Constantinople
Apr. 3rd, 2011 07:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonora_conejaPairing: BA/Face
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: implied slavery
Summary: A fill for this prompt over at the kink meme
Sheik!BA and harem boy!Face... you know you want it!
Baracus is a young Ottoman lord in Constantinople and there’s something irresistably alluring about his manservant Face...
Constantinople, 1397 AD
The dust was rising high in the stable yard, the sound of clashing metal and hard exertions mixing into the Constantinople heat, when Baracus returned home that afternoon.
He smiled as he pulled his big roan up, an unobtrusive slave grabbing for the bridle, knowing the source of that barely-contained melee. Visible, too, the young Ottoman bey noticed with vast appreciation. And he paused for a moment, leaning low over his big mare’s whithers, taking it in.
Two men, sweat-drenched, naked from the waist up, one tall and gray, one lithe and young, fair skin marking them both as former denizens of the northern lands of Christendom. Each had one of those long, straight swords in the style of their homelands, flashing bright in the late sun, coming down on each other with the force and speed usually reserved for the battlefield. But then, Baracus knew from personal experience, the elder of the pair never sparred - he warred. Even in practice. And it was his opponent’s job to ensure blood wasn’t drawn from his own body. So the younger had no room for error, not even the tiniest, but even now, even here, a small, feral smile graced his beautiful features as they scrambled with each other in the dust.
The mare stamped her hoof, and Baracus jumped down with ease, passing the beast off to a stable hand to be taken back and tended. He’d join after the fight had concluded. The well-being of his animals was always deep in his heart, only a few things overtaking it in importance.
Things like his mother.
The lady, older, starting to gray, reclining on a padded divan she’d long ago had purposed out here, for this very thing. For these little lessons.
There were rumors, of course, always rumors, about the widow of the House of Ismail taking up with the legendary Janissary nazir, Hannibal. And Baracus knew he was expected to shame her away from such behavior. But he loved his mother. He’d never begrudged her this happiness.
“Dear son,” she said now, and patted a seat beside her in the shade as he walked over. “So good to see you home. How was the hunt at court today?”
“Killed a few deer, mama, but the formalities...” he said helplessly, and his mother picked his hand up into hers, kissing the back of it. She understood how much he hated the political side of his father’s titles, how he’d rather be in the field, in the battle, but she’d assured him that getting to a military position of significance, there were games to be played. His father’s old advisor, the Germanic slave Murdock, excelled at such matters, but could never be left alone to the task due to an unfortunate brain malady. One never knew when the man might start seeing purple elephants. And Baracus was the only son. It was his duty to preserve the family, the name, their reputation and holdings, and he always, always wanted to do his mother proud...
“It’s a beautiful sight, isn’t it?” she sighed, eyes locked on the scene in front of them. “I never grow tired of his lessons to your Face.”
Yes, Face. His beautiful Face, the young European with the absolutely unpronouceable name. Baracus watched them go at each other for a moment, dark eyes quick on the movements of the younger man, looking for that killing stroke that he could never quite land, before smiling back at his mother. “Thank you again for him, mama.”
“Oh, hush,” she chided, and fanned at him.
There had never been, in Baracus’ mind, any second thoughts about the skinny boy the Janissary commander had brought to them about ten years ago. He’d been fifteen then, the fair-freckled boy about twelve. He’d been selected for the devsirme, Janissary training, Hannibal had explained, but they’d learned he was an orphan. That path was closed to him. His home was far to the north, impossible to return now, so there’d been talk of selling him as a slave, or giving him to the court to castrate for a eunuch. And with the recent death of his father, surely couldn’t Baracus use some male companionship that wasn’t a dry old soldier, meant to teach him how to fight?
During the conversation, the boy’s pale blue eyes, like the sky on a warm day, met Baracus’, friendly, curious, questioning, challenging, and the older boy just knew...this one Allah had fated to be his.
And his mother had agreed.
What a shame it was, too, what a loss for the Corps, not to have a fighter like this one. Even if he never had been able to best Hannibal, sword or knives or fists...even if there were things that strong body, that loyal spirit were perhaps more suited for.
Still, he was a vision when he was fighting.
Baracus thought for a moment Face almost had it, but he over-extended and went toppling instead into the ground, the older man on top of him instantly, knee in his back and hand jerking back that head, slender throat exposed to the older man’s blade, words passing between them in some language the Ottomanbey didn’t speak. The younger man struggled for a moment, and the soldier’s knee dug in.
“Enough!” she called. “You’ll damage the poor boy that way, Janissary!”
The older man released the younger immediately and stood with a slight bow. Replied in flawless Turkish. “Who could refuse the request of such a lady?”
“None who wishes to come here again,” she called back with a laugh, and Baracus stood. The match was over.
He wanted to see his man.
“Excellent!” the Ottoman called out ahead of himself, moving back into the fading sunlight, just knowing he was grinning. “I’m glad you’re teaching him so well, Hannibal!”
Two pairs of blues eyes jerked up at the noise, and one went down with terrifying speed, one smooth motion like falling water as the slighter of the two fell to a knee, one hand on the upturned leg, the other hand resting by his side, on the hilt of his sword, on the packed earth of the little courtyard. Head down. Gaze averted. That glorious expanse of pale, flawless skin on display, only for him.
Only ever for him.
“If he’s to be your bodyguard, bey, then I want him to be the best at what he does,” the Janissary chuckled. They both knew Baracus needed no real help there, not since Hannibal had trained the young noble practically from birth, but Face had to have an official position of some kind, and this was the one he’d most wanted, all those years ago. “And he’s not half bad.”
“That’s good to know,” Baracus grunted, non-comittal.
“My lord honors me,” the young man murmured, and those eyes rolled up, just enough, smiling, before drawing down again. It damn near unmanned him, every single time...
“Go clean up, kid,” the Janissary said, nudging Face a little with the flat of his blade, and walked forward to clap Baracus on the shoulder. Hannibal, Ottoman or not, had been like a father to the young bey, and he was ever grateful for the man’s presence.
But right now, his eyes were fixed to Face’s retreat, the young man’s hips swaying in those limp practice trousers with a grace that belied his skill at the women’s dances, promising of what sweeter exertions the night might bring...
Hannibal tapped him again, pointing in the direction of the stable, where Baracus knew his mare deserved a good rub-down and extra oats tonight. “Now, tell me,” the old soldier asked, deliberately turning them both towards the low-slung outbuilding, “what are those old bastards at court up to? Any word on when they’re going to send us back out? I am dying for a good fight...”
Tonight could wait, Baracus thought.
Just not for very long.
It seemed to take an eternity, though, getting to the night.
Between talking to Hannibal and grooming his horse and dealing with some minor disciplinary issue among the house slaves and exchanging a few more words with his mother, the sun was well down before he was able to excuse himself and head back to his own apartment.
The Ismail estate wasn’t overly large. Theirs was always a minor family, the patriarchs who served in the military preferring to field with the troops than subscribe to the political backbiting and plotting of the capitol. Still, though, there were rooms upon rooms upon rooms here, halls and cupboards and nooks and crannies where he and Face had played more innocent games in more innocent times.
But childhood had passed, he thought with a smile, and adulthood brought with it new games, ones they’d been playing together ever since Face had first come to him, that night the Ottoman had been officially recognized as a man.
Fifteen, virgin, and the fair-faced boy had known exactly what to do, well-educated by the household woman, but he’d come, he’d said later, because he wanted it too. He’d guided Baracus through their first times, shared together, the younger crying and gasping as he was kissed and split open and filled and kissed again and held afterward. Breathing in the smell of sweat on that pale skin, the Ottoman had promised himself he’d keep his friend close, keep him safe, keep him, for as long as he could...
