「 CATER 2 YOU」 - MICHAEL J
✦◞˚ pairing: jaafar jackson x fem!reader
✦◞˚ warning: smut, explicit content, mentions of girlfriend boyfriend relationship, jaafar fucking sneezed on you 😃
✦◞˚ a/n: i got this idea from a story i read on wattpad and i loved it so much :P
Quick disclaimer before this starts I just want everyone to know that summer is over soon and you know what that means so I won’t be posting as much anymore but I’ll get my few requests that I have done then I’ll be all out unless you request something but I’m out of ideas fr. That’s it enjoy the story baby 💋
Jaafar had been off-key for three days now, raspy coughs instead of humming, shivers replacing his usual bounce.
You noticed before he did, the way his voice cracked mid-sentence and his eyelids drooped during breakfast.
"Baby, you're burning up."
He waved a dismissive hand. "I'm fine, just tired."
But when his forehead met your palm, the heat radiating off him told a different story.
You pushed him back toward the bedroom with gentle insistence.
"Today," you announced, tucking the comforter around his shoulders, "you do nothing. Absolutely nothing. Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor," he croaked.
"Close enough. Now stay."
Breakfast in bed. He ate slowly, and between bites, his fingers reached for your wrist.
"I don't want you to get sick too," he mumbled, catching himself mid-reach, pulling his hand back like a scolded child.
Your heart twisted. Jaafar sick was Jaafar clingy, and Jaafar clingy was Jaafar who wanted to be draped across you like a second skin.
The last time he caught a cold, you'd spent three days tangled together and exactly one day later, you were the one sniffling.
So you maintained strategic distance.
You brought him tea and set it on the nightstand, stepping back before his grabby hands could find you.
"You're so far away," he whined, voice muffled by congestion.
"That's not here. Here is here." He patted the empty space beside him on the mattress.
"I'll be less contagious if you cuddle me."
You snorted. "Absolutely not."
You busied yourself with cleaning the kitchen, folding laundry, anything to keep your hands occupied and your guilt at bay.
Every few minutes, you'd hear a dramatic sigh echo down the hallway, followed by a weak, "Baaaabe."
By early afternoon, you ventured back with more tea and found him shivering despite the mountain of blankets.
"Jaafar, you're freezing."
His teeth chattered. "M'fine."
"Your lips are practically blue."
"Just hold me and I'll warm up."
The solution, you decided, was a bath. Not exactly a loophole around the no-touching rule, but better than watching him freeze.
You ran the water hot, pouring in lavender bubble bath until the bathroom smelled like a spa and the foam piled high enough to hide in.
"Okay." You turned to face him. "Let's get you undressed."
"Are you trying to seduce me?" His voice was weak, but the hint of his usual mischief flickered through. "Because I'd very vulnerable right now."
"I'm trying to keep you from getting hypothermia."
He raised his arms with all the enthusiasm of a man attending his own execution.
You peeled his t-shirt off. His sweatpants came next, then his boxers, until he was standing naked shivering, his arms wrapped around himself.
He shuffled to the tub and climbed in with exaggerated care, hissing as the warm water hit his cold skin.
The bubbles rose up around him until only his head and shoulders were visible above the surface.
"Oh," he breathed. "Oh, this is nice. This is really nice."
"Perfect." He leaned back against the bath pillow, his eyes fluttering closed. "You're perfect. I love you. I'm going to marry you."
You knelt beside the tub, rolling up the sleeves of your sweater. "Let me wash your hair."
You reached for the detachable shower head and his shampoo and got to work.
His curls were tangled and limp, heavy with sweat and the residue of whatever styling products he'd used before getting sick.
You worked the shampoo through them gently, massaging his scalp, using your nails in the way you knew he liked.
He moaned. Actually moaned. "That feels incredible. I think you just cured me. I think scalp massages are the secret cure for the common cold."
You rinsed the shampoo out with the shower head. "Tilt your head back. Close your eyes. Don't want to get soap in them."
