POWER

you “don’t write black or PoC readers” because you “don’t know what it’s like to be black or PoC” but y’all have no problem writing wizards, dragons, elves, witches, supersoldiers, mutants, jedi, people from eras you haven’t lived in, monarchs, murderers, and stalkers

but PoC are too far outside of your lived experience?

you can write nuanced and diverse characters from all walks of life, but as soon as they don’t look exactly like you, suddenly that creativity vanishes, and all you have to draw from is stereotypes?

Should I write or?!!!!

I'm taking matters into my own hands 😫😫😫

I just need a chance Aaron.. Bullet Train (2022)

The Last Days of Summer Masterlist (Rafe Cameron x Heyward!OC)

warnings: violence, underage drinking, substance use, verbal abuse, jealousy, forbidden relationship, enemies to lovers, gaslighting manipulation, kidnapping, drugging

stuck in a situation she never dreamed of, Neriah Heyward blurs the line between Kook and Pogue; Rafe Cameron a witness.

inspired by the last day of summer

extras

Keep reading

I would've said yeah

Dear Diary

Summary: Smoke and Stack read your diary to find out you’ve been crushing on Stack more than him.

A/N: This was the dynamic I picked up on; Smoke is mean-ish and headstrong while Stack is playful and easy going. 

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: Sexual content

Looking through her online calendar, Tallie proceeds to make a note of the catering orders for the week ahead.

“Journal time!” She beams, reaching to the shelf for the notebook that keeps her thoughts, experiences and feelings a secret. But to no avail. She searched everywhere for it!

“For a pink fluffy hardcover, it should not be that hard to spot.” She mutters pacing around her room.

Meanwhile…

Smoke is running through the Club Juke ledger, while Stack creates the monthly ad for their social media pages.

“Since when do you keep a notebook?” Smoke asks his twin, pointing at the pink feathered jotter in the midst of their bookstand.

“Do I look like I even like writing?” he replies with a guffaws, lounging on velvet wood settee. With mild curiosity, Smoke wedges the jotter from it's place. The feathers on the spine tickle him as he glides a finger down the hardcover, opening the unknown jotter.

‘Dear diary, Today was a blast at Club Juke! They loved the food and it was great meeting the rest of the team-

“Cute.” a twitch forming at the corner of his lips, remembering the look of joy in Tallie’s eyes. He keeps reading with intrigue.

St and Sm kept me entertained again while doing their meal prep, and boyyyy was I grateful for the distraction. Sm was intimidating (as per usual) so it didn't bother me when he left. St stayed with me tho❤️  I love like when St's around. The playful glint of his eyes and wide stance when he lurks in the hall makes my thigh clench. and his eyes. his muthafreakin eyes! They just draw me in. I’d loveee to see 'em eyes roll back when/if I ride his fac-’

“Woah, that’s enough” Smoke mutters to himself

“You’ll never believe what’s been written on these pages” He shares, passing the jotter over to Stack with the leather tassel bookmark wedged open on the page in question.

Stack collects the jotter with a suspicious glance, taking in the feminine attributes of the dainty pages. He flips it closed to check for a name but there is none, he returns to the indicated page. As he reads, his eyebrows raise, he swallows spit causing his adam apple to bobble, before smirking.

“I think Tallie should swing by… we do need a meal prep soon” He grins, Smoke nods and drafts a note to send.

Back at Tallie’s…

A shiver shocks her bones, a superstition that a conversation is being had on her behalf. The diary is yet to be found and that makes her worry even more. In the wrong hands, it could spoil her good girl reputation. A ding is heard from the laptop resting on her desk; an email notification.

Meal prep requests from Smoke&Stack Twins. (Accept/Decline)

She smiles with relief while accepting the order, it’s always breeze cooking for them. Tallie shoots a quick reply to confirm the time and date.

———

With no luck, her diary remains lost and the appointment with the twins was here. She wanted to write a quick piece before seeing them, it would help keep her feelings at bay.

“I’ll be fine” She assures herself greeting the staff at the concierge and walking up to their floor. Tallie knocks on the door in a cheerfully way while waiting for someone to let her in.

Silence.

“They know I’m comin', right?” She says waiting patiently.

With another knock, a buzz of the bell and no response she lets herself in. The hallway is eerily quiet so she turns on the lights that lead to the kitchen. All the ingredients are already laid out on the prep corner of the kitchen counter. Butter, eggs, sugar, flour, vanilla extract, cinnamon, pecans; seems like the twins are craving pastries this week. Tallie hears a baritone mumble and quickly glances around the open plan room. Lo and behold Smoke has been lounging on the couch, the whole damn time. 

“Didn’t you hear the bell?!” She snaps at Smoke, he is the only one present. Her tone is sharp, yes, but not writing in the diary has left her on edge. Especially today... the hidden thoughts were running wild.

Choosing the perfect time to emerge, Stack walks in through the hallway in a regal terry cotton robe. She peers up at his face and eyes him to his feet. His hair is damp with the robe hung loosely around his torso. The belt not fully tied. She glances back up, his eyes already catching her lustful stare. Flustered, she looks down and then back to Smoke, who remains on the couch.

“Is she taking that tone with you or me?” Smoke asks turning to his twin with a mischievous smirk, to which Stack smirks back with a shrug.

“I don’t need to be here.” She whisper but not quietly enough. 

“Yeah but you want to be here… don’t you?” The mischief behind his smirk is now exposed as he point to the item in Smoke’s hand. Lifting up his left hand with a sway, you see the features of a very familiar notebook.

“That’s my diary!” She squirms. His back is faced away from her but she knew he is smirking like a cat that caught a canary. The flight or fight response has kicked in. Just as Tallie decides to make an attempt to run and snatch it, Stack strolls over to the kitchen counter shaking his head in warning. She freezes, glancing through her peripheral at Smoke still with her diary held high, the tassel moves…mocking her in an Irish jig. Stack steps closer to hover behind her, reading her bright eyes and steady breaths. The rope frees from its hold and leaves him open, chest bare and clad in fitting undergarments.

She gasps as he turns her flushed against the counter, facing the torment of her lust. His hands rest on the countertop, caging Tallie in. 

“Secret’s out brown sugar” He growls into her ear.

Smoke finally turns to face them, striding to the empty counter stool. He positions himself directly opposite Tallie and Stack, still smirking and flipping through the pages. She attempts to nab it back but is left bent at the waist and pressed on the surface. Stack remains behind her, tracing delicate touches across the small of her back. Keeping his hips still but firm enough for her to feel the warmth of his nether regions.

