#tobacco flake

[monkeyssalad-blog]

1951 Gold Flake Cigarettes ad by totallymystified

[enchanted-book]

it was a really late night at the trailer, and i wanted chocolate milk. so, naturally, i asked my very tired father if i could have a glass. he said alright, and we headed to the incredibly dark kitchen. he poured the milk and let me stir in the chocolate (that’s the best part!). when i finished stirring, i put the (wet) spoon onto the wooden table, because it looked clean in the dark, so i figured it was fine.

i took a sip of the chocolate milk, and decided that it needed more chocolate. i poured in the syrup, stirred it in, and when i tasted it again…

“daddy, i think i put tobacco in my chocolate milk.”

“what? no you didnt. did you? how did you do that?”

[cigarsonline]

Which one do you admire more to smoke your favourite pipe?

SAVINELLI

Savinelli Pipe Tobacco was founded by Luigi Savinelli in 1944 when he opened his first shop in Turin, Italy. Savinelli has been making high quality pipes since then and continues to produce some of the best pipes today!

The Italian pipe manufacturer Savinelli has been producing pipes since 1947 and has become famous for its design. Each pipe is handmade by skilled artisans in their workshops in Florence, Italy. Savinelli pipes come with their own unique shape, style and finish which makes them stand out from other brands on the market today. The company also offers custom pipe making services for those looking for something special but don't want to pay the extra cost for a perfect custom made piece.

Peterson Pipe Tobacco

Peterson Tobacco is known for its rich, full-bodied flavor that is perfect for those who enjoy a bold, robust smoking experience. This tobacco is carefully blended to deliver a well-balanced taste that is both satisfying and complex. Peterson Pipe Tobacco is available in a variety of different blends, each with its own unique flavor profile.

One of the most popular blends is Peterson Irish Flake Pipe Tobacco blend. This blend is made from a unique mixture of dark-fired Kentucky tobacco and aged Virginia tobacco. The result is a rich, full-bodied smoke that is both smoky and sweet. The Irish Flake blend is perfect for those who enjoy a strong, full-flavored smoke that is packed with character. Another popular blend of Peterson Pipe Tobacco is the University Flake blend. This blend is made from a mixture of Virginia and Burley tobaccos, with a touch of Perique for added complexity. The University Flake blend has a medium to full-bodied flavor that is both smooth and complex. This blend is perfect for those who enjoy a rich, complex smoke that is easy to enjoy. 

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

.⋆｡Deforestation｡⋆.

John Price x plus size reader

Price being mad you shaved your pussy. That’s it

Warnings: smut, Dom!Price, possessive!Price, fluff, established relationship, pussy spanking WC: 840

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

You stepped out of the master bathroom feeling like a brand new woman, empty wine glass in your hand and your body practically glistening with the amount of expensive moisturiser you used. This is what you needed, a boiling hot everything shower to wash off the stress of the week. From your shitty manager laying off yet another one of your coworkers and giving you their workload to learning that your fiance was about to be deployed again for the second time in three months, you needed a proper refresh.

The bedroom was significantly cooler than the sauna you turned the bathroom into. Goosebumps bloomed across your exfoliated skin as you eased yourself into the plush chair in front of the vanity John had built for you. The dark green satin robe slipped from your shoulder but you ignored it, your gaze instead on the line of oils just below the mirror. 

A pair of warm if not slightly chapped lips descended upon your bare shoulder, he wasn’t quite kissing you, just pressing as much of himself around you as he could. You hummed and leaned your head against his temple, breathing in the smell of tobacco and cheap cologne and something so wholly John that clung to him.

“Good shower?” He muttered, his large calloused hands coming around to rest on your plush stomach, the tips of his fingers barely brushing against the sliver of bare skin revealed by your robe. 

“Mmm very good. I needed it so badly.” Your nose trailed along the edge of his hairline, your eyes fluttering shut as his hands began to wander downwards. John released a low sound from deep in his chest as you spread your thighs and granted him exactly what he had come to the bedroom for. He knew just how pliable you got after your showers, barely needing any prep for his thick cock with how relaxed and soft you were. 

You held onto his forearms as he finally reached down and… froze.

“Everything ok there, cap?” You teased. John grunted in reply and cupped your pussy in his massive hand, the heel of his palm digging against your clit as he probed around.

“You shaved.” 

“I did.” You confirmed, wiggling forward in the seat so he could feel even more of you. “Decided I wanted to clean up a bit.”

You received an almost feral snarl in reply. “I thought I told you this was mine.”

——————

The headboard slammed into the wall with such force that the drywall had begun to crack and flake away but the special forces captain refused to stop, not when he was so close to proving his point.

You wailed and squirmed beneath him, your nails digging into his strong back as he continued to pound into you viciously. “Please!” You cried, your voice broken and hoarse. Your stomach twisted with pleasure and you tightened around him. John glared down at you.

“No.” Immediately, he changed his pace, ripping your orgasm away from you. You sobbed in frustration but John was unforgiving. “She is mine, I know what’s best for her, not you. I know when she needs to cum because obviously you can’t be trusted taking care of her anymore.”

Your body bounced with each thrust, your words only coming out in short bursts. “It’s. My. Pussy.” You ended with a bitten off moan as John slammed into your g-spot, the fat head of his cock making your vision blur.

“She’s fucking mine.” John angrily pressed down on your lower stomach. “I trained her to take me. I know exactly what she needs to feel good. She loves me, she knows I take good care of her.” You grumbled as he once again shifted, lifting your hips from the bed so your shoulders pressed into the mattress. 

Your thighs shook violently, the breath being knocked from your lungs by a precise strike to your cervix. John reached forward, his palm meeting your bare cunt with a loud smack. You cried out and he did it again, his lips pulled downwards in what his boys dubbed the ‘Captain Face’. He clicked his tongue and delivered one last slap to your over sensitive pussy.

“Look at her, she’s so cold now. Guess I’ll just have to warm her up.” His thumb flew to your throbbing clit, finally letting you cum around him. Your back arched further up as your jaw dropped open. He huffed out a breathless laugh at the way your body locked up so tightly, he could barely pull out. “That’s it. See, knew exactly what she needed.”

As soon as your muscles relaxed, John readjusted his hips and slammed back into you, his pace immediately picking up again. Your stomach burned with the stretch of his cock and the sensitivity of your first and long overdue orgasm. “John!” You tried to protest but the man only lifted your legs higher onto his waist with a victorious grin.

“Like I said, I have to keep her warm until her coat comes back.”

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[ink-n-shadow]

hear me out ghost smoking while doing backshots

the noise that left my mouth at this request was feral

SPARK UP

𝜗𝜚 the one where simon smokes a cigarette while giving you backshots

𝜗𝜚 pairing: simon "ghost" riley x gn!reader 𝜗𝜚 cw: smut (minors—DNI), whiny!reader, slight spanking, slightly mean!ghost at the end (if you can't tell, i like mean!ghost)

"simon." your voice was nothing more than a high-pitched whine, sweaty face pressed into the black silk of simon's bedsheets with your back arched up to meet your hips with his.

trying to push yourself up onto your palms so that you could rock your hips back against him, you sputtered out a choked moan as simon pushed you back down with a hand between your shoulder blades, the cold metal of his zippo lighter digging into your flesh.

"easy, sweet thing." simon purred softly, his natural timber rough and husky as his hands left your body once more. "let me light my bloody cig first." you heard the flick of the lighter, the hissing of the fire spreading shortly after simon lit his cigarette, before the slow drag of his cock buried inside of you began to bleed up your spine. the smell of burning tobacco enveloped your senses as simon's hips snapped against yours over and over and over, slowly molding your insides around the shape of his cock.

your vision was beginning to go hazy, either from the cigarette smoke swirling around the room or from simon battering into that one spot that makes stars twinkle behind your lids. you could feel the heated flakes of ash and ember raining down along your spine from the lit cigarette, simon chasing away the brief burn with soothing sweeps of his thumbs along your body.

“stop smokin'—you always go too slow when you smoke.” you groaned quietly despite the way your body was rippling with each of simon’s precise strokes. your body was beginning to ache from being folded in half, but the pleasure jolting throughout your body and up your nerves was more than enough to distract from it.

simon chuckled around the cigarette dangling from his lips, pressing them down in a thin line and molding his hands around your hips to fuck you back onto him. a rough smack to the swell of your ass has your mouth dropping open, your further complaints dying on your tongue with a broken moan.

"that's it—shut the fuck up and take my cock, yeah? tryin' to smoke this cigarette and relax, but your lip is givin' me a bloody headache."

©️ ink-n-shadow 2024

do not copy, plagiarize, steal, borrow, or repost any of my work without my expressed permission

[thesassypadawan]

Make Them Blue (Hayden x FemReader) *Blurb*

Summary: It’s No Nut November and a certain moose was too polite to tell his friends no this year to their stupid, little bet.  Somehow managing to make it through almost the whole month, he finally caves after getting a taste of a major adrenaline rush.  Wanting more of that electrifying feeling and thrill.

Warnings: 18+ (mdni), because there sooo much of the smut.  Fun from behind (giddy up), semipublic smex, slightly dom moose, car abuse, and, as always… Hayden’s big, fat dick.

