Archive of Our Own

Ja’far exhales as he unties the knot at his waist.

The outer robe slips from his shoulders without resistance, pooling around his ankles. He steps out of it quietly, the fabric a hush against the stone. His hair’s already undone—fingers run once through it, as if to shake off the night, and then fall still.

He moves with the deliberate care of someone too aware of his own body—like each motion has to be tested first. It’s not the room that spins, but something inside him, soft and slow and warm. A dull hum behind his eyes.

The celebration hadn’t been overwhelming—just long. He can still taste the alcohol at the back of his throat. Not much. Barely half a cup. But enough. He’s always been a poor drinker. He’d felt the edges of his control begin to blur and thought: Time to retire.

The belt of his inner robe slips free. He draws it open with one hand, ready to let it fall.

Then—

“You always leave without saying goodbye.”

Ja’far goes still.

The voice doesn’t raise itself. It doesn’t need to.

He doesn’t turn.

“I didn’t realize it was required,” he says, calm.

Behind him, soft steps. Measured. Sinbad never rushes.

“It’s not,” Sinbad replies. “It’s just… unlike you.”

Ja’far closes his eyes.

The robe hangs from one shoulder, loose. He doesn’t fix it.

“I wasn’t feeling well,” he says.

“Because you drank.”

Ja’far huffs, quiet. “Not much.”

“You never need much.”

“I’m aware.”

Sinbad comes to a halt somewhere behind him. Ja’far feels it before he hears it—the quiet shift in the air, the pressure of being watched. He doesn’t turn.

“Too warm,” Ja’far mutters, fingers brushing the edge of his collar. “Too loud. I wanted to sleep.”

“Still spinning?”

A pause.

“Less now.”

Sinbad’s voice softens. “You left before the toast.”

“I’ve heard you toast a hundred times.”

“And yet you usually stay.”

Ja’far’s shoulders rise, fall. “I’m tired.”

“Of the wine?”

“Of the spectacle.”

Sinbad’s breath catches, faint. Not hurt. Just listening.

“I thought maybe you were avoiding me,” he says.

“You were holding court with half the foreign delegates.”

“You weren’t watching.”

“No,” Ja’far says. “I wasn’t.”

Sinbad moves closer—just enough that Ja’far can feel the heat of him, not quite touching.

“Strange,” Sinbad murmurs. “You’re usually the first to correct me when I overstep.”

“I was off-duty.”

“You’re never off-duty.”

Ja’far’s mouth lifts, dry.

He finally turns his head. Just enough to see Sinbad’s face over his shoulder.

“I’m not avoiding you,” he says, quiet. “I’m just going to bed.”

The robe slips slightly down his chest as he speaks. He doesn’t adjust it.

Sinbad’s gaze drops. Just for a moment. “Now?”

“It’s late.”

“I waited.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

Sinbad’s eyes flick back to his. “But I did.”

They stand like that, the silence drawn tight between them. The air smells faintly of sandalwood and wine. Ja’far’s skin is flushed, whether from heat or drink or the sudden attention, he can’t tell.

Sinbad steps in closer. Close enough now that the hem of his sleeve brushes Ja’far’s hand where it hangs loosely at his side.

“You look warm,” Sinbad murmurs.

“I am.”

“Too many layers?”

Ja’far doesn’t answer.

Sinbad reaches out—fingertips grazing the edge of the robe where it slips from Ja’far’s shoulder. He doesn’t pull. Just touches the fabric like it’s something delicate. Or dangerous.

“You could’ve told me you weren’t feeling well,” he says.

“I didn’t think I needed permission to leave.”

Sinbad exhales slowly. “You don’t.”

Ja’far watches him. Eyes sharp despite the haze behind them.

“Then what are you doing here?”

Sinbad’s smile is slight. “Reminding you.”

“Of what?”

Sinbad’s fingers trail higher, up the collarbone, brushing skin.

“That I notice when you’re gone.”

The robe slips.

Not all the way—just far enough for one side to sag off Ja’far’s shoulder, baring the slope of bone, the edge of his chest. Sinbad’s fingers are already there. Tracing. Slow. Familiar in motion, but reverent in touch. Like he’s remembering the path even as he walks it.

The pads of his fingers brush over a thin white scar that cuts diagonally across Ja’far’s collarbone—faint now, but still raised. A mark from years ago. One of dozens. Each one catalogued. Known.

“You’ve been drinking,” Ja’far says, flatly.

Sinbad hums. “Only enough to be bold.”

Ja’far’s breath hitches when Sinbad’s lips meet the curve of his neck. A press—warm, humid with breath. The kind that sinks into the skin instead of sitting on top of it. The kind that lingers.

He reaches to brush Sinbad’s hand off his chest, but the other hand has already come up—sliding around his side, palm splayed over his ribs. Not forcing. Just… holding. Steadying him.

Ja’far tenses. “This is idiotic.”

Sinbad’s mouth grazes the spot just beneath his ear. “Why?”

“You’re bored. Drunk. Mistaking me for a dancer.”

That earns a low sound—a soft exhale that might be a laugh, if it weren’t so dark.

“No,” Sinbad says, dragging the word out along Ja’far’s neck. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Then what do you think?”

Sinbad doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, his thumb strokes Ja’far’s waist—bare skin under thin fabric, warm and alive. His hand slides down, dragging the robe with it just an inch more. Not uncovering. Just… loosening. Undoing the edges.

“I think I watched you excuse yourself halfway through the second toast,” Sinbad murmurs.

Ja’far’s mouth twitches. “I said I was tired.”

“You were flushed. Glass still half-full. I watched you step away from the crowd, slip past the servers, down the corridor near the north wing.”

His lips press lower, to the place where neck meets shoulder. The kiss is firmer this time. More certain.

“I left the generals in the middle of a story,” Sinbad says, breath warm against Ja’far’s pulse. “Didn’t even finish the punchline.”

Ja’far’s voice drops. “You followed me.”

Sinbad nods once, his stubble grazing skin.

“All the way here.”

The words settle between them. Ja’far’s hands are still at his sides, not resisting, not welcoming—caught in the center of a decision he doesn’t trust himself to make. The pulse at his throat is steady, but fast. His breath comes shallow, sharp in the quiet.

“You’re serious,” Ja’far says, finally.

It lands flat, but not empty. There’s heat beneath the words, tamped down like embers under a cold voice. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. He waits.

Sinbad’s breath shifts against his skin.

Then he leans in and bites—sharp, just at the edge of Ja’far’s ear. Not cruel, but undeniable. The pressure makes Ja’far flinch, a tight gasp escaping between his teeth before he can stop it.

“You tell me,” Sinbad murmurs, lips brushing over the spot where he bit. “Does this feel like I’m playing?”

His hand moves, lower now. One palm still splayed over Ja’far’s stomach, the other sliding between the loose folds of the robe. There’s no hurry in it. No fumbling.

Just heat.

