— ♡ synopsis what starts as a small, harmless secret santa exchange turns into something far more intimate when cook finds a secret note hidden in his gift—one that leads him straight to your bedroom. ( wc : 2.4k )
contents .ᐟ aged up-cook. blowjob. protected p in v sex. teasing. blindfolding. light overstimulation. dirty talk. light alcohol consumption.
⋆˚✿˖ lyric’s notes to you merry christmas y'all !! i'm going ice skating tonight, so wish me luck or i'll bust my ass again like last year... anyways, i hope y'all enjoy these festive backshots
the flat smells like cheap cider, pine needles, and something vaguely burnt that’s probably the cookies someone tried to make and then abandoned mid-batch. someone’s got 'last christmas' playing way too loud from a speaker on the floor, and the string lights are already half-flickering out despite having just been plugged in.
you’re perched on the arm of the couch, sipping lukewarm wine from a plastic cup while watching the disaster unfold. secret santa was a mistake. you knew it would be. no one here has any sense of budget, taste, or shame—and that’s before cook starts unwrapping his gift like he’s five seconds from tearing it open with his teeth.
“oi, this one’s mine?” he grins, holding up the badly wrapped parcel with your handwriting on the tag.
you raise a brow. “clearly.”
he starts humming some god-awful christmas tune as he rips it open, paper flying in all directions. it’s a t-shirt. something stupid and mildly offensive, just enough to get a laugh without being banned from future gatherings. across the front, it says:
“naughty list legend.”
he cackles, loud and unashamed, the sound cutting straight through the room. he yanks the shirt free of the wrapping and immediately throws it over his shoulder like he’s on some grimy catwalk, chin tipped up, hips cocked, playing it up for laughs.
“fuckin’ love it,” he says, dragging a hand down his chest like he’s presenting himself. “knew you fancied me.”
“not a chance,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as you take another sip of your wine—but the corner of your mouth betrays you, twitching upward before you can stop it.
he’s still laughing when he shakes the shirt out, the fabric snapping once in the air. that’s when it happens. a small, folded square of paper slips free from the side seam and flutters down to the floor, landing near his shoes.
he almost misses it—almost.
you keep your face neutral. continuing to sip your drink, you pretend you don’t notice as his laughter dies down just a notch and his gaze flicks toward the floor.
“what’s this then?” he says, crouching to pick it up.
he unfolds it slowly, brows knitting at first, then lifting as he reads. the room keeps buzzing around him—someone arguing over the playlist, someone else refilling drinks—but cook goes quiet..
then he looks up.
his eyes find yours across the room and his mouth curls into that familiar grin, the one that always means trouble.
“what’s this then?” he repeats, softer this time.
you shrug, perfectly casual, lifting your cup again. “figure it out.”
his tongue drags over his bottom lip as he refolds the note, careful this time. he slides it into his pocket, pats it once like he’s claiming it, and doesn’t look away from you as the grin settles in for good.
cook shows up twenty minutes after the party ends.
his knuckles rap sharp and impatient against your flat door like he’s been standing there for at least a minute already, shifting his weight, grinning like the cat that got the cream.
when you open it, he’s exactly how you expect him to be—jacket half-zipped, hair still a mess from the night, eyes bright and restless. he looks pleased with himself, like he’s already won something.
“got your little love letter,” he says, voice low and amused, already stepping inside before you can invite him. “reckon i’m due the second half of my present, yeah?”
you shut the door behind him with more force than necessary and roll your eyes with a slight smile. “shut up and follow me.”
he laughs under his breath and does exactly that, trailing after you down the hallway like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he looks away. he’s buzzing, energy rolling off him in waves, hands restless, mouth running like he physically can’t help it.
“didn’t think you had it in you, y’know,” he says, voice bouncing off the walls. “all mysterious and shit. bloody romantic, that note. come after. come after? sounds like a threat—”
“cook.”
“yeah?”
you stop just short of your bedroom door and turn to face him. he nearly bumps into you, stops himself at the last second, grinning at you like he’s waiting for instructions.
“you just walked under mistletoe.”
his brows lift slowly, disbelief giving way to amusement. “did i now?”
you point up. there it is—taped to the frame, slightly crooked, a little worse for wear, still technically festive.
he leans in without hesitation. mouth finding yours in a kiss that's messy, hot, full of that chaotic energy only cook could pull off. he kisses like he’s about to be taken from the earth mid-way through, all tongue and teeth and groans pressed into the seam of your lips.
you let it happen just long enough to taste the cider on his breath. just long enough to feel the way his hands start to lift, ready to grab.
then you pull away.
his mouth chases yours for half a second before he realizes you’re already moving.
your hand reaches up.
you take the mistletoe from the doorframe, and as he watches, his mouth already parted to say something cocky, you bring it down.
down, down—until it’s hovering over the bulge in his pants.
his grin falters, just a flicker of surprise, then comes back wider.
“cheeky.”
you gesture toward the bed, calm as anything. “sit.”
“with pleasure.”
he flops down like it’s a throne, legs spread wide, hands resting loose on his thighs, chin tipped up like he’s waiting to be entertained. there’s a smug curve to his mouth, like he’s fully expecting a lap dance or something dramatic and over the top.
instead, you turn away from him, reaching into your nightstand drawer to pull out a long black ribbon, letting it trail between your fingers for just a second longer than necessary.
