Perla🪴

“A…a joke?”

In mild concern, the two of you can only watch as stoic, composed Yaga lets out what sounded like a strangled sob. Before whispering to another PR manager on-site, “Write a company statement.” 

“Oi-” Gojo pipes up, “Why would you need a company statement when I’m perfectly- user Fushidaddy type another pick-up line and I’m blocking you.”

The dark-haired man chokes through almost tears, “Just start writing already.”

You try to smooth things over from your seat right beside your best friend, this was not what you’d anticipated after Gojo had practically begged on his knees asking for you to join him in one of his Bubble lives. Then again, what else could you expect from anything to do with him? “Ah, it’s alright. I don’t mind-”

“I do.” 

Snowy brows furrowed, he’s leaning in closer to the camera to take in every traitorous word- 

satorusxkitten: okay but guys think ab it!! he’s rlly talented but no actor so it’s okay if he’s ass at pretending to not be a simp!! can u blame him??

“Blocked.”

P1BANG: took a shot every time he stares at her thinking he’s slick now I’m at the hospital (this live started 3 minutes ago)

“Blocked.”

Fushidaddy: Pretty girl, blink twice if you’re being held hostage x.

“Blocked and reported what the-” Gojo frowns glancing over at you from the corner of his eyes, (thinking he’s slick, thank you very much). Before catching the way you lean in dramatically to flutter your eyes- “Don’t you dare blink.”

As you’re bursting into ribbing laughter, so are the sheer amount of comments asking about you- and he can’t help but entertain the sneaking suspicion that his own viewers were here simply because of you.

At least, that’s why he would’ve kept watching.

Fushidaddy2: Put us out of this pining misery or end the live, kid.

“I thought I blocked you.”

“Okay then.” You clap your hands once to gain the room’s attention, slightly worried about the blood vessel about to burst near Yaga’s temple. “Satoru, I think you brought me here to do a Q n’ A, right?”

“Well yes…” Gojo’s grumbling underneath his breath - that was the initial plan, to finally introduce one of the most precious parts of him to the fandom. 

He just didn’t account for the possibility that everyone on the livestream would fall in love with you - when that was clearly supposed to be his job! “Alright- ask away, and no funny business. I’m looking at you, user Fushidaddy.”

sugu-rizzed: Are you single?

“How dare you-”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” You’re nudging the towering man right next to you, subtly moving his hand off of that treacherous block button. “Lighten up, Satoru—”

“Yes, ma’am. Correct, ma’am.”

What a sight it was. 

Honestly, you’re sure you hear at least several management staff gasp at just how easily you’d shut up their arguable star. Being the center of one of the fastest bands to sky-rocket into the k-pop world hadn’t made it any easier for an agent to pose authority over Gojo Satoru - Yaga was barely hanging on by a thread and he submitted at least a few resignation letters every week.

Once the on-set whispers break out, you’re squirming in your seat. Rattling off yet another question-

ge.akuge: what do you think about the allegations of him wearing wigs?

“Well-”

“Blocked.”

KunaLuvrr: does he wear wigs?

stanjutsu: will he wear wigs?

Fushidaddy3: Y’know I don’t wear wigs, baby, x. 

“I-”

“You- blocked.”

haibarabias: Did u know he was yapping about you non-stop on the last live?

You’re blinking in slight surprise, turning to Gojo - who’d now stuffed himself into his oversized designer hoodie until you could only make out the tips of his ears. His bright, burning red ears. “Really?” Turning to the feverishly nodding staff at his silence, “Really?”

One of the fresh-faced interns in charge of lighting tries to hold back a squeal, “Y-yeah! We tried to keep a tally of your name to edit on-screen but it went into…the triple…digits- eep!”

“E-hem.” Gojo cuts the newbie off with a slight glare, snitches. The whole lot. “I was just talking to them about what a boor you are and to be prepared-”

realistic.one: liar, you were giggling and kicking your feet the whole time-

“-which you would have known if you actually watched me.” Finishing off with relish, he’s mockingly glowering down at you. The perfect vision of a neglected best friend - if it wasn’t for the way that he was flushed all the way from his cheeks to the back of his neck, that is. 

And then your fingerpads reach out to pat the silky crown of his bangs, soothingly. “I do watch you, Toru. I must have missed that stream, sorry about that.”

He melts. And there’s tens of thousands to watch him.

“Y-yeah?” Gojo’s briefly snapping a scowl at the screen, already knowing that this particular clip of his voice breaking would be making rounds on the internet tomorrow. Crossing his arms with a huff, he acts like he isn’t nuzzling his head even closer for you to caress, “Tch, you make a shitty best friend, my star.”

Somewhere across the room, Yaga puts his head in his hands and sighs. 

sugu-rizzed: My star?? Guys is he…

CandyKento: that moment when you highkey ship them but realize bro has no game

sunflowerboy: Gojo-san fighting!!

Fushidaddy7: I could treat you better, girl x. 

torutoaster: wonder what her type is from our boys^^

It’s as if the room itself had hiked a few degrees in temperature, and you’re darting your eyes away from Gojo’s burning ones. From the staff that was snickering behind their hands, giving you knowing looks. 

Instead, choosing to distract yourself by answering that last question– “Hmm, my ideal type from Six Eyes, huh?”

“Hah- what a silly little question.” Your best friend cocks his head with a smirk, “Why- tell ‘em, my star. Who else has the visuals? The dance moves? The charisma? Of course, it’s-”

“Suguru.” You smile innocently, whilst the flashy idol next to you crumbles. “He’s such a sweetheart.”

returnofP1BANG: five more shots for that wet cat look he gave her

Fushidaddy9: Ouch (lol).

sugu-rizzed: F in the chat

CandyKento: f

sunflowerboy: F

Fushidaddy10: F

ge.akuge: F

“Tch- childish.” Gojo scoffs at the wave of that same letter flooding his comment section, he’s counting about twenty…before typing his own ‘F’ in there. 

Immediately reinvigorated, he’s stabbing a determined finger in the air. “But- but I have something that none of y’all and that stinky Suguru doesn’t have-” And it takes every ounce of will, every shred of shamelessness in his body to wrap two strong arms around you and crash you to his broad chest. Emulating all those hours he’s spent watching k-dramas with you, Gojo’s barking out. “-she’s mine!”

Fushidaddy14: Yeah. Your best friend. LMAO.

“Blocked-”

Masamichi Yaga handed in yet another resignation letter that very same night.

Which was likely why the livestream didn’t last too long after that little catastrophe- and it’s about a few hours later once you’d safely made it home with excuses of work the next day, and Gojo was lying wide awake on his phone, that it happens.

It is sent to him, by none other than Geto - the most unthinkable, unspeakable link to a fan-made YouTube video aptly titled ‘100 Gojo Satorus vs. trying not to make a fool of himself in front of his baddie best friend challenge (failed)”

Edited and clipping every single moment he’d completely n’ utterly destroyed his cool idol façade during the brief live. Every (fine, not-so-slick) glance your way, every blush, every voice crack.

Fuck.

In two seconds he’s sending Geto a paragraph of middle finger emojis, and in one he’s slowly downloading the video…for research purposes. 

.

.

.

As a celebrity hair stylist, Miwa Kasumi had never felt that she wasn’t paid enough - after all, nearly unlimited contact with her favorite idols and she gets to see her work come to life on stage? What could go wrong?

Well…she’s feeling her weary eyelid twitch just about the twelfth time she hears the same repeated meme audio blaring from Gojo Satoru’s phone. 

Headphone-less. On full volume. 

All on the set of one of the most important comeback shoots of this year, the much-anticipated music video for their single ‘Blue.’ Penned by none other than the giggling idiot that was her client. 

And it was only considering all her years of professionalism that she didn’t whack the phone out of his hands the way she’s been dying to for the past hour. “Gojo-san, you are quite the fan of that video, hm?”

Subtle cues- subtle cues!

But Gojo was never one for subtle cues, as she has the misfortune of learning. And he only blinks up from his padded seat in front of her, “Huh? Oh yes-” In fact, increasing the volume of the dramatically edited fan video - one of those crack compilations she had the guilty pleasure of watching before bed sometimes. 

But Gojo didn’t seem to be watching for the laughs, his twinkling sapphire eyes were only locked on one thing on-screen - you. 

Sighing at a short clip of you from the livestream a few days ago, grimacing at one of his bragging monologues. Giggling, he zooms in on you- “Isn’t she gorgeous–?”

“O-oh!” Now, introductions and love for artistry might be two of the main perks of working in such close proximity to idols - but who could forget the gossip. Immediately perking up, she’s setting down one of the curlers and working on fluffing up Gojo’s ethereal white hair for the camera. “Girlfriend, Gojo-san?”

“Not at all.” Dreamily, he’s taking a blatant screenshot of the zoomed-in visual of your face. A man in heaven. “Not. At. All.”

Huh? Maybe all celebrities were just eccentric. What was that one saying about never meeting your heroes? 

Well, it seems that the universe decided that Miwa hadn’t learned enough of her lesson just yet- which is why she’s startled by the swoosh–! of curtains being drawn back in the dressing room, and the heavy footsteps of none other than Gojo’s bandmates. 

Who could mistake them?

Geto Suguru, long inky hair tied back, slow strides almost predatory, is the first to reach the two - one of them shivering in rapt excitement, the other glued to his phone. “Oi- Satoru, they want you for your solo shot.”

Gojo grunts noncommittally, hands gripping his phone. “Hm-”

Irritation gripping the other’s tone, his best friend taps his feet. “Satoru.”

“Mm.”

“Satoru.” 

“…”

“You little-” 

It’s a damn miracle that the thin glass of Gojo’s phone screen doesn’t crack with how swiftly Geto’s snatching it from the other’s hands. Only to get a glimpse of the screen and have his mouth drop.

“Satoru…” 

“…Suguru.”

Pierced brows furrowing, Adam’s apple bobbing with a guffaw at the blatant screenshot of you displayed. Clearly taken from that one compilation video that he had sent the link to a few days ago. Their center gulps. “Satoru, what…the…f-”

“Gojo-san! Gojo-san–!”

The youngest - Haibara’s - sweet, sing-song voice dips through the tense dressing room as he stumbles in - all sunny smiles and the cutest bowl cut. Followed excruciatingly closely by a cameraman recording behind-the-scenes content, “Kento and I are done, so Director Shoko wants you on set now or she said she’ll do some violent things that can’t be said on camera~”

“Of course, of course– you should go, you strange little lecher- I mean, Satoru.” Geto waves the other over, “C’mere Yu, let your elder show you a little something.”

Gojo blanches, “No-”

“Oh? What is it–?”

Gripping onto Geto’s jacket, “No.”

Careful of the rolling camera, he’s mercilessly sidling up to the other and flashing the latest addition to Gojo’s photo album - that soft, slightly blurry screenshot of you. Simply smiling. “Oh.”

“‘Oh’ is right.” Geto’s smizing out such a cat-like grin at the camera- this was sure to have the internet talking. Maybe even screaming. And as the staff with the lens steps closer in curiosity, he’s swiftly covering the screen, “Let’s just say our Satoru is ah- quite the fan of our cute little fans’ creations.”

Haibara titters, “Enough that it’s filling up his phone storage-” Catching Gojo’s groan, ready to jump out of his seat- “Ah, my apologies, Gojo-san~”

Geto nods, “No no, he’s right.”

“He’s not.”

“I am?”

“And remember, kids—” The pierced man calls out, finger hovering over the glaring screen of the phone. 

Gojo gasps- “No-” Realizing. Shooting to his feet. “No no no-”

Registering the way his other best friend was giving particular attention to that bright, burning DELETE button. “-always help your friends in need.”

The scream that Gojo Satoru, most polished idol of the 21st century, lets off is devastated. 

Enough that the cameraman - watching each interaction like a hawk - jumps, enough that even ruthless Geto Suguru himself feels a semblance of slight regret. Almost turning his thumb over to click on the recycle bin before Gojo can cry himself hoarse- until he’s scrolling just an inch - an inch - along the full camera roll and finding…more…screenshots?

About 75,328 in his album, to be exact. Of you. 

He looks at Gojo Satoru - knees cradled in such a pitiful fetal position on the floor, whimpering at the loss of his prized screenshot. And he looks at the 75,328 screenshots. He looks back at Gojo. Then at the screenshots, all 75,328.

Then back at Gojo.

And Geto doesn’t even feel bad about the good kick he’s planting on the other’s back, “Get out.”

If the dressing room was a hellhole made to ruin Gojo’s life - Geto being the devil incarnate, of course - then being on set wasn’t any better. 

The long lens of Shoko’s famed camera stares him down like it knew exactly how he was acting minutes prior, and any false façade of coolness would easily break through. 

“Ugh…” Shoko’s crinkling her nose in slight distaste at the footage playing on her screen, motioning for the rest of the crew to start putting each prop back in place for a reshoot. 

Make-up airy, white bandages haphazardly falling from his eyes, surrounded by sparkling ivory decorations of stars; it was supposed to be something on theme with the song, something romantic, something that didn’t make her want to hack up her coffee in a bad way.

But she could feel her stomach churning already. Leveling a glare at Gojo that’s enough to make the much-taller man flinch- “You- if you can’t do the sparkly idol thing, just try looking at the camera and smiling. It’s all we need for the solo shot today.” Tapping her camera, “Look at the lens like you’d look at a lover.”

Voice octaves higher, “A-a lover?” 

His dignity was scarred! 

“You got this, Gojo-san! Twentieth try’s the charm–!” Haibara’s voice echoes. “Ah- or was this the thirtieth…somewhere along the line I lost count.”

“Thirty-seventh.” Nanami helpfully supplies.

His reputation as a reliable elder ruined!

“Satoru, good luck! Geto called me- I don’t know why but um, good luck!”

He didn’t call himself the king of idols for nothing!

In a split-second, Gojo perks at the slightly-metallic sound of your voice through the other end of the line. Breath hitched, flashing irises widened- it doesn’t take him even a nanosecond to snap his head towards where Geto was holding his phone up for the sound to project.

Your name flashing on the caller ID, Geto’s smile priggish at the reaction wrenched out of his best friend. 

And Gojo can’t help but let the mere sound of your voice make him smile—

“There we go- that’s the shot! That’s the shot.”

