It's over.

The momentary surge of elation, of triumph and accomplishment, is as heady as any honeyed wine. It transcends the weariness of Sinbad's limbs, of the warning throb in the back of his head that warns him he's overexerted himself, and leaves him grinning too-wide, maybe a little too much swagger in his step as he makes his way up the long stone stairs.

It's tempting-definitely tempting to just collapse into the nearby shade of an oasis and sleep off the drain to his systems. His hand flexes, still stinging from the dungeon's last attack, the feeling slowly coming back in a wave of pins and needles. They're learning, he thinks with a wince. That, or he's getting close to the limit of even his own power, that he'd once considered so inexhaustible.

Then again, it's easy to forget, after now six dungeons falling under his wit and skills, just how difficult it had been that long-ago first time.

He's pretty sure there was a girl back in town who'd batted dark lashes at him, urging him that if he were really the dungeon-master he'd claimed to be, he could surely go out and prove it. There's a bejeweled medallion in his pocket now, for just such an occasion, and this is a perfect time to go there, to get roaringly drunk in a local tavern, to tell everyone of…

Well, perhaps five minutes from now, when he's not quite so tired, will be a better time, he thinks with a chuckle at himself, flopping down underneath the largest, shadiest palm tree. Just five minutes.

Probably, he should wait.

Judal still tells himself that now, even when he really, honestly has no desire to, especially when this man is just asking for it. Who the hell dozes underneath a tree in broad sunset, anyway, especially without anyone else around to guard their belongings? Even Judal isn't that stupid-if he's going to take a nap, it's in midair or behind a shut door and away from any prying hands, at the very least-

Ah, but that's not the point. He's felt this man for miles and days and against all protests (and orders, really), he's here because he can't help but be curious. With the figurative slam of the dungeon shut and locked at this man's heels, Judal knows he's made a good choice, and really, laughing in everyone's faces that doubted him will be fun later.

The burn of hot sand never makes it to his feet, not when he lingers just half a stride behind the man's dozing form, and Judal tilts his head as he leans in close, lifting a hand to keep the fall of his heavy braid from falling forward and thumping against a broad shoulder. "For someone so powerful, you're awfully oblivious."

If he's going to wake up, Sinbad thinks with tired resignation, it might as well be to the dulcet tones of someone lovely leaning over him. For a second, he's certain it's a mirage; he's been out in the sun long enough, and it would hardly be the first time.

But the figure leaning over him isn't the dark-eyed innocent goat girl he tends to hallucinate, so he lets his eyes flutter open, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "I've been called worse, by uglier people. What are you doing so far out here, pretty thief? If you're here for the dungeon, sorry to say you're wasting your time."

"I'm no thief!" It's far less incredulous and far more exasperated, and complete with the wrinkle of his nose, has all the marks of annoyance that this man doesn't know who he is. Judal's feet actually touching ground within the palm tree's shadow is a thing easy enough to miss with the ease that he sets himself down, and he scowls, arms folding over the draping folds of linen covering a good portion of his form. "So you definitely are the one that conquered the dungeon. I can tell, you know." And he sounds damned proud of it.

Oh, this one is strong.

It would take an idiot-or someone untrained, unwary, uneducated-to miss the power that spills from this one, a heady surge of look at me, I can do it, didn't I tell you I was strong. Maybe Sinbad's projecting just a bit, but the kid isn't even trying to hide it-if anything, she's letting it spill out, with the desperate desire to be noticed.

Ever wary for a hidden dagger-it's pathetic, how many have thought that bringing back the head of a dungeon-master will be easier and just as impressive as conquering the dungeon itself-Sinbad sits up, propping his back against the palm tree, resting his head back on folded hands. "So you can. And you've got more than a sneeze worth, haven't you?"

The scowl quickly shifts to a sort of frustrated pout as Judal leans forward, not bothering to stop the heavy fall of his braid this time from falling straight over his shoulder and thwacking Sinbad in the face. "You still don't know who I am, do you? And here they said people would know. Or at least, candidates would. What good are you, then?"

