Work Text:
You can’t help it.
Sometimes you like flashing him those taunting eyes, a little bit more of your thigh than what is considered proper, stretching your arms above your head and humming as you feel every muscle in your body stretch like a kitten in the sunlight. There is nothing more satisfying in the world than to see Lucio squirm, rock hard and frustrated, and his attempts to control you through his own narrow eyes, his tight jaw, his warning growls. Sometimes, he even succeeds.
Sometimes, when you’re both with company and he has things to do, the looks work. The soft warning growl in your ear settles you until he has time to drag you into an empty room and fuck you raw, his hand clamped over your mouth to stifle your cries, his golden claws leaving marks in the flesh of your hip and promises of more to come that night when he has the time.
Sometimes, he has to move those same claws to your thigh under the table while he nods along to his Consuls words, the gleaming tips sneaking higher and higher to brush against you. He knows you would never push him far enough to be caught in public, and it’s the one time he actually calls your bluff.
But, sometimes, despite all the looks, all the growls, the warnings, the promises of punishments, nothing will stop you. Because sometimes, the need is too much, the heat in your stomach is too hungry. Or, sometimes, you just like being a little shit.
And by sometimes, you mean all the time.
You stumble as he pushes you into his room, not trying very hard to hide the way you bite your lip, the wicked glint in your eye—the one you have thrown him so many times before, the very one that always gets you in the most delicious kinds of trouble.
He has barely closed the door before he turns to you, pulling his golden hand through his hair as he eyes you over. That look alone has your legs shaking, and with a single step back, your knees hit the foot of his bed.
“Lay down on the bed, you insolent little thing. Ass up. Don’t move.”
You scramble to do so, breathing ragged as you hear him striding toward you, the sounds of his zipper, his grunt as he takes hold of himself and strokes. You whimper, pressing your hips back, trying to find the heat of him.
He thrusts into you without warning and with an immediate pace, the length of him filling you hard and fast. His rhythm is brutal, cruel, unforgiving, thrust after thrust as his fingertips dig into your hips, pinning you, giving you no chance for reprieve.
You reach around to touch yourself, already seeking the release you had been craving all day. Lucio laughs and smacks your hand away to pin it to the bed, never ceasing his movements.
“Oh no, no, no,” he tells you, crooning. “Touching yourself is for good little pets, not wicked little teases who don’t know their place.”
“Lucio!” You don’t know what you’re demanding or pleading for anymore, too lost in the feel of him as he thrusts into you, hitting all the most delicious spots that he knows will never take you over the edge.
“That almost sounded like a please.”
“I need to—oh!”
You’re so close, your legs shaking, body flushed and heated and ready to crash and take him with you. You’re breathless as he pushes into you, the slap of his hips into yours filling the room and making you dizzy.
When he releases your hand, content you won’t try again, his thrusts change. Slower. Deeper. Dragging out your torture in the most delicious way.
“Please,” you whine.
“Please what, pet?”
“Please let me come!”
“Oh, but letting you come is a reward for your behaviour, is it not?”
He picks up his pace again, and it continues like that for what feels like hours, you pinned by his hands and the weight of him, him fucking you into a sobbing, babbling, begging mess while his teeth graze your neck.
Your whole body is shaking beneath him when he slows again then pulls out. You cry at the loss of him, but he hasn’t said you could move, so you wait, hips in the air. His hands smooth down the skin of your hips, the outside of your thighs, the lightest of touches, skirting exactly where you want him.
“Oh pet, my wonderful dove, my beautiful wicked little thing. Tell me how much you adore me right here.”
“I adore you.”
“Tell me how much you want me.”
“Always. Forever.”
“Now tell me how much you want to come.”
You can only answer with a sob.
Then his weight is back on you, firm and gentle, the length of him brushing against you as he leans over to press a single, soft kiss to your shoulder blade.
“Will you tease me again?”
You don’t answer, shivering beneath him. You feel his fingertips at the nape of your neck, brushing away the little hairs there, before he places a single, soft kiss there also. He smiles against your skin.
“I know you will. And I look forward to it very much.”
Then, he pushes back into you, building a steady rhythm, hitting all the right spots with the wet slap of skin on skin.
And when you feel yourself beginning to tip, right on the edge, he reaches around and helps you crash, murmuring his approval and delight into the back of your neck as you shiver and shake against him in your release.
Only when you’re weak and spent beneath him does he find his own end, groaning out your name like a prayer to a divine being, before dropping to the bed beside you and pulling you into his chest, pressing a kiss to the back of your head.
The action, despite your weakness, despite your drooping eyelids, makes you smile, a wicked little grin you know he would make you pay for if he saw.
Because even though he likes to punish you for all the wicked, teasing little things you do, teach you a lesson for the things you refuse to obey him in, at the end of the day—you always get exactly what you want.