This couldn't be worse.
That's a lie, Ja'far tells himself, all while grinding his teeth and snapping terse commands to restore some sort of order in the wake of Judal's arrival and departure. Did that brat really show up just to talk to Sinbad? Going through the effort-no matter how relatively little effort it actually seemed to take-of breaking Yamuraiha's shield just to have a few words and laugh in the king's face…
It would be good now, after this particular minor disasters among disasters, if Sinbad finally would see.
It takes some time before Ja'far is finally confident that the city isn't going to implode, no matter his continued wariness about lack of defenses. Obviously, they aren't doing Sindria any favors, anyway, if Judal can simply waltz in without hesitation. Then, and only then, does he bother seeking Sinbad out again, though the sight of the man makes his vision go a little red-
No. Deep, soothing breaths.
"When are you going to stop humoring him?" Probably not the most diplomatic way to start a conversation, and certainly not the politest way to address one's king, but Ja'far is a little beyond that at this point.
Sinbad doesn't look up at first, hands rested easily on the railing, his eyes fixed out on the horizon. Really, all things considered, it hasn't been all that long since the sight of the stars winking out one after another, in patterns or at random, would have been nothing more than the passing of clouds. Now, he has to wonder whether it's an airborne monster, a friend flying through the night, some unknown creature large enough to swallow his own country.
Just a cloud, after all.
"I don't humor him, Ja'far. Judal does as he pleases. He always has." You know that better than most.
Ja'far's lips purse, and he realizes, academically, that now really is not the time, but-
No. Wrong. There is no better time.
"And if those tears had been genuine? What then? Would you have taken him in with open arms, even knowing that every single time before, he's made a fool of you?"
Sinbad turns, folding his arms across his broad chest, piercing dark eyes fixed on Ja'far. For the moment, he chooses to let the insult go, though Ja'far knows as well as anyone that it won't be forgotten, either. If Ja'far didn't speak his mind, he wouldn't be a useful general, after all. "You haven't seen him like I have. One of these days he'll truly break. And when we have a Magi on our side who has every reason to hate Al-Sarman just as much as you and I do-will you still call me a fool?"
And those tears were genuine. Judal just doesn't know it.
"Yes," is Ja'far's simple, unhesitating response, his arms folding tensely within his sleeves. "Because when he 'truly breaks', he won't be here. He'll be useless. What good is a Magi that won't even be able to hold his head up to you?"
"You take him too lightly. He must have more strength than that, to go against their will enough even to come here, after being in their clutches for so long." The night air is cold, though being so close to the sea keeps them warmer than those icy nights in the desert. It's just enough that he doesn't mind walking around barefoot even in his own palace, leaning against a stone pillar. "Besides, even if he does break to the point of uselessness, I'd think you'd be happy. At least then Al-Sarmen won't have him. It's not like I've forbidden you to kill him or anything."
As if you could.
I won't be happy because I'll be listening to you stress over it day in and day out.
Ja'far exhales a slow, measured breath, taking a step closer no matter how his frown deepens. "You call it strength-a better name for it is simple madness. Sinbad, must I remind you of how effectively he's tricked you-all of us-before? I was hoping you would learn after your first meeting with him that while he certainly isn't… the brightest among us, he has enough firepower in his own hands and behind him to make our lives miserable. I have no doubts if he is going to 'break', that is going to come down around him and undoubtedly, if you keep extending your hand to him, upon us."
"You speak as if he gives me a choice." Sinbad is bristling a little, and it's hard not to rely on his usual methods, towering over the smaller person physically and mentally until they realize that he's right. That doesn't work with Ja'far, and never gets Sinbad anything but a rather remarkable amount of pain. "I've told him to leave before. You saw what happened last time. If I didn't know better, I'd think that this time he was holding back."
Judal's never looked more lost, more panicked than when he'd been laughing. Sinbad knows mirth all too well, and has never seen it in Judal's eyes when he smiles.
"Holding back-how reassuring, when he has left us defenseless until Yamuraiha returns." Ja'far doesn't bother biting back a snort-never mind that sarcasm helps nothing, but really. "Telling him to leave isn't the same as unextending every invitation you've ever made."
