🎀Risleylime🎀

22 ~ she/her smut writer Request open Post daily smut or fluff

[risleylime]

@tinytimetravelharmony - requested

Chapter 2- hunters claim

His hand remained extended, waiting. The garden felt smaller now, the hedges pressing in like walls of a cage she'd willingly entered. Jazz still drifted from the ballroom, but it sounded distant. Muffled. As if the world had narrowed to just the two of them standing in the flickering gaslight.

She placed her hand in his.

His fingers were warm, his grip firm but not painful as he drew her closer. Something flickered in those dark eyes—satisfaction, perhaps, at her compliance. Or maybe something hungrier.

"Good choice," he murmured.

They walked through the garden, past the trellises heavy with roses, through a wrought-iron gate she hadn't noticed before. A narrow alley stretched ahead, brick walls slick with humidity. Her heels clicked against the cobblestones, the sound too loud in the quiet. He guided her with his hand at the small of her back, proprietary and unhurried.

"Where—" she started.

"My private suite. Above a speakeasy I frequent." His voice was casual, conversational. "The jazz is better there. And the company is more... selective."

The building looked unremarkable from outside. A plain wooden door, a small sign advertising tailor services. But when Alastor knocked three times in a specific pattern, the door swung open to reveal a different world entirely.

Rich crimson wallpaper. Dark wood furniture. A gramophone in the corner playing a record that crackled with age and warmth. The air smelled of bourbon and tobacco and something sweeter underneath—jasmine, perhaps, or gardenias.

A man at the bar nodded to Alastor but said nothing. No questions. No curiosity about the woman he'd brought. Whoever this place belonged to, Alastor commanded respect here.

He led her up a narrow staircase, their footsteps muffled by a thick carpet runner. At the top, he withdrew a key from his jacket pocket and unlocked a door, gesturing for her to enter first.

The suite was intimate. A sitting area with a velvet settee, a small bar against one wall, a writing desk covered in papers. But what caught her attention was the bed partially visible through a doorway—a bedroom beyond, sheets crisp and white in the low light.

"Sit." He gestured to the settee. "You've had quite the evening."

She perched on the edge, her hands twisting in her lap. The dead device sat heavy in her pocket, useless. A thousand questions spun through her mind, but only one made it past her lips.

"What happens now?"

Alastor moved to the bar, pouring two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal glass. "That depends entirely on you." He crossed the room and held out the drink. "Bourbon. It will help steady your nerves."

She took it. The first sip burned, but warmth spread through her chest afterward, loosening some of the tension in her shoulders.

"You came all this way," he said slowly, settling into the chair across from her. His long legs crossed at the ankle, his posture relaxed, but his eyes remained fixed on her face. "Traveled through time. Lied your way into my world. All for what? Observation?"

Her tongue felt thick. "I told you—"

"You told me what you thought I wanted to hear." His smile sharpened. "But I've been watching you all evening. The way you looked at me when you thought I couldn't see. The way your breath caught when I touched your arm." He leaned forward. "You didn't come here just to study me, little traveler. You came here because you wanted me."

Heat flooded her cheeks. She opened her mouth to deny it, but the words wouldn't come.

"I find myself... intrigued by that." He rose from his chair, moving toward her with deliberate slowness. "A woman from the future, with all its wonders, and she chooses to spend her time learning everything she can about me." He stopped before her, looking down. "That kind of attention deserves something in return, don't you think?"

Her heart raced. She should stand. Should move away. Should do something other than sit there trembling with anticipation.

But she didn't want to.

"Alastor—"

"Shh." He reached out, his fingers brushing her jaw. "You've been pretending all evening. Playing a role. But I think we're past that now." His touch trailed down, tracing the line of her throat. "You're trapped here. In my time. In my city." His voice dropped lower. "The question is—what are you going to do about it?"

She looked up at him. At those sharp features, that ever-present smile, those eyes that saw too much. She'd spent months studying him, learning every detail she could find. She'd thought she understood him.

She'd had no idea.

"I don't want to do anything about it," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

His smile changed. Still sharp, still predatory, but with something warmer underneath. "Good answer."

He offered his hand. She took it, letting him draw her to her feet. They stood close—too close—the air between them charged with possibility.

"I should warn you," he said, his thumb tracing circles on her palm. "I don't share. If you stay here, with me, you're mine. Completely. Do you understand?"

The word should have frightened her. Instead, it sent a thrill down her spine.

"I understand."

He drew her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. His eyes never left hers.

"Then let's stop pretending."

His mouth found hers.

The kiss was slow at first, exploratory, giving her every chance to pull away. But she leaned into it instead, her free hand sliding up his chest to curl in the fabric of his jacket. A sound escaped her—something between a sigh and a whimper—and she felt his smile against her lips.

His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him. She could feel the lean muscle beneath his clothes, the controlled strength in his grip. He kissed her like he'd interrogated her—methodically, thoroughly, learning every secret her mouth had to offer.

When he finally pulled back, she was breathless.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that," she admitted.

"I think I have some idea." His hands slid lower, resting on her hips. "You're not as subtle as you think, my dear. Those little glances, the way you leaned into my touch in the garden." He kissed the corner of her mouth. "I knew what you wanted from the moment I saw you."

"Then why—" She stopped, trying to collect her scattered thoughts. "Why the knife? The interrogation?"

His thumb brushed her lower lip. "Because I wanted to see if you'd give it to me freely. And because..." He paused. "I wanted to make sure you were real. That this wasn't some elaborate trap."

"I'm real."

"Yes." His voice roughened. "You are."

He walked her backward, step by step, until her shoulders met the doorframe to the bedroom. His body pressed against hers, pinning her in place.

"I'm going to make you forget all about the future," he murmured against her ear. "By the time I'm done with you, the only thing you'll be able to think about is right now."

[risleylime]

@2kwatts - requested

Chapter 1: His Mouth On Mine

The bass from the speakers wasn't just sound—it was a second heartbeat, thudding through the concrete floor, up my legs, settling somewhere just beneath my sternum. The backstage pass dangled from my neck, a laminated impossibility that still felt warm from the printer. I’d won some contest I barely remembered entering, my Instagram handle buried in a comment section alongside three fire emojis and a desperate please-notice-me.

And now I was here.

The corridor smelled like industrial cleaner and something sweeter, maybe cologne, maybe the ghost of a fog machine from the stage. Twenty feet away, a door opened and closed with a soft click. Voices. Then footsteps.

I pressed my spine against the wall like I could dissolve into the drywall.

A security guard nodded at me—the same one who'd checked my pass three times, squinting at my face like I might be a hologram—and then he was gone, swallowed by a side door, and the corridor went quiet except for that bass, muffled now, a distant thunder.

Breathe.

Then the door opened again.

It wasn't the guard.

Michael Jackson stepped into the corridor, and the air changed. Thickened. He was taller than I'd imagined, lean in black slacks and a button-down the color of bone, sleeves rolled to his elbows. No sunglasses. His eyes found me immediately, and something flickered there—recognition, sharp and amused, a secret I hadn't been told yet.

"You're the one," he said.

Not a question.

His voice slid under my skin. Velvet over gravel.

"I—yes. Hi. The contest. I'm—"

"I know who you are." He took a step closer. Then another. The distance between us collapsed to something intimate, something that made my lungs forget their job. "I've been reading you."

The word landed wrong. Or right. Reading.

"Reading... me?"

"Your stories." A pause. His head tilted, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "The ones you post online. About me."

My stomach dropped so fast I felt it in my knees.

The fanfics. The explicit, shameless, please-god-don't-let-anyone-I-know-find-these fanfics I'd been writing for two years under an anonymous handle on a site buried deep enough that normal humans shouldn't have been able to stumble across it. Stories full of things I'd never say aloud, my own name swapped for a protagonist who was braver than me, dirtier than me, who did things with her mouth and her hips that I'd only ever typed out at two in the morning with my laptop burning my thighs.

"You..." My voice cracked. "You found them?"

"I have people who find things." His eyes didn't leave mine. "When I'm curious about someone."

Someone. He was curious about someone. And that someone was in a front-row seat at his concert, and then somehow—impossibly—backstage, wearing a crop top that showed off the silver barbell pierced through my navel, the one I'd gotten on a dare in college and kept because it made me feel like a different person when I caught my reflection.

His gaze dropped. To the belly ring. Lingered.

"This." He reached out, but didn't touch. His finger hovered an inch from the silver, the little gem that caught the fluorescent light and threw it back in blues and whites. "You wrote about this. In chapter four. The hotel room scene."

Oh god.

He'd read chapter four.

The one where I'd described—in painstaking, word-by-word detail—a fantasy version of myself on her knees, his thumb circling the jewelry in her navel, his mouth following the path of his hand, his voice murmuring filth against her skin. I'd written that paragraph seventeen times, deleting and rewriting, my face hot, my thighs pressed together.

"Standing here, you're quiet," he said. He was close enough now that I could smell him—clean soap, something woodsy, the faint chemical sweetness of stage makeup lingering near his jaw. "But in those stories..." A soft laugh. "In those stories, you're not quiet at all."

"That's—that's fiction."

"Is it?" His hand moved. Not to my stomach. To my chin. Two fingers beneath it, tilting my face up. The touch was feather-light but commanding, a question that wasn't asking for permission. "Because I read every chapter. Twice. And I don't think someone writes those things without meaning them. Without wanting them."

My mouth opened. Nothing came out.

"Chapter seven," he continued, and his voice dropped, lower, a register that vibrated somewhere in my chest. "The backstage scene. Interesting that we're here now, don't you think? Almost like you manifested it. You wrote about a door. A security guard who disappears. Me, finding you, telling you that I'd read your words."

I hadn't manifested anything. I wasn't that powerful. But the coincidence—the specificity—made the hallway tilt sideways.

"You remember how that chapter goes from here?"

My breath caught. Of course I remembered. I'd written it. Every word was seared into my brain because I'd agonized over dialogue, over pacing, over whether the protagonist saying please was too submissive or just submissive enough.

"You back me against the wall," I whispered.

"Say it again. Like you mean it."

My voice steadied, just barely. "You back me against the wall. And you tell me to stop pretending I didn't write those things for you to find."

His smile widened, slow and satisfied, like I'd passed some test I didn't know I was taking. His hand left my chin. Settled on my hip instead, thumb hooking through the belt loop of my jeans. The denim tugged, just slightly. Just enough.

"You wrote that I'd press my thigh between your legs." His face was inches from mine. "You wrote that I wouldn't kiss you yet. That I'd make you wait. Make you ask."

I was shaking. Not visibly—I hoped not visibly—but something inside my ribcage was vibrating like a struck tuning fork.

"That's what I wrote," I managed.

"But here's the thing about fiction." His thigh slid forward, barely brushing the inside of mine, and my breath left me in a rush. "Fiction can be edited. Rewritten. Improved. I have notes."

Notes.

"The belly ring," he said, and his voice went rougher. Hunger breaking through the velvet. "In your story, I notice it. I touch it. But I don't—" He paused, and his thumb moved from my belt loop to the sliver of bare skin between my jeans and the hem of my crop top. The touch was electric, a live wire pressed to my stomach. "I don't worship it. Not the way I want to. Not the way you deserve to have it worshipped."

The word deserve hit like a glass of wine on an empty stomach.

"Show me," he said.

"What?"

"The belly ring. Properly."

My hands moved before my brain caught up. I pinched the fabric of my crop top and lifted it, just an inch, then two, exposing the pale skin of my stomach and the silver jewelry glinting there. The air in the corridor was cold against my midriff, or maybe I was just hyperaware of every temperature change, every molecule touching me.

He went still. Really still. The kind of still that precedes something breaking open.

"Beautiful," he murmured. The word wasn't for me—it was for the jewelry, the way the barbell pierced through skin, the tiny gem that caught the light. He lowered himself, and I realized with a jolt that he was kneeling. Kneeling. Michael Jackson, on the floor of a backstage corridor, his face level with my navel.

"I wrote you on your knees," I breathed. "Chapter seven."

"You wrote me on my knees for a different reason." His breath fanned across my stomach, warm and intentional. "I'm revising." He looked up at me, and the power dynamic shifted so fast my head spun—he was below me but he owned this moment, owned me, owned every inch of space between us. "You're going to stand there. Quiet. And you're going to let me."

His lips grazed the skin above the barbell.

Not a kiss. A promise of one.

My hands fisted at my sides. The wall behind me was the only thing keeping me vertical.

"Chapter four," he said against my stomach, "you wrote that I'd taste you. That I'd trace the jewelry with my tongue and it would feel like a prayer." His mouth closed over the silver barbell, warm and wet, and my hips jerked forward without permission. "But you didn't go far enough. You pull back. Right when it gets good, you cut away to the next scene. Why is that?"

"Because I—" A gasp as his tongue flicked the gem. "Because I didn't know. What it would actually feel like."

"And now?"

His lips traveled lower, following the curve of the barbell, the tiny metal ball beneath my skin, the sensitive flesh around it. He kissed the piercing like it was something sacred. Like he'd been waiting years to do exactly this. His tongue traced a slow circle and I made a sound—low, involuntary, something between a whimper and his name.

"Now you know," he said.

He wasn't asking.

His hands found my hips, gripping them hard enough to anchor me. His mouth was relentless, lips and tongue and the gentle scrape of teeth, worshipping the piercing with a single-minded focus that made my vision blur at the edges. Every nerve in my body had relocated to that one point, the silver-studded focal point of his attention.

"You're going to rewrite chapter four," he said, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot and damp on my slick skin. "And chapter seven. And every other chapter you ever wrote about me."

"Why?" The word was barely air.

"Because fiction," he said, rising to his feet, his body pressing mine into the wall, his mouth hovering a millimeter from my ear, "becomes autobiography tonight."

His hand flattened against my stomach, palm covering the piercing, possessive and warm and trembling with something that felt like the beginning of an earthquake.

"Now. Tell me how chapter eight starts."

[risleylime]

@tinytimetravelharmony - requested

Chapter 1: The Radio Demon's Invitation

The jazz curled through the air like cigarette smoke, winding its way through the crowded ballroom and wrapping around her like a familiar blanket. She'd spent weeks learning the steps, the slang, the way women wore their hair in 1933 New Orleans. Weeks perfecting the accent. Weeks making sure every detail of her disguise would hold up under scrutiny.

She just hadn't planned on him.

Alastor moved through the party with the easy confidence of a man who knew every corner of every room he entered. Tall and lean, with sharp features and eyes that seemed to catch the light differently than everyone else's—darker, more knowing. His smile never quite reached those eyes. That was the first thing she'd noticed when she'd finally seen him in person, after all her careful research. The smile was a mask, and a good one, but she'd spent her whole life learning to read masks.

