theoldguardkinkmeme | Fills Post #2

Fills Post #2

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prompt: https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/5880.html?thread=2091512#cmt2091512

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.

The room Yusuf waits in is as luxurious and unnatural as the rest of the palace. He’s died in worse places. Golden script in a language Yusuf does not know has been painted on the walls, and looking at it makes his ears ring. A tray with steaming tea and dates has been left for him, but Yusuf has no desire to die a messy death from poison. He has no choice but to sit on the cushion—upholstered in black silk—and wait.

At least he does not have to miss Nicolò anymore. Nicolò’s presence is the only thing that could make this experience worse. If it is the hour of Yusuf’s death, it will be his death alone.

It is one thing to hear stories of djinn and demons and another to see a monster with his own eyes. It would be worse for him, Yusuf thinks. Nicolò’s faith is already fraught enough. If Yusuf cannot help but wonder if the immortality he has always assumed was God-given is in fact the work of magic, Nicolò would sharpen that thought against the whetstone of his guilt and then gut himself with it.

+++

They told him Yusuf would come.

Chained to a bed, burning with terrible anticipation, Nicolò holds fast to that thought. Yusuf wants him, doesn’t he? (The thing inside him makes him ache.) Even if he doesn’t, he’ll take pity on Nicolò. (He doesn’t know whether it’s too much or not enough.) Even if he’s changed his mind, he’ll have mercy if Nicolò tells him he’s suffering. (The longing for Yusuf’s hands and mouth and cock might kill him. Might keep killing him.)

He is suffering. Is this his fault? Does he deserve this?

“I’m sorry,” he says to no one.

+++

The Queen comes for him. She’s shed the veil, revealing a mass of braids on her head which squirm like snakes.

“Was the tea not to your liking?”

“It was delicious,” he says, sure that if he tasted it, it would be. “Thank you.”

She laughs, a sound like a sword being sharpened. “Well, perhaps our next gift will be more to your taste.” She gestures, and from nothing her daughter appears, clothed in nothing and smiling with bloody teeth.

“Forgive me, but I am not inclined to the company of women,” Yusuf says. It’s not fully a lie, he convinces himself. Of late Nicolò’s company has been the only kind he craves.

“No matter.” She turns away from him. Mercifully, her daughter vanishes, sparing Yusuf the need to stare at nothing to avoid having to look at her. “Come. This palace has many wonders.”

The palace has rearranged itself once more to the Queen’s whims, and each room contains treasures more fantastic than the last. One room has a fountain from which liquid gold spouts instead of water. Another is an orchard whose trees bear jewels instead of fruit. There is a room with a single sword, gleaming so brightly that Yusuf is seized by a terrible bloodlust when he looks at it; he has to bite his tongue before he can turn away.

With every subsequent refusal, the Queen’s smile widens.

“Ah,” she says, when they have reached the last room. Unlike the others, the door is closed. Painted on it is a bloody heart. “Here, perhaps, is something that will please you.”

The longer Yusuf stares at the heart, the more it looks as if it is beating.

“What is this?”

“Did you not want to be the blood in his heart?” She holds out her hand to him; in it is a handful of pomegranate seeds. “Do you want to know how he tastes?”

He opens the door.

There, lying on the carpet, is Nicolò’s sword.

“Will you accept the contents of this room, Yusuf?” the Queen asks.

“Yes,” Yusuf says. He can hear Nicolò breathing. “Yes.”

“Then I give them to you,” she says, and spills the seeds onto the floor. “Our debt is paid.”

“Thank you.”

She must hear the insincerity of his words, for she throws back her head and laughs, her braids writhing. “I like a man who says beautiful things,” she says, and then she is gone, turned to smoke and shadow.

Yusuf crushes the seeds underfoot before he goes.

+++

yes, i did in fact rewrite this entire fic bc of pomegranates, why do you ask
i will try to update soon

Ooh this is still so eerie and fascinating.

This is truly well done. I'm so looking forward to see them together *__*

excited to read more!

Oooh I am so curious about the significance of the pomegranates! Also I continue to love how fairy-tale-y this is. <3

And poor Nicky waiting for Joe to make it all better!

I love how tense everything is! The morbid anticipation of what is going to happen that Yusuf is experiencing makes me just as anxious! Can’t wait for the next update :)

This is so creepy! I love it. The fairy tale quality of turning down the various gifts before accepting one, the uncanny valley of the queen and her daughter, and of course, the pomegranates! I love this so much.

I have been checking this thread almost religiously for updates I’m so keen to see what happens next; the writing and atmosphere is absolutely BEAUTIFUL!!!

I still check this thread every day, author anon, I wanted to tell you that this is a really beautiful, almost mesmerizing story. I hope one day you’re able to finish it in a way that satisfies you, but in the meantime thank you for sharing this with us ♥

Like above anon, I also check this thread whenever I see the comment count increase. No pressure. Just some love for this lovely fic :)

The sheets are red silk, and against them Nicolò is naked and trembling.

Yusuf has seen Nicolò naked before. But Nicolò choosing to undress in his presence is trust; looking him when he’s been stripped and chained is a betrayal. Yusuf nearly averts his eyes in shame, but he cannot. In the palace where things appear and disappear so easily, he is afraid of what might happen if he closes his eyes.

