even the Devil needs time alone sometimes

Maybe it was when he let his hair grow long again, dark curls whispering along his neckline. Maybe a few weeks ago, the first time you’d felt that heady longing sprout in your gut after he slipped past you in the kitchen, muttering a small “‘scuse me” with a hand held to your waist.

You studied that moment—the engulfing mass of his hand fit to the curve of your plush skin. Maybe this is the way it was always supposed to go—you craving something he evidently doesn't. And your okay with that. 

Relieved, you feel Jaafar's teeming eyes collapse from your face to the person by his side; his “girlfriend”. This was a new revelation in the Jackson household. Jaafar had always spoken to girls, dated, slept around—stories spread from Jermajesty to you, each one picked apart when the words hadn’t yet stung. When none of it mattered at all.

Now it's different. This is the two of them sharing longing gazes and loving smiles. This is something you fear—no, you hope—is permanent. 

You and jermajesty fight the Encino heat as a shitty blockbuster film envelopes Hayvenhurst's games-room in the sound of curses and corny one-liners.

This moment is familiar, comfortable. It's shared and stuffed whole with memories of you and Jermajesty, holding your stomachs as laughter drowned whatever movie you’d both been paying no mind too. 

Yet as your mouth opens to spit out another joke only he'll understand, you hear it. A thud. Hard against the wall, hurried like it was an accident. 

Then, ‘thud’, again. 

“Jer, pause.” “Huh?” “Pause!” The boy meddles with the remote ‘till taciturnity substitutes the TV’s gunfire. Puzzlement paints his face as his dark eyes shadow your own, looking to the ceiling–above is the bedroom only a floor away. 

But when the ‘thud’ appears again, it comes in the form of a wail. Gradual, sultry, slick with only one thing—pleasure. 

“No fuckin’ way.” Jermajesty curses through the hand now airtight over his mouth. He side-eyes you, sneer playing with the tips of his lips. 

Then; another moan, this one a repulsive and undisputable souvenir of the thing you’ll never have—‘Jaafar!’ 

“Hey.” Jermajesty jostles your side, and when your answer is silence, calling your name seems to do the trick. “Fuckin’ perv. Listenin’ to them fuckin’.”

“I am not!” That breaks the seal—Jermajesty lets out a crescendo of moans, each just as whiney and high as the ones you’ve seen in cheap pornos. 

“Shut up! Gross.” You shunt him ‘till he finally accepts defeat and puts on a childish pout. Yet to your utter bewilderment, the noises halt completely. Silence returns like there was never anything before it. 

It was what felt to be the longest week of your life.

There was no amount of music, of noise, of focus on how your steering wheel felt in your hands that would satiate your mind. It simply kept replaying that same sound, an echo haunting your paper-view in every stagnant moment.

‘Jaafar!’

Like a broken record. 

You mocked your own neediness when dusk swallowed the summer evenings. Your idiocy was evident when you caught yourself hoping that Jaafar was anything more than your best friends brother, the boy who had you on his shoulders in the pool when you were young, who'd tease and mock 'till you shot him a cold glare—the man who'd stare at you across a crowded dining table like he chanted your name in his head. 

Though as Monday eased into Saturday, you made good at disregarding his posts online (or his presence in general). Instead, you’d managed to shove things into each second of every day, leaving no space for thoughts of him.

Now, Sunday collapses on you. 

Some vile part of you hopes that he can’t make it to the dinner, somehow falling ill and in dire need of attention from his girlfriend. 

You let out a hearty sigh and realign your spine, stepping out of the car into the setting sun. 

Encino ardour wraps your body in sweat as you knock once, rotating to admire the view from beneath Hayvenhursts imposing front-door. The sky is ribboned in pinks and reds as shadow begins swallowing the evening.

You are content. You are okay. 

The door behind you unbolts with a click and a slide before you turn to meet who you presume is the housemaid. Yet as your lips effort to form a smile, you find the muscles unmoving. 

Oversized shadowy cargos. A sheer white tee. An acquainted pair of polished air Jordans. 

Your heart falters as your eyes rake over the towering form. 

Jaafar isn't smiling—not yet. Not ‘till he checks you over once more for himself. Then it was all teeth, sharp canines and plush lips. 

“Hey.” A voice smoother than the spineless wind dancing with your hair.

“Hi.” You are the brick wall, tone an unbending force. You tear yourself away from his scrutiny and ram past him in a manner even you feel the urge to apologise for. But not today. 

You catch his scoff before the door is slammed behind you.

You ignore it, your focus instead stumbling upon the first thing your eyes find security in—Jermajesty. The boy is lounged across the living room couch like it’d proposed itself for his personal use.

You revelled in his lax demeanour, in his untidy hair and serpentine smile. You only wish you could share how the fighting urge to run from his house was because of his elder brother. 

Dinner manages to feebly leash your nerves. Yet with that familiar presence only a few feet away, another unwanted emotion seems to seep into your stomach. Guilt. 

Jaafar Jackson is a thoughtful and gentle man. He carries himself like clouds carry rain—capable of flooding, yet determined to hydrate instead. His reserve is thick around him. You often find yourself grateful that the coyness the media receives is not the attitude he presents to you. 

But, he can also be gaudy, brash, a tornado capable of taking entire towns down. His drive finds no end—and that is a precarious thought. When he focuses, his elusive auburn eyes flicker and ignite ‘till said focus is satisfied. 

You take another bite of your mash, grinning as someone’s infectious laughter catches in your own, before you feel it–

His merciless focus, the one that brands your skin every other dinner.

Instead of shying-away this time, you meet his gaze with the sharpness of your own.

He doesn't give in. He waits, and waits, and waits ‘till your reaction—in the form of your foot meeting his shin—forces him to squint and seethe. 

“Shit!” Jaafar curses below his breath, knuckles now a milky-white against the table. He raises his brows and chews at his bottom lip, shoulders shrugging like he’s got no clue why you left a blooming bruise on his leg.

If he could, you’re sure Jaafar would interrogate your motives—shake you ‘till you revealed the reason you snubbed him at the door, why your ‘cold shoulder’ feels searing hot.

But the boy beside you plays the finest safety net. Jermajesty is blissfully unaware that the only thing holding Jaafar back is himself. 

As the hours pass from 8pm, to 11, to 12, night shows no sign of ceasing its heat. Somehow, you’ve indulged in Jermajesty’s choice of movie. It gives you something to study, a sort of amity acting as the cherry on top of the fact that Jaafar had left not long after you and Jermajesty escaped dinner—a habit built after years of being sent away from the dining room when conversation drew in darker topics. 

You reach for the glass on the coffee-table, but find it filled with only a few stray blocks of ice.

“Jer, I’m gonna’ get something to drink. You want?” The boy shook his head, eyes glued to the screen. “Don’t pause.” “What makes you think I was gon’ wait for you.” 

You shake your head at his wit, rising from the relief of the couch and dragging your taut body to the kitchen.

Nightfall ebbs in through the windows, making each callous corner that much smoother as you make your way to the fridge. A content sigh leaves your lips as icy air breaches your sizzling skin. Your drink could wait.

For now, the cold air is- 

“Boo!” Two colossal hands fall heavy on your shoulders.

You yelp and tumble backward ‘till you find your footing practically inside the fridge. Before you connect those hands to a face, your mind is swift to prompt you on who’s fingers dig into the apex of your shoulders. 

“Jaafar, get off!” You shimmy and hope your ire-laced tone is adequate in warding him away. 

It doesn't seem to do the trick. Jaafar is unswerving ahead of you, hands on his stomach like your fear is the funniest thing in the world. He giggles ‘till his throat parches, ‘till he finds your face and realises you are, in fact, not harmonising with the hilarity. 

“Aw, c’mon! I was jus’ joking around.” “Aren’t you supposed to be gone?”

The man toys with his pink bottom lip. “I’m staying here tonight.”

You nod indifferently, as if you arn't aware of his every move.

Jaafar slithers past you as your back meets with the kitchen island, another trifling “‘scuse me” mumbled when he moves to the fridge and disappears inside. 

“What d’you want?” “Nothing.” “Then why you out here?” He peers out of the door, brows furrowed. White engulfs your knuckles as you wrestle the urge to smack the dainty moles on the left side of his face clean off.

Even in a state of perplexity, the man is painted like God bowed scripture into a human being.

“Where’s your girlfriend.” Your demand is disguised as a question.

“So thas’ why.” Jaafar delves back into the fridge, locating the glass bottle of iced water like he hadn't just opened a coffin full of unanswered questions.

“What does that mean?” “Nothing.” He withdraws, shuts the fridge, and steals space on the counter ahead of you.

“Jus’ knew you didn’t like her. And she’s not my girlfriend…” He hesitates, bottle half-way to his mouth before; “It's complicated.”

Something splits open inside you and delight threatens to crawl out. “Either way-” You barely have time to retort before Jaafar robs you of words. “Was it last week?”

You cross your arms, hating how the grin behind the lip of his bottle widens. “What about last week?” You attempt sincerity, even if your eyes oppose your tone. You can't look at him as your face warms. 

“I heard Jer. To be fair, I didn’t even realise we were bein’ that loud ‘till he started mocking her.” He dwells on whatever words teeter on the edge of his tongue, his silence drawing your eyes as he searches the bottom of his bottle. You can tell something is looming—something you have no control over. 

“But we've all done that before, right?” Jaafar knows that you aren't exactly untouched, but he's also aware that your dull experiences by-far overshadow any good ones.

Yet even as he presses all your buttons, his voice remains laced with silk. 

Jaafar expects you to shove him or to contest like you typically would.

Instead, your lower lip meet's its fate between your teeth as your eyes drift to the floor, lost in a thought you can't quite come to terms with. 

The idea of someone making those sounds because of the man unwavering ahead, eyeing you like he knows of your weak attempts to not think of him all week, has that cavernous need nestling into the hollow of your stomach. You squeeze your thighs and tense the arms enveloping your front. 

Nothing halts the molten desire, the repulsive remorse, from soaking into your fingertips. 

“Wait.” Is all Jaafar says, faintly below his breath. Then; “Is us talkin' about this … Turning you on?” 

That hauls you from your thoughts like a siren to an air-raid. It's red hot, flashing ‘warning! get out! escape!’

But as you meet Jaafar's gaze, his features shaded only by the full moon, you find your feet embedded to the floor. You are unmovable. 

“Shut up.” You mumble. “Nah, don’t think I will.” Jaafar pushes off the counter and stalks toward you, grin subsiding into a flat line on his face. 

He's close now. So close you can smell the musk and pungent leather from his opulent cologne.

His brawny arms fence you in as his hands fall flat on either side of you, like he knows his entire being is an emergency exit sign. You inhale before he can steal your breath.

“What, uh…” He sinks his head as warm lips meet with your ear, chest kissing the hands still folded over your front.

“What’d you do when you went home, huh?”

Your desperate to counter, to make any sound at all—but when your lips unfasten, only air flee's. 

“Did your hand find that sweet spot between your legs when you thought of her callin’ out my name? Did you imagine what I did to her to make her sound like that?” 

You study the tiles behind Jaafar's head like you have any concern of where they're from, then ponder just how long that toaster's been around because it looks rather new when-

Two sizeable hands find your wrists and work them undone. You realise now, as his heated skin meets with yours, that no amount of distraction can mute his touch.

So, you let him mould you like putty, enjoying how he manoeuvres you as if he's aware the heat from his palms is enough to melt wax. 

“Jaafar.” You exhale, waning annoyance nothing but an afterthought in your tone.

Yet the inkling of reluctance has Jaafar unfolding your forearms and kneading them tenderly, up and down, gesture slackening the nausea in your stomach.

“Hey, hey… It’s okay. Jus’ wan’ help you out, yeah?” He finally retreats from the crook of your neck and studies your expression—low-lidded eyes, your parted lips, the sweat forming along your hairline as your glistening chest rises without rhythm.

God, you look like craving incarnate. You look so horribly, irreversibly unfulfilled. 

“Counter.” Jaafar mutters.

It barely takes you a moment to lift yourself with the aid of his sturdy arms. You teem as the cool tile meets your bare thighs, soon thawed by Jaafars lengthy fingers, rubbing and kneading ‘till they slacken to allow his entry. 

His thumb edges along your panty-line, pushing in deep circles just beside the place you swore would never involve the man now only inches away from it. 

“Hands on my shoulders.” Another demand, another order you comply with in seconds. 

“T-this is stupid, Jaafar.” You murmur when his head unearths the crook between your shoulder and neck, lips not kissing but merely pressed against your glossy skin. 

“I know.” Then his palm was on you, driving deep circles into your clothed clit.

An unversed sound seeps from the back of your throat, like a whimper braided into a sigh—it's the sound of pure and unpolluted relief. 

“Theeeere you go.” He exhales against you, whole body stirring as he nudges the spot your desire begins. 

“Fuck…” You whine into his shoulder, mouth undone against the white of his shirt.

“You wan’ more?” 

You nod wildly, indifferent to how pitiable and deprived you must sound. All you know is that if this thing infecting your abdomen isn’t reached soon, it’ll drive you mad. 

“Atta’ girl.” 

You drone as his palm lifts from your core, only to find his fingers working to unfasten your shorts. With one hand, he unbuttons each with a pop so he can elevate you with his other.

He glides them down your legs, watches them hook onto your bare foot with a soundless scoff before focusing on the part of you pleading for release. 

“P-please, feels so-!” You huff like your patience is running from you. Jaafar doesn’t respond with sound, he simply raises his ring and middle finger to your lips, countenance speaking the words you know he can’t be bothered too—'open’.

Your lips part as two lengthy digits find the pad of your tongue and sink ‘till his knuckle is inches from your lips.

“C’mon.” He urges, watching you take the length with ease, sealing them inside as they lather in your spit.

He pulls them out with a ‘pop’ and admires the twinkle of slick in the moonshine.

His unsoiled hand moves your panties aside and makes way for his wet fingers to find your bare, swollen clit. You shudder into his touch, shaken at how fast he reveals that syrupy spot aching for aid.

He's unhurried at first, circling lightly at the nub while he studies your already fucked-out expression. When he sees your eyes beginning to seal, head waving like it's too heavy to hold, his pace quickens. 

“Fuck!” You cry out before feeling his hand thrust your head into his shoulder. You whimper against his shirt, fingers clinging to the delicate fabric.

“God, haven’t even done shit n’ you’re practically shaking.” He mutters into your hair as his fingers glide lower, lower, ‘till they gather at the concaving entrance to your sleek desire.

He hovers at the birth of your need, knowing just how to threaten your usually gutsy attitude.

“Please…” Defeat feels like fire between your thighs.  “Yeah? You want my fingers so bad I ain’t even gotta’ ask you to beg?”  

“Yes, Jaafar. Please…” Your sentence is one song-like slur. You're drunk on whatever spell this man has you under, and you have no intention of ridding yourself of it. 

The earthquake that is two fingers gliding into you has your teeth burrowing into the tough flesh on his shoulder. 

“Theeeere she is… Lemme’ in.” His fat fingers are motionless inside you, waiting ‘till your tightness moulds to the foreign sensation.

Then, they’re sluggishly drawn out, pulling an abhorrent sound from the back of your throat, before submerging back into your core. 

Your body shudders with each torturous lunge, hands seizing anything they can; his shoulders, his shirt—his hair. 

Your fingers venture to his scalp and yank as he drives inside you.

Jaafar falters as a pitiable noise trickles past his lips—a whimper.

Stretched like a sigh after a hard day’s work, scrawny like he’d been waiting for someone to claw at his scalp ‘till the hurt settled and stayed. Your thighs contract around his lean waist.

“Fuck, I felt that.” He mutters against you as your hole clenches on his hand. 

“Do it again.” Curiosity seeps through his gasping words. 

You tug at his scalp again, receive another high-pitched groan, and squeeze on his fingers. It’s like you flicked a switch in him, suddenly working you with a firmer, harsher hand.

Jaafar's fingers alone stuff you full. That thought earns him another hearty moan. 

“So fuckin’ tight f’me, shit…” His fingers stretch you wide and scissor when you feel something shift inside you, almost threatening your bladder—Jaafar's curling his fingers inside your stomach. You cry out again, noise stifled by his shirt. 

“Shh, shh. Use my shoulder, thas’ right.” Jaafar is nothing if not persistent. Curling, unfurling, curling again ‘till you can’t tell whether the white behind your eyelids is you seeing stars or the sun rising.

It doesn't matter—nothing seems to as he jerks at the knot in your abdomen and works on you ‘till all you can retain is the feel of his frenzied mouth against your ear. 

“You are so pent up… I can feel it. Your pussy’s practically crying for me.” You miss the moment his voice distorts from song-like to starving. Now, it's gruff, guttural, untiring as he feeds you a sensation you can only describe as being filled.

“Say you needed this—you needed me.” “Needed—Ngh!” His middle finger discovers the spongy spot inside you, prodding at it ruthlessly. 

“C’mon, use your words.” “N-needed you… Jaafar!” 

“That’s right.” He rewards you by grasping your hair and tugging ‘till your neck is left vulnerable.

Another spot he’s never truly been able to explore 'till now—an unpolluted canvas practically pleading for his marks. 

“Jaafar!” You warn between wheezes, trying to drag him away from the one place that’d raise questions you won't know how to answer. 

He grumbles in frustration, combatting the urge to latch on and suck ‘till purple spots and darkened bruises freckle your neck and chest. He diverts himself by putting his thumb to work, kneading your clit.

Tears invade your waterline at the added sensation. “Shit—F-feel s’ good.”

“Yeah? You’re so sweet, God. Didn’t even know I was doin’ this to you.”

His thumb accelerates and sets your nerves alight. Your digits spasm in his scalp, your thighs quiver with each thrust, and the only sound in the kitchen is the slick of your pussy and a pair of panting sighs. 

“Anyone ever make you feel like this?” He speaks your name and it's like a being embraced by the sun. 

You shake your head and snatch onto the forearm pistoning into you. “N-no.” You let out weakly. 

“No wonder you're so overwhelmed. Poor thing.” 

His words give you whiplash.

Only moments ago, Jaafar used your pitiable behaviour as leverage, a way to force words from your mouth that, in any other circumstance, you'd never dream of uttering.

Now, even though the words are coated in a twisted kindness only Jaafar is able to bend, they seem sincere. 

But with the way his fingers lead you to your edge, each slide and thrust a cruel reminder of the impending orgasm only he’s capable of tearing from you, you feel close to moaning his name the way you’d overheard exactly a week ago. 

“Gon’ make it all better, promise, sweet girl.” 

Sweet girl. 

Jaafar grunts when your fingers tense in his scalp, mouth ajar beside your ear as each of his huffs slowly transform into groans.

God, are you affecting him the way he's affecting you? 

The thought has you chanting curses into his neck.

And then it dawns on you—his hands everywhere, his breath fanning your skin, the idea of him rock-hard in his pants. A wave from the ever-growing ocean of your orgasm arises in your gut. You arch into his hold. 

“Quiet,” he whispers, breath heating your ear, “or else I’m gon’ have to find another way to shut you up.” 

Another swell jolts your spine and slinks into your crux. Jaafar shifts inside you once, adapts to the new angle, before discovering the sweet spot that has you salivating against his white tee. 

“There! Fuck, right there…” Your a blubbering mess, practically putty in his arms as your orgasm teases and twists your core.

“Mmm, that it? Fuck, your doin’ s’ well.” You squeeze and flutter around his fingers at the praise. “Can’t believe how good your bein’ for me.” 

“G-gon’ come!”

“I know, I know. You’re so sensitive.” When he feels your breath wedge in your lungs, when he feels the way your thighs lock around his waist and trap his hand, he yanks you away from his shoulder and takes your face into his hold. 

Your own hand wraps around his thick wrist as you acclimatise to the new position, eyes wavering closed as each nerve is attacked by his fingers. 

“Nah uh, look at me, c’mon sweetie…” 

You force your eyes open and contest every instinct that begs to roll them to the back of your head.

“Wan’ see the face you make when you come from jus’ my fingers.” 

Those words, the ones now tattooed to your mind, are enough to flip your gut and land lopsided inside you. The knot that pined to unravel for the past week pulls ‘till your muscles are solid beneath your skin, and then undos in a crescendo of agonising, suffocating waves of release. 

“Thaaaat’s it, there you go.” 

Your body ignites, blood and bone and artery singing as your orgasm leaves your ears ringing and your vision white. It stains you as Jaafar works methodically through it, his tentative rhythm syncing with that of your spasming muscles.

Yet even as his fingers persistently tease your entrance, you feel the weight of his eyes on every feature. 

He’s reading you like a book, annotating every freckle, mole and scar, just to note how they mould to your fucked out expression.

The way your lips part on a hushed sigh, the way your neck arches as the closing current of your orgasm frees itself, the way your sweat falls in perfect beads down your front and disappears beneath your shirt.

Your like the cover of his favourite novel. 

Silence loiters between you, blanketing breathless shoulders with a weight you both now understand you’ve ruined any chance of purging.

Yet ahead of you, Jaafars expression is almost one of indifference, like what he did was just an errand for your tortured body. 

A creaky whine crawls up your raw throat as his fingers finally glide out of your slick. You watch the way he eyes his hand, engrossed by the mess of liquids accumulating and dribbling down his fingers to his wrist.

He raises the concoction to his lips just like he had his water, and unlatches. Jaafar grins, pearly whites on display, before his fingers land flat on his tongue and disappear behind his plump lips. 

“Mmm…” He keens at your taste, eyes never wavering from yours as he removes them with an enthusiastic ‘pop!’ 

Jaafar Jackson looks delectable. His hair is dishevelled from your nails, shirt wrinkled from your hands, shoulder damp and marked by your drool.

Your eyes lower to the thing twitching beneath his pyjama pants as his voice comes out like velvet, sultry and soft—like he hadn’t just fucked you raw on his fat fingers and gone faint from the aftertaste; “Better?”

PART 2 OUT NOW

Hayvenhursts double gates push open with a whine as they grant your entry. You park in your usual spot—against the square-trimmed brush, closest to the double garage—and exit with a little hope in hand. 

You and Jermajesty were going out this evening. It was his choice of dining, his friends you were dining with, and to be concluded in a club you can’t recollect the name of. Though you do not care what you do tonight, for it is finally something other than Jaafar. Jaafar. Jaafar.

It’s drinks and dance and a distraction.

You lock your car behind you and make for the front-door, hand dipping into the fountain as you pass and making a wish like you’d thrown a coin in—maybe that is when you’d jinxed yourself.

When your manicured hand raises to ring the doorbell, your left shrinking away as it rocks open with the force of fifty hurricanes. 

Meeting you behind the door is the eye of the storm—Jaafar’s girlfriend. 

Her face is beet-red, her hands milky white fists at her side, and when she looks at you, you swear your hearts plugged. 

Ferocious doesn’t begin to explain the glare she meets you with. She looks at you like she hopes her thoughts kill you, like she’s praying that the daggers her tear-filled eyes toss toward you catch in all your favoured parts of skin. 

Yet beneath her red-hot rage lay something stagnant. Something like a ball and chain around her ankle. 

Sorrow. 

Her makeup trickles down her face and leaves tear-streaked stains behind. This girl is on the threshold of anguish. 

Your torn from your pity when she finally strides outside and strikes you with her right shoulder. You teem at the shunt and rub the budding bruise—but you stay silent. 

Your eyes turn from her figure, vanishing deep into the hooked driveway, to the ricochet of footfalls from the entrance. 

Jaafar—hair wild and shirt held against sweat-stained skin—jogs by you, calling her name like a lost child’s parent in the grocery store. It’s all panic and careless curses, and the dire awareness that your life could change. 

His steps are thick with shame. And as the pair melt behind the shrubberies, you recognise it then; Jaafar had not regarded you once. 

Your eyes plummet to the floor, to the duffel bag clasped tense in your palm.

“Holy fuck.” That booming but conversant tone. “Fuckin’ shit-show with ‘em.” 

Jermajesty’s as winded as Jaafar, like he followed the fight to the front door. 

You want to ask what transpired, raring to know why the girl’s shrieks voyage from the front-gates all the way to the arch of their door. 

You decide against it. Your week-long bliss could live a little longer. 

The cocktail in your hand has grown warm, the untouched food on your plate cold. 

You’re flickering in and out of conversation, pleased to see Jermajesty, seated across from you, with lungs occupied in laughter. 

Yet, there waits a remorse that has a way of polluting your veins. 

You try to talk yourself out of your disposition—he said they weren’t dating, assured you they weren’t together. And when Jermajesty began to share an akin curiosity, he’d also questioned his brother—but the answer was unchanging. 

The fact is carved in stone, yet remains a dreary cure for your guilt. 

As though the universe is out to bite you, Jaafar’s name pierces conversation like fangs. 

“How’s your brother?”  Your heart can’t agree on whether to plunge to your stomach or purr at the question.

“Shit, I forgot.” Jermajesty replies with a toothy smile, drink neglected on the table. “You won’t believe what that dumbass did.”

Your ears ring.

“Apparently, him an’ this girl was goin’ at it, an’ Jaafar fuckin’ called her some other chick’s name!” 

The table reared into collective gasps. Then, Jermajesty’s eyes and hands motion toward you. “She was comin’ inside when the two of ‘em were jus’… Tearing each other a new one, bro.”

“Whose name?” The boy beside your best friend probes, to which the reply is an unassuming shrug. 

Jermajesty doesn’t know. 

You weren’t sure whether that thought should’ve consoled you or only driven you further into absurdity. 

Your mind didn’t have time to dwell on either as the night tore by in awnings of fluorescent blue and yellows. Your bar-hopping spun into club-hopping, and when Jermajesty’s shirt wore more shots than his mouth, you were quick to usher him outside. 

“Call an uber, Jer.” “Chill out, I did.” His disputes are spineless—along with his motor-skills. Jermajesty’s phone falls limp in his hand as he finds his seat on the gutter. 

“What car is the uber driving?” “Huh?” The boy’s face is obscured behind his hand. 

“What car—y’know what, never mind.” You snatch the unlocked phone from his clammy palm and scour his screen for a vehicle number. 

Instead of a car, your eyes meet with a chain of messages; 

Cluttered words that make no sense met with replies that are fluent and plane. Though you notice a somewhat intelligible sentence Jermajesty fared at exactly 1:50 AM; ‘ned pickup pls’. 

The response was curt; ‘Coming’. 

You look to the tag hovering atop the messages, and the city shakes around you. 

‘jaafar jackson’.  

You mourn your unfinished drinks.  

Other than the wandering curses of Jermajesty—who’s body is being swallowed by the G-Wagons front-seat—the drive to your house is voiceless. 

You’re gazing out the window, tracking your surroundings as an identifiable street sign hovers past your window. Yet as it withdraws behind you, an abrupt and unfamiliar turn trails away from your neighbourhood. 

Your eye’s chance with driver, already watching you through the rear-view mirror. 

Jaafar’s propped against the window with his hood drawn, one hand on the steering wheel as the other occupies itself with a piece of dried skin on his lip. 

Every time the car bathes beneath the gleam of a red light, your legs—already crossed—squeeze ‘till the unremitting sting becomes purgative.

But when it comes to Jaafar, you’ve accepted that no punishment will be adequate in purging your body of its primeval reaction. It’s as though he’s something fabricated into your DNA—a disease. 

“Where are you going?” “Droppin’ Jermajesty off first.” Jaafar looks from you in the mirror to the boy waning in and out of conciousness beside him. “Can’t have him hurling in the car.” 

You nod.

“Why aren’t you in his state?” 

You draw in a deep breath and try to invent a reason that doesn’t include his name. “Just didn’t feel like drinking too much.”

Jaafar nods, too.  

“Stay here, I’ll be out ina’ minute.” Jaafar yanks Jermajesty out of the car with a huff and manages to get him inside the house with the elegance of a toddler learning to walk. 

In any other situation, your eyes would be blurred with tears of laughter.

You have no one to blame but yourself for your hardened state. 

After Jaafar secures the door behind him, he’s left suspended ahead of the car. Like a puppy’s does, his head slants in puzzlement, as if the altered angle will aid his query. 

Before you know it, Jaafar’s settled in the driver-seat and revving the engine into ignition. 

But before he shifts park to drive, he speaks. “Do you plan on gettin’ in the front?” 

Your guts lurch as you clamber out of the backseat and slam the door after you. 

When Jaafars desolate, it’s almost like the earth is, too. Clouds are cast overhead and threaten rain; the wind beats against the car in angry waves. His dejection could shred leaves from their trees. 

“Did Jer wake you?” 

When you speak, Jaafars hands tense on the wheel. He sucks in a deep breath that’ll fuel his response. “I was already up.” 

You nod. You think of something else to say. 

“Why were you up?” 

When an unsteady hand swipes at his face, you’re left with the view of a man who’s being torn in two—until he veers from his lane and makes to pull over. 

“What’re you doing? Jaafar…?” 

You go unanswered as the car decelerates beside the empty curb and the ignitions killed. Other than the whirr of the highway, silence swamps you both. 

Jaafar’s got both hands on the wheel now, looking onward as though he’s still steering. 

“I’m, uh, sorry about earlier. That was…” He licks, then gnaws at his bottom lip. “Uncomfortable.”

“Oh. No, it’s okay. I heard about it.” Your reply has Jaafar beholding you with the enflamed eyes of a deer in headlights.“Well, Jermajesty told me that you… Y’know.” You regret every word as soon as they flee from your mouth. 

Jaafar slips his hood off as he sighs and tumbles to the headrest. 

God, you can’t help but drink in the sight. His legs parted beneath his ashen sweatpants, the blackened jacket struggling to screen the pace of his lungs, his grown-out, scruffy tight curls finally free from the constraints of his hood. 

Yet what holds your breath hostage is a line that runs up the column of Jaafar’s bronzed neck, sprouting from beneath his jacket. It contours the pointed curve in his jaw and accentuates the vein underneath. 

You never noticed it before now.

Jaafar’s head bows, inch by inch, ‘till his eyes descend upon you. Their indolent, as though this is the first time they’ve seen you in apparel that hugs your curves—like this is the first time he’s seen you. His ochre eyes are unwilling to let go. 

Fuck.

Jaafars seen you in elaborate outfits since you’d attended your first event. He’s seen you in bathers, he’s seen you in pyjamas, he’s seen you in states even your mirror would cower from. 

So, why now is he looking at you like his own culpability, his own grim spirit, feels void when it’s defied by his need? Why is he the first to stir by unbuckling his belt and dragging it over his chest? Why does it feel like he knew that was the one restraint keeping him from you?

Each ‘why’ is answered as Jaafar expanses over you and bolsters himself on the centre console, nose halting inches from yours before unbuckling your belt as he did his own and unravelling it from around your front.

Jaafar’s body eats at the space between you both. 

With each moment he devotes to drifting ahead of you, shock follows in its wake. His chest rises as yours falls, his long, thick lashes flutter as your breathing meets in the hollow space between you. 

And when you feel a hand rest flush against your bared chest, it’s not offbeat or abnormal. It satiates the hand-sized chasm he’d dug between your ribs. 

Jaafar grafts it past your clavicles, your neck, and nestles it in your scalp. Its size swallows your entire nape. 

Suddenly, your bodies are pushing and pulling as one—Jaafar’s dwindling back into his seat as your figure follows, the hand on your nape keeping your face fixed breaths away from his. 

He pulls till you’re sprawled across the centre console and anticipative of his next order.

It arises in a muted mumble. “On me.”

That’s all that it takes to have you swinging your legs across the interior and spanning the heat of his thighs. 

When both knees regain purchase on the padding of the driver’s seat, Jaafar’s hand retreats from your nape and makes for your cheek. His thumb and forefinger catch your jaw before his thumb takes to your mouth.  

It strokes your lower lip, then the top, before the man it belongs to flicks his chin and motions, ‘open’.

Your lips unravel and allow his thumb to plunge into the cavity of your mouth, pad smoothing against your tongue. Jaafar’s lips unseal with yours as his uninhibited hand retires on the thick of your thigh, bunching your dress up higher, higher, until the biting air of his car hits your clothed core. 

Jaafar’s gaze sinks to the landscape of your thighs—your bow-topped panties, the velvety flesh of your legs, his own dick trembling below his sweats. 

Even when your lips latch onto his thumb, he’s still drawn to the sight of your endearing underwear. So, you put on a show and sway against the rising swell of his bulge.

Jaafar seethes at the contact, but at least his attentions on you. 

You do it again. This time with vigorous, even strokes.

“Fuck!” Jaafar yelps as his hips ascend and join yours. You whine against his finger when you feel him latent under your red-hot heat, brushing the spot that has your thighs tremoring. 

You set Jaafar’s thumb free from your mouth and feel the damp heat of his palm hug your hips, monitoring your pace. His head lolls toward the bolster behind him, low-lidded eyes still glued to your hands as he watches them collapse on his chest and discover the galloping thumps of his heart. 

Moments later and Jaafar’s thumb, the one still coated in your saliva, crawls into the apex of your hipbone and prods at the lace casing your clit. 

“Jaafar…” His name scales your throat as your head plummets to his shoulder—it’s intimate, familiar. It feels safe. 

“Say it ‘gain.” 

When his thumb speeds you gasp his name into his flank. “Jaafar…!”

“Sounds s’good when you say it, shit.” 

“Need more, please. Need you inside.” Your tormented guts are a shamble of sensations. You ought to be livid, should feel remorseful, but any sentiment other than lust has a hard time staying afloat. 

“Need to open you up first, yeah?” When you nod at his words he nods along with you, imitating your movement. “Uh-huh… Shit, already goin’ dumb.” 

When his hands move to your panties, you protest the lost pressure of his thumb.

“Gon’ get these off.”

You elevate your hips and duck to evade the car-roof. 

Jaafars thick fingers stretch the lacey fabric until he’s drawn it from your left leg and begins on your right. With one hand, he uncovers the wet of your sopping core, and with the other, he’s locating a home for your panties—the centre console. 

He crumples them in his fist and tosses them into the glovebox, focused on the ring and middle fingers now kneading your knot of nerves. 

“J-Jaafar, come on, jus-” A lone digit entombs itself in your core and substitutes your words with a smothered sob.

It’s relief and the creation of an even crueller ache all at once. Your grateful to be filled, but gluttonous for more. 

Jaafar starts slow—mindful arches that tease the spongy spot inside you, the odd swirl of his thumb on your outer-heat. But when he pulls his pointer out to append his ring finger, your own sink into the forearm that plunges back into your gummy walls.

Jaafar yowls at the sting of your nails as each one scores crescent-moons into his flesh. 

Yet he’s able to endure the subdued ache as you begin to instinctually grind down on his digits, emulating each of his skilled strokes.  

When Jaafar looks you over, he swears he sees God in the whites of your eyes. 

The way your body lifts and falls above his, the dainty grooves dappled on his forearm, even your head ducking each time you rise, avoiding a clash with the roof, manages to coil around his ribs.

Digits scissor and spread you apart as they prep you with a proficiency that should have you green with envy. Yet for a reason you can’t quiet figure, that envy deciphers into liquid heat. 

