“Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad al-Kaysani, betrothed to Duke Nicolò!” a footman announces, very loudly, as Yusuf steps into the main hall, which has been utterly transformed; there are so many candles there is a very real risk of fire, and what isn’t lit is draped in bright cloth and the best tapestries. Yusuf feels transformed a little, too, dressed like all the other men here; but at heart he feels still himself.
He sees the mayor and his wife, and the portmaster, and all the dignitaries Nile has been introducing him to, as well as many she hasn’t. He sees Andromache in a dress, for once, though he has no doubt she could fight in it as easily as her uniform, and Nile splendid in yellow, and Nicolò –
Nicolò is in green and silver, which Yusuf appreciates at the same time as he knows it’s probably not for him. His hair shines under the light. Yusuf has a sudden, newfound appreciation for breeches when they’re on Nicolò’s legs. It would almost be scandalous except that it’s the same for every man in the room. Actually, Yusuf isn’t sure it’s still not scandalous.
He goes over and does exactly as Nile had told him, when he asked her, it is appropriate for him to do; he takes Nicolò’s hand, and kisses it. Nicolò’s hand tightens, just a fraction, around Yusuf’s. He doesn’t have any other reaction, but when Yusuf looks up, Nicolò’s eyes are fixed on him. It reminds him of their bout with swords.
“I should make some introductions,” Nicolò says. “I have been remiss in that regard, it seems.”
He keeps his word, and does not quibble at any point when they are asked when the marriage date will be set, only says some vague things about arrangements. He looks at Yusuf a lot when he doesn’t quibble. Yusuf decides to be gracious about it, even though what he wants to do is drag him aside and ask what he’s actually thinking.
One of the introductions he makes is to a man called Merrick who, he tells Yusuf, was once chancellor for the duchy. Yusuf would have a lot of questions for him but it isn’t his place, nor the right time. He catches Nile looking at the man with daggers in her eyes, though.
Yusuf does have to dance, a lot; a lot of people want to talk to him, and they have many questions about his family and how the betrothal came to be. You can’t really talk in the formal dances they do here, with so many lines and changes of partner, but you can before and after. On the dancefloor he touches hands with Nile and Andromache and Nile’s portmaster and the mayor and the mayor’s wife and Quỳnh, lovely in red, but not Nicolò. He tries to speak with the mayor and portmaster both, because he is curious about what he and Nile discovered, and what sort of men they really are, but they avoid him. That is probably its own answer. They also seem to be avoiding Nicolò’s brother’s man Merrick.
He loses track of Nicolò until a dance is called that Yusuf particularly recognises, because Quỳnh told him it was considered very daring; the volta. It features a lot of leaps, and lifting and turning your partner. The centre of the hall clears out a little; it is well into the night, and he can see people are tired.
Nicolò appears, as if by magic. He does not look tired, which also must be magic. “Are you still dancing?”
“Yes,” Yusuf says, and lets Nicolò lead him out. The dance goes by in a blur of light, of motion, of Nicolò under his hands. He hasn’t touched him this much – not ever, since he came to this city. All he remembers afterwards is the music, and Nicolò’s eyes, which he cannot look away from.
Somehow they end up at the back of the hall, afterwards, near one of the small side doors hidden behind a large vase filled with foliage and flowers.
“It will go at least an hour or two more,” Nicolò says. “And it is nearly midnight.”
“I need some air,” Yusuf says, fanning himself. “If we –”
“- go out here, we can get to the courtyard,” Nicolò finishes, “but I think by now you know this place better than I do.”
Yusuf is aware that there are still eyes on them – how can there not be – but heads turn when a new dance is called, and without the need for consultation, they both slip out the side door.
They don’t make it as far as the courtyard, though. Nicolò stops and turns to Yusuf, saying, “I hope you enjoyed that; we were making shameless use of you, I think you know.” Yusuf says “Yes, I know,” and – buoyed up on that dance and the unreality of the evening, the way it all seems a moment out of time, despite the heavy undercurrents of politics – kisses Nicolò.
Nicolò kisses him back. At first it’s almost polite; Yusuf is disappointed. Then he puts his hands on Nicolò’s trim waist, where he’s been itching to put them all evening, and Nicolò stops being polite. He buries his fingers in Yusuf’s beard, licking demandingly against the seam of Yusuf’s lips and then, when Yusuf’s mouth opens on a moan, plundering it like he’s been waiting forever for the chance. He presses in with his body, too, pushing Yusuf against the wall. One quick hand slides down Yusuf’s chest, under his jacket, stopping to rub over one of Yusuf’s nipples. The soft white linen of his shirt feels almost coarse against it, but it’s alarmingly good. Yusuf hadn’t known they could do that. He gasps against Nicolò’s mouth.
