Quick smoke after s!x 🔥
Today's Document

titsay

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Misplaced Lens Cap
Peter Solarz
d e v o n
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

Origami Around
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

shark vs the universe
trying on a metaphor
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
Jules of Nature

Kaledo Art

No title available
noise dept.
Sade Olutola
No title available
will byers stan first human second

seen from Brazil
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia
seen from South Korea

seen from Italy
seen from Brazil

seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Portugal
@sophisticatedduck
Quick smoke after s!x 🔥
Something that only I've just realized now
I've always wondered why and how ithaquas hands were like that, completely black
It just occurred to me today that it's probably a severe case of frostbite 😭
Poor baby was out in the snow so much, hunting and such, that his hands gave in to severe frostbite
He IS wearing his gloves though lol
Oh I assumed it was his actual hand because of the nails growing out
I DID TOO FOR THE LONGEST TIME LOL I’m pretty those nails are made out of the same thing as his stilts? He’s a crafty guy lol
That's actually pretty cool :0
I know he's fictional and all but the idea that he might have done this with intention, y'know to add to his perception of being a monster/beast makes it an even more interesting design choice
Something that only I've just realized now
I've always wondered why and how ithaquas hands were like that, completely black
It just occurred to me today that it's probably a severe case of frostbite 😭
Poor baby was out in the snow so much, hunting and such, that his hands gave in to severe frostbite
He IS wearing his gloves though lol
Oh I assumed it was his actual hand because of the nails growing out
Something that only I've just realized now
I've always wondered why and how ithaquas hands were like that, completely black
It just occurred to me today that it's probably a severe case of frostbite 😭
Poor baby was out in the snow so much, hunting and such, that his hands gave in to severe frostbite
wip.
Gwylan 🍃💚 | Bday gift for a friend :D ~
Notes on Writing Chronic Pain
WARNING! THIS IS A LONG POST!!
If reading about pain, physical limitations, or chronic illness might trigger difficult memories or feelings for you, please skip this post. I don't want to cause you harm. I know how it feels when those memories surface unexpectedly.
Or If you do read this and have your own insights to add, please share them in the comments. Other writers trying to portray this experience authentically would benefit from hearing your perspective.
Take care of yourself first. 🌙
︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵
I made this post because I keep reading chronic pain and chronic illness written like a temporary inconvenience. Like it’s just a bad day. Or something a character “pushes through” once and then conveniently forgets about.
So, quick reminder before we start. Chronic illness is NOT a plot obstacle you overcome. It’s NOT a lesson. It’s NOT character development wrapped in pain and tied with a neat bow.
It does not end. It does not politely wait until the scene is over. And it does not care about pacing.
Chronic pain is a background condition. It’s always running. Even when nothing is happening. Especially when nothing is happening. Characters don’t “deal with it” and move on, they carry it. Every day. And this isn’t about romanticizing suffering or turning pain into aesthetic whump content. This is about REALISM, RESPECT and about remembering that a body can be both strong and unreliable at the same time.
So before we get into the details, just keep this in mind: If your character can forget their illness when it’s inconvenient to the plot, then it’s NOT chronic. It’s a prop.
Okay. Now we can start (sorry) …
⸻ Mornings are not fresh starts. Mornings are negotiations with a body that hates them. And these aren't heroic negotiations, okay? These aren't "I will push through and conquer" moments. These are small, pathetic, exhausting little bargains that make them feel like they're losing before the day even starts.
"If I roll onto my left side really, really slowly, maybe my lower back won't seize up like a rusted engine."
"If I sit up in stages, maybe I won't get the head rush that makes the ceiling spin and my vision go sparkly."
"If I put my feet on the floor one at a time and wait thirty seconds between each one, maybe my knees won't feel like they're full of broken glass."
Getting out of bed is not automatic. Healthy people just... do it. They swing their legs out, stand up, walk away. It's nothing. For someone with chronic pain, it's a strategy game they've been playing for months or years, and they are so tired of playing it. They're tired before they even start. The game is rigged and they know it and they have to play anyway because what's the alternative? Stay in bed forever? (Some days that sounds great, actually. Some days they do.
⸻ They learn their body's limits the way people learn weather patterns, and not because it's interesting, not because they want to, but because repetition beats it into them. This movement is fine. That movement is a maybe. That movement over there? That's a fucking mistake and they will pay for it three hours from now, or tonight, or tomorrow morning.
BECAUSE pain has delayed consequences.
