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[kyra-bane]

the old guard - kinktober day 9 - such dangerous things

rating: explicit

pairing: andromache x quynh

prompt: sensations in the dark

extra tags: pre-canon; pwp; introspection; POV quynh; cunnilingus; fingering; knifeplay

word count: 1541

notes: requested and prompted by @bronzestardust; i hope you like it! my first fic for these two and i looooooved writing it 

read on ao3 or keep reading below

Quynh’s never been worshipped like a god, but sometimes, she thinks she understands what it’s like.

There’s a headiness when Andromache tips her onto her back, spare clothing or bedding or just her hands, there, to cushion the fall. The knowledge that she could do anything, no matter how base or cruel, and that light would still shine in Andromache’s eyes, a keen desire to serve.

Andromache has been worshipped like a god. Several times over, by now. She knows that rush, Quynh thinks; Andromache could go now, even, anywhere, and they would be wrapped around her finger in moments, she could take her pick of the women, the men, have them kneel at her feet and shower her with compliments and, and…

Her toes curl. Andromache kisses down her thigh, licks a wet stripe that cools in the night air. Quynh can barely see her. The moon is hidden, tonight, and the stars are weak, but she feels Andromache’s teeth on her – just a scrape – and arches up into the touch.

“I want you,” she whispers and it is so silent around them that she can hear the ragged hint of Andromache’s breathing. Fingertips patter down her bare legs and she shivers.

Andromache has told her what it’s like, of course, to be worshipped. Quynh had laughed the first time – it was not long after they first met, and she had told Andromache she would never fall to her knees like that for anyone; Andromache had looked at her with surprisingly soft eyes and said, “Of course not.”

They had fought a hundred battles in between, those looks growing in intensity, until Quynh, ever impatient, could take it no longer, had deposited herself in Andromache’s lap and taken her mouth. Andromache had surrendered into it, gone lax under her hands and Quynh knew, then, some of how it felt.

She worries, sometimes, that her love is too sharp, all jagged edges that are designed to hurt because all she has known is hurt, but the only time she told Andromache that, her reply had been that maybe that was why Andromache herself had been left to walk the earth this way. That Quynh’s love was designed to hurt, perhaps, but Andromache heals, comes back from anything, and maybe she walked alone for so long because she had to prepare herself for her supplication.

Quynh has not brought it up again. Sometimes she remembers it and cries. Sometimes she remembers it and trips Andromache onto the nearest bed, rug, patch of grass, and does her best to show her that it does not always hurt, not anymore.

Now, Andromache licks over her, aim unerring even in the dark, and Quynh shudders and sighs as she comes back to herself. Her love has a single-minded intensity when it comes to battle, to worship – the two are intertwined, for her, with her rebirth in blood and war – and she utilises every second of experience now, licking Quynh open until she is begging for her, aching for her fingers, and when Andromache slides one in, then two, the stars flare brighter above her.

Quynh slides her hands down, over her own breasts, nipples pebbled underneath her calloused fingertips, and then down further until she gets one hand in Andromache’s hair. Every so often, Andromache pulls back to breathe and Quynh can picture the way she looks, curled like a big cat ready to pounce, face shiny and slick, fingers sliding in and out…

She slides a third in and Quynh groans, tightens her hand in Andromache’s hair. Andromache gets the hint; her tongue is back on Quynh’s clit, flicking over and over the way she likes, because her love is nothing if not a good study, and Quynh has never wanted anyone more than this woman – even if neither of them were immortal, she cannot imagine she would have been satisfied with anyone else.

Andromache pulls back again as Quynh’s back arches, her other hand rubbing circles over Quynh’s clit, almost too much, and she whimpers as she comes, the pleasure curling through her body, warming her from the inside out.

She knows Andromache wants to go again; it’s obvious from the way she mouths at Quynh’s thigh, but Quynh shifts her hips and she removes her fingers. She kisses a trail up Quynh’s torso, captures her mouth, and that’s when Quynh pulls the knife from under their hastily dropped pile of clothes and twists them over.

Andromache lands on her back, Quynh’s knife at her throat, and Quynh can’t quite see her expression, but she feels she is relaxed.

“Going to kill me, my love? I’m not sure it’ll take.”

Quynh laughs, bright and free, because she loves this, too, that she knows no other woman who would make jokes with a knife to her throat – again, immortality aside.

“Of course not,” she chides, because it would be a waste. She trails the knife down Andromache’s throat and hears her breath hitch. The darkness is not something she has to worry about; she knows her knives like they’re her hands, her fingers.

Andromache trusts her, as well – or at least trusts her body will heal, should Quynh actually decide to carve into her – for there is not a moment where she shies away from the blade. Quynh slides it over her breast, taps the flat of it to one nipple just to hear Andromache gasp. She replaces the blade with her lips, her tongue, and Andromache sighs up at the sky, but she does not move to touch.

Good. If this is what she chooses to give then, tonight, Quynh wants to give it freely, without interruption. She knows if Andromache dislikes anything, she will tell her.

The knife travels over Andromache’s ribs, down the curve of her hip, and only once does Andromache twitch, then hiss. Quynh lowers her head, licks until she tastes blood and finds the wound is already healed. She bites her way lower down, until she can smell Andromache’s arousal, and lets out a heavy breath against her just to hear her moan.

“Quynh,” Andromache says, her voice almost broken, and Quynh delights at the sound, a dark little pleasure thrumming through her veins.

She turns the knife in her hand and, hilt first, slides it along Andromache’s folds. It is metal, smooth, and warmed from the heat of Quynh’s skin. Andromache groans at the sensation – then groans again when Quynh follows the path with her tongue.

Quynh repeats the action again, and again, until Andromache is rolling her hips, begging her for something deeper. She shoulders Andromache’s thighs apart, thrusts her tongue in deep. She can only know how she feels, in this situation, when she’s aching for her lover to fill her, aching somewhere deep inside, but she thinks it’s the same as Andromache, now, from the way she curses when Quynh pulls back, replacing her tongue with two fingers.

She spins the knife around in her free hand, a safe distance from both of their bodies. She has an idea, a filthy, depraved thing that she thinks Andromache might like. Quynh withdraws her fingers, sucks them clean loudly enough that she knows Andromache can hear exactly what she’s doing, and then presses the hilt of the knife against Andromache’s fluttering hole.

“Tell me,” she says, she commands, because she has the power to give this, if Andromache asks.

“Yes,” Andromache says, sighs, and Quynh pushes the knife hilt in so, so slowly. It isn’t especially long, or thick, and she’s terribly aware of all the ways this could go wrong, but Andromache whines when Quynh starts rubbing her clit, thrusting the knife hilt in and out.

Andromache rocks back to meet each thrust, her thighs trembling – Quynh can feel her left, where she’s kneeling and it’s pressed up against her hip – and when Quynh knows Andromache’s close, when she curses every way she knows how, she tosses the knife aside and buries her face down there again.

She loves the feeling of Andromache coming apart on her tongue and tonight is no different; she grinds against Quynh’s face and Quynh laps up all that she can, doesn’t care about the slick wetness on her cheeks and chin, and when she digs her nails into Andromache’s thighs, Andromache comes, her body taut like a bowstring before she collapses back onto the ground.

Quynh still licks her, tiny kitten licks against her clit, until Andromache makes a disgruntled noise and shifts her hips away. Quynh laughs and climbs up next to her, kisses her jaw, her cheek, her lips.

“I did not expect that,” Andromache says when they part. Quynh teases her nipple and she exhales shakily, still sensitive.

“I thought it might be fun,” Quynh replies. “You did say you liked how dangerous I was.”

“I said I love how dangerous you are,” Andromache says. “And I love your clever mind even more.”

Quynh hums as Andromache hitches a leg over her hip, as she presses lazy kisses to her throat. Their love is a dangerous thing – they are two dangerous things – but Quynh knows danger better than she knows anything else and it means she’s never felt as at home as in this woman’s arms.

[kyra-bane]

the old guard - kinktober day 8 - in tongues

rating: explicit

pairing: andromache x nile; joe x nicky (minor, background, whatever, they’re always just THERE and IN LOVE 😅)

prompt: dirty talking

extra tags: post-canon; first time; fingering; face sitting; possibly some very bad russian i’m so sorry

word count: 1793

notes: for my lovely anon prompters (all two of you w h a t) who requested this specific pairing for this prompt - i hope it doesn’t suck

read on ao3 or keep reading below

They’re in the middle of a spate of quiet days. It’s been a while since Nile first died and they’ve taken on a couple of jobs since, courtesy of Copley, and Nile finds the overall dynamic really quite… comfortable.

She knows she’s not replacing Booker; for one thing, the spectre of him still does loom, albeit only in those quiet moments where his absence is sharply missed. For another, she’s just not him, too young, maybe, too curious, for certain – and the others seem to like that about her, at least as far as she can tell.

Today, everyone is relaxing. Well, Joe is outside, working out, but she, Andy, and Nicky are all in the sitting room of their safe house, silently enjoying each other’s company. Nicky is reading – and Nile has definitely noticed that his seat has the best view out of the window.

Andy is sharpening a whole array of knives very methodically.

Nile is trying to learn Russian.

They’d all had suggestions for her, when she’d said she had to learn a new language; but Russian is the one she’s picked because it’s tied, in such an integral way, to her first death, her first mission with them. Andy had smiled when she said it and Nile had tried to ignore the way that made her stomach twist because yes, she might live for a really, really long time but Andy has been around forever and is so out of her league it’s not even funny.

Still, Russian is difficult and Nile finds her mind drifting, wonders if she should take a nap.

She keeps watching Andy, the way she so carefully handles each blade and they’re deadly enough, of course, but even more so in her hands. It makes Nile’s mouth dry, to watch, and she really needs to stop or get laid or… something.

Andy looks up, catches her eye and smiles, like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Oh God, maybe she does – maybe Nile has been obvious to everyone but herself this whole time.

She forces her eyes back to her book but she can still feel the prickle of her skin that means Andy’s eyes are on her.

Well, two can play at that game. Maybe Andy isn’t as far out of her reach as she’s been thinking.

Nile pulls out her phone and does a couple of searches before she sighs dramatically, closing her book.

“Everything alright?” Andy asks. Nicky doesn’t even look up. He’s staring out of the window again.

“I’m just having trouble getting the imperative right,” Nile complains. Her heart is thudding against her ribs – she’s going out on a limb but she’s excited, too, for how right this could go.

“How so?” She’s still sharpening her knives.

“So, sometimes you use the accusative and sometimes the dative, right? I’m having trouble with the two.”

“Give me an example.”

Nile scrolls down the browser. “Okay, hm… ykusi moi soski.”

Andy looks at her and then very deliberately puts her knife down. “That sounds right,” she says.

“And blizivai moi klitor?”

“Yep.” She pops the ‘p’ at the end and Nile shifts in her seat. Nile chances a look at Nicky. He’s looking at his book again, as though he can’t hear them, but Nile knows he can. She wonders if he’s pretending to read or if he’s really not that interested in what they’re saying.

“Yebi menya,” Nile says to Andy and Andy grins.

“That a question?” she asks.

“None of these were questions,” Nile replies and when Andy’s eyes darken, she smiles in return.

Of course, that’s the moment Joe returns from outside. He pauses in the doorway, staring between the three of them and when he opens his mouth, Nicky surges to his feet, grasping him by the wrist.

“What’s happening?” Joe asks.

“We’re going out for dinner,” Nicky replies. “Come on, let’s go.”

Joe looks between them all even as he follows, brow furrowed. “What did I miss?” he asks, almost whines, as Nicky bundles him out of the door.

Nile hears Nicky’s, “I’ll tell you later, hayati,” and then the door closes and she and Andy are alone.

“Come here,” Andy says.

Nile uncurls from her chair, leaving her book and her phone where they lay, and when she gets within reach, Andy grabs her by the hips, tugs her into her lap. Nile steadies herself by clinging to Andy’s shoulders and for a moment, they just look at each other.

“Ti takaya soblaznityelnitsa,” Andy murmurs and Nile doesn’t quite know what she means, but she gets the gist.

“Kiss me,” Nile says and Andy does.

The kiss is harsh, both fighting for dominance, and Andy palms Nile’s ass even as Nile drags her hands through Andy’s hair. When Andy bites her lip she gasps, tastes blood, but then dives back in, shifting her hips so that she can grind down in Andy’s lap.

“I believe you said something about biting your nipples,” Andy pants against her throat, hands sliding under Nile’s shirt. Nile helps her pull it off and tosses it aside, then kisses Andy again.

“A little bit of pain makes it feel better,” Nile says and Andy scrapes her teeth down Nile’s throat. “Fuck, yes, like that. Makes me know I’m yours.”

Andy sucks at Nile’s skin, doing her best to leave a mark they both know will fade anyway. Nile pants up toward the ceiling. “Want you everywhere,” Nile says and Andy’s mouth is still on her neck but her hands are working to frantically tug open Nile’s jeans.

She gets them open, gets her hand inside and Nile’s so wet already that the slide of Andy’s fingers along her cunt is enough to make her moan. She slips two inside and Nile grinds down against her; it has to be uncomfortable but Andy’s tugged Nile’s bra down with her free hand, is mouthing at her breast.

“Oh fuck,” Nile says when the image catches up to her. Andy’s fingers are working her hard and fast – she bites Nile’s nipple, hard, and Nile lets out another jagged moan. She grabs Andy’s hair and forces her off, her head back, so that they can kiss again. “You’re so fucking good at this,” she murmurs against Andy’s lips, “I just want you to sit on my face, let me make you come, oh, please…”

Andy kisses her again, heel of her hand rocking against Nile’s clit and Nile comes hard, orgasm shaking through her.

Andy gives her a moment to catch her breath. She slides her fingers out slowly, wipes her hand off on a rag she’s been using. Nile presses open-mouthed kisses along Andy’s shoulder, up her throat, and when their lips catch again, it’s almost gentle.

“You said something about me sitting on your face?” Andy says, a while later. They’ve got Nile’s bra off, between them, and the cool air of the apartment has her nipples hard. Andy teases one between her thumb and forefinger even as Nile nods.

“Yes,” Nile says, then “Yes,” again, because she can’t imagine anything better.

“Get on the couch,” Andy says. “Naked.”

Nile tugs off her jeans and underwear and lays down on the couch. She turns her head to watch Andy undress, can’t help but touch herself at the sight of her. Andy’s eyes darken when she notices and she stalks over, sliding her fingers alongside Nile’s.

Nile’s back arches when Andy rubs her clit and, all too soon, Andy pulls her hand away. Nile licks her lips. “Let me taste you,” she says.

Andy straddles her, knee either side of Nile’s head and they’re precariously balanced but Nile is sure they’ll be fine. Andy lowers herself down slowly, and Nile strokes up and down the back of her thighs as she settles above her. She has one hand on the back of the couch and Nile tips her head back, up, slides her tongue along Andy just to hear her sigh.

She’s done this before – though it’s been a while – and finds her rhythm quickly, sucking on Andy’s clit when Andy grinds against her, pulling her as close as she can as she pushes her tongue in deep. Nile realises her fingers are pressing in a little hard, will leave bruises that will take days to heal on Andy’s skin, but Andy doesn’t seem to mind, reaches down and pushes Nile’s hands against her again.

“You’re good at that,” she says, and Nile scratches her fingernails down the outside of Andy’s thighs. Andy hisses, reaches back and slides two fingers inside Nile again, just so that she wriggles against the cushions.

It’s almost a race, after that, and Nile’s jaw aches and her mouth and chin are slick, she can taste nothing but Andy, Andy who’s fucking her with her fingers, three of them now, crooking in deep so that Nile tightens around her…

Nile flicks her tongue over Andy’s clit, looks up at her and Andy gasps out something that sounds suspiciously like Nile’s name before she comes. It spills over Nile’s chin and Nile laps at her gently, until Andy groans and lifts her hips.

She’s still got three fingers in Nile and has enough presence of mind, apparently, to keep fucking her, resting her free hand around Nile’s throat. There’s no real pressure; she’s stroking over that spot where Nile’s throat was cut with her thumb, the spot that should be scarred.