“Give it back!” She barks, suddenly fuelled by desire and fear.

“You need to watch that tone Tallie” Stack warns from behind her, removing his hand from her back and returning it to the countertop. She whimpers at the loss of his warm and rich touch.

“I knew you didn’t see me like how we both see you” Smoke starts “You sure do express yourself more on a page than in person.”

She response with a glare, keeping a sharp gaze on him and her silly little diary. ‘Don’t falter, don’t falter, don’t falter’ she thinks to herself, but Stack's gentle caress on her arm cause a shiver to crawl up her spine and lashes to flutter in want.

“I don’t know… what your talking abo-”

Stack smirks at her denial as he tugs Tallie upright, fitting into the curve of her back as he latches onto her neck. A loud mewl escapes her lips as he savagely nibbles, licks and sucks at the pulsing jugular.

“St-tack” she stutter intwining their fingers, pulling his hand to her bountiful chest. 

“Whose eyes do you want to see roll back?” Smoke demands, gloating at her demise. “Seems like it’s yours, huh?”

“W-whaa-?” Another moan slips out as Stack attacks her viciously. She always had a feeling that he had a way, with that thick tongue of his. From watching him wrap his joints to it poking out when he counts a stack of bills. Bring her back to the earthy plane, he eases off her neck moving to nibble at curve of her lobe.

“It is mine?” Stack asks, pressing the stiffening bulge of his thickness against the cleft of her rounded plump cheeks. All this while Smoke remains vigilant, stoic and unbothered.

“I-i want… w-want” she stutters, eyes flickering like a light in a horror movie, unable to handle the balance of Smoke’s smouldering gaze and Stack’s desire-filled touch. 

“Talk to us Tallie” Smoke mocks her, still firm in his demeanour.

“I want my diary back!” She cries out in longing and thirst. Being touched but not touched enough left her in a limbo. It felt like punishment. The teasing, the taunting, the edging  just because of her silly little diary. These men are a force to worship; more than just their aura, more than just their fierce gaze, everything.

“Still got tha’ tone on her Stack” Smoke says with a shrug of his hands and shoulders “You got work to do.”

He stands up and pushes the diary open on the last entry, the title ridicules her ‘Stack&Smoke twins’. Stack moves away from her space, she whines, eyes begging him not to let go.

“Relax” Smoke whispers smugly.

Stack crouches down, making his way under the flimsy fabric of her summer dress. Comfortably sat on the pristine marble flooring. With the back of his head resting against the cupboard doors, he looks up at her. The eyes that draw her in, the eyes that burn with so much compassion and power.

She looks down in acknowledgement, trapping his head between her warm supple thighs like a cushion. Smoke whistles. Her attention returns back to him as he winks. 

“I’d love to give you more, but that diary’s in your hands now.” He states, stroking the tent formed by his covered length. Deviously taking in her expression.

Her breath hitches at the gentle swat across her southern breed cheeks.

“And so it begins” She hears Stack mumble beneath her. 

He grips the thighs, holding her in place. The fabric of her panties is transparent, the wetness creating a friction. With the tip of his nose sliding against her covered lips.

His tongue follows the out line of her puffy lips through the fabric. tracing each curve up to her pulsing swollen clit and down to the entrance of her waterfall. He glides along, sucking at the fabric, wanting to taste it all.

“Pll-eease Sttackk” She begs

There’s a tut in the background. Smoke is still root on the chair, captivated at her lust.

“Ask properly” He advises, zoned in on her nipple that tries to escape the fitted blouse.

Stack nips at her inner thigh, swatting her cheeks twice in admonishment. She corrects her fault immediately, knowing what needs to be said.

“P-pl-lease Smo-ke, please Stackkk” She purrs.

With a nod, he pulls her panties to the side and slips in like a thief in the night. Tallie grinds on his thick warm wet tongue, his nose tapping at the clit. Her eyes tear-up and her fingers clenching into a fist, she watches as Smoke beckons her to lean forward. He pulls her bottom lip open, invading he mouth with his thumb. At the same time, Stack swats her again and grips the heated flesh pulling her onto him fully. Not hovering, he wants her whole weight.

The gaze from Smoke was intense, the simultaneous pressure from Stack causes her to buck on him with passion. Tallie sucks hard on his thumb, spit wetting his finger and down into his palm. He snatches his thumb back while maintain the leering look of lust she held in her soul. He moves beneath his hand under his slacks and toys with the tip of his throbbing head, the wetness of her mouth on his thumb giving him enough friction. She mewls in delight as his paces quickens.

Stack isn’t letting up either, her slit is plunged with his fingers and her sensitive nub caressed by his tongue not yet giving her what she wanted. What she truly needed.

He keeps a steady paces dancing around her clit as the wetness pool on his tongue like warm honey, down his goatee and across his face. Tallie lets out an whiny plea, asking for nothing but moaning feverishly. 

"She's close" Smoke mutters.

Swats her again in warning, stack reaches the sweet spot and thrashes his tongue. Deperatse for her desire, her juice, her warm honey. Tallie let's go with a screech. She spasms on his tongue riding until her knees buckle, her eyes are back on Smoke wanting to he him finish with her. But he keeps his length hidden from her view stroking it enough to release some tension.

Tallie can feel it. Stack can feel it. Smoke can feel it. It was in the air, the moment, she felt the gravity in the room suddenly drop, then a burst of warmth as he floods Stack with the essence of her womanhood. The twins groans in admiration. Smoke lets go of his length, still tight and hard. Stack just as burdened but makes no more to relieve his discomfort.

It was all about her, these twins were selfless to the core. Smoke walks away snatching the diary from where is fell.

“You off all people should kno’” Stack starts as he stands up, placing a kiss along her chin and down her throat “Closed mouth don’t get fed.”

Tallie still in shock at the energy of the twins, blurts the first though that comes to mind.

“Do I still have to bake?”

“Do you want a bun in your oven?” The twins reply simultaneously. 

She watches as they glance over their shoulder to peer at her, mischief written all over their faces.

