⊝ summary: He said ass, gas, or cash. You didn’t have the cash and he didn’t need the gas. Now your dealer’s fucking you harder than your degree ever could.
⊝ wc: 4k
⊝ a/n: That’s probably the most direct fic title and summary I’ve ever written lmao. Dedicated to Kat (@/sumnerslove on twitter) who said we needed more dealer Cook—this one’s for you, girlypop!! might turn this into a series tbh. thank you @scrprints for the photos of Cook.
⊝ warnings: drug use (weed/adderall), unprotected sex, explicit oral sex (m!receiving), face-fucking, gagging, choking, spit kink, degradation kink, creampie, breeding kink, masturbation, coercive dynamics, rough sex, cock slapping, messy/blowjob drool, reader gets called a slut (lovingly), size kink, begging kink, possessive behavior, overstimulation, fingering, dirty talk, reader pays for drugs with sex, dealer!james cook
⊝ likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!
⊝ Part II / Masterlist
Part I: Short Changed
You knock twice on the busted door before just letting yourself in. Cook’s never locked it—not once in all the times you’ve come here, and it creaks open with the same stubborn groan as always.
Inside smells like weed and something fried. Maybe both. You don’t really care.
“Oi oi,” Cook calls from the kitchen. “Back for more already? Didn’t even miss me, did ya?”
You shoot him a look over the open counter. “Missed the Adderall, not you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he grins. “That’s what they all say.”
He’s got a pan in one hand, spatula in the other, like he’s been halfway through making god-knows-what when you showed up. Shirtless—of course—but at least this time he’s wearing jeans.
“Left it on the table,” he nods toward the squat coffee table in the living room, already littered with rolling papers and stray crumbs. “Same as always.”
You dig into your hoodie pocket, fingers curling around the folded cash.
“Twenty short,” he says before you even pull it out.
You freeze. “What?”
“Price went up,” Cook says easily, flicking off the burner like this is just casual conversation. “Inflation, innit? Economy’s fucked. Gotta adjust.”
You blink. “You’re charging more for the same shit you’ve always sold me?”
He leans in the doorway now, arms crossed. Smirking. “What can I say? Demand’s high. Product’s tight. And you’re not the only pretty little thing beggin’ for a pick-me-up.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snap, but you’re already counting again. You really are twenty short.
He shrugs, like this is all the same to him. “Ass, gas, or cash, yeah? And I don’t need petrol.”
You stare at him.
He doesn’t blink.
“…You’re joking.”
“Am I?”
There’s that little glint in his eye—the one he gets when he knows he’s said something that’s gonna push a button. The worst part is, he’s not even smug about it. Just calm. Lazy. Like this isn’t the first time someone’s come up short, and it isn’t the first time he’s offered…alternate forms of payment.
“Jesus,” you mutter, stepping back. “You’re actually serious.”
Cook uncrosses his arms, slow like he’s stretching, and tilts his head. “Look, I’m not makin’ you do anything. You can always go. Find some other dealer. Maybe they’ll let you Venmo.”
You hesitate. Just for a second.
His grin spreads like he’s caught it. “Oh. Oh, I see. You want me to be joking, but part of you’s thinkin’ about it.”
You don’t say anything.
He steps closer, that lazy swagger in his walk, eyes fixed on yours like he’s reading every thought. “How long you been buyin’ from me now?”
“Couple months.”
“And every time, you come in here, givin’ me shit, mouthin’ off—”
“Because you’re a dick.”
“—and yet you always come back.” He stops in front of you. Close. Too close. “You ever think maybe you like me talkin’ to you like that?”
You scoff, trying to step back, but the coffee table’s right there.
“Or maybe you just like the idea of me bendin’ you over it.”
“Fuck off,” you snap, but your voice is tighter than before. Your hands won’t stop twitching.
Cook raises his brows. “All right then. Fuck off it is.”
He backs away—but not far. Just enough to give you space to think. To breathe. The pills still sit on the edge of the table, just out of reach. He watches you with that maddening calm, like he knows exactly how this ends.
“Could’ve just told me before I came over,” you mutter, half to yourself.
“But then I wouldn’t get to see you squirm like this.”
You glare at him.
He licks his teeth. “C’mon. You got a smart fuckin’ mouth. Put it to use.”
Your stomach drops.
Cook catches it—lives for it—and steps back into your space. “Unless you’d rather bend over for it. Up to you. You get your meds either way.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“I’ve been called worse,” he says, voice dropping low now. “But let’s not pretend you’re not soaked just thinkin’ about it.”
