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

An elusive laugh echoes through the line, and you can almost hear the withdrawn smile that paints Michael's face. It’s the one that has his cheeks flushing and his fangs nipping at his bottom lip. 

“Well,” Michael starts as you heed the crinkle of him shifting in his bed, “I think about your pretty eyes, an’ how they light up when you laugh. I think about your smooth hands an’ fine fingers.”

You giggle at his descriptors, indebted to the fact that the otherwise queasy words are spoken by a man who makes everything read like poetry.  

Then, as though his mind is snatched by a passing thought that dumps him deep in memory, Michael’s breath sticks in his throat.

His next words are winded, nearly inaudible through the phone, but you catch them. 

“Sometimes, I think about how they feel when they’re on me.” It sounds as though he’s walking his own mind through the vision. 

“They feel real soft, y’know? Like… God, when they’re all up on me, it feels like bein’ touched by light.” Sometime between the words ‘God’ and ‘me’, Michael lost himself.

“I miss how they feel on me… Bad. Real bad.” The essence of a giggle in Michaels words waters the rogue thought planted in your mind.

You twirl and pull at the phone chord as it sprouts on your tongue.

“You can always pretend.” You say it as though it’s a real suggestion, with all the candour and sincerity of giving someone advice—maybe because you are.

“Can I confess something?” You question before Michael returns with a cloudy; “’Course.”

You feel the air ooze out of your hotel room. 

“When I miss you, sometimes I swear I can see you, feel you. So, I just close my eyes and…”  You and Michael are two halves of one whole, yet your nerves never seem to settle around him. It’s breath-taking. “And I just pretend my hands are yours.”

Michael hums. The noise is throaty, sizzling through the phone like a boiling pan.

“It helps.” You finish and feel a mass lift from your chest. 

“Yeah?” Michael puts it right back. His tone is innocent, somewhat excitable. It has you writhing under your sheets.

“A-an’ what do my hands do?” God, he’s speaking to you like you’re the only doctor in the world who can cure the disease that your touch spreads. 

“Well, I imagine them drawing lil’ patterns on my chest, then aaaall the way up my neck.” You stretch your words ‘till they pair with the force of their feelings. “And when I can’t take the teasing anymore, I drag ‘em down lower, and lower, ‘till they’re past my stomach and-” 

Your train of thought is flattened by the sound from the other side of the phone. 

A lulled moan.

Your shock muzzles you as you listen for another, but all you're met with is the hurried, yet discreet breathing of the man behind the landline. 

“Baby?” Your tone is damp with lust, “you okay?”

Another beat, before finally; “K-keep goin’. I’m listenin’.” The distortion of his mind is plain in his wavering words.

You're almost dizzy. 

“Mike, y’know the one bad thing about my hands?” “Nah-uh.” 

“They don’t feel as good as yours. Well, they aren’t as big or long…” The memory of his touch has your sticky thighs sealing. “Mine can’t reach the places yours do.” 

You hear the air Michael draws in through his front teeth. “S-shit, wait…”

“What’s wrong?” 

Words that sound like ecstasy trail his reserve. “You're makin’ me feel all crazy inside.”

Each syllable is interrupted by the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the ruffle of wriggling fabric.

“I know. Me too.” Your palm cards through your clavicles and wavers in the hollow between your breasts.

There's a calm that lingers for a moment, like Michael’s genuinely forgotten how to breathe. And when he remembers, it comes back to him in a sound similar to one you’ve habituated yourself with—the sound he makes when your lips first wrap around his dick and ecstasy blinds him.

Michael’s touching himself. 

“Are you…?” “C-can you continue, please.” The boy sounds ruffled, winded. “Jus’ keep talkin’ to me…”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course, Mikey.” The hand on your chest soars to the hem of your panties.

“Your fingers jus’… Shit!” Your ring and middle finger begin teasing the bud of your craving. “They know the inside of me so well… Jus’ thinking of them, right now, has me soaked.” You spread the warm wet caused by his words and ease yourself into your own touch. 

“Oh, God…” Michael’s teeth bare at the thought of his digits submerged inside you. 

“You know how to curl them jus’ right.”

“Y-yeah? I really do it right?” Michael knows the answer to his enquiry—but hearing you say it aloud, applauding him for his work, is superior to any apathy. 

“You do it so right… Never felt that way before you.” 

Your words suckle a concealed thought of Michael’s. One he almost never acts on, one involving the ache that comes with the thought of your fidelity belonging to him, and his you.

He usually sinks the side of him that fronts as covetous and possessive. But Michael is human, and he can only endure this simmering for so long. 

“Is it better than them other people you’ve had…?” 

Until then, you’d forgotten that there were ‘others’, bathing in the bliss of a world that was always just Michael. 

“Baby,” the pet-name rolls off your tongue in a whimper, “my body was made to fit you inside of it.” 

“C-can’t—ngh—say things like that…” Michael drives his words out like his entire body throbs. 

“Why not?”

