heyyy, was wondering if you could do a dealer!luke one shot where reader buys smth but he wants other payment 🫣
Drug dealer!Luke - Masterlist
One Shot - You know you're going to have to give me a form of payment
The guy leaning against the brick wall had the kind of face that made you look twice. Not because he was handsome, but because his expression didn't match the rest of him. Dark stubble that looked more like neglect than style, and a faded hoodie pulled low over his eyes. But his mouth curled in a lazy half-smile, like he knew something you didn't, and his fingers tapped out a rhythm against his thigh like he had music playing in his head.
The alley smelled like wet asphalt and something sweetly rotten old takeout, maybe. A flickering streetlight buzzed overhead, casting uneven shadows across his face as he shifted his weight, one foot propped against the wall behind him. He didn't speak, just watched, and that was the unnerving part. Most dealers talked too much, made jokes, tried too hard. This one just waited, like he had all the time in the world and you were the one who’d come begging.
You cleared your throat, shifting the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder. "Heard you’re the guy to see." The words came out steadier than you felt. His gaze slid over you, slow, considering, and then he pushed off the wall with a shrug.
"Depends what you’re looking for," he said. His voice was lower than you expected, rough at the edges. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and shook one loose without breaking eye contact. "And what you’re willing to trade." The way he said it wasn't a question. It was a test.
Your fingers tightened around the cash in your pocket, but something in his smirk told you bills weren’t what he wanted. The silence stretched, thick with the hum of distant traffic and the drip of a leaking pipe somewhere in the alley. He lit the cigarette, the flare of the match illuminating the sharp angles of his face for a split second before the flame died. "You new around here?" he asked, exhaling smoke through his nose.
"No, my dealer moved," you lied, watching the cigarette smoke curl between you like a lazy question mark. His grin widened, showing a chipped front tooth small flaw, but it made him look dangerous. The kind of guy who didn't bother fixing things because broken worked just fine for him. "Yeah?" He took another drag, eyes tracking the way your thumb rubbed the edge of your folded bills. "Funny. People usually lie the other way; say they're regulars when they're not."
Your stomach dropped, but before you could backtrack, he flicked the cigarette away, still half-lit. It hit the wet pavement with a hiss. "Tell you what," he said, stepping closer, close enough you caught the scent of leather and something herbal clinging to his jacket. "First-time customers get a discount. If they're honest." His fingers brushed your wrist when he reached for your hand, turning it palm-up like he was reading your fortune instead of counting cash.
His grip was warm, calloused. Not rough, but deliberate; the kind of touch that said he knew exactly how hard to hold without leaving bruises. "Problem is," he murmured, thumb tracing your pulse point, "money's boring." Up close, you could see the scar slicing through his eyebrow, pale against his tan. "You got anything more... interesting?"
The alley seemed to narrow, the walls pressing in as his other hand slid into your back pocket, slow, giving you time to stop him. You didn't.
His breath was warm against your ear when he chuckled, low and knowing. "That's what I thought." The bills crumpled between your fingers as his knee nudged yours apart, pinning you gently against the brick. His teeth grazed your earlobe; not a bite, just a reminder he could. "You ever fucked a stranger in an alley before?" he asked, like he was asking about the weather, his free hand already working the button of your jeans.
The brick scraped your shoulder blades when he pushed you harder against it, his palm flattening over your stomach, dragging down. You could feel the ridge of his knuckles through the denim, the deliberate pause at the zipper. "Gonna say no?" he prompted, lips brushing your jaw. His hips pressed forward, and the answer died in your throat; hot, insistent, no room for hesitation.
Then came his lips on your neck not soft, not asking just taking, like he'd already decided how this would go. His hands didn't fumble; they knew exactly where to grip, how to twist your shirt collar just tight enough to make your breath hitch. The alley air turned thick with the scent of his tobacco, your sweat, the damp musk of old brick as his knee shoved higher between your thighs. "Look at you," he muttered against your skin, teeth catching on your collarbone when you arched into him. "Knew you'd be like this."