The music video is edited and uploaded only a few weeks later, that behind-the-scenes following hastily afterwards. 

It was a hit, of course, as every management and billboard had already predicted it would be. But what was unpredictable were the eagle-eyed comments-

SIX EYES - ‘BLUE’ MV

torutoaster: KYAAA THEY REALLY FED US LOOK AT HOW OUR TORU AND SUGU LOOOKKK

ryomichael: not even a satoru bias but…wow…his visuals…the way he looked at the camera made my heart just go…wow

zbstan: stream this song (and esp Gojo’s bridge) for clear skin guys!!

SIX EYES - ‘BLUE’ MV Behind [All]

getosuggs: Geto and Haibara giggling at Gojo’s phone screen…wonder what they were looking at…

torutoaster: wonder why the filming of toru’s solo shot was muted?? strange but as long as we get more content of my bias oh well^^

sugu-rizzed: @torutoaster I think because they were on a call? Oooo imagine if it was Gojo’s best friend from the livestream…

mahitoe: @sugu-rizzed smh delulu shippers

zbstan: @mahitoe STFU look at that caller ID ik they tried to blur it but like there was an anonymous hair stylist on set who said it was so GUYS IT COULD BE-

Fushidaddy17: I would’ve had no problem looking cool for her aha x.

.

.

.

“Takada-chan! Takada-ch-AAAAAAN–!”

Honestly, what a woman to be able to smile politely in the face of a big, beefy high schooler ripping his shirt off from the stands of the stadium. The Idol Star Athletics Championships were always quite rambunctious considering the star-studded players, especially this year. 

All lined up in their groups, donning flashy colored tracksuits. 

And as the boy starts crying, Geto winces–looking back at their own section of fans invited to attend the annual celebrity sports tournament. Some squealing at the feeling of Geto’s stare, some waving banners hysterically - but thank goodness that none were as bad as-

“MY STAAAAR–!”

Geto takes that back very quickly.

Deadpan, exhausted- the leader of Six Eyes is turning to stare down their infamous center, the exact one who’d been hogging every headline for the past few weeks for his exact antics with you. “Satoru…what are you doing?”

Ignoring him for your figure seated at the very front row–“MY STAR, YOU BETTER CHEER FOR ME.” You pretend not to hear him as he waves frantically, and Geto reaches over to tug Gojo back in line. “Oi- OIII, DON’T LOOK AT NANAMI LOOK AT ME!”

On second thought, he backs away into another group’s line. 

You weren’t the only one looking at him now- so were the announcers. Seasoned entertainers who’ve probably never seen a scene in all their years, “Aaaand over in this row we have Six Eyes. Their center - that Gojo boy - seems to be a little preoccupied, no?”

“With the girl? Oh, when is he not? Have you seen the clips from that livestream?”

“Ahh–you know my wife showed me and-” Seemingly catching the eye of whatever higher-up, or maybe the way that Yaga was swooning in his bench as if he was about to faint right then and there. “Ehem- anyways, welcome all to this year’s The Idol Star Athletics Championships–!”

It goes off without a hitch. 

Well, as much as it could with Gojo Satoru being in attendance. 

Which meant having to wrangle him back by the scruff of his neck every time he meandered off to the shrieking stands to ask you to pet his tired head - “for good luck.”

Which meant having him blow kisses to the stands suspiciously near you as he dribbled expertly during the basketball event, their team tied with yet another idol group.

With only a few seconds on the clock, every eye glued to his sprinting figure - breath stilling just as soon as he does near the netted hoop. Gojo had jumped, and pointed straight at your figure—“This one’s for my star.”

Before he swung. 

And…

…missed.

But that was all water under the bridge.

It didn’t matter that it was a failure recorded in 4K on hundreds of cameras, it didn’t matter that you’d been the one laughing the most while watching his precious shot completely miss the hoop and bounce sadly on the floor. 

It didn’t matter that his ears were still burning red from embarrassment by the last leg of the tournament - the track-and-field events. 

Geto had already won the gold medal in archery, Haibara with silver in football, and even woe-is-me Nanami had snagged a silver in fencing. 

And this time, this year’s new addition - one of those borrowed item races you’d play in middle school, those ones where he’d have to run to a box and pick out something silly to bring over the finish line - was about to be his turn. 

“Ready…”

Gojo’s steadying into position, making sure his back flexed just right so that you’d be able to see from the stands. And if the way that Nanami sighed was anything to go by then it was working, right? 

“Set…”

Azure eyes locked on the small wooden box that loomed a few yards in front of him.

“Go!”

It’s a blur- one moment his expensive designer sneakers touch the ground, and the next he’s one of the first idols to run over to the box. Fighting to stick his hand inside, Gojo’s sure he elbows someone’s dolled-up face to grab the first slip of paper he can. 

Tugging it out with a grin, the neat typing stares back at him mockingly—‘Someone you love.’

Fuck.

Why did it have to be this one?

The announcer’s booming baritone breaks through- “What’s this? Six Eyes’ Gojo seems to have stalled? What could that paper say?”

“Run!” Geto’s voice calls over the chaos of countless other artists bee-lining towards their own missions, their own ‘item.’ He’s waving at Gojo impatiently, “Run, you fool-” 

“Gojo-san, you got this–!”

In a confused hurry, he’s darting a look down at the staff manning the box - some older, dryly deadpan man who merely takes a peek at his slip of paper and gives a thumbs up. And Gojo could have sworn he smirks.

Well.

“Oh- oh, he’s running.” Both hosts gripping onto the edges of their tables, “The legs on that boy- Gojo Satoru is overtaking his peers easily- ah, we promise we’re not biased.”

Yaga and the rest of his overworked PR team would have to forgive Gojo for this later- but his legs are turning towards your direction in an instant, just as they always have. Running. Sprinting. 

“Gojo- Gojo! Is it true you two eloped?”

“An insider source is saying that your best friend was present on-set of Blue- any comment?”

“Are you two dating?”

It’s like he’s running through a tunnel where the only thing he can see is you at the end. Announcers’ voices cotton in his mind- “Oh, we think we know where this is going, ladies and gentlemen.” The only voice his popped ears can hear are yours-

“S-Satoru–!” You’re shrieking, nearly as loud as the throng of fans and cameras surrounding you. Clawing down his beefy upper bicep as your best friend leans his long torso over the barrier of the stands and throws you into an easy princess carry, “Are you crazy-”

“Nah, we’re gonna win, my star.” He has his arms steady, jaw clicking - and you can’t help but feel his strength thrum gently in his arms. Those lucky to be near enough for the entire ordeal would later claim to tabloids that they’d never seen Gojo Satoru this serious.

This…responsible when he’s carefully striding with you in his hold - an easy first place running past the finish line. 

Stars in his eyes, mouth turned up into a smile that twitched when he gazed down at your own. Wantingly. 

But he only hugged you in thanks, and took your half-joking swats with a smile. 

They couldn’t quite blatantly show the cameras what Gojo’s little paper had required him to bring, but you got to keep Gojo’s gold medal after the tournament - it was always meant for you, anyway.

And he gets an earful from Yaga, Geto, Haibara (though that was more grumbling about why those last two weren’t the ones carried like a pretty princess instead), and a few articles speculating your relationship, and a Twitter timeline having a complete meltdown over clips of his race. 

A video of those particular few seconds with you in his arms racked up a solid few million views in only a few hours since it was posted- but honestly, one million of those views might just be from him alone.

@torutoaster: THE WAYYYY HE CARRIED HER OMG- GOD I SEE WHAT YOU’VE DONE FOR OTHERS-

@CandyKento: did anyone watch the isacs? no but i am soooo curious what gojo’s item was-

@chorusito replying to @CandyKento: no but to bring his ehem ehem- “best friend” it has to be something scandalous right~

@CandyKento replying to @chorusito: right??

@mahitoe replying to @chorusito: lmfao idols can’t date. you guys cant handle anything it was obvs just a friend or something. delulu. 

@sugurusshampoobottle replying to @mahitoe: FIGHT ME.

@satorusxkitten: gojo and geto’s arms are so big!! fuck!! 

@sugu-rizzed: That staff-member manning the box saw what the paper said oh what I would pay to know…

@fiendingforsixeyes: AHHHH I BET IT WAS SOMETHING OR SMTH HE LOVED IK U GOJO U LOVERBOY

@Fushidaddy33: She would’ve looked better in my arms tbh…

Gojo reports that last account.

.

.

.

“So, who do you think is the cutest from Six Eyes?”

“Me.”

“And who do you think is the best dancer?”

“Me.”

“The most romantic?”

“Ah…” Regular interviews could be tedious - but an interview with a lie detector strapped to you somehow surpassed even the ninth chamber of hell. And Gojo thinks that anyone would shrink under the beady, unwavering gaze of the hostess interrogating- ah, interviewing him right now.

Not a hair out of place, not a lie she wouldn’t be able to catch.

Damn that management for signing him up for one of those lie detection interviews - part of him already felt that this was punishment for rejecting Yaga’s seventh resignation letter since the chaos of the Idol Star Athletics Championships.

And damn Geto for goading him into going first.

The rest of the group watch leisurely from their comfort of a sofa away from the spotlight - thankfully lie detector-less for now - tittering as their bandmate cowers. Gulping through a slightly-wobbly grin, “Me. I’m the most romantic.”

Nodding as the polygraph examiner gives the thumbs up for truth.

“Not quite humble, but quite honest aren’t you, Mister Gojo?”

Gojo’s cracking his neck in his uncomfortable seat, the sooner he can get this over with, the better. Still strapped with leather buckles, “I think you’ll find that I’m very honest about things I truly feel.”

Geto sputters through faux coughs- “Pfft– Liar.”

Nanami looks away- murmuring just loud enough for the microphone to pick up, “Ehem…fibber.”

And Haibara? Haibara merely snaps his fingers in realization- “Aaaah–! I see, they’re calling you a ‘liar’, Gojo-san, because you aren’t honest about your feelings towards-”

“Ah ah!” He tries to make a motion to shut up, but only ends up rocking the chair from side-to-side. And Gojo already knew he was done for the very second he’s catching the hostess’s eyes gleam at this juicy morsel of information.

“Well, I actually did have…” Trailing off, she’s shuffling through her pack of pre-written questions. Painted nails fingering one at the very back that she seemed to have stowed away for when the interviews took a particular turn, she clears her throat. Saying your name-

“Impressively high heart rate.” The examiner drones out, bushy brows raising at what his screen flashed. Just from hearing your name.

As his self-proclaimed friends cackle - those traitors - the hostess shows off her pearly smile, “Mister Gojo, is it true that she’s your best friend?”

Gojo shifts slightly, “Very true.” Truth.

“And she is very beautiful- correct?”

“Very true.” Truth.

“And smart?”

“Very true-” Truth.

“And you’re in love with her?”

“Very tr-” He gasps, “Wait no-”

To which the older lady cocks her head in genuine confusion, “Despite all the shipping- well, it’s all everyone’s been talking about online these days- you’ve never done anything? You don’t have feelings for her, young man?”

“N…no.” 

Geto raises his hand in a split-second, almost as if he was some model student in a classroom. “You’re mistaken, my lady, he doesn’t have feelings for her. He has a lot of feelings for her-”

“Suguru!”

The final nail on Gojo’s coffin might just have been the way the polygraph examiner tries - and fails - to keep a largely neutral face. Instead raising his fist in the air, into a blatant thumbs down, next word tinged in amusement. “Lie.”

Gojo fights against the belts tied to his wrist, monitoring his heartbeat, his deception. “It’s faulty, I tell you- faulty. Did you know that polygraphs are actually only 80% accurate and–”

“So you honestly wouldn’t mind if your best friend showed up with a fresh new boyfriend to introduce to you?”

“-I would rather die.”

It’s silence.

Gojo basking in the shock of what he’d just blurted out, everyone else squinting at the overtly clear thumbs up that the examiner was gesturing. A truth. Trying to see whether it would change shape whether they stared hard enough.

Clearing her throat, their seasoned hostess is the first to speak- “Ah- well, that was certainly, um.” Shuffling her cards, she stares at the rest of Six Eyes in bewilderment and they stare in bewilderment right back. 

Muttering, “I wish my husband was more like that- anyways.” She leans in close to Gojo, “So if I showed you…” Waving her hand at a few of the tech specialists in charge of the projector behind him, “-this picture with a particular known tattoo artist?”

It wasn’t even a question.

And a damn good thing it wasn’t, because as soon as the screen behind Gojo lights up with a paparazzi shot - one of you, from years and years ago when you were dating that damn tch- asshole Ryomen Sukuna. All bathed in the light of the city at night, pretty hands in his, smile blinding - oh-so-gorgeous that he feels his heart stop.

Literally.

There’s a slight, sharp beeeeep–! that emanates from the lie detector—

Geto stands, “Satoru, what-”

“Gojo-san, are you okay-”

“I know CPR.” Hell, even Nanami was looking on with some degree of concern, “But I wouldn’t do it on you, no offense.”

As the examiner fiddles with his contraption, the hostess is the one to wonder whether she should call over the medical personnel in the studio. Reaching over her lil’ interrogation table to tap Gojo’s pale hand lightly- “U-uh, Mister Gojo-”

Gojo gasps- “Huh? Oh yeah-” 

The steady rhythm of his pulse beeps once more on the monitor, albeit it slightly faster than before after he’s setting his eyes on you. After his poor, pathetic heart had skipped a beat just at the mere sight of you. 

“He’s ruining the picture.” Gojo’s nose bridge wrinkles, gaze straying back to your smile the way an anchor follows a ship to see. No matter how far and deep they may go. The examiner signs out ‘truth’ as the other man continues, “Can you crop the buffoon out and give me five printed copies of that photo, please?”

“Eh?”

“Eh?”

“Gojo-san, eh?”

Nanami rubs his aching temples, “This is why I’d never give him CPR.”

That particular episode easily became one of the most watched of the season. 

Six Eyes’ Gojo Satoru Takes a Lie Detector Test | Heart-stopping Revelations!

torutoaster: WHAT THE FUCK WHEN THEY SAID HEART-STOPPING THEY MEANT IT FRFR-

eathaibara: the pure aura to have your heartbeat stop then the first thing you do is simp over your girl.

