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Alex wasn’t much of a believer. He'd never connected with religion, more than a mild fascination for its impact on history, despite his father's best attempts to convert him. It had started with the books.
The children's Bible. Every night before bed, he got one story. By the age of 10, he could recite the whole book by heart, and so he graduated to the real Bible. His father had been so proud, but for Alex, it had all been just a way to bond. And it had worked—initially, they had gotten closer over Sunday mass and verses over the dinner table. But like all good things, that, too, had an expiration date.
It had been his birthday. He was turning 13. And he could still remember the fight. The words flung like daggers between them in the kitchen while his relatives sat in the dining room pretending not to hear. It had escalated from a simple disagreement over whether or not he could finally go to normal school like the other kids. He had been sick of private lessons and pissy tutors. He could perfectly recall the taste of his tears as he had cried, "If mom was here, she'd have let me," and he could also feel the way his heart stopped when his father had screamed back, "It's your fault she isn't here," before slapping a hand over his mouth, eyes wide in horror. The air had stilled, and Alex had run out of the room. His bedroom door slamming shut had been a shattering of the tentative bond between them—and the bond between Alex and God, never to be rebuilt again.
His father had tried in the years to come. He'd let Alex join school. He'd encouraged his friendships with Josh and Raj, and best of all, he'd stayed out of his way. But Alex had never felt the serenity that was promised to him in the scripture. He'd stayed quiet during prayer; he'd never sung along to hymns, and his father had never punished him for it.
So when he met Nigel Colbie—a creature of gospel, somebody who kept a rosary in his pocket and a cross necklace under his uniform—he had been so incredibly confused that the only way he thought of to react was claws out. He'd spat curses; he'd thrown punches; he'd screamed; he'd yelled at that angelic face; and when that hadn't been enough, he'd dragged him to the train, dangling the drug-delirious boy by the throat out the car. Nothing had felt like enough until the moment he saw him lean back after letting Josh fall off the train, blood trailing from his nose, eyes remorseless.
The second that their gazes locked, Alex experienced what he'd only heard altar boys whisper about after they've taken their vows: a peace that he'd never felt before.
It had been terrifying. And it had also been the reason why, all those weeks later, he'd followed Nigel to that little room under his house of his own volition; why he'd sat and not protested when Nigel had laid out his insane prophecy. And there, under the floorboards of a house he'd never entered, he felt it again when Nigel called him Jack for the first time.
He'd run again. He'd given in just enough but then had called everything crazy, like slamming a wall between him and his feelings. He'd thought he had it balanced, that he wouldn't cut himself on the razor edge on which he was toeing.
He was wrong, of course. The signs were there. The conversation:
"Do you think she's a virgin?"
Nigel had been almost giggling with the words.
Alex could still feel the dull blade he'd pressed to his throat moments ago. "Will you fuck off?"
"Oh, Jack," Nigel sighed, almost lovesick.
"Thou lovest the wench." Alex bristled. Before he could respond, a book was being shoved at him.
"I've got something for you." He took it without much thought. "Read it." And Nigel brushed past him as he left.
He'd read Nigel’s book—no, his Bible—and with each page, he'd adopted a new canon, one that followed both of their lineages.
He was a knight—or at least that was what had been written. And Nigel thought he was his spear, his servant, and that he needed to find Alex's Maraclea.
Nigel was some fucked-up individual, yet...
He was starting to believe it. It all made startling sense, like he was waking up.
The moment it had all come crashing down on him was in the courtyard. The memory of that knife covered in what he now knew to be Susan's blood. The question that fucking detective had thrown at him. He was furious. He didn’t even feel the punch connect; all he saw was the slow drip of blood on Nigel’s split lip as he whispered those damning words:
"I'm sorry, Jack, but you're the one who got inside my head."
The way Nigel said Jack, like it was the first and last word of a new religion, took his breath away.
A hysterical laugh bubbled in his chest, choked and raw. He’d spent his whole life rejecting one gospel only to fall to his knees before another, written in a language only the two of them could speak.
He was so fucked.
The words echoed in the hollowed-out chamber of his skull, a death knell for the person he’d been just hours before.
"Well, get out of mine," he hissed.
"It's too late for that." Nigel sounded almost mournful.
