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?”