She'd positioned herself near the refreshment table, a glass of champagne she didn't intend to drink held loosely in her fingers. The dress she'd chosen was period-appropriate—deep burgundy, falling just below her knees, with a modest neckline that still managed to flatter. Everything about her screamed "out-of-town girl trying to fit in."

Which was exactly the problem.

"You seem lost in thought, my dear." His voice slid over her like warm velvet, and she turned to find him standing closer than she'd expected. Close enough that she could smell his cologne—something woodsy and vaguely floral, expensive without being showy. His smile was polite, welcoming even, but his eyes tracked every micro-expression on her face. "A beautiful woman shouldn't look so troubled at such a lively affair."

"Just thinking about home." The lie came easily, practiced. "I'm not from around here. The South is... different than what I'm used to."

"A Northerner, then?" He gestured to a waiter, trading her untouched champagne for a fresh glass. "New York, perhaps? Chicago? You have a certain... urgency in the way you carry yourself. Like you're used to moving faster than our lazy Southern pace."

"California, actually." She offered a small smile, hoping it looked shy. "Very different pace of life."

"California." He repeated the word slowly, as if tasting it. His gaze drifted over her hair, her jewelry, the small details she'd worked so hard to perfect. "Fascinating. And what brings a California girl to New Orleans in the middle of such... interesting times?"

She'd prepared for this. Had answers ready—family visiting, a dying relative, a job opportunity. But the way he watched her made the words stick in her throat. He wasn't just making conversation. He was cataloging. Analyzing. The way a scientist might study a particularly interesting specimen under glass.

"Family matters," she managed. "My grandmother grew up here. She wanted to see the old neighborhood one last time."

"How sweet." His smile widened, but something in his posture shifted—predatory, patient. "Family is so important, isn't it? The ties that bind us to history. To our roots." He leaned in, and his voice dropped to a murmur meant only for her. "Tell me, does your grandmother have a name? Perhaps I know the family. New Orleans is a small town, despite its size. Everyone knows everyone, in the end."

Panic fluttered in her chest. She hadn't expected him to dig this deep this quickly. The time travel device sat heavy in her hidden pocket, a small metal cylinder that represented her only way home. She just needed to survive this conversation, this night. Then she could retreat, regroup, plan better for next time—

"You know," he said, his tone almost conversational, "there's a lovely garden just through those doors. Much quieter than this crowd. I find it easier to have real conversations without all this noise." He extended his arm, a perfect gentleman offering a perfect escape. "Would you care to join me? I promise I don't bite. At least..." His smile sharpened. "Not without an invitation."

She should have said no. Should have made an excuse, slipped away into the crowd, disappeared into the humid New Orleans night. But she'd come here for a reason—to study him, to understand him, to satisfy the strange pull she'd felt since first seeing his photograph in those old archives.

So she took his arm.

The garden was beautiful, she had to admit. Wrought-iron trellises heavy with climbing roses, stone pathways lit by flickering gas lamps, the distant sound of jazz muffled by thick hedges. Private. Secluded. Perfect for the intimate conversation he'd promised.

She realized too late that it was also perfect for other things.

"You're very good," he said quietly, stopping in the center of the garden. His back was to her, his posture relaxed, but she could see the tension in his shoulders. "The dress, the hair, the way you hold that glass. You've done your research."

"I don't know what you—"

"Please." He turned, and the genial host had vanished. In his place stood something colder, sharper, more honest. A knife glinted in his hand—where had that come from?—but he held it loosely, almost casually. "I've lived in New Orleans my entire life. I know every family, every name, every history. And I've never heard of yours." He stepped closer. "So why don't you tell me the truth, my dear? Before this conversation takes a more... unpleasant turn."

Her heart slammed against her ribs. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to observe, study, slip away. Instead, she stood trapped in a garden with the most dangerous man in New Orleans, her lies unraveling around her.

"I—" The words caught in her throat. "I can explain."

"Please do." His smile hadn't changed, but his eyes had gone dark. "I have plenty of time. And I'm very curious."

She told him everything.

Not because she wanted to, but because the words poured out of her like water from a cracked vessel—the future, the time machine, her research, her obsession. She told him about the archives, the photographs, the way she'd become fascinated with him. The way that fascination had twisted into something deeper, something she couldn't name.

He listened without interrupting, his expression unreadable.

When she finished, there was a long moment where neither of them moved. Then—

"Well." He tucked the knife away, his smile shifting into something she couldn't interpret. "That's a story I haven't heard before."

"I know it sounds insane—"

"Time travel." He tested the words like they were foreign. "And you came all this way to see me?"

Her face burned. "I know how it sounds."

"What I find most interesting," he continued, stepping closer, "is that you're still lying. Not about the time travel, perhaps. But about your reasons." His head tilted, studying her. "You didn't come to study me. You came because you wanted something. The question is... what?"

Before she could answer, her pocket beeped.

Three short tones. Then silence.

She knew what it meant. Even before she reached into her pocket and felt the dead device, she knew. The battery—the one thing she hadn't thought to check, the one detail she'd overlooked in all her careful planning.

"What is that?" Alastor asked, his voice sharp.

"Nothing." But she was already pulling out the cylinder, already seeing the dark screen, already knowing. "Nothing, I just—"

She was trapped.

The realization hit her like a physical blow. No way home. No way back. She'd rewritten history by stepping into it, and now history had closed around her like a fist.

Alastor watched her face, reading every emotion that flickered across her features. Then, slowly, that sharp smile returned.

"It seems," he said, "that you're going to be staying longer than planned." He extended his hand, an invitation. "Come with me. I have a private suite nearby—somewhere we can discuss your situation more... thoroughly."

[risleylime]

I’m doing requests I write about any and everything don’t be scared to comment and make a request 

[risleylime]

Chapter 1: Collars and Confessions - Lucifer x Alastor

Lucifer Morningstar sat on the edge of the velvet chaise lounge, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm against the armrest. The hotel's parlor felt too quiet tonight. Charlie had retired hours ago, leaving him alone with his thoughts—and that insufferable Radio Demon who seemed to materialize precisely when Lucifer least wanted him to.

"You're tense, Your Majesty."

That static-laced voice cut through the silence like a blade. Lucifer didn't bother looking up. He kept his gaze fixed on the fireplace, watching the flames dance across the hearth.

"I'm always tense, Alastor. It comes with the territory of running Hell."

A low, crackling laugh answered him. Footsteps approached—too soft for someone with such a commanding presence. When Lucifer finally glanced up, he found the Radio Demon standing mere inches away, his perpetual smile stretched wide across his face. Those sharp teeth gleamed in the firelight.

"I don't think that's it at all." Alastor tilted his head, his microphone staff materializing briefly before dissolving into shadow. "I think there's something else entirely."

Lucifer's throat went dry. He uncrossed his legs, shifting his weight as if to stand, but something in Alastor's gaze pinned him in place. Those red eyes—calculating, hungry—held him captive with an intensity that made his skin prickle.

"And what would you know about it?"

"Oh, I know plenty." Alastor's hand reached out, claws grazing along Lucifer's jaw. The touch was barely there, yet it sent electricity cascading down his spine. "I've been watching you for quite some time. The King of Hell, practically vibrating with need. It's almost... endearing."

Lucifer's breath caught. He wanted to deny it. He wanted to push Alastor away and remind him exactly who he was dealing with. But his body betrayed him, leaning into that featherlight touch like a man starving for contact.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Alastor's thumb traced Lucifer's lower lip, pressing just enough to part his mouth. "Then why is your heart racing right now? Why haven't you pushed me away?"

The question hung in the air between them. Lucifer's mind raced, grasping for some witty retort, some cutting remark that would shatter this moment. But his thoughts scattered the moment Alastor leaned closer, that ever-present grin now inches from his face.

"Let me guess," Alastor murmured, his voice dropping to something darker. More intimate. "You're used to being the one in control. Used to having demons bow and scrape at your feet. But what you want..." His claws moved from Lucifer's jaw to his throat, resting there without squeezing. A promise. A threat. "What you want is someone to make you kneel instead."

A shudder ran through Lucifer's entire body. His hands gripped the edge of the chaise lounge, knuckles whitening against the velvet.

"That's—"

"True?" Alastor finished for him. "Admit it, darling. I can smell it on you. Feel it in the way you're practically trembling."

Lucifer's pride warred with his desire. He was the Devil, the first fallen angel, the ruler of this entire godforsaken realm. He should not be sitting here, practically shaking, while some overlord of a demon called him out on his deepest, most hidden desires.

But here he was. Here he was.

"What do you want, Alastor?"

The Radio Demon's laugh crackled through the air again, but it sounded different this time—richer, warmer, threaded with something possessive that made Lucifer's stomach clench.

"I want to give you exactly what you're asking for." Alastor's claws tightened fractionally against his throat. "I want to take you apart piece by piece until you forget you were ever King of anything. And I think..." He leaned in, his breath ghosting against Lucifer's ear. "I think you'd let me, wouldn't you?"

Lucifer's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. No words came.

"Cat got your tongue?" Alastor pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "Or are you finally being honest with yourself?"

Heat flooded Lucifer's face. His pants had grown tight, his body responding despite every rational thought screaming at him to maintain some dignity. But dignity seemed in short supply when Alastor was looking at him like that—like he was something to be devoured.

"I hate you," Lucifer breathed.

"No, you don't." Alastor's smile sharpened. "You hate how much you want me. There's a difference."

His free hand found its way to Lucifer's chest, shoving him back against the chaise lounge with surprising force. Lucifer gasped at the sudden movement, at the way Alastor followed him down, pressing his weight against him.

"Tell me to stop," Alastor commanded softly. "Tell me to stop, and I'll walk away. We can pretend this never happened."

Lucifer stared up at him. The firelight cast dancing shadows across Alastor's face, highlighting those sharp features, that dangerous smile. His body ached. His pride screamed. But his want—his need—overshadowed everything else.

"Don't stop."

Two words. Two words were all it took for something to shift in Alastor's expression. His smile grew wider, revealing every sharp tooth in his mouth.

"Good choice."

His claws descended on Lucifer's collar, tearing through expensive fabric like it was nothing. Buttons scattered across the floor. Cool air hit newly exposed skin, raising goosebumps in its wake. Lucifer arched up without thinking, seeking more contact, more pressure—more everything.

"So eager," Alastor hummed. His mouth found Lucifer's throat, teeth scraping along the column without breaking skin. Yet. "I wonder if you'll be this eager when I'm finished with you."

Lucifer's hands flew up, tangling into Alastor's coat. He wasn't sure if he wanted to push him away or pull him closer. His head had gone fuzzy, thoughts scattering like ash in the wind.

"I thought you liked to talk," Lucifer managed, his voice thin and breathless.

Alastor's laugh vibrated against his pulse point. "I do. But I think I'd rather hear you beg."

His teeth sank into the junction of Lucifer's neck and shoulder—hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make him cry out. The pain spiked through him, sharp and brilliant, but underneath it pulsed a darker, twisting pleasure that made his vision blur.

"That's it," Alastor murmured against his skin, tongue tracing the marks he'd left. "Let me hear you."

[risleylime]

Chapter 2: Promises

Sasuke's hand hovered over the phone, his jaw tight. Naruto watched the conflict play across his face—the hardening of his features, the way his body tensed above him. For a moment, he thought Sasuke might actually answer it.

"Don't."

Naruto's hand shot up, catching Sasuke's wrist. His voice was rough, wrecked from what they'd just shared. "Whatever it is, it can wait."

Sasuke's dark eyes met his. Something flickered there—surprise, maybe, at Naruto's boldness. At the possessiveness in his tone. The phone buzzed again, insistently, and Sasuke's expression tightened further.

But then he exhaled. His hand moved away from the nightstand, and he silenced the call without looking at the screen.

"You're trouble," Sasuke murmured, but there was no bite to it. Just exhaustion. And something else—something that made Naruto's chest ache.

"I'm yours," Naruto corrected, and watched Sasuke's composure crack.

Sasuke lowered himself again, his weight settling between Naruto's thighs. They were still connected—Sasuke still inside him—and the intimacy of it hit Naruto all over again. He could feel Sasuke softening, could feel the evidence of their release cooling between their bodies. It should have felt messy. Uncomfortable.

Instead, it felt like exactly where he was meant to be.

"I've imagined this," Sasuke admitted quietly, his face pressed into the curve of Naruto's neck. His breath was warm against damp skin. "When I was away. When I was training. When I was trying to convince myself that I didn't need anyone."

Naruto's hands found Sasuke's back, fingers tracing the ridges of his spine. "And?"

"And I was lying to myself." Sasuke's lips brushed his pulse point. "Every time."

The confession sent heat pooling in Naruto's stomach. Not just arousal—though that was certainly there, building again despite his recent release—but something deeper. Something that felt dangerously close to everything he'd ever wanted.

"Show me," Naruto whispered. "Show me what you imagined."

Sasuke raised his head. His dark eyes were intense, searching. "Again?"

"Again. As many times as you want."

Something shifted in Sasuke's expression. Hunger, sharper than before. His hips rolled experimentally, and Naruto gasped—oversensitive but already craving more.

"Careful what you ask for," Sasuke warned, but his voice had dropped to that low, rough tone that made Naruto's body respond instantly.

"I'm not careful. I never have been."

Sasuke's mouth curved—the closest thing to a smile Naruto had seen from him in years. Then he pulled back, withdrawing slowly, and Naruto whimpered at the loss. The sound embarrassed him, but Sasuke just leaned down and kissed him.

"Turn over."

The command sent electricity straight down Naruto's spine. He obeyed without hesitation, rolling onto his stomach, his face pressing into the pillow that still smelled like Sasuke. The rain continued outside, a constant rhythm that seemed to match his heartbeat.

Sasuke's hands found his hips, lifting them, positioning him. Naruto felt exposed—vulnerable in a way he'd never been with anyone else. But when Sasuke's lips pressed against his shoulder blade, trailing down his spine, he felt only anticipation.

"You have no idea," Sasuke murmured against his skin, "how long I've wanted to do this."

His tongue traced the dip of Naruto's lower back. Naruto's fingers twisted in the sheets.

"I used to watch you train. Watch the way you moved. The way your muscles worked under your skin." Sasuke's breath was hot against the curve of his ass. "I told myself it was just admiration. Just observation."

His hands spread Naruto open, and Naruto buried his face in the pillow, his face flushed hot.

"But it wasn't." Sasuke's voice was barely audible now. "I wanted to consume you."

