#arci talks

[arceal-doodles]

Can u draw more rege please *falls to floor dramatically*

he's a bit busy atm

[targaryen-dynasty]

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

i want to start a fight in the pla fandom (read: the tiny corner of the fandom that is hanging out on my blog)

[arcielee]

In regards to the ask game for She Walks in Starlight: questions 2, 4, and 5 please! 😍😍 and when am I getting my smutty sequel? 🤨 (I have to ask I just love them so much 💙)

Thank you @babyblue711 for this! 💜 She Walks in Starlight (and I know say this every time, but...) is one of my favorite stories I have written!

2: What scene did you first put down?

The very beginning, when Hades!Aemond first meets Kore/Persephone, and the whole description of the Gō vys (Underworld) up until he says to her, “I would advise not to return empty handed when you come to beg a favor from the king of the Underworld.” 

It literally haunted my dreams and I could not stop writing down bits, snippets and pieced it all together.

4: What's your favorite line of dialogue?

This is easy. The line Aemond says to her:

“Little goddess, you are far away from where you belong."

This replayed in my brain nonstop and I have to write.

5: What part was hardest to write?

I struggled with the ending. I had some different ideas and then ended up going the Ever After route; I just love a female protagonist who figures it out for herself and gets what she wants.

Thank you again! And please know, that thing we talked about...it will happen. One day. Probably. 😂

Ask game.

[gardenofgods]

thinking about how pissed off arceus is going to be w the events of scvi. humanity are getting Too close to godhood/higher power and THAT makes him mad :)

[arcielee]

Aegon girlies unite. 💜

The set-up for this is riveting; I am already on the edge of my seat and holding my breath with her every careful interaction with Aemond, with team Green.

I am vibrating with excitement with how this will unfold. I am ready to have my heart broken again. 💜

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 1: Am I More Than You Bargained For Yet]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, a brief history of burn treatments, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), a wild Sunfyre appears, catching feelings for literally the single most inappropriate man on the planet.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "Sugar, We're Goin' Down" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.3k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

💜 I’m going to tag like a bazillion people since this is the first chapter of a new fic, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. I hope you are all doing well, wherever you are in the world! 💜

@doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927 @echos-muses @padfooteyes @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis @juliavilu1 @amiraisgoingthruit @lauraneedstochill @wintrr13 @r0segard3n @seabasscevans @tsujifreya @helaenaluvr @hiraethrhapsody @backyardfolklore

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters! 

You scream when he grabs you, this lightning strike of a man with a grip like an animal trap that splits bones. He pulls you away from the soldier you’re soothing—a young dark-haired Norcross, disoriented, doomed, his intestines spilling out onto the grass and blood on his lips—and through the forest of smoke and corpses and pine trees. Your eyes sting and water, your boots snag on gnarled roots. When you yelp and stumble to the earth, the man drags you upright again. You struggle like a beast with a blade at its throat, cold, serrated, pressure on the jugular. You shove and scratch at him, trying to plant your boots in soil strewn with gore and glowing embers.

“Stop, stop it, you’re hurting me!”

“Hurry up.”

“You’re going to break my wrist—!”

He wrenches you around to look you full in the face, and only now do you know who he is. A gasp hisses through your teeth; the acrid air in your lungs vanishes. Every muscle and tendon and ligament of you is taut with horror, tight enough to snap. It’s like meeting one of the Seven, the Warrior or Stranger or Smith, a shade you know only from myths and nightmares. It’s like being led to the executioner’s scaffold. His long silver braid hangs over one shoulder. His eyepatch conceals the childhood maiming that left him half-blind. There’s blood and ash on his scarred face, a ruthless breed of fear in his remaining eye, icy blue, creek-shallow, soulless. The man clasping your wrist is Prince Aemond Targaryen. “I’ll break your neck if you don’t come with me now.”

He does not wait for your protest or acquiescence. You couldn’t give it anyway. Your muddied boots move numbly as he tugs you forward, this man they call Aemond One-Eye, a monster, a murderer, a kinslayer. The earth is littered with carnage from the battle, charred ribcages and disemboweled horses, scattered armor and severed limbs. Ashes fall from the smoldering treetops like dark snow.

What does he want from me?

Rape seems unlikely; everyone knows Prince Aemond’s deviancies do not run in that direction. He is cold, hateful, dispassionate, made of stone. He does not lust for anything but power and retribution, fire and blood.

To kill me?

But why not do it here, now? There is a sword hanging from his belt, a dagger in one fist. There is no reason to wait.

To take me prisoner? To feed me to his dragon? To torture me for information?

Surely there are more knowledgeable people around to torture. What use could you be, a healer, a woman? Unless…

Unless he knows who my father is.

You glance down at the fabric band looped around the upper half of your right arm, the only mark you wear of your house, stark white banner, skittering red crabs. It is soaked through with blood. It is unreadable.

Someone is shrieking, but not like a dying man. He has too much fight in him for that, too much glass-clear agony, unwanted blistering consciousness. He screams like someone being flayed, gutted, burned alive. You’ve only ever heard this sound once before. You choke on the greasy, putrid, metallic sweetness of scorched human flesh as it sears down your throat, not knowing if it is real or remembered.

There is a tent in the midst of the pine trees, fluttering canvas that’s green like emeralds or jade. The wind is picking up; you will need to evacuate soon. The cinders will spread and the forest will blaze. Somewhere a dragon is roaring, wounded and mournful like the cry of a lost child. The screams of the man grow louder; they fill your skull like a fever, scalding and senseless and red. Aemond yanks the tent flap aside and pulls you in. And when you breathe it is nothing but the sickening miasma of burnt flesh, coppery blood, suffering, sweat, ruin.

He’s writhing on a wooden table, the man the Greens call king. It has to be him: white-blond hair down to his shoulders, blue eyes and fine aristocratic bones. Two ancient, shaky-handed maesters—hastily commandeered from the defeated House Staunton, you assume—confer nearby, clutching glass bottles of milk of the poppy. A man in armor is cutting tatters of clothing from the so-called king. When he lifts the fabric away, skin sloughs off with it. Aegon wails, struggles, begs him to stop. Aemond goes to his brother and carves away scraps of melted leather and charred cotton with the swift blade of his dagger.