His fingers find bare skin. Smooth. Warm. He parts Ja’far’s thighs slightly with the back of his knuckles, slow enough that the motion almost disappears into breath.

Then he touches him.

Calloused fingers drag over the cleft—spreading the soft lips apart just enough to feel the slick beneath. Ja’far gasps, sharp and small, his body jolting like a struck string.

Sinbad’s thumb rests on the crease of his inner thigh. His fingers press again, stroking through damp heat, unhurried. He feels everything—the softness, the give, the way Ja’far shudders at every pass.

“Already wet,” Sinbad breathes, tongue flicking behind Ja’far’s ear. “And you’re asking if I’m serious.”

Ja’far turns his head away, jaw clenched. “You’re imagining it.”

Sinbad chuckles. “Am I?”

Two fingers slide deeper into the slick, spreading Ja’far open with obscene ease. The folds part under the pressure, and Sinbad strokes slowly—up, then down again, stopping just short of his clit. Just enough to make Ja’far’s breath catch, his hips twitch.

“You want me to think this is nothing?” Sinbad murmurs. “When you’re this soft? This soaked?”

His palm rocks against him, heavy and hot.

“I followed you,” he whispers, voice molten. “Watched you walk away all flushed and trying to disappear. I wanted to see what you looked like when you came undone alone.”

Ja’far shivers violently, fingers twitching at his sides.

“You think I mistook you for a dancer?” Sinbad growls. “No, Ja’far. I came here for the man who left the party dripping.”

And his fingers press deeper.

Sinbad doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t even pause.

His fingers sink inside curling in a slow drag that makes Ja’far’s knees give slightly beneath him. Two fingers—thick, calloused—press into tight heat, and Ja’far gasps, sharp and strangled, his hips jerking forward before he can stop them.

Sinbad follows, his body fitting close behind, all heat and weight and pressure. His chest presses to Ja’far’s back. One arm slides firmly around his waist, pinning him there. The other hand works between his thighs, never slowing, fingers already buried deep.

He’s inside him and Ja’far is still trying to pretend he’s untouched.

“Gods,” Sinbad breathes against the back of his neck. “You’re so fucking small.”

Ja’far lets out a noise—half protest, half whimper—but doesn’t pull away. Can’t. Sinbad’s arm is a band around his middle, and his own legs are too weak to hold up more than the tension already threatening to drag him under.

Sinbad grinds his hips forward, pressing Ja’far gently against the edge of the bed frame, caging him in. The movement presses his fingers deeper still, knuckles nudging slick heat, and Ja’far stiffens, gasping through clenched teeth.

“So tight around me,” Sinbad murmurs, biting down lightly on the back of his shoulder. “And still you let me in.”

His fingers curl again, dragging over the sensitive walls inside.

Ja’far shudders violently.

“You act like you can’t take it,” Sinbad whispers, teeth brushing skin. “But your body’s greedy. It keeps pulling me in.”

Ja’far shakes his head, breath catching on every motion. “You’re—nnnh—too—”

“Too much?” Sinbad breathes, curling his fingers deeper, stroking the spongy heat inside. “Say that again. Say it while your cunt clenches like this.”

Ja’far cries out, low and wrecked.

His hips buck—half in retreat, half in need—and Sinbad just holds him there. His fingers thrust slow and deep, dragging slick along his palm, knuckles grinding up against heat as Ja’far’s walls pulse and flutter.

“So little,” Sinbad says, voice low and reverent, “but you still take all of me. You’re going to come on my hand just from this, aren’t you?”

Ja’far bites his lip hard enough to draw blood—but he doesn’t deny it. He can’t.

Because Sinbad’s still inside him, filling him, stroking him like he knows every corner he’s never let anyone else touch.

And Ja’far’s body is giving in.

Ja’far’s breath stutters, broken over the arch of Sinbad’s knuckles.

He plants a trembling hand against the arm holding him in place, then reaches lower—fingers brushing over Sinbad’s wrist where it moves rhythmically between his thighs. He tries to grip it, tries to pull it back, but he’s unsteady, his muscles trembling from pleasure and restraint and the growing edge of something he can’t name.

“Sin,” he breathes, voice cracking. “It’s not—” another gasp, “—it’s not like that.”

Sinbad doesn’t answer.

Ja’far swallows hard, dizzy from the pressure, from the feeling of being opened and stroked while his back’s flush to Sinbad’s chest. He tightens his grip on Sinbad’s hand, fingers curling around the wrist slick with heat, and tries to push it away.

“Stop teasing,” he manages, strained. “Enough—enough playing—”

But his voice falters when Sinbad turns his head and laughs. Not cruel. Not loud. Just low—dark with want, chest rising behind Ja’far’s spine.

Then without warning, Sinbad grabs Ja’far’s hand with his free one, twists it up gently, firmly, and shoves his fingers back in.

All the way.

Ja’far’s body jerks. His back arches, a shocked cry torn from his throat as the stretch hits harder—wet, brutal, unyielding. His body clenches around it instinctively, trembling.

“Sin—!”

But Sinbad holds him down, breathing against his cheek, mouth open and hot.

“You think this is teasing?” he growls, voice low and tight. “You think this is a joke?”

Ja’far is shaking —shoulders tense, jaw clenched, his whole body revolting against how easily Sinbad overpowers him, how completely he fills him. His legs threaten to give out, but Sinbad just drives his hand in deeper, palm flush now, fingers pulsing inside.

“I followed you,” Sinbad hisses, pressing his lips to the corner of Ja’far’s mouth. “I waited. You left before I could say it.”

Ja’far gasps, half-angry, half-broken. “Say what?”

“That it was never a game.” Sinbad thrusts again, slow and thick. “Never.”

Ja’far shudders, pinned, filled, his body giving up piece by piece as Sinbad fucks him open with truth.

Sinbad’s breath drags along Ja’far’s cheek, hot and uneven.

The rhythm of his fingers hasn’t let up—deep, deliberate thrusts inside soft, soaked heat, the kind of motion that speaks of ownership rather than seduction. His hand is slick up to the wrist, buried knuckle-deep, and every push makes Ja’far twitch violently, breath hitching, chest pressing into the edge of the desk he’d nearly made it to.

Then Sinbad speaks—quiet, just beside Ja’far’s ear, but the words land like blows.

“Do you know,” he murmurs, his tone hushed and blistering, “how many times I’ve thought about this?”

Ja’far squeezes his eyes shut.

Sinbad’s fingers drag out almost entirely—slow, devastating—before he pushes them back in with a thick, wet sound that makes Ja’far jolt in place.

“How many nights I’ve sat across from you—watching your hands move across scrolls, your face buried in treaties—while I was thinking about bending you over the table and splitting you open?”

Ja’far shudders. His hands grip the edge of the desk now, white-knuckled.

“You never looked up,” Sinbad breathes. “Never even noticed. I could’ve had you right there. Everyone gone for the night, just you and your fucking diligence.”

Another thrust, hard and deep—his palm collides with slick skin, knuckles grinding against trembling muscle. Ja’far makes a noise.

