Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/558960.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Magi:_The_Labyrinth_of_Magic
  Relationship:
      Sinbad/Ja'far_(Magi), Sinbad/Judal_(Magi)
  Additional Tags:
      Romance, Drama, Anal_Sex, Oral_Sex, Intercrural_Sex, Underage_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-11-10 Chapters: 8/8 Words: 51364
****** L'une Vers L'autre ******
by daphnerunning, Galiko
Summary
     Cowritten with DaphneRunning. Pre-canon, chronicling Sinbad and
     Ja'far's adventures prior and after meeting Judal over the span of a
     few years-including the rise, fall, and rise again of Sindria, and
     Judal's descent into madness. SinJa and SinJu.
***** Chapter 1 *****
 
There are men--a lot of men, with lots and lots of weapons. Too many weapons,
Sinbad is fairly certain, for repelling just a few lonesome travelers such as
himself and his faithful servant. 
 
At least, that’s how he’d introduced them.
 
Should have fought them--should have told them who I was--should have done a
full djinn equip and seen how they liked fighting me--
 
But he’s not at war with those men or the people they serve, and as Ja’far has
told him so many times, when he’s the king, little details like that matter. 
 
Ideas lead into more ideas, that ever-present desire to go, to conquer
something else, to see someplace new, to find another dungeon and show his
mastery dominating him even now, and Sinbad’s feet itch with the need of it. So
it’s probably no great surprise that he comes up with an idea sooner rather
than later, and, well, it’s not his fault they’re looking for big scary men
armed to the teeth, is it?
 
“Just for a few days,” he pleads with Ja’far, the bellydancer costume held
enticingly (he hopes) between his fingers. “Just long enough to make them think
we’re different people--I’ll be in disguise too, but they’ll still be looking
for two men together. I swear it’s just for a few days.”
 
"No."
 
The answer leaves his tongue before Ja'far even fully thinks it through--
reflexive, when faced with something so ridiculous. With a snort, Ja'far turns
his back, an end to a conversation if he's ever signaled it and goes about
repacking their things. Sinbad's things, really, because the man has a penchant
for tossing everything about the moment they make camp, and isn't that stupid
if they need to quickly leave even the borders of this country (as is highly
likely)? "There are other dungeons. You'll find them, you don't need this
one." 
 
It’s with a growing resentment that Sinbad grabs Ja’far’s arm, spinning him
around to face him. He’s quite certain that when he’d dreamed of becoming a
king, he hadn’t expected to take orders from just any assassin brat that
managed to worm his way into his good graces, and certainly hadn’t expected to
have to plead, to wheedle.
 
“They’re hiding something,” he explains, eyes hungry for the knowledge.
“Whatever’s in that dungeon, someone thinks it’s important or secret or
powerful enough to guard what no one is ever supposed to guard. I need to go in
there. And if you won’t go with me, I’ll go alone, and you can walk back to
Sindria.”
 
Ja'far's lips part, fully prepared, for all of a moment, to tell Sinbad fine,
do it yourself, see how quickly you conquer this dungeon if its djinn is so
very powerful or if you can do it all. Then he wavers, as annoyed at the idea
of Sinbad dealing with this alone as he is the concept of going undercover in…
that. What if the man did die? Who would know? 
 
"… I'm not a woman." Frustration furrows his brow, and he firmly pulls his arm
away. "I don't even look like one." Tell me otherwise and I'll hurt you.
 
Sinbad rolls his eyes. Is that what this reluctance is about? “Of course you
don’t look like a woman,” he says, as if there’s nothing more obvious in the
world--which of course to him, there isn’t. “That’s why it would work. But
you’re young enough that you could pass for one with the right distractions in
place,” he adds, dangling the jingling costume. “I’d wear it myself, but that
would probably raise rather more interest than we want, hmm?”
 
Ja'far tries not to grimace at the thought. "… Why does it have to be that?" he
crossly mutters, glaring at the costume in question. "Why can't I just be your
wife or something equally normal?"
 
Sinbad tries to ignore the little flutter in his chest at the thought of Ja’far
as his wife. Surely, it’s just been far too long since he’s had a woman.
Surely. Or maybe it’s just fear at hearing the dreaded word. Maybe a
combination. “Three reasons. First, no one in this caravan is looking to sell
boring clothing--sorry, normal clothing, and I got those quite easily by
gambling. Second, the art of distraction means that we go in being more
interesting than normal travelers so they don’t look too closely. No one
remembers what a man with an eyepatch and a mustache looks like, they just
remember the eyepatch and the mustache. And three, a dancer is supposed to
bring many strange items and tricks with her. Like these,” he says, plucking at
a red wire with his finger. “They’re searching all the bags, and otherwise
we’ll have to leave them behind.”
 
Reflex makes him draw his arm back again, clutching at the wire wrapped about
his arms. If it were just me, I could get in without them noticing me because
they wouldn'tseeme. You're really useless.For the umpteenth time, Ja'far wants
to ask why it's so important that Sinbad see what they're hiding, why he needs
to know--but is there a reason at all, really, other than Sinbad wants to? A
sigh, and Ja'far averts his gaze, lips pursing in open irritation. 
 
"… Fine." The word is sour on his tongue as he finally agrees. "But after this,
we're burning it." 
 
Sinbad’s smile is bright enough to burn off the clouds hanging in the overcast
sky. “Perfect! Get changed, then, and I’ll think of our story. We’ll spend the
night with the caravan here, so no one suspects us tomorrow morning. Have to be
fresh when we go in!”
 
Ja'far is going to kill him.
 
He's going to kill Sinbad, and whoever raised that dungeon, and maybe even the
djinn inside of it at this rate. Slinky, fluttery material feels strange on his
skin, a far cry from rougher-hewn fabric that actually serves a purpose. This--
this is just ridiculous, down to every jingling, beaded accent, every scrap
that clings a little too closely and makes him feel every bit the waif he is
next to Sinbad's height and breadth. 'Young' isn't why I pass as a girl, and
you know it, Ja'far bitterly thinks, fumbling with a last fastening of the
stupid outfit as he hisses through his teeth. It's even in shades of violet and
red so his wires match, so how long has Sinbad been planning this, exactly? 
 
Face flaming, he promptly sweeps his cloak back around his shoulders, huddling
down into it as he reemerges. "Don't look so disappointed," he flatly snaps.
"I'm not letting you eyeball me all night on top of everything else." 
 
Ja’far is so prickly tonight (most nights, if Sinbad is being honest with
himself) that Sinbad feels the urge to snatch back his hand, as if he’d poked
something venomous and spiky under a rock. 
 
It probably doesn’t say much about his character that he’d spent many many
hours doing exactly that as a child. 
 
“Loosen up,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth, pulling Ja’far onto his
lap to general cheers from the other men around the fire. “And take that cloak
off,” he adds, loudly enough to be heard. “You look like a little boy like
that.”
 
Loosen up, Sinbad says. How he is supposed to do that when he's pulled into the
man's lap in public, in front of a dozen men? It isn't something that Ja'far
allows in private, either, and he knows he's as stiff-backed as a board, teeth
grinding and trying very, very hard not to shed blood. 
 
Right. They're supposed to be undercover. The problem is he's an assassin, not
a spy. 
 
Ja'far feels his skin flush all the hotter as he nevertheless lets the cloak
slink down his shoulders, pooling to his hips as he shifts closer to Sinbad for
the sake of hiding far more than any perceived affection. 
 
Despite having told the truth about his reasons for wanting Ja’far all prettied
up, Sinbad can’t help but feel inordinately pleased with himself for making
Very Good Choices. Ja’far is a slight, but curvy thing, wriggling into his lap
like the most obedient slave girl, no matter that he can nearly hear the
younger man’s teeth cracking. “There’s a good girl,” he says with a rakish
grin, barely at all faked for his audience. “Here, some of my friend’s fine
wine for the prettiest girl in the kingdom!”
 
A merchant, already red-faced from too much of his own wares, is only too happy
to pour another glass with a snaggle-toothed smile, pressing it into Ja’far’s
hand.
 
He wants to knee Sinbad in the balls. Nearly does, though he catches himself in
time and perches himself over a thigh instead, a demure lowering of his lashes
far easier than attempting a smile in thanks for the wine. 
 
"If your hand slips any lower," Ja'far breathes into Sinbad's ear, and for all
the world it looks like he's nibbling on it, "I will kill you." 
 
Threat or no, the words are low and breathy, and Sinbad’s grin only spreads,
just to falter slightly at remembering that this is Ja’far, who alone of
everyone he’s ever taken to bed hadn’t enjoyed having Sinbad between his legs
terribly much.
 
Ah, well. He’s still quite nice to look at. 
 
Sinbad shifts his leg to better help Ja’far press his together--no sense in
advertising what he is, after all. His hand around Ja’far’s waist creeps up,
teasing at the hem of the sheer, slinky top. “Is this more to your taste,
darling?” he asks, eyes dancing with mischief.
 
Maybe he needs that wine. The mouthful Ja'far gulps down goes straight to his
head immediately, but that makes this all a little bit more bearable. "Must
you?" he breathes, doesn't hiss, no, he's trying to keep from snarling and
instead sound like a girl instead. 
 
"Thought you'd be a man that liked 'em with a little bit more," a man laughs to
Sinbad's right, giving his shoulder a jostling nudge. "Guess the doll look
works for some, not for me. Gotta have something to grab." 
 
Ja'far marks that one for killing later. 
 
Sinbad shoots the man a wink. “What’s life without a little variety, eh?” he
asks, taking the opportunity to tug on Ja’far’s earlobe with his teeth. Why
not? He’ll probably never have the chance again, and Ja’far probably won’t kill
him while they’re in public.
 
Even if he does--what a way to go.
 
“Besides,” he adds aloud, fingers walking their way up to flick over a nipple.
“You know what they say, all you need is a mouthful.” He’s about to say more,
but his finger brushes against something cold, hard, and suddenly his world
narrows to how interested he is and how painful the front of his pants are.
 
No. Scratch that. He'll just kill himself.
 
His face burns, and Ja'far bites his lower lip until it nearly bleeds, a safety
mechanism to keep himself from slapping Sinbad's hand away sharp and fast. That
isn't what those are for, it's a village tradition that he can't remember not
having, and it takes every bit of willpower he has left not to scoot away when
he can feel how hard Sinbad is against his thigh. 
 
More annoying, perhaps, is how his own body perks and shivers just a bit at
having Sinbad's fingers touching him like that.
 
Don't, don't, don't, I'll bite you until you bleed, justdon't--
 
Sinbad hardly hears the men laughing, with how intently he’s focused on every
little brush of his finger over that sleek little ring, and how has he never
noticed that Ja’far has such a thing before? It’s something so provocative, so
lewd for quiet, fiery, angry Ja’far, and even if he caught fire right now
Sinbad doubts he’d be able to stop himself from playing with the cool metal.
 
“Eh, to each his own,” says an older man to Sinbad’s left with a shrug. “It’d
wilt my balls to have something so frigid close to ‘em!”
 
That gets a raucous chorus of laughter, to which Sinbad has to respond,
“Gentlemen, please, the slower to cook, the sweeter the meat!” It’s not really
his fault, the way his fingers pinch and tug at that. It’s a show, for the
benefit of the crowd, not some base amusement of his own because his cock is so
hard it’s going to bore its way through coarse fabric.
 
Ja'far had promised he'd bite him, but all he manages instead is to bite back a
whimper.
 
He should have taken them off, but he'd been so distracted, so embarrassed--but
now, it's even worse. His face flames, and the little tremble that rakes down
his spine is impossible to suppress, the arch in his back even harder. "S--
" Ja'far isn't sure if it's a protest in the form of Sinbad's name, or a plea
for him to stop, and so he bites his tongue again, hands fisting against
Sinbad's chest as he shivers and huffs. 
 
This isn't what he agreed to, not at all. 
 
Sinbad’s getting dangerously close to dancing on the edge of a knife, but
damned if he can stop. He’s never been able to resist poking at things, even--
especially if it’s something that can bite him. Ja’far isn’t doing much biting
now, more squirming and panting, and that’s such a pretty sight that Sinbad
hardly notices they’re in front of people at all, too wrapped up in the warm
press of Ja’far’s thighs in his lap, and the warming metal ring that he hooks
around the tip of his finger and tugs.
 
Really, he could hardly blame Ja’far for walking back to Sindria alone at this
point, or even off in another direction. But even knowing that, it’s impossible
for him to stop. 
 
So he doesn’t. Not through the caravan songs, and not through the wayfarers’
meal, thumb dragging over what has to be tender, sore flesh by this time as he
holds a bite at Ja’far’s mouth. “Open up, my girl,” he breathes.
 
He doesn't want to. 
 
Then again, Ja'far doesn't want much of any of this, least of all squirming in
Sinbad's lap in front of so many others, his own body betraying him with every
little pull of that ring Sinbad is so obsessed with. He's had it for all four
years that he's followed at this man's heels, why is it so fascinatingnow?
Admittedly, Ja'far has never flaunted it, less than inclined to be unclothed in
the man's presence, but still--
 
Ja'far's eyes squeeze briefly shut, embarrassment making it almost impossible
for him to breathe as he nevertheless parts his lips, tasting nothing no matter
how he chews and swallows all the same. "… You're going to make it sore," is
the one, quiet protest he does manage underneath his breath. 
 
Chewing and swallowing is pretty much beyond Sinbad at this point. Those last
few breathy words, an unhappy little plea no matter the way Ja’far squirms on
him, are enough to make his throat lock up dry. He takes a large gulp of wine
to steady himself, before deciding that he’s been plenty cruel enough. “Go on,
then,” he says, letting his hand trail down to Ja’far’s waist so he can pick
the boy up, setting him on his feet. “Go wait in our tent. I’ll come in to take
care of you in a few minutes.”
 
Maybe by then I’ll have calmed down enough that I won’t jump you so hard you
forget why you ever liked me.
 
Oh, god, there is mercy left in this man.
 
Ja'far manages a fast nod, whirling away in a flurry of sheer silks and his
hastily drawn-about cloak. He's certain that even his neck is flushed red, and
if not before he's on his feet, definitely after when his retreat is met with
jeers.
 
"Ahh, never mind, I get it now, I get it," the man to Sinbad's right laughs,
clapping him hard on the shoulder. "Those legs--damn, so that's where all her
meat is!" 
 
Sinbad laughs along with them, no matter how his eyes swivel to follow. “You
can keep your breasts and wings,” he agrees, an openly lecherous grin on his
face. “I’ll take juicy thighs any day!” 
 
There’s enough wine to keep him busy for another half-hour, telling stories
with the menfolk as one by one, the women retire, unclipping their veils in
relief once they leave the press of the throng. He tries not to drink too much-
-if he’s out of control by the time he gets back to the tent, he’ll have no one
to blame tomorrow but himself.
 
Finally, he staggers back, cautiously opening the tent flap in case Ja’far’s
asleep.
 
As if he could sleep, after all of that. 
 
Ja'far is never inclined to this sort of thing. Ever.There's little that
disinterests him more than sex, quite frankly--the desire to roll around with
another person, to end up hot and sweaty and in need of a bath shortly after
appeals little to him, especially after allowing Sinbad between his legs twice
before. It's decent enough, he supposes, letting another person touch his cock,
but certainly not as good as having his own hand do the same (and better,
because no one knows his body like he does himself), and he isn't exactly
inclined to do that, either. 
 
But now is that very thing, case and point. 
 
It's embarrassing, horribly so, knowing that Sinbad riled him to this point,
with fingers too insistent and worrying and maddening. It's why even though
he's tried to resist, his hand finds its way between his legs once he's
stripped of that horrible outfit and pressed down into blankets, his teeth
biting down into them to stifle his voice as his fingers drag up the too-hard
length of his cock.
 
Ja'far stops himself, at least, from grabbing at that ring again, just like
Sinbad had.
 
Sinbad had planned on being a gentleman. 
 
It’s the least he could do, he’d told himself, trying to quell his natural (of
course natural, all men are the same) urge to come in with his hard cock
leading the way, grabbing cornsilk hair and dragging those soft lips to his
cock. It’s the least he can do to come in quietly, kindly, and politely turn
his back to go to sleep, taking care of his self-inflicted problem with a few
tight squeezes of his own hand and trying not to wake his bedmate.
 
How the hell is he supposed to be a gentleman when confronted with a sight like
this?
 
His eyes trail down over Ja’far’s clenched muscles, bared nude for him--
probably not for me, part of his mind admits, but he ignores it--and flushed
and sweating and touching himself, and the last of Sinbad’s desire to be good
leaps out through the open tent flap.
 
Sinbad closes the flap, slowly and securely. Then, he kneels next to the pallet
on the floor and flips Ja’far over, pinning him down on his back. “Let me take
care of that,” he breathes, feeling his heart in his throat, and bends down to
close his lips over the tip of that hard flushed cock before the younger man
has a chance to protest.
 
In an attempt to process what just happened, Ja'far's mind draws a blank.
 
He wants to shriek a protest, but the sound catches in his throat, a little,
strangled squeak escaping instead as his hips jerk on their own accord, mouth
falling open with a ragged gasp. He wants to struggle, to put a foot in
Sinbad's face and huddle up in a corner, mortified and ashamed and undoubtedly
unable to look at the man for a good week--but god, his mouth feels good, and
Ja'far finds himself unable to do little but bite his lip, to squirm and thrash
with a hot, desperate breath exhaled through his nose. 
 
"D-don't--" It's a last, pathetic effort, more out of principle than anything,
and there's little his body does to support the protest, especially with how
his thighs tremble before falling open in resignation. 
 
If there’s one thing Sinbad knows how to spot by this point in his life, it’s
when a woman’s lips and desires are saying too different things.
 
True, Ja’far is no woman, but he has the soft creamy thighs of one, and they’re
spreading like a harlot’s under Sinbad’s ministrations. God, there’s something
about Ja’far, because this is nothing Sinbad usually likes. He’s never been
drawn to a man’s cock a day in his life, save his own, and on the rare occasion
that he does bed a large-eyed pretty boy, it’s usually on all fours like a dog,
his hands full more of slender waist and soft hair than the angles and flat
planes that make up a man’s body. 
 
He wants to touch them now, one hand coming to rest on a parted thigh--warm,
still a bit sticky with his recent efforts, and as soft under his hand as he
could want--and the other trailing up to hook a finger around that tantalizing,
fascinating ring through the boy’s nipple. Sinbad can’t help but twist it a
little as his mouth dives down, groaning at the way Ja’far is leaking across
his tongue, something he’d never thought he’d crave like he does now.
 
No no no no no is the mantra that Ja'far wants to think, wants to say, but
instead his mind fixates on how every tug of that ring seems to go straight to
his cock, making his hips jump, his muscles twitch and another mindless, barely
strangled-back keen leak from his throat. He squirms, clamping a hand over his
own mouth as his eyes roll into the back of his head, his hips lurching up and
his heels planting into the ground as the slick, hot warmth of Sinbad's mouth
is too much, the twist and pull of his fingers enough to drive him mad--
 
Ja'far sobs as he comes, shuddering, bucking up mindlessly, his toes curling so
tightly that it hurts, with every muscle bunching and twitching and spasming
before he simply collapses bonelessly, flushed too-hot and panting hard. 
 
This is the part that Sinbad had been dreading, as Ja’far spills over his
tongue thick and hot and...honestly, not awful. It’s a relief, and Sinbad
swallows without retching, even dragging his tongue up the head to suckle until
Ja’far’s clean before releasing him.
 
He revels in every shiver, every shake of Ja’far’s body, everything he hadn’t
been able to manage the last couple times he’d managed to coax the boy onto his
knees. This is how he’s wanted to have Ja’far, trembling under his touch, sated
and wanting all at once. Sinbad wipes his mouth, shedding his clothes as he
crawls over the boy, laying down between his parted thighs to bring his mouth
to Ja’far’s ear. “Did you like that?” he breathes, hot and intimate over the
shell of Ja’far’s ear, close enough to bite.
 
Sinbad's weight against him would normally annoy him, but right now, it makes
him shudder, leaves him squirming down into the pallet half in pleasure, half
in some attempt to get away, as over-sensitive as he is right then. 
 
And god, Sin is hard against him.
 
Ja'far bites his lip, head turning aside as his face flames all the more. "You
didn't have to," he hoarsely whispers. "I… I would have taken care of it
myself." 
 
“Wanted to,” Sinbad murmurs, and leans forward just enough to nibble on
Ja’far’s ear, then down along his neck. “Love touching you.” He does check, but
the other nipple is unadorned, though it’s still fun for Sinbad to tug and
twist, flicking his fingernail across it gently as he tastes Ja’far. 
 
Slowly, so as not to scare him any further, he wraps a hand around one of
Ja’far’s, sliding it down to brush across the hardness of his cock. “See how
much I like it?”
 
There's an urge, out of some lingering modesty, to squeeze his legs together,
to lock his knees and get away when his body stirs like this, even so recently
after he's already spilled and in Sinbad's mouth at that, so what is modesty
anymore? Ja'far's brow knits all the same, eyes shutting tightly no matter how
his fingers curl, the little hitching breath to follow impossible to suppress
as he feels how heavy Sinbad is in his grasp, how hard and thick and that's
never been something he likes before, but now--
 
"I…" Is there something he's supposed to do? Say? His hand shakes a little, as
does his breath, and arousal pools hot and low in his belly as he thinks about
how it might be good, for once, if Sinbad tried to put his cock inside, no
matter how previous attempts were… less than enjoyable. "You can… keep doing
that, then," he whispers.
 
Ja’far is pretty. He’s a delicate sort of pretty, with strength to him
nonetheless, like velvet --no, silk--over steel. Really, Sinbad doesn’t know
how anyone manages to resist him, much less how he’s supposed to.
 
So, for once, he doesn’t, tasting his fill of pale, pale skin, across Ja’far’s
neck and down to his chest, sealing his lips over that enchanting little ring
and sucking, tugging with his teeth as he ruts into Ja’far’s hand. This is
different from the confused, annoyed permission he’d achieved twice before,
less permissive and more wanting, and Sinbad intends to savor every minute of
it--slowly.
 
He shouldn't like that so much. As much as Ja'far tells himself that, though,
there's no helping the arch of his back, the shuddering sighs that escape his
lips when Sinbad's mouth now torments that ring, leaving his heart thudding too
fast in his chest, his legs splaying wider still as every pull and tug only
serves to remind him of being in Sinbad's lap, his fingers at work on the same
nipple, his cock hard, so hard against Ja'far's thigh--
 
His fingers squeeze and tremble, the upward lurch of his body embarrassingly
needy, but he can't make himself stop. "W-hy do you… like it so much?" he
manages to rasp out, huffing out a hot breath. "It's…" God, that almost hurts,
he thinks, biting his lip again, and even if he thinks that, it makes his cock
jump all the same, his fingers squeezing tighter around the hard length of
Sinbad's cock. 
 
“Mm? Like this so much?” Sinbad raises his head, with a last flick of his
tongue over the now-warm metal. His eyes flutter as he rolls his hips forward
into Ja’far’s hand, and it’s hard to focus on the ever-changing colors of
Ja’far’s eyes. “It’s so...inviting. It tells me you like something I never
thought you’d like.”
 
He lowers his mouth again, kissing, suckling, before murmuring, “The times
before when you let me into your bed I was selfish. Let me show you how good it
can be.”
 
What part of this does Sinbad thinks he likes, exactly?
 
If it's the way the man's mouth feels around that piercing, pulling and licking
and tugging, then Ja'far can't really fault him on it. Every little pull and
scrape of teeth seems to go straight to his cock, and Ja'far shivers, trying
not to squirm too much lest his body rile itself even further and he loses
himself again, too fast, too embarrassingly fast. "… Okay." He's not thinking
straight if he agrees so readily, with his only real hesitation brought about
by trying to remember how to breathe.
 
Slow, that’s the key. Ja’far likes to be touched slowly, relentlessly, and
Sinbad sets out to make a map of that enticingly shivering body with his mouth.
Down his chest and oh, if his mouth isn’t on it, his fingers stray back there,
tugging and pinching as his mouth trails down the softness of Ja’far’s belly. 
 
It’s been years since he’d seen the scars on Ja’far’s legs close up, and
they’ve faded considerably. He brushes his lips across the top of one, tongue
trailing along the edge where raised puckered skin meets smooth flesh. “Do
these still hurt you?”
 
Ja'far nearly yelps, muffling it down to a squeak again that sounds more mouse
than man. He lets his head fall back with a whoosh of breath leaving his lungs,
and thinks Sinbad must be out to kill him, because even if the scars themselves
aren't sensitive, the skin around them is, and god, he needs to just stop. 
 
Instead of asking Sinbad to do as much, though, his leg merely twitches within
Sin's grasp, toes curling uselessly as his hands drag away to fist into the
blankets beneath him. "N-no." Ja'far swallows hard, averting his gaze skyward.
Anything, anything to focus on rather that how hard his cock is again, how it's
leaking over his belly and he just wants to reach down and touch himself again-
-or better yet, grab Sinbad's cock again, maybe guide him between his legs and…
"Really… sensitive, though--"
 
Sinbad could kill his past self. Had there always been this lovely, sensual
creature under the cold exterior--and had he squandered it by focusing on his
own pleasure? The answer, he’s coming to suspect, is an emphatic yes.
 
He kisses his way down nearly to Ja’far’s ankle, then slowly up again. “Too
sensitive?” he murmurs, catching a glimpse of the boy’s hard dripping cock and
knowing that this time, he’s doing it right. Even if his own cock throbs,
neglected between his legs, it’s better to go slow, to make Ja’far want this,
want him. It takes a while to warm the blood of a snake.
 
Ja'far could cry. He thinks he might be a little, from how his vision blurs hot
and wet. His fingers twitch, and it's thoughtless how they lift to scrape over
his own nipple, never mind that there isn't a piercing there--it still sends a
shock straight to his groin, leaving him to bite his lip, a shuddering breath
exhaling through his nose as his muscles bunch, tight and trembling beneath
Sinbad's hands. "Too sensitive," he gasps out in agreement, and it's easy,
then, to blame the quiver that runs up his spine for making his fingers twist
and pull on that same nipple.
 
A flicker of motion catches Sinbad’s eye, and he looks up just in time to catch
sight of Ja’far toying with his own nipple, a sight that makes him groan and
twitch. “I think,” he rasps, thumb running over that scar, then up to brush
over Ja’far’s balls and the underside of his cock, “you like being touched
where you’re too sensitive.” 
 
He wraps a hand around his own cock, squeezing to relieve just a little of the
building tension that threatens to drive him mad. “Where else do you want me to
touch you, Ja’far?”
 
He doesn't want to say it.
 
What choice does he have, when he can barely see, can barely think from the
heat that washes over him, making him pant and shudder? "Inside me." The twinge
that runs through Ja'far at that thought makes him bite down hard on his lip,
eyes tightly shut as his skin heats even further. Ah, he's so hot that it
almost hurts, and the thought of saying more makes him burn that much more,
but-- "You said before… that you could make it feel good. Maybe this time--" 
 
Sinbad sends up a ragged prayer to the god of third chances. There’s a little
pot of aloe nearby--a necessity when they travel, given Ja’far’s complexion--
and he wastes no time in slicking his fingers, making sure they’re warm when
they trail up the cleft of Ja’far’s ass.
 
He can make Ja’far love it. He knows that now, where he’d been only arrogant
about it before. Now, he moves slow, relentlessly, teasing his fingers over the
hole for what feels like painfully long hours before carefully teasing one
inside.
 
He watches Ja’far’s face intently for clues, knowing he can’t trust the words
coming out of his mouth for the truth, not if Ja’far is inclined to just let
him. The boy is so tight, even just around one finger, and Sinbad’s cock aches
and throbs at the thought of being buried in that sweet heat.
 
Before--and Ja'far recalls it well, because it had been annoying at best, too
fast and too tense and just unwanted--was nothing like this. Before, Ja'far
hadn't thought the slick slide of something inside of him was any good at all,
but now… now is something different, no matter how there's a little edge of
pain to it all, no matter how he tries to stop himself from squeezing down and
being shakily, shudderingly tight. He can't, he just can't, and it's with a
whimper that he sags back into the pallet, teeth worrying into his lower lip
and his legs splaying wide, as if that will somehow help.
 
He shouldn't like it so much like this.
 
"D…" His voice cracks a little, raspy and strained. "Don't stop." 
 
Sinbad has conquered dungeons that were less difficult, and offered less
reward.
 
He works in a second finger, trailing kisses up to Ja’far’s chest again as if
he’s pulled there, fastening his mouth to that nipple that must be quite sore
and flushed by now, but damned if he can stop. He curls, twists, spreads his
fingers apart, even as he teases that ring with his teeth, learning just how
hard to press on which strings to play Ja’far’s body like the fine instrument
it is. He’s aching, pressing his cock down against Ja’far’s soft thigh just to
relieve some of that pressure, rutting gently to keep himself from simply
losing his mind as his fingers delve deeper. “Good?” he murmurs.
 
Hurts, too much, hurts inside and my chest and everything--
 
Maybe more accurately than hurts is that it aches.
 
Every pull, every scrape of Sinbad's teeth makes him twitch, and his hips jerk
on their own accord, a muffled, throaty sound wringing its way from his
clenched teeth. That arch, just that one little arch and wriggle of his body
down onto Sinbad's fingers makes him feel like he's melting, all because Sin's
fingers are suddenly deeper, curling against something that leaves him sucking
a breath too sharp and too fast, torn between doing it again lest he like it
that much more.
 
God, to hell with it. 
 
"Good," Ja'far whispers, shutting his eyes tightly so he doesn't have to look
at Sinbad when he wriggles down, a sob choked into his throat as he presses
himself down onto Sinbad's fingers, the slick, tense length of them inside his
body, pressing just right making his vision swim. Sinbad's cock is so hard
against him, and Ja'far can't think. "I… just… p-put it in already…" 
 
Those are words Sinbad had never thought he’d hear Ja’far say, and they’re
better than any time he’s heard them from any other person in his life. He
nods, a bit unsteady, swallowing hard as he pulls his fingers out, slicking his
cock as he leans down to press a kiss--damn it, even if he doesn’t want it,
he’s getting kissed at least once after all the times Sinbad’s been turned
away.
 
His own breathing is a bit on the rapid side as he kneels between Ja’far’s
thighs, a place he’d never thought he’d talk his way into again, and ah, he’d
better get on with it before Ja’far changes his mind--or because if he doesn’t
get inside Ja’far soon, what with how his cock aches with every beat of his
heart, he’s going to die.
 
“Tell me if I hurt you,” he breathes, and it’s the last thing he has the mind
to say before he slides in, as slow as he can manage and probably not quite
slow enough.
 
Ja'far would be lying if he said it didn't hurt, but that doesn't mean he's
going to say it. 
 
It's too much, just like the first couple of times and it isn't any less now.
If anything, it's more, because Sinbad is so hard that Ja'far can barely stand
it, no matter how he spreads his legs wider, trying to breath slow and deep and
relax. It doesn't help. Everything aches, everything shivers and twitches and
tenses, but his body all but begs for it all the same, his feet planting in
firmly no matter how the muscles of his legs quiver, no matter how he can do
little but pant fast and hard and reach up to grab at Sinbad's arms, voice lost
as he's stuffed so utterly full of cock. 
 
He still can't think, and he barely even hears the desperate, hitching whine
that pulls from his throat, can barely process the mindless desire to wriggle
down, to feel every hard, thick inch of Sinbad inside of him, slick and
dripping and filling him. 
 
The difference this time, of course, is that he likes it. 
 
Sinbad had never thought he’d see Ja’far like this.
 
Under him, yes. Wanting him, he’d hoped, certainly imagined. Like this--
writhing, wanting, desperate, keening--no, he’d never thought it would happen,
and has never been happier to be wrong in his life.
 
With that thrill comes the urge to make this good, a burden he’s never felt so
acutely before, and instead of driving in hard and insistent, he slides in
slow, hands moving down Ja’far’s smooth waist to his hips, lifting them so he
can move in that much deeper, deep enough in that tight heat that Sinbad has to
pause for a moment lest he spend himself too soon. His lips part in a shaky
smile as the sweat beads on his brow, buried to the hilt in his most trusted
friend. “Still good?” he manages.
 
