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You throw Ja’far’s bedroom door without knocking.

They’re on the bed, tangled in each other and Ja’far’s face is agonized, he’s stuffed so overfull that he can’t be anything less than red faced and barely breathing, in tears and vexed as Sinbad’s hips make sticky slaps that drag plaintive little utterances out of him that climb in volume, cut off in an instant when he sees you and Ja’far looks at you like he hates you, teeth bared before he recognizes you and he scrambles for the sheets that you can see are on the floor and Sinbad hisses a curse, covers his Advisor’s body with his own and you slam the door very quickly and very loudly.

You should be leaving, but your cheeks are burning and your feet are conveniently glued to the floor; you can still hear them shuffling, moving against each other, talking. Your ears are just conveniently there and you can’t help but listen.

"Oh my fucking god. "

"Sssh, relax; we’ve been caught before."

"Yes, but not by your wife, you sex fiend!"

"Oh, come off it, Ja’far."

"Oh come off---? Get out of me you insufferable--"

A thump sounds, your hands against the doorknob can feel the vibrations and you think, maybe, that was the headboard against the wall. It comes again, paired with an animal sound that’s almost too frantic and you could think that someone was in pain beyond that door if you hadn’t already seen and you’re in pain with not being inside to see all of a sudden because that’s Ja’far’s voice. And you’ve never heard him like that.

"You don’t want me out, though. "

You hope to god that the muffled whine isn’t your imagination and your thighs squeeze against themselves; you can almost see it, the difference between Ja’far’s robes thrown open and the strength under his skin, the curve of his spine that you can’t see from behind the door, clutching and scrabbling at his king’s back. You wonder if his jaw is still slack, the breath knocked out of him and, by the far wall, something pounds on the wall again.

It’s not just once this time.

This time, you don’t even have an excuse for opening the door, just haul it open in front of you and stumble inside and yes, this is exactly what you wanted to see. Ja’far has his head tilted back, a fist shoved between his teeth. Sinbad’s face is tucked against his advisor’s chest, hair tangling between their bodies and his hand’s wrapped itself around Ja’far’s shoulder, uses it to hold him steady while Sinbad drives forward in quick, rough snaps of his hips that make an unrelenting pace, drives Ja’far up the proverbial wall it seems, because the hand that Ja’far doesn’t have his teeth set into just can’t seem to find purchase, flitting from the headboard to the sheets to raking down Sinbad’s sides as he runs out of noises to muffle-- to make.

But when he sees you, it all sort of changes. Ja’far gapes at you like he can’t believe you, for a second time have intruded on them. You can’t believe it a little either.

Sinbad himself pays you no mind this time, except for a virulent, golden stare that makes your knees pathetically weak and he slips his cock out of Ja’far, and you don’t have the guts to stare at it like you want, can only look at the curious cock of his brow.

Sinbad, you know, is no idiot. Once could have been an accident, was an accident.
A second time though? You’re interested and everyone knows it.

“I suppose she likes what she’s seen.” Ja’far sighs out, and no matter that he just sounds resigned, his hand strokes slow down Sinbad’s spine and you fully expect that they’ll be able to smell you soon enough.

Sinbad arches under the hand that Ja’far rakes down his back, a quiet huff of breath in the dim lamplight and when Sinbad moves, Ja’far moves with him. ‘Soon enough’ falls to ‘near instantaneously’ as you can feel a little more slick messing the inside of your thighs and the ache sets in.

“You wouldn’t suggest?” Sinbad has probably been too adventurous to sound truly incredulous since birth, and his voice just plays at it, but it’s contradictory and Ja’far’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, slides his hand between them for Sinbad’s cock, that you can’t help but want to feel in your hands, hot and hard. Ja’far’s eyes flutter, you know that he’s pressing the head of his King’s cock to his used hole, slick from their coupling and still loose enough to slip back inside, give Ja’far what he looks like he craves; every inch of him looks hungry to take it.

“I would.”

And you watch Sinbad push forward, cock sliding against Ja’far’s fingers where he keeps them there to feel how it goes in, inch by thick inch as he burrows that cock in as deep as it can go, until you can only tell them apart by the contrast of their skin and Ja’far doesn’t have any more words, mouth stays soft and slack and his eyes gloss over. Sin’s hands drag against his arms, scarred and bruised, hands shaking quietly and steadied when Sinbad laces their fingers together.

And you can only stay by the door, knees weak and mouth gaping, a miniscule, pathetic little, “I--” creeps past your lips and ends in a helpless sigh that betrays too quickly that you want. You didn’t think this out, couldn’t have when you weren’t even entirely sure that you wanted this until it, apparently, happened. Oh my god, this is happening and all you’ve got to work with is the mush in your head, this awful ache in between your legs that leaves you hot.