“’Cus I-I need you here.” He sucks in a stuttering breath of air. “ I need you helpin’ me…” 

A current passes up your spine as you arch off the bed. You bury your head into the pillow below you, eyes slammed shut with the thickening pulse in your clit. 

“I know, I know… I’m right here, listening to every sound you’re making.” When your sentence tumbles into a sob, Michael’s entire body tenses. 

“Are… Are you touchin’ yourself, too?”

You respond with a strung out ‘mhmmmm’ that has Michael’s heart doing laps in his chest. 

“Feels… So dirty—doin’ this over the phone.” His words land hard as he savours the flavour of delicious guilt your spoon-feeding him. 

“T-that’s what makes it feel so good.” Your fingers glide to your centre, middle and ring teasing your entrance. “I can’t hold it anymore… Gonna’ fill myself, yeah?”

There's a cry and the scuffle of bedding as he begins palming himself in verve. You close your eyes and envision him ahead, rather than in another country. 

His t-shirt is damp with the warmth of his need, low-hanging V-neck parading his sweat-clad clavicles. His sizable palm handles himself through his pyjama-pants as he purges himself of the reparation of skin on skin. 

Michael has a habit of finding the ritual in everything. 

This ritual has his hand carrying unhurried motions up and down his clothed length ‘till he catches the moment your fingers dive into yourself. Then, he’ll do himself the kindness of gripping his dick, skin on skin, and mirroring the cadence of your potholed breath. 

As you plunge into your core–loathing how the aching stretch of Michael’s digits is absent–you let a low, lengthy moan out like your fingers propelled it from your throat. 

“W-what are you thinkin’ about, Michael?”

You hear him swallow his instability in one big gulp. 

“You… Grindin’ on me in tha’ way I like. A-an’ the expression you make when—shit—when I hit that spot that has you singin’.” His words stroke the gooey wall you wish his fingers would.

You’re mewling into the phone, giving Michael front-row to a sunrise of sounds he’s already heard before.

“You soun’ so pretty when your touchin’ yourself.” He says it like every single one is new. 

“I wish it was you touching me instead…” 

“I know, I-I know.” When Michael’s words break, taciturnity favours him with the sound of your slick tight around your own fingers. It’s distant, each slide a subdued shuffle and dampened sounds, but the man’s hand stills nonetheless—his orgasm leaps up his spine. 

“F-fuck!” He wails at the way his body almost sabotages its climax. “Oh, God…”

After numerous unsleeping nights spent with a hand wrapped around Michael, commanding his orgasm ‘till he begged for his end, identifying those startled yelps is almost second-nature.

“Just then, did you... Did you almost come?” 

Michael nods like you can see him, murmuring a chagrined ‘mhhm’. “Heard how wet you were a-an’ I almost…” 

“Shit, you must be so awfully worked up.” Though sympathy for the boy reposes low in your belly, it lies side-by-side with a consuming sureness that obscures any pity.

“Michael," Your fingers start swapping between your clit and entrance, arousing both with a precision only your own hand offers."Have you ever touched yourself on tour... And thought of me?”

Your question has him reflecting on the nights where he’s too sentient to sleep, but too fatigued to move. So, he ends up with a hand inside his briefs. 

The way he dampens his palm, fantasises that the sharp ‘schlick shlick’ from his hand is him moving inside your slick hole, how your name tumbles from his lips as white-hot seed blots his chest.

It's ritualistic. “Y-yeah, I do… S’ embarrassing.” 

“That’s—ngh!—Not embarrassing.” All those nights where loneliness feels endless are aided by the short relief of his name on your lips. “I think of you when I’m fucking myself, too." 

Michael’s novelty flickers in his thoughts like a lighthouse over jagged rock. 

“D’ you ever, y’know… Say my name?” He’s burrowing into your mind, figuring out if he’s unaided in his eccentricity, or if you’ll take your place beside him. 

You will always fill that vacant space.

“Every time I get close, I call your name… Like you can somehow hear me.” A shudder from your core to your spine suspends your thoughts. You’re able to realign yourself, put off your end.“D-do you do that, too?” 

“Uh-huh, yeah, yeah…” And then Michael does exactly that. He propels your name into his incessant chanting and the tremor once stagnant in your spine crawls into your core. 

He repeats your name like its blasphemy, as though he should feel tormented for how greasy it sounds in his wet, hot mouth. 

“Oh God, I need you makin’ a mess on me.” A shrill, croaky whine races past Michael’s lips before he has time to bite it back. “This i-is s’unfair. I wan’ your lips wrapped aroun’ me… God, I hate seeing' you cry, but you jus' look so nice when your eyes get all wet."

The image of your tear-filled crystalline eyes, beady and wide as you take him to the back of your throat, forces another mewl from his tight jaw. 

“Fuck, Mikey!” Your fingers curve and goad sordid, sinful little sounds that match his aberrant words. 