Ja'far's breath hiccups, and it's all he can do to answer with a wordless nod,
rapid and more than a little needy. Sinbad is inside of him so deeply that
every little shift, every twitch of the man's cock is enough to make him
squirm, and just having him say a few words seems to rumble through him,
resonating down his spine from how intimately they're connected.
 
He can barely stand it. He wants more. 
 
"Move," he whispers, the flush in his cheeks so dark and so hot that Ja'far
thinks he'll pass out from that alone, no matter how it feels to squeeze his
thighs tight about Sinbad's hips. It makes him feel that much more full, and he
isn't sure if he likes it or can barely handle it. Maybe it's both, judging by
how his mouth simply falls open at the sensation, and how his back arches with
his next, ragged huff of breath. "Please--"
 
It’s as if Ja’far doesn’t appreciate how hard Sinbad’s trying not to move. Then
again, moving is exactly what he wants, and ah, maybe the thing about going
slow is only in the buildup, something he tries to keep in mind for next time
with the two brain cells that aren’t currently fizzled into nothingness. Ja’far
feels better than Sinbad remembers, hotter and tighter, so tight it hurts, and
he can’t help but love the way he clenches down with every wriggle.
 
He thinks vaguely of saying something about acquiescing to such a pretty
thing’s commands, but that’s all flirting and artifice and nothing that he
needs with Ja’far. Besides, it’s all he can do to keep his mind as he drives
in, harder than he means to, yanking up on Ja’far’s hips to try and hit that
angle that had made him see stars on Sinbad’s fingers.
 
God, he wants to scream.
 
He nearly does, if not for the desperate scramble to clamp his own hand over
his mouth, muffling the shriek that escapes when Sinbad shoves in so hard, so
deep that his eyes roll back and his legs fall open all over again. Apparently,
he's unable to be anything but a harlot splayed beneath the man, subject to the
demanding shove and press of his hips, the hot, slick slide of his cock, and
Ja'far, for once, finds the thought alluring rather than annoying, especially
when Sinbad's cock dragging, sliding over that spot inside of him is so much
better than just his fingers. 
 
At some point, Ja'far's other hand grabs for Sinbad's hair, rakes down his back
and scratches and claws, the only thing he's able to do when the rest of his
body is so focused on wriggling down, helpless to do anything but grind and
squirm on Sinbad's cock.
 
The bite of fire down Sinbad’s back, the welts left by Ja’far’s nails, courses
through him like the strongest wine, washing away any last lingering urges to
be gentle, to be anything other than a raw creature of need. His fingers dig
into soft flesh, probably bruising as he jerks Ja’far’s hips down into every
fierce thrust. His hair comes unbound at some point and spills over both of
them, and even in the dim flicker of the bonfire through their tent wall Sinbad
can see the flush on Ja’far’s cheeks.
 
He wrenches Ja’far’s hand away from his mouth, replacing it with his lips in a
bruising kiss, biting, making savage, wild noises, a man possessed more with
every brutal thrust.
 
Their kiss does little to muffle the noises wrenched from his throat--
breathless groans, hitching, desperate little keens and whimpers as Ja'far
feels all the more like he's going mad. His body aches, trembles, with little
grounding to be found no matter how he clings to Sinbad's back, his moans
cracking into sobs and then broken, rough-edged gasps. 
 
Ja'far's hips buck up, his cock grinding into the hard, flat plane of Sinbad's
belly, and that's the last of his self-control stripped away before he comes
with a mindless, sobbing groan, hands fisted into Sinbad's hair to keep him
down, to keep kissing him with sloppy, insistent bites and sucks, no matter how
Ja'far can barely breathe and how his head spins while he crumples beneath him.
 
The last thing Sinbad notices is that Ja’far is coming, writhing under him,
clutching at him, and kissing him, grabby and needy and stripped naked in every
way. A surge of something like triumph courses through Sinbad--I did it, he
loves it, he’s coming on my cock like a harlot and loving it--and he loses
himself, back arched in a tight bow as he slams in so hard he’s sure he’ll
break something. 
 
The first thought that echoes dimly in his empty mind once he comes back to
himself is roll over, he’s a little thing, you’ll crush him. It’s a sensible
enough thought, and Sinbad obeys, rolling to the side enough to bury his face
in sweaty, moonlight-pale hair. “Thank you,” he mumbles sleepily.
 
Ja'far manages an unintelligible noise, breathless and hoarse, and turns his
head aside to butt it against Sinbad's before slowly twisting to curl up into a
ball. Hate your stupid ideas, hate that costume, don't wanna wear it again, I
could kill you--
 
But this was good though.
 
Hopefully he'll be able to keep that in mind in the morning, when he wakes up
sore and thoroughly bruised.
***** Chapter 2 *****
It’s over. 
 
The momentary surge of elation, of triumph and accomplishment, is as heady as
any honeyed wine. It transcends the weariness of Sinbad’s limbs, of the warning
throb in the back of his head that warns him he’s overexerted himself, and
leaves him grinning too-wide, maybe a little too much swagger in his step as he
makes his way up the long stone stairs. 
 
It’s tempting--definitely tempting to just collapse into the nearby shade of an
oasis and sleep off the drain to his systems. His hand flexes, still stinging
from the dungeon’s last attack, the feeling slowly coming back in a wave of
pins and needles. They’re learning, he thinks with a wince. That, or he’s
getting close to the limit of even his own power, that he’d once considered so
inexhaustible.
 
Then again, it’s easy to forget, after now six dungeons falling under his wit
and skills, just how difficult it had been that long-ago first time.
 
He’s pretty sure there was a girl back in town who’d batted dark lashes at him,
urging him that if he were really the dungeon-master he’d claimed to be, he
could surely go out and prove it. There’s a bejeweled medallion in his pocket
now, for just such an occasion, and this is a perfect time to go there, to get
roaringly drunk in a local tavern, to tell everyone of…
 
Well, perhaps five minutes from now, when he’s not quite so tired, will be a
better time, he thinks with a chuckle at himself, flopping down underneath the
largest, shadiest palm tree. Just five minutes.
 
Probably, he should wait.
 
Judal still tells himself that now, even when he really, honestly has no desire
to, especially when this man is just asking for it. Who the hell dozes
underneath a tree in broad sunset, anyway, especially without anyone else
around to guard their belongings? Even Judal isn't that stupid--if he's going
to take a nap, it's in midair or behind a shut door and away from any prying
hands, at the very least--
 
Ah, but that's not the point. He's felt this man for miles and days and against
all protests (and orders, really), he's here because he can't help but be
curious. With the figurative slam of the dungeon shut and locked at this man's
heels, Judal knows he's made a good choice, and really, laughing in everyone's
faces that doubted him will be fun later.
 
The burn of hot sand never makes it to his feet, not when he lingers just half
a stride behind the man's dozing form, and Judal tilts his head as he leans in
close, lifting a hand to keep the fall of his heavy braid from falling forward
and thumping against a broad shoulder. "For someone so powerful, you're awfully
oblivious."
 
If he’s going to wake up, Sinbad thinks with tired resignation, it might as
well be to the dulcet tones of someone lovely leaning over him. For a second,
he’s certain it’s a mirage; he’s been out in the sun long enough, and it would
hardly be the first time. 
 
But the figure leaning over him isn’t the dark-eyed innocent goat girl he tends
to hallucinate, so he lets his eyes flutter open, a lazy grin spreading across
his face. “I’ve been called worse, by uglier people. What are you doing so far
out here, pretty thief? If you’re here for the dungeon, sorry to say you’re
wasting your time.”
 
"I'm no thief!" It's far less incredulous and far more exasperated, and
complete with the wrinkle of his nose, has all the marks of annoyance that this
man doesn't know who he is. Judal's feet actually touching ground within the
palm tree's shadow is a thing easy enough to miss with the ease that he sets
himself down, and he scowls, arms folding over the draping folds of linen
covering a good portion of his form. "So you definitely are the one that
conquered the dungeon. I can tell, you know." And he sounds damned proud of it.
 
Oh, this one is strong. 
 
It would take an idiot--or someone untrained, unwary, uneducated--to miss the
power that spills from this one, a heady surge of look at me, I can do it,
didn’t I tell you I was strong. Maybe Sinbad’s projecting just a bit, but the
kid isn’t even trying to hide it--if anything, she’s letting it spill out, with
the desperate desire to be noticed.
 
Ever wary for a hidden dagger--it’s pathetic, how many have thought that
bringing back the head of a dungeon-master will be easier and just as
impressive as conquering the dungeon itself--Sinbad sits up, propping his back
against the palm tree, resting his head back on folded hands. “So you can. And
you’ve got more than a sneeze worth, haven’t you?”
 
The scowl quickly shifts to a sort of frustrated pout as Judal leans forward,
not bothering to stop the heavy fall of his braid this time from falling
straight over his shoulder and thwacking Sinbad in the face. "You still don't
know who I am, do you? And here they said people would know. Or at least,
candidates would. What good are you, then?" 
 
Well. Talk about a phrase that changes everything. Sinbad catches the heavy
rope of hair between his fingers on the rebound, stopping it from hitting a
second time, enjoying the curious coarse softness of it. “Maybe I was testing
you. The other two I met have been a lot older and uglier. Do you expect me to
believe this kind of good fortune without question?”
 
Oh. Well, that makes him feel a bit better. Judal's head cocks, the pout not
quite dissipating as he reaches for his braid, giving it a little tug to free
it from the man's touch. "You've already met the other two?" That could be
annoying. What if they've already decided they like him? It's not fair,
considering he came all this way, and this one is his. "For the record, I'm
better than them, so whatever they said, ignore it." 
 
Sinbad doesn’t laugh, but it’s a near thing, and he only refrains because this
kid clearly takes herself so seriously. “Sure,” he agrees easily. “So, tell me,
Magi. What is it that you had to come out to the middle of this wasteland and
wake me up to tell me? Surely someone of your stature could have had me brought
to your feet.”
 
Bad to say that he wasn't supposed to come out here, and that undoubtedly, all
of Al Sarmen is frothing at the mouth and looking for them as they speak. Judal
bites his tongue for a moment as he straightens, huffing. "Maybe I wanted to
come and see you for myself. What better way to give you a proper assessment? I
can't exactly tell how good of a king you'll be hundreds of miles away, after
all."
 
Nor can you tell who I am, apparently. Sinbad stretches out, raising his
eyebrows. “What kind of assessment did you have in mind? I can only aim to
impress.”
 
"Well--"
 
Admittedly, he hasn't thought that far ahead.
 
"I've already given you one." Yeah, that'll do. "You really think I can't tell
just on sight how strong you are? I've been waiting all day for you to come out
of that dungeon, you know." Judal's hands slide to his hips as he sighs. "I
will say you look longer than I expected…"
 
How old is this kid, twelve? Her voice says older, but her figure is slim and
slight, from what he can see of it, and the hesitation in her voice speaks
volumes. “And have you ever seen a man emerge from a dungeon completely
unwounded before? Perfection takes time.”
 
"I don't sit around waiting for just anyoneto come out of dungeons, so how
would I know that?!" The scowl is back, and Judal's hands fist against his
hips. "Maybe you're unwounded, but you're exhausted, aren't you? Maybe this was
a waste, if you had to put that much effort into a dungeon like this. The Kou
Empire has a prince that's captured two dungeons so far, you know."
 
Sinbad raises his eyebrows, letting a low whistle escape from between his lips.
“Two dungeons? That man must be fierce indeed.” 
 
“But not,” he adds, sitting up far enough to meet the Magi’s eyes, “I think,
worthy of you. Should you set me some task to see just how exhausted I truly
am, Great Magi?”
 
Judal's mouth twists. It's really troublesome how this man keeps--just--not
outright agreeing with him, or pushing for things. "You seem pretty confident
already," he begrudgingly points out. "What makes you think you're so worthy?
Other than being strong enough that I can feel you from miles away--that's
kinda stupid, though, isn't it? Kouen's a lot more subtle."
 
Kouen, hmm? So she knows a lot more about him than that he’s captured two
dungeons. They’ve met, or at least been in close proximity.“Never said I was so
worthy, only asked you to judge me. Don’t misunderstand, either. Anyone who can
find me by my power, friend or foe...that’s a person I want to meet.”
 
Normally, it would be no contest--play with him a bit, see exactly how well he
stands up to a magi's ability--
 
But that will just draw Al Sarmen here faster, and Judal's enjoying a bit of
time without. 
 
Then, a simple enough solution occurs to him, and he leans forward smugly.
"Well, then. If that's the case, how many dungeons have you conquered?" 
 
There’s no doubt in Sinbad’s mind that the kid has no idea who he is. Maybe
this way, he’ll have a chance to find out some more about the enigmatic person
leering over him, even as he reaches out to tug on that long thick mass of hair
again. “This was my second. I think I’m getting better.” Can you tell if I'm
lying, Magi?
 
Judal frowns, disappointment welling up before he can stop it. Really, coming
out all this way for just that? He could have stuck with Kouen, and his
annoying penchant for not getting the head with an errant peach but catching it
instead. Boring.
 
He didn't think he was that far off-base, either. 
 
Impulse brings him to reach out, slim fingers snatching the man's hand clear
off of his braid and that touch brings him to beam because he can feel that
much more clearly, and leaves him intensely satisfied that he was right all
along. "You're lying. You're stronger than that, how many is it really?"
 
Oh, that is a nice surprise. And the girl’s touch is strong, if soft--pampered,
surely, but not a weakling, nor a delicate indoor flower. That’s enough of an
enticement for Sinbad to pull the girl down to his lap, leaning in with a grin.
“If you’re so powerful, you tell me.”
 
The sudden tug is enough to throw him off-kilter, and Judal's flop down into
the man's lap is less than graceful, never mind the instinctive little sputter
of magic that wells beneath him to cushion his fall. Probably, like so many
other things involving this, he should rethink it--especially getting
comfortable where he's sprawled, and the fact that Sinbad is kind of pleasant
to lie against, what with the solid bulk of muscle and all…
 
"Six," Judal says, eyes lidding as he looks up through his lashes, trying for
bored and not, well, impressed, when he's actually a little too giddy. "That's…
a lot."
 
Sinbad hadn’t thought that he’d be able to muster up excited any time before a
decent rest and food, let alone quite this level of interest. But the little
flutter of the girl’s breath, the way her voice catches on the number, the way
her lashes raise to reveal the most interesting eyes…
 
“Well, I didn’t do them all at once.” He trails a finger over the girl’s
hairline, down to her chin, her neck. “Why are you wearing so much, anyway? You
must be burning up.”
 
This isn't quite what he expected, but--
 
Ah, he wasn't thinking about the heat before the man said that, or rather,
before that single fingertip lit his skin on fire and made him shiver. "I'm--
what's it matter? This is just what I wear when I go out…" Judal shifts as he
sucks in a quick breath, pushing himself up as he rest a hand upon that hard,
broad chest. "You never even asked my name," he breathes. "Disrespectful. They
say there's no one even fit to eat at the same table as me, you know. You
should address someone like that properly, even if you're so strong."
 
Ah, god, she’s young and sweet and feisty, even if it does incite a low growl
in his chest to match the dark, heated look in his eyes. “Is that what you
think, pretty Magi? Are you content to let them lock you away from the world
before you’re old enough to taste of its...sweetness? I’m afraid I’m not the
proper gentleman who locks his treasures in a vault where no one can ever see
them.”
 
"No one locks me up." The pout is immediate and deep, and Judal's fingers flex
like claws against his chest. "I'm here, aren't I?" he prods, wriggling his way
upright a bit further, grumbling low in his throat at how it takes effort to
throw a leg properly over the man's thighs and straddle him for a proper
glaring position. "And you don't have to be a proper gentleman," he adds on a
purr, no matter how his frown still juts his lower lip out. "Really, I just
thought you'd like to know the name of the Magi that favors you so. I think I
know yours, I've heard stories, now that I think about it, so it's only fair." 
 
Sinbad is having a very good day.
 
His hand still prickles a little when he rests it on the girl’s lean thigh,
long fingers reaching more than halfway around, and leaning up until he’s bare
inches from those intense, dancing red eyes. “If you know who I am, you’ll know
I’m hardly a gentleman. But I would be honored if you were to grace me with
your name, Fair One.”
 
Oh, this really is nice. Judal sort of wants to wriggle in closer, because what
is self-control when there's someone warm and solid and powerful--and that
alone is enough to be drunk on, because with such close proximity and even just
this little bit of contact, he can feel everything. Better than Kouen, better
than listening to Al Sarmen and staying and not chasing this man down. "Judal,"
is the breathy sigh to follow. "And you're… um, it was Sin--something. Right?
No one else has conquered so many dungeons." 
 
And they never will, Sinbad is smug enough to think, sliding his hand just a
bit up the girl’s thigh, wrapping that long, thick braid around his other hand.
“Sin is fine. The full name couldn’t compare to something like Judal, anyway.
It suits you.” Really, the fact that this pretty thing is a Magi is so much
extra luck--he’d be beside himself with glee just to have stumbled upon someone
so lovely after such a day, wriggling around on his lap and making him feel
every inch invigorated.
 
Judal grins, as pleased with himself for remembering as he is the compliment,
and it prompts him to squirm his way forward that much more, his arms draping
their way around Sinbad's shoulders, clinging to his neck as he half-buries his
face into the side of it, breath escaping as a hot, excited little exhale.
"You're quite good with flattery, too, when you want to be. Don't worry, I like
you; no need to lay it on so thick when I'm already thinking about keeping
you." Kouen would beso jealous--but won't the majority of Al Sarmen be pleased
to have someone that much stronger?
 
Maybe a long time ago, Sinbad would have been wholly engrossed in the play of
the girl’s muscles against his hand, the slender arms snaking around his
shoulders, the smell of the girl’s hair so close, her breath against his neck.
Now, his mind races, torn between pulling her closer, hand working up her
waist, working under some of the drapey cloths, and what it’s going to mean for
Sindria if the third Magi chooses him officially, giving him divine sanction to
rule. It can only be for the best, right? That’s what the Magi are for, isn’t
it? His fingertips ghost across soft skin, and he leans in for a kiss,
murmuring, “You may find me a bit wild for a kept beast,” before meeting her
lips with his.
 
It's almost overwhelming, the heady rush that follows that contact, and Judal
knows he scrambles a bit to press up into the kiss, an eager, needy groan
rumbling from his throat before he can even think to stop it. He doesn't even
want to. Even if he's no stranger to the thrum of energy, of magic, of power,
this is still something altogether different and god, it feels good. 
 
His fingers curl, scratching against Sinbad's neck before they fist properly
into his hair, and Judal's lips part with another, hungry noise escaping him as
he wriggles closer, pressing his chest flush with Sinbad's, and really, nothing
sounds better than the man being as  less than gentlemanly as he claims right
then.
 
Suddenly, Sinbad becomes very, very aware that there’s something he’s failed to
notice.
 
Unusual, because the thing he’s failed to notice is a thing absent, and all the
more unusual that what’s absent is one of his favorite things of all--or
rather, two of them, which should even now be pressed against his chest in a
way he’s more than familiar with, and they certainly aren’t. 
 
Ah. Well. 
 
There’s no use being picky with the color of water in an oasis, and the boy is
warm and wriggling on his lap, breathing words of magic and sighing very
prettily through his nose, and really, that’s almost as good. The village girls
will still be there tomorrow, still be curving and supple and soft tomorrow,
and maybe it’s for the best that he won’t be showing any of them how hot his
blood runs after a dungeon. 
 
He’s less cautious now as he plunders the boy’s mouth with his own, one hand
snaking down to deftly pluck at the ends of fabric, unwrapping the Magi like
his own well-earned gift.
 
Sinbad is right about one thing--now he's burning up, all too eager to wiggle
his way free of confining, draping clothing, all the better to bear himself to
the perusal of those calloused, strong hands that drag over his flesh. Judal
pants against the other man's mouth, the rush of all of it enough to make him
dizzy, but not enough to stop his own hands from wandering, pawing their way
southward, and he sucks in a ragged breath through his nose as his palm drags
along the hardening line of Sinbad's cock through fabric that is really more
troublesome than it's worth.
 
At least the boy Judal is no less pretty, no less lithe, and above all no less
willing than Sinbad had thought the girl Judal to be, and a great deal more
eager and less shy than many of the real women he’s lain with. “You don’t mind,
do you?” he asks, his teeth dragging over the young Magi’s lip, laying him onto
his back as he tugs at the wrappings. “You don’t mind if I take you here under
the stars for anyone to see, right?”
 
It should be answer enough with how Judal lurches upward, grabbing and clawing
and pulling, but there's no helping how his tongue moves, too. "Not as long as
you do it again properly later," he purrs, his thighs splaying wide at the
press of Sinbad's hips above him. "On a real bed, without sand in my hair--even
if you aren't a gentleman, you can at least appreciate that, right?" 
 
God, Sinbad likes this one, probably more than he should. It has nothing to do
with the fact that he’s a Magi--startling at that, but for once it’s easy to
throw all that away until later, strangely easy to enjoy the press of a stiff
hard cock against his own, easier still to shuck his clothes. A twist of his
wrist and he’s dumping the boy down on his own clothing, wrapping that long,
full braid around his hand five or six times, giving at least a marginal try at
decorum. “How about I promise to brush all the sand out of your hair as well?”
he asks, pressing a kiss under the boy’s ear, then sucking hard at the soft
skin there.
 
Judal's mouth falls open, little more than a breathy moan escaping from how he
shudders, the sort of loose, tugging pressure on his hair going straight from
his scalp straight down to his cock and making him rut up all the more. "G-
good," he manages, eyes fluttering, and he squirms, a hand fumbling between
them to grab for Sinbad's cock again, panting at the heavy, thick weight of it
in his hand, the throb of it when he squeezes. Every little touch is enough to
make him twitch, and damn, it's something he could get used to, bathing in what
feels like a cloud of heated, thrumming strength--something he was sure he had
felt the best of before, and yet this doesn't even begin to compare. "Good.
God, you're big." There's nothing but shaky, eager anticipation there,
especially when coupled with the stroke of his fingers, the insistent splay of
his legs.
 
There was a time, years earlier, when Sinbad had been too big for the self-
control he possessed, too strong to know his own power, to arrogant to respect
its danger. Skill, and practice, and life have beaten that out of him, leaving
him chuckling down at the boy, spreading his legs with a shift of his hips,
enjoying the slow drag of Judal’s fingers. “I have a feeling,” he murmurs
against the shell of that delicate ear, “that you’re someone who can appreciate
the way a big man feels inside.” It’s not much of a guess, not when Judal’s
words are accompanied by a heady little shiver.
 
He whines at that, a mindless little sound that's probably better fit for a
whore in a brothel than a selector of kings, but hell if Judal cares,
especially when his fingers tighten and god, Sinbad just feels good in his
hand. "Come up here," he rasps, and he squirms, pushing himself up just
slightly onto an elbow. "Wanna taste you first."
 
“You drive a hard bargain.” Sinbad shifts, resting his knees on either side of
Judal’s shoulders, cupping his large hands behind the boy’s head. He looks
young like this, with his lips stained red from rough kisses, his hair sandy
and tousled, his cheeks flushed with arousal, and Sinbad’s breath catches at
the sight. He takes his cock in hand, leaning forward just enough to rest the
tip at Judal’s lips. “Have a taste then, my pretty Magi.”
 
Judal doesn't need to be told, not with how his lips already eagerly part, his
tongue flicks out to drag over the thick head of Sinbad's cock in a messy, wet
slide to taste him with a groan in the back of his throat. He cranes his neck
upward, the next, sloppy drag of his tongue leaving him panting as he draws
back, lips slick and sticky when they part as he mouths down the length of him,
eyes lidded and dark as he lets Sinbad's cock drag across his cheek, a sticky
trail of fluid in its wake.
 
It's only then that he actually lurches up enough to take the man into his
mouth, lips stretched wide and eyes rolling into the back of his head as Judal
swallows the first few inches of him, the heady, musky taste on his tongue
enough to make him squirm, enough to make him flush that much hotter, his
breath escaping hot and ragged through his nose.
 
Oh.
 
Sinbad doesn’t bother stifling a groan as the boy works him beautifully,
sinfully over with his lips, panting and moaning and whining like a bitch in
heat, every part of him writhing with the want of his cock, and god it makes
him so much harder. He helps, supporting Judal’s head and neck, tugging him
down a bit, breathing slow and heated, “You really love that taste, don’t you?”
 
He reaches a hand back behind himself, sliding down a perfectly toned abdomen
to palm Judal’s cock, wrapping it up in one big hand. “Feels like you love it.
Feels like you could spill on the sand just from having me in your mouth,
lovely Judal.”
 
It's true, and there's no denying it from the way his hips twitch up, rocking
mindlessly into Sinbad's hand as his eyes briefly squeeze shut, his chest
heaves, and god, he really could, just from Sinbad in his mouth and stuffing
his throat full. Judal lurches up, swallowing hard as he eagerly takes moreof
that big cock down his throat, his jaw spasming from the ache of it, lips slick
and shiny with his own drool, making the slide of his mouth that much slicker,
wetter as he works as much of Sinbad as he can. 
 
He doesn't want to stop. He wants Sinbad in his mouth, making his eyes tear up
when he takes just a bit too much, making his skin flush too-hot and his lips
sore and all the more bruised, but he wants the man in him all the more, and so
he pulls back with a slick pop, tongue flicking out as he pants raggedly,
licking at his lips and looking up at Sinbad through his lashes, openly
pleading. "In me," he breathes, voice hoarse, "n-now, or I'm--"
 
A frustrated little noise wells up in Sinbad’s throat, but he tamps it down.
“Next time,” he murmurs, rubbing a thumb over Judal’s swollen, sticky lips, “I
won’t stop until you’re drinking me down, and I can see my seed dripping from
your lips.”
 
The mental image is almost more powerful than his need, and it’s a long few
seconds before he masters the urge to just hold the boy down and rut
shamelessly against his face. He pauses just long enough to grab a pair of
small jars from one of his bags, kneeling in front of Judal. “Aloe or sesame
oil?”
 
Judal nearly puts a foot through Sinbad's chest in frustration for him to hurry
up, though the shakiness of his limbs, the goddamned urge to simply writhe like
a cat in heat is too strong for him to bother. "Aloe's fine," he mumbles, face
hot because what does it even matter, just--he huffs out a hot breath of air,
letting his head fall back even as his knees fall open and his fingers twitch
with the urge to read down and touch himself. "Next time, you can use me as a
proper king should."
 
“Ah, but I’m not a proper king.” Sinbad slicks up his hand, slicks up his cock,
and kneels once again over Judal, spreading the boy’s legs as he slides between
them. His cock slides up and down the cleft of Judal’s ass, firm and tight and
pert enough to help Sinbad forget that there’s nothing soft to bury his face in
while he does this. “I’ll use you far, far better than any king,” he promises,
leaning down for another kiss. There’s no helping the raw need in him, and the
boy’s just as bad, squirming and wanting, and damned but there’s no reason to
deny what they’re both burning for, Sinbad tells himself as he thrusts in,
burying his cock to the hilt inside of the writhing boy.
 
There's no holding back the shriek that tears from his throat, the hot, ragged
breaths to follow, nor the hitching little moans as he bucks up, his back
arching and his thighs tremulously clamping to Sinbad's hips. Judal's nails are
claws as they sink their way into the other man's upper arms, and god, but his
cock is hard between them, with just the upward lurch of his body bringing it
to grind against Sinbad's hard stomach enough to make his vision blur and go
white at the edges. It's all because of that hot, tense stretch of Sinbad's
cock inside of him, making him feel so overfull that it aches, his teeth
worrying into his own lower lip at that tight, tight stretch that Judal finds
himself reminded of with every  heaving breath into his lungs.
 
That shriek is good, and Judal’s fingers clawing into him are good, and that
pretty cock hard against his stomach is good, but nothing is as good as the boy
feels, tight as hell and squeezing his cock so perfectly it’s driving him
towards insanity as much as it is orgasm. There’s no care for what kind of
magic Judal has, what kind of power he can promise, when all Sinbad can think
about is the wild, needy look in those desperate red eyes. 
 
It’s been a long time since he’s lost himself like this with anyone, longer
still since he’s done it with a boy, but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten. Even
in his reckless abandon, his hands are strong and sure on the boy’s hips, not
painfully cruel. Even when all he sees are white and red bursts of light, he
kisses the boy like something precious, something to be cherished. Every
savagely hard slap of his hips is no harder than the boy can take, despite the
power in Sinbad’s muscles. “No proper king would fuck you like this,” he hisses
against Judal’s lips, the fancy speech of a noble fallen away with his self-
control. “No one else will ever fuck you like this.”
 
God, Judal believes it.
 
There's nothing that's felt this good that he can recall in recent memory,
nothing in memories longer and more distant than that, and so all he can do is
moan, nodding in mindless, helpless agreement, his vision blurring with each
hard thrust that stuffs him full, stretches him wide, leaves him squirming with
each inch of slick, hard cock pushing deep into him, and fuck, if that isn't
good. It leaves him struggling for each shaky breath that he draws past his
lips, gulping in Sinbad's own air as much as his own, with his nails clawing
into the man's back, clinging to him with even the smallest slide of flesh
against flesh and there's no hope for keeping his voice down because it's good,
just so stupidly, achingly good being spread open by this man--
 
No matter how he wants to wait, how good Judal thinks it would be to hold out a
bit longer, he comes with a broken sound, shuddering, quivering with each spasm
that rakes through him--and god help if it isn't even better like this, because
what the hell is self-control good for, anyway?
 
Sinbad pulls away long enough to watch Judal scream, that pretty face contorted
in ecstasy so acute it’s obviously too much, every little spasm going straight
to his cock still buried deep inside the boy. He pants, sweat beading on his
shoulders from the effort of holding still, and waits until the boy has stopped
shaking quite so much before sliding out just long enough to flip Judal over,
guiding himself right back inside with a sigh. “Now,” he murmurs, with a soft
bite to the boy’s shoulder, “you’re going to know what it means to be taken by
a king.”
 
He takes his time, now. There’s time to spare, and the rippling intensity of
their coupling sets him all the more aflame with every tight thrust, every
minuscule bit of friction as he moves inexorably within the lithe little body
wholly covered by his own.
 
Oh god, it's just not fair.
 
Judal moansas he buries his face down into the pile of his own clothing, breath
hiccuping with each deep slide of Sinbad's cock inside of him. If this is what
it means to be taken by a king--then more of it, and more often, that's what he
needs, or so says his hazy mind as he simply bites down into fabric and
shudders hard, spent body twitching, trembling too-eagerly and too-soon. Like
this, with his mind out of focus, his nerves firing in what feels like a dozen
different directions, he feels Sinbad's strength that much more acutely and--
that, that above all things, is too much, no matter how he just wants to wallow
in it. 
 
It’s easy to grab that luxurious length of hair, to tug on it just to watch the
boy’s back bow in a heady, needing arch. And unless Sinbad’s mistaken (he
isn’t), Judal likes the way it feels, the slow yank on his head coupled with
the patient, deliberate movement of Sinbad’s cock deep inside him. 
 
The best is when Judal just whimpers in his arms, when he bites down on his own
wrappings, obviously overwhelmed, and as thoroughly conquered as any dungeon
under the power Sinbad wields. One hand snakes up that toned belly to play with
the boy’s nipples, no matter that they’re not attached to the soft, yielding
flesh he’s so used to, and even that change, tonight, makes his body sing.
“Give yourself to me,” he whispers, hips slapping hard against Judal’s as he
lunges forward. “Or I’ll just make you mine.”
 
The strangled whimper that leaves his throat is all Judal can manage, broken
and breathless as he twists within Sinbad's hold. Just the pull and scrape of
his fingertips over his nipples--something he doesn't even normally like, but
to hell with it, right now he does, likes everything Sinbad does to him, never
mind that it's too much and makes his vision blur all over again with each hot
slide of his cock inside of him or squeeze and pinch of his fingers and tug on
his hair--
 
"I-I'm--" Another, hard shudder cuts him off, and it's his own doing this time
as he wriggles, writhes his way back onto Sinbad's cock. "Whatever you want, I-
-"
 
Truly, Destiny is a marvelous strange beast. Never in a year’s worth of Sundays
would Sinbad have thought to pluck a lovely boy when there were girls plenty,
but oh, just now he could kick himself for it. The way Judal wriggles against
him is the sweetest surrender, something willingly given even as it’s
demanded. 
 