He obeyed, and you worked the conditioner through next. He was practically boneless in the water now, his shivering finally subsiding, his lips returning to their normal color.
"So much better. I don't know why I was being such a baby."
"Because you're sick. Being a baby is allowed."
You looked down at your sweater—droplets of water and traces of bubble foam.
"I can't control my limbs when I'm sick. They have a mind of their own."
"Your limbs have a mind of their own."
He grinned and then without warning, scooped a handful of bubbles and flung them directly at your face.
"Oh no," he said, utterly deadpan.
You stared at him, bubbles dripping down your chin, your hair now dusted with foam.
He stared back, his expression the picture of innocence, except for the mischievous glint in his eyes.
"No, baby, wait, I'm sick and I'm fragile—"
You scooped up a handful of water and splashed it at him. He shrieked, a sound you'd never heard him make before.
You splashed him again. He splashed you back. The battle raged for a solid two minutes, bubble-scented and ridiculous, until the bathmat was soaked and your sweater was clinging to your skin and Jaafar was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe.
"I can't—" cough "—I can't—" cough, laugh "—you're so—"
"I did. I definitely did." He wiped his eyes—from laughter or congestion, impossible to tell. "I regret nothing."
By the time the bath was over, you were completely drenched. Your clothes were plastered to your body.
"You need a shower," Jaafar observed, wrapped in his bathrobe now, looking considerably healthier than he had an hour ago.
The shivering had stopped. He was still congested and slightly feverish, but he no longer looked like a Victorian ghost.
"Need help with that?" The question was casual, but his eyes dropped to where your wet sweater was clinging to your chest.
"No. Nope. Absolutely not. Distance protocol is back in effect." You pointed a stern finger at him.
"You're feeling better, which is great. But you're still sick. So you're going to go lie down while I shower. Alone."
"Alone," he repeated, drawing the word out like it personally offended him.
He sighed. "Fine. I'll be in the bed. Alone. Dying. Thinking about how my girlfriend abandoned me."
"You'll be clean and I'll be sick."
He disappeared through the bedroom door, still muttering something about emotional neglect.
You locked the bathroom door behind him just in case and peeled off your wet clothes.
The shower was heavenly. Hot water sluicing down your body, steam filling the small bathroom, the tension of the morning slowly unwinding from your shoulders.
You used his coconut body wash because yours was across the hall and you didn't feel like making the trip.
You let the water beat against your back and tried very hard not to think about the germs you'd definitely been exposed to.
You froze. Stared at the shower tile. Waited. No more sneezes came.
You finished your shower in denial and stepped out to towel off.
When you emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in your robe and smelling like coconut and denial, Jaafar was on the bed, the duvet pulled up to his waist, his bathrobe on the floor.
He wore soft grey pajama pants, his chest bare, curls drying into a halo. He looked peaceful, soft, and beautiful. He was scrolling through his phone with one hand, the other on his stomach, concentrating.
The afternoon light cast golden stripes across him. His glasses sat askew. You stood in the doorway, looking at him.
"Hey," he said, smiling when he saw you. "You're done."
"You smell like my body wash."
"I like it. You smell like me."
"Are you feeling better?" You sat on the bed, keeping some distance.
"Much better. The bath, soup, and scalp massage helped. You helped." He entwined his fingers with yours. "You're magic."
"I'm just a good girlfriend."
"Same thing." He pulled you closer, breaking the distance.
"The protocol was sensible."
"It was like homophobic."
"That word doesn't mean what you think."
He pressed his nose to your collarbone. "You smell so good. I could stay here forever."
You ran your fingers through his damp curls. He purred, making your heart swell. His skin was warm, still flushed, his glasses digging into your shoulder.
"Prove it." You kissed him softly, but he deepened it.
"Been wanting that all day," he said.
"Wanting more than a kiss?"
"The bath was sexy—washing my hair, taking care of me, bossing me around."
"It was a medical procedure."
