Your edgy fic is sooo good. Do you think you could do something similar for Michael or Jaafar 🫣
A/N: I’m popping these titles out the crack of my ass btw
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the framed vinyl on the wall. Thriller, naturally. It always hung slightly crooked after one of his entrances.
You didn't flinch. Your thumb kept scrolling on your phone, legs tucked under you on the couch, the half-empty glass of wine on the coffee table holding your reflection in its deep burgundy surface. You'd learned weeks ago that reacting only fed the beast.
Heavy footsteps crossed the foyer. Keys hit the marble counter with a sharp, metallic skid.
"Three hours," Jaafar said. His voice had that edge—the one that had been sharpening itself against his vocal cords since principal photography wrapped. "Three hours in ADR looping the same eight damn lines because the director thinks my breathing pattern doesn't sound enough like Michael's."
He stood in the kitchen archway, tension coiled in the set of his shoulders. The black compression shirt he wore to recording clung to his chest, dark with sweat at the collar. His curls—the ones the hair department had spent months getting exactly right—were pulled back in a small bun, a few escaped strands plastered to his temples.
"Sounds frustrating," you said. Measured. Even.
"Frustrating." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I've been studying this man's voice since I was old enough to hear music, and some producer who met him twice is telling me I'm exhaling wrong."
"No." The word cut clean through your sentence. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to process it. I don't want to take a deep breath and count to ten."
He moved into the living room, pacing. The energy radiating off him was almost physical—a heat shimmer of barely contained fury.
You set your phone down. "Jaafar—"
"And I especially don't want you looking at me like I'm some problem you need to solve." He stopped, turned, and there it was. That look. The one that had been showing up more and more often. Eyes narrowed, jaw tight, the resemblance to the man he'd spent months portraying bleeding through in ways that had nothing to do with makeup or choreography. "You sit there with your wine and your patience, like you're so above it all. Like I'm a child throwing a tantrum."
"Isn't it? You haven't asked me one question about the film since I got back. Not one."
"Because every time I ask, you bite my head off and then we end up—"
The air in the room changed. Became something denser. Your pulse ticked up in your throat, but you kept your face neutral. You wouldn't give him the fight he was clearly fishing for.
"I'm not doing this with you tonight," you said, standing. The wine glass went with you. You needed something to do with your hands.
His fingers wrapped around your wrist before you'd taken two steps.
Not hard. Not violent. But present. Deliberate. The way a door clicks shut.
"You're not doing anything with me tonight." His voice had dropped, quieter now, which somehow made it worse. "You haven't been doing anything with me for weeks. You leave the room when I walk in. You go to bed early. You make yourself so small and quiet that I could forget you live here."
"Maybe I'm tired of being your punching bag."
The words escaped before you could cage them.
His grip tightened. Just fractionally. Just enough for you to feel your own pulse pushing back against the pressure of his fingers.
"A punching bag," he repeated. The fury behind his eyes flickered—something else moving beneath it. Hurt, maybe. Or hunger. They'd been looking similar on him lately. "That's what you think you are."
"I think you've been mean," you said, and your voice stayed steady even as your heart hammered against your ribs. "I think you've been cruel and dismissive and you walk through that door every night looking for someone to take it out on, and I'm done being that someone."
A muscle in his jaw jumped.
He stepped back, ran both hands over his face, and exhaled—a long, ragged sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his lungs. "I'm going to take a shower."
He didn't apologize. Didn't acknowledge.
Just walked toward the hallway, pulling his shirt over his head as he went, and the sight of his bare back in the dim light—the muscles shifting, the sheen of sweat, the single trail of ink from some tattoo he'd gotten years before you knew him—sent something sharp and complicated through your chest.
The bathroom door closed. The water started.
You stood in the living room, wine glass forgotten on the table, and made a decision.
The bedroom was dark except for the bedside lamp turned to its lowest setting. Amber light pooled on the sheets, and you arranged yourself in that pool like a thing being served.
The chemise was black. Lace along the hem that whispered against your thighs when you breathed. You'd bought it three months ago and never worn it—the filming schedule had eaten everything, every evening, every lazy Sunday morning, every moment where you might have wanted to be seen in something delicate.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. You ignored it.
The shower cut off. The bathroom fan hummed. Through the door, you could hear him moving—the slide of a towel, the muted thud of the hamper lid. Footsteps on tile.
