#girls when lemon trees and big red doors

[catlvur]

Dany wip

#asoif fanart #asoiaf #daenerys targaryen #dany #got #girls when lemon trees and big red doors

[istumpysk]

OPERATION ICEBERG: THE TIER LIST

THEORY:

Lemongate

TIER:

People's Choice! I swear to god, if you guys screw this up...

Under Consideration: These theories haven't garnered strong or extensive evidence, but they're worthy of discussion.

vs.

50/50: These theories are complete toss-ups.

vs.

Low Probability: While not impossible, these theories are unlikely based on the current evidence.

vs.

Long Shot: These theories are largely speculative, based more on wishful thinking or obscure hints than on solid evidence.

vs.

Debunked: These theories have been directly contradicted by the text, George R. R. Martin, or other authoritative sources.

[Tier list overview]

EVIDENCE:

What is Lemongate?

That was when they lived in Braavos, in the big house with the red door. Dany had her own room there, with a lemon tree outside her window. - Daenerys I, AGOT

The theory argues that lemons can't grow in Braavos, therefore something about Daenerys' childhood has yet to be revealed.

What could it be?

It depends on who you ask. The problem with this theory is that it serves as the foundation for many other theories, making it extremely difficult to cover.

The possibility that Daenerys never actually lived in Braavos has led to various speculations, including but not limited to the following:

The big house with the red door was in Dorne.

Daenerys Targaryen isn't really Daenerys Targaryen, and has false memories of her childhood with Viserys Targaryen.

Daenerys is the daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.

Daenerys is the daughter of Ned Stark and Ashara Dayne.

And that's just scratching the surface.

For the sake of my sanity, we won't delve into all that nonsense. Instead, we'll focus solely on the question of whether lemons can grow in Braavos and, if not, what the hell is going on.

Okay, do lemons grow in Braavos?

Maybe? Daenerys seems to think so.

That was when they lived in Braavos, in the big house with the red door. Dany had her own room there, with a lemon tree outside her window. - Daenerys I, AGOT

But there's some issues.

For starters, trees don't really grow in Braavos.

Beyond the harbor she glimpsed streets of grey stone houses, built so close they leaned one upon the other. To Arya's eyes they were queer-looking, four and five stories tall and very skinny, with sharp-peaked tile roofs like pointed hats. She saw no thatch, and only a few timbered houses of the sort she knew in Westeros. They have no trees, she realized. Braavos is all stone, a grey city in a green sea. - Arya I, AFFC

x

The stony maze of islands and canals that was Braavos, devoid of grass and trees and teeming with strangers who spoke to her in words she could not understand, frightened her so badly that she lost the map and soon herself. - Samwell III, AFFC

Braavos is built on a lagoon at the northwestern end of Essos.

(map!)

It is often described as foggy, with a damp, cool, maritime climate. It draws significant inspiration from the city of Venice, Italy.

The day looked to be a rare one, crisp and clear and bright. Braavos only had three kinds of weather; fog was bad, rain was worse, and freezing rain was worst. But every so often would come a morning when the dawn broke pink and blue and the air was sharp and salty. Those were the days that Cat loved best. - Cat of the Canals, AFFC

x

"Winter is nigh upon us. The day I left Braavos, there was ice on the canals." - Jon IX, ADWD

It's not an ideal climate for growing lemons, as the text humorously notes.

"Seven hells, this place is damp," she heard her guard complain. "I'm chilled to the bones. Where are the bloody orange trees? I always heard there were orange trees in the Free Cities. Lemons and limes. Pomegranates. Hot peppers, warm nights, girls with bare bellies. Where are the bare-bellied girls, I ask you?" "Down in Lys, and Myr, and Old Volantis," the other guard replied. He was an older man, big-bellied and grizzled. "I went to Lys with Lord Tywin once, when he was Hand to Aerys. Braavos is north of King's Landing, fool. Can't you read a bloody map?" - Mercy, TWOW

It's nothing like Dorne, a more suitable place for a lemon tree.

Anguy shuffled his feet. "We were thinking we might eat it, Sharna. With lemons. If you had some." "Lemons. And where would we get lemons? Does this look like Dorne to you, you freckled fool? Why don't you hop out back to the lemon trees and pick us a bushel, and some nice olives and pomegranates too." - Arya II, ASOS

x

There children frolicked naked in the sun, music played in tiled courtyards, and the air was sharp with the smell of lemons and blood oranges. - The Captain of the Guards, AFFC

And to the author's credit, he appears to fully understand the conditions under which lemon trees can and cannot thrive.

Sweetrobin loved lemon cakes too, but only after she told him that they were her favorites. The cake had required every lemon in the Vale, but Petyr had promised that he would send to Dorne for more. - Alayne I, TWOW

So you can see why it's a bit puzzling.

Has anyone ever thought to simply ask George about it?

Of course. If you had the opportunity to ask George R. R. Martin anything, why wouldn't you waste your moment on something as stupid as this?

George was asked about the discrepancy, and surprisingly, he was uncharacteristically forthcoming. He acknowledged that it's very perceptive to pick up on a detail like that and playfully hinted that it points to something else.

Dany remembers a lemon tree outside the house with the red door in Braavos, but citrus trees shouldn't really grow in Braavos's cold, foggy climate. Is this discrepency significant? Does it point to future revelations about Dany's past? Thank you so much. Very perceptive of you. Yes, it does point to . . . well, that would be telling. - George R. R. Martin

In that case, is Lemongate confirmed to be real?

No, not exactly.

Despite what he said, there's really no hints in the text concerning any secrecy around Daenerys' upbringing.

Ser Willem Darry was in Braavos, a fact that could be confirmed by several people.

"It is a secret pact," Dany said, "made in Braavos when I was just a little girl. Ser Willem Darry signed for us, the man who spirited my brother and myself away from Dragonstone before the Usurper's men could take us. Prince Oberyn Martell signed for Dorne, with the Sealord of Braavos as witness." She handed the parchment to Ser Barristan, so he might read it for himself. - Daenerys VII, ADWD

And while trees are rare in Braavos, they do grow in the gardens of the wealthy, where you'd expect Daenerys to be. It's not out of the question that a lemon tree could grow there. Lemon trees can also grow in Venice, Italy.

Trees did not grow on Braavos, save in the courts and gardens of the mighty. - Samwell III, AFFC

Compare one questionable lemon tree to how the author handles Jon Snow's parentage, and you can see why the theory has some issues.

Then what the hell is going on?

I believe one of three possibilities exists.

POSSIBILITY #1

Daenerys lived in a nice big house in Braavos with Ser Willem Darry, and there was a lemon tree outside her window. Nothing weird is happening.

POSSIBILITY #2

We have another instance of an unreliable narrator, who is rewriting a past event that never existed.

Daenerys is chasing a red door and a lemon tree that were never truly there, and she'll never reach her destination. It's a commentary on the futility of her entire objective.

POSSIBILITY #3*

(*also known as the real reason)

At the last minute, George changed the location of the big house with the red door from Tyrosh to Braavos, resulting in a humorous inconsistency in the story.

Yes, it's really that simple.

Blood of the Dragon was a novella published in the July 1996 issue of Asimov's Science Fiction magazine. It is based on the Daenerys chapters from A Game of Thrones and was released before the book itself.