“I love knowin’ that this is how wet I get you.” Jaafar’s angle alters inside you and manages to swarm something you’d not known was there. And when that incline has you pulsating around him, he punches into it insistently.

Before your mind has time to catch up to your body, the apex that can take hours to climb is emerging after only minutes.

Maybe it’s the addicting infamy of it all—or purely just Jaafar’s elongated fingers—but you feel the sticky insides of a climax that clings to your walls slackening with each thrust. 

“Wait! I-I think I’m…” “I know. ‘Can feel it.”

When the absence of a hand on your thigh has you retreating from his shoulder, your eyes trail their voyage. Jaafar’s reaching for the fingers deep-seated in his forearm, easing them away and enveloping them in his own. 

Tenderly, his hand links with yours and suspend them atop the throbbing in his sweats. 

Jaafar’s size is evident below the grey fabric—aggravated, lengthy, caged against the waistline of his briefs.  

“Your goin’ to distract yourself with this.” The digits inside you slow ‘till their practically still. “Can’t have you cumming jus’ yet.”

Then, Jaafars hand is flattening against yours and compressing both against his bulge. 

You can physically feel his hunger between your fingers.  

“Move on it jus’ like this, ‘kay?” His hand is conducting yours, stroking in refined, pliable lines over his length. Every time it pulses against your trembling touch, you draw in a hushed gasp through your nose. 

“Yeaaah, thas’ it. You’re doing real good.” The man’s word’s part with a stifled ‘shit’ before his hand unties from yours and revisits your thigh.

Jaafar’s already experienced the tremor in your breath as you finish, knows how it feels to have you crumbling on his fingers—yet to you, this man is unexplored. You line your next words in candid curiosity and glance at him with round, glossy eyes. 

“Can I see it?”

Your tone is honied, sweeter than Jaafars favourite candy—your something he can’t say no too. 

“Yeah, ‘course.” He hums as a wicked grin unfurls on his lips—one you know is only ever caused by the idea of provocation.

Jaafar’s fingers thrust inside you once, offering a sliver of relief, before he’s robbing you of that relief as his fingers desert your prepped, unfilled hole. 

Your face screws into that wonted ‘pissed-off’ scowl that Jaafar always contends with a toothy smile. 

Even whilst your hand shuffles toward the waistband of his slacks, there’s still a kernel of amity that crackles in the air between every huff. 

The man beneath you, once a friend of the family—a friend of yours—is strangled by a craving only you, his brothers best-friend, can save him from. 

Jaafar’s need is intwined with his memories. Birthdays, funerals, firsts and lasts. 

It was late night swims in the Hayvenhurst pool, mocking the food you’d left on your plate, grappling in the green summer grass and coming away with shiners blemishing both knees. 

Now, your body fills the flesh God shaped to perfection, and Jaafar’s bestowed the view of your flawless, trembling fingers as they hook into his waistband.

He lifts his hips as you work his briefs down his thighs, watching your fingers with the same infatuation as following a shooting-star. 

You lower the fabric ‘till you unveil the weeping tip of his dick, standing perked and full above his hem. 

Jaafar can’t help the coil that your expression spurs from the tips of his rosy lips.  

You’re studying the thing pulsing below you, the thing that’s been a cyclical subject of late-night fantasies, that triggers orgasms so volatile the only thing to follow in their wake is self-loathing. 

“D’you know what to do with it?” There it is again—the lean of Jaafar’s head that has his dense, long hair acting as perked puppy ears. 

When your response is in the smothering of your lip between your teeth, Jaafar’s hand makes to return to yours just as it had earlier—but before he’s able to move, you’re already weighing the solidity of his dick in your palm. 

Jaafar represses a groan when his hips instinctively upsurge into your hold. 

Oh, you enjoy that. 

You watch him writhe through long lashes and pause ‘till his riled expression wanes. Then, your attention returns to his dick as your hand ranges its length. 

You focus on the feel of textured skin between your fingers. It’s ribbed, rigid, each vein as thick as the oil-like air that suffocates the car. 

“C’mere.” When he nods toward the digits bound around his dick, you release your grip and provide him with your hand, palm-up.

Jaafar carries it to your lips and leaves you with one word; “Spit.”

You search the elusive eyes cloaked by heavy lids and almost expect him to crack and laugh, to admit he’s playing you the way he would when he’d douse a napping Jermajesty in water, or when he’d add his own rules into a game of cops and robbers. 

But who your met with is not the boy that’d persuaded you that his phoney rules were law. 

This is a man who’s only form of oxygen is yours, and you’re robbing him of air. 

You spit into your hand in a way that edges on virtuous, cradling the fluid in a palm and carrying it to his perky dick. 

You struggle to conceal your timidity when taking him in your palm again, caking him in your spit. It’s slick, balmy, and the reprieve that trails the friction has Jaafar’s hips bucking.

It’s as though his bodies bearing you a kindness and assisting your hand. Each rise like an indication for your fingers to fall, and each convulsion a soundless plea for ‘more!’  

So, you monitor the thrust in his hips, each one gradual, stable, focused on smearing the home-made lube. 

“Fuuuck… Jus’ like that.” 

Jaafar’s head tumbles to bolster behind him with a clenched jaw, biting back every noise, until;

Your hand moves its devotion from the base of his cock to the tip, thumb swiping at the congregated beads of pre-cum oozing out of his flushed slit. 

When Jaafars tongue wraps around your name and purrs at the honeyed taste of it between his teeth, your longing dawns on you like summer would winter. It’s red-hot and blistering—and so, incredibly dense. 

“Your sensitive there.” Your uncharacteristic words startle you, but when Jaafar fails to retort, it’s like the sun forgetting to rise.

His opaque eyes are lathered in an even glaze and leave enough clarity for only one sight; your bare lower half ornamented by the hand jerking him tip to base. 

Jaafar’s silence suckles your resolve in the way it did when you’d effort at beating him in a game of Uno or Monopoly. Its impassioned, blinding, leaves you eager to win.

Your hand withdraws from his length. 

“What…” Jaafar’s words quake as you shift above him. “Whatchu’ doin’?”

Suddenly, the sticky warmth between your thighs is substituting your palm and rolling against the taut ridge of Jaafars dick, showering you in disjointed gasps. 

You’re watching the way you coat him in your slick, how the combination of spit and pre-cum pools in the crest of muscle peeking out from beneath his jumper. 

God, every grind ignites a firework of flush that has you clawing at the leather of his headrest.

“Gon’ put it in?” Jaafar’s words escape in rapid succession.

When your response is the wary shake of your head, his already blissed-out countenance throttles into one of bewilderment. 

 “First, I got questions.” You hum between another deep, languid slide that covers his entire length.

 Jaafar curses beneath his breath. “Uh-huh?”

Somehow, your body has succeeded in bending your guilt and shame into something audacious. It’s daring, its firm, and it’ll only be sated once it finds out the truth. 

“Are you an’ that girl together?” You swallow a whine when your bud encounters his angry tip. 

“Shit, you’re really askin’ that right now?” He scans your solemn expression and sighs. “No. We never were.” 

“Then whose name had her storming out of your house?” You spit the words out before you have the chance to hide from them.  

Unnerved doesn’t begin to define Jaafars expression. “Okay, that’s stupid—y’know, t-that’s a real stupid question.” 

“Jaafar.” When he says your name back to you, he mimics your apathetic tone. 

Jaafar follows the hand that begins rifling amid your thighs, watches how you find his length and tilt the tip toward your shimmering entrance.

“Fuck.” “Not a name.” Your tone remains blase, indifferent—but your insides buzz. 

“I don’ want… C’mon, please.” Jaafar’s a mumbling mess of a man, and you’re a woman with tapering patience.

“Who’s fucking name did you moan, Jaafar!” Your tone is fostered on foundations of the unease, the pining, and the futile necessity for your best friend’s older brother. 

It isn’t a question anymore—it’s a form of sacrament.

“Fuck! Yours, okay? Yours.” Jaafar just knelt and confessed. 

You sink yourself onto his tip and weep around the intrusive stretch. 

He manages to make your name sound like a psalm, lamented like a religious experience. Every letter is slurred and left to linger like it’s the only thing Jaafar’s ever known. His eyes ebb behind his lids and leave only white—until your body stammers, incapable of taking the rest of his length unaided.

When an aggrieved, almost pitiable sob claws up your throat, Jaafar sheds himself of his rapt and catches your waning gaze. He’s not even entirely sheathed, yet your insides tangle around the foreign fullness.

“S’ tight… Shit.” The hands spanning your waist don’t shove or squeeze, they simply unearth a comfortable position—the crease crafted by your hipbone and thigh—to help you unfurl around him. “Lil’ bit more… Can you do that f’me?”

You nod before diving into the crook of his collar. 

As Jaafar goads you open and plants a soothing, delicate kiss on your earlobe, the sting of him dampens as ecstasy deluges you. 

Finally, Jaafar’s v-line and your abdomen meet in the middle. 

“Theeeere y’go.” His breath is a tepid fizzle against your ear. “Not so bad, huh?” 

Jaafars hands run up and down the silk of your thighs, cradling you as you return to the moment. 

His size drives the breath from your lungs. “I feel so f-full.”

Silence settles like oil and water. 

You feel Jaafar twitch beneath you, in you, on you. God, he’s everywhere. 

His scent—rich, leathery, almost oaken—imbues your airways. His thumbs knead supple circles into your fatigued thigh-muscles. His lips are silken against your ear, endowing you with a sonata of raspy pants. 

Then the hands that repose on your thighs crawl to the curve of your ass, attach to the plump tissue, and lift.  

You let out a splintered mewl as Jaafar works you away from his base, pausing only when your flush against his tip, before he’s dragging you back down and draining you of another.

The elation that comes with being so devastatingly full—until your utterly empty—is almost addicting. The extremity of it all makes your insides pulse. 

“Your squeezin’ me real hard, shit…”

“Again. Move again, please.” You mewl into Jaafar’s hoodie.

“Can you take it?” 

Your already thinning thread of patience snaps. You grind against the dick swathed inside your gummy walls and whirr ‘till finally, he huffs and yields to your body.

The tempo Jaafar fosters with his hips is hasty in that controlled, calculated way only he’s ever mastered—like that second-long smirk he wears when your eyes meet from across the dining table, or the vagrant nickname he’d call you if he wanted to watch you burn up.

Though this contrasts mere names and feeble glances—this is Jaafar’s hips climbing ‘till they connect with yours and plug your suppurating hole. This is your innards taking on his mass, his sculpt, each vein and fold like your body’s ambition is to make every encounter after him appear dismal. 

You’re already wrecked, yet you crave more. 

Jaafars strokes are sustained, practiced, each glide hydrating your ruptured whimpers ‘till they grow roots and sprout into pleasure-drunk moans. Every time he leaves your hole hollow, he’s sliding into you again in double the speed.

The delicious ache that shadows every thrust subsides ‘till all that’s left is an eclipsing pleasure in the shape of him.  

Suddenly, you’re countering Jaafar’s movements with your own—lowering yourself as he drives up and into you, vacillating legs dependant on adrenaline as you coax his pace and speed with each stride. 

Jaafars aware the need for delicacy rescinded when you began working yourself back onto him. You’re practically gaping, begging to be speared open by his dick just so he can reach inside you and scratch that ceaseless itch fixed in your gut. 

But God, the way you sound beside Jaafars ear—like your being burnt from the inside-out and only he can snuff your blaze—has his already splintered restraint a thrust or two away from cataclysmic.

“Y’want more?” Jaafar voiceis like velvet, though oozing through the fissures of his measured tone is unadulterated bliss. 

“Yes, please…” 

Jaafar settles you onto the rise of his next stroke as fingers press into the furrows of your hair, fastening you to his shoulder.

“Atta-girl.” He intones moments before he’s plunging back into you, all evidence of timidity shattering as each new, vivacious thrust impels choked moans from your lips. 

Though his pace balances the one his fingers had established a few minutes ago—that you’d almost come undone to—Jaafar’s dick is, in every sense, disparate from his digits. Outsized, slender, curved in a way that tints your vision with bolts of white when it parks in that yawning space inside you. 

It makes everything feel as though it’s filled, yet filled isn’t enough. It’s all too fast, yet you grind down on him and attempt to surpass his pace. 

“Your real eager.” He puts a stopper in his words just so he can bathe in your receptive whines. Then, he’s starting up again; “All you gotta’ do it ask. C’mon, ask me to fuck you harder.”

“Hard—ngh—Harder!”

“There you go.” 

Jaafar doesn’t just listen to your plea—he doubles it and plunges into your aching hole with every intention of leaving it ruined. 

His restraint is entirely torn, derelict as each flutter of your walls has his length trembling inside you. You feel everything—his veins, the ridges of his skin, each twitch and flurry. 

The only thing you know is Jaafar. Jaafar’s hands everywhere. Jaafar’s hair tickling the side of your head. The subtle groan of the car beneath Jaafar’s earth-shattering pace. And when he’s had enough of patting your hair, his voice comes in like a fist to a face—firm, rich, ready to leave a mark;

“Hey, hey.” That big hand at your hair latches on and tugs ‘till your torn from the safety of his shoulder. “Wan’ see your face when I’m fuckin' you.”

His eyes peruse your appearance—hair tight in his fist, lip’s bare of any lipstick, the tears amassing in your eyes as you moan with each thrust. “Look s’pretty when you take it, shit.” 

With every word, your coiling stomach battles your brain for control. Though the only signal your mind seems to command of your body goes directly to your hips, obeying by rocking back on Jaafars length. 

When the man beneath you stirs his hips on your rise and lands altered inside you on your fall, your entire body ignites. Every artery, every vein, every muscle and limb convulses with a vitality not even your own hand could coax from your body.

Jaafar’s found your g-spot and begins to relentlessly bully it. Your bodies gushing around him.

“D-Don’t stop, Jaafar! There, j-jus’ there…” 

“Yeah? That the spot?” When Jaafar’s voice lags into a whine, you’re pulsing around him again and plucking another whimper from his throat. With each wanton sound, you will yourself to flicker your eyes open. 

Ahead, spread before you like a final meal, Jaafar’s flustered expression has you salivating. 

His ruddy lips are the home of fraught, winded whines. His brows are drawn in like each time you meet in the middle he aches with how severely you’re holding him. His auburn eyes are weeping, wet, practically tear-filled—yet fixed on something just below the swell of your clothed breasts, something deep-seated in your stomach—like he’s able to see inside you and found where your longing lays stagnant. 

“Shiiiit…” Jaafar sounds before his hand tumbles from your hair and seizes your hip with enough might to leave mauve imprints of each of his fingers. 

You crane your neck and search for the place Jaafar’s eyes obsessed over. And when you find it, the view leaves you dazed.  

It’s faint—barely even there if you squint—but after every angled thrust bottoms out inside you, you can physically see Jaafar’s tilt diving into the chasm of your bliss as his tip swells underneath your abdomen. 

“Oh m-my god…” It’s all so novel, alien. 

With the sight of his bulge in your stomach, the fullness that has your climax hitting bone-breaking levels, the obscenity spewing from your jawless mouth, Jaafar is, indeed, spoiling you for everyone else. 

The greedy boy beneath you strains his head away from the head-rest with a grumble, eyes dancing between your blissed-out expression to the bulge in your stomach. “Uh-huh, thas’ me.”

You watch as he braces himself, can feel how his gut stiffens from between your thighs when your pussy presses him just right. “Mmm, fuck…” 

Every time Jaafar bottoms out, throbbing inside you with warm, shallow breaths, something distant dawns over the horizon of your end. 

It numbs your fingers as they tunnel into whatever part of him they can—the fabric of his hood, his shoulders—his neck. Your palm gradually envelopes Jaafar’s jugular, thumb latent against his flinching larynx as he gulps down a whine to allow for words. 

“You’re r-real tight at this angle.” 

All you can do is nod and pretend to not be enthralled by the feel of his pulse beneath your fingers. How when you squeeze ever so slightly, it races beneath his skin.

It’s almost like dominoes—when you constrict your hold, he whines and has you fluttering around him from the noise. And when you notice his abrupt silence, your eyes fall from the thick, bronzed neck within your grasp to his face, only to find his lip frayed between his teeth from concentration.

“J-Jafaar…?” Followed by more silence. Your hand tightens and your body slams down on his hips ‘till he’s buried to the hilt. 

“Fuck! Fuck, wait!” Your about to unfasten the hand on his neck ‘till his own flies to your wrist and traps it there. “I j-jus’won’t last if you keep that up.” Every sound of his is slurred, muffled, laced in something you can only describe as embarrassment.

It’s almost like Jaafar’s anchored to the sensation of you bound around his neck, adding pressure to your hold through his own fingers as they engulf your wrist. 

But when Jaafars focus discovers the vacant canvas of your neck, a hand crawls up the arch of your spine and your impelled forward. His hips rock into the amended angle, dick vaulted against the spot inside you that stiffens your muscles and has your nails delving into his scalp. 

“You wan’ know something?” Somehow, Jaafar manages to collect every piece of himself that’d unfolded inside you and stick them back together. 

You nod because that’s all you can do. 

“I’ve thought about this… About fuckin’ you. I know you have, too.” Each word ends on a sigh, every sentence a curse. Jaafar’s wading through the building tide of his climax and knows exactly what’ll lead to yours. 

“Jus’ didn’t t-think you’d be so sensitive.” Jaafar’s words have you fastening your mouth and swallowing every shameful sound. “C’mon,” You can hear his smile, the echo of laughter, “can't get all shy on me now.”

Your short-lived reserve is destroyed by the words that settle underneath the red-hot heat of your looming end. God, you’re so pliant for Jaafar, letting him sculpt you into whatever form fits against him best. 

“Yeeaaah, there’s my girl—Fuck.” He mutters, parting your hair from your neck like the curtains on a stage and connecting his lips with the blank slate of skin. 

Last week, all evidence of you coming apart on Jaafar’s fingers was kept to the confines of your insides, staining only your emotions and memories. Yet now, if you leave this car without a memento to meet you in the mirror, you’ll convince yourself it never actually happened. 

You’re certain Jaafar shares in the notion as he speaks. “J-jus’… Jus’ let me, please.”

He sounds like a man starved. 

You nod—incapable of refuting him—and purr when his silky lips fix to the tender spot above your collar. His teeth assist his tongue in drawing out sable ovals from every slice of skin his mouth can reach. 

“Shit.” He mutters before unearthing a new place to darken. “Jus’ a lil’ more, yeah?” And then he’s back on your skin again, painting you in perfect bruises. 

Each stain is shaped with the precision of someone who’s spent endless nights picturing you dappled in them. He’s digging into you with sharp canines, sucking ‘till tear’s choke your lower lids and dribble down your cheek. 

You feel a heavy hand caress the curve in your spine, pushing, forming you to his front ‘till your convulsing against him—your clit meets with the solidity of his stomach. 

With every deep roll of Jaafars hips, you feel your bundle of nerves work over the ridge of his abs. He’s leading you toward your orgasm without even lifting a finger. 

“Fuck! Jaafar, I-I can’t… I’m s’close!” 

He nods at your neck before finally coming up for air. 

Jaafar’s a panting mess beneath you, a man who’s throat only has space for strangled moans and the odd whisper of your name. His hand keeps your arch flush against his stomach; clit rubbing on him just right as each untiring rise and fall of your hips coaxes him to the edge of his own climax.   

“I got you, I got you…” Jaafar’s words brace his body as he restrains his end behind bared teeth and laboured breath. “Doin’ s’good, takin’ me this deep.”

He’s waiting for that familiar pulse in your clit, the pumping tightness inside your walls that indicates just how close your world is to spinning out. 

“Jus’ let go f’me, okay?” When you don’t respond, he’s bumping into you with his chest ‘till your attention turns to his words. “Yeah?”

You’re nodding now, lip bitten between your teeth. “Mhhm, y-yeah…”

“There she is.” He shifts beneath you. 

You heave yourself out of Jaafars shoulder just in time to watch his fingers hook into the hem of his hoodie—now tainted in your slick—and bring it too his mouth. He bites it between his fangs and clears the expanse of his stomach for you, beckoning you onward with a nod, as though saying; ‘You can keep going now. It’s all yours.’ 

The expanse of Jaafar’s stomach is all yours.  

The thought secretes a liquid heat that welters with your spine and slopes into your crux. It’s a battle to even keep your eyes ajar, but as you swallow the view below from head to toe, victorious is an understatement—

Jaafar’s tousled hair jumping with the slick slides of your bodies, his pained front shrouded behind the fabric now smothering his howls, the sweat-slick abdomen tensing every time he bottoms out inside you. 

The entire world tilts. 

Your orgasm slakes you in a way that makes every nerve ending scream, every limb numb, every sensation—other than the ecstasy that comes with being utterly filled—fall silent. Your body, in its entirety, has given itself to the boy beneath you. Your mind has no say in the matter as your eyes loll and your mouth calls for only one name; Jaafar. 

Your climax is white-hot, blinding, and the only thing able to give you clarity is Jaafar’s own gnarled sounds as you clamp down around him. 

Then, he’s tearing you off his length in one swift, adrenaline-filled movement as muffled curses herald his climax and advance in frenzied currents beneath his flesh.  

Jaafar’s length lands against the span of stomach you had just worked yourself against as his spend ropes your thighs, mound, his stomach, in pretty white strings of semen. 

Jaafar drops the bit-like fabric from his teeth and lets out a strangled whine. 

He draws in air through his mouth and efforts to alleviate the haze bleeding into his paper-view, but the only thing that gifts him any kind of lucidity is what greets him as his eyes flutter open—

Your orgasm-hazed eyes widening at the mess he’s left amid your limbs. The way you gnaw your lip like you wish it were inside you. How, when you remember to breath and part your lips, your potholed panting syncs to his own and creates a harmonious silence, somehow louder than any words. 

Yet Jaafar’s eyes snag on their favourite part of yours—the part of you that splits from your delicate noises, that wrap around his fingers like they’re candy. The part of you he’s grown tired of fighting against. 

When your eyes lift from the place you and Jaafars flesh fuse into one, they find his already on you—on your lips. 

The air around you grows a heartbeat. 

Jaafar’s soft hand, the one still melded to your spine, guides you toward him with the deliberateness of laying out a hand to a stray animal and wondering whether it’ll sniff or bite. 

Your choice holds no power against Jaafars blissed-out gaze—he’s put a hand out and you don’t just sniff it; you eat from the palm. 

When your foreheads meet, the only thing between you is your own irregular breath and eyes thick with every desire to link his lips to yours. Fuck.

Jaafar’s nestled into every crevice of your mind with no intentions of leaving—and though that thought is alarming enough to rouse you from your post-orgasm, blissed-out state, it is not enough to hold your lips from his. 

Your noses meet first. Hesitant, tentative, like neither wants to separate from the others eye-line. But when Jaafar’s head slants just enough to have your noses slotting in beside one another, not a moment can pass before your lapsing your lips into his. 

What starts as the kind of kiss that lights you from the inside out—soft, damp, slow—is soon engulfed by a violence that only comes with the weight of kissing someone you shouldn’t. Who would call you ‘sweet girl’ before it meant something carnal, or a late-night thought that used to be easily shaken off.

This was someone who shares parents with your best-friend and was supposed to be off-limits, who had branded his touch to yours before his hands were meant for anything other than high-fives.

It was tongues tying and teeth clashing and all the rogue, uninhabited thoughts finding a home in the unexplored spaces of Jaafar’s mouth. His spit, his words, his voice infecting yours and leaving you stained in a way the burgeoning bruises on your neck cannot compare too. 

And when you part, only to find the small amounts of air tucked in the space you leave amid one another, you begin to realise that ‘romance’ isn’t the thing beating life into your shared heart—maybe you don't want it to be. Maybe it’s something indescribable. Yet whatever it is, is yours. 

An amalgam of things that are, for now, left unspoken.

A/N so sorry this took so long! this is, again, word vomit (like the first part) but I have so many bfb!jaafar x reader ideas so hopefully there will be more one-shots in the future! but for now, I am overseas for a bit so posts will be mostly just fluff, one-shots, or other edited photos idk idk. ily all, sorry for the wait, enjoy𑁤

You've been hired as Michael's personal nanny for around 8 months — nearly a year. You enjoy it a lot, playing Jenga with his kids all night long, then tucking them in bed with a little story you made up. Even doing the dishes was enjoyable. Also, not to mention that Michael's house was huge, he had countless rooms for each of his specific niches. Sometimes when everyone's gone to sleep, you'll sneak out of your bed & snoop around each of the rooms, just out of curiosity. Your house is so small, so being here is like being on holiday. Although when he’s away touring or just busy, you’d miss his company.

Michael’s been so very kind & just to you ever since you've been working for him. You protested to him that you didn't even need a room at first, that you could just sleep on one of his couches. The idea irritated him.

"I'm not having no lady sleep on a couch, you'll sleep in a proper room, your own. I'll make it real nice for you." He'd say.

& he did. You told him you loved baby pink, so he'd hire someone to paint the walls pink, install clean white coving & put some pretty floral sheets on your bed with a little vanity installed across the room. You were shocked when you saw your bed was king-sized.

“This is too much Michael…”

“It’s the least I could do to thank you.”

You aggressively scrub the stains from tonight's dinner off the bone china plates as you do the dishes, your hair tied up in a messy pony with a tight polka-dot white apron on. Soft rain taps on the kitchen window, the draft of air from the opening crack hitting your face blissfully. You overhear the soft mumbles of Michael & his children a few floors above you as he puts them to bed.

“Goodnight, Daddy. Love you.” They say in their sweet little voices.

“I love you guys too. Sleep well now. Busy day tomorrow.” You hear Michael say.

You smile to yourself, continuing to scrub as you hear heavy footfall coming down the stairs. You straighten your back & flick the hair out of your face. You hate to admit it, but you think you’re starting to develop a little something for Michael. Any little thought you have of him that’s mildly inappropriate, you push it away instantly. You’re a professional after all.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you hear a soft voice mumble behind you.

You turn to see Michael propped up against the doorframe with his hands behind his back. His eyes were dark and worn from the intensity of the day. He’s wearing a loose linen white shirt paired with baggy grey sweatpants & his glasses. You only really see him wear them in the evening, you secretly love them.

“Oh, no, I don’t mind at all. It’s my job after all, right?” You chirp sweetly as you continue to scrub, a little gentler now.

You always try to appear perfect around Michael, sweet & polite at all times. Not because it’s part of your job to maintain a modicum of respect, but because you want him to like you personally. He’s such a huge public figure, a star — the thought of being close to him excites you.

“I know.” He says, taking the wet plates you’ve washed & drying them off. “My mother raised me to be a gentleman. So nanny or not, it never sits right with me for a woman to be doing all my dirty work, y’know?”

You nod softly, giving him an understanding smile as you continue to lay wet plates on the rack.

A few minutes pass of you & Michael cleaning & drying the dishes together, mindless small talk floating in the air. It'd been a long day for you, the weather was burning hot, which automatically made you sluggish, & the children were constantly begging for your attention while you attempted to do 1000 other tasks at once. So surprisingly, doing the dishes with Michael in the cool of the temperate evening soothed your nerves.

You passed Michael the last remaining dish as he dried it off, placing it in the cabinet with a clank. You pull the plug as you watch the soapy water collect down the drain, feeling Michaels eyes on your back.

You turn around with a loud sigh, attempting to fill in the awkward silence that hangs in the air while you two share a glance, just smiling.

"Well," you cut in, wiping surplus water off your manicured hands on your apron, "you tucked the children into bed?"

Michael takes his glasses off in one swipe, hanging them on his shirt opening.

"Yes I did, they'll sleep tight. I know they bothered you a lot today, they can get pretty active, so i'm sorry about that." He chuckles softly, the sound sending a mere tingle to your belly.

You two haven't had a proper two-on-two conversation since the morning started. After that, tasks had to be done, errands had to be run, so you two never got the chance to really talk. You shake your head with a reassuring smile, your cheeks a little rosy.

"I understand that constantly playing with children can be hard & tiring, especially when you don't want too but,"

You untie your apron from behind, placing it on the counter top. Michael's eyes fall to your waist instinctively, crossing his arms & shifting his feet.

"I like playing around y'know? I find it fun. I like my job." You smile, showing off your pearly whites.

Michael nods slowly, trying his hardest to keep his eyes on yours & not gawk like a pervert at your tanned legs n' thighs under your sundress.

"Good," he said gently. "You know I'd hate to think you're only staying because the pay's decent."

You let out a little giggle from his comment.

"If I didn't like being here I'd be gone by now, trust me."

Something about your comment seemed to please him by the look on his face; he liked having you here. Not because you were doing most of his work for him or taking extra care of his children, but because he liked you. Secretly, he liked having a sweet piece of ass around the house 24/7. He'd never tell you that, though; he's a gentleman after all.

Michael clapped his hands together, turning around to open the cabinet behind him full of all different types of liquor. You watch him pull out an expensive looking bottle of pinot, holding it in front of you.

"its's been a long day, how do you feel about a glass of wine? Do you drink?" He asks.

"Occasionally, yes." You mumble, taking the bottle from his hand as you analyse the label intently.

"Great."

Michael takes 2 slim wine glasses from the bottom cabinet as you read the label, you forget how wealthy he is. The wine you drink is nowhere near as rich as this.

"Burgundy Pinot Noir? Seems nice."

Michael hums in agreement as you pass the bottle back to him. He pops open the cork, the soft glug of wine filled the silence as he tipped the bottle. Deep red swirled into both glasses, a little more than you'd usually drink of an evening. You take a quick peek at his back before he turns to pass you the glass; it's lean & broad. His back bones n' muscles stretch his shirt a little. You feel your bottom lip pull in a little before you stop yourself.

"Here," he turns to hand you a glass, "I hope this isn't too much."

You take the glass & swirl it around a little, smelling the rim. It's rich, fruity, & sexy. The scent travels straight down in-between your legs.

"No it's not. I enjoy your company," you say.

"I meant the contents of your glass," Michael laughs as he takes a short sip, his pearly whites shining.

You feel your face burn up a little from embarrassment, chuckling to yourself.

"Oh! no, this is perfect. The amount is perfect." You reiterate.

Michael smiles to himself, the innocence of your embarrassment flattering him. Sure, you're a full-grown adult, but you have this innocence about you that he picks up on. Your sweet floral scent when you pass him by, or your cute coordinated outfits you pick out every day. He'd always love seeing you in those little sundresses that revealed the smooth of your calves & chest. He'd feel guilty for thinking of you like that, but he couldn't help it. He finds you immensely beautiful & special, he can't help but wonder who gets to enjoy you.

"You wanna go to the front room? Might be a little more comfortable to sit down," he questions, starting to move towards said room.

"Yeah sure, good idea."

You follow him to the front room. It's lit up dimly with a singular chandelier & scattered candles around the room in various places. He usually does this after he puts his children to bed —  relishes in his solitude. You never really got the chance to share this opportunity with him. You'd usually go to bed around this time too but since the day was drawn out longer than usual, he caught you just in time. The room smells of him, with notes of incense. You feel your heart rate pick up, for what reason you don't know.

"Do you do this often?" You say, taking a seat on the couch as he follows, plopping himself down a little too close to you, so close you can smell him.

Michael leans back on the arm of the couch, one hand wrapped around the back cushion while the other holds his glass. You swallow, your legs neatly closed as you sit upright, holding your glass with both hands in front of you. You don't know why you're nervous. You've spent time with him before, but this time just feels different. Maybe it's in your head, you try to relax.

"Drink wine?" he questions.

"Invite your employees for a drink after work kinda thing," your voice sweet in comparison to the deepness of his own. You've noticed it gets lower in the evening, perhaps from his lack of energy.

"Uh, sometimes yes. But if it makes you feel better, I enjoy your company the most." He says softly. "Not only do you do a lot around here, but you've got a lovely personality. Im grateful to have you in my home, truly.”

You smile warmly. The thought of your presence being accepted in his home makes you warm.

"Thank you, Mr Jackson. Means a lot." You take another sip, you feel your head start to become weightless, a little more ditzy. You've never been good with your alcohol.

"Oh, & I've been meaning to tell you, please don’t call me that." He pleads, placing a hand on his chest sincerely. "Call me Michael. My father used to make us call him Joseph; it's not the way it should be."

"Well, thank you, Michael. It means a lot." You say, pressing your thighs together a little harder than usual.

“No, thank you.”

A solid 10 minutes pass by of you & Michael sharing each others company, growing closer & closer by the minute, learning more about each other with each sip. Before you knew it, the conversation was drifting from topic to topic without paying any attention to the appropriateness of it. You were both too far gone, only a quarter of your wine left.

"You ever think you'd be somewhere completely different by now?" you questioned. Your body now slouched into the couch, one leg thrown over the other.

Michael stared at you a little longer, his eyes half lidded n' hazy as he tries to understand your question before answering.

"Different how? Like marriage?"

You shrugged, your lips pouty n' stained a deep red from the wine. Your eyes slightly drunken. The state of you making his cock twitch in his pants.

"Yeah, marriage. You never wanna get married? I don't see a ring on your finger," you slur, pointing to his hand.

Michael blushes, scratching his head.

"No, I do. I wanna get married. I've been married, I've had a lot of experience in that sector, but it never works out, y'know."

You nod, a sympathetic look on your face, "I'm sorry about that."

"It's okay. Well, and you? you've never been married?" He asks, sliding a hand through his thick black hair. Part of him inside is smiling at the fact he's able to find out more about you. He didn't ask you to drink with him for that specific reason, but the line is starting to blur.

"No never. I've had a few boyfriends but...they also never worked out. I've never been happy with someone. In all ways."

"So you've never had a serious man?" He inquires, subconsciously sitting up. Now more intently focused when it comes to your love life.

You snicker into your glass, your teeth clanking against the delicate material, "None worth writing home about."

His eyebrows raise in surprise, taking a final sip of his wine before placing the glass on the coffee table beside him.

"Thats very hard to believe."

You furrow your brows with a little tantalising smirk, inching him to elaborate.

"Well you're beautiful," he gestures a hand at your figure. "Smart, good with children. I would've thought somebody would've appreciated you enough to keep you by their side by now."

Tingles n' heat creep up into your cheeks, your lashes fluttering with nerves as you force yourself to smile & thank him.

"Thank you." Is all you can manage.

"Why do I get the feeling every guy you've dated has been a total dimwit?" He whispers. His irritation rising knowing no man will ever take care of you the way he knows he could.

You chuckle, "You'd be right then."

His eyes never leave yours, "What, did they just never treat you right, Is that it?"

You hesitated a little, lips moving to say something but then faltering. Your lips stay around the rim of your empty glass. Michael noticed your hesitation instantly.

"What? Come on!" he teases you, giving your knee a soft nudge.

"No I cant, it's so embarrassing." You laugh, stretching your hand to put your glass down on the table.

Michael points at himself, his face straight all of a sudden.

"Embarrassing? Do you know the amount of embarrassment I had to go through in my career?" He snickers.

