theoldguardkinkmeme | Fills Post

Fills Post

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He wakes unexpectedly, perhaps three or four hours later. It’s not a sharp awakening, and it takes him a moment to place what woke him. The sensation of actually being comfortable and relaxed, of having slept and enjoyed it, distracts him.

But the air is a little cooler than it should be on his face, and there’s a quiet sound of footsteps and a crackling that tells him that it was the fire being stoked and stirred which roused him.

Maybe Nicoló is restless, or cold, or perhaps he was already awake, but Yusuf suspects not. He feels a little warmer for reasons unrelated to the fire.

He can hear the other man pad quietly back to his bedroll and lie down. He sighs, settles himself in, and murmurs, ‘Mmh.’

Yusuf’s eyes fly open. A moment later he’s ashamed of himself, and more than a little chagrinned. He knows, or he really ought to by now, the difference between what a man sounds like when he’s taking his pleasure and what he sounds like enjoying a more basic one like a warm bed – and this man particularly so.

And besides, what of it even if Nicoló did want a pleasant moment to himself? He was hardly obligated to invite Yusuf to participate.

Still… they’re both awake now, and it is a pleasant idea. Yusuf stretches, grunting a little as his back cracks, and squirms just enough that Nicoló can hear it, if he’s listening.

He is.

There’s something that sounds very much like a small chuckle, and then a longer, more ostentatious moan of ‘Mmmmmmmm…’ Yusuf smiles into the darkness, getting a hand around himself and pulling leisurely as his cock starts to fill.

He sighs, pleased and warm and just content. There’s no urgency, only an easy, relaxed pleasure. He thinks idly that maybe this isn’t so different than sitting side by side with Nicoló, staring wordlessly and companionably into the fire together. It’s just another way of doing that.

He runs his thumb over the head of his cock and groans appreciatively in that way Nicoló seems to like. His reward is a quiet moan and the soft, somehow intoxicating, sound of the other man’s body rocking against the blankets and the dust of the cave floor.

Yusuf pushes his own blanket down a little. He’s much warmer than he was only minutes ago, and it has very little to do with the stoked fire. The cave is still cool enough that the brush of the air against his bare chest makes an agreeable full-body shiver work its way from his head to the soles of his feet.

“Uhh,” Nicoló moans. “Oh...” Out of habit, or reflex, something like it, Yusuf turns his head toward him, only to realize in the very second he opens his eyes that this time, they are not across the fire from each other, with only a hazy leaping blaze visible if passion gets the best of them. The fire is in the cave mouth, they are behind it, and Nicoló is not four feet away and entirely visible.

The sight is so breath-taking that Yusuf stops.

He stops everything, entirely, not even moving so much as to let go of himself because he doesn’t actually remember what his hand was doing. It’s not even lust – Nicoló’s head is thrown back, neck arched in a perfect line, firelight and shadow flickering against his bare skin, golden and red where the flames kiss it. He’s so beautiful. The shadows smudge along his neck and shoulder, leaving him dark and pale at once. They dance with the light. His nose casts a less ephemeral darkness across one cheek, a dusky patch like the night brushed her fingers against his face. His hair is dark against the glow, but the light catches one strand as it falls over his forehead, gleaming down its length. He looks holy, like he should be captured in every art there is, like he should be forbidden.

Then he groans low, his throat rippling, adjusts his arm beneath the blankets and arches as he strokes himself and – oh. Now it’s lust.

Yusuf whimpers, so swamped with heat he forgets, for a moment, that there’s anything he can do about it. It’s a broken, distressed sound, unlike anything he can remember making before, and although Nicoló’s body jerks with it, his eyes open, and Yusuf can see him frown slightly in concern.

Then he sees Yusuf.

There’s a moment, an endless second, where the entire world feels balanced on the edge of a blade – and then they’re falling. The air punches out of Nicoló’s lungs in a way that makes Yusuf want to throw his head back in exultation. He holds back, because if he does that, he can’t see Nicoló’s face, can’t see Nicoló’s eyes fix on his throat, trail down his exposed torso, flicker over and over to the undulating fabric hiding Yusuf’s hand and his groin. Nicolo’s eyes are always beautiful, but in the firelight they’re dark, like something primal and unescapable. Yusuf feels as if he’s about to be consumed, like he’s already being consumed, by his own lust or Nicoló’s he could not begin to tell.

Nicoló’s hand outside the blankets clenches into a fist for a long moment. Yusuf watches the tense muscles in his wrist and thinks of the strength there, thinks of touching it, thinks of the power of Nicoló’s restraint and the gift of his capitulation, thinks of running his lips along that muscle and having those fingers around his own arm and –

He slams his eyes shut before he can lose himself completely, fingers squeezing at the head of his cock to stop himself from spending. He’s vaguely aware that he’s moaning nonsense sounds in the night air.

When he gets his eyes open again, Nicoló meets them for barely a second. He jerks his gaze away so quickly Yusuf is almost wounded, but he forgives it immediately, because Nicoló’s hand unclenches and he uses it to sweep away his blankets so quickly it’s as if he’s been unveiled as a gift from God.