And here he was now, six years later and no less eager, no less desirable, growing into the full promise of manhood. Stretched out, feline and dangerous, on the sleek silk at the foot of Baracus’ wide bed, laying on his back, everything on display.
Everything on offer.
But Face rose when Baracus shut the door quietly behind him. Rose and stood by the bed, and bowed deep.
The younger man had already bathed, skin oiled and gleaming in the flickering lamp light. He was bare-chested, like before, a pair of full brocade trousers hanging gently off narrow hips, all scarlet and shining, bunching just above his ankles, feet bare. Gold bracelets curled around his biceps and in his ears and the darker, more muted locks of gold hair around the edge of his face. And as Baracus approached, heart hammering, lust sparked by the ungodly display of masculine beauty before him, close enough to run a hand down the unbroken curve of a shoulder, those blue eyes snapped up and open, brilliance highlighted by a rim of black kohl.
“My lord,” came the breathy little honorific. Always required. Always felt. But here, in this setting, it sounded more challenge than submission. Exactly the way they both liked it. Face’s hands were on the front of his hunting garb, still dusty from the day spent on the plains. “Does my lord wish to bathe before he dines?”
So, it was going to be one of those nights, was it?
Baracus bit back his own growing arousal and mentally cheered. It was always so, so good, when he let Face fully play out the role that had been given to him, that he’d been trained for since he came to this House, that he did so, so well.
Instead of just throwing him down across his bed and pounding his sweet ass until he cried. Although that, too, had its appeal.
“Better be hot this time,” the young bey said, mock stern.
“Your slave ensured this himself tonight, my lord,” Face replied, soft and sensual, and moved around behind him, out front, leading the way with bowed head into the bath.
Baracus sighs into the foggy heat of the house’s private bath, stretching out along the dark tile of the tub, his soiled clothes out in the antechamber where Face just took them off of him, staring up. Watching the sharp geometric designs of the walls and ceiling shift and change in the coils of rising steam. There’s a public bath, larger, plainer, down the street that the women and male servants use sometimes. But as the master of this house, this one is all his.
Well, the young Ottoman thinks to himself, his and Face’s.
Face, who’s coming back now, his little tray of oils and scrubs and devil knows what else in hand. He’ll go through several of these. But he sets this down now, sinking to his knees on a little pad he’s got there, so he doesn’t ruin the fine silk of his clothing. He selects one of the bottles, the smell of lavender mixing into the warmth of the room. Baracus breathes it in deep, feeling all the tension from the day’s hunt wash away, the puerile jockeying for position, the unimportance of the other young nobles in their careless finery. All of it seems to vanish, as Face pushes his head up a little and lays a folded cloth there, his fingers coming off slowly in a light massage.
Hia fair-faced man raises up a bit then, flush against side of the main raised bath running another cloth through the warm water, raising it out and soaking it with the contents of that bottle, and then it glides across Baracus’ shoulders. Face spends long minutes, turning and moving and applying just enough pressure, seeking out every nub of dirt, every drip of sweat, cupping his balls and stroking gently.
Yet, there’s nothing sexual about this for Face, the bey knows, and one time he tried to make it so, the younger man reacted... badly. No, there’s a kind of ritual he likes to go through, always following the same path over his master’s body, the same motions, the same pleasures that somehow always feel new...
When Face is done, he takes the tray away, back into the mist where he’s got his supply chest secreted, unobtrusive, and comes back with a gigantic white towel, still folded in his hands. “If my lord would rise,” he says, like he always does, and Baracus slide from the water with a grateful little groan. Face unfurls the thing, big enough to be a battle standard, Baracus thinks, and smelling of sunshine.
It follows the same circuit across his body. Chest and shoulders, down each arm to rub between his fingers, under his arms with both hands and down to his cock, then legs, thigh and calf and the soles of his feet. He loves that best, because Face always turns his eyes upward for a moment, maybe touching him, bare skin on skin, and rises slowly, pulling the thick cloth up his ass, which always gets a few extra tender swipes, up his back and into his hair, drying it gently.
“Is my lord sufficiently dry?”
And here he’s not supposed to say anything complimentary, the more insulting the better right now, actually, so the young Ottoman gives his lover a curt little “it will do.”
Although he'd never say anything, he can almost feel the other man's happiness. Face does so love to please, like he's afraid he'll be cast out if he fails, but now's not the time for reassurances.
They'll have plenty of time for such reminders, for Face to prove his worth, for Baracus to remind him of how valued he is in this House.
Later.
Right now, Face holds the towel out, wrapping it around Baracus’ waist and tucking in the end with those ever downcast eyes. His nails graze skin as he lifts free and steps back again, a clear gesture for his bey to follow.
The next room, low and curving, is always a relief, and is again tonight, cooler air, free of moisture, a low table in the center, lit by a single oil lamp that never fails to soothe. “Would my lord have a massage tonight?”
“He would,” and Face actually takes his hand, guiding him down onto the table.
Oil, a different kind, infused with sandalwood, is rubbed into warmed skin and loosened muscles. Neck, back, arms, legs... everything gets its turn. The younger man has iron fingers, knows how to do all these little things with his elbows and arms, and all together, it chases every last knot of stress from Baracus’ body. He feels boneless by the time Face is at his scalp, fingers combing something through his hair, and then there’s the glide across the shell of his ear, telling him this bit is done for the night.
Face’s voice is low, very quiet, his mouth level with that ear. “Is my lord satisfied?” he murmurs.
“Barely,” Baracus replies, trying to measure the necessary negative answer against the actual feeling of utter satisfaction he fell, and hauls his bulk up and off the table. He’s rarely aware of his body, but after Face brings it to life like this, he can’t help but feel every fiber of muscle, every pump of his heart. He wants to touch, wants to feel, but Face is holding out a light robe for him, the one that doesn’t close in the front, his favorite pair of baggy trousers, pale yellow silk, all of it, and unadorned, and nothing for his feet. It’s all simple, like he likes it to have it when he can.
His fair companion dresses him easily in it all, familiar with the task, and brushes his hands gently off again as he’s done tying the last knot. He shuffles back a few steps and opens the door.
“Your meal is set out for you, my lord, if you will.”
And Baracus nods, just once, and follows Face down the hall.
Baracus, following behind back into the main body of rooms, smiles to himself. That soft swish of richly embroidered silk, soft footfalls, the anticipation of it all. He loves watching Face walk - all that power, all that grace, and especially on nights like tonight, when everything comes out full force. Just for him.
But Face stiffens a little, barely noticeable, as they regain the main chamber. The reason, Baracus realizes, is instantly clear.
One of the harem girls, a dark-eyed beauty from the North, is waiting by the spread meal with her head bowed just enough to not be rude. She’s a feisty one, this Charisa, and of all the women his mother keeps rotating in front of him, this is the one that’s most likely to receive his seed. Strong, tall, fierce... she reminds Baracus of Face, which is why he favors her, even if he hasn’t yet lain with her.
And she reminds Face, to his undying ire, that there is one duty, the most important duty as the younger man bitterly calls it, that he cannot perform.
His lover’s shoulders are pinching up, hands a little too hard as he settles the cushions around his form, everything within reach and smelling delicious. The fairer man’s getting worried, the young bey knows. Worried he’s going to fall out of favor, dismissed from service, thrown from this house. Cast away. Old wounds reopen, wounds that still seem to bleed, no matter how he tries to assauge them.