His strokes take on a frantic pace as his orgasm billows behind his abs. It’s begging to be freed and feel the cool air of his hotel room. 

“Need it, please, w-wan’ come so bad…”

“Yeah? Are you gon’ come with me?” You slur as your cadence tracks his. Each caress of your clit has your muscles crooning.

“Uh-huh. Oh, God… ‘Is too much, fuck, I can’t-”

“Yes you can… Hold it just a lil’ bit longer. You wan’ impress me?” Your words stir something deep inside of him, something he wasn’t quite aware was there—yet it makes the hair on his nape stand. 

“A-always wan’-” Michael swallows a pitiable moan, “wan’ impress you. So bad… S’ fuckin’ bad.” His head plunges into the pillow below him, eyes sealed as the hotel phone moistens with the perspiration of his tense palm. 

Michael’s fucking up into his hand in a pattern that’ll have his body locking-up when it’s untethered. And when his thumb catches on his pink slit, smearing the copious mass of pre-cum around the rest of his swelling length, his jaw slackens and slurred words dribble out;

“G-gotta' keep makin’ those lil’ noises for me.”

You do as you're told, lips parting as you tremble your way through a cacophony of sobs.

“Yeah, jus’ like t-that. Keep goin’.”

Your forearms set ablaze as you pump into yourself, crying out at the burn of overtaxing your fatigued muscles. You don’t care. Your bodies coiling and pulling so hard you feel your slick turn to flood on your fingers. 

Everything’s explosive and confined all at once. “I-I’m gon’ come, fuck!” “Me too… Can’t hol’ it anymore…” Michael pleads, back bowing when he hears the sound your fingers make as they depart your insides and play with your puffy bud. Yet what has your stomach staggering into your climax is Michael’s next words; 

“Say my name while your cummin’, please, baby... Please!” 

He doesn’t have to ask. 

“M-Mikey, fuck!” You’re calling out to him like he can help untangle your body in the beat-red haze of your climax. Your unfurled thighs spasm around your fingers as you recite his name like a mantra, like it’s the only thing tethering you to the bed. 

“ I can’t, I can’t, please I-I’m…” Only moments later and Michael’s corrupting your name with the hunger that comes with a blinding, white-hot orgasm that’ll have his mind numb for days. 

His abs curl as need blemishes his shirt and leaks past the palm still fisting at his dick, unrelenting ‘till the pace pains him. His eyes are blown wide, expression fucked out at the way you beckon him through the phone. 

Every noise he coerces from an already weary throat is gut-wrenching.

They’re all keen, fretful little whimpers braided between your name like a collar made up of diamonds and pearls. Each one invaluable and petite, yet dense, like his head now coated in the sounds shared from your side of the cable. 

You and Michael are left with hollow lungs as your shared climax thieves you of every breath.

Even in altered time-zones and alienated by conflicting hours, your bodies are so aligned you swear his weakening whines aren’t delivered through his phone to yours, but from his lips directly to your neck. 

For an instant, Michael’s beside you, rocking back and forth through the parting spasms of his orgasm as his breath fans your flesh and defrays your goosebumps. 

Then, Michael’s voice parallel to that of an angels; “I’m gon’ fly you out.” 

simple, straight forward, able to mask what he sincerely wants to say. you are determined to break that restraint.

your hasty as you unfasten his fly, sinking the silk 'till it rests just below his length. he's long, irritated, eager beneath his briefs.

you raise your hand and are left dumbfounded at the way your fingers shrink when they meet with his clothed dick.

a smirk teases his lips at your goggling before an expansive hand rests against the crown of your head. it’s like like he's trying to cradle you back into reality—reminding you of the job ahead.

"you gon' be okay to take it?"

each inch of his body is something that seems etched around his soul—his fingers are long, his thighs soft on the surface, yet tense under your fingers as you strip him of his boxers. you respond by taking him into your mouth. 

you want to slow your time with him. no, you need time to appreciate the man that stands above you.

in this light, though the scene appears gritty, jaafar jackson cleanses the space with his mere presence. 

his sigh as you lap at his beating length is symphonic. his head tips back like even the balminess of your tongue is too much. so, you lick again, and again, and cherish the salty beads of pre-cum that leak out of the pink slit.

"c'mon, yeah..." he urges, face finally looking to your figure below. his brows are pinched like he's fixed on your form, his lip bitten raw by pearly teeth. heat spreads through you as you watch his adams-apple dance with each lick. 

"need your mouth around me... been needing it." he's all whiney and sulky like he couldn't just push himself into your mouth with one thrust and you'd be crying in gratitude.

but you want to torment him, desperate beyond belief to watch his otherwise monotonous expression become drunk with desire. 

you give jaafar what he wants. your mouth envelopes his tip and you suck, tongue working around the tender head.

he weeps as a hand meets the wall behind your head, seeking balance as his unmoved facade wanes with your touch. 

