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peachdues · 2 months ago

Text

WISH

Compass one-shot • bad boy!Sanemi Shinazugawa x f!Reader

A tooth-rottingly sweet one-shot honoring my sweet boy’s birthday.

This takes place a few months into Sanemi x Reader’s relationship in Compass — the main story is still in the hot, sticky summer. So think of this like a flash-forward. Don’t worry if you’re not fully caught up — no real spoilers here!

CW: 6k • MDNI • the cozy comfort winter oneshot of your dreams • mostly sickeningly sweet fluff but enough allusions/references to these horny idiots’ very active sex life • some references to gang violence (not descriptive) • swearing • abuse of cake

COMPASS MASTERLIST

Good birthday?

The two words sit on his home screen, a notification labeled with Genya’s name.

It takes Sanemi a moment to make sense of his brother’s text, until he spies the date reflected in the upper corner of his phone.

It’s November 29th.

For someone like Sanemi, dates are only important as far as they signal when something is due — and when something is late. The only dates that matter to him are the ones he’s told to care about; those hard deadlines that go unmet and require Sanemi to strap his crowbar to his back and his gun to his hip, so he can pay some poor bastard a visit.

Today is one of those deadlines, and Sanemi has a list of obligations to follow through on. But Genya’s text is a glaring reminder of the other thing today represents.

It’s his birthday.

Every year, his brother asks him the same thing — though, admittedly, Sanemi thinks the text is more a reminder rather than a happy wish of another year’s passing. Without Genya’s annual good birthday? Sanemi is fairly certain he’d forget November 29th held any significance to him at all.

I’ll be damned, Sanemi thinks, walking up the back entrance to an old computer parts shop — his first stop of the morning. Made it another year.

As unenthused Sanemi is about his birthday, he usually answered his brother with some pithy little acknowledgement. A biting Still alive, ain’t I? or, if he was feeling particularly festive, he’d simply send a thumb’s up, one that signaled his brother that Sanemi was working and didn’t want to risk smearing more blood and sweat across his phone screen than absolutely necessary.

This year, though — his twenty-second, he realizes after doing a quick bit of math — Sanemi’s not in any position to reply to his brother. Not yet, at least. So for now, his phone will have to sit in his pocket; his hands are about to be busy.

He’s got debts to collect.

—

Two hours later, Sanemi sits on his bike in an empty alleyway spliced between Market and Eastern Avenue.

In the last week or so, a strong front of arctic air had swept through the City, plunging it deep into the throes of winter. For a moment, Sanemi was grateful for the chill of the air; he always gets worked up after a collection, his limbs abuzz with hot blood and adrenaline. Cold air helped him settle down faster, cleared his mind so he could approach the next job with the same, violent precision.

Except, it’s now colder than he likes, but that itch still burns hot inside him. Hence, why Sanemi remains here, tucked away in this dark, forgotten alley, huddled over his bike. He’s got nothing to keep warm with but his worn leather jacket and the cigarette perched his lips, its end flowing a faint orange.

Tobacco-tinged smoke curls around his head, mixing with condensation of his breath as he exhales long and slow. The rush of nicotine is both a welcome distraction and extra sedative and finally, Sanemi feels his shoulders relax.

He’s only halfway through his cigarette, but he flicks it to the ground anyway. He’s not sure whether the burning in his throat is from the cold air or this particular bad habit of his, but it’s enough to kill his desire for anything more now that his edge has been sufficiently dulled. Still, he considers whittling himself down to the occasional cigarette is a marked improvement from the daily half pack he blazed through in his youth, before he discovered other outlets for his stress. Maybe he’ll be able to kick the habit all together by this time next year.

Assuming he lives long enough to see his next birthday, that is.

Sanemi’s in the middle of stuffing his lighter back inside his jacket pocket when he feels his phone buzz. He shouldn’t check it, not when his to do list still has one more name to cross off, but he’s already indulged in one bad habit this afternoon. Might as well go two-for-two.

And boy, is he glad he does when he spies the notification bearing your name.

Tell me you’re coming over tonight.

Sanemi’s lips twitch up with a smile he hasn’t been able to muster in days. Leave it to you to brighten his day in so few words.

What time you want me, sweetness?

A cutting gust of wind tears down the alley, whipping and tearing through the layers of his clothes. Any other time, Sanemi would simply hunch over the clutch of his bike and speed off, thinking only of someplace that wasn’t outside.

Now, he’s got you to look forward to.

Your reply arrives a few seconds later. Got a few errands to run so I’m closing up early. Owner can suck it. It’s cold.

It is, Sanemi mentally agrees, and he feels a rush of relief that closing nearly means you’ll be home — or close enough to it — before dark. The uptick in violence through the City has crept too close to your neighborhood for his comfort, and Sanemi already hates you walking home in the dark without him as it is. The season’s shortened days only makes that particular anxiety of his worse.

Thank the fucking stars you’re less inclined to weather the arrival of winter than he is.

It’s a date, beautiful. He texts back before pocketing his phone. He cups his hands around his mouth and huffs, willing his breath to unfreeze his fingers enough to grip his bike’s clutch.

Another torrent of wind rips through the alley, but this time, it brings with it the first snow of winter, pelting his face with fat, cold flakes.

Sanemi tilts his face up toward the sky and grins. It is a sharp, feral thing, full of teeth and challenge. Good. Let it snow as hard as it wants; let it suffocate the City under a thick blanket of white. He wouldn’t care; Sanemi can’t think of a way better to warm up than by crawling under the covers with you. Maybe he’ll even treat himself and convince you to sleep in with him tomorrow. It’s been a few days since he last had the chance to see you. While he knows better than to be a betting man, he’d wager his odds of keeping you in bed were pretty good.

Huffing nice, twice more on his hands and Sanemi starts his bike, its motor roaring to life underneath him. His fingers are still stiff, but he can at least grip his clutch enough to steer it. No doubt the icy sting of the wind will freeze his hands in place, but he’ll worry about how to unstick himself later.

For now, he still has work to do.

In the northwest corridor of the City is a port marina that harbors a smattering of small house boats. It’s inside one of these drafty little boats where his next target hides, no doubt relying on the sudden arrival of winter to trick his creditors into looking for him elsewhere.

That ruse might have worked if anyone else other than Sanemi had been tasked with hunting him down. Unfortunately for him, his name fell in Sanemi’s lap, and now he’s going to have to play host to some very unpleasant company.

Slowly, Sanemi treads his bike to the end of the alley, eyes squinted against the wind and the snow, sweeping the street for any unsuspecting travelers. Finding nothing but the odd plastic bag being whipped and tossed down the sidewalk, Sanemi kicks his bike into gear.

As soon as he gets this job over with, he’ll get to see you.

The engine revs, and then Sanemi is thundering down the street, a renewed warmth spreading through his chest that even the biting cold of November can’t dampen.

—

It’s just after dark when Sanemi pulls up to your apartment, quickly killing the motor on his bike. He scans the dark alleyway behind your complex once, twice, before he glances up at the series of windows. Once satisfied that there are no unwanted eyes tracking his movements, Sanemi makes his way to the building’s side entrance, and begins his steady climb up the stairs.

He twirls his key to your place around his finger. God, he can’t wait to get kick his boots off, strip down to his sweater, and climb into bed with you. Maybe you’ll let him poach off your neighbor’s cable satellite again, and that way, he can find you a movie to half-pay attention to. Or, maybe you’ve snuck away another handful of advanced release copies from work, and the two of you can get to work reading and reviewing them. Either way, Sanemi is ready for the calm he only feels when he’s with you; he’s ready to relax.

The first thing he notices when he steps into your apartment is the smell of something burning.

“Motherfucker —“ he hears your vicious snarl from the kitchen right as something clatters to the floor. “One more fucking thing go wrong, I dare you —“

Calm is not on the agenda, it seems.

The air inside your studio is hazy with smoke, enough that it tickles the back of his throat. Hastily, Sanemi pushes your door shut before it can spill into the hallway and tempt one of the building’s ancient fire alarms. The last thing he wants is to summon the City’s finest and tip them off that a high profile gang member likes frequenting this neighborhood. Or the reason why.

“It’s me.” He calls out, crossing through your living room to crank open one of the arched windows behind your bed. Cold air floods your apartment, the winter wind chasing out the thickest of the smoke into night. “Baby?”

No answer; only more furious clanging and a particularly fierce “oh, fuck you.”

Cautious, Sanemi pokes his head into your small kitchenette. “Y/N?”

He’s not sure what he expected, but he can’t say he’s prepared for the sight of you, standing in front of your oven, hands on your hips and your foot tapping irritably on the floor. A cooling tray lays by your feet, and you don’t seem to be in any hurry to collect it; not when you’re too busy glowering down at your stove.

Sanemi’s eyes follow yours, and he finds what he presumes is the source of the stench. The worst of the smoke rolls off something sitting on your stove, though it’s too black for Sanemi to even guess what it’s supposed to be.

You whirl around and Sanemi has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.

There’s flour on your cheek and dusted all down your front, along with other smears and stains of beige — batter of some sort, if he had to guess, given the cluttered mess on your counter of used mixing bowls and measuring cups. Your hair is a mess, puffed up and frizzed out from the smoke, framing a face scrunched up in pinched fury.

All things considered, you look pretty damn adorable, but he isn’t about to tell you that. The block of kitchen knives you rarely touch are too close within your reach for his comfort.

So, Sanemi takes the pragmatic approach and casually folds his arms across his chest. He offers with a measured nod of his head toward your oven. “I thought we talked about you cookin’ without supervision.”

For all the grief he’d given you about your inability to make anything more substantive than cereal, Sanemi learned rather quickly it was the most you could be trusted with. Once, you’d tried to show off your culinary skills by making him ramen, only for you to stick the dried noodles in your microwave without water. You hadn’t even noticed the acrid smell of something burning until he pointed it out, and by then, it was too late. It was only after he’d thrown the smoking bowl of scorched, blackened noodles into your sink that he hotly declared you were not to use any appliance in your kitchen while by yourself.

He’d thought you’d agreed to that ban but, as he peers over your shoulder to inspect whatever it is that’s about to set off your fire alarm, Sanemi grimly realizes the two of you are not on the same page.

“I wasn’t cooking, I was baking.” You snap, as though the distinction matters. You yank an oven mitt off one hand and snatch a loose fork from the counter, jamming it right into the smoldering center of whatever the hell it is you’ve tried to make. It pops and sags beneath the stab of the fork, more steam hissing out of the wound you’ve opened in its surface.

You hold the fork up for inspection and your eyes widen with outrage. “How is it burnt on the outside and fucking raw on the inside —?”

Sanemi glances at your oven settings and raises an eyebrow. “‘Cuz you have it set to five hundred — didn’t even know ovens could go that high.”

You chuck the fork into the kitchen sink with more force than necessary. “I was trying to get your stupid cake done before you got here. I wanted you to be surprised!”

He blinks. “What cake?”

“Your birthday cake!” You rip the other oven mitt from your hands scrunching it up before throwing it to the counter in defeat. “It’s your birthday, and I didn’t leave the store ‘til late, so I had to rush to get it done because I couldn’t swing a present other than this stupid cake!” You jab a finger toward the blackened pan still smoking on the stove. “And I couldn’t even do that!”