Steam rolled out in a slow wave, carrying the scent of cedar and bergamot. Jaafar stepped through it, one towel slung low around his hips, another draped around his neck. His hair was loose now, damp curls dripping onto his shoulders. Water traced paths down his chest, following the geography of muscle and bone.
And for one long, suspended moment, there was nothing in the room but the sound of a single drop of water falling from his hair and landing on the hardwood floor.
"What's this?" His voice was rougher now. Not angry. Something else.
"You've been stressed," you said. The words came out slow, syrup-sweet. "I thought I could help."
His throat moved as he swallowed. "I was an asshole. Ten minutes ago. You said I was cruel."
"You were." You shifted on the bed, letting the chemise ride higher on your thigh. A deliberate inch of skin. "And I'm still offering."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Maybe I don't want sense tonight."
His knuckles were white where he gripped the towel around his neck. He was fighting it—you could see the war happening behind his eyes. Guilt and desire, pride and want, the lingering anger from the recording session and something else entirely that was starting to win.
"Come here," you said. Not a request.
The towel around his neck dropped first, landing in a heap on the floor. He knelt on the edge of the bed, and the mattress dipped, pulling you slightly toward him. Water from his hair dripped onto your thigh and the cold of it made your breath catch.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
"You're trying to do something," he said, but his voice had lost its sharp edges. "I just can't figure out what."
"Maybe I want an apology."
"No." Your hand found his chest, palm flat against the damp warmth of his skin. You could feel his heartbeat. Fast and hard. "You haven't."
His eyes searched your face. Whatever he found there made him draw a breath and hold it.
"Then tell me what you want me to say."
"Later." Your fingers traced down, following the center line of his abdomen. The muscles tensed under your touch, jumping like startled things. "First I want you to remember what you've been missing while you've been too busy being angry to notice me."
His hand caught your chin. Gentle, but insistent. He tilted your face up.
"I notice the way you leave coffee out for me before you go to bed, even though you're still mad. I notice the way you've started sleeping on the far edge of the mattress because you don't want me touching you in the dark. I notice every single time you flinch when I raise my voice."
The confession landed like stones dropped in still water.
"Is this you apologizing?" you asked.
"It's me telling the truth."
"Good." You pulled his hand away from your chin, brought it to your mouth, and kissed his palm. The salt of his skin, the slight tremor in his fingers. "Now lie down."
He hesitated. For exactly one breath.
Then he stretched out on the bed, the towel still clinging precariously to his hips, his damp hair fanning across the pillow. The lamplight carved shadows into the hollows of his collarbone, the ridges of his ribs.
The chemise was thin enough that you could feel the heat of his body through it, the solid press of him beneath you. His hands came to your hips automatically—a reflex, a claim—but you caught his wrists and pinned them to the mattress above his head.
His eyes went wide. Then dark.
"You're not in control tonight," you told him, leaning down so your lips brushed the shell of his ear. "You've been in control of everything. The film. Your anger. This house. Me. You've been running the whole damn show while I tiptoed around waiting for you to come back to yourself."
"I'm back now." His voice cracked. Actually cracked. The sound of it went straight to your center.
You released his wrists slowly, watching his face. He kept them where you'd put them. A thrill moved through you—sharp and unexpected, the taste of power you hadn't realized you'd been starving for.
Your mouth found his throat. The spot just below his jaw where his pulse beat fastest. You kissed him there, open-mouthed and slow, and his hips bucked beneath you.
"Still," you murmured against his skin. "You have to be still, or I stop."
A sound escaped him. Half groan, half protest.
You moved lower. Collarbone. The hollow at the base of his throat. Your tongue traced the path a drop of water had taken, and his breathing turned ragged, turned desperate.
"Please." The word was barely audible.
Your teeth grazed his chest and he shuddered, full-body, muscles seizing then releasing. His hands stayed above his head. A tremor ran through his arms.
Down the centerline of his abdomen. The towel was loose now, barely a suggestion of fabric. You could feel him hard beneath it, straining, and when your hips shifted—just slightly, just enough—his whole body arched off the mattress.
"You're killing me," he breathed.
"I haven't even started."
