BURNING LOVE

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.

“god, fuck,” lou sighs under a breathy whimper, subtly writhing around her messy comforter. her is grip tight on your shoulders and your tongue on her clit forces her back to stretch up. you groan against her, bringing a hand up to push her back down, an empty scoff and laugh leaving her lips. chants of your name hide under moans and whines, and she tugs on your jaw, pulling you in closer to her soaked cunt.

“good girl. that’s it, baby,” she whispers, her mouth hung open as she throws her head back slightly. her knees are propped up, spread widely with you slotted in the middle. her bottom lip is sucked between her teeth, almost drawing blood as she bites down. lou’s hands come up to claw and scratch at your scalp, fisting your hair in her hands as she encourages you.

“yeah, baby. just like that, come on,” she says breathily, her voice hitching as you feel her legs close around your head, only motivating you more. your tongue moves faster and your hands come up to knead and pinch at her thighs.

“dirty fuckin’ girl. ‘m so close, baby,” you can hear her smirk as she looks down at you. you blink up at her, your movements faster and harsher. her back arches up, pushing her hips into your face as you feel her gush around you, smirking into her messy cunt.

Joel was trying to decide what movie you should watch. 

At least, Ellie thought he was. She could see the way his lips were moving - could even make out the words Dawn of the Wolf, whatever that meant - but she couldn’t actually hear him. She sat across from him at the dining table, nodding along, trying to school her expression into a pantomime of interest, but his words were drowned out by the ringing in her ears. 

Your hand on her thigh crept higher. 

Ellie shifted in the uncomfortable wood chair, uncrossing her legs only to recross them, and your hand didn’t move. You stroked slow circles into her jeans with your thumb; she would have thought it was absentminded if she didn’t know you so well. Ellie could see you in her peripheral. You smiled politely, nodding along as Joel listed off what movies he had found lately - it had become his mission to hunt for them while he was on patrol. (He always insisted that Ellie needed to be familiar with all the classics from before the outbreak.) 

Somewhere past the sound of her heart pounding in her ears, Ellie heard Joel say her name. She blinked, shifted in her seat again, and replied intelligently, “Huh?” 

He shook his head at her and laughed as he said, “Where you at, kiddo?” 

She ran a hand through her hair, purposely avoiding looking at you - she knew she’d only find that shit-eating smile on your face. “Sorry, had patrol late last night. Yeah, that movie sounds cool.” She had no idea what movie he had suggested. 

It didn’t matter much in the end. After switching off the lights, Joel sat back in his big old recliner (he’d looked like a fucking kid on Christmas morning when Tommy gave that to him), leaving the couch to you and Ellie. You leaned into her with your head on her shoulder; she had her arm draped over the back of the couch, not quite touching you. She was dancing a fine line between wanting to hold you and knowing you wouldn’t let her, but the tightrope was slipping from under her feet because you had put your fucking hand on her thigh again. She’d swear there was a damn magnet connecting your hand to her. 

Ellie covered a gasp with a cough when your hand drifted between her legs. Your eyes were glued to the flickering television, but there was no hiding the small, satisfied smile on your lips. And she fucking hated herself for wanting to kiss it more than anything. 

The tattered blanket you shared covered up the fact that the tips of your fingers were grazing across the seam of her jeans. Even the ghost of friction made her squirm, the movie becoming nothing more than white noise. You were too fucking bold, and her head spun when your nimble fingers undid the button and slid the zipper down so slowly it ached. When your fingertips dipped below the waistband of her boxers, she couldn’t stop herself from glancing at Joel. He was enthralled in the movie, and she couldn’t even pay attention to it; she hated herself for that too. 

She knew she shouldn’t; she knew she should’ve grabbed your wrist, told you to stop so she could just enjoy the movie with her… with Joel. He’d been trying to plan a movie night with her for a week, and tonight she had finally been free from patrol. God, she shouldn’t have invited you, but when he asked if she wanted to bring a friend, of course your name had popped up. 