Notes: Happy No Nut November all you, lovelies! 🤍💙

- Roughly shoving, pinning you easily in place with his larger body.  Gaze locks with his in the windshield’s faint reflection.  “Ha-Hay, no…”  Watching him fiddle with the delicate, red string.  Lazily take another long, slow drag.  “S-stop it…”  Before tossing, grinding the cig out on the concrete floor; cloud of smoke circling his head like a halo.  “Wha-what about you-your be-” 

- “Shut up…”  Ripping your lacey panties, slapping your pussy.  Long fingers wrap, squeeze the back of your neck.  Pressing your cheek against the car’s warm hood, plush bottom rising into the air.  “Screw the bet…”

- Cool breeze wafts in through the open garage door.  “Not her-here though…”  Kissing, making goosebumps form on your exposed skin.  A pathetic whimper falls from your lips, beads of slick and pre coating the back of your legs.  “Some-someone can walk in on u-us…”

- “Don’t care…”  Hayden hisses in your ear; bitter- sweet scent of tobacco on his breath, clinging to his fire suit.  Strong hand gripping, kneading the soft flesh of your handle.  Bulbous head pushing, prodding at your little hole.  “Not worrying about that right now, angel…”

- Tears of embarrassment sting, fill the corners of your eyes.  “I-I am…”  Weak sob escaping you when he rolls his hips into yours, trying to surge forward.  “I don't want t-to…”  Only met with resistance as you clench down on him.

- Growling low, cock twitching in frustration.  “Shit…”  Lightly calloused fingertips pinch your fat, descend and trail.  Firmly grabbing hold of your thick thigh, hiking it up onto the smooth metal.  “Relax…”  So he can bully, force you to take him deeper.

- Lewd sound of your juices squelching, heavy balls slapping wetly float through the still air.  “Too tight…”  Along with your high-pitched whines, the squeak of your skin.  Dragging forward and back across the sleek surface; from his wild, unbridled thrusts.  “So fucking tight…”

- “Keep…fuck…”  Nails scramble, scratch frantically.  Flaking off some of the decals, embedding remnants of your pearly polish in the finish.  As Hay practically rearranges your insides.  “Keep squeezing me like this…”

- “And you’re going to…”  Feeling him throb, gummy walls cling desperately to his long length.  Poor cunny aches, burns from the familiar stretch; clamps impossibly harder. “Going to make me…”

- Slamming, putting his entire weight behind that last, hard drive.  Knocks the air and a cry from your lungs, makes something buckle beneath.  While pumping, flooding you with his pent-up load.  Overflowing, dripping down the now bent hood…trickling to the floor, mixing with his cigarette ashes.  “Cum.”

(Extra: He would totally light another one up afterwards.  Stuffing your torn panties into his suits pocket.  Saying with a cocky ass grin…  “Now that’s podracing.”  Before putting that sexy, black helmet on.  The one you’ll end up begging him to keep on later when you’re on your back, legs spread wide open…just like he told you to.)

Tag List: @espinathena-17, @myheartwillgoon2022, @laylaplease, @princessswifie, @kenobiskywalker16, @loverforoldermen, @jediavengers, @anisangeldust, @fredswrite, @xhunnybeeex, @vaderswifey, @anakinstwinklebunny

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[hughiecampbelle]

Essential (Will Graham Oneshot)

Character/s: Will, Hannibal mention

Word Count: 1,507

Inspired By: Siren Song by Natalie Wilson (this is one of the most beautiful songs on my playlist)

Inspired By: Okay I will never shut up about this fic (Kendall Roy x Depression!Reader) by @chaithetics - I can't praise it enough. I adore it for so many reasons and I'm incredibly grateful to have read it 💕

A/N: Ahhh okay. So. Currently it's pouring out and the rain smells wonderful and I have a candle lit and my room is (mostly) clean - will be sorting that out lol. I haven't been feeling very well mentally recently. The holidays are always hard. My step-dad said some things and it really got to me. His judgement shouldn't matter at all, but it voiced every opinion I fear. It put all my insecurities on blast and I ended up sobbing to my therapist about it. I'm trying to focus on my goals, studying for the LSATs and getting everything ready to apply to law school. Trying to focus on the new year and all the possibilities it holds. It just hurt, y'know? And I thought writing would help, plus I love Will lol. Sorry for the rant!! Not my best work, but it feels good to get it out! Feedback is always appreciated!!! ❤🥩❤

*This is not part of the writing event, this is just a silly therapy fic. I will make a proper post about it, I pinky promise!*

The sun has set. Bright, twinkling stars poke holes in the cobalt sky. It’s your favorite version. The warm lights of houses splash outward through the windows. Some are muted by curtains. Others remain unobscured. Throwing itself across the snow, butter-yellow and bleeding. The snow falls in fat, robust flakes and you hear the wind howl, picking up the longer the night goes on. Downstairs the dogs bark and whine. Pawing at the door until it creaks open, they key sticking just a little. His voice carries through the house like music, song-like, in a key you cannot name, but love nonetheless. He laughs, telling them to be quick as they scatter in the yard. You count the heartbeats until they’re back inside. Safe. He sets down his bag, hanging his coat and shaking off his boots. His glasses, you assume, are not on his face, but placed on a table. The kitchen, most likely, though if he stopped at his desk, perhaps they sit among his things. His familiarities. He works in routines, straying little, if at all. You know what he will find, picturing it from memory. The cupboards and fridge undisturbed. A single mug in the skin. Tea, coffee, something hot cooled off, frozen even, half-filled or half-empty, the decision is up to him. It’s all you could manage today. An act you talk yourself into, a feat you are not prepared for, but crave regardless. Sugar and milk. You made it last the day and yet, it remains unfinished. You hear the faucet run, the stream steady. Imagine his hands. Holding the sponge, circling the inside of the ceramic, filling and pouring until bubbles have subsided. Less severe, less violent, less and less and less. He places it on the drying rack upside down, the clink of it alongside the rest of the dishes filling you with guilt. You could have washed it. You could have unloaded the burden from him. It was your mess. Despite it, despite this grief, he will wave it off. Happy to do it, to help. Still, you might argue, and he will shrug, out of words, but not out of fight. 

His footsteps patter through the first floor, pouring food into bowls, calling them each by name. Dinner is served, you think. Unzipping his bag, the sound high and sharp, retreating what he needs before you follow him to the stairs. Each step groaned quietly, as if announcing his presence in whispers. Contaninig their excitement or, perhaps, swapping secrets. Gossip. Down the hall, he makes his way towards you. His cologne, subtle, is a welcomed scent. Woodsy, earthy, like soil. Hints of tobacco. Fabric softener, too. Lavender, you think, though they are all the same. Knocking quietly at the bedroom door, lazily left ajar, before walking inside. Hey you, he says. You were right. He’s not wearing his glasses. You can see his eyes - an amalgamation of color. Blue mostly, though there are hints of green and specks of brown. Puppy dog, exceptional in conveying emotions. You search for anger in them, fury or wrath or disgust, but there is only understanding. Relief. His smile is serene and his movements gentle: placing his files full of photos and notes on the nightstand. Overflowing with gore and mutilation, there is so much work he has brought home, so much responsibility, and yet he makes time for you and your dishes. You’ve been up here all day. He says it as a statement rather than a question. You wait for reprimand, for abolishment or scolding, but his features remain soft. Were you warm enough? The blankets and duvet wrapped around you, piled atop one another. You nod, unable to find your voice. Good, he says, leaning over to kiss your forehead. He is warm despite the cold, his cheeks rosy. The bridge of his nose has two small, red marks. It must’ve been a glasses kind of day. Little time to take them off, to get up close. 

He talks without expectation. About Jack and his demands. About Hannibal and his repetitive, yet fascinating, takes on the world. Undressing as he does so. You watch him unbutton his shirt, a white t-shirt bright underneath. He does not say that he went to his psychiatrist about you. What to do, how to help. Should he be doing something differently? Should he be approaching the subject with more grit, less tenderness? Pulls a sweater over his head, the navy blue one you always liked on him. Unbuckling his belt. Searching for the flannel pants he loves, the pajamas he wears as often as he can. Should he make you go to a hospital? Is that the right course of action? Dr. Lecter hushes his worries. Reminds him he is doing everything right. That this will pass, and you will find your way back to him. He knows this, he must remind himself. He will be patient. He will take care of this, of you, as long as you both need. Bev who made a funny, albeit inappropriate, joke at the crime scene. Another killer on the loose. Too early to track, to pattern match. Talk of two offenders instead of one, a duo. He climbs in beside you, his voice steady, his hands moving as he speaks. Reminiscent of a conductor with no orchestra. Caught up in the drama, the obscurity, the way the bodies were found and how they were killed, he loses himself in the anticipation - a pressure in his chest - he must get out every word before it is too late. It is only after he has finished, catching his breath, does he notice you've fallen back to sleep. 

