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
Tags- @mamasturns @mamasturn @swavydadon @niyahctrl @neighbourscat @melaninjoys @darkseidex @mouthfullofrocki @moodymp4 @multifandomposts-blog @callmeoncette @cherrishkissed @faiology @angelfacediary @esioleren @allth3stars @sintizc @yourleogf @narratedillusions @alohaluz @bawdylanguageee @prettyangeliczz @maczken @aristoleyaferrarii (let me know if anyone wants to be removed)
summary: you meet jaafar in acting class and become friends, and he invites reader over to his family’s house in Havenhurst for a barbecue they’re throwing. Jermajesty is there, but he comes in late and immediately wants to get to know you.
warnings: none, just fluff
chapter 1, chapter 2
---
You are awakened by a group message saying class was cancelled for the day. And you almost shouted out 'Hallelujah'. Your bonnet was halfway on, and you still had a few eye crusts; you weren't even close to being fully awake. The sky looked angry, dark clouds and soft thunder in the distance, gratitude fills you for the opportunity to bed rot.
The room started glowing in a soft, warm light from the fairy lights you decided to hang. Low hum of slow R&B in the back. You decided to invite everyone over for an impromptu movie night.
Fantastic 4 🚀
y/n: sooo since my class was canceled im in the mood for a movie night. Y'all down?
bestie❤️: absolutely, I'll bring popcorn
jaafar🕴🏾: I'll be there. I can bring drinks
Jer🥸: I don't think I have a choice now
y/n: perfect, see y'all soon c:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jermajesty pov
He knew this was a bad idea; it wasn't normal to have a crush like this. He was thankful that Jaafar and y/n’s best friend would be there. Maybe they could act as a buffer so he wouldn't say anything stupid. Everyone said they would bring something; he didn't want to come empty-handed, so he brought candy and hoped she liked it.
He and Jaafar arrived shortly after Imani, so they walked up to the third floor together. The rain was getting heavier, and the smell outside was refreshing. When y/n opened the door, an electrifying feeling shot through his gut; he pushed down, creasing his eyebrows. The first thing on his mind, seeing you, was, “I have popcorn, cotton candy, and a crush on you. You choose which one to focus on.” But instead, he settled for a simple, easy “hey sunshine.” Jaafar cleared his throat and spoke as well.
“ Hey y'all! I'm glad y'all made it.” She gave everyone hugs. When she got to him, she smelled sweet, and he couldn't decode it in time. But he inhaled deeply, subtly so that she didn't notice.
“Okay, so I decided I should wait until y'all got here to pick a movie!”
He wrinkled his nose, “No chick flicks, please”
Jaafar laughed, “Please and thank you, maybe action? Or an anime?”
Y/n and her friend gasped in offense. “Both of you are boring, but fine!”
He rolled his eyes good-naturedly at her comment, fiddling with her decor. Jaafar and Imani picked their spots and talked about the latest tin-foil-hat theories. He continued to walk around her apartment as she prepped the popcorn in the kitchen.
“Can someone help bring the drinks, please?” Before she could get the full question out, he was already by her side. She took everything she needed and placed it on the coffee table. They decided on transformers, which was a mistake. Because then it led to trying to watch the movies in order. Which then rolled into a full argument about which one was better.
The rain slowed to soft drizzle, and the clouds revealed stars. Jaafar kicked-started the goodbyes; he and Imani had started walking to the car. You walked and fell behind to walk with him. All that was running through his mind was what scent that was. Vanilla? Or some type of flower for sure, lavender maybe. He sighed and reluctantly said his goodbye. “Thank you for inviting us tonight, sunshine. This was nice,” she gushed. “Really?! I'm glad you all enjoyed yourselves. Text me when you guys get home!”
Jer🥸: We made it home; we had a blast😌
y/n🧚🏾♀️: im glad, it's always a pleasure to hang with y'all
You wake up in a good mood, and you feel refreshed with a clear head. You have no idea why, but you're enjoying the feeling. Getting dressed and heading to get a coffee, you get to class, and you sit next to Jaafar. “Do you ever want to sit in the back, maybe?” He laughs, “Didn’t even think about it.” You huff out a laugh. “I figured”
“Good morning, class. I have taken Monday and Tuesday to go through your scripts. I am delighted with the amount of effort you all put into them. With that being said, I've decided to let 3 groups present to the theater production team!”
You turn your head towards Jaafar to try to read his face. He has now been known to keep things to himself instead of saying it outright. But his face is neutral, nothing to read, it's slightly irritating you. “ So, Jaafar and Y/N…..” After Professor Gamble says your name, nothing else in that moment matters; your face splits into a megawatt smile. You turn again, and Jaafar is grinning so much you can see the wrinkles all over his face. The rest of the class is in cheers and whoops.
“Okay, so I know you guys usually throw huge parties to celebrate, BUT I want to do something at my place, nothing too crazy,” he smiles gently. “As long as Imani is there, I'll be there.”It was your turn to smile and raise your eyebrow.
“I've been trying to keep it casual, but I need to know, so spill!”
He sputters. “Well, uh, I mean, she’s cute and funny, but I'm about to be filming. I don't want to start something I can't finish.”
“You big dummy, listen, if you like her, you’ll make it work. We've only been friends for a short while, so you can take that with a grain of salt, but don't sell it short just yet.”
You leave him with that and go home for the day. The sun is beating down, and you swear you can see the heat coming off the roads as you drive home. The blare of your phone interrupted the impromptu karaoke session. It's just your parents bugging you to come visit them, and you send promises of soon. You update them on what's been going on with school and the new opportunity to actually have a script be produced. They congratulate you and send you some money for the big accomplishment.
—
Later that night, as you tidy up your house for a reset, you hear your phone ping. Secretly hoping it's Jermajesty, you can't shake the disappointment when it's just Jaafar.
jaafar🕴🏾: Hey, I thought about our conversation. Do you think you can help me plan a date? I really want to take her out before I start rehearsing for the movie.
y/n💃🏾: aweee this is too cute!! Yes, let me tell you about her date standards!
y/n💃🏾: |||||||||||||||||||||||||| :30sec
y/n💃: Don't hurt her or you'll be dealing with me🔪.
jaafar🕴🏾: I won't. I promise ❤️
Now this was something else to celebrate; you didn't text Imani just yet. You were sure you would be hearing about this in the morning anyway. You sat on the edge of your bed contemplating making the first move. Usually, that wasn't your forte, but your gut told you this was the right move.
y/n 🧚: so, im planning a small get-together and unfortunately I need your help.
Jer🥸: Well, it depends on the theme, nothing lame lol.
y/n 🧚: well idk a theme yet; suggestions are welcome.
y/n 🧚: I swear to god, if you suggest One Piece ….
Jer🥸: …let’s move forward then. I can come by tomorrow and help you plan. Is that okay?
You're nervous. Jermajesty was on his way to help plan the party for Saturday. You ran around your apartment like a chicken with its head cut off. When you finally let a breath out.
Jer🥸: almost there, had to stop for something.
You changed clothes and sprayed your perfume. It felt so silly having a crush, you're 25 years old, for God's sake. That didn't stop the tingly feeling when you heard the knock at the door. Pulling the door open felt like an eternity on Jermajesty’s end of the door.
The flowers in his hand felt like they were burning a hole. Thanks to Imani, he knew your favorite, and luckily in season. Opening the door on your end was just as embarrassing; you almost fell because your Crocs caught the floor.
”Sorry, hey, come on in. Oh my goodness, are these for me?!?!” He notices your flustered state but says nothing about it. “Yeah, I didn't want to come empty-handed.” He rubs the back of his neck to try to ease the nervousness.
As you two sit on the couch, a basic movie plays in the background as background noise. The party planning is going strong. Everything else was set in stone: guest list, food, music playlist, it was great until deciding the theme.
Every suggestion turned into a debate. You’d insist on a 70s theme; it was fun and had a lot of great music options. While he argued that the early 2000s were the best era.
The only resolution was a classic game of paper, rock, scissors. Of course, he cheated, so he won. You were walking him to the door as you called him out on it.
“I want you to know you're not invited anymore, cause you cheated so bad!”
With bunched eyebrows, “My nigga there is no way to cheat in that game”
The laugh that came out was from the gut, “It is but because it's late im letting it go”
A flash of reluctance crossed his face as he was walking out the door. “Fine, I'll send my playlist over in the morning, and you can change whatever…” his voice softens a bit. “Goodnight, sore loser.” he hugs you, and his scent is like walking into the men's Dior cologne section. You inhaled to savor the scent as he walked out.
a/n: this is kinda short, lmk what ya think also not fully edited
ೃMISSING IN ACTION ᝰ
After two years of distance disguised as ambition, Nala is forced to confront the quiet damage left behind in the marriage she never meant to neglect. What begins as one vulnerable conversation turns into a reckoning with love, guilt, yearning, and the painful truth that devotion cannot survive on intention alone. Set inside a home filled with memory, tenderness, and all the things left unsaid, this is the story of a wife trying to find her way back to the man she never stopped loving.
warnings: grown folk shit toward the end, Nala being a yearner... which we LOVE.
Marriage was supposed to be a union between two souls, a sacred joining of two hearts until the line between I and we softened into something indistinguishable, something vowed over clasped hands and witnessed by God, family, and the trembling hope that love would be enough to carry two people through every season life dared to place before them. It was supposed to be one love, one house, one name spoken in the dark when the rest of the world became too loud, one partnership where love was not some pretty, passive thing used to decorate speeches and anniversary cards, but a living, breathing act of devotion that had to be chosen, tended to, watered, fed, forgiven, and protected, day after day, even when exhaustion made tenderness feel like work and silence became easier than reaching across the table.
Nala sighed softly as she pushed the polished tip of her fork through the scattered grains of rice on her plate, separating them into little careless piles she had no intention of eating, her appetite sitting somewhere low and unreachable beneath the tightness in her chest as the warm light above the dining table cast a golden sheen over untouched food, half-empty glasses, and the unbearable space between herself and the man sitting across from her. Her husband, she reminded herself, though the word landed strangely in her mouth now, too familiar to be foreign and too distant to feel safe, because that was what they were supposed to be to one another, husband and wife, two halves of the same soul, the person she should have been able to turn to without rehearsing her words first, the one man who once knew the language of her silence before she ever had to translate it for him.
But as Jaafar looked back at her from the other side of the table, his expression calm in the way people became calm when they had already spent too long being hurt, Nala felt her throat tighten until every apology, every explanation, every desperate little confession crowded behind her teeth and refused to come out. This was the man she used to speak to for hours, the man who used to know when she was hungry before she said it, when she was overwhelmed before she named it, when she needed to be held before her pride allowed her to ask, and now they were sitting beneath the same roof, breathing the same air, wearing the same rings, with nothing but cutlery, cooling food, and all the words they had stopped saying lying heavy between them.
She wanted to say his name, wanted to reach for his hand, wanted to ask him when they had become two people careful around each other instead of two people careless in their love, but her mouth went dry the moment his eyes met hers, because he had nothing to say either, and somehow that hurt worse than any argument ever could have.
Jesus, it had been months.
Months since they had been able to sit at a table with one another like this, months since they had been close enough to really look at each other without one of them turning away first, months since Nala had allowed herself to gaze into the deep brown of his eyes and remember that there had once been a time when looking at him felt less like standing at the edge of something broken and more like coming home.
Usually, she would have been sitting beside him instead of across from him, her knee pressed against his beneath the table, her shoulder tucked into his arm while they leaned over her phone together, laughing under their breath at whatever foolishness TikTok had decided to feed them that night, both of them tired, comfortable, and mindlessly entertained by an algorithm that seemed to know them almost as well as they knew each other. He would steal her fork when she was not looking, she would fuss and call him greedy, he would kiss her cheek with a smile still caught in the corner of his mouth, and the whole thing would feel easy in the way love was supposed to feel when two people had built a life soft enough to rest inside.
But now, there was no shared screen glowing between them, no quiet laughter, no brush of his thigh against hers, no familiar warmth of his hand resting possessively on her knee as if even in silence he needed some part of her close.
Now they sat worlds apart.
Not because the table was wide, not because the chairs had been placed too far from each other, but because somewhere between missed dinners, unanswered calls, late nights, swallowed resentment, and all the little hurts neither of them had known how to name without starting a war, the distance had grown teeth, and it sat between them now like a third person at the table, patient, ugly, and impossible to ignore.
Nala was twenty-five when it happened.
Twenty-five when all the blood, sweat, tears, sleepless nights, skipped meals, migraines swallowed down with black coffee, and prayers whispered in courthouse bathrooms finally placed her name where she had once only dared to imagine it could be, mounted in clean, expensive lettering on the wall of a firm that had never been built with girls like her in mind. Twenty-five when she made partner, when she earned a seat at a table surrounded by men nearly twice her age who smiled at her like her presence was some progressive little favour they had granted themselves, as though the firm had become generous by allowing a Black woman into the room, as though she had not clawed her way there with sharpened teeth, perfect briefs, impossible hours, and a brilliance they kept trying to call luck because admitting it was talent would mean admitting they had underestimated her.
And maybe, for a while, the anger had fed her.
Maybe the doubt in their eyes had become fuel, maybe every raised brow, every interrupted sentence, every patronising comment dressed up as concern had pushed her to sit straighter, speak clearer, work harder, stay longer, and become so undeniable that even the men who wanted to resent her had no choice but to learn the shape of her name. She had filled those shoes and then some, had walked into rooms that expected her to shrink and instead made herself impossible to move around, had become the woman her younger self used to dream about when she was studying beneath cheap lamplight with aching wrists and a heart too stubborn to quit.
But she was twenty-six now, and the applause had faded, and her name was still on that wall, and the office still stood, and the work still came, and the world still demanded more from her every time she proved she could carry what it had already placed in her hands.
So what had it cost?
The dinners she missed? The calls she sent to voicemail? The nights Jaafar had fallen asleep alone while she sat beneath fluorescent office lights convincing herself she would make it up to him tomorrow? The little dates she stopped planning, the inside jokes she stopped continuing, the quiet ways she stopped choosing him because survival had become so loud that love began to feel like something she could return to once everything else was handled?
Her throat tightened as she looked at him across the table, at the man who had loved her before her name was on any wall, before the tailored suits, before the corner office, before the world started calling her exceptional and she started believing rest had to be earned through suffering.
What had it cost her?
Her peace?
Her softness?
Her home?
Her husband?
“I—”
“How—”
They both stopped at the same time, their voices colliding in the quiet before falling away just as quickly, and for one small, foolish second, Nala almost laughed, not because anything was funny, but because there had been a time when that would have made them both grin like idiots, when Jaafar would have leaned back in his chair and told her to go on, baby, since she clearly had something important to say, and she would have rolled her eyes before talking over him anyway.
But nothing came easy enough for laughter anymore.
They only watched each other across the table with matching little huffs, two people still familiar enough to move in the same rhythm and still wounded enough to be surprised by it, before Nala shook her head and lowered her eyes to the plate she had been ruining with the edge of her fork.
“You go first,” she murmured.
Jaafar looked at her for a moment longer, his hand resting near his glass, his wedding band catching the low amber light as his thumb dragged once over the condensation. “How was your day?” he asked carefully, as though the question itself might break something if he held it too tightly. “How did that case with the inheritance go?”
Work.
Of course.
He wanted to talk about work.
Not because he did not care, not because he was being cruel, not because he had meant to make her chest ache with it, but because work had become the only place he knew how to find her lately, the only doorway she seemed to leave unlocked, the only language she still spoke fluently when everything else between them had grown stiff, strained, and unfamiliar.
Nala’s mouth parted, then closed again as something painful moved behind her eyes, and she let out a breath that trembled more than she wanted it to.
“I…” She swallowed, blinking down at the rice on her plate before looking back up at him. “I don’t want to talk about work with you.”
Jaafar’s expression shifted, not dramatically, not enough for anyone else to notice, but Nala noticed, because she knew his face like scripture, knew the tiny pull at the corner of his mouth when he was hurt and trying not to show it, knew the way his shoulders settled lower when he decided to take pain quietly instead of making it somebody else’s problem.
“I was just asking,” he said, his voice softer now.
“I know,” she whispered, and somehow that made it worse, because he had not done anything wrong, because he was trying, because the man sitting across from her had spent months receiving whatever pieces of her she had left over at the end of the day and had still chosen to ask about something that mattered to her, even if it was the very thing that had been eating them alive. “I know you were.”
His jaw flexed once as he looked down at his plate, and for a moment, the silence returned, stretching its long, ugly fingers between them.
Nala pressed her fingers to her brow, trying to steady herself, trying not to cry over a question as simple as how was your day, because crying would make it seem like he had hurt her when the truth was that the hurt had been there long before he opened his mouth.
“I don’t want to be partner right now,” she said quietly, her voice barely stronger than the candlelight flickering between them. “I don’t want to be the youngest person in the room, or the Black woman they all expect to be grateful, or the one who has to know twice as much and speak half as much just so nobody calls me difficult.” Her eyes lifted to his, wet and tired and honest in a way she had not let herself be for months. “I don’t want to be impressive with you, Jaafar.”
His face softened then, the guardedness in him loosening just enough for the ache underneath to show.
Nala’s breath caught.
“I just want to be your wife,” she said, and the words came out small, almost ashamed, as if softness had become something she no longer knew how to hold without apologising for it. “And I don’t know how to do that anymore.”
Jaafar did not answer her straight away.
He only looked at her, really looked at her, as though the words had reached across the table and pressed two fingers beneath his chin, forcing him to lift his face toward something he had been trying not to stare at too directly for months, maybe longer, because there was only so much a person could watch the love of their life disappear behind ambition, exhaustion, and obligation before looking became its own kind of pain.
Nala did not want to be impressive with him.
The sentence sat in the room like something sacred and half-broken, something too tender to touch carelessly, and Jaafar felt it move through him slowly, past the pride, past the hurt, past every lonely night he had convinced himself not to take personally because he knew what she was up against, because he knew the world did not make room for women like Nala without making them bleed for the seat first.
Still, knowing did not make it hurt less.
“You don’t have to be impressive with me,” he said, his voice quiet, roughened by all the things he had not said when they first started bothering him, all the swallowed complaints that had turned into distance because he had not wanted to become another demand on her list. “You ain’t ever had to be that with me, Nala.”
Her lips pressed together as her eyes dropped, and he watched her throat move with the effort of swallowing something down.
“I know that,” she whispered.
“No,” he said gently, not sharp enough to wound, but firm enough to stop her from running behind the answer she thought she was supposed to give. “I don’t think you do.”
The candle between them flickered, throwing a soft glow over the table, over the food neither of them had managed to touch, over the polished surface where their hands lay nowhere near each other despite the fact that both of them kept looking down as if they were waiting for the other to reach first.
Nala exhaled through her nose, a tiny, bitter sound that almost became a laugh and died before it could become anything at all. “I don’t know how to turn it off,” she admitted, and her voice had gone smaller now, the way it always did when she was telling the truth and hated that the truth made her sound human. “I don’t know how to leave that version of me at the door, because the second I stop paying attention, the second I get comfortable, somebody reminds me that I’m not allowed to be comfortable.”
Jaafar’s gaze softened, but his jaw tightened too, because he knew that part was real, knew Nala had spent years walking into rooms where men looked at her like a diversity initiative with good tailoring, knew she had survived people smiling in her face while waiting for her to make one mistake they could turn into proof.
“I know,” he said.
Her eyes lifted to his then, wet and frustrated. “But you don’t know what it feels like to come home and still feel like I’m performing.” Her fingers curled around the edge of the tablecloth. “And that’s not because of you, Jaafar. I know it’s not you, but sometimes I feel like if I sit down, if I take the heels off, if I stop being sharp and perfect and prepared for five seconds, everything I worked for is gonna slip out of my hands.”
His brows pulled together. “Including me?”
Nala looked away.
That answer hurt more than if she had said yes.
Jaafar leaned back slightly, not because he wanted distance, but because something in his chest had flinched before he could stop it, and Nala saw it, saw the small withdrawal, saw the way his mouth tightened around the hurt he was trying to keep polite.
“No,” she said quickly, almost desperately. “No, that’s not—”
“But it is,” he said, and this time his voice carried more ache than control, more truth than patience. “Somewhere in your head, loving me became something you thought would still be there once everything else was handled.”
Nala’s eyes filled before she could stop them.
“And I get it,” he continued, his hand tightening beside his plate. “I swear to God, Nala, I get it. I know what you were carrying. I watched you carry it. I watched you come home with your feet swollen from them shoes you refuse to admit hurt, watched you fall asleep with your laptop open, watched you wake up already answering emails before you even said good morning to me.” His voice broke slightly on the last part, and he looked down like he hated himself for letting it happen. “And I told myself not to be selfish. I told myself this was your dream, and I wasn’t gonna be the man standing in the way of it.”
Nala covered her mouth with trembling fingers.
“But then days turned into weeks,” he said, quieter now, his eyes still lowered. “Weeks turned into months. And I started realising I wasn’t standing in the way of anything because I wasn’t even standing anywhere you could see me.”
The room went still.
Not silent, because silence had a different texture now, heavier and more aware, but still in the way a house became still when the truth finally entered it and everything else had to make space.
Nala blinked hard, but the tears came anyway, sliding hotly down her cheeks as she looked at him across the table, at her husband, at the man who had been lonely in the same home she kept calling theirs.
“Jaafar,” she breathed.
He shook his head once, not to dismiss her, but because if she said his name like that again, soft and ruined and full of apology, he was afraid he would forgive her too quickly, before she understood what she was asking forgiveness for.
“It’s been two years since we talked like this,” he said.
The words landed between them with the kind of weight neither of them could dress up or soften.
Two years.
Not since they had spoken, because they had spoken plenty; about schedules, groceries, bills, dinners, his rehearsals, her court dates, their families, trips they had postponed, plans they kept rescheduling until the plans became jokes neither of them found funny anymore. They had spoken in passing, in fragments, in half-kisses at the door, in tired texts and practical questions, in the language of two people maintaining a marriage from the outside while something sacred inside of it went unfed.
But vulnerability?
The kind that required eye contact and no escape route?
The kind that asked a person to place their softest part in someone else’s hands and trust they would not drop it?
It had been two years.
Nala shook her head slowly, almost like hearing it made her dizzy. “I didn’t realise.”
“I know,” Jaafar said, and there was no cruelty in it, which somehow made it worse. “That’s the part that hurt me the most.”
Her breath hitched.
“I kept waiting for you to notice,” he said. “I kept thinking one day you’d come home, and you’d look around, and you’d see it. You’d see me. You’d see that I was trying so hard not to make your life heavier that I started making myself smaller.”
Nala pressed her palm to her chest as if something there had physically cracked.
“I never asked you to do that,” she whispered.
“I know you didn’t,” he said. “But I didn’t know what else to do.”
There it was.
Not anger.
Not accusation.
Just the bare, terrible truth of two people who loved each other and had still somehow learned how to abandon themselves in opposite directions.
Nala stared at him for a long moment, crying quietly now, not with theatrics or gasping sobs, but with the exhausted grief of a woman realising that while she had been fighting to prove she deserved a seat at one table, she had stopped sitting properly at the one that mattered most.
“I thought I was doing it for us,” she said, her voice thin. “I thought if I could just get there, if I could make partner, if I could secure it, then everything would calm down, and we’d have more, and I’d be able to breathe, and you’d be proud of me, and we’d—” She broke off, laughing once through her tears, bitter and embarrassed. “God, I sound so stupid.”
“You don’t,” Jaafar said immediately.
“I do,” she insisted, shaking her head. “Because I kept telling myself I was building this life for us while I was barely living in it with you.”
Jaafar’s eyes shone then, and he looked away toward the dark window, toward their reflection ghosted faintly in the glass, two people sitting across from each other like strangers wearing wedding rings.
“I was proud of you,” he said.
Nala went still.
“I am proud of you,” he corrected, turning back to her. “Don’t ever think I’m not. When they put your name on that wall, I could’ve cried right there in front of everybody, and you know I don’t like giving people free shows like that.”
Despite herself, a tiny, broken laugh slipped out of her.
His mouth softened, but only for a second.
“But I missed you,” he said. “And then I felt guilty for missing you because you were doing something great, and I didn’t want my loneliness to sound like resentment, so I kept dressing it up as patience.”
Nala’s face crumpled.
“And patience,” he continued, “started feeling like punishment after a while.”
The tears came harder then, her shoulders trembling as she tried to keep herself composed out of habit, out of reflex, out of some old instinct that told her even her grief had to be tidy.
Jaafar saw it.
He saw the way she tried to swallow the sob before it could become ugly, saw the way she straightened her spine even while breaking, saw the version of Nala that had learned to survive by making pain look organised.
“Nala,” he said softly.
She shook her head, wiping at her face too quickly. “No, I’m listening. I’m listening, I just—”
“Baby,” he said.
The word undid her.
Not because he had not called her that before, but because he had not said it like that in so long, not with that much ache folded into the sweetness, not like he was still trying to reach for the girl beneath the lawyer, beneath the partner, beneath the woman who had become so good at surviving she had forgotten how to be held.
Nala covered her face with both hands, and the sob she had been fighting finally broke loose, soft and wounded and humiliating to her in a way Jaafar knew better than to comment on.
He pushed his chair back slightly.
The sound of it scraping against the floor made her look up, panicked, as if she thought he was leaving.
He saw that too, and it hurt him so badly his face changed.
“I’m not going nowhere,” he said, low and steady.
Nala’s lips parted, but no words came out.
Jaafar stood, not quickly, not dramatically, but with the carefulness of a man approaching something injured, and came around the table until he was standing beside her chair. For a moment, neither of them moved. Nala only looked up at him with her eyes red and her face wet, her hands twisting in her lap like she did not know whether she was allowed to reach.
He crouched beside her.
That broke something else.
Because he did not tower over her, did not make her tilt her head back to meet him, did not force her to be the smaller one through power, only through tenderness. He lowered himself until they were level, until he could see her properly, until she could not hide behind the table or the plate or the distance she had spent months pretending was not there.
“I don’t know how to come back from this,” she whispered.
Jaafar’s eyes moved over her face slowly, taking in every tear, every trembling breath, every piece of his wife that was finally showing itself again after being buried under all that armour.
“I don’t either,” he admitted.
Nala’s face twisted with pain.
“But I know I don’t want to keep sitting across from you like you’re somebody I used to know,” he said.