“you trust me?”
his eyes narrow, something sharp and curious flashing through them. “what kind of question is that?”
not answering, you step closer instead, straddling one of his thighs as you lift the ribbon and slide it around his head. you tie it snug, tight enough that he won’t peek. he doesn’t resist, doesn’t joke this time. his breath goes heavy almost instantly, chest rising faster beneath your hands.
his fingers curl against his thighs. “fuck,” he mutters. “you better not be knittin’ me a fuckin’ scarf right now.”
you snort softly. “shut up.”
and then you sink down between his knees.
the shift alone makes him swear under his breath. your fingers work at his belt, slow enough to be cruel, the metallic clink of the buckle loud in the dim quiet of the room. his jeans come undone easy. boxers already tented, the fabric stretched tight, darkened at the tip.
you pull him free.
he jerks in your hand as the cool air hits him, a sharp inhale punching out of his chest. he’s hard—thick and heavy, warm in your palm. flushed deep red at the tip, already slick, like he’s been thinking about this for far longer than he’ll ever admit.
“fuckin’ hell,” he breathes, head tilting back. “you’re not gonna—fuck—are you actually—”
you cut him off by pressing a kiss to the head.
his whole body shudders.
then you lean in and take him into your mouth properly, lips sealing around him, tongue flattening along the underside as you sink down slow. he swears loud, a rough, broken sound that echoes off the walls, hips twitching hard before he catches himself.
“oh my—shit—”
your hand stays wrapped around the base while your mouth works the rest—slow, wet strokes, tongue teasing the sensitive underside, cheeks hollowing just enough to make him lose his composure entirely.
when he gets too loud, too close, you hum around him just to feel him jerk.
suddenly, your other hand drops lower.
you cup his balls, warm and heavy in your palm, fingers rolling them gently before you lean down and press a slow, open-mouthed kiss there too.
his thighs tense instantly. “fuck—fuck—don’t—”
you kiss them again, fondle them lazily while your mouth keeps working him, tongue flicking, lips dragging. he’s breathing through his teeth now, hands gripping the edge of the bed like he’s holding on for dear life.
his hips start to shift, chasing your mouth.
you dig your nails lightly into his thigh.
“stay still,” you murmur, lips brushing his tip as you pull back just enough to deny him.
“not my fault your mouth’s—holy shit—”
you do it again and again, until he’s breathing through his teeth.
your tongue presses to that sensitive spot beneath the head, circles once, twice. his cock twitches violently, leaking down your throat as his head falls back again, mouth open, voice breaking into breathless nonsense.
“i’m not gonna last—fuck—if you keep—do that—do that thing—”
you let him tip right to the edge. let his whole body tense, cock throbbing in your mouth, balls tight in your hand, before pulling off entirely and licking your lips like you’re done.
“oi—what the fuck—”
you push him back by the chest, and he falls onto his elbows.
“is that it?”
instead of answering, you crawl onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress as you move behind him. he feels it immediately—the shift of weight, the warmth of you close without touching yet—and his breath hitches even before your hands reach him.
you lean in, mouth brushing the side of his neck first. a kiss there. then another, softer. your lips trail along his jaw, up toward his ear, like you’re taking your time just to wind him tighter.
“you’re doin’ this on purpose,” he mutters, voice rough.
your fingers hook under the edge of the blindfold. you kiss him again, right beneath his ear this time, lingering.
“maybe,” you murmur.
you slide the blindfold up just enough that it loosens, fabric slipping free as you peel it away slowly, letting his vision come back inch by inch. he blinks once, twice—then looks at you over his shoulder, pupils blown wide, mouth already parted.
you’re right there behind him. bare, close, and unapologetic.
you press one last kiss to his jaw and ask quietly,
“do you want to fuck me, cook?”
he doesn’t even pretend to think about it.
“jesus christ,” he breathes, hands already bracing on the bed. “yeah. fuck—yeah, i do.”
it takes all but three minutes, and he barely gives you time to turn around.
as soon as your knees had hit the mattress and you reached for the pillow, his hand caught your hip—rough, greedy—and he was behind you in seconds, one arm anchoring himself beside your waist while the other guided his cock into place.
the latex is already snug, rolled on in those frantic seconds between kissing and the blindfold dropping to the floor. he slides in thick and deep, pulling a broken sound from both of you.
you’re not even fully settled yet when he starts to move.
“fuck—fuck, baby—” he groans, slamming in harder now, the slap of skin on skin echoing off the bedroom walls. “you feel—fuck, you feel so fuckin’ good like this, you’ve no idea—”
your face is half-buried in the pillow, mouth parted on a moan as your fingers slip down between your thighs and find your clit. it’s already swollen, slick, throbbing from the tease of your earlier blowjob and the way he fills you up now—stretching you out with each thrust, cockhead nudging that perfect spot inside like it’s muscle memory.
you circle slow at first—tight, wet spirals that make you clench around him every time he drives back in.
cook’s grip tightens at your hips.
“are you—are you fuckin’ touching yourself?” he pants, voice wrecked. “while i’m—oh, jesus fuckin’—while i’m balls-deep in you?”
you whimper, nodding into the pillow. your voice comes out muffled, breathy: “feels too good, cook—”
“yeah? yeah? you’re gonna make yourself come on my cock, is that it?”
you nod again, this time shakier. your legs tremble, thighs sticky with the mess of it all. every thrust hits deeper now, harder. he doesn’t stop—doesn’t let up—and you’re just lying there, stuffed full, moaning into your sheets while your fingers keep working your clit like you’re desperate to come.
the friction of the brutal rhythm of his hips and your fingers blend together into something blinding and overwhelming. and every slap of his hips makes you cry out a little louder.
he’s gone too, completely lost in it.
“fuckin’—fuckin’ tight little cunt, jesus—”
he moans loud as he slams in again, hands now gripping your ass like he’s trying to mold your body to fit his cock perfectly. you feel the heat building in your belly, sharp and sweet and devastating, and when your fingers stutter just a little faster, your whole body jolts.
you cry out, full-body twitch, thighs shaking as your orgasm crashes through you.
he just keeps fucking you through it—back arched, ass bouncing against his pelvis as he grits his teeth and pounds into your soaked cunt, forcing out another sobbed moan that’s half-pleasure, half-overload.
the aftermath of your climax ripples through you like a pulse, body tightening, toes curling, walls clenching down hard around him. it drags a strangled sound from deep in his throat—something desperate and hoarse and unfiltered.