So, Baracus tells the girl her services are not needed tonight. Dark eyes almost flash red as she bows and departs silently, but Face, at least, relaxes, exhaling softly as he kneels down behind his lord, one hand brushing down the shoulder of that pale yellow robe in thanks. The bey grunts in reply, and motions for Face to have a seat next to him.
Face is allowed to eat, although he rarely does on these nights. Instead he pours the wine and offers dishes and tells jokes, or stories. Old fairytales from Turkish lands or Face’s own, court intrigues, campaigns and battles fought long before their time, it doesn’t matter. In Face’s versions, though, everything is funnier, and all the men are in love and brave and foolish and at impossible odds with one another, all at once.
His voice is beautiful at any time, but here it takes on a melodic quality, falling like water, soothing the day’s dusty, frustrating pursuits, and pretty soon they’re both laughing along with a version of Aladin where the visier is lusting after the urchin and the jinn is terrified of the pranks Aladin keeps playing on him.
It carries on and on, well past the original boundaries of the tale, and Aladin is right on the verge of asking that the princess be turned into a prince, when Baracus can’t take it any more at all. Grabs Face around the neck, loving the way his hand just seems to fit back here, and draws him down for a soft but demanding kiss.
The younger man shudders and moans, the sound of that sparking something deep inside Baracus, and he growls, pushing for more, gripping tighter, but then Face is peeling his fingers away, kissing the tips gently as he holds them, and stands in one fluid motion, letting his hands slowly slide from the bey.
“Would you like me to dance for you, my lord?” he says coyly, stretching himself like a cat.
And all Baracus can do is nod.
Baracus’ main chamber is set up for this, the bed on its raised platform, this smaller room within, walls of hexagonal interlaced carvings, light spilling through generous space unimpeded. Tapestries sewn by six generations of this House hang from the walls, pillows and cushions of every shape and size litter the floor, but all of it terminates at the edge of the small raised dais.
Face drops to a knee, giving some kind of direction to their blind musician, who only has the drums tonight, closing a circelet of small bells around one ankle, and fitting on a pair of zills, those little hand cymbals Baracus’ mother brought with her from her own southern deserts. The crimson silk of his loose trousers swishes almost imperceptibly as he takes position, bows fully, and extends out from his shoulder one hand, palm down, tucking the other right below his heart, very slowly, flashing the young a bey that beautiful, arrogant smile of his.
His fair-faced lover is waiting for the command to begin.
Baracus nods again.
He rotates his wrist up, snapping his fingers together, zills brushing, clear and light.
And the drum begins.
Measured, almost still, and Face’s movements match. Hips, slow, the fullness of his trousers accentuating the agonizingly languid roll, feet stepping with perfect rhythm, bells chiming out so softly. Arms twist, flowing out and up, hands carving patterns in the cooling air of the night, the smoke from the oil lamps, zills sparking bright in the deep beat of the drum.
The music curls up into the darkest corners of the room, shifting a little, the beat quickening, and with it, Face’s feet sweep a little wider, the bells ring, the zills change pattern, grow louder, hips gaining momentum, gasps escaping him as muscle warms and heartbeat begins to speed.
Baracus lays back a little in the cushions, spreading his legs as his manhood begins to swell, watching that cascade of pale skin and dark hair and flashing blue eyes. He’s had women dance for him, sometimes in this very room, on this very dais. The same dances that Face knows, but none can do it as well. Not by half. None build like this. None can infuse their movements with the unconscious elegance his fair lover has. None know how to do that particular little twist.
The drum is racing now, and Face is losing himself in it. Baracus always knows, knows because he watches the man fight with Hannibal and sees that killing blankness steal over handsome features and take command. It’s like that when he dances too, when the music grows wild and there’s nothing but the arc of smooth, gleaming flesh, the synchronous pounding of feet, the billow of silk, swirling into the heavens, tumbling to the ground.
The young bey stands now as Face gracefully lands, palms flat on the dais, the drumming reaching for unhinged chaos now, and his lover crawls the last few measures, hands and knees, still perfectly in beat, right towards where Baracus is waiting.
He can’t breath as Face takes up the last of the distance between them, his senses swirling, his mind full of the spectacle and the wild strains of the goatskin drum and the need, oh, his need...
Face draws himself to his knees, body undulating in a way that should be impossible, every inch of hard muscle showing on his belly as pulls up. His head, last of all, and the kohl around his eyes sets the already luminous blue all to flame, meeting Baracus’ for a moment, and then he bares the strong line of his neck.
“My lord?”
And although it’s a question, it’s in actuality the offer, the permission, the plea, the signal for the evening to end and the night to begin.
Baracus runs one hand down the inverse arc of spine, pulling Face close.
And, the drum still going strong, they both gasp as teeth break skin.
Face cries out, jamming up into Baracus, all the hard muscle straining under his milky-soft skin. So hard, in fact, the young bey thinks his lover might have have just spilled himself in climax.
So he worries that spot between his teeth, sucking on already tender skin, as he drops a hand to cup his lover’s cock through the fine silk. Hard, hot flesh meets his fingers, and the younger man buries his face in Baracus’ shoulder, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Steadying himself, just for a moment.
And then he smiles, cocking his head a bit, and slides his hands into Baracus’. “Come with me, my lord,” he murmurs under the still-wild beat of the drum. “Come with me.”
His feet, his hips, are still following that rhythm, and the Ottonman can feel the blood pounding in his ears, heart racing, on fire with desire for this man. As heated and as mercilessly as the first night they lay together, as it always is between them.
A shy smile lies on Face’s sweet lips that may be artifice, but never fails to send Baracaus over the edge. And those soft, strong hands are pulling them back.
Leading Baracus back to the bed.
The bey thinks his heart is going to explode by the time they reach it, the drum quieter now but no less frantic. Face lays himself down, curving his body as if he’s dodging a stroke from Hannibal’s short, swift sword. Their hands are still joined and his fair lover pulls them over his head, back against the silks of the bed, the pure linen sheets underneath, writhing, bringing one of those clever legs up Baracus’ hip, around the small of his back, pulling him close.
Baracus can’t help but fall over his lover, dragged and prodded and guided, everything smooth and easy, nothing but pleasure awaiting him here. They kiss, Face surrendering utterly, holding tight to the Ottoman’s neck as his fine mouth is ravished. He tastes delicious, always does, and Baracus feels every little tremor that runs through him with this alone. Every swipe of stubble, every little broken gasp.
He leaves Face panting, breathless, and tongues back over his mark, laving the reddened skin, cleaning away the last traces of blood. Face moans like a whore and bucks up into him, angling perfectly, bringing their rock-hard shafts sliding against one another.
Baracus rears back and strips his own robe off, watching his lover’s eyes darken in lust, that sleek form rolling up again. Nimble fingers undo the ties on his own loose trousers, the pale gold falling from his hips to pool at his feet, manhood springing free, erect and swollen with need, and Face takes this reverently in hand. Pulls and swirls, the pads of his fingers tracing the vein on the underside, and presses a nail, right into the slit.
Baracus howls, and crashes back down over Face, leaving just enough space to rip those gorgeous crimson trousers right off his lover, the younger man crawling out, backwards on his elbows, further up on the bed, a look of unadulterated desire on his beautiful features. His own shaft is leaking against his belly,leaving wet trails that shine dully in the glow of the lamps.
And it’s when he drops his own hand to it, encircles it and moans, that’s when the Ottoman pounces.