Her hand came up before she could think better of it, hovering near his cheek for one uncertain second, and Jaafar watched the hesitation with something like heartbreak in his eyes, because his wife was hesitating to touch him.
He turned his face into her palm before she could pull away.
Nala inhaled sharply.
His eyes shut.
Her thumb moved over his cheek once, shaking badly, and the second his skin warmed beneath her hand, the memory of him rushed back with such force that it almost winded her; the softness of him in the mornings, the way he used to kiss her wrist while she talked, the way his laugh sounded when he tried not to give her the satisfaction of knowing she had made him laugh, the weight of his hand on her thigh under restaurant tables, the quiet certainty of belonging to someone who had never once made her earn tenderness.
“I missed you,” she said, and it came out like a confession she should have made months ago. “I missed you so much, Jaafar, and I don’t even know how I let myself miss you while you were right in front of me.”
His brow folded, and he reached up, covering her hand with his.
“I was right here,” he whispered.
“I know,” she cried. “I know, and I’m so sorry.”
Jaafar opened his eyes then, and for the first time all night, she saw the full hurt in them, not softened for her, not hidden to protect her, not tucked away behind the patient husband mask he had been wearing until it became too heavy.
“You hurt me, Nala.”
She nodded immediately, tears slipping down her face. “I know.”
“No,” he said, squeezing her hand slightly. “I need you to really hear me. Not as a partner, not as somebody taking feedback, not as somebody trying to fix it before the other person finishes speaking.”
Her breath caught.
“As my wife,” he said. “Hear me as my wife.”
Nala nodded again, slower this time.
Jaafar swallowed.
“You hurt me,” he repeated, and his voice broke on the second word in a way that made her close her eyes. “And I know you didn’t mean to, but you did.”
“I hear you,” she whispered.
“You made me feel like loving you meant waiting quietly until you had time for me.”
Nala’s mouth trembled.
“And I did wait,” he said. “Because I love you. Because I know you. Because I knew you were tired. Because I knew what that job meant to you. But I started wondering when waiting stopped being love and started being me begging without saying the words.”
She bent forward then, pressing her forehead to his, because there was nothing else she could do with the pain of that sentence except bring herself closer to the person she had hurt.
Jaafar let her.
He let her forehead rest against his, let her cry in that small space between them, let their breaths mix the way they used to when the world was quiet and their marriage still felt like the safest room in the house.
“I don’t want you begging for me,” she whispered against him. “I don’t ever want you feeling like that.”
“I know,” he said.
“No, Jaafar, I mean it.” Her hands moved to his face now, both of them, holding him with a desperation she could not make graceful. “I don’t want a life where everybody gets the best of me, and you get whatever’s left. That’s not fair. That’s not love. That’s not what I promised you.”
His hands settled over her wrists, his thumbs brushing gently over her skin.
“What did you promise me?” he asked, and it was not a challenge, not exactly, but something quieter, something that asked her to remember the woman she had been before the world made her prove herself until proof became a prison.
Nala’s eyes searched his, glossy and full.
“I promised to choose you,” she said. “Even when life got hard. Especially then.”
Jaafar’s throat worked.
“I promised to come home to you, not just the house,” she continued, her voice shaking. “I promised to be your wife, not your roommate with a ring.”
His eyes closed at that.
Nala pressed her forehead more firmly to his, her nose brushing his in the smallest, most familiar touch, the kind that made both of them ache because their bodies remembered tenderness even when their mouths had forgotten how to ask for it.
“I don’t know how to fix two years in one night,” she whispered.
Jaafar breathed out, slow and uneven.
“Good,” he said softly.
Her eyes opened.
He looked at her, sad and tender and still hurt, but there. So painfully there.
“Because I don’t want you trying to fix it in one night,” he said. “That’s what you do. You panic, and then you overcorrect, and then you exhaust yourself trying to make the apology perfect.”
Nala gave a watery laugh despite the tears.
He almost smiled.
Almost.
“I don’t need perfect,” he said. “I need present.”
The words sank into her so deeply she felt them in her ribs.
Present.
Not polished.
Not impressive.
Not powerful.
Present.
Nala nodded, her hands still on his face as if letting go would send him too far away again.
“I can do present,” she whispered, then corrected herself because he deserved more than a promise made from fear. “I want to learn how to do present again.”
Jaafar studied her for a long moment.
And then, slowly, carefully, like he was testing whether they still remembered how, he leaned forward and brushed his nose against hers.
Their little Eskimo kiss.
Nala broke.
Not loudly, not dramatically, but her whole face crumpled with the tenderness of it, because it was such a small thing and yet it was theirs, something that belonged to no courtroom, no firm, no client, no calendar invite, no waiting room full of men who thought her ambition was permission to strip her of softness.
It belonged to them.
Jaafar’s hand rose to her cheek, wiping away a tear with his thumb.
“There she is,” he murmured.
Nala let out a shaky breath, half laugh, half sob. “Don’t say that.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m already crying.”
His mouth finally curved, sad but real. “You been crying, ma.”
She laughed then, a broken little sound that barely survived past her lips, but it was there, and Jaafar held onto it like a match struck in a dark room.
“I’m scared,” she admitted after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper.
His thumb paused on her cheek. “Of what?”
Her eyes moved between his. “That I don’t know how to be soft anymore.”
Jaafar’s expression shifted, and this time the hurt in him made room for something gentler.
“Nala,” he said, almost under his breath.
“I mean it,” she said. “I feel like every part of me that used to know how to rest, how to be easy, how to love you without checking the time, got buried under all this… this pressure, and I don’t know how to get her back.”
Jaafar looked at her for a long time, then took one of her hands from his face and pressed it flat against his chest, right over his heart.
“She’s not gone,” he said.
Nala’s eyes fluttered.
“She’s tired,” he continued. “And she’s been scared. And she’s been fighting everybody so long she forgot I wasn’t one of them.”
The sob that left her then was quieter than the others, but deeper, pulled from somewhere old.
Jaafar held her hand against his chest.
“But I’m not them,” he said. “I’m your husband.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“And I need you to stop coming home ready to defend yourself from me.”
Nala nodded, tears spilling again. “I know.”
“Because I don’t want the version of you they get,” he said. “I don’t want the woman who has to walk in already armoured. I want you. Messy, tired, hungry, emotional, stubborn, overthinking, falling asleep in the middle of a movie and then swearing you were awake.”
She laughed again, crying through it.
“I do not swear I was awake.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I be resting my eyes.”
“You be gone.”
Her smile trembled, and for a second, just one small second, something familiar breathed between them.
Not fixed.
Not healed.
But breathing.
Then the smile faded, and the truth returned, softer this time, but still present.
“I don’t want you to resent me,” Nala whispered.
Jaafar’s eyes darkened with something complicated.
“I don’t want to resent you either,” he said.
The honesty of that answer made her still.
He did not rush to reassure her, did not lie to make the moment prettier, did not tell her resentment had never touched him just because love still lived there too.
“I love you,” he said, his voice low. “That never stopped. But love don’t mean I wasn’t angry.”
Nala nodded, even though it hurt.
“And angry don’t mean I stopped wanting you,” he added.
Her hand tightened against his chest.
“I just got tired of wanting you by myself.”
Nala closed her eyes, and Jaafar leaned his forehead back against hers, both of them breathing through the ache of it, through the terrible relief of saying the things that had been poisoning the quiet.
“I’m here now,” she whispered.
Jaafar did not answer right away.
She opened her eyes, afraid.
He was already looking at her.
“I need you to be here tomorrow too,” he said.
Nala nodded.
“And the day after that.”
“I will.”
“And not just because you feel guilty tonight.”
Her lips parted, but she stopped herself, because he was right to say it, right to need the promise to have weight beyond the tenderness of one hard conversation.
So she nodded again, slower, steadier.
“Not because I feel guilty,” she said. “Because I love you.”
Jaafar’s face softened, but the hurt did not disappear, and Nala was grateful for that in some strange way, grateful that he was not letting one confession erase what had taken years to build, grateful that he was allowing the wound to stay visible long enough for them to actually tend to it.
“I love you too,” he said.
The words did not fix the room.
They did not repair two years.
They did not turn the untouched food warm again or make the missed dinners unhappen or fill every empty night Jaafar had spent sleeping beside the absence of her.
But they entered the space between them like something living.
Something watered.
Something that still, somehow, had roots.
The next morning, Nala did as she had promised him, though the act itself felt so strange and quietly rebellious that, for a moment, she almost did not know what to do with the stillness of it.
Spontaneity was not something Jaafar’s life always allowed, not with call times, rehearsals, fittings, press obligations, scripts waiting to be memorised, people waiting to pull him into places he had agreed to be weeks before, and a career that moved according to schedules built by everyone except the person expected to keep them, but Nala, for once in what felt like a lifetime, had the luxury of choosing not to move simply because the world expected her to. She stayed home. She ignored the calendar invites already stacked on her phone before the sun had properly risen, ignored the emails she knew would keep multiplying whether she opened them or not, ignored the little guilty twitch in her fingers that told her to reach for her laptop before she had even reached for herself, and instead remained tucked into the warmth of her husband’s side, her cheek pressed against the steady rise and fall of his chest as if his breathing alone could teach her how to slow down.
She remembered the startled expression on his face when he woke and found her there.
It was a small thing, really, the way his body jolted beneath her like his mind had already prepared itself for her absence before his eyes even opened, the way his hand tightened instinctively around her waist as though some half-asleep part of him wanted to keep her from disappearing, the way his lashes fluttered before his gaze dropped to her face and stayed there with something so nakedly surprised that it made shame and tenderness twist together in her chest. Usually, by seven in the morning, Nala would have already been gone from the bed, already showered, already dressed, already walking through their home with a silk scarf tied around her hair and one heel half on while she answered a call with her other hand wrapped around a travel mug of coffee she would forget to finish. Usually, Jaafar woke to the ghost of her perfume on the sheets, the distant sound of her voice slipping through the hallway, the soft click of the front door closing on another morning where his wife had kissed him in theory but not in practice.
But that morning, she was still there.
Still bare-faced and heavy-eyed, still warm from sleep, still pressed into him with one leg tangled over his beneath the sheets, still watching him with the cautious softness of a woman who had not yet learned how to stop apologising with her eyes before her mouth could catch up. Her hair was mussed against the pillow, her voice unused, her body lax in a way he had almost forgotten it could be when she was not bracing herself for the next demand, and when their eyes met, Nala saw the realisation move across his face slowly, first confusion, then disbelief, then something that looked too much like hope for her to look at directly.
“You’re still here,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and careful in that way that made her heart ache, as though saying it too loudly might startle her back into the woman who was always leaving.
Nala swallowed, her fingers resting lightly against his chest, right over the place where his heartbeat moved steadily beneath her palm. “I told you I would be.”
Jaafar blinked at her for a moment, and she hated, hated with a sudden burning grief, that her staying in bed past seven in the morning had become something he needed proof of, hated that her presence had grown rare enough to surprise him, hated that the man she loved had learned to expect the absence before he expected the woman.
He did not say any of that, though.
He only looked at her, his hand still resting against her waist, his thumb beginning to move in a slow, absent stroke over the soft fabric of her sleep shirt, and the silence between them was not quite the same silence from the night before, not as sharp, not as hungry, not as full of teeth, but it was not easy either. It was fragile, almost shy, filled with the awkwardness of two people trying to remember how to be close without rushing the closeness into something neat and painless.
Nala shifted slightly, tucking herself closer to him as if the movement could speak for her before she found the words, and Jaafar let her, though the carefulness in the way his arm settled around her told her he was still learning whether he was allowed to believe in this version of the morning.
“I took the day off,” she said quietly.
His brows lifted.
“An actual day off,” she added, because she knew him well enough to know the question forming behind his eyes. “Not working from home. Not answering emails every ten minutes. Not taking a call in the pantry and pretending I just went to get water. I mean I’m home.”
Jaafar’s mouth parted slightly, but whatever he had been about to say seemed to catch somewhere behind his teeth.
Nala watched him absorb it, watched him struggle between being grateful and being angry that it had taken this long, watched love and caution sit together in his face like two guests who did not know how to speak to each other yet.
“I don’t want you doing this because you feel bad,” he said at last, his voice still low, still rough with sleep, still gentle enough to make her eyes sting.
“I know,” she whispered.
His gaze searched hers.
“I do feel bad,” she admitted, because lying would have been easier and less useful, because last night had stripped too much from them for her to dress the truth back up in something pretty. “But that’s not the only reason I’m here.”
Jaafar’s thumb paused at her waist.
Nala drew a breath, slow and shaky, her eyes flicking down to where her hand rested on him before lifting back to his face. “I’m here because I want to be present, and I know one morning doesn’t fix anything, and I know me staying home today doesn’t undo two years of you waking up without me, but I wanted to start somewhere, and this was the first place I could think of.”
The bedroom held the words tenderly.
Outside, the world continued without her permission, cars moving faintly beyond the windows, emails arriving in silent little stacks on her phone, the morning light stretching pale and gold across the curtains, touching the abandoned blazer hanging over the chair, the untouched heels beside the wardrobe, the laptop she had deliberately left shut on the dresser like a small defeated enemy. For the first time in two years, Nala did not get up to meet the noise. For the first time in two years, she let the world wait while she stayed in the bed she had shared more often in theory than in truth.
Jaafar looked toward the dresser, then back at her. “Your phone’s been buzzing.”
“I know.”
“You’re not gonna check it?”
Her mouth twitched, but the smile was too nervous to be called one. “I want to.”
“I know you do.”
“I’m trying not to.”
He watched her for another long moment, and then, without making a show of it, he reached behind him, picked up her phone from the nightstand, and turned it face down before placing it farther away from her side of the bed.
Nala stared at the movement, then at him.
He did not smile, not fully, but something softened around his eyes. “Helping.”
Her throat tightened.
That was the thing about Jaafar, the thing she had nearly forgotten and somehow never forgotten at all: he did not always love loudly, did not always dress affection in grand declarations or theatrical displays, but he noticed, he adjusted, he made the room easier to breathe in without announcing that he had opened a window. He knew she would fight her own habits better if the temptation was not sitting beneath her fingertips, knew she would hate being told what to do but might let him quietly move the thing that made obedience harder, knew her in the small, practical ways that survived even when the larger parts of their marriage had gone sore.
Nala’s eyes burned.
“Don’t cry,” he murmured.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m blinking aggressively.”
Jaafar’s lips pressed together like he was trying not to laugh, and the sight of it, that almost-smile, that familiar little restraint, made something warm and painful bloom beneath her ribs.
She moved closer before she could overthink it, pressing her forehead against his chest, and for a second his arm tightened around her with such immediate relief that she felt the truth of his loneliness in the grip itself. He had missed this. Not the grand version of her, not the partner in the tailored suit whose name people spoke with admiration and caution, not the woman who could command a courtroom with a single raised brow, but this woman, his wife in the blue-grey quiet of their bedroom, soft and warm and still a little stubborn, breathing against him like she was trying to remember that being held was not the same thing as being trapped.
“I don’t know how to do today,” she confessed into his chest.
Jaafar’s hand moved up to the back of her head, his fingers slipping gently into her hair. “Then don’t perform today.”
Her eyes closed.
“Don’t turn it into a project,” he said, his voice rumbling beneath her cheek. “Don’t make a list called ‘fix marriage’ in that notes app like I don’t know you.”
Despite the tenderness and the ache and the rawness still sitting between them, Nala let out a small laugh, muffled against him. “I would not name it that.”
“You absolutely would.”
“I would name it something more elegant.”
“Like what?”
She paused, and he could feel her thinking.
“Nala.”
“I said I’m trying.”
A breath of laughter left him then, quiet but real, and Nala held herself very still, as if any sudden movement might scare it away. It was not enough to fix them, not even close, but the sound moved through the room like the first bit of air after being underwater too long, and she found herself turning her face just slightly, pressing her mouth against his shirt where his heart beat beneath the fabric.
Jaafar’s hand stilled in her hair.
She did not make the kiss grand. She did not lift her head, did not ask for more, did not try to turn tenderness into proof or apology into performance. She only rested there, lips against cotton, eyes closed, breathing him in.
He looked down at her for a long moment, and though she could not see his face, she could feel the way he was watching her, feel the weight of his gaze settle over her with all the caution of a man who wanted to believe the woman he loved had come back to him, but had learned not to build a house out of one morning.
So he did not ask for promises.
He did not ask her whether tomorrow would look like this too.
He did not ask if she had cancelled enough, delegated enough, meant it enough.
He only kept his hand at the back of her head and let his thumb stroke once, twice, over her hairline.
“What do you want to do?” he asked softly.
Nala’s first instinct was to answer like a woman accustomed to productivity, to suggest breakfast, laundry, errands, something useful, something measurable, something that could prove the day had not been wasted simply because she had dared to rest inside it, but then she caught herself, felt the impulse rise and chose, with more effort than she wanted to admit, not to obey it.
“I want to stay here for a little while,” she said.
Jaafar’s chest rose beneath her cheek.
“Okay,” he whispered.
And so they stayed.
Not fixed, not suddenly whole, not magically returned to the versions of themselves who used to sit hip to hip at dinner and laugh over TikTok until the food went cold, but together in the same bed, beneath the same morning light, with Nala’s phone turned away, her laptop closed, her husband’s arm around her, and the first real off day she had taken in two years unfolding slowly around them like something neither of them quite trusted yet but both of them wanted, badly, to keep touching.
Nala pouted as she watched him get dressed for the day, her lips pressed into a frown she did not bother hiding as Jaafar moved around their bedroom with that quiet morning focus of his, the kind that made everything he did look smoother than it needed to be, from the way he rubbed the towel over his damp hair to the way he moved toward their walk-in closet with droplets of water still clinging to the warm brown of his skin.
She tried not to stare too obviously, but trying had never stopped her from doing much of anything when it came to him, and so she watched as he dropped the towel from his shower without ceremony, watched the careless intimacy of it with her cheek pressed into his pillow and the sheets pulled up around her waist, watched her husband walk away from her like he had somewhere to be when she had finally, finally chosen to stay.
The thought made her sigh dramatically enough for him to hear.
Jaafar glanced over his shoulder.
Nala, caught and entirely unapologetic, only turned onto her back and stared up at the ceiling as though the crown molding had personally offended her, her arms folding beneath the covers while the morning light spilled over the bed in soft, pale stripes and made everything feel slower than it had any right to feel. She had stayed home for him, had ignored the office for him, had let her phone sit face down on the nightstand like a problem she refused to invite into their bed, and yet there he was, getting dressed, leaving, stepping into the day while she remained tangled in sheets that still smelled like both of them.
It was selfish, she knew that.
She knew he had obligations, knew his life was not something he could abandon just because she had finally made room in hers, knew he had people waiting for him and a schedule that had been built long before she decided to take her first real off day in two years, but knowing did not stop the petulant little ache from forming low in her chest, the ache of a woman who had spent too long being unavailable and now found herself wounded by the inconvenience of everyone else not immediately becoming free the moment she was.
Jaafar came back out of the closet with a pair of trousers hanging low on his hips, his shirt still unbuttoned in his hand, and the sight of him standing there half-dressed, damp curls beginning to dry around his forehead, made Nala’s frown deepen purely on principle.
“What?” he asked, though his mouth was already threatening to smile.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not a nothing face.”
“I don’t have a nothing face.”
“You have several,” he said, stepping closer to the bed. “That one means you’re mad at something you know you don’t have a right to be mad at.”
Nala turned her head slowly on the pillow and looked at him with narrowed eyes. “You been diagnosing me all morning.”
“I been married to you long enough to recognise symptoms.”
Her mouth twitched despite herself, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of a full smile, especially when he was standing at the edge of their bed looking unfairly beautiful and entirely too ready to leave her.
“I took the day off,” she said, and though she meant for it to sound casual, it came out softer than that, smaller than that, with the barest edge of disappointment wrapped around it.
Jaafar’s expression changed.
The teasing left him gently, not all at once, but enough for Nala to see that he had heard what lived beneath the words, that he understood this was not really about him getting dressed or going to work or leaving the house for a few hours, but about the terrible timing of her finally reaching for him on a day when the world had already reached first.
“I know,” he said quietly.
She swallowed and looked away, suddenly embarrassed by the weight of her own wanting. “It’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
“It is,” she insisted, her gaze fixed on the ceiling again. “I can’t disappear into work for months and then pout because you have a call time.”
Jaafar did not answer immediately, and when the mattress dipped beside her, Nala closed her eyes for a second, because she had not expected him to sit, had not expected him to bring all that warmth and clean soap and familiar closeness back within reach when she was already trying so hard not to ask for too much.
“I don’t think you’re pouting because I have a call time,” he said.
Her throat tightened.
“I think you’re pouting because you stayed,” he continued, his voice low enough to belong only to the space between them, “and some part of you wanted me to stay too.”
Nala blinked up at him, and the unfair thing about being loved by someone who knew her well was that sometimes he could name the softest, most embarrassing part of her before she had decided whether she was brave enough to admit it existed.
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
Jaafar’s eyes moved over her face with a tenderness that made her want to hide beneath the covers and drag him under with her.
“I know I can’t ask that,” she whispered.
“You didn’t.”
“But I wanted to.”
His hand came to rest on the blanket near her hip, not touching skin, not forcing affection out of the moment, only close enough for her to feel the option of him. “You can want things, Nala.”
She let out a small, humourless breath. “That sounds dangerous.”
“It probably is, with you.”
Her eyes flicked back to him, and for the first time that morning, a real smile tried to gather at the corner of her mouth.
Jaafar noticed, because of course he did, and his own smile softened in response before he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there longer than he needed to, long enough for Nala’s eyes to flutter shut and for her hand to slip from beneath the covers to catch weakly at his open shirt.
He paused.
She did not pull him closer, not exactly, but her fingers curled in the fabric as if some stubborn, younger part of her had decided she was allowed to keep him for one more second.
“Ma,” he murmured.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re holding me hostage by a button.”
“It’s a very strong button.”
“It’s not even buttoned.”
“That’s between you and your stylist.”
A quiet laugh left him, and the sound warmed her better than the sunlight touching the bed, because it was still careful, still carrying the bruise of everything they had said the night before, but it was his laugh, and it was in their room, and she had missed being the reason for it.
Jaafar lowered himself a little more, bracing one hand beside her head, and Nala looked up at him with her pout still stubbornly in place, though her eyes had gone softer now, less wounded and more open, the way they always did when she was trying to be difficult and vulnerable at the same time.
“I can come back as soon as I’m done,” he said.
Nala shook her head immediately. “Don’t rush because of me.”
“I want to come home because of you.”
That stole the next breath from her.
He seemed to know it too, because his thumb brushed lightly over the edge of the blanket near her waist, a small, grounding touch that kept the words from floating away and becoming too pretty to believe.
“I’m serious,” he said. “I got a few hours. Then I’m coming back.”
Nala stared at him, caught between wanting to accept that and wanting not to need it so badly. “And then what?”
His brows lifted slightly. “Then we figure out how to spend an off day without you turning it into a corporate retreat.”
Her mouth fell open. “I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
“I hate that you know me.”
“No, you don’t.”
She looked at him for a long second, the humour thinning into something tender, something that made the room feel too quiet again.
“No,” she admitted softly. “I don’t.”
Jaafar’s face gentled, and for a moment he only looked at her, at his wife lying in their bed past seven in the morning for the first time in years, her hair messy against his pillow, her eyes tired but present, her fingers still caught in his shirt like she was learning how to ask without making the asking sound like weakness.
He bent lower, slow enough for her to meet him or refuse him, and Nala, who had spent too long pretending she did not need anything, lifted her chin before he could close the distance alone.
The kiss was soft.
Not enough to erase anything, not enough to turn the morning into a movie scene, not enough to pretend they were fine just because their mouths still knew each other, but enough to remind them both that love had not left the house, that it had only been waiting somewhere under the mess, under the hurt, under the armour, still breathing, still warm, still reaching.
When he pulled back, Nala’s eyes stayed closed for a second longer.
“You’re still pouting,” he murmured.
“I’m processing.”
“You’re pouting.”
“I’m a wife,” she said, opening her eyes with all the dignity she could gather while lying under the covers clutching his shirt. “I’m allowed.”
Jaafar smiled then, real and helpless, and Nala hated how much she loved the sight of it, hated how it made her chest feel tender and bruised all at once, hated that something as simple as making her husband smile had begun to feel like a privilege she had almost misplaced.
He kissed her once more, quicker this time, though his mouth lingered at the corner of hers as if leaving had become harder than he expected.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
Nala nodded, but her fingers did not let go right away.
Jaafar looked down at her hand.
She looked at it too, then slowly released the fabric with a quiet sigh that sounded far more dramatic than she intended.
“Go before I start acting out,” she muttered.
His brows rose. “Start?”
“Jaafar.”
He laughed again as he stood, and Nala watched him return to the closet, watched him button his shirt, watched him step back into the world with the sort of reluctant discipline both of their lives demanded from them, and though the ache in her chest did not disappear, it changed shape slightly as she lay there in their bed, no longer abandoned by his leaving, but waiting for his return with the strange, fragile comfort of knowing he wanted to come back.
Still, when he glanced at her through the closet doorway and caught her staring, she frowned again on purpose.
Because healing was one thing.
Letting that man think she was above being a little dramatic about him was another matter entirely.
Nala had never been one to mope, except that was not entirely true, because when she finally did give herself permission to feel something, to really sit with the weight of it instead of folding it into the next task, the next case, the next perfectly colour-coded obligation, she could mope with the quiet devotion of a woman who had been pretending not to ache for far too long.
With a long, dramatic sigh that had no audience but the ceiling, she eventually forced herself out of bed, her bare feet pressing into the cool floor as she stood in the middle of their bedroom for a moment with his scent still clinging to the sheets and the faint warmth of where his body had been beside hers already beginning to fade. She changed the bedding even though she was fairly certain the sheets had only been on the bed for three days, maybe four if she was being honest and not counting the nights she had stumbled in too tired to care, stripping the pillows, tugging loose the fitted sheet, gathering everything into her arms as if she could wash away the loneliness that had settled into the cotton along with perfume, sleep, and the ghost of all the mornings she had left him there alone.
She carried the bundle to the laundry room and shoved it into the washer with more force than necessary, adding detergent, pressing buttons, watching the machine begin to fill as if the familiar rush of water might be capable of doing something sacred, something purifying, something that would make their bed feel less like a place where they had been sleeping beside each other and more like a place where they might learn how to rest together again.
