Nicolò has worked ferociously on his Persian since the robbery. Yusuf is not sure exactly what this is meant to prove, but he’s not going to discourage it.
When the other man insists on being the one to handle taking lodgings in Baghdad, Yusuf shrugs and lets him. If Nicolò wants to practice his Persian by being taken advantage of in a deal, that’s his prerogative. Besides, Yusuf wants to see how much the city has changed since he was last here, and he’s made sure he is the one carrying the bulk of their money, this time.
The house is small, but pleasant. Nicolò refuses to say exactly what he’s paying for it, but he seems pleased – which either means he struck a better bargain than Yusuf anticipated, or he was utterly bilked and doesn’t realize it.
Nothing about the house is ostentatious, Yusuf thinks (Nicolò is rarely ostentatious in anything) – until he sees the bed in the back room.
He’s seen larger, he’s sure, but he can’t quite call anything to mind just now.
“Consider it an apology,” Nicolò says from behind him, leaning on the wall and continuing to look pleased with himself. “The sound of the street doesn’t reach this far. And there is also a bathhouse two minutes’ walk from here.”
“Well.” Yusuf clears his throat, still boggling. “Apology accepted.” He manages a little archness. “And where will you be sleeping?”
Nicolò laughs and pats his shoulder. “If you want to eat tonight, you might go and purchase some food, since you are the newly appointed keeper of our finances.”
“Mm.” Yusuf pretends to consider this. “An interesting proposition. One might argue that since I will be cooking tonight, you should go to the market.”
“Oh, you will, will you?” Nicolò considers this. “I suppose that is reasonable, then. I am sure that when I return, all of our possessions will be properly unpacked.”
It does not escape Yusuf’s notice that he secures his purse unobtrusively inside his shirt before leaving.
*
They have few enough belongings that Yusuf has ample time to pray al-‘asr at a mosque for the first time in a long while, as well as visit the nearby bathhouse before the afternoon grows too late. The food Nicolò returns with is fresh, the kitchen well-organized, the meal itself more than satisfying (even if he does praise it himself).
He falls into bed feeling truly happy in all things. Clean, warm, well-fed, spiritually fulfilled, comfortable, settled, possessed of good company.
Perhaps comfortable most of all. This is no straw mattress, and certainly no makeshift camp at the side of the road. The pillows are soft, the sheets cool against his skin, the length sufficient that he can nestle in as extensively as he likes without a foot falling off the end.
The bed is also big enough – likely enough by design – that they can lie there together and still be a creditable distance apart.
“I hope you’re not too tired tonight,” Yusuf murmurs, hearing Nicolò undressing on the other side of the room. He’s rewarded with a chuckle.
“For what?” Nicolò asks, innocent. “I did spend all morning making all sorts of arrangements, and then the afternoon at the market, and I am tired, but I suppose a little conversation would not be too strenuous, if you feel in the mood.”
“What else could I have meant?” Yusuf asks genially, stretching until his toes point. “Tell me your thoughts on tomorrow’s weather.”
“It might snow.” The bed moves slightly as Nicolò lies down. Yusuf glances over at him.
“Really?”
“It might.”
Nicolò hasn’t bothered with the blankets. Yusuf pushes back his own covers. “It’s too hot for snow,” he says, as if that has anything to do with it.
“It might rain.” Nicolò runs his fingers down the side of his thigh, raising his eyebrows at Yusuf.
“It might,” Yusuf concedes. “It might not.”
“There’s no pleasing you, is there?”
“I think it is conceivable that I might be pleased, on occasion.” Yusuf wraps a hand around his length with a sigh, and Nicolò laughs. The sound is always pleasing; now, it gets tangled up with the other pleasure and shocks Yusuf’s heart in a way that would almost be painful, if it didn’t send lightning-strikes of arousal rippling through his blood. He groans, and arches his back in the way Nicolò likes. “But I am – very particular about… atmospheric predictions.”
“I wonder that you chose the subject, in that case.” Nicolò voice is more even, but desperately strained. His eyes devour Yusuf as he finally gets a hand around his own cock. “You might – uhh – have landed on something less likely to start a quarrel. Oh.”
