#Burning Tobacco

[wickedzeevyln]

A Butterfly's Twilight Song

When she is not being a Van Gogh paintingstarry nights on a palettewith her nouveau fruit cocktaildishing out a taste of endless summer,she takes me by the handand into evermore, we go. Her stories are in a romance with the musk of her burning tobacco,like the end of a wildfire that waltzs its way into the dawn,ancient tales of youth and time forgotten. She ebbs and flows,like time,like…

[enden-k]

So we’ve seen Vika vaping/smoking… how did he get into it? Is it an attempt to feel something?

yee hes a smoker. when his senses were a bit better, he was able to taste cigs/feel the burn on his tongue but with increased numbing he switched to heat sticks (not vapes, he doesnt vape. theyre not the same and look different too) since its less messy. smoking is only a habit now

[cheddar-baby]

i love my man candle that smells like an inpenitrable wall of stench you'd hit walking into the most cliche dude on earths man cave. But when i use it its camp.

[ollie-ollie-oxenfreee]

I just realized something potentially interesting

According to Eli, his Fire Mage powers first awakened sometime in the early 1970s - I think he says 1972 specifically And Blackwell Unbound takes place in 1973 So there's a non-zero chance that he could have run into Lauren Blackwell while she was actively working as a medium

[bredforloyalty]

i love smoke i should become a smoker for this reason only

[vvatchword]

Only Man: Bailout

It was six in the evening when Sinclair finally thought to grab a bite to eat. The press had been unusually delighted with him, swarming his workplace, his office, his walk to Point Prometheus. Worse than wading through a mud slick—and made him late to every single affair that demanded leaving the office.

“This is the second time you’ve paid Topside’s debt, and it was a real chunk of change,” said one journo. “Tell us, what brought about this kind of selfless behavior from one of Rapture’s greats?”

Sinclair dramatically dropped his jaw and scoffed.

“Why, how dare you, sir!” he said. “We may not have laws against libel down here, but…”

The crowd of journalists laughed.

“Don’t let it be said I did this for anything more selfish than a friend’s company,” Sinclair drawled. “Don’t tell me there isn’t some friend you wouldn’t bail out just for the pleasure of seeing them pleased.”

For sustenance that evening, he chose the Silver Fork, a five-star in Fort Frolic. The only other choice was Tate’s, and he wasn’t feeling that charitable.

He had only just sat down when he glanced up and saw Ryan striding toward him.

“Why, Andy Ryan!” Sinclair rose from his seat, eyes twinkling. “Fancy seeing you ’round these parts.”

They shook, but Ryan said nothing. All that spoke were his eyes.

“Won’t you sit down?” Sinclair asked, gesturing at the table. “I haven’t ordered yet.”

Ryan lowered to the booth opposite Sinclair, only looking down to find an ashtray.

“So, what brings you to this corner of the Fort?”

“You paid off Topside’s debt.” Ryan put his cigarette out. “Again.”

“Guilty as charged.” Sinclair settled back with his menu, legs crossed, one foot kicking.

“Sinclair.”

“M-hm.”

“What do you mean to prove with this Topside business?”

“Prove?” Sinclair lowered his menu, smiling. “Why, I just want to keep a good friend out of trouble, is all.”

Ryan’s expression rarely faltered; it did here. A faint flicker of disgust flashed across his face.

“He is a parasite.”

“He is a fool, and a very entertaining one at that,” Sinclair said. He turned to the waitress, who had just appeared. “I’ll take the Arcadia, red, 1953. Thanks, sugar.”

Ryan waved her away before speaking again.

“You can measure the greatness of a man by the company he keeps,” he said.

“So I hear,” Sinclair said.

“Does he value intellect? Ability? Art?” Ryan cocked his head. “Or is he a beast rutting in the field?”

Sinclair nodded. “Mm-hmm. Very true. How’s Ms. Jolene doin’, by the by?”