"fuck! thas' it, jus' like that..." 

you inhale one last time before your lips move past the tip and aim for the crest that meets with his subtle snail-trail. 

jaafar's jaw hangs lose and he’s ready to howl—but as you take him, his voice exposed to the tightness of your throat, nothing escapes. he can only ogle at the way his dick disappears down what seems to be your inexhaustible throat. 

jaafar collects himself as you rise from base to tip, his trembling fingers tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

he’s not new to this—not by a mile. but with the way you meld to him as though he’s made to bury himself inside, or the way a squeak trickles up your throat and judders against his dick, he's sure he's never felt anything like it—like you. 

it's engulfing in a way that has him fighting the urge to fuck into you and finish in your mouth just to watch you swallow his seed. then, he'd get hard again at the thought of it buried inside your tummy and fuck you against the sink just to make sure any sign of him on you stays. 

" jus' do that again for me, huh? take me aaaall the way down your throat." 

and you do exactly that. you swallow him inch by irresistible inch and dig your heel into your core when he lets out a muffled groan.

his hand finds camp on your crown as he smooths your hair down, dragging any vagrant pieces from your face. 

"look up here." he speaks through laboured breath. 

when you look up, eyes wide and glossy, makeup escaping from your lower lids, he throws his head back. jaafar has every urge to devour you—and somehow, there'd not be enough time.

how cruel of the earth to put you in a public bathroom during a timed ceremony if he could not care for your body the way it warrants. 

but you have no care for time. you want him to burst in your mouth and come with a cry—and you are more than okay to rock yourself back-and-fourth on your heel as long as you come with him. 

jaafar pauses his patting, looks down to you again, and watches in awe as your body shifts to-and-fro, begging for any type of friction. 

"i’m bein' so selfish, i know...i’m sorry, i can't help it... feels too good." he began, thumb finding an orphaned tear that’d dribbled down your cheek as you take him to the back of your throat.

"wan’ help you so bad... you can touch yourself, how about tha', huh?" his abs tense as you whine against him.

"make me feel better if you did. let yourself go as i stuff your mouth full, yeah?" he doesn't have to repeat himself as your hand jostles your dress up your thighs and your fingers find that syrupy spot between your legs. 

"feel better?" you nod against his length, breathing potholed as your nose fights for air. soon, that soft and somewhat tender hand on your head is tousled in your hair, guiding you with his rocking hips.

"so grateful your lettin’ me use your mouth—shit!—can't thank you enough." his words make it to your ears and shoot straight to your core, thighs clenching around your own fingers. 

but there was something missing. his hips stutter. 

jaafar, ever the gentlemen, wants to ask you questions, needs to know how your feeling—even now, on the floor of a public bathroom.

so, he paces his thrusts, watches your lipstick smear his dick in all kinds of pretty blushed shades, before you feel him twitching in your mouth. he pulls out with an aggrieved expression and takes his own dick in his palm, using your saliva to sluggishly pump himself.

"'wan’ hear you finish as i come in your mouth."

you groan through wavering breath, throat uncomfortably empty of him."you feelin' good down there? fuckin' your own fingers gon’ make you come?"

it’s impossible to respond as what feels to be a frenzied tide works its way into your crux. jaafar moves his free hand to your chin, forcing your focus from his dick to his eyes as he continues working himself. "words. need to hear 'em."

"y-yes! feel s' good..." 

"mhm, me too." 

he drinks in the sight of you kneeling before him—how your digits disappear beneath the pool of your dress, the muddied lipstick staining your chin toning perfectly with the colour on his length, the laboured breath escaping in all kinds of beautiful pulses. 

his dick throbs in his palm as the hand just on your chin tumbles to the wall.

jaafars unable to hold himself up. 

his entire gut threatens to stretch and pull 'till white spurts of come land on your mascara-clad eyelashes. 

but he waits. his hand halts completely as he edges his orgasm, followed by a string of slurred curses. even in lust, jaafar waits for you to finish before him, like he's opening a door for you or pulling out your chair in a restaurant. 

"wan' taste you again, j!" the view from above you has you keening. jaafar's eyes are wet, expansive, looking at you like if he watches the hand working at your slick with enough verve it'll turn into his. 

"no, no... wan’-" jaafar's cut short by his own whine, “wan’ keep listenin' to how wet you are for me."

you grant his wish. two fingers play at your entrance before sinking in. your quick to discover your rapid beat, working yourself open as the 'schlick schlick' of your pussy earns him another throaty cry. 

"fuck, wan’ give her all my attention."  you swear jaafar starts salivating as each words torn to shreds by his panting.

"close! i-i'm close!" your voice is the green light that has him swerving into desire. 

you eye the once stagnant wrist now shifting between his thighs. he's leaking, drool and pre-cum a delicious mix of lube for his fingers as they work at his base, thumb sliding across the irritated tip. 

"i know, pretty girl, me too." 

your mewling as your orgasm darkens your paper view, leaving only the sight of jaafars fucked-out expression ahead.

working for that very look—the bottom lip raw between his teeth, sweat a thin layer against his dark skin, suit in shambles around his collar and crotch—was worth every gag and groan. 