Sanemi’s eyes widen and for a moment, he can’t remember to blink.

All he can do is stare.

As much as he’s tried to forget them, there were a handful of November 29ths that had stuck with him over the years; a wad of chewing gum cemented to his memory that he couldn’t get rid of no matter how hard he tried scraping it away.

His fifth birthday was spent clinging to his mother’s arm, begging her not to leave him alone in that dinky, unheated shoebox where they lived. His eyes had been teary, and he hated that he was acting like a crybaby, but he didn’t want his Ma to go — didn’t want to be left alone. He wanted her to scoop him up in her arms, to hum fragments of lullabies into his hair as she curled over him beneath their threadbare blankets, desperate for her body heat to sink into her son and keep him warm.

But it was winter, and Sanemi needed something to eat, so Shizu, heavily pregnant, had to go work.

She returned the next day with a lukewarm fast food hamburger Sanemi couldn’t stomach eating. Not when his mother came home sporting a new black eye, so dark and purple that not even her paper thin smile could dull her obvious wince, or the shadowy bruises peppered along her too-thin arms.

He spent his eighth birthday scavenging for spare coins dropped between the sagging, stained cushions of the old man’s broken down furniture.

Genya was nearly three and crying, his belly aching with a hunger he didn’t understand. Their mother was dead, and no one knew how to care for them except for Sanemi, and he’d been desperate; enough so that he’d clawed at the broken wooden couch slats until his numb fingers turned raw; bloody.

Because it was snowing and cold and Kyogo had left his sons at home in the dark, unheated apartment with nothing to eat.

He’d found enough loose change to justify running down to his neighbor’s place, and the old man had been kind enough to give him a packet of stale instant noodles. No seasoning packets, but the Shinazugawa boys had been too hungry to mind.

The only candles he had to mark the day were the mismatched stumps scrounged out of some cluttered drawer. His birthday wish — the very first one he’d ever made — a feeble plea that come December, Kyogo wouldn’t waste the month’s electric bill on booze his sons couldn’t even drink to keep warm. Winter in the Silo was harsh enough.

But December came and went, heralding in harsh winds and thick sheets of ice, and the apartment never once turned warm.

Sanemi never made another birthday wish again.

When he turned ten, Genya brought him home a tiny green race car, no doubt swiped from the basket of loose toys that sat next to the cashier at the nearby corner store. The paint was chipped, and one of the wheels had a tendency to stick whenever Sanemi skated it over the kitchen’s cracked linoleum, but it was a toy, and Sanemi hadn’t had one of those before. So, he ruffled his brother’s hair and the two spent the night rolling the car back and forth to one another across the floor, giddy with that childlike innocence they never got to keep come sunrise.

The corner store it came from closed not long after his birthday, its owner having been dragged out sometime in the night by hooded men, face too swollen and mouth too bloodied to scream.

Not that anyone would’ve helped, anyway. Not here.

Sanemi still has the car, though. It’s since lost a wheel, and the paint has nearly faded away, but it sits in his window sill; a prized token of the boy he’d never been.

For his fifteenth birthday, Sanemi’s lucky ass got not one, but two presents: a broken rib and a black eye. Courtesy of Kyogai, a sleazy had-been in the Corps’ ranks, whose penchant for downers meant he never had enough money to pay his dues to the Corps. Sanemi, a junior at the time, had been sent to collect money Kyogai refused to cough up, and in his youthful arrogance, thought he could simply strong-arm the Corps’ payment back.

That was when he learned never to get between a junkie and their fix — especially once withdrawal set in.

Sanemi returned the birthday generosity on a cold day in January, with his crowbar to Kyogai’s kneecaps. Rumor was he still couldn’t walk without a cane. But he never tried his bullshit with Sanemi again, and he thought that was probably the best gift of all.

So no, Sanemi can’t say he expects much out of his birthdays.

“No one’s ever made me a birthday cake before.”

It’s a breathless sort of admission, one that he’d probably be embarrassed about making if he wasn’t so caught off guard.

His admission monetarily stuns you into silence, and he almost feels ashamed. But you quickly recover and instead offer only a brittle laugh. “Yeah, well. Fucked that up for you, I guess.”

You finally look at him and Sanemi is startled by the tears rapidly lining your eyes.

“It’s just a cake, baby,” Sanemi soothes, hands reaching for you. “And today’s just a day. ‘S no big deal.”

Another great sniff. “It is a big deal!”

Sanemi is all too used to never having and not being allowed to want, so accepting what others want or try to give doesn’t exactly come easy to him. But the sight of you, nearly reduced to tears over the scorched disaster you’d tried desperately to make into something worth marking the day with has him reevaluating twenty-two years’ worth of trained indifference.

Beneath your frustration is clear upset with the situation. Because, you tried.

Sure, Sanemi’s birthdays passed without the usual triumvirate of cake-ice cream-presents he supposes other kids got. Frankly, he didn’t quite see the appeal of it anyway, but that may have been because Sanemi hadn’t known to miss what he never had. November 29th was just a day, after all; the mark of another year gone by without him taking a bullet to the head or having his body dumped in some faraway hole. The watery sun that rose that morning was no different all the others he’d managed to cheat his way into seeing. To him, it’s insignificant.

But not to you. For some reason, you don’t think you’ve given him enough.

Months of being together, and he still hasn’t figured out how to make you understand that he doesn’t need any grand gestures from you. It’s enough that you continue allowing him into your home, your bed, your life; that you soothe his fragmented heart, and chase away the cloud of numbness always lurking over his shoulder with one of your sweet smiles.

He doesn’t want for anything because he already has everything in you.

But you still want to give him more.

God, he doesn’t deserve you. And he certainly doesn’t deserve the tears swimming in your eyes or the frustration that weighs down your shoulders.

Sure, he doesn’t really give a damn about his birthday, but he sure as hell gives several about you, and your defeat is not something he’ll tolerate.

Sanemi fishes his set of keys from his pocket. “C’mon,” he nods toward the door. “We’re going to the store.”

—

“It’s not right,” you sniff an hour later as you hand him an oven mitt. “You shouldn’t be making your own birthday cake.”

“We’re making,” Sanemi corrects, seamlessly pulling the hot pan from your oven and placing it atop your stove to cool. “The present ain’t the cake, anyway.”

He tosses the mitt to your counter and turns to you, eyeing the can of frosting in your hand, one you absently stir a butter knife into, unsure of how else to help.

With a faint smile, Sanemi swipes his finger through the top layer of sprinkled sugar, dolloping it right on the tip of your nose. “You are.”

You roll your eyes, swiping your finger through the small blob of icing and bringing it to your mouth. As you suck the tip of your finger clean, you peer over his arm, nose wrinkling as you as you look down at the golden brown surface of the very much baked-through cake. “Still, box cake mix?”

“A cake’s a cake.”

The kitchen is teeming with the warm, comforting scent of sweet vanilla, one that spreads through the rest of your studio, chasing away the last remnants of burnt confectionary which lingered after your earlier baking fiasco. Boxed mix or not, you have to know that plan b smells leagues better than plan a, even if that means your ego has to take the hit.

“If you say so,” you grumble, shouldering him out of the way as you scoop out a glob of frosting, ready to slap it across the cake’s surface.

“Not yet,” Sanemi corrects, gently catching your wrist before your knife can make contact. “It’s gotta cool first, or else that’s just gonna melt all over the place.”

Your mouth twists into an annoyed grimace. “That seems stupid.” You gripe, stabbing the knife back into the canister of icing, right in its center.

“Chemistry, sweetheart. Didn’t you pay attention?”

“I slept through most of chem back in the day.”

That surprises him. “Weren’t you a goody two shoes?”

You snort. “Not when it came to science. Or math, for that matter. Always got my lowest grades in science and math.”

Sanemi rolls his eyes. “And a low grade for you would’ve been —?”

This time, you drop your head, suddenly sheepish. “Anything below an A.”

Of course. “Damn, wish I’d known.” Sanemi smirks. “Maybe I could’ve made bank tutoring instead of runnin’ around, bein’ a delinquent.” At the skeptical raise of your brow, he scoffs. “What? You think a blossoming criminal couldn’t also score a few As?”

Math had always come easily to him, though that may have been out of necessity than raw talent. Knowing numbers meant he could tally up debts quickly in his head and calculate the exact interest owed, which meant less time wasted wherein his target might be able to get one over on him. Not once had he ever finished a job short-changed. That’s what made him so valuable to the Corps, even back then.

His academic success across the various fields of mathematics and science (which was math with more words thrown in), was just an added bonus.

“Still, though — tutoring?” You laugh. “Sorry — for some reason I can’t picture you meeting some poor kid in the library to go over formulas and equations. I can’t even imagine someone willing to ask you — I mean —“ you gesture to him, and Sanemi knows that’s explanation enough.

“I might’ve. Especially if a certain pretty girl had batted her lashes and asked me all nice and sweet.” Gently, he pushes your hair back over your shoulder, his eyes watching your breath hitch in your throat; the goosebumps that spread over your skin. Smirking, he leans in and presses his lips right below your ear. “Kinda like how you did last week — ‘cept, you were asking me to give you something then, weren’t you?”

The way your cheeks darken tell him you know exactly what he’s talking about.

It was him. Specifically, his cum; you’d begged for it, actually, your recurring chant of fill me up, fill me up, baby, please! sweeter than music to his fucking ears.

You turn to grab the can of icing, defiantly putting your back to him, if only to avoid having to look at the cocky set of his mouth.

Sanemi’s gloating isn’t over. It’s his birthday, after all. “You know I’m right.”

“Oh, shut up before I make you decorate your damn cake.”

Still grinning, he lets you shoo him from the kitchen. Sanemi plops himself onto your sofa and fishes your tv remote from between the cushions. He busies himself flipping through the handful of channels you get, finally landing on some pro baseball game he only watches with half-interest.

“Ready!” You call a few moments later, and Sanemi tosses the remote aside, the game, forgotten.

You hover in front of your counter, hands together twisting nervously. The moment he appears in the kitchen’s small entryway, you step aside, revealing the fruit of your shared labor.

“Happy Birthday, Sanemi.”

The cake is small and its edges are a little lopsided. The icing looks like it was applied the same way as wallpaper paste. A lone, green candle sits lit in the cake’s center, its flame bright and merry.

Sanemi’s never seen anything more appealing in his life.

“You have to make your wish,” you sternly remind him as he leans over the cake, his eyes glued to the candle. “And you can’t say it out loud.”

A birthday cake; his very own birthday cake.

There’s a part of him that hesitates to blow out the candle, too entranced by the way the little flame dances and bends around the wick. After all, the last time he’d made a wish, it hadn’t come true.

And yet, another part of him — that silly, hopelessly optimistic part he knows better than to indulge — wonders if perhaps his eight-year-old self’s wish hadn’t worked because he’d lit the candles for light and feeble warmth. They hadn’t been intended for celebration, and he certainly hadn’t had a cake to hold them.

Maybe that was part of the magic; the spell’s missing ingredients.

This time, maybe things will be different.

His wish is simple, if not a little selfish. But Sanemi thinks that birthdays might be the chance to be selfish, and he’s not making his wish out loud anyways, so maybe he can get away with this.

Sanemi closes his eyes and he wishes for time. Time with you. Time with Genya. As much as the universe will let him have.

