❥ she/her. 18. july leo. bisexual. a black american princess. a southern girl. a college girl. a michael jackson, meg thee stallion, kwn, & tyriq withers enthusiast. a lover of music, literature, & all the other lovely luxuries life has to offer.
❥ i’m a multi!fandom & ‘x reader’/‘x plus-sized reader’ writer, though there are a few old fics of mine that are ‘x oc’. i write for black women & black women ONLY — representation matters & we are definitely underrepresented on this app.
❥ this is a side-blog & it is 18+!! majority of my works contain smut & sexual acts, so viewer discretion is heavily advised — this is your only warning & you are responsible for the media you choose to consume!!
❥ requests are OPEN — however, please be specific about what you’d like me to write about when you send them!! don’t just send a name & ask me to write about them without at least having some kind of idea in mind because it honestly gives me writer’s block.
𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐒 💐
❥ MAIN MASTERLIST | a variety of smut, fluff, & angst-filled fics that gets updated whenever time allows. 🫧
❧ KINKTOBER ‘25 MASTERLIST | smut-filled fics w/ a spooky theme for the month of October. 🎃
‹𝟹 KINKMAS ‘25 MASTERLIST | smut-filled fics w/ a holiday theme for the month of December. 🎄
so after noticing that my navigation post has been stolen & messaging my mutuals + a couple of other people about it, Tumblr has somehow taken away my messaging feature on here, i can’t see any of my comments on any posts, & i can’t comment on anything anymore!!
i’m honestly terrified of losing my blog & i genuinely don’t know what to do nor do i know what’s causing this, but this is a warning just in case my account disappears!! i have no idea what the hell is going on, but if anything changes, i’ll update you!! 🩷
i’m using my taglist on this post to garner more attention from my mutuals!!
hey… so here’s an update on this for those who actually care 😭
i honestly didn’t have any intentions on exposing the page who did this because i wanted to wait & see if there was a bot or an actual person who stole my post, but after checking their page again today, i can confirm that there’s def a real person that did it… yikes.
however, i’m gonna wait a little longer & see what happens next before i move to exposing them. some of y’all already know who it is, so this post is just saying something i’ve already said to you privately 😭 but yeah!
on another note though, i hope y’all are ready for this 4th of july fic drop tomorrow!! can’t wait for you to see it 🩷
Heyyyy queen can you write a fic where the reader goes through a rough break up and her best friends randy jermajesty and jaafar help her deal with it ps I LOVE your fics you're so talented 💗
Breakup therapy
A/n: Thank you!!! I love this dynamic btw
Contains: Angst, fluff, humor, bestie dynamics
Summary: A tough breakup requires much needed care and luckily your best friends will always be there for you.
Your mascara ran down your cheeks, leaving a black trail from your puffy eyes. You cried quietly in your bed in absolute distress.
Your boyfriend of one whole year just broke up with you. He used the excuse of, "Focusing on himself" knowing damn well, he just was interested in the cheerleading captain.
"WE'RE HERE!" You heard a familiar voice yell from downstairs. You watched your three best friends barge into your room.
You texted the group chat right after, and they didn't hesitate to come over.
They all took a seat on your bed, making you sit up. "Ugh, you look terrible." Jaafar sighed, making Randy smack his shoulder. "In a pretty way." Jaafar continued making you cry even more.
"Yea, we need some serious therapy." Randy joked, rubbing your back. Jermajesty began rummaging through the plastic bag he brought, taking out ice cream and a plastic spoon.
You sniffled, as your eyes landed on the carton of your favorite ice cream. Your hands flew out to grab at it. "Someone's greedy." Jermajesty laughed handing it to you.
You didn't waste any time tearing the top off, stabbing the frozen dessert with your plastic spoon. You were craving ice cream to drown out your sorrows, but you had no energy to get out of bed. "Want me to put on ATL?" Jaafar asked knowing it was one of your favorite movies.
You swallowed the spoonful of ice cream and nodded. He grabbed your remote and put on the movie, letting it run in the background.
"You want us to go jump him for you?" Jermajesty asked after hearing another sniffle. You shook your head no, "You can get the first hit." Jaafar said, jutting his bottom lip out.
A laugh tumbled from your lips, cracking your first smile in the past five hours. "There she go." Randy said. "We already making progress."
"Wasn't even funny." You rolled your eyes, using the sleeve of your hoodie to wipe your tear-stained face.
"Okay, so explain to me what he said to you again?" Jermajesty asked. You groaned, tossing your head back on the pillow. You didn't even want to think of him.
"He said he needed to focus on himself because his grades are slipping and stuff."
"Is that not valid?" Jaafar whispered to Randy. "But then I caught him with his arm wrapped around Mona at the party the other night."
"Oh, crap the one we went to together??" Jaafar gasped covering his mouth. "You were too busy feeling up on that girl." Jermajesty said using his index finger to poke Jaafar's forehead.
"You should've told us, we would have said something." Randy said.
"I didn't want to cause a scene." You shook your head, patting your bonnet.
"He's ugly anyway." Jaafar shrugged.
"Jaafar." You side-eyed.
"Fine, his dick was small."
"How the hell would you know that?" Jermajesty looked at him, eyebrows pinched in concern.
"People talk." Jaafar shrugged.
You let out another laugh, feeling your spirits lift. Leave it to your friends to take you out of your rut.
"Let's go egg his house." You grinned, making them erupt into cheers. They didn't hesitate to run downstairs, grabbing a couple egg cartons.
"Not too much though! Inflation is up right now." You yelled.
Summary: Jackie just being absolutely obsessed with you!
Now playing: Mine - Bazzi
No one would've thought Jackie Jackson would be the one to fall in love. He didn't think he would either but once he met you at a bookstore Michael dragged him to, he knew you were the one.
You were so pretty to him, and he found it adorable as your eyes failed to maintain eye contact while he showed his interest. "Let me take you out, beautiful." The gentle kiss from his lips on your hand made your face heat up.
After you hesitantly agreed, you spent countless dates getting to know each other. He became absolutely infatuated with you. He began buying you random items that reminded him of you. Cute journals, romance books, even platform heels.
You were a bit nervous getting involved with him, knowing he's two years older than you, clearly more experienced. You figured that out when he leaned in to kiss you. You were in the passenger seat, hands staying stiffly to your lap as his lips connected to yours.
Noticing your tense body, he held your hands in his, kissing down your neck causing a slow arousal to build up in your stomach. "I got you princess, alright?" He said and you nodded. That day he shown you exactly how to make out, where to place your hands, and how to move your tongue.
Jackie did not play when it came to you, not wanting anyone to even look at you the wrong way. While y'all were in the mall, he noticed one of the workers staring at you. You were unaware of course, deciding what shoes would go well with the pink ruffled skirt.
Jackie stared down the worker, stepping in front of you to block his view. The worker made eye contact with Jackie and turned his attention back to his job. "Should I get this?" You asked Jackie. He didn't hesitate to nod, wanting to give you whatever you wanted,
His brothers were no walk in the park either. Inviting you over to swim in the pool, he knew it was going to be a problem when he saw you in your bikini. Jermaine and Marlon already staring at you as you walked in with a awkward smile.
"She doesn't need y'all staring at her." Jackie said wrapping his arm around you. The boys averted their gaze knowing Jackie would go to war for you. They couldn't blame him either, he hit the jackpot.
Jackie being experienced, he didn't mind teaching you things. Back to his chest in his bedroom, he guided you on how to touch yourself. It only ended in his fingers inside of you, as he covered your mouth with one hand.
Once you warmed up to him, you would tell him all about your interests. He would sit there and admire your features, staring at your eyes and glossy lips. After a while he couldn't help but grab you by your face and kiss you.
Jackie would never deny the fact he loved you, already hiding a pretty promise ring in his room where you wouldn't find it.
my angel you are sooo amazing!! may I request a dad!michael x reader fic where they just had their one-year-old, and Michael is already begging for another baby? I'd love lots of sweet domestic moments but also smutty and him being completely obsessed with the idea!!
݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ Another one? • Dad!Michael x reader
⤷ ゛Synopsis ˎˊ˗ After your first child, Michael thinks its about time that the two of you have another one.
𑣲⋆ Contains : p in v, Michael's baby fever, talk of more than two kids, breeding, breaking the bed, currently in need of a new one I fear.
A/n: I feel like this was so sloppily written, but its like 2am and mama is tired (ó﹏ò｡)
You were already cradling your one-year-old in your arms, bouncing her lightly as she sniffled, clearly irritated by it being way past her nap time as her eyes grew heavier by the second, head falling against your shoulder. If anything, you were just as tired as her, your own eyes feeling like small weights were suddenly placed on your eyes as you stifled a yawn, careful not to wake the already dozing-off baby.
The sound of the wooden door creaking open slowly against the frame made you turn your head. Your husband is standing in the doorway, that big adorable smile plastered all over his face. That kind of smile that the rest of the world rarely sees, but for you it was all the time. His hair seemed more messy than usual, like he'd just rolled out of bed. His sweatpants sat low on his hips. His white shirt just barely covered the waist band of his sweats.
To the rest of the world, he was the king of pop, a global icon, but to you? He was a doting husband and an amazing first-time father who was eager to learn new things about having kids of his own.
“Hey, Tink." His voice was soft, careful not to wake the toddler who had finally fallen into a peaceful sleep as you lowered her into her crib, watching as she stirred slightly, getting used to the change from your arms to the soft sheets of the crib. Her cute pink onesie stretching out as she stretched her limbs. The sight pulling at your heartstrings from looking at the life that you and Michael brought into the world.
The feeling of Michael's arms wrapping around you suddenly made you feel all warm and fuzzy inside as he placed a delicate kiss on the crook of your neck before he let his head rest in the same spot he'd kissed seconds before.
“I want to talk to you about something," he whispered, taking in another deep breath of your scent. Your perfume mixed with the light, airy scent of your one-year-old.
“Hm? What is it?” you hummed, turning to face him as he still kept his arms clamped around your waist. His doe eyes, softly peering into your own. That was the same expression he had when he first convinced you to have a child with him.
“I've been thinking," he started before pressing a kiss to your lips, pulling back before taking another peek at the one-year-old that slept peacefully in her crib. His eyes softened seeing the sight of her stirring figure as he let his hands go from your waist down to your hands, guiding you out of the room and towards the shared bedroom. The darkness of the now-quiet halls devoured the two of you whole as you walked slowly down them.
“Seems like you're stalling."
"I'm not, baby; I was just thinking we could have another one," he said, sitting next to you, his hands still connected with yours as he gazed softly at you. His thumbs are running across your knuckles, the soft skin of your knuckles.
“A baby?” It came out louder than you wanted to, watching as he nodded eagerly. It wasn't like you weren't expecting this. Hell, the man said he'd knock you up eighteen times if that meant having eighteen kids with him.
“Yes, yes, y'know, and you're such a good mother… and I think it would be amazing to have another one," he babbled, his hands moving in a way that accentuated his point. “And I think it would be good to have another one, now… or at least start trying."
“Michael, do you think you'll be able to handle another one?” You laughed, and your eyes drifted to the mess on top of his head as he quickly smoothed it down with his hand. "C'mon, y'know how I felt when you were all around with our little one." His voice dropped down to that seductive tone that suddenly made you want to toss your panties to the side, giving him full access to explore you however he wanted.
“You have one hour before nap time's up." You leaned closer, pressing a desperate kiss to his lips, your tongues sloppily wrapping around each other's as Michael let his hands roam around your waist, slipping under your shirt and grasping at your bare chest, like it was his first time catching a feel.
Even a year later after giving birth, your nipples were still sensitive. The feeling of his calloused hands brushing past them constantly made you whimper against his lips as he flipped you onto your back. Your hair is now messy against the once neat sheets, creating creases in the sheets as the mattress adjusts to the sudden shift.
"I'm going to take such good care of you and fill you up so well." His lips trailed from your lips to your collarbone, peppering the supple skin with kisses.
“Mhm, I want it; I want you to get me pregnant again," you instinctively whined. Only making him even hornier hearing you desperately beg for him to get you pregnant. The only thing he could think of was his cock that desperately ached to be squeezed around your walls and your belly being full of his kids while you waddled around asking for his help.
“Yeah?” Eagerly he helped you take your top off, the sound of it landing on a nearby lamp with a light thud. The next thing to go was those tiny lounge shorts that barely left anything, but it wasn't like he needed to imagine anything when he had it right in front of him. Slowly he slipped them down, taking your panties down and tossing them to an unknown place in the room.
Everything was so desperate, from the way he took your clothes off to the way he took his own clothes off. Your lips constantly mashing together like it's the last thing you'd do, and with a one-year-old, who knows when the next time you'll have your legs wrapped around his waist will be.
The moment he'd finally tugged down at his underwear, it was like all hell broke loose. The head of his cock brushed against your clit as you let out a pleasant sigh, from both the feeling of his lips on your skin and the stimulation that only worsened the ache. Your hands grasped tightly onto his back, feeling every bit of the flexing muscle as he eased his way in between your folds.
“I've been waitin' so long to be stuffed inside you, gettin' you pregnant," he cooed, a groan ripping through his throat as his hips involuntarily thrust upwards, earning a muffled moan. Your legs move to wrap around his waist, trapping him in between your legs. The only thing he could do was let his hips thrust upward, letting his head fall forward, resting on your own forehead. The thin layer of sweat that glistened over your body from Michael's body heat mixed with the stuffy air of the room.
“Just like that, fuck, fill me up."
Oh, did that saying do something to him? It was almost like he was possessed. His body was no longer controllable, as his hips moved wildly, creating a white foam at the base of his cock where the two of you connected. The repetitive sound of skin slapping filled the room as the headboard knocked against the wall, creaking with each stroke of his cock.
“Mikeyy… you have to slow down s'too much” your words were slurred, your brain foggy as your legs pulled him tighter.
“m’sorry baby, I-I cant, too good," he whined, close enough to where you could feel the warmth of his breath.
“Give it to me."
You knew he was close; hell, he knew he was close with how sloppy he'd gotten with his thrust, feeling your walls clamping down on him, sending him over the edge with one final thrust, filling you completely with that sticky, warm liquid. Then there was that sickening crack of the bed underneath you.
After being put under such a strenuous activity, you were shocked it didn't give way sooner, but with that nauseating crack came the sudden dip, earning a gasp from both of you.
“Michael…”
Turns out you'd need a pregnancy test and a new bed.
summary: when jackie's friendly advances cross a line at a family gathering, michael shows you who you belong to.
content: (MDNI), smut, jealousy/possessive behavior, rough sex, dom!michael, sub!reader, mirror sex, language, slight manhandling, jackie needs that cookie but michael ain't having it.
w/c: 1.7k | requested | masterlist
a/n: should i make a taglist? feeling a little unorganized without one. sorry this is a bit short / not proofread
~ sage loves you !
The living room of the Jackson family estate was filled with the warmth of a family gathering. Laughter and the smooth record of Luther Vandross spilled from the speakers, blending with the scent of fried chicken and collard greens.
You were tucked into the corner of the large, plush sofa in the recreational room, a half-empty glass of soda in your hand. Jackie slid onto the cushion next to you, his presence immediately filling the space.
Usually, you wouldn't have a problem with it. You were friends with all of Michael's brothers, not close necessarily, but cordial enough for you to get used to the Jackson charm that all of his siblings exuded onto you. Plus, Jackie was always friendly. That was just who he was.
Soft-spoken, charming, quick to laugh, quick to touch. And, like you said, you normally didn't mind. But something started to feel off. Maybe it was the way his hand lingered around your waist as he gently pulled you closer to tell you a joke, or the way he said your name — warm and teasing — just enough to make your face warm.
Jackie nudged you playfully, laughing at something you barely heard, and you smiled politely. He leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing yours. "See? Told ya you'd have a good time hanging with me. You're not as shy as Mike makes you out to be."
His voice was a friendly, teasing murmur, and his hand lingered on your knee. He gave it a light, playful squeeze that lasted a second too long.
“Nah,” you let out a small chuckle. You try to move away, but his grip on you tightens. Any father and your dress would’ve gone up.
And your dress was rather short. A yellow fitted dress with thigh high boots covering most of the bare skin, except the sliver of your mid thigh. You inhale sharply under his gaze. “I think I’m pretty shy, Sig.”
There was a pause. And his eyes scan you.
"You're real cute, y'know that?"
Your eyes instinctively darted across the room, searching for a familiar silhouette. You found him immediately. Michael was leaning against the doorframe, a glass of water in hand. But he wasn't drinking. The glass had been full since you sat down.
He was perfectly still, his gaze fixed on Jackie's hand on your knee. The relaxed smile he had all evening was now gone, replaced by tight-lipped stillness. Jackie followed your gaze, then chuckled low in his throat. "Ah, don't worry bout him. Big bad Mikey's just protective. Issa brother thing; he’ll be alright."
Jackie's hand slid from your knee to your thigh, and you couldn't help but tense, his touch lingering as he leaned even closer to whisper something in your ear.
But before Jackie could finish his sentence, a shadow fell over the two of you. Michael was suddenly there, having crossed the room faster than you could blink. He stepped between you. "Hey," he said softly, eyes on you. "Come here."
Jackie let out a short, incredulous laugh, leaning back against the cushions. "Man, what? She just chillin'. You jealous or somethin'?"
Michael smacks his teeth. "Ain't nobody worried about you, Jackie." He pointed at you, his voice now sharp with irritation at the thought of repeating himself. "You. Come here."
His hand, warm and firm, closed around your upper arm. It wasn't rough, but it was undeniably firm, leaving no room for argument. Not that you were going to anyway.
He guided you from the sofa through the crowded room. A path seemed to clear for him, the energy of the party dimming slightly in his wake. He led you into the empty, dimly lit kitchen. The sound of the party now became a distant murmur. He finally released your arm, turning to face you.
He ran a hand over his face, the earlier tension still evident in his shoulders. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... manhandle you."
He leaned back against the kitchen counter while you stayed still, mindlessly twiddling your thumbs as your gaze stuck to your shoes below. "I just didn't like his hands all up on you like that." His voice was low with frustration. And after a few seconds of tension, he pushed himself off the counter, closing the small distance between you. His fingers gently brushed your hip where Jackie's hand had been.
