Nicotine
He inhaled deeply. The sharp smoke gnawed at the throat, but he held his breath, suppresing an emerging cough, and closed his eyes as the fumes dispersed in his alveoli and the sweet poison reached his veins, numbing that feeling he had as his brain craved for a cigarette. Lessening the alarming tingle of adrenaline rush before every single one he lit.
His dark eyes stared at the bright young moon that shone almost blindingly above him and the village, making all the stars invisible in the perfectly black mass above him.
Slowly letting the air escape his lungs, he closed his eyes in a habit, even though the smoke didn't irritate them anymore. He loved this.
He knew it was bad for him. He knew he was being stupid for not even trying to quit. He knew succumbing to your addictions was a sign of weakness, but then again, when did he ever care about appearing weak?
Nicotine was his escape from his life when it got boring or unbearably monotonous, a little tint of brighter color in the greyness, a little excitement in the routine. It helped him relax - not that he ever had a problem when it came to lazy chilling, but who wouldn't like to double the feeling you love already?
So this was one of the things he couldn't resist to, yet fought it in his own way. Every cigarette marked something, some event, moment or even a split second of a feeling - he had a perfectly good justification for every time he flicked the lighter. He wasn't really giving in to this, rather he consciously chose when it was the time to repeat the vicious cycle. At least this was what he liked telling himself.
The day Asuma died. The day his dad died. The birth of Kurenai's child. Accidental finding of your childhood's toy. Sudden rain in the woods.
And now. He had a very good reason right now.
Her hand slid onto his bare shoulder and soon he felt her naked body against his back. He smirked, enjoying the softness against his scapular bones, feeling the chill that rippled on his skin as her hands wrapped around his stomach, the soft touch of her leg, trying to get between his. A gust of dry desert wind blew the smoke he exhaled right into her face and she puffed, irritated. He smiled, knowing she will later complain of tobacco in his hair.
Her fingers crept down, gently entangling in the hair that started right under his navel, and wrapped around something they have been searching.
Adrenaline rush all over again, and he hastily took another smoke before letting the half-burned stick fall over the balcony's rim. The feeling he got when their lips joined was way better than having a cigarette between them. And when she turned away, huffing about the smell, his nose dived under her ear, faintly smelling her perfume, his hands explored the skin he hadn't gotten used to touching yet – and that silent, intimate, involuntary sound, coming from her throat, compensated fully for that unsmoked half he threw away without hesitation moments ago.
He pulled her closer to his lips, and she answered so demandingly. He fell on the bed, and the blond curls fell on his face when she leaned down to kiss him, before sitting back up, slightly hoisting up, and coming down again with a groan that stirred his insides and made him want to answer the same.
Her breasts jumped as she moved, he barely saw the outline of them in the light coming through the window, but it was enough for now even though he knew he would never really get enough. He will be wanting to come back for more, repeatedly finding justifications for yet another craving.
She was the danger, despite you couldn't feel that in her current actions, yet secretly you knew very well. Perhaps this was what it made everything so exciting. Unlikely, proximate, indirect threat of death. The thing that follows you always and you sense it in every step, yet it catches you off guard every time. And suddenly you feel it so close to you in the moment so distinct, you can hear it breathing behind your back, and your hair stands up as it silently whispers.
And he closed his eyes again, completely giving up for his newfound addiction, letting the feeling devour him, watching her wild eyes ripping his own to pieces, listening to her scream that left him wanting for a session four, clinging painfully to her hips just like he never let go of his lighter, as for she was his nicotine.
Hey.
It has been a long time since I posted something here, so sorry about that - I was concentrating on the still ongoing Waiting game. Today I felt for something more intense, so I ended up with this short story.
I would be really delighted if you left me a review, dissecting this story, the description of addiction and the dark theme that surrounds him. I never smoked, so I have no idea if this is something at least remotely reminding of reality, but I hope I managed to portray what I wanted to.
And sorry for idealizing smoking in some of my stories! Do not smoke, it's not cool, despite how cool it seems in here. Joke joke.
Love as always,
Cafe
