(Um. I have never - ever - written any variety of porn before. I have never even intended to. But then Iiiiii... wrote this? So, uh... bear that in mind. I do take concrit; idk if it's the Way Of The Community here or not. But I hope you like it! I'm posting part one before I chicken out, but there will be more (probably a lot more, eventually), because I never met a fic idea that didn't get three times longer than planned.)
*
The first time is an accident.
It was bound to happen eventually – it’s been long enough now that there’s no heavy cloud of shame or despair or hatred any longer to dampen the body’s natural urges, and it’s not as if there haven’t been nights where Nicoló rolls to face away and hikes his blankets up over his ears to provide some extra privacy and muffle any noise, or where Yusuf traces constellations with his eyes while carefully and tactfully pretending he doesn’t know exactly what’s going on across the fire. They don’t really bother to set a watch anymore, and that means that they’re always lying down at around the same time. Opportunities for complete privacy are rare, and they’re both grown men who have lived in close quarters with other men before.
Somewhere along the way, they’ve adopted the habit of only ever seeking their pleasure one at a time, only one to a night. It’s not a conscious choice – that would be ridiculous – but Yusuf never hears Nicoló’s blankets rustling in that particular way after he himself has achieved release, and he never reaches for himself if he’s heard Nicoló do the same that night. It’s not something he knows they’re doing until he hears Nicoló grunt softly one night and thinks, Damn, I was going to…
He realizes as soon as it crosses his mind that it is ridiculous, the idea of practically taking it in turns. But it doesn’t seem like something that would bear scrutiny, so instead of questioning it (and instead of ignoring it and reaching for his cock, which should perhaps have been the obvious option), Yusuf settles down determinedly and resigns himself to nothing but sleep on that particular night.
It’s some time later, and after he’s mostly forgotten that bit of strangeness, that he unintentionally violates it.
It’s been a long day, hot and exhausting, and they nearly botched a river-crossing in a way that could have killed either of them, but more importantly nearly swept one of their horses downstream with half their supplies. Yusuf is tired and damp and out of sorts, and even after consuming some actually hot food and sitting quietly by the fire for an hour or so, his nerves still feel full of gritty sand, keeping him awake and irritated, annoyed and dissatisfied by a hundred things. It’s been a while, he thinks, almost a week at that, and regardless, he’ll sleep better after. Besides, he would like to have one nice thing out of this thrice-cursed day.
He slides his hand down more slowly than he’s usually wont, brushing idly over the sensitive parts of his chest through his tunic and then pausing, and sliding it back up again, skin on skin this time. It’s been even longer since he’s gone slowly, really taken his time, and suddenly it seems like a fantastic idea. He deserves to enjoy himself a little.
He’s rubbing at the sensitive spot above his left ribs and teasing his inner thighs with his other hand (biting back a sigh because it’s so nice, but if he’s going to draw it out it would be rude to moan the entire time), when he hears Nicoló’s breath hitch in a very particular way on the other side of the fire. Shit.
Several thoughts collide in Yusuf’s head at once – a plaintive not fair!; an angry, grumbling sentiment about how it’s not Nicoló’s turn; utter dismay at the very idea of dropping his hands and ignoring his arousal and soldiering through until tomorrow night; a desperate idea that maybe he could just wait until he’s sure Nicoló is asleep; chagrin in the form of I should have just made noise, that’s what I get for being considerate; a wordless concern about the fact that he knows that particular sound, that small hitch of breath that starts like a groan and slides into a sigh, doesn’t just mean that Nicoló is doing the same thing as Yusuf, but is almost certainly an indication of the exact moment Nicoló got a hand around his cock.
The latter is probably the most important thing, but in the moment, the dismay and annoyance seem most important. Why should Yusuf be the one to stop? He started first.
So he keeps doing what he’s doing, lets his breathing stutter as much as it wants to, even makes a small noise of appreciation when he squeezes a palmful of flesh just right. He hasn’t even touched himself in any serious way yet, but he’s more than half hard. He is not giving this up.
There is a much sharper intake of breath across the fire. Well… it serves Nicoló right. For what, Yusuf isn’t quite sure (rationally, he suspects that, of course, Nicoló is now in the same position he was in a moment before, and it’s not actually anyone’s fault, but having compassion for the other man seems like a tall order at the moment), but it’s on him now. He can stop if he wants, but Yusuf isn’t going to.
Yusuf stops palming his side and drags his fingers over his nipples, squirming a little. He edges his other hand closer, fingers ghosting up his thigh, but not quite there. Fuck, that’s good…
Nicoló makes that noise again. His breath hitches, in as a tiny groan, out as the barest sigh, and Yusuf knows that he’s reached down again and wrapped his fingers around his cock. He can’t even be annoyed by it, because somehow, suddenly, that knowledge has set every nerve in his body on fire. Yusuf is practically dizzy with it, or maybe he actually is; his own hand closes around himself before he even thinks to do it. The sensation punches out his stomach, and he can hear the shocked way he exhales but he doesn’t give much thought to it. He’s far more than half-hard now.