"You're just not his to touch like that."
The possessive tone in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, and the air in the kitchen felt thick. His thumb stroked a slow, soothing circle against your side, his eyes slightly lidded as he gazed into yours. "You understand what I'm saying?"
You quickly nodded, your eyes lowering as you traced circles on his clothed chest. "Mike, I didn't mean to —"
"I'm not mad at you, baby. Look at me." His hand moved from your hip to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You know who you're coming home with, right? Exactly. So what makes you think I'd be jealous of Jackie out of all people?"
Regardless of whether it was rhetorical or not, you stayed silent, shrugging your shoulders. And he couldn't help but laugh; a low chuckle vibrated through his chest and into yours. He pulled you in close, his chin resting on the top of your head. Then pulled back just enough to look down at you, his expression softening into tenderness. His thumb brushed a stray curl from your face, his touch impossibly gentle after the sharp intensity of the last few minutes.
"Come on, sweet girl." His voice was a soft murmur. "I wanna take you home."
──── ⌢ ✦ ⌢ ────
You had no idea what happened from the ride from Encino to your shared estate, but all traces of the softness from the kitchen were gone, and the jealousy had boiled over.
His hands gripped your hips, his fingers dug into your skin, coaxing out your desperate whines as his mouth latched onto your abused clit.
The master suite was dark, lit only by a single lamp that cast long, dramatic shadows over the two of you. The large ornate mirror he'd angled reflected the scene on the bed back at you. His grip on your hips tightened, holding you firmly in place as his tongue fucked you through another orgasm with relentless intensity.
"You see that, mama? You're so pretty. Mine to taste. All of you."
A desperate, broken sound escaped you as you tried to squirm away from the oversensitivity, your hands pushing weakly at his shoulders, but to no avail.
"Michael, please — I can't anymore.. 's too much —"
He pulled back just enough to speak again, his lips glistening with your arousal, his voice dark and low. "Shh, just trying to prove a point, angel."
Before you could reply, his hands flipped you over onto your stomach with a surprising, fluid strength. The cool duvet was a shock against your heated skin as he positioned you on your knees. One hand spread your thighs apart while the other pressed on your spine, deepening your arch. You couldn't even imagine the mirror's visual. Your arousal is on full display for him, giving him two different angles of comparison.
"Fuck, you made a mess, baby. And you're shaking... Did I do that?"
His voice dripped with faux sympathy. You could barely nod; he fucked you so hard with just his tongue that you hardly had the capacity to register his words. But he knew the answer; he did this on purpose. He loved breaking you off just to prove the point that no one could make you feel like this, regardless of who it was. No man could make you come apart in his hands the same way you did with Michael.
Michael altered your chemistry when it came to your sexual pleasure. Everything surrounding the matter only pointed back to him. You'd only imagine him touching you, tasting you, worshiping you to the point where you couldn't even get remotely close if it wasn't Michael himself overwhelming you with the pleasure only he was capable of giving you. And he knew that. He took pride in it.
He shoved his own underwear off with a relieved sigh, his dick pressed so achingly hard against your clit, he was worried you'd cum again just from the pressure. But he didn't wait to find out. He stretched you out deliciously, pushing into you with a single, deep thrust that stole the air from your lungs. His large hands gripped your hips like vices, his pace punishing from the start.
The sound of skin meeting skin echoed in the quiet room, punctuated by your choked, muffled moans against the pillow.
Poor you, leaving a wet spot on the pillowcase, coating the fabric with spit and tears that couldn't seem to relent, along with Michael's anguish. He's become so caught up in the feeling of your sweet pussy clenching around him that he hasn't realized that you had already come around him seconds ago. Either that, or he didn't seem to care.
He leaned over your back, his chest pressed against you, his mouth close to your ear. "Here, baby, look in the mirror. Look — fuck... Look at me taking what's mine."
Your eyes, hazy with overwhelming pleasure, met his intense haze in the reflection. His eyes were glossed over, and his head fell back. His moans were music to your ears, growing louder and higher in octave as he felt his first orgasm creep in closer than he anticipated.
His rhythm became even more frantic, driven by lingering possession and desperation. "Tell me who you belong to."
The words were a struggle, forced out between sniffles and ragged breaths. "You... Always will be yours, Michael."
He pulled you upright against his chest, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other tangling in your hair, tilting your head back to watch the mirror. The change in position made his thrusts deep and jarring, making you see stars. "Such a sweet girl. So damn pretty. Keep your eyes on me. Mhmm, there we go."
He trailed his arm over you, inching down as his middle finger drew circles on your puffy clit, the sensation mingled with his voice in your ear. Your orgasm crashed over you with a violence that left you trembling and limp in his arms. He held you through it, his own release following with a loud moan of your name.
He stayed buried inside of you for a moment, your shared release spilling out of you and onto both of your thighs. His breathing was harsh against your neck, his body trembling with aftershocks of his climax. He slowly lowered you onto the bed, his body still covering yours.
He then rolled onto his side, pulling you with him so you were facing each other. The intensity in his eyes had softened, replaced by a sated warmth.
His thumb traced a line of your jaw, his touch reverent as his lips softly kiss away your tears. "Didn't mean to make you cry, baby."
You shrug, "It's alright. You were trying to prove a point."
He then sits up on his elbow, leaning over you as he tucks a strand of messy hair behind your ear. "You’re right," he muttered. "Y'know what that is?"
You shake your head, and he smiles. "That you're mine, just as much as I am yours."
—UNTITLED (I literally don’t know what to call this)
CONCEPT. A Thick As Thieves scrapped smut scene, so here’s to what could have been 💔😔
TAGS/WARNINGS. Jimmy Uso x Reader, Naomi x Reader, Naomi x Jimmy Uso, 18+ only, strong language, degrading language, handcuffs/bondage, chains, slight power dynamics, dub-con, p in v, pussy eating, name calling, etc.
The rough texture of dried straw scratched against Jimmy’s cheek as consciousness flooded back in a wave of throbbing pain. He blinked against the dim, harsh light filtering through a high, barred window, realizing he was face-down on a cold, stone floor.
He tried to push himself up, but his wrists were locked tightly in handcuffs behind his back. Worse, when he tried to lurch forward, a heavy iron collar jerked violently against his throat, pinning him to the spot. A thick chain bolted directly into the stone wall held him securely on his stomach.
"What the hell?!" Jimmy choked out, his voice raw. He thrashed against the restraints, the metal links rattling loudly against the stone. "Hey! Someone open this damn door! Let me out of here!"
He swore loudly, spitting straw from his mouth as he desperately tried to get his knees under him. The collar dug mercilessly into his neck.
The heavy thud of footsteps echoed outside the cell. Jimmy froze, his breath ragged, as a pair of worn leather boots came into view just outside the heavy iron bars.
He strained his neck, looking up through his tangled hair. Standing on the other side of the bars was Naomi. The barmaid he’d spent weeks trying to charm was currently holding a 12-gauge shotgun, its barrel pointed directly down at his chest.
"Save your breath, Sheriff," Naomi said, her voice smooth and entirely devoid of the sweet, innocent tone she usually used around the station. "You're going to need it."
Jimmy stared at her, stunned, before the reality of the situation began to click. "Naomi...? What is this? What the hell is going on?!"
"Just business, Jimmy," she replied, offering a cold, sharp smile. "You were a nice distraction, really. But you and that badge of yours were getting in the way of a very lucrative retirement plan."
"You're that damn bank robber," Jimmy growled, his face flushing with a mix of betrayal and rage. He yanked against the chain again. "I'll kill you! Where's Jey? If you touched my brother, I swear to God—"
Naomi let out a soft, mocking laugh, resting the shotgun casually against her hip. "Oh, your dear deputy? Don’t worry about him. He’s perfectly safe... and utterly incompetent. It was almost embarrassing how easy it was to trick him. A little sob story about a lost child, and Jey rode right out into the canyon. By now, he's probably miles deep, completely turned around and chasing his own tail. He’ll make it back… one day.”
Jimmy’s blood ran cold, then boiled over. "You miserable, backstabbing bitch! When I get out of here, I'm going to lock you away so deep you'll forget what the sun looks like!"
"He’s cute when he’s angry, isn't he?"
The sound of your voice made Jimmy snap his head toward the cell door. You walked into the light, stepping up right beside Naomi. You leaned against her shoulder, looking down at the chained sheriff with a smug, victorious grin. The pieces finally fell into place for Jimmy and suddenly he found the strength to push himself up on his knees, looking dead into yours faces with a deep scowl on his lips.
"You both are going to burn for this!" Jimmy screamed, his body shaking with fury. "You hear me?! Both of you!"
You just chuckled, completely unbothered by his threats. Turning your head, you looked up at Naomi, matching her confident smile. Naomi slid an arm around your waist, pulling you close, and leaned down to press a deep, lingering kiss to your lips right in front of him.
Jimmy's breath hitched as he watched Naomi's lips part against yours, a soft, needy sound escaping her that made his face burn hotter than the blood pumping through his veins. His chest heaved, his eyes glued to the way your fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer. He tried to look away, to focus on the stone walls or the straw beneath him, but his body betrayed him completely. The cold stone floor seemed to radiate heat, pooling between his thighs, and he felt his cock stiffen and press against his pants with embarrassing urgency.
The chain rattled as he jerked his hips forward involuntarily, his traitorous body reacting to the sight of the two women together. He could feel the heavy iron collar digging into his neck, but he didn't care; all he could think about was the way Naomi's head tilted back, her throat exposed, her eyes fluttering shut as you deepened the kiss.
Speaking of Naomi, the second she heard the chains moving, she yanked away and pointed the gun through the bars at Jimmy’s head. “Don’t you fucking move an inch.” You lazily look back at Jimmy, annoyed at the interruption, before glancing down.
"Oh my, look at that," you cooed, your voice cutting through the heavy silence. "I think the Sheriff is getting excited."
Jimmy's face turned a shade of deep crimson. He tried to glare at you, but his eyes betrayed him, dropping down to watch the swell of your breasts pressing against Naomi's side as she leaned closer.
Then, you stepped around Naomi, moving right behind her, and wrapped your arms around her torso. Your fingers immediately dug into her soft flesh, kneading and squeezing her breasts through her shirt. Naomi gasped, arching her back, and pressed her ass back against your crotch.
"Your body's talking loud and clear, Jimmy," you murmured, your breath hot against Naomi's ear as you tweaked her nipple. "You’re so hard for us, aren't you?"
Jimmy grit his teeth, looking down at the massive bulge in his pants. It was undeniable. He was rock hard, trapped in his pants, throbbing and aching with a need that made him lightheaded. He looked up at Naomi, his eyes pleading for mercy, for release, for anything.
Naomi however, wasn't interested in mercy. She looked down at the growing bulge with a faint distain. It was like night and day, the woman who flirted with him was looking uninterested while the woman who avoided him at every chance looked at him eagerly. You hummed and reached around Naomi, tilting the barrel down toward his crotch. Jimmy froze, eyes stuck on the gun.
"You like watching us, Sheriff? You like seeing what you're missing?"
“Fuck you,” Jimmy spat before hissing when Naomi pressed the cold iron muzzle against the hard denim fabric of his pants. “Shit! Y-yes! Yes I do!”
You grinned, both hands now on top of Naomi’s as you make the gun slowly prod and poke at his erection, pushing the heavy gun back and forth, pressing harder and harder against his trapped flesh. The metal was cold, but the pressure was intense, sending shockwaves of pleasure and pain through him. He bucked his hips, trying to fuck the gun, his body trembling uncontrollably. "You're so responsive, Jimmy," you said, your voice dripping with false sympathy. "It's almost adorable how easily you're being manipulated."
Jimmy grunted, his eyes rolling back. The combination of the cold gun barrel against his hot cock and the visual of the two women touching each other was driving him insane.
"You want a piece of her?" you asked, your left hand sliding up Naomi's neck and squeezing gently, not to choke her, but to force her head back slightly. "You want to be the one touching her?"
Jimmy stared at you, his mouth hanging open, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "What? No!" he hissed.
You laughed, a cruel, mocking sound. "Oh, really? You spent the entire month trying to date my baby. Probably wanked off at the thought of her." You reached up and yanked the top of Naomi’s dress down, exposing her bare breasts. "Is she everything you’ve thought off?”
"Shut up!" Jimmy screamed, his face contorted with rage and desire. "Just shut the fuck up!"
Naomi, now aroused herself at the situation at hand, pressed the shotgun barrel harder against his cock, making him grunt and buck his hips. "Say it," Naomi commanded, her voice low and dangerous. "You want me. You’ve said it before."
Jimmy grit his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut. "Fine," he snarled. "Yes. I want you. I want you… both."
"Both? Tuh, you ain’t nothing but a greedy bastard," you said, stepping closer to the cell door. You reached out and grabbed Jimmy's chain, pulling him toward you. "How about a deal? It’s been a while since we’ve had a proper gentleman to lay with. I was just gonna let Naomi have all the fun, but since you’re so eager, we’ll both just have our way with you. If you satisfy us, we’ll let you out. You may be even able to catch your brother before sundown.”
"And let myself fall subject to prostitution? I’m not one of the little whores you keep employed," Jimmy roared.
“Aww, you just said you wanted us. But if you don’t want to, then you’ll die here. Either from starvation or the rats, and your brother will die from coyotes or heatstroke. Or, you could save him and yourself while getting some pussy. Choice is yours, Sheriff.”
Jimmy stared at you long and hard before squeezing his eyes shut. He hangs his head in defeat before nodding. “Fuck… okay. Do whatever you need to do, just… let me save my brother.”
You and Naomi looked at each other. The air between you was thick with tension and lust. Naomi leaned in close to the bars, looking down at the chained Sheriff. "You’re an admirable man, Sheriff Uso. You love your brother so much, you’ve become the thing you hate the most, a despite ass hooker.”
Naomi passed you the shotgun, Jimmy relaxing a bit before tensing right back up as he watched Naomi hiked up her dress to reveal her knickers, stepping out of them slowly. She reached up, grasping the iron bars, and spread her legs, presenting her dripping pussy to him. "Well? You said you wanted a piece of her, Jimmy. What are you waiting for? Come get it."
Jimmy struggled against his chains, his hips bucking off the floor as he tried to get closer to her, but the collar kept him firmly in place. "I can't," he growled, frustration evident in his voice. "I'm too far away."
"Find a way," she commanded, "You have to come to us, Jimmy. It's a deal. Satisfy us, and you're free."
Jimmy's eyes locked onto Naomi's glistening folds. He could see the glisten of her arousal, the way her inner lips were already swollen and pink. He was desperate, his body aching with a need to be inside her. He leaned forward as far as the chain would allow, his tongue darting out to taste the air near her crotch.
"Come on Naomi," you whispered in Naomi's ear. "You’re torturing the poor man."
Naomi looked down at him, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "That's the idea. But alright, I’ll play fair."
Naomi pressed her body firmly against the bars and Jimmy didn't need any further encouragement. He leaned forward, face fully smushed as his tongue slides out to taste her folds. He licked her from her entrance to her clit, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud. Naomi gasped, her head falling back. You placed the gun against the wall before guiding her hips, helping her grind against his face.
Jimmy's tongue worked overtime, eager to please. He knew the sooner he made Naomi come, the sooner he'd have a chance at freedom. He lapped at her juices, his nose buried in her bush.
You bit gently on Naomi's ear. "You're doing good," you said, your voice thick with lust. "You're doing a good job making Naomi feel good."
Naomi's breathing grew ragged, her hips bucking against his face. "Oh, God," she moaned, her voice echoing through the room. "Yes! Right there! Keep doing that!"
Jimmy's tongue flicked over her clit, driving her wild. He was getting lost in the act, pleasuring her, making her feel good. He’d imagine this moment for so long now, to finally taste Naomi’s sweet cunt after so long seemed like a dream come true, even given the circumstances.
Naomi's body tensed, her inner walls clamping down on Jimmy's tongue. She cried out, her body shaking. "Yes! Yes! Jimmy! Jimmy! Yes!"
Her juices flooded his mouth, salty and sweet. Jimmy swallowed it all down, drinking her in. Right before she could cum, she collapsed against you, her body spent, but her smile was wicked.
"Well done," you said. "But that's just the warm-up."
You reached into your own cleavage, pulling out a key to the cell. You open the door and step in, just out of reach of him before kicking him square in the jaw.
Jimmy crumbled to the ground, the sharp sting of your kick jolting his already battered body. He groaned, spitting out a mouthful of blood, and scrambled backward, his boots slipping on the straw-covered stone. The collar yanked tight against his windpipe, cutting off his protest.
Before he could recover, you kicked his legs apart, forcing him to lie spread-eagled on his back. You stepped between his knees, your heels digging into his inner thighs. "Get that tongue ready again, Sheriff," you commanded, your voice dripping with sadistic authority.
Naomi didn't wait for him to comply. She moved with grace, straddling his face with a rough landing that nearly knocked the air out of him. Her heavy breasts swung above him, the scent of her cunt overwhelming his senses. She reached down, grabbing a fistful of his hair and forcing his head up to press his face directly into her soaking wet core.
"Lick," Naomi hissed, grinding her hips down onto his mouth.
Jimmy, desperate and humiliated, darted his tongue out. He licked the length of her slit, from her opening all the way up to her swollen clit, tasting the salt of her arousal. Naomi threw her head back with a gasp, her hands flying to grab the iron bars above his head for support as she began to rock her hips, using his face like a fuck toy.
"Look at him," Naomi moaned, glancing over at you with a wicked smirk. "He's starving for it."
You watched for a moment, enjoying the sight of the Sheriff tongue-fucking the very woman who had betrayed him. Then, straddled his legs, hiking up your skirt to show off your panties, the lace fabric wet and warm.
You lifted your hips to slide the fabric down your legs and off. You kicked them aside, spreading your legs wider before grinding down against his enlarged dick print, humping and bouncing on it.
Jimmy whimpered, the vibrations of his moan rumbling against Naomi's pussy. He bucked his legs up to match your pace, the friction almost too much.