“You were too busy correcting tax margins to notice me watching you,” Sinbad growls. “Do you know how hard I got just listening to you mutter to yourself over border law?”

Ja’far’s head drops forward, forehead braced against his forearm, his whole body shaking.

“I’ve imagined this,” Sinbad says, his voice low and razor-sharp, “every fucking time you ignored me for your paperwork.”

And he slams his fingers back in again—deep, knuckle-deep—forcing Ja’far’s body to accept the confession he won’t yet speak.

Sinbad’s breath drips into Ja’far’s skin like oil into flame.

His fingers don’t stop moving. They pump into Ja’far in thick, dragging thrusts, wet and possessive, every glide more punishing in its control than speed ever could be. The desk creaks beneath Ja’far’s weight, his chest pressed to its edge, knees threatening collapse with every relentless press of Sinbad’s hand inside him.

And then Sinbad speaks again—like he’s murmuring secrets straight into Ja’far’s bloodstream.

“You know what drives me mad?” he says, voice rough with breath. “It’s not just how you take my fingers like they belong inside you—”

Another thrust. Ja’far chokes on a sound.

“—it’s how earnest you are.”

His lips press against the curve of Ja’far’s jaw. Familiar in the way only obsession can be.

“You sit there like the perfect advisor, back straight, voice calm, correcting me when I’m being too generous or too bold—”

His fingers curl inside, just right, and Ja’far gasps—sharp, involuntary.

“—and all I can think about is dragging you into my lap mid-sentence. Sliding your robes up. Pushing myself inside you slow enough that you feel every inch interrupting that focus.”

Ja’far shudders violently. His arms tremble beneath him, barely keeping him upright.

“I wanted to fuck you during negotiations,” Sinbad growls, teeth grazing the shell of Ja’far’s ear. “While you were listing tax codes. While you were scolding me for dismissing half the council.”

His hand slams forward again, deeper, and Ja’far cries out, caught between pleasure and fury.

“I wanted to take you while your voice was still cold with protocol. Wanted to ruin your composure. Make you moan with that same mouth you use to correct me in front of foreign kings.”

Ja’far gasps Sinbad’s name, a broken edge to it—but Sinbad just leans in closer, fingers soaked, relentless.

“All I ever wanted,” he breathes, slow and brutal, “was to fuck the most honorable man in this palace until he couldn’t remember what the word duty meant.”

Sinbad’s hand moves.

Not the one already inside Ja’far, working him open with slow, relentless strokes—but the other, the one curled around his waist. It slides upward now, palm dragging along sweat-damp skin, over ribs, tracing the subtle twitch of Ja’far’s abdomen.

Ja’far tenses the moment Sinbad’s fingers graze the underside of his chest.

“No—don’t,” he snaps, breathless, swatting at the touch with one shaking hand.

But Sinbad only smiles behind him— crooked — keeps going.

“Always hiding this part,” he murmurs. “So sensitive, and still so stubborn.”

His fingers find a nipple and pinch—light at first, almost playful. The bud is already tight, flushed from heat and friction, and Ja’far bucks, the reaction too sharp to be denied.

“Stop that,” Ja’far growls, trying to bat him away again.

But Sinbad catches his wrist easily, pinning it to the desk as he flicks his thumb again, firmer, coaxing a whimper from deep in Ja’far’s throat.

“You’re so tense here,” Sinbad says, voice thick. “But you don’t even realize how good you sound when I touch you like this.”

Ja’far turns his face away, heat crawling up his neck.

“I should’ve known you’d be like this,” Sinbad breathes. “Proper little advisor on the outside, but fuckable under the robes.”

Ja’far stiffens.

Sinbad thrusts his fingers deep again. Ja’far shakes, biting down a sound that escapes anyway.

“I want to see you,” Sinbad whispers, his mouth near Ja’far’s temple, “face-down, robes pushed up, filled with my cock so deep you forget how to talk.”

“Sinbad—!”

“Stuffed full,” Sinbad growls, “with nothing to say. No rules. No lectures. Just your cunt sucking me in while you tremble for it.”

Ja’far lets out a strangled sound and turns, elbow cocked to slap him. It never lands.

Sinbad catches the motion, smirking. “Feisty.”

Ja’far plants a hand firmly over Sinbad’s mouth instead, flushed down to his collarbone, chest heaving. “Shut. Up.”

Sinbad kisses his palm.

And thrusts in again.

Sinbad shifts—just enough to free the hand still pressed to Ja’far’s chest, releasing the captured wrist with a final squeeze. His fingers trail down, following the line of Ja’far’s trembling stomach, slick with sweat and flush.

His other hand never left him. It’s still buried between Ja’far’s thighs, two fingers deep, soaking wet from where they’ve been stretching and stroking him. But now— now —Sinbad changes the rhythm. His palm tilts. His thumb drags upward.

And finds the swollen, aching peak of Ja’far’s clit.

Ja’far jolts.

“No—ah, don’t—” his voice breaks apart the second Sinbad circles that tender bundle of nerves, firm and slow, a perfect counterpoint to the steady press-thrust of the fingers still inside him. His whole body tightens.

Sinbad wraps his arm around Ja’far’s waist again, holding him steady, dragging him back against his chest while his hand works him open and wet, his thumb now drawing slow, unrelenting circles over the clit that’s already twitching from neglect and heat.

Ja’far writhes. “Sinbad— stop— I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Sinbad breathes into his ear, voice low and steady, obscene. “You can take it. You want to take it. Your body’s begging me.”

Ja’far shakes, wild and involuntary, hips bucking despite himself. His breath stutters into little gasps, and Sinbad’s fingers never falter.

“I want to spread you wide,” Sinbad whispers, voice dark and wrecked. “Lay you out like a feast and watch this little cunt twitch while I push in, inch by inch.”

Ja’far groans, his hand flying up to cover his face, red burning through his chest and neck.

“Want to hold you open,” Sinbad growls, “watch you leak while I fuck you slow. Want to ruin that self-control you’re so proud of.”

The stimulation gets tighter. Deeper. His fingers curl, thumb dragging perfect pressure, working every tremble Ja’far’s body tries to hide.

“You’d look so good like that,” Sinbad pants. “Dripping around my cock. Loose. Shaking. Just like this.”

Ja’far’s body jerks, thighs locking.

“Sin— I— no, wait , I—”

But it’s too late.

He comes hard, legs trembling, spine arched, a cry caught behind his teeth as his body spasms around Sinbad’s fingers—tight, pulsing, gripping. Slick gushes over Sinbad’s palm, thighs soaked.

Ja’far shrinks inward the moment it’s over, muscles collapsing in shame.

He can’t speak.

He’s still clenching around Sinbad’s hand, still panting, eyes squeezed shut, face burning.

And Sinbad just holds him—buried deep, dripping, humming low against his skin.

“Beautiful,” he whispers. “Just like I pictured.”

