𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐄 ⚜
𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐄 ⚜
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒. jester!Gojo x lady!Reader, historical AU – medieval, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, banter, eventual smut [MDNI], dubcon, loss of vírginity, ôrgasm denial, overstimúlation, edgīng, glove used as makeshift gag, böndage, Gojo talks you through it, fíngering, cûnnilíngus, finger sucking, cúm swallowing, sqûírting, exhibítionísm, voyeûrísm, crëampîe, table séx, library séx, couch séx, pantry séx, balcony séx, ridíng, máting press, sorta fwb, arranged marriage, angst (w/ implied happy ending), forbidden love, etc etc
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. 16.2k
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. thank you for 4k cuties!! accept this as a gift, sorta, idk, this was actually a request; also, this was my first time writing for Gojo, and . . . NEVER again, i tell you. i shan't write for this man EVER again *wipes tears* i'm way more used to writing the big bad wolf Sukuna // available on ao3 // dividers by @/aquazero
Jesters could do many things.
They could dance and sing and laugh. They could read through your deepest fears, your desires, your wants, and exploit them—all in the name of fun. They could write poems, tell tales, play songs; but beneath all their cunning smiles, hidden under their costume and glory, all jesters were but men. Pigs of mud; scum of the earth. Mortals; males; humans.
All jesters were men—plain, stupid men—but not Gojo Satoru.
Not your Gojo Satoru.
No, he was different: he was a piece of shit. In the beginning, at least.
Now, originally, he was a slave—captured from the raidings of a nearby kingdom and thrown into the dungeons. It was unfortunate, really, and you pitied him. But not everyone did. At first, many royal advisors of the king’s court opted for throwing the young boy into a brothel, because they took one good look at his sea-blue eyes, and decided he would be extremely successful for the kingdom as an escort.¹ But, luckily, the king saw wit and potential in the kid, and, instead of throwing him into a brothel, threw him right into the royal court, where he served, from then on, as a jester.
¹ Prostitute.
He was only fourteen when he earned his role as a professional entertainer, and only, still, fourteen when he escaped eternal damnation as a slave.
‘Twas the lives of boys like him, Gojo was just lucky enough to be a pretty boy.
Not like that was relevant, anyway. Because, although he was four years your junior, he still managed to cause twice as much trouble compared to the average toddler. He was a jester, sure, but he was more than just mockery and tomfoolery. He played pranks even during the most serious occasions, and teased the ladies of the royal court endlessly.
Crude, deviant jokes.
Twisted mind games.
Insults vile enough to bring tears down the victim’s eyes.
He did it all, with little to no remorse. Actually, scratch that, no remorse—none, at all.
Gojo Satoru was a mischievous kid, probably the most mischievous jester of the kingdom. He joked around and teased just about everyone, but he directed most of his obscenities towards you. All six years he had been at the castle, the castle where you resided at as a lady, he was nothing but a menace to you. A bully, if you could even say that.
He pulled your hair, laughed in your face at your evident frustration, occasionally stepped on the trains of your dresses, stole food from your plates, and often dared to interrupt your conversations with other ladies you had befriended at the castle. You did not like Gojo, not one bit.
The only time you had ever felt an emotion lacking loathing towards the now twenty-year-old was when you became acquainted at his first appearance in the royal court. When he was brought in before the king, who sat solemnly on his throne, Gojo did not want to live. His parents had been murdered, house had been ransacked, and old life destroyed. You could not blame him. But the king offered him a new life, a life as a jester.
Gojo was fourteen years old; he was alone, cold, hungry, and he decided to start anew.
Perhaps the reason Gojo was so skilled at being an entertainer was because the only way the boy had ever learned how to cope with his misfortunes was with humor. He masked his sorrows every day he sang and danced and joked with the royal court, and maybe—maybe the reason why he poked fun at you the most often was . . . because you were the only one who noticed.
He was a talented man, but his talents were directed towards rather foolish acts. He wrote and played ballads dedicated to poking and making fun of you. He plucked his instruments as annoyingly and horridly as humanly possible just to rile you up and see you either storm out the room in rage or struggle to hold yourself back from slapping his smug smile right off his impossibly handsome face. Besides music, he also wrote poems: poems full of love and poems full of hate (more often than not, pointed to you).
There was not a word in the language you spoke that could describe how much you loathed hearing Gojo’s irritatingly smooth voice or the sound of his lute.²
² An instrument.
You were practically seething right now, as you were sharing gossip with the other ladies over your usage of embroidery as a pastime, because the only gossip you could hear was the horrible plucking of strings in the other room. It seemed you were the only one bothered by the noise. Damned was that silver-haired oaf, you silently cursed to yourself, fingers twitching whilst you interlaced your thread.
“Agnes, dear, you know, I hear there shall be a festival during the spring times,” began a red-haired woman, otherwise known as Bridgette. She was a built woman, and was taller than most of your fellow ladies. She married, became widowed, and was now alone, though she was still jolly. You wondered if your future would be the same. “In the villages, of course.”
“Oh?” Agnes asked, coughing. “Do tell.”
The eldest woman of the room, Bridgette, began relaying all the information she possessed from overhearing maidservants in their respective corridors to Lady Agnes, a raven-haired, arguably sickly thin woman. Agnes was perhaps one of your closest friends at the castle, and you had known of her since the two of you were but adolescents. She liked spring festivals, because the smell of florals always brought the color back to her pale, sunken face.
“It will be a delight, I’m sure. After all, all festivals are delights. Say, Eleanor,” added Bridgette, as she turned her rosy-cheeked face to the blonde woman sitting just beside you, “have you heard any more about the ball from any of the chevaliers³?”
³ Knights.
“Oh, I—yes . . . I remember, the ball, the one next week?” asked Eleanor. She was a meek, lithe woman; wife to a knight. A quiet, stuttering creature she was, but, nevertheless, you admired her for her humorously contradicting elegance and modesty.
“The day after the morrow,” you said, clarifying, having decided to distract yourself from the awful playing of the lute next door by conversing amongst the rest of the ladies.
“The day after the morrow . . .” Eleanor repeated, before her face lit up. “Oh! yes, I see. The ball after the morrow . . . Oh, well, in that case—Bridgette, I do have some news.”
The ladies seated around the wooden table instantly leaned more into the conversation, their embroidery and weaving having come to either a stop or a slow in order to focus on the words which would leave Lady Eleanor’s lips. Even Agnes, the least social of the ladies, seemed intrigued by the highly anticipated ball which would surely bring a variety of guests flocking from each kingdom.
“Well, bless me!” exclaimed Bridgette, her hand on her bosom. “Color me intrigued.”
Eleanor cleared her throat. “Plenty of the knights and calvary will be there, as they always are. I hear some merchants are also attending, in pursuit of business and the sellings of oh-so splendid dresses. Sires, lords, nobles, sirs. There will be many royals, I’m sure, but—”
“Princes?” interrupted Bridgette. “What about princes?”
Eleanor blushed, embarrassed from being cut off. “A-plenty,” was what she ultimately replied with.
“Oh! my word. There will be just so many princes to dance with! Think of the conversations one could have with a foreigner. Think of how different their customs are. How attractive they could be compared to the hounds that, here, we call men.”
Lady Bridgette went on and on with her exclamations, her excitement showing itself as her face continued to redden impossibly with each sentence she spoke.
Even someone as unsociable as Agnes blushed a bit, and you, too, also seemed to grin a little at the idea of men, other than Gojo, pestering you for change. But, speaking of the man, at the bringing of attention towards the amount of single men that would be attending the ball, the playing and strumming of the lute had come to an abrupt stop.
There were no more incorrect notes, no more out-of-tune strings, and no more laughter echoing throughout the halls. Perhaps the jester had finally decided to leave you alone.
Perhaps.
“Perhaps” was the key-word here, because, at the moment you even suggested such a ridiculous idea, of course, the playing had to resume. The lute was picked up, and, once more, Gojo continued his horrible music, but, this time, much more quicker-paced and, as if to add some flair, in a staccato fashion.
It would be useless to say you were not left alone for the rest of the evening, because it came with no surprise. None, at all.
***
The day of the ball arrived much earlier than you felt it, but that was no coincidence, for, with the seemingly increased amounts of times Gojo bothered you throughout the waiting time, you were just about ready for, quite literally, anything else.
The hall was filled with bustling crowds of men and women. Candelabras were lit, servants walked with trays of assorted treats, guests lined the walls, and princes and nobles rushed in through the gates and doors like a great wave. The king had ordered for such a grand ball in celebration of his recent victories on the battlefield, and there was no denying the grandeur of the spectacle.
Ladies dressed in their best attires, men buttoned their coats to the top, and knights slung ribbons and swords at their waists.
You weren’t always one for affairs that served their purpose as opportunities to meddle, (such as balls), but you couldn’t resist the event of seeing so many new faces, especially since you were approaching the time to be wed. Well, it didn’t matter, really; in the instance that you failed to find a beau, the king would surely bring in a favor for you, whether you wished for it yourself, or not.
On the other hand, it seemed princes weren’t the only men attending the ball, which, in this case, was as unfortunate as fortunes could get. Because, lo and behold, Gojo, clad in a purple motley,⁴ was present at the hall where the ball was to take place.
⁴ Costume of a jester.
How foolish you were to think that, for once in your life, you could be free of the moronic man-child. But, of course! you could never. You two resided in the same royal court, after all; it could only be expected that the notorious jester would be in attendance alongside more agreeable guests.
The silver-haired man took full strides until he was just one pace away from you, leaning down into a deep bow as he kissed the back of your palm, his eyes staring up at you all the while, almost hypnotic, they seemed.
You did not smile, opting for scoffing instead, though you did not immediately pull your hand away from his. “Go bother someone else, Gojo.”
“Feisty, I like it.”
“This is not a joking matter, I mean it. I’m here to have fun, as are other people. Which, speaking of, I’m sure there are plenty of women who would be more than willing to throw themselves into your arms as we speak.”
Gojo did not respond for a moment, but you did not take it as an opportunity to exit the scene. Perhaps you should have, when he said, with an unfamiliar tone, “And you?”
“. . .Pardon?”
“Are you a woman who’s willing to throw herself into my arms?”
“I am a woman who is busy, Gojo. Enjoy the ball.”
Your words were spoken like a parent tired of scolding a child an indefinite number of times, but Gojo did not let them cut deep into his heart, and before you could pick up the train of your gown and walk away, he took your hand once more, stopping you.
“A dance,” he implored, looking into your eyes. “One dance with my fair lady.”
You almost laughed at the poor attempt for a joke, your lips curving upwards into a smile. “My hand has already been promised to another man.”
“Promised . . . for a dance,” he repeated, as if reassuring himself of something. “—Correct? Nothing more?”
You let your fingers gradually slip from Gojo’s grasps. “You really are a silly man, aren’t you? Oh, well, I guess it cannot be helped.” You grinned, laughing to yourself at the strange exchange that had just taken place, before walking elsewhere.
It was true. Your hand was promised to another. Another man. A prince. He had asked for a dance with you as soon as his eyes met yours just moments before, and, who were you to decline him? After all, there was no one else you could’ve imagined as a more agreeable partner, for the first round, at least.
He was of a foreign land to the North, was what you learned during conversation you held during your waltz together. Of the name Rilian Atkinson, the prince was a tanned, lean man. With brown hair that sat under his gleaming coronet,⁵ there was no mistaking of his patronymic name and title.
⁵ A simple version of a crown, worn due to its lesser weight.
He spoke nothing short of how royalty would, and you found your cheeks warming numerous times whenever he made a joke you could not understand, seeing as a lady such as you was not at-level with someone so high in rank and respect. You could only feign soft laughter and forced smiles. But, luckily, when it came to keeping up a reputation, you were not particularly bad at playing the part of a respectable lady of court, and you were almost certain you had Prince Rilian fooled by a false image.
Now, don’t start getting the wrong ideas.
You were fond of the man, you learned—during waltzing with him, and his hands were softer than most, so you held no hostility. His manners were inarguably adept; he was proper, acted with more respect than anything else, and was, perhaps, the only man in a while that had you wanting to excuse yourself, taking consecutive trips to the nearest mirrors in order to fix your jewelry or touch up your hair.
It was almost embarrassing, come to think of it. The way he managed to make you laugh despite your not understanding any of his jokes, because, funny enough, his mannerisms and tone were enough to make you want to praise him for his complex, sophisticated humor, and, above all, you felt ashamed of yourself had you done otherwise.
He twirled you, he turned you, he dipped you; all with such ease and skill—he was the most enjoyable dance partner you had ever had.
Despite your pleasures during the first round of the waltz, there were others who were . . . not so fortunate.
Gojo, for instance, had been leaning against a pillar in the corner, a frown on his face and his arms crossed over his chest throughout his sulking and seething. Maybe he was upset because you declined him, maybe he disliked the way you looked over his offer so casually, but, in any way, he refused to dance with any other women, and ignored the ladies that approached him whilst the troubadours⁶ performed.
⁶ Poet-musicians.
He often scoffed to himself, complaining about how he could write much better love songs than the hired entertainers, which was a silly thought, because the only reason he was free to dance instead of play music, was because he opted out of entertaining at this specific ball in hopes of being able to dance with a certain . . . someone.
Gojo was not woeful for long, though—albeit it felt that way to him—because, by the time he felt he had harnessed the wrath of a thousand suns, it was then time to change partners.
You were en route to chat up some ladies about your dance with a prince, when, quite out of the blue, the silver-haired jester had stepped in your way, interrupting your train of thought and forcing your steps to come to a halt as he stood before you, eyes gleaming and smile plastered.
He did not need to say another word more before your expression moved into a bothered one, contrasting the moony eyes you had been wearing prior to his approach.
“Are you going to attempt and ask me to dance a second time?”
“Are you going to say ‘No’ a second time?” he bit back.
Yes, you would have declined him again, but God’s graces were not on your side at the moment, for you felt like a punished sinner when the king, too, had begun to approach you and Gojo with a drunk look on his old, worn face.
Your lips were open to offer rejection towards the jester, but the king was much swifter in his speaking. “Jester. Lady.” He nodded, acknowledging you both in greeting with the cocking of his head. “It seems a rare pair has made its way onto the ballroom floor,” he laughed, a harmonious sound.
Your cheeks grew warm at his assumption. His Majesty was certainly getting the wrong idea at the sight of his most youthful lady, and his most mischievous jester, gathered together during a rather conspicuous setting. Oh, God, upon your word! this wasn’t what it looked like. The opposite, really.
“Well, most certainly, Your Majesty,” replied Gojo, playing along. He shot a grin your way, obviously aware of your distress, but paid no further mind. “You wouldn’t believe the lengths I had to go to in order to get a lady as beautiful as her—” (He gestured to you) “—to dance with a lowly jester such as I.”
The king laughed. “Many love poems were written, I assume?” he joked.
“Your Majesty is as insightful as always.”
The furrow of your brows grew deeper and deeper, the crease in your forehead making its public debut. Could Gojo get any more dishonest? you scoffed, but couldn’t find it in yourself to deny his claims. After all, the king had been rooting for the two of you since Gojo became a young man, and you couldn’t, just, defy His Majesty, per se . . .
“Ha! I’m glad to hear it, Satoru. Much charm you have, to aim for a lady.” The king patted the jester on the back.
“I’ve only learned from the best,” said Gojo, which earned another hearty laugh from the older man, attracting the eyes of the many guests around you three.
They talked like father-and-son. In a way, you thought it to be almost wholesome.
“Well, young lovebirds, since it seems you two are just about ready to dance, I’ll be on my way,” began the king, looking between you and the taller man in purple. “Don’t let Gojo cause any trouble, yeah?” His Majesty added, joking, as he turned to face you before making his exit, walking towards his wife and other company of the like.
You stood silent, stunned at the exchange. You had not uttered a single syllable throughout that, and you could not fathom the fact that Gojo had just manipulated his way into gaining your hand for a round of dancing. Surely, he was only here to ruin your evening. That was the only purpose he served.
“You heard the man,” said Gojo, as he turned to you with an expression lacking empathy. “Shall we?”
You gave Gojo your hand, begrudgingly—or, was it that he took your hand? you did not know.
“Shall we?” you repeated, shivering at the cold of Gojo’s palm. “If it was in my favor, we shan’t. But, alas, it is not. And I have no choice but to dance with an oaf such as you.”
Gojo led you to the center of the room, where there was more open space, and began a slow pace for a waltz as he stepped and stepped to the side.
There was practically smoke coming out from your ears as Gojo twirled you, and you could barely pay attention to where you were moving your feet from how agitating the sound of Gojo’s voice was to your ears. Your eyes met the ground and stayed there; you could not face the jester without wanting to rip his head off his neck (err, well, you wanted to do that, anyway).
“An oaf such as I?” he repeated, feigning offense. “My lady, you are as cruel as they come—pretending to hate me and all. I’ll give you a little advice, it’s a lot more fun pretending to love me.” He grinned, adding a small, “Pretend or not,” under his breath.
“You think I’m pretending to hate you? Oh, please. Were you dropped on the head as a baby?” You finally relented to meet Gojo’s eyes, as you laughed tauntingly in his face.
“Perhaps. But, dropped on the head or not, it wouldn’t change the fact I have never danced with a lady more beautiful than—”
You did not let him continue, and stared at him humorously. “Now, you’re just fooling around.”
He leaned down to meet your level, sea-blue eyes staring back at you with intent as he spoke—his voice loose and sultry. It made your head spin.
“Is that what you wish for, my lady?”
***
You had been sitting at a desk, alone, for only five minutes—five minutes—before the silver-haired jester, as mischievous as always, strolled into the room, seemingly having predicted your whereabouts (or, maybe, he had memorized the variety of locations you visited on a weekly basis).
The ball where you two danced together had occurred, by now, a week ago, and it rarely entered your train of thought; but, still, it sent shivers up your spine every time you thought about it. You couldn’t shake off the feeling that that ball wouldn’t be the last dance you shared with the man—he was vermin enough normally, but at a public space such as a ball? where anyone could spot you two? Even death would be more pleasant for you.
“I always thought these things were ridiculous,” began Gojo, childishly, as he walked over to where you sat just to poke and jab at your hennin.⁷ He stood behind you, his lean, tall figure casting a shadow over the book you had been reading just moments before his presence found itself interrupting.
⁷ A headdress worn by women of nobility—best known for its cone shape.
You rolled your eyes, a scowl on your powdered face, but you did not stop the man’s curious, pestering hands. “It’s not like your cap and bells⁸ are any better.”
⁸ A fool’s cap; the bells were intended for informing people of the jester’s entrance.
“Pfft, now that is where you are wrong, my dearest lady—they are way better.”
You sighed, eyes casting downwards as you crossed your arms over your gown’s bodice, leaning against the back of your chair. “Gojo, what are you doing here?”
“Hanging out. With my friend.”
“Even you know better than I do that we are far from friends.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t be that way, my lady. Sure, we’re friends,” he grinned, wiggling his eyebrows. “Pals, even! am I right, or am I right.” He laughed, the sound of it bouncing around the walls of the study. “Who am I kidding—We’re best buds!”
His voice sounded insane, but his merry words were even more deranged. You wondered if, by any chance, “Has the jester found himself drunk this evening?”
“Drunk?” he repeated, entering your line of view. He approached the desk from opposite to where you sat, his face leaning down to peer into your eyes as his palms pressed against the dark wood of the table, as if he were interrogating you. “Me? Me, drunk?”
The blue of his eyes was so bright at this moment that it would’ve blinded you, had it not entirely creeped you out, instead.
“That’s what I said, yes.” While you may have found it difficult not to waver beneath his intense stare, you did not find it impossible . . . Okay, maybe just a little bit.
“You think I am . . . drunk?”
You blinked, nearly breaking under Gojo’s deep gaze. It seemed his eyes would never leave yours. “You are acting strange. Why would I not?”
Gojo pulled back, and a sigh of relief left your lips at his backing away after being mere centimeters from your face.
“I don’t understand women,” he began, voice smooth and clear as he spoke. A deck of cards had appeared in his hands, seemingly out of thin air, and he shuffled them, performing arm-spreads and cardistry with no difficulty, at all.
“I really don’t. I don’t understand why, every time I speak to you, you pull away, and act like I’m crazy, or joking, or . . . or drunk!” He raised his hands up in exasperation—the cards discarded, fluttering and falling to the ground in heaps, as if feathers.
“You’re a jester, aren’t you? I have no reason to take your words as you mean them. Why, you’re a boy, Gojo. Hardly a man, if I ever knew one.”
The jester raised a brow at the sound of your voice, before snapping his fingers. Another deck of cards suddenly appeared between his digits, identical to the fallen ones. Now, any ordinary civilian would’ve called it magic, but you knew how good Gojo was with his hands and card tricks and such, and thought almost nothing of it.
“You wouldn’t think that if you saw me without my motley.⁴”
⁴ Costume of a jester.
The jester spoke so seriously, as if he were mad at you, but you only found humor in his argument.
“Without your motley . . . ?” you repeated, unable to decide whether he was referencing the act of undressing, or the act of being in normal (non-jester) apparel.
“My lady, I am a man. Twenty years of age, I dare say. Beneath my cap and bells, behind my poems and songs, I am not a child. You cannot tell when you look at my face?”
You smiled, setting down your literature. “You are quite defensive of your manhood, I see.”
“Would my lady rather I display it?”
“Your lady would rather her jester sit down and deal in cards already, instead of standing there like a fool.”
If Gojo had come in the study to interrupt your reading and disturb your evening, the least he could do was keep you entertained. And, besides, seeing him perform all his flashy card tricks reminded you of the last time you played, which was far behind in the past.
“Like a fool?” Gojo laughed, seating himself in a chair across from you, before resting his feet on the table and crossing his legs—one over the other. You frowned at his lack of propriety. “It is what I do best.”
“And what you do worst is keep me waiting!” you whisper-shouted, leaning your upper-half over the desk. “Shall I wait for you to shuffle, or are you incapable of that, as well?”
“My lady is so impatient today,” Gojo teased, feigning a yawn as he interlaced his fingers behind his head, leaning backwards. “But, if you want to shuffle . . .” he continued, a strange glint in his eyes, “come and get it.”
The cards were between his index- and middle-finger; he wiggled them, before your eyes but behind his head, in an almost derogatory manner, as if daring you to seize the cards. And dared you did.
Huffing, you sat up from your chair, the legs scraping the floor as you went, before marching over to where Gojo sat, his demeanor composed and cool as he awaited the gracing of your presence. There was a strangeness in the air about him as he finally let his legs drop from the desk, but you ignored the conscience gnawing at you.
Gojo wore a lopsided grin on his face, eyes shining wildly, and you swore, if he wasn’t so highly regarded by the king, you would’ve slapped him right then and there, but, either way, you probably wouldn’t have, because you had other priorities, like retrieving the deck of piquet⁹ the jester was currently holding for ransom.
⁹ A two-player card game.
Standing just centimeters before him, the gown of your dress brushing up against his legs, you tried and tried to reach upwards and grab the cards from Gojo’s hand, but he kept dodging you, either switching the hand with which he held the deck, or moving the cards further behind him.
You did not meet his eyes, for you know they would be full of mockery, but you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, nonetheless. From embarrassment and frustration, or from being so close to the jester, you did not know.
“Gojo! Ugh, you . . . Give me that!”
You made one last, final attempt.
Stretching your arm out as far as you could, you reached over for the deck, again, and, to your surprise, and to all your efforts, you got it! But you also fell over, because your other hand was not holding onto anything until it was too late, and you landed in Gojo’s lap. And, while you were now holding onto something, it probably wasn’t your best move.
You were now sitting on Gojo’s lap, cards in one hand, Gojo’s collar in the other. Huh.
“I—”
You couldn’t think of what to say. And, apparently, neither could Gojo. While your eyes stayed upon the starched fabric being clenched between your fingers, Gojo’s eyes met the side of your face, the side you were not concealing by sitting at a slight angle.
“So desperate to get up close and personal, aren’t you?” He spoke up first, the hand that caught you coming up to rest on the small of your back.
“I fell. I simply fell. It was nothing short of an accident—you must be mistaken to think otherwise.”
“My lady, you don’t have to be embarrassed. I’m sure the king will understand your attraction to an oaf such as I.”
You scoffed at his allusions, releasing his collar (something you should have done much, much earlier), before turning away from Gojo’s watchful gaze, a huff slipping past your lips.
“Don’t be stupid.”
The position which the two of you held was scandalous, if anything. Your legs were beside Gojo’s, straddling him as the lengths of your dress fanned out beneath you, covering his lower half with ease. It was a scene straight from a sonnet¹⁰, except he was not your knight in shining armor, for he was your fool, instead.
¹⁰ A fourteen-line poem.
“Stupid?” he repeated. “That’s an interesting way to describe a man enamored.”
“What—?”
He cut you off. “I mean, you could’ve at least called me ‘besotted.’”
It did not take much strength for Gojo to turn you back around, his arms maneuvering you, seating you on his lap at an angle so that you could not avoid his eyes ever again. Your front was pressed right up against his chest, cards long forgotten about and hands perched upon his shoulders.
“. . .” You could not form a sentence as long as you held eye contact with the jester beneath you. You couldn’t even remember what occured for the two of you to end up in such a predicament.
Your cheeks flamed, and your blinks came in either pairs or trios.
“Do you want to kiss me?” began Gojo, abruptly, his tone casual (almost humorous), crystal-blue eyes boring into yours. “Or should I just go for it?”
You blinked, having not yet registered his words, but it didn’t matter—his question, your answer (or lack of); neither of those mattered, because he kissed you, anyways. Or was it you who first leaned in? All the same, either way.
Cool, ice-cold lips met yours in a chaste kiss, and you slowly snaked your arms around Gojo’s neck as you kissed back, shyly, almost hesitantly. You had never kissed anyone before. Hell, sitting in a man’s lap was frightening enough, but kissing? You prayed for God’s forgiveness seemingly simultaneously.
You didn’t expect Gojo’s lips to taste so . . . sweet, like a pastry. Err, well, it wasn’t like you ever imagined what they would taste like, ahem . . .
But it was like—like you were suddenly possessed by an entity. Before either of you knew it, simple short, innocent kisses turned heated, zealous, as if there were something more.
It was raw, it was full of feeling, and it was from the heart. Perhaps all the tension and frustration in the air had turned you both into insatiable animals, too far gone for mere kisses to soothe your aches and desires.
“Nngh . . .”
“Hahh—”
“Fuck. Pardon me, my lady, for I am no better than a man.” Gojo’s words acted as a warning, one you did not take.
You sighed into his kisses, eyes closed and squeezed tight. “Are you apologizing?”
“Do you . . . mmm . . . want me to?”
You whimpered as Gojo sucked on your bottom lip, hands running down your back, playing with the ribbons of your dress. “I think—I think you know what I want.”
“What a smart girl.”
More kisses, more kisses, more kisses. Your lips were swollen and bitten and nipped from his assaults, but it felt so . . . good, you had never known a similar feeling.
“Gojo—”
“Mm, don’t call me that,” he spoke, in a shamelessly sensual tone. He sounded so pathetic, like he was begging, albeit he knew full well you would listen to whatever he asked any other way. “No more. God, no more.”