He shifts to sit up more, counting on his fingers, "Pepsi Incident, false accusations, women not liking me back. Countless things! I can go on-"

"Okay, okay." You start, pinching your eyes together with your fingers, your cheeks practically on fire at this point.

Michael goes silent instantly as he waits, his hands wrapped around the couch again.

“I’ve just never been satisfied, sexually. I find that important in a relationship.” You come out.

“You what?” He laughs breathlessly, taken back.

The thought of what you're saying to Michael right now doesn’t even register in your brain. You’re just talking, completely relaxed. It’s a nice feeling, yet a little risky to your relationship.

“I’ve never got there.” You close your eyes.

Michael’s lips fall agape as you confess to never having an orgasm. Not knowing what to say. He can’t help but ask more questions, as less perverse as possible.

“Not even…alone?” He says barely above a whisper.

You shake your head slowly, letting your head fall into your hands as you laugh to yourself, completely exposed & vulnerable. You’re drunk, yet after saying it it’s like you’ve sobered up. You're regretting it. You press on, trying to explain yourself.

“I’ve heard my friends talk of it about their relationships, even alone. But I’ve just never been able to, let alone with another person. So there you go, that’s my secret.”

You reach for your glass before realising it's empty, not knowing what to do with your hands. You just keep your head down, avoiding eye contact. The silence is unbearable, the room is practically choking you from how small it feels. Michael doesn't answer right away, though you feel the burn of his stare on you. You cant tell if it's sympathy or judgement. The confusion is killing you. You decide to look up at him momentarily, he's already looking into your eyes. He didn't look shocked or amused, he was just looking at you.

"Wanna know how it feels?" He says, his voice an octave lower.

Your eyes shot up at him, your heart racing so hard you swear he can hear it.

"What do you mean?" You mumble pathetically, your face like a deer in headlights.

"I mean do you wanna know how it feels? just a question, truly."

His poker face isn't telling you jack, it's like he's left you to interpretation. You straighten your back, trying to appear confident.

"Uh, yes. Yes I do."

Michael scoots a little closer to you on the couch, his knee brushing yours. You can tell he's trying to seem as natural as possible. You watch him through half lidded eyes, trying to keep your balance upright as you're a little tipsy, so is he.

"You're a kind girl, I cant help but feel genuine sympathy for you. You mean to tell me you've spent all this time wondering what it feels like?"

You clear your throat, crossing your legs as you give him a little nod.

He pouts a little, "& how far would you be willing to go?"

"How far would I be willing to go for what?"

"To feel the one thing no one has ever made you feel."

You think to yourself, the number of times you'd feel terribly aroused at home, knowing you need some sort of release but not knowing how to deal with it. Or the sickening envy you'd feel hearing your friends talk about the way they came so hard they cried. Or even just your string of bad dates that included horrible sex. You hated it; you felt like a child.

You nod, "Far."

"Let me help you then." He snaps with no restraint. You look at his face, searching for any sign of unseriousness. You don’t find anything.

You feel a pulse start to build up in your cunt at the mere thought of Michael helping you. You work for him, you think to yourself. The taboo nature of the idea arouses you, yet you try to let your morals win.

“Help me with that?” You say below a whisper, saying it out loud feels like a crime. “I don’t think that’d be right, I work for you.”

“I know you do, but I’m only trying to help. It stays in this room. Only if you’re willing.” He says, his bottom lip drawing in at the possible reality.

“But what will I tell people-“

“You don’t have to tell anyone anything. This is supposed to be private. Just a person helping another person hm?”

You let the thought ponder in your head, you remember you’ve had fantasies of this man. You’d wake up in hot sweats from multiple sex dreams of him lapping up your pussy with his tongue, only to beat yourself up for it afterwards. The frame of his body, his hair, those sexy pair of eyes that threaten your self respect everyday.

“Teach me.” You nod innocently, your voice laced with a mix of desire & hesitation. You knew deep down you wanted him bad.

“You sure?” He says, tucking a strand of hair out of your face.

“Yes, I want too. I want you to make me feel it.” You scoot forward, blinking rapidly from excitement.

“Take your hair down,” he says, rubbing your shoulder gently.

You follow his command, letting your hair down out of your clip, placing it neatly on the table.

“Good, now just relax okay? you look tense. That’s not gonna help either y’know?” He cooes.

You nod along like you have no brain of your own, completely in his mercy. You like being told what to do, not having to think.

Michael’s now close & facing you, softly rubbing your smooth arms to try & relax you — prepping you. His eyes fall to your lips, ripe & agape. Just begging to be kissed n' licked.

Without any warning, he leans in & presses his lips to yours, automatically moving his hands to cup your jaw; your skin burns under his touch. He proceeds to slide his tongue between your lips, asking for permission to be let in. You hum, allowing him. With no time to waste, you feel him enter your mouth, his tongue dancing with your own, warm & wet. You mewl into the kiss, your brows pressing together as the ache in your core grows larger. You place your hands on his shoulders & squeeze, forcing yourself to have a mind of your own.

"Mhm, there you go. Just go with the flow." He mumbled, his words barely audible, muffled by your puffy lips.

He breaks the kiss, leaving you pouting in loss of contact. Strands of hair stick to the wetness he left on your lips.

"What happened?" You say, your eyes blown out.

"Nothing," he chuckles, "Just relax & lay back, can you do that for me?"

"Mhm," you slowly lay back on the couch cushions behind you, keeping your legs together as your hands remain on your lap. It's like you've been fantasising about this moment, but when it comes, you get all shy. You can tell he's getting off on it by the bulge growing in his sweatpants, but you pretend not to notice.

"Face me, baby." He says, turning you in his direction by your waist. You feel your pussy grow wetter & wetter by the second, your thoughts clouded by the unrelenting desire for his touch down there.

His calloused hands run down from your thighs to your knees, "gonna open now okay?" he whispers, peppering a little kiss on your collarbone.

You nod, keeping your doe'd eyes on him as he slowly pushes your legs open, your sundress riding up as he does so. A few more forced pushes of your legs & they're completely open. Your pink cotton panties stained with a dark circle in the middle from your arousal. You hear him whisper profanities under his breath as he stares at your clothed pussy, your lips showing a little through the material.

"Pink really is your favourite colour, so damn pretty." He purrs, caressing the inner skin of your thighs. The rough texture of his palms against the smoothness of your skin causing little mewls to fall from your lips. He's here to help you, yet the stiffness of his cock keeps betraying him.

Michael places a gentle hand against your chest, "Breathe, baby."

You realise how hard your heart is beating, you can't tell if it's from nerves or pure arousal but you attempt to steady your breathing.

"Sorry, I think I'm just really turned on." You shudder.

Michael caresses your jaw, "Thats the most important factor."

He leans down, placing light little kisses on your thighs & knees. You tremble from the contact. He holds one of your feet with one hand, kissing your perfectly manicured toes as the other hand rubs on your the curve of your ass.

"Please touch me," You beg, giving your pussy a little stroke to signal to him where you want it.

He gently slides his middle & index finger up your wet slit, your arousal totally soaked through the cheap fabric of your panties. Your mouth falls open with no sound at first, just pleasurable shock. The feeling of the tips of his fingers grazing over your clit making you squeak like a slut.

Michael presses a finger to your lips with his free hand, "Try to be quiet okay? I know it's hard." He orders.

His cock is throbbing like a ticking time bomb under his sweatpants at the sight of you all drunken & horny in front of him, legs splayed open waiting for him to help you.

"Mm, sorry." You mumble under his finger, trying to keep your eyes out of the back of your head as he continues rubbing softly.

He tugs at the side of your panties, moving them to the side slowly to reveal your glossy folds. There might as well be a twinkle In his eye as he stares.

"Damn," He breathes out, giving your swollen clit a rub with his thumb.

You arch your back immediately, covering your mouth as he rubs your clit tantalisingly slow.

"Fuck, Michael. I swear It's never felt that good." You gasp, drawing your bottom lip under your teeth painfully hard.

He smiles, his ego rising from your comment. He proceeds to rub in small circles with his index & middle finger in a steady rhythm, gathering your juices from the bottom to rub all over your clit.

"Let's get this down," he says to himself, pulling the upper half of your dress down with one hand, letting your perky tits fall free. He gawks at the view, forgetting this isn't about him — it's all about you.

You feel heat rise in your face again, you've never felt so exposed & horny in your life.

He gropes the curve of your breast with his free hand, rolling your nipple through his fingers as he continues his work on your pussy.

"Feeling good, ma? You need to tell me."

Your head falls back on the arm of the couch as you nod, your stomach twitching from the pleasure as you try to stop your moans from erupting — you're soaked for him.

"Feels so good Michael," You cry out. The muscles in your thighs starting to clench as you chase something you don't even know what.

He takes his hands away, unbuttoning his shirt in a frenzy as he tosses it on the floor. He comes back, though this time you feel 2 slender fingers slowly slide in you, curving just right.

"Oh my god," You whine, your eyes falling into your head.

He continues to roll your nipple between his fingers with his free hand, all while kissing you simultaneously.

Your body wasn't the only thing he'd ogle at, your lips were insanely arousing to him too, he didn't know where to touch or kiss you now that he had you like this.

Your hand snaps into his hair, grabbing on for dear life as you feel yourself begin to tremble & shake, he feels it too.

"Michael? Something's happening." You whimper, your brows pressed tight as you look at him for an answer, your eyes glossy.

"Thaats it," he encourages you. "You feel it baby? I ain't stopping."

Immense pressure coiled tighter inside of you, every breath becoming harder & harder to catch the more he fingers you perfectly on your g-spot — no one's ever hit the right spot, yet he seems to know exactly where you like it.

"Michael, Michael!" You cry.

"Yes," he hisses, "Let go." He leans down.

You feel his supple mouth latch onto your pussy, lapping & sucking gently on your sensitive nub as he continues to curl his fingers into you. You break immediately; the tension that had been building for minutes reaches a point where it feels unmanageable. The coil in your belly snaps, something in you lets go, your muscles tightening as your pulse thunders in your ears with blind spots covering your vision.

You squeal as you cum on his mouth, your eyes pinched shut as you tug on his hair for support. Once you had the energy to lift your head & come back to life, you look down at Michael, the lower half of his face glistening with your juices as he pants, smiling at you warmly. He sits up, licking n' sucking his fingers like a child with candy.

"Thats an orgasm," He smirks, a cocky look on his face. He brings a finger to your mouth, "Taste yourself, you did that."

You hesitate before latching your mouth around his finger, sucking on it looking at him. You taste sweet, just how you're feeling.

"I didn't know I could do that," You bite your lip, feeling a sense of achievement wash over you as Michael watches you in amusement.

"Glad I could help." He chuckles.

You stay lying, your panties still shifted to the side. You pull them off in one swift motion, throwing them on top of his shirt on the floor. You don't know how, but your orgasm gave you a wave of confidence. You feel like you could do anything; you feel like a woman.

"Though," You press on the bulge through his sweatpants with your foot, it's extremely hard.

"I wanna cum again, but with this," you plead, not wanting to say the word.

He bites his lower lip as he thinks about it, running a hand through his hair. Touching you is one thing, but fucking his nanny on his living room couch while his children are asleep, that's messy — & he liked it.

Before you could process what's happening, he's rolling his sweats down, giving his cock a little grab before finally sliding off his boxers too. You salivate at the sight of him. Thick, slender, & deep in colour. You instinctively open your legs wider, inviting him over. He climbs over you, one hand braced next to your head while the other juts your chin up for you to look at him, your eyes too busy on his cock.

"No one can know about this, you hearin' me?" He presses.

You nod frantically, "I promise."

You reach out to touch him, you give him a few little strokes. Your hand felt tiny up against it. He drops his head on your chest from the feeling of your hand movements. You let out a little moan as you attempt to line him up to your weeping slit, the feeling of it rubbing against you driving you crazy. You buck your hips forward, desperate to have him inside of you.

"Let me baby, relax." He takes over, lining himself up with your entrance.

You feel him begin to crown you a little, already feeling a bitter sweet sting start to form.

"Please, all in." You beg as you hold your legs open, your hands in the backs of your knees.

"Dammit,"

Michael sinks all of his length into you, the pleasure even more intense than before. You quickly shoot your hands to his shoulders to push him back a little as you squeal, your lashes fluttering as you look at him from beneath them. You start to move your hips desperately, you loved watching how it disappears & reappears beneath you, he's the biggest you've ever felt. It feels like you're having sex for the first time again. Your hands return to the backs of your knees again, spreading yourself wider for him greedily.

The sound of your mixed arousal is like music to his ears as he begins to form a steady rhythm with you. He manages to hit your g-spot constantly, never missing.

"You're gonna be the death of me." He grits, grabbing one of your breasts as he leans down to suck on one of your nipples slowly & sensually.

You whimper into his clammy hair as he's leant down, your eyes rolling back as you begin to feel the same coil in your belly you felt earlier — now able to recognise it. You let go of your thighs, your strength faltering as you come closer to your release. Michael's hands quickly replace yours, pushing your thighs back a little as he continues rolling his hips into you.

“Mm—harder,” you beg, looking up at him all pretty. Your eyes sparkling with quiet mischief, “fuck me harder.”

The sweet sound of skin meeting skin starting to creep up the harder he goes, eager for you to come again. He wants that for you.

"Michael, It's happening again I feel it. I think i'm gonna come." You warn, your eyes squeezing shut as you feel his mouth press against yours hot & messily.

He pulled back an inch from your lips, just enough to murmur, "Come for me," as he planted an encouraging slap on the side of your ass.

With a sharp cry buried deep into his shoulder, you come hard. Your vision is blocked out once again, the same pulse in your ears as you squeeze around him. You twitch beneath him.

Michael planned to last longer in the hope of pleasuring you for as long as you saw fit, yet the way your pussy clenched around him brought him to a sharp halt instantly.

"Oh, god." He whines, pulling out & stroking himself desperately as he finishes all over your thighs. You hum in pleasure as you watch his warm release slide down your skin slowly.

You pant, looking up at him with a satisfied smile as he runs a hand across your cheek, droplets of sweat from his hair hitting your forehead.

"Thanks for helping me."

Michael brushed a strand of hair from your face.

"Anytime." He giggles.

"For the first time in my life, i'm able to understand what everyone is talking about."

Maybe it was when he let his hair grow long again, dark curls whispering along his neckline. Maybe a few weeks ago, the first time you’d felt that heady longing sprout in your gut after he slipped past you in the kitchen, muttering a small “‘scuse me” with a hand held to your waist.

You studied that moment—the engulfing mass of his hand fit to the curve of your plush skin. Maybe this is the way it was always supposed to go—you craving something he evidently doesn't. And your okay with that. 

Relieved, you feel Jaafar's teeming eyes collapse from your face to the person by his side; his “girlfriend”. This was a new revelation in the Jackson household. Jaafar had always spoken to girls, dated, slept around—stories spread from Jermajesty to you, each one picked apart when the words hadn’t yet stung. When none of it mattered at all.

Now it's different. This is the two of them sharing longing gazes and loving smiles. This is something you fear—no, you hope—is permanent. 

You and jermajesty fight the Encino heat as a shitty blockbuster film envelopes Hayvenhurst's games-room in the sound of curses and corny one-liners.

This moment is familiar, comfortable. It's shared and stuffed whole with memories of you and Jermajesty, holding your stomachs as laughter drowned whatever movie you’d both been paying no mind too. 

Yet as your mouth opens to spit out another joke only he'll understand, you hear it. A thud. Hard against the wall, hurried like it was an accident. 

Then, ‘thud’, again. 

“Jer, pause.” “Huh?” “Pause!” The boy meddles with the remote ‘till taciturnity substitutes the TV’s gunfire. Puzzlement paints his face as his dark eyes shadow your own, looking to the ceiling–above is the bedroom only a floor away. 

But when the ‘thud’ appears again, it comes in the form of a wail. Gradual, sultry, slick with only one thing—pleasure. 

“No fuckin’ way.” Jermajesty curses through the hand now airtight over his mouth. He side-eyes you, sneer playing with the tips of his lips. 

Then; another moan, this one a repulsive and undisputable souvenir of the thing you’ll never have—‘Jaafar!’ 

“Hey.” Jermajesty jostles your side, and when your answer is silence, calling your name seems to do the trick. “Fuckin’ perv. Listenin’ to them fuckin’.”

“I am not!” That breaks the seal—Jermajesty lets out a crescendo of moans, each just as whiney and high as the ones you’ve seen in cheap pornos. 

“Shut up! Gross.” You shunt him ‘till he finally accepts defeat and puts on a childish pout. Yet to your utter bewilderment, the noises halt completely. Silence returns like there was never anything before it. 

It was what felt to be the longest week of your life.

There was no amount of music, of noise, of focus on how your steering wheel felt in your hands that would satiate your mind. It simply kept replaying that same sound, an echo haunting your paper-view in every stagnant moment.

‘Jaafar!’

Like a broken record. 

You mocked your own neediness when dusk swallowed the summer evenings. Your idiocy was evident when you caught yourself hoping that Jaafar was anything more than your best friends brother, the boy who had you on his shoulders in the pool when you were young, who'd tease and mock 'till you shot him a cold glare—the man who'd stare at you across a crowded dining table like he chanted your name in his head. 

Though as Monday eased into Saturday, you made good at disregarding his posts online (or his presence in general). Instead, you’d managed to shove things into each second of every day, leaving no space for thoughts of him.

Now, Sunday collapses on you. 

Some vile part of you hopes that he can’t make it to the dinner, somehow falling ill and in dire need of attention from his girlfriend. 

You let out a hearty sigh and realign your spine, stepping out of the car into the setting sun. 

Encino ardour wraps your body in sweat as you knock once, rotating to admire the view from beneath Hayvenhursts imposing front-door. The sky is ribboned in pinks and reds as shadow begins swallowing the evening.

You are content. You are okay. 

The door behind you unbolts with a click and a slide before you turn to meet who you presume is the housemaid. Yet as your lips effort to form a smile, you find the muscles unmoving. 

Oversized shadowy cargos. A sheer white tee. An acquainted pair of polished air Jordans. 

Your heart falters as your eyes rake over the towering form. 

Jaafar isn't smiling—not yet. Not ‘till he checks you over once more for himself. Then it was all teeth, sharp canines and plush lips. 

“Hey.” A voice smoother than the spineless wind dancing with your hair.

“Hi.” You are the brick wall, tone an unbending force. You tear yourself away from his scrutiny and ram past him in a manner even you feel the urge to apologise for. But not today. 

You catch his scoff before the door is slammed behind you.

You ignore it, your focus instead stumbling upon the first thing your eyes find security in—Jermajesty. The boy is lounged across the living room couch like it’d proposed itself for his personal use.

You revelled in his lax demeanour, in his untidy hair and serpentine smile. You only wish you could share how the fighting urge to run from his house was because of his elder brother. 

Dinner manages to feebly leash your nerves. Yet with that familiar presence only a few feet away, another unwanted emotion seems to seep into your stomach. Guilt. 

Jaafar Jackson is a thoughtful and gentle man. He carries himself like clouds carry rain—capable of flooding, yet determined to hydrate instead. His reserve is thick around him. You often find yourself grateful that the coyness the media receives is not the attitude he presents to you. 

But, he can also be gaudy, brash, a tornado capable of taking entire towns down. His drive finds no end—and that is a precarious thought. When he focuses, his elusive auburn eyes flicker and ignite ‘till said focus is satisfied. 

You take another bite of your mash, grinning as someone’s infectious laughter catches in your own, before you feel it–

His merciless focus, the one that brands your skin every other dinner.

Instead of shying-away this time, you meet his gaze with the sharpness of your own.

He doesn't give in. He waits, and waits, and waits ‘till your reaction—in the form of your foot meeting his shin—forces him to squint and seethe. 

“Shit!” Jaafar curses below his breath, knuckles now a milky-white against the table. He raises his brows and chews at his bottom lip, shoulders shrugging like he’s got no clue why you left a blooming bruise on his leg.

If he could, you’re sure Jaafar would interrogate your motives—shake you ‘till you revealed the reason you snubbed him at the door, why your ‘cold shoulder’ feels searing hot.

But the boy beside you plays the finest safety net. Jermajesty is blissfully unaware that the only thing holding Jaafar back is himself. 

As the hours pass from 8pm, to 11, to 12, night shows no sign of ceasing its heat. Somehow, you’ve indulged in Jermajesty’s choice of movie. It gives you something to study, a sort of amity acting as the cherry on top of the fact that Jaafar had left not long after you and Jermajesty escaped dinner—a habit built after years of being sent away from the dining room when conversation drew in darker topics. 

You reach for the glass on the coffee-table, but find it filled with only a few stray blocks of ice.

“Jer, I’m gonna’ get something to drink. You want?” The boy shook his head, eyes glued to the screen. “Don’t pause.” “What makes you think I was gon’ wait for you.” 

You shake your head at his wit, rising from the relief of the couch and dragging your taut body to the kitchen.

Nightfall ebbs in through the windows, making each callous corner that much smoother as you make your way to the fridge. A content sigh leaves your lips as icy air breaches your sizzling skin. Your drink could wait.

For now, the cold air is- 

“Boo!” Two colossal hands fall heavy on your shoulders.

You yelp and tumble backward ‘till you find your footing practically inside the fridge. Before you connect those hands to a face, your mind is swift to prompt you on who’s fingers dig into the apex of your shoulders. 

“Jaafar, get off!” You shimmy and hope your ire-laced tone is adequate in warding him away. 

It doesn't seem to do the trick. Jaafar is unswerving ahead of you, hands on his stomach like your fear is the funniest thing in the world. He giggles ‘till his throat parches, ‘till he finds your face and realises you are, in fact, not harmonising with the hilarity. 

“Aw, c’mon! I was jus’ joking around.” “Aren’t you supposed to be gone?”

The man toys with his pink bottom lip. “I’m staying here tonight.”

You nod indifferently, as if you arn't aware of his every move.

Jaafar slithers past you as your back meets with the kitchen island, another trifling “‘scuse me” mumbled when he moves to the fridge and disappears inside. 

“What d’you want?” “Nothing.” “Then why you out here?” He peers out of the door, brows furrowed. White engulfs your knuckles as you wrestle the urge to smack the dainty moles on the left side of his face clean off.

Even in a state of perplexity, the man is painted like God bowed scripture into a human being.

“Where’s your girlfriend.” Your demand is disguised as a question.

“So thas’ why.” Jaafar delves back into the fridge, locating the glass bottle of iced water like he hadn't just opened a coffin full of unanswered questions.

“What does that mean?” “Nothing.” He withdraws, shuts the fridge, and steals space on the counter ahead of you.

“Jus’ knew you didn’t like her. And she’s not my girlfriend…” He hesitates, bottle half-way to his mouth before; “It's complicated.”

Something splits open inside you and delight threatens to crawl out. “Either way-” You barely have time to retort before Jaafar robs you of words. “Was it last week?”

You cross your arms, hating how the grin behind the lip of his bottle widens. “What about last week?” You attempt sincerity, even if your eyes oppose your tone. You can't look at him as your face warms. 

“I heard Jer. To be fair, I didn’t even realise we were bein’ that loud ‘till he started mocking her.” He dwells on whatever words teeter on the edge of his tongue, his silence drawing your eyes as he searches the bottom of his bottle. You can tell something is looming—something you have no control over. 

“But we've all done that before, right?” Jaafar knows that you aren't exactly untouched, but he's also aware that your dull experiences by-far overshadow any good ones.

Yet even as he presses all your buttons, his voice remains laced with silk. 

Jaafar expects you to shove him or to contest like you typically would.

Instead, your lower lip meet's its fate between your teeth as your eyes drift to the floor, lost in a thought you can't quite come to terms with. 

The idea of someone making those sounds because of the man unwavering ahead, eyeing you like he knows of your weak attempts to not think of him all week, has that cavernous need nestling into the hollow of your stomach. You squeeze your thighs and tense the arms enveloping your front. 

Nothing halts the molten desire, the repulsive remorse, from soaking into your fingertips. 

“Wait.” Is all Jaafar says, faintly below his breath. Then; “Is us talkin' about this … Turning you on?” 

That hauls you from your thoughts like a siren to an air-raid. It's red hot, flashing ‘warning! get out! escape!’

But as you meet Jaafar's gaze, his features shaded only by the full moon, you find your feet embedded to the floor. You are unmovable. 

“Shut up.” You mumble. “Nah, don’t think I will.” Jaafar pushes off the counter and stalks toward you, grin subsiding into a flat line on his face. 

He's close now. So close you can smell the musk and pungent leather from his opulent cologne.

His brawny arms fence you in as his hands fall flat on either side of you, like he knows his entire being is an emergency exit sign. You inhale before he can steal your breath.

“What, uh…” He sinks his head as warm lips meet with your ear, chest kissing the hands still folded over your front.

“What’d you do when you went home, huh?”

Your desperate to counter, to make any sound at all—but when your lips unfasten, only air flee's. 

“Did your hand find that sweet spot between your legs when you thought of her callin’ out my name? Did you imagine what I did to her to make her sound like that?” 

You study the tiles behind Jaafar's head like you have any concern of where they're from, then ponder just how long that toaster's been around because it looks rather new when-

Two sizeable hands find your wrists and work them undone. You realise now, as his heated skin meets with yours, that no amount of distraction can mute his touch.

So, you let him mould you like putty, enjoying how he manoeuvres you as if he's aware the heat from his palms is enough to melt wax. 

“Jaafar.” You exhale, waning annoyance nothing but an afterthought in your tone.

Yet the inkling of reluctance has Jaafar unfolding your forearms and kneading them tenderly, up and down, gesture slackening the nausea in your stomach.

“Hey, hey… It’s okay. Jus’ wan’ help you out, yeah?” He finally retreats from the crook of your neck and studies your expression—low-lidded eyes, your parted lips, the sweat forming along your hairline as your glistening chest rises without rhythm.

God, you look like craving incarnate. You look so horribly, irreversibly unfulfilled. 

“Counter.” Jaafar mutters.

It barely takes you a moment to lift yourself with the aid of his sturdy arms. You teem as the cool tile meets your bare thighs, soon thawed by Jaafars lengthy fingers, rubbing and kneading ‘till they slacken to allow his entry. 

His thumb edges along your panty-line, pushing in deep circles just beside the place you swore would never involve the man now only inches away from it. 

“Hands on my shoulders.” Another demand, another order you comply with in seconds. 

“T-this is stupid, Jaafar.” You murmur when his head unearths the crook between your shoulder and neck, lips not kissing but merely pressed against your glossy skin. 

“I know.” Then his palm was on you, driving deep circles into your clothed clit.

An unversed sound seeps from the back of your throat, like a whimper braided into a sigh—it's the sound of pure and unpolluted relief. 

“Theeeere you go.” He exhales against you, whole body stirring as he nudges the spot your desire begins. 

“Fuck…” You whine into his shoulder, mouth undone against the white of his shirt.

“You wan’ more?” 

You nod wildly, indifferent to how pitiable and deprived you must sound. All you know is that if this thing infecting your abdomen isn’t reached soon, it’ll drive you mad. 

“Atta’ girl.” 

You drone as his palm lifts from your core, only to find his fingers working to unfasten your shorts. With one hand, he unbuttons each with a pop so he can elevate you with his other.

He glides them down your legs, watches them hook onto your bare foot with a soundless scoff before focusing on the part of you pleading for release. 

“P-please, feels so-!” You huff like your patience is running from you. Jaafar doesn’t respond with sound, he simply raises his ring and middle finger to your lips, countenance speaking the words you know he can’t be bothered too—'open’.

Your lips part as two lengthy digits find the pad of your tongue and sink ‘till his knuckle is inches from your lips.

“C’mon.” He urges, watching you take the length with ease, sealing them inside as they lather in your spit.

He pulls them out with a ‘pop’ and admires the twinkle of slick in the moonshine.

His unsoiled hand moves your panties aside and makes way for his wet fingers to find your bare, swollen clit. You shudder into his touch, shaken at how fast he reveals that syrupy spot aching for aid.

He's unhurried at first, circling lightly at the nub while he studies your already fucked-out expression. When he sees your eyes beginning to seal, head waving like it's too heavy to hold, his pace quickens. 

“Fuck!” You cry out before feeling his hand thrust your head into his shoulder. You whimper against his shirt, fingers clinging to the delicate fabric.

“God, haven’t even done shit n’ you’re practically shaking.” He mutters into your hair as his fingers glide lower, lower, ‘till they gather at the concaving entrance to your sleek desire.

He hovers at the birth of your need, knowing just how to threaten your usually gutsy attitude.

“Please…” Defeat feels like fire between your thighs.  “Yeah? You want my fingers so bad I ain’t even gotta’ ask you to beg?”  

“Yes, Jaafar. Please…” Your sentence is one song-like slur. You're drunk on whatever spell this man has you under, and you have no intention of ridding yourself of it. 

The earthquake that is two fingers gliding into you has your teeth burrowing into the tough flesh on his shoulder. 

“Theeeere she is… Lemme’ in.” His fat fingers are motionless inside you, waiting ‘till your tightness moulds to the foreign sensation.

Then, they’re sluggishly drawn out, pulling an abhorrent sound from the back of your throat, before submerging back into your core. 

Your body shudders with each torturous lunge, hands seizing anything they can; his shoulders, his shirt—his hair. 

Your fingers venture to his scalp and yank as he drives inside you.

Jaafar falters as a pitiable noise trickles past his lips—a whimper.

Stretched like a sigh after a hard day’s work, scrawny like he’d been waiting for someone to claw at his scalp ‘till the hurt settled and stayed. Your thighs contract around his lean waist.

“Fuck, I felt that.” He mutters against you as your hole clenches on his hand. 

“Do it again.” Curiosity seeps through his gasping words. 

You tug at his scalp again, receive another high-pitched groan, and squeeze on his fingers. It’s like you flicked a switch in him, suddenly working you with a firmer, harsher hand.

Jaafar's fingers alone stuff you full. That thought earns him another hearty moan. 

“So fuckin’ tight f’me, shit…” His fingers stretch you wide and scissor when you feel something shift inside you, almost threatening your bladder—Jaafar's curling his fingers inside your stomach. You cry out again, noise stifled by his shirt. 

“Shh, shh. Use my shoulder, thas’ right.” Jaafar is nothing if not persistent. Curling, unfurling, curling again ‘till you can’t tell whether the white behind your eyelids is you seeing stars or the sun rising.

It doesn't matter—nothing seems to as he jerks at the knot in your abdomen and works on you ‘till all you can retain is the feel of his frenzied mouth against your ear. 

“You are so pent up… I can feel it. Your pussy’s practically crying for me.” You miss the moment his voice distorts from song-like to starving. Now, it's gruff, guttural, untiring as he feeds you a sensation you can only describe as being filled.

“Say you needed this—you needed me.” “Needed—Ngh!” His middle finger discovers the spongy spot inside you, prodding at it ruthlessly. 

“C’mon, use your words.” “N-needed you… Jaafar!” 

“That’s right.” He rewards you by grasping your hair and tugging ‘till your neck is left vulnerable.

Another spot he’s never truly been able to explore 'till now—an unpolluted canvas practically pleading for his marks. 

“Jaafar!” You warn between wheezes, trying to drag him away from the one place that’d raise questions you won't know how to answer. 

He grumbles in frustration, combatting the urge to latch on and suck ‘till purple spots and darkened bruises freckle your neck and chest. He diverts himself by putting his thumb to work, kneading your clit.

Tears invade your waterline at the added sensation. “Shit—F-feel s’ good.”

“Yeah? You’re so sweet, God. Didn’t even know I was doin’ this to you.”

His thumb accelerates and sets your nerves alight. Your digits spasm in his scalp, your thighs quiver with each thrust, and the only sound in the kitchen is the slick of your pussy and a pair of panting sighs. 

“Anyone ever make you feel like this?” He speaks your name and it's like a being embraced by the sun. 

You shake your head and snatch onto the forearm pistoning into you. “N-no.” You let out weakly. 

“No wonder you're so overwhelmed. Poor thing.” 

His words give you whiplash.

Only moments ago, Jaafar used your pitiable behaviour as leverage, a way to force words from your mouth that, in any other circumstance, you'd never dream of uttering.

Now, even though the words are coated in a twisted kindness only Jaafar is able to bend, they seem sincere. 

But with the way his fingers lead you to your edge, each slide and thrust a cruel reminder of the impending orgasm only he’s capable of tearing from you, you feel close to moaning his name the way you’d overheard exactly a week ago. 

“Gon’ make it all better, promise, sweet girl.” 

Sweet girl. 

Jaafar grunts when your fingers tense in his scalp, mouth ajar beside your ear as each of his huffs slowly transform into groans.

God, are you affecting him the way he's affecting you? 

The thought has you chanting curses into his neck.

And then it dawns on you—his hands everywhere, his breath fanning your skin, the idea of him rock-hard in his pants. A wave from the ever-growing ocean of your orgasm arises in your gut. You arch into his hold. 

“Quiet,” he whispers, breath heating your ear, “or else I’m gon’ have to find another way to shut you up.” 

Another swell jolts your spine and slinks into your crux. Jaafar shifts inside you once, adapts to the new angle, before discovering the sweet spot that has you salivating against his white tee. 

“There! Fuck, right there…” Your a blubbering mess, practically putty in his arms as your orgasm teases and twists your core.

“Mmm, that it? Fuck, your doin’ s’ well.” You squeeze and flutter around his fingers at the praise. “Can’t believe how good your bein’ for me.” 

“G-gon’ come!”

“I know, I know. You’re so sensitive.” When he feels your breath wedge in your lungs, when he feels the way your thighs lock around his waist and trap his hand, he yanks you away from his shoulder and takes your face into his hold. 

Your own hand wraps around his thick wrist as you acclimatise to the new position, eyes wavering closed as each nerve is attacked by his fingers. 

“Nah uh, look at me, c’mon sweetie…” 

You force your eyes open and contest every instinct that begs to roll them to the back of your head.

“Wan’ see the face you make when you come from jus’ my fingers.” 

Those words, the ones now tattooed to your mind, are enough to flip your gut and land lopsided inside you. The knot that pined to unravel for the past week pulls ‘till your muscles are solid beneath your skin, and then undos in a crescendo of agonising, suffocating waves of release. 

“Thaaaat’s it, there you go.” 

Your body ignites, blood and bone and artery singing as your orgasm leaves your ears ringing and your vision white. It stains you as Jaafar works methodically through it, his tentative rhythm syncing with that of your spasming muscles.

Yet even as his fingers persistently tease your entrance, you feel the weight of his eyes on every feature. 

He’s reading you like a book, annotating every freckle, mole and scar, just to note how they mould to your fucked out expression.

The way your lips part on a hushed sigh, the way your neck arches as the closing current of your orgasm frees itself, the way your sweat falls in perfect beads down your front and disappears beneath your shirt.

Your like the cover of his favourite novel. 

Silence loiters between you, blanketing breathless shoulders with a weight you both now understand you’ve ruined any chance of purging.

Yet ahead of you, Jaafars expression is almost one of indifference, like what he did was just an errand for your tortured body. 