Ja’far slumps forward, finally—

Breathing in shallow, ragged pulls, muscles lax and trembling. The tension bleeds from his body in slow pulses, each breath a release, each second a fragile reprieve. His cheek rests on the back of his forearm, sweat cooling across the nape of his neck. His thighs are slick, parted, twitching faintly from aftershock.

He barely notices the sound of fabric shifting behind him.

The soft, deliberate rustle of robes pushed aside. The low hitch of breath. The sound of leather unbuckling.

By the time he registers the change, hands are on his hips again. Then he’s being lifted.

“ Wait —!” he gasps, arms scrambling for the desk as his weight shifts. His feet leave the ground. His body is pulled up, turned, his spine arching as he’s maneuvered with quiet strength.

His back hits warmth. Skin.

Sinbad.

Sinbad’s bare chest is beneath him, heat radiating, one arm curled around Ja’far’s waist to settle him into place. And then—

Ja’far feels it.

Hot. Heavy. Broad and slick with precum. Sinbad’s cock nudging right against his still-soaked slit, lined up and throbbing between folds that are far too tender, too raw, too wet to be ignored.

“W–wait, Sin —” Ja’far’s voice shatters on his own name, a high, panicked stammer. His hands press weakly against Sinbad’s chest, trying to push up, but his legs are still draped across Sinbad’s hips, thighs trembling from overstimulation.

Sinbad doesn’t thrust. Doesn’t push in.

But he grinds, just a little—his cock sliding through the slick, parting soft folds, nudging Ja’far’s still-clenching entrance without breaking past it. The sensation is obscene— too much, too soon, too thick —and Ja’far gasps, full-bodied, his hips trying to recoil.

“Wh-what’s wrong with you!?” he snaps, flustered, voice high and breathless.

Sinbad exhales, his eyes half-lidded, flushed with restraint.

“Nothing,” he says, voice deep and ragged. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Sinbad groans softly beneath him. He wraps both arms around Ja’far’s waist. Anchoring. His cock throbs hot between Ja’far’s legs, sliding slick through the mess between his folds, and every motion makes Ja’far’s body seize.

Ja’far tries to sit up, but his legs are still weak, his balance broken. He only manages to lift himself enough to feel the head of Sinbad’s cock catch right at his entrance.

And then it pulses.

Thick. Hot .

Ja’far freezes.

“Don’t,” he breathes—quick, sharp, chest fluttering. “Sin—don’t, it won’t fit—”

Sinbad exhales into the crook of his neck, lips brushing sweat-slick skin.

“You’ll take it,” he says, calm. Too calm. “You already took my fingers.”

“Fingers aren’t— fuck , they’re not the same—”

Sinbad presses the blunt head of his cock gently against him, no pressure, just weight. Heat.

Ja’far flinches, his hips trying to lift away, but Sinbad’s hands steady him.

“You’re so small,” Sinbad whispers, voice hoarse, reverent. “So tight already. But your body’s still open for me. Look how wet you are.”

Ja’far squirms, trying to pull away, heart hammering. “I can’t, Sin— look at you , you’re—you won’t fit.”

Sinbad kisses the side of his throat, then bites softly, and Ja’far jerks.

“I will,” he says, voice deep and thick with want. “I’ll go slow. Inch by inch. You’ll stretch for me.”

“No—no, I— fuck , you’re too—”

Sinbad’s cock nudges forward, the barest pressure, enough for Ja’far’s slick, sensitive rim to part just barely around the head.

And Ja’far gasps—loud—his entire body snapping tight as a tremor rocks through him.

Too big.

Way too big.

But Sinbad groans like Ja’far’s heat is dragging him in anyway.

“You’ll take all of me,” he growls. “You were made for this.”

Ja’far’s hands press flat against Sinbad’s chest, trembling—palms slick with sweat, muscles taut with confusion and the remains of overstimulation. His voice, when it comes, is tight and raw, breathless with effort and disbelief.

“Sinbad,” he says, “are you—are you okay?”

Sinbad’s hips still, just barely, the thick head of his cock poised against Ja’far’s stretched entrance, not pushing in—but there. Waiting.

“Did Judar cast something on you?” Ja’far continues, voice sharper now, edged with panic. “Did someone poison you? Hex you? This —this isn’t you.”

Sinbad’s hands don’t move. His grip isn’t forceful. If anything, it softens. But his arms remain firm around Ja’far’s waist, holding him in place—not to dominate, but to keep him close.

Then he speaks. Quietly.

“Why do you always say that?”

Ja’far falters.

Sinbad’s voice drops even lower, something broken at the edges.

“‘This isn’t you,’” he echoes, eyes cast downward. “As if wanting you—touching you—makes me someone else.”

Ja’far stares at him. His thighs tremble, the slick between them making everything feel more exposed, more real. He tries to shift again, to lift off the heavy pressure of Sinbad’s cock poised too close, but Sinbad doesn’t let go.

“I’ve always wanted you,” Sinbad murmurs. “Every fucking year, Ja’far. Every quiet night. Every time you stood beside me, loyal and sharp and just out of reach.”

His eyes lift. There’s no mask there. Just open, aching want.

“And I waited,” he breathes. “I waited for you to see it. To see me. But you never do.”

Ja’far’s expression cracks, shocked into stillness. “The real Sinbad doesn’t want me like this.”

Sinbad lets out a short breath.

“Then you’ve never really looked at me.”

The blunt head of Sinbad’s cock nudges forward, just a breath more pressure, parting slick folds that are already raw from his fingers. The stretch is instant, unbearable, a burn just shy of breaching.

Ja’far panics.

“N- no —” His hands fly to Sinbad’s shoulders, pushing, scrambling for leverage. “No, wait—stop, you can’ t!”

Sinbad stills, but only slightly.

“Ja’far—”

“This—this complicates everything!” Ja’far gasps, breath hitching as the tip presses again.

He tries to rise off it, to squirm away, but Sinbad’s hands slide to his hips, holding him steady with the practiced strength of someone used to leading armies. He doesn’t thrust, not fully. Just rocks his hips slightly, just enough to press the weight of his cock deeper into that soft resistance.

“We can’t,” Ja’far says, voice cracking. “I can’t—you can’t—”

And then, a whisper. A confession meant to hold Sinbad back.

“Sin, I like you—”

That lands.

Sinbad’s hands freeze. His eyes snap to Ja’far’s face, stunned.

“…You like me.”

Ja’far goes still, realization flooding him too late.

Sinbad breathes hard through his nose, cock still pulsing just barely inside him, stretching his entrance but not fully pushing in. “You say that like it’s a reason to stop.”

“It is,” Ja’far says quickly, heart hammering. “That’s exactly why we can’t. This —this’ll destroy the balance between us. Everything we’ve built— our work, the kingdom, our roles —me.”

Sinbad doesn’t move. But his cock still sits hot and wide against Ja’far’s entrance, and Ja’far’s body still trembles around the burn of being held open.

“So you’d rather pretend,” Sinbad says, voice low now, tight. “Act like none of it’s real? Like you don’t want me?”

