𝜗ৎ michael’s wife is a bitch but fine as fuck (18+ blurb)
𝜗ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ you were a handful to say the least. michael doesn’t even know how he manages to handle you. you never fail to make his life very interesting. everyday is something new, and something eventful. you always say what’s on the mind and michael loves it, he loved your attitude. most importantly he loved the way your ass looked in those juicy couture tracksuits and how your curls bounced when you were throwing a fit about something random. with each pout or snarly remark you made resulted in michael getting turned on and michael was always turned on because you were always bitching about something.
“stupid fucking press.” your tone was sharp, louis vuitton bag swinging as you paced through the living room as michael watched you through his sunglasses—from his spot on the couch. his eyes would occasionally trail down your body, particularly your ass with the word 'juicy’ written in rhinestones.
“please don’t curse, honey.” michael breath out, calm and quiet—letting a soft grin appear on his face. you huffed, ignoring him and rolling your eyes at his response.
“don’t tell me what to do.”
“don’t be like that, babylove. i don’t like that kind of talk from you.”
your eyes narrowed. “ n' i don’t like that gucci bag you bought me, so i guess we’re even.” and just like that you stomped your way to the bedroom you and michael shared and slammed the door. michael being michael, he just smiled and shook his head. he was immune to your attitude by now, too obsessed with you to care.
𝜗ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ as far back as michael could remember you were always like that. you were at the local park when he saw you, dressed up in a short sundress with heels—walking your tiny pomeranian. he remembered they was way your glossy lips moved while you were on the phone with one of your home girls. you were a playboy bunny at the time, living with the rest of the bunnies at the mansion. michael spotted you from across the grass and froze—you were hands-down the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. that deep brown skin, those curves, the confident switch in your step. he approached you, you can’t remember everything he said but the one thing that stuck with you was:
“i’ll call hugh right now and tell him that you’re mine”
you laughed, kissed your teeth, and rolled your eyes but gave him your number anyway. he’s been wrapped around your finger ever since.
𝜗ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ Fast forward to now, you two have a an beautiful home and along down the road you let michael knock you up with a beautiful daughter, who’s 16 and just like you—to michael’s dismay. when you had her you gave her the name star because you always tell her:
“you’re gonna be a star, just like mommy”
𝜗ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ you never fail to uplift your daughter and michael loves it. you also never fail to spoil her, so much that michael’s pockets gets flimsy in result of her constant need to take star to get some ‘new bling bling’ as you and star would say but michael never understood.
𝜗ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ star was sometimes the main reason you and michael had arguments—if you consider you yelling and michael’s calm and collected demeanor a argument (more like a one sided fight). it was always about clothes but most of all, low rise jeans. low rise jeans is a huge trend that star wanted to be apart of. there was one particular style that all the girls were rocking—the zodiac jeans. they were dangerously low with a zodiac sign on the butt of the jeans with rhinestones and they had a cute little flare at the ends. star made the mistake of asking michael first.
star had spent hours imagining herself in these jeans. she even would act as if she had them on, practicing her strut for the school hallway. soon she would build up the courage to ask her father for the jeans—not that she needed courage to ask for money because has no problem asking for money but it was the simply fact she might hear the worst word in history: no
star strolled along down the hallway, en route to michael’s private studio, within the house. star pushes open the studio door quietly. the room smells like warm wood and faint cologne, monitors humming low while michael works at the boards in a simple button-up and sweatpants. michael hears the sound of feet along the floor and instantly lifts his head. his eye met his daughter’s, giving her a warm smile.
“oh hey, sweetheart.” he waves her over, opening his arms wide. she waltzed right into her father’s arms, feeling his lips on her forehead.
michael sensed that she was going to ask something, mentally preparing his wallet. “what’s up?”
star chewed the inside of her mouth, fidgeting with her bright, glittery pink nokia. then she just spewed out, “daddy… can I please get some money for these new low-rise jeans? they’re so cute and everybody at school has them.” she shoved her phone in his face, showing michael a picture.
his eyes squinted at the picture but eyes suddenly widened. michael looks up, that gentle smile softening his face before the dad mode kicks in. “oh honeybee, those are entirely too much for your age. I don’t think so, princess.” star pouted, getting ready to rebuttal. “but daddd, please? mama lets me wear stuff like that all the time.” he shakes his head firmly but lovingly: “but nothing, twinkle. my answer is no.” she huffs dramatically, braids flipping as she turns on her heel to leave. as she reaches the door he calls after her softly, “love you, baby girl.” she pauses, still upset but not cold-hearted, mumbling “love you too” before heading out.
star comes straight to you in the kitchen, pout still on her face. you’re leaned against the marble island looking like the reason why michael can still get it up— baby blue tracksuit zipped low to show cleavage, curls up in a bun, glossy lips shining, french tips tapping away on your phone while the pomeranian naps nearby. “mama, dad said no to the jeans… he said they too much for my age.” you set your matcha down, popping your gum loud. “well let me go talk to him. you should’ve just asked for the money straight up, star. haven’t I taught you enough about handling your daddy?” you wink—switching out the kitchen, bare feel against the tile with purpose.
you stroll into the studio like you own the whole estate (because you basically do). michael looks up from the boards, already sensing the storm. “baby, before you start—” you cut him off, hand on your hip, “michael, about those jeans for star. she’s sixteen, not six. let her feel cute.” he stands, trying to stay firm: “they show way too much waist, darling. I’m trying to set boundaries.” you kiss your teeth loud, glossy lips pursed in that signature pout. “boundaries? ya know what? fine.” really? did michael finally win?
you turned you heel and strutted out the room with a sway of your hips. michael smiled to him with triumph, thinking he actually won a argument. usually the arguments end in you getting your way but it was finally time that michael got his way, or so he thought.
later that afternoon you slip star some cash (plus extra for shoes to match). “go handle that, baby. mama got you.” star squeals and hugs you tight, “you’re the best mama ever!” when she comes back strutting through the foyer in the low-rise jeans—waistband sitting dangerously low on her hips, her zodiac written on the back—she looks every bit the stylish princess you raised. michael walks in from the studio, with a smile on his face—still thinking he won the argument from moments ago but once he approaches the living room he stops cold. “…star, those are the exact ones I said no to.” you’re lounging on the nearby chaise in your tracksuit, legs crossed, smirking. “and? if you think i was gonna let my baby be the only one without something, you were surely mistaken.”
at least you were coming from a good place in your heart.
𝜗ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ it didn’t matter how many times you gave michael a headache, you always made up for it in bed. light dim, clothing set long discarded, your deep brown skin warm and glowing against the silk sheets while michael’s big hands explore every curve—long fingers gripping your thick thighs, sliding deep between your folds until you’re crying out, trembling. “you’re impossible… my impossible wife,” he groans, thrusting into you with that perfect rhythm, one hand gently around your throat. you moan loud, nails raking down his back, curls messy across the pillow. “but you love when I get my way, daddy.” he does. from the park day he claimed you till now.
𝜗ৎ i had a taste of the mj mature era smut anddd i understand now… he was sooo yummy during that era! this has been my drafts for a whileeeeeee also pls interact with this, don’t be a stranger 😋
Hey, guys. I’m so sorry to come on here and ask for this kind of help—but things are really gett… Aliyah Kemp needs your support for Help Me
hey, babies. i’m so sorry to come on here and ask for this kind of help—but things are really getting serious for me, and i’m scared what’s going to happen in the next couple of weeks. as y’all know i was recently fired from my job about two weeks ago due to discrimination, and have been scrambling to find another job with no luck. i still have to pay my other half of rent before the end of this month, my light bill, + there’s still upcoming rent for August. i just moved into my apartment in April and never expected this to happen, and i’m so scared to already lose a place i fought tooth and nail to get in the first place. i just need a little extra help until i find another job (which i’m working my ass off to get as soon as possible.) anything is appreciated. PLEASE REPOST ! BOOST !
-summary: Jermajesty is tired of your little attitude
-word count: 5.2k
-warnings: mdni!! this is just porn with a little plot ngl, vaginal sex, reader was written with black women in mind, use of ‘daddy’, use of n word, slight exhibition?, he’s nasty, oral sex f!receiving, overstimulation
-notes: hello hello hello. i’ve been working on this for a few days and i struggled a little bit tbh. i don’t write smut so it was kinda awkward but i started to reach flow state. hoping you guys like it. and my dividers are from @animatedglittergraphics-n-more -jelly🪼
The day had started off normal, great even. You had been woken up to J’s tongue suckling on your clit, clutching your thighs close to his ears, hands on your waist to make sure you don’t run from it. “Oh my god,” you moaned. Already able to feel yourself gushing on his tongue. You writhed beneath his touch, desperate to feel more of him.
“You love how I eat this pussy don’t you?” He already knew the answer to his question, but he loved how you whined about how much you love him and how he makes you feel. You nod your head rapidly, “Yes, baby. Love the way you make me feel.”
He hummed into you while he fucked you with his tongue. “Yeah, I know.” He slipped his middle finger inside of you, finger curling looking for that spot that makes you tremble.
“Ohh fuck. Please, right there, baby.” Your mind was hazy, still trying to wake up from your slumber and comprehend how good he was at eating pussy. He slips another finger inside, speeding up his pace, suckling on you like he hadn’t eaten in days.
His fingers repeatedly pressed against that sweet spot making you clench your thighs impossibly tight against his head. You were a blabbering mess, not a lick of sense in anything you said. He could pick up faint pleas between your whines and cries.
It was becoming too much, you couldn’t handle the simultaneous pleasure from his fingers pressing against that sweet spot and him using his tongue to express his love for you.
You try to scoot up the bed, pushing his head away, but he was having none of it. He slapped your thigh, hands tightening around your waist, holding you in place so he can finish breaking you so he can put you back together.
“Fuck! Maj, please. I’m gonna cum.” You could barely get that out before your orgasm ripped through you, tears spilling over as you sobbed and tried to escape his hold. He never seemed to be finished eating you out, only stopping when you were too sensitive to take it.
He used his fingers to fuck you through your first orgasm, still lightly sucking on that pretty pussy. “Look at you, pretty girl. So pretty when you cry like that.”It gave you whiplash to hear the softness and love in his voice when he spoke to you, even if he was giving you the messiest orgasm of your life.
By the time he was done milking the orgasm from you, his fingers were a mess. You had creamed all over his fingers and his tongue. He loved every second of it, crawling up the bed to press a soft kiss to your lips.
“Good morning, my baby.” You couldn't even speak, still trying to recover from the immense pleasure, all you could do was hum back to him, a small, bashful smile appearing on your face as you nuzzled into his chest.
He spent the next hour guiding your hips while you rode him, pulling you into a bear hug you so he could fuck up into you when your knees went weak. Forcing orgasm after orgasm out of you, determined to show you how much he loves you and how good he always wanted to make you feel
He loves his baby.
After your sex marathon, he helped you make breakfast. If cupping your ass and handing you things counted as help, then he was doing an amazing job. “Love watching you just exist, baby. You’re gorgeous with your hair a mess and that pretty smile on your face.”
His arms were wrapped around your waist, lips pressing softly against your neck, smiling with pride when your body reacted to him before your mind could process his actions. A shy smile ghosting on your face.
“Wassup with you? You’re in a good mood today, Maj.” He just laughed.
“I can’t just love on my baby? You’re so sweet, ma. I have to spoil you.” He was always a smooth talker, always finding a way to flirt with you to see you try not to smile at the comments.
“You’re so good to me, Maj,” you pressed a kiss to both of his cheeks before pressing a soft one against his full lips. They were soft as usual. “Foods done. Can you grab plates?” He happily went to grab the plates after pinching the fat of your ass.
You guys laughed at videos, he opened comment sections you wanted to see, scrolling through them at the perfect pace so you could read them all. And he showed you his sticker collection, swearing it was better than yours.
Everything was cool, until a video of a very beautiful woman popped up. Wearing a two piece set that left little to the imagination, dancing to the sound, making sure to turn around so the curve of her ass could be seen clearly.
Watching the video was one thing, but this nigga had the nerve to like the video and like the comments complimenting the way her curves were on display and how she whined her hips to the melodies of the song.
You went still on his chest, maybe you were tripping. Then he scrolled like nothing happened, laughing at the new video like he didn’t disrespect you in your face. You sat up, trying to keep your cool but not doing a good job.
“Fuck was that?” He looked up at you, a confused frown on his face.
“Huh?”
“Huh?” you mocked, childish but so what. “Why are you liking shit like that? While you’re next to me, at that. That’s not weird to you?” He still looked confused, clearly not seeing an issue with his actions.
“First off, watch your mouth talking to me, ma. You don't need to curse to get your point across.”
“Oh please Jermajesty. Don’t start that bullshit right now. Why are you liking thirst traps of other hoes like I’m not sitting right here?”
“Baby, it's not like I want her. You know I’m yours.” This man genuinely doesn’t get the point, and that pisses you off. One thing you hated was having to explain things to someone that should be common sense.
“Alright, bro.” You stood up, walking to the kitchen to angry clean the dishes you had used for breakfast, knowing calling him ‘bro’ would piss him off.
For the rest of the day you pretty much ignored him. Walking past when he tried to speak to you, giving as short responses as possible when you did have to speak to him, and not looking him in the eyes. He couldn't stand this treatment you were giving him. He didn't see the problem, it wasn’t like he was actively trying to talk to her or anything. It’s just a like in his mind. If anything, he was imagining you in that two piece set, knowing you would look sexy in it.
“Hey ma, have you seen-” before he could finish his sentence you got up and walked away, acting like you don’t hear him. If he can't see why what he did was weird, then you couldnt hear a damn thing he was saying.
He followed you out of the room, “You really finna act like you don’t hear me?” You walked to the bathroom, closing the door in his face, getting ready to go out.
Today, you were supposed to go over to his family home to hang out with some of the family and catch up. You were dreading going, not because you didn't want to see him family. You absolutely adored his family, and they loved you just as much. But because you just wanted to ignore Jermajesty in peace and not have to pretend to be cordial with him so his mother and father didn’t worry.
He had continued to knock on the door, asking if you were seriously going to keep being childish. “Yes, actually. Leave me alone.” You were petty, not cruel, you would respond sometimes.
Finally ready to go, you brushed right past Jermajesty, heading to his black Mercedes that was parked outside. He still opened your door for you, not giving up his rule of never letting you open doors by yourself. “Baby, I said I was sorry. Why you being like that, ma?” He had, infact, tried to give you an apology earlier, multiple actually, but you pretended like you didn’t hear him.
He was slightly irritated, still not fully comprehending why you were upset. It genuinely didn’t seem like an issue to him. “I don’t give a damn about your apology, Maj. You dont even mean that shit.” You turned your body away from him, facing the window, staring out of it blankly.
The rest of the ride was quiet, he didn’t try to push you to talk anymore, just quietly put a hand on your thigh, giving it a squeeze when you tried to move it.
Finally arriving to his family home, the front door had slammed open, Alejandra coming out to greet you. Jermajesty had gotten out the car, quickly coming around to your side to open your door.
“Sweetheart, you made it!” his mother beamed, arms opened wide for a hug.
“Hey, mama, how have you been?” You loved Alejandra, often times speaking with her on a 3-way facetime call with your own mother. She responded, doting on how pretty you are before moving on to her son, giving him a big hug.
Alejandra had immediately noticed something was wrong, the two of you weren’t as touchy as you normally were, Any other time he’d be hanging off of you, unable to go long without touching you one way or another. She gave you a look, eyes narrowing a bit.
You had been around long enough to know what that look meant. You just shrugged before changing the subject. There wasn’t much of a point on talking about it, that would just piss you off more.
“Who’s all here?” The three of you walked inside, walking to the living area where everyone else sat. Not many people, his brothers and a few cousins. Jermaine rounded the corner, a smile appearing on his face seeing you.
“Yall made it!” He pulled you into a hug, asking how you’ve been.
“I’m doing alright, pops. What you been up to?” You’d stepped aside so he could greet his son as well.
“Nothing much, nothing much. Thinking about taking your mama to dinner. Janet came to get Abu a lil earlier, so we have some alone time.”
You made your way around the room, saying hey to everyone, making small conversations before sitting on the loveseat. Everybody else had been spread out across the room, not much sitting room left, Jermajesty had lifted you up with ease, sitting you on his lap. He never cared about showing affection to you in front of people, he was proud of loving you.
As much as this warmed your heart, the pettiness hadn't fully subsided just yet, the dull pettiness you had felt still lingering.
A conversation had started between the family, Jaafar steering it to remind people of the time he poured water on Maj and had gotten chased. But that didn’t last long since Jermajesty had slipped on the water twice whilst trying to catch up to Jaafar.
“He busted his ass, got up, just to fall again!” Everyone laughed. It was always fun teasing members of the family. You all got a good laugh from messing with each other.
After a while of chatting, catching up, and snacking, some people decided to file out; either going home, or out to dinner. This left you, Jermajesty, Prince, Paris, Jaafar, Randy Jr, and Maddie. The conversation had steered from the normal familial conversations to conversations that the premium adults weren’t allowed to hear. No one wanted their parents, aunts, and uncles knowing how fucked up they were at a random party, or their last hook up partner.
You had smiled and laughed at the right times, even engaging in the conversation sometimes, doing your best to stay under the radar, but that didn't stop you from subconsciously being a brat still.
Moving Jermajesty’s hand when he tried to touch you, getting up when everyone had left to take their seat, still ignoring him when he spoke. He was real sick of it, but he was just gonna handle it at home, not wanting to embarrass his baby even though she was being a real brat.
“Damn, she’s not fucking with you,” Randy laughed. Clearly tickled by your antics.
“Yeah, what’d you do to her?” Maddie had been watching you all night, trying to figure out what the issue was.
You rolled your eyes, not wanting to talk about the situation. It was really dumb, quite frankly. “It doesn’t even matter, boo. Just know it’s fuck him right now.”
The whole group, except Jermajesty, laughed at your comment. He was getting sick of your mouth, always having something smart to say, “Watch your mouth talking to me, baby.” You loved when he was stern with you.
“Oh, please, Jermajesty. You started with me when you liked that bullshit-”
“Go upstairs,” he cut you off. You stared at him in disbelief that he just cut you off like that. His patience had finally worn thin. Normally, he would let you have your little slick comments or your little attitude, but combined with you rejecting his affection and talking crazy in front of family, he couldn’t let it slide no more.
“Huh?” It still hadn’t fully registered to you what he said.
“You heard me. Go.” His tone held finality, very strict. He was over your games and knew he needed to correct your attitude. You knew better than to keep arguing with him when he used that tone with you. Your could feel the embarrassment fill your chest and make its way to your face. You quietly got up and made your way up the stairs to his old bedroom.
“Can't believe this nigga is talking to me like that in front of them,” you murmured to yourself, plopping yourself on his bed. You weren’t sitting long before Jermajesty entered the room, jaw clenched and a mean mug on his perfect face. He was so sexy when he was mad.
“You must’ve lost yo fucking mind, right? Talking to me crazy at home is one thing, but here? You for real, ma?”
For the first time today, you had nothing to say. You would admit, not to him, that you were doing a lot. There was no need to go that far in front of family.
“Don’t go quiet now. You always got some smart shit to say, so say it.” Damn, he was pissed.
“I just..” you trailed off, not having an answer for him.
“Don’t worry about it, baby. I’ll get it out of ya. Gimme your panties.” He held his hand out, waiting. You shakily stand up from the bed, sliding your panties down your thighs from underneath your dress and handed them to him before sitting back down.
“Oh, so you can listen?” He slid the fabric in the pocket of his sweats, another pair to add to his collection. He gently pushed on your chest, letting you know to lie down. Gripping onto your thighs, he dragged you down to the edge of the bed, putting a pillow under your head. No matter how much you pissed him off, he would always make sure his baby was good.
“Lemme see that pussy.” You covered your face, too shy to look at him, while spreading your thighs. Your thighs were sticky with arousal, body desperately aching for your man’s touch.
“Don’t be shy, baby. Wanna see that face while I get you together.” That was all he said before shoving his face down there, greedily lapping up all the juices that had leaked from your pussy. He always ate you out like it would be his last time doing so, you were sure he enjoyed it just as much as you did.
His tongue traced around your clit gently, teasingly, before sucking on it. The stark difference between the sensations were almost too much. “Oh my god- baby!” You tried to cover your moans, biting your lip so hard you almost drew blood.
He gathered more of your wetness on his fingers before pushing them in, eager to stretch you out so you could take him fully. “Please,” you whined.
“I’ll stop, I swear to god.” But he didn’t wanna hear that. He had already given you chance after chance to get it together. He curled his fingers in search of that spot you like so much, causing your thighs to clench around his head, already starting to shake a bit.
“Nah, baby. You had your chance and you fucked that up. Be quiet and let me finish what I’m doing.” You couldn’t take it, still sensitive from this morning. He kept licking and sucking on your clit, sometimes shoving his tongue inside you with his fingers.
His face was already wet and he hadn’t even made you nut yet. He was clearly enjoying himself, humming and moaning to himself as he ate. “Tastes so fucking good. Could live down here.” He reached up your dress, hand gripping onto one of your breasts.
Your legs trembled, pussy clenching on his fingers. Both of you could feel your release coming. “Fuck~ You’re gonna make me cum. Please, please, please.” You couldn't think straight, not even knowing why you’re blubbering pleas.
And then it stopped, his fingers pulled out of you and his tongue stopped working your clit. All sensation was gone, making you whine and try to pull him back, hands gripping onto his head. “Why’d you stop?”
“You don’t get to cum til I tell you to. I shouldn’t let you nut at all.” He got up, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh.
“I should let you go down there all irritated and unsatisfied since you wanna act like you ain’t go no sense.” He pulled his sweats and underwear down in one go, stepping out of them and kicking them to the side.
Jermajesty spread your thighs wider, fitting himself between them. He was big, the biggest you’d ever had. Taking himself in his hand, he started to slowly stroke his dick, face curling in pleasure. “Ready, baby?” You frantically nodded, desperate to finally cum all over him.
“Words, ma.”
“Yes. I’m ready, pa, I can take it. Please.” You never called him that unless you were teasing him, or he had fucked you dumb and the nickname slipped out. He knew he was already ruining you, and loved every second of it.
He tapped his thick tip against your clit, hissing at how wet you were beneath him. Your thighs instinctively tried to close, overly sensitive already. “Don’t tease. Just put it in.” Even all horny and needy for him, you always needed to get your way. His spoiled princess.
“You don’t get to make demands. You just lay there and take this dick.” With that, he finally started to push in, inch by inch. It was like you could feel him everywhere, toes clenching, stomach clenching, pussy gushing, eyes rolling back. It was like heaven.
You squealed, unable to hold it back. Just him slipping it had his tip touching your g-spot. “Ouu shit. Right there!” A groan slipped from his lips, one of his favorite feelings had always been pushing inside of you. So warm, wet, and inviting.
“Yeah?” There was something so sexy about a man asking ‘yeah?’ You couldn’t explain it, but it made you clench around him. Moans and whines slipped from your mouth, his dick was so thick, you felt like you could feel him in your stomach.
As good as Maj felt, it wasn’t enough. He needed you to feel him. His pushed your knees to your chest, allowing him to push in further. “Fuck! Oh my- Baby!” He could feel you getting wetter and wetter around him, arousal dripping down your ass, a ring of cream around the base of his dick.
“Getting real tired of that attitude. I already apologized, baby. You know I wouldn't purposely hurt my baby.” His thrusts sped up, the bed rocked violently under you, no doubt everyone downstairs could hear if they listened hard enough.
You could hear how noisy it was getting down there, squelching noises making you shy. You tried to cover your face, but that just got you a light smack on your thigh, “Don’t hide from me baby, it's alright. She just has a lot to tell me, huh?” He didn’t make your embarrassment any better, face getting warm.
You moaned in response, unable to get words out. The pleasure was overwhelming, on top of the slight edging not long ago, you could already feel your orgasm approaching. “I- Oh fuck. I’m about to cum. Please, can I cum, baby?”
He smirked, a light chuckle escaping his full lips. “Look at you learning your manners.” He leant down to give you a kiss, messy and passionate. The kiss held a lot of weight. The weight of his love for you. The weight of his apology he was still trying to get through to you. The weight of wanting to please his girl.
“Go ahead, ma. Make a mess all over this dick.” With his permission, you let go, back curving into a nasty arch, nails digging into his back.
“Nngg~ daddy, i’m so sorry.” A tear slipped from your eye. You couldn’t tell if you were crying because you felt bad for being kinda mean to him, or because he was fucking the shit out of you.
“Aww baby, you’re so sweet,” Jermajesty wiped a tear from your face, not slowing his thrusts. “Y’hurt my feelings earlier, just wanted to love on ya.”
It was too much. You struggled to focus on his words, his tip consistently poking at that squishy spot you loved so much. Whines and sobs ripped from your chest, tears streaming down your face. Your pussy was so sensitive.
“Daddy, I’m so sorry. So sorry, so sorry, so sorry,” you cried, words all slurred. It was like you were trying to suck him in deeper if that was even possible. He was so deep, you could feel it in your throat.
“I’m sorry too, honey. Didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Y’know how much I love you, right?” He meant every word he said. He now knew he was completely inappropriate to like that post and try and make it seem like you were overreacting. He would’ve lost his shit had you done that to him.
You pulled him down to give him another kiss, trying to pull him as close as possible. You wanted to be in his skin with him, you were so in love. “I’m so sensitive.”
“You can take it, pretty. I know you can give me one more, can’t ya?” Maj propped one foot on the bed, changing the angle. If you thought he was deep then, you were very mistaken. Another wail came out of your mouth, too fucked out to try and cover your mouth again.
You put your hand on your lower stomach, right where you could see the slight bulge of his dick in you. He noticed your hand and how you were staring down where you both connected. “Can my pretty baby feel me in her stomach?” It was a rhetorical question, he knew you loved hearing him talk you through it. Jermajesty’s hand moved yours, replacing it with his own and pressing down on your stomach.
You had put your hand against his abdomen, trying to push him back so you could push him out a bit. “Please slow down, Jermajesty, fuck!” You knew better than to try and push him out or run from him.
“Move your hand, ma. You know better.” You reluctantly moved your hand, not wanting to provoke him into going another round, You genuinely didn’t think you could take anymore for the night.
“Yeah, gimme that pussy baby. Nut all over your dick. You take what's yours, pretty.” He was so close. The way you were clenching around him made it difficult to keep up his pace. He did his best to steady himself, needing to feel you cum and squeeze around him before he came.
You were trying to speak to him, desperately trying to tell him you were there, right on the edge, but nothing you said made much sense. But that didn’t matter, he understood you perfectly fine.
“You don’t have to beg, baby. Give it to me.” Your last orgasm made your vision blurry, senses heightened, and overstimulated. You could feel yourself squirting all over him, his pelvis and dick soaked. You hadn’t meant to make such a mess, but this is what he did to you. Every time he pulled out a bit, more splashed at him.
“Pa, please. I’m making a mess.” You were trembling, needy for more of his affection and his nut, slightly flushed at the fact that you were soaking the comforter beneath you.
“Fuck, baby, m’bout to nut.” His hips stuttered a bit, overwhelmed with how your pussy clenched around him, soaking him in your sweet orgasm. He kept going for a while, fucking you silly, before he pulled out. Giving his dick a few tugs and nutting on your thighs, some landing on that pretty, exposed clit.
He was covered in your juices, dick still creamy from being inside you. “Did such a good job, baby.” He peppered your face in kisses, gently wiping away the rest of your tears. You were now wrapped around him like a koala, limbs tangled together on the bed He had sat you on his lap, sitting on a non wet spot on the bed.
“I really am sorry, honey. Didn’t mean to make you feel bad.” His eyes were full of regret. He never wanted to make you feel less than or like he had eyes on other people, you’re all he wanted. His future wife and mother of his kids.
“It’s ok, baby. I forgive you. I shouldn’t have had that attitude all day, it wasn’t that deep. I'm sorry, too.” He shook his head, pressing another kiss to your forehead. He didn’t want you to apologize, you had every right to be upset.
“Don’t apologize, baby. I deserved it. Shouldn’t have disrespected my lady like that.” He was such a smooth talker, even when he wasn’t trying to be.
He stood up, wrapping your legs around his waist, and carried you to his connecting bathroom, setting you down on the countertop. “Let’s get you cleaned up so we can go back downstairs.” You froze.
“I forgot about everyone. Oh no, do you think they heard us?” He laughed throwing his head back. He didn’t answer right away, grabbing washcloths and wetting it to clean you both up. He gently spread your thighs one last time, cleaning his mess off of you.
“I’m sure they did, baby. Let’s just hope they didn’t notice.” He really didn’t give a damn. If his cousins and brothers heard what had went on, they were just listening too hard. This was perfect logic for Jermajesty.
You groaned, pressing your forehead into his chest. “It's not funny. I'll never be able to look them in the eye again.”
“You’ll be alright, baby,” he couldn't help but snicker. You were too cute when you were embarrassed. “I’ll make sure no one teases you too much, how about that?” You just nodded, trying to prepare for the walk of shame you had to do.
After he finished getting cleaned up, he left you alone in the bathroom to fix your hair and smudged makeup. Mascara smudged and lip combo completely rubbed off. While you were doing that, he changed into a new shirt, and quickly took the sheets off the bed, replacing them with clean ones so there was no evidence of your sexcapade.
When you finally emerged from the bathroom, lips perfectly lined and glossed and your hair smoothed out, he was waiting on the bed, scrolling on his phone. “Ready, baby?”
“I guess,” you mumbled. You felt very satisfied, loved, and warm and fuzzy. Attitude long gone, now replaced with a calm that only your man could give you. You guys exited the room, walking down the stairs. Everyone, except Paris, had stayed as she had a flight to catch; talking amongst themselves when they noticed you two coming back downstairs.
“There the love birds are,” Jaafar commented sarcastically. It was very clear by the amusement on everyone’s face they had heard you.
“Shut the hell up, Jaafar,” you grumbled, going back to the loveseat you had once shared with Jermajesty and taking your place cuddled up in his lap.
The family laughed at your comment, loving how feisty you got from time to time. “Yeah, Jaafar, shut your thick ass up,” Maddie cackled. That put a smile on your face and you could feel Jermajesty laughing underneath you.
“Damn, babe, I thought you were on my side.” Jaafar was pouting dramatically, poking Maddie in her side to annoy her.
“Not with you poking me like that. Stop!” She squealed, she was showing all 32. They were disgustingly in love and you loved that for them.
“I need to get like you guys,” Prince stated.
“All in love and shit.” He meant it, it made him happy seeing everyone happy and being loved like they deserved.
“Shit, I’m tryna learn when Jermajesty turned into a man. Look at how quiet and happy Y/N looks. She was just ready to tear his head off.”
Your head shot up, glaring at Randy for his part. You threw a throw pillow that was on the floor nearby, chucking it at him. “Nigga, please. Your lame ass could never.”
The laughter turned to Randy Jr now. He always had something to say or to instigate, you all loved it when he got his lashings.
“Yeah, Randy. Shut your weak ass up,” it was Jermajesty’s turn now, completely unserious and loving how everyone was gonna dogpile on Randy.
You fit right into his family and their dynamic. You understood inside jokes, helped out his grandmother, aunts, and uncles when they needed it, played with the children who dragged you away. Jermajesty was completely smitten with you, wanting to marry you in the near future.
He pressed a kiss to your temple. “I love you, baby,” he murmured against your soft skin.
You reached up, gripping the nape of his neck, pulling him into a kiss with a big smile on your face. “I love you more.”
jermajesty taking over his influencer!gf’s vlog ౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪
the camera clicks on, focusing on jermajesty’s face as he adjusts the angle. in the background, you’re sitting at your vanity, blending out your makeup and completely unaware of the mischief your boyfriend is already plotting.
he clears his throat, flashing a bright smile at the lens. “hey what’s up yall, i’m jermajesty. the boyfriend. aka her wallet, aka, majy. aka, baby. aka da—“
“jermajesty jackson,” you call out from across the room, not even needing to look at him to know exactly where his sentence was heading.
he winks at the camera, a smug little grin on his face, before walking over to rejoin your side. he leans over your shoulder, adjusting the camera so you’re both in the frame. your skin looks radiant against his, and he can't help but admire the view for a second.
“today was a nice day. i made breakfast, we did a little shopping, got my girl some flowers. you like these baby?” he asks, pointing the lens toward the gorgeous bouquet sitting on your nightstand.
“yes maj, they’re beautiful,” you say, turning your head to give him a soft smile.
“just like you baby. you’re so pretty, gimme kiss.”
you lean up and press a quick kiss to his lips, making him beam. he looks back at the cam, smoothing down his hair. “i love this camera,” he says, completely feeling himself. “the quality is so good.”
you let out a laugh, shaking your head as you apply your lip gloss. “you should baby, you bought it. tell them what we’re doing tonight.”
“i’m taking my angel to her favorite restaurant tonight. she wanted a steak, so that’s where we’re going,” he explains, leaning his chin on your shoulder and watching you put the finishing touches on your makeup.
“she gotta eat good if she’s gonna keep up with me,” he adds, wiggling his eyebrows.
you roll your eyes, picking up a powder brush. “keep up with you? please, who was the one complaining about their knees hurting after walking around the mall for an hour?”
jermajesty gasps, looking deeply offended as he looks back at the camera. “vlog, don't listen to her, she’s slandering my good name. my knees are great. pristine condition. i was just pacing myself so you could keep up in those little ass heels, stop playing with me.”
“mhmm, whatever helps you sleep at night, maj,” you tease, dusting a bit of setting powder over your nose. “can we stop at that bakery i like after dinner? the one with the cookies?”
“anything for you, my love,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek before the vlog cuts to the restaurant.
˚⟡˖ ࣪
the lighting changes to a warm, dim ambiance. the camera sits on the table, propped up against a glass, capturing the two of you mid-meal.
“okay vlog, we’re back,” jermajesty whispers dramatically to the camera, leaning in close so the mic picks it up over the low restaurant music. “she got the steak and potatoes of course, and i got the stuffed chicken breast.”
he looks over at your plate, taking his fork and sliding a piece of your steak onto his side before you can stop him. “and i’m also having a little bit of her steak, because what’s hers is mine.”
“that is not how this works,” you protest, pointing your fork at him. “you ordered your own food.”
“sharing is caring, baby. plus, i gotta taste test it to make sure it’s safe for you,” he says with a totally straight face, chewing happily. “mmm, this is great.”
“yeah i know, that’s why i got it.” you say, and roll your eyes at him.
“i love you ma,” he says, then pans the camera to his own plate. “this is mine,” he pauses, a wicked glint suddenly flashing in his eyes as he looks directly back into the lens. “this chicken’s not the only thing getting stuffed tonight,” he looks at you, biting his bottom lip.
you bust out laughing, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet restaurant before you quickly cover your face with both hands in pure embarrassment. your cheeks are burning as you try to process his audacity.
“jermajesty, this is your last time filming a video for my page,” you hiss through your fingers, though you’re still giggling uncontrollably.
he just laughs, a rich, satisfied sound, and pulls your hands away from your face to kiss your knuckles. “love you, chat. make sure you subscribe to my girl,” he winks at the lens, finally shutting the camera off for the night.
SYNOPSIS: Reader learns about Michael's little nickname for pretty women, and now he's in the doghouse. Can he make it up to her?
CONTENT: smut, 18+, fluff, NO MINORS, descriptive dirty talk, needy!Michael, soft-dom Michael, physical affection, dangerous era!Michael, era 1991, wife!reader
Author's Note: Hi babies 💕 so this was inspired by a video I saw of Mike at the mall fishing lol. I had to write something warm and fuzzy about it, and I love a lil Marlon/Mikey moment. Enjoy 💕
The third time that you passed by Michael without letting him touch you, he knew something was off.
He was miserable.
It seemed like you were doing everything except speaking to him. As of right now, you were cooking dinner. Michael had followed you into the kitchen like a lost puppy. He had tried wrapping his arms around your waist while you stood at the stove. Kissing on you. Of course, you'd shrugged him off with a stern,
"Boy stop. I'm busy."
Sighing, Michael leaned back against the counter behind you, watching your every move.
"What did I do, baby?" he asked softly. "Why aren't you talking to me?"
The hurt in his voice almost made you give in. Almost. Until you remembered what started this whole mess.
Two days ago, it had been movie night. Michael had been upstairs on the phone with Frank while you rummaged through the cabinet beneath the television, searching for a VHS tape the two of you hadn't watched a hundred times already.
Your fingers landed on one labeled neatly in Michael's handwriting.
Michael with Fans — October 1990.
Curious, you smiled to yourself and slid it into the VCR.
Seeing Michael's public persona had always fascinated you because it was so different from the man you knew behind closed doors. The world knew Michael Jackson. You knew Mike.
The screen flickered from blue static to grainy camcorder footage. Michael stood in the middle of a shopping mall, absolutely surrounded by screaming fans. He laughed, signed autographs, hugged little kids, kissed grandmothers on the cheek. It was sweet.
Then he looked toward the cameraman and said—
"Let's go over here... there's some more good fish over here."
You blinked.
"What the hell...fish?"
On the television, Michael immediately made his way toward another group of beautiful women, reaching for one of their hands before posing for a picture. Your eyebrows slowly rose in disbelief.
"...Hold up."
You rewound the tape.
Click.
"Let's go over here... there's some more good fish over here."
You stared at the television.
"...Fish?"
Another rewind. Clicked play.
"...There's some more good fish over here."
Your jaw slowly dropped.
"Hell naw."
When the tape finished, you ejected it so hard it nearly flew out of the VCR. Absolutely not. Marching straight to the phone, you dialed the first Jackson brother that came to mind. The one who knew everything there was to know about Michael. They were practically twins.
The phone rang twice.
"Marlon speaking."
"What does fish mean? And don't lie."
Silence trilled through the receiver.
"...Marlon?"
More silence and then Marlon sighed.
"...Mike done got himself in trouble, huh?"
"What does it mean, Marlon?" Another pause. You were tapping your foot impatiently, growing tired of waiting.
"...It's what we used to call pretty girls."
Your eye twitched. Suspicions confirmed.
"...Excuse me?"
"I mean—"
"So he was fishin'?"
"No!" Marlon barked, already laughing. "No, no, not like that!"
"Then why was he walkin’ over there talking about, 'there's some more good fish over here?'"
Marlon had absolutely no defense. His brother was caught.
"...See... when you say it out loud like that..."
"It sound crazy, don't it?"
"...Lil bit."
You thanked your brother-in-law, hung up the phone, and walked upstairs without another word. No movie night. No cuddling. No goodnight kisses for Michael. Nothing.
Now, two days later...
Michael Jackson had absolutely no idea why his wife wouldn't speak to him.
Later that afternoon, Michael again sauntered into a room he knew you inhabited. He gazed at you quietly for a moment, large doe eyes watching you carefully and waiting patiently like a good boy to be acknowledged.
Early afternoon glow begun to settle over the room, highlighting your features with a soft golden warmth. You were seated at the kitchen table reading a new book. You sensed his presence. Like you always did. But you refused to raise your focus from your book.
You were a stubborn woman, he had to admit. Once you committed to something, you’d burn the house down with yourself in it. So, he brushed his lips against the back of your neck and gave a soft “I love you”, laying down your favorite flowers on the table next to you.
You hummed in approval,
“Thank you, they’re beautiful.” The phrase came out simply. No kiss or smile attached. No reinforcement for Michael. Sulking, Michael silently retreated from the room.
He needed advice.
“She won’t talk to me for nothin’” Michael was exasperated, rubbing his hands up and down his face frustratedly. He hated being ignored. Especially by you. You were quite literally his favorite person on the planet, other than his mother.
He was so desperate that he’d driven to his sister’s place, praying she had some insight.
La Toya continued to organize her closet, bustling about as she listened to Michael’s woes.
“Women don’t give you the silent treatment for this long, Mike. Somethin’ happened.”
“I haven’t done anything! I’m so lost.” The poor man was needy for your attention, and he couldn’t get to the root of the problem.
His sister was no help. So, he wandered to Marlon’s next. Really just bored and looking for companionship.
“What’s wrong Mike, you in the dog house?” Marlon pulled his brother in for a hug, patting him on the back gingerly. Michael rarely stopped by unannounced. Usually when he did, something had been troubling him.
Michael sulked over to the couch, plopping down with a sigh.
“I don’t even know WHY”
Unbeknownst to Michael, immediately his brother became fidgety and nervous. Uh oh.
“She won’t even let me touch her.” Michael whimpered, dropping his face into his hands.
Marlon scratched the back of his neck and looked away, eyes growing wide. He remembered his last call with you. Very well.
“Soooo… hypothetically… if a man got caught calling women fish by his woman…”
Immediately Michael’s head snapped toward Marlon.
“What you mean?” Michael’s eye contact never left his brothers, burning a hole in the side of his profile as Marlon feigned distraction and gazed in the opposite direction.
“I’m just saying. Hypothetically.”
Slowly, Michael’s eyes widened. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.
“She talked to you? And you didn’t tell me?” Under the pressure Marlon cracked. He immediately held his hands up in surrender as his brother shoved him.
“I ain’t say nothin’!”
“You told her!”
“I didn’t tell her!” Marlon exclaimed, now dissolving into a fit of giggles.
Michael stood up, officially agitated.
“You supposed to be my brother, and you’re telling my girl our secrets. Come on man” Michael rolled his eyes, of course this was Marlon’s fault. Marlon continued to explain himself through broken laughs.
“I’m her friend too, Mike!”
“I’m leaving.” Michael grumbled.
“C’mon Mike, just apologize.” Marlon said, laughter dying down. “You did call them fish.”
“So did you, but did I tell Carol!”
“Hey, this ain’t about me!”
“Bye Marlon” Michael grumbled, finally making his way toward the door. His brother’s giggles followed him out the front door, further agitating him.
When Michael finally arrived back home, he closed the front door behind him silently. His head dropped against the door behind him as he sighed heavily. He was in trouble.
He found you in the kitchen, he hadn't bothered to call out to you. He had grown used to your sweet voice not answering him when he was looking for you.
But when he found you, he felt a very familiar heat building in the pit of his stomach. There you were, standing at the kitchen sink and absentmindedly humming a tune. Michael’s eyes trailed up your figure, admiring the way the sundress you wore perfectly hugged your body, framing your hips and cutting just above your ankles to expose your pretty anklets. Your ass raised in the hair as you leaned over to grab more dish soap.
The kitchen smelled like lemon dish soap and the faint trace of the smothered greens you’d made earlier, the radio in the living room still playing Luther Vandross low and slow like it knew what was coming. You stood at the sink in that soft little yellow dress—the one that always made Michael’s eyes go heavy—scrubbing the last plate, warm water up to your wrists, hips swaying just a little to the music without even thinking about it.
You didn’t hear him at first. But you felt him. That solid heat sliding up behind you, chest to your back, the familiar weight of his arms wrapping around your waist like he’d been starving for the shape of you all day. His nose brushed the side of your neck, breath already shaky.
This time, you didn’t pull away.
“Been watchin’ you all day, baby” he muttered, voice low and rough from hours of holding back. “All evenin’. Makin’ the bed, foldin’ clothes, standin’ here doin’ these damn dishes like you ain’t the finest thing I ever seen. Got me hard just lookin’ at you, girl.”
You felt it then—thick and insistent, pressing against the curve of your ass through his loose black slacks. He rolled his hips once, slow and deliberate, letting you feel every inch of him already straining, already leaking. The grind was filthy, unhurried, like he had all night to ruin you right here against the sink.
“Mike…” you whispered, fingers still curled around a wet plate. He didn’t answer with words. Just another deep grind, cock sliding heavy between your cheeks. One big hand slid down to fist the hem of your dress and yanked it up over the swell of your ass in one smooth motion. The cool air kissed your skin for half a second before his palm was there, squeezing, spreading you open like he owned it.
“I missed you all day, baby…”
It was muttered on a sharp exhale as he bent you forward over the edge of the sink, your chest pressing into the counter, water splashing over your forearms. He made quick work of your panties, dragging them down to your ankles with one impatient tug. Two fingers pressed against your lips, tapping gently.
“Open,” he breathed. You obeyed immediately.
He slid them in, slow, letting you suck them wet and warm while he worked his zipper down with his free hand. You could hear the low, filthy sound of him pulling his cock free—thick, heavy, the head already shiny with pre-cum from hours of watching you move around the house like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to him.
“You’re so pretty like this,” he groaned against your ear, pulling his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop. “All soft and domestic. Got me thinkin’ about bendin’ you over every surface in this house.”
Those same fingers, still slick from your tongue, slid straight between your thighs and pushed deep into your cunt without warning. You squeaked, the stretch sudden and perfect, back arching as he curled them immediately, finding that spot like he had a map to get to it.