"You're doing good, Jimmy," you cooed, your hand sliding up and down his chest and abs. "Just like that. Eat her fucking pussy."
Jimmy worked frantically, his tongue continued to lap at Naomi. It was a chaotic, overwhelming mix of sensations. His own cock throbbed painfully, leaking precum through the fabric, mixing with your own essence. He could feel the heat radiating from both women, it driving him to the brink of madness.
"You like that?" Naomi teased, grinding harder against his face, smearing her juices all over his mouth and chin. "You love our pussies, Jimmy? You're our little whore now, aren’t you?"
"Tell us you love it," you added, matching Naomi’s speed. "Tell us you're our bitch."
Jimmy's eyes rolled back, his body trembling with pleasure and humiliation. "Yes," he gasped, his voice muffled by Naomi's cunt. "I love it. I'm yours."
"Good boy," you and Naomi said in unison, both of you leaning in to kiss, tongues swirling around each other. You pulled back, giggling. "Now, it's time to finish what we started."
You and Naomi switched places, you now straddling over Jimmy’s face, pussy juice just dripping down onto his face and she, now down hovering over his errection. She reached down, unbuckling his denim and grabbing his rock-hard cock and aiming it at her dripping entrance. "You ready to fuck me, Jimmy?" she asked, her voice low and demanding.
Jimmy nodded frantically, his eyes pleading with her. "Please," he croaked.
Naomi didn't wait another second. She sank down onto him, taking his entire length in one fluid motion. Jimmy cried out, his back arching off the floor as he filled her completely. The sensation was incredible, tight and hot, and he couldn't help but thrust up into her, meeting her rhythm.
"You're so big," Naomi groaned, her eyes rolling back. "I'm going to ride you until you forget your fucking own name."
As she began to ride him, you leaned forward, your nails digging into his skin. "And I'm going to make sure you never forget that you belong to us," you said, your voice dripping with possessiveness. "You're going to be our prisoner forever, Sheriff. Just a toy for us to play with whenever we want." You immediately grind your hips down, sliding your pussy all over his nose, lips, and beard.
Jimmy grunted and bucked his hips, meeting Naomi's, his mind going blank as he lost himself in the sensation of being dominated by two women at once. It was exactly what he wanted, or at least, what his traitorous body wanted. He was loving it, so much so, that for a moment he forgot all about his brother and his freedom.
Naomi rode him hard and fast, her breasts bouncing rhythmically as she took his cock deep, her moans filling the dungeon. Jimmy groaned into your thighs, his tongue frantically working to please you, his hands balled into fists underneath him, handcuffs digging into his wrists. The scent of sex and sweat was thick in the air, driving him wild with need.
You leaned forward, positioning yourself so that your face was level with Naomi's dripping center. You opened your mouth and eagerly lapped at her swollen clit, sucking it gently between your lips. Naomi gasped, her hips stuttering, her body trembling with intense pleasure. "Yes!" she cried out, her eyes rolling back. "Just like that!"
You worked your tongue on her, swirling it around her sensitive bud, drawing her closer and closer to the edge. "Don't hold back," you whispered. "Cum for us, Naomi."
With a final, desperate cry, Naomi's body went rigid, her inner walls clamping down around Jimmy's cock. She ground her hips down, her juices gushed out, coating his shaft and your mouth.
You pulled back, your nose and chin glistening with her arousal. Naomi rose off of him with shaking legs. You looked down at Jimmy, a wicked smile on your final moment. "Now, it's my turn," you said, your voice dripping with lust. You leaned forward and wrapped your Jimmy's cock in your mouth, taking him deep.
Jimmy's eyes widened, rolling back in his head thrown back in ecstasy. The sensation of your hot mouth wrapping around his sensitive cock was too much. He felt the tightness of your throat and the wetness of your hips. You sucked him hard, swirling your tongue around his head, eating him alive.
Naomi, reached over and smacked your ass, making it shake and jiggle with a smile. “My baby got a mouth on her, I know. If you think this is too much, wait until you feel her pussy.”
You lift up off of Jimmy, now solely focused on sucking his cock. With Naomi still smacking your ass and rubbing your pussy, high pitched moans and whines came out your mouth and vibrated against Jimmy, causing the poor man to writhe and tremble with overwhelming pleasure.
Not even a full five minutes later, Jimmy couldn't hold back any longer. "I'm going to cum!" he screamed, his body arching off the floor. He filled your mouth with hot, thick ropes of cum, which you swallowed greedily, licking every last drop from his length and his balls.
With Jimmy's balls drained and his body trembling from the aftershocks of his release, Naomi pulled you off him with a wet pop. She didn't give him a moment to recover. She grabbed his arm, yanking him up to his knees, the collar jerking tight against his throat, forcing him to look up at her.
"Open wide, Sheriff," she commanded, grabbing one of her breasts and pressing the hardened nipple against his lips. "You have a debt to pay, and you're not leaving until it's settled."
Jimmy, still dazed but suddenly remembering his promise to save his brother, parted his lips and took her nipple into his mouth. He sucked greedily, his tongue swirling around the sensitive tip, his hands useless behind his back but his mouth working overdrive to please her.
You moved around in front of him, positioning yourself on all fours, your back to him. You reached back, spreading your cheeks, exposing your glistening, waiting pussy to him.
"Well? Don't just stand there," you teased, looking over your shoulder. "You said you wanted to fuck me, too. Let's see what you've got."
Jimmy groaned, his eyes locked onto your ass. He scrambled forward, his knees scraping against the stone floor, but he was quickly stopped by the collar. He couldn't get close enough to enter you from this angle. He needed to be closer, to bury himself deep inside you.
"You're too far away," you laughed, leaning back to look at him. "Poor thing, do you need help again?."
Naomi released her breast from his mouth and leaned over, grabbing Jimmy's cock and pulling him forward until he was right at the entrance of your pussy., his head behind forcibly titled back some. "That's better," she murmured, her hand guiding his throbbing cock to your wet heat.
Jimmy thrust forward, burying himself deep inside you in one go. He gasped, his body shaking as he filled you completely. You cried out, your back arching, your nails digging into the straw floor. It felt incredible to be stretched so wide, to be filled by him, to have him deep inside you.
Jimmy began to pump his hips, his strokes long and deep, trying to chase his second wind. He was rougher this time, more desperate, his need to prove his worth driving him. He used what little strength he had, his body slamming into you, his cock hitting your walls with every thrust.
"You like that?" Naomi teased, standing up and moving to the side, watching the show. She reached down and rubbed her own clit, getting herself worked up again. "Look at him go. He's really putting in the work."
You moaned, your head falling back as Jimmy pounded into you. "God, yes! Fuck me! Fuck me hard!" you screamed, your voice echoing through the cell.
Jimmy grunted with every thrust, his eyes closed, his face twisted in a mix of pleasure and pain.
"You're doing good, Jimmy," you cooed. "You're so close to getting out of here."
"Fuck, fuck! I'm going to cum again!" Jimmy roared, his body tensing up. "I'm going to fill you up!"
"No," Naomi said, "you don't get to cum yet." She reached down and grabbed his balls, squeezing them tightly, denying him his release. "We're not done with you yet, Sheriff."
Jimmy cried out in frustration, his hips bucking, trying to find release but failing. "Please," he begged, his eyes watering. "Let me cum. I need to cum."
"You'll cum when we say you cum," Naomi said, her voice cold and commanding. "And right now, we're not done and you ain’t knocking neither one of us up anytime soon.”
"We have a few more things to take care of before we let you out, Jimmy," you moaned, "We can't have you leaving with that energy still pent up. You might get the drop on us."
With Naomi still applying painful pressure to his testicles, Jimmy was left with no choice but to focus entirely on you. He pistoned in and out of you with a frantic, desperate rhythm, trying to chase the release he was being denied.
"Harder," you cried out, gripping his shoulders. "Use that big ass dick and fuck me harder."
Jimmy obeyed, his body straining against the iron collar. The sensation was overwhelming, the pain of the collar mixed with the intense friction of your tight walls clamping down around him.
Naomi sensed your nearing climax. She released his balls, sliding her hand down to grip your hip instead. "She's close," Naomi announced, her voice low and hungry. "Let's give her what she wants."
You reached back between your legs, finding Naomi's hand. You guided her fingers to your clit, pressing them down firmly. "Rub it," you commanded, your breath coming in ragged gasps. "Make me cum, Naomi."
Naomi didn't hesitate. She began to rub your clit in tight circles, matching the tempo of Jimmy's thrusts. The dual stimulation was too much to bear. Your body arched like a bow, your back pressing hard against Jimmy's chest, your eyes rolling back as a massive orgasm ripped through you.
"Yes! Yes!" you screamed, your inner walls spasming uncontrollably around Jimmy's cock. "I'm cumming! Oh, God!"
Jimmy felt your pussy clamp down on him like a vice. The sensation was enough to send him over the edge, despite Naomi's earlier denial. Naomi quickly pushed him back onto his back, realizing what was happening. Jimmy’s hips jerked uncontrollably, his cock pulsing as he unleashed a second load up into the air, coating his own clothes and the floor around him.
You had collapsed forward, your face smashing into the straw-covered floor, your body twitching with the aftershocks of your climax.
Naomi stood up, dusting off her knees. She looked down at the two of you, a satisfied smirk on her face. "Well, that was entertaining," she said, walking over to the cell door. "I suppose we should let him go now. He's earned his freedom."
“Yeah,” you gasped, slowly upping yourself off the floor, “and we have a bank to rob. Trains gonna be here in half an hour, best get a move on.”
You both redressed yourselves before sharing one more heated kiss. Naomi, grabbed the shotgun off the wall, turning back towards Jimmy.
"I think the time has come to break the chains," Naomi said, pulling the shotgun's slide back to chamber a round, the metallic click echoing through the stone room.
Jimmy immediately tensed up, worlds fumbling out his mouth as she aimed it down at him. Two shots rang out, and Jimmy immediately closed his eyes fearing the worst. When he opened them, you both were gone, and the chain that was holding him to the wall was shot off. He still had the collar and handcuffs on him, but when he spotted the ring of keys in the ground next to him, he quickly scooted over, grabbing them.
After fifteen tries he was able to unlock his cuffs, and then the collar. He stumbled out of the cell, leaning against the wall, spent and exhausted. He takes a moment to fix himself before stumbling out into the sunlight, determined to find Jey before you both get away for good.
AUTHOR’S NOTE. Omg I hate this so muchhhhh 😭 but y’all said y’all wanna see the scrapped ones too so here ya go. Don’t flame me too bad, I took it out for a reason 🙏🏾🙏🏾
First of all, I love you and your work! I love how yo write these Jackson men, specifically Jackie coz whew chile 🥵 but I was wondering if you can write one where Jackie starts to realize he's getting domesticated and doesnt like it so he breaks up with reader and tries to get all playboy again but then he sees her at the club/studio 54 and sees that men tryna get after her and he gets jealous and fights (or not) and gets her back in the bedroom 😏😏😏😏😏
Playboy
A/n: paired this with another request using this twt vid(MDNI!!) my longest one I fear, not proofread
WC: 2.2k
Contains: Black reader, angst, toxic! Jackie, explicit content, strong language, n word usage
Summary: Jackie felt as if he lost his masculine identity so he takes matters into his own hands. Unfortunately, things didn’t work out in his favor and he’ll do everything in his power to fix his problem.
Now playing: Right my wrongs - Bryson Tiller
“She’s got you on a leash, man.” Marlon laughed, hand colliding sharply with Jackie’s back. Jackie laughed it off—as usual—but the sharp flash of anger still went off inside of him.
On a leash? Seriously? He must look ridiculous right now. He couldn’t deny his love for you, that’s the truth but do you have that much control over him?
He thought back to every task he’s done for you in hopes of expressing his love. Women have always naturally flung themselves at him, tempting him in ways that's downright shameful.
Back in the day, he wouldn't hesitate to take them up on the offer, but when you came, he didn't give them a second look. You were his everything, he practically worshipped you.
Maybe that was the problem.
As the days continued, he couldn't get Marlon's comment out his head. He was hesitant now, hesitant to wash dishes when you asked, spoil you with gifts, even running to you when you call out his name from another room.
He was truly losing himself. Old Jackie would’ve never done any of this, if anything he was the one doing the ordering and being waited on.
His thoughts got the best of him and he took the irrational decision to end it with you.
“Excuse me?” Your eyebrows pinched together, staring at the man you believed would’ve been your husband one day.
“Look, I just need to do this alright. I don’t even feel like myself anymore.” He sighed.
You rolled your eyes, “Why, Jackie?” You’re not one to get mad easily but the switch up was insane to you.
“You don’t see me running around after you like a nigga don’t got his own life? I look like a fuckin’ fool!” He yelled, tone laced with built up insecurity.
“A fool for loving your girlfriend?! Get serious.” You smacked your teeth, crossing your arms. His dark eyes held resentment, as if you were the one keeping him here.
“It’s not that simple, you gotta understand.” His voice lowered.
“No Sigmund! Never in my life did I expect you to pull some shit like this. You wanna break up right?”
His stomach dropped hearing his birth name from your mouth. He was too clouded from anger to even address that you were fed up as well.
“Ain’t that what I said?” He muttered. He watched as you marched to the closet, swinging the doors open and tossing his clothes on the ground.
“Get the fuck out.” You told him, voice now eerily cold. His jaw clenched watching as you tossed his things on to the floor.
A heavy realization settled over the room. The fact that y’all are over.
•••
Weeks flew by and Jackie has been out more than ever. As you would expect, women were drooling over him, clawing at the smallest space in his life.
He was at clubs with his friends, sleeping with the next woman who resembled you, drinking his feelings away.
He would expect to be happy but damn wasn’t this depressing. He missed you, a longing ache knowing he can’t come home to you.
He missed seeing your smile as you helped him with his skincare and showing off whatever outfit you wanted him to buy. Don’t get him started on your pretty moans, no woman has came close to pleasing him like you do.
“Come out tonight, Jackie.” Marlon suggested once again. He’s so used to Marlon saying it, it’s second nature. Jackie sighed already having made up his mind.
For some reason, his heart felt a bit more dull that night. He had a dream about you, a dream that you came back to him. God, he wish it was reality.
Once he was ready for the night, favorite cologne on, dressed to the 10’s with black shades he went out.
•••
“Girl, you been sulking in the house all day, come on and celebrate my birthday.” Your best friend said. You did not expect the break up to hurt you this bad.
It’s been weeks, and you couldn’t help but miss him. Your bestfriend didn’t let you sulk for too long, inviting you out to a club for her birthday.
You didn’t want to let her down so you went ahead and got ready. You put on a cute outfit which was just a tube top and skirt. You were giving yourself a natural hair break and decided on a curly Afro.
You applied your products, moisturized your body, sprayed your favorite perfume—Jackie’s favorite as well—and grabbed your purse.
By the time you were finished, your best friend was in your living room eating leftovers. “Damn you took forever. Ooo you look fine as fuck, that’s what I’m talking about.” She smiled.
•••
The bass was loud as you walked inside of the club, heavy smoke everywhere and bodies grinding on each other. “There they go!” Your best friend said pointing to the section filled with the rest of y’all friends.
Her boyfriend rented it out for her, so him and his friends were there as well. Once you got to the section, you gave all your friends hugs and greeted the guys with a handshake.
“You real beautiful, ma.” One of them asked once you took a seat next to him. He was cute, he was tall, had a lil muscle, and waves.
But you couldn’t help but think…he wasn’t Jackie.
Time went by and everyone was talking, getting to know each other, and tossing back shots. “Let’s go dance, ma.” The guy you were talking to said, holding his palm out.
You took it, asking one of your friends to watch your purse and they immediately agreed, holding it closely to them.
Once you and the guy made it to the dance floor, you pressed your back against his front, and he matched your groove.
His hands found their way to your waist holding them gently as your bodies moved together.
•••
“Um, isn’t that…?” Michael said next to Jackie, eyes glancing at the familiar face. Jackie followed his line of sight, hands balling into a fist immediately.
All these weeks, he finally sees you, and you’re grinding on some nigga. “Man, I’ll catch y’all later.” Jackie said, putting his glass down harshly.
He stood up, and forced his way to you, grabbing you by your arm. “Jackie, what the hell?” You said, eyebrows furrowed, stumbling a bit.
“The fuck is your problem?!” He asked. He knows he was being a hypocrite, especially since he was eyeing a few girls in here but that don’t matter right now.
“Mine? Man, get your hands off me.” You snatched your arm from him. He took a deep exhale, ignoring the dude you were previously dance with slowly backing up from the sight.
“So I just ain’t mean to shit to you, huh?” Jackie let out an irritated laugh, shaking his head. “I ain’t doing this with you.” You said putting your hand in his face, turning your back towards him.
He grabbed your hand, marching you outside as you let every cuss word fly in the book.
“Get in the car, bro.” He demanded, and you stood there with your arms crossed. He smacked his teeth, seeing you’re not budging an inch.
“You think imma get in the car with you after this bullshit?!? Mind you, it’s my best friend’s birthday.” You were so fed up.
Jackie looked up into the night sky in an attempt to calm himself down. “Just get in the car so we can talk. Please ma.” His voice was lower.
You couldn’t help but soften at his plea, looking around the block before sighing. He came to open the door you once he realized your compliance.
Once yall were in the car, he drove with no music. “I’m sorry…seriously.” He drove with one hand on the wheel.
You stared out the window with no response. “I don’t understand your problem man.” You shrugged.
“I couldn’t accept the fact I was being cared for. I didn’t grow up with that so it didn’t feel right but I miss you baby.”
“So it took you breaking up with me, probably out getting your dick wet like some damn playboy, and partying every night to realize that?” You side eyed him, watching his chest slowly rise and fall from a deep inhale.
“Unfortunately yes, and I’m sorry. Let me prove it to you. I love you ma.”
You stayed silent, debating on your next move. It’s gonna take a lot for him to convince you to take him back
•••
“Jackie, please!” You cried out, squirming around the bed. Your legs were in the air as his tongue dueled around your wet pussy.