He’s too beautiful to exist, Yusuf thinks dizzily. The firelight plays over Nicoló’s body like a captivated lover, over his chest, his muscled legs, his sides. It would be easy to imagine that it was actually touching him, that he could feel every caress, the way he gasps and moans and runs his hand up and down his slick, dripping shaft, too loose on purpose. Yusuf has never objected to the prohibition of capturing living beings in art, but he thinks he cannot bear the thought of this man, this moment, existing only in his imperfect memory. Nicoló was made to be drawn and it’s blasphemous but he doesn’t care, which is worse, and he doesn’t care about that either.

Nicoló watches Yusuf’s eyes rake across his body, watches them fix on his cock, and moans repeatedly, panting. He tightens his fingers, pumps himself harder and faster, and the idea that this is for his benefit sends lightning zigzagging down Yusuf’s spine. He gasps “Yes,” trying and failing to match Nicoló’s pace, too frantic for restraint, and the other man’s gaze snaps up to meet his, eyes somehow even darker.

Then, he lifts a little, turning halfway onto his side, one leg falling away, the other raised and bent at the knee to fully display himself.

Yusuf lets out a sound he barely recognizes as human, and then he’s up on one elbow, shoving his remaining blankets away with his free arm. He collapses back to the cave floor so hard he cracks his head and probably bruises his back, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t notice, what is pain when this is before him? The head of Nicoló’s cock is displayed perfectly as he works his shaft, and Yusuf wants to touch it, to close his lips around it, to lie here forever and watch, just watch, to trace the patterns of firelight with his tongue until neither of them know how to speak. Nicoló’s breath is escaping in hitching grunts with every stroke, and his throat ripples with them. They’re too close together, Yusuf thinks, dizzy with want, drunk with lust. He can’t see it all at once. How can he be expected to choose?

Nicoló’s eyes are locked on Yusuf’s groin, on the way he’s jerking himself hard and fast, too hard, too fast, but he could hardly do otherwise, the fire is dancing on Nicoló’s skin but it is inside Yusuf’s, he can feel Nicoló’s gaze on his cock and it’s like touch, like a shiver of cold air, like desire itself, nothing he’s ever known, and –

Nicoló gasps, “Yusuf–” and the world vanishes into pure sensation as he shakes apart.

As soon as he has any semblance of agency back, Yusuf claws his eyes open, desperate to see, to experience, to not miss a moment. This is so much more precarious than anything that came before and he may never get it again. His whole body trembles as he works himself roughly through the aftershocks, oversensitive and moaning but unable to stop. Nicoló’s eyes are shut, his head tipped back, the entire length of his body still on display, hand working faster now as he fondles his sac with the other, body tense and shaking, so close. Yusuf has been accused of overusing the word but this is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, and when Nicoló gasps his name again he can feel his whole chest constrict around it, holding it tight inside him.

It’s half-impulse but entirely deliberate, the way Yusuf moans “Nicoló,”, more than sincere but wanting to see if that will do it – and he’s well rewarded. Nicoló’s eyes open, caressing Yusuf’s face, his throat, before focussing intently on the way Yusuf is still desperately pumping his softening cock. Yusuf flushes, gasps out “Nico–” less deliberately, and before he can form the last syllable, Nicoló is convulsing, groaning out, “Ah, ah–!” so loudly he drowns out his own name on Yusuf’s lips, and spilling all over the cave floor.

“Oh,” Yusuf says involuntarily. “Oh.” He lets go of himself, hissing, too sensitive for touch but mourning the loss of it. He’s overstimulated and euphoric, and he thinks he might be able to go again in a minute, but he doesn’t want to. Nicoló is gasping into the blanket-covered stone with his eyes shut, shoulders shaking, and this is perfect already.

I’m sorry to hear this past month has been hard, I hope it gets better. Regardless, I hope you’ll continue writing – I think I said it before, but if this is you on your first smut tries, I might die of overheating when you find your rhythm lol. Here're my line reactions!

I love these opening lines.

The description of being cold, wet, and miserable and just wanting to be dry and warm again is such a throwback to my rowing days! XD

dying @ joe being like “staring into the fire together and jerking off together are totes the same thing”

He runs his thumb over the head of his cock and groans appreciatively in that way Nicoló seems to like. His reward is a quiet moan
omg they’re totally performing for one another aaaahhhh these fools!!

w o w @ joe waxing poetic about Nicky’s orgasm face by firelight. Also I love that Joe’s wonder and awe for Nicky shines throughout this chapter.

OMG they made eyecontact!! and then they said each other’s names!! ahhhhhh

I love Nicky tossing his blanket off for Peak Drama and Driving Joe Nuts.

the fire is dancing on Nicoló’s skin but it is inside Yusuf’s
love this line

Ah, thank you. :) :) I don't mean to overshare, I just really wanted to make it clear how much everyone's absolutely unanticipated encouragement and enthusiasm means to me. <3

I realized after I wrote it that apparently I am two for two in these things happening because of water-related bad days, which is... weirdly specific, I'll have to make sure it doesn't keep happening. XD

(Look, you're not entirely wrong about the 'watching the fire' comparison but Joe's not wrong either, he's just drawing the wrong conclusions about what that means. Maybe he should be reconsidering his take on the firewatching instead. :P)

I grew up in a house with two masonry heaters and a wood stove, and we had two campfire pits, so I had a very clear picture of how the firelight would make everything look. I love fire, tbh. (I also love water, I didn't make it the bad guy of this fic on purpose, stg.)