—The End—

A/N: Watch the movie if you haven’t already!!!! (p.s did y'all notice the play on words with her waiting to be 'let in'?)

me and my bestie after we spill the tea 😭😭

if you're black, reblog this

this was amazing 😫😫😫

like an act of god

warnings/tags: 18+, dark themes, DUBCON/NONCON, woc!reader, emperor!lucius, dark!lucius, possessive behavior, forced engagement, implied forced marriage, ignoring a lot of logistics for the sake of the plot so rip, these tags are not exhaustive

wc: 5.4k

summary: An emperor’s favor is no favor at all.

believe it or not this was a writing warm up 😗 next up is hopefully childhood friends to lovers but let’s see where the plot bunnies go 🙂‍↔️

please let me know your thoughts and happy reading!!!

This is the fourth time in a mere week the emperor has called you to his chambers.

The guard looks vaguely uncomfortable as he stands outside your room. The flickering flames cast shadows underneath his helmet, making the sympathetic curl of his lip all the more severe.

Ink smudges the paper as you place down your pen. The letter to your brother will have to wait it seems.

“My lady.” The guard dips his head as he motions for you to step ahead of him.

The strained smile on your face wavers as soon as his eyes are on the back of your head. It is tough to keep your back straight as you make the short trek to the emperor’s room. Too short one can say but you keep those words tucked under the roof of your mouth.

You are a favorite of his, garnering his favor through virtue of your family or so they say. Your status allows you many liberties but these constant calls have crossed the line of propriety and rumors you may not recover from have begun to spread.

It is a fool’s wish to hope his eyes may stray but you cling to it despite his doglike loyalty.

The man of the hour sits with his back turned and a glass of wine balanced on his lips. His head twists when he hears your quiet footsteps enter his domain, softening when he catches a glimpse of you.

Your stomach twists.

You do not miss how the servants scurry out of sight and out earshot when he turns his formidable gaze towards them. You wish you could grab onto the frail wrist of the girl nearest to you. Your fingers flex as she hurriedly walks past you.

“It is late,” you say when the room is cleared.

“It is,” he agrees, a small smile on his handsome face. “Sit.”

Movements stiff, you take the seat across from him. He’s stretched out on his seat, robes rucking upwards to expose the strength hidden beneath his royal garb. Scars pucker the meat of his legs and there are faint white lines crisscrossing the skin as if depicting a linear story.

You swallow.

You have heard the tales and have determined what is far-fetched and what is truth.

And Lucius is made up almost entirely of truths.

The moment you cross your legs, he is upright and leaned over the minuscule table separating the two of you. Rather than reach for the half-full bottle of wine, he aims for the water, sharing a secretive smirk with you.

Your attempt at mirroring his playfulness is weak. A vague nausea begins to brew in your gut and you fear even water may be too heavy for you.

“Whispers will begin to spread.”

Lucius pauses. His features harden before he forcibly relaxes his face. “I do not see why that matters,” he says. His smile dims and the jug of water in his hand is quickly abandoned.

Sweat dampens your palms. You smooth them over your dress, wincing as the fabric catches on your peeled skin. A few months in Rome and you still have not adjusted to the weather.

“Lucius.”

His name is unnatural and stiff on your tongue. You long to revert back to his formal title but he refuses the honorific.

“It matters because you must marry wisely,” you say gently. “You know this. Let us not waste our breaths on the obvious.”

“Is it obvious?” he parrots back.

His voice takes on a cool tone. He’s not quite combative but you sense you must tread carefully lest his ice be thinner than it looks. But your brother was not made General because your bloodline bowed at the first sign of danger.

You tip your chin up. “It will not do for your senators to suspect you are looking inwards rather than outwards for your alliances.”

It is quiet for a moment before Lucius huffs out a laugh. He shifts his weight, balancing an elbow on his thigh to better cup his chin. Amusement lightens the blues of his eyes. “And if I am?”

You are not nearly as oblivious as your reputation suggests nor are you as great an actress as you believe yourself to be. You know when it admit defeat. There is only one way this conversation will go after all.

But this understanding does not mean you have to go quietly.

“Then I recommend Decima,” you say dryly.

He nods slowly, hiding his mouth behind his palm for a heartbeat before fixing you with a blandly curious look. “The daughter of the richest man in Rome,” he drawls. “Clever.”

He pops a grape into his mouth and chews it thoughtfully. “But not as clever as marrying the sister of my most loyal general.”

No one refuses the emperor. Try as he may to be benevolent and fair and kind, his status means there are certain words he has not been accustomed to since his rise to power.

“I suppose not,” you say finally.

Tilting your head, you fix the way your dress hangs over your legs. His eyes follow the ripple of the fabric but you pretend not to notice how he searches beyond what he can see.

“Is that why you have called me to your chambers so often? To flaunt your cleverness?” you ask, a touch sharply.

Lucius can’t help his grin. He ducks his head and it’s such a genuine display of the boyishness your brother feared his emperor lost, your stomach rolls at the sight.

“Do I not seem to enjoy your company?" he asks with faux surprise.

To your surprise, he slides down onto the ground and shuffles forward until his hands rest upon your knees. The cloth is so thin it feels as if his bare hands are against you. You suck in a breath at the warmth pooling underneath his palms.

“What are you—get up!” you hiss, casting a furtive glance behind you.

He blinks up at you innocently. “I am apologizing for misleading my betrothed. I have done a disservice if you think I call for you for the sake of a ploy.”

“And you will be doing me further disservice if you think I will believe this to mean anything.”

He moves his hands upwards until they lay upon your thighs. His fingers dimple your skin as he squeezes you. “I do not do things I do not mean,” he says firmly.

You lean down, placing your hands over his. “You want a family,” you say.

The words are shards in your mouth. It is not a simple matter of children. Lucius wants a home. The losses that haunt him have made his longing a physical thing. And your stubborn devotion lead you across an ocean you had no business crossing. What is a greater showing of love than that?

“I want you,” he corrects softly.

You almost wish he’d tell you he loves you. That would take rationality out of this equation.

But he wants you.

How do you reason with someone who knows exactly what they’re doing?

-

It was not meant to go this way.

The new ruler of Rome should have been of no personal concern of yours. He existed as a potential threat to your homeland, a story to fear, but not as a real person in your mind.

This remained true until a letter found its way to your family’s home.

It was written in your brother’s familiar scrawl and voice. He regaled to your family how he found himself across the world, omitting the worst of his ordeal, while promising his present safety.

With palpable regret, Kahlil declared himself unable to leave Rome, not while she remained under such uncertainty. The new emperor, Lucius Verus, had earned his loyalty having freed him from the clutches of the tyrannical twins and pushing him towards a path of glory.

And you knew at once what you must do.

You had to leave.

