۫ ܸ ❤︎ ׅ ۫ jaafar putting you in a head lock ໒ྀི⠀ ⁺
cw. mdni . he's hitting it from the back . size kink & maybe ooc jaafar & he's just stern n uses his strength . nicknames ( babe & ma ) . ℘ O.417k
𝓻𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬⠀ ⠀𝐚𝐫𝐞⠀ ⠀𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝⠀!
jaafar's fingers dig into the plush of your hips, angling them upward to meet his thrust. while your spine curves, face pressed against the now soaked pillow from you drool. eyes rolling back when jaafar's cock sinks the length of his cock back into your heat, nudging that too hard to reach spot just right.
"i know, babe," he coos in a hushed tone, a hand pawing at your hip when you let out a gurgled hgn, "doing s'well takin' it."
leaning down he places a peck on your shoulder, slowing his pace to roll his hips, his cock snug within your cunt. nudging his nose against your nape, adorning another kiss on your damp skin.
when you turn your head away from him, eyes screwed shut as you try to push yourself further into the pillow ⎯ further away from from jaafar and the weight of his toned body pressed against yours and the stretch of his cock.
"c'mon ma, wanna see you," he rasped, forehead falling against your shoulder. the sounds of your whines has him pulling up off of you, his feathery touch tracing down your back until they land on the plumpness of your ass.
it's still, just for moment. the room is no longer filled with the sound of skin slapping and squelching, now replaced with the heavy breathing between you two.
the sudden movement of one of jaafar's hand soothes up and down your back, his pinky accidentally brushing against the side of your breast each time. it takes you by surprise when the same hand grips at the crook of your neck before swiftly enclosing your head between his forearm and bicep, pussy flutter around his length from the unexpectedness of the action.
his hold on you isn't rough, but it's stern, causing your head to lull back. a whimper slips out when jaafar places his weight back on you, his head dipping back down to meet yours so that there's no other choice than for your glossy eyes to meet his.
"please⎯" you choked out, lifting your hips up, hands clawing at the messy bedsheets at your attempt to escape your boyfriend's hold, "it's t'much."
"i know, ma," voice laced with fake sympathy, "but you can't be askin' for me and then running from me at the same time." leaning down to capture your lips in a sloppy kiss.
pulling away from kiss, a few strings of saliva breaking, "but that's okay, this'll keep you from runnin'," he purs.
Hey, guys. I’m so sorry to come on here and ask for this kind of help—but things are really gett… Aliyah Kemp needs your support for Help Me
hey, babies. i’m so sorry to come on here and ask for this kind of help—but things are really getting serious for me, and i’m scared what’s going to happen in the next couple of weeks. as y’all know i was recently fired from my job about two weeks ago due to discrimination, and have been scrambling to find another job with no luck. i still have to pay my other half of rent before the end of this month, my light bill, + there’s still upcoming rent for August. i just moved into my apartment in April and never expected this to happen, and i’m so scared to already lose a place i fought tooth and nail to get in the first place. i just need a little extra help until i find another job (which i’m working my ass off to get as soon as possible.) anything is appreciated. PLEASE REPOST ! BOOST !
In the wake of months of distance and the slow, fragile work of rebuilding, Nala and Jaafar find themselves suspended in a rare pocket of softness, where desire, laughter, and devotion blur into something deeply intimate. Set against the warmth of a private morning and the quiet chaos of a day they are meant to spend elsewhere, this part of the story lingers in the tenderness of being chosen again, showing what it looks like when two people begin to rediscover each other not as they were, but as they are now.
warnings : grown folk shit... i'm not playing
Nala sighed as she looked at her husband, her lashes lowering and lifting again in a slow, almost absent flutter that belonged less to performance than to indulgence, to the quiet pleasure of being able to sit and admire him openly. A smile, soft as silk and just as private, curved at her mouth as her gaze moved over him with the unhurried reverence of a woman who had loved him in youth, in hurt, in distance, and now in this newer, stranger tenderness they had begun to build between them. There was something almost decadent in the act of watching him, in allowing herself to linger there without rush or guilt, in drinking him in as though he were one of Bacchus’ sweeter offerings, something rich and intoxicating set before her not to be earned, but savoured.
The stubble he had sworn, with all the confidence of a man who knew full well he was lying, that he would shave had become one of Nala’s guiltiest pleasures. She adored it with the secret greed of a woman who liked her tenderness touched by a little roughness, who liked the way that stubborn shadow along his jaw transformed each kiss into something just shy of punishing. She loved it at her throat most, when he bent down in the velvet hush of night and that scrape of him kissed across the delicate skin there, leaving her breath caught somewhere between protest and surrender, but she loved it even more in the earliest hours of the morning, when dawn had not yet fully broken and the world was still drowsy enough to keep their secrets. Then, with the sheets in disarray and sleep still clinging to her skin, she would feel it travel lower, that delicious graze along the inside of her thighs, rough enough to wake every nerve in her body, soft enough to make her ache for more, and the sensation of it lingered long after, like the ghost of a laurel crown pressed into warm flesh, a private mark of devotion she wore beneath her clothes and carried through the day.
It had been two months since that fateful night, two months since they had finally cracked themselves open and let the truth bleed out between them, and though the air around their marriage had changed, though it had grown warmer, fuller, more honest, they both understood there would be no true return to what they had been before. That version of them belonged to another age now, to a younger world, one all golden carelessness and easy hunger, before ambition sharpened itself into armour and silence became its own cruel deity seated at their table. They could not go back to that love any more than Orpheus could have walked backward into spring and undone the dark. What they had lost had been lost. What had broken had broken. The old thing, lovely as it was, had already descended.
So they did not try to resurrect it.
Instead, they made something new.