Sinbad folds his arms, scowling down at the smaller man. "You think it would be better to leave him no option than to choose a man of the Kou Empire? Telling a Magi of his power, under the control of Al-Sarmen, that he doesn't have a single other option, no matter how remote or tenuous? I prefer not to catch my enemies' weapons, sharpen them, and toss them gently back."
"So instead, you would rather him continue to knock at your door and become more and more frustrated until, like today, he claims he would rather kill you," Ja'far blandly retorts, his eyebrows arching.
"He didn't kill me," Sinbad points out helpfully. "I don't think he truly wants to. He's like a cat-once you kill the mouse, there's no fun in playing with it anymore." Perhaps not the most flattering comparison he's ever made to himself, but rather accurate, all things considered. "At least he had the decency to come in public this time instead of in through the window."
There is absolutely no stopping the urge to bury his face into one hand, complete with a long-suffering sigh. "How long are you going to rely on your perceived 'affection' towards you, exactly? And really, if you think he sees you as a rodent, then even that is a very questionable thing…"
"A figure of speech, nothing more. You should know better than I how well Al-Sarmen has messed with his head. He's...not entirely right, you must agree. That doesn't mean he's devoid of worth."
And you never saw him, clinging and shaky and nuzzling against my chest, his eyes full of starlight and his hands unsure. You don't know how hard it is to tell if he's the best liar in the world, or the worst, even for me.
"You defend him like a lover," Ja'far bluntly retorts.
Sinbad can feel the heat on his tongue to reply, the denial, strong and angry, and that knowledge stops him. He leans back hard against the pillar, casting his eyes up to the night sky. "Do I really?" There's no one who knows him like Ja'far, after all. It's just always felt so natural to look for what he knows is salvageable in those mad red eyes.
Ja'far heaves another sigh, and it's with that that he finally steps forward entirely, his own back hitting the pillar next to his king. "Every single time. In any other situation, I would find it merely trying-somewhat amusing at best-but all things considered, you could not have picked a worse bedmate."
"I hope that's not a challenge. It sounds like something I wouldn't mind trying." Especially if the results are anything like Judal, wild and unpredictable and dangerous and damn it all, Ja'far is right. "He's-I do know what he is. There's no rose-colored lie over my eyes."
"Then you are made for one another," Ja'far tiredly replies, his eyes rolling skyward, "because you are certainly being as foolish as he is on a regular basis."
One hand reaches out, tilting Ja'far's face up to meet Sinbad's eyes. "What would you have me do? Speak honestly. I have no desire to lose more of our people to his mad whimsy."
"… You have few choices," Ja'far slowly answers, and his head tips slightly, a weary lean into Sinbad's hand following. "Accept his invitation to be his candidate-assuming he'll extend it again-or kill him. If you think you can. Barring that… moving whatever plans you have along for Aladdin would be wise."
"Accept his invitation if I can, kill him if I can." Sinbad smoothes Ja'far's hair down, stroking softly with one large hand. "You've never doubted me so much before, my friend."
Ja'far allows a light, amused snort at that. "You've never been so… preoccupied before, either. Ordering me to stand down to the likes of him-I would have enjoyed cutting his little waterworks show short."
"It wasn't the time nor the place for a confrontation of that scale." You didn't see it as I did. You didn't feel his power surge like I've rarely felt before, from any being in the world. You would not have been as safe as you felt yourself. "Doubtless it will come to something of the sort, if he can't be…" Sinbad hears the forlorn hope on his lips, and winces. Perhaps Ja'far has a point.
"… The problem," Ja'far eventually says, sighing as he leans back, looking up at Sinbad with a shake of his head, "is that you want so badly to save him, for whatever reason. Regard him as already lost, as you do every other enemy, and this becomes much simpler. I realize," he dryly adds, "that I am talking to a brick wall regarding this. But honestly, if you would just tread more carefully-"
At that, Sinbad has to scowl, stretching his arms out to lean against the railing once more, eyes focused on the busy scurrying activity of his people, doggedly repairing any damage left by massive spears of ice. "Every other enemy? Are you saying that should someone try to kill me, I should execute them immediately and spare no thought for what they might have been, what they could still be? Every enemy?"
"That would, in general, be the most efficient way of going about things," Ja'far drawls. "In regards to the parallel you are attempting to draw here, I would not have faulted you for killing me on sight."