Well. Talk about a phrase that changes everything. Sinbad catches the heavy rope of hair between his fingers on the rebound, stopping it from hitting a second time, enjoying the curious coarse softness of it. "Maybe I was testing you. The other two I met have been a lot older and uglier. Do you expect me to believe this kind of good fortune without question?"

Oh. Well, that makes him feel a bit better. Judal's head cocks, the pout not quite dissipating as he reaches for his braid, giving it a little tug to free it from the man's touch. "You've already met the other two?" That could be annoying. What if they've already decided they like him? It's not fair, considering he came all this way, and this one is his. "For the record, I'm better than them, so whatever they said, ignore it."

Sinbad doesn't laugh, but it's a near thing, and he only refrains because this kid clearly takes herself so seriously. "Sure," he agrees easily. "So, tell me, Magi. What is it that you had to come out to the middle of this wasteland and wake me up to tell me? Surely someone of your stature could have had me brought to your feet."

Bad to say that he wasn't supposed to come out here, and that undoubtedly, all of Al Sarmen is frothing at the mouth and looking for them as they speak. Judal bites his tongue for a moment as he straightens, huffing. "Maybe I wanted to come and see you for myself. What better way to give you a proper assessment? I can't exactly tell how good of a king you'll be hundreds of miles away, after all."

Nor can you tell who I am, apparently. Sinbad stretches out, raising his eyebrows. "What kind of assessment did you have in mind? I can only aim to impress."

"Well-"

Admittedly, he hasn't thought that far ahead.

"I've already given you one." Yeah, that'll do. "You really think I can't tell just on sight how strong you are? I've been waiting all day for you to come out of that dungeon, you know." Judal's hands slide to his hips as he sighs. "I will say you look longer than I expected…"

How old is this kid, twelve? Her voice says older, but her figure is slim and slight, from what he can see of it, and the hesitation in her voice speaks volumes. "And have you ever seen a man emerge from a dungeon completely unwounded before? Perfection takes time."

"I don't sit around waiting for just anyone to come out of dungeons, so how would I know that?!" The scowl is back, and Judal's hands fist against his hips. "Maybe you're unwounded, but you're exhausted, aren't you? Maybe this was a waste, if you had to put that much effort into a dungeon like this. The Kou Empire has a prince that's captured two dungeons so far, you know."

Sinbad raises his eyebrows, letting a low whistle escape from between his lips. "Two dungeons? That man must be fierce indeed."

"But not," he adds, sitting up far enough to meet the Magi's eyes, "I think, worthy of you. Should you set me some task to see just how exhausted I truly am, Great Magi?"

Judal's mouth twists. It's really troublesome how this man keeps-just-not outright agreeing with him, or pushing for things. "You seem pretty confident already," he begrudgingly points out. "What makes you think you're so worthy? Other than being strong enough that I can feel you from miles away-that's kinda stupid, though, isn't it? Kouen's a lot more subtle."

Kouen, hmm? So she knows a lot more about him than that he's captured two dungeons. They've met, or at least been in close proximity. "Never said I was so worthy, only asked you to judge me. Don't misunderstand, either. Anyone who can find me by my power, friend or foe...that's a person I want to meet."

Normally, it would be no contest-play with him a bit, see exactly how well he stands up to a magi's ability-

But that will just draw Al Sarmen here faster, and Judal's enjoying a bit of time without.

Then, a simple enough solution occurs to him, and he leans forward smugly. "Well, then. If that's the case, how many dungeons have you conquered?"

There's no doubt in Sinbad's mind that the kid has no idea who he is. Maybe this way, he'll have a chance to find out some more about the enigmatic person leering over him, even as he reaches out to tug on that long thick mass of hair again. "This was my second. I think I'm getting better." Can you tell if I'm lying, Magi?

Judal frowns, disappointment welling up before he can stop it. Really, coming out all this way for just that? He could have stuck with Kouen, and his annoying penchant for not getting the head with an errant peach but catching it instead. Boring.

He didn't think he was that far off-base, either.