Something with more body to it, more depth, more sweetness for having known bitterness first. Their love no longer felt like untouched ambrosia, bright and effortless and poured freely from the hands of careless gods. No, it was fuller now, denser, like nectar warmed by sun and darkened by time, like pomegranate split open in Persephone’s palm, lush and staining and impossible to consume without consequence. It had returned from its own underworld altered, carrying shadows in its hem, and yet perhaps because of that, it tasted all the more precious. They were no longer two lovers drifting through the golden hours of youth, assuming devotion would bloom forever on instinct alone. They were husband and wife now in the truest, least decorative sense of it, two souls who had looked directly at the ruins they might have made of one another and chosen, with trembling hands and open eyes, to build anyway.
If life had handed them lemons, it had done so with a cruel hand, but they had long since stopped trying to make something sweet by pretending the bitterness was not there. Instead, they had learned to work with the sharpness of it, to press it, temper it, soften it with patience and touch and truth until what remained was not innocence, but something far rarer, something drinkable and golden and made by both of them. And maybe that was the real shape of enduring love, not the untouched bloom of spring, but the rose after rain, petals heavier for what they had carried, fragrance deeper for what they had survived, still opening, still reaching, still turning its face toward the light.
“Jaafar, stop playin’ and let me see,” Nala whined, her voice husky with sleep and threaded through with that soft, spoiled impatience that always seemed to go straight to his bloodstream, as the sheet slipped lower and gathered at the curve of her waist. It left her bared to him in the tender gold of morning, all warm skin and languid limbs, her body stretched against the bed with the careless elegance of something adored often enough to forget it could ever be hidden.
She blinked at him hazily, lashes heavy, lips parted, her hair mussed around her face and shoulders in a dark, silken halo, and the sight of her like that, rumpled and drowsy and exposed beneath his gaze, made something low and possessive move through him. She looked less like a woman asking to see the sketch and more like temptation itself laid out across his sheets, soft and sweet and entirely too aware of what she was doing to him even when she pretended otherwise.
“Baby, you said you’d be patient,” Jaafar reminded her, though his own voice had gone rougher than he intended, the pencil still moving across the page in slow, measured strokes as he tried, with what little discipline remained to him, to keep his attention on the sketch instead of the woman he was sketching. His eyes traced the lines of her body as carefully as his hand did, lingering over the gentle dip of her waist, the slow rise of her chest, the smooth length of her bare thigh disappearing beneath the rumpled linen.
Nala gave a soft little sound of complaint, shifting against the bed, and the movement was enough to make the sheet slide just slightly farther, enough to draw his attention helplessly to the places he had spent the better part of the night worshipping.
“’M exposed,” she whined, the words dragged out with all the dramatic grievance of a woman who knew full well she was beautiful and still wanted the pleasure of being reassured anyway.
Jaafar finally looked up.
Really looked.
“Ain’t nothin’ I haven’t seen before,” he murmured, but the words came out lower than teasing ought to have, weighted by the slow sweep of his gaze as it travelled over her body with open familiarity and something far less innocent than that. His eyes moved over the marks he had left scattered across her chest, small dark blooms marring smooth skin, and the sight of them pulled the faintest smile from him, one edged with satisfaction so quiet and arrogant it made heat rise immediately into Nala’s face.
His finest work, truly.
Nala narrowed her eyes at him, though the effect was ruined entirely by the flush climbing down her throat. “You real smug.”
He leaned back slightly in the chair, sketchbook resting against his thigh, and let his gaze drift over her again, unhurried, from the slope of one shoulder to the hollow of her waist, to the part of her still hidden by the sheet and somehow made all the more inviting by the fact that it was hidden at all. “Should I not be?”
The question settled between them like a hand at the small of her back.
Nala swallowed.
Her body had gone warm in that lazy, delicious way it always did when his voice dropped like that, when his eyes touched her before his hands did, when the space between them thickened with the sort of tension only married people seemed capable of creating from almost nothing at all. He did not have to move toward her to make her feel surrounded by him. He only had to look.
“Jaafar,” she said again, but softer this time, the whine in it melting into something else, something closer to plea than complaint.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His pencil stilled, resting lightly against the page, and for one suspended moment he said nothing at all, only watched her with that dark, intent steadiness that always made Nala feel as though he were peeling away every clever thing she might have said until there was nothing left but skin and honesty and want.
“You not really worried ‘bout the sketch no more,” he said quietly.
Her lips parted.
She should have denied it. She should have rolled her eyes, told him not to flatter himself, kept the game light and easy and teasing. Instead, she shifted again against the sheets, one knee bending slightly, and Jaafar’s gaze dropped for half a second before dragging back up to her face with visible effort.
That made her breath catch.
“See?” he murmured.
A smile teased at the corner of her mouth then, slower now, heavier, touched by the kind of sensual confidence that only ever really belonged to him. “Maybe I’m worried ‘bout both.”
He let out a low laugh, and the sound of it curled through her body like smoke.
“Greedy,” he said.
“You love it.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then set the sketchbook aside on the bedside table with a care that was almost reverent, almost as if he were admitting defeat to something sweeter than pride.
“I do,” he said.
The words were simple, but the way he said them, with his eyes still on her and his body already leaning forward, made them feel far fuller than they should have, as though he were speaking not only of her impatience or her mouth or the way she liked to be admired, but of all of her, every difficult, beautiful, yearning piece of her that he had learned by heart.
Nala’s pulse fluttered.
He rose from the chair slowly, his gaze never leaving her, and crossed the small distance to the bed with the easy, prowling grace that always made her feel suddenly too warm in her own skin. By the time he reached the mattress, she was no longer pouting in earnest. She was watching him the way flowers watched the sun, parted and turned toward him without meaning to be.
Jaafar braced one hand beside her hip and looked down at her, close enough now for her to feel the heat of him, to catch the clean scent of soap still clinging to his skin, to see the faint shadow of stubble darkening his jaw, the same stubble she secretly adored, the same roughness that left her weak when it grazed her throat and the tender insides of her thighs in the dying dark before dawn.