“If it does, snow tomorrow,” Yusuf offers, panting, “we may be, trapped here, all day.” He rubs the heel of his free hand across that sensitive spot on his side and moans with the movement.
“Are you accusing me of ill-wishing you?” Nicolò is so intense it sounds as if he’s actually angry about it, but Yusuf knows very well the fire in his eyes if of a different variety. Between sharing the floor so closely for a month and then camping by well-travelled roads, it’s been far too long for both of them. “I said – it might snow. Mmff, Yusuf. Not blizzard.”
The last word is a Zeneize one Yusuf isn’t familiar with, which shouldn’t be important, but Nicolò is normally so conscious of such things that it gives him a perverse thrill to know the other man is sufficiently impassioned that he doesn’t even notice.
“I wouldn’t say it’s an ill wish,” he manages to get out in response, rotating his hand on the upstroke the way he’s picked up from watching Nicolò do it to himself. “Ahhh. At least, not if – not as–” Nicolò is running his thumb over the head of his cock, over and over again, hips jerking up minutely as his breath escapes in tiny pants, and Yusuf drops into Arabic in desperation. “That is to, to say… I will not hold, ah, hold you accountable… for… it…” He shuts his eyes, trying to remember what he was saying, why he was saying it. “Always provided, mmmmh, always provided you keep me – entertained. While we’re…”
“Yes,” Nicolò gasps. “Yes.” It’s not clear if it’s in answer or simply in pleasure, but either way Yusuf has reached the end of his ability to pretend to conversation. He largely abandons finesse and bucks into his hand, fondling his balls with the other, watching the flush rise higher across Nicolò’s chest.
“Ah,” he hears Nicolò groan – a moment later? a minute? longer? – dragging Yusuf from his half-hypnotized fascination. “Fuck. Fuck.”
Nicolò slides one finger smoothly in and then out of his mouth in a way which makes Yusuf whine in his throat at the sight, his own cock drooling. He waits for Nicolò to slip his finger down to his nipples, but the other man barely touches them, as if he means to tease himself. Yusuf’s breath hitches at the thought, blood pounding in his ears–
And then it’s gone entirely, because Nicolò bends one knee, widening his legs, and reaches down between them instead.
Yusuf doesn’t have a good angle to see exactly what Nicolò’s doing, but he’s no fool; he knows. He still hasn’t drawn breath and he might die and Nicolò’s mouth is open, the muscle shifts under his skin and his arm is moving enough that it’s not hard to tell he’s rubbing circles with his finger around –
Yusuf’s spare hand has slipped from his sac to rub deep circles on his thigh, and if he could think at all he would be grateful for that, because when he comes he clutches involuntarily the flesh under his fingers so hard he nearly draws blood. As it is, he barely notices, so swamped with pleasure that he feels almost outside of his body, the sheer force of his climax pressing in on him so heavily he can’t even cry out his release.
When he swims back to the surface, gasping because his body forgot to breathe properly without Yusuf fully occupying it, Nicolò is still stroking himself, more furiously now, groaning in his throat as if he’s close, but not quite there, and it seems both unfair and impossible not to help him, but Yusuf can’t speak, can barely do anything but breathe, so instead he reaches over and strokes a hand down his friend’s side.
Nicolò lets out a gasping moan, shuddering into the touch, and it’s so wonderful, the skin under his fingertips and the joy exploding in his heart, that Yusuf knows instantly he’s not going to be able to stop. He caresses Nicolò’s side again, this time slowly, deliberately, and the other man gasps out blasphemies in Zeneize at his touch.
Feeling half-drunk, Yusuf trails his fingers further, watching Nicolò’s rhythm devolve as Yusuf soothes his hand over the other man’s side, his upper thigh, his hip. He spreads his fingers so his smallest finger is aligned with Nicolò’s hipbone, his thumb pressing into a shapely buttock. Every thrust vibrates through his hand, Nicolò’s passion echoing through his body, threatening to reignite his own.