"It's too late for a lot of things. I mean, before we met, we were incapable of reaching our true potentials, but... but now..." He looked up, piercing blue meeting deep gold.
"I know you feel it." Alex couldn't look away.
"It's so invigorating." Nigel looked high off of it and Alex wanted..... so much.
He stormed away before he could let himself indulge more in this carnal sin.
.... in his head....
That’s where it had always been, hadn’t it? Not in a church, not in a book, but in the space between two thoughts, in the silent, screaming void he’d taken years trying to fill with noise and rebellion.
There were so many obstacles inside his mind. The wall after his and his father's falling out, bricked with guilt of unforgivable words. The wall against his father’s faith, against the God who allowed such emptiness. He’d built a fortress of sarcasm, of casual cruelty, of carefully cultivated normalcy with Josh and Raj.
And Nigel Colbie hadn’t even knocked. He’d just appeared inside the gates, as if he’d always belonged there, a sacred monster in the garden of Alex’s ruin. He’d looked at the walls Alex had spent a lifetime constructing and had seen not a fortress, but a throne room. And he had simply taken his seat.
And Alex... Alex had let him.
The walls were gone. The fortress was dust. And Alex Forbes, for the first time since he was thirteen years old, was not afraid.
He was converted.
He wouldn't run anymore.
________
That night, after his blood had cooled and the realization settled, Nigel came to visit him again.
"It isn't her," Alex said as soon as Nigel shut the door behind himself.
"What are you talking about?" that honeyed voice drifted towards him as he lay in bed.
"I never loved her; it wouldn't work." He knew where Nigel had wanted to take him that night. The morgue to go defile Susan.
"I don't believe that," the voice kept getting closer, then that familiar face loomed over him. "The way you looked at her was far too telling."
"I've only loved once in my life and it isn't her," he held firm.
The silence that followed was thicker than the darkness in the room. Nigel didn't move, didn't breathe. He was a statue hewn from moonlight and shadow, his face an unreadable mask. Alex could feel the weight of that gaze, colder and more penetrating than any he had ever known. He had just handed Nigel a loaded gun and pressed the barrel to his own temple.
"I've only loved once in my life," Alex repeated, the words softer now, but no less certain. "And it isn't her."
Slowly, as if moving through water, Nigel sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, pulling Alex toward him by an invisible, gravitational force. The scent of cold night air and something metallic—blood or ozone—clung to his clothes.
"Who, then?" Nigel's voice was a low hum, stripped of its usual mocking lilt. It was a genuine question. A demand for a confession.
Alex's heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, but his mind was preternaturally calm. The peace he'd found on the train was back, a still, deep lake where there had only been a churning storm. He was done lying. To Nigel. To himself.
He pushed himself up on his elbows, meeting that glacial stare head-on. The words were there, poised on his tongue, the most honest thing he would ever say.
"You know who."
It wasn't an answer. It was the answer.
Nigel’s eyes widened a fraction, a crack in the ice. For a breathtaking second, Alex saw it—not the prophet, not the monster, but the boy. The one who believed in a prophecy so utterly that he’d built his entire existence around it, who had been waiting for a sign he probably never truly believed would come.
And Alex was that sign.
"You're lying," Nigel whispered, but it was a weak protest, a last, desperate hold on a world that was already crumbling around them.
"Am I?" Alex challenged, his voice steady. "You got inside my head, Nigel. You saw the architecture. You know there's no room for anyone else in there. It's a single-occupancy space. And you moved in months ago. Despite every obstacle I slammed in your way. I give up."
He reached out, his fingers brushing against the cool silver of the cross resting against Nigel's throat. He felt the frantic jump of Nigel's pulse beneath his fingertips. A divine tremor. "I'm done fighting this," Alex whispered. "I'm done being scared. I'll be your willing knight."
The word hung in the air, sacrilegious and sacred.
A shudder ran through Nigel’s entire body. He leaned forward, his forehead coming to rest against Alex’s, his eyes squeezing shut as if in prayer. His breath ghosted over Alex’s lips.
"Jack," he breathed, and this time it wasn't a test or a taunt. It was a benediction.
"Don't call me that," Alex said, but there was no heat in it. It was a ritual. A denial that was itself an affirmation.
Nigel’s lips curved into the faintest, most terrifying smile. "Oh Jack.... My Jack.... I shall call you whatever I want."