“You still wanna see it?” he asked, voice barely above a murmur.
Nala looked up at him through heavy lashes, her own smile turning softer, slower, touched by mischief but soaked through with want. “Maybe later.”
That pulled a smile from him, low and knowing and entirely too handsome for a man already so aware of the effect he had.
“Thought so.”
His knuckles brushed lightly along her calf beneath the sheet, then up, deliberate enough to make her inhale, and the morning quiet seemed to deepen around them, turning every touch into a confession.
And somewhere on the bedside table, the unfinished sketch lay forgotten for the moment, while the woman it had failed to capture in full looked up at her husband and let herself be seen instead.
“Y’ wanna shower with me?” he asked with a low hum, the words warm with mischief, and Nala’s brow lifted at once as she looked up at him, suspicion already giving way to amusement.
“You know we do everything but shower,” she said, her tone dry, though the smile threatening at her mouth ruined whatever seriousness she was trying to hold onto.
Jaafar’s lips curved slowly, that familiar, devastating look settling over his face as he stepped closer, close enough for her to catch the clean scent of his soap and the lingering warmth of his skin. “You ain’t never complained before,” he murmured, voice soft and wicked all at once. “Though, to be fair, your mouth usually be occupied with other things when I ask.”
Nala let out a startled little giggle, quick and bright and helpless, her hand flying to his chest as if that might steady her when really it only made him smile wider. “Jaafar,” she laughed, half scandalised and half far too pleased with him, “we are supposed to be going to Wimbledon.”
“We are,” he agreed easily, not sounding concerned in the slightest.
She narrowed her eyes, though laughter was still bubbling at the edges of her mouth. “And we are already running late.”
He dipped his head, his nose brushing hers so lightly it stole some of the protest right out of her. “Then I guess we better make this quick.”
That only made her laugh harder, soft and breathy now, her head tipping back just enough for him to look at her properly, all glowing eyes and parted lips and that sweetness he could never seem to leave alone. “You are such a liar,” she whispered.
Jaafar smiled as though being known that well by her was one of his favourite things in the world. “Maybe,” he said, one hand settling at her waist, warm and steady, “but you still ain’t said no.”
Nala bit back another smile and failed miserably, her fingers curling lightly into the front of his shirt as she looked up at him through her lashes. “Because I know you,” she murmured. “Soon as we get in there, you gon’ start kissing on me and then we really won’t leave this house.”
His eyes dropped to her mouth for one dangerous second before lifting again. “And that sounds bad to you?”
She gave him a look, though there was no heat in it, only fondness, only that quiet, luxuriant kind of wanting that had grown between them these last months, sweeter now because it no longer had to hide beneath silence. “It sounds like I’m not explaining to anybody why we missed Wimbledon because my husband suddenly discovered he likes water.”
Jaafar laughed then, low and rich, and the sound wrapped around her like a hand at the small of her back. “Suddenly?”
Nala’s giggle slipped out again, softer this time, and she shook her head as he pulled her a little closer, not enough to trap her, just enough to remind her how easily he could. “You are impossible.”
“And you love me.”
She looked at him for a long moment, her smile gentling into something more tender, more private, before she rose onto her toes and brushed her mouth against his. “Bad,” she whispered.
That quieted him for half a heartbeat.
Then his hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, holding her there while his forehead rested against hers, the two of them smiling into the same breath, suspended in that dangerous little space between lateness and indulgence, between good intentions and the sort of married temptation that had them both pretending they still had more self-control than they actually did.
“Come on,” he murmured, brushing another kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Shower with me.”
Nala let out one last helpless little laugh, already gone for him, already knowing this was a terrible idea and wanting it anyway. “If we miss the first set,” she whispered, letting him guide her backward, “I’m blaming you.”
Jaafar’s grin turned soft and unbearably pleased. “That’s fine, baby,” he said, his mouth ghosting over hers again. “Long as you do it after.”
The water fell over their bodies in warm, steady sheets, turning his skin to bronze beneath the steam and leaving hers gleaming beneath his hands, and just as Nala had known he would, Jaafar gave up the pretence of restraint almost immediately. His body crowded hers against the cool tile of the shower, the contrast of it making her shiver even as the heat from the water ran down their backs in silken trails, and his mouth found hers with the sort of inevitability that made her want to laugh into the kiss, if only he were not kissing her so thoroughly.
Her hands slid up over his shoulders as his lips moved against hers, warm and insistent, soft one second and deeper the next, the steam thickening around them until the whole room felt wrapped in cloud and breath and the quiet, reckless tenderness of two people who already knew they were going to be late and had chosen each other over punctuality without even pretending otherwise. Water pearled along his lashes, caught in the dark of his hair, traced the line of his throat, and Nala, half lost in him already, could only make a small, helpless sound when he lifted her with an ease that stole the breath from her chest.
His hands slid beneath her, firm and sure, and then she was in his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist by instinct, by trust, by memory older than thought, while the shower ran hot around them and his mouth brushed hers again, again, each kiss softer at first than the one before it, as though he were savouring her, then deepening the moment she melted fully into him. The tile was cool at her back where it could still be felt, but most of her awareness lived in the heat of him, in the way he held her as though he had every intention of keeping her exactly where she was, in the low sound that left him when her fingers slipped into the damp curls at the nape of his neck.
Nala drew back only enough to look at him, her forehead resting against his, water slipping between them in shining little streams, her lashes wet and her smile slow and knowing despite the breathlessness in it. “I told you,” she murmured, the words barely more than a whisper beneath the rush of the shower. “We’re gonna be late.”
