Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/667214.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Magi:_The_Labyrinth_of_Magic
  Relationship:
      Sinbad/Drakon
  Character:
      Sinbad, Drakon
  Additional Tags:
      Shotacon, Anal_Sex, Tsunderes
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-02-02 Words: 6071
****** Apres La Bataille ******
by daphnerunning, Galiko
Summary
     Sinbad no Bouken time-setting. After conquering Baal, Dragul Nor
     Henrius (...) of the Partevian house Dragul is exhausted, annoyed,
     and stressed over his own failure. How a commoner bested him is
     beyond his comprehension, especially when his faith in his own
     country is less than satisfactory. Arguments, however, quickly turn
     to other things, because if nothing else, they'll at least walk away
     with a bit more experience, right?
He'll be returning a laughingstock. 
 
It's the thought that Dragul wakes with, the shame of it--no, the anger
surrounding it making him grit his teeth. The thought is there tenfold when he
cracks his eyes open, sees that brat Sinbad there gloating with his treasure,
with that strange creature's seal--a djinn? was that what he had called
himself?--glowing still upon his sword. 
 
His father is going to kill him. God, maybe it will be a merciful thing, facing
death after such failure. 
 
"… It would have been too much to ask, apparently, to be returned properly
home," he crossly mutters, slowly sitting up and trying to ignore the stiffness
in his muscles, exacerbated by the night's chill. Bested by a commoner. That
has to be a new low. "How far away are we?" 
 
“A day’s journey, or thereabouts,” Sinbad answers, admiring his bloody, filthy
expression in the polished gold of an urn before setting it gently on the pile.
He’s nearly done counting, not even close to knowing how he’s going to carry it
all back. “Maybe less, we can use some of this to buy a few camels to carry us
back with all this treasure.” 
 
He stretches out, letting his hand fall on the hilt of his sword not as a
threat, but just because he likes feeling the thrum of power in it. “Did you
want to start at night, or are you still sleepy? Looks like that dungeon took a
lot out of you.”
 
"It certainly did not. I'm not sleepy, either--you knocked me out, you bloody--
" Dragul's teeth grind as he cuts himself off, feeling his blood pressure rise
just with the memory of their 'fight', if he can even call it that what with
how humiliating it had been. "My head hurts. You carry all of your treasure
back on your own; I'll be resting properly, thank you very much." 
 
Oh, Sinbad’s enjoying himself now. He affects concern, leaning in to touch
Drakon’s forehead. “Are you sure? I hit you pretty hard, you might need to rest
for a while. Just let me get this scratch on my arm bandaged up and I’ll come
see to you, Commander.”
 
In spite of himself, Dragul feels his face flush hot, and he slaps Sinbad's
hand away as quickly as he can manage. "Who said you could touch me? I don't
need your aid, you filthy commoner." It makes him angrier still, thinking back
on how he had almost enjoyed conquering that dungeon with this brat--or was it
really 'with'? More like he had been following at Sinbad's heels, and that
makes a hard lump form in his throat. 
 
Sinbad rolls his eyes, straightening up and fetching a golden crown from the
pile, setting it jauntily on his head. “I won’t be a filthy commoner much
longer. This much treasure buys a lot of rose-scented baths, I think.” He
stands, hands on his hips, staring off into the distance. And a lot of
medicine. Hold on, Mama.
 
He forces a smile, settling down onto the ground. “If you want to take
something for helping me through, you can if you want. So your father doesn’t
get angry.”
 
Somehow, that makes him even more annoyed. "I don't need a damned thing from
you," Dragul sneers, arms folding tightly over his chest as he looks away. "If
you think a rose-scented bath will make you even an ounce noble, then you're a
bigger idiot than I thought. What could a brat like you do with that much
treasure, anyway?" 
 
Sinbad flashes him a cheerful grin. “Maybe I’ll buy an army and take Partevia.
Then I’ll be more noble than you.”
 
The ridiculousness of that statement just makes Dragul stare. "Impossible. You-
-you can't possibly afford an army still, do you even understand how much those
sorts of things cost?" 
 