100menvsmpreg: @eathaibara wait so are they actually dating?

fluffykento: @100menvsmpreg worse

jennyk10: @100menvsmpreg I meannn-

ButterSixKpop: Need me a real freak like this.

CandyKento: kento is so real ngl

getosuggs: @CandyKento the only thing we love more than satoru is bullying satoru

fiendingforsixeyes: LMAO GUYS HAVE YOU SEEN THAT PERSON GOIN’ ON RANTS UNDER SUKUNA’S INSTA-

Gojo didn’t read these comments, unfortunately, or see any of the edits they were making of him on tiktok. He was too busy spamming comments of his own on Sukuna’s official instagram. 

Very colorfully-worded ones. 

.

.

.

“What’s your name?”

“Gojo da strongest.”

“What are you drawing?”

“A star.”

For an eight-year-old, Gojo thinks you had the most pensive expression on your face after that particular answer. Brows scrunched cutely, and your tongue sticking slightly between missing teeth- and it was alright, Gojo wasn’t a stranger to the staring.

He knew how to handle all the cooing from aunties at the marketplace, he was used to all the praises for being the fastest kid in all of primary school. 

So surely the great, wise, nine-year-old Gojo Satoru could give a fellow classmate as much time as you needed to muster up the very best compliment-

“It’s kinda ugly.”

“Wha- huh?” How dare you- Gojo’s pouting, snowy brows scrunching until you’re giggling. “My star is not ugly.” Sticking a thumb proudly between his puffed-up chest, “And I should know because I’m going to be a star.”

You’re nodding, seriously. “Mm, that’s good.” 

And that makes him falter- just a bit, because true superstars never falter. “Y-you think so?” Okay, maybe they falter a bit. But in Gojo’s defense, no one had ever taken his little daydream so seriously, “You don’t think it’s stupid? That I can’t go up on stage?”

“No, why would it be?” Oh. You’re tapping his smudged crayon drawing, “But that’s still an ugly star.”

Stomping, “Is not.”

“Is too.”

“Is…” He looks at you - in all you sparkly humor - then back at his fifteen-pointed star. He looks at you, then back at his brown-colored star for “artistic purposes.” He looks at you, then back at his star with a spotty face on it because it reminded him of Patrick Star.  He looks at you and-

“Fine…”

“Let me teach you how to draw an actual star.” You’re stumbling over your words a little, and it offends the great Gojo Satoru that he should be taught by such a child like you, a year younger. 

But he does have to admit that you drew pretty nice stars. 

Crossing his arms with a pout, “Fine then- teach me how to draw stars-” And the grin breaking your tiny face was too bright, too pretty. Suddenly the classroom is too humid, and he’s scrambling for something - anything - to throw back in your face. “-star.”

“‘Star’, huh?” But you only smile, “I like that.”

Only to have it thrown back in his. 

In a way he’s remembering nearly two decades later, your hand in his, your mouth near his earpiece. Quieter than the producers screaming in his ears, but louder than his very own racing heartbeat.

“Take it easy, Satoru.” You’re humming, over the velvety-smooth voice of the MAMA award announcer. The one that was ecstatically saying the name of the very band that Gojo might just have forgotten he was a part of the moment your hands wound ‘round him. 

You lift up his dark blindfold, part of his outfit for the day. “Go up, you fool.”

It wasn’t every day that Six Eyes won a MAMA grand prize, and it also wasn’t every day that the best friend he’d begged to be let in as the group’s honorary plus one (also the very same best friend he’d been in love with since he knew what love was) was in his arms like this.

But you’d been in them when after he’d drawn the first star all those years back that you’d deemed ‘acceptable.’ You’d been in them when he decided to take up dancing lessons in middle school, waiting all those hours after dark to walk back home with him. You’d been in them when he entered high school and told you he’d be a trainee slaving the days away in some dingy company basement. You’d been in them even tighter when they debuted. 

And you’d been in them the very second their name had been announced as artist of the year.

In front of all those cameras. All those gasping audiences.

And Geto who thumps him heartily on the back, “Get a room later, lovebirds- if Yaga doesn’t kill you that is.”

“Come on, Gojo-san, we have to go up for our award–!”

Nanami flashes you what you swear was a slight smile, “I am happy for you.” Before frowning at a shining-eyed Gojo, “Not quite for you, though.”

“Aww Nanamin, you love me~”

“O-kaaay-” Once the 6’4 mess of limbs had finally set you free, Geto was pushing them all to climb up the stage. In time with the blasting background music of their very own Blue, “Let’s have the aneurysms when we’re on stage.”

But what Gojo had on-stage wasn’t anything to make Yaga wish to retire, or to have Nanami’s pounding migraine throb harder. It was a single, sliding tear - and if the lights glaring down on them were bright enough that no one could tell for sure, then all was well with him.

“To our fans, our family-” Gojo’s starting off into the mic in the middle, deep tone dry and hoarse, metal award cool in his hands. He’s looking at you. “-and my star, this one’s for you.”

It’s all. 

And later they’d write articles about the hug, the speech, and what it means that you’re his ‘star’ - but for now, that was for Gojo to know. And for him to step away from the booming mic, letting Geto take his place with much more eloquent words; knowing that in future interviews they’d joke about all the speeches that they had planned.

That Gojo had planned in particular, but nothing came out just right. 

Later, he would also wonder why he waited so long - when you were always there in the audience, clapping louder as if it was just for him. 

And your best friend mouths—all bedazzled in his dangling earrings, white suit starkly handsome. “Meet me after the show.”

That very same clip is made into a gif that gets replayed about twelve million times before the award show actually ends. 

.

.

.

“O-oh fuck-” Your tongue lolls out until it’s hitting midway down your chin, mouth watering with every curly swipe n’ prod of Gojo’s tastebuds. 

His nose hits the edge of your treacly cunt and he whines, watchin’ the cute way your pupils roll allll the way to the back. The front of your chest polishing with a few wads of saliva that he can’t lick up right now- no.

Not when his mouth was already so occupied.

All it took was a single step - a single step - inside Gojo’s personal dressing room after the MAMAs, before he’d crashed your lips against his in a way he’d just been dying to do.

Folding you easily over the armrest of the fluffy pink sofa, door locked, sparkly dress hiked up. Gojo hadn’t even bothered to take off your flimsy panties before he’d started making out with your sweet, sweet pussy from behind.

Lavishing his tongue between the crevices of your cunt like he was a man parched- “Fuck, my star.” With your underwear just pushed to the side and his throat vibrating with a guttural groan once he’s feeling your tight, cozy hole clench ‘round his tastebuds.“Fuck- s’all I want-”

“A-are you seriously- ngh–!” And you couldn’t believe anything your hazed mind was telling you right now - not of those familiar lyrics, and not of the smooth, frigid brush of something metallic studding just the end of Gojo’s tongue. “-quoting your song right now?”

“Mmm– can’t help it. Wrote it just for you y’know…” Voice just a bit hitched, just a bit raspy. 

There was something in it that made you oh-so-much wetter, and Gojo’s summer blue eyes flash as he’s taking in the sappy slick gluing your shivering thighs together. 

“Sh-shit.” Gurgling out the candied taste of you, you were dripping all down his tongue. He’s pulling you close with a hand stuck on your hip, letting your slick splash at the bottom of his throat- and it still wasn’t enough. 

“Shit, my star.” His usual lip gloss smeared all over your pussy, Gojo takes the time to lean in and lick it all clean off. Before pursing his lips to once more spit—“Shit-”

He didn’t know what to say.

Your pretty pussy had him speechless, and it’s a damn miracle that he’s not tearing that suit off of his body. Stained all down the front with a snail-trail of your sappy juices-

“Need- this-” Once his heavy fabric strikes the floor, Gojo’s inching even closer in his kneeling position. Thick fingers slide-slide-sliiiiding teasingly between your swollen folds, before tugging on your poor panties. “-off.”

Ripping.

And his little prize is now finding a home somewhere inside his pocket for later, but right now Gojo has to stop himself from fucking salivating as you’re exposed for him.

It takes one kiss before he pants- “Oh my god.” 

And another- “O-oh fuck- oh my god.”

Fully shoving his face between your legs and letting you shiver at the feeling of his bejewelled earrings. That sunken in. 

Flattened tongue slapping down between your driveling slit, Gojo takes his agonizing time lapping up every inch n’ cranny you have. “My star—” Humming almost drunkenly, his pointed muscle swerves between the insides of your pussylips. 

“F-fuuuck–!” Just where you were most sensitive, Gojo lets the stubbed piercing on his tongue slip inside your hole and streeeeetch you out. Slipping out to draw a wet, sickly sweet star– “Since when did you have a- nghh- a tongue piercing, Toru?”

The first answer you’re getting is a sharp swat on your pussy, “Mmm- ever since you dated that fucking bastard with a tongue piercing.” Sukuna. Gojo croons out, more honest than he would’ve usually been. “Never put it in but…I got it because I thought it was your hah- type.”

Another smack!

Another squeezing inch of his pierced tongue trying to fuck into your entrance, he’s impatient. He’s throbbing in his pants with every tiny clench of your gooey insides, “Got buffer, too- cooler.”

“Oh my…god- your tongue, it’s- hck! going in-” Crying out through whines.

“Wrote so many songs for you, my star–” He’s drawling out, and you can feel the scorching breeze of his hot breath. The way that Gojo’s parting his lips even wider to let his tongue glue against your cunt, grinding all the way inside- “Well- heh- not for her, but…”

You’re still hypnotized by the sensual massage of his ridged taste buds rubbin’ across the front of your dripping pussy. 

So much so that the lecherous sluuuurp–! drawn out into the claggy air almost shocks you. Your cunt’s letting off the most sexual noises once Gojo’s dragging up a hand to tease your wet clit. “-but I’ll write a song for her as well.”

His metal rings are just sparkling with coats of slick, and your best friend doesn’t waste even a second latching onto your sensitive nub. Dexterous fingers drawing cute circles over and over that have your hips lurching off of the sofa- 

“Please- ngh- pleeease-” Your head throws backwards, legs already starting to quake at the utter pressure of having his fingers on your clit. Tongue inside your pussy. 

So lengthy that the slimy tip of it mazes between your walls, and Gojo’s purposefully stirrin’ around your insides with the icy edge of his piercing. Chin rubbing all red with friction as he’s leaning in even closer to dig the muscle of his tongue into your sweetest spots, “Yeah- yeah n’ I’ll have her sing-” Another hand this time, another finger - pushin’ deeply inside you. And the syrupy sound is enough to make him close in on the side of the couch and rut- “-lead…h-heh.”

And if you thought being fucked into the cushy surface by Gojo’s tongue was making your head spin, then you’re being driven positively mad by the wild lashes of his fingertips. 

Two ringed fingers fighting for space right along with his sticky tongue, Gojo glues the thick crowns of his digits to the top of your g-spot and watches as you shrill. “All the reading paid off, hmm–?”

“Y-you read about this?” You’re blinking through your tears, mouth dangling open once he’s pulling back. All the way to the rotund tips of his fingers- and slamming right down to press on your favorite nerves like a button. “Fuck- fuck fuck fuck- just for- for me?”

“You don’t know what I’d do for you, my star.” And it would sound sweet coming from your usual best friend. 

But Gojo right now looked feral - pale eyes half-lidded, hair unruly, light make-up replaced by slimy oodles of your slick. Worn like a badge of honor, he’s gnawing down on your outer pussy, voice turning into something breathy. Octaves higher. “Noooo fucking idea what I’d do.”

Gripping onto the dampening covers of the sofa, you’re bucking animalistically like you don’t know whether you want to pull away or grind back down for more, more, more. Yelping, “T-Toru-!”

“No- no no no- come back.” Gojo panics, beefy arms wrapped enough around your body to haaaul you backwards. 

And when that wasn’t far enough, Gojo’s lust-fogged mind tugs off the blindfold still looped ‘round his neck. Tightly restraining one over your thigh and manhandling you deeper onto his face-

“Sh-shiiit, Satoru–”

“Fuck- haven’t had anything so sweet- so addictive, my star.” He’s murmuring into your pussy, knuckles getting sloppier with all the spanks against the front of your cunt. Tongue lurching in n’ out until his jaw was sore and raw with all the movement- but he’s still rummaging his muscle along your insides. 

Gojo’s eating you out like a man lacking a proper meal for eons, and you swear you could feel the way his Adam’s apple bob with each heavy gulp of your saccharine slick. “N’ now I don’t think I can- haaaah- live without your sweet pussy on my face, sweetheart.”

The furniture creaks with every bump of his ravenous hips against the sofa, because Gojo didn’t even want to spare a single handle to jerk himself off.

Not when he could target the throbbing nub of your clit, rolling over it until the harsh pleasure makes you squeeeal. “Don’t have to- don’t- ngh-”

“D’you think so?” That overeager thumb latched to your clit does a quick circular motion that renders your mouth drier than the Sahara. Swooping. Pressing down. “Really really th-think I can?”

“Yes- fuck- yes-” Whining, back arching into such a perfect curve. “Just make me cum, Satoru-”

“Yes, ma’am.” Gojo huffs out a cloud of breath, long lashes fluttering. The rapid thump-thump-thumps of his two fingers burrowing into your g-spot hasten, “But only if you mmmm– say my name.”

“Satoru.”

“Louder?”

“Satoru.”

With your wailing tone knocking off each corner of the wall, it’s like he’s rattling off all the unspeakable dreams he’s had of you. “Thennn– spit in my mouth?”

Almost like he’s testing it out- and you’re snapping your head over your shoulder. Not knowing whether to give him a piece of whatever’s left of your mind, or whether you would spit in his mouth. 

But you didn’t need to wrack your pretty brain over it any time soon.

Because Gojo’s shaking his bleary head, “Hmm- guess you already have, though- heh.” Partially-closed eyes locked onto your agape cunt every time you’re suckin’ his tongue in- and it’s only then that you realize he’s talking to your pussy. 

Letting your pussy spit out wads of juices that slip n’ slide down his throat, that get fucked back in by his relentless mouth.

Your hands grip the couch, “S-stop teasing– please, m’so close.”

“And then finally—” The tender edges of his fingers scrape your sweet spots in that strangely swooping motion that makes your toes curl restlessly. Dragging it oooon with his lilted bass, “-spell this out, my star?”