Sinbad’s mouth is hot on Judal’s neck as he marks the boy, claims him under the
stars, and finally amid a series of panting, ragged thrusts, falls into his own
surrender somewhere deep inside Judal’s body. 
 
His chest is heaving, and his body is weary like it hadn’t been after
conquering this dungeon, as he holds the boy close even as he floods him.
“Now,” he whispers, arms clenching tight, his voice catching as he holds Judal
tighter, “you have blessed me, lovely Magi.”
 
Judal finds himself biting into fabric again, his eyes squeezing tightly shut
and it's nearly enough for him to lose himself again, just feeling Sinbad spill
inside of him, hot and slick and so deep that another, achingly long tremble
rakes down his spine. "You're really…" The train of thought leaves him quickly,
and it's with a groan that he buries his face, too spent to think. What has he
even been missing out on?
 
“I know,” Sinbad says with a yawn, rolling onto his back, tugging Judal against
his side. “I’ve been told, I’m sure. If you’re sleepy, you can make me a king
in the morning.” That’s kingly generosity, surely. He still can’t help smiling
as he winds Judal’s hair between his fingers, brushing the end of it over the
boy’s chest and stomach.
 
A low, rumbling growl follows, no matter how Judal nestles up against him with
what little strength he has left. "Thinking so highly of yourself," is the
continued, sleepy grumble. "I haven't seen a real bed from you yet.
Unacceptable."
 
“Not sure where you expect me to pull one from,” Sinbad starts to say, but
trails off into a contented little mumble, throwing an arm around the boy.
This, surely, is something worth getting used to.
***** Chapter 3 *****
 
Something's wrong. 
 
Ja'far knows it, by the lagging expanse of time that passes--too long for
Sinbad, of all people, especially after the dungeon's silhouette fades in the
sky and signals his success. Ja'far wishes, perhaps a little too desperately,
that he had been at the man's side throughout the ordeal, but even in foreign
countries and cities, there is work to be done--if Sinbad isn't pulling the
strings of fledgling countries, then it is Ja'far that has to, after all. 
 
It doesn't stop him from stealing away close to dawn, however, because the
unease simply won't go away. 
 
He's not wrong. He's never wrong, not when it comes to Sinbad, and he doesn't
take the time to hesitate or ask permission to become involved in the man's
fight. There are a dozen 'bodies' in various states of deterioration strewn
about the desert sand, the heavy swarm of black rukh so thick that even he can
see it, and even more still for him to sink his blades into, picking stragglers
off two at a time. 
 
By the end of it, Ja'far is as blood-spattered as Sinbad, though not a single
drop of it is his. 
 
~
 
Adrenaline, too, is a useful tool, especially when it comes to picking up an
(eventually) unconscious man twice one's size and hauling them back into town
at the crack of dawn. 
 
Ja'far's heart is still racing, blood pounding in his ears no matter how he
tries to calm himself and dress Sinbad's wounds without his hands shaking too
badly. He has to wonder if Sinbad knows the name of what he had been facing, if
he knows exactly how dire his situation had been--and at that, why they were
there, why they chose to target Sinbad at that time and in such numbers? If the
dungeon had been so very important to them, wouldn't it have been guarded to
the point entry was impossible? Why not that, instead of letting Sinbad conquer
it? 
 
Lingering worry makes him think they finally found me, they're here for me,
they know Sinbad has been kind to me all of these years--but, logically, it
can't be that, because he's nothing to them. It's something far more than that,
though what is only something he can guess until Sinbad wakes. 
 
In the meantime, after he's made sure Sin will be fine, that he's patched up
accordingly and with Masrur lingering at the bedroom door as a lookout, Ja'far
sags to his knees at Sinbad's bedside, folding his arms upon the edge of the
bed and dropping his head upon them. He can sleep like this, maybe with one eye
open--just in case some of them come back. 
 
Sinbad wakes sometime near dawn. He’s not terribly happy about it, with the way
every part of him aches, some parts transcending that and going straight into
agony, but he wakes.
 
Quiet and still, that’s the way when he wakes somewhere unfamiliar. He keeps
his breathing even as if in sleep, letting his eyes slit slightly open to take
in his surroundings. A bed, that’s certain. In a room, which is probably for
the best. And--ah, good, Ja’far is with him, and his wrists are unbound. This
is no prison then, in his own country or any other.
 
The smell of blood is heavy in his nose, and when he breathes in his air is
constricted--bandages, not bonds. He’s been unconscious for some time, then,
after that Magi--
 
The growl that passes between his lips in unintentional, and he stifles it,
though probably too late to not wake Ja’far. Ah, well, might as well make the
best of the situation, so he twitches his fingers over to play weakly with the
young man’s hair. “How long?” he rasps.
 
Ja'far jerks, the touch rousing him quickly from the light sleep he's allowed
himself to drift off into. In an instant, he shifts, stretching up from his
knees to better lean over the bed, a frown on his lips as he takes in how pale
Sinbad is. "… Too long," he quietly scolds, honestly having lost track of time
himself, and he covers that up by reaching to the bedside table for the jug of
water. "You've certainly done yourself in this time." Somehow, he keeps his
hands from shaking as he pours a cup, and scoots further onto the bed to gently
slide a hand behind his head and lift it enough for Sinbad to drink. 
 
The water falls onto Sinbad’s lips as if onto a desert, and he quenches his
thirst deeply before he rests his head back onto Ja’far’s hand. Annoying, that
he’s reduced to being such an invalid, courtesy of those he despises so damned
much. “Yeah. I had help.”
 
"I noticed." Ja'far twists around to set the cup down, purposefully not
removing his hand if Sinbad wants to rest upon it so badly. "What happened?"
What did you do? is the far more unkind question, though implied all the same.
 
One eye opens, reproachfully glaring at Ja’far. “It wasn’t my fault, if that’s
what you’re asking. They attacked me in my sleep.” He closes the eye again,
leaning back with a sigh. “You know who.” Nothing they’ve ever spoken about,
but he’s always known who sent the boy with the intense eyes to jump him in the
dark, all those years ago.
 
"… I do." His fingers curl, threading tighter into Sinbad's hair. "Was it the
dungeon they wanted? Were they angry? They don't just… do things like this
indiscriminately." 
 
At that, Sinbad has to admit a rueful grin. He tries to stretch out, only to
wince as something flames with pain in his side. “Doubtless they didn’t like
that much, but I’d bet they were more concerned that I was playing with their
Magi, if that’s who the child was.”
 
Ja'far stares at him, jaw suddenly slack with open shock. "You… wait, what?" he
snaps, abruptly pulling his hand away. "You're telling me you met Al-Sarmen's
Magi?" 
 
Sinbad lets out a grunt as his head hits the bed. “That’s not exactly how he
introduced himself, but he did claim the dungeon as his work, yes.”
 
"And you believed him," Ja'far flatly intones. "Just because he said so." 
 
“With an aura like that?” Sinbad shrugs, and damn it, that hurts too. “He had
to be a Magi, and I’ve met the others.”
 
"So you just--" Ja'far wants to strangle him. Instead, he rises with a huff, so
sharply that the sash of his tunic snaps behind him. "So you just decided it
would be a good idea to bed Al-Sarmen's Magi in the middle of the desert after
you're exhausted from conquering a dungeon," he bites out as he snatches a
fresh bundle of bandages from his bag and strides back over, glowering down at
the other man. "Congratulations, by the way." 
 
If Sinbad had the power to move away at the moment, he’d have done it. As it
is, he edges slightly to the side, a wary look on his face. “It wasn’t like
that,” he protests, the familiar words on his lips. “I was innocently sleeping!
And then I woke up to someone pretty sitting on my chest and telling me I’m
really strong and fit to be a king and would you please not look at me that
way?”
 
Ja'far's blood runs cold. "Did you accept his offer?" Sinbad doesn't feel any
different, but then again, what would Ja'far know? He's never been around a
candidate for king, let alone someone chosen by a Magi. His fingers twitch, and
one of his blades flips into his grasp. "Don't move," is his flat addition
before he slices through the already bloody bandages binding Sinbad's side in
order to pull them away and replace them. "You're still not well. Idiot." 
 
Sinbad holds very, very still when Ja’far moves. True, Ja’far’s good enough to
slice the wings off a fly--when he wants to be. If not, well, every human
slips, and he can hardly be blamed for that, can he? “Ah, no. She didn’t--
I mean, he didn’t really, uh, get that far.”
 
Relief immediately courses through him. "Good. Wait--no, don't phrase it like
that," he growls, barely stopping himself from yanking too hard on Sinbad's
bandages. No, instead, he's gentle, no matter how his fingers still want to
tremble. "You wouldn't have accepted, I hope."
 
“Mmm? Why would you hope that?” Not that he would have, of course. Maybe. It’s
entirely possible that he would have turned the girl down. Boy, damn it, he’s
got to stop doing that.
 
Ja'far looks at him as if he's grown a second head. "He's Al-Sarmen's Magi," is
the flat retort, and all right, perhaps he's a little less than gentle when it
comes to reaching for the basin he's set on the floor and wringing out a cloth
to clean Sinbad's wounds. 
 
“Well, I didn’t know that, did I?” Sinbad asks with a wince. “Who says there
have to be only three, hmm? I was tired. Then those bastards jumped me in my
sleep.”
 
"What if he called them?" Ja'far coolly proposes. "He wasn't exactly there when
you woke, was he?" 
 
Sinbad rolls his eyes with a groan. “Of course he called them. He’s Al-Sarmen’s
Magi. I’m only saying I didn’t know that before I bedded him.”
 
"Normally, you have a few more sensibilities when it comes to bed partners."
That's not saying much, but all the same. Ja'far snorts, and extends his hand.
"You need to sit up for this, let me help you." 
 
It’s a weary, pained smile that Sinbad gives him, but a smile nonetheless. He
takes the proffered hand, groaning at the stretch in his wounds as he sits up.
“I wasn’t thinking,” he admits quietly, staring down at his feet, seeing not
bandages and blankets but moonlight and sand, hearing the high, breathy noises
of someone unaccustomed to feeling pleasure. “He’s young. And I don’t think
he’s one of them, not yet. Not truly. He was too green for that.”
 
Ja'far's lips purse at that, even as he scrubs his hands clean before picking
through the hastily procured herbs he'd beat down the door for from the town's
medicine woman at the crack of dawn. Honestly, the things he did for this man.
"Al-Sarmen has had him for as long as I can remember." Carefully, he repacks
the deep gash along Sinbad's side--the worst of his injuries by far,
thankfully--before stretching out a length of fresh bandages and starting to
rewrap the wound. "I never saw him, of course. Only the highest officials were
allowed in his presence. But the point is--someone that has been with Al-Sarmen
for that long… is certainly one of them." 
 
The corner of Sinbad’s lip turns up, even as he hisses out a breath at Ja’far’s
nimble fingers in the wound on his side. “Ahh--I did myself a great service,
the day I found you. And I’ll not contest your opinion, you know of them far
better than I. I just...he’s so young, really a child still. Have they had him
from infancy? I don’t think of Al-Sarmen being filthy with wetnurses.”
 
"… You'd be surprised at what they can procure as needed." Ja'far braces one
hand against Sinbad's shoulder to save the man some of the shock of having the
bandages yanked tighter and promptly pinned into place. "As far as I know,
they've had him since before he could talk. You can lie back down, and this
time, don't move around so much." 
 
Sinbad lays back down, trying not to wince too hard. Ja’far is being gentle,
for Ja’far. “Ah, well. At least now we know the enemy, hmm?” It still troubles
him, the look in the boy’s eyes, as if he’d never expected to find anyone in
the world who delighted him so--the feel of his lips, the way his fingers had
threaded between his own...
 
"Sin." It's a very, very flat intonation, with which he speaks. "You can't keep
that one." 
 
Sinbad blinks. Had he been so obvious? “I did call him the enemy, didn’t I?”
 
"You get a look on your face whenever you want something," Ja'far curtly
replies, leaning forward after him to plant a hand onto the bed as he leans
close, eyes narrow. "You can't keep him--assuming he ever shows up again,
anyway. Accepting his offer is walking into Al-Sarmen's grasp outright." 
 
This, Sinbad thinks, slightly grumpy, is why he had so enjoyed running around
the world alone, all those years ago. Back then, no one had questioned his
decisions. 
 
And you made a lot of terrible ones, a little voice points out. Strange how it
sounds so much like Ja’far, even inside his own head. “I’m agreeing, aren’t I?
You know how much I hate them.” Even if I’ve never told you outright, you must
know. You’re that sort of smart.
 
"And if he shows back up?" is the persistent retort. "What will you do?" 
 
“Don’t you think it’s a little early to be planning for that kind of thing?”
Sinbad snaps. “He’s shown his face once, in the middle of a foreign desert, for
all of an hour, after which he had me attacked by dozens of men. I hardly think
he’s going to be banging down my door in Sindria.”
 
"He's a Magi, and he decided, for a moment, that he liked you," Ja'far points
out, leaning away with a snort. "It's best to plan accordingly. So, what would
you do?" 
 
Ignoring the pain that comes with the movement, Sinbad reaches out to grab
Ja’far’s wrist. “What would you have me do?” he asks quietly, holding those
oddly-colored eyes. “You’re my advisor. Advise me.”
 
"Turn him away." It's a simple, immediate response, and Ja'far slowly lifts his
other hand to close it over Sinbad's. "Don't humor him. I don't care what he
promises you, it isn't worth it, if Al-Sarmen is involved. I don't care how
'green' you think he is, either." 
 
“And if he gives it to the Emperor of Kou instead?” It’s not that he wants the
power of a king candidate, Sinbad tells himself. It’s only...best to explore
every option. “One of his first words to me was about a Kou Prince who’s strong
and worthy. Would it be worth the madness, to keep the power from falling into
those hands? I ask you honestly, as my friend. I’m not looking for any answer.”
 
Ja'far exhales an even breath, shaking his head slowly side to side. "I don't
think you understand what it would do to you, to have someone like that at your
side," he quietly replies. "Sin, just… don't. If he chooses one of the Kou
Princes, then so be it. It still isn't worth it." His fingers squeeze gently
over Sinbad's hand. "I will give you all of my strength, no matter if it is a
Magi that I have to face." 
 
Ah, well. With the gift of precious words such as those, there’s nothing left
to say, is there? Slowly, trying not to hurt himself, Sinbad brings Ja’far’s
fingers to his lips, brushing over them softly. “You are of greater worth to me
than ten Magi,” he says quietly, holding Ja’far’s eyes. “And a creature of far
greater rarity.”
 
"I told you not to move," Ja'far chides, though there's little real annoyance
in his voice. At least Sinbad isn't moving in a way that will especially jar
the worst of his injuries this time. His fingers curl slowly, and he leans
forward, lips brushing against the other man's brow. "I will do my best to live
up to such expectations, my king." 
 
Sinbad smiles, and it’s probably a bad thing that he’s coming to enjoy Ja’far’s
gentle chiding. He squeezes the young man’s fingers, closing his eyes as he
lets the pain wash over him, thinking done for the moment. “Stay by my side
tonight? There’s room for two.”
 
It's day, Ja'far wants to correct him, but bites his tongue with a little sigh
as he carefully shifts to slide onto the bed entirety. It isn't as if he's
inclined to leave Sinbad's side right now anyway, not with the threat of Al-
Sarmen possibly coming back. I'm sorry you're in so much pain, I should have
been there sooner. "I'll stay." 
 
With Ja’far next to him, some of the aches ease somewhat, whether because of
the warmth of his body or simply because he’s happier now. No matter the
threats against moving, Sinbad manages to get an arm around Ja’far’s shoulders,
and turns to press a kiss against the boy’s brow. “There. Now I’m protected
against any villains.”
 
"Don't make light of it so easily," Ja'far murmurs, sighing and curling himself
closer in an attempt to make sure Sinbad moves less. "Behave yourself from now
on, isn't it time we went home? This was your sixth dungeon." 
 
Sinbad lets out a sigh, settling easily down. It’s been a long while since
Sindria has called him home with her siren song, but she makes herself heard
now--the kind of place a rogue of a brigand and a former child killer can rule
together, call home together, and she’s waiting for them even now. “Maybe
you’re right. Once I can move, eh? Then we’ll go home.”
 
"Swear it and I'll believe it," is the mutter to follow, and Ja'far carefully
rests his cheek against the side of Sinbad's shoulder. "I'll carry you to
Sindria myself right now, if you'd allow it." 
 
Sinbad hesitates, and that bothers him. It bothers him that he hesitates out of
selfishness, wanting to run around and conquer the world one scrap of unclaimed
land at a time rather than going back to his (mostly) rightful throne, and that
he hesitates against advice he knows to be true.
 
Maybe it really is time to grow up.
 
Surely, Ja’far won’t object to the curl of a single finger against his hair. “I
promise. Once I’m able, we’ll walk home together. Save your strength for
guarding my back on the road.”
 
There's relief in hearing that, even if he still doubts Sinbad's word, just a
little bit. Ja'far doesn't doubt that if nothing comes up, they'll head home in
the next week or so, once Sinbad is well enough. If another dungeon appears,
however… that's another story, and Ja'far knows, just knows they will be
chasing after it again, no matter the cost. 
 
"All right." His eyes lid, and he sighs, a soft nudge of his head against
Sinbad's fingers following. "Once you're able."
 
~~
 
Sinbad feels the ache in his sleep.
 
Not the ache of his injuries; that’s faded to an ever-present, if obnoxious
thing, a background to what his body does at all times over the last few days.
No, the ache that wakes him is a far warmer, more pleasant thing, courtesy of
having shifted in his sleep to curl around Ja’far’s lithe body.
 
Not the worst way to wake up, after all.
 
Sinbad’s lips curl into a little smile, and he moves forward just an inch to
nuzzle into Ja’far’s hair, enjoying the slow press of his hips up against
Ja’far’s backside. The boy is so warm, and feels so good, and really, when he
wakes this hard from the smell of his friend, it’s hardly his fault, is it?
After all, he’s injured. He can hardly be expected to leave.
 
Waking is a slower, more languid thing when there are less threats to deal with
and more Sinbad's simple curling about him, warm and solid and alive. There are
moments when Ja'far's mind shifts slowly back towards the possibility of Sinbad
being killed beneath the hands of Al-Sarmen, no matter how he tries not to
dwell on past events that didn't happen. 
 
Lingering concern makes him more tolerant, at least, to the realization of how
hard Sinbad is behind him, and he muffles a sigh into the sheets. "Sin." It's a
low, rumbling warning, just slightly put out but not an outright quit it just
yet.
 
“Mmm.” Sinbad doesn’t deign to say any more just now, not with how content he
is like this. Ja’far smells like...well, like nothing, as usual, except a bit
like Sinbad now courtesy of long hours spent in his bed, in his arms, and time
before that spent wrists-deep in Sinbad’s blood. 
 
Besides, what’s the harm, really? He rocks slowly against the sweet curve of
soft flesh, eyes still closed, still hardly awake yet.
 
Normally, Ja'far would smack him.
 
He might even push Sinbad off the bed, or just get up and leave him there to
deal with it himself. Right now, though, it's different. Sinbad is still in
less than perfect shape, and Ja'far is still annoyingly worried, and it's not
so bad to put up with this if Sinbad is content and not in pain…
 
Not to mention the longer he feels Sinbad rub against him, the longer his own
body seems inclined to stir, too.
 
Ja'far exhales a slow, faintly shaky breath, keeping his face half-buried into
the sheets as he shifts back, just slightly. Just this once, he'll humor him.
Just this once.
 
The smallest press of Ja’far back towards him is all Sinbad needs for
permission, and a lazy grin stretches across his face. He slings an arm around
Ja’far’s waist, being a little less shy, a little more obvious about the way he
rocks forward, inhaling deeply at the crook of Ja’far’s neck. A slight shift,
and he’s pressing into the cleft of Ja’far’s ass, feeling the firm curve even
through the layers of fabric, and he sighs. He’s going to make quite a mess at
this rate, but it’s gentle enough that he’ll be able to savor it for a while
first.
 
Ja'far huffs into the sheets, heat spreading over his face as he wriggles. He's
decided that  Sinbad feels good like this, no matter how he's just a lecher
after all--what if he had slept through this? Stupid question, Sin still would
have enjoyed himself thoroughly, judging by how hard he is, grinding into the
curve of Ja'far's ass. Shouldn't like that so much.
 
"… You're going to make a mess." Ja'far flushes hotter with the words, even as
he squirms to reach a hand down, plucking at the fastenings of his own pants.
"And I don't feel like washing our clothes this early, so--"
 
For just a moment, Sinbad considers pretending he’d been asleep, just to tease
Ja’far about what a lewd person he is, molesting a sleeping man and waking him
just to get undressed. Then again, he’s injured, and his chances of avoiding a
smack after something like that would be pretty close to zero. 
 
Besides, it’s not every day that Ja’far is volunteering to take his pants off.
“I’ll try not to be too messy,” Sinbad murmurs instead, pressing a soft kiss to
the back of Ja’far’s neck, easing himself out of his robes, his pants having
gone missing some time during the night.
 
That's a lie. Ja'far snorts quietly all the same as he squirms his way out of
his clothing--or at least, until his pants bunch low about his knees, and a
careful kick leaves them scarcely clinging to an ankle as he shivers, the heat
of Sinbad's body behind him that much more easily felt now. "Just… don't put it
in," he lowly warns. Better to set boundaries now, lest Sin get too caught up
in it all. It's one thing to be tolerant and even… maybe... enjoy that Sinbad
is turned on just by being close to him--it's another thing to start the day
off feeling like he's been eaten alive.
 
A slight prickle of disappointment goes through Sinbad at that, but he
dismisses it. It would be churlish to balk at this much, and in some ways this
is far more obscene, less an act of sex than an animalistic, grunting
necessity. 
 
Which, he has to admit, sounds like fun.
 
He rubs up between the firm cheeks for a few minutes, a lazy, contented hum
leaving his mouth at the way it gets slicker as time goes on, left in a sticky
trail by the head of his cock. “You sure?” he murmurs in Ja’far’s ear, pressing
the tip against that little hole before moving away.
 
A shudder rakes down his spine. In some ways, more enjoyable than having Sinbad
inside of him is the thought of it--and in this case, the tease of it, the drag
of his hard, thick cock against him, and oh, skin against skin is nicer. "I'm
sure," Ja'far breathes, even as his hips twitch back, his eyes fluttering shut
at the press of it against him. Obscene, all of it, and all the better for it.
"It's good, just like this." 
 
“Even for you?”
 
One of the reasons Sinbad had been so hesitant, initially, to take a man to his
bed, was the idea that such a person would demand reciprocation, equality in
certain ways that Sinbad has never in his life felt drawn to give. Certainly it
would do nothing for him to have a man behind him rutting away on his skin, and
he leans forward, sliding his hand down to curl around Ja’far’s cock. The angle
shifts, and his own length slides down instead of up, pushing forward between
Ja’far’s soft thighs, and Sinbad can’t help but groan at the feeling.
 
"Yes." Especially that--less Sinbad's hand, more the slide of his cock between
his thighs that makes Ja'far shift to part them, just for a moment, all the
better to let Sin sink between them. A groan of his own escapes, the slick
slide of the other man's cock up against him making him squirm, bringing
Ja'far's muscles to twitch and better squeeze his thighs around him. "Good?"
Ja'far quietly asks, eyes lidded, skin flushed hot as he twists his head back
briefly.
 
It takes a few long seconds before Sinbad even has the air to say, “Y-yeah,
good.” The press of hot, soft skin all around him, growing slicker with every
slide of his cock, squeezing around him as Ja’far wriggles--it’s far better
than good, and Sinbad keeps forgetting to keep his hand moving, so entranced is
he by the feeling. “Any time,” he breathes, eyes sliding closed at the next
long thrust, “you don’t want me inside, ah, this would be...more than fine.”
 
Ja'far's breath leaves him a fast, ragged exhale, and he glances down, biting
his lip at he sight of Sinbad's cock thrusting long and hard between his
thighs. It makes his toes curl, the drag of every inch of him against sensitive
skin--rubbing up between his legs sometimes, even, and coupled with the squeeze
and slide of Sinbad's hand--
 
Ah, god. Sin is turning him into a pervert. Ja'far buries his face down into
the sheets as he pushes Sinbad's hand away, letting his own fingers curl around
his cock. "I'll do it," he breathes, trembling at the slow drag of his own
palm. "I--… just…  s-so you can grab me however you want, and fuck me." 
 
Sinbad had planned on being gentle.
 
All right, he hadn’t exactly planned much at all beyond Ja’far is warm and my
cock is hard, but had he planned, it would have been with the intention of
gentleness. Funny, how the slightest hint of wanting from Ja’far is always
enough to throw any of his plans out the window.
 
Sinbad lets out a ragged noise, enjoying the freedom to grab Ja’far’s hips and
haul him back almost as much as he enjoys peering over the young man’s shoulder
to watch him fisting his own cock. It’s the kind of thing that reminds him that
Ja’far is as human as he is, and for some reason that always makes him want.
“You--god, that’s gorgeous,” he rumbles in Ja’far’s ear, sliding up hard
between his thighs. “Show me how you like it, there’s a good boy.”
 
The grab of Sinbad's fingers, hard and unyielding and bruising his hips, makes
his cock that much harder, and Ja'far nearly laughs at himself. I'm a
masochist, too, he thinks, but there's little care in that thought as his
fingers squeeze tighter around his own cock, stroking hard and making his own
breath sharply hitch as Sinbad slides against him. It's not just the hot, hard
slide of his cock between his thighs, though that's nice, really nice, and he
can't help but keep his muscles bunched tight, squeezing around every thick
inch of him--no, it's the curl of Sinbad's body around him, too, so much larger
than he, unyielding and warm and god, Ja'far can't smell anything but Sin,
strong and masculine and aroused.
 
"… You first." His throat bobs in a hard swallow. "I never… get to see you come
first." I want to watch, no matter if it's messy or I'll hate changing the
sheets here later, I still want to see it--
 
With anyone else, it wouldn’t arouse Sinbad so much to hear words like that, to
think that he’s just using the person in his arms, just a warm body to get off
with, to get off on. 
 
With anyone else, it would be some degree of true.
 
With Ja’far it just makes him harder, and Sinbad’s breath hitches as his hips
snap forward, a low groan welling in his throat as he drags Ja’far back by the
hips into every thrust. “Look down, then,” he rasps, and his teeth sink in to
the soft skin of Ja’far’s neck as he comes, spilling white and slick and hot
over the front of Ja’far’s thighs, over his cock, over one pale hand, pulse
pounding in his ears.
 
It's too much to watch. 
 
Ja'far's breath stutters, a groan choked into the back of his throat at the
sight--Sinbad, dripping over his thighs, smearing his skin hot and slick and
messy, and god, if that doesn't make his own cock jerk up harder into his hand,
nothing does. That's all it takes; that, and a last, hard squeeze of his
fingers before he's coming, gasping as he spills over his own fist, curling up
as he does and shivering, squirming back against Sinbad with a relieved little
moan to follow.
 
Now that Sinbad’s body isn’t burning with desire, it starts to ache again, in
all the places Ja’far had carefully rebound the day before. He ignores that,
tightening his arm around Ja’far’s waist, pulling him back with a kiss to his
ear. “Didn’t know you liked watching so much.”
 
Likewise, now that his body isn't opting to be so pliant to Sinbad's whims,
Ja'far thinks exactly of how hot and sweaty and sticky he is--that they both
are--and he groans, tilting his head back to glower up at Sinbad through his
mussed bangs. "I don't exactly make it a pastime. I--" He pauses, frowning.
"You didn't irritate your wounds too much, did you?" 
 
Already, it begins. Sinbad presses a firm kiss to Ja’far’s cheek, murmuring,
“I’m fine, I promise. Would it kill you to enjoy the afterglow for a minute?"
 
"It's--" Hot and sticky and I want a bath--
 
Ja'far sighs, shutting his eyes as he nevertheless sinks back again--just for
the moment, only the moment. Sinbad is comfortable as always to curl up
against, at least. "As long as you're fine."
 
Sinbad grins, burying his face in soft, pale hair. “As long as I’m fine, you’re
happy? Well as long as you’re with me, I’m fine.”
 
"So that explains how you nearly died," Ja'far flatly replies, even as his lips
twitch upward, just a bit. "If you're feeling this well, then we should start
thinking about traveling again." 
 
Travel. It’s a pretty word, a word to describe an activity he loves, but Ja’far
is using it to mean go home, something a bit less exciting. Then again, he did
promise, after all. And there aren’t any dungeons nearby in the first place. He
rests his head down against the pillow, thinking. “Which road are you thinking,
North or South?”
 
"If we head North, we'll be dealing with the weather… South, and there's a
possibility of dealing with the Kou Empire." Ja'far sighs, stretching out a bit
with a grimace, and fumbling for the bedside table to grab a cloth and at least
wipe his legs clean. "Considering your most recent fight, I'm more inclined to
deal with weather."
 
Sinbad hisses out a breath as the movement jars one of his wounds, the nasty
deep one in his side that he’s been trying to ignore. “I’d agree with you if
the season weren’t turning. This time of year, the Emperor’s lap is a safer
place to be than some of those roads up north.”
 
"Sorry, sorry," Ja'far mutters immediately, stilling his attempts and deciding
to just deal with being sticky until he can get up properly and bathe. "If you
hadn't mentioned that Al-Sarmen's Magi knew of one of the Kou princes… I would
agree as well. Do you want to deal with Al-Sarmen and Kou?"
 
Sinbad scowls at the prospect. None of that is terribly appealing, and he hates
having no good choices. “North, then, and we’ll just brave the weather. I’m
fine, by the way,” he adds, nudging his forehead against Ja’far’s neck. “Get up
and clean, you must be going mad.”
 
Ja'far moves in an instant, snatching up the cloth first and foremost to wipe
himself clean after throwing his legs over the side of the bed. "If you want--
" And he hates even proposing this, but with no good options and Sinbad's own,
obvious lack of desire to return home just yet… "We can wait a few more months.
Perhaps by then… the situation within Kou will not be so tense, and of course,
the roads will be easier either way."
 
Sinbad worries at his lip for a second, both to give himself a moment to think
and to try and mask the pain from Ja’far’s sudden movement. It hurts, but
nothing he can’t handle, shoving it down somewhere beneath consciousness. “Hmm,
only if we can travel a bit East. Staying in one place for all that time would
be worse than going home--I mean--ah, well, you know what I mean.”
 
Being in any one place for more than a few months grates on him. Being in any
place even that he loves for that long starts to chafe, and he certainly
doesn’t love this contentious dry wasteland. “Maybe over to Partevia? I hear
it’s nice this time of year.”
 
"Don't you have friends over there?" Ja'far chooses, diplomatically, to ignore
the comment about something be worse than going home. "I suppose that wouldn't
be too bad… and it isn't as if we've heard word from Sindria that anything
troublesome is happening. A few more months will be fine, I think."
 
Sinbad makes a mental note to buy Ja’far something nice, then discards it just
as Ja’far would discard anything nice that wasn’t useful. He makes a new mental
note to buy Ja’far something useful. “Good. You’ll like Drakon. Hell, you’ll
probably join me in trying to convince him to come live in Sindria by the time
we leave.”
 
"A soldier or a scholar?" is the wry question to follow, and Ja'far carefully
picks himself up from the bed entirely, tugging his pants back up as he moves.
Admittedly, Sindria has a shortage of both, being such a young country. Ah, if
they can't go home, at least talk of improving Sindria is a balm to his nerves.
 
“Mm, a bit of both. One by trade and the other by fancy. And he’s as good a
judge of people as you are, I’d wager.” Sinbad grins, thinking of some rather
interesting situations Drakon had gotten them out of--and into--virtue of some
of those capabilities.
 