You had to feel his heartbeat underneath your hands and see that his blood was the same shade as yours. You refused to move on with your life as it was only knowing your brother existed. You would never be at peace without confirming that mortality ran through his veins.

The journey was brutal. It veered into the territory of being something you could not handle but you had no other choice than to handle it. Days stretched into weeks and weeks stretched into months but soon, you were touching down onto Roman soil.

The months at sea had been beneficial however as the language, while unfriendly to your ears, was familiar enough for you to navigate your way to the city. Hope permeated the air of the reborn city and whispers echoed the streets about a new age of peace.

Frankly, you didn’t care.

You asked around for your brother, eyebrows grazing your hairline as you learned of his newfound fame amongst the people. It took less than a week for you to scrounge around for a way to informally meet the beloved general.

It was rather anticlimactic.

There were a handful of places the general frequented with his men and none were easily accessible. Luckily, the innkeeper’s daughter took a liking to you and directed you to whose pockets were light. And so, you found yourself ducking underneath a curtain and into a plume of opioid smoke.

Your nose wrinkled at the acidic scent but paid it no mind as you searched the back room. Feigning confusion as some soldiers called to you, you darted around as each man you ran into did not resemble the one you knew.

On the cusp of marching back to the inn and declaring Caelia a liar, you found him. He was leaning over the balcony, melancholy stretching across his side profile.

His name left you as a breath, carried away by the slight breeze. But somehow, he heard you.

Kahlil lifted his head, a painful sort of resignation weighing down his shoulders, until he made eye contact with you.

In a matter of seconds, he stood before you. And he was okay.

He hugged you. His arms, muscled beyond your imagination, crushed you against his chest but it was a welcome pain, cracking your chest open and burrowing straight into the fragile meat of your heart.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he muttered against your hair. The admonishment is nonexistent, more a reflex to say rather than something from the heart. “But I am glad to see you.”

You pushed against him. He allowed you to pull back just enough so you could look up at him, vision blurred from your tears.

He was nothing like you remembered and you mourned this. Scars decorated his skin and callouses roughened his hands. But it was him.

His smile was still slightly awkward and the shape of his brows framed his eyes as perfectly as they always did. The kindness you feared was taken from him in his years of fighting remained in the crinkles of his eyes and the softness of his features.

“I missed you,” you said, voice catching in your throat. A fresh set of tears burned at your waterline. “I am so sorry we could not find you.”

His expression crumpled and Kahlil shook his head. “There is no one to blame but those who took me,” he said firmly.

You shut your eyes, swallowing down the sob that threatened to break free at his forgiveness.

He wiped the stray tears dripping from your face, laughing as if he did not look as foolish as you did. “You are still a crybaby.”

You laughed, more a hiccup than anything.

Kahlil was kept from saying more when someone uttered his name from behind.

“Highness,” Kahlil said, standing tall.

He wiped your remaining tears and his own before turning the both of you towards the voice.

A handsome man stood in front of you. His hair was dark and his beard thick. His arms were corded with muscle, similar to your brother’s, but there was a predator type of strength lurking underneath the surface in which Kahlil lacked.

The title registered in your mind as you stared and with an embarrassed look towards Kahlil, you dropped your head in deference.

The man quickly dismissed the formality and motioned for you to lift your head.

“I am Lucius,” he introduced. His gaze flicked to your brother in question.

You gave him your name, voice raw from your tears. He asked you to repeat it and you did so, watching as he rounded his mouth over the syllables.

“My sister,” Kahlil interjected. “The one who thinks no consequence too severe to keep her from making reckless decisions.”

At this, he pinched your ear lobe.

“You talked about me?” you asked, blinking up at him. So many years had passed. It was a wonder he remembered any stories of you to tell.

“Yes,” Lucius said, drawing your attention back to him. He stared at you, an unreadable look in his too blue eyes. “Quite favorably too.”

He took in the circles staining your under eyes and how you clutched at your brother as if he were an apparition brought to life. Your hand ached with how tightly you held the fabric of Kahlil’s clothes between your fingers but you could not make yourself relax. You worried you would wake and find yourself back on the boat and under the throes of that fever once more if you let go.

“You traveled far.”

The observation managed to sound impressive off of Lucius’ tongue as if he found you admirable. It made you squirm.

Memories of the journey flashed through your mind, bringing forth echoes of the anxiety you suffered for months on end. But you shrugged as if it was easy. Because in a way, it was.

Kahlil was at the end of the journey. There was no easier path to take.

“And I would have gone further had it been necessary,” you said. “Luckily, it was not. I might have thrown up my stomach if I was stuck on that ship any longer.”

Kahlil made a face. “The waves are a punishment,” he said sympathetically.

“You must be tired,” Lucius said. He had not taken his eyes off of you. “Come.”

And that was how it began.

You had a few uninterrupted weeks with your brother before he departed in search of allies for Rome. Kahlil promised you a home wherever he was and Lucius was all too happy to uphold such a promise.

Your quarters were moved to be closer to Lucius’ in Kahlil’s absence. It did not take long before you replaced time spent with him with Lucius.

In the instances you were alone with him, you forgot he was the emperor. His smile was infectious and he had a clever wit about him that kept you on your toes. The stories sprung from his lips kept you enthralled and you found yourself prolonging these moments with him.

Charisma was a necessity for leaders and Lucius had it in abundance.

Slowly, he began encroaching into your space. A hand on your lower back, a brush his fingers against your waist, lingering hugs that involved him burying his face in the hollows of your throat.

He was too close too often.

People began to take notice and sly comments were whispered under breath.

Once the rumors circulated close enough for you to hear, you began to pull back. You ignored the informal requests to see him and found reasons to decline the formal requests to his chambers.

Lucius did not take well to your sudden reticence and the rumors worsened as his demand for you grew.

If you knew being friendly with Lucius would lead to this, you would have made your room a jail in Kahlil’s absence instead.

-

Lucius becomes bold in the days after your engagement is announced.

He pens a letter to your brother of the news. You sign it without reading it. Lucius purses his lips but sends the letter without much complaint.

You write your own letter, minimally mentioning the engagement, and praying Kahlil reads in between the lines and slows his journey back. As your father resided an ocean away, your brother will have to make do and you fear his loyalty for Lucius will override his love for you.

Congratulations are heartfelt and plentiful from the people and ring insincere from the upper echelon. But the pushback is minimal and so, Lucius gleefully goes forward with the wedding planning.