Thank you SO much for this super-detailed comment, live-blog style commentary is like my absolute favourite thing.

Oh man, Joe. Sure. No point in overthinking spending most of a mutual masturbation session thinking about how beautiful your friend is. That's normal. Nothing to unpack there.

I just want them to touch each other so badly.

Lying four feet apart barely separated by a fire because they're not gay. Something something meme, hahah.

They're awful and I love them.

Hey, how's he supposed to know that? He's not used to this 'mutual masturbation with my immortal-life partner' thing. It could be normal! Anything could be normal! :P

I was going to be like 'I'm working on it!' (I am), but, uh... the next installment, which I just have to edit, is an entirely PG-13 conversation in which they agree to not do that at all. So sorry.

(But I am working on it! XD)

*bites wrist to muffle screaming*

God this is so fucking sexy and good. HNG

I so badly want them to touch but also the YEARNING

Prompter again

While daily updates would be great, please take care of yourself first. RL happens.
I am so sorry about your coworker! That's terrifying. I hate that there are people like that customer walking around, and even more that I can't use a time machine to drop them in the middle of a World War I battlefield.

I loved the beginning! You did a great job describing how cold, wet and miserable they are - so many great details! I swear I started to feel colder, too, it was that effective.
The way Yusuf and Nicolò talk to each other is just perfect, too - just the right tone of teasing. You have their voices down really well! Nicolò wanting to see him as an old man (or as close as it gets) was sweet.

The next part, oh wow, the next part! That was so hot... *deep breaths*

I was blown away by the use of firelight: Yusuf getting lost in how beautiful Nicolò looks, the way you describes the light and shadows (the night brushed fingers against his face!), the putting on a show bit, Yusuf who wants to draw this moment... They said each other's name! It's all just amazing.

I'll be rereading this story a lot, just so you know. You are truly a great writer.

Thank you. <3 The drama in my life is all of the 'people-being-shitty-to-each-other' variety, which is unpleasant, but does mean that the only thing really stopping me writing is being tired from work sometimes. So I'm not going to beat myself up if updates aren't daily (does anything ever go as fast as the first two chapters of a thing? Research says no), but I am aiming for fairly quick updates.

Gaaaaah, that is such a great compliment. (I mean, not that I wanted to make you cold and miserable or anything, but you know.) I am so happy I'm flailing a little bit. Everything in this makes me so happy. (I grew up with a lot of fires, in and out of the house, so I had a really clear picture of how everything would look because of that, and I'm so so glad I managed to convey that, eee!)

Have I mentioned I love your comments? I love your comments.

So I realized that in between the unfinished draft of my first TOG fic and starting this one, I was writing something involving other accented letters, and as a result the first symbol in the insert box changed, and because I was basically going on muscle memory, the accent on Nicky’s name has been the wrong way around this entire fic. I have fixed it now. *facepalm*

This bit is, sadly, largely SFW. Sorry.

Part four, in which Nicky uses his mouth words (kind of)

*

Nicolò rarely tarries in bed after he wakes, but today he’s been staring at the roof of the cave for several minutes. When he rises, he’ll have to deal with unpleasant realities, like how the rain he can still hear will mean very little to burn if they stay and a wet, miserable journey if they leave, or how they’re running precariously low on food that isn’t dried meat and hard bread, or how he needs to do something about this new development with Yusuf.

It is roaringly stupid to avoid this by instead choosing to lie staring at featureless grey rocks and gloomily contemplating it, of course, so he is going to get up in just a moment. Just one moment.

Finally he does, because the predawn air is chilly, his clothes are by the dwindling fire, and his blankets have gotten so disarranged that he cannot keep himself entirely warm where he is without getting up to disentangle them. And if he’s going to do that, he may as well dress and build up the fire and prepare breakfast.

He doesn’t mind the chore ordinarily – it’s quiet and peaceful and he likes doing something useful with his hands – but the plain fact is that if the crackle of the fire doesn’t wake him (again), the smell of food will absolutely rouse Yusuf, and by then Nicolò needs to know what he’s going to say. (Not that he intends to open with it before breakfast – but he is not confident of knowing what, if anything, Yusuf might say, or when.)

The problem is, he thinks, rationing out their dried fruit and deciding he can afford to put berries into the cakes, that anything beyond… well, anything beyond the powers of reasonable denial in the morning, comes with complications. The idea of trying to negotiate an entirely physical arrangement makes him wince. That has never gone anything but badly in the past, the more so when he values the relationship. At best it fizzles out, often unevenly, and given their extremely permanent partnership, that could present a serious problem itself. Besides, such things inevitably escalate, and that will lead either to arguments, or to someone’s capitulation. The only thing worse than snapping resentfully at each other over the way they fuck would be seeing Lazzaro’s disdain on Yusuf’s face. Worse yet, feeling it on his own.

The idea of anything else… Nicolò’s heart turns over painfully in his chest, and he puts that thought aside quickly. No. That would possess the same complications, and its own unique ones besides. And regardless of whether he might be able to feel it, the idea of suggesting some sort of romantic passion to Yusuf in particular is inherently humiliating. The reality of their miraculous friendship is one thing, and Nicolò is not falsely humble in comparing who he is now to who he was some decades ago, but surely that is a bridge too far for anyone. It would be an arrogant assurance in his redemption to expect that sort of love from someone who has seen him at his truly execrable worst, one that he does not possess, and which is loathsome to him.