She should have known it would be a mistake - an intoxicating one, but a mistake nonetheless. And when you dragged your fingers over her, pressing the lightest pressure to her clit, it took everything in her not to tilt her hips against your hand in search of friction. 

Ellie bit down on her lip so hard she'd swear she tasted blood when you dipped just the tips of your fingers inside her. It was embarrassing how easy it was - how wet she already was and you had hardly even touched her. But when you circled her clit, your fingers already soaked, the shame burning in her chest evaporated. Her eyes fluttered, heat burning in her stomach, your touch setting her aflame. Her fingers dug into the back of the couch. She longed to touch you, to just wrap her arm around you and hold you close, press your head to her chest so you could hear how her heart reached for you. 

Instead, she could only grip the couch behind your shoulder, gritting her teeth against the ache of it. You didn't even look at her, playing with her as though it were an afterthought, but there was no missing the smirk on your lips. She hated it; God, she wanted to kiss you. 

Ellie didn't dare look at Joel - she didn't think she could handle seeing him so engrossed in the movie he had been so excited to show her while she sat only a few feet away, coming undone on his couch. She couldn't handle the shame rising in her throat again. If she looked at him, she was sure she'd be sick right there. 

She tried so hard to keep it together - her hips ached from the force of holding them still, her lip surely cracked from biting it. Her chest burned with the moans she had to swallow like acid. But she couldn't keep it all in - it was overflowing. And when finally, the coil in her stomach threatening to snap, a low groan spilled from her lips, Joel turned to look at her. 

Ellie didn't want to think about what he saw, but whatever it was, it made his brow pinch in concern. She couldn't meet his worried eyes when he said, “You okay, kiddo? You don't look too good.” 

Your fingers hadn't even fucking slowed. You looked at her with a mask of concern, batting your eyes so innocently even as you pressed your fingers into her, curling them so you hit that spot that made her see stars. And then Ellie did grab you, gripping your shoulder in warning and glaring down at you. You wrinkled your nose, but relented and slid your fingers out of her; her grip tightened when you slid back over her clit. Fuck, she never should've invited you. 

Ellie cleared her throat; she couldn't look at either of you without feeling sick, so she turned her gaze to the movie. What was it even about? 

“Sorry, I just-” Her voice was strained, suffocating in her own throat. She felt like she was going to swallow her own tongue. The coil in her stomach tightened and she felt nauseous. She groaned again, and the words tripped over themselves in a rush when she said, “I don't feel good.” 

Ellie stumbled to her feet, forcing you to withdraw your hand; when she glanced down, she could see that your fingers were wet and it made her stomach twist. Keeping one hand over her stomach to hide the fact that her fucking pants were undone, she hurried from the room, ignoring Joel when he called after her. She couldn't look him in the eye or else she might actually puke.

Making a beeline for the bathroom, Ellie slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, the wood cold against her back. She took a deep breath, counting the cracks in the ceiling until her heart finally stopped bashing against her ribs, her throat burning. Pinprick tears stung her eyes as she fixed her pants, her fingers shaking so hard she could hardly grasp the button. 

Cursing under her breath, Ellie braced her hands on the bathroom sink, her shoulders sagging. Her eyes were rimmed red; she scrubbed her hands over her face roughly, willing her stomach to settle. 

She shouldn’t have been upset, really. The first time your hand had found its way into her pants, all those months ago, you had made it perfectly clear what this was. She could still hear your voice from that night, saccharine sweet and smelling like the whiskey you had nabbed from her cabinet: Come on, Els, Jackson’s so boring. We can just have a little fun, right? She remembered the weight of your body when you climbed onto her lap, your thighs warm on either side of her hips, your hands pressing her back against the couch. She could still feel the way your breath had ghosted over her neck, your voice dripping with honeyed desire: It's just a little fun.

Her own eyes looked so unfamiliar, a stranger peering at her from the bathroom mirror. 

Cursing again, she turned on the faucet, bending to splash water on her face - it was December and the water was so cold it numbed her hands. It was a welcome relief against her burning skin. 