His words slipped out between every kiss you two shared. It was sloppy, and clumsy; to say it made you feel warm inside was an understatement.
You pushed at his chest, repeatedly, whilst the two of you claimed each other’s lips, but he only let you go so you could catch your breath. He was going to get his fill in the end, anyway.
Gojo looked down at you from where you sat on his lap, hair a mess and dress disheveled. You had never looked so beautiful in his eyes, and he was sure to let you know that when he peppered kisses on every inch of skin left revealed by the neckline of your gown.
His lips trailed upwards towards your clavicle, tickling your skin as he went, and you slapped a hand over your mouth at the sounds that his kisses alone managed to pull out of you. It was embarrassing.
“Don’t call me by that name.” Kiss. “I implore you, my lady.” Kiss. “It’s—” Kiss. “—degrading.” Kiss.
“Your name? it’s, nnghh, degrading?”
His arms tightened around your waist, but he did not stop his kisses. You were like a dove trapped in a cage, bound within Gojo’s grasps. “That you would call me by my surname—is degrading.”
“I, ahhnn . . . don’t understand.”
Gojo looked up at you, before rising to his full height, loosening his grip on your middle, and, as he did so, putting a temporary pause on his making of love-bites upon your skin.
“Call me a fool, my lady—all you want, and I won’t protest. But call me Satoru. Your Satoru. Your Gojo, your jester, your oaf, your Satoru, and yours alone.”
You would’ve swooned from his declarations right then and there, had it not been for his tone of voice, which contradicted the sweetness of his words to a high degree.
Anyway, it wasn’t like Gojo was expecting you to fall so soon after deliberately going to great lengths to argue, ignore, and hate him all these past years. But, that was okay! All’s well that ends well. Or, at least, until Gojo decided to lift you up by the waist, standing up from his seat and setting you on the surface of the table which you occupied before he entered the room.
You shuddered from the amount of control he had over you, cowering before him. Even so, his laugh was a melodious ballad; too bad it wasn’t any less cruel-sounding.
“Don’t tell me my dear lady is shy,” he purred, lips against your ear as he spoke, before tilting your chin upwards to meet his eyes.
“I—You . . . Just when did you give yourself away before marriage?”
“Ehh, can’t remember. Let’s just say,” began Gojo, in a languid tone, “the maidservants here have really taught me a thing or two. And I’m not talking about playing cards.” He wiggled a singular card between his fingers, dauntingly, in front of your eyes, before bringing it closer to your lips.
You wondered whether he would make you bite down on it, because you suspected a moron like him would do such, but just a millimeter before it made contact with your swollen lips, Gojo let the piquet⁹ card slip from his grasps and fall to the floor. Instead of the card, it was Gojo’s index- and middle-finger that ended up between your teeth.
⁹ A two-player card game.
Gojo had this look on his face as he stared down at you; it was ravenous, almost, and your cheeks warmed as you looked up at him from beneath your lashes—eyes doe and wide.
“Come on, pretty,” he cooed. “Don’t make me wait. I know what you’re thinking.”
You swallowed, hard, before taking his fingers between your lips, hollowing your cheeks as you sucked on the digits. You couldn’t fathom the ache that it brought to your core when you heard the squelching of saliva and spit, the paint of your lips smudging all over as Gojo’s fingers reached deep within your mouth.
A breathy moan slipped past your kiss-bitten lips, and you failed to suppress the dazed, far-gone expression on your face as your eyes crossed, rolling into the back of your head. Oh, God, this was terrible, terrible! you thought, though you did nothing to prevent it.
“You can try and pretend you hate me all you want, but your body knows better, doesn’t it?”
“Mnngh . . .”
Gojo laughed. “Your body knows better? Ha! who am I kidding—I know better.”
You sucked continuously on Gojo’s fingers, their length long enough to make you gag as they hit the back of your throat, knocking out all the wind in you. There were tears pricking at your eyes, and you struggled to whimper out a coherent response.
“Awwh, I almost feel bad.” Gojo leaned down to meet your level. “Mouth too full to call me a mere boy now, is it? Gonna take back what you said, pretty girl? or should I have you choke some more?”
“Nnghh . . . Hahh.”
Your nails clawed at the wood beneath you, white knuckles clenching and unclenching repeatedly. Goodness, you had never hated jesters so much.
Perhaps Gojo was also a mind reader, as well, because not even a second after you finished that thought, he gave the roof of your mouth a small tap, and gestured for you to release his fingers. Which was what you did.
A string of saliva connected the tips of his fingers to your lips, parted ever so slightly, when he removed his digits from your mouth. You couldn’t look anywhere but his fingers; they seemed to draw you in, even as Gojo ended the trail of saliva in one short movement, before bringing his hand down your bodice, fingertips brushing against the fabric of your dress.
You shivered, even as your body warmed.
Watch, watch, watch. You could do nothing but watch Gojo. You did not know what he was going to do, you did not know what you were going to do, you just knew you wanted whatever it was Gojo was planning. Fuck, maybe the jester wasn’t the only one besotted.
“You’re awfully silent about this, my lady.”
“Whatever can I say?”
Gojo laughed, lifting the bottom edges of your dress to your knees, revealing bare skin to cool air. “I was expecting you to stop me.”
You met Gojo’s eyes when he looked down at you. “Nothing I say could stop you.”
“Because I know you don’t want me to stop.”
The jester leaned down to meet your eye-level as he spoke, before closing the distance between you two just as he had done earlier, lips meeting yours in a fervent, heated kiss, whilst his dominant hand, his right one, toyed with the lace of your dress teasingly, before trailing up your thigh. His hand was cool to the touch, leaving goosebumps rising on your skin and the hair on your neck standing up.
Thinking back, you had always imagined him to be the warm-blooded type, but no, Gojo was as cold as the snow which rivaled the silver of his hair. Which was strange, considering how warm he made you feel from the taste of his lips and the touches of his hands.
His mouth was on yours, one hand gripping the flesh of your hip and the other trailing up between your legs, right where you felt the most warmth.
“Do you . . . mmph . . . ever wonder where I get all my ideas for my poems and ballads?” he questioned, between kisses.
“Never.”
“Funny.”
You sighed into the kiss, succumbing to Gojo’s caresses and the ticklish sensations you felt from his fingertips brushing against your undergarments.
“I don’t see you laughing,” you quipped, holding the sides of Gojo’s face between your hands as you pulled away from the kiss, staring at him earnestly.
“You don’t see a lot of things.”
And then his lips were back on yours.
But that wasn’t what took your breath away. Well, it was part of it. Only part of it.
While the silver jester had been occupying your mouth with his own, his hand had been trailing up your thighs, thumbing your clit through the thin, lame excuse of panties you had on, all the while. He had been applying pressure to, and toying with the puffy lips of your aching cunt, which dripped and soaked profusely through the material of your undergarment. To say it was crude was an understatement.
You only noticed his advances on your lower half when Gojo pinched your clit, eliciting a loud, scandalous cry to be ripped out from between your kiss-bitten lips.
It was rough, and harsh, but still, nonetheless, gave you more pleasure than it did pain.
“Nngh, ahh . . . !”
You may have mewled then, but you writhed and whimpered even more when he finally pushed your panties to the side, slipping two fingers into your cunt with ease, seeing as your slick was useful enough as a lubricant. You never forgot the sound it made, the squelching of your wetness, Gojo’s fingers reaching past your rings of resistance and curling deep within your cunt.
It was so strange.
Gojo kissed you even harder now that he had two fingers deep inside your pussy, shushing your cries and moans as you squirmed around, uncomfortable.
His index- and middle-finger, the two digits that had previously been in your mouth, the ones you had been sucking on, were now moving inside your cunt, curling and scissoring your insides like nothing you had ever felt before.
When the jester finally pulled his mouth off of yours, he let you rest your head on his shoulder, whispering into your ear with that unmistakably smooth voice of his as you mewled and moaned, never being set free from his fingers, still buried deep inside your cunt.
“This . . . is called fingering. You like it, don’t you, my lady? God, if only you could feel how tight your little walls are.” He talked you through his movements and assaults on your poor, little pussy. It was invigorating as much as it was aggravating. “Fuck, ‘m never letting you go after this.”
You choked on your sobs, clawing at Gojo’s back. “S-Satoru . . . I—nngh!”
“Where’s all that attitude you had earlier, pretty girl? Not so frustrated now that you have two fingers up your cute pussy, huh?”
You could only let out a moan in response.
There was a coil building up in your stomach; you felt warm all over and your eyes squeezed shut as Gojo’s fingers curled with expertise, his pace quickening with each second that passed. They were long, and large, could barely fit a third in your cunt even if he tried—courtesy of the size difference between you two.
He was knuckles deep inside of you; each time you looked down to meet where he entered and exited repeatedly through your pussy had you squeezing your thighs together, forcing (unbeknownst to you) his fingers to reach even greater depths within you.
“Hahh, ‘Toru—! . . . It feels . . .”
You whined like a puppy. It was degrading how submissive he had made you within the course of twenty minutes or so.
“D’you want to cum? Is that it? Wanna cum on your jester’s fingers, sweet girl?” he cooed, mockingly.
Crying out, nodding profusely, you wrapped your arms around Gojo’s neck, pressing the two of you impossibly closer as your sobs turned to hiccups and the coil in your lower belly tightened unbearably.
Perhaps it was the additional friction from your hardened nipples pressing against Gojo’s chest that brought you over the edge as you came with a final cry and your juices released onto Gojo’s hands, his fingers dripping with your cum as he kept his fingers inside of you even after you came, continuing to curl and scissor without remorse.
“A-ahh . . . nngh . . .”
Your first orgasm hit you like a chaise and four. His name left your lips like a prayer, eyes rolling into the back of your head, thighs shaking.
“I really hope you don’t think we’re done here, my lady,” said Gojo, hot breath fanning against your ear.
“Satoru . . . What—What do you mean?”
“My lady, what I mean is I’m going to fuck you now.”
Those words were what made you open your eyes, looking up at the jester. “You’re going to, what?”
Gojo leaned down to meet your level, your faces too close to differentiate where your breath ended and where his started. “I’m going to show you just how mistaken you were to call me a mere boy.”
And that he did.
The silver-haired jester had you on your back within seconds, the cold wooden surface of the desk sending shivers down your spine as Gojo took his sweet, sweet time spreading your legs before him, as if preparing a feast.
You never imagined yourself losing your virginity so early on, and you were almost certain all your ancestors would be looking down at you for not waiting till marriage, but would it really count if it was only casual?
“I’m surprised we’ve gotten this far,” Gojo said, letting out a breathy laugh as he looked down at you. Hair splayed all over the desk in disarray, gown disheveled, ribbons undone, your cunt dripping with ache and want. It sent blood rushing down to his dick.
“Why are you surprised, jester?”
He wore a lopsided grin on his face, looking all smug and satisfied with himself. “Thought you hated me a little more to refuse my cock, is all.”
“Who says I still don’t hate you?”
“Her.”
And then that motherfucker spat on your cunt.
When Gojo decided he would be able to fit at least the tip of his cock in you, he hoisted your legs up, slipping them over his shoulders and pushing his cock into your cunt in one short thrust, (though it didn’t feel very short) . . .
He was both long and thick, girthy, with veins that twitched and sent bolts of pleasure shooting through you.
The head of his cock was big, and thick, sure, but the rest of it was even bigger. Slapping a hand over your mouth, you tried (and failed) to suppress the pornographic noises that left your lips left and right.
“Ahh, ‘Toru! Not so . . . Not so rough, nngh . . .” You whined, throwing your head back against the table beneath you, though you weren’t complaining.
“Well, would you look at that,” began the jester, as he slowed his thrusts down to look at where your pussy swallowed his cock to the base, thumb moving down to spread your puffy lips even further apart. “Biiiig stretch.”
Your gummy walls clenched down on his cock, and you clawed at the desk, nails leaving permanent marks upon the wood.
“Nngh, a-ahh! Gojo, you’re—!”
You saw stars when the head of Gojo’s cock kissed your cervix, reaching even deeper within you than his fingers had.
The silver-haired jester leaned down, his body overshadowing yours as he held both of your hands down beside each side of your head, interlacing your fingers together as he moved to whisper in your ear. “I thought I told you not to call me that. Does my lady not know how to listen?”
“No, S-Satoru, nngh! I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean to—! Ahh . . . !”
You weren’t the only whose body had an evident reaction when Gojo began his thrusts with a rougher, more ruthless pace. Even the jester was one to groan in your ear, laying all of his weight on top of you as he forced your body to fold in half, thighs and legs infinitely spread out as your slippers, true to their name, began to slip off your feet with the way your body shook and writhed and jerked with every thrust, hitting the carpeted floor with a soft thud.
Back arching, tits pressing up against Gojo’s chest, your throat soon grew dry and parched as you continued to moan like some lousy prostitute.
“This is . . . hahh, called a mating press,” said Gojo, as his hips pistoned against the flesh of your ass, cock bottoming out just to re-enter with a table-rocking thrust. “God. Dirty, little cunt’s fucking swallowing my cock alive, huh. Must really enjoy it from this position, my lady.”
“S-Satoru! ‘tis so d-deep . . . I—I can’t, nngh.”
You wondered whether you would need to visit an apothecary from the way Gojo was just relentlessly battering and rearranging your insides. Upon your word, you could feel him in your guts.
Gojo grunted and groaned in your ear, cock continuing to slam into your poor pussy with abandon. It seemed he couldn’t keep his composure, either, despite seeming so put together. Perhaps he had been waiting too long for this moment.
Opening your eyes and tilting your head downwards ever so slightly, you could see the way his cock was almost twice the size of your entrance, yet all the wetness and slick that had gathered there earlier was enough to enable Gojo to thrust in and out of you with ease.
Everything about the man was just so . . . big. He was tall, lean, and his cock was no different. Despite his fingers having loosened you, it was still a miracle he managed to make it fit—the size of his cock was almost monstrous, and was, indubitably, able to be considered as a weapon, if anything.
The stretch was delicious, but burned like hell.
Pounding into you, rutting against your used cunt, Gojo held himself above you as he, himself, whimpered as if he were the one taking a cock two times too big. No, make that three.
“Hahh . . . Cunt’s squeezing me like a damn vice,” he groaned. “God, still so fuckin’ tight.”
“Mmph, n-nghh, ahh—!”
“Never letting you hide this pussy from me ever again. Fuck, I . . . Hahh, gonna make you take it at least twice a day, now.”
You mewled and whined, tits bouncing and spilling from the top of your dress, courtesy of the combined erraticness and harshness of his thrusts.
“Gotta—nngh, make you used to this cock . . . Fuck—!”
You came hard when Gojo’s cock kissed your cervix for the umpteenth time, the coil in your lower belly unraveling as your cunt weeped white tears, dripping down your thighs as Gojo’s release followed suit only moments later. His cock pumped you full of warm, white seed, filling your womb excessively as the rest gushed out from between your puffy, swollen lips, sliding down the curve of your ass before staining the fabric of your gown.
Stuffed to the hilt, filled to the brim.
“O-ohh . . . Hahh, nngh—!”
“Is this enough for displaying my manhood?” asked Gojo, quoting you, a sly smile on his face as he ran a hand through his tousled hair.
God, you hated him.
For interrupting your evening, for ruining your dress, and for only giving you seconds to collect your breath before his cock was, once again, hard as a rock and thrusting into you from a different angle.
It was as if his first orgasm was completely non-existent; I mean, you could barely speak from how dry your throat was, (never mind moan), and this man was already up and running, fucking his excess cum back into you?
Preposterous.
***
You and Gojo had been having . . . an affair, for a while, now.
Had it been three weeks, or three months, or, even, three years, you did not know. Neither of you knew.
Gojo had ruined you ever since that night in the study. Your innocent dynamic consisting of mere banter and bullying had developed into a relationship of endless hostility, so much so, that after an unbearable amount of tension ensuing, it evolved into a sort of . . . acquaintance. Okay, that wasn’t the right word for it, but it sounds better compared to “affair,” right?
In essence, the both of you had grown closer. Well, that was inevitable. Because the jester now knew what you looked like under your gowns, and you knew whether the carpets matched the drapes or not, but, all the same.
Gojo was like a deviant; he was insatiable.
You two had begun to sneak around together. Sex was daily, once or twice a day, but you two also—what did Gojo call it?—hung out. Sort of. But it was still mainly sex.
Most often, it was due to tensions bursting during nasty arguments, which would end up with both of you locking yourselves in a common room, making inappropriate usage of the couches and lounge. Gojo would bend you over an armrest, or sit you on his lap, bouncing you on his cock as he used the skirt of your dress to conceal where your bodies became one.
Then, came the gardens.
You sometimes gave excuses to your fellow ladies in order to take a breather, using taking a walk through the gardens as a way to meet up with Gojo during the day. If anyone spotted the two of you together outside, it would only look as if you were chatting or linking arms. But then, whenever you two found an open opportunity, you would seize it and embrace, making out under the glaring sun and the shade of oak trees, hidden away from any lurking eyes.
It was kind of odd, to be honest, but you had found, after Gojo took your innocence, that you were addicted to whatever feeling he gave you. Whether it be lust, or want, or desire—they’re all different, believe me. You wanted, Gojo gave; Gojo wanted, you gave. It was how the two of you worked. But it was always casual, never serious.
Just like when the two of you fooled around under tables during supper, giving each other soft touches and pinches and rubs, completely unbeknownst to anyone else sitting around you two, (albeit you couldn’t say the rush of exhibitionism didn’t send a shock to your core). It was always for fun. Always for fun.
Likewise, your newly found “enemies-turned-friends with benefits” dynamic never prevented Gojo from being the devil he was. In fact, it made him worse.
That son of a bitch just loved to make completely unrefined, vulgar jokes. In front of others, he made sexual innuendos, hinting to one of the ladies of the royal court possibly entertaining secret relationships with an unknown other. Though he was careful to never let any further clarifications slip, he always brought up the topic at least once every public gathering, which usually led to surrounding nobles beginning to even question the idea, which was ridiculous in itself.
Even behind closed doors, the silver-haired jester was still the same. But, you couldn’t decide whether that was for the worst or not . . . Every time you thought you were finally able to strike up a civil, appropriate conversation with the man, Gojo always ruined it by twisting your words and making highly crass allusions, which was, perhaps, what you disliked the most (mainly because you always understood his references, which, more often than not, brought heat to your cheeks).
And, from the way everything was beginning to unravel, it seemed today would be no different.
You had been sitting at a desk (a different desk, not the one you lost your virginity on); you were writing—a letter to your cousin, and Gojo had been silently sitting across from you, like an obedient child.
The jester was sat with his elbows on the table, hands interlaced as he rested his face in the middle of where his fingers connected. He was “admiring” you, as he had said earlier, and promised, because you made him promise, to not disrupt your writing like he had all those previous occurrences whenever the two of you spent quiet time, like this, together.
Gojo was silent, but not silent for long, and you sighed when you caught sight of a grin forming on his lips.
“However long do you plan on writing to your . . . who was it, again? cousin.”
“I believe that is of no importance to you, jester,” you replied. “I didn’t invite you to watch me write, after all.”
Gojo’s eyes watched your every move, from the way you held your quill, to the way you paused whenever you were stuck on what word to use (in those cases, he would give you suggestions), and even to the way you looped your Y’s and G’s and J’s. He prided himself on, supposedly, knowing you so well. And, if you weren’t so used to his strange, almost childish behavior, you would’ve deemed him frightening.
“When was it a crime to accompany a maiden?” he laughed, wiggling his brows, tone humorous. “Eh, doesn’t matter. It’s not like I came here to watch you write, anyway—I’m only here to watch you.”
“. . .Satoru, don’t be creepy.”
You chastised him like an adult would a child; those were the moments that reminded you of the comparison between your ages. But it also reminded you of how much closer the two of you had gotten; you could speak to each other so freely now.
“Scolding me, . . . huh. You gonna start taking the reins, too, now, my lady? If it’s in the bedroom, I can’t say I’m opposed to the idea.” You couldn’t count the amount of times Gojo had laughed this afternoon. “God, I’m getting excited just thinking about it.”
You spoke without taking your eyes off your letter. “You’re so crude sometimes.”
“You like me this way.”
Dipping your quill into its inkwell,¹¹ you looked up, just to see blue eyes boring into yours. You did not respond.
¹¹ A small jar containing ink.
“Not even denying it anymore, my lady?” he pressed.
“You wouldn’t believe it if I tried.”
“Because I know you would be lying,” he said, in a sing-song tone as he leaned in, face only inches away from yours. “Isn’t that right?”
“No,” you began, putting away your quill and rolling up your parchment; “in fact, you’ve never been more incorrect in your life.” You sat up as you spoke, and moved to leave the room, never meeting Gojo’s eyes, albeit you knew they trailed after your figure.
“Yeah?”
He sat up immediately after you, the sound of his steps following yours as you made your exit, out into the hallway in search of a carrier pigeon.¹² Gojo made notice to avoid stepping on your gown, whistling as he walked behind you, like a dog following its owner.
¹² A breed of pigeon domesticated for delivering messages over long distances.
“That is what I said. Now, if you’ll please excuse me,” you continued, turning around for a brief moment to address Gojo, “I’ll be on my way.”
The jester did not let you go far before he caught up; now, you two were walking side-by-side. Gojo was a fast walker, which came naturally due to his tall stature, but it was evident he forced himself to slow his pace down in order to match yours.
“My lady is so rude,” he teased. “Leaving me behind, all by my lonesome?”
“. . .”
“Am I worth so little to you? Who do you think I am?”
You stopped, turning to face Gojo. “Who?” you repeated. “Do you mean, do? Because I don’t—I don’t think of you, Gojo.”
“Oh, come on. I know my lady’s thought of me at least once.” He grinned. “I mean, look at this face.” (He jabbed a thumb at himself) “How can you see this, and not stay up late at night, thinking about it.”
You gave him a side-glance. “You’re so pompous, ‘Toru.”
He grinned at hearing you use his first name, never mind his nickname, in such an open hallway, which highly increased the risk of anyone overhearing your usage of familiarities.
Leaning down to whisper in your ear as you two began to walk again, he said, in that smooth voice of his, “Am I wrong, though? I’m sure you would be lying if you told me you didn’t think about me during your most private, intimate moments. You probably sit on your bed, nightgown all bunched up at your waist, with your fingers buried in your tight, little cunt as you try to recreate what only I can give you; but it’s never as good as the real deal. I’m right, aren’t I?”
You froze, face burning as your hands balled into fists at your side, and Gojo snickered. He always had a knack for riling you up.
“Upon my word, you—you bastard! What is . . . Ugh, what, in heaven’s name, is your problem!”
You shoved at Gojo’s chest, weakly, before storming off, down the hallway, a crease on your forehead.
You really, really couldn’t understand why Gojo was like this. Why he just loved to tease you all the time, why he liked to belittle you, call you names. Although it upset you, this was only a minor argument in comparison to your many feuds. He was as bad as the rest of them.
The sound of your footsteps reverberated throughout the servants’ corridor (which you and Gojo frequented in efforts to conceal your meetings), and you could tell the jester was right at your feet when you decided to whirl around, the skirt of your gown flowing as you turned to face Gojo.
“Don’t, Gojo. Don’t follow me.” You looked up at him with intent; you did not yield when a light flickered in his eyes, as he stared back down at you.
“C’mon, pretty girl, it was just a joke . . . or an assumption,” he muttered that last part, beneath his breath; and you rolled your eyes, tightening your grip on the letter in your left hand. “You’re not really mad at me, are you?”
“Yes, I am mad! Why can’t you see that your words affect people?”
You took a step backwards, clutching your pearls (A/N: lmfao), but Gojo took two forwards.
Raising his arms up in surrender, Gojo continued to take a step or two every time you moved, matching you.
“Don’t be that way, my lady. You know I’m only ever kidding.” His smile was hypnotic, voice spellbinding, and you nearly broke.
But the moment you knew you were fucked was when you felt your back hit the wall behind you, and Gojo seemed to know, too, because he laughed in your face.
“Nowhere else to run, my lady?”
You two stood only centimeters apart, the tip of Gojo’s nose nearly touching yours as he leaned down to your level, eyes staring you down.
You shuddered, feeling hot breath fan against your skin. “Fuck you.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
You thought he was going to kiss you—you two were really close, after all—but, he didn’t. Gojo reached behind you, hand turning the doorknob of a pantry (one you had not even noticed during your little dispute), before pushing the both of you in, making sure to avoid any lurking eyes. You squirmed and pushed back, but Gojo was stronger. He locked the door of the pantry within record timing, before turning to face you.
You were stumbling over yourself when Gojo first pushed you in, but you were now backed up against one of the four walls of the pantry, finding purchase with your palms on the wall behind you, chest heaving as you gave the jester a grave look.
“Gojo, I’m going to give you ten seconds to get me out of here before I kill your court-fool ass.”
The jester walked forward, closing the distance between you two. Tilting your chin upward with his index-finger, he met your glare with calm sea-blue eyes as he asked, all cool and composed, “You’ve been such a brat today—what’s got your panties in such a twist?”
There was a hint of a laugh in his tone, and you snapped, “Gojo!” — just about having had it with the man.
“Me? Hm, well, I can’t say I don’t plan on it.”
You couldn’t remember when you had dropped your letter, but it certainly still wasn’t in your hands by the time Gojo had kissed you. Rough, raw; Gojo had you backed up against the wall as he ran his hands down the bodice of your gown, his mouth on yours, breaths turning ragged.
You weren’t going to let Gojo get away with anything, but it wasn’t like kissing him was a crime, per se. You were just . . . relieving your temper, for a bit.
“Does this—mmrph—mean I’m off the hook now, my lady?” he murmured, against your lips.
“. . .Not even close.”
“This attitude of yours is seriously getting to be a problem,” said Gojo, between each kiss he gave you. “Oughta loosen up a bit before that scowl turns permanent, darling.”
You kissed him with teeth, your hands giving a purposeful tug to his silver hair after yanking off his cap and bells,⁸ which fell to the cobblestone floor of the pantry with a resounding thud.
⁸ A fool’s cap; the bells were intended for informing people of the jester’s entrance.
“I’d advise you to stop speaking, jester,” you chided, pulling away for a moment’s breath or two. Gojo rested his forehead on yours, looking down at you as you spoke. “—Before you lose your head.”
Gojo scoffed, humoring you. “You love my face too much for that.”
“I love your silence just as much.”
“I would say the same to you, but . . .” Gojo’s voice trailed off as one of his hands wandered down your arm, removing your glove with ease as you shuddered beneath him. “I like hearing your pretty cries, too.”
There was a split-second from between your insults and jabs at the man, to the transition of said-man parting your lips with little to no care, shoving a glove into your mouth as a makeshift gag.
You whimpered and cursed, thrashing around as Gojo held your arms pinned to the wall by your elbows, keeping them lowered; but all your protests came out muffled, and the jester could only laugh at your disposition.
“Mmm, mm—mmph!”
“It won’t be as bad if you stop fighting it, my lady. Have faith in your jester, won’t you?” Gojo looked like a saint as he spoke, but even God knew he was closer to the Devil, himself, than anything.
Using your gown’s girdle belt as bondage for your wrists, Gojo soon had you completely at his mercy.