“Want to join?”

You slide an inch or two down the door, god you’ve never been able to stand your ground against Sinbad’s voice, the way it creeps in your senses and down your spine like thick honey, makes your shoulders roll back while you breathe yes because it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted, probably and you can feel yourself clench on nothing.

“Lock the door behind you.”
If you went any faster, you’d be a disgrace to your Empire.

You already are.

Your fingers are clever enough to flick the lock on the King’s suite without looking, one handed so that your other can fumble with your robes, falter completely and clutch at the door again because there’s honestly no hope of standing without it when you see the way that Sinbad draws up, spine straightening, exposing swathes of skin to you and as Ja’far draws an arm over his eyes for some reason, maybe so that he won’t see the last little corner of the bedsheets drifts to the floor, their nudity fully on display. You swallow, thickly, the gloss on your lips sticks for a fraction of a second while you stare at Ja’far’s cock, curved, slick with oil, flushed against his stomach and leaving sticky little smears that reflect in the lamplight lewdly. Sinbad’s broad hands sweep slow over Ja’far’s chest, that flutters with stuttering, silent breaths and they pause when his fingers can grip into thick, trembling thighs splayed over Sinbad’s own legs, curled underneath him now and that flex every time Sinbad rolls his hips.

“Look at her, Ja’far; fucked up already from seeing you like this. She hasn’t even seen what I did to get you here.”

Sinbad’s hands are restless again, and you really do think about obeying, getting all of these goddamned robes off, you just can’t get anything more than light skirting touches to your collarbone, the base of your neck where you can feel how you suck in air desperately when you watch how Ja’far can’t stop moving with those strong hands, rising to Sinbad’s touch like he’s magnetized.

“Look at her, baby.” His hands bat over Ja’far’s arms where they cover his face, shoo them out of the way and Ja’far just falls open for his King, like there’s just nothing else he could think to do. Sinbad’s hand does what yours wants to, curls around the curve of his jaw and Ja’far tilts his face into that hand, like he’s blind without Sinbad’s hand to guide him, looks at Sinbad with something that makes the fact that you’re soaking and wanting and lonely by the door painfully apparent.

And then Sinbad, may he be blessed and damned within the hour, he tilts Ja’far’s flushed face just so, presses his freckled cheek into the pillowcase with the backside of his hand, almost a caress that leaves Ja’far with a little keening sound as he obeys and you’re dizzied in an instant, the world spins under and around you far too quickly because that look is directed at you. Ja’far’s hazy, grey eyes implore, hair soaked in sweat and matted to his brow, but no less handsome for it when his lips only just barely curl into a smile for you before he’s wearing that face again, perfectly caught between a pained sort of thing and bliss. Ja’far’s jaw clenches even when he pants out almost silent obscene sounds that may as well be begging from between his teeth, brow scrunching close and eyes fluttering, struggling to keep his eyes on you.

“Give him something to see, sugar.”

You’re struggling to stay upright against the door and your lips lick at the part of your lip where it’s sore and swollen, and your mouth falls open because you want to tell him yes, want to say it over and over and that you’ll do anything he damn well says as long as he can keep making you feel like this, on display and wanted, but your mouth can’t figure out the words, couldn’t put sound to them even if you knew, so your hands find the actions.

You pull the first string on the back of your robes apart and your hands shake as it loosens and carefully tied cloth begins to fall.

You should probably have more shame about being naked in the face of Kou’s greatest enemies, but at the moment, you’re more inclined to ignore everything else, just for a second, a short one. You shrug off doubts at the same time that you shrug your topmost robe off and you feel so, so light; before it even finishes falling from your shoulders, the second one is coming off with it almost like you’ve floated right out of it, dark mahogany buried under girlish sakura pink chiffon slide sleekly down your forearms like a phantom touch and your shoulders grow little goosebumps.
Sinbad’s voice rumbles, distracted by the pretty displays of milky smooth skin you have to offer and satisfying himself selfishly with Ja’far’s body underneath him.. The back of your head hits the door and you shut your eyes so, so easily and your fingers shake when you slide them down your last, white little chemise and underneath, to your skirt, the green little ribbon that holds it together.

“Yes.” Ja’far drags out, oh, so, sweetly voice and his voice is wet, hoarse, wrecked by Sinbad, plaguing Ja’far in the sweetest way that Ja’far can’t seem to bear but still, he looks at you.