When travelling, Yusuf stops the daughter of the royal family from being killed or kidnapped. In thanks, the royal family take Yusuf and Nicolo in and offer Yusuf whatever he wants.
The Queen has seen how Yusuf looks at Nicolo (they aren't together yet), and that night when they are shown to their rooms, the guards grab Nicolo and take him to the Queen. She orders him to be prepared for Yusuf. This involves him being washed and oiled, with the hair removed from his body. They give him an enema to wash him out, and put kohl under his eyes and colour on his lips. They also pierce his nipples, and put a plug in him to open him for Yusuf. They put Nicolo in a collar and some cuffs.
They drug Nicolo with aphrodisiacs that make him desperate to get fucked.
The Queen then delivers him to Yusuf's room.
Yusuf doesn't want to take advantage of Nicolo, but Nicolo is saying that it hurts and please, Yusuf, fuck him...
When they fuck, top!Yusuf only, please.
originally i posted this here (https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/694.html?thread=2241206#cmt2241206) but i ended up rewriting and expanding part 1 in the process of writing part 2. so i'm posting the new part 1 here as well as part 2. whoops.
cw: kidnapping, dubcon due to magical aphrodisiacs
+++++
“Is something wrong?”
“Hm?”
“You look like you’re thinking about painting,” Nicolò says, gesturing to Yusuf and his untouched handful of seeds. In contrast, Nicolò’s almost finished eating his half of the pomegranate. His fingers are stained pink now; he must have liked it.
“I was thinking,” Yusuf says, “that I would like to take the place of one of those seeds.”
Nicolò glances down at his palm, halfway to his lips. Yusuf waits to speak, hoping that Nicolò will look at him, but he does not.
“I heard once that a pomegranate becomes blood,” he went on. “I would like to become the blood in your heart—be with you every heartbeat—be spilled the moment you die.”
Nicolò tips the last of the seeds into his mouth. Yusuf hears him swallow.
“Do you want the rest of them?”
“You were the one who wanted to eat them,” Nicolò says.
“I want you to eat them, my heart,” Yusuf says. He holds out the handful of seeds. “Then I want to kiss you and see how they taste.”
+++
The bandits are barely a threat; he kills the three of them without being wounded once, and helps their captive—a young woman with a long dark veil over her face—out of her bonds. The woman does not speak as Yusuf lifts her off the bandit’s horse and unties her. Once her hands are free, she reaches up and throws back the veil.
The sight of her face makes Yusuf’s stomach turn.
She is beautiful, yes, but it is an unsettlingly perfect beauty. She has not one stray hair, not one imperfection in her ashen skin, not one point of asymmetry in her features. She is wearing a dress made of a fabric that Yusuf, once a textile merchant, has never seen. It has a sheen like an insect’s, reflecting the moon’s light in red. Worst of all are her eyes: yellow-green, like withered leaves.
It hurts to look at her.
“Good evening,” she says.
“Good evening,” he replies. What are you? He bows his head respectfully. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” she says, and she laughs. “Thank you for your help, traveler. I am the princess.”
The princess of what, she does not say, and Yusuf does not dare ask. His headache, unlike every other he’s suffered since becoming immortal, has not faded. He has forgotten what pain is like; he can feel the hair on his arms stand up in fear.
“It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine.” She leans forward, so close he can feel her breath against his face. It is cold. “Tell me, what is you desire most?”
(The bandits did not catch him unaware; Yusuf was dreaming of Nicolò, of lying between him and the fire, close enough to hear Nicolò whisper his name. The sound of hoofbeats in the distance woke him up before he could hear it.)
“Nothing,” Yusuf says. He would never give this dangerous, inhuman creature Nicolò’s name.
“Very well.” She smiles at him, as if he has just made a joke. “I must return to my party, but follow the road and you will find our palace. My mother and I will receive you for the night. Consider it my thanks for your assistance.”
Yusuf is glad that Nicolò is not with him tonight, for he knows he cannot refuse her, and Nicolò—foolhardily stubborn, eager to protect Yusuf—would have tried. “Of course,” he says, keeping his eyes fixed on the sand. “I thank you for your hospitality.”
