A moment later he has Nicolò down on the bed in almost the same position as before, with such speed the other man huffs out a surprised laugh. He presses his mouth to Nicolò’s chest, initially as another distraction, as a way to stop himself doing anything stupid with his mouth, like speaking, or kissing him, and then because he can’t do anything else but press his lips to the unblemished skin, let his tongue search, gloriously fruitless, for the seam of a scar or a scab, slide his fingers across Nicolò’s sturdy, undamaged thigh, feel it straight and strong under his fingers.
“Oh,” Nicolò sighs beneath him, and his hands flutter slightly as Yusuf drags him closer to the center of the bed. “Yes, that’s… that feels good. Ah.” His skin is cool under Yusuf’s hand, from the water, but heat is rising in it already. Yusuf smooths his fingers over a section of Nicolò’s thigh, over and over, until it’s hot under his fingertips, then another, then another. Nicolò’s hand is on his shoulder, but he seems to keep forgetting to do anything with it. That suits Yusuf perfectly well; he doesn’t need any distractions now.
With an effort of will, he pulls his mouth away to tease at Nicolò’s nipples, trying to seem less urgently preoccupied by those vanished injuries than he really is.
“It’s all right,” Nicolò murmurs, hand brushing lightly over Yusuf’s upper back. “It was… very unpleasant, you know, being crushed. It’s nice to have, to be… it’s nice. You can… oh, don’t stop that, though.”
Yusuf scrapes his teeth gently across one sensitive brown nub, then the other, soothing over them with his tongue afterwards as Nicolò shudders and sighs beneath him. He pulls back a fraction of an inch to say, voice rasping in his throat, “You were saying something?”
They aren’t the words he wants, but he doesn’t know which ones are, just that he wants to keep hearing Nicolò’s voice.
Nicolò laughs, his chest rumbling with it under Yusuf’s face, his head tipped back. The sound shakes something loose in Yusuf’s chest, soothing the rough edges of his soul. “I,” he says, “mm, I was saying – it’s nice, to have pleasure there in – mmh – stead. Better than I thought, ah, better than I would have thought. Yusuf, yes, like that.”
By now Yusuf can feel arousal tingling faintly across his own skin, pulsing more insistently in his groin and curling hot and restless in his stomach, but it doesn’t seem very important. This is what’s important, Nicolò’s body under his hands, his voice in Yusuf’s ears, his gratification the only goal. Maybe this is what he wanted, then, he thinks distantly, after all.
Then Nicolò’s hands are on his shoulders, pushing him away, and that hits Yusuf so hard in the gut that he feels helpless tears start in his eyes.
“Just a minute,” Nicolò says, breathless and almost-but-not-quite-laughing. “Let me sit up, or else you’ll be doing all the work. That’s hardly fair.” He wriggles his way up the pillows, and Yusuf, who doesn’t really know what he’s feeling or what he’s doing, sits up as well for the sole purpose of being able to hide his face in Nicolò’s neck.
He makes excuse of nipping and sucking at the skin there, which has Nicolò squirming against him, gasping his name enthusiastically as he tries his best to get Yusuf’s clothing mostly out of the way. They haven’t done this before; Yusuf has always associated it too closely with kissing to feel it was entirely allowed, but it is not, after all, the same. He runs his hand up and down Nicolò’s side, his torso, his back, all the places his clothing was stained with blood, Nicolò gasp and sigh and half-heartedly try to get a hand between them to pay Yusuf in kind. Instead his hands stroke and toy with Yusuf’s sides until he becomes distracted, absently caress his back as Yusuf uses his free hand to nudge Nicolò’s legs further apart so that he can tease softly at every hidden sensitive bit of skin on the insides of the other man’s thighs without being at risk of violating their rules.
He keeps them like that as long as he can, pushing Nicolò back against the pillows every time he makes an desultory attempt to sit up properly and participate, until Nicolò’s half-laughing exasperation is drowned in trembling moans and his hands skim across Yusuf’s skin without real purpose. This is what he needs, how it should be: Nicolò beneath his hands, his mouth, with nothing in the world mattering but his pleasure.