Jaafar’s mouth curved against hers, that impossible smile of his felt before it was fully seen, and he kissed the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then back to her lips as though he could not settle on one place when all of her was there for him. “Probably,” he said softly.
Nala laughed then, the sound small and bright and half-swallowed by another kiss, her arms tightening around him as the water continued to fall over them both, warm as summer rain, and if there was any last hope of Wimbledon beginning on schedule for them, it dissolved there in the steam, in the press of his hands, in the way his mouth kept returning to hers like devotion made visible.
The water fell over them in warm, endless ribbons, silvering their skin and turning the air soft with steam, and just as Nala had known he would, Jaafar closed the distance between them almost at once. His body moved into hers with a familiarity that made her heart ache more than it startled her, crowding her gently against the cool tile as though nearness to her was still the first thing he reached for when given the chance. The contrast of the cold wall at her back and the heat of the water slipping down their shoulders made her shiver, but it was his mouth finding hers that truly undid her, his lips brushing over hers in a kiss that felt less like urgency and more like remembrance, like something cherished being found again with both hands.
She smiled into the kiss before it deepened, soft and helpless and full of that quiet happiness she could never entirely hide from him, and Jaafar seemed to feel it there, seemed to answer it with a tenderness that made the whole moment feel suspended outside of time. The water ran down their backs from the wide showerhead above, warm and steady, gliding over his shoulders, over her throat, over the places where their bodies met and stayed, and still he kissed her as though the world beyond the glass no longer held any claim on either of them.
His lips brushed hers again and again, never quite leaving for long, and then, with that same easy devotion she had always loved in him, he lifted her into his arms. A soft breath slipped from her as her hands found his shoulders and her legs wrapped around his waist, the movement instinctive, familiar, tender in a way that belonged only to them. Held there against him, beneath the veil of warm water and morning steam, Nala rested her forehead briefly to his and let herself be gathered close, feeling less like she was being carried and more like she was being kept.
Jaafar kissed her once more, slower this time, as though he had all the time in the world despite the day waiting just outside the door, and the water continued to fall around them like a blessing, like a private little benediction over two people who had once nearly lost the shape of one another and were now learning, touch by touch, kiss by kiss, how to come back together in something gentler, something deeper, something entirely their own.
Nala let out a soft, unsteady breath as he held her there beneath the warm spill of water, her forehead resting briefly against his before she forced herself to gather what little sense she still had. It was dangerous, this, standing wrapped around him in the steam with his hands firm at her waist and his mouth still brushing hers like he had nowhere else he intended to be. Dangerous because she already knew that look in his eyes, knew the slow darkening of them, knew what happened when Jaafar decided he was done pretending patience was the better part of virtue.
“Jaafar,” she whispered, though his name came out softer than a warning ought to have.
He kissed the corner of her mouth.
“We’re supposed to be leaving.”
Another kiss, this one along her cheek.
“We’re already late.”
His mouth curved against her skin. “Mm.”
Nala pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands still resting at his shoulders, her lashes damp now from the steam, her face flushed with warmth and the effort of acting like she had any real intention of stopping him. “I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“You do not sound concerned.”
“I’m not.”
That pulled a disbelieving little laugh from her, but it dissolved almost instantly when he let her down with maddening care, his hands sliding along her sides as her feet met the shower floor. For one hopeful second she thought perhaps he had come back to his senses, perhaps the mention of Wimbledon and timing and basic public decency had reached him after all.
Then he stepped behind her.
Nala’s eyes fluttered shut before he even touched her, because she knew, knew exactly what was coming, and the first brush of his mouth at the side of her neck made her breath leave her in a quiet, helpless rush. The water streamed over them both, warm against her skin, while Jaafar’s hands settled low at her waist and his lips moved slowly against the damp curve of her throat from behind, unhurried, affectionate, devastating in their patience.
“Jaafar,” she tried again, but there was no strength in it now, only the faintest tremor.
His mouth lingered just beneath her ear. “What?”
She swallowed, her fingers splaying lightly against the wet tile in front of her as she fought for some scrap of self-control. “You are being ridiculous.”
A soft laugh warmed her skin before he pressed another kiss there, deeper this time, slower. “That what this is?”
“Yes,” she whispered, though the word weakened when he kissed lower.
“We have somewhere to be.”
He nuzzled against her neck as if the sentence interested him very little. “We do.”
Nala turned her face slightly, trying and failing to sound stern. “And you got some this morning, yesterday afternoon, and last night.”
That finally made him laugh properly, low and rich and entirely too pleased with himself, the sound vibrating against the damp skin of her neck in a way that made her knees feel treacherous.
“Did I?” he murmured.
“Yes, you did.”
“Mm.” His hands tightened just a little at her waist. “And?”
Nala blinked, affronted despite the heat rising all through her. “And?” she repeated. “That is supposed to matter.”
Jaafar lifted his head just enough for his mouth to brush the shell of her ear, his voice dropping into that warm, dangerous register that always made her feel like the room had tilted in his favour. “Baby,” he said, “I don’t give a damn.”
The words sent a shiver straight through her.
He kissed her neck again, almost lazily now, as if he had already decided the argument was over and was simply being kind enough to let her pretend she still had one to make. Water traced down the line of her spine while his mouth followed the tender curve where her shoulder met her throat, and Nala had the sudden, useless thought that this was exactly why they were always late for everything: because Jaafar loved her with the sort of concentration that made clocks feel irrelevant.
“You are impossible,” she murmured.
“And yet,” he said, brushing his lips over the marks he knew she could still feel from earlier, “you married me.”
Nala let out a breath that was halfway to a laugh, halfway to surrender.
From behind her, he smiled against her skin, clearly hearing both.
“I’m trying to have restraint,” she said weakly.
“Why?”
She opened her eyes at that, affront returning just enough for her to turn her head and throw him a look over her shoulder. His expression when she caught it was soft, wicked, and so openly fond it nearly undid her more than the kisses had.