“If only they knew,” he whispered, voice dark and sweet at the same time. “How this smart, pretty girl turns into such a needy little thing the second I get my hands on her. How bad you love letting me play your pretty little body like an instrument. Am I right, mamas?”
You made a choked, gaspy noise when he started fucking you with his fingers—fast, precise, obscene wet sounds filled the quiet kitchen. Your knees nearly buckled. He allowed saliva to slowly drip from his lips down onto his aching length, slicking himself up with a low groan that went straight to your core, and then the blunt head of his cock was nudging at your entrance.
He pushed in slow. So slow you felt every thick inch stretching you open, the burn and the fullness making your eyes flutter. When he bottomed out, hips flush to your ass, you both moaned, his deep and cracked, yours high and shaky.
“Say thank you, baby,” he whispered against your ear, one arm sliding around your waist, the other hand coming up to rest lightly at your throat. Not squeezing, just holding, owning.
You tried. The first sound that came out was nothing but a whimper.
His palm cracked across your ass, hard enough to make you jolt and clench around him.
“T-Thank you,” you gasped, voice already cracking. “Fuck—thank you, Michael—”
“That’s my girl,” he hummed, and then he started moving.
Not fast. Deep. Rolling his hips in those slow, grinding circles that dragged the head of his cock over sweet spots only he could touch on every pass, the faint swell of him pressing against your lower belly from the inside. You could feel it every time he sank in to the hilt, relishing in the way he flattened his palm there.
“Feel that?” he rasped, grinding deep, staying buried while his hips worked in tight, filthy rolls. “That’s me, baby. Stroking all those little spots only I can reach, ain't that right sweetheart?”
Your fingers clawed at the edge of the sink. Your thighs started shaking as you leaned forward on your tip-toes. The wet, obscene sound of him fucking you—slow and heavy, mixed with the low music and the occasional drip of water from the faucet you’d never turned off.
He felt you getting close, felt the way your walls fluttered and squeezed.
“There it is,” he cooed, voice going soft and dangerous. “Come on, mama. Let me feel it. Cum for me.”
When it hit, it was hard.
Your eyes rolled back so far your vision blurred. A needy cry tore out of your throat as your pussy clenched and gushed around him, sticky arousal sliding down your thighs. His hand around your throat eased its hold but stayed there, steady and warm, keeping you upright as the pleasure kept rolling through you in thick, helpless waves. Your eyes stayed rolled back, walls squeezing and fluttering tight around his thick cock while he pressed soft kisses to your temple and along your jaw, nose nuzzling gently against your cheek until your body went slack and heavy in his arms.
Michael didn’t stop though. He just adjusted his pace into long, lazy, deep strokes, grinding in slow circles while you came, letting you ride it out while he kissed the side of your neck, your temple, nuzzling his nose against your cheek like he was trying to crawl inside your skin. Saliva dribbled down your chin as you tried to gather your thoughts to no avail.
Michael couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, eyebrows furrowing at how your pretty face contorted with pleasure through his torment.
“Good girl,” he breathed, voice shaking. “Such a good fuckin’ girl for me. Look at you… droolin’ all over yourself. So pretty when you can’t even talk.”
You were still twitching, still fluttering around him, when it started building again, deeper, harder, the hand at your throat tightening just enough to make your head spin in the best way.
Your second orgasm crashed into you before you were ready, thighs shaking so bad you almost collapsed. He caught you, arm locking tight around your waist, hips never stopping.
“Michael—fuck—too s-sensitive—oh my God—”
“I know, baby,” he groaned, voice breaking into something raw. “I know. But you can give me one more, can’t you? My good girl can take it.”
He pulled out slow, the wet sound filthy, your essence combined with his pre-cum was dripping down your legs in messy strings. Before you could even catch your breath he was turning you, lifting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing, knocking a clean plate into the sink with a clatter.
Your dress was bunched around your waist, panties still around one ankle, and he stepped between your spread thighs like he belonged there. He gently tugged the strapless dress below your breasts, cooing softly at how your nipples hardened when they touched the cool air.
You tried to hide your face, suddenly shy under the bright kitchen light, under the way he was looking at you hungrily—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
“Don’t hide from me,” he whispered, catching your chin, making you look at him. His eyes were glassy, lips swollen, voice already raspy. “Wanna see those pretty eyes roll back again.”
He pushed back inside in one smooth thrust, and you sobbed, overstimulated, stretched so wide around him it burned in the sweetest way. He stayed deep, grinding in those slow, devastating circles, one hand on your lower belly again so you could both feel the way he moved inside you.
He rolled his hips in slow, searching circles, the thick head of his cock prodding gently at your insides as he tried to find that little spot. The one that always made you fall apart. He adjusted the angle with each careful roll, hips moving with focused intent until—oh, he found it. The second he did, your whole body jolted, a broken sound slipping from your lips, and he locked right there, grinding against it with every pass like he was trying to etch it into your memory.
Your third orgasm built slower, your whole body trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks from how good it was, how much it was. You couldn’t even form words anymore—just incoherent little sounds, stuttering attempts at his name.
As he rolled his hips in those deep, filthy grinds, your voice came out small and shaky between gasps. “I love the sound of your voice… when you talk to me like that. God, Michael, it does something to me…”
He continued to roll his hips slowly, eyes darkening with fresh heat, a slow, wicked little smile tugged at his swollen lips at your admission. Music to his hears after being ignored for two days.
“Yeah?” he murmured, voice dropping even lower, rougher, the way he knew drove you crazy. “Then be a good girl… touch yourself for me and I’ll keep talking for you.” The words landed softly, touching something hot and sensitive deep in your core.
He would say whatever you wanted him to, hell he’d sing every word, if it meant you’d finally speak to him. And you did. You chanted his name like a prayer.
Your hand slipped down between your bodies without hesitation, fingers finding your swollen clit while he stayed buried deep, grinding in those slow, perfect circles that made your toes curl. He didn’t stop talking, he kept that low, raspy praise pouring right into your ear like he promised.
“That’s it, mama… rub that pretty clit for me while I’m deep inside you. Fuck, you feel so good squeezin’ me like that. My good girl. My perfect girl...Look at you, touchin’ yourself just ‘cause I told you to… so fuckin’ pretty when you fall apart for me. I could stay right here all night, just grindin’ in this sweet pussy, listenin’ to every little sound you make…”
Your fingers moved faster, the combination of his voice and the thick drag of his cock against your g-spot pushing you right to the edge again. Your thighs shook around his hips, free hand clutching his shoulder like a lifeline.
Michael’s own control was slipping. His hips stuttering every few rolls, breath coming in broken little groans against your neck, but he kept talking, kept praising, voice cracking with how good it felt for him too.
“Come on, baby… let me feel you. One more time, please? I got you. Always got you. That’s my girl…” When it hit, it wrecked you completely.
Your eyes rolled back hard, mouth falling open on a silent scream as your pussy fluttered helplessly, clenching down around him as you gushed again, soaking his cock, his thighs, the front of the counter. Michael grunted with approval. Your whole body shook like you were coming apart at the seams, fingers still working your clit through every pulse while he held you through it, whispering the whole time.
Michael followed you over with a low, guttural moan—hips stuttering and his cock jerking deep inside you as he came hard, flooding your walls with rope after rope of warm cum. The excess leaked and smeared around him with every trembling thrust. His voice cracked on your name and his face was buried in your neck. Arms locked around you like he was afraid you’d disappear.
He didn’t pull out. Just stayed buried to the hilt, rocking in these tiny, overstimulated grinds while both of you trembled through the aftershocks. His breath was hot and ragged against your skin. Yours was worse, little hiccuping gasps, tears still sliding down your cheeks, drool on your chin.
“Shhh,” he whispered eventually, voice hoarse, kissing your jaw, your temple, the corner of your mouth. “I got you, baby. Breathe for me. That’s it… my good girl. My everything.”
His hands moved slow and careful, rubbing your lower back in those deep, soothing circles you loved, thumbs pressing into the sore muscles from being bent over. He nuzzled into your neck, breathing you in like he needed it to live.
“I love you,” he murmured, over and over, like a prayer. “Love you so much it hurts sometimes. You don’t even know what you do to me… how you make all the noise in my head go quiet.”
You were boneless in his arms, still twitching around him, still full of him. He stayed inside you until the trembling eased, until your breathing slowed, until the only sounds left were the low music and the occasional drip from the faucet.
Then he finally pulled out, gentle, careful, watching with dark, tender eyes as his cum spilled out of you in thick, messy rivulets down your thighs and onto the counter. He felt his cock twitch at the sight, already ready to have you again.
He grabbed a clean dish towel, wet it with warm water, and cleaned you gently, murmuring soft apologies every time you whimpered from oversensitivity.
When he was done he lifted you off the counter like you were made of glass, guiding you into the living room with his arms wrapped around you, soft kisses pressed to the top of your head. He laid you down on the couch and stripped off what was left of your dress, pulled his own shirt over his head, and climbed behind you, pulling you back against his chest.
One big hand kept rubbing slow circles into your lower back while the other stroked your hair, your arm, anywhere he could reach.
“You okay, mama?” he whispered against your shoulder, voice soft and a little shy now that the storm had passed. “Was I too rough?”
You shook your head, nuzzling back into him, still too fucked-out to speak properly.
He smiled against your skin, pressed a kiss behind your ear.
“Good. ‘Cause I ain’t nowhere near done lovin’ on you tonight. Just… let me hold you for a minute first. Let me take care of my girl.”
And he did. For a long time.
A comfortable silence had settled over you both. Michael held your smaller hand in his, calloused fingers gently pressing into the muscles in your hand.
“So you been talkin’ to Marlon, huh?” he mumbled sleepily, amused.
“No” you said quickly. But Michael felt your body tense. You were never able to lie to him, and he loved it.
“You know… you’re my favorite fish baby.”
He erupted into laughter when you huffed and elbowed him. Unfortunately, you couldn’t help the giggles that slipped past your lips too at the joke.
“I’m kidding baby, only joking. Don’t be mad with me anymore.” His fingers continued to stroke your belly gently.
“You had me out here thinkin’ you’re shopping, and you out here fishing.”
“Baby, never. I wasn’t. I’m yours. All of me.” He murmured against your neck, lips lazily brushing the skin there.
You couldn’t help the cheesy grin that broke through.
jermajesty jackson x black!reader / jaafar jackson x platonic! black reader
summary: during your monthly smoke session your boyfriend and his brother join along
warnings/content: fluff!, jaafar is an inexperienced smoker, talks of greening out, and talks about reefer…obviously
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ🛸༄˖°.
grey clouds took over the sky of california, dimming the apartment you shared with your boyfriend, jermajesty. the darkness was accompanied by the sound of rain tapping against the windows serving as the best white noise.
you’d loved days like this—especially since you’d reserved one rainy day out of the month to garden.
you walked barefoot to the kitchen, taking a glance at your boyfriend, jermajesty, and his brother, jaafar, who’d been visiting.
you quietly pulled out your butter cookie tin from the cabinet and walked over to the balcony door.
“stinky where you going?” jermajesty asked before you opened the door.
you raised the tin container, his eyes locked onto it immediately knowing what that symbolized. “can i come?”
shrugging your shoulders in response you opened the door; jermajesty stood from his seat on the couch jaafar looked up confused but followed his brother out to the balcony.
jermajesty took a seat next to you on the outdoor loveseat while jaafar occupied a chair.
“what are y'all doing?” jaafar finally asked.
he was met with an answer when you opened the tin, inside were four pink cones you grabbed one; taking a lighter out of the basketball shorts you wore.
you glanced over at him “do you smoke jaafar?”
he shook his head. “i haven’t before.”
you nodded at his answer, lighting the cone, its pink tip turning a molten orange. you put it in between your lips inhaling.
you let the smoke escape your mouth before skillfully sucking it back into your mouth.
“do you want to try?” you raised an eyebrow passing the joint to jermajesty.
jaafar watched as jermajesty took his turn inhaling the herb. he shrugged reaching over to take the joint from his brother. he inspected it for a second.
“why is it pink?”
you smiled proudly “they’re made out of roses.”
he chuckled at your excitement putting the joint to his lips. “okay, now just inhale and basically swallow” you explained.
he nodded, doing as told, coughing the opaque smoke out. “okay, don’t overdo it, j.” you cringed taking the joint.
the three of you rotated the joint for a while, the pink cone getting shorter watching as the rain continued to pour. you put the joint in a small ashtray tucking your knees into your malcom x shirt. you and jermajesty scooted closer together enjoying each other’s warmth, showing each other tiktoks.
“can we do this tonight?” jermajesty asked, showing you a video of a newborn.
your eyebrows scrunched confused at the request. “no?” you replied.
he laughed, tipping his head into the crook of your neck. the feeling of cottonmouth made him stop. “i'm thirsty.” he sighed standing up.
“you want me to bring you some water?” he offered. you shook your head. “what about you, j?”
you glanced over to jaafar who’d been silent, you’d expect that from a first-time high but once you noticed how his chest was moving you sat up straighter.
“j you okay?”
he shook his head unconvincingly. “yeah im just a little paranoid.” he chuckled.
you stood up immediately walking over to help him up. “let’s go inside before you green out.” you told him ushering his back into the house and sitting him on the couch.
turning to jermajesty you spoke. “can you make sure he don’t freak out?”
jermajesty nodded, sitting back on the couch with his brother.
a few minutes later you came back with two mugs, handing one to each brother before going back to get your own. “it’s lavender green tea,” you told jaafar.
“it should help calm you down.”
you then reached for the TV remote on the coffee table turning the TV on to ponyo since that was always relaxing to you while high.
you watched intently as jaafar drank his tea making sure he didn’t get overwhelmed. when he set his mug down you went to pick yours up only to see it was already off the table.
turning you scrunch your nose at jermajesty, who was drinking from it. “why’d you take my mug?”
he whined jokingly “cause how come you got the zelda one?”
“because you whined last time i had the naruto one.”
he sighed knowing he couldn’t argue with you about it and let the conversation fade out.
you and jermajesty settled into the corner of the couch you head on his shoulder while he had his arm around your waist. a bit into the movie, jaafar had scooted closer to you resting his head on your calf.
after a while he looked up at you. “i really hope you stay in this family for a while” he admitted.
you poked your bottom lip out looking at jermajesty, who was holding back a laugh at how high his brother was.
you tapped jaafar’s head lightly. “tell your brother to put a ring on it and i can be your sister.”
—this one shot was a little on the weaker side, also wrote this because I’m craving cannabis but im not smoking anytime soon :) lastly I got two one shots based off Beyoncé songs (heated and sorry) in my drafts :P
، summary𓈒 you fake being sick just to stay home from a family trip and call to ask for your boyfriend to come over, just cause you miss him.
، pairing𓈒 jermaine jackson x black!fem!reader
، warnings𓈒 no use of y/n, mention of j*seph, tiny bit of fluff, reader being obsessed with jermaine's hair, kissing, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 you tap it), dirty talk, reader being a dumb bitch, jermaine being a dumb ass, but he'll call you beautiful every chance he gets.
، notes𓈒 i love this jermaine dude…enjoy…and send in req for all the jacksons, go crazy, im bored.
It had been exactly twenty two minutes since your mama’s station wagon backed out of the driveway, packed to the brim with your siblings, coolers, and enough luggage to survive a minor apocalypse.
You had put on a masterclass performance. The weak cough, the hand pressed dramatically to your forehead, the faint groan when your dad suggested you just push through it, you deserved an emmy for that shit. You watched them drive off from behind the living room curtains, grinning like a bandit who just pulled off the heist of the century. No long, cramped car ride. No listening to your siblings argue. Just freedom.
But damn, nobody told you freedom was this boring.
You were sprawled out on the living room rug, a copy of Right On! magazine open in front of you. You flipped through the pages, looking at pictures of the Jackson 5, pausing on a full page poster of a certain tall, brown skin boy with an afro that looked like a perfect black halo.
You sighed, tossing the magazine aside. It had only been fourteen minutes since you actually sat down to do absolutely nothing, and you were already losing your mind. You looked at the rotary phone sitting on the side table.
Should I?
You didn't want to seem desperate. You weren't that girl. You had to lead into it smooth, act like he just happened to cross your mind between your fictitious bouts of the flu.
You slid, in your socks, right over to the phone, lifted the receiver, and dialed his number by heart. It rang twice before a smooth, soft spoken voice answered.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Jermaine," you said, leaning back against the couch, trying to sound as casual and slightly fatigued as possible. "What you doing?"
"Hey, baby," he countered, and you could practically hear the smile in his voice. "Not much. Just chilling at the house with my brothers since J*seph’s outta town right now. Tito’s trying to fix his guitar strap, and Michael and Marlon are playing twister. What about you? Aren't you supposed to be on your way to the lake with your folks?"
"Man, look," you sighed, playing up the part. "I woke up feeling so messed up. My stomachs turning, and my head is pounding. I had to beg my mama to let me stay behind. I told her I’d just sleep it off."
"Aw, for real? You sick?" Jermaine’s voice shifted instantly, getting all soft and concerned. "You need me to bring you something? Some soup or something?"
Perfect, you thought. Right where I want him.
"Nah, I don't need all that," you said, twirling the phone cord around your finger. "I mean, I’m feeling a little better now that I got some rest. But the house is just...real empty. And quiet. My parents won't even be back until tomorrow night." You paused, letting that little detail hang in the air for a second. "So...I was just wondering. Are you busy busy? Like, ‘working on a new album’ busy, or are you free enough to come keep a girl company?"
What you wanted to say was: Get your fine ass over here right now so I can grab that beautiful ass afro of yours and fuck you until we both can't breathe.
But you weren't going to let him know that. Not yet. You had to keep it classy.
Jermaine chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that did dangerous things to your stomach. "Oh, is that right? Your folks are gone for the whole weekend?"
He obviously wasn’t listening. "No. Just until tomorrow night. But still. Just me, myself, and I. But if you’re too busy with the group-"
"I ain't that busy," he interrupted smoothly. "Matter of fact, I can be over there in about twenty minutes. You want me to stop and get you some ice cream? Keep your throat cool?"
"Yeah. Butter pecan. And hurry up before I change my mind."
"I will, I will, baby. See you in a minute."
You hung up the phone with a triumphant grin. You scrambled up from the floor, suddenly possessing a burst of energy that completely contradicted your "sick" status. You ran to the bathroom, checking your hair, brushing your teeth again—showering again, and putting on a pair of shorts and a cropped tank top. Casual, but short enough to let him know what he was dealing with.
Exactly nineteen minutes later, there was a knock at the front door.
You slid over in your socks, taking a deep breath to reset your expression into something a little more subdued, and opened it.
Jermaine was leaning against the doorframe, looking like a whole snack and a half. He had on a nice patterned button down, open at the top to show off his chest, and a pair of pants that hugged his thighs just right, making you bite your lip. His afro- oh goodness, his afro, framing his handsome face like a halo. In his hand, he was holding a brown paper bag.
"Hey, beautiful," he said, those dark eyes of his taking you in from head to toe. "You don't look too sick to me."
"It comes and goes," you lied smoothly, waving your hand as your stepped aside to let him in.
Before you could even close the door, Jermaine wrapped a long arm around your waist and pulled you right against his chest. He smelled so good. He leaned down, his lips finding yours in a slow, sweet, lingering kiss that made your toes curl in your socks. His lips were always so soft, tasting faintly of mint.
He pulled back just an inch, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone. "You do feel a little warm," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.
"That's just from looking at you," you joked, though your heart was actually thumping against your ribs.
He laughed, letting you go, shutting the door, and walked into the kitchen like he owned the place. He pulled a pint of butter pecan ice cream out of the bag, and moved to get a spoon like this was his own house.
You hopped up on the kitchen counter, swinging your legs. Jermaine popped the lid off the ice cream and handed it to you along with the spoon. You dug in, taking a big, satisfying bite of the cold, nutty sweetness.
"Ooh, that hits the spot," you mumbled.
Jermaine was leaning against the counter right next to your thighs, watching you eat with a playful smirk on his face. You took another spoonful, but before it could reach your mouth, Jermaine leaned forward, grabbed your wrist gently, and redirected the spoon into his own mouth.
He swallowed, smacking his lips. "Damn, that is good."
You froze, staring at him with a hard, playful glare. "Bruh, you just gon eat my ice cream? The ice cream you bought for your sick girlfriend?"
"Sharing is caring, baby," he teased, stepping closer into the space between your knees.
"I don't care about sharing when it comes to my food, you of all people should know that, Jermaine. Get your own spoon." You went to take another bite, but he caught your hand again. This time, he didn't go for the ice cream. He leaned in and licked a stray drop of cream right off the corner of your bottom lip.
A shiver ran straight down your spine. Your glare melted instantly as you sat the spoon down on the counter.
"You're a mess," you whispered, your voice losing all its edge. “I literally hate you.”
"Oh, but you love me," he murmured, his hands finding your hips, his thumbs rubbing small circles into your skin.
The playful atmosphere shifted in a second. The kitchen felt ten degrees hotter. Jermaine’s eyes somewhat darkened as he looked down at your lips, his hands gripping your hips a little tighter, pulling your body right to the edge of the counter so you were pressed against his hip bones.
"You know," he whispered, his breath hot against your neck, "we got the whole house to ourselves."
"I know," you breathed out, your hands instantly finding their way up into his hair, your fingers tangling in the curls just like you had imagined earlier. You tugged on it gently, pulling his head back so he had to look you in the eyes. "So what you gonna do about it?"
Jermaine didn't say another word. He grabbed the pint of ice cream from your hand, set it carelessly on the counter, and scooped you right up into his arms. You let out a little gasp, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you out of the kitchen.
You expected him to take you to your bedroom, but Jermaine passed your door entirely, heading straight down the hall.
"Wait, Jermaine, where are you going?"
He kicked open the door at the very end of the hall. The master bedroom.
Your eyes went wide. "Oh my god, no. Not my mama's room! Jermaine, if she finds out, she will actually kill both of us. She’s got a sixth sense about this shit!"
Jermaine just laughed as he tossed you right onto the center of the massive, neatly made king sized bed. The mattress was softer than yours, smelling faintly of lavender.
"She ain't gonna find out nothing,” Jermaine said, crawling up onto the mattress after you, his eyes locking onto yours. "Not unless you shout loud enough for the neighbors to hear."
“Jermaine, I'm serious, this is sacrilege-”
Your words were cut off completely when he came down on top of you, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was a thousand times hungrier than the one at the front door. He tasted like the butter pecan ice cream, and his tongue slid into your mouth with a stroke that made you completely forget whose bed you were lying on.
Your hands immediately went right back into his afro, gripping the thick texture of his hair, pulling him closer as you arched your back against the mattress. He groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding under your cropped top, his warm palms finding the bare skin of your waist and sliding up your ribs.
He pulled back for a fraction of a second, his chest heaving, his eyes all wild and dark with a desire that made your whole body ache.
“You talk too much,” he whispered, his hands moving down to the waistband of your shorts.
“I'll shut up if you show me what you got,” you breathed, a breathless smile on your lips.
He moved his hands away to strip off his shirt, revealing his chest, and you couldn't help but run your hands over his shoulders and then down his long, lean frame that was casting a shadow over your body as his eyes tracked every single breath rushing in and out of your chest.
“You look so beautiful laid out right here,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that smooth tone that always made your knees weak. “You know that?”
Before you could even form a reply, his hand moved. His fingers, all long, slender, and calloused from hours of pressing down on bass strings, traced a slow line down the side of your neck. He caught the hem of your tank top, his knuckles brushing against the bare skin of your ribs, sending a violent shiver straight down your spine. He didn't pull the shirt off. Instead, he just bunched the soft fabric up in his fist, pulling it tight against your chest so the material strained over your breasts.
He leaned down, his eyes never leaving yours, and pressed his mouth to the hollow of your throat. He lingered there, his lips hot and damp, sucking gently on the sensitive skin until you let out a soft, shaky breath. Your hands instinctively flew right back into his hair, your fingers burying themselves deep, and you tugged on it just enough to let him know you needed more.
“Jermaine...” your voice came out as a breathless whisper, the bedroom amplifying every tiny sound.
“I got you, baby. Just relax,” he murmured against your skin.
His hand shifted from your waist, his palm sliding up over the strained cotton of your shirt until it cupped your breast. He squeezed gently, as though he was testing the weight of you, while a low moan caught in your throat, your hips instinctively jerking upward against his thigh.
He chuckled, a low rumble that you felt right against your chest. He liked the reaction. His hand kept squeezing, applying just enough pressure to make you ache, while his other hand moved down to the waistband of your shorts, his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of your lower belly.
Every single movement felt like it was happening in slow motion, dragging out the anticipation until you felt like you were going to lose your mind. He slid his hands inside the fabric, his warm palms cupping your hips, and slowly began to push the heavy fabric down over your thighs. You lifted your hips, helping him rid you of the shorts, until they were kicked off the edge of the bed, landing somewhere on the floor with a soft thud.
Now you were just in your top and your panties, completely at his mercy on the big, forbidden mattress. Jermaine shifted his weight, sitting back on his heels for a moment just to take you in. His eyes swept down your body, tracking the curve of your waist, the fullness of your hips, and the rich, dark tone of your skin contrasting beautifully against the pale floral sheets of your mother’s bed.
“Damn,” he breathed out, shaking his head slightly. “You are so fine. I swear, every time I look at you, it’s like the first time."
“Stop looking and come here,” you pleaded, reaching up for him. You were tired of the distance, and also tired of the slow torture.
Jermaine smiled, and crawled back up your body. But instead of kissing your lips, he leaned over your face, his long fingers gently capturing your chin. He looked down at your mouth, his eyes darkening to a near black shade.
“Open up for me, baby,” he whispered.
You parted your lips, expecting his mouth...or his spit, but instead, Jermaine slid his index and middle fingers into your mouth. The taste of him, the faint hint of the salt, and the smooth, warm texture of his skin against your tongue.
“Suck on 'em,” he commanded softly.
You wrapped your lips around his fingers, your tongue swirling around the digits, looking up at him through your eyelashes. Jermaine’s breath hitched, his jaw clenching tightly as he watched you. The sight of you taking his fingers into your mouth was doing a number on him. He began to slide his fingers in and out of your mouth in a slow, rhythmic motion, mimicking the very thing your body was crying out for down below.
While his left hand occupied your mouth, his right hand went back to your chest. He gripped your breast through the cropped top again, kneading the soft flesh with a hunger that was rapidly growing out of control. He used his thumb to flick against your nipple through the damp fabric, matching the rhythm of his fingers sliding between your lips. The dual stimulation was overwhelming. You couldn't help the muffled, needy sounds escaping around his fingers, your chest heaving as the friction built.
Jermaine pulled his fingers from your mouth, a glistening trail linking his hand to your lips. He didn't let the wetness go to waste. He brought that same hand straight down your body, tracing a line of fire down your sternum, past your belly button, and straight into the waistband of your underwear.
You let out a low moan against his neck as his warm, damp fingers slipped past the fabric, finding your slick pussy waiting for him.
“Oh, look at you,” Jermaine whispered, his voice incredibly close to your ear. “You're so wet for me already. And we ain't even started yet.”
“Jermaine, please,” you whispered, your head leaning back against the pillows.
He hummed, sliding one long finger inside of you, testing the waters. You arched your back, your fingers locking tightly into the sheets as your walls clamped around his finger. He was slow, so incredibly slow, sliding the length of his finger all the way in until his knuckles brushed against your sensitive flesh, then drawing it back out until just the tip remained.
“You like that?” he murmured, his breath hot against your cheek.
“Yes...oh, yes, Jermaine.”
He added a second finger, stretching you gently, broadening the ache inside your core. The rhythm he established was torturous. It wasn't fast; it was slow. He would push his fingers in, hold them there for a second while your pussy fluttered around them, and then slowly draw them out, only to do it all over again.
With every stroke, his other hand stayed busy on your chest, rubbing and squeezing your breasts through your shirt, pulling at the fabric until your nipples were hard and begging for direct contact. But he kept the shirt on, using the rougher texture of the cotton to create an entirely different kind of friction that was driving you insane.
You began to move your hips, trying to force a faster pace, trying to chase the climax that was dangling just out of reach. But Jermaine wouldn't let you dictate the speed. He moved his hand down from your boob and used his hand to press firmly against your hip bone, pinning you down to the mattress, keeping you trapped under his movement.
“Relax, baby,” he muttered softly, his fingers curling slightly inside of you, hitting a spot that made your mind go dumb. “I know, baby, I got you.”
He picked up the pace just a fraction, his long fingers sliding in and out of you with a wetter sound that filled the quiet spaces of the house.
“Mmm, Jermaine...” you groaned, your brows pulling together, your lip coming in between your teeth as you turned your head, your cheek pressing into the cool fabric of the pillowcase.
His thumb, which had been against your hip bone, shifted. He brought it right down, finding that tight, swollen little clit right at the top of your pussy, and pressed down. He started rubbing it in tight, heavy circles, completely matching the faster, deeper rhythm of his fingers sliding inside of you.
“Oh, shit,” you gasped out, your eyes flying open. Your hips bucked completely off the mattress, trying to force more of him inside, trying to grind right against thumb. Bitch, you loved it. You loved every single bit of it, and any remanence of trying to play it cool or keep your voice down went straight out the window. “Mmm...Maine, please...damn.”
Jermaine let out a low, satisfied chuckle against your neck when he heard his nickname drop from your lips in that tone. It did something to him. The control he’d been keeping this whole time started to slip, just a little bit. His fingers started moving even faster, bottoming out inside your slick walls, while his thumb kept up that beautiful friction on your clit.
Every single stroke was making you make noise, loud, needy sounds that echoed off the wood paneled walls. You were panting like a fucking dog, your chest heaving against the tight cotton of your top, your fingers moving up to clutch and pull at his hair like it was a lifeline. You were so slick, so completely undone by the way he was handling you, that you couldn't even think straight. The pleasure was pooling heavy in your lower belly, tightening up until it felt like a rubber band about to snap!
Jermaine had his chest pressing hard against your breasts, pinning you into the soft mattress. He brought his face right next to your ear, his breath coming in hot, ragged bursts that sent chills all over your skin.
“You want it?” he whispered, his deep and demanding, vibrating right against your ear canal. He gave a good push with his fingers, making your eyes roll back. “Tell me what you want, baby. You want this dick?”
Your mouth opened, but all that came out was a high, breathless whine. Your brain was completely fried. The feeling of his fingers stretching you while his thumb drove you crazy on that bundle of nerves was too much. You could barely even think of the words, let alone find the breath to say them.
"I can't...Maine, I can't-” you panted, your hips twitching beneath him.
Jermaine stopped his fingers completely, holding them deep inside of you, while his thumb stayed pressed firm and still right against your clit. The sudden stillness was absolute torture. Your walls throbbed around him, practically begging for the movement to start back up.
He tilted his head, his eyes locking onto yours with an unyielding stare. "Nah. Speak up, baby. Look at me and tell me. You want it or not?"
"Yes," you choked out, your voice cracking. "Yes, please, Jermaine...give it to me."
"Give you what?" he pushed, a wicked smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. He twitched his fingers inside you just enough to make you gasp. "Say it."
"The dick, Maine! Give me your dick, please," you cried out, completely helpless, abandoning every ounce of pride and dignity you had left.
Jermaine grinned, thoroughly satisfied with himself. But instead of doing what you begged for, he suddenly drew his fingers all the way out of you. The sudden absence of him made you let out a loud, frustrated groan, your hips dropping back onto the sheets in defeat.
Jermaine lifted his hand up between your faces. His fingers were glistening, completely soaked in your slick, wet juices, he slid his own fingers right into his mouth, his tongue licking them clean, his eyes locked dead on yours the entire time. He sucked on them slowly, tasting you, swallowing hard as his head tilted to the side slightly.
"Fuck," he muttered, drawing his fingers out of his mouth with a soft pop. "You taste so sweet, baby. Seriously. I don't even know whether I want to eat you or fuck you right now."
He leaned down, his large hands reaching down to capture the waistband of your panties. He dragged them down your legs and tossed them somewhere over the side of the bed, leaving you completely bare beneath him, aside from your shirt (no, he's not taking it off, he loves it). He slid back, his hands moving to the belt of his own pants, unbuckling before he pushed his pants and his briefs down his long legs, kicking them off until he was completely bare, too. He crawled back up the mattress, that heavy, thick dick brushing against your thigh.
He hovered over you, his chest glistening with a fine layer of sweat, his hands framing your head.
"I need your opinion, baby," he whispered, his eyes burning into yours as he nudged himself right against your wetness. "What should I do first? Hmm? You want me to use my mouth, or you want this dick inside you right now?"
"I want you to eat it," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Eat it...and then fuck me."
Jermaine’s jaw clenched. He didn't move an inch. He just kept himself pressed right against your wetness, letting you feel the weight of his dick.
"Eat what, baby?" he murmured. "You gotta say it. Eat what?"
You rolled your eyes, letting out a frustrated, needy groan as your head thrashed back against your mama’s pillows. He was doing this on purpose, driving you crazy with the word games when you were already on the absolute brink.
"Jermaineee, don't do this right now," you pleaded, your hands reaching up, trying to pull his head down, trying to force him to stop talking. "You know what I want. Eat my pussy. Please."
A satisfied smile spread across his lips at the words. "That's all you had to say," he whispered.
Jermaine slid his body down, his chest brushing against your bare stomach, his warm skin sliding against yours until he was positioned right between your wide open thighs. The contrast of the cool air hitting your wetness and then the sudden, searing heat of his breath hovering right over you made your entire body shudder.
He used his long, calloused fingers to grip the insides of your thighs, his large hands sinking into your flesh with a crushing force. He pinned your legs wide, holding you completely open, exposing every single bit of your slick, swollen pussy to his gaze.
Then, his tongue made contact, sliding a long, slow, wet stroke from the very bottom of your opening all the way up to that sensitive, jumping clit.
"Oh my god-" Your voice tore out of your throat, a loud cry that echoed off the bedroom walls.
It was too much. After what he had just done with his fingers, your nerve endings were so sensitized that the first touch of his tongue felt euphoric. He opened his mouth completely, burying his face right into your sex, his tongue swirling in wide circles that drenched you in his own saliva while gathering your slickness.
Your hands locked tightly into his afro, your fingers burying themselves deep into the curls, gripping his hair like a lifeline. You couldn't help it, your thighs instinctively clamped inward, trying to close around his head, trying to hold him right there so he couldn't ever pull away. Your muscles were tight, practically crushing his ears and his jaw between your legs, but Jermaine didn't care. He loved the desperation. He just dug his fingers deeper into your thighs, his grip bruising, keeping you anchored while his tongue worked in a relentless rhythm.
He started lapping at you faster, his tongue flattening out to give you the widest, heaviest pressure possible. Every single stroke was just so good, hitting your clit with a slick friction that had you losing your mind even more. You bit down on your bottom lip so hard you could taste the metallic tang of blood, trying to keep from screaming his name loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.
"Mmm...Maineee...fuckk..." The muffled sounds escaped past your teeth as your head tilted back, your eyes rolling in the back of your head.
The bedroom filled with the vivid, sounds of his mouth devouring you; the wet, slimy slaps of his tongue against your skin. He would slide his tongue deep inside your opening, stretching you with a thick, wet pressure, and then drag it back up to swirl relentlessly around your clit until your whole lower half was shaking uncontrollably.
Jermaine felt it but he didn't slow down and you couldn't hold it back anymore. A loud cry tore from your throat as your entire body went rigid, your hips bolting completely off your mother’s mattress. Your fingers cramped up with a white knuckle grip into his hair, pulling him desperately against you as you came, your internal muscles clamping down around nothing in involuntary waves. Jermaine stayed right there, buried deep in your pussy, lapping up every drop of your slickness as your body shuddered out the last of the release, his large hands still crushing your thighs to keep you wide open for him.
You were still catching your breath, your chest heaving violently and your head thrown back against the pillows, when he finally pulled away.
Jermaine dragged his long, bare body back up the mattress, sliding over you. He didn't give you a second to recover before he gripped your jaw with his hand, his fingers sinking into your cheeks, and brought his mouth down on yours in a kiss that was just straight up nasty.
There was nothing gentle or sweet about it whatsoever. Both of your mouths were practically wide open, tasting the intense, heavy mixture of your own slickness, and his saliva. It was a filthy, wet, consuming clash of lips, teeth, and tongues. You were sucking on his bottom lip so hard it felt like you wanted to swallow him whole, your tongues tangling and sliding against each other with a messy hunger. It was honestly disgusting how wild and unhinged the two of you were on those sheets that weren't yours, but you didn't give a damn. You wanted to crawl directly inside his skin, your hands scratching down his smooth, sweaty back, pulling his heavy chest flat against your breasts.
Jermaine groaned deep in his chest, the sound vibrating directly into your open mouth as he kept the kiss locked, refusing to break the connection for even a second to breathe.
While his mouth was keeping you completely consumed, his hips shifted between your legs. He guided his heavy length right to the opening of your dripping pussy. With one slow thrust, he buried himself all the way inside you.
The sudden, thick fullness of him made you let out a muffled whimper right into his mouth. The size of him stretching you out.
Jermaine broke the kiss just an inch, his eyes completely blown out. He looked down at you, his chest heaving as he held himself deep inside you, letting you feel every single inch of him, every fucking vein.
"Yeah," he murmured, his voice a rough, ragged whisper against your lips. "Gimme one more, baby, please."
He started to move, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, his hip bones knocking hard against yours with a fleshy thud. Jermaine was a moaning ass nigga when he really got into it, and now that he was inside you, he wasn't holding back a single sound. With every single deep thrust, a low, guttural grunt rolled out of his throat.
"Mmm...shit," he groaned, his head tossing back, his afro bouncing slightly with the rhythm as he drove himself deeper. "You feel so good, baby...fuck, you're so good."
You reached down, your palms sliding over the slick, sweaty curve of his lower back until your fingers dug deep into the firm flesh of his ass. You gripped him tight, your nails sinking in as you locked your legs even higher around his waist, pulling him down with everything you had left. You wanted him deeper. You wanted to erase every millimeter of space between you, your hips instinctively tilting upward to meet every single heavy down stroke.
"Fuck...baby," Jermaine let his whole weight settle against you, his breath hot and ragged against the side of your neck. "You're trying to take all of it...fuck...you- honey-!"
"Jermaine," you mewled, the friction building all over again, that intense, burning coil tightening in your stomach. After already coming once, your body was so sensitive that every slide of his skin against yours felt magnified, pushing you right back toward the edge. "Don't stop...right there...please."
"I ain't stopping," he breathed. He gripped the mattress on either side of your head, his arm muscles straining, as he focused entirely on breaking you down one more time.
You kept your grip on his ass, pulling him in, riding through the wave of heat until the tension snapped. You let out a muffled, breathless scream against his shoulder as your body clamped around him in tight, desperate pulses. Right there with you, Jermaine let out a long, heavy groan, his body going completely rigid as he buried himself all the way inside you, riding out his own release until you both were completely spent.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the loud, frantic thumping of two hearts and the ragged, desperate sound of you both trying to catch your breath. Jermaine collapsed heavily on top of you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving against yours. You couldn't even move your legs; they just kind of slithered down his sides, completely weak and shaking.
"Oh my god," you whispered to the ceiling, your voice completely shot.
"Mmm," was all Jermaine could manage, an exhausted vibration against your skin.
After about five minutes of just laying there, the fog in your brain finally started to clear, and reality came crashing back down like a bucket of ice water. You blinked, looking around the room. There was a visible wet spot right in the center of your mama's mattress.
"Jermaine," you said, your voice tight as you nudged his shoulder. "Jermaine, get up. Move. Look at this. Look at what you did." you had a visible scowl on your face.
He groaned, slowly lifting his head, his afro wild on one side from the pillows and your hands. "What you mean what I did? You were the one pulling me down, baby."
"I don't care! This is your fault! You brought your ass over here and completely corrupted me," you snapped at him making his jaw drop, though you were trying to keep your voice calm. Panic wasn't going to clean these sheets. You had to stay grounded to get out of this crime scene. "Look at my mama’s bed, Jermaine. If she smells...this...she will know. She has a nose for this kind of shit."
You shoved him off you, scrambling out of the bed. Your legs were still trembling, making you wobble for a second before you stabilized yourself. You looked at the damage and sighed, rubbing your temples. "This is fully your fault..."
Jermaine sat up, a sleepy, satisfied smile on his face as he watched you pace. "Alright, alright. My fault. What's the game plan, boss?"
"First, we are fixing this," you ordered, pointing a finger at him. "Then, we are getting in the shower because we both smell like sex."
You both stripped the bed completely, carrying the heavy floral sheets and the mattress pad down to the laundry room like you were hiding a body. You threw them into the washing machine with a double scoop of detergent and enough lavender fabric softener to choke a horse, setting it to the highest temperature possible.
Once the machine started chugging, you walked back upstairs to the bathroom. You turned on the shower, stripped, the steam was already rising, Jermaine stepped in ahead of you, wearing one of your shower cap, not really wanting to get his hair wet. You slid past the glass door, the hot water instantly hitting your aching muscles. It felt amazing, but you were still on high alert.
Jermaine stepped under the spray, letting the water slick down his back. He grabbed the bar of soap, working up a thick lather in his hands, and then stepped behind you. His large, warm palms smoothed over your shoulders, gently washing your back in slow, soothing circles. The tension in your neck started to melt away.
"You still mad at me?" he murmured close to your ear, leaning over to press a soft, wet peck to your shoulder.
"Yes," you grumbled. "You're crazy and I hate you."
You turned around, taking the soap from him. You worked up a lather and started washing his chest and his broad shoulders, your fingers tracing the smooth lines of his skin. He leaned down, catching your lips in a few sweet, lingering pecks and ou gave in and let it slide, simply because you couldn't bear to stay angry with him for the life of you.
By the time you both dried off and got dressed into clean clothes, your nerves had completely settled. You walked back into your mama's bedroom, and you knew standard cleaning wasn't going to cut it. The air still carried the faint, heavy memory of what had happened.
"Where's your mama's stash?" Jermaine asked, leaning against the doorway.
"In the hallway closet," you said, marching over to grab the bundle of sage your mama kept for "clearing out bad energy." Well, this wasn't bad energy, but it definitely needed to be cleared out.
You struck a match, lighting the end of the sage until it started to smoke, filling the room with that sharp, earthy, herbal scent. You walked around the entire perimeter of the bed, waving the smoke over the bare mattress, into the curtains, and around the headboard, chanting a silent prayer that your mother’s maternal instincts wouldn't pick up on a damn thing. Jermaine just watched you from the door, shaking his head with a quiet laugh.
"You really ain't playing," he teased.
"I like living, Jermaine."
Once the room was thoroughly smoked out and the fresh sheets were finally dried, you both made the bed back up perfectly; tucking the corners exactly the way your mama liked them, fluffing the pillows until they looked like they hadn't been touched in years.
Finally, you walked downstairs to the kitchen, feeling like the crisis had been averted. But the moment you stepped into the room, your jaw dropped.
Right on the counter was the pint of butter pecan ice cream. Open with the lid sitting next to it, and the ice cream had completely melted into a thick, soup like puddle, sticky cream dripping down the side of the counter.
You let out a massive, frustrated huff, turning to glare at Jermaine. "Are you serious right now? You left the fucking ice cream out!"
Jermaine looked at the puddle, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish grin. "My bad, baby. I guess I got a little distracted."
"Shit," you groaned, grabbing a rag to wipe up the sticky mess. You picked up the melted pint, popped the lid back on, and slammed it into the freezer, hoping it would miraculously resolve itself. "You are so annoying, I swear."
Jermaine laughed, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, pressing one last kiss to the side of your face. "I gotta get back before the guys realize I've been gone too long. You gonna be good?"
"Yeah," you sighed, leaning into him for a second. "I'm good. Go on before my parents magically appear."
The next afternoon, the quiet house was abruptly shattered by the sound of tires on the gravel driveway and the loud, chaotic voices of your siblings tumbling out of the station wagon. You were sitting on the living room couch, the magazine back in your lap, looking the picture of absolute innocence.
The front door burst open, your mama walking in first, carrying a cooler and looking thoroughly exhausted from a day with the extended family.
"Hey, baby," she said, dropping the cooler by the door and wiping her forehead. "How you feeling? Your stomach settle down?"
"Yeah, Mama," you said, putting on a faint, lingering tired smile. "I slept almost the whole time. Just started feeling better a few hours ago."
Your mama nodded, walking past the living room and heading up the stairs toward her bedroom to drop off her purse. You held your breath, your heart doing a sudden, violent flip in your chest. You sat perfectly still, waiting for her to tear into your ass.