It will be a grand affair, one you know he does not care for in the slightest. If it not for the fact that it would be the greatest showing of ownership, you believe Lucius would have dragged you in front of seven witnesses to declare the union.

The first time he presses a kiss against your temple in front of the most gossipy of his senate, you nearly buck your head back into his nose. His hand rests against your side and he murmurs something against your skin, sealing whatever it is he has said with a gentle kiss.

The sound of your blood rushing is all that fills your ears so you do not know if Lucius requested something of you. It does not matter.

He has made his point.

His affection worsens after that.

The engagement permits him to seek you out as he wishes. His men roll their eyes lightheartedly when he stops what he’s saying to call you over during training. He is quick to leave meetings or lunches if he senses they have turned into leisure rather than productive discussion to make his way back to your quarters now that you rebuff his.

No matter where you are, he finds you.

In the rare moments you are left to your own devices, you find yourself with no friends nor hobbies to keep you occupied.

You notice men do not raise their heads when they see you. Any conversation you try to hold with one ends with excuses as to why they suddenly find themselves too busy to speak to you.

A guard follows you around the clock. You manage to wrangle his name out of him—Scipio—but it is for nothing as a fortnight later, you do not see him again. From then, you have a new guard every day.

The women, few and far between in the palace, are sweet. But it is clear whatever comes out of your mouth goes directly to Lucius’ ear. So you busy yourself with fictional hopes of your future and dabble in petty gossip when you find yourself in their presence.

It is suffocating.

“There you are.”

The corner of the garden you’ve taken a liking to darkens as Lucius blocks the sunlight seeping in through a window.

He’s angelic under the golden cast of the sun. A man more than worthy of his position.

“Ah, Highness,” you greet, offering him a nod.

There is a pinch between his brows.

“We are to be married,” he reminds you, crouching down. He runs a gentle hand through the flowers you are observing. “You are my equal.”

“But we are not husband and wife quite yet, Highness.”

His hand leaves the flowers to cup your cheek. He turns you to face him, thumb brushing against the softness of your lips. Unconsciously, you swipe your tongue over the trail of warmth left behind. A slightly salty taste permeates your mouth.

“You are my equal,” he repeats. “And I expect you to treat me as such.”

The skin around his eyes is dark. Exhaustion makes him look pallid. Your avoidance is the last thing he wishes to deal with, this you are sure, and it tugs at your heart to see him so tired.

“You should go to bed,” you say.

“Will you join me?” he asks.

You jerk back. His hands falls off your cheek.

Lucius laughs at the stunned look on your face. He moves closer into your space, looking down at you.

“You are annoying,” you say hotly. “And I am busy. Obviously.”

He hums. “With thinking of ways to delay our wedding, yes?”

“Please. I have better uses of my time.”

Besides, he has made it nigh impossible to find a loophole. An emperor’s word is law and he has used his to shackle you to him.

“So you do not conspire to find a way to break our engagement?” he surmises mildly.

A fissure of fear opens within you. Hadrian had promised you discretion but clearly, a bit of luck is needed to escape the ever watchful eye of Lucius. But you have not been informed of any ports closures and so, you choose to hold your cards tightly to your chest.

You twist a petal between your fingers. “How can I conspire when all I know are these walls,” you motion towards said walls, “And the people you install in my circle.”

He watches you for a too long moment, scrutinizing the unnatural stillness of your expression. “The sense you hope your brother will impart on me will not change anything,” he says eventually.

It takes considerable effort for you to not show any sort of relief at his warning. The more pleading your letters became, the more Lucius clung to your side so you had eased up in the past few weeks. It does not come as a surprise he is actively reading whatever it is you write.

“Is he a confidant in name only, then?” you retort.

“He loves me,” Lucius says instead. He’s softened, bearing the weight of a man who knows it takes only a word for blood to be spilled in his name and for it to be spilled gladly. “But he loves you more.”

Pursing his lips, he fingers a stem. He doesn’t flinch when a thorn splits his skin. A droplet of blood runs from his finger and drips into the soil.

“But he loves Rome more?” you guess, peeking at him from under your lashes.

He watches the blood continue to spill into the soil. Just when you think he won’t answer you, to give weight to the truth you fear more than anything, he says, “Kahlil thinks I am a good man.”

And that is a sentencing all on its own, you suppose.

-

The bath water practically scalds your skin as you sink into the tub.

It is refreshing in a way. The slight sting keeps your thoughts from straying.

Kahlil’s recent letter leaves you with no choice but to hasten your escape. Any ship will do for you need to leave before the week’s end if Kahlil’s timeline is to be trusted.

You allow yourself a few more minutes in the bath, a few more minutes to act as if you are as any other, before you drain the tub and dry off.

You exit the bathroom, towel tucked loosely around yourself. Smoothing the left over oil onto your lips, you pause when you notice a shape out of the corner of your eye.

Lucius lays atop your sheets.

A strangled scream leaves your throat and you’re throwing a candle at him before you recognize it is him in your bed and not some stranger come to make true of your worst nightmares. Though, this is not a much better sight.

He catches the candle with one hand and deposits it on the floor, eyes wide in bemusement.

You hitch the towel higher, fisted fabric at your throat as you take him in. He’s stretched out lazily, hair wet and skin shiny with cream. The sheet covers his lower half and you force your eyes to rip away from the dark trail of hair on his lower abdomen. For all intents and purposes, he looks ready for bed.

“I brought you a gift,” he says, sitting up. He gestures to the box on top of your vanity. “Come here. Let’s look at it together.”

While said lightly, this is clearly an order.

You stand, shifting your weight. You are hyper aware of how naked you are underneath this flimsy towel. “I need to change, Highness.”

Annoyance flickers across his face. “Come here.”

Shuffling to your vanity, you heft the box as best you can with one arm and make your way to Lucius. The second you are within arm’s reach, he shoots out his hand and wraps it around you. He drags you forward and forces you to sit nestled between his thighs.

His cock is a heavy weight at the base of your spine.

You immediately straighten up and try to scoot forward but he doesn’t allow for this. He settles the box on your legs and brackets you with his arms.

“Open it,” he murmurs against your ear, resting his chin atop your shoulder.

Your fingers shake as you pry open the lid. All you can focus on is how the room feels as if it ends and begins with Lucius.

When you get the box open, you don’t know what you are looking at. And then Lucius pushes a finger against the object until a set of familiar brown eyes stare back at you, unfeeling and condemning all at once.

You shove the box away from you, turning into Lucius before you can see Hadrian’s head roll onto the floor.