Sinbad frowns, taking the crown off his head and tossing it back on the pile,
picking up a jeweled dagger instead. “Good point. And being king doesn’t sound
like fun anyway. Maybe I’ll just be a pirate.” He raises a rakish eyebrow.
“Maybe I should start plundering you first.”
 
"A pirate certainly fits your upbringing much more accurately," Dragul sniffs,
and settles upon scowling, eyes narrowed. "And what does that even mean? I told
you before, don't touch me. I won't let you best me again--Sinbad, was it? What
a ridiculous name."
 
Sinbad laughs aloud at that, wiping tears from his eyes when the laughter just
doesn’t stop. “Maybe I should rob you of three quarters of your name,” he
chokes out. “I’d be doing you a favor.”
 
Dragul's scowl deepens. "Of course a peasantlike yourself wouldn't understand
the importance of a noble's name. My house has carried its titles for
generations."
 
“Oh yeah? Is that why you fight so slow, because you’re carrying all that name
around?” Sinbad asks almost innocently.
 
A slow hiss escapes through his teeth. "I'm hardly slow. You just don't think
at all. What a reckless idiot, you just got lucky this time."
 
“You want to bet?” His hand falls to the hilt of the sword again, and the seal
on the blade flashes white-hot. “I’ll fight you again any time you want.”
 
Dragul's gaze flickers to that seal, apprehensive in spite of himself. Some
commander I am, he bitterly thinks, trying to shove down that anxiety, the
worry that it would be even more difficult to best Sinbad in a match now.
There's no telling what sort of magic he has at his disposal now. "Don't you
need to save your strength for carrying your treasure back home?" he snidely
retorts, nose in the air. "Forget it. I hardy desire wasting my time with you
any longer." 
 
Sinbad shrugs, then flops down on his mound of treasure, biting down a wince.
All the novels and illustrations had somehow made him think it would work, but
it just feels like a pile of cold metal, and his hip feels like a big ache now.
That’s something not to do again, then. “Don’t worry about it, I’d be scared to
fight me too.”
 
"I'm not scared of you!" The mere idea of it makes him flush, furious, and
Dragul fairly growls in the back of his throat. "I'm sick of you. That dungeon
wasn't meant for a commoner like you! Just--" He huffs out a petulant breath,
and it takes everything in his power not to shoulder his pack, stomp his foot,
and leave. "Forget it. Just enjoy the fruit of your exploits. This hardly
excuses you from your obligations to your country, you know. Gold doesn't last
forever, either." 
 
Sinbad strides over, all smiles gone from his face, and slams his foot down
hard to the ground near the other boy. “It wasn’t meant for me? Then how come I
was allowed in? How come Baal didn’t care at all who was a commoner and who was
wearing fancy clothes?” His face twists in disgust. “This country doesn’t
deserve anything from me, or any of its citizens. It would be better to burn it
to the ground.”
 
Dragul rather hates that he flinches, though he manages to keep his eyes sharp
as he glares up at Sinbad. "I should have known you would be such a traitor to
your own country. You can say that all you want, but you were still born here--
this country still fed you and nurtured you. You should have more respect."
 
“My mother nurtured me,” Sinbad snarls, “and my father fed me, and after the
way this country has treated them, it’ll be lucky if I don’t burn it to the
ground!” 
 
He turns away, hands clenched hard, and at least his first instinct was fists
rather than his sword. “But a lot of innocent people would die,” he says
quietly, as though that’s the only barrier to the actual task of burning the
country down around them, leaving it a barren desert.
 
"Your father was a soldier, wasn't he?" Dragul isn't sure why he bothers
asking, or why he should even care. He'll go with 'this brat is annoying, and
maybe this will make him shut up and be a more obedient soldier himself
eventually.' "That was his job. If he served his country willingly, you can't
blame anything on it. As for your mother… well, I don't know what you think
Partevia has done to her. Surely you can understand that our country is trying
to protect its citizens by having a strong military."
 