You worked the towel free with one slow pull. The lamplight caught the angles of his body: the narrow hips, the long thighs, the evidence of exactly how much he wanted this standing proud against his stomach. You wrapped your fingers around him—just a loose grip, just enough—and his head fell back against the pillow.
Eyes shut. Mouth open. A single line of tension between his brows.
He did. The eye contact felt like touching a live wire.
"Now tell me you're sorry."
"I'm sorry." Immediate. Raw.
"For taking it out on you." The words tumbled out, breathless. "For making you feel small. For being so wrapped up in my own frustration that I forgot—" He gasped as your grip tightened, then loosened. "Forgot you were right here. Waiting."
"Waiting." You stroked him once, root to tip, slow enough to count each heartbeat. "I've been waiting for months. Waiting for you to finish filming. Waiting for you to come home at a decent hour. Waiting for you to remember that I'm not just someone who keeps the lights on while you're gone."
"You're not—" Another gasp. Your thumb had found the sensitive spot just beneath the head. "You're not just that."
The heat of him, the salt, the way his thighs tensed under your palms as you took him in—slow, deliberate, never more than halfway. Your tongue worked the underside, found the ridge, traced it. Above you, Jaafar made a sound that might have been your name or might have been something holy.
"I'm sorry." The words were coming faster now, tripping over themselves. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm—"
He made a noise of pure frustration, hands finally moving, fisting in the sheets. "No, no, please, I was apologizing, I meant it—"
"I know you did." You crawled up his body, settling your weight on his hips, and the slick heat of you pressed against his length. Not taking him in. Just resting there. Just promising. "But I'm not done hearing it."
His hands came to your thighs. Not grabbing. Just resting. Trembling.
"What do you want me to say?"
"Everything you've been too angry to say for the past eight weeks."
The longer you held his gaze, the wilder it grew. Pupils blown black. Breathing shallow. Every muscle in his body strung tight.
"I've missed you," he said. "I've missed the way you laugh. I've missed waking up next to you. I've missed—" His voice broke. "—the way you say my name when you're half asleep. I've been so wrapped up in becoming someone else that I forgot how to be myself. And you've been paying for it."
Your hips rolled. Once. The friction pulled a moan from both your throats.
His fingers dug into your thighs, but he didn't try to control the movement. "I've been scared. Is that what you want to hear? This role is everything, and I've been terrified of messing it up, and instead of admitting that, I just got angry. At everyone. At you most of all, because you're the only person I can be ugly in front of without losing."
That landed somewhere deep. Softened something. But you didn't let it show.
And then you lifted your hips, reached between your bodies, and guided him to your entrance.
"Fuck." The word was torn from him. His hands flew to the headboard, gripping the wooden slats. "Please. Please. I'll say anything. I'll do anything."
Your body clenched around just the head of him—a flutter of muscle, involuntary and devastating.
"Promise me," you said, voice steady even as the sensation threatened to undo you. "Promise me the next time you come home angry, you'll talk to me instead of using me as a target."
"I promise." Immediate. Desperate. Eyes locked on yours. "I promise. I swear. Anything."
And then you stopped again, because the look on his face—the disbelief, the devastation, the raw, unguarded need—was the most beautiful thing you'd seen in months.
"We're not done," you whispered, bracing your hands on his chest, feeling his heart pound against your palms. "I said I wanted to hear you apologize. You're going to do it again. With me on top. Without moving. Until I'm satisfied."
His laugh was half sob. "You're going to kill me."
"Maybe," you said, and rolled your hips in a circle so slow it bordered on cruelty. "But you'll die apologizing."
Beneath you, Jaafar Jackson—the man who'd spent months channeling the biggest star the world had ever known—opened his mouth and started begging.
Let the words tumble out in a broken stream—please, and I need you, and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—while you held yourself perfectly still above him, the head of him barely pressed inside your heat. His hands were still white-knuckling the headboard slats, veins standing out along his forearms, and every time his hips twitched upward you tightened your thighs and denied him the inch he was desperate for.
Three apologies deep, his voice cracked into something close to a sob.
You lifted off him entirely.
The sound he made was animal—a strangled groan that vibrated through the mattress. His length, slick with your wetness, slapped against his stomach. "No, no, no—"
"Shh." Your palm flattened over his thundering heart. "You said you'd do anything."
"I will. I will." His eyes were wild, pupils swallowing the amber light.