You can do something that feels totally fine in the moment, like pick up a bag of groceries, reach for something on a high shelf, sit in a slightly wrong position for twenty minutes, and your body will send you the bill later. Maybe that night. Maybe the next day. You don't always know what you did wrong. You just know you're being punished for something, and you have to play detective with your own body to figure out what the hell you did to piss it off this time.
So they get cautious. Weirdly cautious. Other people see someone who's slow, careful, hesitant. What they don't see is the constant mental calculus: "Is this worth it? Will this cost me later? Can I afford this movement right now or am I already overdrawn?"
⸻ Pain changes how your brain works. Not in a cute, quirky way. In an annoying, frustrating, isolating way.
They drift mid-conversation. They lose the thread of what someone's saying. Their eyes glaze over. And it's not because they don't care, they probably care a lot, they probably want to be present, but their brain is already working overtime just tracking their body's constant error log. It's like trying to have a conversation while someone's car alarm is going off right next to you. Except the car alarm is inside their body and it never stops.
Background noise becomes unbearable. The hum of the refrigerator. Someone chewing. A dog barking three houses away. Sounds they'd normally tune out feel like they're scraping directly on their nerves. Because their nervous system is already maxed out, already overstimulated, already running at 100% capacity just managing the pain. There's no buffer left for normal life stuff.
Small discomforts stack. The tag in their shirt. The waistband of their pants. The temperature of the room. The brightness of the light. Individually, these things are nothing. Together, when their pain is already at a 6 or 7 out of 10, they become everything. Everything feels loud and wrong and too much, and they can't explain why they're suddenly upset about the texture of their socks without sounding unhinged.
⸻ The lies they tell (Mostly to Themselves): "It's fine.", "I'm used to it.", "It's not that bad today.", "I've had worse." They say these things constantly. To friends, family, coworkers, doctors, themselves. And this isn't them being strong or tough or brave. This is SURVIVAL.
Because if they reacted honestly every single time something hurt, they would never do anything ever again. They'd be a sobbing mess on the floor 24/7. So they learn to lie. They learn to minimize. They learn to put on the "I'm fine" face and wear it like armor, even when they're absolutely not fine, even when everything hurts, even when they want to scream.
And People believe them. People take "I'm fine" at face value because it's easier than dealing with the reality. So the character keeps saying it. Keeps performing okay-ness. Keeps pretending. Until they almost forget what the truth feels like.
⸻ Flare-ups are not predictable. This is important. Writers love to make pain logical "they overdid it yesterday so today they're suffering" and sure, sometimes that's true. But mostly flare-ups come from nothing. Or from everything. Or from something so small and stupid it feels like a big cosmic joke.
The weather changed. Barometric pressure dropped. They slept slightly wrong, not even in a weird position, just... wrong. They were stressed. They weren't stressed enough. They did too much. They did too little. Their body decided, for no reason at all, that today is a Bad Pain Day. There's no pattern. No logic or fairness. And that's the horror of it. They can do everything right, like eat well, sleep well, pace themselves, take their meds, and still wake up in agony. Or they can do everything wrong and feel mysteriously okay. There's no control.
⸻ PAIN AFFECTS MEMORY. This is real and documented and nobody fucking talks about it enough.
They forget words mid-sentence. Forget what they walked into a room for. Forget plans they made yesterday. Forget entire conversations. Their brain is so busy processing pain signals that everything else gets fuzzy and distant and hard to hold onto.
Pain affects focus. They start tasks and abandon them halfway through. They read the same paragraph five times and retain nothing. They zone out during important meetings and have no idea what was said.
Pain affects mood. They're irritable. Snappish. Short-tempered. They snap at someone they love over something tiny and feel immediately, crushingly guilty. Or they withdraw completely, go quiet and distant, because explaining why they're upset (they're not upset, they're just in pain, but pain makes everything feel like being upset) is almost as exhausting as the pain itself.
⸻ IMPORTANT: Pain meds DON'T make pain vanish. Anyone who thinks they do has never taken them for chronic pain.
They blur it. Muffle it. Turn the sharp stabbing into a dull ache. Trade the ice-pick-in-the-spine for a whole-body heaviness. The pain is still there. It's just quieter, Like someone turned down the volume but didn't change the station. And there's a trade-off. ALWAYS.
They can think clearly and hurt more, or hurt less and think through fog. Neither option feels good. Both feel like loss. They have to choose between being present-but-suffering or comfortable-but-absent. Between doing their job well while gritting their teeth or doing it poorly while floating three feet outside their own body.