“Because,” she said, with all the dignity she could gather while being held against wet tile and kissed into incoherence, “some of us care about being on time.”
Jaafar’s hands slid upward, slow and warm, until they settled more securely at her middle, his body fitting close behind hers as he looked at her in the fogged reflection of the glass.
“Some of us,” he murmured, meeting her eyes there, “care about our priorities.”
Nala tried to glare. Truly. But then his mouth found that sensitive place just below her ear again and her lashes fluttered, her resolve loosening in real time.
He noticed, because he always noticed.
His smile turned unbearably tender.
“See?” he whispered.
Nala closed her eyes for one defeated second, her head tipping back against his shoulder as the water kept falling around them in warm, endless sheets.
“This is your fault,” she breathed.
Jaafar only kissed her neck once more, smiling like a man who knew full well he had no intention of defending himself.
Nala and Jaafar had never been fixed in one rhythm, and perhaps that was part of what kept the private language of their marriage so alive; the current between them was ever-shifting, never stale, never predictable, forever changing hands without either of them needing to announce it. Desire, with them, was not rigid enough to obey one shape. It moved. It adapted. It answered mood, timing, hunger, hurt, tenderness, pride. One night, she might lead him with quiet authority, and the next, he might take the reins so completely that all she could do was melt into the certainty of him.
After eight long months without intimacy, a stranger might have assumed Jaafar would step back and let Nala set the pace, let her lead as some unspoken act of mercy, or perhaps as a way of balancing the scales after all that had passed between them. But what unfolded was quite the opposite. Jaafar had met her with a steadiness that bordered on command, reclaiming the space between them with the kind of assured devotion that left no room for hesitation, and Nala, aching for him, eager to please, and even more eager to be close in whatever way he needed, had yielded to that pull with almost startling ease. She did not resist it, did not question it, only let herself be guided by his hands, his voice, his certainty, and in doing so found a kind of intimacy that felt less like punishment and more like trust, as though submission, in his care, had become its own form of being held.
“You gon’ have to bend over for me, mama,” he rasped as he turned Nala around and girpped onto the shower wall as he gently kicked her legs a bit wider. He kissed down the length of her back in featherlight presses, each one so delicate it almost felt imagined, if not for the way her body answered him at once. Water trickled in slow, warm streams along the valley of her spine, slipping over skin already sensitised beneath his touch, and Jaafar watched the shiver that ran through her with a quiet, knowing satisfaction, as though anticipation itself had become something he could shape with his hands.
“Stop playin’, Jaafar,” she whined, her voice soft and frayed at the edges, and his chuckle warmed her skin before his mouth returned to her, lingering where his initials rested, a tramp stamp, still clear as ever in his own unmistakable handwriting. J.J.J. A gift for their third anniversary and the first year of their marriage, intimate in a way that had only deepened with time, less like ornament and more like memory made permanent, something tender and possessive and entirely theirs.
Jaafar’s smile brushed against her skin as he took his time, wholly unbothered by her impatience, as though drawing out her anticipation was its own private pleasure.
“We gotta work on your patience, baby,” he murmured, his voice low and amused, and the gentle authority in it only made her shiver harder.
He got on his knees behind her, the tile kissing his knees, as he in turn kissed down the fat of her left ass cheek as his other hand smacked the other, soothing its flesh as soon as he did it. Nala whined as she jolted from the impact.
He gently spread her open for him, licking from clit to her puckered hole as he pressed a kiss to it, promising a ‘next time’ as he settled for resting his thumb at it, pressing into it gently as he tsked; three months of work went down the drain in the eight months they hadn’t touched one another. He soothed her with the languid strokes of his tongue, as he lazily made out with her sex, lapping up any nectar he had to give her, as well as the taste of himself from earlier on that day.
“You taste so good, baby,” he whispered as he took the throbbing, swollen pearl, sucking on it as you would a sour candy as he salivated, eager for more of a taste of her. He felt her juices dribble down his cheek and go down his chin, caressing his throat and Adam's apple.
Nala felt stars dance and scatter behind her eyes as pleasure tore through her veins, red and blistering, volcanic in the way it consumed her, until her lashes fluttered shut and a startled little squeal slipped from her before she could swallow it back.
She felt two of his thick fingers plunge deep into her pussy, curling just right to hit the spot he’d known for five years. Moaning against her pussy as he devoured her, thumb pressing deeper into her puckered hole, he felt her whine as she reached back to push his head back, her words hiccuped and stuttered as she was barely coherent.
He smacked her hand away, letting go of her ass cheek momentarily. “Do we have a problem, Nalani?” he asked her as he separated from her sex and watched as she shook her head. He tsked and landed a smack on her asscheek oncemore, raising a brow, and Nala felt her knees shake as she shook her head.
“N-no baby, we’re gon’ have a problem, we’re good.. I swear.”
He kept her gaze as he went back to his meal, his own eyes fluttering shut as her wanton moans resumed, soothing the flesh he’s struck with a caress. Soon enough, Nala felt warmth gather low within her, slow at first, then all at once, until it rose through her like something ancient and inevitable, a hidden current turned molten beneath the surface. The tension in her unraveled in one long, trembling wave, and she went soft with it, luminous with it, as though some Roman goddess had been stirred awake in her own marble temple, all honeyed divinity and trembling grace. Jaafar, devoted and unrelenting, seemed almost reverent in the face of her, faithful as any worshipper kneeling at the altar of his chosen deity, eager to partake of the sweetness she bestowed as though it were sacrament, as though every blessing she gave was both gift and gospel.
Jaafar drank all she had to give him, watching as she slumped against the wall, struggling to hold herself up and catch her breath. He gently kissed back up her spine, one of his hands settling at her hips as the other turned her head and connected their lips, sharing the taste of herself on his tongue.