So Yusuf looks. He tries not to look at Nicolò’s body, to only see the signs of his assault. The cuffs around his wrists have left streaks of still-wet blood down his arms. The kohl under his closed eyes is smudged; he must have cried. Nicolò is cleaner than Yusuf has ever seen him. His skin shines faintly in the lamplight, and he smells like sandalwood. His hair has been cut—usually Nicolò does it himself, with whatever knife he has to hand—and he has been shaved. (Thoroughly shaved, Yusuf realizes when his eyes stray too far down.)

His lips have been painted. Yusuf hates himself for noticing.

Nicolò’s wrists are chained above his head, and his arms are trembling from the strain. Yusuf finds the key to the cuffs the moment he looks for it, as if the room has anticipated how badly he wants an excuse to not look at Nicolò and is eager to deny him one.

He throws the cuffs onto the floor once they’re undone; Nicolò stirs at the sound.

He blinks languidly at Yusuf; his pupils are wide, eyes more black than blue. He tries to sit up, but his arms buckle underneath him. Yusuf reaches out without thinking to steady him, and Nicolò—who Yusuf has seen shy away from human contact like a stray animal—leans into his touch.

“Nicolò?”

“You came.” The words come out slightly slurred.

“Always,” Yusuf says. “Are you all right?”

“No,” Nicolò says slowly.

“Shh.” It pains him to watch Nicolò struggle to speak, like his mind is somewhere deep underwater. “I’m here. Let’s leave this place.”

Nicolò shakes his head, then bites his lip. “I’m sorry,” he says, and then he seizes the front of Yusuf’s tunic and crushes their mouths together.

+++

Nicolò tries.

He lays there, still and silent, as though Yusuf isn’t within arm’s reach. He bites through his tongue until he bleeds. He breathes through the pain.

Then Yusuf’s fingers brush over his wrist as he uncuffs him—no, leave them, Nicolò thinks, I’m not strong enough—and the sensation of his skin on Nicolò’s is too much. It’s unbearable. It whites out the pain like a blow to the head.

+++

Nicolò’s mouth tastes like pomegranate juice, tart and sweet. He kisses Yusuf clumsily, open-mouthed and wet, pulling on Yusuf’s oft-mended tunic until it tears. Yusuf tries not to touch him, but Nicolò plasters himself against Yusuf’s body like paint on canvas, and Yusuf can’t stop him without hurting him. Instead he lets himself be dragged onto the bed, lets Nicolò settle himself between Yusuf’s body and the sheets.

At least with Nicolò’s mouth on his he can close his eyes.

“Yusuf,” Nicolò says, finally, when they break apart. He’s panting like he’s punctured a lung. “Please.”

“I can’t.”

“Please.” He’s crying again.

“Nicolò.” He cups Nicolò’s cheek, pressing his thumb against his mouth in the vain hope he’ll be silent, or at least that he’ll fail to be explicit.

Nicolò’s tongue darts out against Yusuf’s thumb. “I want you to fuck me,” he says, “please, I’ll do anything.” He tries to kiss Yusuf again, and Yusuf recoils. “I thought you wanted me.”

He can’t bear Nicolò’s terrible desperation, Nicolò who has never begged him for anything, Nicolò who never admits to pain no matter how many times Yusuf reminds him that he, too, is immortal and therefore knows that it must hurt. Nicolò would never be so careless as to tear the tunic he’s spent so many hours mending by firelight, so cruel as to try to guilt Yusuf into sex.

They’ll hate themselves for this later.

But if the Queen’s enchantments can ensnare Nicolò’s mind, they might, too, be able to surpass whatever force keeps his body immortal. Yusuf doesn’t know if Nicolò would die before he let Yusuf touch him.

It doesn’t matter. Let Nicolò hate him for a thousand years after this. Too much blood has been shed between them already.

+++

There is heat. Pleasure. Yusuf’s beard scratching pleasantly against his skin. Nails digging into his thighs as he’s turned over—terrible emptiness—sweet relief. Yusuf’s tears falling onto Nicolò’s skin.

Nicolò tries to apologize, incoherent as he is, mad as the feel of Yusuf’s cock inside him has made him. He doesn’t know if Yusuf hears.

Omg an update! Thank you author! I also hope you’re doing well. Very excited to see what happens the morning after

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Fills Post #2

[fill] joe/nicky, preparing nicolo for yusuf [1/3]

Re: [fill] joe/nicky, preparing nicolo for yusuf [2/3]

Re: [fill] joe/nicky, preparing nicolo for yusuf [2/3]

Re: [fill] joe/nicky, preparing nicolo for yusuf [2/3]

Re: [fill] joe/nicky, preparing nicolo for yusuf [2/3]

Re: [fill] joe/nicky, preparing nicolo for yusuf [2/3]

Re: [fill] joe/nicky, preparing nicolo for yusuf [2/3]

Re: [fill] joe/nicky, preparing nicolo for yusuf [2/3]

Re: [fill] joe/nicky, preparing nicolo for yusuf [2/3]

Re: [fill] joe/nicky, preparing nicolo for yusuf [2/3]

Re: [fill] joe/nicky, preparing nicolo for yusuf [2/3]

Re: [fill] joe/nicky, preparing nicolo for yusuf [3/4]

Re: [fill] joe/nicky, preparing nicolo for yusuf [3/4]