(And… he is beginning to think that if Yusuf said no, it would hurt. Not enough to estrange them, not so badly he wouldn’t be able to get over it in a year or two – but enough that he doesn’t like to contemplate it.)

As expected, the smell of the hotcakes cooking wakes Yusuf before Nicolò can examine the matter any further. Whether this is a difficulty or a blessing is uncertain.

“Mmph. Good morning.”

“The food will be ready soon,” Nicolò says lightly, testing its consistency so he doesn’t have to turn around.

“I need to wash first.”

Ah. Of course.

“You can go stand out there.” Nicolò tips his head to indicate the mouth of the cave. “That should more than suffice. Check on the horses while you’re at it.”

Yusuf grumbles good-naturedly about it, but he’s smiling as he drags himself to his feet. Nicolò looks away before he can get distracted, but he can’t resist one last glance before the other man steps into the rain.

“Yusuf.”

“Hmm?” The man in question glances back over his shoulder.

“Your hair is sticking up.”

This is greeted with laughter, which makes Nicolò smile. This isn’t a life he ever could have imagined appreciating, let alone choosing, but he’s glad of it. He can’t imagine risking this for some unknown reward made up largely of a repackaging of things he already has.

Neither is he coward or fool enough to let things lie and simply hope that they come good. He lets Yusuf dress and break his fast and wake up properly first, but they still have half a hotcake each when Nicolò takes a breath he really wishes were deeper and says, “There are some logistics we need to discuss.”

“Logistics?” Yusuf nibbles cheerfully at his remaining breakfast.

“I’d like to turn north before we’re entirely reduced to dried meat. You said there are cities…” He’s much less confident of the geography of… anywhere they’ve ever been together, compared to Yusuf, and he can’t recall the specifics of what was actually said a few weeks ago, before they crossed the river, so he lets the thought trail off.

“It’s a bit of a journey,” Yusuf says, frowning in thought. “Even chance we’ll find a village of some sort sooner than that, in that direction.”

“I’m not particular,” Nicolò says. He lets that lie a moment or two. “As well.”

“Hmm?”

Tipping his head gently to the side, Nicolò says, “Regarding last night.”

Yusuf flushes, a little, but he also looks pleased. “You didn’t seem to have any objections.”

Nicolò can do nothing but put his face in his hands and laugh a little, helplessly. “No,” he says, when he can manage it. “No. But leaving such things undiscussed can cause… problems, down the road.”

“Such things.” Yusuf squints at the fire, one eye squeezed shut in that way he has. “I confess to being unclear on exactly what is meant by such things.” He shrugs. “Perhaps it is a gap in my own experience.”

“In other words, you are too diplomatic to accuse me of being deliberately vague.” Nicolò smiles crookedly. “To be entirely honest, my vocabulary is lacking. I have no Arabic for this subject, and anything I know in Sabir is… vulgar.”

“Inconveniently, you have not properly taught me any relevant terms in Zeneize.”

“A grave and unintentional error.”

“Hah!”

“If I can convince you to make an attempt at the conversation despite this…”

They’ve relaxed a little, looking at each other again, but Yusuf turns his gaze back to the fire now. Nicolò breaks a small piece off his remaining breakfast and carefully eats it.

“Nevertheless,” Yusuf says slowly, “I would still like to be sure. This is… not quite a situation I have found myself in before.”

This could mean any of several things. Nicolò runs through them in his mind, knowing now is not the time for wry comments on immortality and former enmity.

“With another man?” he asks cautiously. Bless him, Yusuf actually laughs at that.

“It’s not a situation I’ve found myself in with a woman, either. But no – that is not… hm… not some sort of revelation to me, if that is what you mean.” He glances over, and Nicolò nods encouragingly. “But, ah… I was always meant to marry, which was not disagreeable to me, and I thought it best to wait until then for any…” he waves his hand to cover their lack of words, “such things. But the poor girl died of an illness, and nothing after that ever came to anything, and while I eventually stopped looking at it as a given future and holding quite such rigid standards for myself, I don’t believe I have the experience to know… what this,” another brief gesture, “encompasses. It’s not something I had ever imagined, but perhaps… mutual pleasant eavesdropping?” he raises an eyebrow, “is a common thing, in your experience?”

“I would not say so,” Nicolò says. Then, driven purely by impolite curiosity (and perhaps a vague sense of guilt), “So you have never…?”

“I have little enough knowledge of what two men may do together, beyond the obvious, though I know they kiss the same as women do,” Yusuf says bluntly. “It never occurred to me to consider they might… do things together without doing anything together. I know a little more of what it is to go to bed with a woman.”

That’s clearer. Clarity is something to strive for here.

“You know more than I about that, then,” Nicolò says, hoping it will lighten the mood a little. Yusuf does smile, but it seems less effortless than usual. “I’ve… more of the other sort of knowledge, enough to tell me it’s an easy thing to ruin friendships with.”

“Ah,” Yusuf says, nodding as if he understands the situation properly now. “So this isn’t about…”

“About?”

“Your church?” Yusuf suggests, shrugging. “Jerusalem, somehow? A cultural taboo of your people?”