He allows the change in position, letting your weight guide him back down to the bed before he hooks an arm around you and reverses your position. The towel slips and he follows the line of your throat and downwards.

He brings his hand down to push away the towel pooling at your hips. Instinctively, you grab at his wrist, tears beginning to line your eyes.

Lucius stills.

“Did you think I would let you leave?” he wonders.

He sounds genuinely confused and somehow, that little slip of sincerity allows a frigid wave of fear to crash over you. Rationally, you know your skin to still be warm to the touch but you shiver, ice replacing the blood flowing in you.

“I thought you would find me more work than I am worth,” you say quietly. Your heart strains against your rib cage.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Did you now?”

He easily breaks free of your hold and you can do nothing as he makes quick work of your towel. Lucius slowly runs his thumb along the inside of your thigh, leaving a trail of warmth.

“Lucius.” His name is torn from your throat, a plea wrapped up in a warning. “Don’t. We are not married yet.”

He laughs, dropping his head down until his forehead lies flat against your collarbone. His breath is hot against you, sending the chill inwards.

"But we will be,” Lucius promises easily. “And I will wait no longer.”

He’s kissing you before you can make an attempt at delaying what is seemingly the inevitable.

His lips are hard against yours, impatiently slipping his tongue into your mouth and finding purchase against your teeth. Lucius is uncharacteristically sloppy, betraying the desperation he’s kept so carefully hidden.

You put your hands against his chest and curl them into fists when pushing only results in him tightening his hold on you.

Recalling what the other women said about their first time, you push down your fear until it settles underneath the acceptance you forcibly yank over yourself like a veneer.

His fingers caress your soft, bare skin as he trails his hands up your thigh. The coarseness of his chest hair against your overly sensitive skin sends static skittering across your nerves.

You stifle a whine when he pulls away from you just enough to let you pant against his mouth. Your stomach gives a sickening lurch when there’s pressure between your bodies, a dull ache at the apex of your thighs.

He slips his finger into you inch by inch and tears wet your cheeks when he adds a second one. Experimentally, he stretches you out until you’re left with no choice but to let your legs fall open, inviting him in.

The longer he presses into you, the more you feel yourself relax, noting your loosening muscles as if happening from an outsider’s perspective. Wetness drips down his wrist, pooling in the crease of his elbow and he grins, eyes pointedly going down. You refuse to follow him.

“Not as shy as you like to come off, hm?” he murmurs, circling his thumb over you and drawing out a high pitched moan.

You bite your lip immediately, a harsh breath ricocheting in your chest. You try to stamp down the pleasure beginning to curl into a coil in your belly. It tightens when he digs his teeth into your fluttering pulse.

It is when you are on the brink of something that he eases up, slipping his fingers out and bringing them to his mouth. You almost clamp down on his hand when he pulls out but resist the urge by the skin of your teeth.

You shift, drawing your legs closer in the hopes of chasing that mounting high he’s taken from you. A dizzying sort of heat has set your blood aflame, akin to a fever.

You must be sick, you decide. It must be a sickness that has not yet been discovered that plagues you and leaves you feeling empty where Lucius does not touch you.

He cants his hips up, lining himself up. Your eyes widen when you feel him prod your entrance. The sheer size of him terrifies you because it won’t matter if he doesn’t fit as you hysterically believe he won’t.

He’ll find a way.

“Lucius, wait,” you hiccup, swallowing down the anxiety thrumming alongside your arousal.

He grinds himself between your thighs, slicking himself with you. He doesn’t bother acknowledging your mindless babble and instead, licks away a wayward tear on your cheek.

Lucius sinks in an inch, your name a wrecked sound. He sounds different from what you’re used to, strained and roughened around the edges.

“Please kiss me,” you beg, curling a hand around the base of his neck. His curls are wet, the space between them almost humid from the heat emanating from him.

His hips stutter and he braces himself against the mattress.

“Kiss you?” Lucius repeats hoarsely, peering down at you with his pupils blown wide with a haunting desire.

You nod weakly, urging his face closer. The stretch of him burns and while not entirely unpleasant, it makes your heart quicken and your belly flutter.

He sinks in deeper and catches your gasp in his mouth. You part your lips instantly as he bears down on you, pushing deeper and deeper until he’s seated inside you. Numbly, you wonder if you’ll ever be whole again, if Lucius has carved out a space in you only he can fill.

Lucius lets you adjust to him, running a soothing hand underneath your chest. He traces circles around your nipple and it’s a searing heat that takes the edge off.

He kisses you gently. It’s almost too sweet to bear but you respond in earnest, angling your hips upwards to give the okay. The discomfort has loosened into something you handle and the knot noosed around your heart untangles to leave a bloodied heap in its wake.

He thrusts into you as if to test your resolve. You whimper as pleasure seeps into your core. You break away from his greedy mouth and soothe yourself with pressing kisses against his strong jaw. You nip at the bone as you catch your literal and metaphorical breath. It’s hard to tell if it’s the lack of air or Lucius himself making you lightheaded.

The thread of restraint he’s meticulously maintained snaps at the strung out noise. Lucius fucks you hard and deep, perhaps a little deeper than intended if the guttural noise that leaves him is any indication.

The pleasure in your belly ratchets up and a strangled moan is gutted from you when his cock brushes against some part of you that sends sparks right up your spine.

Immediately, he’s thrusting into that spot over and over again and doesn’t stop until he stiffens with a groan.

He spills into you, cock twitching as you milk him for what he’s worth.

Your name is on the tip of his tongue and branded across his heart.

Lucius chants it, peppering kisses all over your face as he collapses carefully on top of you. Fatigue wears at you and you close your eyes, hating yourself for finding comfort in how he immediately presses a kiss against your swollen eyelids.

“I love you,” Lucius whispers.

It is the worst thing you have ever heard.

this fic is finished. there will never be a part 2. thanks!

people are so mean omg

Almost all the reasons Daemyra stans hate Dattles are the same reasons they should hate their own ship.

Similarities between Daemyra and Dattles.

They both have cheating. (Daemon is married to Rhea Royce when he starts to pursue Rhaenyra. Despite this a lot of Daemyra stans like to use the excuse that at that point in time Daemon and Rhea were having “problems.” When Daemon starts to pursue Nettles he is married to Rhaenyra but just like Rhea, he and Rhaenyra are having “problems.”)

They both have an age-gap. (While the age-gap between Daemon and Rhaenyra is less than the age gap between Daemon and Nettles, but we must remember however that when Daemon first meets Nettles she is by Westeros standards an adult, whereas Rhaenyra wasn't.)

