pairing: Jaafar Jackson x f!reader
summary: Getting your fiancé through wisdom tooth surgery should be simple. Except Jaafar, who never says anything out of line, has apparently left all his self-control at the door of the operating room.
warnings: 18+ MDNI, suggestive content, anesthesia doing its thing, dirty talk (kinda? idk), established relationship
word count: 1.6k words
image credits: anotherpartoffme, davischloe881, filmsbyavs and themastersreign on tumblr
a/n: sooooo, this is my longest fic in a good, good while. I really enjoyed writing it, so I hope you guys enjoy it too! Forgive me if my sense of humor was only funny in my own head lol
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You should have known. You absolutely should have known.
Even before Jaafar told you he was getting his wisdom teeth out and that he would need you around for the post-anesthesia aftermath, you'd already lost count of how many videos you'd seen online of kids and adults saying the wildest things after the procedure.
You'd even sent some of them to a Jaafar who hadn't even considered the possibility yet, with captions like "your turn is coming." It was only natural to expect something like that, but why did nobody warn you it would be a thousand times worse?
She's probably loving every second of this, you thought, glancing at the nurse from the corner of your eye. Obviously she wouldn't warn you it would be a thousand times worse - obviously she would kill to be alone with Jaafar in a moment like this. Bitch. She was ogling Jaafar so hard you were tempted to pull her wisdom teeth out yourself, right then and there.
If you didn't have to worry about the fact that Jaafar had nearly undressed himself three times, almost stabbed himself with a scalpel that was dangerously within reach, and belted out Livin' On a Prayer at the top of his lungs - or, as he sang it, "peeing on the mayor" - in the last five minutes, you would have absolutely been the one sticking that scalpel somewhere near the nurse instead.
Jaafar seemed both fine and not fine at the same time. The surgery had gone well and he just needed a few good days to recover, but now came the fun part: waiting for the anesthesia to wear off. He was more restless than usual and way more talkative, and you kept going back and forth between wanting to help him and wanting to film him for blackmail material later.
Surprisingly, Jaafar hadn't quite registered your presence yet, which for now put you on equal footing with the nurse who was already occupying the space. And showing absolutely no signs of leaving. What do you want, you evil witch? He's not taking his clothes off again as long as I'm here.
"I need to pee right now-now or I'm gonna turn into a faaau-cet, do you want that? Pee-ee leaking like a faucet? I don't think so, my pee-ee is very hea-"
"Jaafar, your pee is very healthy," you cut in, with a smile on your face.
That was the first time he actually looked looked at you. His eyes, still glazed over from the anesthesia, did nothing to hide the admiration that washed over him as he looked you up and down, letting out a whistle so loud you felt your cheeks burn on the spot.
"Who are you?"
"It's me, baby," you said with a small laugh, though a seed of worry settled in your chest. Did he really not recognize you?
"Is it my birthday? What is this little piece of caaaa-ndy? I'm gonna need to unwrap it to see if it's-"
"Jaafar!" you said, equally mortified and in disbelief.
Jaafar was a reserved, shy man. There was only one moment his mouth became dirtier than anything you'd ever heard, and that was when he completely lost control in bed. But hearing him say things like that was rare enough. I don't want to disrespect you, he always said. Hearing him say it in public? Code red.
"What? I really want something sweet right now," he said, his voice dripping with a barely-disguised second meaning.
"Yeah, easy there, Willy Wonka, the one thing you absolutely cannot eat right now is sugar," you said calmly, taking a sip of your juice.
"Nobody said I can't eat you."
The coughing that tore through you was so sudden and violent that for a moment you genuinely considered that this was how it ended. The nurse glanced over and moved to help, but you waved her off quickly to signal you were fine. Oh sure, go ahead and finish suffocating me, why don't you?
"Jaafar, you're not going to remember any of this. And I will happily tell your brother every single word."
"You know my brother? Who are you?" he asked again, suddenly very curious about how a woman this beautiful would know so much about him. Thank you, Lord.
"She's your fiancée, Jaafar. Don't you remember?" The nurse's cold voice cut through the room for the first time, and it was like a thousand tiny daggers straight to your ribs. Yeah, you kinda wished you'd choked after all.
"My fiancée?" Jaafar's eyes went wide as he looked at you again, placing a hand dramatically over his heart.
"Unless you've changed your mind and don't want to-"
"Don't want to what?"
"Marry me."
"Bury you?"
"Jesus, baby, marry me."
"Although I really would like to bury... my dick in your pus-"
"Jaafar, oh my God!"
That was enough to send the nurse huffing out of the room. If I'd known, I would've climbed him myself.
"What? He really needs some comfort right now."
"What?"
"My little friend down he-ere. He saw you and gave you a standing ovation."
"A standi- Jaafar, what's wrong with you?"
"Nothing's wrong. Everything down here is very, very right”
You genuinely didn't know whether to laugh, dig a hole in the floor, record all of it, or call the nurse back in to double-check that the anesthesia doses had been anywhere near reasonable.
“I’ll die if you don’t kiss me.”
"I'll kiss you, just not right now."
"Why not? Aren't you my fiancée? Don't fiancées kiss their fiancés?"
"Yes, fiancées kiss their fiancés, but right now you'd moan in pain if I kissed you."
"You want to make me moan?"
"Jaafar." You felt your cheeks burning, a subtle wave of heat running between your legs. You almost slapped yourself at the thought, he had just gotten out of surgery, for God's sake.
"So you do want to kiss me."
"Jaafar."
"Not even a little peck?"
"Are you going to behave?"
He nodded, looking like a mischievous kid who would do absolutely anything to get his reward.
Moving slowly toward him, you cupped his face gently and looked him in the eyes. Even clouded by the anesthesia, the love was still there, in the way he looked at you, melting under your hands. You let your hands slide down to his neck, resting your right one on his chest, which immediately went off like a drum. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thumpthumpthumpthump.
"Are you okay?"
"I'll be better once you kiss me."
You smiled and pressed your lips softly against his. The kiss was quick, light, barely a peck, but just enough to fill your chest with that warm, familiar feeling of home. Jaafar tried to deepen it, but you pulled back, remembering it could hurt him.
"Baby..."
"God, you're so beautiful," he murmured, tracing the outline of your lips with his fingertips. "You actually taste like something sweet."
"You're not going to remember any of this later," you murmured, suddenly flustered.
"I will absolutely remember the taste of your lips."
“Oh Lord, give me strength.”
"I'll give you something better than strength, do you-”
“Jaafar, I swear to God.”
“Shhh, pretty girl. Stay here with me, come closer", he murmured, and you clenched your thighs together at the sound of pretty girl so close to your ear.
"I'm right here."
"You're not even touching me properly", he said. He might not have recognized you fully in that moment, but his body, heart and mind did, and he wanted you as close as possible.
"Baby, I’m literally touching you."
"Debatable."
"Debatable how? I’m literally tou-"
"Now you are."
And with one swift movement, Jaafar grabbed your hand and guided it right onto his hard cock, making very clear to you that the anesthesia had done absolutely nothing to affect certain things.
"Mr. Jackson, here are your-"
The nurse went as white as her own scrubs at the sight in front of her, as she entered the room unannounced. You could have been mortified. Flustered. Maybe both at once. But the wave of satisfaction that washed over you was so much stronger than any of that.
"I said what?" A mortified Jaafar asked, sitting on the couch in your shared apartment, the anesthesia long worn off.
What hadn't worn off was the shame creeping through him after you'd recounted everything that happened, and that had been twenty minutes ago.
"You said you wanted to unwrap me and eat m-"
"Okay, you don't have to repeat it."
"You're the one who asked."
"Baby, I'm so sorry. I don't know what got into me."
"It's fine, baby. I would've been more worried if you'd said all that to that nurse who was absolutely dying to flirt with you. Right in front of me!"
"What nurse? I didn't even notice anyone else there."
"Right, you were a little too busy putting my hand on your cock to notice much of anything."
"Ughh, no," Jaafar groaned, burying his face in his hands, “This is a nightmare”.
"Hey, there's nothing to be ashamed of, baby. That's just what anesthesia does, don't you remember those videos I sent you?" you asked, sitting beside him on the couch and trying to pull his hands away from his face.
"Yeah, but in none of them was the guy trying to fuck his fiancée in front of everyone," he said, freezing the moment he realized what had slipped out. "I think the anesthesia hasn't fully worn off yet."
"You say much worse things to me in bed."
Jaafar looked at you, a mix of shame and arousal dancing in his eyes, and pressed a slow kiss to your cheek.
"So what do you say... We head upstairs so I can give you a proper standing ovation?"
"I say... I'm sending your brother everything I recorded first," you grinned diabolically, holding up your phone with a frozen frame of Jaafar mid-attempt at his first striptease.
"You wouldn't dare," he said, narrowing his eyes.
"Oh yeah?" you said, already hitting send. "Catch me if you can!"
For the record: he caught you. He always did.
The wisdom teeth could go, but he never would. He was still, and would always be, yours.
content/warnings: quickie smut, jaafar's in his michael makeup, wife! reader, they're currently in tension bc theyre mad with each other, so it lowkey starts angsty but ends steamy and redemption, short but sweet, sub and whiny jaafar YES, dry humping into unprotected sex (hints at breeding kink), fem anatomy described
WC: 4.1k
A/N: i knew as SOON as i saw him post this picture... a fic was incoming LOL. also, i've been getting lots and lots of questionable and hate comments under my account and i'm here to tell all the haters that this is not the page to do so. i will cuss you out AND block you!
You’ve been gnawing at your lip for what seemed the entire car ride- 45 minutes to be exact. You were unsure whether even coming to see your husband at work was the right idea, especially right now. But it was a tradition you both had built since he began filming, and you weren’t planning to break it just because you happened to be mad at him.
The argument started two nights ago over something that should’ve been small but has grown slightly. Due to Jaafar’s new movie, Michael, being a family-oriented production, much of the funding came directly from the Jackson family. Thankfully, most of the older family members had their wealth secured and set, and didn’t dig too deep when investing their funds. The second generation, such as the Jacksons’ kids, including Jaafar, weren’t as wealthy. They had their privileges, of course, but most of the money they made was earned individually. Jaafar had built his wealth through music production and occasional film score composing.
When you got married, you agreed that any major financial decisions would be made together. That was the smartest and most conscious decision. For the five years you two have been married, that deal has been kept. A couple of days ago, however, you received a phone call from your accountant, who let you know that a very large sum had been removed from your account and transferred to someone else. When you double-checked with her to assure it was a mistake, she let you know that Jaafar had signed off on it. You looked into it, and it turns out, Jaafar had contributed his own investment into the film, without double-checking with you. It made your stomach twist with irritation and hurt, but you chose to brush it off till he got home that evening.
You were at the kitchen table, dinner in hand, as the front door opened. Jaafar walked in, throwing his hoodie on the coat rack before making his way into the kitchen. “Hey, baby.” He muttered and reached to press a kiss on your face. You turned slightly, lips hitting your hair instead.