'Well, that's good, I suppose." Ja'far turns around, raking a hand back through
his bangs with a short exhale. "How are your wounds, really?" he seriously
asks. It doesn't look as though Sinbad has opened anything up again, at least.
"Honestly, you're going to have to be more careful… perhaps another week here…"
 
Sinbad flexes a few things experimentally, hissing out a breath. He pushes
himself up to sitting, then lays back down with a groan. “Two more days. I
could do it now, but I’ll tire too easily to make it worthwhile.” God, that
makes him grumpy. Or at least it would if Ja’far didn’t look so damned pretty
in the moonlight.
 
Ja'far looks skeptical, and with good reason. "… Three," he compromises, frown
deepening as if daring Sinbad to argue. "There's little use in rushing it. I'd
see you completely well before we left, but you will never lie still enough to
let that happen."
 
Sinbad weighs his chances of getting Ja’far to change his mind, and turns his
head, grumbling into the pillow. “Fine, give the nice lady downstairs one of
the golden cups we took from Focalor. Oh, and ask her if she has an al-qirq
board. If I’m going to be an invalid, you’re going to entertain me.”
 
"Yes, Your Majesty," is the sarcastic drawl in return, followed by an equally
mocking, sweeping bow as Ja'far moves to the task. Really, Sinbad is the worst
invalid, but if it means he will heal properly, Ja'far can tolerate it for just
a bit longer.
 
***** Chapter 4 *****
 
Partevia is an ugly country. 
 
Boring, too, by the looks of it, and Judal turns his nose up the moment he's
forced to actually walk on the streets in the middle of the night. He normally
wouldn't bother, but there's little hope of finding that man if he doesn't. 
 
Like this, Judal can sense him--all six of his metal vessels, though not
precisely on his person. With that, it doesn't take long to pinpoint his
location, and a good thing, because it's cold, and no matter how tightly he
wraps his cloak about himself, he didn't exactly think through the act of
dressing for a climate that isn't warm, humid Kou. 
 
The window is unlatched, and it makes it easy for Judal to poke it open,
sticking his head through first to catch a glimpse. Ah, sleeping, does Sinbad
ever do anything but that? He huffs quietly, a little push of magic making it
easy to simply tumble in through the window and land on the bed without even
jostling it, though the solid weight of his body promptly settling above
Sinbad's hips surely will wake him soon enough.
 
That's the plan, anyway.
 
"I finally found you," he quietly sighs out, and leans forward to brace his
hands on either side of Sinbad's head, nuzzling beneath his chin. "I didn't
want to leave before, you know…"
 
For a second, mind still fogged with sleep, Sinbad simply leans into the touch,
curling his arms around the warm, nice-smelling ball of affection on his
chest. 
 
Then, he wakes up, and blinks. It’s not moonlight-pale hair beneath his chin,
not a softly freckled nose poking up, but the thick dark hair and mischievous
face of Judal the Magi, that insouciant child who’d led him into the most
dangerous trap he’d ever fallen into. Careful, he reminds himself, even as he
starts to tense up.He’s a Magi, he could do things to you you’ve never dreamed
of. “You didn’t?” he asks, quietly. He can see Ja’far’s chest rising and
falling out of the corner of his eye; Judal hasn’t done away with him, then,
and it’s in both of their best interests to keep him asleep for the time being.
“Why did you tell them where I was?”
 
Judal huffs softly, wriggling his way down into Sinbad's arms. It's warm here,
nestled against Sinbad's chest, and he thinks about making this a permanent
sleeping spot. "It was supposed to be a test, but just a little one," he
murmurs, frowning. "At least, that was what they said. I didn't know they'd
send so many--but you still won, so that's good."
 
Sinbad hisses. “Careful there. When you send a hundred magicians to kill a man,
he’s going to be a little banged up.” Inwardly, his common sense rages. Why the
hell is he downplaying his injuries? He should be furious, should be trying to
kill the boy, kicking him out back to his precious Al-Sarmen. 
 
But those eyes are so wide, his hands clutching so innocently, it’s hard to
believe he’d done it on purpose. 
 
Ah, Ja’far is going to kill him.
 
A slow blink follows, and Judal shifts some of his weight up and off of him,
pouting the whole way. "You were injured that badly? They really were in a bad
mood that day…" An understatement, from how angry they also were with him.
Judal wavers, wanting to curl up into a ball on Sinbad's chest, but--"Are you
mad at me? You're still going to be my king, right?" 
 
God, it’s like punching a kitten. No matter how loud the sensible, Ja’far-
sounding voice is in his head, the one that’s just a little louder says that if
he hadn’t given an Al-Sarmen child another chance many years ago, he wouldn’t
have a sensible Ja’far-sounding voice in his head. 
 
So, he smiles, a little ruefully, and reaches a hand up to thread through the
boy’s hair. “Your masters don’t like me,” he says softly, nails scraping gently
along his scalp. “We have an old fight, them and me.”
 
Judal opens his mouth to reply, though whatever words were on his tongue
promptly disappear and fade into something akin to a rumbling, gurgling little
purr. His head bows forward, forehead dropping to Sinbad's chest with a thump.
"So what?" he mumbles eventually. "I like you. I'm the only one that matters."
 
It should be impossible for a quite possibly insane magician with all the power
of a god to be so honestly cute. It’s obnoxious, at least, even if Sinbad does
find himself smiling, curling his other arm around the boy. “Leave them,” he
suggests. “Come be mine alone.”
 
"Can't." Judal's eyes lid, and he nestles his way back up underneath Sinbad's
chin. "They got mad this time. I'm not supposed to be here, but there were
other things I had to do in Partevia, so…"
 
Well, there’s no harm in cuddling the boy a little, is there? No matter what
Ja’far says, he too had insisted he couldn’t leave Al-Sarmen at one point, and
he’d been a lot more stubborn than this child. “How do you expect to be my
Magi,” he asks gently, fingers scratching softly through Judal’s hair, “if you
answer to someone else’s orders?”
 
Ah, that feels good. Sinbad knows how to play with his hair, and if he recalls
correctly, knows how to pull it, too. None of that sharp yanking mess that
leaves his scalp sore… this is even nicer, too, and it's hard to remember that
he was here to try and seduce him when it almost puts him to sleep. "They're
really strong, too, though," Judal sighs out, butting his head against Sinbad's
hand. There's an urge to nibble on something when he's being petted like this,
and he settles for the curve of Sinbad's shoulder, setting his teeth to it
gently. "You could work with them, maybe."
 
“They don’t like me,” Sinbad reminds him, even as he sighs, trailing into a
contented rumble at the scrape of Judal’s teeth. Ah, this is getting to be
rather dangerous rather quickly, but Judal feels obscenely good in his arms,
and he sounds so...well, he doesn’t sound like the ruthless killer Ja’far had
tried to paint him. “They tried to kill me.”
 
"It was just supposed to be a test," Judal protests, and he nips a bit harder,
a hand absently pawing at Sinbad's chest to trace the lines of muscle through
fabric. "And they didn't kill you. You were better than that. So just… say
yes?" He lifts his head a bit, eyes lidded. "I like you the best… ah, and
you're much more fun," he mumbles, nose scrunching a bit. "Kouen wasn't nice
either."
 
Sinbad doesn’t bother pointing out that if it hadn’t been for Ja’far, he
certainly would have died. They’d tackled him in his sleep, had fought off his
djinn equip, and had him dead to rights by anyone’s standards. No matter how
many he’d killed, they’d kept coming, and did Judal just say Kouen wasn’t nice
to him? That bastard. 
 
Sinbad’s arm tightens a bit. “Did he hurt you? Are you all right?”
 
Oh, now that's a good reaction. Judal's pout deepens just slightly as he worms
his way against Sinbad, burying his face into the side of his neck. "It wasn't
good like it was with you," he sighs, hands dragging up to thread through
Sinbad's hair. "He never cares if it hurts. And he pulls my hair all wrong, and
I just wish he'd stop…"
 
It’s probably a bad idea to invade Kou today, or to send that brat some kind of
message challenging him to a duel. That doesn’t mean Sinbad doesn’t want to, or
isn’t seriously considering it. “Are you hurt anywhere?” he murmurs, placing a
little kiss to the top of Judal’s head without really thinking.
 
"Not really." He does like it when Sinbad asks, though. "Mm, but that's because
I left early to see you. If you were my king," Judal adds, slowly twirling a
strand of Sinbad's hand around one finger, "I know you'd take care of me."
 
“I would,” Sinbad agrees. Judal smells good, feels good, a warm solid weight on
his chest that somehow doesn’t bother him even as it sort of digs in to his
wounds. “Would you go against your masters’ orders, then? I can’t imagine they
want me.”
 
"You keep calling them that," Judal grumbles, and he bites at Sinbad's neck
lightly. "They're not my masters. I'm a Magi, they serve me." He slowly pushes
himself up, his heavy braid tumbling down over his shoulder, and he picks at
the tie at the bottom of it. "If you're still injured," he says with a little
arch and wriggle of his back as he slides back to properly straddle Sinbad's
hips, "I'll take care of you for a bit."
 
What happens next is so fast that he can't quite see it, save for the flash of
steel that's suddenly at his throat--and how he's suddenly on his back on the
floor, yelping with the hard crack of his head against it. A fumble for his
wand misses when his arms are twisted up and above his head, and Judal hisses,
lurching up against the hold until a knee in his chest knocks the breath out of
him. 
 
"I was hoping you'd eventually tell him to go away," Ja'far coldly tosses over
his shoulder, not taking his eyes off of the Magi-apparent pinned beneath him.
"But as usual, Sin, you're too slow."
 
Ah. In hindsight, Sinbad suddenly remembers just how light a sleeper Ja’far is,
and how foolish it was to think he could have slept through two people having a
conversation in the same bed he’s sleeping in. He lurches forward, ignoring the
flash of hot pain in his side as he does, grabbing for Ja’far’s hand. “God,
don’t kill him, it’s not his fault!”
 
"Which part?" Ja'far snaps back, his fingers tightening about the blade held at
Judal's throat, refusing to let Sinbad dislodge his grasp. "Do you really
believe that he had no part in all of that? You would have died, Sin! Can't you
see he's just manipulating you?" 
 
"…'m not--"
 
"Shut up," Ja'far flatly retorts, digging his knee in a bit harder.
 
“I didn’t die,” Sinbad points out, a fact he feels really shouldn’t go
unnoticed. “Look, if he were part of some grand conspiracy, why would he have
come alone? If he’s got all those bastards at his beck and call, why would he
have come to me again knowing that I know?”
 
"Because he's an idiot." As if that isn't obvious enough. "Let me kill him, and
this'll be done and over with, and we won't have to speculate." 
 
“But--” But he’s harmless, obviously, and they’re hurting him, and he likes my
hands in his hair, and look how upset he is. “Damn it Ja’far, he’s a kid, just
look at him!”
 
"I'm looking." Ja'far's gaze flickers briefly back to Sinbad, sharp and
unyielding. "I was 14 when I tried to kill you. Being a child changes
nothing." 
 
"But I wasn't trying to kill him! It was just a test, and I--" Ja'far's blade
presses down harder, and Judal swallows slow and careful, his lower lip
trembling as he tries to peer up to Sinbad. 
 
Sinbad puts a strong hand on Ja’far’s shoulder--not too strong, not pulling,
because he’s seen Ja’far strike under pressure before, and he’s vibrating with
tension now. “And look how you turned out,” he says quietly. “I’m giving him
the same chance I gave you. God, just look at him, he couldn’t murder anyone!”
 
A low hiss escapes Ja'far's teeth. It isn't the hand that stops him, but rather
the unspoken order--giving him the same chance, his ass--and he shoves away
from Sinbad's hand, rising with a last shove of his knee into Judal's sternum
for good measure, rather liking the way it makes the brat cough and wheeze.
"Then make your decision already," Ja'far stiffly retorts. "Keep him or send
him on his way." 
 
"God, that hurts… you didn't have to do that," Judal complains as he rolls
himself into a petulant ball on the floor, still a little out of breath and
ugh, his head hurts. "Siiiin, who is this guy, anyway? He's a jerk, I don't
like him."
 
Sinbad kneels next to Judal--ah, he’s going to pay for this later, and he
really doubts Ja’far will let him wake up slow and easy and rubbing against his
ass tomorrow morning--and holds out his hand. “This is Ja’far,” he says, trying
to introduce them as if they’ll somehow manage to get along ever, something he
already doubts. “He’s my advisor, and my friend.” For a second, he debates
telling Judal that Ja’far was once Al-Sarmen too, but decides against it.
That’s Ja’far’s past to reveal if he pleases, and only if he pleases.
 
"You have jerks for friends," Judal mutters, lower lip jutting out as he takes
Sinbad's hand and slowly lets himself be pulled up. "Really, really rude. I was
just playing with him, you didn't have to kick me."
 
Yes, I did. "I will let you deal with him, then," Ja'far tersely says, turning
on his heel to leave. 
 
Sinbad nearly tells Ja’far not to go far, just in case Al-Sarmen is lurking--
but ah, if he had to do that, Ja’far wouldn’t be Ja’far. “He gets worried about
me,” Sinbad explains, lifting Judal to sit on the bed. “He knows the people you
work for tried to kill me, and he doesn’t want me to die.” Well, usually.
Sinbad wouldn’t give a bent penny for what Ja’far thinks of him right now.
 
"It was just supposed to be a test," Judal protests again, flopping backwards
with a sigh. "He works for them, too, doesn't he, so why's he so upset? He has
their blades."
 
“He works for me now.” That’s really all Judal needs to know--then again, it’s
important that he knows that someone can leave Al-Sarmen and still be fine. “He
made that choice years ago, and now he serves no other master.”
 
"They're not my master." Judal lifts a hand, making a grabbing motion towards
Sinbad. "I'd be much better company than him, you know."
 
Sinbad lets himself be grabbed, rolling to pin the boy down to the bed, eyes
lighting up at the way Judal squirms. “And I’d be a much better companion than
Kouen or Al-Sarmen.”
 
"Mmnnn… you're already a lot more fun," Judal sighs, his hands splaying over
Sinbad's back, finger tiptoeing down his spine. "They'd get really mad if I
left, though," he murmurs, burying his face into Sinbad's neck. "They're
already mad."
 
Sinbad’s fingers curl in thick dark hair, and his teeth close around the soft
lobe of one ear. “I make a lot of people mad,” he murmurs, grinning. “I’d keep
you safe from them.”
 
"… That jerk said you nearly died." Judal's eyes shut, his head tipping back
with a low rumble escaping his throat. "I really didn't try to kill you."
 
Sinbad sighs out a breath, bending down to nibble on Judal’s neck. “If you send
hundreds of magicians against one sleeping man, he’s going to get hurt. Ja’far
saved my life.”
 
"I didn't know they'd send so many." Sinbad's mouth is distracting, and Judal's
fingers thread up through his hair, kneading into the back of his neck as he
sighs and arches. "See, though, if I left them, they'd do worse than that. I
don't want you to die." 
 
“I don’t care.” Sinbad’s teeth nip a bit sharply, and he lets his weight settle
down over Judal’s body, pressing him into the bed. “If I know they’re coming,
no matter how many of them there are, they won’t stand a chance.” He leans up,
brushing a kiss over Judal’s pretty lips. “Wouldn’t you trust me, if I were
your king?”
 
Judal frowns even as he sinks contently back into the bed. "… Yeah, but…" 
 
If you want him, bring him to us. 
 
Just like Kouen, bring him to us--
 
They've never been so angry, so insistent before. He thinks he might have hated
it, how they reacted to all of it, but ah, he can't quite piece it all
together, and his head hurts when he tries… 
 
Whatever. He's here now, and they can't stop that. Sinbad is warm and strong
against him, and it feels good wriggling against him, grabbing at his hair and
tilting his own head up for more of those kisses rather than talking.
 
With Ja’far, reason had worked. 
 
Then again, Ja’far had been reasonable, even at the age of fourteen. Judal is
an altogether different creature, one of physical and emotional needs that
Sinbad can see well have been going unmet.
 
Well, maybe that’s a good way to start, with this one. So instead of arguing,
of telling him about all the awful things Al-Sarmen has done and all the lies
they’ve told, he kisses Judal more fiercely than the boy’s ever been kissed,
hands sliding down his sides to grip his narrow waist.
 
That's better, much, much better than talking.
 
Sinbad is different than Kouen. He burns, and no matter how strong he is, he's
never exerting it just for the sake of it. His hands are firm around Judal's
waist, and he feels held, not crushed, which makes him want to squirm just
because he can, because he likes it when Sinbad pushes him down that much more.
Kouen is cold and sharp and too-rough, and for a minute, Judal thinks he
flinches at the memory of it, before it's all gone in the next second and he
just has Sinbad and Sinbad's kisses and his hands and the weight of him against
him, pleasantly pressing him into the mattress.
 
"I told you," he tries, breathless in between kisses, "that I'd take care of
you. Aren't you still hurt?" He does feel a little guilty for that, even if
it's mostly because Sinbad's not entirely well when he wants him to shove him
around and into things.
 
See, Ja’far, Sinbad wants to tell the younger man. See, he cares if I’m hurt.
Where’s the trained killer in that? 
 
But Ja’far wouldn’t care, and deep down Sinbad knows he’s probably right, so he
pushes that thought aside, focusing more on how nice Judal feels in his arms,
how much he likes pressing him down into the bed. “Don’t you worry about me,”
he murmurs, stripping Judal of his clothes in a couple swift yanks before
pulling the boy back to him. “Didn’t I tell you that before you chose me I’d
take you on a nice soft bed, without sand getting into your hair?”
 
"… You did," Judal agrees, all the more inclined to wriggle against him now
that he's nude and Sinbad's not, because there's a dozen things pleasant about
that, half of them to do with feeling so contently helpless. He paws at
Sinbad's shoulders, arches up to nip and suck at his neck, breathing in deep
and shifting to better splay his legs about the man's hips--careful, sort of,
because he's pretty sure Sinbad is injured somewhere on his side even if he
doesn't know exactly where. "I'd let you take my hair down," he very seriously
says. "You're the only person that knows how to play with it right."
 
Sinbad can tell, by now, when he’s being given a great trust, and this is one
if he’s ever heard it. He’d bet that there’s probably no one else in the world
that Judal takes his hair down for, and the idea of that alone, setting aside
how much fun it would be to play with that much hair, makes him grin. “That’s
because you know I’ll take care of you,” he says, eyes alight as he leans down
to hitch Judal’s hips up, ignoring the lingering twinges of pain in his wounds.
“I’ll take you up on that after you’re lying there and screaming my name, all
right?”
 
A long, shuddery sigh escapes him, and Judal nods as his arms lace around
Sinbad's neck, pulling him down as he leans up for another kiss. "Want you to
take care of me," he murmurs, splaying his legs wider with a needy little
exhale, lips parting to nip lightly at Sinbad's lower lip. "Next time, on an
even better bed. I bet you have a really nice one, don't you? Back in… ahhh…
Sindria?"
 
Ah, Sinbad likes that. He likes thinking of Judal in Sindria, splayed out over
his own bed,  hair tumbling everywhere and making everything smell like those
odd desert flowers Sinbad associates him with. He hooks his arms under Judal’s
knees, exposing him intimately as he nuzzles down one smooth thigh. “That’s
right. I’d take very good care of you back in Sindria. Just you and me, how
does that sound?”
 
It feels good when Sinbad nuzzles him like that, good and oddly ticklish and
enough to make him wiggle a bit more underneath him. "Really good," Judal
breathes, his eyes briefly squeezing shut. His toes slowly curl, and he wants
to knead into something, paw at broad shoulders and tug on Sinbad's hair. "Want
you to keep me."
 
“Just you and me,” Sinbad says again, nipping and sucking, leaving a stark
bruise on the inside of Judal’s thigh--because if that isn’t ownership, what
is? A slow grin spreads across his face, and he wraps a hand around Judal’s
pretty cock, squeezing and stroking. “How would you like to sit in my lap,
hmm?”
 
An eager nod follows, somewhere between the gasping exhale that escapes his
lips as he lurches up into Sinbad's hand. Every stroke seems almost in time
with the throb of the bruise left on his thigh, bringing his muscles to twitch
and twinge with pleasant, aching tension. "Want to," Judal breathlessly agrees,
already pushing himself up onto his elbows. "I b-bet… ah--I bet you feel even
bigger like that."
 
Not to mention I’ll be able to fuck you without opening all my wounds again,
Sinbad thinks, easing himself to sit with his back against the wall. “Mm, why
don’t you come here and find out?” he asks, parting his robes enough to free
his cock, slowly stroking down over the hard length as he beckons to Judal. The
aloe is in easy reach, a second’s task that leaves him so ready, so hungry for
the sweet taste of the young Magi’s skin.
 
Judal moves in an instant, wriggling his way up into Sinbad's lap without a
second thought. Sinbad still feels good like this, and it's easier to rub
against him, to bite down on his neck and shoulder as he arches his back,
sighing at the slide of that hard, thick cock against his ass. "Ever since I
had to leave… I've been thinking about--nnhn… doing this… again," he admits on
a groan as he reaches back, fingers wrapping around Sinbad's slick cock as he
wriggles down, letting it press against his hole. Judal pants out a hot, fast
breath, face nuzzling into the crook of Sinbad's shoulder as he whines. "W-want
you to put it in…"
 
Damn the injuries, they’ll heal eventually. 
 
Sinbad wraps an arm around Judal’s waist, holding him flush against Sinbad’s
chest, hard enough to hold him in the air. He wraps the other hand around his
cock, teasing the head over that pretty little hole a few times, watching
Judal’s face change every time he does. Can’t help it, no matter how eager the
boy in his lap is, Sinbad can’t help but tease him. “This what you want? You
want me inside you?”
 
Judal shudders hard, squirming, wriggling in an attempt to press down again, no
matter how he had just begged for Sinbad to do it, no matter how his cock
twitches as he grinds against Sinbad's belly. "Yes, yes, yes," he pleads, even
his thighs trembling from the tension, the anticipation that runs through him,
his lips parting at that dizzying, teasing press that promises nothing but that
perfect, aching stretch that he remembers so very clearly. "Want it, want you
in me--"
 
Ironic, that with Ja’far Sinbad always as to remind himself to be gentle--and
with this boy who wants it so badly, he’s too injured to be anything but. Ah,
well, he can always heal later. He holds Judal still, no matter how he squirms,
as he slowly, inescapably sets Judal down onto his cock, hissing at the sudden
grip of tight heat around him. His eyes blaze, locked onto Judal’s face,
watching him take it.
 
A long, low whine pulls from Judal's throat, his eyes fluttering shut as his
head tips back and all he can do for a moment is swallow hard, panting out hot,
ragged little breaths as he's lowered down. He stops fighting to go faster
after the first couple of inches, liking the slow, slick ache that stretches
him so thoroughly, leaves him trying to splay his legs wider to better take all
of him, and god, he was right, Sinbad feels even bigger like this, thicker and
heavier inside of him.
 
The little sob that he lets out is relieved when he finally sits down all the
way, trembling atop Sinbad's cock and squirming just a bit to push him even
deeper. That movement alone makes his mouth fall open as he leans his forehead
against a broad shoulder, and Judal curls his hands into his chest, quivering
as he sets his knees into the bed and rocks himself up, just enough to feel
that first, too-tight little slide. Judal thinks about saying something, but
the words are lost in his throat, and instead he reaches back as he squirms up
Sinbad's cock, twitching, tensing hard as he traces a finger around his own,
stretched-wide hole, down the length of hard flesh not buried inside of him
until he wriggles his way back down again.
 
Sinbad sucks in a breath, trying to remember how to make his lungs work
properly when Judal is so needy, so insistent, wriggling down on his cock as if
he’ll die without it inside him, and god he feels good inside. Sinbad places
mindless little kisses all over Judal’s face, his neck, so wrapped up in the
squeeze of Judal around him that he hardly notices that he’s going a bit too
fast, too thoroughly enjoying the way it feels when Judal sits all the way down
on him. “Like you like this,” he breathes raggedly, rocking his hips up to meet
Judal’s the next time they’re close. “You’re so full--can you even think right
now?”
 
Judal groans, shaking his head mindlessly as he eagerly shoves his hips down
all the way, every muscle twitching, bunching tighter still at how it feels to
have Sinbad pressed all the way inside of him--and he's right, absolutely
right, he can't think with how full he is. He thinks he might be biting at
Sinbad's shoulder, nibbling and sucking sloppily as he rides his cock, writhing
his way down into each thrust that pushes up into him, but mostly he thinks
he's grabbing and clinging and whining for more. "I-it's… really good, like
this," he pants out, eyes glazed and hungry as he looks up at Sinbad. "I can
feel all of you…"
 
Like this, pressed so close, Sinbad can see just how young Judal really is when
he looks up with those pleading, hopeful eyes. It’s got to hurt, got to ache to
be so full, and every hitching, mindless whine that comes from Judal’s mouth
just makes Sinbad want to take him harder. He rocks up onto his knees, pressing
as deeply inside as he can, leaning up to suckle and nibble on Judal’s ear as
he murmurs, “If you were mine...ah--I’d take you like this every day. Slow,” he
continues, hands digging in hard to Judal’s ass, squeezing the soft flesh.
“Really slow. I’d set you down on me and not move until you were crying and
begging me to.” God, he’s not even sure where these fantasies come from, just
that with Judal, they’re strong as hell.
 
Just the thought of that prompts him to shudder, makes his cock jump and throb
from where it's pressed into Sinbad's hard stomach, and Judal moans, arching
his back and pressing himself back into Sinbad's hands, the change in angle
making him yelp and jerk and twitch. "Do that noow," he begs, and he
deliberately sinks down as far as he can manage, his thighs quivering so hard
that he can barely do anything but sit on Sinbad's cock. No matter how he
moves, how he tries to spread his legs to accommodate for that wide, wide
stretch, it's still too much, and Judal just sobs, his arms helplessly draping
their way over Sinbad's shoulders as he sags against him. "C-can't… can't take
anymore," he whispers. 
 
Sinbad’s arms curl around Judal’s waist, one hand coming to pull down on his
shoulder, pulling him that much deeper as he settles Judal onto his lap as
comfortably as he can, given how stuffed full he is. For a moment, he doesn’t
move beyond a gentle rocking, pressing kisses to every part of Judal he can
reach, spots dancing in front of his eyes from how goddamn good it feels. “Yes
you can,” he murmurs, arms tight around Judal’s waist as he rocks. “You can
take everything I can give you, right?”
 
The next sound from his mouth is a hiccuping sob rather than any agreement, his
eyes rolling back as he's settled so firmly, so perfectly into Sinbad's lap
that he can feel, with every little rock of the man's hips, his cock pressing
just shy of right, that constant, mindless tease enough to make Judal forget
how to breathe. "I…" He swallows hard, nodding without thought, his cock so
hard that every little brush and slide enough to make him shudder as he leaks
over Sinbad's stomach. "You're just… just so big and I--" 
 
“Mm, and you’re so small,” Sinbad rumbles, and he’d be lying if he said that
didn’t appeal to him a bit. Judal just fits so perfectly in his arms, hardly a
weight at all, even though he thrashes so nicely, so frantically on Sinbad’s
cock. He combs a hand back through Judal’s hair, wiping the little beads of
sweat from his brow. “All right?” he asks, rocking up once more. “What do you
need?”
 
"Fuck me." It doesn't matter that just a moment ago, he was whining about how
he couldn't take it--his body sings, everything trembling, everything aching,
and the slick, too-deep slide of Sinbad's cock is enough to drive him mad,
especially just with those slow, not-even thrusts that press him that much
deeper from time to time. "Please," Judal rasps, and he nudges his head
frantically against Sinbad's hand, butting into it with a low whine. "F-feels
good… when I can't take it. Just… just a little more and…" 
 
Any more, and Sinbad will lose his mind.
 
He rocks up onto his knees again, pressing a long, sweet kiss to Judal’s mouth,
tasting and nibbling at his lips. Then, he takes Judal’s waist in his hands,
lifts him up, and lowers him down with as much control as he can muster,
bucking up to hit something so good he knows he can make Judal scream. “Just
like that,” he mutters, his own breath starting to come ragged from the
exertion. “Show me how much you like it--”
 
Judal wants to scream.
 
The shriek catches in his throat and comes out as a ragged, mindless little sob
instead, his entire body spasming, shivering, lurching down as that one, hard
thrust is more than enough. His vision blurs, his hands claws as he clings to
Sinbad's shoulders, and he can't think, can't move, his entire body melting as
he comes, mouth open as he gasps for a full breath of air and just can't seem
to draw it fast enough into his lungs as he spills hot and messy between them,
over Sinbad's stomach and his own with short, desperate shivers.
 
Sinbad’s arms tighten, holding Judal still and steady as he shakes, biting down
hard into the boy’s neck to keep from following him at the sudden spasming of
muscles around his cock. At least, he tries--a few seconds later and his
control is out the window, hands digging into Judal’s waist to slam him down,
up and down with a half-dozen hard, fierce slaps of his hips before he comes
deep inside, a ragged growl tearing its way out of his throat. 
 
His heart is pounding too fast, everything aching, and ah, he’s really not
healthy enough for this yet, but Sinbad relaxes back against the wall, kissing
the tears on Judal’s flushed face.
 
Judal whimpers as he buries himself into Sinbad's chest, a lingering twinge
raking up his spine at how full he still feels--even more so, now that he can
feel Sinbad slick and hot and messy inside of him. "Want you to do this all the
time," he breathes, never mind that he can barely lift his head as he says it.
"Please…"
 
Sinbad buries a hand in Judal’s hair, nails scraping gently as he holds the boy
against him, a twinge of guilt coursing through him as he remembers how
recently he’d shared this bed with Ja’far, and what that means. It’s not just
him, it’s Ja’far and Masrur and all of Sindria he has a responsibility to now,
no matter how much he likes ignoring those inconvenient facts. “Just be mine,”
he murmurs, face nuzzling into Judal’s hair. “I’ll do it forever if you leave
them.”
 
A put-out little moan is Judal's retort. "I told you, I can't." God, though,
Sinbad's fingers feel even better in his hair right now, and make him shiver
and squirm. "They're strong, too, and they'll make us all that much stronger."
 
“Hmm.” Sinbad doesn’t even try to keep the note of disapproval out of his
voice, even as his hands turn affectionate, petting and scratching. “I’m the
king. I can’t serve anyone but myself, and I don’t want my Magi answering to
another master.”
 
"They're not my masters, they serve me, so they'd serve you, too." Judal huffs,
butting his head into Sinbad's shoulder. "You just don't want to be my king, do
you?"
 
“I won’t work with them.” It’s probably too soon to be giving ultimatums, but
they seem to be the only thing Judal can understand, for better or worse. “If I
were your king, could I order you to leave them?”
 
At that, Judal wavers, the question seeming to throw him for a loop. "… I
dunno. Maybe." 
 
Sinbad frowns, trying to play more of the disapproving father look than the
angry king. “That doesn’t sound like we’d be very powerful, as a king and a
Magi should be.”
 
"It's not that!" Judal protests, lurching up with a deep frown of his own.
"It's just--I mean, they haven't even taught me everything yet." He fidgets,
looking down again with his brows knitting. "I want to at least be able to put
all of their power to good use… that's what they've always told me, that they
know more about magic than anyone else, so it's good that I'm with them."
 
“Hmm.” Sinbad’s hands don’t pause their stroking, but he looks away, thinking.
“I thought Magi were the most powerful people on earth. Surely they should be
begging to learn from you.” God, this had been so much easier with Ja’far, who
was smart enough to know when he was being used.
 
"Well… they do, a little bit. They can't do most of what they do without my
power, after all." And he's proud of that, especially with how they worship the
ground he works on for it. "But Magi aren't born knowing everything about
magic, and I want to be really good at it, so they're the best people to learn
from." 
 
“What if I gave you the finest teachers?” He doesn’t have them yet, but he can
always find them. “I wouldn’t care if it took you years to learn, so long as
you’re at my side.”
 
Judal sniffs, annoyed. "Why do I have to wait when I can be better sooner?
Besides, I already told you, there's no one better than the ones I already
have." 
 
“That’s just what they told you. If you come with me, no one will tell you what
to do.” Except me, of course, but that’s implicit in the deal. “And no one will
hurt you, not while I can protect you.”
 