(The spot that wouldn’t have ever scarred, Nile realises, because it killed her, but something inside her is unfurling at the way Andy is touching her there, so gently, like she might still break.)

Andy rubs against her clit again and Nile pushes up against that hand, arches her back, and comes for the second time with a moan.

Andy kisses her. She seems to not mind the taste of herself; she licks into Nile’s mouth and Nile pulls her down on top of her, until they’re lying together, skin to skin, and Nile thinks she could get used to this.

“You really shouldn’t have done that in front of Nicky,” Andy says, before kissing down Nile’s neck and Nile quirks an eyebrow.

Andy shrugs. “I’m just saying, all the Italian you’re ever gonna learn now is going to be dirty as fuck.”

“Nicky? Really?”

“Joe’s the romantic,” Andy says. She settles her head on Nile’s shoulder. “Not that he doesn’t… you know. But Nicky is filthy.”

Laughter bubbles out of Nile and when she looks back at Andy, Andy’s smile is soft, indulgent. She runs her hand down Nile’s side. “Let me know when you’re ready to go again,” she says and pinches Nile’s nipple again.

Nile runs a hand through Andy’s hair. “Ready when you are.”

[kyra-bane]

the old guard - kinktober day 7 - make your choice

rating: explicit

pairing: joe x nicky; andromache x quynh (very background)

prompt: sharing a bed

extra tags: PINING; pre-slash; pre-canon; mutual masturbation; jealousy (only a bit tho)

word count: 4058

notes: this one was requested by @gentlesleaze and i hope you enjoy it!! follows on from across the fire, which follows on from (not) sight unseen - this mini-series should be wrapping up with prompt 26 😏

read on ao3 or keep reading below

It is all getting a bit much for Yusuf.

He had thought, after the first time, that Nicolò would insist they should talk about it, that he would be so riddled with guilt that he would be able to do nothing else.

Only, Nicolò had not said a word. He had been gone before Yusuf had woken for fajr and had returned after, hair damp, his smile soft. They had not spoken about it that day and Yusuf had thought about broaching the subject when they lay down to sleep that night, but that had not seemed like a good time, either.

Instead, he had waited.

And waited.

And then when he had worked himself up again, which was entirely his own fault, of course (though he cannot help it; his eyes are drawn to Nicolò’s strong hands, to the way the muscles in his arms tighten when he swings his sword, to the ever-shining light in his eyes), he had excused himself one night, like before – and, like before, he had heard Nicolò’s hitching breaths along with him.

It has been six months since that first time and now Yusuf is lying on his back, hand on his cock, and his grip tightens when he hears Nicolò whimper. They did not speak, last time – a sudden fit of pique had overcome Yusuf, when he had heard Nicolò rustling around on his bedroll – and that was the first time he had seen Nicolò concerned, the next morning, eyeing Yusuf as though he might disappear.

“What are you thinking of, Nicolò?” Yusuf asks tonight.

Nicolò hums. They have never done this in daylight, never with the fire still burning, and Yusuf craves the sight of him. He has seen Nicolò naked, naturally – they have been travelling together too long for him to have not. But it would be different to see him in the throes of desire, even if he did not touch.

“I ache, down there,” Nicolò says, and oh, he is already so close, Yusuf can tell. “I want to be full, I want to feel his hands on me, holding me where he wants me…”

He lets out a choked-off moan and Yusuf breathes deeply through his nose. He still has not asked who Nicolò thinks of – perhaps it is no one at all.

He hopes Nicolò thinks of him, but after all this time, it seems unlikely.

Still, he imagines it along with him; imagines digging bruises into Nicolò’s pale skin, considers how hot and tight he would be around him. He would have to go slow – he would never wish to cause Nico pain – but their bodies heal so quickly that he would likely be used to him in seconds. He would hold him down and he hopes the first time would be loving and gentle and everything Nicolò would want from him, but he suspects if he ever did get the chance, he would lose all semblance of patience very, very quickly.

“Tell me,” Nicolò says, breathing hard now, “Tell me what you think of.”

Yusuf’s heart skips a beat. This is new. He spreads his legs a little wider, slows the glide of his hand on his cock. “He’s beautiful,” he says and Nicolò’s breath hitches. “Not soft, not really, but pliable under my hands. And when I push him down he spreads his legs for me, begs for me, like he might just die if I don’t fuck him, then and there.”

Nicolò groans. It’s a throaty sound and Yusuf shudders. He’s close – but then he always is, when they do this together.

“And then?” Nicolò asks. He sounds strained, like he’s holding off his own orgasm, and Yusuf licks his lips.

“And then I do. He’s already slick, already fingered himself open for me, so I can just slide right in. We fit together like we were made for each other and he tries to pull me deeper even as I fill him up because all we want is each other.”

“Fuck, Yusuf,” Nicolò says and Yusuf keens, comes with a sudden, short shock, because it’s not only the first time he’s heard Nicolò curse when they’ve been doing this – it’s also the first time Nicolò has said his name.

From the sound of it, Nicolò has heard him, is stroking himself faster until he comes, too, his moan a noise that Yusuf will never tire of. He stares up at the sky. Every time they do this, he thinks he should go back around the fire. Nicolò is probably a boneless mess; he could lick him clean, coax him into sharing all his fantasies and work to make them come true–

Only, he can’t. He doesn’t know whether Nicolò was ever truly celibate, but he is certain he never had relations with a man, at any level. He has to take the lead from Nicolò on this and trust that he will get there.

“Good night, Nicolò,” he says.

Silence. Not just silence; a lack of noise that indicates Nicolò is thinking, before he replies, “Good night, Yusuf.”

Yusuf is not sure how much longer he can take this.

***

He lasts through the rest of their journey, though he wakes up plastered to Nicolò’s back, hard as a rock, on more than one morning. If Nicolò notices, he does not say anything.

He lasts, too, when they are protecting a merchant’s caravan and are forced to share a cramped tent. Of course, that is easier – there are people enough around and although Yusuf has no qualms about exactly who he is, he knows others are more hesitant, even hostile.

He lasts even through Nicolò’s increasingly curious glances, because a look is not intent; or at least, not yet. A romantic, optimistic part of him says it will be, in time: that they will be together so long that knowing how to love one another will come as easily as knowing how to breathe.

For now, there is still that space between them. Yusuf fears filling it with the depth of his own feelings and leaving no room for Nicolò’s.

Occasionally, he does not think of it at all.

They travel from city to city, and when they reach this one, when they are told there is a room, yes, but it only has one bed, Yusuf does not hesitate in taking it. They are travel-worn, tired; it has been a long few months and he wants to rest.

Still, he eyes the floor when they enter the room. Aside from a handful of times, they have not spent the night apart in years, but that has always been a matter of choice. One bed is not a choice.

Nicolò lets him wash up first, though he, too, is dead on his feet, and then stumbles through his own ablutions. Yusuf sets out his bedroll and Nicolò turns, one eyebrow quirking at the sight.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought I would–”

Nicolò’s lips twitch. “Are you not too tired for that, tonight?”

“Not that! I thought you might like the bed.”

“I mean, I know we are safe here but if you do not wish to sleep beside me, you could–”

“I do,” Yusuf says without meaning to, an honest admission, and Nicolò smiles.

“Then get in bed, Yusuf,” he says, and the note of command in his voice has Yusuf nodding despite himself.

He supposes Nicolò has made the choice, then.

Yusuf settles on his side, pressed back against the wall, and Nicolò climbs into the bed in front of him a few minutes later. When Yusuf still maintains the distance between them, Nicolò huffs, reaching back until his fingers land on Yusuf’s arm.

He tugs him forward and Yusuf goes, sliding his arm around Nicolò’s waist. Only then does Nicolò appear to relax, all the tension seeping out of his neck and shoulders. Yusuf rests his forehead against the back of Nicolò’s neck.

“Good night, Yusuf,” Nicolò murmurs, halfway to sleep already now, it seems.

“Good night, habibi,” Yusuf replies.

He does not fall asleep until after Nicolò’s breathing has evened out. When he does, he stumbles immediately into a familiar scene.

They have been having the dreams ever since their first deaths. They were one of the first things they connected over, actually; once they knew well enough how to communicate with each other, at least.

The two women are like them, Yusuf is sure. They are both warriors, and sometimes he feels their age so keenly, he wonders how they can bear it. His dreams are never coherent, flashes of death, of laughter, of fury and stolen moments and he wonders if he will meet them, one day.

Tonight is both familiar and not, all at once.

He already knows the women are in love. Nicolò knows too, though they have not spoken of it. It is clear in the way they are when they are together, in the brush of skin Yusuf feels against the back of his hand, the bright close up of smiling eyes.

Tonight, they are celebrating their love. Yusuf cannot call it anything else. They kiss and he feels a phantom of it on his lips; hands roam and his skin prickles. He wakes when one bites the other on the thigh, then grins softly, and realises two things straight away.

He’s hard.

Nicolò is awake.

The only reason they both are apparent is because Nicolò has gone so still he does not appear to be breathing, except where he is pressing back against Yusuf, hips twitching.

Yusuf lets out a heavy breath and Nicolò turns in his arms.

“I saw–”

“I know,” Yusuf says and Nicolò kisses him. It’s frantic, messy, but Yusuf doesn’t have the sense to slow it because he can feel Nicolò pressed against him and he’s hard too, deliciously so. They rock together, pant into each other’s mouths, and when Yusuf squeezes Nicolò’s ass, Nicolò goes boneless, letting out a little whimper.

Something about that knocks Yusuf back to his senses. He lifts himself up and wonders when they rolled because Nicolò is spread out beneath him, hair mussed, eyes still heavy with sleep, lips swollen from where Yusuf bit him, at least once.

“The dream,” Yusuf says and Nicolò blinks once, twice.

“The dream?” he repeats.

“We are…” Yusuf waves a hand between them. “The dream. It got to us.”

Something like hurt flicks over Nicolò’s face. “Oh,” he says and his voice has gone small but Yusuf will not have him regret this, in the morning. “I thought…”

He chews his lip and Yusuf wants to kiss him again. He pushes the desire firmly aside. “It was the dream,” he says. He will have Nicolò make a conscious choice; there is too much to consider, otherwise. “We should sleep.”

Nicolò takes a deep breath, but nods. “Alright,” he says and when Yusuf climbs back to his place on the bed, Nicolò turns his back. Yusuf reaches to put his arm around him again but Nicolò tucks in on himself, all that tension back in his shoulders, and so he withdraws his hand.

He does not turn his back. He watches Nicolò’s breathing until he has to get up and pray.

***

They go to Malta not long after that. It is a pleasant island – more than pleasant, really – and it is not long before they carve out a quiet life for themselves. Yusuf knows it will not last forever, but he enjoys that there are people who know them here, that they have goats and chickens and a little house they can call their own.

Nicolò goes to the market every other day and almost always returns with a small treat for Yusuf; sweets or oil for his beard or quill pens and ink, so he can draw. He does, nightly, often as Nicolò prepares dinner. Sometimes, Nicolò’s eyes on him are heavy, so much so that Yusuf cannot breathe.

It has been months since that night in their bed and they still sleep side-by-side, Yusuf’s arm around Nicolò’s waist. Nicolò is always awake and out of bed before Yusuf, ostensibly to feed the goats, and Yusuf fears, one day, that their time is running out.

Maybe they need time apart, he thinks, as he watches Nicolò move deftly around this small space they share. Or maybe he does… Nicolò does not wish to approach the subject, clearly, and if it is because he does not know how to let Yusuf down gently, then Yusuf can solve that problem himself.

Only, he does not wish to leave Nicolò alone, either. Anything could happen – and he trusts that Nicolò can take care of himself – but if something were to go terribly wrong, Yusuf would have no one to blame but himself.

They climb into bed that night and Nicolò makes a contented sound as Yusuf presses up behind him.

“Are you going to the market tomorrow?” Yusuf asks. Nicolò’s ribs rise and fall under his arm.

“Yes.”

“Can I come, too?” Usually he would find something to do in the day; there is always something to be done. But if he is going to leave, then he would prefer to spend more time with Nicolò, first.

It is counterintuitive and will make everything more painful, but he cannot help himself.

“Of course,” Nicolò says. He sounds surprised; probably because Yusuf is asking. It is not as though they have never gone to the market together before.

“Thank you,” Yusuf murmurs.

He is sure Nicolò wants to say something else but he does not, and Yusuf sleeps lightly as a result. When he wakes before dawn, Nicolò is still in bed beside him. His brow is furrowed, even in sleep, and Yusuf wants to smooth the lines out with his fingers, kiss them away.

Instead, he climbs out of bed and prepares for fajr.

Nicolò wakes sometime after that and they tend to their morning chores before setting out for the market just before midday. Yusuf knows Nicolò wants to ask what has changed, but he does not, and they spend the walk talking about erstwhile things: the goats, who all have individual personalities but one thing in common (they all vaguely dislike Nicolò), the good summer weather, what they might have for dinner…

The market is busy and they both get to work, separating only to find each other again. Nicolò is not quite as good at striking a bargain as Yusuf would like but he does appear to have improved from when they first met. Yusuf secures some baklava, which he knows Nicolò will enjoy after their dinner, but when he turns this time, Nicolò is nowhere to be seen.

Yusuf turns in a circle, then starts walking through the stalls. Nicolò would be easy enough to spot, in most other places, but Malta is such a mix of people that it takes Yusuf longer than he would like.

When he finally does see Nicolò, he stops. He is speaking to a merchant – or a merchant’s son, perhaps, as the man is younger than both of them, albeit not by much. They clearly know each other, standing close, smiling, and when the stranger touches Nicolò on the arm, Nicolò does not push him away.

It is clear Nicolò has been caught up in their conversation enough that he has forgotten Yusuf is there and Yusuf wonders if he should leave.

No. Nicolò is not being rude; Yusuf is being irrational. He sighs and walks toward them.

The stranger sees him first, smiles up at Nicolò, and Nicolò is beaming when he turns, making Yusuf feel twice as bad about his thoughts.

“Yusuf!” Nicolò exclaims. “This is Amir. Amir, Yusuf.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Amir says and he seems to mean it. He speaks the same Arabic as Yusuf does, Yusuf notices, though he probably knows a handful of other languages, besides.

This becomes evident when he turns back to Nicolò, says something to him in Ligurian, far too fast for even Yusuf to follow. Nicolò shakes his head, the tips of his ears going pink, and Yusuf is not sure he wants to know what he is missing.

“I, uh, am going to head back,” he says, shifting the baklava from hand to hand.

“Oh!” Nicolò nods. “Of course, we should go. It was good to see you again, Amir.”

Amir does not seem put off by Yusuf’s attitude – does not seem surprised by it, in fact. He says his goodbyes to both of them and Nicolò follows Yusuf back through the crowd in apparently high spirits. He chatters to Yusuf all the way home and Yusuf dwells on what he saw – Amir’s smile, that casual touch, obviously welcome, and the simple fact that Nicolò has never made it clear to Yusuf that he wants him. Wants more.

By the time they reach the house, Nicolò appears to have realised something is amiss; but it can wait until after the chores are done. Yusuf leaves the package of baklava on the table, his fingers sticky from it, even through the paper, and sets to helping. Hours later, everything is done and Yusuf stops Nicolò before he goes to make dinner.

“Yusuf, I am hungry–”

“Then have some of this,” Yusuf says and presses the baklava into Nicolò’s hands. “But we need to speak, first.”

Nicolò frowns and sits. Yusuf paces and so Nicolò eats a piece of the baklava, eyes fluttering shut at the first taste. Yusuf looks away, his mouth suddenly dry, and forces out, “I am going to leave.”

“We have to leave so soon?” Nicolò replies. He puts the baklava down, licks honey from his fingers. “I thought we would manage a few years more, at least.”

“No, Nicolò, I am going to leave.”

“What?”

Yusuf shrugs, trying to look calm even though his heart is pounding and he almost can’t catch his breath. “I think it is time to… I should find those women we dream of. Bring them back here. You can stay, it is safe, and then we will all be reunited.”

Nicolò just stares at him, and the look on his face is similar to many of the times Yusuf stabbed him – shocked, and in pain – and Yusuf flees into the bedroom. He pulls out the bag he last used on their journey here. He needs to pack; now that he’s said it, he needs to be out by nightfall.