Then his mouth was there—his tongue pressing against Naruto's entrance, wet and warm and there—and Naruto cried out into the pillow. The sensation was overwhelming, intimate in a way that made his entire body tremble.

"Fuck—Sasuke—"

Sasuke didn't respond with words. His tongue worked slowly, deliberately, opening Naruto up with a patience that contradicted the desperation of their earlier round. Each stroke sent sparks cascading up Naruto's spine. Each press made his cock harden again against the sheets, friction building with every involuntary roll of his hips.

"Please," Naruto gasped, though he wasn't sure what he was asking for. More. Everything. "Sasuke, please—"

Sasuke pulled back, and Naruto heard the sound of the condom wrapper, the click of the lube cap. Then slick fingers pressed inside him—two this time, stretching him open with practiced ease.

"I've got you," Sasuke said, his voice strained now. "I'll always have you."

The words hit Naruto somewhere deep. He pushed back against Sasuke's fingers, desperate for more, and Sasuke obliged—adding a third, curling them until he found that spot that made Naruto see white.

"There—right there—"

Sasuke withdrew his fingers, and then the blunt head of his cock was pressing against Naruto's entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully seated, his hips flush against Naruto's ass.

They stayed like that for a moment—still, connected, breathing. Naruto could feel every inch of Sasuke inside him, could feel the tremor in Sasuke's hands where they gripped his hips.

"Move," Naruto pleaded. "I need—I need you to—"

Sasuke obeyed.

His rhythm was different this time—slower, deeper, each thrust deliberate and devastating. He leaned forward, his chest pressing against Naruto's back, his lips finding the sensitive spot behind Naruto's ear.

"I thought about this," Sasuke breathed, his hips never stopping. "About having you underneath me. About making you feel what I couldn't say."

Naruto's response was a broken moan.

"About being inside you so deep you'd never forget me." Sasuke's teeth grazed his earlobe. "Even if I left again."

The words cut through the haze of pleasure. Naruto turned his head, catching Sasuke's mouth in a messy, desperate kiss.

"You're not leaving," he said against Sasuke's lips. "Not again. Not ever."

Sasuke's rhythm faltered. Something raw passed across his face—vulnerability, longing, fear.

"Promise me," Naruto demanded, pushing back against him, taking him deeper. "Promise me you'll stay."

Sasuke's hand found Naruto's cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. His voice was rough when he finally spoke.

"I promise."

The words shattered something in Naruto. His release built like a wave—higher, harder, unstoppable—and when it finally crested, he came with Sasuke's name on his lips, spilling over Sasuke's hand and the sheets beneath him.

Sasuke followed moments later, burying himself deep, his forehead pressed against Naruto's shoulder as he groaned his release.

They collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and ragged breathing. The rain continued outside, softer now. The storm had passed.

Sasuke's arm tightened around Naruto's waist. His lips brushed the back of his neck.

"I meant it," he said quietly. "I'm not going anywhere."

Naruto turned in his arms, cupping Sasuke's face, pressing their foreheads together.

"Good. Because I'm never letting you go again."

The phone lay silent on the nightstand, the call forgotten. Whatever Orochimaru wanted, it could wait. Nothing mattered right now except this—the warmth of Sasuke's body, the steady beat of his heart, and the promise of more mornings just like this one.

[risleylime]

Chapter 1: His Claim

The air in the Hazbin Hotel’s parlor hung thick with the scent of old velvet and Alastor’s particular brand of chaos—a crackling static that clung to the furniture, the wallpaper, the back of my throat. He’d been watching me all evening from his place by the dead fireplace, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled. Not speaking. Just that grin. That unbroken, razor-sharp grin that made my pulse stutter in ways that had nothing to do with fear.

Or everything to do with it.

“My dear,” he said, and the static popped. “You’ve been fidgeting for the better part of an hour. Do sit still. It’s terribly distracting.”

I forced my hands into my lap. “Maybe I don’t want to sit still.”

The grin widened. Imperceptibly, to anyone else. But I’d learned to read the minute calibrations of his face—the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when genuine interest flickered behind the showman’s mask.

“Oh?” He rose, and the movement had no transitional frames. One moment he was seated. The next he was standing directly before me, the scent of ozone and old radio broadcasts rolling off his crimson coat. “And what, precisely, do you want?”

My throat closed.

His clawed glove found my chin, tilting my face upward. The touch was featherlight. Restrained. The kind of restraint that promised terrible, wonderful things.

“I asked you a question, sweetheart.” His voice dropped into registers that vibrated in my chest. “And I do so despise repeating myself.”

“You,” I managed. The word came out raw. “I want you.”

The static around us screamed.

Then silence.

Alastor’s thumb traced my lower lip, and his pupils dilated—black swallowing crimson until only thin rings of red remained. “Do you know what you’re asking for?” His tone had shed its theatrical lilt. Beneath it hummed something older, hungrier. “I am not one of your mortal dalliances. My appetites are… specific.”

“Tell me.”

The laugh that escaped him was a burst of distorted radio frequencies. “Direct. I do admire that.” He released my chin and stepped back, hands clasped behind him. The showman’s posture. But his chest rose and fell with breaths too measured to be casual. “I have a particular fascination, you see. A delightfully carnal urge that even Hell itself hasn’t managed to wring from my soul.”

I stayed silent. Waiting.

“Breeding.” The word crackled through the room like a needle dragged across vinyl. “The act of filling a partner so thoroughly, so completely, that there can be no doubt of the claim left behind.” His antlers began to elongate, branching slowly outward. “The biological imperative to seed, to mark, to own. Mating without barriers between us. Nothing to catch what I’d spill inside you.”

Heat pooled low in my belly. Sharp and immediate.

“That doesn’t sound like a fascination,” I whispered. “That sounds like a need.”

His composure fractured.

One moment he was across the room. The next his body pressed mine into the velvet chaise, his weight a delicious cage of wool and sinew. His mouth hovered above my throat, not touching, just breathing. Hot. Uneven.

“It is a need I have denied myself for decades.” Each word vibrated against my skin. “Because once I start, my dear, I will not stop until I’m certain it’s taken. Your body will remember me for days. You’ll feel what I’ve left inside you every time you move, every time you sit, every time you so much as think.”

My hips bucked involuntarily. Seeking friction.

His laugh against my neck was pure static. “Already so eager.”

Claws found the hem of my shirt. Not tearing—Alastor was never so graceless. He sliced the fabric with surgical precision, peeling it away from my skin like unwrapping something precious. The cool parlor air hit my breasts and I gasped.

“Look at you.” He reared back just enough to take me in, and his expression—God, his expression. The grin remained, but behind it lurked something ravenous. “I’ve imagined this. More times than I care to admit. You, beneath me. Ready. Willing.”

“I am,” I said. “All of those things.”

“Prove it.” He unfastened his trousers with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact. “Tell me what you want. Explicitly. Use the words I used.”

My face burned. But the ache between my thighs had grown into a pulsing demand that drowned out shame.

“I want you to breed me.” The words tumbled out, clumsy and desperate. “No barriers. Nothing between us. I want to feel you finish inside me and I want to know it’s taking.”

The sound Alastor made was not human. It was radio interference and wounded animal and something far more ancient than either.

His trousers fell. His cock sprang free—pale skin flushed at the tip, already slick with anticipation. He was longer than I’d expected, with a slight upward curve that made my inner walls clench in empty anticipation.

“You understand,” he said, positioning himself between my thighs, “that I will not be gentle. This is not about your pleasure, though you will experience it regardless. This is about sating something. Filling you past the point of reason.”

“Then do it.”

He entered me in one fluid thrust.

I cried out—not from pain, though the stretch verged on overwhelming. From the rightness of it. The way his body seemed engineered to fit mine, to carve space inside me that no one else would ever reach.

Alastor did not pause to let me adjust. His hips drew back and snapped forward again, setting a rhythm that was punishing and precise. Each stroke buried him to the hilt. Each withdrawal left me aching and hollow until the next thrust filled me completely.

“You feel—” His voice broke. Broke. The Radio Demon, voice of Hell’s most feared broadcast, could not complete a sentence while buried inside me. “Impossibly tight. Warm. I should have done this the moment I saw you.”

His claws found my hips, anchoring me in place as he fucked deeper. The chaise groaned beneath us. Somewhere distant, something shattered—a vase, a window, I couldn’t tell and couldn’t care.

“Look at me.” The command was laced with static and desperation.

I met his eyes. The red rings had nearly vanished, swallowed by expanding black. His grin had become something feral, lips pulled back over sharp teeth.

“You’re going to take every drop,” he said. “And when I’m finished, I’m going to stay inside you until I’m certain nothing escapes. Until my seed has nowhere to go but deeper.”

His pace increased. Words dissolved into static and broken frequencies as his composure finally, fully crumbled. He was no longer the Radio Demon. He was a creature driven by one imperative, and I was the vessel for his obsession.

My own climax built with terrifying speed—not a gradual climb but a sheer cliff I was being dragged toward. His pubic bone ground against my clit with every thrust, and the combined sensations of fullness and friction short-circuited my ability to think.

“Alastor—”

“Not yet.” His hand clamped over my mouth, muffling my cries. “Not until I’m ready. You’ll come when I fill you. You’ll come because I fill you. Because your body knows what it’s receiving.”

Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes. The pleasure was unbearable, held at bay only by his command and his hand silencing my release.

His rhythm stuttered. The static around us intensified until the air itself seemed to vibrate with distortion.

“Now,” he rasped. “Now, my darling. Take it. Take all of it. ”

He slammed home and held there, buried so deep I felt him in my throat. The first pulse of his release triggered mine—white-hot and devastating, my vision narrowing to a pinprick of light as my body milked him with convulsive, involuntary clenches.

Alastor groaned. A raw, unprocessed sound that held no radio filter. His hips jerked with each additional pulse, pumping his seed deeper, making good on every promise.

He stayed inside me as the last tremors faded. True to his word. Not moving. Not withdrawing. Just filling me, his body a plug ensuring nothing was wasted.

His antlers had receded. His breathing steadied against my neck.

“You’re still,” I whispered, “inside me.”

“Yes.” The static had softened to a contented hum. “And I will remain so for some time.” His claw traced my lower belly with proprietary satisfaction. “I want to feel when it takes. I want to know the moment my obsession becomes permanent.”

He shifted just enough to meet my gaze, and the grin, impossibly, held something almost tender.

“And then,” he said, “we’ll begin again. Just to be certain.”

[risleylime]

Chapter 1: soaked

The rain hammered against the windows of Naruto's apartment, a relentless downpour that matched the storm brewing inside his chest. He'd been waiting for hours, pacing the length of his small living room, his mind racing through every possible scenario. When he finally heard the knock—three sharp raps, pause, then two more—his heart nearly stopped.

Sasuke.

Naruto's hand trembled slightly as he reached for the door. He knew this moment would come eventually. After everything—the chasing, the fighting, the desperate need to bring his friend home—Sasuke had finally returned. But not to the village. Not yet. To him.

He pulled the door open.

Sasuke stood in the hallway, his dark hair plastered to his face, clothes soaked through. His expression was unreadable as always, but Naruto had learned to read the subtle shifts in those dark eyes. There was exhaustion there. Vulnerability. Something else that made Naruto's stomach tighten.

"You're letting the heat out," Sasuke said flatly.

Naruto stepped aside, his throat too dry for words. Sasuke entered, dripping water onto the worn floorboards. The door clicked shut behind him.

They stood in silence. Naruto could hear his own heartbeat, could feel the weight of years of longing pressing against his ribs. He'd imagined this moment countless times—what he'd say, what he'd do. But now that Sasuke was actually here, all those rehearsed speeches evaporated.

"Why are you here?" Naruto finally managed.

Sasuke turned to face him. Water dripped from his jaw. "You know why."

Did he? Naruto's mind raced. There had been looks exchanged during their final battle—charged moments that went beyond rivalry or friendship. And later, when they'd lain bleeding on the ground, fingers intertwined, something had shifted between them.

"Say it," Naruto heard himself say. "I need to hear you say it."

Sasuke's jaw tightened. For a moment, Naruto thought he'd retreat behind his walls. But then something broke in his expression—a crack in the carefully constructed armor.

"I've been running from this," Sasuke said quietly. "From you. From what I feel when I'm near you."

Naruto stepped closer. "And what do you feel?"

"Like I'm losing control." The admission seemed to cost Sasuke everything. His voice dropped lower. "Like I can't think straight. Like I'd burn down the entire world just to—"

Naruto grabbed the front of Sasuke's soaked shirt and pulled him in.

Their mouths collided with a desperation neither had anticipated. Naruto felt Sasuke's hands find his waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. The kiss was messy, urgent—all teeth and tongue and years of suppressed hunger. Sasuke's lips were cold from the rain but warmed quickly against Naruto's mouth.

"I've wanted this," Naruto gasped between kisses. "For so long. Fuck—I've wanted—"

"I know." Sasuke backed him against the wall. His hands moved upward, tangling in Naruto's hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat. "Every time we fought. Every time our eyes met. You think I didn't notice?"

Naruto groaned as Sasuke's mouth found his neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. His own hands roamed desperately across Sasuke's back, pulling him closer, needing to eliminate any remaining space between them.

"Bedroom," Sasuke growled against his pulse point.

They stumbled down the narrow hallway, neither willing to fully break contact. Naruto's shirt came off somewhere along the way—ripped over his head and discarded. He returned the favor with Sasuke's wet top, buttons scattering across the floor as he yanked it open.

The bedroom was dark, lit only by the ambient glow from the streetlights outside. Naruto found the edge of his bed and fell backward, pulling Sasuke down with him. The weight of him—solid and real—made Naruto's head spin.

"Tell me this is okay," Sasuke said, hovering over him. His voice was rough, barely controlled. "Tell me you want this."

Naruto cupped Sasuke's face, thumbs brushing across his sharp cheekbones. "I've never wanted anything more."

That was all the permission Sasuke needed. His mouth descended on Naruto's chest, lips and tongue tracing the defined muscles. Naruto arched beneath him, soft sounds escaping his throat. Sasuke took his time, mapping every inch of skin, memorizing the spots that made Naruto's breath catch.

"You're overdressed," Naruto murmured, his hands fumbling with Sasuke's belt.

Sasuke sat back, stripping the remaining clothes with efficient movements. Naruto followed suit, and then they were both bare, skin against skin, nothing left between them.

The feeling was overwhelming. Sasuke's body against his—hard muscle and warm skin and want pressing insistently against his hip. Naruto reached down, wrapping his fingers around Sasuke's cock, and the sound that escaped Sasuke's throat was unlike anything he'd ever heard from him.

"Naruto—" Sasuke's head dropped to his shoulder. "I won't last if you—"

"Then don't." Naruto stroked him slowly, deliberately. "We have all night."