Trapped in a half-sleep, you catch parts of the truth. The bedside lamp has been turned on, the room even darker than you last saw. His side of the bed is empty. The faucet running in the bathroom. He sits, his files on his lap, string through each image and note. Smells of mint. He hums quietly to himself, a sound you have learned to cherish. The light is off. The bedroom black. He lies beside you, but he is awake. Softly, the words come out. Are you mad at me? He takes a moment, pausing, and dread begins to fill your chest. Why would I be mad at you? He asks,and then adds, Of course not. You can’t bring yourself to explain without tears welling up in your eyes, a sob trapped in your throat, so you say nothing. Because, you start, but cannot bring yourself to finish. Quickly wiping your eyes, grateful for the lack of light. Because I’m a burden, you think. Because I’m not myself. Because I ruin everything. Because you deserve better. Because, because, because. Will moves closer, wrapping his arms around you, rubbing circles into your back. You feel his knuckles across the spokes of your spine. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. Another night crying. In the morning your eyes will be bloodshot, your face puffy. Another mess you’ve created that he cleans up. Finally, he whispers: I could never be mad at you. But what about-? Never. His tone, not unharsh, is serious and something about that settles your nerves. The gnawing guilt inside chews with its gums instead of its teeth. Get some sleep, okay? He squeezes you a little tighter. You fall asleep like that, intertwined. 

You don’t hear him get up. You don’t feel his absence until it is too late. A note left for you, his handwriting distinct and melancholy. I made you a drink. Be careful, it’s hot. Love you - Will. The mug he washed, the one you dirtied, sits beside the paper. Steam no longer pours from the top, but the cup itself is still warm. Downstairs you hear the symphony of dogs chewing. Loudly, you note, but happily. Another chore taken care of. Softly, you sip, grateful for him. For his actions, his selflessness. Today will be a little better than the last, that you are certain of. One step at a time. Will will talk to Dr. Lecter again. He will question if he’s helping. He will fear he isn’t doing enough. The two of you wrapped up in your worries, not distinct from one another, similar words with different meanings. Am I doing enough? Am I failing them? He will be talked down, reminded that this thing, this cyclical phase, it always ends. No matter what, there is always an endpoint. He must remind himself that, he must remind you, too. The two of you journey through this not out of obligation, but of necessity. He needs you. He adores you. A world without you is not one he’d like to take part in. Where you sense burden, resentment, anger, he will meet you with generosity, with compassion and understanding. It is a surprise every time, and yet it shouldn’t be. He needs you more than words could ever describe. You can’t get rid of him that easily.

[mythrianalpha]

Great news! This inspired so many ideas that I ran out of tags, which I didn’t know was a thing.

Nah but I do think Remus tries to flirt with Virgil All The Time, but he always ends up saying shit like "you'd look great on an autopsy table :D" which is how Virgil still remains oblivious

[sludgevomit]

My back was pulled against the leather recliner almost magnetically. Strained muscles seeking comfort after operating on misbehaving pieces of Meat that now laid unconscious in the basement. Hours passed before the lessons became ingrained in their minds. Putting Sir at unease; disappointed by unwarranted disobedience.

Rare thoughts of domesticity littered my mind as I examined the Pet that earned Sir’s trust and small percentage of respect. Their body on the tranquil bed across from the recliner that was tucked into the corner. Book locked between fingertips; focus drifting away from the small font. Their attention flowing towards the looming creature that was myself. Waiting for the echoes of my commands to release into the air. “Why don’t you be useful and do me a favor, Little Thing.” My hand moves to scratch my chin before using it to direct the being around the room. “Grab me a cigar from the humidor. The torch and cutter as well. Come sit on Papa Bear’s lap when you are ready.”

The Pet shot up in an instant. Always working fast in order to please me. Using the praise to motivate their will to live. Finding the humidor with ease, yet freezing up when it came to the selection of different colors, labels, and sizes for each tobacco wrapped stick. “Now, it doesn’t matter which one you pick. Sir only buys his favorites. Schnell.” Eyelids shutting as my stern words fizzle out. Anticipating with evaporating patience as the pads of my fingers drum against the soft, tanned skin of the armrest. Dried blood flaking off with each tap on the material.

Opening my field of vision when the Pet made themselves a home on my lap. Curves of their ass flush against my crotch. Eyes wide, proclaiming innocence and desire when the firm grip of my hands ran over brutalized thigh and leg flesh that draped over the side of the comfortable chair.

“Papa Bear is going to teach you how he enjoys his smoke. The exact way he cuts the cap, and how he toasts the foot. Listen carefully to his instructions. He is in no disposition to model this act for you. You should already have an idea from watching this ritual be done many times before as you were kneeled down by my side.”

[monkeyssalad-blog]

1950 Will’s Gold Flake ad by totallymystified

[mortarpestle]

ortolan

Short piece with professional chef!sukuna and younger kitchen porter reader. Title taken from the very brutal and illegal French delicacy of the same name, which one must hide their face to eat.

word count: 1.7k

*no curses au, age gap (chefkuna is in his 30s and reader is in their early 20s), employer-employee power imbalance, petnames ("kid", "brat"), Sukuna is intense, reader smokes right off the bat and is…a lil grim and unexpectedly Freudian?? Idk what happened here, suggestive themes ahead.

An angry red flake falls off the tip of your cigarette. It sways and loses some of its brightness on its way to the ground, succumbing to a puddle next to your feet. There's a couple more puffs left before you inevitably reach the filter, maybe double that amount if you're frugal with it. A few stolen breaths to catch until dinner rush.

You hate this fucking job.

You also know that by the time you clock out and return to your apartment, you’ll collapse on your bed with the prospect of a new shift working your nerves into a frenzy. Talk about an abusive relationship. Effectively stockholm syndromed by cutting boards and sous vides—and your boss.

Sukuna seems to have that effect on people.

Behind you, the back door creaks open. Heavy footsteps stamp down the stairs, coming to a stop by your makeshift ashtray. For a few precious seconds you’re content with counting the flour spots staining his black clogs (expensive brand, sleek, better than yours). He smells like his food; spicy, complex and a little smoky. The perks of working 14 hour shifts at a restaurant with high end cuisine and an even higher tax bracket among its customers, is that you’re afforded the luxury of smelling like a human being. No deep frier mystery oil notes clinging onto skin and clothes for you and especially him. You stifle a rather unsavoury thought about his cologne and inhale bitter smoke.

"You'll fry your lungs with that shit, kid."

Despite the distance, he sounds closer than you’d like, closer than you can handle having him. You don’t mean to shiver. Or for him to notice.

"That's the plan."

Every word coming out of your mouth makes you more conscious of your worldliness. Primarily your lack thereof. Speaking to your boss never ceases to make you seem like a peevish child in comparison. The little nickname he insists on using just for you doesn’t help either.

Sukuna doesn’t reply and your stomach churns.

"You don't smoke...why are you out here." You continue, painfully aware of your appearance.

"Don’t get it twisted. I should be the one asking you that. I can think of ten different things you should be doing before traffic picks up instead of getting cozy by the trash.”

The buildup sweat from the kitchen stovetops is slowly settling over your skin. Seated on one of the plastic crates left by your local produce supplier, you feel like a proper rat. What a picture to paint for the man singlehandedly responsible for funding your life.

Getting back to work is the lesser of the two evils you’re presented with. Still, one more smoke before shift's end sounds like a dream. You slip a stick out of the tobacco case tucked inside your apron pocket, taking his silence as permission to light it between your lips.

You smile.

"What's your vice, boss?"

Sukuna clicks his tongue. "Wouldn't you like to know."

He doesn't seem too offended. After working under him for nearly a year you've come to find that Sukuna is a man who is hard to surprise and equally as tricky to offend. Good at hiding it too, when he wants to. Which is why you ask again, be it a bad idea or not.

"Everybody has one. I've never met a professional chef without a few loose screws, so what is it?" Maybe you could've phrased that last better. You're too tired to care.

He mulls over your question without really giving into it. He’s awfully compliant today. Normally he would've chewed your ear off at the second cigarette.

Something’s off.

"I trust you include yourself in that crowd you speak of."

“Not really. I’m not a professional.”

(Ash stings your fingertips, but you refuse to let go.)

"You've got potential." He says, low and succinct.

You choke on your spit, laughing in earnest, "Sure.” Potential for cutting vegetables and cleaning after other people’s messes, maybe.

"I mean it, kid."

Sukuna leans against the railing, arms folding over his chest. One long glance out of the corner of your eye grants you with an intimate view of his tattoos. All these months you've been catching glimpses of the full design, unable to tell where it ends beneath the black fabric. Not a single hair is out of place. His uniform is rolled up just above his elbows, exposing tanned skin with tiny burn marks littered over hard muscle, no doubt from his early training years. He wears them like medals of honour.

The first thing you did after landing a position in his kitchen was googling his name. Ryomen Sukuna is fifteen years older than you and begrudgingly, the only thing standing between you and quitting as soon as tomorrow.

You’re no stranger to unwanted urges, the occasional intrusive thought. It’s human, you are human and therefore unjustly robbed of any sovereignty over your unconscious and its whims. You don’t think much of it. Even when you take your rare bathroom breaks outside peak hours, only to find that you’ve soaked through your underwear just from glances and strict instructions thrown your way. What does that say about you as a person? You don’t intend to figure it out today.

