze leaves the mirror, and settles on Michael.
“No, no.” His other hand gives another squeeze. “Don’t look at me.” James looks back at his reflection, and Michael withdraws his fingers. Tugs James firmer against him, and his hands go from Michael’s forearms to his chest, and Michael spreads his cheeks, both hands gripping him again. Those fingers sweep once over his dusky entrance, before pressing into him. One to begin with, and his eyes flutter.
“No.” Michael says again, “Look at yourself.” he presses his finger further inside that blistering and wonderful heat, and whispers, “See what I see.” before adding his second alongside it, pushing gently inside and out, he curls them, he scissors them, and he hears James’ strangled gasp, of pain or pleasure - he’s uncertain. He presses deeper yet, and James goes rigid, bucks back against him, the side of his face pressed to Michael’s chest, still watching himself obediently. Michael knows he’s hit that sweet spot, James’ breaths come out uneven, and a moan rides out along with another, a whimper, and he’s biting down on his lower lip, trying and failing to stifle his desperate sounds, his eyes close, and Michael’s other hand releases his backside to find his throat, his hand clamps down around that pale skin once again, and James’ eyes open once more.
“Watch yourself, James.” His hand slides away, down James’ chest, and he ignores the boy’s cock - he can feel it pressing into his thigh, inches away from his own. But this is not about him, no, it’s about this heavenly, godly, being in his arms. “Just watch.” He winds his arm around the curve of James’ back, his fingers still moving, becoming considerably more and more brutal, pressing in faster, harder. That greedy warmth is almost pulling him in deeper, urging him on.
“...want you to see why this is haunting me. You need to.” He keeps saying, “You need to understand.” James’ eyes don’t leave his reflection - his panting, flushed and quivering reflection. Cheeks bright, lips bitten red and raw, hair mussed, limbs shaking, and hips grinding uselessly into Michael’s linen-clad thigh.
“Beautiful.” Michael whispers to him, eyes fixed on James’ trembling form, his hands don’t remain on Michael’s chest long, they move, gripping uselessly at the fabric, sliding over his armor uselessly, he squirms desperately in Michael’s arms.
“Perfect.” he breathes, and James moans then, releases a positively pitiful sound from those wondrous lips, and catches himself as his eyes try once again to close - the corners feel wet to him, as if he’s fighting away tears. His lips fall apart in a gentle ‘o’ and he watches his reflection as he comes, streaks of pure white, they spurt and paint Michael’s armor, and James’ stomach. He’s gasping and clinging desperately onto the older man, and those fingers keep pumping in and out of him, stabbing at his abused prostate until there’s not a drop left in him, Michael watches silently - eyes taking in James’ every move like a man starved, his expression burned eternal into his mind, and he doesn’t withdraw his fingers. Not yet. He reaches up with his other hand, turns James’ face at last, and ducks in to catch those rosy lips in a gentle kiss. A gentle brush of lips.
“I’m sorry.” He whispers into the boy, fairly certain he’s committed some sort of atrocity. He’s to whittle a lifetime in hell just for this alone, but it’s worth every moment. He only withdraws then, James’ body limp against him. Michael half-leads, half-carries him to the stark bed, lays him chest-down upon the sheets, and spreads those milky legs wide. He kneels down on the floorboards, they’re hard against his knees, and James is still quivering, still recovering from his release.
Michael’s fingers brush over the fleshy mounds of his backside again, stroking tenderly over his skin, before he leans down, presses a gentle kiss to that pale pucker, and feels James jerk in response, his breath catching in astonishment at Michael’s act. He swipes his tongue once over the little ring, and it clenches in response. He doesn’t stop for a moment, the flat of his tongue laves again and again over that little rose of a muscle, as if he’s trying to kiss away his intrusion, his silent apologies to the deity he’s doubtlessly angered. He stops, though, when he feels James beginning to squirm again, when he feels him growing desperate for more again, and Michael’s cock gives a useless throb of need. Longing just for a moment within that blissful heat. Longing to feel that clenching warmth hugging him greedily, but he denies himself.