“Mmph . . . Mmm, mm, mmph—!”
He didn’t listen, didn’t even try to.
Then, the jester did something he had never done before, ever—he knelt down in front of you. On his knees, he looked as handsome as ever, but, you knew, his almost princely smile was only for show.
You squirmed and wriggled around in your restraints and gag, but none of that stopped Gojo from lifting up your gown, throwing a leg of yours over his shoulder as he licked a stripe up your inner thigh. His tongue was warm, wet, and you shivered.
Looking up at your figure from where he knelt, eyes meeting yours from beneath white lashes, Gojo asked, with that unforgettable voice of his, “Scared?”
The front of your gown was totally out of place, lifted and bunched up at your waist, nearly enveloping Gojo as he kissed the skin revealed to him. The jester, ever the playful one, hooked a thumb around the waistband of your panties, before tugging them downwards, cold air hitting the wetness of your core almost immediately.
You blinked. Once, twice, thrice.
“What a pretty sight, huh. Shame I’m the only one who gets to enjoy it.”
Gojo laid a kiss on your clit; you shuddered, twitching, and then he slipped his tongue between your folds, tasting the growing sweetness of your cunt with every second that passed.
If your wrists weren’t restrained behind your back, you would’ve slapped a hand over your mouth, but the glove was working just fine muffling the lewdness of your sounds—thank God, the jester had finally used his intellect for something.
Tongue probing deeper and deeper, lips attached to your clit, sucking, there wasn’t a spot Gojo left unattended to. But, upon your word, since when was his tongue this long!
The whole of it was sensational. You were shaking within twenty seconds of his mouth’s assault, and if you weren’t so out-of-tune from his tongue licking stripes up your cunt, plunging and pumping deep inside of you, sucking on your pussy as your slick dripped and dripped down his chin, perhaps you would have noticed the sharpness of his teeth that just so happened to graze, ever so slightly, at your puffy, swollen lips.
“Still mad at me?” he asked, mouth full of pussy. “Where’d all that attitude go, Miss Untouchable.”
That bastard, you cursed, sliding down the wall as you kicked and cried out, thighs clenching around Gojo’s face as he continued to eat you out with not a care of the world.
You couldn’t count the amount of times you had thrown your head back against the cobblestone wall, muffled mewls and moans leaving your lips from behind the glove shoved in your mouth. Why on earth did this feel so good? you wondered, eyes rolling to the back of your head.
“A-Ahh . . . Mm, nngh!”
Your hips bucked forwards, forcing the tip of Gojo’s nose to end up further buried between your folds. You nearly screamed from how cold his skin was; the contrast between it and his tongue was almost unbelievable.
Never had you ever wanted to pull on the jester’s hair more than you did now.
But you couldn’t.
Your lower stomach grew hotter and hotter, and tears pricked at your eyes whilst Gojo’s tongue only dove deeper and deeper. There was a knot forming in your belly, and you squirmed endlessly, spit and saliva and drool soaking the glove stuffed in your mouth without a second thought.
“You want to cum, don’t you?” Gojo’s sea-blue eyes flitted upwards from where he kneeled between your legs, his voice as sensual as ever.
You nodded profusely, eyes blinking back tears as you tugged at your restraints.
Gojo licked a stripe up your clit, laying a kiss at the end of it, and you almost came right then and there, the feel of his tongue simply too much for you to handle any longer, but Gojo’s grip on your thighs tightened, forbidding your release, and you whimpered.
“Only good girls get to cum on my tongue. Have you been a good girl?” he cooed, mockingly. “Nah.”
Your orgasm was so close, yet so far. You pressed your thighs together, seeking any friction to bring you past your high, but Gojo’s hand kept your legs spread, cunt dripping with ache and want.
“Mmmph! Hahh, n-nngh—ahh . . .”
Gojo wasn’t lapping at your cunt anymore. He had completely put his mouth on halt, and was instead using his thumb to apply small amounts of pressure to your clit. Emphasis on “small.” Your lips were puffy and swollen—Gojo could tell it physically hurt you to have your orgasm denied, but he only laughed.
His thumb gave you small slips of bliss, but they were never enough to fully bring you over the edge. It was frustrating enough to be tied up, but to be forbade from cumming? You needed a break.
Your legs were shaking so much you could have been mistaken for an innocent fawn. Gojo continued to thumb at your clit without an ounce of mercy; it drove you insane. And, by insane, I mean, “digging-your-nails-into-your-skin,” insane.
The last straw was when Gojo reached up to remove the glove from your mouth, throwing it onto the floor with a plop! sound. You were so distracted you didn’t even realize you could then speak, but when you did, you didn’t hold back.
“Satoru, I swear, to all things heavenly, I will kill you once I’m out of here.” Your chest heaved as you took in breaths of air, thighs still quivering. “You’ve been nothing but the biggest jerk I have ever fancied.”
“Dunno. Have I? Or, are you just mad I’m finally doing something about your little . . . attitude.”
Slick dripped from Gojo’s chin as he spoke, looking up at you, and you almost forgot why you were mad in the first place.
“Don’t be coy, I know you’re—o-oh! Nngh, mm . . .”
You went cross-eyed when Gojo finally attached his lips to your clit again, sucking at your sweet spots with a newly-founded intent.
Gojo’s tongue plunged into depths deep within your cunt once again, curling and curling, and you could feel the coil in your stomach tighten, ever the more closer to an orgasm. Then, there came the squelching of your cunt, the lewd sounds escaping your lips following suit, and your wetness coating Gojo’s face with a glossy, sheen layer.
You only realized how good of an idea the use of a glove as a makeshift gag was when you finally came on the silver-haired jester’s tongue with a loud cry, back sliding down the cobblestone wall.
“A-Ahh . . . Hahh, ‘Toru—! Nnngh, mm, ahhn . . .”
Tongue lapping at the juices and hot liquid that your cunt weeped, Gojo didn’t let a single drop go to waste as he kept his mouth on your clit all the while. He was indulging all your sweetest, most sensitive spots even after you came—the stimulation soon becoming too much to handle as you grinded against Gojo’s face, riding out your high with heavy sighs and heavy breathing.
You were so sensitive you could’ve cried. Gojo flicked the puffiness of your lips with his tongue, and before you knew it, he was stealing yet another orgasm out of you, only a few minutes after the first one.
“I can’t help myself, beautiful,” he murmured, lips still attached to your clit. “Just tastes so good . . .”
More sucking, kissing, licking; Gojo absolutely ravaged you, as if he were eating a full-course meal after a month-long campaign¹³ with a cavalry—and then came your third orgasm, or, so you assumed; it was . . . different.
¹³ A military operation in the objective of a specific thing, or, in this case, a knights’ operation.
It wasn’t cum, no, it was something more clear, and sheen. The sensation was different, too—you could tell. It ripped obscene vulgarities from your throat. It was . . .
“Well, would you look at that?” Gojo laughed, leaning back to admire his handiwork. “Made my lady squirt. About time, actually. Was beginning to doubt myself for a moment there.”
“Nngh . . . ‘T-Toru—I . . . !”
You had been wriggling for a while, now, and only a few moments after you reached bliss, was when the girdle belt finally fell from your wrists, releasing you from your binds. The sound of it hitting the floor was deafening, and a light bulb finally switched on in your brain—you remembered. You remembered now, and because of that, you needed to leave.
Gojo let the skirt of your gown fall back down as he stood back up, making sure to tuck your dirtied panties into a back pocket of his as he rose to his full height.
“Gonna curse me out now, my lady? Take off my head?” he teased, offering a shit-eating grin.
You patted your gown, smoothing it down in efforts to alleviate your disheveled appearance as much as you could.
“Don’t act smart.”
“You don’t like smart men?”
Since when was his voice this tempting . . .
You avoided his eyes as you spoke, otherwise you would have broken. “I like . . . when you leave me alone.”
And then you hurried away. Out of the pantry, out of the servants’ corridor—you left with wobbly legs, but left, nonetheless. The jester was still standing at the doorway of the pantry when you turned around for a quick glance.
“My lady, you dropped your letter on the floor,” Gojo added, from behind you, calling your name. Damn, he was inviting even if he didn’t mean to be.
Gojo’s voice was loud, and could have, possibly, been heard throughout the servant corridors. But you did not turn back, didn’t even stop to consider the idea. It was nothing, you told yourself, you could just write another letter. Parchment was parchment, after all.
You had already lost a glove, a girdle belt, your panties, and your dignity. Paper? was nothing.
***
In all honesty, you didn’t want to put an end to the affair you and Gojo possessed; you just . . . you were getting married. You were betrothed to a man (a man whom you had never met), and your marriage had already been arranged by the king and his advisors. It would be nothing short of scandalous—not to mention, unchaste. You were committing adultery, after all.
An affair was one thing, but infidelity?
You had some morals left, at least.
Now, refraining from extramarital activity was hard enough, but avoiding the jester? Nearly impossible.
You refused to look him in the eye after that incident, because of how awkward it was (but mainly because you knew you would fold). You, just, couldn’t bear the thought of some other feeling besides unvirtuous lust rising within yourself—normally, you would’ve labeled your relationship with Gojo as “just for fun,” but now that you were engaged to another man? (And not by choice, nonetheless.) It made you wonder whether you really did think of Gojo without sparks of animosity.
Admitting you . . . loved him? Admitting he paid you more attention than any other man? and, that, you enjoyed his attention? No. Impossible.
He was a jester, after all; he was supposed to give the ladies attention! Or, that’s what you told yourself whenever you began to suspect his love poems weren’t only for entertainment.
You were forced (rather, you forced yourself) to take different routes around the castle if it meant you could avoid Gojo. At supper, you waited for the jester to seat himself before you sat down at whatever chair was farthest from his (you made sure he was unable to kick your feet from beneath the table). And, at times where it seemed impossible to take different routes, you either shut yourself in your bedchambers, or took to reading in hidden nooks inside the library.
On an evening during your second week of your pseudo vow to celibacy, you were outside on your balcony, combing through your hair beneath the moonlight’s gaze.
It was dark out—most nobles had already gone to bed and knights were deployed into hallways to keep watch of the castle, but you enjoyed the quietness that tarried late in the evenings, and didn’t usually slip under the covers until the clocks had struck midnight.
Wind from the East whirled past your face, and, dressed in only a flimsy, light negligee, it was only natural that you shivered. Alongside the company of the moon and wind, there also came the noises of animals, scurrying around underneath the balcony, playing with their mates, snoring; the list went on and on.
All in all, you were never truly alone, even if you felt you were.
The wind howled once more, and you heard the crunching of leaves and another, more distinct, strange noise coming from down below. You didn’t like looking downwards—some could say you had a sort of fear of heights, especially with how high up your balcony was—but, the sounds of tonight seemed to be . . . louder than usual.
Overcome with curiosity, you peered over the balcony railing, with your hairbrush in-hand, to get a good look at what animals were still awake at this time.
You cooed when you saw a pair of rabbits play-fighting, their scuts¹⁴ wagging. “Awh!”
¹⁴ Tails belonging to rabbits.
“Cute, am I right?”
At the sound of someone else’s voice, especially when you should’ve been alone, you immediately dropped your hairbrush, a thud! playing out as the tool landed on the floor of your balcony.
You turned around instinctively, clutching your pearls at the sight of the jester standing only a few paces away, at the opposite end of the balcony.
Before you put a pause to your little affair, Gojo only ever met you here, on the balcony, if it meant climbing up the vines on the brick walls of the castle, because it would mean hell if anyone caught sight of him slipping through the doors of your bedchambers; and, judging by his disheveled appearance, he had done just that.
“Expecting me, my lady?”
“Goodness! Gojo—Gojo, do you have any idea how late it is?” you exclaimed, a hand over your beating heart as you took several steps closer, standing on your tiptoes as you cradled Gojo’s face in your hands, examining the cuts and scars he had acquired from suffering through the pricking of thorns.
“Didn’t I tell you to stop calling me that?” he quipped, though his tone held no real malice—he looked down at you as you held his face, and appeared almost relieved at the physical contact after two agonizingly long weeks without it.
You looked up, peering into the blue of his eyes. “What . . . in heaven’s name, are you—?”
“Doing here?” He cut you off, finishing your sentence for you as he deadpanned. “I could ask you the same thing. Admit it, you’ve been avoiding me. The past weeks you’ve always been with either the ladies, burying yourself in mountains of books, or . . . or here!—locking yourself up in your bedchambers. I haven’t been able to speak a single word to you.”
“I . . .”
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, in a matter-of-fact fashion. “Why have you been avoiding me?”
“. . .”
You didn’t know what to do; the only thing you were certain of, was that you absolutely refused to answer him—at least, not yet. So, you did the one thing you were good at.
Throwing away your pride, (and since Gojo’s face was already in your hands), you stood up on your tiptoes once again and kissed him.
Kissed him like you meant it, like he meant it. Kissed him with however little spirit you had left in you, with however much emotion you held towards that man. You kissed him, earnestly, lips pressing against his in a chaste kiss that, obviously, turned heated only seconds later.
But, in full honesty, with this you finally realized how much you had really missed the jester—not just his kisses, the addictive, sweet taste of his lips, or the way his hands flew down to your hips within moments; but, you missed him. You missed Gojo: Gojo Satoru.
He filled plenty of aches you never knew you had, and, when he kissed you back without even a second’s hesitation, you almost wanted to kill yourself for how stupid you were to have had the audacity to actually deprive this man of the one good thing he loved during his entertaining of the royal court.
“Abstinence,” he asked, looking down at you once you pulled away, “really? That’s what you’re doing to punish me?”
“Gojo, I—Satoru, that’s . . . not what I’m doing. Please, believe me, I’m . . .” Stammering over your words, you blinked several times, refusing eye contact with the man.
Before your hands could drop from his face back down to your sides, Gojo caught your wrists just as they trailed down his chest, holding you closer to himself as he whispered in your ear, nipping playfully at your earlobe.
“You’re, what? Uninterested in jesters all of a sudden? Found a prince for yourself? Celibate, even?” He laughed, albeit the sound of it was nothing but dry. “Now’s a pretty bad time for that, wouldn’t you say so?”
Now was a bad time for that, you thought to yourself.
Biting your lip with your face turned to the side, you swallowed the lump in your throat, resting your palms on Gojo’s chest.
“Satoru, I’m . . . engaged, now. We can’t . . .” You struggled to even utter the syllables of the word ‘engaged.’ “We can’t continue seeing each other without it being wrong.”
Gojo didn’t even look surprised when you revealed your hand was promised to another man. I mean, with the quiet time he had had on his hands as of late, he probably went through a couple of possible explanations for your sudden vow of silence towards anything that had to do with him and himself.
“Will you look at me?” he sighed, tone lowered to a pathetic plea.
“That wouldn’t—wouldn’t change anything,” was what you answered with, turning your head to look up at Gojo’s eyes. It was funny; they seemed to shine less under the moonlight, considering one would ordinarily assume otherwise.
“You seem to not understand me, my lady.” Gojo picked up a lock of your hair, bringing it to his lips to kiss—his white lashes fluttering. “I don’t want you to stand here and tell me you won’t go along with the marriage. I want you to stand here and tell me you will go with marrying another.”
“W-What—?”
“But only whilst you look me in the eyes, my lady.” Gojo let your hair drop from his hand as he moved to hold your cheek, instead. “Look me in the eyes, and tell me you’ll marry him—he, who has won your heart.”
You looked away, your voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t, Satoru.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Because, it would be a lie . . . It’s not he who has won my heart . . .”
“Then, who?”
You turned back, facing Gojo, but you did not answer his question. “Satoru, I’m—I’m afraid.”
“You’re afraid,” he repeated, as if telling you. “You’re afraid because our affair; you and me; us—it’s wrong. Simply wrong, you know that, and, yet, you don’t want it to end, do you?”
Gojo leaned down as he spoke, but when you tried pushing his face away, he barely budged.
“I’m a woman betrothed, Satoru. It’s immoral.”
“My lady, you’re not wrong. You are a woman betrothed, but I am a jester who has fallen for an engaged woman. Have you no pity for me?” The question seemed almost humorous, in a way, but you didn’t laugh.
You shook your head. “None.”
“What do you have for me, then?”
You sighed, giving in to your heart, and your eyes softened as you gazed upwards at the silver-haired jester.
“Must I say it?”
Gojo grinned, the mischief returning to his eyes. “You can show it,” he said.
And then you threw your arms around his neck, pulled him down, and kissed him, until your mind went stupid, insane, absolutely dumb; because that was how it always was with kissing Gojo Satoru—he made you sick for love. He made you ache for it, for him, for anything, at all, that had to do with the certain six-foot-something fool of a man.
That was the night you confessed your requited love towards Gojo for the first time (even if it was nonverbal). That was the night your lover took you on the balcony for the first time—or, well, it wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time you two were, actually, making love—spending a night together; together-together.
That night was a blur.
One moment you two were embracing, reveling in what the both of you had been missing out on for the past fortnight; the next, well, Gojo had you bent over the balcony railing; and, after that, you were being backed up against the doors of your bedroom which led out towards the balcony.
Clothes had already been shed en route—your lame excuse for a nightgown lay shredded on the balcony floor, alongside Gojo’s motley⁴ and his cap and bells,⁸ which were both in a similar, if not equal, state (hey, you could be impatient, too).
⁴ Costume of a jester.
⁸ A fool’s cap; the bells were intended for informing people of the jester’s entrance.
The night was long, but that didn’t mean you stopped before sunrise, no. You two went on even after the break of dawn, and, when you did (eventually) lay down to sleep and awake, you were with sore muscles and a different kind of ache between your legs. But your heart soared, and your head spun—all but for one jester.
You were afraid of love, and you were promised to another man. But Gojo, your Gojo, made it all better; and that was how the two of you came to be lovers.
***
The two of you had already been in a secret relationship together—hell, one could even argue it had never even stopped. But, it was different now that you knew your little affair had developed into something . . . more, per se. It was thrilling, knowing that, even with all the show you two had to put on in front of crowds: arguing, banter, cursing; your nights would all end the same, with Gojo sliding under your covers when it came time to sleep.
However, not everything had changed.
The both of you still rendezvoused in hidden corridors and servant hallways—plenty of times, even. Hiding under oak trees was also still a thing, given the amount of shade and quiet provided.
And, anywho, there were also new additions to the dynamic of your relationship with Gojo. Instances where you two were this close to getting caught in scandalous, compromising situations soon grew . . . quite frequent, really. Gojo liked to hide under the skirts of your gowns whenever someone entered the room you two occupied, and he found it even more fun when it meant he could keep you entertained down there while you spoke with your unwanted company up there.
If it wasn’t becoming apparent, Gojo couldn’t have cared less if someone was in the room—he would’ve kept toying with your clit or reaching knuckles-deep inside of your cunt, anyway.
He also didn’t care much about going out on a limb just for some . . . fun. The two of you played a variety of risky games together, games that could end up with the whole royal court finding out about your affair, but it was fun, nonetheless. Like, trying to find each other within crowds at masquerade balls, for example; it was an event which had all guests covering their faces, so approaching someone by mistake was quite a sight to see. The time of Carnival¹⁵ came with a lot of entertainments, but masks were definitely one of them.
¹⁵ A time of feasting and celebration before Lent.
However, aside from all your risqué escapades, you and Gojo also showed your intimacy in subtle ways. You had never noticed it prior, but even before your affair went into full-bloom, Gojo had made a habit of matching his everyday costumes to your everyday gowns. He matched the color of your fabrics, and, if possible, matched the patterns, too. He did this with every color—every color except for white, because you never wore white.
You had told him once, perhaps during one of those nights the two of you spent watching the stars, that you held a strange sort of detestation towards the color. You didn’t know why, truthfully, you just . . . you weren’t a fan of blank, empty canvases.
Gojo had no problem with that, really. It was much easier to pick colorful flowers than it was to find white ones. Oh, yeah, before I can forget, the jester had a particular pastime of picking you bouquets—only ever the most beautiful and fragrant flowers, of course.
In his own words, “It would be a crime worthy of punishment to give my lady anything less than the best.” Yeah, he was a dork—a dork who played footsies with you during supper; but he was your dork, nonetheless.
Well, he was, up until the day your arranged marriage was supposed to take place.
Gojo didn’t like talking about it, and for the fortnight that had passed after you both confessed to each other, he had not brought up the subject of it once. Whenever you did, he began to talk of something else. Whenever someone was bringing it up during a public gathering, Gojo would drag you away from the crowd, off to another pantry or library.
It wasn’t Prince Rilian you were marrying: it was actually a lord; still, Gojo hated whichever man it was.
He liked to say, joking (or not), “It’s a shame he couldn’t find his own woman. Had to arrange a marriage like a pussy. You wouldn’t marry someone like that, would you? A bitch-boy who had no game?” And then he would laugh. “Nah, you’re more into real men.”
You were. He was right. But, who were you, a lady and her lover, otherwise known as the jester of the royal court, to defy the king and his advisors? . . . No one. And that’s exactly why, on the day of your wedding, Gojo had climbed up your balcony just as he had done before, a countless number of times.
Gojo had heard you were taking a few minutes to yourself, alone, on your balcony, before the ceremony; and wasn’t even a second hesitant about trying, attempting, to persuade you into eloping. He was a jester: he was supposed to be irrational, but this was, perhance, his most unbelievable joke yet.
“Well, you’re dressed up today. What’s the occasion?”
Gojo was standing two paces behind from where you stood, hands perched on the balcony’s railing.
You didn’t turn around when you heard the sound of his footsteps approaching, but you were forced to, when he spun you around.
“Please, don’t joke about this,” you pleaded, eyes sorrowful as Gojo held you.
“Oh, trust me. I do not find anything about this funny—especially not the part where you forgot to tell me you were getting married today.”
You turned away from Gojo’s eyes, your veil trailing far behind you. “I can assure you, . . . I didn’t know the date was already officially set until hours ago.” You wanted to whisper, I thought we had more time, but you didn’t.
Gojo stared at you like a child admiring the stars, lifting your veil to examine your painted face—it made him sad, the way he knew how much you hated the color white, and how empty it was, just like your eventual false vows to a man you barely knew.
Blushing brides were supposed to be blushing, Gojo thought; not on the verge of tears.
“Will you think of me when you stand at that altar?” he began, a silence following before he continued. “Will you wish it were my name you were vowing your life to?”
“G-Gojo,” you stammered, “please—”
“So we’re back to a title basis? I’m just ‘Gojo’ to you, again?”
“I didn’t want this, I . . .”
“I wouldn’t be in the crowds, my lady, if you were wondering. You won’t see my face and you won’t hear my voice objecting.”
“But—”
“But you don’t want to get married,” said Gojo, cutting you off, “I know. So run away. Run away with me.”
“Satoru, I . . . It’s not as easy as you think it is.”
Gojo took your gloved hand in his, and kissed it. He kissed the left hand, on the ring finger. “I don’t think it’s easy. I just think it’s right. Don’t you agree? So, please, my lady, don’t make vows you do not mean.”
Sure, jesters could do many things. Jesters could be many things. But this one—this one just happened to be the love of your life.
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‧ ˚. PROFESSOR GOJO SERIES↳ Professor Satoru Gojo had never failed at anything -- until his latest research project. That's why he had found himself at a weeklong conference, where he discovers the perfect distraction -- you. And he can't help but be drawn to you - even after he finds out that you're the one person he's trying to avoid most
![[ Last Updated: 10/25/2024 ]](https://64.media.tumblr.com/8d5e01fc1b46491f9a6f75774f4b4e35/6ad6916c66997f52-8b/s500x750/d42930815f15b32ba344f4b4306a718398a38ec4.png)
‧ ˚. SATORU GOJO
seeing you tonight, its a bad idea right? | smut, fluff ↳ seeing your ex is always a bad idea, except when its satoru gojo.
bigger than the whole sky | angst, fluff, manga spoilers ↳ before his fight, you and satoru have an honest conversation about the future.
dessert before dinner | smut, fluff ↳ satoru can't wait to have you until you get back from the sister school event, so he plies you with sweet words until you agree to have dessert before dinner.
all's fair (in love and mergers) | long fic, smut, fluff, bffs to enemies to lovers ↳ you're not sure what's worse -- being an arranged marriage or being an arranged marriage with the person who used to be your best friend.
three's a crowd (ft. suguru geto) | long fic, au, smut, fluff ↳ professors satoru gojo and suguru geto rarely wanted the same thing at the same time -- that was until you.
bloodsucker | smut, dark ↳ you had avoided your ex for so long, only to run into him at a halloween party, and he's the same as ever but has his teeth always been that sharp?
got you | smut, dark ↳ satoru finally found you -- and he's not going to let you go this time.
is it over now | angst, fluff, smut ↳ suguru thinks the only way you'll leave him is if he lies to you about cheating on him - and it is. but turns out, you're not so easy to leave - for him and his best friend (ft. satoru gojo). "if you want, i can come inside?" | fluff, crack, domestic ↳ nobara spots gojo with a sorcerer she's never seen before and of course hijinks ensue (aka hearing gojo's english va (kaiji tang) say the above line in apothecary diaries and i lost my mind).
i wanna show you off | sugar daddy au, smut, fluff, slight angst ↳ when you accompany your friends to a bar rich men and women frequent, you catch the eye of a certain white-haired rich man, who is more than willing to spoil you
tastes sweeter on your lips | fluff ↳ on a rare day off, you decide to take care of the strongest sorcerer - with something very sweet.
the doctor is in | smut, fluff, au ↳ when you go to your annual check-up, you didn't think you'd be crushing on your doctor - or that he's conduct such an in-depth examination.
twenty-nine | fluff, angst, crack ↳ it's gojo's birthday, and he can't help but reflect on what birthdays have meant to him over the years, especially the year you decide you don't really want to do anything for his birthday (but it turns out you do).
sit in my lap | fluff, crack, domesticity ↳ you and satoru take your daughter to see santa at the mall, and satoru proves that he's just as much of a match for his daughter, as he is for you.
just a little longer | fluff, angst ↳ after geto defects, you find yourself on a roof of a building wondering where things went wrong - and you're not the only one.
sweet nothing | fluff, angst ↳ satoru always comes running home to your sweet nothings -- except this time.
lower your guard | fluff, smut, au, longfic ↳ after the gojo family receives threats to their lives, you're hired to protect the heir to the company, satoru gojo - you just didn't realize how charming the rich heir would be - and just how hard it would be to resist his advances. don't want any other shade of blue but you | fluff, smut, fake dating, longfic ↳ you can't help but say yes when your longtime crush asks you to be his fake girlfriend for a year to get the gojo clan to stop arranging marriage proposals for him. but little did you know, he would be doing both of you a favor. love means to say goodbye | multi-lives au, fluff, smut, angst, jjk manga spoilers ↳ "would we love each other in every life?" it's the question you asked satoru the night before his battle, and he replied that, of course you would. but did that promise create a curse -- or were you both always cursed to begin with when it came to love? yakuza fiance (ft. suguru geto) | smut, yakuza au, fluff, threesome ↳ you had no patience for the yakuza lifestyle your grandfather had -- you wanted to live a normal life, but when it leaks that your grandfather is in talks to have you engaged to one of two yakuza heirs -- you realize you're in deeper than you thought -- especially when they both fall in love with you.
a house is not a home | canon au, fluff, suggestive ↳ you come home after a long day of work unable to find the person you call home anywhere — until you reach the bedroom (househusband gojo).
just wanna fuck with you, just to make up with you! | smut, modern au, fluff ↳ satoru gojo is the man everyone wants, except you - he pushed you away after you had your daughter, you divorced him. so what happens when he comes to pick up your daughter for his weekend, and he finds you ready for a date?
rumor has it that my best friend loves you (and i do too!) | smut, actor au, fluff ↳ rumors swirl about a love triangle between you and your two heart throb co-stars on the set of jujutsu kaisen. except in this case, you and your two co-stars are happily dating. but what happens when you get casted in a movie where they want you to have a PR relationship with your co-star? especially when your bfs find out who it is
break my soul in two (but you're right here) | angst, manga spoilers ↳ satoru showed no concern for himself -- so you had to, even if no one else would.
beat the heat | smut, fluff ↳ it’s a heatwave in tokyo and who better to spend it with than satoru, who has an interesting idea of how to pass the time — fucking the heat away.
feral for you | fluff, smut, angst ↳ satoru gojo rarely loses his cool. except when it comes to you. so when you get taken, he takes matters into his own hands to find out who did it and make them pay.
yours to keep | childhood friends au, fluff, eventual smut, angst ↳ satoru gojo fell in love with you from the moment he met you at eight years old. and when he sees you again, he knows — he has to make you his.
the honored one | smut, manga spoilers, canon-divergent au ↳ it's your duty as the wife of the clan head to help your husband get dressed -- even for battle. but that didn't mean he couldn't spend some time undressing you.