Not past pain, not future trials, not Yusuf’s own considerable arousal – those are unimportant. The only things he cares about are Nicolò’s skin under his fingers and the way the other man moans when Yusuf bites at his collarbone. “Please,” he’s gasping, and nothing else. “Please, please – please –”
Yusuf ghosts his fingertips along the skin at the very top of Nicolò’s inner thigh, and the other man makes a noise like he’s been gutted, and then his hands are pushing Yusuf back again, because he was always strong enough to do it, but he didn’t, and both of those things make the still-ignored fire in Yusuf’s gut to blaze higher, until it’s all but consuming him.
Nicolò leans forward, his hand clamping down on top of Yusuf’s, their faces so very, very close. For a brief moment – a moment which makes his heart lurch violently sideways – he thinks Nicolò means to kiss him.
“Please,” Nicolò rasps, resting his forehead against Yusuf’s. “Please, Yusuf – please, just –”
If he’s so desperate, Yusuf wonders hazily, why doesn’t he touch himself – but he’s too preoccupied with not burning up entirely to care; the longer Nicolò goes without touching himself, the longer this will last, and he wants it to last forever.
He wonders if Nicolò wants that, also; if he moved them into this position so that he could reach himself but now he can’t bear for it to be over. Yusuf’s heart seizes at the idea, juddering with something that feels like hope or pleasure, only painful.
“Please,” Nicolò gasps, his hand tightening on Yusuf’s. “Please, I need–”
Yusuf lets his other hand trail down Nicolò’s side and Nicolò gasps as if he’s been punched. “Yusuf, please!”
“Anything,” Yusuf pants, heedless of the danger. He would say worse, but he can’t think and he can’t find the air in his lungs.
Nicolò whines, his breath brushing at Yusuf’s lips like a kiss. His hand slips higher, to Yusuf’s wrist, and he drags at it. “Please…”
“We agreed,” Yusuf manages. “We agreed – you wanted – it’s not allowed.” He slides his free hand down to Nicolò’s other thigh and runs his thumb over the seam where his leg meets his body. It’s not intentionally torturous, not meant to undermine his words; he can’t help himself.
“I don’t–” Nicolò pants with immense effort, “care – I – touch me–”
Yusuf’s hand is on him before either of them realize he’s moved it.
Nicolò groans in his throat, jerking, higher pitched than Yusuf has ever heard him. He’s silky under Yusuf’s fingers, harder than should be possible and wet from his own arousal. Yusuf feels fevered, his skin too tight, even as he wraps his fingers carefully around Nicolò’s cock. His breath sticks in his throat, rasping loud enough he can hear it even through his near-delirious haze of lust.
He’s never touched anyone but himself this way, and it’s different and the same, but he’s seen many times now just how Nicolò handles his foreskin, he knows well enough, in principle, what to do. If he can do it. It’s hard to move, because he wants to live here in this moment forever almost more then he wants to feel Nicolò come apart under his hand.
He tightens his hand just a little, slides it up and then down once, and then it doesn’t matter anymore whether Yusuf knows what to do, because Nicolò makes a desperate, wounded noise and surges forward against him. His hand is still on Yusuf’s wrist, and he holds it almost bruisingly still as he fucks forward into Yusuf’s fist. Yusuf lets him, his mind empty, all the space that might once have held thought filled with the feeling of Nicolò moving under his hand, Nicolò’s hip tensing and relaxing under his grip, Nicolò’s breath hot on his face, escaping as endless tiny cries – “ah!” he gasps as Yusuf slides his thumb higher, “ah, ah, nnn, ah–!”
“Yes,” Yusuf tells him, not even really knowing he’s doing it. “Yes, like that, yes…” Nicolò eyes catch his, incredulous and ablaze, and Yusuf says “Yes, yes,” and watches him stiffen and arch, mouth locked silently open, as he spills convulsively between them, his body shuddering almost endlessly through it. Yusuf wants to devour him with his eyes, imprint every moment, every movement, every sound in his mind for the rest of their lives, but he has Nicolò’s spend striping his chest and Nicolò’s cock twitching weakly in his hand, and only desperate powers of will and closed eyes keep him from getting a frantic hand on himself and coming in three strokes.
He sits there for minutes, maybe, or hours, miserably aroused and not caring, unwilling to move, still breathing Nicolò’s air. He can’t bring himself to release Nicolò’s cock or even his hip, or maybe he doesn’t trust himself if he has his hands free. Perhaps it’s both those things. His skin is singing and his heart is aching but the warm heavy weight of Nicolò’s forehead against his is the only thing that matters.