He’s been down for a while and you lost count of your orgasms after the third. His broad tongue licked through the white cream that continuously spilled out.
His mouth and chin were soaked, not letting you catch a break. Your leg shook, hands clenching the sheets. You know it’s serious when Jackie didn’t utter a word towards you.
You attempted to scoot farther up the bed but he only dragged you back, gathering his clit into your mouth. The wet sounds sounding out in the room indicating a messy feast below you.
He slapped your ass, groaning into your pussy. It felt like your stomach caved in, eyes rolling to the back of your head. “Get offff.” You whined, hands coming to push at his head.
Your leg came over to the side, leaving you laying on your side but you couldn’t escape that way either. He simply buried his head right between your legs, tongue coming to lick at your cavern.
He leaned back for a split second, finally saying something after forever, “Tell me you love me.” His tongue stroked your slit again.
“I love you, I love you, I swear.” You cried, legs shaking as you came in his mouth once more. After a few minutes, he finally stopped. “I love you too mama.” He gave you a deep kiss, tongues swirling against each other.
You tasted yourself and moaned into his mouth. As he continued making out with you, he pulled his pants and boxers down, hard dick coming out.
You gasped as he rubbed his tip between your folds. You were already sensitive, now he’s expecting you take his dick.
Oh he’s insane.
Your hand went to his stomach, abs feeling hard against your palm. “Jackie, I can’t take it.”
“Move yo’ hand and I’ll show you.” He said. Apparently you didn’t move it quick enough because he moved it himself, and eased himself inside.
The wet sound that sounded out in the room, made your stomach swirl. “Damn, pussy wet as fuck. You enjoyed me eating it?”
You couldn’t even talk, eyes too busy in the back of your head while you tried to catch your breath. He leaned over, knees almost touching the sides of your head.
He snapped his hips inside quickly, making whimpers and moans fly out. You hope his neighbors weren’t home or you would’ve woke everyone up.
“I love you, ma. Y’know that?” He said. “Y-yes.” You cried out. “Say it.” He said, bottoming out and holding it.
“I know you love me—don’t stop please!”
“You forgive me?”
“Yes baby, oh my God!” Your legs shook, head coming up to stare as his length dragged in and out.
Your juices were all over his length as he pumped into you. “Look at me, ma.” He told you, his hand grabbed your cheeks forcing you to look at him.
“I love you so much baby, I ain’t never gon’ leave you. This dick all yours, nobody else.”
You moaned at his words, sending not only a heartbeat to your pussy but a feeling of adoration in your heart.
“I’ll be the man you need, I don’t care what nobody got to say.” He leaned down, once again connecting your lips.
“Imma cum.” You moaned, tears pricking your eyes. His thumb found your clit rubbing it in tight circles.
“You gon’ cum f’me?” You nodded quickly feeling your warm tears roll down your face.
His lips kissed a tear, making you feel all warm inside. It took you back to when y’all first started dating and every affectionate thing made you get butterflies.
He sat back up, thumb not stopping its ministrations. “Cum with me, baby.” He said, thrusting even faster.
Your whole body shook, mouth opening in a silent moan. The warmness from you squeezing him paired with your multiple orgasms and arousal made him cum inside.
He held you in his arms, as you both came down from your high. He planted kisses over your face as he pulled out. “Forgive me, ma.” He whispered in your ear.
It felt like you fell in love all over again, you didn’t know if it was from good dick or his gentle words. He gave a final kiss to your forehead before pulling out.
He took his time cleaning you up, he even took off your makeup and everything. He helped you in the shower, leaving small kisses on your shoulders, and washing you up.
You and him laid naked in bed, body heat comforting one another. “Don’t do that shit again, Jackie.” You told him, laying your head on his chest. “Wouldn’t dream of it, ma.” He kissed your forehead.
Hello! I’m literally obsessed with your fics so much, your writing is the greatest ever!!
So yk how there’s a lot of pictures and videos of how people would always like put their arms around Michael’s waist? I was wondering if you could do a fic inspired by that in a way? You can take it any route you want, but I just thought it’d be so fun!
𝑴𝒚 𝑴𝒂𝒏
Michael Jackson x Reader
Synopsis: People keep holding onto Michael, and you just had to remind people he's your man.
Content/Warnings: Fluff, silly, everyone loves Michael, slightly jealous reader, Michael down bad
W.C. 1.2k
Masterlist
You knew getting into your relationship with Michael that he was one of (if not the most) desirable man on the planet. You knew that people were infatuated with him, that he just had an infectious personality that drew people towards him.
What you didn't realize was that people loved, LOVED, touching him. Specifically his waist. People adored wrapping their arms around his little waist, pulling him close or even manhandling him *cough* John Landis*cough*
People just absolutely loved being able to hold him in their arms, and you honestly couldn't blame them. You got to do it everyday, and it was addicting. Most people were respectful about it, although it did occasionally come across as people wanting him badly. Again, you completely understood, what was there not to want? There were a few guys who you swore up and down had crushes on Michael, something you found kind of impressive. He was so loved that even grown ass men were thirsting over him, and yet he came home to you every night. God definitely had favorites, and you were one.
It was cute most of the time, you loved seeing Michael get the love he so very much deserved. But there were other times where you felt it was a little unnecessary. Like with Diana Ross.
She absolutely loved wrapping her slimy arms around his waist, pulling him close to her chest and pressing a gross kiss to his cheek. Part of it was utterly revolting, and the other part made you want to double over laughing at the idea of her thinking she actually had a chance.
Michael had outgrown her years ago, which was funny because she was the one who needed to grow up.
The first few times it had happened Michael had worried that you would be upset with him, that it would cause a big issue like it had with some of his previous relationships. What he didn't expect was for you to assure him that you knew he meant well and that you didn't feel threatened in the least. If anything, each time she pushed at the boundaries he had clearly set up, it just made you want to shove your steady relationship with Michael in her face. Which is exactly what you did.
You and Michael had been invited to some after party for an award show. He had immediately told you that the she-devil would be there and that the two of you didn't have to go. You assured him that you were a big girl, you weren't afraid of the woman. Michael had smiled, admiring your confidence with small stars in his eyes.
He was accustomed to Diana causing problems in his relationships. He understood she was overly affectionate with him, and how it came across to others, but none of it was purposeful (at least on his end). With you, he didn't feel like he had to step on eggshells. He knew that if things got too much for you, that you would happily step in and shut things down with a smile and a backhanded comment. He found the whole thing really attractive, to the point where he often let people hang onto him just to see you come up and claim him as your own.
So when you left to get drinks that night, he could already tell that Diana was about to make her move, and he wasn't too inclined to stop it. She came up to him, a coy smile tugging on her lips, "I see you've finally gotten a moment to breathe." She disguised the comment as a joke, laughing slightly.
Michael shrugged, "If anything, my lady is the one that's getting a break. I like keeping her glued to my side."
She brushed off the comment, "M'sure. But you know you suit a more mature woman."
He did everything he could not to laugh at her obvious advances. "I've got one."
She decided to move on from the topic of you, opting to weasel her way into his arms with pure flattery instead. She congratulated him for what felt like the 50th time on his newest album and the awards he had won. He nodded politely, thanking her each time. She finally decided to make her move, an arm wrapping around Michael's waist as she introduced him to someone he already knew.
Almost like you could sense it, you turned from a conversation right as her arms settled around his waist, cheek pressed up against his. Michael felt your gaze, and he couldn't wait for the silent storm that was coming.
Your eyes narrowed as she continued to hug him, waiting for the woman to get a grip on reality and pull her wrinkly arms away from him. Except she just kept holding him, she was clearly feeling bold today.
You politely excused yourself from the conversation you were having, walking slowly towards Michael. You didn't feel the need to rush yourself, you knew this would be over before she even realized. Once you got to him, you placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. The action should have shaken off the older woman, but she simply shot you a glance.
You felt a laugh bubbling up, she really had some nerve. "Hey, baby" You spoke sweetly, grabbing his chin and turning his face towards yours as you placed a long kiss on his lips. Out of habit, Michael immediately turned his full body towards you, twisting out of Diana's grip. His hands found your hips as he kissed you back. You deliberately wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him closer, staking your claim. The kiss lasted far longer than it should have, but you really wanted to shove it right in her face and Michael had absolutely no qualms.
When you pulled away, Michael's lips chased after yours. You smiled and kissed his cheek, well aware of the stares you had gathered. "We're in public, baby." You carefully fixed the hem of his jacket.
He spared a glance around the room, "Then let's go somewhere private."
You nodded, a smile playing on your face. Your eyes finally landed on Diana, a fake surprised expression dawning your face. "Oh! Diana, I didn't see you there, how are you doing?" She started to answer before you cut her off, "Sorry, you've got something in your teeth. Well, it was alright seeing you." You turned on your heel, making your way to the door.
Michael quickly fell into step behind you, pulling your arm around his waist to really let the message sink in. You cast one last glance over your shoulder at Diana, a triumphant smile on your face as you gave her an 'innocent' wave goodbye.
After two years out of the dating scene, Naima has no intention of letting a dating app, a glass of wine, or one dangerously charming man ruin her carefully maintained peace.
But when Jaafar Jackson matches with her on Raya, what starts as a late-night flirtation quickly turns into an impulsive first date filled with sharp banter, quiet vulnerability, and the kind of chemistry neither of them can comfortably pretend away. Naima is guarded, polished, and far too used to being wanted for the idea of her, while Jaafar is bold enough to pursue her properly and patient enough to listen when she finally lets something real slip through.
One night, one table, one shared dessert, and a connection that feels much too easy for two people who should know better.
warnings: jaafar being slick... but other than that nada!
Naima was going to kill them.
She was going to kill her assistant first, because that little heifer had looked her dead in the eye over an oat milk latte and told her, with the misplaced confidence of a woman who had never been humbled by a dating app bio, that “putting herself back out there” would be healing. Then she was going to kill her friend for nodding along like a bobblehead in a therapy office, her cousin for snatching her phone and choosing pictures that made her look too available, too approachable, too much like a woman who might text back within a reasonable time frame, and finally, with great purpose and no remorse, she was going to hunt down the software developers of Raya for creating the glittering, elitist little hellscape currently glowing in her palm like a curse dressed up in good branding.
Everyone involved in this tomfoolery had to answer for it.
Truthfully, if Naima were being fair, mature, or even remotely committed to the practice of self-accountability, she would admit that she had no one to blame but herself, because no one had forced her to download the app, no one had forced her to upload the photos, and certainly no one had forced her to write a profile with just enough mystique to attract the kind of men who thought a reservation counted as a personality. But Naima had never believed in suffering the consequences of her own actions alone, not when there were perfectly good accomplices standing nearby with guilty faces, and especially not when those accomplices had encouraged her to re-enter the dating scene like it was some cute little wellness challenge instead of an emotional obstacle course designed by Satan and funded by men with podcasts.
She had been out of the game for a little over two years, which in dating-app years was practically a Victorian mourning period, and her last breakup had ended on good terms, or at least as good as terms could be when the man who had sat across from her with soft eyes and a rehearsed sigh, explaining that he did not see marriage as an “end goal,” had somehow found the strength, vision, and spiritual clarity to marry another woman two weeks later.
A woman, Naima might add, whose foundation shade sat so far across the Sephora display from hers that even mentioning it felt petty.
But she digressed.
So there Naima was, curled into the corner of her sofa with one leg tucked beneath her, a half-empty glass of red wine sweating against the marble side table, her silk robe slipping off one shoulder as the blue-white glow of that godforsaken app lit up her face like evidence at a crime scene.
After too much wine and even less self-control, she found herself scrolling with the dangerous curiosity of a woman who knew better, biting the inside of her lip as profile after profile slid beneath her thumb, each man somehow more insufferably curated than the last. She flicked past actors whose names she knew, athletes whose reputations preceded them, producers who had sent her party invitations through assistants instead of simply introducing themselves like normal human beings, and celebrities she was certain would be far more interested in being seen with Naima than actually knowing her.
Because that was the thing about being Naima.
She was not just a woman on a dating app in a pretty robe with wine-stained lips and questionable judgment; she was a socialite, a name, a face that appeared in the background of glossy event photos and sometimes, depending on the angle and the company she kept, became the subject of them. She had learned enough from the game to know that romance, when filtered through fame, gossip, and men with too much access, could become a liability before it ever became love, and she had no desire to wake up in the crosshairs of TMZ, that damned vulture of a website, with some headline turning one dinner, one kiss, one badly timed exit from a private club into a national conversation.
Naima sighed and let her head fall back against the cushions, the phone still warm in her hand as if it had personally offended her.
Perhaps it was time to put the app down before she matched with somebody’s emotionally unavailable son, touch some grass like the internet was always begging people to do, smoke a little weed, and spend the rest of the night watching Morris Chestnut’s filmography with the kind of yearning that made her press a hand to her chest and mourn, not for a man in particular, but for the simple tragedy of being born in an era where men no longer wore leather jackets, looked you in the eye, and had the decency to brood in silence.
Just as Naima was about to press her thumb to the side of her phone, power the whole wicked little device off, and commit herself fully to a night of grass-touching, weed-smoking, and lusting after Morris Chestnut like a woman with sense, a notification slid across the top of her screen and caught her eye with the kind of audacity that made her pause mid-sigh.
JAAFAR JACKSON HAS MATCHED WITH YOU.
Naima stilled.
For one suspended second, the room seemed to quiet around her, the low hum of the city beyond her windows fading beneath the sudden, ridiculous awareness of her own heartbeat, and with a slow raise of her brow, she lowered her wine glass onto the table as though the notification required both hands and a clear mind, neither of which she could confidently claim to possess.
She clicked on his profile with the wary curiosity of a woman who had learned the hard way that handsome men with famous last names were rarely simple, and there he was, all pretty eyes, easy charm, and that unmistakable Jackson softness tucked beneath the kind of bone structure that made women forgive things they should have written down in a journal and taken to therapy.
His message sat beneath one of her profile pictures, the one where she had taken an artfully careless photo of a Debussy record beside her piano, because Naima was many things, but humble about her taste had never been one of them, and if a little classical music made her look mysterious, cultured, and mildly insufferable, then so be it.
She bit her lip before she could stop herself, thumb hovering over the screen as she swiped up to read what he had said, already irritated by the fact that she was interested, already prepared to blame the wine, the weed she had not even smoked yet, and every single person who had encouraged her to download this app in the first place.
Naima swiped up on the message with the kind of slow, suspicious precision usually reserved for opening threatening letters, her thumb lingering against the glass as if the app itself might jump out and embarrass her, and when his comment finally expanded beneath the photograph of her Debussy record sitting beside the polished black edge of her piano, she found herself reading it once, then twice, then a third time with her mouth pressed into a line that was trying very hard not to become a smile.
Jaafar Jackson:Debussy by the piano is a dangerous choice.
Naima blinked, her brow lifting despite herself, because of all the things she had expected from a man on Raya with a famous last name and cheekbones sharp enough to make poor decisions feel religious, an opening line about Claude Debussy had not been one of them.
Naima:Dangerous how?
The reply came almost immediately, too immediate to be casual and yet somehow too measured to feel desperate, which irritated her because she could already tell he was the kind of man who knew exactly how long to wait before answering and had simply decided he was not going to play that game with her.
Jaafar Jackson:Because now I know you’re pretty and pretentious.
Naima let out a laugh before she could catch it, the sound slipping out into her living room and betraying her so loudly that she glanced around as though someone might have witnessed it, as though the walls themselves were about to report back to her assistant that she had, in fact, found the man amusing.
Naima:That was your idea of flirting?
Jaafar Jackson:No.
That was me letting you know I pay attention.
She stared at the screen.
The audacity of him sat there in black text and clean spacing, calm as anything, and Naima, who had been complimented by men who owned yachts, men who rented yachts and lied about it, men whose names lived in credits, headlines, and private group chats, suddenly found herself more intrigued by that one sentence than she had any business being.
Naima:And what did paying attention tell you?
Jaafar Jackson:That you like beautiful things, but you don’t like easy ones.
That you posted the record because you wanted somebody to ask about it.
That you probably roll your eyes when men lead with
“you’re gorgeous,” even though you know you are.
And that if I called you pretentious, you’d answer faster than if I complimented you.
Naima sat up a little straighter.
The wine, traitorous and warm in her bloodstream, made the room feel softer around the edges, but it did not explain the way her stomach gave that small, involuntary dip, the kind that made women put their phones facedown for dignity and then pick them back up seven seconds later because dignity was lovely in theory and deeply inconvenient in practice.
Naima:You sound very sure of yourself.
Jaafar Jackson:I am.
Naima:That’s supposed to impress me?
Jaafar Jackson:No, ma’am.
You don’t seem like the type to be impressed by confidence alone.
I was hoping you’d be impressed by accuracy.
Naima pressed her lips together, her thumb hovering over the keyboard while she decided whether to humble him for sport or reward him for being clever, because there was something irritatingly charming about a man who flirted like he had already accepted the possibility of rejection and still planned on enjoying himself.
Naima:Ma’am is crazy.
Jaafar Jackson:It felt respectful.
Naima:It felt calculated.
Jaafar Jackson:That too.
She laughed again, quieter this time, but no less unwillingly, and tucked her legs beneath her on the sofa as though settling in for something she had absolutely not meant to entertain past ten-thirty at night, her robe slipping farther down her shoulder while the city lights scattered across the windows in little gold reflections.
Naima:You’re bold for someone I have never met.
Jaafar Jackson:I’m only bold because I want to meet you.
Naima stared at that for a moment longer than necessary, and it annoyed her how cleanly he had written it, how he had not dressed the sentence up in irony or false nonchalance or the kind of lazy flirtation that asked a woman to do half the work for him.
Naima:Most men usually pretend they’re not trying that hard.
Jaafar Jackson:Most men are scared of pretty women with standards.
Naima:And you’re not?
Jaafar Jackson:I have sense enough to be careful.
Not scared.
Her teeth caught her bottom lip again, and this time she let it happen, because there was no one in the room to judge her except God, her own reflection in the window, and possibly the ghost of common sense, who had been trying to leave for the last fifteen minutes.