Impulse brings him to reach out, slim fingers snatching the man's hand clear off of his braid and that touch brings him to beam because he can feel that much more clearly, and leaves him intensely satisfied that he was right all along. "You're lying. You're stronger than that, how many is it really?"

Oh, that is a nice surprise. And the girl's touch is strong, if soft-pampered, surely, but not a weakling, nor a delicate indoor flower. That's enough of an enticement for Sinbad to pull the girl down to his lap, leaning in with a grin. "If you're so powerful, you tell me."

The sudden tug is enough to throw him off-kilter, and Judal's flop down into the man's lap is less than graceful, never mind the instinctive little sputter of magic that wells beneath him to cushion his fall. Probably, like so many other things involving this, he should rethink it-especially getting comfortable where he's sprawled, and the fact that Sinbad is kind of pleasant to lie against, what with the solid bulk of muscle and all…

"Six," Judal says, eyes lidding as he looks up through his lashes, trying for bored and not, well, impressed, when he's actually a little too giddy. "That's… a lot."

Sinbad hadn't thought that he'd be able to muster up excited any time before a decent rest and food, let alone quite this level of interest. But the little flutter of the girl's breath, the way her voice catches on the number, the way her lashes raise to reveal the most interesting eyes…

"Well, I didn't do them all at once." He trails a finger over the girl's hairline, down to her chin, her neck. "Why are you wearing so much, anyway? You must be burning up."

This isn't quite what he expected, but-

Ah, he wasn't thinking about the heat before the man said that, or rather, before that single fingertip lit his skin on fire and made him shiver. "I'm-what's it matter? This is just what I wear when I go out…" Judal shifts as he sucks in a quick breath, pushing himself up as he rest a hand upon that hard, broad chest. "You never even asked my name," he breathes. "Disrespectful. They say there's no one even fit to eat at the same table as me, you know. You should address someone like that properly, even if you're so strong."

Ah, god, she's young and sweet and feisty, even if it does incite a low growl in his chest to match the dark, heated look in his eyes. "Is that what you think, pretty Magi? Are you content to let them lock you away from the world before you're old enough to taste of its...sweetness? I'm afraid I'm not the proper gentleman who locks his treasures in a vault where no one can ever see them."

"No one locks me up." The pout is immediate and deep, and Judal's fingers flex like claws against his chest. "I'm here, aren't I?" he prods, wriggling his way upright a bit further, grumbling low in his throat at how it takes effort to throw a leg properly over the man's thighs and straddle him for a proper glaring position. "And you don't have to be a proper gentleman," he adds on a purr, no matter how his frown still juts his lower lip out. "Really, I just thought you'd like to know the name of the Magi that favors you so. I think I know yours, I've heard stories, now that I think about it, so it's only fair."

Sinbad is having a very good day.

His hand still prickles a little when he rests it on the girl's lean thigh, long fingers reaching more than halfway around, and leaning up until he's bare inches from those intense, dancing red eyes. "If you know who I am, you'll know I'm hardly a gentleman. But I would be honored if you were to grace me with your name, Fair One."

Oh, this really is nice. Judal sort of wants to wriggle in closer, because what is self-control when there's someone warm and solid and powerful-and that alone is enough to be drunk on, because with such close proximity and even just this little bit of contact, he can feel everything. Better than Kouen, better than listening to Al Sarmen and staying and not chasing this man down. "Judal," is the breathy sigh to follow. "And you're… um, it was Sin-something. Right? No one else has conquered so many dungeons."

And they never will, Sinbad is smug enough to think, sliding his hand just a bit up the girl's thigh, wrapping that long, thick braid around his other hand. "Sin is fine. The full name couldn't compare to something like Judal, anyway. It suits you." Really, the fact that this pretty thing is a Magi is so much extra luck-he'd be beside himself with glee just to have stumbled upon someone so lovely after such a day, wriggling around on his lap and making him feel every inch invigorated.