Ellie felt so fucking dirty it hurt. No matter how she scrubbed at her skin, rubbing it raw, she couldn’t seem to rid herself of it. The cold water stung her cheeks. 

A knock on the door made her jump, cold water splashing down the front of her shirt. She cursed, pulling the damp fabric away from her chest with a grimace before calling, “Give me a minute, okay?” 

But you had never been very good at listening, had you? You didn’t even look surprised when you pushed the door open, ignoring her protest, and found Ellie leaning against the counter, water still dripping from her chin. If anything, you looked almost amused, quirking an eyebrow at her. It was the look you gave her every time you got her worked up, your eyes showing the laughter you bit back. She fucking hated that look. 

Ellie glared over her shoulder at you, but there was no real malice behind it - even when she hated you, something in her still softened when you were around. A switchblade girl with a cotton candy heart. 

You closed the door softly behind you, leaning back against it with a smug smile that she wanted to wipe off your face - she just wasn’t sure how she wanted to yet. Ellie could hear how your ego tinted your voice when you said, “Joel sent me to check on you. Probably thinks you're barfing your guts out or something.” 

Ellie rolled her eyes, looking away from you and mumbling, “Yeah, I guess dinner didn’t sit well….” 

You scoffed and the sound went straight to her stomach. She felt rather than saw you step behind her; she tensed when you placed your hands on her hips, leaning forward to put your chin on her shoulder. Her hands gripped the edges of the sink so hard she thought the porcelain might crack. She could feel the heat of your body all the way down her back, your hips pressing into her ass, and her traitorous heart fluttered embarrassingly. 

Ellie met your eyes in the reflection, watching as your smile grew into something almost mocking. You placed a kiss on the back of her neck, pressing your words into her skin: “Damn, Els, I didn’t know Dawn of the Wolf got you so hot and bothered.” Your fingers pressed into her hips, pulled her back against you. She failed to smother the sigh it pulled from her. She hated how it made your smile widen, and she hated even more how much she wanted to fucking kiss it off your stupid face. She shivered when she felt your teeth graze over her neck, and almost missed it when you muttered, laughing, “God, you’re so fucking easy, you know that?” 

Ellie shoved away from the counter, spinning on her heel and grabbing your wrist before you could flinch away. You had only blinked before she slammed you back against the wall, praying that Joel didn’t hear it. Her fingers wrapped so tightly around your wrist she could feel your pounding pulse, pressing it to the wall above your head. She slipped her thigh between your legs, pressing up into you, and she only had a moment to register that smug fucking grin before she slapped a hand over your mouth. She relished in the way your eyes flashed in something akin to fear. She had to find wins where she could, right? 

Leaning forward so her nose brushed yours, Ellie growled into the back of her hand, “Don’t make a fucking sound.” 

And she did get to wipe that cocky smile off your face. She kept her hand over your mouth, releasing your wrist to snake her arm between your legs. She muffled your moans, hissing when your nails dug into her biceps. 

Joel was in the next room, she thought distantly. Joel was in the next room, watching the movie he had been so excited to show her. He was in the next room, concerned about her, waiting for her, and here she was pressing her best friend into the wall of his bathroom. She had your pants around your ankles, two - three - fingers pushing into you. She could feel the vibrations of your moans against her hand - she wanted to press her lips to yours and swallow them, knowing you would never let her. 

It came too fast, Ellie pressing into you relentlessly if only to make you fucking shut up for once. Your body shuddered against her, and she wanted to hold you through it, but by the time it was over you were already pushing her away. When her hand fell from your mouth, you were smiling again. Maybe she was going to be sick after all. 

The second he came up behind you and snaked his arm around the exposed skin of your torso at one of many nightly gatherings at camp, you knew how the night would end. You tasted it on the tip of your tongue alongside the alcohol, tasted it when his mouth had connected with yours, tongues swirling, the flesh around your lips shiny, coated in a salivated mess from feverish kisses.

It turned into something more.

It was all you could taste — warm, salty fingers on the surface of your wet tongue.