Yusuf digs around for clothes – his clothes – and suddenly realises they’ve been sharing; they’re both of a height, both built similarly, and he isn’t sure what to take.

When he turns, Nicolò is looming in the doorway.

“You are really going to do this?” he asks. He sounds hurt and sad and angry.

“You will be fine here, without me,” Yusuf replies. “You have friends here, you will pass a few years in peace…”

“You told me you would always be here for me.”

That stops Yusuf in his tracks. It was not quite what he had intended by what he had said, but it was true all the same.

“I cannot be,” he murmurs and he’s staring at his bag; he can’t look at Nicolò. “Not right now.”

“Why not?”

Yusuf looks at Nicolò and Nicolò stares steadily back. Can he really not see it? Did he not feel it, that night, how much Yusuf had wanted him – how much he has wanted him, even before Nicolò saw him with that stranger?

“Because this is killing me, Nicolò,” he all but shouts. “And I need a break, I need some time away so that I can trust myself to be around you.”

Nicolò takes a step into the room. “I told you I was ready, Yusuf,” he says. “Or, maybe not told you but I think I made it clear enough. You certainly made it clear you thought I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“You were half-asleep, Nicolò, I cannot take advantage of you like that!”

“I kissed you,” Nicolò retorts. He runs a hand through his hair. “Do you trust me with your life, Yusuf?”

“Yes.” No hesitation; he knows it in his bones.

“Then give me the courtesy of trusting me with my own.”

Yusuf sighs. “I could not be certain–”

“I have been trying to show you every day since,” Nicolò says. “Everything I see you might like, every bit of news I think might lighten your heart – and I didn’t want to ask again because I did not wish to be rebuffed like someone who did not know what he was asking.”

“But you and Amir…”

Nicolò rolls his eyes. “He is from your homeland. And yes, I am sure you saw the way he looks at me, from the way you greeted us, but it meant I felt secure in telling him how I feel about you and he has been helping me to find gifts for you.”

Yusuf thinks he might actually die. He has assumed the whole time that Nicolò’s silence represented disinterest; instead, here he is, presented with full evidence of that interest, because Nicolò has been trying to give him space, just as he has been trying to give it to Nicolò.

Nicolò sighs, all the fight draining out of him. “We need to talk about this,” he says. “Are you still leaving?”

Yusuf looks at his bag. It is small and sad on their bed. “No.”

“Good. Then I will make dinner.” He glances to the window. “It is almost time for maghrib.”

He leaves Yusuf in there, alone. Yusuf prays but his heart is not in it; his mind spins around what Nicolò has just told him, and he knows they are both at fault but he has been assuming that Nicolò’s inexperience is the same as naivety and they are not the same at all.

Yusuf stays in the bedroom until dinner, not out of cowardice but because he is turning things over in his mind. What if he had trusted Nicolò, after the dream? What if he had rounded the fire, any number of times?

They eat in silence and Nicolò cleans up, after, as Yusuf fetches his sketchbook. He draws Amir from memory – which turns out to be an unflattering sketch, tinged as it is by his hurt and jealousy, and Nicolò nibbles at the baklava, watches him from under his lashes. Yusuf sets down his quill, once, opens his mouth, and Nicolò shakes his head.

Yusuf has a thousand questions, a thousand thoughts, and as his quill flows across the parchment, he orders them in his mind. By the time they are readying themselves for bed, he almost knows which question he wishes to ask first.

Nicolò indicates for Yusuf to climb in first and then lays in front of him. Yusuf doesn’t reach for him and so Nicolò huffs, turns on his side so they face each other.

“We should talk about this,” Yusuf says into the quiet space between them. It is dark, sure, but there is light enough from the moon that he can see Nicolò’s eyes.

“Not tonight,” Nicolò replies. “We say too many things in the dark, thinking they do not count that way. This conversation will have meaning, Yusuf.”

Yusuf lets out a sigh and Nicolò reaches, stroking soft fingers along his cheekbone. Yusuf wants to kiss him – it would be so easy to lean in – but holds himself back.

“I’m sorry,” Nicolò says. “I do want you to know that, tonight. I should have said something sooner.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Yusuf replies and this simple exchange of apologies loosens something in him. “For a lot of things, but especially for not trusting you to know your own–”

He cuts himself off. Nicolò takes his hand.

“I know my heart well enough to know who it belongs to,” he says, and the words are sweeter than anything he has brought Yusuf, these past months. “Sleep now, ya albi. We will talk about this tomorrow, I promise.”

Yusuf pulls Nicolò closer, tangles their legs together and when Nicolò’s arms go around him, he is not sure whether he wants to cry or laugh or both, really. Eventually, he falls asleep, his face buried in Nicolò’s chest, his love’s heartbeat against his ear.

[kyra-bane]

the old guard - kinktober day 6 - touch me

trying to catch uuuuuuuuuuuup still~

rating: explicit

pairing: joe x nicky; andromache x quynh (background)

prompt: abstinence/chastity

extra tags: angst with a happy ending; first time; blasphemy (a little); internalised homophobia (a little); truth or dare

word count: 2941

read on ao3 or keep reading below

Beyond curling up together at night, they barely touch anymore. It’s been months since they finally met Andromache and Quynh and Nicolò knows he should be more taken by their age, their experience, the way they defy every stereotype he’s ever known of what a woman should be – but all he notices is the easy way they express their affection for one another.

Andromache greets Quynh with a hug, always, whenever they’ve been apart. They press their foreheads together, whisper words neither he nor Yusuf listen for. She is almost careless with her chaste touches – and that extends to Yusuf too, now, but Nicolò is not quite at that point. Not yet.

Quynh is a little different. Nicolò already recognises the light in her eyes before she decides to do something; either before she pushes one of them over, or kicks their feet out from under them, or leaps onto their back. It’s the same light in her eyes she gets when she climbs into Andromache’s lap and pulls her head back to kiss her, always deep and loving by the light of the dying fire.

And there is, of course, the way their hands brush together when they pass each other things, the way they’re completely in sync, in battle and out of it, in a way Nicolò has never seen before.

He and Yusuf were getting there, he thinks. It’s a cold night; he’s huddled up in his cloak and Quynh is on Andromache’s lap. Yusuf is sitting to Nicolò’s left, and there’s an arm’s length between them.

It might as well be a vast ocean. Yusuf still looks to him, as they talk. Whenever Quynh says something to make him laugh, he turns that initial smile on Nicolò and it almost hurts to look at him, sometimes; it feels like looking at the sun.

He loves Yusuf, is the crux of it. And oh, Yusuf knows. How could he not, when he died and it was all Nicolò could say as he waited for Yusuf to come back, the words falling from his lips easier than any prayer, and Yusuf had come back and they had kissed, and for one glorious moment, Nicolò had tasted the copper tang of blood, felt Yusuf’s skin under his fingertips, heard the siren song of a needy, cut-off groan, and he had known, then, it was the closest he would ever come to Heaven.

Except Heaven had been dragged out from under him far too quickly. How could this be it? He knows not everything he was taught is true – Yusuf is proof enough of that – but it turns out even several decades are not enough to tune out those thoughts in the back of his mind, the ones that tell him, you were to be a priest, Nicolò, and yet see how much you lust for sin…

He had pulled away from Yusuf quickly and then helped him up – and they did not talk about it but Nicolò did not realise how much they had been touching each other until it stopped.

“So,” Quynh says and there’s that light in her eyes again but she’s looking between him and Yusuf, now. “Do you want to play a game?”

Quynh’s games are always interesting, Nicolò will give her that. Andromache grins and Yusuf’s smiling too, and so Nicolò nods.

“What game is it?” he asks.

She slides off Andromache’s lap and leans toward the fire. “Hm, I’m not sure what you’d call it. Basically, we go around the circle and each person chooses someone and then that person decides if they want to tell a truth or if they want to do a task the first person assigns.”

“Alright,” Nicolò says. Compared to some of Quynh’s other games, it sounds relatively tame.

Except, then he sees the look Andromache and Yusuf exchange and he realises two things – everyone else has played before and they all know it goes very differently to what he’s imagining.

“I’ll go first!” Quynh says. “Andromache?”

Andromache smiles behind her hand. “Dare,” she says.

“Kiss me.”

Nicolò snorts at that, and Yusuf looks at him and Nicolò can’t look away. He hears Andromache and Quynh kiss, over his heartbeat thudding in his ears, and only when Andromache clears her throat do they both startle.

Quynh’s grinning like the cat that got the cream. “Your turn, my love,” she says to Andromache.

Andromache looks at Nicolò. “Truth or dare?” she says, her apparent name for the game.

Nicolò licks his lips. He’s not certain what they might dare him to do but he doesn’t want to risk it. “Truth.”

Andromache drums her fingers on her thighs. “Do you still believe it? What you were fighting for?”

It’s… not what he was expecting. He feels Yusuf’s gaze on the side of his face. They haven’t spoken about it in years, their first death, and he realises he’s never said it aloud so frankly.

“No,” he replies. Beside him, Yusuf lets out a soft sound.

Quynh is still smiling, but it has gone indulgent; he knows she was wary of him at first, because of that. Andromache nods.

He doesn’t want to look at Yusuf. But he has to because he doesn’t really know how this game works and Yusuf will take it easy on him, if he gets it wrong.

Only, Yusuf’s eyes are shining and Nicolò seriously risks being caught up in them…

“Truth or dare?” he squeezes out and Yusuf looks, suddenly, away.

“Truth.”

Nicolò is surprised. Still, he wants to lighten the mood a little, so he says, “What’s the most embarrassing way you’ve died?”

Yusuf’s mouth drops open. “You wouldn’t.”

Nicolò laughs and Quynh is laughing too, even though she doesn’t know the story yet. Maybe she dreamt it. It was a long time ago, after all.

“Fine,” Yusuf says, mock-annoyed. “So, early on, when I was being stalked by this feral Frank–”

Nicolò huffs. Yusuf pauses to shoot him a grin.

“Anyway, we were walking near some cliffs and Nicolò was complaining the whole while, thinking I could not understand him, so I pretended to fall over the edge.”

“Pretended,” Andromache says, flatly.

Yusuf shrugs. “It was not that far a fall, all things considered, but waking to the sight of Nicolò standing over me, looking faintly disappointed was…” His breath catches and he looks at Nicolò before he glances away again. “Something.”

Quynh snorts. “Don’t worry too much,” she says. “You’ll find much more embarrassing ways to die, I’m sure.”

Nicolò isn’t sure if it’s supposed to be comforting. It kind of is.

Yusuf turns his attention to Quynh. “Truth or dare,” he says, and their grins match.

“Dare.”

Yusuf looks at Andromache first, then Nicolò. “Make us smile,” he says.

Oh, this is going to be a difficult one. Quynh stands and stretches first, as though limbering up for a fight. Then she deposits herself back into Andromache’s lap. “Oh, my love, my stars…” Andromache raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, until Quynh licks a stripe up the side of her face.

Her lips twitch before she laughs and Quynh rewards her with a kiss. They part, smiling at each other, and Nicolò’s heart hurts.

She comes for him, next. He’s an easy one, for her – she and Yusuf share a similar sense of humour, which makes him the harder nut to crack, but Nicolò easier, since he adores Yusuf’s jokes anyway. She crouches so she’s at eye-level with him, starts telling a ridiculous story of how she once managed to trade up from a fig to three camels – and Yusuf is sputtering beside him, the merchant in him revolting at the skill – and Nicolò makes it maybe halfway through before he cracks.

Quynh crows when he smiles, leans up to kiss him on the cheek and Nicolò doesn’t mind that at all, actually; not that she notices, already moving onto Yusuf. She sits between the two of them, resting her head on Yusuf’s shoulder as she whispers into his ear.

Nicolò knows, knows, that she’s just playing the game. He can see the way Andromache is looking at her, heart-achingly fond, and it’s not that he’s spinning fantasies of the two of them together…

It’s that Yusuf fits here, with them. And Nicolò had thought they had fit together, the two of them, except he’s already ruined that and it’s maybe only a matter of time – time, they have so much time – before he ruins this, too.

Whatever Quynh’s said, Yusuf is suddenly laughing, loud and deep, and Nicolò can’t do this anymore. He doesn’t want to fight his own feelings but that’s all he’s been doing, warring with himself, and if he doesn’t know what he wants, then how can he expect anyone else to?

“Excuse me,” he says and stands. They’re all looking at him and it’s not like he’s going to leave; he just needs to be away from here, right now.

He turns and walks away, toward the trees. He can still hear the low murmur of voices behind him and doesn’t try to hear what they’re saying.

He’ll be fine soon, he knows. He’s doubted before – his purpose, his faith – and he will do it again.

Yusuf grabs his elbow as he reaches the first tree. Nicolò startles at the touch, turns, and Yusuf drops his hand as though he’s been burnt.

“Are you alright?” he asks, keeping a respectful distance, and Nicolò wants to scream.

He swallows it down. “I’m fine.”

Yusuf growls and marches toward him; Nicolò backs up until he walks into a tree trunk. When Yusuf plants a hand next to Nicolò’s head, he all but gasps – they aren’t touching, but they’re close to it.

“Don’t lie to me, Nico,” Yusuf says. “Please; you do not have to tell me but do not lie.”

Nicolò nods and there are tears stinging his eyes because the expression on Yusuf’s face is making his heart hurt. “I’m sorry,” he says and drops his head forward. Yusuf is there to meet him, one hand sliding around the back of his neck and Nicolò grabs at Yusuf like a dying man.

Yusuf whispers against his skin, all of it soft, and when Nicolò lifts his head again the doubting voice is the faintest it has ever been.

He knows it isn’t gone. Still, he says, “I love you,” because he can’t lie to Yusuf and he wants him to know and he wants to fight his fear, for once.

Yusuf lets go of him.

“Nicolò, you do not have to–”

Nicolò shakes his head. “I am in love with you,” he says. Each word comes out slow and careful, as deliberate as he can make it.

Yusuf stares at him for a long moment. “I thought it was just because I died,” he says. Then adds, “I haven’t died since.”

No, he hasn’t. He hasn’t died because Nicolò has been there, throwing himself in front of blades, in between Yusuf and anything that would do him harm.

Nicolò, in all truth, has not really noticed he has been doing it.

“I can’t watch you die,” he says.

Yusuf frowns. “Yet you let me watch you die, over and over again?”

He has no answer for that. They stare at each other and Nicolò realises what he has to do.

He reaches out and takes Yusuf’s hand. When he tangles their fingers together, Yusuf lets him, and his next breath is shaky. He comes willingly, at Nicolò’s gentle tug, and Nicolò traces the planes of Yusuf’s face with his fingers.

“I was scared, before,” Nicolò says, and where he would expect Yusuf to snort, to say I don’t think you’re scared of anything, Yusuf instead just looks at him. For once, his expression is entirely inscrutable.

“I was scared of what I felt, of how much I felt. I knew I loved you long before I told you, Yusuf, but I did not know how much I wanted all of you – and when I kissed you I knew I was unleashing a hunger that would never be sated.”

Yusuf’s grip tightens on his hand but he says nothing.

Nicolò takes a deep breath. “And seeing you with them? You all fit together so perfectly. You are all so aware of who you are and I feel like I could ruin that. I could ruin you and you are everything to me, I could not bear it–”

Yusuf takes his other hand and Nicolò startles into silence.

“How many times have you killed me, Nicolò?” he asks and his eyes are hooded.

Nicolò swallows. This is all going worse than he could have possibly imagined; and if forced to choose between him and Yusuf, he knows Andromache and Quynh will continue on without him. Andromache is five thousand years old, she thinks – will he be alone for all that time?

“Nicolò, answer me.”

“I… I don’t know,” Nicolò replies. “Tens of times.” Not hundreds, but he cannot be sure.

“So, if you have lain your hands on me to kill me tens of times and still find me worthy of your love, then how can you possibly believe that your laying your hands on me to love me will be my ruin? Not to mention, I killed you as many times in return.”

“I–”

“I knew you were scared, hayati,” Yusuf says and he steps closer, grasping Nicolò’s hands to bring them close to his chest. “I was, too. But I thought if I gave you time to think on things, you would come to the same conclusion I have.”

