el ☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩⋆

you’d only ever done edibles before. at parties, and it wasn’t a regular thing. if it was being offered, why not take it? you couldn’t rip a bong for the life of you without choking and coughing and spluttering.

but you’d never expected the act of smoking weed to feel so different. everything was so liquidated, slower, amplified but not in the way that edibles do so. your head was quiet. everything was quiet, but your heartbeat hammering against your chest. it tasted a little sour - something that made you miss the (albeit still disgusting) taste of brownies, and at least you had somewhat of a pathetic attempt at a chocolatey aftertaste.

you felt drunk, but this was nothing like drinking. and it was nice to feel safe and put your trust into someone that you don’t just know through a friend of a friend. gently getting stoned on joel’s nice, good quality couch was far better than greening out on some carpet at a random house party.

“ya had one hit already,” joel would gruff, sucking on the filter before leaning forward to rest the joint in the ashtray on the coffee table. “so i’d just wait a little. ‘specially cos it’s your first try.”

did his voice always sound like that? as hoarse as it is now. you’d just laugh, relaxing all of your muscles and leaning back into the couch cushions because, “joel, this isn’t my first try.”

and whilst joel’s sofa being big would normally be a good thing, right now it was not; right now, he was only a foot away from you but it still felt like too much space was between you both. so you’d scoot over a little, bridging the gap whilst grabbing for the joint.

his eyebrows would raise, perhaps impressed at your confidence or your cockiness. you sucked in long, burning your throat, holding the joint between your fingers as you leaned forwards to cough it all out.

joel would laugh, take the joint from you and settle it back on the ceramic, while stretching out his broad, calloused hand over your back, rubbing it up and down in ease. “honey. you gotta build up a tolerance. maybe that’s enough today.”

in between coughs, “i have a tolerance. ‘s is just good shit, went down the wrong way.” and now everything is so blurry, because you’re leaning into joel’s touch, sliding down the sofa until joel’s hand is no longer on your back, but sliding up your shoulder and cupping your neck, thumb dangerously close to your lips.

you’d pout, looking up at him through heavy lids and red eyes, thick eyelashes batting against your cheeks, almost looking with yearn and pleading; “wanna finish the joint with you, please.”

at one point, he’d shotgun you; take a drag and then pass it onto you with his lips, using some shitty excuse like “gotta keep it within moderation” or something. he wouldn’t want you to go past your limits, but when you’re too stoned to take drags yourself, he’d hold it out for you to hit, lips brushing his fingers, almost like kissing them if the filter wasn’t there