He was dignified, gentle, keen and understanding. He carried himself like a true man of royalty, with grace and restraint. Ja'far acted more like a king than Sinbad ever did, but that seemingly benevolent 'angel' was death walking.
That was why Sinbad loved him.
A sweet, heavenly smile to calm down a panicking steward could just as easily become murderous intent for an enemy. His gentle hands that could create such elegant words with a quill were bloody weapons. His agile feet were silent for a kill, his clothing so heavy yet not enough to restrain his movements. For a man already half-way fallen, there was none better than he.
That body so pale that it turned blue in the moonlight, the tempting sprays of freckles that teased along his collar bone, his stomach, his hips… his deep oceanic eyes that, in the height of passion and reckless abandon, became stained with a hint of red. The beautiful, beautiful Ja'far, who gave himself up in a way that was savage, his nails leaving crossing gory trails across his lover's back. That was the Ja'far he desired; the one who would leave bloody welts on his chest so he could lap at them, taking the blood into his mouth and savoring the taste of iron, the one who would take him all the way in without preparation, because the tears of his skin were more sensual than making love.
Sinbad loved this man who silently screamed his name in a crazed heat, savoring the painful friction, bestial with the spilling of blood and the rising of primal desire. This angel more a king than he, this elegant assassin whose every move was a marvel, this creature of pain and pleasure…
This bloody, beautiful man, his beloved Ja'far...
AN: Another quick, experimental piece. My first attempt at writing for the Magi fandom, so I hope you'll forgive my weaknesses.