His eyebrows rose in confusion, but he brushed it off, turning to the sink to wash his hands. He took a quick glance at you, searching for anything that could alert him to why you hadn’t greeted him back. “How was your day today?”
You shrugged, food no longer looking appetizing. You set the fork down and picked up the glass of juice. “Could’ve been better.” Jaafar sets his plate down, arms holding his upper body up against the marble-grained countertop. “Why’s that?”
“Why did you take 1 million dollars out of our account and give it to the Estate?” You curtly say, pivoting your body towards Jaafar. You point to the flat screen of your phone against the table, lip twitching in uncertainty. You hated confrontation, and doing it with your favorite person made you hate them even more.
He sighs, shaking his head. He parts his mouth, ready to give an explanation even he knows isn’t enough for you to just leave it alone. “You know my family’s all giving their own shares. I thought it’d be necessary if I did too.”
“Without checking with me?”
“I didn’t think I needed to. With filming going on, we needed more funds for some reshoots we’re doing. I thought it was obvious.”
You scoff, standing from your chair. You stride towards the kitchen, across from Jaafar as he keeps his gaze on you. “We have been asking each other about that kind of stuff for 5 years, Jaafar. Why would it change now?”
He shrugs his shoulders, and his unwillingness to even pretend he can’t see where you’re coming from begins to make your blood boil, but you cross your legs, holding onto the counter for some sort of support, at least.
“I get you want to help your family out, and it is your movie, but you have to let me know. I cannot see that kind of money just being transferred out of our account with no explanation.”
“It’s just money. We’ll get it back, I promise.”
“That’s not the point I’m trying to make, Jaafar, and you know it. It’s the fact that you did it without checking with me first.”
Jaafar picks up his plate and fills it with food. You stand, baffled, unsure whether he was done talking to you. He walks behind you, taking his seat in the chair at the table. You turn, hands raising in confusion. “Are we done discussing this?”
“We’re not discussing anything. You’re arguing with me about it while I’m trying to explain my side.”
“No one’s trying to argue, babe. I’m just letting you know I didn’t feel comfortable with that happening.”
He sighs, eyes closing as he rests his head in his palms, breathing without structure. You cross your arms, feeling defeated. “And I’m letting you know what it’s for. I’m not asking for the money back; we need it. The movie needs it. I need it.”
There’s a slight crack in his voice as he speaks, and you know the pressure of everything is on him. It’s in the tired creases around his melancholy eyes, under the plumpness of his chapped lips. It’s in the small bruises in his hands and knees, dancing for hours till his toes bleed in pleas for a break.
But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s belittling your side of the conversation, so you muster all the courage inside you to shake your head, foot tapping against the tiles under your slippers. “I understand that. I do, I really do. But that amount of money is huge. There’s no excuse for that. We’ve been talking about wanting to try for children soon, yet you make decisions like this behind my back without consulting me first. That hurts, J.”
“It’ll play out when the movie comes out. That money will come back, and more.”
You suppress an eye roll and shrug your shoulders. “Can you even try to apologize and see where I’m coming from?”
“I do see your side, baby, I do. But please, for the sake of peace, see mines too.”
Your heart hurts. You understand he’s deflating the way he is because of pressure, exhaustion, and confusion. But you know you’re right, too. And neither of you is willing to recognize each other’s explanations right now. You take a deep breath and raise your hand. “Fine, then. For the sake of peace, sleep in the guest room.” And with that, you give him one last disappointed look before walking away. For a second, you think he’ll apologize and come after you. But in the next second, your steps stay lonely.
The next morning, Jaafar doesn’t say anything to you before he leaves. He brews you a mug of coffee, but doesn’t leave a note or even bother sending a text message throughout the day to check up on you, like he usually does. You knew the argument could’ve been fixed with a simple apology from him, and maybe a rational thought from you as well, but it was puerile behavior from the two of you now. You reciprocate the same energy by not making him dinner that evening and staying by the pool until he falls asleep. You walked by the guest room and took a quick peek inside. He’s asleep, still dressed in his clothes, even having his shoes on. He’s shivering, and he’s holding the throw pillow tight in his hands. The sight makes your insides turn, in regret and empathy. You shake your head to yourself and walk inside, softly pulling the pillow to the floor. You reach to take his shoes off, and hold his sole carefully, aware of the blisters covering his toes. You throw the blanket on his body, giving his thigh a squeeze before walking away.
“I love you.” His voice is dazed, interrupting your attempt to quietly leave the room.
You hold onto your chest before breathing softly. “I love you. Night.” Your voice is fragile, and even as Jaafar’s hardly awake, he heeds the pain in your voice. It makes the guilt soothe him even more, and he closes his eyes, afraid that if he keeps them open, he’ll shatter into a million pieces.
•┈┈
You park your car in the parking garage, taking a deep breath and holding onto the bag you’ve brought with you. You brought one of Jaafar’s favorite foods, a crispy chicken sandwich from the Honor Bar. It was where he took you for your first date, and you’ve been bringing him lunch every week, as a way to see him amid all the busy hours throughout the work days.
The crew members greet you as always, giving you polite gestures as you walk through the halls with your bags in hand. Your pass is wrapped around your neck, and you check the time on your watch before stopping in front of Jaafar’s door. You bring a hesitant hand to the door before taking a breath, knocking softly against the wood. You wait a beat before opening the door, and feel the breath you’ve been holding in release on its own. Your occupied hand trembles, and you feel your body betraying you as you force your mouth shut.
Jaafar is in front of his vanity, a small mirror mounted on the wall, with bright, intense lights highlighting the details of his face. He’s dressed so elegantly, still in costume. His makeup and hair still intact, and despite visiting him for so long, you’ve never actually seen him in costume. Not so still, at least. And alone.
You hate the fact that there’s a flicker of disbelief in his face, one that he masks with relief. You give him a small smile and clear your throat. “Hi.”
“Hi, baby.”
“You look shocked to see me here. Not sure I like that.” You close the door and turn the lock as you take a seat on the couch across from Jaafar.
He opens his mouth, gazing into your eyes as he removes the sparkling white glove from his hand. “I figured we’d still be… you know. I think I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”
There’s a small scoff that escapes from you, but you follow it with a tut. You cross your legs, tapping your fingers against your knee. “How are your hopes now?”
Jaafar bites his inner lip, tugging at the tag on his pants as a distraction. “Undeserving.”
You take his mutter into consideration, cognizant of the tone as he waited for your response. You hum, dipping your head as your eyes remain locked with his. “We have to talk about it eventually. Now, preferably. I don’t want our food to get cold.”
He softly breaths, an attempt at expressing a sense of humor, but he’s too emotional to do so. “I’m sorry for my behavior these past few days. For a while, actually.” You give him a nod, an acknowledgment of the understanding of what he means.
“The process for creating this film, and bringing it to life, has become such an overwhelming process. I got so wrapped up in trying to figure things out the way all these experienced people have done before that I thought I could do it, too. In doing so, I went against our core vows and have hurt you in the process. That was never my intention, baby. I truly am so sorry for the way I've acted over the past few days. I gave you space because I know we both needed that more than anything. But I missed you so fucking much, I was going crazy.” Jaafar’s voice cracks numerous times, and he feels the top of his lip wet with several tears. He doesn’t care to let the emotion come to life, because he deserves to feel the regret he came to terms with the moment he saw you walk away.
There’s no sound in the room besides your heavy breathing, and it takes every restrictive power in you to stop you from standing and shoving Jaafar’s delicate face into your chest. The tears streaming down his face break you so gently. You taste the sweat under your chin as you bring it to your lips, moving anxiously under Jaafar’s red eyes.
“I’m sorry for not being willing to see your side, baby. I think I always did, but I was mad at you for being so stubborn.” You whisper, eyes slightly dipping in mendacious tautness as your husband gives you a concurring nod.
He dabs at his face, attempting to wipe any tears off his prosthetics before he continues speaking. “You wouldn’t have to feel that way if it weren’t for me. I’m so sorry, sweet girl.”
The nickname breaks you of any restraint, and your body rises before your mind alerts you. You close the short distance between the two of you and wrap your arms around Jaafar’s sequenced shoulders, rubbing at any previous rigidness with consoling devotion and pardon. He feels the way only your unique and soothing touch can bring him back to life fully, and he closes his eyes, a quiet moan escaping him. It was quiet under the heavy breathing that was transpiring from his mouth, which you almost didn’t catch. Almost.
“Now, now, I forgive you, baby. I missed you, too.” There’s a commanding intonation in the manner you hum against Jaafar’s styled hair, and suddenly the friction between the two of you grows desperate. This was secretly your favorite part after all the worries are no more, and the things you have said to one another are gone. Somehow, it always got to that point. Where sincere apologies are made, and you drop the authoritarian act, and become authoritative. The anger is no longer quiet screaming, but instead moans of passion. In some way, you sometimes wonder if this unbreakable habit is wrong, but it always gets to that point somehow. Where your clothes become half-off, and all the pent-up frustration becomes released through ruts and rushed kisses.
There’s a twitch in Jaafar’s hardening cock as he hears the tone in your seductive syllables, and he forces his hand against the pinch of your waist to relax. He slightly pulls his head away from your chest and throws his head back. “We’re done filming for the day, in this costume. I’m ‘posed to be taking this makeup off, actually.”
You hum in reply to his piteous mumble and bring your fingers across Jaafar’s face, fixating on every detail of his features. The makeup team took their time in ensuring his face was exact to what his uncle’s details were, and you ran your fingers extra carefully on the parts you noticed were made with additional caution. It was something so alluring about seeing Jaafar in this costume and makeup- it was almost like it was another version of him you never knew you could access. But having him under your touch, legs on either side of his perfectly built thighs, made your core begin to moist with seduction and satisfaction- a guilty pleasure, if truth be told. “Is that so? And here I was, having some time to watch how beautiful you look in that makeup.”
Jaafar would never get used to the way you would confidently call his beauty out. He knew he was a pretty man, but hearing the words come out of your lips, the ones he loved to run his tongue against, was another form of a tantalizing rush down his cock, quickening his pulse until his mind would become foggy, control no longer his. “Can you help me take it off, then? Please, baby?”
A double glance at the locked door is all it takes for your lips to crash against Jaafar’s. Your tongue swirls against his, desperate savoring evident in your hoarse exhales. Your hands run along the back of his head, textured curls tangled in between your fingers. There’s a soft piece caught between your ring as you pull, which makes Jaafar whine. The cry is frenzied, and a smirk crawls on your lips. His hands began to fondle with whatever plumpness of your body he could find, wanting to capture whatever he could knead.