“He didn’t want to go.” Sinbad doesn’t remember all that much about his father,
but he remembers that much at least, overhearing his mother weeping into Dad’s
shoulder, Dad promising that whatever he had to do, he wouldstay alive so he
could come back. “They dragged him out. Mom worked hard all her life but as
soon as she got sick, no one cared. The nobles we serve don’t care about
whether we live or die, just if we can work.” He glares at Drakon. “I had a cat
once. I treated it better than that.”
 
"The military is here to protect Partevia's citizens," Dragul repeats, albeit a
bit less firmly as he pushes himself to his feet with a scowl, and rather
hating how dizzy he feels when he stands. "Of course no one wants to die, but
dying for one's country is an honor all the same, don't you understand that?
And if you have troubles, then bring them to the representative of your
district--that's what they're there for, after all. My father says that we must
work hard to maintain our country's traditions, even under the threat of other
nations' encroachment; don't you want that? Or are you so intent on being a
rebellious little snot that you can't see the bigger picture?" 
 
Sinbad draws his sword in an eyeblink, slashing through the air to let it rest
on Drakon’s neck, the edge sharp enough to draw a single drop of blood as his
eyes grow dark. “Then I’m an enemy of this country,” he says, low and deadly.
“If it’s such an honor to die for it, take a step forward.”
 
Dragul's teeth grit, and he forces back the nervous shake to follow as he steps
forward, letting the blade cut deeper into his flesh and draw a slow, trickling
stream of blood. "I won't die a traitor," he stubbornly says. "And you--I don't
think you want to, either, no matter what you think of Partevia and its laws.
You… came to my aid, within that dungeon." The words sort of stick in his
throat, but he manages to force them out all the same. "If you truly hated
everything about this country, surely you would have taken a chance to kill the
son of its highest ranked general."
 
Sinbad holds that gaze for a few tense moments, then lets the sword fall,
thrusting it back through his belt. “Just because I don’t like the laws doesn’t
mean I don’t like the country,” he admits, “and it’s not your fault your
father’s a general.”
 
Now that his blood has cooled, he flinches at the sight of the cut in Drakon’s
neck, something he hadn’t meant to do, not really. “I’d offer you my
handkerchief, but you’d probably think it was too dirty to touch your skin.”
 
"… It isn't my fault? You say that as if my heritage isn't an honor. I--
" Dragul bites his tongue before he can prickle too much in irritation, and he
huffs, lifting a hand to press it to the still bleeding cut. "It depends on
whether or not you've already bled on it," he eventually mutters. 
 
Begrudgingly, Sinbad pulls out his handkerchief, washed and starched by his
mother, clean cotton with a tiny embroidered flower in the corner. He hands it
over, not meeting Drakon’s eyes. “I don’t know much about fancy heritage,” he
admits. “Just that when nobles come down around us common folk, we die. And
then they tell the ones left behind we should be grateful.”
 
Gingerly, Dragul takes the handkerchief, feeling sort of guilty about pressing
the (remarkably) clean thing to his bleeding neck. "Anyone should feel grateful
about surviving war," he huffs, and he flops back down less gracefully than
he'd like to. "I'm… sorry, that your father didn't." Hopefully, that sounds
somewhat sincere. He's trying to be, at any rate, even if it's all sorts of
awkward and strange. "But you should be proud that he fought, all the same. I
would be proud if my father died fighting for Partevia, and grateful, that he
was doing so to protect us."
 
Sinbad scratches his head, unbinding and rebinding his sweat-soaked hair, even
cool now with the night’s chill. “My father was a good soldier. He was strong,
and brave, and no one ever told me how or why he died. No one told us how he
was protecting Partevia, I don’t even know where his body was burned or who he
was fighting.”
 
He looks up, eyes searching. “How am I supposed to be proud of that?”
 
"… But it was still for Partevia. In war… sometimes, even nobles don't know
everything. My father…" Dragul hesitates, lowering the handkerchief to see if
the bleeding has stopped. "He doesn't always tell me everything, either, and
I'm one of his commanders." 
 