Ryan’s gaze snapped up. Sinclair smiled at him over the curl of his wrist. The silence between them stretched for an uncomfortable minute before Sinclair finally cleared his throat.

“Look, Andrew.” Sinclair dropped his foot and his smile, sat back, and gave him the most solemn, constipated look he possibly could. “The kid is harmless. And when I say ‘kid,’ I mean he’s a kid. He has no idea what he’s doing. He can’t do a thing to Rapture except make it laugh.”

“When he flaunts his freedom, the city does more than laugh,” Ryan said. “It sits up. It takes notice. And the darker elements…” He closed his eyes. “The darker elements cheer him on.”

“Who, Fontaine?”

Ryan’s eyes flashed open.

Sinclair chuckled. “Fontaine doesn’t laugh or cheer. At least, not conventionally. Now, he likes you pissed off—ah, if you’ll pardon the expression—but he doesn’t spend half as much time thinking about you as you do about him.” Sinclair pointed at him with his empty cigarette holder. “Look, Andrew, you’re lettin’ these nobodies eat you up from the inside out. And they’re nobodies, you get me? Nobody’s as big as you.”

“Fontaine is hardly a ‘nobody.’”

“All right, I’ll give you that. But Topside is.” Sinclair looked into his breast pocket, raised his brows, and tucked the empty holder into his mouth.

Ryan’s eye fell to his pocket, drifted up to his eyes. “You yourself, Sinclair… sometimes I wonder.”

Sinclair smiled. “About what?”

“Whose side you are really on.”

“Capital’s, naturally.” Sinclair shrugged. “Thought we came down here to avoid all that, ah… ‘side’ nonsense.”

“There have always been sides, Sinclair. There is the philosophy and there are parasites. There is the philosophy and there are those who make a mockery of it.” Ryan drew another cigarette from his pocket. Oxford brand. He had been their spokesman for a time.

“The philosophy is about the dollar, so I’m all about the philosophy,” Sinclair said. “Look, you have nothing to worry about with me, chief. I’m a sensible man. But I am just a man, with a man’s needs. Same as you’ve got, I reckon.” His accent turned dramatic, his smile sarcastic. “I’d like this boy’s friendship and I can’t have it when he’s dangling from a ceiling. If you take the trouble to paint him up into a bogeyman, well… I’ll just say it: that’s less about him and more about you.”

Ryan’s lip curled. “Are you saying I lie, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Oh, lord, no. Not you.”

“Then,” Ryan said, snapping his lighter, “who is the liar here?”

“If you want to find a liar, I’m sure you’ll find one,” Sinclair said. His own eyes had grown dark and shuttered. Ryan gazed upon the same cold and unreadable expression as his own. Neither man blinked. Their standoff was broken only when the waitress returned with a glass, sliding it in front of Sinclair. It was Sinclair who blinked first, turning with a light cough.

“Ah, thank you, honey,” Sinclair said. “You sure you don’t want a drink, Andy? I’m payin’.”

“No. Thank you.” Ryan waved the waitress away. “Tell me, Sinclair. How much of your money is wrapped up in Fontaine’s matters?”

“About the same amount as is wrapped up in yours,” Sinclair said. “Ask your friends at Mulligan’s. They give you that information already, I presume.”

Ryan’s frown deepened. “You bought into Fontaine’s oxygen supply last I heard.”

“Oh, he’s gobblin’ things up right and left, chief!” Sinclair said, clapping himself on the chest. “And I’ve seen his delivery system. Just spectacular. Improves quality by every measurable standar…”

“Do you hear yourself?” Ryan asked.

Sinclair blinked. “Well, I’d hope so. I just put a helluva a lot of money in that thing.”

“Fontaine is taking the city.” Ryan said it to the table more than to Sinclair. He lifted his eyes. “And you are enabling him.”

For a moment, Sinclair was struck dumb. His eyes locked on Ryan’s, his mouth pursed up in what was trying to turn into a laugh.