Every clash against your mouth is an unspoken plea Jaafar begs for sonorously. He needs more, and despite the wetness of his pre-cum you feel against the material of your bottoms, the distance is too much. He knows there’s a time limit that the two of you have to fool around before work begins again, and the warmth that circulates throughout his body is enough sampling to thrill him for more. He takes a shameful swallow before lifting his hips up, readjusting himself in the chair, and gripping onto your hip bone. He laps at your lip as he moves your body against his own, the drag of your clothed cunt against his own cock melting flawlessly. You grind onto his lap with erratic snaps, eyes rolling back with elation. The thrums against your skin become too much, and you pull off your top, crashing Jaafar’s face into your chest. He does his job in nipping at the softness of your breasts, ensuring a mark is left with a desperate lick. His patterns become overstimulating, so you pull down your bra and keen in roil as his teeth graze over your nipples.
Jaafar silently begs to whoever is listening to his intoxicating mind to allow him to remain in this bliss forever. His eyes trace over the transfer of his makeup against the sweat on your skin, and that sight is the most captivating thing he’s ever seen on you. He feels his hair stick onto his skin, but his focus remains on the bounce of your breasts, every hump against the curve of his cock enveloping him in a trance he never wants to snap out of, not even when he feels his release begin to build up.
You feel the metal of his zipper hit your clothed pussy, and the sensation makes your button tingle with electricity. You feel your slick continue to swell, pleating against your folds. Your jerks are intense, like a personal workout your body appreciates you’ve decided to take. Your eyes open for a slight minute, stuck on the way, Jaafar’s eyes remain riveted on your body. You let out a sharp intake of breath, feeling a tiny bit of drool threaten to escape from the side of your mouth. The consciousness only grows because Jaafar’s eyes begin to well up with tears. Overstimulating tears, the ones that you know he’ll let out the second your walls enclose around his bare cock.
He gives a soft croak as his eyes dip, greed entering his body as he cups your breast. “More, more, more.” Every whine is hasty, yearning for a release. He doesn’t care that his underwear will be sticky once he pulls it down his legs, or the fact that the very expensive costume pants he’s wearing will be ruined with your slick. Jaafar’s only focus is on the rapid darts of his tongue on you. He watches the way your mouth parts open, your head bobbing with every lap he gives you.
He feels the release threatening to snap, so he uses all his force to grip onto your hips even harsher, approving of every pornographic bounce you lay on him. “I need to cum.” He whines against your skin, and you bring your mouth to his ear, softly licking his lobe as your hand runs down his neck and onto his jacket, gripping the material beneath it. The small conscious part of your mind is aware he’s still in costume, and will most likely have to return it once he’s done using it.
The bigger portion of your consciousness, however, only cares about the intense throbs of your cunt, because you give him a laudatory nod, melting at the way your skin burns so perfectly under Jaafar’s reckless hold. Your husband instantly uses his green light and cries, moaning like an animal in heat as his release fills his pants, wet and slick, and begins to run through onto your thighs. Your release comes seconds after, and your bounces slow down, legs spasming with exhaustion.
Your heavy breaths blend, and you bring your hand hurriedly to his pants, unzipping the material, fingers wetting with Jaafar’s cum. You bring a finger rapidly to your mouth and lick it, humming at the taste. Jaafar swears he feels more spill out of his tip, so he brings his hands to help pull his cock out as you stand and step out of your pants, not caring to do the same with your panties. You pull those to the side and keep one hand on Jaafar’s shoulder, breath hitched as you sink down on his cock. Every inch is an eyeroll you give, and before you know it, you’re both immediately swallowed by warmth. There’s a hint of pain, so you use the adjustment to his size to bring your lips to his neck, licking at his sweet spot.
“Thank you, my sweet girl. Thank you.” The tightness disappears into pleasure, and you move slowly. You begin to grind against his shaft, building up slick before you begin to quicken your pace. His hands come up to your face, and your features fit so perfectly against his large palms.
“You’re doing so good for me, for us, my baby. I love you. You always do so great. I admire you, my sweet love.” Every word hits you deeper than his cock, and your body instinctively begins to build an unrelenting tempo, every ride against his perfect cock massaging your walls. It makes your body yearn for more, more than what you’re bucking for.
Every bounce on him becomes a precise beat, hips smacking against one another at the same time. Your fingers run under Jaafar’s eyes, tears slickening them as you softly smirk. “All these tears, just for me, hm?”
He nods without hesitation, cock hitting every spot so perfectly. “Yes, m’am.” Oh god, could he be any more perfect for you? You hum against his skin, watching the ways his curls move against the rhythm you’ve both set, and it makes you fuse grow even quicker.
Jaafar grips both sides of your hips, eyes focused on the way his cock slips in and out of you. Watching the way your cunt is so perfectly stuffed by him, it makes his hunger grow. He takes hold of the control, thrusting himself into you with pounds so heavy and filling, you feel it penetrate you mercilessly. His mouth opens before he can think about what he’s about to say, yet he feels no regret. “I want to cum inside you and put a baby in you. Can I do that? Please? Will you let me stuff you full, sweet girl?” Your moans become inconsolable, and you nod your head, unwilling to care about the reality of what this will mean for both of you. Your legs begin to shudder, and you give warning taps against Jaafar’s face as he nods.
His thrusts become frantic, wanting to make sure you feel the need in every vein inside you, in every rut as he begins to fill you. He directs your hand to your nipple, and you pinch it, and your vision becomes spotty. Your mouth parts, and your back arches as Jaafar’s hips jerk against you. His whines grow louder, and you take every single one in memory as he spills inside you, painting you like a piece he wishes to admire forever. His tired eyes come down to your opening, and he watches in awe as his release spills outside your cunt and down your legs.
You fall onto his chest, knees limp as Jaafar brings his hands to your back, soothing it in a familiar pattern. A wave of aftershock washes over you for some time, so you’re silent, body slightly twitching from the sputters undone.
Jaafar pulls your head off his chest with care, pressing kisses against your face as he whispers comforting praises. It makes you melt, and your walls begin to flutter as he softly twitches inside you. His pupils are dilated, and the sight of his wet, dark, beautiful eyes makes you lean forward, relaxing your mouth against his.
“Sweet girl.” He mutters against you, stroking the softness of your neck as your breathing calms down, no longer past the normal beat.
There are no words, no sound. Just breaths, just nearness. Just Jaafar’s familiar hand brushing his thumb over your knuckles, just existing quietly in a now sacred space you’ll both remember for a lifetime. It’s a moment you begin to already detail your mind over, resting your open palm calmly over your husband’s even heartbeat, a pulse that he gentles with passionate vulnerability.
You aren't sure when the idea of Sunday dinners at the Jackson estate became all-consuming. Being life-long family friends, hooked at the arms on holidays and events, you'd grown comfortable being orbited by a particular pair of Jackson brothers;
Jermajesty, closest to you in age and attitude, both finding solace in a shared upbringing shielded behind walls the light inside you desperately tries to scale—and his elder brother, Jaafar.
His presence was always heavy, somewhat defensive when it came to his family and you—as if being a few years your elder meant that if you took one step, he’d take three. It’s always been this way.
Yet as you sit across from him now, your cool cutlery the only thing anchoring you to your seat, you can’t recall when your glances to Jaafar went from gentle and friendly, to whatever was bubbling beneath them now, nestled under something you can only label as need.
Maybe it was when he let his hair grow long again, dark curls whispering along his neckline. Maybe a few weeks ago, the first time you’d felt that heady longing sprout in your gut after he slipped past you in the kitchen, muttering a small “‘scuse me” with a hand held to your waist.
You studied that moment—the engulfing mass of his hand fit to the curve of your plush skin. Maybe this is the way it was always supposed to go—you craving something he evidently doesn't. And your okay with that.
Relieved, you feel Jaafar's teeming eyes collapse from your face to the person by his side; his “girlfriend”. This was a new revelation in the Jackson household. Jaafar had always spoken to girls, dated, slept around—stories spread from Jermajesty to you, each one picked apart when the words hadn’t yet stung. When none of it mattered at all.
Now it's different. This is the two of them sharing longing gazes and loving smiles. This is something you fear—no, you hope—is permanent.
You and jermajesty fight the Encino heat as a shitty blockbuster film envelopes Hayvenhurst's games-room in the sound of curses and corny one-liners.
This moment is familiar, comfortable. It's shared and stuffed whole with memories of you and Jermajesty, holding your stomachs as laughter drowned whatever movie you’d both been paying no mind too.
Yet as your mouth opens to spit out another joke only he'll understand, you hear it. A thud. Hard against the wall, hurried like it was an accident.
Then, ‘thud’, again.
“Jer, pause.”
“Huh?”
“Pause!”
The boy meddles with the remote ‘till taciturnity substitutes the TV’s gunfire. Puzzlement paints his face as his dark eyes shadow your own, looking to the ceiling–above is the bedroom only a floor away.
But when the ‘thud’ appears again, it comes in the form of a wail. Gradual, sultry, slick with only one thing—pleasure.
“No fuckin’ way.” Jermajesty curses through the hand now airtight over his mouth. He side-eyes you, sneer playing with the tips of his lips.
Then; another moan, this one a repulsive and undisputable souvenir of the thing you’ll never have—‘Jaafar!’
“Hey.” Jermajesty jostles your side, and when your answer is silence, calling your name seems to do the trick. “Fuckin’ perv. Listenin’ to them fuckin’.”
“I am not!” That breaks the seal—Jermajesty lets out a crescendo of moans, each just as whiney and high as the ones you’ve seen in cheap pornos.
“Shut up! Gross.” You shunt him ‘till he finally accepts defeat and puts on a childish pout. Yet to your utter bewilderment, the noises halt completely. Silence returns like there was never anything before it.
It was what felt to be the longest week of your life.
There was no amount of music, of noise, of focus on how your steering wheel felt in your hands that would satiate your mind. It simply kept replaying that same sound, an echo haunting your paper-view in every stagnant moment.
‘Jaafar!’
Like a broken record.
You mocked your own neediness when dusk swallowed the summer evenings. Your idiocy was evident when you caught yourself hoping that Jaafar was anything more than your best friends brother, the boy who had you on his shoulders in the pool when you were young, who'd tease and mock 'till you shot him a cold glare—the man who'd stare at you across a crowded dining table like he chanted your name in his head.
Though as Monday eased into Saturday, you made good at disregarding his posts online (or his presence in general). Instead, you’d managed to shove things into each second of every day, leaving no space for thoughts of him.
Now, Sunday collapses on you.
Some vile part of you hopes that he can’t make it to the dinner, somehow falling ill and in dire need of attention from his girlfriend.
You let out a hearty sigh and realign your spine, stepping out of the car into the setting sun.
Encino ardour wraps your body in sweat as you knock once, rotating to admire the view from beneath Hayvenhursts imposing front-door. The sky is ribboned in pinks and reds as shadow begins swallowing the evening.
You are content. You are okay.
The door behind you unbolts with a click and a slide before you turn to meet who you presume is the housemaid. Yet as your lips effort to form a smile, you find the muscles unmoving.
Oversized shadowy cargos. A sheer white tee. An acquainted pair of polished air Jordans.
Your heart falters as your eyes rake over the towering form.
Jaafar isn't smiling—not yet. Not ‘till he checks you over once more for himself. Then it was all teeth, sharp canines and plush lips.
“Hey.” A voice smoother than the spineless wind dancing with your hair.