Judal grins, as pleased with himself for remembering as he is the compliment, and it prompts him to squirm his way forward that much more, his arms draping their way around Sinbad's shoulders, clinging to his neck as he half-buries his face into the side of it, breath escaping as a hot, excited little exhale. "You're quite good with flattery, too, when you want to be. Don't worry, I like you; no need to lay it on so thick when I'm already thinking about keeping you." Kouen would be so jealous-but won't the majority of Al Sarmen be pleased to have someone that much stronger?

Maybe a long time ago, Sinbad would have been wholly engrossed in the play of the girl's muscles against his hand, the slender arms snaking around his shoulders, the smell of the girl's hair so close, her breath against his neck. Now, his mind races, torn between pulling her closer, hand working up her waist, working under some of the drapey cloths, and what it's going to mean for Sindria if the third Magi chooses him officially, giving him divine sanction to rule. It can only be for the best, right? That's what the Magi are for, isn't it? His fingertips ghost across soft skin, and he leans in for a kiss, murmuring, "You may find me a bit wild for a kept beast," before meeting her lips with his.

It's almost overwhelming, the heady rush that follows that contact, and Judal knows he scrambles a bit to press up into the kiss, an eager, needy groan rumbling from his throat before he can even think to stop it. He doesn't even want to. Even if he's no stranger to the thrum of energy, of magic, of power, this is still something altogether different and god, it feels good.

His fingers curl, scratching against Sinbad's neck before they fist properly into his hair, and Judal's lips part with another, hungry noise escaping him as he wriggles closer, pressing his chest flush with Sinbad's, and really, nothing sounds better than the man being as less than gentlemanly as he claims right then.

Suddenly, Sinbad becomes very, very aware that there's something he's failed to notice.

Unusual, because the thing he's failed to notice is a thing absent, and all the more unusual that what's absent is one of his favorite things of all-or rather, two of them, which should even now be pressed against his chest in a way he's more than familiar with, and they certainly aren't.

Ah. Well.

There's no use being picky with the color of water in an oasis, and the boy is warm and wriggling on his lap, breathing words of magic and sighing very prettily through his nose, and really, that's almost as good. The village girls will still be there tomorrow, still be curving and supple and soft tomorrow, and maybe it's for the best that he won't be showing any of them how hot his blood runs after a dungeon.

He's less cautious now as he plunders the boy's mouth with his own, one hand snaking down to deftly pluck at the ends of fabric, unwrapping the Magi like his own well-earned gift.

Sinbad is right about one thing-now he's burning up, all too eager to wiggle his way free of confining, draping clothing, all the better to bear himself to the perusal of those calloused, strong hands that drag over his flesh. Judal pants against the other man's mouth, the rush of all of it enough to make him dizzy, but not enough to stop his own hands from wandering, pawing their way southward, and he sucks in a ragged breath through his nose as his palm drags along the hardening line of Sinbad's cock through fabric that is really more troublesome than it's worth.

At least the boy Judal is no less pretty, no less lithe, and above all no less willing than Sinbad had thought the girl Judal to be, and a great deal more eager and less shy than many of the real women he's lain with. "You don't mind, do you?" he asks, his teeth dragging over the young Magi's lip, laying him onto his back as he tugs at the wrappings. "You don't mind if I take you here under the stars for anyone to see, right?"

It should be answer enough with how Judal lurches upward, grabbing and clawing and pulling, but there's no helping how his tongue moves, too. "Not as long as you do it again properly later," he purrs, his thighs splaying wide at the press of Sinbad's hips above him. "On a real bed, without sand in my hair-even if you aren't a gentleman, you can at least appreciate that, right?"

God, Sinbad likes this one, probably more than he should. It has nothing to do with the fact that he's a Magi-startling at that, but for once it's easy to throw all that away until later, strangely easy to enjoy the press of a stiff hard cock against his own, easier still to shuck his clothes. A twist of his wrist and he's dumping the boy down on his own clothing, wrapping that long, full braid around his hand five or six times, giving at least a marginal try at decorum. "How about I promise to brush all the sand out of your hair as well?" he asks, pressing a kiss under the boy's ear, then sucking hard at the soft skin there.