“fuck—fuck, that’s it, babe—shit, you’re squeezin’ me—oh my god—”
his rhythm falters, hips stuttering forward once, twice more before he slams in to the hilt and groans like it’s being punched out of him. head thrown back, spine arching, cock twitching deep inside you as he finally spills into the condom.
you feel him shake behind you, a full-body tremor, like the orgasm ripped through him hard. his hands grip your waist so tight it borders on bruising, but he’s already leaning over you, body folding forward until his chest brushes your back.
and then—without thinking, without aim—he starts kissing you.
sloppy, panting kisses across your spine. over the curve of your shoulder. breathless little pecks, tongue-touched and reverent, like he can’t help himself.
“fuckin’—shit—merry bloody—” he groans into your skin.
you turn your head to the side, just enough to breathe, to smile, to catch your breath. and then you mumble, soft and teasing between heaving exhales, “merry christmas, cook.”
he lets out a breathless laugh against your shoulder, still inside you, still twitching.
Warnings: Contains smut, MDNI. Oral sex (f!receiving.) Masturbation (f.) Fingering. Finger sucking. Dom!Reader. Sub!Lion. Hypno-adjacent. Clicker training. Praise kink. Begging kink. Being (a little!) mean to Lion.
Author's Note: Happy Thanksgiving everyone!! Enjoy this one when you have a second to sneak away from your family. That's how it was written, that's how it should be enjoyed. I am very, very thankful for all of you; thank you for all the love and support you've shown to me over the last year. Enjoy.
Special thank you and endless gratitude to abhi @scannainscanrula for beta reading and for all your input on this story! I'm very thankful for you and your worms, mo phéist.
Reblogs, comments, and likes always appreciated! Please reblog if you like what you read; it helps keep writers engaged in fandom spaces and creating cool shit for you!
You sit down on the edge of the bed, pouting up at him.
“Lionnnn…can you help me?
You pathetically kick out one foot, displaying your heel to him.
“Oh, uh, sure,” he stammers.
You’re coming back from a friend’s birthday party, and you’re wearing your favorite white platform heels with the ankle straps. You had a little too much to drink, and wrestling with the tiny buckle around your ankle had proven to be too difficult a task while your head was still spinning.
He kneels down in front of you and gently rests your foot on his knee, his big fingers fumbling with the dainty buckle.
“Thank youu,” you coo at him.
“Yeah, sure,” he mumbles again, his cheeks flushing red.
He frees your foot from the shoe, then picks up your other foot and begins the process again. When he’s removed your heels, you gently bring your hand to his cheek. He glances up at you through his long lashes.
“Thank you,” you whisper. “My sweet boy.”
He gently turns his head and presses a kiss to your palm. You giggle, and his cheeks brighten again at the sound.
“F’course,” he mutters.
It didn’t take long for a delicious idea to work its way into your brain.
Every time you came home from an evening out, you’d sit on the edge of the bed and ask Lion to take your heels off. It didn’t matter if you were black out drunk or stone cold sober, whether you were wearing classic pumps or elaborate laced-up platforms. He became so accustomed to the routine that he eventually began to follow you straight to the bedroom after stepping through the front door.
He’d kneel down, place your right foot on his knee, take the shoe off, then repeat. And you always thanked him, called him your sweet boy, made him blush. But you’d waited a while, established the routine, before introducing your latest toy.
You stand outside the apartment door while Lion turns the key in the lock. When he holds the door open for you, you cross to the coat closet, shrugging off your white wool trench and revealing the outfit you’d worn to dinner. A soft velvet dress, deep burgundy and short, short enough that you’d caught his eyes lingering on your legs more than once throughout the night. You notice him doing it now, too; his eyes drift from your shoulders, following the curves of your body, down to your dark red platform heels. You grin as you hang your coat up in the closet.
“I had fun tonight,” you start. “Did you?”
“Uh-huh,” he says half-heartedly, still looking you over as he takes off his own jacket.
You dig around in your purse for the toy as he hangs up his coat. When you find it, you slip it into your palm, a wicked smile creeping across your face. He shuts the closet door and turns to you, but before his hands can reach your hips, you cross into the bedroom, your heels click-clacking across the floor. When you reach the bed, you spin to face him and sigh as you sit. You lean back on one hand and gently kick your feet back and forth. He sinks to his knees in front of you.
click.
His head cocks to one side.
“What was that?”
“Hm? I didn’t hear anything,” you lie.
He turns back to your shoes and continues his routine.
“Good boy,” you mumble, gently tracing your thumb down the length of his jaw.
His lashes flutter as he closes his eyes briefly, taking in a deep breath. When he removes both shoes, he turns back to you.
“You want your kiss?” you tease him.
“Mhmm,” he hums, the sound low in his throat.
“C’mere,” you grin.
He sits up and gently places his hands on your knees.
click.
His brows furrow for just a second, but he leans up to meet your lips. His mouth presses against yours, warm and wet and wanting.
click.
When he finally pulls back from you, you smile, breathless.
“Good boy.”
You carried on like that for a while. Giving him a single click each time he knelt in front of you, each time his hands rested on your knees, each time he kissed you.
Then, you started to push him.
You’re coming home from a night out with some friends. Lion wanted to object to the length of your skirt, but hadn’t mustered the nerve before you were running out the door, afraid of being late. When he opens the apartment door, both of you a little more buzzed than usual, you head directly to your bedroom, with him on your heels like a puppy. You sit on the bed and he immediately kneels in front of you.
…
His brows knit together in confusion.
“What?” you ask him innocently.
“N-no, no, nothin’,” he mutters, turning his attention back to your shoes.
He lifts your foot onto his knee and tugs at your shoe, gently removing it. When he finishes with both, he brings his hands to rest on your knees.
click.
