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His King

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This man will be the death of me .


That was the last coherent thought that Ja’far had before his mind had been wiped blank from unadulterated pleasure. All other attempts at speech had ended in broken gasps and wanton moans that Ja’far was embarrassed to know even passed his lips.


To celebrate , Sinbad had said, although Ja’far couldn’t even begin to remember just what it was that they were celebrating. For all he knew, it might have been one of his king’s hackneyed excuses to get his beloved general into his bed and between his sheets.


Doesn’t he know that Ja’far can refuse him nothing?


Ja’far let himself become lost in the pure storm of passion that is Sinbad, King of Sindria. The younger man knew that there was no point in fighting against the king’s ambitions when they were well-aligned with his own desires, even those he refused to openly admit to. Ja’far tangled his fingers into long purple hair as Sinbad dragged his lips down his neck and past his collarbones, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. A well-angled thrust coupled with a rough suck on one of Ja’far’s hardened nipples had the white haired man choking on a strangled cry. Ja’far could feel his king smirking against the skin of his flushed chest.


The smoldering fire that is Sinbad consumes him, and Ja’far feels on the verge of suffocating from its heat, and he loves it . His king, his friend, his lover , he shines so bright it’s blinding. He stopped trying to run from the destruction Sinbad leaves in his wake a long time ago. It was much better, he found, to allow himself the enjoyment of becoming swept up in the waves Sinbad makes everywhere he goes. He no longer felt fear when considering the chances of drowning in the deep depths of the purple haired man’s ambitions; rather, he welcomes the feeling of the deep waters dragging him down, pulling him into Sinbad’s orbit. Within Sinbad’s orbit lies adventure, his friends, his home .


Home is gripping his own hair tightly in a display of pure frustration. Home is a stranglehold around Sinbad’s neck when he does something irresponsible. Home is the other seven generals and the way their varying personalities complement each other. Home is watching with a mixture of amusement and exasperation as Sinbad gets a little too drunk and a little too handsy at celebrations. Home is the feeling of Sinbad’s fingers wrapped around his length, or buried deep within him and brushing teasing touches against his sweet spot. Home is the contrast between the slow grind of Sinbad’s hips on the nights where the world narrows to just the two of them and the frantic pace of Sin’s thrusts when they’re consumed by a desperate need for each other.


As he reaches his climax, shaking and covering his stomach and chest with his own release, Ja’far can’t help but grip tighter onto Sinbad’s form as he tenses from reaching his own end. Laying there, wrapped up in each other and panting as they come down from their highs, the white haired man feels a few tears slip down his cheeks.


It’s overwhelming to be here, in this bed, in this moment. As he feels his eyes grow heavy with contentment, he finds himself acknowledging an inescapable truth.


This palace is home. His king is home. Sinbad is home .