"you gon’ come with me? yeah?" 

you can only counter with a doleful nod before your orgasm is splitting you in two. your neck cranes backward, chest heaving, body shuddering with each final stroke inside your own devastatingly wet entrance. 

yet the thing that buries you in your end isn’t your own fingers—it’s the filth falling from jaafar's mouth as his climax creeps through the creases of his abs. 

'lookin' so fuckin' good.' 'makin' a goddamn mess on your hand.' 'so beautiful, even in this filthy place.' 

his voice is nowhere near you, yet the intimacy of his words makes them feel like they’re spoken against the crest of your neck, heating your already slick skin. 

"open up." jaafar rumbles, noting the visible haze that coats your eyes when you don’t answer. instead, he takes your jaw in his thumb and pointer finger and squeezes 'till it pops open for him.

"your gon' take this like I know you can." not even seconds pass before your mouth is coated in warm, salty bursts of come. you lap up every last drop.

jaafar hasn't even had the chance to caress or appreciate your soft skin, yet his seed is already varnishing the throat that's now molded to the earth-shattering size of him. 

it's all so filthy and foul, yet somehow, the boy you kneel below is too pure to possibly be a sin. 

you hope the next speech is just as boring as the first.

The evening you met Michael was clear. Its dim calm blanketed Encino in the type of silence only night could infect busy neighbourhoods with. 

You’d been lost in your novel for hours on end, the book in your clammy palms consuming your attention whole, when a sound managed a miracle and drew you from your thoughts.

Leaking in through your unlatched bedroom window was the even steps of a four-legged animal. You were quick to disregard your story and made for the noise, sticking a head out into the night. Below you, lit by the flickering streetlights, was the silhouette of a boy. 

In his right hand was the leash attached to what you eventually identified as a snowy-white alpaca. 

You couldn’t believe it. Wonder finally spread through you and the ecstasy of it was glorious. 

You raced downstairs and out your front-door ‘till you stood face-to-face with the boy and his companion. 

You asked his name. He asked yours. 

And when you asked of the alpaca's, your hand rubbing at the sensitive spot between his eyes, he was bemused when the beast lowered its head and heaved its way into your chest. 

Louie collided with you and you wobbled, grin drawn eye-to-eye as you found your footing. The animal sniffed your oaky perfume and nestled his snout between your torso. 

Michael felt he had no other choice than to ask for your company—'Louie says he’s lonely', the boy joked, gently tugging on Louie's bit 'till his snout was 'nodding' in agreement.

When you laughed, Michael swore the stars did too.

And when the boy with the alpaca turned up again the next night, you were quick to be by his side.

This habit soon evolved from strictly late-night walks to being granted access to his home-phone.

Often, if Michael was too preoccupied to visit, you’d simply wait for the chime of your landline. You’d wrap the chord around your finger and fidget as the world around you collapsed.

Warming to one-another came instinctually. It was as though your gut knew you were to be each other’s bandages, the thing to mend the wounds of your shared unconventional lives. 

Conversation flowed, late nights sailed by, and when the time for sleep rolled around, putting a dampener in your babbling proved impossible. 

Months came and left in short intervals as your friendship flowered. You began to understand Michael, and he developed his own deep-seated need to understand you.  

To Michael, your entire existence became light itself. You came into his world like a new star in the night sky—bigger, better, brighter than the sun. Michael was your earth. He turned because you were his reason for a new day. 

You became something he was convinced God endowed to him. A muse wrapped in odd socks and delicate eyes. 

His muse. 

You were in the studio when he needed inspiration. You were thigh-to-thigh with him when a movie resonated around Hayvenhurst's living-room late at night. You were by his side when his father found fault in his talents and were there to hold him if tears lurked in his doe-like brown eyes. 

Your trust was carved into marble and cradled in silk only months after your first meeting. 

With two existences that now move as one, you’re both encased by an unbroken ease of your own making. It’s a foundations built on questions, on answers, and was only finalised when you knew most things about Michael, and he you.

So, the discovery of his aptitude for art had been uncovered long ago—Michael has a fist-full of talent in nearly every hobby he toys with.

But what is new, unseen until now, are his recent drawings. 

They were once stagnant in his A3 sketchbook. Today, they bare themselves to you. 

Some are rendered; some just jottings of things you fight to find reason in. Though what grasps your attention is the lone illustration on the next page. 

Eyes. Wide and glistening, filled with a life you would only ever distinguish in Michael’s—or your own. 

“What d’you think?” His voice is a petal against a pond. 

You can feel Michael eyeing you, trying to get a gauge of the thoughts running laps in that beautiful mind of yours. Your mute as your fingers delicately flip to the next page.  

This one is a collage—outlines of collarbone, the back of a head of hair, a figure beside an assortment of animals homed in Hayvenhurst. 

It’s one vast visual sonnet. And it is all you. 