Your face burns. Your pulse is loud in your ears.
And the worst part is…he’s not wrong.
You don’t know when your mouth goes dry.
Maybe it’s when Cook steps closer again, all that lazy swagger gone from his walk—replaced with something heavier. Hungrier.
Or maybe it’s when he reaches down, palms the bulge in his jeans, and says it like a goddamn punch to the throat:
“Get on your knees.”
You blink up at him. Staring. Heart pounding.
“You want the pills?” he says again, voice softer now, lower. “Show me.”
You hesitate—but only for a breath. Then your knees hit the carpet with a soft thump.
Cook groans, head tipping back like just the sight of you down there is enough to make him hard. One hand drags through his hair; the other drops to his zipper.
“Fuckin’ knew it,” he mutters. “Knew you’d look good on your knees. Should’ve charged you short weeks ago.”
You open your mouth to snap back, but the words never come.
Not when he frees his cock from his jeans—already thick, already hard—and strokes it once, slow and heavy, just to watch your lips part again.
“Yeah?” he grins. “Got nothin’ to say now?”
You glare up at him. He chuckles and taps the head of his cock against your cheek. Just once.
Then again—slap—a little firmer.
Your breath hitches.
Cook’s grin widens.
“Look at that. All that attitude, gone. Where’s that mouth now, sweetheart?”
You narrow your eyes—but your thighs press together.
He knows.
The next tap lands right on your lips. Then again, firmer. The head of his cock glistens with precum now, and he watches it smear across your mouth with something damn near reverent.
“Open up.”
You hesitate.
He grips your jaw—not hard, just enough to tilt your chin.
“Don’t make me ask again.”
You open.
And he moans—a low, raw sound that punches straight to your core.
“Good little slut.”
His cock slides past your lips slowly, dragging across your tongue inch by inch. You try to breathe through your nose, try to pace it, but he’s thick and heavy, and your eyes start to water before he’s even halfway in.
“Fuck, that’s it,” Cook groans. “Take it, yeah? Knew that smart little mouth could do more than just talk shit.”
You try to glare up at him, but your mouth’s too full.
He pulls out almost completely, just enough to let you catch your breath—and then taps the tip of his cock against your tongue. Slap. Slap. It’s wet and obscene and filthy and he’s watching your drool drip down your chin with a look that says he might actually cum just from the sight.
“Messy girl,” he murmurs. “Didn’t even get started and you’re already fuckin’ drooling.”
He fists your hair, tugs gently. You moan around him, and that makes him twitch in your mouth.
“Oh, you like that,” he laughs. “Course you fuckin’ do. Bet you’re so wet it hurts.”
You don’t answer—you can’t—but your thighs clench again, and Cook notices.
“Touch yourself,” he says, voice gone ragged.
You hesitate. He pulls your mouth off him with a wet pop, cock glistening.
“Did I stutter?”
Your hand slides down, trembling.
Cook watches like a man possessed, stroking himself with your spit as you slip your fingers between your legs, under the waistband.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he groans. “Don’t stop. Put that mouth back where it belongs.”
You take him in again—deeper this time, throat burning, spit stringing from your lips down to your chin. He starts thrusting now, slow at first, then faster. His hips roll forward, lazy but relentless, and your jaw aches from the stretch.
“You wanted this,” he pants. “You knew you’d end up here. Wanted to act all high and mighty, pretendin’ you weren’t thinkin’ about suckin’ my cock every time you knocked on that door.”
You moan around him.
“Yeah. Just like that. Fuck—fuck—you’re good at this.”
Your fingers move faster. You’re desperate now, soaking wet, and he knows. He can see it in your eyes.
He fucks your throat a little deeper—just enough to make you gag once—and your hand jerks between your thighs, your hips twitching. You’re so close.
Cook groans, pulls back, and fists his cock again, the tip red and glistening.
“You close?”
You nod, mouth open, drool running down your chin and onto your chest.
He laughs—low and dark and fucking feral.
“You wanna cum, you better earn those pills.”
He slaps the head of his cock against your cheek again. Wet, sticky sounds echo in the room.
You open your mouth again, tongue out, obedient now.
He thrusts back in.
Cook grabs a fistful of your hair, wraps it tight, and slides his cock back past your lips like it belongs there—like you were meant for this. His hips start to move, lazy at first, just letting the head of his cock drag across your tongue again and again. Salty. Heavy. Leaking. Every pass makes your eyes water worse, drool spilling in hot ropes down your chin and onto your hand, still working between your legs.