Here's an excerpt:

That was when they had lived in Tyrosh, in the big house with the red door. Dany had slept in her own room there, with a lemon tree outside her window. After Ser Willem had died, the servants had stolen what little money they had left, and soon after they had been put out of the big house. Dany had cried when the red door closed behind them forever. They had wandered since then, from Tyrosh to Myr, from Myr to Braavos, and on to Qohor and Volantis and Lys, never staying long in any one place.

Whoops! Something's different.

The big house with the red door originally being in Tyrosh isn't surprising, given that ✨ we know ✨ Daenerys speaks with a Tyroshi accent.

The merchant must have taken her for Dothraki, with her clothes and her oiled hair and sun-browned skin. When she spoke, he gaped at her in astonishment. "My lady, you are … Tyroshi? Can it be so?" "My speech may be Tyroshi, and my garb Dothraki, but I am of Westeros, of the Sunset Kingdoms," Dany told him. - Daenerys VI, AGOT

You'd have to spend many of your formative younger years in Tyrosh for that to be the case.

As Irri and Jhiqui helped her from her litter, she sniffed, and recognized the sharp odors of garlic and pepper, scents that reminded Dany of days long gone in the alleys of Tyrosh and Myr and brought a fond smile to her face. - Daenerys VI, AGOT

Amusingly, this now-deleted part of her history was somewhat alluded to when her mirrored image twin from Tyrosh was introduced to the story.

The Tyroshi sellsword was not a good man, no one needed to tell her that. - Daenerys V, ASOS

x

"Is it Daario? What's happened?" In her dream they had been man and wife, simple folk who lived a simple life in a tall stone house with a red door. - Daenerys II, ADWD

Many inconsistencies and discrepancies are present throughout the series, but they are especially noticeable in A Game of Thrones.

Lemons grow in Tyrosh, but they don't typically grow in Braavos. It's a detail the author overlooked when making the simple change, and I guarantee you this is him poking fun at himself (and the Lemongaters) for the error:

"Seven hells, this place is damp," she heard her guard complain. "I'm chilled to the bones. Where are the bloody orange trees? I always heard there were orange trees in the Free Cities. Lemons and limes. Pomegranates. Hot peppers, warm nights, girls with bare bellies. Where are the bare-bellied girls, I ask you?" "Down in Lys, and Myr, and Old Volantis," the other guard replied. He was an older man, big-bellied and grizzled. "I went to Lys with Lord Tywin once, when he was Hand to Aerys. Braavos is north of King's Landing, fool. Can't you read a bloody map?" - Mercy, TWOW

So, we can probably put it to rest.

But George himself said it was pointing to something??

Aww, adorable.

If you've been paying attention to George R. R. Martin for any amount of time, you should realize that if there were something truly significant about lemon trees not growing in Braavos as part of a secret plot yet to be revealed, there's no way in hell he would ever answer that question in that manner on LiveJournal.

Allow me to finish his sentence for him,

Dany remembers a lemon tree outside the house with the red door in Braavos, but citrus trees shouldn't really grow in Braavos's cold, foggy climate. Is this discrepency significant? Does it point to future revelations about Dany's past? Thank you so much. Very perceptive of you. Yes, it does point to . . . [my changing the story and overlooking a minor detail, like an idiot.]

Fine, but why did he switch it from Tyrosh to Braavos?

I don't know why, but you should stop overthinking this, and we should move on.

(because of arya.)

STUMPY'S THOUGHTS:

I'd like to think Lemongate has been debunked, but I'll leave it to the people to render their verdict.

Does Lemongate amount to nothing? Absolutely. Do lemons grow in Braavos? Not really. Is the house with the red door a symbol of an idealized past she'll never be able to replicate in her future? I don't doubt it.

Many things can be true here, but one thing that's not is that she lived in Dorne, and Lyanna Stark is her mother.

VOTE:

NEXT THEORY:

Oberyn poisoned Tywin

[Main menu]

#operation iceberg #asoiaf theory tier list #theory 11 #lemongate

[atopvisenyashill]

since falling into my hotd brainrot ive been reminded of one of my gripes which is this misunderstanding that daenerys lived in "abject poverty" (to use the language from an ask you got not that long ago) before her introduction and this is just... not true?

That was when they lived in Braavos, in the big house with the red door. Dany had her own room there, with a lemon tree outside her window. After Ser Willem had died, the servants had stolen what little money they had left, and soon after they had been put out of the big house. Dany had cried when the red door closed behind them forever."

people living in abject poverty don't have access to servants or their own rooms. does this mean their time here would equal the upbringing viserys and daenerys would have had in the red keep? absolutely not. for one thing, daenerys wasn't tutored by a maester or septa which is pretty standard for most noble children of a similar standing, let alone a princess.

They had wandered since then, from Braavos to Myr, from Myr to Tyrosh, and on to Qohor and Volantis and Lys, never staying long in any one place. Her brother would not allow it. The Usurper's hired knives were close behind them, he insisted, though Dany had never seen one.

they would have needed coin for those ships.

At first the magisters and archons and merchant princes were pleased to welcome the last Targaryens to their homes and tables, but as the years passed and the Usurper continued to sit upon the Iron Throne, doors closed and their lives grew meaner. Years past they had been forced to sell their last few treasures, and now even the coin they had gotten from Mother's crown had gone. 

what happened with ser willem was absolutely terrible but this idea that daenerys and viserys were living on the streets is inaccurate when their targaryen name is what allowed them to live with the likes of magisters and merchant princes. nor was this something that happened overnight, as indicated by the "years past". they also had "treasures" (meaning jewels) which again no person living in abject poverty would have. those treasures were a lifeline for them but it was a lifeline that a character like nettles never has.

Her brother Viserys had once feasted the captains of the Golden Company, in hopes they might take up his cause. They ate his food and heard his pleas and laughed at him. Dany had only been a little girl, but she remembered. "I have sellswords too."

people living in abject poverty don't feast captains.

it just irks me because when you compare it to the details of nettles' life, it feels wrong to me to believe that both these girls lived in abject poverty. that was nettles. that being said though, that doesn't mean daenerys had an easy time living in exile with viserys. he was a monster to her and she deserves sympathy for that. but while daenerys and nettles' upbringings were similarly tragic (orphaned etc), they were still worlds apart in their differing levels of privilege. it also irks me when they try to use this to compare daenerys to sansa (funny how its often just sansa and not the other starks)

yeah those are all definitely good points. as you say, I don't want to discount that Daenerys had an incredibly stressful childhood (to say the least), much more stressful than The Average Noble by far because she and viserys were actively thinking about and worrying over where their next meal will come from, how to keep a roof over their heads, and they aren't learning jack shit because they don't have a maester, a guardian, a parent, or a single person in all of Essos looking out for them. but it's also like. first of all, we have two canon characters that actually do experience real poverty, the first being davos though he doesn't experience it on page and the second being arya - she's actively avoiding capitalizing on the stark name so she's actually living the life someone who is born poor would live.

and one thing about dany's life - which i've touched on before re: noble girls getting sold in marriages in what a previous anon referred to as slavery - but her last name and the class she was born into if not the class she lived in cannot be disentangled from the life she lived. i pointed it out there that for example, if poor jeyne poole found some dragon eggs in the crypts, used ramsay's dead body to hatch them, and started burning shit down, she's just not amassing the sort of following dany would because she doesn't have the name. and you can see that directly with Nettles, as you point out - despite everyone seeing clearly that Nettles manages to claim Sheepstealer, has a strong bond with her dragon, because she's lowborn and Not White (and not even an acceptable Not White, like dornish, but some ~random brown girl~ from nowhere with no claim to any specific heritage in canon) she's still seen as a temptress, a whore, a witch, all because she claimed a dragon and had some old married dude following her around. dany and viserys regularly trade away their jewels, hype up their titles and heritage, in an attempt to gain basic necessities and this is certainly a marked difference from the way other nobles have lived and important but arya, gendry, hot pie, lommy - they don't get that. lommy just gets killed. and he's not even running his mouth the way viserys is in vaes dothrak. he's just a dumb kid whose leg is broken and asks to be carried and he's murdered for it. hot pie is a normal ass kid who has to learn how to defend himself because it's literally life or death while dany regularly has some sort of guard protecting her.

and again - it's not to say dany doesn't experience a lot of trauma and instability that other nobles will never face that gives her an understanding of violence and war that others don't have. but just like you can't say she was truly "sold" as a slave to drogo because her class is tied to the concept of these nobly born child brides, it's not exactly true that she lives in abject poverty either. it's something a lot more complex than that.