“Touching what’s mine?” he growls, fisting that proud, red cock in one big hand, and revels in the full-body shudder that runs through his lover. “Hands away, Face...”
“Need you, my lord, need you inside me,” the younger man’s saying, over and over, and a string of Occidental follows the Turkish into the half-light of the bedchamber, his voice magnificent in any language. “Please...”
“Love it when you beg,” Baracus says, running that hand away from his lover’s cock, listening to the melodic note of the desperate moan that follows, watching those muscles flex again under his now-roaming fingers. “On your knees...”
Face obeys instantly, scrambling around, head down, bracing himself on his elbows as he lifts his hips, presenting the perfect round of his buttocks for Baracus’ pleasure, making it clear that he’s already prepared himself, like he always does, copious amounts of expensive sandalwood oils, enough to take Baracus without fear of injury, but both of them like it tight. Tight and hot and wet and almost painful. And the bey is on his own knees, lining up, getting a good grip on those narrow hips.
“Oh, please, my lord, take me, take me...” Face is moaning.
“I’ve got you, love,” Baracus murmurs, feeling another shiver from Face from the endearment, the love, and slides home in one long go.
It’s never-ending, slipping into Face’s body like this, the younger man taking every inch with an effortless display of skill that the women of his harem have yet to match. And his fair-faced lover is like a furnace inside, hot as hellfire and every bit as sinful. He’s sweating already - they both are - but Baracus can’t afford to gie him any time to adjust at all. He needs this himself, thinks he might die from the need of it.
So Face cries out again as the Ottoman pulls all the way out.
And slams right back in.
He sets a brutal pace, already pushed to the edge by his lover’s glorious ministrations this evening, plowing right in to the younger man’s ass without a thought for his own pleasure. But Face loves this, loves it almost more than Baracus himself does, and he’s pushing back against that cock splitting him in twain, driving it deeper and deeper inside him on every forward thrust, babbling out in, only occasionally hitting back into Turkish.
Baracus takes a firmer grip as Face’s upper body gives out entirely, reaching a hand around his lover’s stomach to pull him up into his lap, groaning into that dark gold hair at the change in angle. It’s nothing to hold Face like this, keep a firm grip around his slender form and continue rutting up into him, never breaking the rhythm.
He drops a hand to fist that cock he’s laid claim to before, so many times before, and Face is working with him now, dropping down and raising up, fucking himself on Baracus’ hand, on Baracus’ cock, crying out, wordlessly now. The obscene, beautiful sounds of flesh on flesh merge with that, the most fantastic symphony the bey knows he’ll ever hear. And nothing but that, nothing but that, for long minutes until the Ottoman feels that coil in his own belly, the pressure building, the edge approaching, and he bites back down on that mark of his, the imprint of his teeth on Face’s shoulder, thrusting up wildly.
“Come for me, Face, come for me now...”
He gives a groan like he’s dying, and then Face is spilling himself all over Baracus’ hand, warm spurts of thick seed. Everything in his body locks up, clamps down, including over Baracus’s cock, and that pulls him over the top, drawing out his own climax, strong interior muscles milking it from him eagerly.
They both collapse on the bed, breathing hard, their sweat drying, cooling their skin. Baracus loves how he feels after this, empty and full, all at once, the best feeling. The absolute heights of heaven. And everything goes still in the young bey for a little while.
A soft, damp cloth moves across his skin at some point, bringing him back, chasing beads of salt and and residual seed off his dark chest, dipping gently to cradle his sac and soft manhood. Lingering here a little longer than strictly necessary. Lifting the edge of the covers and beckoning Baracus under. It’s all somehow more intimate here than anything else they’ve done together, he thinks.
He reaches out for Face, wanting to pull him close, wanting to hold him in.
Face, as always, pulls away once he’s settled the covers over his master’s body, backs away, holding the last of the room’s light, a curling little oil lamp. His ruined trousers are thrown across his arm. And he must, must be sore. But he still bows, deep and honest, and Baracus props himself up on one elbow.
“Did I please you this night, my lord?”
His voice is clear in the still air around them. Like the darkness itself is waiting for an answer.
Baracus finds his mouth too dry to answer, and has to swallow a few times before he can speak. “Imminently.”
His lover bows again, and turns to go. Always leaving. No matter if it’s hard and fast, slow and drawn out, no matter if Baracus has just auditioned a new woman and calls for his man after, no matter if he’s just returned from a border campaign, no matter any of that, Face always leaves.
“Face!” he calls, and bare feet pause on the tile of the floor. “Stay with me tonight.”
Those fine shoulders tighten, just a little, and then those feet carry all the light away.
+++++
In the morning, Baracus finds Hannibal speaking with his mother in the cool shade of one of the interior courtyards. A small fountain sparkles in the thin shaft of sunlight spilling through to the glossy tiles. His mother’s laughing, sweet and feminine, while Hannibal chuckles his way through the rest of the story.
They both rise when they see him, and his mother puts a hand on his cheek, drawing him in for a hug. “What’s wrong, baby?” she asks in the tongue of her own southern tribe. “What’s troubling you?”
“Can I have a moment with the nazir, mama?” he replies in kind.
“Of course you may,” she says, and stands up on her tiptoes to kiss his forehead. “Know that I love you, baby.”
“Love you too, mama,” he says, feeling the Janissary’s eyes on him the entire time.
But, graciously, Hannibal doesn’t speak until she’s gone.
“Does your mother not know I speak Arabic?” he asks, amused.
Baracus shrugs. There’s something about Hannibal that makes him feel like a bumbling child, but he trusts the older man. Like a father to him, really, since his own father died, all those years ago. And that smiling expression sobers a bit.
“What is it, Baracus? What’s bothering you today?”
“It’s... it’s Face, nazir. I don’t know if he’s...”
“Ah, yes. Your lover.” Baracus had never said anything to Hannibal about their affair, and he’s fairly certain Face never brought it up himself. The older man just seemed to know, from the very first. “What’s your concern for him?”
“I don’t know if he’s happy here. I don’t know if he’s happy with me, with this...”
Hannibal nods. “He should have a woman of his own, children, a good position in my corps. That would make him happy, you’re thinking?”
Baracus nods. “Exactly. He should be able to have something like that...”
“Is that what you want, Baracus? Your wife, your children? Or do you want him?”
“I want children,” he says quietly, smiling as he thinks about it. Girls scurrying about in flutters of bright silk, teaching his sons how to fight, how to ride, how to be strong, little voices rising in laughter to the hot skies of Constantinople. But always, always, it’s Face he sees there, Face picking them up and laughing with them and telling them stories and Face fussing over them in their wet nurses’ arms... “But I want him as well, nazir. What am I supposed to do?”
“We all do our duty, Baracus. Even you. Even I.” Hannibal’s brow furls a bit. “Face serves you in every capacity he can. He relishes every moment of it. Don’t deny him that service.”
“But is that enough, Hannibal? Just his duty?”
The Janissary laughs at that, and claps him on the back. “You’d make a fine addition to court someday, Baracus, philosopher that you are,” he says, laughing even harder as the young bey makes what he knows is a most undignified face. “But for right now, let’s go see how that mare of yours is doing. She looked like she was favoring her front right hoof yesterday...”
As Hannibal draws him out in the rising sun of the morning, out through the house, to the wide court where they practice at swords, across to the stables, he sees Face sitting on the outside steps of the scullery, piece fruit in hand, charming the skirt off one of the girls from the kitchens, probably for a bowl of milk or something. Baracus wants to give direction that Face be given what he wants, but he seems to like it more this way.
Their eyes lock across the yard, one pair dark, the other the color of the clean summer sky.