Sasuke let out a shaky breath against Naruto's neck. Then his hand found Naruto's cock, matching his rhythm. They moved together, hands working in tandem, breath mingling in the small space between their faces.

"Look at me," Naruto whispered.

Sasuke raised his head. His dark eyes were blown wide, pupils swallowing the color. Naruto could see everything in that gaze—the longing, the fear, the desperate hope. He pulled Sasuke down into another kiss, slower this time. Deeper.

"I want you inside me," Naruto breathed against his lips. "I want to feel you."

Sasuke's hand stilled. "Are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything."

Sasuke reached toward the nightstand, retrieving the supplies he'd somehow known would be there. Preparation was slow, deliberate—Sasuke's fingers stretching Naruto open while swallowing his soft sounds with kisses. By the time he finally positioned himself, Naruto was trembling with need.

"Ready?" Sasuke asked, his voice strained.

Naruto pulled him down. "Yes. Yes—please—"

Sasuke pushed forward slowly, inch by inch, giving Naruto's body time to adjust. The stretch was intense, almost overwhelming, but Naruto held on, breathing through it until he felt Sasuke fully seated within him.

They stayed still for a moment, foreheads pressed together, sharing breath. Then Naruto rolled his hips experimentally, and Sasuke groaned—a sound so raw and undone that it shot straight through Naruto's chest.

"Move," Naruto demanded. "I need you to move."

Sasuke obeyed.

The rhythm started slow, almost gentle, but quickly built into something urgent and consuming. Each thrust drove the air from Naruto's lungs, each snap of Sasuke's hips sending sparks cascading down his spine. The room filled with the sounds of their bodies meeting—skin against skin, ragged breaths, whispered names.

Naruto could feel himself getting close, the pressure building at the base of his spine. He wrapped his legs tighter around Sasuke's waist, pulling him deeper, changing the angle until—

"There—" Naruto cried out. "Right there, don't stop, don't stop—"

Sasuke increased his pace, driving into that spot with ruthless precision. His hand found Naruto's cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, and Naruto felt himself falling—falling—

"I'm gonna—"

"Do it," Sasuke growled. "Come for me, Naruto."

Naruto shattered. His release tore through him in waves, his body clenching around Sasuke as he spilled between their stomachs. Sasuke followed seconds later, burying himself deep as his own climax overtook him, Naruto's name falling from his lips.

They collapsed together, breathing ragged, hearts pounding against each other's chests. The rain continued outside, but the storm inside had finally broken.

Sasuke shifted, moving to pull out, but Naruto's legs tightened around him.

"Not yet," Naruto murmured. "Stay."

Sasuke looked at him—that unreadable expression returning, but softer now. Vulnerable. He reached up, brushing damp hair from Naruto's forehead.

"I'm not going anywhere this time," he said quietly.

But even as the words left his mouth, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. Sasuke's gaze flicked toward it, his expression hardening. The screen lit up with a single name: Orochimaru.

Sasuke's hand reached for it.

[risleylime]

Spooky from all my Block X Maddie from euphoria

Chapter 1 falling into him

She'd met him at a party months ago, back when she was still trying to convince everyone around her that she was fine. Totally fine. Just a girl making questionable decisions at two in the morning, looking for something that felt like control.

Spooky leaned against the counter beside her, close enough that she could smell the mix of cigarette smoke and cologne radiating off his leather jacket. His eyes traced the line of her jaw, down to the thin strap of her top, before meeting her gaze with a smirk.

"You're a long way from home, mi consagrada," he said, his accent thick and warm, the words sliding out like he was savoring them.

Maddie shrugged, taking a sip from the red plastic cup in her hand. The cheap vodka burned her throat, but she welcomed it. "Maybe I got tired of the same old scene."

Spooky chuckled, low and quiet, like he knew something she didn't. He shifted closer, his shoulder brushing against hers. "This isn't usually your crowd."

"And you're not usually the type I'd hang around with."

His smirk deepened. He didn't argue. Instead, he reached past her to grab a bottle of something stronger from the counter behind her, his chest pressing briefly against her arm. The contact was brief, electric. Maddie's pulse jumped, a small betrayal she tried to ignore.

He poured a shot into a dirty glass and slid it toward her. "You came here for a reason."

It wasn't a question. Maddie met his stare, her lips parting slightly. She could feel the weight of his attention on her, like he was reading every thought she hadn't spoken aloud. The air between them was thick, charged with something she didn't want to name yet.

"Maybe I just wanted to see if you remembered me," she said, her voice lighter than she felt.

Spooky's gaze darkened, his pupils blowing wide. "I remember everything about you, Maddie." He said her name slowly, tasting each syllable.

The party faded into background noise. Maddie set her cup down, her fingers trembling slightly against the cheap plastic. She didn't know if it was the alcohol or the way Spooky was looking at her—like she was something worth memorizing—but she felt suddenly, acutely aware of how close they were standing.

"Then you probably already know why I'm here," she whispered.

Spooky didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached out, his rough fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face. The touch was gentle, almost hesitant, a contrast to the hard exterior he projected. His hand lingered at her jawline, his thumb grazing her cheek.

"I've got a pretty good idea," he murmured. "But I want to hear you say it."

Maddie's breath caught. She'd spent so long performing—for her family, for her friends, for herself—that the idea of saying something honest felt foreign. Dangerous. But looking at Spooky, at the way he was watching her, she realized she didn't want to hide.

"I don't want to think tonight," she admitted softly. "I just want to feel something real."

Spooky's expression shifted. For a moment, something softer flickered behind his eyes—understanding, maybe even longing. Then his hand slid to the back of her neck, pulling her closer until his lips hovered over hers.

"Then let's get out of here," he whispered against her mouth.

The walk to his room was a blur. Maddie barely registered the narrow hallway or the sound of muffled laughter from the other side of the thin walls. Her focus was entirely on Spooky—on the heat of his hand at the small of her back, on the anticipation coiling tighter in her stomach with every step.

The moment the door clicked shut behind them, the noise of the party disappeared. The room was small, barely big enough for a bed and a dresser, but Maddie didn't care. Spooky turned to face her, his eyes dark and intent.

"Last chance to change your mind," he said, his voice rough.

Maddie didn't hesitate. She stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and pressed her lips to his.

The kiss started slow—deliberate—like they were both testing the waters. But when Spooky's hands gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him, everything changed. His mouth moved over hers with growing urgency, tasting her like he couldn't get enough. Maddie's fingers found the lapels of his jacket, shoving it off his shoulders. He let it fall to the floor without breaking the kiss.

Her back hit the mattress sooner than she expected. Spooky followed her down, his weight settling between her thighs as his mouth traced a path from her lips to her jaw, then lower—down the column of her throat. Each kiss left a burning trail, and Maddie's breaths came faster, her fingers tangling in his hair.

"You have no idea how long I've thought about this," he groaned against her skin, his voice muffled.

Maddie's response was lost in a gasp as his hand slid under her top, his calloused palm rough against her stomach. He took his time, exploring her with a patience that made her ache. His fingers traced the curve of her ribs, moving higher, and Maddie arched into his touch, silently begging for more.

Spooky pulled back just enough to tug her top over her head. His gaze dropped, drinking her in like she was something sacred, and for a moment, Maddie felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with her lack of clothes.

"Beautiful," he murmured, the word barely audible.

Then his mouth was on her again—hot and demanding—and Maddie stopped thinking entirely.

[risleylime]

Phainon x mydei

Rivalry snaps 

"You're tense," Mydei observed, his voice smooth and unhurried. A smile curved his lips. "I can see it in your shoulders. All that responsibility weighing you down?"

Phainon stopped mid-stride. Turned. His eyes, usually so composed, held a sharpness that made Mydei's pulse quicken. "I'm not tense. I'm thinking."

"About what?" Mydei pushed off the mantle, taking a deliberate step forward. "The mission? Our dear friends waiting for us back at the hotel? Or something else entirely?"

They had separated from the group hours ago, following different leads through the Dreamscape's winding corridors. Somehow, they had ended up here—in this forgotten suite, untouched by the revitalization efforts, suspended in a moment of faded grandeur. Alone.

The air between them crackled.

Phainon's jaw tightened. "Don't."

"Don't what?" Mydei took another step. Then another. The distance between them shrank with each calculated movement. "Don't notice how you've been avoiding me? Don't comment on how you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention?"

"I don't—" Phainon started.

"You do." Mydei was close now. Close enough to see the subtle twitch in Phainon's expression, the way his breath had grown shallow. Close enough to smell the faint traces of sandalwood and something uniquely him. "Every meeting. Every briefing. Every time our eyes meet across a crowded room, you look away first. It's almost adorable."

Phainon's composure cracked. "You think this is a game?"

"I think you take everything too seriously." Mydei reached out, trailing his fingers along the edge of Phainon's sleeve. The touch was featherlight. Deliberate. "I think you need someone to remind you that control is just an illusion we tell ourselves."

"Is that what you're doing?" Phainon's voice dropped low. Dangerous. "Reminding me?"

Mydei smiled. Let his hand slide lower, tracing down Phainon's arm with agonizing slowness. "I'm offering you something. A moment. Just us. No expectations, no consequences." His fingers found Phainon's wrist, pressing against the pulse point. It jumped beneath his touch. "Your heart's racing."

Phainon didn't pull away. Didn't move at all. He stood perfectly still, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

"Keep testing me," Phainon said, the words quiet and deliberate, "and you might not like what happens."

Mydei leaned in closer. His lips brushed the shell of Phainon's ear as he whispered, "Maybe I'm counting on it."

The snap was instantaneous.

Phainon's hand closed around Mydei's throat—not crushing, but firm. Unmistakable. He walked Mydei backward, slamming him against the nearest wall hard enough to rattle a nearby picture frame. Dust scattered into the golden light.

"You wanted my attention?" Phainon's face was inches away now, his composure shattered and replaced with something raw and hungry. "You have it."

Mydei's breath caught. His pulse thundered against Phainon's palm. This was what he had wanted—what he had been pushing toward with every calculated word and deliberate touch. But the reality of it, the sheer force of Phainon's reaction, sent a jolt through him that had nothing to do with fear.

"I've had your attention for months," Mydei managed, his voice rougher than intended. "You've just been too stubborn to admit it."

Phainon's grip tightened. His other hand came up to grip Mydei's jaw, forcing eye contact. The intimacy of it was devastating. "You talk too much."

"Then make me stop."

The kiss was brutal. All teeth and desperation and weeks of suppressed tension finally unleashed. Phainon devoured him, swallowing every gasp and moan that Mydei couldn't contain. Their bodies pressed together, hip to hip, chest to chest, and Mydei could feel every hard line of Phainon's frame against his own.

He had wanted this. Gods, he had wanted this.

But Phainon wasn't done with him.

"You've been pushing me," Phainon growled against his lips, "for weeks. Teasing. Testing. Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"I was hoping—" Mydei's words cut off in a groan as Phainon's hand dropped from his jaw to his belt, yanking it open with practiced efficiency.

"Hoping for what?" Phainon's fingers hooked into Mydei's waistband. "This?" He thrust his thigh between Mydei's legs, applying pressure that made Mydei's head fall back against the wall with a dull thud. "Or something more?"

Mydei's hands, which had been frozen in surprise, finally moved. He gripped Phainon's shoulders, nails digging in through the fabric. "You know exactly what I was hoping for."

"I know what you thought you wanted." Phainon's lips dragged down Mydei's throat, biting at the junction of neck and shoulder hard enough to bruise. "But you don't get to dictate this. Not anymore."

The words sent a shiver down Mydei's spine that had nothing to do with the chill of the abandoned suite. He had pushed and prodded, confident in his ability to maintain control. He had underestimated Phainon. Underestimated the depth of that carefully maintained composure and what lurked beneath it.

"Now," Phainon continued, pulling back just enough to meet Mydei's eyes, "you're going to be good and tell me exactly what you want. Every detail. And I'll decide if you deserve it."

Mydei's throat worked against Phainon's palm. His body thrummed with want so intense it bordered on desperation. The power dynamic had flipped so fast it made his head spin—and gods help him, he was absolutely here for it.

"I want you," Mydei breathed. "I want you to stop holding back. I want—"

The sound of a door opening somewhere in the suite shattered the moment.

Both men froze, their eyes snapping toward the sound. Footsteps echoed through the main corridor, growing closer.

"Phainon? Mydei?" A familiar voice called out. "Are you in here? We need to move—something's happening in the Dreamscape."

Phainon's grip loosened. His expression shifted, the raw hunger being banked behind that familiar mask of composure. But his eyes—his eyes still burned with promises unfulfilled.

"We're not done," Phainon murmured, so quiet only Mydei could hear. "Later. When we're alone again." His lips brushed Mydei's ear one final time. "And then you'll tell me everything you want, and I'll give you all of it."

[risleylime]

Chapter 1: Masks Slip in Moonlight

Ladybug breathed hard, hands on her knees. "That one was... rough."

He watched the rise and fall of her shoulders. Watched the way moonlight caught the sheen of sweat on her neck. They'd been doing this for years now—fighting together, protecting the city, retreating to their separate lives. But tonight, something felt different. Tonight, the usual boundaries felt paper-thin.

"You okay?" he asked, stepping closer.

She straightened, flashing him that signature smile that never failed to make his heart stutter. "Never better. Just need to catch my breath."

The Eiffel Tower's maintenance platform creaked beneath them. They were alone—completely, utterly alone—with nothing but steel beams and open air surrounding them. No civilians. No cameras. No Hawk Moth to interrupt.

Cat Noir felt his pulse quicken. The adrenaline from battle still surged through his veins, hot and demanding. Every nerve ending felt raw, exposed, like he'd been plugged directly into a live wire. And standing this close to her, close enough to see the golden flecks in her blue eyes, he could feel the familiar pull low in his gut.

"My Lady," he murmured, testing.

Her eyes lifted to meet his. "Chat."

The nickname landed differently tonight. Softer. More intimate. Like she was feeling it too—this strange, magnetic energy crackling between them.

He took another step. Then another. Until barely a foot separated them. She didn't move away. Didn't stiffen or roll her eyes like she usually did when he got too close. Instead, she just... watched him. Curious. Wary. Wanting.

"Adrenaline's a funny thing," he said, his voice dropping lower than he intended. "Makes you feel things you normally wouldn't."

"What kind of things?" Her tone was careful, but he caught the slight tremor beneath it.

Cat Noir tilted his head, studying her face. The way her lips parted just slightly. The way her chest rose and fell a little faster than before. "Makes you want to cross lines you've spent years drawing."