“Shh, shh, don’t fight us, we’re trying to help—”

“Aemond, let me die,” the burned man rasps. He is trembling violently, he is half-mad with pain. Meleys’ flames claimed a swath of his right cheek, his neck and chest and back, his arms down to his wrists, his belly to the crests of his hip bones. “Please. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want it to hurt anymore. Don’t try to help me. Just let me die.”

Aemond looks back at you. “Can you treat this?”

He thinks I’m a Green, you realize with panic, with relief, with terror. And of course he would: you had wandered into the Greens’ side of the battlefield and therefore did not surrender or flee or die with the other Blacks, you were tending to a Green soldier when he found you. Aemond the Kinslayer would not comprehend the notion of service to humankind without a line drawn down the middle of it, of uncategorical compassion.

“Can you help him or not?!” Aemond shouts; and you know that he is not just afraid but shattering, spider-leg cracks inching across a window or a mirror. Perhaps the Greens have souls after all.

You shed your paralysis like daylight erases the stars and approach to examine the so-called king. You do not touch him; still, he whimpers, sobs, quakes like waves in a storm. “He needs more milk of the poppy. A lot more of it.”

“Yes,” Aegon agrees immediately. His streaming eyes—a bleak, murky blue like the sea off Claw Isle—list to you, agonized and grateful.

The maesters gape. “More could kill him,” one says. And they are petrified of being blamed for it. They are plagued by visions of Aemond hacking off their heads and displaying them on spikes above the stone walls of captured Rook’s Rest.

“No drawbacks at all then?” Aegon manages between moans.

“If his pain does not abate, he will die of shock,” you say. “He must be unconscious.”

“Knock me out,” Aegon pleads, pawing at Aemond. “Tell them, tell them.”

Aemond looks to the man in armor: dark-haired, olive-skinned, Dornish. Sir Criston Cole, you realize. The Hand of the King. The Kingmaker. After a moment, Criston nods. “Do it now,” Aemond orders the maesters.

Grimacing, grim, they pour the opalescent liquid into Aegon’s mouth. He gulps it down as quickly as he can. “Enough,” you tell the maesters. Instinctively, you reach out to comfort Aegon: a palm rested lightly on his forehead, fingers threaded through silvery hair that’s filthy with soot and blood. You should hate him, but you don’t. When you look at the Greens’ broken king, you cannot see a murderer, a usurper, a depraved hedonist, a consumer of innocence. You can only see a man worn threadbare by ill-advised bravery.

“Hello, angel,” Aegon murmurs as he gazes up at you, a ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes really do remind you of home: ocean currents like iron, fog like flint. “Welcome to the end of the world.” And then he’s out, extinguished, eclipsed.

Servants bustle into the tent carrying heavy buckets. “What is that?” you ask.

“Pork lard,” one of the maesters says. “For his wounds.”

“No, no, no, some of these burns are nearly down to the muscle. They’re too deep, too fresh. Lard is for later, to help with scarring, although olive oil or rose oil would be better. He needs to be cleaned with vinegar diluted with water. Or red wine, if that’s all that can be found.”

“Vinegar?!” one of the maesters exclaims.

“It helps prevent infection. Nobody knows why.”

The same maester turns to Aemond, imploring him. “My prince, I can assure you, the Citadel recommends pork lard or cow dung as topical cures, or both used alternatingly. There are also reports of cases where frogs have been helpful, warmed in oil and then rubbed on the affected area.”

Criston blinks. “I’m sorry, you do what with the frogs…?!”

They’re going to kill him, you think. Not with malice, but with stupidity. A wasted life, a wasted death. You demand of the maester: “When was the last time you treated burns this severe?”

He glowers at you, sharp dark eyes like flecks of onyx in a nest of wrinkles. And you know you’ve won when he replies: “When have you?”

“My brother was burned in a housefire started by an upturned lantern. It was five years ago, but I remember the direness his injuries. And what was done to save him.”

Silence in this tent the color of summer: green grass, unsinged trees. Aemond waits for the maesters to produce some astute rebuttal. When they cannot, he orders the servants: “Vinegar, water, rags. Now.” They dash off to oblige him, wide-eyed and quivering like small dogs. Then Aemond looks to you. “What next?”

“His wounds should be treated with honey and then bandaged. The dressings must be changed frequently, at least once per day. He must be repositioned so the scar tissue does not immobilize his joints. He will suffer, it cannot be avoided, but he should suffer as little as possible. Listen to him when he says the pain is too much. Let him sleep. When he is awake, he must drink plenty of fluids. He is losing water through his burns, and it must be replaced. Milk is preferable. Tea and fruit juices are good as well. Some wine is acceptable if that’s what he likes best.”

“And it certainly is,” Criston mutters. You’ve heard the same: that the Greens’ king is a drunk, an adulterer, a coward, a ghoul. You cannot speak to any of this. You know him only as someone who is horrifically pained and sick to death of fighting. Again, without thinking, you comb your fingertips distractedly through his hair as he lies unconscious on the table, bleeding from everywhere. He’s so young, so breakable, so unlike the monster you’ve been led to believe he is.

“Get honey and bandages,” Aemond tells the maesters. They depart, casting each other incredulous glances: Are these our new overlords? Men who heed the wisdom of impetuous young women filthy with blood and earth?

“I’ve heard salt can be helpful for wounds,” Aemond says. “They used it on me when…” He gestures to his eyepatch, to his scar. Lucerys Velaryon took that part of him in self-defense; at least, that is what you have always been told. But you’ve read enough to know that for every event, there are at least two stories. Whatever the truth is, Luke paid for that eye. He paid, Rhaenyra paid, the world continues to pay the price over and over again.

“Because it dries. It absorbs moisture.” You skim your palm over Aegon’s forehead, without lines of fear or anguish as he sleeps. There is a ring on his left hand, a gold dragon with glinting dots of jade for eyes. You twist off the ring so it will not hinder circulation as his fingers swell and give it to Aemond. “But burns weep as they heal. They need to be wet. If they get too dry, they will crack open and fester.”

“Is that what happened to your brother?” Aemond asks.

“Where we did not pay enough attention. The backs of his knees, the soles of his feet.”

“But he survived.”