“Nicolò,” he manages, almost clearly. Nicolò cries out – “Please, please –” and then he’s arching his back and spending so violently that Yusuf leans back in surprise, pulling his hand away as an afterthought. Nicolò judders when Yusuf’s fingers brush across his hip, hissing as he works himself loosely through the aftershocks.
Yusuf leans back against the pillows, shaking more with the unexpectedness of how much he feels about this than with the pleasant remnants of his own climax. He watches as Nicolò lets his hand fall, collapses back into the mattress, chest heaving, eyes closed. There’s a quiet beauty in the slack, blissful line of his body that Yusuf wants to write poetry about. Later, when his mind is less afire, when he’s not already hardening again.
He wonders, after a minute or so has gone by, if Nicolò has fallen asleep, if he should cover him up or let him lie there, whether or not it would be kind to wake him to wash (it is a necessary distraction from the other things he cannot help wondering) – but then Nicolò takes a breath, laughs a little, and says, voice only slightly wobbly, “I need to wash.”
Yusuf laughs in agreement, not because it’s funny but because his blood is fizzing strangely in his veins and he cannot do anything else. At least Nicolò is not angry he has violated their arrangement.
“I’ll get some water,” he offers, but Nicolò shakes his head against the pillow.
“You filled that whole barrel from the well, earlier. I’ll go.” He gives that half-laugh breath. “As soon as my legs will hold me.”
I feel as if I should apologize, Yusuf almost says, but he can’t bear to quite yet. It’s not quite right, regardless. Rationally, he knows he should apologize – that doesn’t mean he’s able to feel it. Right now, all he can feel is confused surprise, continued arousal, and a horrible, wonderful tugging in his chest.
Eventually, Nicolò levers himself to his feet, and Yusuf tries not to stare unguardedly at his ass as he leaves.
It’s not as if he didn’t know it was something men got up to between themselves. Yusuf himself has never really gotten further in bed (or out of it, more often) than rubbing off on each other through their clothes, not with anyone but Nicolò – and Saima – but he knew perfectly well how one might use another man, if he was willing. (Although, oddly, he supposes he has done less with Nicolò than his other encounters. It doesn’t seem so, thinking of it.)
But he’s never really thought of it as an activity involving himself. There were doubts as to whether it was really pleasant, and he could never contemplate allowing or asking for such a thing himself – although of course back then his hypotheticals had been vague and without a specific man in mind, on either end. Perhaps it would have been different if he had.
Perhaps not, Yusuf thinks, realizing vaguely that he has begun grinding the heel of his hand into his groin. Perhaps the act itself would be painful, or awkward, or unsatisfying, but still the thought of it fires his blood in a wholly unexpected way, and he’s already more than half hard again.
It’s not fair to put all this lust on poor Nicolò, who maybe was just intending to touch himself, and what does it matter where, but the memory of his hand between his legs, his arm moving, has Yusuf groaning as he tips his head back against the pillows. Why wet his finger if he hadn’t intended to do more with it than caress himself?
This is foolish, because Nicolò will be back any minute, and what will Yusuf say then, but he doesn’t want to stop. He thinks about how he couldn’t see properly, it was no kind of show for him, meaning Nicolò must like it for its own sake, must truly enjoy–
Heat races over his skin and he shudders. Maybe it would be worth it to try, to see if, just by himself, it explains the dazed way Nicolò’s mouth had hung open, the way he’d cursed like he couldn’t help himself, sucked his finger wet in a moment as if he had practice… “Ahhhh,” he groans, letting one hand flutter at his thighs while he pumps himself slowly.
It feels so good, not frantic this time, just leisurely, almost decadent, that maybe he’ll just do this, just sit here and think about it and let his mind go hazy with pleasure, no hurry…
“Oh.”
Yusuf pries his eyes open to see Nicolò in the doorway, still naked, basin in his hands. He’s surprised, but not shocked. Yusuf ogles him shamelessly, but still feels himself flush. “Uh. Sorry?”
“Are you?” Nicolò asks, not without humour. He sets the basin down carefully.
“No,” Yusuf admits. “Sorry.”
Nicolò laughs at that, and it chases itself up and down Yusuf’s spine and makes him shiver. “I thought you had finished.”