Naima:Careful is good.
You should stay that way.
Jaafar Jackson:I can do careful.
I can also do dinner.
Naima froze.
There it was, smooth and shameless and placed right in front of her like he had been waiting for the correct opening, and she could practically feel his grin through the screen, easy, confident, entirely too pleased with himself.
Naima:Dinner?
Jaafar Jackson:Tonight.
Naima’s brows shot up, and she pulled the phone back from her face as if distance might make the message less ridiculous, because there were bold men and then there were men who matched with you at night on a dating app and decided, within seven messages, that the evening still had enough hours left in it for them to become a problem.
Naima:Tonight is insane.
Jaafar Jackson:Tonight is honest.
Naima:Tonight is how women end up on true crime podcasts.
Jaafar Jackson:Then I’ll let you pick the place.
Naima:That is not the safety measure you think it is.
Jaafar Jackson:Private room? Public restaurant? Security nearby? You can send my profile to your friends and tell them exactly where you are.
I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable, Naima.
I’m trying to take you out.
The way he used her name made her pause, not because it was dramatic, but because it was grounded, because beneath all that charm there was a steadiness in the sentence that made the flirtation feel less like a performance and more like intention.
Still, Naima was not new to this.
She was not about to be swept out of her apartment by a handsome man with a famous surname, a good read on her personality, and the nerve to call her pretentious before asking for her evening.
Absolutely not.
She had standards.
She had survival instincts.
She had watched enough documentaries to know that charming men were exactly the ones you had to watch with both eyes open.
Naima:I can’t be asked out by a man who does not even have my number.
Jaafar Jackson:Then give me your number.
Naima scoffed so hard she almost offended herself.
Naima:You see how you just skipped over the part where I was making a point?
Jaafar Jackson:I saw it.
It was a good point.
I’m solving it.
She rolled her eyes, but her smile had already betrayed her, spreading slowly before she could swallow it down.
Naima:How do I know you’re not a catfish?
Jaafar Jackson:You think somebody is catfishing you as me?
Naima:Men have done more embarrassing things for access to women.
Jaafar Jackson:Fair.
Naima:Or a serial killer?
Jaafar Jackson:If I were a serial killer, I probably wouldn’t open with Debussy.
Naima:That is exactly what a serial killer with taste would do.
A beat passed.
Then his reply appeared.
Jaafar Jackson:Give me your number and I’ll call you.
You can hear my voice, decide if I sound murderous, and then tell me where I’m taking you.
Naima sat there for a long moment, phone warm in her hand, wine cooling on the table, Morris Chestnut abandoned before he had even been given a chance to save her from herself, and she hated that she was considering it.
She hated that her pulse had picked up.
She hated that the whole thing felt a little reckless and a little cinematic, which were two feelings she had promised herself she was too grown, too healed, and too expensive to be moved by.
Naima:You are very comfortable telling me what I’m going to do.
Jaafar Jackson:Only because you like having the option to say no.
Her smile faded into something softer, something more dangerous, and she looked at the message as though it had reached through the screen and tapped gently against the guarded little part of her that men usually barreled past too quickly to notice.
Naima:And if I say no?
Jaafar Jackson:Then I’ll tell you goodnight.
And ask you again properly tomorrow.
Naima exhaled through her nose, defeated in the quietest, most dignified way available to a woman who had been flirting for less than ten minutes and was already losing ground.
Then, because the wine had made her honest and his confidence had made her curious, she typed her number into the chat before she could talk herself out of it.
Naima:You get one call.
His reply came before she could even lock the screen.
Jaafar Jackson:That’s all I need.
Her phone rang five seconds later.
Naima stared at the incoming number, offended by his speed, by his nerve, by the fact that he had clearly been sitting there ready to call like a man who believed opportunity was something to be caught by the wrist before it walked away. She let it ring twice, because she was not a woman who answered on the first ring no matter how interested she was, then accepted the call with an expression carefully arranged into boredom.
“Hello?”
His voice came through warm, low, and amused, the kind of voice that made confidence sound less like arrogance and more like a promise he had already decided to keep.
“Naima.”
She hated that he sounded like that.
She hated it immediately.
“Jaafar,” she said, leaning back against the sofa as if her posture could restore the upper hand she had misplaced somewhere between Debussy and dinner. “So you’re real.”
“I am,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “You sound disappointed.”
“I was preparing myself for a Nigerian prince, a scammer, or a man in a basement using stolen pictures.”
“Should I be offended that scammer came before serial killer?”
“You should be grateful I answered.”
“I am,” he said, too quickly and too sincerely for her to make fun of it without seeming affected. “But I’m also about to make this easier for you.”
Before she could ask what he meant, the call shifted, the screen blinked, and a FaceTime request appeared with his name sitting at the top like a dare.
Naima pulled the phone back and stared at it.
“Oh, you are bold bold,” she muttered.
His voice came through the speaker, laughing softly. “You said catfish.”
“I said a lot of things.”
“And I listened.”
Naima should have declined it on principle.
She should have let the request ring until it died, should have preserved whatever mystery she had left, should have remembered that she was in a silk robe with wine lips and absolutely no intention of letting a man she had known for twelve minutes see how much he had managed to amuse her.
Instead, with a sigh meant to sound inconvenienced and a pulse that had no respect for her performance, she accepted.
His face filled the screen a second later, and damn him, he was real.
Real in the worst possible way.
Real with warm brown eyes, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, and a backward cap sitting low enough to make him look casual while still somehow looking like he had been carved out of somebody’s bad decision. The lighting on his end was soft, catching the angles of his face and the easy confidence in his expression, and Naima felt a deeply inconvenient flicker of satisfaction when his gaze dropped for half a second, not in a crude way, not in a way that made her feel exposed, but in the quiet, admiring way of a man who knew better than to say everything he was thinking too soon.
“There she is,” he said.
Naima narrowed her eyes. “Do not start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You said it with your face.”
His grin widened. “I’m allowed to have a face.”
“Not that one,” she said before she could stop herself.
For one beautiful, terrible second, he looked genuinely pleased, and Naima immediately wished she could reach through the phone and snatch the words back before they made him any more unbearable.
“Oh?” he said.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Extremely.”
“You just complimented me.”
“I made an observation.”
“A generous one.”
“A temporary lapse in judgment.”
“I’ll take it.”
Naima shook her head, but she was smiling now, really smiling, and he saw it because his expression softened around the edges as though her amusement pleased him more than the compliment had.
“So,” he said, leaning closer to the camera, his voice dropping into something quieter, more deliberate, “now that you know I’m not a catfish, not a scammer, and not currently giving serial killer energy, can I ask you out properly?”
Naima tilted her head, refusing to make it easy for him. “That depends.”
“On?”
“On whether you know how to ask properly.”
His eyes stayed on hers through the screen, steady and bright with that dangerous little charm, and when he spoke, there was not a single ounce of uncertainty in him.
“Naima,” he said, “let me take you to dinner tonight.”
Her stomach dipped again.
Not because the words were complicated, but because they were not; he did not dress them up, did not bury them beneath a joke, did not ask in a way that gave him room to pretend he had not meant it if she said no.
He wanted to see her, and he said it like a man who did not mind being caught wanting.
“And where exactly would you take me?” she asked, because she needed the upper hand back before she did something reckless like agree too quickly.
“Somewhere public enough to make you feel safe,” he said, “private enough that I don’t have to share your attention, good enough that you won’t judge me, and close enough that I can send a car for you in thirty minutes.”
Naima blinked.
“Thirty minutes?”
“Forty, if you want to pretend you need more time.”
Her mouth fell open slightly, and his grin turned shameless.
“You are insane.”
“I’m decisive.”
“You are rushing me.”
“I’m not rushing you,” he said, his voice softening just enough to make the words land differently. “I’m making it easy for you to say yes.”
Naima looked at him through the screen, at the confidence sitting easily on his face, at the charm he wielded with the precision of someone who knew it worked but still seemed interested in earning the answer, and she hated, truly hated, that she was already thinking about which dress was closest, which heels would not look like she had tried too hard, and whether her hair could survive being revived this late at night.
“I have standards,” she said, mostly to remind herself.
“I can tell.”
“I don’t just run out for dinner because a handsome man FaceTimes me.”
His brows lifted, pleased. “Handsome?”
“Do not cling to that.”
“I’m absolutely clinging to it.”
“Jaafar.”
“Naima.”
There was something wickedly intimate about hearing him say her name while looking at her like that, like the screen between them was an inconvenience rather than a boundary, and she had to glance away for a second, biting back a smile as she reached for her wine glass and remembered, too late, that pretending indifference was much harder when a man could see your face.
“You get dinner,” she said finally, setting the glass down with the solemnity of a judge delivering a verdict. “Not a late-night adventure, not a second location, not some mysterious lounge with men in sunglasses standing in corners.”
He laughed, low and pleased. “Dinner.”
“I pick the place.”
“You can.”
“I send your information to three people.”
“Send it to five.”
“I arrive separately.”
“I’ll still offer the car.”
“I’ll decline.”
“I’ll still offer.”
Naima rolled her eyes. “You always this stubborn?”
“When I want something.”
“And what exactly do you want?”
He paused just long enough for the silence to feel intentional, his smile easing into something slower, bolder, warmer, and when he answered, he did not blink.
“To sit across from you tonight and see if you’re as hard to impress in person as you are on this phone.”
Naima stared at him, the city glittering behind her, the forgotten app still open beneath the call, the whole evening rearranging itself around the nerve of this man who had entered her night through a Debussy record and somehow managed to talk himself into dinner before she could even finish deciding whether she liked him.
Then she sighed, soft and dramatic, as though agreeing wounded her deeply.
“Thirty minutes is disrespectful,” she said.
His smile went slow.
“So forty?”
Naima looked into the camera, pretending not to enjoy the way his face lit up before she had even said yes.
“Forty-five,” she said. “And if you disappoint me, I’m blocking you before dessert.”
Jaafar leaned back with the satisfied ease of a man who had just won exactly what he came for, his eyes still fixed on hers, his voice warm with triumph and trouble.
“Then I better make sure you order dessert.”
…
So that was how Naima found herself here, tucked into the low golden glow of a restaurant that smelled faintly of citrus, polished wood, expensive perfume, and the kind of money people tried very hard not to discuss, sitting across from Jaafar Jackson as he looked at her like the rest of the room had dimmed the second she walked in.
He had not lied about making it easy for her to say yes.
From the moment she stepped out of her car, he had been waiting outside for her instead of lingering somewhere inside and making her search for him like some overeager girl chasing a reservation; he had greeted her with a smile that was warm without being too familiar, complimented her without letting his eyes wander too long, opened every door before her hand could reach for it, and guided her through the restaurant with a steady presence at the small of her back that never quite touched enough to be presumptuous, but hovered close enough to remind her that he was there.
A gentleman, she thought with no small amount of irritation.
The perfect gentleman, actually, which was worse, because it gave her very little to complain about.
He pulled out her chair, waited until she was settled before taking his own seat, spoke to the waiter with the easy politeness of a man who did not need to perform importance to feel important, and still, beneath all that manners and softness, confidence and swagger rolled off him in warm, effortless waves, not loud enough to be obnoxious, not sharp enough to feel arrogant, but present in the way he held her gaze, in the way he leaned back like he was comfortable wherever he went, in the way he seemed entirely aware of his effect on her and far too patient to point it out.
Around them, the restaurant murmured with quiet conversations and the delicate clinking of utensils against white plates, laughter rising and falling beneath the low hum of music, candles flickering in glass holders between arrangements of fresh flowers, and Naima, determined not to look as affected as she felt, folded her napkin across her lap and pretended to study the cocktail menu as though she had not already decided on the prettiest drink the moment she saw it.
She settled on something fruity, bright, and dangerous enough to taste innocent while still making bad decisions easier, a cocktail dressed with crushed ice and a curl of citrus peel, while Jaafar chose a glass of red wine with the sort of calm decisiveness that made her wonder whether he approached everything in life like that, whether he always knew what he wanted before anyone else had finished pretending they were still thinking.
When the drinks arrived, he lifted his glass by the stem, his fingers long and relaxed around it, and the candlelight caught the deep red of the wine before catching on his face, softening the angles of his cheekbones and making his eyes look even darker as they returned to hers.
Naima should have looked away first.
She had every intention of looking away first.
But there was something about the way he watched her, not like he was trying to undress her with his eyes or win some invisible game, but like he was genuinely interested in whatever she might do next, that kept her there, caught between suspicion and curiosity, with her hand wrapped around a cold glass and her pulse behaving like it had not received the memo that this was just dinner.
“So,” he said, his voice low enough to make the space between them feel private despite the room full of people around them, “am I disappointing you yet?”
Naima’s mouth curved before she could stop it, and she hated him a little for noticing.
“Don’t get comfortable,” she said, lifting her cocktail to her lips. “We haven’t made it to dessert.”
Jaafar’s smile came slow, the kind that did not rush to announce itself because it knew, with deeply irritating certainty, that it would be noticed anyway.
“Then I’ll behave until dessert,” he said, lifting his glass to his mouth without looking away from her, the rim brushing his lower lip as his eyes stayed on hers with enough focus to make the candle between them feel ornamental, unnecessary, almost rude for trying to compete. “After that, I make no promises.”
Naima arched a brow as though she were unimpressed, as though the low drag of his voice had not slipped beneath the tablecloth and curled around her ankle like silk, as though she had not caught the faint dimple appearing at the corner of his mouth and immediately decided it was the sort of thing women with self-respect should not be forced to witness without advance warning.
“You’ve known me for an hour,” she said, setting her cocktail down with deliberate care, because if she kept holding it, she might start using the glass as something to hide behind.
“Long enough to know you pretend not to smile when you want to.”
“I do not.”
“You just did it.”
“I smiled because you said something ridiculous.”
“I’ll take ridiculous if it gets me that.”
“That?”
He leaned back slightly, one arm settling along the side of his chair, his posture relaxed in a way that should have made him look careless but somehow made him look even more in control, like every inch of him understood the value of patience.
“That little smile you keep trying to bury,” he said, his gaze dipping briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes with shameless precision. “The one that shows up before you remember you’re supposed to be giving me a hard time.”
Naima stared at him.
For a second, all she could hear was the soft scrape of cutlery, the murmur of the room, the muted pour of wine at the table behind them, and her own traitorous heartbeat performing like it had been paid for the evening. She wanted to scoff, wanted to toss something sharp and clever across the table to wipe that satisfied look off his face, but the problem with Jaafar Jackson was that he did not flirt like a man fishing for reassurance; he flirted like a man who had already accepted that the answer might be no, but still intended to make the asking memorable.
“You’re very observant,” she said.
“I’m very interested.”
There it was again, that absence of evasion, that directness that made her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass because men were usually so busy trying to seem unbothered that she forgot what it felt like to be pursued by someone who had no intention of pretending otherwise.
Naima tilted her head, letting the light catch the gloss on her lips and the smooth line of her cheek, because if he wanted to sit there and be bold, she was still Naima, still vain enough to weaponize her face when necessary, still composed enough to make a man work even when she was already listening.
“Interested in what exactly?” she asked.
His eyes moved over her then, slower than before, not crude, not greedy, but appreciative in a way that made her suddenly aware of the dress she had chosen, the delicate straps resting against her shoulders, the way the neckline sat low enough to be elegant but high enough to make imagination useful, the way her perfume had warmed on her skin beneath the soft heat of the restaurant.
“In the fact that you walked in here like you already knew half the room would look up,” he said, his voice measured, almost conversational, which somehow made it worse. “In the fact that you act like you don’t care that they did. In the fact that you ordered a sweet drink but you’ve been judging my wine since it touched the table. In the fact that you keep giving me just enough attitude to see if I’ll fold under it.”
Naima’s lips parted slightly before she caught herself, and she recovered with a look so cool it deserved applause.
“And are you folding?”
“No.”
His answer came too quick, too easy, too sure.
Not loud.
Not performative.
Just no.
Naima’s stomach dipped, and she hated that her body had decided to react before her pride could file an objection.
“Shame,” she said, taking a slow sip of her cocktail and holding his gaze over the rim. “I like men with sense.”
“I have sense.”
“Debatable.”
“I had enough sense to ask you out tonight.”
“Impulsive.”
“Intentional.”
“Overconfident.”
“Correct.”
She laughed before she could stop herself, a soft, surprised sound that warmed his face instantly, and he looked so pleased with himself that she immediately regretted giving him the satisfaction.
“Do not look at me like that,” she said.
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve won something.”
Jaafar leaned forward then, not enough to crowd her, not enough to make the waiter glancing past them slow down in interest, but enough that the space between them tightened into something private and electric, the candlelight moving across his face as his voice dropped.
“I’m sitting across from the prettiest woman in this restaurant, and she’s laughing at my jokes after threatening to block me before dessert,” he said. “Let me enjoy my progress.”
Naima looked away first then, because she had to.
There was only so much eye contact a woman could survive when the man across from her looked like that and spoke like that and seemed to know exactly when to tease and when to soften. She turned her face toward the room, toward the velvet booths and low chandeliers and polished bar, pretending to inspect the restaurant with faint disapproval, but the smile tugging at her mouth was disobedient and alive, and the worst part was that she could feel him watching it happen.
“You call every woman you take out the prettiest in the restaurant?” she asked, still not looking at him.
“No.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to know when a man is trying to flatter you,” he said, and when she finally glanced back, his expression had shifted into something quieter, warmer, still bold but no longer teasing. “And when he’s just telling the truth because it’s sitting in front of him.”
Naima went still.
Not visibly, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that her fingers paused on the condensation gathered along her glass and her lashes lowered for half a second, because compliments were easy, especially in rooms like this, especially from men who knew how to make women feel chosen until the bill came and the next option appeared under a different spotlight.
But he said it plainly.
Like beauty was not a line.
Like attraction was not a trick.
Like she was not something he was trying to win so much as something he was taking the time to appreciate.
“You’re very good at this,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.
“At dinner?”
“At whatever this is.”
His smile returned, but it did not swallow the sincerity in his eyes.
