The Italian coast glittered around you. The sun turning the white cliffs and water to diamonds.

The sea was impossibly blue, bright enough to burn through your closed eyelids. You had melted bonelessly into the vinyl cushions at the bow with no intention of moving. Not from the overwhelming heat. The sun was warming its way through your skin to the marrow of you, turning your body loose and golden and heavy.

You were too hot. Overheated, definitely. Your breathing had gone shallow from it.

But it felt so good.

Eventually, you would roll off the side of the anchored yacht like some dramatic, half-dead thing and crash into the water to cool yourself down.

For now, you were content to sun like a spoiled lizard.

Till a shadow fell over you.

You did not open your eyes.

“You’re going to burn,” Damian said. “When’s the last time you applied sunscreen or drank water?”

“Mm.”

There was a disapproving sound above you. A click of his tongue. The sound your long-suffering husband always made when you were being unreasonable on purpose.

Then his hands were on you.

You whined, immediately going limp in protest. “Nooo, ’m all sweaty.”

He ignored you, of course. Gathered you to him with appalling ease, as if you were not a grown woman but some indignant cat. You made yourself dead weight just to be difficult, and he handled you anyway. He settled against the cushioned backrest and arranged you so you were lying atop him, front to his bare chest. His heartbeat slow under your squished cheek.

You huffed but made no attempt to move.

He tugged the strings of your bikini top, tossing the pesky thing away so he could run his broad hand lazily up and down the length of your spine uninterrupted.

“Open, beloved.”

You opened your mouth without opening your eyes to see what it was.

Blood orange burst over your tongue, sharply sweet and cold. Juice ran down the corner of your mouth before you could catch it.

Damian simply ducked his head, licking the red trail clean for you.

“Greedy,” you mumbled. Your eyes opened halfway to look up at him.

“My wife makes restraint difficult.” He placed another slice between his teeth and leaned close enough to make you lift your head for it. You took it from his mouth, licking your lips.  

You inspected the plate that sat beside you. Washed fruit, cut neat and pretty because he had no capacity to do anything carelessly. “Cherries next.” You demanded, because you had him wrapped around your finger and you both knew it.

And next came black cherries, dark and glossy as polished stones and already pitted. He hand-fed them to you one by one, letting your lips brush his fingertips every time. Crisp pears, cold and pale. Then blood orange again, peeled and segmented, ruby-bright and dripping between his fingers. He ate what you did not, had you lick the juice from his now sticky fingers, and kept his other possessive hand spread across the bare, sun-hot skin of your back.

Waves licked at the sides of the yacht and the whole world smelled like salt, sweat, citrus, and him.

You were still too hot. Still drowsy with it. Half-planning your escape to slip into the water.

But Damian’s chest rose and fell beneath you, steady and hot. His mouth pressed once to the crown of your head. His muscular arms wrapped around you, as if he had all the time in the world to keep you exactly where he wanted you.

So, you closed your eyes again.

DC Masterlist

WC: 619 (drabble)

This monstrosity inspired by ADHD medication and a conversation with my beloved @tastygoldentaters, 'mindfuck, but literal. Ego doms the superego into submission to manage social anxiety symptoms.'

Summary:

Genma's great at taking care of himself until he isn't. Sometimes the voices in his head just need a solid body for him to better argue against. Sometimes the voices in his head are right, and he needs to listen to them. Sometimes he just needs an outlet. For emotions. Or his dick. He's not picky. Shadow clones are great like that.

Unfortunately, shadow clones are also him, and him has opinions about how him has been living recently. Genma's a much more attentive listener when his mouth is occupied, he's found out, and his clone as zero qualms about putting him to work.

"No. You picked the slightly more pathetic version of your own left hand, you get to deal with the consequences."

(Or, Genma gets dommed by his genderbent shadowclone into slightly healthier thought patterns instead of doing his paperwork)

AO3:

Sansa stood before the heart tree and sighed.

She looked down at her dress and pulled her cloak tighter around her. Her head was already aching from the steel pins embedded with rubies stuck all over her piled upon hair that was twisted and turned with coils and ribbons.

The valyrian steel knife was tucked into the silk belt at her side. She felt Ghost saddle closer to her as the wind picked up even more. She turned her head as the chill crept down her spine to meet Bran's, or whoever it was inside of him, eyes.

"Are you sure this is the only way?" She murmured quietly.

"Yes. We were not prepared and the downfall started where you must go," the response was succinct but Sansa still could not bear to not argue one last time.

"If I succeed, Jon very well might not be born," she murmured.

"Then it will be another, but in this time, we have lost. Now, go make another song and see if it is right," Bran responded immediately.