"Good. Then you understand what I mean when I say that in situations like that…" Sinbad turns, giving Ja'far an almost rueful grin. "Efficiency is perhaps the least favored of my outcomes. I would gladly have suffered an injury like the trouble Judal has caused if it meant having you by my side these last many years."
"And yet you're still not mindful of the difference." He's just shy of shaking Sinbad, not that it would do anything more than make the man laugh. "Judal just told you to your face that he has been under Al-Sarmen's influence since infancy. He has yet to show a shred of remorse for what he's done to you and the rest of us. What good is there to waste time on a person like that?"
Sinbad stops short of belaboring the point, deigning not to draw more parallels. If Ja'far weren't intelligent to see them on his own, he'd hardly be the man Sinbad had recruited those many years ago. "I wonder who you're more annoyed with, me, or with yourself for teaching me that even the coldest of killers just need a little…" He steps close, leaning down to brush a strand of wispy hair out of his counselor's face. "...convincing."
Ja'far contemplates biting him. "… Your penchant to be charming on occasion doesn't work when a person is utterly insane," he sniffs instead, reaching up to bat away Sinbad's hand. "Stop letting him stay when he invites himself in and maybe you will get somewhere."
Ooh, not in the mood. Not like Sinbad couldn't convince him (probably-Ja'far is better at seeing through him than, well, anybody), but Ja'far deserves a better answer than that. "All right. Unless something changes, I'll stop letting him stay."
The stare that fixes itself upon Sinbad is far less than convinced. "Is that along the lines of, 'I'll stop drinking so much, Ja'far' or 'I'll take a wife in the next year, Ja'far', or-"
Sinbad lays a finger across Ja'far's lips, knowing that he's close to being bitten and not minding. "Not in the slightest. This is something I actually want to do. It's not exactly in my best interests to let him keep...what was the phrase you used last time? Walking all over me from between my legs up?"
"… To make sure we are clear," Ja'far mutters, frowning against Sinbad's finger and just barely restraining himself from nipping it. "'Not letting him stay' does not mean 'bed him, then kick him out.'"
Sinbad raises his eyebrows, leaning forward enough to back Ja'far against the pillar. "No? Maybe you should show me exactly what I'm not supposed to do to him, then. Just so I'm clear."
"Incorrigible," is the cross retort to follow, though Ja'far relents slightly as he leans back into the pillar, a long sigh letting some of the tension flood free from his body. There's only so much he can chide Sinbad before it simply begins going in one ear and out the other, and he has apparently reached that point. It's for the best; this conversation is always tiresome after awhile. His lips twist wryly as he lifts his head, catching Sinbad's gaze. "First of all, you are definitely not suppose to take him back to your chambers proper to continue things. Tossing him over the railing and being done with him for the evening would be the wiser decision."
Sinbad nods, setting aside the fact that Judal would find being tossed over a railing about as much of an inconvenience as beings sneezed at. "Wise advice, General. I can always depend on your opinion. So-just so we're clear-I'm not supposed to do anything such as, say, tossing him over my shoulder and carrying him off to have my wicked way with him?" The light in his eyes is probably warning enough, and the fact that he makes no effort to hide the motion he's making is more than warning enough for someone like Ja'far to avoid being captured, if it's truly his will.
So help him, he should be more annoyed. "… Considering someone like Judal would probably enjoy such a thing quite thoroughly," is the resigned sigh to follow instead, with just a hint of amusement in place, "no, you certainly should not do that. Any of it."
"Ah. Yes, that wouldn't be wise." Sinbad leans down, his face a bare inch from Ja'far's, their foreheads nearly touching. "What else should I be wary not to do? I want to be sure I'm thorough, after all. I may need a demonstration."
"Since when have you ever needed my guidance so heavily?" Ja'far's head tilts back, just enough to impishly avoid the other man's touch. "I would think a king such as yourself to be wiser in deducing such matters."
"Since when?" Sinbad feigns chastised shame, eyes wide. "Since my most trusted counselor told me I was making an ass of myself, of course. Or do you think I take your advice so lightly?" He turns his head, taking advantage of Ja'far's posture to brush his lips against the smaller man's neck.