“Pardon me?” he asked at last.

“Fontaine cares nothing for the philosophy,” Ryan said. “And he is poisoning this city one charity at a time. Surely you’ve seen it.”

“Andy, I must admit, I’m a mite confused,” Sinclair said, cocking his head. “Yes, he runs charities, but that’s his money. I’m not funding those. I’m funding the end to obesity and the latest synthetics for a pale complexion. Be reasonable, man. Ah, one second.”

Sinclair waved down his waitress, pointed at something on his menu, made a face, muttered something about the cook or the cut, and shooed her off.

“My apologies,” he said, clearing his throat. “Didn’t eat lunch. Are you sure you wouldn’t like…”

“Do you think he supports those wretches on his efforts alone?” Ryan asked.

“His money ain’t my money,” Sinclair said. “Once it passes hands it’s outta my control. I’m gettin’ what I asked for—the cure for, ah—cancer, baldness, even mortality—and a tidy profit on top all that—so why should I demand any more? Oh, I’ll say it, chief: this is unlike you. You gettin’ enough rest down there?”

“Is everything a joke to you?” Ryan asked softly. “Do you not see the city transforming beneath us? There could be no Lamb without Fontaine. There could be no Topside without Fontaine.”

“Andy, what the hell…”

“There could be no poorhouses, no orphanages, no bread lines. Already I see their little signs: ‘Ryan Does Not Own Us.’ For instead of raising themselves, they seek to degrade me. And if you believe they will stop with my head…”

“Let me stop you right there,” Sinclair said. “Now I read your essays on the philosophy. I even read your attempts at fiction, god bless your soul. And I’m tryin’ to think of a single instance where honest businessmen were cowing others into givin’ ’em more of a hand than they deserve. You should remember them, seein’ as you wrote it: those were the villains.”

“You accuse me of offering bribes?” Ryan spat.

“What do you mean by asking how much of my money goes into Fontaine’s coffers, then?” Sinclair asked. “Tell me, Andy—you’d rather I pour all my money into Arcadia? Well, Demeter’s been pushin’ 30% more O2 than Arcadia for the last six months. More O2, faster, with better CO2 scrubbers, better moisture entrapment and recycling—hell. You name it, they’ve built it. I’ve started running it through my Drop locations and it’s startin’ to look like air quality is better down with the homeless than it is up in Apollo. Look, I’d be a fool not to invest. Hell, you’d be a fool not to look into his tech.” He threw his arms open. “Why, I figured all this was the aim of the game. As I heard a wise man say once, ‘The strong will not be constrained by the weak.’”

Ryan sighed and rose slowly to his feet. “I understand your folly now, Augustus.”

“Oh, do tell,” Sinclair said, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and jamming it into his holder.

“You believe in the dollar and nothing else,” Ryan said. “Not human integrity; not the narrow path.”

“I don’t believe in metaphysics, it’s true,” said Sinclair, and snapped his lighter. “And I thought you were the same.” He blew out a stream of smoke.

Ryan laughed soundlessly, mouthed his cigarette.

“Someday, perhaps soon, there will be a reckoning,” he said. “I will be watching you, Sinclair.”

Sinclair cracked a smile, leaning back in his booth. “Hope you like what you see. But if you don’t, do feel free to stop by for a chat. You know my door is always open.”

UPRISING: BLACK SCRAPBOOK HUB

[xx0yeet-everything0xx]

rereading trials of apollo and

oh my GOD. how did i even MISS this. cackling.

[ringneckedpheasant]

being subjected to the agonies rn

[xwingace]

The smell of burning tobacco is terrible. But the smell of burning weed is _worse_, will linger longer, and spread further. No contest.