“What conclusion is that?” Nicolò asks. He feels Yusuf’s heartbeat beneath his fingertips. It’s so strong, like everything about this man is strong, especially his spirit.

“That we were made for each other. We killed each other and we will put each other back together again.”

Nicolò’s face heats and Yusuf smiles at him, a small, radiant thing, full of wonder. Nicolò wants to kiss him and cannot, for the life of him, think of a good reason to not do that.

“May I kiss you?” he asks and Yusuf is already nodding, reeling him in.

And oh, it is so much better when neither of them are covered in blood, when they have all the time in the world. Yusuf’s tongue darts out to flick over Nicolò’s lips and Nicolò pulls Yusuf in closer, until they’re pressed up against one another.

Maybe this is what he feared – his own greed – because one kiss is not enough, not nearly enough, and he chases Yusuf’s lips, parting to groan when Yusuf gets his hands under Nicolò’s tunic. Yusuf pushes him against the tree again, fingers sliding down Nicolò’s sides and Nicolò finally gets his hands in Yusuf’s hair, tilts his head down to kiss him again.

Heat is curling through him, blossoming at every point of contact, and when Yusuf rocks his hips forward, Nicolò moans aloud.

He immediately claps a hand over his own mouth and Yusuf chuckles against his throat. “Shy?”

“They are… not far away.”

“You say that as if we have not been listening to them for the last few months,” Yusuf retorts. He sucks on a patch of skin near Nicolò’s collarbone and Nicolò pants into the cold night air. He has no experience of this, truly, and yet he wants to please Yusuf, wants to make him feel good, so he pulls him close and when their hips meet, they both moan.

Nicolò has been hard in his leggings since they started kissing. He knows the feel of Yusuf already – has woken to him in this state more than once before – but knowing it’s because of him is a different feeling altogether.

“Yusuf,” he murmurs. “I want to… I want…”

“Later, my love,” Yusuf says. He thumbs one of Nicolò’s nipples and Nicolò curses. “For now, let us just…” He rocks his hips forward again, hands dropping to Nicolò’s hips to hold him in place.

Nicolò wants everything, but for now he has Yusuf’s mouth on his, Yusuf’s hands like a brand on his skin, Yusuf there and around him and completely and utterly wanting him…

Yusuf bites on Nicolò’s bottom lip, leans back to look at him and Nicolò feels pleasure chase its way down his spine when their eyes meet. Yusuf drops a kiss to the bridge of Nicolò’s nose.

“I am in love with you, too,” he says.

There are no more words after that; they pant and they push and they exchange kisses that are almost harsh, and when Nicolò tugs on Yusuf’s curls, he succumbs to his pleasure first. Watching the expression that crosses his face, Nicolò follows right after.

Yusuf slumps against Nicolò when it’s over and Nicolò nuzzles his face into Yusuf’s hair. He wants to never go without touching him, and Yusuf, his hands back under Nicolò’s tunic again, seems to feel the same.

Eventually, Yusuf says, “You know they are going to tease us terribly for this.” He leans back to look at Nicolò’s face. “I can ask them not to.”

Nicolò shakes his head. He is going to fight for this – even if the only person he is fighting right now is himself. “They’re our family,” he says. “Let them tease us. You were right, habibi, they have been terribly inconsiderate when it comes to their volume.”

Yusuf laughs, kisses Nicolò’s brow. “You want to compete?”

“I only compete if I think I will win.” He looks at Yusuf and when he licks his lips, his love’s eyes track the movement. “And I think we will.”

[kyra-bane]

the old guard - kinktober day 5 - it takes two (to tease)

oops, posted this on ao3 last night and forgot to cross post here!! 😅

rating: explicit

pairing: joe x nicky

prompt: teasing

extra tags: the most established relationship; post-canon; blow jobs

word count: 2066

read on ao3 or keep reading below

“Are you being annoying on purpose?” Andy asks. They’re eating lunch – well, Joe and Andy and Nile are; Nicky has gone to grab bread he’s been warming in the oven.

Joe smirks at her. She knows him too well. She’s only asking for Nile’s benefit. “Of course.”

Nile looks up from her pasta, which she’s inhaling, having been training with Andy all morning. “Huh?” she says and Joe laughs.

He has days like this, sometimes, when they’re safe and happy and he’s feeling playful. It’s not about the end point so much as the journey – he likes to tease and, although he might not admit it to the others, Nicky enjoys it too.

Nicky, who as Joe thinks of him, walks back into the room, setting a plate of fresh-baked rolls in the centre of the table. He looks pointedly at Joe’s plate. “Not hungry, hayati?”

Joe licks his lips. “Always,” he replies, and it’s almost a purr; next to him, Nile coughs.

Nicky doesn’t respond beyond a disinterested sniff, tucking into his own meal. Joe tangles their legs together under the table and he considers stepping it up a little but he doesn’t want to show his hand all at once.

He doesn’t really want to make Nile uncomfortable, either, so instead he just eats his lunch.

***

Post-lunch, Nicky leaves to have a nap on the sofa and Joe and the others clean up. Nile barely looks his way at first, so Joe flicks soapy water at her until she starts laughing, trying to hit him with a dishcloth.

“We’ll go into town this afternoon,” Andy says, the declaration clearly for Nile, but Joe shrugs.

“I think we’ll hold out until evening,” he replies.

Nile leans back against the counter. “You plan this?”

“Sometimes.” Joe grins. She’s really not a child, for all that they see her as one – she’s young, sure, but beautiful, and that means that she more than likely knows exactly what he’s doing. “Nicky knows what I want. He’ll let me know when he’s ready.”

He’d woken this morning without Nicky beside him, which is what really set him off. Not that it was unusual in and of itself, but Joe had been having rather a lovely dream and Nicky hadn’t been there to help him finish it.

So, he’s resolved to tease Nicky as much as possible, see how long before Nicky grabs him, drags him back to their room and shows him just what his teasing gets.

Joe shivers at the thought and Nile looks at Andy. “We could get dinner,” she says. “See a movie.”

“Good plan, kid,” Andy replies. She grins at Joe. “Good luck. Don’t wait up.”

Joe doesn’t plan to. Once they’re gone, he sidles over to the sofa Nicky’s sleeping on. His love doesn’t even stir as Joe approaches. He didn’t move when Andy and Nile left, either, which warms Joe’s heart because it means Nicky feels safe here, with them.

Joe kneels on the floor near Nicky’s head. Ah, but he’s beautiful in repose, lips slightly parted, eyelashes a dark smudge against his skin. Joe traces Nicky’s features with his fingertips, lingering on the brow of his nose, his mouth. He knows Nicky’s face better than his own, after all this time, every contour, and for a moment he considers kissing Nicky awake, sliding down his body nice and slow…

Nicky frowns in his sleep, slowly coming back to wakefulness, and Joe brushes his thumb along Nicky’s jaw. When his eyes open, he smiles.

“Tesoro mio,” Nicky breathes into the space between them. “What are you doing?”

Joe rests his hand, heavy, on Nicky’s throat. It’s a delight to see the way Nicky’s eyes flutter closed for a second, to feel his throat move as he swallows.

“Just checking on you, habibi. Go back to sleep,” Joe says. Just to be mean, he adds, “I am going to train.”

Nicky hums and the sound vibrates through Joe’s palm. He smiles and gets up. Nicky won’t crack yet.

***

This safe house is one of their nicer ones, with full French doors leading out to the back. Joe strips off his shirt before he draws his scimitar. He drops straight into fluid, practised movements and, for a while, he can forget the low simmer of heat in his belly, the promise of what the evening offers.

It’s a long time before he hears the doors open again and he stops, panting, to glance over his shoulder. Nicky is leaning against the frame, his posture loose and relaxed, but his eyes are hungry, dark, and Joe grins in response.

Maybe Nicky will snap here, now, and they’ll fuck in the grass. There’s no one around to see and it’s been a while since they’ve done it outside…

Except, Nicky gives him a final once over, his gaze so heavy it’s like a physical touch, before he turns and goes back into the house.

A lesser man might pout.

Joe laughs and goes back to his workout.

***

When he’s done, he finds Nicky in the kitchen again. He’s making tea, waiting for the electric kettle to boil, so Joe comes up from behind and wraps his arms around Nicky’s waist.

Nicky leans back against him. Joe nuzzles his face against Nicky’s neck, lets his tongue flicker out to taste skin.

“Do you want green or black?” Nicky asks. He’s tracing gentle patterns along Joe’s forearms and Joe lets out a sigh.

“Black,” he replies and then Nicky is untangling himself, grabbing another mug, making them both tea. He hands over Joe’s cup first, leaning back against the counter. There’s space between them, and Joe will not be the first to cross it.

Instead, he sips at his tea – still boiling hot, just how he likes it. Nicky watches him, as though waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You need to shower,” Nicky says, eventually, and plucks the mug from his hand.

Joe makes a small sound of protest.

“Come on.”

Well, he’s never been one to turn that invitation down.

***

Except, once they’re in the bathroom, it’s like everything has shifted. Nicky turns the water on, testing the temperature, and Joe presses up behind him, slaps him gently on the ass. Nicky’s head shoots around at that, brow furrowed, and Joe backs up again.

He knows what’s happening, of course – another part of their game. Joe pushes and pushes and then Nicky pushes back; only Nicky almost always has the advantage because he’s simply so much more patient.

Almost always.

Steam begins to fill the room and Joe tugs down his sweatpants, kicks them off. He already removed his shirt when he was training, his shoes before he came back into the house.

Nicky doesn’t disappoint. His eyes roam every inch of Joe’s body greedily – before he remembers what he’s supposed to be doing. He moves to walk past Joe and Joe traps him against the bathroom counter. Nicky lets out a shuddering breath when Joe kisses the column of his throat.

“Shower,” he says, voice a low rumble.

“Hmm, but I worked so hard earlier, cuore mio. I need some assistance.”

Nicky snorts, but pushes Joe away, toward the shower, and then he’s stripping off his own shirt – and Joe revels in his small victory. He climbs under the spray and lets it wash over him as he waits for Nicky to join him.

It’s not long before Nicky is pressing up against his back. His hands skim Joe’s sides and he leans forward – only to pick up the shower gel from the shelf. He pours some onto his hands and starts to massage Joe’s shoulders and Joe realises, not for the first time, that he’s completely and utterly fucked.

They’ve massaged each other plenty of times, of course, and oil is always preferable, gives the opportunity for fingers to slip and slide deep, but Nicky digs into every tight spot Joe hasn’t realised he’s carrying. Joe moans when Nicky pushes between his shoulder blades, bracing himself against the shower wall.

Nicky’s hands – magic, magic hands – move lower, until he’s squeezing Joe’s ass but not pressing in, not where Joe suddenly wants him. Joe cants his hips back and Nicky digs in his nails, making Joe hiss between his teeth.

“Hayati, don’t tease–”

Nicky spins him, quickly enough that Joe has to grab his shoulders to remain upright, and when he presses his thumb against Joe’s lips, Joe opens his mouth, sucks it in.

“Oh, my love, I am not the tease,” he says.

And then he gets out of the shower.

Joe reaches back, turns the water to cold, and finds he can’t stop grinning.

***

As the afternoon slowly fades into evening, they tangle together on the couch, some action movie playing on TV. It’s one they’ve both seen before but Nicky seems to sincerely be watching; Joe has his leg hitched over Nicky’s hip, is pressing kisses to his throat, the shell of his ear, and he does not so much as move.

Joe rucks up Nicky’s t-shirt, just a little, just to get at more soft skin, and Nicky shifts back against him.

“Let me watch the film, my dove.”

Joe buries his face in the back of Nicky’s neck and lets out a whimper. He always does this to himself, always – he gets too keyed up and then the only thing that can gentle him is Nicky’s hands on him.

He spends the next hour rocking against Nicky, maddeningly hard, but doing his best to keep his hands still because Nicky wants to watch the film and he knows that if he’s good, Nicky will reward him.

(As if he ever would not.)

It seems to last an age before it’s over, and then Nicky climbs out from under Joe and stands, stretching his arms above his head. It exposes the soft part of his belly, a strip of skin that Joe wants to lick, so he climbs off the couch and drops to his knees.

As he sways forward, Nicky catches him by the hair. “Do you still want to tease?”

“No,” Joe says, voice no louder than a breath. “Nicky, hayati, Nicolò, please…”

Nicky lets go and Joe rubs his face against the outline of Nicky’s cock. But then Nicky is tugging him up, big hands tilting his face up for a kiss that Joe moans into. Nicky steers them to their bedroom – Joe will have the presence of mind to thank him for that, later – and then pushes Joe back onto the bed.

Joe whines. “I want to–”

“I know what you want,” Nicky says, and he pulls down Joe’s shorts, falls to his knees. He grins up at Joe and it’s sharp, sends a bolt of lust through his gut, and when he says, “I never said I would stop teasing,” Joe drops his head back onto the bed.

Nicky swallows him down, the whole length of him, and Joe lets out a cry. It’s a second before he realises Nicky has no intention of teasing at all; his tongue is pressed flat against the underside of Joe’s cock and he’s sucking him off like his life depends on it, taking him deep and then holding himself there, until tears start to escape. Joe pets his hair, all words failing him because he’s too close already, his balls tightening–

He comes, holding onto Nicky’s hair, all but screaming. Nicky swallows every last drop and then wipes his hand over the back of his mouth. He looks thoroughly debauched, eyes red-rimmed and wet, lips swollen, and Joe pulls him up, licks the taste of himself from Nicky’s tongue.

When he reaches for Nicky’s cock, Nicky grabs his wrist and pins him. Joe’s breath catches in his throat.

“You know, you’ve been driving me mad all day,” Nicky says, straddling Joe’s hips. He pushes against Joe’s spent cock and Joe whines, oversensitive. “And I did tell you I didn’t plan to stop teasing.”

Joe grins, once, as Nicky leans down to kiss him again.

“How long do you think we have until they get back?”

Nicky kisses him hard, pressing Joe’s wrists into the mattress. When he sits up again, his eyes are dark and possessive and Joe can’t help but shiver. He’s ended up with exactly what he wanted, after all.

“As long as I need,” Nicky replies.

[kyra-bane]

the old guard - kinktober day 4 - take the risk

rating: explicit

pairing: book of nile

prompt: (almost) caught in the act

extra tags: sneaking around; cunnilingus; vaginal sex

word count: 5260 (HOW)

notes: thanks to @nevermindirah for suggesting the pairing/general idea for this fic - i hope it’s as funny and sexy as i wanted it to be! (mind the gentle pining, i cannot NOT write pining)

read on ao3 or keep reading below

Nile is half an hour early to the café. She has the book Nicky gifted her on their arrival in Cologne – he and Joe arrived first, after a quick jaunt away – but even though it’s open in front of her, she hasn’t read a word of it.

It’s been four years since Merrick, four years of missions and travelling and dying, which happens a lot, more often than any of them let on, and Nile still hasn’t told them she’s been talking to Booker all of that time.

She certainly hasn’t told them she’s been meeting up with him for the past two years and that for the past eight months, since three weeks of being stuck in a two-room apartment in Paris with Joe and Nicky apparently reliving their honeymoon phase had gotten to be a bit too much, they’ve been, well…

Booker, it turns out, doesn’t care much for the term fuck buddies. Nile is trying not to use friends with benefits because she doesn’t want him to think the sex is the only benefit of their being friends.

Besides, it’s not like they do it every time they meet. For one thing, they don’t always have the time – Andy, Joe, and Nicky like to keep one of them with her at all times, generally, and she understands the urge – but for another, they are friends, and so sometimes their hanging out is just that: hanging out, no strings attached.

She knows why she’s half an hour early to the café, though. She doesn’t want to admit it to herself. It’s the same reason her stomach’s fluttered the last three times she’s met him; it’s why she smiles every time he sends her a text…

It’s why she’s thinking of calling the whole thing off. The sex part, at least. The rest of it is mostly fine, and she’s somehow convinced herself that if they go back to being friends then she’ll only see him as a friend – which has to happen, because she sure as hell can’t dump a truckload of feelings on him. He’s still dealing with everything that happened with Merrick, all that stuff in his past, and it wouldn’t be fair; not to mention the fact that it does make her angry too, sometimes, to imagine Nicky and Joe strapped down by that doctor–

Nile slams the book shut and startles when she sees Booker standing opposite her. He has his hands on the chair she’s resting her foot against and his amused smile makes her blush.