Her breath hitched. He heard it clearly in the quiet of the night. "Chat..."

"I'm not trying to push you." He held up his hands, palms out. "I just... I need you to know that tonight feels different. Do you feel it too?"

She was silent for a long moment. Her eyes searched his face, looking for something—sincerity, maybe. Or permission. Or perhaps she was looking for a reason to say no, and failing to find one.

"Yes," she finally whispered.

The word hit him like a physical blow. His tail twitched behind him, betraying his agitation. He'd dreamed of hearing her say that—admit that she felt this thing between them—but reality was so much sharper than fantasy. Because now he had to decide what to do with it.

Cat Noir reached out, slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. His gloved fingers brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. She leaned into the touch, just slightly, just enough to make his breath catch.

"All this time," he said quietly. "All these years. I've wondered what would happen if we ever stopped running."

"We're not running now," she replied.

"No. We're not."

The moon hung heavy and full above them, washing everything in silver light. The city sounds below faded to nothing. There was only this moment. This woman. This feeling that they were standing on the edge of something that would change everything.

"Cat Noir." Her voice was stronger now, more certain. "I need you to understand something."

"Tell me."

"I've spent so long pretending this—" she gestured between them, "—didn't exist. That I could ignore it. That if I just kept moving, kept fighting, it would fade."

"Did it?"

A small smile curved her lips. "What do you think?"

He returned it, something warm unfurling in his chest. "I think you're stubborn enough to try."

"I am." She stepped closer, closing the remaining distance between them. Her hand came up to rest against his chest, right over his racing heart. "But maybe I'm tired of being stubborn."

He covered her hand with his own, pressing it tighter against him. Let her feel how fast his heart was beating. Let her know that she wasn't alone in this—this terrifying, exhilarating freefall.

"Ladybug." The name felt sacred on his tongue. "Whatever happens tonight... it doesn't have to change anything. Tomorrow, we can go back to how things were. If that's what you want."

"What if it's not what I want?"

The question hung in the air between them. Loaded. Heavy with implications that made his head spin.

"Then," he said slowly, deliberately, "I think we should stop talking."

Her eyes widened fractionally. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. And for one breathless moment, Cat Noir thought she might close the gap herself. Might finally give in to the gravity that had been pulling them together for years.

But she didn't.

Instead, she looked up at him through her lashes—something he'd never seen from her before, something predatory—and said, "Then stop talking, Kitty."

His control snapped.

He moved before he could second-guess himself, one hand tangling in her hair while the other gripped her waist, pulling her flush against him. She gasped, but didn't pull away. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his suit, holding on tight.

Their faces were inches apart now. Close enough that he could count every eyelash. Close enough that when she exhaled, he felt it against his lips.

"Last chance to run," he whispered.

Her answer was to rise onto her toes, bringing her mouth a fraction closer to his. The anticipation was unbearable. Every muscle in his body coiled tight, waiting, wanting.

"Cat Noir," she breathed, and her voice was pure sin, "I'm done running."

He lowered his head, and—

[risleylime]

Chapter 1: Unlocked Balcony, Woven Promises

Marinette jabbed another pin into the bodice, her tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth. Midnight had come and gone hours ago, and the mannequin before her wore nothing but half-finished tulle and her own fraying patience. The atelier was silent except for the whisper of fabric and the distant hum of Paris settling into sleep. Or what passed for sleep these days.

A thump on the balcony overhead.

Her needle froze.

"You know," a voice drawled, low and honeyed from the shadows beyond the skylight, "most designers keep reasonable business hours."

The pin slipped. Marinette sucked the bead of blood from her fingertip before it could stain the silk. "And most cats don't invite themselves onto private property at one in the morning."

"Most cats aren't me."

The skylight swung inward without a sound—she really needed to fix that latch—and Chat Noir dropped onto her worktable with the kind of liquid grace that suggested gravity was merely a suggestion he chose to ignore. His boots landed between a scatter of sketch pads and a box of pearls.

Marinette's heart performed a familiar traitorous two-step. She quashed it.

"Chat." She kept her voice flat. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He was already prowling—there was no other word for it—circling the mannequin with his hands clasped behind his back. The black suit caught the lamplight and held it, every lean line of him etched in shadow and sinew. His tail flicked, and a scrap of organza drifted to the floor.

"Patrol was quiet." He stopped directly behind her. The warmth of him pressed against the air. "Too quiet. Akumas are taking the night off, apparently. And I found myself..." His voice dipped. "Restless."

Marinette reached for another pin. Her fingers found air instead.

"Restless." She turned, and there he was—closer than expected, close enough that she could see the curious tilt of his pupils behind the mask. "So you decided to bother an innocent seamstress?"

"Innocent." The word curled from his lips like smoke. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She did. Of course she did.

The lie sat heavy between them, thickening the air. Chat tilted his head, and a strand of blond hair fell across his forehead. The bell at his throat chimed faintly as he leaned in—not touching, never quite touching, but close enough that she could feel his breath skate across her collarbone.

"Your pulse," he murmured, "is very loud."

Her traitor heart slammed against her ribs. "Your hearing is very annoying."

"Is it?"

The question landed somewhere low in her stomach. Marinette stepped backward, and her hip bumped the edge of her sewing table. A spool of thread wobbled, rolled, and hit the floor with a soft tick-tick-tick that sounded obscenely loud in the quiet.

Neither of them moved to pick it up.

"Dangerous," Chat said, his voice dropping to something rougher, "to work alone at night. All these sharp objects." His claw traced the air an inch from a pair of fabric shears. "Anyone could wander in."

"You're the only one who wanders in."

"Exactly my point."

Marinette forced a laugh. It came out breathier than intended. "Are you trying to scare me?"

"No." The mask shifted, and something flickered beneath it—something that made the bell at his throat seem less like whimsy and more like a warning. "I'm trying to figure out why a civilian designer is still awake at this hour, dressed like that, with her balcony door unlocked."

Her what.

She glanced down. The camisole was old and thin—suitable for solitary late-night work, not for unexpected visitors. The strap had slipped from her shoulder. Had been slipping for a while, judging by the trajectory of Chat's gaze.

The skin where it touched felt suddenly electric.

Marinette reached up to adjust it. His hand caught her wrist before she could.

Not hard. Not demanding. Just there—his claws retracted, his palm warm, his thumb resting against the flutter of her pulse. The contact was light enough to break. Light enough that breaking it would be an admission.

She didn't break it.

"You're not answering my question," he said.

"I don't answer to you."

"You answer to Ladybug."

The name hit like cold water. Marinette's spine stiffened. "What does she have to do with—"

"Nothing. Everything." His grip loosened, but he didn't release her. His thumb moved, a fraction of an inch, tracing the fine bones of her wrist. "She's out there somewhere. Sleeping, probably. And you're here. Awake. Alone." The bell chimed again as he shifted closer. "I've been thinking about that."

"About my sleep schedule?"

"About proximity."

The word dripped. Marinette's mouth went dry.

Chat released her wrist. His claws extended—a whisper of steel—and retracted again. The motion was idle, almost unconscious, like a cat kneading the air. "I was on the roof across the street for twenty minutes before I knocked. Watching your light."

"You were stalking me."

"I was observing."

"Semantics."

"Truth." His eyes caught hers and held. Green behind black. Gold behind green. "I observe a lot of things, Marinette. The way you bite your lip when you're concentrating. The way you talk to your mannequins like they're going to answer. The way you never look surprised when I show up, even when I'm trying to be quiet."

Her heart stopped. Restarted. Stumbled.

"I'm not—" She cleared her throat. "I'm an easygoing person. Hard to surprise."

"Are you."

A statement, not a question. Chat reached past her, and for a dizzying moment she thought he was going to touch her face. Instead his claws closed around the fabric shears and lifted them from the table, turning them over in the lamplight.

"Sharp," he noted. "Well-maintained. You take care of your tools."

"I'm a professional."

"You're a mystery." He set the shears down. "Most civilians flinch when I land on their balconies. They scream, or they stammer, or they try to take pictures for their Instagram. You just..." His hand drifted again, this time toward the mannequin. His knuckles brushed the unfinished bodice. "You just keep sewing."

"I've known you for years."

"Exactly." The word was soft. Loaded. "Years of late-night visits. Years of me and you and this room and no one else. And I've started to wonder, Purrincess..." The nickname, usually a joke, came out like a caress. "What exactly are you so afraid of that you can't sleep without sewing until dawn?"

Her throat closed.

The question landed too close to home. To the earrings hidden beneath her hair. To the kwami dozing in her purse. To the weight of every patrol she'd run and every akuma she'd purified and every secret she'd buried so deep she sometimes forgot where the real Marinette ended and Ladybug began.

Chat watched her. Waited.

His tail curled around her ankle.

The touch was light—fabric and suggestion—but it anchored her. Rooted her to the floor. Marinette's breath caught, and she knew he heard it, knew from the way his pupils swelled that he was cataloging every response like evidence.

"There's nothing." The words scraped out. "I'm not afraid of anything."

"Liar."

He didn't move. Neither did she.

The tail tightened—a pulse of pressure, gone as quickly as it came. Marinette's knees threatened mutiny. Her body had stopped taking orders from her brain approximately three minutes ago and was now running on some older, more treacherous operating system.

"Chat." Her voice cracked on his name. "What are you doing?"

"Experimenting." His head tilted. "Testing."

"Testing what?"

"A theory."

The tail trailed upward. Not much—an inch of movement, maybe two—but the path it traced along her calf felt like a question. Or a promise. Marinette's fingers curled around the edge of the table behind her, knuckles whitening.

"Your theory," she managed, "is going to get you thrown off my balcony."

"Is it?"

Yes. No. Her body was a traitor, a liar, a thing of nerve endings and heat that had no business responding to the brush of a leather tail against bare skin. Her mind was screaming warnings in Ladybug's voice. Her pulse was chanting something entirely different.

Chat leaned closer.

His mouth stopped a breath from her ear. Not touching. Never quite touching. The warmth of him enveloped her, and Marinette could smell leather and night air and something underneath—something clean and boyish and dangerously familiar.

"I have a theory," he whispered, "about why you never flinch. About why the sight of me doesn't scare you. About why I keep finding myself on this balcony when I'm supposed to be patrolling the other side of the city."

"Coincidence."

"Another theory." The laugh that ghosted across her skin was humorless. "I have so many theories, Marinette. Most of them impossible. All of them consuming." His claw traced the air beside her throat, not touching, not threatening, just outlining the shape of what he wouldn't take. "Want to hear my favorite one?"

The bell chimed.

The lamp flickered.

Somewhere in her purse, Tikki was definitely, absolutely, completely awake and listening.

Marinette opened her mouth. Closed it. The word that emerged was barely a whisper.

"Tell me."

Chat Noir smiled. His teeth were very white in the lamplight. Very sharp.

"Not yet," he said. And stepped back.

The absence of his warmth hit like a physical blow. Marinette's body swayed forward before she could stop it—an involuntary chase, a pursuit of pressure that was no longer there—and she caught herself against the table, fingers scattering pearls across the floor.

They rolled everywhere. Little white accusations.

"Patrol," Chat said, already backing toward the skylight, "isn't over for another hour. But I'll be back." His tail flicked. "I always come back."

"Chat—"

"Don't lock the balcony."

He was gone before she could answer. The skylight thudded shut. Boots crossed the roof overhead—light, quick, already receding. Marinette stood frozen among the scattered pearls and the unfinished dress and the lingering heat of a touch that had never actually happened.

Her wrist still tingled where his thumb had been.

Tikki, she thought, what just happened?

The purse rustled.

The lamp flickered again.

Outside, somewhere over the rooftops of Paris, a cat's laugh echoed and faded. Marinette didn't move for a long time. And when she finally bent to gather the pearls, her hands were shaking.

She didn't lock the balcony.

She didn't even consider it.

[risleylime]

Maddie x Cassie from euphoria

Chapter 1: Bought and Paid For

The fluorescent lights of the Victoria’s Secret dressing room were harsh, casting a clinical glow over the plush velvet bench, but Cassie Howard looked like she was basking in golden hour. She turned to the left, then to the right, watching the way the sheer lace of the babydoll set clung to her curves. It was expensive, delicate, and practically transparent, exactly the kind of thing that usually made her feel powerful. Today, though, the power felt theoretical.

She heard the rustle of bags from the main area. Maddy was out there waiting. Maddy, who had been silent for the last twenty minutes while Cassie paraded around in half the store’s inventory.

"Do you like it?" Cassie called out, her voice sing-songy, deliberately pitching it into that higher register she knew Maddy found both adorable and infuriating. "Or is it too much?"

No answer. Just the distinct click of a heel on the laminate floor. Closer.

Cassie smirked at her reflection. She knew exactly what she was doing. She was pushing, testing the limits of Maddy’s patience like she always did when she wanted that specific brand of attention. The kind that burned. The kind that made her shut up.

The curtain to stall number four didn't slide open; it was whisked back with a snap that made the rings rattle violently against the rod.

Maddy stood there, filling the narrow doorway. She looked lethal. Her makeup was flawless, sharp wings that could cut glass, and her eyes were fixed on Cassie with an intensity that made the air in the tiny stall feel heavy. She stepped inside and flipped the lock behind her. The snick of the bolt sliding home was louder than the music thumping through the store’s speakers.

"Maddy, someone could—" Cassie started, but she cut herself off when Maddy took a step forward, invading her personal space until the backs of Cassie’s thighs hit the velvet bench.

"Someone could see," Maddy finished for her, her voice low, devoid of the laughter she usually saved for their friends. It was a warning. "But you knew that when you decided to be a brat all afternoon, didn't you?"

Cassie swallowed, her throat clicking. She looked up at Maddy through her lashes, feigning innocence, but her heart was hammering against her ribs. "I'm just trying to find something for the party. I thought you wanted to help me pick."

"I want you to stop wasting my time," Maddy said, reaching out. Her fingers were cold as they traced the strap of the lingerie, grazing Cassie’s shoulder, then sliding down to cup the swell of her breast. The touch was possessive, heavy. "You think you look cute in this? You look messy. You look like you’re begging for it."

"Maybe I am," Cassie shot back, the defiance wobbly at best.

Maddy laughed, a dark, short sound. She grabbed Cassie’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. "You don't get to beg yet. You don't get to do anything until I say so."

Cassie’s knees actually went weak. This was the dynamic she craved, the one where Maddy stripped away the polite smiles and the performative sweetness and just took what she wanted. Cassie liked to pretend she was the one in control, twirling men and boys around her finger, but with Maddy, she didn't have to pretend. She didn't have to think. She just had to feel.

"Turn around," Maddy commanded, letting go of her chin.