A moment later, she walked back down, stopping at the bottom of the stairs, seeming to have sniff the air. She looked around, her eyes sweeping over the immaculate hallway and the open door of her room.
"Let me ask you something," she said, turning her gaze directly onto you. "Have you been in my room?"
Your stomach dropped into your shoes. Oh god, she knows, you thought, your mind racing through every possible excuse. The sheets. The mattress. The headboard.
"Oh, yeah," you said, keeping your voice completely level, forcing your face to remain totally cool. "I got so bored just sitting around after my fever broke that I decided to just clean the whole house. I dusted your room, swept, and threw some of your sage around because it was smelling a little dusty in there."
Your mama blinked, her expression softening into a pleased, surprised smile. "Well, bless your heart. I was about to say, it smells real good in there, and it looks cleaner than when I left. You did a good job, baby."
You let out a breath you felt like you’d been holding since yesterday afternoon, a smooth, innocent smile breaking across your face. "Thanks, Mama. Just wanted to help out."
"Mhmm. Well, I'm glad you're feeling better," she said, heading into the kitchen.
You leaned back against the couch cushions, closing your eyes as a wave of relief washed over you. You were definitely in the clear. But the next time Jermaine Jackson wanted to come over, you were absolutely staying in your own room.
summary ~ jermajesty and his gf impulsively marry young to prove their love is real, but the pressure of marriage quickly makes them feel trapped and misunderstood. how will they survive through the tribulations of each other?
includes ~ angst // glimpse of fluff // bf to husband jermajesty // gf to wife reader
a/n ~ based off the song ‘american wedding’ by frank ocean. i saw that @l0n3ly-st4rr wanted someone to do a fic based off of it, and i gained inspiration.
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You married Jermajesty in a place that smelled like old carpet, warm printer ink, and somebody else’s cheap vanilla perfume.
That was the first sign.
Not that either of you noticed.
At nineteen, love made bad omens look like decoration.
The chapel was tucked between a tax office and a twenty-four-hour diner, all glowing signs and plastic flowers in the window. There was a bell above the door that rang too loudly when Jermajesty pushed it open with one hand, your fingers locked in his other. You were still laughing when you stepped inside, breathless from running across the parking lot in shoes that were not meant for running, your hair half ruined from the wind coming through the car windows.
“This is insane,” you whispered.
Jermajesty looked at you like you had personally invented the word.
“Yeah.”
“You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“And you’re still smiling.”
“Because you’re still holding my hand.”
You looked down.
You were.
Tight enough that your knuckles ached.
The woman behind the front desk barely looked up from her computer when she asked if you had an appointment. Jermajesty said no with that calm confidence he had when he was doing something he had no business doing. You almost laughed again. Everything about him that night seemed softer around the edges, lit by adrenaline and the strange glow of being young enough to believe wanting something badly could make it wise.
You had not planned to get married.
Not really.
The night had started with a party in somebody’s too-large house, all music and spilled drinks and people pretending not to stare because Jermajesty Jackson had walked in with his arm around you. You had worn a little white dress because it was summer and hot and you liked the way he looked at you when you came down the stairs. He had told you that you looked like trouble. You had told him he looked like somebody’s mother was going to ask what his intentions were.
He said, “Good ones.”
You said, “Liar.”
He laughed into your neck.
By midnight, both of you were outside by the pool, away from the music, your feet in the water and his shoulder against yours. He had been quiet for a while. That always scared you a little. Jermajesty’s quiet was not empty. It was crowded. Full of things he had not decided whether he trusted the world with yet.
You had nudged him with your knee. “Where’d you go?”
He looked at you, eyes soft under the pool lights. “Nowhere.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Lie badly.”
A small smile touched his mouth. “I was thinking about you.”
“You say that when you want to get away with not answering.”
“I was.”
“Thinking what?”
He looked back at the water. “That I don’t like when people talk about us like we’re temporary.”
Your chest tightened.
You knew exactly what he meant.
People did that all the time.
Not always directly. Sometimes it was a joke. Sometimes it was a warning dressed up as concern. You’re both young. Don’t get too serious. Enjoy it while it lasts. First love feels like everything until life starts moving. Some people said it because they cared. Some people said it because they liked the idea of being right when things ended.
It bothered Jermajesty more than he admitted.
Maybe because too much of his life had been treated like it belonged to everybody else. His name. His family. His grief. His joy. His future. People projected things onto him before he had a chance to decide who he wanted to be. So when they looked at you and him like love was just another phase, another headline waiting for a different ending, he felt it.
You did too.
But you were better at pretending not to.
“People talk,” you said.
He looked at you. “You believe them?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
You hesitated.
That was your mistake.
His face changed.
“Hey.”
“I don’t believe them,” you said quickly.
“But?”
You pulled your feet from the water and wrapped your arms around your knees. “But I understand why they think it.”
He stared at you.
“We’re young,” you said. “And everything feels huge right now because we’re in it. But people don’t stay the same forever.”
“I’m not asking you to stay the same.”
“I know.”
“Then what?”
You looked at him, and the words came out softer than you meant them to. “I’m scared one day you’ll wake up and realize you loved me because I was here when you needed somebody.”
His expression went still.
“That’s what you think?”
“No.”
“It sounds like it.”
“I said I’m scared.”
“That’s different?”
“Yes.”
He looked away first, jaw tight.
You hated that. You hated how quickly the air between you could change when the truth got too close.
“I love you,” you said.
He nodded, still looking at the water. “I know.”
“Jermajesty.”
“I know.”
“You don’t sound like you know.”
He turned back to you then, and there was something almost desperate in his eyes.
“Then marry me.”
The words hit so suddenly you blinked.
“What?”
“Marry me.”
You laughed because you thought he had to be joking.
He did not laugh.
Your smile faded.
“You’re serious.”
“I am.”
“We’re at a party.”
“So?”
“You don’t propose because you’re upset at a pool party.”
“I’m not upset.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m serious.”
“You can be both.”
He reached for your hand. “I love you.”
“I know you do.”
“No, listen to me.” His fingers tightened around yours, not hard, just enough to make you feel how badly he needed you to stay in the moment with him. “I know we’re young. I know people think that means we don’t know anything. Maybe we don’t. But I know I love you. I know I don’t want to keep defending us like we’re waiting to disappear.”
“Marriage doesn’t prove we won’t.”
“No,” he said. “But it proves we chose each other.”
Your heart was beating too fast.
The music thudded through the patio doors behind you. Somewhere inside, people were laughing. The pool lights made his face look dreamlike, too beautiful to argue with, too sincere to dismiss.
“Jermajesty,” you whispered.
He brought your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles.
“Say yes.”
You should have told him to wait.
You should have said that love was not less real because it was patient. You should have asked what tomorrow looked like, and next month, and next year, and every morning after the adrenaline burned off. You should have reminded him that you could choose each other without turning the choice into paperwork under fluorescent lights.
Instead, you looked at the boy you loved, the one who always seemed to carry more than anyone his age should have to, and you mistook urgency for fate.
You said yes.
Now, sitting in the chapel lobby less than two hours later, you stared at the fake bouquet on the desk and tried to stop laughing.
“This is ugly,” you whispered.
Jermajesty looked offended. “It has character.”
“It has dust.”
“It’s vintage.”
“It’s plastic.”
“Vintage plastic.”
You covered your mouth, shoulders shaking.
He watched you like you were the whole reason the room had light in it.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“No, tell me.”
He shook his head.
“Tell me.”
His smile softened.
“You look happy.”
The laughter faded in your throat.
For a second, fear flickered.
You were happy.
That was the problem.
You were so happy you did not know where to put it. So happy it felt like standing on the edge of something with your eyes closed, trusting the fall because his hand was in yours. So happy you almost could not hear the small, careful voice in your head asking whether happiness was enough.
You squeezed his hand.
“I am.”
The ceremony took seven minutes.
Maybe less.
A man in a pale suit stood under an arch wrapped in fake ivy and asked if you understood the commitment you were making. You said yes because at nineteen, understanding felt like something you could decide to do later. Jermajesty’s voice shook on his vows, and that made yours shake too. There were no rings, so he slid a thin silver band from his pinky onto your finger. It was too big. You curled your hand into a fist to keep it from falling off.
When the officiant pronounced you married, Jermajesty kissed you like the world had finally stopped arguing.
You cried into the kiss.
He wiped your tears with both thumbs and laughed softly against your mouth.
“My wife,” he whispered.
The words rushed through you like a fever.
You held his face in your hands.
“My husband.”
He closed his eyes like hearing it hurt in the best way.
Outside, the parking lot was empty except for his car and a pickup truck with a dented bumper. The sky had gone dark and heavy. You stood under a flickering light while he opened the passenger door for you, still smiling like he could not believe you had done it.
You could not believe it either.
On the drive back, he kept your hand in his lap. The ring slid loosely around your finger every time the car turned. You watched the city blur past the window, glowing signs and gas stations and late-night traffic, all of it ordinary around the impossible thing you had just done.
At a red light, Jermajesty looked over at you.
“What?”
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
You looked at him.
He looked so young.
That was the first time you noticed it that night.
Not young as in immature. Not young as in incapable of love. Just young as in still becoming. Young as in there were so many versions of him he had not met yet, and now you had promised to belong to all of them.
He was looking at you like you were forever.
You were terrified he might be right.
“About how mad everybody’s going to be,” you said.
His smile faded a little.
“Let them be mad.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“It is easy.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Baby.”
“Your family is going to lose their minds.”
“They’ll get over it.”
“Mine won’t.”
He rubbed his thumb over your hand. “They love you.”
“That doesn’t mean they’ll understand this.”
“Do we need them to?”
You did not answer.
The light changed.
He drove on.
The first three days felt like a secret no one could touch.
You stayed in bed too late. You ate takeout on the floor of his room. You wore his shirt and the too-big ring on a chain around your neck because it kept slipping off your finger. Jermajesty called you his wife so often it started to feel less like a title and more like a spell.
Every time he said it, you smiled.
Every time you smiled, something in you ached.
Reality arrived slowly.
Then all at once.
Your mother cried on the phone, and not the happy kind. His family was shocked first, then quiet in a way that felt more dangerous than anger. Friends asked if you were pregnant. Strangers online, once they found out, were worse. People laughed. People romanticized it. People judged it. People called it impulsive, stupid, beautiful, doomed.
You told yourself none of that mattered.
Then you found yourself reading comments at two in the morning while Jermajesty slept beside you.
Some girl posted, They’ll be divorced before twenty-one.
You stared at it for a long time.
Then you locked your phone and cried silently in the bathroom.
Jermajesty found you sitting on the closed toilet seat, knees pulled to your chest.
“Baby?”
You wiped your face quickly. “I’m fine.”
He crouched in front of you.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like I can’t see you.”
You looked at him, and the concern in his face made you cry harder.
He pulled you into him right there on the bathroom floor, one hand in your hair, the other rubbing slow circles over your back.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“I read stuff.”
He went still.
“What stuff?”
“Comments.”
He cursed softly under his breath. “Why would you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
You hated when he knew you too well.
You pulled back. “They think we’re stupid.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
His face tightened, not with anger at you, but something close to helplessness.
“You can’t let people inside this.”
“They’re already inside it,” you said. “That’s the point.”
“No, they’re not.”
“Yes, they are. They were inside it before we even signed anything.”
He sat back slightly.
You could see him trying to understand.
You loved that about him.
You hated that you needed him to.
“People don’t just see us,” you said. “They see your name. Your family. Your age. My age. They see a story, and everybody wants to guess the ending.”
“Then let them guess wrong.”
“You say that like it doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It matters to me.”
His expression softened then, and that made the frustration worse.
“I’m not trying to dismiss you,” he said.
“I know.”
“I just don’t want them touching us.”
“They already are.”
He looked down.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then he reached for your hand and touched the ring on the chain around your neck.
“We know what this means.”
“Do we?”
His eyes lifted to yours.
The question hung there between you.
You had not meant to say it.
Not out loud.
Jermajesty’s hand dropped.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
You stood, needing distance. The bathroom suddenly felt too small, too bright, too full of toothpaste and towels and all the ordinary things that made marriage seem ridiculous.
“I mean we did this really fast.”
His face changed. “You regret it?”
“No.”
The answer came automatically.
Too fast.
He noticed.
Your stomach twisted.
“No,” you said again, softer. “I love you.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I don’t regret loving you.”
His jaw tightened.
The room went cold.
“That’s not what I asked either.”
You looked away, tears burning your eyes.
Jermajesty stood now. He was taller than you, but in that moment he looked small in a way that broke your heart. Like he was bracing himself for something and hated that he had to.
“Do you regret marrying me?” he asked.
You wanted to say no.
You wanted the word to come clean and easy.
But your silence answered first.
He stepped back like you had touched a bruise.
“Jermajesty.”
He shook his head once. “Don’t.”
“I don’t regret you.”
“That’s not enough.”
“I know.”
He laughed, but it sounded nothing like happiness.
“You know what’s crazy? Everybody said this would happen, and I kept telling myself they didn’t know us.”
“They don’t.”
“But you’re saying the same thing they are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re saying we made a mistake.”
“I’m saying maybe we were scared.”
His face flickered.
You continued, voice shaking, “Maybe we were so tired of people calling us temporary that we tried to make ourselves permanent before we even knew how.”
He stared at you.
The hurt in his eyes was unbearable.
“That’s what you think this was?”
“I think we love each other.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I think we love each other,” you said again, crying now. “And I think we were young and hurt and defensive and tired, and we turned a promise into proof.”
He looked away.
For a moment, the only sound was your breathing.
Then he nodded slowly, like something inside him had gone quiet.
“I need air,” he said.
Your chest panicked. “Wait.”
“I can’t be in here right now.”
“Please don’t leave like this.”
He stopped at the doorway but did not turn around.
His voice was low when he spoke.
“You already did.”
Then he walked out.
That was the first time marriage felt like something breakable.
After that, loving him became harder in the way beautiful things become harder when you are afraid to touch them wrong.
You still laughed together. Still kissed. Still fell asleep tangled up on nights when pride did not keep you apart. Still reached for each other instinctively in crowded rooms. Still texted dumb things throughout the day. Still knew what food to order for the other person without asking.
But the word wife started to feel different.
Sometimes it warmed you.
Sometimes it trapped air in your lungs.
You began to notice the expectations attached to it. How people asked you questions they had not asked before. Where are you two living? Are you thinking about kids someday? What does marriage feel like? Did it change things? People smiled when they asked, like they wanted a cute answer.
You learned to give one.
“It’s surreal,” you would say.
Jermajesty would look at you when you said it.
He always knew.
Months passed.
Then a year.
You turned twenty.
He turned twenty.
The ring still hung around your neck.
You had talked about resizing it at least six times.
You never did.
The worst fight happened in the kitchen of the small place you had started renting together, because you both decided you needed your own space if the marriage was going to feel real.
It was late. Rain tapped against the windows. Dinner had gone cold on the counter because neither of you had eaten after his aunt called and made a joke about babies.
A joke.
That was all it was supposed to be.
But you had gone quiet, and Jermajesty had noticed, and now both of you were standing on opposite sides of the kitchen like love was a court case.
“I didn’t make the joke,” he said.
“I know you didn’t.”
“Then why are you mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“You are. You’ve been mad since we left my mom’s house.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Stop saying that when you are.”
You pressed your palms against the counter. “Fine. I’m mad.”
“At me?”
“At all of it.”
His eyes narrowed with hurt. “All of it includes me.”
“That’s not fair.”
“You always say that when I’m right.”
You looked up sharply. “I say that when you make everything sound like I’m trying to hurt you.”
“Aren’t you?”
The question cut through the room.
You stared at him.
He looked shocked by his own words, but again, like always, he did not take them back.
You swallowed. “Is that really what you think?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“That I’m trying to hurt you?”
“I think you’re trying to get out without being the bad guy.”
The silence after that was brutal.
You felt the words hit, then settle.
Then the anger came, hot and sudden because it was easier than the heartbreak underneath.
“If I wanted out, I’d leave.”
“Would you?”
“Yes.”
“Or would you stay until I let go first so you don’t have to be the one who ends it?”
Your mouth parted.
Jermajesty’s eyes were bright now, but he did not cry. Not yet.
That made it worse.
“You think I want you to let go?” you asked.
“I think you want me to make it easy for you.”
“I married you.”
“You keep saying that like it proves you’re still here.”
“I am still here.”
“Are you?” His voice cracked on the last word. “Because half the time I feel like I’m living with somebody who’s already grieving the relationship.”
Your eyes filled.
You turned away quickly, but he saw.
Of course he saw.
His anger shifted immediately.
“Baby.”
“No.”
“Baby.”
“Don’t.”
You wiped your face with shaking hands.
“I don’t know how to do this,” you said, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to be married and still feel like myself. I don’t know how to love you this much and not feel like I gave my whole life away before I even got to live it.”
Jermajesty went still.
The rain kept tapping against the glass.
You looked at him then, and the words you had been avoiding for months finally came out.
“I think we did it too soon.”
He closed his eyes.
One tear slipped down his cheek.
You had seen Jermajesty cry before. Quietly, privately, almost angrily, like even sadness had to fight its way through him. But this was different. He did not hide it. He did not wipe it away. He just stood there and let the truth hurt him.
When he opened his eyes, he looked older.
Tired.
“So what now?” he asked.
You shook your head, crying harder. “I don’t know.”
“Do you want a divorce?”
The word made your body go cold.
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want us to go back.”
“We can’t.”
“I know.”
“You want to be my girlfriend again?”
The way he said it was not cruel.
That made it worse.
“I want to breathe,” you whispered.
He looked away, his jaw trembling once before he controlled it.
You hated yourself then.
Not because your feelings were wrong.
Because they were true.
And truth, you were learning, could be just as destructive as lies.
Jermajesty nodded slowly.
“Maybe you should.”
You stared at him. “What?”
“Breathe.”
“No.”
“You just said—”
“I didn’t mean away from you.”
“But maybe that’s what it takes.”
Panic rose in your chest. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Decide for me.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You always do this. You get hurt and then you try to be noble.”
His face tightened. “I’m not being noble.”
“Yes, you are. You’re about to let me go like it’s some big romantic sacrifice, and I hate that.”
“What do you want from me?” he snapped, finally losing the careful hold on his voice. “You don’t want to be married, but you don’t want to leave. You don’t want this life, but you don’t want to lose me. You want space, but not distance. You want me, but not what we became.”
You flinched.
His chest rose and fell.
Then, quieter, he said, “How am I supposed to hold that?”
Summary : Dex was doing just fine being the only prisoner in Enhanced Supervision Housing until they put you in the cell next door.
Pairing : DDBA!Benjamin Poindexter x mutant!reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : hurt/comfort! Meet cute at Rikers, prison isolation, mutant!reader, thermokinetic!reader (controls temperature, pyrokinesis and cryokinesis), restraint jacket/straitjacket, institutional neglect, arson and murder mention, Foggy’s death mentioned, blood, injury, prison break, guard death, violence, through-the-wall romance, hurt/comfort, first kiss, Set in DDBA S1, including part of the episode 8, where Dex uses his tooth to break out of prison. (let me know if I missed anything!)
Word Count : 6.3k
Notes : Need more mutant! reader in this fandom. The title is inspired by Impossible by Nothing but Thieves. Enjoy!
Dex had spent five months alone in Rikers’ brand-new Enhanced Supervision Housing after killing Foggy Nelson.
Of course, the city had decided that Benjamin Poindexter was not a man you put in general population, or solitary, or protective custody, or any other place built for your run-of-the-mill violent offenders. Apparently, if a person could kill his way out of most situations with a paperclip, a loose screw, or the edge of a dinner tray, the state had to start getting creative.
So they made a new building just for him and called it Enhanced Supervision Housing. ESH for short.
It was funny. As if calling what he could do an enhancement instead of a talent meant anything when they still fed him through a slot, restrained his hands before opening the door, and had three men with rifles posted behind reinforced glass every time he was escorted anywhere.
There were eight cells in ESH. Eight beautiful little boxes built with reinforced doors, observation panels, pressure sensors, thermal cameras, anti-ligature fixtures, shatterproof windows, and enough cameras to make privacy feel like a fairy tale told to a child.
Dex had seen the brochure when one of the guards had left paperwork too close to his cell during intake, and Dex had read it upside down through a reflection in the polished floor.
It was made for “high-risk enhanced detainees” with “special containment protocols” and “behavioural isolation.”
Cute.
The problem was, there were no other enhanced detainees. After all, not every day did somebody with a weird little gift or near-superhuman talent get arrested in New York. Not every day did someone land in Rikers with enough justification of being locked in a concrete aquarium, and half of them were in the supermax across the country, and the other half was in The Raft.
So it was just Dex.
Eight cells, seven empty. A whole hallway built for monsters, and only one monster inside it.
It was isolating, sure. But it was fine. There were worse places to be in the world. Maybe. Meh.
Rikers still had a rhythm. Even the ESH had one, if you were trapped long enough to learn it. He learned that the lights dimmed but never went fully off and guards passed every twelve minutes unless the night shift was bored, then every nine. The vents clicked twice before the air shifted temperature. Camera four made the smallest electric whine when it adjusted focus. Guard Velasquez dragged his left foot when he was tired and guard Miller breathed through his mouth and smelled like cheap coffee.
Dex knew all of it, and it helped with the silence creeping in sometimes.
The silence was the worst part, probably, not the restraints. Not even the meals so bland they felt punitive on a spiritual level.
This type of silence made his thoughts louder and made the walls seem closer at night, when he lay on the thin mattress with his hands folded over his stomach, staring at the ceiling like the ceiling might someday blink first.
Sometimes he thought about Foggy Nelson, but not in the way people probably wanted him to. He didn’t feel guilty; he did what he thought he had to do. He thought about that chapter in his life like a splinter under skin– impossible to forget without digging too deep and making it worse.
Sometimes he thought about Fisk. Sometimes he thought about his spine. Sometimes he thought about how easy it would be, if someone made one mistake.
Just one.
If someone would just accidentally give him the wrong set of cuffs. If a new guard would just be standing too close to the bars with his badge clipped to the wrong side of his belt.
But no one had made a mistake. Yet.
Then, in the middle of June, in the middle of the night, the hallway suddenly erupted.
The far door opened with a metallic groan, then another. Buzz. door one. Buzz. door two. Buzz. door three.
Eventually, boots flooded the corridor, and Dex counted twenty guards. Maybe more.
He could hear the metallic clangs of rifles and the plastic bounce of shields as static popping over radios. A guard whispered., “Keep moving,” like whatever they were escorting might change its mind if they hesitated.
Dex sat up.
The lights snapped brighter overhead, white and ugly, turning his cell blind at the edges.
He didn't move to the door. He stayed on the bed, head tilted slightly, listening.
There was a slightly smaller set footsteps beneath all the others.
This one must be the prisoner. It dragged, but not fighting. Perhaps this person was sedated? No. There was a little bit of struggle. Maybe they weren’t sedated enough. Whoever it was kept resisting the pace without ever fully stopping.
Metal clinked as someone cursed under their breath.
Then came a sound like fabric straining, and he could tell it was heavy fabric. Then, he heard thick restraints being adjusted. Not ordinary cuffs, and definitely not a chain.
Dex tilted his head. Interesting.
The procession stopped in front of the cell next to his.
The guards shifted around the door, blocking his view through the narrow panel in his own cell. He caught pieces of you, though nothing whole. He could see a bit of your hair, and the corner of something white and reinforced strapped across your torso. Your rikers-issued shoes were planted firmly against the floor, like you were refusing to be placed anywhere by anyone.
One of the guards knocked twice on Dex’s door with his baton. “Got a neighbor now, Poindexter.”
Dex looked at him.
The guard smiled like he’d said something funny, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. In fact, none of them looked relaxed.
Tonight, they were not afraid of Dex. They were afraid of you.
The door to Cell Two opened and they moved you inside.
You didn't scream, threaten, or beg, even if you were half-awake.
Weird, Dex thought, people usually did one of the three when they arrived in a place like this.
You were shoved past the threshold in silence, and the guards backed out fast. The door shut with a brutal final sound, locks engaging one after another, heavy and layered and unnecessarily dramatic. A guard gave an all-clear over the radio. Another laughed once, shakily, then stopped abruptly when nobody joined in.
Dex stayed very still as the guards filed out, one by one, until the hallway swallowed their footsteps one by one.
Eight cells, two occupied.
For the first time in five months, Dex was not alone.
He waited for you to make a sound, but he couldn't hear any noise, not even crying from the next cell. You weren’t pacing, like he did on the first night, and you barely even rattled whatever restraints they put on you. Most notable, you didn’t even attempt to make contact through the wall.
Dex stared at the wall between his cell and yours: solid concrete, thick enough that he shouldn't have been able to feel anything through it.
He did, though he didn’t know how to explain it. The only measurable metric was that somehow the room had felt cooler than it had been an hour ago.
He lay back down eventually.
From the other side of the wall, you still said nothing, no sound at all except the occasional shift of fabric and once, very quietly, an exhale through your teeth.
Dex almost smiled. That’s when he saw the window.
At first, he thought the glass had caught the overhead light strangely. ESH windows were narrow, reinforced slits. You could see a suggestion of the sky if you stood at the right angle, but mostly you saw the garden roses and your own reflection staring back like a bad idea.
Tonight, the glass was… clouding.
What?
Dex sat up again.
A thin white film crept across the corner of the window, delicate and pretty. Tiny veins of frost branching outward in lacy patterns, spreading over reinforced glass that had no reason to be cold.
Why was his window frosting up in the middle of summer?
—
For the first couple of days, Dex assumed you were asleep. Or unconscious. Or dead.
It was hard to tell with the wall between you and him. Still, the guards checked on you often enough that he knew you must technically be alive, but they did it through the panel, never through the door unless there were at least six of them and one of them had the long black shock baton they liked pretending it was not a weapon.
Dex had seen criminals arrive angry. During his time in the bureau, he had seen them arrive screaming, pleading, spitting, promising lawsuits, promising revenge, promising innocence. He had seen prisoners break under silence in twelve hours and start telling the ceiling their childhood nicknames.
You did none of that. In fact, you barely moved.
That was the strangest part, not the frost, not even the straitjacket, which was still interesting in a funny way to him, because they had Dex’s hands restrained any time they opened his door like he was going to start flicking femurs through skulls, but you must be special. After all, you had arrived wrapped up like a badly behaved present.
By the second day, he started actively listening for you.
It was pathetic, maybe, but there were very few things to do in Enhanced Supervision Housing besides become intimately familiar with the sound of your own breathing and develop opinions about fluorescent lights, so a new person on the other side of the wall was not nothing.
You shifted sometimes, when he heard a small scrape of fabric against concrete. He could hear the faint clink from whatever additional restraints they had attached to the jacket. Once, your head hit the wall with a dull little thud, and Dex turned his face toward the sound before he could stop himself.
Then… nothing. Nothing but a drag of breath through your nose.
The guards did not like you either, that became obvious pretty quickly.
They liked Dex, in a way. Obviously, they didn’t like him as a person, they were not stupid. But they understood him. They had made a little mental box for him: former FBI agent turned murderer. They had rules: keep your distance, keep his hands restrained, do not let him near anything that he could throw.
You, they did not understand.
They approached your cell like prey approaching a sleeping animal in the wrong enclosure.
On the third morning, one of them brought your breakfast and stood too close to the slot.
Dex heard a soft crackle before the guard even reacted. Then the man swore and stumbled back. “What the fuck—”
“Don’t put your hand in,” another guard snapped.
“I didn’t put my hand in!”
“Then stop whining.”
“She froze my fucking fingers, man!”
Dex sat on his mattress, elbows on his knees, staring at the wall. Interesting.
Your cell stayed silent and the breakfast tray was shoved in with much less dignity after that.
Nobody asked if you were hungry. Nobody asked if you were hurt. Nobody asked if you needed the jacket loosened, even though Dex could hear the shallow and held in breath, clearly struggling for air half the time. It was as if the straps cut across your ribs and you were trying not to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing it bothered you.
By the fourth day, Dex had decided you were either extremely disciplined or extremely broken. Possibly both.
He had also decided that the silence was annoying. This was unfair, because he had hated the silence before you arrived, and now that the silence had another person inside it, he hated it more.
He tried not to care, but that only lasted until evening.
A guard walked past and muttered, “Crazy bitch still hasn’t said a word.”
Dex’s head lifted.
The guard kept walking, probably feeling very brave because there were reinforced doors and rifles between him and the consequences of being stupid.
Dex watched him go. He didn’t say anything, and neither did you.
The night after that, the frost came back, but not just on Dex’s window this time. They were crawling up the walls.
It crept from the seam where the concrete met the floor, thin and white under the dimmed lights. At first, he thought it was moisture, a product of bad ventilation and Rikers being Rikers. Then the frost branched, crawling in little veins across the wall between your cells.
Dex got up and walked over, putting two fingers against the concrete. It was painfully cold.
On the other side of the wall, you breathed out, and frost thickened under his fingers.
Dex almost knocked. That felt ridiculous.
What was he going to do? Tap his knuckles against reinforced concrete and ask the stranger in the murder-prison next door if she was making the building colder because she was sad?
No. So he went back to bed, but did not sleep.
By day five, the guards had stopped pretending this was normal.
Maintenance came in wearing insulated gloves, and even gave Dex a thicker orange jumpsuit, even though he never minded the cold. They took temperature readings in the hallway, checked the vents, checked the windows. They argued about condensation. One of them said it was probably a system fault, and then immediately shut up when a thin line of ice crawled over his boot.
Dex enjoyed that a lot, actually. It was the first entertainment he’d had in months.
By the fifth night, Dex woke up to snow.
At first, he thought it was dust falling from the ceiling. But then a single cold snowflake landed on his cheek.
Dex blinked.
For a moment, he lay very still, staring up at the ceiling where tiny white flakes drifted down from nowhere. Another landed on his chest. Then another. Soon there were dozens, small, delicate, almost shy.
Dex sat up slowly.
The floor was beginning to powder white. His blanket had caught a fine layer of it. The air was cold enough now that his breath was visible.
He looked toward the wall, and for the first time in five days, he spoke to you. “You doing this, neighbor?”
Nothing but silence.
Dex waited.
The hallway outside was quiet, which meant either the guards had not noticed yet or they were all standing very still pretending they had not noticed yet. Dex watched snow gather on the toes of his prison-issued socks.
Then, from the other side of the wall, there was the faintest shift.
And then your voice, rough from disuse. You sounded almost… bored. “...mmhm.”
Dex’s mouth curved up. Ah. She speaks.
He leaned back against the wall, feeling the cold bite through the cotton of his shirt. “Should I be concerned?”
Then, barely louder than before, you said, “Probably.”
Dex laughed once under his breath.
His own sound surprised him, because it sounded wrong in the cell. Too human then he had ever been.
The snow kept drifting down. It should have made him uneasy. It should have made him think about containment failures and emergency protocols and what the guards might do if the whole unit iced over. Instead, Dex sat there with his shoulder pressed to the wall between you, watching winter collect in his lap.
“Good to know,” he said.
You didn’t answer. But a few seconds later, the snow slowed down.
—
After that, Dex learned how to read you. It was not subtle, once he understood what he was looking at.
When you were sad, you were cold so it made sense that in the first month, it snowed almost every day.
You barely spoke during those days, you barely even moved.
The guards asked questions through your door and received nothing but silence. The nurses came by with clipboards, asking if you had eaten, if you were injured, if you needed medical attention, if you understood where you were. You gave them nothing.
Sometimes, actual ice sealed your food slot shut. Snow collected in the corners of Dex’s cell.
His blanket went damp and cold and his breath fogged when he sat up. Even the guards stopped making jokes when they passed Cell Two because nobody wanted to laugh in a place that had started to feel like a morgue.
Dex sat with his back to the wall and listened. That was all there was to do: listen and wait for proof that you were still in there.
Then, eventually, the cold would begin to cease.
The frost on his window would sweat and snow would melt into silver lines down the concrete. The air would warm by a degree, then another, like your body was remembering that it was summer.
And then, and only then, you would speak. “Neighbor?”
His eyes opened in the dark. “What?”
You inhaled, as if you had been thinking about this for days. “Do you think they’d let me have a hairbrush?”
Dex stared at the ceiling. “No.”
You were quiet for the rest of the night, but the cells suddenly became as warm as a hug, as if someone had reminded you that human connections were possible.
Then, the next day, you called out again. “Poindexter, right?”
“Mm,” he replied.
You paused, as if considering whether or not the question was stupid, but said it anyway. “Do you think pigeons know they’re ugly?”
Dex blinked. “I don’t think pigeons care.”
“Good for them.”
Then, a few hours later, after hearing a prison guard during dinner time call you this, you said, “Dex.”
The name came too naturally from your mouth for someone who had never said it before.
He turned his head toward the wall. “What?”
“I have an itch.”
He waited. You said nothing else.
“Okay.” he finally said.
“I’m in a restraint jacket.”
“I figured.”
“It’s under my shoulder blade.”
“That sounds inconvenient.”
“It is,” you sounded very, very annoyed.
The room heated so fast it made the steel bars creak.
Dex smiled into the dark.
You were quiet a moment longer, then said, “They keep calling it that.”
“What?”
“A restraint jacket.”
“That’s what it is.”
“No,” you said. “It’s a straitjacket.They just call it a “fireproof restraint jacket” because that sounds nicer with the taxpayers, and straitjacket makes me sound like I’m supposed to be in a basement eating wallpaper.”
Fireproof, huh?
Dex found your comparison amusing and laughed under his breath. “You’d prefer that?”
The wall warmed. You heard him. He knew you did, because the warmth stayed.
“At least it’s not an inhibitor collar,” you muttered finally.
Dex went still. “They have those?”
“Not anymore,” you said, though Dex didn’t ask for any clarifications that day.
For a while he stared out quietly.
After a moment, you asked, “Are you in one?”
“An inhibitor collar?”
“A straitjacket, genius.”
“No.”
The temperature dropped, but only in a small enough increment. “You’re not in a straitjacket?”
“No.”
“That is so fucked up.”
Dex closed his eyes. “Is it?”
“Yes,” you scoffed, “What makes you so special?”
“I don’t know.”
“This is discrimination.”
Dex, who couldn’t miss if he wanted to, looked around to see nothing in his cell that he could throw or ricochet with. And if he was imagining you right, your hands must be the main conduit to your power. You didn’t need an object to break out if your hands were free. “I don’t think that’s what that is.”
“It is to me.”
After that, you told him your name. You said it at two in the morning, half-muffled through concrete, like it had slipped out by accident.
Dex repeated it once.
The heat that bloomed through the wall felt almost shy.
After that, Dex started sleeping with his shoulder closer to your side of the cell, though he told himself it meant nothing: The bed was narrow and the room was small, that’s all. There were only so many places to put a body inside a box. But every night, somehow, he ended up turning toward you, listening for your breathing through concrete like it was the only sound in Rikers that mattered.
And when you went quiet for a bit too long, Dex would listen in, panic blooming, and it would not calm until you shifted or sighed or muttered something ridiculous about prison oatmeal, and then he could breathe again like an idiot.
That was when he understood the other half of you.
When you were in a good enough mood, your powers weren’t icy anymore. You’d run hot.
The first time it really hit him, Dex woke up sweating with his shirt clinging to his back. The window was fogged over and the snow had vanished completely, and the whole cell felt damp and tropical, like a greenhouse in Rikers.
And you were talking. God, you were talking.
You were talking your ass off, giving him whole floods of thought, fast and impossible to hold still.
“Do you think they built this place because of you specifically,” you asked once you realised your rambles had shook him awake, voice bright through the wall, “or do you think someone made a budget request years ago and then got really excited when you gave them a reason?”
Dex looked to the wall. You didn’t wait for an answer.
“Because eight cells is very ambitious. Someone must’ve sat in a meeting going, no, trust me, we are going to have so many enhanced criminals. And then it was just you for like, half a year.”
Dex sat up, and the air was even warmer.
On the other side of the wall, you shifted in the jacket, fabric rasping hard against concrete.
“Also, do you think enhanced is offensive? I can’t decide. It feels offensive. Like I didn’t ask to be labelled like a skincare serum.”
Dex’s mouth twitched up a little. “You done?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“I also think the eggs are powdered.”
“They are.”
“I knew it.”
Then you laughed, and it was a half-controlled laugh this time, wild around the edges. The temperature in Dex’s cell jumped so fast it felt like someone had opened an oven door.
Dex now knew how your powers worked: when you were kinda sad, things frosted over. When you could barely move, it snowed.
Good mood meant warmth. Full manic meant tropical.
It was ridiculous and fascinating all the same. Sometimes, the whole unit went damp and sticky, other times the reinforced windows fogged over, the walls sweating like the building was nervous.
Eventually, it got warmer and warmer, and you would be pacing, five steps one way, five steps back, talking out of your ass like language had become a pressure valve.
You talked about everything. The guards’ schedules, the ceiling tiles, how ugly prison socks were, whether corporations should be burned down in alphabetical order or by severity of moral failure.
Dex listened to all of it.
He learned of who you were without ever seeing your face. He knew when you were smiling because the wall warmed before your voice changed. He knew when you were pretending not to cry because the frost came fast, like you were trying to hide it and failed anyway. He knew the difference between your tired silence, your angry silence, your sad silence, your plotting silence. So he knew you.
And you knew him, too, in ways no one alive had earned before. You knew when his guards had pissed him off before he said anything. You knew when his spine hurt from the way he breathed through his teeth. Once, when he had gone too silent, you knocked your forehead lightly against the wall and said, “Dex, don’t go wherever your mind just went.” He had stared at the concrete for a long time after that, because nobody had ever come looking for him inside his own head before.
That's why, when you talked, he listened.
Some of it was nonsense. Some of it was clever. Some of it was both. You talked like someone sprinting downhill with no interest in stopping, fast and too amused by terrible things. You even told him what you did: apparently you burned down a warehouse and office of a company called Meridian Dynamics. They made suppression tech: Inhibitor collars, cuffs, injectables, sold to prisons and private security. Apparently, you planned to burn the building down during a very important board meeting, which resulted in your two counts of arson and twenty four counts of murder.
And, inevitably, you started talking about escape.
“I’m getting out,” you told Dex one night.
He was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, sweat dampening his collar. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You can’t burn through reinforced doors.”
“I could if I had my hands.”
Dex looked down at his own, free, for now. He was still dangerous. His hands had always been the part of him people watched first, the part they feared, the part they restrained before opening any door.
He understood, suddenly, the cruelty of having your body treated like a weapon even when you were just sitting there, breathing.
You shifted in the jacket, and the fabric rasped like it hurt.
“Obviously,” you said, trying for lightness and missing by inches, “I don’t have them.”
Dex stared at the wall. For once, he did not know what to say.
You laughed, but it came out thin. “I can feel them. That’s the worst part. They’re right there. I just can’t use them.”
The heat dimmed.
“That why you keep talking about chewing through your jacket?”
You shrugged, though it hurt. “Maybe.”
“You’ll break your teeth.”
“You care about my teeth?”
“I care about not listening to you complain.”
“You care.”
He should have denied it, but he didn’t.
Dex had spent his entire life understanding attachment as a liability, something people could weaponize until he became useful or pathetic or both. But with you on the other side of the wall, this attachment didn’t feel temporary. It was clear in the way he measured his nights by whether you spoke. He had an ache of wanting to see your face and being terrified that if he did, it would only make this feeling worse.
The silence stretched, warmer than it should have been. Then you said, very quietly, “I don’t think I could actually chew through it.”
“No,” Dex said. “Probably not.”
“I still might try.”
“Don’t.”
That made you laugh for real. The wall warmed beneath his palm. For a moment, it was almost gentle.
One night, after hours of heat and pacing and a long speech about how prison architecture lacked imagination, you went suddenly quiet.
Dex waited.
The wall was warm against his shoulder. Then you whispered, “Dex?”
“What?”
“Do you think I’m going to be like this forever?”
Dex looked at the concrete between you, at the damp shine where the heat had melted old frost.
“No,” he answered.
It was the closest thing to a promise he could make through a wall. He wanted to say more, but everything else felt too fake.
He didn’t know why, but he had the urge to tell you that you were not an object or a containment problem. He wanted to tell you that if the world had built eight cells for monsters, then fine, let the world call him one, because he had found you in the next cage over and suddenly the world didn’t feel so lonely anymore.
Instead, Dex pressed his palm flat to the wall.
A second later, warmth bloomed under his hand. Not enough to burn, but enough to meet him.
—
Dex getting moved to general population should have made him think about the Fisks.
It should have made him think about the obvious thing first, which was that Vanessa Fisk wanted him dead.
Being moved to genpop was not a transfer. To him, a former FBI agent in a room full of convicts who has also pissed people off by working for the Kingpin, it was a death sentence. Genpop was a fancy term for a room full of men, any one of them purchasable, any one of them stupid or desperate enough to try him with a sharpened toothbrush, a melted piece of plastic, a hand around his throat in the showers.
But when the guards dragged him out of ESH when you were asleep in your cell, that was not what Dex thought about.
He thought, with a sudden, sick clarity, that you were going to be alone.
You would be alone like he had been alone for five months, rotting in a hallway built for people the world didn’t know how to categorize.
Alone with no one but the guards who would never understood your moods.
So he called Matt and offered him a lifeline: tell him who hired him to kill Foggy Nelson in exchange for freedom.
Of course he didn’t think Matt would forgive him. But Matt had believed in the law. And mercy too, whether he wanted it or not. Dex needed both, and hated needing both, and hated more that he was not even asking just for himself.
Need sat wrong in his head. It had always felt like weakness or an exposed artery, as if anyone could just hook a finger into and pull. Needing Matt Murdock was bad enough. Needing Matt Murdock for you was humiliating in a way that Dex didn’t have vocabulary for, because it meant there was something in the world he could not take, kill, steal, or aim to fix.
See, he wanted an appeal for you, too. He had this whole speech of how in another life, Matt would defend him. About isn’t that what good men do? Defend their worst enemies? About I’m bargaining for our life here, counsellor.
Our life. Not mine. Ours.
“Oh,” Matt said. “That’s what this is.”
Dex said nothing.
“So fell in love in prison?” Matt said sarcastically. “Sweetheart, what do you want me to do? Want me to get a couple of murderers out of prison, want me to get an appeal?”
Dex didn’t answer, because answering would have made it sound too… juvenile.
Love was not a strong enough word for a woman he had only known through a concrete wall and had fallen for anyway. It was not right for experiencing snow in a prison cell, or feeling heat through the wall, or your voice talking nonsense at three in the morning. It was not right for the way he had started sleeping closer to your side of the room.
Matt saw enough of it anyway, and maybe that’s why he had a glimmer of sympathy. Maybe it was disgust. Maybe he thought again of Foggy, and before he knew it, Matt was slamming his head on the metal table.
Dex barely had time to register it before pain flared through his mouth and his head snapped hard enough against the metal that the room flashed white, blood filling his mouth.
Then, he felt something small and hard come loose against his tongue.
A tooth.
A projectile.
“Thank you, counsellor,” he smiled.
The guards pulled Dex back, and he let them haul him away, head bowed, blood dripping down his lip, the tooth hidden carefully.
Killing the doctor and the guard was child’s play after that. Navigating the prison with the dead guard’s badge was even easier.
He would break out and kill Fisk in his black and white ball. But for now, he had something else to do in this hell hole.
He wouldn’t escape without you.
Dex moved through Rikers with blood still drying at the corner of his mouth.
When he reached ESH, he killed the two stationed guards with medical tools stolen from the infirmary.
And when he got in, the hallway was frozen.
Ice crawled over the floor in white veins. Frost had swallowed the observation glass. Snow had gathered in the corners like the building had been abandoned for winter. Your food tray sat untouched outside the slot because the mechanism had sealed shut.
Dex stopped outside Cell Two and looked through the narrow panel.
This was the first time that Dex ever really saw you.
He had seen flashes between guards, maybe a reflection from one of the guard’s shields during training drills.
You were curled on the floor in the fireproof straitjacket, knees drawn up as much as the restraints allowed, cheek resting against the concrete. Your hair was messy. Your lips were discolored from the cold, frost clinging to your lashes like a lifeline, delicate as glitter, cruel as evidence.
You looked… smaller than he had imagined, but no less beautiful.
He had built you in his head as strong as weather, a voice bright enough to make lights flicker. But through the glass, you were just a girl in a white straitjacket, cold and alone and trying not to disappear.
Dex pressed his bloody hand to the door.
He looked at the jacket and the lock and and thought of every hand that had put you in there and every person who had looked at you like you were a weapon before you were a human being.