A creaky whine crawls up your raw throat as his fingers finally glide out of your slick. You watch the way he eyes his hand, engrossed by the mess of liquids accumulating and dribbling down his fingers to his wrist.

He raises the concoction to his lips just like he had his water, and unlatches. Jaafar grins, pearly whites on display, before his fingers land flat on his tongue and disappear behind his plump lips. 

“Mmm…” He keens at your taste, eyes never wavering from yours as he removes them with an enthusiastic ‘pop!’ 

Jaafar Jackson looks delectable. His hair is dishevelled from your nails, shirt wrinkled from your hands, shoulder damp and marked by your drool.

Your eyes lower to the thing twitching beneath his pyjama pants as his voice comes out like velvet, sultry and soft—like he hadn’t just fucked you raw on his fat fingers and gone faint from the aftertaste; “Better?”

and for months, you had been left with nothing but long-distance phone calls. 

you had lost count of how many nights you spent curled up in bed with the receiver pressed tightly against your ear, listening to his soft, rhythmic breathing long after the conversation had run out of words.

you missed him with a desperation that physically ached – and unfortunately, he had found out exactly how much a few nights ago.

it had happened sometime after midnight.

you were exhausted, half-asleep, and michael had been teasing you in that low, sleepy murmur of his.

before your defenses could catch up, you had admitted it.

you confessed that you’d tried getting yourself off while he was away, but it never worked.

it didn't feel the way his hands did.

without him there, you couldn't get yourself over the edge, and every single attempt while he was away had left you burning and frustrated.

michael let out a soft, breathless laugh.

"yeah?" he had murmured, his voice dropping lower, sending a shiver straight down your spine. "poor thing..." his voice softened. "i miss you so much. i hate bein' away from you."

you could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke again.

“tell you what… i’ll just have to teach you when i get home.”

by the time the call ended, the tone for his return had been set.

which was exactly how you ended up here.

you were sitting on the floor right between his legs, positioned directly in front of the full-length mirror across from his bed. your shorts and panties were gone, leaving you completely exposed to the reflective glass.

your back rested flush against his chest while his long legs stretched around either side of you, keeping your thighs spread wide so you couldn't close them if you tried. one of his arms was looped loosely around your waist, keeping you tucked securely against the heavy, throbbing hardness straining against his pants. 

with only a skimpy pink tank top on, michael had you blushing and writhing in front of the mirror without even laying a finger on you yet. 

you felt so exposed, so vulnerable, your chest rising and falling rapidly under the thin cotton of your top.

"mm, look at you." he caught his lower lip between his teeth, shaking his head slightly. "so pretty f’me," he murmured, his head tilted down so he could speak right against your ear.

heat rushed to your face. you turned your head away from the mirror, burying the side of your face against his chest instead.

you couldn't bear to look at your own reflection while michael sat behind you, whispering things like that into your ear. 

"c'mon, be a good girl 'n look for me." one of the hands around your waist slid up your chest to grab ahold of your chin, turning it gently to bring your eyes back to the mirror. his other hand tickled at the skin below your navel, sending waves of goosebumps.

"'s embarrassing," you whined, your gaze drifting down to the plush carpet below you.

michael pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to your hair. "no 's not, sweet girl. 's to help teach you." his fingers trailed lower, the heat of his palm brushing your bare thighs.

"that's all y'gotta do. just watch."

in the reflection of the glass, your eyes were drawn to the sight of his hand against your body.

michael’s hands alone stirred something inside of you.

the sheer size of them made your stomach flip with a heavy, restless ache. his palms were broad, and his fingers were long and slender.

as his hand hovered over your center, you could see the faint lines of his knuckles and the subtle swell of the veins tracing down the back of his hand.

they were large enough to completely span your hip, yet precise enough to know exactly how to ruin you.

the hand against your stomach slid a little lower, teasing just above your clit. "'m not always gonna be here to do it for you."

you knew that. you knew that michael wouldn't always be around to take care of you like this. not with the second leg of the tour right around the corner. 

so, you let your eyes skim over the floor, slowly inching up the glass of the mirror.

"that's my girl," he whispered, his voice soft against your ear. "if you take your eyes off yourself... i'll stop."

you were both aching with anticipation.

every nerve in your body felt wound tight. the promise hanging between you, the warmth of his body at your back, the sound of his voice against your ear – it all left you so worked up.

you wanted him to finger you the way you needed until you were cumming around his fingers. 

you needed that release from him so badly. 

and michael was desperate to have you squirming in his grasp, choking out moans for him as you gushed all over his fingers.

his fingers brushed over your clit softly, circling it slowly.

he could hear your breath hitch, your much smaller hands coming to the forearm that still had a hold on your chin.

you were so sensitive, all fidgety in front of him, your body growing even hotter at his touch.

"mikey–" you spoke no louder than a whisper, just enough for him to hear you.

he let his hand slip from your chin, his fingers sliding smoothly down to the bottom hem of your pink top, his palm cupping the soft underside of your right breast. you jerked a little at the sensation, your nipple instantly hardening under his palm.

"this okay, sweet girl?" he murmured. his low voice brushing so close that you can feel the slight curve of a smirk against your ear.

you nodded quickly, your chest heaving as you bit your bottom lip between your teeth to stifle a desperate whine.

but with his hand off your chin, your head dropped forward, your eyes instantly darting downward to watch his other hand hovering over your thighs.

"head, baby," he said softly, his tone was gentle but left no room for argument.

you lifted your head, your cheek brushing against his jaw as you rested back on his shoulder. his hair tickled your cheek as you settled against him.

in the reflection, you watched his fingers slide down past your navel, dipping right into the slick arousal gathered between your thighs.

"look how wet you are,” he chuckled, sliding the tips of his fingers through your heat, spreading the slick moisture. his bottom lip caught briefly between his teeth before a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "this all for me?”

his words made your face and neck grow warm, crinkling your nose, your legs attempting to close. but his own legs were in the way, keeping them pinned wide open.

"michael, this is humiliating," you muttered, pressing yourself farther back against his chest like you were trying to escape.

you weren’t.

and you knew that.

you were too riled up.

too desperate for him to fill you.

"take a lick, sweetheart," he teased, bringing his hand away from your heat and up to your face.

you tucked your head into the crook of his neck, your eyes flicking toward his hand for just a second. in the dim light, you could see the creamy, glistening slick coating his fingertips. 

when you finally forced your eyes upward to meet his in the mirror, your eyes were wide and dazed.

"be a good girl 'n get my fingers nice 'n wet for you," he mumbled, a tender smile playing on his lips as he looked down at you with heavy, dark eyes.

wrapping both of your hands around his wrist, you guided his fingers toward your mouth. your tongue brushed against them before you drew them in, tasting the faint trace of yourself still lingering on his skin.

you let them rest there for a moment, coating them with your saliva while his gaze stayed fixed on you. when he finally told you to open your mouth, you obeyed without hesitation. he carefully pulled his fingers free, a thin strand of saliva stretched between them and your tongue before finally breaking. 

the spit dripped off his fingers, trailing down your stomach before his hand found its way back between your thighs. his fingertips were still warm from your mouth, damp as they brushed teasingly against your entrance.

michael felt your pussy flutter against his fingertips.

"god, baby–" he muttered, beginning to tease his middle finger inside, "look at that."

"see how pretty she is? squeezin' me like that?"

your hands returned to his forearm, digging your blunt nails into the skin as his hand palmed heavily at your breast.

"please, please," you mewled, your breath catching sharply in your throat as the slick tips of his fingers parted your entrance. 

your voice was all shaky as he nudged his way inside. he eased in just a little more, letting you feel the stretch until he was two full knuckles deep. 

you were so tight around him, your walls clamping down on his fingers like a vice. every shift of his hand sent a jolt straight through you, causing your body to pulse helplessly around his fingers. 

"shit, 'can feel you, sweetheart," he gasped out, his breath stuttering against your ear. 

once he slid his finger all the way to the hilt, he kept his hand still for a moment, letting your body adjust to the thick stretch of him. 

with agonizingly gentle precision, he hooked his finger upward, curling it slightly against your gummy walls and pressing it right against your sweet spot. 

the sudden pressure hit you like a wave, making you let out a high, broken whimper as your head shook back and forth against his shoulder. 

"michael," you whimpered, your legs beginning to tremble where they were hooked over his own.

it was pathetic.

he was only a finger deep inside you, yet you were falling apart, crumbling into a shaking mess right in his arms.

the hand cupping your breast glided upwards, his fingers grazing lightly over your raised nipple right through the thin fabric of your top.

the hit of pleasure sent your head falling back against his collarbone. your back arched off the floor into his touch, your ass grinding back ruthlessly against the rigid length of his hard cock.

"need more, please," you begged with a breathy moan.

any lingering thought of watching the mirror or trying to memorize his movements for later completely evaporated from your mind.

it didn’t matter anymore.

you knew that never, ever, would you be able to replicate the pleasure he was making you feel right now.

he slowly drew his finger out of you, making you cry out from the friction, before sliding it right back in easily.

you were sucking him back in, begging for more.

he started with languid pumps of a single finger, murmuring dirty, breathless praises against your ear as you trembled and shook in his arms. 

a delicious heat coiled in your stomach at an intensity you’d never felt before.

every moment had you wound up so tight. he had you on such an edge that you truly thought you would explode.

and as he pulled back out once more, he returned with another finger.

"oh my god." you gasped, your legs clamping tightly around his own.

michael could feel your stomach tense up as he filled you even more. he could feel your breathing grow ragged and the volume of your cries become careless.

every push of his knuckles against you was sloppy and loud. you were gushing around him, slick running down his long fingers to coat his knuckles and wrist.

"makin' such a mess," he teased. "you’re close, aren’t you, sweet thing?" his lips brushed against the damp skin of your neck, his breath warm against you.

"michael! i–i’m–" your mouth fell open as your legs kicked helplessly over his thighs.

his fingers pressed deeper, curling into a spot that made you gasp out a frantic, “y-yeah–”

he adjusted his angle, pressing harder into your sweet spot until it drew a sudden burst of wetness right out of you. your walls clamped down around his fingers, his cock pulsing against you in response. he kept working that exact spot, pumping another burst out of you as he groaned against your neck.

"right there?" he murmured. "right there makes you squirt? i know it feels good right there, baby." he didn't let up, his voice soft against your ear as your thighs shook.

"uh huh...yeah?" he coaxed. "yeah, that's it. cum f’me," he murmured.

the hand on your breast slid higher beneath the hem of your top to grab your chin, gently turning your face toward him.

before you could think, he was kissing you, deep and sloppy, swallowing every sound that escaped you.

it was overwhelming.

the coil inside you finally gave way, crashing through you all at once as you gushed all over his fingers and hand.

the sudden rush of fluid soaked his fingers and stained the carpet beneath you. you moaned into his mouth as he kissed you. your body spasmed in his arms, your ass grinding up against him helplessly as he rode through his own orgasm.

just from watching you, watching how your pretty little pussy squeezed his fingers and leaked all over his hand, michael let out a deep, strangled groan into the kiss. his body locked up behind yours as he came in thick, hot spurts, soaking through his underwear as his own climax hit him.

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

his hands r just ugh

but the room itself felt warm.

maybe because of him.

his suit jacket hung loose off one shoulder now, the fabric wrinkled from the car ride back and from your hands. his tie hung loose around his neck, completely undone, and the first few buttons of his shirt had come open at some point between the elevator and the room.

he looked too good.

you kicked your heels off near the door with a dull clack against the floor before looking back at him.

jaafar was already staring.

leaning against the edge of the dresser with one hand braced behind him, shirt slightly untucked, while his eyes followed you through the room with absolutely no shame.

his gaze dragged over you slowly as you crossed the room toward him, the silk fabric of your dress shifting softly against your skin with every step, catching the warm amber light spilling from the lamps beside the bed.

“stop looking at me like that,” you murmured.

a lazy grin pulled at the corner of his mouth.

“give me a reason to look anywhere else.”

you rolled your eyes, but the distance between you closed instantly as his hands slid around your waist, pulling you in. his palm felt warm through the thin fabric of your dress.

“see?” he whispered, his eyes dipping to your lips. “you can’t.”

your pulse quickened. it always did when he looked at you like this. 

the expensive black dress shirt stretched across his chest as he leaned back against the dresser, sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms.

his eyes looked darker than usual, heavy-lidded and intensely focused on you.

“you’re quiet,” he murmured after a moment.

your fingers drifted to the satin hanging around his collar, smoothing it between your fingers.

“so are you.”

a quiet breath left him through his nose before his eyes flicked back to your face. 

“that’s because i’m trying very hard to behave.”

fighting a smile, you tilted your head slightly. “behave from what?”

amusement flickered across his face. “you know exactly what,” his voice had gone rough enough to send heat crawling down your spine. 

you pretended to think for a second before narrowing your eyes at him dramatically.

“no,” you said thoughtfully. “i don’t think i do.”

jaafar just looked at you for a second, already fully aware you were messing with him.

you only smiled innocently back. 

then his hands tightened around your waist before he pulled your hips flush against his.

and you felt it.

to say he was turned on would have been putting it lightly. you could feel the firm, demanding heat of him burning through his slacks.

“still confused?” he murmured.

your fingers stilled against the satin hanging loose around his neck. you didn’t answer right away. instead, you gave the ends of the fabric a slow, deliberate tug, bringing his face just inches from yours while a small, knowing smirk played on your lips.

jaafar studied your face for a second, his own grin fading into a look of cautious amusement.

“i know that look. you’re up to something.”

“maybe i am,” you hummed, flashing him an innocent smile before sliding your hand down to take his.

jaafar let you pull him away from the dresser with little resistance, following you over to the bed. he settled back against the headboard, one arm draped loosely over the pillows behind him as he watched you climb into his lap.

your dress rode higher against your thighs, the silk bunching slightly as your knees settled on either side of him. his hands found your hips again without hesitation.

you leaned in first, kissing him softly. both of your eyes fluttered shut almost immediately. the kiss stayed lazy at first – slow and unhurried. your lips moved against his, tongues brushing while jaafar kissed you back with a quiet eagerness that made warmth curl in your stomach.

you felt his fingers push into the supple skin of your waist as you kissed him harder, your hands sliding up his chest to grip at the collar of his shirt. it was intimate, wet, and slow like you were trying to coax each other to open up. 

a quiet sound slipped from him at the feeling – soft and breathy. 

your stomach tightened at that.

you loved watching his composure slip piece by piece whenever you touched him like this.

his hands drifted lower after, settling against the tops of your thighs while you shifted against him. the movement made your dress ride up further, until the only thing separating you and jaafar was his pants and your underwear. with one fluid motion, you shifted forward just enough that your center pressed flush against him.

his breath caught in his throat, fingers tightening at your waist. his hips pushed up without permission, grinding against you once – slow and filthy until the friction stole your own breath away.

jaafar caught your bottom lip with his teeth, nipping and tugging slightly, coaxing a breathy gasp from you. your hands slid down his chest just enough to gather the fabric of his shirt, gripping the collar tightly as your hips rose involuntarily into his grasp. his grip on your waist grew tighter, falling lower to hold the tops of your thighs. he pulled you even closer to him until you sat back completely on him, your weight resting against his hips.

you could feel him, hard and heavy, pressing directly into you.

you guided your kisses lower, mouth brushing the edge of his jaw.

his head tipped back slightly on instinct, exposing the long stretch of his throat to you like a silent invitation. and you accepted it. 

you pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the sharp edge of his jaw, then another. his skin was hot. the second your lips met his skin, a low groan slipped from his throat. 

your lips dragged along his jaw, your tongue flicking out to taste the warmth of his skin, the faint smell of his cologne clinging to his neck. he was so warm beneath you, his muscles tense, holding his breath like he was waiting to see if you'd stop. 

you wouldn't, of course 

you trailed lower, your mouth lingering on the smooth line of his throat. you pressed your lips wider against the sensitive skin just below his ear, sucking lightly just to feel him shudder beneath you.

you trailed the kisses lower, on his neck, down to his chest.

he rocked up again, a little more firmly this time. he was grinding you down now, hands tight on your waist, dragging you over the length of him like he needs the friction or he's going to lose it. 

you bit your lip.

he was so hard already, it was ridiculous, and you were soaked. the damp material of your panties clung to your slit like a second skin, and with every slow grind, your clit caught just right on the thick ridge of him.

you felt dizzy.

drunk on the sensation.

your breath got stuck somewhere high in your chest, and all you can do was move with him – rolling your hips, letting him pull you back and forth over him.

“you feel…” jaafar groaned again, his eyes fluttering shut. his head dropped back onto the pillows as another roll of his hips met yours. “...god, you feel so good like this.”

your fingers gripped his collar. you were panting now, lips parted, flushed all the way to your chest.

your clit was throbbing, your thighs trembling.

all you were doing was rocking against him, barely more than dry humping, but even then, the friction was already too much.

you leaned in again, brushing you lips beneath his ear, and jaafar shuddered beneath you. his grip on your waist grew bruisingly firm, like he’s doing everything in his power to ground himself.

“feel that?” he mutters low against your shoulder, his breath ragged. “that’s what you do to me.”

you swallowed hard, head spinning. you couldn’t even bring yourself to answer.

you just leaned in again, kissing down the length of his throat while he kept rocking you, grinding you down like he’s trying to get you both off without taking a single layer of clothes off.

you couldn’t stop.

but you couldn’t let him keep setting the pace.

still catching your breath, you slid your palms down his arms, over the sleeves stretched across his biceps and along his exposed forearms, your fingertips skimming the faint veins beneath his skin.

he watched you with lips parted, chest heaving, his brows pulling together when you finally reached down and took him firmly by the wrists.

“what are you doing?” he murmured, his voice thick and rough.

you only leaned in to press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling back.

your fingers found the satin tie hanging loose around his neck. the fabric felt cool and smooth against his skin as you wrapped it carefully around his wrists once… then twice.

jaafar looked down at his captured wrists, his mind finally putting two and two together. you could see the exact moment the haze vanished from his mind. when he looked back up, a hunger flared in his eyes, his gaze darkening completely as his chest began to rise and fall in a much slower, deeper rhythm.

“baby,” the word came out half-laugh, half-disbelief.

you tilted your head innocently. “what?”

“you can’t be serious,” he breathed.

your fingers slid along his wrists gently before guiding his arm backward toward the headboard. the hotel sheets rustled underneath him as he leaned back slightly to let you move him where you wanted. his eyes never left your face once.

the room felt quieter than before.

smaller somehow and more intimate.

you looped the tie around the bedframe carefully before tightening the knot just enough to hold.

you felt him again– how hard he was underneath you. how close he was to snapping. jaafar flexed his wrist experimentally against the satin before letting out a soft, disbelieving laugh under his breath. he was so hard, his cock twitching under you.

“oh my god,” he muttered.

you only smiled.

“you’re scary.”

but his voice came out quieter now, warmer. because, despite the words, he was looking at you like he wanted you to keep going.

you leaned forward, resting your palms flat against his chest and letting your full weight settle into his lap. the sudden, close heat of your body made him let out a low, rough grunt.

his jaw clenched so tight a small muscle ticked in his cheek, his eyes half-lidded as they locked onto yours. 

“you’re driving me insane, baby,” he rasped, his voice dropping into a deep, gravelly tone that sent a shiver straight down your spine.

“i’m just taking my time,” you hummed, sliding your hands slowly down the front of his shirt. 

you popped the remaining buttons open one by one, your fingertips brushing over the warm, smooth skin of his chest. every time your nails lightly scraped over his skin, his breath hitched, his chest rising in sharp, shallow swells beneath your palms. 

leaning down, you let your breath brush against his lips, but you didn't kiss him right away. you hovered there, teasing him, until jaafar groaned and lifted his head off the pillows to try and close the distance himself. he couldn't quite reach, straining forward with a quiet huff of frustration. 

a triumphant little smile pulled at your mouth. you rewarded him then, capturing his lips in a kiss that was no longer lazy.

it was deep and demanding.

jaafar poured all his energy into the movement of his mouth, his tongue tangling with yours with a desperate eagerness. he was completely matching your rhythm now, his chest heaving under your hands as you broke the kiss to trail your mouth down his chin.

you shifted on top of him, straddling his thighs, the soft press of your inner thighs brushing his trousers as you steadied yourself. all you could feel was him straining under you, bound above, eyes glassy with need. 

he tried to jerk upward again, wrists flexing hard against the satin tie. it tightened with the tension, tugging against the frame, but it held.

and the way he groaned when he realized he couldn't move – when it finally sank that he couldn’t reach for you, couldn’t pull you closer, couldn’t take the lead the way he usually did.

it sent a shiver straight through you,

a pulse.

a throb.

a wicked ache that bloomed between your legs and crawled up your spine.

he was completely at your mercy.

your hands slid slowly up his chest again, spreading the panels of his dress shirt wider.

it was rumpled at his sides now, bunched in messy folds under your knees, completely open from the collar down to his waist.

you let out a soft, breathless laugh, looking down at the result.

jaafar couldn’t have cared less about the state of his clothes.

he was only looking at you.

“you’re terrible,” he groaned.

he had a smile, tugging at the corner of his mouth. teeth caught on his bottom lip.

but the second your mouth returned to his chest, his smile disappeared.

he was burning hot under your lips, his chest smooth and firm. you kissed down his sternum, open-mouthed, dragging your tongue along the hard dip between his muscles, feeling every shudder of his body as he struggled to stay still for you.

his stomach jerked, contracting sharply when you nipped the sensitive skin just above his navel.

your hands followed, nails grazing lightly down his sides.

“my god,” he breathed, his head slamming back against the pillow. “you’re–”

you glanced up again.

he was panting now, his pupils swallowing nearly all of the dark warmth in his eyes. his lips were parted, swollen, and you watched the muscle in his jaw lock as he tried to keep himself completely still because he knew you wanted him to.

and then you popped the metal clasp of his trousers.

his body tensed. a full-body shudder ripping through him, his hips fighting not to thrust straight into your hands.

you caught your bottom lip between your teeth and tugged the zipper down just enough, the smooth, metallic glide sending another wave of liquid heat rolling through your core. you hooked your fingers over the waistband of his dark briefs and pulled his dick out into the open air.

oh fuck.

he was thick, swollen, and visibily twitching against his abdomen. 

at the tip, a bead of pre-cum had already bloomed, glistening against the flushed skin.

you swore you saw it pulse.

your mouth went completely dry.

there was something so intensely obscene about the sight of him like this – the way he was already leaking for you, the head straining for attention.

begging to be touched.

begging for your hands, your mouth, anything.

you settled your weight right back onto his thighs.

your own panties clung to you, soaked completely through, clinging tight between your lips from how wet you were.

but instead of pulling back, you ground down.

slowly.

your soaked panties met the leaking head of his cock, and the contact was electric.

it hit your clit just right, rubbing against the stiff, burning ridge beneath you, and you both moaned at the same time.

jaafar bucked upward on instinct, tugging on the satin tie. the restraint held firm, keeping his arms anchored and trapping him under your weight.

“oh my god– ,” he gasped, his voice breaking halfway through.

his eyes snapped open, locked onto yours, completely undone but still trying to hold your gaze. “what are you– shit, baby, please–”

“shhh,” you whispered, leaning forward to press another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

his lips chased yours with a desperate eagerness, but you were already pulling away. 

you rolled your hips again.

slower, deeper, dragging your soaked heat across the full length of his cock like it was nothing.

“god– you’re gonna– ” his voice dissolved into a strained rasp.

his wrists pulled back hard against the satin tie, the muscles across his chest and shoulders flexing as his breath hitched deep in his throat. 

“you’re so hard,” you whispered softly, rocking your hips against him again. “you’re dripping.” 

your panties were grinding directly against his bare skin, slick, warm, and filthy between you. 

the damp silk of your underwear smeared the mess directly over his head, spreading his pre-cum across both of you until everything felt friction-soaked and slippery. 

“don’t say it like that,” he muttered, his jaw clenching as he tried to lift his hips upward to meet you. 

you moaned this time, the sound catching in your throat.

the contact hit your sweet spot too perfectly. your body was starting to throb from the inside out.

your thighs trembled slightly as you moved again, your clit grinding along that burning, swollen ridge.

you leaned down to kiss his jaw, trailing your mouth along his neck. you bit down gently just below his ear as you rolled your hips in another slow, deliberate circle.

when he let out a wrecked groan, you felt the vibration of it low in your belly, twisting everything tight.

you were soaked.

your pussy found the exact shape of him, and you settled there, pressing down slowly, letting your full weight sink into his lap until the thick ridge of his cock was nestled snug against your folds.

it was too much and not enough all at once. 

you stilled for a second. you felt him pulse hard against you.

you felt your own arousal spill, hot and thick, soaking the fabric of your underwear until it grew slippery beneath you. even with the layer separating you, it felt like he was everywhere.

jaafar’s breath stuttered.

you glanced up, and his face was completely undone. his head was tipped back against the pillows, his jaw clenched so tight a sharp muscle ticked in his cheek.

the tension in his upper body was immense, his sleeves bunched around his forearms as his arms remained taut against the bedframe, but he didn't move.

he just took it. 

“shit, baby,” he whispered, his voice raw and gravelly. “you’re so wet… i can feel it. i can feel everything.” 

“yeah?” you breathed, leaning forward until your palms pressed flat against his bare chest. 

his skin was hot under your hands, his heart hammering hard enough that you could feel the rhythmic thud against your fingertips.

you ground again, slower this time, a deep, heavy roll that made your clit throb and your jaw tremble.

it was so messy now.

the squelch of your slick catching every time your pussy slid over his skin. 

all he could do was watch you through half-lidded eyes.

he jerked once, but the satin tie binding his wrists held him firm. 

“please,” he choked out, his eyes squeezing shut as his head turned into the pillow. “please, baby... if you keep doing that, i’m gonna–i can’t–”

you tightened your thighs, dragging yourself forward one last time, letting the tip of his cock press right beneath your clit. you held the pressure there, freezing in place. 

you just felt him pulse.

you wanted him to lose his mind.

you wanted him to break completely. 

but more than that, you wanted to ride that exact edge – watching every stutter of his hips, every ragged breath, while he fought against the restraints and begged for something you weren't ready to give him yet.

jaafar let out a quiet, broken whimper.

it punched straight to your core.

your hips faltered, your rhythm stuttering as a rush of heat flooded through you. you couldn’t help the sharp gasp that slipped out of your lips, your body shuddering as the head of his cock dragged just right over your sweet spot. you were close, too.

embarrassingly close. 

“please,” jaafar begged again, his voice entirely broken this time. “baby, please, let me touch you… i need to… you’re gonna make me cum just like this–”

you sat up straighter, your hips still grinding in slow circles as you braced your hands on his stomach. he was flushed, panting, his wrists twisted uselessly above him. his cock twitched under your gaze, smeared entirely slick from where you had been grinding over him.

his skin flushed a deeper shade, stretched over the hard lines of his chest and abdomen. his abs twitched sharply when your fingers traced lightly down his ribs, catching the deep shiver that ran through his entire frame.

you bent forward again, slower this time.

you pressed your lips back to the heat of his lower stomach, your mouth open, your tongue dragging with slow intent. his cock rested just above your face now, so close that the swollen head brushed your cheek when you shifted your weight. your hands slid up the thick muscle of his thighs, your nails grazing lightly as you went. 

he was panting through gritted teeth. you breathed against the head of his cock, and his entire stomach jerked. he tested the bound satin again, but the tie remained tight.

you met his gaze, your lips curling into a slow, smug smile. 

then, without warning, you finally took him into your mouth.

just the tip.

just enough for your lips to slip warm and wet around the head of his cock, letting it rest heavy on your tongue.

jaafar groaned, sounding like even the lightest touch of your mouth was almost too much for him to take.

you pulled back slightly, letting him fall from your lips with a quiet wet pop.

his hips jerked instinctively, straining upward toward your face

you glanced up, watching the smooth muscles in his forearms tense against the fabric. 

your fingers curled loosely around the base of his shaft, just enough to anchor him, your thumb stroking lightly over the thick ridge on the underside. your mouth hovered over the tip, close enough that your breath fanned out in steady, warm pulses, making the bead of pre-cum glisten even more.

you dragged your tongue along the slit.

slow and delicate.

just a taste.

he let out a choked noise that made your own thighs clench again.

then you did it again — slower this time, the flat of your tongue dragging down the head, tracing along the swollen rim before circling back up to the top.

you watched him twitch beneath you, watched the muscles in his stomach ripple and his chest rise in short, shallow bursts. 

“shit, baby—” he grits out, his voice completely strained, his eyes squeezed shut.

you hummed softly against his skin, your mouth ghosting over the flushed head as if you were savoring it.

you pressed an open-mouthed kiss right to the tip.

then another, and another, working your way around him in slow, teasing circles.

your saliva mixed with his pre-cum, warm and sticky as your lips smeared across the head. you never took more than just the top inch into your mouth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of more.

“you’re killing me,” he groaned, tugging hard against the satin. “please–”

you looked up at him, your eyes bright. “please what?”

he swallowed, his throat working as he tried not to break completely. “please suck me. let me in your mouth.”

you smiled before dragging your tongue hard against the underside of the head, dragging it down with unbearable pressure. 

you gathered saliva in your mouth, lubricating the shaft before wrapping your hand around the base. 

once you were satisfied, your hand started to move, stroking the thick length with a lazy pace. 

his hips twitched, his mouth falling open. “oh my fucking god.”

you took him again, a little deeper this time, lips wrapping snug as you sucked shallowly in soft, rhythmic pulls that made his back arch and his voice crack.

he was panting now, moaning under his breath like the sound was being ripped out of him. 

you held his gaze, unblinking, and went even slower.

you let him slide out of your mouth, saliva stringing from your lips to the tip, before kissing your way back down to the base. every few seconds, you returned to the tip again, like it was the first time, making him work for every bit of attention.

he groaned, hands fisting helplessly against the headboard. finally, you opened your mouth wide and started to take him deeper.

slow.

so fucking slow. 

the stretch made your jaw ache immediately, but you kept going, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach.

his voice was breaking with every sound, and you felt the vibration straight in your core.

he twitched against your tongue, leaking even more as his hips strained up into the heat of your mouth. you hollowed your cheeks and sucked harder, then eased up, dragging your mouth back with a long, slow pull until just the tip rested on your tongue.

his dark eyes found yours, wild and desperate with need.

you smiled sweetly and slid down deep again, pulling off gradually while dragging your tongue along the entire underside. 

you made sure he felt every ridge and every flick.

your hand started moving again, wrapping tightly around the base.

his hips twitched, his mouth falling open as he tried not to break completely under the pressure. 

“oh my god.”

he was panicking in the best way.

his hips jerked uselessly while his bound arms fought against the tension in his shoulders. the tie didn’t budge.

he was entirely helpless.

it was obvious he wasn’t used to being this wrecked from so little.

you licked a stripe up the underside of his cock, base to tip, then swirled your tongue once around the head before dragging your lips off him, slow and merciless. 

“you like that?” you murmured against the shaft, your breath hot. 

he nodded frantically, his jaw clenched tight. you gave him a teasing stroke of your thumb back up his slick shaft, and he writhed beneath you, his whole body tense and trembling.

he was beautiful like this.

tied up and completely unraveling right in front of you

a sheen of sweat glistened along his hairline, his lips parted and red as he tried not to cum just from this. 

and then you gave him what he had been begging for.

you wrapped your mouth around him again and sank, going past that two-inch mark. you sank slower, letting your throat stretch around the thick shape of him as your hand gripped his base, guiding him all the way in.

his moan was guttural, torn straight from his chest. his legs shook. he tried to lift his hips and failed against the tight restraint, choking out a desperate, “baby, please–”

you moaned around him in response, the deep vibration buzzing through every inch of him, and his whole body broke. he was leaking down your throat, twitching uncontrollably, his thighs trembling against your shoulders as his mouth gasped open.

you pulled back slowly. you kissed the tip one more time like an apology, then rested your cheek against his thigh, letting him think he was getting a moment to recover. his chest heaved in broken, shallow bursts. his arms were still flexed and trembling, his knuckles pale from how hard he was gripping at nothing. 

you smiled, not even pretending to be sorry. you watched the heavy, uneven rise and fall of his chest for just a beat before you slowly leaned back down, refusing to give him time to actually catch his breath.

your mouth returned to the head of his cock, slow and reverent, before you pushed forward until you felt the stretch again. the thickness of him pressed to the very back of your tongue, your lips stretched tight around the base of the head. your jaw ached, but the way he sounded like he was breaking apart under your tongue turned you on too much to stop. 

he was muttering now, nonsensical praise and filth tangled together. “so good, baby, so good, that’s it, deeper– take it, yeah, just like that…” 

your throat fluttered in protest, the heat and thickness pressing deep. you pulled back with a wet gasp, letting the crown rest heavy on your tongue while you sucked in two quick breaths. 

jaafar watched you, his chest rising in hard, shaky swells. “you’re doin’ so good, baby,” he murmured, voice completely raw. “look at you.”

the praise made your core clench around nothing.

determined, you leaned forward, your tongue flattening beneath his weight as your lips slid lower. another inch, then another, past the soft give of your throat until you flinched, pulling back instinctively with a sharp gag. 

your eyes watered as you sucked in air.

“easy,” jaafar soothed, his wrists twisting against the satin bound to the bedframe. “don’t rush. just breathe. 

you nodded and lowered your mouth again.

guiding him with your hand as you eased your mouth open around him, taking him deeper inch by inch. you could feel every ridge, every twitch of his cock, dragging hot against your tongue. 

tears stung the corners of your eyes as the tip pressed into that deep spot again. you paused there, breathing shallowly as your body adjusted. your thighs squeezed together, achingly wet from his breathless noises and the weight of him stretching your throat. 

jaafar’s voice was thick with restraint.

“that’s it, baby… god, you’re taking me so well.” 

you whimpered around him, a choked sound that made his cock jerk in your mouth. you gripped the base tighter and pushed down a little further. every time you hit your limit, you pulled back just enough to breathe before trying again.