That would be enough.

Sanemi blows out the candle.

“C’mere you,” he says roughly, reaching for you. He pulls you into his side and presses a kiss to your temple. “Thank you.”

Your arms wind around his middle. “You did most of the work.”

“You made it a birthday cake, though.” He lays his cheek atop your head. “You turned this whole damn day into somethin’ special. Thank you.”

Without you, Sanemi would never know what it felt like to have his own birthday cake or a candle to wish upon.

Neither of you of bother with plates or cutting slices; instead, you hand him another fork and the two of you dig right in.

At the first bite, Sanemi’s eyes slide shut. Cheap box cake has never tasted so fucking good.

“Not bad,” you say thickly through your own mouthful, leaning over your counter. Another bite is already loaded on your fork. “Wonder what mine would’ve tasted like.”

Sanemi swallows. “Like raw cake batter.”

You turn over your shoulder to stick your tongue out at him, not caring that your mouth is full, or for the crumbs that fall on the counter top.

You’re about to return to the cake when a smear of white catches his eye.

“Hold it.” Sanemi sets his fork down and catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger before you turn away. He tilts your face up, and smirks.

That’s when he leans in, flicks his tongue along your lower lip. He moans at the taste of sugar, the spare bit of icing left on your lip further sweetening the honey of your kiss, his mouth capturing yours.

Your moan rights everything in his world full of wrongs, your fork clattering to the counter.

The hand he keeps on your chin slides to the back of your neck, tilting your head; the other finds purchase at your hip, tugging you closer into him. It only takes a matter of seconds before Sanemi is drunk on your lips, the warmth of the evening liquid honey that pools in his stomach.

Your kiss tastes like cake and home.

He’d stay here all night if he could, but the fervor of your lips moving with his has quickly stolen his breath away. No matter how much he craves your kiss, his body demands air.

With a faint grunt, Sanemi breaks your kiss. The hand on the back of your neck remains firmly in place, keeping you close as Sanemi traces the slope of your nose with the tip of his. “You had icing on your lip. Had to fix it.”

Through his lowered lids, he can see the quickened rise and fall of your chest as you steady your own breathing; the flush in your cheeks. Your eyes are bright, however, illuminated with equal desire and challenge.

Your tongue flicks out to dampen your lower lip and Sanemi’s eyes narrow. “Maybe you should check for more.”

Fuck oxygen. His mouth is back on yours before you can finish your next inhale.

And then, he’s moving.

Though you’re walking backwards, you’re the one guiding him, your fingers hooked through his belt loops as you tug him through your kitchenette and out into the open space of your studio.

His groan vibrates into your mouth. Sanemi doesn’t have to open his eyes to know where you’re leading him; he’s treaded this very path to your bed too many times to count.

Oh, there’s plenty of time for this later, and he’ll happily indulge himself then. Besides, you’re even more sensitive in the mornings, and that means he’s guaranteed to coax two or three orgasms out of you with just his tongue before you both have to go to work in the morning, never mind what he’ll be able to do once he’s actually inside you. It’ll be worth holding off, for now.

But right now, his heart is too full, and tonight has been mending something inside of him he hadn’t known was broken. Something shy and curious, a remnant from the boy who might have secretly longed to know what it felt like to have a birthday mean something; to matter.

Still, he can’t resist fanning the fire a little, the hand on your hip sliding to your ass and squeezing, his fingers dangerously close to the dip in your thighs.

He lets you strip him down to his underwear and you to yours, since that’s how you prefer to sleep when not otherwise naked. Only when he feels your hand sliding down his bare abdomen does he still you, his fingers wrapping delicately around your wrist.

He feels your frown before he sees it. Cautious, your mouth breaks away from his and you lower yourself down from the tips of your toes.

A dent has notched itself between your eyebrows. “You don’t want —?”

Later, he’ll be sure to tell you that he wants you all the time — so much so that it might be a problem. But that’s not what tonight is about — not for him. For now, he can’t risk you discovering that he’s half-hard already; the second your hand finds him, he’ll be too erect to function, let alone think clearly.

He shakes his head. “Actually,” Sanemi hooks his arm around your waist and tugs you back against the bed, falling into your tower of pillows and blankets with you safely encased in his embrace. “I think I just wanna hold you, if that’s cool.”

Confusion flits briefly across your face before your eyes soften. “Of course. Don’t you know that birthdays mean you get whatever you want?”

He didn’t, but that doesn’t matter. Because this is why he loves you: you know, without him ever having to explain. You understand.

With a soft smile, Sanemi rolls to capture you under him, but braces himself above you long enough to allow you to sit up against the headboard. The moment you settle, Sanemi inches up beside you until he can rest his head on your stomach, his arm hugging your waist.

He swears he can hear your smile as you ask, “Happy?”

Exuberantly so; your body is soft in every way his isn’t, and warm. He’s in a heated, dimly lit apartment with no fear of the lights cutting out or the cold outside making his toes turn numb. The girl he loves, loves him back. Everything he hadn’t dared let himself wish for is now his, carding her beautiful fingers through his hair.

it’s almost perfect. Almost.

“Nah, I’ve got one more request.”

He leans over you and pulls a novel from the top of the stack that perpetually sits on your side of the bed, never shrinking. He hands it to you, meeting your inquisitive eyebrow with his smirk. “Read to me.”

He doesn’t care what book it is — whether it’s something he’s read before, or of a genre he isn’t all that into, it doesn’t matter. He just wants to hear you.

“A bedtime story? Really?” You tease, but you’re already flipping to the first page.

Content, Sanemi turns his face further into your stomach, burrowing harder into you. One hand still smoothing through his hair, you begin to read the prologue, pausing for dramatic effect where the passage calls for it. Slowly, the hours unfold as your voice weaves together the story — some high fantasy set in a distant world. Once upon a time, Sanemi would’ve wished he could dive into the pages of his book; anything to escape his reality.

Now, he can’t imagine being any place better than right here, with you.

—

It’s nearly midnight when Sanemi remembers Genya’s unanswered text still sitting in his inbox. Carefully, so as not to disturb you and your faint snoring, he untangles himself from you. One hand pats across the surface of your bedspread, searching for the small rectangle while the other gingerly removes the book still propped between your fingers. You’d made it about five chapters, your thumb still marking the page where you’d dozed off mid-passage.

Book in hand, he turns and tosses it on your threadbare rug, and it lands with a dull thump. He finds his phone near the foot of your bed. His eyes flick to you once to confirm that his gentle movements have not disturbed your well-earned rest.

Your mouth twitches with another light snore, and Sanemi smiles.

He clicks his phone to life, taking care to keep it turned away from you, mindful of the bright little screen. Quietly, he thumbs his answer to his brother. The moment he taps the send arrow, he tosses his phone back to the ground and reaches across the duvet for you once more.

A few hundred miles away inside a sleeping boys’ dormitory, under Zenitsu’s nasally snores and the odd, violent twitch from Inosuke, Genya’s phone buzzes from its place under his pillow.

Yeah. Good birthday.

REBLOGS AND COMMENTS APPRECIATED!!

#sanemi shinazugawa #sanemi x reader #demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kny x reader #kny sanemi #kny #kny fanfic #shinazugawa sanemi #sanemi x you #kny x you #demon slayer kimetsu no yaiba #sanemi

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fictionalsweethearts · 1 day ago

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DOMESTIC!SEVIKA HEADCANONS

Let's agree that Sevika doesn't spend much time at home, as she has to attend to business matters all day and night, and she spends her breaks at the betting shops or in some seedy pub where she feeds her fondness (perhaps addiction) to gambling.

However, Sevika must live in the vicinity of the centre of Zaun where she works. Probably in some austere apartment with one bathroom and a narrow kitchen (not that she uses it much either).

She tends to leave the terrace open to air out the smell of tobacco, already permeating the curtains and the carpet.

Her room is at the end of the hallway, it is not very big but it is comfortable, and its window faces the same avenue. At night, the neon color of the signs enters and draws silhouettes on the double bed, which is provided with a wine-colored bedspread and brown pillows. The dresser is usually tidy, and most of Sevika's clothes hang from the coat rack, including her poncho. There is an ashtray on the nightstand, a stained glass lamp, somewhat blackened by tobacco smoke, and in the drawer another pack of cigarettes and a Shimmer dial (which she has needed to use more frequently, being forced to work with only two hours of sleep in her body.).

Sevika is pragmatic, not much for keeping knickknacks or ornaments, however she keeps a deck of cards that her old man had given her a few decades ago, on her fourteenth birthday.

The apartment is quiet, Sevika appreciates the silence after dealing with noises of all kinds on a daily basis.

Since she doesn't spend much time at home, she doesn't tend to clean the apartment very often. She keeps the essentials clean, that is, the bathroom and her room, but the kitchen sink usually has unwashed glasses and cups and there is a thin layer of dust on the coffee table. It doesn't bother her much.

The bathroom is as austere as the rest of the apartment, with a shower and toilet, a mirror that says good morning and she answers with a "what a haggard bitch." There is a small first aid kit under the sink, next to a toolbox that allows her to repair her prosthetic arm. In the upper compartment, there is a woody perfume that she puts on her neck and on the fabric of her poncho.

She usually leaves the mechanical arm on top of the dresser before going to sleep, being the first thing she reaches for in the morning, of course, after her morning cigarette.

Sevika's breakfast: a black coffee and a cigarette. If the day promises to be unbearable, she adds a shot of whiskey to her coffee. Sometimes she buys a fruit at the market.

Sevika is not an avid cook, she does it when necessary, as she usually has almost all her meals at the Last Drop or a market stall. She usually feeds herself with whatever she can throw into the pot, adding spices, wine and water.

Her signature dish is beef stew with wine (she drinks the wine while she cooks).

Of course, she has a liquor cabinet in her living room. She usually keeps it filled with bottles of bourbon, red wine, and other stronger herbal liquors.

She's not a morning person, her first sounds in the morning are usually grunts and monosyllables, until her breakfast cigarette and a shower improves her mood (a little).

Sevika is good at math. Not just because of her gambling hobby, but because of taking care of Silco's collections and other deals involving transactions, negotiations and money. She usually keeps an accounting book in her closet, which she has to take a look on more than once when the numbers don't add up (perfectionism at its finest).

Sevika takes great care of her dental health. She appreciates clean teeth and keeps mints or candy handy to keep her breath fresh (so she can kiss her girls better).

When she's in the mood and the night allows it, she likes to take a bubble bath at home. She accompanies it with a cigarette and a nice glass of whiskey.

Yes, she has fallen asleep in said bath more than once (she is an exhausted woman, don't be mean).

Sevika usually keeps the lights low, preferring darkness.

She wears comfortable clothes at home like tank tops and sweatpants, but avoids going barefoot.

Her home may look unkempt, but she knows where everything is. If something moves without her permission, she'll notice.

She avoids having pets, as they seem like an unnecessary responsibility to add to her life. But if a stray cat wanders around her home, she leaves leftovers by the window.

She likes to plays a game of solitaire when she's free (rarely).

Sevika has nightmares. No matter how much rest she tries to get, her brain replays past mistakes or portrays possible tragedies that she is unable to stop.

She doesn't like wall clocks or alarm clocks, but she always knows the time (let's call it a busy butch superpower).

In the mornings she takes cold showers.