It's a classic case of treating the symptoms and not the source of your disease. Pretending he doesn’t exist outside of the physical place you both work at won’t get you very far. It won’t take long for the tide to turn over. Sukuna doesn’t play with his food. Only with the people tasked with preparing it.

You tug at a stray piece of lint on your chest, playing with the cotton ball over the flame of your lighter.

"If boss says it."

"Don't call me that." he all but sneers at you over your shoulder. His voice is grating when he wants it to be. You don’t flinch, not even when you turn around to catch the stare he’s drilling into your slouched back. On a second thought you don’t think he’s taken his eyes off of it since he he stepped out to join you. His stare is violence. He makes you want to crawl out of your own skin for comfort.

Working within a kitchen hierarchy is much like having a father; you get used to raised voices and empty threats whether you like it or not. With Sukuna creeping around the counters, you also learn to not talk back if you know what’s best for you. You consider yourself lucky to have never stood on the receiving end of anything more severe than a scolding. Then again, you’re not important enough in the grand scheme of it all, and you make a point to take advantage of that as often as you can.

"Are you not?" you sneer back.

"I'm quitting," Sukuna bares his teeth at you, "Expected to be gone by next week."

You bet he’s enjoying the look on your face. Surprised stupid.

"Pick your jaw up off the ground, s'not a good look on you."

You collect your thoughts and try to convince him that this doesn’t change everything for you. "Can I have your knives? The fancy Japanese ones you keep inside the office safe."

"You better keep your mouth shut and listen to what I have to say before I change my mind you brat." His voice commands you to look at him, "I'm not retiring. I'm opening my own joint and I want you to join me."

You feel nauseous.

"Why."

You've never been one to count your blessings, mainly because it's not worth doing so when you can do it on only one hand. Everyone says your early 20s are hell, the trenches of adulthood. No second-hand warnings and half assed attempts at lukewarm life lessons could've prepared you for the slump you hit after graduating college. Money is tight as it's always been, only now you've got twice the amount of problems and half the support.

The job advertisement was a beacon of good luck amidst a sea of bad decisions.

You had to fight tooth and nail to get through the first week (hell week, objectively the worst time in any hospitality job) without any power or warm water in your apartment after missing the payment deadline. Sukuna noticed—not like it was hard to, given that you looked like shit fresh into your employment—and slid you an early paycheck tucked inside an envelope on lunch break. A week's worth of dailies in an employment contract that only guarantees monthly wages.

You could cry.

(You did. In front of him.)

(He looked so distraught he almost snatched it back.)

"You're good, honest. Smart yet a little stupid, but even that's necessary to get by in the business. Like I said you have potential and I want you in my kitchen when you see it through."

"I think," you start.

Sukuna gives you a sly smile, mumbling a barely audible “Is that so” with his eyes narrowed down to slits.

"—You're only doing this out of spite. Stealing Gojo's staff is dirty work."

"Started that sentence on the wrong foot. You think I’d sabotage my own shit just to get back at that fraud? Most of the guys he's got back there working for him don't even know how to grill chicken without fucking up."

Yes. Yes, you do believe he’d do that, but opt to keep the thought to yourself. You’re sure Sukuna would kill the guy if he were guaranteed to get away with it. Gojo is an angel investor in name and nothing else.

"I'll give you a week, no more no less. Sit on it, let it marinade in that little head of yours and have your answer ready by morning shift." He pushes off the railing to take his leave. Halfway up the steps he backtracks to reach you, snatches the cigarette out of your fingers and takes a long drag, draining the leftover tobacco inside the poorly rolled paper. After he's done, he licks his lips and kisses his front teeth to taste your saliva, humming in satisfaction.

Kicking away the crate, you get up on baby fawn legs, half numb from being folded over yourself for so long. They tremble, a blink and you’ll miss it movement. Sukuna’s limp hand twitches by his side.

He’s about to leave for good when you speak again, moving towards him.

"You never answered my question.”

What's your vice?

Sukuna stumps your cigarette on the brick wall next to your head. His words are low, barely audible over the commotion slipping through the open door.

"Be good and I might just show you in practice."

[mirkhammett]

champagne coast / kirk

there’s a specific vibe i went for in this, and i don’t know if i manage to express it properly but..those coming of age movie parties with jeff buckley in the soundtrack ^.^ you get me?? this is my first time trying to write something longer than 400 words in a looong while, so pls bare with me and my clusters of infinite mistakes lol

reblogs, likes, comments and asks are all highly appreciated! if this gets some interactions i may do a part 2 with..fun stuff wink wink!! i also apologise for how rushed the ending is, but i gave up lol

summary: you meet a cute guitarist at a party, that’s about it ^.^

word count; 4.2k

warnings; mentions of drugs, smoking (tobacco+marijuana, reader+kirk smoke cigs)

i have not proofread this yet so expect mistakes!!

the summer breeze is discouraging. desolate plants are surviving just barely under the malicious sun, like a record that just keeps on playing; the aftermath of the music, the seconds of muffled silence as the vinyl spins effortlessly, and you know you should just get up and remove the stylus, because the impracticalness of such a simple act of futility, could end up with a damaged record. and no one wants a damaged record.

there’s often a local yearn for the heat, summer always seeming too far away in winter, as the miserable humidity is replaced with a sharp winter, ice flakes cutting like blades, which to some, would be considered worse. and to this sum, the summer breeze may be a blessing.

everything about this place could be deemed as overstimulating. from the immense mass of people, all in garments that would never live to see the day in a public place, with such little material- could these things really be considered as clothes? and judging by the majority of party-goers, your opinion would be considered unpopular.

the concrete is hot to touch- the unsteady porch not doing much to help. it’s slightly better than inside the house, though.

it isn’t too big, it’s just too small. a perfectly adequate residence for someone in their mid 20s to occupy, and it looks it too. the entryway of the house is not only filled with coats and others of the sort, but all 4 of the cream coloured walls are adorned in posters. some are easily known- you recognise one in particular as a promotional poster for a new thrash band, the logo on the corner signifying that whoever owns this, got it fresh from a record store window.

entering though the hallway into the kitchen felt like a treacherous task for you, under the oppressive temperatures. sporting this thin sweater may have not been the right choice, you criticise.

there’s a table in the kitchen. well, the remains of a table. empty beer cans are scattered across, and a half full bowl of punch sits, patiently waiting for its next victim to intoxicate with its high levels of ethanol, and god knows what else. you pondered if fresh orange juice was used, or artificial.

you feel their eyes on you before you see it. and then a hands reaching out to you. skinny, nimble fingers connected to a tanned wrist, paired with a couple dainty, gold, probably fake, bracelets. and that tanned wrist connects to an equally tan body, (of course.)

you look at her quizzically. she’s got flowing hair, brown ribbons of curl that shone with an orange tint under the shitty, dingy lamp illuminating the cramped room. and then you gazed up at her again.

do you know her? does she know you?

staring unblinkingly at her, you realise, is probably very much off putting. it’s hard to take kindness from strangers, well, for most people. it’s even harder to tell if that kindness is genuine. you believe in the idea, quality, or quantity. at least that’s what you tell yourself- and it maybe the whole reason you ended up in this predicament.

she’s got a man on her arm. he’s tall, well, he’s taller than both you, and her. his long, blonde hair is looking a little ratty, and you know she must have thought the same too. you can also tell he’s been trying to grow out a ‘horse-shoe’ moustache, judging by the minor prickles of hair, and the subtle shaping.

he’s looking at you like a guard dog- and his expression is fully straight. you can’t tell if he’s one of those people, that show a hard exterior, but really, is the complete opposite, or, if he is really a dick and is gonna punch you if you stare any longer. choosing a safe option, you glance back at her.

“here,” she nudges you again. oh, she’s got a cup. it’s one of those cheap, red plastic cups you always see in the movies- the frat party ones. her presence is warm. she smiles warmly. is that a thing?

“get yourself a drink.” and then she’s opening up the palm of your hand, and tightening your fingers around the plastic rim.

you hum in surprise. it’s not every day a complete stranger is nice to you. infact, you can only count one specific time where this happened before. the one time that led to you coming to this party, through the kindness of a once mutual, now, you felt comfortable enough to consider, just a friend.