“So did I.” He groans, running his free hand restlessly up and down his thigh. “I… in a minute.”
“Don’t hurry on my account.” Nicolò sits on the bed once more, and Yusuf moans, because if they get really started again, it might kill him.
Instead, Nicolò moves closer, kneels next to him. Their skin is almost, almost touching, not quite, Yusuf can feel the heat of him. “You look like you want to do something with your hand,” he murmurs, touching Yusuf’s unoccupied wrist with one finger. It feels like a lightning-rod for desire. Yusuf pants open-mouthed.
“Yes, maybe, yes, something,” he chokes out eventually, words coming slow as molasses.
“Give it to me, then,” Nicolò tells him softly, pulling gently at Yusuf’s hand. Yusuf lets him have it, lets him curl his fingers around the fleshy part of Yusuf’s palm, stroke the back of his own free hand against Yusuf’s fingers, whisper meaningless encouragements so close to his ear. The pleasure builds and builds until finally he’s spilling over the edge, not a thundering rush of fulfilled desire but a gentle release so sweet he almost cries out.
After a moment, Nicolò lets go of his hand and shifts away, and Yusuf blinks himself back to coherent thought.
“Are you – do you need–?” He reaches out, hands shaking a little.
Nicolò isn’t completely soft himself, anymore, but he says “No,” and gets up to fetch the basin and cloth. Yusuf allows him to wring it out, but insists on cleaning himself up, even if he’s lost a little of his dexterity for the moment.
Finally he says, “I know we agreed…”
Nicolò’s mouth twitches with what Yusuf suspects is chagrin. “Yes.”
Emboldened by what’s just happened, Yusuf suggests, “There’s touching and then there’s touching.”
Nicolò raises an eyebrow. Go on, his face says.
“We agreed no… touching. If I remember properly.”
“Oh, of course.”
“It would be impractical never to touch each other, when we live so closely. In fact, I believe there have been many instances–”
“Yusuf.”
“Hm?”
“You’ve won the debate.” Nicolò’s smile somewhat belies the sternness in his voice. “Stop talking.”
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timeasmymeasure
Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (5b/?)
Date: 2020-10-19 12:29 am (UTC)When the other man insists on being the one to handle taking lodgings in Baghdad, Yusuf shrugs and lets him. If Nicolò wants to practice his Persian by being taken advantage of in a deal, that’s his prerogative. Besides, Yusuf wants to see how much the city has changed since he was last here, and he’s made sure he is the one carrying the bulk of their money, this time.
The house is small, but pleasant. Nicolò refuses to say exactly what he’s paying for it, but he seems pleased – which either means he struck a better bargain than Yusuf anticipated, or he was utterly bilked and doesn’t realize it.
Nothing about the house is ostentatious, Yusuf thinks (Nicolò is rarely ostentatious in anything) – until he sees the bed in the back room.
He’s seen larger, he’s sure, but he can’t quite call anything to mind just now.
“Consider it an apology,” Nicolò says from behind him, leaning on the wall and continuing to look pleased with himself. “The sound of the street doesn’t reach this far. And there is also a bathhouse two minutes’ walk from here.”
“Well.” Yusuf clears his throat, still boggling. “Apology accepted.” He manages a little archness. “And where will you be sleeping?”
Nicolò laughs and pats his shoulder. “If you want to eat tonight, you might go and purchase some food, since you are the newly appointed keeper of our finances.”
“Mm.” Yusuf pretends to consider this. “An interesting proposition. One might argue that since I will be cooking tonight, you should go to the market.”
“Oh, you will, will you?” Nicolò considers this. “I suppose that is reasonable, then. I am sure that when I return, all of our possessions will be properly unpacked.”
It does not escape Yusuf’s notice that he secures his purse unobtrusively inside his shirt before leaving.
*
They have few enough belongings that Yusuf has ample time to pray al-‘asr at a mosque for the first time in a long while, as well as visit the nearby bathhouse before the afternoon grows too late. The food Nicolò returns with is fresh, the kitchen well-organized, the meal itself more than satisfying (even if he does praise it himself).