“Do not thank me until you have received it,” she replies. “Very well. We will be expecting you, Yusuf.” Then she takes hold of the bandit’s horse by the bridle and swings herself onto it somehow. With a whistle the horse takes off, and once Yusuf can no longer hear its hooves, he dares to raise his eyes.
His meager camp, with the remains of his fire and his pack, is still there. But now there is nothing but endless sand as far as the eye can see in every direction. And when Yusuf looks up, he discovered that he no longer recognizes the stars.
He swallows. At least his headache has faded. Sword sheathed, he packs his few belongings, and sets off down the road. As he walks, he prays.
+++
Nicolò is dizzy. He thrashes against the guards holding him in vain. Their helmets and breastplates have spikes that cut into him, but he barely feels the pain; he only knows he’s been wounded because he can see the spatters of blood.
His thoughts run wild with panic. Where is he? Why is he here? Why isn’t he healing away whatever poison clouds his mind?
“Hold him down,” someone is saying, in a language he does not recognize yet does understand.
They pour warm water over him as his hands are chained.
+++
The princess’s words are true; the road leads Yusuf to a palace that might have been plucked from a dream.
it is made of white marble, topped with a dome so black it makes the sky above look blue. There are no windows. It reminds Yusuf of a tomb. A stone wall encircles it, with gates of silver that open soundlessly at Yusuf’s touch. The path between the gate and the palace doors is lined on both sides by gardens.
The fountains are carved from crystal into human heads; their open mouths endlessly vomit water. The flowers are a riot of color, every single one in full bloom, every stem covered in thorns. Oranges, figs, grapes, dates, they all grow on the same trees; the branches have bowed from the weight of all the fruit.
A pomegranate dangles at eye level, so that Yusuf nearly steps off the path to avoid it. The smell of the fruit makes his mouth water. (He thinks about the color of Nicolò’s mouth.) Against his will his hand twitches towards the knife in his pocket.
The palace doors are already open when Yusuf reaches them. So far he has yet to see a single guard or servant or courtier. He has yet to see a single insect, or reptile, or bird. The hall he enters is the same white marble, polished so well that it hurts to look at. All the doors before him but one are closed.
Yusuf goes through the open door and finds himself before the Queen.
“Good evening,” she says; she is seated on a throne cobbled together from what looks like human bone. Unlike the surrounding marble, it has not been polished, or even cleaned. She throws back her veil; her face is identical to her daughter’s, with the same eyes. “Welcome to our humble home.”
“Thank you for inviting me.” Yusuf bows his head.
“For your service to my daughter, who is dearer to me than my own life,” she says, “I thank you. Rest assured that you will be repaid as you deserve.”
Yusuf does not reach for his sword, but it is a near thing. “No repayment is required.”
“Nevertheless, debts must be paid.” The Queen gestures to a door on her right which was not there before. “You will wait in the room at the end of the hall. When your gift has been prepared, I will send for you.”
The gift is likely to be his own death. Yusuf can only hope that his ability to heal will be a match for whatever sorcery this woman, whatever she is, wields.
+++
Nicolò’s skin burns to be touched, and yet he struggles against his captors’ hands.
They wash him. Nicolò remembers Yusuf’s long-running complaints about his hygiene, then Yusuf’s skin wet from the river. The thought of Yusuf makes his chest hurt.
They rinse his hair as Nicolò remembers Yusuf helping him wash away the blood from the places Nicolò couldn’t reach. They smear scented oil on every inch of his skin; he remembers Yusuf helping him shave after Nicolò decided to cut off two of his own fingers. Yusuf scolded him for it, running the edge of a blade that had once cut Nicolò’s throat down his jaw.
They hold him down, pouring oil between his legs. They penetrate him—he remembers Yusuf lying against his back at night, both of them making excuses about the cold—with something long and slick and unforgiving.
She grabs his face as they collar him. Her skin on his skin stings. “You’ll do,” she says, smearing something red and sweet and familiar across his lips. Her eyes are wrong; they mock him as he tries to bite her fingers.
He’s tired from fighting. He still struggles as they drag him away.
