measure_of_a_man



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    Yusuf, you villain. 

    Never have I known such a cruel and unjust man as the likes of you. Were you raised by dogs and taught no human decency? I can imagine no other reason why you would choose to torment me so. 

    I heard your protestations, but I refuse to believe that you fell into the pond by accident. There were ample places to stand upon solid ground, and you are a nimble man. No, you chose to leap in so that you might emerge, dripping wet, your loose white shirt near-transparent, and be forced to strip your outer garments within my view. I hope you choke upon your dinner, and your clothes never lose the scent of pond algae, you temptation. 

    Yours in frustration,
    Nico

    ---

    The joy of this fandom is that your Regency AU doesn't even need to be an AU.

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    20 Sep 2020

  2. Public Bookmark 72

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    “You left me to wake up all alone in our bed.” He said, his voice a velvet-soft rumble into the still morning air.

    “I was going to make you breakfast.” Nicky replied, a little breathless as he held up the meticulously trimmed basil cuttings in his hand, as if that could sway Yusuf’s mind.

    His hair fell into his eyes, and Nico pushed it back with his free hand, letting it fall around his ears and frame his face down to his cheekbones. It was long— he hadn’t had it cut since long before the Merrick job, and ever since he had simply not bothered with it.

    He looked like one of the angels of old poetry. He looked like the Renaissance muse he had once been— the reclined nude in that Florentine piazza, more pure than the marble under his feet, and more luxurious than the pillows under his head and body. He had gazed at him just as he was now, full of liquid heat and a gleam that told Yusuf with all but words how he wished to ravish him. He was unabashed under Yusuf’s brush, just miles of soft skin, and his long brown hair falling in his eyes.

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    29 Aug 2020

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    This is a language no one else in the world is fluent in: the glint in Nicky’s eye, the unbearable gentleness with which he pushes Yusuf flat against the bed.

     

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    Joe and Nicky, from 1099 to 2019, through continents and dialects.

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    22 Aug 2020

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    The thing about being a thousand years old was that years didn’t feel very long anymore; they were an over-produced commodity. The years of studying at al-Azhar wouldn’t feel like much at all to him now, but back then, they’d lasted centuries, and perhaps it was because all the time he spent without Nicky felt interminable, even before he’d known who it was he was missing. He’d carried with him a vague and inexplicable sense that he was waiting for something to begin, though he knew not what.

    ***

    “I think I was in love with you before I knew you.”

    Nicky laughed into the corner of Joe’s jaw, breath tickling his neck. After all these years, he’d memorized the shape of Nicky’s nose, the sensation of his stubble at every stage of unshavenness, absolutely every imaginable corner and contour of his body, and the more he knew it the more he loved it, like an old favorite song that developed new layers of meaning every time you listened. “Always the poet.”

    “I really do think so, though,” Joe chuckled. “I die of love for you,” he said, switching to old Arabic, quoting Abū Nuwās. “And then I return to life so I can kiss you one more time,” he continued. His own words.

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    15 Aug 2020

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    He's imagined their reunion many times. He's imagined sweeping Nicolo off his feet with eloquent declarations of undying devotion, imagined being the one swept off his feet by Nicolo’s quiet sincerity. He's even imagined the unlikely possibility that the spark will have died, that the sight of Nicolo won't set a fire in his blood the way it always has.

    Or: Oh, that time in Malta.
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    05 Aug 2020