“Yeah,” he rasps. “There you fuckin’ go.”
You moan around him, gag once when he pushes deeper—and that just makes him groan. His grip tightens. His pace picks up.
“Fuckin’ perfect mouth,” he grits out. “You were made for this.”
Your jaw’s aching now, throat raw, spit absolutely everywhere. It’s dripping from your chin, smearing down your neck, pooling at the corners of your mouth—but he doesn’t care. If anything, he’s inspired by it.
He pulls back just enough to tap the soaked head against your tongue again. Slap. Slap. Your tongue lolls out like instinct, chasing it. He smirks, dark and satisfied.
“Look at you,” he croons. “Didn’t even have to train you. You’re just a natural little cockslut, aren’t you?”
You can’t answer, not with your mouth stuffed again. Not with the way his pace starts to pick up, rougher now, needy. He’s fucking your mouth—no other word for it—driving his cock in and out of your throat while you drool and gag and moan like a fucking porn star.
“Bet no one’s ever used you like this before,” he pants. “Bet you’ve never had someone own your fuckin’ mouth.”
You whimper. Loud.
Your fingers are frantic between your legs now, hips twitching, your whole body humming with it—heat crawling up your spine, pooling low, winding tight. You’re so fucking close, and he knows it.
“Don’t stop,” he growls. “Want you to cum with my cock down your throat. Wanna feel it when you fall apart.”
He keeps fucking your mouth, relentless, his hips slapping into your face, cock hitting the back of your throat over and over until your eyes blur with tears. You can barely breathe—only catch short gasps when he pulls back enough to let you—but that pressure just makes the heat spike higher.
You moan around him. Loud. Desperate.
“Yeah?” he pants. “That’s it—fuckin’ cum, you filthy little thing. Rub that needy little cunt raw for me.”
That’s all it takes.
You cry out around his cock, fingers soaked, body wracked with tremors as the orgasm crashes over you. It’s messy. Shaky. Loud. You’re gasping, drooling, thighs twitching as you grind through it, moaning so loud that Cook shudders.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he hisses. “Knew it. Knew you were a fuckin’ mess under all that mouth.”
You try to pull back—just to breathe—but he holds you there, both hands in your hair now, fucking your mouth harder. Sloppier.
“Not done,” he growls. “Don’t you fuckin’ stop now.”
You choke again. He groans.
“I’m close,” he warns, voice rough and frantic now. “Gonna cum down your throat if you don’t—fuck—don’t move—don’t—”
His hips stutter.
You brace for it—
And then he’s moaning, loud, cock twitching as he spills down your throat without warning, without pause. It’s hot and thick, and you’re too slow to react, already swallowing before you can even think about it. He doesn’t pull out. Not right away. Just holds you there, cock still pulsing, his grip tight in your hair as you whimper against him, throat working.
“Fucking hell,” Cook pants. “You’re unreal.”
When he finally pulls out, your mouth is a mess—lips swollen, chin glistening, strings of spit and cum still connecting you. You gasp for breath, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand, but he just tucks himself back into his jeans like this is the most normal thing in the world.
He leans down.
Takes the bottle of pills off the table.
Drops it into your hoodie pocket.
“You earned it.”
You look up at him, chest still heaving.
Cook grins.
“You come up short next time too, yeah?”
You’re still on your knees.
Still breathing like you just ran a mile. Legs shaking, mouth sore, jaw slack. Your hoodie’s pulled crooked, hands still sticky from where you came on your fingers. And you can feel it—the mess in your throat, the ache in your thighs, the heat still pulsing low in your belly like you never came down from it.
Cook sits back on the shitty couch like nothing just happened. Like you didn’t just let him fuck your throat until you came and swallowed every drop.
He’s grinning, of course.
Flicking his lighter to spark the half-dead joint sitting in the ashtray like this is a regular Tuesday afternoon.
He takes a long drag. Exhales. Then leans forward, lazily resting his elbows on his knees, watching you with that look—cocky, possessive, hungry even though he already came.
“You look wrecked.”
You don’t say anything. Can’t. You’re still catching your breath, blinking through the aftershocks.
Cook grins wider. “That good, was it?”
You roll your eyes and try to get up—but your legs don’t wanna work.
“Oh my god,” he laughs, voice full of wicked delight. “You can’t even stand?”
