@freaklikeme2 - Tumblr Blog

ㅤJAAFAR JACKSON x fem!reader PART TWO

synopsisৎ your best friend (jermajesty. j)'s older brother picks you up after a night out.

read part ONE HERE

porn w plot smut 18+ p in v childhood friends spit as lube cheating?(not on reader) car sex MDNI

You weren’t expecting anything to come of Sunday night.

You remember how, after you fell apart on his fingers, Jaafar had helped you find your two feet again. He’d slid you shorts back onto your hips and done each button up with a delicacy that seemed to return to him after it’d taken a break to ruin you.

You remember how his nose drew one, long line down your stomach as he bent down for your pants, chanting the words “Hol’ my shoulders.” against the heated skin of your hips. How when he travelled back up to your height, shorts in hand, his face had lingered inches from yours.

You could almost taste his toothpaste—minty, sharp.

When he’d left you in the kitchen, you recall the way every one of your senses sung. It was a symphony of him. His smell, his taste, his echoed groans, his fingers taking shape in your insides. This wasn’t something you could scrub off—and no matter what you told yourself, you don’t think you wanted too, either.

You were almost able to ride blindly in your bliss for a full week. Though Friday was the rot in an otherwise ripe apple.

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

tag for the people who asked for a pt2! @sams-23 @lunabigolefreak @deathbl0gging @mydihh-felloff @notepadgirl14 @libratzz @crazedpsycho @wubblybunmuffin @sunshineyrosie

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs