Aladdin has grown.
Alibaba doesn't quite notice it until now, when he's warmed by good wine and lulled by Sindria's balmy, ocean breezes, but it's starkly obvious when the other boy is wriggling between his legs, and everything is hot and pleasantly sticky and ah, Sindria isn't that humid, it must just be the wine—
Or perhaps it's that Aladdin's a far better kisser than Alibaba has ever imagined.
They're both older now, with Aladdin skirting his late teens, and Alibaba feeling the weight of his world on his shoulders the older he gets. Tonight, though, he thinks of little but the warm, lithe body against him, with long, lean muscles sliding against him, and god, his head is fuzzy. So fuzzy that he can do little but grasp at Aladdin's braid, yank and pull when Aladdin's breath is hot and ragged against his throat before he bites, and that's all well and good, but the wriggle and slide of their hips together is better.
This isn't exactly how he imagined spending his night.
It's not bad, though. Far from it, when the sticky-slick slide of their cocks together is enough to make Alibaba groan and thrash, his head thrown back into Aladdin's hands as those long, slender fingers wrap up in his hair and tug. Aladdin's teeth are sharp but good, marking his throat, sucking on the bob of his Adam's apple, and there's the little whisper that Alibaba is his king,his, forever and a day and there's nothing for him to worry about because Aladdin will take care of him—
He spills over his own stomach, shuddering, quivering, and from the arch of Aladdin's back, the lurch of his hips, he's not far behind.
Alibaba thinks he could come to enjoy Sindrian wine and ocean breezes, if it culminates in things like this.