“Yes,” you tell Aemond; and you can see how desperately he is searching for hope in your face, your words. “He did.”

The servants return with buckets of water, handfuls of rags, glass bottles of vinegar that is cloudy and rust-colored.

“What’s it made from?” you say.

“Fermented a-a-apples, my lady,” one of the boys sputters. He watches Aemond out of the corner of his eye like sheep look for the shadows of wolves. He shivers, he sweats. This boy, who last night was fetching meat and mead for Lord Staunton, has heard the same stories you have: the degenerate king, his murderous brother.

“That’s fine then.” You haul over one of the water buckets and Criston helps you lift it up onto the table. You empty half a bottle of vinegar into the water, mix it by wobbling the bucket back and forth, and then soak a rag in the pungent liquid. “You can help,” you tell Aemond and Criston. “Dip a rag in the bucket, wring it out, then press it to his wounds. Remove any dirt or scraps of fabric. But don’t rub. Try not to damage the skin he has left.” You demonstrate: dabbing at flesh that is torn and bloody and blistered, a black-and-ruby wasteland that at best will leave him irreparably scarred and at worst will swallow his life like ships sink in storms.

Tentatively—with hands at ease with killing but not tenderness—Aemond and Criston join you, studying your movements and imitating them with great care. There is a sniffle, a teardrop that falls onto Aegon’s filthy but unburned left hand and glistens there like a splinter of glass; you are alarmed to see that the Kingmaker is weeping.

“Criston,” Aemond says gently. “We are doing everything we can for him.”

“Since the day he was born, I promised…”

“I know.”

“Your mother…”

“I know,” Aemond says again, and you think: The Greens aren’t demons, they aren’t savages. They’re just patchworks of memory and flesh and suffering, the same as any of us. “He will live. And his sacrifice won us a victory today.”

As you tended to wounded men caked with blood and pine needles, you saw them tangled above in the overcast sky, scales of scarlet and gold and an ancient muddy viridescence. There were flames and shouts, and then all three dragons hurdled towards the earth and out of view. “The Red Queen?” you ask Aemond, mindful to keep your voice perfectly level.

“Dead,” he says: dark satisfaction, fearsome pride. “And so is her rider.”

“The gods are good.” You are amazed at how easily it slips out, a reflex of self-preservation while your mind is elsewhere. Does my father know yet? Does Rhaenyra, does Daemon, does Corlys? People will be searching for you soon. If you do not appear from the smoke and chaos of the battlefield, your eldest brother Clement will come looking with his sword in hand. Everett, scarred and unagile but clever, will be pouring over maps to see where you might have ended up.

There is no suspicion in Aemond’s face when he glances over at you. He is gingerly cleaning soot and charred strips of ruined skin from Aegon’s chest, which rises and falls in deep, slow breaths. “Which family is yours?”

House Celtigar, but you can’t tell him that. You scramble for a noble family of the Crownlands whose accent you share, whose history you have been taught, whose men fight for the Greens but are not so distinguished that Aemond will know them well. “House Thorne.”

He nods. “Are you one of Sir Rickard’s sisters?”

You startle. Perhaps you have chosen the wrong disguise. “Far less illustrious than that. Just a cousin.”

The two maesters return, their archaic hands piled high with linen bandages and glass jars of honey, a fiery gold like sunset. “Set them down over there,” Aemond orders, pointing. He has a presence, it cannot be denied. He is tall, fierce, swift yet calculated. He moves like a man who has killed once, twice, again until it is no longer something that keeps him awake at night. It is something that has become a part of him like arteries or bones. “Prepare a room in the castle.”

“For Prince Aegon?” one of the maesters says, then quickly corrects himself. “I mean, for the king?”

“For until we decide what to do with him.” Aemond stares at Criston. Criston stares back, his dark eyes huge and shiny. There is a war to be waged, but Aegon will not be able to help them. Not for months, at least. Not ever, if he dies. The maesters disappear again, grumbling to each other. Unwelcome tasks, unwelcome guests.

Rhaenys is dead, you think as you work. It doesn’t feel real. Meleys is dead. Hundreds of Black soldiers are dead. Rook’s Rest is the Greens’ greatest victory yet, and one they desperately needed. This war is nowhere near over. And the betting odds keep changing.

You say to Aemond and Criston: “Help me turn him. We must clean the burns on his back as well.”

They listen, they obey, they help you because helping you means helping Aegon. When he is washed as well as he can be, you spread a thin sheen of shimmering honey over his wounds—an amber river that will trap moisture and discourage inflammation—and wrap him in bandages. The only burn you leave uncovered is the one on his right cheek. It creeps up over his pale face like red tentacles, curling and grasping, hungry, insatiable. They match now, you think. Two brothers, two scars.

Criston assembles a group of Green soldiers and Aegon is carried in a litter to the castle that serves as the seat of House Staunton, once allies of Rhaenyra, now traitors, now dead men walking. Outside rain has begun to fall, putting out flames born from dragonfire. The pine forest is saved; wounded men lie in the dirt with their mouths open hoping to quench their thirst. By the time Aegon is placed in an opulent bedroom with a view of Blackwater Bay, he has already bled through his bandages. You clean him again, bandage him, dribble milk of the poppy down his throat when he begins to stir and whimper. Aemond gives you command of a makeshift fleet of caretakers: the two requisitioned maesters, three maids, servants to bring food, drink, bandages, wood for the crackling fireplace.

My family is searching for me, you know as you battle to save their enemy’s life, this maybe-king with silver hair and eyes like deep water.And then: I cannot leave him. Not now, not yet.

In the night, as cool rain patters against the ocean and Aemond and Criston are slaughtering House Staunton men down in the castle courtyard, you dose Aegon with milk of the poppy every few hours. The maesters refuse to take responsibility for it; if the king is poisoned, it will be you who swings from a rope for it. You hold cloths dripping with cold water to his forehead. You feed him nibbles of bread and venison when he is conscious enough to eat, cinnamon tea, pomegranate juice, goat milk. You inspect him for any signs of infection. You braid a small lock of his hair before you’ve stopped to consider why you’re doing it.