And Face smiles.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: implied slavery
Summary: A fill for this prompt over at the kink meme
Sheik!BA and harem boy!Face... you know you want it!
Baracus is a young Ottoman lord in Constantinople and there’s something irresistably alluring about his manservant Face...
Constantinople, 1397 AD
The dust was rising high in the stable yard, the sound of clashing metal and hard exertions mixing into the Constantinople heat, when Baracus returned home that afternoon.
He smiled as he pulled his big roan up, an unobtrusive slave grabbing for the bridle, knowing the source of that barely-contained melee. Visible, too, the young Ottoman bey noticed with vast appreciation. And he paused for a moment, leaning low over his big mare’s whithers, taking it in.
Two men, sweat-drenched, naked from the waist up, one tall and gray, one lithe and young, fair skin marking them both as former denizens of the northern lands of Christendom. Each had one of those long, straight swords in the style of their homelands, flashing bright in the late sun, coming down on each other with the force and speed usually reserved for the battlefield. But then, Baracus knew from personal experience, the elder of the pair never sparred - he warred. Even in practice. And it was his opponent’s job to ensure blood wasn’t drawn from his own body. So the younger had no room for error, not even the tiniest, but even now, even here, a small, feral smile graced his beautiful features as they scrambled with each other in the dust.
The mare stamped her hoof, and Baracus jumped down with ease, passing the beast off to a stable hand to be taken back and tended. He’d join after the fight had concluded. The well-being of his animals was always deep in his heart, only a few things overtaking it in importance.
Things like his mother.
The lady, older, starting to gray, reclining on a padded divan she’d long ago had purposed out here, for this very thing. For these little lessons.
There were rumors, of course, always rumors, about the widow of the House of Ismail taking up with the legendary Janissary nazir, Hannibal. And Baracus knew he was expected to shame her away from such behavior. But he loved his mother. He’d never begrudged her this happiness.
“Dear son,” she said now, and patted a seat beside her in the shade as he walked over. “So good to see you home. How was the hunt at court today?”
“Killed a few deer, mama, but the formalities...” he said helplessly, and his mother picked his hand up into hers, kissing the back of it. She understood how much he hated the political side of his father’s titles, how he’d rather be in the field, in the battle, but she’d assured him that getting to a military position of significance, there were games to be played. His father’s old advisor, the Germanic slave Murdock, excelled at such matters, but could never be left alone to the task due to an unfortunate brain malady. One never knew when the man might start seeing purple elephants. And Baracus was the only son. It was his duty to preserve the family, the name, their reputation and holdings, and he always, always wanted to do his mother proud...
“It’s a beautiful sight, isn’t it?” she sighed, eyes locked on the scene in front of them. “I never grow tired of his lessons to your Face.”
Yes, Face. His beautiful Face, the young European with the absolutely unpronouceable name. Baracus watched them go at each other for a moment, dark eyes quick on the movements of the younger man, looking for that killing stroke that he could never quite land, before smiling back at his mother. “Thank you again for him, mama.”
“Oh, hush,” she chided, and fanned at him.
There had never been, in Baracus’ mind, any second thoughts about the skinny boy the Janissary commander had brought to them about ten years ago. He’d been fifteen then, the fair-freckled boy about twelve. He’d been selected for the devsirme, Janissary training, Hannibal had explained, but they’d learned he was an orphan. That path was closed to him. His home was far to the north, impossible to return now, so there’d been talk of selling him as a slave, or giving him to the court to castrate for a eunuch. And with the recent death of his father, surely couldn’t Baracus use some male companionship that wasn’t a dry old soldier, meant to teach him how to fight?
During the conversation, the boy’s pale blue eyes, like the sky on a warm day, met Baracus’, friendly, curious, questioning, challenging, and the older boy just knew...this one Allah had fated to be his.
And his mother had agreed.
What a shame it was, too, what a loss for the Corps, not to have a fighter like this one. Even if he never had been able to best Hannibal, sword or knives or fists...even if there were things that strong body, that loyal spirit were perhaps more suited for.
Still, he was a vision when he was fighting.
Baracus thought for a moment Face almost had it, but he over-extended and went toppling instead into the ground, the older man on top of him instantly, knee in his back and hand jerking back that head, slender throat exposed to the older man’s blade, words passing between them in some language the Ottomanbey didn’t speak. The younger man struggled for a moment, and the soldier’s knee dug in.
“Enough!” she called. “You’ll damage the poor boy that way, Janissary!”
The older man released the younger immediately and stood with a slight bow. Replied in flawless Turkish. “Who could refuse the request of such a lady?”
“None who wishes to come here again,” she called back with a laugh, and Baracus stood. The match was over.
He wanted to see his man.
“Excellent!” the Ottoman called out ahead of himself, moving back into the fading sunlight, just knowing he was grinning. “I’m glad you’re teaching him so well, Hannibal!”
Two pairs of blues eyes jerked up at the noise, and one went down with terrifying speed, one smooth motion like falling water as the slighter of the two fell to a knee, one hand on the upturned leg, the other hand resting by his side, on the hilt of his sword, on the packed earth of the little courtyard. Head down. Gaze averted. That glorious expanse of pale, flawless skin on display, only for him.
Only ever for him.
“If he’s to be your bodyguard, bey, then I want him to be the best at what he does,” the Janissary chuckled. They both knew Baracus needed no real help there, not since Hannibal had trained the young noble practically from birth, but Face had to have an official position of some kind, and this was the one he’d most wanted, all those years ago. “And he’s not half bad.”
“That’s good to know,” Baracus grunted, non-comittal.
“My lord honors me,” the young man murmured, and those eyes rolled up, just enough, smiling, before drawing down again. It damn near unmanned him, every single time...
“Go clean up, kid,” the Janissary said, nudging Face a little with the flat of his blade, and walked forward to clap Baracus on the shoulder. Hannibal, Ottoman or not, had been like a father to the young bey, and he was ever grateful for the man’s presence.
But right now, his eyes were fixed to Face’s retreat, the young man’s hips swaying in those limp practice trousers with a grace that belied his skill at the women’s dances, promising of what sweeter exertions the night might bring...
Hannibal tapped him again, pointing in the direction of the stable, where Baracus knew his mare deserved a good rub-down and extra oats tonight. “Now, tell me,” the old soldier asked, deliberately turning them both towards the low-slung outbuilding, “what are those old bastards at court up to? Any word on when they’re going to send us back out? I am dying for a good fight...”
Tonight could wait, Baracus thought.
Just not for very long.
It seemed to take an eternity, though, getting to the night.
Between talking to Hannibal and grooming his horse and dealing with some minor disciplinary issue among the house slaves and exchanging a few more words with his mother, the sun was well down before he was able to excuse himself and head back to his own apartment.
The Ismail estate wasn’t overly large. Theirs was always a minor family, the patriarchs who served in the military preferring to field with the troops than subscribe to the political backbiting and plotting of the capitol. Still, though, there were rooms upon rooms upon rooms here, halls and cupboards and nooks and crannies where he and Face had played more innocent games in more innocent times.
But childhood had passed, he thought with a smile, and adulthood brought with it new games, ones they’d been playing together ever since Face had first come to him, that night the Ottoman had been officially recognized as a man.
Fifteen, virgin, and the fair-faced boy had known exactly what to do, well-educated by the household woman, but he’d come, he’d said later, because he wanted it too. He’d guided Baracus through their first times, shared together, the younger crying and gasping as he was kissed and split open and filled and kissed again and held afterward. Breathing in the smell of sweat on that pale skin, the Ottoman had promised himself he’d keep his friend close, keep him safe, keep him, for as long as he could...