Nicolò laughs, briefly. “There are any number of things the church would not approve of. I cannot say it stopped me even when I still… trusted them.” He doesn’t say believed, even though… What he believes about God is not so very much changed, but what he once believed about the church – it’s not necessary to explain every painful detail. “One is expected to be fallible, you know.” He frowns. “I don’t know that word. Taboo.”

“Forbidden,” Yusuf suggests. “Haram. Not just forbidden, but… horrifying? Adultery is forbidden, taboo is…” He tries a word in Arabic. Nicolò shakes his head. “With your sister?” Yusuf says, gesturing in the way that he is using to cover all their gaps in vocabulary.

“Oh,” Nicolò says, grimacing in involuntary disgust. “Incest. Yes. We have that too. A taboo against…” He pulls a face in lieu of finishing the sentence. “But for this… it depends where you are and who you associate with, I suppose. And which… which acts you’ve chosen.” He doesn’t say that consorting with a Muslim would be far more disgusting to his people than lying down with a man.

“This is your delicate way of informing me there are things you won’t do?” Yusuf grins a little, seemingly mostly out of habit.

“I think not setting boundaries is dangerous,” Nicolò says baldly. “None of this happened deliberately, and that concerns me.” He’d like to say there are things he won’t do, in this context, but he already knows he can be talked into them. Even knowing that the other man would look at him differently afterwards, he thinks Yusuf could still do it even more easily than Lazzaro. He would want to do it, and that would make everything worse.

“That is fair,” Yusuf acknowledges with a dip of his head. “I should probably have been concerned as well, but…” He shrugs. “I was enjoying myself.”

That surprises a laugh from Nicolò, a real one this time. “That is the problem, isn’t it?” They grin at each other for a moment.

“The truth is,” he says more seriously, “is that I never parted on good terms from any man I had as a… as a serious lover, and when I tried that sort of things with friends, it… was worse. And I could never be reckless with our friendship.”

“It would be awkward to hate one another,” Yusuf agrees, and then he winks.

Nicolò flushes, because Yusuf is unreasonably handsome and because he hates to be reminded of those early days on such casual terms and because what can he possibly say to that?

“No, no, you’re not wrong, my friend,” Yusuf says, after a moment of silently laughing at him. He leans back on his arms, watching the rain fall. “But would you call us lovers, then, O wise and experienced one? I thought we were only…”

“Enjoying ourselves?” Nicolò suggests. Yusuf jerks with surprised mirth and almost falls over; he straightens up, rubbing his shoulder.

“A hit,” he says. “You will teach me to make sport of you.”

“Regardless, I do not think two people can be considered lovers if they have not actually touched each other. And if we agree to stay on the other side of that line… there will be less risk of,” Nicolò shrugs one shoulder, “conflict.” Resentment. Guilt. Contempt.

“No more acting on impulse,” Yusuf agrees. “It is a wise decision.” He hesitates, his voice less sure when he speaks again. “But you do not wish to stop.”

Nicolò bites his cheek to prevent from answering too quickly, too eagerly. “No,” he says, quite calmly. “No, I don’t.”

It's me, the mouth words commenter! I love every second of this. I love how honest they are with each other and how they're still negotiating the culture clash along with all the rest.

Also you fucking idiot Nicky you're so obviously desperately in love with him how could you not know it?? You literally just said you would let him talk you into anything and then you're like haha as long as we don't touch each other it doesn't count oh my god I feel like the sexual frustration will kill me

Um, excuse me, he just means Joe is a very convincing negotiator?

No, I couldn't even keep a straight face while typing that.

Like, Nicky is at least AWARE that there is Feelings Stuff Going On here for him (he has, uh, reasons to have developed his self-reflection skills), but he's all tied up in how all his past breakups were contentious (and look, I don't know yet how much detail I'm going to be able to work into the fic itself yet, but he's definitely over-representing his relationship experience, because he thinks it amounts to more than it does). He's like 'I am being a realist, reality is difficult sometimes' and I'm over here just 'Dude, that's logical fallacy and your subconscious self-sabotage talking, have you considered that your terrible ex was just a jerk and not an example of how every relationship fails'. (He has not, in fact, considered that.)

Compare Joe, who's just cheerfully going with the flow, like, 'hey this is neat, I like it, hope we don't have to stop', no further analysis. It has its own pitfalls but he is so much less stressed out.

Anyway, I'm glad you like it! I got attacked with nerves after I posted, so your comment made me super happy. :)

you have so little need to be nervous my friend. I know that doesn't undo nervousness but I have rarely read fic I have been so deeply deeply invested in right from the get-go, the emotions and the dialogue and of course the sex are so spot-on it's unreal.

subconscious self-sabotage is SO REAL omg he's making his own life so hard. Also I really dig inexperienced Joe just being super into it it seems very very true to character

having been in nicky's position...he does know. but he's not letting himself think on it or act on it because joe hasn't give him any indication and it's unfair to lay all the emotional work on nicky.

OP here

I was unreasonably happy Nicky's name had an accent at all, so no worries!

