In response to this prompt: https://theoldguardkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4108.html?thread=1455372#cmt1455372
The first time the angry Christian does it, Yusuf is so shocked at the sensation he slips up, knees weakening, allowing his attacker to slip a dagger between his ribs.
He lost his helmet between the third and fourth times he was killed, no doubt taken by another soldier in need as he lay on the battlefield. Yusuf can hardly begrudge the theft, given that it doesn’t seem to matter what happens to him, he always rises again.
He does begrudge his body’s reaction to his hair being used as a handle, as an instrument in his murder.
The Christian’s hand slips out of his hair as Yusuf falls to the ground, bleeding, and his last conscious thought is that he misses the sensation as soon as it is gone.
When he awakens, his scimitar has been stolen. He uses the dagger that was still lodged in his stomach to chop his hair short and remove the weakness.
-
It is not as if Yusuf was unaware of this particular predilection. In his former life, as a merchant’s son with no wife and children of his own, he’d been a popular visitor to whorehouses in ports all around the Mediterranean, the rare visitor who didn’t care much for the gender of the legs he was settled between as long as he could pleasure someone into pulling his hair until he was blind with pleasure and rutting into the bedsheets.
Still, it is more than a little embarrassing to desire a man he should, by rights, detest, so much that he no longer stand on his own two feet the moment Nicolò gets a hand in his hair and pulls his head to the side to kiss him properly.
It is almost worth the shame to see the awe on Nicolò’s face when Yusuf slumps against him, overwhelmed and unmistakeably aroused and foolishly trusting Nicolò to catch him.
It is definitely worth it when awe turns to determination and Nicolò’s gentle hand tugs harshly at his hair and Yusuf falls to his knees.
-
It is many months before either Yusuf or Nicolò have the necessary vocabulary in each other’s languages to talk about it. They have wandered aimlessly from Jerusalem towards Cairo in that time, and Yusuf has found, to his horror, that not only does Nicolò share his unique and possibly cursed fate as well as possessing the uncanny ability to turn his knees to water with a touch of his hand, he is also kind, stalwart, honorable in a misguided sort of way, and shyly funny when he has enough words to make a joke.
In Cairo, after a long and luxurious bath, Nicolo asks.
“Your hair,” he says, shirtless and sitting on the bed of their rented room. “You, ah – when I pull your hair…”
Yusuf flushes red. “Yes,” he says.
“May I do it more?” Nicolò asks.
Yusuf would mistake his question for idle curiosity if there were just a hint less gravel in his tone and a bit less pupil in his eyes.
This is how, hazy minutes later, he finds himself splayed on Nicolò’s lap, impaled on his cock and groaning in pleasure as Nicolò pulls his hair.
He hasn’t done this before. He kept his explorations in whorehouses to hands and mouths, trying, in some ethereal way, to remain at least a little chaste (and in a very real way to remain free of illness). He was always afraid of the intimacy this act in particular he allowed. Over the last months, however, he has come to know that Nicolò is trustworthy, that he is a good man raised with bad intentions, and that he is Yusuf’s future.
He has also come to know that he desires Nicolò more than he thought human existence allowed for.
It is a small mercy that Nico waits until they have passed the irksome stages of preparation, of penetration, to get his hands in Yusuf’s hair, or he thinks he would not survive this encounter.
Lightning shoots down his spine when Nico pulls just right, only to be greeted by lightning from below when Nico’s cock grinds up just right and Yusuf wails, overwhelmed.
“You’re glorious,” Nico tells him hoarsely, and pulls harder.
Yusuf clenches down around him, hips rocking frantically to get more sensation, cock an aching line against Nico’s abdomen.
“Please,” he mouths out, begging this man who, a year ago, he wouldn’t have dared to dream of.
Nico tugs again and Yusuf’s world turns molten.
Again, and goosebumps break out all over his skin.
Again, and Yusuf comes without a touch on his cock, thick drops spilling down onto the light hair covering Nico’s body, crying out and groaning his praise and his desperation.
Nico tugs one more time, after Yusuf’s done, and his cock jerks painfully, spitting a last, pathetic glob of come into Nico’s bellybutton.
Yusuf’s eyes roll back into his head and he collapses against Nicolò.
Nicolò’s cock slips out of him and he gropes down to finish him, numb with pleasure as he is, only to find him wet with come and softening.
“It would take a much stronger man,” Nico tells him, smile playing about his serious lips, “to hold out with such a vision writhing and coming on his cock.”
Yusuf shudders against him.
-
Later, Nicky will place an article written by a man called Pavlov on Joe’s lap and raise a teasing eyebrow.
Joe/Nicky and sort of Joe/Poly - major hair pulling kink 1/4
The first time the angry Christian does it, Yusuf is so shocked at the sensation he slips up, knees weakening, allowing his attacker to slip a dagger between his ribs.
He lost his helmet between the third and fourth times he was killed, no doubt taken by another soldier in need as he lay on the battlefield. Yusuf can hardly begrudge the theft, given that it doesn’t seem to matter what happens to him, he always rises again.
He does begrudge his body’s reaction to his hair being used as a handle, as an instrument in his murder.
The Christian’s hand slips out of his hair as Yusuf falls to the ground, bleeding, and his last conscious thought is that he misses the sensation as soon as it is gone.
When he awakens, his scimitar has been stolen. He uses the dagger that was still lodged in his stomach to chop his hair short and remove the weakness.
-
It is not as if Yusuf was unaware of this particular predilection. In his former life, as a merchant’s son with no wife and children of his own, he’d been a popular visitor to whorehouses in ports all around the Mediterranean, the rare visitor who didn’t care much for the gender of the legs he was settled between as long as he could pleasure someone into pulling his hair until he was blind with pleasure and rutting into the bedsheets.
Still, it is more than a little embarrassing to desire a man he should, by rights, detest, so much that he no longer stand on his own two feet the moment Nicolò gets a hand in his hair and pulls his head to the side to kiss him properly.
It is almost worth the shame to see the awe on Nicolò’s face when Yusuf slumps against him, overwhelmed and unmistakeably aroused and foolishly trusting Nicolò to catch him.
It is definitely worth it when awe turns to determination and Nicolò’s gentle hand tugs harshly at his hair and Yusuf falls to his knees.
-
It is many months before either Yusuf or Nicolò have the necessary vocabulary in each other’s languages to talk about it. They have wandered aimlessly from Jerusalem towards Cairo in that time, and Yusuf has found, to his horror, that not only does Nicolò share his unique and possibly cursed fate as well as possessing the uncanny ability to turn his knees to water with a touch of his hand, he is also kind, stalwart, honorable in a misguided sort of way, and shyly funny when he has enough words to make a joke.
In Cairo, after a long and luxurious bath, Nicolo asks.
“Your hair,” he says, shirtless and sitting on the bed of their rented room. “You, ah – when I pull your hair…”
Yusuf flushes red. “Yes,” he says.
“May I do it more?” Nicolò asks.
Yusuf would mistake his question for idle curiosity if there were just a hint less gravel in his tone and a bit less pupil in his eyes.
This is how, hazy minutes later, he finds himself splayed on Nicolò’s lap, impaled on his cock and groaning in pleasure as Nicolò pulls his hair.
He hasn’t done this before. He kept his explorations in whorehouses to hands and mouths, trying, in some ethereal way, to remain at least a little chaste (and in a very real way to remain free of illness). He was always afraid of the intimacy this act in particular he allowed. Over the last months, however, he has come to know that Nicolò is trustworthy, that he is a good man raised with bad intentions, and that he is Yusuf’s future.
He has also come to know that he desires Nicolò more than he thought human existence allowed for.
It is a small mercy that Nico waits until they have passed the irksome stages of preparation, of penetration, to get his hands in Yusuf’s hair, or he thinks he would not survive this encounter.
Lightning shoots down his spine when Nico pulls just right, only to be greeted by lightning from below when Nico’s cock grinds up just right and Yusuf wails, overwhelmed.
“You’re glorious,” Nico tells him hoarsely, and pulls harder.
Yusuf clenches down around him, hips rocking frantically to get more sensation, cock an aching line against Nico’s abdomen.
“Please,” he mouths out, begging this man who, a year ago, he wouldn’t have dared to dream of.
Nico tugs again and Yusuf’s world turns molten.
Again, and goosebumps break out all over his skin.
Again, and Yusuf comes without a touch on his cock, thick drops spilling down onto the light hair covering Nico’s body, crying out and groaning his praise and his desperation.
Nico tugs one more time, after Yusuf’s done, and his cock jerks painfully, spitting a last, pathetic glob of come into Nico’s bellybutton.
Yusuf’s eyes roll back into his head and he collapses against Nicolò.
Nicolò’s cock slips out of him and he gropes down to finish him, numb with pleasure as he is, only to find him wet with come and softening.
“It would take a much stronger man,” Nico tells him, smile playing about his serious lips, “to hold out with such a vision writhing and coming on his cock.”
Yusuf shudders against him.
-
Later, Nicky will place an article written by a man called Pavlov on Joe’s lap and raise a teasing eyebrow.
-