“I’m not doing much.”
“That is a lie.”
“No,” he said, resting his forearms on the table now, close enough that she noticed his hands, the neatness of his nails, the quiet confidence in the way his fingers moved around the base of the wine glass. “If I was doing too much, you’d be bored already. I’m doing just enough for you to keep pretending you’re not having a good time.”
Naima narrowed her eyes, because the accuracy was becoming offensive.
“I am evaluating.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I can do both.”
“You can,” he said, nodding as if granting the point. “You’re talented.”
She rolled her eyes, but the gesture lacked its usual sharpness, softened by the laughter threatening at the back of her throat and the ridiculous warmth gathering in her chest despite her best efforts to remain a woman of mystery, discipline, and impenetrable standards.
Their food arrived before she could answer, giving her a moment to breathe, and Naima silently thanked the waiter as plates were set before them with careful precision, the interruption allowing her to look down, adjust her napkin, and reclaim whatever composure Jaafar had been steadily stealing from her in small, elegant pieces.
But even that did not save her.
Because he waited.
He did not immediately reach for his fork or dive into conversation or make some thoughtless remark to fill the space; he waited until the waiter left, then reached for her plate with a quiet “May I?” and shifted it slightly so the edge was not too close to the candle, a small, natural gesture that had no business feeling intimate.
Naima stared at him.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Acting like somebody raised you properly.”
This time, Jaafar laughed, full and warm, tipping his head down for a second before looking back at her with a grin that made him look younger, softer, and somehow more dangerous because charm was one thing, but charm paired with genuine amusement was the kind of combination that ruined perfectly reasonable women.
“My mother would be happy to hear that.”
“Mm-hm.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you know how to behave when you want to.”
“That’s fair.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“I told you,” he said, cutting into his food with the same unhurried confidence he seemed to bring to everything. “I’m trying to impress you, not trick you.”
Naima let out a small hum, pretending to consider that while she took her first bite, and she was almost grateful for how good the food was because it gave her something else to focus on besides him, besides the way he watched her reaction without being obvious, besides the little satisfaction that passed through his face when her brows lifted despite herself.
“Good?” he asked.
“It’s acceptable.”
“Acceptable,” he repeated, smiling.
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting.”
“You’re about to.”
“I was just going to say,” he said, taking a sip of wine, “that if that’s your face for acceptable, I’m looking forward to seeing what happens when you’re impressed.”
Naima set her fork down slowly and looked at him across the table.
“You are trouble.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“By women who liked me too.”
Her mouth fell open a fraction, scandalized despite the fact that she had walked directly into it, and Jaafar’s smile turned downright wicked, not cruel, not smug, just slick enough to make her want to lean across the table and wipe it off with either a reprimand or something much less respectable.
“You think I like you?”
“I think,” he said, dragging the word out with lazy confidence, “you’re trying very hard not to.”
Naima leaned back, crossing one leg over the other beneath the table, aware of the brush of her dress against her thigh, aware of his eyes flicking down only because the movement shifted her posture and not because he had forgotten his manners.
“Trying hard implies effort.”
“You changed your earrings before you came.”
Her entire face froze.
Jaafar’s grin deepened by a single devastating degree.
Naima stared at him for one long, silent second, because there were several things she could tolerate in a man: confidence, beauty, charm, a famous last name if he did not make it her problem, even a little arrogance if it came with enough humor to season it properly.
But attention?
Actual attention?
That was dangerous.
“How would you know that?” she asked carefully.
“You had different earrings in your profile pictures,” he said, with the unbearable calm of a man who knew he had just made the board shift in his favor. “You picked those for tonight.”
Naima’s throat went dry.
The earrings were small gold drops, not flashy, not obvious, chosen in the mirror after she had tried three other pairs and told herself, repeatedly, that she was not dressing for him, that she was dressing because she always dressed well, that a woman of her caliber did not need a reason to look devastating on a random weeknight.
And now this man had noticed.
Worse, he had waited until just the right moment to tell her.
“You studied my pictures?” she asked, because offense was easier than being touched.
“I looked at them.”
“Closely.”
“Respectfully.”
“You expect that to help your case?”
“It’s the truth.”
Naima took another sip of her cocktail because her mouth needed something to do other than smile, but it did not work because he was looking at her with that quiet satisfaction again, like he could see the exact moment her defenses lowered by half an inch.
“You’re too slick,” she said.
“Too slick for what?”
“For me to trust.”
He nodded, accepting the accusation with maddening grace. “Then don’t trust slick.”
“And what should I trust?”
His answer came after a pause, not because he did not know what to say, but because he wanted her to feel him choosing it.
“Consistency,” he said. “Trust that I said I wanted to take you out and I showed up. Trust that I said I’d make you feel safe and I let you pick the place. Trust that I think you’re beautiful and I’m still more interested in making you laugh than making you uncomfortable.”
Naima looked at him, really looked at him then, and for the first time that night, she let herself sit inside the possibility that maybe this did not have to be a performance, maybe not every man with access was careless with it, maybe there was something to be said for a man who could be bold without being reckless and charming without being hollow.
Then, because the thought felt far too sincere and sincerity was not a place she liked to stand barefoot, she lifted her chin and said, “You practiced that in the car.”
Jaafar laughed again, soft and delighted. “There she goes.”
“There who goes?”
“The woman who almost let me have a moment.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Maybe,” he said, eyes bright with amusement as he lifted his glass toward her in a small toast. “But you’re still here.”
Naima should have had a quick answer for that.
She should have had something polished, something cutting, something that reminded him he was not nearly as in control as he seemed to believe. Instead, she looked at him over the flicker of the candle, at the confidence sitting on him like a well-tailored jacket, at the warmth in his eyes, at the mouth that kept threatening to ruin her peace, and she felt the truth of it settle, inconvenient and undeniable.
She was still there.
And worse than that, she wanted to be.
So she lifted her glass to meet his, the crystal touching with a soft, delicate chime that sounded far too much like the beginning of trouble.
“For now,” she said.
Jaafar’s smile turned slow again, low-lit and certain, as if for now was not a warning but an invitation.
“I can work with for now.”
Naima lifted her glass to her mouth to buy herself a moment, letting the fruity sweetness of her cocktail settle on her tongue while Jaafar watched her over the rim of his wine like he had found something more interesting than the menu, the restaurant, the murmured conversations around them, or the soft parade of beautiful people moving through the room pretending not to look at one another.
“For now is generous,” she said, placing her glass back down with the kind of delicate precision that made it clear she was still pretending to have the upper hand. “Do not get greedy.”
Jaafar’s smile curved slowly, not sharp enough to be smug and not soft enough to be innocent, and he leaned back in his chair with one hand resting near the stem of his glass, the candlelight catching his knuckles as his eyes stayed on her face.
“I’m not greedy,” he said. “I’m ambitious.”
Naima gave him a look. “That is what greedy people call themselves when they know how to dress.”
He laughed at that, a low, warm sound that did not burst out of him so much as roll across the table, and the ease of it made something in her shoulders loosen before she remembered she had never given them permission to relax in the first place.
“All right,” he said, still smiling as he reached for his wine. “Since you’re committed to keeping me humble, let’s play something.”
Naima’s brows lifted with immediate suspicion. “Something?”
“Twenty questions.”
She made a small, disbelieving sound and looked around the restaurant as though searching for a hidden camera, because there was no way a grown man had asked her to leave her apartment after midnight-adjacent hours, shown up looking like temptation with table manners, and now wanted to play sleepover games over dinner like they were two freshmen at a house party pretending not to flirt.
“Twenty questions?” she repeated, dragging the words slowly enough to make her judgment obvious.
“Yes,” he said, entirely unbothered. “Unless you’re scared.”
Naima’s eyes narrowed. “You have been trying that line all night.”
“And it keeps working.”
“It has not worked once.”
“You’re still answering me.”
She hated that.
She hated it because he was not wrong, and because the worst thing a charming man could do was start keeping accurate records.
“I’m answering because I enjoy proving men wrong,” she said, lifting her chin. “It is one of my hobbies.”
Jaafar nodded, his expression sober except for the amusement brightening his eyes. “Then this should be perfect for you.”
Naima picked up her fork, pointed it toward him slightly, and said, “Fine, but I need rules, because I do not trust men who suggest games in dimly lit restaurants.”
“The rules are simple,” he said, leaning forward just enough that the space between them tightened again. “One question each, back and forth, no lying, no asking anything you would be too scared to answer yourself, and if somebody dodges, the other person gets a follow-up.”
“That sounds like you made it up before I arrived.”
“I did.”
“At least you admit you’re calculated.”
“I told you I pay attention,” he said, and the way he said it, quietly, like the sentence had layers instead of edges, made Naima look down at her plate for half a second longer than necessary.
She reached for her cocktail again, because the glass gave her hands something elegant to do while her mind recovered from the fact that this man had the nerve to be handsome, amusing, well-mannered, and attentive at the same time, as though God had personally sat down with a focus group of women and taken notes.
“Fine,” she said. “Since this is your game, you go first.”
Jaafar did not jump at the opportunity, which was the first thing that annoyed her, because most men would have rushed into a question either too invasive or too lazy, something about her favorite color or why she was single or how many men she had dated, as if a woman could be understood by the easiest door available. Instead, he took his time, his gaze moving over her face with an attention that felt less like inspection and more like care, as though he was choosing a question he actually wanted the answer to.
“When did you first learn how to perform being fine?” he asked.
Naima’s hand paused around her glass.
It was not dramatic enough to be obvious to anyone else, but Jaafar noticed, because of course he did, because apparently the man had decided to become her problem in high definition.
“That is your first question?” she asked, trying to tuck the surprise behind a dry tone.
“It is.”
“You skipped favorite color and went straight to emotional excavation?”
“I figured you would lie about the favorite color just to see if I caught it.”
A reluctant smile tugged at her mouth. “My favorite color is not a state secret.”
“No,” he said, eyes still on hers. “But you are.”
Naima let the silence sit for a second, partly because she wanted to make him wait and partly because the question had landed somewhere she had not expected him to aim. Across the table, he did not rush her, did not try to soften the moment with a joke, did not lean back into flirtation because seriousness made him uncomfortable, and that patience was irritatingly effective because it made it harder to dismiss him as a man simply being slick.
“I think,” she began, slowly, “I learned it young, the same way most girls learn it, by realizing people praise you for being pretty, composed, impressive, easy to invite places, easy to photograph, easy to introduce, easy to compliment, but not necessarily easy to know.”
Jaafar’s expression shifted, the smile fading without disappearing completely, and his attention settled on her in a way that made the room feel quieter around them.
“So you learned to give them the version they knew what to do with,” he said.
Naima looked at him. “That was not a question.”
“It was me listening.”
That should not have warmed her the way it did, but it did, settling somewhere beneath her ribs with a quiet little ache that made her immediately reach for humor the way a person reaches for a coat when the air changes.
“Do not start looking at me like I’m a tragic painting,” she said. “I am very expensive and very alive.”
His grin returned, slower this time. “I noticed.”
“I bet you did.”
“I’m trying to be respectful about it.”
“You are failing.”
“I said trying.”
Naima laughed under her breath and shook her head, but the laugh was softer than the ones before, less defensive, and Jaafar seemed to clock the difference without pouncing on it, which she appreciated even if she had no intention of telling him.
“My turn,” she said, setting her glass down. “When did you first learn you could get away with being charming?”
Jaafar’s brows lifted. “That is a dangerous accusation dressed up as a question.”
“It is also a fair one.”
He leaned back, considering her with the kind of amusement that made him look like he enjoyed being challenged more than he enjoyed being flattered.
“Probably too young,” he admitted. “Not in the way you mean, though.”
“How do I mean?”
“You mean pretty boy gets smiled at enough and starts believing the world owes him softness.”
Naima’s mouth curved. “I was not going to say pretty boy.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking a few things.”
“Good things?”
“Confidential things.”
Jaafar smiled, but he answered her properly, his thumb brushing once along the base of his glass as he thought. “I think I learned charm was useful before I understood attraction had anything to do with it, because in a family like mine, people come in with ideas before you ever speak, and sometimes charm is less about trying to win them over and more about disarming whatever version of you they already decided to meet.”
That was not the answer she expected.
She expected something slick, something flirty, something about girls passing notes or aunties pinching cheeks, and instead he had given her something honest enough to make her look at him differently.
“So charm became armor,” she said.
“A little bit,” he said. “And sometimes a door.”
“To what?”
“To being treated like a person before being treated like a name.”
Naima looked down for a moment, tracing one finger along the stem of her glass, because that she understood more than she wanted to, the strange loneliness of walking into rooms where people already had a use for you before they had a conversation with you.
“That was annoyingly good,” she said.
His smile flickered. “I’ll try to be less annoying next time.”
“No, you won’t.”
“No, I won’t.”
The waiter came by to check on them, and Naima watched, not for the first time, how Jaafar shifted his attention fully to whoever was speaking, how he did not make people repeat themselves because he had been too busy being important, how he thanked the waiter by name after glancing at the small tag pinned near his shirtfront, and the gesture was so small, so natural, so unperformed that Naima almost hated it more than the flirting, because flirting could be faked, but manners in the moments when no one important was watching usually could not.
When they were alone again, Jaafar turned back to her, and there was something about the return of his attention that felt almost physical, like a warm hand settling at the back of a chair.
“Second question,” he said. “What is something people assume about you that makes you want to scream?”
Naima smiled immediately, because that answer came too easily. “That I have had an easy life because I know how to look good in rooms where everyone is pretending.”
Jaafar nodded once, but did not interrupt.
“They see the clothes, the invitations, the photographs, the pretty table settings, the fact that I know which fork to use and which people to avoid, and they decide that means nothing has ever bruised me,” she continued, her tone light enough to pass as conversation while something quieter moved underneath it. “People love thinking beautiful things have never had to survive anything ugly, because it makes beauty easier to resent.”
Jaafar’s face changed again, not with pity, which would have irritated her, but with a kind of recognition that made his voice lower when he answered.
“That makes sense,” he said.
Naima studied him. “You are not going to say something like, ‘but pain made you stronger’?”
“No.”
“Good, because I would have left.”
He smiled a little. “I figured.”
“Why no?”
“Because sometimes pain just hurts,” he said, simply. “You can become stronger after it, sure, but I don’t like when people make it sound like the hurt was doing you a favor.”
Naima went quiet.
That sentence sat between them for a moment, not heavy in a way that ruined the night, but honest enough to change its temperature. She could hear the restaurant around them, the small scrape of chairs, the soft burst of laughter from a table behind her, the delicate sound of ice shifting in her cocktail, and beneath all of it was the strange, unwilling tenderness of being understood by someone who had no right to understand her yet.
“You’re sneaky,” she said at last.
Jaafar blinked, then smiled. “Sneaky?”
“You sit there with your little face and your little wine and your little confidence, and then you say something emotionally competent like it’s nothing.”
“My little face?”
“That is what you chose to hear?”
“I had to, because the rest sounded like a compliment and I did not want to embarrass you.”
Naima rolled her eyes, grateful for the return of playfulness because the softness had begun to feel a little too warm. “My question.”
“Go on.”
“What is something people assume about you that makes you want to scream?”
Jaafar’s answer came slower than hers had, and this time he looked down at his plate for a moment, not uncomfortable exactly, but careful.
“That I don’t know the difference between being loved and being admired,” he said.
Naima’s expression softened before she could stop it.
Jaafar looked back up at her, catching it, but he did not tease her for it, which was wise because she would have denied the softness until the end of time.
“People admire what they can project onto,” he continued. “They love what they’re willing to learn, even when it ruins the fantasy a little.”
Naima sat with that, letting the words move through her. “And you think people are more comfortable admiring you than learning you?”
“Sometimes.”
“That sounds lonely.”
He looked at her for a second, then nodded, a small, honest movement. “It can be.”
Naima wanted to say something flippant, but she could not find the shape of it fast enough, and perhaps that was the wine or the hour or the way he was looking at her like he had not meant to say that much but did not regret it now that he had.
“Well,” she said carefully, “for what it’s worth, I think admiration sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
“Love probably is too.”
“Probably,” he said, his eyes warming. “But at least with love, somebody is tired with you.”
Naima looked away.
She had to.
The line was not corny, not dressed in too much romance, not delivered like he had expected it to land, and maybe that was why it worked, because it sounded like something he believed rather than something he had prepared.
“You are dangerously close to making me think you have depth,” she said, staring down at her plate.
“I would hate to ruin my reputation this early.”
“Do not worry, you still have the face to fall back on.”
“There it is again.”
“I said what I said.”
Jaafar laughed, and when she looked up, he was watching her with that same focused amusement, but there was more beneath it now, a quiet hunger for more of her thoughts, more of her expressions, more of the small truths she kept trying to hide under sarcasm.
The questions continued from there, easing into one another with the rhythm of a song neither of them had meant to learn so quickly, and what began as a game became something softer, something stranger, something that made the food cool slightly on their plates because they kept forgetting to eat between answers.
“What is your comfort movie?” he asked.
Naima did not hesitate. “Anything with Morris Chestnut, and I am not accepting judgment.”
Jaafar leaned back with a grin. “So that is the standard I am competing with?”
“You could not compete with nineties Morris Chestnut if you trained for the Olympics.”
“That hurt more than it needed to.”
“It was important that you knew your place early.”
“Noted,” he said, pressing a hand briefly to his chest as though wounded. “And what exactly is it about him?”
Naima gave him a slow look. “You want me to describe another man’s appeal to you on our first date?”
“I want to know what you like,” he said, and the ease of the answer made her pause. “Even if I have to suffer through it.”
She laughed softly and shook her head. “Fine, since you are apparently brave, it’s the steadiness, the presence, the way he looks like he could fix a sink, mind his business, and love one woman properly without needing applause for it.”
Jaafar’s expression did something small, something she almost missed, a flicker of interest sharpening into intention.
“So steadiness matters to you,” he said.
“More than flash.”
“And being chosen quietly matters more than being shown off loudly.”
Naima tilted her head. “That was not in my answer.”
“It was underneath it.”
She looked at him for a long second, her chest tightening in a way she did not appreciate. “You always listen between lines?”