He broke the door open with the stolen keycard first.
When the door gave out, the cold rushed out around him.
You stirred, eyes opening slowly.
For one second, you only stared at him like he couldn’t possibly be real. Like maybe the cold had finally started making things up for you.
Then the frost nearest his feet began to melt.
“Dex?”
You looked confused. As if it was a guess.
That's when you realised… you had never really seen him, either.
He nodded, stepping inside.
Snow fell between you, unnatural and absurd beneath the fluorescent lights. Your eyes moved over his face to the blood on his mouth and the stitches on his forehead. You knew him, finally, after months of knowing him only as a voice through concrete.
Your voice sounded broken. “Is that what you look like?”
Dex almost smiled, thrilled that you looked anything but disappointed. “Yeah.”
You blinked at him, dazed and trying very hard to make your mouth curve up like this was funny. Like you had not been left alone, and that loneliness without him had turned the building into a snowy wasteland.
He crouched in front of you.
For the first time, there was no wall between you.
Dex reached for the straps.
You flinched, but not because you were afraid of him, but because the last person who reached for the jacket had touched you like you were an object, and you had burned him by accident, and then they had hurt you for it.
Dex saw all of that cross your faces so he stopped.
His hands hovered over the buckles.
“I’m taking it off,” he said, “that’s all.”
You looked at him, considering your choices. Then, just a little, you nodded.
Dex broke the first strap, the fabric strained under his grip before giving in with a harsh snap. The sound echoed through the frozen cell. Your breath caught, and his eyes flicked back to yours immediately, checking if you were okay.
You were.
So he broke the next one.
Then the next.
Each strap breaking felt personal, and each piece tearing loose felt like he was taking something back from everyone who had decided your hands were too dangerous to belong to yourself.
When the last strap snapped, the jacket loosened.
Then your arms slipped free. You did so slowly, like you had forgotten they were ever yours.
Your hands trembled in your lap.
Dex looked at them.
So did you.
You had not seen them for months.
The snow thinned at first, then eventually, it stopped, the last few flakes drifting down and melting before they touched the floor. Warmth bloomed from you in a fragile little wave.
This time, it wasn’t manic heat. Instead it was warmth, like spring breaking after a cold winter.
You lifted one hand carefully, almost shyly, and the first thing you did was touch the scar on Dex’s face.
He went perfectly still.
You brushed the blood at the corner of his mouth with your thumb, your eyes furrowing.
“You came back,” you whispered, which, to Dex translated to: I thought you left me forever.
Dex leaned into your touch before he could stop himself. “Yeah.”
There were alarms somewhere in the distance, but ESH was far away, out of security. It would take them a while to get here. And by the time they did, it would’ve been too late.
Dex didn’t move. Neither did you.
Then your fingers curled lightly against his chin, and before he could think better of it, Dex bent forward and kissed you.
It was small, nothing but a brush of his mouth against yours, warm and bloody from the missing teeth.
You froze for half a second before you kissed him back.
You were sweet and a little clumsy, because your arms were stiff and your hands were shaking and neither of you had any business being tender in a prison cell full of evidence of your sadness and isolation.
When he pulled back, you stared at him.
The frost on the walls ran down in thin silver lines.
Then you smiled, sheepish and dazed, like you were embarrassed by your own warming heart.
“I’ve always wanted to do that,” you admitted.
Dex looked at you and he had no answer.
The ruined straitjacket was still in his hands, your fingertips still against his face, and the warmth of your lips lingering on his mouth.
Outside, the prison began to panic. Inside, you smiled at him like he had brought summer with him.
And Dex, who had spent five months alone in a place built for monsters, thought there was no better reason to become one again.
—end.
Extra note: I reread this before posting and realised I may have accidentally written reader as bipolar-coded, which is very me😭😭😭 I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder around a decade ago, and it’s manageable now, but this fic ended up feeling way more personal than I expected. This is the first time I’ve ever written mood disorder x mood disorder so I hope I did alright. So please be kind with this one. She’s special to me 🫶
Please send in an ask or message if you want to be added to the dex general / series specific taglist! Comments get lost sometimes! Let me know if I missed anyone!
notes secret baby, second chance romance, mentions of contraceptives, cutest toddler in the world (neteyam’s fictional babies are always the cutest), grovelling, jealous and yearning neteyam as per usual🙏🏻, neteyam creating his own problems by overthinking, smut (p in v), oral (f&m receiving), [no, she’s not mated]
synopsis the war against the sky people had taken everything from neteyam. he never thought he’d had the chance to be with you again... but now that he’s back, he’s willing to everything to get you back. there’s only one hiccup... you are mated and a mother now.
word count 22.5k
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You stared at Neteyam, your arms crossed and your trembling hands brushing the cold away from your skin as you desperately tried to catch the gaze he refused to give you.
“Neteyam, we don’t really need to end this,” you pleaded, your voice cracking under the weight of impending abandonment. “I can wait for you, however long, I will be just here. I can even visit you in Awa’atlu and be with you, I can—”
“Do you think war is a game?“ he cut you off, his voice sharp and cold. He snapped his head toward you, his golden eyes narrowed into a hard, unfeeling look. “And visit me how? The RDA kills anyone on sight these days, so how do you think you can fly to Awa’atlu and not be killed?”
He clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached, fighting with every ounce of his strength to keep his face from crumpling. Seeing you stand there, so small, so frightened, and so utterly devastated by his sudden cruelty, was tearing his soul apart. I love you. I love you so much, his mind screamed. He wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms and tell you he was just joking, that he was not really mad, but he had to do this, for you. So he could live with himself knowing that what could happen to him in the war will not hurt you as much as it would if he allowed you to hope.
He needed you to hate him. He needed you to move on and let go of him. He did not want you to wait for nothing if he ended up dead in the war, because the thought of you wasting your youth mourning a ghost was a fate worse than Eywa's judgment.
So, he delivered the final blow, letting the venom drip from his tongue.
“And who's to say I won't meet a Metkayina woman I would want to actually mate and settle down with?” He said, watching you rear your head back as if you had been slapped. “We’re not... that serious, Y/N. Surely you know that? You're not really thinking that I would like to keep you knowing that there is more to life than here, do you?”
Your breath hitched, staggering a step backward, the words striking you like a physical blow to the gut. Hot tears pooled in your eyes, blurring the silhouette of the man you had given your heart to.
“Why are you being so mean?” You let out a breathless, desperate laugh, trying to play it off as a misunderstanding, but the illusion shattered as the first tear spilled over your cheek.
Neteyam didn't respond. He balled his hands into tight fists, his claws digging painfully into his palms to stop himself from reaching for you. I love you so much, baby. I love you so much.
“Do you mean that?” you asked in a small, fragile voice when he didn’t respond. Your lower lip quivered, and the sight nearly brought him to his knees.
He swallowed the lump of what seemed like obsidian blade in his throat, forcing his voice an octave deeper to mask the tremble threating to expose him. “Yeah. It’s common sense.“
You nodded slowly, the harsh truth settling deep into your bones. Reaching deep down for whatever pride you had left, you managed to form a smile onto your face.
“Then... have a good life... and I wish you well,” you said, your voice breaking entirely on the final words. “I love you... so much. Even if yours was not real, mine is, Neteyam.”
Before he could break, you turned on your heel and walked away. He watched your shoulders slumped, shaking with violent, silent sobs. The moment you rounded the thick roots of Hometree, out of his sight, you broke into a desperate run, fleeing into the dark alcoves of Hometree with no idea where you were going.
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
The rhythmic sound of your pestle grinding against the mortar filled the healing pavilion. The air was thick with the sharp, clean scent of crushed roots and soothing eucalyptus leaves.
But the quiet was soon disrupted by the sound of urgent footsteps, too light to belong to an adult, and you knew what was to come.
“Ma? Ma!“
A tiny, high-pitched voice echoed outside, making your lips twist in a smile. You stopped your grinding and lifted your head up to give your son your whole attention, immediately seeing his small and chubby form bound into the pavillion. He was clutching his Toruk plaything.
You raised a brow at him as you watched him heave, knowing he ran his way up here from only Eywa knows where. “Where were you, Ervo?”
“Mama, Toruk Makto is back! My friends... My friends... I saw him!” he jumped on the soles of his feet, showing the Toruk toy right up to your face. “Toruk is this big!” the boy chirped, his round, golden eyes wide with pure, innocent excitement.
You smiled, lifting a hand to cup his small face. “Were you so excited?” you asked. “Did you see Toruk Makto, too?”
Your son nodded enthusiastically, making his little toy dive-bomb into a pile of uncounted herbs. To him, Jake Sully was a legendary figure from the stories told around the communal fires, a hero who came from the stars. He was excited about the idea that his favorite hero once lived in this Hometree, so now you could barely comprehend his joy about Toruk Makto finally being home, sleeping under the very same canopy as him.
He plopped down to sit in front of you. “With his family!” he said. “He.. He has a big son.”
Your fingers froze just as you were reaching for the covered bowl of his fruit snacks. Your head tilted, hardening your resolve and grabbing the bowl for your son. “Now, you need to eat fruits. Toruk Makto doesn’t like kids who don’t eat healthy food.”
The boy eagerly grabbed the bowl and started munching on the cut up fruits. You grabbed a soft woven cloth to wipe his sweat off with it. At twenty-two, you were now far from the girl left weeping in the roots of the forest. You had survived the worst from the clan, the whispered gossips, and the subtle shunning due to your unique situation.
Of course, there are single mothers in the clan, too, but all of them were simply widowed by war. None of them were an unmated, nineteen-year-old girl whose child was fathered by an unnamed man. But your people were nothing but progressive, and so you were not really openly disrespected, but you knew that Mo’at’s choice to make you her tsakarem was met by a strong opposition by the council.
You watched your son eat, hoping against hope that the son he was talking about was Lo’ak. The Great War had ended weeks ago and peace was supposedly returning to Eywa’eveng, but until this exact moment, the reality of what that meant hadn't truly pierced the quiet bubble you had built for yourself and your son.
You didn't know if he was among them. For all you knew, he had stayed true to his word. Perhaps he had long since met a Metkayina woman he would actually take as a mate and not simply... play with. Perhaps she was someone proud, strong, and perfectly suited for the firstborn son of Toruk Makto, completely different from the girl he discarded three years ago.
A sudden, sharp rush of resentment and old bitterness flared up in your chest, hot and wicked. You shouldn't care. You had braved everything alone and raised a beautiful, thriving boy without a single piece of help from the man who broke you. You had sworn you would never feel a damn thing for him again.
But as you turned your head to look back at your son, who was currently making small noises as he made his Toruk toy fly, your heart clenched. The boy was growing more and more into the exact likeness of his father every single day. From the curve of his brow and nose down to the way he smiled.
It was probably a fate worst than being shunned by Eywa. Forgetting and moving forward are not for you, not when you carried and are raising a child you share with who you are supposed to forget. And the fact that those things must be so easy for him, knowing that he had discarded everything that could possibly hold him back, pisses you off at least once a day.
You convinced yourself he was not among his family who came back, or that if he did come back, it was only to show his Metkayina mate to the people. And then he will go back to where he belongs, and your son would remain yours and yours alone.
The truth did not come from the announcements for the returning warriors, it came from the idle, buzzing gossip of the clan as you made your way up the winding pathways toward your kelku later that evening. Two weavers were sitting near the common walkways, their hands busy with fiber, their voices carrying easily through the humid air.
“...and Neteyam, oh, I remember when he left. Every girl I know was upset,” one groaned, leaning in. “He’s a great warrior, they say he fought fiercely at the vanguard. I’m so glad he’s back now... and unmated still!”
“Truly? No Metkayina woman caught his eye?” the other replied, sounding surprised. “I saw him, he is so handsome... and even much bigger than he was when he left. Many must have tried.”
You forced your feet to keep moving, your grip tightening around your sleeping son that the boy let out a confused whimper. You rubbed his back, “I’m sorry, my love,” you cradled his head and he purred.
The gossip words swirled in your mind still, unleashing a chaotic storm of conflicting emotions.
A bitter, venomous part of you felt a sickening sense of vindication to know that he is unmated. Good, you thought sharply. It serves him right. He had shattered you on the pretext of finding someone better, only to return with nothing but himself. But beneath that spite lay a far heavier dread. If he was unmated, he had no anchor elsewhere. He was going to stay.
You put your son down on his cot, caressing his small head. You laid his Toruk toy beside him, smiling when you remembered his earlier excitement. You would withdraw for this night completely, choosing not to join the communal dinner and eating a quiet meal of cold roasted roots and fish, but you knew this won’t be sustainable in the long run if you would keep skipping the communal meals.
Hometree was massive, you could very much use it as a shield to not cross paths with Neteyam as much as possible. You didn't need to sit at the tables or mingle in the open clearings; you could just slip down to the communal kitchens, gather your meals, and retreat back to the safety of the healing pavilion.
And that was exactly what you did the next day.
You arrived at the kitchens at its busiest. Huge clay pots simmered over open flames, filling the air with the rich, savory scent of roasted meats and sweet, starchy roots.
“Busy day?” you asked Marla, watching all the cooks around her moving like they do during feasts.
Marla turned to you, her kind, crinkling eyes smiling immediately at the sight of you. “A welcoming feast for the Sullys,” she told you, her smile huge and meaningful.
Years ago, before the world broke apart for you, Neteyam used to practically live in this corner of Hometree, constantly bothering and begging Marla to bake your favorite wild-berry pie when he was still courting you. You and Neteyam had been a constant fixture in her kitchen, teasing her and stealing scraps until she chased you out with a wooden ladle.
Because of that closeness, Marla was likely the only soul in the entire village who truly knew the timeline, the only one who suspected that Neteyam was the father of your boy.
But she had never whispered a single word to anyone. She had kept your secret fiercely, protecting you from the brunt of the clan's judgment when you were only nineteen and terrified.
As the other cooks distracted themselves with the massive platters of meat, Marla stepped up to you. “Are you alright?” she reached out, her calloused hands that had spent a lifetime feeding the Omatikaya gently squeezing yours.
You smiled, playfully scowling at her. “Of course, Marla,” you said.
She sighed. “He is back. I saw him,” she said in a small voice.
You shook your head. “It means nothing to me anymore, Marla,” you assured her, chuckling. “I am a mother now and my son is the only thing I care about. Which is the reason I’m here... I’m getting his breakfast. And mine...” you bit your lip.
The older woman’s eyes narrowed. “Not joining the communal meals like last night?”
You pushed your lips forward. “I’m busy... at the pavillion,” you said.
“Hm,” she mused, pulling away to get a heavy wooden tray, arranging a generous portion of food and right in the center, putting two large, perfectly baked slices of the very same berry pie, your son Ervo’s absolute favorite. “There is a feast tonight, but I’ll have your food delivered for lunch and dinner, too. Keep that boy of yours fed.” she murmured softly, giving you a knowing, gentle nod.
You smiled and nodded, swallowing a lump on your throat. “Thank you, Marla... For always helping me.”
She huffed a snort through her nose. “I watched you grow up, watched you brave what none could have survived. It is the least I can do.”
With the heavy wooden tray carefully balanced in your arms, you made your way back through the quieter upper branches of Hometree. When you stepped back into the cool shade of the healing pavilion, the tension in your shoulders finally began to bleed away.
Ervo was exactly where you left him, sitting cross-legged on a large woven mat. He was completely absorbed in his own world, flying his little reed Toruk toy over a pile of smooth river stones he had arranged to look like mountains.
Ervo’s ears perked up instantly as soon as you laid the tray down, his eyes widening as he spotted the two large, vibrant slices of wild-berry pie on the dish. He gasped, dropping his toy immediately, his tail giving a happy, rhythmic thwap against the woven floor. “Pie!”
“Pie after your meat and roots,” you corrected gently, tapping the tip of his nose with a smile.
You sat down cross-legged in front of him, carefully cutting up the roasted meat into small, manageable pieces. He ate eagerly, his small hands grasping the wooden bowl, his cheeks puffing out as he munched. But midway through the meal, a chorus of small voices echoed from the pavilion's entrance.
Three young children peeked inside, laughing and holding small woven balls. “Ervo? Come play! We are finding the big beetles today!”
Ervo practically vibrated in excitement. He nearly choked on his fruit, his little tail tapping the floor in a frantic, desperate rhythm. He began to scramble to his feet, ready to bolt toward his friends.
“Son, you can’t play after you’ve just eaten,” you said, your voice firm but gentle as you caught him by his waist. “You need to let your food settle in your belly.” You playfully tapped his round, full belly, and he let out a bright, tickled chuckle.
He slumped back down onto your lap, pouting slightly as his friends waved and promised to wait for him near the lower roots. He held his small waterskin with both of his little hands, taking a big gulp. “I need to stay?” he asked, blinking up at you with wide, pleading golden eyes.
You nodded, taking the spoon to feed him a bite of the sweet berry pie. “Yes. You must stay until Mama says it is time.”
“Okay...” he mumbled, pointing at the pie. “Pie?“
You chuckled and hugged him, kissing his cheek. “And because you are a sweet and remarkably obedient boy, here you are...” you took the plate and fed him.
He sat patiently, swinging his legs and chattering to you about the giant beetles his friends had promised to find. When enough time had finally passed, you wiped his sticky face with a damp cloth, kissed his forehead, and sent him off. He spent almost the entire day running wild under the massive canopy, his distant, joyful laughter occasionally drifting up to the pavilion.
By midday, the heat of the forest had settled into a heavy, hummed stillness. You were deep in your work, sorting dried herbs and organizing small clay vials of medicine, when the heavy beaded curtain at the entrance rustled.
You looked up, your posture instantly straightening as Mo’at stepped into the pavilion.
The Tsahik moved with a timeless, regal grace, her sharp eyes sweeping over the quiet room before finally landing on you. Mo’at was one of the few people who had fiercely shielded you from the clan’s harsh judgments three years ago. When the council of elders had deemed your situation immoral. Mo’at had silenced them all. She had ignored their protests, stubborn and unyielding, and had chosen you to be her tsakarem.
For some reason, she had always acted as though your situation was entirely normal. She had never once asked you who the father was, nor had she ever looked at you with anything less than absolute pride.
“You are working hard,” Mo’at spoke, walking over to your table, her long fingers brushing over the herbs you had just sorted.
“There is much to prepare for the returning warriors, Tsahik,” you replied, dipping your head. “Many have old wounds from the sea that need checking.”
Mo’at hummed. “The forest is changing,” she said. “The wind brings back what was once thought lost to the tide. Some trees bend in the storm, and some roots hold fast, hidden deep beneath the ground where no one can see them.”
You looked up at her, a sudden apprehension in your eyes. Your hands slowed over the mortar. “The clan is rejoicing their return. It is a good change.”
Her eyes, clouded with age, locked onto yours. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips, “The Great Mother does not weave a thread without purpose, child,” Mo'at murmured. “A seed planted in secrecy still bears the unmistakable fruit of the tree it came from. The eyes of the clan may be blind to the truth, but blood always recognizes the stride of her own blood.”
Your breath hitched toward completely, your heart hammering violently against your ribs, a cold sweat breaking out across your palms.
“The boy is strong,” Mo'at continued softly, her hand reaching for yours to squeeze it with an immense, grounding warmth before she began to turn away. “He has your fierce spirit, but do not hide in the shadows forever, Tsakarem.”
You were profoundly grateful that Ervo had spent the entire afternoon running wild with the other children that by the time the distant sounds of the feast began to echo through the branches, he bounded into the healing pavilion, his little eyelids already heavy, entirely spent from the day's excitement.
“Ma…” he mumbled, dragging his feet as he leaned his small, warm body heavily against a soft woven pillow on the floor. “The big feast has started.”
You smiled, caressing his small head and his eyes fluttered shut.
“The big feast… Toruk Makto…”
He didn't even finish his sentence before his breathing deepened into a profound, undisturbed sleep. You quietly let out a breath, fixing everything to finally wrap the day up. Gently, you scooped his small, solid form into your arms, cradling his head against your shoulder as you carried him up to your kelku. You silently thanked Eywa that his exhaustion spared you from making up elaborate excuses for why you can’t attend the feast and you also wouldn't have to explain to a heartbroken two-year-old why he couldn't go see his legendary hero tonight.
Meanwhile, at the high dais, Neteyam sat rigidly to the right of his father. His family was seated with Tarsem who is at the center of the table, wearing the heavy, ornate mantle of the Olo'eyktan. Jake and Tarsem were deep in low, serious conversation about the integration of the returning warriors, but Neteyam’s attention was entirely fractured. His golden eyes restlessly combed through the crowded rows of tables, scanning every face, every laughing group, every shadow cast by the great fire.
He saw childhood friends, old sparring partners, and familiar faces of the Omatikaya. But none of them held the features that had been branded onto the back of his eyelids for three agonizing years. Every time he had closed his eyes, he sees you. When everybody thought he was going to die, it was your memory that got him crawling back to life. It was your face that kept his heart beating.
He had spent the entire day fighting the desperate urge to walk straight into the healing pavillion, refusing to ambush you considering how he left things between you two. He was hoping against hope. He had hurt you, and he wouldn’t be surprised if you would welcome him with anger or indifference, but he can work against that.
He would beg and work for your forgiveness.
Now, as the feast drew to a close without a single glimpse of you, a hollow disappointment settled deep in his chest. He thought about finally going to the healing pavilion tomorrow. To talk to you and tell you that he survived the last three years on your memories. That he lived because he wanted to get back to you.
The following morning, however, the clan's future demanded attention. The council convened in the high longhouse, the atmosphere dense and formal.
Tarsem stood before the elders, his posture proud but his shoulders carrying a visible, heavy weariness. He unclasped the ceremonial ornaments from his chest, placing them on the woven mat before Jake and Mo'at.
“The war has kept me from my family for far too long,” Tarsem announced, his voice carrying the weight of exhaustion. “My mate and my child have sacrificed enough. With Toruk Makto returning, I wish to step down from the leadership to focus entirely on my family. I am formally asking Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan to succeed me as Olo'eyktan.”
Neteyam stared at the older warrior, the air in his lungs has long turned to ice. He had no idea Tarsem was even mated. He looked at the weary, determined lines on the leader's face, and then the realization hit him like a physical blow. You were the official tsakarem of the clan. The future Tsahik. Traditionally, the Olo'eyktan and the Tsahik walked hand-in-hand, their paths intertwined to lead the people.
But the Olo’eyktan could also mate the tsakarem who has not yet succeeded the Tsahik.
If Tarsem was stepping down to be with his family... A sickening, hollow sensation opened up in Neteyam's stomach. It felt as though a direhorse had kicked him squarely in the sternum. He could barely register the rest of the council's murmurs.
The thought of you mated to another man, the thought of you bearing Tarsem's child, giving someone else the love he had so brutally discarded, made him feel utterly empty. He managed to offer a strained, tight nod to the council, muttering that he would take time to consider the immense responsibility, before abruptly excusing himself.
His feet moved without his permission, operating on pure, desperate instinct until he found himself near the clearing just outside the healing pavilion.
And there you were.
You were only a few paces away, navigating the path with a hurried grace, balancing a small wooden drying rack stacked with freshly gathered herbs against your hip. Neteyam stopped dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. You had grown even more beautiful, your expression guarded and fiercely mature. Yet, you were entirely unchanged.
His heart kicked against his chest, his whole body charging with a sudden, violent spark of electricity, as though for the first time in years, his heart remembered how to work. A recognition that his soul belonged exactly where you stood.
Then, his gaze flicked down. A small boy was tailing closely behind you, his little feet skipping to keep up with your brisk pace.
Neteyam’s heart plummeted into a dark, bottomless abyss.
“Mama, look!” the boy chirped. The high-pitched, innocent voice sent an unexplainable, agonizing warmth straight through Neteyam’s chest.
Mama.
The reality solidified, crushing him. You were a mother. You belonged to Tarsem. Neteyam watched from the shadows as you stopped your hurried pace, bending down to see whatever the little boy was pointing at on the forest floor.
“Glowing bug!” the boy shouted, his entire little body vibrating with pure, unadulterated excitement.
A soft, melodic chuckle escaped your lips. To Neteyam, it sounded like the distant, beautiful chiming of bells, a sound he had been starving to hear. His chest ached as you reached out, gently ruffling the boy’s dark hair.
“Yes, my love,” you told the child, your voice softening into a gentle warmth you still possessed. “Do not touch it. It is irritable during daylight.”
The boy tilted his head, his wide golden eyes blinking up at you. “Because it can't glow?”
A genuine laugh broke from your chest this time, bright and clear.
Hidden behind the foliage, Neteyam found a faint, involuntary chuckle slipping past his own lips. The question was so innocent, so entirely pure. The boy shared your exact expressions, the same inquisitive tilt of the head. He was beautiful. He was everything Neteyam had ever dreamed of having with you during those quiet nights before the war took everything away.
He watched you hold the boy’s hand, your fingers laced securely with his small ones as you guided him into the healing pavillion. The beaded curtain fell shut behind you, cutting off his view, but the image remained scorched into his mind.
It was confirmed. You were mated to Tarsem, and you two have a child together.
Grief and jealousy seized Neteyam’s heart, squeezing it until he could barely breathe. Tarsem had everything he had ever wanted, everything he had dreamed of during those freezing nights by the ocean. Everything he had bled and fought for over the last three years was now in the hands of another man. Neteyam had never moved on from you, but he understood that you did. After all, he had hurt you. He had sliced your heart open right before he left, and he couldn't blame you if you did what he had wanted you to do and did everything in your power to erase him from your mind.
For weeks, you thought you had managed to completely avoid him, using the labyrinth of Hometree in your favor to avoid crossing paths with him. What you didn’t know, though, was that Neteyam spends at least an hour a day watching your son play with his little friends whenever he’s at the training grounds.
And come nights, he would stand where he stood on the day he saw you for the first time in years. He felt absolutely immoral for coveting a brother’s wife, but he would stand here to willingly welcome the Great Mother’s wrath should she find it righteous to strike him down, but he couldn’t keep himself away from you. And your child, for that matter.
He had successfully assimilated back into the warrior ranks, his name wildly popular among the younger hunters and the children, even to your little boy, who often overheard the older kids whispering about the mighty son of Toruk Makto.
One afternoon, Neteyam was standing near the edge of the clearing by the warrior paths, leaning lightly against a massive root as he watched your son and his friends loudly play a game a few yards away. Suddenly, a stray kick sent their small, tightly woven ball flying wildly off course. It tumbled across some ground roots, rolling over the moss before finally bumping directly against Neteyam’s foot.
He blinked, looking down before he bent to scoop up the lightweight toy.
A moment later, the sound of tiny, rapid footsteps approached. Ervo came bounding over to retrieve it, but he skidded to a sharp halt when he looked up and realized exactly who was holding his toy.
The little boy froze, his round, deeply familiar eyes wide. Slowly, Ervo brought his small hand up to his mouth, nervously nibbling on his thumb as he peered up at the towering warrior. A wave of natural apprehension and deep shyness washed over his little face, his ears twitching back slightly as he evaluated the large, chiseled stranger.
Neteyam looked down at the boy, feeling his chest suddenly expand with an unexplainable, fierce warmth the moment their eyes met. Up close, the resemblance was almost dizzying, but somehow, the boy looked strangely familiar but not you familiar... But Tuk familiar.
He softened his posture completely, making himself look as unthreatening as possible. Feeling the gentle shift in the his energy, Ervo smiled just a little bit, still nibbling on his thumb.
The tiny grin was Neteyam's undoing, he suddenly felt too weak. The boy was too cute. His own lips, usually set in a serious line these days, threatened to break into a massive smile for the boy.
“This yours?” Neteyam asked, his deep voice dropping to a soft, rumbling purr as he showed the ball in his open palm.
The boy nodded quickly, his courage returning. “My ball...”
Neteyam lowered himself onto his hunches, his long legs folding smoothly so he could level his eyes with the boy. He didn't want to tower over him like a scary monster.
“What’s your name?” Neteyam asked gently.
“Ervo,” the boy said in a small but clear voice. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking into Neteyam’s eyes. Then, with a sudden flash of bravery, he tilted his head. “You?” he asked courageously, treating Neteyam less like a formidable warrior and more like an age peer he simply wanted to be friends with.
Neteyam’s golden eyes lit up instantly. A genuine, breathy laugh escaped him, and a huge smile cut through his lips, transforming his hardened features. It made the boy smile, feeling a little more comfortable.
“Neteyam,” he said.
“‘Teyam...” Ervo echoed, trying out the syllables, his voice small and endearing. He pointed a small finger at the toy. “My ball?”
“Here,” Neteyam murmured, carefully placing the woven sphere back into Ervo's tiny, waiting hands.
“Thank you...” Ervo said politely. He turned on his heel to head back to the game, but after a few paces, he stopped. He looked back at Neteyam one last time, offering a bright, lingering smile before running off to rejoin his friends.
Neteyam remained on his haunches for a long time, watching the boy's retreating form, his hand still feeling the faint, lingering warmth of where the boy's fingers had brushed his own.
You have no idea about all of these. Apparently, more interesting things happen to your son daily that literally coming face-to-face with Neteyam is just one of the ordinary moments. He told you more about the beetles he observed with his friends more than the prior fact. So, you remained blissfully unaware, thinking that you were successfully living a life where your path has never cross with Neteyam.
You had spent three years scrubbing his face from your memories, teaching your heart to go numb at the mere thought of him. You convinced yourself that if you ever came face-to-face with him, you wouldn't feel a damn thing.
Then, one afternoon, the universe finally caught up to you
You left the pavillion to get Ervo for lunch, catching him sitting in a patch of dappled sunlight in their playground, completely absorbed in watching a line of colorful bugs march across a fallen log. His back was turned to the pathway. You smiled as you rounded a corner, but then your breath trapped itself in your throat.
You saw Neteyam approaching.
He was walking toward your son, his head tilted to the side with a small smile plastered on his face. He looked intensely curious about what Ervo was doing, drawn to the boy by some invisible force.
Panic, sharp and blinding, pierced your chest.
“Ervo,” you called out to your son, causing the boy to lift his head up.
Neteyam stopped dead in his tracks, his own head snapping up at the same time your son did that it looked almost comical. His golden eyes locked onto yours for the first time in three years. And you, who did the stupid thing of forgetting, was not prepared for all the changes at all that your heart jumped to your throat.
He had grown impossibly taller, his frame wider and heavily muscled from years of brutal warfare. His jawline was more chiseled, his handsome face bearing the subtle, hardened maturity of a man who had long outgrown the twenty-one-year-old who had left you behind.
“Mama?”
Your eyes immediately darted back to your son, fortunately taking your focus away from Neteyam. Ervo scrambled to his feet, leaving his bugs behind. “It’s time for lunch and you didn’t come back to the pavilion,” you said in a very motherly voice that reminded Neteyam of how Neytiri sometimes uses her Mom voice.
Ervo laughed and ran toward you, his little body crashing against your thigh. “I saw bugs!”
You bent, lifting him into your embrace and rubbing his back. You held him like a shield, your posture rigid and defensive as you lifted your sharp, icy glare on the man before you.
Neteyam was standing frozen, watching you hold the child, and the fierce, battle-hardened warrior seemed to dissolve. Every hard edge of his chiseled face turned incredibly soft and gentle. His ears drooped slightly, and his eyes swam with something profound and unspeakable. The coldness with which he treated and looked at you three years was gone, replace with the desperation of a man who was drowning.
“Y/N—” he breathed, his voice low and carrying the weight of a thousand unsaid apologies.
You didn't let him start anything, though. Clutching Ervo tighter against your chest, you turned your back on him, refusing to let him speak another syllable. You walked briskly back into the safety of the healing pavilion, your heart racing violently against your ribs.
That night, the cold wind offered no relief from the heat building inside Neteyam's mind. Deep in sleep, he got dragged backward by a subconscious that refused to let him forget the taste of you. In his dream, he was back in the hidden cave deep in the woods.
The air was thick with the scent of moss, rain, and the intoxicating, sweet musk of your skin. He was buried inside you, his knees spreading your thighs wide as he pounded into you relentlessly. It was a searing, glorious ache. His large hands came up to frame your jaw, fingers digging into your braids to anchor you as he leaned down, kissing you hard, bruisingly deep, drinking in your frantic gasps.
The cave was alive with the raw, animalistic sound of your bodies. The wet, sliding heat, your breathless cries, and his own low groans vibrating against your chest.
You threw your head back, the muscles of your throat straining as you clutched at his broad back, your fingernails digging tracks into his skin. Your moans were hoarse now, stripped raw after the breathless screams he had driven out of you.
“Neteyam...” you cried out, your hips arching up to meet his punishing, deep thrusts, begging for the release that was coiling tight between you.
He leaned down, catching your slick, parted mouth in another heavy kiss, breathing your name back into your lungs. “Oh, baby...” he choked, his chest heaving as he reached up to tenderly stroke the sheen of sweat off your forehead, his thumb tracing your cheek even as his lower body maintained its relentless, demanding pace.
You cried out again, a desperate sound of pure pleasure, pulling him down by his neck with a fierce strength that demanded all of him... And then Neteyam jolted awake with a violent gasp, nearly losing his balance and falling off his hammock.
He sat up abruptly, chasing his breath as if he had just run a marathon, his skin slick with sweat. He squeezed his eyes shut, bringing his hand up to roughly massage the bridge of his nose. He fought the overwhelming, agonizing urge to let out a loud, frustrated groan, catching himself just in time to ensure he wouldn't wake his family.
Breathing heavily through his nose, his hand slid down his torso, grabbing his crotch. His cock was punishingly hard, straining painfully against his loincloth, throbbing with the memory of you. He squeezed himself tightly through the fabric, trying to ease the agonizing ache, but the phantom sensation of your tight, wet heat wrapping around him was too vivid, too real. Like the many other dreams in the sea.
He knew it was wrong. He was literally committing a sin, lusting over a woman mated to another man. For Eywa's sake, he was a warrior, a future leader, and he was losing his mind over you, like he had when he was a boy. Yes, memories of you had been the only thing that got him through the lonely, brutal years of the war, keeping his relationship with his own hand extremely intimate during long nights on the battlefield, but it is wrong now.
Yet, as he sat there in the dark, his pulse hammering in his ears, it didn't truly feel like a mistake.
It was just that... you were so much more beautiful up close than any fleeting glimpse he had caught of you over the past weeks. He had looked into your eyes, smelled your scent, seen the fierce, maternal beauty radiating from you, and now his body was paying the price for that proximity.
Unable to bear the suffocating confinement of the hammock any longer, Neteyam quietly swung his long legs over the edge. He stood up noiselessly, his tail twitching with restless tension as he slipped out into the cool night air, knowing he would have to find a secluded spot in the forest to take care of his hard-on before the madness consumed him entirely.
Days after that, while you were at the pavilion and your son was having his afternoon nap in his cot beside you, the heavy beaded curtain at the entrance rustled, making you look up nonchalantly, expecting an apprentice or a hunter.
But your face instantly hardened when you saw Neteyam standing in the entryway. You stopped mid-motion, your hand freezing over the mortar where you were grinding a fresh poultice.
“I got... cut,“ he mumbled, his voice low and tentative.
You raised a brow, your jaw clenching as you looked him up and down. You didn't want him here, but as the tsakarem, you couldn't turn away someone seeking care. “Let me see,” you said coldly, jerking your head toward the seat in front of you.
He walked over and sat down, but as he did, you saw his golden eyes immediately glance toward the side, curiously tracking the small, sleeping form of your son in the cot. Your chest tightened. You purposefully extended your hand, reaching for a tall stack of drying leaves and shifting a woven basket to deliberately block his view of the boy.
When he finally held out his hand, you inspected the injury. The cut wasn’t deep enough to need stitches, but it definitely required a proper disinfectant, the kind of minor scratch he could have easily treated on his own with some river water and basic sap. Both of you knew he had come here just to see you.
In fact, Neteyam prepared for days just to be able to do this.
You took his hand impersonally, your grip firm and strictly professional. Despite your coldness, Neteyam bit his lower lip, completely distracted by the sudden, overwhelming sensation of your soft hands touching his skin for the first time in three long years. A jolt of pure electricity ran up his arm, but he stayed still as you worked on the wound in absolute silence.
The quiet in the pavilion grew heavy, suffocating him. He couldn't take it anymore.
“You’ve... made a good life for yourself,” he began softly, his eyes fixed on your lowered face as you carefully applied a cool, crushed herb paste to the cut.
You completely ignored him, your expression blank as you reached for a clean strip of woven cloth.
“You have a beautiful boy...” he added after the silence stretched, his voice thick with a strange emotion.
You stopped. Your hands went completely still on his wrist, and you slowly lifted your head to look up at him, your sharp eyes piercing straight through his chest.
“Can we keep the silence?” you asked, your voice a flat, dangerous whisper. “My son’s a light sleeper.”
Neteyam blinked, the rejection hitting him like a physical blow. He immediately nodded, his ears drooping slightly as he looked back down at your hands wrapping the cloth around his palm. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
His chest tightened until it felt like a vice was crushing his lungs. Sitting this close to you, he wanted to say so much more. He wanted to scream the truth. He wanted to throw himself at your feet, to kneel on the floor and apologize until his voice gave out for the horrible lies he had told you before he left. He wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms, to press his face into your neck and tell you how much he loves you. That he had never stopped loving you for a single second. His heart, his body, and his soul had never known another woman, and they never would.
Even now that you are mated.
But as he watched you expertly tie off the bandage with detached efficiency, reality crashed over him.
He knew it would be wrong to even try to be friends with you now. You were a mated woman. You were a mother. He had absolutely no place in your life anymore, and he had no right to disturb the peace you had built. Every time he remembered that fact, it felt like his insides were being violently wrung out. It was a constant, living nightmare, made worse by the fact that seeing Tarsem around the village brought the agonizing jealousy back to the surface every single day.
He was so deeply envious of Tarsem. It should have been him. He was supposed to be your mate. He was supposed to be the father of your beautiful child, coming home to you after a long hunt. But he had sacrificed all of it for a war he wasn't even sure he'd survive.
I hope it's fucking worth it, he thought bitterly to himself later that night.
He lay completely awake in his hammock, staring up at the dark canopy of Hometree, unable to sleep as the image of your little boy filled his mind. The child was so small, so incredibly fragile, but Neteyam knew without a doubt that the little boy held your entire heart. A soft, involuntary warmth bloomed in his chest at the thought of him. Ervo. Remembering how peaceful the boy looked while having his nap, a faint smile touched Neteyam's lips in the dark.
You could have been mine, he thought with a heavy, suffocating grief settling over him like a boulder as he closed his eyes.
As he drifted to sleep, the weight of his emotions faded into a blinding, golden warmth.
In the dream, the sky above was a brilliant, cloudless blue, and the heat of the sun baked into his skin. He wasn't a warrior burdened by the future of a clan; he was just a boy, resting his head comfortably in your lap as the water lapped gently against the riverbank.
This was the sanctuary his mind always built for him.
It was the exact same dream that had saved his life on the blood-soaked sea. When the bullet had torn through his chest, when his breathing had rattled and his pulse had slowed to a terrifying flutter, his family had been screaming. The healers had been desperately pressing against his wound, fighting the tide of his fading life. But in his mind, he had felt no fear.
In his mind, he had only felt you.
You leaned down over him, your dark hair catching the light of the sun, casting a soft shadow over his face. Your expression wasn't cold or defensive like it was these days, it was full of that fierce, consuming love that used to belong entirely to him. Gently, you cupped his face with both of your hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp line of his jaw before you leaned down to kiss his lips softly.
Even in the depths of his sleep, the phantom sweetness of your touch made his lips curve into a faint, relaxed smile.
You pulled back just an inch, a soft, melodic chuckle vibrating in your chest at the sight of his grin. You ran a hand through his braids, your voice a gentle purr that seemed to echo from the very heart of the forest.
“‘Teyam... wake up,” you whispered, your fingers brushing against his temple. “Wake up.”
Neteyam’s eyes snapped open.
The golden river and the warmth of the sun vanished instantly, shattered by the dark, cool reality of the woven ceiling above his hammock. He sat up abruptly, his chest heaving as he gasped for air. His hand flew instinctively to his chest, his large fingers pressing hard against the thick, raised scar tissue right over his chest that he could conveniently cover with his chest knife sheath.
Your kelku were branches away, and you were wrapped in the arms of another man, but his lips still tingled with the memory of the dream.
He slid his hands over his face, letting out a long, ragged breath into the empty darkness of his quarters. Dreams of you always visited him whenever he slept with a heavy heart. It was a cruel mercy, a replaying loop of a life he had thrown away. Yet, as he stared out into the quiet shadows of Hometree, he knew those dreams were the only reason he was still breathing.
It was his mind’s instinctive way of giving him a reason to hold on, a desperate, stubborn tether keeping his soul anchored to the earth, simply because he couldn't bear to leave a world where you still existed. He prepared for the morning patrol, going about it as enthusiastically as he could, and when he got back, he was told that the high council wpuld convene once more in the longhouse.
The elders sat in a wide semicircle, their faces solemn, while Tarsem stood at the center. Neteyam took his place near his father, his eyes fixed firmly on the table, refusing to look at Tarsem so he wouldn’t and couldn’t picture out what-could-have-beens.
Tarsem cleared his throat, his deep voice commanding the room's attention. “Elders, Toruk Makto, Tsahik,” he began, bowing his head respectfully to each. “We have spent over a moon organizing the integration of our returning warriors, ensuring our borders are secure. The Omatikaya are strong. But as I stated before, the war has kept me from my duties at home for far too long. I must officially request to step down from my duties as Olo’eyktan so that I may leave and focus entirely on making up for lost time with my mate and child.”
Neteyam’s jaw clenched so hard he thought he’d break his teeth. Hearing it out loud again felt like a fresh blade twisting in his ribs. His mate. His child. He closed his eyes, forcing down the violent surge of envy that threatened to choke him.
One of the elders, an old weaver named Okan, nodded slowly, his fingers tracing the edge of his staff. “The council understands, Tarsem. A leader’s heart must be whole to lead, and yours has been divided by the sea for many moons. You have done well by our people. I wholeheartedly support your decision, and should the council follow suit, you could fly to your family as soon as we grant your request.”
Neteyam’s ears twitched, snapping backward. Fly?
He blinked, his mind faltering as the word echoed in the quiet longhouse. He raised his head, staring at Tarsem in utter confusion. “Fly?” Neteyam interrupted, his voice cracking slightly before he hardened it. “Olo'eyktan... your mate and child are here. In Hometree.”
The entire council went completely still.
The elders blinked at him. Jake shifted in his seat, a furrow forming between his brows. Even Mo’at slowly lifted her sharp, clouded gaze, her expression unreadable as she stared at her grandson.
Tarsem turned around slowly, looking at Neteyam as if the young warrior had been struck by a stray arrow to the head. “What are you talking about, Neteyam?” Tarsem asked, a small, baffled frown crossing his features. “My mate and daughter are with her clan, the Tayrangi. They have been waiting for my return by the Eastern cliffs since the sky people's vanguard fell.”
Neteyam felt the blood drain from his face. The air in his lungs turned to pure frost. He sat frozen, his fingers digging into his knees.
“Who...?” Neteyam choked out, his throat working desperately to find words. “Then... Y/N? You are not... mated to Y/N?”
Tarsem let out a sudden, startled chuckle, shaking his head. “No. Y/N is not my mate. Why would you think that?”
Neteyam’s heart leaped violently into his throat, hitting his ribs with a force that made his breath hitch. A weakened, shuddering gasp escaped his lips. He felt so suddenly lightheaded he would have fallen right onto his face if he weren't already sitting. She isn't his. She isn't mated to anyone. “But... she is the Tsakarem,” he stammered, his mind racing, trying to piece together the shattered remnants of his assumptions.
“And she will make a fine Tsahik one day,” Tarsem countered gently, his eyes softening with amusement. “But that won’t be enough reason to make Y/N mate with anyone. She is a strong woman, Neteyam. She answers to no man's timeline.”
“She... she is unmated?” Neteyam asked again, his voice dropping to a desperate, trembling whisper, completely exposed before the entire council. He didn't care. He needed to hear it. He needed the world to stop spinning.
Elder Okan sighed, his voice carrying the familiar, slightly judgmental tone of the older generation. “She did get pregnant sometime three years ago, yes. But she refused to name the father. No one in the village knows.”
“Because it is unimportant,” Mo’at’s sharp, commanding voice cut through the longhouse like a whip, silencing the elder immediately. She leaned forward, her knowing, amber eyes locking directly onto Neteyam’s pale, trembling form. Her gaze was heavy, loaded with the exact same truth she had leveled at you the day before. “Y/N can raise Ervo all on her own. She is a strong woman, as Tarsem said. She needs no unnamed ghost to claim what is hers.”