So, you know what's a trope I detest? People not talking to each other - I know, I know, considering what I prompted, it sounds unbelievable, but it's true.
The point I am trying to make: I love that they talked. Absolutely adore it. Even more because they are actually digging themselves deeper, but in a way that makes perfect sense! It's perfectly in-character, too!
Also, with the way you write their dialogue, I could read 20 chapters of them just talking (though I immensely appreciate the NSFW parts, too!). The moments where they were at loss for the right terms was beautiful!

Loved Nicky's POV and what we could see of Yusuf - loved that he's rather casual about the whole situation in spite of having less general experience.

Loved Nicky's reflections and the glimpses of his backstory we got. Why do I have a feeling we'll be itching to break Lazzaro's nose, eventually? Scratch that, I'm itching about that already.

There are simply too many wonderful sentences for me to point out a favorite, I'd just end up copying and pasting the whole chapter. Wonderful work!

I mean, you specifically mentioned 'they talk about what counts/doesn't count but then whoops it's too sexy' as a thing, and that's WHY I included it, because it just... is better that way. You are a smart person.

Fun fact: I went to pick a random Italian name off behindthename, because I need to stop naming some random Genovese backstory character Francisco in every fic/story idea all the time (Nicky's dad? Nicky's first boyfriend? Nicky's squash-loving parishioner? They're all named Francisco. Why? I don't know.), but I wanted something less familiar to a modern-day English speaker than, like, Angelo or Roberto, and as I scrolled idly by, I saw that 'Lazzaro' used to be used in Ye Olden Dayes as a word meaning 'leper'. So I picked it, because he's a dick. Sorry not sorry?

Thank you again for your comments, I am 1.5K+ into the next bit (and, uh... a third of the way done? maybe?) so I promise it's coming. <3

Aw yessssss. More cake!!!

OP - point, but I never specified *when* they'd talk (at least I don't think I did), so the fact that it happened quickly? Awesome.

"His name was Lazzaro and he definitely deserved it" (mangled quote).

Thank you for all your hard work!

This is such a great fic, I love how they inch closer to each other continuously. So sensual and such fun to read their banter!

I'm really enjoying this fic! I hope you post on AO3 when you're done.

So I'd apologize for taking almost a week, but this ended up being much longer than expected so here it is. :) Thanks so much for all your kind words. (And yes, when it's done I will put it up on AO3.)

**

It’s nice to be in a city again.

It’s been a while – several years, perhaps? – since they visited one large enough to really feel like a city to Yusuf, who is perhaps biased as a dyed-in-the-wool son of merchants. It’s been even longer since it was this large without causing some kind of worry or other to twist through his spine and intestines and make the press of humanity or the noise and bustle of the market or the hundreds of people one passed on the street into a threat instead of something purely to be enjoyed. Was it in al-Qahirah, where he was finally less worried Nicolò would start murdering people or knife him for his possessions and disappear into a crowd before he revived, and more worried he would just… disappear into a crowd, never to be seen again?

That was years ago now, but it’s strange to think about.

Somehow, it is less strange to think that he used to be afraid one of them would have a public accident, be run down by a horse or fall off some height, and be seen reviving by a large group of people who would do miscellaneous terrible things in reaction. Of course, that in itself makes him feel strange. How many times can it be strange that something is not strange, he considers, until it ceases to mean anything but that you have crawled up your own ass? Probably at least two or three more levels.

Nicolò is, in fact, lagging behind again, but Yusuf is not really even concerned they will be inadvertently separated. They have been recommended an inn, and even if they did somehow lose track of each other, they could meet there. Still.

“Nicolino, anyone would think you object to bathhouses and real beds,” he turns to say, but trails off, because Nicolò isn’t just walking too slowly – he has stopped at least ten meters back and set down his pack. It looks as if he was going through it, but he’s not doing anything now, just staring at it, or maybe at his feet. Yusuf retraces his steps partway, but stops when Nicolò raises his head. There is pure agony in his face that hasn’t been there in years. Yusuf wants to go to him, to help him, but it brings so much memory of pain and resentment and anger rushing back that he cannot even move.

“Yusuf,” Nicolò says miserably. “I have been robbed.”

For a moment, Yusuf just blinks. “You have been… what?”

“It must have happened in the market,” Nicolò continues, forcing the words out almost reluctantly. “I had my purse on me and… I must – I must not have noticed –”

“You were robbed?” Yusuf repeats.

Nicolò’s eyes flash for a moment, but apparently he is too guilty and dejected to bother getting annoyed.

“Why were you going through your pack, if you were carrying your purse?” And why were you carrying it on you as you travel through a city full of cutpurses and thieves? he wants to ask, but doesn’t. (It’s possible it’s not entirely fair; Yusuf himself had stopped to buy tangerines.)

Nicolò sighs, shoulders slumping. “I hoped I had… remembered wrongly. That perhaps it was still in my pack.” He shrugs. “It was foolish.”

“I cannot believe you were robbed.”

“Yusuf…”

“How?” Yusuf inquires of a pedestrian. The man widens his eyes as if to say oh, a lunatic and continues walking. “Nicolò is careful with money. He is cautious in strange places. He is calm and watchful and not easily rattled –”

“Yusuf.”

“How,” Yusuf rounds on him once more, “were you possibly robbed? I cannot filch candied dates out of my own saddlebags at night without you having opinions at me.”

“Since you’re acknowledging it to be filching–” Nicolò takes a breath. “I don’t know. I’m not used to... cities like this.”