“You got one more for me, beautiful?” he murmured, and Nala, dazed and pliant beneath his gaze, gave him a wistful nod, the sweetest little “mhm” falling from her lips like a promise.
“I love you, pretty girl,” he whispered as his tip prodded at her entrance; the delicious burn set her nerves alight as her eyes fluttered back, arching her back for him with a dazed sigh.
“Daddy loves you so much, baby… so so much,” he praised as he buried his entire length into her.
Nala felt her breath get punched out of her as she let out the loudest moan, her eyes fluttering shut as she got a momentary reprieve from the cool shower wall she pressed her head against. However, that too was ripped from her as Jaafar grabbed her by the base of her neck, careful not to squeeze too much as her back met his chest and he turned her head to meet him, pulling her in as his tongue intertwined with hers.
.He spotted the detachable shower head from the corner of his eye, and reached blindly to ease the pressure, from a harsh steam to a light shower, keeping his one hand at her neck, squeezing and groping, while he stroked in and out of her he brought the shower head to her clit, he watched as she jolted from ghe stimulation, her body hummed wiith pleasure as she whined into his mouth as he stole her air, making her go lightheaded, his hand abandoning her neck where he could see the outline of him as he thrust into her, over and over and over, effectively impaling her onto him.
“Right there, right there baby, fuck!” she cried as her toes curled into the shower tile. Jaafar kept her writing body pinned against his torso as he moaned and grunted in her ear, fueling her desire for him as she dripped down into the water. The shower head working her tender clit as she took every inch of his dick.
Her chest rose and fell in quick bursts; each inhale dragged life into her lungs and every exhale was a release of what didn’t matter, of the past few months of distance, of everything that had happened between them. Her skin buzzed with sensation as the water ran down her body from the overhead shower head, caressing her nipples.
As if sensing he’d neglected a part of her flesh, his hand rose to cup her breast, kneading and pinching the nipple of her skin as her heartbeat thudded in her ears.
“You missed this dick ain’t you… missed feelin’ me in your stomach?” he asked as he licked the pool of water and sweat that pooled in the nape of her neck. She eagerly agreed, saying anything he wanted to get him not to stop handling her the way he was as he bent his knees, slightly, hitting a new angle as fucked her upwards at a slightly better angle.
“I love you, I love you so much,” she chanted, the only coherent thing she’d said since they entered the shower, rasped against his lips as his lips lazily met hers over and over as she grabbed onto his arm, digging her nails into his skin as he kept rearranging her guts.
He felt her walls tighten and he abandoned the shower head, hearing it hit the ground as he pulled her down to the shower bench, manoeuvring them so she was facing him, her legs folded at either side of him.
“Sit on it baby… take your dick.”
Nala gasped as she wrapped her hand around him, her ring glinting in the shower, water slipping off the diamond as Jaafar’s own ringed hand went to her clit, rubbing and massaging the swollen nub as he watched her quivering pussy dance in anticipation of feeling him oncemore.
Ignoring the slight pain of overstimulation, Nala sighed as she found her pace and rode him as Jaafar eagerly sucked on her breasts, one hand massaging the slightly bigger mound of flesh as his lips enclosed on the nipple of the other one.
Nala’s hand eagerly wrapped around his neck, gently squeezing, careful not to crush his windpipe. “You like that baby? You like how good I’m takin’ it?” she panted as she watched his eyes damn near roll to the back of his skull as she rolled her hips onto him, giving her clit much some much needed stimulation as she worked him, tightening her walls slightly as she giggled.
“You want me to keep you here, baby? Keep you nice ‘n warm inside me?” she hummed, watching him whimper as they felt the power shift between them. Jaafar’s eyes turning doe-like at the blink of an eye, eager to please the woman he considered a goddess among mortals, his hips eagerly meeting hers as she fucked herself down onto him.
“Mhm… y-you don’t gotta do nothin’ else mama, I swear, you don’t gotta do nothin else, I’ll do anythin’ you want, whenever you want, just keep fuckin’ me like this, just like this baby please,” he whined out, possessed by desire and love for his woman.
“You feel so good baby, so fuckin’ good, don’t stop, please, don’t stop,” he wheezed as he crushed her body to his, her nipples rubbing up and down his chest as she met his thighs with a wet plap, plap plap.
Nala sighed as she brought them to the brink of their peaks, her thighs burning as she moved his hand to her clit, urging him to rub the swollen nub. She watched as his hand found a rhythm as he used his core strength to fuck up into her harder, ploughing her on his dick.
Together, they rose toward that unseen height as though drawn there by the same invisible thread, body answering body, breath answering breath, until the distance between devotion and surrender vanished entirely. With Nala above him, luminous and commanding, she seemed less like a woman than Venus herself, crowned not in gold but in heat and adoration, all beauty, divinity, and terrible grace, while Jaafar beneath her looked no less than willing worshipper, faithful at her altar and undone by the privilege of being allowed so near. And when at last the moment overtook them, it did not feel abrupt, but fated, like two flames leaning toward one another until they became the same fire, one bright, trembling ascension that left them caught together in something holy and breathless.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
They only stayed there together on the shower bench, the steam curling thickly around them, the water still falling in a warm hush from above as though the room itself had softened in reverence to what had just passed between them. Nala rested against him, her breathing unsteady, her damp skin warm and slick against his chest, and Jaafar held her with both arms as if there were no gentler place in the world for his hands to be. The tiled bench beneath them was barely wide enough for the two of them, but they made it work in that easy, instinctive way married people did, fitting together through familiarity and want and the long practice of loving one another in confined little moments.
His mouth found her shoulder first.
Then the damp curve where her neck met it.