He takes from the prince most nights - kisses every inch of his pale skin, but not once has he pressed more than his fingers into this little muscle. He wont take that away. He’s done enough, committed enough wrongs, and saves it all for his dreams. In the barracks, where he fucks into his hand and thinks of his beautiful prince, riding him until they’re both spent. He stands then, covers James’ shaking body with his own still-clothed one. The sun has risen - the palace will be awake soon. James’ servants will come to wash and wake him, and Michael needs to leave. He catches James’ lips in a gentle kiss, rocks his hips just once into the boy’s backside before he moves away, stands again.
James moves, this time. Rolls over and perches upon the edge of the mattress as Michael begins to take his leave.
“Wait.”
Michael freezes - James rarely speaks to him. Rarely says anything at all lest he uncover more of this fractured wrong that Michael has forced upon him.
“Don’t leave...” He says, his blue eyes pierce Michael, and his lips quiver around the words.
“I must.” Michael offers him a thin-lipped smile. If he’s caught here, with the Prince - the King would surely have him hanged.
“Then return to me.” James says, staggering blindly to his feet, Michael reaches out to steady him, his thumbs stroking gently over that pale canvas - waiting for his inky gifts. He says nothing. His pale eyes search James’ face, search him for answers.
“If you wish for me to return, then I shall.”
“I do.” James responds, earnestly. I want to understand you. His eyes seem to say.
Michael combs his fingers through those dark and wild curls, finds James’ hand, and brushes his lips over the boy’s knuckles.
You will never understand me. Michael wants to say.
He takes another long look at the prince, and turns his back upon him. Steps through the wafting curtains that cling to him, that catch against his armour, and he doesn’t look back as he clambers over the edge of the balcony and scrabbles with the vines on his descent back to the city.
Back to mortality.
James’ taste lingers upon his lips, upon his tongue, and he returns to his day. Trains with the others, and speaks with the king as a soldier, keeping the prince’s essence on his tongue. His own secret.
His own quiet sin.
Author: restlesspuppy
Pairing: Mcfassy
Rating: R
Warnings: Dub-con, implied non-con, slash and smut.
Summary: The AU in which James is a prince and Michael is a soldier.
A/N: Look, I don't know. This is what happens after hours of studying ancient Rome.
-
The minutes before the sun rises are always the longest - it seems they like to take their time, to spread their tendrils wide before they rise above the horizon to comb through the hills and trees, fill the darkness with light, to flood through open windows and doors and kiss drowsy eyelids awake.
But one soul remains restless. On the move since long past midnight and with little incentive to rest any time soon. His movements are all lithe and graceful, a deadly elegance and grace. Lethal and quiet like the night, the daylight wants to turn away form him; it’s not his time nor his place, but he’s tempted; where’s the talking snake? It almost seems fitting.
He lands silently upon the marble balcony, his thin form nothing but a dark shape against the stark white of the palace, as if it’s trying to reject him; to turn him away just like the daylight - you don’t belong here it all seems to whisper, but Michael hasn’t ever been one to listen to rhyme or reason. The curtains drift in the midsummer breeze, wafting in the gentle air, reaching out to him, enticing him in with lingering strokes. He lifts a scarred hand to move them from his path, he peeks past, and there’s a sleeping form in the sheets of the too-large bed. The pale metal headboard and footer gleam in the blue sunlight, and the white sheets settle crumpled over the alabaster form.
For a time; he can only look. It’s beauty. Plain and simple, the sight before him is sent from heaven itself. A slumbering angel, dark locks framing creamy skin, rosy cheeks and bright lips. The sheets crumple at his waist, and his chest lifts and falls with each breath. He’s entirely at peace, at his most vulnerable. Michael runs his tongue along his bottom lip, and he steps through the doors, his boots are heavy against the floorboards, and he approaches the bed, measuring each step, until that face is turned to him. He longs to wake him, to see those glimmering eyes focussing on him - but he doesn’t. He reaches out, hand hovering but inches from the round of the prince’s shoulders, but he doesn’t touch. He’s afraid. As if his touch alone will shatter him, destroy his chastity, his etherial demeanor.
Impatience gets the better of him. He clambers upon the mattress, draws the dagger from his hip - it glints in the pale sunlight - and he settles the flat edge against the throat bared before him. His other hand reaches up to curl around one of those rosy cheeks, and he whispers a soft;
“James.”