“Good boy,” you coo. “Thank you for helping me.”
“F’course, baby,” he replies quietly, looking up at you with those big pathetic eyes that drive you wild.
“You want your kiss?”
He nods silently.
“C’mere.”
He pushes himself up to meet your lips.
click.
He kisses you slow and sweet, his hands drifting to your waist. You pull back from him, and his hands halt their wandering movement. You bring one hand to the back of his head, holding his forehead to yours.
“Good boy,” you sigh, the air leaving your mouth and entering his as he gulps down quick, erratic breaths.
He hums in pleasure, eyelids fluttering closed.
He once again brings his hands to your hips, softly skimming the fabric of your dress that doesn’t leave much to the imagination.
“Y’look so pretty in this dress,” he mumbles, his voice low.
“Awww, thank you kitty cat,” you murmur. Lion flushes at the nickname you only use when you’re especially sweet on him.
“Can we…d’you wanna…”
“I wanna take a shower,” you yawn.
“O-okay,” he stammers.
You run your hands over his shoulders and down his arms.
“Thank you for takin’ care of me, kitty,” you purr.
“Y’welcome.”
click.
Lion began to love the clicker. He’d eagerly kneel at your feet, remove your shoes as quickly as he could, and bring his hands to your knees promptly just to hear the sound. You were still pairing each click with a bit of praise; you hadn’t quite weaned him off of rewards yet.
You stand at the mirror in your bathroom, fiddling with your earring. You carefully remove it and set it to the side before starting on the other one. Lion slinks into the bathroom and stands behind you, gently wrapping his arms around your waist. You smile at him in the mirror and grab the clicker from where it’s sitting on the counter in front of you.
“Y’need help with your shoes?” he asks timidly.
You roughly grind your hips back against his and a tiny noise escapes him.
“Mm, what do you say?” you chide him gently.
“Please?”
click.
“Good boy,” you grin. “Sure, you can help me.”
You turn to face him, your face tantalizingly close to his. He glances from your lips back up to your eyes. His brows are drawn together in a pathetic pleading gaze. You gingerly take his hand in yours, running your thumb over the bruises that paint his knuckles.
“Y’wanna do it here? Or the bedroom?” you ask him sweetly.
“Can we go to the bedroom?” he mumbles. “The tile…”
click.
“Please?”
You smile.
“Of course, sweet boy.”
You drop his hand and brush past him back into the bedroom, Lion following behind you. You take your usual seat on the edge of the bed.
click.
Lion drops to his knees and gets to work. He sets your shoes to the side when he’s done.
click.
He rests his hands on your knees, his palms hot over your skin.
This is usually where you’d ask him if he wants his kiss—dangling a treat out in front of him like a carrot on a stick. Clicking to make him lean up and crash his lips into yours. Lion stares up at you intently. You smile down at him sweetly.
And then you part your legs.
His rough hands are still on your knees, and his eyes dart down between your thighs.
“Shit,” he breathes.
“Yeah? See somethin’ you like, kitty cat?” you tease him. “See somethin’ you want?”
“Yes…” he mutters under his breath.
click.
“Yes, please.”
“Good boy,” you hum.
“Y-you’re…you’re not wearing…” Lion swallows.
“Well what’s the fun in that?” you taunt.
“All night?” he asks weakly.
“Alllll night, baby boy,” you grin. “Coulda been playin’ under the table the whole time. If you were payin’ attention to me.”
You punctuate your last sentence with a pout, exaggerating hurt.
“I was-I was payin’ attention,” he chokes, his eyes still glued to your exposed cunt.
“No you weren’t,” you whine. “Too busy talkin’ to everyone else.”
You had spent the evening at a dinner to celebrate Lion’s recent win. He hated going out to eat after a fight—all he wanted was to go home, cover you in kisses, and sleep—but you found a compromise. He’d let you schedule a nice dinner with a few close friends the day after a win; it did occasionally result in a few cancelled reservations, but generally, it was a good middle ground.
Lion had spent the night being a little more sociable than usual. He made polite conversation with your best friend’s newest boyfriend whom you weren’t entirely sure you liked yet. He even remembered that your friend Liz had started a new job recently and asked her how she was liking it. You were proud of him for going out of his comfort zone a little more. He was ordinarily pretty shy and reserved at these dinners, uncomfortable being the center of attention. You’d seen a change in him over the last few weeks, and were pleased that he was getting more and more comfortable in his own skin.
But you were so pissed that he had politely taken his hand off your knee when you placed it there instead of fingering you under the table like you wanted.
“Too busy talkin’ to Liz…and Molly…” you guilt him. “Didn’t even notice I wanted these inside’a me.”
You slowly lift one of his hands from your knee and bring two of his fingers to your lips. You greedily take them in your mouth, staring at him as you suck on them. You can feel his fingernails towards the back of your throat, the calloused pads of his fingertips pressing into your tongue. He winces when your teeth graze one of the bruises blooming on his knuckles. You pull him out of your mouth, a string of saliva stretching between you obscenely.
“Still hurts, baby?” you ask softly.
“Mm–mhmm,” he hums, his brows knitted together against the painful sensation.
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
You run your hand through his hair, using your nails to gently scratch his scalp. He groans under your touch. You draw your hand into a fist, grabbing his hair at the root.
“Gimme my kiss,” you tell him.
He brings his free hand back to your knee and goes to sit up. You tug on his hair, yanking him back down. He cries out in surprise.
“Not your kiss, silly. My kiss.”
You part your knees further and angle your hips up towards him, your skirt riding up around your waist. Lion gets the hint. He leans forward and presses his lips to your folds, placing a delicate kiss over your clit.
click.
A sigh tumbles out from your lips. You release his hair and fall back onto the mattress, propped up on one elbow.