"Your 'advisor' already gave me a bruise," Judal moodily points out, a pout
twisting his lips as he leans back to prod at the darkening bruise on his
chest. "Is that part of the deal, too?"
 
Thanks, Ja’far.Sinbad runs a thumb over the bruise, then leans down to press a
gentle kiss to it. “He woke up to find someone sitting on my chest, and he
knows I was attacked a few days ago. He just wants to keep me safe.” He smiles,
and lies through his teeth, “If you came home with me, I’m sure he’d want to
keep you safe too.”
 
Judal looks skeptical, and with good reason, he thinks. "I dunno… he didn't
seem to like me very much. Maybe he's jealous?" He smirks at that. "He can't be
anywhere near as fun as me, right?"
 
It’s hard to resist the infectiousness of that smile. Sinbad leans forward,
dumping Judal onto his back and attacking his neck, nipping and nibbling. “Mmm,
you think you’re a lot of fun, huh?”
 
"What, I'm not?" Judal huffs, though there's no real irritation there, not when
he has Sinbad on his neck and ample opportunity to wind his fingers through the
man's hair. "You seem to enjoy yourself well enough. If he does something
better, though, you better tell me so I can change that." 
 
He’s loyal to me and me alone, Sinbad thinks, but refrains from saying.
Instead-- “Hmm, I’m not sure. He might look better in a bellydancing costume.”
 
"What?" Judal looks utterly aghast. "There's no way. He's so pale and--weird.
Even his hair is weird. I'd look much better." 
 
Sinbad shrugs, enjoying himself now with a silent apology to Ja’far that he
doesn’t really mean. “I don’t know, he looked pretty good in one. And you’re so
thin, not a lot of meat here,” he adds, with a little pinch to Judal’s ass.
 
Judal squeaks, though rather than slap at Sinbad's hand, he just wriggles. "But
I'm a good dancer!" he protests, squirming to kick at Sinbad half-heartedly.
"I'd look really good in one, way better than him!"
 
“Oh?” Sinbad raises his eyebrows, leaning over to give little love bites all
down Judal’s neck. “I’ll believe it when I see you dance for me. I’ve seen him
in one of those slinky little things.”
 
"… Maybe later," Judal amends, sighing as he simply tips his head back,
enjoying the attention for all it's worth.
 
… Until he notices that the sun might be starting to rise, just outside of the
window.
 
"Damn it." He grumpily huffs, shutting his eyes. "I have to go soon."
 
For a second, Sinbad considers not letting him.
 
Ah, but that’s not how he wants to do this, by throwing the boy over his
shoulder and heading for the mountains. Is it even possible to kidnap a Magi?
Probably not. He sighs, resting his head on Judal’s chest, and reaches over to
put on his ring. “Should I expect another ‘test’?” he asks wryly, making a joke
of it even as he dons the vessel.
 
Judal blinks, then gives a shake of his head, wriggling away after another
moment to search for his clothes. "This doesn't have anything to do with you.
It's Kou Empire stuff."
 
Sinbad almost scowls, but realizes at the last second that that would be less
than politic. “Oh? Anything fun for you?” If he can find something out about
the Kou Empire’s movements, Ja’far might just be interested enough to forgive
him.
 
"Nothing is ever fun with them," Judal grumbles, sighing as he gets dressed,
and giving a little wince as he stretches, hurting in strange places and rather
liking it. "Ahh, I just wanna stay in bed. You're warm,and it's way too cold
out there."
 
Sinbad reaches out, giving him a last pinch. “Where are you off to, you and
your Kou Empire? Not too far away, I hope.”
 
"Oh, no, it's still within Partevia. That's why I was able to come and see you
in the first place!" Judal wriggles away from Sinbad's pinching fingers, and
huddles himself up into his cloak as a last resort to save himself from the
chill he know awaits him. "Maybe I'll come and see you again afterwards."
Please be here, is the unspoken plead.
 
Shit. Sinbad stands, shaking his robes back into place as he cups Judal’s face
in his hands, tilting his head up for a long kiss. “I’ll look for you out the
window,” he says, and bites Judal’s nose softly. “Just try not to bring any
friends.”
 
Judal purrs, foregoing the instinctive lift of magic in favor of stretching up
on tiptoe to savor Sinbad's kiss, sighing a little as he sinks back down. "Mm,
I won't bring anyone. I want you all to myself, after all." He wrinkles his
nose. "Just keep your advisor and his weird freckles away."
 
Sinbad bites his tongue on that, given that he can feel Ja’far standing right
outside the room, knowing he has enough to pay for. “Just you and me,” he
promises. Maybe then, I can talk you around and get some reason into that thick
skull of yours.
 
"Good." Judal leans up to steal a last kiss before whirling away, wrapped up
tightly in his cloak as he makes for the window. "Later, then!" is his last
call over his shoulder before simply tumbling out of it.
 
The second he fades from view, all the pains Sinbad has been suppressing come
flooding back. He sags back onto the bed, eyes shut. “I know you’re out there
so come in and change my bandages, please.” It’s going to hurt like hell, but
it already does.
 
"Maybe I should let you bleed to death." Nevertheless, the door cracks open,
and Ja'far strides inside, already reaching for the bandages in question. "It
might be kinder than letting you sink to such levels of stupidity." 
 
Wincing, Sinbad parts his robes, unsurprised to see that a few of his wounds
have opened and started bleeding through the bandages. “Fair enough,” he admits
weakly, sagging back against the wall. “God, it’s like dancing on the edge of a
knife. I never knew if he was going to open a crater or call his watchdogs.”
 
"Then why are you humoring him so?" Ja'far asks, exasperated. A blade flips
into his hand without hesitation, and he doesn't wait to warn Sinbad before
simply slicing through the bloody mess his bandages have become. "You're in no
shape to deal with his watchdogs, either, so perhaps you should take the hint
and simply don't."
 
“Ah--you saw him,” Sinbad points out, holding as still as he possibly can.
Ja’far without the blades is plenty frightening, to an injured man. Ja’far with
the blades is a whole other story. “Did he look stable to you? I have no idea
what a rejection would do to him.”
 
Ja'far lifts his eyes, gaze sharp and disbelieving. "If that is your excuse,
then you need to try harder." Carefully, he peels the used bandages away,
leaning in closer to get a good look at the deepest wound on Sinbad's side, and
sighs before turning away to fetch the proper dressings. "I'm sure it wouldn't
be a problem either way if he were dead."
 
“He’s a child,” Sinbad says, a little on-edge from the sharpness of Ja’far’s
tone. “For god’s sake, he’s not old enough to shave, and he’s in the pocket of
some very powerful people. It’s not his fault.”
 
"He willingly stays there. Happily stays there," Ja'far corrects with a snort,
sitting down onto the edge of the bed to begin the process of packing Sinbad's
wound again. 
 
Ja’far’s tone worries him. There’s loathing there, the sort of disdain Sinbad’s
rarely heard him express, far beyond what he usually uses for Al-Sarmen. “Were
you so different, at his age?”
 
A sharp snort follows that, and Ja'far thinks he might be a bit too rough when
it comes to layering herbs and dressings. "I was never happy with them."
 
Sinbad lets out a hiss, but he nods, taking the hint. “Fair enough, fair
enough. He’s not nearly as smart as you are. You have to know that.”
 
"No, and he's content like that, too, which is infuriating," Ja'far mutters,
eyeballing the wound once more before reaching for the fresh set of bandages.
"They want to keep him ignorant, and he's doesn't care."
 
“He’s--” Sinbad sighs, staring out the window, trying to marshall his thoughts.
“He doesn’t know any better. If you’d never seen the sun, would you be blamed
for not knowing you were cold?” Well, that’s not the best metaphor he’d ever
made.
 
"… You're defending him like one of those women that you've decided you're in
love with once you're very, very drunk." A swift pull, and Ja'far tightens the
bandages into place. 
 
Sinbad lets out a grunt, then stands, casting the whole stupid mess of it
aside. “Fine. Let’s go. We know the Kou Empire is busy in Partevia, so let’s
just go have dinner with Drakon like I promised and then we can go home.”
 
Ja'far's eyes roll skyward at the convenient dismissal. "And your offer to see
him again later?" 
 
“Are you insane?” Sinbad shrugs his outer robes on, donning the heavy jewelry
he’s put aside for his convalescence. “The boy’s mad. And even if he weren’t,
he’s in Al-Sarmen’s pocket.” He turns, catching Ja’far’s eye with a wry smile.
“Just because I like him doesn’t mean I trust him an inch.”
 
That draws a little flutter of relief through him, and Ja'far relaxes an inch,
sinking back onto his heels. "Good. I'm glad to hear that." I was beginning to
think you really weretakenwith him, and that would have been annoying.
 
Sinbad sighs, tying his hair at the back of his neck--or trying, with the way
the damn tie keeps slipping from his fingers as the angle tugs on one of his
wounds. “I’d like him to be someone I could trust, but I’d be a fool if I
treated him that way. I already saw what happens when I fall asleep when he
knows where I am. I’d rather not do that again.”
 
"There are two other Magi, neither of which have ties with Al-Sarmen," Ja'far
reminds him, moving around to simply pluck the tie from Sinbad's hand and pull
his hair back for him. "Woo them instead, if you are so set on having one." 
 
Sinbad releases the tie gratefully, fixing the necklaces and belts so
everything hangs just right and won’t tangle, not an easy task. “I didn’t go
out to court him. He fell into my lap. Literally.”
 
"And now you want him." Ja'far's hands slide away once he's finished. "It
annoys you, when you can't have something," he points out.
 
Sinbad doesn’t bother to deny it. “Of course it does. It annoys everyone when
they can’t have something they want.” He turns, grabbing one of Ja’far’s hands.
“It annoys you when I don’t behave like a responsible adult, doesn’t it?”
 
"… Yes," Ja'far hedges, tugging at his hand to free it. "But that's because
when you don't behave responsibly, there are normally numerous very, very bad
consequences to be had."
 
Ah. Definitely still prickly. Sinbad forgoes charm for the time being, opting
instead to stuff what few items they have into their packs. “Either way, we
should get moving, make the most of daylight. I’ll probably need to sleep long
before nighttime with these damned injuries, and Drakon is a few hours’ walk
inside the border.”
 
"I'll go and wake Masrur." At least this is doing something that doesn't
involve that little brat of a Magi, and the promise of home beyond that is
pleasant. "We should have time to grab breakfast from the marketplace, if we're
lucky. You'll need it, after all the energy you burned this morning alone,"
Ja'far sniffs, brushing past him to the door.
 
***** Chapter 5 *****
 
Partevia was--is a bad decision.
 
The country is cold and barren and grey, and from the look on Sinbad's face
when they arrive, it's not supposed to be. Ja'far keeps silent and keeps an
even sharper eye, the thrum that something is wrong solidly in the back of his
mind. 
 
Neither of them are wrong to be wary.
 
Al-Sarmen's hold over the country is obvious and dark, like some sort of
oozing, polluted cloud. Ja'far sees it first in the wildlife, or what remains
of it--lizards with two heads, flies buzzing about dead things that he can't
put a name to, wilted trees that have otherwise stood for what must have been
decades. It's nothing compared to some of the people, though. Scales or fur or
even extra limbs, and then there are those fully transformed, monstrous things
that make Sin keep a hand on his sword and Ja'far's grip too-tight on his
blades, until they realize they'e stillhumans, with human minds that are very,
very afraid. 
 
The look on Sinbad's face when they finally make it to Drakon, to see that he
is no longer a man but instead ironically resembling his own name, is probably
more painful than anything.
 
"It's Al-Samen's experiments," he says, sort of bitter and tired of it more
than afraid. "I wouldn't have ended up like this, but to save my wife--"
 
It's all that needs to be said (oddly, or perhaps less than oddly, the longer
he thinks about it, Ja'far thinks he would have done the same for Sinbad).
 
After that conversation, Sinbad seems eager to leave, with offers for Drakon to
return with him, and Ja'far has never felt more relieved. Out of this wasteland
of a country and back to Sindria, where it is safe and they can actually do
something to act against such atrocities--that is what he wants, more than
anything.
 
But then there is Judal.
 
The world seems to rip apart with the Magi's presence, and Ja'far thinks, for
not the first time, that Sinbad should have just let him kill the wretch when
he could have.The wind that whips about them is nearly enough to take him off
of his feet, magical enough to sap the crackle of electricity from his blades,
and his head and back slams hard into a still-standing post of Drakon's now-
destroyed home, the remnants of the tornado whirling down as his vision shakes
and blurs. 
 
"You didn't wait for me." Judal sounds petulant, like a child whose father
never did bring them back a gift after a long stay away. "You said you'd wait.
Ahh, and I got in so much trouble again for going back to see you! I'm really
mad." 
 
Ja'far thinks Sinbad might have replied, but there's nothing to be heard over
the crackle of magic that makes his own hair stand on end as he tries to stand,
head spinning, heart pounding, and he can feel, by the rush that goes through
his veins, that there is a djinn's power at work, hopefully protecting Sin when
he can't. 
 
"Was that from one of my dungeons?" The inquiry would be fond, if it weren't
absolutely on edge. "After all the work I put into you, this is how you treat
me?!"
 
The world shakes and goes black, and Ja'far remembers the panic that wells in
his throat first and foremost.
 
When he wakes, Sinbad isn't there.
 
He hasn't moved, himself, but there are others--dark, shadowy others, with
white and black robes and others with scaled, clawed limbs, or even the heads
of warm-blooded things that don't belong standing on two legs. They reach for
him, whispering, telling him how they'd welcome him back, that his master is
dead, there's nowhere else for him to go--
 
Ja'far thinks he sees Judal, fingers laced behind his back, long braid swaying
as he talks excitedly to another cloaked man, stretched upon tiptoe like he's a
boy talking of his daily adventures and wanting to make surehis companion hears
it all. 
 
Sinbad is dead, and you killed him. 
 
Ja'far doesn't think. He moves, sure and swift, the spray of blood hot over his
face as he thinks not about the messhe'll leave behind--something he's avoided
since meeting Sinbad, something he doesn't want Sinbad to see, because a sure
and swift and clean kill is better. Then, Sin doesn't have to know the full
extent of everything, doesn't have to realize that he's still one of them, and
it feels good, cutting them down, one by one until only Judal and his puppet
master remain. 
 
They don't even lift a finger to stop him. They don't even care about their
own.
 
Judal smiles, slow and amused, and they're gone in the next moment, a
fluttering swirl of black rukh so concentrated that even he can see it before
it dissipates all over again, and he's left starkly, sharply alone. 
 
~~
 
Sinbad hurts.
 
The djinn equip fades away, taking with it the last of his strength, leaving
him less than a shell of a man, nothing but a bleeding, hollow shell. Oddly
enough, the only thing that bothers him about dying is that he’s dying here,
and that here isn’t Sindria. 
 
I should have taken you home, Ja’far, he thinks, eyes closing with his next
labored breath. The ice has pierced him all over, and breathing is too
difficult, not worth the effort when he’s so tired, when he’s already so
injured. I hope you make it back without me.
 
 Idiot. There’s no Sindria without you.
 
It’s not fair, that the voice in his head sounds so much like Ja’far. Ja’far is
just a stupid kid he saved from being a killer all his life. He’s just someone
Sinbad loves, someone Sinbad would die for.
 
And if he were dying for Ja’far, that would make this whole thing easier.
 
He wills his eyes to shut for a moment, but they blink, the dust from the
broken buildings settling all around him. A strong, no-longer-human hand grips
his arm, hauling him to his feet as Drakon asks in that still-unfamiliar voice,
“Sin, can you walk?”
 
Of course I can, he thinks, angry as hell about it. I have to, don’t I?
 
He leaves a little more of his blood behind with every step, and that annoys
him too. Drakon cuts down the first man they see, and it’s with a primal scream
that Sinbad slices through the second, and the third, and the fourth and fifth
in one stroke. 
 
Al-Sarmen will pay for what they’ve done to his friend, and the country that
treated him as one of their own when he had nothing left in the world. They’ll
pay, until there’s nothing left of them. The frenzy of battle takes hold, and
even without the magoi left for a djinn equip he refuses to go down no matter
how many spells Al-Sarmen throw at him, one eye on his opponents, one scanning
the sky for the mad laughing form of Judal the Magi.
 
Then, the tide stops, and all there is is the river of bodies left behind him,
and the ocean he sees pooled around the lone standing figure. A slight thing,
tattered and worn and far too pale, splattered with bright crimson blood not
his own, and Sinbad sags with relief at the sight. “You’re alive.”
 
 
Ja'far blinks, vision cluttered with the blood that clings even to his lashes.
That's Sin's voice, oddly enough, even though he's quite certain he's mistaken
and hallucinating. Or maybe he's dead now, too, and this is supposed to be some
strange concept of the afterlife, with heaven a battlefield all over again…
 
Or maybe, Sin is just alive.
 
Ja'far lurches forward, blades clattering to the ground as he stumbles through
the veritable pool of blood at his feet, splattering it up one leg as he
reaches out, grasping for the other man mindlessly. "You're alive," he echoes
in a whisper, eyes wild, far too bright even though yellow has long since faded
from them. "I thought…" That Magi had killed you, there was nothing left, that
I couldn't protect you and it was all my fault.
 
 
To Sinbad, injuries have never mattered less.
 
Ja’far looks every bit the lost child he had six years ago, albeit more
careworn, more bloodstained, and the only anger left in Sinbad is that that was
supposed to be over for him, damn you bastards. 
 
A few faltering steps, and he’s grabbing Ja’far, lifting him up with all the
strength still left in his arms (or more likely, the life energy he’s pouring
into his muscles to force himself to keep going). They’re both bloody, both
smeared in it, and Sinbad doesn’t care, crushing the young man to his chest.
“S’alright,” he mumbles, relief like giddiness through his body. “S’alright,
we’re alive.”
 
 
Ja'far's knees buckle, his own arms thrown tightly about Sinbad's neck, and he
nods numbly, breath a shaky, unbalanced heave into Sinbad's shoulder. He can't
think beyond you're alive, you're alive, that's what matters more than
anything, but at some point, he remembers words are useful and there are things
he probably should say--"Sent Masrur away with Drakon's wife. I think… think
they got away just fine, before this all…" He trails off, voice breaking a
little. You should have let me kill him, youhave to, the next time we see him.
 
 
It’s with a weary sigh and a last squeeze--as long as you’re all right, as long
as I didn’t lose you, as long as I’m not the reason you’re hurt or dead--that
Sinbad lets Ja’far’s toes touch the ground. He can’t even count all the places
he’s bleeding, but that’s a problem for someone with more free time than he’s
got, so he ignores it. “Drakon was with me a moment ago, he--ah, there, looks
like he found Masrur.” 
 
He looks out, scanning over the barren horizon. “This place turns my stomach.”
 
 
"We can't do anything right now." Ah, his legs are still unsteady, his head
pounding, and Ja'far swallows slowly around the dry lump in his throat. "Not
from here." We need to get home, back to Sindria, if there's any chance of
doing anything. 
 
Never mind that he wants, more than anything, Sinbad safe and well again, and
that's a much easier task accomplished behind the walls of their own fortress.
"… If that Magi comes back--" It's just going to be even worse.
 
 
Sinbad’s lip curls, snarling at the very thought of all that black rukh, those
mad red eyes, and all the magoi going to rape the land and people of Partevia.
“If any of them find us here, we’re through,” he says flatly. “And if I find
that any of them have so much as set a toe inside Sindria when we get home…”
 
 I’ll burn their strong places. I’ll find their hearts and rip them out. I’ll
take whatever’s most dearest to them and laugh as it dies.
 
 
Ja'far nods without really hearing. "Then let's go back, and make sure that
they don't. Bring Drakon, we can keep him and his wife safe, at the very
least."
 
 
Sinbad wants to argue that they can bring everyone, open Sindria’s doors to all
the Partevians who’ve been affected by this travesty.
 
And then he looks around, and realizes what he hasn’t wanted to notice since
he’d crawled out of that broken building. “There’s no one else left, is there?”
 
 
"… If there is, they aren't here." Ja'far sucks in a slow breath, attempting to
steady himself. "I think… Al-Sarmen took most of them that remained. Who knows
what they'll do with them."
 
 
“They’ll answer for it.” For a second, the anger overtakes him, and Sinbad
swears he feels a little part of him change. 
 
Then he shakes it off, noticing the way Ja’far is none too steady on his feet,
knowing he himself isn’t much better. “Come on. Let’s find shelter where they
won’t spot us. We can rest and patch up before we head home.”
 
 
I don't want to rest.He feels like a soft gust of wind could knock him over. I
want to go home now. Sindria is still miles and miles and an ocean away. I
don't need to patch anything up. That's probably his blood running down his
face, finally, though he blinks it away each time it fills his eyes. "All
right," Ja'far says instead, and he belatedly thinks to turn back and grab up
his blades from where he had dropped them before, no matter how his hands
shake. 
 
 Sin is alive. That's all that matters.
 
 ~~
 
 
Sinbad wants to laugh.
 
Not really; there’s nothing funny about the situation, after all. They’d known
there was something wrong from the first moment they stepped over the borders,
expecting that breeze of fresh ocean air that feels like Sindria, like the
country Sinbad had built with his bare hands from a bunch of sand and rubble
and scattered starving peasants.
 
Instead, they find refugees.
 
People are leaving, desperate to get out, to find some solace in another
country--any other country--and leaving with nothing but what they can carry on
their backs, sometimes with less than that. It isn’t exactly a river of people,
but they’re rarely alone on the road, and no one seems to be going the same
direction they are. 
 
Even after cleaning themselves up, they’re bruised and battered enough that no
one recognizes them as the King and his right-hand man, especially not when all
eyes seem to be (understandably) drawn to the giant lizard traveling with them.
It makes Sinbad irrationally angry; don’t they know he’s no monster? Can’t they
see, after talking with the man for the space of ten seconds, that he’s a kind
and decent man who’d been horribly abused?
 
He’s glad they’re leaving. People like that don’t belong in the country he
built.
 
But the farther they go, he finds evidence of battles. He sees Ja’far’s face
grow grim, and knows it’s nothing to his own. 
 
After a week he can’t stop his hands from making fists, can’t stop himself from
hitting a tree until it falls over and he screams himself hoarse with the rage
and frustration, seeing families butchered--families he was supposed to
protect--by an opportunistic upstart nation that thought to take advantage
while Sindria was left unprotected.
 
Unprotected, by god.
 
It’s another week, and in the capital that someone first recognizes him. The
streets are in anarchy, shops boarded up, windows smashed, doors smashed, food
going to rot because no one has the coin to pay for it, children fighting like
wild dogs in the streets. Someone calls his name, and the second he turns his
head, the shout goes up.
 
“The King has returned!”
 
An hour later, covered in the remains of rotten vegetables, bruised by thrown
cobblestones, his robe torn to shreds, Sinbad sinks to the floor of his palace,
braced against the bolted door.
 
He doesn’t move again for some time.
 
 
Ja'far has seen worse.
 
He doesn't want to say it. There's no words that would be soothing, anyway,
least of all that. Either way, Ja'far doesn't want to be reminded of the
country he was brought up in, the wars and poverty and strife, least of all
within Sindria--Sindria, a country that is supposed to be their paradise. 
 
With that in mind, he lets Sinbad lock himself in his room for a total of three
days.
 
Ja'far isn't sure he remembers what the inside of his own eyelids look like
during that time, but he remembers what fearlooks like on the faces of those
that remain, remembers the initial scoffs of disbelief when he announces by
royal decree the food and supply lines, the wages for those that are willing to
work to build shelter and repair the mercantile districts, first and foremost.
Using magic for petty, petty things such as blocking the toss of stones is
never something Ja'far enjoys, but it gets the point across--I have power, let
me lend it to you.
 
Those that remain slowly start listening, and those that decide not to, he bids
good riddance. 
 
The inside of the parliamentary archives is a whirlwind of shredded paper and
scroll and there's a brief, irrational flare of anger, to see their country's
laws spilled-over with ink. That he works on alone, once he is convinced of
some tentative rebuilding, some reluctant hope in the eyes of those that
remain, and the sounds of hammers and chisels are never so soothing as they are
now, when he watches the sun rise and set in-between sweeping the very, very
empty office halls. 
 
It's not everything, not by a long shot, but it's a start, and it'll do. 
 
On the morning of the fourth day, Ja'far remembers that thing called bathing
past dunking himself into a cold basin, remembers dressing past the bare
minimum of formalities, and a still ink-stained fist gently knocks against
Sinbad's bedroom door. He forgets what it's like to be tired. It's a good
thing, when there's still so much else to do.
 
 
It’s not the first time someone has knocked on the door. 
 
Sinbad opens his eyes to stare at the wall. It’s marbled pink and yellow
pressed sand, built from bricks he and his magicians had raised from the ocean
floor. People had begged to help them build the palace. He’d built extra rooms,
and when his magic was exhausted he’d stripped to a loincloth and joined the
manual laborers, and they’d smiled through the sweat. Every night, they’d had a
bonfire, and roasted whatever sea creatures had been foolish enough to wander
too close.
 
He shuts his eyes.
 
It was a dream, after all. It was a dream that had started as a fairytale he
told a young boy who needed something to believe in. It was a fairytale he’d
told himself when the nights were too cold, when he’d gone to sleep early
because there was nothing in his belly, when he’d fought with his hands when
his weapons were gone, when he’d thought a dozen nights in a row that he’d die
in chains the next day.
 
It was a dream, and all fairytales end sooner or later.
 
 
A wise decision, then, to bring the keys after all. 
 
Ja'far heaves a little sigh, casting his eyes briefly upward as if there's some
deity feeling merciful enough to grant him with good luck for five minutes as
he slides the key into the lock, turning it with a twist of his wrist and
slowly pushing the door open after that. Ah, good. At least Sin hasn't slung
some heavy piece of furniture in front of it (yet).
 
"Sin." There's a quiet thud as the door shuts behind him. "It's time to get
up." If they were having their morning briefing, it would be--just after the
sun has settled and the air has warmed a bit, but not so early that Sinbad
would be whining about the hangover he undoubtedly would have from the night
prior.
 
 
Ja’far hasn’t left him. Of course Ja’far hasn’t left him, he doesn’t have
anywhere else to go any more than Sinbad has. He’d failed Ja’far, too. How many
times had Ja’far asked him to come home to Sindria? If he’d listened, if he’d
only listened, they could have made it before that traitor decided he had
better things to do than to sit on the throne in the king’s absence. If he’d
only listened, they’d have come back to Sindria, not to a pile of rubble and
starving peasants. 
 
He doesn’t bother opening his eyes. There’s nothing to see. “You should go,” he
says quietly. “Get out before they storm this place. Take whatever you want
from the treasury, you deserve it.”
 
Never mind that he wouldn’t last five minutes without Ja’far. He doesn’t plan
on it anyway.
 
 
"They aren't going to storm the palace, Sin." Ja'far drifts his way over to
Sinbad's bed, his arms folding within his robes. "You should come outside, and
see the city again."
 
 
“What city?” 
 
There’s no humor in his laugh, and Sinbad curls in on himself, every beat of
his heart feeling like it’s just too much work, too much work to keep such a
failure alive. “There’s no city without the people. They know when a ship is
sinking.” They’ve all left me, all but you. It’s selfish, but I want you to
stay with me, even if Sindria sinks into the ocean where it belongs.
 
 
"There are people," Ja'far simply replies, and with a light sigh, he takes a
seat upon the edge of the bed, the mattress barely shifting beneath his weight.
"But no sinking ships, as far as I've seen." Lifting a hand, he catches a
strand of Sinbad's hair, gently twisting it about his fingers. "Then again,
I've been busy." 
 
 
“They hate me.” God, how can he ever show his face again? Even if they do
somehow, somehow manage to save a little corner of the shining dream he’d once
had, how can he bear to let them see him? 
 
 
"If they hated you, they wouldn't stay." Ja'far's eyes lid, and he leans
forward, draping himself loosely over the curl of Sinbad's form. "They've been
working hard, too. They want to stay in Sindria."
 
 
It’s petty, and selfish, and pathetic of him to take so much comfort from
Ja’far’s presence. He does all the same, slowly reaching a hand up to curl over
one of Ja’far’s. “You’re lying. They threw rocks at me.” It hurts, and not
physically. There had been such hatred, such pain in their faces, the people
he’d thought it would be so easy to protect. “It’s a nice lie, though. Thank
you.”
 
 
"Mm, they threw them at me, too, when I went back dressed like this." Ja'far's
hand twists, fingers slowly lacing their way through Sinbad's. "I told them
they could leave, if they wanted to do that, or stop and actually put that
strength to better use. Most of them chose the latter, actually. You should
come see it--the marketplace is almost entirely cleaned up now, the residential
areas are much better already." 
 
 
A tiny spark of hope flares, then dies. Even if Ja’far is telling the truth,
he’d still failed them. “Take it. They want you, not me. Name it Jadria.”
 
 
Ja'far snorts. "That's an awful name. Besides, I did it all by royal decree--
your royal decree. My apologies for forging your signature on a few
documents." 
 
 
“Forge whatever you want. They’ll never want me back.” His fingers tighten on
Ja’far’s; Ja’far had known, of all of them, how important this dream was to
him. 
 
 
"They keep asking for you." His own fingers slowly squeeze back. "They miss
you. Some of them are even starting to say that it's a little odd for me not to
be dragging you around by the ear."
 
 
The spark of hope flares again and wavers uncertainly. “They do?”
 
 
"Mmhm. The women, especially, want to know why you aren't out there with their
husbands, throwing bricks around without your shirt on." Ja'far muffles a sigh
into the curve of Sinbad's shoulder. "Or why you haven't been out for your
morning run on the beach, half-naked as always… ah, you've built a shallow
country."
 
 
That hope catches on dry tinder--ah, he wants so badly for it to be true--and
ignites. Ja’far couldn’t make something like that up, surely. He turns onto his
back, blinking up at Ja’far, unable to repress the pathetic needy look in his
eyes. “They really want me back? As the king? Even though...I failed them?”
 
 
Ja'far pushes himself up, lips twisting wryly. "Failure would be admitting
defeat. Sindria is far from defeated yet, Sin, so you shouldn't be, either.
It's not becoming on a king."
 
 
Well. That changes things, a bit. It’s one thing to sit around staring at the
wall all day when all that was waiting for him was hatred and rotten
vegetables. But if there’s a country yet, a country that needs him…
 
Sinbad pushes himself up to sitting, eyes locked on Ja’far. “Did I ever do
anything as good as the day I spared your life?”
 
 
At that, Ja'far blinks, a little too sleep-deprived not to be taken off-guard
and thus promptly flush. "I… what?" 
 
 
Sinbad takes Ja’far’s face in his hands, brushes a kiss onto that freckled
nose, and swings onto his feet. “Get some rest, I’m sure you need it. By the
time you wake up, we’ll have a country again--no, we’ll have a better country
than we did before we went adventuring.” He’s never felt so alive.
 
 
Ah. Well, that worked out well. And sleep does sound nice, but--"At least get
bathed and dressed properly," he protests, half-off the bed as he says it.
"I'll draw a hot bath for you, you look--" Well, like a man that hasn't rolled
out of bed in three days. Admittedly, Sinbad still looks better than most.
 
 
“A bath?” Sinbad snorts, finger-combing his hair back into a loose knot, and
stripping off the torn remnants of his tunic, stripping to a loose cloth around
his hips and thighs. “While there are people without food? That’s not the kind
of king Sindria needs. They’ll see all they need to see of me without the smell
of lavender hanging over my head.”
 
 
It's not something to really argue with, especially if Sinbad is all the more
motivated for it. "You have a point," Ja'far relents, and he sinks back onto
the mattress again. He can't argue with how obscenely soft Sinbad's bed is
either, or how tired he is starting to realize he is. "Drakon can brief you on
everything easily enough, but don't hesitate to come and find me if necessary."
 
 
Sinbad tosses the blanket over Ja’far, tucking him in firmly as a statement
more than a matter of comfort. “If I’ve doubted anything,” he says gently,
placing a kiss on the top of Ja’far’s head, “it was never you. Get some sleep.
I built this country, I can rebuild it.”
 
 
This is the Sin he knows and loves. 
 