“Hi.” You are the brick wall, tone an unbending force. You tear yourself away from his scrutiny and ram past him in a manner even you feel the urge to apologise for. But not today.
You catch his scoff before the door is slammed behind you.
You ignore it, your focus instead stumbling upon the first thing your eyes find security in—Jermajesty. The boy is lounged across the living room couch like it’d proposed itself for his personal use.
You revelled in his lax demeanour, in his untidy hair and serpentine smile. You only wish you could share how the fighting urge to run from his house was because of his elder brother.
Dinner manages to feebly leash your nerves. Yet with that familiar presence only a few feet away, another unwanted emotion seems to seep into your stomach. Guilt.
Jaafar Jackson is a thoughtful and gentle man. He carries himself like clouds carry rain—capable of flooding, yet determined to hydrate instead. His reserve is thick around him. You often find yourself grateful that the coyness the media receives is not the attitude he presents to you.
But, he can also be gaudy, brash, a tornado capable of taking entire towns down. His drive finds no end—and that is a precarious thought. When he focuses, his elusive auburn eyes flicker and ignite ‘till said focus is satisfied.
You take another bite of your mash, grinning as someone’s infectious laughter catches in your own, before you feel it–
His merciless focus, the one that brands your skin every other dinner.
Instead of shying-away this time, you meet his gaze with the sharpness of your own.
He doesn't give in. He waits, and waits, and waits ‘till your reaction—in the form of your foot meeting his shin—forces him to squint and seethe.
“Shit!” Jaafar curses below his breath, knuckles now a milky-white against the table. He raises his brows and chews at his bottom lip, shoulders shrugging like he’s got no clue why you left a blooming bruise on his leg.
If he could, you’re sure Jaafar would interrogate your motives—shake you ‘till you revealed the reason you snubbed him at the door, why your ‘cold shoulder’ feels searing hot.
But the boy beside you plays the finest safety net. Jermajesty is blissfully unaware that the only thing holding Jaafar back is himself.
As the hours pass from 8pm, to 11, to 12, night shows no sign of ceasing its heat. Somehow, you’ve indulged in Jermajesty’s choice of movie. It gives you something to study, a sort of amity acting as the cherry on top of the fact that Jaafar had left not long after you and Jermajesty escaped dinner—a habit built after years of being sent away from the dining room when conversation drew in darker topics.
You reach for the glass on the coffee-table, but find it filled with only a few stray blocks of ice.
“Jer, I’m gonna’ get something to drink. You want?”
The boy shook his head, eyes glued to the screen.
“Don’t pause.”
“What makes you think I was gon’ wait for you.”
You shake your head at his wit, rising from the relief of the couch and dragging your taut body to the kitchen.
Nightfall ebbs in through the windows, making each callous corner that much smoother as you make your way to the fridge. A content sigh leaves your lips as icy air breaches your sizzling skin. Your drink could wait.
For now, the cold air is-
“Boo!” Two colossal hands fall heavy on your shoulders.
You yelp and tumble backward ‘till you find your footing practically inside the fridge. Before you connect those hands to a face, your mind is swift to prompt you on who’s fingers dig into the apex of your shoulders.
“Jaafar, get off!” You shimmy and hope your ire-laced tone is adequate in warding him away.
It doesn't seem to do the trick. Jaafar is unswerving ahead of you, hands on his stomach like your fear is the funniest thing in the world. He giggles ‘till his throat parches, ‘till he finds your face and realises you are, in fact, not harmonising with the hilarity.
“Aw, c’mon! I was jus’ joking around.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be gone?”
The man toys with his pink bottom lip.
“I’m staying here tonight.”
You nod indifferently, as if you arn't aware of his every move.
Jaafar slithers past you as your back meets with the kitchen island, another trifling “‘scuse me” mumbled when he moves to the fridge and disappears inside.
“What d’you want?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why you out here?” He peers out of the door, brows furrowed. White engulfs your knuckles as you wrestle the urge to smack the dainty moles on the left side of his face clean off.
Even in a state of perplexity, the man is painted like God bowed scripture into a human being.
“Where’s your girlfriend.” Your demand is disguised as a question.
“So thas’ why.” Jaafar delves back into the fridge, locating the glass bottle of iced water like he hadn't just opened a coffin full of unanswered questions.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
He withdraws, shuts the fridge, and steals space on the counter ahead of you.
“Jus’ knew you didn’t like her. And she’s not my girlfriend…” He hesitates, bottle half-way to his mouth before; “It's complicated.”
Something splits open inside you and delight threatens to crawl out.
“Either way-” You barely have time to retort before Jaafar robs you of words.
“Was it last week?”
You cross your arms, hating how the grin behind the lip of his bottle widens.
“What about last week?” You attempt sincerity, even if your eyes oppose your tone. You can't look at him as your face warms.
“I heard Jer. To be fair, I didn’t even realise we were bein’ that loud ‘till he started mocking her.” He dwells on whatever words teeter on the edge of his tongue, his silence drawing your eyes as he searches the bottom of his bottle. You can tell something is looming—something you have no control over.
“But we've all done that before, right?” Jaafar knows that you aren't exactly untouched, but he's also aware that your dull experiences by-far overshadow any good ones.
Yet even as he presses all your buttons, his voice remains laced with silk.
Jaafar expects you to shove him or to contest like you typically would.
Instead, your lower lip meet's its fate between your teeth as your eyes drift to the floor, lost in a thought you can't quite come to terms with.
The idea of someone making those sounds because of the man unwavering ahead, eyeing you like he knows of your weak attempts to not think of him all week, has that cavernous need nestling into the hollow of your stomach. You squeeze your thighs and tense the arms enveloping your front.
Nothing halts the molten desire, the repulsive remorse, from soaking into your fingertips.
“Wait.” Is all Jaafar says, faintly below his breath. Then; “Is us talkin' about this … Turning you on?”
That hauls you from your thoughts like a siren to an air-raid. It's red hot, flashing ‘warning! get out! escape!’
But as you meet Jaafar's gaze, his features shaded only by the full moon, you find your feet embedded to the floor. You are unmovable.
“Shut up.” You mumble.
“Nah, don’t think I will.” Jaafar pushes off the counter and stalks toward you, grin subsiding into a flat line on his face.
He's close now. So close you can smell the musk and pungent leather from his opulent cologne.
His brawny arms fence you in as his hands fall flat on either side of you, like he knows his entire being is an emergency exit sign. You inhale before he can steal your breath.
“What, uh…” He sinks his head as warm lips meet with your ear, chest kissing the hands still folded over your front.
“What’d you do when you went home, huh?”
Your desperate to counter, to make any sound at all—but when your lips unfasten, only air flee's.
“Did your hand find that sweet spot between your legs when you thought of her callin’ out my name? Did you imagine what I did to her to make her sound like that?”
You study the tiles behind Jaafar's head like you have any concern of where they're from, then ponder just how long that toaster's been around because it looks rather new when-
Two sizeable hands find your wrists and work them undone. You realise now, as his heated skin meets with yours, that no amount of distraction can mute his touch.
So, you let him mould you like putty, enjoying how he manoeuvres you as if he's aware the heat from his palms is enough to melt wax.
“Jaafar.” You exhale, waning annoyance nothing but an afterthought in your tone.
Yet the inkling of reluctance has Jaafar unfolding your forearms and kneading them tenderly, up and down, gesture slackening the nausea in your stomach.
“Hey, hey… It’s okay. Jus’ wan’ help you out, yeah?” He finally retreats from the crook of your neck and studies your expression—low-lidded eyes, your parted lips, the sweat forming along your hairline as your glistening chest rises without rhythm.
God, you look like craving incarnate. You look so horribly, irreversibly unfulfilled.
“Counter.” Jaafar mutters.
It barely takes you a moment to lift yourself with the aid of his sturdy arms. You teem as the cool tile meets your bare thighs, soon thawed by Jaafars lengthy fingers, rubbing and kneading ‘till they slacken to allow his entry.
His thumb edges along your panty-line, pushing in deep circles just beside the place you swore would never involve the man now only inches away from it.
“Hands on my shoulders.” Another demand, another order you comply with in seconds.
“T-this is stupid, Jaafar.” You murmur when his head unearths the crook between your shoulder and neck, lips not kissing but merely pressed against your glossy skin.
“I know.” Then his palm was on you, driving deep circles into your clothed clit.
An unversed sound seeps from the back of your throat, like a whimper braided into a sigh—it's the sound of pure and unpolluted relief.
“Theeeere you go.” He exhales against you, whole body stirring as he nudges the spot your desire begins.
“Fuck…” You whine into his shoulder, mouth undone against the white of his shirt.
“You wan’ more?”
You nod wildly, indifferent to how pitiable and deprived you must sound. All you know is that if this thing infecting your abdomen isn’t reached soon, it’ll drive you mad.
“Atta’ girl.”
You drone as his palm lifts from your core, only to find his fingers working to unfasten your shorts. With one hand, he unbuttons each with a pop so he can elevate you with his other.
He glides them down your legs, watches them hook onto your bare foot with a soundless scoff before focusing on the part of you pleading for release.
“P-please, feels so-!” You huff like your patience is running from you. Jaafar doesn’t respond with sound, he simply raises his ring and middle finger to your lips, countenance speaking the words you know he can’t be bothered too—'open’.
Your lips part as two lengthy digits find the pad of your tongue and sink ‘till his knuckle is inches from your lips.
“C’mon.” He urges, watching you take the length with ease, sealing them inside as they lather in your spit.
He pulls them out with a ‘pop’ and admires the twinkle of slick in the moonshine.
His unsoiled hand moves your panties aside and makes way for his wet fingers to find your bare, swollen clit. You shudder into his touch, shaken at how fast he reveals that syrupy spot aching for aid.
He's unhurried at first, circling lightly at the nub while he studies your already fucked-out expression. When he sees your eyes beginning to seal, head waving like it's too heavy to hold, his pace quickens.
“Fuck!” You cry out before feeling his hand thrust your head into his shoulder. You whimper against his shirt, fingers clinging to the delicate fabric.
“God, haven’t even done shit n’ you’re practically shaking.” He mutters into your hair as his fingers glide lower, lower, ‘till they gather at the concaving entrance to your sleek desire.
He hovers at the birth of your need, knowing just how to threaten your usually gutsy attitude.
“Please…” Defeat feels like fire between your thighs.
“Yeah? You want my fingers so bad I ain’t even gotta’ ask you to beg?”
“Yes, Jaafar. Please…” Your sentence is one song-like slur. You're drunk on whatever spell this man has you under, and you have no intention of ridding yourself of it.
The earthquake that is two fingers gliding into you has your teeth burrowing into the tough flesh on his shoulder.
“Theeeere she is… Lemme’ in.” His fat fingers are motionless inside you, waiting ‘till your tightness moulds to the foreign sensation.
Then, they’re sluggishly drawn out, pulling an abhorrent sound from the back of your throat, before submerging back into your core.
Your body shudders with each torturous lunge, hands seizing anything they can; his shoulders, his shirt—his hair.