Your thighs twitch, the semicircles he’s drawin’ on your g-spot taking the formation of an ‘S’. Then an ‘A’-

“Sa-sa-”

“You got it. You got it, sweetheart.”

With the probin’ deepness of his fingers, he’s flicking his fingertips until your vision flashes white. ‘T’, your favorite dragged-out ‘O’ that makes his pierced tongue swoop in tiny circles, too. “Sato-” 

You knew where this was going. Faster. Harder.

You knew, and yet, you’re still letting him finish off a soppy ‘R’ and ‘U’ - branded in big capital letters from the gooey, heated insides of your pussy until you’re finishing off, too. “Satoru- Satoru. M’cumming, oh fuck, m’cumming…ngh.”

With a slight, stiled sob, you’re being run over by your high - just in time for Gojo to twist the orbed piercing on his tongue over in a S-A-T-O-R-U as well. Sloppily salivating down the sides of your slit, your thighs trickle with every ounce of sap you’re spraying out. 

Whimpering, deep into the cavern of his mouth- “Sh-shit-” Gojo’s hissing in that airy tone of his, feeling hot wetness seeping into his pants the very second you’re cumming - he is, too. 

And yet, the only thing he can think about is dragging out your high. 

To strike the bruised n’ battered areas of your walls until your thighs are shaking with every peak of your orgasm, mouth slobbering everywhere and anywhere.

From the pearly spatters of slick sheening your legs, to the pulsing top of your clit. Fucking and fucking your quivering entrance until your body feels all raw and sizzling. Every thrust of his fat, velvety tongue makes your pupils whirl stupidly in the whites of your eyes. “Sh-shit- nghhh- shit.”

And it takes him such a long time to let go of you - especially when he’s this drunk on your pussy. 

Pulling back with a final push of his piercing on top of your clit, and the loudest squeeelch—!

“H-heheh.” Gojo whispers against your pussy and you mewl, falling onto your elbows over the cushions of the sofa. 

Wearily, you look over your shoulder to take a good, solid look at him - only to feel your heart stutter at the utter grin on his face. Dopey. Glittered with slick. It beads down your best friend’s sharp jawline as he speaks, “Replaced my lipgloss- heh.” He cocks his head to the side, sapphire eyes fluttering priggishly. “Did I ever tell you that was my first time? Been savin’ myself for you, my star…”

Your mouth drops open at his words.

Oh.

Oh.

You weren’t making it out of this alive. 

Within a few bats of your teary lashes, Gojo has you pushed onto your back on top of the springy cushions. His towering form hovering over you-

Pinkish tongue snagging at the end of one glistening lip, “You should know…I’ve never done this before either.” He shivers, top layers shrugged off into a pile, golden clasps of his pants unbuttoned—pop! pop! pop!

With your stringy panties pulled out of his trousers, n’ the rest pushed down until he’d sexily bare in front of you. You can’t tear your widened eyes away as Gojo wraps your underwear ‘round his thick, bulging cock and jerks.

And fuck- did it make your mouth water.

Oh, fuck.

Because Gojo was just so big - in every sense.

From the width of his towering shoulders, all chiseled with bouncy pecs. To the way he was so ripped with lean muscle that you couldn’t stop imagining how it’d feel to have them pressed down against you. 

A feverish blush drifts down the back of his neck, alllll the way down between his pale happy trail. And right up to the fat, pinkened globe of his cock - all heavy and long. So, so long that it had your thighs squeezing in both fear and anticipation. 

You breathe, “Y-you’re so…”

Gojo gnaws down on his bottom lip with a moan, “Mm- yeah, tell me, sweetheart.” Vein-covered fist flying up and down his shaft, the rub of your panties was just so delicious that he’s splurging out a thick wad of precum straight down your slit. “Tell me- tell me.”

“So big.” You’re wondering where he even hid something like that.

Making such a mess. 

And he’s made a mess before too - cumming in his pants just from eating you out. So your cunt was being soaked with a few wires of his ivory sap. 

Being pushed in the very second Gojo slouches over your body and slaps his thick mushroom tip between your pussylips. Rutting his sloppy hips without even realizing-

“You don’t think it’s weird, my star?” Head hunched, white bangs covering his eyesight. The tone in his voice is thick with something primal, “How I was- haaaah-” And so was his cadence, sandwiching between your soppy folds back n’ forth back n’ forth. “-fisting my cock to the thought of my ngh- pretty lil’ best friend for yeeeears?”

Dragging it out. 

Just aaaaaching with a particularly sensual slide of his vein-covered shaft down your cunt, “Just aaaaching.” The knobbled top of his length slips against your oversaturated pussy and plugs up your hole. Hitting it with a damp plop! “For one taste- for anything.”

Your hands claw up to the tufts of his soft hair, pulling and it makes his cock twitch. “Want it in. Please, Satoru?” 

“A-are you sure I- hah-” And fuck- his eyes gape as he looks down between your cute, shivering legs. Marvelling at the sheer size difference between the plump girth of his cockhead, and your tight hole. “If it’s too much, I can just put the tip- oh, fuck.”

But you were impatient, and you’re wrapping your legs ‘round his toned waist to tug him closer. Deeper. Inside. 

To feel the tender underside of his length scrape your walls, each n’ every zig-zagged vein snaking inside your cunt. Gojo was just so big that your vision flashes black and white with just a few inches stuffed-

“I take it back.” He gasps. He heaves - pants so labored that it was like he’d given up on catching his breath. Trying to hold his head up - failing. 

“Take- oh, you’re so big- take what back?”

And the only thing Gojo can do is grab both sides of your waist and use the lecherous leverage to pull and pull you further down his rock-hard shaft. Straining out, his thumb cranes over to push inside a gluey wad of cum. “I t-taaake it back. Just the tip- n-never-” Just one singular taste of your sopping wet pussy on his cock and his voice cracks. “-never gonna be just the tip, my star.”

He’s so untouched, biting down furiously on his lower lip. 

Biting down furiously on your sodden panties just as soon as he remembers they’re still in his hands, muffling every whimpering wail that threatens to leave his maw. 

“Ngh- ngh- what the f-fuck.” Gojo’s ripping from the back of his throat, head falling backwards to bare his attractive throat as he slips deeper in. Fighting against that snug resistance with a few good half-thrusts, not even able to pull out properly. To even move. “It can feel this good?” 

And through your half-closed eyes you’re making out the fact that he’s pinching himself with a free hand. “Or m’I just in heaven?”

You feel his big, bulbous tip swab near your g-spot and start to mewl- “Mmm– and what if you are?”

“Don’t even wanna know if s’real.” Strings of saliva stick to Gojo’s lips as he babbles, still lathered in a layer of your pussy juices from before. And his mouth only waters even more when he’s feeling your hot insides clench around him, “Don’t need to know anything else- ngh.”

Every syllable is punctuated by an almost vulgar rut. 

You’re screaming as he’s bullying his slimy, pre-glazed tip inside. Letting the rotund crown of his cock pry apart your cute walls, harder. Deeper. 

Gojo smears your pussylips further open with one of his thumbs, letting just the top part of his digit fit into your entrance. Just so that he can fit his cock in fully. 

“P-please fit.” Muttering underneath his breath, teeth clenching tight on your panties. Looking up at you ferally through his lashes, “Please- please, didn’t wait s-so fucking long for you not to take it, my star. For this pretty pussy to be left unsatisfied.”

Your nails dig into his back, “Fuck- please- oh my god.”

“It has to fit-” 

“Will it?”

“Yes- yes, you’re gonna take it alll, my girl.”Fucking you furiously, sloppily. No rhythm or rhyme - or even sanity in each of his jagged strikes aiming for the very bottom of your pussy, “Has to it has to it- fuck! It has to-”

And when it does - when it finally, finally does - Gojo Satoru is left gaping, your underwear now dropping from his mouth and cleanly onto the floor. Speechless. 

Shit, if he hadn’t cum just minutes prior then he’d be creaming himself all over again.

Blinking once, twice down wordlessly at the sultry vision of your bloated pussylips kissin’ his pelvis. Bottomed-out until his cock was swallowed all the way up until those tufts of white at his base-

And then it all happens at once.

In a singular split-second, Gojo has your legs thrown over his shoulder, your knees pushed all the way down to your tits. Striking your spongy cervix with a dull thud of his weepy cocktip, before he’s reeling out halfway and doing it all over again.

And again.

And again and again and again-

You’re just shrilling– “Toru- hck!” Feeling your weary throat clog up with so many sobs n’ whines every time his globular head was piercing your cunt, pushin’ all the way into your womb. “Toru Toru Toru-”

“M’on vocal rest after this, y’know?” He blurts, seemingly out-of-the-blue. 

That is, until Gojo stares down at you with such a heady grin, leaned down just close enough that his hot respiration wafts the shell of your ear. And his tongue lurches out to lick up the drooling spittle leaking from each side of your mouth, “So you hafta scream twice as loud f’me, my star.”

Slamming the lines of his chiseled hips against yours, Gojo’s shaft was oh-so-veiny enough that you’re feeling your mind melt at the constant massage of your g-spot. “Like that- nghhh please-”

“Like- like this?” And it’s so difficult to remember that this was still Gojo’s first time– especially when he roams a palm over your tummy to feel for a particular bulging outline and press.

Carnally caressing the cylindrical bump that he was pounding into you, branding the fatness of his length right against your girth. “Shit- you really took it all.” He’s in awe at the feeling of his rotund cockhead pokin’ your very womb, “You wanna be fucked like hngh- this, don’t you? Want it hard? Fast?”

He was speaking utter filth, but his cadence was even filthier. 

Shivering hand pushing down on your stomach, the other slithering between your sheeny legs to toy with your neglected clit. 

“Your legs are shivering, my star- m’in trouble.” He arches his sculpted back to pick up the ruthless pace, throbbing cock stirrin’ within you to bash constantly straight into your g-spot. “S-sooooo much trouble.”

“More- ngh! Satoru, more-” You’re crying out through wobbly lips, “Want it even harder.”

“Fuck-” Hissing underneath his breath, Gojo’s doughy fingertips speedily smack your slope. Making your legs grow all numb, “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- then ngh- yeah, open those pretty legs and take this fat fucking cock-”

With a few more strokes he’s holding onto your throat, pinning you down so that Gojo can scratch the rough texture of his happy trail down your clit until you cry. “This fat- haaah- fuckin’- cock-”

You’re so dumbified by the size and sheer pleasure that you can only repeat after him, stupidly. “Fat- ngh- fuckin’...”

A velvety tongue drags over your salty beads of tears, “Atta girl—” Grindin’ the circumference of his thick cock against your g-spot, Gojo’s biting down on your earlobe just to hear the way you sing. “Louder.” The dangly metal of his earrings are frosty against your own clammy face, sensual. “Louder- let them hear, let them know.”

Uncertainly, your eyes drift over to where the door of the dressing room was innocently positioned. Notably closed. Notably locked.

But your moans were reaching a fever point at the rough bludgeons of Gojo’s cock, the way he was swervin’ his hips juuuust right to snag your sweetest spots. 

All those years of dancing helped him expertly target long glides down your g-spot. Leaving a trail of wet mucus from that particular bundle of nerves, n’ straight down-down-dooown to your cute cervix. “Let them all see-”

“S-see?” You’re gasping out in disbelief. 

With what almost sounds to you like a growl, “Mhm- yeah, fuck!” Gojo spanks his hips hard enough against yours that the impact leaves his v-line reddening, the papping sound echoing within the dressing room. “You think I wouldn’t fuck you in front of every nosy lil’ camera out there?”

You don’t even know what to say - what to do.

The only thing your pathetic body is capable of doing is gyratin’ back down to meet his tempo. Letting your limp legs tighten over his shoulders, “Y-you would?”

“Oh, my sweetheart—” Gojo’s crooning, snowy brows scrunching together. Giving your treacly cunt yet another hard jackhammer, “If this pussy wasn’t mine and mine alone, then that door wouldn’t even be- hah- locked right now.”

And he was drilling into you like he meant it - like he was furious with himself for holding out this long on the heaven of your sweet, sweet pussy.

Wailing, your eyes crossing at the sheer pleasure.

Now that he’d slurped up one sip, he was eager for the next- and before you know it, the blindfold that’d been dangling on your thigh was suddenly coiling ‘round your ankles. “You’re not getting out of this- oh.” Gojo’s beefy biceps flex as he’s tying your legs behind his neck, all for him to pull back on—“Gonna- gonna fill you up so we hafta be- ngh- prepared.”

Your salivatin’ chin hits the front of your chest and you whine, “Please- please make me cum, mm-”

“Yeah? Gonna make you cum- hah-” Gojo’s mouth hangs ajar, blush so rosy. He feels your goopy walls tighten on reflex and that makes his hardened cock twitch, “Then- then m’gonna fuck you through that.”

Strike after strike. 

His swollen lips lean down to suckle on one of your fingers - your left hand’s ring finger, to be precise. “Then m’gonna put a ngh- ring on it. Gonna- gonna I swear-”

Push after push.

“Toru—” Your tits jut up as you’re bowing your back off of the drenched sofa, “-not gonna- gonna- fuck!”

You don’t even have the privilege of letting that sentence finish before your orgasm takes you over, thrumming white-hot zaps of pleasure through your veins. Your teeth set on edge at how utterly good it feels to have Gojo’s fattened cock swabbing your tight hole through every peak, “Oh my god- oh my- fuuuuuck, there’s jus’ so much, Toru.”

Toes curled, mouth unfastened.

Pinching your clit until you’re squeeealing- “So- so much.” He’s echoing in a whisper, crushing you tight to him once Gojo’s finishing off, too. 

Abs plastered against your front until you memorize each ridge, his pecs smooth n’ plump against your tits. Your best friend just looked so pretty with his pearly whites grit in a snarl, brows knitted as he’s pumping you with cum until you overspilled. 

With thick, seedy knots of cum that blanketed your pussy - his pointed cockhead nudges every droplet inside until you can feel your walls stretch with the utter size. 

Thighs shaking with your release, his mess sploshing around inside of you. Your vision was still completely hazy- “Fuck- fuck, Satoru.”

And it’s like the sound of his name plummeting from your mouth sends shockwaves down his spine.