Yusuf frowns at him. They’ve been in any number of cities. He himself has never been to Genoa, but it is certainly… a city. “What in God’s name are you talking about? You never got robbed in Tarabulus or al-Qahirah.”

“I speak Arabic. My Persian isn’t any good. It’s… distracting.”

“What do you mean, distracting?”

“I don’t know! If I’d been paying proper attention, the money wouldn’t be gone now, and it is, so clearly I wasn’t. I’m sorry, Yusuf. I’m not used to being surrounded by people I can’t understand. It must have… taken up more of my attention than I realized.”

Something about this is still not quite right, but they’re perilously close to a quarrel, so Yusuf consciously relaxes, and says loftily, “An old man like you, one would think you’d had more diverse experiences.”

Nicolò does not look cheered, and the wide web of implications which Yusuf had been annoyed at individually come together suddenly and knock him firmly on his metaphorical rear like a complete and utter fool.

“The money,” he says. Nicolò nods, his face a picture of defeat.

“Yusuf…”

“Did you separate–”

“No,” Nicolò says.

No. Of course not. Why would anyone keep their savings somewhere safer than where they kept their spending money? What earthly reason would any sane adult have to take such ludicrous precautions with their money? It’s not as if it would prevent an enterprising thief from making a beggar out of them instead of merely embarrassing them when they try to buy baklava.

He’s about to say as much, but if the other man’s expressions are anything to go by, he can read it all on Yusuf’s face already. He doesn’t argue, just purses his lips bitterly and sighs.

Ordinarily, this would be a foolish mistake that Nicolò would be hearing about for months; Yusuf would pay for anything needed with his portion of their money, and maybe lord it a bit over his friend’s head that he was graciously providing dinner and lodgings and whatever else.

Ordinarily, Yusuf has not spent almost all of what they had left after travel expenses to buy anyone from slavery and set them up with a new life, necessitating the sale of his and his companion’s horses to keep them in funds. Funds which Nicolò has been carrying, because the disagreeable but not particularly hard-trading Pisan they’d sold them too had insisted on dealing with only him.

(Yusuf remembers being reluctant to cede the actual bargaining, but impressed by how much Nicolò had managed to get. That part seems like a particularly cruel joke.)

“The inn,” he says, trying almost as hard as he can not to sound mournful, and not really succeeding.

“I’m sorry, Yusuf,” Nicolò says, voice laden with regretful sincerity. “I know how much…”

He’s made no secret of how much he was looking forward to a few nights in a proper bed, so there’s no point in pretending this doesn’t hit hard. He has enough to ensure they won’t starve or have to sleep on the streets, but it’s ‘clean and the food is edible’ money, not ‘highly recommended khan in the middle of the city’ money.

“We can always stay here a little longer and work for our keep,” he says as cheerfully as possible. “And maybe on the way to Baghdad we’ll be attacked by bandits again.”

That makes the corner of Nicolò’s mouth twist, finally. It’s no compensation for this drastic change in their plans, but it’s something.

“Let’s hope they’re rich bandits.”

*

The room is smaller than anticipated.

The bed…

They went into this with the tacit understanding that Yusuf would get the bed, unless it was unexpectedly large, since he isn’t the one who lost all of their money, but now – he doesn’t know if he can fit on that bed. He doesn’t even know if he wants to.

Yusuf and Nicolò exchange a speaking look.

Finally, Nicolò sighs and steps properly into the room. “We did pay for it.”

“I paid for it.”

“And I will be paying for that for the rest of eternity,” Nicolò mutters. He sits cautiously on the bed. “Maybe…” When he relaxes, insofar as no longer holding himself rigidly upright, it begins to make alarming noises, and he stands up hurriedly.

“Maybe not,” Yusuf says.

Nicolò considers the bed for some time. Then he removes the mattress and lays it on the floor, before pushing the bedframe (rather too easily) into a corner.

“It’s clean,” he offers.

Everything in this place is, although it’s maybe the best that can be said for it.

Yusuf eyes the mattress distrustfully. It’s thin, but serviceable. Probably.

“I’ll bring up some water.” Nicolò pauses at the door. “Yusuf, you do know I am wretchedly sorry.”

Yusuf is too dispirited to be encouraging, but a lackluster reassurance feels harsher than anger. He shrugs and raises his eyebrows, what can you do, and tries not to look too devastated. In a few years, he knows, this will be an amusing anecdote. In four or five decades, it will probably be hilarious, joining incidents like the time Nicolò had tried to stab him and instead fallen directly into a river, the death caused by a horse lying down on him (all right, maybe he’s still a little sore over that, but it’s been forty years and Nicolò finds it very amusing), and the camel that wouldn’t stop eating Nicolò’s hair.

If only that made him feel better now.

Lording it over Nicolò won’t help matters. He could leverage the other man’s guilt, but he’ll only feel worse. When they reach Baghdad, he can enjoy a wealth of sly digs and lofty insistences that he carry the money, but at present he’d rather they make the best of a bad situation together.