Then she moved through their empty home slowly, and the emptiness noticed her.
It was ridiculous, she knew that, the idea that a house could turn its head and look at you, but theirs seemed to do exactly that as she walked from room to room in one of Jaafar’s old shirts and bare legs, her hair still loose from sleep, her face untouched by makeup, her body aimless in a way it had not been allowed to be for years. The house was too quiet without him, too big without the low hum of his voice coming from another room, too still without the casual evidence of him moving through it, and when she spotted the mug he had left behind on the coffee table, the one with a faint ring of coffee drying at the bottom and the ghost of his mouth resting somewhere along the rim, something inside her softened so suddenly it almost hurt.
She picked it up carefully, cradling it in both hands like it was something precious instead of a cup he had forgotten while rushing out the door, and before she could talk herself out of the tenderness of it, she pressed her lips to the place where his had been.
The act was so small, so private, so embarrassingly full of want that Nala closed her eyes for a second after she did it, standing in the middle of their living room with her mouth against ceramic and her heart sitting bare in her chest. She missed him. God, she missed him in the most ordinary ways, missed the sound of him drinking coffee too early and complaining that it was too hot even though he refused to let it cool, missed the way he would leave mugs in places they did not belong and then swear he was coming back for them, missed the version of herself who used to fuss at him while secretly loving every little trace he left behind because it meant he was there, because it meant their life was being lived in, because it meant home was not just polished surfaces and expensive furniture but proof of two people belonging messily to the same place.
She rinsed the mug after that, slowly, letting the warm water run over her fingers until the last bit of coffee disappeared down the drain, then set it carefully on the drying rack as if she owed it gentleness.
When she turned back toward the rest of the house, the word came to her before she could stop it.
Home.
Not property, not address, not the place she came back to when her body could no longer keep itself upright, not the silent, beautiful house she had begun moving through like a guest with a key, but home, the word landing somewhere deep and tender beneath her ribs, unfamiliar only because she had not let herself feel it properly in so long.
Her eyes moved around the living room, over the framed photos lining the shelves, the ones she had passed a thousand times without truly seeing because there had always been a phone in her hand, a thought in her head, a case waiting in the wings, some invisible timer counting down until she had to become useful again. There they were, scattered across the walls and tables like little windows into a life she had not meant to abandon: Nala and Jaafar younger, brighter, softer around the edges, their smiles wider before exhaustion taught them restraint, his arm thrown around her shoulders while she leaned into him with the ease of a girl who had never doubted that love would be waiting exactly where she left it.
In one photo, she was still wearing her glasses, the round frames slightly crooked on her nose because Jaafar had made her laugh right before the picture was taken, her hair pulled back messily, her face bare, a thick textbook open in her lap while his chin rested shamelessly on her shoulder as if studying had been something he could interrupt by sheer force of affection. She remembered that day with an ache so sharp it almost winded her, remembered the way he had kept bothering her while she tried to read, kissing her temple, stealing her pen, asking questions he already knew the answers to just so she would look at him, and remembered how easily she had put the book down then, how naturally she had closed the pages, turned toward him, and let herself be wanted.
Back then, she had put her books down for him.
Back then, before the suits and the contacts and the relentless sharpening of every soft part of herself, before she learned to walk into rooms prepared to be underestimated, before success began demanding proof of her devotion like a jealous god, Jaafar had never had to compete with the life she was building because he had been woven into the building of it. He was in the margins of her notes, in the playlists she studied to, in the late-night food runs, in the way she would call him after exams with her voice trembling from stress, in the way he would tell her to breathe as if the word itself could hold her together. He had been there when the dream was still a dream, when her name on a wall was only something she whispered about with her face tucked into his chest, when she still believed becoming great would make more room for love instead of quietly stealing from it.
Another photo caught them standing in the kitchen of their first place, both of them laughing with flour on their clothes, Nala’s glasses pushed up onto her head, Jaafar’s hands around her waist, her body twisted halfway toward him as if the person behind the camera had interrupted something that belonged only to them. She stared at that picture for a long time, at the way her younger self looked at him, not polished, not impressive, not careful, but openly, stupidly, gorgeously in love, as if the world could have called her name a hundred times and she still would have turned toward him first.
Guilt gnawed at her then, slow and merciless.
Not the neat kind of guilt she could turn into action, not the kind that came with a solution attached, but the ugly, intimate kind that made her look at the woman in those pictures and wonder when she had stopped being someone who reached for her husband without having to schedule herself permission first. She had not meant to leave him behind, had not meant to make love something she assumed would keep itself alive in the background while she fought wars at work, had not meant to make their marriage another room she entered tired, another place where Jaafar had learned to accept less because asking for more felt like interrupting her.
But intention did not soften impact.
That was the part that kept pressing its thumb into the bruise.
She could love him desperately and still have hurt him. She could have built something extraordinary and still have let something sacred go hungry. She could have spent two years becoming the woman she had always wanted to be and still have failed to notice that the man who loved that woman was learning how to miss her while standing in the same house.
Jesus.
It had been two years.
Two years since she had moved through this home without thinking of what had to be done next, two years since she had let herself look at their pictures long enough to miss the people inside them, two years since she had understood that yearning was not always loud or cinematic or dressed in grand declarations, because sometimes yearning was standing barefoot in a quiet living room, kissing the rim of a forgotten coffee mug, and realising that the life you were fighting so hard to protect had been sitting in front of you the whole time, waiting for you to come back and touch it.
This simple ache, this yearning of hers, sat behind her ribs and breathed when she should have been thinking about anything else, when she should have been resting, when she should have been lying on the couch and letting her first real off day in two years remain exactly that, an off day, an empty stretch of time with no demands, no clients, no men in boardrooms mistaking her restraint for gratitude, no performance required from the woman who had spent too long turning herself into something sharp enough to survive.
But Nala had never been particularly good at sitting still with guilt.
She tried, at first, settling herself on the couch with a blanket over her legs and the television murmuring some show she had no intention of following, her body present in the quiet while her mind wandered restlessly back to Jaafar, to the way he had looked at her that morning, to the surprise in his eyes when he found her still in bed, to the gentle caution in his voice when he told her he wanted present and not perfect. Present. The word had not left her alone since he said it, not because she misunderstood it, but because understanding it did not make the urge to do something any less fierce, any less hungry, any less desperate in the hands of a woman who had spent years proving love through motion, through problem-solving, through becoming useful before she became vulnerable.
So, before she could talk herself out of it, she found herself reaching for her laptop.
Not for work, she told herself immediately, as if some invisible judge had already raised a brow at her from across the room, and true to her promise, she bypassed the emails waiting in the corner of the screen, ignored the little red numbers multiplying like accusations, ignored the subject lines that wanted her back, wanted the partner, wanted the woman who knew how to answer every crisis except the one living in her own house. Instead, she opened a fresh tab and sat there for a moment, her fingers hovering over the keys as she thought about Jaafar’s favourite flowers.
She knew them, of course she did.
She knew the ones he liked because of colour, the ones he liked because his mother used to keep them around, the ones he pretended not to care about until he was rearranging them in a vase to face the light properly, the ones he once said made a room feel like somebody had been loved there. She remembered him telling her that so clearly it hurt, remembered laughing at him then and calling him dramatic, remembered how he had shrugged with that soft, handsome little smile and told her, I said what I said, as if romance was not something he performed but something he noticed in the air around him.
She typed the flower name into the search bar, then stopped.
One bouquet, she thought, staring at the screen until the words blurred slightly before her.
One bouquet for the dinner she had missed last week, the one he had planned around her schedule only for her to text him at almost nine saying the meeting had run over and not to wait up. One bouquet for the food he had put away without making her feel worse when she came home close to midnight and found him asleep on the couch, one hand still resting near his phone like he had been waiting for it to light up with something warmer than an apology.
But no.
No, one bouquet would not be enough.
Not because Jaafar needed excess, not because flowers could pay a debt love had incurred, not because beauty could erase absence, but because one bouquet felt too neat, too tidy, too close to the kind of apology that allowed the giver to feel absolved before the wound had even been touched. One bouquet could say I’m sorry about dinner. One bouquet could say I thought of you today. One bouquet could say forgive me quickly so I can stop feeling this ache.
But Nala did not want quick.
She did not want clean.
She did not want the love in dreams, the kind that looked pretty from a distance, dramatic and immediate and satisfying because it asked for a grand gesture instead of endurance. She thought, suddenly, of Dostoevsky, of that line from The Brothers Karamazov that had once lived underlined in one of her old books: “Love in action is a harsh and dreadful thing compared with love in dreams.”
Harsh and dreadful.
Yes.
Because love in dreams was easy. Love in dreams was one perfect bouquet, one tearful apology, one kiss at the door, one night where everything softened because they both wanted it badly enough. Love in action was harder. Love in action was cancelling the call, closing the laptop, learning not to flinch when silence asked to be filled honestly, staying when shame begged her to perform, listening when Jaafar told her she had hurt him and not rushing to make the hurt more comfortable for herself. Love in action was not applause. It was not visible to the partners at her firm, not impressive to the men who measured worth in hours billed and rooms conquered. It was labour. Fortitude. A science, maybe, for people like her who had forgotten that devotion could not survive on intention alone.
Nala’s fingers moved again, slower this time.
She searched florists, then arrangements, then custom installations, then stopped pretending this was about a simple delivery at all.
A vase for the dinner she missed last week.
Another for the anniversary breakfast she had rescheduled into nothing.
Another for the night he had asked if she wanted to watch a movie and she had fallen asleep twenty minutes in with her head bent over discovery documents instead of his shoulder.
Another for the morning he had kissed her goodbye and she had answered an email over his mouth.
Another for the calls she had declined because she was “in the middle of something,” as if he had not been the centre of everything once.
Another for every time he had stood at the edge of her ambition and made himself smaller so she could walk without tripping over his loneliness.
Her throat tightened, but she kept going, clicking through colours and sizes and shapes, her mind no longer settling for an apology that could sit politely on a dining table and behave itself. No, if she was going to give him flowers, then the house would bloom with them. Their home, the home she had moved through like a stranger that morning, would remember softness before she did. It would hold colour in every room she had made too quiet. It would smell alive when he walked back in. It would be illogical, excessive, tender to the point of embarrassment, and exactly the sort of thing Nala would do when yearning finally got its hands on her.
She imagined it before she ordered it: flowers in the entryway to greet him before she found the courage to speak, flowers in the kitchen where they used to dance while waiting for pasta water to boil, flowers in the living room beneath the photographs of their younger selves, flowers beside the couch where he had fallen asleep waiting for her more times than she could count, flowers near the dining table where the night before they had sat across from each other and told the truth like it hurt to breathe.
A bouquet for every occasion.
A vase for every missed dinner.
A bloom for every version of him she had failed to reach for while telling herself she was building a life for them.
It would not be enough.
She knew that.
But maybe love in action was not about enough, not at first.
Maybe it was about beginning.
Maybe it was about letting the ache behind her ribs become something with hands, something that moved through the house and touched every empty place she had left behind, something that said, before she was brave enough to say it without crying, I see what I neglected. I see what I nearly lost. I am trying to come home.
Soon, their home resembled a field in bloom, not in the neat, curated way of a magazine spread or the restrained elegance of something styled for other people’s eyes, but in the wild, tender, faintly irrational way of a woman trying to translate remorse into beauty, trying to make yearning visible, trying to fill every room she had once crossed too quickly with evidence that she had, at last, stopped running from the truth of what she had done to them.
There was a vase in the foyer for the birthday dinner she had cut short with a call she swore would only take five minutes and which had swallowed the rest of the evening whole, another in the kitchen for the breakfast he had made her one Sunday and eaten mostly alone while she revised a brief at the counter with coffee going cold beside her, one on the dining table for last week’s missed reservation, one on the coffee table for all the films he had put on only to watch her drift away into the blue-white glow of her laptop before the opening credits had finished, another beside the staircase for every time he had reached for her in passing and found only the hurried ghost of her moving elsewhere.
They were everywhere.
Soft white roses and pale peach ranunculus in one arrangement because they reminded her of the early days, before she wore her ambition like armour and before Jaafar learned how to tell, by the set of her jaw alone, whether she would be physically present but mentally unreachable. Deep burgundy dahlias and blush peonies in another because he once told her he liked flowers that looked full, flowers that did not apologise for taking up space, flowers that entered a room and insisted on being noticed. Sprays of baby’s breath drifted around richer blooms like breath itself, like softness itself, like the gentler parts of their marriage she had trusted to survive on too little.
By the time she was halfway through arranging the last of them, her fingers were damp from clipped stems and fragrant with greenery, the whole house breathing out perfume so thick and sweet that it softened the air, made every room feel less like a place she had been surviving in and more like something being reclaimed, something being coaxed back to life under her hands.
And still, it did not feel like enough.
There were tears in her eyes by then, hot and stubborn and irritating in the way tears always were when she was trying to do something with precision, and she blinked them away impatiently as she shifted another bouquet into place, adjusting a stem here, turning a vase there, stepping back to assess, then moving forward again because if she let herself sit still too long she knew the grief of it would overtake her completely.
Her vision blurred at exactly the wrong moment.
The heel of her hand knocked the side of a glass vase, and before she could catch it properly it tipped, water sloshing over the table and down the side, the bouquet lurching crookedly as the vase struck the edge hard enough to crack, then fell in a glittering spill at her feet. Nala let out a sharp breath, more startled than frightened, but when she stepped back instinctively, the sole of her foot came down on something small and viciously sharp.
Pain shot through her.
She hissed, immediately lifting her foot from the floor, her hand flying to the edge of the table for balance as she looked down to see a thin shard of glass skittering away from where it had nicked her, not deep, no, nothing dramatic, just enough to break the skin along the soft pad near the arch and bring a bright bead of blood welling to the surface before trailing into a narrow line across her heel.
For one second, she simply stared at it.
Then she shook her head.
“No,” she murmured aloud to the empty room, to the blood, to the inconvenience of her own body, to anything that might dare shift the focus of this day back toward her. “No, that won’t do.”
The irony of it was not lost on her, not entirely. She had spent two years making everything about work, about deadlines, about clients, about the next thing and the next thing and the next thing, and now that she was finally trying to build something for Jaafar, even something as small as this, she refused to let pain make her the centre of the scene again. She did not want him coming home and finding bandages first, concern first, her first. She did not want his face tightening with worry as he crouched before her and asked what happened and forgot, even for a moment, to take in what she had done here. She wanted him to walk in and see the flowers, to see the colour and the tenderness and the excess of it, to see how her guilt had overflowed into every room, how sorry she was, how much she missed him, how fiercely she was trying, in the only language she trusted before speech failed her, to show him that his loneliness had not gone unnoticed, that his absence inside her had begun to ache louder than her pride.
So she set her jaw and got on with it.
Balancing awkwardly on the uninjured foot, she cleaned the spill first, because of course she did, fetching paper towels, blotting the water before it could stain the runner, gathering the larger shards one by one and setting them carefully aside. The sting in her foot pulsed with each shift of weight, and a thinner woman might have sat down, might have tended to herself first, might have admitted that bleeding in the middle of the living room was a sign to pause, but Nala had never been especially reasonable where devotion was concerned, and if love in action was harsh and dreadful, as the Russians liked to insist, then she thought perhaps this was her small and rather ridiculous share of the dreadful.
By the time she had wrapped her foot in a paper towel and secured it clumsily with a strip of gauze from the downstairs bathroom, more to stop the blood from trailing than out of any real concern for injury, she was limping only a little, moving through the house with a determined sort of tenderness, replacing the broken vase with another, fluffing petals that did not need fluffing, straightening ribbons, turning arrangements ever so slightly toward the doorways as though the flowers themselves should be waiting for him.
When she finally paused in the middle of the living room, chest rising and falling a touch too fast, she looked around and felt her throat close.
It was beautiful.
Too much, perhaps. A little mad. Deeply Nala in a way she had not been in years, because there was something so purely her about taking one missed dinner and letting it become a field, about turning apology into abundance, about loving to the point of excess once she finally let herself admit she had been starving the thing she valued most.
The foyer glowed with soft colour. The kitchen looked warmed by life. The dining room, where truth had sat between them the night before, had been gentled by petals and glass and fragrance. Even the staircase seemed softer with flowers gathered at its foot like an offering.
And still her eyes burned.
She pressed the heel of her hand to them, careful not to smudge herself too much though there was no one there to witness it, and let out a shaky breath that sounded almost like a laugh and almost like a sob.
“Please,” she whispered, though she was not sure whether she was speaking to God, to the flowers, to the house, or to the man who was not yet there to hear her. “Please let him see it.”
Not just the arrangements.
Not just the effort.
Her.
The wife beneath the lawyer, the woman beneath the ambition, the girl who once put her books down the second he asked for her and had somehow let life teach her that being needed elsewhere mattered more than being known at home. She wanted him to see that she had not stopped loving him, only lost her way in the performance of becoming someone the world would respect. She wanted him to see that her absence had not been indifference, that it had cost her too, that she had come back to herself only to find his hurt waiting there like a mirror she could no longer avoid.
The ache behind her ribs swelled until she had to sit, not for long, just on the edge of the sofa with her bandaged foot tucked beneath the other leg, her gaze moving over the rooms as though they might give her courage by becoming beautiful enough. If he came home now, she thought, perhaps he would understand that this had not been thrown together lightly, that every vase was a confession, every stem an apology, every bloom a little white flag raised over the battleground she had made of their marriage without ever meaning to.
And if he asked about the blood, if he noticed the limp, if his eyes went first to her because they always did when she was hurt, then she would smile and brush it away and tell him it was nothing, because for once she did not want tending to, did not want soothing, did not want him to gather her injury into his hands and make it the most important thing in the room.
She wanted him to focus on this.
On the house bursting with flowers.
On the fact that she knew one conversation and one day off and one ridiculous field of bouquets could never undo two years.
On the fact that she had tried anyway.
On the fact that she missed him enough to make the whole house bloom with it.
By the time Jaafar came home, the house had stopped looking like a house and started looking like some impossible, private meadow Nala had dragged indoors with her bare hands, as though grief itself had bloomed from the floorboards and climbed over every surface until there was no corner of their home untouched by colour, scent, apology, and the kind of love that did not know how to arrive quietly once it had finally been allowed to come.
He noticed the flowers before he noticed the silence.
The moment he opened the front door, one hand still on the key, the other holding the strap of his bag against his shoulder, he paused with one foot just inside the foyer, his mouth parting slightly as the perfume of hundreds of bouquets rushed toward him all at once, soft and sweet and overwhelming, roses and peonies and lilies and ranunculus and tulips and dahlias gathered so abundantly that the air itself seemed fuller than it had been when he left that morning. For a second, Jaafar did not move at all. He only stood there in the doorway, looking at the foyer that had become a garden, at vases lining the console table, the floor, the staircase, the little bench where he usually dropped his keys, flowers spilling over glass and ceramic and porcelain in every direction until the entrance to their home looked less like a place people came in and out of and more like a threshold built for confession.
“Nala?” he called, but her name left him differently than it usually did, softer, pulled from somewhere lower in his chest, already carrying the weight of what he had not yet fully understood.
There was no immediate answer, only the faint hum of the washer somewhere deeper in the house and the quiet, living rustle of petals shifting in the air stirred by the open door.
He stepped inside slowly and closed the door behind him, the latch clicking into place with a softness that felt strangely too loud, and then he saw the next room.
Flowers in the living room.
Flowers along the mantel.
Flowers clustered beneath the framed photographs of them when they were younger, wilder with love, less bruised by the quiet discipline of adulthood and ambition, and Jaafar’s gaze caught on one picture in particular, one where Nala still wore her glasses, where her smile had been crooked because he had said something stupid right before the shutter clicked, where his younger self had been looking at her instead of the camera because apparently even then he had not known how to look away from her when she was in the room. Beneath that photo sat three enormous arrangements, one soft and white, one blush and peach, one deep red and almost defiant, and the sight of them placed there with such intention made something in him tighten.
He walked farther in.
The house kept opening itself to him in flowers.
The kitchen island was crowded with blooms, their stems arranged in tall vases and low bowls and whatever containers she must have found when she ran out of anything proper, because there were flowers in water glasses, flowers in pitchers, flowers tucked into the blue ceramic jug they never used because it was too pretty to risk breaking. The dining table, the same table where they had sat across from each other the night before with cooling food and two years of silence between them, had been transformed completely, covered in flowers so full and fragrant they nearly swallowed the wood beneath them. Bouquets leaned toward one another like they were whispering, petals brushing, greenery spilling over the edges, the whole table softened into something almost holy.
Jaafar’s bag slipped from his shoulder and hit the floor with a muted thud.
Still, he did not call her again.
He could not.
His throat had gone too tight for that.
He only looked around, slowly, taking in each vase, each bloom, each impossible offering, and the longer he looked, the more the meaning of it began to gather in him with such force that he had to press his hand over his mouth for a second. This was not decoration. This was not romance performed for the sake of beauty. This was Nala trying to speak through every room she had passed through too quickly, Nala trying to make apology visible, Nala turning their home into something alive because she had finally seen all the places in it where their marriage had gone unfed.
When he finally found her, she was in the kitchen, standing near the island with one hand braced against the counter and the other fussing unnecessarily with a spray of pale flowers that already looked perfect, her body going still the moment she heard him come in behind her.
She did not turn around immediately.
Jaafar noticed that too.
He noticed the tension in her shoulders, the careful inhale, the way she seemed to gather herself before facing him, as though she had built an entire field in their home and only now realised she still had to stand in the middle of it and let him see her.
“Nala,” he said again, and this time her name sounded even softer.
She turned.
His breath caught.
She looked tired, and beautiful, and almost painfully nervous, wearing one of his old shirts over shorts he could barely see beneath the hem, her hair loose, her face bare except for the sheen of tears already gathered in her eyes. There was a faint smudge of green along her thumb from the flower stems, a damp patch near the side of her shirt where water must have splashed, and something small and white wrapped around one foot, not enough for him to fully understand yet but enough for his eyes to flicker downward before she shifted her weight and drew his attention back to her face.
“Before you say anything,” she started, her voice trembling slightly, “I know it’s too much.”
Jaafar stared at her.
“I know it’s excessive,” she continued quickly, as though she had rehearsed this and then forgotten the order the second he came home. “And I know flowers don’t fix anything, and I know this probably looks like I lost my mind a little, which, honestly, maybe I did, but I didn’t know what else to do with all of it, and I kept thinking one bouquet would be enough for one missed dinner, but then one missed dinner became another thing, and then another thing, and then it just—”
Her voice broke.
Jaafar did not move toward her yet, not because he did not want to, but because he knew if he touched her too soon, she would fold into him before she finished saying what she needed to say, and this mattered, the words mattered, the trembling attempt mattered, the way his wife was standing in their kitchen surrounded by hundreds of flowers and still looking like the bravest thing she had done all day was allowing herself to be seen.
“It just kept going,” she whispered, wiping quickly under one eye with the back of her hand. “Every time I remembered something else, I ordered more, or I found another vase, or I put flowers somewhere else, because I didn’t want to pretend it was just the dinner last week, Jaafar. It wasn’t just one dinner.”
His face softened and broke at the same time.
“It was the movie nights,” she said, her eyes moving toward the living room before returning to him. “It was the breakfasts. It was you asking me if I wanted to sit with you and me saying in a minute until the minute became midnight. It was you calling me, and me looking at my phone and thinking I’d call you back, and then forgetting because something else came up. It was you waiting up for me, and me telling myself you understood, because you always understood, because you loved me enough to understand until I made understanding hurt you.”
Jaafar swallowed hard.
“Nala,” he murmured.
“No, I need to say it.” Her voice shook more now, but she held his gaze anyway, and the effort of it made him ache. “I need to say it without turning it into a speech and without trying to sound smart, because I don’t feel smart right now. I feel stupid. I feel like I spent two years being so scared of failing out there that I didn’t notice I was failing you in here.”
His eyes shone, but he said nothing.
She glanced around at the flowers, almost helplessly, as though the sheer amount of them embarrassed her now that he was standing in front of her.
“So I put one in the foyer for every time you came home and I wasn’t really here,” she said softly. “I put them on the dining table for every meal I missed, and by the couch for every night you sat beside me while I worked, and under those pictures because I looked at them this morning and realised that girl would have put her books down for you before you even had to ask.”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
“I don’t know when I stopped putting things down for you,” she said. “I don’t know when I started treating you like something that would still be there after everything else was done, but I did, and I’m sorry. I am so sorry, Jaafar.”
He looked down for a second, his hand passing slowly over his mouth, his jaw tight with the effort of keeping himself steady.
Nala mistook the silence for disappointment and rushed to fill it.
“And I know this isn’t present the way you meant it,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the flowers, her laugh coming out wet and embarrassed. “I know this is probably the exact thing you warned me about, me turning an apology into some enormous project, but I swear I wasn’t trying to make it perfect. I was just… I was sitting here, and everything in me missed you, and I needed you to know that I missed you in every room, not just when you were gone, not just this morning, but all the time, even when I was too proud or too busy or too armoured to admit it.”
Jaafar looked back up at her then.
His eyes were wet.
That undid her more than anything he could have said.
“I needed you to see it,” she whispered. “I needed you to walk in and know that I see it now. I see what I neglected. I see the places where I left you lonely. I see how much of you I kept taking for granted because I thought love could survive on being true instead of being shown.”
The room held still around them, every flower seeming to lean in, every petal and stem and glass vase bearing witness to the quiet devastation of a woman finally trying to put language around the kind of harm that had never been loud enough to look like harm while it was happening.
Jaafar breathed in shakily, his gaze moving around the kitchen, then back to her.
“This is crazy,” he said, but his voice was thick, almost ruined.
Nala let out a tiny, broken laugh, wiping at her face. “I know.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head as he took a step closer, then another. “I mean this is you.”
Her face crumpled.
“This is so deeply you,” he continued, his eyes moving over the flowers again with something like wonder and grief tangled together. “You couldn’t just say sorry and buy one bouquet like a normal person.”
“I considered one bouquet.”
“For how long?”
“Maybe three minutes.”
A breath of laughter left him, but it sounded like it had tears inside it.
Nala tried to smile, but her mouth trembled instead.