“mouth’s too good, baby,” he gritted out. “you’re gonna make me lose it.” 

finally, your throat gave.

jaafar choked. “oh– there you go.” his voice cracked. “there you go.”

his head dropped back, his eyes rolling up as his whole body twitched. his hips jolted slightly, but he froze immediately after, fighting every instinct not to fuck up into your mouth.

he was buried so deep you couldn’t even hum, your throat trembling around the intrusion. 

you pulled back slowly, your jaw trembling by the time you finally slipped off him and gasped for air.

jaafar was completely wrecked – his face flushed dark, his hair damp with sweat, chest rising in uneven breaths. 

you met his gaze, your own tear-lined.

you kept your eyes locked onto his as you immediately slid right back down, your hand wrapping around his base, slick and warm. 

his groan vibrated through the mattress.

your mouth was stuffed so full that your jaw felt like it was about to cramp. 

he threw his head back into the pillow, groaning so loud it vibrated through the mattress. "baby, don’t move. please don't–”

you froze, letting your throat flutter helplessly around him. you could feel the way the tight confinement drove him crazy, his hips twitching with the urge to thrust.

then, you started to move again, pulling back with a slick, obscene sound. you caught your breath in a wet gasp and then sank back down just as slowly. 

you let your hands get completely filthy, smearing the copious amounts of his own pre-cum until the noise between his thighs was a constant, heavy squelch that filled the quiet room.

jaafar’s eyes heavy-lidded as he watched you completely dismantle him. “shit, you’re making such a mess,” he hitched, his bound wrists twisting weakly against the satin.

his jaw fell completely open. a high, broken whimper leaked out of him, his dark eyes rolling back so far only the whites showed for a second. “so good—baby, please, just like that, right there—” 

you used your thumb to aggressively smear his own leaking fluid right over the sensitive slit at the tip. 

his abdomen locked. the muscles went completely rigid, a violent tremor passing from his chest straight down to his knees. he didn't even have the breath to scream.

his chest just stayed puffed up, frozen, as the first thick pulse erupted from him, painting his stomach. a low, gravelly groan finally scraped out of his throat, his bound arms straining against the headboard as his body turned itself inside out. 

but you didn't let him descend. you didn't give him that grace.

while he was still actively pulsing, your hand kept going — slower now, but heavier, dragging friction over skin that had just become a raw nerve. 

jaafar’s eyes snapped open, instantly pooling with tears from the sheer, unadulterated shock of the sensitivity.

“no, no, wait. please, hold on–” he thrashed, his hips trying to sink back into the mattress to escape your hands.

“i know,” you whispered against his jaw, your voice dripping with artificial sympathy. “i know, baby.”

you twisted your palm over the head, a wet, bruising rotation that completely short-circuited his recovery. his legs shook violently as his nervous system misfired. before the first orgasm had even cleared his chest, his hips jolted upward in a second, desperate spasm. another wave forced its way out of him, completely unprompted, a pathetic, weeping sob tearing from his lungs as he came twice in less than a minute. 

he was practically hyperventilating now, his mouth working silently as he fought for oxygen, the corners of his eyes leaking fat tears that tracked down into his hair. he looked completely ruined, entirely used. 

the mess on your hands was obscene now, a thick, white-streaked lacquer of his own seed that made every stroke sound incredibly vulgar. you picked the pace right back up, showing no mercy to his overstimulated body, your fingers wrapping tight around the base to milk him completely dry. 

“i can’t–” he cried out, his voice completely broken, his fingers twitching helplessly against the satin knots. 

“you’re doing so well for me,” you cooed, your thumb tracing the underside of his head over and over until a clear, thin fluid started to steadily leak out, mixing with the heavy mess on your palms. 

the overload took over entirely. he couldn't even form words anymore – only high, pathetic, rhythmic whines escaped him as his third climax hit, a deep, full-body shudder that left him completely paralyzed. you handled him roughly through the entire peak, forcing every last drop out of his trembling length before your hand finally came to a heavy rest over his slick skin. 

jaafar stared blankly at the ceiling, his chest heaving in broken, shallow hitches. his skin was burning to the touch, drenched in sweat, his eyes glazed as tremors continued to move through him.

slowly, you shifted off his thighs and knelt by his head. the sharp edge from before was gone now, replaced by a heavy exhaustion.

“hey,” you murmured softly, brushing a damp curl away from his forehead.

a low, breathy hum came from his throat. he turned his head, blinking up at you through a lingering haze.

your fingers reached up to the headboard, patiently working at the tight knots. the second the tie fell loose, jaafar let out a long, shaky sigh.

he lowered his arms with a quiet wince, faint red marks circling his wrists.

he reached for you, his large, warm hand reached up, gently cradling the back of your neck to draw you down.

you collapsed against his chest, burying your face in the crook of his neck as his arms wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close.

“god, baby...” he whispered against your hair, his voice rough and quiet.

a tired laugh escaped him, the sound vibrating softly through his chest. “i think you actually broke me.”

you let out a soft laugh, peppering slow, soft kisses all over his cheek and jaw.

“sorry.”

the words might have sounded more convincing if you weren't smiling. “yeah, keep smiling,” he said, the threat completely ruined by how exhausted he sounded.

“just wait until i can use my hands again.”

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

this was wayyyyy longer than i wanted it to be

You hum weakly, letting your head rest back on the pillows as the smell of weed and Bobby’s cologne filled your head. Your eyes stray to the fan overhead, the blades pass by slowly as you count the seconds while Bobby slowly kisses his way up your legs, easing them over his shoulders.

“You with me?” He pauses above your covered cunt, taking a slow drag from the blunt before parting his lips and letting the hot smoke breeze over the wet fabric of your panties, making you jolt.

“Mm- Y-yeah,” you stutter over the fuzziness in your brain that comes from the pleasant buzz of cannabis. Bobby’s hand grasps yours, lifting the camera with a practiced ease.

“Keep me in focus.” The words are murmured into the skin below your belly button, igniting that familiar fire in your navel and causing the hairs on your neck to stand up.

At your nod, Bobby takes another hit of the blunt before leaning down. His lips meet the puffy folds of your cunt and with a slow exhale, the smoke glazes over your panties again. It’s punctuated by a slow lick that spreads the wet patch on your panties.

His nose nudges your clit and he chuckles at the pleasured noise that drips from your lips. The soft buzz of the camera chews him to you zooming in, soaking in the heated, fuzzy look in his eyes and the way he’s sitting open-mouthed against your pussy.

The smell of your arousal is much stronger this close. And it mixes with the smell of weed in a way that Bobby salivates. His impatience starts bleeding through his high mind and finally, Bobby hooks a finger through the crotch of your panties, tugging them to the side to reveal your dripping folds.

It’s a pretty sight, the puff of your folds, the glistening slick of arousal, the choked sound you make as the cold air hits your exposed pussy. He almost wishes he had the camcorder with him so he could immortalize this forever.

Bobby takes one more slow drag from the blunt, eyes meeting yours over the camera. With a nip to the meat of your inner thigh, Bobby slips the blunt into your hand, right in the small gap between your index and middle finger. Ash falls off the edge of it, scattering over your skin.

Your wince turns into a choked moan when Bobby’s mouth finally greets your pussy. His tongue is heavy with saliva and heat as he greedily tastes you for all your worth. He swaps between suckling at your clit and slipping his tongue between your folds. It’s a vicious cycle that leaves you feeling floaty and loose.

You legs give weak twitches when Bobby’s tongue glazes over your clit, tightening around his head to bring him closer when he pulls away to breathe. The camcorder shakes in your hands and Bobby notices.

He pinches your thigh as he withdraws from you slightly. “C’mon baby, keep the camera still. Like I showed you.” He licks his lips, groaning at the sweet taste of you as he watches you readjust the camera. When he’s satisfied with the angle, he lays back down, kissing your clit sweetly like he was rewarding you.

“Fuck-” You moan as he slips his tongue back into your folds, his calloused thumb doing figure eights over your clit as his other hand massages your thigh.

The dual stimulation continues and he gets lost in it, eyes shutting as he continues to make out with your pussy. At a certain point your hips start grinding against his face and hand, desperately chasing that high that you’ve been needing since Bobby proposed this idea.

His thumb leaves your clit, his index and middle finger accompanying his tongue in your aching walls. Bobby effectively swapped places with his mouth and fingers, lapping at your clit as his fingers leisurely take you apart from the inside out. Every stroke and curl makes your breath hitch and whine as you do your best to keep the camcorder stable.

“Bobby- I’m gonna-” You keen, lips parting for a stilted moan as his fingers speed up. The strokes turn quicker, his saliva drips down your clit and spills into your hole.

He mumbles something against your overstimulated bundle of nerves, tongue flattening against it as he curls his fingers against that spongy spot in your velvety walls. He murmurs vague pieces of praise that leaves your feet curling and back arching as you cum with a loud whine.

Bobby withdraws his fingers, licking them clean before he leans back in to lick you clean. Sweat drips down your back and your thighs are sticky with cum and spit. You vaguely register Bobby’s warm hands taking the camcorder from you, his spit soaked fingers snatching the blunt from you.

He places the blunt in his lips, freeing his hand to massage your ass slowly. Bringing you down from your high.

Blinking quickly, your flushed cheeks are hot to the touch and your eyes are fogged from the weed and now that pretty post orgasmic glaze. You register Bobby more clearly now, his blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. He’s sat up, your thighs resting at his hips. He cradles the camera in his other hand but he watches you patiently.

When a bit more clarity hits your eyes, he smiles, taking the blunt out of his mouth and leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your lips. The taste of your cum sits on his tongue as he moans against you, smoke filling both of your mouths as he hips twitching as he grinds his dick against your pussy. The cloth drags on your overstimulated clit and you whine agaisnt Bobby’s lips as he pulls away.

You speed up. Which means you know exactly what you're doing, which means this was premeditated, which means Bobby's being played and he knows it.

He goes after you anyway because he's never once in his life backed down from something stupid.

He catches you in the hallway, his arm hooking around your waist from behind. His chest lands flush against your back, and he's faster than you'd think for someone whose lungs are basically decorative at this point.

The momentum carries you both sideways into the bedroom doorframe—his shoulder takes the hit, he swears, you're laughing too hard to stand up straight—and then you're falling onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs, the bedsprings protesting beneath you.

Bobby's half on top of you, breathing hard and grinning, and he's got the hem of the Metallica shirt fisted in one hand like he's genuinely going to reclaim it. His rings are cold against your stomach.

"Give it back."

"Make me."

And the thing about Bobby—the thing people don't get when they write him off as just some mouthy stoner with a nice face—is that he's all talk right up until the exact moment he isn't.

The grin doesn't disappear. It just changes. Sharpens at the edges. His eyes go heavier, lazier, and the hand gripping the shirt stops pulling and starts pushing it up instead, his knuckles dragging slow up the curve of your ribs.

"Yeah?" His voice drops into that low rough register that sits right behind your sternum. Late light's coming through the window and catching his earring, the thin silver hoop throwing a pin of light onto the pillow beside your head. "You sure about that, baby?"

You hook your leg over his hip. Pull him in tight. Bobby exhales hard through his nose. Sharp, punched-out, like you knocked something loose in his chest. His jaw clenches and you can feel his hips twitch forward before he catches himself.

He kisses you hard. Not cruel, but not careful either. Bobby doesn't do careful unless you're hurt or frightened, and right now you're neither. Right now you're smiling against his mouth and he bites your lower lip for it, just enough sting to make your breath catch in your throat.

"You're trouble," he drawls into the dip of your jaw. His weight settles between your legs and you can feel exactly how not-annoyed he actually is, the thin cotton of his cutoffs doing absolutely nothing to hide it. "You are a genuine fucking menace and I want my shirt back."

"So take it off me."

He does. Fast enough that the collar catches on your chin and you yelp, and he laughs—this low, stupid, delighted sound—and then you're laughing too, breathless and tangled and ridiculous. Until his mouth finds the side of your neck and his teeth scrape your pulse and the laughing dissolves into something a lot less innocent.

Bobby's hands are rough. Camera calluses, sun-dark knuckles, silver rings he never bothers taking off. He knows what he's doing with them, which is infuriating, because it means he also knows exactly when to slow down. When to drag his thumb across the jut of your hip bone and just wait, patient as anything, until you shift underneath him and try to pull him closer.

He likes that part. Likes watching you get impatient. It's the same energy as when he's behind the camera, all steady focus and perfect timing, except right now the thing he's paying attention to is the sound you make when he finally slides his hand between your thighs.

"Bobby—"

"What's the magic word, baby?"

"Bobby."

"That's not it." He presses his mouth to the soft skin below your ear. You can feel him smiling. "But I'll accept it."

He drags your underwear down with one hand, easy, tossing them somewhere behind him without looking. Presses his mouth to the inside of your thigh, slow and warm, and then he looks up at you. Those ridiculous pale eyes, the hoop earring, the permanent half-smirk he can't seem to turn off even now, and says, low and rough, "You look better in nothing, for the record."

You tug him up by his chain. He comes willingly, grinning. Somewhere between his mouth on yours and his hand fumbling with his own zipper the cutoffs end up on the floor.

michael leaned back nearby with his arms resting along the edge of the hot tub, curls damp around his face, while he watched you with obvious amusement.

“you know,” he said casually, brushing wet curls back from his forehead, “for somebody always talkin’ big, you scare real easy.”

you looked over immediately. “i do not.”

michael laughed softly under his breath.

you’d known michael long enough to recognize that exact look in his eyes before he even said anything else. the one that usually meant he was about to annoy you on purpose.

the two of you had been attached at the hip since childhood. your families blurred together so often growing up that half your memories included michael somewhere in the background of them — sitting beside you at family parties, showing up to your house unannounced (and vice versa), dragging you outside in the middle of summer evenings because he was bored and wanted company. somewhere along the way, physical closeness had stopped meaning much between you years ago.

hugs.

leaning against each other.

holding hands.

cuddling while watching movies.

being close to michael had never required thought.

leaves rustled softly in the night breeze.

michael’s eyes suddenly shifted past your shoulder.

the teasing look on his face faltered, his mouth flattening slightly as his attention fixed on something behind you.

“…wait.”

you narrowed your eyes at that. “michael.”

“no, seriously.” his brows furrowed now while he stared harder behind you. “what is that?”

you rolled your eyes.

“i hate you.”

“i’m serious,” he insisted, though the corners of his mouth twitched slightly. “right there.”

you turned your head despite yourself.

your eyes scanned once. twice. nothing.

you started turning back toward him with an unimpressed look already forming–

michael lunged forward suddenly with both his hands toward the water behind you.

a startled squeal escaped you as you grabbed onto him on pure reflex, your arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders while you nearly climbed halfway up him in a panic.

michael burst into loud laughter. bright and boyish.

“oh my god!” you gasped out, still clutching him while he laughed harder against your shoulder. “you are actually evil.”

“it was funny!” he argued through laughter.

“it was not funny!”

you smacked his shoulder lightly, trying not to laugh and failing miserably once his laughter got worse.

michael’s laughter had always been contagious. it was impossible to stay mad at him for long when he was laughing like that.

“yes it was,” he grinned. “you should’ve seen your face.”

“you practically climbed into my lap,” he added.

“i trusted you!”

“that’s your own fault.”

“oh my god, shut up.”

another laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

michael pointed at you instantly.

“see? you’re laughin’ now.”

you groaned dramatically, letting your forehead fall briefly against his shoulder while his laughter softened into quieter little giggles beneath his breath.

eventually, both your breaths started to settle.

except neither of you moved apart.

your arms still rested loosely around his shoulders. michael’s hands still held your waist below the surface.

comfortable. normal.

well, it should’ve felt normal.

instead, the silence that settled between you suddenly felt…heavy somehow.

different.

your forehead still rested lightly against michael’s shoulder while the water moved softly around you both, rippling between your bodies.

neither of you spoke.

you could feel michael breathing now. 

not just the movement of his chest beneath your hands, but the actual rhythm of it. slow at first, then slightly uneven when you shifted subconsciously closer.

his hands tightened around your waist. small. almost unnoticeable.

except you noticed it immediately.

your brows pulled together faintly.

slowly, you lifted your head from his shoulder.

michael was already looking at you.

the patio lights reflected faintly in his eyes while water dripped from the curls hanging around his forehead. his expression had gone strangely still now, his hands warm where they rested against your waist.

neither of you moved apart.

you’re not sure why.

usually moments like this broke naturally on their own. one of you would laugh. tease the other. splash water. say something stupid.

instead, michael just kept looking at you.

your eyes flicked down toward his mouth before you could stop yourself.

bad idea.

because the second your gaze dropped, michael noticed. his brows pinched for a fraction of a second.

then, before you could really process it, michael looked away first.

his jaw flexed.

you felt his throat move against your arm when he swallowed.

“…christ,” he muttered quietly under his breath.

heat crawled slowly up your neck. you swallowed once before forcing out, “what?”

michael shook his head once, almost like he was trying to clear it.

“nothin’.”

his voice sounded lower now. rougher.

the water shifted softly around you both when you adjusted yourself, your legs brushing against his–

michael inhaled sharply.

the sound froze you.

oh.

your heartbeat stumbled hard in your chest.

because suddenly you could feel it too.

the reaction pressed unmistakably against your thigh.

heat rushed instantly to your face.

michael went still beneath your hands.

for a second, neither of you said anything.

michael laughed quietly under his breath, though it sounded more embarrassed than amused now. one hand came up to cover his face as he looked away.

“….m’sorry,” he murmured.

your brows pulled together slightly.

of course he was apologizing. that was so michael.

when he’s struggling to keep himself composed, he still sounded more concerned about crossing a line than anything else.

you'd be lying if you said his reaction to you wasn't turning you on.

 “….don’t apologize,” you breathed.

michael looked at you. his curls hung damp against his forehead now, water dripping slowly down the side of his neck while his hands stayed fixed carefully at your waist like he didn’t trust himself to move them anywhere else.

he looked away again, exhaling sharply through his nose, almost like a disbelieving laugh at himself.

“just... give me a second,” he murmured. "it'll go away."

michael took slow, controlled breaths like he was genuinely trying to calm himself down.

then before you could overthink it, the words slipped out softly.

“….do you want me to help you?”

michael’s eyes shut briefly while a quiet breath escaped him, almost strained. unfortunately for him, the boner he'd been trying so hard to kill came back tenfold.

one of his hands slid higher instinctively along your waist before stopping there hard enough to make your pulse jump.

“i—”

he cut himself off.

his head tipped back slightly instead, exposing the long line of his throat while he stared up toward the sky for a second like he was physically trying to pull himself together.

it only made him look worse.

or better.

no definitely better.

water glided slowly down the column of his neck while his chest rose unevenly beneath your hands.

finally, michael looked back at you again. wrecked.

he swallowed once before replying quietly, “you don’t have to do anything.”

your heart hammered painfully against your ribs.

“i know,” you whispered.

“i’m asking if you want me to.”

for a second, michael just stared at you.

then slowly, his forehead dropped forward until it rested gently against your temple. 

his eyes closed.

his lashes brushed softly against your skin.

the flush along his neck had darkened now, spreading toward his jaw while his breathing stayed uneven against you.

when he finally spoke, his voice came out rough and quiet. 

“…i’m a gentleman.”

your chest tightened at the sound of it.

the words seemed to hang between you for a moment.

slowly, you lifted one hand from his shoulder, cradling his face gently until he looked at you again.

his eyes were dark now.

unfocused almost.

still trying so hard to hold himself together for you.

your thumb brushed lightly against his cheek before you leaned in just enough to press a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth.

michael inhaled sharply, head tilting instinctively to chase your lips.

then he was kissing you properly.

one hand slid up the side of your neck as he pulled you closer, the kiss hard and messy, like he’d been trying not to do this for far too long.

your noses bumped awkwardly together between breaths, both of you laughing softly into the kiss before it melted right back into something hotter.

michael bit gently at your bottom lip, tugging it between his teeth.

a soft sound escaped you before you kissed him again.

his hand dragged back down your body until it settled low on your waist, fingers spreading carefully just above your ass.

careful and still hesitant. you could feel it.

your hands slid down his arms slowly until they covered his, guiding them lower.

michael broke the kiss at that.

the sound you let slip when his hands finally squeezed your ass made his head drop against yours.

“you’re gonna kill me,” he muttered breathlessly.

you pushed your hips closer against his.

michael let out a shaky breath as your hands slid up the back of his neck, fingers catching slightly at the damp curls near his nape.

when he kissed you again, it felt almost desperate now.

like he physically couldn’t stop himself for more than a few seconds at a time. his nose bumped softly against yours between kisses while his hands tightened around your body, guiding you higher on his lap beneath the bubbling water.

the pressure of his hips against yours pulled a gasp from your throat.

your fingers tightened instinctively at the base of his curls as you broke away from the kiss for air.

“michael—”

he kissed the corner of your mouth before you could finish saying his name, breathing hard enough now that you could feel it against your skin.

“i know, baby, i know” he murmured softly.

you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck. he smelled like chlorine and the faint traces of his cologne, warm amber and soft florals mixing with the heat of his damp skin.

michael’s hands guided your hips against his beneath the water, the movement slow at first before his restraint started slipping little by little.

soft sounds escaped you against his neck while michael’s breathing turned rough near your ear, his grip tightening every time you pressed closer to him.

“baby…” he breathed, almost strained now.

the name sent warmth blooming low in your stomach.

this was the first time he’d ever called you that, and you loved the way it sounded coming from him.

his groans started mixing with the breathier moans spilling from your lips as his hands squeezed more firmly at your backside, the bubbling water sloshing harder around you both as he buried his face against your shoulder.

every slow drag of your hips only made the ache low in your stomach worse.

but it still wasn’t enough.

you needed more of him.

“want more,” you whined softly against his neck.

michael’s hips stuttered against yours at the sound of your voice, a quiet groan escaping him.

“yeah?” he murmured breathlessly, pulling back just enough to look at you properly. 

strands of damp hair clung messily near your cheeks while your lips looked swollen from kissing, slightly parted every time another shaky breath slipped out of you. your eyes were glossed over.

you looked completely ruined.

just for him.

“i’ll give my sweet girl whatever she wants,” he said lowly, with a rasp slipping into his voice.

something about hearing him say it made your thighs press tighter around him. if michael noticed, he didn't mention it.

“anything she asks for.” he added.

“anything?” you responded in a whisper.

michael’s eyes stayed fixated on yours for a second before he repeated it quieter this time.

“anything.”

your stomach tightened hard at the sound of that.

“want you inside me,” you whispered sweetly, your hips pressing against his again at the thought of him giving it to you.

michael bit down on his lip, a crooked smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

you sounded so desperate for him.

and god was he just as desperate for you.

maybe worse.

even now, with your body pressed against his and his restraint hanging by a thread, he still tried to collect himself before he spoke again.

because he was a gentleman.

or at least he was trying very hard to be one.

“go on, take what you want,” he murmured roughly.

your hands immediately reached for the waistband of his swim shorts, tugging them down enough to free his dick.

though you couldn't see much through the bubbling water, you felt him. his warmth, his thickness, his length. 

the weight of him against your hand alone made your breath catch.

michael groaned softly under his breath, his head falling briefly against your shoulder while his hands tightened instinctively along your thighs.

you shifted carefully onto your knees to give him room while he pulled your swim bottoms aside.

the feeling of him brushing against your bare pussy made you arch into him.

“fuck…” michael hissed quietly, breathing turned heavier near your ear as his hands slid lower along your thighs to steady you.

your face buried closer into the crook of his neck while another broken sound escaped you.

“michael…” your voice cracked softly.

the slow push of his tip alone already had your head spinning. he barely gave you room to breathe.

“fuuck, baby,” he groaned into your shoulder, dragging the words out low and strained. “you’re so fucking tight.”

you nuzzled closer into his neck with a shaky whimper.

“s’too big, michael…” you hiccuped softly.

you were ruining him.

the way your voice broke at just the tip being inside you was doing something dangerous to his self-control.

“shh, it’s okay, baby,” he murmured gently, one hand stroking your damp hair.

his other hand slid lower against your thigh before tightening carefully at your hip.

"tell me if it hurts," he murmured, lips brushing softly against your temple.

then he started easing you down onto him properly.

slow.

your mouth dropped open at the stretch as he lowered you inch by inch, his grip firm enough to guide you while still giving you time to adjust. every small movement made another uneven breath leave your lips.

the heat of the water around you only made everything feel more overwhelming. his cock felt impossibly warm inside you, thick enough that each inch made your body tense before slowly relaxing around him.

michael’s forehead pressed against yours as he watched every reaction on your face.

“that’s it,” he whispered hoarsely. “doin’ so good for me.”

another inch.

your fingers tightened against his shoulders, a soft moan escaping before you could stop it.

his own breathing was wrecked, rough against your skin while his hands trembled slightly where they held you.

like he was using every bit of control he had not to lose patience and pull you down all at once.

instead, he kept guiding you carefully.

letting you feel every inch.

the stretch burned for a second before melting into warmth, your body slowly yielding around him while soft broken whimpers left your throat.

“fuck,” michael groaned quietly, eyes squeezing shut for a second. “you feel so fucking good.”

you buried your face deeper into his neck as another wave of fullness hit you.

then finally your hips settled flush against his.

both of you gasped at the same time.

michael’s head fell back against the edge of the tub with a low groan while his hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave marks.

“holy shit…” he breathed.

you could barely think.

he felt everywhere. warm and deep and overwhelming, filling you so completely that all you could do was sit there for a second trying to breathe through it.

his hands softened again, thumbs rubbing slow circles against your hips.

“you okay?” he asked quietly, though his voice still sounded wrecked.

you nodded weakly against him.

“mhm…”

a small smile pulled at michael’s lips before he kissed the side of your head gently.

“good girl.”

you almost sobbed at the praise. his voice alone could make you cum.

michael stayed there for a second, just holding you against him while both of you tried to recover from the feeling.

his chest rose against yours, shaky breaths fanning across your skin while his hands stayed fixed carefully at your hips like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

then slowly, he rolled his hips upward once.

the movement was shallow.

experimental.

but the drag of him inside you still pulled a broken moan straight from your throat.

michael actually whimpered at that, the sound muffled against your skin, before a strained groan followed right after.

“fuck…”

his grip tightened.

“that okay?” he asked quietly, his own voice already sounding completely gone.

you nodded quickly before he’d even fully finished asking.

“please,” you whispered.

his mouth crashed against yours again while his hips rolled into you harder this time, deeper, the movement making the water slosh violently around both of you until it spilled over the edge of the hot tub, soaking the concrete.

your fingers tangled tighter into the damp curls at the back of his neck as he kept rocking you against him slowly, every thrust deep enough to make your stomach tighten.

he couldn’t seem to stop kissing you between breaths.

messy kisses.

desperate ones.

little broken sounds slipping from his mouth every single time you clenched around him.

“you feel so fucking good,” he breathed shakily. “christ, baby…”

his restraint kept slipping in pieces.

each movement growing rougher than the last, your body meeting his like you both couldn't stop chasing the feeling.

you moaned again. soft and breathless right against his mouth.

“yeah?” he rasped. “that feel good?”

you could barely answer — or could barely hear him, to be honest.

the way he was making you feel left your head completely fuzzy. every deep drag of him inside you made your thoughts melt together until all you could focus on was him.

when you didn’t respond, he tugged you down harder onto him.

a high moan tore from your throat instantly. a sound you would’ve never thought you’d be capable of making. 

and if michael wasn’t fucking you so good, you probably would’ve been embarrassed by it. 

he pulled back just enough to look at your face, watching your expression.

“tell me.”

it didn't sound demanding.

if anything, it sounded like something he needed to hear.

“y-yes–” you gasped helplessly. “yes, yes, feels so good–”

he leaned closer to your neck and started kissing, sucking, biting, leaving marks all over your neck. 

michael cursed softly under his breath at the feeling of you clenching around him.

“shit, baby… you’re squeezin’ me so tight.”

all you could do was moan as he dragged your hips down onto him through another deep thrust that made your entire body jolt.

the praise only made the heat low in your stomach tighten harder.

another soft whine slipped from your throat before you could stop it, your face burying deeper into his neck out of instinct.

michael groaned at the sound.

“those sexy fucking sounds…”

his hips rolled up into yours again, harder this time, and your grip on him tightened hard enough to sting.

one of his hands slid up your body, long slender fingers brushing teasingly against your chest before nudging your swimsuit top up just enough for your breasts to spill out. the cooler night air nipping at your damp skin.

"so perfect." he breathed.

he leaned in, his mouth closing around your left nipple with a slow, warm suck that pulled a breath from your lungs. at the same time, the knuckles of his other hand dragged against your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your breasts, teasing every inch of sensitive skin on the way up. he cupped your breast, squeezing gently before rolling your nipple between his fingers in time with the slow pull of his mouth.

every suck, every soft bite, every flick of his tongue had your body arching into him.

you couldn’t hold the sounds back anymore.

every thrust of his hips pulled another sound out of you.

little whimpers.

broken moans.

breathy gasps right against his ear.

“fuck,” he groaned softly into your skin, almost dazed. “keep makin’ those sounds for me, baby.”

you couldn’t stop even if you wanted to. 

his mouth shifted to your other breast with a worn groan while his hand slipped lower between your bodies.

the second his thumb brushed against your clit, your entire body jerked in his arms.

“oh my god—”

the cry that left you was loud enough to echo slightly off the stone around the hot tub.

“mm, that it?” he rasped, thumb circling you again with shaky desperation. “that what you needed, baby?”

you nodded helplessly against him, barely able to breathe properly now.

the feeling of him thrusting up into you while his thumb rubbed slow, messy circles against your clit was too much all at once.

your thighs started trembling around his waist.

“michael, please.”

“i know,” he breathed quickly. “i got you. i got you.”

he kept thrusting into you deep and slow, but the rhythm was getting sloppier every second. like he physically couldn’t focus anymore with the way you kept whining against him.

“fuck…” he groaned softly. “you’re so sensitive.”

another moan tore out of you when his thumb pressed a little harder.

every little movement pulled another noise from your throat.

your eyes kept fluttering closed from the overwhelming sensation while michael watched your face completely unravel for him, his own expression looking just as gone.

“look at me, baby. c’mon,” he breathed softly.

your eyes fluttered back toward him.

the second michael saw the tears gathering along your lashes from how overwhelming everything felt, something in him completely snapped.

“fuck—”

his forehead dropped against yours with a groan so deep it almost sounded painful.

his thrusts lost what little rhythm they had left after that.

harder now.

messier.

his hands gripping your hips almost desperately while he kept kissing you between breaths like he couldn’t get enough.

“close?” he rasped against your mouth.

all you could do was nod frantically.

your fingers clutched desperately at his shoulders as another wave hit you.

it was too much.

his mouth on your neck.

his thumb rubbing against you perfectly.

the way he kept filling you so deep every time his hips snapped upward.

your thighs started shaking hard around his waist.

“i-i’m gonna–”

“lemme feel it, baby,” michael interrupted, voice breaking. he sounded completely gone. "please..."

a soft curse slipped from him the second your body tightened around him.

“that’s it,” he groaned. “good girl… fuck, that’s it.”

his thumb moved faster.

messier now.

like he was getting desperate too.

the pressure finally snapped.

your whole body jolted against him with a broken cry, your face burying into his shoulder while your body tightened hard around him, nails scratching at his back.

michael groaned loudly at the feeling, his hips stuttering completely for a second.

“shit–”

your vision blurred from how overwhelming it felt, soft little sobs and moans getting caught in your throat while wave after wave kept hitting you.

michael fucked you through all of it, one arm wrapped tightly around your back while his forehead pressed against your shoulder.

“fuck…” he groaned shakily. “atta girl.”

then quieter, almost like the words slipped out accidentally.

“been wantin’ this so bad.”

you clenched around him hard at the confession.

michael groaned hard, head tipping back against the edge of the hot tub.

his lips brushed against your jaw when he looked back at you again, expression completely wrecked.

“you don’t even realize what you do to me sometimes,” he breathed shakily.

“been tryin’ so hard to be good.”

another deep thrust made your breath catch.

“every time you bend over during those stupid twister games…” he groaned softly. “or prance around in those tiny little swimsuits…”

“honestly so mean of you.”

another broken groan slipped from him right after, his face burying deeper into your neck like he was trying to hide there.

little strained sounds kept leaving him every few seconds while his hips lost what little rhythm they had left.

“can’t—” he choked out softly. “fuck, baby…”

his grip tightened almost painfully at your hips before he finally buried himself deep inside you with a whine, warm spurts of cum filling you as his whole body went tense against yours.

you could feel him shaking slightly while he held you close, breathing unevenly against your skin as the water settled softly around both of you again.

the aftershocks rolled softly through both of you, fading little by little into soft tremors.

the world around you felt silent except for the sounds of bubbling water and uneven breathing. 

slowly, you pulled back just enough to look at him properly again, your arms still resting loosely around his shoulders.

his curls were a mess.

lips swollen.

flushed all the way down his neck.

and the completely blissed-out look on his face made something warm burst in your chest.

the second michael noticed you staring, a breathless laugh slipped from him, his teeth catching briefly against his bottom lip when his grin widened.

you laughed too.

because somehow, even after all of that, the two of you still ended up the same way you always did.

still just you and michael.

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

ummm i didnt know how to end it butttt SECOND FICCCCC r we getting somewhere guys

also pls dont acc have sex in hot tubs or pools😭😭 (as hot as it is</3)

Michael always liked spending time at your place. In fact, he preferred it, relishing in the mundane tasks he got to participate in: cooking together, doing the dishes, helping you with laundry— all of it tethering him to the real world.

When he was away on tour he would dream about moments like this: back in your bedroom, lying lazily across your bed, matching socks while you folded towels. It was so simple. So normal. So domestic.

“I’ve missed you.” Your voice was soft, echoing gently against the quiet of your bedroom as you reached into the laundry basket perched on your duvet. You pulled out another towel, folding it neatly with a slight frown pulling at your lips.

You knew all too well how limited your time was together.

This was only a short break in his schedule. Next week he’d be halfway around the world on another leg of tour.

“Hey, stop that.”

He threw a rolled up pair of socks in your direction before starting on a new one. His long, dainty fingers digging through the laundry basket, moving fabric around until he found another set to roll together.

“I’ll be back before you know it.” He peered up at you with the sweetest smile playing on his lips, his hands still busy with the laundry.

You didn’t even realize you’d stopped folding the towel in your grasp— too busy staring at Michael’s fingers moving so delicately, the veins running through the tops of his hands growing more prominent with every fold.

You’d barely seen him in the last three months and now he was laid out on your bed— his hands taunting and teasing you over a pair of socks.

“You alright sweet girl?”

His words snapped against your ears like a rubber band, instantly bringing you out of your trance. You met his grin with a sheepish smile of your own as you thought about all the times you’d heard that nickname over the phone while he was away.

“how was your day sweet girl?”

“been thinkin’ bout you all day sweet girl.”

“I want you to touch yourself like I would. C’mon sweet girl let me hear ya.”

The last one was particularly memorable; the way his whisper rasped through your phone— all heavy and desperate.

It was a strange new form of intimacy for both of you— phone sex.

You’d tried so hard to use your fingers the same way he would. Straining to reach that spot he always could and panting into the phone while he whispered sweet nothings from the other end.

It was never the same. Each call ended with you more needy for his touch, dreaming about moments like this when he would be back home— in your bed.

“Just missed you that’s all.” You smiled down at him, hands still frozen, clinging to the cloth in your grasp.

“Missed me so bad you forgot how to do laundry?” Michael’s voice rang out in a gentle laugh, his hands reaching for the towel, taking it form you and finishing the job, stacking it alongside the others on your bed. All the while you couldn’t stop staring at his fingers.

“I missed your hands.” The confession slipped form you as you watched his touch brush over the soft cotton towels, wishing it was on your body instead.

“My hands?” The question giggled up from his chest as he looked down at his open palms.