Nothing hungry now, nothing demanding, only soft kisses, little presses of warmth and devotion against water-cooled skin, as though he were soothing every place he had just set alight. One of his hands slid slowly up and down her back, careful and grounding, while the other stayed firm at her thigh, holding her where she sat astride him with that quiet, unconscious protectiveness that had always been second nature to him. Nala’s eyes fluttered shut, and she let herself melt against him completely this time, no teasing left, no bravado, only the sweet bonelessness that came after being deeply known.
Jaafar tipped his forehead to her shoulder and let out a breath that was almost a laugh, almost a groan, the sound muffled by skin and steam.
Nala smiled lazily, still half-gone, and ran her fingers through his wet curls, pushing them back from his face with a tenderness so thoughtless it could only be real. “You alive?” she murmured.
He lifted his head just enough to look at her, water beading on his lashes, his mouth parted with the kind of dazed affection that always made him look younger somehow, softer, like the boy in him still could not quite believe his life had brought him here.
“Barely,” he said.
That pulled a giggle out of her, quiet at first, then fuller when he gave her that tired, accusing little look as if she ought to have been more sympathetic to his suffering.
“You said quick,” she whispered.
“You said Wimbledon.”
“I did.”
“And then you climbed on me like that meant nothin’.”
Nala let out another breathy laugh and hid her face briefly in the side of his neck, her shoulders shaking with it. “You are so irritating.”
Jaafar’s hand smoothed over her back again. “I’m irritating?”
“Yes.”
He kissed the side of her head. “And yet here you are, sittin’ on me like your life depend on it.”
She made a soft, scandalised sound against his skin, which only made him smile.
The beautiful thing about them, the thing no one else ever quite got to see, was how naturally care moved between them after the heat had burned through. They were never fixed in one role for long, never so bound to one version of themselves that tenderness became predictable. Where one had led, the other soothed. Where one had unraveled, the other gathered. It was not power that mattered most between them in the end, but trust, the ease with which they could pass each other the weight of the moment and know it would be carried with care.
So now, with Nala still draped over him, Jaafar reached for the washcloth hanging nearby and ran it gently over her arms, over the slope of her shoulder, down the line of her back in slow, absent strokes that were less about cleaning than calming. Nala watched him through heavy lashes for a second, then took it from him with a sleepy little hum and returned the gesture, dragging the cloth over the broad plane of his chest, over his shoulder, down his arm, her touch light and affectionate and just a touch smug.
He looked at her. “What’s that face?”
She smiled, small and wicked. “Nothin’.”
“That’s a liar face.”
“It’s a victorious face.”
Jaafar barked out a laugh then, startled and helpless, and the sound bounced softly off the glass and tile around them. “Victorious?”
Nala nodded with all the solemnity she could gather while still flushed and damp and sitting in his lap in a shower. “Mm-hm.”
“Over what exactly?”
She pretended to think about it, eyes lifting toward the ceiling. “You.”
His brows rose. “Baby, please.”
Another giggle slipped from her, this one brighter, easier, and Jaafar looked at her for a long moment like the sound itself was medicine, like every laugh he drew out of her these days felt doubly precious after those lost months of quiet.
Then his mouth softened.
“We really are gonna be late,” he said.
Nala burst into laughter then, full and helpless, her forehead dropping to his shoulder as the absurdity of it finally landed in full. The tickets, the clothes waiting outside, the whole polished little Wimbledon outing they had absolutely intended to make on time, all of it had drowned somewhere between kisses and steam and absolutely nobody in this shower having a single ounce of self-restraint.
“This is your fault,” she said into his neck, still laughing.
“My fault?” Jaafar repeated, scandalised on principle.
“Yes, yours.”
“You were the one talkin’ ‘bout ‘let me see’ and eyein’ me in that towel.”
“I was being affectionate.”
“You were being fast.”
Nala lifted her head, grinning now, all flushed cheeks and damp lashes. “Fast? Jaafar Jackson, look at the life you have led before me.”
He stared at her for one beat and then laughed again, deep and helpless, his arms tightening around her waist until she squealed softly and clutched at his shoulders.
“Oh, now she got jokes.”
“I always got jokes.”
“Not at Wimbledon you won’t.”
That made her pause.
His mouth curved slowly.
Nala narrowed her eyes. “Don’t.”
“I’m just sayin’,” he murmured, entirely too pleased with himself, “if we show up lookin’ all sleepy and satisfied, that’s on you.”
She slapped a wet hand lightly against his chest, horrified and delighted in equal measure. “Jaafar!”
He caught her wrist and kissed the inside of it, still smiling.
Nala shook her head, but the laughter kept catching her anyway, turning her sternness into something soft and glowing. “We have to get out.”
“We do.”
“And get dressed.”
“Mm-hm.”
“And act normal.”
At that, Jaafar looked at her with such open amusement that she immediately started laughing again before he even said a word.
“Baby,” he murmured, brushing her wet hair back from her face, “you married me. Acting normal was never really our ministry.”
Nala groaned, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt, and leaned into his palm as he cradled her face.
For a moment the laughter faded into something quieter.
The water still fell around them, warm and steady. Steam clung to the glass. Her heartbeat had slowed. His breathing had evened out. And there they sat, tangled together on a shower bench, late for somewhere glamorous and utterly unconcerned for a few more precious seconds, because this, too, was part of loving each other—this softness after the storm, this teasing, this washing of skin and smoothing back of hair and laughing in the middle of the ordinary chaos of a shared life.
Jaafar pressed a kiss to her forehead.
Then another to the tip of her nose.
Then one last lingering kiss to her mouth, sweet and unhurried.
“C’mon, Venus,” he murmured against her lips, smiling when she smiled. “Let me get my goddess out this shower before Center Court gotta start without us.”
Nala laughed softly, the sound falling warm between them, and finally let him help her up, though not before stealing one more kiss simply because she could.