Your hair. Your collar. Your figure and feet and hands and limbs. 

“Mike, this is…” You swallow your glee and feel it ripen into something sin-like when it reaches your belly. “These are amazing.” 

“You really think so?”

You nod, turning to the next page only to find it bare. 

“Your so talented, I almost think it’s unfair.” You flash him a smirk before he’s huffing out a timid grin, watching the floor when embarrassment turns his cheeks scarlet. 

“That's only' cus’ you’re the subject.” There it is—those conflicting words that battle his body-language. He’s curled in on himself; knees tucked into his chest like he’s shielding his heart. Yet he succeeds in making yours stutter.

You give him a light nudge that has his limbs unfolding onto the floor before he’s returning that same shove. You tumble theatrically, meeting his delighted expression with a scandalized one. 

“Oh, that’s it..” You tuck the sketchbook safely beneath his bed. 

“Girl, you started it!” The words are torn apart by his giggles. 

You lunge at Michael who’s already prepared for the fingers that jab at his ribs.

This breed of touch is habitual between you both. It’s easy to get lost in, normal to forget whose limbs belong to who as they twist and tangle. It’s almost like the parts of you he’d first touched had already been fashioned to his flesh. 

Finally, the battle to uncover the ticklish spot that has him squirming to escape is triumphant.

You get Michael on his back as your knees flank his thin waist. The boy wriggles and writhes, but when his hips meet flush with yours, his entire body stiffens.

You feel something unfamiliar, something alien, perked between his thighs. An inaudible gasp is plucked from your lungs. 

Your face doesn’t drop—glee is still sketched into every wrinkle—but now, with something solid lodged between his jeans and your skirt, every muscle coils beneath your skin. 

The silence is paralysing. 

Michael looks up at you with vast unblinking eyes, his chest rising and falling no longer in the cadence of laughter, but in something you’d both only ever seen fragments of in movies. 

Lust. 

The feel of lust is unfamiliar, consuming, and the throbbing it's buried between your thighs is almost unbearable. 

It sneaks between the fissures of your bodies and has the boy beneath you falling into an unrelenting thirst. It’s like he hasn’t drunk in weeks—like you’re the first and last body of water he’ll ever see.

It drapes around you and pulls tighter than Michael’s boa-constrictor around a neck—and somehow, feels more threatening. 

As you search your reflection in the boys auburn eyes, you wonder whether he feels that pull too.

You test your theory and shift ever so slightly. Not enough to stir up the dust on the carpet, just enough to have Michael shuddering beneath you. 

The view leaves your vision hazed around the edges.

You do it again, just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke. 

Michael mewls. 

Immediately, his scarlet cheeks find shelter beneath his hands. Even though his shame is practically palpable between the cracks in his fingers, his once level legs rise from the floor and bow at the knee. 

He’s urging your hips forward. 

Your eyes slam shut at the sensation of the new angle, stomach dipping when he rolls once and, somehow, seamlessly inserts himself between you.

“Michael…”

Heaven cannot compare to the way his name descends from your tongue. It’s a hymn, something to be reminisced—something to be kept hallowed.

Finally, the boy’s hands expire from his face. 

Embarrassment around you feels… wrong. Like shoving a puzzle piece into an unfitting form and expecting the picture to be whole. 

His digits venture across his collar bones, his stomach, ‘till they reach the place where your thighs are bound around his waist.

You tear your eyes from the sight of enormous hands swallowing your skin and soak in the person below you in his entirety. 

The dark curls caught in the sheen layer of sweat coating his forehead, the unblinking dark masses that are his swollen iris’s—the need to alleviate that incessant stabbing in your stomach becomes fatal.

You move against him in one concentrated, brutal thrust. 

Michael tosses his head back and bites into his bottom lip, a whine pelting past his throat. 

“What’s happening...?” You’ve barely moved yet your lungs already fight for air. 

“Ion’ know…" A buffer, like he's noticed the cliff your both about to fall from, then; "Do it ‘gain, please.” He jumps.

You circle yourself on him this time, testing the delicious current that burrows between your ribs. 

Your name falls from his lips like he’s calling out to a deity rather than a woman. But when Michael’s eyes blink open, that line becomes one big blur. 

With you on top of him, hair framing your jaw and lengthy lashes fluttering each time his dick quivers against you, you're becoming the only thing he believes in.

The thing growing under Michael’s slacks is so stifled, so tender, so full that he finds it impossible to halt his body's instinct to hump up and into yours. 

The movement has you sinking forward as hands grasp at his flannel for balance.

“Feel s’ warm inside...” Michael gasps.  

The first few times you meet his bulge it almost burns, pumping molten lava into the fabric of your panties. His dick swells beneath you and offers only a sample of what it’d feel like buried inside, polluting that space with a venomous hunger.

“T-think I need more, please...” Michael’s pleads to you through the slits in his eyes as your messy pace gradually builds on the already pulsating glides of his hips. 

