He reaches for you with fingers that are still sticky with the heavy scent of dope. The pipe is still smouldering on the floor next to you and when Bob’s lips first meet yours you can’t tell if the skunky taste on your tongue is from the lingering smoke trailing up between you, or just an indication of how much dope Bob has consumed already. You’ve both been smoking for a while now, and you’d be willing to bet that Bob ate some with his dinner earlier too.
Or at least, you’d be willing to take that bet if you actually had the money to follow-through with it, but your last few pounds went towards last night’s dinner and chipping in for the drugs that keep everyone in the Tufnell Park house amused.
“Where’s Daphne?” you mumble against his lips as his hands start wandering.
“Don’t know,” he says. The Don’t care is unspoken but well understood, given how cold she’s been to him these last few days.
Give it another few days and she’ll be warm and welcoming again, but for now Bob is yours alone and when he presses you down, bracketing your body with his, you let your legs fall open so he can slot in close against you.
He nuzzles against your neck and rolls his hips down against you. He’s all angles and bones, too tall and lanky to be graceful when he’s standing, but when he’s like this, high and rutting against you like he can’t think of anything else but pulling you as close as he can, you think there’s a beauty in the fumbling desperation of his movements.
Or maybe that’s just your own high talking. You feel like you could float away if Bob wasn’t holding you down with touches that feel like firebrands on your skin, and every bit of friction against your core brings you closer to the edge. But Bob gets there first, his hips stuttering against you as he comes in his pants with a low groan and a bite to the column of your neck.
You hiss at the unexpected burst of pain and Bob kisses the spot in apology, and then lays a trail of kisses down your clothed chest to your waistband, where he pushes your trousers and pants down and kisses every inch of skin as it’s exposed. You barely get a chance to kick your clothes away before Bob’s mouth is there, licking at you messily until you come as well with one leg slung over his shoulder and one hand fisted in his hair.
When you let go of him Bob rolls off to lay next to you, laughing breathlessly and already reaching for the pipe and the book of matches to relight it. You watch him take a deep hit and wonder, not for the first time, what the fuck the two of you are doing here. This was only supposed to be a temporary arrangement for you, and although Bob doesn’t say much about his plans you can’t imagine this was his life-goal either. And yet here you both are, dope smoke making the air hazy around you and covering up the smell of sex.
“What’re you thinking about?” Bob asks, exhaling the smoke with the question.
“You’re beautiful,” you tell him.
Bob, in the middle of taking another hit, snorts and immediately starts coughing harshly. “You’re just fucking high,” he wheezes, struggling to catch his breath.
You want to explain that that’s not it, that Bob is even more captivating when he’s sober than when he’s like this. You want to tell him that he’s better than this - the dope and this house and whatever he’s doing with you and Daphne and Penny - but the grin he gives you is lopsided and lazy, and his eyes are going glassy and bloodshot once again, and you know there’s no point in trying to have that conversation now.
“Not as high as you,” you tell him instead.
Bob holds the pipe out to you. “You can always fix that.”
You take it from him and lean in so he can light the bowl again for you, because Bob isn’t the only one with demons that he’s trying to keep quiet - and as you let the smoke sit burning in your lungs, you can feel your thoughts go blissfully empty once more.