Sinbad drops down to the ground, suddenly tired. “Then how do you know if his
orders are right?” he asks. “I mean, he tells you to kill people, right? How do
you know they’re bad people?”
 
"He wants the best for Partevia. I trust him." Dragul worries his lower lip
with his teeth, carefully folding the handkerchief carefully up. "Though I've
never… really killed anyone before. Not yet."
 
Sinbad eyes the other boy, thinking. Drakon can’t be much older than he
himself, but that kind of statement… “I forgot how sheltered you must have
been,” he admits, without any malice. “But, okay, you trust him. And maybe your
dad is the best guy in the world, and he always wants the best for Partevia.
What about the king? Is he the same way?”
 
Dragul opens his mouth to immediately be angry again, though decides, quickly,
that it takes too much effort and he slumps back tiredly. "Of course he does.
He's the king. Why would he even bother if he didn't want his country to
prosper?"
 
Sinbad shrugs. “I have friends that work in the palace. Lots of them say he
likes gold and women more than he likes the country. I heard he sent a lot of
men in to that dungeon, and sent soldiers to kill anyone who came out and take
the treasure from him.”
 
"That can't possibly be true. There weren't any soldiers waiting for us, were
there?" Dragul sniffs, folding his arms again. "The king has never been
anything but kind to me. He likes gold and women, sure, but most men do."
 
“Maybe that weird Yunan guy sent the soldiers away,” Sinbad suggests. “Or maybe
you’re really supposed to kill me now. Or you were supposed to get all the
treasure and bring it home to him.” He can’t really argue with the rest of it.
He likes gold and women plenty, after all. “Have you ever met him?”
 
His brow furrows at that. "You're too annoying to bother killing, and he would
have told me if those were my orders, besides," Dragul mutters, looking aside.
"And… I've never met him in person. He sends my father and I gifts, though, and
I trained alongside his own sons."
 
Sinbad leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs as he looks up at
Drakon. “You know, if he dies, one of his sons will be king. Do you think
they’ll always make the right decision about who should live and who should
die?”
 
"They've trained for it all their lives," Dragul insists, frowning. "Why are
you asking things like that? Do you really think you're so much better than
them to make decisions?" 
 
Yes. Sinbad shrugs, saying nothing aloud. “I just don’t see why we should have
to do what they say. They do nothing for us. We didn’t choose to serve them. We
get killed for trying to leave. And I heard that the last war was because our
king wanted to take over another country to the south. Why should my father die
so a man I’ve never met can own a place no one I know has ever been to?”
 
"Because it's still to better your country. You--ugh, do you like giving people
headaches?" Dragul incredulously retorts, turning partially away with an
irritated noise. "What is it you want them to do for you, anyway? You said your
mother was sick--I'll have a doctor sent to your home, maybe that will restore
some of your loyalty, you brat." 
 
“I don’t need your pity, I can pay for a doctor myself now.” Sinbad looks away,
unable to deny that his heart had leapt at those words. “But….thank you.”
 
If someone noble had given a damn about her a year ago, had sent a doctor, had
listened to him when he’d done everything, knocked his hands bloody at his
father’s superior officer’s door and begged for what they were owed, his mother
wouldn’t be dying.
 
But that wasn’t Drakon, even if he’d probably have spat on Sinbad if he’d seen
him in the street back then. “I’m going to make sure she gets a great doctor,”
he says quietly, looking up at the stars. “And I’m going to pay for us to go on
an adventure together. I want to see what other countries are out there. Maybe
there are some really good ones. Maybe Partevia really is the best one.” He
settles back onto his hands, eyes shining. “I just want her to see some things
that aren’t slums for the rest of her life.”
 
"If you're really that intent on leaving… then I wish you luck, I suppose."
It's probably not worth arguing with Sinbad, anyway. He's done nothing but win
arguments since they've met, and that's frustrating and tiresome all at once.
"Just so you know," he stiffly adds a moment later, "doctors don't always fix
everything. Don't blame that on Partevia, too." 
 