You had to keep yourself from gliding your tongue across your lips as you watched him stretch and wiggle his fingers. He looked up to see the way your lids had gotten heavier— your stare locked in on his movements.

“What’d you miss about my hands?” The amusement fell away from his voice, his words now laced with a much lower hum of desire.

You reached out, holding them in your own, gliding your fingers over his knuckles.

“Everything.” You purred, rubbing gentle patterns into his palms.

“They’re just so pretty, and big.”

You line up your palms with his, noting how his fingers stretched far past yours.

“You’ve got pretty hands too baby.” His compliment was paired with a love-drunk smile— his pupils blown from the seductive tone of your voice.

“Mmm but yours always feel so good.” You trace each of his fingers, “Your fingers always fill me up so nice.”

Flustered but still smiling, he bit at his bottom lip, breaking eye contact to watch the way your hands pressed together.

“I can’t do it like you can. I try, but it’s just not the same.” There’s a performative pout on your lips and Michael’s having a hard time sitting still at the mention of you all frustrated and fucked-out with your fingers between your legs.

“Want me to show you baby?” His gaze meets yours again, the question is soft, dripping with genuine concern and chased with impatient desire.

You nod your head, teeth sharp against your bottom lip, biting down as you watch him shift his weight on your mattress. He sits at the edge of the bed, pulling your body closer until you’re standing between his legs.

His hands run up your body, resting heavy on your hips, toying with the waistband of your pajama shorts, “these need to come off.”

You don’t say a word. Working your shorts down your legs and letting the material pool at your feet.

“That’s good.” His praise melts into your body as his lips meet your skin. He places a kiss just above his thumb pressing against your hipbone.

“Missed you so much baby.” He’s cooing against your skin, breath hot and heavy at the waistband of your panties.

“My pretty girl.” His compliment is muffled as he brings a hand between your legs, running a single finger over the damp spot seeping through the cotton at your core.

“My sweet girl.” He hums against your hip, pushing your panties aside just enough to tease a finger at your entrance.

You’re already soaked. His breath huffs against your skin as he chuckles to himself, teasing his pointer finger at the pool of arousal threatening to drip down your thigh.

He pushes a single digit into you at a painfully slow pace, smiling against your skin at the little gasp you let out as it sinks into you.

“Mikey…” your hum of approval bleeds into the room and you have to grip his shoulders in an effort not to fall over when he slips another finger along with the first.

“This how you want it babygirl?” His words are sloppy against your skin, his teeth just barely nipping at your hipbone.

You nod, ready to reply but your words get stuck in your throat when he curls his fingers at just the right angle. Your mouth falls open wide enough for a strangled moan to escape.

He laughs.

His smug little giggle warm on your skin as his forehead rests against your bare stomach peeking through the raised hem of your T-shirt. The tickle of his curls only adding to the sensation building in your belly.

He hits the same spot again and again. His fingers fucking into you with precision— each movement carefully dedicated to your release. He was hungry for it, starving to feel your thighs clench and your body shake, and if he was lucky he’d get to hear his name on your lips— a melodic chant of sweet victory.

Profanities tumble out of your mouth as you squeeze his shoulders, gripping tighter with each twist of pleasure rippling through your abdomen.

“Fuck- that feels s’good” you’re mumbling into the air, voice floating somewhere between a whisper and a groan.

He hums against your skin in response. His curls still brushing back and forth along your stomach as his lips kiss along the waistband of your underwear.

You were already teetering on the edge of release, seconds away from unraveling at the mercy of his fingers, when he pushes his thumb against your clit, rubbing soft little circles and making your jaw go slack.

“Mike…” His name almost sounds like a warning as it fills the room. Your hands clutching at his shoulders as you struggle to stay still.

He’s in awe of the way his hand completely covers your pussy— his fingers curling into you and his thumb stroking your clit in tandem to push you over the edge. God he needs to hear you whine his name while you make a mess on his palm.

And you must be some kind of mind reader with the way you’re moaning his name over and over— the sweetest symphony he’s ever heard.

Your body is tense, fingers digging into his shirt as you grow more unsteady with every wave of pleasure washing through your body.

He’s kissing and sucking at your hip, his hand not letting up between your thighs despite the heaving of your chest and your legs wobbling beneath you.

Little gasps stutter past your lips as you come undone, pulsing and clenching around his fingers. You pull at his shirt in your hands, riding the wave of your high, and waiting for his movements to match the tempo of your descent.

But he keeps going— harder, deeper, faster— and all you can do is carefully dig your hands in his hair, tugging in the mess of curls at the nape of his neck.

Your composure is fleeting with every brush of his fingers against the sensitive ridges of your walls squeezing around him.

“Such a sweet girl.” His voice mumbled into your skin, teeth scraping against your body.

“Michael. I can’t.” You were panting— breathless— barely able to form a full sentence, his touch rendering you speechless.

“You can.” His eyes found yours between the slow blinks of his lashes— his gaze laced with devotion and dominance.

It wasn’t encouragement, it was a command.

His lips moved lower, licking and biting at the skin of your upper thigh, his face dangerously close to where his hand met your body— fingers still fucking into you obsessively.

The sensation building in your belly was overwhelming, pooling together and threatening to burst with each swipe of his fingers.

His thumb worked faster at your clit, as he moaned hushed praises into your skin— coaxing you into another orgasm.

You gave in— body melting into the bliss of his touch, pussy gripping and clenching and gushing around his unrelenting fingers. Your arousal coating his hand, dripping and leaking, making a mess down your thighs.

A guttural groan vibrated into your skin. Michael’s head was still buried against your leg, his lips moving lazily toward the soaked material of your panties— pushed aside and barely clinging to your body.

His hand fell from between your legs, and a whine bubbled up your throat at the loss of contact, suddenly feeling so empty without his touch on you— in you.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, pulling the ruined material down your legs.

You were in a state of pure euphoria, hands still gently holding onto his hair, and little hums of satisfaction trembling from your chest. But you were quickly pulled back to earth when Michael’s tongue made contact with your center, lapping at your core and sending your fingers clutching at his curls.

“Mike…” your head snapped down, your eyes meeting his in a caution fueled daze.

“Uh uh I’m not done yet.” His words were polite, almost delighted, as he murmured against your bare cunt.

The studio smells like cigarette smoke that isn't yours and a thick cloud has formed in the recording booth, the bright overhead spotlights making it look like atmosphere. You've been here since eleven in the morning. It's past midnight now.

The soundboard is lit up like a city seen from a plane, and you can see the light bouncing off the separation glass. Quincy had gone home, and most of the session musicians packed up two hours ago, bar you and a horn player, smoking a cig. 

Michael is still here because Michael is always last to leave the session.

You stopped wondering about why he stayed into the small hours of the night, as after having signed onto do guitar work on his next album for the last three weeks, you understood he was a vicious perfectionist. He was kind, but oh so direct with the band members laying down their pieces for him. He had a vision and he followed it closely.

You were excited after having a career mostly in jazz, playing more mellow, traditional swing. The sheet music in front of you was totally different from that, and the departure was a welcome one. A challenge.

Michael often liked to lay down the sounds he heard in his head first, ensuring the percussion, strings and everything was to his liking; that it sounded like the download he had from above. He would only lay down his studio vocal at the end.

The Stratocaster is in your lap. Not plugged in. You've been running the chord progression from track six over and over, not because you're lost in it, but because the motion keeps your hands busy while you watch him through the glass.

He's in the booth with the engineer, rewinding, listening back. He does this thing when he's dissatisfied with a take — stands very still, one hand flat against the side of his headphones, head tilted. He's doing it now. The engineer says something. Michael shakes his head once.

"Elmer, you can go on home now, leave your set up. We are going to revisit in the morning," Michael said, using the autotalk.

He went back to an animated conversation with the sound engineer. Elmer cleared out of the room speedily, clearly eager to get home after a long day. You bit your lip and wondered if he was going to let you go soon.

The untitled track six has been the problem child for weeks. It exists in two versions: the one that got laid down for the Captain EO ride, clean and bright and built for a theme park; and whatever it's supposed to become now. Michael pulled it back into the sessions three weeks ago and hasn't explained why to anyone except in the vaguest terms. It needs something. It needs to move more. It needs to feel like it's going somewhere.

The booth door opens.

"Play me that thing again."

You look up. He's standing in the doorway between the live room and the tracking room, arms loose at his sides, in the white shirt he'd been wearing since early morning, collar wider, unbuttoned, and a black waistcoat. Raybans covered his eyes and the overhead lights caught the bead of sweat on his clavicle. It was extremely stuffy and warm in the studio, you could feel sweat on your back.

"Which run are you talking about?"

"The one you were doing before Quincy left," he trailed off, his mouth pulled to the side like he was biting his inner lip.

You know what he meant.

During a break an hour ago you'd been noodling, not playing anything in particular, just keeping your fingers warm; and you'd landed on something. A short melodic run, five or six notes climbing fast up the neck of the guitar and then driving back down hard with a rhythmic chop at the end. Sort of aggressive; bright but with teeth. You'd played it twice and then someone called you over to look at a lyric sheet and you'd let it go, not thinking much of it. You hadn't realised Michael was listening so closely to his band.

You plug the Strat into the small practice amp in the corner; not the full rig, just enough to be heard, and then play it for him.

Eight seconds of music. The run climbs the scale quick and clean, each note distinct, and then the chop at the bottom lands like a period at the end of a sentence. Your hands are fast, smooth and practised.

Michael watches from the doorway. Then he goes back into the booth, without a word.

The talkback crackles. His voice comes through the monitor speaker, slightly flattened.

"Again," he says, in a demanding way.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes and play it again.

"Faster on the way up."

You play it faster, feeling pent up frustration with him come out. He is certainly a nice guy, but his perfectionism is really troublesome at this time of night. The climb gets sharper, more urgent, and the chop at the end hits harder for it — the contrast between the quick ascent and the sudden stop gives it momentum, like a car braking at speed.

"Again. Please. Punchy, driving progression."

You play it again, even more aggression, but laced with intense passion.

"The last note. Hold it a beat longer before the chop."

The autotalk crackles and you look up at him behind the glass. He looks really handsome, his hair falling in front of his eyes slightly where it had grown out since his last album cycle. You admired him for always being well dressed; he never arrived at the studio looking slouchy. The white shirt and black fitted pants, his iconic white socks and black loafers.

You adjust. The held note creates a half-second of tension before the rhythm comes down, and now the whole thing feels like it's winding up before it releases.

You play it again without being told. Then again. Through the glass you can see him standing at the board, not touching anything on it, just watching. His elbows are on the console, hands loosely clasped under his chin.

His voice through the speaker: "That's it. That's the color it was missing."

You play it once more because your hands want to.

"I want it on the bridge. Track six. It was too soft. Too contained. It needs to push against something."

You think about the track as you know it — smooth and crowd-pleasing and built to be safe. Then you think about the run, the way the climb builds and the chop lands, and you understand immediately what he's hearing. The lick in the bridge would work like a gear change. The whole song would change tonally.

"Play it again," he says. "Recording it now and then Q can listen in the morning."

You sit up. Square your shoulders. Play it.

"One more take."

You play it again, cleaner. Look up back at the window — he still seems like he wants more. His sunglasses have come off.

"Again. Don't rush the top."

You slow the peak of the climb by a fraction, let each note speak before the next one, and the run gets more shape. More intention. Through the glass he nods once.

"Again."

This goes on for twenty minutes. His voice comes through the monitor in a steady rhythm — more attack, less, shift the chop one beat later, try it without the held note, no, go back, that was right before — and you execute every adjustment without complaint, which you can tell surprises him even from the other side of the glass.

Most session musicians push back at the artist, or at least get a little mouthy when they are being worked this late. You've learned that the fastest way to work harmoniously with Michael is just to listen to him, because he's usually right.

The engineer calls through from somewhere behind Michael. Anything else tonight?

A pause. Michael doesn't look away from the glass. "No. Go home and get some rest, Martin."

A crackle. Footsteps. A door somewhere in the building opening and closing.

The talkback is still live. You can hear the faint presence of the booth — the hiss of the monitors, Michael breathing. You are feeling more nervous now, the sweat beading on your forehead.

His voice, quieter now. "Play it again."

You play it, with serious conviction, your legs tensing where you sat on the stool in front of the low mic.

"Again."

You play it again.

"Again."

You stop. Lower the guitar slightly. Look at him through the glass. "Michael. It's good. You know it's good."

Through the glass he's looking back at you. He doesn't answer immediately.

Then, out of the blue: "I like you."

The amp hums as your hands hover over the strings. It feels like the whole world stops.

"What?"

"I like you." His voice is direct through the speaker. "I've been trying to talk myself out of it for three weeks and I can't, so I am telling you."

You look at him through the glass, total shock on your face.

There is something very deliberate about the fact that he's still in there — the pane between you, the monitors, the console. Like he decided that if he was going to say it he was going to say it from a safe distance.

"Why now?" you say.

"Because it's just us and I'm running out of reasons not to."

"That's not what I mean." You set the guitar across your knees. "You've been working with me for weeks. What changed tonight? Is it because it was supposed to be my last session?"

A long pause. You watch him decide something.

"When you feel the music," he says, "when you're really in it — you look insanely beautiful." He clears his throat, clearly nervous. "And sexy. And completely in tune with exactly what I'm calling on, like you're hearing the same thing I'm hearing before I've said it." Another pause, shorter. "I've worked with a lot of musicians."

"Mmm."

"I've never once had the privilege of someone who takes direction so literally, so well."

You don't say anything for a moment. The thing about Michael is that he means what he says with a completeness that most people don't. There is no calculation in it, no angle, which is strange given that being a performer, being very different to his usual self, is most of his professional life.

"You could have said something three weeks ago," you say.

"I know." A beat. "I wasn't ready then. I had to figure you out a lil' more."

"And now? Do you think you have figured me out?"

He doesn't answer intentionally. Instead: "Play it one more time."

You smirk, flip your hair out of your face.

You play the run — the climb, quick and deliberate, each note landing clean, and then the held note at the peak, the tension of it, the half-second where the whole thing is balanced on the edge. Then the chop comes down hard and the last note rings out into the room and fades into amp hiss and silence.

The booth door opens. You startle, not realising he had moved.

He crosses the live room in a few strides and takes the guitar from your hands before you've fully stood up, sets it against the amp stand without looking at it, and then he kisses you hungrily, right in front of the mic with the overhead lights on. They are like a spotlight on the both of you, nowhere to hide now.

It's not soft. It's not a question. His kiss lands exactly like the chop at the end of the lick — like something that has been at pressure for a long time and has finally found where it needs to release.

Your hands go to the front of his shirt. His go to your jaw, your neck, warm and soft, and he kisses you the way he listens, with his entire attention, every point of contact something he is paying attention to separately, the session now at the back of either of your minds.

When he pulls back it's barely an inch. His hands are still on your face.

The laugh that bubbles up in your chest is half-breathless, half-hysterical. He's so close his eyelashes brush your cheek when he blinks.

"Michael," you whisper into the millimeter of space between your lips. "What the hell are we doing?"

"Mm, not sure," he murmurs back, his voice a low, private rumble you've never heard before — not through a microphone, not in conversation. Raw, unprocessed. "I guess we are feeling the music, Y/N."

"Feeling the music," you repeat, dazed. His thumbs are stroking the hinge of your jaw. Your own fingers are curled into the crisp cotton of his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin beneath. "What's the operational objective here?"

"Play. I want to play." He kisses you slower this time, but with the same devastating focus. His mouth is soft, insistent, and he tastes like the black tea he'd been drinking all night at the controls and a faint hint of mint.

You make a small, involuntary sound against his lips and you feel him smile, just a tiny curve, before he deepens the kiss again.

One of his hands slides from your jaw, down the column of your throat, his fingers spreading over the rapid pulse there. He breaks the kiss to trail his mouth along that same path, his lips warm and slightly chapped. You tip your head back, granting access, and a shiver runs through you that has nothing to do with the studio's stuffy heat.

"You're sweaty," you mumble, your eyes closed.

"So are you," he says, the words vibrating against your collarbone. "This recording studio is like a sauna. Just with better equipment." He laughs, breathlessly.

"You're making me sweatier."

"Good." He finds a particular spot at the junction of your neck and shoulder and sucks, not gently. The sensation is a bright, sharp shock — possessive, deliberate. Your grip on his shirt tightens. "That's gonna leave a mark," you manage, your voice already sounding wrecked.

"Mmm-hmm." He doesn't stop. He moves to another spot, higher, just below your ear, and repeats the process — the wet heat of his mouth, the slight scrape of his teeth, the firm pressure. It's methodical. He is so incessant, a big difference to the kind and softspoken Michael you had been working with professionally for the last few weeks. It is like he's found a frequency he likes and he's riding the fader. A soft, breathy moan escapes you before you can catch it.

He pulls back to look at his work, his eyes dark and intense, taking in the flushed skin, the beginning of a bruise. He looks utterly fascinated.

"There," he says, softly. "Now you have a souvenir."

"Michael, do not leave anymore marks, I swear to god. If you want me to come in tomorrow I have to look professional to your team."

The protest dies in your throat when he moves again — not away, but forward, crowding you back step by step until your shoulders meet the cool painted concrete of the studio wall. The contrast is startling — the heat of his body against yours, the unyielding chill of the surface behind you.

He pins you there, not with force but with presence, his hips slotting against yours, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in the hair at your nape.

"Professional," he echoes against your lips. "You think I'm thinking about being professional right now?"

He kisses you again, and this one is different — deep, consuming, a total immersion. His tongue sweeps into your mouth and you open for him without thought, a low groan vibrating from his chest into yours. Your hands, which had been fisted in his shirt, slide up to his shoulders, feeling the lean muscle there, the shift and flex as he adjusts his stance to press you more firmly into the wall.

The hand at your neck holds you steady, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind your ear. The other drops to your bum, his grip firm and possessive, pulling you tighter against him. You can feel him, hard and insistent through his levis, and the reality of it — Michael Jackson, the genius, the perfectionist, the icon, wanting you like this — sends a dizzying rush of heat straight to your core.

He breaks the kiss to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged and warm on your face.

"The first day," he murmurs, the words spilling out in a hushed, confessional rush. "When you walked in. You shook my hand. Your fingers were cool and you had calluses right here—" He brings his hand from your hip, takes your right hand, and presses his thumb against the pads of your fingertips. "—and you looked me right in the eye and said, 'I'm all yours, Mr. Jackson.' No nerves. Just readiness."

He brings your hand to his mouth and kisses each fingertip, his lips soft, his gaze locked on yours. The intimacy of it is almost more overwhelming than the kiss.

"I thought, 'This one hears it. This one gets the picture.'" He lets go of your hand to frame your face again. "And then you played. And it was right. But it was more than that. It was alive."

He kisses you again, a brief, searing press. "I'd watch you through the glass," he continues, his voice dropping even lower, a secret for the two of you. "You'd bite your lip when you were thinking. You'd close your eyes on a bend. Your whole body would move with the rhythm, just a little, like the music was a current running through you. And I'd be in there, listening to a take, and all I could think was — I want to be that guitar." He lets out a shaky breath, almost a laugh at his own admission. "I wanted to be the thing you held that close. The thing you made sing."

His confession hangs in the air, thick and real. You are speechless. You'd seen his focus, felt his demanding direction, but you'd never imagined this — this raw wanting, observed and catalogued with the same meticulous attention he gave to his work.

"Michael," you whisper, your voice trembling.

"Shh," he soothes, brushing his nose against yours. "Let me."

He reclaims your mouth, and this time the kiss is all heat and need — messy, off-beat, perfectly imperfect. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently, and you gasp. He swallows the sound, his tongue laving the stinging spot. Your hands are everywhere, in his hair now wonderfully disheveled, down his back, feeling the taut line of his spine through the waistcoat and shirt. You arch against him, seeking friction, and a ragged groan tears from him.

His mouth leaves yours to blaze a trail down your neck, over the marks he's already made, down to the collar of your shirt. His fingers fumble with the top button, his usual dexterity slightly compromised by urgency. He gets it open, then the next, his lips following the path of exposed skin — the hollow of your throat, the swell of your breast above your bra, each press of his mouth a brand.

His hand slides higher, cupping your breast through the lace. His thumb finds your nipple, circles it, presses. A desperate moan is ripped from you and you feel him smile into the kiss, pure satisfaction.

"Oh, you like that," he murmurs.

The wall is cool and solid at your back. He is fire and demand in your arms. The studio has shrunk to this: the space between your bodies, the slide of fabric, the wet sound of your kisses, the ragged symphony of your breathing. The overhead spotlights are merciless, illuminating every flicker of desire on his face, every bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple, the fever-bright flush on your own skin.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving. His hair is a beautiful mess. His shirt is hopelessly wrinkled, half-untucked. He has never looked less like the pristine icon and more like a man.

"Tell me to stop," he says, the words a gravelly challenge, his eyes searching yours not for permission but for the same madness he feels. "Tell me this is a bad idea. Tell me we have to be professional."

You slide your hands from his shoulders down his chest, feeling the rapid heavy beat of his heart beneath your palms. You don't tell him to stop. Instead you curl your fingers into the fabric of his waistcoat and pull him back to you.

"The only thing I want from you right now," you say against his mouth, "is more. Of whatever this is."

A low, approving sound rumbles in his chest. His kiss turns incendiary — like he's trying to memorize the taste of you, like this is the final perfect take and he's giving it everything. His hands map you — your ribs, your waist, the curve of your ass, hauling you up slightly to better align with him. The friction is exquisite, maddening. You wrap a leg around his hip and he groans, the sound raw and unfiltered, a private sound for no microphone but the one in your memory.

The sound of the door opening was like a needle scratch across the record of the moment.

Just the soft click of a latch, the gentle push of the heavy studio door — but in the absolute charged silence you and Michael had created, it might as well have been a thunderclap.

You both froze.

Michael's head, which had been bent to your neck, went perfectly still. Your own fingers, tangled in his hair, stopped. For one suspended second the only sounds were the low hum of electricity and the ragged shared rhythm of your breathing.

Then a shuffling step, and the squeak of a wheeled bucket.

You turned your head just enough to see past Michael's shoulder. Standing in the doorway was an older man in grey coveralls, a janitor's cart beside him, a look of profound shock on his face.

The spell shattered.

Michael moved first. Not a jerk, not panic — a slow, deliberate disentanglement. His hands left your skin with a lingering slide that felt like a final secret caress. He took a single smooth step back, putting a foot of professional distance between your bodies. His expression, which had been open and hungry a heartbeat before, underwent a remarkable transformation — the intensity drained, replaced by a placid, almost serene politeness. The same look he gave interviewers, the same gentle mask he wore in public. Only the faint flush high on his cheekbones and his wonderfully disheveled hair betrayed what had just happened.

"Good evening," Michael said, his voice back to its familiar softspoken tone, utterly calm, as if he'd been caught reviewing a track sheet.

The cleaner blinked, stammering. "I — I'm so sorry, Mr. Jackson. I was told everyone had gone home for the night. I didn't mean to interrupt—"

"It's quite alright," Michael said, offering a small gracious smile. He adjusted the cuff of his white shirt — a gesture so normal, yet he made it look so devastating. "We were just finishing up some last-minute work on the bridge. Lost track of time."

The almost-lie delivered with such effortless conviction you almost believed it yourself. You were still leaning against the wall, your shirt rumpled, your lips swollen, your neck bearing the evidence of his attention. Heat flooded your face — embarrassment and a strange defiant thrill in equal measure.

"Of course, of course," the cleaner mumbled, already backing toward the door, dragging his cart with him. "I'll, uh, I'll start in the hallway. Apologies again."

"Thank you for your hard work," Michael said warmly.

The door clicked shut.

The silence that followed was different. No longer a private bubble, but a space recently violated, the air still vibrating with the echo of the interruption. You looked at Michael. He had turned away, running a hand through his hair, his back to you.

A shaky laugh escaped you. You pressed your fingers to your lips. "Well. That was—"

"Unfortunate timing," he said, not turning around.

"You think?" You pushed off the wall, your legs unsteady. "He's definitely going to talk."

Michael finally turned. "Let him talk." He said it with a quiet certainty that brooked no argument — the king in his castle, secure in his power. Then his gaze dropped to your neck and a flicker of pure satisfaction crossed his features. "Besides," he added, his voice dropping back into that private low register, "we are just working passionately. Music comes to people in all sorts of ways."

You shook your head. But before you could form another thought he closed the distance between you in two quick strides.

"He did interrupt," Michael murmured against your ear. "And we weren't finished."

This time there was no hesitation. His mouth captured yours in a deep claiming kiss that stole the breath from your lungs. You grasped the front of his waistcoat for balance as he walked you backward, through the door and into the studio, his body pressing yours until the back of your legs met the cold leather surface of the couch.

He broke the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw, back to the sensitive marked skin of your neck. He didn't suck this time — just laved the spot with his tongue, a slow caress over the budding bruise, before sealing his mouth over it again, harder.

"This is inspiration for tomorrow," he breathed against your damp skin. "When you come back to lay down that lick with Q."

It wasn't a question.

He kissed you again, slower but no less deep, his tongue stroking yours in a rhythm that was unmistakably carnal. One of his knees nudged between yours and you instinctively wrapped a leg around his hip. The friction was exquisite through the fabric. He hissed, a sharp intake of breath, and rocked against you — once, twice, deliberate — and you cried out.

It was that sound, raw and unfiltered, that seemed to pierce the haze. He stilled, his forehead dropping to yours, breathing in hot short gusts against your lips.

"God," he whispered, his voice shredded. "If we don't stop now—"

He didn't finish. He didn't have to. The unfinished promise hung in the air, more potent than any words.

With what looked like immense physical effort he pushed himself back, his arms trembling slightly where they still caged you. His eyes, black and dilated, searched your face as if memorizing it.

Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in and pressed one last achingly soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. A kiss of punctuation. Of later.

Then he was up off the couch, turning away, running both hands through his hair. He checked his watch, the movement jerky.

"It's very late," he said, the words sounding scraped raw. He cleared his throat, visibly gathering the scattered pieces of his composure. "You should get home. You need rest for tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? Tonight was my last scheduled session," you echoed, your body still throbbing.

"Final lay-down on track six. Ten AM sharp." He spoke to the console, not looking at you. He picked up the phone beside the controls, his voice strained but firming up — Michael in charge, forcibly reasserting himself. "James? It's Mike. Bring the car around. Back studio entrance. Not for me though — a nice young lady needs a ride home. Thank you."

He hung up and finally turned. The composure was back, but fragile now, hairline cracks showing. He approached you and stopped a respectful distance away.

"A driver will take you home," he said. His gaze swept over your flushed face, your kiss-swollen lips, the vivid mark on your neck. He reached out and with a tenderness that made your chest ache, gently fixed the collar of your shirt, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin. "Get some sleep."

You found your voice, though it was hoarse. "Is that an order?"

A ghost of his earlier smile touched his lips. "A strong recommendation from your manager."

He leaned in. You held your breath. But he just pressed a soft closed-mouth kiss to your cheek — chaste, a cover story. Yet his lips lingered, and you felt the slight involuntary tremor in them before he pulled away.

"See you tomorrow, bright and early," he chirped, the melodic public voice almost convincing. Almost.

You gathered your things on autopilot, every nerve ending still singing. At the door you paused and looked back.

He was standing in the middle of the room, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his sunglasses. He looked composed. But his eyes held yours across the distance, and in them you saw the entire unedited truth — the hunger, the possessive claim, the trembling control, and underneath all of it, a certain tiredness that had nothing to do with the hour.

A slow knowing smirk curved your bruised lips. You held his gaze for one last endless second, then turned and walked out into the hall, where the scent of disinfectant from the cleaner's cart did nothing to erase the scent of him on your skin.

The black sedan was waiting. As you slid into the back seat you let your head fall back and finally exhaled, long and shuddering. You touched the throbbing mark on your neck, then your tender well-kissed lips.

You smiled — slow, secret — and closed your eyes, already counting the minutes until ten AM.

--

“Ye— yes,” you breathe pathetically. You can feel the desperate glide of his tongue on your skin, as if he’s trying to lap up the oils of your perfume, right before his plush lips suck faint purple marks all over your neck. “So much, I can’t think straight.”

That makes him release a low chuckle, momentarily deattaching himself from your neck — “My sweet baby.” — before connecting his lips to yours. And you can feel his wandering hands— travelling all over your hips, your lower back, thick fingers slightly teasing the elastic band of your shorts as he slowly moves his hips in tandem with yours. “Look at you, all pretty f’me.”

It drives you crazy, how perfect Jaafar is. The sweetest and most tender man on the planet. And he’s all yours, you realise. He’s all for you. The praise of his words shoot straight to your head.

The desperate tension in the room swirls in the air. His lips feel like a warm wave of pleasure to yours, and you can’t help but let out a small whimper as your boyfriend continues to pepper light kisses all over your neck and collarbones, carding your fingers through his curls.

You keep on writhing against his chest— you feel him harden beneath you. “Easy, baby. Let me fix it.” He whispers. A heavy, yet gentle hand pushes your rocking hips down to his clothed length, fingers now resting on the sliver of bare skin between your shorts and top, and Jaafar’s sure you feel hot. Needy. Eager. Seeking relief, after not seeing him for days. 

“Let me help my pretty baby.” He says to himself, like a promise. You can’t do anything but nod. You don’t want to do anything else, if you have to be honest with yourself. You know you’re in good hands with him. “I— please.” You manage to murmur quietly, breathily.

“D’awwh,” he breathes against your skin. The tension crackles in the air. It’s thick, heavy and yet, you feel so at home with Jaafar’s arms around you, wandering hands resting on your ass. “Y’just need me to take care of you?” He asks lazily, along with a little teasing hint and a surge of pride evident in the way he smiles against the sensitive skin of your neck.

The need within you simmers. It grows silently, like a tingle evolving into a wet pulse in your core as you allow Jaafar to kiss your stress away. He feels like a furnace against you. He’s everything you have ever wanted: stable, present, steady. His skin is soft like a pillow and if you weren’t as needy as you are now, you would fall asleep against his chest. 

Just the fact that he thinks you’re cute and perfect for him makes the pressure pulse heavier. “I feel so lucky,” your boyfriend pants between kisses. Those warm hands travel to your waist, where he moves your body back and forth over the growing tent in his shorts. “You’re too good f’me, I swear.” 

The air in the room is starting to get clammy. You can already feel the shy drip of wetness gather on your panties while Jaafar keeps on dragging you over his prominent length. The delicious friction of your panties and the jersey fabric of Jaafar’s shorts against your clit makes you lightheaded, and you can’t help but release small mewls every time the lace drags over your pulsing entrance just right. 

You look down at where the two of you rub against each other, and God if that sight doesn’t end you right then and there. “Fuck, you—” your boyfriend pants, unable to finish his sentence, “let me taste you, yeah?” His eyes are wide and blazen in pleasure, fingers already thumbing the hem of your shorts down.

You don’t think twice. “Yes, oh my— please.” you whimper out pathetically, finally feeling freed from your own restraint. You don’t care about how vulnerable you sound. You don’t care because everything feels good with him. Easy. Comfortable. 

He brackets his hand around your scalp as he settles you down on the soft duvet and peels off your shorts. “I’ve been waiting for this all day,” he tells you earnestly, making his way down your body, slotting his shoulders between your open thighs, never breaking eye contact. “Wondering when I could spoil my girl.” 

A small moan bubbles out of you when he snaps the elastic band of your panties against your skin. He’s taking way too long. Out of desperation, your hands sneak into his hair. “Please, touch me.”

A knowing smile appears on Jaafar’s mouth at just seeing you so undone, desperate for relief, begging him to go down on you like he’s your only salvation. He looks at you in a way you’ve never been looked at before: wanted. Important. Desired.

“When have I ever been able to say no to you, baby?” 

And with careful precision, your boyfriend peels off the last piece of fabric that separates your pussy from him. His soft, wet mouth immediately latches onto you like it’s a habit, a magnet. 

The drag of his tongue between your walls is slow, sleepy and filthy. The desire in your core keeps pulsating, heavier and stronger with each brush of his lips against your clit. It’s almost like a heartbeat that drives you mad. “Can’t stand seeing y’unsatisfied.” your boyfriend manages to mumble out while his face is buried between your legs. 

Between heavy breaths and languid licks between your walls, he manages to draw tight circles to your clit. His other free hand is wrapped around your thigh. “Makes me want to spoil you. Never have to lift a finger w’me, y’know that?” 

You can’t find the energy to respond to him. The delve of his tongue inside your spongey entrance, the warmth of his breath coating your thighs — it’s all too much. But it’s just the way you like it, and your boyfriend knows that too. You spend minutes grinding yourself against his waiting tongue. The grip you have on his hair almost functioning like a rein. 

When your fingers lose their hold on his hair, Jaafar is quick to lead your hand back to his head. “Keep it there, sweetheart,” he orders between pants. “Love it when you do that.” 

He continues to eat you out, albeit sloppily. Wet squelches of his tongue continually prodding at your hole ricochet off the walls like an echo, and you can feel the spark low in your core start to build up. “J, I—” your voice is tiny as it cracks from desperation. “I’m so close.” Your cunt flutters around the wet muscle of his tongue.

You sound wound up, and it spurs Jaafar on to keep doing what he does. “Please,” he begs back between dips of his tongue and gentle nips, “You’re doing so good, baby. Show me how—”

He doesn’t get much further. Your whole body lights up, muscles pulled taut. Jaafar’s sentence is cut off by a broken moan, and your entrance keeps gushing out the sweetest essence he has ever tasted. He moves his tongue through it, never letting up. Your breaths are heavy and pitchy and a little skittish as you finally come down from your high, chest rising and falling with deep inhales of oxygen.

Your thighs are still shaking when you try to sit up, and he sits up with you, seemingly more in love with you than before. One hand stays on one of your trembling thighs, keeping you still. He presses a lingering kiss to your lips. “Better, baby?” 

You nod back with a lovesick smile, all satisfied and happy, eyes flicking down to the problem he has to deal with now. The drowsy, sleepy tone in your voice from before can’t be heard when you say, “you need some help with that?”

Jaafar flashes you a grin: he knows what you’re talking about. He’s never the one to push you to do something you don’t want, but tonight, you want to take a different route. His grin is boyish and somewhat wicked, dimples appearing on his face. 

“When have I ever been able to say no to you?”

Michael sported a childish grin — the corners of his lips tugging each side as he fought to suppress it.

“A camera.”

“I can see that, honey, but what’s it doing out while we’re kissin’?” Your tone had Michael pulling his bottom lip between his lips.

“Wanted to try somethin’.” He revealed, his voice soft and sweet despite the sensual undertone.

You’d barely been situated in Michael’s lap five minutes, lips moving feverishly against his own, anticipating some intimacy with your man, before the clicking of the Sony Handycam CCD-M8U you bought him for his birthday started a recording.

“Come on, baby, keep goin’.” He whispered — behaving like a producer backstage of a performance, using hushed tones to support you with your next act.