Because Gojo’s staring at you - mushroomy tip still leaky, still slidin’ through the sappy puddle he’s formulating at your cervix. For a good few seconds, maybe even minutes until he’s chuckling–“God, they could see right through me. Everyone could.”

More to himself.

Although those next words were entirely for you. 

“I love you.” Gojo’s pale lashes flutter, almost shyly, and you’re speechless at the fact that he was still fucking you. In slow, aching grinds that have him fucking his cum deeper n’ deeper inside you. “I’ve always loved you, my star.”

Your heart quivers, and you can’t help but reach a hand out to run through the sweaty valleys of his locks. Smile dazzling - something he could write songs, ballads, sonnets about some day. But for now it only makes his azure eyes wet, “And I love you, my Toru.”

Something weeps out of Gojo that sounds like a husky, drawn-out groan— and you can feel his thick tip twitch inside of you with a few more beaded dollops of seed.

Cumming for the nth time tonight until all his heavy balls could let out was misty white, just from hearing that you loved him back.

And for once it’s silence.

Calm, warm silence— that is, until Gojo’s pulling his ravaged, red cock just far enough that your cunt lets off the soppiest wet sluuuurp! 

You’re gasping, still feeling the rush of your high make your head whirl. Thighs clenching around his broad deltoids automatically, “Satoru- wh-what are you-”

“Oh, well…” Long, pale hands reach for the pile of fabric on the floor - your boyfriend’s pants. And Gojo has the sleaziest grin on his face as he’s digging his fingers into the depths of his pockets, promptly pulling out a lengthy line of condom foils. One he’d packed just in case, just for you.

You’re mentally counting about twenty before he’s letting his proud stack drop right down to your front. “You didn’t think we were done, right, my sweetheart?”

Oh, fuck.

Neither of you are making it out of this alive.

.

.

.

“There’s the wall of perfume, my books- especially songwriting books. And these clothes and, yeah, that’s really it for my room…” Gojo kicks away the pile of his Digimon socks on the ground with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. 

Something he was sure the cameraman intruding his dorm room would capture, and yet still edit to make something cute out of it anyway. 

Ah- such was the life of an ever-popular idol.

And here he was, up bright and early in the morning to let some variety show stomp all through the Six Eyes’ penthouse as a sort of ‘house tour.’ Well, sure he knew that this was bound to be a hit with the fans that probed into his life, but was it really necessary to not even give the man a heads-up?

Plastering on his most polished smile, he nods politely as the camera records a few more details. The hosts cooing over each little thing - all those fan letters he kept, a pretty crayon drawing of a blue star from years ago, and the-

“Eh?”

“Eh?”

“Eh?” Geto’s poking his head in, grin already plastered just in case there was to be some sort of chaos upheaved in Gojo’s room. And why wouldn’t there be?

Gojo’s following both hosts’ lines of vision, all the way down to his bed, “Eh?” Was it not made properly? Was it an offense to have sheets of his own boyband at this day and his age? Or was- “Oh.”

And then Gojo sees it - that. 

The familiar, gauzy fabric of your panties that he’d stolen all those nights ago. Hidden neatly underneath the puff of his pillows - well, almost hidden.

Because obviously it was exceptionally still in the bedroom right now- fuck, even Geto had gone quiet from his station near the door, realizing what it was. Attracting the attention of two very curious other members that were currently fighting to get a glimpse-

One of the hosts clears her throat, “Um- Mister Gojo, is that…” Eyes dazzling at the possibility of a scoop this big - all in their almost-family-friendly home-touring show. “Is it possible there’s a lady in your life the fans and world may want to know about? Is this that very same best friend everyone says you pine over?”

And the other host cackles, “Well, they certainly don’t seem to be your size, boy. And ones so skimpy- oho, kids these days.” 

Unabashedly pushing a mic into his face, “Anything to say for yourself?”

“Ah-” Gojo coughs out, jumping once the cameraman immediately swivels his lens towards him for his response. “Aha, well- you see-”

Gojo looks at Geto.

“…”

At Haibara.

“…”

At Nanami.

“…Fucking idiot.”

And finally at the camera itself- “Cut the cameras. Deadass.”

Yaga might have bribed the network to never air that particular episode, and Dispatch might have done their best to leak it, anyway.

Right along with a few grainy paparazzi shots of figures that looked undeniably like you two. Hand-in-hand, suspicious blemishes on both your necks, wandering down the sidewalks of Han River. 

And if Yaga was having a tough PR day with just that then it would’ve been too merciful of the universe. Because how could you discount the fact that Gojo Satoru, notorious dodger of paparazzi questions, had proudly held up your joined hands and exclaimed at a few buzzing reporters—“Fuck yeah- my girlfriend now, suckers!”

No resignation letter would ever be enough.

@sunflowerboy: let it be known that I always believed in Gojo-san!!

@eathaibara replying to @sunflowerboy: we bow before you great sunflowerboy (the only one to believe in toru’s loser rizz)

@torutoaster: i luv how #go(jo)outthefriendzone is trending worldwide- LOSER RIZZ ALWAYS WINS 

@fiendingforsixeyes: HE DID IT?? MY BOY ACTUALLY DID IT??

@mahitoe: tch whatever

@zbstan replying to @mahitoe: womp womp

@sunflowerboy replying to @mahitoe: LMFAOOOO SUCK IT YOU LOSER HATER FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK-

@eathaibara replying to @sunflowerboy: omg sunflowerboy??

@sunflowerboy replying to @eathaibara: sorry got a little excited^^

@sugu-rizzed: I just know pr is SCRAMBLING rn but not as much as my boy scrambled to get that cookie.

@satorusxkitten: bi panic is wanting both of them!!

@ge.akuge: idk what she sees in him it must be the wigs

@CandyKento: the ‘my star’, isacs, the awards speech, the PANTIES?? gojo satoru it was always meant to be idk what to tell ya. now get married

@Fushidaddy107: I still think she’d be better with me smh.

@officialgojosatoru replying to @Fushidaddy107: Blocked.

A/N. This was SOOO self-indulgent omg- ALSO DADDY TONY’S BAAAACK!!

The house was quiet, so quiet it felt like the middle of the night, but alas… it was the morning. 

Grey, textureless light seeped through the kitchen window; the sun hadn’t yet broken through the clouds, and you hadn’t fully awakened.

Your eyes were maybe open all of twenty minutes before you had to bolt up from the bed; the heat of Michael lying beside you became oppressive. 

He was a wall of heat and limbs, all over you during the night—laying diagonally, stealing the duvet, occasionally snorting softly right into your hair. Blissfully unaware of how atrocious he made your sleep.

You padded down stairs and made herbal tea, as you had been loving the ritual—boil, steep, wait—anchoring you in the silence of the morning. The birds chirping and the neighbours dog barking intermittently made your zen slightly less dreamlike.

Your little routine softened the zombie feeling you had each morning after getting very little sleep beside your husband.

The familiar sounds came from upstairs: the groan of the mattress, bare feet on floorboards, soft, irritated mumblings. 

You’d probably woken him clattering around for your favourite mug. Drawers opened and closed with force. He was looking for his glasses. He always lost them.

When he appeared in the doorway, you bit your lip hard to stop yourself from smiling too wide.

Michael stood there squinting, one hand rubbing his temple, so innocently. Shirtless, his torso pale in the weak light from the patio doors. And... he was wearing your sweatpants. 

Your Juicy sweatpants.

You’d kicked them off at the foot of the bed last night to sleep skin-to-skin. He’d whine it wasn’t fair if you weren’t naked with him. Michael got what he wanted. Most of the time.

They were soft, black velvet Juicy Couture pants, with the branding spelled out in diamantes across the ass. 

He must have felt for something on the floor in the dark, his fingers closing on fabric instead of his plain plaid pajama pants.

They fit him all wrong. The waistband strained, sitting too high and folded over, too tight on his hips. The legs ended three inches above his bony ankles. The word ‘JUICY’ was stretched taut, the letters distorted, across the back of his perky bum. 

It was all wrong, yet… he looked good. His prominent happy trail, that black dusting of coily hair that led down under the waistband, stark against his skin. 

You could see the clear line of his dick through the material of the sweatpants, the seam making it protrude more—he at least had a semi.

He always had morning wood. You felt yourself clench at the thought of what it would have been like to wake up in bed together this morning.

His hair was a different story.

It was a dark and very cropped. Beautiful tight, delicate coils, each no longer than your fingertip, packed densely across his scalp. 

It wasn’t his usual style these days—most of the time he'd bare a longer weave, silk-pressed waves, or a curly piece.

But at home, with just you, he kept it natural. 

He’d tried to grow it, but decades of sewn in hair pieces had chafed and pulled, leaving a lingering trauma to the damaged skin beneath.

The tiny curls were soft as fine velvet, with a springy, resilient life.

Despite being patchy in some areas, it looked good; but then again, he always looked good. 

Now, sleep had matted one side, pressing the coils into a soft whorl against his temple.

He shuffled in, movements cautious, sleepy, irritated. “My glasses,” he said, voice gravelly. 

“Can’t find ‘em.”

“Nightstand?”

He grunted and looked at you as if ‘do you think im stupid?’. 

“Obviously not there. Must’ve fallen down the back.”

He fumbled in the bread bin, pulled out two slices of wheat bread, movements precise despite his faux blindness.

He got them into the toaster, pushed the lever down, and stood there, arms crossed, waiting. 

The pose made the sweatpants stretch even more, his ass subconsciously cocked out. 

‘JUICY’ glimmered in the grey light.

You set your mug down with a silent giggle and looked for your camera. You’d left it on the counter a few nights prior after being out with friends; it was your old Konica film point-and-shoot. 

You picked it up, framed him in the viewfinder: the slope of his bare back, the sharp shoulder blades, the ridiculous curve of diamante script.

You pressed the shutter. A soft snick-whirr.

He turned his head, frowning. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

You walked up behind him and you heard him sigh, a tired exhale. He was always so exhausted these days, from the press, the tours, the work schedule these executives had him operating under. It was sad.

You placed your hands on his hips to ground him, the fabric was thin and warm under your delicate touch. He eased up immediately at your touch.

“Your pants are too small, Mikey.”

“Mmm, yeah, tight,” he agreed, tone flat with annoyance. “And short. Shrank in the dryer probably.”

“They didn’t shrink, you idiot” Your thumbs hooked into the waistband above the ‘J’ and pulled him closer to your chest. 

“They’re not yours.” You whispered up at him; he was much taller.

There was a long silence as his brain did some computing.

You felt the realization move through him; irritation shifting to mild embarrassment, then understanding.

He uncrossed his arms and his hands subconsciously found yours where they were wrapped around him and he grabbed them tight and gave a little squeeze of acknowledgement before going back to the food. He always did that, acknowledged how much your touch meant to him.

The cuddling was so domestic and so far from the normal routine. The hardcore rehearsals and stress would be the reality soon enough when the next album cycle started again.

“They’re not mine?”

“No.”

“God- I'll have ruined th-”

you cut him off, trying to be unserious;

“Yeah, stretched them ‘cause your ass is so… Juicy.”

A soft huff of air—almost a laugh. 

“Oh, m’lord. It’s not the Juicy Couture ones you were wearin’ last night, is it?” He looked incredulous.

“In all their glory.” You backed off of him and leaned against the island counter.

He twisted awkwardly, trying to see his own ass. When he saw it, he chuckled lightly 

The toaster popped and whilst still laughing slightly, he turned and pulled the slices out, the smell of burnt wheat faint. He did a bit of spreading before then taking a bit of one of the slices, chewing thoughtfully as he turned back to you, the jam—raspberry, you knew—glistening. 

“So that’s what that little noise was. You took a picture?”

“Yes. Just to keep. Only for me.”

“Y/N, that better not be on page 6 by tomorrow. i mean it when i say keep it safe when you develop it,” He took another bite of the bread.

“its a momento. Just for me, baby. M'gonna keep it safe!”

You were laughing now, wholeheartedly, at how funny and cute the whole situation was.

He feigned some annoyance, moving slowly towards you all menacing, still chewing his breakfast.

Once he was close enough to be able to see you, his eyes, even unfocused, found yours so intently. 

Sleep-softness was gone, replaced by simmering intensity of both horniness and playfulness.

Morning breath, now laced with the sweet-rot scent of jam, hung between you.

He reached behind, hands finding the counter’s edge, caging you. “You think this is funny?”

“Uhhhh, yeah. Really funny. Juicy, if you will.”

He leaned in, nose brushing yours and gave you a peck on the lips. 

You felt the hard line of his dick against your thigh as he'd moved closer. 

“All that laughin’,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, gritty register. 

“Makin’ fun of your husband. Maybe I oughta to do something about it?”

“Oh Mike, whatever will you do to me?” you feinged fear right into his face, and he raised his dark eyebrows expectantly.

“Ohhh I don’t know. Fuck you, so that you stop laughing at me? See how funny you think it is when you can’t even form a sentence?”

It was a challenge, a promise of obliterating pleasure that shot straight to your ovaries. 

Your laughter died in your throat, replaced by a sharp intake of breath.

His hands slid to your backside, gripping you through your sleep shorts, pulling you firmly against the hard ridge of his dick. 

“Well, jokes on you, because I’d like that,” you managed, your voice already losing its steadiness. “Your juicy ass and your dick.”

A slow, dark chuckle after realising your reference came from him

“Greedy girl.” 

His hands went to the waistband of your sleep shorts and the panties beneath. 

He just shoved them down roughly, just enough, the elastic stretching tight around your thighs, creating a frustrating, thrilling barrier. 

He fumbled with the strained waistband of the Juicy pants, shoving them down his hips just enough to free himself. 

The glittering ‘JUICY’ now sat crumpled around his upper thighs. 

He was half-dressed, you were half-undressed, and it was dirtier, more urgent - the kitchen windows easy for people to see through if they had so wished it.

He was already slick at the tip and probably had been for a while considering he woke up already fairly hard.

he used that wetness to rub himself against you, the pressure was delightful.

He kept pushing himself through your folds and hitting your clit; each direct hit making you close your eyes, at each burst of pleasure.

“A quickie to start your day, m'lady?”

You nodded, wordless, your hips pushing against his hand.

“Didn’t hear you,” he growled, leaning in. His breath was hot and jam-sweet against your ear.

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I want that.”

“What’s the magic word?” he teased, but there was a dark heat in it. He was done talking.