Your fingers venture to his scalp and yank as he drives inside you.
Jaafar falters as a pitiable noise trickles past his lips—a whimper.
Stretched like a sigh after a hard day’s work, scrawny like he’d been waiting for someone to claw at his scalp ‘till the hurt settled and stayed. Your thighs contract around his lean waist.
“Fuck, I felt that.” He mutters against you as your hole clenches on his hand.
“Do it again.” Curiosity seeps through his gasping words.
You tug at his scalp again, receive another high-pitched groan, and squeeze on his fingers. It’s like you flicked a switch in him, suddenly working you with a firmer, harsher hand.
Jaafar's fingers alone stuff you full. That thought earns him another hearty moan.
“So fuckin’ tight f’me, shit…” His fingers stretch you wide and scissor when you feel something shift inside you, almost threatening your bladder—Jaafar's curling his fingers inside your stomach. You cry out again, noise stifled by his shirt.
“Shh, shh. Use my shoulder, thas’ right.” Jaafar is nothing if not persistent. Curling, unfurling, curling again ‘till you can’t tell whether the white behind your eyelids is you seeing stars or the sun rising.
It doesn't matter—nothing seems to as he jerks at the knot in your abdomen and works on you ‘till all you can retain is the feel of his frenzied mouth against your ear.
“You are so pent up… I can feel it. Your pussy’s practically crying for me.” You miss the moment his voice distorts from song-like to starving. Now, it's gruff, guttural, untiring as he feeds you a sensation you can only describe as being filled.
“Say you needed this—you needed me.”
“Needed—Ngh!” His middle finger discovers the spongy spot inside you, prodding at it ruthlessly.
“C’mon, use your words.”
“N-needed you… Jaafar!”
“That’s right.” He rewards you by grasping your hair and tugging ‘till your neck is left vulnerable.
Another spot he’s never truly been able to explore 'till now—an unpolluted canvas practically pleading for his marks.
“Jaafar!” You warn between wheezes, trying to drag him away from the one place that’d raise questions you won't know how to answer.
He grumbles in frustration, combatting the urge to latch on and suck ‘till purple spots and darkened bruises freckle your neck and chest. He diverts himself by putting his thumb to work, kneading your clit.
Tears invade your waterline at the added sensation.
“Shit—F-feel s’ good.”
“Yeah? You’re so sweet, God. Didn’t even know I was doin’ this to you.”
His thumb accelerates and sets your nerves alight. Your digits spasm in his scalp, your thighs quiver with each thrust, and the only sound in the kitchen is the slick of your pussy and a pair of panting sighs.
“Anyone ever make you feel like this?” He speaks your name and it's like a being embraced by the sun.
You shake your head and snatch onto the forearm pistoning into you.
“N-no.” You let out weakly.
“No wonder you're so overwhelmed. Poor thing.”
His words give you whiplash.
Only moments ago, Jaafar used your pitiable behaviour as leverage, a way to force words from your mouth that, in any other circumstance, you'd never dream of uttering.
Now, even though the words are coated in a twisted kindness only Jaafar is able to bend, they seem sincere.
But with the way his fingers lead you to your edge, each slide and thrust a cruel reminder of the impending orgasm only he’s capable of tearing from you, you feel close to moaning his name the way you’d overheard exactly a week ago.
“Gon’ make it all better, promise, sweet girl.”
Sweet girl.
Jaafar grunts when your fingers tense in his scalp, mouth ajar beside your ear as each of his huffs slowly transform into groans.
God, are you affecting him the way he's affecting you?
The thought has you chanting curses into his neck.
And then it dawns on you—his hands everywhere, his breath fanning your skin, the idea of him rock-hard in his pants. A wave from the ever-growing ocean of your orgasm arises in your gut. You arch into his hold.
“Quiet,” he whispers, breath heating your ear, “or else I’m gon’ have to find another way to shut you up.”
Another swell jolts your spine and slinks into your crux. Jaafar shifts inside you once, adapts to the new angle, before discovering the sweet spot that has you salivating against his white tee.
“There! Fuck, right there…” Your a blubbering mess, practically putty in his arms as your orgasm teases and twists your core.
“Mmm, that it? Fuck, your doin’ s’ well.” You squeeze and flutter around his fingers at the praise. “Can’t believe how good your bein’ for me.”
“G-gon’ come!”
“I know, I know. You’re so sensitive.” When he feels your breath wedge in your lungs, when he feels the way your thighs lock around his waist and trap his hand, he yanks you away from his shoulder and takes your face into his hold.
Your own hand wraps around his thick wrist as you acclimatise to the new position, eyes wavering closed as each nerve is attacked by his fingers.
“Nah uh, look at me, c’mon sweetie…”
You force your eyes open and contest every instinct that begs to roll them to the back of your head.
“Wan’ see the face you make when you come from jus’ my fingers.”
Those words, the ones now tattooed to your mind, are enough to flip your gut and land lopsided inside you. The knot that pined to unravel for the past week pulls ‘till your muscles are solid beneath your skin, and then undos in a crescendo of agonising, suffocating waves of release.
“Thaaaat’s it, there you go.”
Your body ignites, blood and bone and artery singing as your orgasm leaves your ears ringing and your vision white. It stains you as Jaafar works methodically through it, his tentative rhythm syncing with that of your spasming muscles.
Yet even as his fingers persistently tease your entrance, you feel the weight of his eyes on every feature.
He’s reading you like a book, annotating every freckle, mole and scar, just to note how they mould to your fucked out expression.
The way your lips part on a hushed sigh, the way your neck arches as the closing current of your orgasm frees itself, the way your sweat falls in perfect beads down your front and disappears beneath your shirt.
Your like the cover of his favourite novel.
Silence loiters between you, blanketing breathless shoulders with a weight you both now understand you’ve ruined any chance of purging.
Yet ahead of you, Jaafars expression is almost one of indifference, like what he did was just an errand for your tortured body.
A creaky whine crawls up your raw throat as his fingers finally glide out of your slick. You watch the way he eyes his hand, engrossed by the mess of liquids accumulating and dribbling down his fingers to his wrist.
He raises the concoction to his lips just like he had his water, and unlatches. Jaafar grins, pearly whites on display, before his fingers land flat on his tongue and disappear behind his plump lips.
“Mmm…” He keens at your taste, eyes never wavering from yours as he removes them with an enthusiastic ‘pop!’
Jaafar Jackson looks delectable. His hair is dishevelled from your nails, shirt wrinkled from your hands, shoulder damp and marked by your drool.
Your eyes lower to the thing twitching beneath his pyjama pants as his voice comes out like velvet, sultry and soft—like he hadn’t just fucked you raw on his fat fingers and gone faint from the aftertaste;
“Better?”
A/N first fic... it's a bit of a word vomit but I have shorter, easier stuff planned to post soon! also have a pintrest board for bfbjaafar i may post a link too,,, anyway, hope you enjoyed𑁤
cw: fluff, established relationship, makeout, just v cutesy
this was meant to be something short while i finished my other fics but i got a bit carried away</3
you glanced at the clock hanging above the mirrors before letting your head fall back against the wall.
12:42 a.m.
the numbers felt ridiculous.
when jaafar had promised he was only staying for another hour, it had still been yesterday. now the city outside the studio windows was mostly dark, the buildings across the street reduced to scattered squares of light. somewhere below, a lone car passed through the intersection before disappearing from view.
the music started again.
you didn't bother looking up right away.
you already knew what you'd see.
jaafar moved through the same section he'd been working on for most of the night, his reflection following him across the mirrored wall. every now and then, he'd stop to watch the playback on his phone before trying again. you couldn't see what he was seeing. to you, it had looked good hours ago.
jaafar strongly disagreed.
a fond smile pulled at your mouth as you watched him pause halfway through the choreography and mutter something to himself.
his white shirt had long since lost the battle against rehearsal. the fabric clung damply to his skin, and a few curls had fallen loose across his forehead.
drawing your knees up to your chest, you rested your chin on your folded arms, content to watch him from across the room.
the track looped back to the beginning. jaafar moved easily with it, already counting under his breath before the choreography fully began. his feet seemed to know where to go before he even thought about it. every movement flowed naturally into the next, sharp one second and smooth the next.
you weren't a dancer. half the time you couldn't tell what he was trying to fix. but you liked watching him anyway.
maybe it was the way he got so focused that he forgot about everything else around him. maybe it was the little habits you'd learned by heart after sitting through enough rehearsals.
the way he'd bite the inside of his cheek when he was concentrating, or the way his hand would automatically push his curls back whenever they fell into his eyes.
or maybe you just liked looking at him.
across the room, jaafar spun before coming to a stop, shaking his head at himself almost instantly.
you smiled.
he was cute when he got like this.
instead of reaching for his phone again, jaafar lingered where he was, clearly debating whether he could get away with checking it one more time.
you tilted your head. "i think you've earned a break."
a breathless laugh escaped him. "have i?" he asked, tilting his head back at you with his hands resting on his hips.
“yes. my feet are hurting just watching you dance for this long.”
he laughed, the sound softer this time, but his gaze still flickered toward his phone before returning to you.
“don’t even think about it,” you warned playfully.
his mouth twitched into a grin. holding both hands up in surrender, he finally made his way over to your corner of the room.
“you know what?” he said. “i could go for a snack.”
he crouched down in front of you, reaching for your hand. you placed it in his without hesitation. his hands were warm against yours from dancing, his thumbs drifting lazily over the back of your hand as he looked at you.
you tried very hard to ignore the flutter in your chest.
“we could go down to the vending machines and pick something out,” you offered.
“there’s a convenience store just down the street, baby. these vending machines aren’t gonna cut it,” he said with a dramatic sigh.
you laughed.
“i like the way you think.”
“also, fresh air,” he added.
jaafar stood up, keeping his hands locked with yours as he effortlessly pulled you up after him.
“best decision you’ve made all day,” you teased.
he rolled his eyes, smiling as he reached for his sweater and pulled it on.
the last of spring lingered in the air, cool enough to feel against your skin but softened by the promise of summer. jaafar walked beside you with his hand locked in yours, your fingers laced together as he lightly swung your joined hands between you.
the streetlights cast soft pools of gold across the quiet sidewalk.
you couldn't help looking at him.
maybe it was the lighting, or maybe it was just him, but the glow from the lamps caught along the sharp edges of his features, softening some parts of him while making others stand out even more.
either way, he looked so handsome.
he caught you staring after a minute of walking in deep thought. you flashed him with a grin, which he returned.
“take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he teased, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.
you laughed despite the painfully lame joke.