Some days they skip the meds because they need to be sharp for something important. And they suffer for it. Some days they take the meds and feel guilty about being sluggish, slow, not themselves. There's no winning. Just different ways of losing.
⸻ AND YES PLEASE. There are GOOD DAYS.
Days when the pain is a 3 instead of a 7. Days when they can move almost normally. Days when they almost feel like themselves again.
And good days are fragile. They treat them like spun glass. They're careful not to push too hard, not to overdo it, not to ruin it. They hoard good days. Savor them. Try to squeeze every possible moment of normal out of them before they end.
But good days are also haunted. Haunted by the knowledge that this is temporary. That the pain will come back. It always comes back. So they can't fully relax into the good day, can't fully enjoy it, because they're waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the pain to return. Bracing for it. And sometimes, the good day makes the next bad day worse. Because they overdid it (or their body thinks they did). Because they forgot to be careful. Because they got a taste of normal and their body punished them for it.
SOOOOOO...... Chronic pain doesn't pause your life. It doesn't press the big red STOP button on everything you are and want to be. It just makes everything harder. More complicated. More exhausting. But people still do things. They still have lives. They still want things, achieve things, love things, create things.
So let them.
Let them fall in love. Let them get butterflies and stay up too late texting someone and feel that giddy, ridiculous hope, even though they're lying in bed at a careful angle with a heating pad pressed to their lower back. Let the excitement be real. Let the pain be real. Let both things exist in the same moment because that's how life actually works.
Let them be good at their job. Let them be the person everyone goes to for answers, the one who trains new people, the one who solved that problem nobody else could figure out. Let them have expertise and competence and pride in their work. Let them also need to sit down halfway through their shift. Let them work from home on bad days and still deliver excellent results. Let their pain not erase their capability.
Let them make art. Let them write or draw or play music or build things with their hands, even if their hands hurt. Let them have to stop frequently, shake out the stiffness, take breaks. Let the process take three times longer than it used to. Let them finish anyway. Let them create something beautiful while their body protests every minute of it. Let the art matter more than the pain.
Let them be a good friend. Let them show up for people. Let them remember birthdays and give thoughtful advice and send memes at 2 AM and be someone their friends genuinely treasure. Let them also cancel plans sometimes. Let them do both. Let their friendships survive the cancellations because they're worth keeping around. Let them be loved not despite the pain but as a whole person who includes it.
Let them have hobbies that aren't "gentle" or "pain-friendly." Let them hike, even if they have to go slow and take breaks and choose easier trails than they used to. Let them garden, even if they can only do twenty minutes at a time and need a special stool. Let them dance in their kitchen to a song they love, even if it's just swaying, even if they'll pay for it later. Let them decide it's worth it.
Let them be funny. Let them crack jokes about their own situation, dark humor, self-deprecating humor, whatever gets them through. Let them make their friends laugh until they cry. Let them be the funny one in the group, not the tragic one. Let their personality be bigger than their pain.
Let them travel. Let them plan trips carefully, build in rest days, choose accessible options, bring extra medication. Let them also stand at the edge of the Grand Canyon or on a beach in another country or in a museum they've wanted to visit for years. Let them have those moments. Let them ache the whole time and still think it was worth it.
Let them raise kids. Let them be parents who play on the floor (for ten minutes, then need to get up). Let them coach little league from the bench. Let them braid hair and help with homework and give piggyback rides on good days and watch from the sidelines on bad days. Let their kids love them fiercely. Let them be good parents who sometimes hurt too much to lift their toddler and find other ways to connect instead.
Let them get promoted. Let them achieve the thing they've been working toward. Let them earn recognition, respect, success. Let them also need accommodations. Let them work from home sometimes or take breaks or use mobility aids. Let these things coexist. Let their pain not disqualify them from ambition.
Let them be vain. Let them care about how they look. Let them dress up, do their makeup, style their hair, feel hot. Let them choose comfort sometimes and fashion other times. Let them navigate the trade-off and make different choices on different days. Let their pain not steal their relationship with their own appearance.
Let them be angry about something else. Let them rage about politics or injustice or a book ending they hated. Let their emotional life be about more than pain. Let them have opinions and passions and causes they care about. Let them protest, advocate, argue, fight for things that matter. Let their pain not consume their entire identity.
Let them forgive themselves. Let them have days where they accept their limitations without shame. Let them say "I can't do that today" without spiraling into self-hatred. Let them be gentle with themselves sometimes. Let it be a hard-won skill they're still learning. Let them get better at it slowly.
