Work Text:
The two of you sat on your couch, Zanka settled a polite distance away from you. He's beginning to sink into the couch cushions, gaze occasionally flickering from the TV to you excitedly.
The TV was only a slight distraction. It was playing a movie the two of you liked, sure, but in that moment, there was something more important to the both of you. Something larger. Something exciting.
That's why he couldn't help himself from glancing over at you in anticipation every time he heard the paper brush against your fingertips, or the sound of you huffing in frustration trying to roll it. That's why, when you pressed it against his lips, now pursed on account of your request, he inhales without protest. And that's why, when you praise him for his wordless obedience, he's pushing guttural coughs down to take another hit, and then another, until he's found himself slumped against you.
He wasn't sure how or when the gap between the two of you closed. He wasn't sure of anything. He was sure his skin was tingling, fireworks dancing against every inch of it, burgeoning intensely with every hit he took. He was sure he felt you nudging the joint between his lips again, the filter now wet from his lazy, mindless pulls.
He was sure, entirely sure, you'd kill him.
Not in the literal sense, of course. But with every hit he took, the more your eyes darkened, and the hands-ier you became. Although influenced, it was a thrill for him. You were doing exactly as he had asked of you, and even as his control had very clearly been relinquished, he faintly swelled with pride.
"Zanka," you coo, grinning at the way his long, pretty eyelashes flutter. His eyes are glassy, unfocused but glued to you nonetheless. "Another. One more."
He made a quiet noise under his breath and leaned into you, awaiting another hit. This time you lamented it, crushing what little joint was left into the ashtray in front of you. His head burrowed into your shoulder.
It was clear he was gone. Playful, organic shapes and grooving lines danced up his back, oscillating down and through his arms and legs. He was hot—or at least he felt that way—sweating despite how cold he usually runs. The evidence was overwhelming, even to you, who'd only taken a few hits yourself. You'd throughly intoxicated him. It was all going according to the plan he so carefully laid out for you.
Next?
Blow his damn mind.
The movie continued to play quietly in the background, drowned out by the sound of your heartbeat drumming against your chest, leaping out of your throat with every beat. You felt bad prying him from your shoulder, a short lived grievance you were quick to forget when you felt his warm lips against yours. You held his face in your hands. He was warm there, too.
His body disobeyed his every command. He was right where you wanted him.
He was all yours to move, to kiss, to love, to please.
Truthfully, Zanka hated being high. His brain normally moved a million miles an hour, and in the many instances he'd been intoxicated, it would suddenly... stop. It was an uncomfortable feeling that came with sickening memories. That's why he was here in the first place. That's why you're currently petting his hair, shushing his lazy groans as your hand dips into his waistband.
Help him forget.
Make it better.
And God, did you help.
You pulled him from his pants, fingers dancing gently against his half hard member as you began licking into his mouth. He was excitable, twitching and gasping, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead and disappearing into his eyebrows.
"Mmnh.." he supplied, trying his best to kiss you back. He felt light as air.
"I've got you," you smiled through kisses, pulling back to better focus on stroking him to full mast. He rested heavy in your hand. Sure he was a lithe man, but he was bigger than you, and when a large, yet delicate hand grasps at your wrist, you can't help the ugly thoughts that rear their heads into your own.
It's so sudden, the idea. Even more sudden was the action. You escape his grasp, loose as it was, and guide his hand to wrap around his cock. Even as he sat there, plain high and dumb, he knew what you wanted.
"Good, Zanka," and he shudders, thanking you under his breath. He doesn't stop, not when you're guiding his own hand to stroke himself. "There you go, you're getting it," you praise, giggling at the way such simple words invigorate him.
He drops his head back against your shoulder, letting you use his hand as you saw fit. His eyes were screwed shut, trying his best to focus on the sensation despite the way his brain threatened to melt out of his ears.
Just watching his hips cant to meet his own hand is enough to have you lowly gasping with him, sultry sounds buried into his hair. He's trying to speak, the poor thing, struggling to find the words between gasps of air and whimpers of desperation.
"Feel good, baby?" And he keens in response, making your neck burn hot. You wanted him like this always. Always this gentle, this free.
"I can't, I just—" he gulps, cutting himself off with stuttered moans. "I'm close, I think, G-god,"
"Shhh, Zanka," Your free hand dances up his arm, fingers tracing the line of his jaw before moving to part his lips. You dip into his mouth, just to toy with him. To pacify him. "Keep going, I've got you, such a good boy, so cute, so pliant, fuck,"
The slut starts lapping at your fingers.
He's sucking on them.
He's liking it, too.
Your grip on his hand tightens. You guide him to hold himself tighter, to jerk himself off faster. Your other hand is dripping with his hot spit, drool spilling from his mouth as he lavishes your fingers with his tongue.
His eyes are still tightly shut, and he's close, you can see it in the way he trembles, feel it in the way he twitches.
"Praise me more," he begs, muffled through the fingers you're stuffing into his mouth, thrusting into it. He's gagging around them, and you'd have half the mind to pity him if the sound wasn't so hot.
"Yeah? You like it when I praise you?" He moans loudly in response. "Bet you do, pretty thing. You're so good like this. So obedient," He's sucking harder on your fingers. He's a mess, gagging and moaning and entirely yours to do with as you wish. "Wish you were like this all the time."
It's become a push and pull. A full conversation, although you were the only one speaking. He doesn't respond to your words. He doesn't need to.
"You'd like that, huh? I can tell you would." And he'd swallow around your fingers, throat clicking as a tear rolls down his cheek.
"Oh, Zanka, so pretty." And he'd squirm, nearly wailing, desperate to hear more from you.
And he did. You didn't stop, you couldn't, not until you felt him begging you over the fingers you'd so kindly stuffed into his mouth. Not until you felt his free hand pawing at you, clutching at your clothes frantically.
You solemnly pulled your fingers from the back of his throat to hear him better.
"Please," he wailed, voice lilted and pathetic, unobstructed and alarming your senses like a cymbal crash. "Please, please, please-!" The sounds he made just about had you on the brink yourself.
He cums, spilling onto both of your hands, whimpering with every strong, shaky exhale he heaves. He's limbless now, for certain. You'd almost thought he'd fallen asleep, until he moves to tangle his fingers with yours.
He rests on your shoulder still, not daring to look up at you. He didn't know being high could feel this way. He didn't know you of all people would be his undoing.
..or maybe his redoing.
He didn't know. He didn't care. He couldn't focus on anything but the aftershocks of his orgasm sending what felt like seismic waves throughout his body, or the way you'd gently kissed his head while nestling him back into his pants.
He couldn't focus on anything but the way his heart fluttered when you pulled him tighter against you. You lulled him to sleep with hushed whispers, softly petting and reassuring him until you could not longer see his pulse jumping through his neck.
It was steady, now. Everything was. His heart and mind were calm, calmer than they'd ever been, and he no longer took discomfort in the feeling. He embraced it as you embraced him. He let the feeling melt into him as he did unto you. And this domestic, syrupy system of reciprocity was enough to quell everything he believed was wrong with him.