“okay,” you said cheerfully.
the sudden agreement caught him off guard.
before he could question it, you slipped your hand from his and stepped behind him, reaching up. you grasped his shoulders and gave him a small tug to make him stop walking.
jaafar caught on quickly, crouching without a word.
the moment you hopped onto his back, his hands settled beneath your thighs to steady you. you wrapped one arm securely around his shoulders while using the other to dig your phone out of your pocket.
opening the camera app, you stretched your arm out in front of you. jaafar leaned in beside you, the two of you flashing the cheesiest, most ridiculous smiles you could manage at the screen
the automatic flash went off without warning.
jaafar squeezed his eyes shut as the camera snapped the picture.
you pulled the phone back to look at the result and immediately burst into giggles, turning the screen so he could see.
you looked fine– a wide grin stretched across your face, your eyes squinting slightly from smiling too hard.
jaafar, on the other hand, looked ridiculous.
his eyes were squeezed shut from the flash, his eyebrows halfway up his forehead, and a dopey grin stretched across his face that somehow matched your own.
“delete that,” he said through a laugh, letting go of one of your thighs to make a grab for your phone.
you saw it coming and pulled it out of reach before he could get anywhere near it, quickly tucking it back into your pocket.
“baby!” he laughed.
“nope. that’s officially my new favourite picture of us.”
“i’m deleting that when you fall asleep tonight.”
“you better not,” you said, lightly whacking his arm.
as the glowing neon sign of the convenience store finally came into view, you shifted on his back, preparing to hop down so you could walk inside normally.
instead, jaafar's grip only tightened around your legs. you turned your head to look at him with a confused expression, which he completely ignored.
“put me down,” you laughed.
“nope.”
a mischievous spark flashed through his eyes before he turned his head and pressed a quick kiss to your lips. he bounced you slightly on his back as he adjusted his grip.
“jaafar, seriously. we're going inside,” you whisper-shouted, already fighting a laugh as you buried your face against the side of his neck. his cologne had faded a little over the course of the night, softened now by hours of dancing.
“i know," he replied, his voice rumbling low against your chest.
he pushed open the glass door with his shoulder, the bell above it letting out a cheerful ding that seemed far too energetic for nearly one in the morning.
inside, the store was bathed in that familiar, unforgivingly bright fluorescent lighting.
the cashier behind the counter barely glanced up with a bored look before returning to whatever was on his phone.
“see? no one cares," jaafar murmured, though he was grinning so wide his cheeks were practically pressing into yours.
“you're ridiculous," you giggled, burying your face in jaafar’s shoulder as he carried you straight toward the candy aisle. your feet swung idly with each step.
he stopped in front of the shelves and immediately reached for a bright yellow bag.
reaching out with one hand while keeping a steady grip on your thigh with the other, he snagged a bag of sour patch kids and shook them right next to your ear so the sugar rattled inside.
“the best part of the night, right here," he said, a genuine, boyish grin pulling at his lips.
“you're going to burn a hole in your stomach eating those this late," you joked, leaning over his shoulder to scan the rows. your fingers wrapped around the packaging of your own absolute favorite snack, pulling it down.
“the sour wakes me up," he argued, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "what's your excuse?"
“i don't need an excuse. i'm just keeping you company,” you countered, nudging his cheek with your own.
jaafar let out another one of his breathless laughs. he turned around on his heel, keeping you securely on his back as he walked the few steps over to the drink cooler to grab a couple of bottles to wash down the sugar.
the cashier scanned everything with the same bored rhythm he’d had since you’d walked in, the register beeping softly in the quiet store.
“reach into my pocket,” jaafar said, tilting his head back slightly. “my wallet's in there.”
you nodded as you leaned down to slide your hand into his pocket, pulling out his wallet.
as the cashier muttered the total, you flipped it open, found his card, and tapped it against the reader for him. the machine chimed as you slipped the wallet back into your own pocket for safekeeping.
“teamwork,” you whispered in his ear.
his smile widened at that as he leaned forward just enough for you to grab the snacks from the counter before turning back toward the door.
as soon as the glass door swung open and the cool, crisp night air hit you again, jaafar finally let you slide down his back, your sneakers hitting the pavement.
you felt a sudden wave of peaceful contentment wash over you. the city was so quiet, like the dark streets belonged entirely to the two of you.
jaafar didn't even wait to get back to the studio.
before you had even walked ten steps from the storefront, you heard the sharp tear of plastic.
he reached into the bag, his long fingers pulling out a red sour patch kid.
instead of eating it himself, he held it up to your lips.
“first one’s yours,” he said softly, nudging it towards your mouth.
you smiled and leaned forward, taking the candy from his fingers. the familiar sweet-and-sour flavor burst across your tongue as you chewed.
jaafar watched you for a second, a quiet, satisfied chuckle escaping him when you gave him an approving nod.
only then did he grab a couple for himself.
“good, right?" he murmured.
you nodded.
he shoved the candy bag into his jacket pocket and slipped his fingers back into yours, lacing them together.
he slowed his pace to match yours perfectly, lifting your joined hands just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your knuckles.
by the time you made it back to the studio, the midnight chill was easily forgotten.
jaafar pushed the heavy door open, and the quiet warmth of the building welcomed you both back inside.
the music from earlier was still paused on his phone, the empty floor and the wall of mirrors exactly as you had left them.
instead of heading back to your corner by the wall, jaafar tugged gently on your hand, pulling you right into the center of the room.
“c’mere,” he said, a mischievous grin playing on his lips as he reached over to hit play on his phone.
“jaafar, no, I told you I'm not a dancer," you laughed, trying to pull back, but he didn't let you get far.
“doesn't matter. just follow me," he murmured.
the music started up again, a smooth, slow rhythm filling the empty space.
jaafar wrapped one arm securely around your waist, pulling you flush against him, while his other hand kept yours held high. he started to move, guiding you through a relaxed, effortless sway that had absolutely nothing to do with the sharp, intense choreography he’d been stressing over all night.
much to your surprise, it actually went okay. jaafar steered you with a gentle pressure at your waist, guiding you in wherever you needed to go next.
“see? you're doing great," he teased, spinning you out under his arm before pulling you right back into his space.
"okay, this isn't that ba– shit!"
the words barely left your mouth before jaafar dipped you, arm locked around your waist to keep you from falling.
your grip on him locked around him until he pulled you upright again, nearly stepping on your own feet.
"jaafar!"
his laugh echoed through the empty studio as he pulled you securely against him.
“i hate you.”
“no, you don’t,” he countered, his voice full of amusement.
“i do. my life flashed before my eyes,” you complained, though the grin stretching across your face completely ruined any attempt at sounding serious.
you rested your hands on his shoulders, your heart thumping a little faster.
partly from the sudden dip.
partly from how incredibly close he was holding you.
“i had you the whole time. I'd never let you fall," he murmured. the playful edge in his voice softened just a bit, his thumbs tracing quiet, comforting circles through the fabric of your shirt.
the music around you began to fade out, the last notes drifting through the studio before disappearing altogether.
silence settled over the room, but neither of you moved.
the playful banter trailed off into a quiet, breathless smile as jaafar looked down at you. the studio lights caught the damp curls falling across his forehead, casting a warm glow over the sharp angles of his face. his gaze drifted down to your lips before rising back to your eyes, a sudden, heavy tenderness settling between you.
“i love you,” he whispered.
before you could even respond, he leaned down and closed the small distance between you.
the kiss was soft at first, a gentle, lingering pressure that tasted faintly of the sweet candy you’d just shared. a quiet sigh escaped you, your eyes fluttering shut as you melted into him. jaafar’s grip on your waist tightened, pulling you a fraction closer as the kiss deepened. his lips were incredibly soft, moving against yours with a slow, deliberate sweetness that made your head spin.
one of his hands slid up from your waist, his long fingers trailing up your spine before tangling gently in the hair at the nape of your neck, holding you close.
the kiss was soft, slow, entirely unhurried, and full of quiet affection that left you completely breathless.
every time he pulled back just an inch, his lips would brush yours again, as if he couldn't quite bring himself to fully break the contact.
when he finally did let you catch your breath, he rested his forehead against yours, his warm breath fanning across your cheek as his thumb gently traced your jawline.
“thanks for staying up with me," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate register that always made your heart do a dangerous little flip.
"even if you are keeping that blackmail photo."
a quiet laugh slipped out of you.
“oh, it's never leaving my phone," you smiled, your voice a little breathy as you leaned into his touch.
───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───
he'd sooooo put that pic as his wallpaper later
this is lowk unedited so if u see any mistakes pls pretend u don't
during a michael press tour interview, you find yourself captivated by jaafar jackson’s quiet charm, while jaafar becomes equally drawn to your warmth and brilliance.
the studio lights were warm, the cameras rolling, and your producer was already counting down in your ear.
“and we’re live in three… two…”
your smile came easy.
it always did.
after years of interviewing everyone from actors to politicians to musicians, being on camera felt as natural as breathing. people trusted you. viewers adored you. your podcast segment consistently pulled some of the highest engagement numbers in the industry because people knew one thing:
you actually cared.
you didn’t come looking for viral moments or “gotcha” questions. instead, you listened attentively. you made your guests laugh while ensuring they felt comfortable. and somehow, by the end of every interview, it felt less like journalism and more like a conversation between friends.
“welcome back, everybody,” you beamed, leaning forward slightly to connect with the lens. “today i’m joined by the incredible cast of michael.”
the cast waved and smiled, the energy in the room instantly lifting.
nia long, coleman domingo, juliano valdi. and finally… jaafar jackson.
the moment you’d seen him walk into the studio earlier your brain had completely malfunctioned. because what the hell? nobody had warned you. not a single soul had informed you that this man looked like that in person.
the pictures online did him absolutely no justice.
his smile alone should’ve come with a warning label. he wore a simple, tailored shirt that fit him perfectly, and his curls fell just right over his forehead. thankfully, years of professionalism kept your face neutral. mostly.
across from you, nia was already grinning. you and nia had known each other for years. she was one of the bigger names that you’d interviewed back when you were first starting out and you’d interviewed her countless times since. you loved her dearly and so did she.
which was exactly why you should’ve known she was up to something.
while you adjusted your notes and checked your earpiece, she leaned slightly toward jaafar. just enough for you not to notice.
“see?” she whispered, nudging his elbow. “i told you she was gorgeous.”
jaafar looked over at you while you were laughing with one of your producers, gesturing with a pen in your hand. his stomach immediately flipped.
“yeah,” he muttered quietly, clearing his throat. “she is.”
nia’s smile widened. she had him exactly where she wanted him. completely.
the interview began smoothly. you asked thoughtful questions. questions about responsibility, legacy, grief, art. the emotional weight of portraying real people.
“there’s a lot of pressure attached to this project,” you said, your voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register. “how did each of you navigate stepping into shoes that meant so much to millions of people? coleman, let’s start with you.”
coleman shifted in his seat, nodding thoughtfully. “you know, you have to approach it with reverence, but also find the humanity. we aren't just playing icons; we're playing real family dynamics. it requires a lot of vulnerability.”