Children

Then there are some who say they don’t like Dattles because Daemon had children specifically with Rhaenyra during when all of this was going down. These children being Aegon III and Viserys II. This troubles people because they worry how that would affect Aegon and Viserys's view of what a healthy relationship let alone a marriage should look like.

But the same people neglect the fact that (at least show wise) not only do Daemon and Rhaenyra's actions (Rhaenyra having an affair with Harwin while being married to Laenor, Daemon being at the very least a emotionally unavailable husband to Laena and a neglectful parent to Baela and Rhaena ) but also their marriage (them getting married so quickly after the death of their respective marriage mates and in Rhaenyra’s case also her lover) could have very well given Jace, Luke, Baela and Rhaena an unhealthy view of what a healthy relationship should look like.

Grooming

Rhaenyra and Daemon:

He gave her pearls and silks and books and a jade tiara said once to have belonged to the Empress of Leng, read poems to her, dined with her, hawked with her, sailed with her, entertained her by making mock of the greens at court, the "lickspittles" fawning over Queen Alicent and her children.

Eustace, the less salacious of the two, writes that Prince Daemon seduced his niece the princess and claimed her maidenhood. When the lovers were discovered abed together by Ser Arryk Cargyll of the Kingsguard and brought before the king, Rhaenyra insisted she was in love with her uncle and pleaded with her father for leave to marry him. King Viserys would not hear of it, however, and reminded his daughter that Prince Daemon already had a wife.

"When he looks at you, he sees the little girl you were, not the woman you've become," Daemon told his niece, "but I can teach you how to make him see you as a woman."

He began by giving her kissing lessons, if Mushroom can be believed. From there the prince went on to show his niece how best to touch a man to bring him pleasure, an exercise that sometimes involved Mushroom himself and his alleged enormous member.

Daemon taught the girl to disrobe enticingly, suckled at her teats to make them larger and more sensitive, and flew with her on dragonback to lonely rocks in Blackwater Bay, where they could disport naked all day unobserved, and the princess could practice the art of pleasuring a man with her mouth. At night he would smuggle her from her rooms dressed as a page boy and take her secretly to brothels on the Street of Silk, where the princess could observe men and women in the act of love and learn more of these "womanly arts" from the harlots of King's Landing.

Viserys at first refused to believe a word of it, until Prince Daemon confirmed the tale was true. "Give the girl to me to wife," he purportedly told his brother. "Who else would take her now?" Instead King Viserys sent him into exile, never to return to the Seven Kingdoms on pain of death.

Nettles and Daemon:

Maester Norren writes that "the prince and his bastard girl" supped together every night, broke their fast together every morning, slept in adjoining bedchambers, that the prince "doted upon the brown girl as a man might dote upon his daughter," instructing her in "common courtesies" and how to dress and sit and brush her hair, that he made gifts to her of "an ivory-handled hairbrush, a silvered looking glass, a cloak of rich brown velvet bordered in satin, a pair of riding boots of leather soft as butter." The prince taught the girl to wash, Norren says, and the maidservants who fetched their bath water said he oft shared a tub with her, "soaping her back or washing the dragon stink from her hair, both of them as naked as their namedays.”

To which his brother answered, "It may be we shall be destroyed whatever choice we make. The prince is more than fond of this brown child, and his dragon is close at hand. A wise lord would kill them both, lest the prince burn Maidenpool in his wroth."

All we know is that the maester, a young man of two-and-twenty, found Prince Daemon and the girl Nettles at their supper that night, and showed them the queen's letter.

"Weary after a long day of fruitless flight, they were sharing a simple meal of boiled beef and beets when I entered, talking softly with each other, of what I cannot say. The prince greeted me politely, but as he read I saw the joy go from his eyes, and a sadness descended upon him, like a weight too heavy to be borne. When the girl asked what was in the letter, he said,

'A queen's words, a whore's work.' Then he drew his sword and asked if Lord Mooton's men were waiting outside to take them captive. 'I came alone,' I told him, then foreswore myself, declaring falsely that neither his lordship nor any other man of Maidenpool knew what was written on the parchment. 'Forgive me, My Prince,' I said. 'I have broken my maester's vows.' Prince Daemon sheathed his sword, saying, You are a bad maester, but a good man,' after which he bade me leave them, commanding me to 'speak no word of this to lord nor love until the morrow.’ ”

No word of farewell was spoken betwixt man and maid, but as Sheepstealer beat his leathery brown wings and climbed into the dawn sky, Caraxes raised his head and gave a scream that shattered every window in Jonquil's Tower. High above the town, Nettles turned her dragon toward the Bay of Crabs, and vanished in the morning mists, never to be seen again at court or castle.

That Prince Daemon died as well we cannot doubt. His remains were never found, but there are queer currents in that lake, and hungry fish as well. The singers tell us that the old prince survived the fall and afterward made his way back to the girl Nettles, to spend the remainder of his days at her side.

+Bonus

[As to the girl Nettles, "She is a common thing, with the stink of sorcery upon her," the queen declared. "My prince would ne'er lay with such a low creature. You need only look at her to know she has no drop of dragon's blood in her. It was with spells that she bound a dragon to her, and she has done the same with my lord husband." So long as he was in the girl's thrall, Prince Daemon could not be relied upon, Her Grace went on. Therefore, let a command be sent at once to Maidenpool, but only for the eves of Lord Mooton. "Let him take her at table or abed and strike her head off. Only then shall my prince be freed."]

—Rhaenyra about Nettles.

Conclusion

Personally whether or not someone ships either of these couples is up to them. I however can’t stand a hypocrite, and I’ve noticed that’s what a large percentage of Daemyra stans are especially when it comes not only to Dettles but Nettles as a whole.

And I especially as a black woman, can’t stand the misogynoir that I've seen Team Black (and Green) display when it’s comes specifically to the black/blackish women in House of the Dragon.

This was eloquently put 🙌🏽 I’ve got nothing to add except my praise, I love how you have shouted out Team Green's antics cause they also b!tch and moan about how it makes Daemon a villain(and not all the other crap he’s done) to choose Nettles over his psychotic racist wife.

I too didn’t really care about Dumbnyra, its stans, and its sympathizers until they started going off on a hate campaign against Daemon and Nettles.