She doesn't tend to look at herself in the mirror for long. While she maintains her self-esteem, she is not vain by any means. She also avoids paying too much attention to her missing arm, as her mind wanders to unpleasant places.

She has a little training corner in her apartment, where she spends part of her time maintaining her body strong and fit.

Yes, she smokes between sets.

In the privacy of her room, Sevika sometimes resorts to self-pleasure to relax. Her hand and a good imagination are more than enough.

DOMESTIC!SEVIKA & PARTNER

If she has a girlfriend, inviting her over is the ultimate proof that she trusts her. No one who doesn't deserve it enters her safe space.

Her nightmares are reduced if she sleeps with her, and she often pulls her close during the night and buries her nose in her hair.

She doesn't say good morning, preferring to stare at her partner in silence until she wakes up.

She makes sure she's comfortable. She may seem disinterested, but she's bought shampoo and conditioner for her, always keeps the bed clean and the air fresh when she invites her to stay the night, and often cooks something more elaborate for dinner.

Sevika avoids smoking in her presence if she doesn't smoke, so she goes out onto the balcony several times.

She likes comfortable silences, sharing a cigarette or each minding their own business without having to start unnecessary conversations.

She is good at listening and providing advice with effective solutions. She usually sits on the couch and gives her girlfriend all the time she needs to vent.

She's not good at comforting, but she tries.

She is very receptive. It is a matter of noticing a change in her girlfriend's mood or reading her expression to know that something is going on.

If she falls asleep on the couch, Sevika takes her to her bed, if she cuts herself while cooking, Sevika, instead of worrying, simply bandages her hand. She's practical.

She really enjoys her girlfriend's company even if she doesn't say it. She looks at her, sits close to her or brushes her waist or her butt with her hand if she passes by her.

If her partner is away for a long time, Sevika gets worried. She express it with a simple "you took long" when she arrives.

Her way of asking her partner to stay the night is to simply say, "If you're sleepy, the bed is clean."

When Sevika has her partner over, she makes sure to reduce the smell of tobacco with air fresheners she bought at the market. She sprays the whole apartment and walks around sniffing to make sure it's not obvious that she smokes a pack a day.

She likes to cook if she has her over, she usually prepares more elaborate meals and uncorks her best liquor.

Sevika snores. Years of smoking, sleepless nights and punches in the nose have taken their toll on her and she snores like a truck.

When her bed partner chides her for it, she simply raises her eyebrows and asks, "Do I really snore?" (She will never admit that she snores).

#arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane s2 #arcane sevika #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x y/n #sevika x you #headcanons #arcane smut #sevika headcanons #sevika my love #sevika

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reasonsforhope · 8 months ago

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"Starting in July 2024, California will be the first state to charge an excise tax on guns and ammunition. The new tax – an 11% levy on each sale – will come on top of federal excise taxes of 10% or 11% for firearms and California’s [7.5]% sales tax (x).

The National Rifle Association has characterized California’s Gun Violence Prevention and School Safety Act as an affront to the Constitution. But the reaction from the gun lobby and firearms manufactures may hint at something else: the impact that the measure, which is aimed at reducing gun violence, may have on sales.

As a professor who studies the economics of violence and illicit trades at the University of San Diego’s Kroc School of Peace Studies, I think this law could have important ramifications.

One way to think about it is to compare state tax policies on firearms with those on alcohol and tobacco products. It’s not for nothing that these all appear in the name of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, also known as ATF...

The ATF focuses on those products because, while legal, they can cause significant harm to society – in the form of drunken driving, for example, or cancer-causing addictions. They also have a common history: All have been associated with criminal organizations seeking to profit from illicit markets.

Alcohol and tobacco products are thus usually subject to state excise taxes. This policy is known as a “Pigouvian tax,” named after 20th-century British economist Arthur Pigou. By making a given product more expensive, such a tax leads people to buy less of it, reducing the harm to society while generating tax revenue that the state can theoretically use to offset those harms that still accrue.

California, for instance, imposes a US$2.87 excise tax on each pack of cigarettes. That tax is higher than the national average but much lower than New York’s $5.35 levy. California also imposed a vaping excise tax of 12.5% in 2021.

Of the three ATF product families, firearms have enjoyed an exemption from California excise taxes. Until now...

How Much Will the Policy Help?

It’s unclear how the new tax will affect gun violence. In theory, the tax should be highly effective. In 2023, some colleagues and I modeled the U.S. market for firearms and determined that for every 1% increase in price, demand decreases by 2.6%. This means that the market should be very sensitive to tax increases.

Using these estimates, another colleague recently estimated that the California excise tax would reduce gun sales by 30% to 44%. If applied across the country, the tax could generate an additional $1.5 billion to $1.9 billion in government revenue.

One possible problem will come from surrounding states: It’s already easy to illegally transport guns bought in Nevada, where laws are more lax, to the Golden State.

But there’s some evidence that suggests California’s stringent policies won’t be neutralized by its neighbors.

When the federal assault weapons ban expired in 2004, making it much easier to buy AR- and AK-style rifles across much of the U.S., gun murders across the border in Mexico skyrocketed. Two studies show the exception was the Mexican state of Baja California, right across the border with California, which had kept its state-level assault weapons ban in place.

Gun seizures in Mexico show that all four U.S. states bordering Mexico rank in the top five state sources of U.S.-sold guns in Mexico. But California contributes 75% less than its population and proximity would suggest.

So, California laws seem to already be making a difference in reducing gun violence. I believe the excise tax could accomplish still more. Other states struggling against the rising tide of guns will be watching closely."

-via The Conversation, May 21, 2024

#cw gun violence #cw guns #tw gun violence #guns #gun violence #firearms #california #united states #us politics #mexico #good news #hope

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argumate · 1 month ago

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seems wild that this is all public knowledge? there have been over a hundred firebombings of tobacco shops!

Each shop in Hamad’s turf is forced to pay $2000 a month in cash, a kind of ‘tax’ to be allowed to operate and sell the cheap illicit cigarettes being smuggled in by the gang. Those who refuse are threatened, and if they fail to fall into line, their shops may be firebombed.

But the ‘tax’ is just a drop in the bucket compared to the enormous profits being reaped by the syndicates that are supplying and selling illicit cigarettes.

Across the city, the most common black-market brand is selling for $18 to $25 for a pack of 20. Legitimate cigarette brands cost $38 to $50 a pack due to high federal taxes.

It costs the syndicates about $2 a pack to buy in Dubai, with the sale price in Melbourne almost entirely pure profit.

The illicit tobacco market is now worth about $6.27 billion a year, up more than 530 per cent since 2017, according to the Australian Taxation Office.

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unicorncornflakes · 1 year ago

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Family Sins - One Shot || Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Paring: Reader x Aemond Targaryen.

Summary: Every Thursday afternoon you and Aemond meet, even if you have to pay for his family's sins.

Tags: Alternate Universe/ Emotional Hurt/Angst/ Drama & Romance/ Eventual Smut.

Warnings: I am just sad. This is the best I can write these days.

Author´s note: Pls, enjoy! Feedback, shares and comments are always welcome!

Word Count: 4.2 K

You were soaked to the skin. All your clothes were loose. But, you were still pretty. It was all Aemond could think when he saw you walking through the aisles of that roadside gas station. He followed you with his eye while you consulted the prices of a small cocoa bun. Your black sweatshirt was soaked all over while your damp hair was tied up in a ragged bun. Your black-painted nails grazed some of the price signs as you put the small dessert back in its place and grabbed a cheaper one. You smiled at him as he followed you closely and he picked up the same product that you had left in its place. You didn't talk, Aemond wasn't given to too many words and you were tired from the rain. But, storms always made you happy. It was something Aemond could never understand, but he shared with you.

Outside, at that small gas station in the middle of the forest, it was still raining. Only Aemond's gray Mercedes and the old bicycle that your mother had given you two birthdays ago were parked at the door. You always pedaled five kilometers to meet Aemond. Every Thursday afternoon. He came directly from the city and was waiting for you, drinking a coffee that he always considered awful while you arrived. He always thought he could go find you. Pick you up at the door of your house and take you to a better place. But, that would have been giving you greater importance than you really should have for him. Although, you had driven him crazy. That was all he could think every time he saw you arrive at that place on your bicycle. In summer you always arrived with your short shorts, in winter with your military boots.

On that rainy autumn afternoon, you arrived with that huge black sweatshirt that must have been borrowed, courtesy of your older brother, surely. Or that was what Aemond thought as he followed you through that small commissary that the gas station had. The idea that that sweatshirt belonged to a man other than your brother drove him crazy, so he preferred to think that it belonged to your brother. It made things easier for him. You looked at a series of cookies one last time and left them in their place.

Aemond continued to follow you at a safe distance. You looked at him out of the corner of your eye while you laughed. The two of them alone in that place. Thus, things seemed easier than they really were. Everything was simpler when you were alone.

You walked up to the register and opened the small cloth bag hanging from your back. You took out that cat-shaped purse that Aemond had bought you at a market in Flea Bottom. Also soaked, you opened it, careful not to break it while you counted the coins that that strawberry bun that you had left on the counter cost. Right behind you, Aemond also placed the cocoa puff you had chosen earlier and took the elegant black leather wallet out of his pants. Unlike you, he wasn't wet. His hair was immaculate and his clothes looked as always, well ironed and freshly washed. That black turtleneck sweater he was wearing that day, you knew, cost the same as what it took to eat at home for a whole week.

“Give me a pack of Lucky Strike too,” he said diligently as the cashier looked you up and down. Aemond also dropped a package of condoms on the counter and you blushed while he simply prepared to pay with his credit card. Two small buns. A pack of tobacco. A package of condoms…

Rob, the cashier, looked over his shoulder at you as he charged Aemond for that purchase. He was your neighbor and you were sure that he knew what you and Aemond were going to do that rainy afternoon. You left the store with the strawberry muffin even before Aemond finished paying, although it was clear that you preferred the chocolate one.

He looked at you through the huge glass doors of that gas station and wondered if it wasn't better to give you the treatment you deserved. However, he simply took the condoms and tobacco in one hand, that chocolate bun in the other and went outside. The water continued to fall hard and you were leaning against the door frame. It fell so hard from the ledge that it soaked your torn canvas sneakers, even though the rest of your body was trying to regain heat. Aemond gave you the cocoa puff and you reluctantly took it. You knew what awaited you at home that night because of that simple gesture that was intended to be kind on Aemond's part.

“I could have bought it,” you said without much encouragement, taking down your backpack from your back and putting the condoms and both buns in it. You looked at Aemond, who remained stoic and unfazed as always.

“You would have bought the strawberry one because it's the only thing you can afford and because you need to eat something,” he responded, shrugging his shoulders and opening the packet of tobacco. “This way you will eat something you like,” he said out loud, making the difference between him and you evident: he always paid with a credit card, it seemed like his money was created out of nowhere. You always carried coins in your bag and you never bought what you wanted because you simply didn't have the money for it.

“I guess,” you answered, not daring to look at him. Aemond approached you and finally kissed you. All of his slim, slender body against yours. The height difference was considerable. He just grabbed your face in his hands, his lips making contact with yours in a sweet and passionate way. You held his wrists, as if you always needed an anchor to the ground every time he kissed you. That kiss, surrounded by the storm, was observed under the disapproving gaze of that gas station cashier in the middle of nowhere. The rain threatened to soak you, but you didn't care.