Lion drags his tongue down your folds, the warm, wet feeling of his muscle against your sensitive skin relieving some of the pent-up frustration that’d been building in you since dinner.
“Fuck, just like that baby,” you breathe.
click.
He speeds up, licking and sucking on your cunt with fervor.
“A little higher, Lion,” you command him gently, your breath light and airy in your throat.
He obeys, dragging his tongue back up to your clit and massaging the sensitive nerves there.
click.
“Gooood boy,” you moan.
Lion hums against you, the low rumble reverberating through your body and making your thighs shake. He mumbles something you can’t hear.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” you tease.
He pulls away from you, his eyes glazed over with want. He looks delirious.
“Can I make you cum?” he asks, those puppy dog eyes almost melting you on the spot.
click.
“Please?” he corrects.
“Fuck, yes, Lion, make me cum.”
He dives back into you. His tongue feels divine, the pressure against your clit making it harder and harder to catch your breath.
“Ke-keep going, baby, yes, good boy, righ-ah, right there, right there-!”
He expertly swirls his tongue over you again, drawing the heat in your stomach down into your pelvis.
“Nng–Lionnnn,” you whine. “M’gonna, fuck, I’m…”
He roughly presses your legs further apart, his rough, bruised hands warm against your inner thighs. He sucks your clit into his mouth as he pulls away from you, releasing your flesh with a lewd wet sound. He slides his hands up, resting one on each side of your soaked core. Using his thumbs, he spreads you, the exposed angle making you blush and squirm under his touch. He gently blows cool air against you, the sensation making you even more sensitive. When he brings his mouth back to you, his tongue burns against your clit. A broken cry jumps out of your throat.
“L-Lion, Lion, please,” you pant. You toss your head back, staring up at the ceiling as he brings one thumb up to your clit, firmly pressing and rubbing in small circles.
The heat in your stomach blooms throughout your body, your cheeks flushing as you fall apart under his tongue and his touch. The sound of your groans and his wet kisses on your cunt fill the room as he works you through your orgasm. You gently push against his head when the stimulation becomes too much. He detaches from you and gazes up at you intently, eager for his reward.
click.
“Good boy,” you laugh lightly. “You want your kiss?”
He nods quietly, his chin coated in his spit and your slick.
“C’mere.”
click.
Once Lion started to understand each click as a reward, you began to train him with only the clicker. You didn’t give him praise or call him sweet names or show him affection until after he made you cum, after he obeyed every command. He knew that every click held the promise of a treat, and followed your orders with reverence.
It’s Friday night and you’re coming home from a date at a little wine bar around the corner from your apartment. You’re wearing your favorite dress, the black one that hugs your body just right, the sweetheart neckline displaying your cleavage perfectly. Your black stilettos clack against the floor of your apartment as you enter and head straight to the bedroom. Lion locks the door behind you and follows quickly behind.
He had been especially needy at the bar, stumbling and stammering over his words stupidly as he stared at your chest. When you stepped out of the dimly lit bar onto the sidewalk, Lion produced a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, shaking one out and holding it between his teeth. He fumbled around in his jacket pockets for his lighter before you opened your purse to let him borrow yours. Seeing the little black clicker in your purse, casually resting next to your lipstick, almost made him faint. Knowing that you carried his sanity around in your tiny designer purse made his knees buckle. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag before grabbing your hand in his and quickly starting towards home.
You sit on the bed now, clicker in hand, as Lion tumbles into the bedroom.
“Kneel.”
click.
He does.
“Take off my shoes.”
click.
He does.
“Get me my vibrator.”
click.
He reaches over to your nightstand and fumbles with the top drawer. He pulls out the small black satin bag and hands it to you. You notice the way his hands are shaking.
“Undress me.”
click.
He brings his hands to your knees and spreads your legs. He reaches under your dress and slides his thumbs underneath the lacy fabric of your black panties, pulling them down your legs and tossing them aside.
You remove your toy from the bag and drag it through your folds, collecting the slick lingering at your entrance. You’re already wet from the anticipation that started building in you when you started the walk home. You love having him wrapped around your finger.
You sigh as you switch the vibe onto the lowest setting, just barely grazing your clit. He watches your every move intently, awaiting his next command.
You tap the button on the toy, increasing the speed. You massage your cunt and the vibrations stimulate your nerves in a way that has your hips twitching into your own touch. Lion just kneels on the floor in front of you as you make him watch you get off on this tiny toy instead of his face.
You cum surprisingly quickly, even on just the medium setting of the vibrator. You can feel your juices coating the silicone and the tips of your fingers as you pull the toy from between your legs, your orgasm making your body feel buzzy and flushed. Lion stares at the shiny remnants of you on the vibe.
“Use your words,” you tell him. It was one of your favorite commands, though it took some getting used to. Where you would ordinarily ask him what was wrong, what he wanted, what he was thinking about, you instead gave him an order.
click.
“Can I have a taste?” he asks meekly.
click.
“Please?” he adds.
“No,” you reply cruelly, relishing every second of it. “Get me a tissue.”
click.
He rises and crosses to the bathroom, returning with the tissue. You take it and wipe your vibrator clean before putting it back in the bag.
“Throw this away,” you tell Lion, handing him the sticky tissue.
You know it’ll kill him, throwing away your cum that he so desperately wanted in his mouth. Not only watching you waste it on a toy, but being forced to be the one to discard the evidence only twisted the knife you’d sunk into his chest.
click.
He reluctantly crosses back into the bathroom and tosses the tissue in the trash can with a wince before returning to you.
“Kneel,” you command him again.
click.
He does.
You stare down at him as he stares up at you, those soft, sweet eyes boring into yours. It takes everything in you to maintain your composure. All you want to do is stroke his hair, pepper his face with tiny kisses, breathe in his breath like it’s your own. But you don’t.
“Gimme my kiss.”
click.