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[whats-in-a-sentence]

'The burning of country was not at all random,' Dick Kimber noted of the Centre,

there was greater attention to areas favoured by certain nutritious or otherwise useful plants and to areas favoured by certain animals. A patchy mosaic of vegetation in different stages of regeneration . . . almost completely eliminated the risk of large scale wildfires . . . the fired lower slopes of the George Gill Range promoted the flourishing growth of highly prized native or bush tobacco, while in the Tanami and Sandy Deserts burning promoted the growth of two kinds of sweet-tasting solanum.¹²

12. Eric K Webb (ed.), Windows on Meteorology: Australian Perspective, CSIRO Publishing, Melbourne, 1997, pp. 9-10.

"Country: Future Fire, Future Farming" - Bill Gammage and Bruce Pascoe

[newvegascowboy]

A great deal of rdr has already been spoiled for me but i think its become one of the games where i actually give a shit about being further spoiled. I was trying to look up stranger missions to make sure i didnt miss any and i was like speed scrolling past certain things like oh fuck, oh god

[blondiert]

why has no one told me blunts are so much better than regular joints

[dmitriene]

being lieutenant's simon riley lap soldier, forced to sit on his muscular thighs while he's busy scrabbling at some paperwork, pen hold tightly between both of his thick, scarred fingers, the second one busy holding around the rim of whiskey glass, twisting it in his hand and allowing the amber liquid slosh around the edges of the glass.

your work is to help him find a peace of mind, sitting docile, pressed against his beefy chest, his eyes focused on the words that litter the paper, going over each letter, while you reach your fingers to his revealed lips, balaclava crumpled up to his nose to smoke from your hand, as the furl of his pale lips envelop the thin, brown cigarette, taking a slow puff.

simon releases a thick blob of tobacco smoke, letting it dissolve into the air of the room with a pungent aroma, enveloping your face as you hide from the discomfort as soon as the smoke brushes your eyes, causing a hoarse chuckle from the chest you're pressing against, cruelly so, but then he gently brushes his lips against the top of your head, and you hum pleasedly.

you don't know that after that you will have to greedily swallow this smoke with your burning lungs while his tongue pushes into your wet, drooling mouth, your tobacco smelling fingers wrapped neatly around his fat cock, creating a tight fist for simon to fuck into, hips rocking up languidly, staining your soft skin with tacky, pooling precum, throbbing as your thumb slicked at his slit.

you'd had to clean simon up after, and so that not a drop stains his pants, nor the hard carpet under your feet, because you are good for your lieutenant and will do anything to satisfy him, and if you succeed, you will deserve your place to sleep in his chambers, tucked in his large bed and cradled against the solidity of his body.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[heetssae]

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[starsofang]

simon didn’t care about dying. if he was going to die one day by the barrel of a gun or the blade of a knife on the field, then he was going to do enjoy the finer things in life without much care for the toll it may take on his body — one of the finer things being smoking, of course.

a nice cigarette at the end of a long, dragging day was like a reward. the burning hiss of smoke filling his chest, the bitter taste of tobacco tainting his tastebuds, the swirls of billowing smoke polluting the air. it filled him with an ebb of warmth and poisoned his lungs an ugly black.

johnny always told him he needed to take it easy, take a step back. it wasn’t healthy, the packs of cigarettes that would litter his vest pockets or his sleeping quarters, and it would be the thing to kill him one day. and who wanted to be a kickass lieutenant, only to die from something so measly like a cigarette?

simon didn’t care either way.

at least, he didn’t care… until he got a pretty bird that wrinkled her nose up whenever he pulled out the little packet of cancer. he suddenly became hyper aware of your distaste, became a tad bit guilty when you’d tell him the effects smoking would have on him. it was like johnny but tenfold, and somehow, you saying it hit harder.

simon suddenly cared about dying.

the uncaring little part of him that used to tell him to live life how he wanted, that he was going to die at war anyway, was now having a change of heart, all because you wanted him to grow old with you.

he made the ultimate decision to quit. seeing you light up whenever you’d ask him did you smoke today? and he’d reply with no was worth the tough effort.

it was a lot more difficult than he thought it would be. of course, he’d done it for so long, his body was addicted to the nicotine. but he also was discovering that it wasn’t just that — he had a horrible oral fixation with cigarettes.

what better way to satiate the craving to have his mouth on something than to do so with his tongue on you every chance he got, eating you out like a starved man? he got to make his pretty bird cum, while he got his fix for the day. win win.