Ja’far’s breath hitches. “It doesn’t matter what I want. It’s not the point.”

Sinbad’s gaze darkens. His thumbs press into Ja’far’s hips. His body shifts beneath him—a roll of his hips—and Ja’far’s mouth opens in a strangled gasp as the head presses just barely deeper, the stretch making his thighs shake.

“What if I want it to be complicated?” Sinbad growls. “ What if I want you ?”

Ja’far’s breath catches.

The pressure is still there. Sinbad’s cock rests against his entrance, pushing just deep enough to keep his body parted. Every twitch of Ja’far’s hips makes him feel it: the slow give of his own resistance, the obscene stretch barely begun, slick smeared between them like a secret.

He’s staring up at Ja’far, hands spread wide around his hips, fingers tightening every time Ja’far squirms like he might flee. His voice is quieter now.

“What if I want you even when it’s messy?” he asks. “Even if it changes everything?”

Ja’far shakes his head quickly, heart pounding, eyes glassy with disbelief.

“You don’t—” his voice falters, mouth dry, “you don’t get to want that. Not like this.”

Sinbad arches an eyebrow, just slightly. “Not like what?”

“Like I’m not…” Ja’far trails off, but his body betrays him again, hips rolling without intention, a helpless grind of slick flesh against the heavy heat still waiting at his entrance.

“Like I’m not yours to just take,” he finishes.

Sinbad leans up, his mouth near Ja’far’s ear, voice low and rough. “I’m not taking you.”

He thrusts his hips once—slow, just enough to slide in a hair more, and Ja’far jerks, a sharp cry tearing from his throat as the stretch deepens.

“I’m asking you,” Sinbad breathes, his cock throbbing, “to let me in.”

Ja’far’s nails dig into Sinbad’s shoulders, overwhelmed.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

Sinbad kisses the corner of his mouth. “I do.”

“You’ll ruin everything.”

“I’ll ruin you first,” Sinbad whispers. “And then I’ll stay.”

Ja’far shudders violently, his entrance clenching down on the thick head still not fully inside him. His whole body feels stretched to the edge, caught between fear and want.

Sinbad’s thumb brushes his hip again, grounding him.

“You say you can’t,” he murmurs, “but you haven’t said no.”

Ja’far’s eyes flutter closed.

And still, he doesn’t move away.

Ja’far’s thighs are taut against Sinbad’s hips, muscles trembling beneath sweat-damp skin. He’s upright only barely, spine bowed in strain, arms braced on Sinbad’s chest, hands splayed wide as if still debating whether to push him away or clutch harder. His breath is shallow, catching with every slow inch that Sinbad tries to give him.

And Sinbad is trying.

His hands are firm on Ja’far’s hips, thumbs sweeping absent patterns against fevered skin. He moves carefully— carefully —hips rolling upward in shallow, relentless pulses. The thick head of his cock presses deeper by slow degrees, working into the resistance like water into stone. Hot. Heavy. Stretching Ja’far open millimeter by millimeter.

Ja’far’s voice is tight when he speaks again.

“You’re not… thinking clearly.”

Sinbad lets out a breath through his nose, rough and hot against Ja’far’s neck. “I’ve never thought more clearly than I do right now.”

“You’re forcing this.”

Sinbad halts the motion—briefly—only to tilt his hips again, pressing in another impossible inch. The sound that tears from Ja’far’s throat is helpless, almost disbelieving.

“You’re still taking me,” Sinbad says, eyes fixed to where their bodies are joined. “Every time I move, your body gives me more.”

Ja’far’s knees clamp tighter against Sinbad’s sides in response. His back arches, spine pulled taut, mouth opening like he’s about to object— but nothing comes out. Just heat. Just breath.

“You think I haven’t wanted this?” Sinbad murmurs. “Every fucking night we were alone in the war room. You sitting there with ink on your fingers, biting your lip while you read reports— so damn careful .”

Ja’far’s nails dig into Sinbad’s skin. His breath shivers against Sinbad’s cheek.

“And all I could think,” Sinbad continues, rolling his hips again—another agonizing, thick inch, “was what you’d sound like if I got you open like this.”

“Sinbad—please—” Ja’far gasps, not pleading, just trying to hold on.

“I am,” Sinbad growls, voice hoarse. “I am Sinbad. The same man who built this kingdom beside you. Who watched you bleed for it. Who watched you hold yourself together for everyone— except me .”

Another inch.

Ja’far cries out, clutching at Sinbad’s arms now, desperate for something to hold onto as the stretch turns sharp and too much. But he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t ask him to stop.

“Look at me,” Sinbad says.

Ja’far can’t—not at first. His eyes are closed, lashes trembling, jaw clenched like his dignity is the only thing still holding.

Sinbad lifts one hand, threading it into Ja’far’s hair. His thumb rests against Ja’far’s temple, grounding him.

“Look at me,” he says again.

And Ja’far does.

His eyes open, glassy and dark, wide with confusion and want and fear.

Sinbad meets them without blinking.

“I want this,” he says, slower now. “I want you. Complicated, selfish and proud. However you’ll let me have you.”

Ja’far’s lips part, something caught behind them.

Another slow push, and Sinbad groans when he finally sinks past the tight resistance, burying half of himself inside that small, gripping heat. Ja’far shudders, body convulsing around the intrusion, and leans forward without meaning to—his forehead pressing against Sinbad’s.

His voice is barely audible. “You’ll regret it.”

Sinbad kisses him.

“I won’t.”

Ja’far’s breath comes fast and shallow, his ribs expanding in stutters against the broad warmth of Sinbad’s chest. His hands remain where they’ve been—pressed flat, bracing, trying to maintain some thread of resistance. But his fingers curl now, grasping at the solidness beneath him as though the weight of what’s happening might drown him.

“Sin…” he pants, voice raw, trembling, “you’re not… listening.”

Sinbad’s only answer is another slow, grinding push of his hips.

The pressure deepens.

Ja’far’s whole body tightens, a full-body flinch against the stretch—that impossible fullness bearing down inch by inch, as Sinbad continues to work his cock inside. Every breath Ja’far takes now feels narrower. Shallower. Like there’s less room in his body. Like every part of him is being displaced.

“You’re too deep,” Ja’far gasps, “You’re—I can feel you—”

Sinbad groans low in his throat, forehead dropping to Ja’far’s collarbone.

His hands are wrapped tight around Ja’far’s waist now, pulling him down as his hips press up, his cock sliding further into the heat that keeps trying— failing —to resist. Ja’far’s thighs tremble against Sinbad’s sides, trembling under the pressure. The slick drag of skin, the tension of muscle clenching involuntarily around every new inch—it’s enough to make Sinbad shake.

Ja’far presses his hands to Sinbad’s shoulders again, desperate. “It’s too much. I can’t—I feel you up to my chest, Sin—”

Sinbad kisses the side of his neck, reverent. “You’re so tight,” he breathes. “You feel like you were made to hold me.”