Cassie hesitated for a fraction of a second, just to see if Maddy would break, but the gaze sharpening in those dark eyes told her she was skating on thin ice. She turned slowly, facing the mirror. She could see Maddy behind her, tall and imposing, looking at Cassie’s reflection like she was inspecting merchandise.

"Look at you," Maddy murmured, stepping closer until her front was pressed against Cassie’s back. Cassie could feel the heat of her, the firmness of her body. Maddy’s hands moved to Cassie’s waist, gripping tight enough to bruise. "So fucking desperate for attention. You need me to fix you, don't you? You need me to remind you how to behave."

Cassie nodded, her breath fogging the mirror slightly. "Yes. Please, Maddy."

"Good girl."

The praise hit Cassie like a physical blow, flooding her system with heat. Maddy’s hands slid down over her hips, gripping the lace panties and yanking them up hard. The fabric dug into Cassie’s skin, a sudden, shocking friction that made her gasp.

"Quiet," Maddy hissed against her ear. "Unless you want the salesgirl hearing how much of a slut you are in here."

The thought terrified and thrilled her in equal measure. The mall was busy; people were right outside the thin velvet curtain. If they listened, they could hear everything. Maddy knew it, and she was using it.

Maddy didn’t give her time to adjust. One hand stayed on Cassie’s hip, holding her in place, while the other snaked around to the front. She didn't tease. She didn't warm her up. Her palm pressed flat against Cassie’s lower abdomen before sliding down, cupping her roughly through the lace.

Cassie bit her lip to stifle a moan, her head falling back against Maddy’s shoulder. Maddy’s fingers were agile, experienced. She rubbed hard circles over the fabric, feeling the wetness already soaking through.

"You're already soaking," Maddy whispered, her voice vibrating against Cassie’s neck. "I haven't even touched you yet and you're ruining this expensive set. Typical."

"I couldn't help it," Cassie breathed, her hips rocking instinctively into Maddy’s hand. "You look so good today."

Maddy hummed, unimpressed by the compliment. She hooked her fingers under the crotch of the panties, pulling them aside. The cool air of the dressing room hit Cassie’s heated skin for a split second before Maddy’s fingers were there, skin on skin.

Cassie cried out, but Maddy was faster. Her free hand shot up to cover Cassie’s mouth, effectively silencing her.

"Shh," Maddy said, her eyes locked on their reflection. "Watch. I want you to watch yourself fall apart."

Cassie’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Maddy’s gaze in the mirror. It was intoxicating. She looked wrecked already, her pupils blown wide, her face flushed. Maddy looked calm, in control, like she was conducting an orchestra rather than fingering her best friend in a public dressing room.

Maddy dragged her fingers through Cassie’s folds, spreading the wetness, before circling her clit with a precision that made Cassie’s toes curl inside her heels. The pressure was perfect, firm and unrelenting.

"You like this?" Maddy asked, though it wasn't really a question. She pressed harder, making Cassie’s legs tremble. "You like being shut up? You like knowing that at any second, that curtain could be pulled back, and everyone would see you taking it like a good little whore?"

The dirty words sparked through Cassie’s nervous system like electricity. She nodded against Maddy’s hand, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts through her nose.

"Use your words," Maddy demanded, slowing down the movement of her fingers just enough to make it torture.

"Yes," Cassie gasped out the moment Maddy’s hand dropped from her mouth. "I love it. I love it when you're mean to me."

"You're pathetic," Maddy said, but there was affection buried under the ice, a dark, twisted fondness. "But you're my pathetic brat."

Without warning, Maddy pushed two fingers inside. Cassie’s back arched, a ragged moan tearing from her throat before she could stop it. Maddy didn't stop her this time; she just curled her fingers upward, finding that spot that made Cassie see stars.

"Look at you," Maddy grunted, setting a punishing rhythm. The sound of slick, wet flesh filled the small stall, obscene and loud. "Taking it so well. Maybe I should buy this set. Make you wear it out, soaking wet like this."

"Please," Cassie begged, not even knowing what she was asking for. More? Faster? For Maddy to never stop? She felt like she was burning up from the inside out. The walls of the stall felt like they were closing in, heightening every sensation. The scratchy velvet of the bench against the back of her thighs, the scratchy lace of the bra against her nipples, the overwhelming presence of Maddy behind her.

Maddy’s other hand moved from Cassie’s hip to her throat, tilting her head back further, exposing the long line of her neck. She didn't squeeze, just held her there, claiming her.

"Who owns you, Cassie?" Maddy asked, her voice dropping to a whisper that sent shivers down Cassie’s spine.

"You do," Cassie choked out, her vision blurring at the edges. "Maddy, you do."

"Damn right," Maddy said. She bit down on the sensitive skin where Cassie’s neck met her shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and twisted her wrist just so.

Cassie’s orgasm hit her like a freight train. Her entire body seized up, her walls clamping down around Maddy’s fingers, her nails digging into the velvet of the bench. She saw white, her mind going blissfully blank, floating in the sensation of being completely owned. She rode the wave, her hips bucking erratically, guided by Maddy’s firm hand.

When she finally came down, slumping back against Maddy, she was panting, sweat beading on her forehead. She felt boneless, used, and utterly satisfied.

Maddy slowly withdrew her fingers, making Cassie whimper at the loss. She brought her hand up to Cassie’s face, her glistening fingers catching the harsh light.

"Clean them off," Maddy ordered softly.

Cassie didn't hesitate. She parted her lips and took Maddy’s fingers into her mouth, tasting herself, looking Maddy dead in the eyes through the mirror. She swirled her tongue around the digits, licking them clean, showing Maddy that she was good, that she could be obedient.

Maddy watched her, a smirk finally playing on her lips. She pulled her fingers away with a wet pop and wiped them casually on Cassie’s thigh.

"Good," Maddy said, smoothing down Cassie’s hair. "Now, put the rest of this stuff in the bag. We're buying it all. And you’re wearing this home."

She unlocked the stall door and stepped out into the bright store, leaving Cassie leaning against the bench, trembling and trying to remember how to breathe.

Cassie looked at her reflection. The mascara was smudging slightly under her eyes. She looked thoroughly fucked. And she couldn't wait to do it again.

[risleylime]

Michael Jackson X reader 

Seduced backstage by the king of pop 

Then you saw him. Michael Jackson. The King of Pop. He was walking down the hallway, flanked by security, but he waved them off with a sharp, dismissive gesture of his hand. He wanted to be alone. He was still wearing the finale outfit—the white shirt, the black trousers, the gold belt—but the fedora was gone, revealing his short, slicked-back hair. He looked exhausted, yet his eyes were bright, burning with a restless fire. He stopped in front of you, and you felt your breath hitch in your throat. Up close, his presence was overwhelming. It wasn't just fame; it was a sheer force of personality, a gravitational pull that demanded attention.

"You were breathtaking tonight," he said. His voice was soft, higher than you expected, but laced with a gritty, dominant edge that sent a shiver down your spine. "Your energy... it was electric."

He took a step closer, invading your personal space, but you didn't back away. You couldn't. You were frozen, captured by the intensity of his gaze. He smelled of sweat, expensive cologne, and something uniquely him—a scent that was clean, spicy, and undeniably masculine.

"Thank you, Michael," you managed to whisper, your voice sounding weak in your own ears.

"Michael?" He raised an eyebrow, a small, playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He reached out, his gloved hand—shimmering silver—coming up to trace the line of your jaw. The contrast of the cool fabric against your overheated skin made you gasp. "I think we can be a little more intimate than that back here, don't you?"

Before you could answer, he moved. It was sudden, fluid, and impossibly fast. He spun you around, pressing your back firmly against the cool metal of the road cases. His body pinned yours, trapping you in the most delicious way possible. You could feel the hardness of his chest against yours, the rapid thumping of his heart matching your own frantic rhythm.

"I've been watching you," he murmured, his face inches from yours. His dark eyes searched yours, piercing through your defenses. "Every night. Watching the way you move. The way you sweat. The way you look at me when you think I won't notice."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot on your ear. "Do you think I don't see it? That hunger in your eyes?"

"I..." You started, but the words died in your throat. You couldn't deny it. You had been watching him, mesmerized by his power on stage. But seeing him like this, dominant and commanding, was something entirely different. It was a fantasy coming to life right there in the dingy backstage hallway.

"Shh," he commanded gently, pressing a finger against your lips. "You don't have to say a word. I know what you need. I know what you've been craving."

His hand moved from your jaw, trailing down the side of your neck, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake. He gripped your shoulder, his fingers digging in possessively, then slid his hand down to your waist. He pulled you tighter against him, eliminating any remaining space between your bodies. You could feel him, hard and insistent, pressing against your hip. The realization hit you like a bolt of lightning—he wanted this just as much as you did.

"You belong to the music when you're out there," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating against your skin. "But right now, in this darkness... you belong to me."

His words were a claim, a stamp of ownership that made your knees weak. You had never experienced a dominance like this. It wasn't cruel; it was absolute. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he knew exactly how to unravel you. He moved his hand from your waist to your thigh, his strong fingers squeezing the flesh through the fabric of your costume. He hitched your leg up, wrapping it around his waist, forcing you to arch your back into him.

"Look at me," he ordered. You obeyed instantly, locking eyes with him. The world around you faded away—the noise of the crew, the lingering smell of pyrotechnics, the cold air. It was just him. Just the two of you in this bubble of raw tension. He was in control, guiding the narrative, and you were more than happy to let him lead.

"I want to hear you," he said, his hand sliding up your inner thigh, agonizingly slow. The friction of the glove was rough, teasing, driving you crazy. "I want to hear the sounds you make when you're not dancing for an audience. When you're dancing just for me."

His fingers ghosted over the heat between your legs, barely touching you, but it was enough to make you cry out. He smirked, a dark, satisfied sound, and finally pressed his palm against you. You bucked your hips, desperate for more friction, desperate for him to end this torture and take you right there against the equipment cases.

"Please," you begged, your voice trembling.

"Please, what?" he teased, grinding his hips into yours in a slow, deliberate rhythm. He was enjoying this, enjoying the power he held over you. "Tell me what you want. Tell me who's in charge."

"You," you gasped. "You are. I want you, Michael. Please."

"Good girl," he purred. He captured your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your moans. It was a demanding kiss, filled with a hunger that matched the fire in his eyes. His tongue tangled with yours, dominating, exploring, claiming. His other hand moved to the zipper of your costume, tugging it down with agonizing slowness. The cool air hit your heated skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his touch. He slipped his hand inside, his bare skin against yours this time, sending shockwaves through your system.

He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. His expression was serious, intense, filled with a raw, primal need that terrified and thrilled you. "I'm going to make you feel things you've never felt before," he promised, his voice a low growl. "And you're going to take everything I give you."

He didn't wait for an answer. He didn't need one. He kissed you again, harder this time, his hand working you with a skill that left you breathless. Your fingers tangled in his hair, ruining the perfect styling, but he didn't care. He groaned into your mouth, his control slipping just enough to show you how much he was affected. The King of Pop, the man the world idolized, was currently unraveling you in a backstage hallway, and you were powerless to stop him. You didn't want to stop him. You wanted him to ruin you completely.

Suddenly, he pulled his hand away, leaving you gasping and aching. Before you could protest, he grabbed your wrist. "Come with me," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He didn't give you a chance to fix your clothes or catch your breath. He simply pulled you down the hallway, past the confusion of the stagehands, toward the private dressing rooms. You stumbled after him, your heart pounding in your ears, knowing that there was no turning back now. He stopped in front of a heavy door, unlocked it, and shoved you inside. The room was dark, illuminated only by a single lamp in the corner. He locked the door behind him, the click echoing like a gunshot in the silent room. He turned to you, his silhouette imposing, dangerous, and utterly irresistible. "On your knees," he commanded softly.The air backstage was thick, humid with the lingering heat of thousands of screaming bodies and the heavy, metallic scent of fog machines. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with the encore I had just watched from the wings. The security guard had nodded, a silent authorization, and now I was standing here, alone in the corridor that led to the inner sanctum.

I smoothed down the fabric of my dress, my palms damp. It felt surreal. Just moments ago, he had been a distant figure under the spotlight, a glimmering entity commanding the stadium. Now, he was just a man behind a door.

The door clicked open before I could knock.

He didn't speak. He just stood there, framed by the soft, amber light of the dressing room. Michael Jackson. The King of Pop. But up close, the regal title felt insufficient. He was magnetic, a gravitational pull that instantly seized the air in my lungs. He wore a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned just enough to hint at the smooth chest beneath, and black trousers that hung perfectly on his lean frame. The gold belt buckle caught the light, flashing like a warning sign.

His eyes, bright and burning, raked over me. It wasn't a casual glance; it was an assessment. A predation.

"You came," he said. His voice was a soft tenor, raspy from the performance but laced with an unmistakable steel authority. He stepped aside, the movement fluid and graceful, extending a gloved hand to usher me in. "I was hoping you would."

"I couldn't stay away," I managed to whisper, my voice trembling slightly.

The door clicked shut with a heavy finality that made my breath hitch. The noise from the venue was gone instantly, replaced by the low hum of the air conditioning and the erratic thumping of my own pulse. He walked past me, not looking back, but I knew I was supposed to follow.

The room was luxurious but cluttered—clothes draped over chairs, mirrors lined with lights. He stopped in the center of the room, turning slowly to face me. The intensity of his gaze pinned me in place. He wasn't smiling. There was a haughty curve to his lips, a knowledge of his own power that was terrifying and intoxicating.

"Stand there," he commanded, pointing to a spot on the plush rug directly in front of him. "Don't move."

I obeyed instantly, my body reacting to the dominance in his tone before my mind could process it.

He took a step closer, the smell of him hitting me—sandalwood, expensive cologne, and the raw scent of exertion. He stopped inches away, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. He raised his right hand, the glittering white glove contrasting sharply against the darkness of his hair.

"You have no idea," he murmured, tilting his head as he studied my face, "how noisy it is out there. The lights... the screaming... the expectations." He reached out, his gloved fingers trailing down my cheek. The fabric was cool, silken, sending a shiver racing down my spine despite the heat in the room. "It drains a man. But it also fills him with a hunger."

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "What kind of hunger?"

His lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "The kind that needs to be fed in silence."

His hand moved from my cheek to my neck, his thumb pressing gently against my pulse point. He could feel how fast my heart was beating. He leaned in, his face hovering near mine, his breath mingling with mine. I stared at him, mesmerized by the long lashes, the sharp arch of his brows.

"Kiss me," I breathed, the need spilling out of me unchecked.