“Indeed, Tsahik,” Tarsem agreed, bowing his head.
Got pregnant sometime three years ago...
The words rang in Neteyam’s ears, expanding into a deafening sound that drowned out the rest of the council meeting. Three years ago.
Ervo.
The boy’s small, chubby face flashed in his mind. The round, golden eyes. The shy, familiar little smile that reminded him of Tuk. The way his ears twitched. The strange, unexplainable warmth that had flooded Neteyam's entire chest when their eyes met and when he saw the little boy’s smile. He had thought of his strange resemblance to Tuk, but truly, it had been a resemblance to him.
The boy was his.
Tarsem’s voice brought him back. “Neteyam, as I was saying—”
“What is needed?“ he cut him off.
Tarsem’s lips parted, his eyes volleying in confusion. “That you consider accepting my request to—”
“I accept anything,” he said in a firm voice. Heck, after today, he could build a freaking Hometree using sand.
“Are you sure?” Jake asked, turning to him with furrowed brows.
Neytiri also looked at him with concern. “Son, this is a matter of great consequence. You need to plenty of time to think.”
“Plenty of time is not something we have the luxury of right now. Tarsem needs to be with his family,” he said. And I need to be with my own, he thought.
His parents nodded. As soon as the council wrapped the meeting up, he practically threw himself out of the council longhouse, his long legs eating up the woven pathways as he sprinted toward the upper branches.
He burst into the healing pavilion, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against his ribs. But the pavilion was empty. The small cot where Ervo usually napped was neatly folded, and the mortar and pestle sat clean on the wooden table. A young healer’s apprentice, a girl of fourteen, jumped in startle at his sudden, towering entrance.
“Where is she?” Neteyam demanded, his voice rough and laced with an urgency that terrified the girl. “Where is the Tsakarem?”
“S-she went out,” the girl stammered, pointing a trembling finger toward the lower pathways. “To gather herbs—”
Neteyam didn't let her finish, he turned on his heel and descended the winding ramps frantically. When he finally reached the ground and ran to the dense brush, he immediately saw you.
The afternoon sun was filtering through the canopy, casting long, golden beams of light on you as you walked slowly, your hands reaching down to pluck a root or a leaf.
And right behind you, tailing you with his little feet skipping over the moss, was Ervo. The boy’s cheeks were completely full, puffing out comically as he happily munched on a handful of sweet berries from a leaf, clipped in his small arm is a small Toruk toy.
His boy.
The realization hit Neteyam in the gut with a force strong enough to almost make him fold, breaking the dam he had been building around his heart since he came back, to protect you from his own selfishness. The grief and the jealousy, it all melted away, replaced by a fierce, protective instinct so primal it made him tremble.
The snap of a twig under his large foot broke the silence of the clearing.
You stopped dead in your tracks, your shoulders immediately going rigid, your hand instantly moved to hover protectively over Ervo’s shoulder before you slowly turned around. The moment your eyes landed on Neteyam, your expression hardened into a deep, defensive scowl.
But Neteyam didn't look like the broken, submissive man who had mounded his head in apology in the pavillion days ago. He stood tall, his shoulders squared, his chiseled face bearing a look of absolute confidence. There was still the desperate, drowning look in his golden eyes, but there was also a burning, unyielding clarity.
“‘Teyam?” A small high-pitched voice called.
His gaze slid downward, tracking behind your hip where Ervo was now looking at him.
Your head snapped to your son, wondering at the familiarity in his voice. The little boy remained looking at Neteyam, his round eyes widened because he recognizes the tall stranger from the training grounds. He stopped chewing his berries, his tail giving a hesitant little flick.
“Hi,” Neteyam said, “Ervo.” His voice was incredibly small, a soft, rumbling purr that trembled on the edges as he tried with everything in him not to let it crack. He looked at his son’s small face, tracing the curve of his nose, the almost identical placement of his stripes.
He had been so stupid to believe otherwise. With the clarity he now possessed, he could clearly see that this boy looked more like him and nothing like Tarsem. He didn’t know how he could be so blind.
He blinked when you stepped forward, cutting off his view of the boy. You stood right in front of Neteyam, your head tilted up fiercely. Even though he towered over you, his massive frame casting a long shadow over your smaller one, you didn't show any worry. You looked at him like a mother palulukan defending her cub.
“We need to talk,” Neteyam said, his voice steady but thick with emotion.
You clenched your jaw, your fingers wrapping tightly around the handle of your basket. “I have nothing to say to you,” you told him, your voice cold and impersonal. “I am busy. Move out of my way.”
Neteyam didn't move an inch. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face closer to yours, his golden eyes burning with a truth that could no longer be hidden.
“He’s mine. Isn’t he?”
The question carried no doubt, no hesitation. He knew it in his heart. He knew it in the way his own soul had recognized the boy from the very first moment.
Your face crumpled, a sharp mix of pained exhaustion and deep-seated bitterness tightening your features. You let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-scoff, the shield you had built over the last three years cracking a little under the sheer absurdity of his sudden realization.
“Took you long enough,” you said, your voice dripping with sharp sarcasm. You tilted your head up, daring him to look you in the eyes. “Thought maybe he was fathered by any of the men I laid with after you left?”
His reaction was instantaneous, and you relished it. Neteyam’s jaw locked, his golden eyes narrowing into the sharp, dangerous slits of a furious predator. His ears pinned flat against his head, his chest rising and falling heavily. He looked terrifyingly possessive, a look that used to make your stomach flip, but now it only served as a cold reminder that he was no longer in possession of you. Or your son. In fact, he had absolutely nothing to do with either of you.
“No, I never did,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intense rumble, emphasizing every single syllable as he fought to keep his temper under wraps. “I thought you were mated to Tarsem. I just learned now that you were not, and the moment I learned, I knew right away that your boy is mine.”
“Tarsem?” you blurted out, a genuine, bewildered chuckle slipping past your lips. It was completely ridiculous. “Tarsem is practically an older brother to me.”
“Y-You are the tsakarem,” he stammered slightly, his fierce demeanor slipping into desperate defense. “In the council meeting, I learned he was mated, and that he had a child. Because he was the Olo’eyktan, surely he would be mated to the future Tsahik... and then I saw you... and Ervo.”
You huffed, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “And you didn't even think to ask Tarsem?”
“Ask him? I couldn't even look at him without feeling the urge to strangle him,” he admitted bluntly.
The two of you stood there like madmen, standing in a secluded patch of the forest, whispering heatedly to each other just to avoid alarming the little boy whose ears were currently perked up, trying to catch the heavy conversation.
“I suppose I should be thankful to Tarsem then,” you said, a mocking smirk tugging at the corner of your lips.
Neteyam let out a breathy huff, but honestly, nothing could ruin his mood for the rest of his entire life. The crushing weight that had suffocated him for weeks had now vanished and it felt as if he were handed a brand new life. “And I suppose I deserved every bit of that suffering... I thought I had completely lost you—”
“You did,” you cut him off cleanly, your voice turning flat. “Ervo being yours means absolutely nothing for the both of us. If you want to be in his life, you can be. I won't keep him from you.”
Neteyam stared at you, watching your face lock into a firm, business-like expression. It was true that a part of him had foolishly hoped to win back both his son and the love of his life in one breath, but he could work with what you were offering.
For the time being.
After surviving the living hell of thinking you belonged to another man, absolutely nothing could stop him now. Before today, he had accepted that the brutal way he ended things between you had forced you to hate him, to bury his memory under a layer of cold indifference. But while you looked completely detached right now, Neteyam knew his own heart. He was going to come for you so strong, so steadily, that you wouldn't even realize he was doing it until he was fully woven back into your life like he had never left. He was going to pick up exactly where he left off. He was going to get you back.
Breaking the tense silence between you two, you took a deep breath and dropped down onto your haunches, leveling yourself with your son. “Ervo, you’ve met Neteyam before?”
Ervo nodded quickly, pointing a berry-stained finger. “He.. he gave my ball back.”
Neteyam smoothly lowered himself onto his haunches too, bringing his massive frame down to the dirt. Ervo looked at him with a classic mix of childhood shyness and courage. Then, the little boy turned his head to look at you.
“Toruk Makto’s son, Mama?” Ervo asked in a stage whisper, acting as if Neteyam wasn't even sitting right there, discussing him like a fascinating object.
“Yes, my love,” you said gently, tapping his small nose before glancing up at Neteyam. “He’s a big fan.”
A beautiful, breathless chuckle escaped Neteyam, his eyes twinkling with a sheen of tears. “Is that right?” he asked Ervo, carefully placing a large, trembling hand on the boy's small shoulder.
“Yes! I love Toruk!” Ervo beamed, proudly holding up his wooden Toruk toy for Neteyam to see.
“What do you say about coming to meet him later today?” Neteyam asked softly.
The boy's jaw dropped. “Toruk Makto?” he asked in pure wonder.
“Neteyam...” you warned, your eyes widening as you gave your gaze back to him.
Neteyam turned to you, his eyes swimming with unshed tears, but his expression was entirely sincere. “It’s my son’s simple joy, Y/N. I can make it happen for him...” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion.
“But... you’ll have to...” You trailed off, gesturing vaguely toward Hometree.
“Tell them?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I want to tell them, Y/N. I want to tell the entire village, in fact,” he said, his gaze dropping back to the boy before looking at you. “But only if you’ll allow me.”
You bit your lower lip, looking at the raw vulnerability in his face. “Your family... is fine. The entire village... I think it will need time.”
Neteyam nodded firmly, accepting your terms instantly. He turned back to his son with a bright smile. “Yes, my boy. Toruk Makto. Do you want to go meet him?”
“Yes!” Ervo squealed with zero hesitation. Without warning, the little boy threw his entire body forward, launching himself against Neteyam’s broad chest and wrapping his chubby little arms tightly around the warrior’s neck.
The impact seemed to weaken Neteyam significantly. The sheer force of his son’s affection caused him to stagger back slightly, a soft gasp leaving his lips. Neteyam wrapped his long, muscular arms securely around the boy’s tiny frame, burying his face in Ervo’s hair as his tears finally spilled over, rolling down his chiseled cheeks.
Your own face crumpled in sharp pain at the sight. You quickly looked away, blinking back your own tears at how overwhelmingly emotional the moment was. For Neteyam, at least. Because right now, to your innocent son, Neteyam wasn't a long-lost father or a ghost from the past. He was simply a very kind, very cool guy who was going to bring him face-to-face with Toruk Makto.
You all walked back to Hometree together, the foliage parting easily as Neteyam carried Ervo all the way. The boy’s small, heavy weight rested securely against Neteyam’s chest, one of Ervo's sticky, berry-stained hands loosely gripping some of his braids. You walked half a pace behind them, keeping your eyes on the path but acutely aware of how naturally Neteyam’s large arm cradled your son’s frame.
You couldn’t help but notice how Neteyam could barely take his eyes away from the boy. Only looking at the path from time to time to make sure he’s still going the right path, but Ervo has his full attention. When you reached the lower levels of Hometree, you stopped him near a thick root. Several clan members were lingering nearby, not even trying to hide their intense curiosity, eyes darting from Neteyam to the child, and then to you.
“I will prepare him,” you told Neteyam, your voice clipped and entirely business-like as you reached out to take Ervo. “You could just meet us near your family's hut when it's time.”
Neteyam didn't hand the boy over immediately. Instead, he stepped way too close, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. He lowered Ervo gently to his feet, but kept a hand on the boy's shoulder, leaning down slightly so his face was level with yours. “I can help you prepare him,” he offered softly.
Too conscious of the clan’s eyes on you, you shook your head. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Sure? he murmured, his voice a smooth, infuriating purr.
“Yes,” you hissed, grabbing Ervo’s hand. You turned on your heel and marched away, thoroughly thrown off your game by his sudden, relentless proximity.
Neteyam stood alone on the root, but as he watched your retreating form, a soft smile spread across his lips. His heart soared even higher when Ervo suddenly looked back over your hip, flashing a bright grin and waving his small hand. Neteyam waved back, his chest bursting with a brand-new sense of purpose.
Later that evening, you and Ervo walked up the winding ramp toward the large Sully kelku. Neteyam was already on the outside platform, pacing restlessly on the wide branch leading to the entrance. When he saw you, his face lit up, and he quickly guided you both inside.
The rest of the Sully family was entirely clueless. They knew only that Neteyam had insisted on a private family dinner to introduce someone.
The moment you stepped inside after Neteyam, Kiri’s eyes went wide. “Y/N!” she greeted happily, rushing forward to throw her arms around you in a tight hug.
Little Tuk, who was now ten years old and growing fast, stepped closer, her curious gaze dropping instantly to the toddler holding your hand. Ervo, meanwhile, was completely unfazed by the girls. His wide golden eyes were locked onto Jake Sully, looking up at the legendary Toruk Makto with absolute, unadulterated wonder.
Meanwhile, Neytiri took one look at Ervo, at the inquisitive tilt of his head, the unmistakable slope of his nose, and her breath caught. She didn't need to piece anything together. Beside her, Jake was already grinning, recalling Neteyam’s uncharacteristic, panicked outburst at the council meeting about Tarsem and the tsakarem. The pieces fit together perfectly.
“Neteyam?” Neytiri called out, her voice trembling slightly with an emotional weight.
Neteyam took a deep breath, standing taller before he took Ervo cleanly into his arms, lifting the boy up so his family could see him properly. “Dad, Mother... This is Ervo. My son. Born to the woman I love.”
You turned Neteyam with wide eyes but his tearful eyes were entirely on Ervo. The kelku erupted with gasps. Your son, of course, was entirely clueless about the gravity of the moment, only thrilled that the legendary Jake Sully was looking at him like he was some kind of grand prize. Neytiri’s eyes filled with tears as she rushed forward, her hands hovering over Ervo’s face, murmuring about how much he looked like Neteyam as a toddler.
Then, she turned to you. Without a word, she took your hand, pulling you into a fierce, deeply emotional embrace. “Oh, Y/N,” she breathed. “You were all alone...“
Ervo, ever attentive and fiercely protective of you, instantly tracked the movement. Seeing his mother surrounded, his high-pitched voice cut through the loud chatter. “Mama?”
“I’m here, my love,” you smiled, gently pulling away from Neytiri so he could see you.
Reassured, Ervo smiled brightly. He turned back to Jake, excitedly thrusting his Toruk toy forward. His small tail curled tightly around Neteyam’s forearm in a subconscious gesture of comfort, making Neteyam let out a breathless chuckle as his tears rolled down his nose. Neteyam’s eyes found yours across the room. You gave him a very small, hesitant smile before turning back to talk with Neytiri.
The dinner itself was smooth and warm. At first, Ervo was a bit shy, the large family becoming slightly overwhelming for him. Once, he even wriggled in Neteyam's lap, his small hand reaching out toward you. “Mama...” he whined softly.
You leaned over, offering a reassuring smile as you caressed his rounded cheek. “Papa will feed you, baby...” you told him gently.
You looked at his tiny face properly. He was so small. For all the years of his existence, he had never had a father, and he had never asked about one, either. You were only fortunate that he was still too young to be truly curious about the missing piece of his life.
“Papa...” Ervo echoed, testing the word on his tongue.
You nodded, reaching out to gently tap Neteyam’s chest to emphasize the word. “Papa.”
But as your fingers brushed against his chest, your tap inadvertently shifted his leather knife sheath. The strap slid aside, and your eyes caught a glimpse of the faint, thick, raised scar tissue hidden underneath. Right over his heart.
Your eyes snapped up, locking onto Neteyam’s face. He was staring back at you, his eyes completely misty, entirely focused on the profound fact that you had just introduced him to his son as Papa. He hadn't even noticed that his sheath had moved, or that you had seen the mark of the bullet that had nearly taken his life. Your forehead creased in a brief, sudden moment of worry and realization, but before you could dwell on it, Ervo snagged your attention.
The boy jumped in Neteyam’s hold, a demanding grin breaking across his face as he looked up at his father. “Feed me!” he ordered cutely, wrapping one chubby arm securely around Neteyam’s neck.
A massive smile broke across Neteyam’s lips, but a soft, choked sob escaped him at the same time. He bowed his head, a single tear rolling down his pointed nose. Your face crumpled in a sharp pain at the sight. Your hand instinctively balled into a tight fist at your side, forcing yourself to restrain the sudden, overwhelming urge to reach out and comfort him.
Neteyam quickly wiped his face, recovering his composure to feed Ervo, who began eating happily while the rest of the family absolutely doted on him.
“It’s like seeing Neteyam as a toddler all over again,” Jake noted, his own food completely forgotten as he watched Ervo chew his food rapidly, his cheeks puffing out. In fact, everyone at the table was too busy watching the boy to eat. “The kid eats like a syaksyuk.”
Neytiri smiled warmly at you. “Y/N, your blood did not fight back at all,” she joked and you chuckled. She looked as though she wanted to ask a thousand questions about the last three years, but she wisely chose not to meddle between you and Neteyam.
“How old is he?” Tuk asked you shyly, leaning over the table to peek at Ervo.
You smiled at the girl before turning to your son. “Ervo, how old are you?”
Your son proudly held up two fingers. “This many,” he said grandly.
Neteyam chuckled, and the entire table burst into a loud laughter. Ervo smiled proudly, soaking up the attention.
“Oh, you are still a baby,” Tuk teased gently.
Ervo’s ears immediately pinned back as he scowled, shaking his head. “Not a baby!”
You pursed your lips, trying not to laugh as the family shared another collective chuckle over his little outburst. You reached over, pressing a palm against Ervo’s chest to calm him while Neteyam instinctively began rubbing the boy's back in perfect synchronization. “Sorry, he’s in that stage...” you murmured.
Ervo quickly forgot his anger anyway, his eyes locking onto the sweetroot pie. He pointed a finger at Neteyam, asking his father for a piece. Neteyam chuckled and glanced at you for permission.
You nodded slightly. “Just a little. Too much sweets keep him up all night,” you whispered softly.
You immediately clamped your mouth shut when Ervo’s head swiveled toward you, his ears perking up at the word 'sweets'. Neteyam let out a quiet laugh, quickly distracting the boy by showing him the pie.
After dinner, the family moved outside to catch the cool evening air, stepping onto the wide woven platform that wrapped around the exterior of the kelku. Jake and Neytiri had asked to spend time with Ervo, and Jake was currently enticing the boy with wild, grand stories about Toruk. Ervo was completely captivated, though his golden eyes still occasionally flicked back to the edge of the platform to make sure you were still there.
“He is so protective of you,” Neteyam noted softly, stepping up to stand beside you.
You kept your gaze fixed on Ervo, who was currently talking to Jake like he was a grown warrior, wildly gesturing with his hands and adding his own imaginary details to Jake's Toruk stories. A soft, genuine smile touched your lips, and you rubbed your arms with your palms against the evening breeze.
“He is...” you replied quietly. “But it’s also because we are always together. For a little boy like he is, I am the whole world. Now... that world will be expanding for him.”
Neteyam looked down at you, his expression intensely wistful, the bioluminescent dots on his face glowing brighter, telling you of the intensity of his feelings. “I’m sorry about everything being so rushed... will it be a shock for him?” he asked, his voice laced with genuine worry.
“I don’t think so... he’s still very young, and I don’t think he truly understands the concept of what a father is yet,” you admitted, biting your lower lip. “I no longer have parents where he can see a normal family dynamic, and he hasn’t gotten to the age where he asks about his friends’ fathers. To him, you are just a new, wonderful person in his life.”
You heard him let out a heavy, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Y/N...” he whispered, his voice cracking, dropping to a small, broken tone. “I am so fucking sorry I was not here with you. That I didn’t know when I should have known—”
“Because you were fighting a war to make sure he would have a safe world to live in, Neteyam,” you cut him off cleanly, turning your head to look at him. “And you couldn’t have known because I chose not to tell you. You have done nothing wrong to our boy, but you do have a lot to make up for.”
Tears pooled heavily in his golden eyes, reflecting the soft blue light of the forest. “But I have done you wrong. I hurt you, Y/N... I didn’t have to leave the way I did. I was so cruel—”
You shook your head slowly, letting out a soft sigh as you looked back out at your son’s laughing form. “Let’s leave the past behind us, Neteyam,” you cut him off again, your voice unyielding. “I am a mother now. The one thing it did to me is make me realize that all of my woes and heartaches before I became one don’t matter nearly as much as my son’s well-being.”
Neteyam stared at you, watching the solemn, fierce, and beautiful maturity of your face. He found his chest aching, completely melting for this version of you, too. The incredible, unbreakable woman that his son had made of you. You were stronger than any warrior he had ever fought alongside, stronger even than himself.
He loved you so deeply it terrified him. And as he watched you watch his son, Neteyam swore a silent vow to Eywa that he would stop at nothing to make you feel, believe, and trust in that love again.
The next day, you woke up with the familiar weight of your son’s small body missing from your side, not an unusual occurrence, as Ervo was a notoriously early riser, usually content to play quietly with his wooden toys near the entrance of the kelku.
But your attention was quickly snagged by the sound of the woven flap being opened wildly. Ervo came rushing back inside, his little feet pattering frantically over the mats. You sat up, seeing his face was flushed with pure, unadulterated excitement, his golden eyes wide as plate saucers.
“Mama! Mama, look!” he chirped, dragging you up. “Papa is sleeping outside!”
Your breath hitched. Papa. The word still felt entirely foreign. You pushed yourself up, your forehead creasing with confusion. Stepping out onto your kelku’s small, private platform, your jaw nearly went slack as you looked up.
There, suspended between two thick branches just a few steps away from outside your entrance, was a sturdy hammock. Hanging carelessly from a nearby knot in the wood were Neteyam’s massive longbow and a leather quiver full of arrows, swaying gently in the morning breeze. Neteyam himself was just waking up, his long, muscular frame shifting as he stretched, his tail lazily dropping over the edge of the woven fabric.
He looked down, his golden eyes instantly locking onto yours. The moment he saw your stern expression, he smoothly swung his legs out, dropping down onto the main branch. He looked a bit rumpled from sleep, but his posture was instantly alert, a soft, eager smile instantly forming on his lips when Ervo peeked out from behind your thigh.
“Neteyam, why are you sleeping out here?” you asked, keeping your voice low.
“I just thought it would be convenient,” he said, his deep voice carrying a gravelly, morning rasp. He rubbed the back of his neck. “If you need anything, I’m right here. If there is danger, I’ll be here to protect you both.”
Your lips parted, a frustrated, disbelieving breath escaping you. “There’s... there’s absolutely no need for this, Neteyam. Truly. We have lived here for years, and none of that danger has happened. And if we ever need—”
“Please,” he cut you off gently, stepping forward. The towering, confident warrior from the previous evening seemed to completely vanish, replaced by a man looking down at you with a gaze so heavy with repentance it made your chest ache. “I want to help you in any way I can. I want to be of use to you. Tell me anything you need done, and I will get it done. Anything you want, I will find it. I came back too late, Y/N. We should have been a team raising Ervo from the moment he was formed... but you were all alone in it.”
You could see the raw, agonizing struggle on his face. You know Neteyam. He was never one to just do things to force his way into your bed. And right now, he was literally begging for the dirty work. He was begging for the labor and the heavy lifting.
You remembered the promise you had made him the day before: you wouldn't keep Ervo from him. You looked down at your son, who was already staring up at Neteyam like he was an invincible giant, and you let out a long, defeated sigh.
“Fine,” you said, your voice entirely flat, masking the way your heart gave a traitorous thump against your ribs. “Ervo needs to wash, and he hasn't had breakfast yet. I need fresh fire-roots from the lower gatherers, and the water basin is completely empty.”
Neteyam’s eyes lit up instantly, a profound, breathless look of gratitude washing over his features as if you had just handed him a decree rather than a list of mundane chores. “I'm on it,” he said quickly, nodding with an intense, ironclad seriousness. “I’ll get the water first.”
Neteyam moved so fast you’d think he had a visible countdown ticking away right on his face. He practically flew down the branches of Hometree, returning in record time with heavy, sloshing containers of clean water to completely top off your large storage basins. Not stopping there, he immediately grabbed every single empty waterskin from its woven basket, jogging down to the river to fill them with cold water. He lined them up perfectly, wiped clean, as if he were preparing a high-ranking commander’s tent for inspection.
With the water sorted, he disappeared again, darting toward the communal kitchens to fetch breakfast.
Down at the bustling cooking fires, he came face-to-face with Marla for the first time in years. The older woman paused, a warm, knowing smile spreading across her wrinkled face as she looked at the young warrior. “What do you need, boy?” she asked, as if he never left and this was just a normal day where he comes to you food.
“A tray of food for Y/N and our boy,” Neteyam said, a small, nearly imperceptible smile tugging at his lips at the words our boy.
It felt like a normal day three years back, but this time, he was getting food for you and the child you two made.
Marla’s eyebrows raised in surprise, just a fraction, before she hummed softly. “And none for you?” she asked, her hands already deftly assembling a generous tray of fresh fruit, roasted fish, and steamed roots.
Neteyam shook his head quickly. He didn't think you’d particularly enjoy having his him hovering around the mat for breakfast just yet. He didn't want to push his luck.
As she wrapped the food in clean leaves, Marla looked at him gently. “How was the eastern sea like, boy?”
“Beautiful...” Neteyam murmured, his voice dipping into a wistful, quiet tone. “But I wasn’t really there for its beauty.”
The truth was, not only was the war cold and brutal, it had been a psychological prison for him. Every Na’vi was taught from birth to put their full trust in Eywa, to meet death without fear because all energy is borrowed... and one day, you’ll have to give it back. But Neteyam? Neteyam had feared death every single day. He had been terrified of dying, not out of cowardice, but because of the sheer agony of what he had left behind.
He had wanted to go home to you so badly. Sure, he had cut things off and hurt you deeply before leaving, foolishly convincing himself that making you hate him would be better than leaving you to mourn a dead mate if he never returned. But the moment the sky people's bullets started flying, all he wanted was to live. To survive, go home, and hold you in his arms again.
“I didn’t know how much I missed...” he voiced out softly.
Marla sighed, her expression softening with deep maternal sympathy. She reached out, patting his hand with a heavy, grounding comfort. “You were fighting a war, boy. To keep the sky people from ruining this world,” she reminded him gently. “If you must know... she is very strong. Very strong. And your boy is, too.”
Neteyam’s eyes snapped up to her, pooling with fresh tears. The words were meant to comfort him, but they only fed the monster of regret clawing at his chest. He had missed so much. No matter how many times you or Marla told him that it was a time of war and he couldn't have known, he still felt the agonizing weight of his absence. He should have been there to hold your hand while you were heavy with Ervo, he should have been there to witness every single one of his son's first milestones.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he thanked Marla, took the heavy tray, and walked back up to your kelku.
By the time he stepped back inside, Ervo was already cleanly bathed and changed into a fresh, tiny loincloth. The boy was energized as ever, and the moment Neteyam set the tray down and lifted him up, Ervo smelled so naturally of a baby and sweet sap that Neteyam couldn't help but bury his face in the boy's hair, snuggling into him with a soft sigh.
Ervo giggled loudly, his little hand immediately reaching up to grab at Neteyam’s braids. He looked over at you as you knelt by the tray, arranging the food. “Papa will feed me?” Ervo asked, his high-pitched voice filled with easy trust.
You paused, looking up from the food to glance at Neteyam. Neteyam froze, his eyes wide and pleading, nodding down at you rapidly as he immediately lowered his massive frame onto the woven floor, setting Ervo securely on his lap.
“What about your morning patrol?” you mumbled quietly, keeping your voice low so only he could hear.
You watched as Ervo settled against Neteyam’s chest like it was the absolute best seat in the entire world, vastly bigger, sturdier, and much more comfortable than any mat.
“It won't be for another hour,” Neteyam replied softly, his attention snagged by your son, who was aggressively pointing a sticky finger at the specific fruit he wanted to eat. Neteyam immediately jumped into action, carefully peeling it and breaking it into perfect, toddler-sized bites.
Your lips pushed forward slightly, a tiny, involuntary twitch of amusement hitting you as you watched a legendary, hardened warrior completely smitten, utterly held captive by the small hands of your little boy.
Without a word, you pushed your own leaf of food toward Neteyam. You couldn't finish everything anyway, and he clearly hadn't brought anything for himself. You immediately looked away, deliberately avoiding his reaction, completely missing the way his golden eyes literally lit up with a breathless joy just because you shared your food with him.
Once breakfast was done, Neteyam practically refused to let you touch a single dish. He cleaned up everything in a flash while you gathered your stuff and prepared for your day at the healing pavilion.
As you moved around the kelku, Neteyam bit his lower lip, his eyes quietly tracking your every movement. A heavy, aching tightness gripped his chest. It felt so beautifully, agonizingly domestic. This was the life that should have been his if he had just played his cards right. If he had only known there was still so much left to live and play for.
When it was time to leave, he insisted on walking you to the pavilion, with Ervo still riding happily in his arms.
As you stepped inside the shade of the healing pavilion, you glanced back at the pair. “That boy will forget how to walk if you keep carrying him everywhere,” you noted, your tone carrying a humored edge.
Neteyam smiled warmly, stepping into the pavilion after you. “Just let me,” he murmured softly, gently cradling the back of his son’s head in the crook of his neck. “He fits so perfectly in my arms.”
He carefully set Ervo down on a soft mat, ruffling the boy’s fluffy hair.
“Papa will come back right after my patrol, okay? We’ll go play. What do you think about that?”
Ervo nodded rapidly, already thoroughly distracted by some scattered wooden toys he had left there the day before. “Okay. I wait,” Ervo chirped.
Neteyam smiled breathlessly, leaning down to press a tender kiss to the top of his son's head. As he straightened up, his golden eyes flicked up to meet yours, holding your gaze for a long, quiet beat.
You found, with a sudden leap in your chest, that you still knew him entirely too well. You didn't even need words to understand the silent message written all over his face: Please let me keep coming back.
For the next weeks, it’s all he ever did.
He sleeps in a hammock outside your kelku, wakes up to fetch you and Ervo breakfast, and goes to his morning patrol only to come back to spend time with Ervo. He climbed the treacherous upper water-vines three times a week, bringing back the sweetest, clearest mountain run-off before you even had the chance to check the waterskins for refill.
Most days, you won’t even need to ask the gatherers the specific, rare herbs that needed replenishing, you’d find them already restocked, knowing that Neteyam had to have gone to the slippery, moss-covered undersides of the floating mountains to get them, and still be back before dinner.
One hot afternoon, you walked down to the lower training clearing to find him completely surrounded by the village children. Ervo was sitting securely on top of Neteyam's broad shoulders, holding onto his ears like reins, his little tail swishing with absolute pride.
Neteyam was kneeling on one knee in the dirt, completely unbothered by the weight of your son. In his hands, he held a small, practice bow, the kind given to young children just beginning their training, and a single blunt arrow.
The village kids were huddled around him in a tight, breathless semicircle, their wide golden eyes glued to his every movement. None of them questioned why a decorated warrior of the Great War was spending his precious afternoon off hanging out with a bunch of kids. To them, he was simply the coolest person alive.
“You must not just look with your eyes,” Neteyam explained, his deep voice dropping into a quiet, captivating whisper that had every single child leaning in closer. He adjusted his grip on the tiny bow, his massive hands looking almost comical against the small wood. “You must feel the wind on your skin. Listen to your surroundings and keep sharp, Eywa will tell you exactly where to go.”
With an effortless, fluid grace, Neteyam drew the string back. High above them, a single, broad green leaf loosed itself from a branch, lazily fluttering down. The blunt arrow struck the falling leaf and with a dull pop, the arrow and leaf landed on the bush.
The clearing absolutely erupted. The children gasped, clapping their hands and jumping up and down in pure amazement. Ervo, right on top of his father's shoulders, let out a high-pitched, victorious shriek, bouncing so hard that Neteyam had to quickly reach up with one large hand to steady the boy, a soft, booming chuckle escaping his chest.
“Me next! Papa, let me try!” Ervo said excitedly.
Neteyam’s ears twitched forward, a breathless smile breaking across his face at the title. He carefully hoisted Ervo down from his shoulders, cradling him against his chest as he looked up and finally spotted you standing at the edge of the clearing.
The moment his eyes met yours, the confidence vanished just a little. His posture softened completely, his golden eyes searching your face with that familiar, quiet hope. He turned to the kids and told them something you couldn’t quite hear before he headed over to you, wiping sweat from his forehead, his breathing slightly heavy.
“Is it time for his nap?” Neteyam asked eagerly, his ears perked up, entirely ready to carry the boy back up the massive tree.
“No,” you replied softly, holding Ervo’s hand and kissing the palm of it, causing him to giggle. “But it is almost his nap time.”
Neteyam adjusted his grip on Ervo, his fingers splaying protectively over the boy’s small lower back. “Going somewhere?” he asked, looking down at you.
You hesitated, your eyes briefly scanning the woods beyond the clearing. You bit your lower lip, a sudden wave of distraction clouding your features. “I’m just getting something.”
“If you need anything, I’ll get it for you,” he said instantly, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. He stepped closer, his shadow falling over you like a shield. “That way you can put Ervo down for his nap and you don’t need to go out there.”
You chewed on the inside of your cheek, weighing your options. The mid-day heat was picking up, and Ervo’s eyelids were already drooping against Neteyam’s chest. “I just need some moon lily and tealo leaves,” you admitted, your focus drifting.
You were entirely too preoccupied to notice the way Neteyam’s head reared back slightly, a heavy shadow of fear and surprise violently washing over his chiseled features. He knew exactly what those two herbs combined to create. You used to drink that exact eclipse tea years ago, back when the two of you were stealing moments in the dark, desperate to prevent a pregnancy before you two were properly mated. He used to be the one to get them for you.
“I’ll get it for you,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, thick and strained as he forced a weak, hollow smirk onto his face. “I know exactly where to find them, remember? Been here, done that.”
He was trying to play it cool, to inject some humor into the air, but inside, his chest was collapsing. Yes, you weren't mated. But that didn't mean you didn't have a lover. Even when the two of you had been secretly together, half the young men in the clan had tried their luck with you. He didn't doubt for a single second that they were still trying, and the thought that one of them might have finally won, that you needed this tea... made him want to curl up and scream into the dirt.
“Are you sure?” you asked, completely missing his inner turmoil.
“Yes,” he nodded tightly, carefully transferring a sleepy Ervo into your arms.
“Thank you, Neteyam,” you murmured, adjusting your hold on your son and turning to head up toward the pavilion.
An hour later, the bead curtains of the pavilion rustled, and Neteyam stepped inside. Ervo was already fast asleep on a small cot in the corner, and you were at your workspace, meticulously washing the fresh moon lily and tealo leaves Neteyam had brought back.
Neteyam’s golden eyes instantly tracked a young woman sitting quietly in the corner of the room, her tail twitching nervously.
“I am so sorry for the hassle, tsakarem...” the girl, Peyra, whispered for the nth time. She watched you grind the herbs into a paste, completely uncaring that Neteyam was standing just paces away.
You let out a heavy sigh, pouring hot water over the mixture. “This is not a hassle, Peyra. It is only that I wish you would be more responsible with your intake if you are going to be having regular sex.”
And oh, the irony of your own words was not lost on you. The literal, living proof of your own past irresponsibility was snoring softly just a few feet away. Peyra nodded sheepishly, gratefully accepting the wooden bowl of steaming tea you handed her, drinking it down quickly before offering a polite nod and slipping out of the pavilion.
Once the curtain settled, you glanced up. Neteyam was still standing exactly where he had been minutes ago, rooted to the floor like a massive, awkward tree.
“What?” you asked, wiping your hands on a clean cloth.
He shrugged his broad shoulders, shifting his weight. “I thought...”
Your eyes narrowed at his sketchy behavior. “You thought what?” When he didn't answer, the pieces suddenly clicked in your mind. A look of sheer disbelief crossed your face. “You thought that was for me?”
Neteyam licked his dry lips, his ears pinning back in pure embarrassment as he looked away. “Not... not in a bad way,” he muttered, his voice quiet. “I just thought... well, the men of this clan would have to be incredibly stupid not to shoot their shot while I was gone.”
You raised a single eyebrow, entirely unamused but secretly startled by the possessive edge in his tone. “I have a toddler and a healing pavilion to run, Neteyam. I have absolutely no time for that.”
“Of course,” he responded instantly. The sheer, overwhelming wave of relief that washed over him practically took all his words away. His shoulders dropped, the suffocating tension leaving his frame.
Trying to break the sudden silence, you went back to organizing your tools, casually asking, “Do the reef people have their own contraceptives? Perhaps made of seaweeds?”
Neteyam blinked, thoroughly caught off guard. His brow furrowed in genuine confusion as he actually had to think about it. “Not that I know of. I never laid with anyone back there.”
Your fingers froze over your grinding stone. Your forehead relaxed for a brief, traitorous second, a strange lightness hitting your chest before you quickly forced your features back into a harsh, defensive scowl. “I didn’t ask you that.”
“Right. Of course,” he said, a tiny, breathless smile tugging at his lips at the sight of your incredibly cute, stubborn scowl. He knew he was pushing his luck, so he quickly cleared his throat, stepping back toward the exit to return to his normal programming. “I’ll get going. I have a meeting with the council.”
You watched him walk out, the beads clattering behind him. The moment he was gone, you bit your lip, lowering your head to lean your forrhead against the table as you tried to calm the frantic beating of your heart. You had tried so hard over the last three years to bury your curiosity, to force yourself to believe he had found a woman in Awa’atlu just so the pain of him leaving would finally numb out.
But hearing him say, so casually and honestly, that he had never been wth anyone else... it unleashed a warmth you weren't prepared to handle. You were still so deeply affected by him, and you hated how easily he could still disrupt your peace.
Meanwhile, inside the council longhouse, the atmosphere was heavy. The village elders were gathered in a circle, mapping out the upcoming leadership transition between Tarsem and Neteyam. Tarsem was set to return from the Tayrangi clan on the day of the mantle passing, but before that could happen, the elders were strictly focusing on political technicalities.
When Neteyam arrived and sat beside his parents, Neytiri leaned over, quietly explaining the current topic of discussion. Neteyam’s brow furrowed in deep confusion.
He looked across the fire at one of the senior elders leading the discussion. “Forgive me, but why are we discussing a list of prospective betrothals for me? Doesn’t the clan already have a tsakarem?”
The elders shifted uncomfortably, exchanging uneasy, pointed glances. Finally, Elder Okan cleared his throat, leaning forward. “Well... we do, Neteyam. But... Y/N is... for lack of a better word, disgraced. She had a child outside the sacred bond. She is a—”
“Elder Okan,” Neteyam interrupted cleanly, instantly silencing the entire longhouse.
Neteyam stood up, his massive frame towering over the council fire. He looked the elders, the warriors, and every single member of the council dead in the eye, his gaze burning with a fierce, protective fury.
“If she is a disgrace to this clan, that is only because I disgraced her,” he stated, his voice echoing off the woven walls with absolute authority.
The room remained silent, listening to him.
“I am the father of her child,” Neteyam said. “I got her with child, and then I left her here, completely alone, to bear the weight of my absence and raise our son. I broke her heart and left her in the dark to go fight the war for our people. And through all of it, she did not break. She rebuilt herself again and again, she raised a beautiful boy, and she proved her worth and her devotion to the healing of our people every single day.”
He watched realization and shame dawn in their faces. If it weren’t for Mo’at years ago, these people wouldn’t even have considered you as the tsakarem. They overlook what you do for the people and it didn’t mean anything to Neteyam anymore now that they seemed to have feel a deep respect for you only after he spoke on your behalf and destroyed his own perfect son, perfect soldier reputation.
He is far from perfect. Not when he left you alone to be ravaged by these people.
“She is the only woman I will ever mate with. And if this clan wants me as their Olo’eyktan, they will accept her as their Tsahik.”
Neytiri patted his hand on the table. “Has she agreed to be your mate, Neteyam?”
Neteyam swallowed, glancing down at his mother. He shook his head, “No,” he said. “But I'm going to court her...”
Jake scoffed, stifling a smile. “Better get to it, son,“ he said as he cleared his throat.
One morning, Neteyam walked you two to the pavilion as per usual, but you noticed some elders watching from a far. It had felt like you were in a circus in the past moons, with the clan members watching your every move like they were trying to unleash a secret.
When you were younger, you were more eager to please, more eager to belong because you grew up an orphan. But being a mother had changed all that, you care for no one’s opinion now, and you genuinely feel like you owe none of them an explanation about Ervo, and who his father was, even though it has gotten rather obvious who exactly it was.
“I'll come back later, baby,“ Neteyam told Ervo, kissing his temple but when you glanced at him, his eyes were on you as though he was talking to you.
You looked away when you felt your heart jostle inside your chest. Sometimes, when he talks to Ervo... It feels like he was talking to you. He put Ervo down and your son waved up at him quietly as he began to walk. You dropped down on one knee, wrapping an arm around your son. He always seems so sad when Neteyam has to leave.
“Bye, Papa!” you said in a small voice, urging him to mimic you.
Neteyam looked down at you both, waving at Ervo, his eyes soft on you.
“Take care, Papa,” you urged Ervo to say.
“Take care, Papa!” your son parroted in a high-pitched voice and you kissed his round cheek.
Neteyam laughed and waved at him again. When you entered the pavilion, you remembered your stone mortar that Neteyam had painstakingly sourced and gifted you years and years ago when you became one of the apprentice healers. It had cracked right down the middle the previous afternoon and you couldn’t help but sigh in a moment of grief as you thought of trudging down to the claymakers on the lower levels to seek a replacement.
You did a double look on your workable, though, when you caught sight of a brand-new mortar and pestle.
You made your way to it, your heart soaring excitedly. You ran your fingers over the smooth, flawless grain of the dark river stone. It was perfectly weighted, the edges meticulously shaved down and grooved to explicitly fit the unique contour of your palm. It was a signature style you recognized instantly, only Neteyam worked stone with that specific patience, and only he knew the shape of your palm.
You looked beyond the curtains, on the pathway where Neteyam had disappeared for morning patrol.
Over the next weeks, a quiet wave of things you were still just about to need and want was already manifesting before you, though Neteyam had never given you a reason to question this. It was as though he was anticipating your every need before you could even vocalize them, entirely devoted to your convenience.
One night, a chaotic hunting accident had kept you at the healing pavilion until long past eclipse, stitching deep lacerations and mixing poultices. Marla had already kindly sent up a tray of dinner hours ago, and you had eaten in quiet intervals between patients.
By the time the pavilion cleared out, you were exhausted, sitting on the woven mat to sort the remaining herbs. Ervo was leaning his small, heavy body completely against your side. His eyelids were heavy, blinking slowly against the soft glow of the hanging firepots, but his stubborn little fingers were tightly hooked into your beaded top, desperately holding out.
The soft clatter of the curtains made both of you look up, seeing Neteyam step inside, fresh from what must have been a grueling, late-night council meeting.
The moment your eyes landed on him, an involuntary warmth flooded your chest, and your face lit up before you could even think to mask it.
“Papa!“ Ervo voiced the exact excitement you were obviously feeling.
“Hello, my boy,” Neteyam smiled, the exhaustion instantly draining from his face. He dropped to one knee as Ervo scrambled up and ran toward him, his small body crashing directly into his father. Neteyam’s golden eyes flicked up to meet yours, and you didn't even try to remove the soft smile lingering on your lips.
“The little man won't sleep without you,” you said, shaking your head with a gentle huff before looking back down at the roots on the table.
Neteyam chuckled, looking down at his son, whose eyes were suddenly twinkling with newfound energy. “Is that so?” he grinned, immediately digging his large fingers into the boy's sides to tickle him, earning a loud, breathless fit of giggles that made you look up again, completely charmed. “Is that why you were practically leaning against Mama already, but still you won’t sleep, hm, little warrior?”
You watched as Neteyam smoothly scooped the boy up, cradling him in his massive arms like an infant. Ervo threw his head back, laughing endlessly as Neteyam leaned down to blow air against his exposed neck, tickling him until the toddler was completely out of breath.
“Neteyam...” you called out, your voice a soft, warning murmur to break up the rowdiness. “He needs to sleep.”
He grinned, settling the boy deeper into the crook of his arm as he sat down properly on the mat across from you. “You sleep now, little man. Close your eyes.”
“But tomorrow... tomorrow...” Ervo mumbled, his small hands weakly waving in the air, trying to animate a bow and arrow. Neteyam had been taking him out for archery practice with a blunt arrow, and the boy had been entirely crazy about it.
“Yes, yes, tomorrow, Papa will teach you again,” Neteyam promised softly, leaning down to press a tender kiss to the tip of his nose.
