FIC: The Gifts of Heaven (Chapters 5-6, NC-17)
Title: The Gifts of Heaven (Chapters 5-6/9, completed fic)
Author: Snowgrouse
Fandom: The Thief of Bagdad (1940), but readable as original fiction
Pairing: Jaffar/Princess, Jaffar/Zainab, Princess/Sarosh the Sexbot, and the ships without sex scenes are Fadl/Zainab and background Zainab/Lina and Jaffar/Fadl.
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Historical Erotic Romance, Het with background slash and femslash, Fantasy.
Warnings: Light BDSM, Anal Sex, robot sex, and a big non-sexual one but it's a major spoiler. See Ao3 for full list of tags.
Length: ~29 000 words
Summary: The heavens themselves resolve to bless Yassamin and Jaffar and strengthen their love. Yet the same cannot be said for Fadl and Zainab, the rift between whom but deepens due to a different kind of heavenly intervention. As Yassamin deserves a rest, Jaffar sets out for New Lesbos alone, hoping to help Zainab settle her score with Fadl once and for all.
(Zainab lets the cane fall from her hand onto the floor; she sits upon the edge of the bed and sighs. "The truth is," she says in an almost-whisper, "I am tired of playing the disciplinarian. Tired of this whole game; tired of playing a mother to that giant child of a man you call your brother." She stares at her feet, the bells on her toe rings chiming as she curls them in the nap of the carpet. "I never could see myself as a mother, you know. I don't know where I would be, now, had I no knowledge of contraception. And look at me now," she lets out a barking laugh, "mother to a veritable village of girls, and a giant man-child besides!"
By the time Jaffar has laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder from behind, her back is heaving, trembling; as he kisses the top of her head, he can feel she is swallowing back tears, bravely trying to hide them. Yet, she doesn't snap at him, doesn't push him away; thus, he but holds her, holds her tightly, nuzzling her shoulder. Tears glisten upon her silver toe-rings, now, and finally, she sobs so violently the entire bedframe creaks.
"Why am I doing this?" she cries, exasperated. "Why?! Why am I indulging his petty, childish games? Why do I even submit myself to such humiliations?! Pray, is this what you call love? Slavery, I call it; for it's a slave he treats me as; like... " she sobs, "like some nursery maid," she spits, "to clean up all his messes after him, his scorn my only reward. And I swore--" she shakes her head violently, her jewellery ringing like clashing weapons, "I swore I would never be a slave again!"
"My lady..."
With a shriek of rage, she kicks the cane into the farthest corner of the room. "I am done with this, you hear? Done with this game, done with him!"
"Zainab..."
Finally, she turns to him, her face red and streaked with tears and kohl, her anguish and anger having burned off her famous beauty, leaving behind only a raging demoness.
"Don't you dare!" She screams in his face. "Don't you dare defend him, simply because he is your brother! I have a good mind to banish you from my estates, you and him, banish all Barmakids from my lands forever! I--"
It is then that he cups her face in his hands, tender, and kisses her.
He kisses her as one kisses a demoness, as one kisses a djinni fallen from Heaven with the rebel angels, one whose wings have burned. I, too, have burned, he whispers around her with his mind, although he refrains from entering hers; burned in that same fire, of having loved the Fadl who threw that love back in my face, the Fadl who refused to be loved, the Fadl whose self-destruction I had to witness without being able to help him, because he would not let me. But the difference between you and I, Zainab, is that he is my brother; for good or for worse, I am bound to him by blood, whereas you are not. You are not his wife, nor his slave, yet he treats you with the unkindness of a tyrant. No, Zainab: you do not deserve these continuous humiliations for all the love you've given him, over and over. I would not have you, too, take upon yourself this same suffering that I have had to endure, my lady; I would not wish for you to be dragged down into his hell.
"You are free," he pants as he pulls back from the kiss, pressing his forehead against hers, his own tears and kohl now having mixed with hers, so that both their cheeks are stained. "Zainab of Samarkand, you are your own woman. You belong only to yourself. Do not let him, or anyone else, ever tell you otherwise."