With each unrestrained jut, the longing which settles into Michael’s glossy skin shoves his usual bashfulness aside. It makes space for the petty need that only ever rises when he’s alone and thrusting into his pillow.

But your body is mountains away from his poor, overworked pillow.  

He can feel your puffy clit through his jeans. Has the privilege of watching your features bend to the will of satisfaction. Listens to your mewling when each ridge of his dick entertains that honeyed spot concealed by a solitary piece of fabric. 

This outshines any sexually fuelled scenario his lurid mind can conjure. 

“D'you feel that heat too? It feel good?” Michael’s winded as each hasty grind breeds broken mewls.

“Yeah, r-real good.” You yelp when he revises the angle of his hips and punches up into you.

In this moment, Michael’s convinced that anything you feel, he feels two times over. The sentiment is silly—he’s not even sure he believes it—but when his eyes train to the stain tinting his slacks, how can he not?

“Is that…” His words wane before he can finish.

The direction of his eyes leads you to where you're divided by only a few layers of fabric.

Your pussy’s weeping against his jeans. 

“That’s me, Mikey.” You hum at the way his eyes cement themselves to the stain every time it bares itself from beneath your skirt. 

“Didn’t know g-girls could get so wet. Lookit’, jus’ there. Your leakin’ all ova’me—God!” Michael’s fingers dig into the plush of your thighs as his eyes drown beneath a watery gaze. You can’t tell whether he wants to pray or devour you whole. 

You’d let him do both.

After two more merciless strokes, Michael’s palms find the confidence to uncover the flesh of your ass obscured beneath your skirt. He raises the fabric with one bulky hand and kneads your supple cheek with the other, until;

His hands still. Something’s wrong.

You watch his gaze grow bothered as the root of his troubles dawns on you—the fabric of your skirt is disrupting his view between your legs. 

He gathers the front of the material, mumbles, “Hol’ this.”, before passing it to you. “Lean back, please. Use my knee.”

You follow his instructions blindly, fabric in hand as you swing an arm behind you and feel for his leg.

“Yeah, yeah, jus’ like that...” If Michael is anything, it’s a perfectionist. This is a man who knows what he wants and one that’ll do whatever to get it.

 Right now, he wants the uninterrupted image of the expanse of your stomach and front-row seats to the arch in your spine when you seize his thigh for stability.

“Feel–agh! Feel s’ good.” You throw your head back as you work yourself on him, dick twitching when he eyes the tears of sweat dribbling down your clavicles. 

“Don’t stop, please. K-keep movin’ on me like that.” He needs this moment to be infinite. 

Your knee slips and loses its friction to the floor for just a second. The mistake has your swollen clit colliding with the cool silver of his zipper. 

Another moan rips from your pretty pink lips.

“Oh God...!” Michael curses through bared teeth, “Sound so pretty… s’ pretty.” He’s all inexplicit obscenities braided into praises and pleads that sound like poetry.

“Wan’ try this…” Another slur of words you don’t quite catch, but feel when the hand on your ass begins its course over your sea of ribs to the swell of your breasts.

His palm wanders in efforts at finding your nipple above your clothes, but your fervour gets the better of you. 

You snatch his hand into your own–able to hold only a few of his fingers due to their sheer size–and steer it to the hem of your top. You introduce the skin of your unadorned chest to his balmy palm. 

“T-thank you.” Michael keeps you rocking on his bulge with one hand as the other examines the unmapped land.

It takes only a second for his thumb to discover the swell at the centre of your boob. His finger is tender against the bud, circling only once before studying your body's response. 

His touch runs through you like an electric pulse, chest to core, igniting every nerve on the way. 

“Do that again.” You whine through the stutter of your hips. 

“Tha’ was good? Really? I did it right?” Michael purrs when you eagerly nod. 

You shiver as the pad of his thumb teases your nipple again, circles it, tugs. Each swipe shapes another pulse that’s followed by an overpowering ache amid your thighs. 

Your end is threatening you like a waterfall to river rapids. And by the blissed-out expression staining the boy below, you realise his too is an impending danger. 

Suddenly, your world flies forward. 

Michaels managed to heave you toward him by the hand hidden in your shirt. 

For a few instants, you swear he’s about to kiss you. 

His eyes are unmoving from your parted lips, like he’s been waiting all this time to taste them, so close that when your foreheads touch you can smell the mint gum he’d rid of earlier haunting his frenzied breath. 

Yet your lips remain untouched. 

They merely linger inches away from each other, wavering with the rhythm of your bodies.

This is just how you two are. The act of sharing breath, uncaring of where yours starts and his ends, carries a weight beyond that of lips locking.

“C-can’t hol’ it much longer if you keep–ngh–goin’, right there…” He exhales his words into your mouth.

“You’re goin’ to ruin your pants, Michael.” 

The boy can almost—almost—feel a giggle rise in his chest. Only you’d be darling enough to have concern for something so inane. 