“Please, Michael. Please fuck me.”

That was all he needed. He hooked his hands under your thighs, lifting you forward off of the counter just enough, and with a rough, unceremonious push, he was inside you. 

Far from a slow invasion; he filled you in one blunt, deep stroke, the stretch sudden and breathtaking.

You held in your moan, your eyes rolling back into your head from how good it felt to be filled to the brim.

The angle on the counter somehow making him feel deeper than ever before. 

The cold granite of the counter bit into your backside. He was looking intently at you, his eyes black and focused, observing your face as he began to move.

It was fast and deep from the start, a hard, driving rhythm meant to overwhelm you. He was playing games. 

“That’s it,” he panted, his voice raw. “Dirty girl takin’ it good on the kitchen counter f’me”

It was incredibly effective. Each thrust punched the air from your lungs. 

You could only cling to his shoulders, your head thrown back, every sound pulled from you a choked gasp or moan. 

He was making good on his promise—fucking you into speechlessness.

But then his rhythm faltered. A grimace twisted his features. He tried to adjust his angle, but the counter was too high, his stance awkward.

“Damn it,” he gritted out, his thrusts becoming shallow, strained. “My back…”

He pulled out of you abruptly, the loss hollow and shocking and pulled up the pants. This brought out another laugh from you.

Before you could protest, his arms were under you, lifting you completely off the counter.

He held you against his chest, your legs around his waist, your panties and shorts still tangled around your thighs. 

“Bed,” he mumbled, as if to himself. 

“Should’ve started there.”

He carried you out of the kitchen, through the living room, and awkwardly found his way up the stairs, juicy pants low on his hips. 

Each step jostled you, his still-hard cock under the sweatpants rubbing against your wet, sensitive flesh with every movement. 

It was a torturous, overstimulating tease.

You were already so close from the counter sex, and this constant, rhythmic friction was pushing you toward the edge without any relief. 

You whimpered, burying your face in his neck.

“Sensitive, my baby?” he murmured, a note of smug understanding in his voice. He took the stairs slowly, deliberately, making sure you felt every bounce.

He was really having a field day today - usually it was you doing the teasing. 

He shouldered into the bedroom and deposited you onto the bed, following you down without breaking contact. 

This time, he took a moment to properly kick the ridiculous sweatpants off his ankles and push your sleep shorts and panties the rest of the way off your legs. 

He settled between your legs and started pumping his swollen and hard dick, the tip so flushed and almost purple from lack of attention.

The energy from the kitchen had banked into something hotter, slower, more deliberate and duller; but not less exciting.

He sank into you again, this time with a long, deep groan of relief. 

“Better,” he sighed against your lips, beginning a slow, grinding rhythm. “So much better.”

After a few more deep thrusts and his thumb playing expertly with your clit, you could feel your own climax coming. He really didn't have to do much and you were there.

But you didn’t want it to end. You wanted this—him, like this—to last.

It wasn’t really that often you had a whole day off together and you wanted this to be good.

When you felt his pace start to quicken, his breaths becoming more ragged, you knew he was getting close, too.

You put your hands on his hips, stilling him. “Wait,” you breathed.

He froze, looking down at you, confusion and desperate need in his eyes. “Baby…shit.. I was so close to comin',”

“Not yet,” you said, your voice taking on a new authority.

You shifted beneath him, gently rolling him onto his back. He went willingly, a soft, surprised sigh leaving him. 

You straddled his hips, sinking down onto him slowly, taking back control. “I’m not done with you.”

The position changed everything. 

You set the pace, a slow, deep, rolling grind that had him biting his lip, his hands fluttering to your thighs and then up to your tits. 

“Oh… oh, that’s… hnmngg, you’re so wet and slippery” he babbled.

“You were gonna come, weren’t you?” you whispered, leaning forward to speak against his mouth. 

“I could feel it. But I want more.” You lifted yourself up almost all the way off him, until just the tip remained, and paused.

He whined, a high, helpless sound. His hips canted up, seeking. 

“Y/N… please…”

“Please what?” You sank down an inch, then rose again. Teasing. Easing him back from the edge, only to stoke the fire higher. “Use your words, Michael”

“Please, I need… I need you to move. Please, just use me, I need it… I need you” He whined. 

His words were a desperate stream. He was writhing beneath you, not trying to take over, just lost in the sensation you were meting out. 

His hands gripped the sheets, his beautiful face a mask of tortured pleasure. The dominant act from the kitchen was completely forgotten. He was putty, begging, whining and aching for you to tell him what to do.

You gave him what he asked for, but on your terms. 

A fast, hard pace that made him shout, then slowing to a near-stop when you felt him tense. 

You were edging him, drawing out every second of his pleasure, making it last. His begging became incoherent, a mix of your name, whimpers, and promises that he’d do anything for you… if you’d just let him come inside you.

“You look so good whimpering for me like that, angelface” you murmured, watching him come completely undone at his favourite pet name. 

“So perfect. Gonna make you feel so good, but you have to wait for me.”

You could feel your own orgasm building, a slow, deep wave this time. 

When you finally let yourself tip over the edge, crying out as you clenched around him, it was the signal he’d been waiting for. 

“Mhm can i come inside, baby?” he asked you, his whole body tensed under you as you rocked on top of him. 

You couldn’t even speak, you just nodded, your eyebrows furrowed and your lip almost bloody from how much you were biting it, holding in your further groans from riding it out.

With a sobbing gasp of relief, his own control shattered. 

His release was massive, a deep, pulsing flood inside you that seemed to go on and on, his body arching off the bed, a continuous, broken groan torn from his chest.

When he came around, he pulled you into him, a sweaty, trembling heap. 

He held you tightly, his arms like vices, his whole body shuddering through the aftershocks. His breath sobbed in your ear.

“To think I was teasin’ you and you’ve only gone and switched out on me,” he said breathlessly into your hair. 

You didn’t even reply, still in shock from the level of pleasure you had just experienced.

Eventually, his grip loosened. One hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gently stroking your hair. You both stayed like that for what felt like 10 minutes, his dick still inside you, soft now.

His voice, when it came, was quiet.

“You…” he breathed, the word shaky. 

“You own me. Body and soul.” He turned, lips finding your temple in a trembling kiss. 

“not just my heart, but every damn part of me is yours. You know that?”

You nodded against his sweat-salted chest.

He let out a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to come from his bones. A moment later, a soft, breathless laugh shook his chest.

“Sorry about stealin’ your sweatpants and probably ruinin’ them, m'a bit blinder than I thought I was.”

You laughed too, weak and sated. You hugged him a little tighter, not wanting to let this cute moment end. His smile was basically audible. 

“Worth it.” you said.

tags:

Smoothing down the fabric of your skirt for probably the hundredth time, your eyes slated to clock as it neared two in the afternoon.

He’d be here any minute.

When you had first gotten the call about his interest in the gallery, you had sat there frozen for probably ten seconds before reality had caught up with you. Clearing your throat and muttering an Of course as you began to set up the date and arrange everything. Putting together a portfolio of new pieces and others you thought he’d be interested in.

Trying to make your mind settle as you dug yourself deeper into your work.

It had been nineteen years since he moved out of Gary.

Seventeen since he had last spoken to you.

When his letters stopped, you weren’t surprised. It was a slow kind of dread that had been building for months as the California sun swept him away. You had been expecting it, he was a star in the making and you knew it was only a matter of time.

Knowing it wasn’t personal didn’t make it hurt any less.

Spending years watching his life through the screen or tabloids. Hearing his new song on the radio and wishing you could tell him how much you loved it.

Childhood friendships only went so far, and you knew you had faded into the background of his memory. Your mind wandering back to when you two had first met. Spending the first month of kindergarten hardly paying attention to one another till October rolled around and you argued over who saw the pumpkin first. Wanting the very best one to carve until the teacher made you both sit down and share.

He had always called you pumpkin from that point on and begrudgingly the nickname stuck long after he left.

Everyone called you that, even in your own family, and each time you heard it, you thought of him.

Now there you were, almost two decades later. Running an art gallery in New York City as its lead curator and Michael Jackson would be stopping by to take a look at the collection.

You had no idea what to expect. Would he even remember you? Some vain part in your mind clung onto the hope that he would. But it had been so long…

“He’s here,” your assistant ran into your office, her voice breathless and little dazed.

“Thank you,” you wet your bottom lip and gathered the portfolio in your arms, standing up and trying to push down how lightheaded you felt.

“So, are you excited to see him again?” She asked.

You shook your head. “He probably doesn’t even remember me.”

“Oh come on, how could he forget his Pumpkin.”

Rolling your eyes, you forced out a laugh. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you that.”

Rounding the corner into the lobby, you put on a polite smile and tried desperately to ignore the pit in your stomach as you saw him with some of his team.

He looked great. He always did, but actually seeing him after all this time was making it a little difficult to breathe.

“Mr. Jackson, welcome to—“

“Oh, just Michael. Please.” His smile was bright as he stepped closer, pulling you into a hug.

You blinked, his sudden proximity making your head spin and his cologne swirled around you in lulling haze.

He pulled back, his pretty brown eyes flicking down to your name tag and he repeated it back to you.

“That’s a lovely name.”

You smiled, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. He hadn’t the faintest idea who you were.

“Thank you.”

You tried to swallow down the nausea you felt, beyond annoyed at yourself for feeling hurt.

“I prepared a portfolio for you to look at and take with you if you end up liking any of the pieces enough, there’s also some extra information about each piece in the gallery. But in the meantime, my assistant here will be giving you a tour and can answer any questions you may have.” You gestured to her, her eyes widening a little at being put in the spot.

You were supposed to be giving him the tour but you didn’t think you could stomach it.

“Yes,” she said, as convincingly as possible. God bless her. “We’ll start on the top floor and work our way down.”

Michael nodded, still smiling and his eyes lingered on you for another moment before following your PA to the elevator along with his team.

“I cannot believe you did that to me,” your assistant whispered two hours later when she appeared in the doorway of your office. “The whole time I thought I was going to pass out.”

“I’m sorry, I panicked.” You winced, standing up to walk over to her and bring her into a hug. “I’ll buy you lunch for the next three months.”

“You already buy my lunch.”

You waved her off. “Is he still here?”

“Yeah, he’s in the lobby going over some of the pricing with Pat. He was interested in a handful of pieces.”

“Well, that’s promising—“

“He asked about you, you know?”

You froze. Blinking at her for a minute as your mind tried to wrap itself around the new information.

“You didn’t—“

“No, I didn’t tell him Pumpkin. You were right, he doesn’t remember. It was basic stuff, but besides his lack of memory, I think he’s interested.”

You snorted. “Please.”

“I’m serious! Men don’t ask that many questions about a girl if they aren’t planning on asking them out.”

“Shush, you go back out there. I’ll be there in a minute.”

She rolled her eyes but obliged, disappearing down the hall but you faintly heard her mutter an excuse me to someone.

You turned towards your desk, rummaging around for a bit more paperwork you might need if he decided to go ahead and buy from the collection, when you suddenly heard your name from the door.

His voice.

You whirled around, eyes wide in surprise.

“Oh! Sorry, I was just about to head to the lobby, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting—“

“Pumpkin?”

Your lips remained parted around lost words, standing there like a deer in headlights as he took another step into the room, a deep crease between his brows.

Your mind spiraling because he had overheard your conversation and now you didn’t know what to do but stand there and stare at him like an idiot.

Michael walked further into your office, hands resting on the back of one of the chairs as he looked at you. Really looked at you. The sudden clarity on his face would’ve made you laugh if you didn’t currently feel like throwing up.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” He asked, his tone unreadable as he also stared at you like he couldn’t quite believe it. The familiarity of you blurry at the edges like a dream he had only figments of.

Eventually, you settled on shrugging a shoulder. You didn’t know what else to do. “Would there be a point?”

His brows creased even more and he frowned slightly. “What do you mean?”

You swallowed, your mouth feeling dry and your eyes found comfort in looking away from him. “I mean, I didn’t think our paths would cross again. I figured you’d leave here with maybe a few pieces in mind and that’d be it. I didn’t want to bring up something pointless from twenty years ago.”

“I don’t think it’s pointless, we were friends.”

You smiled, glancing a look at him. The guilt creeping into his features because he knew he was the one who stopped writing. Stopped calling.

You hadn’t bothered to call him back. Knowing his number changed and how busy he was.

“Don’t feel bad, Michael. It was ages ago. We were kids, honestly it’s okay.”

“I shouldn’t have just—“

“It’s okay. Life happens.”

He bit the inside of his cheek. Looking equal parts relived that you held no resentment towards him but like he also wanted to say more.

“Why didn’t you give the tour?”

You shut your eyes briefly, telling your lungs to calm down. He was just a guy.

“Nerves, I suppose. I was also trying to avoid this exact situation.”

He rounded the chair and came to stand directly across from you on the other side of your desk. His tone teasing but a little tight at the edges. “Is me remembering who you are such a bad thing?”

You shook your head. “No, but… I don’t know, Michael. I just didn’t want to put any expectations on you. I know you have enough going on. So I just thought, no harm no foul if it never clicked for you who I was.”

“Shouldn’t that be my decision?”

“I was just trying to spare you having another thing on your plate.”

He hummed, still staring at you. The weight of his gaze making the room feel a little too warm.

“Not much has changed,” he eventually said.

You raised a brow at him. “What do you mean?”

“We always end up arguing over something.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” You tried not to blush as you immediately proved his point.

“We became friends over an argument.” He laughed at the memory. “That was probably the worst carved pumpkin I’d ever seen.”

“It looked like it got ran over by a car.”

You two shared a smile, but yours fell a little flat as you looked down again.

You missed him. Often. Which was ridiculous. He had been haunting your life for years and you knew he probably never spared you a thought.

“Are you free tonight?” He suddenly asked.

“Michael, you really don’t have to—“

“I want to. Let’s get dinner.”

Your brows furrowed. “Why?”

“Why not?”

You didn’t think you could stomach a night with him shoveled out by guilt.

As if reading your thoughts, he sighed. A blush creeping up his neck. “I was planning on asking you anyway, that’s why I came to your office.”

“Oh.”

Your own face felt warm at his confession.

At your silence, he started to stumble out his words. “It’s okay if you don’t want to. I completely—“

“No, that’s not… I’d love to get dinner.”