The feeling was familiar like you had been in this situation before. The comfortable material of your trousers pulled right below your ankles, hairs covering every inch of your skin, quick palpitations of the heart as it had stolen the breath from your contracting lungs. It was something that you hoped never grew foreign. 

There’s a delicious numbness that accompanies the coolness of his hands on you, plump lips closed over the fresh hickey below your jawline, fingers gentle yet yearning as they ghost the dip of your bare hip; skimming across rising gooseflesh before it settles right above your lower half. Your stomach muscles tighten at the slight tickle of his touch, nails digging crescents in the flesh near your hip bones, icy lips pressed against your jaw. 

There’s a sense of urgency in the way he thrusts, skin slapping against skin as he buries himself deeper within you, cock aching to find some sort of relief in the warmness you provide. Even now, as he hooks his fingers into your mouth, focusing on the sensation of you hollowing your cheeks, swirling the smooth muscle of your tongue around those two digits, thin and bony as his knuckles skim the ridges of your teeth, it’s not enough.

Astarion’s panting; breaths shallow and uneven, nipping at the skin of your neck when he unsheaths himself. The action elicits a moan from you —  one he fumbles to quickly cover by shoving them further — the small noise mingling into the subtle growing heat of the surrounding air; too thick to breathe properly in.

An involuntary gag escaped you, vision blurring as your lids flutter shut, your bottom lashes brushing against the smoothness of your skin as he continues his relentless pace, bucking his hips to feel more of you —  every possible delicious inch he could all while trying to keep you quiet. The wet muscle of his tongue darts out between his chapped lips, paving a path above the pulse point of his favorite spot, right near your jawbone before it reaches the tip of your ear. 

“Sh,” He whispered huskily, ceasing the air making its way out of your lungs. The barely audible hiss of the command send a shiver up your spine, hairs raising, heart thumping so loudly that - aside from his words, all you could hear was your blood coursing through your veins. 

“As much as I enjoy those lovely sounds any other night, you’ll have to be quieter for me, pet.” 

Right… you were in his tent, your friends sleeping soundly in theirs, unaware ( or so you hope ) about your nightly activities taking place a mere couple of feet away. They’d never know how eager he was, pounding into your cunt with such enthusiasm that you could practically see the small twinkle in his dark eyes.

There was no hint of embarrassment weaved in his words as he spoke, a low, airy laugh reaching your ears a second after. Astarion’s free hand gripped your right side, calloused fingers causing you to bite back a moan as you lifted your hips, the fat of your thighs closing in around his, muffled mewls leaving his lips in a flurry of pants. His cock writhing inside of you, the vibration of his satisfaction on your flesh reverberating against the two warm fingers between your sweet lips, it was all too much. 

It’s something that crosses his hazy mind just for a second as he lifts his head to stare at your form — sweat blooming on your forehead — shining between the valley of your breasts and gods knows where else.

Your stomach tightens once again, jaw widening just a tad more, focusing on the way they bent to touch your uvula, warm, wet tears trickling down your cheeks as you close your mouth around them. The elf tugged his lower lip between his teeth, something to distract him from burying himself as far as he could go. He was in no way a stranger to restraint — but this — this might just be his breaking point.

“I know you can try harder than that, love.” He drawls out lowly.

Your clammy palms trail up his arms, following the light outline of muscle before they find a home on his shoulders, gripping with such intensity, that it paired well with the developing knot in your stomach. 

The heat consuming your insides was unlike anything you had ever felt with him before, and it was something you found yourself grateful for as you came undone beneath him, clutching him closer to you as if he’d suddenly disappear the second your mind wasn’t as foggy as it currently was. 

“Please.” A pathetic whisper of one word was all you could manage as he twitched within you, the sound of your arousal causing his teeth to part as he sucked in a harsh breath. 

An almost animalistic growl leaves his lips as he shakes his head, silver curls landing near his forehead, eyes screwed shut. He stops himself halfway inside of you, raising a hand to brush across your forehead slick with sweat. 

“Oh, darling, I’m not cumming that easily.”