FIC: Defy Not the Stars (Jaffar/Princess, Jaffar/OMC, OCs, NC-17)
Title: Defy Not the Stars
Author: Snowgrouse
Fandom: The Thief of Bagdad (1940), Original Work
Pairing: Jaffar/Princess, Jaffar/OMC, OCs
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Historical Romance, Erotic Romance, Fantasy, Novel-Length
Warnings: Rough sex, Anal sex, light bondage, brief graphic violence (full list of tags on Ao3)
Length: ~68 000 words
Summary: Grand Vizier Jaffar the Barmakid has sworn to never love a woman again, having chosen a life of wine and debaucheries instead. However, his vows are put to the test the day the Caliph asks him to serve as a matchmaker for himself and the beautiful princess Yassamin. For it is not the young Caliph Yassamin's heart stirs for, but the notorious Barmakid prince himself.
The stars themselves decree Jaffar and Yassamin must love each other, yet it is an affair that could cost them their lives. Separated by harem walls, court intrigues and a brutal civil war, will even Jaffar's magic be enough to help love emerge victorious?
A/N: Historical erotic romance novel set in an alternate version of 810s Persia, where the Barmakids have survived Harun al-Rashid and are now the true power behind the throne. A cast of characters can be found here.
(New announcement post for a cleaned-up and revised version of an older story, now much improved. Don’t worry: the plot or the characterisations, let alone the sex acts have not been changed, only the language and grammar have been polished.)
"Yassamin! Come back this instant! We'll be late!"
But Yassamin isn't listening. Giggling, she escapes her aunt through a secret passage only she knows of, one hidden behind a lion-mouthed washbasin. The entrance is too small for an adult, but can just about accommodate a ten-year-old. She'd found it when following one of the cats around the palace, and there is indeed an orange tabby crouching beside her right now, grumbling as Yassamin squirms in next to him.
She lifts her finger to her lips and glares at the cat sternly. "Shh!"
"Yassamin!" Her aunt's silks rustle against the basin, then retreat to the other end of the room as she looks for her in vain. "Yassamin! They're waiting for you!"
But Yassamin could not care less. There's some dreary court feast being held tonight, and she would rather suffocate in the corridor than attend one more event of the sort. Her bleeding had started this year, which meant the women of her family had declared her a young woman, now, and that had also meant she now had to take part in the life of the court proper. At first, she had been excited to see more of the world beyond the harem, to join the world of the grown-ups. But when it turned out most of this new life of hers consisted of being introduced to the withered old harpies of Basra's ruling families and having to listen to the gossip of other princesses, one dim-witted parrot after another, she had started to prefer the harem's garden and its library more and more.
But her aunt knows to look for her in those places, now, so Yassamin crawls along the corridor towards where she knows nobody will be looking for her: the men's quarters. The last time she was here, she had recognised them for such from the low, male voices she had heard below. However, once those voices had turned into the violent noises of a brawl, she had turned back, too scared to venture further.
And it is a low, male voice she now hears ahead of herself; she crawls towards it, fancying herself the clever mistress of a folktale off to an amorous tryst. For what else could this corridor have been built for, if not for secret lovers' meetings? Yet here, she cannot be seen and can observe the scene below herself from a safe vantage point, taking part in adult adventures while herself but a child.
The latticework window she now seats herself behind sits within the bed alcove of a richly decorated guest bedroom. The occupant of the room is just entering, too, and not a little drunk by the sound of it. As the man staggers into the light, Yassamin can tell by his clothes that he must be one of the important guests arrived from Baghdad today. He is wearing the black robes of the Caliphate's civil servant class, but the robes are so heavily embroidered, his turban so full of pearls and gems that he must be no less than a high-ranking vizier.
The man pours himself a bowl of wine and slouches upon the low bed, patting the cushions beside himself. "Come now, boy. Don't be shy."
The slave boy who had followed him into the room hesitates; he steps closer to the man, but does not take a seat. He only glances at the doorway and wrings his hands, speaking to the man in the soft voice of an adolescent. "But, master, the Sultan's viziers are expecting you."
"Leave them to my brother." The man waves his hand dismissively. "He is the one who came here for politics; I only came here for pleasure."