‧ ˚. SUGURU GETO
meant to be | smut, dark ↳ when Suguru defects, he asks you to come with him -- but he's not going to take no for an answer.
three's a crowd (ft. satoru gojo) | long fic, au, smut, fluff ↳ professors satoru gojo and suguru geto rarely wanted the same thing at the same time -- that was until you.
is it over now (ft. satoru gojo) | angst, fluff, smut ↳ suguru thinks the only way you'll leave him is if he lies to you about cheating on him - and it is. but turns out, you're not so easy to leave -- for him and his best friend
might hurt | fluff, crack ↳ suguru's popularity is truly a curse, especially when he gets hit on right in front of you. luckily, you both know how to handle those situations.
i just want to fuck all night | smut, fluff, sex pollen ↳ after swallowing a curse, geto finds his body in an uncontrollable state of arousal, and who better help him cure it than you?
would it be enough if i could never give you peace? | fluff, angst, smut ↳ suguru's birthday spent with you is like a dream -- the perfect day spent in bliss, but what happens when the dream has to come to an end?
yakuza fiance (ft. satoru gojo) | smut, yakuza au, fluff, threesome ↳ you had no patience for the yakuza lifestyle your grandfather had -- you wanted to live a normal life, but when it leaks that your grandfather is in talks to have you engaged to one of two yakuza heirs -- you realize you're in deeper than you thought -- especially when they both fall in love with you.
‧ ˚. KENTO NANAMI
no regrets | hurt/comfort, fluff, angst ↳ when nanami is injured from his fight with mahito, you're sent to pick him up. and both of your careful avoidance of your feelings for each other comes crumbling down.
armed and dangerous | smut ↳ nanami's arms were always so nice around your throat, but you never tried having his arm between your legs before, until.
good girls get backshots | smut ↳ nanami has always been a gentleman, but he finally decides to play rough and mark you up -- at your request.
five times nanami wanted to propose but didn't | angst, fluff, smut ↳ nanami wanted to propose to you so many times - but it was never the right time, and then, there was no time left.
best part of my day | fluff, domesticity ↳ on a bad day, you give nanami just what he needs, and remind him why you are truly the best part of his day.
all the time in the world | fluff, hurt/comfort ↳ after shibuya, nanami lets you tend to his burns and have an honest discussion about what happened there and what it means for your future. but i'm a fire (and i'll keep your brittle heart warm) | fluff, hurt/comfort, smut, au ↳ throughout your years of jujutsu tech, you take care of kento, whether its a wound from a curse or a simple cut his finger -- and when he returns he finds you still ready to take care of him -- even after shibuya.
‧ ˚. YUTA OKKOTSU
↳ coming soon :)
‧ ˚. CHOSO KAMO
it's a need | hurt/comfort, smut, fluff ↳ after you take an attack meant for him, choso can't seem to understand why -- so you show him just how important he is to you.
hey emo boy! | fluff, smut, au ↳ saw this boy at the mall last week. got the kind of look to make me freak. wanna fuck in the back of the hot topic?
best friend's brother is the one for me! | fluff, au, smut, bedsharing ↳ you've been asked whether you and yuji are together a million times - but the truth is his brother is more your type -- so what happens when you end up sharing a bed one night?
just one more bite! | fluff, modern au, smut, vampire au ↳ choso kamo is your coworker who seems to hate your guts - even though you're both always stuck working together, but the only reason he does is because he wants nothing more than to eat you up -- blood and all.
‧ ˚. RYOMEN SUKUNA
paint the town red | smut, dark, au ↳ you've always been a goody two shoes -- or so your friends say -- so what happens when you decide to do the first bad thing you've ever attempted and try summoning a demon -- and it actually works?
the girl next door | smut, age gap, modern au ↳ you had grown up next door to the itadoris, but you never had met their uncle. and for good reason, he had spent the majority of his life in and out of jail. but now he was finally out, and he only had one goal in mind -- getting you in his bed.
‧ ˚. YUJI ITADORI
don't want you like a best friend! | best friends to lovers, fluff, fwb, smut, au ↳ yuji itadori has been your best friend since you were kids, and when he offers you to teach you how to fuck, you don't expect him to be able to find his way into your heart too.
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jealousy, jealousy | smut
which of the men whimper | smut
spooning the dilfs | fluff
jjk men and if they're good at singing | crack
all tied up | smut
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househusband suguru
househusband nanami househusband gojo (1) (2) (3)
mindreader nanami
geto swallowing a aphrodisiac curse
gojo - maybe in another life
guitarist! suguru x opera singer! reader (1) (2) (3)
frat boy! suguru x nerd! reader (1) (2) (3)
curse! suguru (1) (2) (3) bringing suguru back to life
[ 10:49 am ] Your eyes were fixated on Seungmin the whole lunch.
Your friends and his decided to have lunch together so that they could all grow closer together, but you knew your best friend had another reason for doing so.
Your eyes never left his face, and you knew it was wrong to stare but you couldn't bring it in yourself to look away.
He's so eye catching.
He looked up, feeling as if someone was watching him, but once he looked around, he couldn't find a pair of eyes on him.
Thanks to your amazing reaction time, you had looked down at your phone— that wasn't even on— the time he had looked up.
You wait for a few seconds, trying to pretend that you were listening to the topic of the conversations your friends were having, but in reality you just wanted to get back to observing Kim Seungmin.
Your patience ran out and you look back up to him, but you were met with familiar black pupils.
Seungmin.
Your eyes widened, and he smiles(at you? maybe), letting out a small giggle. Going back to having a conversation with Jeongin, leaving you in a state of embarrassment.
( ℳ𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ⌕ )
새하얀 종이 위로 매일을 그려, 어차피 지나갈 구름도 색이 변해가는 나무들, 우릴 닮은 풍경 한 장씩 작은 비밀처럼, 둘만 열어보곤 알 수 있게.
𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐬 𝜗𝜚
HEADCANONS 💭
SKZ + WAYS THEY SHOW “I LOVE YOU” !
SMAU’S/TEXTS 📱
SKZ + GOING OUT ON CUTE DATES !
hyung line ver. | maknae line ver.
SKZ + BREAKING UP WITH THEIR GF FOR YOU !
hyung line ver. | maknae line ver.
SKZ AS NEW PARENTS !
hyung line ver. | maknae line ver.
ARGUMENT WITH BF!SKZ !
hyung line ver. | maknae line ver.
SKZ + REASSURANCE !
SKZ + WHEN THEY GET JEALOUS !
WE CAN’T BE FRIENDS ! (BANG CHAN SERIES)
SKZ AS YOUR OLDER BROTHER !
FAKE ARGUING WITH YOUR BEST FRIEND !
RATING YOUR EXES !
DRABBLES/ONE SHOTS 📑
THE PERFECT PAIR ! (HAN JISUNG)
𝐛𝐭𝐬 𝜗𝜚
HEADCANONS 💭
NOTHING YET
SMAU’S/TEXTS 📱
SOFT LAUNCHING YOUR NEW BOYFRIEND ! (JK)
part 1. | part 2.
ARGUMENT WITH YOUR BOYFRIEND ! (JK)
JEALOUS/TOXIC ARGUMENT ! (JK)
part 1. | part 2.
DAD!YOONGI TEXTS !
EX!NAMJOON TEXTS !
DAD!JUNGKOOK TEXTS !
DRABBLES/ONE SHOTS 📑
NOTHING YET
𝐩𝐥𝐳 𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲, 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐬 !
Just storing so I can find it again later
jeon jungkook fic rec list (Ⅴ)
here’s a list of my favourite jungkook fics, please show lots of love and support to these wonderful authors and their blogs, some of these fics contain smut so no minors allowed ♡
a- angst s- smut f- fluff ❣- ultimate favourite
series
love to hate by @kpopfanfictrash f s a (enemies to lovers friends with benefits) ❣
crybaby (2) (3) by @lavishedinjimin f s ❣
monster by @btssmutgalore s a (frat boy bad boy jk college au) ❣
bunny by @btssmutgalore s a (friends to lovers camboy jk) ❣
desperado by @chocominnie f s a (mafia au) ❣
redemption by @chocominnie f s a (sequel to desperado mafia au) ❣
bands by @xpeachesncream f s a (idol au stripper au strangers to lovers au) ❣
stockholm syndrome by @taleasnewastime f s a (mafia/gang au strangers to lovers) ❣
birds by @missbickerbocker f s a (strangers to lovers doctor jk) ❣
wanderlust with you by @amourtae f s (dilf jk married couple established relationship) ❣
paddle with me by @yoongsgguktae s (enemies to lovers au camp counselor au) ❣
f is for by @1kook s (fuck boy and fuck girl drabbles) ❣
born sinner by @1kook s (virgin jk)
to build a home by @soft4gguk f s a (nanny au dilf jk ceo au)
stoic by @blue-jade s a (ceo au cheater jk) ❣
↬ redemption s a (exes au part 2 of stoic) ❣
like you used to by @bratkook ❣
↬like you never did (part 2) s a (ex boyfriend jk toxic exes
deep six by @bratkook s a (infidelity au biker gang au) ❣
bad for you by @yoonia s a (stripper au) ❣
for me by @personasintro f s a (dilf jk neighbours au) ❣
long way home by @sparklingchim f a (dilf jk friends to lovers) ❣
ever ever after by @hansolmates f s a (dilf jk disney au fantasy au) ❣
slow dancing by @yoonia s a (soulmate au) ft. Namjoon ❣
graduation by @shina913 f s a (best friends to lovers slow burn) ❣
one-shot
how long will we fall by @jiminrings f a (soulmate au unrequited love au friends to lovers au)
fuck me forever by @bangtangalicious s (friends with benefits au)
fuck me better by @bangtangalicious s ft.Taehyung
touch me wherever by @bangtangalicious s (innocent jk and reader loss of innocence au) ❣
pour it up by @jungkxook s (fuckboys threesome) ft. Taehyung
just for tonight by @jungkxook f s (strangers to lovers)
my fault by @krreader a
catharsis by @junghelioseok s (college au friends with benefits au) ft. Jimin ❣
waking up in vegas by @ppersonna f s (brother’s best friend accidental marriage) ❣
the lighthouse by @rubycoast f a (mutual pinning strangers to lovers)
forever heart by @sparklingchim s a (exes au first love)❣
champagne problems by @smoochkooks f s a (friends with benefits kinda sugar daddy au) ❣
christmas cream(pie) by @smoochkooks f s (established relationship au)
ready or not? by @chateautae s (college au) ❣
slip'n slide by @sugasbabiie f s a (exes to lovers) ❣
the lonely hearts club by @vantaenims f a (college au friends to lovers)
brother’s best friend by @bts-hyperfixation ❣
hate sex by @yeoreos s (friends with benefits)
milestone by @1kook s (first time brother’s best friend) ❣
it takes two by @junghelioseok s (roommate au fake dating au) ❣
studio sessions by @writtenwhalien f s (brother’s best friend friends with benefits to lovers) ❣
finishing line by @kooksbliss f s (strangers to lovers street racer au)
the art of war more by @kpopfanfictrash s a (jock jk enemies to lovers college au) ❣
the maid of honor misadventures by @jjkthclub f s (maid of honor au one night stand au)❣
young god by @njssi s (brother’s best friend)
chasing butterflies by @ddaenggtan f s (college au nerd jk idiots to lovers) ❣
an abundance of peaches by @yoongphoria f s a (best friends to lovers frat boy au) ❣
↬looking for other jjk fics or the other members check out my library
A/N: Hello and welcome to this nsfw collaboration of the wonderful authors of the bnaharem discord server! The idea for this stemmed from an ask about making a collaboration under the theme of “7 Minutes in Heaven”. But we all decided to, instead of just writing 7 minutes, we’d offer you a whole night to spend with your favourite character(s)!
List of the authors and the characters included will be posted under the intro and updated once everyone has uploaded their parts. So make sure to give them all a read when they’re up!
It was a stupid idea.
A stupid decisions resulting from being single maybe just a tad bit too long for your liking.
When you first found the webpage, your interest sparked. The title read in bold letters:
“MORE THAN JUST 7 MINUTES. SECURE YOURSELF AN UNFORGETTABLE NIGHT IN HEAVEN WITH A HOTTIE FROM YOUR AREA”
Normally you would have ignored these sorts of proposals, but this was… different. The homepage actually looked really well designed for something that should supposedly be just like every other, bug-infested hookup site, so you continued.
Underneath the title, there was a link which read: “Click here to sign up and get your match”
You still hesitated. Receiving a random item from a random person just to get their address and hook up for a night? This could very well be a scam which would end up with you having to avoid a creep when you got to the assigned place. To be a bit worried and sceptical about this deal was an understatement. But in the end, curiosity got the better of you and you clicked on the link.
That happened a few days ago and everyday you anxiously awaited your box, wondering if it was a scam all along. Suddenly, you heard the familiar noise of your doorbell ringing and you jumped. Opening the door, you found a neatly wrapped red and pink box sitting on your doorstep, the letters “Your night in heaven awaits” written in the middle.
You swallowed and carried the package back inside, carefully putting it on the desk.
“Well, here goes nothing.” And with shaky hands, you slowly started to open the box.
What’s in the box?
A pen - @lady-bakuhoe
Chains - @league-of-thots
A chickling keychain - @cheeky-kitsune
A Portuguese chicken ornament - @secondhand-trash
Brass knuckles - @magpie-scribbles
A wired faceguard - @katsukisprincess
A perfume bottle - @bnhaxxassociates
A Book: The Count of Monte Cristo - @monst
A diamond necklace - @monst
A blue handkerchief - @denkithot
Purple fabric - @denkithot
A black ballpoint pen - @soft-boy-writes
A hand - @leeswritingworld
A cat toy - @candychronicles
A lesson planner- @floof-reppu
A seashell - @cheeky-kitsune
Water?- @burnedbyshoto
A red book - @slowburn-villain
COCKY.
CHAPTER I
Bangchan x reader. (s,f)
Synopsis: As a researcher developing a specialized condom in extra large sizes, you never expected the company’s product manager, Chris, to volunteer as a test subject—let alone for things to get this complicated. Balancing professionalism with undeniable chemistry, you must navigate a partnership that’s strictly business… or so you keep telling yourself. (23,6k words)
Author's note: One order of extra large Chris is here. Hope you enjoy it and pls share what your thoughts on it after ♡
Working at a company that specializes in sexual health products isn’t exactly dinner table conversation, but it’s your job—and you take it seriously. As one of the lead researchers in product development, you’ve spent months working on a specialized condom for individuals with extra-large sizes. And now, it’s time to pitch it to the board.
You take a deep breath, tugging at the hem of your blazer before stepping into the conference room. A long, intimidating table stretches before you, lined with executives who look way too serious for a meeting about condoms. Behind you, the screen glows with the first slide of your presentation, the product name in bold letters.
"Good morning, everyone," you begin, keeping your voice as steady as possible. "Today, I'll be walking you through my research on a new condom designed specifically for those who find standard sizing... insufficient."
A few executives glance at each other. Some raise their brows, others nod with mild interest. You press on, clicking to the next slide. Graphs, charts, and anatomical studies fill the screen as you explain the glaring gap in the market and why this product is necessary.
"Our research shows a real demand for this," you continue. "Current options on the market are often too restrictive, uncomfortable, or prone to breakage. This design addresses those concerns by enhancing durability while maintaining a natural feel."
You move through the slides with confidence, breaking down the materials, elasticity testing, and the competition. But as you reach the last slide, you sense the shift in the room. Mr. Kim, the head of the board, leans forward, fingers steepled together.
"Your research is solid," he says. "The product has potential. But before we approve production, we need real-world testing."
You pause. "Of course. We're already in the process of recruiting participants—"
"Expedite it," another executive interrupts. "We need actual user data before we move forward. Bring us results, then we’ll talk."
You nod, maintaining a professional expression, but frustration bubbles beneath the surface. Finding participants for something this specific isn’t exactly a quick task. But without those test results, your project is stuck in limbo.
As the meeting wraps up and the executives file out, you exhale, already running through possible recruitment strategies in your head.
What you don’t realize is that one of your participants might already be in the room—watching you with quiet interest.
-
Back in your lab, you slump into your chair with a sigh, letting your head fall back against the headrest. The sterile, fluorescent lights hum softly above you, a stark contrast to the high-stakes tension of the conference room. You kick off your heels, rolling your chair toward your desk just as the door swings open.
"So? How'd it go?" your friend and co-worker, Jane, saunters in, her lab coat barely hanging onto her shoulders.
"Ugh." You rub your temples. "It went as expected. They love the concept, but they won’t approve production unless I bring them real-world test results. And fast."
Jane lets out a low whistle as she strolls over to the shelves lined with various prototype models and sample products. Without hesitation, she picks up one of the dildos—one of the many you use for testing elasticity and fit—and spins it in her hand like a baton. "So basically, you need to find guys with huge dicks willing to help out?"
You groan, burying your face in your hands. "When you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous. But yes. And I haven’t found a single participant yet. Screening takes time, and I don’t have much of it."
Jane smirks, tapping the tip of the dildo against her palm. "Maybe you should try a more direct approach. Put up a ‘Now Hiring: Well-Endowed Men’ sign in the break room."
You shoot her a deadpan look. "Oh sure, that’ll go over great with HR."
She laughs, setting the dildo back with the others. "I’m just saying, desperate times call for desperate measures. You’re working against the clock, and if you don’t find someone soon, all that research goes to waste."
You exhale, staring at the mess of paperwork and sample prototypes on your desk. You know she’s right. You need a participant—fast.
Jane heads for the door but pauses before leaving, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Hey, maybe you should start looking for participants here in the office. You never know who might be hiding a big secret."
She winks before disappearing down the hallway, leaving you groaning into your hands.
What you don’t know is that the solution to your problem is much closer than you think.
-
Lunch break couldn’t have come at a better time. You needed to step away from your desk, from the research, from the stress of finding participants. But Jane’s words from earlier linger in your head, much to your dismay.
Because now, as you sit in the company cafeteria, sipping on your drink, you catch yourself doing something utterly mortifying—unintentionally observing every single man who walks by. Or, more specifically, their crotches.
You aren’t trying to. Really. But Jane had planted the thought, and now, your brain has decided to betray you. Your eyes flicker over a group of IT specialists at the salad bar. Then to the finance associate adjusting his belt. Then to one of the marketing interns stretching in line for coffee. You don’t even realize you’re doing it until Jane elbows you with a wicked grin.
"Oh my God, you’re actually doing it," she laughs, nearly choking on her sandwich.
Your face heats instantly. "I’m not! I mean—not intentionally. I was just—oh, shut up. Let’s go."
Jane, still giggling, follows you out of the cafeteria, coffee cups in hand. She chatters about some office gossip as you make your way back to your lab, but you barely register her words. You just need to get back to work and shake this subconscious habit before you embarrass yourself further. But the moment you step into the lab, all coherent thought screeches to a halt.
Because standing in the middle of your workspace, examining a row of sample products with a curious yet unreadable expression, is Chris.
His fingers hover over one of the prototype models, but when he notices you, he straightens and offers a polite smile. "Good afternoon," he greets. "I came to speak with you."
Jane arches a brow, glances between the two of you, then smirks. "I’ll leave you to it," she says before slipping out, leaving you alone with Chris.
You turn back to him, slightly puzzled. "How can I assist you?"
He hesitates for a moment before nodding toward your desk. "I would like a more detailed explanation regarding your product—its functionality and how far in development are you."
You blink, pleasantly surprised by his interest. "Of course." You proceed to outline the design, materials, and the challenges in securing participants.
Chris listens attentively, though his expression remains unreadable. He appears to be weighing something in his mind but ultimately checks the time and exhales. "I have a meeting to attend, but could you come by my office later? Around four?"
You nod, though curiosity lingers. "Certainly. May I ask what this pertains to?"
He offers a small smile. "We’ll discuss it then."
And with that, he heads out, leaving you wondering what exactly he has in mind.
-
Chris Bang is a name everyone in the company knows. As a product manager, he’s known for his reliability, innovative ideas, and ability to bring projects to life. He’s respected, well-liked, and a natural leader. A social butterfly who effortlessly navigates through the office, friendly to everyone he meets.
You, on the other hand, have only ever interacted with him in passing—polite nods, brief greetings when you cross paths in the hallway. So when you receive an invitation to meet him in his office, you can’t help but wonder why he suddenly wants to talk to you.
A few minutes before four, you find yourself lingering outside Chris’s office, nervously shifting on your feet. You check your watch, heart thumping. A little after four, Chris finally appears, offering an apologetic smile.
"My apologies for the delay," he says. "Please, come in."
You follow him inside, settling into the chair across from his desk as he takes his seat. He folds his hands on the desk, studying you for a moment before speaking. "Thank you for coming. I wanted to discuss something regarding your research."
You nod, trying to keep your curiosity at bay. "Of course. How can I assist you?"
Chris watches you carefully, his expression unreadable as he leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. The slight shift in his posture draws your attention—just enough to make you hyper-aware of the space between you.
“What specific criteria are you looking for in a participant for your product test?” His voice is even, measured, but there’s something in the way he asks that makes your breath hitch for just a second.
You clear your throat, straightening in your seat. “The main requirement is that participants need to have a genital size above average.”
His lips quirk up slightly, though his expression remains composed. “And what qualifies as above average?”
You’re certain he already knows the answer, but you respond anyway, keeping your tone professional. “Anything more than 5.5 inches when fully erect is considered above average.”
A beat of silence stretches between you. Chris doesn’t say anything immediately, just sits there, tapping a finger lightly against the desk, his gaze flickering over you in a way that makes the air feel heavier.
Then, finally, he exhales, tilting his head slightly. “I may have a solution to your participant problem,” he says, his voice lower now. “I would like to volunteer.”
Your brain short-circuits for a second. “You… what?”
“I want to be a participant.”
You blink, your mouth opening slightly before snapping shut. Your grip on your pen tightens as you try to process what he just said.
He nods. "I see potential in your product, and I believe in its success. More importantly, I want to contribute to the company’s innovation."
You stare at him, still trying to wrap your head around it. "How exactly are you going to be a participant?"
Chris leans back slightly. "I ask that my involvement remains anonymous."
Your throat feels dry as you nod. "Alright. But how are we going to conduct the test if you want to remain anonymous?"
He watches you carefully before answering. "We can arrange to do it outside of the office, in secret."
Without another word, Chris pushes himself up from his chair and moves around the desk. He stops right in front of you, leaning against the edge of his desk, arms crossing over his chest as he watches you, waiting. And that’s when it happens.
For the first time, you really look at him—not just as a well-respected product manager but as a man. The sharp cut of his jaw, the slight crease between his brows, the way his fitted white dress shirt does absolutely nothing to hide the definition underneath. How had you never noticed before?
Your eyes trail lower before you can stop yourself, a fleeting glance—until you realize exactly where you’re looking. The bulge against his dark slacks.
Heat floods your face as you snap your gaze back up, praying he didn’t catch that momentary lapse in professionalism.
Chris doesn’t comment on it, but there’s something almost amused in the way he tilts his head. He extends a hand toward you, expectant.
“So? Do you agree to this arrangement?” he prompts.
“Yes,” you regret for answering too quickly, making you sound way too eager. When in fact, you're just glad to finally solve the problem but also, yeah, okay, you can’t lie, you're a bit curious about something, about Chris.
Your fingers wrap around his, and as you shake hands, you feel it. The shift. The undercurrent of something you can’t quite name just yet.
-
The next day, work starts as usual. You and Jane are in your lab, reviewing reports and planning your next steps. This time, she’s not interrogating you about Chris—at least, not yet. Instead, she’s too busy grumbling about her own research troubles.
“I swear, if I have to go through one more round of reformulations, I’m going to lose my mind,” she complains, tapping her pen against the table. “And to make matters worse, the participant who had the reaction was the best one in the trial. Great responses, perfect for data analysis, and now she’s out.” She rubs her forehead. “I need to find a replacement ASAP, or the timeline’s screwed.”
Hearing that, you can’t help but think about your own situation. At least Jane had a participant—even if it went south. Meanwhile, you were stuck—until yesterday.
Your thoughts drift back to Chris. To the conversation in his office. To the way he leaned against his desk, arms crossed, waiting for you to respond to his offer. To the handshake that sealed the agreement, his grip firm and unwavering.
To the fact that you somehow, in the middle of all that, had managed to glance down—
Nope. Not going there.
“Hey!” Jane’s voice snaps you out of it. You blink at her.
“What’s with that face?” she asks, squinting at you suspiciously.
“What face?”
“The one that says you were just thinking about something you don’t want to admit.”
Damn it. You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Just work.”
Jane narrows her eyes. Then, suddenly, her gaze flicks past you—to the glass window overlooking the lab.
“Oh,” she whispers. “Oh.”
Your stomach drops. You don’t even have to look to know what—or rather, who—she’s seeing. Still, against your better judgment, you glance up.
There he is. Chris is standing outside, observing another team of researchers working on their project. His hands are in his pockets, head tilted slightly as he listens to someone explaining something.
Jane lets out a low whistle. “Well, hello, product manager Bang.”
You close your eyes briefly. “Jane. No.”
Jane ignores you. “You know, I never really paid attention before, but now that I’m looking at him properly… Damn. You’ve been sitting on gold this whole time, and you didn’t even realize it.”
“I am not sitting on anything,” you hiss, horrified.
Jane grins, enjoying this far too much. “Not yet.”
You gape at her. “Stop.”
But your attention betrays you because the longer Chris stands there, the harder it is to ignore the way he looks. The rolled-up sleeves. The way his dress shirt fits just right. The way he listens so intently, brows furrowed in concentration.