Sinbad’s eyes dim, and he blinks in the starlight, looking down. “I know.
But….she’ll be so happy to see what I’ve done.” He looks over at the cold metal
and rocks, glittering in the starlight. “I just know she’ll get better after
that, if I can just make her smile again.”
 
It doesn't work like that, is what he wants to say, but he bites that back,
too. "And you say I'm sheltered. Idiot," Dragul mutters, heaving a long sigh.
"I wish Baal had at least given you some wine to toast your 'victory' with. Not
that I want to toast to you or anything," he quickly clarifies. "Just that
drinking would be better than sitting here and talking." 
 
Sinbad sighs at the mention of wine. “That would be better. I wish he’d had
some girls in there too, that would be just as good as wine.”
 
Dragul snorts. "You say that as if you've had plenty. Is that all you brats do
down there in the slums, roll around on the ground?" 
 
“Not really,” Sinbad says with a grin. “Why do it on the ground when we can
sneak into a noble’s garden and do it there?”
 
Dragul's mouth opens, then shuts again, incredulous. "And you've never been
caught?" 
 
“Once. What’s the man with the roses as his crest, and the big blue stones on
the door? He set the dogs on us once. Got away with a hiding, though.”
 
"… You're the worst," he manages, shaking his head in disbelief. "I'm glad
there aren't girls here, then. I don't want to see that, you probably rut like
dogs." 
 
Sinbad lets out a laugh, laying back, head pillowed on his folded hands. “How
do you nobles do it, then? Like snakes? Like horses?”
 
"Properly. Not disgustingly." Dragul huffs. "I don't want to think about how
many girls you've probably had, it makes me think you're even that much more
impossibly dirty." 
 
“But now I’m curious,” Sinbad protests. “I want to know how to do it properly.”
He raises up onto one elbow, intrigued. “Let me do it to you.”
 
Dragul stares at him, aghast. "I'm not a girl--or some harem boy,for that
matter! How can you say that with a straight face?!"
 
Sinbad shrugs. “Want to,” he says simply. “Fighting always makes me hard. Plus
I want to see how nobles do it. I’ll let you do it after if you want.”
 
The gall of this guy. Never mind that he's a commoner, the fact he's just
casually throwing things like this around, saying things like that--Dragul
flushes hot, choking down a dozen less than refined responses before settling
upon: "What makes you assume I would even want to?! I--besides, I--" Ah. He's
even redder now, and entirely too flustered to bite his tongue. "I've never…
really done it before." 
 
That’s too good an opportunity to pass up, and Sinbad can think of a hundred
mocking things to say, but…. He bites his tongue, and admits, “I
haven’t….really, either. I mean, I’ve gotten pretty far with girls, but…”
 
But I’m not leaving a girl with a child when I can’t pay for it, and she’ll
probably just be poor and sick like Mom.
 
Ah. Fantastic. So now he's embarrassed himself for no reason, that's just
lovely. "Then why did you say you've done it?" Dragul growls in frustration,
grinding his teeth as he looks to the side. 
 
“I’ve done a lot of stuff! I bet a girl’s never sucked you, right? Or let you
put your hand up her skirt?” Sinbad huffs out a breath. “I was waiting until I
was rich enough to take care of a babe, if we got unlucky. And now I want to
celebrate. Let me do it.”
 
"I'm not a girl!" is his sort of shrill repeat, and it's very annoying how his
voice cracks a bit. "And I definitely wouldn't suck you even if I was, so don't
get any ideas!"
 
Even if he was sort of joking at first, now Sinbad feels rather taken with the
idea. He sits up, looking speculatively at the other boy. “You’re pretty
enough, though,” he muses. “And you have really nice legs. Come on, I said I’d
let you do it after, then tomorrow neither of us ever have to say that we’ve
never done it.”
 
The fact that Sinbad has been looking enough to compliment his legs makes his
skin flush that much hotter. "I… are you saying I look like a girl?" he weakly
attempts to protest. "Because I most certainly do not. And what makes you think
I would even want to do it to you?"
 