Let them grieve and let them live. Let both be true at the same time. Let them miss their old body and also appreciate what their current body can still do. Let them mourn what they've lost and celebrate what they've kept. Let them contain multitudes.
Let them be whole people. Complicated people. People who hurt and also people who laugh, achieve, love, create, connect, matter.
Let their pain be part of their story, not the whole story.
Let them succeed and hurt.
Let them live and hurt.
LET THEM BE REAL.
Hihi! The five love languages with hernando and richard was fun to read
Could i ask if you'd be able to do the same with Ithaqua and Joseph please 👀
joseph + ithaqua x gn!reader headcanons || the 5 love languages
a/n: HI!!! i had so much difficulty with joseph's words of affirmation part. im so sorry LOL. anyways i loved writing these two! they were very fun. joseph's might be ooc though, i didn't wanna bother my friend again to help me with proof reading. please enjoy!!!
tw: none
If it's not too much trouble, could you maybe please write about force kissing with Ithaqua, Andrew and maybe Antonio? Your headcanons are just delicious and you seem to have a really good grasp of the characters. Keep up the good work!
Finally answering my asks... I PROMISE I DIDN'T FORGET YOU GUYS I'M JUST SO SLOW!!! More forced kissing! Ask and you shall receive <3 and a reminder I did say I was changing how i would write these to make it easier on myself :) CW: forced kissing, forced touching, stalking, alcohol, predator/prey
Andrew has always been a yearner, fantasizing himself with you and watching before ever actually approaching.
His fear of losing you outweighs his fear of rejection in time. When Andrew confesses to you, you try to let him down easy. He finds himself unable to accept it, begging you almost pathetically on his knees, gripping at your waist… his grip is rather strong.
Stronger than you thought.
Clouded by emotion and desperation Andrew overpowers you, looming, grip too tight, body too close and breathing ragged.
His heartbeat thrums through his whole body as he presses his mouth against yours, slotting his lips against your own. It's wet and forceful and unpracticed… and he shivers, squeezing his eyes shut.
You feel so soft and wonderful and warm- Andrew doesn't ever want to let go or pull away but you start to struggle, your face getting wet with tears. He feels his head get light and hes forced to pull back, panting for breath…
Ithaqua is not one for romance, losing pieces of his humanity over time and becoming more of a beast than a man. It's taken its toll, he acts more on instinct, so when his heart quickens upon seeing something small, helpless, vulnerable he feels the need to hunt.
You're like a small bird, something he easily catches and pins to the ground, trying to squirm your way out to flee. He has no desire to kill you though, no. He sniffs up your neck, licking at your skin. He surprises himself when he pushes your lips together, another instinctual act, it's a messy, weak attempt at a kiss, all teeth and soon tongue, no finesse, but a kiss none the less. He pauses when you cry and turn your face away, panting and studying you for a moment, it's a brief respite before he captures your lips with his own once more, gripping your jaw now so you won't turn away again. Ever the astute hunter, he doesn't want his prey to escape so quickly…
Antonio longs for the romance he once had, easily finding some small feature you had shared and projecting that love onto, letting it turn into obsession.
He corners you while drunk, all lingering touches and playing with the ends of your hair- it’s a mockery of intimacy. Hair slithering across flesh, chilling breath against your mouth before he kisses you, almost hesitant for the briefest moment.
It’s all forced passion and teeth, Antonio’s lost his tenderness, you can taste the wine on his tongue as he forces it past your lips to deepen the kiss. Long fingers tangled into your hair, tightening when you squirm and whine. He groans, a perverse and eerie sound that reverberates against your lips before withdrawing and retreating, as if he were never there only leaving a lingering chill.
I ABSOLUTELY LOVED THE JOSE POST GGGGRAGHHHH would u mind doing something like it with ithaqua :333333
Yes :33. Sorry about saying id be very active today, I forgot I had some volunteer work this afternoon and had more on my plate than I thought I would.
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Ithaqua | Night Watch with an adoring s/o headcanons
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Tw : mentions of dependency
Extra : I have a similar ish scenario to this so it may seem similar to a previous work, but I’m happy to elaborate or update headcanons any time.
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Ithaqua x Reader
Didn't intend to make a part two but that's what it ended up as.
Part one is here ->
💬 0 🔁 2 ❤️ 30 · Ithaqua x Reader This is more like a first encounter between them both. I did take some creative liberties for the mechan
Cast: Ithaqua, Professor, Toy Merchant and Batter
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ohh, how you hate it!