“oh! thank you.” you give the best, closed mouth wide smile you can, though it seems more like a grimace.

she doesn’t care. they’re already gone.

the next room is slightly more interesting than the last, a blue strobe light left in the corner. thought it’s not glowing in multi colours like it should be, instead it’s just illuminating the room, which could be the antithesis of something spacious, in a pale blue hue. it’s reflecting off onto an old, worn leather couch with multiple holes, which you can only assume are from cigarette stubs.

the whole house has some sort of retro style, which you appreciate.

the summer breeze, once discouraging, now borderlining on something sinister. could the sun really have malicious intent? or is the world just hell bent against you?- with your fashion choices not accommodated to the ever changing weather.

you pass a couple of groups- they don’t look older than you, though they don’t look younger. but the bodies on bodies is all too much to handle, when everyone’s body temperature has accumulated into one big cacophony, a spell for disaster.

every thing was getting too much.

the grandfather clock standing proud, ticking in a futile rhythm, back and forth, on and off, a constant reminder of the stench of sweat covered bodies and the metallic aroma of almost empty cans of beer, for the sticky residue left behind, which had escaped out of one too many discarded cans, and seeped into possibly every material in this cramped hole of a living space. the longer this party would go on, the harder it would be to call this room a living space. scrap that, this is an un-liveable space.

the atmosphere was fine. the people were fine. everything was fine minding it’s own, but together, seeming like a recipe for a symphony of destruction.

luckily for you, there was an out.

big wooden doors, with bigger glass panels, providing the only symbol of a once eloquent residence. the whole house was, well, not modern, but in a sense it didn’t carry this vintage-ness; like the decorations of choice did- so it was a nice touch. at least you thought.

and those big wooden doors, led you to your freedom, or in other words, the patio.

upon first examination, the garden was split into two groups. the outdoor couch sitting area, which provided just as many cigarette burns as the excuse of a couch inside, but longer, presenting itself in an ‘L’ shape. and on this couch, sprawled out were a group of people, all comfortable in very, odd? positions. wait, on a different thought, not all.

he was very pretty from a first glance, his chocolate curls fading into something more, like black ribbons of coal, though they shone with a red tinge under the harsh glow from the ongoing sunset.

you never stopped to notice the sunset.

but he looked almost rigid. he seemed reserved. he seemed different. it was like he had purposely tried to squeeze himself down the cracks of the sofa, for it to swallow him whole. but then again, he didn’t seem anxious.

he held a joint between nimble fingers. from a distance, you could make out the red rashes lining them, small bloody scars, in such a recognisable pattern that you just knew all too well, he had to play guitar. often. he was having trouble smoking it, though. intimate breaths of wind cascaded his locks to cover his pretty features, sticking to his chapped lips as he brought up the blunt and examined, close and personal.

you pondered if maybe, just maybe, he was like you too. practically a stranger to this new world before your eyes, lacking the confidence to do anything to change it. sure, you were confident in yourself, there was no reason for you not to be. just, in social situations like this, it would tend to falter.

oh, wait. no, you take it back.

the guard dog from before-hand sits tall beside the curly brunette. he seems to be ranting about something. the nice girls not by his side anymore. you wonder if anything happened between them.

the ratty blonde sported a goofy grin. so you were right. a labrador in disguise. you stole a few more glances, before continuing down your trail.

you didn’t think you’d fit into other group either. this was was more, energetic, a pile of sweaty messes, a cheap speaker blasting heavy metal, with a crispness to the speaker that could never be recreated with a new one, nor the sense of comfort that comes with it. something worn down, worn with love, like a jacket, peeling at the seams. a jacket that’s been well loved by someone, despite its flaws.

it was hard to concentrate on your thoughts and breathe pure air properly with the booming deathly melodie’s of ozzy osbourne blasting, the bass managing to shake a loose rope swing hanging from an old oak tree. you thought it must’ve been a gentle reminder of childhood.

the path continued to trail on, the melancholic rock dying it by a couple slight octaves. then it ended. a large, unsteady fence stood tall, and not very proud. a bench resided, with 2 more oak trees, one on each side, in a way to protect the bench, preserve the wood from heavy sunlight.

the bench wasn’t the most comfortable, but it served for what it could. it was obviously aged down through the years, so really, you couldn’t complain.

the view was pretty. the sun going down, with all these people enjoying themselves, it was a gorgeous sight. though it was funny you still hadn’t wandered into the small minority you knew yet. though you were growing impatient under this blanket of loneliness, itching for something that would burn, something to exhale.

the pocket of your worn jeans were loose- loose enough to know that if something wanted to fall out, by all means it could. and now, after futile attempts to find your lighter, you prayed to anyone that would listen, please say i haven’t lost it.

but alas, the gods still weren’t on your side. maybe it was something in the air, which bubbled up into a fit of internal rage, your three-quarters empty pack providing a strong sense of tobacco, laying lifeless in your rigid lap.

“need a light?”

he walked up awkwardly, intertwining his hands together. his blunt was gone, whether he had finished it himself or passed it on, you didn’t know. he smiled warmly, and if you blinked you would’ve missed it.

and all of a sudden the unbearable heat was back, sending a tinge to yours cheeks, feeling like being trapped inside a car under the scorching sun- but he didn’t look affected by the heat, in his black button up (half un-buttoned), infact, he looked angelic under the hues of reds, purples, and yellows, and whatever else fit into the mix.

he seemed nice; nice enough, to even suggest such an offer to a stranger.

“please.” you mumbled, and he warmly reached his hand out, a battered, black lighter, one of the cheap ones from the convenience stores, clasped loosely. he wiggled his fingers. revealing the lighter to your gaze, he emitted that same, goofy smile, only now revealing his crooked pearls.

he sat down on the bench.

“you don’t know many people here, huh?” he questioned. though his voice wasn’t judgy, nor threatening.

well, it’s great that your efforts to stay on the down low went out the door. it’s even greater to know that people have noticed your outstanding loneliness.

“is it that obvious?”

he stifled a laugh, shrugging slightly, sporting a wide grin. “that’s okay,” he muttered. “you know, i don’t know many either.”

the reality seemed embarrassing, and with anyone else, you would never, on your own life, admit it. but somehow, in this moment, everything was different.

he fixed his posture, resting his hands in his lap, his head turned towards you. you pursed your lips, a small smile gracing. he looked down to your lap, cigarette still in your hand, and signalled for you to raise it.

you quickly caught on, assuming he would just hand you the lighter after you placed the cigarette between your lips. he did not.

instead he leaned in closer, bringing one hand to cover one side of the cigarette, the other to light it up effortlessly. oh, i guess that works too.

you took a puff, the inhale longer than the exhale, the smoke a delicious burn in your lungs. resting the cigarette between 2 nimble fingers, you bit your chapped lip.

“i’m kirk, by the way.”

“hi kirk,” you grinned, and told him your name. he grinned back.

he fiddled with his fingers, cracking his knuckles with expertise. and then he points at your shirt. “i like fleetwood mac, too.”

hanging with kirk wasn’t so bad. actually it wasn’t bad, not at all. somehow minutes turned into shorter minutes, 60 seconds seeming to pass all too quick. and those minutes were quickly consumed by a larger number, a black hole that could be called hours.

the night air had turned chilly, the effects of a bipolar summer very clear. the arrival of goosebumps took place, and so did a great warmth, the crackle of a fire pit, and the smell of fresh wood, the aroma of smoke. legs now touching one another’s as a multitude of different people sat around in criss-cross positions.

but that wasn’t where you found yourself.

sitting in the passenger seat of his run down black 70s capri, a heavy scent of cologne mixed with a faint essence of weed, hanging lowly, stuck into the leather seats. the key clattered as he pushed it into the lock, the engine starting up with a fierce roar.

a conversation about music had somehow led you here, sitting almost shyly in his car, legs folded upon one another. it all started with a singular comment about fleetwood mac, and in a matter of minutes you found yourself immersed in conversation, somehow sitting close together than you had before, the heat of his breath radiating closely as he enthusiastically ranted about led zeppelin IV. and then some more, about who he believed to be his biggest inspiration, jimi hendrix.

oh yeah, you learnt he plays guitar too.

and with a declaration that he was hungry, sported with his reddened eyes, you were off. well, you were never really given the choice. your hand grasped tightly in his, excitedly taken back through the garden, through the shitty cramped living space, (and him accidentally walking into the smaller couch), back through the kitchen with bottles now empty, red plastic cups now scattered, through to the entry way. with that same, sweet thrash poster now hanging on.

and as the car roared up, so did the symphonies of rolling stones, because you can’t always get what you want.

“so the blonde one, he’s your friend?”

the melody of the rolling stones, switching to the doors, a mix-tape he probably burnt himself, disrupted. god bless jim morrison.

he raised a brow, though still looking at the road ahead, answering quizzically. “which blonde one?”

you bit back a smile. “the scary blonde one, with long hair. and the pretty girlfriend.”

this caused kirk to grin, shaking his head slightly to stop his hair from disrupting his view of the darkened roads. the streetlights didn’t go much to help accommodate pedestrians, nor drivers. the headlights of his vintage vehicle were slightly darker than the average, but he seemed used to it.

“ah, james. he’s my bandmate. scary, no, long hair, yes, girlfriend, no. he doesn’t do girlfriends,” he hummed lowly. “he’s one of my bestfriends.” james. you wondered if he was still with the girl you earlier assumed to be his girlfriend.

and then you sat in silence for maybe 30 seconds, maybe a full minute, pondering your next words. he didn’t seem to mind, waiting just slightly impatiently for the red light to turn green and give the get go. he rolled down the window.