Jaafar came closer, slow enough that she could see every bit of feeling crossing his face before he reached her, and when he stopped in front of her, he did not touch her right away. He only looked at her, really looked at her, his eyes taking in the wetness on her cheeks, the nervous set of her mouth, the way she was trying not to shift onto her injured foot, the way she had made their whole house bloom because saying I miss you had not been enough for the size of the ache.
“You heard me,” he said quietly.
Nala nodded, tears falling faster now. “I did.”
“You really heard me.”
“I did,” she whispered. “I heard you, and I hate that it took me this long.”
Jaafar’s face tightened.
“I don’t want you to hate yourself,” he said.
“I know.”
“I’m serious, Nala.”
“I know,” she said again, and this time there was a softness in it, not dismissal, not defence. “I’m trying not to make that the point either.”
His lips pressed together as he looked down, breathing through something too heavy to name quickly, and when he lifted his eyes again, the hurt was still there, but so was love, vast and exhausted and bright beneath all the bruising.
“I was mad at you,” he said.
“I know.”
“I’m still mad at you in places,” he admitted, his voice low, as if the confession cost him because part of him wanted the flowers to make him gentler than he was ready to be.
Nala nodded, accepting it with a tearful steadiness that told him she was trying, really trying, not to grab for reassurance just because the truth stung. “You’re allowed to be.”
His brows pulled together.
“You are,” she said, reaching slowly for his hand and then stopping just before she touched him, giving him the choice. “You don’t have to forgive me faster because I made the house look beautiful.”
Jaafar looked at her hovering fingers, then slid his hand into hers.
Her breath caught.
His thumb moved once over her knuckles.
“I love you,” he said, and his voice broke on the words in a way that made her close her eyes. “That’s the problem, ma. I love you so much that being mad at you don’t even know where to sit.”
A sob slipped out of her before she could stop it.
Jaafar stepped closer, their joined hands caught between them.
“I’d be in the bed missing you while you were in the same room,” he said, his eyes shining harder now. “I’d be watching you from across tables, from doorways, from the passenger seat, from wherever you’d let me stand that day, and I kept thinking, that’s my wife, that’s my girl, that’s the woman I married, and somehow I still couldn’t reach you.”
Nala’s shoulders trembled.
“I’m here,” she whispered, and the words were not a fix, not a magic key, not enough to unlock every closed door between them, but they were true, and that made them powerful in a way perfection never had been.
Jaafar’s hand lifted to her face then, his palm warm against her cheek, his thumb catching the tears before they could reach her jaw.
“You scared me,” he said.
Her eyes opened.
“Not like I thought you were gonna leave me,” he clarified, though his voice shook enough to betray the fact that some part of him might have wondered anyway. “But like one day I was gonna wake up and realise we’d gotten used to being apart. Like we’d just keep living in the same house, loving each other from a distance, and calling that marriage because neither one of us wanted to be the one to say we were lonely.”
Nala nodded through her tears, her hand tightening around his.
“I don’t want that,” she said.
“I don’t either.”
“I want us,” she said, and this time her voice came out stronger, not loud, but certain. “Not the idea of us. Not the version that looks good when people ask how we are. Us. Even if it’s uncomfortable and slow and I have to learn how to be home again without making home another thing I’m trying to win at.”
His mouth trembled into something almost like a smile.
“You do like winning.”
“I do,” she admitted, crying and laughing at once. “But I don’t want to beat you. I don’t want to beat this into shape. I want to love you properly.”
Jaafar closed his eyes for a second as if the sentence had gone straight through him.
When he opened them, something had shifted.
The flowers were still everywhere, ridiculous and beautiful and almost impossible to ignore, but in that moment he was no longer looking at them as proof of her apology. He was looking at them as proof that his wife, his stubborn, brilliant, excessive, tender, impossible wife, had been carrying a love so large she had needed the whole house to hold it.
“You punctured your foot,” he said suddenly, his eyes dropping again.
Nala blinked.
Of course he had noticed.
“Barely.”
“Nala.”
“It’s nothing.”
“You’re standing funny.”
“I am standing emotionally.”
His eyes snapped back to hers, and despite everything, despite the tears, despite the ache, despite the two years sitting heavy behind them, a laugh broke from him, startled and helpless and real.
Nala smiled through the tears, and the sight of it seemed to undo the last bit of restraint he had been using to keep himself upright.
“Come here,” he said, voice low.
“I’m already here.”
“Nala.”
The way he said her name was different that time, deeper, threaded with so much love and frustration and relief that her next breath caught before it could leave her.
He stepped into her space fully then, both hands rising to her face, and for one suspended second he only held her there, thumbs brushing over her cheeks, forehead lowering until it rested against hers, noses touching, breath shared in the small familiar place where so much of their marriage had lived before it learned how to hurt.
Their little touch.
Their quiet language.
Their almost-prayer.
“I love you,” he whispered against her mouth.
Nala’s hands closed around his wrists. “I love you too.”
“No,” he said, and the word was not a correction so much as a confession breaking through him. “I love you so much, Nala.”
Her mouth trembled beneath his.
“I know,” she whispered, then shook her head slightly, tears slipping again. “No, I’m sorry. I know you do. I feel it. I feel you.”
That was what got him.
Not the flowers, not the apology, not the field she had built in their home, but the fact that she was standing there, finally letting herself feel him again, finally letting the love he had been offering for years reach the place in her that had been too armoured to receive it.
Jaafar kissed her then.
Not softly, not carefully, not like a man afraid of disturbing the fragile peace between them, but deeply, with the kind of overwhelmed tenderness that made the kiss feel less like hunger and more like a body finally telling the truth after the mouth had done all it could. Nala made a small sound against him, startled and relieved, her hands moving from his wrists to his shoulders, clinging because the force of him, the warmth of him, the certainty of him after so much distance made her knees feel unreliable beneath her.
He pulled back only enough to look at her, his eyes moving over her face with open devastation.
“You made the whole house a field,” he murmured, almost disbelieving.
“I missed you,” she whispered.
His jaw flexed, and then he kissed her again, harder this time, not punishing, never that, but full, full of the months he had spent wanting her beside him and not opposite him, full of the mornings he had woken to her absence, full of the way he had walked into a house bursting with flowers and found his wife standing in the middle of them, tearful and barefoot and trying.
Nala’s arms slid around his neck as he bent toward her, and when he lifted her, she gasped softly into his mouth, her body rising easily against his as his hands found the backs of her thighs with the instinctive care of a man who had been touching her for years and still treated her like something precious when it mattered. He turned and set her on the kitchen counter, carefully, deliberately, making sure her injured foot did not brush against the cabinet, and the thoughtfulness of that even in the middle of his overwhelm made her eyes sting all over again.
“Your foot,” he murmured against her lips.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s bleeding.”
“It was bleeding.”
“Nala.”
“Jaafar, there are hundreds of flowers in this house, and you are focused on a scratch.”
His forehead dropped against hers as he laughed, breathless and emotional, his hands still braced on either side of her hips, his body standing between her knees as if he could not bear even the polite distance of a few inches now.
“I’m focused on you,” he said.
The words quieted her instantly.
Jaafar lifted his head and looked at her, really looked at her, one hand coming up to cup her cheek again while the other settled at her waist, grounding them both in the middle of all that bloom and glass and perfume.
“I see the flowers,” he said, softer now. “I see all of it. I see what you did. I see what you’re trying to say.”
Nala swallowed hard.
“But I’m always gonna see you too,” he continued. “Even when you don’t want me to. Even when you think the apology should matter more than the fact that you’re hurt. That’s not how this works.”
Her eyes filled again.
“You don’t get to come back to me and then tell me not to care about the blood on your foot,” he said, his thumb brushing over her cheek. “That ain’t happening.”
A tear rolled down, and he wiped it away before it could fall farther.
“I didn’t want you to worry,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I wanted you to focus on what I was trying to show you.”
“I did,” he said. “I am.”
Nala’s lips trembled. “And?”
Jaafar looked around again, his gaze moving over the kitchen and into the rooms beyond, over every ridiculous, impossible, deeply Nala arrangement she had placed in their home, and when he looked back at her, his eyes were so full of love that it almost frightened her.
“And I think my wife loves loud when she finally lets herself,” he said.
Her breath caught.
“I think she’s sorry,” he continued, voice low and rough. “I think she’s scared. I think she’s trying so hard not to make this about perfection that she accidentally turned our house into a botanical garden.”
A watery laugh slipped from her.
“And I think,” he said, stepping closer until his chest nearly touched hers, “that I’m still mad in places, and still hurt in places, and still not done telling you about the parts that were lonely.”
Nala nodded, her hands resting against his chest. “Okay.”
“But I also think,” he whispered, his mouth brushing the corner of hers, “that I missed my wife so bad I don’t know what to do with myself now that she’s looking at me like this.”
Nala closed her eyes, and he kissed her again, slower now, deeper in a different way, not as overwhelmed but just as full, his hand sliding to the back of her neck while hers curved into his shirt and held him there. The flowers surrounded them like witnesses, hundreds of soft, fragrant witnesses to the fact that love had not fixed everything, no, not yet, not in one morning or one conversation or one house made into a field, but it had come back into the room with its sleeves rolled up, ready to work, ready to listen, ready to be watered properly this time.
When he pulled back, his lips stayed close to hers.
“We’re still talking tonight,” he murmured.
Nala nodded, breathless. “I know.”
“And tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“And you’re letting me clean that foot.”
She sighed, dramatic even through the tears. “You ruin romance.”
Jaafar’s smile was soft, crooked, and so full of him that it made her chest ache.
“No, ma,” he said, kissing the tip of her nose before lowering his forehead to hers again. “I’m trying to keep it alive.”
Nala stared at him for one trembling second, then pulled him back to her by the front of his shirt, kissing him with all the words she had not yet found, all the apologies still waiting their turn, all the love she had been carrying too quietly for too long, and Jaafar let himself be pulled, let himself crowd closer, let himself stand there between her knees in a kitchen overflowing with flowers and grief and hope, holding his wife like he had finally found her in the middle of the field she had grown just to tell him she had been trying to find her way home.
“Let me make it better,” Nala whispered against his mouth, her voice so soft it almost disappeared into the space between their breaths, and yet the plea of it wrapped itself around him with startling force as her hands tightened in the fabric of his shirt and pulled him closer, closer still, as though nearness itself could become apology, absolution, repair. Her tongue met his with a desperate tenderness that said more than language had managed to all day, and Jaafar felt, in that single kiss, the weight of everything they had both been carrying, the years of waiting, of reaching, of loving each other through distance they had never meant to create, all of it narrowing into this one trembling moment where she was finally in his arms and no longer somewhere just beyond his grasp. There was yearning in the way she kissed him, not hurried and careless, but deep and aching, like a woman trying to pour two years of absence back into his mouth and pray it returned to him as love he could still trust.
Nala sank gracefully to her knees before him, her fingers slow and careful as they slipped to the waistband of his trousers and tugged them down just enough to make his breath catch, and Jaafar, already undone by the sight of her there, by the devotion in the gesture and the softness in her eyes, could only grip the granite edge of the counter until his knuckles blanched beneath his skin.
“Baby, you don’t gotta,” he said, his voice rough, strained by want and something deeper than want, something fuller, because this was not only desire, not only heat, but the ache of being chosen again by the woman he loved most.
Nala looked up at him then, and there was nothing uncertain in her face, nothing dutiful, nothing performative, only tenderness and yearning and the quiet insistence of a wife who had spent too long speaking around her love instead of through it.
“I want to,” she whispered.
The words settled between them with a kind of sacred finality, and Jaafar’s hand moved from the counter at last, trembling slightly as it came to rest against her cheek, his thumb brushing there with reverence rather than urgency, as though even now, overwhelmed and wanting, he could not quite believe she was here with him like this, looking at him as if there were nowhere else on earth she would rather be.
His eyes searched hers for one lingering second, and whatever he found there made his face soften completely.
Then he bent toward her, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead, another to the crown of her head, his hand slipping gently into her hair as the flowers around them filled the kitchen with sweetness and the fading evening light wrapped the two of them in gold. Nala’s hands remained steady on him, warm and sure, and when Jaafar let out her name, it sounded less like a word and more like surrender, like gratitude, like the first prayer he had managed to speak all day.
Outside, the world carried on untouched, but inside their home, inside the field she had made of it, love finally stopped circling the wound and stepped softly through it, and the rest of the evening belonged only to them.
tags <3 : @saintwrld @lov3lylxvender @melaninjoys @cinnamoncunt @healthenature @kryptonianheart @sagittalust @tenacioustestamentambush @tatumcelts @jakardyz @freaky1nterlude @daliscrim @michealsapplehead @asiatarg @imgenuinelyinsane @mrs-dylanobrien265 @plan3tch1ld @mamasturn ( lmk if you want to be added or removed)
i think i have a fat crush on vamp!jaafar. writing the first part was so fun so why not do it again!
your backyard
the space was just flooded with activity all over and it has been for a good 2 hours now. your in laws loved to celebrate just about anything and you knew that very well. this time around, randy jr bought a new car so a celebration was in order at the biggest backyard between close family.
yours and jaafar’s.
it had been three weeks since you found out your husband’s secret of being a vampire and you’ve been trying to navigate through it all. keyword: trying.
if only there was a handbook or a youtube tutorial on how to be a vampire’s wife and best believe that none of the movies helped you. it was still an odd sight seeing bags of blood in a fridge drawer and jaafar genuinely getting excited for a sip after dinner. him stating “it’s like a palette cleanser, baby.”
you couldn’t even bring peonies into your house without someone saying they reminded him of garlic and that there’s a specific stench that the human nose couldn’t handle. whatever that means.
what really really spooked you were his powers. jaafar revealed that he’d been hiding his powers to not scare you or anyone around him. he discovered them when you went on your girl’s trip to aruba for a week and acted completely clueless about the slight chip in the living room wall. he could do so much, it was insane. his sense of smell and hearing became immensely stronger, he could levitate quite high, his strength was otherworldly and he could…accentuate his features to scare people to death, much like in his uncle michael’s music video.
back to the flying, one day you walked into your shared bedroom after getting a few things for the house and the scream that left your lungs should’ve alerted authorities. there he was, your amazing husband jaafar jeremiah jackson, in a starfish pose on the ceiling.
“baby, look! i didn’t even know i could do this! i need to call my brothers-”
“jaafar, you haven’t even told them you’re a vampire.”
“but i’m having so much fun, mama. okay, look.” he said with a grin, slowly descending from the ceiling to stand in front of you and give you a kiss on your cheek. “wanna come up with me?”
now you were standing on your porch looking over your backyard. the grill was on it’s second round of meat, the kids were playing tag with water balloons, the cousins were playing twister with some on the trampoline and the elders were chilling at the pinterest-y table you decorated in the morning. everything was going perfectly, even more so when you smelled jaafar before you could see him.
you watched as he walked towards you from the grill, still laughing at a joke jermajesty said. he had the tiniest bit of bbq sauce on his bottom lip and you could feel the smile growing on your lips. “j, you got a lil barbecue sauce riiiight here.” you spoke, wiping your own lip as he stood in front of you.
“it’s not barbecue sauce.” he chuckled, fully laughing when he saw the smile fall from your face.
“jaafar, i’m not playing with you.”
“i’m kidding, ma. i’m kidding. i’m sorry.” he held his hands up in surrender, moving to step behind you. his large hands enveloped your waist as he pulled you close to him, your back nestling perfectly against his chest.
once you leaned your head back and relaxed, jaafar knew it was his chance. he planted kisses from behind your ear to your jaw and down your neck, his new favourite place to dig his head into. before you knew it, you could feel his tongue dragging against your skin and that exact patch of flesh had a small tingle to it and when he kissed at it, you couldn’t feel a thing.
“jaafar-”
“please, baby. i’ve been waiting for this all year. i need to taste it.” he quietly whined in your ear yet continued peppering kisses to your skin to make it look like you two were having a cozy moment to everyone else. for weeks, he’s been asking if he could feed off of you, saying that he could smell your blood and that he guaranteed it tasted amazing. he promised it wouldn’t be something he would do often and that it wouldn’t turn you into a vampire. not really.
you considered it and came to the decision to try it on, figuring that it would feel good as time went on. “so what did you do to my neck just now?”
“i numbed it with my saliva.” he said softly, his eyes trained on that patch of flesh.
“wait a damn minute. does that mean you been numbing my pu-” “baby, no! no…i can control my saliva with mind control and- can i please just bite you? it’ll be gentle.” he said, slightly tightening his grip on your waist.
tilting your head and elongating your neck a bit, you nodded and you swore you could hear him smile. without you seeing, his fangs formed quickly and his teeth sunk through, piercing your skin and quickly placing his mouth on you to clean up your blood and make it look like he was just kissing your neck.
you couldn’t even feel anything, this should be considered false advertising from all the movies you watched. before you knew it, jaafar was done and planted a kiss on the spot he bit. “all done, angel. it should heal in about two minutes so…stay here with me?”
“of course, baby. was it as good as you imagined?” you asked and that question woke up his talkative side because he went on and on about how great your blood was and that you should even taste it one day but he wouldn’t rush you….you need to pick up the pace though.
saint’s notes: wrote this in a single hour. can you tell i love vamp!jaafar?
tags: @prettyangeliczz @darkseidex @motherismotheringggg @cinnamoncunt @szalipcombo @plan3tch1ld @szas0mega @blkkbratt @mamasturn @celebify @greedyjudge2 @proseandj @siighrns @vile-harlot @kissmyglxck @lanadelray1989 @ebvnydesires (lmk if you wanna be tagged in future stuff like this!!) (also i’m tagging people i really admire in this space!)
summary: you meet jaafar in acting class and became friends and he invites reader over to his family’s house in Havenhurst for a barbecue they’re throwing. Jermajesty is there but he comes in late but immediately wants to get to know you.
warnings: none, just fluff
chapter one
Monday, unfortunately, rolls around faster than you'd like. Your alarm is screaming at you, and it's not just the Apple ringtone; it's Michael Jackson’s ’ Beat It ’ song. Which reminds you that you need to change that if you're now friends with Jaafar and maybe Jermajesty. You put on a very cute fit: jorts, a brown graphic tee, and your Sambas. Throw your braids into a bun and head to class, which you were going to be late for because traffic always sucked at 12.
The moment you walk into class, you spot Jaafar immediately. He's wearing blue jeans, a white tee, a varsity jacket, and a hat on, but he has a look of mischief written all over his face. When you decide to sit in the front willingly, he smiles this time. Before you could ask why he was so giddy, your professor cuts you off.
"Good morning, class. I hope you had a good weekend. I hope you and your partner ironed out the details of your script because one lucky group will be able to present it to a major theatre for production! My other announcement does involve one of our students in this very class, but I'll announce that after reading through your scripts”
After you and Jaafar present your script to Professor Gamble, he's immediately amused and amazed by what you two have accomplished in just days of work. You pat Jaafar on the back and thank him for the weekend barbecue and actually catching up the next day to straighten some things up over the phone. He hasn't said much: “Thank you,” “ it wasn't an issue,” so now you're really curious and a bit worried.
“Uh, is something wrong?”
“Nope, I'm trying to be inconspicuous today. “
Even more thrown off, “Okayyyy?” you turn back in your seat and focus on Mr Gamble as he finishes taking in the last group's script. He begins to talk with much joy and excitement.
“Right for my last announcement before we leave, our very own Jaafar Jackson has his first movie debut in the movie 'Michael,’ playing his own uncle Michael Jackson.
The whole class erupts in “What!?” “No Ways” and “Congratulations”. By the end of class, everyone has locked in on what they may need next for the project, and class has ended. Jaafar is walking you back to the parking lot with a smirk. But you look at him with your jaw hanging, with a wondrous expression. “You didn't say anything on Saturday!”
“ What did you want me to do? You said you do a deep dive. I thought you already knew,” a huge smile on his face and laugh sputtering out. You hit him on the back of the head lightly.
“Come by the house tonight! We're doing a celebration for the announcement…Jermajesty will be there,” wiggling his eyebrows. Your face immediately changes to one of slight humiliation because you were hoping he would be in the back of your head. Oh, uh, cool, cool, cool. I'll see if I can stop by. What time, and can I bring my best friend?” “Of course you can; it starts at 7:30!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your best friend wanted to kill you. You roped her into a party last minute, and her hair wasn't done. After you left class, you met her in the student center and gave her the whole rundown. She, of course, hit you but squealed because she would finally get to see the tension between you and Jermajesty.
You're panicking because you have to decide what to wear. Usually, you don't care about house parties. But something in your mind wanted you to make sure you had your best fit on. You finally decided on a crop top, blue jeans that flare out at the bottom, and some boots. By the time you pull up to the Jacksons' house, it's already buzzing. The excitement radiating from your passenger side started to seep into you, and you were genuinely excited to go in. “Okay, I won't leave you alone since you won't know anyone.” Aww, how sweet of you, you bestie”
“YOU'RE HERE!!!” Jaafar was screaming, and you couldn't decipher if it was from the alcohol or from trying to speak over the music. “I made it! This is my bestie, Imani!”
After they spoke, they dipped further into the party, leaving you at the door with a confused look of ‘what the hell?’ Before you could call out for her, “Hey stranger, didn't know you were coming” (total lie; he bothered Jaafar about inviting you for 3 days straight) “oh hey! I feel like I was just here and you're calling me a stranger already”
“You look really nice; I love the boots”
Blushing, looking down at them, then to his outfit, “You don't look bad yourself”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As the party was still in full swing, you were dancing with Jermajesty. As you danced, you caught a glimpse of your best friend in the corner, giggling with Jaafar. You made sure to press her on that later in the car. You turn to Jermajesty and tilt your head to signal you needed a break and some air. He takes your hand and leads you through the denseness of the crowd, out the sliding glass door towards the pool.
You try to ignore the burn of his hand in yours, but it's so prominent that you definitely store it for daydreaming later. You sit down in the fire pit area, waiting for him to join you. He's cutting on the lights around the backyard, so you two could actually see each other. By the time he joins you, you've finally cooled down from the stifling body heat inside.
“You Jacksons know how to throw a party, huh?”
“You've seen nothing yet; you should see what a Thanksgiving or New Year's Eve party looks like”
You laughed a bit. “Oh, I bet it's way more expensive.” He finally speaks again after watching you look out into the yard. Imagining what exactly that would look like.
“You never texted me! I wanted to talk about more anime stuff with you, and you ghosted me. What's that all about?!”
“Wait, wait, wait.. You wanted ME to text first?! That's not how this friendship works!” “Boooooo, I'm throwing tomatoes, man.” You both burst into laughter at the silliness.
“How do you feel about Jaafar's big debut? My friend was showing me a TikTok earlier, and they are already making fan edits of y'all”
“Please tell me, for the love of God, you didn't see the Naruto one?”
“I'm sure she's gonna find it next, and trust I will be sending it to you first.” He does an exaggerated groan, rubbing his hands down his face. “Well, you'd need my number for that, so I think I'm safe for now”
“Hmm, I think not. Here's my number so I can tease you faster”
—
You hear a laugh getting closer, and it's your best friend, walking with Jaafar, coming closer to where you sat with Jermajesty. “Well, well, well, look who remembered I was here.” “Sorry, babes, I had to pee, and he showed me where the bathroom was; the rest is history,” giving her a look of ‘I don't believe that’ so all you said was “mhm”. You formally introduced her to Jermajesty, and she immediately nicknamed him “Maj”.
“Well, we should probably head out; I have class tomorrow. Thanks for the invite and congratulations again, Jaafar!” Jaafar hugs you, thanks you, and says he and Jer are going to walk you two back to your car. In that moment, while they gathered the cups from the table, you and Imani shared a look and a giggle. The walk back to the car was short but filled with laughs and taunts. Promises of future hangouts with just the 4 of you and the blossoming friendship between you all.
As you drove away, you immediately hit your friend on the arm for leaving you by yourself for a boy. And to her defense, “Well, I saw Jermajesty coming towards us, I dipped immediately so y'all can have a moment! And BITCH Jaafar is so fine I want him lowkey. He didn't mind my company at all. It also appears Maj is a bit flustered by you too”
“What are you on about? He's just a friend; we don't even text!” And just as luck would have it, a message from him popped up on your Apple CarPlay: ‘Jer🥸 sent a message.’ The silence was so loud that all you heard was the a/c blowing. Immediately, it set you and Imani in a fit of laughter. “ Get out of my car, love you, girl" as she runs to her front door. “Get your man, girl!! Love you!”
—
Jer🥸: Did you and your friend make it home safely?
y/n🧚🏾♀️: Yes, we did! Thank you for checking.
Jer🥸: I've come across my own TikTok edits on Instagram Reels.
Jer🥸: I think you need to deactivate your account now before you see it
y/n🧚🏾♀️: Well, now I HAVE to go searching
Jer🥸: I will report your page. Until then, goodnight y/n 🙂
y/n🧚🏾♀️: teehee 🤭, goodnight Jer
❛ ex!jaafar jackson 𝑥 𝒻 black woc!reader ❜ ╱ 𝓶.list 𓂋 college au . crackish . smau . past relationship . alpha phi alpha!jaafar . both reader and jaafar are juniors in college . mention of underage ? drinking . angst . bantering . j wants you back . you're just a little mean .
mari speaks. pls pls pls give me feedback. this is my first time posting a smau/texting au on here so please be kind to me. this also may or may not be a teaser for a new series i'm planning out rn (˶˃ᆺ˂˶)
Summary: After the awards show, you're rewarded next.
Warning: smut MDNI, p in v, soft dom jaafar, little plot pure filth
Los Angeles, California time: 12 am
The car was quiet, save for the soft hum of music the driver was playing. The energy of the car was heavy; you could cut it with a knife. It feels like the driver is purposefully driving slowly to antagonize both of you.
Y'all were leaving the BET Awards aftershow; he had presented with his on-screen mom, Nia. It was a fantastic time at the afterparty. Jaafar, being his usual introverted self, was ready to go an hour in. In his opinion, he was ready to go before y'all ever left the hotel. Not because of introvertness, but what you had on.
You were torturing him; the dark sage fluted dress snatched your waist. The top was fitted and cuffed around your breast, accentuating them. The gold jewelry made your deep, dark skin pop. The slit in the dress was the main issue of his imagination. All night, he was a problem; he was touching, holding you, touching felt like burn marks across your skin, and giving you dark stares from across the room.
Jaafar has said nothing for twenty minutes, but his eyes are watching you. Devouring you from the tip of your hair down to your feet. It's making you feel hot. Finally, he moves closer. His palm is heavy as it rests on top of your thigh, squeezing the flesh with firm grips that make you squirm in the seat.