He falls into bed feeling truly happy in all things. Clean, warm, well-fed, spiritually fulfilled, comfortable, settled, possessed of good company.
Perhaps comfortable most of all. This is no straw mattress, and certainly no makeshift camp at the side of the road. The pillows are soft, the sheets cool against his skin, the length sufficient that he can nestle in as extensively as he likes without a foot falling off the end.
The bed is also big enough – likely enough by design – that they can lie there together and still be a creditable distance apart.
“I hope you’re not too tired tonight,” Yusuf murmurs, hearing Nicolò undressing on the other side of the room. He’s rewarded with a chuckle.
“For what?” Nicolò asks, innocent. “I did spend all morning making all sorts of arrangements, and then the afternoon at the market, and I am tired, but I suppose a little conversation would not be too strenuous, if you feel in the mood.”
“What else could I have meant?” Yusuf asks genially, stretching until his toes point. “Tell me your thoughts on tomorrow’s weather.”
“It might snow.” The bed moves slightly as Nicolò lies down. Yusuf glances over at him.
“Really?”
“It might.”
Nicolò hasn’t bothered with the blankets. Yusuf pushes back his own covers. “It’s too hot for snow,” he says, as if that has anything to do with it.
“It might rain.” Nicolò runs his fingers down the side of his thigh, raising his eyebrows at Yusuf.
“It might,” Yusuf concedes. “It might not.”
“There’s no pleasing you, is there?”
“I think it is conceivable that I might be pleased, on occasion.” Yusuf wraps a hand around his length with a sigh, and Nicolò laughs. The sound is always pleasing; now, it gets tangled up with the other pleasure and shocks Yusuf’s heart in a way that would almost be painful, if it didn’t send lightning-strikes of arousal rippling through his blood. He groans, and arches his back in the way Nicolò likes. “But I am – very particular about… atmospheric predictions.”
“I wonder that you chose the subject, in that case.” Nicolò voice is more even, but desperately strained. His eyes devour Yusuf as he finally gets a hand around his own cock. “You might – uhh – have landed on something less likely to start a quarrel. Oh.”
“If it does, snow tomorrow,” Yusuf offers, panting, “we may be, trapped here, all day.” He rubs the heel of his free hand across that sensitive spot on his side and moans with the movement.
“Are you accusing me of ill-wishing you?” Nicolò is so intense it sounds as if he’s actually angry about it, but Yusuf knows very well the fire in his eyes if of a different variety. Between sharing the floor so closely for a month and then camping by well-travelled roads, it’s been far too long for both of them. “I said – it might snow. Mmff, Yusuf. Not blizzard.”
The last word is a Zeneize one Yusuf isn’t familiar with, which shouldn’t be important, but Nicolò is normally so conscious of such things that it gives him a perverse thrill to know the other man is sufficiently impassioned that he doesn’t even notice.
“I wouldn’t say it’s an ill wish,” he manages to get out in response, rotating his hand on the upstroke the way he’s picked up from watching Nicolò do it to himself. “Ahhh. At least, not if – not as–” Nicolò is running his thumb over the head of his cock, over and over again, hips jerking up minutely as his breath escapes in tiny pants, and Yusuf drops into Arabic in desperation. “That is to, to say… I will not hold, ah, hold you accountable… for… it…” He shuts his eyes, trying to remember what he was saying, why he was saying it. “Always provided, mmmmh, always provided you keep me – entertained. While we’re…”
“Yes,” Nicolò gasps. “Yes.” It’s not clear if it’s in answer or simply in pleasure, but either way Yusuf has reached the end of his ability to pretend to conversation. He largely abandons finesse and bucks into his hand, fondling his balls with the other, watching the flush rise higher across Nicolò’s chest.
“Ah,” he hears Nicolò groan – a moment later? a minute? longer? – dragging Yusuf from his half-hypnotized fascination. “Fuck. Fuck.”
Nicolò slides one finger smoothly in and then out of his mouth in a way which makes Yusuf whine in his throat at the sight, his own cock drooling. He waits for Nicolò to slip his finger down to his nipples, but the other man barely touches them, as if he means to tease himself. Yusuf’s breath hitches at the thought, blood pounding in his ears–
And then it’s gone entirely, because Nicolò bends one knee, widening his legs, and reaches down between them instead.