Alex couldn't argue.
"The prophecy is real, Jack. All of it. And she," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "was never the point. She was a test. A catalyst. To bring you to this. To bring you to me."
He stood up, shrugging his coat off before climbing on the bed. He crowded Alex against the headboard, straddling his hips. "You can see it. See me and all the wonderful things we'll do once united." He gripped Alex's wrists, dragging his hands to land on his waist. "I was your bride all along," Nigel groaned as Alex’s hands tightened instinctively at the words.
Alex watched him, mesmerized. This was it. The full, unfiltered madness. And instead of wanting to run, he wanted to bow forward in prayer. He wanted to pledge himself to it.
Their foreheads made contact. "Destroy me; I know you can," Nigel ordered, and the words were the push he needed to snap out of his awed stupor.
With one move, he had their positions reversed. Nigel splayed against the pillows, hair askew. Alex had never seen anything more beautiful. He leaned down. "As you wish," the gasp Nigel let out was the sweetest thing Alex had tasted as their lips finally met.
It was a clash. Wet, messy. Hands were dragging through his hair and clutching at his shoulders, his biceps, anything and everything in reach. His own hands traveled under Nigel’s sleep shirt and over the smooth expanse of skin.
The kiss broke like a spell—ragged, panting, electric. Alex didn’t pull back far. Just enough to watch the daze in Nigel’s eyes, the swollen lips, the flush crawling down his neck like ink through skin.
"You taste like sin," Alex murmured, voice rough as gravel.
Nigel laughed—breathless, broken. "You married it."
The word didn’t feel wrong.
It felt inevitable.
Like vows whispered in blood before time began. Like two souls coded to crash no matter how many lifetimes tried to keep them apart. Knight and prophet. Jack and spade. Fire and gasoline.
He leaned down again, slower this time, brushing his nose along Nigel’s cheekbone, then ghosting his lips just beside his ear:
"Then let me consummate my damnation properly."
Nigel arched beneath him with a whimper that was half prayer, half plea. "Yes."
Alex captured his mouth in another savage kiss as his partner moaned and dragged him closer.
"Off, off, off," Nigel urged between kisses as he pulled on Alex's blouse. Alex obliged, tearing the fabric from his frame before diving back in.
Everything was so hot.
He dragged Nigel’s shirt up, pulling it over his head before sitting back to admire his bride.
Nigel lay panting on the sheets, a flush burning from his ears down to his chest.
Huh, that's interesting. Alex ran his thumb over a faint scar under Nigel’s pec. There was a matching one on the other side. It was the only thing marring the otherwise perfect skin.
"What's this?" He murmured, leaning down to lay kisses at Nigel’s neck as he waited for a response.
It took a few seconds. "Does it matter?" he finally groaned.
"Not really," Alex murmured as he began pulling Nigel’s pants and underwear off.
Nigel froze minutely. Alex immediately stopped, but before he could ask, Nigel’s hands were at his waistband and in a second he was fully naked, save for the golden cross still hanging off his neck. He had his eyes averted. For the first time since Alex had known him, Nigel looked almost... ashamed?
Alex's confusion was short-lived as Nigel’s knees spread and all thought went promptly out of the window because between Nigel’s milky thighs wasn't a dick but a wet and glossy cunt.
Alex choked on nothing as his eyes snapped up to Nigel’s face. Holy shit. Everything made startling sense. The secrecy surrounding Nigel’s personal life as a child, why Josh hadn't been able to find anything on him. And this incredible man was his for the taking.
"Can I...... please?" he almost didn't recognize his own voice.
Nigel nodded, his eyes finally looking back at him.
Alex was in awe as he knelt, throwing each of Nigel’s legs over his own thighs before letting his hands wander down towards that heat.
Nigel squirmed closer. He was slightly panting. He let out a soft whine as Alex's thumb ran very lightly from the swollen nub to the leaking hole below. He lightly pushed in, just testing. Nigel moaned, clutching at the sheets.
Shit.....
He pulled back with a wet squelch, bringing his thumb to his lips, and he gave it an experimental lick.
He almost came at the taste. It was divine and he suddenly needed more.