#i'm sorry to start dany discoursing again i'm clearing out my asks #anti daenerys targaryen #i was gonna link to that child bride post but i'm lazy. if u kno u kno alsdkjf #asks #anons

[asongofstarkandtargaryen]

HOUSE OF THE UNDYING PROPHECIES

When Daenerys entered House of the Undying she received some of the most compelling visions of asoiaf books. I know that plenty of other fans have already tried to decipher them but since this is my favourite chapter of hers (and one of my favourite chapters in general) I decided take a shot, too. Please note that this post is purely speculation, especially when it comes to visions that haven’t happened yet. I could end up being totally wrong as I’m not the one writing these books. That’s why while I respect people having different views, I won’t participate on any debate about the views I expressed here.

First of all, I feel the need to divide the visions into four categories. Those which belong into the first category happen before Dany meets the Undying, the second one consists the visions the Undying speak about, the third one are the visions which occur after Dany asks for further explanation (three sets of triple visions) and in the final category are those rapid visions that happen as the Undying trying to distract her from realising that they are about to cannibalize her.

FIRST CATEGORY

In one room, a beautiful woman sprawled naked on the floor while four little men crawled over her...One was pumping between her thighs. Another savaged her breasts, worrying at the nipples with his red wet mouth, tearing and chewing.

I believe that the woman symbolizes Westeros and the four little men are the kings fighting over her. It could either be Stannis, Robb, Joffrey and Renly (excluding Balon because he didn’t have as big impact on the country as the other four) or Stannis, Robb, Joffrey and Balon (excluding Renly who was already dead at that point).

Farther on she came upon a feast of corpses. Savagely slaughtered, the feasters lay strewn across overturned chairs and hacked trestle tables, asprawl in pools of congealing blood. Some had lost limbs, even heads. Savaged limbs clutched bloody cups, wooden spoons, roast fowl, heels of bread. On a throne above them sat a dead man with the head of a wolf. He wore an iron crown and held a leg of lamb in one hand as a king might hold a scepter, and his eyes followed Dany with mute appeal.

 I think that this one shows the Red Wedding and that the dead man with the head of a wolf is Robb (foreshadowing the cruel way his corpse will be defiled)

I know this room, she thought. She remembered those great wooden beams and the carved animal faces that adorned them. And there outside the window, a lemon tree! The sight of it made her heart ache with longing. It is the house with the red door, the house in Braavos. No sooner had she thought it than old Ser Willem came into the room, leaning heavily on his stick. “Little princess, there you are,” he said in his gruff kind voice. “Come,” he said, “come to me, my lady, you’re home now, you’re safe now.” His big wrinkled hand reached for her, soft as old leather, and Dany wanted to take it and hold it and kiss it, she wanted that as much as she had ever wanted anything. Her foot edged forward, and then she thought, He’s dead, he’s dead, the sweet old bear, he died a long time ago. She backed away and ran.

The Undying are trying to tempt her by showing her most happy memories: when she lived on the house with the red door with Ser Willem. It’s one of the hardest trails she faces inside HotU because as an orphan girl she always longed for a home and this vision is promising exactly that. But Dany is known to prioritize her mission over her own happiness and that’s what she does here.

Beyond loomed a cavernous stone hall, the largest she had seen. The skulls of dead dragons looked down from its walls.Upon a towering barbed throne sat an old man in rich robes, an old man with dark eyes and long silver-gray hair. “Let him be king over charred bones and cooked meat,” he said to a man below him. “Let him be the king of ashes.”

This is a vision of her father, Aerys Targaryen.It's interesting that Dany doesn't recongize him, she doesn't even see a resemblance in appearance with her and/or her brother. Unlike the  next vision where she sees Rhaegar and she links him to Viserys in terms of appearance. I understand that King Aerys wasn't taking care of himself and looked pretty much awful so it makes sense not to link his appearance on either Dany or Viserys. 

However, on a deeper level I believe this is because Dany still refuses to see the actual true nature of her father. I do believe that later in the books she will have to accept the fact that her father wasn't the best person (and unlike what her antis say I don't believe that any of his father's bad traits reflect badly on her)

The man had her brother’s hair, but he was taller, and his eyes were a dark indigo rather than lilac. “Aegon,” he said to a woman nursing a newborn babe in a great wooden bed. “What better name for a king?”  "Will you make a song for him?” the woman asked.   “He has a song,” the man replied. “He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire.” He looked up when he said it and his eyes met Dany, and it seemed as if he saw her standing there beyond the door. “There must be one more,” he said, though whether he was speaking to her or the woman in bed she could not say. “The dragon has three heads.” He went to the window seat, picked up a harp, and ran his fingers lightly over its silvery strings. Sweet sadness filled the room as man and wife and babe faded like the morning mist, only the music lingering behind to speed her on her way.

Martin has confirmed that the couple on this vision are Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell with their son, Aegon. The need for another child is a hint towards Jon being Rhaegar's son.

 I don't believe that Rhaegar was right about Aegon being the chosen one and the one with the song of ice and fire. It's not like Rhaegar wasn't wrong before about interprenting the prophecies -in the past he believed he was tPtwP- so I believe that this is another time he's wrong. After all, Rhaenys, Aegon and his third child (Jon) can't be the three heads of the dragon when only one of them is alive.

SECOND CATEGORY

…mother of dragons… child of three…

Dany is the mother of dragons and she’s also the third child of Aerys and Rhaella Targaryen

...three heads has the dragon...

Speculation time! 

I believe that three heads of the dragon are Daenerys, Jon (those two are Targaryen) and Tyrion, who also shares lot of parallels with them and I could see him working with them to defeat the Others/ to built a better future for Westeros. Another candidate could be Bran Stark, I guess.

...child of storm...

She’s Daenerys Stormborn, born during a storm.

three fires must you light . . . one for life and one for death and one to love . . .

The first one was the funeral pyre of Drogo which gave birth to her dragons. The second one I suspect it will be Dany fighting her enemies using her dragons. As for the final one I believe it will be Dany and her dragons contributing to the fight against the Others. She will do it out of love because she's Mhysa and loves her people.

three mounts must you ride . . . one to bed and one to dread and one to love  

I think the first one refers to Dany riding silver on her wedding with Drogo, the second will be Dany riding Drogo to destroy her enemies and the last one finding love in Jon Snow. Alternatively, the mounts could refer to her husbands: Drogo, Hizdahr and future husband Jon Snow.