And when no one else is watching, you untie the bloodstained armband of your own house and burn it to ashes in the fire.

~~~~~~~~~~

Someone is jostling you, grabbing at you. You fell into an exhausted, sporadic sleep in the next room long after midnight. It’s morning now; warm sunlight blooms like flowers on your face, yellow roses and buttercups and daffodils. When your eyes open, they are sore and unfocused. Aemond is a blur of white hair and black leather. He is tugging on you again, his lithe fingers like a vice around your forearm.

“Stop it, get off me!” You shove him away. He waits, bemused. “You can’t keep dragging me around like this!”

“Why not?”

Because my father is one of the wealthiest men in the Seven Kingdoms. Because I may not have silver hair or a dragon, but if you cut me open the blood of Old Valyria would spill out like red waves. Because the man I am pledged to marry is good at killing, very good at killing, maybe even better than you. “Because I’m a noblewoman. I’m a lady.”

“You don’t act like one,” Aemond counters. “Ladies flee from blood and gore. Ladies are nowhere to be found on battlefields.”

“I like being useful.”

“Then I have brought you a gift. You are needed now. Aegon is asking for you.” And then, when you hurry out of bed, finding your footing on chilly wood floors: “Well, that certainly got you moving quickly.”

“He’s in pain?”

“Not especially, from what I can tell. I think he just wants you.” Aemond glides out of the bedroom. You follow him to Aegon’s chamber. The Greens’ king is propped up in bed on a great mass of pillows, bandaged, limp, eyes glazed and barely open. There are men huddled around him. You recognize Criston, though not the other ones, some old and some young and all in armor. You hope that none of them are Sir Rickard Thorne.

You feel Aegon’s forehead for fever. To your relief, he is no more than modestly warm. He catches your hand, holds it tightly, doesn’t let go. After a moment’s hesitation, you sit down beside him on the edge of the bed. There is a curl of his lips, just a whisper of a smile, just a phantom of one. Aemond glances at you and Aegon with mild interest, then turns his attention to Criston.

“Aegon,” Criston informs the king, patiently, like a good father would. “We have to move you back to King’s Landing.”

“No,” Aegon says. His voice is so low and weak that he’s difficult to hear.

“Your recovery will be long and arduous,” Criston explains. “Aemond and I will be needed in combat. We cannot stay to guard you. The Blacks may try to retake Rook’s Rest. You staying here is not an option. King’s Landing is safer. It is well-supplied, it is protected. And we have our own maesters there who will help tend to you.”

“Can’t leave,” Aegon croaks. “Sunfyre.”

“Aegon—”

“I can’t leave without Sunfyre,” he forces out with immense effort. Then he gasps and moans, tears pooling in his eyes. You offer him milk of the poppy; he guzzles as much as you’ll allow him to have.

Criston sighs. “You can’t stay. And Sunfyre can’t leave. One of his wings was nearly ripped off, he’ll never fly again. We have no way to transport him, he’s too heavy.”

One of the armored men mutters: “And that’s assuming he wouldn’t incinerate anyone who ventured close enough to try.”

“Where is he now?” Aemond asks the man.

“Down on the beach, my prince. Eating dead soldiers.”

Criston shudders. Working in close proximity to dragons has not given him a liking for them.

“Can’t leave him here,” Aegon whispers, shaking his head.

“You must,” Aemond says.

“What if it was Vhagar?”

“I’d leave her. I’d have no choice.”

Aegon frowns, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s all too much for him. “Not the same.”

No, perhaps not; Aemond’s dragon may be the largest and most lethal in the world, but Aegon’s bond with Sunfyre is said to be what legends are built of, words written in ink and stone. You watch the agonized confliction on Aegon’s drawn face: can’t leave, can’t stay, can’t fight, can’t run. You say softly: “Could Sunfyre be assigned a detachment of guards?”

Aemond looks at you as if just remembering you’re here. “What?”

“Men could be tasked with ensuring the dragon is secure and fed. From a safe distance, of course. They could report on his health. Then perhaps when he is stronger, he can be reunited with the king.” The king. Again, it stuns you how easily the treason rolls out, like waves bubbling over rocks and sand.

Aemond turns to Criston. “Could it be done?”

“I don’t foresee many men volunteering for the task. But it could be done, yes. Sure.”

Aemond asks his brother: “Would that make a difference?”

Aegon’s eyes drift to you. They are churning with sluggish, clunky thoughts, heavy burdens to bear on raw shoulders. The braid that you wove absentmindedly into his hair is still there. “Alright,” Aegon agrees at last. “I’ll go.”

“Good,” Aemond says. “We leave at dawn tomorrow.” Then he looks to you. “You will come south with us.” His tone invites no argument. He doesn’t even conceive of it as a possibility. Why would you refuse? Why would you, a purportedly devout Green, shy away from the opportunity to nurse your king back to health? You bow your head in compliance. You wonder what is being discussed in the Black Council; you wonder what your father is thinking, what Everett believes happened to you.

“But I have to see him first,” Aegon says.

Aemond does not understand. “See who?”

“Sunfyre.”

“But you can’t walk to the beach,” Criston says. “You can’t walk anywhere.”

Aegon grins, showing his teeth. His dazed, deep blue eyes glitter mischieviously. His hand has not disentangled itself from yours. “Then carry me.”

The deal is struck, like a face minted onto a coin or a bolt of lightning meeting the earth. Soldiers transport Aegon down to the stony, mist-sopped shoreline. Blade-sharp agony is flooding back into his face, but he refuses more milk of the poppy. He wants to be awake when he gets there. He wants to be himself.

The soldiers cannot get too close to Sunfyre; no one besides Aegon can. He is helped off the litter and then tries to amble across the wet, grey sand. After a few steps he collapses. You rush to him, dodging Aemond and Criston’s grasps as they try to stop you.

“No,” Aegon says when you attempt to help him to his feet. He is panting from the pain, his face flushed with torment and exertion. His white-blond hair whips in the wind. “Do not follow me. Not even if I pass out, not even if I’m dead. I don’t know what Sunfyre would do to you.” And then he crawls forward alone on his hands and knees.

Waves crash, spraying saltwater into the air. Crabs scuttle over rocks. Gulls swoop low to claim mouthfuls of flesh from bloated corpses in worthless uniforms. The dragon known as Sunfyre the Golden is curled up on the beach. Many of his metallic scales are singed; the pink membranes of his wings are tattered like lace. His right wing hangs at a ruinously odd angle. You would know how to set that if he was a human. And you could do it without the threat of being reduced to ash and history.

Sunfyre unravels as Aegon nears him, long angular face rising, frayed wings settling by his sides. You have seen dragons before, of course—Syrax, Caraxes, Arrax, Vermax, Meleys—though never from this close. They horrify you. You cannot look at them without thinking of the devastation they sow like a plague, of how they so unmistakably no longer belong in this world.

Sunfyre’s head stretches out towards his rider, a half-dead man kneeling in wet sand and wearing only bandages and loose cotton trousers. Beside you, Sir Criston Cole sucks in a noisy, nervous breath. Aemond watches Aegon, his face like stone. His hair hangs in long, damp waves.

Aegon embraces Sunfyre, clinging to him, resting his face against the dragon’s. They stay like that for what feels like a very long time. Then Aegon crawls back to you, sobbing with pain by the time he is lifted into the litter. You give him milk of the poppy and he accepts it eagerly. He is unconscious again within seconds. Down the beach, Sunfyre looses a soft desolate cry like a plea: Don’t go. Don’t leave me. You might never come back.