Jane leans in, voice barely above a whisper. “You have to wonder, though… With a body like that, what else do you think he’s got going on under there?”
You suck in a breath, scandalized. “Jane.”
She smirks. “I mean, you would know better than me now, wouldn’t you?”
You nearly choke on air. “I—excuse me?”
Jane just winks. “Just saying. You’re in charge of a very… specific study. And he’s very… qualified.”
You don’t even get the chance to respond because, at that exact moment, Chris shifts—and his gaze lands directly on you. Your heart stops. For a second, neither of you moves.
Then, as if sensing the sheer panic flooding your system, Jane casually takes a step back and hums. “Welp, have fun processing that. I’ll let you get back to work.”
And with that, she strolls away, leaving you to deal with the mess she just made in your brain. The worst part? You’re not sure you’ll ever be able to look at Chris the same way again.
Especially when, minutes later, Chris finishes his observation and starts walking past your lab.
Your body tenses as he nears the doorway, but when he glances in and sees you, his expression remains calm—pleasant, even.
“Good morning,” he says, voice as smooth as ever.
“Good morning,” you manage to reply, keeping your tone neutral.
He offers a brief nod before continuing down the hall, leaving you exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
But just as you think the encounter is over, your phone buzzes. You glance down, unlocking it. A new message. From Chris.
Meet me tonight. Hotel Mira. 8 PM.
There’s no explanation. No context. Just the time. The place. And the undeniable fact that your life is about to get a whole lot more interesting.
-
The sun is beginning to set, casting a dim orange glow through the windows. Most of the other researchers have already packed up and left, giving you just the moment of solitude you need.
With one last glance around, you reach for the shelf where your prototype samples are stored. Your fingers hover for a second before you carefully pick up a small box of the condoms—the very ones you’re supposed to be testing.
You hesitate only for a moment before swiftly slipping the box into your bag, ensuring it's hidden beneath your notebook and other miscellaneous items. Your pulse quickens. It’s not like you’re doing something wrong, but if Jane sees…
Yeah. You’d have a lot of explaining to do. You zip up your bag, moving as casually as possible, just in case—
“Hey.”
You nearly jump out of your skin. Snapping your head up, you see Jane standing in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow raised.
Your heart pounds as you quickly compose yourself, forcing your shoulders to relax. “Jesus, Jane. Don’t sneak up on people like that.”
She shrugs, stepping into the lab. “Didn’t know I had to make an announcement before entering.” She leans lazily against the doorframe, completely unaware of the miniature panic attack she just induced. “Anyway, my car’s still in the shop. Can you give me a ride to the station?”
You blink, still recovering. “The station?”
“Yeah. You know, where trains exist.” She gives you a look. “It’s in the same direction as your place, isn’t it?”
Your fingers tighten around your bag strap. The station. Which just so happens to be on the way to Hotel Mira.
You nod, keeping your voice neutral. “Yeah, sure.”
“Great. Let me grab my stuff, and we can head out.”
Jane disappears for a moment, giving you time to let out a slow breath. That was way too close.
-
The drive to the hotel feels longer than it should, your mind running in circles despite the fact that this is nothing more than a professional meeting. A business matter. An agreement you both shook hands on.
And yet, as you pull into the parking lot and step out of your car, there’s an uneasy flutter in your stomach that you can’t quite suppress.
Inside, the hotel lobby is polished and pristine, dimly lit with a warm, intimate glow. You walk past the front desk without sparing a glance, heading straight toward the restrooms.
Once inside, you take a moment to steady yourself. You set your bag down, gripping the edge of the sink as you look at your reflection. Your face betrays you. You don’t look like someone heading into a purely professional meeting. You look… nervous. Almost like—
No. You shake your head, breaking the thought before it can go any further. With a quick breath, you smooth out the creases in your shirt, adjust your hair, and dab a cool drop of water against the back of your neck. You look fine. Presentable. Professional.
And then, without giving yourself any more time to overthink, you grab your bag and leave the restroom.
The elevator ride is quiet, save for the low hum of the machinery as you ascend. The numbers above the doors blink steadily—six, seven, eight—each one making your pulse tick higher. By the time you reach the tenth floor, your grip on your bag is tight.
Room 1003.
You walk down the hallway, the carpet swallowing the sound of your footsteps. The walls are lined with identical doors, each one leading to a private, undisclosed space. Your destination is at the end of the hall.
You stop in front of it. For a moment, you just stand there. The number on the door gleams under the soft glow of the overhead light. 1003. The right room. The right place.
Then, shifting your bag in front of you, you lift a hand—
And knock. A pause. Silence. Then, the sound of movement from the other side. A slow, deliberate click of the lock and then the door begins to open.
-
The door clicks open, and you swear your heart stumbles over itself. Chris stands before you, his usual professional image softened by the undone top buttons of his shirt and the sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows. He looks relaxed—too relaxed. And that only makes your nerves spike even more.
“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.
You force yourself to move, slipping past him and into the room. It’s a standard hotel suite, sleek and modern, but your attention flickers to the small bar cart near the TV. Chris follows your gaze.
“Would you like a drink?” he asks, walking toward it without waiting for an answer.
You shake your head, gripping your bag a little tighter. “I’m good. I’d rather get started with the test.”
Chris chuckles, glancing at you over his shoulder. “You’re all business, huh?” He picks up a bottle of whiskey, pouring himself a small amount before holding up another glass. “Come on, just one drink. We’re going to be working closely together. Shouldn’t we at least loosen up a little?”
You hesitate, knowing this isn’t what you came here for. But the way he’s looking at you—warm, patient, but with an undeniable sense of control—makes you cave just a little. You sigh, finally moving toward the sofa. “Fine. Just one drink.”
Chris smiles, a pleased glint in his eyes as he pours your drink. You watch him quietly, noticing how different he seems outside the office. The polished product manager is still there, but here, in this dimly lit hotel room, he seems more at ease, more himself. He hands you the glass, his fingers grazing yours for the briefest second. You swallow before raising it slightly.
“To… professional courtesy?” you say, trying to keep this neutral.
Chris chuckles again, lifting his own glass. “To a successful product test.”
You clink glasses and take a sip, the burn of the alcohol trailing down your throat. You’re not sure if it’s the drink or something else entirely, but suddenly, you feel a little hot.
You set your glass down on the table after a single sip, straightening in your seat as you slip back into work mode. Clearing your throat, you open your bag and take out your notebook. “Alright. Before we begin, I need to outline the process.”
Chris raises an amused brow, swirling the liquid in his glass. “Go on.”
You nod, focusing on your notes. “The test requires me to take measurements—both in a flaccid and an erect state. This includes length, girth, and width to ensure the condom’s fit and elasticity.”
You glance up, expecting him to react professionally. Instead, Chris chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. You frown. “What?”
He smirks, taking a slow sip of his drink before meeting your eyes. “You’re so serious about this.”
Your lips part slightly, caught off guard by the comment. “Well… it is a serious matter. This is research.”
Chris hums as if considering your words. Then, with a teasing lilt, he tilts his head. “Or are you just impatient to see me naked?”
Your body locks up. “What—? No! That’s not—”
But Chris only chuckles, leaning back against the sofa, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Relax. I’m just messing with you.”
You exhale sharply, feeling warmth creep up your neck. Without thinking, you grab your glass and take another sip, hoping the drink will calm the sudden fluster in your system.
Chris watches you with a knowing glint in his eyes, then lifts his own glass. “Alright. Once we finish these, we’ll start.”
You nod, trying not to overthink how nonchalant he is about all of this while you’re barely holding it together. This is just research. Just a product test. You tell yourself.
A few more sips and the glasses are emptied, the clink of crystal against the table sounding much louder in the quiet room.
Chris exhales, setting his drink down with ease before rising to his feet. Without thinking, you follow suit, standing just as he does—an instinctive reaction, though you’re not sure why.
The two of you find yourselves facing each other, the space between you charged with something unspoken. His gaze holds yours, steady and unreadable, and you realize you’re gripping the edge of your notebook a little too tightly.
The silence stretches just long enough to make your pulse tick faster. Then, Chris breaks it with a low, amused murmur. “So… should we get started?”
His voice is smooth, casual, but the weight of the moment makes it feel heavier than it should.
You swallow, forcing a nod. “Y-Yes. We should.”
But your feet stay rooted in place and Chris notices. The corner of his mouth twitches—something between a smirk and a knowing smile. He tilts his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours.
For a moment, you wonder if he’s waiting for you to make the next move. Or if he’s simply enjoying watching you hesitate. Either way, you need to snap out of it.
Clearing your throat, you tighten your grip on your notes and take a steadying breath. “Let’s begin.”
Chris hums in agreement, but there’s something unreadable in his gaze as he finally moves. And suddenly, it feels as if the real test is not just the one you came here for—but something else entirely.
He moves first, unbuttoning the remaining buttons of his shirt with practiced ease. The fabric slips from his shoulders, revealing toned muscles beneath—broad chest, defined abs, and a confidence that makes the entire act seem effortless.
You keep your expression neutral, or at least you try to. “This is strictly professional,” you remind yourself silently.
Chris glances at you, catching the way your gaze flickers before you quickly refocus on your notes. “Do you need me to undress completely?” he asks, his tone smooth, almost teasing.
You press your lips together before answering. “For accurate measurement, I need access to the necessary area. So… yes.”
He chuckles, a deep, warm sound. “Straight to the point.”
You don’t respond, instead focusing on preparing the measuring tape and recording sheet. Anything to keep yourself occupied while he finishes undressing.
A moment later, you hear the rustle of fabric, the sound of a belt unfastening, the subtle shift of movement. You don’t look up until Chris speaks again.
“I’m ready when you are.”
When you finally lift your gaze, your breath catches for a fraction of a second. You do your best to maintain your professionalism—but the moment you see it, all thoughts momentarily leave your head.
Chris stands before you, bare from the waist down, his body relaxed yet radiating a quiet confidence. He doesn’t shy away, doesn’t fidget—he simply waits, watching for your reaction.
You knew he had to be on the larger side to even qualify for the study, but seeing it in person is something else entirely. Bigger than you expected. Definitely bigger than you imagined.
You barely catch yourself before audibly reacting, but your throat betrays you as you swallow air, a reflex you hope he doesn’t notice.
Chris, of course, notices everything. A slow smirk tugs at his lips. “Something wrong?”
You snap out of it, quickly shaking your head as you reach for your measuring tape, trying to ignore the sudden warmth creeping up your neck. “No, nothing at all. Let’s just get this done.”
Chris chuckles, but thankfully doesn’t press further. For now. You quickly move to retrieve a pair of latex gloves from your bag, slipping them on with practiced precision.
Chris raises an amused eyebrow. “You really came prepared, huh?”
You shoot him a pointed look. “Of course. This is an official product test.”
His lips twitch in amusement as he peeks into your open bag, catching a glimpse of all the testing materials. “What else do you have in there? A microscope? A lie detector?”
You ignore his teasing and pull out the measuring tape, standing straighter to compose yourself. “Alright. Let’s begin with the flaccid measurement.”
Chris doesn’t move, doesn’t make it easier for you. Instead, he watches—patient, unreadable—as you kneel slightly, positioning the measuring tape against him.
Your fingers brush against his skin through the latex, and you swear you feel the slightest twitch beneath your touch. You pretend not to notice. But Chris does.
And as the test continues, you realize that maintaining professionalism might be the hardest part of all.
You keep your focus steady, guiding the measuring tape along the length of Chris’s flaccid state. Your gloved fingers work efficiently, noting the exact numbers as you move on to measure his girth, wrapping the tape around the thickest part before finally noting the width calculation.
Chris watches you work, amusement flickering in his eyes. “How do you measure width, exactly?”
You don’t hesitate as you jot down the numbers. “You divide the girth by 3.14.”
Chris lets out a short laugh. “Huh. I used to think I wouldn’t need math in real life.”
You smirk, a little too focused on your notes when you reply, “Well, here’s a practical use of Pi for you.”
His chuckle is warm, and you don’t notice how his eyes linger on you as you make quick calculations in your notebook.
Once you’re done, you lift your head, meeting his gaze. “Alright, now I need to measure—” You stop mid-sentence as realization sets in. His fully erect size.
The complications of that request hit you all at once. Chris raises an eyebrow, clearly catching your hesitation. And for the first time, you’re at a complete loss for words.
You clear your throat, willing yourself to sound casual. “I need to take your measurements when you’re fully erect.”
Chris tilts his head slightly, studying you with quiet amusement. “And do you have any idea how to get me there?”
You keep your expression neutral. “You can look at pornographic images or watch an adult film. That should help.”
At that, Chris grins, a small chuckle escaping him. He shakes his head, clearly entertained by your clinical suggestion. “That’s one way,” he muses. “But I have a better idea.”
You don’t like the way his eyes darken ever so slightly, the playful glint in them laced with something else. You try to stay calm, but your fingers tighten around your measuring tape. “And… what’s that?”
He stalls, watching you carefully before answering. “You can help me with it.”
Chris must notice your reaction because he quickly adds, “I won’t touch you unless you give me permission.” His voice is smooth, patient, almost reassuring—but his gaze stays locked onto yours, watching your every move.
You know he’s waiting for a response but all you can think about is the weight of his words. And the heat in the way he’s looking at you. You take a steadying breath before nodding. “Okay.”
Chris’s eyes flicker with something unreadable before he speaks again, his voice firm yet gentle. “If anything makes you uncomfortable, tell me to stop.”
You nod again, not trusting your voice. He takes that as his cue, stepping closer. You hold your ground, determined to remain professional, but the moment he stops in front of you—so close that your bodies are only inches apart—you feel the heat radiating from him. And then, when you think this is where he’ll stop, he takes another step forward.
Your pulse quickens as the space between you disappears. He doesn’t touch you—not yet—but his presence alone is overwhelming. He tilts his head slightly, his mouth hovering near your neck, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.
Chris stays there, simply breathing you in, dragging out the tension until your mind starts to blur. Then, in a low, hushed voice, he asks, “Can I hold you?”
You look at him, startled by the rawness of his request. His gaze meets yours, unwavering, intense. “I just need to hold you,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.
Something about the way he says it—like he’s asking for permission but also making a promise—makes you nod before you can second-guess yourself.
Chris doesn’t waste time. He closes the remaining distance, his arms slipping around your waist, drawing you fully against him. The contact is intoxicating. His body is warm and solid, firm in all the right places, and you feel every inch of it pressing against you.
His breath is hot against your skin as he buries his head in the crook of your neck. The tip of his nose brushes against you, and then, slowly, his mouth follows, dragging lightly across your skin.
“You smell good,” he whispers, his voice deep, laced with something that sends shivers down your spine.
You could say the same about him. His cologne, a mix of something woodsy and subtly sweet, blends with his natural scent in a way that makes your head spin.
He’s not even doing anything—his hands remain on the small of your back, respectful, unmoving—yet the moment feels unbearably intimate. Dangerously intimate. And the worst part? It feels good. Too good.
Chris lets out a soft, teasing hum. “You know, I don’t bite.” His voice is low, velvety. “You can put your hands on me if you want.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes even as you keep your hands hovering near his shoulders. “I don’t want to.”
He chuckles, a knowing sound. “Mmm. Sure.”
And yet, as if magnetized, your hands eventually land on him. First, just your fingertips brushing against the fabric of his shirt, then your palms pressing gently against his broad shoulders. He’s solid beneath your touch, his warmth seeping through his shirt and into your skin.
Chris stays buried in your neck, breathing you in, his chest rising and falling against yours. Then, just as your heartbeat starts to slow, he leans in further, pressing his mouth to your ear.
His next words are a whisper. “Even if I did bite…” He pauses, his voice dipping lower, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I think you’d like it.”
You keep your head turned away, refusing to acknowledge the way his voice alone sends heat curling through your stomach.
Chris chuckles, the sound deep and rich, vibrating against your skin. You’re not sure if it’s the heat of his body or your own rising temperature, but you feel warm all over. Your first instinct is to get a space so you can cool down.
Sensing you about to pull away, he tightens his arms around your waist, keeping you close. He lifts his head just slightly, his face now barely an inch from yours. His eyes are dark, lidded, fixed on you. “Just five more minutes,” he murmurs, almost pleading.
Your breath catches. “Five minutes,” you warn.
Chris smirks before dropping his head back against your neck, exhaling deeply as if settling in. This time, he draws you even closer, molding your body against his. His fingers press lightly into your lower back, holding you there as he murmurs, “I like the way you feel against me.”
You don’t respond. You can’t. Then, his head tilts slightly, his lips grazing the column of your throat as he speaks again. “So soft,” he whispers. “So warm.”
You feel his head shift, his mouth now pressing against the curve of your jaw. His voice is barely a breath. “I was right,” he murmurs almost to himself. “Your body fits me just right.”
Your eyes meet his, and for a long second, neither of you moves. His gaze flickers down—to your lips. Your breath hitches, and he looks back into your eyes again. Slowly, deliberately, he leans in.
And without thinking, you close your eyes. Your instincts pulling you deeper into the moment but your body refuses to cooperate. You shift slightly on your feet and that’s when you feel it. Something firm presses against your thigh. Your eyes snap open.
Reflexively, you break away from his hold, your hands flying up as you step back. Your gaze darts downward before you can stop yourself. And there it is. His erection. Hard, prominent, taunting you with its size.
Your eyes widen, and the moment you realize you’ve been staring, you jerk your head away, heat burning up your face.
Chris exhales, his tongue swiping over his lower lip as he watches you, amusement flickering in his gaze.
You clear your throat, voice pitched slightly higher than usual. “It’s time for the measurements.”
For a split second, Chris looks almost… disappointed. But then he lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he glances down at himself.
“Well,” he muses, smirking. “Guess I’m ready.”
You take a steadying breath, willing yourself to focus as you retrieve your measuring tape. Slipping back into professionalism, you kneel slightly to get a better angle, careful not to react to the sheer size of what you're working with.
Chris watches you with a smirk, his arms resting loosely at his sides. As you wrap the tape around him, he hums. “Are you always this serious?”
You glance up at him, momentarily thrown by the question. His eyes are amused, but there’s something else there—something unreadable.
“I’m working,” you say simply, jotting down the measurement in your notebook.
Chris tilts his head, watching you intently. “Still. You didn’t even flinch.” His smirk widens. “I’m kind of impressed.”
You roll your eyes, shifting to take the next measurement. “You’re not the first participant I’ve worked with.”
He chuckles at that, his voice dropping slightly. “Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”
Chris lets out a deep chuckle, shifting slightly under your touch. “So, you’re saying you do this often?” His voice is laced with playful curiosity.
You don’t look up, keeping your focus on writing down the numbers. “It’s my job.”
He hums. “Right. Your job.” There’s a pause, then a teasing edge creeps into his tone. “Do all your test subjects get this kind of personal attention?”
You snap your head up, eyes narrowing at the smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m just being thorough.”
Chris bites back a grin, looking entirely too entertained by your reaction. “Thorough, huh? Should I be flattered?”
You scoff, rolling your eyes as you reach for your measuring tape again. “You should be cooperative.”
“Oh, I am,” he says smoothly. “But I have to admit, it’s kind of nice seeing you flustered.”
You pause for half a second—just enough for him to catch it—before quickly resuming your work. “I’m not flustered,” you mutter.
Chris chuckles again, low and knowing. “Right.” He shifts his weight slightly, and your fingers brush against his skin, making you tense. “You sure you don’t need to double-check any of those numbers? You know… just to be extra thorough?”
You shoot him a glare, but he just grins down at you, completely unbothered. You reach into your bag, pulling out one of the prototype condom packs. You hold it out to him, keeping your expression neutral. “Here. Try it on so I can check the fit.”
Chris takes the pack from your hand but doesn’t move to open it. Instead, he watches you with an amused glint in his eyes. “You know…” He tears the wrapper slowly, his fingers deliberately smooth over the material. “Since you’re the expert, shouldn’t you be the one putting it on?”
Your breath catches, and you quickly shake your head, keeping your voice steady. “I think you can manage.”
Chris lets out a low chuckle, tilting his head slightly. “Oh, I can. But wouldn’t it be more accurate if you did it? I mean, this is all in the name of research, right?” His tone is teasing, but there’s a challenge in his gaze, waiting to see how you’ll react.
You cross your arms. “Are you serious right now?”
He grins. “Completely.”
You exhale sharply, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “You’re perfectly capable of doing it yourself.”
Chris sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “Fine, fine.” He slides the condom out of the wrapper, still smirking. “But I have a feeling you’d do a much better job.”
You roll your eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Just put it on, please?”
He chuckles again, finally following your instruction. But the way he keeps looking at you—as if he’s enjoying every second of your flustered state—tells you this won’t be the last time he teases you like this.
You take a step closer, eyes focused as you observe how the condom fits around him. Your fingers hover near, but you refrain from touching, keeping your professionalism intact.
“How does it feel?” you ask, glancing up at him.
Chris exhales slowly, rolling his hips slightly as if adjusting to the fit. “Honestly?” He looks down at himself. “It’s a little too tight.”
You immediately jot that down in your notebook. “Too tight…” you murmur, pen scratching against the paper.
“And I think it’s too short for my length,” he adds, pulling at the base slightly as if to emphasize his point.
Your eyes widen slightly before you catch yourself. You write it down quickly, nodding. “Alright, noted.”
Chris tilts his head, watching you with interest. “Are you sure you brought the right size?”
You don’t even look up as you answer, still focused on your notes. “Yes, these prototypes are all specifically made for extra-large sizes.”
Without thinking, you blurt out, “It’s your penis that’s too big.”
The moment the words leave your mouth, you freeze.
Chris blinks. Then, slowly, a smirk curls on his lips. “Oh?” He leans in slightly, his voice dropping into something more amused—almost smug. “So you’re saying I’m too big?”
You clutch your notebook a little tighter, willing yourself to keep your composure. “Scientifically speaking,” you emphasize, clearing your throat, “it exceeds the parameters we accounted for in development.”
Chris chuckles, shaking his head. “Sure, let’s call it that.”
You take a step back, regaining your composure as you focus on the real reason you're here. Flipping to a fresh page in your notebook, you clear your throat. "How does the material feel?" you ask, keeping your tone professional.
He glances down at himself, rolling his hips slightly as if assessing the sensation. He hums, thoughtful. "It’s… okay. Smooth, but a little tighter than I’d like. It doesn’t feel uncomfortable, just a bit restrictive."
You jot that down quickly. "Restrictive how? Like it’s compressing too much or just not flexible enough?"
Chris watches you with a smirk. "Look at you, so serious about this."
You shoot him a pointed look. "Just answer the question. Please."
He chuckles, but obliges. "I’d say both. The stretch is good, but it’s still a little snug, especially at the base. If I were to wear this for a long time, it might get uncomfortable."
You nod, scribbling notes. "Noted. What about sensitivity? Can you still feel everything, or does it dull the sensation?"
Chris leans in slightly, and you catch the glint in his eye before he speaks. "I can definitely still feel things. Though, if you really want an accurate answer, I’d have to—"
"Don't even finish that sentence," you interrupt, already knowing where he’s going with it.
Chris bursts out laughing, hands raised in surrender. "Alright, alright. Just saying, full functionality testing might be necessary."
You shake your head, exhaling sharply. "Noted," you say dryly, though you don’t actually write that one down.
Chris watches you with amusement before tilting his head. "So, what now?"
You glance at him—more specifically, at his still-erect situation—and then back at your notes. "We’ll discuss material modifications later." You pause, shifting on your feet. "But first… you should take that off."
Chris’s grin returns, playful and teasing. "You might want to turn around for this."
Rolling your eyes, you turn away just as you hear him peel the condom off while you put everything back into your bag.
A moment later, Chris has already discarded the condom and pulled his slacks back on, though his shirt remains unbuttoned at the top, his sleeves still rolled up. He leans against the desk, arms crossed, watching you with that ever-present smirk.
"So," he says, drawing out the word. "What’s the verdict, Doc?"
You ignore his teasing tone and glance down at your notes. "The material needs improvement—more elasticity without sacrificing durability. The length also needs to be adjusted for better coverage. And the base should have a slightly looser fit to prevent discomfort over time."
Chris nods along, but you can tell he’s only half-listening. "So, in short, you need to make a custom size just for me."
You look up at him, unimpressed. "You're not the only man with this issue."
He grins. "No, but I bet I’m the first one to have you personally taking notes on it."
Your mouth opens, then closes. He’s not wrong, but you refuse to let him have the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. "I appreciate your participation in this test. It was helpful."
Chris’s grin softens into something more genuine. "I’m glad. I mean it. I know this is important to you."
The sincerity catches you off guard. You hesitate, then nod. "It is."
A beat of silence stretches between you, the air oddly charged. Then Chris claps his hands together. "Well, I’d say that wraps up our very professional, totally scientific evening."
You huff a small laugh despite yourself. "Sure."
Chris pushes off the desk and steps closer, his voice lowering. "And I’m assuming this stays between us?"
You meet his gaze. "Obviously."
"Good," he murmurs, his eyes flicking down to your lips for half a second before he steps back.
As you gather your things, Chris watches you with a lazy smirk, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. Just as you reach for the doorknob, he speaks up.
"You sure you don’t want another drink before you go?" His voice is smooth, almost coaxing. "I still have some left."
You glance back at him, shaking your head. "No, thanks. I have work tomorrow."
Chris tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. "So do I."
"Exactly my point," you say, giving him a pointed look.
He chuckles, then raises his hands in surrender. "Alright. No more drinks. Just thought I’d offer."
You nod, gripping the strap of your bag. "I appreciate it."
Chris takes a slow step closer, his smirk softening into something unreadable. "Well then," he murmurs, "I guess I’ll see you at work."
You clear your throat, clutching your bag. "Yeah. See you."
And with that, you turn and walk out of the hotel room, acutely aware of his eyes on you the entire way.
-
The next morning, you arrive at the lab early, hoping to get a head start on your request for adjustments to the condom's materials and dimensions. You’re deep in thought, typing notes on your computer when Jane suddenly appears beside you, peering at your screen.
Her eyes narrow. "What’s this?"
You nearly jump out of your seat. "Jesus, Jane! Stop sneaking up on me like that!"
Jane ignores your reaction, leaning in closer to read. Her eyebrows lift as she scans the document. "Wait a minute... requests for material flexibility? Increased length and width?" She crosses her arms and looks at you, her lips curling into a knowing smirk. "Oh-ho. This is interesting."
You immediately close the document. "It’s nothing."
"Nothing?" Jane repeats, her smirk growing. "Sounds like the test subject was huge if you need to adjust everything."
You keep your face neutral. "It’s just data. The prototype wasn’t a perfect fit, so I have to make changes."
"Uh-huh," Jane says, tilting her head. "So? Who was it?"
"What?"
"Who was the guy?" She wiggles her eyebrows. "And don’t even try lying because I know you had a test subject last night."
You grab a random file from your desk, flipping through it as a distraction. "Confidential."
Jane groans dramatically. "Oh, come on! Throw me a bone here. Was he at least good-looking?"
You sigh, exasperated. "It’s not about that."
"But it is, isn't it?" Jane leans closer, eyes sparkling with mischief. "You had to see everything, didn’t you?"