Michael let out a breath, a relieved smile stretching his lips and Christ. He was so handsome.

You’d always had a small crush on him, but you had buried it deep and tried to not look at it. Stepping around the topic every time like it was some shameful spill. A mess.

Not to mention you knew it would never work. Even when he still lived in Gary, you saw him less and less due to Joe.

And the moment he told you he was moving to California, you promised yourself you’d keep your feelings locked away for both of your benefits.

He had far more important things to focus on, not to mention you doubted he felt the same.

Why would he?

“Do you have somewhere in mind? I can meet you—“

“Oh, no. I’ll pick you up.” He waved you off immediately, the idea of you showing up on your own, absurd to him.

You felt warm all over as you scribbled down your address, handing the slip of paper to him and repressing a shiver as your fingers brushed.

“I’ll pick you up at six.”

You had rushed home. Practically throwing yourself in the shower and trying not to lose your mind as you dug through your closet. Making an absolute mess of your room.

You settled on a black dress. It being just enough to look classy but casual enough to not overdo it.

Though you weren’t sure if that were even possible with him. Michael was always dressed to the nines.

After doing your hair and make up, you had just settled on what heels to wear when the buzzer went off.

Grabbing your purse and coat, you slipped on the heels and rushed to the door. Pausing just as your fingers settled on the handle.

“Calm down.” You told yourself, though your heart was still racing.

You pulled the door open but paused in surprise, given it was Bill instead of Michael.

“Evening, ma’am.” He nodded his head at you politely. “Michael is waiting in the car.”

Right. Of course he was. Michael couldn’t just waltz into your apartment building.

You smiled, muttering a thank you before following him outside and your eyes landed on a Rolls-Royce with blacked out windows.

So much for being subtle.

The Italian restaurant was relatively quiet, save for a few other wealthy clientele and the music playing from a small orchestra that was set up in the middle. You recognized an actor a few tables down, your mind spinning a little as he waved at Michael before going back to his own conversation.

Of course you knew how famous Michael was. Hell, he was probably the most well known person earth next to Jesus.

It made the air a little difficult to breathe and you continuously reached for your glass of wine for support. Not that you were necessarily overwhelmed by him, you just…

You knew you didn’t fit into his life.

Feeling like an imposter as the dinner went on and you two caught up. The facade of just being two kids who knew each other from Indiana like a cheap play.

Wishing you could just enjoy yourself but the weight of who you were and who he was, was like a ghost lingering over the evening.

“How’d you end up in New York?” He asked, genuinely curious despite your life being dreadfully mundane compared to his.

“I’ve always been interested in art. I actually originally went to school for studio painting, but I hated it. Sucked the passion right out of the practice for me. But I fell in love with my art history courses. Switched my undergrad to that, and ended up applying to grad school in Chicago.”

He whistled. “You have a masters?”

You took another sip of wine, feeling bashful. “I’m actually working on my Ph.D.”

“In what?”

“I’m doing a joint program at Columbia, History of Art and Architecture and Middle Eastern Studies.”

His rested his chin in his hand, his eyes darker and you told yourself it was probably just the lighting or wine.

“That’s incredible,” he mumbled.

You waved him off. “I mean, look at all that you’ve done.”

“We don’t have to talk about me.”

“I don’t mind, I miss y— talking to you.”

He looked at you a moment longer. Really looked at you. Like he was unraveling the last twenty years and all the lost moments and memories.

“I miss you, too.”

You sucked in a breath, watching as his eyes flicked down to his half eaten dinner, his fingers messing the soft fabric of the table cloth.

“I am sorry—“

“I told you it’s fine.”

“It was rude.”

“It’s life.”

Though you appreciated the fact he didn’t just discard you carelessly, you wish he didn’t beat himself up over it.

This was the exact thing you wanted to avoid.

“I kept your letters. I read them sometimes,” he slowly admitted.

Your brows furrowed. “But you never wrote me back?”

“I thought too much time had passed.” He bit his cheek and spared a glance at you. “In all honesty, I thought you hated me.”

“Why would I hate you?”

“Because I just… what I did was shitty. And I know that’s life, but I should’ve done something and I didn’t.”

You looked at him for a long moment, a frown gently tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“Michael.”

His eyes flicked to yours.

“You can’t do that to yourself. If you keep carrying the world on your shoulders, your knees will eventually give out.”

He went to open his mouth but you reached a hand across the table, taking hold of his fingers and finding comfort in how warm he was.

“I’m okay. I’ve been just fine. I’ve lived my life and so have you. There’s nothing else to it.”

Your heart tripped over itself when his thumb ran gently back and forth across your knuckles, his hand so much bigger than yours.

When his car had pulled back up to your apartment building, he’d asked you for your number.

You wrote it down on the back of one of your business cards you usually carried with you, handing it to him with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You knew he wouldn’t call.

And you had been right.

michael jackson masterlist

taglist: @solarrandom @mjssluttyfish @tojiswifeforlife @sometranslationnoteru @sunshineyrosie @amoravelee @mvsticmoony @softchaosdiary04 @slugstarzz @redemptioninthe4ethers @saberlight1 @roseidol @iimsopretty @auroralwriting @wannabestartinsmth @delicate-ray-of-sunshine @loverstar014 @mjjsangel @18lkpeters @devilslittlehelper @cherubae111 @ursamajor17 @sarcasmismyfirstlove @bbpanth3rr @brainacidsstuff @fayleyy @lovern-9 @jxngwons-pinkyy @veraberaxx @thrill3rnights @arzua10 @michaelcomeback @coornballz @escapefromrealitylol @rorawrnoa-zoro @ooooglymoooogly @tellybearryyyy @softchaosdiary505 @yennabow @sparklyglove @khxna @grumpyy-bearr @erenstitanweave @loveposiie @mikaylajacksonnn @shadesofcool51 @httpbluberri @judesboots @mvkas

“What’s got you all chipper this morning, Maine?" Tito questioned making everyone turn their heads towards him.

“This is the smile of a man who got some love last night.” He replied with a self-satisfied smirk.

Janet groaned fake gagging whilst his brothers erupted into loud laughter and whistles, knowing grins plastered their faces as they patted him on the back. 

Michael gave a small smile watching the scene unfold, but he refocused his attention on Janet—–he never was one to be interested in sex talk and his brother's manly habits. He believed sex and intimacy was something to be cherished—something to be kept privately between a male and female.

Which is why no matter how many times his brothers tried to pry or be nosey about his and yours relationship, Michael always shooed them off before enjoying you all to himself behind closed doors. He really was the black sheep of his brothers. 

Whilst explaining the cross word to Janet, he felt Jermaine’s hands clap his shoulders as he took a seat beside him. “Hey Mike.”

“Hey maine, how you been?”

“Good. How about you and mrs lover girl?”

Michael felt his face grow warm at the mention of you, he always grew shy whenever you were brought up—his brothers never failed to tease him over it. 

“She’s good, we’re good– she’s comin over tonight actually.” He replied before adding “How’s you and Hazel?” 

“Extremely good as you can tell” Jermaine replied mischievously whilst gesturing to himself with his hands—Michael rolled his eyes with a smile at his brother's cockiness.

“Yeah i can see that maine, whats that?” He asked curiously whilst he nodded his head towards a purplish coloured bruising resting just above Jermaine’s collarbone. 

His brother’s grin only grew cockier before he responded. “That, my innocent lil brother, is a hickey.”

Michael blinked confused—completely unaware of the term whilst his two older brothers Jackie and Tito turned around after the conversation caught their attention.

“A hickey?” Mike repeated, testing out the words still not understanding whilst his three older brothers bursted into laughter—he shrank into his seat feeling embarrassed.

“C’mon mike, you know what a hickey is man.” Jackie said expecting Michael to have been joking but when he saw his younger brother avoiding eye contact he stopped laughing “Oh you serious.” 

“Mike you mean to tell me you and her still ain’t done nun yet?” Tito inquired.

Even though he didn’t like having his brother's noses in his love life—Michael wasn’t a virgin, but he was still relatively new to it all—only having done anything with you maybe once or twice, which is why the concept of hickeys was still something that was foreign to him. 

“I’ve told you guys before, its nun of your business.” He replied, growing irritated by their questioning. 

“He still ain’t done nun yet that's why he avoiding the question.” Tito said, making the brothers laugh uncontrollably again whilst Michael sighed shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Don’t worry Mike, when you finally get one of these you’ll become a man.” Jermained laughed whilst he pointed to the hickey on his neck.

Feeling offended by his words his brows furrowed “I am a man Jermaine.”

“Whatever you say Michael.” Jackie responded between laughter.

“Go get a hickey from her and we might take you seriously.” Jermaine remarked sarcastically, trying to stifle his amusement. 

“Oh you think i can’t?” Michael retorted, sitting up more straight—starting to feel slightly competitive by their doubt.

The three brothers exchanged amused glances—their reactions speaking for them before Michael scoffed standing up to walk out of the kitchen.

“Watch me.”

𓂃⋆.˚  

The sound of lips smacking filled Michael's bedroom. His family were fast asleep in their rooms whilst he was up against his headboard holding onto your waist where you straddled his lap, exploring his mouth with your tongue. 

You arrived at Hayvenhurst for a sleepover a couple hours ago when you had dinner with the family. Michael had been quiet the entire time, barely talking to his brothers the way he usually would, when dinner was over and the two of you headed up to his bedroom—you barely made it across the room before he started kissing you hungrily.

“Baby– keep it down we can’t be too– loud.” He said between the kisses whilst your fingers caressed his fro, tipping his head back to kiss him deeper.

“You started this Mike, you shouldn’t have started kissing me like that.” You whispered against his lips grinding onto his growing erection through his pajama trousers.

“Angel–” kiss “Angel wait– i-i need to ask you somethin.” 

You paused, pulling your head back to look at him. “What's wrong Mikey?”

His eyes flickered away from yours. “Nothing i just…”

“Tell me mike.” You cupped his face forcing him to make eye contact as he exhaled softly.

“What's a hickey?” He asked nervously.

Your eyes widened slightly—expecting anything but that. “A hickey?” You repeated.

“Yeah…a hickey….Jermaine had one when he came home this mornin n they were all teasin me about not knowing.” 

He began to explain the comments they made, the way they laughed, and how Jermaine doubted he could ever get one. 

Understanding flashed across your face as you started to piece everything together—his silence towards his brothers during dinner and the heated kiss he gave you. 

“Well for starters i’m gonna kick their asses for teasing you.” 

He cracked a smile, chuckling slightly at your words.

“Don’t worry baby, I'll tell you all there is to know, okay?” You said softly, caressing his cheek with love whilst he nodded looking up at you with those big doe eyes you fell in love with. 

“Okay so, a hickey is when a person places their mouth on someones skin, and sucks real hard till it bruises—dont worry though, it feels really good, especially if it's on the neck in a sensitive area of the skin.” You explained whilst Michael listened intently, visualising it whilst you spoke.

“Have you…ever received one?” He asked suddenly feeling shy.

“Yeah baby i have.” You responded.

“Oh..” His tone was mixed with slight jealousy—a rare appearance that always made you turned on whenever it happened.

“Wanna give me one mikey?”

His dick slightly twitched in his pants—which you felt because you were still straddling him—at the seductiveness of your voice.

“I-i…i wouldn’t know how–”

“I can teach you. You want me to teach you baby?”

As if hypnotised by your words he nodded turning into complete jelly at the sound your voice. You smirked before adjusting yourself on his lap, getting yourself comfy again before you placed his hands on your waist to hold.

“Good, now lean into my neck and just start off with soft kisses mikey.” You murmured softly as he hesitantly leaned in but started pressing gentle kisses onto the skin of the right side of your neck.

The sweet smell of your natural skin mixed with Cocoa butter made his tense muscles relax completely as he spread the warm kisses around the area feeling the way your own body melted onto him.

“Mmh that feels good baby, okay now make the kisses a little wetter, add your tongue into it.”

He does as told gently placing his tongue flat before smooching onto the skin, he repeated this about five times as your eyes closed and your bottom lip was folded between your teeth trying not to release a moan that was starting to form in your throat.

Growing slightly confident, he trailed the tongue filled kisses across your neck moving to your left side which had you finally release the small moan you were trying to hold back.

“Does it feel good angel?” Michael muttered against your neck seeking reassurance as you nodded rubbing his back urging him to continue.

“Mhm y-yes baby it does…okay now i want you to suck onto the skin, still making it wet but this time suction your mouth baby.” You instructed softly.

He listened, you felt him readjust his mouth before his lips closed over the area in a sucking motion—instantly, he sucked onto your sweet spot that was just where your pulse was and you moaned again, tipping your head back more for him.

“Oh yes…yes baby you’re doing so well, m’so proud of you.” You spoke lowly, slightly feeling breathless.

Hearing the way your responses start to become breathy, Michael sucked onto your neck with more confidence, his tongue swiping all the areas that triggered more moans from you as you started to grind your hips onto his now completely hard crotch.

Feeling your hips move—it was Michael’s turn to release pleasure filled sounds which he released onto the area he was sucking, his hips bucking upwards as the grip he had on your waist became tighter. 

“I love you baby– love making you feel good, I love being good for you.” His hot breath tickling your wet bruised skin as he panted softly against it at the way your clothed core was grinding onto his pajama pants where he was now leaking precum through his boxers.

“I love you too, such a good boy for me Mike, doing so well marking me up—you like marking up your girl hm?”

Michael nodded whilst he groaned against your neck painfully and possessively as he continued to suck on your skin like there was no tomorrow. 

“Aht aht, i need your words Mikey.”

“I do! I love marking you up baby—love marking up my pretty girl.” He responded frantically.

Just as he was about to suck on the other side again, you pulled back slightly, lifting his head up—he whined about to protest before you silenced him with a hungry kiss to his lips that he returned gratefully, his tongue wrapped around yours passionately, neither of you caring how loud your kisses were as you deepened it before pulling away with a playful tug at his bottom lip with your teeth.

“How do you like your work, Picasso?” You teased as you tilted your head back allowing Michael to get a full view of the fresh dark prominent hickeys on your brown skin.

His eyes darkened seeing the outcome of his work, once again you felt him twitch beneath you as you pulled your head back forward meeting his gaze with your lustful one. 