"It was sexy to me." He kissed you again, tasting of toothpaste and honey.
"Everything you do is sexy."
"You're in a short robe. I can feel your bare leg against mine, and I can't help but—"
"You're sick," you interrupted.
"Feeling better," he said.
"You were shivering two hours ago."
"You need rest, not—" His hand moved up your thigh, pushing the robe higher.
"They're not wandering. They know exactly where they're going." His fingers traced your silk panties' waistband.
"We shouldn't," you whispered.
"This is a bad idea," you warned.
"I'll catch whatever you have."
"Definitely." His hand cupped you through the silk, already wet, since the bath.
"That's what I thought," he said, kissing your neck and shoulder, tempting you to feel good.
"Let me take care of you."
"You can't breathe through your nose." "I'll breathe through my mouth."
"I want you," he said, voice rough.
"I've been thinking about you all day, and I've been so hard it hurts. Please." You should have said no.
Instead, you swung a leg over his hips and straddled him.
"Oh," he breathed. "Okay. This is happening."
"This is happening," you confirmed. "But we're going slow. You're still recovering."
"I mean it. I'll be so slow."
You kissed him, swallowing whatever terrible metaphor he was about to unleash next.
His hands found your hips, gripping tight, pulling you down against him.
He was hard through his pajama pants, pressing against your core, and you rocked against him, a gentle grind that made you both moan.
"Nnnnngh— that's— fuuuuuck."
"So good. Too good. I might not last." He was already breathing harder, his chest rising and falling under you, his fingers digging into your hips.
"God, you're so beautiful. How are you so beautiful? It doesn't make sense."
You reached down between your bodies and pushed his pajama pants down past his hips.
His cock sprang free, already fully hard, the head flushed dark and glistening.
You wrapped your hand around him, he was thick, so thick, your fingers barely meeting, and gave a slow, twisting stroke.
"Okay— okay— that's— aaah."
"I lied. I want fast. I want everything. I want—" He broke off into a coughing fit, his whole body shaking under you.
"Fuck. Sorry. Sorry. I'm fine."
"We absolutely have to." He grabbed your hips and pulled you forward, positioning you over him.
"Please. I need you. I've needed you all day. Please, baby."
You pushed your panties aside, no time to take them off, no patience for it, and lowered yourself onto him.
The head of his cock nudged against your entrance, and you both groaned at the same time.
Then you sank down, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt inside you.
"Jaaafar you feel so good—- aaaaah."
His hands were everywhere, your hips, your waist, your breasts, cupping and squeezing and kneading. "You're perfect. You're fucking perfect."
You started to move. The slow grind was almost worse, almost too much, the drag of his cock against your inner walls making your toes curl and your vision blur.
"Aaaah— aaah— aaaah— Jaafar."
"That's it. Ride me. Just like that. You feel so good, baby, you feel incredible."
You leaned down to kiss him, your lips meeting his, your tongue sliding against his tongue.
His hands slid down to grip your ass, pulling you closer, driving himself deeper. The bed creaked. The headboard knocked against the wall.
The sound of your moans mingled with his, high and breathy and utterly unrestrained.
"I'm close," he gasped. "Baby."
"Me too. Me too. Don't stop."
It was a massive, full-body, eruption-of-a-sneeze.
Right on your face. You felt it. The spray.
Your orgasm, which had been building so wonderfully, vanished.
"Did—" Jaafar's eyes went wide. His cock was still inside you, still hard, still pulsing. "Did I just—"
"You just sneezed on my face."
"You sneezed on my face, Jaafar."
"Your spit is on my damn face!"
"My body betrayed me!" He looked genuinely horrified now, his hands flying up to cover his mouth. "I didn't mean to! I tried to hold it in! I thought I could."
You climbed off him. "Where are you going?" His voice cracked with desperation.
"But—" He gestured at his still-very-hard, still-very-neglected hard on. "But we were—"
"Must I remind you that you sneezed on my face?"