. . .three treasons will you know . . . once for blood and once for gold and once for love . . .

I think that Mirri is the first treason, the second could either be Hizdahr or Ser Jorah. As for the third which hasn’t happened yet, I don’t think that based on the facts we know so far we can speculate what that might be.

THIRD CATEGORY

1. First set of three visions:

1a.  Viserys screamed as the molten gold ran down his cheeks and filled his mouth

Viserys’ death.

1b. A tall lord with copper skin and silver-gold hair stood beneath the banner of a fiery stallion, a burning city behind him.

Rhaego, with his father’s coloring and his mother’s hair, in a what if situation where he grew up to become a powerful leader. Note that like the previous vision this is also associated with death because that poor boy was born dead.

1c. Rubies flew like drops of blood from the chest of a dying prince, and he sank to his knees in the water and with his last breath murmured a woman’s name.

Rhaegar’s death.

… mother of dragons, daughter of death…

Daenerys’ father died before she was born, her mother died giving birth to her and the previous visions highlighted how some of her closest relatives are dead.

2. Second set of three visions:

2a. Glowing like sunset, a red sword was raised in the hand of a blue-eyed king who cast no shadow

Stannis with his fake lightbringer sword. He has no shadow, because at that point of the story his shadow was used to kill his enemies (aka Renly)

2b.  A cloth dragon swayed on poles amidst a cheering crowd.

The Young Griff, Aegon, who in reality isn’t the son of Rhaegar Targaryen (cloth dragon)

2c.  A great stone beast took wing, breathing shadow fire.

Perhaps this refers to the alchemists who create an artificial dragon. They could be hired by Lannisters as they are the only major opponents of Dany who aren’t mentioned on the slayer of lies section.

...mother of dragons, slayer of lies...

Dany will kill/defeat her enemies in the race for the Iron Throne and their lies will be revealed.

3. Third set of three visions

3a. Her silver was trotting through the grass, to a darkling stream beneath a sea of stars

Dany remembering her wedding night. Dany’s wedding to Drogo is her becoming part of the dothraki community and later on commanding her own khalasar.

3b. A corpse stood at the prow of a ship, eyes bright in his dead face, grey lips smiling sadly.

I really want to say Victarion Greyjoy for that one because the desciption fits him so well (Iron born are “dead men” according to their religion). However, since this set of vision refers to Dany’s “husbands” the only way of being him is if he almost marries her. Otherwise, it could be Hizdahr or Daario accompanying her to the journey to Westeros (very unlikely for the former one) and dying while they are on the ship. Depending on which this section refers to, it could also be linked to the army they bring in their alliance with Dany.

3c.  A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness.

Lyanna Stark is the character associated with blue flowers and her son is currently on the Wall. The fact that the air is filled with “sweetness” indicates a good and probable indimate relationship between Dany and Jon. Perhaps aside from being her future lover could also become her future husband? Jon Snow brings with him the forces of the North as I suspect we will see him rising on the next book to become the leader of the North.

… mother of dragons, bride of fire…

She’s a Targaryen and mother of dragons so of course she’s associated with fire. She’s referred as bride because that’s her relationship with the men on the above three visions.

FOURTH CATEGORY

Shadows whirled and danced inside a tent, boneless and terrible

Mirri’s magic inside Drogo’s tent.

A little girl ran barefoot toward a big house with a red door.

At first glance, it’s easy to say that it’s Dany as a kid on her childhood home. However, Daenerys would recognize her childhood self, she wouldn’t refer herself as “a little girl”. Maybe it’s Arya Stark? the only significant character who fits the description of a little girl. My crack theory is that it’s Dany's child running toward her house (bc she bult that house with the red door she desired). The reason she doesn't comment on the girl's appearance is because she looks like Dany's future husband who she hasn't meet yet.

Mirri Maz Duur shrieked in the flames, a dragon bursting from her brow

Mirri’s death.

Behind a silver horse the bloody corpse of a naked man bounced and dragged

It’s the guy who comes to poison Dany in AGOT and is punished for that.

A white lion ran through grass taller than a man.

I think it’s Tyrion who is shorter than most men. Next to him, the grass would look taller than next to an average height man. Another possibility is Jaime who is a Lannister (lion) but as a member of Kingsguard wears white.

Beneath the Mother of Mountains, a line of naked crones crept from a great lake and knelt shivering before her, their grey heads bowed

A future vision where Dany becomes leader of all dothraki.

Ten thousand slaves lifted bloodstained hands as she raced by on her silver, riding like the wind. “Mother!” they cried. “Mother, mother!” They were reaching for her, touching her, tugging at her cloak, the hem of her skirt, her foot, her leg, her breast. They wanted her, needed her, the fire, the life, and Dany gasped and opened her arms to give herself to them…

The Mhysa scene that happens on ASOS.

#canondany #daenerys targaryen #asoiaf meta #valyrianscrolls #a post of ice and fire #daenerys meta

[gendrie]

"If the day comes when you would find me again, give that coin to any man from Braavos, and say these words to him—valar morghulis." "Valar morghulis," Arya repeated. It wasn't hard. Her fingers closed tight over the coin. (Arya, ACOK) I know this room, she thought. She remembered those great wooden beams and the carved animal faces that adorned them. And there outside the window, a lemon tree! The sight of it made her heart ache with longing. It is the house with the red door, the house in Braavos. (Dany, ACOK)

i find this worth noting mostly bc they were in consecutive chapters where dany's early childhood in braavos is referenced right after the path for arya to journey there is laid out before her

Whenever she had a free hour she stole away to work at the drills Syrio had taught her, moving barefoot over the fallen leaves... (Arya, ACOK) A little girl ran barefoot toward a big house with a red door. (Dany, ACOK)

same with these two quotes. i know the vision is representative of dany searching for the house with the red door but....i do wonder if theres an arya connection too. it seems like dany's past and arya's future re: braavos are intentionally being linked here.

#asoiaf nonsense #if arya so much as jogs in the house w/ the red door's direction lol

[1thinkimfallinforyou]

There is a little girl that lives inside me. She lives tucked away in between my fourth and fifth rib on the left side. Her house is number 13, the one over the bump with big hedges, a white door with pink walls, a red gate and a rusty mailbox covered in spiderwebs. When I see her, she’s siting on the front steps waiting and when she sees me, her grin lights up the sky. She jumps into my arms and presses too-hard kisses to my cheeks. When she’s done she flings herself to the ground and darts off, my hand clutched tightly in her own tiny one. She guides me through the broken fence to the backyard, then to her special place poorly hidden under the lemon tree. There is dirt underneath her chewed up fingernails and grass stains on her dress that hangs just above her scraped knees. Her hazel eyes sparkle and stare into my soul. Her hair is falling out of it’s hair tie and is stuck sticking up in every direction. Her shoulders are unburdened and her eyes only know the exhaustion felt by those who spend too many hours outside chasing bugs and making daisy chains. She introduces me to all of her teddies and spends hours telling me about her best friend, shared with me all of their adventures with a loud, laughter filled voice and big swooping gestures, mouth going a mile a minute. She is irrevocably and unabashedly happy.

#poetry #nostolgia

[inky-duchess]

Writer's Guide to Unreliable Narrators

Unreliable narrators are narrators who intentionally or subconsciously mislead the reader with their own bias and lies. I love nothing more than a narrator who deceives me. There is something incredibly charged about not being able to rely on your guide through a story. So how can we write them?