"Then show me." You swung your leg off his hips and settled onto the pillows beside him, arranging yourself against the headboard. The lace chemise was a twisted mess around your ribs, so you peeled it over your head and tossed it to the floor. Naked now. Exposed. The lamplight painted your skin in honey tones, and the way his gaze tracked every inch—the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the dark triangle of hair at the apex of your thighs—sent a pulse of heat straight to your core. "You've been taking all your tension out on me. Now you're going to put that mouth to better use."
His tongue wet his lower lip. "Tell me what you want."
"Everything I've been missing." You crooked a finger at him. "Come here."
He moved like a man underwater—slow, reverent, every motion weighted with desperation. The towel was long gone. His erection bobbed with each shuffle of his knees across the sheets until he was positioned between your open thighs. Damp curls fell forward, brushing the sensitive skin of your inner leg, and you shivered.
"Hands behind your back," you said.
He clasped his wrists at the small of his spine without hesitation. The posture forced his shoulders wide, chest thrust forward, muscles in his abdomen tensing in sharp relief. A droplet of water from his hair fell onto your thigh and traced a cold path downward.
"I'm sorry." The words came immediately, his breath warm against your skin. His gaze flicked from your center to your face, seeking permission. "I'm sorry I made you feel invisible. I'm sorry I walked through that door every night and dumped my anger on you like you were nothing but a—"
The first touch of his mouth was barely a whisper—a brush of lips against your inner knee. Not where you wanted him. Not yet. He was taking his time, and something about that deliberate restraint, the way his breath stuttered against your skin, told you he understood the assignment. This wasn't about gratification. This was about worship.
His mouth trailed higher. Open kisses, hot and wet, along the sensitive path of your inner thigh. Teeth grazing once, just enough to make your hips lift off the mattress. A groan rumbled in his chest when he tasted you—not at your center, still refusing, still circling—and the vibration traveled through your flesh like a struck tuning fork.
He shifted an inch. Lips pressing to the crease where thigh met hip. His nose bumped your mound and a sharp exhale escaped him, fanning over the damp curls there. Still he held his hands behind his back. Still he waited.
"What do you want me to say?" he asked against your skin.
"Tell me why I should let you taste me."
His forehead dropped to your thigh. A shudder moved through his shoulders. "Because I've been starving for you. Because every night I came home angry, I wanted this and I was too proud to ask. Because you deserve to be worshipped, and I've been treating you like a shadow in your own house."
Your fingers found his hair. Tangled in the wet curls and pulled—not hard, but insistent. A redirection. "Then stop talking and prove it."
No more teasing. Just the flat of his tongue dragging through your folds with a thoroughness that arched your spine off the pillows. A sound flew from your throat—half gasp, half his name—and your grip tightened in his hair, holding him there. The first broad stroke was exploratory, mapping. The second was confident, finding the swollen bud of your clit and circling it with devastating precision.
"Oh—" The syllable broke into a moan.
Behind his back, his hands flexed. You saw the tendons in his forearms jump, the way his whole body strained with the effort of restraint. But he didn't stop. Didn't falter. His tongue worked patterns against you—lazy figure-eights that tightened and tightened until you had to brace one hand against the headboard just to stay upright.
"Good," you managed. "That's—that's good."
His response was a hum of acknowledgment that buzzed directly through your clit. Your thighs clamped around his head, heels digging into the sweat-slick skin of his back, and he leaned into the pressure like he'd been craving it. His jaw worked. His tongue flicked—fast, then slow, then fast again—and the rhythm was so erratic, so perfectly unpredictable, that you couldn't catch your breath long enough to form words.
Time softened at the edges. The bedroom warped into nothing but sensation: the wet sounds of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble against your inner thighs, the way he breathed you in on each inhale like you were the first oxygen he'd tasted in hours.
"Tell me what you're sorry for," you gasped. "Keep talking."
He pulled back just far enough to speak, lips glistening, chin wet. "I'm sorry for slamming the door. I'm sorry for the way I spoke to you in the kitchen. I'm sorry for every single night I rolled over and pretended to be asleep instead of reaching for you."
His mouth descended again, and this time he sucked—gentle at first, then harder, and the pressure built behind your navel like a fist clenching. Your hips bucked. His name tore out of you, sharp and shocked, and you felt his lips curve into a smile against your flesh.