His fingers dipped past your waistband, calluses scraping sensitive skin, and your back hit the wall again as he laughed short, dark into the crook of your shoulder. "Cash is for amateurs," he said, thumb circling slow where it mattered, watching your lashes flutter. "This?" He pressed down hard enough to steal your breath. "This is currency." Somewhere distant, a car alarm wailed, but the sound blurred under the rough drag of his zipper, the wet click of his tongue against your earlobe.
You expected him to rush; alley quick, get-off-and-go; but he didn’t. He palmed you through your clothes until your knees shook, until your nails dug half-moons into his forearm just to stay upright. "Tell me," he ordered, voice gone gravel-low, his free hand tilting your chin up to face him. The streetlight caught the silver hoop in his eyebrow, the flecks of gold in his irises that hadn’t been there a minute ago. "What do you want" wasn’t a question; it was a dare.
The brick burned cold through your shirt, but his fingers burned hotter, dipping lower, teasing, circling; just shy of where you needed him. You choked on a noise when he finally pressed in, the heel of his hand grinding slow while his mouth mapped the frantic pulse in your throat. "Yeah," he murmured, all satisfaction, like he'd known exactly how you’d sound before you did. His teeth sank into your bottom lip when you rocked against him, not hard enough to split skin, just enough to sting.
Somewhere in the tangle, his belt buckle clanked against your hipbone—cold metal on bare skin where your shirt had ridden up. His laugh curled dark in your ear as he yanked your jeans down past your thighs with one rough tug. "Don’t overthink it," he muttered, fingers slick between your legs now, spreading you open against the brick. His other hand fisted in your hair, angling your head back just enough to watch your face when he pushed in; no preamble, no gentleness, just the hot stretch of him where you were already trembling.
The alley blurred at the edges; his harsh exhale against your temple, the drag of denim on your bare ass where he’d shoved your clothes down, the filthy, wet sound of skin on skin every time he pulled back and slammed home again. He didn’t kiss you, just kept his mouth hovering near yours, close enough to share each ragged breath. "Look at me," he growled, and when you did, his pupils swallowed the gold whole. "Good." His thumb found your clit on the next thrust, rough and unrelenting.
His teeth bit into your shoulder as a low groan passes his lips at a particular thrust that makes your legs tighten around his waist. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your hip, sure to leave marks tomorrow—his version of a receipt. The rhythm falters as he leans back, just enough to watch where you're joined, his breath coming in ragged pants. "Fuck," he exhales, dragging a thumb through the mess between your thighs before bringing it to his mouth, sucking it clean with a smirk that makes your stomach twist. "Better than cash."
The streetlight flickers again, casting his face in sharp relief; the sweat at his temple, the muscle jumping in his jaw as he fucks you harder, faster, like he’s trying to carve himself into your memory. His free hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back until the cold brick bites into your scalp. "Say it," he demands, voice wrecked, hips snapping in brutal precision. "Say you’ll come back." The words aren’t a request; they’re a challenge, coated in the kind of arrogance that makes your toes curl.
You barely choke out a sound before his mouth crashes onto yours, all teeth and desperation, swallowing every whimper as his fingers find your clit again, relentless. The orgasm hits you like a stolen car; sudden, violent, leaving you gasping against his lips while he fucks you through it, his own release following with a harsh groan muffled into your neck. For a second, neither of you moves, just panting in the humid dark, his forehead resting against yours.
Then, like a switch flipped, he pulls back, buttoning his jeans with one hand while the other fishes a small baggie from his pocket. He drops it into your still-trembling palm, his grin all sharp edges as he steps away. "Next time," he says, thumb brushing your swollen bottom lip, "Don't bother bringing any cash." The alley swallows him before you can reply, leaving just the echo of his laughter and the ache between your thighs.
@cassofheartsss, @lvlyu, @slayqueen121