“You liked that mikey? Like seein me all marked up because of you?” You whispered against his lips with a smirk as he nodded rapidly still staring up at you as if he was in a trance. “y-yes i do.”

You pulled back and he leaned in not wanting to escape your warmth but you rested your palm on his chest creating distance. “Now that I've taught you the principles of a hickey, and how it works….its my turn.”

The excitement that filled your boyfriends wide eyes caused you to chuckle gently as he eagerly gripped your waist again pulling you impossibly closer till you were chest to chest.

“Looks like someone's eager.” You ribbed 

“Please, please I need to prove Jermaine wrong—needa wipe that smug grin off his face, all of em.”

Fueled by your own desperation to help your boyfriend succeed, you leaned into his neck—the warm scent of clean skin and faint cologne filled your nostrils before you pressed soft kisses on the area doing the same exact process you taught him—licking his skin gently you smiled against him hearing the way his breath hitched. 

“Just relax baby, gonna make you feel so good.” You whispered before you started sucking on the area.

Michael’s eyes flickered shut as he released a soft shaky moan—so this is what a hickey felt like.

He bit on his bottom lip trying not to moan too loudly but when you started to roll your hips again—resuming your actions from earlier, he buried his face onto your shoulder whilst you moved against him and continued to work your mouth on his skin. You licked it, feeling his pulse quicken against your tongue.

“O-oh that feels so good.” He whimpered, moving his hands to your ass and squeezing a handful—his sudden confidence made you release a surprised sound onto his skin before you continued sucking.

“That’s it baby, grip my ass while i mark you.”

He continued to dry hump with you, neither of you losing the momentum as you panted into his skin grinding your now completely drenched clothed core onto his erect Pajama pants pushing your clit forward and back until you were a moaning mess. You sucked hard onto the skin making sure you left your mark on the very visible area before you released his skin with a pop and switched to the other side. 

Just like he did earlier, your mouth immediately found his sweet spot when you moved to his right side—Michael released a quivering moan tipping his head back to give you more access to the skin as you continued to abuse it, slurping and sucking on it whilst your hips moved on their own accord.

"F-fuck mikey you feel so good against me, so perfect and hard for me baby." You praised.

The two of you were now moaning in unison—completely losing yourselves, Michael’s head was thrown back with drool escaping his lips at how good your mouth felt on his neck and how good your pussy felt dry humping him, your spit trickled down his neck as you sucked hungrily over his adams apple.

“Ngh– oh God— oh baby—” Michael was an incoherent mess his words scrambling over each other as he pushed your hips down on him—harder, faster whilst you were your own disaster still latched onto his neck with tears of pleasure rolling down your face. 

“A-angel, angel im coming— im com— aghh!”

Michael came hard into his boxers his grip on you deliciously painful as he held you tighter, moving your head you bit onto his shoulder just as your own orgasm crashed through you as well whilst you continued to relentlessly rub your overstimulated clit through your panties onto his crotch before releasing his skin from your mouth with a whiny moan. 

After it became too sensitive and too much to handle, your hips gradually slowed down, the two of you panted heavily—both of your eyelids heavy as Michael rubbed your back soothingly with his palm. 

“You okay?” His voice low and soft.

“Yeah, you?” You replied as he nodded with a tired smile formed on his lips, his eyes sleepy but filled with love as they stared at you.

You stared back with matched tiredness and infatuation, brushing your thumb against his wet hickeys—a wide smile of pride painted your pretty face.

“Lets get some rest angel face, you got some showing off to do in the morning.”

𓂃⋆.˚  

The family's loud breakfast morning routine took place as usual, this time Latoya and Rebbie were there to make sure the pancakes weren’t burnt this time, whilst the brothers—marlon, Jermaine, Tito and Jackie sat at the table playing cards above their cereal bowls.

The loud chatter and bickering filled the atmosphere as the late morning sun shone through the sheer floral curtains of the kitchen. 

Janet was sat up on the counter completing the crossword Michael had taught her how to do yesterday whilst Randy got on her nerves trying to distract her. 

After finishing up the pancakes—Rebbie took the motherly role like always and fixed everyone a plate before she raised her finger and counted everyone in the kitchen then asked. “Where’s Michael?”

As if on cue, the third to last sibling strolled in, his face wearing the same exact expression that his brother had on yesterday. 

He took a seat at the table completely ignoring the extremely loud silence that had filled the air along with the heavy weight of eight eyes being directed at him as he took his plate from Rebbie, thanking her.

“Mike…” Latoya trailed off her lips parted in shock at the sight of him.

Ignoring what was on Michael’s skin, was like trying to ignore the elephant in the room—his entire neck was decorated with massive deep purple—almost black, bruises. They covered almost the whole neck skin, around five to six on each side, each one being larger than the other. 

Michael finally looked up meeting the shocked eyes of everyone before shrugging. “What?”

His brothers looked between themselves before wide massive smiles plastered their faces and they jumped up rushing to Michael with cheers and laughter, playfully slapping him on the back and jostling him whilst his sisters rolled their eyes resuming what they were doing.

“My man!” Jackie exclaimed proudly, ruffling his afro.

“Ain’t no way.” Marlon’s jaw dropped.

“Mike– you out done me. You actually out done me.” Jermaine said, still shocked but filled with excitement.

“Let me see! Let me see!” Randy tried to pull his head back.

For the next five minutes, his brothers continued to joyfully shove him around, demanding answers to their millions of questions that were being thrown at the speed of light whilst Michael tried to hold in his laugh giving them short responses.

Their game of twenty one questions was interrupted when you’d finally come down from his room, you cleared your throat and leaned against the kitchen’s door frame with your arms crossed wearing one of Michael’s old t-shirts—your brown skinned neck mirroring his own, your curls in a high ponytail to proudly show it off.  

Latoya and Rebbie turned to you with knowing grins before his brothers immediately left Michael and rushed to you, they swarmed you with their own shocked questions whilst Michael smiled and watched with a fuzzy feeling inside. 

“Yup, and don’t make fun of my man again.”

𑣲⋆｡˚

Thank you so much for reading <𝟑 .ᐟ

yes, he has some of your clothes. to be fair, you also have some of his! knowing you, you're probably doing the same thing with michael's jackets that he does with your cardigans. the thought of you holding up his jacket to your face and taking a huge whiff as those pretty little fingers pump in and out... he clears his throat some, concentrating back in on the sound of your voice over the phone. "your cardigan? yeah, i have it, you left it when you came over last time, remember? well, just let me wash it first before i give it back to you. mother would kill me if she found out i didn't. it's rude to return things dirty, you know."

what do you mean you have other friends? "well, they're not your best friend," he mutters as you mention spending time with someone else, "best friends are more important, just... reschedule." michael forgets, sometimes, that you have other friends, unlike him. you spend so much time with him and his family and yet, he isn't 100% of your life. not yet, at least. when you promise him that you'll make it up to him with a movie marathon, he relaxes, nodding his head along. "okay... any movies i want, right? okay, then. i can't wait."

making you jealous is all too easy (and all too fun). asking you to accompany him out on the town and then "accidentally" getting preoccupied with fangirls is a surefire way to get you going; michael can help it, really, but he doesn't want to. after all, whenever you're mad, he gets to play hero, reassuring you that you're his best friend and kissing along your cheeks, down your jaw to your throat before pulling away.

"ah, i got carried away... i just care about you so much, is all. you're my best friend for a reason, you know?"

you melt each time, cheeks burning hot as you murmur how it's fine for friends to kiss like that. "you don't have to stop if you don't want to. i don't mind," you throw out, a line clearly meant to bait him into continuing.

"i don't have to stop?" michael asks quietly, letting his voice drip with mock innocence as he comes in closer, "really? should i... start at your cheek again, and work my way down?" he never makes it easy for you, does he?

"aha," you giggle nervously before nodding, "yeah, yeah, mikey."

he's a pervert of your perversion. you'll be snooping around his room (probably to steal a jacket, or maybe his underwear, filthy you!) only to find a stash of porno mags with models that look like you. or, maybe you come in bright and early in the morning, and you glimpse michael in his sleepwear, an undershirt and his boxers, before he can properly get dressed. you're watching him through a sliver in his doorway as he bends to pick something up, totally unaware of the fact that he's doing it on purpose.

his current dream? to own a tape of you masturbating. he knows you do it considering how often his stuff goes missing, but michael's yet to get a glimpse of it. oh, what a treat it would be to see you getting off to him, his doe eyes and shy smile; he wants to see you at your filthiest, your dirtiest, legs spread as you hold one of his photos or maybe his clothes or— maybe you're in his room, quickly fingering yourself as he makes popcorn downstairs!— or maybe he's sleeping next to you!— or maybe, just maybe, you're smiling at him, letting michael openly watch and record as you moan and squirm.... "goodness," he mumbles, glancing down at his own hand, now coated in cum. yeah, definitely a dream. for now, just a dream.

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literally just an expansion pack to another thing i posted today. again, you like corrupting your cute, sweet friend and he likes how you think you're in charge of things. michael grinding into you during movie cuddle time and when you bring it up he's all "can't help it, my body yearns for my bestie teehee just friend things". god forbid he catches you trying to record him jerking off or smth, he's putting on a showwww (all while never moaning your name, just baby and darling and mama so that you feel blueballed). like you guys are both weird as fuck </3 michael pressing his ear to the door of your room at your house to make extra sure you're masturbating before he walks in (surprise visit!!!).

“mhmm,” he nods, stepping closer to your little booth, setting his book down onto the table. he wastes no time in opening the book to the back cover, smoothing over the unruly pages with his palm before sliding it over to you. “you can sign here.” michael’s eyes glance you over, ignoring your shock. “you’re younger than i expected, for a children’s book author.”

that seems to snap you out of being awestruck. the end of your left eyebrow raises briefly, a flicker of insult. “you’re older than i expected, for a fan of children’s books,” you mutter, turning the book around so you could sign it. your wrist rests against the back page, but you don’t put your pen down just yet. “i can’t believe it’s you.”

a genuine, hardy laugh escapes him before he can try to stifle it; no wonder you didn’t hold events often! it wasn’t that you were a mysterious old lady like michael had originally thought. you were, in fact, a woman around his age, one with an attitude that he could only find amusing. “believe it. and… i guess you’re right. i’m not who people first imagine when they think of someone reading these books...” he trails, then adds, “i read them to kids, too, though. whenever i visit a hospital or orphanage or school, i always bring a few books of yours. they’re always a favorite.”

michael pauses, then leans in somewhat, resting one hand along your little table. “i just like to visit and bring a little joy to the kids. it’s important to them. important for them. i don’t have to explain that to you, though, i know you get it. your books are… incredible. they’re not dumbed down. they’re just as honest as the kids are; full of the same wonder, too.”

“you’re flattering me.” lowering your gaze to the page, you finally begin to lay down your signature. the movement of your eyes, however, is less about ensuring you write neatly and more an act of survival against the sudden sincerity in his eyes.

“i don’t ever flatter. i only tell the truth,” he replies, watching you add the final details of your signature. a quiet scoff leaves your lips before you can help it, prompting michael to tilt his head curiously. “what? you don’t believe me?”

shrugging gently, you slide the cap back onto your pen. “you have a whole song about how bad you are, don’t you?”

“it’s just a song. one of many.” he pauses, then grins a little more, “you listen to me?”

“doesn’t everyone? and, anyways, your look doesn’t help.” you close his book up, then turn it back around, sliding it towards him.

“i’m not a bad boy, not really,” he insists, going directly against the image he’s been carefully building for the past two to three years. michael’s eyes rest upon your disbelieving face, pouty almost while his hands reach for his book. as he brings it up, holding it to his chest again, he makes a decision. “let me take you out,” he says firmly, half-asking, but more so telling.

“what?”

“let me take you out to dinner. then i can show you that i’m not a bad guy,” he explains— it all makes sense in his head: he takes you out, shows you that he’s not as edgy as his public persona might suggest, maybe even charm you along the way— “when are you free? or, should i just ask your manager?”

“i’m not free,” you reply, brows furrowed.

…not free? “what do you mean?”

your excuse comes out stiff, the kind of lie that most people would pick up on immediately. “i have things i have to take care of consistently.”

michael, however, takes it in earnest. “kids?” he asks, because what else would a children’s author have to take care of consistently? and, no wonder your books are so good, you have kids of your own! “i can find you a babysitter.”

“no, not kids,” you shake your head— he’s persistent, isn’t he? “other stuff, i just— i can’t, sorry.”

dinner with michael didn’t sound all that terrible in theory. it’d be an amusing date, if nothing else. dinner with michael jackson, however, one of the most famous people alive, sounds like hell. it sounds like paparazzi at your front door, like cameras following your every move, like fans sending you hate-mail all because you were spotted in the man’s vicinity. you’d worked hard for your quiet life; you’d be damned if you gave it up now.

the star’s not used to rejection. you can see it in his eyes, that flicker of surprise. so you didn’t have kids after all… looking at you now, his mind briefly whispers, i can change that— michael forces himself to focus on the situation at hand, however, before his brain can take him deeper down that rabbit hole. “i get it,” he finally responds, “i won’t pressure you into saying yes. i’m a gentleman, after all.” he smiles a little at that, eyes twinkling. “and i won’t hold up your signing any longer. just think about it, okay?”

“i… okay,” you nod, sucking in a breath through your nose, “i’ll think about it.”

“good.” this time, when he grins, it doesn’t just feel like the smirk of a bad boy. his eyes linger along your face for several moments, his lips curled in a way that’s downright dangerous. then, he steps back, holding his book tightly as if it could somehow substitute for your physical presence. michael lets his gaze lower to the ground before he tilts his head up again, looking towards the secured exit where bill’s waiting.

it was supposed to be a small event, and instead you got… michael jackson. it’s a story so fantastical that not even you could think of it!

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author’s note )        okay i decided to release this one first & batman!michael tmrw <3 hope you guys enjoy, i thought it was quite the cute concept although i would've been happy regardless of what the era poll said. i honestly suck at writing longterm series w chapters and such, i'm super scatterbrained smh, but i'll prob do a series of blurbs for this concept, maybe? kind of like how i do w manager!michael & popstar!reader, there's a sort of overall plot but also whatever we want to happen can happen lol.