Yusuf doesn’t have a good angle to see exactly what Nicolò’s doing, but he’s no fool; he knows. He still hasn’t drawn breath and he might die and Nicolò’s mouth is open, the muscle shifts under his skin and his arm is moving enough that it’s not hard to tell he’s rubbing circles with his finger around –
Yusuf’s spare hand has slipped from his sac to rub deep circles on his thigh, and if he could think at all he would be grateful for that, because when he comes he clutches involuntarily the flesh under his fingers so hard he nearly draws blood. As it is, he barely notices, so swamped with pleasure that he feels almost outside of his body, the sheer force of his climax pressing in on him so heavily he can’t even cry out his release.
When he swims back to the surface, gasping because his body forgot to breathe properly without Yusuf fully occupying it, Nicolò is still stroking himself, more furiously now, groaning in his throat as if he’s close, but not quite there, and it seems both unfair and impossible not to help him, but Yusuf can’t speak, can barely do anything but breathe, so instead he reaches over and strokes a hand down his friend’s side.
Nicolò lets out a gasping moan, shuddering into the touch, and it’s so wonderful, the skin under his fingertips and the joy exploding in his heart, that Yusuf knows instantly he’s not going to be able to stop. He caresses Nicolò’s side again, this time slowly, deliberately, and the other man gasps out blasphemies in Zeneize at his touch.
Feeling half-drunk, Yusuf trails his fingers further, watching Nicolò’s rhythm devolve as Yusuf soothes his hand over the other man’s side, his upper thigh, his hip. He spreads his fingers so his smallest finger is aligned with Nicolò’s hipbone, his thumb pressing into a shapely buttock. Every thrust vibrates through his hand, Nicolò’s passion echoing through his body, threatening to reignite his own.
“Nicolò,” he manages, almost clearly. Nicolò cries out – “Please, please –” and then he’s arching his back and spending so violently that Yusuf leans back in surprise, pulling his hand away as an afterthought. Nicolò judders when Yusuf’s fingers brush across his hip, hissing as he works himself loosely through the aftershocks.
Yusuf leans back against the pillows, shaking more with the unexpectedness of how much he feels about this than with the pleasant remnants of his own climax. He watches as Nicolò lets his hand fall, collapses back into the mattress, chest heaving, eyes closed. There’s a quiet beauty in the slack, blissful line of his body that Yusuf wants to write poetry about. Later, when his mind is less afire, when he’s not already hardening again.
He wonders, after a minute or so has gone by, if Nicolò has fallen asleep, if he should cover him up or let him lie there, whether or not it would be kind to wake him to wash (it is a necessary distraction from the other things he cannot help wondering) – but then Nicolò takes a breath, laughs a little, and says, voice only slightly wobbly, “I need to wash.”
Yusuf laughs in agreement, not because it’s funny but because his blood is fizzing strangely in his veins and he cannot do anything else. At least Nicolò is not angry he has violated their arrangement.
“I’ll get some water,” he offers, but Nicolò shakes his head against the pillow.
“You filled that whole barrel from the well, earlier. I’ll go.” He gives that half-laugh breath. “As soon as my legs will hold me.”
I feel as if I should apologize, Yusuf almost says, but he can’t bear to quite yet. It’s not quite right, regardless. Rationally, he knows he should apologize – that doesn’t mean he’s able to feel it. Right now, all he can feel is confused surprise, continued arousal, and a horrible, wonderful tugging in his chest.
Eventually, Nicolò levers himself to his feet, and Yusuf tries not to stare unguardedly at his ass as he leaves.
It’s not as if he didn’t know it was something men got up to between themselves. Yusuf himself has never really gotten further in bed (or out of it, more often) than rubbing off on each other through their clothes, not with anyone but Nicolò – and Saima – but he knew perfectly well how one might use another man, if he was willing. (Although, oddly, he supposes he has done less with Nicolò than his other encounters. It doesn’t seem so, thinking of it.)