Ja'far rolls his eyes, but damn it all, it's difficult to stay so very tense when Sinbad's mouth is against his skin. "You have a tendency," he breathes, relenting enough to lift one hand and catch a fist-full of Sinbad's clothing, pulling him closer, "to pretend to be deaf at times. Perhaps you don't recall."
"Ah, you misunderstand," Sinbad assures him, relenting easily to Ja'far's tug, his hands resting on either side of Ja'far's head on the pillar. "I always listen. I'm just terribly forgetful at times." He steps forward until his body is flush against Ja'far's, and it's odd that such a small man can be such a force, mentally and physically and magically. It's one of the things Sinbad likes the best about his counsellor, and what drives him the most to those little scrapes of his teeth, the flicks of his tongue in a line up the underside of Ja'far's jaw.
Opening his mouth to argue is a poor decision when Sinbad's teeth nick into his flesh, especially when it brings him to strangle a low, breathy sound. Better judgment would be pushing Sinbad away, insisting on retiring to his chambers-and if he insists, the whole tossing-over-his-shoulder gambit-but in moments like these… well. Ja'far fully admits to his judgement clouding, especially as he reclines into the pillar, his head tipping back with a little shiver, and his hands drag their way down Sinbad's sides, around to his lower back to only encourage him.
Well-he's a little done with arguing for the evening, anyway.
There's always something of a question with Ja'far-not that the man resists him, but he has his moods, and Sinbad has learned well just how unwise it is to try and persuade him into doing anything he doesn't feel like. There's little need for it anyway-Ja'far is never his last resort, and both of them like it that way. It makes these times, these few times when they're together, both wanting, both interested, that much better.
Sick of leaning over, Sinbad hoists Ja'far up, pressing him hard against the pillar as he continues his assault on the younger man's neck, one hand wandering to his chest as a force of habit, then hastily dragging down his belly instead.
A little snort of amusement follows, no matter how Ja'far squirms, his thighs pressing tight to Sinbad's hips while his hands find better purchase sinking into the man's hair. "Every time," he sighs out, breath hitching as Sinbad sucks, bites, sending little shivers straight down his spine and bringing Ja'far to tug and yank on the man's hair. "It begs the question of how you manage not to be bored when you don't have something to fondle."
Sinbad grins, his hand snaking down to cup between Ja'far's legs, cupping him through the fabric. "I'm sure I'll find something to keep my hands busy," he promises. God, he likes it when Ja'far is in a mood like this, and he supposes Judal is really to blame, riling him up this much.
Hastily, he shoves the Magi from his mind. That's the kind of thing Ja'far would notice, and not the kind of thing he'd tolerate.
Ja'far's eyes squeeze shut, a groan swallowed down for the sake of what lingering propriety they have left-no matter how he shifts, wriggles in hopes of splaying his legs a bit more, all too content to allow himself the luxury of Sinbad's touch, the hard, heated press of his body… never mind that anyone could stumble upon them. It makes him flush as much as it makes him stress. "As good of a demonstration as this is regarding what you shouldn't do to one very annoying Magi," he breathes, "don't you think we would be better served… somewhere more private?"
For a moment, Sinbad ignores him, enjoying just a little too much the feel of Ja'far's body, the heated puffs of his breath, the little wriggles he makes at every touch of Sinbad's hand. But it's all too soon that he can feel Ja'far's anxiety rising, making every heady squirm a little less out of pleasure and a little more out of nerves.
Before Ja'far can start pleading in earnest, Sinbad nods, pulling away and giving Ja'far's headdress a gentle tug to straighten it. "Counsellor, may I suggest that we adjourn to my chambers? I have a lot more problems I think you could help me with. And, ah, I'll race you there."
A lot of problems indeed. More accurate would be how hard Sinbad's cock already had been while pressing against him, and how good his hands had felt on him, leaving him a little weak-kneed and wobbly as Ja'far tries not to sag into the pillar like one of Sinbad's thoroughly worked over women. "Racing sounds a bit childish, don't you think?" Never mind that he's already out of breath and feeling less inclined to stand, let alone move briskly.
Fine, if Ja'far doesn't want to be diplomatic about it, Sinbad can think of other ways. "Just a bit impatient," he confesses. "But really, this works just as well."
He picks the younger man up, tossing him over one broad shoulder as he strides through the halls, long legs making the trip a short one indeed. All in all, it's quite an accomplishment to get back to his chambers without Ja'far stabbing him in the back.