Those eyes flutter, and then peek open - and Michael sees the moment the knife registers. Those eyes snap wide, frightened and blue, unblinking up at him.
“Good morning.” He murmurs, “Don’t you panic, now.” His voice is nothing but a low rumble, and he feels James exhale, Michael leans down and brushes his lips over James’ own, plump and red. A prince with the lips of a whore. Yes. Michael has always thought so.
The knife draws away, and he stands from the bed. He feels James sit upright, feels those ever curious eyes upon his back as he rounds to the dresser, a tall mirror stands there, gifts Michael with his own reflection.
“Does my father know that you’re here?” James asks, his voice soft and quiet, everything Michael’s isn’t.
“No.” He answers, looking from the mirror to James, at last. “Come here.” He says. He watches James hesitate, his steel eyes daring him to refuse Michael’s demand, but he moves. He’s bare under the sheets, and the sunlight kisses him just right - his pale skin like alabaster in the calm glow. He comes to a stop a foot from Michael, and he slips the dagger back into his belt.
“Come.” He urges again, dirty fingers hooking around James’ thin waist, pulling the boy into him. He stumbles a step, before he allows himself to be pulled flush into the older man, Michael’s armor digs into his skin.
For a moment they remain still. Michael’s hands roam over the expanse of skin before him, greedily mapping out every curve and bone. Lingering over his chest and over his waist, he reaches down with both to splay his fingers over James’ backside, and he squeezes the fleshy mounds, and James’ breath catches. Loud enough for him to hear.
“Look.” Michael murmurs, and when James looks up, he nods at the mirror, and as James’ eyes meet his through their reflections, he gifts him with another squeeze.
“Look at you.” Michael appraises, “You don’t realize it, do you?” James’ hands come up to grip his forearms, nails digging into his chainmail, “You don’t see why this has been torturing me. You need to.” He swallows, thick and heavy, “You need to understand me.”
One of his hands releases James, and skates up along the ridges of his spine, crowns each vertebrae, reaches the base of his neck and traces the line of his jaw, before pressing at his lips. James understands, and parts his lips, takes the offered fingers within his mouth, and laves his tongue along the rough pads of Michael’s fingers, his gaze leaves the mirror, and settles on Michael.
“No, no.” His other hand gives another squeeze. “Don’t look at me.” James looks back at his reflection, and Michael withdraws his fingers. Tugs James firmer against him, and his hands go from Michael’s forearms to his chest, and Michael spreads his cheeks, both hands gripping him again. Those fingers sweep once over his dusky entrance, before pressing into him. One to begin with, and his eyes flutter.
“No.” Michael says again, “Look at yourself.” he presses his finger further inside that blistering and wonderful heat, and whispers, “See what I see.” before adding his second alongside it, pushing gently inside and out, he curls them, he scissors them, and he hears James’ strangled gasp, of pain or pleasure - he’s uncertain. He presses deeper yet, and James goes rigid, bucks back against him, the side of his face pressed to Michael’s chest, still watching himself obediently. Michael knows he’s hit that sweet spot, James’ breaths come out uneven, and a moan rides out along with another, a whimper, and he’s biting down on his lower lip, trying and failing to stifle his desperate sounds, his eyes close, and Michael’s other hand releases his backside to find his throat, his hand clamps down around that pale skin once again, and James’ eyes open once more.
“Watch yourself, James.” His hand slides away, down James’ chest, and he ignores the boy’s cock - he can feel it pressing into his thigh, inches away from his own. But this is not about him, no, it’s about this heavenly, godly, being in his arms. “Just watch.” He winds his arm around the curve of James’ back, his fingers still moving, becoming considerably more and more brutal, pressing in faster, harder. That greedy warmth is almost pulling him in deeper, urging him on.
“...want you to see why this is haunting me. You need to.” He keeps saying, “You need to understand.” James’ eyes don’t leave his reflection - his panting, flushed and quivering reflection. Cheeks bright, lips bitten red and raw, hair mussed, limbs shaking, and hips grinding uselessly into Michael’s linen-clad thigh.