Another thrust.

Ja’far’s head jerks back, his spine arching, eyes fluttering shut as his body finally— helplessly —gives way. Sinbad sinks in to the base with a low, shaking groan, hips flush against Ja’far’s ass.

All the way.

Fully sheathed.

Ja’far is trembling—jaw slack, hands now clutching at Sinbad’s shoulders, fingertips digging into flesh as if to anchor himself to the world.

He feels split, filled past reason. Like Sinbad’s cock has pressed beyond his core, up into his ribs, every nerve stretched and humming with unbearable fullness.

“You’re inside,” Ja’far whispers, stunned. “All the way in—”

Sinbad nods, eyes shut, still breathing hard. “Finally.”

Ja’far’s fingers tremble against Sinbad’s chest, fluttering as if caught between a push and a plea. His palms flatten, slick with sweat, but there’s no real strength behind the motion. Just the tremor of being overwhelmed. Stretched. Stuffed too deep.

He shifts in Sinbad’s lap and instantly regrets it—the cock buried inside him presses deeper, shifting things that feel like they shouldn’t be touched. His body clenches hard, tight and panicked, and a strained whimper breaks from his throat.

“Sin—” he gasps, voice high, almost thin. “You’re… you’re too much.”

Sinbad opens his eyes, breath hot against Ja’far’s throat. “I know.”

Ja’far’s head shakes, frantic and barely controlled. “No—you don’t understand, I’m—” he swallows, blinking rapidly, “I’m too full. I wasn’t made for this.”

His hands finally press with more force, trying to lift himself up, off—but Sinbad’s hands are already there, cradling his hips, holding him still. Not slamming him down. Just refusing to let him go.

“No,” Sinbad says quietly, reverent. “You feel perfect.”

“I’m not— this isn’t —” Ja’far gasps again, his words cracking like they’re collapsing under the weight inside him. “I wasn’t made to be filled like this. You’re too deep, Sin—I can’t—”

Sinbad’s hands soften slightly at his waist. Not letting go, but grounding. His voice is rough when he speaks, bare.

“You took all of me,” he says. “You’re wrapped around me like your body knew what to do before you did.”

Sinbad doesn’t move at first. He just breathes—slow and heavy—like he’s fighting not to give in. Like Ja’far’s tight, trembling body is testing the last thread of his restraint. His hands stay at Ja’far’s waist, fingers splayed wide, thumbs grazing over bare skin flushed deep with heat.

“You took all of me,” he says again, voice rough, thick with awe. “You’re wrapped around me like your body knew what to do before you did.”

Ja’far shudders. The stretch hasn’t eased—if anything, it feels worse now that Sinbad is holding still. His body clenches involuntarily, gripping down around the thick weight inside him, and the sensation is unbearable.

Then Sinbad shifts beneath him.

The slow drag begins.

Ja’far gasps—high and sharp—as Sinbad starts to pull out, the slide thick and endless, dragging every inch of slick, swollen heat through his stretched walls. The sensation burns. It glides . It feels like his body is fighting to keep him in, suction pulling at every ridge and vein like it doesn’t want to be empty.

Ja’far stares down, wide-eyed, mouth parting as his spine locks.

He expects Sinbad to bottom out again immediately.

But he doesn’t.

Sinbad keeps going—inch by inch—pulling out, every second like an eternity. Ja’far feels each thick inch leave him, the loss slow and devastating, until just the head is left seated inside.

“Sin—fuck, you’re—” Ja’far chokes, breath caught somewhere between panic and shock, “you’re still pulling out—”

Sinbad exhales, forehead against Ja’far’s collarbone. “Takes a while,” he murmurs, breathless. “There’s a lot to take.”

And then he pushes back in.

Ja’far lets out a strangled moan, whole body jolting as Sinbad’s cock stretches him open all over again—deep, slow, unyielding. The slide is slick, obscene, and it feels like he’s being filled forever.

Ja’far’s nails dig into Sinbad’s shoulders. “You’re still going, I— fuck, how are you sti ll—?”

Sinbad groans low, hips grinding as he finally seats himself fully again. “You feel it now, don’t you?” he murmurs. “How much of me is inside you.”

Ja’far can’t answer. He’s too full. Too stunned by the sheer length of Sinbad dragging out, and then back in—a rhythm that makes every stroke feel like he’s being pulled apart and rebuilt.

And Sinbad keeps moving.

Slow.

Measured.

Relentless.

Sinbad’s rhythm shifts—slower only by intent, not mercy. Each thrust drives deeper, thicker, dragging along slick, clenched walls that shudder with every retreat. The air between their bodies is damp with sweat, breath, tension. The wet sound of Ja’far’s body being stretched open again and again fills the space in brutal, steady cadence.

Ja’far squirms in Sinbad’s lap, trying to mask the rising panic under the raw pressure building low in his spine. His body can’t catch up—every thrust feels like a new invasion. The stretch hasn’t dulled; it’s deepened. His chest rises and falls in quick, helpless bursts, and his hands push flat against Sinbad’s chest.

Then he snaps.

“I’ve had enough of this,” he gasps. “This— prank . Whatever this is.”

Sinbad stills instantly.

The tension in the room coils tight around them. His hands go rigid on Ja’far’s hips, and the cock buried so obscenely deep in him pulses—full, heavy, threatening.

Ja’far watches Sinbad’s jaw set, sees the flicker of disbelief flash across his face—then the cold heat behind it.

Sinbad’s hand leaves his hip.

It rises, and for a moment Ja’far braces, uncertain of what’s coming—but then that hand closes around his face. Palm cupping his jaw, fingers pressing into his flushed cheeks.

“A prank?” Sinbad repeats, voice low, tight. The fury in it isn’t loud—it’s worse. It’s quiet. Stung.

Ja’far’s eyes dart away, guilt and overwhelm spilling out through every tremble of his thighs, every rapid breath, every twitch of his hands against Sinbad’s chest.

Sinbad tilts his chin sharply.

“Look at me.”

Ja’far tries to twist away, shame prickling at the back of his neck, heat crawling up his throat—but Sinbad’s grip is steady. Unyielding. He doesn’t squeeze. He just holds Ja’far’s jaw where it is. Keeps him open. Vulnerable.

“Look. At me.”

Ja’far’s gaze returns, reluctant but helpless. And what he sees in Sinbad’s eyes isn’t lust. Not only.

It’s hurt.

Real.

“You think this is still a joke?” Sinbad growls, breath flaring warm against Ja’far’s lips. “When I’m this deep inside you? When I can feel your whole body clenching like it doesn’t want to let go?”

Ja’far swallows, but the motion stutters—choked around a gasp as Sinbad’s hips shift, grind upward, and his cock drives deeper again—a slow, claiming push, thick and unbearably real.

Ja’far lets out a short, sharp sound, knees tensing, thighs flaring. His body jerks in place, instinctively trying to lift up— off —but Sinbad’s hand on his face keeps him rooted. Locked.