And here he was now, six years later and no less eager, no less desirable, growing into the full promise of manhood. Stretched out, feline and dangerous, on the sleek silk at the foot of Baracus’ wide bed, laying on his back, everything on display.
Everything on offer.
But Face rose when Baracus shut the door quietly behind him. Rose and stood by the bed, and bowed deep.
The younger man had already bathed, skin oiled and gleaming in the flickering lamp light. He was bare-chested, like before, a pair of full brocade trousers hanging gently off narrow hips, all scarlet and shining, bunching just above his ankles, feet bare. Gold bracelets curled around his biceps and in his ears and the darker, more muted locks of gold hair around the edge of his face. And as Baracus approached, heart hammering, lust sparked by the ungodly display of masculine beauty before him, close enough to run a hand down the unbroken curve of a shoulder, those blue eyes snapped up and open, brilliance highlighted by a rim of black kohl.
“My lord,” came the breathy little honorific. Always required. Always felt. But here, in this setting, it sounded more challenge than submission. Exactly the way they both liked it. Face’s hands were on the front of his hunting garb, still dusty from the day spent on the plains. “Does my lord wish to bathe before he dines?”
So, it was going to be one of those nights, was it?
Baracus bit back his own growing arousal and mentally cheered. It was always so, so good, when he let Face fully play out the role that had been given to him, that he’d been trained for since he came to this House, that he did so, so well.
Instead of just throwing him down across his bed and pounding his sweet ass until he cried. Although that, too, had its appeal.
“Better be hot this time,” the young bey said, mock stern.
“Your slave ensured this himself tonight, my lord,” Face replied, soft and sensual, and moved around behind him, out front, leading the way with bowed head into the bath.
Baracus sighs into the foggy heat of the house’s private bath, stretching out along the dark tile of the tub, his soiled clothes out in the antechamber where Face just took them off of him, staring up. Watching the sharp geometric designs of the walls and ceiling shift and change in the coils of rising steam. There’s a public bath, larger, plainer, down the street that the women and male servants use sometimes. But as the master of this house, this one is all his.
Well, the young Ottoman thinks to himself, his and Face’s.
Face, who’s coming back now, his little tray of oils and scrubs and devil knows what else in hand. He’ll go through several of these. But he sets this down now, sinking to his knees on a little pad he’s got there, so he doesn’t ruin the fine silk of his clothing. He selects one of the bottles, the smell of lavender mixing into the warmth of the room. Baracus breathes it in deep, feeling all the tension from the day’s hunt wash away, the puerile jockeying for position, the unimportance of the other young nobles in their careless finery. All of it seems to vanish, as Face pushes his head up a little and lays a folded cloth there, his fingers coming off slowly in a light massage.
Hia fair-faced man raises up a bit then, flush against side of the main raised bath running another cloth through the warm water, raising it out and soaking it with the contents of that bottle, and then it glides across Baracus’ shoulders. Face spends long minutes, turning and moving and applying just enough pressure, seeking out every nub of dirt, every drip of sweat, cupping his balls and stroking gently.
Yet, there’s nothing sexual about this for Face, the bey knows, and one time he tried to make it so, the younger man reacted... badly. No, there’s a kind of ritual he likes to go through, always following the same path over his master’s body, the same motions, the same pleasures that somehow always feel new...
When Face is done, he takes the tray away, back into the mist where he’s got his supply chest secreted, unobtrusive, and comes back with a gigantic white towel, still folded in his hands. “If my lord would rise,” he says, like he always does, and Baracus slide from the water with a grateful little groan. Face unfurls the thing, big enough to be a battle standard, Baracus thinks, and smelling of sunshine.
It follows the same circuit across his body. Chest and shoulders, down each arm to rub between his fingers, under his arms with both hands and down to his cock, then legs, thigh and calf and the soles of his feet. He loves that best, because Face always turns his eyes upward for a moment, maybe touching him, bare skin on skin, and rises slowly, pulling the thick cloth up his ass, which always gets a few extra tender swipes, up his back and into his hair, drying it gently.
“Is my lord sufficiently dry?”
And here he’s not supposed to say anything complimentary, the more insulting the better right now, actually, so the young Ottoman gives his lover a curt little “it will do.”
Although he'd never say anything, he can almost feel the other man's happiness. Face does so love to please, like he's afraid he'll be cast out if he fails, but now's not the time for reassurances.
They'll have plenty of time for such reminders, for Face to prove his worth, for Baracus to remind him of how valued he is in this House.
Later.
Right now, Face holds the towel out, wrapping it around Baracus’ waist and tucking in the end with those ever downcast eyes. His nails graze skin as he lifts free and steps back again, a clear gesture for his bey to follow.
The next room, low and curving, is always a relief, and is again tonight, cooler air, free of moisture, a low table in the center, lit by a single oil lamp that never fails to soothe. “Would my lord have a massage tonight?”
“He would,” and Face actually takes his hand, guiding him down onto the table.
Oil, a different kind, infused with sandalwood, is rubbed into warmed skin and loosened muscles. Neck, back, arms, legs... everything gets its turn. The younger man has iron fingers, knows how to do all these little things with his elbows and arms, and all together, it chases every last knot of stress from Baracus’ body. He feels boneless by the time Face is at his scalp, fingers combing something through his hair, and then there’s the glide across the shell of his ear, telling him this bit is done for the night.
Face’s voice is low, very quiet, his mouth level with that ear. “Is my lord satisfied?” he murmurs.
“Barely,” Baracus replies, trying to measure the necessary negative answer against the actual feeling of utter satisfaction he fell, and hauls his bulk up and off the table. He’s rarely aware of his body, but after Face brings it to life like this, he can’t help but feel every fiber of muscle, every pump of his heart. He wants to touch, wants to feel, but Face is holding out a light robe for him, the one that doesn’t close in the front, his favorite pair of baggy trousers, pale yellow silk, all of it, and unadorned, and nothing for his feet. It’s all simple, like he likes it to have it when he can.
His fair companion dresses him easily in it all, familiar with the task, and brushes his hands gently off again as he’s done tying the last knot. He shuffles back a few steps and opens the door.
“Your meal is set out for you, my lord, if you will.”
And Baracus nods, just once, and follows Face down the hall.
Baracus, following behind back into the main body of rooms, smiles to himself. That soft swish of richly embroidered silk, soft footfalls, the anticipation of it all. He loves watching Face walk - all that power, all that grace, and especially on nights like tonight, when everything comes out full force. Just for him.
But Face stiffens a little, barely noticeable, as they regain the main chamber. The reason, Baracus realizes, is instantly clear.
One of the harem girls, a dark-eyed beauty from the North, is waiting by the spread meal with her head bowed just enough to not be rude. She’s a feisty one, this Charisa, and of all the women his mother keeps rotating in front of him, this is the one that’s most likely to receive his seed. Strong, tall, fierce... she reminds Baracus of Face, which is why he favors her, even if he hasn’t yet lain with her.
And she reminds Face, to his undying ire, that there is one duty, the most important duty as the younger man bitterly calls it, that he cannot perform.
His lover’s shoulders are pinching up, hands a little too hard as he settles the cushions around his form, everything within reach and smelling delicious. The fairer man’s getting worried, the young bey knows. Worried he’s going to fall out of favor, dismissed from service, thrown from this house. Cast away. Old wounds reopen, wounds that still seem to bleed, no matter how he tries to assauge them.