“Shut up,” you rasp, finally managing to push off the carpet. Your knees pop. Everything aches.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, but there’s a different note under the teasing now. Something warmer. “C’mere.”
You hesitate—but only a second. Then you drop beside him on the couch, still flushed and loose-limbed, the afterglow still clinging to your skin like sweat.
He offers the joint.
You take it.
One drag in, and your head tips back against the wall with a sigh. Cook watches you, eyes flicking over your face like he’s trying to burn it into his memory.
“You ever sucked someone off for drugs before?” he asks, too casually.
You give him a side-eye. “No.”
“Yeah?” he smirks. “Could’ve fooled me. Took to it like a fuckin’ champ.”
You exhale smoke, blow it in his direction. “You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re filthy,” he shoots back. “Droolin’ all over yourself, fuckin’ whimperin’ on my cock. You’re lucky I didn’t bend you over and fuck you stupid after.”
You clench your thighs at that—he sees it—and his grin turns feral again.
“Next time,” he murmurs. “If you’re short again…”
You don’t respond. You don’t need to.
Because your phone buzzes in your pocket.
You check it.
Reminder: Chem Lab - Friday @ 11AM
Cook sees you looking at your screen. Sees the wheels turning. His smile goes lazy.
“Friday, then?”
You arch a brow. “That’s assuming I’ll be short again.”
He snorts. “Babe. You will be.”
You don’t argue. Not really. Just slide your phone back in your pocket, stand slowly—your thighs still shaking a little—and head toward the door.
“Leave it open,” he calls after you.
You pause. Look back. “What?”
“I said don’t close it,” he says, already leaning back, joint between his teeth. “I like the idea of someone walkin’ by and knowin’ what I do to you.”
You don’t answer.
But you don’t close it either.
You’re halfway down the stairwell when your phone buzzes again.
Cook: I’ll be hard by the time I buzz you in.
You stare at it.
Then you type:
You: I’m gonna be short again Friday.
Send.
You knock once this time.
Not twice. Not loud. Just enough to let him know you're here.
The door creaks open a second later—Cook’s already there, shirtless, joint in one hand, jeans slung so low they might be falling off.
His eyes drag over you once, slow.
Then he leans against the doorframe, exhaling smoke through a grin.
“Well, well, well,” he says, voice low and smug. “Look who remembered Friday.”
You shrug. Try to act cool.
He doesn’t move. Just tilts his head and waits. “You got it?”
You blink. “Got what?”
“The cash.”
You pat your hoodie pockets like you just realized something. “Shit. I think I…left my wallet.”
Cook stares at you.
And then he laughs.
Full belly laugh, eyes crinkling, tongue against his teeth like you just told him the funniest thing in the world.
“Forgot your wallet,” he repeats, shaking his head. “You are so fucking full of it.”
You cross your arms. “I’m serious.”
“Bollocks you are,” he snorts. “You showed up without it on purpose.”
You open your mouth.
He cuts you off. “Nah, nah, don’t even try. You knew what was gonna happen. You wanted it to happen.”
You don’t deny it.
His grin sharpens.
“You could’ve texted and asked,” he says, voice dropping. “Could’ve said, ‘Cook, I want your cock down my throat again. Please.’”
“I would never say please,” you mutter.
He steps back just far enough to let you in. “Then you’d better earn it the hard way.”
The door shuts behind you.
He doesn’t ask you to kneel this time.
He doesn’t have to.
You’re already on the floor when he unzips his jeans.
Already reaching for him when his cock springs free, already hard—thick, flushed, leaking.
“Jesus,” you mutter, unable to stop the flush that creeps up your neck.
“Yeah?” he grins. “Missed it, didn’t you?”
You glare. “Shut up.”
He taps the head of his cock against your lips. Slap. Slap.
“Open up then.”
You do.
And he groans, deep and filthy, one hand fisting your hair immediately. No warm-up this time. No slow tease. He sinks in hard enough to make you choke, and he doesn’t stop.
“That’s it,” he pants, already fucking into your throat like he’s been needing it for days. “Missed this fuckin’ mouth.”
Your hands fly to his thighs, bracing yourself as he uses your mouth like a toy—deep, fast, relentless. You gag, spit dribbling down your chin already, but it only makes him growl.
“Yeah, fuckin’ take it,” he groans. “You came here beggin’ for it, actin’ all innocent—forgot your wallet my fuckin’ arse.”
He thrusts deep. Holds.
You gag around him, throat fluttering.