“Ervo, don’t you miss your bugs?” you interjected from your spot, crushing a handful of dried leaves.
“I miss... I watched bugs today, Mama... many bugs... many colors...” Ervo trailed off, his voice dropping into a sleepy slur. His heavy eyelids finally fluttered shut, his little head snuggling deep into the warm expanse of Neteyam’s chest.
Neteyam let out a quiet, breathless sigh, his eyes snapping to yours as a soft, private smile pulled at his lips. You smiled back, the quiet domesticity of the room wrapping around the three of you like a blanket.
“You're here late today,” he noted quietly, his gaze dropping to the sheer volume of plants around you.
You sighed, rolling your shoulders out. “Most of the herbs needed restocking after tonight, and I just felt the sudden urge to clean everything up... for my own convenience tomorrow.”
“Ever the perfectionist,” he murmured, his lips twisting into a fond, nostalgic smirk.
As he shifted to get more comfortable, Ervo’s heavy head moved against his shoulder, once again pushing his chest knife sheath completely out of place. Your eyes lowered instinctively, and under the steady light of the fire, you saw the scar clearly. It was a vicious, jagged scar of raised, pale flesh.
Your brow furrowed, a sudden chill running through your veins. “What happened?”
The easy, playful aura around Neteyam evaporated instantly, turning deeply serious. “The war,” he answered bluntly.
You huffed, frustrated by his brevity. “I know it's from the war, Neteyam. I am a tsakarem. I am asking what happened.”
He looked at you for a long beat, adjusting his sleeping son securely against his torso. “I got shot,” he said in a tone that undermines what happened. “The metal went deep. Almost died.”
You took in a sharp, ragged breath as a terrifying tremble shook through your core, but you quickly steeled your expression, trying desperately to hide how profoundly the thought of his near death shook you to the bone. You bit your lower lip hard enough to draw color. “I'm glad you lived...” you mumbled, your eyes glued to the floor.
He let out a wistful, quiet scoff, a tiny smirk forming on his face. “You pulled me back,” he murmured softly. “Otherwise, that version of Neteyam never would have known about your struggles, or the fact that you brought Ervo into this world. I never would have known my son.”
Your forehead creased deeply, a sudden sting behind your eyes as tears began to pool. “Pulled you... back?”
“I succumbed to darkness then... But I dreamed of you,” he confessed, his gaze dropping to Ervo as if the absolute intensity of your stare was too much for him to bear. “We were at the river... You kissed me and told me to wake up. So I did.” He swallowed hard, finally forcing his golden eyes back up to lock onto yours. “Y/N, I know I said stupid, unforgivable things to you before I left three years ago. I hurt you, and I—”
“And you shouldn't have?” you cut him off, your voice cracking as the buried agony flared to life in your chest. “I think I already know what you're going to say, Neteyam, and I tried to understand—”
“No, you don't understand,” he pressed, taking a step forward on his knees, his face entirely open and desperate. “I said what I said, but that didn't mean I meant a single word of it. I love you, Y/N. I loved you so much then, and I love you so much still. Even much more now.”
“You told me it was not serious,” you said, the words slipping out in a small, broken voice that felt like an open wound. “You told me to my face that it was a passing thing, that you would find someone better in the reefs and you’d settle down there. You were so cruel to me... and I must admit, I rejoiced when you came back entirely alone.”
You knew you had told him then that the past didn't matter anymore since you became a mother, but sitting here in the dark, looking at his scar, you realized you were still entirely haunted by that.
A small, incredibly tender smile formed on his lips at your confession. “I bet you did,” he murmured softly. “But I lied about all of it. How could I find someone better when I had already had the best thing in this world? And I was never going to settle down with anyone that wasn't you. It sounds stupid, but I was so terrified I would die out there, Y/N. I thought it would be easier for you to mourn a man you hated, rather than a man you were waiting for. I didn't want you to be hurt when I couldn’t be here.”
“I got hurt anyway,” you whispered, your lips pulling down as the first heavy tear spilled down your cheek.
Seeing your tears, Neteyam didn't hesitate. Moving with extreme care so as not to disturb the sleeping toddler wrapped in his left arm, he slid across the mat until he was kneeling directly beside you. He reached out a trembling hand, his fingers stopping just inches from your knee, desperate to touch but terrified of crossing the line.
“I know,” he whispered, his voice thick and fractured. “I thought I was protecting you but all I did was poison what we had and the time we had left then. All I did was leave you with that pain while you carry my child. The desire alone to bring back time and change everything is already the heaviest burden I will carry.”
You turned to him and the sight of your tears knocked the air out of him like he had been struck in the gut. His arm reached up to wrap around you and pull you to him and you allowed him to hug you. The moment his scent hit you, everything in you collapsed. You buried your face against the crook of his neck, resting your forehead heavily against his sturdy shoulder as a quiet sob escaped you. Neteyam held you tight, his large hand pressing firmly into your back, burying his face in your hair as his own silent tears flowed.
“I'm sorry,” he whispered over and over into your hair, his voice trembling. “I am here and I will never leave your side again. I love you so much...”
A sudden, rhythmic rustle of the bead curtains echoed through the pavilion.
You both stiffened slightly, pulling back just enough to look toward the entrance. Your breath hitched. Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the moonlight, was the Tsahik herself. Mo'at stood, her sharp, knowing eyes sweeping over both of you. You with your tear-stained face, Neteyam with his arm wrapped fiercely around you, and little Ervo snoring peacefully between you.
You pulled away and wiped your tears off, while Neteyam looked everywhere but his grandmother. Mo’at shook her head, completely ignoring the emotional wreckage but she couldn’t let the shyness slip.
“Are you really acting like two teenagers caught hugging? Please. Not while your little boy was between you two,“ she said with an experience that remained entirely unbothered. “The moon lily roots need to be steeped, tsakarem—”
“Yes, Tsahik. I... know what to do,” you said in a soft voice.
“Hm,” she responded before slipping back through the curtain, leaving the three of you in the quiet darkness.
You finished up your work at the pavilion in the quiet hour following Mo’at departure. Neteyam walked you up to your kelku, the cool night air wrapping around you both while he carried a deeply sleeping Ervo in his arms.
When you stepped inside the familiar dome of your home, you struck a flint to light the hanging firepot, casting a low, golden glow across the woven walls. Neteyam moved silently, laying the sleeping mats out properly so he could ease Ervo down. But the moment the boy’s back touched the mat, he stirred and let out a soft, tiny whimper. His small, chubby arms reached up blindly, wrapping tightly around Neteyam’s neck.
“Papa...” his small voice croaked in his sleep.
Neteyam let out a profoundly endearing sound, his chest hitching as he immediately wrapped his broad arm around Ervo to anchor him. “I’m here, boy,” he mumbled, leaning down to press a tender kiss to Ervo’s small head.
He looked up at you from his position on the floor, a quiet, slightly hesitant smile playing on his lips. Your lips twisted into a soft expression. “You can stay,” you said quietly, stepping onto the mat. “If you want.”
“I want,” he answered right away, without a second of hesitation. His large hand splayed over his son’s chest, the gentle weight calming the toddler completely. Ervo settled back down, his grip loosening slightly, though his arms remained loosely draped around Neteyam's neck.
You sat on the edge of the mat, leaning over to carefully pry Ervo’s arms away so Neteyam could sit up, but your son only tightened his hold, nuzzling his little face directly against his father’s cheek as a cute, stubborn sound escaped his mouth.
You let out a soft chuckle and shook your head, giving up. “Well, I guess you’ll just have to wake up with a stiff neck tomorrow,” you whispered.
Lowering yourself onto your side on the mat, you tucked your hand under your head to use it as a pillow. Your soft eyes looked at your son, watching his peaceful, even breaths. As you stared, your gaze naturally traveled past the boy's face and met Neteyam’s eyes.
The two of you were entirely silent for a long moment, just staring into each other’s eyes across the space of your sleeping child. It didn't feel awkward, and the tension had translated into something incredibly warm, grounded, and so deeply familiar that your eyes pricked with unshed tears for a fleeting second.
“How was it like?” he mumbled, his voice a low rumble.
“Hm?” You shifted your hand, gently caressing Ervo’s soft head.
“When you were alone here... everything,” he murmured, his ears dipping slightly in a display of profound vulnerability. “I want to know... if I can.”
Your lips twisted into a faint smile. “I didn't move here until after I gave birth. I was still living at the communal shelter before that... so I was basically the prime example of what not to be,” you noted, trying to chuckle the memory off with a soft smirk.
Neteyam’s brows furrowed deeply, his chest tightening. “Were you shunned?”
“Not really... Mo’at made me her tsakarem,” you said softly. “And then, when I finally gave birth, we moved into this kelku... and we made it our home.”
Neteyam smiled weakly, his eyes scanning the cozy hut. It was filled with woven baskets, drying herbs, and small wooden toys, everything that meant so much to you and your son. “How was it like? When he was a baby?”
“He was hungry all the time, but he didn't cry much. He was the goodest boy,” you mumbled, leaning down to press a soft kiss against your son’s round cheek. “I’ve heard most of the other mothers speak of being awoken in the dead of night by their screaming babies, but Ervo just didn't cry at all. When he woke up in the morning, he was always so entertained by the sun’s rays seeping through the woven walls. He would just lay there, watching the light and waiting for me to wake up, even though he was clearly hungry.”
Neteyam sniffled. You pulled your eyes away from your son to look at him, and your heart twinged when you saw a heavy tear roll off the tip of his nose, catching the firelight.
“I should have been here...” he choked out, his jaw clenching.
“You were fighting a war, Neteyam...” you mumbled softly.
“Still... I am entirely too acquainted with regret,” he whispered, his golden eyes raw with grief. “With you, and with our son... there is so much I missed. So much I wish I could take back.”
You reached across Ervo’s small frame, gently placing your hand over Neteyam’s large hand where it rested on the boy’s chest. “But it just wasn’t the case, Neteyam...” you whispered, pushing yourself up onto your elbow. “Everything that happened is the will of Eywa. I didn’t have it easy, but you didn’t have it easy either. You almost died out there, I almost lost you completely. The war hurt every single one of us.”
He looked up at you, his eyes swimming with tears. “It was I who hurt you...”
“And I am letting it go. I am forgiving you,” you murmured.
Leaning across the small space, you lowered your head and pressed a soft kiss against his lips. You felt his breathing hitch instantly under the gentle touch. When you pulled away, a soft, breathless smile formed on your face, while his wide, golden eyes remained glued to you in absolute reverence.
“I love you so much, Y/N...” he mumbled, his voice thick with emotion.
“I’ll bring you to some of my memories with Ervo tomorrow,” you whispered, settling back onto the mat.
“I would like that very much,” he smiled, his hand turning over to interlock his fingers with yours.
The next morning, you woke up to the sound of Ervo’s energetic chirping. The boy was moving like a happy little worm right between you and Neteyam, his tiny feet kicking at the blankets.
Throughout the night, Neteyam had shifted, wrapping his long, heavy arm securely around your waist, his head cradled directly against yours. He stirred the moment you shifted, his large hand playfully catching Ervo’s tiny hand as the boy reached up toward a bright ray of morning light cutting through the ceiling.
“Papa!” Ervo shrieked with absolute delight, laughing loudly as he rolled over on the mat to face the two of you.
Neteyam instantly scooped him into his arms, hugging his small body tightly against his chest. You pushed yourself up on one arm, leaning over to kiss Ervo’s cheek. “Are you hungry, little man?”
“Yes!” he chirped, aggressively struggling to free himself from Neteyam, who had immediately begun to tickle his ribs. “No!! Help me, Mama!” he shrieked, giggling uncontrollably.
You laughed, sitting up to fix your messy braids as you watched them play. Ervo’s bright giggles completely filled the kelku, and when he finally managed to wiggle free from his father’s grip, he scrambled across the mat and ran straight into your lap, still laughing. You hugged him close, and his small body melted into you.
Your eyes found Neteyam, who was sitting up, a soft, incredibly contented smile gracing his chiseled face as he watched you both.
“I should go get your breakfast from the kitchens,” he said, preparing to stand.
“Or we could just join breakfast downstairs,” you offered casually, adjusting Ervo’s small loincloth.
You didn't catch the exact moment Neteyam’s face literally lit up, but by the time you were all walking down the winding ramp, it was entirely obvious that both he and Ervo were far too excited. Ervo had never asked why you rarely ate at the communal meals anymore; to him, the only important thing had been eating. But now that you were actually walking toward the communal ground, he was far too energized to be trusted on foot.
Neteyam happily scooped him up. When you finally stepped into the bustling communal clearing, the sheer volume of eyes turning toward the three of you was completely overwhelming. It wasn't as if the clan hadn't seen Neteyam practicality living outside your kelku and serving your every need for the past moons, but seeing the three of you walking into the morning light together was an undeniable confirmation. The whispers faded into respectful, wide-eyed silence.
You sat down and ate together as a little family, Ervo comfortably splitting his time between sitting in Neteyam’s lap and snuggling into his side.
Once breakfast was over, Neteyam walked you both back up to the healing pavilion before his morning patrol. Ervo immediately ran inside the bead curtains after loudly telling Neteyam to take care. You turned to follow your son, but before you could take a step, Neteyam caught you gently by the elbow and pulled you back to him.
Before you could even speak, his lips came down to crush against yours.
It was entirely unlike the soft, gentle kiss you had given him the night before. This was hard, deep, and all-consuming. A possessive, breathless demand that told you exactly how much he had starved for you over the last three years. By the time he finally let you go, your breath was completely trapped in your throat.
You licked your wet lips, blinking up at his towering frame. “Take care...” you mumbled, entirely at a loss for words.
His smile was lopsided and entirely boyish before he turned on his heel and trotted down the path for patrol. You stood there, your face burning incredibly hot. He was still exactly the same, disciplined and perfectly behaved on the outside, but the moment he was provoked, it was like letting a wild animal out of its cage.
You worked diligently until midday, and the moment Neteyam’s rotation ended, he arrived at the pavilion so the two of you could take Ervo out. You had originally planned to leave the boy with Kiri while you two visited the Tree of Souls, but you miraculously ran into Neytiri and Jake near the lower levels, both of whom were practically eager to babysit.
Apparently, Neytiri had been secretly spoiling your son with sweet fruits and rare treats for weeks now, to the point where Ervo recognized his grandmother as the ultimate source of good food. Jake, on the other hand, had a much grander bribe.
“I promise him a ride on Toruk,” Jake said with a laugh, winking at the boy.
“Looks like he’s going to have the absolute time of his life today,” you said as you and Neteyam walked away, laughing together.
“The luckiest boy alive, if you ask me,” Neteyam smirked, stepping over a thick root. “Lo’ak, Kiri, and I never even had a chance to ride on Toruk when we were kids, you know?”
You pushed your lips forward thoughtfully. “I also don’t recall having Toruk around much growing up. Did your father claim him back during the war?”
Neteyam nodded, reaching out to pluck a small, vibrant purple flower from a low-hanging vine. “He did, right after the first major battle we had against the sky people.” He stepped closer, gently handing the flower to you. “I guess Dad’s releasing Toruk back to the wild soon. But not before giving our boy a ride.”
You smiled softly, tucking the stem of the flower securely into your dark braid.
When you finally reached the sacred sanctuary of the Tree of Souls, the air grew thick with a profound, spiritual quiet. Without a word, you reached out and grabbed Neteyam’s large hand. He squeezed your fingers tightly, and together, you stepped under the massive, glowing canopy, the silver, crystal-like tendrils brushing against your skin.
You reached behind you to pull your kuru forward, looking at him with a soft smile. He did the same, his golden eyes watching you with so much raw devotion it almost made you want to look away.
“I want... to be at his birth,” Neteyam said suddenly, his voice thick. “I want to be there for it.”
You bit your lip, a soft chuckle escaping you. “Alright... but warning, I look like an absolute mess in this memory.”
He let out a quiet groan, stepping into your space to press a deep, tender kiss against the side of your head. “You can never look like a mess to me, my love.”
You smiled, raising your braid to connect with the glowing tendril. Neteyam followed suit, and as your neural paths linked to the sacred tree, the world dissolved. Suddenly, you were both drifting into a memory that was permanently tattooed onto your brain.
Neteyam found himself standing in the corner of the healing pavilion, the vision so sharp and vivid he felt as though he could physically reach out and touch the woven walls. You were lying on a pile of soft mats, a mountain of pillows supporting your back as you struggled to breathe, your skin glistening with sweat. You looked so young, so exhausted, and so deeply pained.
Neteyam stood there, watching you writhe, feeling his heart being brutally torn in two every single time a sharp cry of agony escaped your lips. Mo’at was hovering over you, doing her absolute best, encouraging your breathing and guiding you through the final, grueling moments until a sharp, loud cry echoed through the space.
Neteyam craned his neck, a massive, breathless smile breaking across his face as he watched Mo’at lift a large, healthy baby boy.
“A boy, Y/N,” Mo’at’s echoed voice filled the memory.
He watched you weep with pure exhaustion and relief as you reached out your trembling arms, taking the boy against your bare chest. Mo’at gently helped you latch the hungry baby, and Neteyam watched the scene in absolute wonder, his large hands balling into fists as his chest tightened with an overwhelming wave of emotion.
Sensing the sheer, heavy weight of Neteyam’s energy through the bond, you slowly disconnected from the tree. The vision slowly faded, and when you opened your eyes, you looked over to find him crying silently, heavy tears streaming down his face.
Your breath hitched, and you immediately moved into his space, cupping his wet cheeks with your hands to wipe the moisture away.
“I’m so sorry... I’m so sorry I wasn't there,” he kept repeating, his voice breaking.
You shook your head firmly. “No. Quit apologizing, alright? You’ve been crying entirely too much lately,” you teased softly, peering up into his eyes. “Come, I promised to show you the funny memories I have with him.”
He let out a breathless smile, his large hands wrapping gently around your wrists to keep your touch against his skin.
You reconnected, and as promised, you pulled him into the lighter moments of your son's life. You showed him the exact moment Ervo let out his very first, bubbling laugh; the clumsy afternoon he took his first, unbalanced steps across the hut; the quiet, breathless second he first babbled the word Mama. You showed him the quiet, lazy afternoons spent in the pavilion, and one particularly hilarious afternoon where Ervo had been utterly terrified of a bug attack, only to clumsily brave his fear and swat it away when he noticed that you had pretended to be scared, too.
By the end of the memories, Neteyam was completely nonverbal. He was crying even during the moments you considered funny, his heart overflowing with the years he had missed.
You pulled away from the tree, looking at him with pursed lips and incredibly soft eyes, reaching up once more to brush the tears from his sharp cheekbones. By now, the eclipse had fully brought darkness over the land, causing the long, sweeping tendrils of the Tree of Souls to pulse with a vibrant, deep purple bioluminescence.
“Thank you for allowing me to be a part of all of it...” he mumbled, his large hands gently cradling your hand, lifting it up to his face so he could press a fervent kiss directly into your palm. “You make me so incredibly happy, Y/N. I never thought I would have the chance to hold you again... and now, you have given me Ervo, you allow me back into your life... it all just feels like a beautiful dream.”
You smiled, squeezing his hand tightly. “You deserve to be a part of all of it, Neteyam... and to be a part of our lives, too.”
He smiled, a sudden, familiar mischievous light sparking in his golden eyes as he stepped closer, closing the remaining distance between your bodies. “And what if I stay for life?”
You shrugged playfully, pressing your palm flat against the center of his warm chest. “I wouldn’t mind...”
Neteyam looked up, admiring the breathtaking beauty of the glowing canopy above before lowering his gaze back down to you. The playful light vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unyielding confidence.
“I want to court you properly, Y/N,” he stated firmly. “Until you choose me as your mate.”
Your brows furrowed, a highly amused smile pulling at your lips. “Aren’t you doing that already?” you asked, a soft blush hitting your cheeks. “I thought you were already courting me... I kissed you last night, and you kissed me today.” You bit your lower lip. “And we have Ervo...”
Neteyam’s eyes narrowed playfully, though you could tell he was practically elated, his ears twitching rapidly just like your son’s did whenever he was too happy. They truly were identical.
He caught both of your hands, enveloping them in his massive grip. “I love Ervo very much... but he and his future siblings are entirely separate from us in these matters. This is about us. You and me.”
Your brow twitched, your eyes widening slightly. “Future siblings?”
He bit his lip, a boyish smirk creeping onto his face. “If you want...” he mumbled, leaning down slightly. “Don’t you think Ervo wants playmates?”
“I think he wants us home right now so he can tell us his grand stories about Toruk,” you countered, turning to drag him by the hand out from under the tendrils.
Neteyam didn't let you step away. With a sudden, firm tug, he pulled you right back to stand flush against his front. You looked up, your breath hitching at the dark, blazing heat suddenly swirling in his golden eyes. You put a hand up to press against his chest to steady yourself, but he smoothly caught your wrist, pulling your hand up and draping it over the back of his neck before lowering his head to claim your mouth.
His large hands found your waist, gripping you tightly to pull your body flat against his hard, heavily muscled frame. He deepened the kiss instantly, his tongue sliding past your lips, and you lifted your other hand to hook tightly around his neck, pulling him down further. His hands began to frantically feel up your sides, a low, needy moan escaping his throat when his hand slid upward to firmly squeeze the soft weight of your breast. You pulled him down by his braids, practically eating him up as the years of starvation melted away.
“I missed you... so much,” you moaned against his lips, your hips tilting instinctively into his.
His hand rubbed down your back, pulling away just a fraction of an inch, his breathing ragged. He cupped the back of your neck with his large palm. “I missed you more, my love. You have no idea how many times I dreamed of this,” he growled softly, before burying his face back into your neck, kissing you hard.
You smiled against his skin, breaking away only to kiss your way down the sharp line of his jaw and the column of his throat. You trailed your lips down over his collarbone, tracing the taut, heavy muscles of his chest and abdomen. Neteyam’s breathing hitched violently, his abdominal muscles contracting sharply by the time you sank down onto your knees in front of him on the soft grass.
You looked up at him, deliberately licking your lips wet, your fingers immediately working the ties of his loincloth. He helped you with a trembling urgency, and the moment the fabric fell away, you came face-to-face with his thick, fully aroused length.
You bit your lip, angling your head as you darted your tongue out to lightly lick the bead of precum glistening on the wide head.
Neteyam let out a harsh, guttural groan the moment the wet warmth of your mouth enveloped the entire head, his hips twitching forward as you began to suck softly. Your hand wrapped securely around the base of his length, pumping him with a slow rhythm while you licked and sucked. You flicked your eyes upward, catching him watching you with a fierce, ravenous intensity, his gaze completely dark. You smiled around his girth, swallowing more of his length, your hand caressing the remaining skin.
You licked the entire length of him, from the head down to the base, kissing and tasting him before sliding him back into your mouth, sucking hard while your hand pumped his shaft.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck...” Neteyam was whimpering and groaning into the quiet night, his thighs quivering violently as his fingers tangled tightly into a handful of your braids to anchor himself.
When he finally braced his legs and came, you firmly refused to let go, ignoring his weak attempt to gently peel your head back. You swallowed his hot come, your tail swishing frantically behind you in the grass.
The moment you cleaned him off, Neteyam’s hand gripped your jaw as he lowered himself onto the grass, his lips coming crashing down on yours in a bruising kiss. His hands were frantic against your skin, quickly untying the loincloth around your tail, kissing you deeply the entire time and tasting himself on your tongue.
The moment your fabric was cleared away, he gently guided you down onto the soft grass beneath the purple glow of the tree. His mouth slid down to suckle fiercely on your breasts, his tongue swirling aggressively over your pebbled tips. He was moving like a man who didn't know what part of you to kiss or touch first, the sheer desperation consuming him.
After suckling your breasts, his large hand pried your legs apart. He knelt heavily between your thighs, lowering his head down to press his mouth directly against your wet, aching core. You let out a loud gasp as his lips and tongue found your sensitive nub, sending violent vibrations of pure pleasure straight up your spine.
“Ah... shit, Neteyam,” your head fell back into the grass, your fingers gripping the earth as his mouth went to work on your pussy. He grabbed the back of your thighs, lifting and pushing it against your body, his tongue licking your wet slit with a deep hum. He was holding your thighs with such a tight, bruising grip that when your body began to quiver and your hips buckled, you couldn't move away from the intense stimulation.
By the time he finally pulled away, you were as weak as a sun lily in the dark, your breath coming in ragged gasps. He hovered over you, his lips glistening wet with your essence, before he simply licked his lips clean. You pulled his neck down for a kiss, which he gladly gave you, before he pushed himself up on his hands, his fingers gripping his hard girth and lining the heavy head up with your pulsing entrance.
You spread your legs wider for him, your hand wrapping tightly around his thick bicep. He lowered his head to catch your lips in a deep kiss just as he sank his cock completely into your tight heat.
You let out a sharp whimper at the sudden fullness, and he instantly deepened and hardened the kiss, driving himself all the way in until his hips slammed against yours. The sheer girth you hadn't experienced in three long years gave you a moment of sharp discomfort, but your body quickly adjusted, your walls squeezing tightly around him, making him let out a breathless, deep chuckle against your mouth.
You chuckled weakly back, reaching up to cutely pinch the tip of his pointed ear.
“Nothing says home better than that,” he mumbled, peppering kisses along your jaw.
You intentionally squeezed your muscles around him again, tilting your chin up. “That?” you bit your lip.
He groaned loudly, his hand sliding down to grab the back of one of your thighs, pulling it high up over his hip as he drew his pelvis back. You let out a loud moan when he pushed all the way back in. When you looked up at him through the dark, the gold in his eyes were entirely gone, completely consumed by the black. You knew you were about to get it.
And you did. Neteyam began to thrust, pounding into you with a heavy, relentless pace that always had you screaming his name. His broad arm wrapped securely around your shoulders, while his other hand caged the side of your face, his forehead resting firmly against yours as he fucked you hard into the dirt. The friction and depth brought you straight to the edge, your grip on his shoulders tightening until your nails dug into his skin, your entire body quivering under his weight.
He continued to pound relentlessly into you even as you crashed over your high, shivering violently as he finally stiffened, coming deep inside you in hot, pulsing spurts. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as you hugged him tight, both of your breaths echoing loudly under the canopy.
You chuckled softly after a long moment, caressing the smooth skin of his back. “You’re heaving too much, baby. What? Has the mighty warrior lost his extraordinary stamina?” you teased lightheartedly. “Used to be... you’d be attacking me for the next round right about now—”
You shrieked with a laugh when you felt his teeth sharply nip the sensitive skin of your neck.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows, his hand sliding down to possessively caress your waist before traveling back up to your breast. “Well, I am attacking you now...” he mumbled, his golden eyes flashing as he spread your thighs apart once more, his heavy length sliding right back into your slick heat.
You chuckled, pulling him down by his neck to lose yourself in another kiss. The succeeding rounds were slower, much more thorough, as though his body perfectly remembered exactly what to do with every single inch of yours.
Though you desperately wanted to stay wrapped in his arms and spend the entire night under the glowing tree, you couldn't forget your son.
“He’s probably looking for us by now,” you said, a trace of motherly worry bleeding into your voice as you sat up and began fixing your beaded top. “He hasn’t been away from me for this long.” Your heart gripped slightly at the thought of him crying because you had been gone too long.
You and Neteyam quickly dressed and walked back to Hometree, arriving just in time for the evening meal. You were openly holding hands, your fingers tightly interlocked as you stepped into the light of the communal clearing.
You were fully expecting to see a crying, frantic Ervo being consoled, but as you scanned the area, your jaw nearly dropped. He was not crying at all. In fact, he was up on the dais, sitting comfortably on Jake’s lap while Jake, Neytiri, and Tuk completely fussed over him. There wasn't a single trace of sadness on his face. He was eating happily, his high-pitched, energetic voice reaching you from across the clearing as he rambled animatedly to Neytiri. The surrounding clan members watched you and Neteyam enter, their eyes tracking your joined hands with knowing smiles.
“He’s definitely not looking for us,” Neteyam noted with a deep chuckle.
“This little traitor...” you jokingly whispered, laughing as you shook your head.
Your son finally spotted you from across the room, and his bright smile vanished instantly, his lower lip pulling down into a pout the second he realized his parents were back.
You walked up toward the dais, and Neytiri looked up, smiling warmly at you. “Oh, he’s going to cry...” she mouthed in playful horror. “He’ll be out like a light in minutes, Y/N. He’s had a very long day.”
You chuckled, reaching out your arms to take your son from Jake. “Mama!” Ervo said, his voice instantly turning shaky as large, dramatic tears pooled in his eyes.
“No, no, no, my love...” you murmured softly, cradling his head against your shoulder and gently rubbing his back.
“You are gone long?” his small voice asked, the slight accusation breaking your heart. Neteyam’s breath hitched beside you, his large hand immediately splaying over Ervo’s small back to soothe him.
“Yes... did you miss me and Papa?” you asked gently, kissing his temple.
The boy sniffled, his large golden eyes looking up at you with an expression that looked exactly like you had just caught him stealing sweet berries before breakfast. “No... I was with Toruk,” he stated bluntly.
Jake’s booming laughter echoed off the wooden pillars, and Neytiri laughed out loud as well. Your jaw went completely slack, your wide, laughing eyes glancing over at Neteyam. This boy!
“We fly, Mama! With Grandpa and... and... Grandma!” he chirped, his hands waving in the air. He looked over at Neteyam with absolute pride. “Toruk is bigger than Hometree, Papa!”
You passed Ervo over to Neteyam when the boy reached out for him, immediately chattering a mile a minute about his grand flying experience. You all sat down together on the dais, listening to Ervo ramble about the wind and the sky. He was truly the center of the family's joy, and as you and Neteyam sat back against the cushions, you caught Neteyam’s eyes pooling with fresh tears.
He glanced over at you, and you breathlessly chuckled when a heavy drop of tear rolled down his nose. He angled his head closer to yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I love him so much, baby...” he whispered, his voice trembling with an overwhelming gratitude. “I love you so much.” He leaned in, affectionately nuzzling his face against yours.
You held the side of his face in your hand, your thumb wiping the tear away. “I love you, Neteyam...” you whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss against his cheek.
When Ervo saw you kiss him, the toddler quickly scrambled forward in Neteyam's lap, leaning his small body up to aggressively kiss Neteyam’s other cheek, his tiny hands cupping his father’s jawline. You grinned brightly at Neteyam as he blinked at his son in pure, breathless adoration.
film contains…….You are doing skin care for your best friend by sitting on his lap as usual, while he is gaming, but accidentally grind on him, ending up with his cock inside you
film caution …….MINORS DO NOT INTERACT Unprotected sex(don’t do it) dry humping, making out/ kissing, grinding, fingering, edging, nipple play, talking abt fem!reader body parts, neck kisses, nipping the neck, spanking, usage of the word ass, clit play?, mentions of nick names like baby and etc, riding, tell me if anything more should be mentioned.
film length………5.2min(5.2k)
film keeper whispers ……….This is my first ever time publishing fic, I’m learning to write since I imagine a lot, I want to get it into words and now I got an idea for this with the help of Pinterest 😪. I tried my best, and slowly I’m gonna start my oneshot, idk how long it’s gonna be 🤷♀️. If any mistakes, let me know. Please request if u want anything. I will try my best to write butI’m a slow writer 😢. Would love moots, reblogs and likes ♥️ (part two)
film melody playing……….. into you- ariana grande
˚ ༘ 🎞️ ｡𖦹 ° 🎥 ⁀જ⁀➴ film starting……..
The chaotic bursts of neon light from the monitors washes over the room, casting long, jagged shadows against the walls of Heeseung’s room.
The room smells of expensive cologne, ozone from the humming PC, carrying the faint and sterile scent of rosewater and gentle soap in the air.
You are seated on Heeseung’s lap, straddling his hips, knees around them, on his chair, facing him in a position that the friction of your thighs against his jogger’s can’t be ignored.
Heeseung is fully concentrating on his game for now.
His eyes are sharp, darting to every move in the game, playing it very carefully though you are quite a distraction to him.
The headset he has on is filled with sounds of explosions and gunshots, and he pushes one piece of the headset aside so he can hear you.
You hold a small glass jar aloe vera gel, the product cool and smooth between your fingertips.
You’ve been massaging it on his face for the past ten minutes or maybe you just use it as an excuse to stay on his lap longer.
But then still, you don’t care about the game he was playing, you just wanted to end the ‘washing face with whatever soap is there in the shower’ routine for him, so he can get good and fresh skin.
“Stop moving idiot” you murmur, voice soft but firm and commanding him a little because he keeps on moving.
You can feel the heat radiating from him as you blend the cream on his face in small upwards circles.
His jaw is clenched, trying his best not to feel you and your stupid tactics as a distraction, which you are sitting innocently on his lap like you don't understand what’s wrong in doing this.
“I’m in an important fight, Y/N” he grunts, though there’s no real anger behind his voice.
“If I lose this round, I’m gonna blame you and your so-called skincare routine” he adds, mocking lightly.
“Uhh, my skincare routine is obviously way better than whatever you do in the stupid shower,” you retort, sliding your fingers on his temple now.
“No soap is gonna clean your face like my skincare does, your skin feel shit, and it’s screaming for help, so think of this as an upgrade for your face”
He lets out a laugh, his eyes fixed towards the screen. “Sure,” he says as if it’s nothing, “My skin has a mouth and it’s screaming”.
You roll your eyes at that, moving a little back so you can look at him even though he doesn’t.
“Just because it doesn’t have a loud, cocky mouth like you, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist,” you shoot back.
“And for your kind information,” you continue, leaning closer to his face again, to spread the gel on his face, “You’re skin is so dehydrated, maybe it looks fine, but it really isn’t, so be grateful”
“I should be— What? grateful? Why? And what? I have a cocky mouth?” he splutters, turning towards you showing an exaggerated, horrified expression which was totally just acting.
"First place, I don’t even care about my skin, Second, you should be grateful that I’m letting you do this while I’m literally in the middle of a serious fight, Third—”
“Hey, dont move!,” you interrupt, pushing back his face towards the screen.
“I can’t do it properly, if you keep moving” you add and he becomes quiet and goes back to playing his game very seriously.
You slowly get even more closer to his face.
For real, you’ve done this almost a hundred times before, sitting on his lap touching his face and all stuff, but today something in the air feels different.
For the first time the closeness doesn’t feel normal.
It feels dangerous, surreal and maybe something new.
Every time he breathes near you, every time his chest brushes against yours, you feel your pulse raise.
You try to ignore it, focusing your attention back to what you are doing, but it only makes it worse, because now, you’re actually looking at him.
The sharp line of his nose, the long lashes that fall against his skin, the bambi-like looking eyes, and then your gaze drops down— unintentionally.
You blink, realizing you are staring at him, you shake your head slightly to clear it, pushing those sudden, distracting thoughts away as quickly as they come.
You don't want to be caught by him, which will only make it more embarrassing.
You quickly turn back to your work— properly this time.
So, you shift your weight, moving closer to him, trying to adjust the position so reaching the bridge of his nose would be easier.
As you move, your thighs slide against his joggers, hips very slightly against each other, the friction sending a sudden spark through your body, but you push it away.
It was just a small moment for you, which you just want to ignore, but it sent a shudder through Heeseung’s body which you didn’t know.
“Fuck—” Heeseung groans, throwing his head back against the chair, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down, suddenly gripping your hip with one hand so tightly as you freeze at the pressure.
“Don’t—Don’t fucking do that, I’m trying my best to concentrate, baby” he forces out softly, the words tight as he grits his teeth.
You don’t understand what happened.
One second, you’re applying the gel on his face, moving closer to reach his nose—and the next, he throws his head against the chair and it’s pissing you since you already told him to not move.
“I said to not move, Heeseung!! And seriously, it’s not my mistake that you can’t concentrate on your game” you say, a hint of irritation slipping through your voice.
You don’t understand what is wrong or what is his problem, even though it was quite obvious you couldn’t figure it out, so you just get back to working on his face.
You shift your weight again, trying to adjust your position to get a better angle on his face, slightly moving left.
This movement causes your leggings to unintentionally rub your thigh against his growing hardness.
“Baby, fuck—“ he rasps, as his other hand also leaves keyboard to grab the other side of your hip and holds you so tightly with both of the hands that you were sure it will leave few bruises by tomorrow.
His head abruptly falls on your shoulder as the room fills with the loud harsh blares from the monitor which indicates he lost the game but you didn’t know it.
“Heeseung what the—” before you could even scold him, you gasp from him pulling you down, pressing you against him in a way that you can feel his big bulge on your core.
“Heeseung….” you whisper, your voice trembling.
“Don’t—fucking don’t,” he starts, speaking as his head is still on your shoulder, you hear it in his voice, how he is trying his all best to control himself.
“Don’t tell me stop when all I was doing was sitting here….trying my all best to control myself, while here you are sitting on my fucking lap, moving how ever you want……. God! Y/N you’ve been killing me here, I can’t stop anymore—”
He stops talking, lifting his head from your shoulder before capturing your lips in a searing, aching, desperate kiss, hands moving from your hips to your waist, gripping it so tightly it knocks the air out of your lungs.
He kisses you rough, like gentleness isn’t even an option right now, like he’s done holding back, done pretending this doesn’t mean anything as the gel smears on your face from his face.
All the years of your friendship, when he did his best to hold back, but now he’s done.
For a second you forget how to breathe, the intensity, the desperation and the desire from his mouth against yours, knocking the thoughts out of your brain.
You don’t even process the fact that HE, HE, your best friend is kissing you right now. Never in a million years did you think this out of all would happen—a lie you had a lot of sex dreams with him cuz he was too hot, and……..never mind.
You are still trying to process this when the grip on your waist tightens to pull you out of your thoughts.
The jar slips from your hand, shattering into pieces, and gel spreads everywhere on the floor, but you don’t even notice it.
You melt against him, your hand slowly moving from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, fingers curling tightly in the hair as you pull him closer and kiss him back with the same desire, desperation and intensity.
He lets out a low deep growl, something filled with satisfaction like he knew you would kiss him without holding back.
It vibrates through your whole body, slowly heat starts coiling up in your lower belly more than what you felt a while ago.
You start feeling needy and want him more than you ever did.
But then he pulls back, forehead against yours, his breath hot, and his lips swollen from the hard rough kiss.
“Tell me to stop—” he whispers against your mouth in a low hoarse, octave voice which sends a shiver through your body.
You shake your head instantly before he can even finish.
“No,” you whisper, the word barely leaving your throat. “Don’t. Please don’t ”
You roll your hips against his voluntarily.
You need more.
You need the friction to not be a tease and start being the truth. The reality.
“Fuck—“ Heeseung hisses the moment he hears the deny and feels the roll of your hips directly against his bulge.
This time you’ve done it on purpose, you need more and you are clearly showing it.
He roughly grabs your jaw,tilting your head back, and crashing his lips on to yours again.
This time it’s all tongue and teeth, he doesn’t ask for permission, he claims it like it’s his.
You gasp into the kiss, this was more aggressive and desperate han before.
He takes his chance to enter his tongue into your mouth when you gasp.
His tongue plunges into your mouth, taking in your whispers and every inch of your mouth, he doesn’t waste a single single second.
His palm is hot.
He moves his hand from your waist to your hips as they slowly slip under your long hoodie or probably his which you wear all the time.
His hands move on your lower back, pulling you closer that there isn’t a millimetre also left between you both.
He breaks the kiss to move lower, his lips dragging along your jaw, sucking gently, before moving down to the column of your throat.
You tilt your head back without thinking, giving him more, your fingers going to his shoulders to hold tightly as his kisses grow firmer, more lingering.
“Hee….mm….Hee…” your breath stutters, his name coming from your mouth like a chant, unsteady whispers, which you can’t hold back anymore.
His hand moves down to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze before delivering a spank.
His palm against your ass made you leave out a loud gasp, your back arching slightly.
He doesn’t pull away, he soothes it down slowly, in a way it makes your toe curl.
The literal sensation sends sparks right over to your core, making you clench a round nothing.
He starts placing open mouthed kisses near your collarbone and neck, his breath hot and damp, leaving the warmth of his mouth behind.
He moves below your ear, instantly financing your sweet spot and nips your skin lightly.
You let out a sharp cry, breathing unsteadily.
The moment you let it out, he leans in again, nipping it harder than before, sucking a dark, purple mark, visibly claiming you.
He follows down to your collarbone, nipping wherever he finds your sweet spots to let out those sweet little sounds that feel like music to his ears.
You don’t stop, you keep whimpering his name, gasping when his tongue darts out to lick gently after nipping on your sweet spots.
You are drenched.
Your panties are suffocatingly tight because of the silk clinging to your folds as you leak for him.
You need him.
You need to feel full.
You were sure it is making it hard to even take in air properly just because of his hot kisses on your body.
One of his hands tugs the hem of your hoodie, asking you permission if he was allowed to remove it while he was still busy marking you up.
“Yes! Please—remove it” you please, your voice cracking a little bit.
He doesn’t even take a second to tug it off, the moment you accept it, in one fluid motion he pulls it off you.
For a second he freezes.
You aren’t wearing a bra, the cool air hitting your bare skin, making your nipples harden and maybe you weren’t even sure if it was air or his gaze all over your body making you turn again and again and again…..
You aren’t wearing anything else except the black lace of your panties peeking out of your tiny shorts you wore.
“Fuck baby—” he growls, his eye’s darkening, pupils expanding until his hazel is almost entirely black.
He looks at you like you’re both sin and miracle given to him at once.
“This is what you have been gatekeeping from me, huh?” he asks, his hands moving to cup the underside of your breast, lifting them up slightly, as his thumb slightly grazes over the peck.
You whimper, throwing your head back at that little touch surge of pleasure shoots to your core.
“This tiny waist,” his hands moving to the mid section, squeezing the softness there, devouring your body with his eyes.
“These wide, beautiful hips,” his finger moving on the waistband, pulling the elastic tight.
He bends a little, pressing a hot, lingering kiss right above the fabric of your panties, his lips grazing the skin of your hip.
The sensation sends a jolt through your body, sending shivers as your legs shake.
“Including the ass you’ve been teasing me with for years,” he said his voice filled with lust and love, and then he looks at you, how you look wrecked just for his touch.
He spanks you again, harder and more firm this time.
You cry out, a sound filled with shock, pleasure and pain, but please wins it all for now.
You thought he would probably soothe it again but no, it was paining harder but he made no movement to touch or soothe it, just casually leans back on to the chair.
He just lets it linger there, making it a reminder for you.
To remind you, who you actually belong to though he hasn’t fucked the shit out you yet.
Now his gaze isn’t on your face, it moves lower.
Your neck. No
Your collarbone. No
Your Shoulders. No
Just shamelessly, directly looking at your breasts with a hungry gaze, something you wanted to see all along.
“And finally……these beautiful, big boobs” he whispers.
He bends down, his lips hovering right over your breast, his hot breath teasing your nipples.
And then he pecks it…..to just tease you more.
The moment his hot breath was on your nipple.
Just his hot breath.
Hot.
Breath.
You found yourself getting hungrier for him, you didn’t want him to tease you, you needed him, right then and there.
He knew it, he knew how you felt, how you are breathing, how you need him, but won’t give you what you want right now.
“Hee please—” you grind on him again but he holds back your hips making you stop, before you please again or tell him how badly you need him.
Then he starts sucking it, like he can’t hold back anymore, like this was the last thing left on the earth, maybe even like he was thirsty for them.
He wants to tease you, but couldn't hold himself back from you either, that grinding, those pleas from your mouth, made him rethink his decision from teasing you.
You could hear his sucking sounds, wet and vulgar, because of the wetness of his saliva spreading on to your nipples.
Your back arches, your hands instinctively find his hair, gripping it tightly.
He groans at the tight pull of his hair, making him harder underneath.
He sucks on your nipples, tongue circling around the peck, and tugging it slightly before sucking it again, doing the same thing over and over again, while his other hand finds your breast, squeezing, kneading it and rolling your nipple in between his fingers.
You moan, loud, honest, no stopping.
The pleasure was too good.
Your hips start bucking instantly against his bulge again, rolling your hips harder than before, grinding more.
He notices it as he pulls back from sucking with a wet plop.
“Eager now baby?” He teases, his voice dropping low.
You nod, hips moving harder, searching for friction.
For a second he thought to let you do something at least for yourself or not stopping you like he was before but no, straight away his hands move to your hips stopping you right when you thought it was getting better.
Then he bends down and moves to the other breast without a word to you, giving it the same attention as before, while his other hand was on the breast which was wet from his saliva, but still playing with it, satisfying you with his hand.
It was good, undeniably you like you, but the fact that your pussy was throbbing to be filled was not ignorable.