He leans forward and starts eating you like he’s been starved for days. His pace is immediately unrelenting as alternates between swirling his tongue around your clit and dragging it through your folds.
“Lion, oh God, yes,” you huff, your body still reeling from your first orgasm.
His facial hair scratches against your inner thighs as you squeeze them around his head. He hums in satisfaction and tosses your legs over his shoulders, tugging your hips closer to his mouth and the edge of the bed.
You lie back completely, flopping your head against the pillowy mattress. Lion continues to devour you, lapping and slurping up your wetness. It sounds like you’re in a cheesy porno, his weak, tiny moans harmonizing with the vulgar sounds of his tongue.
“Yes, baby, yes, yes, fuck.” You can hardly catch your breath. Your thighs are trembling around his head, your hips twitching and grinding against his face. “Use your words, kitty cat, talk to me.”
click.
He groans.
“Y’so pretty, so gorgeous, baby, couldn’t stop starin’ at you all night,” he mumbles. “Not fair when y’wear this one…”
“You like it?” you tease him through hurried breaths.
“Y’so sexy, fuck, I was gonna cum just starin’ at your tits in the restaurant,” he continues, pressing a sloppy kiss to your clit. “Just wanna make you cum, princess, please, please?”
He runs his tongue along your cunt and swallows the juices that collect on his tongue.
“Please, please, please, baby, please, I need you to…”
He sounds ruined. His breath is filling his lungs almost as fast as yours is, and his voice is wavering.
“I need you to click it baby, please,” he begs.
“Make me cum first, Lion,” you chastise him.
“But ‘m sayin’ please,” he whines.
He was still a little attached to his old habits, seeking clicks like treats. He was still learning.
“You get a click for making me cum, not just for saying please,” you reply sternly. He whines against you.
“M’sorry baby,” he breathes.
“It’s o-okay,” you respond, stuttering when he brings his mouth back to suck on your clit. He lets go of you with a lewd pop!
“Can I use my fingers, too?” he asks you sweetly, staring up at you through those long lashes.
“You can use your fingers,” you whisper.
He brings his hand to your cunt and slowly drags two fingers through your folds, slicking them with you, before he pushes in. You whimper at the full feeling. He usually starts with one, but now he’s pumping two fingers in and out of you at a torturously slow pace while his tongue flicks your clit over and over. You can feel the spark in your stomach ignite again, and you bring one hand down to tangle your own fingers in his hair.
You pull him closer, and he picks up the pace. You can feel him part his fingers inside of you and you cry out at the stretch. He keeps working you, his deft fingers curling up to find that spot inside of you that has your head spinning. You arch your back off the bed, angling your hips towards his face and giving him better access.
“Right there, fuck, yes, Lion, don’t stop,” you cry.
He strokes you again, and you can feel your heart thundering in your chest.
“Cum for me baby, please,” he begs.
He hits that spot one more time, his calloused fingers applying just the right amount of pressure. You scream, gripping his hair so tight you’re almost worried about hurting him. Your orgasm shoots through you, heightened by the first one still lingering in your body. Every limb feels like it’s on fire, and your legs shake around his head. He slurps down the juices you release onto his tongue, savoring the taste of you. When he finally pulls his fingers out of your aching cunt, he brings them to his mouth and greedily sucks off the remainder of your orgasm.
You lie back in the bed, flushed and giddy. You chuckle softly in your bliss. Lion sits back on his heels, staring up at you as your chest rises and falls.
“Good boy,” you praise him through panting breath. “Good boy, Lion.”
You glance back down at him. He stares at you with his giant, sad, puppy dog eyes.
“C-can I have m-my k-kiss now?” he whimpers.
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ᰋ ˓ . synopsis in the middle of a rowdy night at the saloon, you slip upstairs with roy for a quick rendezvous. he’s trying to stay quiet. you’re trying to make him lose control. (wc : 3k)
𝜗ৎ . notes ; bye i can’t believe i just sat here and was able to get this done… roy i will always love you 🤭 i’m crying at the abrupt start above the ‘keep reading’ ALSO there’s flowers given to the valentine’s fic in here BUT you don’t have to read that to read this !
Roy’s cock is already buried in your mouth, heavy and vein-ridged on your tongue, slick as sin with your spit and the salty leak of his precum, when the drunken roar from the saloon below swells up through the thin floorboards again—all tinny piano, stomping boots, whiskey-slurred laughter, and rowdy hollering.
The sound ought to make you nervous as a cornered rabbit, ought to remind you that half the town is downstairs and Frank’s men are scattered among them like wolves bellied up to the stove, but all it does is make your pulse hammer harder between your legs.
You’re on your knees in the same upstairs room where Roy had taken you against the wall days ago, your skirt bunched messy and useless beneath you, your hands braced on his sturdy thighs while he leans back against the edge of the washstand with one callused hand gripping loosely on the nape of your neck.
You can tell he is trying like hell to keep quiet by the way his jaw keeps flexing, by the slow rise of his chest under his open shirt, by the way his eyes drop to your stretched lips and stay locked there until he looks half-mad with need.
“Christ,” he breathes, the word scraped low and rough from his throat. His fingers tighten at the nape of your neck before he seems to remember himself and eases his grip, thumb brushing over your racing pulse in a touch too gentle for the way his hips are beginning to shift. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, I ain’t gonna last long.”
You hum around him, and the vibration travels through him.
Roy’s head tips back, the tendons in his neck standing out like ropes as he curses under his breath. He’s big enough that your jaw aches already, big enough that every slow push deeper makes your eyes water and your cunt clench empty, but there’s a wicked little pleasure in watching him lose that careful gunslinger composure by inches.
You pull off him slow, letting your swollen lips drag up the thick length of him until the flushed, slick head of his cock slips free with a wet pop. Spit strings shiny between your mouth andhim, and Roy stares down at it with a dark, helpless hunger that makes fresh heat flood your belly.