“Beautiful.” Michael whispers to him, eyes fixed on James’ trembling form, his hands don’t remain on Michael’s chest long, they move, gripping uselessly at the fabric, sliding over his armor uselessly, he squirms desperately in Michael’s arms.
“Perfect.” he breathes, and James moans then, releases a positively pitiful sound from those wondrous lips, and catches himself as his eyes try once again to close - the corners feel wet to him, as if he’s fighting away tears. His lips fall apart in a gentle ‘o’ and he watches his reflection as he comes, streaks of pure white, they spurt and paint Michael’s armor, and James’ stomach. He’s gasping and clinging desperately onto the older man, and those fingers keep pumping in and out of him, stabbing at his abused prostate until there’s not a drop left in him, Michael watches silently - eyes taking in James’ every move like a man starved, his expression burned eternal into his mind, and he doesn’t withdraw his fingers. Not yet. He reaches up with his other hand, turns James’ face at last, and ducks in to catch those rosy lips in a gentle kiss. A gentle brush of lips.
“I’m sorry.” He whispers into the boy, fairly certain he’s committed some sort of atrocity. He’s to whittle a lifetime in hell just for this alone, but it’s worth every moment. He only withdraws then, James’ body limp against him. Michael half-leads, half-carries him to the stark bed, lays him chest-down upon the sheets, and spreads those milky legs wide. He kneels down on the floorboards, they’re hard against his knees, and James is still quivering, still recovering from his release.
Michael’s fingers brush over the fleshy mounds of his backside again, stroking tenderly over his skin, before he leans down, presses a gentle kiss to that pale pucker, and feels James jerk in response, his breath catching in astonishment at Michael’s act. He swipes his tongue once over the little ring, and it clenches in response. He doesn’t stop for a moment, the flat of his tongue laves again and again over that little rose of a muscle, as if he’s trying to kiss away his intrusion, his silent apologies to the deity he’s doubtlessly angered. He stops, though, when he feels James beginning to squirm again, when he feels him growing desperate for more again, and Michael’s cock gives a useless throb of need. Longing just for a moment within that blissful heat. Longing to feel that clenching warmth hugging him greedily, but he denies himself.
He takes from the prince most nights - kisses every inch of his pale skin, but not once has he pressed more than his fingers into this little muscle. He wont take that away. He’s done enough, committed enough wrongs, and saves it all for his dreams. In the barracks, where he fucks into his hand and thinks of his beautiful prince, riding him until they’re both spent. He stands then, covers James’ shaking body with his own still-clothed one. The sun has risen - the palace will be awake soon. James’ servants will come to wash and wake him, and Michael needs to leave. He catches James’ lips in a gentle kiss, rocks his hips just once into the boy’s backside before he moves away, stands again.
James moves, this time. Rolls over and perches upon the edge of the mattress as Michael begins to take his leave.
“Wait.”
Michael freezes - James rarely speaks to him. Rarely says anything at all lest he uncover more of this fractured wrong that Michael has forced upon him.
“Don’t leave...” He says, his blue eyes pierce Michael, and his lips quiver around the words.
“I must.” Michael offers him a thin-lipped smile. If he’s caught here, with the Prince - the King would surely have him hanged.
“Then return to me.” James says, staggering blindly to his feet, Michael reaches out to steady him, his thumbs stroking gently over that pale canvas - waiting for his inky gifts. He says nothing. His pale eyes search James’ face, search him for answers.
“If you wish for me to return, then I shall.”
“I do.” James responds, earnestly. I want to understand you. His eyes seem to say.
Michael combs his fingers through those dark and wild curls, finds James’ hand, and brushes his lips over the boy’s knuckles.
You will never understand me. Michael wants to say.
He takes another long look at the prince, and turns his back upon him. Steps through the wafting curtains that cling to him, that catch against his armour, and he doesn’t look back as he clambers over the edge of the balcony and scrabbles with the vines on his descent back to the city.
Back to mortality.
James’ taste lingers upon his lips, upon his tongue, and he returns to his day. Trains with the others, and speaks with the king as a soldier, keeping the prince’s essence on his tongue. His own secret.
His own quiet sin.