She moans into his mouth in despair, kissing him back passionately, violently. "Say that again," she demands, tearing at his robes; "Say that again!")
Author: Snowgrouse
Fandom: The Thief of Bagdad (1940), but readable as original fiction
Pairing: Jaffar/Princess, Jaffar/Zainab, Princess/Sarosh the Sexbot, and the ships without sex scenes are Fadl/Zainab and background Zainab/Lina and Jaffar/Fadl.
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Historical Erotic Romance, Het with background slash and femslash, Fantasy.
Warnings: Light BDSM, Anal Sex, robot sex, and a big non-sexual one but it's a major spoiler. See Ao3 for full list of tags.
Length: ~29 000 words
Summary: The heavens themselves resolve to bless Yassamin and Jaffar and strengthen their love. Yet the same cannot be said for Fadl and Zainab, the rift between whom but deepens due to a different kind of heavenly intervention. As Yassamin deserves a rest, Jaffar sets out for New Lesbos alone, hoping to help Zainab settle her score with Fadl once and for all.
(Zainab lets the cane fall from her hand onto the floor; she sits upon the edge of the bed and sighs. "The truth is," she says in an almost-whisper, "I am tired of playing the disciplinarian. Tired of this whole game; tired of playing a mother to that giant child of a man you call your brother." She stares at her feet, the bells on her toe rings chiming as she curls them in the nap of the carpet. "I never could see myself as a mother, you know. I don't know where I would be, now, had I no knowledge of contraception. And look at me now," she lets out a barking laugh, "mother to a veritable village of girls, and a giant man-child besides!"
By the time Jaffar has laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder from behind, her back is heaving, trembling; as he kisses the top of her head, he can feel she is swallowing back tears, bravely trying to hide them. Yet, she doesn't snap at him, doesn't push him away; thus, he but holds her, holds her tightly, nuzzling her shoulder. Tears glisten upon her silver toe-rings, now, and finally, she sobs so violently the entire bedframe creaks.
"Why am I doing this?" she cries, exasperated. "Why?! Why am I indulging his petty, childish games? Why do I even submit myself to such humiliations?! Pray, is this what you call love? Slavery, I call it; for it's a slave he treats me as; like... " she sobs, "like some nursery maid," she spits, "to clean up all his messes after him, his scorn my only reward. And I swore--" she shakes her head violently, her jewellery ringing like clashing weapons, "I swore I would never be a slave again!"
"My lady..."
With a shriek of rage, she kicks the cane into the farthest corner of the room. "I am done with this, you hear? Done with this game, done with him!"
"Zainab..."
Finally, she turns to him, her face red and streaked with tears and kohl, her anguish and anger having burned off her famous beauty, leaving behind only a raging demoness.
"Don't you dare!" She screams in his face. "Don't you dare defend him, simply because he is your brother! I have a good mind to banish you from my estates, you and him, banish all Barmakids from my lands forever! I--"
It is then that he cups her face in his hands, tender, and kisses her.
He kisses her as one kisses a demoness, as one kisses a djinni fallen from Heaven with the rebel angels, one whose wings have burned. I, too, have burned, he whispers around her with his mind, although he refrains from entering hers; burned in that same fire, of having loved the Fadl who threw that love back in my face, the Fadl who refused to be loved, the Fadl whose self-destruction I had to witness without being able to help him, because he would not let me. But the difference between you and I, Zainab, is that he is my brother; for good or for worse, I am bound to him by blood, whereas you are not. You are not his wife, nor his slave, yet he treats you with the unkindness of a tyrant. No, Zainab: you do not deserve these continuous humiliations for all the love you've given him, over and over. I would not have you, too, take upon yourself this same suffering that I have had to endure, my lady; I would not wish for you to be dragged down into his hell.
"You are free," he pants as he pulls back from the kiss, pressing his forehead against hers, his own tears and kohl now having mixed with hers, so that both their cheeks are stained. "Zainab of Samarkand, you are your own woman. You belong only to yourself. Do not let him, or anyone else, ever tell you otherwise."
She moans into his mouth in despair, kissing him back passionately, violently. "Say that again," she demands, tearing at his robes; "Say that again!")