He gave more. His tongue pushed inside you—just the tip, just enough to make you cry out—and then withdrew to circle back to your clit. Two fingers replaced his mouth at your entrance, sliding through the slick heat, not entering, just teasing. Pressing. Waiting.
"Please," he murmured into you. "Please let me make you come. I need to feel you fall apart. I need to know you forgive me."
Permission. He was asking for permission.
Your hand in his hair softened. Stroked. "Yes."
He entered you with two fingers, curling up to find that spot inside, and his mouth sealed around your clit simultaneously. The dual sensation was immediate and overwhelming—a bright, white-hot pressure that expanded outward from your center until your vision blurred. Your own voice sounded far away, a litany of yes and there and don't stop, don't stop, don't stop.
The orgasm hit like a collapsing building—sudden, structural, absolute. Your thighs clamped around his ears. Your back arched until only your shoulders and hips touched the bed. A high, keening sound filled the room and you realized dimly that it was coming from your own throat. His fingers kept moving, gentle now, drawing out each pulse, and his tongue softened to lazy swipes that made you twitch and gasp and finally push his head away because it was too much, too tender, too intimate.
He sat back on his heels.
His face was wrecked. Lips swollen. Jaw streaked with your wetness. Eyes so dark they looked bruised, still hungry, still waiting. His erection stood thick and aching against his belly, a bead of moisture at the tip catching the lamplight.
"Was that—" His voice came out hoarse. "Did I—"
He crawled up your body, elbows framing your head, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh. Trembling. Every muscle in his body was trembling.
"You're still begging," you whispered, reaching between your bodies to grip him. "Even now. Even after I came."
"I'll beg for the rest of my life if that's what you want."
Something cracked open in your chest. Something warm and fierce and utterly sure.
"What I want," you said, guiding him to your entrance, "is for you to finish inside me. But first—" You tightened your grip at the base of his shaft, just enough to stop him. "—say it one more time. Look me in the eye and tell me what you're going to do differently."
His forehead pressed to yours. Breath mingling. Heartbeat hammering against your ribcage. Every inch of him was coiled tension, desperate and restrained, and the effort of holding still made fine tremors run through his shoulders.
"I'm going to talk to you," he said, the words raw and scraped-clean. "When I'm angry, when I'm scared, when I feel like I'm drowning in this role—I'm going to open my mouth and tell you instead of making you pay for it. I'm going to remember that you're on my side. That you've always been on my side." His voice shattered. "That I love you. God, I love you so much and I almost—"
You pulled his mouth to yours.
The kiss tasted like salt and your own body and the faint trace of his tears. You swallowed his sob and released your grip and angled your hips, and then he was sliding inside you—one long, slow, perfect thrust that filled you completely.
He gasped into your mouth.
For three heartbeats, he didn't move. Just buried there, buried deep, the stretch of him a satisfying ache that made your inner walls flutter around his length. His hands found your face, cradling your jaw like something precious, and when he finally pulled back to look at you, his expression was cracked open and luminous.
Not the fast, desperate pounding you'd expected. Not the frantic release of all that pent-up tension. He moved slow. Deep. Every stroke a deliberate act of devotion. His hips rolled against yours, grinding at the apex, and the base of him pressed against your still-sensitive clit in a rhythm that built a second, softer wave of pleasure low in your belly.
"So good," he breathed. "You feel so—I can't—"
"Then don't talk. Just feel."
His rhythm stuttered. A moan punched out of him, and his forehead dropped to your shoulder, lips brushing your collarbone. His thrusts grew uneven, desperate, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and pulled him deeper.
"Let go," you murmured against his ear. "You've apologized. You've worshipped. Now let go for me."
A sound broke from his chest—half your name, half something wordless—and then his body seized. His hips jerked once, twice, and the hot rush of his release flooded inside you. You held him through it, hands smoothing down his back, lips pressed to his temple, every pulse of his climax echoing through your own body like a promise kept.
He collapsed against you, breathing ragged, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your own sternum. For a long moment, there was only the sound of both of you dragging air back into your lungs, the sticky-slow slide of cooling sweat, the distant hum of the bathroom fan that had been running this entire time.
His hand found yours. Fingers interlaced.
"Thank you," he whispered, voice utterly wrecked.
You turned your head and kissed the damp curl stuck to his forehead.
"Now we're even," you said.
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