His voice is low and grave. “Look at you, baby; you've been taunting me all night.” It makes you whimper because the touches are electrifying as is. But the touches become unbearable. “I haven't done anything”
Thanking the gods, you made it to the hotel before he could say anything else. Because if he did, you might’ve fucked him in the backseat of this black truck, and from the sound of it, Jaafar wouldn't protest the idea. As you exit the car, you thank the driver as he slips his hand in yours and gently tugs you toward the elevator. The energy only gets worse. In the elevator, he doesn't touch you. He stands against the rail, looking at you through the elevator mirror quietly but almost menacingly, as if he’s already eating you before you can make it to the bed. You speak in almost a whisper, “Are you tired?” A small smile plays at his lips as he looks at you. “No”.
Once the doors open, he takes your hand again, leading you to the room. Sliding his key card, turning the lock, he pushed the door open for you. You walk in and begin taking your heels off. As you turn, you notice he hasn't moved from his spot at the door. He roots himself there for a moment, watching, calculating what he wants next. With his eyes locked on yours, he removes his suit jacket, placing it on the chair in the corner.
You lock eyes, and he moves toward you slowly, almost predatory. The breaths escaping you are even but shallow. He walks up to you, and you can feel the heat radiating off of him. His hand grips your throat delicately. “Will you let me take control tonight? No objections?” “Jaafar…”, the beat of your heart hammering against his palm. he squeezes lightly. “Please.” “Yes,” it was whispered, fearing that if you said it any louder, it would ruin the moment.
“Strip,” its single command spoken. He sits in the chair in the corner where his jacket lies; the fabric of your dress pools at your feet. He studied you, dark eyes watching you “on the bed for me, baby.” You walked slowly, draping yourself on the bed you're in, nothing but your thong, his favorite color, red. He rises then, stalks his way toward you, stripping clothes each step: socks, shirt, and then pants. I thought you weren't teasing me. Why red?” you smirk. “It's your favorite color, no?”
Before you could say another word, his hands were reaching inside the lace of your panties, ripping them in the process. “I said strip; that meant everything.” You let out a soft whine, “Those were my favorite.” “I'll buy you more, I promise.”
He doesn't rush his next movements as he moves down your body. You squirm, trying to make him go faster; his strong hands push your hips down. “My timing…” You finally look down at him, and his eyes darken as he shifts closer to you.
“You're teasing me, J.” Your voice is so whiny it's almost embarrassing, but feeling his breath against you, you didn't care enough. Hearing you that way broke him, and he finally licks you in one long, slow stroke. You arch from the bed, and a loud moan leaves your lips. He looks up at you, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. He adds his fingers inside and starts a rhythmic motion between licking and stroking you.
“That's it, baby, you're doing so good for me.” You don't even have the words to respond to anything he's saying. It's going into your ears and escaping with every pulse you feel “please…” at that he dives deeper, circling your clit in short tight circles edging you closer. “can i please.. Please cum, I can't”
“You can, and you will take it; just hold on.” The whimper that leaves you is so loud you may get a noise complaint. Finally, he’s had enough; he can feel you at the edge, and he stops. “Nooo, j, please.” He smirks as he leans down and kisses you hard in the mouth to quiet you. You both let out the nastiest moan, tasting yourself on him. As you're distracted by the kiss, he finally enters you in one smooth motion, and you gasp in his mouth.
His head falls to your neck, and he inhales deeply. Your scent is maddening. He’s been waiting on this all night, and he was willing to drag this out as long as he could. You're staring at him deep into his soul with eyes watery as he pounds into you with vigorous strokes. He flips you, you're on all fours, arched deep. ‘She’s going to fucking kill me’
“So greedy, mama, you're sucking me in like you don't want me to pull out.” You moan underneath him, gushing more as he keeps whispering the most obscene things in your ear, and reach your hand underneath to clutch him softly. He staggers, “Please, baby, I need to cum.” he tenses; he's harder than ever and ready to finish at your words, but he wants more.
“Say it's mine,” he pulls you toward him, “say it's mine and I'll give you exactly what you want.” he was close, but you were closer. He wanted to finish when you did. “omg its all yours, nobody else’s.” That was his final straw. He flips you on your back again. This whole night was leading up to this; sweat covered them in a light sheen. You looked glossy and edible; he nestled his face in your neck and bit lightly. That was the final straw; you came, eyes rolling to the back of your head, and he was shortly after you. It was overwhelming; he let out an array of grunts and moans. Cumming in spurts filling you.
He gets up to get you a warm towel to clean you up. As he finishes, you turn over to face him. “Love you, baby.” he bends to kiss you softly. Both of you are breathless. “I love you too, J.” You smile gently.
Summary: A birthday planned and executed with a side of confession.
A/N: It’s been like 10 years since I've written so be nice. This is a thank you gift for @greedyjudge2
Warnings: None :) No use of Y/N. All mistakes are mines.
July 23th, 2026
You could feel your back aching from the way you were hunched over prepping the finishing touches of the ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY’ garland you were about to hang across your apartment kitchen. It’s two days before Jaafar’s birthday and you planned to surprise him with an early party with a few close friends the day before.
“I need a massage after all of this.” You tell yourself from your spot on the kitchen counter. The angle is awkward but to you it’s worth it. “He better appreciate this shit for real.” You whisper under your breath.
Music is softly played from the tv speakers as you finally hear the door knob start to jiggle and turn your head as the door opens revealing your best friend Solis coming in with a bunch of bags in her hands. She had left three hours ago to pick up the food and drink along with a few last minute items.
“Pookie imma keep it a buck with you but please don’t ever ask me to go to Walmart ever again! I swear it’s always something going on there. Tell me why there’s this lady walking around buck naked, I’m talking about titties all out! Wild”
You stand up to help grab the bags from her hands as she closes the door laughing. “That’s actually insane!” You say dropping the bags on the kitchen floor.
You guys shuffle around each other pulling items from the bag arranging them. The menu for the party is simple; wings and fries that are homemade and a few boxes of ordered pizza. Few alcoholic and nonalcoholic drinks to go around. Very casual but nonetheless thoughtful.
“What time is Jermajesty supposed to be here?” Your best friend questioned as she grabbed a bag of potatoes and put them in the sink to start rinsing and peeling them.
“Oh! Let me see if he did”. You say looking around for your phone. You find it on the end table in your room. Unlocking your phone you see a few messages from multiple people.
Jaa 🤞🏽
Can’t wait to see you at my birthday party on Saturday. I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever with everything popping off! I miss you stink!! 💙
You
Miss you too really! Can’t wait to see you too! ❤️
You can’t help but smile at his message. He’s been all over promoting ‘Michael’. You’ve never been more proud of him. The amount of effort he put in was inspirational and whenever he doubted himself you made sure to breathe life back into him and be a supporting hand to him when it got bad and when it went amazing.
You’ve known him since you were 5 years old running around with him and his brothers. Even with the slight age gap between you and him, it just worked. When you guys are together it’s like magic. Everything works and fits together naturally. But it didn’t help that as time went on you fell more and more in love with him. You wish you had the courage to say something but if it wasn’t reciprocated you’d risk the friendship.
You shake your head and scroll down to Jermajesty’s text messages and read his response.
You
What’s your eta?
Jer 🖕🏾🤴🏽
Got the cooler and stopped for ice to put in the freezer. Otw now
That was sent five minutes ago. “He should be here any minute now with the cooler and ice” you say as you walk back into the kitchen and wash your hands before starting your prep of the chicken wings.
“What made you all happy? I see that big ass smile you’re trying to hide.” Solis leans into your space with a smirk on her face.
“Bro move!” You exclaimed, laughing leaning away from her inquisitive eyes and face.
“Ahhh! I got it! Your man texted you huh? Got you all excited and shit! Yes, get it girl!”
“It’s not even like that! You know it’s not!” You deny. Solis squints her eyes at you. Suddenly her face turns serious. “Babes, I'm going to be very blunt and honest with you and I want you to listen to me carefully. That boy is HEAD over heels infatuated with you and y’all both kinda slow as fuck for not acting on those said feelings. Just wasting my time with the anticipation you know?”
“I really don’t think-“ you try to get your sentence out but she doesn’t let you finish. “Aht! Aht! Don’t say anything. I said what I said and you’ll see eventually and when you guys get together I’ll make sure to say I told you so.”
Suddenly there’s a pounding knock at the door. “Boy! Why the fuck are you banging on the door like you the police or something?” Solis yells as she shuffles to the door, yanking it open to let Jermajesty inside.
And the heart to heart moment is over as Jermajesty and Solis start bickering back and forth. ‘For someone who gives really good advice she should take her own’ you thought to yourself. It’s funny because they both act like it’s a chore to be in each other’s presence but share so many similarities and interests. Both are nerds and could go on and on about anime or whatever interests they’ve picked up.
Jermajesty walks into the kitchen grinning and shows off his gap tooth smile. “Hey T! You want the ice in the bottom freezer?”
“Yeah go ahead and put it in there I made space.”
He places the cooler in the corner of the kitchen before opening it and taking out 4 bags of ice and putting it in the freezer.” You need me to do anything else?” He questioned.
“Uh…yeah actually can you blow up the balloons they’re in that bag over there on the coffee table in the living room. There’s also a bag you can put them in so we don’t have to worry about them the day of.”
“Gotcha.” He closes the freezer door and turns to Solis who’s setting up the table decorations. “You wanna put your headphones in to block out the balloon sounds?”
Solis’ eyes widened at his words. For as long as you’ve known her, Solis hates balloons. The sound they make when tied, the sound when they rub together. You’ve heard it many times but when you think back on it she’s only said it once around Jer at Abu’s 3rd birthday party. They had a clown making balloon animals and she gritted her teeth with a grimace until she was able to fish her headphones out to cancel the noise.
‘To be seen is to be loved’ the quote comes to the forefront of your mind. You shake your head and continue on. ‘I give it ‘til Halloween’
“Couple costumes I’ll bet” you say to yourself. Jer turns his head to you. “You said something?” He asked with his eyes furrowed slightly.
“Nah, just talking to myself.”
“Okay.”
He goes back to his task of opening the balloon packages and grabbing the balloon blower machine and turning it on. You watch him glance over to Solis, you glance over and see her bopping her head to the music in her headphones. Looking back at Jermajesty he nods his head and gets to work. All you can do is chuckle and shake your head.
-
July 24th 2026
The plan was so simple it would be impossible to fail. Randy Jr and Jermajesty were going to take Jaafar out for the day. Brothers bonding and whatnot and then you will text him saying you need his help with something asap, knowing him he will stop everything and make his way over with no questions asked.
Everything was working out according to plan. Food was ready to go and sitting in warmers. Your text to Jaafar was answered and his eta was 2 minutes out. All your close friends were here ready for the big surprise.
RJ 🥸
Here
You
Okay
I told him the door is open
We’re ready
You lock your phone and turn the music down. You clasp your hands together and grab the attention of everyone. “Okay guys it’s show time so let’s get into position!” Everyone shuffles around and the lights get turned off and everyone stands in anticipation.
The door jiggles and opens and Jaafar steps in with his brothers behind him.
“Hey T I’m-“
“SURPRISE!”
The lights turn on and confetti is shot out and sprinkles down on a taken aback Jaafar who jumps. He looks around and sees the party decorations and his close friends all around smiling and laughing at him. He can’t help the smile that stretches across his face. His eyes searches for you and when he reaches you his smile widens.
Stepping more into the room he greats and thanks everyone for their birthday wishes. He slowly makes his way to you and when he finally does he pulls you into a bear hug picking you off the floor and spinning you around.
You hit his back laughing exclaiming that you’ll get dizzy if he doesn't stop. He lets out a loud laugh before stoping and letting you back onto the ground. He doesn’t let you go far. His arms still circled around you when he pulled back slightly.
“Thank you for this. This was so sweet of you to do and I’m surprised you got my hardheaded brothers to help out. I should’ve known something was up when they wanted to hang out with me.” He said, smiling down at you.
“Not too much on them though! They were very helpful with the set up and keeping you distracted.” You had to give them their props. They were instrumental in the planning.
“I see that”
You both hold eye contact for a while. You feel like your heart is beating out your chest and it’s getting a little bit hard to breathe. You clear your throat before dislodging yourself from him a bit.
“So…uh…We made wings and yes before you ask there are fries. Drinks are in the cooler and there will be cake so you better hurry up and eat because as much as I like you, there’s a lot of people in my apartment right now and I’m ready for them to leave. Like now if I’m being honest.”
He can’t help but shake his head amused by your comment. “Yes ma’am!” He salutes and makes his way to the kitchen to eat.
-
“Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday dear Jaafar, happy birthday to you!”
The song comes to an end and someone shouts out “Make a wish!” Jaafar looks around before locking eyes with you. His eyes are filled with adoration and he has a soft shy smile. He leans forward blowing out his candles as everyone cheers.
-
The party winds down and everyone starts saying their goodbyes. Since everyone lives in different directions. Randy heads out for the night while Jermajesty and Solis stay behind to help clean up. No shocker that Solis offered to drive Jer home. More like he drives himself to her car and then she takes herself home but that’s semantics. Jaafar is going to sleep in your guest bedroom tonight and then go home tomorrow morning.
You and Jafaar are out on your bedroom balcony after seeing off Jer and Solis. Bidding them good night and making sure they check in when they get home.
“You know I really do appreciate you for all of this. You didn’t have to do it”
He spoke softly as he sat next to you. Both enjoying the cool breeze of the night with a shared blanket.
You lean your head on his shoulder with a sigh.
“It’s really nothing. I just wanted to celebrate with you. You only turn 30 once, old man!” You say patting his knee.
He chuckles and takes your hand in his before placing your fingers together. Your breath hitches as you stare down at your interlocked hands. You could feel the blood rushing through your veins and your heart pounding through your chest.
You both sit in silence for a while. Looking out into the distance of the area. Lights from downtown visible in the distance. It’s not long before you feel Jaafar shift and look down at his watch.
“It’s officially my birthday” he whispers, leaning his head onto yours. “Hopefully my wish comes true”
“What did you wish for? Actually wait don’t say because if you say it it won’t come t-“
He cuts you off before you can finish your sentence. If you had a nickel for every time you got cut off today you’d have two, it’s not a lot but it’s crazy it’s happened more than once in the last 48 hours.
“You.”
You stop breathing for a while before your brain kicks in and you let out the breath you’ve been holding. Your brain isn’t computing correctly. Must’ve been the wind because there’s no way he just said that.
“W-what do you mean”
Okay so not the best way to respond but in your defense this is crazy! He squeezes your interlaced fingers before shifting to face you.
“I’m so very grateful for you. And I know we’ve known each other since forever and this may make or break our friendship but you know sometimes you gotta take a leap of faith and jump and hope the parachute opens you know? I remember all the times you would hold me when you were scared of something. Called me when you went off to college. Brought me back a souvenir from your girls trip. The little things you would do for me and remember about me. But also the big things. Answering my calls when I felt like I wasn’t good enough. Help me push through all the noise and the hate. To be honest I’ve felt like this for years but just- I don’t know just felt like you would feel the same way but I just needed to get it off my chest that I’m so very much in love with you and have been for a while. And if you don’t feel-“
It’s your turn to cut him off.
“Jaafar shut the fuck up.”
You can’t help it. You laugh. You feel tears building up and spilling out of your eyes.
“I feel the same so please shut up.”
You feel lost for words. Jaafar looks at his eyes shining from the soft lights illuminating from the string lights on the balcony.
“I’m going to kiss you now if that’s okay” He said it so low and gently. He grabs your face with both his hands. They’re large and warm against your neck and cheeks. He leans in toward you slowly giving you a chance to deny his advances but you don’t. You grab onto both his wrists and lean into him.
When your lips connect the world around you slows and you feel good. Great even. Probably like you’re about to explode. This is everything you’ve ever wanted. And now it’s a reality.
You both pull back for air and he rests his forehead on yours. His eyes are closed and his face is filled with joy and a big smile.
“I should’ve done that a long time ago.”
“Yeah you should’ve, what took you so long?” You retorted. He opens his eyes and they’re sparked with mischief. He stands before dragging you up with him and then manhandling you onto his shoulder.
“What are you doing?! Put me down! Now”
You start kicking your feet as he walks with you both inside. He slaps your ass and that makes you freeze before you do the same to him. Next thing you know is your back hitting your bed.
Propping yourself in your elbows you look at him from where he stands in front of you. He slowly prowls his way to you. Leaning forward and eventually crawling on top of you.
“Gotta make up for lost time you know.” He says before kissing you again. You wrap your arms around him pulling him in closer.
-
The music is loud as you enter the backyard of Jaafar’s family home. You both came in together holding each other’s hand, only releasing when greeting and accepting hugs. Everyone wishing Jaafar a happy birthday as y’all walked through.
Kids were running around and screaming to their heart’s content. You know that Solis is here because her nieces and nephews are a part of said screaming children. Family members scattered all around on chairs, or blankets in the grass; a few of them in the pool splashing around. You scan the area and see Solis lounging in a beach chair with Abu laying right on top of her while she reads what seems to be some kind of manga and surprise surprise Jermajesty is next to her in her space.
She makes eye contact with you across the yard and then tilts her head down to your hands and then back up.
‘I told you so’ is what she mouths to you with a laugh and then she goes back to reading apologizing to Abu who’s demanding her attention and continuation.
You look up at Jaafar to see him looking at you already.
You tilt your head towards his brother and your best friend.
“How long until they realize they like each other?”
He turns his head up the sky with a pondering expression.
“Hmm…hopefully not as long as I took” You let out a soft laugh before hitting him gently in his chest. “No seriously, I think sometime in October for sure. Either his birthday or Halloween.”
“Nah, they’re both stubborn so I’ll say maybe Christmas time or her birthday. Maybe even New Years”
“So…what I’m hearing right now is a bet” You turn to him with a spark in your eyes.
He looks back at you. “Alright, how much is on the line here?”
“I’d say $100”
“Oh! Okay! Ms.Bigwallet over here!”
“Boy shut up!” You snort into your hands.
-
In the end you were both way off and it happened in August at a trading card event. They had a great time mastering different sets and as things go they ended up bickering about a card that Solis really wanted and unfortunately was extremely expensive and out of the budget. As things go, Jermajesty bought it and started antagonizing her about it and how they ended up kissing? They only know but that card is in her binder.
“Well at least we both lose so no money lost am I right?”
summary: vanity fair interview with you and jaafar.
monday, NYC 12:30pm
The day started calmly, and Anais planned on keeping it that way. The air was nippy in New York, and a light rain was starting to fall. Jaafar arrived in the dressing room a bit after she did. He was quiet but not in a mood, just a calm aura about him. he stared at her through the dressing room mirror, his eyes scanning over her. Giving him a look, he just shook his head and grinned at her.
A producer came to fetch them. “It's time, ready if y'all are!” With that, you stood and walked out with him.” Come on, handsome, it's time to grill each other.” Hand in hand, they walked into the recording area. Before sitting, he kissed the back of Anais’s hands gently. The chairs were a nice modern sling chair; they sat side by side with a small table in the middle, with the cards sitting on top.
Crew buzzed around, adjusting cameras and mics, making sure the two of them had water. At the same time, she, too, turned more to each other to get comfortable.
As the director walked in, her dark eyes followed his movements. hurried and frazzled, hands juggling more than he could carry, but a small smile on his face as he greeted them both. “Welcome, welcome, I'm so happy you both were able to make it! We've been waiting for this!”
She spoke for both of them. “Thank you for inviting us; we are very excited,” Jaafar says. “This should be a walk in the park “ gentle laughter across the room from people listening in.
“Easy for him to say; he's done it before. What kind of questions are there?” the director, whose name she learned is Josh, spoke with a light-hearted tone. “Well, no serious stuff. Try not to overthink the answers either. Think... fun, but, you know, juicy enough to make people smile.” Anais smiles and adds a wink. “ oh peace of cake, everyday life then! Don't worry, babe, I won't embarrass you too much.”
Jaafar looked down sheepishly. He outstretched his hand to grip her shoulder lightly. “She's going to go all out, trust me.” A few crew members laughed a bit as the two of you continued the light jokes between the two of you.
“alrighty let's get started, shall we? What is a weird habit you've noticed about each other?”
She immediately replied, “his french fry obsession- I thought it was normal at first, but then I noticed he, in fact, orders it with every meal “ she said, fully grinning now. Jaafar is quick with his rebuttal, throws his head back with a groan, “ to be fair! It's like eating chips, very light, crispy, and delicious.
He has a smirk on his face with his next sentence: “Hers are definitely the socks on while going to bed.” She gasped dramatically. “Hey! it's very comfortable, especially because the house is so cold,” he laughs as you swat him playfully. “Mind you, the house is set to lava during the day”
Everyone in the room was either grinning or full-on laughing at how natural they were with each other. How they immediately went into their own world, forgetting the cameras were even there. The director points to the cards on the table for each of you to pull from then on.
“Next question: What is one of your favorite memories of us so far?”
Jaafar answers first this time, “Hmm, it has to be our first time in Canada. Seeing you be carefree for once was a breathtaking experience ” ‘the way we were lazy on purpose, nowhere to be, no schedule. That was nice too. Anais sighed, reminiscing, “Ohhh yeah, that was really good trip, even though I fell more times than I can count snowboarding.” They both giggled at the memory of him having to basically rub Icy Hot on her bum for the next two days.
“I think mine was seeing you rehearsing for 'Michael.’ I don't think people understand how much you really poured into that and what you did to fully embody him to give that humanity for us to see, also how it changed you in a good way”
He's speechless for a moment because he didn't even think about it in that way. He leaned over to kiss her as he thanked her, “Thank you, baby, I really did try.” The camerawoman hides behind her headset as she tries not to awe out loud at how profound this moment is in real life.
Who are some of your heroes in real life? name 2”
He leans back in his chair with a thoughtful expression. “Only two is hard. I have many, but you're definitely one of them.” Your eyebrows raise. You weren't expecting that “Really?! Why?” “Well, because you're you, life has been hectic and hard, but you still show up for not only everyone but mainly yourself. It's admirable beyond measure. There were times I wanted to give up, and you didn't let me. I think about it all the time. You're definitely top 2”
“The other is definitely my uncle; after the movie, I gained even more respect for him. I think his life, along with my father and uncles, was rough, but the way they handled it was so meritorious”
Anais let out a sigh and dabbed her eyes to not cry fully. “I don't know what to say even. That was beautiful, baby.” Even the people standing around were silent and watching intently at the moment that surrounded them of pure love and respect between two people. It wasn't forced or cringy.
“Next – on what occasion have you lied to me”
The look on Jaafar’s face made her immediately suspicious, and the light carefreeness she wanted to keep for the day was gone. Because she knows he's about to admit to something she knew he was guilty of all this time.
His eyes are wide, and he has a grin on his face that screams guilty. “Do you remember when you asked me if I threw out our ice cream? And I said it must've been Jermajesty.”
Her jaw was permanently on the floor. “You mean to tell me you ATE it?!?”
He cowered in his chair. “To be fair, he was the perfect scapegoat cause he was there that weekend, and you chose an impeccable flavor!”
“Oh, we are making a pit stop on the way home.” She turns towards the camera. “Jer, I'm sorry I yelled at you!”
“What is the biggest misconception about us that you see on the internet?”
With your arms crossed, “Oh, definitely, that I do all the talking in the house!” He lets out the deepest laugh; even the crew has to turn around to keep from laughing on the mics. “This man is fooling y'all! He is lowkey a menace”
He gasps at that in fake offense because he knows she’s right. “I am not! im just a bit looser. A menace is not how I would describe it.” It's her turn to have a mischievous look. “We should phone a friend then and call your brother, " the crew exchanged looks and quiet smiles.
“Let's not forget the pranks you like to pull on me from TikTok!” She tilted her head, raising her eyebrows. “You said you don't want to be on there regardless, and to his fandom I send him the edits y'all make of him fyi!”
The director speaks in that moment.
“Last question of the morning- will you two be having little ones soon?”
The moment is still. No one moves, not even a blink. Both of them share a glance at each other and stare back at the director. The camera is rolling, and the entire room is leaning in so they can get the answer to their ears first.
To the room's surprise, they burst out laughing—only this time, they weren't in on the joke.
Jaafar is trying to calm his laughter down as she has an exaggerated, innocent smile on her face. “Whew, y'all are good!” he finally calms. “In the famous words of Kanye, ‘I guess we'll never know’”
The room laughs at that and lets it go for now. The director chuckled, shaking his head. “Dodging the question, I see.”
Anais speaks up, then “We’ll let you know when it happens… maybe.”
He smiles genuinely and yells, " Cut! " The room is immediately busy again. people ziplining around the two of them, getting the packs off of you and sharing small sentiments with both of you. Now and then, someone would glance over, a quiet smile tugging at their lips. There was something undeniably magnetic.
You two are led back into the dressing room to gather your things and wait for your car to come. It's then that you two talk and debrief the day. As they shared what their favorite moments were, subtle touches, subconscious leaning in, and natural tension shared between the two of them, it made the empty room feel full all at once.
“That was so fun; we should do this more often”
“Really? I liked it too. Who knew you'd get me to be a softie on camera”
She pats his chest as he holds you in his arms.s “My favorite soft menace to society”
He kisses her forehead, hand reaching to rest over her suit dress. “Let's get out of here, feed you two”
a/n: teehee I lowkey like writing, lmk what you think
summary: you meet jaafar in acting class and became friends and he invites reader over to his family’s house in Havenhurst for a barbecue they’re throwing. Jermajesty is there but he comes in late but immediately wants to get to know you.
warnings: none just fluff
Chapter 1
You hated this class with a passion; the professor had this weird way of pairing y'all off with people you didn't know. On the bright side, this was nearing the end of the semester. Walking into class and unfortunately for you, someone has stolen your ‘ unassigned assigned seat’ in the back, so now you're sitting in the front row next to the class know-it-all Jaafar. He was sweet, but it's like he knew how to answer each question before you could formulate the thought correctly. The other issue is, you know, Jaafar… well, you knew his family. Well, more specifically, you had a special interest in his uncle. To be fair, it's freaking Michael Jackson! So you tried to play it cool because he didn't want anyone to know who he was, which was fair.