You press your lips into a thin line, refusing to indulge her.
Jane gasps, then grins. "Oh my God. You totally did."
"I work in research, Jane. It’s part of my job."
She hums, clearly not buying it. "And yet, you're being all weird about it."
You shake your head, pretending to focus on your paperwork. "Just drop it."
Jane taps her chin, pretending to think. "Fine. I won’t ask any more questions." She pauses, then adds, "For now."
After lunch, the two of you step out onto the balcony before heading back to the lab. Jane lights a cigarette, taking a slow drag, while you sip on your iced coffee, letting the coolness settle in your throat. The sun is high, casting a warm glow over the city skyline, but there’s a nice breeze that makes it bearable.
“Man, I needed this,” Jane sighs, exhaling a stream of smoke. “I swear, if I have to deal with one more report about allergic reactions, I’m going to start developing a whole new drug—one for my patience.”
You chuckle, taking another sip of your coffee. “Maybe that’s the next project you should pitch.”
Jane hums in amusement, but her attention shifts suddenly. Her eyes lock on something—or someone—on the other end of the balcony. You follow her gaze and immediately spot Chris. He’s leaning against the railing, looking effortlessly put-together as always, engaged in conversation with a woman.
You recognize her instantly—Suze, the executive manager of another department. She’s beautiful, stylish, and carries an air of confidence that makes her stand out in any room. She’s also notoriously popular among the higher-ups and has a reputation for being both sharp and charming.
Jane clicks her tongue, watching the two of them. “Well, well. Looks like Miss Perfect is making her move.”
You raise an eyebrow. “What?”
Jane gestures subtly toward them with her cigarette. “You don’t know? Suze has been eyeing Chris for a while now. Apparently, she’s been dropping hints left and right, but he’s been playing it cool.”
You turn your gaze back to the pair. Suze is smiling, leaning in slightly as she speaks. Chris listens, nodding occasionally, but his expression remains unreadable.
Jane lets out a dramatic sigh. “Honestly, they’d make a ridiculously good-looking couple. It’s almost unfair.”
You don’t respond, just watching the way Suze tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her manicured fingers brushing the lapel of Chris’s blazer ever so slightly.
Jane exhales another puff of smoke. “She’s persistent, I’ll give her that. You think he’s into her?”
You shrug, keeping your voice neutral. “I wouldn’t know.”
Jane side-eyes you, smirking. “You sound like you don’t care, but I know you care.”
You scoff, finishing the last of your coffee. “I don’t.”
“Sure,” she drawls, taking one last drag before stubbing out her cigarette. “And I don’t need nicotine to survive the workday.”
You roll your eyes. “Come on, we need to get back.”
But as you turn to leave, you can’t help but glance one last time at Chris and Suze. And for some reason, the sight of them together lingers in your mind longer than you’d like.
-
In the lab, you and Jane stand over a workstation where another team has been developing edible lubricants. Small sample bottles line the table, each labeled with different flavors—strawberry, vanilla, honey, and even some unconventional ones like mojito and buttered popcorn.
Jane picks up a small vial labeled “Salted Caramel” and gives it an experimental sniff. “Huh. Smells legit,” she muses before wiggling her eyebrows at you. “Wanna try some?”
You scoff. “That’s not what we’re here for.”
Jane ignores your protest and dabs a tiny drop onto her finger before popping it into her mouth. She hums in thought, smacking her lips. “Damn. That’s actually good.”
You shake your head, amused. “You do realize this is meant for other uses, right?”
“Obviously.” Jane grins before picking up another sample labeled “Piña Colada.” She dabs some onto her finger and holds it out to you. “C’mon, just one taste. For science.”
You hesitate, narrowing your eyes at her suspiciously. “You’re just trying to make me look ridiculous.”
She gasps, feigning offense. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing? I am a woman of integrity.”
You snort, but before you can respond, a voice cuts through the room.
“Can I talk to you?”
You turn, your breath catching slightly when you see Chris standing there. His expression is serious, his posture relaxed but purposeful.
Jane, still sucking on her finger from the piña colada lube, slowly lowers her hand and looks between the two of you. “Uh-oh. That sounds important.”
Chris doesn’t react to her comment, his gaze fixed on you.
You clear your throat. “Right now?”
He nods. “If you’re free.”
You glance at Jane, who raises both hands in surrender. “Don’t let me stop you. I’ll just be here taste-testing the entire catalog.”
Chris doesn’t wait for further response—he simply turns and heads toward the door, expecting you to follow.
You exhale sharply, setting down the sample bottle you were holding. Whatever this is about, it’s clearly not a casual chat. You throw Jane a look before heading after Chris, your heart thumping just a little harder than it should.
-
You inhale a long air before you reach Chris’s office door. After that night, you weren’t sure how it would go. Would he act like nothing happened? Would he bring it up? Would things be… weird?
Pushing those thoughts aside, you knock.
"Come in."
You step inside, closing the door behind you. Chris is at his desk, reviewing something on his laptop, but when he looks up and sees you, that familiar smirk tugs at his lips.
Chris gestures to the seat across from him. "Have a seat."
You hesitate but eventually do as he says. Your fingers unconsciously tighten around the side of your lab coat.
He leans back in his chair, studying you. "How are you feeling?"
It’s a loaded question, but you pretend not to notice. "Fine. Why?"
His lips twitch, like he knows exactly what you’re doing. "Just checking." He nods toward your bag. "Did you review our test’s results?"
"Yes," you say, clearing your throat. "The prototype was too tight and short for your size. I’ll have to make some adjustments to the material and dimensions before moving forward with mass production."
Chris hums. "So, you’re saying I’m too big for the product."
Your fingers twitch, remembering last night’s slip-up. You keep your tone professional. "Technically, yes. The size I brought was meant for extra-large measurements, but you exceeded expectations."
Chris grins. "Exceeding expectations… I like the sound of that."
You shoot him a look. "Excuse me?"
He chuckles. "Back to business." He sits up, his expression turning a little more serious. "What’s your next step?"
"I already sent in a request for adjustments to the prototype," you explain. "It’ll take some time, but I can get an updated batch for testing soon."
Chris nods. "And when that happens, will I be your test subject again?"
You hesitate. "That depends. Are you still willing to participate?"
He tilts his head slightly. "What do you think?"
Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you—calm, confident, but with something simmering beneath the surface. You look away, keeping your voice even. "I’ll keep you updated."
Chris watches you for a moment before leaning forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "You know… I have to admit, that was more fun than I expected."
You raise a brow. "Testing a condom was fun?"
He chuckles. "No, but watching you try to stay professional while clearly flustered? That was fun."
Your face heats up. "I wasn’t flustered."
Chris’s smirk deepens. "Sure you weren’t."
Then, as if the weight of the conversation suddenly lightens, he tilts his head slightly. “You’ll let me know when it’s ready, right?”
His words sound casual, but there’s an underlying meaning in them that you can’t quite decipher. You nod, keeping your voice steady. “Of course.”
Chris holds your gaze for a second longer, then leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “Good,” he repeats, and there’s something in the way he says it that makes your stomach flip.
-
Exactly three days later, the revised prototypes arrives in your lab. You carefully open the box, inspecting the changes you requested. The material feels smoother, the elasticity slightly improved. Satisfied, you make a note in your log—only to jump slightly when Jane suddenly leans over your shoulder.
“Length 8.07 inches and width 2.02 inches... Holy shit!” Her voice is filled with pure astonishment as she snatches one of the foil packets and flips it over in her hands. “Are you seeing this? This is huge.”
You try to stay composed, pretending to be preoccupied with the paperwork in front of you. “It’s within the expected range,” you say coolly.
Jane squints at you, then back at the condom in her hand. “Expected range, my ass. You’ve been working on this for weeks, and I’ve never seen a prototype this size before.” She pauses, then gasps dramatically. “Wait a second… did you finally find a participant?”
Your heart nearly stops. “What? No.” You shake your head, scrambling for a convincing excuse. “I just figured… why stop at extra-large when we can push the boundaries even further? There’s always a demand for more variety in the market.”
Jane eyes you suspiciously, her lips pursed. “Hmm.” She leans in closer, lowering her voice. “Are you sure you’re not hiding some secret test subject from me?”
You force a casual laugh. “Jane, I would tell you if I had someone lined up. It’s just research.”
She doesn’t seem fully convinced, but she lets out a sigh and puts the condom back. “Alright, fine. But if you do have a participant, I wanna meet him.”
You quickly turn back to your paperwork, hoping she doesn’t notice the way your ears are burning. As soon as Jane leaves, you let out a slow breath, your fingers still gripping the pen you had been pretending to write with. You wait a few moments to make sure she’s really gone before pulling out your phone.
Your thumb hovers over Chris’s contact for a second, your mind briefly flashing back to the last test, to the way he had looked at you, the way he had—
You shake the thought away and type out a quick message.
The revised prototype is ready for testing. Let me know when you’re available.
You hit send, placing your phone face-down on the desk as you try to focus on your notes. But the distraction is already there, the anticipation simmering in the back of your mind.
A few minutes pass before your phone vibrates. You glance at the screen to read a reply from Chris.
Tonight. Same place.
Your breath catches slightly. No hesitation. No pleasantries. Just straight to the point. Your fingers tighten around your phone before you type back.
Understood. See you then.
You lock your screen and exhale, pressing your hands to your warm cheeks. This is fine. It’s just a professional test. Just like last time.
…Right?
-
As the workday winds down, you keep your head low, avoiding unnecessary conversations. You wait until Jane is nowhere in sight before discreetly slipping a box of the new prototype into your bag, carefully tucking it beneath your other belongings. Just as you zip it up, your phone buzzes. You pull it out, and your stomach does an unexpected flip when you see Chris's name.
Can’t do the test tonight. Something came up.
You stare at the message, an unfamiliar twinge settling in your chest. Disappointment? No, that’s ridiculous. This is strictly professional. You quickly type out a response before you overthink it.
That’s okay. Let me know when you’re available, and we’ll reschedule.
You lock your phone and sigh, shaking off the strange feeling as you hear familiar footsteps approaching.
"Hey," Jane leans against the doorway. "Can you give me a lift again?"
You figured as much. You nod, grabbing your things, and the two of you make your way down to the parking lot.
Just as you unlock your car, Jane grabs your arm, stopping you mid-motion.
"Oh my God," she whispers excitedly, nodding toward a sleek black car a few rows away.
You follow her gaze and instantly regret it. Chris is there. But he’s not alone. Suze is with him, sliding into the passenger seat like she’s done it a hundred times before. Chris gets in right after her, and within seconds, they’re driving off together.
Jane whistles low, crossing her arms with a knowing smirk. "Damn. Guess the rumors weren’t just rumors."
You don't respond, just gripping your car keys a little tighter.
Jane, of course, doesn’t stop there. "I mean, it makes sense. She’s his type, isn’t she? Gorgeous, high-profile, and let’s be real, she’s been eyeing him for a while now. Wonder if they’re dating or just—"
"Can we go?" you interrupt, climbing into the driver's seat before Jane can read your face.
Jane laughs, sliding into the passenger seat. "Alright, alright. No need to get grumpy."
You roll your eyes, but as you start the car, you can't shake the odd heaviness in your chest. It’s none of your business. It shouldn’t bother you. But somehow… it does.
-
The entire company is in high spirits, and it doesn’t take long to remember why—tonight is the launch event for the newest collection of vibrators.
The venue is decked out with neon lights and sleek product displays, and there’s an open bar keeping everyone’s spirits high.
You mingle with your co-workers, drink in hand, while Jane, as expected, thrives in the lively atmosphere. She’s laughing, flirting, and making jokes that get progressively bolder with each sip of her cocktail.
At one point, she throws an arm around your shoulders. “This is fun, huh?” she grins.
You force a smile. “Yeah. Totally.”
It’s not that you aren’t enjoying yourself—you just need a breather.
“I’ll get you another drink,” you tell her, using it as an excuse to slip away from the group.
Jane waves you off without a second thought, already too invested in another conversation. You weave through the crowd and make your way to the bar, ordering another drink. As you wait, you take a deep breath, letting yourself relax. But before you can even take a sip—
“Hey, can we talk?”
The familiar deep voice makes you turn, and there stands Chris, looking effortlessly sharp in his suit. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are locked onto you with intent.
You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, Chris doesn’t wait for an answer—he just reaches for your wrist and leads you away from the crowd.
Your pulse jumps as he guides you through the party, his grip firm yet careful. The noise fades behind you as he takes you into a quiet hallway, away from the music, the laughter, and most importantly—prying eyes.
Finally, he stops, turning to face you. His gaze is steady, searching.
Your heart beats a little too fast. “What is this about?” you ask, your voice steady despite the rush of emotions swirling inside you.
Chris exhales, running a hand through his hair before finally meeting your eyes. “Sorry about bailing on you last night,” he says, his voice softer now. “Something came up.”
You shake your head. “It’s fine. We can do it another time.”
There’s a brief silence between you. The muffled sounds of the party filter in from the other end of the hallway, but here, in this secluded space, it feels like the two of you are in your own little world.
Then Chris asks, “Do you have any plans this weekend?”
You blink at him, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.
“I—uh—” You hesitate, quickly running through your mental calendar, but there’s nothing. “No, not really.”
Chris grins at that. “Good. Let’s do the product test tomorrow. Saturday night.”
You weren’t expecting that. The way he says it so casually, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, throws you off. But before you even fully process it, you find yourself nodding.
“Okay,” you agree, your voice quieter than you intended.
His smile lingers as he pushes off the wall, standing tall in front of you. “I’ll text you the details tomorrow.”
You nod again, almost dazed, and Chris watches you for a second longer before he turns to leave. Just as he’s a few steps away, he glances back, his voice dropping slightly. “Can’t wait for tomorrow.”
And with that, he walks away, disappearing into the crowd. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You definitely need another drink. Or at least a moment to breathe.
-
Your phone buzzes early Saturday morning, and when you check the screen, it’s a text from Chris.
Dinner first. 7 PM. La Riviera.
That’s it. No unnecessary words, no emojis—just the time and place. You stare at the message longer than you probably should.
Dinner? This wasn’t how the last test went. You were expecting another hotel, another quick, professional meeting. But a restaurant?
You shake your head, telling yourself not to overthink it. It’s probably just to discuss the test before getting into it. But despite that rationalization, you catch yourself preparing more than you intended to.
Your outfit selection takes longer than it should, your makeup is a little more put together, and even when you tell yourself it’s just because you’re stepping out for the evening—not because of who you’re meeting—you know it’s a lie.
You arrive at La Riviera a little before 7 PM, taking a deep breath before stepping inside. The restaurant is elegant but not overwhelmingly fancy—warm lighting, soft jazz playing in the background, and the faint aroma of wine and freshly baked bread filling the air and then you spot him.
Chris is already seated, dressed in a casual formal ensemble. A dark button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to tease his forearms, paired with tailored slacks. The contrast between the deep color of his shirt and his pale skin is striking, and for a second, you almost forget why you’re here.
His eyes find yours almost instantly, and he smiles, standing up slightly as you approach. “Glad you made it.”
You sit across from him, suddenly feeling a little nervous because this—this doesn’t feel like a business meeting at all. The dim lighting, the quiet atmosphere, the way he leans slightly forward as he watches you—it feels like a date.
Dinner starts off casually enough, but then Chris begins asking you questions.
“Are you seeing anyone right now?”
His question catches you off guard, but you answer by shaking your head, then throw it back at him. When you ask if he’s seeing someone, he hums, picking up his wine glass. “I am.”
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Is it Suze?”
Chris freezes mid-sip, then lowers his glass, blinking at you. “Suze?”
You instantly regret your brashness, but it’s too late now. You clear your throat, trying to sound indifferent. “Yeah. You two seem close, and the rumor said—”
“The rumor.” Chris chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course.”
You watch as he leans back in his seat, amusement dancing in his eyes. “And what exactly did the rumor say?”
You shift in your seat, suddenly feeling exposed under his gaze. “Just… that Suze and you are close.”
Chris tilts his head slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “And do you believe everything the rumor says?”
You purse your lips, looking away. “Not everything.”
He chuckles, the sound deep and amused. “Well, for the record, Suze and I are not a thing. She’s a great colleague, but that’s it.”
You should feel relieved—it’s not like you care who he’s seeing—but something about his tone makes you wary. You meet his eyes again. “Then who’s the someone you’re seeing?”
Chris doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he takes a slow sip of his wine, watching you over the rim of his glass. The silence stretches just long enough to make your stomach twist. Then, finally, he sets his glass down and leans in slightly, his voice lower now. “You.”
Your heart skips a beat and a second later, you blink. “Me?”
Chris grins, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Well, we are having dinner together, aren’t we?”
Your lips part, but no words come out. He’s messing with you—he has to be. You try to regain your composure, clearing your throat. “This is a business meeting.”
Chris raises an eyebrow, his fingers casually tapping against the stem of his glass. “Is it?”
You open your mouth to say yes, obviously, but the way he’s looking at you—the way tonight feels—makes you hesitate. The air between you shifts, heavy with something unspoken.
Chris tilts his head. “Tell me… if I didn’t bring up the product test, would you still be here?”
Your stomach twists again. You don’t know how to answer that. You feel your pulse quicken, the weight of his question pressing down on you. Instead of answering, you grab your napkin and mutter, “I—I need to use the restroom.”
Chris doesn’t stop you. He just leans back in his seat, watching with quiet amusement as you push your chair back and walk away, your heart pounding with every step.
The moment you step into the restroom, you grip the edge of the sink and take a deep breath. What the hell was that?
You turn on the faucet, letting the cool water run over your hands as if it’ll help clear your thoughts. This was supposed to be a simple dinner before the product test—so why does it feel like he’s pulling you into something else entirely? And worse, why aren’t you stopping him?
You glance at yourself in the mirror, your reflection betraying the nervous energy buzzing under your skin. No matter how much you try to convince yourself that this is just work, that Chris is just teasing, something about the way he looks at you makes it hard to believe that. You take another breath, steadying yourself. Just go back out there and keep it professional.
Easier said than done.
-
The car ride is quiet, but the tension between you is thick. You grip the hem of your dress, feeling the fabric twist between your fingers as you steal glances at Chris. He’s focused on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift. His sleeves are rolled up again, exposing the strong lines of his forearms, and it takes everything in you not to stare. Then, you notice something. The hotel he took you to last time—the one you were expecting—flashes past the window.
“Wait,” you blurt out, turning to him. “You just passed the hotel.”
Chris doesn’t look surprised. In fact, he grins slightly, eyes still on the road. “Yeah, I know.”
Your brows furrow. “Then where are we going?”
“I know a nicer hotel,” he says smoothly, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. Then, as if reading your thoughts, he adds, “It’s not like you have anything to do tomorrow, right?”
No, you don’t. But the way he phrases it—like it’s already decided—sends a shiver down your spine.
Chris glances at you then, his gaze flickering down to your hands still gripping your dress. His smirk softens, but his voice is just as teasing when he says, “Relax. It’s just for the test, remember?”
You swallow hard, forcing yourself to loosen your grip. But you’re not sure if it’s his words or the way he says them that make your pulse race even more.
Chris pulls into the hotel’s driveway, the warm glow of the entrance lights reflecting off the sleek surface of his car. You step out, adjusting your dress as you follow him inside, your heart pounding a little too fast.
The lobby is luxurious, far more upscale than the previous hotel. The marble floors gleam under the chandelier lights, and the air is filled with a faint scent of expensive cologne and polished wood. You try not to fidget as Chris approaches the front desk.
“One suite, please,” he says smoothly.
Your head snaps toward him. “A suite?”
Chris doesn’t even glance at you, just slides his card across the counter to the receptionist. “Yeah.” Then, finally, he looks at you, an amused glint in his eyes. “Problem?”
You hesitate, glancing between him and the receptionist, who remains professional as she processes the request. You don’t know why you expected anything less from Chris—of course, he wouldn’t settle for a standard room. But a suite?
“I just thought…” You trail off, pressing your lips together.
Chris leans in slightly, voice low enough that only you can hear. “If we’re testing a product, shouldn’t we have more space to move around?”
Your breath catches at the implication, and he chuckles at your reaction before straightening up, accepting the key card from the receptionist. “Let’s go.”
You follow him into the elevator in silence, gripping the strap of your bag tighter than necessary. The numbers on the display climb higher, the anticipation pressing down on you.
When the doors finally slide open, Chris gestures for you to step out first. You do, walking down the plush carpeted hallway until he stops in front of a door and swipes the key card. The lock clicks open.
He pushes the door wide and turns to you with a smirk. “After you.”
You hesitate for just a second before stepping inside, and as the door closes behind you, you realize just how different tonight already feels.
Instead of taking a tour around the room, you hurriedly take a seat on the sofa, your hands clasped together as you watch Chris move around the suite with ease, like he belongs here. The room is larger than you expected—modern, sleek, and far too intimate.
Your nerves start creeping in, tightening your shoulders. It’s not that you haven’t done this before, but something about tonight feels… different. More deliberate. More dangerous.
Chris, on the other hand, looks completely at ease as he wanders over to the minibar, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the complimentary bottle of champagne. He plucks it from its ice bucket and grins. “Perfect timing.”
You watch as he peels off the foil and works the cork loose. “You don’t have to open that—”
Pop!
The cork flies off, the sudden noise making you jump. Chris bursts into laughter, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Relax,” he drawls, pouring the golden liquid into two glasses. “You’re acting like this is your first time in a hotel room with me.”
You press your lips together, refusing to respond to that, and instead accept the glass he offers you. He raises his in a toast, his voice smooth. “To… scientific research.”
You huff a small laugh despite yourself and clink your glass against his before taking a sip. The champagne fizzes pleasantly on your tongue, cool and crisp.
But then—
“You know,” Chris muses, swirling his drink, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were nervous. Maybe even a little flustered. But that can’t be right, can it?”
You shoot him a glare. “I’m not—”
And then it happens. Your fingers slip, and in your haste to retort, your glass tips forward, sending a splash of champagne straight down the front of your dress. The cold liquid soaks through the fabric instantly, making you gasp.
Chris freezes for a second, then— He bursts out laughing. You groan, setting your glass down as you grab a napkin from the table, dabbing at the wet stain. But it’s useless. The fabric clings to your skin, highlighting every curve.
He leans back against the minibar, arms crossed, watching you with open amusement. “Well,” he says, biting back another chuckle, “if you wanted to take your dress off, you could’ve just asked.”
His laughter still lingers in the air as he moves across the room, casually plucking a plush bathrobe from the hotel’s wardrobe. He turns to you, holding it up like a peace offering, his grin unrepentant.
“Here,” he says. “You can’t just sit around in a wet dress all night.”
You hesitate, gripping the damp fabric clinging to your skin. It’s uncomfortable, borderline unbearable—but the idea of slipping into a hotel bathrobe, of making yourself even remotely comfortable here, feels dangerous.
Still, you don’t have much choice. With a sigh, you accept the robe and head toward the spacious en-suite bathroom. Just as you’re about to close the door behind you, a shadow appears in the doorway.
Chris. You look up in confusion, but he leans against the doorframe, completely unfazed by your reaction. “Want some help?”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs, completely at ease. “I mean, it only makes sense, doesn’t it? You need me ready for the test, and I need a little… encouragement. Two birds, one stone.”
You gape at him, caught between indignation and sheer disbelief. “You—”
Chris lifts both hands in mock surrender, though there’s a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Just a suggestion.”
Your fingers tighten around the door handle, and for a second, you actually consider slamming the door in his face. But then reality kicks in—the sooner you finish this test, the sooner you can leave.
With a deep breath, you step back and pull the door open just a little wider. “Fine.”
Chris blinks, as if he wasn’t expecting you to agree so quickly. Then, a slow smirk curves his lips as he steps inside, the door clicking shut behind him.
-
The bathroom feels smaller with Chris standing behind you, the soft glow of the vanity lights casting both of your reflections in the mirror. You keep your gaze locked on yourself, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from his body as he reaches for the zipper at the back of your dress.
His fingers brush against your skin as he tugs it down, agonizingly slow, and the air shifts—suddenly heavier, thicker. The fabric loosens around your shoulders, slipping slightly, exposing more of your back. “You’re tense,” he murmurs, his voice low.
You grip the edge of the counter, willing yourself to focus on anything but the way his fingers ghost over your spine as he eases the zipper all the way down. “I wonder why,” you say dryly.
Chris chuckles, the sound vibrating so close that you can feel it. He places his hands lightly on your shoulders, his thumbs pressing gently into the bare skin there. “Relax,” he says, voice laced with amusement. “It’s just a dress.”
Just a dress. Just a simple, professional test. You exhale and let the straps slide off your shoulders, the silky fabric pooling at your feet. The cool air kisses your exposed skin, making you shiver slightly. You’re left in nothing but your underwear, standing there in front of him, vulnerable yet unwilling to let it show.
Chris doesn’t move right away. His gaze flickers up to meet yours in the mirror, something unreadable swimming in his dark eyes.
For a moment, neither of you speak. The air between you crackles with unspoken tension. Then, after what feels like an eternity, Chris finally steps back, his lips quirking into that knowing smirk.
“There,” he says, voice softer now. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
He grabs a clean washcloth, dampens it with warm water, and steps closer. You watch him through the mirror as he wrings out the excess water, his sleeves already rolled up, revealing his forearms.
“This might be a little cold,” he says, but before you can react, he presses the cloth against your bare shoulder, wiping away the sticky remnants of wine.
You inhale sharply—not because of the temperature, but because of the slow, deliberate way he drags the cloth down your arm, over your collarbone, and lower. His touch is gentle, almost too careful, as if he’s savoring every second of this moment.
“You have nice skin,” he muses, his voice taking on that teasing lilt. “Soft… delicate...”
You grip the edge of the counter a little tighter. “Chris.”
“What?” He tilts his head, eyes dark with amusement as he crouches slightly, now running the damp cloth along your side. “I’m just making an observation. It’s not every day I get to admire my researcher up close.”
You shoot him a glare through the mirror. “I don’t recall this being part of the test.”
He grins, completely unbothered. “No, but it’s a nice bonus.”
The cloth moves lower, skimming along the curve of your waist, across your stomach. His knuckles brush against your ribs, and for a split second, you wonder if he’s intentionally slowing down.
“You’re staring,” you point out, trying to sound unaffected.
Chris doesn’t even try to deny it. “Can you blame me?” He leans in just slightly, his breath warm against the back of your neck. “You look incredible.”
Your pulse jumps. You keep your eyes on the mirror, on the way his hands move with too much ease, too much familiarity. The way his gaze lingers, dark and intense. It feels too intimate. Too much.
You clear your throat, shifting your weight. “Are you done?”
Chris smirks, but he finally straightens up, tossing the cloth into the sink. “Yeah,” he says, stepping back. “For now.”
Before you can even react, Chris's hands grip your waist, and in one swift motion, he lifts you onto the sink. A surprised gasp escapes you as your palms press against the counter for balance. "Chris—"
"I'm not done yet," he interrupts smoothly, already crouching in front of you, the wet cloth in hand.
Your heart skips a beat as he starts wiping down your legs, his touch slow, precise, like he's savoring every second. He starts at your ankle, dragging the warm cloth up the length of your calf, then to your knee, and higher still. His fingers brush against your thigh, sending a shiver up your spine.