Summary: See what happens when 2 exes bump into each other after 3 years at Wimbledon
WC: 1.2k I think
Warnings: Exes to lovers, these fools broke up over BS, they get back together, allusion to her finna get broken through that mattress, not an OC his nickname for her is just cherry
Note: Calling all agents, another fic has been posted. I know it's late, but like yall saw my man again take it easy because 🩴 I don’t play…
Your close friend Tiffany asked if you wanted to go to the Wimbledon match with her today, and your answer was an automatic yes. You would be a fool not to go. You had a plan to look your absolute best, get some content to post, watch a match, and maybe, just maybe, meet a man or two. Bumping into your ex was not on your damn bingo sheet. So imagine your surprise when you're walking with Tiffany, looking to your right, and there he is, looking the way he does. Finally making eye contact with you, he stops his conversation, excusing himself to the person he was talking to, making his way over to you.
Tiffany starts slapping you on the shoulder: “ Girrrll, your man is coming over here, and he looks good”. Straightening out your clothes in a hurried fashion, you turn to her: “ First, he is not my man and has not been in 3 years, and second, I am not worried about him at all. Now, how do I look?”
Hearing someone clear their throat, pausing in your bickering, you see your ex- fiance standing there in front of you with his hands in his pockets. “Wow, Cherry, you look just wow,” folding your arms. “Jaafar, you look quite handsome yourself”. Nodding his head, he takes a glance around, then back to you, “Yeah, it's been a while since we've seen each other”. “Yeah, Jaafar, that’s what happens when two people break off an engagement”. He sighs, messing with his shades.
Sighing, “ Jaafar, listen: what we had was fun, but it’s over; we’re not together anymore for a reason,” going to walk away but gently grabs her wrist. Looking over at Tiffany, “Could you give us a few minutes?” She looks at you: “Scream if you have to, and I’ll cut him; I don't care how big his booty is,” and you stare at her with your head tilted. “Tif- yeah, it's fine, just go.” She walks away .
“ Listen cherry I miss you-” cutting him off, “ Jaafar, I don't want to hear that, dude”. Gently grabbing both of her wrists, “Woman, please, will you just listen to me for once? This is why we split”
“No, we split sir, because we just didn’t work”. “See, I don’t believe that these past three years of my life have been miserable without you, baby. I miss my woman.”
Removing his hands from around your wrist, “Okay, we can talk after, just not right now,” putting a hand on his shoulder and letting it trail down, you turn to leave.
It’s been about 45 minutes since your conversation with your ex-fiancé. It was not you and Tiffany walking to your seats. “ So girly, what did he say? Let me know,” rolling your eyes. “ He wants to get back together”. Stopping and staring at you “ and what the hell is wrong with that”. Staring at her, you throw your hands in the air: “Everything, Tiff, you were there when we broke up, so why would we do that again?” Sucking her teeth she side eyes you “ I’ll tell you something becuase I love you and I understand that was a rough breakup for yall but that was also a bullshit ass breakup yall negros were being immature.” Walking the aisle to your seats you pause in disbelief “no way in hell. I know you fucking lying” Tiffany bumps into your back “ what girl im trying to sit down” attempting to look around you.
Jaafar looks up at you from his seat, now smirking, “Well, isn’t this just fate for us, Cherry?” Sitting down in the seat next to him, you heard Tiffany cackling in your ear. With a raised eyebrow and a quirked lip, you point a finger at him, shake your head, and proceed to turn away.
“Nope, I said talk after, so we’re talking after”. He rests his left arm around the back of your seat and looks at you: “ I think this is the perfect time- I really did miss you, mama; we- no, I should’ve fought more to keep you”. You go to speak, but you're cut off, hearing everything begin, you put your hand on his thigh, patting it.
The point that was in play is now over you and jaafar were itching to continue the conversation from earlier. You lean over to whisper, “Come on, let's go talk”. Walking without waiting for him to follow, because the way it was looking, you had a feeling you were getting your man back. He was single and begging for you, and you missed him, so yeah, you’re getting him back. Checking your mini mirror to make sure you still looked good, you didn't hear him walk up behind you.
“Cherry,” you gasp, “ Jaaf yeah, umm.” “I can't sit here and lie and say I haven't missed you as well, but I don't want to be how we were when we broke up,” putting your hands on your face, laughing.
“For three years straight..” You inhaled deeply before letting it out slowly. “I pretended not to think or be bothered by not having you anymore, but you’re right, I can’t do it anymore”.
You’re not paying attention, pouring your heart out before you feel a pair of pillowy lips against yours. You both stand there for a moment, reconnecting through the intimacy of kissing, pouring your longing from the past years into each other. You separate to catch air and laugh as you wipe his bottom lip. His hands are holding your face, and yours are holding onto his neck. “You know, if you wanted me to shush forehead, you could have just said that.”
He laughs, “Mama, you should be the last person to speak on foreheads.” “Yeah, yeah, whatever mr.dumptruck”. He stares at you: “Too far, no butt jokes”. You laugh, letting go of him reaching for your purse to grab your phone. Putting up a finger to signal one minute to him as he looks confused, you take your phone and start typing. “So we’re really trying this thing over again?”
He nods, “Yeah, we are, and we’re going to be mature and communicate and not run at the first sign because I can't imagine life with anyone else”.
“Well, in that case, you should check your messages.” Walking backwards, you wave your phone towards him. “Why ,what did you send me?” he looks at his phone. “You sent an address”. With your back now facing him, you call over your shoulder, “It’s my hotel address, and if you're not there in the next 30 minutes, I’ll definitely already be started before you ”. Jaafar grabs his keys and runs to the valet area to beat you to the hotel. Looking down at the text you sent to his phone, cheesing because he got his woman back, and this time he wasn't letting her go.
Cherry Pie💋: 423 Stewart Lane. See you soon.
Outer Galaxy Space Agents
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