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timeasmymeasure
[fill] joe/nicky, preparing nicolo for yusuf [1/3]
Date: 2020-11-08 08:37 am (UTC)When travelling, Yusuf stops the daughter of the royal family from being killed or kidnapped. In thanks, the royal family take Yusuf and Nicolo in and offer Yusuf whatever he wants.
The Queen has seen how Yusuf looks at Nicolo (they aren't together yet), and that night when they are shown to their rooms, the guards grab Nicolo and take him to the Queen. She orders him to be prepared for Yusuf. This involves him being washed and oiled, with the hair removed from his body. They give him an enema to wash him out, and put kohl under his eyes and colour on his lips. They also pierce his nipples, and put a plug in him to open him for Yusuf. They put Nicolo in a collar and some cuffs.
They drug Nicolo with aphrodisiacs that make him desperate to get fucked.
The Queen then delivers him to Yusuf's room.
Yusuf doesn't want to take advantage of Nicolo, but Nicolo is saying that it hurts and please, Yusuf, fuck him...
When they fuck, top!Yusuf only, please.
originally i posted this here (https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/694.html?thread=2241206#cmt2241206) but i ended up rewriting and expanding part 1 in the process of writing part 2. so i'm posting the new part 1 here as well as part 2. whoops.
cw: kidnapping, dubcon due to magical aphrodisiacs
+++++
“Is something wrong?”
“Hm?”
“You look like you’re thinking about painting,” Nicolò says, gesturing to Yusuf and his untouched handful of seeds. In contrast, Nicolò’s almost finished eating his half of the pomegranate. His fingers are stained pink now; he must have liked it.
“I was thinking,” Yusuf says, “that I would like to take the place of one of those seeds.”
Nicolò glances down at his palm, halfway to his lips. Yusuf waits to speak, hoping that Nicolò will look at him, but he does not.
“I heard once that a pomegranate becomes blood,” he went on. “I would like to become the blood in your heart—be with you every heartbeat—be spilled the moment you die.”
Nicolò tips the last of the seeds into his mouth. Yusuf hears him swallow.
“Do you want the rest of them?”
“You were the one who wanted to eat them,” Nicolò says.
“I want you to eat them, my heart,” Yusuf says. He holds out the handful of seeds. “Then I want to kiss you and see how they taste.”
+++
The bandits are barely a threat; he kills the three of them without being wounded once, and helps their captive—a young woman with a long dark veil over her face—out of her bonds. The woman does not speak as Yusuf lifts her off the bandit’s horse and unties her. Once her hands are free, she reaches up and throws back the veil.
The sight of her face makes Yusuf’s stomach turn.
She is beautiful, yes, but it is an unsettlingly perfect beauty. She has not one stray hair, not one imperfection in her ashen skin, not one point of asymmetry in her features. She is wearing a dress made of a fabric that Yusuf, once a textile merchant, has never seen. It has a sheen like an insect’s, reflecting the moon’s light in red. Worst of all are her eyes: yellow-green, like withered leaves.
It hurts to look at her.
“Good evening,” she says.
“Good evening,” he replies. What are you? He bows his head respectfully. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” she says, and she laughs. “Thank you for your help, traveler. I am the princess.”
The princess of what, she does not say, and Yusuf does not dare ask. His headache, unlike every other he’s suffered since becoming immortal, has not faded. He has forgotten what pain is like; he can feel the hair on his arms stand up in fear.
“It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine.” She leans forward, so close he can feel her breath against his face. It is cold. “Tell me, what is you desire most?”
(The bandits did not catch him unaware; Yusuf was dreaming of Nicolò, of lying between him and the fire, close enough to hear Nicolò whisper his name. The sound of hoofbeats in the distance woke him up before he could hear it.)
“Nothing,” Yusuf says. He would never give this dangerous, inhuman creature Nicolò’s name.
“Very well.” She smiles at him, as if he has just made a joke. “I must return to my party, but follow the road and you will find our palace. My mother and I will receive you for the night. Consider it my thanks for your assistance.”
Yusuf is glad that Nicolò is not with him tonight, for he knows he cannot refuse her, and Nicolò—foolhardily stubborn, eager to protect Yusuf—would have tried. “Of course,” he says, keeping his eyes fixed on the sand. “I thank you for your hospitality.”