“do you do girlfriends?” you asked suddenly. the longer it took for him to form a response, the more you regretted ever asking. maybe that was too forward for a guy you hadn’t even known for a full day. but then you could argue that him taking you out for dinner was even worse.

he was caught off guard, quickly masking his suprise. “i…don’t know,” he spun the wheel with skill as he turned left into a parking lot of a 50s presenting dinner, sporting a glowing red sign, walls painted once white now a light yellow. he stopped the car as he pulled into a parking spot, twisting the keys. the engine abruptly stopped, and so did the music. and then he turned to look at you, with a small smile. “do you do boyfriends?” and that was when you finally made eye contact.

shrugging slightly, you looked from his eyes to your lap, and back up to his eyes again. “i don’t know.”

his grin widened, and you return the gesture.

the gleaming lights of the diner held a stark contrast to the gloomy sky, the current time being in the early hours of the morning very obvious- and in a couple hours you’d start to hear the birds cheep and the sky lighten, and determine it time for bed.

he led you into the diner, holding the door open for you like a gentleman, the little bell on top of the door chiming in recognition of your arrival.

and from there he traveled with experience of the 24-hour diner, to a booth hidden in the corner, though still visible under the cream glare of the flickering lights; almost too visible, you thought, the brightness of the lights already forming a subtle headache in the back of your mind. the two comforts of the booth were separated with a nimble oak wood table, the sturdiness of it which had definitely gone down in its many years of occupying this place.

he grabs two menus before sitting down on one side of the booth, and you follow, sitting down on the other. he hands you one menu, and opens his own.

“i want a milkshake.” he murmurs, his eyes still scanning over the menu. you lean over the table, your menu left unopened, shifting slightly to examine the contents of drinks he was looking at.

“which flavour?” you question, slumping back into your seat.

“dunno,” he puts the menu down, looking up at you. “what flavour do you want?”

his eye contact is almost too much to handle, causing you to look back down at your hands. he doesn’t comment on it, that is if he ever even noticed the slight tint of blush on your cheeks.

“vanilla.” throughout the options of chocolate, strawberry, and banana, there’s a clear winner.

“then that’s what we’ll get.” he smiles, his red hued eyes crinkling at the corners as he grins. you bite the side of your lip, suppressing a grin, sporting a one sided, shy smile as you try to resettle your composure.

you open the menu, trying to distract yourself from the flush on your cheeks and the man sitting infront of you. his curls drop down as he tries to push them out of his face, watching you almost shyly.

“what are you gonna get?” you voice, finally looking up from the menu.

he tucks his black coils behind his ears. “the burger,” and then leans down slightly, his elbows making contact with the table, his eyes still on you. “do you wanna share?”

you nod, grinning widely. “okay, we’ll share.”

the diner lights flicker again, as well as the chime of the door, the slight rush of wind causing an appreciate breeze. there’s an empty coffee cup on the bar side, and an imprint in a red stool.

adorned in a teal coloured uniform, a tired, and pissed, (probably a college student), waitress takes your order. she doesn’t bother to put on a fake persona, and you don’t blame her. infact, you almost feel sorry that her nap in the staff room was cut short, by the puffiness of her eyes. as for kirk, he doesn’t even bat an eye at her as you order politely, his eyes still fixtated on you.

and in mere minutes the food arrives, a vanilla milkshake with a candied red cherry on top already in your grasp. kirk has taken to the task of trying to cut the burger evenly into 2 pieces, through frowns when he’s cut one slice bigger than the other. you take the smaller piece, knowing the effects of weed on your hunger. when he realises this, he pouts. “i’m not that hungry,” you explain, taking your first bite.

he pushes the fries further towards you. they’re in a wooden tray, with a tissue adorned with patterns of red and white squares underneath. you chew throughly before swallowing, setting the burger back down on the plate.

he reaches out for a fry, surprising you when he reaches even further towards you, bringing the fry up to your mouth. you take it, giggling.

while you chew on the fry with one hand, you pick up the milkshake with the other and bring the straw to his mouth, mimicking his previous movements. he smiles widely as he takes down a big gulp, laughing through his closed mouth. “wait, that’s so good.”

“i know!” you exclaim, taking a couple of salty fries from the bunch.

you dip a handful of fries into the milkshake, and he grimaces. “that’s criminal!”

you roll your eyes, giggling. “no it’s not,” you dip another one in. “you just don’t have taste.” he finishes his part of the burger ravenously, and you push the plate with your half eaten burger towards him.

“are you sure?” he questions, looking for any signs of unsureness on your face.

“only if i can have the cherry.” you bargain.

“deal,” he picks the cherry off from the top of the milkshake, wiping the whipped cream off from it with his finger, then bringing his finger to his mouth. he reaches out to give you the cherry. “here you go, m’lady.”

you let out another high pitched laugh, bringing the cherry to your plump lips and nibbling on the stem. the waitress cringes at the sound, leaning her head down in her hands and closing her eyes. you pity her.

kirk finishes the burger quickly, his next mission being reaching out for the fries. you’re not sure if he’s just got the munchies, or if he’s also even eaten today.

and soon enough, you’re flopping back into your seat, empty dishes covering the table. kirk is leaning towards you, smiling softly. you yawn, covering your face with a soft hand.

“you tired?” he murmurs, tilting his head as he smiles sweetly. you make a quiet sound, similar to a hum, and his smile grows. “okay,” he reaches over the table for your hand. “let me take you home.”

and then once again, your back in his passenger seat, the smell of cologne and marijuana now comforting. he puts the key in as softly as he can, and the second the car roars to life he takes it to himself to turn the radio down to the lowest level, looking over at you. you’re slumped in the seat, your head towards the window. he just grins.

the sky isn’t so dark anymore, a greyish dark blue, with a slint orange before sunrise. “i’m gonna need you to give me directions, ‘mkay?” he pulls out of the car park as you respond quietly, giving him the directions.

a few minutes into the ride, you realise he’s going miles below the speed limit, to keep the car steady, and not pull you out of your sleepy state. he’s humming along to the radio, his finger tapping the wheel at every beat.

trees pass in a flash, so do streetlights and benches, sets of three drains, and a couple single drains too.

then time flashes again and he’s pulling up outside your apartment, already outside the passenger door and beating you to open it. he walks you to the doorway of the building, stopping and playing with his hands.

you look up at him, smiling shyly. he does the same. “thank you for tonight, kirk,” you hesitantly open the building door. “do you wanna, maybe, do this again?”

“o-of course. i’d love to.” if you blinked, you would’ve missed the slight flush tinting his cheeks, rushing down into his neck and shoulders. he fumbles in his pocket for a piece of ripped newspaper and a pen, scribbling down his home phone number in messy writing, and if it was anything but numbers you’d have a hard time reading it. “call me, okay?”

“okay.” you grin softly, stepping into the doorway.

he backs up, smiling as he waves you off. “okay.”

and then the door shuts.

[steddie-island]

Wake-up call

Day 12 of @strangerthingswritersguild kinktober: Somnophilia Rating: E | WC: 1,012 | Tags: Alpha Steve Harrington, Omega Eddie Munson, breeding kink Find the full fic and list of tags on ao3! Divider credit

Steve woke up with sweat sticking his bangs to his forehead. He could feel beads trickling down his chest, feel the comforter practically glued to his legs. He rolled over, kicking the fabric away.

That was when the scent hit him.

It was burning wood, tobacco, chocolate with chili flakes in it. Steve felt his Alpha rise to attention, was surprised Eddie hadn't woken up yet.

His heat had started. The evidence was there in the slick pooling in the sheets and smearing over his mate's pale thighs.

Steve shifted carefully down between Eddie's legs. His underwear clung to his cunt, highlighting the stiffness of his cocklette. Steve couldn't help himself. He leaned in, lapped at the slick on the outside of Eddie's underwear first just to get a taste, then to feel how much more he would produce once Steve's mouth was on him.

Even through the fabric Steve could feel the rush of slick. He buried his face more wholly, making a mess on his own skin as he went.

There wasn't time to get Eddie's underwear off. Steve pulled the panties to the side, buried his tongue inside of Eddie's body. He couldn't hold back his moan as he fucked his tongue in and out, wanting more, wanting everything Eddie would give him.

His mouth traveled down to Eddie's cocklette then. His lips wrapped around it, so he could give slow, gentle sucks that made Eddie's thighs twitch in his sleep.

Eddie was so sweet like this. Steve wanted to hold on to his hips and stay right there, breathing in until there was nothing but the sound and feel and scent of Eddie, of mate.

[g0dspeeed]

"That was a bit excessive," she murmured whilst perched on his lap, the smell of burning tobacco wafting between them. It soothed her nerves, calmed her after the events of the last hour.

Nikolai took a drag from the cigarette and tilted away from her, releasing the plume of white smoke into the cool air of the dive bar. His mouth stung from the small split on his upper lip, copper on the tongue.

"Wasn't."

Her own lips twitched a smile at his expected dismissiveness.

"How so?" quipped Cappie. The soft hair at the nape of his neck was smoothed by her fingers. She noticed how he shivered, subtle but there. "Beating the shit out of someone like that seems mighty excessive to me."

Nikolai took another slow drag. When he looked at her again, his face bore no clear intent, no reveal as to what the tall, enigmatic man was thinking.

"It wasn't his turn," answered Nikolai in his low timber, the accent rolling off his tongue in a way that she knew he knew turned her on. "I wasn't done talking--"

"You've talked to me for an hour--"

"And I wasn't done. And he was rude to you, so I said some choice words. I didn't start it."