So, Baracus tells the girl her services are not needed tonight. Dark eyes almost flash red as she bows and departs silently, but Face, at least, relaxes, exhaling softly as he kneels down behind his lord, one hand brushing down the shoulder of that pale yellow robe in thanks. The bey grunts in reply, and motions for Face to have a seat next to him.
Face is allowed to eat, although he rarely does on these nights. Instead he pours the wine and offers dishes and tells jokes, or stories. Old fairytales from Turkish lands or Face’s own, court intrigues, campaigns and battles fought long before their time, it doesn’t matter. In Face’s versions, though, everything is funnier, and all the men are in love and brave and foolish and at impossible odds with one another, all at once.
His voice is beautiful at any time, but here it takes on a melodic quality, falling like water, soothing the day’s dusty, frustrating pursuits, and pretty soon they’re both laughing along with a version of Aladin where the visier is lusting after the urchin and the jinn is terrified of the pranks Aladin keeps playing on him.
It carries on and on, well past the original boundaries of the tale, and Aladin is right on the verge of asking that the princess be turned into a prince, when Baracus can’t take it any more at all. Grabs Face around the neck, loving the way his hand just seems to fit back here, and draws him down for a soft but demanding kiss.
The younger man shudders and moans, the sound of that sparking something deep inside Baracus, and he growls, pushing for more, gripping tighter, but then Face is peeling his fingers away, kissing the tips gently as he holds them, and stands in one fluid motion, letting his hands slowly slide from the bey.
“Would you like me to dance for you, my lord?” he says coyly, stretching himself like a cat.
And all Baracus can do is nod.
Baracus’ main chamber is set up for this, the bed on its raised platform, this smaller room within, walls of hexagonal interlaced carvings, light spilling through generous space unimpeded. Tapestries sewn by six generations of this House hang from the walls, pillows and cushions of every shape and size litter the floor, but all of it terminates at the edge of the small raised dais.
Face drops to a knee, giving some kind of direction to their blind musician, who only has the drums tonight, closing a circelet of small bells around one ankle, and fitting on a pair of zills, those little hand cymbals Baracus’ mother brought with her from her own southern deserts. The crimson silk of his loose trousers swishes almost imperceptibly as he takes position, bows fully, and extends out from his shoulder one hand, palm down, tucking the other right below his heart, very slowly, flashing the young a bey that beautiful, arrogant smile of his.
His fair-faced lover is waiting for the command to begin.
Baracus nods again.
He rotates his wrist up, snapping his fingers together, zills brushing, clear and light.
And the drum begins.
Measured, almost still, and Face’s movements match. Hips, slow, the fullness of his trousers accentuating the agonizingly languid roll, feet stepping with perfect rhythm, bells chiming out so softly. Arms twist, flowing out and up, hands carving patterns in the cooling air of the night, the smoke from the oil lamps, zills sparking bright in the deep beat of the drum.
The music curls up into the darkest corners of the room, shifting a little, the beat quickening, and with it, Face’s feet sweep a little wider, the bells ring, the zills change pattern, grow louder, hips gaining momentum, gasps escaping him as muscle warms and heartbeat begins to speed.
Baracus lays back a little in the cushions, spreading his legs as his manhood begins to swell, watching that cascade of pale skin and dark hair and flashing blue eyes. He’s had women dance for him, sometimes in this very room, on this very dais. The same dances that Face knows, but none can do it as well. Not by half. None build like this. None can infuse their movements with the unconscious elegance his fair lover has. None know how to do that particular little twist.
The drum is racing now, and Face is losing himself in it. Baracus always knows, knows because he watches the man fight with Hannibal and sees that killing blankness steal over handsome features and take command. It’s like that when he dances too, when the music grows wild and there’s nothing but the arc of smooth, gleaming flesh, the synchronous pounding of feet, the billow of silk, swirling into the heavens, tumbling to the ground.
The young bey stands now as Face gracefully lands, palms flat on the dais, the drumming reaching for unhinged chaos now, and his lover crawls the last few measures, hands and knees, still perfectly in beat, right towards where Baracus is waiting.
He can’t breath as Face takes up the last of the distance between them, his senses swirling, his mind full of the spectacle and the wild strains of the goatskin drum and the need, oh, his need...
Face draws himself to his knees, body undulating in a way that should be impossible, every inch of hard muscle showing on his belly as pulls up. His head, last of all, and the kohl around his eyes sets the already luminous blue all to flame, meeting Baracus’ for a moment, and then he bares the strong line of his neck.
“My lord?”
And although it’s a question, it’s in actuality the offer, the permission, the plea, the signal for the evening to end and the night to begin.
Baracus runs one hand down the inverse arc of spine, pulling Face close.
And, the drum still going strong, they both gasp as teeth break skin.
Face cries out, jamming up into Baracus, all the hard muscle straining under his milky-soft skin. So hard, in fact, the young bey thinks his lover might have have just spilled himself in climax.
So he worries that spot between his teeth, sucking on already tender skin, as he drops a hand to cup his lover’s cock through the fine silk. Hard, hot flesh meets his fingers, and the younger man buries his face in Baracus’ shoulder, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Steadying himself, just for a moment.
And then he smiles, cocking his head a bit, and slides his hands into Baracus’. “Come with me, my lord,” he murmurs under the still-wild beat of the drum. “Come with me.”
His feet, his hips, are still following that rhythm, and the Ottonman can feel the blood pounding in his ears, heart racing, on fire with desire for this man. As heated and as mercilessly as the first night they lay together, as it always is between them.
A shy smile lies on Face’s sweet lips that may be artifice, but never fails to send Baracaus over the edge. And those soft, strong hands are pulling them back.
Leading Baracus back to the bed.
The bey thinks his heart is going to explode by the time they reach it, the drum quieter now but no less frantic. Face lays himself down, curving his body as if he’s dodging a stroke from Hannibal’s short, swift sword. Their hands are still joined and his fair lover pulls them over his head, back against the silks of the bed, the pure linen sheets underneath, writhing, bringing one of those clever legs up Baracus’ hip, around the small of his back, pulling him close.
Baracus can’t help but fall over his lover, dragged and prodded and guided, everything smooth and easy, nothing but pleasure awaiting him here. They kiss, Face surrendering utterly, holding tight to the Ottoman’s neck as his fine mouth is ravished. He tastes delicious, always does, and Baracus feels every little tremor that runs through him with this alone. Every swipe of stubble, every little broken gasp.
He leaves Face panting, breathless, and tongues back over his mark, laving the reddened skin, cleaning away the last traces of blood. Face moans like a whore and bucks up into him, angling perfectly, bringing their rock-hard shafts sliding against one another.
Baracus rears back and strips his own robe off, watching his lover’s eyes darken in lust, that sleek form rolling up again. Nimble fingers undo the ties on his own loose trousers, the pale gold falling from his hips to pool at his feet, manhood springing free, erect and swollen with need, and Face takes this reverently in hand. Pulls and swirls, the pads of his fingers tracing the vein on the underside, and presses a nail, right into the slit.
Baracus howls, and crashes back down over Face, leaving just enough space to rip those gorgeous crimson trousers right off his lover, the younger man crawling out, backwards on his elbows, further up on the bed, a look of unadulterated desire on his beautiful features. His own shaft is leaking against his belly,leaving wet trails that shine dully in the glow of the lamps.
And it’s when he drops his own hand to it, encircles it and moans, that’s when the Ottoman pounces.
“Touching what’s mine?” he growls, fisting that proud, red cock in one big hand, and revels in the full-body shudder that runs through his lover. “Hands away, Face...”