Judal's mouth falls open, little more than a breathy moan escaping from how he shudders, the sort of loose, tugging pressure on his hair going straight from his scalp straight down to his cock and making him rut up all the more. "G-good," he manages, eyes fluttering, and he squirms, a hand fumbling between them to grab for Sinbad's cock again, panting at the heavy, thick weight of it in his hand, the throb of it when he squeezes. Every little touch is enough to make him twitch, and damn, it's something he could get used to, bathing in what feels like a cloud of heated, thrumming strength-something he was sure he had felt the best of before, and yet this doesn't even begin to compare. "Good. God, you're big." There's nothing but shaky, eager anticipation there, especially when coupled with the stroke of his fingers, the insistent splay of his legs.

There was a time, years earlier, when Sinbad had been too big for the self-control he possessed, too strong to know his own power, to arrogant to respect its danger. Skill, and practice, and life have beaten that out of him, leaving him chuckling down at the boy, spreading his legs with a shift of his hips, enjoying the slow drag of Judal's fingers. "I have a feeling," he murmurs against the shell of that delicate ear, "that you're someone who can appreciate the way a big man feels inside." It's not much of a guess, not when Judal's words are accompanied by a heady little shiver.

He whines at that, a mindless little sound that's probably better fit for a whore in a brothel than a selector of kings, but hell if Judal cares, especially when his fingers tighten and god, Sinbad just feels good in his hand. "Come up here," he rasps, and he squirms, pushing himself up just slightly onto an elbow. "Wanna taste you first."

"You drive a hard bargain." Sinbad shifts, resting his knees on either side of Judal's shoulders, cupping his large hands behind the boy's head. He looks young like this, with his lips stained red from rough kisses, his hair sandy and tousled, his cheeks flushed with arousal, and Sinbad's breath catches at the sight. He takes his cock in hand, leaning forward just enough to rest the tip at Judal's lips. "Have a taste then, my pretty Magi."

Judal doesn't need to be told, not with how his lips already eagerly part, his tongue flicks out to drag over the thick head of Sinbad's cock in a messy, wet slide to taste him with a groan in the back of his throat. He cranes his neck upward, the next, sloppy drag of his tongue leaving him panting as he draws back, lips slick and sticky when they part as he mouths down the length of him, eyes lidded and dark as he lets Sinbad's cock drag across his cheek, a sticky trail of fluid in its wake.

It's only then that he actually lurches up enough to take the man into his mouth, lips stretched wide and eyes rolling into the back of his head as Judal swallows the first few inches of him, the heady, musky taste on his tongue enough to make him squirm, enough to make him flush that much hotter, his breath escaping hot and ragged through his nose.

Oh.

Sinbad doesn't bother stifling a groan as the boy works him beautifully, sinfully over with his lips, panting and moaning and whining like a bitch in heat, every part of him writhing with the want of his cock, and god it makes him so much harder. He helps, supporting Judal's head and neck, tugging him down a bit, breathing slow and heated, "You really love that taste, don't you?"

He reaches a hand back behind himself, sliding down a perfectly toned abdomen to palm Judal's cock, wrapping it up in one big hand. "Feels like you love it. Feels like you could spill on the sand just from having me in your mouth, lovely Judal."

It's true, and there's no denying it from the way his hips twitch up, rocking mindlessly into Sinbad's hand as his eyes briefly squeeze shut, his chest heaves, and god, he really could, just from Sinbad in his mouth and stuffing his throat full. Judal lurches up, swallowing hard as he eagerly takes more of that big cock down his throat, his jaw spasming from the ache of it, lips slick and shiny with his own drool, making the slide of his mouth that much slicker, wetter as he works as much of Sinbad as he can.

He doesn't want to stop. He wants Sinbad in his mouth, making his eyes tear up when he takes just a bit too much, making his skin flush too-hot and his lips sore and all the more bruised, but he wants the man in him all the more, and so he pulls back with a slick pop, tongue flicking out as he pants raggedly, licking at his lips and looking up at Sinbad through his lashes, openly pleading. "In me," he breathes, voice hoarse, "n-now, or I'm-"

A frustrated little noise wells up in Sinbad's throat, but he tamps it down. "Next time," he murmurs, rubbing a thumb over Judal's swollen, sticky lips, "I won't stop until you're drinking me down, and I can see my seed dripping from your lips."