Ja'far doesn't shriek. No, that would be undignified, though by the time he's dumped onto Sinbad's bed, squawking isn't out of his league, nor is glaring and huffing with fingers twitchy enough to consider pulling free his blades. "There are far better ways to handle impatience," is the growl to follow as he yanks his keffiyeh from his head, leaving his hair decidedly ruffled in the process as he glowers up at Sinbad.
"Oh? What a good thing then, that I have a counsellor to tell me such important words of wisdom." Sinbad loosens his collar, but pauses a moment, the smile on his face turning from simply lecherous to contemplative, and a little nostalgic. For a moment, prickly and ruffled, Ja'far looks every bit the young, cold-eyed assassin that had stolen into his rooms more than a decade ago.
A little hiss through his teeth, and Ja'far lurches up to the end of the bed, a hand fisting into the front of Sinbad's robes to drag him forward and down with surprising strength. "I will agree with you for once, however," he heatedly replies, all as his mouth fastens to the arc of Sinbad's throat, teeth dragging over his skin, "that now is not really the time for it."
Ja'far alone, of all the people Sinbad takes to his bed on a regular basis, knows something of the full extent of his power. And for that and other reasons, Ja'far is alone the only person Sinbad trusts himself with, to allow insights other men never get, to let himself be bared.
Not completely, of course. Sinbad would never want to inflict all of himself on anyone
Ja'far's teeth are sharp and demanding, and the scrape of them against his skin goes straight to Sinbad's cock, eliciting a low growl from his throat. He leans down, the weight of his body pressing Ja'far down into the soft down mattress, spreading his legs wide with one jerk of his hands. "No," he agrees, hands sliding up the younger man's inner thighs. "Now's not the time for talking, unless you want to beg." Or unless I do.
His next breath is a heavy, hot pant, dragging air desperately into his lungs. It's a little thing, the reassured, firm force of Sinbad's touch, with the strength behind it enough to make Ja'far groan, his legs spreading wide whether he wants them to or not, but it makes his cock twitch, makes his back arch, and god if it isn't difficult not to just rut himself up against the other man until he's lost. Why don't we do this more often again? Right, because I turn you down. Again, why? "The King of Sindria wants his general to beg," Ja'far pants out, letting his head loll back as his hands circle around to Sinbad's back, raking down his shoulders. "Isn't that a little unseemly?"
Sinbad grins, his eyes dark with promise and lust, as he places a hard, sucking bite just over Ja'far's pulse before he pulls away to disrobe his general, laying him bare. "Just wanted to give you the option. I like it when you ask for what you want."
He ducks his head down, nuzzling against Ja'far's stomach before kissing down, laying his cheek against the steady warmth of a lean thigh. "As your king, I'm honor bound to make certain all your needs are taken care of, after all," he says casually, close enough that the hot air of his speech ghosts over the head of Ja'far's cock, ending by flicking the tip of his tongue across the head.
Any and all words die on Ja'far's lips at that first, heated swipe of Sinbad's tongue, bringing him to sag back into the bed with a hard shudder, his head tossing to the side. His hands twitch, and no matter how he tries not to simply lurch up, seeking more of his king's mouth, it's impossible for a hand not to tangle up within Sinbad's hair, the other fisting into the bed coverings as he squirms. "You do… a fair job of that already." God, his voice is already little more than a needy whine.
It had been a sweet-faced girl, one Salma by name, who had taught Sinbad most of what he knows of giving pleasure with his mouth. She'd been right, teaching by example all manner of ways to suckle and caress a man, proving just how effective her methods were on him, and Sinbad aims to make her proud, fitting his lips over the head of Ja'far's cock and sucking, swirling his tongue over the stiff flesh. "No women really enjoy it," she'd told him with a laugh, the first time he'd protested. "What we like is watching you men thrash around and go all red in the cheeks."
Awkward and difficult as the task may be, Salma had been right-hearing Ja'far gasping, feeling him tremblingly hard, seeing him twitching, is more than compensation enough.
