Hobbit Smoking Novels & Stories

He grabbed an opener from his pocket, cocking the cap off while I still held it in my hand. And then, he grabbed a stick of cigarette from his pocket, bringing it to his lips and fishing for the light. “You shouldn’t smoke, you know?” I found myself saying. “It is bad for your health.” “I know.” “And you do it anyway?” “You are not here to talk about me, Anna,” he cut in with his obnoxious ease. Smoke followed from his lips, and he closed his eyes, as if taking it all in. He stayed that way for a while, his head pressed back against the stem of the tree.

“Tobacco can never be as good as cannabis.” Jackson raised a brow at him and shook his head. “Then why did you still take it?” He inquired. To be honest, he personally didn’t like cigarettes, and he didn't see why people take them. The smell alone annoys the shit out of him. But Jacob is different. He smokes everything and takes all kinds of drugs. “It's not good as cannabis doesn't mean it's not good,” Jacob answered, correcting his first statement, but Jackson just rolled his eyes at him before he noticed something.

“I guess I could…” Heath sighed and shook his head in rueful surrender. Rhett seemed to have taken the transformation to hybrid as an invitation to renew his smoking habit with enthusiasm. Heath recognized it as a coping mechanism – the loss of appetite for food and drink, the restriction of diet to blood only, leaving a space in his mate’s life, plus the stress of the situation returning to Havermouth with the populations’ eyes on him to help them in their changing world – and was trying hard not to come down too hard on his dark-haired mate about it, but he truly hated the set-in smell and taste of cigarettes of a habitual smoker.

Watching me with cunning attention, he leans a shoulder on the wall and takes a joint from his pocket. “Is that a habit?” I ask. “It helps to relax me when business is tense.” He scrutinizes me. “You don’t like it.” “I hate the smell of tobacco smoke. It has a way of clinging to a person’s hair and clothes and leaving a horrible stale smell in a room.” I wrinkle my nose. “Not to mention cigarette breath.” He breaks the joint in half and shoves the pieces back into his pocket. Something warm spreads through my chest, knowing he did that just because I hate the smell of smoke.

I hear Rob’s voice greet from somewhere behind me, rolling my eyes at the condescension in his tone. I swing around to face him, rolling a joint around in my fingers and plucking a lighter off of an end table. “Is it?” Rob frowns in disapproval as I bring the joint to my lips and light the end, the paper crackling. I keep my eyes trained on his as I inhale slowly, sweet marijuana smoke burning my throat and filling my lungs. “You’ve gotta stop throwing these parties.” I take another pull from the joint, staring down at it as I blow out the smoke and watch the paper curl and burn with orange embers, tempted to touch it. “Says who?

"But that's not even the most shocking part. Ava, he was smoking." I blinked, confused. "He was smoking? Like real smoke?”

He liked to do all the questioning. "A few months ago. I can't remember. I was really pissed off one day, someone offered me one and it seemed to calm me down for some reason. I don't smoke a lot, but I do smoke. So, get used to it. I'm not giving it up." I say casually like I was talking to an old friend or something. Not the most dangerous werewolf in the country. And I was lying about not smoking a whole lot. I smoked a lot more than what he would probably like.

Yup, if there was any doubt about it before, it’s crystal-clear that the guy spends most of his time at the gym. “Can werewolves even get high?” Wesley asks from the hallway. “Of course they can!” I shout. “And why do you ask?” “Because your bag smells like...herbs. And since you’re a werewolf, I’m wondering if you’re addicted to some sort of placebo...” “No one is addicted to...herbs.” Wesley appears at the door opening. “That’s what they all say, friends, family, everyone I’ve known to use it, yet they all continue to smoke it.”

one of them said as he began lighting a cigarette, humming like he didn’t just help try to murder and dispose of his Alpha’s body. “Hey, what the hell are you doing?” The other protested, his voice clear with anger at what his partner was doing. I imagined the smoker shrugging. “I’m catching a smoke, what does it look like I am doing?” He answered, leisurely disinterested in whatever his partner was trying to say. But the other warrior didn’t have it. He wanted the smoking warrior to stop his smoking so they wouldn’t get into trouble when the Alpha eventually came in.

Now was not the time to get distracted. "What was that?" "You heard me," I growled. "You're a fucking hypocrite. I just nearly got kidnapped - which you allowed! That's fucking stressful, too! If you can smoke when you're stressed, so can I!" "Goddess, help me," he grumbled. "I don't want you to die, Maise. Stop smoking." Brain matter is gray, for those wondering. I checked. "The likelihood of a werewolf getting sick from smoking is barely one percent. Besides, if you don't want me to die, why did you tell them they could have me?"