~~~~~~~~~~

The drivers have been instructed to proceed slowly and with caution; still, the carriage pitches and jolts as you traverse the Rosby Road towards King’s Landing. In addition to the caravan’s most precious cargo—the Greens’ fragile and intermittently sentient king—it transports also two severed heads: Lord Simon Staunton’s in a basket, and Meleys’ in the bed of a mule-drawn wagon. High above in slate-grey clouds, Aemond and Vhagar are safeguarding your progress. Criston rides on a monstrous warhorse just outside the carriage. You are leafing through a book that you found in the castle library at Rook’s Rest: anatomy, surgery, sicknesses and cures. Aegon is bandaged and heavily medicated in the cushioned seat across from you. While servants flit in and out frequently, you are the only passengers in the carriage at the moment. You do not know that Aegon is awake until he speaks.

“Sinful,” he says. His voice is groggy, only half-here. He is gazing blearily at the illustration on the open pages of your book: a quite detailed naked man, his arteries and veins mapped like the roads of Westeros, his cock bare and sizeable.

“It’s informative,” you reply in your own defense, smiling.

“My father would have hit me for looking at something like that. If he’d noticed.” Aegon smirks, resting his head against the back of his velvet seat. His hair has been scrubbed and rinsed by servants, the braid you made for him undone. “He probably wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Mine has a great love for all books.” Bartimos Celtigar is eternally turning pages: computations, records, revenue. He does not just sit on Rhaenyra’s council. He is her Master of Coin. He funds her war effort, he fuels her like wood to a fire. “Besides, I have seen naked men in person. No book can scandalize me now.”

A little twitch of his silvery eyebrows: fascination, amusement. “He does not lose sleep over your spent innocence?”

“He has other things on his mind presently.”

“Like what?”

Like helping Rhaenyra win the war. You find a different truth to tell him. “Some men consider one daughter to be too many. My father has four. His attention is thoroughly divided.”

“He doesn’t like you?”

“He likes me plenty. He just doesn’t need me.”

Aegon nods. His eyes travel over you slowly and meditatively, not leering but learning, memorizing slopes and angles, taking you in like he’s never been able to before. He is in the brief lull between doses of milk of the poppy: lucid enough to speak but not so much that he can feel the full extent of his injuries. “Are you married?”

This is a bit of a fraught subject. “I am betrothed.”

“Oh,” he says, with what might be disappointment. “And he wouldn’t rather have you home right now? Putting all that knowledge of male anatomy to good use? That’s difficult to believe.”

You peer evasively down at your book. “He has a role to play in the war. I’ve been given permission to serve in my own way until it is over.”

“Permission,” Aegon echoes. He finds this interesting. He studies you for a while before he asks, his voice gentle: “What’s wrong with him?”

“Nothing. He’s honorable, he’s brave. He’s marvelously formidable. He could carry you around like a sack of potatoes.”

Aegon chuckles, a slow reflective laugh, curiosity, intrigue, something to think about besides the fact that he’s missing half his skin. “Do you fear marriage?”

What is the answer to that question? Do you even know yourself? “I fear being possessed. And having no remedy if the circumstances are not to my liking.”

“You can’t get one of your three superfluous sisters to marry him instead?”

You smile faintly. “No, we’ve met. He chose me, he favored me. I’m not sure why.”

“Probably because you’ve read all there is to know about cocks.” Aegon grins, drowsy and crooked and playful. “Who is he?”

“Just a man,” you say. You can’t tell Aegon more than that. It would give your Black affiliations away.

You are betrothed to the Warden of the North, Lord Cregan Stark.

[madame-fear]

𐙚 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑.

⌕ masterlists | requesting rules | about me | freq. tags.

ㅤㅤ 𐙚 𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐀. german girl half-argentine. 18. med + genetics student. fran romero, lucerys velaryon, and timothy turner love bot. side account @amira-romero.

Minors can interact with my content, as long as they don’t interact with my +18 / NSFW content. Otherwise, I will have to block.

My interest may vary, I study several things. I’m currently studying Genetics, neurodegenerative diseases, Reproductive Medicine, and Forensic Medicine. I also like interpreting + translation. Writing, listening to music, daydreaming and translating are my hobbies.