As always, in the middle of all your kisses, Aemond opened his only eye, almost wanting to check that you were real, and not a simple fantasy of his imagination. He always slowly closed his eye again as your lips continued to crash against each other.

At the end of that silent kiss, Aemond took your hand, without looking back, and opened the passenger door for you in the rain. You quickly got into the car and Aemond ran to the driver's seat in the rain. You saw how his hair had now become wavy and he gave a half smile when he saw how you smiled silently, tiredly resting your head on the seat. “I could take the bike and put it in the trunk. Take you home after the motel,” he confessed, not daring to look at you. At that moment, he wanted to go further with you, beyond what he wanted to admit.

"No, do not worry. Then just leave me here and go. I’ll go home from here on the bike,” you told him, not daring to look at him either. You grabbed one of the wet, unruly strands covering your face and tucked it behind your ear. “I don't want my parents to know where I've been this afternoon,” you confessed dejectedly. You knew they would find out before nightfall, just when Rob walked through the door of your father's bar, the nerve center of the town where you lived.

“As you wish,” Aemond responded as the engine roared just started. He turned on his car radio. It only played classical music and you wondered as always if Aemond listened to anything else or the high cultural esteem in which you knew he was held prevented him from doing so. “I bought you other sneakers,” he whispered while keeping his eyes on the road. The windshield wipers of his car moving frantically in the face of such an amount of water.

“It wasn't necessary,” you responded, biting your inner cheek. You hated that he did that. You hated that he bought you everything you needed. You knew he did it for a simple reason: to hold your meetings every Thursday afternoon. As if you were a prostitute, Aemond bought everything he thought or felt you needed. It was his way of keeping you by his side. The only language of love that seemed to know how to offer, understand… “My sneakers are fine,” you said, looking at them. Destroyed and torn. That was all they were.

“They were just on sale,” he responded, putting the issue to rest. His voice always seemed to be devoid of all emotion. Sometimes you wondered if Aemond knew how to feel anything other than indifference or anger, but you knew he did. Every Thursday afternoon he demonstrated it to you. Always in the solitude of that motel room that he reserved for a few simple hours. The radio interrupted the broadcast to talk again about another urgent environmental disaster and Aemond turned it off.

Both you and he knew it was what was going to be talked about. You could see him tense up as he drove. And you directed your body towards his, releasing the seat belt. You bit your lip hesitantly as you brought his body closer to his, one of your hands gripping his seat. The other traveled to Aemond's fly.

“Hmm” was all you heard him say as your hand slowly lowered the zipper. The metallic sound of each and every one of the teeth that made it up exploded against your ears, just like the sound of the rain in the now silent interior of that high-end car. You unbuckled his belt and your hand quickly found his cock in his pants, hard and warm, soft and firm. You bit your lip seductively as you took her out of those extremely expensive underwear. “I don't want to have to give explanations at a police checkpoint like last time,” he answered, without taking his eyes off the road. Grabbing your hand with his as the other grabbed the steering wheel. “Don't be mean to me, (Y/N),” he asked you under his breath.

“I just wanted you to relax,” you whispered sensually and he smiled again without looking at you, although you never knew if when Aemond smiled he was truly happy. You returned to your seat and watched as he quickly buttoned his pants again. “If you don't like it…” you purred and he interrupted you.

“Hmm, I didn't say that,” he repeated again, remembering the fine he had had to pay and how your cheeks had blushed the most while that police officer asked you what your relationship was and forced you to take out your ID card to verify that You were actually nineteen years old and no less. Aemond was six years older than you at the time, but he had always looked older than he really was. He remembered telling the police officer that you were a couple and how you had looked at the ground in regret as those words came out of his mouth. The following Thursday you had not shown up, nor the next one. Three weeks later you came back with a very bad-looking bump between your ribs that you promised was the result of a bad fall on the bike. He knew you had lied, but stating it out loud would have meant never seeing you again.

You finally arrived at that roadside motel and Aemond left you in the car while he went to the reception to get the keys to room thirteen, the one he reserved every Thursday. You received a message from your mother asking if you needed her to pick you up after your study hours at the library. You answered no because you were carrying the bike. You lied to her again. You turned off the phone and closed your eyes. You could understand why your parents didn't want you to see Aemond, but it really wasn't his fault…

He woke you from your thoughts as he opened the car door. You walked out next to him and he held your hand again. You ran through the rain until you reached the second floor of the motel. He clumsily opened the door and you both walked in laughing and soaked. Aemond kissed you again, closing the bedroom door behind you. Holding your face again, with no escape. Your bodies swayed together in that room that had witnessed your meetings for the last two years.

You could hear him gasp as he kissed you. You broke away from his grasp and took off your soaked sweatshirt, which fell heavy to the floor. You also took off your wet shorts and were left in your underwear. Cold and shivering, Aemond covered you with his body, though he was almost as wet as you. You took off his eye patch and he laid you on the bed.

He smiled bright and powerful, like you knew he really felt about almost everyone. He was a Targaryen. He took off his turtleneck and you could see the symbol that already named him as such. The tattoo was fresh on his skin. A green and black dragon on his shoulder. Detailed to excess and you knew it named him as someone important within the family and business, criminal and legal structure. You didn't dare ask, even though he knew you knew the meaning. Your sister had explained it to you when Aegon received his. Years ago, you had both been naïve enough to think that type of tattoo was exciting and powerful. Your sister had been a fool. You weren't on a different path.

Aemond's arms supported his entire weight as he lunged at you to kiss you. His pants though on but his belt undone. He had never been a subtle boy. He smiled at you proudly and cockily, he almost seemed to know what you were thinking. He was dying to tell you that just two days ago he had given him the tattoo, that he had stood stoically and without any emotion while it was done, but his heart had been beating strongly, as if this were finally the moment of approval that he had been waiting for all his life.

He kiss you. His lips met with strength and need. They eagerly bumped into yours. A watery sound. A pleasant shiver ran down his spine, like every time he kissed you. You knew there wouldn't be much more foreplay.

He stayed silent over you. His single eye scrutinized you while the prosthesis remained immovable in that empty eye socket. He had never told you what had happened to him. He would never do it. You had heard rumors, but... His eye continued to look at you in silence. You looked beautiful with your hair wet, all spread out against the pillow, your eyes locked on his, a half smile on your lips.

His thumb brushed your bottom lip gently. Comfortable silence reigned in that cheap motel room. The gray walls. The simple sheets. That sad blind half lowered. The complete scene of your meetings every Thursday afternoon. “I love you,” Aemond confessed in a whisper. Your eyes appeared to offer a small surprise upon hearing him. He felt your entire body stiffen under him. It was the riskiest confession he could make to you. However, he was happy. At that moment, he was happy after a long time. “I love you” he repeated again with more force, as if he wanted to reaffirm his words.

His lips found yours again and you relaxed at the attention. You were in big trouble if Aemond confessed something like that, but it was really what you wanted him to do. Confess that way, with you, and only you. He lightly bit your lower lip with a smile, trying to relax you. Your hands ran up his arms as you kissed. The hand traveling on his right shoulder tried to avoid the dragon tattoo. Aemond was beginning to follow in his older brother's footsteps... You thought, you always thought that he was not that kind of man... but, he craved power like everyone else, right?

Aemond's always skillful fingers undid your panties, removing them heavy from not only the humidity of the rain that had soaked everything. You were too. Your core throbbing and waiting for a simple contact with him. An arrogant smile appeared on his lips when he saw the small soaked grotto, as if his mere presence already activated all the keys you needed. You smiled shyly at him and he kissed you again.

Your bodies merged in an embrace that promised to be eternal. You felt Aemond's cock hard, eager for what he always got when he was with you. The bright red tip protruded through the elastic of his boxers and you licked your lips in a reflex and subconscious act that Aemond was always grateful for. Seeing your wet lips and bright eyes, he could only think that you were perfect, terribly perfect.

“I'm going to get the condoms,” you whispered, a feeling of regret running through your head, as if those words had ruined everything. The atmosphere that had existed until that moment seemed to have almost disappeared and you felt his grip loosen.

“Sure” It was all he said as he stood up and took off his pants and boxers. He didn't dare look at you because he thought that afternoon was finally the moment you would leave him... bareback. He had confessed. He had done it... and you had been taking contraceptives for a year, he had no more sexual encounters than the ones he had with you... he looked at you out of the corner of his eye, crouched down rummaging through your bag, looking for the packcage that he had bought himself. You had never talked about it, but… “I'm not my brother, you know?” He whispered, looking back ahead, not daring to look at you. “If something happened, I would…”

You interrupted him by returning to bed with a condom and leaving it between the sheets while you lay on your side and he turned to look at you. “You know we can't take risk,” you told him as he went back to the bed and grabbed the wrapper. You didn't point anything out but it always made you nervous that he would tear it with his teeth. He put it on silently and positioned himself between your legs. He looked into your eyes and, for the first time, you saw an authoritative gleam behind them, almost as if that damn tattoo had changed him.

“I'm not my brother,” he repeated again under his breath. He entered you forcefully, without breaking eye contact. Your legs surrounded your hips and you moaned at that impact with such violence that it caused his testicles to collide against the slit of your pussy. You closed your eyes and didn't say anything. The sins of his family would always be present among you.

“I'm just saying that family is destroying the town.” Old Tom was sitting at the bar while your father cleaned it. It was late, but he kept moving that old rag against the bar. His eyes filled with worry as he waited for you. He knew where you had been. He knew what you had done. He had always thought of you as a smarter girl than your sister, but it was clear that you were not.

“Once again they have polluted the river with waste from the plant,” said Clark. His mug of beer met his lips. Your father knew where you had been, Rob had told him before he went home. His face had turned gloomy just then. “Those damned Targaryens…”

Just then, all the voices fell silent in the town bar. You had just walked through the door, soaked to the skin. You had pedaled there from the gas station in the rain, even though Aemond had insisted on giving you a ride home. You couldn't let your father see you with him, although when his accusatory eyes fell on you, you knew he knew. Everyone tried to return to their previous conversation as your steps led you to the bar. There a boy with white hair painted in silence. You sat next to him and saw your sister's son painting a green dragon. You were surprised to see him there. Normally the child was always well hidden at home.

“They are just destroying lives. That's the only thing they know how to do…” Tom attacked again. Clark agreed and your father approached in silence, trying to pretend he didn't know, but he knew, of course he knew.

“Your mom had to go pick up your brother… Why don't you join Greg for dinner?” your father whispered as the four year old was still engrossed in his drawing. You scooped up the little boy, who clutched the paper in his hand as you walked up the back stairs.

Your house was on the second floor of your father's business. The metal steps creaked under your weight, but your father's eyes exerted a greater weight on you. He would never tell you anything. He hadn't told your sister before he died either, but the Targaryens had destroyed his life, the life of the people in that place... your life.

Greg stared blankly as you dressed him in his pajamas after dinner. Sitting on your bed, his purple eyes seemed empty and innocuous. It had always been like this. Consciousness never seemed to have reached that unwanted child. You ruffled his hair, almost expecting a smile, but he just fixed his eyes on you. Empty and deep. As if he knew everything and nothing at the same time. You sat down next to him and took off the new sneakers Aemond had forced you to accept.