Sansa nodded finally and walked to the heart tree as she had previously been instructed. She laid her hand to the side of the face and yelped when it felt as if the tree bit her. Blood began to pour from her palm as sap trapped her to the tree.

Blood and sap combined to pour down the white bark in stuttering rivers of red, trapping where the pieces were cracking and pooling into the opened mouth carving of the face.

Sansa felt her heart twist and she buried her hand in Ghost's fur and prayed he truly traveled with her. No longer did she doubt as her body felt as if it was being torn in a million pieces.

Looking back one last time, her mouth quirked as a simple, flighty though crossed her mind. She glanced down at Ghost and then to the summer silk beneath her heavy coat.

The vivid and deep color shine against her paler skin and her eyes closed as she felt herself collapse.

Moments, but year before, they opened again in the sunlit courtyard of a place she'd sworn never to return. Her head rested upon Ghost's belly and she struggled to stand before noticing the woman, several years her senior, standing wide eyed looking at her. She had the oddest feeling she had just appeared in front of them

Sansa felt her heart take courage from the fact she now stood beneath a heart tree where there had not been one years ahead of her now. She could feel the old gods eyes burning into her back and the sun burning down onto her hair. She allowed the cloak to fall from her shoulders.

Her eyes drifted to a man, younger than the woman, with hair long and silver like the mad dragon queen's had been, a patch over one eye.

Her lips quirked in the irony of what she felt as her path forward began to form.

I promised.

This is not what I wanted to do but I needed to figure out in my head how Elliot looks first. More coming your way. But... Just... Look at him....

It's a baybey... 😭❤

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

IM NOT CRYING IM NOT CRYING

yeah i’m crying

BABY BOY. BABY. B A B EEEEY. ugh lil BABY BLUE STOP IT THIS IS TOO GOOD.

THANK YOU SO MUCH WTF I DONT DESERVE THIS

Lyssa’s shoulders shook at the sound of his voice but she didn’t raise her head. Loki sat down, cross legged, waiting. After what seemed an eternity, she sat up, leaning her head back against the wall.

She swiped at the tears on her face, then drew a deep breath. Loki could see that her hands were shaking.

“I d-didn’t mean to disobey,” she whispered, softly. “I misjudged...I meant to be outside the stall, not in here with Sleipnir.”

“Are you hurt?” Loki asked, still not touching her.

“I’ve skinned my knees,” she replied. “Am I to be punished?”

“Considering the circumstances,” Loki responded, slowly. “I think your skinned knees are punishment enough, don’t you?

She nodded slightly, eyes still closed. After a moment, she moved to lay herself across his lap, her arms circling his bent knee, and her head on his leg.

“I’m beginning to believe that you s-should have left me behind when you had the chance,” she told him, before sobs took her again. “So much trouble.”

Loki started picking straw from her hair, not saying anything for several minutes.

“That deserves punishment,” he finally replied. “And where would that leave Asny?”

“I scared our child,” Lyssa said, miserably. “I heard her scream.”

Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen Princess Reader

𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: pregnancy has left you sickened by nearly every scent in oldtown. your only reprieve is burying your face in gwayne’s neck. though your poor husband rarely escapes without his pretty, pale skin thoroughly ravished.

𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: smut, romance, cockwarming, pregnant sex, p what p, poor gwayne, his wife is a menace, domestic fluff, 18+ MDNI

𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐚𝐧: in celebration of gwayne finally having a bath in hotd. don’t get me wrong, I would have 100% risked that STI for dirty Gwayne, but now we can all admire that pretty pale neck again…. anways! this is also a little thank you for the unexpected, wonderful reaction i received on my debut gwayne fic! this can be read as a continuation or a stand-alone.

𓏲ּ𝄢 𝐰𝐜: 1.3k (oneshot)

You were barely showing, just the softest swell beneath the silk of your abandoned nightgown, but the pregnancy had already made your stomach squeamish.

Gwayne sat with you in the wide armchair by the open balcony doors, the warm night air billowing the gauzy curtains with the scent of the bay and night-blooming summer flowers. You were settled fully in his lap, arms around his neck, bare skin against his, his cock buried deep inside you and simply… resting there. Warm and full from your first round. Neither of you moved. The slow, steady throb of him against your walls was enough. It soothed the deep soreness pregnancy had left you with, and that restless ache that forever made you want to live in his skin.

Your nose was buried in the pale column of his throat.

You could not get enough of the smell of him. Clean skin, faint traces of the cedar and orange soap the maids used on him, and underneath it the deeper, warmer scent that was purely your Gwayne.