“Ah!” Nicoló cries quietly across the fire, and Yusuf can hear blankets rustle sharply, as if the other man has jerked sideways in pleasure, or thrust his hips upward. Yusuf moans as low as he can manage, his hand sliding slick and hot along his cock. He closes his eyes and tips his head back, his hips thrusting up into his grip of their own volition. He tries to rein himself in, make sure it lasts a little longer, but it’s so difficult when all he wants to do is thrust, and thrust, and thrust…
He’s still moaning, Yusuf realizes, Too loud, and he pulls his free hand from his clothes, fingers dragging over sensitized nipples and making him twitch violently – and then shoves the fleshy bed of his thumb into his mouth and bites down.
With his own noises muffled, he can hear just how ragged and frantic Nicoló’s breathing is. He’s making tiny noises, not quite whimpers, just audible over the crackle of the fire, and they send shards of tingling heat down Yusuf’s spine. If he listens hard enough (and he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, but he does, squeezes his eyes shut and grips himself tighter and does), he can hear the faint slapping noise of Nicoló’s hand on his cock. He’s working himself over hard and fast, Yusuf can hear it, and he speeds up himself, panting, his spare hand falling to clutch at his thigh. He groans, and almost immediately, Nicoló moans as if in answer. Yusuf’s skin is prickling hard with heat all over now, and he moves his hand a little faster still, not knowing what he’s looking for until he achieves it.
When he hits the same rhythm as Nicoló, the wave of lust that swamps him is so powerful he gasps. Nicoló moans again, and Yusuf opens his eyes to the night sky just so he can clamp them shut again. He’s lost track of everything except for the frantic imperative of touching himself and the fire in his belly only blazing higher at every noise that isn’t his own. He needs to be quieter, he thinks desperately, he won’t be able to hear, he has to thrust harder, he has to stop grunting, he has to thrust harder – Nicoló moans, not once but over and over, ‘ah! ah! ah! ah!’, and Yusuf pumps himself in time to the other man’s sounds, blood pounding in his ears and his fingertips starting to tingle. He needs it so badly, needs more, he’s desperate to come, and he hates the idea of it, never wants this to be over. Yes, more, please, not yet, yes –
Nicoló groans, long and broken, as he finishes, and that’s it; Yusuf is arching into his hand, shaking with release as he comes so hard brilliant white light obliterates what’s left of his brain. He thinks he may have shouted, but he’s not sure; he thinks he may have passed out, but he’s not sure. He is sure he no longer knows which way is up. He’s still trembling all over, and gasping for breath, and he should be horrified but that will have to wait because his brain is too fuzzy to care and he’s never felt this good in his life. He can hear Nicoló’s breath sobbing in his chest six feet away, and it shouldn’t, it shouldn’t be gratifying…
Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (1/?)
*
The first time is an accident.
It was bound to happen eventually – it’s been long enough now that there’s no heavy cloud of shame or despair or hatred any longer to dampen the body’s natural urges, and it’s not as if there haven’t been nights where Nicoló rolls to face away and hikes his blankets up over his ears to provide some extra privacy and muffle any noise, or where Yusuf traces constellations with his eyes while carefully and tactfully pretending he doesn’t know exactly what’s going on across the fire. They don’t really bother to set a watch anymore, and that means that they’re always lying down at around the same time. Opportunities for complete privacy are rare, and they’re both grown men who have lived in close quarters with other men before.
Somewhere along the way, they’ve adopted the habit of only ever seeking their pleasure one at a time, only one to a night. It’s not a conscious choice – that would be ridiculous – but Yusuf never hears Nicoló’s blankets rustling in that particular way after he himself has achieved release, and he never reaches for himself if he’s heard Nicoló do the same that night. It’s not something he knows they’re doing until he hears Nicoló grunt softly one night and thinks, Damn, I was going to…
He realizes as soon as it crosses his mind that it is ridiculous, the idea of practically taking it in turns. But it doesn’t seem like something that would bear scrutiny, so instead of questioning it (and instead of ignoring it and reaching for his cock, which should perhaps have been the obvious option), Yusuf settles down determinedly and resigns himself to nothing but sleep on that particular night.
It’s some time later, and after he’s mostly forgotten that bit of strangeness, that he unintentionally violates it.
It’s been a long day, hot and exhausting, and they nearly botched a river-crossing in a way that could have killed either of them, but more importantly nearly swept one of their horses downstream with half their supplies. Yusuf is tired and damp and out of sorts, and even after consuming some actually hot food and sitting quietly by the fire for an hour or so, his nerves still feel full of gritty sand, keeping him awake and irritated, annoyed and dissatisfied by a hundred things. It’s been a while, he thinks, almost a week at that, and regardless, he’ll sleep better after. Besides, he would like to have one nice thing out of this thrice-cursed day.
He slides his hand down more slowly than he’s usually wont, brushing idly over the sensitive parts of his chest through his tunic and then pausing, and sliding it back up again, skin on skin this time. It’s been even longer since he’s gone slowly, really taken his time, and suddenly it seems like a fantastic idea. He deserves to enjoy himself a little.