If nothing else can be said about Sinbad, it's that he honestly does make Ja'far forget why this isn't a more commonplace thing, and why he isn't content to sprawl himself in Sinbad's bed more often, writhing beneath each drag of his tongue, the muscles of his thighs tense and bunching from the effort it takes not to thrust up and along the man's tongue. "Sin-"
Hearing his name, shortened and gasped out, is enough to make Sinbad's cock ache. Knowing that he's done this, reduced the careful, calculated Ja'far to this kind of incoherent, desperate noise, is enough to make him groan around the hard slick flesh in his mouth, spurred on to take more in, his hands stroking and caressing the younger man's inner thighs, stealing around to squeeze his ass.
It's with a bitten back groan that Ja'far surrenders to the upward lurch of his hips, fingers digging into Sinbad's scalp as he slides deeper down the man's throat, his breath an unsteady, unhinged thing as his toes curl at how it feels to be worked so thoroughly, buried in nothing but slick, wet heat. "I-" Anything else is lost on a shaky exhale, jumbled up in a number of throaty, mindless noises, and to hell with self-control when something feels this good. It takes little more than the heat of Sinbad's throat, the upward twitch of his own hips and the other man's strong, broad hands digging into his flesh for Ja'far to simply lose himself, tension leaving him in a rush as he floods Sinbad's mouth with a ragged gasp.
This-this, here-this is Sinbad's reward.
It's a rare treat to see Ja'far anything other than composed, or occasionally angry. Lazy, sated relaxation is in general a thing that happens to other people, and it's always that much more of a challenge, that much more of a victory to see Ja'far like this.
Sinbad pulls off, wiping his mouth with one hand, content for the moment to stroke Ja'far's sides, his thighs, simply watching him be lost in the shockwaves of the pleasure Sinbad had given him. "Did your king serve you well?" he asks in a voice so low it's nearly a lion's purr, eyes half-lidded.
There might have been a retort in store if not for the sort of strangled, mindless sound that escapes instead, and thus Ja'far gives up, sagging down into the mattress with another, hard shiver, his hands wound up in Sinbad's hair tugging, coaxing him upward no matter the now decided shakiness in his grasp. "Amazing, how you can sometimes be so conscientious," he lowly replies, a hand dragging its way southward, breath quickening at the hardness of Sinbad's own cock within his palm. "That being said-a king should allow himself his own pleasure once in awhile."
Sinbad opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Now is not a prudent time to remind Ja'far that the vast majority of the time, it's he who's telling Sinbad pretty much the opposite, that there's far too much of his own pleasure in his life.
Well, if Ja'far wants to turn the tables, and do it by curling that deft hand around Sinbad's cock, then Sinbad is the last person who wants to stop him. He threads a hand through the fine strands of Ja'far's hair, hips rolling slowly against his hand. "And what pleasure will you give your king tonight, Counsellor?"
He's still dizzy, vision still glazed, but god if Sinbad doesn't feel good in his hand, no matter how his fingers dare to shake as he squeezes, thumb coming up to drag over the slick head of Sinbad's cock. Ja'far's lips part, tongue flicking out over his lower lip, and there's no helping the shift to splay his thighs, the welcoming arc of his back as he gives the king's cock a gentle tug, suddenly and desperately wishing he were already slick and ready and he could simply guide Sinbad into his body right then and there. "My body is yours, as I have always promised it to you."
If there's one kind of body language Sinbad can read, it's when a woman wants him between her thighs. Men are more difficult, but Ja'far's words give the truth to the action, every part of him arching and shifting and welcoming, and Sinbad isn't so rude as to turn down an invitation. That, or he's hungry enough for Ja'far's body that he'll take it, and hope for the best.
It's been a long time, and Sinbad is nearly completely sure that Ja'far hasn't had another man since him. He dips his fingers into the pot of aloe by the bedside, trailing his fingertips up and down the cleft of Ja'far's ass. "Lie back. Relax."
Easier said than done, and Sinbad was right in leaving him a sated, pleasantly lulled mess prior to the slick slide of those fingers. Tension is a thing Ja'far always finds himself privy to, and now is no exception, though it's of a different, eager kind, leaving him to squirm down, breathing in fast through his nose. "I'm fine," he insists, and if isn't more painful to wait and want, nothing is.