Determine What Kind of Unreliable Narrator your Narrator is.

There are five kinds of unreliable narrator we see in fiction, each with their own way of leading the audience astray.

The Unstable: This narrator is usually an unstable character with problems with grasping reality or having trouble accepting it so they bend it to their own tastes. Example: Arthur Fleck in Joker & Amy Elliot Dunne in Gone Girl

The Exaggerator: the one who spins fanciful lies to embellish the facts of the story around them. Usually they embellish it in such a way to make themselves look good.

The Child: Though children can be a font of truth, they often have a way of muddling facts and being confused by certain aspects of the story they are not versed in. Example. Bran in A Song of Ice and Fire & Scout Finch in To Kill A Mockingbird

The Biased: The biased Narrator is usually an outsider. They enter the world with preconceptions of the world and/or characters around them. Usually they get disabused of their biases by story's end but not always. Example Damen/Damianos of Akielos in The Captive Prince Trilogy

The Liar: The Liar is simply just a liar liar pants on fire. They twist the narrative and outwardly lie about their actions and the reactions of others. The liar is self-serving, usually narcissistic. Example Cersei Lannister from A Song of Ice and Fire.

How to Write Your Unreliable Narrator

The thing you must remember is that your audience immediately trusts your narrator, they have no other choice. It is a given. However, it is your job to break that trust.

Allow the narrator to outwardly lie. Let them spout half truths or full out lies in the narrative. The audience will take what your character says as the gosphel until slapped with a conflicting account or detail. It provides a wham to the story that becomes a turning point. Perhaps the best example of this is Amy Elliott Dunne in Gone Girl (I recommend). She introduces herself as a sweet housewife who loves her husband despite her fears over his temper. However, in the section of the book she narrates she quickly flips Nick's account of the events leading up to her disappearance, turning the audience on their head so fast none of us have a chance.

Allow the character to mislead your audience with the absence of details. Your story is one big chain, omit a link and the thing is useless & subject to the questioning you want to draw out of the audience. For example, Daenerys Targaryen believes wholeheartedly that the house with the red door is in Braavos. However, she vividly remembers a lemon tree outside her window and sunsine. But lemon trees cannot grow Braavos and it is notoriously damp and cold. #lemongate

Speak to your audience through the events of the story, bypassing the narrator to get through to the audience. Sometimes the best reveal that the narrator cannot be trusted is showing the audience evidence that they are either not seeing what's happening or they are ignoring it. For example in Captive Prince, it is almost explicitly suggested that the Regent molested his nephew Laurent as a child. If one ignores Damen's narration, the signs are there to see from Laurent's reaction to his Uncle's presence and in some of Laurent's words. Damen chalks this down to Laurent being a brat and the Regent just being a villain. He has to be told despite the audience realising or at least suspecting it from the second book onward.

Play off your secondary characters. Use the characters around your narrator to disprove their account if the story and completely flip the story on its head. Usually, I trust the secondary characters when it comes to Unreliable Narrators. For example, Cersei Lannister gets her own POV in a Feast of Crows. Up until this point she has been very mercurial in her reactions in the first few books, to the point where other characters and the audience are confused about who the real Cersei is: the shrewd polictian or the wine mom with way too much faith in herself and her spawn. In truth, Cersei is incredibly paranoid about those around her and she thinks herself the cleverest player in the game. However, from others such as Tyrion, Tywin, Littlefinger and the members of the Small Council (who yes, all have a touch of misgyny to their criticisms of Cersei but really most of their points have a point since she is mad as a box of frogs) we see that Cersei tends to make enemies out of allies, assume the worst in others and make political choices to spite others or to put her faith in those who offer her little more than flattery.

#writing #unreliable narrator #Amy Elliot Dunne #cersei lannister #Damianos of Akielos #Damen #Arthur Fleck #Writer's Guide #writers #writing advice #writeblr #writer #writing reference #writer's problems #spilled words #writing resources #writer's life #characters

[rainhadaenerys]

Best Daenerys Quotes

For Daenerys Month 2021

Day 2: Favorite quotes or book moments

One thing that is so great about Dany’s character is that she has a myriad of great lines. So in celebration of Daenerys Month, here are some of some of the quotes that I consider to be the best and most iconic Dany quotes:

All that Daenerys wanted back was the big house with the red door, the lemon tree outside her window, the childhood she had never known. - Daenerys I AGOT

~

A word, and Dany could have her head off … yet then what would she have? A head? If life was worthless, what was death? - Daenerys IX AGOT

~

She told herself that there were powers stronger than hatred, and spells older and truer than any the maegi had learned in Asshai. - Daenerys IX AGOT

~

"Is it so far from madness to wisdom?" - Daenerys X AGOT

~

The godswife thought her a child, but children grow, and children learn. - Daenerys X AGOT

~

"You will be my khalasar," she told them. "I see the faces of slaves. I free you. Take off your collars. Go if you wish, no one shall harm you. If you stay, it will be as brothers and sisters, husbands and wives." The black eyes watched her, wary, expressionless. "I see the children, women, the wrinkled faces of the aged. I was a child yesterday. Today I am a woman. Tomorrow I will be old. To each of you I say, give me your hands and your hearts, and there will always be a place for you." - Daenerys X AGOT

~

No, she wanted to shout to him, no, my good knight, do not fear for me. The fire is mine. I am Daenerys Stormborn, daughter of dragons, bride of dragons, mother of dragons, don't you see? Don't you SEE? - Daenerys X AGOT

~

They are not strong, she told herself, so I must be their strength. I must show no fear, no weakness, no doubt. However frightened my heart, when they look upon my face they must see only Drogo's queen. She felt older than her fourteen years. If ever she had truly been a girl, that time was done. - Daenerys I ACOK

~

"I fear no ghosts. Dragons are more powerful than ghosts." And figs are more important. - Daenerys I ACOK

~

The thought of home disquieted her. If her sun-and-stars had lived, he would have led his khalasar across the poison water and swept away her enemies, but his strength had left the world. Her bloodriders remained, sworn to her for life and skilled in slaughter, but only in the ways of the horselords. The Dothraki sacked cities and plundered kingdoms, they did not rule them. Dany had no wish to reduce King's Landing to a blackened ruin full of unquiet ghosts. She had supped enough on tears. I want to make my kingdom beautiful, to fill it with fat men and pretty maids and laughing children. I want my people to smile when they see me ride by, the way Viserys said they smiled for my father.