Your entire body feels like it's on high alert. "You don’t have to—"
"Shh," he hums, amusement flickering in his eyes as he continues. "Let me do this properly."
You press your lips together, watching him through the reflection on the shower glass door. He looks entirely too focused, like this is some kind of ritual for him. And then, just as he finishes, he does something you don’t expect. He parts your legs.
Your breath catches as he steps between them, standing so close that his body heat seeps into your skin. His hands rest on the counter beside you, effectively caging you in. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t move any closer, just lingers there—his chest barely an inch from yours, his face so close that you can see the flicker of something dark in his eyes.
The air between you shifts, thickening with something unspoken. You swallow hard, trying to steady your breathing, but it’s impossible when Chris is looking at you like that—like he’s waiting for something. Like he’s daring you to react.
"Chris," you murmur, unsure of what you’re even asking for.
He tilts his head slightly, his gaze flicking down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. His voice is low, teasing. "Nervous?"
You straighten your shoulders, meeting Chris’s intense gaze with as much composure as you can muster. "No," you say firmly, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "No?"
All of a sudden, his hands grip your waist again, and with one sharp tug, he pulls you flush against him. The sudden contact knocks the air from your lungs—his body is solid, warm, pressing into you in a way that makes it impossible to ignore just how close you are.
"Don't be shy," he murmurs, his voice edged with challenge. "Go ahead and put your hands on me."
You hesitate, feeling the weight of his expectation hanging in the air. Then, awkwardly, you lift your arms, wrapping them around his broad shoulders.
Chris watches you the entire time, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Good girl."
Before you can process those words, he moves again—this time gripping the backs of your thighs and lifting them, guiding your legs to wrap around his waist. The position forces you even closer, your core pressed right against the hardness growing beneath his pants. His arms snake around you, locking you in place as he leans in, his breath ghosting over your ear.
"You feel so damn good," he murmurs, his voice like silk against your skin. "Better than I even imagined."
Your fingers tighten on his shoulders, a shudder running down your spine at his words. And then—he moves.
Slowly, deliberately, he rolls his hips against you. The pressure is subtle at first, almost teasing, but the friction sends a wave of heat straight through your core. He does it again, this time with more intent, dragging his clothed length against you in a way that makes your breath hitch.
"You like that?" he whispers, his lips brushing your ear.
Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, your body tensing against his. You don’t answer, but Chris doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, your silence only encourages him. He grinds against you again, this time slower, more drawn out, savoring the way your body reacts to him. A quiet groan rumbles in his chest as he buries his face into your neck, his breath hot against your skin.
"You feel perfect," he breathes.
You swallow hard, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but it's slipping fast. The way he’s moving, the way he’s talking—it's intoxicating.
Chris pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching yours. "Tell me to stop," he challenges, voice low and husky. "If you want me to."
He watches you, waiting, his lips hovering just a breath away from your skin. His body stays pressed against yours, his hands firm on your waist, and for a fleeting moment, you let yourself sink into the sensation.
The warmth of his breath against your neck, the intoxicating way his body molds against yours—it’s dangerously easy to forget why you're here. You close your eyes, allowing yourself just one more second of indulgence. One more second of feeling him. But then—an alarm rings in your head.
Reality crashes down on you like a wave of cold water. Your eyes snap open, and with a quiet breath, you press your hands against his chest, gently pushing him away. Chris hesitates for a fraction of a second before letting you go, his gaze flickering with something unreadable as you quickly slip down from the sink.
The heat of his body is gone instantly, but the lingering effect still pulses through your veins. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to move, to ground yourself back in the real reason you’re here.
You grab the bathrobe and hurriedly wrap it around yourself, securing the belt tighter than necessary. You can feel Chris’s eyes on you the entire time, silently watching, waiting for you to say something.
You clear your throat. "It’s time for the test," you say, your voice firmer than you expected.
Chris exhales a quiet chuckle, running a hand through his hair as he takes a step back. "Right," he murmurs, amusement laced in his voice. "The test."
There’s something in the way he says it—like he knows exactly what just happened between the two of you. Like he knows how close you were to completely surrendering but he doesn’t push.
Instead, he watches as you gather yourself, a knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Alright," he says, taking a step toward the door. "Let’s get started."
-
Despite dressed in a bathrobe, you clear your throat and slip back into professionalism as you grab the pack of condoms from your bag. Without looking at him, you extend your hand, offering one of the revised prototypes.
Chris takes it from you with a small, amused hum. "Let’s see how this one goes, then."
As you make a move to turn around and step out of the room to give him privacy, his voice stops you.
"You can stay," he says, his tone casual but carrying that underlying teasing edge. "It’s not like you haven’t seen me naked before."
You pause mid-step, fingers tightening slightly on your notebook. That’s true, but it doesn’t make it any less… distracting.
Still, you force yourself to act unfazed. You shift back to your previous spot, keeping your eyes locked on your notes as Chris continues undressing. The sound of fabric rustling fills the room, and when you finally glance up, your breath nearly catches.
The first time you saw him naked, he’d still had his shirt on. But this time, he’s taken everything off. Completely bare. Your grip tightens around your pen as you force yourself to maintain a neutral expression. But your eyes… they betray you. They keep flickering downward, drawn helplessly to the sheer size of him. It’s eye-catching, unfairly so, and despite your best efforts, you keep stealing glances.
Chris notices. Of course, he does. He smirks as he tears open the condom wrapper and then— "Want to put it on for me this time?"
You snap your head up, shooting him an unimpressed look. Without dignifying his question with a response, you roll your eyes and immediately focus on writing down the preliminary details of the product test.
He chuckles but doesn’t push. He sits down at the edge of the bed, takes the condom, and rolls it down his length with practiced ease. Your eyes flicker toward him again—just for a second—but it's enough for him to catch you looking.
You quickly redirect your gaze back to your notes. "How does it feel?" you ask, voice all business.
Chris doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back slightly, spreading his legs just a little as he looks down at himself, inspecting the way the condom fits around his length.
You keep your eyes on your notebook, pen poised over the page, but your fingers are tense around it. Your pulse is unsteady.
"It feels better than the last one," Chris finally says, his tone casual, though there’s a smirk playing on his lips. "Not as tight. And the length is better, too."
You nod, quickly jotting down his feedback, willing yourself to focus on the task and not on the fact that he’s sitting there, completely naked, completely unbothered.
"The material feels smoother," he continues, running a hand along his length, testing the stretch. You don’t dare look up. "Not too thick, but sturdy enough."
You scribble his words down, keeping your head low.
Chris hums. "You’re really not gonna look, huh?"
Your grip on your pen tightens. "I don’t need to look. I just need your feedback."
"Right," he drawls, clearly amused. "And what if I had trouble putting it on? You wouldn’t have helped me?"
You finally glance up, rolling your eyes. "You’re a grown man, Chris."
He grins. "I know, but isn’t this a part of product testing? Hands-on research?"
You shoot him a glare, but he just chuckles, leaning forward slightly. "Relax," he says, voice low and teasing. "I’m just messing with you."
You sigh, shaking your head as you jot down the final notes. "If the fit feels good, then we can move on to the next phase of testing."
Chris tilts his head. "The durability test?"
You meet his gaze, keeping your expression neutral. "Yes."
A slow smirk spreads across his face. "I’m looking forward to it."
You walk back to your bag resting in a chair, you pull out the box of condoms from your bag and hand it to Chris, keeping your expression professional. “For the durability test, you can conduct it yourself and come back to me with your feedback.”
Chris blinks at you, clearly confused. He glances down at the box in his hands, then back at you. “Wait… what?”
You arch a brow. “You don’t need me for that part. Just use it and let me know how it holds up.”
Chris leans back slightly, exhaling through his nose. “I thought we agreed to keep this a secret.”
“We are,” you reply evenly. “Your sexual partner doesn’t have to know the condom you’re using.”
His eyes narrow slightly, lips pressing into a thin line. “I thought you and I were doing this together.”
“We are,” you say, nodding. “Just… not that way.”
Chris lets out a low sigh, tilting his head as he studies you. Then, after a pause, he says, “Isn’t it better if we do it together?”
Your stomach tightens, but you keep your expression neutral. “Chris—”
He leans in slightly, voice lowering. “That way, I can give you feedback right away. No outside variables. Just you and me.” His gaze lingers on yours, unreadable yet intense. “And this stays between us.”
You exhale sharply, trying to keep your composure. “Chris, that’s not how this works.”
Chris smirks, tilting his head. “Why not?” He taps the box of condoms against his palm, his eyes glinting with amusement. “You’re the researcher. I’m the participant. Wouldn’t it be more efficient if we tested it… together?”
You roll your eyes and cross your arms. “That’s not how clinical testing works.”
His smirk widens. “Oh? And what exactly is stopping you?” He leans in, his voice dropping just slightly. “Are you scared?”
Your jaw tightens. “I’m not scared.”
“Then why not?” His gaze flicks over you, studying your reaction. “You’ve already seen everything. Touched, even. What’s one more step?”
You scoff. “There are plenty of reasons why.”
Chris hums, pretending to think. “Is it because you’re not attracted to me?” His grin turns playful. “Because I don’t believe that.”
Your lips part, but nothing comes out.
He leans even closer, just enough for you to catch the faintest scent of his cologne. “Or…” he murmurs, “is it because you are?”
That catches you off guard. His smirk deepens at your silence, clearly enjoying the way he has you cornered. You swallow, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact.
“It’s because we work together,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
Chris lets out a low hum, tilting his head. “So it’s not because you don’t want to?”
You exhale sharply. “That’s not what I—”
He takes a slow step forward, closing the small space between you. “Because if that’s the only reason stopping you,” he murmurs, “then it’s not really a reason, is it?”
You scoff, crossing your arms. “Chris, workplace relationships are complicated.”
His smirk softens just slightly. “Who said anything about a relationship?”
You blink your eyes at him, nonplussed.
He chuckles at your reaction, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m just talking about product testing.” He lifts the box of condoms slightly, as if to emphasize his point. “Two consenting adults conducting a private experiment.”
You shake your head, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck. “You’re relentless.”
Chris grins. “I just don’t like wasting good opportunities.” He taps the box against his palm again. “And you can’t tell me you’re not at least curious.”
Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you—like he already knows the answer.
“Look,” he says, his voice softer now, more coaxing. “This doesn’t have to be anything more than product testing. No strings. No expectations. Just a controlled experiment.” He lifts the box of condoms slightly, as if to emphasize the professionalism of it all.
You let out a slow breath, glancing away. Every rational part of you is screaming that this is a bad idea, that this is crossing a line. But then there’s the way Chris is looking at you, the way your body still remembers the way he felt pressed against you in the bathroom, the way your curiosity is getting the better of you.
You press your lips together, weighing your options. “Just product testing,” you repeat, as if saying it out loud will make it less dangerous.
Chris nods, his expression unreadable. “Just product testing.”
Another beat of silence. Then, before you can second-guess yourself, you slowly nod. “Okay.”
The corner of Chris’s mouth tugs upward, a slow, knowing smile. “Good.” He takes a step closer, his voice dropping just slightly. “Shall we begin?”
-
It's unclear how long you've been standing there, unsure on how to do this, or even to process that you, a researcher, are about to conduct a durability test on your product with your participant.
Chris watches you for a moment, then leans back on the bed, his legs slightly spread as he gestures toward you. “Take off the bathrobe,” he says, his voice smooth, assured. “Then sit next to me.”
Your fingers tighten around the edges of the fabric, hesitation gripping you, but you remind yourself—this is just a test. Just product testing.
Slowly and awkwardly, you untie the robe, letting it slip from your shoulders, revealing your body with your matching underwear covering your private bits. The cool air of the room prickles against your skin as you step toward the bed and lower yourself beside him. Your heart is pounding so loudly that you barely register the way Chris shifts, turning toward you.
A moment later, his hand reaches for your face, his fingertips grazing your cheek. Instinctively, you squeeze your eyes shut.
Chris chuckles, low and warm. “Why so nervous?” he teases, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You’ve been so composed this whole time… but now?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Your brain is barely functioning. His touch is gentle as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his breath warm as he leans in. Your lips part slightly, bracing for a kiss—
But instead, he presses his lips to your closed eyelid. Your breath stutters, the unexpected tenderness sending a shiver down your spine. Then he moves, kissing the other eyelid, his lips soft and lingering.
A small sound escapes you before you can stop it, a quiet moan slipping from your parted lips and that’s when Chris takes the opening, tilting his head and capturing your mouth in a deep, heated kiss.
Chris deepens the kiss, his lips moving slowly, deliberately, as if savoring every second. His hand drifts from your face, down the slope of your neck, skimming the curve of your shoulder before sliding further down. His fingers find the strap of your bra, tracing it lightly before slipping it off your shoulder.
Your breath catches as his other hand settles on your waist, warm and firm, grounding you even as your mind spins. He kisses you deeper, his tongue brushing against yours, coaxing you further into the moment.
Then, with practiced ease, he reaches behind you, fingers deftly working the clasp of your bra. The fabric loosens, and he slowly pulls it away, his lips never leaving yours as he discards it to the side.
Chris shifts, guiding you backward onto the bed, his body following as he hovers over you. His hands smooth over your sides, his touch steady but unhurried, as if giving you time to stop him if you wanted to. But you don’t.
His fingers trail down to the waistband of your underwear, teasing along the edge before he hooks his fingers under the fabric. He pulls back just slightly, his dark eyes searching yours, silently asking for permission.
And when you give him the smallest nod, he slides them down, the slow drag of fabric sending a shiver up your spine. He discards them just as he did with your bra, then settles back over you, his body warm against yours.
For a moment, he just looks at you, his gaze dark and intense, his lips slightly parted as if taking in the sight of you beneath him. Then he leans down again, pressing a slow, lingering kiss just below your jaw, his lips trailing lower as his hands explore your body, mapping every inch of you. Your lips, your neck, your breasts and the way they fit his hands as if they were made for him. The dip of your waist and the curve of your hips, the ample flesh of your ass cheek. Then, there’s the miles and miles of soft skin, endlessly enthralling him.
Your body tenses beneath him, your hands instinctively reaching for his shoulders. “Chris, I don’t think you’ll fit,” you whisper, voice barely audible over the pounding of your heartbeat.
He stops, lifting his head to look at you, and for a brief moment, you catch the amusement flickering in his dark eyes. Then he lets out a soft chuckle, his fingers coming up to gently brush your cheek. “You’re thinking too much,” he murmurs. “Just relax.”
His touch is warm, his thumb stroking slow circles against your skin. Then, with ease, he presses you back against the pillows, his weight hovering over you but not pressing down. He leans in, capturing your lips in another kiss—this time softer, slower, as if coaxing the tension out of you with every gentle movement.
His mouth leaves yours, traveling downward, leaving a heated trail along your jaw, your neck. His lips linger at your collarbone, pressing a kiss there before continuing lower. The warmth of his breath sends a shiver through you as he moves further down, his lips grazing the center of your chest, the valley between your breasts and then a quick lick on each of your hardening nipples.
You try to steady your breathing, but it’s impossible when he’s kissing down your stomach, his hands sliding along your sides, feeling, exploring. He’s deliberate with every touch, every kiss, giving you time to ease into the moment.
“Mmh... You’re beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice hushed, almost reverent. Then he continues, his mouth mapping a path further down, his hands parting your thighs as he settles between them.
Chris lingers at the curve of your hip, pressing slow, deliberate kisses against your skin. His hands trail down your thighs, his touch both firm and teasing. You shudder as he parts them further, settling between them with an air of confidence that makes your pulse race.
He looks up at you through hooded eyes, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Still nervous?” he asks, his voice husky.
You don’t answer—not because you don’t want to, but because the moment his lips press against your inner thigh, all coherent thoughts slip from your mind. His breath is warm against your skin, sending a ripple of anticipation through you.
Chris lands his plush lips on your cunt, his tongue skillfully part your folds so he can drown in your wetness. This time, his mouth moving in lazy, unhurried strokes. Every kiss, every brush of his full lips, sets your skin alight. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you still as he delves deeper, his tongue tracing slow, deliberate patterns that have your fingers digging into the sheets.
A soft gasp escapes your lips as he finds the right spot, his rhythm precise, purposeful. Your body arches instinctively, a rush of warmth flooding through you as the sensation builds. Chris hums against you, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure rolling through your body.
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, his tongue moving with a practiced ease that leaves you breathless. Your hand flies to his hair, gripping onto him as the pressure inside you coils tighter and tighter. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s relentless, determined to pull every last bit of pleasure from you.
Your head tilts back against the pillow, your lips parting on a shaky moan as your body gives in, waves of sensation crashing over you in a slow, intoxicating release. Chris doesn’t move away immediately—he lingers, pressing one last, lingering kiss against on your clit before finally pulling back, his hands smoothing up your trembling thighs.
He looks up at you, his lips glistening, a satisfied smirk curving them. “See?” he murmurs, his voice thick with amusement. “Told you to relax.”
Chris hovers over you, his hand smoothing over your thigh as he positions himself at your entrance. His gaze drags over your body, dark and hooded with desire. He exhales a slow breath, his fingers tracing lazy circles into your skin.
“You’re right. You're so little,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his voice filled with something close to awe. His hands roam over your waist, your hips, as if he’s memorizing the shape of you beneath him.
Chris takes one look at his cock, making sure the condom is still snug around him before he gives it a few pumps as if it's not hard, stiff enough. He takes your legs and puts them over his waist as he positions himself in between.
The anticipation coils tight in your stomach as he slowly pushes forward, just the tip stretching you open, and a sharp gasp escapes your lips. A sudden twinge of discomfort has you clenching around him, your hands gripping onto his arms as you mewl softly in protest.
“Chris, I—” You can't even finish your sentence as the sudden sensation surges through you.
Chris stops immediately, his brows knitting together as he watches you, his fingers stroking soothingly along your thigh. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice gentle, “breathe.”
But even with just that little bit inside you, the feeling is overwhelming. A shiver runs down your spine as you try to adjust, your body tightening involuntarily. Your breaths come in shaky pants, heat blooming from where your bodies connect.
Chris watches you intently, eyes never leaving your face as he shifts slightly, and suddenly, a sharp pleasure shoots through you, unexpected and electric. Your back arches off the bed as a strangled moan escapes your lips, your body quivering around him. The pressure, the stretch—it’s too much, yet somehow, it sends a rush of pleasure so intense that your body trembles beneath him.
Chris stills, his expression flickering with surprise before it melts into amusement. A slow, knowing smile curves his lips as he watches the way you writhe beneath him, helpless against the sensation.
“You came just from that?” he muses, his thumb brushing over your hip in lazy circles. “That’s cute.”
Heat rushes to your cheeks, embarrassment and lingering pleasure making your body feel even more sensitive. Chris chuckles softly, leaning down to press a lingering kiss against your parted lips before whispering, “Guess we’ll have to take our time, won’t we?”
Chris stays still for a moment, his warmth pressed against your back as he lets you catch your breath. His arms tighten around you slightly, anchoring you to him as he presses a lingering kiss to the back of your shoulder. You’re still trembling, body sensitive and flushed from your sudden release.
He exhales softly, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You okay?” His voice is low, gentle.
You nod, swallowing past the tightness in your throat. The feeling of him still inside you, filling you completely, makes you shudder.
Chris shifts behind you, adjusting the way he’s holding you. His arm is draped over your waist, fingers spread over your stomach, grounding you. His other hand smooths over your thigh, soothing, patient.
“Do you want me to keep going?” he asks, voice laced with restraint, as if he’s willing to stop if you say no.
To his surprise, you whisper, “Yes.”
A deep, quiet groan rumbles from his chest, and you feel his fingers flex against your skin. His lips press into the curve of your neck before he moves again, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips. The stretch burns slightly, but the pleasure laced in it makes your breath hitch.
Chris moves carefully, his thrusts slow and deep, keeping you flush against him as he spoons you. His hand trails from your breasts, to your stomach, splaying over your skin as if he wants to feel every reaction, every tremor that ripples through you.
“You feel so good,” he murmurs, voice breathless against your ear. His pace remains steady, each push and pull measured, sending waves of heat through your body.
Your hands grip onto his arm, holding onto him as pleasure coils low in your stomach once again. Every movement is intimate, every breath shared in the quiet space between you. Chris’s lips ghost over your shoulder, his soft grunts vibrating against your skin as he continues to move within you, drawing out every ounce of pleasure he can.
And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, pressed against him so completely, you find yourself lost in the way he makes you feel—like you were meant to fit together like this.
Chris’s breath is hot against your ear as he leans in, his voice dropping into a husky whisper. “Feels good,” he murmurs, his lips barely brushing your skin. “Fits just right… but I think it could be thinner. Let me feel you more.”
His slow, deliberate thrusts send a shiver through you, your body tightening around him in response. He chuckles, the sound deep and breathless. “You like that, don’t you?” He presses a lingering kiss to your jaw, his hand gripping your hip to keep you steady as he rolls into you again, deeper this time.
You don’t answer, too lost in the pleasure unfurling inside you. Chris doesn’t mind. He continues to move, the tension building between you both. “Maybe I should test a few more,” he muses between ragged breaths, his voice laced with amusement. “Make sure we get it just right.”
His words make you whimper, and he groans in response. “You’re so cute moaning like that,” he breathes, his pace quickening as he nears his peak. His grip on you tightens, his movements becoming more desperate, more frantic. The coil in your stomach tightens, and before you know it, you’re coming again, your body tensing as waves of pleasure crash over you.
Chris groans against your neck, his hips stuttering as he follows right behind you. His grip on you never loosens, holding you close as he spills into the condom, his breath warm and heavy against your skin.
For a moment, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of your breaths mingling. Chris presses a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder before shifting, turning you gently onto your back so he can look at you. His dark eyes flick over your face, taking in your dazed expression before he leans down, kissing you deeply.
When he pulls back, a smirk tugs at his lips. Then, he reaches for the duvet at the foot of the bed and carefully pulls it over both of you, tucking it around your bare body. The warmth is instant, but not nearly as comforting as the way he wraps himself around you right after.
His arms tighten around your waist, drawing you flush against his chest. His breath is warm against the back of your neck as he settles in, his lips barely grazing your skin. For a while, neither of you speak. The rise and fall of your breaths eventually sync, the exhaustion from the night settling into your limbs. Just as your eyes begin to flutter shut, his voice breaks the silence—low, drowsy, and laced with something softer than usual.
“Goodnight,” he murmurs, the word barely more than a breath against your skin.
For a moment, you hesitate, but then, in the safety of the dimly lit room and the comfort of his arms, you whisper back, “Goodnight.”
Chris hums in contentment, tightening his hold just slightly before finally allowing himself to drift off to sleep.
-
The morning light filters through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the hotel suite. Your eyes flutter open, and for a moment, you're disoriented—until the sound of running water brings everything back.
Chris is in the shower.
Your stomach tightens as memories from last night flood in, and instinct kicks in. You need to leave. Carefully, you slip out of bed, scanning the room for your clothes. But just as you reach for your bag, the bathroom door swings open, and there he stands—his hair damp, beads of water clinging to his toned skin, a white towel hanging dangerously low around his hips. You freeze in place.
Chris notices your reaction and grins. "Unless you want to walk out of the hotel naked, I don’t think you’re going anywhere."
Your brows furrow in confusion as he tilts his head toward the chair. "I sent your dress for dry cleaning."
Your lips part in disbelief. "You what?"
Chris walks up to you, holding out a plush bathrobe. “Relax. It'll be back soon.” He doesn’t just hand it to you—he steps closer, draping it over your shoulders and helping you slip your arms through the sleeves, his touch far too gentle for how casual he's acting.
"Go shower," he tells you, his voice softer now.
You hesitate but eventually nod, dragging yourself toward the bathroom. Just as you reach the doorway, he calls after you, "Better hurry. I ordered room service for breakfast."
Your body tenses at his words, but you say nothing. Instead, you step inside and shut the door behind you, leaning against it for a moment—just processing everything from last night to this very second.
The test, the sex, everything blurs into one and before you recall more memories from last night, you get into the shower in hope to wash it away.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries fills the suite as you step out of the bathroom, now wrapped in the bathrobe Chris gave you. He’s already seated at the small dining table by the window, scrolling through his phone while absentmindedly sipping from his cup. A full spread of breakfast is laid out—omelets, toast, fruit, and two cups of coffee.
Without a word, you take the seat across from him. He glances up briefly but doesn’t say anything, just pushes a plate toward you in a silent invitation to eat.
The quiet stretches between you, thick with unspoken thoughts. You focus on your food, taking small bites, though you barely taste anything. Chris, on the other hand, eats leisurely, like this is just another morning. Then, he finally breaks the silence.
“So,” he says, setting his fork down. “What’s your conclusion on the product test last night?”
You almost choke on your coffee. Your eyes dart to him, but his expression is unreadable, as if he’s genuinely asking for a professional evaluation. You hesitate, gripping your fork a little tighter.
"Well?" he presses, taking another sip of his coffee. "Did it pass?"
You clear your throat, setting your coffee cup down carefully. “I think… to be thorough, it’s better to run a few more tests.”
Chris quirks an eyebrow, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “A few more tests, huh?” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Didn’t expect you to be so dedicated to research.”
You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “It’s just proper procedure.”
“Proper procedure,” he repeats, his smirk widening. “You sure it’s just that? Because last night, it kinda seemed like you were enjoying yourself.”
Your jaw tightens, and you stab a piece of fruit with your fork. “That’s not relevant to the study.”
Chris chuckles, clearly entertained. “Right, of course. All in the name of science.” He tilts his head slightly, his gaze locked onto you. “So, how many more ‘tests’ are we talking about? Two? Three? A full trial period?”
You sigh, exasperated. “I haven’t decided yet.”
Chris hums, taking another bite of his toast. “Well, just let me know. I’m happy to help.” His tone is casual, but there’s a glint in his eyes that makes your stomach flip.
You quickly focus on your breakfast, pretending not to notice the way he’s watching you.
Chris leisurely takes a sip of his coffee, playing it cool as he glances around the suite. “You know,” he muses, “I’m really liking this hotel. Feels… comfortable.” He leans back slightly, stretching his muscular arms before resting them on the table. “I think it’d be a great place to conduct another test.”
You pause mid-bite, eyes flickering up to him. He’s watching you, but his expression is unreadable—except for the slight curve of his lips. Then, he grins. “Maybe next weekend?”
You nearly choke on your food, quickly taking a sip of water to recover. “You’re already planning the next one?”
Chris shrugs, feigning innocence. “Just being proactive. You said it yourself—we need more tests for accuracy.” He lifts his coffee cup again, smirking over the rim. “And I wouldn’t want to let you down.”
You exhale sharply, placing your utensils down. “I haven’t even analyzed the results from last night.”
“Take your time,” he says easily, “but don’t overthink it too much.” He tilts his head, studying you. “Unless… you’re backing out?”
You narrow your eyes at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing how flustered you are. “I’ll let you know,” you say, keeping your voice even.
Chris chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “I’ll be waiting.”