A little, relieved smile curls his lips, and Ja'far lets himself relax for the
first time in what feels like weeks. "I know you can," he simply replies before
shutting his eyes. "But if you need me, I'm still here."
 
 
Ja’far is smiling, and that means, more than anything, that he’s doing the
right thing. “I know you are,” he assures the younger man, a smile of his own
on his lips. And because I know you’re here, my friend, the thought of
conquering the world outside holds no fear for me.
 
Without fear, without doubts, Sinbad opens the door.
 
~~
***** Chapter 6 *****
 
 
Sinbad hasn’t really slept in a week, and it’s been worth it. 
 
In some parts of the kingdom, the scars of the recent devastation show stark
and ugly against the land, and the spirit of synergy, of rebuilding, charges
the people like nothing he’s ever seen. In others, it’s hard to tell if
anything was ever wrong. 
 
What surprises him the most of all is the lack of any malice in them. Oh, here
and there a young boy will urge him to hunt that bastard down and make an
example of him, or a hotheaded soldier will want someone to blame for all that
he’s lost. But by and large, Ja’far is right; most people seem to want their
country back, their king back, and damned if he isn’t going to do everything he
can to keep them wanting it.
 
It’s a week before things are right enough that he can even think about
throwing a party. Oh, certainly it’s good for morale, but no one wants to end a
party by going back to a house that’s falling down. It takes all his energy,
all his magic, and every trick Sinbad knows before he’s confident that no one
in Sindria is sleeping in the cold. 
 
There’s a young man from Heliohapt that had fought tooth and nail, inspiring
the soldiers around him no matter that he was foreign, and he’s the best find
of all. Sinbad brings him back to the palace, and gives him the honor of
slaughtering the biggest sea-beast they can find. Masrur and Hinahoho bring
whole trees for the fire, and by the time it’s dark, there’s not a place in
Sindria where the bonfire and barbecue isn’t visible. 
 
Sinbad is tired, but flushed with success, with wine, and with satisfaction
when he sights Ja’far, being nearly dragged toward the circle of dancing
revelry by Masrur on one side and Drakon’s wife on the other. They let him go
when Sinbad shows up, relinquishing him to the King’s arms. Sinbad’s face
lights up, and he bends to kiss the back of one pale hand. If Ja’far won’t now,
he never will. “Dance with me?”
 
Ah, he's tired. 
 
On top of that, Ja'far has never been one for the parties and festivals that
his king seems so inclined to throw, though he knows, very well, that this sort
of thing is necessary right now. He's surprised at how much he is enjoying
himself, even if a bit of aged wine is helping with that, though he really
wishes he'd be allowed on the sidelines still, away from the bulk of people,
and especially at least a little ways away from Sinbad, who seems intent on
making him blush.
 
He's happy for the heat of the fire and the dark of the night to hide the
reddening of his cheeks, at any rate.
 
"You have half a dozen beautiful women that want a dance with you," Ja'far
points out, though he doesn't quite yank his hand away. That new nuisance of a
boy that Sinbad has decided to keep has long stolen his keffiyeh and hidden it
as a part of some game, and so Ja'far has long since given up, let his robes
slide loose down his shoulders and cling to his hips instead. He won't burn at
night, at the very least. "You should go ask one of them, and give them the
honor." 
 
“I danced with plenty of women before you showed up,” Sinbad says firmly, and
tugs, his feet already starting to move. “I’ll doubtless dance with many more.
But tonight, and while you give me the pleasure, I would have the honor of
dancing with you.”
 
He still has the taste of a few of those girls on his lips, but Ja’far won’t
mind. It’s not the kind of thing that has ever bothered him, really. It only
bothers Ja’far when he makes bad decisions, not merely careless ones, and
besides, it’s a party. Everyone around them is having fun, casting off their
troubles as easily as Ja’far seems to have cast off his hat, and really, seeing
him outside with the moonlight in his hair is just as much of a treat as
anything.
 
Sinbad really is too much sometimes.
 
It's easy to get swept up in whatever he wants to do, especially with a bit of
alcohol to dull his sensibilities, and so Ja'far sighs, surrendering for the
moment and letting Sinbad drag him along, never mind that such things in public
are usually the last thing he has on his list to do. "You're a horrible man,"
he calmly says, even as he laces their fingers together and sidles his way just
a bit closer. "This is going to start a dozen rumors, and I'm going to start
receiving letters to my office proclaiming undying hatred for the advisor that
stole their beloved king." 
 
“Nonsense!” It would be impossible not to smile, with Ja’far following his lead
and in public no less. Sinbad doesn’t even try, the breathless, exhilarated
grin spreading across his face like the moon on the water. His earrings spin
out to the side as he whirls the smaller man around, laughing. “You know as
well as they do that I’m impossible to steal. Besides, they already call you my
wife. Smack me around a little, it’s good for your image."
 
"Who calls me your wife?" It's an indignant protest, or at least an attempt at
one. Amazingly, it's difficult to sound angry when he's being spun and dipped
like one of Sinbad's girls--ah, and he supposes he doesn't mind too much.
Sinbad is happy again, and it's all sorts of infectious. "If I smacked you
around, you'd like it too much," Ja'far accuses, and he just barely stops
himself from squeaking at how close he's drawn from time to time, his face
flushing hot. "Honestly, you need a real wife." 
 
Sinbad spins Ja’far close, dips him low, and makes a face. “Don’t say things
like that, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I never want for sex, love, or
nagging, so why should I take a wife?”
 
They have a bit of an audience now, and he never can resist showing off, so he
grabs Ja’far and tosses him, catching him neatly and spinning him into another
low dip. “Just enjoy the dance, Ja’far. Don’t be too eager for it to end.”
 
What is that supposed to mean, exactly?
 
He's going to regret all of this in the morning, most certainly, especially
when a great number of eyes turn to them--or Sinbad, Ja'far supposes. He's
secondary, and it's much better that way when Sin is always so bright, a
veritable sun that stands out even in the tropics or the desert, and he's just
grateful to be able to keep up most of the time. Now is one of those times, and
he wants to point out he's an assassin--and a clerk, if his still ink-stained
hands are any indication--not a dancer, and certainly not fond of having to
bite back squeaks of protest when he's dipped and spun and tossed with a hand
grabbing at his robes to keep them down. 
 
Sinbad does it on purpose, without a doubt. He always did have a thing for his
legs. 
 
"A wife isn't an 'ending' to anything," he can't help but point out, even as
he's left clinging and on tiptoe half the time, and out of breath and flushed
for all of it. "Don't you want children? A family?" 
 
Ja’far’s legs are gorgeous, and Sinbad can barely keep his hands off of them.
He can barely keep his hands off of them at the best of times, but now, in full
view of everyone, it’s enough just to know that no one has ever touched them
like he has. 
 
The song ends with Ja’far in Sinbad’s arms, both of them panting and sweating,
Sinbad beaming down at him. “And here I thought you kept telling me to sire
fewer children. Look around, Ja’far. What more family do I need?”
 
"Sire fewer illegitimatechildren," Ja'far protests on a heaving breath, and he
sags, his forehead thumping against Sinbad's shoulder in defeat. He's
pleasantly dizzy, his pulse thrumming and even if he's now a sweaty, flushed
mess in public, it was worth it. He can admit that much, and he can also blame
it on being drunk in the morning, even if he's not quite as tipsy as that would
normally entail. "You are incorrigible, you know that, right?" 
 
The urge to nuzzle against Ja’far’s nose is strong, and only the knowledge that
there are some things even the king isn’t supposed to do in public restrains
him. “I’m going to write a book,” he says instead, with a rakish grin. “Maybe
‘incorrigible’ could be the title.” With a last bow to the people clapping, he
steers Ja’far away from the crowd, down one of Sindria’s many side streets.
“Come here, I want to show you something.”
 
"Is it a book about yourself? Because that would be a terribly appropriate
title, then," Ja'far grumbles, letting himself be drawn along with a long sigh.
He can humor Sin tonight--just for tonight, if no other time, though really,
what in this country hasn't he seen himself by now? 
 
“It is, as it happens,” Sinbad agrees cheerfully. “The chronicles of my
adventures.” This is a terribly irresponsible use of his own magic, and
doubtless Ja’far will tell him so, but at the moment, Sinbad doesn’t care. The
wind gathers, and in a flurry of their clothing they’re whirling to hover above
the city, the bonfire just a flicker of light below, Sinbad’s arm tight around
Ja’far’s waist. “Look,” he says, leaning close to his advisor’s ear. “Look what
we saved.”
 
Sin's right; any other night, he'd scold him for wasting magoi over such a
trivial thing, but right then, it doesn't seem so very trivial at all.
 
It's hardly the same city they came home to, a city of wreckage and ruins in
such a short period of time. Already, it's as new and alive as Ja'far remembers
it, and that prompts a little thrill down his spine, both pride and relief
contributing. 
 
"… Your country is as beautiful as always," Ja'far says, lifting his head to
spare Sinbad a wry smile. "Though if you're writing a book about your
adventures, does that mean you're intent on ending them, and staying here for
now? I will believe it when I see it." 
 
Sinbad thinks before he speaks for once, choosing his words slowly and with
care. “What I wanted when I built Sindria, when I conceived of the idea of
Sindria...was a place that I’d never want to leave, because there was no
greater pleasure anywhere in the world that I couldn’t find by staying home.”
He leans down, confident that miles above the world, they’re alone enough, and
nuzzles his nose against Ja’far’s. “I think it’s time I stopped just dreaming
about it and made it happen.”
 
Ah. That's… a nice answer.
 
Ja'far's smile softens, just a bit, and he lifts a hand, his knuckles brushing
absently against Sinbad's cheek. "That," he simply says, "is why you are a good
king, and why your people love you. They want you to stay. You see how happy
they are when you are here with them." 
 
“They give me strength.” The only time he’d felt so alive as when he’d rebuilt
the country had been when he’d built it in the first place, goatherders and
fishwives coming to stare, to tell him he’d never finish, then asking almost
shyly if they could come too. “Though...I’m sorry, my friend. I think our
adventures together are at an end.” Sinbad squeezes Ja’far’s waist tight,
closing his eyes as they start to descend. “I don’t think I’ll ever again be
able to leave Sindria in anyone’s hands but yours, if I should be called away
on important business.”
 
"I wouldn't expect you to do any differently." It's a relief, in all honesty,
that Sinbad is thinking logically regarding such things. Ja'far's toes hit the
ground first, and he wobbles for a moment until he can set his feet entirely,
solidly down. "In fact, I would be terribly upset with you, if you did leave
someone else in charge." His hands clasp as he bows his head. "You know I am
honored that you would entrust your country to me in your absence, my king."
 
“And I am honored,” Sinbad responds, bowing equally low, “to be blessed with so
trustworthy an advisor. You could have your pick of countries, my friend. That
you continue to grace mine with your presence honors me no less than the return
of all my subjects.” As he straightens, his eye twinkles. “As long as we’re
being formal.”
 
"I have discriminating tastes." Ja'far might be smirking, just a little bit, as
he lifts his head. "And there is no greater country than Sindria. Why would I
settle for serving a less than adequate king?" 
 
If there’s a hint of pink in Sinbad’s cheeks, at least the dark of the night
will hide it. 
 
It doesn’t say much for his ego that those words make him want Ja’far so much,
but maybe that’s the stress of the week, the high from the flying and dancing
finally coming down, and the warmth of Ja’far when the night is so cold, and
the praise and that little smirk are just the last straw. Sinbad moves, arms
wrapping around Ja’far, hands sliding down to his ass to squeeze, and that’s
not enough. He picks the smaller man up, holding him against the wall, and
hovers, an inch away from his lips. “Stop me now,” he says hoarsely, eyes
searching the flickering black ones for a hint, “if you want me to stop at
all.”
 
When Sinbad does things like this, it's always a rush, and not always a
welcomed one, for how fast his blood pumps and how light his head suddenly
becomes. Now is no different--now, with Sinbad so warm against him, grasping
him so tightly and holding him as if he weighs nothing at all. 
 
This time, at least, it's welcomed. 
 
"I don't." Ja'far shivers, wriggles, his hands grasping for the other man's
hair, tugging as his lips part with a fast, breathy exhale. He wants to blame
the wine. He wants to blame relief, the exhilaration of feeling Sinbad's magic
around him, through him as if they truly are connected that way, but it all
boils down to something far more simple than that. It's just Sinbad, after all.
 
There’s no better feeling than Ja’far’s thighs, soft and warm and supple under
his hands. Sinbad spreads them open, the weight of him holding Ja’far against
the wall, not that he needs much strength to do so, and it’s a relief that
Ja’far is grasping at him, urging him on, because even though Ja’far feels so
strongly sometimes about pushing him away, there’s nowhere Sinbad wants to be
more than inside the other man.
 
“Sorry,” he murmurs, brushing hot, messy, urgent kisses against Ja’far’s neck
as he hikes up his robes, pulls himself out, and god, he’s already so hard.
“Sorry, it’s going to be too much, I can’t wait long--”
 
If anything, that warning only serves to make his own cock swell, the sudden
need for it twisting hot and heavy in his belly. Ja'far swallows hard, throat
bobbing underneath the Sinbad's mouth as his head falls back to press against
cool stone. "It's fine," he rasps out, his toes curling as his thighs are
spread, breath a ragged, strained thing as he clings to Sinbad's neck and fists
his hands into his hair. "I want it, too." 
 
Ah, this is the Ja’far that Sinbad only gets to see once in a blue moon, and no
one else gets to see at all. There are those little moments when Ja’far pushes
down instead of wriggling away, when there’s a hint of wild joy in the little
hisses and sobs that come out of his mouth, when Sinbad is sure he’s going to
beg for a rest but he begs for more instead. This is the most sensual Ja’far
ever gets, when he succumbs to what he wants, what he needs, and Sinbad knows
without a doubt that he’s the only man Ja’far has ever needed anything of the
kind from.
 
God, that makes him hard.
 
It’s not the fine oils he keeps by his bedside, or even the pot of aloe they
carry on the road, and Sinbad is sure Ja’far will turn up his nose as he spits
into his hand, with hardly the patience to slick the head of his cock before he
pushes in, the sheer overwhelming need to be inside an overpowering, dominating
force. “Ahh--Ja’far, you--ah, god--”
 
There's no helping the mindless sob that pulls from his throat, because Sinbad
is right--it's too much, far too much. The tremor that rakes through Ja'far
slides mostly to his legs, thighs quivering, calf muscles bunching tight just
at that initial stretch, the head of Sinbad's cock pushing inside enough to
make his knees buckle if he had been standing. His mouth falls open, willing
long, deep draughts of breath into his lungs as Sinbad sinks into him, filling
him so deeply that he can't think, save for the dizzying idea of wriggling
down, a thing that makes him whine and cling that much tighter even as he sags
weakly back into the wall. 
 
"S… Sin--" It's too tight, not slick enough to be perfect, and Ja'far's teeth
sink into his lower lip as he shuts his eyes, sweat beading on his brow from
the effort of taking him. "Please."
 
The way Ja’far trembles around him should be illegal. Sinbad would outlaw it
himself if it weren’t so damned good, so damned tight, so damned perfect around
his cock and ah, there’s no way he’s going to last as long as he wants to.
That’s fine, it can’t be good enough for Ja’far like this no matter how he
likes a little pain with his pleasure, so the least Sinbad can do is be quick.
With how tightly Ja’far is squeezing around him, that’s hardly an issue. “It’s
all right,” he murmurs against Ja’far’s ear, mindless, urgent kisses pressed
against his neck as he pants. “Just--a little longer, I’ll take care of you--”
 
That promise draws out another, breathy whimper. Ja'far frantically nods,
mindless and eager, no matter how he already feels taken care of, what with how
stuffed full he is--no matter if it hurts, it's still Sin, still good with the
way he kisses at his neck and holds him and pulls him down like he's something
precious and wanted. "'s fine," he gasps out, clutching at Sinbad's hair to
keep the man's mouth at his throat, squirming to hold tightly to Sinbad's sides
with his thighs. Ah, god, he feels stretched even wider like that, and he gulps
for air, lashes fluttering. "It's good, j-just take what you want--"
 
It’s permission, release, and Sinbad’s mind turns off. 
 
He knows dimly that he’s too rough, that those hard deep thrusts are punishing
under the best of conditions and that they can’t be comfortable now, but with
the way Ja’far clings to him, the way Ja’far’s legs wrap around him, there’s
nothing else he can do. 
 
He spills with a soft, broken cry, back arched, hands bruisingly tight on
Ja’far’s waist, buried so deep inside it feels like there’s no space at all
between them. He heaves a shuddering, aching breath, the sweat trickling down
his back, and he’s as gentle as he can when he pulls out and drops to his
knees, hands on Ja’far’s hips to hold him up. “Now you take what you want,” he
murmurs, and closes his lips around the head of Ja’far’s cock.
 
He can't even stand.
 
His legs are buckling, and if not for Sinbad's hands on his hips--bruised,
flinching beneath the touch from the lingering shocks of Sinbad being so deeply
inside of him--he knows he would be on the ground in a heap. Ja'far still
thinks he might end up there, considering how good the sudden slide of Sinbad's
mouth around him feels, and he chokes on a breath, lurching forward as his
hands claw at the other man's hair, his body bowing forward before he can help
himself. 
 
It's obscene, how good it feels, no matter the sore ache that makes his body
tremble, and the simply lewd reminder of it all in the form of Sinbad's seed
trickling down his thighs. If there's any shred of modesty left in him, it's
gone now when the thought of that makes him harder, makes him want to be buried
that much deeper between Sin's lips. He can't think. Can't do anything else
beyond let his hips rut forward, sliding over Sinbad's tongue, and it's with a
breathless, ragged sob that he comes, bent forward and trembling, grasp white-
knuckled and his feet arched so high that he knows he'll feel cramps from that
for hours.
 
The blood pounds in Sinbad’s ears, everything around them a fever pitch that
only slowly, slowly subsides. His arms are starting to ache from holding Ja’far
against the wall, but ah, standing suddenly feels rather far beyond him. He
swallows, making a face as he misses a bit trickling down his chin--ah, if the
people could only see their king--but he doesn’t have a hand to spare as he
lowers Ja’far down onto his lap, curling his arms around the younger man. 
 
Normally he’d say something, some stupidly romantic thing that Ja’far only lets
him get away with in these moments, but just like this, their panting breaths
the only sound, the night is perfect. He can afford to hold his tongue for a
minute.
 
It's Ja'far who eventually drags an unsteady hand up, thumbing away the mess
that trickles down Sinbad's chin--never mind the flush that colors his own
cheeks for it, or the desire to apologize through his embarrassment. He could
say a dozen other things, really. All of them pertain to how it isn't proper
for a king to be with his advisor like this, or how Sin should find a wife
already if he is planning to finally settle down for more than five minutes…
 
All of it can wait, he supposes, because Sinbad is warm and comfortable and
tonight, Ja'far is feeling a bit selfish.
 
"If you'll have me tonight," is the murmur he settles for instead, "I will warm
your bed, back in the palace."
 
Sinbad bows his head, resting his forehead against Ja’far’s, a rueful smile on
his face. “Tonight,” he agrees, “and any night you deign to grace it with your
presence. And when you say things like that, you make me want to use all the
magoi in Sindria to fly there.”
 
 If only you were a woman. 
 
It’s a thought he’s had a hundred times before, but never as potent as now. He
can picture it so well, dancing with the wife he’d be proud to take, kissing
that beloved mouth and uncaring of who watches, moonlit hair spread across his
pillow nightly instead of once a year. 
 
Ah, well. It’s a beautiful dream, and there’s magic in the world. For a boy who
once starved to become king, another faraway dream doesn’t seem so impossible.
 
"Please don't." Even though Ja'far knows walking will be a task indeed. "You
would be left quite the invalid afterwards, and I much prefer you in good
health." Ja'far shifts his way closer, deeper into Sinbad's lap as he absently
rubs his cheek against the man's shoulder. "Tomorrow will be an easy day. We
can afford a night like this."
 
 
***** Chapter 7 *****
 
 
He wants to kill that Magi.
 
Ja'far has scarcely felt so much frustration, and it all has to do with an
opponent he can't even touch. He desperately wishes Sinbad had let him kill
Judal the one time that he had managed to knock him flat on his back, after
shoving his wand away and holding a blade at his throat. Now, Ja'far knows,
he'll never get another easy chance--though it doesn't stop him from trying,
not when Judal shows up so casually within Sindria, and immediately picks a
fight.
 
"I'm here to see Sinbad," is the purr from the little wretch, and Ja'far sees
madness in his eyes more clearly than he ever has. Even if only a scarce few
months have passed since first meeting the Magi, there's no doubt that Al-
Sarmen's hold has tightened, a noose around his neck cutting off what little
sanity he had left. "I don't need you in the way."
 
He attacks with all his strength, and it isn't enough. What match is he, after
all, for a Magi's infinite resources? Take away the brat's magic, and it would
be another story, but instead, he's left tangled within his own wires--solidly
frozen, looped about his wrists and neck and every other length of his body,
and he hears Judal laughing as he leaves, presumably off to find Sin.
'
Ja'far hopes, desperately, that it's merely a 'recreational' visit, and not
something far worse.
 
For hours, he strains to listen, to try and hear anything that sounds like
violence or buildings crumbling. There's nothing, and that's a relief, at
least, even if in those hours he waits the whole time for the ice to melt,
finding out very quickly that basic fire magic does little for a Magi of
water's skill. It's not normal ice, of course it wouldn't be, and so by the
time it finally melts enough for him to untangle himself, he's shivering,
chilled to the bone with his limbs numb and aching.
 
A hot bath. He just wants a hot bath. The silence and peace around the palace
is tell-tale, and he is sure, very sure, that Sinbad has found entertainment in
Judal's presence, no matter their previous encounters.
 
Ja'far wants nothing to do with it. 
 
By the time Sinbad manages to yank himself free of the long daggers of ice,
he’s beyond injured in favor of being furious. Yamuraiha is good, but all she
can do is heal his wounds. Even that can’t warm him up, and it’s with a
limping, bitter ferocity that he makes his way to the baths.
 
He’s not alone, he sees immediately, and ah, Ja’far has every right to be mad
at him. If he’d only let Ja’far kill the magi when he’d had the chance, they’d
have avoided all this nonsense. He hisses as he lowers himself into the bath,
closing his eyes as it starts to wash away the dried blood and thaw his bones.
“You can yell at me later,” he groans, leaning his head back against the wall.
“Just let me thaw first. Little bastard got me good.”
 
While Ja'far isn't happy to see his king appear less sated and more angry (and
a bit injured, apparently), he is pleased to know that the wool hasn't been
entirely cast over Sinbad's eyes yet. "You aren't the only one." He takes
longer than Sinbad to finish undressing, folding his robes properly before he
gingerly sinks into the water across from Sinbad, shivering as the heat slowly
washes over him. "Please tell me you sent him away."
 
Sinbad snorts, sliding farther down until just his neck is left above water.
“Tried. He got a bit...angry.” He tries to move an arm, and winces as it shoots
pain up his shoulder. God, it feels like getting stabbed all over again.
“Yamuraiha did her best, but it’ll take a few days before I’m tossing bricks
around again. You all right?”
 
"I'm fine." It's definitely more his pride that stings. An injury would have
been better, because at least it would have meant he was worth more of the
Magi's time. Ja'far snorts, sinking down lower and drawing his knees to his
chest. "What did he want, anyway? Other than to string me up like a puppet for
hours and stab you on the way out." 
 
“Ah, what’s coming to be the usual, I think.” Sinbad sort of wants to sink
under the water completely, but that’s not really becoming for a king, even an
injured one in the privacy of his own bathhouse. “You know, I don’t mind when
he tells me what an idiot I am for not accepting his offer, and I think I even
mind the stabbing less than him calling Sindria a dump. I worked hard on this
country.”
 
Ja'far prickles immediately at that. "He called Sindria a dump?" He wants to
track the wretch down and slit his throat more than ever. "How dare he." Ah, he
reminds himself that water is certainly not a place to start conducting
electricity, no matter how angry those words make him. 
 
Sinbad sighs, bringing wet hands up to scrub over his face. “I was a fool to
stop you from killing him. We’re not likely to get another chance like that.”
Then, he snorts. “Or maybe we will. He’s not exactly a genius.”
 
"You're finally realizing that." Ja'far slinks down a bit further, eyes
slitting as he lets the water come up over his nose for all of a moment. "He's
dumb as a rock. Al-Sarmen wants to keep him that way." 
 
Sinbad slowly extends a leg, nudging Ja’far with his toe. “They’re stupid, too.
They let the smartest one get away and they kept the dullard. Didn’t know a
good thing when they had it.”
 
Ja'far snorts at that, and he stretches a leg of his own out to prod right
back. "They want for magicians, not assassins." 
 
“Like I said. The smartest thing I ever did was investing in you.” Pain or not,
Sinbad moves slowly through the water, moving to rest his head on Ja’far’s
shoulder now that he’s reasonably certain he won’t get punched for it.
 
Ah, well. At least Sinbad didn't pet and coddle the Magi today like some well-
loved pet. 
 
Ja'far's head slowly tips to the side, resting against Sinbad's as he shuts his
eyes, letting the heat of the water fully sink into his bones. "I'm sure you
have wiser investments. I'm merely your clerk, after all."
 
Sinbad snorts. “My clerk who’s more responsible for running the kingdom than I
am. Why won’t you let me knight you?” He’d offered. They could have done it at
any of the events surrounding the rebuilding. Or hell, he’d throw a separate
party just for that.
 
"It's unnecessary. I can do my job just as well now without it." Ja'far gives
him a light nudge with his elbow. "Also, there wouldn't be a kingdom without
you, so my responsibilities are only secondary." 
 
“But the people love you. They’d like to see you rewarded.” Sinbad shoves back,
nuzzling his head against Ja’far’s neck. “I do too. It’s just so hard to shop
for you.”
 
Ja'far's eyes roll skyward at that. "What makes you think you need to buy me
anything?" 
 
Sinbad sighs. “It’s not about money.” Certainly it’s not, because he knows it’s
not about money for Ja’far. “If there’s anything you want...just tell me, and
it’s yours. Unless you want me to take a wife,” he adds belatedly. “But
anything else.”
 
"You really do hate that concept, don't you." Ja'far idly catches a strand of
Sinbad's hair that's soaking in the water, giving it a gentle tug. "I want for
nothing. I don't need titles, or any other 'rewards' for doing my job. I would
appreciate it if you kept your involvement with that Magi to a minimum from now
on, but well…"
 
“Do you truly want for nothing?” Sinbad smiles, tucking his cheek against
Ja’far’s shoulder, scooting a bit closer. “There’s nothing that makes me
happier than being like this with you. There are some things that make me as
happy, but nothing that goes beyond this.”
 
"… That's a little much, don't you think?" His eyes lid, and his fingers twist
slowly around the strand of hair in his grasp. "You have your country
flourishing again, dozens of women in your lap, all the gold you've ever
wanted--those are the things I would have thought you'd take more pleasure
in." 
 
“I take pleasure in them,” Sinbad agrees readily. “You know better than anyone
that I do. But...not more pleasure, I think.” He turns just enough to press a
quick, chaste kiss to a lightly freckled shoulder. “Even a king can appreciate
a quiet moment.”
 
"I think," Ja'far eventually allows, "that perhaps you are finally mellowing in
your old age." 
 
“You take that back.”
 
"I think that's a grey hair."
 
“I lied, I’ll take the girls and wine and wealth.”
 
"No, really, I think it's a grey hair." Ja'far pokes at Sinbad's scalp,
plucking at the hair in question. "Hmm, maybe it's stress related. At least you
don't have wrinkles yet."
 
Sinbad bats the questing hand away, scowling. “Stop that. Don’t you know that
if you pluck one out, three more grow in?” he demands, carefully not looking at
the hair in question. “Not that there’s even one.”
 
"I've never heard that." Considering the color of his own hair, there's little
point in worrying, after all. "Mm, well, you better hope that you look
distinguished with grey hair as time goes on."
 
“Damn it, I’m twenty-four, I’m hardly old!” Sinbad pokes Ja’far’s side,
irritated, but not inclined to move away from the warmth and softness of his
body. “If I have aches, it’s because I was stabbed nine times today.”
 
"I didn't mention aches--just grey hair and wrinkles." Ja'far blinks over at
him innocently. "Have you been having more aches and pains recently, Sin?" 
 
“You’re very mean to a master that got injured so badly today,” Sinbad mutters.
“You’re going to make it up to me, you know.”
 
Andyouwere so smitten with that Magi for at least a pair of hours that you
didn't realize my absence. Ja'far prefers not to bring it up, even if it does
raise his hackles again, just a bit. "Am I, Your Majesty?" His eyebrows arch.
"What would you have me do?" 
 
Sinbad huffs. “You could at least use those talented fingers to give me a
massage. You know equipping a djinn always gives me cramps when the scales go
away.”
 
"All the more reason to not allow him around any longer," Ja'far murmurs, and
he gives Sinbad's shoulder a sympathetic tap. "Turn around, then, and rest your
head on the edge, unless you'd rather plant yourself face first into a bed." 
 
“You’re acting like I invited him over for tea,” Sinbad grumbles, turning
around to drape his arms over the side of the tub. As nice as it sounds to have
Ja’far in his bed, moving doesn’t sound nice at all. “The last two times I’ve
seen him we were trying to kill each other, in case that slipped your mind.”
 
"He invited himself over for tea," Ja'far points out as his hands immediately
fall upon Sinbad's shoulders, kneading his fingers in hard and firm. A little
sigh, and he brushes Sinbad's hair aside with a slow brush of one hand. "I'm
worried, in case that is not quite coming across," he tries again. "Because I
still wonder if you think he is something to be fixed, even now." 
 
Sinbad sighs, slumping forward against the tub. There had been a few moments,
if he’s being honest, when the look in those glinting red eyes had seemed so
young, so fragile, so shattered, and he’s not great at resisting a project.
“Just…” 
 
He sighs again, brow furrowed as he thinks. “Just because I think there’s a
chance I could fix him doesn’t mean I’m going to risk it. Nothing is more
important than what I’m trying to build here.”
 
Ja'far isn't sure he quite believes that.
 
Nevertheless, he falls silent for the moment, his hands sweeping down the hard
muscles of Sinbad's back, working into the tension there with swift precision.
"When I looked at him today," he finally says, "it wasn't the same as looking
at him weeks ago, before Partevia." 
 
Ah, Ja’far’s hands are perfect, and exactly what Sinbad had needed. Healing and
soaking are all very well, but there’s something about the laying on of hands
that does more for him than all of Yamuraiha’s magic. “Even that wasn’t the
same as the first time. I don’t think...I don’t think they’d touched him, then.
I think they hurt him badly, after that. He said something about Kouen.”
 
Ja'far scarcely resists the urge to scoff. "And you believe him." Then again,
what child--even a crazed one of Al-Sarmen--deserves something like that? He
shakes his head, giving Sinbad's hair a gentle tug. "Turn around, give me your
arm." 
 
Sinbad turns, handing Ja’far his arm. His brow furrows, and his eyes are
troubled as they seek out Ja’far’s. “You wouldn’t believe that of them? After
what they did to your legs?”
 
He starts at the bicep, kneading and pressing in search of tension to abate. "I
would believe it of Al-Sarmen. I know little of the Kou empire's tendencies in
such things. But… still. Perhaps he is merely playing it up for your sympathy."
Ja'far snorts a little, amused, as his hands slide down further in their
massage. "And you don't know what happened to my legs." 
 
Sinbad sort of wants to protest that Judal hadn’t said it for sympathy, he’d
just mentioned it in passing, and he hadn’t given the magi any encouragement or
sympathy for it, but ah, that’s not a fight he wants to have. Not after
Partevia. 
 
Instead, he slumps further against the edge of the tub, going boneless with the
relief of the massage. “I always figured you’d tell me when the pain of it
faded.” He snorts. “Then I forgot to ask.”
 
"It's not important, anyway." His fingers methodically trace down to Sinbad's
wrist, then to his hand, working each finger individually. "I'm sure they've
done horrible things to him. I just can't pity him."
 