Very unserious bunch of racist morons who think they can get away with calling Black/Blackish women the n-word: 

Yes, that was directed at Laena, but it's only a matter of time before Team I don't want Nettles to be on the show, and if she is on the show don't let her be a Negro, goes calling Netty the n-word too for “ruining” their Appalachian mountain realness ship.

Or throwing a temper tantrum because a canon character, who despite their best efforts to ignore her existence or bash her, is all but confirmed to be in the show:

Don’t get me started on Team Green who are populated by white feminists who believe themselves to be morally superior when in reality they are just as racist as Team Dumbnyra or bust when it comes to Nettles and her relationship with Daemon:

(The irony is not lost to me how they point out Rhaenyra’s racism then proceed to treat Nettles like a toddler or sometimes even defend Rhaenyra’s racism because she’s a woman🤪 Black women shouldn’t be in romantic relationships in their minds)

Or those upset because they can’t use Nettles (like how they wanted to because in their mind she’s only there to show how evil Daemon is to their white sister) to dunk on Daemon:

I can't take these people seriously when they complain about Dattles and label it problematic when they ignore their ships problems.

Alysmond(still love you, but I’ll drag some of the white and non-Black fans who are suspect), Rhaicent, Helaemond(aka Hellmanns), and Dumbnyra are all equally if not more problematic than Dattles.

(I have a mini rant on this in my drafts that I’ll post this weekend).

Their anti-Black misogynoir is clouding their views on Daemon and Nettles.

A Love Too Dark Masterlist

The Marquis Vincent de Gramont x Reader

Summary:

She was working as a bunny-girl in a casino when a mysterious VVIP arrived to ruin the peace in her life.

It's scary when someone like the Marquis de Gramont - ambitious, rich, and highly influential - took an interest in you.

WARNING: THIS IS A DARK FIC.

This story will contain 18+ mature themes, blackmail, forced kissing, dark romance, toxic behaviour, blood, violence, stalking, manipulation, a lot of smut, dubious consent, non-consensual content, non-consensual creampie, breeding, yandere Marquis de Gramont, power play, and power imbalance, obsession, dark Marquis de Gramont, and abuse of power. The list will be added more as the story progresses. Minors, don't read.

This story is also available on Archive Of Our Own (AO3) site.

Link

Chapters

Chapter 01: A Deal With The Devil

Chapter 02: Chaos and Risks

Chapter 03: He Grabbed Her

Chapter 04: Insatiable Need For Satisfaction

Chapter 05: Dark And Primal

Chapter 06: Lives In His Hands

Chapter 07

If you’re interested in being on my taglist to be tagged in the next chapters, please leave a comment here and mention the taglist.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Targaryen-Velaryon!Reader. Yes, this is targcest!! Mostly centered around Everyone x Reader, tho. Set in HOTD S1x7: Driftmark.

Traits/Features: i usually keep the readers descriptions ambiguous/unspecific but for obvious reasons, reader is mixed (though, her skin color - as well as her eye color -- isn't mentioned, it's heavily implied) and she has the traditional Targ/Velaryon white/silver hair.

Warnings: Includes the use of Y/n. As it says above, this contains TARG-CEST, arranged by marriage!!! You have been warned. Twice. You're responsible for your own media consumption. Though, unlike other fics, I don't find it necessary to point out how they're related (if that makes sense). Brief mention of a major character death!! (Aka Laena's death). As this is set in the episode Aemond's eye was taken, his mutilation is also included (nothing too graphic tho). Despite all these warnings, the fic as a whole is more on the fluffy/general side.

Disclaimer: I dont own ASOIAF/HOTD or it's characters, nor do I claim to own them. Nor do I own the dividers/images used. All credits goes to their respective owners.

Targ Divider Credits: @/dingusfreakhxrrington.

Inspo for this fic: [X] | Click this Link to see more Velaryon!Reader works.

Imagine... Being Rhaenyra and Laenor's trueborn daughter and earning the title, 'The Realm's Light'.

Or... In which, everyone witnesses the first acts of diplomacy, displayed by the makings of a future Queen.

To say, you were the last bit of light to grace the stone walls of Driftmark and its peoples, was an understatement.

The fight that broke out between the two Targaryen houses, was enough to test anyone's patience, but with the death of their only daughter - and unborn grandchild - still fresh in their hearts, Corlys and Rhaenys had little energy to fight back with, much less, to attempt at settling a score that had long-sinced been brewing.

But it's with the collective gasps of shock, emitting from those closest to the entrance of the halls' double doors, did everyone evert their eyes from the damage Viserys' ignorance was gonna ensue, in favor of looking upon the beauty, whose sleep was rudely interrupted by her families' quarreling.

A gasp of her own, leaving her lips. "What's going on here?!"

There, at the center of all the chaos, came an angel in the form of Rhaenyra and Laenor's only true born daughter, and rightful heir, Y/n Velaryon.

The array of candles that lined the walls of the great hall, lit the path behind her, and formed a halo-like glow around the silver of her hair -- the sight akin to that of a dragon hatching from the flames, of its incubation chamber.

This dragon, however - although young and just a girl - was one many adored, and favored the most, over her siblings, not just because she was the only legitimate child of the Princess and her Lord Husband, but for her compassion and devotion to those who needed it.

Her betrothed, especially, being the one of many to be graced with such kindness.

Though, it had been a union, cultivated by King Viserys, purely on the bases that his crumbling and dying house be better fortified, it wasn't until now, did people - and Aemond, more importantly -, realize that initial kindness you paid the king's second son, wasn't out of obligation but out of the kindness of your heart.

The level of protectiveness and empathy you had shown the mutilated boy, and even better, the diplomacy you'd shown your brothers and cousins, and your good mother, Queen Alicent, in letting them each speak their truth - as the adults had lacked to do - in getting to the root of the problem, having turned every ill thought, Otto had engraved into Alicent's mind - and by extension, into Aemond's - about Rhaenyra and her brood being 'entitled little pricks', completely on its head.

The events that followed the infighting at Driftmark, having convinced everyone well enough, that the true Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, lie not with Rhaenyra, or even the kings firstborn son, Aegon ll, but with you.

The Realms Light.

A/N: Sorry for the month long wait (wait-- A MONTH?!! HOW TF DID THAT HAPPEN, lol?!), I was in the middle of moving. More chapters will be out soon.

(This fic was written and posted by ©️noonesgoneuntiltheyregone, previously known as nightowls-multifandom-imagines on: 28/05-27/06/23). Please don't copy, claim or repost my works!! You may like and reblog my works tho!!

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