Today’s lesson is different because now you're paired with him and the assignment seems simple; however, Professor Gamble wants the partners to hang out at least once outside of class and come back Monday with a script based on the hangout.
After class, you and Jaafar walk together to get an idea of where you can hang out. As y'all are discussing what an ideal place and time is. You decide that maybe you should let the cat out of the bag.
“So, I know we've been in class together for a while, so I just want you to know that I know who you are.. No judgement though”
He raises his eyebrows, “Oh! What do you mean?”
You giggle a bit. “No need to be coy, I won't tell anyone”
He smirks, then “How do you know, is my next question.
With a grimace, you admit to your Michael Jackson interest and casual deep dive from time to time.
The only thing heard after that is the cars passing by and the distant conversations from groups nearby, when he fully laughs. The line by his face crinkles, and he almost has tears in his eyes. And you swear you could see the lightbulb go off in his head.
“ No freaking way, so you are aware of us already. Well then that's perfect because my family is actually having a barbecue this weekend, I think that's a good opportunity for us to hang out!”
“ Uhh, sure, I'm down at what time?”
“ 3 o’clock, and you don't have to bring anything. Here’s my number so you can call me when you get there.”
“ I’ll be there! Thanks for the invite”
He winks, “See you tomorrow, y/n”
Now a whole different issue has arisen. What the hell do you wear to a Jackson family barbecue? A swimsuit? Two-piece set? A dress? So you call your best friend, Imani, naturally.
“So, um im going out today.”
“With who?!?!”
“It's just an assignment for class, but Jaafar invited me to his family BBQ.”
“Oouu, I need all the details and just wear a cute set to make it easy!”
“Thank goodness you knew, and I will be debriefing you as soon as I get in the car”
~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~
You made it with 15 minutes to spare, because you hated being late to anything. So you call Jaafar to come get you from the car, because you also hate walking up to random places alone. He comes and looks at you with a hint of joy in his eyes that you actually came.
“ Well, hello! Everyone is almost here; my brothers are always late, so they'll be here later”
“ Hey! I can't wait to have some fun.” You shyly say as you walk with him to the backyard.
“Don't worry, your secret is safe with me.” he winks as you cross the threshold of the gate.
The party is in full swing. Kids are running around, uncles are trying not to burn the meat, aunties and moms are sitting around the fire pit drinking wine coolers and laughing aimlessly. Jaafar makes his rounds introducing you to everyone, and everyone adores you!
You are sitting at the edge of the pool talking to Jaafar about the assignment when, just as predicted, his brothers did in fact arrive late.
Jermajesty and Randy Jr pulled up with gas station snacks and loud air horns shouting “ the party has arrived.” You jump a little
Jermajesty and Randy jr make it over to where you both are sitting. With a roll of his eyes, Jaafar introduces you to both of them, as annoying brothers one and two.
Randy Jr, snuck away to hide from any cooking responsibilities. So that meant Jaafar got pulled away to help cook; in turn, he is leaving you with his younger brother for the time being. Fortunately, though, you and Jermajesty hit it off quickly and start talking about anything and everything under the sun. You find out about his obsession with Naruto and even get to see the infamous video of him and the headband.
Jermajesty’s voice carried over the loud music as you teased him about the slight fixation of it all. You can't compare the characters of Naruto to those of another anime because it's definitely not the same. “Apples and oranges, dude, that doesn't make sense!!” “You must be watching different shows than I am, man”
“You're obsessed with the wrong show and opinion jer!”
“Well, I wouldn’t say obsessed, but it could be an unhealthy hobby ”
“Oh, so you in full cosplay isn't obsessed?”
He looked genuinely offended. “ That's different! We were going to a party!”
You gave a skeptical look. “Wait, it wasn't even Halloween yet…”
“And you're done”
Surrendering, you let up on him for now “ alright fine, it's an unhealthy hobby. At least you never post it on social media”
An embarrassed look crossed his face. “It's actually circulating on TikTok and Twitter right now”
You howl a laugh, “ Oh my- you better be glad I only have Instagram”
~~~~ ~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ ~~~~~~
The sun slowly disappeared beyond the roof of the house, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold before darkness settled over the neighborhood. You and Jaafar came up with a semi-script for Monday. The afternoon was filled with stolen glances you caught from Jermajesty across the yard, the slight smirk you would give him back once he realized he was caught, and laughs at jokes told from the bickering of uncles. The string lights hanging above the backyard gradually became the primary source of light. You realize it's getting later than you expected, so you start bidding goodbyes when you see Jermajesty doing a slight jog to you.
“ Hey, wait! I'll walk you to your car!”
Caught a bit off guard, you tried to play it cool: “Oh no, you don't have to!”
From a distance, you hear his mom scream, “ He better! I raised them right!”
Earning a laugh from both of you, you start walking to your car.
Together they made their way down the driveway while the sounds of the party faded behind them.
“You know, I didn't expect you to be as cool as you are”
You sigh, “What can I say, im a cool girl “
He rolls his eyes but has a smirk playing on his lips. “Let's not push it now”
Bumping him playfully, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, thanks for walking me to my car. I appreciate it ”
“Just make sure you follow me back on Instagram”
Getting into the car and with a small smile and wave, “I will, and tell Jaafar thanks for today”
As soon as Jermajesty entered the house, all eyes were on him. Jaafar’s smile widened, and Jermajesty already regretted sitting down.
“You like her!”
“I barely know her!”
Luckily for Jermajesty, their mom came to his rescue, shouting for Jaafar to leave him alone. However, that night, everyone went to their rooms. He couldn't help but replay the whole day. Pieces of the afternoon kept replaying in his head. Small moments. Random comments. Fragments of conversations that should have been forgettable but somehow weren't.
As promised, you called your best friend immediately, and before you could get a hey out, she was cutting you off immediately. “Tell me what happened from beginning to end.” “Well, hello to you too!” As you relay to her the contents of the evening, you can't help but smile and giggle at the things that transpired. It doesn't help that your best friend is a hopeless romantic because she's overly giddy about it. “Oh my gosh, bitch you're about to get a boyfriend!!!” You went to stop her immediately. “Absolutely not, he's cool, but I'm friends with his brother now. I've met the family, but boyfriend is too soon, sis.” “Yeah, yeah, I'll pick out my bridesmaid dress”
~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~
@/Jermajestjjackson has followed you!
You internally start freaking out because he actually followed you like he said he would. You almost start spiraling, thinking about his newfound fans and what they would say about a new follower, a girl no less. But regardless, you followed him back.
@/y/nonthescene has followed you back!
He was overly excited that you followed him back, but to seem level-headed, he didn't text you right away. He wanted to play it cool because he wasn't too sure if you liked him or if you were just being friendly. He, too, needed to figure out what this pull in his stomach was every time he checked your profile.
chapter 2
a/n: be kind please, this is my first ever fanfic. i wrote this for my friends. Suggestions comments are welcomed c:
AND ALL PRIDE ASIDE — ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ GOOD GIRL. part two of series based off kwn’s album “and all pride aside”
ꔛ pairing — jaafar jackson 𝓍 ƒ black!reader
೯ warning: smut, just porn w little porn tbh ( mdni ), praise kink, munch jaafar.
you are draped across the bed in nothing but your robe, your legs spread wide and trembling, eyes hazy as you look up at jaafar, he is kneeling between your thighs, his gaze heavy and focused, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. the air is thick with the scent of your arousal and the low hum of the fan filling the room.
he reaches out, his large hands sliding up your inner thighs, squeezing the soft flesh with a firm grip that makes you whimper. he leans in, his voice a low, honeyed rumble that vibrates in your chest. “look at you,” he whispers, his breath hot against your skin. “such a good girl for me.”
the praise sends a jolt of heat straight to your core, making your hips twitch instinctively. he notices, his eyes darkening as he shifts closer, his face inches from your soaking wet folds. he doesn't rush. he wants you to ache for it. he starts by kissing the insides of your thighs, trailing wet, searing lips upward until he is grazing the very edge of your pussy.
“mmm, stop teasing j”
you gasp, your fingers digging into the sheets, as his tongue finally makes contact. he licks you in one long, slow stroke from your bottom to the top, tasting every drop of your cream. you arch your back, a loud moan escaping you, and he looks up at you, his eyes gleaming. “that’s it, baby. just take it. you’re doing so well for me.”
he dives back in, his tongue swirling around your clit in tight, relentless circles. he uses the flat of his tongue to apply pressure, mimicking the rhythm of a cock, while his fingers slide inside you to keep you open and stretched. the combination is overwhelming. you are shaking, your breath coming in short, jagged hitces as he sucks your clit into his mouth, pulling on it with a gentle vacuum that makes you scream.
“good girl,” he mumbles against your skin, his voice muffled but clear. “so wet, so tight. you love this, don't you?”
he increases the pace, his tongue flickering rapidly against your sensitive peak while his fingers pump deep inside you, hitting your g spot with every thrust. you are on the edge, your vision blurring, your entire body humming with a tension that demands release. you beg him, your voice cracking, and he responds by biting softly at your folds, sending a shockwave of pleasure through you.
“give it to me,” he commands, his voice dropping. “be a good girl and come for me.”
the command was the final trigger. you shatter, your walls clamping tight around his fingers as a violent orgasm rips through you. you sob, your hips bucking as you peak, the pleasure so intense it feels like you are floating. jaafar doesn't stop, continuing to lick and suck you through the aftershocks, ensuring every last drop of pleasure is squeezed out of you.
as you slowly drift back down to earth, he crawls up your body, pinning your wrists above your head. he kisses you deeply, tasting yourself on your lips, his chest heaving against yours. he whispers against your mouth, his tone soft and possessive. “perfect. absolutely perfect.”
CONTENT: 18+ Content, smut, fingering, first time orgasm, a little spit play, praising, Jaafar talking her through it, etc. lmk if i forgot anything!
SUMMARY: While the two friends have one of their casual weekly hangouts, Jaafar finds out Y/n has never had an orgasm in her entire life. Now, she’s been with just very few guys but they just could never do it for her. Being the good ‘friend’ he is, Jaafar offers to help her have an orgasm.
WORD COUNT: 1.9k
“So you’re telling me in all of your 27 years of living…you’ve never had an orgasm?” Jaafar asks in the most genuine way possible, attempting to hold in his own laughter. Not laughing in a mocking manner but in absolute disbelief. In his mind, he begins to backtrack to your few boyfriends and begins to wonder so many things at once about his dearest friend’s sex life.
“Nope,” You flatly say, popping the ‘p’. Each time you had this conversation with someone you were completely unfazed. You didn’t know if it was normal or not—maybe you just have a broken pussy like Molly. Nah that can’t be it. Your partners have always finished when it came to anything sexual but you just couldn’t. “I just can’t do it, I don’t even know what a damn climax feels like.” You continue as you inspect your freshly done french tipped nails. “I really think they just didn’t know what they were doing.”
“Well yeah you think? It’s one thing to lead someone to their climax and not finish but to not even get to the climax?! Diabolical.” He rambles before you both sit in an awkward beat of silence for a rough 17 seconds. “I bet I can show you what an orgasm is supposed to feel like.” He says as if it was the most casual thing in the world.
"Don't even waste your time, I promise you that you can't." You said almost avoiding eye contact from the sudden rush of embarrassment.
“Wouldn’t hurt to try,” He continues with his full attention on you, being sure he reads your body language to see if his offering is making you uncomfortable in any way.
“I mean…we do have all night so it wouldn’t hurt to try.”
─────── ୨୧ ───────
Jaafar walks out of the bathroom with a dark-colored hand towel, drying his freshly washed hands.
“Are you sure? We can always stop at any time if you don’t feel comfortable.” He asked looking into your eyes as he placed the towel on the bed.
Being too anxious to let him hear how fearful you sounded, you nodded your head.
Jaafar crawled to the top of his bed, resting his back against the headboard.
“Come sit then.” He called you over, patting his lap for you to sit whilst removing his white t-shirt. It seemed as though his voice got darker and gravelly and the room also dropped in temperature, making your body feel warmer than before.
You tried to swallow the lump in your throat, but you couldn’t. As your legs nearly turned into jelly, you walked to the side of the bed he was on and awkwardly sat near him, not sure exactly where he wanted you. As if he could read right through your confusion, he picked you up with absolutely no effort and sat you down onto his lap. Your back is now pressed flush against his chest and his hardening dick finds its place right in between your ass.
“You okay?” Jaafar asks, his warm breath blowing against your neck.
Your breath hitched as you nodded your head again. “Yeah…just confused on how you plan to do anything when you’re behind me.”
He lets out a soft chuckle as a few thoughts cloud his mind. “There’s a lot I can do from behind you. Just be patient tonight, I’ll take care of you.”
His thumbs reach between the fabric of your biker shorts and the warmth of your skin, beginning to pull them down to your knees as you finish disregarding the pants yourself using your foot to kick them off the bed, flopping halfway under the bed.
“I want you to show me what you like. You think you can do that for me? Hm?” He asks while whispering in your ear. Jaafar moves his hands and drags them down the length of your outer thighs before moving your legs over the sides of his legs, effectively spreading you wide open while keeping them secured in place.
His eyes found yours in the mirror directly across from the bed until his eyes slanted down to see your glistening pussy, desperately clenching around nothing. At the sight, his dick stood at full attention making your own body hitch at the feeling of him underneath you. Jaafar began to caress all over your thighs and knees, simply drawing patterns that had your breath hitching and your body trembling at each touch. Your pussy began to actually leak onto his sweats and the sheets beneath you, creating a small puddle of your essence.
“Don’t get shy on me. Show me what you like baby.” Jaafar repeated, licking a stripe from your shoulder to the base of your ear, humming to himself at how soft your skin was and how good you smelt.
“But I don’t know what I like…” You softly replied, still feeling shy under his gaze and touch. His fingers paused dangerously on the inner part of your upper thighs, so close to your sobbing pussy, the feeling so foreign to you.
Your eyes began to flutter as his hands crept higher and higher at each movement. Your head fell back into his shoulders, whimpering into his ear.
“Open your mouth for me pretty,” Jaafar instructed, you slightly hesitated before accepting his request, opening your mouth fully.
“Don’t worry I cleaned them just for you. Just suck on ‘em.” His instructions were clear and direct and you did exactly as he said. His fingers were thick, long, and perfectly balanced between rough and soft. Jaafar had to take his mind to an entirely different world to stop himself from cumming right then and there.
You released his fingers from your mouth with a thick wet string of spit still leaving you two connected. Jaafar released a breath he didn't even know he was holding in. He can feel his dick throbbing and leaking, impatiently waiting to be relieved.
“Can I show you something baby?” Jafaar asked as his hand inches closer to your heat.
“Yes Jaafar…please.” You let out with a shaking breath that then turned into another whine as Jaafar slipped his fingers in between your velvety wet folds, sliding a single digit over your slit to coat his finger in your essence.
“Jaafar please…” You begged as you continued to whine in his ear, desperate and greedy for his touch. Your eyes closed as his middle finger moved your hood to press directly onto your sensitive clit, rubbing in a counter-clockwise direction at a casual pace.
“Open your eyes, I wanna see you.” He said as his finger slowed down just in case he had to fully stop if you weren’t listening to him.
As you open your clouded eyes with your chest rising and falling rapidly you hear him let out some praises to you letting you know how much of a good girl you are and how well you’ve been doing. Hearing these praises leave from his lips, your body only grows hotter as you try to look at the other side of the room to shield your embarrassment.
“Oh you like that huh?” He says adding another finger to rub harder against your throbbing clit.
You weren’t too sure if he was asking if you liked the way he was rubbing on your pussy or if you liked him calling you a good girl but either way the answer would’ve been the same.
You started to squirm in his lap desperate for more, which caused Jaafar to let out a hiss as you accidentally (or maybe intentionally) grinded against his clothed dick. This made him use his free hand to slap your left thigh. “Stop moving.”
You felt like you were actually seeing stars right now. It was just his fingers and he hasn’t even put them inside you yet. What was he doing that other guys couldn’t?
“Jaafar.” You moaned out as your hand reached around to touch his face.
He turned his face kissing your palm.
“Talk to me, pretty girl.”
You groaned “It feels so good…it’s so good. Please go faster.”
He immediately listened to you and picked up the pace, hearing the sound of your pussy squelching and growing wetter against his fingers.
“More…please. I need it.” You moaned, rocking your hips into his hand as your hand that was resting on his face moved down to hold onto his wrist.
“You want more?” Jaafar asked and the second you nodded your head whilst biting on your lip, his own mouth curved into an evil smile.
When his middle finger slipped inside of you, you both stopped. Your eyes flew open as you met his gaze in the mirror once again.
“Fuck you’re so wet baby.” He said, still not moving yet.
You quickly grew impatient and started to grind your hips against his hand again. Feeling you squirm, Jaafar released a guttural groan.
“Stop doing that.” He sternly said, trying so hard not to flip them both over and fuck you right there.
“Then keep going.” You demanded with your lips pouted.
Jaafar inserted another finger into your warm, wet, and tight heat. Hooking his fingers up, pumping them up inside of you, listening to the sounds of you squelching around him.
You let out a satisfied sob, clenching around his thick fingers. You could hardly keep your eyes open as you felt nothing but a constant euphoric feeling given from the man behind you. His fingers curved at a perfect angle performing a ‘come here’ motion with his fingers. He constantly spoke sweet words and praises into your ear, pressing a soft and passionate kiss against it every once in a while. He worshiped your body with his hands, mouth, and eyes. At some point, his free hand reached around and held yours.
“Jaafar I think I’m gonna-“ You suddenly squeezed both your eyes and legs shut, as your chest heaved while you bit down on your lip feeling your body begin to shudder from the waist down.
You cracked your legs open slightly to attempt to push his hands away. “Please… I can’t-“ You cried as your words began to fail you as a breathy moan fell from your lips.
“Talk to me baby.” Jaafar kissed the top of your shoulder.
“I’m gonna cum Jaafar please.” You pleaded, not even knowing why you were begging to the man.
“Look in the mirror for me. I want you to see how pretty you look while you cum.”
You forcefully peeled your eyes open as you finally found his sparkling eyes in the mirror, both of you focused on one thing.
His thumb grazed over your fluttering clit a few more times before you both felt a thick gush of a milky liquid dripped from your core. Your hand gripped his forearm as you mumbled a string of curse words feeling your orgasm take control of your entire body. After your orgasm completely washed over, along with a few slow strokes of his fingers as it came to an end, you felt so empty once he removed his fingers from in between your legs.
You attempted to silence your whimper as his fingers grazed against your sensitive area. Jaafar brought his cream covered fingers up to his mouth and sucked them clean, giving a deliberate hum in satisfaction. Then grabbing the towel that he purposely left next to them to clean up your mess. He gently cleaned you up making sure not to wipe too hard around the delicate area. Before he could fix his lips to question how you felt, he saw how limp your body was and your eyes now closed.
He let out a soft chuckle seeing the blissful look on your face, shaking his head.
pairing: jaafar jackson x reader (brother’s best friend)
summary: in which a slow elevator ride, too many heated glances, and some innocent talk about ice cream end with jaafar and y/n finally snapping, clothes on the floor, and zero restraint left between them.
warnings: +18 explicit smut, oral sex (f receiving), riding (yee yee), missionary, doggy style, some hair pulling, light restraint/pinning, vocaljaafar (we love that), pussy drunk jaafar, consent check (we love that), heavy sexual tension, aftercare, post-sex fluff & domestic vibes, ice cream as a plot device lol
chapters
word count: 6,228
an: FINALLY!!
The elevator ride up to the third floor was a lesson in near-fatal restraint. The small and enclosed metal box felt entirely out of of oxygen, the air thick and humming with the scent of leather, warm amber, and the unmistakable and charged humidity of two bodies vibrating at the exact same high frequency.
Jaafar stood with his back leaned flat against the mirrored wall, his long legs slightly parted, hands shoved loosely into the pockets of his pants. On the surface, he looked like the picture of effortless, quiet cool. But underneath, his pulse was a runaway train, his jaw clamped so tight the muscle leaped under his sun-kissed skin. His eyes were heavy, dark, and utterly predatory as they tracked Y/N standing just a foot away from him.
She leaned her back against the handrail, looking up at him through her lashes. The dim, yellow light of the elevator glinted off the structured, deep maroon leather of her top, accentuating the heavy, uneven rise and fall of her chest.
'You know,' she started, her voice dropping into a soft, teasing murmur that vibrated pleasantly in the quiet space, 'I still have ice cream up there. From the other night.'
When she turned her head fully to look at him, she caught the sheer hunger burning in his gaze. He wasn't just looking at her, he was devouring her. His eyes swept down the column of her neck, lingering over the swell of her breasts tightly encased in the leather, down to the narrow indentation of her waist and the short black skirt.
'Mmh,' Jaafar let out a low, gravelly vibration from the back of his throat, the sound rich and rough. He didn't blink.
Y/N let out a soft, breathless laugh, her shoulder nudging his bicep playfully. 'Is that all I get? A 'mmh'?'
Jaafar didn't answer with words. Instead, his right hand shot out of his pocket, his long fingers wrapping possessively around her waist. The firm, warm leather yielded slightly under his palm as he yanked her sideways, pinning her body flush against his side. Before she could even gasp, he tilted his head down, his lips burying into the soft skin just beneath her jawline.
Y/N’s head fell back against his shoulder instinctively, a quiet sigh escaping her as Jaafar dragged his lips in a slow, wet, agonizingly deliberate path down the length of her neck. His teeth grazed the sensitive spot right above her collarbone, causing her entire body to arch into his.
'I have...I have cookies and cream,' she stammered, trying desperately to maintain the playful banter even as her fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt for balance. 'And... oh, and vanilla bean. I think there's some mint chip left...'
'Mhm,' Jaafar murmured against her skin, his warm breath sending a violent shiver straight down her spine. His hand on her waist tightened, his thumb digging into her hip, anchoring her so close she could feel the rigid, heavy length of his arousal pressing firmly against her outer thigh. He was drowning in her scent, completely intoxicated by the taste of her skin, but he forced himself to pull back just an inch as the elevator chimed, the doors sliding open to her floor.
Y/N blinked, her eyes heavy lidded and dark with a sudden, building heat. She reached down, her small hand locking into his big, strong palm, and guided him down the carpeted hallway.
The moment the apartment door clicked shut behind them, locking them away from the rest of the universe, Y/N let out a long exhale. She reached down, taking off her heels with a groan of pure relief. 'Oh my god. Those were absolutely killing me.'
Jaafar stood by the door, his large frame towering in the shadows of her entryway. He watched her step out of the heels, his eyes tracking the flawless, bare curve of her calves and thighs.
You're the one killing me, he thought, the words a silent, agonizing roar in his mind.
The sheer, primal urge to twist her around, press her flat against the locked front door, and rip that maroon leather top off her body was almost entirely unmanageable. His hands twitched at his sides. But he didn't move. He forced his feet to stay glued to the floorboards.
Months of careful, precious friendship weighed heavily on his chest. Even though she had invited him in, even though they had practically set the Hollywood Hills on fire thirty minutes ago, a small, stubborn voice of respect kept his hands to himself. What if he was misreading the signs? What if she just wanted the comfort of his company after a long night? He cared about her too deeply to ever make her feel pressured or rushed, so he clenched his fists inside his pockets, his posture rigid with the immense effort of his own restraint.
Y/N noticed the sudden stillness in him. A private, knowing smirk played at the corner of her lips as she turned and walked into the dimly lit kitchen. She grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filling it with cold water from the fridge. Turning around, she leaned her hips against the counter, holding the glass out toward him.
'You look thirsty,' she said, her voice dropping into a breathless, suggestive register. She arched an eyebrow, her eyes dancing with a wicked, playful confidence. She knew exactly what she was doing to him. She could see the tension in his broad shoulders, the way his chest was heaving under his shirt.
Jaafar’s eyes narrowed slightly, a dangerous, dark heat flaring in his pupils. He stepped into the kitchen, his long, slow strides cutting the distance between them until he was standing close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin.
'Mh. Very thirsty,' he whispered, his voice deep, gravelly, and stripped entirely of its usual gentleness.
He reached out, his fingers brushing against hers as he took the glass from her hand. He lifted it to his lips and drank, tilting his head back, his throat moving in strong, rhythmic swallows. All the while, his dark eyes never broke contact with hers.
Y/N’s breath hitched. Normally, she absolutely detested prolonged eye contact, it always felt entirely too invasive, too exposing even. But Jaafars eye contact? She was addicted to it. She loved the sheer and unfiltered intensity behind his gaze. When Jaafar looked at her like this, his eyes always spoke for him.
Jaafar set the glass down on the marble counter behind her with a soft, distinct clink. He didn't pull his arm back, effectively trapping her between his body and the cabinetry.
Y/N swallowed hard, her eyes drifting down to his mouth before lifting back to his gaze. 'So...you still didn't tell me what ice cream flavor you wanted.'
Jaafar let out a quiet, breathless scoff, a low rumble of humor melting through the thick tension. He shook his head, a helpless, beautifully undone expression crossing his face. 'Y/N...'
God, the way he said her name. It was a low, desperate plea, a verbal caress that made her entire lower abdomen tighten with a sudden, sharp ache. It sent her spiraling, stripping away the last remnants of her playful armor.
Jaafar broke.
His hand snatched the back of her neck, his fingers tangling fiercely into her hair as he pulled her face up and slammed his mouth down onto hers. The make out went from zero to a hundred in a fraction of a second. It was a heated, bruising collision of lips and teeth, a desperate release of waiting.
Y/N let out a sharp moan into his mouth, her arms flying around his neck as she pulled herself up, her bare feet lifting off the ground as she tried to get closer to his heat. Jaafar grunted, his other hand coming down to grip the fabric of her black skirt, lifting her effortlessly until she was sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter. He crowded into her space, his heavy thighs pressing between her open legs, his tongue sliding deep into her mouth, claiming her with a dominant, breathless urgency.
Buttons began to disappear. Jaafar’s fingers flew down the front of his own shirt, ripping the fabric open and throwing it blindly onto the floor. Y/N’s hands immediately flooded over his bare chest, her palms tracing the hard, sculpted ridges of his pectorals, his ribs, her fingernails digging into his broad shoulders as he dragged his mouth away from her lips to open mouth kiss his way down her jaw, her throat, straight to the exposed skin above her leather top.
'J...the bedroom,' she gasped out, her hands tugging at his hair as his mouth sent dizzying waves of pleasure through her core.