Infatuated with the La Sociedad de la Nieve cast— 24/7 in love with Fran Romero & Esteban Kukuriczka. Also in love with Lucerys Velaryon from House of the Dragon. Referred to as ‘Mrs Romero’ and ‘Barbie Romero’ by my beautiful moots. 💕

If you’d like to talk to me, please feel free to do so by sending me a message through ask box, or DMs! I love meeting new people & interacting— don’t be shy. ♡

𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐀’𝐒 𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐒. (wifey) ash ⊹ (wifey) lu ⊹ (wifey) ana ⊹ (wifey) belle ⊹ (wifey) bella ⊹ (wifey) vinca ⊹ may ⊹ sofía ⊹ lucy ⊹ lucía ⊹ (wifey) lucera ⊹ cyliarys-starlight ⊹ mel (melisusthewee) ⊹ mel (fadingsnow) ⊹ nana ⊹ violetrainbow412 ⊹ carlo ⊹ julia ⊹ vi ⊹ lu (maidragoste) ⊹ jess ⊹ rachel ⊹ uzi ⊹ kalki ⊹ florence ⊹ myrella ⊹ veena ⊹ aefillor ⊹ arcie ⊹ auntie phasma ⊹ bluey ⊹ liv ⊹ sili ⊹ yummmy-mimiii ⊹ fae ⊹ cal ⊹ lele ⊹ ari ⊹ megan ⊹ emma ⊹ isabelle ⊹ miranda ⊹ lxdyred ⊹ lena ⊹ marina ⊹ hilde ⊹ yzzart ⊹ noelle ⊹ jen ⊹ shay ⊹ lana ⊹ lyn ⊹ nikola ⊹ serxinns ⊹ valentine ⊹ zara ⊹ anastacia ⊹ lea ⊹ mera ⊹ ruth ⊹ morgan ⊹ tsu ⊹ sage ⊹ eve ⊹ ezran ⊹ miriam ⊹ thea ⊹ phantasyy ⊹ olivia ⊹ mylilgothcurl ⊹ mary ⊹ bry ⊹ lia ⊹ mikelark-muller ⊹ gigi. ♡

𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐀’𝐒 𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋. wattpad. instagram. side blog. fic self-reblog acc.

𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐒. // house of the dragon ⊹ la sociedad de la nieve cast.

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒. // coffee shop + masterlist.

[tierra-paldeana]

☠🌏– Wait, so their name was indeed Enrique...? Damn, that was... very coincidental. And if Rika wasn't so used to interacting with weird people, it'd definitely raise her suspicions, but...

''Huh! For real? Nahaha! Darn, I didn't know I'd be able to guess! But I mean, that's alright. Not everyone can be super outgoing or anythin'. But it's nice to meet you, then, Enrique.''

There she goes being as affable as always. Once the handshake ends, she puts her hand back into her pocket.

Her wide smile changes once she hears their next question though.

''Hm? It's fine. It takes having a conversation about anything else with someone to bring my mind at ease, so don'tcha worry. Sometimes one just needs a distraction, some fresh air, y'know?''

Well, it's not like she's going to open up about her deepest issues with someone she just met... Partly because she doesn't do it with herself, either.

''Matter of fact, I feel much better now. So eh, thank you for talkin' with me.''

And even if the woman were to bite, the taste of the Stranger would surely repel even the least demanding of tastes. Rika's handshake was firm and secure, a trait that spoke of the woman's confidence despite her secret loneliness. The Stranger smiled, returning with a gentle shake of their own.

The raised eyebrow did not evade their attention. Clearly Rika found their lack of enthusiasm with providing a name of their own somewhat suspect, and they tilted their head just a little to the side, playful, maybe even teasing, golden eyes never breaking the eyecontact beyond the occassional blink.

"Enrique, huh? Damn, how'd you guess that fast?" They laughed, their pitch lighter than they'd originally intended, raising their hand to their mouth to stifle the volume their amusement. "Is it like, printed on my forehead or something and I just don't know?" The reaction was only in so far a lie as 'Enrique' hadn't been their name before, until she'd literally just given it to them. It retroactively became true, reality, and therefore rescinded it's status as untruth.

"Nice to meet you as well! Had I known you're such a spectacular mindreader I wouldn't have tried to make you guess in the first place. Excuse my little game there, I enjoy poking other people's reactions to learn more about them. I'm... not particularly good with social interaction, in case it wasn't obvious enough."

The understatement of the year, truly! Well, at least they tried.

"But I suppose even someone who's better at it like you can occassionally feel isolated, huh? Are you sure you're okay?"

[arceal-doodles]

I absolutely love your Blush Levels template that you posted on Twitter! I've been using it for so many of my characters! Anyways, will you do more of these in the future? I love how expressive your characters are and how they are part of my inspiration. :3

[iris-sistibly]

The Targ Talk: House of the Dragon S2

I'm late for the party because I took a break from writing QOT fanfics, but here I am.

Episode 1 commentary:

I do appreciate the whole tapestry thing that tells the history of the Targaryen dynasty (mostly focusing on the dance, duh), but I still prefer the opening in season 1.

Rhaenys refusing to follow Daemon's order is badass ngl. Like I said, Daemon is my favorite bitch but if I have to choose between him and Rhaenys, I'd take the latter's side. Daemon is the "strike the iron while it's hot" kind of person, but the moment the Greens learned about Lucerys' demise they have been on high alert in case of any attacks from the Blacks so...it was a bad idea to attack King's Landing just like that.

I think we can all agree that Emma D' Arcy did an amazing job at showing Rhaenyra's grief. The unkempt hair, the dirt on her face and body, basically being not being able to care for herself (and she doesn't care), very image of a mother who just lost another child was nailed to perfection. The scene where the queen found the remains of Luke and Arrax was just heartbreaking.

Speaking of nailing a scene, I am also impressed at Phia Saban. I know a lot of people were confused at how Helaena decided to give up her son after her failed attempt to bribe Blood and Cheese. Actually it was much worse in the book, but it still ended up with Jaehaerys' death. I do agree with what others said that Helaena had to choose or all of them will die. If she sacrificed herself, they would still have killed both kids, if she chose to give up Jaehaera, the result would STILL be the same. The fear, desperation, confusion and trauma of Helaena was delivered so well by Phia.

I also read some comments saying that Helaena foresaw her son's death, and whatever she does she couldn't stop it hence she did what she did.

However, I do agree that the Blood and Cheese scene which was supposedly the highlight of the episode felt a bit...underwhelming. I mean, if you really think about it, it's horrible but I was expecting it to be at the same level or at least close to the book kind of horrifying. Though idk why they excluded Maelor's character, and I don't even know if Daeron is going to exist in the show either.

I have a confession to make, I kinda like Aegon in this episode. I was expecting him to be a lazy bastard or a Joffrey Baratheon kind of "king" but at least he's trying. But as I'm writing this, I realized that he's just another pawn of Otto's (just like his mother). Having Aegon as king would give him control over the kingdom, he cannot be king and being the hand of Viserys, and now Aegon II is the closest he could get to the iron throne, that's why the greedy bitch did everything he can--use his daughter and have her marry to Viserys despite her young age and trying to convince Vizzy to marry Aegon to Rhaenyra. Dude has been planning it for years. When Alicent voiced out her concern about being undermined by her father at the small council I was like, babes you're a pawn in this game, that's all you are and I hate that the showrunners made her this way. Again, she was a player in the book and I prefer that version of her.