Hate this sick, twisted game that you're forced to play repeatedly. It didn't matter that slowly you were getting used to these games. What sick bastard puts another person through this?
You were currently decoding the first cipher in the Sacred Heart Hospital, keeping an anxious eye on the wrist device that regularly sends updates between you and your team.
After that last game, which you somehow managed to escape through the dungeon, you reported the broken one that almost cost you your escape. You had hoped that you would be given time to recover before moving onto the next. A week at least to also recuperate from your injuries. Unfortunately, you were merely given a day to recover before they strapped a working one to your wrist and dropped you at the next game. You've participated in two games since. One a victory, the other a tie. Miraculously you still hadn't lost by the Rocket Chair. You'd take injuries over that any day.
Secret Meeting
. . .
Alice glanced at him from the other side of the table. The others, still focused on their breakfast and quiet conversations, hardly noticed the small smile she offered him the moment he glanced back. Norton blinked slowly with an almost gloomy look in his eyes, before looking back down without any change in his expression. She averted her gaze towards her plate, her fruit only half-eaten and coffee untouched. Within a few minutes, his chair squeaked across the floor as he sat up and walked out of the dining room without a word to anybody, and no one paid any mind to his exit except for her.
She could hardly remember the last time they were alone together. A few spare moments in the living room, or accidentally running into him in the greenhouse? Maybe they’d be fortunate enough to find each other in one of the manor’s horrid games, but it always ended with one of them sacrificing themselves for the other, then it’s back to the manor, rinse and repeat for eternity. But then, there was the nighttime, where everyone in the manor was asleep, and there was no need to hide or worry about somebody finding them.
She excused herself from the table and walked away from the dining room, up towards the main hall of the manor. Nighttime…
The halls of the manor were silent, the only sound being the soft rainfall that pattered against the windows. Alice covered the dim light of her candle with her hand, trying to be as discreet as possible, even when it came to the quiet creaking of her footsteps upon the hardwood. The small flame quivered alongside her trembling hands, now littered with faint, pinkish marks from her teeth. Still, despite her betraying hands, she remained determined in her plans. She only hoped that Norton would still be awake at this hour, but having known him for all this time, she was sure that he was.
She beat her knuckles gently against his door, looking down the hallway to make sure nobody had awoken from the sound, then took a step back. The sound of footsteps grew closer and closer, until the door carefully creaked open, and she could see a sliver of his body staring at her. He seemed irritated at first, but upon realizing it was only her, his gaze softened slightly.
“May I come in?” she whispered.
He poked his head through the door, examining the darkness that surrounded them, then nodded.
“Yeah.”
The moment she stepped inside and placed her candle on the desk, Norton had already locked the door. She could see him a bit better in the moonlight, how his hands, now naked without his usual gloves, were littered with scars and burns that trailed up his arm. His suspenders were off his shoulders and hung loosely at his sides, and he was wearing a pale undershirt. She decided to wear her usual nightgown, her hair unbraided and falling down her back.
Nothing was said between them. He stood with his forehead against the door, as if listening for people outside, before turning around and crossing his arms, his back against the wall. He looked exhausted, but his eyes, usually dull and seemingly empty, seemed to glow with a pale gleam, like he was on the verge of tears. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but she already knew the answer, and he likely wouldn’t give her a proper response.
“I missed you.”
He didn’t say anything. Alice started walking towards him, and his eyes glanced up from the ground to watch each step she took. Gently, she held the sides of his face, his stubble poking into her hands, then leaned forward and kissed him. A small, nervous sound left his throat, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he uncrossed his arms and put one hand on her waist, the other tucking her hair behind her ear. Even something as simple as kissing felt unfamiliar, and the memory of the last time they did something like this seemed so distant. The world, the manor and the endless games, all of it slowly faded away until it was just the two of them, alone in this room, free from the chaos that festered just outside the door.
Norton pulled away with a soft gasp of air, trying to catch his breath, then buried his face in the side of her neck, pulling her closer.
“I want to get you out of here,” he mumbled. “God, I hate this.”
This, the manor, the mere small, quick glances at each other in the hallway, the watching the other person die in matches time and time again. If she tried to reassure him, promise him that they would escape together one day, would that be a lie? She ran her fingers through his black curls, one of the many things she mentally noted that he liked throughout their time in this purgatory. Slowly, his fingertips trailed up the faint indent of her spine through her nightgown, as if memorizing every detail of her through touch.