Nigel watched him pull back, readjusting to lay on his stomach, face between his legs, and he lost his mind at the first experimental lick. His hands immediately flew to Alex's hair and his back bowed off the bed.
Alex was pretty sure he'd ascended the moment those thighs had clamped tight around his head and those hands in his hair. Nigel tasted so good and he was making the sweetest noises. He was starving and Nigel was a feast.
The world dissolved into a singular, wet heat. Alex was a man possessed, not by a demon, but by a divinity he had only just begun to worship. Every gasp, every shuddering moan that tore from Nigel’s throat was a psalm, a verse in a new scripture written solely for him. He drank it down, laving and sucking with a fervor that was both reverence and ravishment.
His hands gripped Nigel’s hips, pinning him to the bed, not to restrain, but to anchor himself against the dizzying current of sensation. He could feel the fine tremors wracking Nigel’s frame, the way his thighs tensed and quivered around his head. The taste of him—sharp, musky, utterly intoxicating—was a sacrament on his tongue.
"Jack—" Nigel’s voice was a broken thing, a strangled plea that ended in a sharp cry as Alex’s tongue found a particular rhythm against his clit. His fingers twisted painfully in Alex’s hair, a mix of punishment and praise. "Please—"
It wasn't a request to stop; it was a demand for more. Alex redoubled his efforts, his own arousal a painful, throbbing ache against the mattress. He was lost in it, in the primal, consuming need to unravel the boy beneath him completely.
He slid one finger inside him, and the resulting cry was half-sob, half-scream. Nigel’s body clenched around him, impossibly tight, wet, and hot. Alex groaned against him, the vibration drawing another shattered sound from above. He was moving on autopilot, that one finger pumping in and out slowly and deliberately. Nigel’s heels dug into his shoulder blades, urging him to go faster. "More— give me more .... I need—" so he added a second finger, spreading him on the way out. He curled his fingers, searching, and found what he was looking for when Nigel’s entire body jolted as if electrocuted. The sight left him breathless.
"There," Nigel half sobbed, his back arching off the bed. "Right there, don't you dare stop—"
Alex didn't. He set a ruthless, driving pace with his hand while his mouth continued its devastating work. He was mapping Nigel’s pleasure with a scholar’s intensity, learning what made him gasp, what made him writhe, what made him beg. He was claiming every inch of this newfound territory.
Nigel was coming apart above him, his cries becoming incoherent, a litany of choked curses and fragmented prayers. His hips bucked helplessly against Alex’s face, seeking more friction, more of the exquisite torture.
He was babbling, nonsense words and praise falling off his lips as he clamped his thighs tight around Alex's head.
The tension coiled, tighter and tighter, a spring about to snap. Alex could feel it in the way Nigel’s muscles corded, in the sharp, ragged drag of his breath.
"Alex, I'm— Yes, oh god— so close." The warning was a desperate whimper.
Alex looked up at the utterance of his name, meeting Nigel’s gaze. His eyes were wide, pupils blown black with pleasure, tears tracking from the corners into his hairline. He was utterly wrecked, and he was the most beautiful thing Alex had ever seen.
"Let go," Alex commanded, his voice rough and raw before returning to his task. His efforts doubled, fingers massaging that spot inside with precision.
It was the permission Nigel needed. His orgasm hit him like a tidal wave, a silent, breathless scream seizing him before a raw, guttural cry was torn from his throat. His body convulsed, tightening down on Alex’s fingers, shuddering through wave after wave of sensation. Alex didn’t let up, gentling his touch but drawing out every last shudder, every last pulse, until Nigel started pushing him away with boneless hands, trembling and oversensitive.
Slowly, carefully, Alex withdrew, chin and mouth dripping wet. He sat back, surveying the length of Nigel’s trembling body, his own need a frantic, pounding drumbeat. But he could wait. He was drinking in the sight: the flushed skin, the sweat-slicked chest, the cross still gleaming against his throat, the utterly dazed and sated expression on his face.
Nigel’s eyes fluttered open. They were hazy, unfocused, but they found Alex’s. A slow, languid, utterly smug smile spread across his swollen lips.
“See?” he breathed, his voice wrecked. “I told you it was real.”
The sheer audacity, the insane, divine certainty in the midst of such carnal wreckage, shattered the last of Alex’s control. He fell over him, claiming that smart mouth, deep and filthy, letting Nigel taste himself on his tongue.