So, as she ever does, she powers through. “Book!” she exclaims, standing up to pull him into a hug that’s just a little too tight. He suffers through good-naturedly, his hands big and warm on her back, and when they part, he orders his coffee from a server who smiles at him just a little too long.

Not that Nile can blame her. Booker looks good, and she’s not just thinking that because they haven’t seen each other in a couple of weeks. He’s wearing jeans that are just as tight as they should be to show off his thighs, and when he shrugs off his coat, his t-shirt stretches across his shoulders.

Nile tears her eyes away, down to the cover of her book. She’d said, in her text, that they could just get coffee; the others are out this afternoon on the other side of the city, exploring something or other Joe was very excited about this morning, and they’re expecting to meet her for dinner.

She knows Booker’s staying at a hotel pretty far away and their apartment is just around the corner, really, but that’s too risky–

She realises, suddenly, that Booker’s saying something to her.

“Sorry?”

He chuckles. His hair is falling in his face, just a little, and she resists the urge to push it back. “I asked if the book was any good,” he says. “But you appear… preoccupied.”

Nile pushes the book aside. “I didn’t really read any of it,” she admits. They’ve promised to be honest with each other, though sometimes, she knows they are both careful to not offer more truth than they intend. “But I assume it’ll be interesting. Nicky gave it to me.”

Booker doesn’t flinch as much now, when she mentions the others. There’s still a brief pass of sadness over his face, but it is gone as quickly as it came.

“He always had good taste,” Booker says, tapping the cover. “Although, you know he will quiz you on it.”

She pulls a face and Booker laughs. The server brings his coffee; he thanks her in German and this time, she blushes. Nile leans back in her chair and when Booker’s eyes track her movements – even though she’s not doing anything, not really – she feels a curl of satisfaction. She’s not a jealous person, not really, it’s only that she sees him so rarely, she finds she wants to soak up all of his attention.

“So,” she says. “What are you doing in town?”

He wouldn’t tell her over text, which was unusual. One of the first messages he sent her, he asked her to never tell her any details of the missions she was going on, but he always tells her why he’s nearby. Always.

When he doesn’t answer, Nile narrows her eyes. She leans forward when she sees the pink dusting his cheekbones.

“Booker?”

He sips his coffee and she’s trying not to laugh, lips twitching because she trusts him, she knows that, so whatever he’s keeping from her cannot be all that serious.

“Ah, ma chérie,” Booker says and when he looks her in the eye, Nile doesn’t much feel like laughing anymore. “I came because you were here, of course.”

Oh, fuck. So maybe she’s not the only one who’s caught feelings but there’s really very little room in her mind for that, because she’s thinking of all the ways to show this ridiculous man, who last time she heard was in the Caribbean, so he’s sure as hell travelled miles to be here, that she really, really lo–

Nope! She pushes that thought straight out of her head and knocks one ankle against Booker’s under the table.

“Please tell me you’re nearly done with that coffee.”

Booker, at least, has the good grace not to pretend he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. “Finished,” he says. He still has half a cup left; neither of them mention it.

“Our apartment is around the corner.”

His hand lands on her knee. “The others?”

Nile shrugs. It’s risky but she doesn’t care – but if Booker does, then they can always make the trek to his hotel, although she’ll have to come up with a good reason for cancelling on dinner.

More importantly, she isn’t sure she can wait that long. She reaches out, touches the back of Booker’s hand and he turns it without hesitation, tangling his fingers in hers.

“Let’s go,” he says and that might just be the most wonderful thing anyone has ever said to her.

***

Nile shouts, “Hello?” as she lets herself into the apartment ahead of Booker. His hands are tight on her hips already – he’s so close behind her that she can feel his breath on the back of her neck – but they both wait for a moment, listening.

No one replies and she can’t hear the tell-tale sounds of movement, which means that Nicky and Joe aren’t back. Even if they’d come in for an afternoon nap, Nicky would have woken when the door opened.

Andy might be there, but Booker skims his lips along her shoulder and Nile decides, fuck it, she’ll just have to risk it.

The door closes and she turns, pushing Booker up against it. Her purse and the book land on the floor but she doesn’t care because now she’s got her mouth on his and she’s framing his face with her hands and his hands are roaming, so greedily she can’t even stand it. They part, as he grabs a handful of her ass – he’s getting daring but she likes it – and then again when she slides her fingers into his hair, tugging gently on blond strands. He pants helplessly when she does that, pupils blown already and Nile presses open-mouthed kisses down the pale skin of his throat.

“Nile,” he moans, voice husky and God, it does something to her, hearing him like that. “Nile, I want to touch you, please…”

She pulls his hair again. She knows she can, knows it will make him whine at the back of his throat, and when she presses up against him, those tight jeans are doing nothing to hide how hard he already is. Nile kisses him again, swallowing down his moan, but then he sucks on her lower lip, pulls her close so that his thigh is between her legs, and she feels her knees go weak.

She’s sure she’s hurting him, just a little, where her fingers are digging into his shoulders, but he simply lifts her like she weighs nothing at all. Fuck, but that gets her too, every time, and so she wraps her legs around his waist, because good behaviour really ought to be rewarded.

“Ma tigresse,” he murmurs, nosing at her jaw before he kisses down her throat. “Your bedroom, where is it?”

He licks along her collarbone and Nile squirms in his grip. She wants him so badly, now, that she almost aches for it. “Down the hall. First on the left.”

They kiss again and then he’s walking, still carrying her, and she’s sucking on his earlobe, rolling her hips against him. He fumbles with the doorknob and Nile laughs, breathily; he stumbles inside and, when the door closes behind them, he drops her unceremoniously onto the bed.

She’s about to protest but he’s shrugging off his jacket and already sliding to his knees and Nile grabs at the coverlet in anticipation. Christ, but she’s been wet since she thought of dragging him back to the apartment – and her stomach flutters because he’s so good at this, looks so pretty on his knees and is oh-so-willing to please…

Booker curls his fingers around her right calf, tugs her closer to the edge of the bed, and then he’s kissing her knee, lips travelling up her inner thigh, and the rough drag of his beard leaves a tingling sensation in its wake. He’s never a tease, though; once he’s face to face with her, he lets out a hot breath, almost a sigh, then licks her over her underwear, and even dampened by the fabric between them, Nile lets out a curse.

He’s just – so fucking good at this, so into it, and today is no different. He gently presses her thighs apart as he flicks his tongue over where her clit is, and Nile arches up into him. She wants to pull off her underwear but she’s too busy grabbing at the bed, and besides, she knows better than to hurry him along. He’s sucking at the fabric, licking her, rubbing his nose against her and Nile’s legs twitch, she feels her thighs try to clamp shut, but he just gently spreads her open again.

When she’s cursing up at the ceiling, he finally pulls back, pressing a sticky kiss to her inner thigh. Her skirt is already rucked up around her waist. Booker tugs off her shoes, then reaches up, drumming his fingers against the soft skin on her stomach.

Nile lifts her head. He’s looking up at her, lips shiny and slick, and she groans.

“May I?” he asks, the picture of innocence, and she nods.

“Fuck yes, please…”

She lifts her hips as he pulls off her thong, throwing it to the floor. Whatever he sees on her face, after that, is enough – he licks along her vulva, presses his tongue inside her and Nile rests her right leg on his shoulder, wanting to get him deeper, still. It’s even better now she can heal; his beard leaves her sensitive but she knows there’ll be no lingering pain, and she knows too, from copious experience, that they can both keep going more or less as long as they’d like.

She rocks her hips towards him and he growls, dragging her a little further off the bed. She lifts her other leg and now her thighs are pressing either side of his face but he doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he sucks on her clit, working one finger inside of her, and Nile wants to scream. He’s relentless, it’s like he can’t get enough, and the best part is that she knows he isn’t even touching himself; all his single-minded focus is on her, on getting her off.

“Book,” she moans, reaching down to grab his hair again. He withdraws his finger immediately, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “Let me…”

Booker licks along her again, tongue flicking against her clit, and nods. He buries her face back against her and she holds him in place as she rolls her hips. Last time they fucked, he had her sit on his face and ride him like this – and then, when she’d come, he’d rolled her over and used his mouth and fingers to bring her off again.

She really, really wants his cock inside of her, though, so she pushes herself against him harder, faster, and everything is hot and wet and messy and he’s moaning just from this, fingers pressing tight enough on her thighs to leave bruises and–

Nile pushes her hips forward, Booker catches her clit between his lips, and she moans as her orgasm rolls through her, her legs twitching from the force of it. One of her legs drops from his shoulders but he holds the other in place, resting his head on her thigh.

For a moment or two, Nile lies there, trying to catch her breath. Booker waits, but when she says, “Come here,” he rises instantly up onto his knees, lets her reel him in. They kiss and when she tastes herself on his tongue, she squirms again. The movement brings her into contact with his cock, still confined in those tight jeans, and Booker groans.

“How do you want me, mon trésor?” he murmurs against her lips.

Nile leans back, looks at him as though she hasn’t already made up her mind.

“Naked,” she says finally – because why not, when they’ve got a room all to themselves, “And I’m gonna ride you.”

He nods and scrambles to his feet, pulling his t-shirt up and over his head, and Nile clears her throat. Booker pauses with his hands already on the waistband of his jeans.

“Slower,” she says, because she’ll be damned if she’s not getting a show out of this, too.

He smiles almost bashfully, hair falling in his face again, and then pops the button on his jeans, lowers the zipper. Nile is leaning back on her elbows and she doesn’t even care about how on display she is because she only has eyes for him.

Booker has already kicked off his shoes and when he starts to lower his jeans, Nile’s mouth goes dry. He’s not wearing any underwear – which she should have been able to tell, she supposes – which means he knew before she did that they’d end up here, and he’s absolutely ready for it.

She lets out a frustrated noise and pulls off her skirt, kneeling up on the bed to take her shirt off, too. Booker’s there when she throws it to the floor, kissing her, and when his hands go for the band of her bra, she lets him. He’s got just a little chest hair that feels so good against her skin, even better once he removes the bra and she presses up against him.

“You are beautiful, mon ange,” Booker says. He’s not usually so generous with the endearments, but Nile does like them, though with all this conditioning she isn’t sure he can ever use them outside of the bedroom.

She maps his skin with her hands, trying to convey her reply in every touch, and then she pulls him onto the bed because she wants a lot – she wants everything­ – but what she wants most is Booker, inside her, right now.

Still, he surges up to kiss her breasts, sucking on one nipple and then the other, and Nile is in his lap, his cock hard against her ass as she rocks back against it. She moans when he bites down and then freezes – they both do – when she hears the apartment door close.

“Fuck,” she hisses. The murmur of low voices reaches them and Booker looks just as startled as she does.

“Do you think they heard us?” he asks and Nile shakes her head.

“I don’t think so, but we have to–”

Heavy, purposeful footsteps head toward her door and Nile almost startles out of her own skin when someone knocks on the wood.

“You have to hide,” she says to Booker.

“Where?”

She climbs off his lap, looks around the room – and he’s right, there’s really nowhere to hide in here. She can see clean under the bed and there’s no wardrobe, so that’s the two most common spots out.

Except – there is a small balcony attached to this room, the reason she’d argued with Nicky and Joe for it.

“Out there,” she hisses.

He looks at her, looks at the window, and then looks back at her again.

“You have to be kidding me!” Another knock. “Nile, they will still see me–”

“Not if you–”

“Nile, are you alright?” It’s Joe. She and Booker exchange another look and then he’s scrambling for the window and she’s grabbing her robe off the hook on the back of the door.

“Yes! Just a second!”

Booker is out of the window and when she turns around, she can’t see him. She grabs all their clothes, depositing the pile on the other side of the bed and then quickly adjusts the sheets on the way past. Hopefully, it’ll look more like she’s been napping than anything else. Thank fuck they heal quickly because she has no way of explaining any visible marks away.

She opens the door an inch and Joe peers in at her. “Are you sure you are alright?” he asks.

Nile shrugs. “Fine. Why?”

“You left these by the door.”

He holds up her purse and the book.

“If you didn’t like the book, you could have just said,” Nicky calls from somewhere else in the apartment.

“Oh, no, I do! I just… I was tired so I came back, I must have dropped them by the door.” Not for the first time, she curses the fact that they never get sick. She can’t feign a headache, or food poisoning, or anything else, which would be incredibly helpful right now.

She opens the door a little wider when Joe holds out her things and doesn’t miss the way his eyes sweep her room.

“I thought I heard someone in here with you,” he says finally and she shrugs.

“I had a podcast playing,” she replies. “One of those sleep ones. Probably that.”

He nods, as if understanding, and then smiles. “Well, we came back to get Nicky another shirt. Someone spilt wine on his.”

“You did!” Nicky shouts. Ah, he’s in their room – he emerges now, flattening his hair with his hands. “Someone, really?”

Joe laughs and kisses him on the cheek before he turns back to Nile. “You are still joining us for dinner?”

Nile resists the urge to look back. She doesn’t know how Booker’s hiding on the balcony and she really wants them to go; maybe this was a terrible idea…

“Yep!” she says. “Just text me the time and the place and I’ll meet you there.”

Joe opens his mouth, as if to say something else, but Nicky elbows him in the side and nods. “Enjoy the rest of your nap,” he says, and then he’s dragging Joe away.

Nile waits until she hears the apartment door shut to run to the balcony. It really isn’t large and all of it is visible through the window – so when she looks down and sees a completely naked Booker hanging from the iron railing, she almost isn’t surprised.

She reaches down and together, they get him back up again; she hustles him back into the room because he’s shivering already.

“Are they gone?” Booker asks and Nile opens her robe, pulls him against her to try and warm him as best she can.

“Yes,” she says against his chest. “Look, I know I should tell them, I just–”

“No, ma chérie, do not worry about that. That is a discussion for another time.” They both have good reason to keep this under wraps, after all.

His fingers are running up and down her spine and Nile smiles, turns her face up for a kiss. Booker obliges and when she starts walking him back toward the bed, he goes. They part when she pushes him onto the mattress and he watches as she slips the robe from her shoulders. He’s not hard, when she crawls over him, so she kisses him, reaches down and strokes him. She likes feeling him fill in her hand – likes it more in her mouth – and especially the way he moans against her lips, letting out little gasping breaths as his cock hardens.

Nile leans back to look at him. She’s still stroking him, almost absentmindedly, and she scores marks down his chest with her free hand. He doesn’t shy away from the touch. The red marks fade almost immediately.

“I can’t say it as nicely as you,” Nile says, “But fuck, you’re hot.”

Booker blushes at that and Nile’s straddling one of his thighs, rubs herself against him. She’s ready for him again – wants that inexorable feeling of being full to the brim of him – and so she shifts, positioning herself above him.

He grabs her hips as she starts lowering herself down. Booker might not have the biggest cock she’s ever fucked but he’s thick and she takes it slowly, rocking back and forth as each inch fills her. She moans when she’s taken him to the base and smiles at the sweat that’s broken out on Booker’s brow. He won’t move until she does and, just to tease, she squeezes around him.

Booker throws his head back and groans, fingers on her hips tightening. She sees the advantage to not, but sometimes she wishes she could wear the bruises he presses into her skin for days.

“Tell me you want it,” she says. He makes her feel so in control – of herself, of him. Still, he reaches up, thumbs a nipple so that she gasps.

“Ride me, ma tigresse,” he says and shifts his hips. “Show me I am yours.”

Oh, but that just isn’t fair. Nile plants her hands on his chest and lifts herself up and down, letting him slip out a little way before he fills her up again. He trails his hands up and down her thighs, content to watch for now as she fucks herself on his cock over and over – she isn’t sure if she wants to come first and have him work for his own orgasm, or if she wants him to come inside her and then rub her clit to the sound of his cries.