“I’m not playing with you,” Sinbad breathes, each word cut between clenched teeth. “I’m not drunk. I’m not confused. I’ve wanted this. I’ve wanted you. And you keep acting like you don’t feel it too.”

Sinbad pulls his hips back.

The drag of his cock out of Ja’far’s tight, fluttering heat is slow and devastating—every ridge felt, every inch pulling slick from Ja’far’s aching core. His entrance clings, stretched and desperate, twitching around the retreat.

He slams back in—and Ja’far’s whole body jerks, a cry bursting from his throat as his walls clamp down hard, shocked back into stretch. His brows furrow, mouth open in a soundless gasp. His hands claw at Sinbad’s shoulders, trying again to lift himself, but there’s no give. There’s no room. There’s only Sinbad, deep and solid and unforgivingly present inside him.

“Every time I push in,” Sinbad says, fingers curling at Ja’far’s waist, “you tighten up like you don’t believe how full you are. Like your body keeps forgetting I’m already inside.”

Ja’far shivers. His legs are shaking now, bent open around Sinbad’s waist, each breath forced between clenched teeth.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Sinbad presses, gaze locked to Ja’far’s. “You feel how far I am?”

Ja’far doesn’t answer.

So Sinbad thrusts again. Deep . All the way in.

Ja’far gasps, eyes wide, head thrown back, lips parted in a sob he can’t bite back.

And still, Sinbad holds his face steady.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you feel me.”

Ja’far’s breath comes in shallow bursts, each one trembling against Sinbad’s palm where it still cups his face. His body is locked in place—stretched wide, pinned down, trembling around the thick, throbbing length buried deep inside him. Every time he shifts, he feels it again: the impossible fullness, the heat, the slow, punishing throb of Sinbad’s cock stretching him past reason.

And still, Sinbad doesn’t let go.

He holds Ja’far’s jaw in place, eyes burning into him, waiting for something. An answer. A crack.

But what he gets is a snap.

“You’re being stupid,” Ja’far spits, voice cracking at the edges. “And mean.”

Sinbad freezes.

The heat in his eyes shifts. He tightens his grip—certain. His thumb strokes along Ja’far’s cheek in slow contrast to the tension flaring in his chest.

Then he speaks, voice low and cut with frustration.

“I’m being stupid?”

He thrusts once—slow, deep, devastating.

Ja’far’s mouth opens in a gasp, hips flinching back against Sinbad’s hold. He can’t answer—not with that pressure blooming back up through his core, climbing into his lungs, stealing breath.

“ I’m being mean ?” Sinbad growls. “You’re the one pretending none of this matters. Like I don’t mean any of it. Like this is all some mistake.”

He thrusts again— deeper . Ja’far claws at his shoulders, his brows knotting as a groan slips loose between grit teeth.

“You keep saying I don’t want you,” Sinbad continues, breath hot against his mouth, “when you know I’ve wanted you for years. You say this is stupid, but you’re the one pretending you’re not fucking trembling around me.”

Ja’far glares down at him, breathless, eyes wet and angry.

“You don’t get to twist this like I’m the one in the wrong.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” Sinbad snaps back. “You’re scared, so you make it cruel. You act like I’m too stupid to mean it.”

He thrusts again—slow, thick, and Ja’far shudders, overwhelmed and wrecked.

“Who’s being mean now?” Sinbad whispers. “Me, for wanting you? Or you, for pretending you don’t want me back?”

“Sinbad,” Ja’far gasps, voice tight, cracking at the edges, “I think you just need to— stop .”

He tries to push up, arms trembling beneath him, muscles raw with effort and shock and shame. His palms press flat to Sinbad’s chest—firm skin slick with sweat, heart hammering underneath—and he tries to lift himself, just enough to slide away from the unbearable fullness that has taken up residence inside him.

But Sinbad doesn’t let go.

He stays seated, strong legs braced beneath Ja’far’s shaking thighs, and his grip at Ja’far’s waist holds steady. Every motion Ja’far makes, every shift or squirm or tremble, only draws attention to the thick heat buried inside him, still pulsing, still stretching him open around every inch.

Ja’far flinches when he feels it pulse again, like it’s settling inside him, claiming space it should never have touched.

“Sinbad,” he tries again, breath catching as he struggles to stay upright. “Please. I can’t think like this. You’re… too deep. You need to—stop.”

Sinbad’s hand slides up from his waist.

He cups Ja’far’s cheek, thumb brushing over his jaw, his eyes burning with a heat that’s no longer just lust—it’s wound. Deep. Open. Bare.

“No.”

The word lands heavy in the space between them.

Ja’far’s spine stiffens. He tries to shift again, but that only drives Sinbad’s cock deeper, and he gasps, startled by the sudden ache of pressure inside him. His thighs jerk in protest, hips rising half an inch before gravity pulls him back down. The impact draws a wet, obscene sound from their bodies, and Ja’far bites his lip hard enough to sting.

Sinbad’s hand drifts back down, spreading wide over Ja’far’s back. His palm slides along the curve of his spine, grounding him, guiding him down again until they’re flush. Sealed.

“You don’t get to shut me out,” Sinbad says, voice low, vibrating through his chest into Ja’far’s bones. “Not now.”

His other hand curls around Ja’far’s ribs, thumb grazing over the space just beneath his pectorals—slow, reverent.

“You don’t get to pretend this never mattered.”

Ja’far opens his mouth, something trembling behind his teeth, but Sinbad shifts his hips.

The motion is slow. Devastating. His cock drags just a fraction out, and the slide is thick, soaking, the stretch raw and perfect. Ja’far keens—quiet, startled—and clutches at Sinbad’s shoulders, all breath and no words.

“You can barely breathe with me inside you,” Sinbad murmurs. “You feel everything and still want to lie about it?”

Ja’far turns his face away. “It’s not supposed to be like this.”

“What is it supposed to be, then?” Sinbad snaps—not loud, but sharp. “Safe? Distant? You want to keep standing at my side like nothing’s ever passed between us, when I’ve spent years watching you hold yourself together with every ounce of control you had just to avoid this?”

Ja’far’s breath hitches as Sinbad thrusts again, this time just a little deeper. The heat of him presses upward, deeper into Ja’far’s gut, and Ja’far’s whole frame trembles with the effort of enduring the feeling.

“You’re going to have to live with it now,” Sinbad says, thumb returning to Ja’far’s cheek, tilting his face back toward him. “You’re going to have to live with not knowing what your king wants—what your oldest friend has wanted from the moment he knew you’d never give it freely.”

Ja’far’s eyes flutter open, glassy and panicked. His mouth parts, maybe to protest, maybe to plead—but Sinbad meets him there, not with a kiss, but with motion.

He thrusts again, deeper, and Ja’far’s voice catches, hands scrabbling for something to hold onto as his body tries—and fails—to flee the overwhelming fullness.

“And worse,” Sinbad breathes, lips brushing Ja’far’s temple, “you’re going to have to live with the truth.”