“Today I saw a dragon,” you commented, also staring at the wall. The boy turned his head slightly. His huge eyes fixed on you. The stories you always told him seemed to be the only ones that woke him up from his lethargic state. “A green dragon, like the one you were painting,” you smiled at him and his eyes seemed to get even bigger.

Greg's real name was Aeron, courtesy of your sister and his father, Aegon Targaryen. Your sister had been stupid enough to get pregnant by that rebellious boy and die in childbirth, leaving her son alone. Your parents had wanted Aegon to keep the child, but it had been impossible. A child who was not like the others, a dragon locked in a home where they were hated. Greg. It was a much better name according to your father. Your grandfather had been called that.

The Targaryens had destroyed the town with the pollution emitted by their businesses, both legal and illegal, and your entire family. And you… you had fallen in love with one of them.

Greg ended up falling asleep with you while you waited for your mother and brother. Your father always closed the bar late, but it wasn't normal for them to take so long to come back. Something must have happened...

At midnight, the lock on the front door clicked and you went out into the hallway to see if your brother and mother were finally arriving. However, that was a big mistake.

“Be thankful they're not going to press charges,” your mother's words echoed throughout the house, no doubt she was scolding your brother. He uttered something incomprehensible in the state he was in. At the time, you didn't know it, but your older brother was in trouble with Aegon again... bloody knuckles. His lost look. The split lip. While you had made love with Aemond, Gregory had punched Aegon to death.

You stood petrified, contemplating him in silence. Just then he located you. “You're a whore who sells herself for a simple cocoa roll,” he whispered. He had never told you anything like that. He, unlike your father, had always known how to hide his anger towards you. But, that night was the one that changed everything.

“Gregory, stop it,” your mother scolded him, knowing before you what he had in mind, after all she had given birth to him… Gregory pounced on you. “Gregory!!!” your mother shouted it. His bloody nails dug into your brother's skin as he hit you while you fell to the ground.

Your father had only hit you that one time... only that one time... was all you could think as you received one blow after another. He grabbed your hair, stretched your neck, and choked you until you were unconscious... The Targaryens had destroyed everything you cared about... and the only thing you could think about was that Aemond would be angry when he saw your body full of bruises... The enormous Greg's eyes watched everything in silence. That child had only seen violence in his life.

The Targaryens always destroyed everything, and Aemond and the tattoo he now had on his shoulder were proof of that.

#aemond targaryen x you #aemond x y/n #aemond smut #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen modern au #aemond modern au #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x fem!reader

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octuscle · 11 months ago

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Business trip (Day three)

It was a night of wild dreams. Liam fucked me harder than I'd ever been fucked before. At least when I was sober. I still don't know what happened the day before yesterday on Tuesday night or Wednesday morning. Liam got up at 05:00 and drove to the wholesale market. Apparently he had planned for me to spend the night at his place. My suit from the day before hung neatly in his room. Next to it was my laptop bag. Was all this shit with the kitchen slave and submissive boot servant a crazy dream? It didn't matter at all. I have a whole lost day at the office to make up for. I shower, get ready and head to the client. The door is locked. My phone rings. It's Liam. "Good morning, Mack! Did you sleep well?" I ask, what the fuck, I have to get to work. "But not like this, Mack. There's a long hair clipper in the bathroom. And a wet razor. The door won't unlock until you're shiny bald." I want to protest for a second. I think about calling the police. But I reply, "Sure thing, boss!" And go into the bathroom. Half an hour later, I look at myself in the mirror. Everything as usual, right down to my eyebrows. I run my hand over my head, which is as smooth as a baby's bottom. Shit, I've soaked my underpants with precum again. I get a message from Liam. "Good boi!" And the door lock buzzes open.

When I set up my laptop at the customer's, I find a packet of tobacco, cigarette filters and cigarette paper in my laptop bag. And a Zippo. I am a professional. I don't get distracted when I'm working. I love my job. But I can't wait for my lunch break. Normally I would have sat down in a café somewhere and had lunch. Now I grab a sandwich from the supermarket and sit on a park bench. And practise rolling cigarettes. I watch tutorials on YouTube. The first results are pathetic. But the fifth cigarette I roll and smoke before I get back to my desk is already quite respectable. I take two more cigarette breaks in the afternoon. Shit, why didn't I start smoking earlier?

When I arrive at the hotel in the evening, my room card no longer works. Damn, of course, I actually wanted to leave on Thursday. I go down to reception. The lady is very friendly, but explains that housekeeping had to pack up my things this morning because the room was occupied again. Unfortunately, I couldn't be reached on my cell phone. I ask her to call me again. She says it goes straight to voicemail. I look at my cell phone in amazement. Liam sends a message. "I've forgotten. You have a new number. I have your old SIM card." Shit, this has gone too far!

I ask the lady at reception if she has another room. She is sorry. There's a fair in town at the weekend. They are already overbooked and have a waiting list. Message from Liam: "Sorry, mate! I have a visitor today. But you can sleep in the back room of the snack bar tonight." I ask if I can pack my suitcase somewhere quiet and make a few phone calls. The lady says that one of the small meeting rooms is free. She even helps me with my suitcase, the two plastic bags and my laptop bag. I sit down at the meeting table and start by emptying my suitcase and plastic bag. My things are all there. And I'm used to packing my suitcase. Everything is neatly stowed away after a few minutes. But there were still a few things in the plastic bags that I hadn't noticed yesterday morning. Two monstrous dildos. Three jockstraps that were no longer fresh. A fat silver chain. And a hip bag. In addition to condoms, it also contained poppers, tobacco, cigarette paper and small plastic bags with dried flowers…. I put the chain on. It feels cool and chavvy. I check my mailbox remotely. Fortunately, hardly any calls, nothing important, most of them sent me an e-mail afterwards anyway. I change the voicemail text to say that I can't be reached by phone at the moment for technical reasons and to ask for an e-mail. Okay, whatever Liam is up to, at least he can't do me any more harm. And now maybe I should take him up on his kind offer of the back room. But first I really need a fag. I'm standing outside the hotel with my belongings, rolling a cigarette pretty routinely, when the next message from Liam arrives. "Mack, the place is full. Your shift starts in an hour."

The room behind the snack bar is a bit of a hole. But I have a locker where I can hang my stuff. There's a cot that's even already made up. And my things are on it. White jeans, white fine-rib undershirt, jockstrap, long soccer socks. All old and worn. But clean. Plus high rubber boots and yesterday's heavy rubber apron. The long rubber gloves. No hairnet. You look in the mirror and rub your bald head, which is no longer quite so smooth. Hehehe, you really don't need a hairnet anymore. You really look like a chav with that chain. The jockstrap absorbs the first drop of precum. It'll have more to swallow in the course of the evening.

The snack bar is indeed packed. Many guests are hooting and clapping when I come into the dining room at around 8:30 pm to clear the dirty dishes. More than one person slaps my ass or grabs my crotch under my apron. An astonishing number of the guests are wearing leather jeans. Most are wearing T-shirts or tank tops, some are bare-chested. No wonder, it's warm outside and hot in here. I quickly work up a sweat. I have to take off my undershirt and necklace, I just get too warm. But at least I'm getting on well with the dishwasher now and I've got the scullery pretty well under control.

"Hey Mack," I hear Liam yell. "The toilet's blocked. Clean it up!" Damn, dishwasher was already an imposition. But toilet cleaner is a step up. The toilet is a disaster. The floor is a puddle of piss and the urinal is completely filthy. But the toilet bowl takes the cake. Hey, where can you shit all over it? It stinks like hell. But somehow… It turns you on. You know where the bucket and cleaning cloth are by now. I start by mopping the floor so I can kneel down to clean the toilet. And then i stick my arm deep into the toilet to clear the blockage. I'm covered in shit. Without thinking, I wipe the sweat from my forehead with my forearm. Behind me, there is howling. Four or five guys are standing in the doorway wanking. I don't want to wipe that shit away too. So I let them cum in my open face. More and more guys join them. I kneel in a growing mess. Full of cum. Pissed all over. Smeared with shit. Meanwhile, dirty dishes are piling up again in the dining room. Liam shouts at me that I'm not employed as a urinal but as a dishwasher and toilet cleaner. Little by little, the dining room empties. Around 11:30 pm, the last guest has left. With Liam in his arms. It takes me until 02:00 a.m. to get everything cleaned up and me, too, to be clean.

I roll my first cigarette in hours. I stand outside the snack bar. And wank at the thought of the hot evening.

#male tf #forced tf #submission #white to blue collar tf

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alliswyattonthewesternfront · 14 days ago

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finally ordered some rolling papers and filters so i can get more economical about my smoking. i knew rolling your own was cheaper, but didn't realize HOW much cheaper til i did the math. i can roll 100 cigarettes for under $20?

tobacco comes in all flavors from clove to mango, as do rolling papers. i love my fancy grey market cigs and still might occasionally grab a pack as a treat, but for the most part i think i'm converting to being a hand-rolled weirdo

#blog

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sabinahahn · 1 month ago

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Jean-Paul Sartre (1905–1980)

By the 1950s, too much work on too little sleep—with too much wine and cigarettes—had left Sartre exhausted and on the verge of collapse. Rather than slow down, however, he turned to Corydrane, a mix of amphetamine and aspirin then fashionable among Parisian students, intellectuals, and artists (and legal in France until 1971, when it was declared toxic and taken off the market). The prescribed dose was one or two tablets in the morning and at noon. Sartre took twenty a day, beginning with his morning coffee and slowly chewing one pill after another as he worked. For each tablet, he could produce a page or two of his second major philosophical work, The Critique of Dialectical Reason.

The biographer Annie Cohen-Solal reports, “His diet over a period of twenty-four hours included two packs of cigarettes and several pipes stuffed with black tobacco, more than a quart of alcohol—wine, beer, vodka, whisky, and so on—two hundred milligrams of amphetamines, fifteen grams of aspirin, several grams of barbiturates, plus coffee, tea, rich meals.”

- From Daily Rituals: How Artists Work by Mason Currey

#dailyrituals #inktober #jeanPaulSartre @masoncurrey

#daily drawing #inktober #drawing #ink #jean paul sartre #mason currey

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voidhyune · 1 year ago

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noona, why?

idolbf!yang jeongin x fem!reader wc: 700 warnings: jeongin is younger than reader! smoking, angst but happy ending

jeongin was just waiting for you in his car to finish university. he promised you he'd take you his dorm after your long day. what he indeed did.

5 minutes later, you were waving at him from outside the car, signaling him that you arrived.

he opened the door and greeted you, "hey y/n-ah."

"hi" you greeted back, pecking his lips.

"we need to go to the super market first, then we can go home. is it okay or should i drop you out first?" he asked, looking at your face, but you just avoided the eye contact.

"hm it's okay." you hummed, voice barely audiable.

jeongin just hummed back, starting the car. he interwined his fingers with yours and placed it on your lap, sometimes squeezing it lighty.

he knew you. jeongin knew when you had a hard or bad day. he could see all of the emotions on your face. today was clearly not your day. he stated in his mind.

he didn't want to ask you right now, but he eventually did it, "how was your day? did something happen?"

you let go of his hand just to clench your fists, thereby leaving bloody traces.