“When the lines are worth it.”
Naima picked up her cocktail and pointed the straw at him. “That was almost too smooth.”
“I pulled it back at the last second.”
“You did not.”
“I tried.”
“You did not.”
He grinned. “Your turn.”
Naima rested her chin lightly against her hand, studying him across the candle. “What is your comfort movie?”
Jaafar looked almost embarrassed, which delighted her so immediately that she sat up straighter.
“Oh, this is going to be good,” she said.
“It is not that bad.”
“You paused, so it is absolutely that bad.”
“It’s not bad,” he said, laughing under his breath. “It is just not going to help me look mysterious.”
“Tell me.”
He sighed like a man surrendering dignity for the sake of honesty. “The Princess Bride.”
Naima blinked.
Then her whole face softened before she could do anything about it. “That is actually very cute.”
“Do not say cute like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you just found a baby picture of me.”
“I basically did.”
“I should have lied.”
“No,” she said, smiling into her drink. “You really should not have.”
He watched her smile for a second too long, and this time he did not bother hiding how much he liked it.
“What?” she asked, suddenly aware of it.
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
“It was nothing I should say this early.”
Naima’s eyes narrowed, but her mouth betrayed her by curving again. “Say it anyway.”
Jaafar looked at her for a moment, then leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping just enough to turn the sentence private. “You get softer when something catches you off guard, and I like seeing it before you hide it.”
Naima stared at him.
For once, she did not have an immediate response, and the silence was not awkward so much as revealing, because he had said it without rushing, without grinning like he was waiting for points, without trying to make the observation bigger than it was.
“You are very bad for my ego,” she said finally.
“I thought I was feeding it.”
“No, you are noticing things, and that is worse.”
“Worse because you like it?”
“Worse because you know I like it.”
Jaafar’s smile moved slowly, but his voice stayed gentle. “I’m not going to use that against you.”
Naima’s gaze held his.
That was the sort of thing men said all the time and meant for about four minutes, but something in his face made it difficult to dismiss, something patient and careful beneath the boldness, something that suggested he knew attention could feel like pressure if handled badly.
“See,” she said, because sincerity had once again become too close for comfort, “that sounded dangerously decent.”
“I can flirt worse if it helps.”
“It might.”
“All right,” he said, his eyes dropping briefly to the gloss on her lips before returning to her face. “Your mouth has been distracting me since you walked in, but I have been raised well enough to pretend the cocktail is the problem.”
Naima’s breath caught so quietly that she almost got away with it, but his eyes sharpened with satisfaction, and she hated him for seeing that too.
“You are outrageous,” she said, even as heat rose along the back of her neck.
“You asked for worse.”
“I asked for help.”
“I am helping.”
“You are flirting.”
“I am multitasking.”
Naima shook her head, but her smile was helpless now, and he looked so pleased by it that she had to look down at her plate before she started smiling like a woman who had forgotten her own rules.
“My question,” she said, gathering herself. “What is something you are proud of that has nothing to do with your family?”
Jaafar’s amusement softened into something more thoughtful, and Naima felt, with some satisfaction, that she had managed to catch him the way he kept catching her.
He took a sip of wine, not to avoid the question but to give it the respect of consideration, and when he answered, his voice had lost some of its polish in the best way.
“I’m proud that I kept choosing my own discipline when nobody could force me into it,” he said. “There are a lot of things people assume come with a name, but work ethic is not one of them, and I’m proud that I know how to keep showing up for something even when nobody is clapping yet.”
Naima nodded slowly, her teasing quieting because the answer deserved better than a joke.
“That matters to you,” she said.
“A lot.”
“Being taken seriously?”
“Yes,” he said. “But not by everyone, because everyone is too expensive. I think I care more about being able to take myself seriously when the room is empty.”
Naima looked at him over the candle flame, and something about that answer made him more attractive in a way that had nothing to do with his face, though the face, unfortunately, remained a serious problem.
“That was a good answer,” she said.
“I know.”
“And there you go ruining it.”
He laughed. “I did not want you getting too comfortable.”
“You are obsessed with my comfort level.”
“I am interested in it,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”
Naima’s brow rose. “Explain.”
“If I were obsessed with it, I would keep trying to manage it,” he said, and his gaze held hers steadily. “I’m interested in it, so I keep noticing it.”
That one landed so cleanly that Naima had to take another sip of her drink, because there were only so many times a woman could be forced to confront the idea that a man might understand nuance before it became emotionally irresponsible.
“You know,” she said, after swallowing, “for someone who looks like he has gotten away with a lot, you are strangely thoughtful.”
“For someone who pretends to be unimpressed, you keep complimenting me.”
“That was an observation.”
“You make generous observations.”
“I make accurate ones.”
“So do I,” he said. “And right now, my accurate observation is that you like ambition, but only when it has manners.”
Naima paused.
Jaafar’s eyes stayed on her face, not pushing, just waiting to see if he had found another truth.
“You are not wrong,” she said reluctantly.
“I know.”
“You are very annoying when you are right.”
“I am trying to be handsome enough to offset it.”
“You are trying too hard.”
“No,” he said, smiling. “You just noticed.”
The game kept moving, smooth and easy, like the night itself had decided to lean in.
He asked her what kind of silence she preferred, and she told him she liked the kind that did not demand to be filled, the kind that existed between people who were not afraid the lack of noise meant something was wrong. She asked him what kind of anger scared him, and he said the quiet kind, not because it was dramatic, but because by the time some people went quiet, they had already left in every way that mattered. He asked her what she missed about being younger, and she said she missed believing that reinvention did not need to be explained, missed trying on versions of herself without feeling watched. She asked him what he wanted more of in his life, and he said peace first, then laughter, then the kind of people who did not make him feel like he had to translate himself.
Naima noticed, somewhere between the twelfth and thirteenth question, that he had started building the conversation around her answers.
Not in an obvious way, not like a man repeating her words back to prove he had heard them, but in the way his follow-ups came from places she had actually led him, in the way he remembered that she had mentioned performance and returned later to ask when she felt most unobserved, in the way he took her joke about Morris Chestnut and quietly turned it into a question about steadiness, in the way he asked about her favorite sound after she described silence and smiled like he had won something small when she told him it was the sound of keys turning in a door when she was expecting someone she loved.
“That is specific,” he said.
“It is.”
“Why that sound?”
Naima looked down at her hands, her thumb brushing the edge of one gold ring. “Because it means somebody came back.”
Jaafar’s face softened.
She regretted the answer immediately, not because it was untrue, but because it had escaped without armor, and she could feel him holding it carefully between them, not making it heavier, not letting it fall.
“That is a good sound,” he said.
Naima glanced up. “Do not make it sad.”
“I’m not.”
“You are looking at me like you want to write it down.”
“I might.”
She blinked. “What?”
He smiled, a little shy for the first time all night, and that was the one expression she had not prepared for. “Not in a weird way.”
“That clarification did not help.”
“I mean I like remembering things people say when they say them honestly,” he said. “The words come out different.”
Naima leaned back, studying him as if he had just revealed a secret and pretended it was nothing. “You write?”
“A little.”
“Music?”
“Sometimes.”
“Poetry?”
“Do not make that face.”
“I have not made a face.”
“You made a poetry face.”
“I am trying to imagine you writing poetry, and I do not know whether to be charmed or concerned.”
“Both is fine.”
Naima laughed, and Jaafar smiled at her like the sound had been the point of the entire detour.
“Ask me your next question,” she said, because the feeling of being enjoyed so openly was starting to make her nervous.
He considered her again, and this time the question came quietly.
“When do you feel most like yourself?”
Naima inhaled slowly.
“That is not fair.”
“It is the game.”
“No, that is a question people ask when they are trying to make somebody fall in love with them in an indie film.”
“I did not say fall in love.”
“No, but you are asking like you want the director to cut to rain on a window.”
Jaafar laughed, lifting both hands in surrender. “I can ask something else.”
“No,” she said, surprising herself. “I’ll answer.”
His hands lowered, and his attention returned to her fully, gently, the boldness still there but softened around the edges.
Naima looked past him for a moment, toward the bar, where bottles glowed amber beneath warm lights, then back to him. “I feel most like myself when I am alone in my apartment with music playing, not because I am sad or hiding, but because nobody needs me to be impressive there, and I can make tea in something ugly, sit on the floor, answer messages three days late, ignore the world, play piano badly if I want to, and not be perceived as anything other than a woman existing in her own space.”
Jaafar looked at her like she had handed him something.
Not something dramatic.
Something delicate.
“And the piano?” he asked.
“What about it?”
“You said play badly, but I do not believe you.”
Naima smiled. “I play well enough to be pretentious about Debussy.”
“I knew it.”
“You knew nothing.”
“I knew enough.”
“You know a record and a woman in a restaurant.”
“I know a woman who pretends the record was just aesthetic but probably has opinions about which pieces people ruin by playing too fast.”
Naima’s lips parted, and she pointed at him with her fork. “Clair de Lune should not be rushed.”
Jaafar’s grin flashed. “There she is.”
“There who is?”
“The real pretentious one.”
Naima laughed, the sound breaking out of her before she could smooth it into something smaller, and Jaafar leaned into it, resting his chin briefly against his hand as though the sight of her animated had pulled him closer without permission.
“You are enjoying this too much,” she said.
“I am enjoying you too much,” he replied.
The words were bold enough to make her still, but he did not smirk afterward, did not make the moment cheap, and that was the part that made her look away with warmth blooming beneath her skin.
“That was too direct,” she said.
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you dislike it?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
His smile deepened. “That is what I thought.”
“Do not be smug.”
“I am being grateful.”
“For what?”
“For the fact that you pause before you lie when you are trying not to admit something.”
Naima stared at him, then shook her head slowly. “You are going to be a problem.”
“I hope so.”
“You should not hope that.”
“I do,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “Not the bad kind.”
Naima’s fingers tightened around her glass. “What kind, then?”
“The kind you think about after you get home,” he said.
For a moment, the whole restaurant seemed to inhale around them.
Naima held his gaze, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking away again, but her silence did more than any confession could have, because they both knew he had already become that kind of problem, the kind that made the ride home feel longer, the kind that made a woman stand in her bathroom removing earrings too slowly because she was replaying a sentence she had pretended not to care about.
“You are very confident for a man still being evaluated,” she said, her voice low.
“I am not confident because I think I passed,” he said. “I am confident because I want to.”
That made her smile before she could help it.
Not a big smile, not the kind that gave too much away, but enough.
Enough for him to see it.
Enough for him to take it like a small victory and still not overplay his hand.
“My turn,” she said, because she needed to move the heat somewhere useful. “When do you feel most like yourself?”
Jaafar looked down for a second, and the smile he gave was quieter than the others. “When I am around people who do not need me to be on.”
Naima nodded, already understanding. “People who let you be boring?”
His face lit with something like relief. “Yes, exactly.”
“Boring is underrated.”
“Very.”
“What is boring Jaafar like?”
He looked amused by the phrasing. “He cooks late, forgets to answer texts when he is focused, plays the same song too many times in a row, talks to his mother longer than he admits, gets too competitive over card games, and needs a day after too many people have had opinions about him.”
Naima absorbed that quietly, her expression softening before she could stop it. “That is not boring.”
“No?”
“No,” she said. “That is human.”
Jaafar’s eyes held hers a little longer than before, and something in his face opened by a fraction, small enough that maybe another woman would have missed it, but Naima had spent years reading rooms, smiles, exits, and silences, and she knew the moment something reached him.
“You say things like you do not realize they matter,” he said.
Naima looked down, suddenly very interested in the condensation on her glass. “They usually do not.”
“They do to me.”
She looked up again.
He said it simply, like he had not meant to make her breath catch, like he was only naming a fact. That was what kept getting under her skin, the way he let boldness and sincerity sit beside each other without forcing either one to apologize.
For a while, they forgot about the count.
Twenty questions became twenty-two, then twenty-five, then who was keeping track anyway, because the conversation had become less about rules and more about momentum, the kind that made them lean in without realizing it, laugh over each other’s answers, argue over small things with disproportionate seriousness, and trade truths carefully enough that neither of them felt exposed, only seen.
He learned that Naima hated being called intimidating by men who really meant they were lazy, that she loved old R&B because longing sounded better when singers were not afraid to beg a little, that she could not stand when people chewed loudly, that she believed birthdays were sacred but hated surprise parties, that she liked handwritten notes but would deny it in court, that she judged restaurants by the bread and men by whether they noticed when her glass was empty.
She learned that Jaafar liked women with opinions because silence made him nervous when it was used as decoration, that he had a weakness for people who were kind to staff without turning it into a performance, that he hated being spoken to like a headline, that he could not flirt with someone he did not actually want to know, that he believed chemistry was easy but attention was the thing that made it dangerous.
“That sounds rehearsed,” she said after that last one, though her voice was softer than the accusation required.
“It is not.”
“It sounded too good.”
“Maybe you just like how I talk.”
“Maybe you should stop helping yourself.”
He grinned. “I would, but you keep leaving doors open.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“Name one.”
He leaned forward slightly, eyes bright with challenge. “You asked me what boring Jaafar was like.”
“That was a normal question.”
“No,” he said. “That was you checking if there was somewhere soft beneath all this.”
Naima’s eyes narrowed. “All this?”
He gestured lightly to himself, amused. “The face, apparently.”
She let out a laugh. “You are never letting that go.”
“Not a chance.”
“You are so vain.”
“You brought it up first.”
“I regret it deeply.”
“No, you do not.”
She sighed, turning her glass between her fingers. “You are correct, and I hate that for both of us.”
Jaafar’s smile softened, and his gaze moved over her face like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of her amusement. “I like when you concede.”
“Do not get used to it.”
“I’ll earn the next one.”
The waiter returned to clear their plates, and Naima realized with a small start that time had moved without asking them, that their food had disappeared between laughter and answers, that her cocktail was nearly finished, that Jaafar’s wine had been nursed slowly because he had spent more time listening than drinking.
When dessert menus appeared, she picked hers up with exaggerated seriousness, grateful for something ordinary to focus on after the way the conversation had kept stepping close to tenderness.
Jaafar watched her over his menu. “So this is the dangerous part.”
Naima did not look up. “Dessert determines everything.”
“I remember.”
“Do you?”
“You said if I disappointed you, you would block me before dessert,” he said. “We are at dessert, and I still have access to your number, so I am choosing to be optimistic.”
“Access can be revoked.”
“Then I should choose carefully.”
“You should.”
He glanced down at the menu, then back at her. “What are you getting?”
“I am not telling you.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to see what you choose without influence.”
“You are testing me with cake?”
“I test with everything.”
Jaafar smiled like that delighted him. “Good.”
“Good?”
“Yes,” he said. “It means you care about the answer.”
Naima looked at him over the top of her menu, and there was something about the way he said that, not irritated by the evaluation but pleased to be considered worth measuring, that made her stomach flutter in a way she refused to acknowledge.
“You are strange,” she said.
“You like it.”
“I tolerate it.”
“You are smiling again.”
“I am reading.”
“The menu is not that funny.”
Naima lowered the menu slowly. “Do you want to make it to dessert alive?”
“I want to make it to a second date.”
There it was.
No hesitation.
No coy little circle around the point.
Just the sentence, placed between them with the same calm boldness that had brought him here in the first place.
Naima’s pulse gave a foolish little jump.
“You have not finished the first one,” she said.
“I know.”
“That is ambitious.”
“I told you I was.”
She studied him, trying to look unimpressed, trying to keep her face arranged into something cool enough to save her pride, but Jaafar was looking at her like he already knew there would be a second date if he played the rest of the night right, and the annoying thing was that she was not nearly as offended by that confidence as she should have been.
“What makes you think you deserve a second date?” she asked.
He did not answer immediately, and that, more than anything, made her listen.
“Because I want to hear the rest,” he said.
Naima blinked. “The rest of what?”
“The rest of you,” he said, then smiled lightly as if he knew the sentence could become too much if he let it sit there too heavily. “I got the Debussy, the Morris Chestnut standard, the ugly tea mug, the gold earrings, the thing about keys in a door, the fact that you pretend compliments annoy you when they are accurate, and I still have not heard you play piano, seen the ugly mug, or found out what song makes you lose your mind in the car.”
Naima stared at him.
It was not the boldness that got her that time.
It was the inventory.
The proof.
The quiet evidence that he had been there for every answer, collecting small pieces without making her feel like a specimen, remembering details that another man would have let pass because he was waiting for his turn to sound interesting.
“You remember too much,” she said, and the words came out softer than she intended.
“No,” he said. “I remember what I like.”
Naima looked down at the dessert menu again, though the words had gone blurry in the warm light because she was no longer reading them. She could feel him across from her, not touching, not pushing, not taking more than she gave, but there with an attention so steady it felt like a hand held out without asking her to take it yet.
“You are making it very difficult to remain indifferent,” she said.
Jaafar’s voice warmed. “I know.”
Her eyes lifted. “You were supposed to deny that.”
“I could, but you like honesty.”
“I like honesty when it benefits me.”
“This does.”
“How?”
“Because now you do not have to pretend I am not trying.”
Naima sat back, folding her arms loosely, though the gesture lacked any real defense. “And what exactly are you trying to do, Jaafar?”
His gaze did not move from hers.
Not once.
“I am trying to make sure that when you think about tonight later, you do not remember the app, or the wine, or whether this was reckless, or whether you should have stayed home with Morris Chestnut,” he said, his voice quiet enough that she leaned in without realizing it. “I want you to remember that I listened, that I made you laugh, that you felt safe, that you looked beautiful, and that I did not act like any of that was casual to me.”
Naima went still.
There was enough charm in it to make her warm, enough restraint to keep it from sounding rehearsed, and enough intention to make her throat tighten with the sudden, inconvenient knowledge that this man had walked into the evening planning to pursue her, not impress the room, not collect a story, not flirt for sport, but pursue her in the old-fashioned, quietly devastating way women joked about wanting until someone did it and made them nervous.
She swallowed, then lifted her cocktail for the last sip because if she did not occupy her mouth, she might say something honest too soon.