The mental image is almost more powerful than his need, and it's a long few seconds before he masters the urge to just hold the boy down and rut shamelessly against his face. He pauses just long enough to grab a pair of small jars from one of his bags, kneeling in front of Judal. "Aloe or sesame oil?"

Judal nearly puts a foot through Sinbad's chest in frustration for him to hurry up, though the shakiness of his limbs, the goddamned urge to simply writhe like a cat in heat is too strong for him to bother. "Aloe's fine," he mumbles, face hot because what does it even matter, just-he huffs out a hot breath of air, letting his head fall back even as his knees fall open and his fingers twitch with the urge to read down and touch himself. "Next time, you can use me as a proper king should."

"Ah, but I'm not a proper king." Sinbad slicks up his hand, slicks up his cock, and kneels once again over Judal, spreading the boy's legs as he slides between them. His cock slides up and down the cleft of Judal's ass, firm and tight and pert enough to help Sinbad forget that there's nothing soft to bury his face in while he does this. "I'll use you far, far better than any king," he promises, leaning down for another kiss. There's no helping the raw need in him, and the boy's just as bad, squirming and wanting, and damned but there's no reason to deny what they're both burning for, Sinbad tells himself as he thrusts in, burying his cock to the hilt inside of the writhing boy.

There's no holding back the shriek that tears from his throat, the hot, ragged breaths to follow, nor the hitching little moans as he bucks up, his back arching and his thighs tremulously clamping to Sinbad's hips. Judal's nails are claws as they sink their way into the other man's upper arms, and god, but his cock is hard between them, with just the upward lurch of his body bringing it to grind against Sinbad's hard stomach enough to make his vision blur and go white at the edges. It's all because of that hot, tense stretch of Sinbad's cock inside of him, making him feel so overfull that it aches, his teeth worrying into his own lower lip at that tight, tight stretch that Judal finds himself reminded of with every heaving breath into his lungs.

That shriek is good, and Judal's fingers clawing into him are good, and that pretty cock hard against his stomach is good, but nothing is as good as the boy feels, tight as hell and squeezing his cock so perfectly it's driving him towards insanity as much as it is orgasm. There's no care for what kind of magic Judal has, what kind of power he can promise, when all Sinbad can think about is the wild, needy look in those desperate red eyes.

It's been a long time since he's lost himself like this with anyone, longer still since he's done it with a boy, but that doesn't mean he's forgotten. Even in his reckless abandon, his hands are strong and sure on the boy's hips, not painfully cruel. Even when all he sees are white and red bursts of light, he kisses the boy like something precious, something to be cherished. Every savagely hard slap of his hips is no harder than the boy can take, despite the power in Sinbad's muscles. "No proper king would fuck you like this," he hisses against Judal's lips, the fancy speech of a noble fallen away with his self-control. "No one else will ever fuck you like this."

God, Judal believes it.

There's nothing that's felt this good that he can recall in recent memory, nothing in memories longer and more distant than that, and so all he can do is moan, nodding in mindless, helpless agreement, his vision blurring with each hard thrust that stuffs him full, stretches him wide, leaves him squirming with each inch of slick, hard cock pushing deep into him, and fuck, if that isn't good. It leaves him struggling for each shaky breath that he draws past his lips, gulping in Sinbad's own air as much as his own, with his nails clawing into the man's back, clinging to him with even the smallest slide of flesh against flesh and there's no hope for keeping his voice down because it's good, just so stupidly, achingly good being spread open by this man-

No matter how he wants to wait, how good Judal thinks it would be to hold out a bit longer, he comes with a broken sound, shuddering, quivering with each spasm that rakes through him-and god help if it isn't even better like this, because what the hell is self-control good for, anyway?