You smile up at him, wiping your lower lip with the back of your hand like you have not done it on purpose just to torment him.
“You always make that face when a girl’s sweet to you?” you ask.
His eyes lift to yours, and the look he gives you is dangerous in that quiet way of his, all banked heat and patience wearing thin. “Ain’t nothin’ sweet about what you’re doin’.”
“No?” You press a kiss to the side of his cock, soft and teasing, before licking him again from heavy balls to leaking tip. “Seems plenty sweet to me.”
Roy’s hand slides from your neck to your jaw, his thumb smearing your own spit across your cheek as he tips your face up.
There’s a faint flush high on his cheekbones, and his mouth is parted like he is having trouble deciding whether to kiss you or put you back where he wants you. “You run that mouth too much.”
“You liked it well enough a minute ago.”
His thumb presses lightly against your lower lip, enough to part it, enough to make your breath hitch. “Open.”
Your teasing smile falters into something hungrier as you obey, and Roy’s expression shifts when he sees it, when he sees how quick you are to let him have that much.
He guides his cock back against your tongue with enough control that your thighs press together under your skirt. He feeds you every thick inch slowly, watching your mouth stretch wide around him, watching your lashes flutter when he hits the back of your throat and deeper.
His hand stays at your jaw while the other braces on the washstand, and when he begins to move, it’s steady enough to make tears gather at the corners of your eyes.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice rougher now. “There you go.”
The praise makes your cunt ache worse than the stretch in your jaw. You take him as deep as you can, your fingers gripping the worn fabric of his trousers, your mouth sloppy and drooling around him while his breathing starts to come apart.
He tries to keep the rhythm slow, but every time your throat tightens and milks him, his hips jerk with a hunger he cannot quite master. It makes you want to ruin him completely.
It makes you want to suck and swallow until the careful man from downstairs is gone and only this remains: Roy with his shirt hanging open, his cock shiny and slick from your mouth, his hand on you, his gaze fixed on you like nothing else in the world exists.
When you pull back again, gasping softly, he follows the movement before he can stop himself.
You laugh breathlessly, and that does something to him. His hand tightens enough to still you.
“You think that’s funny?” he asks.
“I think you want me too bad to act so stern.”
For a moment, he only looks at you. Then he bends, catches you under the arms, and pulls you up from your knees as if he has had enough of being teased. Your chest hits his before you can steady yourself, and his mouth finds yours with no hesitation.
He kisses you deep, tasting himself on your tongue, one arm locked around you while the other hand drags your skirts up in a rough gather. The room tilts with the suddenness of it, the washstand rattling behind him, your hands clutching at his shoulders as he walks you backward toward the bed.
“You been smilin’ at me all week like you had somethin’ planned,” he says against your mouth, his voice low enough to make your stomach flip. “Had me sittin’ down there with my men men, actin’ like I wasn’t thinkin’ about gettin’ you back up here.”
“You were thinking about it?”
Roy lays you back on the bed and follows you down, one knee pressing between yours as he looks over you. His hat is gone somewhere behind him, his hair mussed from your fingers, his mouth wet from kissing. “Every damn night.”
He pushes your skirts higher, dragging them up over your thighs until the cool air hits your bare, dripping cunt. You lift your hips to help him, but he catches your thigh and presses it back down with a faint shake of his head.
“Uh-uh,” he says. “You don’t get to hurry now.”
You huff, impatient and shameless, and Roy’s mouth curves in the smallest smile.
It’s unfair how handsome he is when he does that, how much younger he looks for half a breath before pure want darkens him again.
He leans down and kisses along your inner thigh, slow enough to make you squirm, his stubble scraping rough against tender skin while his hands keep you spread wide for him.
The saloon below erupts in a roar of laughter, and Roy’s eyes flick toward the floor for a second before returning to your soaked pussy.
“Better keep quiet,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t want them wonderin’ what you’re doin’ up here.”
“You’re one to talk,” you say, voice already thinner than you want it to be. “You could hardly stand upright a minute ago.”
His gaze brightens with amusement. “That so?”
Before you can answer, he shifts over you, dragging the wet length of his cock against your dripping folds instead of pushing in. The fat head slides through your slick, nudging hard against your swollen clit with just enough pressure to make your back arch clean off the bed.
You grab at the blanket beneath you, breath catching on a frustrated whine as he does it again, coating himself in your juices while watching your face like he owns it.
“Roy,” you whisper, half warning and half plea.
He braces one hand beside your head and uses the other to guide himself, rubbing his cock along your cunt in a filthy, patient rhythm that makes your teasing crumble fast.
The heat of him, the weight of him, the fact that he is right there and still not giving you what you want makes your hips chase him without a lick of shame. He lowers his mouth to yours, kissing you when you gasp, swallowing the sound as he rolls his hips and lets the head catch at your entrance before sliding back up to tease your clit again.
“You had plenty to say when you were on your knees,” he murmurs into the kiss. “Where’d all that mouth go?”
“You’re being mean.”
“No,” he says, dragging himself along you again until your thighs tremble around his hips. “I’m bein’ fair.”
You almost laugh, but it breaks into a moan when he presses harder, the slick drag of him turning rougher, messier, his control wearing thinner with every filthy pass.
His forehead dips against yours. For all his teasing, he is suffering too; you feel it in the tension of his body, in the slight shake of his breath, in the way his jaw clenches whenever his cock nudges where you are swollen and aching for him.
“Tell me,” he says.
You know what he wants, and pride makes you hesitate even with your legs spread wide around him and your cunt dripping all over his cock from his teasing. Roy’s mouth brushes the corner of yours, almost tender, before he rocks forward again and steals the thought clean out of your head.
“Tell me what you want.”
You grip the back of his shirt, pulling him closer. “You know what I want, Roy.”