“I believe you,” Alex growled against his mouth. Nigel giggled; his legs, which had fallen open limply, hooked around Alex’s waist, pulling him closer. His eyes were clear now, focused and burning with a new intensity.
“Then prove it,” Nigel whispered, a challenge and an invitation. “Take me, Jack.”
Alex pulled back enough to free his own aching erection. The head of his cock brushed against Nigel’s slick, sensitive folds, and they both shuddered. Alex bit his lip. God, this was obscene. Nigel’s spend had connected them with a slick trail and Alex was transfixed. He rubbed himself slowly through the mess he had left between his spade's thighs. Said Spade moaned and pulled him closer by the neck. "Get in me already," he whined, hips shifting to spread himself out more.
With a groan that was half prayer, half surrender, Alex pushed inside.
The world didn’t just fall away; it incinerated. There was only this: the blinding, tight heat, the choked gasp from Nigel that was pure pleasure-pain, the feeling of being home in a place he never knew existed. He stilled, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to Nigel’s, breathing in the same air.
Nigel’s eyes were wide, his lips parted in a perfect ‘o’ of shock and sensation. He shifted experimentally, and the minute clench around Alex made him see stars.
“Move,” Nigel commanded, his voice regaining a sliver of its sharpness, though it was frayed at the edges. “Now.”
Alex obeyed. He set a slow, deep rhythm, each thrust a revelation. It wasn’t just fucking; it was a claiming, a vow, a violent and beautiful merging of two fractured halves into a terrifying, perfect whole. Nigel met him thrust for thrust, his nails scoring down Alex’s back, his breath hot against his neck.
The room filled with the sounds of their joining: skin slapping against skin, ragged breaths, low groans, and the creak of the bedsprings keeping time like a profane metronome. Alex was lost in it, in him, in the way Nigel’s body yielded and took and demanded more. He gripped his hips, his pace punishing as Nigel’s nails tore his back to shreds.
He felt Nigel tightening around him again, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. “Again—Jack, too much, please, I can’t—“
“You can,” Alex grunted, driving into him harder, deeper. “You will. For me.”
He reached between them, his thumb finding Nigel’s oversensitive clit. The touch was electric. Nigel cried out, his head thrashing back against the pillows as a second, shocking orgasm ripped through him. The convulsive clenching of his body was too much, too intense. Alex’s own control snapped.
With a raw, guttural shout that was Nigel’s name, Alex followed him over the edge. His vision whited out as he spilled deep inside him, pulses of pleasure so intense they bordered on pain, each one wringing another aftershock from Nigel’s trembling form.
He collapsed, his weight crushing Nigel into the mattress, but Nigel’s arms came up around him, holding him tight, his legs still locked around his waist. They lay there, tangled together, slick with sweat and spent, hearts hammering against each other’s ribs in a frantic, synchronized rhythm.
The silence that descended was different from before. It wasn’t charged or tense. It was peaceful. Complete.
After a long moment, Alex shifted slightly, enough to prop himself on his elbows and look down at Nigel. His face was serene, his eyes closed, a faint smile playing on his lips. He looked like a saint after a vision.
Alex brushed a sweat-damp strand of hair from his forehead. “Okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
Nigel’s eyes opened. The blue was calm, deep, knowing. “Flawless,” he replied softly.
He reached up, his fingers tracing the line of Alex’s jaw. “My knight,” he murmured. “My divine intervention. You are incredible.”
And lying there, buried inside the living, breathing proof of his own conversion, Alex Forbes could only lean down for yet another kiss.
The kiss was different this time. Slower. Deeper. It tasted like salt and sweat and something profoundly, terrifyingly permanent. When Alex finally pulled back, the reality of their situation began to seep back in, cold and unwelcome. The frantic energy of discovery and consummation was ebbing, leaving behind the stark, physical evidence of what they had done.
The scratches on his back from Nigel’s nails stung. The room smelled of sex and blood and Nigel.
He shifted, beginning to withdraw, but Nigel’s legs tightened around his waist, a silent, possessive command to stay. Alex stilled, looking down at him. Nigel’s expression was one of serene, almost frightening contentment. His eyes were closed again, but a small, knowing smile played on his lips.
