Cowritten with reddit user thedevilisadyke.
Content warnings: Daddy kink, heavy cannabis consumption, humiliation, light choking, language like dumb slut, pathetic, whore, bitch, and good boy
Don't like Daddy/boy lesbian stuff? Don't read!
"Fuck, I can't believe we're so broke we can't buy weed for two more days," I groan.
"At least we still have weed."
"What are we smoking?" I ask.
"Sweet, sweet, Blue Dream," you answer.
"How much do we have left?"
"Like, a gram."
"Fuck, dude. We need the ice bong to make this shit last."
"You're right."
You get up to retrieve the bong, filling the base with cold water and the stem with ice cubes. I get to work on grinding the weed. My fingers grow slightly tacky with resin and the scent of skunky pine starts drifting into the air as the grinder tears the flower.
"If you didn't have a little bitch grinder, we could at least save some of the kief," you rib me, tapping the bong slightly on the table to settle the ice cubes. "I mean, who uses a two piece anymore?"
"Shut up, dude," I mutter, unscrewing the top half of the grinder. "Just gimme the bong."
You pass the bong to me and start searching for a lighter. You just bought a five-pack of Bics with goofy prints last month, but somehow we're already down to the last one.
I pack the bowl carefully over the grinder, trying to preserve any bits of weed that might fall away. This bowl piece is pretty big; we can get, maybe, another bowl out of this gram. Two, if I pack it really loose... but then we risk snapping some of it into the downstem.
You're coming to the same realization, biting the inside of your cheek as you eye what remains in the grinder. "So, how are we gonna do this? Cornering the bowl as much as possible?"
I grimace. "I mean, makes the most sense, I guess."
You move to take the first careful hit, but I say, "Wait." And I wonder if I'm going to regret what I say next. "Maybe we should... shotgun each other? Make the most of it?"
You lock eyes with me for just a second, and then shrug. "Yeah, whatever. Why waste an exhale, right?"
"Right," I agree quickly, relieved that it didn't make it weird.
Your thumb ring clicks against the flint as you spark the lighter. I watch the smoke fill the base of the bong -- slowly at first, then it spirals and thickens around the ice. You clear the hit, turn to me, and lean into my space.
You pull just short, though, at the last second, and blow a small ring of smoke into my face.
Smug bastard, I think. I want to laugh or say "fuck you" or something, but I'm too eager to get my mouth on yours -- I mean, too eager to shotgun your hit. I close the distance and your warm mouth is on mine and I'm inhaling slow and deep, trying to take it all in.
And then -- I need to cough. Fuck. I pull away from your mouth and exhale as much of the hit as I can before the cough hits me. I'm overtaken by my coughing fit, my sensitive lungs trying to expel all of the smoke, and I rasp a shaky inhale before coughing some more.
You laugh, reaching for the water bottle opposite the bong. "Dude. You're a little bitch."
"Fuck... you... dude..." I say between coughs.
"Fuck me? Maybe," you shrug. "If you beg for it."
A jolt of electricity strikes through my spine and lands in my gut. You have no idea how badly I want that -- to fuck you, to beg to fuck you.
I keep coughing -- my excuse to not reply to you.
You roll your eyes as my coughing fit continues, but your jaw's tight. You set the water bottle between my spread thighs and nudge the bong toward me with the lighter. "Hurry up and recover, or I'm taking your turn," you joke, setting the lighter down.
I concentrate on breathing, in and out, until my lungs clear and I can inhale without another cough. My body buzzes with the high of the hit, the oxygen deprivation of my coughing fit, and the proximity of you. I lick my lips, thinking of your mouth on mine again.
I should say something to fill the silence, but I can't think of anything to say, so I just move to take my hit off the bong. It's markedly smaller than yours, but I clear the hit and lean into the couch, my eyes falling on your soft lips.
Your mouth meets mine, and you inhale the smoke almost greedily. The hit's gone quicker than I'd like, and I go to pull away.
Your hand on the back of my neck stops me; you pull the last wisps of smoke from my mouth, and your teeth tug my lower lip a little as you withdraw.
"Wasn't finished," you tell me, a scarce two inches from my face, eyelids heavy with the hit.
And then you grab the bong from the table and push the scant remaining green in the bowl towards the center with the bottom edge of the lighter.
"Try to take this one without coughing your lungs out, bro," you add, raising an eyebrow at me as you lean toward the mouthpiece of the bong.
"Fuck you, bro," I retort, and you've already started your hit so you can't hit me back with your sarcasm or your innuendos. But you have a point. I have to concentrate on relaxing my lungs and not fucking this one up.
This time, the bubbling sound of you clearing the hit sets off a spark in my gut. My heart flutters in my ribcage like a tiny bird, and my breath comes fast. Shit. I have to keep it together.
You lean into me, and I close the gap, letting our mouths fit together like puzzle pieces. Before I get lost in the sensation, I remind myself to breathe, to inhale -- Hello, this isn't a kiss, this is a shotgun, what the fuck are you doing? I take the hit from you for as long as I can stand it. I pull away regretfully, already missing the sensation of your soft lips brushing mine.
I exhale smoothly this time, with a couple of small coughs at the tail end.
"Not bad," you approve, your voice a little hoarse. And then you qualify it, like a son of a bitch: "Like, eight out of ten."
