FIC: The Earth's Turning (NC-17, Jaffar/Princess, Fadl/Zainab), part 2/7
Title: The Earth's Turning (part 2/7, completed fic)
Author: Snowgrouse
Fandom: The Thief of Bagdad (1940)
Pairing: Jaffar/Princess, OMC/OFC (Fadl/Zainab)
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Erotica, Historical Romance, Fantasy
Warnings: Extensive anal play, light bondage, mentions of past violence/horror imagery
Length: ~48 000 words
Summary: The autumn stars always drive Yassamin mad from desire, mad: this year, her frenzy is of an altogether sodomitic nature. Jaffar, of course, is only glad to experiment with various treatments to help assuage her 'fever.'
However, come Mehregan, the bloodstained memory of Harun al-Rashid arises to torment both Jaffar and Fadl: they are unable to hide the truth of the Barmakid tragedy from Zainab and the children any longer. How many Barmakids did die that day? How did Jaffar and Fadl survive the massacre? And how did they enact their revenge?
Meanwhile, Fadl and Zainab's relationship deepens in unexpected ways, their pleasures given altogether new dimensions by sexual spells gifted to them by Jaffar.
( "But I don't want to wear a turban!" Anwar protests as Fadl tries to teach him how to wind one about his head. "I've never had to wear one for Mehregan before!" he cries at his reflection. "I can do it without! Besides, it's too hot. My head will melt. It will turn into a wet blob," Anwar gesticulates, "and pour down my neck into my shirt, like so! Blob, blob, blob!"
"Come, now, my child," Fadl says and holds up the length of white silk in his hands, looking at the sulking Anwar through the mirror in front of which they now stand. Jaffar and the females had excused themselves to dress for the festivities, and Jaffar had left Fadl with Anwar, telling Fadl that perhaps it would help for the child to learn the art of tying a turban from his always well-groomed and fashionable uncle.
Fadl had known full well that this had been but a ruse of Jaffar's, him trying to use Fadl's natural vanity to his advantage, so as to keep both him and Anwar from getting into mischief--as if Fadl were a child himself! But when Fadl had tried to protest, Jaffar had already vanished and left them together in Anwar's room.
So there they stand, the precocious child and the childish man, at an impasse.
Anwar crosses his arms over his chest, his fine, new blue silk tunic already thoroughly wrinkled, even if he has been wearing it for but an hour so far. "I shan't wear the turban. I shan't!"
Fadl sighs. "How old are you?"
"Seven and three quarters," Anwar says proudly, jutting up his little chin, straightening out to his full height.
Fadl lifts up the fabric. "There we are, then. God Himself has said that seven is the perfect age to start teaching one's children how to fast, how to pray, how to dress. How to," and here, he raises a pointed eyebrow, "behave like a good, pious Muslim and not like a filthy unbeliever swine."
"But you're not my father!" Anwar points out, getting more and more agitated. "You're not anyone's father! You're just... Fadl."
"That's enough!" Fadl barks at Anwar.
And now, such a darkness comes over him, the blackness of an oncoming storm, that Anwar jerks back from him as if struck. When Fadl speaks again, his voice is deep and anguished, terrible to hear; his words slow and heavy.
"How would you know?" he asks, his hands clutching the strip of fabric as if he were about to strangle Anwar with it. "How would you know whether I have ever had any children? Hmm?"
Unbeknownst to Fadl, Jaffar now appears behind the curtain of the doorway, yet does not step inside; he but remains there, alert, observing. )
Author: Snowgrouse
Fandom: The Thief of Bagdad (1940)
Pairing: Jaffar/Princess, OMC/OFC (Fadl/Zainab)
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Erotica, Historical Romance, Fantasy
Warnings: Extensive anal play, light bondage, mentions of past violence/horror imagery
Length: ~48 000 words
Summary: The autumn stars always drive Yassamin mad from desire, mad: this year, her frenzy is of an altogether sodomitic nature. Jaffar, of course, is only glad to experiment with various treatments to help assuage her 'fever.'
However, come Mehregan, the bloodstained memory of Harun al-Rashid arises to torment both Jaffar and Fadl: they are unable to hide the truth of the Barmakid tragedy from Zainab and the children any longer. How many Barmakids did die that day? How did Jaffar and Fadl survive the massacre? And how did they enact their revenge?
Meanwhile, Fadl and Zainab's relationship deepens in unexpected ways, their pleasures given altogether new dimensions by sexual spells gifted to them by Jaffar.
( "But I don't want to wear a turban!" Anwar protests as Fadl tries to teach him how to wind one about his head. "I've never had to wear one for Mehregan before!" he cries at his reflection. "I can do it without! Besides, it's too hot. My head will melt. It will turn into a wet blob," Anwar gesticulates, "and pour down my neck into my shirt, like so! Blob, blob, blob!"
"Come, now, my child," Fadl says and holds up the length of white silk in his hands, looking at the sulking Anwar through the mirror in front of which they now stand. Jaffar and the females had excused themselves to dress for the festivities, and Jaffar had left Fadl with Anwar, telling Fadl that perhaps it would help for the child to learn the art of tying a turban from his always well-groomed and fashionable uncle.
Fadl had known full well that this had been but a ruse of Jaffar's, him trying to use Fadl's natural vanity to his advantage, so as to keep both him and Anwar from getting into mischief--as if Fadl were a child himself! But when Fadl had tried to protest, Jaffar had already vanished and left them together in Anwar's room.
So there they stand, the precocious child and the childish man, at an impasse.
Anwar crosses his arms over his chest, his fine, new blue silk tunic already thoroughly wrinkled, even if he has been wearing it for but an hour so far. "I shan't wear the turban. I shan't!"
Fadl sighs. "How old are you?"
"Seven and three quarters," Anwar says proudly, jutting up his little chin, straightening out to his full height.
Fadl lifts up the fabric. "There we are, then. God Himself has said that seven is the perfect age to start teaching one's children how to fast, how to pray, how to dress. How to," and here, he raises a pointed eyebrow, "behave like a good, pious Muslim and not like a filthy unbeliever swine."
"But you're not my father!" Anwar points out, getting more and more agitated. "You're not anyone's father! You're just... Fadl."
"That's enough!" Fadl barks at Anwar.
And now, such a darkness comes over him, the blackness of an oncoming storm, that Anwar jerks back from him as if struck. When Fadl speaks again, his voice is deep and anguished, terrible to hear; his words slow and heavy.
"How would you know?" he asks, his hands clutching the strip of fabric as if he were about to strangle Anwar with it. "How would you know whether I have ever had any children? Hmm?"
Unbeknownst to Fadl, Jaffar now appears behind the curtain of the doorway, yet does not step inside; he but remains there, alert, observing. )