Criston Cole bitching about Rhaenyra choosing the crown over oranges, and refusing to be her whore but still ended up being a boy toy of another queen will never not be funny.

Oh, and after spending some time reading Helaegon fanfics, I kinda ship them now too 🤣🤣

[arcielee]

Hey I wanna boop you too!

*BOOP*

Me accepting the boop.

[ahti-the-janitor]

Okay, so... I have some not-so-positive thoughts about Olu/Zheng and Jim/Archie.

So, I'm supposed to believe Olu talks about Zheng all the time etc etc but we haven't seen any of that. I knew it was gonna happen but there was honestly no buildup. I wish they had at least shown some of that so it would feel a little bit better.

I understand that they wanted to add more female characters and I love that but why do they have to break up Jim and Olu to put them into relationships with said women? That I don't exactly understand.

If they wanted relationships for Zheng and Archie, there are plenty of other characters. But also, they could just exist as fun, interesting characters on their own? I think s2 is already too packed with storylines, so now we have this in my opinion pretty half-assed romance and no explanation why Olu and Jim suddenly apparently fell out of love. I think they are trying to make it sound like they were pretty platonic but happened to fuck and it's kinda weird and kinda hurtful and in my opinion makes zero sense bc there was a whole story arc in s1 of Olu and Jim being in love, pining for each other, etc. It wasn't just a random fuck. And then they got separated unwillingly, and may have thought each other dead. But still their reunion didn't have much emotion. But I doubt your feelings would just die away in that time especially if you thought the other was dead and then they turned up?? I know they talked about Jim kissing Archie and such and Olu didn't mind but as a viewer who loves Olu/Jim and loved their arc in s1, I do feel disappointed. And honestly kinda betrayed even that all that development and stuff was seemingly swept under the rug. It feels rushed and disingenuous and wrong in the eyes of someone who really loved these two and was looking forward to seeing them together again in s2.

In my opinion, ir doesn't make any sense to rush Jim and Olu into new separate relationships after putting so much focus on theirs in s1. Why waste that? And why think I would care about Arcie/Jim or Olu/Zheng nearly as much when they haven't had all that development together? Idk, it feels to me like they just threw all of that beautiful storyline from s1 in the drain. And I know people change and stop loving each other (romantically, in this case) and that's life but idk in these circumstances it kinda makes no sense to me. And especially since it feels so rushed and not satisfying at all as there was - like I've said - zero buildup, we barely even know these new characters. And like I said, s2 is already too short and too packed with conflicts and storylines so why did they have to add this?

I wouldn't mind poly. I think that would be amazing, actually. I'd love it!! Some people say they already are in a poly relationship but... Idk it's kinda vague? And Olu was like "I'm gonna go on Zheng's ship :D" and why would it be such an easy decision if he was together with Jim/Jim and Archie? And I don't think I would mind Archie/Jim and Olu/Zheng this much if it wasn't for the fact that Olu and Jim had a pretty big and solid storyline in s1 and now I feel like it's being dismissed as them just fucking. They clearly weren't just platonic besties who had a crush on each other and fucked like once. I feel like I'm going crazy when people and the show seem to insist that to me as if I haven't seen the first season where that clearly wasn't the case.

I don't know if this makes any sense, I have a hard time writing things out neatly lol. But... Some of my thoughts.

[anipwrites]

Storyteller Saturday!

How are your characters connected to alchemical elements (e.g. Earth, Water, Fire, Air in most western canon, or Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water in most eastern canon)? Are there different alchemical elements in your world?

Hey, thanks for the ask! Sorry I'm getting to it late!

My characters have superpowers, some of which are tied to alchemical elements in a sense, but not all of them. In fact honestly I think a good chunk of them are closer to Pokemon classes than anything lol. But I'll talk about some of the ones who fit the elements closer!

Regarding Earth in the sense of like rocks and stuff, theres my character Taylor who can control rocks and rock-like substances/structures (so like bricks, concrete, asphalt, etc.).

I have two OCs with fire powers! There's Maddi, who can control fire as well as turn herself into a humanoid flame (and also some heat resistance). And there's Luke, who has some dragon DNA in him (long story) and as such can control and breathe fire, turn his body to magma, and has *a lot* of heat resistance--he can actually heal himself if he stands in fire.

I don't have anyone with strict water powers, but I do have Ken and his mom Frost who have ice powers! So they can freeze water, conjure ice and snow, etc.

When it comes to metal, there's Brian! He can control metal and some technology (the sophistication of the technology's programming determines his success rate).

In a 'I don't know if this counts as Earth but if it does I'll mention it here' way, my OC Alana can control/conjure plants, and shapeshift into different animals. So I guess she's got more of a Nature kinda deal, but some people would call it Earth so I wanna cover that base.

I guess the kind of powers my OCs have are sorta their world's alchemical elements? I hadn't thought of it like that. In which case I'll list them out here.

Darkness - Ken, Arcis, Maddi (to an extent), Nightshade, Zarroff, Diana, Shane (to an extent)

Light - Taru

Nature/Earth - Alana

Earth/Rock - Taylor

Fire - Maddi, Luke

Water - None of my OCs have this one lol

Ice - Ken, Frost

Metal/Electricity - Brian

Mind/Telekinesis and Telepathy - CJ, Logan, The Puppeteer (not directly but through his book)

Chaos - Shane, Alice (to an extent), Diana

Wind - Blur

Then there's other general stuff like 'oh people with powers tend to have enhanced strength and speed, some people have super strength and invisibility, the angels can fly' but I don't think those really can count as 'elements' per say.