“I can pity him without thinking it’s forgivable. It certainly doesn’t excuse
him, not from Partevia. And not from hurting you.” Ah, Ja’far’s hands never
feel better than when they’re massaging his hands, soft and delicate touches
that somehow manage to hit every sore spot and relax it away. “Does this mean
you’re never going to tell me?”
 
Ah, well. As long as Sin isn't giving the brat excuses, Ja'far supposes. "Are
you really that curious?" His head tilts, and he releases that hand to move
onto the other. Though really, anything is better than talking of Judal and his
penchant for bringing about chaos.
 
Better, that they’ve moved on from talking about infuriating, cruel, mad Judal
with the broken bird look in his eyes. Sinbad shrugs, giving Ja’far his other
hand. “I’d like to know. I’ve kissed those scars enough. Is it that bad a
memory? I wouldn’t want to keep reminding you of something truly awful.”
 
"You haven't kissed them that much," Ja'far mutters, snorting as he digs his
thumbs into the back of Sinbad's hand. "It isn't that bad of a memory. Merely
gory, and pointless, as are most of Al-Sarmen's tricks."
 
Sinbad lets out a little hiss as a knot of tension he hadn’t known he had--how
does Ja’far find them so easily, anyway?--dissolves under a particularly deep
push. “I’ve never seen them on any other agent we’ve captured. And don’t say
things like that if you don’t want me to spend the next twelve hours between
your legs.”
 
It isn't so bad of a thought, though Ja'far supposes there are more
constructive things to be done, too, especially when it comes to making up for
the hours he lost previously. "Ah… probably because they've perfected it since
then. Mine was an impromptu punishment that just happened to offer some
improvement by the end of it all." He traces a finger up one of the corded
muscles of Sinbad's forearm. "They sewed me up like a rag doll. It was very
painful, and I certainly didn't try and run away again after that. I couldn't
move for weeks." 
 
Sinbad can picture it. He can picture the little slip of a thing Ja’far had
been when they’d first met, being held down and sliced open as he screamed--or
maybe he hadn’t screamed. Maybe he’d given them the tight-lipped silence.
Sinbad banishes the thought, forgoing the rest of the massage in favor of
turning and tugging Ja’far into his lap. “I never asked,” he says quietly,
pressing another soft kiss to Ja’far’s shoulder, “and you don’t have to tell
me, but…” Ah, there’s no delicate way to put this. “I think I was your first
man.”
 
Why is this being brought up? Ja'far sighs to mitigate the flush on his cheeks,
even as he settles himself back against Sinbad comfortably. "You were. Does it
matter?" He turns his head slightly to look at the other man. "They never
touched me like that. I daresay I'm not to their taste… or, well, much of
anyone's." Thankfully.
 
It is a relief, and Sinbad’s arms tighten around the smaller man’s torso. “I’m
glad. I know you...ah, well.” 
 
He chuckles ruefully, stroking a thumb down Ja’far’s arm. “Thank you for giving
me a third chance. You’re very much to my taste, you know.”
 
Ja'far snorts at that, and he shifts again with a put out exhale to follow. He
supposes he should find it flattering, but honestly… "So I can tell. Even if
that isn't entirely true, I'm really not the type you normally enjoy taking to
your bed." Ironically, that Magi is.
 
Sinbad grimaces, a hand stealing between them to adjust himself to a slightly
less offensive angle. Usually he’d push the issue but it’s been a long day for
both of them, and the peace of the evening is worth it. “Sorry. I’ll be good.
And you know...someone pretty who is smart, clever, and sees right through
me...it’s a very specialized type. Maybe it’s everyone else who falls short.”
 
"You're flattering me too much--what do you want?" It's halfway to a joke, at
least. Ja'far leans back again, his head resting against Sinbad's shoulder. If
Sinbad says he'll behave, he'll take his word for it (and if he does keep his
word, maybe give him a bit of leeway later). 
 
Sinbad blinks. “I’d flatter you like this every day if you didn’t take offense
to it,” he says truthfully. “And I’d take you to bed every night if I didn’t
bore you so.”
 
"… I don't take offense to it." Does he really sound like that? Ja'far sighs,
shutting his eyes. "Nor do you bore me. Well, the idea of sex does, but you
never have. It's more… hmm, the opposite, really? Aren't I boring? I don't
exactly see the point in doing it so much, after all." 
 
“You’ve never bored me.” Sinbad leans forward, nudging his nose against
Ja’far’s ear affectionately. “As for the frequency, well, you know I’m an
addict. When something is good, I want it all the time. And when it’s as good
as you, I never stop wanting it.”
 
"It can't be that good," Ja'far protests, even as he tilts his head back,
butting it gently underneath Sinbad's chin. "I don't even know what I'm doing."
I just follow your lead, as with most things.
 
“Mmm, but you don’t need to.” It’s hard to keep the touching strictly platonic,
but Sinbad is trying, keeping the gentle strokes of his hands to Ja’far’s arms.
“There’s something very...naturally sensual about you.” Sinbad laughs, and with
a soft kiss to the shell of Ja’far’s ear, admits, “Let’s change the subject, or
this is going to get more difficult for me.” Being good is exhausting.
 
Ja'far almost wants to keep talking about it, just to see how long Sinbad can
stand it. Maybe if he times it and sets a limit, he can allow certain things.
He really is mean at times, when it comes down to it. "It isn't already?" he
lightly prods, and a slow, careful shift back making himself rub back against
the hard--harder, now--line of Sinbad's cock. "You really are an addict." 
 
Sinbad hisses out a shaky little breath, hands flexing unconsciously. He
shifts, shoving his cock down between his legs, squeezing them together. Ha.
You’re testing me, but I can do this. I’m not a teenager anymore.“I know. I
can’t help it, you’re addictive.”
 
Ja'far even goes as far to let out a little disappointed sound, and sags
backwards on a sigh. "Are you sure it's me, and not any random person that ends
up in your lap? Honestly, I think sometimes you just would rather grab my legs
all day." Just mentioning them is probably enough.
 
Ah, Ja’far’s not playing fair. Sinbad sort of watches his hands move
helplessly, gliding through the water to rest on Ja’far’s legs, trailing up and
down his thighs--stick to the outer thighs, you’re not strong enough to go
farther--
 
In some ways the outer thighs are worse, curvy and soft and sweet in all the
right places, like a ripe peach he just wants to bite into, and Sinbad groans.
He swallows hard, cursing his inability to resist, well, practically any kind
of temptation, but especially Ja’far’s legs. “Tell me again about the paperwork
you need for tomorrow,” he tries desperately.
 
Ja'far supposes he should be kinder to his king.
 
On the other hand, this is just a bit of revenge, and it's sort of satisfying
to watch Sinbad squirm for once--and it's endearing that he's trying, at the
very least. "We need to review this month's budget, as well as our import
standings… I also made a more thorough walk-through of the mercantile district
for taxation purposes, so you'll need to go over that, as well." His eyes lid,
and he dips a hand down, idly sliding it over the back of one of Sinbad's, a
subtle push and guide to the inside of one thigh. "You say you always enjoy
touching these scars, I'm amazed you aren't right now." 
 
A frustrated little huff of air makes its way out through Sinbad’s nose, even
as he’s helpless to resist the slide of his hand down, close, brushing against
those old, half-healed scars and the sweet curve of obscenely soft flesh around
them. “Have I wronged you recently?” he asks, half-joking. “You’re enjoying
this far too much.”
 
"Mm, it's merely a test." Ja'far can't help but shiver, the slide of Sinbad's
hand impossible not to enjoy when he's brought it on himself, and his legs fall
open a bit further as he nestles back into the other man's chest. "You've been
good. You don't have to be anymore, if that's what you want." 
 
Sinbad understands tests. He’s been tested damn near every day of his life,
even if he’s not always sure by whom or what for, and this is no exception.
He’s mastered those tests, those dungeons and challenges, and he can master
this, too.
 
Maybe
 
His thumb strokes over the puckered edge of the scar, his other hand sliding
up, and he blinks when his finger tries to hook into a ring that isn’t there.
He rubs over the nipple, asking, “When did you take it out?”
 
Ja'far twitches a bit underneath that particular touch, his nerves responding
as if there still was a ring there to be tugged upon. "Awhile ago," he
grumbles. "I got fed up with you trying to reach underneath my shirt at night
and grab it. You'd do it in your sleep, too, you know." 
 
Sinbad tries not to pout. Instead, he tugs, pinching, and murmurs, “Then I’ll
just have to do this extra hard to remind you how much you liked it when I
played with it.” Sometimes. Ah, how can Ja’far blame a man for what he does in
his sleep, anyway?
 
The twitch turns to a shudder, and Ja'far's hands lift to Sinbad's knees,
squeezing, as if that will somehow mitigate the sensation. "That's really… ahh,
not too hard," he protests as his voice breaks into a squeak, face flushing hot
as he squirms. He takes it back--Sinbad needs to behave.
 
Sinbad can’t really help the way he shifts, cock pressing up against the curve
of Ja’far’s ass, and he pinches gently, stroking up and down the soft inside of
those lewd, inviting thighs. Much better, he decides, to make Ja’far the one
that’s squirming. “Sorry, you like it better like this?”
 
Another shiver, and Ja'far nods, letting his head loll back against Sinbad's
shoulder with a slow, albeit broken rush of breath. That does feel good; he'd
be fool to try and say otherwise. He likes the way Sinbad's fingers feel on his
skin, warm and calloused, never mind the slosh of water around them. His nipple
throbs a bit from the attention, and he bites his lip, wishing, briefly, that
he hadn't taken that ring out after all. Ah, but it's probably completely
healed up now, so there's nothing that can be done, unless… "Maybe I'll let you
pierce it again." Eventually. 
 
Some days (most days), Sinbad has no idea what he’d done to earn the right to
have Ja’far in his bed. 
 
True, he doesn’t get it very often, but that’s more than made up for on the few
occasions he’s had it, and now he presses gentle kisses along the pale column
of that neck, teasing and stroking and pressing up behind him just a little,
just enough to take the edge off. “Save it,” he rumbles, “for when I do
something really impressive.”
 
"I will have my pick, then." With a soft sigh, Ja'far arches his back, rocking
back against the hard line of Sinbad's cock. "Never mind that it isn't every
day that a king can so swiftly save his country and turn it into something even
better."
 
Vaguely, Sinbad wonders at what point he’d stopped being good and started
actually having sex with Ja’far, because he’s got one hand on a nipple and one
on a thigh and his cock is nudging against Ja’far’s ass and Ja’far is rocking
back on it, and that’s...pretty far from being good. Ah, well. Temptation is
difficult, far worse than any dungeon he’s faced. “Never mind that I would have
let it crumble if my advisor hadn’t pulled my head out of my ass.”
 
Ja'far snorts, turning his head aside to bury it into the side of Sinbad's
neck, exhaling hot and fast when he wriggles just so, and Sinbad's cock slips
lower, sliding along the cleft of his ass. A careful arch, and it catches
against his hole, just enough to make his breath hitch. "None of that matters,
because you didn't let it crumble." 
 
“I,” Sinbad says, in a low, rumbling purr, “am going to build the finest
country the world has ever seen.” He’s not even sure which of them is doing the
teasing now, only that what they’re doing feels good. He curls his hand,
squeezing that soft, supple thigh, pulling it just a bit to the side so
Ja’far’s legs are spread, straddling his own, and pushes forward just a bit,
enough that the head of his cock presses, almost pops inside, and slides away
again. “And if you see me making terrible decisions, well, you’re the only
person who’s allowed to question them.” Give me an award for coherent
conversation right now, I deserve it.
 
A low, purring groan pulls from Ja'far's throat, his head tipping back as he
sucks in a slow, deep breath of air. "Fortunately," he pants out, his eyes
fluttering as his hands lift to grasp at Sinbad's arms, white-knuckled at the
press of the man's cock, then relaxing again as it slides away, leaving him to
strangle down a whimper, "you have become a far better judge of things. It's a
rare day, that I have to keep you in check beyond reminding you of schedules."
He likes this, being nestled so securely back into Sinbad's chest, his legs
spread over the man's lap and god, Sin is so close to being inside of him. Go
on already, the arch of his back says, and Ja'far bites his lip with another,
tiny shudder, as he twists to grind his hips back again.
 
Sinbad’s lips stretch wide into a lazy, saturnine grin. This is the part he
likes best, always likes best, when Ja’far wants him so badly that he’s not
afraid to show it, not afraid to arch back and act like a normal person--at
least, a person that really likes sex. It’s a challenge, but also an
achievement to get Ja’far to this point, and Sinbad likes nothing better than
to revel in it. He nuzzles into Ja’far’s neck, nibbling and suckling, and can’t
help but laugh a little as he murmurs, “I think having me rubbing against you
here is more fun for me than for you.” Go on, take what you want, you’re never
more beautiful than when you’re being selfish.
 
Ja'far huffs at that, his own head turning aside to spare a nip at the curve of
Sinbad's jaw, teeth gently scraping. "You'd be surprised," he sighs, even as
his eyes lid, and his hips lift just a bit more and he slides a hand back,
fumbling to wrap his fingers loosely around the base of Sinbad's cock. It's a
bit of a rush, being so forward about what he wants, and certainly a rare
thing. After all that has happened as of late, though, Ja'far figures he can
afford it--especially when it feels good.
 
It's still too much, no matter how much he wants it. That first, aching stretch
when the head of Sinbad's cock presses inside is enough to leave him gasping,
and he only manages the first few inches before his legs tremble, tense and
aching as he sags back with a whimper, his head lolling over Sinbad's shoulder
as he flushes hot. "Help," he breathes, his hands sliding to claw at the other
man's forearms, his entire body a tight, quivering thing.
 
Immediately, Sinbad’s hands come up, steadying Ja’far, holding him easily,
keeping him from taking too much, to fast. He groans at the stretch of it, the
indescribable tightness of Ja’far squeezing around his cock; it can’t feel
good, he’s almost sure, but Ja’far is wriggling down like it does, and that’s
all the incentive Sinbad needs.
 
“Shh,” he murmurs, no matter how his own breath hitches, his own hands want to
tremble, but Ja’far needs him to be in control. Ja’far is actually letting him,
and that goes to his cock just as much as the sweet, tight heat of his ass
does. “I’ve got you, I won’t give you more than you can take.”
 
"I…"
 
His toes curl, every muscle in his body feeling as if it is drawn as tightly as
a bowstring, and ah, god, that's as nice as it is exhausting. A soft, broken
moan escapes his lips, and Ja'far huffs out a hot, desperate breath. "Want all
of it, though." Even the thought of it makes his cock twitch, makes
indescribable heat pool in his belly, even though it's too tense, too much for
him to take comfortably. "Please," he rasps, his head turning to the side to
bury into Sinbad's neck, another shudder his surrender as he sinks into
Sinbad's grasp.
 
Dimly, Sinbad has to admit that his determination to be gentle was about as
likely to succeed as his determination to be good when Ja’far was wriggling on
his lap. He wraps an arm around Ja’far’s waist, lowering him with a grunt of
effort--effort, not to just slam him down--and his eyes flutter shut as he
pants, fully-seated. “Know you can take it,” he mutters, and he rocks up,
pulling Ja’far down at the same time as he moves, turning his head to catch the
younger man’s lips in a swift kiss.
 
The half-gasp, half-squeak that leaves his throat is lost against Sinbad's
mouth, the kiss too sloppy as he pants openly, lost, relieved when he's pulled
down, unable to do anything but writhe when Sinbad's cock sinks so deeply
inside of him. Ja'far swears he can nearly taste him, and for all he chokes
down air, it's not enough, leaving his chest to heave and his thighs to
tremble, back arching with each upward thrust into his body, with his hands
splaying over Sinbad's, gripping tightly in encouragement far more than any
plea for restraint. 
 
He feels like the basest of whores, liking it when it's too much. His breath
hiccups on a little, sobbing moan, his legs splaying further over Sinbad's lap
even though that doesn't help at all--it isn't as if he could close his legs if
he tried, not with how spread open he is. One hand fumbles, grasping at
Sinbad's knee for leverage to push back, his mouth falling open as Sin's cock
slides that much deeper, and Ja'far shivers hard, unable to do anything but
press back at that same angle for a moment, just enough pleasure twitching up
his spine to take off that tense, hot ache of pain.
 
One of these days, lost at the feeling of being properly, achingly stuffed
full, Ja’far is really going to hurt himself. He’s a tiny thing, as small as
(smaller than) any of the girls Sinbad likes to set on his knee, with delicate
bones and a slender frame and narrow shoulders and god, he’s tight. “Easy,”
Sinbad murmurs, breath hitching as he has to thrust up, has to take what he
needs just a bit. “Easy, it’s not going anywhere, you can have as much as you
want.”
 
With anyone else, he’d be tempted to grin, to show them exactly how hard he
could fuck them, to slap that pale curved ass and let affectionate, insulting
compliments fall from his lips. With Ja’far, he just rocks, one hand holding
his hip steady, the other, sliding around and up to toy with that same nipple,
knowing that for all his protestations, Ja’far likes it when it hurts.
 
God, that feels good.
 
Ja'far huffs quietly, his eyes fluttering shut as he squirms, taking Sinbad's
advice to go easy. As if any of this is easy--but he likes it that way,
especially when Sinbad fills him so perfectly and so completely, and it's all
he can do to arch back into the rocking of Sinbad's hips, to wriggle forward
against the fingers plucking at his nipple, and it's the memory of that
piercing there, more than anything, that makes his cock that much harder. Too
easy to imagine Sinbad's finger hooking into it, tugging, pulling as he fucks
him--
 
He's glad, really, that Sinbad can't see his face very well, especially not
when he tips his head forward and his skin flushes so damnably hot. For all he
wriggles and squirms down onto Sin's cock, it's still not quite enough. "Ahh…
just… just a little bit harder…" Or bite me, or pull my hair, or--anything,
really, because whatever Sinbad does always seems to be good.
 
Sinbad buries his face in Ja’far’s shoulder, groaning as his hips snap up. I
know what you need, he thinks, cock aching, throbbing at the thought. You need
me to lose control and fuck you like a beast.
 
Ja’far is so complicated sometimes that Sinbad always seems to forget the
rules--slow to start, and that had been so hard to learn that he’d always,
always tended to go too slow later, forgetting the way Ja’far clawed and sighed
and begged, and just the memory of that, much less the knowledge that right now
Ja’far is squirming and needing around his cock, is enough to make Sinbad
forget he’d ever wanted to be gentle.
 
“Hope this is what you want,” he mutters, and lunges forward, pressing Ja’far
over the side of the tub, hips snapping forward to bury himself deeply,
groaning at the squeeze of it. The younger man is trembling, tight and
breathily squeaking around him, and Sinbad fists a hand in his hair, yanking
him back hard and fast. Hope it is, because I can’t stop.
 
Ja'far wants to scream--wants to shriek and sob and beg for more, even if it's
already as much as he can stand, but the sounds catch in his throat, strangled
into little squeaks and whines. His hands fist over the side of the tub, his
face buried into his own arm until his hair is yanked on, and god, that's good
too, leaving his neck painfully arched as he gulps and gasps for air. 
 
He's probably little better than the basest of whores, when it comes down to
it, considering how fast he comes when he's used like this. Sinbad's cock
inside of him is a tight, agonizingly good ache, too thick and too hard and
even still, he squirms back onto it, stretched onto tiptoe until his feet and
legs cramp, and he knows he's breathlessly sobbing as he spills without even a
touch to his own cock. Even then he wriggles back, panting so fast he swears
he'll die, everything so hot and dizzying that pain is secondary, far, far down
the list when he's so overwhelmed.
 
Seeing Ja’far like this--feeling him like this, squirming and writhing and
impaled on his cock--is far, far too much for Sinbad’s self-control.
 
He lunges forward, biting harder than he means to into Ja’far’s shoulder, hands
bruising everywhere they touch Ja’far’s pale, pale skin, wrenching his thighs
apart for a last frenzied chorus of thrusts. There’s nothing he craves more
than being inside that tightness, the searing heat of it too much even if he
couldn’t feel the squeeze of soft skin under his hands, hear strangled cries
coming from Ja’far’s mouth, see that usually-straight spine curved in an arch
of ecstasy. 
 
With a wordless groan, Sinbad buries himself, too hard, too deep, knowing it’s
hurting Ja’far and with no words to apologize, shuddering gasps wracking his
body as he thrusts, spilling himself slick and hot and probably too much as he
finally stills.
 
Finally, gratefully, Ja'far slumps forward with a groan, burying his face into
his arms as he comes down from his high, twitching and shivering at how it
feels when Sinbad comes inside of him, everything suddenly so hot and slick
that it tempts him to push back, just to feel that slippery little slide. It
makes him tremble--everything is too sore, too achingly used--and he flops
against the side of the tub, boneless and thoroughly spent. 
 
"Keep being such a good king," he breathes, voice muffled from where his face
is buried, "and perhaps this can be your reward more often."
 
Sinbad sighs out a breath, pressing a last kiss to Ja’far’s shoulder before
sinking back into the water, no matter the temptation to just lay on top of his
advisor’s back. That’s the problem with bedding someone so small, after all; a
careless roll in his sleep could half-suffocate Ja’far. “If that’s the sort of
thing you’re giving out for prizes,” he manages, dipping his hair back to let
the sweat rinse away, “you’d better be prepared for me to accomplish a lot of
goals very quickly.”
 
"I'll believe it when I see it," Ja'far half-laughs, sliding slowly down into
the water with a sated sigh. He lists to the side a bit, not quite wanting to
sit, but liking the way the water washes away sweat and weariness all the same.
"Though you have been very motivated lately, thankfully."
 
“Ah, well. Nearly losing my country because I made stupid decisions has a way
of motivating me.” Sinbad pushes the wet hair back from his forehead, relaxing
back against the side of the tub, stretching out his legs. “Have they caught
him yet, by the way? You’d know before I would.”
 
Ja'far takes a moment to dunk his own hair, coming up a second later with it
dripping into his eyes. "Last I have heard, we know of his whereabouts and are
ready to capture him. It's only a matter of time--I'm assuming you want him
alive?" 
 
About to answer, Sinbad hesitates. Certainly he wants to see the man punished,
and doubtless a good chunk of the people (especially those in the surrounding
states that had fallen victim to his cowardice) will as well. But…
 
“Yes,” he answers slowly, frowning in thought. “I’m not sure...I’ve never had
to deal with anything like this before.”
 
Ja'far's expression twists wry. "Many kings would torture him before killing
him publicly. I'm assuming that isn't what you'd like to do upon bringing him
back here."
 
“You assume quite a lot when I don’t know my own mind yet,” Sinbad murmurs, not
quite a rebuke. He sighs, leaning his head back. “The problem is, I wanted a
country because I wanted to be better than all the awful kings, but...they’re
the only ones I’ve ever seen. What would a good king do?”
 
A little, thoughtful hum follows as Ja'far gingerly stretches out a leg,
propping his foot upon one of Sinbad's thighs. "Imprison him. Sentence him to
death. Perhaps put him to the labor lines, rebuilding the city that he
destroyed. But they certainly would not torture him to death… or be
unnecessarily cruel about it, if death is what you decide. Though, you
shouldn't let me too close to him. I personally want to carve Sindria's crest
into his chest."
 
Sinbad snorts, but it warms him nonetheless. To know that someone as
discerning, as judgmental and shrewd as Ja’far feels so much loyalty to the
thing he’d built...well, that’s enough right there. “How do you know?” he asks,
resting a hand on Ja’far’s foot, thumb stroking across the arch of it just hard
enough that it won’t tickle. “Have you ever seen a good king?”
 
The instinct to jerk is still there, expecting it to tickle, though Ja'far
doesn't pull his foot away. His gaze lids, a slow whoosh of breath leaving his
lungs. "Mmn. I've seen you." His head tilts. "Otherwise, I've heard of them,
read about them, and how their subjects praised their fair, but still stern
rule."
 
“I want them to love me.” It’s not much of a confession, not when Ja’far knows
him so well. “I know it’s selfish, but it’s what I want. I want every single
person in Sindria to be fed and clothed and happy, and I want them to love me,
or what’s the point?”
 
"Then sentence him to death," Ja'far simply replies, idly wriggling his toes.
"It's as firm as a response as you can have to something like this. Torture
will bring your people momentary satisfaction, but it will also only bring
about fear. A swift death is far more of a statement, and not nearly as cruel,
merely an adequate punishment for all that he took from this country. It will
let your people know that being a traitor is unforgivable, and send a similar
message to your enemies, besides." 
 
Sinbad brings his other hand up, slowly working his fingers in a massage. “I
don’t feel that he’s wronged me personally, so much as he has the people. And
his death won’t bring back the ones lost in the border conflicts, or the riots.
He’s not my enemy the way Al-Sarmen is. Is it still right for me to kill
someone like that?”
 
"It will make anyone think twice about doing such a thing to Sindria again,"
Ja'far points out around a hissing sigh, his eyes lidding as he sinks back, his
foot arching within Sinbad's grasp. "Alternatively… there is some satisfaction
in making him work as a laborer to rebuild the city. But what to do with him
after that is the real question…" 
 
“But no one will ever be able to do such a thing to Sindria again, because I’ll
never leave anyone else on the throne in my absence but you,” Sinbad counters,
working his thumbs down the sensitive arch of Ja’far’s foot. “And as fitting as
it would be to make him a laborer, if we let the people know, they’d mob him in
revenge. And if we didn’t, they’d wonder what we did with him.”
 
Ja'far twitches and squirms, his toes curling in reflexive protest. "What would
you rather do, then?" he finally manages, flopping his head back over the side
of the tub as he surrenders. "Kill him, imprison him, force him into labor.
Those are your basic options."
 
Sinbad works his thumbs down to the heel, and the backside of it, rubbing the
tendon. “There should be a better way. It was my own poor decisions that led
here, not just his cowardice.”
 
Ja'far barely bites back a groan. "Ahh… nnn, let me… sleep on it, then. Though
I patently disagree that your 'poor decisions' had such influence upon his own
stupidity and disgusting behavior. An honorable man would not use your
prolonged absence like he did."
 
“I’m not defending him,” Sinbad mutters. “And if it were just me he’d wronged,
I’d like nothing more than to take his head off and turn it upside down for a
candy bowl. But...how do you punish someone who’s wronged thousands? Do you let
them each have a piece? Do you…” He sighs, stroking a thumb along the side of
the foot, then tugging a toe. “I’m sorry, I’ll let you sleep on it. Can you
walk, or shall I carry you?”
 
"Sin." Ja'far pushes himself up and reaches forward, gently grabbing hold of a
strand of Sinbad's hair and tugging. "Do recall, for once, that you are a king.
You represent those thousands of people. Even if he had just wronged you, those
thousands of people would want to see justice for you. Whatever you see fit is
what they will see fit, one way or another. Kill him, torture him, imprison
him, sell him--whatever you do, it is still justice for them. You can't do very
wrong in this case." 
 
Sinbad blinks, catching Ja’far’s eyes. There’s faith there, faith in him, and
if there’s anything in the world more humbling, he doesn’t know about it. He
nods, but the thought still niggles at him, less because he doesn’t know what
to do, and more because he doesn’t like that he doesn’t know what to do. “You’d
respect my decision, wouldn’t you? As a resident of Sindria?”
 
"Whatever it is, I would stand behind it without hesitation." Ja'far sinks
back, releasing Sinbad's hair with a last little tug. "You don't have to ask.
You should know that by now."
 
Even after I let you down, let all of them down, they believe in me. It almost
beggars belief. But then again, why shouldn’t they? 
 
Sinbad grins, standing, stretching, and extending a hand to Ja’far. “I have
more work to do tonight. You can rest if you want, but I’d like to share the
midnight oil with you.”
 
Ja'far's brows arch high, and he can't help but wonder if this is his own
incentive at work, or honest motivation as a king. Ah, well, he'll take it
either way. He stretches up, taking Sinbad's hand and using it to pull himself
to his feet, albeit in a slightly wobbly fashion. "By all means, my king. I am
always at your service."
 
***** Chapter 8 *****
 
Ahhh, Sindria is warm.
 
It's a breezy, balmy sort of warm, not the gross, dripping humidity surrounding
the Kou Empire's main palace. The placement of the palace in Sindria is
especially nice, welcoming the ocean breeze and through Sinbad's window, Judal
can really feel it, particularly when he collapses onto the man's bed to wait
for his return.
 
He felt Sinbad conquer that seventh dungeon already. He should be back at any
time.
 
'Any time' turns to an hour, and Judal starts getting not only bored, but
sleepy. Sinbad's bed is comfortable, and smells like him, besides, and that's
enough to slowly put him to sleep in and of itself. A little nap won't hurt,
Judal supposes, even if he knows wriggling down into the sheets will end up
wrinkling his clothes--ah, to hell with it. He'll be presentable enough, and
the ocean breeze is almost chilly now, so under the blanket is a better choice,
with his face buried down into a pillow.
 
Sinbad drops his things in a trail, starting at the Palace’s outer door and
proceeding up to his room, like breadcrumbs of things he’s too weary to carry
any more. The whole way back, he’s heard nothing but that voice echoing in his
head, telling him there are no more dungeons, that he’d bled and fought and
worked for so much so fast only to find that he hadn’t really needed to. He
could have taken his time, prepared for years, because then at least he’d have
had something to look forward to. Now he might as well cut off his own legs,
and his arms as well, just be a head fit to do nothing but give orders and sit
on a throne.
 
The dark thoughts swirl in his mind as he finally reaches his own bedroom,
dropping the last of his clothes to the ground before he hits the bed. A
second’s pause, and his frown turns into a weary smile as he curls his body
around the warm lump. At least he still has Ja’far. “You waited for me,” he
murmurs, eyes closing in bliss. "Gave me something nice to come home to."
 
A little shift, and the lump stirs, cracking open red eyes into the now rather
dimly lit room. Ahh, he'd really overslept, hadn't he? But with good results,
by the sound of it. Judal squirms, rolling over underneath the sheets, and
promptly butts his head into Sinbad's chest, burying himself close and
breathing in the scent of him. It's much better, like this. The real thing is
always better than just a pillow.
 
It feels obscenely good, relaxing and comforting and stable, to have Ja’far in
his arms. The warmth of him, the weight of him, the smell of him, all combining
to soothe Sinbad to--
 
Wait.
 
The thing about Ja’far, the really odd thing, is that even when he’s been
running all day, when he hasn’t bathed for a week because they were in the
desert, or ten minutes after trying on a perfume, he has no smell. Sometimes
one will cling to him for a few minutes, but it’s an odd natural quirk, and
something that Sinbad finds somewhere between annoying and endearing. 
 
The person butting against his chest has a smell, and it’s familiar, too. 
 
Ah, damn, he’d so enjoyed the thought of going to sleep with someone he liked.
“Judal,” he says quietly, keeping his voice calm--hell maybe he’ll be able to
get out of this alive, and he’s far too tired to fight-- “what are you doing
here?”
 
That's not quite the greeting he wanted. Judal grumbles, and his hands reach
out, grabbing for Sinbad's arm, wrapping around it tightly as he sleepily peers
upward through his lashes. "I was waiting for you. You conquered that dungeon,
right? I raised it for you, it was a present." 
 
Sinbad sort of wants to quit. He’s tired, his heart hurts, he’s been walking
for ages and damn it, he knows full well how mercurial Judal can be, and right
now he looks like there’s nothing he wants more than to be petted and coddled
and…
 
 Fine. If he kills me later, at least I’ll sleep first.
 
Sinbad squeezes, pulling Judal tightly against him. And it’ll be a comfortable
sleep. “Very powerful,” he agrees, yawning, then nudging his nose against the
top of Judal’s head. “Just for me?”
 
Judal purrs, a low, rumbling thing as he buries his face back into Sinbad's
chest, sighing long and slow as he's pulled close. "Mmhm. Just for you. The Kou
Empire doesn't know, you shouldn't tell them," he murmurs, and a leg promptly
flops its way over Sinbad's hip to insure that they stay as close as humanly
possible. "Wanted to see if you could do it first."
 
Like this, clingy and affectionate and not...stabby, Judal reminds Sinbad of
how he was on their first meeting, and he can’t help but wonder if Al-Sarmen
had tinkered with him to make him more like that again. Ah, gods, he’s too
tired to deal with that now, too tired to deal with anything but snuggling
against the warm body in his arms, working his fingers into thick hair to
gently scratch. “I could tell it was yours. All of yours feel the same. They
like to...play.”
 