Then, his hand traced random patterns across her back, and it didn’t take long for her to realize he was caressing the faded scars on her skin, hidden beneath her nightgown. She didn’t want to think about them, about the people who gave them to her, not tonight. Alice took a small step backwards, but before he could apologize, her lips were on his again. The scent of him clouded her mind, something like soil and rain, as she held him tighter. His hands, they were trembling at her sides, gripping the white fabric of her clothes. She pulled back to let him breathe, but he only responded by kissing her harder, despite the growing irritation in his lungs.
“Norton.” She turned her head away. “Don’t push yourself, please.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said, though the sound of his strained voice struggling to speak betrayed him. His lips trailed along her nose, her forehead, her eyelids, any inch of skin she allowed him to touch.
The arms around her waist hoisted her off the floor and seated her on his desk. Alice closed her eyes and felt his breath graze the side of her throat, just above her pulse, before he finally leaned forward and kissed the soft rhythm that beat against her neck. Her nails sank into his shoulder, leaving crescent-shaped marks along the already scarred flesh. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, all she could sense was the earthy smell of him and the feel of his body so close to hers. Warm tears, his tears, dampened her skin and her nightgown, yet neither of them could speak properly enough to acknowledge it. His mouth molded together with hers once more and the manor seemed to slip away from their thoughts.
“I love you.”
The words rippled from her lips and into the air like white circles fading in a pond. He was quiet, his eyes still carrying that soft gleam in the moon’s glow, until the corner of his mouth twitched upwards ever so slightly, as if in disbelief.
His forehead fell against hers, strands of their hair mingling in threads of black and gold.
“I love you too.”
. . .
fresh from the notes app
i love a yan that posits themselves as totally harmless to lure you in and then once they have you in their clutches they close on you like a venus fly trap
imagine waking up next to this evil pretty guy.....AAAAAAA dammmm btw don´t know if i gonna render this shi buttt maybe? ?? (lazy XD)
the junkyard always smelled like rust and oil, heat clinging to your skin no matter how late it got. tamsy caines leaned back against a stack of broken scrap, arms crossed, eyes sharp with that lazy, dangerous amusement he wore like a second skin. he had been watching you all evening, letting you talk, letting you pace, letting you pretend this wasn’t already his game.
you stepped closer, jaw tight, voice steady even though your pulse gave you away. “you don’t scare me,” you said, chin lifted, fingers curling at your sides as if daring him to test that claim.
his grin spread slowly, sharp in a way that made your stomach dip - because he knew better. he pushed off the scrap and closed the distance with unhurried steps, crowding into your space until the heat of him pressed against you. one hand came up, hovering near your waist, a promise more than a threat.
“i like it when you pretend you’re in control,” he murmured, grinning.
the words sank under your skin, intimate and taunting. you swallowed, refusing to step back, even when his thumb finally brushed your hip, light enough to make your breath hitch. tamsy’s gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes, as if cataloguing every reaction, every crack in your composure.
“look at you,” he continued softly. “standing there like you’re not already wound tight.”
you reached for him before you could think better of it, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt. the move earned a quiet laugh from him, pleased and unbothered, like he had expected it all along. his hand settled fully at your waist now, firm, grounding, holding you exactly where he wanted you.
“see?” he said, leaning in until his breath brushed your ear. “you do all the work for me.”
the closeness made everything feel louder. the scrape of metal in the distance. your breathing. the way his grip tightened enough to remind you who was really in charge. but when your forehead touched his, when his voice dropped into something quieter, more dangerous, it felt less like losing control and more like giving it to someone who knew exactly how to use it.
you knew one thing - tamsy caines never wasted anything.
windwalker, lifebringer
Tags: Pregnancy, Abandonment, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, The reader is pregnant but no sex or gender is mentioned, Yandere, Kidnapping, Not Beta Read, POV Second Person Summary: The night is cold on the Plateau of Leng when the man feared as "Ithaqua" comes upon the warmth of two heartbeats.
It was such an innocent question.
“Can I have some more, please?” you had asked your husband during one of your stops, your voice so soft it was nearly lost to the wind.
You hadn’t meant to be greedy. You hadn’t meant to eat more than your share. You hadn’t meant to leave him to starve on your journey.
But that’s what he accused you of the second your words reached his ears. He’d screamed in your face, cursed your name, grabbed the meat still cooking over the campfire between you and hurled it in your direction. And you had tried, so very desperately, to explain yourself and to calm him, but the fact that you were heavy with his child and in need of more nourishment than he was providing meant nothing to him.