After a few moments, he sits up, shifting so he seems to somehow end up deeper, and they settle into a fast rhythm. He’s closer than she thought, fucking up into her hard and fast, and she scratches her nails over his scalp, pulls his hair. His eyes flutter shut and she kisses his cheek, his nose. Pleasure is chasing up her spine – Booker’s thrusts are getting uncoordinated – and she wants this moment to last forever, just the two of them in this bubble of intimacy like she’s never experienced before.

Booker tips his head forward, mouths at her neck and Nile grinds down against him. She reaches between them but he bats her hand away, rubs her clit with his thumb. “Booker,” she hisses, “Fuck.”

“So eloquent,” he laughs but he sounds wrecked and when she bites his bottom lip, he groans and comes, the hand he has on her hip squeezing tight.

She waits it out with him but when she goes to move off him, he holds her in place. They’re sweaty, the room smells like sex, and he sucks a mark against her throat as he starts rubbing her clit again. She rocks on his cock, still inside her, and God he has to be oversensitive but he makes no sound of protest, and when he licks over the mark he’s made, she comes with a cry, all but collapsing into his arms.

Eventually, they separate and lie beside each other. Booker reaches over, entwines his fingers with hers, then kisses the back of her hand. She closes her eyes. He really is going to be the death of her.

***

Two hours later, Nile leaves Booker at the S-Bahn station. They find a spot to wait, outside of the reach of any of the cameras, and Nile licks into his mouth, sucks on his tongue. She can’t help herself; if the situation between them all was any other way, she would have locked them both in that bedroom for a week or more.

He pulls back as the train starts to pull in. “I have to go,” he says, and he sounds sad again, which just breaks her heart.

“Text me when you get back,” she replies, “And if we have time again, while we’re here–”

“No promises,” Booker warns – another of their agreements, along with always telling each other the truth.

“No promises,” Nile agrees. “Just a wish.”

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and kisses her on the forehead. His train is here; he has to go.

“Au revoir, mon rêve.”

“Au revoir.”

She watches him leave, then waits at the station for another fifteen minutes. He’s obviously not going to turn around and come back – what would that achieve? – but she needs some time to get her thoughts in order.

In the end, she arrives at the restaurant ten minutes before the others. She’s learnt enough German to ask after their reservation, and all three seem surprised to see her there first, but they don’t mention it. Instead, they tell her all about their day – including the lead up to the wine incident – and by the time their food arrives, Nile doesn’t feel so bad about sneaking around.

Nicky is chatting to Andy about some exhibit they saw at a museum when Joe turns to look at Nile. He seems vaguely concerned, so she puts her fork down and takes a sip of her wine.

“We should go shopping tomorrow,” he says. “Those clothes really will not do, habibti.”

Nile frowns and looks down at her outfit. She’s wearing dark jeans and a gold top that Joe had liked when she’d bought it and shown it off to him. “I’m sorry, what exactly do you think is wrong with this outfit?”

Andy snickers. Joe shakes his head. “Not that outfit,” he says. He looks around and then lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Nile, you are of course fine to wear whatever you want. But if you are going to choose men’s clothes then at least let me pass on some wisdom.”

Nile looks from Joe to Nicky to Andy. They all look back at her, entirely straight-faced.

She really doesn’t get it.

“What are we talking about?”

Joe shrugs. “I mean, we have all had to do it. I don’t like wearing women’s clothes myself, but my Nicolò–” He smiles, and it’s a particularly indulgent one, “Well, he went through a period of trying dresses in the sixteenth century. He really looks quite fetching, we should try it again some time. Although they are, of course, difficult to remove, so I can see why you might be inclined to try something simpler…”

Nicky waves Joe off, mouth full of food as he rolls his eyes.

“And Andy has not really ever conformed to how people believe women should dress–”

“Clothes have no gender,” Andy says on a sigh and if Nile were not so bewildered by the situation, she thinks she might have laughed, at that.

“So, we are not new to this idea. And it’s nice that you’re trying something new! Just, please, I cannot convince Nico to let me dress him all the time but I will not have you fall victim to a lack of fashion sense.”

Nile stares at him for a moment, two, before her brain catches up with her.

He must have seen Booker’s clothes. She debates, for a moment, how much of the truth she can tell versus the painful future where Joe takes her shopping – in all earnest – and she has to pretend she’s enjoying it. Not that she’s all that bothered by what kind of clothes she wears, either, but she does prefer to choose them for herself.

She rubs her temple and as she does, she catches sight of Nicky’s expression. Completely neutral.

Too neutral.

“You assholes,” she says, though it is without heat. “Would you have actually let me go through with that?”

Andy cackles and holds out her hand. Nicky pays her, which Nile thinks is fair, since he’s the one who gave the game away.

“I would have chosen some very nice outfits,” Joe says and he’s only pouting a little, so Nile laughs.

“Okay, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I had… someone back to the apartment. I just…”

“We know,” Nicky says.

“I mean, I know I’m an adult and it’s not a big deal, I just wanted to–”

“No, you don’t understand,” Andy interrupts. “We know.”

All the blood drains from Nile’s face. “Ah. When did you…?”

Nicky shrugs. “It was obvious you were texting him,” he says. “We were all in the room with you.”

Well, shit. She thought she’d been more subtle than that.

“And the rest?”

“Guessed you were meeting him about eighteen months ago,” Andy says. “The sex part is new.”

For a second, Nile prays for the ground to swallow her up. Then she realises who hasn’t spoken. She looks at Joe.

“You’re not mad at me, are you?”

He smiles and it reaches his eyes. “Of course not, habibti. But I still do not wish to see him. Not yet.”

“Yeah, okay… Okay.”

She’s relieved, and when Nicky kicks her gently under the table, she laughs, because they might not want to see Booker yet, but they’re clearly happy for what she’s found with him.

“I do have one question,” Nicky says. “Where was Booker hiding, when we, ah, interrupted you earlier? There is nowhere to hide in that room.”

“Uh…” Nile starts, but Andy beats her to it.

“His bare ass was hanging over the balcony,” she says. “I had a hunch; went around back to check.”

Nicky nods and then looks at Joe; there’s a dangerous gleam in his eye and Nile gets the feeling all the attention will be off her soon enough.

“Reminds me of Boston, hayati. Remember? When you–”

Joe throws a bread roll at him and Nile laughs. She really does love her new family – all of them, even if she can’t see them all at once.

[kyra-bane]

dear anyone who has sent me asks/commented on ao3/tried to speak to me in general in like the last two days: i am not ignoring youuu, took a day-long break after finishing p&p&i&z so have posted a short thing to start my catch-up on kinktober and plan to work my way through everything still waiting tomorrow as i’m still off work

ilu all and i still love this fandom

[kyra-bane]

the old guard - kinktober day 3 - across the fire

rating: explicit

pairing: joe/nicky

prompt: masturbation

extra tags: pwp; pre-slash; pre-canon; pining (because ofc)

word count: 1810

notes: follows on from (not) sight unseen but you don’t have to have read that to get this.

read on ao3 or keep reading below

It has been two months since Nicolò confessed to spying on Yusuf.

Two months, and they still sleep beside each other every night; Nicolò often wakes to Yusuf’s arm tight around his waist, their legs tangled, and he is ever thankful for Yusuf being slower to wake because it gives him a chance to deal with the inevitable consequences of a warm body that close.

Who is he lying to?

The inevitable consequences of having Yusuf’s warm body, specifically, that close.

Nicolò misses the time before he knew, before he spied, when he could nurture his neglected infatuation – for that is what it is; he is not a fool – and pretend it was simply a blossoming friendship, the love that was borne between brothers.

Now, every night is torture – when he does not dream of the two women, then he dreams of Yusuf, and those dreams are becoming decidedly carnal in nature. He tries not to think on them, but during the day, as they make their way through the desert, he finds himself wondering why he always pictures himself on his knees, why he always dreams of Yusuf above him, around him, inside him…

He wakes sometimes aching for it, hips moving of their own accord, and on those mornings he is stubborn, surly, though he can never give Yusuf a good reason why.

Not that the man in question has noticed, of late. He still wakes later than Nicolò – grazie a Dio – but these past five days, he has been watching Nicolò with dark, liquid eyes and has not offered him a smile. It is unusual, for sure, but Nicolò dare not ask after the core problem, mostly because he still fears he missed something when they spoke after his confession.

Today has been particularly terrible. Yusuf has upgraded from terse silence to choice, cutting remarks, and Nicolò considers, more than once, simply riding back the way they came. Their agreement to travel together has always been a tentative one; but then he thinks, again, that they will likely see each other another time, even if that is hundreds of years from now, and he would rather have this conversation sooner than later.

It does not mean he will not put it off one more day.

They dismount for the night, the temperature beginning to drop, and as Yusuf builds a fire, Nicolò rolls out his bedroll. They eat and Yusuf is kind enough to tell Nicolò they are on track, which means the supplies they have will last long enough, something he is glad of – he has died of thirst before and it is not an experience he is keen to repeat.

Still, when he sees Yusuf lay his bedroll out on the opposite side of the fire – not next to Nicolò’s, as has become usual – a hurt like he has never felt before winds its way through him.

“What are you–”

“We can bear to stand one night apart,” Yusuf says quickly, though he does not meet Nicolò’s eyes and he does not say his name. Has not said his name for five days, in fact.

“I know,” Nicolò says.

“There has not been a traveller pass this way in days, besides,” Yusuf adds. He appears to be building himself up for an argument – but Nicolò does not wish to argue, not when he is unsure what it is about, so instead he simply nods.

“Alright,” he says. Then, because he is feeling brave, adds, “If you get cold, I am here.”

Yusuf does meet his eyes then and he does not smile but something about his expression makes Nicolò think he said the right thing.

“I know.”

***

Sleep does not come easily for Nicolò, some nights, and it is worse tonight, without the familiar heat and weight of Yusuf at his back. He is lying on his back because he does not want to face Yusuf across the fire but does not want to turn his back on him, either, so he sees only the stars above.

They are astonishingly clear and he wants to remark on it – perhaps he would, if Yusuf were behind him – but instead he traces constellations he barely remembers, making up new ones just for the fun of things.

He freezes when he hears a noise. He has not heard anyone approach, and he is certain he would, which means it could only be Yusuf.

Nicolò all but holds his breath, straining to hear. One of their horses shifts in the sand. Nothing else.

Until he hears it again and when he realises he recognises the sound, his heart picks up abruptly.

A moan. Just like he heard back in their lodging, only quieter, muffled, as though Yusuf has a hand over his own mouth.

Nicolò closes his eyes and the sounds are clearer now – a small hitch in Yusuf’s breathing, the shift of his clothes against his bedroll and, underneath all of that, the rhythmic slide of skin on skin.

Nicolò opens his eyes again, cheeks flaming. It is, again, something he has heard before, but never from Yusuf and it has never affected him like this. His own cock is stirring against his thigh and he is sure Yusuf is struggling to stay quiet, moans and whimpers slipping into that quiet space between them.

Is this what has had Yusuf so on edge these past days? He almost wants to laugh; as if he has not been running off to do the same thing almost every morning – except then he feels bad again. He knows Yusuf has not taken another lover since Nicolò saw him together with the stranger and is that because of what he did? Yusuf had said he did not mind, truly, but what if that was all a lie?

Yusuf moans again, a little louder, and Nicolò reaches into his leggings before he can think it through. Like the first time, he is already wet at the head and he slides the slick along his length, does the best he can to spread his legs apart without making any noise.

He feels instantly guilty, but the guilt does nothing to cool his lust and every noise Yusuf allows to escape only makes his grip firmer, his hand move faster. What would it be like, to have Yusuf’s hands on his skin? What if he could swallow every moan, every whimper?

The thought has him moaning, too, and he realises at once that it was far too loud when Yusuf goes silent across the ashes of the fire.

Nicolò squeezes his eyes shut. He is certain Yusuf can hear the way his heart is thudding against his ribs, and he wonders if he will simply get up and leave – Nicolò would certainly not follow.

“I was beginning to think you never did this at all,” Yusuf says and Nicolò shudders at the sound of his voice. He is not disgusted, not mocking. Instead, his voice is rough and deep and sounds almost fond.

“I am still human,” Nicolò replies, then adds, “I think,” because he is sure it will make Yusuf laugh. He is warmed when the thought comes true, but Yusuf’s laugh also makes his cock twitch in his hand and he has to bite his lip to keep himself quiet.

Yusuf lets out a heavy breath, as if thinking, and then asks, “What do you think of, Nico?”

What, not who and Nicolò will forever be grateful for that. He cannot give Yusuf the whole truth, not yet; but he can offer a small, secret part of himself. He owes Yusuf that – but it is more – he wants Yusuf to know, though he cannot yet articulate why.

“A man,” he admits.

Yusuf is quiet for a moment. “Is that new?” he asks, finally, and Nicolò flushes at the question he is not asking.

“Not particularly,” he replies.

“And what do you imagine, with this man?”

Yusuf’s voice has deepened again and Nicolò is almost sure he’s touching himself. He remembers, vaguely, the outline of Yusuf’s cock, imagines for a second taking it in his mouth, and holds the base of his own cock tight to stave off his pleasure.

“I imagine myself on my knees,” he says and this is madness, but the voice that would usually tell him it is a sin to have these thoughts has been all but silent for months now. “I imagine what he might taste like, how my jaw might ache but I wouldn’t care because…”

He’s stroking himself again and he knows Yusuf is too; he can hear him. Yusuf groans. “Why wouldn’t you care, Nicolò?”

“Because I want to please him,” Nicolò says and it takes all his self-control not to say, I want to please you. He does, he knows it, but he is not certain of how well-received he might be and he cannot shake off the fact that there are even more complications.

Yusuf is panting up toward the sky, his hand still moving, and Nicolò moans a little, at that; Yusuf makes a choked-off sound. “Oh, I bet you would, habibi,” he says a moment later and Nicolò cants his hips upwards; he wants a cock – Yusuf’s cock – in his mouth, in his hand, in his–

“Yusuf, I’m–” He groans, cuts himself off, because he isn’t sure if this is too far but Yusuf huffs out a laugh and moans himself.

“Are you close, hayati?” he asks and Nicolò doesn’t know what that word means. “Keep going, you sound so pretty, let me hear you–”

Nicolò’s toes curl, his back arches, and he cries out as he comes all over his hand and stomach. From the sounds across the fire, Yusuf follows on his heels, letting out a garbled stream of Arabic that Nicolò, still trying to catch his breath, cannot hope to follow.

For a moment, they both lie there, several feet apart, and Nicolò debates the wisdom of cleaning himself off, moving his bedroll…

“Go to sleep, habibi,” Yusuf murmurs, and he sounds as he does when they wake each morning, when he is not fully alert but knows he does not have to be because Nicolò is there. Nicolò is not sure when he made it clear he would throw himself between Yusuf and danger but he cannot regret the man knowing.

“Yusuf?” he says. He does not know what question he is asking.

“Everything is fine,” Yusuf replies and he really is close to sleep now, Nicolò can tell. “I’m sorry for being… We can talk about it in the morning, if you like.”

Nicolò hums in reply. He already knows they will not. Not tomorrow morning, at least.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face, comfortable in the knowledge that Yusuf will be by his side tomorrow and the next day and the next.

[kyra-bane]

i only went ahead and finished it!! 100k of angst and yearning and regency misunderstandings later and my old guard meets pride and prejudice and zombies fusion is over!! 

(it’s my birthday too lmao so what a day to end it) 

god i’ve had an amazing time writing this fic - it’s also probably the best thing i’ve ever written lmaoooo - so if you’re at all interested, please give it a read.

going to take a break from kinktober today (i know, so early, but i did a drinking birthday zoom earlier and now i wanna sleep) but there is also a sexy lil epilogue to this coming out on the 10th, courtesy of that day’s prompt, so if you enjoyed this, keep your eyes peeled!

thank you as well to everyone who read/commented/left kudos/subscribed/bookmarked... you’re all the best and i love it here 🥰

read pride and prejudice and immortals (and zombies) on ao3

[kyra-bane]

@ joe x nicky: this u?