"I know you are." Sinbad's mouth presses agains Ja'far's neck, nipping and suckling, even as two of his fingers slide in. Ja'far is ridiculously tight, tight enough for nicknames that Sinbad isn't cruel enough to speak aloud, and even if he knows how good it's going to feel around his cock, he's still careful, still takes his time stretching the younger man with every slide and curl of his fingers, no matter how hard and ready he's been for a while now.
Even as fine as he says he is, Ja'far is still fast to bite his lip, lest the rasp and whine of his voice betray him. After so long, two of Sinbad's long fingers are enough to make him writhe, enough to leave his thighs spreading wantonly open, enough to make him ache with each stroke and slide, no matter how slick. It's a difficult thing, not reaching to grasp at Sinbad's wrist, to still the movement of his hand just for a moment-not for any pain, god help him if he's ever that weak, but for the sheer fact it's all overwhelming. "Sin," is his eventual, breathless gasp, the affectionate abbreviation of Sinbad's name a thoughtless thing now. "Please-"
With anyone else, there would be no hesitation. Even if he isn't drunk right now, the blood boils with every touch of skin to skin, and for all his power Sinbad is a man. When the person he's with begs for more, well, he's been accused of a great many things, but rarely bad form.
Ja'far, though, is different, and so Sinbad slips in a third finger, and stills, hovering above him. "Are you sure you're ready? I don't want to hurt you." And you're still so tight around my fingers that I'm sure I won't be able to stop once I'm inside you.
Ja'far groans, all but thrashing at the slide and stretch of that third finger, his legs trembling in their desperate splay. "I want you," he bites out, voice little more than a hiss, and it's with a broken, keening sound that his hips arch, pressing down into the king's hand. "If it hurts, then I want that, too."
Despite what Ja'far says, Sinbad is careful, gentle when he climbs between Ja'far's legs, removing his hand to wipe it on the bedspread. Every time, he's worried that this time, Ja'far won't like it, or do as he's been threatening and stop inviting Sinbad to his bed altogether, even though after every time, Ja'far's done nothing but tell him it will be less rare from now on.
Either way, Sinbad's not a patient man when he doesn't have to be, and only a tremendous will of effort helps him slide in slowly, inch by thick inch at a time. "Good?"
Words aren't exactly something Ja'far feels he has a penchant for when he feels as though he's being stuffed full, aching all the more with each inch spreading him open. It's not something he ever thinks he'll be used to-not for lack of any frequency, though that certainly doesn't help, but rather the sheer intensity of it all, with Sinbad warm and heavy above him, his cock buried deep into his ass and god all of this is so intensely, painfully lewd that it's a wonder that he no longer harbors any shame for it.
He blames Sinbad for that entirely.
"Good-" Ja'far shudders, his back arching up in a sinuous little writhe, pushing himself further down Sinbad's cock and left gasping for his trouble. "It's-" Good, perfect, too much, always too much and if you stop I really will stab you-
Something about making love to Ja'far always makes Sinbad sort of grateful that Ja'far doesn't currently have access to his knives, for some reason. Thinking about it only spurs him on, even though he knows it's probably not healthy to be quite so aroused by the thought of what Ja'far used to be, by the thought that he's no longer that because of Sinbad.
Ja'far is painfully tight, always is, and sometimes Sinbad has to wonder if Ja'far knows how gentle he is when they're together. It's a strain, a challenge, because all he wants to do is slam hard into that tightness again and again, losing himself there, and he holds back. It will be better at the end, for all this. It always is. Bedding Ja'far is more work than bedding anyone else, and Sinbad never comes away feeling so good from anyone else's bed.
He pins Ja'far's wrists above his head, bracing his weight as he takes the young man, every so often placing a bruising kiss on his lips in time with the rocking of his body. Want to watch you become mine again, he urges silently, staring down at the man.
Each roll of Sinbad's hips, every slide of his cock-it leaves Ja'far feeling that much weaker, that much more useless, a trembling thing trapped beneath Sinbad's hands and mouth and every inch of his cock that leaves him feeling so full-
There's no one else, really, that would leave him feeling so content about all of that.
He groans and arches, eyes lidded and dark, skin flushed hot with each squirm and shiver of his body, intent on more, more no matter how careful Sinbad is. And god, does he know how careful the man is, and as much as Ja'far appreciates it, there's a part of him that wants to be left used entirely, sprawled over the bed and less than inclined to move the next day, if only he had the privilege. "Harder," he lowly insists between kisses, his fingers flexing, arms straining beneath Sinbad's hold.
