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."
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't see me. 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, just don'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 fascinating now? 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