Cappie ran the pad of her thumb under the darkening bruise on his cheek, flakes of dried blood smeared like a paint stroke.

"You don't care," she mused.

"Hm?"

"You don't care if you started it or not. Just that you finished it."

It is then that Nikolai cracked a smile for her, his dark eyes gleaming something mischievous and cruel.

"I care about my time," he whispered. "And no one takes away time from me."

[annaphoenix1994]

Aftermath

Previous Chapter - Masterlist - Next Chapter

»»-------¤-------««

The smoke began to fade into the cold Chicago air. The sirens from the police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances faded into the distance as well as chatter between paramedics. Gaz was burned on his bare skin but was able to walk and talk. His team of Marines were distraught, with one getting severe burns as well as losing his thumb, Price's vision was blurred, but he fought the urge to continue laying down. With the limited amount of time he had before the blast, he was unable to protect Kiera as putting her under him was his first thought before it happened. 

He was unable to get his bearings, wondering if the paramedics had removed her body from the debris. With a frown, he began to wonder how he was going to tell Simon. It's a bloody shame,��he grumbled to himself, letting the paramedic approach him to check his dilated pupils. "What the hell happened?" He asked the stranger. 

"We don't know for sure, sir," The paramedic replied. "We've got you. Just relax."

Price groaned as he was hoisted onto a stretcher, looking around as he was revealed into the clear night, light flakes of snow raining from the sky, wondering how normal everything else seemed to civilians, yet he was in a warzone on the same stretch of land.

He looked to see Ghost standing aside, his eyes bloodshot. He was unsure if he was worried or if he had been crying. 

Ghost didn't respond. He was too stunned. 

Soap didn't think much of it as he rushed around the side of the building, seeing on of the glass doors busted out from the impact of the blast. There, he saw two individuals - one sitting and one standing, his hands shaking. Poor bastard, Soap thought, seeing that the man who was standing was visually disturbed as it looked as if he were a poor civilian. 

He smelled the faint stench of tobacco, seeing that the man and the other individual had been smoking. "Sir? Are you okay?" He asked the man standing. 

He looked at Soap, recognizing him as one of Hassan's hostages who had fortunately survived. "The medics are around the corner. Do you need help?" 

The man nodded, hobbling towards the direction Soap had pointed to, leaving him with the other individual who was sitting. He recognized tactical pants and laced boots, looking up the person's legs before his eyes fell onto the cigarette nestled between the victim's burnt lips. When he realized that it had been Kiera who bummed a smoke, he slowly approached her, looking over her to see how bad the damage was. The areas of her shirt were ripped, revealing burnt skin underneath. Her blonde hair was matted with soot and blood. Her exposed hands were burned, and Soap could see that one of her fingernails were gone. 

He kneeled next to her, "Kiera? Can you hear me?" 

She continued to look ahead, her left eye bloodshot with both tears and irritation from debris as her right eye was still swollen shut. She heard Soap's voice, but it sounded like she was hearing him from under a level of water, a faint white noise blocking her hearing. "Kiera?" He repeated, reaching out to take the cigarette from between her lips. 

She exhaled a weak cloud of smoke, locking her gaze on him, "Am I dead?" 

Soap shook his head, "No," before easily hoisting her up from the curb, carrying her bridal style to the paramedics. "I've got you. It's over." He encouraged her, cursing under his breath as he couldn't believe everyone had survived the blast. 

"Funny." She grumbled. 

"What's funny?" 

"Just a month ago, you and I were tumbling on the tarmac, and now, you're carrying me willingly to safety." 

"Eh, just like Ghost, you grew on me, punk." 

"Unfortunately for me, you're like a virus. Can't get rid of you when you're around." 

"Either I'm just contagious, or once I'm in your system, it's hard to get me out." 

"I don't want you in my system." 

"Feeling's mutual." Actually, no it's not.

Her head was heavy as it rested on Soap's shoulder, closing her eyes as he rounded the corner, paramedics rushing to her with haste as he desperately tried to lay her down on the stretcher. He looked around for Ghost, knowing that he'd be pushing him out of the way to get to her, but he was nowhere to be seen. 

He pressed the button to reply, desperately trying to harden his heart in preparation for bad news,

Soap watched as Ghost tended to a Marine that needed an extra hand before seeing him look to his right to see her on the stretcher as the paramedics stripped her from her tactical vest, handing it aside to Soap before Ghost caught up to them, removing his balaclava and holding it to his side, stunned at the sight before him. He was terrified at the conclusion, not knowing what to do or if he were to be pushed away by the paramedics. 

He stood as he watched her be loaded onto the ambulance, watching them put an oxygen mask on her as two men tended to her. "Where are you taking her?" 

"Northwestern Memorial." The medic replied before jumping into the patient area and shutting the doors, leaving both Simon and Soap to stand and watch. 

"Price and Gaz will be there, too," Soap said to him. "I might as well get looked at while I'm there. I'm hit in the leg." 

Soap watched as Simon slipped the balaclava back over his head, "This is going to be a long night. How are Price and Gaz?" 

"Both have some burns and injuries, but I can't confirm." 

»»-------¤-------««

Laswell led both Ghost and Soap into the lobby of the hospital, a nurse taking notice of the blood coming from Soap's leg as she asked him if he needed a wheelchair to be seen immediately. He accepted as he eased himself down into the wheelchair. 

"Can I get a status on three soldiers that were brought here?" Laswell asked the receptionist. 

"Yes, ma'am, give me just a moment," The woman replied, typing into her computer, Ghost watching as her brows furrowed as she got up from her chair, her mint green scrubs disappearing from the station for a couple of minutes before returning with a clipboard. "One is in the burn unit undergoing surgery. We'll be getting information from her when she's awake. The other is in a bay receiving stitches. He should be discharged within a few hours." 

"Thank you," Laswell nodded. "Which way is your waiting room?" 

"Down the hall and to the left," She pointed. "The surgeon will come out after he's done." 

Laswell nodded, astonished that Ghost had removed his mask as he followed her to the waiting room. 

»»-------¤-------««

Five hours - five long hours before any sign of reassurance notified Simon of Kiera's status. Soap had been taken back for stitches and a thorough exam after a brutal wound clean and Price was stable in his room to recover from his burns. Gaz got off lucky as he only suffered minor injuries. 

Simon tapped his leg impatiently as he sat on the chair, his body beginning to fall sore as well as being bored and irritated from no news. He listened as Laswell typed away on her laptop, reaching into her bag to retrieve her phone. "Still working?" He grumbled, wondering how she was still awake at that hour. 

"I'm booking hotel rooms, sir," She replied. "You all could use a decent night's rest." 

"I'm staying here." He grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Laswell knew why, but she chose not to say anything about it. 

"They'll release the Soap and Gaz within the next hour. I'll take them to the hotel. I can bring your bags here if you want me to?" 

"Don't rush, Laswell. You've done enough." 

She sighed, closing the lid on her laptop and patting Simon's shoulder, "I have a couple of calls to make. While I'm out I'll get your stuff from the airport-"

"It's with hers." He said, looking down at his lap. 

"Okay. Let me know if you want me to book you a room." 

"I'll be fine, thank you." 

He waited another hour, the program playing on the television irritating his train of thought as the coffee in the hot pot was tempting him. He sighed, pulling out the picture of her and her horse from his uniform's breast pocket, still not planning to tell her that he took it from her fridge when she wasn't looking instead of just asking her. He could take a million pictures of her, but the one of her and her horse was his favorite - being the first picture he saw of her, but he liked how he saw that gleam of true happiness in her eyes and a true smile. 

He traced the pad of his thumb over her pictured face, counting down the minutes until he could see her again. Sighing, he put the picture back into his pocket before standing to his aching feet, being the only person in the waiting room as he made his way to the coffee pot, the temptation being uncontrollable at this point. He was exhausted, to say the least. 

He heard footsteps coming from down the hall but assumed it was just another nurse or doctor on their way to their next task. Walking back towards his chair that faced the entrance of the waiting room, he turned to see a doctor standing to look at him, dressed in a smock and carrying a clipboard under his arm. "Are you Kiera's husband?" He assumed, though he should've addressed Simon as her partner considering they had both come in with tactical gear on.

Husband? One day, yes, Simon thought, unable to comprehend the question as quickly as he would've liked. "Yes, sir." 

The doctor nodded, "This way." 

Thank God. 

"How is she?" He asked, walking alongside the doctor. 

"She's stable. We had to do skin grafts on major parts of her body. The burns being the worst of it, I'm afraid," The surgeon sighed. "But, we were able to verify that no debris got into her lungs, thankfully. She'll be alright eventually, but she'll be very sore for a while. Perhaps a few months." 

"...But she'll be alright, though, right?" Simon questioned, concerned. 

"Eventually, yes," He nodded, opening the door that led to her, standing in front of Simon to pull back the curtain that revealed her. "Don't panic about the tube. She can't eat right now, but we're hoping to have it out in the next couple of days." He explained, referring to the nasal feeding tube.

Simon exhaled heavily through his nose, slowly walking around the side of the bed and pulling up a chair. "There's a remote next to the bed there if you want to watch TV. I'll leave you be. A nurse will be in here every hour." 