Nicolò chuckles, the vibrations travelling through them both. It’s the sound of someone who is getting what he wants, but it’s also joyful. Yusuf pulls back to kiss the corner of his mouth, the hinge of his jaw, to feel him smiling. Then Nicolò captures his mouth again, insistently, and slides his hand down, across the line between Yusuf’s body and his leg. It curves under Yusuf’s thigh and hitches it up and a little to the side, as he slides his leg between Yusuf’s, pressing in so Yusuf’s cock is caught deliciously between them.
Yusuf is harder than he’s ever been in his life; his shirt is already sticky against his back, from the night of dancing; he’s going to come right here against the wall if Nicolò keeps this up, and he doesn’t know if he wants to or, more importantly, if he’s supposed to. But he can’t stop grinding against Nicolò, can’t stop kissing him. He can feel Nicolò hard against his hip, like a brand. Nicolò moves his other hand to cup the side of Yusuf’s face. Yusuf’s hands tighten on his waist; his hips jerk, out of his conscious control; absolutely nobody, no dirty story he has heard or poem he has read, told him that it would be like this. He’s really not sure who’s being seduced here. He thinks it might be him.
“Are you close?” Nicolò whispers against his mouth, sounding delighted. His hand tightens on Yusuf’s thigh.
“Yes,” Yusuf has to admit. “You do this to me.”
Nicolò makes a sort of muffled moan, kisses Yusuf very hard, and then says “Go on, go on, I want to see this.”
If Yusuf had any thoughts left at all for being embarrassed, he might have been embarrassed at the fact that this is what does it for him, Nicolò saying I want to see this. But he doesn’t, because he’s too busy thrusting up and coming against Nicolò’s hip, his thoughts dissolving into white fire, pleasure pulsing through him until he’s not sure where he ends and Nicolò starts.
Nicolò mutters something very profane – if Yusuf understands it correctly – against Yusuf’s mouth, then draws back a little.
“I think,” he says, “we should take this to my chambers.”
Yusuf nods frantically, chest still heaving; his mind has cleared just enough to consider the inevitable prospect of someone – probably Andromache; it feels like a thing Andromache would do – coming across them.
FILL: Yusuf/Nicolo - arranged marriage with a twist (8/10)
He sees the mayor and his wife, and the portmaster, and all the dignitaries Nile has been introducing him to, as well as many she hasn’t. He sees Andromache in a dress, for once, though he has no doubt she could fight in it as easily as her uniform, and Nile splendid in yellow, and Nicolò –
Nicolò is in green and silver, which Yusuf appreciates at the same time as he knows it’s probably not for him. His hair shines under the light. Yusuf has a sudden, newfound appreciation for breeches when they’re on Nicolò’s legs. It would almost be scandalous except that it’s the same for every man in the room. Actually, Yusuf isn’t sure it’s still not scandalous.
He goes over and does exactly as Nile had told him, when he asked her, it is appropriate for him to do; he takes Nicolò’s hand, and kisses it. Nicolò’s hand tightens, just a fraction, around Yusuf’s. He doesn’t have any other reaction, but when Yusuf looks up, Nicolò’s eyes are fixed on him. It reminds him of their bout with swords.
“I should make some introductions,” Nicolò says. “I have been remiss in that regard, it seems.”
He keeps his word, and does not quibble at any point when they are asked when the marriage date will be set, only says some vague things about arrangements. He looks at Yusuf a lot when he doesn’t quibble. Yusuf decides to be gracious about it, even though what he wants to do is drag him aside and ask what he’s actually thinking.
One of the introductions he makes is to a man called Merrick who, he tells Yusuf, was once chancellor for the duchy. Yusuf would have a lot of questions for him but it isn’t his place, nor the right time. He catches Nile looking at the man with daggers in her eyes, though.
Yusuf does have to dance, a lot; a lot of people want to talk to him, and they have many questions about his family and how the betrothal came to be. You can’t really talk in the formal dances they do here, with so many lines and changes of partner, but you can before and after. On the dancefloor he touches hands with Nile and Andromache and Nile’s portmaster and the mayor and the mayor’s wife and Quỳnh, lovely in red, but not Nicolò. He tries to speak with the mayor and portmaster both, because he is curious about what he and Nile discovered, and what sort of men they really are, but they avoid him. That is probably its own answer. They also seem to be avoiding Nicolò’s brother’s man Merrick.