You shook your head in protest — lips parting to tell him to turn that damn thing off. But, it was Michael’s way or no way. He perched up from slightly beneath you, capturing your lips again on his own. You could sense the camera on you as Michael slid his eager tongue into your mouth — the wet muscle exploring yours as his right hand levitated in the air, capturing every second of your private moment. His spare hand slid up the centre of your spine, fingers tips tracing the dip, pushing you closer to his chest.

“Michael, turn it of—“ “Shh, just let it happen, doll.”

His muffled dismissal against your lips had you huffing into his — giving up fighting him. Luckily for Michael, you soon forgot about his little friend in the air — your enclosed lip-locking becoming increasingly more heated as time pursed. Your hips ground against his own involuntarily, muscle memory kicking in from your many previous sensual encounters, eliciting a sharp gasp from your throat. Michael hummed into your mouth at the sound of your first pretty noise of the night — the excitement of his future self watching the tape back and watching your neediness increase in real time had him buzzing.

Michael bucked his hips up to meet yours halfway — a genuine whine of desperation leaving your mouth against his own, still locked in a ferocious kiss. Your hands encased his flushed cheeks, holding him dearly close to you, your whines blossoming into authentic moans of pleasure as your throbbingly touch-starved clit nudged against the painfully obvious bulge in his slacks.

Your lips left Michael’s in a frantic, needy frenzy — planting hot, open-mouthed kisses to his jawline, lips dragging along the spectacularly chiseled bone, smothering the skin in your mauve lipstick. Before following his anatomy and furthering your pout down his neck, licking a tentative stripe down the slope.

Michael shuddered under your brutal teasing, hands twitching around the camera ever so slightly. He peered up at it, ensuring he was capturing you in the perfect way.

“Gosh, baby, y’look so pretty like that.” Michael breathed, titling his head back to allow you to expand your surface area of tentative licks, “Kissin’ all on me like that.”

At this point, all the sense you had to smack that camera out of Michael’s hand had long left your head. Now, all you were interested in was pressing hot kisses down Michael’s chest, shoving the loose shirt off his torso to give yourself more room to worship his body with your mouth.

Above you, Michael had managed to shift the camera angle down, now holding the painfully obvious equipment with two hands, resting on his heaving chest — angling it just right to show your arched frame moving down his body, lipstick marks forming on his glossed skin. Your manicured hands reached the waistband of his slacks before peering your head up from his crotch, eyeing him seriously, as if to say put that thing away now.

“Please?” His pleading, slightly whiny voice had any form of judgment you’d once obtained now ten feet out the window as his eyes sparkled above you — lip threatening to fall into a pout as the camera taped you rolling your eyes before unbuckling his trousers, shoving them down his thighs. Michael grinned excitedly as you pressed your chest close to the aching bulge in his boxers.

“Wow, you really do like that camera, huh?” You teased, tracing a calculated finger down the ridge of his hard cock.

Michael hissed at the sudden, feather-light touch, knuckles going white around said tech, lip being gnawed by his pearly whites at the sight of you between legs.

“Quit teasin’.” He spoke shyly, his eyes flicking between the screen and your in-person frame, an anticipatory smile on his face.

Usually, Michael would dislike it when you suck his dick — believing his lady should be pleasured and looked after, not made to strain herself for only his gain. But, he knew how you secretly enjoyed having your throat stuffed full, rendering completely at your mercy, so every once in a while, he’d allow it.

That and you looked so pretty with his cock in your mouth.

Especially on camera.

So, when your lips wrapped around the flushed head of his proud cock, Michael didn’t know whether to focus on making sure every second of this was caught on video, or the feeling of intense delight you were succumbing him to. You suckled the tip just how he liked, his salty, yet equally delicious, pre-cum flooding your taste buds, relishing in the way the perfect dip in his eyebrows adorned his face — he was crumbling.

“S-Shit, sweetheart, doin’ so good.” He panted, thighs tensing against your hands as you steadied yourself on the meaty muscle.

You slid him deeper, tongue dancing over the throbbing vein on the underside of his shaft, while your pretty fingers wrapped around the base, pumping him slowly in beat with your eager mouth. Michael watched you like a hawk — heart thumping in his chest so hard he was certain the tachycardia was going to send him into cardiac arrest at the way your seductive, doe eyes fluttered up at him through your lashes.

“Oh, Lord.” He heaved, head falling back against the pillow as the head of his swollen manhood punched the back of your throat — a loud gag of rejection sounding out into the room.

Michael secretly adored when you did that.

In his trance of lust, the camera slipped from his grasp, sliding down his side, leaving his hands free to slither down and cradle your face. You noticed.

“Ah, ah, ah!” You teased, pulling off his cock with a pop, saliva connecting you even in disengagement, “Thought you wanted it filmin’, angelface?”

Michael whined, trembling hands leaving your face to pull the camera back into his possession — focusing the lense to put you back into shot. Michael’s breath hitched at the sight — even on the choppy, blurry screen, your blown out pupils, tear-streaked, flushed red cheeks and swollen lips glossed with spit and his pre-cum had him twitching in your hand as you pumped him slowly.

“Look so fuckin’ good, girl.” He admitted, furrowed eyebrows hidden between the large hunk of plastic as he watched through it, “Can’t wait to watch this later.”

You laughed, pressing a kiss to the head, collecting the pre-cum that dribbled down him with the tip of your tongue, smiling at the way Michael whined, “Oh, you dirty dog, Michael Jackson.”

Michael chuckled cheekily, “Come up here, wanna feel you.”

Obeying his orders, you let his hardened cock fall against his tensed abdomen, climbing up him once more. Your hips settled either side of him against, clothed pussy lips now hugging the thickness of his cock through your soaked panties.

“Well, would you look at that?” He started, a teasing finger coming down to toy with your damp underwear, a whine leaving your lips at the tentative touches, “Looks like you’re enjoying this after all, hm?”

You failed to reply — words catching in your throat as his finger traced the outline of your aching clit through the thin material, your lips parting at the sheer sensuality of his touch.

“Where’s that teasin’ girl gone, hm? Cat got your tongue, mama?”

“Michael.” Your voice a whiny, needy plea of despair.

“What, baby? Talk to me. Tell me whatcha’ need.” He coaxed, his tone a gentle dominant force that your mouth rambling to answer, to please.

You whined, hips rolling against the hard of his cock, rubbing alongside the pad of his finger that remained flat against your nub, “Plea—please, need it—need to feel you.”

Michael’s hand, steadily holding the camera, angled it perfectly to show your needy pussy humping his cock, as well as the eyebrows knitted in lust on your pretty little face — his cock twitching at the thought of fucking his hand to the recording later.

Michael tapped your hip, demanding you lift your hips to have access to your drooling cunt. He peeled the drenched cotton panties from your puffy pussy lips, tucking them to the side of your vulva. With practiced ease, Michael slid an expert finger between the slickness of your cunt — collecting the sweet essence of your arousal on his digits. With methodical swiftness, a long finger of Michael’s slipped into the clenching hole which needed him most.

“Mmh, such a pretty pussy, doll. Got all wet just for me?”

Michael knew the answer, he just loved to hear you say it. Loved to hear you admit in your drunken state of ecstasy that he was the one to make you slick with arousal. Michael’s fingers moved with excellence you were stunned by each and every time — the relentless abuse against the sweet, spongy spot inside you that had you crying out, tears jerking from your ears at the sheer force of the sensation.

“Ooh, there she go,” He whispered, the ball of his hand coming up to roll against the excluded nub that was screaming for touch, a move that had you sobbing, “That’s the spot, huh, ma? So good it got you cryin’ f’me, hm?”

His name left your swollen, cum-stained lips in a wretched sob, nails digging into the flex of his bicep, gripping on for dear life as you fucked yourself onto his hand.

“Y-Yes! Yes—o-ah! Yes, God, Mike—gonna cum!”

Michael could’ve laughed at the way your face dropped in sheer disbelief as he pulled his hand away from your sopping cunt after your confession of near climax. Your chest heaved, clit throbbing as your eyes welled up, pulling on Michael’s heartstrings.

“Oh, sweet girl.” He laughed, leaning up to press a soft kiss to your pouting lips, “Need you to cum around my cock, babygirl, yeah? Can you do that for me, pretty lady?”

You nodded meekly, bottom lip still jutted out in protest as Michael guided his cock between your shaking legs. Just as his burning hot tip slid into the familiar, wet comforts of your hole — your disappointed pout fell into a gasp of relief.

Michael laughed, his free hand coming to pull on your bottom lip, cock slipping further inside you, “Don’t want this out again, you hear me? No poutin’ girls around here.”

You nodded feverishly — not ever wanting to disobey him, in fear he’d take away the one thing that’s fulfilling the desire that burned fiercely inside you, as he stretched you open, inch by inch. The camera, still rolling, captured all of this — the way each inch of his cock disappeared slowly, your pretty pussy lips wrapped around his shaft, your slick drooling around him.

You whined, feeling impossibly full as he bottomed out, seating you fully down onto his pelvis. His own bottom lip was sucked in between his teeth, admiring the sight of your perfect frame on top of him.

“Oh, I bet you’re so full, huh, baby? Usually don’t let y’ride me first — can feel that pussy throbbing.” He confessed, laughing softly as you whimpered, his free hand slithering up your bared body — making sure to record his hand palming your tits through your lacy bra.

Michael wasted no time pulling the material off your body, reaching behind you to flick the fastener apart one-handed — watching as the bra fell from your chest, your perky tits on full display to him, and the camera, of course. His teasing fingers crawled up you, grabbing a gentle handful of your right breast, humming at the feeling of the soft skin and the sound of your desperate moan. You shuffled around him — wincing at the feeling of his perfectly curved cock nudging your quivering walls, awaiting the approval to start moving.

No matter what you were doing — Michael was always in control.

Michael moved his hand to roll your erect nipple in between his nimble fingers, “Go’head, girl, show me how much you need it.”

You didn’t wait for him to change his mind, not that he would with the way you were clenching eagerly around him, lifting your hips off him, about half-way, before slamming back down. Your head fell back instinctively, a cry of sheer joy slipping from your lips, only encouraging Michael to throb inside you.

“Come on, sweetheart, falling apart after one bounce? Can do better than that.” He teased, smirking at the way you bit your lip shyly, suddenly embarrassed at how much effect he had over you.

Your hips rose again — now bouncing with the help of Michael’s tight grip on your hip, pulling you up and down on him. You whined, cheeks flushed in timidity as he hummed behind the screen.

“Oh, that’s the fuckin’ money shot, girl. My baby’s a natural. Look at that pussy—fuck, yeah, doll, keep goin’.”

Michael’s words of encouragement had you crying out — moaning in pure lust as his cock continued to relentlessly nudge against the best spot inside you, one he never failed to hit each time. Michael’s hand cradled your hips dominantly, grinding you down with each movement, rubbing your clit onto his neatly groomed pubic bone, failing to hide the smirk that crept onto his face at the sound of your needy noises.

“That’s it — let me hear you, darling.”

“Mike.” You whined, hand coming up to grabs handful of your tits and the other holding yourself up on his chest, slick with sweat. Michael’s eyes could’ve popped out of his head at the sight of you — seductively playing with your perky breasts, nipples rolling between your fingers like he once did, head thrown back, mouth agape letting your slutty moans fall upon his perked up ears.

Now, this was the shot.

Michael couldn’t wait another moment. Throwing the camera down on the bed, he lifted you up with both strong hands, pulling you off his slicked cock, and laying you down gently on the bed with ease.

“Mikey.” You whinged, “Please.”

“I know, sweet thing, ‘m coming back, don’t worry that pretty little head.” He reassured, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Michael slid you onto your side with ease, one shaking leg laying over the other, revealing your swollen cunt. He slid a soft hand over your skin, squeezing the plush of your ass, humming at the sight of you beneath him. He picked up the discarded camera once more, pointing it down at you once more.

“Now, this,” He started, “is the perfect position for when my baby’s gettin’ recorded. Y’know why, sweet girl?” He spoke, sliding the flushed head of his cock between your drooling folds, ignoring the way you whined loudly, peering up at him as if to beg him to shut up and just fuck you, “Because I can see this perfect ass, cute lil’ waist, beautiful titties, and most importantly,” He complimented cheekily, free hand sliding over each body part as he listed them, before gripping your chin between his index finger and thumb, “This pretty little face makin’ the cutest faces while I fuck her needy little pussy.”

Michael entered you in one swift motion — the cutest faces he was referring to filling your expression, a loud cry leaving your lips. His name fell from your mouth like a prayer, a chant, as he rocked into you deeply — his cock-end nudging your cervix each time, sending you clawing at the bedsheets. Pleased with himself, Michael smiled behind the camera once more, angling it down perfectly to capture every aspect of you he listed — tits bouncing, ass recoiling against his abdomen, face contorted into pleasure and his cock sliding in and out of your raw cunt, a white, milky ring forming around the base of him.

Michael was in heaven — knowing this video wouldn’t be your last as he watched you through the small screen, hand now clawing at his flexed arm, nails digging into the skin as he filled you.

“Michael, Michael!—fuck, Mike, please, God, fuc—“

“Hmm, that’s right, dollface, tell me all about it. Feelin’ good?”

You whined desperately, clit throbbing against his free hand that had slithered between your sweating bodies to rub tight, practiced circled onto the aching nub, “Gonna fuckin’ cum, Mikey, please, don’t sto—ah!”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it, sweet girl,” He admitted, leaning down, not caring about the camera angle, as he pressed soft kisses to your face, some landing on your parted lips, now only bothered about your pleasure, “Cum around me, baby, wanna feel it.”

The nearing peak of your orgasm crawled down your body, nestling in your abdomen, body slowly igniting in fierce heat. The sheer explicitness of the intimate moment had adrenaline and lust pumping through your veins. Your trembling hand reached across the bed, taking a hold of the camera once more, holding it out for him.

“Want it to see you fill me up wit—ah!—with your cum, Mikey, please.”

“Oh, fuck.”

Your provocative declaration had him frantic — doubling over, one hand on the bed, the other steadying the camera, fucking you twice as fast. Your cries only getting louder as he pounded the sweet spot inside you over and over again, his name being screamed so loud you were certain the whole house could hear.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—there! ‘M there!”

You orgasmed with a cry so loud it had Michael cursing under his breath at the eroticism — revelling in the way your cunt squeezed him, sucking him in further as you came around him, nails dragging down his tensed back.

Michael wasn’t far behind you, fighting every urge in him to throw the camera away and fuck his seed so far into you that you’d be swollen with him for days, but holding it firmly in his grasp, recording just how sweetly your cunt milked him for everything he had to offer, your slickness pooling beneath you. He, though, forced himself as deep into you as he could go — making sure the camera picked up on his your cunt accommodated the sheer size of him, his milky white cum now frothing around the base of his softening cock.

He slowly pulled himself out of you with a wince, “Hold still for me, babygirl.” He ordered, forcing your legs to stay open as he leant down between your thighs, groaning at the way his cum drooled out of your swollen cunt, sliding down your shaking thighs.

Feeling a sense of post-orgasm confidence, you slid two tentative fingers between your legs, dipping into your sopping cunt, collecting both your juices onto your digits. Michael could sense where this was going, softened cock twitching, threatening to harden as you slipped your slick fingers into your mouth — sucking the mix of your salty and tangy essences clean from your burning skin.

“Holy shit, baby,” Michael breathed, feeling as though he was capturing pure talent through the screen as you released your fingers with a pop, similar to how you did with his cock prior, eyeing the camera with a knowing smirk,

“Got myself my own filthy lil’ pornstar, huh?”

❤︎ “woah baby, can you at least wait until we get through the door?” jaafar chuckled as you pawed at the collar of his shirt, pressing open-mouthed kisses from his jaw to his adam’s apple, faint lipstick stains marking him up. he kept one arm around your waist to make sure you didn’t stumble. you hadn’t consumed a single drop of alcohol—you were just ditsy with your desperation.

you’d both just stepped out of his car, and he'd forced you to behave in the vehicle during the entire journey, so now, back on the doorstep of your shared home, you decided you’d display your need as shamelessly as ever.

“no, you’ve had me waiting all day,” you murmured against his jaw, before kissing him with tongue. he hummed into the kiss, still smiling, then laughed and pushed your head back gently.

“most days we don’t have sex until evening.”

you gave him a pointed look, threading your fingers through his. “most days i haven’t had to stare at your gorgeous face for eight hours straight.”

“okay, whatever, i get it,” jaafar only chuckled again, and took out his keys to unlock the front door. “i didn’t realise i was that appealing just sitting and talking.”

you wrapped your arms around his neck, leaning into his chest—so, so desperate to feel him wholly. “you’re kidding me, right?” you hummed airily into his skin. he smelled incredible, as usual.

he kissed the crown of your head as the key rattled in the lock, and then he pushed open the door.

“finally,” you sighed as you clung to him. he shut the door behind you both, locking it with the free hand not holding you, and then after you each took off your shoes, both his arms moved to wrap around your waist, and he rocked you in his hold.

“what do you wanna do, baby?” he whispered into the crown of your head, where you still rested in the crook of his neck like a cub clinging to its mother.

“i think you know,” you replied sweetly, pulling back to look up at him with those eyes he could never say no to. not that he would even want for a second to say no to you this evening.

“i think i do too,” he smirked, running his hands up and down your back before resting them at your ass over your jeans. he gave the area a squeeze, and if you weren’t so horny you would’ve made a joke about the ass he was packing down there himself.

you batted your lashes up at him playfully, waiting for him to drag you upstairs and have his way with you, like you’d been waiting for all day.

“jump,” he ordered with a teasing smile, and with a giggle you kept your arms around his neck as you jumped up into his hold, wrapping your legs around him.

you let out a soft gasp as he bounced you a little in his arms, and then he was off up the stairs immediately, bringing you with him pressed against his chest like a princess being rescued. in your case, rescued from the mundanity and sexual frustration of the day.

jaafar brought you to your shared bedroom and let go of you to lay you down in the sheets, a graceful fall from his embrace as you anticipated all that you craved.

quickly, you shimmied out of your jeans and threw off your shirt, leaving you in only a matching set of baby pink underwear. jaafar was also wasting no time getting undressed—you watched as he too threw off his shirt, and began unbuckling his belt.

there weren’t many sexier sights (or sounds too, for that matter) on this earth than jaafar unbuckling his belt after a long day. you bit your lip as you looked up at him. he then pulled his pants down and off, before tugging off his boxers too and tossing them somewhere. now his thick and fully hard cock stood up against his abdomen in front of you, the tip flushed with need.

you moaned involuntarily at the mere sight of him positioning himself over you, and immediately you reached down to stroke his length.

he shut his eyes tight at the feeling. “oh fuck baby…”

“yeah, does that feel good, handsome?” you asked, loving to feel the ridges of each vein against your smooth palm.

“perfect, shit—” he moaned as you sped up your movements, but a few moments later you pulled away and his attention was brought back to your pleasure only. you had been waiting all day after all, and he had a feeling you were ovulating. in some insane way, he could often tell which point of your cycle you were at.

“j, i need you so fucking bad,” you moaned against his lips as he kissed you, his tongue swirling against yours.

“yeah i know, princess,” he cooed, starting to tug down your pink panties without having to be told twice. “patience, alright?” he flung them somewhere by his own underwear, and then lastly he removed your bra, pressing kisses and softly biting all over your chest as he did so.

“wait a sec,” he leaned over to his nightstand and pulled out a drawer, “i'm just gonna get a condom before we get carried away with ourselves and forget.”

but you grabbed his bicep to stop him. “no. i want it raw, please j.”

he raised a brow, having definitely not expected those words when you were completely sober. “you sure?”

“yeah, i’m sure," you said quickly. this didn't need to be a whole discussion—you just needed his cock. "now please shut up and fuck me, baby—i don’t think i’ve ever been more horny in my life.”

he laughed at your words, that beautiful grin lighting up his face, and he positioned himself over you again, thumb rubbing your cheek softly. “okay, i know you need it hard right now, so that’s what we’re gonna do, yeah?” he whispered so intimately.

you nodded, beaming.

“but aren’t you ovulating, baby?” he smacked the head of his cock over your clit several times, and your hips jolted with the force of the pleasure.

“mmph,” you whined against the pillows. “yeah, i am. how did you know?”

“i have special powers,” jaafar smirked, still sliding the weight of himself up and down your soaked pussy. every single slight touch and movement set your body alight with what felt like microdoses of ecstasy, you were that horny. it was almost as if your body truly was begging for a baby.

except that was ridiculous, because neither of you had ever once considered parenthood as a serious reality in the nearby future. the fact was that right now you weren’t thinking about the reality of anything. all that was on your mind was your gorgeous man and his equally gorgeous assets.

“okay, so you’re really sure?” jaafar asked for what felt like the millionth time.

“yes, baby—just fuck me,” you sighed, but the amused look on his face at this unrestrained episode of neediness made you chuckle.

“manners,” he ordered, brows raised in a playful scold, now teasing his tip at your entrance, pushing in ever so slightly just to pull out again, and repeat.

“please fuck me, sir,” you replied with a sweet smile, expecting more teasing, but instead he pushed in—finally.

jaafar's cock was so so girthy, length at least six inches, so he guided himself in gradually, letting you adjust. no matter how horny you were, he didn’t want to risk hurting you.

although, he knew you wanted no mercy tonight, so once he’d bottomed out, that first rough thrust felt like you’d ascended to heaven. he hit your spot instantly, as always, and his low groans above you only added to the perfection of the moment.

he’d worked out a lot in preparation for the movie, so his biceps were a beautiful sight for sore eyes, and you found yourself lost in that sight as he rested one hand up on the headboard behind you, his muscles flexing. with each harsh thrust the headboard knocked against the wall, a rhythmic noise that sounded in between the moans spilling from both of you.

his thick cock hit that spongy, sensitive spot inside you with every stroke, and you gasped and whined each time.

“jaafar, baby, fuck—”

“yeah, you good, princess?” he murmured through groans. he could barely contain himself. to him, it was a slice of heaven being inside you.

your response wouldn’t leave your lips because all that you sounded out were lewd noises as his thrusts never once let up or slowed.

“hm? tell me how good it feels, baby girl. talk to me.”

jaafar then shifted positions slightly, from hovering above you to now being pressed completely against you, skin on skin. his body suffocated yours in the most beautiful way, everything feeling so incredibly intimate. your hands went to his curls the second he moved, the strands always your favourite thing to hold while he fucked you into oblivion.

he was gazing down at you, your foreheads touching, and you tried to meet his eyes, tried to respond to his question, but the pleasure was just too much. your eyes only kept fluttering shut, your incoherent mouth exposing how much of a cockslut you were for your man.

“mhm—i—oh fuck j, i can’t—”

“no, talk to me, beautiful,” he murmured in your ear, kissing every inch of your face. “‘m making you feel so good, huh? you gonna cum for me soon, sweet girl?”

through more gasps and moans, you finally managed to respond lucidly. “yeah—mmh—gonna cum—i love it when you fuck me so deep jaafar, oh m…”

each time you called him by his first name during sex, he always nearly lost his mind. it was the most perfect thing for him to hear you moan his name while all fucked out beneath him, his cock plunging in and out of your tight walls—he as the sole cause of your ecstasy-like pleasure.

“that’s it, my angel… keep telling me all about it…”

“baby, i can hardly speak,” you breathed out, giggling in his ear. he smelled so fucking good, and you could feel him everywhere with how his body was caging you in. now you reached one hand down to grip his ass—that ass the whole world was talking about—while your other hand remained tight in his curls.

he chuckled in your ear too, but never paused concentration. he bit his lip hard with the force of his relentless strokes, leaving you wondering how on earth he was managing to keep this up for so long without slowing down. his stamina was off the charts.

“i know, baby girl. but you like getting fucked dumb, huh?”

now your nails were running up and down from his ass to his shoulder blades, the pleasure building constantly.

“yes i do j—mmmh, that’s it baby, i’m close—”

“yeah me too sweet girl… i know… let me get you there.” he pulled back a little in order to reach a hand down and rub your clit, while the other kneaded one of your breasts. he twisted a nipple between his fingers and you almost screamed, having to smack a hand over your mouth because of the neighbours. jaafar only laughed, finding it all so amusing, and that famous smile never failed to give you butterflies even when you were already on cloud nine.

“i’m gonna eat your pussy after this,” he grinned, still toying with your clit expertly.

“yeah?” you half-sighed half-laughed, nails still raking up and down his back. “it’s my special day.”

“well, whatever my girl wants, she gets.”

“i’m so blessed,” you giggled.

now his thrusts were beginning to falter, but you could tell that was due to how close he was to his orgasm.

“j,” you gripped his strong bicep, “i need your cum so fucking deep, i’m serious—”

“i’ll give it to you baby,” he groaned, the pace turning erratic now that he was so close. “shit, this pussy is fucking insane… so tight, fuck—”

and then you felt it all. spurts of his hot cum filled your womb, and he thrusted through his release while you continued to react like a whore beneath him.

it was only moments later that you reached your own climax, toes curling, body seizing in the most ethereal pleasure. you couldn’t believe how jaafar managed to get you like this every time.

when you both caught your breath, jaafar collapsed on top of you, his head on your chest, cock softening inside. you loved this part so much.

he took a deep sigh against your collarbone and then spoke. “i need to fuck you raw again. right now." he began pressing light kisses all over your chest.

you chuckled, playing with his hair. you were the only one who he ever allowed to touch those pretty curls.

"but first, i'm eating you out," he added plainly. "like i said."

you blushed, smiling down at him, a rush of contentment running through your body and down to your most sensitive area. you were in the mood to be overstimulated tonight.

“i love you, baby,” you whispered, beaming. “you’re so good to me.”

“I was looking for you at the feast,” Valarr says as he enters your chambers. You can hear the frown in his voice as he shrugs off his cloak and tosses it on the chair on the opposite side of the room. “Why is it that I had to hear from my cousin that my wife left early because she was feeling unwell?”

You press your lips together, not answering him as you stare out the window—east, to the Blackwater, the Narrow Sea, and beyond. Far, far beyond. Your jaw is tight, and your throat is tight, and your chest is tight, and your eyes already sting—you have been here for two hours already, and he has only just returned. Did he only just realize you were missing?

The irritation drains from his voice as he pauses, looking in your direction and catching the tension in your shoulders. He says quietly, “You are upset with me.”

You stiffen when you hear him make his way over to you, raising your chin when you feel the cushions dip behind you. You exhale hard through your nose as his fingers ghost the nape of your neck, brushing your hair over one shoulder so that he can press his lips there. 

You bristle instantly.

“Oh my,” Valarr murmurs—he has the nerve to sound amused, you can picture the boyish grin curling at his lips, and it enrages you. The nerve. “You are very upset with me.”

“Unhand me, you lecherous cur,” you snap, shifting further away. “I shall catch the pox if your touch lingers too long.”

You hear the smile in his voice as he asks, “And what have I done to deserve such a vicious accusation, ñuha jorrāelagon?”

My love.

His High Valyrian is honeyed as ever, soft and sweet to your ears, the endearment enough to make lesser women melt, but you are not lesser women, so you only toss him a furious look, because how dare he play the fool as though he doesn’t know what he’s done? How dare he try to abate your anger with sweet nothings?

“What have you done?” you echo furiously, gaze cutting as you whirl around to face him. Loathsome man—you hate that he is beautiful, and you hate that even in the face of your rage, his eyes are soft and adoring. “You shame me, that is what you have done.”

Valarr tilts his head to the side slightly, a glimmer of calculation and confusion in his mismatched eyes as he searches your face—as though he does not know what he has done, how he has shamed you. You detest him. 

“Tell me how I have shamed you,” he says softly, shifting closer still. Loathsome, loathsome, loathsome—he lifts his hand to brush the pads of his fingers against your cheekbone, and when you try to pull away, he holds your chin lightly, keeping you in place, forcing you to look at him. “Tell me, so that I may fix it.”

You almost bite him for that—for the softness in his voice and the fondness in the eyes, the way he looks at you as though you are something precious to him when he has spent the better part of the evening making a spectacle of you before half of the court, letting that Lannister woman parade around on his arm.

“You should know already,” you hiss.

“I do not,” he says, and he sounds earnest. You despise him. Loathsome man. His thumb glides over your lower lip, free hand coming up so that he can cradle your face between them both. “If I have wronged you, I would hear it from your lips.”

You think to spurn him some more, to press your hands to his chest and shove him away, to leave your chambers and go seek out—seek out who? You have no one in this wretched keep. Your brothers are all back home, six thousand miles away, because your wretched father sold you to the Targaryens for trade. And your wretched friends—who were never truly your friends, clearly—abandoned you the moment they realized you would no longer be able to bolster their standing when you are three seas away. 

You are alone. All you have is a wretched husband—a man you were promised would be gallant and charming and respectful, only for him to spend the evening smiling at another woman while the court watched to see how his foreign bride would react. 

They hate you—they have hated you since the moment you arrived on your father’s gilded ships, smiling to your face and scorning you the second your back is turned. They pray for illness and poor health, that an accident would befall you, so that Valarr might take one of their Andal daughters to wife instead, and—

—and the cruelest part of it all is that, in this wretched court with these wretched people, the only person who has ever made you feel wanted is your wretched husband. 

Valarr leans in to press his lips against yours when you do not immediately respond, soft and gentle as he always is, trying to ease the answer out of you.

A wavering sigh escapes you before you can stop it, and you melt into him far too easily, because Valarr is loathsome and wretched. You detest him, and you despise him, but he is—he is insufferably good to you. Has been since the moment the two of you were introduced, in spite of the fact that he was as forced into this marriage as you. He is as gallant and charming as you were promised, much as you wish him to be otherwise, and he treats you as though you are not some foreign prize ferried across three seas to warm his bed and strengthen alliances, but someone he chooses and wants.

It is the worst part of it, because if he were cruel and disrespectful, you think you could hate him properly.

“You are wretched,” you whisper against his mouth, voice unsteady with the remnants of your anger. “You stand there all evening with that woman draped upon your arm, smiling at her as though she were the Sun Maiden herself, and then you come here and kiss me as though I am meant to simply forgive you.”

Valarr draws back only enough to look at you, brows knitting together slightly.

“The Lannister girl?”

You glare at him. “Yes, the Lannister girl, you witless dragon.”

To your mounting fury, understanding finally flashes across his face, and then amusement follows close behind it.

You shove at his chest immediately. “Do not laugh at me.”

Valarr catches your wrists before you can shove him too far, laughter warm and breathless as he presses a quick kiss to the inside of your palm. He pulls you closer to him, one hand sliding around your lower back to drag you into his lap, and you hate that your arms instinctively slink around his shoulders. You hate that your anger dissipates, and you hate that the fury on your face drains into a pout, that you have to chew the inside of your cheek to stop the tears from building in your eyes.

You hate everything about this. You are not so weak, but weeks of suffering through this snake pit have taken their toll on you.

The amusement fades from his expression when he sees yours, one hand lifting to caress your cheek gently. 

“I was alone,” you say, grateful that your voice doesn’t break. “I am always alone in this awful place. You are the only person I have, and you abandoned me to let that girl cling to you. If you wish to take a proper Westerosi wife, you are free to do so, but divorce me and let me return home. Do not force me to endure such humiliation.”

“Now, that is a bit drastic,” Valarr murmurs, and your lashes flutter as his fingers drag lightly along the nape of your neck, tangling in your hair to pull your head down so that he might ghost his lips against your forehead. “Why ever would I divorce you when I have only just managed to convince you to tolerate me?”

You make a soft, offended sound that he swallows with another lingering kiss to your lips. He tastes of honey and wine; you let out a breath that is far too shaky as his arms tighten around you, one hand soothing up and down your back.

“I am serious,” you mutter. “You make light of everything.”

“Only because you speak as though I have cast you aside for a girl I scarcely noticed.” His thumb rubs small circles into the small of your back. “Look at me, wife.”

You do not wish to. You fear if you do, he will see the tears that have started to gather in your eyes, and your pride has suffered enough tonight. You meant to stay angry and silent, but it is hard to do so when Valarr is—well, Valarr.

He waits anyway, because he always does, and when you still refuse to do as he says, he hooks two fingers beneath your chin, and tilts your face upward so gently that you barely bite back a whine. There’s a softness in his face, an undeniable fondness that makes your heart ache. 

“I did not abandon you,” he tells you quietly. “I left your side because Lord Lannister cornered me to speak of the new trade agreements with Qarth and his daughter decided to preen while doing so.” His thumb brushes beneath your eye to catch a tear before it can fall. “Had I known you were miserable, I would have returned immediately. I thought my cousins were taking care to ensure you were not alone.”

“You should have known,” you say, spiteful, voice sullen.

“Yes,” he agrees easily, without argument. “I should have. Forgive me.”

You falter, because you prepared yourself for his infuriating charm and smooth talk, not for an apology—especially not one so genuine.

Valarr exhales softly through his nose, gaze roaming over your face before he rests his forehead down on your shoulder, arms curling a bit tighter around your waist until your bodies are flush. You let out a shaky breath before burying your face in his soft hair, eyes sliding shut. 

“The Lannister girl is not what really upset you,” Valarr says quietly after a moment—it is a question, but it is not phrased as one, and you stiffen. You do not respond, but you do not need to. He knows the answer already. He admits reluctantly, as though the realization pains him to speak aloud, “I do not know how to make you happy here.”

“I am happy,” you say immediately, an instinctive, courtly answer, a lie that tastes like poison on your tongue.

“Do not lie to me,” he tells you, and then he lets out another heavy breath. You see his jaw tighten slightly before he speaks again. “I…” He hesitates, trying to find the words. “I thought if I loved you enough, the rest would matter less.”

You inhale at his words, watching as he pulls back to look at you again. The grief in his eyes makes your stomach turn. 

“It is not you who makes me unhappy,” you say, because guilt eats at you. Valarr is the only person trying to make you feel comfortable in this wretched place—he goes out of his way to ensure you are included, to make you feel wanted and welcome, and you—you what? You turn on him the moment he glances away? As though none of the rest matters? You feel embarrassed suddenly, mortification rolling waves in your stomach and chest, because Valarr has tried. He has tried so hard, so desperately, and here you are making a mess of everything, because of a tantrum over something beyond his control. “Valarr, I—”

“Hush,” he chides, leaning in to swallow your words with another kiss. “I understand. You do not need to explain yourself to me.”

The tears fall in earnest at that, rolling over your cheeks silently as you stare at him. You are the wretched one—wretched and miserable, you have been blessed with a marriage to a man most women would kill for, and you ruin it with your gloom. Love from Valarr should be enough to outweigh the rest, so why isn’t it?

Valarr clicks his tongue lightly, lifting his hands so his thumbs can wipe your tears as they fall. 

“None of that,” he murmurs. “I do not know what is running through that beautiful mind of yours right now, but enough of it. I know this is not an easy transition for you—you are six thousand miles away from your home and family, in a strange place with stranger people. I do not begrudge you for struggling to find your place here, nor for being upset when alone. I should not have left you.”

“I want you to be enough,” you say, and you mean it. You mean it so desperately—you need him to understand. This is not—it is not of your choosing; if you had it your way, this would be enough. “I want to be happy here.”