“Well,” Sinbad suggests, “because sticking it in someone is a lot more fun than
not sticking it in someone? Not only girls are pretty, you know,” he adds. “I’m
pretty.”
 
"You're smeared with blood and dirt," Dragul growls. "And you have a ridiculous
ponytail." 
 
“And you’re wearing a leather skirt. I won’t be picky if you won’t.” Sinbad
shrugs, a grin tugging at his lips. “Soldiers do this kind of thing all the
time. I won’t tell if you won’t.”
 
He really wishes they had that wine right about now.
 
At least then, he'd have something to blame the sort-of curiosity on past his
own, disgusting thoughts. Dragul sets his teeth to his lower lip again,
worrying it as he thinks. Probably, he'll never see or hear of this brat again.
There's no way anyone will know--and it's certainly more fun, in theory, than
sitting in the cold desert and arguing about one's country all night. "… All
right," is the eventual, hesitant reply. "But if it's no good, I'll slay you
with your own sword."
 
Sinbad grins, and reaches for the other boy, tugging him down by the wrist. He
loves the closeness of another body next to his, especially on a cold night,
and his fingers are agile, working at every fastening of Drakon’s uniform. “How
do you want to do it?” he asks, eyes alight with eagerness. “Like a dog, or
like a woman?”
 
His mouth opens, even though he's a little too taken aback to reply. "… How am
I suppose to choose between those options?" Dragul eventually manages, eyes
wide. "I'm neither, I'm a noble and you should be treating me like one."
 
Sinbad snorts. “Fine. How does a noble get fucked?”
 
"I…" Ah. Yes, that would be his face somehow becoming even redder. He's
starting to get lightheaded from this. "I-I don't know. I told you, I've never
done this before!"
 
Sinbad’s mouth spreads in a slow grin. “All right. I’ll make it easier for
you.” He tugs Drakon down to the ground, shoving him down on his back, leaning
over him and dragging a thigh up between his legs. “Like this?” he asks, almost
mildly. “Or on your hands and knees?”
 
This should make him angry. What it definitely shouldn't do is make his body
twitch in response, and Dragul gulps, breath coming a little too fast. Well, he
knows one thing; there's no way in hell he's letting Sinbad take him like a
dog. This is the lesser of two evils. "This… is fine, I suppose." He squirms,
trying to avoid the press of Sinbad's thigh and failing rather miserably. "Do
you mind?" 
 
Sinbad rolls his eyes. “Let’s do this, I want to see how far that stick up your
ass really goes.”
 
He yanks at Drakon's clothing, then eases his trousers down and off, stroking a
hand over himself, trying to remember to breathe when he’s quite this excited
about finally having it in someone, even if that someone is a high-and-mighty
noble. “Spread your legs a little wider,” he murmurs, then asks, “Do you want
me to...kiss you first?”
 
"W-why would I want you to do that?" This is hardly how he'd expected his first
time to go. With a harem girl, perhaps, or better yet, with his actual chosen
wife, a girl of proper breeding--not being taken by some boy of the slums that
bested him in a sword fight for a dungeon some hours earlier. 
 
With that in mind, he shouldn't be quite so hard, but Dragul has decided that
logic and Sinbad apparently don't go hand in hand. "Anyway, you can't just--I'm
not a girl, I've told you, there has to be something to ease it." At least, he
remembers that well enough, from an accidental glimpse of his father playing
with a harem boy. His cheeks flush hot as he adds in a mumble, "Just--grab the
saddle oil from my pack."
 
Sinbad tries, but he can’t quite control the little snicker that he lets out at
that. He fumbles for the oil, murmuring, “I’m so glad we have an expert on the
subject.” 
 
He rubs a slick hand over his own cock, eyes lighting up at the smooth slide,
and ahh, he’s going to have to steal the rest of this oil when they’re done.
Not entirely sure what to do next, he tips a bit more down, splashing over
Drakon’s balls and trickling down to his ass. That’s probably good enough, he
decides, and positions himself between Drakon’s spread legs. 
 