He loses track of Nicolò until a dance is called that Yusuf particularly recognises, because Quỳnh told him it was considered very daring; the volta. It features a lot of leaps, and lifting and turning your partner. The centre of the hall clears out a little; it is well into the night, and he can see people are tired.
Nicolò appears, as if by magic. He does not look tired, which also must be magic. “Are you still dancing?”
“Yes,” Yusuf says, and lets Nicolò lead him out. The dance goes by in a blur of light, of motion, of Nicolò under his hands. He hasn’t touched him this much – not ever, since he came to this city. All he remembers afterwards is the music, and Nicolò’s eyes, which he cannot look away from.
Somehow they end up at the back of the hall, afterwards, near one of the small side doors hidden behind a large vase filled with foliage and flowers.
“It will go at least an hour or two more,” Nicolò says. “And it is nearly midnight.”
“I need some air,” Yusuf says, fanning himself. “If we –”
“- go out here, we can get to the courtyard,” Nicolò finishes, “but I think by now you know this place better than I do.”
Yusuf is aware that there are still eyes on them – how can there not be – but heads turn when a new dance is called, and without the need for consultation, they both slip out the side door.
They don’t make it as far as the courtyard, though. Nicolò stops and turns to Yusuf, saying, “I hope you enjoyed that; we were making shameless use of you, I think you know.”
Yusuf says “Yes, I know,” and – buoyed up on that dance and the unreality of the evening, the way it all seems a moment out of time, despite the heavy undercurrents of politics – kisses Nicolò.
Nicolò kisses him back. At first it’s almost polite; Yusuf is disappointed. Then he puts his hands on Nicolò’s trim waist, where he’s been itching to put them all evening, and Nicolò stops being polite. He buries his fingers in Yusuf’s beard, licking demandingly against the seam of Yusuf’s lips and then, when Yusuf’s mouth opens on a moan, plundering it like he’s been waiting forever for the chance. He presses in with his body, too, pushing Yusuf against the wall. One quick hand slides down Yusuf’s chest, under his jacket, stopping to rub over one of Yusuf’s nipples. The soft white linen of his shirt feels almost coarse against it, but it’s alarmingly good. Yusuf hadn’t known they could do that. He gasps against Nicolò’s mouth.
Nicolò chuckles, the vibrations travelling through them both. It’s the sound of someone who is getting what he wants, but it’s also joyful. Yusuf pulls back to kiss the corner of his mouth, the hinge of his jaw, to feel him smiling. Then Nicolò captures his mouth again, insistently, and slides his hand down, across the line between Yusuf’s body and his leg. It curves under Yusuf’s thigh and hitches it up and a little to the side, as he slides his leg between Yusuf’s, pressing in so Yusuf’s cock is caught deliciously between them.
Yusuf is harder than he’s ever been in his life; his shirt is already sticky against his back, from the night of dancing; he’s going to come right here against the wall if Nicolò keeps this up, and he doesn’t know if he wants to or, more importantly, if he’s supposed to. But he can’t stop grinding against Nicolò, can’t stop kissing him. He can feel Nicolò hard against his hip, like a brand. Nicolò moves his other hand to cup the side of Yusuf’s face. Yusuf’s hands tighten on his waist; his hips jerk, out of his conscious control; absolutely nobody, no dirty story he has heard or poem he has read, told him that it would be like this. He’s really not sure who’s being seduced here. He thinks it might be him.
“Are you close?” Nicolò whispers against his mouth, sounding delighted. His hand tightens on Yusuf’s thigh.
“Yes,” Yusuf has to admit. “You do this to me.”
Nicolò makes a sort of muffled moan, kisses Yusuf very hard, and then says “Go on, go on, I want to see this.”
If Yusuf had any thoughts left at all for being embarrassed, he might have been embarrassed at the fact that this is what does it for him, Nicolò saying I want to see this. But he doesn’t, because he’s too busy thrusting up and coming against Nicolò’s hip, his thoughts dissolving into white fire, pleasure pulsing through him until he’s not sure where he ends and Nicolò starts.
Nicolò mutters something very profane – if Yusuf understands it correctly – against Yusuf’s mouth, then draws back a little.
“I think,” he says, “we should take this to my chambers.”
Yusuf nods frantically, chest still heaving; his mind has cleared just enough to consider the inevitable prospect of someone – probably Andromache; it feels like a thing Andromache would do – coming across them.