"More fun that way," Judal sighs out, rubbing his cheek against Sinbad's chest
as his eyes flutter shut. "Wanted to kinda make up for being a jerk the last
few times," he tiredly mumbles, voice muffled as he shoves his face more firmly
into Sinbad's chest. "But you don't seem that happy. Guess it wasn't good--
sorry."
 
“Mmm, no, it was good.” God, it had been good, hadn’t it? He’d thought it would
get the better of him a dozen times, and there was the fierce pride in knowing
that it didn’t, that it hadn’t, that he’d bested it not by trickery and deceit
but by his own strength and cunning. “Probably the best I’ve ever gone
through.” He brushes a kiss against the top of Judal’s head, inhaling that
exotic spice as he tightens his arm. “Thank you.”
 
That's definitely pride that makes him shiver, and maybe a little bit of
relief, too. "Good. Then I can stay?" Your bed is comfortable, don't make me
leave.
 
Sinbad huffs out a breath, tugging the big blanket over both of them. “You’re
warm and you smell good and I like the way you feel in my arms. Don’t go.” I’d
keep you forever if you were always like this.
 
Good. Really good, much better than being kicked out the window that he came
through and sent home after being scolded like a child. Kouen's bed is nothing
like this, and Kouen doesn't hold him like this, doesn't even really want to
touch him at all, not like Sinbad, at least. Sinbad seems to like holding him
and kissing him and everything else, not like Kouen who only cracks a smile if
he starts chattering about magic or battle… 
 
Judal sort of wants to tell Sinbad that he had dressed up for him, smelled
extra good on purpose, even, but he's too sleepy, and Sinbad's too warm, and
probably too tired as well, by the way he acts. In the morning, he dimly tells
himself, and thus settles down with a pleased little sigh.
 
Sinbad sleeps in much later than Kouen does, too. 
 
Maybe it's the whole just-conquered-a-dungeon thing, but Judal doubts it.
They're a tangled mess when he wakes to the morning sun pouring over them, and
it's with a grumble that he rolls atop Sinbad completely, trying to tug his
braid free from where the man half flops over it, to no avail. "Stupid king,"
he mumbles, and he collapses down as if he's boneless, pouting as he sets his
chin atop Sinbad's chest to stare at him while he still sleeps. Ah, he's
stupidly, annoyingly handsome. Not so much unlike Kouen, but it's still
different--not anywhere near as cold and the lines are still softer, besides… 
 
Something is on him.
 
Sinbad can sleep through quite a lot--noise, light, heat, cold, none of those
bother his slumber in the slightest. But when someone flops down on his chest,
resting a pointed chin there and kicking his legs back and forth, it doesn’t
take him long to crack his eyes, no matter how his body aches.
 
Ah. Right. He’d gone to bed with his arms around Judal.
 
Well, in for a draught, in for a queen, and Sinbad smiles, reaching up to tug
gently on a loose lock of hair dangling around the magi’s face. “You look
pretty in the sunlight. Good morning.”
 
"You're lying on my hair," Judal petulantly points out, even as his head tips
forward, nudging into Sinbad's hand in a clearly attention-seeking gesture.
"Mm, but your bed is really comfortable to sleep in, so I'll forgive you this
time." 
 
Being around Judal makes him stupid. It has to, because he knows that the last
time he took Judal to bed he wound up with stab wounds soon after, and yet his
hand still curls into that soft dark hair as he shifts, being careful not to
yank too hard as he frees the long braid. “My apologies. I’ll brush it for you
to make it up to you, if you want.”
 
The idea is a nice one, for sure. Sinbad is always good with his hair--none of
the Kou brothers are at all, and the princesses just as useless. "Later," he
agrees as he wriggles down, letting his already sleep-wrinkled and tousled
robes slink further down his shoulders. "It'll just get messed up again at this
rate, though." Judal pauses, and spares a frown over his shoulder in the
direction of the door. "Freckles isn't gonna come in anytime soon, is he?" 
 
Now that is an idea that chills Sinbad instantly. He never prefers it when
Ja’far comes in while he’s bedding someone, but something tells him this would
be far, far, far worse than if Judal were just some random girl he’d picked up
at a festival. It twists in his chest to make him think he’s being so dishonest
(and when did I start lying to Ja’far anyway?), but a flare of magic turns the
lock with an audible click. “Just you and me,” he murmurs, and in order to
distract himself from the betrayal, he buries his face in Judal’s neck, sliding
an arm down to sling around his waist.
 
Judal grins, slinking down to nuzzle into Sinbad's neck in turn, his lips
parting to lightly nip before his head tips to catch one golden hoop of an
earring. "Good," he sighs out with a light tug. "Mmn--after I came all this
way, I'd expect your undivided attention." A squirm, and Judal settles his
knees neatly to either side of Sinbad's hips, his fingertips tracing the line
of his collarbone. "My dungeon didn't hurt you too badly, did it?"
 
It’s far easier than it should be to let go of the guilt. Oh, well. He can
always feel guilty tomorrow, he supposes. Yeah, that sounds like it’s for the
best. “Not too badly,” he agrees, smiling at the affectionate little touches,
hands wandering up and down Judal’s back, slowly stroking over the soft skin.
“You put it damned far away, though. Took me forever to get there. Not all of
us can fly.”
 
"Soooorry," Judal huffs, his nails flexing in for a slow, pleased knead at the
slide of Sinbad's fingers down his spine. "I didn't want the Kou Empire to
snatch it up, so it had to be a good ways away. Aren't you glad you didn't have
competition?"
 
“I had some competition,” Sinbad protests. “Lots of local boys. They didn’t
make it out, obviously.” Most men who go into a dungeon don’t. He leans up,
placing a soft, sweet kiss on Judal’s lips. “No princes, though. Thank you for
that.”
 
"That's not competition for you, though." Judal's teeth gently scrape over
Sinbad's lower lip, his eyes lidding as he exhales a breath that's far more a
purr than anything. "No one is now, when you have seven dungeons conquered."
 
Seven. The number sounds so final. Sinbad has to wonder if Judal knows, knows
about the djinn’s words and how much they ache inside him even now, has to
wonder if that’s why he’s here. It’s the very limit of his magoi, something he
can’t train or work at or cajole, something that’s simply over, and a little
bit of the helplessness and rage he’d felt yesterday comes back, no matter how
he tries to push it away. “Do you think a man of seven dungeons very powerful?”
 
"There's no one else in the world like you," Judal readily tells him, and he
nuzzles his face into the crook of Sinbad's shoulder, unable to stop from
biting, just a little, at bared skin. "The only other person to conquer
multiple dungeons is Kouen… but, ah, he only has three, so it's not the same…"
 
Sinbad hisses a little, a spark of heat flashing through him at the scrape of
Judal’s teeth, pooling low in his abdomen as his arms tighten around Judal,
dragging him closer. So, Kouen’s conquered another dungeon, hmm?That doesn’t
worry him much. Even on the slight chance that the mysterious Kouen’s magoi is
greater than his own, the man’s only a year younger, and hasn’t half as many
djinn. “Nearly as rare as a Magi,” Sinbad murmurs. “Both of us are scarce.”
 
A quiet, but no less eager sound rumbles from Judal's throat, and he nips
again, biting harder this time and sucking as his eyes flutter with the arch of
his back and the downward wriggle of his hips. "Mmhm… which is why we should
stick together," he breathes upon releasing Sinbad's skin, and it's hard,
really hard not to let his next words turn into a whine. "Let me choose you." 
 
A spark of something dark flares in Sinbad’s chest. He could do so muchwith
Judal at his side. It wouldn’t matter how many dungeons he could conquer, he’d
have a Magi as a resource, and only two others in the world could say that, and
possibly not even two. 
 
But…
 
But there’s still that mad gleam in Judal’s eyes, no matter how he wriggles
like a kitten, and Sinbad would bet gold to garbage that he’s no more willing
to give up Al-Sarmen than before. 
 
So instead of breathing, “Of course,” Sinbad murmurs, “Pleasure before
business,” and rolls them over, kissing Judal deeply before he has a chance to
protest.
 
He wants to whine, to kick and protest and tell Sinbad to decide already,
because he wants it so badly that it hurts. Sinbad is a dozen times better than
Kouen, both to be around and in strength, but he won't say a simple yes when
Kouen pesters him at Al-Sarmen's cue to choose him already. 
 
Judal doesn't want to.
 
He doesn't mention that Al-Sarmen is impatient, annoyed with him for even
trying to lure Sindria's king, no matter how powerful. They know, of course, if
he chooses Kouen, that it doesn't matter how powerful Sinbad is--Kouen will be
stronger, and that's the end of it. It makes them angry that Judal doesn't want
that, especially not as much as he wants Sinbad's mouth kissing him like this,
or the weight and heat of his body pressing him down into his soft, soft bed,
and ah, god, that's nice, to be able to spread his legs and wrap his thighs
around Sinbad's hips, rather than having his face shoved down like he's not
even something that need be seen to be fucked… 
 
"Please," he begs, and he's certain it's less about sex, no matter how
breathless he is, than it is about Sinbad saying yes, I'll be your king, you
can be my magi.It twists in his chest, makes him claw at Sinbad's back and drag
him down to keep him close. 
 
How perfect would it be if Judal could be his, his alone? 
 
Just one thing flares in his mind as he kisses, hands wandering down to caress
the soft flesh at Judal’s thighs, to hike his ass up, squeezing and kneading at
smooth, perfect flesh.
 
 I have to make him love me more than he fears them.
 
For all of Judal’s protestations about wanting the best teachers, he is
capricious, mercurial, and he surely wouldn’t mind leaving his teachers behind
for his king, would he? Not unless he fears them, and Sinbad knows enough about
Al-Sarmen to think that perhaps Judal isn’t as stupid as Ja’far wants to think.
 
Mind-games in bed. Gods, is that what he’s come to?
 
Sinbad’s arms curl around Judal, hefting him up into his lap like something
precious, kissing him like he’s something Sinbad needs. I’ll make it happen.
Whatever it takes, I’ll replace them in his heart, and he’ll be mine.
 
Judal’s eyes are beautiful, for all their madness. Please be mine.
 
Judal knows he's over-eager as he lurches up, wriggling his way into Sinbad's
lap with breathy sighs and soft, panting moans, his arms draped around his
shoulders, fingers lacing through his hair. He can't help it, though--not when
it feels so good, not when Sinbad is so warm and wants him, and that's the
biggest relief he's felt in what feels like ages, especially when the last time
they were together, he'd lost his temper and thought for sure he'd ruined all
of this. 
 
He was wrong. Thankfully, he was wrong.
 
He's the one fumbling at his own clothes, uncaring if it makes him look like a
harlot for all his desire to be undressed faster, and he's glad at his choice
of dress this time, because robes are easier to just open and leave partially
hanging, an aesthetic that he knows even Kouen likes. You probably do, too. I
hope you do. You're touching me like you do, I think? Judal huffs, his face
burying its way into Sinbad's neck as he hesitantly reaches one hand back,
pawing at the tie at the end of his braid, and shaking it out shortly after
that, the mass of it tumbling loose. This, though--this is just for you.
 
There’s a plan.
 
Sinbad tries to remember that there’s a plan.
 
It’s ridiculous, impossible, because Judal is warm and wriggling and happy on
top of him, and that eager little smile, those pawing hands, the way he bares
so much skin because he needs so badly--
 
Sinbad is sure there had been a plan.
 
Whatever it was, he finds himself kissing trails down Judal’s throat, biting
and nipping and making bruises, claiming hard. He hopes the plan had something
to do with getting his hands on every part of Judal he can reach, grabbing it
closer and kissing it, urging him to wrap those long, teasing legs around his
hips. “Want you,” he mutters against Judal’s neck, trailing into a growl. “Want
you so bad, need to be inside you.”
 
That makes him shudder, makes his pulse jump and quicken faster than anything,
and Judal whines, mewls as he arches his back and squirms, his head thrown back
with a breathless groan as he twists his hips and pulls at Sinbad's hair. "Fuck
me." He sounds pitiful, probably, whining like he is, his breath so fast that
he has to close his eyes and swallow hard to try and calm himself down.
"Please, p-please--" Imissedyou.
 
There’s something brutally honest about Judal. Maybe it’s the stark, incapable
honesty of an ignorant child, as Ja’far seems to think. Sinbad doesn’t know,
right now doesn’t care, only cares that the hungry, aching need in the boy’s
face is for him. “Shh,” he murmurs, drawn inescapably, helplessly forward. He
kisses the boy’s face, kisses his neck, and a hungry growl wells in his throat
as he eases Judal’s legs as far apart as they’ll go, rubbing the slick head of
his cock against that pretty little hole. Judal is no wilting maiden, he’s a
creature of need and desire, and Sinbad is only as gentle as the fire in his
chest allows, thrusting up hard, biting down and groaning as he does.
 
Judal sobs, voice breaking to shriek, too, he thinks, though it's ragged and
breathless at best, his hands clawing at Sinbad's back and his body twisting,
thighs clamping tight about the man's waist as he hiccups and moans. It hurts--
tense, tight, not slick enough at all and it just makes him tremble all the
more, to know Sinbad wants him so badly he couldn't even wait. He can take it,
though; he tells himself that, at any rate, no matter the hot, thick stretch of
Sinbad's cock that makes his eyes flutter and cross when he pushes down,
drawing another broken keen from his throat as he mindlessly writhes. 
 
God, it's good, though.
 
No one fucks him like this. No one grabs him and hauls him down and shoves him
and pins him to the bed and kisses and bites him and marks him like they want
everyone to know where he's been like this. Judal blinks hard, and his vision
smears with tears as he pants hard, arching his back to better shove himself
down, no matter how he bites his lip and his legs shake so hard that they just
fall open again, helpless and begging. 
 
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Sinbad blames his exhaustion, his raw need for the boy
for forgetting, hurried as he was, and he lurches forward, lowering Judal onto
his back as he pulls out, just for long enough to slick his cock with aloe.
“Sorry,” he mutters, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t wait, you’re--”
 
Judal is perfect around him as he slides back in, slick and tight and hot and
perfect. Sinbad plants his knees on the bed, pressing a hard sucking kiss to
the boy’s neck as he moves, groaning at the squeeze of it. “Perfect,” he pants,
finishing a half-forgotten sentence.
 
"It's--" Fine, better than fine, really, really good, Judal wants to tell him,
though his voice breaks again and he's sure he's sobbing all over again, though
he can't quite hear it over the pounding of his own pulse. If it was good
before, no matter that aching, agonizing burn, this is a dozen times better,
hot and slick and enough to make him whimper with each deep slide. His fingers
curl, splaying over Sinbad's shoulders, and his mouth falls open with the next,
deep press of Sinbad's hips. "Ah--hah, there, please--" There's still that
tense little edge to everything, but god help him if he doesn't love how far
Sinbad can go inside of him--enough that Judal is sure he can't breathe
sometimes, enough that his eyes just roll back and all he can do is rock his
hips down, wanting more.
 
Sinbad can hardly breathe. 
 
There’s nothing that feels as good as being buried in Judal, nothing that makes
his heart pound like this, as Sinbad wraps his arms around the boy, pulling him
as close as two people can possibly get. It’s easier, from this angle, to lean
back just a bit, to nip at a collarbone and dig his hands in right as he
thrusts just so, and what he doesn’t know about fucking men he makes up for by
watching Judal’s exquisite, expressive face. No matter how he tries to be
gentle it won’t be enough, so he doesn’t try very hard.
 
“Show me,” he breathes, tugging on an earlobe with his teeth, sliding in hard
and fast and hungry. “Show me that face, when I’ve got you…”
 
Judal hiccups, whines, bonelesswhen Sinbad slides in so perfectly. He doesn't
quite hear Sinbad, but he knows his face twists in something like ecstasy, his
cock so hard that the slightest drag of Sinbad's hands over his hips, the touch
of his teeth and wash of his breath, are all enough to make it throb that much
more.
 
It hurts because it's so good. He sobs as he comes, chest heaving and eyes
glazed, his brow knitted from the tension that suddenly makes him squeeze and
tremble even more, and god, that just makes him come harder, spilling slick and
messy between them as he writhes his way down onto Sinbad's cock, clinging to
his shoulders and shivering, quivering with every little slide of heat that
keeps slithering up his spine. 
 
Usually, this is the part Sinbad likes the most. 
 
When he’s served his bedmate well, when someone’s clenching and breathless on
his cock and then goes boneless and grateful and clinging to him, and he can
take what he wants--that’s the best part, usually.
 
With Judal, who has the time?
 
It’s too much, too intense with the squeeze of it, the clench and spasm of
tight muscles as the boy squirms on him, panting and whining and god, there’s
nothing Sinbad can do but lose himself bare seconds later, burying his cry into
Judal’s shoulder as he spills, flooding the boy wet and hot and full. He pants
out his breaths, sweat-slick and trembling against Judal as he slumps over with
slow, satisfied relief.
 
God, that's nice, too.
 
Nice, and really obscene, if he thinks about it, to know he's so full, and that
if Sinbad pulled his cock out right then, he'd be dripping and making even more
of a mess than he already has. The thought makes Judal shudder, his arms
splaying over Sinbad's back as he drags him down, liking the weight of him
against him, no matter how sticky and sweaty they both are. "Really, really
missed you," he mumbles, nudging at Sinbad's shoulder with his nose. It's
easier to say it, when he's achingly sated. 
 
“Mm. Missed you too. Missed this,” Sinbad adds, and even if he’s sated beyond
the point of rolling over, he brings his hands up, threading gently through
that thick mass of soft darkness splayed across his pillows. His body aches,
but he ignores it. If he can ignore it to fight, he can ignore it when he’s on
top of someone gorgeous.
 
Judal sighs, his eyes fluttering shut as he simply flops his head back into
Sinbad's hands. "'s been too long," he grumbles, letting his hands flop down,
too, because it's too much effort even to hold onto Sinbad's back at this rate.
"Your rukh's even weirder now…"
 
Sinbad blinks. Scheherezade had made some comment about the state of his rukh
too, months earlier, though he hadn’t paid it much attention at the time with
everything else he’d been working on. He combs slowly through Judal’s hair,
frowning in thought. “What’s weird about it? Did it forget to shave or
something?”
 
An amused snort follows. "No, it's just… hmm." Judal lazily tilts his head to
the side, rubbing against one of Sinbad's hands. "There was just a little bit
of black before… like one wiggling around in a big sea of white. But now, maybe
like… a third of it is like that. I wonder if it's because you're around me,
that it's that much clearer now."
 
More black in his sea of white? That doesn’t sound particularly encouraging,
but given what he knows about Judal’s rukh, what he’s seen of it, an adverse
reaction wouldn’t be terribly welcomed. “Maybe I’m just drawn to you. Maybe I
always would be.”
 
"So be my king." Judal stares up at him unwaveringly. "Even if your rukh turned
completely black like mine, I'd still want you." 
 
I wouldn’t want me. Sinbad avoids that steady gaze, so wanting, so oddly
trusting. “You know it isn’t you I have a problem with. It’s your….friends. But
I’d rather not fight today if we don’t have to.” God, he’s tired.
 
Judal's lips immediately twist into a pout. "They don't want me to pick you,
either. They think you're too hard to control. They think you're the reason
I've…" Been avoiding the Kou Empire, leaving whenever I can, avoiding their
summons, not listening to their plans.
 
Sinbad nudges his nose against Judal’s shoulder, then presses a firm kiss to
it. “My advisors don’t think I should keep seeing you, either. You’ve stabbed
some of my friends, I’ve stabbed some of yours, but that doesn’t mean we can’t
lock the doors for a while, hmm?” Just don’t go. I’m not ready to lose you
again, not yet.
 
"… Sounds like one of those books you write. Even in the Kou Empire, everyone
talks about them," Judal mutters, and he sighs, flopping a hand over the back
of Sinbad's head. "If you ever write one starring us, I wanna read it." 
 
Sinbad grins, scratching gently behind Judal’s ears. It’s like bedding a big
cat--a really big cat, the kind that could turn and snap his neck at any
moment, and all the more beautiful for it. “That’s quite an idea. You probably
won’t have seven horns and breathe fire like Ja’far, though.” Hell, maybe he’ll
make Judal into a girl in the books. That would sell, forbidden romance always
does.
 
"I better not. I'm way prettier than he is, anyway." That shouldn't feel so
good, but god, it does, and Judal just sags into the bed, lips parting with a
shaky exhale. "I don't want him in it at all, if you write it."
 
“I’ll write him out of those scenes,” Sinbad promises. A fire-breathing horned
demon really has no place in a boudoir novel. At least, not the ones he writes.
“Maybe you can be a seductive dark-eyed dancer.”
 
"You've never even seen me dance," Judal points out with a sigh. "Doesn't seem
very accurate."
 
That’s fair enough, even if Sinbad frowns. He’s never seen Ja’far breathe fire
either, never been in the same room with half of the things he’s written about.
That’s just good storytelling. “Goatherd?” he suggests, remembering what he’d
suspected the night of their first encounter. Or, maybe, “Concubine?”
 
Judal nearly wriggles free to kick him at 'goatherd' before he wavers, just a
little. "… Mmnn, that's not bad. I'd be your concubine, if you wanted me to
be." 
 
It’s almost certainly bad, how Sinbad gets a slow heat in his chest at the
thought. “Maybe I’ll make you another man’s concubine, and I’m the brigand who
stole you away in the night,” he muses, burying his face in Judal’s hair,
pressing little kisses to his hairline.
 
"Yeah," Judal sighs, flopping back with a luxurious stretch. "Really good. I'd
let you steal me, too. Oh, make sure you keep my hair really long, I'll get mad
otherwise. I've never cut it, you know."
 
"Never ever?” Sinbad grins, combing his hands through, careful not to snag
anything. “I can believe that. Maybe I’ll tell everyone you’re a bit older too,
so they don’t think I’m a lecher.”
 
Judal snorts. "What's it matter? I'm fifteen, not five. It's plenty old. How
old are you, anyway?"
 
Sinbad hesitates, then nods. He has a point, and his agent had said something
about putting in a young love interest, giving the little girls something to
hope for. “Twenty-five,” he says, fighting down the urge to mutter the last
syllable. He misses being a prodigy, shockingly young for someone in his
position, not simply a bit young for someone in his position. “What do you
think, should I make you my bride? Or just toss you over my shoulder and chain
you to my bed?”
 
"Ah,you are old," Judal muses, a little flicker of surprise going across his
face. "You don't look it, though. Kouen looks older. And you can do both, I'll
marry you and then you can chain me up and play with me."
 
Sinbad rolls to the side, hands still tangled in Judal’s hair no matter the
little huff he lets out. Old, pah. Between Judal and Ja’far’s talk of grey
hairs, he really has no friends left. What beasts they are. 
 
Still… “You’d be a pretty bride,” he muses, dancing down a dangerous path of
conversation. “All in...hmm, red maybe, and golden chains all around your
head.”
 
Judal sprawls himself out, shifting to pull a good mass of his hair out from
underneath himself and push it in Sinbad's direction instead. "I'd wear
whatever you wanted me to, you know. I'll do that now, even if I'm not your
bride."
 
The thought is certainly intriguing, and Sinbad goes through a mental list of
things that entice him and things he has available in this room. He slides his
hands down Judal’s waist to his thighs, then back up. “I’d like to see you
draped in silks,” he murmurs, “and gauzes, something fine that I can see
through. Like a concubine of one of the great kings of old.”
 
"Aren't you a great king now?" Judal breathes, his eyes lidding as he shivers
beneath the touch, drawing one leg up and pointing his toe to gently drag it
along the side of Sinbad's hip. He likes being talked about like this, like
he's something precious and treasured and not just a tool to use. "It sounds
fitting, to me, especially if it's for my king."
 
Sinbad smiles, running a long finger across the edge of that foot, relaxing
back onto his pillow and Judal’s hair. “I’d like to be,” he admits. “Like one
of the old wise ones that everyone tells legends about, you know? Where they
forget the details, only that he was beloved and just and ruled over most of
the known world, and honey and gold flowed like water. And of course,
surrounded by the beauty of the world,” he adds, walking his fingers up Judal’s
calf.
 
So let me make youmyking, once and for all.
 
It's on the tip of his tongue, but then he remembers that Sinbad doesn't want
to fight about that right now, and there's a little twist of fear in his belly,
that Sinbad will stop petting him and touching him and make him leave if he
asks again.The struggle plays over his face as clear as day, and Judal slinks
down into the mattress, pouting instead as he twists his head, pressing his
cheek into a pillow. "You could be that. Easily."
 
Something in Sinbad’s chest twists, some anxiety--maybe this time, Judal won’t
let it go, will be more accurate, and Sinbad will die naked in his own bed
before he’s twenty-six. Actually, the dying young bit doesn’t sound bad, except
for the fact that it might be right now. Delicately, he slides his hand down,
brushing over the tip of each toe in turn as he turns his head, biting Judal’s
nose softly. “When I write about your beauty,” he murmurs, hoping the subject
can stay easy and light like this, with Judal wriggling under his touch, “no
one will believe me.”
 
He's right--Sinbad will make him leave if he pushes it.
 
It makes his mouth twist again, and Judal sniffs a little, his toes curling
slowly. They're right after all. This king doesn't want him. This one, with the
warm bed and kind hands and those eyes that look at him like he's something
special… 
 
Then again, Judal's seen the way Sinbad looks at his advisor-thing, and that's
a lot nicer.
 
"You don't have to embellish it so much." He shuts his eyes, sighing. "Am I
even your type?"
 
“Why does everyone ask me that?” Sinbad grumbles, and rolls, flopping across
Judal’s body to better bury his face into sweet-smelling skin. “My type is
someone lovely that wants me between their legs. You’ve just got that...fire. I
want to get close even when I know I’ll get burned.” Speaking in cliches, and
he can’t help it. How can he, when Judal looks at him like that?
 
Judal cracks an eye open, brow furrowing. "I don't wanna burn you, though.
Actually, I'm pretty awful with fire magic still, but you didn't hear that."
 
“I--”
 
Sinbad bites his tongue, not a moment too soon. “Never mind, then.” And as he
nuzzles his head against Judal’s neck, he adds for good measure, “Don’t freeze
me, either. I like to keep, uh, everything, in good working condition.”
 
"I don't like freezing you. But sometimes it just kinda happens…" That's one
way of putting it. Judal sighs, flopping his arms around Sinbad again. "I wanna
just stay here."
 
Like walking a tightrope over a patch of thin ice, Sinbad thinks, even as he
pulls the boy closer. “I’m not kicking you out. You can stay as long as you
want, I mean it.”
 
"… But you will." Judal's shoulders hunch. "I really want you to be my king,
and you won't, so eventually, I have to leave."
 
Sinbad sighs. They’re talking about it, apparently. “I want you to be my Magi,”
he explains for what feels like the hundredth time. “I want to be your king and
spoil you rotten and take over this part of the world with you. I just can’t
work with Al-Sarmen, they’re my sworn enemy.”
 
"I know. You've said it a lot." Judal's teeth worry into his lower lip. "But
you know, even if I did decide to leave them, it's kinda the same thing. My
rukh is black. It's not gonna change or anything, they told me that awhile ago
when I was a kid."
 
“I don’t really care about black rukh,” Sinbad says honestly, and runs his
thumb over those soft lips. “And I don’t care what they told you. If you leave
them, whenever, whyever, I’ll have you. I’ll want you.” His smile is a little
sad. “That goes forever.”
 
"… You're not going to wait that long," is the grumble to follow, and Judal
parts his lips to gently bite Sinbad's thumb as he looks up at him. "You're
already talking to that lady Magi, I heard about it."
 
Ah, damn. 
 
Sinbad twists his thumb, a rueful grin on his face. “Scheherezade isn’t
interested unless I want to move to Laem,” he murmurs, “and I won’t leave
Sindria, so you needn’t worry. Besides,” he adds, “your dungeons are a lot more
fun than hers.”
 
Judal's nose wrinkles, even as he nips again before languidly sucking Sinbad's
thumb into his mouth for a brief, albeit thorough lave of his tongue. "Laem is
boring. She's boring. I'd raise more dungeons for you, but… the djinn say you
can't go in anymore. Annoying. Good thing you're already so strong."
 
That pain twists, a sudden stab to the gut worse than any icicle. Sinbad closes
his eyes, the djinn’s words echoing in his head, and he rests his forehead
against Judal’s shoulder. “So you know.”
 
Judal blinks, his head tilting a bit to the side to come and rest against
Sinbad's. "Mm, I could feel it once you came back." He lifts a hand, carefully
trailing it over the back of Sinbad's head and through his hair, figuring if he
likes being petted like that, then Sinbad probably would, too. "You already
have seven djinn, though. That's more than anyone else, and they're all really
strong. I made sure."
 
It’s strange, feeling those soft hands, uncalloused by any work in his life,
threading through Sinbad’s hair. It’s comforting somehow, and he swallows hard,
trying not to think about just how comforted he is, and how sort of nice it is
to lay his head on Judal for a while. “You aren’t disappointed in me?” he asks,
not even aware that he’d been worried until he asked.
 
"Most people can't even get one djinn, you know," Judal huffs, and he drags his
fingertips down the back of Sinbad's neck in a slow, methodical stroke. "Plus,
I usually have to lead people right to the door of the dungeon. Annoying.
You're special. The djinn like you, they want you to have their power… they
tell me so, and it's why I could pull up some of the strongest ones for you in
particular. So no, I'm not disappointed… well, maybe a little disappointed that
I don't get to show up like this and congratulate you and stuff, but…"
 
“I didn’t know there was a limit.” It’s a little embarrassing maybe, but how
was he to know? No one had ever conquered a dungeon before him. Before him,
they’d said it couldn’t be done. Certainly no one had ever said anything about
limits. “I thought I could just...go on collecting them forever. Keep doing
this forever.”
 
"Normal people have ceilings, ceilings." His fingers curl through Sinbad's
hair, giving a light tug. "You have way more magoi than most, but you're still
not a Magi."
 
“I don’t like being just a normal person,” Sinbad grumbles, feeling childish
and not caring a whit. “I’ve been better than normal people my whole life. I
always thought that if I trained hard enough, I’d be able to hold more magoi,
or something.”
 
"Mm, but you're still not really normal, because you do have so much," Judal
muses. "If you were normal, I wouldn't be here, after all."
 
It’s a relief, sort of. It’s not enough, but it’s a bit of a relief. “I want to
be more than special,” he says, eyes seeing far beyond the walls of the room.
“I want to be...beholden to no one. I want to built my country more on ideas
than land. I want everyone in the world to know not just who I am, but who my
people are, and what I am.”
 
Judal butts his head into his shoulder. "The greatest kings have had Magi at
their side, you know." 
 
Sinbad has to wonder just how many of those words Judal had understood, or even
really heard. He yawns, uncaring of how early it is when he’s so comfortable,
and nuzzles into Judal’s side. “Be mine alone and I will, too.”
 
"… I want to," Judal sighs, and he drapes his arms loosely about the other man,
snuggling against him. "I like your bed a lot."
 
“Whenever you say the word,” Sinbad murmurs, inhaling deeply at the swirl of
oriental spices. “I’d keep you in my bed all the time. I’d feed you...what do
you like to eat?”
 
The thought of food is good. Really good. "Peaches are my favorite," Judal
readily answers. "But I hate vegetables so don't even try."
 
Sinbad snorts. “Why would I try feeding you something you don’t want to eat? I
have peaches, you can eat your fill.”
 
"I eat a lot," is the immediate warning. 
 
“What kind of king would I be if I didn’t have plenty?” Sinbad asks,
carelessly. He’s got to have at least a dozen peaches in the kitchen, not to
mention...well, plenty of things that aren’t vegetables, probably. Then he
buries his face. “Whenever you want to leave the bed. Otherwise I’ll have to
leave, or call a servant in here.” And it might be Ja’far who answers, is the
unspoken addendum.
 
"Don't wanna leave." Food can wait… ah, well, for at least a little while
longer, judging by the rumbling of his belly. "I'd almost like seeing that
advisor of yours feed me on a gold platter, though."
 
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