"y/n-ah, please don't do that." he said and stopped the car in the parking lot. he gently grabbed your jaw and turned your head into his direction. "what's wrong?"

"nothing... just.., let's go to shopping." you said, fake smiling.

jeongin sighed and gave up, deciding that he's going to ask you later about it.

the two of you entered the market after taking a shopping cart. you placed one of your hands on the handrail and planned to stay there the whole time, next to your boyfriend, jeongin, who placed food, drinks and a lot of other things in the cart.

after he payed you saw tobacco shop next to the public toilet. you really really needed to smoke right now. you just felt it. your day was already shitty.

"innie, i need to use the restroom. i'll be back." you sprinted off, not waiting for his answer.

truly, you ran into the tobacco shop and bought a pack of cigarettes. you went behind the building to smoke.

when you were done, you sprayed yourself with perfume so he wouldn't notice the smell of cigarettes, running back to the car.

"we can go, sorry." you said, breathing heavily after your run and fixing your hair.

"y/n." jeongin said sternly.

"hm?"

"what is this smell? did you smoke again?" he asked with a disappointed and concerned face.

damn it. he really knew you. too well.

"please y/n answer me." he pleaded.

"i'm s-sorry. i really needed it." you said, looking down at your lap and playing with your fingers. "are you mad at me?" you quietly asked as raising your head.

"no, of course not. i'm- i'm just a bit disappointed. i don't want to lose you. you're my love, my world, my reason to live. and by the way you said you quitted." he softly said, pinching your upper arm as he said the last line.

"i'm sorry yeni." you said.

"noona, why? why did you smoke again?" he asked, biting his lower lip.

you lowered your head, finding ur nails more interesting, "my mom called me during my lesson. she-she said i won't go far if i study to be an artist. it-it only hurts that she doesn't support me to be an artist, but my sister." you said, lips wobbling, but you held back your tears.

"oh, baby. it's okay, you'll be a good artist. i know it. even the boys do know. and we support you, no matter what. she can suck it up. i can see the talent in you and your works. you work really hard and it shows. remember, i'm always so proud of you and will be." jeongin said in his softest tone, holding you close to his chest.

"let's go to your place and let's have some alone time. hm?"

"thank you. i really do love you jeongin. even if it doesn't seem like that." kissing his cheeks, you said and smiled at him.

"i love you too y/n-ah~"

---

written based on my experience lol

love yall have a good day or night<3

#skz fluff #skz imagines #straykids #stray kids #yang jeongin #skz jeongin #jeongin x reader #skz angst #jeongin x y/n #jeongin x you #jeongin x female reader #seo changbin #lee know #han jisung #kim seungmin #bang chan #hwang hyunjin #lee felix

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bucket-of-f1 · 4 months ago

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fact pls, specifically anything on sponsors in f1 if possible

So. Marlboro. One of the largest and most well known tobacco companies, like… ever. Or something. I don’t smoke anything other than that good F1 pack so :3 (I’m not bucket-of-tobacco-facts but maybe I should get on that).

Remember: as far as F1 is concerned, sponsors are the most important thing ever. Sponsors = money. Sponsors ≠ morality. Money > morality. Money = good car = points = Drivers Championship and/or Constructors championship.

So, pretty much ever since sponsors have existed in anything, there’s someone selling an addictive substance slapping their name everywhere. Lo and behold, in 1972 Marlboro partnered with with British Racing Motors (BRM) and debuted the iconic red-and-white livery:

In 1974 Marlboro partnered with McLaren, and this lasted until 1996. That is TWENTY-THREE YEARS, which is quite a bit for a sponsor that large to stick with a team.

1974 McLaren

1996 McLaren

As you can see, Marlboro was smart: color coding and putting their logo on the front/sides/rear of cars so that wherever the camera was, they were too. They did the same with the driver and team suits, (ironically) slapping the Marlboro logo on their fireproof suits.

In 1996, Marlboro moved from McLaren to Ferrari. A minor sponsor for Ferrari since ‘73, Ferrari now became the flagship carcinogenic host of the paddock. In 1997, Marlboro became the title sponsor: Scuderia Ferrari Marlboro.

In countries where tobacco advertisements had been made illegal, companies had to get creative. For example, Marlboro would replace the word “Marlboro” with the driver's name over the signature red chevron.

In 2001, when tobacco advertising was completely banned, the sponsors had to get extra creative, especially Marlboro, who had five years left in a six year contract with Ferrari — valued at around one billion dollars.

This is where we get to a concept known as Subliminal Marketing. This is a strategy of advertisements utilizing the human subconscious: Marlboro couldn’t put the logo, but they could use their signature colors. Since Ferrari already ran red/white cars, they had an easy excuse, and started there.

Unfortunately subliminal marketing had been banned for YEARS by that point but… 20 bucks is 20 bucks, or in Ferrari's case, a one billion dollar contract deal is a ONE BILLION DOLLAR CONTRACT DEAL.

They were willing to take the risk.

Ferrari’s now relatively well known “barcode” logo was their first solution. It had the colors of Marlboro broken up with white lines, to give it a sort of conceptual art look. They had to further abstract-ify the livery as time went on, but they managed the scheme for three years without raising too much suspicion.

Most importantly to Ferrari, Marlboro, and thems one billion dollars: it resembled the Marlboro logo, especially when moving at high speeds.

In 2010, an investigation into Marlboro and Ferrari's antics was launched, and Ferrari took matters into their own hands by dropping Marlboro and the barcode entirely for the 2011 season.

You would think that's where it ends.

Pfffft.

This is the tobacco industry baby.

A few years later, Ferrari debuted their new logo and sponsor: Mission Winnow.

See it?

How about…

Now?

(Blur your eyes a little)

Yep.

Mission Winnow is a company that does pretty much nothing. If you go to their site it’s a bunch of blurry, useless information that's perfectly vague for a company that has no real traceable connections to… anything, really.

It's a shell company. If you go to the bottom of the site, you'll find the logo of the company who owns…

You guessed it.

Marlboro.

The story got out eventually, of course, and Ferrari removed the logo around the 2019-2020 season, and that was the end of Marlboro in F1.

(Sorry this took like a day to respond my weekdays are packed)

#formula 1 #formula one #f1 facts #marlboro #bucket !!#mclaren f1

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ghoulfuckersincorporated · 7 months ago

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Who makes all the cigarettes in fallout?

A great question, especially since it seems like everyone you meet who is physically capable of smoking a cigarette seems to have an affinity for them. Which makes sense, honestly, as about 95% of the world's established creature comforts were sand-blasted out of existence when the bombs fell. It's not surprising that, in a world with a serious lack of "little treats", way more people turn to hard drugs, alcohol, and cigarettes. As long as humans exist, they will seek comfort from the trials and pains of life, and a life in the Fallout universe is basically guaranteed to be full of trials and pain.

Obviously, some places were closer to atomic detonations than others when the bombs dropped. Places like D.C., New York, Los Angeles, etc., would be targeted heavily, as we see in the pilot of the TV show, but there would also be some cities, some whole states that would see little to no nuclear action because there's basically nothing significant there to bomb. But "nothing significant" still encompasses millions of people and all of the things they use/places they go in their everyday lives, including industrial facilities. I imagine that there would be multiple cigarette manufacturers that would still be standing after the war, and while I think most of them would eventually fall to more bombs/raiders/general lack of ability to power or keep the place up, I wouldn't be shocked if one or two of them were still out there kicking somewhere. If so, we know trade caravans that travel quite far are a regular part of life for many people, so any cigarettes being produced would be able to travel, increasing the demand.

There would also be a lot of cigarettes already manufactured that would just be laying around among all the corpses and half-exploded homes, since they were also an incredibly common vice in pre-war society. You find a home that's still standing and hasn't been completely ransacked by prospectors? Fairly high chance you'll find at least a partial pack or some loosies. Look at how many you can find just laying around when you play the games; certainly enough to maintain at least a low-level habit.

I think that there would also be a large market for hand-rolled smokes and tobacco in general, especially in the more bombed-out places where you're less likely to come across intact factory-created ones because things have either been picked through or are destroyed/inaccessible. In a funny way, there might be sort of a new tobacco craze a la the way cigarettes exploded in popularity after the Industrial Revolution, because there would be big money in getting the stuff to grow. And it wouldn't be impossible to cultivate if you could get your hands on some seeds, especially because tobacco is widely considered a drought tolerant plant, meaning you wouldn't need as much water, which we know is like gold in the Fallout world, to grow it. Doubly not impossible because slavery is commonplace once more; I definitely see plantation-style farms existing in places that have access to water, with both voluntary laborers and people who are enslaved working them, depending on the place.

Would it be incredibly irradiated tobacco at the end? Of course, but name anything consumable around that isn't!

#fallout lore #submission

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ilikemicrowaves · 1 year ago

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Tysm @wings-of-fire-adopts for this beautiful boy! His design is so unique and I'm happy have him as my oc!

This is Citrus, He is aroace and he is 17 years old (28 in human years)

Story undercut: please read I'm actually really proud of this for some odd reason

This is Citrus, He is a mudwing, leafwing hybrid. He lives in the rainforest with a rainwing family of 3, his brother, his brothers boyfriend, and their daughter. His actual parents, Shoebill of the mudwings and Bloodroot of the leafwings, were executed publicly in the town of Phtalo when he was still in his egg. In my wofverse, inter-tribe breeding is illegal. The parents and child must be killed, and the hybrid's parts are usually sold. Pretty cruesome.. Phtalo is one of the towns that takes this law very seriously. Thankfully, Shoebills sibs took their egg and hid it in the rainforest. Unfortunately, the egg was taken by the rainwings before Shoebills sibs could return. Tobacco, an elderly rainwing, took the egg and raised Citrus until he was 2 years, along side his own son, Precious. Unfortunately, Tobacco died of old age, and Precious and his bf, Mosaic, raised Citrus together until he was 12. Precious and Mosaic had adopted an unsibed mudwing named Pumkin by the rainwings. She was only 1 when they found her almost eaten by a jaguar. Citrus happily lived with his family until the age of 17, when he discovered that his father's sibs could still be alive. Citrus and his best friend, cabybara of the rainwings, decided to travel back to the town of Phtalo to find them. Citrus used a fake rainwing frill headband to stay hidden. Once they enter the village, they decide to stop for a meal at a steak house. When they entered, they questioned a bulky looking mudwing named Ox about them. She laughed and told them that they ran away cowardly with a hybrid egg but later where found and executed publicly, but the egg still missing. This news shattered Citrus on finding his family. Before they left, the sandwing cooking assistant in the kitchen noticed them. She followed them out until they stopped for a drink.

She approached them introducing herself as Sunrise. She asked them why they were asking about the executed hybrid family. Cabybara lies and says that they heard a story that the sibs of the hybrids father were still alive, and wanted to meet them.

Citrus asked her suspiciously what she knew about them, and she replied that only one escaped and she knew where he was. She agreed to take them to him if she was given gold. They made a deal and they packed their things before setting off into the late night sky. They traveled for two days before they made it to the outskirts of the sky kingdom. Here, they rested at a skywing motel. In the morning, a window was shattered in their room. The mudwing from earlier, Ox, and two other mudwings had followed them. Ox figured out that Citrus was the lost hybrid and knew the queen would take a liking in him.