He’s pretty, from this angle, face flushed and eyes squeezed shut, and Sinbad
grins. “I’m coming in,” he warns, and pushes forward, breath suddenly gone as
he shoves into that intense, tight heat gripping his cock, wiping his mind
clean.
 
Dragul considers himself to have a fairly decent pain tolerance. This is less
about pain, though, more about some odd, aching stretch that steals the breath
from his lungs, and it's with great effort that he doesn't whine, the sound
strangled in his throat as his legs tremble, torn between spreading wider and
clamping to Sinbad's hips out of some obscene reflex. 
 
Sweat beads on his brow, and Dragul shifts, biting his lip to keep back a
whimper as his eyes crack open. "J-just…" Right, breathing. He knows how to do
that, even with a cock buried inside of him that feels even bigger than what he
got a glimpse of. "Just… move already--slow," he hastily thinks to add, his
chest heaving.
 
Even if this is his first time doing this himself, Sinbad knows what it’s
supposed to look like, how fucking is supposed to go, and he gives himself a
bare second to catch his breath before starting to move, slowly, in and out.
It’s so tight, and the faces Drakon is making are actually really nice to look
at, and the hitching groans in his throat come faster and louder with each
thrust. “Better?” he gasps out, then remembers a pretty surefire way to make it
feel good, and fumbles between them for a second before grabbing the other
boy’s cock.
 
Maybe Sinbad's had his hands up a dozen girls' skirts or whatever, but that's
definitely the first time someone's grabbed his cock--well, outside of a maid
trying to flirt his way into his bedroom, but that was just awkward and this
is--
 
Actually, surprisingly good.
 
Dragul does't really want to think about what that makes him, but the entirely
needy way that his hips lurch up into the touch is just lewd, and he shudders,
body drawing itself tighter still when Sinbad shoves in at the same time. "B…
better," he somehow manages to squeak out, his legs squeezing tight to Sinbad's
waist now, far from on their own accord, and the other boy actually feels nice
inside of him, too, slick and hard and making him feel so full that he kind of
likes it. "You're… really hard," is his ragged gasp to follow, toes curling
with the next slick slap of Sinbad's skin against his own.
 
Sinbad nods mindlessly, hips canting forward with every ragged breath he draws.
All he can think about is how they’re fucking, how Drakon is squeezing him
better than any girl’s hand ever has, how all of it feels so good. “It’s ‘cause
you’re--so tight,” he pants out, head bowing forward as his hand squeezes,
starting to stroke. “Really, really tight.”
 
He braces his other hand on the ground beneath Drakon’s head, giving himself
leverage to move a bit faster, startled, shocked by how good it feels now that
he’s really doing it. He can only hope that it feels as good for the other boy.
 
Dragul's fairly certain that's the kind of thing someone says to a girl--ahh,
but he can't be bothered to care just then, not when Sinbad shoves in at the
same time that his hand strokes, and that's good enough to make his eyes roll
into the back of his head, a broken, keening noise torn from his throat. His
hands lift on their own accord, grabbing at Sinbad's back, clawing down his
spine, the urgent arch of his back and downward squirm of his hips begging for
him to do that again. "Harder," he gasps out, cock twitching at how obscene the
word sounds coming from his lips. 
 
Sinbad tries to find that same way he’d been thrusting when Drakon had keened
like that, tries to roll his hips just right, hoping he’s found something nice,
and his hand speeds up. Somehow just that one word from Drakon’s lips is enough
to make a shudder go through his whole body, or maybe that’s the nails dragging
down his back, all of it combining to make his skin feel too-tight, his breath
too-quick, his body too-hot, and he gasps out, already not sure how much longer
he can make it, “Y-you close? I’m gonna--”
 
Maybe he's a little too close, embarrassingly enough. His cock throbs when
Sinbad slides in, deep and hard and pulsing inside of him, hitting something
that makes him lurch up with his mouth falling open, a dozen little whines and
whimpers choked into the back of his throat. It hardly makes Dragul sound like
a soldier, more like a girl no matter how he wants to deny it, and the sticky-
slick slide of Sinbad's hand against him isn't helping--
 
He bites his lip when he comes, bites it until it bleeds and makes him swallow
down another, awful incriminating sound, his eyes wide and cheeks flushed hot
as he spills over Sinbad's hand, slick and messy, every muscle drawn taut and
achingly, pathetically quivering.
 