It's dangerous, to not give Ja'far what he wants.
Of course, that has nothing to do with why Sinbad finds it so easy to give in to the command.
You can take it, can't you? Sinbad thinks, the heat in his body swelling, rising with every slap of his hips, less controlled now, less held back, and he knows Ja'far will be aching tomorrow. Sinbad loves it, and he'll make any excuse to come in and watch him shifting, uncomfortable and pained at how hard he's been fucked, trying to hold still so no one sees.
They're going to see. Sinbad is going to make sure of that.
Ja'far's lips are swollen and bruised, his legs spread as wide as they can go, his wrists pinned, and still Sinbad takes him harder, his own body thrumming with the sweet sharp ache of being buried in something so unbelievably tight. He's not careful, not as careful as he should be, and he lets out a groan as he slams in entirely, hardly sparing a thought for how small Ja'far is beneath him.
Ja'far can't breathe.
It's stolen from him, all of his breath, the moment their hips are flush and his world narrows to little but how it feels to have all of Sinbad's cock inside of him, spreading him so wide that his legs couldn't close even if he tried. And oh, god, he has no desire to try, not with Sinbad between his thighs, fucking him into his bed like he's little more than some harlot to be used.
No matter how spent he is, his body still hums with how good it all is, his cock hardening with each thrust that makes quiet, breathy sounds turn to something more vocal, and it's desperation to keep those incriminating sounds back that brings Ja'far to turn his head aside, burying his face into his own arm, body twitching, lurching up into each thrust as he finds himself so utterly lost.
A low growl rips its way out of Sinbad's throat, and he bites Ja'far's shoulder hard. He holds the younger man's wrists down with one hand, using the other to grasp his jaw, turning his face up. "All of it," he breathes, rough and unsteady as the pressure builds, as his chest heaves. "Give me everything."
Damn it, he doesn't get Ja'far like this enough that he's willing to settle for anything less than everything, every sound and twitch and spasm of his muscles, and he drives in hard, harder than a man of Ja'far's size should be able to take, knowing that he can. "Let me hear you."
It's an impossible thing, disobeying.
Not just because it's Sinbad, or because it feels so damnably good-it's both in tandem and there really is just no helping the broken, gasping keen that tears from his throat, or the way water pricks into his eyes because Sinbad is just pressed so deeply inside of him and Ja'far swears he can nearly feel the man in his throat. The next, stuttering moan that escapes his lips is more a sob from how his chest heaves, and Ja'far is lost again, painfully, intensely overwhelmed and taken by surprise by it all as he spills with a spasm and upward jerk of his hips, every muscle drawn tight and trembling.
There's an almost vindictive satisfaction in feeling Ja'far come clenching down around him, hearing those whorish moans, seeing his normally carefully controlled advisor thrashing and coming onto the sheets from the press of Sinbad's cock inside him. It's enough to shatter the little control Sinbad has left, and he knows he raises bruises with his last few thrusts, until he's finally, utterly lost, spilling himself empty inside of Ja'far's clenching body. "You," he gasps, "just as you are...god, you are my undoing."
Ja'far tries not to whimper, honestly, but the pathetic little sound escapes all the same as he sinks down into the mattress, eyes tightly shutting as he writhes at wet, hot slickness of Sinbad inside of him, that sensation of fullness all the more apparent. "Likewise," he rasps out, and oh, how he can tell how sore he will be in the morning. The thought brings him to groan, surprisingly pleased about it all, never mind the growing discomfort of throbbing, bruised limbs and muscles and the press of Sinbad inside of him quickly becoming too much when not in the throes of pleasure.
The uncomfortable squirming rouses Sinbad from the half-drowse he tends to naturally slip into, and he carefully disentangles them, flopping down on his back next to Ja'far. "Any chance that was good enough that you'll want me to do it more often?"
"It's always good," Ja'far grumbles, rolling painstakingly onto his side and dragging a hand up through his sweat-soaked hair. "You will get spoiled if this is a commonplace thing, though… also, there's really little time for it."
"I'll get spoiled?" Sinbad asks incredulously, laughing loud and genuine into the quiet of the room. He leans over, pressing a kiss against a sweaty brow. "Too right.