[kyra-bane]

the old guard - kinktober day 2 - dream a little dream (of us)

rating: explicit

pairing: joe/nicky; andy/quynh (background)

extra tags: angst and fluff; 5+1 things; hand jobs; intercrural sex

word count: 3885

read on ao3 or keep reading below

Dream a Little Dream (Of Us)

Andromache of Scythia

Yusuf has been travelling with the Frank for almost a year.

In that time, they have formed a fragile truce, learnt enough of each other’s languages that they can communicate, and have managed not to kill each other for, now, a little over a month.

All in all, things are going better than they were when he woke up on the battlefield, a sword still half impaled in his chest, but there is a long way to go.

This constant living, it worries the Frank – Nicolò, he ground out one of those first few days; not that Yusuf ever uses his name – but that only proves to annoy Yusuf further because he does not wish to admit to his own doubts, does not wish to share any other quality with this man.

They are travelling still, crossing through grassland, and they have settled into a routine; despite Yusuf’s dislike of him, the Frank builds a fire each night and they lay out their bed rolls on opposite sides and, Yusuf has to admit, on the occasions they have been attacked, he has always been first to his feet, cutting down enemies before Yusuf even has his scimitar in a tight grip.

The Frank mutters something tonight, as he settles down to sleep. He never turns his back, so Yusuf rolls onto his, staring up at the canopy of stars above. It is not often that he falls into despair, now, but tonight he does: Will he have to travel with this ungrateful Frank forever? Will there be a day, someday, when the sight of him does not make Yusuf’s stomach twist unpleasantly, does not remind him of the stink of blood and bodies and a battle that cannot, will not, be justified?

Will they be the only two, at the end of time? The thought makes his chest ache. To live a life so closely tied to a person he can barely tolerate – maybe time will cool his temper, soothe some of the hurt and, maybe, one day he might feel forgiveness – but for now, he cannot.

He falls into a fitful sleep, the dream at once alien and all too familiar. He has had similar dreams this past year, where he has felt as though he has seen someone he should know. Yet he has never quite seen them; they are always just out of reach.

Tonight, he finally does.

She is tall, the woman, with long hair that cascades down her back as she swings around, the axe in her hands taking down one man, then another. Blood splatters across her face and she never slows; she fights in a way that Yusuf has seen in very few men – and never in a woman.

The image changes and she is at a feast, laughing with the men, a woman kneeling by her side who looks up at her as though she hung the very stars themselves, and when there is a lull in the conversation, this dark-haired stranger kisses her admirer, to the appreciative laughter of the men.

One more change; she is riding, alone, but she meets another rider on an outcrop – another woman whose face Yusuf cannot quite make out, only the sight of her feels familiar to him, also. They speak a language Yusuf has never heard, in low, warm tones, and maybe he will not be alone at the end of the world, after all.

Yusuf startles awake to find the Frank already sitting up, stoking the dying embers of the fire. He has dark circles under his eyes, Yusuf notices, and he wonders why he did not notice before.

“Did you see her?” the Frank asks, in halting Arabic.

“Yes,” Yusuf answers, in the Frank’s language, because despite the fact that they have spent a year travelling through lands where the Frank should have had more practice, Yusuf clearly has more of a talent for it.

“What did you see?”

“She was fighting. Feasting. Meeting a friend.”

“Ah,” the Frank says. He looks sad.

No.

He looks as though he has seen something terrible.

“What did you see?” Yusuf asks and he is sitting up, now, leaning closer without meaning to.

“Her death,” the Frank says. “I dream of it every night.”

Yusuf does not know what to say to that. He knows the Frank is always awake before him, but if he dreams of that every time he closes his eyes, then he really must be getting precious little sleep.

Against all his wishes, the first seeds of sympathy begin to sprout.

“I am glad you do not,” the Frank says, almost a whisper, and Yusuf frowns.

“Sleep, Nicolò,” Yusuf replies. “I will still be here, when you wake.”

***

Quynh

It is not long after his first dream of the two women meeting that Yusuf dreams of the second woman properly. She is smaller than the first, built slighter, but he sees the way she moves, fast like a viper, and decides that he cannot wait to meet her.

His and Nicolò’s relationship has improved these last few months; Yusuf calls him by his name now, most of the time, and Nicolò seems more inclined to share information about himself.

It helps that he seems, at heart, to be inescapably kind and small demonstrations of that gradually chip away at the cage Yusuf has built around his heart; he still does not feel as though he will offer Nicolò forgiveness – if it were even his to offer – but knowing Nicolò as he does now, he thinks he will not ask.

They fight before sleeping, most nights, training bouts and scuffles, because of course they can die, but Yusuf would still rather avoid it, wherever possible. He spent his youth fighting with other boys, too, wrestling, and he understands what can happen when there are two bodies in close contact, regardless of feelings, but the first time he pins Nicolò and feels him hard against his thigh, he is awash with a sudden jolt of want, and Nicolò scrambles away quickly and does not talk to him for two days.

So, most of the time it is combat training, with a bout of wrestling when Yusuf is feeling daring and there has been time enough in between for Nicolò to have forgotten about what inevitably happens.

They still sleep across from each other, either side of the fire, and Yusuf faces Nicolò too, before he falls asleep.

The dream he tumbles into captures him immediately. He sees the first woman, the warrior with her axe, but she is not the focus. The other woman has her pushed back into their bed rolls – they are on the move, like he and Nicolò – and is kissing down her throat, over her breasts. Neither of them seems to be in a hurry, both in tune with one another; the warrior parts her legs and the woman smiles against her skin, buries her face there.

Yusuf wakes, breathing hard, straining his leggings, and Nicolò is staring across at him, his eyes dark and glittering in the night.

Yusuf is suddenly, acutely aware of what he could do. He could round the fire, crawl over Nicolò and he is sure Nicolò would give him anything he wanted. He could roll over and go back to sleep and they could both pretend this never happened.

He lets out a shaky breath and smiles. It does not appear to dissuade Nicolò any.

“Did you dream of them?” Yusuf asks.

Nicolò nods. “They are…” He trails off, shakes his head, sighs, and finally says, in the saddest voice Yusuf has ever heard, “They are in love.”

The hurt of it curls in behind Yusuf’s heart, in that small, special place he has had no reason to acknowledge – and still, consciously, does not.

“They are,” he says, blood cooling. “I hope we will have a chance to meet them soon.”

Nicolò nods, although he seems less enthusiastic. “As do I.”

***

Lykon

Yusuf’s dream of Lykon is, of course, very different to the ones he first had of Andromache and Quynh.

It has taken them, in the end, a very long time to find each other. So long that, despite the dreams, Yusuf has all but given up.

He and Nicolò have become friends, more than friends, although it is all still very new and he knows one misstep may just destroy the fragile love blossoming between them. He knows this even though Nicolò insists it is love, whispers the words against Yusuf’s skin over and over as he learns how to take him apart.

Then they find Andromache, Quynh, and everything they know, about themselves and each other, is suddenly thrown into a very sharp contrast.

Andromache reveals the truth: they can die, and stay dead.

She says it when they are all drinking around the fire, a few weeks into their time together. Quynh has her head resting in Andromache’s lap; she has been no less affectionate just because they have two other people with them now, though Yusuf supposes that if he saw what she and Andromache were doing, she has certainly seen what he and Nicolò have been up to.

“Lykon and I were together for a couple of thousand years,” Andromache says and she takes a long pull of the jug before passing it to Quynh, who drinks while keeping one of her hands on Andromache’s thigh. “He went down in battle. Until then, I thought we would live forever.”

“He was injured?” Nicolò asks, leaning forwards, and there is something almost frantic in his gaze.

“Yes,” Quynh says because Andromache’s eyes are shining, though Yusuf doubts they will see her shed a tear. “He simply… stopped healing. Did not get up again.”

“So we do die, in the end,” Yusuf says. “There is an end, after all.”

“You sound so excited by it,” Nicolò says, his expression drawn and Yusuf shakes his head.

“Not at all, habibi,” he replies, because he may not be certain about the strength of their love but he knows it can survive this. “I simply am glad to know it, for sure.”

They turn in early that night, Andromache and Quynh on one side of the fire, Yusuf and Nicolò on the other. Quynh is tucked tight against Andromache, wrapped around her tightly, and Yusuf presses along Nicolò’s back, sighing only when Nicolò’s breathing evens out into sleep.

He follows not long after and, when his dream begins, he knows it is not real. He has had too many that are, for that, and since, he has dreamt of Nicolò, of his life left behind, of current and past fears.

Tonight, he dreams of Lykon.

He does not know the man’s face, of course, but he sees Andromache, and Quynh, and the man – the figment his mind has invented – fights with them, ever as fierce, ever as powerful, until, suddenly, he does not.

He crumples when the spear hits him, falls, and the others are screaming and Yusuf is scared, in the way a person only is when they are dreaming, because he wants to help but he cannot–

He wakes to the sound of Nicolò’s voice and buries his face in his love’s chest. Nicolò rubs his back, holds him tightly, and when Yusuf realises it was only a dream, he lifts his head.

“I saw him,” he murmurs. “Did I wake the others?”

“No,” Nicolò says. “You saw who?”

“Lykon. Not Lykon, of course, but a man I believed to be. I saw him die, Nicolò…”

He fears it because he saw not only Lykon, but Nicolò too, and he realises he cannot stand the thought of them being apart for even a second – at least, in terms of their death.

“Yusuf,” Nicolò says and he kisses away Yusuf’s tears, brushes his lips over his forehead, his nose, his cheeks. “Yusuf, cuore mio, I am here. Wherever we go, we go together.”

“Promise me,” Yusuf says, because he needs the reassurance here, in the dark.

Nicolò, to his credit, does not hesitate. “I promise,” he says and Yusuf kisses him because he does truly love this man, enough to believe that he will do everything in his power to either cling to life until Yusuf can join him, or to follow on right after.

“I love you,” Yusuf says and Nicolò breathes a sigh against his skin.

“And I you.”

***

Sébastien “Booker” Le Livre

Yusuf has had many names, by now. He is currently going by Joseph, he and Nicolò – now Nicholas – and Andromache – Andrea – are in Europe and it has been several centuries since they lost Quynh.

Andromache is not over it – she will never be over it – but they have managed to coax her back into doing what good they can, what with the world still turning and wars raging everywhere.

They are in the Austrian Empire, sharing one small room between the three of them, and the night that Sébastien dies, they all wake at once.

Nicolò is the first to get his wits about him, although Andromache looks, simply, sad.

“What did you see?” Nicolò asks.

“He appears older than me,” Yusuf says. He is already digging around in his things, trying to find a sketchbook. He has an image swimming in his mind; a strong jaw and sad eyes – he thinks the man is French, fighting in this bloody war he believes to be endless.

He will believe it even more, now.

“We should find him,” Nicolò says and Yusuf draws, coaxing details from Andromache she clearly does not want to give.

He knows why. The prospect of a new member to their unnatural club has them thinking of the member still missing, the one they cannot be certain is still alive.

Yusuf sucks in a breath and snaps the end of his pencil.

“What is it?” Andromache asks. Nicolò turns to face him.

“He will dream of us,” Yusuf says. “Do you believe he will dream of her?”

Andromache swallows, her lips trembling; they have seen her cry, now, and much more besides – she raged at them when they finally convinced her there was nothing more to be done. Yusuf still doubts he will ever set eyes on Quynh again.

“We must find him,” she says and Yusuf agrees.

Except, a few days later, he dreams of something new. A woman, blonde hair falling in soft curls around her face; children, who look upon their newest brother wish pure adoration.

“He has gone back to them,” he says into the crook of Nicolò’s neck one morning, and Nicolò hums in agreement. He left behind nothing, he has told Yusuf, when he headed out for the crusades. Yusuf had a wife but no children, and back then, it would have taken him months to return; and with all the doubt and fear he had around his new ability, it was not something he had even considered.

Sometimes, he does regret it. Sometimes, he thinks Nicolò had more at home than he lets on, but has chosen to forget about it to ease the pain.

“We must leave him be,” Yusuf says when they enter the Kingdom of France. “Speak to him, maybe, but then leave him to do as he chooses.”

Andromache is angry; she thinks this is her only chance to retrieve Quynh and Yusuf does not doubt he would react in much the same way, should he ever find himself in her position.

“When they discover what he is…”

“It is his choice to make,” Nicolò replies, ever so softly. “He will have been dreaming of us and we should find him so that he knows he is not alone, but… Yusuf is right. If he wishes to have more time with his family, then who are we to take that from him.”

He does not say Quynh has been down there for centuries, if she is still alive; she can wait a little longer, but they both know Andromache still hears it.

They meet Sébastien weeks later. They find out Quynh still lives. They leave him with his family.

When he eventually joins them, years later, Yusuf thinks he carries more pain than Yusuf has ever felt and Yusuf decides to do his best to do right by their newest brother.

***

Nile

“She needs us,” Nicky says, and Joe sees the moment Andy gives in.

“I’ll handle the retrieval.”

It is better that way, Joe thinks. After everything that has just happened, he wants to keep Nicky close – and two of them would be spotted. Booker seems to almost argue with Andy, for a moment, but Joe thinks little of it. He is just scared, unsure; he has had his own dreams, of course, but has never been on this side of them.

They make it to France and Joe dreams of her again, of Nile, sees flashes of her marine friends, of the man who sliced her throat. He is already fascinated by her, Nicky too, though Nicky does not speak of it.

“Do you think it is a good idea, Andy going to fetch her?” Booker asks when they reach the safe house.

Nicky shrugs, goes off to drop their stuff in the only bedroom.

“Why would it not be?” Joe asks.

Booker shrugs. “She’s so young,” he says. “So beautiful. Do we really need to drag her in now?”

Joe is half-tempted to tease Booker a little, because he has never expressed that he believes anyone beautiful – not ever – but he lets the desire fade.

“Things are different now, Book,” Joe replies quietly. “She is in the military. We might be dragging her into our danger, but she is in danger there, too – people saw her die, and now she is fine. It only takes one more mishap to reveal her true nature, and then she will have no one who can keep her safe.”

Booker hums. He will not meet Joe’s eyes; he looks terribly sad.

“I hope you are right,” he says and Joe laughs, claps him on the shoulder.

“We will all be fine, Book. Come, let us get things ready here. The game is on tonight, you know.”

Booker rolls his eyes at that. “Yeah, yeah,” he says and his amusement washes away almost all the melancholy in his eyes. “I know.”

***

Yusuf “Joe” ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani, called al-Tayyib

Nicky, sometimes, is sad he never had a chance to meet Joe through his dreams.

He wonders what that would have been like, if another had killed him on the battlefield, and Nicky had spent the years getting to know him through flashes of images, of feelings.

Still, sometimes he dreams of Joe anyway.

Like tonight. They have their own room, for once, Andy and Nile bunked up in the other, and when Nicky closes his eyes, he falls into the dream headfirst.

It’s Joe, everywhere, his hair cropped shorter like it was once in Damascus, and he bites his way down Nicky’s chest, stopping every so often to throw him a bright grin. It is one of those dreams that Nicky cannot control; Joe has moved, suddenly, to take Nicky’s cock in his mouth, fingers slick and teasing at his rim; then his fingers are sliding deep and there is no need for adjustment, no discomfort, because Nicky is ready for him, skin hot and prickling and he needs him…

He wakes with a start, a moan caught in the back of his throat. He feels hot all over, his cock tenting his boxers and he eyes the clock with no little distaste.

He fell asleep two hours ago, by the looks of things, which means his idea of waking Joe is terribly inconsiderate.

One touch will probably be enough to get him off, though leaving the bed might wake Joe as well, and Nicky would never lie to him about this – so then Joe would ask why Nicky had not woken him and Nicky does not want to get into their recurring low-stakes argument that Joe is not getting as much sleep as he should at the moment, what with all their worry about Andy and Nile and Booker…

He turns his face into the pillow and bites down – and promptly starts when a hand, not his hand, slides below the waistband of his boxers.

Joe scrapes his teeth over the back of Nicky’s neck, takes him in a sure, familiar grip, and Nicky is so keyed up that it only takes a handful of strokes before he comes, gasping into the darkness around them.

Joe chuckles when he’s done, moving his hand to grip Nicky’s hip as he presses open-mouthed kisses to the back of his neck.