But before she could do that she must conquer. - Daenerys II ACOK

~

"Dragons die." She stood on her toes to kiss him lightly on an unshaven cheek. "But so do dragonslayers." - Daenerys II ACOK

~

"It might serve to carry nightsoil. If you threw it away, I might pick it up, so long as I did not need to stoop. But pay for it?" Dany shoved the platter back into his hands. "Worms have crawled up your nose and eaten your wits." - Daenerys V ACOK

~

"A queen must listen to all," she reminded him. "The highborn and the low, the strong and the weak, the noble and the venal. One voice may speak you false, but in many there is always truth to be found." - Daenerys I ASOS

~

"It seems to me that a queen who trusts no one is as foolish as a queen who trusts everyone. Every man I take into my service is a risk, I understand that, but how am I to win the Seven Kingdoms without such risks? Am I to conquer Westeros with one exile knight and three Dothraki bloodriders?" - Daenerys I ASOS

~

A queen should hear all sides before reaching a decision. - Daenerys II ASOS

~

"Do you know what it is like to be sold, squire? I do. My brother sold me to Khal Drogo for the promise of a golden crown. Well, Drogo crowned him in gold, though not as he had wished, and I . . . my sun-and-stars made a queen of me, but if he had been a different man, it might have been much otherwise. Do you think I have forgotten how it felt to be afraid?" - Daenerys II ASOS

~

"Whitebeard," she said, "I want your counsel, and you should never fear to speak your mind with me . . . when we are alone. But never question me in front of strangers. Is that understood?" - Daenerys III ASOS

~

“Why do the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the ones who can't protect themselves?" - Daenerys III ASOS

~

"There is a reason. A dragon is no slave."  - Daenerys III ASOS

~

"All men must die," Dany agreed, "but not for a long while, we may pray." - Daenerys III ASOS

~

"Woman?" She chuckled. "Is that meant to insult me? I would return the slap, if I took you for a man." - Daenerys IV ASOS

~

"I am only a young girl and do not understand the ways of war, yet these odds seem poor to me." - Daenerys IV ASOS

~

"It is true that I am only a young girl, and do not know the ways of war. Explain to me how you propose to defeat ten thousand Unsullied with your five hundred. Innocent as I am, these odds seem poor to me." - Daenerys IV ASOS

~

"I think we should attack from three sides. Grey Worm, your Unsullied shall strike at them from right and left, while my kos lead my horse in wedge for a thrust through their center. Slave soldiers will never stand before mounted Dothraki." She smiled. "To be sure, I am only a young girl and know little of war. What do you think, my lords?" - Daenerys IV ASOS

~

"You have been a better friend to me than any I have known, a better brother than Viserys ever was. You are the first of my Queensguard, the commander of my army, my most valued counselor, my good right hand. I honor and respect and cherish you—but I do not desire you, Jorah Mormont, and I am weary of your trying to push every other man in the world away from me, so I must needs rely on you and you alone. It will not serve, and it will not make me love you any better." - Daenerys IV ASOS

~

Dany had left a trail of corpses behind her when she crossed the red waste. It was a sight she never meant to see again. "No," she said. "I will not march my people off to die." My children.  - Daenerys V ASOS

~

Up here in her garden Dany sometimes felt like a god, living atop the highest mountain in the world.

Do all gods feel so lonely? Some must, surely. - Daenerys VI ASOS

~

The red priests believed in two gods, she had heard, but two who were eternally at war. Dany liked that even less. She would not want to be eternally at war. - Daenerys VI ASOS

~

I am the blood of the dragon. I must be strong. I must have fire in my eyes when I face them, not tears. - Daenerys VI ASOS

~

"Aegon the Conqueror brought fire and blood to Westeros, but afterward he gave them peace, prosperity, and justice. But all I have brought to Slaver's Bay is death and ruin. I have been more khal than queen, smashing and plundering, then moving on." - Daenerys VI ASOS

~

"But how can I rule seven kingdoms if I cannot rule a single city?" He had no answer to that. Dany turned away from them, to gaze out over the city once again. "My children need time to heal and learn. My dragons need time to grow and test their wings. And I need the same. I will not let this city go the way of Astapor. I will not let the harpy of Yunkai chain up those I've freed all over again." She turned back to look at their faces. "I will not march." - Daenerys VI ASOS

~

A crown should not sit easy on the head. - Daenerys I ADWD

~

"Ser Barristan," she called, "I know what quality a king needs most."

"Courage, Your Grace?"

"Cheeks like iron," she teased. "All I do is sit." - Daenerys I ADWD

~

"I am only a young girl and know little of the ways of war," she told Lord Ghael, "but we have heard that Astapor is starving. Let King Cleon feed his people before he leads them out to battle." - Daenerys I ADWD

~

"It might … though if we were to reopen the pits, we should take our tenth before expenses. I am only a young girl and know little of such matters, but I dwelt with Xaro Xhoan Daxos long enough to learn that much.” - Daenerys I ADWD

~

"Your barber has served you well, Hizdahr. I hope you have come to show me his work and not to plague me further about the fighting pits." - Daenerys II ADWD

~

She was the blood of the dragon. She could kill the Sons of the Harpy, and the sons of the sons, and the sons of the sons of the sons. But a dragon could not feed a hungry child nor help a dying woman's pain. And who would ever dare to love a dragon? - Daenerys II ADWD

~

Mother of dragons, Daenerys thought. Mother of monsters. What have I unleashed upon the world? A queen I am, but my throne is made of burned bones, and it rests on quicksand. Without dragons, how could she hope to hold Meereen, much less win back Westeros? I am the blood of the dragon, she thought. If they are monsters, so am I. - Daenerys II ADWD

~

"Slavery is not the same as rain," she insisted. "I have been rained on and I have been sold. It is not the same. No man wants to be owned." - Daenerys III ADWD

~

"It was these calamities that transformed my people into slavers," Galazza Galare had told her, at the Temple of the Graces. And I am the calamity that will change these slavers back into people, Dany had sworn to herself. - Daenerys III ADWD

~

"I am only a foolish young girl." Dany rose on her toes and kissed his cheek. "But not so foolish as to tell you that.” - Daenerys III ADWD

~

What good is peace if it must be purchased with the blood of little children? - Daenerys IV ADWD

~

"Let them come. In me they shall find a sterner foe than Cleon. I would sooner perish fighting than return my children to bondage." - Daenerys IV ADWD

~

A queen belongs not to herself, but to the realm. - Daenerys IV ADWD

~

A queen belongs not to herself but to her people. - Daenerys V ADWD

~

"I am the queen. It was my place to know." - Daenerys V ADWD

~

"These are not apples, Ben," said Dany. "These are men and women, sick and hungry and afraid." My children. - Daenerys V ADWD

~

"A queen must know the sufferings of her people." - Daenerys VI ADWD

~

"I cannot heal them, but I can show them that their Mother cares." - Daenerys VI ADWD

~

A queen must listen to her people, - Daenerys VI ADWD

~

Besides, kings who lost their crowns oft lost their heads as well, and she could see no reason why it would be any different for a queen. - Daenerys VII ADWD

~

"A queen loves where she must, not where she will." - Daenerys VII ADWD

~

Dany could feel the anger in the hall. "I am only a young girl, and young girls must have their gifts," she said lightly. - Daenerys VII ADWD

~

"I am only a young girl and know little of such things, but it seems to me that we want them to be treacherous. Once, you'll recall, I convinced the Second Sons and Stormcrows to join us." - Daenerys VIII ADWD

~

She would rather have drifted in the fragrant pool all day, eating iced fruit off silver trays and dreaming of a house with a red door, but a queen belongs to her people, not to herself. - Daenerys IX ADWD

~

Perhaps I cannot make my people good, she told herself, but I should at least try to make them a little less bad. - Daenerys IX ADWD

~

Ten thousand throats roared out their thanks; then twenty thousand; then all. They did not call her name, which few of them could pronounce. “Mother!” they cried instead; in the old dead tongue of Ghis, the word was Mhysa! They stamped their feet and slapped their bellies and shouted, “Mhysa, Mhysa, Mhysa,” until the whole pit seemed to tremble. Dany let the sound wash over her. I am not your mother, she might have shouted, back, I am the mother of your slaves, of every boy who ever died upon these sands whilst you gorged on honeyed locusts. - Daenerys IX ADWD

~

He is fire made flesh, she thought, and so am I. - Daenerys IX ADWD

~

You are the blood of the dragon, you can make a hat. - Daenerys X ADWD

~

"It is such a long way," she complained. "I was tired, Jorah. I was weary of war. I wanted to rest, to laugh, to plant trees and see them grow. I am only a young girl." - Daenerys X ADWD

#daenerys targaryen #danymonth2021 #asoiaf meta #asoiaf quotes #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #my meta

[hardyimagines]

A Crave For Fame

Would love a Forrest piece, maybe where you’re cornered by some bad guy and Forrest steps in and you nurse him. Bandaging his wounds and what not. You get really close to his face and he acts nonchalant about it but you’re really shy. Ends in a heated kiss. Lots of fluff.