But he’s never really thought of it as an activity involving himself. There were doubts as to whether it was really pleasant, and he could never contemplate allowing or asking for such a thing himself – although of course back then his hypotheticals had been vague and without a specific man in mind, on either end. Perhaps it would have been different if he had.
Perhaps not, Yusuf thinks, realizing vaguely that he has begun grinding the heel of his hand into his groin. Perhaps the act itself would be painful, or awkward, or unsatisfying, but still the thought of it fires his blood in a wholly unexpected way, and he’s already more than half hard again.
It’s not fair to put all this lust on poor Nicolò, who maybe was just intending to touch himself, and what does it matter where, but the memory of his hand between his legs, his arm moving, has Yusuf groaning as he tips his head back against the pillows. Why wet his finger if he hadn’t intended to do more with it than caress himself?
This is foolish, because Nicolò will be back any minute, and what will Yusuf say then, but he doesn’t want to stop. He thinks about how he couldn’t see properly, it was no kind of show for him, meaning Nicolò must like it for its own sake, must truly enjoy–
Heat races over his skin and he shudders. Maybe it would be worth it to try, to see if, just by himself, it explains the dazed way Nicolò’s mouth had hung open, the way he’d cursed like he couldn’t help himself, sucked his finger wet in a moment as if he had practice… “Ahhhh,” he groans, letting one hand flutter at his thighs while he pumps himself slowly.
It feels so good, not frantic this time, just leisurely, almost decadent, that maybe he’ll just do this, just sit here and think about it and let his mind go hazy with pleasure, no hurry…
“Oh.”
Yusuf pries his eyes open to see Nicolò in the doorway, still naked, basin in his hands. He’s surprised, but not shocked. Yusuf ogles him shamelessly, but still feels himself flush. “Uh. Sorry?”
“Are you?” Nicolò asks, not without humour. He sets the basin down carefully.
“No,” Yusuf admits. “Sorry.”
Nicolò laughs at that, and it chases itself up and down Yusuf’s spine and makes him shiver. “I thought you had finished.”
“So did I.” He groans, running his free hand restlessly up and down his thigh. “I… in a minute.”
“Don’t hurry on my account.” Nicolò sits on the bed once more, and Yusuf moans, because if they get really started again, it might kill him.
Instead, Nicolò moves closer, kneels next to him. Their skin is almost, almost touching, not quite, Yusuf can feel the heat of him. “You look like you want to do something with your hand,” he murmurs, touching Yusuf’s unoccupied wrist with one finger. It feels like a lightning-rod for desire. Yusuf pants open-mouthed.
“Yes, maybe, yes, something,” he chokes out eventually, words coming slow as molasses.
“Give it to me, then,” Nicolò tells him softly, pulling gently at Yusuf’s hand. Yusuf lets him have it, lets him curl his fingers around the fleshy part of Yusuf’s palm, stroke the back of his own free hand against Yusuf’s fingers, whisper meaningless encouragements so close to his ear. The pleasure builds and builds until finally he’s spilling over the edge, not a thundering rush of fulfilled desire but a gentle release so sweet he almost cries out.
After a moment, Nicolò lets go of his hand and shifts away, and Yusuf blinks himself back to coherent thought.
“Are you – do you need–?” He reaches out, hands shaking a little.
Nicolò isn’t completely soft himself, anymore, but he says “No,” and gets up to fetch the basin and cloth. Yusuf allows him to wring it out, but insists on cleaning himself up, even if he’s lost a little of his dexterity for the moment.
Finally he says, “I know we agreed…”
Nicolò’s mouth twitches with what Yusuf suspects is chagrin. “Yes.”
Emboldened by what’s just happened, Yusuf suggests, “There’s touching and then there’s touching.”
Nicolò raises an eyebrow. Go on, his face says.
“We agreed no… touching. If I remember properly.”
“Oh, of course.”
“It would be impractical never to touch each other, when we live so closely. In fact, I believe there have been many instances–”
“Yusuf.”
“Hm?”
“You’ve won the debate.” Nicolò’s smile somewhat belies the sternness in his voice. “Stop talking.”