You didn't want to wait.
“Hee….please…please..I need you so bad—ahh” you let out a sharp cry as he bites down your nipples, his hands lowering, across your thighs and rids your shorts from your legs without asking you.
“Needy baby?” He asks as he pulls back, like knew nothing.
“Hee—ahhh” you moan when his fingers touch the wetness of your pussy just through the lace black panties.
“So wet for me baby” he coos as he feels the moisture soaking through the lace.
He finally strips them away also, leaving you bare on his lap, pressing against him.
The contact is sharp, as now you are directly pressing against the rough fabric over his bulge.
He finds his way to your clit, pressing on the swollen bud right away, rubbing it in circles with no patience, but with punishing pressure that makes your vision blur.
Your mouth opens, letting out sharp breaths, eyes shut, finally getting whatever you’ve been longing for, you instinctively bite down on your lips as choked sobs and moans come out of your throat.
“No baby, don’t bite your lip, don’t stop, moan for me, darling” he says softly, before pushing 2 fingers into your soaking warmth at once.
You scream from the sudden push, it wasn’t warned, it was too sudden.
He starts pushing deeper into your spongy walls, as your walls clench around his fingers, he groans in your neck, his fingers curling in spots making you moan and vision blur from the pleasure.
“Fuck baby, thats it, take my fingers like a good girl” he finally adds the third finger, stretching you apart as you wail, and then heeseung leans to kiss you again, tongue entering your mouth directly, taking in all your sounds while pumping his fingers in and out, while his thumb presses and circles on your bud.
He moves faster, pulling away from the kiss, gripping your hips tightly while pumping his fingers faster, your hands move to his shoulders tightening as you squeeze your eyes shut tightly, while whimpering and gasping, leaving out breathy huffs.
As you feel your orgasm building, tightening low in your belly, just the tension in your thighs becomes unbearable.
“Hee— I’m—” before could even finish your sentence, he pulled out his fingers, just only the pad of his thumb pressing over your swollen clit, trapping the pleasure before it could explode.
Your eyes open wide, blown in shock as a moan of frustration screeches from your throat at the literal loss of his fingers inside.
“Hee, why–” you gasp, hips bucking instinctively towards his hand wanting more.
“Mmm” he just hums, looking down at your pussy while circling your clit, rubbing it in small circles but never quite providing the friction you need to tip over the edge.
“Hee, please!” you whine, trying to grind his hand, but he holds your hip tight enough to not let you move, he is still looking at your pussy, but then finally looks up.
Eyes dark with lust, his smoldering gaze at you making you pause for a second before he says “please, what?” in a low octave, his voice sounding husky.
“I-I need to come,” you wail, grinding on his bulge over his rough fabric making you want more, in fact you’ve never felt this needy.
Him edging you just made it worse, you couldn't take the teasing now, you need him and you won't stop asking for it.
“please hee please I need you, I want you so badly. I can’t take it anymore!!” you beg.
He chuckles, a dark, hungry sound.
He doesn't put his fingers back in you or do anything you asked for.
Instead, he starts to kiss you, deep, demanding kisses that taste of mint and desperation.
The intensity of the kiss swallows you while leaving you breathless and your hands move to his head, running your hands through his long, lustrous black hair.
His tongue slides against yours, sucking and swirling desperately while sliding down his joggers and boxer to pull his cock out.
He pulls away from the kiss, pulling your head back away from his.
You look down into his hands and the moment you saw it, you were starstuck.
He is big.
Not big like you think, very big in a way you weren't sure if you could even take him.
It was shocking.
You knew this was coming, when you guys crossed your lines today but god he is just so big.
His cock is big, fucking standing straight, curling a little but still so so straight in way you never stood in your whole life, wow, it is hot and swollen, throbbing as the tip is in a beautifully pink color, glistening with precum as he held the shaft in his hand.
You are staring at it shamelessly, because who wouldn't look at something so beautiful and gorgeous.
“Like what you see baby?” he asks, when he caught you staring at his cock.
You snap out of your thoughts, raising your head up, eyes locking on to his eyes, as your cheeks burn from embarrassment.
“Want it inside you baby?” he questions as he feels your arousal just by looking at you face.
You nod slightly and that's what it takes before he jerks it on your pussy once, slapping his cock against it a few times, spreading his precum all over.
An unfiltered screech comes out of your throat, showing how needy you are when he slaps the tip on your pussy.
You move a little, rubbing it a little on his cock, whimpering a little.
“You want it so bad right? You’ll get it baby” he doesn't wait another second.
He grips your waist and heaves you upward and then slams you down on to his cock.
Your hands find their way to his shoulders as you scream into the crook of his neck when he buries himself, all the way to the hilt inside you in one fluid, powerful motion.
The fullness is overwhelming, a blunt pressure that hits your cervix and sends ripples of pleasure radiating through your entire lower body.
The sensation is overwhelming, the feeling of being completely filled, the stretch of your pussy, the sudden, intense heat of him deep within your pussy.
You feel your internal muscles spasm around him, clamping down tight, clenching it so tight which makes Heeseung leave a raw guttural growl out feeling you all around him.
His cock twitches inside you, showing how badly he needed this.
“Baby–fuck, so tight…you feel so good baby” he says, his hands sliding down to your ass gripping.
You stay still for a moment, both of you catching your breath, the only sound the heavy thrum of the PC fans and your synchronized gasping.
The gaming chair creaks as you begin to move, tentatively at first, lifting your hips a few inches and then sliding back down.
You only lift an inch before slamming back down, the impact making the gaming chair rock precariously.
The feeling of him filling inside you was so so good, that you didn't care about anyone hearing your moans, as your moans echo all through the room.
Your grip on his shoulder tightens as the pleasure of him being inside you, stretching you apart with his cock was the best feeling you ever felt.
The squelching and wet sounds of your pussy moving on his cock, taking him all the way down to his shaft, then moving back halfway, and falling back down, with your moans and Heeseung’s groans fill you the room.
The sounds are lewd, obscene or even pornographic, it didn't feel real.
You riding your best friend's cock feels like a dreaming true.
You slowly find your rhythm, more confident, more desperate.
Your mouth falls agape, moaning loudly every time you ride him, head falls back as the tip hits that spot that makes you see stars, your breasts bounce with every downward thrust, your hardened nipples scrape against his shirt every time.
“Yes, just like that baby” he groans as his head hits the chair, while he grips your ass and starts lifting you higher so he can move deeper.
You are desperate now, the need for release overriding everything.
The friction against your clit is intense, a searing heat that builds with every slide.
You lean forward, your hair falling over your face, your mouth finding his again.
The kiss is sloppy, desperate, the sound of your tongues clashing mixing with the wet slaps of your bodies.
Tentatively, Heeseung also starts moving his hips up, thrusting upward slowly, testing the waters to see how it would be.
And fuck it, it was so so so good.
“Ahh” you moan as the tip of his cock hits deeper in your pussy, as your walls clench around him in pleasure.
You scream into his mouth, it is so intense, your pussy takes him all the way on to his shaft.
You keep riding him until you feel that low tingling feeling in your lower stomach.
You are about to come, you needed it any minute now.
You are moving faster, breath uneven, shamelessly moaning so loudly, you are sure your neighbours could hear it but you couldn't care less.
“Ngh heee” you wail, you dont know if its pain or pleasure or all together but it was good and stretching you apart and finally you are about to come.
“Hee–hee i-m im coming!!” you choke out, the orgasm is about to come as he moves his hips faster, thrusting harder.
“Yes baby, yes, come for me, come on my cock baby” he says, holding your hips, gripping it so hard, it could leave red marks on it and speeding up the movements, slamming you down onto his cock, taking control.
“Ahh–mm yess, yess im coming!!” you throw your head back, a loud, uncontrolled cry escaping your lips as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you breathless and shaking.
Heeseung doesnt stop, he fucks you through it, chasing his orgasm.
“Hee—” you scream so loudly, it was too much, you are overstimulating, you coat his cok, milking it all the way.
“I-i cant..too much–”
“Yess, you can, you can for me baby” his movements becoming faster, more erratic. He's grunting now, the sounds guttural and raw.
He lifts you slightly and then slams you down, the leather of the chair creaking loudly under the strain.
The sound of your pussy engulfing him is a wet, rhythmic squelch, the air being pushed out of your orifice in small, needy puffs.
“Im-im coming baby” he moves faster again and again.
“Im gonna fill you up, you’re gonna take me like a good girl and fill you up right?” he says as he looks at you and captures your lips into kiss again.
You feel him tense, his entire body turning to stone beneath you.
With one final, deep thrust that feels like it reaches your very soul, he lets out a loud, guttural roar, his entire body tensing.
He gives one final, massive thrust, burying himself as deep as possible as you feel the hot, pulsing jets of his cum hitting your cervix, filling you up, the liquid warmth spreading through your internals.
“Fuck–take it baby”
You moan as he fills you up, while he grunts and finally comes undone inside you which felt so so so good.
As the intensity fades, he doesn't move.
He keeps you pressed against him, his heart hammering against your ribs.
You can feel his cock slowly softening inside you, though he remains deep within. A small amount of semen and lubricant leaks from the junction of your bodies, dripping onto the black leather of the chair with a soft patter.
“That was–soo good” you whisper to him.
He smiles, that goddamn smile that melts you right away, probably even your bones.
He pushes a wet hair stand behind your hair as he finally speaks.
“Very good. Are you happy?” he asks and that genuinely made you feel happy that he was asking your opinion.
You nod, you look wrecked so did he, both of you breathing heavily, faces flushed.
“Are you ok?” he asks you sweetly after showing his dark side which you loved and so did you like that gentleness in his which made your heart filp and beat faster.
You blush as you nod and hide your face in the crook of his neck.
“Dont hide baby” he pulls you back cupping your face.
“Mm” you whine sweetly.
He kisses your forehead gently.
"So," he says, a small, tired smile playing on his lips. "I think I lost that match."
You let out a soft laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder.
"Worth it?"
"The best loss of my life," he whispers, kissing your temple.
Heeseug twitches inside you, making you whimper.
“You’re still inside me hee” you say to him as it hurts a little but don't bother but it's still sticky and messy altogether.
But then he shrugs it off as if it's nothing, you frown and ask him “what?” and try to pull away.
He doesn't let you, he slams you back down as you scream and squeal from shock.
“Hee–” then while you are still inside him, he abruptly stands up, while still holding you tightly around your waist and still inside you.
“Ready for round 2 baby?” he asks as you widen your eyes in shock while his cock gets stiff all the way till his shaft again.
“Hee~” he crashes his lips on to yours slamming you onto the wall and starts moving inside you.
pairing: jaafar jackson x reader
summary: when an oblivious y/n spends the evening chatting with a 'friend' who doesn't understand boundaries at an after-party, jaafar's quiet, polite exterior masks a dangerous, possessive jealousy. back at the hotel, he decides to remind her exactly who she belongs to.
warnings: +18 smut, jealous!jaafar, possessive sex, dom!jaafar, orgasm denial, edging, overstimulation, hair pulling, manhandling, mirror sex?, dirty talk, phone call during sex, public tension, reader is clueless to flirting at first
word count: 5,894 words (wtf)
a/n: I really got carried away, damn, sorry in advance. also, I tagged everyone who commented on the post idk lol
The heavy curtains of the after party ballroom did little to muffle the bass vibrating through the floorboards, but inside jaafar’s chest, a different kind of tension was drumming.
By all accounts, the awards ceremony had been a massive success. He’d handled the red carpet with his signature soft spoken grace, flashing that bright smile that instantly melted the cameras. He’d spent the evening holding your hand under the table, his thumb tracing soothing circles over your knuckles. Jaafar was never one for public displays of affection, he was deeply private, fiercely protective, and preferred to keep the intimacy between you entirely behind closed doors. He didn't need to put on a show for the world to prove you were his.
Until tonight. Until Ryan.
Jaafar was currently caught in an interview with a prominent entertainment reporter, standing beneath the blinding glare of the media lights. His posture was perfectly elegant, his hands clasped casually in front of him, but his dark, liquid eyes were completely checked out of the conversation. He was looking past the reporter’s shoulder, across the VIP lounge, straight at you.
And straight at Ryan.
Ryan was one of your 'friends', a title Jaafar used in his head with a heavy dose of disdain. Ryan was the type of man who consistently overstepped, who treated the concept of personal boundaries like a loose suggestion. You, in all your sweet, trusting innocence, were entirely clueless. You genuinely believed Ryan was just an overly affectionate, hypersocial guy. You didn't see the calculation in his movements.
Jaafar did.
From across the room, Jaafar watched with an icy, detached focus as Ryan leaned in entirely too close, his shoulder nearly brushing yours as you stood by a high-top table. You were talking vividly, your eyes bright, gesturing with your hands as you recounted a story, completely unaware of how Ryan’s gaze was slowly tracking the movement of your lips. Then, Ryan reached out, his hand lingering just a fraction of an inch away from the bare skin of your waist, his fingers twitching as if he were just waiting for an invitation to touch you.
A dark, dangerous heat flared in the pit of Jaafar's stomach, but on the outside, his face remained a mask of polite composure.
'...and with the upcoming project, can fans expect something else?' the reporter asked, thrusting the microphone toward him.
Jaafar turned his head back to the reporter. He didn't lose his temper, he never did. Instead, he offered a smile. But it wasn't his real smile. It was a tight-lipped, flashing smirk that lasted exactly 0.2 seconds, never reaching his eyes, completely devoid of the warmth he usually radiated.
'We are focusing on finishing the project first, but we are definitely discussing more future projects,' jaafar said, his voice smooth, soft, and impeccably polite, yet clipped enough to signal the hard end of the conversation. He gave a small, formal nod. 'Thank you so much. excuse me.'
He didn't wait for a follow-up. He turned and began walking across the crowded VIP section. He didn't storm over, his stride was slow, deliberate and entirely graceful, but the sheer aura radiating off his broad shoulders was heavy enough to make people subtly step out of his way.
Before Ryan’s hand could actually make contact with your dress, a large, warm palm slid firmly around your waist.
The grip wasn't gentle. Jaafar’s long fingers dug deep into your hip, anchoring you against his side with an unyielding, possessive force that left absolutely no room for interpretation. You gasped softly at the suddenness of the touch, your head snapping up.
'Am I interrupting?' Jaafar cut in smoothly.
He looked directly at ryan. His face wore that same tight-lipped, fake smile. He didn't show his teeth. His lips were compressed into a thin, civil line, his dark eyes fixed on Ryan with a gaze so heavy it felt like a physical weight in the room.
Ryan straightened up, a bit flustered by the sudden shift in atmosphere, but he tried to play it cool. 'Hey, Jaafar. Man, congratulations on tonight. I was just telling Y/n you're a lucky guy.'
Jaafar’s grip on your waist tightened even further, his thumb pressing hard against your hip bone, pulling your thighs flush against his tailored trousers. It was a blatant, silent proclamation of ownership, a rare breach of his anti-pda rule that spoke volumes.
'Thank you, Ryan,' Jaafar replied, his voice incredibly soft, quiet, and civil. He didn't match Ryan's loud energy, he kept it entirely low, which somehow made it infinitely more terrifying. He let the silence hang for a beat, his unblinking stare raking over Ryan until the other man visibly swallowed. 'Um, we were actually just about to head back to the hotel. It's been a long night.'
'Oh, right, yeah, of course,' Ryan stammered, stepping back a full foot, completely intimidated by the quiet dominance rolling off the actor. 'Good seeing you guys.'
As Ryan disappeared into the crowd, you looked up at Jaafar, utterly bewildered. 'Jaafar, what was that? We didn't have to leave yet, and he was just trying to be nice...'
Jaafar didn't answer. He simply slid his hand down from your waist to wrap firmly around your wrist, guiding you toward the private exit with a quiet, unyielding momentum.
The ride back to the hotel in the luxury sedan was suffocatingly quiet.
The leather-scented interior was dim, lit only by the passing streetlights outside the tinted windows. Jaafar sat back against the seat, his long legs crossed, staring out into the night. His posture was relaxed, but the vein in his neck was prominent, and his jaw was set in a hard line.
'He was just telling me about this new restaurant that opened up downtown,' you said, trying to fill the heavy silence, your voice sounding small in the quiet car. 'He said we should all go sometime.'
'Mhm.' Jaafar didn't turn his head.
'And then he asked about your uncle's old studio, because he’s working on a new track...' You watched his profile, your heart doing a strange, nervous flutter. 'Jaafar? Are you okay? You're being really quiet.'
'Yeah.' A short, soft, clipped syllable.
'Are you tired?' You reached across the seat, placing your hand on his knee. The muscle beneath his suit pants was hard as stone, completely flexed.
'No.' He still didn't look at you, his eyes fixed on your hand.
You sighed, entirely clueless as to the depth of the storm brewing inside him. You figured he was just drained from the social battery required for an awards show.
When the car finally pulled up to the grand entrance of the luxury hotel, Jaafar stepped out, immediately reaching back inside to take your hand. He didn't rush, but his grip was firm and unbroken as he led you through the opulent lobby toward the elevators.
Once the doors slid shut, sealing the two of you inside the mirrored elevator alone, the silence became absolute.
You couldn't handle the distance anymore. You turned fully toward him, stepping into his personal space. You placed one hand flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, steady thudding of his heart beneath his dress shirt. Leaning up on your tiptoes, you pressed a soft, lingering kiss against his sharp jawline, remembering the rich blend of his cologne.
'You're so quiet,' you whispered against his skin, your lips brushing his jaw as you spoke. 'What's wrong?'
Jaafar didn't move. He didn't wrap his arms around you, nor did he push you away. He just stood there, letting you press against him, looking down at you with dark, bottomless eyes that held a simmer so hot it made your breath hitch. He let out a slow, heavy sigh just as the elevator let out a soft ding, announcing your arrival at your floor.
He took your hand again, his palm warm, and guided you down the carpeted hallway to the double doors of the suite. He slid the keycard, the lock clicked green, and he pushed the door open, letting you step inside ahead of him.
The door closed with a firm, quiet click behind you, locking out the rest of the world.
You kicked off your high heels with a sigh of relief, tossing your clutch onto the entryway table. 'Seriously, Jaafar, you have to talk to me. You've been acting so strange since the after party.' You reached behind your back, your fingers fumbling blindly with the hidden zipper of your tight dress, but the fabric was caught, and you couldn't get a proper angle. 'Ugh, can you help me with this? I can't reach it.'
Jaafar didn't immediately come over to help. Instead, he stood in the center of the dim bedroom, his eyes locked on yours as he began to unbutton his suit jacket. He slid it off his broad shoulders and draped it neatly over a chair, his gaze never breaking from yours.
You stood there, breathing a little faster, watching him undress. He began to unbutton his dark blue shirt, slowly revealing the smooth, toned expanse of his chest and abdomen.
'Jaafar, seriously,' you ranted, your voice turning into a slight, frustrated whine as you kept tugging at the stuck zipper, your rings catching on the fabric. 'You're completely ignoring me. Did I do something to upset you? Because if this is about Ryan, he’s just a friend, and you were being so cold to him—'
Jaafar took a slow step forward.
'He is not your friend,' Jaafar said, his voice dropping into a register so deep, so quiet, it resonated straight through your bones. He took another step, his bare chest catching the soft light filtering through the window. 'A friend does not look at what belongs to another man and try to calculate how to taste it.'
You froze, your hands dropping from your back as he took another step, narrowing the distance between you until you could feel the heat radiating from his body.
'You think I'm blind, baby?' Jaafar asked, his tone entirely calm, entirely devoid of chaotic rage, which made his absolute dominance so much heavier. He stopped right in front of you, towering over your now barefoot form. He raised one hand, his long fingers sliding slowly up the side of your neck, his thumb resting gently against your pulse point. He didn't squeeze, but the firm, warm pressure of his palm capping your throat made your breath completely catch. 'You think I like standing across a room, strapped to a camera, watching some low life eye-fucking what is mine? Watching you laugh at him, completely oblivious to how badly he wants to slide his hands down that dress?'
Your heart hammered violently against his palm. 'Jaafar... I didn't know...'
'I know you didn't,' he murmured, his dark eyes burning into yours, entirely consuming your vision. 'You're innocent. You're clueless. But he isn't. And I am sick of letting people think you are available.' His thumb stroked over your jawline, a soft touch laced with an iron command. 'You understand now?'
'Yes,' you whispered breathlessly, your knees turning to water under his stare.
'Turn around,' he ordered.
You obeyed instantly, your back turning to his bare chest. You felt the warmth of his body hovering just inches behind you. His large hands came up to your shoulders, his fingers tracing the edges of your dress before his knuckles brushed your bare spine. He found the zipper. With a slow, agonizingly deliberate movement, he pulled it down, the sound of the teeth parting loud in the quiet room.
The fabric loosened, slipping down your shoulders, leaving you standing in just your lace underwear.
'And now,' Jaafar breathed against the shell of your ear, his chest pressing lightly against your bare back, sending a violent shiver down your spine. 'I’m going to show you exactly who you belong to.'
He didn't rush. He didn't throw you onto the bed. Instead, he guided you over to the edge of the mattress, his hands sliding down your arms to grip your wrists. He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled you between his thighs, looking up at you. His eyes were dark, almost black, swallowed by a primitive hunger.
'You're so desperate already, aren't you?' he whispered, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, pulling it down slightly.
'Please, Jaafar,' you whimpered, your hands resting on his shoulders. 'I want you.'
'Yeah well, you have to wait,' he said softly, a dark, teasing smirk playing on his lips.
He slid his hands down to your chest, his long fingers tracing the lace of your bra before hooking his fingers into the material and pulling it down, exposing your breasts to the cool air. Your nipples hardened instantly. Jaafar leaned down, his lips brushing against the sensitive peak of your left breast, blowing a warm breath over it that made you arch your back with a soft cry.
But he didn't take it into his mouth. He just hovered there, his lips grazing your skin, torturing you with the proximity.
His hand slid down your stomach, moving beneath the waistband of your lace panties. You were completely soaked, a thick, slick heat coating his fingers the moment they made contact with your center. Jaafar let out a low, dark rumble of satisfaction in his throat.
'Look at that,' he rasped, his long fingers slowly parting your wet folds, his thumb finding your hypersensitive clit. He began to stroke you, but it wasn't the fast, relieving friction you were burning for. He moved with an excruciatingly slow, agonizing pace, barely putting any pressure on the bud, just dragging his thumb over it in lazy, teasing circles.
'Jaafar, please...harder,' you begged, your hips instinctively twitching against his hand, trying to force more friction.
'No,' he commanded softly, his hand flexing to hold your hips completely still, preventing you from moving against him. 'No moving. You take exactly what I give you.'
He slid one long finger inside your tight, wet depth. You let out a loud moan, your head dropping against his shoulder as his finger stretched you. He pushed it all the way in, letting you feel the length of it, before slowly pulling it out until only the tip remained, then sliding it back in.
'Ah, god, Jaafar...'
'You like that, baby? You want more than my fingers?' he asked, his voice a gravelly whisper.
'Yes, please, I want you, please, Jaafar, I'm begging you.'
'Mm-mm...not yet.'
He pulled his finger out completely. You let out a whimper of pure devastation, your body physically aching for the fullness. Before you could protest, Jaafar stood up, stripping off his remaining clothes with smooth, unhurried movements. Your eyes widened as his thick, heavy erection was revealed, twitching with his heartbeat, fully aroused and glistening at the tip.
He climbed onto the mattress, pulling you up with him. He laid you flat on your back in the center of the bed, spreading your legs wide. You expected him to finally drive himself inside you, but Jaafar was far from finished breaking your composure.
He knelt between your thighs, his large hands anchoring your wrists above your head. He leaned down, his chest hovering over yours, and began to use his fingers and his thumb to torment your lower lips again, while his length rubbed lazily against your wet entrance, painting himself in your moisture but never breaking the barrier.
The teasing was pure agony. Your body was entirely overstimulated, the scent of his skin, the dark warmth of his eyes staring down into yours, the heavy weight of his body keeping you pinned, and the absolute denial of the one thing that would bring you relief. Tears of frustration gathered in the corners of your eyes.
'Jaafar, please, I'm gonna lose my mind, 'you sobbed, your hips bucking upward in a desperate attempt to impale yourself on him.
Jaafar easily pinned your hips down with his forearms, his expression unbothered, completely in control. 'I told you to stay still. You don't get to come, and you don't get to be filled until I say so. Every single inch of this body is mine to control tonight.'
He kept up the torturous, slow strokes, pushing you right to the absolute precipice of a shattering orgasm. You felt the familiar tension tightening in your lower stomach, your inner walls beginning to twitch and clamp around nothing, signaling that you were about to break.
The moment he felt your body tremble on the edge of release, Jaafar abruptly yanked his hands away from you entirely, stepping back onto his knees.
The sudden, violent loss of contact sent a shockwave of frustration through your nervous system. You let out a loud, ruined wail, your head thrashing against the pillows. 'No! No! why? Please, let me come, I need to come!'
'I already told you, you don't come until I tell you to,' he growled, his soft spoken demeanor completely gone, replaced by a raw, primal dominance that made your core throb. 'You hold it in. You stay right on the edge for me.'
He grabbed your ankles, dragging your body down the mattress until your ass was right at the edge of the bed. He stood on the floor, pulling your legs up and draping them over his broad shoulders, opening you up completely, leaving you utterly vulnerable under the dim lights of the penthouse.
He stared down at your swollen, soaking entrance, his jaw clenching as his own restraint began to thin. 'Who do you belong to?'
'You. I belong to you, Jaafar, just you.'
A dark, satisfied growl tore from his throat. ’Mhm, that’s right.'
He gripped your hips with an iron, bruising force, aligned his thick length with your aching core, and with one heavy, unyielding thrust, he buried himself inside you to the absolute hilt.
A high-pitched, breathless scream tore from your lungs as the sudden, immense fullness stretched your tight walls to their absolute limit. He bottomed out against your cervix on the very first push, the raw sensation so intense your vision blurred.
Jaafar didn't give you a second to adjust. He began to pound into you, his thrusts hard, deep, and completely unmerciful. He was riding out every ounce of the jealousy that had simmered in his veins all evening, his hips slamming against your flesh with a loud, rhythmic, wet slapping sound that echoed off the high ceilings of the suite.
’Nghh, Jaafar! so deep, oh my god!' you cried out, your body being pushed up the mattress with every powerful stroke, only for his hands to yank your hips back down onto his length.
'It's exactly how deep it needs to be,' he panted, his breath hot and ragged against you as he continued to hammer into you from the edge of the bed. 'I want you to feel every single inch of me. I want you to remember this tomorrow when people look at you.'
The angle was hitting your g-spot with devastating accuracy, the friction inside you creating a white hot heat that threatened to consume you. You were entirely overloaded, the heavy, musk-and-wood scent of his sweat, the sound of his deep, guttural groans, the relentless stretching inside you, and the sheer speed of his movements. You were weeping from the intensity, your body completely at his mercy.
Right in the middle of his frantic, heavy pounding, a sudden, sharp ringing broke through the heavy atmosphere of the room.
It was your phone, sitting on the nightstand just a few feet away. The screen illuminated the dim room, flashing a name that made Jaafar’s entire body freeze.
Ryan.
Jaafar looked at the screen, his chest heaving as he stared at the name. A dark, terrifying smirk slowly spread across his face, his eyes turning entirely black. He didn't pull out of you, he stayed buried deep inside your burning heat, holding himself perfectly still as your walls twitched desperately around him.
He reached over, his long arm easily grabbing the phone from the nightstand. He brought it over, holding the flashing screen in front of your tear-stained face.
'Huh...look at that,' Jaafar whispered, his voice a low, lethal purr against your ear. 'Your friend is calling. He probably wants to make sure you got home safe.'
'Jaafar, no... don't...' you whimpered, shaking your head.
'Answer it,' Jaafar ordered, his tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. 'Pick it up, baby. Pick it up while I'm fucking you.' He slid his thumb across the screen, hitting accept and pressed the speakerphone button before placing the device on the pillow right next to your head.
Before you could even process the command, Jaafar slammed his hips forward, driving into you with a brutal, sudden force that made your eyes widen.
'H-hello?' you choked out, your voice trembling violently as you tried to grip the sheets to keep from screaming.
'Hey, Y/N!' Ryan’s voice came through the speaker, loud and clear, completely oblivious. 'Hey, sorry to call so late, I wanted to make sure everything was cool and see if you wanted to grab that lunch tomorrow like we talked about—'
Jaafar let out a low groan, deliberately shifting his angle, pulling almost all the way out before plunging back in with a heavy, wet thud that bottomed out completely.
'Ah!' you gasped, clapping your hand over your mouth, your hips bucking off the bed. The wet, squelching sounds of his length sliding in and out of your soaked core were incredibly loud in the quiet room.
'Y/N? You there?' Ryan asked, sounding confused over the line.
Jaafar didn't stop. He accelerated, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, his muscles flexing as he deliberately pounded into you with a relentless, rhythmic aggression. He was staring directly into your eyes, watching you struggle, a dominant, possessive heat burning in his gaze.
'Yeah...Sorry, I'm—I'm here,' you whimpered, your voice shaking as a wave of overstimulation threatened to break you. You bit your lower lip so hard it nearly bled, trying to suppress the moans that were clawing their way up your throat. 'Just...unpacking...'
Jaafar leaned down, his lips brushing your ear as he kept up the brutal pace, his hips slapping against yours. 'Tell him how good it feels, baby,' he whispered wickedly, his voice barely a breath, but his actions spoke loud enough. He hit your spot three times in rapid succession.
'Oh god—' you slipped, a loud, wet moan escaping your lips before you could stop it. The sound of your slick walls tightly gripping his length was unmistakable through the microphone.
'Uh, Y/N? Are you okay?,' Ryan said, his tone shifting, a hint of realization dawning on him.
'I have to go, Ryan,' you sobbed out, unable to hold back the tears as Jaafar ruthlessly drove you toward the edge. 'Goodnight—'
You slammed your finger onto the red button on the screen, cutting the call off.
The phone call cut off, the red end-call button disappearing into the black screen of the device, leaving only the sound of your frantic, heavy breathing echoing against the high ceilings.
But Jaafar wasn't done with you. The adrenaline of the call, the lingering irritation from Ryan’s boundary-crossing presence, and the sheer heat of your tight, soaking walls had his blood boiling. He pulled out of you with a heavy, wet slide that made you gasp in protest, your body instantly feeling cold and empty without him.
Before you could even roll over, his hands were on you again. He grabbed your waist, flipping you effortlessly onto your hands and knees in the center of the large bed.
Jaafar climbed over you from behind, his heavy, solid weight anchoring you down against the mattress. He didn't wait. He lined himself up with your slick entrance and drove his thick length back inside you with one ruthless, unyielding plunge that bottomed out completely, hitting your cervix with a force that made you let out a high-pitched cry.
He began to move with a frantic, desperate speed, his hips slamming against your ass with a loud, rhythmic slapping sound that filled the quiet bedroom. He leaned down over your back, his broad chest pressing yours flat into the pillows. He reached one large hand forward, his long fingers tangling firmly into the roots of your hair, pulling your head back. At the same time, his other hand slid around to wrap securely around the front of your neck, his palm warm and unyielding against your skin, forcing you to look up and over your shoulder at him.
'Look at me,' he growled, his voice thick with a dark, heavy lust as he continued to hammer into you from behind. His eyes were completely black in the shadows, staring directly into yours with a terrifying intensity. 'Look at me while I'm breaking you open. You think anyone else can touch you like this? You think anyone else gets to hear you make these sounds?'
'N-no, Jaafar... nghh! No one... just you,' you sobbed out, your body shaking violently from the forced angle, your hips bucking back against his thighs in a desperate attempt to find relief from the overwhelming fullness.
'Damn right,' he rasped, his thumb pressing firmly against your jawline to keep your head tilted toward him, his thrusts growing even deeper, stretching you to your absolute limit. 'Every single piece of you belongs to me. I want you to remember the weight of my hands on your skin the next time a man tries to step into your space, you hear me?'
He let go of your hair and your neck, the sudden freedom making your head drop into the pillows as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, heavy strokes. But before the pressure could peak, he pulled out of you again, the abrupt loss of friction making you let out a loud, ruined wail of frustration.
'Jaafar, please! Don't stop, please don't stop...' you begged, your hands clawing at the mattress sheets.
A sharp smack echoed through the room as Jaafar’s large hand came down hard on your ass, the sting blooming hot across your skin. You cried out, clenching around him.
'Get up,' he panted, his breath ragged and hot against your bare shoulder.
He didn't give you a choice. He grabbed your wrists, pulling you off the bed entirely. Your bare feet hit the plush carpet, your knees buckling slightly from the sheer overstimulation, but Jaafar held you steady. He guided you across the dark penthouse suite toward the massive, dark wood desk where a large, ornate silver mirror hung on the wall, reflecting the dim city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
He pushed you forward gently until your stomach was pressed flat against the cool, polished wood of the desk. He bent you over, your hands gripping the edges of the desk for support, your ass pushed back and elevated.
Jaafar stepped up behind you, his bare chest pressing flush against your spine. In the reflection of the big mirror, you could see everything. the flush of your skin, the sweat glistening on his broad shoulders, and the thick, heavy length of his erection pressing against your wet thighs.
He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto your reflection in the glass. He reached down, parting your thighs with his knee, and with one heavy, smooth thrust, he buried himself inside you from behind, the angle tilting your pelvis perfectly to hit your g-spot with absolute, brutal precision.
You let out a loud, breathless scream, your head tossing back as the visual and the physical sensation combined into a massive wave of overload.
'Look,' Jaafar commanded, his voice a low, dirty purr against your ear as he began to pound into you, his hips driving hard against you, shaking the heavy desk beneath your hands. 'Open your eyes and look at the mirror, baby.'
You forced your eyes open, looking through a blur of tears at the reflection. You watched the way his well-defined torso flexed with every deep stroke, the way his large hands came up to grip your hips, his thumbs digging into the dimples of your lower back to anchor you as he ruthlessly used your body.
'Look who makes you feel this good,' Jaafar growled, his jaw clenching as he accelerated the pace, his thrusts becoming faster, louder, the wet, squelching sounds of your bodies joining filling the air. 'Look who makes you cum every single night. Who is it, hm? Who? Tell me, baby, who?'
'You... it's you, Jaafar,' you cried out, your voice breaking as the friction inside you reached a white-hot temperature. Your knuckles turned white where you gripped the desk, your reflection showing your mouth parted in a continuous, breathless moan. 'Only you, baby, please... oh god, it's you.'
'Say it louder,' he muttered, his head burying into the crook of your neck, his teeth nipping at your shoulder blade while his lower body maintained the brutal, relentless rhythm. 'Tell me who owns you.'
'You do... ah! Jaafar, please, I'm gonna break, I can't hold it anymore!'
The visual of him completely dominating you in the glass, his dark eyes fixed on your ruined expression, was the final straw. Your inner muscles began to contract violently around him in a tight, clamping grip, signaling the onset of a massive climax.
But Jaafar wanted you back on the bed for the finish. He pulled out of you with a wet, heavy slide, ignoring your loud whimper of protest, and dragged your shaking body back to the mattress. He laid you flat on your back, pulling your legs up over his broad shoulders, opening you up completely to his deep, unmerciful thrusts once again. Every time his hips slammed against yours, it sent a shockwave straight to your core, driving you further into that state of helpless overstimulation.
He leaned over you, his knuckles white where they gripped the headboard for leverage, his dark curls damp with sweat. He looked down at you, his eyes entirely black, dilated with a heavy, primal lust.
'Look at how stretched open you are for me,' he rasped, his voice a low, dirty growl that vibrated against your skin. 'You like being filled up like this, don't you? Look at me, baby. Tell me how it feels to have my dick taking up every single inch of you.'
'Jaafar, please... it's so good,' you whined, your head tossing from side to side on the pillows.
Jaafar looked down at your parted, wet lips, his dark eyes burning. 'Oh, how much I love you, baby…drives me insane,' he rasped, voice thick with raw emotion and lust.
He didn’t lean down right away. Instead, he kept the torturous rhythm, pulling almost entirely out until only the swollen head of his cock teased your entrance, then plunging back in with a heavy, deliberate thrust that made your back arch off the bed.
The slow withdrawal and sudden deep stretch were driving you crazy. You looked up at his face, lips parted, sharp jaw clenched, curls damp with sweat. The overwhelming need to feel closer to him broke through.
'I wanna kiss you, baby. Please, kiss me,' you begged, voice trembling.
Jaafar looked down at your parted, wet lips, a dark, incredibly wicked smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. He didn't lean down. Instead, he accelerated his pace, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, his hips slapping against your thighs with a ruthless rhythm.
'No,' he whispered, his voice a gravelly, torturous tease. 'You don't get to kiss me yet.'
'Jaafar, please—'
'I love how needy you sound when I starve you,' he muttered, his thumb reaching down to ruthlessly grind against your clit while he kept pounding into you, deliberately pushing you past your limit. 'Beg for it. Tell me how bad you need my mouth on yours while I'm stretching you out.'
'Please, baby, please kiss me, I need you, I need to taste you,' you sobbed, completely broken down by the overstimulation, your inner walls clamping around his thick length in desperate, erratic waves.
Hearing your voice crack, feeling the frantic, tight squeezing of your core, finally shattered the last of his restraint.
Jaafar let out a low, guttural growl, his broad chest collapsing down against yours, his heavy weight pinning you flat into the mattress. He grabbed your jaw with his large hand, his fingers digging firmly into your cheeks to force your mouth wide open, and he slammed his lips down against yours.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was deep, possessive, and incredibly nasty.
His tongue surged into your mouth, claiming you with the same fierce, unyielding aggression as his hips. He tasted like the rich bourbon from earlier and pure, raw heat, his tongue tangling with yours in a wet, frantic rhythm that matched the brutal pace of his lower body. He was pounding into you with a wild, unbridled ferocity now, his long fingers shifting from your jaw to tangle in your hair, holding your head completely still so you had to take every single bit of the kiss.
The sensory overload was absolute. You couldn't breathe, your mouth flooded with his taste, your ears filled with the sound of his heavy, ragged breathing and the wet, loud squelching of your bodies joining.
The friction inside you reached a fever pitch, your G-spot being hit with every single desperate, deep thrust. Your body tightened, your vision going entirely white as a massive, shattering orgasm tore through your nervous system, your throat letting out a muffled, choked scream straight into his mouth.
The violent, pulsing contractions of your release completely broke Jaafar. He let out a dark, muffled roar against your lips, his tongue taking one last, deep stroke of your mouth as he drove himself into you to the absolute hilt. He locked his hips flush against yours, his body trembling violently as he came, filling your tight, twitching core with thick, burning jets of his release.
He didn't break the kiss until both of your breathings completely ran out, finally pulling his lips back with a wet, heavy sigh, leaving you entirely spent, ruined, and completely his.
The silence returned to the penthouse, broken only by the sound of your combined, ragged breaths.
Slowly, gently, Jaafar pulled his legs down, climbing fully onto the bed and collapsing beside you. The dominant, terrifying aura completely evaporated, leaving behind the gentle, soft-spoken man you knew—but the possessiveness remained. He reached out, his large, warm hand sliding around your waist, his fingers curling into your hip in the exact same spot he had gripped at the party.
He pulled your trembling, spent body tight against his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head, his voice returning to that quiet, sweet rumble.
'Mine,' he whispered into your hair, his grip tightening just a fraction. 'Don't ever make me remind you again.'
A/N first fic on here! (Lowkey ahh) but I Hope yall like, reblogs and interactions are always appreciated 🫶🏽
The mirror wasn’t playing with you today.
You stood in the bathroom, yanking up the hem of Jermajesty’s oversized hoodie just to glare at yourself. That little rounded swell in your lower belly stared right back.
tight, bloated, and stubborn as hell. It wasn’t a massive change, but it was just enough to throw off your whole silhouette, pushing softly over the waistband of your sweatpants. You poked it with a fresh acrylic nail and immediately regretted it. A deep, radiating ache bloomed low in your pelvis, making your toes curl against the cold tile.
“Ugh, are you fucking serious?” you hissed, sucking your teeth.
You tried smoothing the hoodie back down, but the damage was done. Everything felt heavy. Your skin was too warm, your breasts tender and full against your bra, and that constant dull throb in your gut had you in a mood since you woke up. Ovulation this month was no joke..water retention, mood swings, the whole nine.
The hoodie smelled like him though. Heavy cologne and clean laundry. It was the only thing that didn’t feel like it was scratching your hypersensitive skin raw.
You heard Jermajesty’s steps coming down the hall. He appeared in the doorway a second later, tall and broad in his basketball shorts and a white tank, looking entirely too relaxed for how fucked up you felt.
He clocked your energy right away. “What’s wrong with your face, ma?” His voice was low and calm, the tone he used when he was trying to figure out where your head was at. He stepped closer, that familiar warmth rolling off him.
“Nothing,” you snapped, trying to brush past him.
His big hand caught your hip, thumb pressing into the soft flesh just above your waistband. The touch hit different—comfort and irritation all at once. “Nah, don’t do that. Talk to me. You been in here sulking for like twenty minutes.”
You folded, leaning into his chest with a whine. “I feel disgusting, Jer. I’m bloated as hell. My stomach hurts. Everything hurts. I look crazy.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through you as his hand slid to your lower back, pulling you closer. “You trippin’. You look good. You always look good.”
“I don’t,” you mumbled into his neck. “I feel like a damn balloon.”
“Lemme see.” His tone softened, turning attentive. He tugged the hoodie up slowly.
You half-heartedly tried to stop him, but he caught your wrists gently, pinning them to your chest with one hand while the other spread warm and wide over your bare stomach. The heat of his palm was instant relief, like a heating pad. You sighed, melting a little.
He rubbed slow circles, feeling the tightness. “You real tight right here,” he murmured, voice dropping. His thumb dragged along your skin, pressing just enough. “This what’s been fucking with you?”
“Yeah,” you whispered, eyes half-closed. “It’s making me so moody.”
“I noticed,” he teased lightly, but his hand never stopped. “But you don’t look crazy, baby. You look real good like this.”
He leaned in, voice low against your ear. “Go lay down. I got you.”
You didn’t argue. You climbed onto the big bed and stretched out on your back, staring at the ceiling while the ache in your lower belly kept throbbing. A few minutes later he came back with the bottle of body oil.
He straddled your thighs, heavy and grounding. “Pull the hoodie up.”
You did, exposing the smooth dark skin of your stomach, that soft swell rising and falling with your breaths.
Jermajesty warmed the oil between his palms, then laid his hands on you. The first firm stroke pulled a deep groan out of you. He worked slow and thorough—long drags of his palms, deep circles with his thumbs, pressing the tension out of your sides and lower belly. His forearms flexed as he focused completely on you.
“Fuck… that feels good,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shut.
“I know,” he muttered, voice low. “I got you.”
The pain started easing, but something else took its place. The weight of him over you, the slide of oiled skin, the scent of him—it had you squirming, getting wetter by the second.
He caught it immediately. His hands stilled on your stomach as he smirked. “Why you squirming like that? Thought your stomach was hurting.”
“It is,” you muttered, cheeks warm. “But… it’s different now.”
“Differently how?” He hooked his fingers into your sweatpants and panties, dragging them down. Cool air hit your wet folds and you shivered. “Shit, ma… you wet as hell.”
You bit your lip, sightly embarrassed, but another thick drop of arousal slipped out anyway.
Jermajesty let out a low sound in his throat, spreading you open with his fingers and stroking your clit slow and heavy. Your back arched hard, your hips twitching involuntarily against the mattress as his thumb found the perfect rhythm.
“Look at you,” he rasped, voice thick. “You really need this dick, hm? That’s why you been so damn moody.”
“Jer, please,” you begged, your voice cracking as you tugged at his shoulders. The ache in your stomach was completely gone, replaced by a tight coil of pure heat that was stretching you thin. “It hurts… I need it, please.”
he hooked his other hand under your thigh, pinning your leg back to open you up even wider, his fingers digging in deep in a come here motion. as his thumb applied a sudden, heavy pressure right against your swollen clit. The friction was intense, hitting the exact right spot and sending a violent spasm straight through your pelvis. Your whole body locked up, toes curling so hard they cramped, and before you could even draw in a breath, a hot, heavy gush of fluid suddenly sprayed out from deep inside you, soaking his hands, his wrists, and flooding the sheets beneath you.
“Oh fuck!” you screamed out, your back completely snapping off the bed as you shuddered.
Jermajesty didn't even hesitate. The sight of you completely letting go only made him hungrier. He slid down your body immediately, his large frame grounding you as he buried his face right between your thighs.