TW: Mild Violence

———————————————————————

1932.

The bar smelt like thick liquor and dried throw up. The top of your nose was red and cold from the chilly wind as it whipped around outside swirling in circles, shaking tree branches until they were forced to drop their leaves, whisking up grains of dirt and sending them flying in the direction of those who were outside. It was a dust storm of some sort, that’s what people were referring to it as. The air outside was orange and murky, it looked as if the clouds had descended and were making the world all puffy and one big blur.

The tips of your painted nails slid along the straps of your bright red apron. Unhooking the fabric from the silver hook on the wall, you briefly ogled the peeling paper, crisp and dangling like a hangnail waiting to be ripped off. The apron wasn’t exactly required, but you found that it definitely helped to wear something in order to prevent having alcohol sloshed and spilled and stuck on you when rowdy customers would shake their heavy fists and bounce their heavy, drunk bodies on the counter stools.

Regardless of how many times you wiped down the counter, it always seemed to have a slick, sticky feeling to it and the lemon scent only masked the stench of whiskey and rum for a limited amount of time. The sign outside read ‘Restaurant’ and the sign further forward read ‘Gas station’, and while there was a small supply of gas and a short list of food items on the menu, that wasn’t at all what this place was truly selling.

It was the prohibition era. People were parched and the only way to quench their thirst was by giving them a cold beverage that scalded their throat as it went down. The smooth liquor was rich, bitter, sweet, plain. Everybody had their preference. You weren’t much of a drinker, but pouring beverages was easy enough and from the looks of approval you received all the time, you’d assume you were doing a pretty good job.

Working for bootleggers was never something that had spiked your interest in the past - and maybe it wouldn’t have when you had sauntered up the hill when it was pouring down rain a year ago, but one look at the man had charge had sent you reeling. You didn’t want to work anywhere else.

Forrest Bondurant was one of, if not, the most attractive men you’d ever seen. He had big blue eyes and a head of constantly gelled hair. Why he went through the trouble of styling such a mess, you didn’t know, majority of the time he wore a hat on top of it anyway. He was always strolling around in his big gray cardigan with a button down or another sweater underneath. You couldn’t count the amount of times you’d overfilled the shot glasses on the bar and spilled liquor all over your fingers and the counter, just because staring at him was such a distraction. He didn’t notice though, and if he did, he didn’t say anything.

The front door opened with a loud creak, the hinges loudly alerting whoever had just entered that they were in no shape to be handled so roughly. The door swung shut, slamming loudly behind the new guest. His eyes shimmered green and his teeth sparkled white. The man removed his top hat and strode up to the counter with so much confidence you could’ve upchucked. Men like him made you want to spit in their drinks.

“What can I get for you?” You asked, not bothering to stop and give him the eye contact that he was clearly searching for.

“Something light.” The man said. “I won’t be staying long.” He pressed his elbow against the counter, but made no mention of the filth or the stench.

It wasn’t busy yet, but there were always people inside. Either they slept the night at the bar counter, on the floor, at a table, or outside, or they showed up as bright and early as the sun did, ready to start drinking the day away. Most of the customers that tended to be here so long just made their own drinks when you rested. Forrest knew them, you knew them, so there was no harm done. But this man, he was a completely new face.

“Something light as in water?” You said, pouring a shot of water and replacing it with the shot of vodka that one of the men had been drinking. He was green in the face and looked about ready to faint. You knew he needed to be eased off the liquor, you couldn’t just flat out say that - people reacted too differently to know if it would be a threat or not to cut someone’s intake off.

The man snorted. “Why would I come into a bar for a glass of water?”

You arched a slow brow. “The same reason you’d come in and ask for something light - we have liquor, straight from the bottle. It’s not dolled up and pretty, we don’t have any mixers, it’s just straight alcohol.” You didn’t say another word, instead you finally let your eyes flicker to his own, resisting the urge to glare. But your patience was wearing thin. You didn’t have time for games and he was beating around the bush.

The man sighed. “Moonshine.” He said before lowering himself down on the stool. “And maybe a drink of you?” You could hear the amusement in his voice, as if he were positive you’d take him up on his offer. He found himself hilarious.

Turning on the heel of your pointed boot, you wrapped your slender fingers around the neck of the silver bottle. Rotating, you poured a perfect glass of moonshine and then set the glass down in front of him. No spillage. The liquid was filled to the brim. Extending your arm, your palm creased as you curled your finger inward, waiting to be paid.

Instead, the man grasped your wrist and pressed it against the bar counter. “How about you give this one to me for free? Since I don’t see you marching that ass of yours from out behind the counter.” He patted his lap for good measure. “I went ahead and saved you a seat,” He motioned to his thigh again. “but you know, you’re being awful rude.”

Your eyes creased in the corners, stare hardening as the man tightened his hold on your wrist. Forrest was a shout away, but you were a big girl, not some maiden in a tower waiting to be rescued. Attempting to jerk your arm back to yourself, you hissed under your breath when he turned it at an odd angle. All the other men in the room were out old or oblivious. You could scream their names and they probably wouldn’t bat an eye.

You flinched as he began to rifle through his pocket.

“I’ll give you something.” He said, masking the tone of his voice for a more gentle and apologetic one. But you weren’t an idiot, so you didn’t let your guard down. But it wasn’t as if you could just rip your arm away from him. He was insanely strong and you, unfortunately, didn’t get much upper arm strength pouring drinks. Before you could utter a word, he pressed a cigarette against his lips and lit the end. The brownish-orange tip of the stick illuminated with bright orange embers as he inhaled and the smoke lifted from the end of the form of payment.

“Let me go.” You insisted, practically ripping at your arm so hard that your wrist had gone numb from his tight grasp.

“After I pay you.” He said. You didn’t know what to expect, a puff of smoke being blown in your direction? The man pinched the stick with his knuckles, clasping it between his pointer finger and his middle finger. He rotated it swiftly, pinching it then between his thumb and pointer finger. As suddenly as he moved the smoking tip toward your flesh, your eyes flickered with realization. And then you began to squirm.

“Hey..” You pulled harder. “What are you doing?” It was so obvious. But in a panicked state of mind were you expected to speak adequately. “Let me go, please..” Begging was never one of your strong suits. It just didn’t fit you. You hated it, having to ask someone to have mercy on you. But you didn’t fancy smelling burnt flesh, or feeling the pain that would come along with seared flesh. Scream for help, your brain said. You’re a big girl, but you can still ask for help, it reminded you.