His eyes hold yours for one suspended second, and then the last of his patience gives. He reaches down, angles his cock, and pushes into you with a slow, hard thrust that fills you until your mouth falls open against his.
Roy groans low, the sound breaking rough in his chest as he sinks deep, his hips pressed tight to yours while you cling to him through the stretch.
“There,” he breathes, almost like he is talking to himself. “That what you needed?”
You nod, but he is not satisfied with that. He catches your chin and makes you look at him, his thumb still damp from your mouth and your skin.
“Say it.”
“Yes,” you manage. “Yes, Roy.”
That does something filthy to him. His restraint snaps into motion, and the first real thrust drives you higher on the bed, your skirts trapped between your bodies, your blouse half-open from his impatient hands.
He thrusts into you with the same quiet intensity he carries everywhere else, only rougher now, every thrust deep enough to make the bedframe knock faintly against the wall and your breasts bounce.
You bite down on a moan, but Roy catches it with his mouth, kissing you hard while his hips keep a steady, punishing rhythm.
The room grows hot around you, thick with sweat, whiskey, dust, and the faint perfume you wore downstairs to make men tip better.
Roy’s hand slides under your thigh, hitching it higher over his hip so he can drive into your cunt deeper, and your nails rake down his back through his shirt. He grunts at the sting, then gives you a thrust sharp enough to make your breath break.
“You like givin’ trouble,” he says against your throat, his voice strained. “But you take it real pretty.”
You turn your face into his hair, trying to muffle the sound that rises out of you, but Roy hears enough. His mouth moves down your neck, his teeth grazing lightly, his hand firm on your thigh as he keeps you pinned open beneath him.
You feel how close he is in the ragged drag of his breathing, in the way each thrust loses some of its rhythm and gains more hunger, in the low groan he lets out when you clench around him.
Then, just when you think he is going to spend himself like that, buried deep with your legs locked around him and the bed knocking faintly beneath you, Roy’s hand slips behind your back and he moves with sudden strength.
The room tilts before you can catch your breath. He turns you both over in one rough, fluid motion, his cock still buried inside you as he lands on his back with you straddling his hips, your skirts falling in a messy heap around your thighs.
You gasp, hands flying to his chest to steady yourself. Roy looks up at you with his hair mussed, his shirt open, his mouth wet from your skin, and for a second all you can do is stare at him.
He’s flushed and breathing hard, stretched out beneath you like something you have won, though the firm grip of his hands on your hips tells you well enough he has not given up control at all.
“There,” he says, “since you had so much to say.”
Your thighs tremble around him, your body still clenching from how hard he’d been taking you, and the feel of him underneath you is almost worse this way. He’s deeper somehow, seated inside you so fully that the smallest shift of your hips makes you bite your lip. Roy notices, and his hands tighten at your waist as a faint, wicked look moves across his face.
“Go on,” he murmurs. “Ride me.” The command leaves you hot all over.
You move at first with a slow roll of your hips, testing him, testing yourself, and Roy’s head falls back against the pillow with a strained breath.
His fingers dig into the fabric bunched around your waist, letting you drag yourself up the length of his cock before sinking back down. The stretch makes your mouth part, and the sound you make is too soft, too needy, too easy for him to hear over the noise downstairs.
“That’s it,” he says, eyes lifting back to yours. “Just like that.”
You brace your hands on his chest and find a rhythm, slow at first, then less careful as the pleasure starts to build again. The bed creaks beneath you. The lamplight catches the shine of sweat at his throat, the dark line of his gaze as it moves over you, your open blouse, your swollen mouth, your skirts pushed up indecently around your hips while you take him again and again.
Roy looks wrecked beneath you, but not helpless. There’s still that steady command in him, in the way he watches, in the way his hands move you when your pace falters, in the way he thrusts up to meet you whenever you start teasing too much and slowing down just to see what he will do.
“You like makin’ a man suffer, don’t you?” he asks, breath catching when you grind down hard.
You smile, though it shakes at the edges. “Only you.”
His jaw tightens, and then one hand slides up your back, pulling you down until your mouth is close to his. “Then don’t stop.”
You ride him harder, your knees digging into the mattress, your hands fisting in his open shirt while his hips start meeting yours with rough, hungry thrusts.
The control of it slips between you, back and forth, until neither of you seems to own it completely. You set the pace, but Roy’s hands keep you there. You move above him, but he drives up into your pussy hard enough to make your breath break against his mouth.
Outside the room, someone stumbles down the hall laughing, and Roy’s palm comes up to cover your mouth just as a moan tears out of you. His eyes burn into yours while you fall apart on top of him, your body tightening around him as pleasure rushes through you in hot, shaking waves.
“Easy,” he murmurs, though his own voice is nearly gone.
You come with his hand over your mouth and your hips still rocking helplessly against his, and the sight of you above him is what finally ruins him.
Roy groans low, his head pressing back into the pillow, his hands dragging you down hard as he thrusts up once, twice, then holds you tight against him. His body goes tense beneath yours as he comes deep, flooding your cunt with thick spurts, his breath breaking harshly while you shudder through the last of it.
Briefly, the only sounds are the saloon below and the two of you trying to breathe.
You stay folded over him, your face tucked near his neck, your skirts still rucked up, his hands warm and possessive at your back. When he finally turns his head, his mouth brushes your cheek with a tenderness that feels almost stolen after how rough he had just been.
“You’re gonna get me killed,” he says, voice low and hoarse.
You lift your head enough to look at him, ruined and smiling. “I didn’t ask you to keep coming back.”
Roy’s gaze lingers on your mouth, then drops to where you are still seated on his spent cock, as if he is already thinking of keeping you there a little longer.
“No,” he murmurs, hands sliding slowly over your hips. “But you knew I would.”
He held you there against his chest a moment longer, the distant piano notes and low laughter drifting up like a half-forgotten dream while the lamplight flickered low across your tangled bodies.
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