-
Monday morning, you walk into work with an unusual lightness in your step. You try not to think too much about that night—about Chris, his touch, the way he whispered in your ear—but the memories flash unbidden in your mind, making your face warm. You force yourself to keep your expression neutral, not wanting to attract any suspicion. Especially from Jane.
Speaking of which… you realize she hasn’t come to bother you like usual. Curious, you make your way to her lab, where you find her hunched over her workstation, deeply focused.
“Hey,” you call out, stepping inside. “What’s got you so busy?”
Jane barely glances up before turning back to her notes. “I have to finish my reformulation today,” she says quickly. “Final presentation’s tomorrow, and if I don’t get this right, all my work’s going down the drain.”
You nod in understanding. The pressure of finalizing a product before launch is no joke, and seeing Jane—who’s usually so carefree—this stressed means she’s really cutting it close.
“You got this,” you tell her sincerely. “Good luck.”
She lets out a deep breath, finally pausing to give you a smirk. “I better. If I crash and burn, I’m dragging you down with me.”
You chuckle, shaking your head. “Noted.”
Back in your own lab, you try to push all thoughts of Chris aside and focus on your own work. But as you review your notes and the adjustments you’ve made to the product, an uncomfortable realization creeps in—you’re running out of time.
Jane’s stress reminds you that your own product is also in a critical stage. If she’s giving her final presentation tomorrow, that means your deadline isn’t far behind. You tap your pen against your clipboard, staring at the latest batch of data, and suddenly, the pressure starts to settle heavily on your shoulders.
You sigh and grab your phone, quickly sending an email to the team in charge of screening participants. A few minutes later, you receive a reply:
Final stage of screening participants. Will update once selection is complete.
You lean back in your chair, exhaling slowly. Final stage. That means any day now, you’ll have another participant to help move this process forward—another participant who isn’t Chris. For some reason, that last thought lingers a little too long in your mind.
-
A few days later, Jane is a walking ball of stress, and unfortunately, it’s rubbing off on you.
She paces back and forth in the break room, arms crossed, her fingers tapping against her upper arm impatiently. “I don’t get it. They should’ve given me an answer by now,” she mutters before turning to you with a sharp look. “What if they hated it? What if they’re just trying to figure out a way to reject it without making me throw a fit?”
You sip your iced coffee, trying to keep your own anxiety in check. “If they hated it, they would’ve told you already,” you reason, though you understand her panic completely.
Jane groans and drops her head onto the table. “I can’t take this anymore. The waiting is worse than the presentation itself.”
You don’t say it out loud, but you completely agree. Because the uncertainty of your own project’s progress is starting to gnaw at you too. You haven’t received any updates on the new participant, and without that, you can’t finalize the product. And without a finalized product, you can’t meet your deadline.
You exhale and press your fingers against your temples, suddenly feeling the weight of everything piling up. “Your stress is contagious, you know that?” you mumble.
Jane lifts her head just enough to give you a weak smirk. “Misery loves company.”
Later that day, you get a message from Chris’s secretary, asking you to stop by his office. You hesitate for a moment, wondering if you should prepare yourself for whatever he has in store this time. But you shake off the thought and head over.
When you step inside, Chris is leaning back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, looking effortlessly good as usual. He grins when he sees you. “Hey, right on time,” he says, and you do as told, walking over to his desk.
“I wanted to let you know I’m available this weekend for the test,” he says, watching you closely.
You nod, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. “Okay. That works.”
Chris tilts his head, his grin faltering slightly. “That’s it? No excitement?”
You blink at him. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
His brow raises. “I don’t know… maybe something like ‘Great! Can’t wait!’” He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “What’s wrong with you today?”
You sigh and rub your temples. “I’m just stressed about my product. There’s still so much to do, and I don’t even know if I’ll have another participant before the deadline.”
Chris hums in thought, then leans back again. “Well, you’re doing your best, right?”
“I guess.”
He smirks. “That’s all that matters. Besides, I’m the one doing my best for you.”
You roll your eyes, but the corner of your lips twitches at his teasing. “Of course, how could I forget?”
Chris chuckles, pleased with himself. “Exactly. So stop stressing. I’ve got you.”
You shift your weight from one foot to the other, still feeling the weight of your stress pressing down on you. “You know… you could’ve just texted me about the test instead of calling me to your office.”
Chris scoffs, shaking his head with a smirk. “Yeah, I could’ve.”
You wait for him to continue, but he just looks at you like you should already know the answer. When you don’t say anything, he leans forward slightly, voice dropping a little.
“But I wanted to see you.”
His words catch you completely off guard, and you freeze for a second, unsure how to respond. He watches you closely, amused by your reaction.
Your mouth opens, then closes. You clear your throat, trying to brush off the sudden shift in atmosphere. “Well… you’ve seen me now,” you mutter, avoiding his gaze.
Chris chuckles. “Yeah, I have.” He tilts his head. “And?”
“And what?”
He grins. “Feel better?”
You scoff. “No.”
Chris just laughs at your flat response, shaking his head. “Liar.”
He leans back in his chair, still smirking as he watches you squirm under his gaze. “I think you do feel better,” he teases. “You just don’t want to admit it.”
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “If I’m stressed, I’m stressed. Seeing you doesn’t magically fix that.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Maybe not, but I bet it helps a little.”
You scoff, looking away, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. The part you hate the most is because he’s not entirely wrong. Despite everything weighing on you, there’s something about his presence—his confidence, his teasing, the way he acts like he’s got everything under control—that makes you feel just a little lighter.
And that annoys you.
-
The hotel lobby is dimly lit, elegant but not overly extravagant. You step through the entrance, scanning the space until your eyes land on Chris, who’s waiting near the elevators. He’s dressed casually but polished—dark slacks, a fitted shirt with the top two buttons undone, looking unfairly good as usual.
Just as you take a step toward him, your phone buzzes in your bag. You fish it out and sigh when you see Jane’s name flashing on the screen. Pressing the phone to your ear, you barely manage a greeting before she starts rambling.
“I swear, if they don’t approve this formula, I’m quitting,” she huffs. “I mean, not really, but you get what I mean. I haven’t slept properly in three days, and I think I’m running on caffeine and pure delusion at this point.”
You let out a small laugh, even though the stress in her voice weighs on you. “It’ll be fine, Jane. You worked hard on it.”
“That’s what people say before something blows up in their face,” she groans. “Anyway, where are you? I need to rant.”
Panic flickers in your chest. You glance around, as if she could somehow see you through the phone. “Uh… just out,” you say vaguely. “I’ll call you later, okay?”
She huffs again. “Fine. But if I have a breakdown, it’s on you.”
You chuckle. “Duly noted.” Ending the call, you sigh, but the stress clings to you, the tension knotting in your shoulders refusing to ease.
You take a deep breath and walk toward Chris, who straightens when he sees you. He starts to say something, but before he can get a word out, you grab his face and kiss him.
Chris barely has time to react when you press your lips to his, the kiss sudden and hurried, almost desperate. His hands instinctively settle on your waist, grounding you for the few fleeting seconds before you pull away.
Your lips are still parted as you mutter, “Why don’t we just skip dinner and head upstairs?”
Chris blinks, momentarily surprised by your forwardness. Then, slowly, a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “Someone’s eager tonight,” he muses, his voice low and teasing.
You huff, looking away. “I just—” You exhale sharply, rubbing your temple. “I'm just a little stressed.”
His expression softens slightly. “Ah.”
“It’s work. I'm stressed about work, and I just—I don’t know.” You sigh, shaking your head. “It’s like I can’t escape it.”
Chris tilts his head, studying you for a moment before his hand finds yours. “Then let’s go.”
You look at him questioningly.
He squeezes your hand. “Upstairs,” he clarifies. “Since that’s what you want.”
You nod, letting him lead you toward the elevators. As the doors close behind you, sealing you both away from the rest of the world, Chris turns to you, his grip tightening ever so slightly.
“Want me to help you take your mind off work?” he asks, his voice rich with suggestion.
You swallow, anticipation coiling in your stomach. “Yes.”
-
The hotel suite door barely shuts behind you before Chris pulls you in, his hands framing your face as his lips crash into yours. The kiss is deep, heated, and rushed—both of you hungry for each other. Your fingers clutch at his shirt, dragging him closer as you stumble toward the bed.
Chris’s hands slide down your back, finding the zipper of your dress and pulling it down in one swift motion. The fabric pools at your feet, leaving you in your lingerie as he lifts you effortlessly into his arms. You gasp, arms looping around his neck as he carries you to the bed, laying you down gently against the plush sheets.
He kneels above you, his dark eyes drinking you in before he reaches for the buttons of his shirt. One by one, he undoes them, his toned chest coming into view, and once the shirt is off, he tosses it aside without a second thought. Then, he leans in again, claiming your lips with his own, his body pressing against yours as the heat between you intensifies.
For a moment, the purpose of tonight is forgotten. There’s no product test, no work stress—just the two of you tangled together, lips moving in sync, hands wandering, breaths coming out in soft, desperate gasps.
Then, your fingers trail down his chest, lower and lower, until you feel the growing bulge beneath his pants. Chris groans softly against your lips, his body tensing slightly at your touch. That’s when reality crashes back into you.
You break the kiss slightly, your breaths mingling as you whisper, “Chris, the condom. In my bag.”
Chris hovers above you for a second, his eyes searching yours. Then, with a slow smirk, he leans in, brushing a teasing kiss against your lips before murmuring, “Yes, ma’am.”
He gets off the bed, heading toward where you left your bag, and as you watch him, heart racing, you can’t help but think—maybe this test is just an excuse now.
You watch as Chris retrieves the condom from your bag, his fingers expertly tearing open the wrapper. He steps out of his remaining clothes, his bare form illuminated by the dim hotel lighting. Your eyes are drawn downward, and despite having seen him before, the sheer size of him still makes your stomach flip. It’s intimidating—taunting, even—and the nerves creep up on you all over again.
Chris notices the way you tense, the way your thighs press together involuntarily. Rolling the condom over his length with practiced ease, he turns back to you, amusement flickering in his dark eyes.
“You need to relax,” he murmurs, his voice smooth yet edged with something deeper, something almost reassuring.
He crawls back onto the bed, hovering over you once more, his hands running along your sides as if to coax the tension out of your body. “You’re overthinking it,” he adds, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw, then another just below your ear.
Your breath hitches when his lips trail lower, down your neck, his touch slow and deliberate. It’s almost distracting enough to make you forget your nerves—almost. But when he settles between your legs, his gaze locking onto yours, the anticipation coils tightly in your stomach once more.
Chris smirks, tilting his head. “You trust me, don’t you?”
And the way he asks it—soft, teasing, but with a glimmer of something genuine—makes your heart skip.
His hands roam your body with a deliberate slowness, his fingertips tracing the curves of your waist, the dip of your stomach, the softness of your thighs. Each touch is meant to ease the tension out of you, to replace your nerves with something warmer, something deeper.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his lips pressing gentle kisses along your collarbone. “So soft… so perfect.”
His voice is a lull, smoothing over your anxiety like silk. He drags his mouth lower, his breath fanning across your skin as he continues whispering praises—how good you feel, how much he likes touching you, how you have no idea what you do to him.
You shudder beneath him, your body instinctively responding to his words, his touch. The tension in your muscles slowly unravels, and Chris pulls back just enough to take in the sight of you. His gaze sweeps over your bare form, dark and heavy with admiration. He doesn’t rush. He just looks.
“Gosh,” he breathes out, a slow grin forming on his lips. “I could look at you all night.”
The intensity in his eyes makes your breath catch, heat rising in your cheeks. He leans in again, his hands framing your face as he brushes his lips over yours.
“You okay now?” he asks, voice low, his forehead resting against yours.
And maybe it’s the way he’s holding you, or the way he’s looking at you like you’re something precious—but you find yourself nodding, your nerves fading into something else entirely.
Chris’s fingers trail down your body with deliberate slowness, his touch igniting warmth everywhere he grazes. His lips brush against your ear as his fingers tease along your inner thigh, his breath sending a shiver down your spine.
“You’re already trembling,” he murmurs, his voice laced with amusement and something deeper—something that makes your stomach tighten. “Are you nervous or just impatient?”
You don’t answer, not when his fingers finally slip between your legs, parting you with ease and easily finds your clit as it pulsates with each gentle rub. He does it for a long moment, waiting until you're wet enough for him to slip his two fingers inside you. A soft gasp escapes before you can stop it, and Chris hums in approval, pressing a lingering kiss just below your jaw.
“You always take me so well,” he whispers, his fingers moving in slow, calculated pumps that make your toes curl. “And you’re already clenching around me… How do you think you’ll handle me when I’m actually inside you?”
The words alone send heat rushing through you, but it’s the way he says them—low and coaxing, like he’s savoring every reaction you give him. You turn your face into his shoulder, gripping onto him as if grounding yourself, but Chris only chuckles.
“Don’t hide from me,” he coaxes, shifting so he can watch your face. “I want to see everything.”
He curls his fingers inside to get to your sensitive spot, his touch sending waves of pleasure coursing through you, and your breath stutters. Chris smiles against your cheek, his voice softer now, gentler.
“Just relax,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”
Your body tightens around his fingers as the pleasure builds, your breath hitching with every precise movement of his hand. Chris watches you intently, his dark eyes flickering with something both possessive and admiring as he feels you getting closer.
"That's it," he whispers, his lips grazing your temple. "You’re so good for me."
His thumb circles your clit just right, and the tension in your body unravels all at once. A sharp cry slips from your lips as the pleasure crashes over you, leaving you trembling in his arms. Chris doesn’t stop right away—he works you through it, dragging out every last wave until you're gasping, your fingers digging into his shoulders for stability.
When you finally go limp against him, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek, his voice warm and full of praise. "So beautiful when you come around my fingers like that," he murmurs, his fingers slipping away only to trail soothingly along your thigh.
You barely have time to catch your breath before he leans in, his lips brushing against yours. "Think you’re ready for me now?" he asks, a teasing grin playing at his lips.
Despite his words, he gives you a moment to climb down your high, touching you, kissing you, keeping you heated just enough for the next one.
When he deems you're ready, he settles himself between your legs and take another moment to warm you up, sliding his cock between your folds, intentionally lubricating it with your essence.
The moment he starts to push his cock into your entrance, you whimper, your fingers gripping the sheets. He stills immediately, his brows furrowing.
“Still hurts?” he murmurs, his voice softer now, tinted with concern.
You shake your head instinctively, but he isn’t convinced. His large hands massage your hips soothingly, and for a moment, he just stays there, warm and solid against you. Then, as if making a decision, he leans down, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades before murmuring against your skin, “There’s more than one way to do this.”
Before you can ask what he means, he shifts, gently guiding you onto your stomach. His hands coax your legs together, and then you feel it—his length settling between your thighs, snug and heavy. He lets out a low hum of approval as he starts a slow, deliberate movement, sliding his cock against you, the condom still doing its job.
“This works just fine for the test,” he says, a smirk evident in his voice. “No need for penetration.”
The new sensation sends a shiver through you. His body is warm against your back, his arms caging you in as he moves, taking his time. His above average cock allowing him to hit your clit for every time he thrusts forward. Every deliberate stroke of his tip on your clit has you squirming, and when he presses his lips to your ear, his breath hot, he whispers, “You feel so good like this… almost better than the real thing.”
His hands grip your waist, guiding you to match his rhythm, and before you know it, the tension in your body builds again. The sensation overwhelms you, and with one final push of pleasure, you come undone beneath him, trembling as the feeling washes over you. Chris lets out a low groan, his own release following moments after.
A smirk tugs at his lips as he leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as your breathing evens out, and for a fleeting moment, the weight of everything else disappears.
Chris lets out a content sigh, his grip on you loosening slightly as he shifts onto his side, still keeping you close. He presses a lazy kiss against the back of your shoulder before murmuring, “Well, I gotta say, the condom held up pretty well.”
You blink in confusion, still trying to come down from your high. “What?”
He chuckles, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at you. “You know… the test? The whole reason we’re here?” His smirk deepens when you don’t respond right away. “Don’t tell me you forgot.”
Heat rushes to your face as you realize he’s right. You were so caught up in the moment, in him, that you completely forgot this was supposed to be about work. You scowl at his teasing tone, but Chris only grins wider.
“That’s cute,” he muses, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re really slacking as a researcher, you know? Getting too distracted by your test subject.”
You groan, pushing at his chest, but he just laughs, rolling onto his back with a smug expression. “Don’t worry,” he says, stretching his arms over his head. “We can always run more tests. Just to be thorough.”
You roll your eyes, but deep down, you know you’re in trouble—because a part of you is already considering it.
Chris stretches his arms behind his head, still lounging in the bed with that smug expression. Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he says, “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Should we order some room service?”
You hesitate, still tangled in the sheets, still feeling the lingering heat between you. But the idea of food is tempting, and you nod. “Yeah… okay.”
Chris grins, reaching for the hotel’s menu on the nightstand. “Good. I was gonna order anyway, but I figured I’d be polite and ask.”
You scoff but let it slide, watching as he casually flips through the options. He orders for both of you without asking what you want, but somehow, he picks exactly what you would have chosen.
When the food arrives, the two of you settle onto the couch, eating in comfortable silence for a while. The tension from earlier has softened into something almost… normal. Like this is just another dinner, another night spent together. Then, as you poke at your plate, you find yourself speaking without really thinking. “Thanks, by the way.”
Chris glances up from his food. “For what?”
You shift slightly, feeling a little awkward. “For earlier. For not… pushing it when I said it hurt.”
Chris leans back, setting his fork down. He studies you for a moment before giving a small shrug. “I told you before, didn’t I? I wasn’t gonna do anything you weren’t ready for.”
You swallow, feeling something tighten in your chest.
Chris smirks, sensing the shift in your expression. “What? Surprised I’m a decent guy?”
You roll your eyes. “A little.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “You wound me.” But there’s something softer in his eyes now, something that makes you look away before he can read too much into your expression.
Chris doesn’t push. Instead, he just picks up his fork again, casually adding, “Guess that means we’ll just have to try again next time.”
Your stomach flips. “Next time?”
Chris just grins. “Unless you’re saying the test is complete?”
You don’t answer, and his smirk widens as he takes another bite of his food.
-
The morning sunlight filters through the hotel suite’s curtains as you fasten the last button of your blouse, trying to ignore the way Chris watches you from across the room. He’s standing by the dresser, rolling up the sleeves of his black shirt, looking far too put together for someone who spent the night in a hotel bed with you.
"You’re quiet this morning," he comments, slipping on his watch.
You smooth down the hem of your dress, keeping your eyes on your reflection in the mirror. "Just thinking about work."
He looks relaxed—too relaxed, considering the nature of your conversation.
"So," he says, tapping the fork against his thigh, "how are you planning to refine the product?"
You clear your throat, forcing yourself to focus. "I need to get more participant feedback, obviously. We’ve tested the fit, but durability and performance still need more trials."
Chris hums in acknowledgment, but there’s a knowing glint in his eyes. "And how do I rank as a participant?"
You shoot him a look, trying not to let the memory of the night’s events creep back into your mind. "You're… useful," you answer carefully.
He chuckles at that. "Just useful? After everything?"
You press your lips together, ignoring his teasing tone. "I mean it, Chris. But I need more participants for a thorough evaluation."
At that, his amusement fades slightly. He sits up straighter, turning toward you. "More participants, huh?"
You nod, scribbling something in your notebook to avoid looking at him. "It’s necessary for better data."
Chris is quiet for a moment, then he leans in, close enough that you can feel his warmth. "I get it," he says, voice softer now. "Just don’t forget who was here first."
You finally glance up at him, and the weight of his gaze makes your stomach flip. There’s something unreadable in his expression—not quite jealousy, but not far from it either.
You swallow. "Of course not."
A small smirk tugs at his lips, but he doesn’t push further. Instead, he nudges your knee with his. "So, should I clear my schedule for next weekend?"
You exhale, shaking your head. "I’ll let you know."
Chris grins, leaning back onto his elbows. "Can’t wait."
You roll your eyes, not indulging him with an answer. Instead, you head toward the door, but just as you reach for the handle, Chris beats you to it, leaning down slightly.
"Leaving without a goodbye?" he teases, voice low.
You glance at him, hesitating for half a second before sighing. "Goodbye, Chris."
As you walk down the quiet hotel corridor, your thoughts swirl between the pressure of finalizing your product and the undeniable truth that you still need more data. More tests.
You tighten your grip on your bag, exhaling sharply. That’s what this is about—work. Research. A product that needs to be perfected before it can move forward.
And yet, as you recall the way Chris looked at you before you left, the way he smirked at the idea of "more participants," a different kind of tension settles in your chest.
Finalizing your product soon is the goal. But a small, dangerous part of you wonders if maybe… just maybe… you’re not quite ready to be done with the testing phase.
-
As you're walking through the office hallway, your mind is still clouded with the remnants of the weekend—Chris’s touch, his whispered praises, the way he held you close even after everything was over. Every time you close your eyes, flashes of that night play in your head, making warmth creep up your neck. You shake your head, trying to snap yourself out of it as you step into your lab, determined to focus on work. But the moment you walk in, you freeze.
There’s a man already inside, leaning lazily against the counter, his posture relaxed yet confident, like he’s been waiting for you. The overhead lights cast sharp angles on his sharp jawline, his lips curled into a smirk that feels almost too self-assured. He straightens when he sees you, his eyes—dark, playful—sweeping over you in quiet amusement.
Then, with deliberate slowness, he steps forward. "Finally," he drawls, his voice smooth, almost teasing. "I was starting to think I had the wrong lab."
You blink, caught off guard. He doesn’t look like he belongs here—his presence too bold, too magnetic for the clinical atmosphere of your workspace. "I'm sorry but who are you?" you ask, wary.
He stops just a breath away, the distance between you charged with something you can’t quite place. Then, with a cocky tilt of his head, he offers his hand.
"Han Jisung," he introduces himself, his smirk widening as his fingers brush against yours. "Your new test participant."
Your stomach drops and for a second, all you can do is stare.
"Looks like we’ll be working pretty closely together," he adds, voice dripping with amusement. "I hope you're ready for me."
And just like that, your carefully maintained world tilts off its axis.
-
The second chapter of Cocky is available on my Patreon page. ✨
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Written in the Stars ☆ Masterlist
Pairing: Bang Chan x Fem reader
Genre: SMAU, Stray Kids x Modern Hogwarts, Hufflepuff x Slytherin, (minor/one sided) Enemies to Lovers, Reverse Grumpy Sunshine
Warnings: mentions death, several battles, a few swear words here and there
Synopsis: It is modern time at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. One Hufflepuff who suppresses her emotions while one Slytherin who breaks the stereotype of the Slytherin Prince. Will they connect? Or will they continue to clash?
Status: Writing
Taglist: OPEN
Profiles:
The Golden Trio ✦ Roaming Kiddiewinks ✦
Chapters:
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25 (end)
© lovestay-channie (2023-2024) - please do not repost. all rights are reserved.
taglist: @minhosimthings @jiisungllvr
Master list!
Here you will find all my stories! I put a read more because it’s pretty long! Enjoy!
Keep reading
masterlist
bold is nsfw, scenarios is italicized, normal is head-cannons and sfw. <3 click here for rules.
Heroes/Sidekicks
Aizawa
Chubby Reader HCs
Mirio
Busty S/O
Slim Thicc S/O HCs
“Tell all those other guys/girls you don’t need them ‘cause you got me.”
Tamaki
coming soon
Yamada “Present Mic” Hizashi
Happy Birthday
Students
Awase
“I think I’ve been holding myself back from falling in love with you all over again.”
Your Saviour
Giving Oral HCs
Bakugou
👑 TEAM BAKUGOU 👑
Bakugou Katsuki A-Z (NSFW)
Bed Rest
Being Called Daddy HCs
Blue Balls
Boasting About Bakugou Over the Phone HCs
Bottom (female) Bottom (male)
Busty S/O HCs
Caught
Consider This Thirst Quenched
Crying Kink HCs
Cuddling w/ Neko!S/O HCs
Wolf!Bakugou HCs (Domestic AU)
Daddy
Fem!Muslim S/O HCs
Get Groovin’
Giving Oral HCs
Helping Fem!Reader Get With Her Girl Crush HCs
His Little Omega
Hugs From Bakugou
“I’m not Jealous”
Jealousy’s In the Air
Mineta Hitting on S/O HCs
Omega!Bakugou HCs
Sassy S/O HCs
Pups
Receiving Bear Hugs From Reader
Riding Bakugou for the First Time
Scared to Love S/O
“Shit sorry, am I going to fast?”
Show Me
Sleeping w/ S/O HCs
Slim Thicc S/O HCs
Somnophilia HCs
Study Buddies
Squirting for the First Time
There for You, part two
Time to Love, part two
Wipe That Smirk From Your Face
Woke, part two
Iida
Dick Size HCs
Proper Punishment
Thicc Reader HCs
Relationship HCs
Kaibara
Cock Blocked By Pupper Scenario
Sassy S/O HCs
Kaminari
“You saved my nudes?”, part two
Low Self-Esteem S/O HCs
Warn Me Next Time
Kirishima
Being Called Daddy HCs
Called Red Riot During Sex HCs
Daddy
Dick Size HCs
Hot Days
Kinky Fem!S/O HCs
Kiri Taking Care of Stressed Fem!S/O HCs
Sassy S/O HCs
Low Self-Esteem S/O HCs
“Why do they make this look so easy in all those porn movies?! This hurts like fuck!”
Midoriya
Busty S/O HCs
Dick Size HCs
GG (Villain AU)
Only Because I Love You
Scared to Love S/O
Monoma
We’re In Public
Sen
Cock Blocked By Pupper
Just Checkin’
Mineta Hitting on S/O
You Want to What?
Shindou
Cock Blocked By Pupper
Chubby S/O HCs
Low Self-Esteem S/O HCs
We’re Just Getting Started
Shinsou
Scared to Love S/O
Sit Still
Shiozaki
Is This What You Wanted?
TetsuTetsu
Next Time
Todoroki
Todoroki Shouto A-Z (NSFW)
Caught
Clingy S/O
Dick Size HCs
Fem!Muslim S/O HCs
“Give Me Attention”
Mineta Hitting on S/O HCs
Relationship HCs
Tsubaraba
First Date
Sassy S/O HCs
Villains
Dabi
Consider This Thirst Quenched
Deepthroating HCs
Dick Size HCs
I’ll Give You Plenty
Somnophilia HCs
Giran
Hero Kink HCs
Relationship HCs
Sugar Daddy HCs
Chisaki “Overhaul” Kai
Dick Size HCs
Relationship HCs
Relationship NSFW HCs
Get Well Soon, I Guess
Toga
Giving Fem!S/O Oral for the First Time
Secrets
Sleeping Beauty
Bubaigawara “Twice” Jin
See You Again
Shigaraki “Shigaraki Tenko” Tomura
Somnophilia HCs
Civilians
Todoroki Natsuo
Relationship HCs
Vigilantes
coming soon,,, maybe.
~ Series Masterlist ~
~ Drabble List ~
~ Writing Playlist ~
Stray Kids Masterlist
Welcome to my Stray Kids Masterlist. Down below you will find everything I’ve written for Stray Kids. Requests for Stray Kids are open!
Main Masterlist
Keep reading
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