“You wanted this,” he growls. “Wanted to choke on it. Wanted to be used.”
You moan, mouth full, eyes watering. His cock slides in and out, slick with spit, head tapping your throat over and over until you’re dizzy with it.
He pulls back just far enough to slap the tip against your tongue again. Hard. Wet.
“Open wider.”
You do.
“Wider, babe. I wanna see how far I can fuckin’ go.”
You brace. He shoves back in.
Your jaw aches.
Your throat burns.
And Cook is still fucking your mouth like he’s got something to prove.
He pulls out abruptly, cock slick and shining, breath ragged as he looks down at you—eyes blown, chest heaving, jaw tight like he’s barely holding it together.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “Stand up.”
You don’t argue.
Your legs wobble when you rise, knees weak, mouth sore and wet, spit still glistening at the corner of your lips. Cook watches it, thumb swiping across your mouth without warning, smearing it over your skin before pushing the same thumb back between your lips.
“Suck,” he orders.
You do.
He groans low in his throat, then pulls his hand away and grips your wrist instead.
“But nah,” he says, voice rough now, hungry. “That’s not gonna fuckin’ cover it.”
You blink. “What?”
He steps closer, backs you up until you feel the edge of the couch hit behind your knees.
“You forgot your wallet,” he says slowly. “That means you owe me more.”
Your pulse spikes.
“Cook—”
He pushes you down onto the couch in one firm motion, looming over you, cock still hard and leaking. “I already let you get off on my cock last time. That was interest.”
You swallow.
“So now,” he continues, climbing over you, “you’re gonna pay the fuckin’ balance.”
His hand slides down between your legs, unceremonious, fingers immediately finding how soaked you are. He groans like it pisses him off.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You came here like this. Already fuckin’ ready.”
You gasp as he pushes two fingers inside without warning—no teasing, no mercy—curling them just right.
“Answer me,” he growls. “You forgot your wallet on purpose, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” you breathe.
His fingers fuck into you harder. “Say it louder.”
“Yes,” you whimper. “I did.”
He pulls his fingers out, slick and shining, then lines himself up without another word.
You barely get a breath in before he pushes in.
Slow. Heavy. Stretching you open inch by inch until you’re gasping, nails digging into his shoulders.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Missed this.”
You whine, hips lifting instinctively, desperate for him to move—but he stays still, cock buried deep, letting you feel every inch of him.
“You feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s what you’re payin’ me with.”
Then he starts to fuck you.
Hard.
No rhythm. No patience. Just raw, greedy thrusts that knock the air out of your lungs, the couch creaking beneath you as he sets a brutal pace. He grabs your thighs, hauling you closer, fucking deeper until you’re gasping his name.
“Look at you,” he pants. “All this just because you ‘forgot’ your fuckin’ wallet.”
You cling to him, legs wrapping around his waist, desperate and needy and completely gone.
He leans down, mouth at your ear. “Say it.”
“Say what?”
“That you wanted this.”
“I wanted this,” you gasp.
“That you came here to get fucked.”
“Yes—”
“That you’re payin’ me with this tight little cunt.”
You cry out, body arching as his thrusts get harder, faster, filthier. He’s muttering nonstop now—dirty, breathless, unhinged—telling you how good you feel, how he knew you’d come back, how he’s been hard all day just thinking about this.
Your whole body tightens.
You’re close—so close—and he feels it immediately.
“Oh no you don’t,” he growls, pulling your hips down, slowing just enough to torture you. “You don’t get to cum yet.”
“Cook—”
“You still owe me.”
His hand slides down between you, thumb pressing circles just where you need it most while he keeps fucking you slow and deep.
“You’re gonna cum when I say,” he mutters. “And when I do, you’re gonna take it like a good fuckin’ customer.”
Your breath breaks. Your body shakes.
He watches you unravel, eyes locked on your face, completely wrecking you on his cock until you’re begging, voice shaking, nails digging in.
“That’s it,” he growls. “That’s my good girl.”
He snaps his hips harder, faster, thumb relentless now—and when you finally shatter, it’s violent and loud, your whole body clenching around him.
“Fuck—fuck—fuck,” he groans. “That’s it—that’s it—”
He fucks you through it, chasing his own release, thrusts going sloppy and desperate until he finally buries himself deep and cums with a broken sound against your neck.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Just breathing. Heat. Aftershocks.
Then he pulls back slightly, smirking down at you.
“Wallet next time,” he says. “Or we renegotiate again.”