He didn't answer, just scooped her off the counter in one powerful movement, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. He took wide, blind steps down the short hallway toward her bedroom, their mouths clashing together the entire way, a messy, breathless exchange of tasting and taking. They stumbled through her bedroom door, his hands working frantically at the fastening of her maroon leather top until the structured fabric loosened, falling away onto the carpet.
Jaafar laid her down on the mattress, the cool sheets a sharp contrast to the blistering heat of their skin. The moment her back hit the bed, Jaafar pulled back, hovering over her on his forearms. His chest was heaving, sweat glistening on his shoulders in the amber light filtering in from the streetlamps outside.
He stopped.
He looked down at her, his eyes wild, dark, but filled with a sudden, fierce gravity. He took a ragged breath, his long fingers coming up to gently tuck a stray wave of hair behind her ear. He wanted her more than he wanted air, but he needed to hear it. He needed to be absolutely certain.
'Wait,' he panted, his voice thick, rough, and trembling slightly with the weight of his own restraint. 'Look at me. You're sure? You want this...?'
Y/N looked up into the beautiful, intense gaze of the man she had loved in secret for months. She reached up, her hands cupping the sides of his face, her thumbs smoothing over his cheekbones. 'Jaafar, please,' she whispered, her voice completely steady, filled with a fierce, absolute confidence. 'I've wanted you for so long. Don't stop.'
A low, trembling sigh escaped Jaafar’s lips, his entire body relaxing as he leaned down and kissed her with a sudden, profound tenderness that quickly built back into a raging fire.
The rest of their clothes vanished in a frantic blur of tangled limbs and desperate tugs. When they were finally completely bare, the sheer beauty of her body under his gaze made Jaafar whimper, a low, helpless sound vibrating in his chest. He took his time, his big, warm hands mapping every inch of her skin, the curve of her waist, the fullness of her breasts, the soft yield of her hips.
Slowly, deliberately, Jaafar shifted his body down the bed. He parted her legs, draping her soft thighs over his broad shoulders as he settled between them. Y/N arched her back, her breath catching as she felt the warm rush of his breath against her core.
When his tongue made first contact, she let out a loud, uninhibited shriek, her fingers instantly locking into the mattress sheets.
Jaafar was ruthless. He used his large hands to grip her thighs, holding her open as his tongue swirled and stroked against her sensitive skin in long, heavy, agonizingly perfect strokes. He was completely pussy drunk, intoxicated by the taste of her, the slick, dripping wetness of her arousal coating his lips. He drank her in like a dying man in a desert, his head moving in a desperate, rhythmic pattern.
He paused for a microsecond, lifting his head just enough to look up at her, his lips glistening in the dim light. 'This is so much better than ice cream, baby,' he growled out, his voice a deep, filthy purr that made Y/N’s head toss wildly against the pillows. 'You taste so fucking good.'
'Jaafar, please...oh my god,' she cried out, her back arching completely off the bed as he dived back in, his fingers sliding inside her, matching the wicked, heavy rhythm of his tongue until she completely shattered, her body trembling with a violent, screaming climax that left her sobbing his name into the quiet room.
Jaafar worked her through every wave, gentling his movements but not stopping until she was panting and oversensitive. He kissed his way back up her body, letting her taste herself on his tongue in a deep, filthy kiss. Y/N pushed at his shoulders, flipping them so she was on top. She kissed down his chest, licking the lines of his abs, but the moment her warmth hovered near his lap, Jaafar’s hands shot forward. His fingers wrapped firmly around her wrists, his grip big, strong and trembling with a deep restraint.
'No, baby... no,' he choked out, his voice thick, gravelly, and entirely stripped of its usual quiet composure. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his chest heaving violently against hers as he panted for air. 'Tonight is about you. Just you. I’ve waited too fucking long to watch you, to feel you...please.'
The raw, desperate vulnerability in his plea sent a violent spike of heat straight to Y/N’s core. She didn't argue. Shifting her hips, she straddled his thighs, her bare knees gripping his outer hips. She lifted her body, positioning herself directly over his thick, throbbing length, her slick, dripping wetness coating the blunt head of his arousal.
Jaafar let out a sharp, ragged whimper at the contact, his hips bucking upward instinctively. His large hands flew straight to her waist, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh above her hips as he guided her down.
Slowly, deliberately, Y/N sank onto him.
The sensation of his thick, unyielding length stretching her open, filling her completely to the absolute brim, made her head toss back, a breathy gasp escaping her lips. Jaafar’s eyes snapped open, dark, hooded and completely black with pure lust. A deep, vocal groan rumbled from his chest, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle leaped under his skin as he took the full tight depth of her.
'F-fuck... Y/N,' he stammered, his head slamming back against the pillows.
Y/N didn't give him a chance to recover. Intoxicated by the sheer size of him filling her, she began to move, lifting her hips and sliding down his length in a slow, rolling, torturous rhythm.
The moment she started riding him, Jaafar completely lost his mind. The cool, quiet gentleman from the backyard, the museum, the record store, the beach day, the pool day was entirely gone, replaced by a man who was completely and utterly at her mercy. He became a vocal, so vocal, whiny mess beneath her, completely undone by the agonizing perfection of her friction.
'Ah...baby, yeah...right there,' he whimpered, his voice cracking, dropping into a high, needy register that Y/N had never heard from him before. His hips bucked upward, trying to meet her pace, but he was entirely disorganized, his hands gripping her thighs possessively just to keep himself anchored. 'God, you're so good...you're so fucking amazing, baby...'
Hearing Jaafar, usually so collected and soft-spoken, whining and whimpering underneath her sent an overwhelming rush of arousal through Y/N’s veins. His helpless, high pitched moans were the most intoxicating sound she had ever heard. It turned her on so fiercely that her inner walls flooded with heat, clenching and pulsing around his thick shaft like a tight, desperate vice.
The sudden, crushing contraction of her walls made Jaafar let out a sharp, breathless cry, his eyes rolling back for a split second. 'mhm, baby, squeezing me so good...'
Y/N leaned forward, pressing her bare breasts against his chest, her hands coming up to frame his face, her thumbs tracing his high cheekbones. She looked down into his blown-out, helpless eyes, a wicked, confident smile touching her lips as she kept up the brutal, rolling rhythm of her hips.
'You feel amazing,' she whispered against his lips, her voice a breathless, seductive purr. She deliberately squeezed her inner muscles around him again, watching the way his features immediately contorted in pure, beautiful agony. 'Tell me how good it feels. You sound so beautiful, Jaafar. I love the way you sound for me.'
'I love it...baby, I'm completely fucking gone,' he wailed softly, a desperate, whiny groan breaking from his throat as he turned his face into her palm, kissing her skin frantically. He was panting, his chest slick with a light sheen of sweat, his broad shoulders twitching with the effort not to instantly release inside her. 'It’s the best thing... best thing I've ever felt in my life...'
The praise loop was lethal. The more he whimpered and told her how perfect she felt, the wetter and tighter she became, her body clenching around him like crazy. And the tighter she got, the more it drove Jaafar into a state of absolute, primal insanity.
'Fuck it,' Jaafar growled, his restraint completely snapping.
His hands shot up from her thighs, wrapping securely around her ribs and waist. With a sudden, powerful surge of his upper body, he reversed their positions, rolling her onto her back without losing the deep, burying connection between their hips.
He pinned her arms above her head, his long fingers locking tightly with hers, and began to pound into her from missionary with a heavy, relentless pace. The slow burn was officially dead, buried beneath the messy, wet sounds of their bodies clashing together and the uninhibited, vocal cries echoing into the quiet summer night.
Jaafar had completely lost his mind. The final shred of his carefully cultivated, months of restraint had collapsed into ash, leaving nothing but a raw, frantic hunger that demanded every single part of her.
He didn't lift his weight off her. He crowded her down into the mattress, his broad, sweaty chest slamming against hers with every heavy, unyielding thrust. His hands remained locked with hers, pinning her wrists to the sheets above her head with a grip so big, warm, and possessively strong that she couldn't move an inch, not that she wanted to. She was completely trapped beneath his frame, entirely consumed by his heat, his scent, and the bruising depth of his body ruthlessly claiming hers.
'Jaaf...Jaafar,' she sobbed out, her head tossing wildly against the pillows as he drove into her, his thick, rigid length bottoming out against her cervix with a force that made her entire body vibrate.
'I know, baby... I know, yeah, fuck,' he wailed, his voice cracking completely. He sounded so pathetic, so utterly ruined by the feel of her that it was almost indecent. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his hot, frantic breaths scalding her skin as he kept up a brutal, relentless pace. Every single slam of his hips was accompanied by a wet, heavy friction that echoed loudly in the quiet room. 'You're ruining me... I can't think, Y/N, I can't breathe...'
The sheer velocity of his movements was dizzying. He was driving into her with everything he had. Y/N arched her back, her legs wrapping tightly around his waist, her ankles locking at the small of his back to pull him even deeper, if it was even physically possible.
The movement caused her inner walls to experience a massive, rolling contraction, her slick, dripping wetness clenching around his thick shaft like a vice.
Jaafar let out a sharp, high pitched whine, a literal cry of beautiful agony, and his entire body shuddered violently. He stopped moving for a split second, his hips pinned hard against hers, burying his length into her to the absolute maximum as his muscles seized.
'Oh, god...wait, wait, baby,' he gasped, his voice a whiny, breathless mess. He lifted his head, his dark eyes completely blown out, the pupils so wide they looked almost entirely black. Sweat dripped from his jawline, landing on her collarbone. He looked down at her with a desperate, wild intensity. 'Don't squeeze me like that... I want to last for you, I want to give you everything, but you're too fucking perfect...'
Y/N looked up into those intense, devotional eyes, her own breathing shallow and ragged. His vulnerability, the whiny, vocal mess she had turned him into, was the most addictive thing she had ever experienced. It sent a fresh wave of liquid heat straight down her thighs.
'Don't hold back, J,' she whispered, her voice trembling but filled with an absolute, possessive certainty. She unlocked her legs just enough to slide her hands down to his damp hips, her fingernails digging deep into his skin, urging him back into motion. 'Give it to me. Give me all of it. I want to feel how much you want me.'
A low, guttural growl ripped from the very back of Jaafar's throat. The request was his absolute undoing.
Before she could even process the shift, Jaafar moved with a frantic, desperate energy. He hooked his hands under her waist, pulling her up and flipping her effortlessly onto her hands and knees. The sudden change in orientation left her breathless, her palms digging into the mattress as she arched her back, her posture completely open, exposed, and vulnerable to him.
Jaafar didn't wait a single second. He knelt right behind her, his large hands gripping her hips with a bruising force that anchored her in place. He lined himself up against her dripping core and drove himself straight back inside from behind in one deep, unyielding plunge.
'Oh, god!' Y/N shrieked, her fingers clutching the bedsheets into tight knots as he buried his full length inside her. The angle was entirely different, so much deeper, hitting her sweetest spot with an immediate, breathtaking intensity that made her vision blur.
'Yeah, baby...fuck, you taking it so good,' Jaafar whimpered, his voice a broken mess against the small of her back. He began to pound into her from behind with a fast, heavy, relentless rhythm. Every thrust slammed his pelvis flush against her bare backside, creating a loud, wet rhythm that filled the entire bedroom.
He was completely feral now. Shifting his weight forward, his large warm hand traveled up her spine, his fingers tangling firmly into the hair at the back of her head. With a low growl, he gathered the strands in his fist, pulling back just enough to tilt her chin up, forcing her back to arch even deeper into his space. The steady, possessive tug on her hair grounded her completely, sending a hot wave of submission straight down her spine as he used the leverage to drive even deeper into her.
'Mhm, so good baby, better than... i've imagined' he wailed, his composure entirely shattered as he accelerated the pace. He was hitting her so fast, so deeply, that she could only sob out his name, her head burying into the pillows as the friction pushed her straight toward another cliff.
The mental image of him completely lost beneath her, combined with the brutal, blinding pleasure of his thick shaft tearing into her from behind, made her inner walls flood with a fresh wave of heat. She clenched around him like an absolute vice, her body squeezing him tighter and tighter with every frantic stroke.
The crushing force of her clenching pushed Jaafar straight over the edge. He let out a loud, guttural shout, his pace turning into a rapid, desperate vibration. 'Come for me, baby...let me feel it... let me feel how good you take me...'
The internal walls of her body snapped, a massive, screaming orgasm ripping through her core. She clenched around him like crazy, her muscles pulsing in a violent, rhythmic sequence that completely broke him.
Jaafar drove into her one last, deepest time, his back arching as his hands dug possessively into her hips, pinning her flat against the mattress. His body went entirely rigid, a loud, guttural shout tearing from his throat as his release pumped hot and heavy deep inside her. He whined against her neck, a long helpless sound of pure completion, his chest heaving as he collapsed into her warmth, completely spent, completely conquered, and utterly hers.
When he finally pulled back, shifting his weight onto his elbows, he looked like a completely different person. His curls were a wild, damp mess, his eyes were still slightly unfocused, and a soft, vulnerable smile was slowly replacing the intense gravity that had been there just moments before.
The room was totally quiet except for the sound of their chests heaving in unison, the absolute chaos of the last twenty minutes finally settling into the mattress.
He took a long, trembling breath and lifted his hands off the sheets. His fingers were visibly, undeniably trembling.
'Look at this,' Jaafar whispered, a breathless, genuinely stunned laugh breaking through his chest. 'I’m literally shaking. Y/N, I am actually vibrating right now.'
Y/N let out a soft, exhausted chuckle, reaching up to wrap her fingers around his. His skin was blazing hot. 'Are you okay?'
'I don't know,' he admitted, shaking his head with a wide, lazy grin as he rolled off her, lying flat on his back and staring at the ceiling. 'I think my soul left my body somewhere around the time you were riding me. Give me two minutes.'
He didn't take two minutes. After just a moment of catching his breath, the easy, attentive warmth that defined their regular friendship rushed right back in. He padded off to the bathroom, the soft glow of the light turning on, followed by the sound of running warm water. When he came back, he was carrying a warm, damp washcloth.
The shift into aftercare was seamless, stripped of any awkwardness. He sat on the edge of the bed and gently, meticulously cleaned her up, his touch incredibly light and reverent. Y/N just watched him, her heart swelling at how natural it felt to have him taking care of her like this. When he finished, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss right to her inner thigh, making her shiver slightly from the lingering sensitivity.
'There,' he murmured, crawling back up the bed and sliding under the cool sheets next to her. He pulled her flush against his side, his long arm wrapping securely around her waist so her head rested perfectly on his bare chest.
They lay there in a comfortable, heavy silence for a while, just listening to the distant hum of the traffic outside. The thick, agonizing tension that had been stretching between them for months was completely gone, replaced by a deep, grounded sense of relief. They had finally crossed the line, and the ground beneath them hadn't swallowed them whole, it felt better.
Jaafar’s eyes drifted lazily around the dark bedroom, taking in the familiar space he’d visited a dozens times before as just a friend. Eventually, his gaze landed on her desk across the room. Sitting right next to her laptop was a familiar, bright green shape.
A broad, genuine smile broke across his face. He leaned down and pressed a warm kiss to the top of her head.
'Hey,' he murmured, his chest rumbling beneath her cheek. 'You think Stanley is traumatized?'
Y/N blinked, her mind foggy with sleep and satisfaction. She thought about it for a second, her brain stalling as she realized what he’d just said. Stanley. It was a little green brontosaurus plush he had bought her at the Natural History Museum a few months ago. She had introduced them while on their way home, saying, 'Jaafar, this is Stanley, Stanley says thank you.'
She hadn't mentioned the name since.
A sudden, warm burst of laughter bubbled up from her chest, her shoulders shaking against him. 'Oh my god. You remembered his name?'
'Of course I remembered his name,' Jaafar defended playfully, his arm tightening around her waist as he chuckled. 'He’s family. But seriously... he had a front row seat. I feel like we owe him an apology.'
Y/N looked over at the little green plush sitting innocently in the shadows, then looked back up at Jaafar’s ridiculously handsome, smiling face. 'Well...honestly, looking at his expression from here? I think he's definitely going to need therapy.'
Jaafar let out a loud, joyous laugh that echoed in the quiet room, the sound so full and unburdened it made Y/N smile until her cheeks ached. He rolled slightly, burying his face in her hair as their laughter slowly tapered off into a warm, lingering hum of contentment. He held her close, his thumb tracing lazy circles against her hip.
Y/N shifted, propping her chin on his chest so she could look down at him. Her eyes danced with that same playful spark from the kitchen.
'So...' she started, trailing a finger down the center of his bare torso. 'About that ice cream?'
Jaafar’s chest rumbled with a quiet laugh beneath her chin, his large hand coming up to gently cup the back of her head, his fingers loose in her hair. He looked up at her, his eyes warm, relaxed, and entirely stripped of the heavy intensity from earlier.
'What were the options again?' he asked, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. 'To be completely honest with you, baby, I wasn’t paying much attention to the menu before.'
Y/N let out a soft snort, nudging his ribs with her elbow. 'Clearly. I said I have cookies and cream, vanilla bean, and a little bit of mint chip left.'
Jaafar thought about it for a fraction of a second before a soft, boyish laugh broke through his lips. 'How about we just take a bit of everything? Make a giant mess of it.'
'Spoken like a true child,' she teased, rolling off his chest and swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress. The cool air of the bedroom hit her bare skin, making her shiver slightly. She walked over to her dresser, pulling out a massive, faded oversized t-shirt, sliding it over her head until it swallowed her down to her mid-thighs. She rummaged through the bottom drawer for a second before pulling out a thick, grey pair of men’s fleece sweatpants and tossing them onto the bed right next to his hip. 'Here. You can wear these.'
Jaafar propped himself up on his elbows, staring at the sweatpants, then looked up at her, his eyebrows knitted together in a look of pure, comedic confusion. He looked back at the pants, then back to her.
She caught the look on his face and immediately rolled her eyes, a defensive laugh slipping out. 'Oh, stop. Men's sweatpants are infinitely comfier, thicker, and they actually have pockets that fit a whole phone. Sue me.'
Jaafar just shook his head, a knowing, amused smile spreading across his face as he swung his long legs out of bed. He slid into the fleece pants, and Y/N had to internally admit, even if it was a total cliché, that they looked entirely different on him than they did on her. The waist clung perfectly to his hips, and the fabric stretched over his muscular thighs in a way that made her look away for a second just to keep her train of thought.
'Alright, let's go,' she said, turning toward the bedroom door.
But the moment her foot hit the top step of the stairs leading down to the living area, her knees gave a tiny, traitorous wobble. She froze, gripping the wooden handrail tightly. 'Okay...my legs are lowkey jelly right now.'
From right behind her, Jaafar let out a rich, triumphant laugh. 'See? Look who's vibrating now. I wasn’t the one exaggerating in bed, then.'
'oh shut up,' she complained, but before she could even take the next step, Jaafar’s large arms slid effortlessly under her knees and behind her back, scooping her up against his chest in one fluid motion.
'Jaafar!' she gasped, her hands flying to his broad shoulders for balance as he began walking down the stairs.
He didn't say anything, just laughed, the vibrations of it buzzing against her side as he carried her down. He didn't even drop her when they reached the bottom, instead walking her all the way into the dimly lit kitchen and carefully setting her feet down right in front of the refrigerator.
Y/N huffed, though she couldn't hide her smile as she pulled open the freezer door and began tugging the three pint containers out onto the marble counter. She grabbed two bowls and spoons from the drawer, immediately launching into a passionate monologue.
'I'm still so mad, Jaafar, you don't even understand,' she ranted, dug-in deep into the vanilla bean pint. 'The brand that made my absolute favorite flavor, it was this dark chocolate salted pretzel, ugh so good, well, they completely discontinued it last month. No warning. No nothing. Just wiped from the shelves. Like, who authorized that? Who sits in a corporate boardroom and decides to ruin my life on a Tuesday?'
Jaafar didn't answer. He simply leaned his hips back against the island opposite her, his long legs crossed at the ankles, his arms folded loosely over his bare chest. The soft light from the open freezer bathed the kitchen in a quiet, domestic glow.
He was just watching her.
He watched the way her mouth moved rapidly as she complained, the way her oversized shirt hung off one of her shoulders, and the soft, completely relaxed expression on her face. A profound, overwhelming wave of clarity hit him right in the center of his chest. He felt so intensely happy in this exact, quiet slice of time that it almost made his chest ache.
For months, he had kept his feelings tucked away in the quietest corners of his heart, always terrified that letting them out would break the beautiful friendship they had built. But seeing her here, completely comfortable after having sex with him for the first time, making a messy bowl of mixed ice cream at midnight, made something inside him settle permanently. She made him feel a kind of peace he hadn't found anywhere else in his life. Seeing her smile, hearing the unbothered, easy frequency of her laugh, it didn't just warm his heart: it grounded him.
I want this, he thought, his dark eyes softening as he tracked the movement of her hands. I want to make this work. Completely.
He didn't want this to be a one night release of tension. He wanted to cherish her. He wanted to learn every single ridiculous preference she had, to spoil her until she forgot she ever liked a discontinued flavor, and to love her endlessly, quietly, and thoroughly, every single day from here on out.
Y/N finally stopped scooping, holding up a bowl that looked like a chaotic mosaic of green, white, and brown. She looked up at him, ready to ask if it was enough but paused when she caught the look in his eyes. It was that same deep, steady devotion from earlier, but softer now. Entirely gentle.
'What?' she asked softly, holding the spoon mid-air. 'Why are you looking at me like that?'
Jaafar didn’t move from where he was leaning against the island. He just kept his arms crossed over his bare chest, a slow, incredibly soft smile spreading across his face as he looked at her.
'Nothing, nothing,' he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, deep register that always made her stomach do a little flip. 'Just thinking about how you managed to make it sound like a personal declaration of war.'
Y/N let out a soft laugh, setting the spoon down in the bowl. ’Because it is a personal war. They took my pretzels, J. That's a hostile action.'
'Mmh. Highly illegal,' he agreed, finally straightening up and taking the two slow steps across the kitchen floor to close the distance between them. He didn't grab the bowl. Instead, his hands reached out and gently slid under the hem of her oversized t-shirt, his warm palms settling firmly against the bare skin of her waist. He pulled her flush against his chest, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss right to the center of her forehead.
'Um, when are you free?' he murmured against her skin, the low rumble of his voice vibrating straight through her.
Y/N let out a soft, breathy laugh, her hands sliding up his bare chest to rest over the steady, heavy thud of his heart. 'This week? All of it, honestly. I’m working from home.'
Jaafar pulled back just enough to look down into her eyes, a tender, incredibly hopeful smile softening his handsome features. 'Well...could you save one of those days for me?'
She laughed softly, her fingers curling into his shoulders. 'Always.'
'I want to take you on a date,' he said, his thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles against her hips, his gaze holding hers with total, unhurried honesty. 'A proper one, y/n. One that we actually plan. Not Jermajesty.'
A sudden, shared burst of amusement broke between them, both of them laughing as the memory hit. It was impossible not to think about Jermajesty’s completely chaotic, high-effort attempt to fake a group hangout a few weeks back, only to 'accidentally' cancel at the absolute last minute so the two of them would be forced to eat dinner alone together.
'Hey, technically it worked,' Y/N teased, nudging his ribs with her elbow.
'Please, don’t give him the satisfaction,' Jaafar chuckled, his head shaking as his smile widened, bright and completely unburdened. He leaned down, his forehead resting gently against hers. 'So...a real date? Just us?'
Y/N looked up into the eyes of the man she had loved in secret for months, feeling the absolute relief of finally being right here in his arms.
'I would love that, Jaafar,' she said softly, leaning up to press a sweet, unhurried kiss to his lips.
pairing: jaafar jackson x reader
summary: when an oblivious y/n spends the evening chatting with a 'friend' who doesn't understand boundaries at an after-party, jaafar's quiet, polite exterior masks a dangerous, possessive jealousy. back at the hotel, he decides to remind her exactly who she belongs to.
warnings: +18 smut, jealous!jaafar, possessive sex, dom!jaafar, orgasm denial, edging, overstimulation, hair pulling, manhandling, mirror sex?, dirty talk, phone call during sex, public tension, reader is clueless to flirting at first
word count: 5,894 words (wtf)
a/n: I really got carried away, damn, sorry in advance. also, I tagged everyone who commented on the post idk lol
The heavy curtains of the after party ballroom did little to muffle the bass vibrating through the floorboards, but inside jaafar’s chest, a different kind of tension was drumming.
By all accounts, the awards ceremony had been a massive success. He’d handled the red carpet with his signature soft spoken grace, flashing that bright smile that instantly melted the cameras. He’d spent the evening holding your hand under the table, his thumb tracing soothing circles over your knuckles. Jaafar was never one for public displays of affection, he was deeply private, fiercely protective, and preferred to keep the intimacy between you entirely behind closed doors. He didn't need to put on a show for the world to prove you were his.
Until tonight. Until Ryan.
Jaafar was currently caught in an interview with a prominent entertainment reporter, standing beneath the blinding glare of the media lights. His posture was perfectly elegant, his hands clasped casually in front of him, but his dark, liquid eyes were completely checked out of the conversation. He was looking past the reporter’s shoulder, across the VIP lounge, straight at you.
And straight at Ryan.
Ryan was one of your 'friends', a title Jaafar used in his head with a heavy dose of disdain. Ryan was the type of man who consistently overstepped, who treated the concept of personal boundaries like a loose suggestion. You, in all your sweet, trusting innocence, were entirely clueless. You genuinely believed Ryan was just an overly affectionate, hypersocial guy. You didn't see the calculation in his movements.
Jaafar did.
From across the room, Jaafar watched with an icy, detached focus as Ryan leaned in entirely too close, his shoulder nearly brushing yours as you stood by a high-top table. You were talking vividly, your eyes bright, gesturing with your hands as you recounted a story, completely unaware of how Ryan’s gaze was slowly tracking the movement of your lips. Then, Ryan reached out, his hand lingering just a fraction of an inch away from the bare skin of your waist, his fingers twitching as if he were just waiting for an invitation to touch you.
A dark, dangerous heat flared in the pit of Jaafar's stomach, but on the outside, his face remained a mask of polite composure.
'...and with the upcoming project, can fans expect something else?' the reporter asked, thrusting the microphone toward him.