To that end, Yusuf attempts to make them a more welcoming place to rest. The mattress is certainly not big enough to share, but it is at least long enough to make a head-rest they can both make use of. He spreads out their usual bedrolls out of a sense of finality, even though it’s early in the day yet, and feels almost pleased with the result. It’s a depressing makeshift bed when compared to a proper caravanserai, but contrasted with sleeping on bare rock in the wind, or, for that matter, with two lonely, distrustful pallets meant for lying half-awake on while still clutching your sword-hilt, it’s not so bad.

*

It’s been a long time since Yusuf shared a bed with a comrade. In fact, as he thinks back, it might be decades, not only years. He doesn’t know what to think about that. It feels lonely, but he doesn’t know if it’s the solitary nights or the weight of his true age and what that means that causes this ache in his chest.

(There have been inns, of course, where he shared with Nicolò, but often they would be put in with others, cramped together with strangers in a way that is not the same at all as the comfortable way he used to share a pallet with a friend, or with one of his brothers.)

The two of them have always had their own space – first from abhorrence of any other prospect, then because their wary truce would not have survived the shock of too much intimacy, later still because one of them would always be on guard, and now… well, now it’s probably nothing but habit.

It would make putting on a show without touching each other rather difficult, he supposes, determinedly pushing away any bittersweet memories of curling up next to Faruq as a boy after whispering together half the night, or sharing a bedroll with Omran against the chill while travelling. That life isn’t his anymore, and if he’s going to reflect on it, better during the day, with distractions around him and the sun shining, than in the dark in a strange room with nothing to stop his mind from spiraling bleakly into eternity.

He rolls over onto his back, from which position he can view enough of Nicolò’s face that he sees the sigh before he hears it.

“Are you going to stop fidgeting at any time tonight?”

“Yes,” Yusuf answers, feigning affront.

“Good,” Nicolò says, throwing his arm across Yusuf as if to hold him still. It’s comfortable, so Yusuf doesn’t complain. He’s missed this, the warmth and companionship of lying close with another person. They shared a bed for the first time in, what was it, al-Qahirah? No, Tarabulus. It’s such a contrast to what came before that he can’t help smiling.

It’s then, at that thought, that something which has been niggling at the back of Yusuf’s mind all day comes clear. Staring into the dark, he says, “You told me you hated Tarabulus because you could barely understand the Arabic people spoke there.”

“What about it?”

“Why is this different from that? You know some Persian.”

“I do not have your facility with languages, Yusuf.” There’s a smile in Nicolò’s voice. “My ability after a set amount of time and teaching – patient though it may be – is not equal to what yours would be after the same.”

This is, perhaps, fair.

“But surely the streets of Tarabulus would have been just as distracting to you, and you were not robbed there.”

Nicolò sighs. “Perhaps I was lucky, Yusuf.”

“Nicolò…”

After a moment, he says very quietly, “It was different in Tarabulus because I was not the outsider.”

There is absolutely no way for Yusuf to parse this absurd statement, but Nicolò doesn’t make him ask. He draws a shuddering breath and continues, “When you’re stupid enough and arrogant enough to think the world is made for people like you, you can go anywhere in the world and the people around you will still be the foreigners, not you yourself.

“By the time I was no longer so young and so… foolish, I was quite used to Ifriqiya. I didn’t feel a stranger there.”

The word foolish has never encompassed so much quiet and unremarkable condemnation.

“Such things are not best contemplated in the dark,” Yusuf responds, more gently than he had anticipated.

Nicolò takes a breath that might be a poor attempt at a laugh, or might be him biting back tears. He rests his chin on Yusuf’s shoulder. “My world is much less dark with you in it.”

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.”

“Yes if we hold hands or pet each others hips while masturbating it’s totally platonic”. GUYS

(I love this so much I can’t articulate it)

Oooh Yusuf slowly realizing he has all of the feelings I love it. And yeah. Platonic touching while masturbating. Definitely a thing.

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (5b/?)

(Anonymous) - 2020-10-19 07:42 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (5b/?)

(Anonymous) - 2020-10-27 04:17 (UTC) - Expand

OP here - I'm having a very difficult day, so expect no complaints from me on principle alone. Selfishly speaking, it's great timing for me.

I loved the start with the loss of money (Sorry, Nico): it's a fantastic detail! First because the number of mundane problems and annoyances the Old Guard must have encountered in their lives is just... staggering. Second because it just fits perfectly, it's a thing that happens. Third because relationships are that, too - everyday annoyances that sometimes lead to fights.

I loved Yusuf's disappointment, the fact that there are still flares of resentment, Nicolò's acknowledgment...

And the second part, ooh, the second part! I love their teasing and dancing around the subject.
I may have facepalmed a little at the "talking about the weather" bit because honestly, who exactly are they trying to fool here? Also, hyper competitive idiots. Don't let them think I don't know exactly what they are doing.

Loved that they couldn't keep their hands off each other, Yusuf trying to breach the subject tactfully (I'd say "taking the long way around" but I'm not sure it translates accurately) and Nicolò just agrees given a quarter of excuse.

You are an amazing writer!

Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (3b/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (3b/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (3b/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (3b/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (3b/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (3b/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (3b/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (3b/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (3b/?)

Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (4/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (4/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (4/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (4/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (4/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (4/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (4/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (4/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (4/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (4/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (4/?)

Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (5a/?)

Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (5b/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (5b/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (5b/?)

Re: Give An Inch (Fall A Mile): Joe/Nicky, Moving Goalposts (5b/?)