“When did you wake, hayati?” Nicky grumbles.

He feels Joe’s smile against his skin; Joe rolls his hips and he feels his hardness, too.

“Hmm, I think some time in the middle of your dream,” he murmurs. “I thought you might spend before waking, in truth.”

Nicky wriggles back against him and Joe starts to roll his hips in a slow, steady rhythm. There’s a little more moving around as they both push down their underwear and then Nicky lifts his leg, Joe’s cock sliding between his thighs.

It’s slick and messy and Nicky reaches back to grab Joe’s hip even as Joe wraps an arm around Nicky’s chest, tight as a band.

“I dreamt of you,” Nicky says. “Of Damascus, when you had me on that bed for a day, made me come over and over again just on your fingers…”

Joe moans against his skin, gives him a full-body shudder, but he’s still moving. Nicky touches the head of his cock, when it pushes between his thighs and Joe moans again.

“We could try that again, sometime,” Nicky says. “Whenever we go back to Malta. Except, I want to do it to you, this time.”

Joe chuckles. He’s breathing hard and Nicky knows, from that alone, that he is close.

“You have far more patience than me, my love,” Joe says. His voice comes out strangled. He’s beginning to lose his rhythm, chasing his orgasm, and Nicky turns the idea over in his mind.

“I bet I could keep you on the edge for hours,” he says, lets his accent thicken a little because he knows Joe likes it. Sure enough, he moans. “Either that or really test our limits – I bet I could make you come ten times or more.”

“Nicky,”  Joe says and Nicky never tires of hearing his name – any of his names – being said that way.

“Are you close?” Nicky asks, even though he knows. “Do you enjoy it, using me like this? Maybe we could try this one day – you could tie me up and use me however you liked and–”

Joe moans and holds Nicky tight as he comes, burying his face in the back of Nicky’s neck. They remain that way for a while, until they’re breathing in sync again.

Nicky cleans the mess from his thighs with his boxers and then turns, tangling his legs with Joe’s.

“Love you, babe,” Joe murmurs, sleepy and sated and happy. Nothing else can reach either of them in this moment and Nicky kisses him softly.

“Love you, too.”

[kyra-bane]

the old guard - kinktober day 1 - (not) sight unseen

october has finally started, so it’s kinktober time! (i also updated my long wip today - we’re two chapters from the end!!! - so i’m packing a lot of writing into the first three days lmao.)

rating: explicit

pairing: joe/omc; joe/nicky

extra tags: internalised homophobia; accidental voyeurism; non-consensual voyeurism; public masturbation; oral sex; anal sex 

word count: 2265

read on ao3 or keep reading below

(Not) Sight Unseen

They have been travelling together for almost thirty years, and in all that time, Nicolò has still not found himself seeking out more intimate company.

It is not that unusual for him, or all that surprising. He had joined the seminary before the crusade and, even before that, girls and all their mysteries had been of little interest to him.

For the first twenty years, he and Yusuf – his killer, his enemy, his travel companion, his friend – have more than enough to worry about, anyway. They kill each other, at first. A lot. They come to an unsteady truce. They learn how to communicate with each other and, more importantly, how to do so without immediately coming to blows.

Even now, when they have been together for almost as long as Nicolò was alive before Yusuf’s scimitar did not succeed in sending him to meet his maker, there is often a barrier between them. Something unspoken, something that one or the other thinks should be apparent.

Except, Yusuf’s eyes have begun to wander. Nicolò does not mind it, of course. It is normal, healthy, that when a pretty woman smiles at him, he smiles back, the gesture lighting up his face (bright as the sun, Nicolò thinks, one day, and that night he wishes he could go to confession, not for all his other sins, but for that thought alone); that he follows them through the markets with his eyes before turning back to Nicolò with a smile and a shrug.

Sometimes Nicolò thinks he sees Yusuf look at men that way, as well, but whenever he thinks that, he chastises himself, turns his eyes away, because whatever the complicated feeling that thought elicits (a sin, in both our faiths; will he ever look at me that way; is he looking back; men cannot lie together…), he will have no part in it.

On this day, this one, fateful day, Nicolò is up with the sun, Yusuf a warm weight against his back. They have shared a bed the last fifteen years, ever since bandits managed to sneak up and kill them in the night and Nicolò had come back to life first, had seen Yusuf, still dead, and his heart had been in his throat.

It is safer, that way. Nicolò wakes readily and always has a weapon close at hand.

He always keeps himself between Yusuf and the door and does not examine that urge, either, even if sometimes Yusuf looks at him with soft eyes before they fall asleep.

He climbs out of bed and by the time he is dressed, Yusuf is rousing, his hair tousled, mouth slack on a yawn.

“It is early, Nico,” he says. “I thought we had nothing to do today?”

Nico. Nicolò looks away. “We do not,” he says. “But I want to go to the marketplace before it becomes too busy. I might go to the gardens after, if you wish to meet me there.”

Yusuf hums, still blinking sleep from his eyes and Nicolò smiles. “Either way,” he says, as he straps on his sword. “I will be back before nightfall.”

“I will see how I feel about the gardens,” Yusuf says. They have been settled in this city for a few months now and Yusuf has taken up sketching in the evenings, or, when they are not working, during the day. He eyes his supplies now and Nicolò nods.

“I will make sure to bring you back something nice,” he says and Yusuf’s smile, when it turns on him, is radiant.

“Thank you, habibi,” he says and Nicolò’s heart does not stop because they are friends and it is a perfectly usual term of endearment, he understands.

He leaves and is only a little disappointed Yusuf did not insist on coming with him.

***

Early afternoon and Nicolò gives up. He has bought a handful of supplies they need, even less that he wants, and the gardens are full of people, which means walking around is not as relaxing as he had hoped for upon waking.

He admits defeat and heads back to the inn they are staying at. Their room is on the ground floor, facing into a courtyard, and Nicolò remains outside for a while. He wonders where they might travel to next, or if they might stay here a while. He thinks of the women in their dreams, that one day they should both go and seek them out.

He is interrupted by a sound. A groan, from a familiar voice – Yusuf.

All at once, Nicolò’s stomach twists. He knows what the sound means, of course; just because he never found a girl to lie with does not mean he has never overheard it – even in a Christian war, there were followers, and men who would do as they wished.

With perspective that the last few years have brought him, Nicolò now knows it to be most of the men.

He creeps over to their room; it has one window, the glass thick but clear enough to see through. He does not know why he goes, only that he does not consider remaining where he is – he supposes he wants to catch a glimpse of who Yusuf is with, which beautiful woman he has enticed back to their room.

Nicolò is not at all prepared for what he sees.

Yusuf is entirely naked – not an unusual sight in and of itself – and sitting on the bed they have not been sleeping in. His head is thrown back and there is a man settled between his legs, cheeks hollowing as he enthusiastically sucks Yusuf’s cock.

Nicolò’s entire face heats and he ducks below the window. Despite the glass between them, he can still hear the way Yusuf moans and, to his horror, he feels his own cock stir. He presses his face against the wall.

He should leave. There is no good reason to remain here, to listen to this.

Instead, he looks again. Yusuf has his hand in the man’s hair, now, pulls him off and up and kisses him, bracketing the man’s waist with his hips and Nicolò has perhaps never been as hard in his life as when Yusuf yanks the man’s head back and bites down his throat.

The man melts under Yusuf’s attention, clutching at his strong thighs, and Nicolò makes a small noise when Yusuf leans back, urging him into his lap.

As the man seats himself, holding Yusuf’s cock steady and lowering himself, oh-so-slowly, onto it, Nicolò struggles with the ties at his waistband. He glances around. There is no one here, no one to see him, and he feels terrible, this is so wrong, but also if he does not touch himself right now, he is sure he will die.

He takes himself in hand as the man settles fully on Yusuf’s lap, and they’re both breathing hard even as the man begins to rock back and forth, Yusuf’s cock sliding out of his ass and then back in again. Nicolò whimpers at the sight. He does his best never to think of this, never to admit to himself what he is, and, too, to never admit what Yusuf means to him, but as much as he is jealous of watching someone else writhe under Yusuf’s attentions, he is also feverish in his desire to be in their place.

The man rests his head in the crook of Yusuf’s neck, and Yusuf is thrusting up, letting out grunts that must be filling the room, the way Nicolò can hear them, and his own hand is moving quickly over his skin; his release is near but he wants to see Yusuf reach his peak, first.

Yusuf kisses the man again, and the man comes, throwing his head back as he spills between them. He laughs when it is over, kisses Yusuf firmly on the mouth, and then Yusuf tosses him onto his back on the bed. They’re facing the window as Yusuf slides back in, although neither looks up and Nicolò shrinks back but is still touching himself, still has the overwhelming urge to watch.

Yusuf pushes the man’s legs toward his chest, thrusts in hard and deep, and it is not long before he comes too. Nicolò knows he has never seen anyone so beautiful and he drops to the ground, bites down on his left sleeve, and comes all over his own stomach.

For a moment he simply lies there, trying to get his breath back, and then the realisation that he is out in the open, the crushing sense of shame, all crash down at once.

He hurriedly tucks himself back away, picks up his things, and runs out of the courtyard. He takes a seat at a coffeehouse nearby and orders a drink, his words halting not only because of his lack of finesse with the language, but also the memory of what he has just done.

How can he ever look at Yusuf in the same way again? Not because of what he was doing, Nicolò realises, because even though he thinks it is wrong, he is beginning to understand he does not necessarily have to believe everything he was taught and, besides, these things often do not apply to Yusuf, specifically, in Nicolò’s mind.

But for what he has done. There is no doubting that it was a violation; he could excuse the first look as being worried for his friend – but after that? Going so far as to touch himself?

He feels sick.

His coffee is brought out and he sips at it and he sits there until he sees the man Yusuf just spent a very pleasant afternoon with leave.

He orders another coffee.

He could, of course, wait until Yusuf leaves to look for him – which if he remains out for too long, Yusuf will do – and then gather up his things and leave.

Of course, that is a method that likely works better if both people involved in the situation are not expecting to live, more or less, forever.

Instead, three coffees later, and just as the sun is beginning to go down, Nicolò drags himself back to their room. Yusuf is sitting at the low table, sketching, and when he looks up and smiles at Nicolò, it is as though nothing between them has irrevocably changed.

Yusuf does not know that it has. Nicolò definitely feels more general guilt than this – for so much – but, specifically, he is sure Yusuf must be able to read what happened on his face.

“How was the market?” Yusuf asks. “The gardens?”

It feels as though he was there days ago. Nicolò shrugs. “Fine,” he says and is so busy trying not to look at Yusuf that he does not see Yusuf’s frown.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, setting down his paper, now.

Nicolò nods, passes him the bag from the market. He looks at the bed, thinks, at least he did not do it in ours and then cringes at ‘ours’ because, obviously, he has allowed his imagination to run away with him, while all the time pretending he was not, in fact, imagining anything at all.

Yusuf is searching through the bag contemplatively, even as Nicolò sits down on their bed and rests his head in his hands. He should just keep his mouth shut, he thinks. And yet…

He is not used to thinking in such long periods of time, not yet, but it has been almost thirty years already. This secret will out, sooner or later, and at least if Yusuf is moved to anger enough now to leave him, Nicolò will not push him away in a hundred years, a thousand.

“Did something happen, habibi?” Yusuf asks and his eyes are so soft when he is concerned; Nicolò can barely stand it.

“I saw you,” he admits, although the words almost get stuck in his throat.

Yusuf frowns. “You saw me?”

“With… With the man. Here.”

“Ah.” Yusuf nods, understanding. He shifts in the chair, so that he and Nicolò are facing each other. “And?”

And? “And, what?” Nicolò asks because he does not want to admit to what he has done and he had also thought Yusuf would already be angrier than this.

“And… what are you planning to do about it?”

“I–“ Nicolò feels sick again. “I will not tell anyone, Yusuf, I swear it.”

“That is not what I meant.”

Nicolò feels as though he is missing something, something that Yusuf apparently believes to be obvious. Then Yusuf’s eyes flick down, to Nicolò’s tunic, and when Nicolò sees the stain, he prays, momentarily, to be struck down for real.

He is startled into opening his eyes again when Yusuf sits on the bed next to him. Their knees touch and Yusuf reaches out, wipes a tear from Nicolò’s cheek.

“Do not worry yourself so much, Nico,” he says and Nicolò cannot read his expression but he knows it is not disgust. “Clean up, now. I will make dinner. And, when you are ready to do something about what you saw, I am here. Always.”

The intensity of his gaze makes Nicolò flush, tremble, but he makes it to his feet, strips off self-consciously and washes in the corner. Yusuf picks through the bags and puts together a meal.

It takes but a few days for Nicolò to regain his equilibrium and trust that Yusuf will not simply abandon him for what he did.

It takes him much, much longer to understand precisely what Yusuf was asking of him.

[kyra-bane]

🍁🎃🍁🎃🍁🎃🍁🎃🍁🎃🍁🎃🍁🎃🍁🎃

HAPPY OCTOBER EVERYBODY

🍁🎃🍁🎃🍁🎃🍁🎃🍁🎃🍁🎃🍁🎃🍁🎃

[kyra-bane]

wah, i’m so tired, these last two chapters of my wip have been exhausting to write (all the angst and the longing and trying to justify THINGS THAT CANNOT BE JUSTIFIED) but we’re getting closer and closer to that e for explicit events tag 😉 so if y’all wanna catch up, i just posted chapter 30 of my fic

read it on ao3

also!!! this is 30 days of consistent posting for me (aka before i go to sleep, not before midnight) and lmao i’ve written 87k on this fic in 30 days. this film has boosted my creativity more than anything i’ve ever consumed i s2g.

anyway, extract:

Yusuf somehow got turned around, looking for a kitchen or dining room, even; and when he turned and Nicolò was standing there, his breath caught.

He looked good. He looked exhausted. He looked at once both pleasantly surprised to see Yusuf standing in the hallway but also battle-worn, weary.

The restlessness shifted in focus; Yusuf wanted to reach for him, hold him, but he did not know how, so he did not.

“Signor di Genova,” Yusuf said and the expression on Nicolò’s face shuttered.

“Mr Al-Kaysani,” he replied. Ah. Yes, it was not supposed to be like that. “Did you sleep well?”

So flustered by the realisation that he should have tried, Yusuf shrugged and replied without thinking. “I am not so used to sleeping alone but, yes, the bed is much more comfortable than I am used to.”

Something in Nicolò’s face had shifted again and, all too late, Yusuf realised what he had said. He did not have time to remedy the effects; Nicolò nodded and turned, but he did gesture for Yusuf to follow. “I am glad,” he said, as Yusuf fell into step beside him. “I take it you are hungry?”

“Yes,” Yusuf replied.

The air between them was heavy. Yusuf did not want him to ask about what had happened, before; it made him uncertain of what he wished to talk about. Nicolò appeared to be dwelling on something, too – every so often, his eyes went distant, as though he were lost in a memory.

“Are you quite alright?” Yusuf asked as they entered the dining room. There was fruit set out, bread, and he settled into a chair with a happy sigh.

“Quite,” Nicolò murmured. He sat across from Yusuf and Yusuf noted the dark circles under his eyes. Had the man slept at all? “I spoke with Andromache last night. This morning. Whilst you were all sleeping.”

Yusuf almost dropped the grapes he had been plucking from the stem. “You… did?”

Pride and Prejudice and Immortals (and Zombies): Chapter Thirty

[kyra-bane]

by ambiguous_sanskars

“I wasn’t that drunk last night.”

“You were flirting with Nicky.”

“So? He’s my husband!”

“You asked him if he was single. Then cried when he said he wasn’t.”

Words: 1595, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Andy | Andromache of Scythia, Booker | Sebastien le Livre, Nile Freeman, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Nicky | Nicolo di Genova

Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolo di Genova

Additional Tags: Domestic Fluff, Found Family, slight hangovers, but not really cuz they’re immortals, Bad Flirting, Alcohol, Joe gets drunk and tries to woo Nicky, banter and laughter, Placing Bets, Declarations Of Love, Kissing, Breakfast

[kyra-bane]

Joe’s eye crinkles

that is all.

[kyra-bane]

mln (me loving nile)