"Okay." 

The soft click of the door indicated that it was shut, leaving Simon alone with her. He looked down at the IV in her hand, seeing her bruised knuckles and cracked skin from Graves' assault and likely the explosion as well. I wish it was me instead of you, he thought as he looked at her, seeing that her eyes were closed. He carefully traced the pad of his thumb over the top of her hand, seeing it was badly bruised. 

He moved his chair closer to the bed, curling his fingers under her hand as he lay his head on the mattress, the gentle beeping of the heart monitor lulling him to sleep.

»»-------¤-------««

He awoke throughout the early morning every hour, hearing a nurse fumbling around as she checked on Kiera's vitals. His eyes would open every time a nurse came in, but his exhaustion continued to conquer him, and he eventually acknowledged a nurse's presence by just opening his eyes enough to recognize scrubs after the seventh time. 

The morning sunlight pierced through the window, soon to be shielded by the blinds as Laswell had been checking in on the team's status. As much as Simon was a light sleeper, he couldn't recall Laswell ever entering the room in the first place. 

He felt a presence close by, assuming it was a nurse, but his adrenaline spiked when he realized it was Chief Laswell. Oh, fuck, he thought, nearly panicking. I'm caught.

She could see the strain in his eyes, holding her hand up to keep him from trying to explain himself, "Don't worry, I'm just bringing you some breakfast." 

He sat up in the chair, softly removing his hand from Kiera's. "Thanks." He said, watching Laswell set the tray of breakfast on the side table. 

"Don't mention it," Laswell flashed a grin. "Anything new?" 

Simon shook his head, "No." 

"I spoke to the doctor - Price should be released in a couple of days." 

"Good. I may go and check on him and stretch my legs." 

"It'll be good for you, Lieutenant-"

"Simon." He corrected. 

Laswell was shocked, but she understood. 

"Simon," She nodded. "I can take you to his room if you want?" 

"I will after I eat," He shook his head. "I'll stick around and see if she wakes up." 

"Okay. I'll leave you to it. I'm going to finish my breakfast myself. I'll sit in for you when you go to see John." 

»»-------¤-------««

Simon made quick work of the breakfast she had brought him, the Pop-Tart being his favorite if he had to admit as it had been so long since he craved something sweet. With his gaze on the television close by, he was unaware that Kiera's eyes had fluttered open. Well, her left eye did as her right was still swollen. A slight whine left her dry lips, catching Simon's attention as he quickly put the food aside to stop her from making a weak attempt at sitting up, her adrenaline spiking as she briefly didn't know where she was. 

"Not so fast." He said, easing her back down onto the bed and searching for the button on the remote attached to the bed to call a nurse. 

She flashed a weak smile, moving her lower arm up to reach toward his face, but he didn't let her. "Don't move too much. You'll hurt yourself, love." He assured her, gently grasping her hand and knowing that she hadn't realized how tender she really was. Those pain meds must be good, he thought, dreading the moment they wore off for her sake.  

Within a couple of minutes, a nurse and doctor entered the room, the same nurse that had been checking on her throughout the night. She looked young, perhaps a new RN that was eager to get the job at hand done. She was African American - her tone comforting and uplifting as her badge reel was decorated with cartoon-like medical instruments. "Look at you, honey. How are you feeling?" She asked in her deep Southern accent.

Kiera grumbled in response. 

"I know, honey, we'll take that tube out of your nose so you can try and eat something. I'll steal some snacks from the cafe for you - you just gotta tell me what your favorite is." She smiled at her, taking a pair of latex gloves from the compartment and dressing her hands. 

Kiera grumbled again, causing Simon to chuckle. She knew where she was, but it was like she had forgotten how to speak. That, and she was drowsy. Simon knew that tone all too well as he took a mental note of how difficult it was to wake her up in the morning. "She's grumpy this morning, ain't she?" The nurse giggled. 

"It's nothing new." Simon commented. 

"It's perfectly normal," The nurse assured him. Although he had only known her by how she took care of Kiera throughout the night, he trusted her, which was a hard wall to climb when it came to gaining his trust. Hell, just by her persona, he knew he would be in good hands if it were him in that bed. "Alright," She continued, walking around to the other side of the bed where Simon was to reach the remote that would elevate the bed to a working level. "I'm just gonna raise this bed up and we'll get you moved forward so we can get that tube out of your nose. We're gonna have to clean up your wounds too before we get you to eat something, okay?" 

Kiera forced a nod, grumbling again and huffing. Her pupils were dilated, and the whites of her eyes were a light shade of pink. 

The bed elevated to an appropriate level, the nurse getting a grip on her right arm where it wasn't damaged and another nurse grabbing her left with one hand securing under her bicep and the other cradling her elbow. "We're just going to ease you forward, okay?" She cooed to Kiera, a frown curling on her face as she groaned in pain. Simon didn't like it either, but he stood back and let them take care of her, knowing they had better knowledge of it than he did. 

The doctor easily removed the bandages that covered the area on her back and shoulders, preparing his utensils to remove more dead skin and check on the way the graft was holding up. "You're going to heal up nice, sweetie," The doctor said as he cleaned the area, pleased with his work. "I'm thinking these may be completely healed within a few weeks," he said to his nurses before nodding toward Simon. "We had to take skin from her inner thighs. It's thinner and not as hard to deal with for such an area we're working with." 

"How bad are the burns?" Simon asked. 

"Luckily, with the uniform she had on, it took more of the damage than her skin did. I'd say she's probably at least ten percent burned just on her back. They were third-degree." 

Jesus.

She groaned as she accepted the numbing pain of how she was being taken care of. Her entire body was aching, but she was thankful that she survived to tell the tale. 

"Good job, sweetheart," The nurse encouraged after they had eased her back down to the bed after the degree had been changed so that she was in a more upright position. "Now, let's get that tube out of your nose so you can eat something." 

She forced a nod, closing her eyes as she knew she was going to gag. 

She hated when things were in her nose. 

"Alright, look up at the ceiling and take deep breaths for me, okay?" 

She did as she was told, forcing her eyes open, except for her swollen one, to look up at the light, testing her vision and ensuring the blast didn't cause her partial blindness. The nurse eased the tube from the pit of her stomach, using long and even strokes, assuring her patient that the worst part was on the horizon once the balloon at the bottom of the tube would irritate her throat. 

And just like that, she gagged once the balloon passed her uvula. Out of reaction, her hands came up to clamp at the nurse's wrist as she encouraged that there was only one brutal second left. 

"Good job, sweetheart," The nurse smiled. "Now let's get some food in that belly, huh?" 

Food, Kiera thought. Thank God. 

"I'll be right back, okay?" The nurse smiled, cleaning up her area after the doctor had dismissed himself after completing his patient report before the end of his shift. 

Kiera groaned as Simon walked closer to her, joining her at the bedside as he picked up the small cup of water that he had been drinking from throughout his rough night's rest. She slowly smacked her lips together as if she were testing to see if they were still there, Simon chuckling at her drowsy behavior. "Here, love, take a sip of water." He said, bending the straw to where it would be easier for her to access, letting her grip his wrist to stabilize the cup as he brought it to her lips, even though it wasn't going anywhere. 

She smacked her lips again lazily, using her tongue to moisten them as they were painfully dry. She looked as if she savored it and Simon chuckled again, "Must be good tap water, huh?" 

"So good." She hummed, fluttering her eyes shut to avoid the bright light, her voice hoarse and scratched.

"What I really need is my va-"

"Don't even say it," Simon shook his head, knowing she'd mention that stupid vape eventually. "You're cut off for a while." 

She pouted. 

And Simon found pleasure in that as well as admiration. She had just gone through a brutal gunfight and survived an explosion, nearly fighting for her life and she still had room to poke at him with her attitude. 

It was then that he knew if she didn't crack a joke here and there, something would be terribly wrong.

"You have a tough habit to break, sweetheart," He continued to poke. "You know it's a bad habit when the first thing you did was bum a cigarette after you found your way out." 

She cracked a smile, "Why am I not surprised?" 

"Oh, I wasn't either when Soap told me. He at least knew to take it away from you, though." 

"That bastard," She giggled. "What happened? I don't remember anything. How I got down there - nothing." 

"Nobody really knows what happened, love. It all happened so fast." 

"Is... Is everyone okay?" 

"You and Price got the worst of it, I'm afraid, but you two are still alive and that's what matters."

"Well, I just hope we can make it home for Christmas."

"Let's just take it one day at a time for right now, okay?" He said, bringing her knuckles up to his lips and placing a delicate kiss there. 

"One day at a time," She repeated, her eyes glancing over to the table where Simon's leftover breakfast was that he was yet to finish. "Whatcha got over there, huh?" 

"You don't want those cold eggs," He chuckled. "That was from an hour ago."

"I wasn't looking at the eggs, I was looking at that nice-looking Pop-Tart that you didn't eat." 

He chuckled, "It's not a good idea. Not yet." 

She sighed, laying her head back on the pillow, groaning as she was denied the sweet treat. 

He smirked, curling his fingers under hers and bringing her knuckles to his lips, "One day at a time, sweetheart."