“Need you, my lord, need you inside me,” the younger man’s saying, over and over, and a string of Occidental follows the Turkish into the half-light of the bedchamber, his voice magnificent in any language. “Please...”
“Love it when you beg,” Baracus says, running that hand away from his lover’s cock, listening to the melodic note of the desperate moan that follows, watching those muscles flex again under his now-roaming fingers. “On your knees...”
Face obeys instantly, scrambling around, head down, bracing himself on his elbows as he lifts his hips, presenting the perfect round of his buttocks for Baracus’ pleasure, making it clear that he’s already prepared himself, like he always does, copious amounts of expensive sandalwood oils, enough to take Baracus without fear of injury, but both of them like it tight. Tight and hot and wet and almost painful. And the bey is on his own knees, lining up, getting a good grip on those narrow hips.
“Oh, please, my lord, take me, take me...” Face is moaning.
“I’ve got you, love,” Baracus murmurs, feeling another shiver from Face from the endearment, the love, and slides home in one long go.
It’s never-ending, slipping into Face’s body like this, the younger man taking every inch with an effortless display of skill that the women of his harem have yet to match. And his fair-faced lover is like a furnace inside, hot as hellfire and every bit as sinful. He’s sweating already - they both are - but Baracus can’t afford to gie him any time to adjust at all. He needs this himself, thinks he might die from the need of it.
So Face cries out again as the Ottoman pulls all the way out.
And slams right back in.
He sets a brutal pace, already pushed to the edge by his lover’s glorious ministrations this evening, plowing right in to the younger man’s ass without a thought for his own pleasure. But Face loves this, loves it almost more than Baracus himself does, and he’s pushing back against that cock splitting him in twain, driving it deeper and deeper inside him on every forward thrust, babbling out in, only occasionally hitting back into Turkish.
Baracus takes a firmer grip as Face’s upper body gives out entirely, reaching a hand around his lover’s stomach to pull him up into his lap, groaning into that dark gold hair at the change in angle. It’s nothing to hold Face like this, keep a firm grip around his slender form and continue rutting up into him, never breaking the rhythm.
He drops a hand to fist that cock he’s laid claim to before, so many times before, and Face is working with him now, dropping down and raising up, fucking himself on Baracus’ hand, on Baracus’ cock, crying out, wordlessly now. The obscene, beautiful sounds of flesh on flesh merge with that, the most fantastic symphony the bey knows he’ll ever hear. And nothing but that, nothing but that, for long minutes until the Ottoman feels that coil in his own belly, the pressure building, the edge approaching, and he bites back down on that mark of his, the imprint of his teeth on Face’s shoulder, thrusting up wildly.
“Come for me, Face, come for me now...”
He gives a groan like he’s dying, and then Face is spilling himself all over Baracus’ hand, warm spurts of thick seed. Everything in his body locks up, clamps down, including over Baracus’s cock, and that pulls him over the top, drawing out his own climax, strong interior muscles milking it from him eagerly.
They both collapse on the bed, breathing hard, their sweat drying, cooling their skin. Baracus loves how he feels after this, empty and full, all at once, the best feeling. The absolute heights of heaven. And everything goes still in the young bey for a little while.
A soft, damp cloth moves across his skin at some point, bringing him back, chasing beads of salt and and residual seed off his dark chest, dipping gently to cradle his sac and soft manhood. Lingering here a little longer than strictly necessary. Lifting the edge of the covers and beckoning Baracus under. It’s all somehow more intimate here than anything else they’ve done together, he thinks.
He reaches out for Face, wanting to pull him close, wanting to hold him in.
Face, as always, pulls away once he’s settled the covers over his master’s body, backs away, holding the last of the room’s light, a curling little oil lamp. His ruined trousers are thrown across his arm. And he must, must be sore. But he still bows, deep and honest, and Baracus props himself up on one elbow.
“Did I please you this night, my lord?”
His voice is clear in the still air around them. Like the darkness itself is waiting for an answer.
Baracus finds his mouth too dry to answer, and has to swallow a few times before he can speak. “Imminently.”
His lover bows again, and turns to go. Always leaving. No matter if it’s hard and fast, slow and drawn out, no matter if Baracus has just auditioned a new woman and calls for his man after, no matter if he’s just returned from a border campaign, no matter any of that, Face always leaves.
“Face!” he calls, and bare feet pause on the tile of the floor. “Stay with me tonight.”
Those fine shoulders tighten, just a little, and then those feet carry all the light away.
+++++
In the morning, Baracus finds Hannibal speaking with his mother in the cool shade of one of the interior courtyards. A small fountain sparkles in the thin shaft of sunlight spilling through to the glossy tiles. His mother’s laughing, sweet and feminine, while Hannibal chuckles his way through the rest of the story.
They both rise when they see him, and his mother puts a hand on his cheek, drawing him in for a hug. “What’s wrong, baby?” she asks in the tongue of her own southern tribe. “What’s troubling you?”
“Can I have a moment with the nazir, mama?” he replies in kind.
“Of course you may,” she says, and stands up on her tiptoes to kiss his forehead. “Know that I love you, baby.”
“Love you too, mama,” he says, feeling the Janissary’s eyes on him the entire time.
But, graciously, Hannibal doesn’t speak until she’s gone.
“Does your mother not know I speak Arabic?” he asks, amused.
Baracus shrugs. There’s something about Hannibal that makes him feel like a bumbling child, but he trusts the older man. Like a father to him, really, since his own father died, all those years ago. And that smiling expression sobers a bit.
“What is it, Baracus? What’s bothering you today?”
“It’s... it’s Face, nazir. I don’t know if he’s...”
“Ah, yes. Your lover.” Baracus had never said anything to Hannibal about their affair, and he’s fairly certain Face never brought it up himself. The older man just seemed to know, from the very first. “What’s your concern for him?”
“I don’t know if he’s happy here. I don’t know if he’s happy with me, with this...”
Hannibal nods. “He should have a woman of his own, children, a good position in my corps. That would make him happy, you’re thinking?”
Baracus nods. “Exactly. He should be able to have something like that...”
“Is that what you want, Baracus? Your wife, your children? Or do you want him?”
“I want children,” he says quietly, smiling as he thinks about it. Girls scurrying about in flutters of bright silk, teaching his sons how to fight, how to ride, how to be strong, little voices rising in laughter to the hot skies of Constantinople. But always, always, it’s Face he sees there, Face picking them up and laughing with them and telling them stories and Face fussing over them in their wet nurses’ arms... “But I want him as well, nazir. What am I supposed to do?”
“We all do our duty, Baracus. Even you. Even I.” Hannibal’s brow furls a bit. “Face serves you in every capacity he can. He relishes every moment of it. Don’t deny him that service.”
“But is that enough, Hannibal? Just his duty?”
The Janissary laughs at that, and claps him on the back. “You’d make a fine addition to court someday, Baracus, philosopher that you are,” he says, laughing even harder as the young bey makes what he knows is a most undignified face. “But for right now, let’s go see how that mare of yours is doing. She looked like she was favoring her front right hoof yesterday...”
As Hannibal draws him out in the rising sun of the morning, out through the house, to the wide court where they practice at swords, across to the stables, he sees Face sitting on the outside steps of the scullery, piece fruit in hand, charming the skirt off one of the girls from the kitchens, probably for a bowl of milk or something. Baracus wants to give direction that Face be given what he wants, but he seems to like it more this way.
Their eyes lock across the yard, one pair dark, the other the color of the clean summer sky.
And Face smiles.