Finally Nicolò twitches a little, sighs, tugs on Yusuf’s wrist. Reluctantly, he uncurls his fingers, and then, because it feels suddenly necessary, moves away half a foot and lies back against the pillows, feeling weak all over.
Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (7c/?)
“Oh,” Nicolò sighs beneath him, and his hands flutter slightly as Yusuf drags him closer to the center of the bed. “Yes, that’s… that feels good. Ah.”
His skin is cool under Yusuf’s hand, from the water, but heat is rising in it already. Yusuf smooths his fingers over a section of Nicolò’s thigh, over and over, until it’s hot under his fingertips, then another, then another. Nicolò’s hand is on his shoulder, but he seems to keep forgetting to do anything with it. That suits Yusuf perfectly well; he doesn’t need any distractions now.
With an effort of will, he pulls his mouth away to tease at Nicolò’s nipples, trying to seem less urgently preoccupied by those vanished injuries than he really is.
“It’s all right,” Nicolò murmurs, hand brushing lightly over Yusuf’s upper back. “It was… very unpleasant, you know, being crushed. It’s nice to have, to be… it’s nice. You can… oh, don’t stop that, though.”
Yusuf scrapes his teeth gently across one sensitive brown nub, then the other, soothing over them with his tongue afterwards as Nicolò shudders and sighs beneath him. He pulls back a fraction of an inch to say, voice rasping in his throat, “You were saying something?”
They aren’t the words he wants, but he doesn’t know which ones are, just that he wants to keep hearing Nicolò’s voice.
Nicolò laughs, his chest rumbling with it under Yusuf’s face, his head tipped back. The sound shakes something loose in Yusuf’s chest, soothing the rough edges of his soul. “I,” he says, “mm, I was saying – it’s nice, to have pleasure there in – mmh – stead. Better than I thought, ah, better than I would have thought. Yusuf, yes, like that.”
By now Yusuf can feel arousal tingling faintly across his own skin, pulsing more insistently in his groin and curling hot and restless in his stomach, but it doesn’t seem very important. This is what’s important, Nicolò’s body under his hands, his voice in Yusuf’s ears, his gratification the only goal. Maybe this is what he wanted, then, he thinks distantly, after all.
Then Nicolò’s hands are on his shoulders, pushing him away, and that hits Yusuf so hard in the gut that he feels helpless tears start in his eyes.
“Just a minute,” Nicolò says, breathless and almost-but-not-quite-laughing. “Let me sit up, or else you’ll be doing all the work. That’s hardly fair.” He wriggles his way up the pillows, and Yusuf, who doesn’t really know what he’s feeling or what he’s doing, sits up as well for the sole purpose of being able to hide his face in Nicolò’s neck.
He makes excuse of nipping and sucking at the skin there, which has Nicolò squirming against him, gasping his name enthusiastically as he tries his best to get Yusuf’s clothing mostly out of the way. They haven’t done this before; Yusuf has always associated it too closely with kissing to feel it was entirely allowed, but it is not, after all, the same. He runs his hand up and down Nicolò’s side, his torso, his back, all the places his clothing was stained with blood, Nicolò gasp and sigh and half-heartedly try to get a hand between them to pay Yusuf in kind. Instead his hands stroke and toy with Yusuf’s sides until he becomes distracted, absently caress his back as Yusuf uses his free hand to nudge Nicolò’s legs further apart so that he can tease softly at every hidden sensitive bit of skin on the insides of the other man’s thighs without being at risk of violating their rules.
He keeps them like that as long as he can, pushing Nicolò back against the pillows every time he makes an desultory attempt to sit up properly and participate, until Nicolò’s half-laughing exasperation is drowned in trembling moans and his hands skim across Yusuf’s skin without real purpose. This is what he needs, how it should be: Nicolò beneath his hands, his mouth, with nothing in the world mattering but his pleasure.
Not past pain, not future trials, not Yusuf’s own considerable arousal – those are unimportant. The only things he cares about are Nicolò’s skin under his fingers and the way the other man moans when Yusuf bites at his collarbone. “Please,” he’s gasping, and nothing else. “Please, please – please –”
Yusuf ghosts his fingertips along the skin at the very top of Nicolò’s inner thigh, and the other man makes a noise like he’s been gutted, and then his hands are pushing Yusuf back again, because he was always strong enough to do it, but he didn’t, and both of those things make the still-ignored fire in Yusuf’s gut to blaze higher, until it’s all but consuming him.