“Do not thank me until you have received it,” she replies. “Very well. We will be expecting you, Yusuf.” Then she takes hold of the bandit’s horse by the bridle and swings herself onto it somehow. With a whistle the horse takes off, and once Yusuf can no longer hear its hooves, he dares to raise his eyes.
His meager camp, with the remains of his fire and his pack, is still there. But now there is nothing but endless sand as far as the eye can see in every direction. And when Yusuf looks up, he discovered that he no longer recognizes the stars.
He swallows. At least his headache has faded. Sword sheathed, he packs his few belongings, and sets off down the road. As he walks, he prays.
+++
Nicolò is dizzy. He thrashes against the guards holding him in vain. Their helmets and breastplates have spikes that cut into him, but he barely feels the pain; he only knows he’s been wounded because he can see the spatters of blood.
His thoughts run wild with panic. Where is he? Why is he here? Why isn’t he healing away whatever poison clouds his mind?
“Hold him down,” someone is saying, in a language he does not recognize yet does understand.
They pour warm water over him as his hands are chained.
+++
The princess’s words are true; the road leads Yusuf to a palace that might have been plucked from a dream.
it is made of white marble, topped with a dome so black it makes the sky above look blue. There are no windows. It reminds Yusuf of a tomb. A stone wall encircles it, with gates of silver that open soundlessly at Yusuf’s touch. The path between the gate and the palace doors is lined on both sides by gardens.
The fountains are carved from crystal into human heads; their open mouths endlessly vomit water. The flowers are a riot of color, every single one in full bloom, every stem covered in thorns. Oranges, figs, grapes, dates, they all grow on the same trees; the branches have bowed from the weight of all the fruit.
A pomegranate dangles at eye level, so that Yusuf nearly steps off the path to avoid it. The smell of the fruit makes his mouth water. (He thinks about the color of Nicolò’s mouth.) Against his will his hand twitches towards the knife in his pocket.
The palace doors are already open when Yusuf reaches them. So far he has yet to see a single guard or servant or courtier. He has yet to see a single insect, or reptile, or bird. The hall he enters is the same white marble, polished so well that it hurts to look at. All the doors before him but one are closed.
Yusuf goes through the open door and finds himself before the Queen.
“Good evening,” she says; she is seated on a throne cobbled together from what looks like human bone. Unlike the surrounding marble, it has not been polished, or even cleaned. She throws back her veil; her face is identical to her daughter’s, with the same eyes. “Welcome to our humble home.”
“Thank you for inviting me.” Yusuf bows his head.
“For your service to my daughter, who is dearer to me than my own life,” she says, “I thank you. Rest assured that you will be repaid as you deserve.”
Yusuf does not reach for his sword, but it is a near thing. “No repayment is required.”
“Nevertheless, debts must be paid.” The Queen gestures to a door on her right which was not there before. “You will wait in the room at the end of the hall. When your gift has been prepared, I will send for you.”
The gift is likely to be his own death. Yusuf can only hope that his ability to heal will be a match for whatever sorcery this woman, whatever she is, wields.
+++
Nicolò’s skin burns to be touched, and yet he struggles against his captors’ hands.
They wash him. Nicolò remembers Yusuf’s long-running complaints about his hygiene, then Yusuf’s skin wet from the river. The thought of Yusuf makes his chest hurt.
They rinse his hair as Nicolò remembers Yusuf helping him wash away the blood from the places Nicolò couldn’t reach. They smear scented oil on every inch of his skin; he remembers Yusuf helping him shave after Nicolò decided to cut off two of his own fingers. Yusuf scolded him for it, running the edge of a blade that had once cut Nicolò’s throat down his jaw.
They hold him down, pouring oil between his legs. They penetrate him—he remembers Yusuf lying against his back at night, both of them making excuses about the cold—with something long and slick and unforgiving.
She grabs his face as they collar him. Her skin on his skin stings. “You’ll do,” she says, smearing something red and sweet and familiar across his lips. Her eyes are wrong; they mock him as he tries to bite her fingers.
He’s tired from fighting. He still struggles as they drag him away.