They barely escape but Cabybara picked up a shelf and slammed it over Ox's head. Flying through the window Citrus lost his fake frills from Ox's attempt to grab him by the neck.

They flew as far as they could before they found a traveling market. Thankfully it was night time so no one could see them. Sunrise stole a cloak for Citrus before they passed through most of the market and decided to sleep inside a barn filled with cattle. Citrus spent the night thinking about his family and how much he missed them.

The next morning, they awere woken up by the barn owner, an old male skywing who kicked them out angrily. Before they set off, Sunrise decided they should do a little shopping. They got Citrus a bag and Cabybara bought some dried fruit.

They flew until they arrived in the town over, SilverHills. There, Sunrise takes them to Citrus's Uncle, Sarcosuches.

Sarcosuchus refused to believe that Citrus was his nephew until he took off his hood. Then, Sarco pointed out how much he looked like his father and that they both have the same droopy ears and small eyes.

Sarco offers Citrus to live with him. Unfortunately, Citrus knows he needs to return to his other family and that Ox is still hunting him, so it's not safe to stay. Hearing her name, Sarco scowled. Just then, the two mudwings traveling with Ox busted down the door.

Sarco yelled at her to stay back, and she grinned upon his presence. They knew each other, but how?

Citrus questions this while they are cornered, and Sarco reveals that Ox is his aunt, and that's how she knew he was a hybrid. She was the reason the village knew about the hybrid egg, she was the only one of his troop against hybrids, and that hatred was strong enough to rat them out.

Will they make it out?

♡————☆◇☆————♡

I can't wait to expand these characters stories, I had fun writting this instead of sleeping.

Citrus with his frill disguise:

Original ref sheet:

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archoniluthradanar · 1 year ago

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The test of a vampire : A Beauty and the Beast re-telling Part Two

The test of a vampire : A Beauty and the Beast re-telling

Marcus dei Volturi x female OC

Caterina finally meets the man her father is indebted to. She finds him downright unfriendly, but beneath it all, she will eventually sense there is something he is hiding.

Chapter Two

The Agreement

oooooooooooooooooooo

The tall man in black led Caterina through the back doors, shutting them once she was inside. "Follow me," was all he said. They proceeded down a long corridor, passing spaced apart doors, some open, some closed, until he stopped in front of one. "This will be your room." He opened the door, letting Caterina pass through first. He came after, setting her bags on a large bed covered in a soft comforter. "Stay here," he said. "Someone will come for you later to bring you to meet Master Marcus. Please, do not try to leave your room, at least not without someone to escort you." He then left the room, closing the door behind him.

Caterina looked around at what she hoped was her temporary home. She tested the bed with her hand, finding it firm but not too hard. There was a side table with a lamp, a desk that sat in the left corner, a wardrobe against the far right wall, and double doors that opened onto a Juliet balcony. Leaving them open, she walked to another door to find a nice sized bathroom with a bath/shower combination. Toiletries were arranged on the sink's countertop. Towels were hanging on a rack, with others folded on a shelf beneath the sink. It was far from the spartan room she had expected, and much nicer than what she had at home.

She thought of her father and felt a sudden melancholy. She hadn't been gone long, yet missed him already. She hoped he would be able to manage without her. Caterina decided it would do her no good to cry, that she just had to get the debt paid off as soon as possible so she could go home. She had noticed during her inspection the lack of a phone in her room. Her father could not afford a cell phone so they managed with the less than modern technology of a landline. Still, she hoped her employer would let her call home once in a while.

Caterina left the bathroom and walked back to the bed to unpack her clothing. When she opened the wardrobe door, she found some clothes already there. There were extra hangers for her use, so she hung up her shirts and a couple of plain dresses, then packed her pants and underthings in the drawers. Her hands brushed over the pieces already there, surprised to find they didn't feel inexpensive. How did they even know her size, she wondered. Tucking her bags into the back corner of the wardrobe, she went to lie down on the bed. She would nap until someone came for her.

Guiseppe had come to Mario's cottage to see Caterina. He had become besotted of her the first time he had seen her at the farmer's market held in the village every weekend. Her long brown hair and hazel eyes had instantly entranced him. It was then he decided he would have her for his wife. Unfortunately, she had no such feelings about him. He was a brute in her eyes, uninterested in anything but hunting. He would spends days off in the countryside, looking for prey to bring home. He would brag to her about the animals he would catch to bring home, with a vision of Caterina preparing them for his meals. She was disgusted by Guiseppe however. He always smelled of tobacco, beer, and sweat. He hated reading, and she feared if she was forced to marry him, he would take away all her books. Being here and away from him was the only good thing about her servitude to this Master Marcus.

When Caterina awoke, she noticed the shadows in her room had lengthened. She looked at the clock to see it was after 3:00 pm. When she rubbed her eyes, her stomach also reminded her of the time. She was hungry, but where to find food. She'd been told she would get to eat before meeting her taskmaster.

There was a knock on her door, prompting Caterina to run to the bathroom to wash her face and run the brush through her hair. She straightened her clothing and went to the door, opening it. It was the tall silent man who had showed her to her room.

"Hello, miss. I was told to take you to the kitchen now, if you're..."

"Hungry. Yes, I am, thank you." She slipped on her shoes and smiled up at the man. "What is your name, if I may ask."

"I'm Felix. Come this way." He led her down corridor after corridor. How would she learn the maze of this place if she was supposed to be cleaning it? What she did like was the number of paintings she saw hanging on the walls as they passed by. Were they real or mere copies? She'd have to ask Master Marcus when she met with him.

"Felix, when will I be meeting Master Marcus?"

"You will meet him when he calls for you." After passing through a wider corridor, Caterina saw a large room to her left. It was brightly lit, the sun coming through skylights lining a large dome. There were pillars all around, and in the time it took to pass the open doors, she saw words in Latin lining the upper portion near the ceiling. She hoped to get the royal tour of this place. What little she saw so far was proving to be fascinating.

Finally, the pair reached the kitchen. A man wearing a full apron asked her to take a seat at a long table. He set a plate in front of her. "If you want more, just ask, miss."

"Did you cook all this? It looks delicious." She noticed Felix standing just inside the kitchen door. "You're not eating?"

"I have already eaten," Felix said, lookig straight ahead. When he thought the human was not looking, he would sneak a glance at the master's new housekeeper.

Giving a small shrug, Caterina started her meal of roast beef, new potatoes, steamed vegetables, and fresh hot bread. Everything tasted wonderful, and she found herself devouring her food quickly. When the chef had seen she'd finished, he offered her a large piece of chocolate cake with a glass of cold milk. Caterina noticed plates lined up on the counter being filled with food by someone else. So there were other staff members here, but then, why did she have to eat alone?

She also assumed those who lived here didn't eat in the kitchen. There must be a separate dining room for them. It just made her want to be given a tour of the castle all the more. But, no, that would not be possible. After all, she was just another worker here, no better than a servant.

Once she finished her dessert, she thanked the man she assumed was the chef and went over to Felix. "I'm done. Now what?"

"I'll take you to Master Marcus."

Caterina followed Felix out of the kitchen and back into the maze of corridors. She realized her hands were trembling. She was finally going to meet the man who had taken her from her father and her home without any consideration. "Felix, what kind of man is Master Marcus?"

"Just be respectful, answer any questions truthfully, and do what you're told."

Well, that told her what was expected of her, not what he was like. She held hands together, trying to stop them from shaking. Sometimes, she would accompany her father to the market, and meeting their customers was part of the fun. Never had she been so afraid to meet someone until now.

Felix stopped at a set of double doors made of heavily carved wood. He reached up with a hand and knocked. A voice came from inside the room, telling them to enter. Opening the doors, Felix stepped aside for his young charge to go in, then shut the doors and waited outside.

When Caterina entered the room behind Felix, she saw a tall man but one not quite as tall as her escort. He was in the center of the ante-room, standing impossibly straight in a plain black suit with a black shirt and tie, his hands behind his back. She glanced down at the rug on the floor, afraid to look up at him, but long, cold fingers moved beneath her chin, forcing her to look up. It was then she saw he had long dark hair and skin so pale, he must never go out into the sun. His brown eyes gazed at her with no evident emotion.

Talking an involuntary step backwards, Caterina decided she had to be brave, and show it. It wouldn't do to have this man think he could walk all over her.

Marcus walked around the young woman, satisfied with her appearance. He wondered what her personality was like. As long as she wasn't uneducated, frightened to the point of being useless, or too defiant, he would let her stay. How many other servants had been dismissed, permanently, due to incompetence or their constant inclination to run away? None had proven defiant though, once the fear took over.

He decided she was pretty enough and strong too, thus acceptable. He was glad to see she was not some ill-fed waif. "Tonight, you will dine with me. Seven o'clock. Be ready promptly. Felix will bring you to me."

She flinched at what sounded like an order. So this is what she was going to have to deal with.

"I will tell you then what I expect of you as far as your duties are concerned. You will be my personal maid. We have staff to take care of the palazzo, so you will be responsible for me and my rooms alone. Anyway, we will talk about this later. Have you any questions?"

"Not at the moment, sir...uh ...Master Marcus. I'm yours to do whatever work you require of me, for the time I'm here." There, so at least he knows she doesn't plan on staying forever.

"Very well, that will do for now, Caterina. We will talk later." Marcus stood before the woman, detecting some spirit within her, but he was not surprised at her initial timidity. Humans, like animals, had some innate sense to not trust his kind. He abruptly turned his back on her and walked to his bedroom.

So she was being dismissed? At least he knew her name. Caterina hadn't known if she should introduce herself, since he hadn't asked her for it. Felix came in, oddly knowing when the audience was over. She followed him out into the corridor.

Felix gave her an encouraging smile and led her back to her room. "I think you will do fine. Master Marcus is not the easiest to serve. Kindness is not a strong point, but he has endured much over the cen...over time. He can have fits of anger as well. Avoid those if you can."

Caterina nodded absently, her mind filled with a mix of emotions. Curiosity, interest, excitement, and yes, fear.

Marcus paced in his bedroom, thinking about his new maidservant. She was better than he had expected. Perhaps he would be able to create a bond between them in time, and she would agree to stay with him. No one before her had proven to be suitable. Marcus wanted this to work. He needed it to work.

Sitting in his favourite chair, the vampire contemplated his fate. His human existence in Greece had been cursed by a powerful witch many hundreds of years ago. when he had insulted her by refusing her hospitality during a night storm. The result was she had taken his humanity away and turned him into a vrykolakas, a vampire.

If you choose to show no compassion to anyone, your heart will cease to beat, yet you will live on as a creature who must feed off the humans you so callously ignored. You will remain alone in your life, unloved by anyone. Until such time you find a woman who can accept you as you are, one for whom you can feel true love, this will be your existence.

Marcus wasn't alone. He was with his brothers in blood, Aro and Caius. The Guard protected them and this castle, as well as patrolled the vampire world to keep their kind in line. But he was a lonely man who longed for the touch of a woman, someone to talk with, someone with whom to share his existence. Would Caterina be the one?

A/N : So Caterina has met her employer, someone who is an instant mystery to her. Will the two come to a mutual agreement of live and let live, or will sparks fly.

#the volturi #volturi fanfiction #marcus volturi #felix volturi #demetri volturi #Beauty and the Beast

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