“I know,” he says gently, holding the weight of your head in the palm of his hand as you lean into him. “I know, ñuha jorrāelagon.”

“They all hate me,” you tell him. When his brows furrow and lips part to deny it, you continue before he can, “I can tell. Do not deny it.”

Valarr doesn’t respond for a long time, and then he says quietly, “You are beautiful, and you are my wife, and their daughters are not. You arrived on gilded ships with enough wealth to shame the majority of lords in Westeros, and then had the audacity to capture the affection of a prince they had long hoped to claim for themselves. They would have hated you even if I did not adore you so openly. They hate men for much, much less.”

“It is not fair,” you say, voice weak and childish. “I have given up so much for their favor. I dress how they expect. I speak how they expect. I act how they expect. I celebrate their holy days with them, and I go to the temples of their gods, and—”

“I know,” Valarr cuts in gently again, stroking your hair. 

“Then why? What more must I do for them to accept me?”

Valarr doesn’t reply for a long while, an unreadable expression on his face. “Do not give up anything more for them,” he says. Your face twists, but before you can rebuke his words, he continues, “I mean it. The only thing that will help is time—I do not want you to cut away parts of yourself to satisfy the likes of vultures who would strip you of everything if given the chance.”

“It is easy for you to say,” you scoff bitterly. “You do not have half of the lords in this keep praying for your ill health and accidents to befall you. It is only a matter of time before their prayers turn to action.”

Valarr goes very still and very quiet. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the crackling of the fireplace, and you realize you have made a terrible mistake.

His hand slides from your cheek to your hair, holding you close as something cold flickers briefly through his eyes—your husband is gallant and charming, and he loves you despite the circumstances. Your husband is also a Targaryen, and the blood of the dragon runs hot through his veins; madness and greatness are always one flip away from the other. It is tamer in Valarr compared to his cousins, but it is there nonetheless.

“Who?” he asks softly. The quietness of it chills you more than shouting would have.

You shake your head immediately, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He lets you, but his fingers remain stiff in your hair, body tense and coiled against yours. 

“It does not matter.”

“It does to me,” he says. “You think someone in this keep means you harm. You think they pray for your death so openly that you have come to expect attempts on your life—and you would have me ignore it?”

You shouldn’t have said anything. You know this court better now than you did when you first arrived; you know how quickly whispers become accusations, and how quickly accusations become bloodshed when dragons are involved. Valarr has always seemed gentler than the rest of his kin—arrogant, maybe, but what prince is not? He is easy laughter and soft smiles, and it lulls you into a false sense of security, because you forget he is still a prince of House Targaryen. Still fire and blood. 

“It was only a figure of speech,” you murmur, another lie.

“You do not speak carelessly, wife.”

You fall silent at that, because he is right—you do not. 

Valarr exhales hard through his nose. “Who has threatened you?”

“No one.”

“Who has frightened you, then?”

You do not answer, looking away. “I do not want to talk about this anymore.”

Valarr’s jaw tightens, frustration flashing across his face briefly. For a moment, he looks as though he wants to fight, but then he concedes, “Very well. But this will not be the last we speak on this.” 

His hands slide under your thighs, and your eyes slide shut, arms tightening around his shoulders as he rises to his feet with your body wrapped around his, carrying you over to the bed and laying you back gently on it. He slips out of his tunic and leathers before joining you beneath the covers.

You immediately curl into his side, pressing your face into the warm skin of his shoulder, sliding one leg between his to be as close to him as possible. His arms wrap tight around you, holding you impossibly closer.

“You are wrong,” he says after a moment, and your brows furrow. “Not everyone dislikes you in this keep. My family adores you, and that, I fear, is one of the greatest accomplishments a person can claim, considering most of them can barely tolerate each other.”

“That is not true,” you say immediately, lips pursed.

“It is,” Valarr insists. “My father and brother love you. They cherish the mornings you join them in the library. They like hearing your stories of Qartheen culture and the Far East. My father wishes to broach the subject of you joining them more often, but he does not want you to feel obligated to come.”

“Oh,” you say, voice wobbly again, eyes suddenly very wet.

“And the twins adore you,” he continues. “Aelora gave quite the verbal lashing to a Marcher lord who spoke poorly of our union—” Of you, he means, because no one in this keep would speak poorly of Valarr, the perfect prince. “—and Aelor threatened to have him whipped if he ever repeated such a thing again. They do not forget the day you found Uncle Rhaegel teetering on the edge of a balcony in the west tower and looked after him until they were able to come and retrieve him.”

“I did not know that,” you whisper.

“And gods know how you managed to gain the affection of Uncle Maekar’s sons—”

“Affection is a stretch,” you disagree.

“You do not know my cousins like I do, wife,” Valarr says with a wry smile. “It is affection, I must insist. I have never seen Aerion so captivated when someone speaks the way he is when you do.”

Your face feels hot. “It is only because he is interested in Qartheen magic and our warlocks. He wants to visit the House of the Undying.”

“I digress, both Aunt Shiera and Uncle Brynden are well-versed in magic, and Aerion is hardly so starry-eyed when he badgers them for information,” Valarr counters dryly, though there is something pinched in his voice that piques your curiosity. “And even you cannot deny that Daeron is enamored by you—I have caught him reciting poetry for you in his drunken ramblings. You have thoroughly charmed him, that is clear.”

This time, there is no denying the bitterness in his voice. You smile against his skin.

“Are you jealous, husband?” you ask, peeking up from his shoulder to look at the way his jaw is tight.

“In truth, I have contemplated tossing them both into the Blackwater a concerning number of times this past week,” he admits flatly.

A laugh startles out of you before you can stop it, and the flat line of his mouth softens at the sound. He leans down to press his lips to your forehead, long and lingering.

“Daeron cornered me for an hour last week to ask whether you prefer sweet wines or dry ones,” he continues after a moment, bitter. “Claimed he wished to ‘better understand Qartheen tastes’ as though I am foolish enough to not realize what he is really doing.”

Your eyes crinkle. “That explains the odd assortment of wines he brought to the gardens when I was there reading, then.”

Valarr lets out an exasperated sigh. “To think my own cousin is trying to woo my wife away from me,” he mutters, “and so shamelessly at that. To think he has the nerve to ask my advice on how to go about it.”

You find yourself giggling despite yourself. “He is sweet,” you say at last. “Harmless.”

“He is a Targaryen prince,” Valarr says dryly. “We are very rarely harmless.”

You are smiling openly now, warmth spreading through your chest as the void of loneliness is filled little by little. You had thought yourself so isolated here, so painfully unwanted, that you never considered anyone beyond Valarr might genuinely care for you.

The realization leaves your throat terribly tight.

Valarr notices at once, expression softening as he tilts your face up toward him to brush his lips against yours gently. Once. Twice. Three times. You think you could lose yourself in the taste and feel of him.

“My brother is to be married soon,” Valarr says after a moment, fingers stroking your hair absently. “To the daughter of the Tyroshi Archon—my father finalized the betrothal this morning. I hope, perhaps, the two of you will get along, since she will also be far from home. It may make court easier for you, to have someone who understands what it is to arrive here alone in a foreign land—a companion.”

You peek up at him again, blinking once. Tyrosh. He presses his lips to your forehead. You say, voice small, “The Tyroshi like dyes and hats. I am not versed in them. What if we cannot find common ground?” 

Valarr pauses, and then says, far too amused, “I think you will have enough common ground that you need not be familiar with dyes and hats.”

“Do not mock me,” you mutter.

“I am trying very hard not to.”

“You are failing.”

“Terribly,” he admits.

You make a wounded sound and attempt to bury your face back against his shoulder, but Valarr catches your chin before you can escape, smiling as he brushes his thumb along your cheek.

“Wife,” he says gently, “I promise you the Tyroshi girl will not arrive here expecting expertise in dyes and hats.”

“Perhaps I should read up on them just in case,” you say, gaze flitting away briefly. “Qarth is—it is a far cry from any of the Free Cities. Very different… very far. She might think me strange, and if I am strange, then everyone here will be strange to her. It would be good to have common ground in interests, so that she can keep some of home with her at least with me. I think it would make her more comfortable, don’t you?”

Valarr’s expression changes at once, and there is something devastating in the way he looks at you now—so warm and tender, so sickeningly fond that it makes heat creep up the back of your neck. Valarr loves you; he loves you so deeply and so openly that it is impossible for anyone to deny, not with the way he looks at you as though you are the most precious thing in the world. You gnaw at your bottom lip, unable to hold his gaze when he looks at you like this. He kisses your temple again, long and lingering, and then sighs against your skin.

“You are worried about making her comfortable,” he realizes quietly.

You blink. “Well, yes.”

You remember too vividly what it felt like to arrive here alone, standing in a hall full of people smiling at you with teeth instead of warmth. If the Tyroshi girl is lonely, if she looks around this court and feels swallowed whole by it, you do not want her to feel the way you did.

“You are extraordinary,” he murmurs. “I do not know how I got so lucky.”

Heat floods your face immediately. “I am speaking about dyes and hats, Valarr. Do not be ridiculous.”

“You are speaking about a girl you have never met and worrying over how to make her feel welcomed in a foreign court despite the fact that you yourself are still struggling here.” His mouth curves softly. “You do not even realize how lovely you are, do you?”

You scowl weakly. “You are biased.”

“Hopelessly,” he agrees, so sincerely that it makes you embarrassed. He adds after a moment, “You know what I think will happen?” 

You eye him warily. “What?”

“I think the Tyroshi girl will arrive terrified.”

Your brows knit slightly. You know this. That is exactly what you are trying to prepare for.

“I think she will spend the voyage rehearsing how she ought to speak and smile,” Valarr continues, voice soft. Yes, she will, you agree, because that is what you did, too. “I think she will step into court and immediately realize she is being examined like a prized horse at market.” His thumb strokes slowly along your cheekbone. “And then I think she will meet you.” 

Something in your chest twists painfully.

“She will see another woman who crossed the world alone,” he says. “Another woman who survived it, and learned this court well enough to navigate it gracefully despite how cruel it can be.” His lips curve faintly. “And then she will cling to you desperately for guidance while you panic over whether or not you understand hats sufficiently.”

You let out a startled laugh despite yourself. Valarr smiles at the sound instantly, gaze unbearably warm.

“There she is,” he murmurs quietly. “You look less like you wish to flee back across the seas now.”

“You make it very difficult to remain angry with you.”

“That is because I am devastatingly charming,” he says, ghosting his lips against your nose, over your eyelids, your forehead, settling on the top of your head. “Ask anyone.” 

“You are insufferable, is what you are.”

He hums in agreement. “And yet, you cling to me still. I cannot be so insufferable then, can I?”

“I told you not to mock me, husband. My homeland is fond of its poisons—you might find sweet death laced in your wine should you push too far,” you threaten, but there is a smile in your voice, hidden against his shoulder, and his chest rumbles as he huffs out a laugh.

“I will endure the risk if it means I get to have you curled in my arms like this, ñuha jorrāelagon,” he murmurs, all warmth and devotion as he tucks you closer into his chest.

You lay like that with him for a long while, basking in his warmth and the comfort of his arms, eyes sliding shut as the drowsiness finally hits you, all of the day's stress and excitement sinking in.

You murmur at last, “You smiled at her too much,” before you can stop yourself. Then you add for clarification, “The Lannister woman.”

He vows, “I shall never smile at anyone besides you again.”

“I will poison you if you do.” 

His fingers trail up and down your side, gentle and adoring, lulling you to sleep. “A just punishment, certainly. I should expect nothing less from my fearsome wife.”

You make a soft, sleepy sound at that, too exhausted to muster another threat, and Valarr smiles faintly against your hair.

Valarr’s fingers continue their slow path along your side, absent and affectionate. You think he believes you are half asleep already by the way he presses another kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment too long.

“You frightened me tonight,” Valarr admits quietly after a while.

Your lashes flutter slightly, but your eyes do not open. Your words are half slurred together as you ask sleepily, “I frightened you?”

“You spoke as though you truly believed I would cast you aside,” he murmurs. “That you were unwanted by me.”

You do not know how to reply to that, because a part of you had believed it, for a moment. You were forced upon him through politics and trade, and the rest of the court has made its opinions clear on you. You had let the insecurities get the best of you, with people around you whispering poison so sweetly it began to sound like truth.

“I choose you,” he says when you do not respond, fingers stroking your side again. “Not for your father’s ship and your family’s wealth. Not for trade with Qarth and access to the Jade Gates. You—because you do not look down on my brother for not taking to the sword the way everyone else expects him to, because my father’s eyes light up every time the two of you speak, because you ease the burden that weighs on my shoulder just by being in the same room as me. Because you are good and kind and worry about making sure another girl is comfortable here, when you still struggle yourself. Given the chance and opportunity to pick any woman in Westeros or Essos, I will always pick you—and anyone in this court who is bold enough to try to harm you will find themselves begging the gods for mercy before I am through with them.”

“You are very foolish,” you whisper weakly, barely awake.

Valarr’s lips curve. “Desperately so.”

“There are easier women,” you say quietly. “Women who your court would accept, who—”

“I do not want easier women,” he cuts in immediately. “I want you, and only you. I try very hard to be a good man—to follow in my father’s footsteps—but I would do terrible things to anyone who dared try to take you from me.”

Your chest aches. Loathsome man.

“I love you,” you say quietly, eyes heavy and voice slow, the steady beat of his heart and strokes of his fingers still doing quick work at ensuring you are half to sleep already. 

holy shit. he gripped the sink, glaring at his flushed reflection. get yourself together, perv. so she's got nice tits. really, really nice tits and thighs that could suffocate you and jesus her hips-

no! nope, no no no nonono. it is way too early for this. get real. she's seen you recite the entire opening crawl of the force awakens. she is not going to do that with you- woah! or that! get it together. get it together. get it together.

and so stiles marches back out where you and your friends are gathered, playing marco polo. you glance at him and smirk in that way the tells him you're totally cheating, only proven true when allison calls out "marco!" and you slide past her in the water without joining in the choruses of "polo!"s from all over the pool.

stiles stiffens. your goddamn smirk. 

this is going to be a loooong day.

☆

and it was. a long day that ended in his right hand wrapped around his cock and a fantasy he wouldn't repeat even if there was a gun to his head. 

but that was over, and it was three days later, anyway. the pack was meeting at the movies to see a new romcom, which the girls were excited for, and the guys were... hoping it had a good soundtrack. it's not that they didn't want to go, it's just that their time- well, stiles' time could be better spent on things like useless research and avoiding his homework. that was his mindset walking into the theater.

now, he's about three inches from having no mindset at all. you're sat next to him, too close for him to remember a single detail of the movie, and you're wearing a tank top. low cut. lace trim on the top. prettiest color he's ever seen.

and stiles can see straight down it. 

every time he glances over at you, whether it be an excuse of reaching for the popcorn or making a joke or listening to you talk, he has a view down your top right to where your tits are pressed together, rising and falling subtly with each breath. he wonders what the smooth skin of your breasts would look like covered in hickeys. he imagines the sounds you'd make if he had you pinned down, mouth enveloping your pert nipples. he-

he gets up a little too hastily when he rushes out of the theater, into the quiet hall.

"god," he mumbles, tugging his own hair. "fuck."

he has to will his blood to cooperate before he can show his face again.

☆

it's getting worse. 

stiles is chewing on the cap of the marker he has in his hand, eyes darting all over his murder board.

"wouldn't they hunt in packs? this fable here, it reads... stiles?"

stiles turns on his heel, watching you now as you sit on his bed. he's been avoiding looking at you lately, since just recently he had a close call when you hit your knee on scott's coffee table and whined a dramatic 'ahh', leaving stiles to imagine that noise, that face you made in other scenarios.

it's been harder (ha, ha, yeah, no pun intended. he's struggling.) since you asked to come over and help with some research he was doing after a meeting with deaton. you sat all pretty and focused on his bed, twirling and tucking and sometimes tugging your hair when you read out of a book he had borrowed (stolen) from the argent's.

so when he looked at you now, it was with great mental strength. especially when you started rattling off a really smart point he didn't think anyone else would notice that he had realized twenty minutes ago, giving him some time to zone out and watch as you gather your hair behind you, tying it up in a ponytail while you look up at him through your lashes. giving him a second to imagine you looking at him like that with your lips wrapped around his cock, letting him guide you by the ponytail-

stilinski! great. mental. strength.

he turns back to the murder board and nods, eyes squeezed shut as he feels the familiar heat spread all over and his jeans get tight. "yeah, that's- i know, that's a good point."

he hears you shift, the way you get noticeably quiet. "stiles, are you... is everything alright? you seem off."

he shrugs, nods, shrugs again. swallows. "yeah. just a bit tired, that's all."

he can feel your disbelief, but he'd rather feel that then disgust. you both sigh at the same time, and the evening moves on.

☆

it's pretty much every time he sees you now. he's a mess, unable to choose between relieving himself and willing his dick to cooperate. you've made a mess of stiles, and he's dying.

you're wearing leggings today, talking to scott while stiles watches from the bench. coach is barking orders at a couple of stray lacrosse boys, and stiles is lucky enough to have dodged his attention this evening.

game night is usually when he's free of the hold you have on him, too busy gnawing on his goalie gloves and tracking scott across the field. but you and allison showed up early (curse scott and his happy relationship), so his pea-sized brain has time to imagine sliding the buttery fabric down your legs, kissing exposed skin as he goes. he'd definitely pay close attention to your thighs- he thinks about those more than he'd care to admit, and he's aware of how idiotically insecure of them you are. 

because of his train of thought, he doesn't realize you've caught him staring until it's too late. you're prancing over excitedly and leaving scott to smirk at stiles all knowingly, and stiles resists the urge to flip him off.

"you gonna play, 24?" you nudge his foot teasingly with your own. he looks up at you and feels those telltale signs as he fanaticizes about tracing the line of your jaw with his finger, both of you panting softly as he coos at you while you whine pathetically. he has to blink away the thought before he can speak.

"um, i hope not. it's an important game." he leans back a bit and you tilt your head, clearly mulling over your next words. he fills the space in the meantime. "but if i do, i'll be sure to keep away from the ball."

it's music to his ears when you laugh. finally, finally he's blushing about something normal, having regular fantasies instead of these hormone fueled pornos that seem to be on repeat in his head lately. he smiles up at you and you take a small step closer to being in between his legs.

"i don't mean to bring it up so randomly..." you avoid his eyes, fiddling with your hands. "but i was just wondering if i've done something to upset you?"

he blinks. "what?"

"it's just that you've been distant and honestly, you're acting kind of like you're allergic to me. if i did something or there's something going on just tell me. it's kinda driving me crazy." you ramble, brows drawn together in discomfort. 

stiles' eyes widen and he shakes his head, standing. his heart skips a beat when you have to tilt your chin up a bit to keep his eyes. "no, of course not. i didn't know... i guess i've... it's just-" he sighs and rubs the back of his neck. how is he supposed to explain this? 'oh, hey, girl i've been super into for a pathetically long time, i've been imagining what you'd look like if i pinned you to my bed and drove us both insane from a sex marathon! that's cool, right? not objectifying at all!'

you frown, crossing your arms. "just tired?"

it's bait, he knows it is. the same excuse he used less than a week ago to keep you from figuring him out. you're a clever girl and he's stupid when he's horny, so he has to play his cards right here. if you think he's lying, things will only get worse and there's a hefty chance you'll distance yourself. but if he tells a lie a little too well, you're going to be around him constantly again. either way, he's starting to wonder if he's a masochist from the amount of pain he's going to inflict on himself.

"it's nothing, really. i didn't mean to get distant." he clenches his jaw as he gauges your reaction, which is a less-than-ideal-but-not-terrible pout. he wants to smooth the lines of your forehead with his thumb and make you laugh again, but he has to focus. "let me make it up to you?"

you turn your face away (very, very not good) and huff. "no, don't worry about it."

stiles cringes internally and bites the inside of his cheek. how can he un-dig this hole he's in? "no, no, i want to. i shouldn't have made you worry. that's my fault. i'll pick you up tomorrow, we can get food. my treat."

you turn back to face him, and the way your bottom lip just barely juts out tells him you're playing it up, but he doesn't mind. he's come to realize that you like to feel earned, and he's more than happy to earn you. he takes a breath, eyebrows raised. "what are you thinking?"

you drop the pout (much to his relief, he was just starting to imagine you using that face on him when he makes you tell him exactly what you want him to do to you) and put your hands on your (perfect, sexy) hips. "i'm thinking that if you didn't mean to get distant then it was subconscious, and it's going to be more of an effort to be around me than not."

so clever. god, you're so hot when you use critical thinking skills. 

stiles sighs and shuffles a bit. "yeah, okay, i can understand where you're getting that but it's wrong-"

"but it isn't. you've been proving it right all week and-"

"hold on, no i haven't, i've just been-"

"-you definitely lied to me in your room a few days ago-"

"-there's no way you're actually believing-"

"STILINSKI!" coach's voice booms over both of you, halting the beginning of an argument that probably would have only turned stiles on more. he whips his head around to where the entire team is gathered, and realizes he was so wrapped up in you that he tuned out everything around him, including the team rallying together to talk strategy before the game started. he blinks, distantly hearing you mumble a mortified "oh." and skitter off, leaving stiles to be completely embarrassed alone.

"would you like to join us or are you too busy harassing the young ladies in the general area?" coach's tone is strung with impatience, eyes wide.

"ah..." stiles glances to the spot you just stood in and then back to the team. "no, coach, 'm coming."

"fantastic." he drawls, before turning back to the team and continuing his rant. stiles is half-listening, half-daydreaming about 'making it up to you' in many different ways, positions, and places. for many hours.

yeah, he's dead. for sure. you're killing him.

☆

although making it up to you currently involved a lot more clothing and a lot less begging, stiles was having a really good time. sat in his room, arguing about book to movie adaptations, both of you holding your own milkshakes. with all his time spent avoiding you out of... sex-driven fear? he really forgot how much he enjoyed your company.

"you wouldn't get it," you shake your head stubbornly as he stands and sets his milkshake on his desk so he can use the dry erase board in his room. "you don't read books."

"i do-"

"yeah, i don't count the bestiary."

"that's besides the point, anyway. i don't have to read the book to know whether the movie is a good adaptation or not!" he starts writing down movies he knows are heavily based off of books while you crawl across his floor to his desk, sneaking a spoonful of vanilla ice cream and whipped cream. he's too busy to notice that the half-melted treat dribbles off of the spoon and spills above the cut of your tank top (the same one as the movie theater, actually) and onto your exposed thighs.

"fuck." you hiss under your breath. stiles turns to see what caused your quiet outburst, but his brain screeches to a halt at the sight of you.

perched on your knees, you're glaring down at the mess that's been spilled on the top of your tits and thighs, white sliding down to the line where they're pressed together. stiles doesn't even blink, just stares with a slightly open mouth at the sight of you. a small noise leaves his mouth and he can feel the tent in his sweats, but he's a bit frozen.

you look up when he makes the strangled grunt, looking caught with his milkshake in your hand, as if that's his issue right now. "uhh... whoops? i swear, it just flew into my hand! how crazy is that...."

your joke trails off as you really see his face. his eyes are dark and hungry, almost predatory as they sweep over your body, hanging on the spills that you made. his mouth shuts and his jaw clenches. his hands are curled into restrained, white-knuckled fists. and...

he's hard as a fucking rock.

it's easy to tell, with his grey sweatpants, and you feel your mouth water at the sight.

"it's fine." he mumbles, voice dry. you take a second before you realize he's talking about the milkshake. both of you are bright red. you force out a breath and he seems to come to, turning back around quickly. "uh, s-so, harry potter-"

"is that because of me?" you blurt, getting hotter in the cheeks every second.

"is... oh. um, i'm sorry, sorry, fucking shit-" he's not facing you.

"stiles."

stiles quiets, turning to face you finally. your stomach swoops and you shuffle barely closer. his adams apple bobs.

"yeah. it... it is"

that's it. a simple confession, but it feels like a chord being snapped between the two of you. your confidence grows. you made stiles like that.

"are you gonna do something about it?"

his head snaps up, eyes wide as he looks at you. "you want me to?"

"why else would i ask, stiles?" you sound almost exasperated, like he's taking to long. he swallows and drops to his knees in front of you.

stiles. is crawling towards you. on his knees.

"are you... do you really?" he's close, so close now. looking into your eyes like they'll answer for you. like they contain every 'yes' you've been too scared to whisper.

which, honestly, is probably not far from true.

"i do. i really, really, d-"

his lips are on yours before you can finish, one hand cupping the back of your neck to bring you closer. you let out a muffled noise of surprise, mouth opening on it's own accord as stiles takes the kiss deeper, tongue exploring your mouth hotly.

"you're impossible-" stiles gasps, going in for more before he can finish. "-to be around-" his teeth nip your bottom lip. "-when i can't have you."

his lips leave a wet kiss on the corner of your mouth, so passionate that he misses, and he continues that trail onto your neck until he finds the spot that makes you squirm. his hands go to your waist, pulling you closer and knocking your knees together. you feel dizzy with want, barely registering his words.

"what-" you gasp, blinking and leaning into his demanding mouth. "what is that supposed to mean?"

stiles groans against the skin of your neck, kissing lower, closer to the sticky mess you made just minutes ago. "i can't think... can't even... fuckin'... breathe when you're near, y'look so pretty. j'st wanna make you-"

he interrupts himself again, opting instead to lick the ice cream off the top of your tits like he's starving. you gasp as the feel of his tongue against your skin, pressing your thighs together to try and relieve some of the sudden pressure shooting down your stomach to your core. he's barely making sense and he still has you all foggy brained, swaying just a bit under his touch.

"you-you've thought about this? befo- oh-" you stumble, as he tugs lightly against the low cut to give himself better access to the sweetness melted onto your skin. he laughs, seeming to clear up a bit.

"yeah. you kidding me? i've basically been-" he's kissing back up your neck now, seeming to track a path to your lips. "-perpetually hard for the past three weeks."

you swallow thickly and he captures your lips. stiles tastes like vanilla ice cream and it's the most tempting sin, luring you over the edge. enticing you to do things you'd normally pretend you weren't into. he runs a hand down the side of your body, squeezing your hip lightly. "you're torture, you know that?"

"i could say the same to you."

he smiles at you, like a sap, like a saint. you feel your mind fall into his hands and your heart nestle against his ribcage. you no longer belong to yourself. you never have. and neither does he, it seems, as his eyes wander all over you.

"wanna move to the bed? i can clean up your thighs..." his tone is low, clearly suggestive in a bad-pickup-line way. you nod, giggling girlishly and stiles hauls you up to gently lay you back on his bed, tugging your tank top off on the way. his eyes linger on your chest before moving along, kissing a wet trail down your body as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts. "god, look at you. you're gorgeous."

it's not like you're wearing lingerie and sexy makeup- you went to stiles' place to lounge, so you're wearing your lounge bra and some comfy shorts. stiles looks at you, though, as if you invented beauty. he sighs contentedly as he pulls your bottoms off slowly, eyes drinking in your stomach and hips and thighs like you're the first woman to have them. once he's got them far off enough, his hands press your hips back down and his eyes meet yours.

"not to late to back out. well- obviously it's never too late, it's just... okay, this is me asking for consent. i was trying to make it sexy, but it sounded a bit rapey."

you laugh breathlessly and nod at him where he stands, towering above your almost-naked form. "stiles, please stop talking and fulfill both of our fantasies already."

stiles grins and tugs his shirt halfway off before stopping abruptly. "wait- both?"

you roll your eyes. "stiles, why would i be so... so..."

"obedient?" he offers with a cocky smirk. you flush.

"agreeable, if i didn't want this?" you nibble your lip as he pulls his shirt the rest of the way off his body, getting on his knees at the edge of the bed and spreading your legs. your body moves pliantly under his hands. the sight of it all is downright promiscuous.

"well," stiles presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. it would be sweet if not for the sinful way his eyes are preoccupied with the wet spot on your panties. "i heard girls find consent sexy. maybe i screwed that one up a bit. what do you think is sexy?" 

he asks in that absent tone that tells you he's storing away information as he kisses further up the inside of your thighs more fervently. you let out a breath that feels too shaky too early and watch as his pink tongue swipes out to lick up some ice cream spill. it makes you clench around nothing. 

"any day now." his hand is gently rubbing your thigh as he moves to lick and suck almost crudely at your other thigh.

your eyes narrow slightly. "gimme a second."

he gets closer to where you're literally soaked for him, nibbling lightly at the plush flesh of your inner thigh. you shove down a low whine of impatience to avoid your already growing embarrassment.

"your attention to foreplay is- i like it." you admit softly and he hums, licking a stripe of ice cream out of the way. taking a second to think, you continue. "i like the... the desperation. how you took me without really... um... i like it when you just do what you want, i mean."

it's difficult to form a single thought once stiles presses a kiss against your clothed clit, being sure to add plenty of pressure. almost like a reward. "what if you don't like what i want? will you tell me to stop?"

you nod, chest rising and falling heavily with every breath. you glance down at stiles, and a small sound leaves your lips when your eyes catch his hand down his sweats, slowly stroking himself. he flushes. 

"you.... can't i help?"

he lets out a small moan and his eyes flutter as he halts his movements. "i don't- i don't have a condom."

against all better judgement, you shake your head and thread your fingers through his messy hair. "it's okay. just pull out, yeah?"

his brows shoot up, and you wonder for a moment if he's about to cum in his pants. but then he nods and rises, standing in between your legs now. his fingers deftly tug off your panties, pocketing them in his sweats (for "safe keeping") and his lips part silently once you're exposed to him.

your legs begin to close, feeling suddenly too naked and too insecure for his hungry eyes, but his hands catch your knees easily, even giving you a little tap as a sign to scoot further onto the bed.

before you comply, curiosity takes over and you tug at the strings on his sweatpants. "wait, what about you?"

he tilts his head. "what about me?"

you narrow your eyes, fingers dipping under the band. "can i take these off?"

"oh!" his brows shoot up, as if he forgot about himself altogether. "oh, yeah, of course. please."

you waste no time pulling his bottoms off, his cock springing out. it's flushed and leaking, looking properly erotic in the dim lighting of his room. your eyes flutter up to meet his and you wrap your hands around him, pumping twice.

stiles moans, hips twitching into your hands on their own accord. "holy shit."

part of you just wants to finish him that way, positively fucking hooked on the look he has, pleasure pinching his pretty face all tight. he pants and pulls your hands away, eyes squeezing shut for just a moment. "y're gonna make me cum, holy shit."

"i'm sorry, you just..." you fluster, laughing a tad at the both of you. he shakes his head, though, so you fall silent and let him crawl over top of you, kissing you deeply. he unhooks your bra with a bit of struggle and you both have to cooperate to get it off of your body. you giggle, and his eyes are locked on you as your smile slowly fades.

"don't be sorry," his voice is gentle, "i've imagined that so many times it should be criminal." he kisses you again and you feel his fingers graze along your stomach. stiles pulls back far enough to see your whole face and you wonder why- then his thumb is circling your clit.

the high-pitched gasp you suck in is not as embarrassing as the louder whine that leaves your lips once he's slid a finger into you, eyes closing for a moment to soak in the bliss. it feels like heaven, for a long moment. but his fingers are slow. too slow. and even when you cant your hips, he doesn't speed up enough to have you seeing stars (like you know he can). instead, he has you writhing impatiently. "you're... stiles, please."

it's whiney and pathetic, but stiles seems to stifle a smirk when he hears it, covering it with a sympathetic pout instead. "i know, pretty girl, i know. you gonna ask nicely?"

and you knew you gave him permission to do whatever he wanted. but you didn't expect to be into it. your lips part and you almost tell him to shut up and fuck you already. but you're hot with embarrassment and something else he can totally feel when your walls clench around his torturous fingers. so instead, you opt for falling right into his hands.

"please, stiles, fuck me already." you whisper, lips brushing against his when you speak. "please."

"there we go." he presses a peck to your lips and slips his fingers out. "such a good girl."

you aren't given any time to process that and the fact that it made you throb like a personal whore- stiles is already swiping his tip through your folds, making you gasp when it catches on your clit. he's panting heavily as he lines himself up, and you're a little surprised when he finds your hand and laces his own against it. 

then, he's stretching you open and you're seeing stars, just like you knew he could make you do.

stiles is sweet, but he's not exactly gentle. hips rolling into you and his tongue pressing against your own. a hand pinning you to the bed and keeping him upright, the other tweaking your nipples or teasing your clit. he's all over you, pulling back every once in awhile to watch the way you arch your back and gasp out unintelligible pleas. his moans are about as pathetic as yours and he hisses "fuck" into your ear when you clench around him tightly. your dance goes on like this for a moment, and he's rambling horny nonsense constantly.

"stiles, 'm close-" you whimper, free hand pulling him closer by the hair. he gasps out and his hips snap roughly. 

"yeah, me too. jesus, you're so perfect. look at you." he pushes some of your hair out of the way, eyes meeting yours. "you gonna cum for me?"

you nod, eyebrows turning up as you feel the warmth crawl up your belly. your free hand tugs at his mussed up hair again and his expression matches yours. he speeds up and you gasp and whimper, pliant under his body as he fucks you into his mattress.

"stiles, fuck, stiles, i'm-"

"that's it, there you go, hooooly fuck." he holds your hips down when you finish, rutting into you with an open mouth. he's got his forehead pressed against your own, swallowing each others desperate moans as he rides you through your orgasm. stiles' moan is sudden and loud when he pulls out in a rush and finishes on your cunt, his tip pressing into your overstimulated clit and making your legs twitch.

you gasp out a breath and sink into the mattress, sighing contentedly. when your eyes flutter open on heavy lids, stiles is gazing at you. he leans down and kisses you, soft and sweet and full of a confession long coming.

"that was..."

"amazing." he finishes dazedly, hands running over your bare skin anywhere he can reach. "want me to use my mouth?"

your brows raise. "stiles, i just came."

"i know." he sighs, playing with some of your hair. "it was so fucking hot."

"you said you've been perpetually hard for three weeks?" you attempt to change the subject, but stiles only grins wider.

"yeah, so i've got plenty more fantasies to play out before i'm out of steam."

you shove him lightly, fighting a flustered smile. "just- give me a second, you dog!" 

"awooooo." stiles deadpans an imitation of a howl, nuzzling into your neck. "let me know when you're ready. i'll just be here. naked. on top of you. in the mood to make you pass out from orgasms. willing to learn every kink you have- which, hey, the praise kink was a good guess, right?"

you groan, pushing him off of you. your face is flushed red and you snatch his nearby discarded t-shirt when you sit up. "that was so out of left field."

"yeah, but was it? i mean, you-"

"i'm getting in the shower, stiles." you stand and take a few steps away from him before you turn to gauge his reaction.

his eyebrows shoot up from where he sits on the bed. it makes you bright fucking red when his eyes trail down and he watches a bead of his own cum slide down your inner thigh. he licks his lips.

"i'll come with."

☆