Well, that’s sure as hell good enough for Sinbad.
 
Not that he owes the little prick anything, but he’s pretty sure it’s good
manners to come last, even though it’s hard to think about anything like that
when Drakon shudders and it’s suddenly so tight inside, enough that Sinbad
pretty much shouts when he comes, slamming in a lot harder than he has before,
collapsing a second after onto Drakon’s chest. He heaves breath for a few
minutes, trying to rearrange the shattered puzzle pieces of the world into some
semblance of order, and finally comes up with, “Uh…..thanks.”
 
Dragul comes up with a groan as an initial response, trying not to shiver at
how it feels being even slicker and hotter inside. "Did you really have to…
inside?" Stupid question. Of course Sinbad did. God, he's too tired to even
care.
 
“I….like you said, you’re not going to get pregnant.” Sinbad stretches out,
rolling off with a yawn. “B’sides, I didn’t really mean to. Wasn’t thinking.”
 
"You going to use that excuse on whatever girl you bed next?" Dragul mutters,
though there's no real vice behind the words as he flops down, too tired to
bother with cleaning himself up or dressing properly again. It's cold, though,
without Sinbad pressed against him, and he shivers, coiling himself up into a
ball as he grabs for his cloak. 
 
“No,” Sinbad murmurs, “she could get pregnant.” He looks around, then gives up,
and grabs Drakon around the waist to pull him close. “You’re warm, at least.”
 
Dragul opens his mouth to protest, then shuts it again with a huff, tense for a
second before he throws his cloak over Sinbad as well and hooks his chin over
the other boy's shoulder. "I thought most men want children. You have enough
gold to clothe a dozen now." 
 
“Mmm. Someday,” Sinbad says, closing his eyes as he finally gets properly warm.
“When I can give them gold and clothes and food and a safe place to live, I’ll
have a hundred. Right now I think I need to make sure my mother’s all right. Be
a good son before I have a good son.”
 
"… That makes sense, I suppose." His eyes lid, and he struggles not to yawn.
"Have a bunch of wives, though. Making one woman bear a hundred sons…"
 
“Or no wives at all. That way they can still marry whoever they choose, and
they get fine handsome sons.” Sinbad sighs. “Someday. What about you, I bet you
have a wife all ready and waiting for you.”
 
"Not yet." Probably better not to talk about how he probably would have had a
dozen fighting for him, had he won this dungeon. "Probably by next year. Not
married, but betrothed, I mean… women are stressful, though."
 
“Noble ones are stressful,” Sinbad agrees. “Always trying to…” He yawns hugely.
“Grab your cock and stuff.”
 
"What?" 
 
“Noblewomen,” Sinbad says again, eyes lidding heavily. “They’re the really
randy ones, always….mmm, maybe not with you. I guess they think it’s really
dirty to get caught in Lord what’s his name’s rosebushes with a commoner. She
didn’t get a whipping, I bet.”
 
"I don't want to hear about this," Dragul groans, flopping an arm over Sinbad's
head. "I'm tired, and your escapades with noblewomen really sound stressful."
 
Sinbad laughs, but not unkindly, and just because they’re close enough, he
brushes a kiss against Drakon’s cheek. “They are. But this was fun. Night,
Drakon.”
 
It's bad, probably, that that makes him blush all over again. At least Sinbad
can't really see, what with how he hurriedly tips his head forward and into
Sinbad's shoulder. "Right. Good night, Sinbad." Maybe you'll get my damned name
right in the morning.
 
  
 
 
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