[ozarkthedog]

𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞

summary: you warm Logan’s cock while he smokes.

pairing: Logan Howlett x afab!reader

warnings: 18+ mdni. smut. cock warming. grinding. Logan smoking. unbeta'd. w.c: 637

an: just a little something to clear my mind. i’m a whore for Logan and his cigars 🙃

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐅𝐢𝐜 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐬 ⋅ 𝐋𝐨𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐇𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

"Give me a light, Sugar." Logan murmurs, placing the fresh, unlit cigar between his lips.

He leans against the headboard of his bed with a ragged sigh and wraps his hands around your waist, balancing you on his lap. "Careful now," he hisses as your cunt swirls around his cock. Logan always insisted on keeping you stuffed full of his cock after sex, something about making it stick, even though you both knew it was impossible to conceive. "Don' wanna spill and make a mess now, do ya?"

You roll your eyes and reach for the silver lighter he chucked on the bedside table before he took you to bed. His warm, brute hands keep you steady as you grasp the silver rectangle and right yourself on his lap. You drink down his playful gaze; his dark eyes glint with mischief as he tongues the cigar side to side.

You flick the wheel, igniting a luminous golden flame. Logan's features look sinister under the dancing tint as the earthy tobacco cracks and sizzles while you light the head. He takes a slow drag; smoke fills his lungs before spilling between his lips and swirling up toward the ceiling.

The searing red ember mocks you like your cunt isn't burning just as hot as it's stretched around Logan's girth while he enjoys a cigar after fucking you into his mattress.

He curses on the second drag when your body trembles in his lap. The tight rim of your cunt clutches the thick base of his cock; slick drooling down and coating his heavy sac.

"Y'sure like watchin' me smoke, huh, bub." he rumbles, rolling the cigar to the corner of his mouth. Wisps of smoke rise and swirl as you slowly grind your hips and demurely nod. "That'a girl."

You rest your hands on his burly shoulders, fingers digging into the dense muscle as you indulge in the scorching ache that's settled between your thighs. The dark, wiry hairs that litter the base of his cock rub roughly against your swollen clit, the extra pressure heightening your bliss as the bulbous head cruelly kisses the deepest part of you.

"Yeah, that's it. Take what you need." Logan praises, hands tightening around your waist, moving in tandem with your frantic grinds as you chase the overwhelming pleasure blossoming in your belly once again.

Logan weaves a hand around the back of your neck and presses your forehead to his. His fiery eyes, all-consuming, bore into your own. It's close, too close. So, intimate and intoxicating, but so is Logan.

The smoke from his cigar makes your eyes water and suffocates your airways, but he doesn't grant you solace. "You're stayin' right here. You ain't leavin' 'til you come."

Your pitiful sob does nothing but spur him on.

He callously digs his fingers into your curves, forcing you to keep the steady grind of back and forth, back and forth, until you gasp his name and cry out into the dimly lit room for him.

A deep growl rumbles his chest, his own pleasure racing to the forefront of his mind as your cunt quivers around his length. Your orgasm ripples through you, swirling and milking Logan's cock, as his hips rise off the bed and he spills inside you for the second time that evening.

You collapse with a tired sigh against his chest, his cock still nestled in your warmth as your heartbeat slows to its natural rhythm. He lazily drags his fingers up the column of your spine while puffing on his cigar. "Looks like I'll always have to keep a pack'a cigars on me." He teasingly chuckles.

"When don't you have a pack of cigars on you?" you quip, yanking on his chest hair.

He quirks his brow, agreeing with a sly grin. "You're right."

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

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