He let out a soft, dark chuckle. "No. I lead. You follow. Remember that."

He didn't wait for a response. He closed the distance, his lips crashing onto mine. It wasn't a gentle exploration; it was a takeover. His mouth was demanding, his tongue thrusting past my lips to claim the taste of me. I groaned into his mouth, my hands coming up to grip his shoulders, needing an anchor in the sudden storm of sensation.

He tasted like mint and something distinctly him. His gloved hand gripped the back of my neck, holding me in place as he deepened the kiss, tilting my head to the side to grant him better access. I felt weak in the knees, the sheer force of his personality overwhelming my senses. He controlled the rhythm, slowing it down, then speeding up, dictating exactly how I was to breathe, how I was to respond.

When he finally pulled back, we were both breathless. A string of saliva connected us for a fleeting second before he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were darker now, hooded with lust.

"You're trembling," he observed, his voice dropping an octave.

"I want you," I confessed, the words feeling inadequate.

"I know." He stepped back, his eyes never leaving mine as his hands went to his belt. The gold buckle clinked loudly in the quiet room as he undid it. "Take off your dress. Now."

The command hung in the air, heavy and absolute. My fingers shook as I reached for the zipper at my side. The sound of it descending seemed deafening. I let the dress fall to the floor, pooling around my ankles, leaving me in nothing but my lace lingerie.

Michael hummed in approval, a low sound from his chest. He took his time, his eyes scanning every inch of exposed skin with a critical, possessive gaze. He stepped forward again, his gloved hand reaching out to trace the line of my bra strap. The contrast of the white glove against my flushed skin was erotic, a visual reminder of his status, his unreachable nature, and the fact that right now, I was the one he had chosen to touch.

"Beautiful," he whispered, almost to himself. "But these are in the way."

He moved with that same fluid grace, his hands skimming down my sides to hook his fingers into the waistband of my panties. He sank to his knees in front of me, the motion reverent yet dominant. He looked up at me from under his lashes, the position somehow making him seem more powerful, like a predator preparing to feast.

"Lift your leg," he ordered.

I steadied myself with a hand on his shoulder as he slid the lace down my legs. His face was inches from my sex, his breath hot against my inner thighs. When the panties were discarded, he didn't stand up immediately. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to my hip bone, then another to the crease of my thigh.

"Michael..." I gasped, my fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.

"Shh," he hushed me, his breath ghosting over my slick folds. "I want to taste the quiet."

He didn't tease. He didn't hesitate. He buried his face between my thighs, his tongue licking a broad stripe up my center. The sensation was electric, shooting sparks of pleasure up my spine. I cried out, my knees buckling, but his hands were there instantly, gripping my ass hard, holding me upright against his mouth.

He ate me with a singular focus, his tongue circling my clit with precision before dipping inside to gather my arousal. The glove on his left hand squeezed my flesh, the smooth texture adding a friction that was overwhelmingly intense. He wasn't just pleasuring me; he was consuming me. The sounds were wet and obscene in the silent room, spurring me on.

I looked down, seeing the slicked-back dark hair, the white shirt now slightly rumpled, and the sight of him on his knees for me, yet somehow owning me completely, was nearly enough to make me tip over the edge.

"So responsive," he murmured against my skin, vibrating the words directly into my nerves. "I can feel you pulsing. You want to come, don't you?"

"Yes... God, yes," I panted, my head falling back as he sucked hard on my clit.

"Not yet," he said, pulling away abruptly.

The loss of contact was jarring, leaving me cold and aching. I whined in protest, looking down at him. He stood up slowly, wiping his glistening mouth with his gloved hand, his eyes burning with a dark, triumphant fire.

"I decide when you fall apart," he said, his voice low and rough. "Turn around."

I turned, facing the mirror on the wall. I could see him behind me, towering over my smaller frame. His eyes met mine in the reflection, intense and unyielding. He reached around, undoing my bra and letting it fall, exposing my breasts to the cool air.

"Look at us," he commanded. "Look at how good you look standing there, waiting for me."

I watched as his hands came up to cup my breasts, the white glove standing out starkly against my pale skin. He kneaded them firmly, his thumbs brushing over my sensitive nipples, pulling a moan from my throat. He pressed his hips forward, and I felt the hard ridge of his erection through his trousers, nestling against my bare ass.

"Do you feel that?" he growled in my ear, his breath hot on my neck. "That's what you do to me. That's the power you have over me, even when I'm in control."

"Then take what you want," I challenged, pushing back against him.

His grip tightened, almost painfully. "Don't get impatient. I'm going to take everything."

He pushed me forward slightly, bending me over the vanity table. I gripped the edges, staring at my own flushed face in the mirror. Behind me, the sound of a zipper lowering was the sweetest sound I had ever heard.

"This is what happens backstage," he whispered, lining himself up behind me. "The show is over. Now, the real performance begins."

[risleylime]

Nanami x y/n

Chapter 1: Unauthorized Overtime

The hum of the central air conditioning was the only sound accompanying the relentless click-clack of Nanami’s keyboard. It was late—far too late for any rational human being to still be staring at a spreadsheet, but here we were. The office had emptied out hours ago, the cleaning crew had already come and gone, and the city outside the floor-to-ceiling windows was a blur of artificial twilight. I rubbed my temples, trying to massage away the headache that had been brewing since noon, but the throbbing only persisted. Across the aisle, Nanami didn’t look much better. His tie was loosened, the usually pristine knot pulled down to rest against the open collar of his white dress shirt. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that were distracting me more than they had any right to. Every time he reached for his coffee mug or adjusted his glasses, the muscles in his arms shifted under the skin, taut and defined. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, my breath catching in my throat whenever his brow furrowed in concentration. We had been dancing around each other for months, a slow, agonizing waltz of professional courtesy repressed by thick, suffocating lust. The air between us felt charged, heavy with static that made the hair on my arms stand up. I wanted him. God, I wanted him so much it hurt.

"I think that’s the last of the quarterly projections," Nanami’s voice broke the silence, rough and low with exhaustion. He pushed his chair back, the wheels squeaking sharply against the silent carpet, and stood up. "Thank god. I was beginning to think numbers were going to start leaking out of my ears."

I let out a shaky laugh, turning my chair to face him. "You and me both. I don't think I can even look at another excel formula without wanting to scream."

He walked over to the small break area near the window, the dim lighting catching the golden hues in his blonde hair. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his ankles, and looked at me with an intensity that made my heart hammer against my ribs. "You’ve been working incredibly hard lately. I notice these things, you know. You’ve been carrying half the department on your back."

The compliment, delivered in that steady, deep baritone, sent a flush of heat racing through me. "It’s part of the job," I managed to say, though my voice came out breathier than I intended.

"It is," he agreed, his eyes locking onto mine, trapping me in place. "But that doesn't mean you shouldn't be recognized. Or... taken care of."

The air shifted. The professional distance that usually separated us, the invisible wall of corporate politeness, seemed to dissolve in an instant. The phrase 'taken care of' hung in the air between us, dripping with implication. I stood up slowly, my legs feeling unsteady beneath me. I took a step toward him, drawn like a moth to a flame. "And how exactly do you propose to do that, Nanami?"

He pushed off the counter, closing the distance between us in two long strides. He didn't touch me, not yet, but he was close enough that I could smell him—sandalwood soap, expensive laundry detergent, and the faint, metallic tang of coffee. It was an intoxicating combination. "I’ve been trying to figure that out for six months," he admitted, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I didn't want to cross a line. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

"You aren't making me uncomfortable," I said, my heart pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. "I’m just... waiting."

"Waiting?"

"Waiting for you to stop being so professional."

A muscle in his jaw jumped. His eyes, usually hidden behind those wire-rimmed glasses, darkened with a hunger that mirrored my own. He reached out, his hand hovering near my cheek for a split second before he finally let it rest against my skin. His palm was warm, calloused, and slightly rough, sending a jolt of electricity straight through my nervous system. I leaned into his touch, my eyes fluttering shut, savoring the contact. It felt like coming up for air after drowning for years.

"If I stop being professional," Nanami murmured, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, "I might not be able to stop."

"Don't stop," I whispered, opening my eyes to look up at him. "Please don't stop."

That was all the permission he needed. With a low groan that vibrated in his chest, he closed the remaining gap and pressed his lips to mine. It wasn't a tentative exploration; it was a collision. His mouth was demanding, hot, and insistent, capturing my lower lip between his teeth and biting down gently enough to make me gasp. I buried my fingers in his hair, ruining the perfectly styled gel, pulling him closer as he deepened the kiss. His tongue swept into my mouth, tangling with mine in a rhythm that was frantic and desperate. I could feel the hard planes of his chest pressing against my soft curves, the heat radiating off him searing me through my clothes.

He backed me up until my spine hit the edge of my desk. His hands moved down to my waist, gripping me tightly, pulling my hips flush against his. The friction against my core made my knees weak, a desperate ache building inside me that I hadn't felt in a long time. He broke the kiss, panting, his forehead resting against mine.

"Tell me this is real," he rasped, his voice strained. "Tell me you want this as much as I do."

"It's real," I breathed, my hands sliding down his chest to fumble with the buckle of his belt. "I want you, Nanami. I've wanted you for so long."

He captured my wrists in his hands, stopping my movements. His eyes bore into mine, searching for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he spun me around so I was facing my desk, scattering papers and pens onto the floor in a chaotic rain. He pressed his chest against my back, his breath hot against my ear as he kissed the sensitive skin just below my lobe.

"We’re still at work," he murmured, though his hands were already sliding under the hem of my blouse, tracing the waistband of my skirt. "Anyone could walk in."

"The building is empty," I moaned, arching my back as his fingers dipped lower, teasing the skin of my inner thighs. "Stop talking and touch me."

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down my spine. "As you wish."

With agonizing slowness, he inched his hand upward, taking his time to explore every inch of skin he encountered. When his fingers finally brushed against the damp fabric of my panties, I gasped, my head falling back against his shoulder. He groaned at the contact, the realization of just how wet I was for him seemingly snapping the last of his restraint. He pushed the fabric aside, his fingers sliding through my slick folds, finding my clit with unerring precision.

"You're so ready for me," he growled, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with a firm pressure that made my toes curl in my heels. "Is this all for me?"

"All for you," I cried out, my hips bucking against his hand, desperate for more friction, more pressure, more of him. "Please, Nanami... I need you."

He didn't make me wait any longer. There was the sound of a zipper lowering, the rustle of fabric, and then the unmistakable feel of him, hard and hot, pressing against my entrance. He gripped my hips, lifting me slightly to angle me better, and then with one smooth, powerful thrust, he buried himself inside me. I cried out, the sudden fullness overwhelming me, stretching me in a way that was both intense and incredibly satisfying. He paused for a moment, letting me adjust, his breathing ragged in my ear.

"Okay?" he ground out, his voice tight with control.

"Yes," I hissed, pressing back against him. "Move. Please move."

He set a rhythm that was slow and deep, deliberate and punishing. Every stroke hit a spot deep inside me that made sparks dance behind my eyelids. The desk creaked beneath us, a rhythmic squeaking that joined the symphony of our heavy breathing and the wet slap of skin against skin. He reached around with one hand to find my clit again, rubbing it in time with his thrusts, pushing me higher and higher toward the edge. The pleasure was intense, a slow-building wave that threatened to pull me under. I gripped the edge of the desk, my knuckles turning white, anchoring myself as he took me apart piece by piece. The smell of him, the feel of him, the sound of his deep grunts as he drove into me—it was all-consuming.

"Look at us," he breathed, pulling me upright so my back was flush against his chest. He turned my head to the side, capturing my lips in a messy, open-mouthed kiss as he continued to thrust into me. "Fucking right here where anyone could see us."

The thought should have terrified me, but it only added fuel to the fire. The risk, the taboo nature of it, the sheer desperation of our need—it was intoxicating. I could feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter in my belly, a knot of pure sensation that was about to snap.

"I'm close," I whimpered against his lips, my inner walls fluttering around him.

"Let go for me," he commanded, his fingers increasing their tempo on my clit. "Come all over my cock."

The friction was too much. The command was too much. With a cry that I tried to muffle against his shoulder, I shattered. The orgasm ripped through me with the force of a tidal wave, leaving me gasping and shaking, my vision going white. Nanami groaned as my walls clenched around him, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own release. He gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, driving into me with short, sharp thrusts until he buried himself deep with a guttural shout. I felt him pulse inside me, filling me with his heat, marking me as his.

We slumped forward against the desk, both of us trembling, struggling to catch our breath. The office was silent again, save for the hum of the air conditioner and our ragged gasps. Nanami pressed a soft kiss to the back of my neck, his weight grounding me.

"Well," he panted, slowly pulling away and adjusting his clothes. "That was definitely not in the employee handbook."

I laughed weakly, turning around and leaning back against the desk for support. My legs were like jelly. "I think we can consider it... unauthorized overtime."

He stepped closer, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his expression tender despite the raw intensity of what had just happened. "Does this mean I can take you to dinner now? Or do we have to pretend this didn't happen until Monday?"

"It means," I said, reaching up to straighten his glasses, which were askew on his face, "that you can take me home. Tonight."

He smiled, a genuine, rare smile that transformed his serious face. "Deal. But first..." He glanced down at the floor, where our discarded clothes and scattered paperwork lay in ruin. "We should probably clean up before security does their rounds."

As I bent down to retrieve my blouse, a sudden, harsh chime echoed through the empty office—the sound of the elevator arriving on our floor. Both of us froze, our eyes snapping to the glass doors of the main entrance. The lights in the hallway flickered on, casting long shadows across the carpet. Someone was here.

[risleylime]

Geto x gojo —teacher/student role-swap

Chapter 1: Six Mirrors, Six Mouths

The classroom was empty except for the two of them, dusk painting the windows in shades of burnt orange. Gojo had stayed after everyone else left, his long legs sprawled across the desk in the front row, blindfold pushed up onto his forehead like an afterthought.

"Suguru," he said, voice dropping into that particular register that always meant trouble. "I want you to teach me something."

Geto looked up from his papers. He'd been grading quizzes for the past hour, trying to ignore the way Gojo's presence filled the room like static electricity. "You're the one who always skips class. What could you possibly want to learn?"

Gojo's lips curved. "I want to know what it feels like inside my own Infinity."

The pen in Geto's hand stilled. He let the silence stretch, calculating. "You already know."

"I know what it feels like to be wrapped in it. Protected." Gojo's voice dropped lower, intimate in the empty room. "I don't know what it feels like to have someone inside it. To have nowhere to hide."

Geto set down his pen. He turned in his chair, giving Gojo his full attention. The tension in the room shifted, thickened.