“You already dirtied ‘em.” He returns, a flicker of a smile carving his lips as though cognizance fights for a space at the fore-front of his mind. 

But when you grind on him just right and leave yourself to your pleasure, his tongue goes slack in his mouth. 

“You’re the best fren’ for lettin’ me do this...” It’s that familiar silken tone he wears when he speaks to you like you're something he can break. “This is wha’ we should do, right? Help each other—God!—out.”  

“Mhhm…Best, best frie-” You don’t know when it rose—or how long it’d been there—but you feel complete for a few moments, as though your bodies soaking in the sunrise of your relief. No muscle is spared as your body fizzles into the forefront of your orgasm. 

“Y-you cummin’?” When your reply is a hefty head plummeting to the crook of his neck, shadowed by the quake in your clenched thighs, he figures your answer. 

Your climax hits you like a freight-train. It robs you of your vision and stifles everything but the rise and fall of two synchronised sets of lungs. 

“Your cummin’ on me, shit…”

 Tears shadow your waterline when his bulge presses against your gushing clit, bodies so near that your certain Michael’s ribs are woven into yours. Yet the persistent pad of his thumb at your nipple has your spine curling and stuffing any stray gaps.  

You strangle your sobs against Michael’s collar as your hips convulse with the swell of your release. While it wanes, leaving you only with ruined panties and locked-up limbs, you note the weightlessness in the hollow of your abdomen—the source of your orgasm. 

“Wan’ keep goin'. Can I, please..?” 

You try to find the strength to not only say yes to Michael’s plea, but to beg him to use your body ‘till the only thing you feel is him planting his seed between your legs.

Yet you're a drooling, sensitive mess against him. You settle on a nod. 

The boy below revives your pace with his hands entombed into the plush of your thighs, your wilted body the only aid for his throbbing dick. “Thank you, pretty. Oh god, I-I’m s’ close!” 

You ache—God, do you ache—but the filth fleeing Michael’s mouth only feeds the muscles that are jelly beneath your flesh. You fill your lungs with air and rise from his chest with a determined huff. 

The unpolluted need to watch him fall apart blinds your frailty. 

“Wan’ you to come in your jeans, Mikey.” Your sentence is one big slur as each syllable clings on to the next. “I wan’ taste it. Are you gonna be a good friend and let me have a taste?” 

“’Is all for you. O-only eva’ been for you.” Michael nods through a disgruntled whimper.

“So kind n’ pretty… Smell s’ good, too. A-an’ you feel s’  soft ontop o’ me—s-shit, I’m-” The boy's mindless worshipping is devoured by the sharp teeth of his orgasm. 

A gut-wrenching wail leaks from Michael’s wet, flushed lips as brown eyes wane to the back of his head. You watch every moment with broad and enquiring eyes, utterly engrossed in his ecstasy-charged expression—the slack jaw, his brows pinched on his forehead, the doleful, whiny little noises that flee in short bursts. 

Even the way his fingers brace against your skin is sure to leave pretty prints on your soft flesh. Five dainty souvenirs of your devoutness to one-another. 

Michael’s tempo wanes as he uses your overstimulated clit to wring himself dry in his slacks, dick pulsing with each throb, wracking his body ‘till his convulsing settles into tremors. His seed soaks into the head of his boxers, climax staining his eyes and ears with the echo of its might.

After a few attempts at forcing breath back into your lungs, you both wade in the soothed silence of post-orgasm waters.

 Things are still. Things are safe. 

Michael’s beneath you and he’s collecting the pieces of himself he lost between your slick, when; 

His hands rising, reaching for the dishevelled hair atop your head. He loops an orphaned strand around his finger.

Michael's playing with your hair. 

This is something he’d do when he was jaded during a movie and had you near, or on the phone to a producer with you by his side. 

It’s a habit he’s built around the idea that your constant presence nearby is normal. 

Was this where your shared path of oddity led you? To the point of naming a once indescribable sensation as lust?

Michael’s fiddling halts when he catches your movements in a sharpened gaze. He’s too fucked-out to question why your hands meandering lower, lower, ‘till it reaches the indent of dark skin that melts into his briefs. 

Your supple fingers sink beneath the thin layer against his crotch, uncovering the tacky, balmy liquid that can only be one thing—your best-friends come. 

Your nails caress his inflamed tip for only a moment, yet the faint connection has Michael sucking in air through his front teeth. His fingers intuitively fly to your wrist and are able to trap it with a single hand.

“You promised I could have a taste.” Your words sound like satin. 

Michael nods dumbly, his brain melting in his skull.

Your fingers circle the leftovers of the slick mess he made before carrying it to your mouth, parting when you lap at the evidence of Michael’s orgasm. 

“How do I taste?” His voice comes out as a whisper before he licks his lips, biting into the bottom one so hard you’re certain he’s broken skin. 

You hum whilst cleaning your finger on your tongue, swallowing his seed. It’s salty, pungent, somewhat saccharine as it oozes down your throat. 

“As sweet as you sound.”

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