He started slurping up the fresh wetness, his tongue working in long, deep strokes over your dripping folds. He tasted every single drop, his mouth warm as he licked you clean, He tasted every single drop his tongue parting your inner lips to find where the fluid was still actively pooling.
“Mmh, look at how much you made for me,” he muttered against your wet skin, his voice deep and vibrating right against your center. “Good girl… you’re so fucking wet for me, ma.”
You shivered violently, a desperate, broken “fuck-!” ripping from your throat. Your head tossed against the pillows while your fingers tangled desperately in his curls, trying to pull him closer and push him away all at once. The sheer sensation of his hot mouth swallowing everything you were giving off had you screaming into the empty bedroom, your hips rolling helplessly against his face.
“Mhm, take it,” his mouth never leaving your pussy as you twitched helplessly against him.“Tastes so fucking good. You’re doing so good for me.”
He stayed down there until he had thoroughly licked you clean, his tongue dragging one last slow, agonizing stroke up your clit that had you letting out a breathless, high-pitched whine.
When he finally pulled back, his lips and jaw were completely glistening. He looked up the length of your body, breathing heavily, the view of you completely undone making his veins pump. “Fuck, ma... you completely soaked,” he muttered,“Fucking ruined the sheets. Good girl.”
He stood up just long enough to drop his shorts. His dick was thick, heavy, and already leaking at the tip. No condom. You both knew what time it was- raw felt right .
He pushed your knees back toward your chest, opening you wide. The broad head of his dick slid up and down your soaked slit, teasing, coating himself in your wetness until he was glistening. He pressed in just the tip, letting you feel the stretch, then pulled back out, repeating it over and over until you were whimpering and trying to lift your hips to take more.
“Jermajesty, stop playing—” you whined, voice breaking.
He finally gave in, sinking in slow and deep in one heavy stroke. You cried out, walls clamping down around every thick inch. He was so big it bordered on too much, stretching you perfectly and pressing right against that sensitive spot deep inside. He stayed buried for a long moment, grinding in slow circles, letting you adjust while his hand rubbed over your bloated stomach.
“Fuck, baby… you gripping me so tight,” he groaned, jaw clenched. He started moving then—long, deep, dragging strokes that pulled almost all the way out before sliding back in, making sure you felt every inch. The wet sounds were loud and obscene in the quiet room. Each thrust made your swollen belly jiggle slightly under his palm, and he couldn’t stop watching it.
You were a mess already, moaning and clawing at his arms. He kept the pace steady and deep for a while, leaning down to kiss you sloppy and hot, swallowing your whimpers while he worked you open. Then he picked up speed, hips snapping harder, the slap of skin getting louder as he fucked you with more force. One of his hands stayed on your stomach, possessive, while the other pinched and rolled your sensitive nipple. The overstimulation from your ovulation had you shaking, tears pricking your eyes from how good it felt.
But it still wasn’t enough.
He pulled out suddenly, making you whimper at the loss. “Hands and knees. Turn over.”
You scrambled into position, ass up, that soft heavy swell of your belly hanging beneath you. Jermajesty didn’t waste time. He grabbed your hips with a bruising grip and drove back in with one hard thrust, bottoming out so deep you screamed into the pillow.
The new angle was devastating. He was hitting everything, every thrust slamming against that spot that made your toes curl and your eyes roll back. He kept up a steady, intense rhythm—relentless, heavy strokes that made your ass ripple with every impact. The heavy, rhythmic smack of his balls hitting against your swollen clit filled the room with every single deep hit, sending waves of intense heat straight to your core.
“Fuck, listen to how wet you are,” he groaned, one hand sliding around to press on your lower belly again, feeling the way his dick moved inside you. “This pussy swallowing me up. You needed this so bad, didn’t you?”
You could barely answer, just moaning and pushing back to meet his thrusts. He leaned over you, chest to your back, one arm wrapped tight around your waist while the other gripped the back of your neck, holding you right where he wanted you. His strokes got slower but somehow deeper, grinding hard on every inward thrust so you felt him in your stomach.
He kept that punishing rhythm going, switching between fast, deep strokes and those slow, grinding rolls that had you sobbing. Every time you got close he'd slow down just enough to keep you on the edge, drawing it out until you were begging and arousal was dripping down your thighs.
When he finally let you cum, it hit you like a wave. Your whole body locked up, walls pulsing hard around his dick as you came with a broken cry. Jermajesty groaned loud at the feeling, fucking you through it with short, deep strokes.
But he didn’t stop.
He kept going, chasing another one from you. His hand slipped between your legs, rubbing tight circles on your swollen clit while he continued those heavy thrusts. “Give me another one, baby. I know you got it.”
The second orgasm crashed into you even harder, leaving you shaking and clenching around him so tight he cursed under his breath. Only then did he chase his own. His grip on your hips tightened as he sped up again, pounding into you with raw, desperate thrusts.
Three more brutal strokes and he buried himself as deep as he could go, groaning your name as he came. You felt every thick, hot pulse of his dick, rope after rope flooding you until it was leaking out around him and dripping down your thighs.
He stayed buried inside you for a long time after, both of you panting, his hand gently rubbing your belly again like he was soothing the fullness he just put there. He finally pulled out slow, watching the messy creampie leak out of you with a satisfied hum. Then he grabbed tissues and cleaned you up with careful, gentle hands, wiping your thighs and folds before tossing the tissues and pulling you into his arms.
“Look at all that,” he muttered, voice still thick. “Filled you all the way up, ma. You gon’ be lazy the rest of the day.”
“Shut up,” you mumbled into the pillow, no real heat behind it. You felt boneless, the ache in your stomach finally quiet, replaced by that warm, satisfied glow.
He climbed back in bed and pulled you against his chest, tucking you under the duvet. His big hand found your belly again, rubbing slow and soothing circles over the soft swell. You covered his hand with yours, keeping it there.
“You feel better?” he whispered against the back of your neck, pressing a soft kiss there.
“Yeah,” you sighed, already drifting. “I feel better.”
“Good.” His arm tightened around you, “I told you I had you.”
Music!Producer!Stack x Black!Fem!Singer!Reader ‧₊ ♪˚⊹
☆┇a taste of the story: You were having a hard time in the studio today. Things just weren't in your favor today, whether it was the flow or the lyrics. Something was missing, and you just couldn't figure it out..until your producer and boyfriend!Stack helps you alone in the isolated recording booth.
☆┇ingredients & calorie count: this late night sweet treat includes 3k+ word servings. has notes of mr. certifited eaterrrr, music!producer!Stack, black!fem!singer!reader, p in v, porn with a bit of plot, oral (fem receiving), unprotected smexy time. 18+ ,MINORS THIS IS NOT THE BAKERY FOR YOU! Ella’s Mai’s Song 10,000 hours!! all lyrics belong to Ella Mai
☆┇mika's notes: this is in fact a late-night sweet treat for my lovelies who are still up at 2 am!! tried my best with proofreading sorry for the wait, everyone. (this was supposeddddd to be a drabble but…here we are with 3k words) But hope y'all enjoy! dividers cred @cursed-carmine
The music has been playing in your ears for hours now. It's a familiar routine, you inside the isolated booth, headphones that rested against your ear, standing in front of the mic. Sheet music stand holds your printed, now it's not like you really needed them. You know the words by heart, but something isn't hitting the way you want it to. So maybe see the lyrics physically might help you figure out whatever the problem is.
You can't tell if it's your vocals, the beat, or the lyrics themselves, but something is completely off.
Through the double-paned glass that was in front of you, the luxurious control room, with its plush leather seats, top-notch recording equipment, and the walls that were decorated with a mix of your own plaques and favorite artists' records. Sitting on the other side of the glass are your manager, Ayesha, your assistant and close friend, Tia, and right in the middle, sat right in front of the soundboard is Elias, also known as Stack, your producer and boyfriend.
This was supposed to be a quick session, but it has dragged on for three hours now. Wearing a comfortable brown halter top and camo skirt with a double belt that laid low on your hips, with lots of thigh to show underneath, you shift on your feet, the frustration starting to cloud your mind. You hum to yourself, shaking your head murmuring, "Mmm, something ain't right." Usually, you’re entirely confident in your music, but this creative block is causing a stubborn stagnancy.
Now you being in the studio for hours wasn't something new, but you having trouble like this?? now this was something completely different.
Ayesha watched you through the glass as you hummed to yourself . She took note of how you were nodding your head to the beat, but pen in hand and scribbling on the paper that had your lyrics on them.
You were in the studio longer then expected due to something that was bothering you, and you couldn't even place what it was.
You couldn't put your finger on it.
Ayesha took a brief sip of her water as she sighed leaning back in the office chair, that made a slight screeching noise as she leans back. And Stack, oh Stack's eyes never left you, he saw the tension in your expression the uncertainty and doubt clouding your mind, as you shook your head scribbling more on the paper.
Before any of them could speak, your voice broke the silence in the room.
Turning back into the mic, you ask, "Can y'all isolate my vocals? I'll sing it real quick."
Outside the glass, Stack’s head tilts. He leans his elbows on the mixing desk, his fingers moving smoothly against the sliders to mute the backing track.
But as you begin to sing the lyrics raw, it still isn't working. It’s not what you want to hear, and you weren't…..feeling it??
"What do you think it is?" Ayesha asked aloud, to both Stack and Tia, they both knew what she was asking.
Tia shrugged her shoulders as she shook her head, completely stumped on what could be the problem, she thought the song was perfect and sounded good to her "I'm gonna keep it real i ain't got a clue in the world, i liked the song, but you know how she gets when she don't like somethin', it doesn't leave her mind until she fixes it,".
Stack hums agreeing, he knew how she gets in her head so quickly when it comes to her music, she gets like that because she cares deeply about it, he always knew that everything had a place for her and so once something seems outta place, you were the one to fix it.
He just wonders what you were thinking.
You let out a heavy groan, sucking your teeth, unaware of how intently Stack is watching you. He always catches the small things—the furrow of your eyebrows, the tension in your shoulders, the doubt in your eyes.
He twirls a pen between his fingers, his tongue rolling into his cheek as an idea forms. He knows exactly how to break through your frustration or whatever is going on in your head.
"Tia, Ayesha," Stack says, his tone low and calculated as he speaks to the room. "We haven't had our break yet." He briefly looks at you. "Looks like she needs one, and we could use one too. Why don't y'all step out for a bit so I can talk to her?"
Tia and Ayesha exchange a look, then glance back at him. "You sure?" Tia asks.
Stack nods, rubbing his hand along his goatee. "Positive. Y'all go on and grab some lunch. I know y'all were talkin about the new place on 5th, see what happenin' over there. I'll text y'all when we're finished here."
Tia looks at Stack and then you, "You want us to get y'all a lil somethin, heard they got some good fries there too," she offers.
Stacks waves her off "Nah, I'm straight, but you can probably get her something to eat,".
Ayesha gives him a warning look, "You betta make sure she's alright,"
Stacks nods without hesitation "Always,".
Ayesha sighs, pushing back her rolling chair with a slight squeak, and grabs her purse. Tia follows close behind, their distant murmurs fading as the studio door clicks shut.
Now, Stack leans back in his chair, his eyes entirely fixed on you.
You're still looking down at your lyric sheet, pen in hand, aggressively scratching out words and editing lines. The sudden sound of the heavy booth door opening snaps you out of your daze. Looking up, your shoulders instantly ease at the sight of him walking in. Elias stands there taking in your frustrated appearance, his white shirt clinging to his frame, every ridge of his muscles on display, and for a second, the stress of the track completely fades away.
You turn your head back to the sheet of lyrics.
"Elias, i don't know, how do i sound to you?" your head hangs low as you ask.
"You always sound good to me"
Stack's heart softens even more after he hears you call him 'Elias', it was a soft spot for him always. He walks up behind you, his hand on the music stand looking over your scribbles and notes you made on the paper as his hand slither around your waist.
"What's bothering you so much that it's got you writing liking chicken scratch on the lovely lyrics?" He asks with a smirk appearing on his face.
You sigh and shrug. "I don't know.. something ain't clicking, I'm just not feeling it,"
"I'm just….this never happens to me, you know?" you add.
Stack picks up the paper and looks at it, reading it as he paces the room, and he hums the beat to himself .
"How bout, you tell me what you like in the song and what you got going on in that head of yours?" he ask as he lightly taps your temple.
You look around the room, as you pull the one side of the headphones away from your ear.
"Ummm, I like the percussion on this track, also really like slow vibe on the one part that gives a little sensual vibe,". You begin to hum the song and go to the chorus that you love and sing.
"Why you always take so long to call me? Know I gotta wake up in the mornin'. You know every second adds up to a minute.
As you are singing Stack leaves the room heading back to the control room and standing right in front of the soundboard. He watches you, your eyes are closed and singing, he can see that you are easing into the music and then his finger moves against one of the sliders, slowing the tempo down just a little bit.
You like the way that sounds, so you continue.
You sing .
"Need 10,000 hours, We can be so in love, Don't stop, I'm counting them up.
Run the clock, I be counting them up.
We can be so in love.
You know every second adds up to a minute.
Need 10,000 hours
We can be so in love."
As you sing, Stack is adjusting the soundboard, so when you sing the lyrics "We could be so in love" it loops. Your voice is now a background vocal and looping. It sounds exactly what was missing .
A smile can't help but appear on your face as you sing. Before Stack walks back into the isolated room, he watches you as you finish singing and saves that track. You still sing to the music, and Stack walks up to you smiling.
“How does it sound now?" he asks, looking at you.
You smile as you take the headphones off and place them on his ears. Before he even hears the rest, his lips find yours, melting together. His hands immediately find your ass, as he listens to your voice singing to him
"Y/N, you sound so good" he pulls away breathlessly from the kiss.
He presses himself against you and you smile. Your lips dance together as his hand find the back of your head, bringing you closer to him.
"Hold on baby," he says pulling away ripping a needy moan from you. As he takes the headphones off and leaves the room.
He leaves the room and your panties are soaked, you stand there waiting and soon you hear your voice coming from the speakers of the isolated room.
The song you just sang, now playing throughout the room.
He walks back in with a erection that can't be ignored, but he caresses your cheek.
"Told you before to stop doubting yourself, ain't I?". He asks looking down at you.
"Y-Yes," you lean up to kiss him but he doesn't let you get the satisfaction just yet.
"You were stressin' and all I needed to hear was what you were fucking with and what you weren't, and I knew what to add once I heard it.” He kisses your neck, his wet lips sliding up your neck with little bites he leaves as he makes his way up to your ear and kisses it.
You can't help but let out a moan "Mmm, baby,".
Stack smiles against your ear, your hear a soft huff of air and shiver, "Now you just listen to yourself and how pretty you sound," he directs.
You take a sharp breath as he kisses your ear, and smiles.
As you kiss him, your soaked panties cling to your soppy pussy. You feel his fingers pull them to the side, toying with your sensitive clit, causing you to jolt in his arms.
He smirks something cocky as he watches you. He lives for how sensitive you are for him, how wet you are.
His hand slowly holds you, pressing you against the double glass-paned window. You kiss him before he pulls away and shows all the love to your chest, licking the part of skin that shows on your test and squeezing your nipples through your bra.
His eyes lock with yours, causing you to whimper as his other hand has remained busy on your clit. He kisses down your body, your breathing becomes heavy. He moves the material of your skirt and kisses the meat of your thighs. He then drags his tongue on your clothed pussy a couple of times. Your head leans back on the glass window pane.
" 'Lias- you ain't gotta-" you begin to say
"Shh, what i need you to do is it back and sing for me, go on and listen to your song and hit those high notes for me," Stack grins as he pushed your soaked panties to the side, giving your pussy kisses and licks before sliding your panties off.
His grabs your thigh, placing it on his shoulder as he begins to devour your pussy, full of tongue as his nose begins to rub your clit, your eyes widen and mouth agape as you hand supports the back of his head. "F-Fuck S-S-Eliass you—".
Stack smiles as his tongue delves into you. He groans as he hears you having trouble speaking, stumbling and stuttering over your words. Doesn't sound like much singing to him.
Your moans can't be helped from escaping you.
"Baby, I need more, please. I- could you please stop teasing!" you whine out, your hands caressing the back of his head.
Stack chuckles and hits your g spot one last time, leaving a drabble of spit and your juices smeared on his lips and your pussy. He slurps every bit, and he pulls away, standing to his feet as he hears your pleas.
"So damn, impatient. I ain't doing shit until I hear my pretty girl sing like I hear you on these fucking speakers. You got a voice of the angels, princess, and I wanna hear that." He rasps as his dick throbs in his pants.
You clear your throat, realizing he is serious. As he smiles, tilting his head, grabbing your hips and turning you to face the glass window, your hands immediately bracing on the cold glass and your breath panning on the window, fogging up just as you exhale.
And you begin to sing, the lyrics. Your voice oozing like honey in his ears. You are harmonizing with yourself. "I've been high and I've been low." He holds your hips, kissing your shoulder and neck as you continue. You feel the bass from the speakers in your chest, or maybe that was your heart racing because of how wet you were. You begin to find the rhythm of the music as if there wasn't a care in the world."But this time I know it's for sure." He watches you in the glass , his eyes taking in your figure, and feeling your ass, and soon his hands aren't on you. You
You hear a zzziiiipppp sound behind you. Stack fists himself behind you, tapping your leg, signaling for you to spread your legs wider . You continue singing."Cause I'm right where I belong, and we are only getting stronger. Feel's good to be down in my—!"
"Oooouuuu shiit—" You moan as your head leans on the glass, your breath fogging a spot on the window. Stack lined himself up with your soaked pussy so quickly you didn't even realize, and his thrust wasn’t so gentle; they had urgency and passion behind it.
"Fuuck!. You are everything, baby. Ain’t nobody doing it like you ain’t, that right?". He sinks into you again, causing your body to jolt to the window as Stack grips your hips. Your back arching, Stack looks down, looking down as his dick thrusts into you.
In and Out. In and Out. In and Out.
A constant pace, a relentless one.
“You’re so wet for me, baby. All for me, my pretty girl. Sing just for me." He grunts as he kisses your neck. Both of your senses were blown. Your music on a loop in the room, mic stand kicked on the floor. Hands everywhere, and Stack fucking you like there was no tomorrow as you throw your pussy back to him. Stack moaning and grunting in your ear as your head is leaned back on his shoulder, hand on the window, bracing and back arching.
"You sound really close, baby. You gonna come for me, ain't you?" Stack kisses your shoulder, the sound of your lovemaking, remixing with the music you just made in the studio.
Tears begin to prick into your eyelids as you whine. "Aaa-aa- I-I can't hold it anymore".
The wet slapping sounds coming from your pussy only grew as Stack continues, the material of your skirt flipped to your back. You cum, no longer able to hold it, as a moaning cry leaves your lips as your whole body convulses and locks. That doesn't cause Stack to pull back; in fact, it drives him even crazier.
Stack pulls your hips back as he is chasing your release with his own. His thrust pushes you forward to the glass. You use the glass as leverage, pushing your pussy back onto his dick, and you hear him moan. Stack cums with a groan , kissing your neck and sinking his teeth, leaving marks on your skin.
Stack fills you up, and some cum spurts onto the underside of your skirt, sinking into the material. You two catch your breath. As he pulls out slowly, smacking your ass, causing you to yelp, "Eliass!"
“Girl, stop all that," Stack chuckles, rubbing your ass softly and leading you to take a seat.
You both take a minute catching your breath as his arm wraps around you. You look at the glass closely. Squinting and smirking as you whisper, "Oh my god."
Stack looks at you as he is adjusting himself back into his pants, as he zipping his pants back up and catches his breath, "Oh my god, what, what are we whatin' about?" As he moves his head trying to match your eye line and see what you are seeing, a smirk that shows his dimples all too well appears on his face.
You try to stop him. "Don't start."
But you knew it was already done
Stacks smile is wide with pride, "Oh ho hoooo, I'm definitely taking a picture of this for keepsake, damn baby, I had your hand print like that.”
You roll your eyes, giggling at his foolish behavior, as he gets up and grabs his phone, snapping a picture at an angle for the lighting to be just right and.
Click. Click. Click.
A couple of shots were taken, and as he bends down, picking up the music stand and fallen lyrics, phone in hand, he can't help but smile as his eyes examine the picture closer.
"Hold up, I'm not gonna lie, this would make a dope ass cover for the album." He nods at the picture, already thinking of a way to edit it, if you agreed.
You can't help but roll your eyes, but now that you think of it, maybe you would.
A hand print of your love, where you make the music you love, isn't such a bad idea.
˙ . ꒷ 🍰 . 𖦹˙— mika’s notes: thank you for reading lovelies, please reblog, comment and let me know what you think!! <𝟑 .ᐟ
۶ৎ if you’d like to continue to become a regular at my bakery, join my taglist to place your order! 🍮🥄 ˚₊‧
╰┈➤ ໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
Here is the other baked goods you might want to taste. Check out my masterlist!
pairings: Jaafar Jackson x gf!reader ——♡—— w/c: 3k+
summary: Jaafar can spot every TikTok trend from a mile away, even without social media. So when you stumble across the latest pheromone perfume craze, there’s only one thing to do: test it on your infuriatingly observant boyfriend.
warnings: MDNI!, fluff, established relationship, reader is chronically online, jaafar wants that cookie reaaaaalllll bad, smut, p in v, choking, unprotected sex, creampie what the hell who said that, Jaafar is lowkey rough with you in bed, but the complete opposite in general idk idk.
request!
♡ ♡ ♡
Five years was a long time to know someone, enough to know how they took their coffee, which side of the bed they slept on. Definitely long enough to know exactly what expression they made when they were about to do something incredibly stupid.
Which was unfortunate for you, because Jaafar had become exceptionally good at spotting that expression.
When your boyfriend accidentally became the internet's latest obsession after starring in a Michael Jackson biopic, entertainment had to come from somewhere.
"Why are you smiling?" You looked up from your phone. Jaafar stood in the kitchen doorway holding a bottle of water in his hands. His eyes narrowed on cue.
“Oh, come on.” He groaned.
"What?"
"Don't 'what' me."
"I haven't done anything!"
"You've done something."
“Wow.” You pressed a hand dramatically to your chest.
"Baby."
"What?"
"You've got the face."
You groaned. "There is no face."
"There is."
"There isn't."
"There absolutely is."
Five years together and somehow, he'd developed a sixth sense for your nonsense. You only blamed yourself. Mostly because you’d spent the better half of a year trying every single TikTok trend on him. The success rate sat comfortably at around zero percent.
The first disaster had been the pretending-not-to-know-your-boyfriend trend. Which had, admittedly, been hilarious for you. Not Jaafar, definitely not Jaafar.
♡ ♡ ♡
Three months earlier, you had set your phone against a fruit bowl, the camera angle perfect. Everything was ready; all you needed was your unsuspecting victim.
"Mouse?"
The nickname making you internally groan. Jaafar had called you it on your fourth date when you insisted your pasta didn’t have enough Parmesan. Despite your insistent hatred for the name, it stuck.
You looked up from the sofa with a blank expression, no smile or greeting. Absolutely nothing. Jaafar stopped, immediately suspicious.
"...Hi?"
You tilted her head.
"Can I help you?"
Silence. Jaafar blinked. You held your breath. His eyebrows slowly rose.
"What?"
"I'm sorry?"
"What?"
You stared at him. "Do I know you?"
A pause, then another. Then Jaafar looked directly at the camera, and you nearly lost it there and then.
"You've got to be kidding me."
"No, seriously."
Jaafar dropped the grocery bags onto the counter.
"Seriously?"
"Yeah."
You folded your arms.
"Who are you?"
"Who am I?"
"Yes."
He looked around your home, then back to you. Repeating the action at least three times, you could practically see the cogs turning.
"You're filming."
"No."
"You're literally terrible at lying."
You bit the inside of her cheek as he sighed. Then, deciding to commit to the bit, he walked over and offered his hand.
"Hi."
"Hi."
"I'm Jaafar." You shook his hand cautiously.
"Nice to meet you."
His eyes sparkled, something that was always dangerous. Because if Jaafar committed to a joke, you lost every time.
"Nice place you've got here."
"Thank you."
"Funny thing."
"What?"
"I also live here."
"I'm sorry, have we met?" You doubled down.
Jaafar nodded thoughtfully.
"Interesting."
"What?"
"Nothing."
He disappeared down the hallway. A moment later, he returned carrying a framed photo from your bedroom. One from your second anniversary. You immediately started laughing.
"No."
"Oh yes."
"No!" You whined.
He placed it directly in front of your face.
"What does this look like?"
The trend lasted all of four minutes before you completely lost composure. Jaafar considered it one of his easiest victories; you considered it unfinished business.
♡ ♡ ♡
Then came the worm incident, arguably worse. You had waited until you were lying in bed, everything was peaceful, perfect conditions.
"Jaafar?"
"Hm?"
"Would you still love me if I were a worm?"
You smiled. This one was foolproof; everyone answered it. Everyone. Jaafar rolled over to face you, then immediately looked at the phone you were trying and failing to hide.
"...No."
You gasped. “What do you mean no?!”
"I mean no."
You sat upright. "That's so mean!"
Jaafar burst out laughing.
"Baby."
"No, explain yourself."
"Okay, if you were a worm, I’d spend every day terrified someone was going to step on you.”
Your anger evaporated. "Oh."
"I'd probably buy one of those fancy tanks." He paused. "And I'd become emotionally attached."
Your heart melted.
"I'd also tell everyone my girlfriend is a worm."
You threw a pillow at him. Jaafar laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bed.
“How are you more online than I am?” You huffed in defeat.
Another failed attempt and another victory for him.
♡ ♡ ♡
The trends continued, a fake breakup trend lasting all of seven seconds. The second Jaafar walked into the room and saw you looked all too serious, he sighed.
“No.”
“Let me talk.”
“No, I know that tone.”
You hadn't even started yet; the pathetic attempt at a prank was dead on arrival.
♡ ♡ ♡
At this point, Jaafar had become impossible, not because he knew every trend. Even though that used to be the case. Since Michael wrapped filming and clips from the movie started spreading online, he'd practically abandoned social media altogether.
The internet was obsessed with him, which was exactly why he wanted nothing to do with it.
"No TikTok."
"No Instagram comments."
"No edits."
"No reaction videos."
"No thirst traps?"
"Especially no thirst traps."
You had laughed for five straight minutes.
So, he wasn't recognising trends because he'd seen them; he was recognising them because after five years together, he knew you too well.
Which was incredibly annoying, and exactly why the package currently sitting in the bathroom felt so promising. You stared at it, pheromone perfume, the latest trend. Thousands of videos
And for once? It didn't require acting. You simply had to spray it and wait. Easy. Foolproof even. You picked up the bottle, smiling. For the first time in months, you might actually have him.
And you swore Jaafar wouldn't even know what hit him.
♡ ♡ ♡
Currently, the two of you were sitting in a parked car outside a coffee shop. Jaafar in the driver's seat, phone mounted neatly on the dashboard.
"Ready?" you asked.
"Yep."
You pressed record.
"Hi guys!"
Jaafar immediately looked at the camera and smiled. You hated how naturally charming he was.
"So, because somebody became famous overnight—"
"I did not become famous overnight."
"—we're doing a Q&A."
Jaafar rolled his eyes.
"People sent in questions."
"That's normal."
"Very normal."
The lie slipped out effortlessly, because technically, people had sent questions. The first few went perfectly.
"Favourite movie?"
"Current obsession?"
"Worst habit?"
That one earned you a dirty look.
"Who said I love you first?"
"You." Jaafar responded.
"It was not me."
"It absolutely was."
"It wasn't."
"It was."
You grinned. Jaafar pointed immediately.
"There it is."
You froze. "What?"
"The face."
Damn it, you truly thought you had him this time. Five years together, and he still caught on to everything.
"What face?"
"The face you make before you're annoying."
"That's incredibly rude."
"Am I wrong?"
"Yes."
"You are literally filming me."
"Because we're doing a Q&A."
"Hm."
The suspicion faded, and you relaxed. Good, the absurdly expensive perfume hadn’t been applied for nothing. You had practically drowned yourself in the stuff before leaving the house. Enough that you could still smell it every time you moved.
The next few questions continued smoothly until Jaafar suddenly stopped talking mid-answer.
"...And then we got back from London and—"
Silence, he frowned, you looked over.
"You okay?"
"Hm?"
"You stopped."
"Oh."
Jaafar rubbed the back of his neck.
"Yeah."
He looked out of the windshield; you bit the inside of your cheek trying to conceal your smile threatening to escape.
You asked another question, Jaafar answered, sort of. Halfway through, he lost his train of thought again.
"What is wrong with you today?"
"Nothing."
"You're acting weird."
"I'm not."
"You just forgot what you were saying."
"Is that a new perfume?”
You turned to face him, your body growing hot at the expression on his face, forgetting about the video for a moment.
“Yes?”
“It’s nice.” He hummed, shifting in his seat. His grip on the steering wheel tightened just slightly.
You looked away first, the enclosed space wasn't helping, car suddenly feeling very small. Very, very small.
You attempted to ask another question, and Jaafar answered approximately half of it. His eyes drifted toward you again, lingering there for a moment, causing you to raise an eyebrow.
“Fuck, you smell so good.” He mumbled, quickly bringing a hand down to rest on your thigh. You nearly lost composure, mouth parting slightly from the tone of his voice.
"Oh my God."
"What?"
"Nothing."
His eyes narrowed, and for a second, you thought you'd been caught. Then he looked away again, hand squeezing your thigh.
A few more minutes passed, and you started to run out of questions. That didn’t ruin your mood though; you were witnessing history. The longest trend you’d managed to pull off in the entirety of your relationship.
You got cocky, too cocky. Because while Jaafar was answering a question about filming Michael, you glanced at the camera. And wiggled your eyebrows, Jaafar immediately stopped speaking, and your stomach dropped.
"...Why did you do that?"
You sighed.
"What?"
"The eyebrows."
His eyes narrowed, then moved to the camera. You watched the exact moment his detective instincts returned, the exact moment he started putting pieces together.
The camera, the weird behaviour, the smell of your perfume that made his head spin.
"Oh my God."
You exploded into laughter, Jaafar dropped his head against the headrest, the hand on your thigh now dragging along his face.
"You fell for it!"
"What did you do?"
"The pheromone perfume trend."
"The what?"
"The TikTok perfume trend."
Jaafar stared, his eyes meeting yours through the gaps in his fingers.
“That’s what smelled so good?” You nodded, the air in the car shifting as you chewed at your bottom lip.
“We’re going home.” Jaafar stated, more of an order than anything else.
“Okay?”
“Now.”
Before you could reply, his hand had already reached to turn the keys in the ignition.
♡ ♡ ♡
When the car door shut behind you, only then did you let out a long exhale. One you hadn’t realised you’d been holding.
The car ride had been silent, excluding the radio cracking static now and then, the songs distant in the back of your mind. Jaafar had been touchy, more so than usual. His hand resting on your lap as he drove, trailing higher and higher as he looked straight ahead at the round. Mumbling under his breath every time he took an absurdly deep inhale through his nose.
Making your way to the front door, feet dragging against the pavement, your mind spun with possibilities. Still not sure if Jaafar had been annoyed with you, patience finally snapping from all of your insistent teasing. Or if the perfume had truly got to him like the videos said it would.
All questions were answered when you took a step into the home, the door slipping shut behind you. Without giving you a second to adjust, your back was pressed firmly against the frame, Jaafar’s mouth on yours with zero hesitation.
A gasp tried to leave your body, the sound silenced against his lips as he moved impossibly closer to you, crowding you against his body. Your hands trailed along his spine, hips grinding up into his body instinctively. Eventually, he pulled away, just far enough for you to catch your breath.
“You have no idea what you do to me.”
You panted slightly, eyes going wide. It was rare Jaafar behaved in such a way, so rare you could count the occasions on one hand. He usually treated you so softly, like you were a fragile little thing he had been scared to break. His mouth moved from where it hovered over your lips, now kissing along your neck, biting gently over the sensitive skin.
“Mmm…” You let your head fall back slightly, allowing him more access. “Show me then.”
The noise that left him truly needed to be studied, pulling away from you to meet your eyes. The way his gaze felt on you should’ve been considered a crime. His eyes dark, darker than the usual chocolate brown you had become so fond of, curls unruly on top of his head.
“I want you to go to the bedroom,” you nodded so quickly you thought your neck might give out, “n’ get all pretty on the bed for me, okay?”
You didn’t have to think twice, practically scrambling to the bedroom. It wasn’t even a conscious decision, pure instinct carrying your legs forward for you. Adrenaline surged through your body, the bedroom door clicking shut as you climbed onto the bed. Shuffling out of your clothes, the items strung across the floor without a care. You settled your bare skin against the mattress, adjusting your hair so it fell perfectly against your body.
The door opened not even a minute later, and he was there, shirt already discarded. His collarbone sat sharply at the top of his chest, leading down into a natural line of muscle throughout his torso. There was a strange softness in the way Jaafar held himself, despite his firm words.
Jaafar took one look at you, completely bare, perfectly still and so-
“So obedient aren’t you mouse?” You nodded again, less frantically this time. He shuffled onto the bed, body settling between your legs as he stared down at you once more. His gaze lingered on every curve, every inch of exposed skin.
A whimper left you at how intense his stare felt, body growing hot. Jaafar leant forward, his head burying against your neck as he placed a wet kiss against the hollow of your throat. “Smell so perfect, baby.” A smile formed on your face as you remembered what had gotten you into this situation in the first place.
You swallowed hard, using all of your self-restraint to remain perfectly still against the pillow, even as your heart hammered against your ribs. Jaafar’s lips trailed lower, grazing over the swell of your breasts. “You still here baby?” he muttered.
“Mhm, m’ listening.” You lied, eyes slipping shut as his body moved lower. His tongue found your clit instantly, causing you to gasp, fingers twitching against the sheets. Jaafar knew exactly how to make you feel good, his tongue lapping away at your entrance.
The feeling was all too much, your tension building until you were practically vibrating. He could tell you were already close, pulling his mouth away, moaning under his breath at the thin string of saliva stretching between his mouth and your body.
“Not yet,” he hummed, “you’ve been teasin’ me all day baby, gotta be good n’ wait.”
You bit your lip again, eyes lidded as you stared down at the top of his head, your hand threading through his hair as his tongue worked over you with ruthless precision.
Jaafar was relentless, circling, flicking, sucking just enough to make you tremble, but not enough to let you break. Finally, when you were already soaked and squirming, he pulled back, breathing heavy.
“So good f’me.” He mumbled as he removed his jeans, gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks, spreading your legs wider as he lined himself up with your entrance.
“Please.”
Jaafar hummed, eyes never leaving yours as he thrust into you with one swift motion. You cried out, the sound loud enough that the neighbours might’ve definitely heard. His pace only sped up, watching your tits bounce with the impact.
He covered your mouth with his palm as he snapped his hips forward, hitting deep spots inside of you that made your eyes roll back. His other hand remained possessively on your stomach, keeping your body pinned against the bed. “Shh baby.”
The pace only quickened, thrusts becoming rougher as he used your body for his own selfish pleasure. The hand over your mouth moved to curl around your throat, applying the tiniest amount of pressure, your head spinning.
“That’s it, taking it so well.” You choked out a broken moan, fingers digging into his shoulders as your legs trembled. Jaafar squeezed your throat, tighter this time, just enough to restrict your airflow slightly.
Jaafar continued to pound into you with brutal precision, the headboard thudding against the wall, your vision blurry as you clenched around him.
That did it for him, cumming inside of you with a low, guttural groan, his hand tightening around your throat as he buried himself deep. His cock pulsed violently, filling you up completely, the sensation sending you over the edge as you came, the grip on your throat disappearing as he watched.
“Fuck baby, y’look so pretty like this.” He mumbled as he pulled out slowly, watching your entrance clench and flutter around nothing, the sudden emptiness making you whine.
“I know, my love,” he cooed, his hand rubbing circles around your stomach, “gotta get y’cleaned up though.”
You melted instantly at the affection, nodding as he slid off of your body, grabbing a towel. He wiped you down with extreme tenderness, a harsh contrast to his previous actions. Your head spun at the sight, only now catching your breath.
The two of you stayed like that for a while; your head rested against Jaafar’s chest as you matched his breathing.
“Was that okay?”
His voice came out quieter than you expected, slightly unsure in a way he clearly didn’t feel a second ago. For a moment, you didn’t answer. His hand, which had been resting at your back, shifted slowly like he was making sure you were still there, still close, still real.
Then you exhaled, a small laugh leaving you.
“Was that okay?” you repeated, slowly, lifting your head just enough to look at him.
“Yeah,” you said finally, like it should’ve been obvious. “It was more than okay.”
Then, because it was still Jaafar:
“…You do realise you just completely derailed my entire ability to think for the last hour.”
That got a small smile out of you.
“Sorry.”
“No,” he corrected immediately, tightening his arm around you slightly. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Apologise like you did something wrong.”
His thumb brushed absentmindedly along your shoulder, slow and grounding; you settled back against his chest again, letting his heartbeat fill the silence between you both. Jaafar tilted his head slightly, resting his cheek against your hair.
“You’re unbelievable, you know that?”
“Mhm.”
A pause.
Then quieter—
“…You okay mouse?”
You nodded against him.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah,” he repeated, like he was confirming it for himself too.
“You and your stupid TikTok experiments,” he murmured after a moment, though there was no real bite to it anymore; you huffed a small laugh.
“Hey, this one worked.”
That earned you a soft exhale of amusement against your hair.
“M’ not complaining,” he said.
And you could hear the smile in his voice even without seeing it.
Neither of you moved; there was no need to. Just the steady rhythm of breathing, the faint warmth of the bedroom, and Jaafar’s hand still tracing slow, absent patterns against your back like he wasn’t planning on letting go anytime soon.
Eventually, he spoke again, quieter.
“…Next time you try to film me, I’m deleting the footage.”
when you’re on the phone with your homegirl and she ranting and raving about some guy. it’s been two whole days of hearing this shit and honestly you’re sick of it! so you tell her with all your chest that, “dick ain’t never been that good and find a new play thing by tonight.”
your boyfriend perks up from the his spot in the couch, head lifting and eyes locking on your form in the kitchen because, what? what’s never been huh???
onyankopon loves to prove a point. as you say your goodbyes with a relieved sigh clicking that beautiful red button, he appears behind you in slow strides. you turn with a smile, inspecting him in all his glory. dark hair cut low and crisp, black shirt clinging to every piece of muscle that he works hard for, and you see how hung he is in those sweats. you could almost shed a tear.
“hey gorgeous, what should we eat tonight? i’m feeling habachi lowkey, but you have any suggestions?”
“that’s the advice you give your friends?” his voice deep almost serious but the way his lip slightly curves lets you know he isn’t as broody as he looks. you can only scoff and cock a brow at him in disbelief. was he listening the whole time? not that you were quiet or anything but still!
“jeez you’re so nosy! but i told the girl 5 times that man was good for nothing and she keeps calling me about it!” you huff feeling your face get hot while you recall every section of your conversation.
he hums in response standing over you deep in thought. you’re confused by his response— or lack there of — but you say nothing, just leaned against the counter he’s got you backed against. the silence is becoming awkward so you try and switch the subject “soo, no dinner ideas?”
“it’s never been that good?” he repeats back to you, taking a step forward, and completely ignoring the question. you open and close your mouth like a fish out of water. “you telling me, that in the two years we’ve been dating, the dick i give you ain’t ‘never been that good?” he ask you, arms uncrossing boxing you in between him and the marble top.
“turn around let me show you sum.” he says in your ear. you turn with hesitation, now standing back to chest and you feel him. pressing hard against your back pushes his hips into you. his hands leave the counter and find their way to your shorts pulling them down in one swift motion. you make a noise of surprise when the cool air hits your bare cunny, and you moan when he hits the side of your ass.
“open.” he demands before sticking two fingers in your mouth. you close your eyes and suck letting his fingers twist around in you mouth, massaging your tongue, lubricating his fingers. he pulls them out with a wet pop, before bringing them to your clit. he rubs tight circles all on the bud entranced with how your own natural slick starts to drip. he hasn’t even touched you for real. he teases your opening dragging his fingers to the hole and rubbing it. alternating between your two pleasure spots. you quiver and let out small whimpers, pushing back onto his hand.
“yan— need more,” you shudder feeling your clit jump when he makes contact again. “need you in me.” your pussy noise is lewd making a click click click everytime he plays with it.
“need my what in you? you seem to be enjoying yourself right now.” he states sending a quick slap to your labia. you squeal knees knocking trying to stop yourself from cumming. “you can’t be talking bout you need my dick in you? the dick that ain’t never been that good?” pop! he smacks you again make it harder to breathe. you’re dripping on his hand, his wrist, the floor, you don’t know how much more of this you can take.
“i— i wasn’t talking about you baby! i swear it! just please put it in me, m’beggin you!” your voice wavers letting him know you’re on the brink of tears. he’s satisfied, you hear him adjust behind you the rustling fabric him pulling down his sweats just enough to free that heavy, girthy, piece of—
onyankopon uses the slicked up hand to jerk himself a few times. before you could even thank him he shuts you by stuffing you full. you moan loud, instantly reaching behind you to push at his stomach. he lets you have your moment, but not for long. he grabs your arm and pushes into the small of your back forcing an arch.
“this dick ain’t that good, fuck you pushing me away for??” he teased in a strained voice. his thrust barely move letting you feel him in every crevice of your guts. his free hand holds your stomach and presses upwards like he’s trying to feel how deep he is. your pussy clenched immediately small splats of water putter down in the floor and you wail. “o—oh my fuckin’ god— baby!”
“cummin’ on this whack dick already? c’mon mama get it together.” he laughs at you condescendingly. “let me fuck my pussy right before you start doing allat.” and that he does. he reels back just to drop it in you. every stroke he delivered is heavy, he puts his whole body into it. you’re dumb on this dick, lightheaded from the way that fat tip taps your cervix.
you can’t even talk every noise is some fucked out ooh or an ahh. you rise to your tiptoes as a reflex trying to crawl away but he follows fucking you harder if even possible. his dick is soaked from you alone, every time he pulls out stringy white ropes connect him to you.
“can’t!” is all you muster using the free arm to push yourself upright off the counter. his free hand is in your neck immediately. not squeezing, just there. “you can.” his checks you. his words so confident it has you cumming again.
he sees the way your eyes scroll to the back of your skull and how you choke on your own moans, but he doesn’t stop. he won’t stop. “that’s right my baby, gimme that shit.” he grunts out. he’s using the counter as leverage, bouncing you between it and his own body.
“yan—“ you call through swollen lips.
“talk to me. tell me what i wanna hear.” he breathes keeping a hold on your throat but dropping your arm letting you brace yourself on the counter. all you can focus on is the in and out in and out in and out of him plunging into your tired pussy.
“i love you!” you cry.
“i know baby, i love you too, but that ain’t what im asking you for.” he can’t be serious. (he is!)
“f—UCK! it’s so good!” you wail, hands slapping the counter as you feel another pending orgasm. you feel him grinning again your cheek as he holds you.
“yeah? you think so? don’t lie to me ma.” he such a dick.
“m’not lyin’ yan— promise! fuck baby i can’t. n-not again.” you feel out of this universe. your body is light, every limb, every digit tingling. your stomach is burning heart is on fire. it’s so good.. it’s too good.
“you know the word baby tell me and i’ll stop.” he reminds you gently. from the way you clench down on him and rapidly shake your head he knows you’re not tapping out. he’s close he just wants you to say it one more time.
“tell me how this dick feel while you cum on it.”
“so good! s’good, sgood!” your words slur while you squirt. you have no control over your body, you slump against his chest shaking like a leaf while his chases his high using your cunt for his own greed. he cums deep with a moan, a real one at that. letting go of your neck and letting you fall gently onto the counter.
“y’good baby?” he ask, mood switching entirely. he rolls his eyes at your thumbs up telling you that you need to use your words, all while rubbing soothing circles onto the small of your back.
“my socks are wet.” you whine. his laughter causes friction which makes you clench and jump. “sorry sorry, ill fix it. and then we get habachi yeah?” he pulls out slowly trying not to stimulate you too much. if he didn’t just cum he knows his dick would be rock hard in a split second just watching his cum drip out your pussy in fucking slow motion. you feel him watching you so you bring a tired hand between your legs and cup your cunt, hiding it from him.
you crane your neck and shoot him a glare. he reaches for the paper towels but before he cleans you up he says.
“don’t tell yo friends no stupid shit like that, atleast not when i’m around.”
this stupid ass fuck ass app ain’t allowing me to make my blog cute i’m gonna quit fuck this >:/. i also went back and edited and it saved nothing so ignore the improper grammar i didn’t find
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