"You're asking me to break through your ultimate defense," Geto said slowly. "To touch you in a way no one else can."

"Who better?" Gojo swung his legs off the desk, sitting up straighter. "You're the only one I'd trust to teach me."

Something warm flickered in Geto's chest. Trust. From Gojo, that was worth more than any amount of power.

"Come here," Geto said.

Gojo was on his feet in an instant, crossing the space between them with that characteristic fluid grace. He stopped just shy of Geto's chair, close enough that his thighs brushed against Geto's knees.

"Closer."

Gojo stepped into the space between Geto's spread legs. He towered over Geto like this, all long limbs and lean muscle, but something in his posture had shifted. His breath came faster. Geto could see the rapid flutter of his pulse at the base of his throat.

"I'm going to need you to do exactly as I say," Geto murmured, reaching up to curl his fingers into the fabric of Gojo's uniform jacket. He tugged, pulling Gojo down until they were eye level. "Can you do that for me?"

"Yes." The word came out breathless.

"Good." Geto's other hand slid up Gojo's thigh, feeling the muscle jump beneath his palm. "I want you to recite the sutras for me. Every syllable, nice and slow."

Gojo's brow furrowed. "The sutras? What does that have to—"

"Trust your teacher." Geto's grip tightened on his jacket. "Start with the first one."

Gojo swallowed hard. "Om Namah Shivaya."

"Slower." Geto's hand drifted higher on his thigh. "Let me hear every syllable."

"Om..." Gojo's voice caught as Geto's palm pressed against the growing bulge in his pants. "Na-mah..."

"Keep going." Geto traced the outline of him through the fabric, applying just enough pressure to make Gojo's knees buckle.

"Shi-va—" The word broke into a moan when Geto squeezed.

"Good. Again."

Gojo repeated the mantra, each syllable more fractured than the last. His Infinity flickered around them, that invisible barrier that kept the world at bay. Geto could feel it like a second skin, cool and impenetrable.

Until it wasn't.

Gojo gasped when Geto's cursed energy pressed against the edges of his technique. It wasn't force—Geto was too skilled for brute strength. He found the seams, the microscopic gaps where Gojo's concentration wavered, and slipped through like water finding cracks in stone.

"Your Infinity is only as strong as your focus," Geto murmured, pressing his palm flat against Gojo's hard length. "And right now, you're very distracted."

"Suguru—" Gojo's voice cracked.

"Keep chanting."

Gojo tried. He really did. But Geto had undone his pants and slipped his hand inside, and the sutras dissolved into broken syllables and desperate moans. His Infinity shimmered, fluctuating with every wave of pleasure.

"That's it," Geto whispered against Gojo's jaw, pressing a line of open-mouthed kisses down his neck. "Let me in."

Gojo's barrier collapsed.

Geto's cursed threads erupted from his palm, wrapping around Gojo's cock in a spiral of dark energy. They pulsed with each heartbeat, tightening and releasing in a rhythm that had Gojo shaking.

"Do you feel that?" Geto asked, twisting his wrist as he stroked. "That's me inside your precious Infinity. No distance. No barrier. Just you and me."

Gojo's head fell back, throat bared. "More. Please, more."

Geto added another thread, this one coiling around the base of Gojo's cock. It tightened like a cock ring, steming the flow of blood and drawing out every sensation.

"You wanted to learn," Geto said, increasing his pace. "So learn. Feel everything. Every thread. Every stroke. There's nowhere to go, Satoru. No Infinity to protect you. Just me, taking you apart."

Gojo's six eyes rolled back, whites showing as pleasure crested. His hips thrust forward, chasing Geto's hand, chasing release. But the threads held firm, keeping him on the edge.

"Not yet," Geto whispered. "You don't get to come until I say you can."

"I can't—" Gojo sobbed. "Suguru, I can't—"

"You can. You will." Geto's thumb swept over the head of Gojo's cock, smearing the precum that had gathered there. "Tell me what you want."

"I want to come. Please. Please."

Geto smiled against Gojo's throat. The threads glowed brighter, pulsing in time with Gojo's ragged heartbeat. He reached up with his free hand and pressed his thumb against Gojo's lower lip.

"Open."

Gojo's mouth fell open without hesitation. Geto pressed his thumb inside, resting it on Gojo's tongue.

"Suck."

Gojo closed his lips around Geto's thumb, tongue swirling. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked, and Geto felt the pull of it straight through his core.

"Such a good student," Geto praised. "Learning so fast."

He withdrew his thumb and pressed two fingers into Gojo's mouth instead. Gojo took them eagerly, drooling around them as Geto fucked his hand faster, tighter.

"You're going to come for me now," Geto commanded. "And you're going to keep your eyes open. I want to see what happens when infinity breaks."

The threads released.

Gojo came with a scream, his whole body seizing as pleasure tore through him. His release spilled over Geto's hand, thick ropes painting his wrist and forearm. And his eyes—his beautiful, devastating six eyes—stayed open, fixed on Geto's face.

But something else happened too.

The air around them fractured.

Gojo's Infinity splintered into fragments, each one reflecting a different version of him. Six copies materialized around them, all in various states of undress, all wearing the same fucked-out expression.

Geto's breath caught.

"Well," he said, surveying the room full of Gojos, each one looking at him with desperate, hungry eyes. "This is unexpected."

[risleylime]

Chapter 1: Claimed in the Dark

The corridor of the Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School dormitory was dead silent, save for the rhythmic thud of sneakers against the polished wood and the heavy, ragged breathing of two exhausted sorcerers. It was late—far past the time when most students had retreated to the safety of their rooms. The air between them felt charged, thick with a static that had nothing to do with cursed energy and everything to do with the unspoken things that had been building for months.

Yuji Itadori walked a half-step behind Megumi Fushiguro, his eyes tracing the sharp line of the other boy’s shoulders. He was covered in grime, sweat, and the faint, lingering smell of cursed spirits from the unscheduled excursion that had kept them out until dawn. But even through the exhaustion, Yuji felt a burning hum of anticipation in his chest. He glanced at the door to the communal showers. It was empty. Gojo-sensei was nowhere to be found, and the other students were likely asleep.

"Megumi," Yuji started, his voice sounding louder than he intended in the quiet hallway.

Megumi stopped, his hand resting on the doorframe to the locker room. He didn't turn around immediately, his profile shadowed in the dim light. "What is it, Yuji? We need to shower and sleep. Training starts early tomorrow."

"I know, I know." Yuji rubbed the back of his neck, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "But I can't... I can't keep saying nothing."

Megumi turned then, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. There was a guarded look to him, a fortress walls-up expression that Yuji had become an expert at reading. "Nothing about what?"

"About this." Yuji stepped forward, closing the distance between them. The smell of Megumi—rainwater, soap, and that distinct metallic tang of battle—filled his senses. "About us. About how I look at you."

The silence stretched, taut and vibrating. Megumi’s gaze dropped to Yuji’s lips, then snapped back up to his eyes. The stoicism cracked, just a fraction, revealing a flash of hungry interest that Yuji caught immediately.

"You're an idiot," Megumi said, his voice low, almost a growl.

"Yeah, probably." Yuji let out a nervous laugh. "But I’m an idiot who really wants to kiss you right now."

Megumi didn't answer with words. He grabbed the front of Yuji’s shirt, yanking him roughly into the locker room. The door slammed shut behind them, the echo bouncing off the tiles. Megumi shoved Yuji against the row of metal lockers, the impact rattling the doors violently.

"You have no idea what you're asking for," Megumi whispered, his face inches from Yuji's.

"I think I do," Yuji breathes, his hands coming up to grip Megumi’s hips. "I want you. All of you."

Megumi’s control snapped. He sealed his mouth over Yuji’s, kissing him with a ferocity that bordered on violence. It wasn't sweet; it was teeth and tongue and desperation. Yuji groaned into it, his knees buckling slightly as Megumi’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling his head back to deepen the angle. The aggression was a shock, a thrilling spark that ignited every nerve ending in Yuji’s body.

Megumi broke the kiss, breathing hard, his eyes darker than Yuji had ever seen them. "Showers. Now."

He didn't wait for a reply. Megumi dragged him toward the stalls, shedding his jacket as he went. By the time they reached the tiled enclosure, the atmosphere had shifted from confused longing to a heavy, suffocating heat. Yuji’s back hit the cold shower wall for the second time that night, but this time Megumi was crowding him, trapping him with his body.

"Turn it on," Megumi commanded.

Yuji fumbled with the knob, water spraying out in a sudden deluge. It was cold at first, then rapidly heating up, steam rising around them in thick clouds. Their clothes were still on, plastering to their skin. Megumi didn't care. He pinned Yuji’s wrists above his head with one hand, his other hand gripping Yuji’s jaw with bruising force.

"You confessed," Megumi said, his tone dripping with a dark authority that made Yuji’s cock twitch in his soaked trousers. "So now you follow my lead. Do you understand?"

Yuji nodded frantically, water dripping from his hair into his eyes. "Yes. God, yes."

"Good." Megumi released his wrists to tear at Yuji’s shirt. The fabric gave with a satisfying rip, exposing Yuji’s chest. Megumi’s eyes raked over him, predatory and possessive. He leaned in, biting down hard on the sensitive skin of Yuji’s neck.

The pain was sharp, immediately followed by a wave of pleasure that made Yuji cry out. His hands scrambled for purchase on Megumi’s wet shoulders, his nails digging in. Megumi soothed the bite with his tongue, then moved lower, his hands working quickly to rid them both of the rest of their clothing. The sodden denim hit the floor with a heavy slap.

Standing naked under the spray, the size difference seemed more pronounced. Yuji was broader, heavily muscled, but Megumi commanded the space with an intensity that outshined physical bulk. Megumi kicked Yuji’s legs apart, forcing him to brace his hands against the slick tile.

"Look at you," Megumi murmured, his hand trailing down Yuji’s chest, over the ridges of his abs, to wrap around his aching erection. "You're already so hard for me."

Yuji gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily. "Megumi, please..."

"Please what?" Megumi’s strokes were slow, torturous. His thumb brushed over the slit, collecting the pre-come that was quickly washed away by the water. "Tell me what you need."

"I need you to touch me. To—to take me."

Megumi smirked, a rare, wicked expression that Yuji cherished instantly. "Oh, I’m going to take you, Yuji. But I’m going to make you beg for it first."

He dropped to his knees. The water pounded against his back as he gripped Yuji’s thighs, hard enough to leave fingerprints. Without warning, Megumi leaned forward and swallowed Yuji down to the root.

"Megumi!" Yuji’s shout echoed off the walls, his head falling back. The heat was incredible, wet and tight and overwhelming. Megumi didn't hold back. He sucked hard, his hollowing cheeks creating a suction that made Yuji’s toes curl against the floor. One of Megumi’s hands snuck around, teasing the crease of Yuji’s ass, fingers ghosting over his hole.

Yuji was trembling, the pleasure coiling tight in his gut. He looked down, watching through the haze of steam as Megumi worked him. The sight of the usually reserved Fushiguro on his knees, utterly consuming him, was almost enough to send him over the edge right then.

Megumi pulled off with a pop, saliva stringing between them. He looked up, his eyes blazing. "Not yet. You don't get to come until I say so."

He stood up, turning Yuji around so his chest pressed against the cold tile. The contrast between the hot water on his back and the cold wall on his front was jarring. Megumi lined up behind him, his chest pressing into Yuji’s back. Yuji could feel Megumi’s erection, heavy and hot, sliding against the cleft of his ass.

"Grab the bar," Megumi ordered.

Yuji reached up, gripping the safety rail mounted on the wall. He arched his back, presenting himself shamelessly. He heard the snap of a cap—the travel shampoo they kept in the stalls—and then slick, cold fingers were probing at his entrance.

"Relax," Megumi commanded, his voice right against Yuji’s ear.

The first finger pushed in, burning and stretching. Yuji groaned, pushing back against it. Megumi worked him open methodically, scissoring his fingers, curling them to brush against that spot that made Yuji see stars. By the third finger, Yuji was a mess of incoherent noises, his forehead pressed against the tile.

"Please," Yuji whimpered, his knuckles white as he gripped the bar. "I'm ready. Just do it."

Megumi pulled his fingers away. There was a moment of rustling, the sound of a condom wrapper tearing open, and then the blunt head of Megumi’s cock was nudging against his entrance.

"Remember," Megumi growled, gripping Yuji’s hips hard enough to bruise. "You asked for this."

With one brutal thrust, Megumi buried himself inside. Yuji cried out, his body bowing under the sudden intrusion. It was intense, an overwhelming stretch that bordered on too much, but the sheer fullness grounded him. Megumi didn't pause to let him adjust. He set a punishing rhythm immediately, pulling out almost entirely before slamming back in.

"Fuck, Yuji," Megumi gritted out, his nails digging into Yuji’s skin. "You're so tight."

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the small stall, loud and lewd. Yuji couldn't think, couldn't breathe. He was just a vessel for Megumi’s pleasure, and he loved every second of it. Every thrust hit him deep, sparking friction against his prostate that made his vision blur.

"Harder," Yuji choked out. "Megumi, harder!"

Megumi grabbed a handful of Yuji’s wet hair, pulling his head back. "Don't tell me what to do."

But he obliged. He snapped his hips faster, driving into Yuji with a force that rattled his bones. The water cascaded over them, slicking their bodies, making the friction almost too much to bear. Yuji felt his orgasm building, a tight knot in his stomach that begged for release.

"I'm close," Yuji gasped. "Megumi, let me come. Please."

Megumi reached around, wrapping a hand around Yuji’s neglected cock. He stroked him in time with his thrusts, rough and fast. "Come for me then. Show me how much you want it."

That was all it took. With a hoarse shout, Yuji exploded, his release painting the white tiles in thick ropes. His body seized up, clamping down around Megumi.

Megumi groaned, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own end. He buried himself deep one last time, his hips stuttering as he filled the condom. He collapsed against Yuji’s back, both of them breathing hard, the water slowly beginning to run cold.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was the spray of the shower and their ragged breathing. Megumi pressed a kiss to the back of Yuji’s neck, surprisingly tender after the roughness.

"You okay?" Megumi asked, his voice raspy.

Yuji laughed weakly, turning around carefully to face him. He wrapped his arms around Megumi’s waist, pulling him close under the spray. "Yeah. I'm more than okay."

Megumi rested his forehead against Yuji’s, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. "Good. Because we aren't done here. I'm taking you back to my room."

Yuji’s eyes widened, a spark of renewed interest lighting his gaze despite the exhaustion. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Megumi said, his hand sliding down Yuji’s back to squeeze his ass possessively. "I told you. You're mine tonight."