“You are dangerous,” she said after a moment.
Jaafar’s smile softened, but his eyes stayed serious. “Only if you want me to be.”
Naima held his gaze, and for once, she did not rush to look away.
The candle between them flickered, the restaurant hummed around them, the night pressed dark and glittering against the windows, and Naima, who had started the evening plotting several murders over a dating app she never wanted to download in the first place, found herself sitting across from a man she had known for only a handful of hours and thinking, with the kind of quiet alarm that did not feel like fear at all, that she wanted to hear the rest too.
Then she lifted the dessert menu and hid the lower half of her face behind it.
“You may order the cheesecake,” she said, as though bestowing a royal favor.
Jaafar’s grin spread slow and victorious. “That was your choice?”
“It was.”
“So I passed?”
Naima looked at him over the menu, trying desperately not to smile and failing in a way that made his whole face soften.
“For now,” she said again.
This time, when Jaafar looked at her, there was no teasing in his eyes, only warmth and a patient kind of want that made the words feel less like a game and more like the beginning of something neither of them was ready to name.
“I can still work with for now,” he said. “Especially if you keep giving it to me.”
The cheesecake arrived looking far too innocent for the amount of trouble it was about to cause.
It sat in the center of the table on a white porcelain plate, thick and creamy beneath a glossy berry compote that bled slowly down one side, with a delicate crumble scattered around the base and a small silver spoon placed neatly on either side as though the restaurant had no idea it had just delivered a loaded weapon between two people who had already been circling each other all night.
Naima looked down at it, then up at Jaafar, her expression carefully arranged into something unimpressed even though her mouth had already betrayed her by softening at the edges.
“You may have some,” she said, lifting one of the spoons with the grace of a woman granting mercy to a condemned man. “Since you behaved well enough to make it this far.”
Jaafar’s eyes warmed with amusement as he picked up the other spoon, his movements slow and unhurried, that same quiet confidence sitting on him like it had been tailored into his jacket.
“Some,” he repeated.
“Yes, some,” she said, cutting the tip of her spoon through the cheesecake and scooping up the first bite with deliberate precision. “Do not get carried away.”
“I would never.”
Naima gave him a look over the plate. “You have been getting carried away since Debussy.”
“And yet,” he said, watching as she lifted the spoon to her mouth, “you still came to dinner.”
She paused with the spoon halfway there, narrowing her eyes because he had that tone again, that smooth, easy, irritating tone of a man who had not forgotten a single thing she had said and intended to keep using the evidence against her whenever it suited him.
“You are not allowed to use my decisions against me while eating my cheesecake.”
“Our cheesecake.”
“My cheesecake,” she corrected, sliding the bite into her mouth with enough petty elegance to make the correction feel final.
Jaafar did not answer immediately.
He watched her instead.
Not in a way that made her feel uncomfortable, not with the lazy obviousness of a man who did not know how to admire a woman without making a spectacle of himself, but with something quieter and more intent, something that made the candlelight seem warmer against her skin and the restaurant around them blur just slightly at the edges. His gaze flicked from her eyes to the faint trace of berry gloss at the corner of her mouth and back again, and Naima, who had been looked at by men in rooms far brighter and far louder than this, suddenly felt the absurd urge to sit straighter.
“What?” she asked, because if she did not speak, she might start reacting.
Jaafar’s smile came slowly. “Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
“It was polite nothing.”
“There is no such thing as polite nothing when a man is staring like that.”
“I was admiring.”
Naima reached for her napkin with a small roll of her eyes, though the warmth rising under her skin made the gesture less convincing than she would have liked. “Admiring what?”
“The fact that you make eating cheesecake look expensive.”
She stopped.
Then, despite herself, she laughed, soft and disbelieving, the sound slipping out before she could make it smaller. “That is the most ridiculous compliment I have ever heard.”
“Still a compliment.”
“It barely made sense.”
“It made sense to me.”
“You are impossible.”
“And you are stalling because you liked it.”
Naima pointed her spoon at him, which would have looked more threatening if there had not been cheesecake clinging to the end of it. “Do not start diagnosing me over dessert.”
“I’m not diagnosing,” he said, cutting his spoon neatly into the cake. “I’m observing.”
“You observe too much.”
“I remember you saying that.”
“See? That is exactly the problem.”
Jaafar laughed under his breath and took his first bite, his eyes closing for half a second in appreciation before opening again to find her watching him, and the little shift in his expression told her he had caught her before she could pretend she had only been looking at the plate.
“Good?” she asked, as though she had not been caught.
“Very.”
“Acceptable?”
His mouth curved. “No, this one is actually good.”
Naima hummed, pleased despite herself, and leaned forward to take another bite, the two of them falling into a comfortable rhythm of spoons crossing politely over the plate, the cheesecake disappearing in slow, shared pieces while the conversation loosened again, softer now, warmer, the sharpest edges of her restraint dulled by sugar, candlelight, and the steady pleasure of being wanted without being crowded.
For a few minutes, it became almost domestic in the strangest way.
Not familiar enough to be real, not intimate enough to be named, but close enough that when their spoons tapped against each other near the center of the plate, both of them looked up at the same time and laughed like they had done something much more scandalous than reach for the same ribbon of berry compote.
“Greedy,” Naima said.
“You took the last piece of crust.”
“Because it belonged to me.”
“Everything belongs to you?”
“At this table, yes.”
Jaafar’s eyes moved over her face, warm with amusement. “I’m starting to understand that.”
“Good,” she said. “Understanding is important.”
“So is sharing.”
Naima scoffed, but she slid the plate a fraction closer to him anyway, pretending the gesture had nothing to do with the way he was looking at her and everything to do with fairness. “There. Since you are apparently deprived.”
“Thank you.”
“Do not sound so pleased.”
“I like when you pretend to be mean and then do exactly what I want.”
Her eyes snapped to his.
The sentence landed between them with far too much ease, far too much nerve, and Jaafar, shameless as anything, only held her gaze across the flicker of the candle, his spoon resting loosely in his hand while the corner of his mouth lifted like he knew precisely which part of that sentence had brushed against her pride and which part had curled lower, warmer, more dangerously beneath it.
Naima leaned back slowly, her face composed only because she was a woman of discipline and divine assistance.
“You are very comfortable tonight.”
“I am.”
“Too comfortable.”
“No,” he said, dipping his spoon through the soft edge of the cheesecake. “Just comfortable enough.”
“With what?”
“With you.”
Naima’s breath caught so quietly she almost forgave herself for it, but the problem was that Jaafar noticed everything, and his gaze softened for half a second before the flirtation returned, not to cheapen the moment, but to rescue her from having to sit too long inside it.
“You set yourself up,” he said gently.
“I did not.”
“You asked.”
“You were supposed to answer like a normal person.”
“I did.”
“That was not normal.”
“It was honest.”
Naima looked away, because if she did not, her face might do something foolish, something open, something entirely too easy for a man she had known for less than a night. She turned her attention back to the cheesecake, scraping her spoon along the plate for the last good bite, only to find Jaafar watching her again with a look that suggested he had been waiting for exactly that moment.
“What?” she asked.
He did not answer.
Instead, he glanced down at the plate, then at her hand, then at the spoon she had been using all evening.
Naima followed his gaze and immediately narrowed her eyes.
“No.”
Jaafar’s brows lifted, all false innocence and quiet trouble. “I have not said anything.”
“You do not have to. Your face is speaking.”
“What is it saying?”
“It is saying something reckless.”
His smile spread slowly. “Maybe my face is being misunderstood.”
“Your face has been incriminating since you arrived.”
He laughed, but he still did not reach for his own spoon.
Naima stared at him.
He stared back.
The air between them shifted in that subtle, unmistakable way it had been shifting all night, tightening into something too light to be serious and too charged to be casual. Around them, the restaurant continued as if nothing had changed, as if silverware was not suddenly too loud, as if the candle between them had not begun flickering like it knew something, as if Naima’s pulse had not started behaving like a secret she was trying to keep from her own body.
Jaafar leaned forward just slightly, resting his forearm near the edge of the table, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Can I have a bite?” he asked.
Naima looked pointedly at the spoon in his hand. “You have your own spoon.”
“I know.”
“Then use it.”
“I could.”
“You should.”
“I might.”
“Jaafar.”
“Naima.”
Her name in his mouth had become a problem.
It was not dramatic, not overly sweet, not said like he was trying to pull a reaction from her by force, but it had weight every time, soft and deliberate, like he enjoyed the shape of it and wanted her to know. She tightened her fingers around her spoon, because suddenly the small piece of cheesecake resting on it felt absurdly significant, and she hated the way her body had gone still, hated that she was letting him turn dessert into a standoff.
“You are not using my spoon,” she said, though the conviction in her voice had thinned in a way that annoyed her deeply.
Jaafar’s smile did not widen.
If anything, it gentled, which was worse.
“No?” he asked.
“No.”
“All right.”
He said it easily, too easily, and leaned back as though surrendering, but his eyes stayed on her with such steady amusement that Naima immediately knew he had not surrendered at all. He simply waited, patient and insufferable, while she sat there holding the spoon between them, refusing to move it toward her own mouth because that would feel like retreat and refusing to offer it to him because that would feel like defeat.
The silence stretched.
Not awkwardly.
Never awkwardly.
It stretched like silk being pulled slowly between two hands.
Finally, Naima exhaled through her nose, tilting her head as she held his gaze.
“You are doing this on purpose.”
“Yes.”
The honesty was so quick, so clean, so shameless that she almost laughed.
“Unbelievable.”
“I told you I do not like pretending when I want something.”
“And right now you want my spoon?”
His eyes dipped to her mouth for one brief second, then returned to hers.
“Right now,” he said, his voice low enough that it slid beneath the noise of the restaurant and stayed there, “I want the bite you were about to take.”
Naima stared at him.
The fork in the armor was small, but it was there, and she knew he saw it in the way his expression warmed, not triumphant exactly, but pleased, deeply pleased, as though her silence had given him more than a yes would have.
“You are slick,” she murmured.
“You keep saying that like you want me to stop.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
Her lips parted, ready to deny it, but the denial would have been too easy, too thin, and they both knew it.
So instead, with all the dignity she had left, Naima lifted the spoon between them, holding it out across the small table like she was offering a dare rather than dessert.
Jaafar did not move immediately.
Of course he did not.
He let the moment breathe, let her feel the choice she had made, let her sit with the fact that she had given in and that he had not even had to touch her to make it feel intimate. Then he leaned forward slowly, his eyes locked on hers with a confidence so smooth it felt almost unfair, and closed his mouth around her spoon.
Naima forgot how to breathe for half a second.
It was ridiculous.
It was only cheesecake.
It was only a spoon.
It was only a man taking a bite of dessert across a table in a public restaurant where people were laughing, drinking, and minding the kind of business that had nothing to do with them.
But Jaafar did not look away once.
Not when his lips closed around the spoon, not when he drew the bite away with infuriating ease, not when he sat back slowly and swallowed like there was nothing outrageous about what he had just done, like he had not taken the smallest, simplest gesture and made it feel like a private conversation held in a language neither of them had agreed to speak yet.
Naima lowered the spoon to the plate carefully.
Very carefully.
Because if she did anything too quickly, something in her expression might give her away.
Jaafar’s gaze remained on hers, dark and amused and warm with a want he was disciplined enough not to rush, but bold enough not to hide.
“That was good,” he said.
Naima looked at him, her face calm only through the grace of generations of women before her who had survived worse men with less charm.
“The cheesecake?”
His smile curved. “That too.”
Her eyes narrowed, though the heat in her cheeks was becoming impossible to ignore. “You are a menace.”
“I said thank you.”
“You did not.”
“I was about to.”
“No, you were about to say something slick.”
“I can still do both.”
Naima reached for her water because the cocktail, the candle, the cheesecake, and the man across from her had formed some kind of conspiracy against her nervous system. “Do not.”
“Thank you,” he said, and the politeness of it made her look back against her better judgment. “For sharing.”
The words were simple.
Too simple.
But his eyes made them worse.
Naima pressed her lips together, trying to smother the smile pulling at them, while Jaafar sat there looking far too pleased with himself, his own spoon abandoned beside the plate like he had never needed it in the first place.
“You planned that,” she said.
“I hoped for it.”
“That is not better.”
“It is more honest.”
“You are too honest when it benefits you.”
“And you are too pretty when you are trying not to react.”
Naima went still.
He said it gently enough that it did not feel like a line, but directly enough that it landed anyway, and she hated the way her entire body seemed to register the compliment before her mind could decide what to do with it.
“I am reacting normally,” she said.
“No,” he replied, leaning back in his chair, his expression warm with restrained satisfaction. “You are reacting like a woman who wants to pretend she is unaffected, but keeps forgetting her eyes are giving her away.”
“My eyes are minding their business.”
“They are not.”
“They absolutely are.”
“They keep coming back to my mouth.”
Naima’s spoon hit the plate with a delicate clink.
For one second, she looked genuinely scandalized, and Jaafar’s smile deepened like that reaction was going directly into whatever private collection of details he had been building all night.
“You are arrogant,” she said.
“I am observant.”
“You are delusional.”
“Maybe,” he said, voice smooth as the wine in his glass, “but you looked again.”
Naima stared at him across the table, caught between the urge to throw her napkin at him and the much more dangerous urge to laugh, and because the second option gave away too much, she chose a third and picked up her spoon again, scooping the final piece of cheesecake with the slow, deliberate calm of a woman trying to reclaim her territory.
Then she lifted the bite to her own mouth.
And this time, she held his gaze as she ate it.
Jaafar’s expression changed by a fraction.
A small thing.
Barely there.
But she saw it.
The amusement in his eyes darkened into something quieter, his jaw tightening just enough to tell her he had felt the move exactly the way she intended him to, and the victory that bloomed inside her was so satisfying she nearly smiled before she swallowed.
“You have maybe fifteen more minutes before I remember I have standards.”
Jaafar’s gaze stayed on hers, warm, amused, and entirely too sure.
“Then I better make them count.”
tags <3 : @saintwrld @lov3lylxvender @melaninjoys @cinnamoncunt @healthenature @kryptonianheart @sagittalust @tenacioustestamentambush @tatumcelts @jakardyz @freaky1nterlude @daliscrim @michealsapplehead @asiatarg @imgenuinelyinsane @mrs-dylanobrien265 @plan3tch1ld @mamasturn ( lmk if you want to be added or removed)
Michael had kept his fantasies to himself while growing up, he went from being a hormonal teen to a young adult that couldn’t handle being in a vicinity of a woman due to the nerves.
until he met you.
you were a goddess, all curvy and beautiful with glossy brown skin and a sinfully sweet voice. michael had crushed on you and winded up asking you out in the most weirdest ways possible—while drunk—but enough of the background.
he and you often made out when things got intimate, but he never let you go farther than that, always getting up with a painfully hard cock and rushing to the bathroom to clean the cum stain from the front of his pants.
but now? he couldn’t back out.
he was settled on the bed in just his boxers with you standing in front of him, slowly stripping out of your clothes—his throat bobs when he swallows, eyes trying there hardest not to look down at your stomach, breasts, or the valley down to your pussy.
“cmon, angel, look at me.” you cup his face, forcing his eyes onto you, stepping in between his legs.
his breathing picks up and he feels his cock jump in his boxers as your tits hover just in front of his face. “love i-… i don’t think i-.. Ah!” he cries out when you settle onto his lap, bare cunt right on top of his clothed dick.
you smirk when you feel him throb beneath you. “you’re so hard, is that all for me baby?” you purr, slowly rocking your hips. he gasps and bite into his lip, large hands hovering awkwardly over your hips—you notice and raise them to cup your tits. “Mm.. feel so good, you feel good too daddy?” you say teasingly.
“Yo—you’re killing me, girl.. Oh gosh—“ he feels the incoming orgasm and tries to push you off. “Nuh uh, don’t do that.” you cluck your tongue and get off his lap, despite his swiftness to retreat as usual, he was disappointed at the loss of your weight.
“take off your boxers.” you order, and he obeys, hasn’t he always?
the fabric of his boxers now lay on the floor, thick cock twitching and slapping his stomach occasionally, you hum with delight and push at his chest for him to lay back. He does.
you crawl ontop of him and look down at his wide eyes. “you ready?” you ask, one hand cupping his warm cheek. “y-yes mama, i think so.” he swallows.
you grin and sink down onto his cock, he gasps and slowly sits up. “Jesus.. oh my goodness, i-…” he groans. it was cute, the way he was about to bottom out already.
you bounce erratically ontop of him, ass slapping against his thighs as you moan. “god, mikey! you’re so big, feel so good!” you brace your hands on his chest.
“i think-… i think im gon’ come..” he rasps, curls framing his face beautifully. “oh god.. ah.. ah..” when you glance down, you swear you see tears trickling down his face. “aww baby..” you coo, bouncing faster.
“you wanna come? come with me then, fuck.. come in me baby.” your lips are glossy and michael cant help but whine, his cock throbbing inside you before he shoots his seed, hands gripping the sheets.
your orgasm follows through not long after, sweat coating your skin as you pant, but when you move to get off—michael stops you. “W-wait..” his damp eyes find yours. “can we go again..? please?”
there were moments in life where you struggled to see the purpose of where it began, the loneliness gnawed at your insides and creates a dull ache in your bones.
in those moments, you looked for something sharp to comfort you, to take out all the pain on your veins with swiftness—you haven’t done that in a while.
though, the scars were permanent. it was a shame of yours that you covered up, scared people would look at it and think ‘weakling’ or ‘attention seeker.’
but not michael.
never him.
that wasn’t the first thing he noticed about you, he admired your presence and how you carried yourself, he got with you because you were a soft soul that had so much love to give, and kept it all for him.
when he saw your scars, the thick and the thin zagged lines, his heart ached. the thought of his lady, the love of his life, having a pain so strong she took it out on herself, broke him.
so whenever your arms or thighs were exposed—he draped kisses along the lines, letting you know that he didn’t see it at all flaw, but as something you endured and survived.
author note: this is based off a post i made about michael telling a fan to promise not to hurt herself anymore. im feeling very sad today.