"You didn't actually. You said it was an accident. Which is different."
"Baby. Baby. Come back. Please." He reached for you, his hand grasping at empty air.
"I'll make it up to you. I'll eat you out for an hour. Two hours. I'll—"
"A second shower? You just showered!"
He slumped back against the pillows, his cock still jutting up toward the ceiling, abandoned and tragic. "This is the worst day of my life."
"Just—" You paused at the bathroom door, looking back at him. He was sprawled on the bed, pajama pants around his thighs, erection slowly wilting, his expression full of devastation. "Give me ten." (iykyk)
"Ten? Then you'll come back?"
"Ten minutes and then we'll see."
"I'll be here. Abandoned. With my shame."
"I know." He sighed, a long, tragic, congested sigh. "I really do."
You closed the bathroom door behind you and immediately started laughing.
You couldn't help it. It was the kind of thing that would be funny later. It was already kind of funny now.
You washed your face. Twice. Used the fancy cleanser and everything.
When you came back out, Jaafar was still lying there, but his pajama pants were back up and his expression had shifted from devastation to something more like cautious hope.
"I thought you were lying. To spare my feelings."
"True. You're terrifyingly honest." He opened his arms, a silent invitation. "Cuddle? Just cuddles. I promise I'll sneeze in the other direction."
"You can't control which direction you sneeze."
"I'll sneeze into a pillow. I'll sneeze into the void."
You climbed into bed beside him, and he wrapped himself around you like an octopus, his face pressing against your shoulder, carefully angled away from your face, his arm slung across your waist.
He was still warm, still slightly congested, still radiating the faint, eucalyptus-scented heat of someone fighting off an infection.
"You're going to get sick," he murmured.
"You're going to get sick and it's going to be my fault."
"And I'm going to take care of you, and it's going to be terrible, because I'm a terrible nurse."
"But I'm going to try. I'm going to make you soup. I might burn it, but I'll try."
"You're gonna burn soup?"
"Soup is harder than it looks." He nuzzled closer. "Love you."
"Love you too, even though you sneezed on my face."
"We're never telling anyone about that."
"Oh, we're absolutely telling people about that."
He grumbled something and pulled you closer, his breathing evening out as the exhaustion of the day finally caught up to him.
Within minutes, he was asleep, mouth slightly open, a faint whistling sound escaping with every exhale.
You settled back against him, your head on his chest, your body finally relaxing into the warmth of his embrace.
You closed your eyes and let the rhythm of his breathing lull you toward sleep.
You woke up with a throat full of sandpaper and a nose full of concrete.
"Oh god," you croaked. You swallowed, and it felt like swallowing glass.
You tried to breathe through your nose, and nothing happened.
Beside you, Jaafar stirred. He looked better. "Morning, baby," he said, his voice clear and only slightly scratchy. Then he actually looked at you. "Oh no."
"Oh no is right." You coughed, a deep, rattling cough that felt like it was excavating things from the very bottom of your lungs. "I got your plague."
He was already climbing out of bed, already reaching for his robe.
"Okay. Okay. New plan. You stay in bed. I handle everything. What do you want for breakfast? Oatmeal? Eggs? I can try to make eggs. I'll try."
You stared at him through blurry, watering eyes. "You're going to make me breakfast?"
"I'm going to try." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, careful, avoiding your mouth, mirroring exactly what you'd done for him yesterday.
"You took care of me. Now I take care of you. That's how this works."
"Even if you're a terrible nurse?"
"I'm not a terrible nurse. I'm a loving terrible nurse. There's a difference."
"Love you too. Now stay put. I'm making tea. And maybe soup. And definitely burning something."
He shuffled toward the door, his robe trailing behind him, his hair still sleep-mussed and ridiculous.
He paused in the doorway and looked back at you, wrapped in the duvet like a sad.
You tried to glare at him. It came out more like a wounded puppy look. "Go make my breakfast, boy."
You closed your eyes and smiled despite yourself.