He’s rubbing at the sensitive spot above his left ribs and teasing his inner thighs with his other hand (biting back a sigh because it’s so nice, but if he’s going to draw it out it would be rude to moan the entire time), when he hears Nicoló’s breath hitch in a very particular way on the other side of the fire. Shit.
Several thoughts collide in Yusuf’s head at once – a plaintive not fair!; an angry, grumbling sentiment about how it’s not Nicoló’s turn; utter dismay at the very idea of dropping his hands and ignoring his arousal and soldiering through until tomorrow night; a desperate idea that maybe he could just wait until he’s sure Nicoló is asleep; chagrin in the form of I should have just made noise, that’s what I get for being considerate; a wordless concern about the fact that he knows that particular sound, that small hitch of breath that starts like a groan and slides into a sigh, doesn’t just mean that Nicoló is doing the same thing as Yusuf, but is almost certainly an indication of the exact moment Nicoló got a hand around his cock.
The latter is probably the most important thing, but in the moment, the dismay and annoyance seem most important. Why should Yusuf be the one to stop? He started first.
So he keeps doing what he’s doing, lets his breathing stutter as much as it wants to, even makes a small noise of appreciation when he squeezes a palmful of flesh just right. He hasn’t even touched himself in any serious way yet, but he’s more than half hard. He is not giving this up.
There is a much sharper intake of breath across the fire. Well… it serves Nicoló right. For what, Yusuf isn’t quite sure (rationally, he suspects that, of course, Nicoló is now in the same position he was in a moment before, and it’s not actually anyone’s fault, but having compassion for the other man seems like a tall order at the moment), but it’s on him now. He can stop if he wants, but Yusuf isn’t going to.
Yusuf stops palming his side and drags his fingers over his nipples, squirming a little. He edges his other hand closer, fingers ghosting up his thigh, but not quite there. Fuck, that’s good…
Nicoló makes that noise again. His breath hitches, in as a tiny groan, out as the barest sigh, and Yusuf knows that he’s reached down again and wrapped his fingers around his cock. He can’t even be annoyed by it, because somehow, suddenly, that knowledge has set every nerve in his body on fire. Yusuf is practically dizzy with it, or maybe he actually is; his own hand closes around himself before he even thinks to do it. The sensation punches out his stomach, and he can hear the shocked way he exhales but he doesn’t give much thought to it. He’s far more than half-hard now.
“Ah!” Nicoló cries quietly across the fire, and Yusuf can hear blankets rustle sharply, as if the other man has jerked sideways in pleasure, or thrust his hips upward. Yusuf moans as low as he can manage, his hand sliding slick and hot along his cock. He closes his eyes and tips his head back, his hips thrusting up into his grip of their own volition. He tries to rein himself in, make sure it lasts a little longer, but it’s so difficult when all he wants to do is thrust, and thrust, and thrust…
He’s still moaning, Yusuf realizes, Too loud, and he pulls his free hand from his clothes, fingers dragging over sensitized nipples and making him twitch violently – and then shoves the fleshy bed of his thumb into his mouth and bites down.
With his own noises muffled, he can hear just how ragged and frantic Nicoló’s breathing is. He’s making tiny noises, not quite whimpers, just audible over the crackle of the fire, and they send shards of tingling heat down Yusuf’s spine. If he listens hard enough (and he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, but he does, squeezes his eyes shut and grips himself tighter and does), he can hear the faint slapping noise of Nicoló’s hand on his cock. He’s working himself over hard and fast, Yusuf can hear it, and he speeds up himself, panting, his spare hand falling to clutch at his thigh. He groans, and almost immediately, Nicoló moans as if in answer. Yusuf’s skin is prickling hard with heat all over now, and he moves his hand a little faster still, not knowing what he’s looking for until he achieves it.
When he hits the same rhythm as Nicoló, the wave of lust that swamps him is so powerful he gasps. Nicoló moans again, and Yusuf opens his eyes to the night sky just so he can clamp them shut again. He’s lost track of everything except for the frantic imperative of touching himself and the fire in his belly only blazing higher at every noise that isn’t his own. He needs to be quieter, he thinks desperately, he won’t be able to hear, he has to thrust harder, he has to stop grunting, he has to thrust harder – Nicoló moans, not once but over and over, ‘ah! ah! ah! ah!’, and Yusuf pumps himself in time to the other man’s sounds, blood pounding in his ears and his fingertips starting to tingle. He needs it so badly, needs more, he’s desperate to come, and he hates the idea of it, never wants this to be over. Yes, more, please, not yet, yes –
Nicoló groans, long and broken, as he finishes, and that’s it; Yusuf is arching into his hand, shaking with release as he comes so hard brilliant white light obliterates what’s left of his brain. He thinks he may have shouted, but he’s not sure; he thinks he may have passed out, but he’s not sure. He is sure he no longer knows which way is up. He’s still trembling all over, and gasping for breath, and he should be horrified but that will have to wait because his brain is too fuzzy to care and he’s never felt this good in his life. He can hear Nicoló’s breath sobbing in his chest six feet away, and it shouldn’t, it shouldn’t be gratifying…
It is.