Ja’far pants against his shoulder, wrecked.

“That part of you wanted this too.”

Sinbad’s breath is hot against Ja’far’s cheek, damp with sweat, their skin stuck together in too many places to count. Ja’far’s chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, but the fullness refuses to let him settle. Every shallow inhale reminds him of how much Sinbad takes up inside him.

Sinbad shifts, only slightly—a grind, not a thrust. A heavy roll of his hips that sends a fresh, searing ache up Ja’far’s spine. Ja’far gasps, his body twitching in Sinbad’s lap, and his nails press into Sinbad’s shoulders again, half in warning, half in surrender.

Sinbad leans in, lips brushing Ja’far’s ear.

“You’ve always asked me,” he murmurs, voice rough, deliberate, “about the succession line.”

Ja’far’s brows furrow, his breath catching on a sound that doesn’t know whether it’s a protest or a plea.

“Every time I took a risk,” Sinbad continues, thumb grazing the damp line of Ja’far’s throat, “every time I put myself in danger, you were the one asking what would happen if I died. Who would inherit the kingdom. Who would carry the line forward.”

Ja’far’s eyes widen. “ Sin —”

But Sinbad keeps going, grinding forward again, slow and thick, his cock nudging deeper against heat already stretched too far.

“You were never asking as my general,” he breathes. “You were asking as the one who’d be left behind.”

Ja’far trembles in his arms, mouth parted, eyes flickering between fury and disbelief.

“You wanted to protect my legacy,” Sinbad says. “So what if this is it?”

Ja’far jerks. “What?”

Sinbad’s voice is steady now, quiet but unshakable.

“You,” he says. “You could be my legacy. My line.”

Ja’far stiffens, panic flaring hard and fast beneath the weight of Sinbad’s cock still seated deep inside him.

“This— you can’t mean that ,” Ja’far gasps. “You’re talking like—like I’m—”

Sinbad moves again—slow, unyielding—grinding deeper, forcing Ja’far’s body to remember that it’s still open, still trembling, still stuffed full.

Ja’far’s back arches, a cry caught in his throat.

“You think I haven’t imagined it?” Sinbad says against his jaw. “Filling you. Watching you swell with it. Knowing my bloodline wouldn’t just be passed on—it would be born from you.”

Ja’far shakes his head, lips trembling, eyes burning.

“Sin—you’re insane.”

Sinbad thrusts once—deep, all the way in—and Ja’far gasps, voice cracking around the sudden pressure.

“No,” Sinbad breathes. “I’m yours. And you’re going to be mine, in every way.”

Ja’far’s breath stalls in his chest. His nails dig deeper into Sinbad’s skin as if that touch can ground him—can halt the momentum that’s spiraling far beyond anything he can control. His thighs quake where they straddle Sinbad’s hips, and his body continues to throb around the cock still buried deep inside him, locked into the heat of it. The tension building in his belly isn’t just physical anymore. It’s sharp, aching dread.

“Sinbad,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You’re making a mistake.”

Sinbad’s hands tighten just slightly—one at Ja’far’s lower back, the other sliding to splay across his stomach, flat and possessive. The warmth of it there feels intentional.

“You can’t do this,” Ja’far gasps, shaking his head. “I can’t—carry. I’m not—”

“You’re wrong,” Sinbad murmurs, his voice low, unflinching. “You can.”

Ja’far stills, completely.

Sinbad’s gaze meets his, steady and unreadable. The weight in his stare presses in harder than his cock.

“I’ve seen your medical reports,” he says, voice like stone. “I know what the royal physicians confirmed. Quietly. Years ago.”

Ja’far’s throat works, but nothing comes out.

Sinbad keeps going, unrelenting. “You’re still fertile.”

The silence that follows hits harder than the words.

Ja’far’s breath stutters. “That’s not—”

“You remember,” Sinbad says softly, cutting him off. “After that peace treaty with Kou. After the night you spent with Kouen. You didn’t tell me. You went straight to the court physicians in secret. Told them you needed to be sure.”

Ja’far’s entire body goes rigid atop him. His face floods with heat, not from arousal, but from sheer, full-body panic.

“I—it was protocol,” he says, scrambling, “It wasn’t for me, it was—”

“You thought you might be pregnant,” Sinbad says, no hesitation, no cruelty. Just the truth. “And you had to make sure it wasn’t his.”

Ja’far shakes his head violently, the shame so visceral it feels like it’s pulsing just beneath his skin. His voice shakes when he speaks again. “That doesn’t mean anything. It never happened. There was no child.”

“No,” Sinbad agrees. His hand on Ja’far’s stomach presses a little firmer. “Because you were careful. Because you made sure.”

He leans in closer, their foreheads nearly touching now.

“But I’m not Kouen.”

And then his voice drops, deeper, more dangerous.

“And I’m not going to be careful.”

Ja’far freezes, then erupts.

His whole body lurches back against Sinbad’s hold, hands slamming against his chest with something more than protest—rage. It’s not from the stretch still throbbing inside him nor the unbearable heat of Sinbad’s cock still locked in his body, but from something colder, sharper—humiliating.

“You—you weren’t supposed to know that!” he snarls, face flushed red from throat to brow, breath ragged and shaking with fury.

Sinbad doesn’t release him. He lets Ja’far push, lets him claw and twist in his lap, but his arms stay firm around his waist, grounding, anchoring him. His cock twitches inside Ja’far at the motion, the walls gripping him still so tight—Sinbad groans softly at the feel of it, even as Ja’far fights.

“You read my medical records?” Ja’far’s voice is wrecked, trembling with something between betrayal and panic. “That was supposed to be sealed! That wasn’t for you!”

“You were scared,” Sinbad says, quiet, calm, invasive. “You thought it would be a scandal. That if it ever happened, there’d be no way back. But I saw how you looked after that mission, Ja’far. I had to know.”

Ja’far shakes his head, short and violent. “That wasn’t your decision!”

Sinbad’s hand returns to Ja’far’s belly—possessive again. “You don’t understand,” he says. “That’s not how conception works.”

“What—?” Ja’far rasps, trying to shift off him again, but the sheer length still buried inside him makes it impossible to do anything without dragging Sinbad’s cock against every sore inch inside him.

“It takes time,” Sinbad murmurs, voice maddeningly even. “Sometimes weeks. Months before anyone knows. You might already be—”

“Don’t.” Ja’far chokes, full-body flinch, shaking so hard now that his breath stutters. “Sin—don’t say that. Don’t do this.”

Sinbad leans in, forehead brushing Ja’far’s temple.

“I had them test you,” he whispers. “After the treaty. Quietly. Thoroughly. I had to know.”

Ja’far’s lips part, a sound caught in his throat like he’s trying to scream but can’t.

Sinbad’s hand smooths down to the curve of his stomach again. “You don’t carry any of the Ren bloodline. There’s nothing left of him in you.”

He kisses the corner of Ja’far’s mouth, gentle, almost reverent.

“But you could carry mine.”