[kyliafanfiction]

Babylon 5: Born to the purple (finally having time to do this on the day)

*The whole 'G'kar is a horndog' thing gets kind of ignored after Season 1, which does make sense (it sort of comes back in Season 5, for one scene), but it was a thing earlier on, including in this line where G'kar agrees with 'all things in live females are the greatest'

*K'odath's disbelief that G'kar would be there raises questions about Narn society and G'kar's repuation back home *God, this episode hits harder in Hindsight *I love how Arcy B5 got later on, but I also like the opening to Season 1, because it lent itself to the more episodic feel of Season 1

*Oh yeah, this is the episode with Ivanova using Gold Channel

*Vir's use of the weird Gameboy like thing is hilarious. We never see that again, probably because he learns to do it back in his quarters. *B5 throws words like 'Sector' and 'Quadrant' around without much of a real sense of place and size. No clarity as to where these places are. *This episode tells us so much about Centauri society, and really drives home where Londo sits at this point. *MOON FACED ASSASSIN OF JOY *I don't think I've ever noticed the narn playing Vir's game before when I've watched this episode. *G'kar being so thrown by Londo's Mood *THIS ASSHOLE. And plot thickens. *God, it's so heartwarming though, how much he cares about her. This is not just some 'I want a pretty woman' thing. He really does love her *Londo's password is so very him at this point in his life. *I just wish Talia had been taken to dinner by Ivanova here. *cries in shipper* *Ivanova being protective of her console feels so in-character you forget... *"Figment of your demented imagination" *I do feel like Mollari's cipher should have requried a specific tone too, but I guess a voiceprint is pretty secure *Don't Give Away The Homeworld :rofl: *"get your feet moist" I love it when Londo and Vir get earth sayings wrong *Just a casual use of a tazer in public *I get that slavery is legal in Centauri space, but how is it legal on B5?

*damn that is a fancy bug. *Trakkis, when a man says "get out" in that tone, you GET OUT

*Vir walks in with such a swagger *Negotiating via subordinates is hardly unheard of G'kar. *"Don't give away the homeworld" *You know, I get it's conservation of Characters, but these Ambassadors really do need bigger diplomatic staff. And more competent ones. Ones you can actually trust to do the job *Then I hurt Him *"My good and dear friend" ah, Londo of this season. Such a decent guy, in a lot of ways. :rofl: *Londo's failure to talk the guy around is hilarious. But sinclair's deceptions *And here it is. The other key backstory element for Ivanova **cries* fuck. *Sinclair's strategem is so risky, I'm surprised there were no downsides. *"Coming from you Ambassador, that's a real compliment" *And the thing is, Talia has a point. The Psicorps rules about these things are there for a good reason. But this is one of those things where you'd think warrants could exist. But apparently there just is no room for that? *Not that they could get a warrant in this context but *I do love the 'don't think of an elephant' trick she pulls on him *G'kar saved Londo's career, and he's gotta hide that fact so much. :rofl: *I do wonder what exactly is in those Purple Files *I love that Garibaldi knows not to press her about it. Just "it won't happen again" *God, Londo... the ending.

[lovelykhaleesiii]

❤️POSITIVE WORDS GAME❤️

Tag five moots that you admire, love, and adore - and type out why you love em so much, too! Let's say a nice word or two about those in the fandom and genuinely spread some good vibes!

Tag five people when you're done❤️ Let's spread some good vibes!

I was actually going to make another list because there’s too many of you that I just love and appreciate 💖 these are in no particular order!!!!

@aemondtargaryensrider I appreciate you staying with me since I first joined this fandom, and your lovely edits/all the tik toks you send me so we can thirst together. you are a treasure xoxox 💕

@ripdragonbeans BEANS seriously you too, were one of the first points of contacts in this fandom & I am so thankful to have stumbled across you. you are such beautiful and bright soul, never change 💖

@arcielee Arcie you wonderful human being. you have been nothing but so kind and welcoming to me, and your stories are immaculate. thank you for your undying support, you always know how to uplift me, and thank you for thirsting with me 🥹💘

@simp-aholic @pendragora @worms-on-a-single-string - you three I have only met for a short while & you guys just always know how to make my day. such beautiful souls inside and out, and you should be proud of the people that you are. always spreading positivity, it’s a wonderful sight to see. you guys are like my fairy godmothers 🤭💖

@bel-bottoms my beautiful Bel. I am so thankful for you. You have such an incredible way of story telling & such a lovely output. you make me laugh regardless & can understand me. I appreciate it so much, you have no idea. thank you for being you ❣️❣️❣️

@sunfyresrider MY FELLOW AEGON QUEEN your stories are one of the finest pieces I have ever read but your beautiful presence is even more enrapturing. I love love love you to bits & thank you for always being a support 💘💘💘

@looselinks my wonderful Spence, ilysm. you are such a bright and kind soul, you deserve the best. always such a pleasure and fun to talk with you (even if we don’t as much now) I am thankful to have met you ✨

@sugarpoppss2 ughhhh thank you thank you THANK YOU for always supporting and thirsting with me over Aegon but esp chubby!Aeg. whenever I see you popping up in my notifs/asks my heart literally skips a beat 🥹💘

@f4ll-for-you @amiraisgoingthruit - you both I have only met this short while, and as fellow Aegon girlies I would like to consider us the sister wives club for our King 🤭 you both have been nothing but welcoming and kind to me, and I cherish my moments with you both. You as writers are phenomenal but even more amazing to consider my beloveds. love you both sm 💘

@ewanmitchellcrumbs thank you Ange for being such a light in this fandom, since I first joined. your page became such fun, read it like the daily morning paper. and your humour never ceases to make me smile silly ❤️ you are wonderful, thank you xox

@aemondx my SILLY SILI you are such a beautiful person, and I am so thankful to have befriended you. your gifs are amazing, but your soul and kindness is even more grand. love you so very much & hope that you are okay 💖

honorary mentions because I love too many of you lovely souls & I could talk your ear off about each of you, but I shall spare you all the earache 💘💖❣️💓❤️💕💋✨ - @fan-goddess @who-told-you-this-was-butter @jacevelaryonswife @evenstaris @elegantsplendour @storiumemporium @officerbrowneyes @em-likes-to-lurk @hopelesswritergall @barbiedragon @st-eve-barnes @sylas-the-grim @moonchildrenandflowercrowns @humanpurposes @hieronymph @omgbrcat @godrakin @borikenlove @marthawrites

[lovemkx]

Miles Kane talking to people?! at the Arci Bellezza - 31.05.2023

(via zenocosini)