“and it shows in the footage,” you responded, nodding before turning your gaze. “jaafar, what about you? especially with the familial connection, how did you balance that pressure?”
the answers were heartfelt and honest. exactly what you loved. and throughout the entire interview—
you couldn’t stop noticing jaafar. not because he was attractive.
well.
partially because he was attractive. but mostly because of the little things. he rubbed his knee whenever he got nervous. every single time. the way he took in his bottom lip. the way he twirled the ring on his finger.
whenever he was about to answer a particularly personal question, his hand would move to his knee and start rubbing absentmindedly, his fingers smoothing over the fabric of his pants. it was adorable.
and his smile.
lord.
every time he talked, every time someone made a joke, that smile appeared. soft, genuine, slightly shy. it transformed his entire face. you found yourself looking away more than once because you were determined to remain a professional. he quite literally gave you butterflies every time he spoke, his voice low and incredibly gentle.
meanwhile, jaafar was having the exact same problem. because every time you laughed, his attention snapped toward you. every single time. it was becoming embarrassing. especially since the rest of the cast had started noticing. nia was shooting him knowing looks, and coleman had a slight smirk playing on his lips. jaafar knew he would be getting an earful later.
after nearly an hour of conversation, you clapped your hands together, the papers in your lap rustling.
“okay, before i let you guys go, we’re playing a game.”
collective cheers went around the room. juliano pumped his fist in the air, while coleman leaned back with an amused groan. you laughed at their excitement.
“it’s simple. michael song versus michael song. you pick the better one.”
“oh no,” coleman sighed, rubbing his temples playfully. “this is how friendships end. you’re trying to tear this cast apart.”
“oh yes.” you smiled deviously. “absolute chaos is the goal here.”
the game started out simple.
billie jean versus smooth criminal. the cast chose smooth criminal.
“the choreography tilts the scale, it just does,” nia argued, and you nodded in agreement.
rock with you versus remember the time. rock with you was the victor.
human nature versus dirty diana. human nature obviously.
the cast surprisingly agreed on most choices. until disaster struck. you looked down at your card. then back up, biting your lower lip to hide a smirk.
“hmm.”
immediately suspicious, nia pointed a manicured finger at you.
“what’s that face? look at her face, y'all.”
“oh this is about to reveal character.” you said dramatically.
juliano laughed, shaking his head. “just ask the question!”
you took a deep breath, building the suspense.
“man in the mirror…”
everyone nodded, already prepared to shout it out.
“…versus the lady in my life.”
silence.
then one by one.
“man in the mirror,” coleman said firmly.
“man in the mirror,” nia echoed.
“man in the mirror,” juliano piped up.
your jaw dropped.
“WHAT?”
the entire cast burst out laughing at your genuine distress.
“y’all cannot be serious.”
“it’s man in the mirror,” juliano said, leaning forward with a massive grin. “it's a classic!”
“absolutely not.” you argued with the child, pointing your pen at him. “you are too young to understand the romance of it all.”
“absolutely yes.” juliano fired back, laughing.
you sat forward dramatically, resting your elbows on your knees.
“you people don’t understand.”
more laughter echoed through the studio as the producers joined in on the debate.
“no seriously. the intimacy. the yearning. the longing.”
you placed a hand over your chest, closing your eyes for effect. nia was crying laughing, wiping the corner of her eye.
“here she goes,” nia chuckled.
“i’m serious!” you pointed around the room. “maybe i’m just a hopeless romantic but the lady in my life is superior. the vocals at the end? the breakdown? come on!”
across from you, jaafar couldn’t stop smiling.
he loved watching passionate people talk about things they loved. and you? you lit up. your hands moved when you spoke. your eyes sparkled. your entire face became animated, your smile blinding. you were absolutely gorgeous.
it was impossible for him to look away.
“i actually agree,” jaafar spoke up, his voice cutting through the laughter. “it’s one of michael’s most slept-on songs and the vocal performance on it is incredible.”
“exactly!” you shouted, your eyes locking onto his.
“see?” you said triumphantly as you pointed in jaafar’s direction, looking at nia and coleman. “finally, someone with taste! thank you, jaafar.”
“but it’s still not beating man in the mirror,” juliano interrupted, completely ruining the moment.
everyone exploded with laughter again.
“juliano!” you gasped, putting your head in your hands.
“i’m right!” the boy insisted.
“you’re wrong!”
“i’m literally correct!”
the debate continued for several minutes, filled with playful banter and overlapping voices. and despite your best efforts—
man in the mirror ultimately won. a tragedy. a crime. an injustice. you were robbed and you informed the audience of this fact repeatedly, looking directly into the camera with a heartbroken expression.
finally, you smoothed down your outfit and smiled warmly at the cast.
“seriously, thank you all for being here. this movie means so much to so many people, and honestly, spending time with you all today, i can tell why this project worked.”
their expressions softened, the comedic energy shifting back to mutual respect.
“you guys have incredible chemistry. but more importantly, you’re all genuinely beautiful people.” you smiled.
for a second, jaafar forgot how to breathe. because the way you said it felt sincere. not media-trained. not rehearsed. sincere. he swore your eyes lingered on him for just a fraction of a second longer than the others, or maybe it was just his imagination.
his cheeks immediately warmed. thankfully the cameras stopped rolling before anyone could notice.
“and we’re clear.” one of your producers said from the back.
everyone began removing microphones. stretching and chatting. the technical crew started moving around the set, and the energy immediately relaxed into casual hums of conversation.
nia pointed at you as she stood up.
“i told y’all.”
you laughed, unclipping your own mic pack.
“told them what?”
“that you’re the best in the game.”
your hand flew to your chest.
“ms. nia, stop it.”
“oh don’t start. you know you’re the best.”
“thank you. i love you longtime, hunny.”
“i love you more. let’s meet for lunch soon! i mean it, text me!” nia said as she wrapped her arms around you tightly, inhaling your perfume.
coleman then walked up to you, extending a hand before pulling you into a warm hug, expressing his gratitude and appreciation for you. “you’re an amazing interviewer and an even better soul. keep doing what you're doing.”
“thank you so much for coming, send my love to the hubby,” you told him, beaming.
across the set, juliano leaned toward jaafar, watching you interact with the crew.
“she’s so pretty.”
jaafar looked over. once again, you were wrapped up talking to someone else—fixing a loose script page, laughing about something with a production assistant. completely unaware of the eyes on you. his smile appeared again, soft and helpless.
“she definitely is.”
juliano immediately grinned, a mischievous spark in his eyes.
“do you think i can get her number?”
“absolutely not, buddy.” jaafar laughed, a genuine, deep sound as he patted him on the back. “you're a little too young for her, don't you think?”
a few minutes later the cast started heading toward the exit saying their final goodbyes, their voices fading into the hallway.
you were gathering your notes for your next interview, stacking the papers neatly into a folder, when a familiar voice stopped beside you.
“hey.”
you looked up. and there he was. he had stayed behind while the others walked off. close enough now that those stupidly pretty eyes were somehow even more distracting, catching the remaining studio light.
“hi!” your voice bounced a little higher than usual.
jaafar smiled. the smile. there it was again. lord help you.
“i just wanted to say thank you for having us once again.”
“of course. it was an absolute pleasure.”
“we’ve done so many interviews for this press tour, but nothing topped this one. i can see why nia loves working with you so much. you make it easy.”
and there it was. that nervous habit again but this time, it was him and that darn lip. adorable.
you laughed and your expression softened, your heart doing a strange little dance.
“that’s very kind of you to say. thank you, jaafar.”
finally, he glanced toward the door where the rest of the cast waited, the muffled sound of juliano's laughter drifting back in. then he looked back at you, holding your gaze.
“i hope i run into you again soon. maybe outside of a studio.”
your heart did a tiny little flip. the dangerous kind. the kind you ignored. because you were a professional. mostly.
you smiled, your cheeks tingling.
“i hope the same. i'm sure our paths will cross.”
his grin widened, clearly pleased with the answer. for a second, neither one of you moved. the space between you felt suddenly charged, the ambient noise of the studio fading into the background. then nia’s voice echoed loudly from down the hallway.
“jaafar! the car is waiting! let’s go!”
he sighed dramatically, but laughing anyway.
you laughed, shaking your head.
“you should probably go before she comes back in here to drag you out.”
“probably,” he agreed reluctantly. he took a few steps backward toward the exit, still smiling, still looking at you. “see you around.”
“bye, jaafar.” you waved your fingers at him and sent him on his way with a warm smile.
and as he disappeared down the hallway, juliano immediately appeared beside him, slinging an arm over his shoulder. already talking. already playing around. the two got along like brothers which you really admired.
while back inside the studio, you looked down at your notes, trying to focus on the next set of questions. then you looked toward the door he’d just walked through, the silence of the room suddenly feeling a bit more noticeable. and despite being the professional you are—
you couldn’t stop smiling either.
a couple weeks after the interview. your good friend quen called you for an interview of your own. she invited you to be on her youtube series, feeding starving celebrities to which you accepted of course.
“welcome to the fsc kitchen!” quen yelled, tossing her hair back and gesturing wildly toward the entrance. “introducing the queen of interviews, the baddest thing walking, my favorite vixen. ITS MY GIRL.”
you walk out, matching her chaotic energy immediately. you two jump around the kitchen excitedly, screaming and hugging each other like you haven't seen each other in years, even though you just texted this morning.
“welcome to my show hunny,” quen says, catching her breath and smoothing down her top.
“thank you! i’m so excited to be here.”
“it was a longtime coming.”
“yes yes yesss,” you agree, clapping your hands.
out of nowhere, edm began blasting from her speakers to which you both broke out into model poses, doing your best white girl club dances—complete with the fist pumping and the awkward hip sways. the camera crew was cracking up behind the lenses.
“okay okay,” quen said once the music subsided, wiping a fake tear from her eye. “would you like to know what’s on the menu today?”
“well of course my queen.”
“we’re doing lemon drops for the bev because i heard those are your favorite! then we’re doing salmon rice and potatoes. and lastly for dessert, we cheated and just bought a cheesecake girl.”
“amazing.”
first up was the drinks segment. while you prepped the ingredients—slicing lemons and grabbing the shaker—quen started asking her first set of questions, leaning against the counter with a look of pure mischief.
“you’re known for being super confident, while also being very sweet and caring,” quen began, watching you measure the lemon juice. “did you have an experience in your life that made you this way or have you always been this way?”
you answered while you started making your lemon drops, pouring the liquid into the shaker. “truthfully speaking, i didn’t always have this confidence but when i got to college? i just knew i was that girl.”
you both started laughing, quen nodding along.
“like walking across campus, you literally couldn’t tell me nothing,” you continued, shaking your head at the memory. “not a damn thing.”
you both continued to laugh and joke around until you grabbed the tequila bottle. you quickly covered the label of the tequila bottle with your palm, looking directly at the main camera. “no free promo, not sponsored.” you joked.
“not until they cut the check!” quen shouted.
the camera crew lost it.
“you’re terrible.” she told you.
“i’m professional.” you shot back.
“you’re ridiculous.”
“same thing.”
the next question came naturally.
“for your age, i feel like you’re doing so many big things in your life. wait- how old are you now?”
“i’m twenty six,” you said, before stopping and pointing a lemon knife at her. “wait- how old are YOU?”
“twenty five.”