Sinbad pulls away long enough to watch Judal scream, that pretty face contorted in ecstasy so acute it's obviously too much, every little spasm going straight to his cock still buried deep inside the boy. He pants, sweat beading on his shoulders from the effort of holding still, and waits until the boy has stopped shaking quite so much before sliding out just long enough to flip Judal over, guiding himself right back inside with a sigh. "Now," he murmurs, with a soft bite to the boy's shoulder, "you're going to know what it means to be taken by a king."

He takes his time, now. There's time to spare, and the rippling intensity of their coupling sets him all the more aflame with every tight thrust, every minuscule bit of friction as he moves inexorably within the lithe little body wholly covered by his own.

Oh god, it's just not fair.

Judal moans as he buries his face down into the pile of his own clothing, breath hiccuping with each deep slide of Sinbad's cock inside of him. If this is what it means to be taken by a king-then more of it, and more often, that's what he needs, or so says his hazy mind as he simply bites down into fabric and shudders hard, spent body twitching, trembling too-eagerly and too-soon. Like this, with his mind out of focus, his nerves firing in what feels like a dozen different directions, he feels Sinbad's strength that much more acutely and-that, that above all things, is too much, no matter how he just wants to wallow in it.

It's easy to grab that luxurious length of hair, to tug on it just to watch the boy's back bow in a heady, needing arch. And unless Sinbad's mistaken (he isn't), Judal likes the way it feels, the slow yank on his head coupled with the patient, deliberate movement of Sinbad's cock deep inside him.

The best is when Judal just whimpers in his arms, when he bites down on his own wrappings, obviously overwhelmed, and as thoroughly conquered as any dungeon under the power Sinbad wields. One hand snakes up that toned belly to play with the boy's nipples, no matter that they're not attached to the soft, yielding flesh he's so used to, and even that change, tonight, makes his body sing. "Give yourself to me," he whispers, hips slapping hard against Judal's as he lunges forward. "Or I'll just make you mine."

The strangled whimper that leaves his throat is all Judal can manage, broken and breathless as he twists within Sinbad's hold. Just the pull and scrape of his fingertips over his nipples-something he doesn't even normally like, but to hell with it, right now he does, likes everything Sinbad does to him, never mind that it's too much and makes his vision blur all over again with each hot slide of his cock inside of him or squeeze and pinch of his fingers and tug on his hair-

"I-I'm-" Another, hard shudder cuts him off, and it's his own doing this time as he wriggles, writhes his way back onto Sinbad's cock. "Whatever you want, I-"

Truly, Destiny is a marvelous strange beast. Never in a year's worth of Sundays would Sinbad have thought to pluck a lovely boy when there were girls plenty, but oh, just now he could kick himself for it. The way Judal wriggles against him is the sweetest surrender, something willingly given even as it's demanded.

Sinbad's mouth is hot on Judal's neck as he marks the boy, claims him under the stars, and finally amid a series of panting, ragged thrusts, falls into his own surrender somewhere deep inside Judal's body.

His chest is heaving, and his body is weary like it hadn't been after conquering this dungeon, as he holds the boy close even as he floods him. "Now," he whispers, arms clenching tight, his voice catching as he holds Judal tighter, "you have blessed me, lovely Magi."

Judal finds himself biting into fabric again, his eyes squeezing tightly shut and it's nearly enough for him to lose himself again, just feeling Sinbad spill inside of him, hot and slick and so deep that another, achingly long tremble rakes down his spine. "You're really…" The train of thought leaves him quickly, and it's with a groan that he buries his face, too spent to think. What has he even been missing out on?

"I know," Sinbad says with a yawn, rolling onto his back, tugging Judal against his side. "I've been told, I'm sure. If you're sleepy, you can make me a king in the morning." That's kingly generosity, surely. He still can't help smiling as he winds Judal's hair between his fingers, brushing the end of it over the boy's chest and stomach.

A low, rumbling growl follows, no matter how Judal nestles up against him with what little strength he has left. "Thinking so highly of yourself," is the continued, sleepy grumble. "I haven't seen a real bed from you yet. Unacceptable."

"Not sure where you expect me to pull one from," Sinbad starts to say, but trails off into a contented little mumble, throwing an arm around the boy. This, surely, is something worth getting used to.