“Don’t,” Nigel murmured, his voice husky with exhaustion and satisfaction. “Not yet.”
A practical, nagging voice in the back of Alex’s mind whispered about the mess, about the sticky warmth cooling between them, about the fact that they were both lying in the wreckage of his single bed, which now smelled unequivocally of them. But the voice was distant, easily ignored under the weight of Nigel’s gaze and the lingering aftershocks of pleasure.
“We’re a mess,” Alex said, but it came out sounding like an endearment.
“A beautiful mess,” Nigel corrected, his eyes fluttering open. He reached up, his fingers tracing a mark he'd left on Alex's shoulder. His touch was proprietary, reverent. He owned the wound as much as he owned the man who bore it.
He slowly unlocked his legs from around Alex’s waist, allowing him to pull away. The separation felt significant, a return to individual bodies after being a single entity. The wet pop made Nigel sigh in light disappointment.
Alex sat back on his heels, wincing slightly at the twinge in his back and the renewed ache in his hands. He looked down at himself, at Nigel, at the rumpled, stained sheets.
Nigel watched him, his expression unreadable for a moment before he pushed himself up onto his elbows. He seemed utterly unconcerned with his own nakedness, with the spend slowly dripping out of him. His gaze was fixed on Alex with that same unnerving, analytical focus. Alex couldn't say the same about himself; he was enraptured.
“You’ll need to clean your back,” Nigel stated, his tone shifting back to its clinical default. “The scratches are deep. I’ll get the antise—” he was cut off by a gasp as Alex pushed two fingers back inside of him, collecting the mess of them and putting it back where it belonged. Nigel stuttered, falling back, his elbows giving out. Alex froze, realizing what he'd done, his face burned as he pulled his hand back, but before he could apologize, Nigel laughed. "You are insatiable... husband." The word rocked his world. But wasn't that what he was? If Nigel was his bride, then yes, he was his husband. "I need to get you a ring if you're going to call me that," he murmured, and Nigel let out another laugh.
“You will. Later,” Alex said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He nodded; he too needed to live in the aftermath a little longer.
The euphoria was receding, and the consequences of the night were settling in their place. They were both marked, bloodied, and bound together by a secret that could destroy them. And they were lying in a bed that felt like both a sanctuary and a crime scene.
A slow, wicked smile spread across Nigel’s face, as if he could read Alex’s thoughts. “It’s done, Jack,” he said softly, the name a deliberate provocation and a comfort all at once. “There’s no going back. We’re past the point of pretending this is anything less than what it is.” As if Alex would ever want to go back.
“And what is it?” he asked, his voice low. He needed to hear him say it. He needed the prophecy spoken aloud in the cold light of their reality.
Nigel’s smile didn’t falter. “The beginning.” He reached out, his cool fingers brushing a strand of hair from Alex’s forehead. “The first page of our gospel. They’ll write about us, you know. They’ll try to understand, but they never will. How could they?”
He said it with such absolute certainty that Alex felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool air on his skin. It was the shiver of destiny, of stepping onto a path from which there was no return. He had asked for a sign, and he had been given one in the form of a boy with ice-blue eyes and a gleaming cross around his neck.
Alex captured Nigel’s wrist, bringing his hand to his mouth and pressing a kiss to the palm. It was a pledge. A vow.
“Let them try,” Alex said, his voice steady now, all doubt burned away in the crucible of their joining. He looked around the ruined room, at their tangled, filthy bodies, and felt a surge of possessiveness so fierce it stole his breath. “This is ours.”
Nigel’s eyes gleamed with triumph and something darker, something hungry. “Ours,” he agreed.
Outside, the first faint sounds of the waking school began to filter through the window: a distant door slamming, the faint hum of a generator. The world was moving on, oblivious to the cataclysm that had occurred in this small room.
They had maybe minutes before they would have to face it. Before they would have to don their uniforms and their masks and step back into the hallways, carrying the weight of their secret like a second skin.
But for now, they had this. The tangled sheets, the shared breath, the silent understanding that hummed between them. Alex lay back down, pulling Nigel against him, ignoring the stickiness. Nigel curled into his side, his head on Alex’s shoulder, his fingers once again tracing the edges of the mark.
The clean-up could wait. The world could wait. They had a new religion to define.