“ayeee,” you cheered, clinking your fresh lemon drop glasses together. you both began to mumble the lyrics to sza’s 20 something’s song at the same exact time which caused you to burst into a fit of laughter.
the segment continued on and while you prepped the salmon, seasoning it generously on the cutting board, she asked more questions that got deeper and deeper, moving from your career goals to your personal life.
“okay, i gotta ask,” quen said, lowering her voice like she was letting the audience in on a secret. “have you ever had a crush on any of your guests?”
you paused, a piece of salmon in your hand. “like on my show?”
“no, on my show,” she said sarcastically, rolling her eyes so hard it looked painful. “yes, your show, girl!”
you both shared a loud laugh before you actually thought about her answer. your brain instantly took a trip back to a couple weeks ago. the shirt. the open buttons. the nervous knee-rubbing. the smile that should've come with a warning label. jaafar was the first person you thought about.
“can i plead the fifth?” you laughed, your cheeks beginning to hurt.
“absolutely not. this is feeding starving celebrities, not a court of law. spill it.”
you sighed, leaning your weight against the counter before telling the truth. “jaafar jackson.”
quen let out a piercing scream that probably blew out the audio levels in the control room. she jumped up and down, hitting the counter. “no way!”
“yes way, quenlin,” you muttered, covering your face with your hands from pure embarrassment, wishing the kitchen counter would just swallow you whole.
“well, jaafar jackson if you’re watching this… hit my girl up!” quen screamed directly into the camera, winking dramatically. “she is single, she is successful, and she likes your uncle's music! call her! and if you’re worried about the teeny tiny age gap, she’s the most mature person i know!”
you busted out laughing, throwing a dish towel at her to make her stop.
the show continued to move on, the salmon smelling incredible as it cooked, and finally it came to a close as you both stuffed your faces with the store-bought cheesecake after you edit farmed for social media.
“i loved having you, please come on more often. my soul sister,” quen said, giving you a massive hug as the closing music started to play.
“i love you, quenlin. thank you for inviting me.”
the next few days for you were insane. the moment the episode dropped on youtube, the internet took it and ran. the interview was being clipped and posted everywhere on all platforms—tiktok, twitter, instagram reels. shade room reposted it. people were making edits of you and jaafar from your original interview, putting them side-by-side with your confession on quen's show.
one very specific clip.
“have you ever had a crush on any of your guests?”
“…jaafar jackson.”
you wanted to die. your phone wouldn’t stop ringing. your friends wouldn’t stop texting. your coworkers wouldn’t stop laughing.
your bosses? absolutely unbearable. you walked into the office three days later and immediately knew something was wrong. everyone looked excited. too excited.
your personal assistant practically sprinted toward you.
“good morning.”
you narrowed your eyes. “what happened?”
“nothing.”
“you’re smiling too hard.”
“am i?”
“yes.”
he slid his phone across the desk. you looked down and nearly choked.
“oh my god.”
there it was. a notification. one very simple notification. normal people wouldn’t have reacted like that. but you were far from normal.
jaafarjackson started following you.
the entire office erupted.
“HE FOLLOWED HER.”
you covered your face wanting the floor to swallow you whole.
“this is humiliating.”
“this is incredible.”
your boss immediately clapped his hands.
“okay.”
you pointed.
“don’t.”
“we need to capitalize on this.”
“oh my god.”
“we need jaafar back on the show.”
“we do not.”
“immediately.”
you dropped your head onto the desk.
hard.
everyone laughed.
“i’m going home.”
“you’re not.”
“i’m quitting.”
“you’re not.”
“i’m changing my name.”
“you’re definitely not.”
somewhere across the city— jaafar was experiencing his own version of embarrassment. because after watching the clip approximately seventeen times and smiling every single time, he’d finally worked up the courage to hit follow. the interview with quen showed an entirely different side of you. he was so intrigued. a mentally sane person would say he was obsessed.
good thing he wasn’t mentally sane.
and now? he’d somehow agreed to come back on your show. which meant in just a few days— the two of you would be sitting across from each other again.
the next few days leading up to the interview, nervousness fell upon you like a heavy blanket. you couldn't pace around your apartment without staring at your phone, replaying the clip from quen's show in your head and cringing into your pillows.
“what if he thinks i’m a weirdo?” you groaned to your reflection in the mirror while getting ready. “oh my gosh, i can’t handle this.”
you had to remind yourself that you were a professional journalist. you worked in the craziest of circumstances. a little awkwardness never hurt anybody. at least, that’s what you told yourself to get through this interview.
the day finally came, and unbeknownst to you, jaafar was just as nervous as you. he had been shifting around in his dressing room for an hour, adjusting his collar and asking his team if his hair looked alright.
when he finally walked out onto the studio floor, every piece of self-control you had left the window. he looked entirely too good. he was wearing a gold silk shirt that made him look incredibly warm and approachable, and the studio lights caught the exact same warmth in his eyes.
you had about thirty seconds to pull yourself together before he approached you. you took a deep breath, smoothing down your dress, trying to force your heart to stop hammering against your ribs.
“hey,” he said softly, his voice a little lower than usual.
“hi!” you replied, maybe a little too quickly.
the two of you hugged—a brief, slightly tense embrace where you could swear you felt his heartbeat too—and barely exchanged words before your stage manager was clapping her hands, ushering you both onto the set.
“we’re rolling in three… two…”
your media training kicked in just in time. the familiar warmth of the lights helped ground you.
“welcome back, everybody,” you said, looking into the main lens before turning to your guest. “welcome back, jaafar. although it hasn’t been long since we had you the first time, how have you been?”
jaafar adjusted himself in his chair, his fingers immediately finding his knee to give it a quick, nervous rub before he caught himself and smiled. “i’ve been good, thank you. and yourself?”
“i’ve been great,” you said, a mischievous tilt finding its way back into your voice. “busy doing my own interviews and whatnot.”
jaafar’s eyes sparked with instant amusement. “so i’ve heard.”
the two of you shared a genuine, lingering laugh, and just like that, all the awkward tension went out the window. the comfort you had established during your first meeting came rushing back, making the studio feel small and private again.
you began to ask him more personal questions, moving away from his role as michael and focusing on him as an individual. you asked him about his family dynamic, what it was really like growing up as a jackson in the midst of such a massive legacy. you asked him what he initially wanted to do growing up before the artistry caught up with him.
“there's a moment for everyone,” you murmured, leaning in attentively. “when did you realize that your family was as prominent as they are? not just in the music industry, but their deep influence on the world, and on black culture specifically?”
jaafar listened intensely, his gaze locked onto yours. he answered beautifully, speaking with a humility and depth that made your heart do that dangerous little flip again. he spoke about watching his father and uncles, about the responsibility he felt to honor that history, and how much he valued the love the community showed his family.
towards the end of the interview, the control room chimed in your ear, reminding you of the segment your producers had cooked up. you cleared your throat, looking down at the fresh set of cue cards.
“okay, my team has put together some questions for us to answer,” you said, immediately turning your head to look directly into your specific camera with a warning glare. “these ARE NOT my questions, by the way! i would like that noted for future purposes.”
jaafar let out a soft chuckle, shifting in his seat to face you fully. “ask away.”
you looked down at the first card. “alright. are you dating anyone?”
jaafar didn't even hesitate. he happily responded, “no, i am not.”
you nodded slowly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear while giving a slow, knowing, look directly into the camera lens. the silence in the studio broke instantly as everyone on set started laughing uncontrollably at your expression.
“i too, am also single,” you responded smoothly, turning back to him.
jaafar reached over, playfully pulling the next card from your hand to read it himself. “alright, my turn. who was your celebrity crush growing up?”
you closed your eyes, bracing yourself. “barack obama, and i will not be explaining further.”
jaafar burst out laughing, his shoulders shaking. “that’s insane.”
“he has aura, jaafar! next question!” you argued, laughing with him.
you hesitated before reading the final card in your hand. your eyes scanned the text, and for a second, you considered throwing it across the room. but professional duty called, so you read it anyway, your voice dropping a little. “when seeing my recent interview with quen… hearing that i have a crush on you… how did you react?”
the studio went dead silent, everyone waiting for the response.
jaafar instantly got nervous, but he didn't look away from you. his expression softened completely. “i was taken by surprise,” he answered honestly, his voice quiet and sincere. “you’re a very beautiful woman. very intelligent. i have to admit… i watched the clip for days.”
your jaw slacked slightly, a intense wave of heat rushing to your face. “oh please, you flatter me, jaafar,” you said, blushing profusely and trying to use the cue card to fan your face.
“i’m serious,” he said, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before he flashed that million-dollar, panty dropping smile.
the sheer charm of it was lethal. you had to cross your legs immediately, the physical tension between the two of you suddenly becoming unbearable. you could hear a producer in the back whispering a faint “oh my god.”
right then, one of your executive producers walked onto the set, holding just one more single cue card. she had a massive smirk on her face.
you cannot be serious, you thought to yourself, your eyes narrowing into a fierce glare as she handed it to you. she just gave you a silent thumbs-up from behind the camera and scurried back into the dark.
you cleared your throat, trying to regain your composure. “before we close, we have a quick game to play.”
the producers had thrown together some random, convoluted party game—something involving rolling dice or picking matching cards—but the rules were clearly rigged from the start. no matter what choices were made, the penalty or the reward ultimately resulted in you two sharing a kiss either way.
jaafar looked at the card, then looked at you, an incredibly nervous but thrilled smile taking over his face.
“well,” jaafar murmured, leaning forward over the small table separating your chairs. “rules are rules.”
your heart was beating so loud you were certain the microphones were picking it up. “yeah. rules are rules.”
you both stood, talking small steps toward one another. when his hand gently reached up to rest against the side of your neck, his thumb brushing your jawline, your eyes fluttered shut.
the moment his lips pressed against yours, the entire studio seemed to vanish. it wasn't a quick, awkward cheek-peck for the cameras. it was soft, lingering, and incredibly deep. for a second, it felt like you were entirely melting into the warmth of him, your hand instinctively rising to touch his forearm.
then, a sharp beep from a camera battery brought you crashing back to reality.
you quickly remembered that you were on camera, surrounded by your entire production crew. you pulled away, your breath catching in your throat, your lips tingling.
jaafar’s eyes slowly opened, looking completely dazed, his hand lingering in the air for a second before he dropped it to his side.
you forced your voice to work, looking toward the main camera with everything you had left. “and… that is all the time we have for today. thank you for watching. don’t forget to buy your tickets to michael and follow us on all socials!”
“and we’re clear!” the director called out.
the lights didn't even dim before the set fell into a strange, buzzing quiet. you closed the interview, stacking your cards with trembling hands. across from you, jaafar still stood, completely speechless from what had just happened, his eyes fixed on you like he was trying to figure out if he was still dreaming.
finally he mustered up the courage to ask, “are you busy tonight? i would love to take you out.”
you couldn’t help but feel that nia long was somewhere, rubbing her hands together and laughing wickedly, knowing that this had been her plan all along.