Jaafar turned his head back to the reporter. He didn't lose his temper, he never did. Instead, he offered a smile. But it wasn't his real smile. It was a tight-lipped, flashing smirk that lasted exactly 0.2 seconds, never reaching his eyes, completely devoid of the warmth he usually radiated.
'We are focusing on finishing the project first, but we are definitely discussing more future projects,' jaafar said, his voice smooth, soft, and impeccably polite, yet clipped enough to signal the hard end of the conversation. He gave a small, formal nod. 'Thank you so much. excuse me.'
He didn't wait for a follow-up. He turned and began walking across the crowded VIP section. He didn't storm over, his stride was slow, deliberate and entirely graceful, but the sheer aura radiating off his broad shoulders was heavy enough to make people subtly step out of his way.
Before Ryan’s hand could actually make contact with your dress, a large, warm palm slid firmly around your waist.
The grip wasn't gentle. Jaafar’s long fingers dug deep into your hip, anchoring you against his side with an unyielding, possessive force that left absolutely no room for interpretation. You gasped softly at the suddenness of the touch, your head snapping up.
'Am I interrupting?' Jaafar cut in smoothly.
He looked directly at ryan. His face wore that same tight-lipped, fake smile. He didn't show his teeth. His lips were compressed into a thin, civil line, his dark eyes fixed on Ryan with a gaze so heavy it felt like a physical weight in the room.
Ryan straightened up, a bit flustered by the sudden shift in atmosphere, but he tried to play it cool. 'Hey, Jaafar. Man, congratulations on tonight. I was just telling Y/n you're a lucky guy.'
Jaafar’s grip on your waist tightened even further, his thumb pressing hard against your hip bone, pulling your thighs flush against his tailored trousers. It was a blatant, silent proclamation of ownership, a rare breach of his anti-pda rule that spoke volumes.
'Thank you, Ryan,' Jaafar replied, his voice incredibly soft, quiet, and civil. He didn't match Ryan's loud energy, he kept it entirely low, which somehow made it infinitely more terrifying. He let the silence hang for a beat, his unblinking stare raking over Ryan until the other man visibly swallowed. 'Um, we were actually just about to head back to the hotel. It's been a long night.'
'Oh, right, yeah, of course,' Ryan stammered, stepping back a full foot, completely intimidated by the quiet dominance rolling off the actor. 'Good seeing you guys.'
As Ryan disappeared into the crowd, you looked up at Jaafar, utterly bewildered. 'Jaafar, what was that? We didn't have to leave yet, and he was just trying to be nice...'
Jaafar didn't answer. He simply slid his hand down from your waist to wrap firmly around your wrist, guiding you toward the private exit with a quiet, unyielding momentum.
The ride back to the hotel in the luxury sedan was suffocatingly quiet.
The leather-scented interior was dim, lit only by the passing streetlights outside the tinted windows. Jaafar sat back against the seat, his long legs crossed, staring out into the night. His posture was relaxed, but the vein in his neck was prominent, and his jaw was set in a hard line.
'He was just telling me about this new restaurant that opened up downtown,' you said, trying to fill the heavy silence, your voice sounding small in the quiet car. 'He said we should all go sometime.'
'Mhm.' Jaafar didn't turn his head.
'And then he asked about your uncle's old studio, because he’s working on a new track...' You watched his profile, your heart doing a strange, nervous flutter. 'Jaafar? Are you okay? You're being really quiet.'
'Yeah.' A short, soft, clipped syllable.
'Are you tired?' You reached across the seat, placing your hand on his knee. The muscle beneath his suit pants was hard as stone, completely flexed.
'No.' He still didn't look at you, his eyes fixed on your hand.
You sighed, entirely clueless as to the depth of the storm brewing inside him. You figured he was just drained from the social battery required for an awards show.
When the car finally pulled up to the grand entrance of the luxury hotel, Jaafar stepped out, immediately reaching back inside to take your hand. He didn't rush, but his grip was firm and unbroken as he led you through the opulent lobby toward the elevators.
Once the doors slid shut, sealing the two of you inside the mirrored elevator alone, the silence became absolute.
You couldn't handle the distance anymore. You turned fully toward him, stepping into his personal space. You placed one hand flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, steady thudding of his heart beneath his dress shirt. Leaning up on your tiptoes, you pressed a soft, lingering kiss against his sharp jawline, remembering the rich blend of his cologne.
'You're so quiet,' you whispered against his skin, your lips brushing his jaw as you spoke. 'What's wrong?'
Jaafar didn't move. He didn't wrap his arms around you, nor did he push you away. He just stood there, letting you press against him, looking down at you with dark, bottomless eyes that held a simmer so hot it made your breath hitch. He let out a slow, heavy sigh just as the elevator let out a soft ding, announcing your arrival at your floor.
He took your hand again, his palm warm, and guided you down the carpeted hallway to the double doors of the suite. He slid the keycard, the lock clicked green, and he pushed the door open, letting you step inside ahead of him.
The door closed with a firm, quiet click behind you, locking out the rest of the world.
You kicked off your high heels with a sigh of relief, tossing your clutch onto the entryway table. 'Seriously, Jaafar, you have to talk to me. You've been acting so strange since the after party.' You reached behind your back, your fingers fumbling blindly with the hidden zipper of your tight dress, but the fabric was caught, and you couldn't get a proper angle. 'Ugh, can you help me with this? I can't reach it.'
Jaafar didn't immediately come over to help. Instead, he stood in the center of the dim bedroom, his eyes locked on yours as he began to unbutton his suit jacket. He slid it off his broad shoulders and draped it neatly over a chair, his gaze never breaking from yours.
You stood there, breathing a little faster, watching him undress. He began to unbutton his dark blue shirt, slowly revealing the smooth, toned expanse of his chest and abdomen.
'Jaafar, seriously,' you ranted, your voice turning into a slight, frustrated whine as you kept tugging at the stuck zipper, your rings catching on the fabric. 'You're completely ignoring me. Did I do something to upset you? Because if this is about Ryan, he’s just a friend, and you were being so cold to him—'
Jaafar took a slow step forward.
'He is not your friend,' Jaafar said, his voice dropping into a register so deep, so quiet, it resonated straight through your bones. He took another step, his bare chest catching the soft light filtering through the window. 'A friend does not look at what belongs to another man and try to calculate how to taste it.'
You froze, your hands dropping from your back as he took another step, narrowing the distance between you until you could feel the heat radiating from his body.
'You think I'm blind, baby?' Jaafar asked, his tone entirely calm, entirely devoid of chaotic rage, which made his absolute dominance so much heavier. He stopped right in front of you, towering over your now barefoot form. He raised one hand, his long fingers sliding slowly up the side of your neck, his thumb resting gently against your pulse point. He didn't squeeze, but the firm, warm pressure of his palm capping your throat made your breath completely catch. 'You think I like standing across a room, strapped to a camera, watching some low life eye-fucking what is mine? Watching you laugh at him, completely oblivious to how badly he wants to slide his hands down that dress?'
Your heart hammered violently against his palm. 'Jaafar... I didn't know...'
'I know you didn't,' he murmured, his dark eyes burning into yours, entirely consuming your vision. 'You're innocent. You're clueless. But he isn't. And I am sick of letting people think you are available.' His thumb stroked over your jawline, a soft touch laced with an iron command. 'You understand now?'
'Yes,' you whispered breathlessly, your knees turning to water under his stare.
'Turn around,' he ordered.
You obeyed instantly, your back turning to his bare chest. You felt the warmth of his body hovering just inches behind you. His large hands came up to your shoulders, his fingers tracing the edges of your dress before his knuckles brushed your bare spine. He found the zipper. With a slow, agonizingly deliberate movement, he pulled it down, the sound of the teeth parting loud in the quiet room.
The fabric loosened, slipping down your shoulders, leaving you standing in just your lace underwear.
'And now,' Jaafar breathed against the shell of your ear, his chest pressing lightly against your bare back, sending a violent shiver down your spine. 'I’m going to show you exactly who you belong to.'
He didn't rush. He didn't throw you onto the bed. Instead, he guided you over to the edge of the mattress, his hands sliding down your arms to grip your wrists. He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled you between his thighs, looking up at you. His eyes were dark, almost black, swallowed by a primitive hunger.
'You're so desperate already, aren't you?' he whispered, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, pulling it down slightly.
'Please, Jaafar,' you whimpered, your hands resting on his shoulders. 'I want you.'
'Yeah well, you have to wait,' he said softly, a dark, teasing smirk playing on his lips.
He slid his hands down to your chest, his long fingers tracing the lace of your bra before hooking his fingers into the material and pulling it down, exposing your breasts to the cool air. Your nipples hardened instantly. Jaafar leaned down, his lips brushing against the sensitive peak of your left breast, blowing a warm breath over it that made you arch your back with a soft cry.
But he didn't take it into his mouth. He just hovered there, his lips grazing your skin, torturing you with the proximity.
His hand slid down your stomach, moving beneath the waistband of your lace panties. You were completely soaked, a thick, slick heat coating his fingers the moment they made contact with your center. Jaafar let out a low, dark rumble of satisfaction in his throat.
'Look at that,' he rasped, his long fingers slowly parting your wet folds, his thumb finding your hypersensitive clit. He began to stroke you, but it wasn't the fast, relieving friction you were burning for. He moved with an excruciatingly slow, agonizing pace, barely putting any pressure on the bud, just dragging his thumb over it in lazy, teasing circles.
'Jaafar, please...harder,' you begged, your hips instinctively twitching against his hand, trying to force more friction.
'No,' he commanded softly, his hand flexing to hold your hips completely still, preventing you from moving against him. 'No moving. You take exactly what I give you.'
He slid one long finger inside your tight, wet depth. You let out a loud moan, your head dropping against his shoulder as his finger stretched you. He pushed it all the way in, letting you feel the length of it, before slowly pulling it out until only the tip remained, then sliding it back in.
'Ah, god, Jaafar...'
'You like that, baby? You want more than my fingers?' he asked, his voice a gravelly whisper.
'Yes, please, I want you, please, Jaafar, I'm begging you.'
'Mm-mm...not yet.'
He pulled his finger out completely. You let out a whimper of pure devastation, your body physically aching for the fullness. Before you could protest, Jaafar stood up, stripping off his remaining clothes with smooth, unhurried movements. Your eyes widened as his thick, heavy erection was revealed, twitching with his heartbeat, fully aroused and glistening at the tip.
He climbed onto the mattress, pulling you up with him. He laid you flat on your back in the center of the bed, spreading your legs wide. You expected him to finally drive himself inside you, but Jaafar was far from finished breaking your composure.
He knelt between your thighs, his large hands anchoring your wrists above your head. He leaned down, his chest hovering over yours, and began to use his fingers and his thumb to torment your lower lips again, while his length rubbed lazily against your wet entrance, painting himself in your moisture but never breaking the barrier.
The teasing was pure agony. Your body was entirely overstimulated, the scent of his skin, the dark warmth of his eyes staring down into yours, the heavy weight of his body keeping you pinned, and the absolute denial of the one thing that would bring you relief. Tears of frustration gathered in the corners of your eyes.
'Jaafar, please, I'm gonna lose my mind, 'you sobbed, your hips bucking upward in a desperate attempt to impale yourself on him.
Jaafar easily pinned your hips down with his forearms, his expression unbothered, completely in control. 'I told you to stay still. You don't get to come, and you don't get to be filled until I say so. Every single inch of this body is mine to control tonight.'
He kept up the torturous, slow strokes, pushing you right to the absolute precipice of a shattering orgasm. You felt the familiar tension tightening in your lower stomach, your inner walls beginning to twitch and clamp around nothing, signaling that you were about to break.
The moment he felt your body tremble on the edge of release, Jaafar abruptly yanked his hands away from you entirely, stepping back onto his knees.
The sudden, violent loss of contact sent a shockwave of frustration through your nervous system. You let out a loud, ruined wail, your head thrashing against the pillows. 'No! No! why? Please, let me come, I need to come!'
'I already told you, you don't come until I tell you to,' he growled, his soft spoken demeanor completely gone, replaced by a raw, primal dominance that made your core throb. 'You hold it in. You stay right on the edge for me.'
He grabbed your ankles, dragging your body down the mattress until your ass was right at the edge of the bed. He stood on the floor, pulling your legs up and draping them over his broad shoulders, opening you up completely, leaving you utterly vulnerable under the dim lights of the penthouse.
He stared down at your swollen, soaking entrance, his jaw clenching as his own restraint began to thin. 'Who do you belong to?'
'You. I belong to you, Jaafar, just you.'
A dark, satisfied growl tore from his throat. ’Mhm, that’s right.'
He gripped your hips with an iron, bruising force, aligned his thick length with your aching core, and with one heavy, unyielding thrust, he buried himself inside you to the absolute hilt.
A high-pitched, breathless scream tore from your lungs as the sudden, immense fullness stretched your tight walls to their absolute limit. He bottomed out against your cervix on the very first push, the raw sensation so intense your vision blurred.
Jaafar didn't give you a second to adjust. He began to pound into you, his thrusts hard, deep, and completely unmerciful. He was riding out every ounce of the jealousy that had simmered in his veins all evening, his hips slamming against your flesh with a loud, rhythmic, wet slapping sound that echoed off the high ceilings of the suite.
’Nghh, Jaafar! so deep, oh my god!' you cried out, your body being pushed up the mattress with every powerful stroke, only for his hands to yank your hips back down onto his length.
'It's exactly how deep it needs to be,' he panted, his breath hot and ragged against you as he continued to hammer into you from the edge of the bed. 'I want you to feel every single inch of me. I want you to remember this tomorrow when people look at you.'
The angle was hitting your g-spot with devastating accuracy, the friction inside you creating a white hot heat that threatened to consume you. You were entirely overloaded, the heavy, musk-and-wood scent of his sweat, the sound of his deep, guttural groans, the relentless stretching inside you, and the sheer speed of his movements. You were weeping from the intensity, your body completely at his mercy.
Right in the middle of his frantic, heavy pounding, a sudden, sharp ringing broke through the heavy atmosphere of the room.
It was your phone, sitting on the nightstand just a few feet away. The screen illuminated the dim room, flashing a name that made Jaafar’s entire body freeze.
Ryan.
Jaafar looked at the screen, his chest heaving as he stared at the name. A dark, terrifying smirk slowly spread across his face, his eyes turning entirely black. He didn't pull out of you, he stayed buried deep inside your burning heat, holding himself perfectly still as your walls twitched desperately around him.
He reached over, his long arm easily grabbing the phone from the nightstand. He brought it over, holding the flashing screen in front of your tear-stained face.
'Huh...look at that,' Jaafar whispered, his voice a low, lethal purr against your ear. 'Your friend is calling. He probably wants to make sure you got home safe.'
'Jaafar, no... don't...' you whimpered, shaking your head.
'Answer it,' Jaafar ordered, his tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. 'Pick it up, baby. Pick it up while I'm fucking you.' He slid his thumb across the screen, hitting accept and pressed the speakerphone button before placing the device on the pillow right next to your head.
Before you could even process the command, Jaafar slammed his hips forward, driving into you with a brutal, sudden force that made your eyes widen.
'H-hello?' you choked out, your voice trembling violently as you tried to grip the sheets to keep from screaming.
'Hey, Y/N!' Ryan’s voice came through the speaker, loud and clear, completely oblivious. 'Hey, sorry to call so late, I wanted to make sure everything was cool and see if you wanted to grab that lunch tomorrow like we talked about—'
Jaafar let out a low groan, deliberately shifting his angle, pulling almost all the way out before plunging back in with a heavy, wet thud that bottomed out completely.
'Ah!' you gasped, clapping your hand over your mouth, your hips bucking off the bed. The wet, squelching sounds of his length sliding in and out of your soaked core were incredibly loud in the quiet room.
'Y/N? You there?' Ryan asked, sounding confused over the line.
Jaafar didn't stop. He accelerated, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, his muscles flexing as he deliberately pounded into you with a relentless, rhythmic aggression. He was staring directly into your eyes, watching you struggle, a dominant, possessive heat burning in his gaze.
'Yeah...Sorry, I'm—I'm here,' you whimpered, your voice shaking as a wave of overstimulation threatened to break you. You bit your lower lip so hard it nearly bled, trying to suppress the moans that were clawing their way up your throat. 'Just...unpacking...'
Jaafar leaned down, his lips brushing your ear as he kept up the brutal pace, his hips slapping against yours. 'Tell him how good it feels, baby,' he whispered wickedly, his voice barely a breath, but his actions spoke loud enough. He hit your spot three times in rapid succession.
'Oh god—' you slipped, a loud, wet moan escaping your lips before you could stop it. The sound of your slick walls tightly gripping his length was unmistakable through the microphone.
'Uh, Y/N? Are you okay?,' Ryan said, his tone shifting, a hint of realization dawning on him.
'I have to go, Ryan,' you sobbed out, unable to hold back the tears as Jaafar ruthlessly drove you toward the edge. 'Goodnight—'
You slammed your finger onto the red button on the screen, cutting the call off.
The phone call cut off, the red end-call button disappearing into the black screen of the device, leaving only the sound of your frantic, heavy breathing echoing against the high ceilings.
But Jaafar wasn't done with you. The adrenaline of the call, the lingering irritation from Ryan’s boundary-crossing presence, and the sheer heat of your tight, soaking walls had his blood boiling. He pulled out of you with a heavy, wet slide that made you gasp in protest, your body instantly feeling cold and empty without him.
Before you could even roll over, his hands were on you again. He grabbed your waist, flipping you effortlessly onto your hands and knees in the center of the large bed.
Jaafar climbed over you from behind, his heavy, solid weight anchoring you down against the mattress. He didn't wait. He lined himself up with your slick entrance and drove his thick length back inside you with one ruthless, unyielding plunge that bottomed out completely, hitting your cervix with a force that made you let out a high-pitched cry.
He began to move with a frantic, desperate speed, his hips slamming against your ass with a loud, rhythmic slapping sound that filled the quiet bedroom. He leaned down over your back, his broad chest pressing yours flat into the pillows. He reached one large hand forward, his long fingers tangling firmly into the roots of your hair, pulling your head back. At the same time, his other hand slid around to wrap securely around the front of your neck, his palm warm and unyielding against your skin, forcing you to look up and over your shoulder at him.
'Look at me,' he growled, his voice thick with a dark, heavy lust as he continued to hammer into you from behind. His eyes were completely black in the shadows, staring directly into yours with a terrifying intensity. 'Look at me while I'm breaking you open. You think anyone else can touch you like this? You think anyone else gets to hear you make these sounds?'
'N-no, Jaafar... nghh! No one... just you,' you sobbed out, your body shaking violently from the forced angle, your hips bucking back against his thighs in a desperate attempt to find relief from the overwhelming fullness.
'Damn right,' he rasped, his thumb pressing firmly against your jawline to keep your head tilted toward him, his thrusts growing even deeper, stretching you to your absolute limit. 'Every single piece of you belongs to me. I want you to remember the weight of my hands on your skin the next time a man tries to step into your space, you hear me?'
He let go of your hair and your neck, the sudden freedom making your head drop into the pillows as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, heavy strokes. But before the pressure could peak, he pulled out of you again, the abrupt loss of friction making you let out a loud, ruined wail of frustration.
'Jaafar, please! Don't stop, please don't stop...' you begged, your hands clawing at the mattress sheets.
A sharp smack echoed through the room as Jaafar’s large hand came down hard on your ass, the sting blooming hot across your skin. You cried out, clenching around him.
'Get up,' he panted, his breath ragged and hot against your bare shoulder.
He didn't give you a choice. He grabbed your wrists, pulling you off the bed entirely. Your bare feet hit the plush carpet, your knees buckling slightly from the sheer overstimulation, but Jaafar held you steady. He guided you across the dark penthouse suite toward the massive, dark wood desk where a large, ornate silver mirror hung on the wall, reflecting the dim city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
He pushed you forward gently until your stomach was pressed flat against the cool, polished wood of the desk. He bent you over, your hands gripping the edges of the desk for support, your ass pushed back and elevated.
Jaafar stepped up behind you, his bare chest pressing flush against your spine. In the reflection of the big mirror, you could see everything. the flush of your skin, the sweat glistening on his broad shoulders, and the thick, heavy length of his erection pressing against your wet thighs.
He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto your reflection in the glass. He reached down, parting your thighs with his knee, and with one heavy, smooth thrust, he buried himself inside you from behind, the angle tilting your pelvis perfectly to hit your g-spot with absolute, brutal precision.
You let out a loud, breathless scream, your head tossing back as the visual and the physical sensation combined into a massive wave of overload.
'Look,' Jaafar commanded, his voice a low, dirty purr against your ear as he began to pound into you, his hips driving hard against you, shaking the heavy desk beneath your hands. 'Open your eyes and look at the mirror, baby.'
You forced your eyes open, looking through a blur of tears at the reflection. You watched the way his well-defined torso flexed with every deep stroke, the way his large hands came up to grip your hips, his thumbs digging into the dimples of your lower back to anchor you as he ruthlessly used your body.
'Look who makes you feel this good,' Jaafar growled, his jaw clenching as he accelerated the pace, his thrusts becoming faster, louder, the wet, squelching sounds of your bodies joining filling the air. 'Look who makes you cum every single night. Who is it, hm? Who? Tell me, baby, who?'
'You... it's you, Jaafar,' you cried out, your voice breaking as the friction inside you reached a white-hot temperature. Your knuckles turned white where you gripped the desk, your reflection showing your mouth parted in a continuous, breathless moan. 'Only you, baby, please... oh god, it's you.'
'Say it louder,' he muttered, his head burying into the crook of your neck, his teeth nipping at your shoulder blade while his lower body maintained the brutal, relentless rhythm. 'Tell me who owns you.'
'You do... ah! Jaafar, please, I'm gonna break, I can't hold it anymore!'
The visual of him completely dominating you in the glass, his dark eyes fixed on your ruined expression, was the final straw. Your inner muscles began to contract violently around him in a tight, clamping grip, signaling the onset of a massive climax.
But Jaafar wanted you back on the bed for the finish. He pulled out of you with a wet, heavy slide, ignoring your loud whimper of protest, and dragged your shaking body back to the mattress. He laid you flat on your back, pulling your legs up over his broad shoulders, opening you up completely to his deep, unmerciful thrusts once again. Every time his hips slammed against yours, it sent a shockwave straight to your core, driving you further into that state of helpless overstimulation.
He leaned over you, his knuckles white where they gripped the headboard for leverage, his dark curls damp with sweat. He looked down at you, his eyes entirely black, dilated with a heavy, primal lust.
'Look at how stretched open you are for me,' he rasped, his voice a low, dirty growl that vibrated against your skin. 'You like being filled up like this, don't you? Look at me, baby. Tell me how it feels to have my dick taking up every single inch of you.'
'Jaafar, please... it's so good,' you whined, your head tossing from side to side on the pillows.
Jaafar looked down at your parted, wet lips, his dark eyes burning. 'Oh, how much I love you, baby…drives me insane,' he rasped, voice thick with raw emotion and lust.
He didn’t lean down right away. Instead, he kept the torturous rhythm, pulling almost entirely out until only the swollen head of his cock teased your entrance, then plunging back in with a heavy, deliberate thrust that made your back arch off the bed.
The slow withdrawal and sudden deep stretch were driving you crazy. You looked up at his face, lips parted, sharp jaw clenched, curls damp with sweat. The overwhelming need to feel closer to him broke through.
'I wanna kiss you, baby. Please, kiss me,' you begged, voice trembling.
Jaafar looked down at your parted, wet lips, a dark, incredibly wicked smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. He didn't lean down. Instead, he accelerated his pace, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, his hips slapping against your thighs with a ruthless rhythm.
'No,' he whispered, his voice a gravelly, torturous tease. 'You don't get to kiss me yet.'
'Jaafar, please—'
'I love how needy you sound when I starve you,' he muttered, his thumb reaching down to ruthlessly grind against your clit while he kept pounding into you, deliberately pushing you past your limit. 'Beg for it. Tell me how bad you need my mouth on yours while I'm stretching you out.'
'Please, baby, please kiss me, I need you, I need to taste you,' you sobbed, completely broken down by the overstimulation, your inner walls clamping around his thick length in desperate, erratic waves.
Hearing your voice crack, feeling the frantic, tight squeezing of your core, finally shattered the last of his restraint.
Jaafar let out a low, guttural growl, his broad chest collapsing down against yours, his heavy weight pinning you flat into the mattress. He grabbed your jaw with his large hand, his fingers digging firmly into your cheeks to force your mouth wide open, and he slammed his lips down against yours.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was deep, possessive, and incredibly nasty.
His tongue surged into your mouth, claiming you with the same fierce, unyielding aggression as his hips. He tasted like the rich bourbon from earlier and pure, raw heat, his tongue tangling with yours in a wet, frantic rhythm that matched the brutal pace of his lower body. He was pounding into you with a wild, unbridled ferocity now, his long fingers shifting from your jaw to tangle in your hair, holding your head completely still so you had to take every single bit of the kiss.
The sensory overload was absolute. You couldn't breathe, your mouth flooded with his taste, your ears filled with the sound of his heavy, ragged breathing and the wet, loud squelching of your bodies joining.
The friction inside you reached a fever pitch, your G-spot being hit with every single desperate, deep thrust. Your body tightened, your vision going entirely white as a massive, shattering orgasm tore through your nervous system, your throat letting out a muffled, choked scream straight into his mouth.
The violent, pulsing contractions of your release completely broke Jaafar. He let out a dark, muffled roar against your lips, his tongue taking one last, deep stroke of your mouth as he drove himself into you to the absolute hilt. He locked his hips flush against yours, his body trembling violently as he came, filling your tight, twitching core with thick, burning jets of his release.
He didn't break the kiss until both of your breathings completely ran out, finally pulling his lips back with a wet, heavy sigh, leaving you entirely spent, ruined, and completely his.
The silence returned to the penthouse, broken only by the sound of your combined, ragged breaths.
Slowly, gently, Jaafar pulled his legs down, climbing fully onto the bed and collapsing beside you. The dominant, terrifying aura completely evaporated, leaving behind the gentle, soft-spoken man you knew—but the possessiveness remained. He reached out, his large, warm hand sliding around your waist, his fingers curling into your hip in the exact same spot he had gripped at the party.
He pulled your trembling, spent body tight against his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head, his voice returning to that quiet, sweet rumble.
'Mine,' he whispered into your hair, his grip tightening just a fraction. 'Don't ever make me remind you again.'
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