Nicolò leans forward, his hand clamping down on top of Yusuf’s, their faces so very, very close. For a brief moment – a moment which makes his heart lurch violently sideways – he thinks Nicolò means to kiss him.
“Please,” Nicolò rasps, resting his forehead against Yusuf’s. “Please, Yusuf – please, just –”
If he’s so desperate, Yusuf wonders hazily, why doesn’t he touch himself – but he’s too preoccupied with not burning up entirely to care; the longer Nicolò goes without touching himself, the longer this will last, and he wants it to last forever.
He wonders if Nicolò wants that, also; if he moved them into this position so that he could reach himself but now he can’t bear for it to be over. Yusuf’s heart seizes at the idea, juddering with something that feels like hope or pleasure, only painful.
“Please,” Nicolò gasps, his hand tightening on Yusuf’s. “Please, I need–”
Yusuf lets his other hand trail down Nicolò’s side and Nicolò gasps as if he’s been punched. “Yusuf, please!”
“Anything,” Yusuf pants, heedless of the danger. He would say worse, but he can’t think and he can’t find the air in his lungs.
Nicolò whines, his breath brushing at Yusuf’s lips like a kiss. His hand slips higher, to Yusuf’s wrist, and he drags at it. “Please…”
“We agreed,” Yusuf manages. “We agreed – you wanted – it’s not allowed.” He slides his free hand down to Nicolò’s other thigh and runs his thumb over the seam where his leg meets his body. It’s not intentionally torturous, not meant to undermine his words; he can’t help himself.
“I don’t–” Nicolò pants with immense effort, “care – I – touch me–”
Yusuf’s hand is on him before either of them realize he’s moved it.
Nicolò groans in his throat, jerking, higher pitched than Yusuf has ever heard him. He’s silky under Yusuf’s fingers, harder than should be possible and wet from his own arousal. Yusuf feels fevered, his skin too tight, even as he wraps his fingers carefully around Nicolò’s cock. His breath sticks in his throat, rasping loud enough he can hear it even through his near-delirious haze of lust.
He’s never touched anyone but himself this way, and it’s different and the same, but he’s seen many times now just how Nicolò handles his foreskin, he knows well enough, in principle, what to do. If he can do it. It’s hard to move, because he wants to live here in this moment forever almost more then he wants to feel Nicolò come apart under his hand.
He tightens his hand just a little, slides it up and then down once, and then it doesn’t matter anymore whether Yusuf knows what to do, because Nicolò makes a desperate, wounded noise and surges forward against him. His hand is still on Yusuf’s wrist, and he holds it almost bruisingly still as he fucks forward into Yusuf’s fist. Yusuf lets him, his mind empty, all the space that might once have held thought filled with the feeling of Nicolò moving under his hand, Nicolò’s hip tensing and relaxing under his grip, Nicolò’s breath hot on his face, escaping as endless tiny cries – “ah!” he gasps as Yusuf slides his thumb higher, “ah, ah, nnn, ah–!”
“Yes,” Yusuf tells him, not even really knowing he’s doing it. “Yes, like that, yes…” Nicolò eyes catch his, incredulous and ablaze, and Yusuf says “Yes, yes,” and watches him stiffen and arch, mouth locked silently open, as he spills convulsively between them, his body shuddering almost endlessly through it. Yusuf wants to devour him with his eyes, imprint every moment, every movement, every sound in his mind for the rest of their lives, but he has Nicolò’s spend striping his chest and Nicolò’s cock twitching weakly in his hand, and only desperate powers of will and closed eyes keep him from getting a frantic hand on himself and coming in three strokes.
He sits there for minutes, maybe, or hours, miserably aroused and not caring, unwilling to move, still breathing Nicolò’s air. He can’t bring himself to release Nicolò’s cock or even his hip, or maybe he doesn’t trust himself if he has his hands free. Perhaps it’s both those things. His skin is singing and his heart is aching but the warm heavy weight of Nicolò’s forehead against his is the only thing that matters.
Finally Nicolò twitches a little, sighs, tugs on Yusuf’s wrist. Reluctantly, he uncurls his fingers, and then, because it feels suddenly necessary, moves away half a foot and lies back against the pillows, feeling weak all over.