The ashes fell from their loose spots on the cigarette, floating across your skin, dusting it with kisses. The ashes gathered on the counter as he lowered the hot tip of the cigarette toward your flexed forearm. Forrest’s name was on the tip of your tongue, but the pink muscle felt swollen and useless. There was a block in your throat that wouldn’t let your voice free and for the first time in a long time, fear surged through you like a whirlwind, resembling the very state of weather outside. Your body ran hot with fear and as you jerked your elbow to the side, the glass of moonshine toppled over and clattered against the floor.

Pieces scattered along the floor as the cup smashed on impact. If that wasn’t enough to lure Forrest out of office, then perhaps your cry of agony would. But the bloke was just a sliver of a second too late. The tip of the cigarette grazed your skin, enough to leave a slight burn, but as quickly as the glass had broken, Forrest had appeared.

He didn’t hover in the doorway to inspect what was going on. Someone had their hands on you and right away, it was unacceptable. The big, burly man strode forward. His thick fingers curled in the caramel flannel that the bastard was wearing. Forrest snatched the cigarette from his pinched fingers and immediately snubbed the lit tip out by pressing the hot surface against the man’s cheek.

The bloke let out a nasty yell, finally releasing your arm. You lifted your hands, on instinct, to cup over your ears, blocking out the sound of his pained shouting as best as you could.

His cry was like a signal though. The doors flew open and three other men piled in. It was rumored that the Bondurant brother’s were all invincible - especially Forrest. He’d survived a lot - brutal attacks, life-threatening illnesses, having his throat slit, his heart broken, wars. But could he take on four men?

Dropping your hands from your ears when the yelling stopped, you crouched down and began to twist the knob on the safe. It was a sixteen digit pin, so it would take a moment to open, but the revolver inside had six bullets, so you be able to wipe out all of the men with that if it came down to it. You weren’t peering over the bar counter to see what was happening. You were scared - terrified. A part of you wanted to leap into your boss’s arms and give him a bear hug, another part of you wanted to hide in those big arms of his and just forget that your arm had almost been burnt to a crisp. Instead, there was just a very small burn. It was nothing to worry over, nothing in comparison to the burn on the man’s face.

“What the fuck are you all standing there for!” The man rasped loudly, clutching his hand to his face as if the skin on skin contact would help him. “Get him!”

All three men moved forward. One was smoking a cigar - very nonchalant as he marched toward Forrest, one was sweating like he’d just ran a marathon, and the other was blinking furiously as if the dust outside had momentarily blinded him.

Forrest stuck his hand in his pocket and used his fingers to make the shape of a gun. The outline was bulky and visible and the three men hesitated, if only for a second. “I’d think very carefully on what you’re ‘bout to do next, boys.” Forrest spoke softly. His voice was quiet, slow. It was silky against your ears.

You poked your head out for half a second, blindly rotating to nozzle all the way to the left - 11, and then all the way to the right, 5. Inputting every single number as quickly as you could, you jumped in fear at the sound of a sickening crack. You jumped up, expecting to see Forrest laying in a heap on the floor, but instead it was just one of the other men. Forrest stood with his bloodied hand hanging at his side. Blood dripped from the brass knuckles he wore, droplets staining the wooden floorboards. Forrest sneered.

“Who’s next?” He inquired. “The man with the cigarette burn, the broken jaw, the blind one, or the sweaty one.” He flexed his fingers for a moment, waiting impatiently for one of them to charge at him.

What he didn’t expect was for the untouched duo to jump toward him at the same time. He sent his fist flying directly into one of their spine’s, but with the help from the bastard who now had a permanent scar on his cheek, Forrest was sent directly down and on to his back. The men tackled him and you trembled on the spot.

Shakily crouching back down, you began to finish off the code. Forrest’s groans of pain were evident. He was rasping, moaning, putting up as much of a fight as he could. He swung his arms and tried desperately to cover his face. Two men grabbed his arms and pulled them apart, leaving his face and stomach vulnerable to their boss.

The man’s cheek was sunken where the hole was forming. His eyes were red and watery and his stance was slightly shaky. But he had the upper hand as he moved forward. His hand dropped to his pocket and without any hesitance, he pulled a knife free from a holster.

“Now then, why don’t I reopen that cut on your throat?” The man sneered, already beginning to crouch down. Forrest’s nose was bleeding, his eye was swollen and purple. You were sure his stomach would be doused in bruises in the morning and his fingers would be cramped, locked, and jammed.

The safe opened with a quiet buzz and you, with an eagerness, desperately grabbed the handle of the gun and stood. Your hold was steady and your aim was perfect. You’d been working here for a little more than a year, and Forrest had taught you how to shoot within your first few weeks.

Extending your arms out, you held the gun steady as you cocked the revolver. “Hey, asshole.” You said breathily. “If you lay one more finger on him, I’ll kill you.” You could tell by the man’s tense back and resistance to look in your direction that he knew you weren’t bluffing. He slowly tucked away the blade and then sucked in a deep breath of air.

“You’re the first group of people to put up such an unnecessary fight. My brother’s and I, this is what we do, free alcohol from the bootleggers and pretty women are an extra bonus.” He snorted before looking in your direction.

You scowled, before demanding. “Leave..” And although you wanted them to, to all just pile out toward the entrance and get the hell out of here, it worried you. What if they came back sometime in the night when everyone was vulnerable and sleeping? Your eyes were distant as you pondered how this would end. You could blow another hole in his other cheek, though that one would be far more deadly. Or you could let them go.

“Forrest..” You whispered. His guidance was definitely a necessity right now. It wasn’t too often you found yourself in this position. The floorboards creaked underneath you as you shuffled your weight from foot to foot. Forrest sat up with a low grumble, clearly trying to hide the fact that he was in pain. He jerked his arms free from the hold the men had had on him and as he began to stand, he spun around and grabbed the back of their necks. Shoving them toward one another so their skulls rammed into each other, he shoved them both to the floor and then retrieved his brass knuckles. Two opponents down, and one more left.

Forrest gave each of them a few extra punches to the face for good measure, wanting them to realize that they truly weren’t a match for the invincible Bondurant. He whirled around to face the last man, the one who thought he could lay a hand on you, the one who thought he could use you as an ashtray and that would be fine.

The man did that to all of the bartenders, marking them in each town he passed through. His real name wouldn’t live on in the history books, but what he’d done would. Who wouldn’t want to read about a man that burned bartenders with a cigarette butt as a form of payment? It made him want to laugh on the spot.

Instead, he dove head first across the bar counter and directly into you. When it came to fight or flight, your reflexes were clearly to just freeze. His body sent yours crumbling to the floor. It was sticky and disgusting because you only mopped on the weekend. You have a sharp cry of pain and fear as he ripped the gun from your hand and pressed the tip against your chin. “Now then,” He sneered down at you. “You didn’t want a cigarette burn, maybe you’d like a bullet wound. I won’t kill you, I need you alive so you can tell the story about me.” His eyes creased with his lopsided grin and his breath - it stunk of peanuts and smoke. He didn’t even take a sip of the moonshine, it sat prettily on the bar, the liquid shaking from all the movement in the bar.

Forrest stepped toward the bar to help you, just as the man jerked you up and to your feet by your hair. Your eyes were opened wide and your eyes were pleading. The barrel of the gun caressed your soft skin, stroking your chin until he dared to move the gun to your lips. You jerked your head away, scoffing under your breath at the audacity of this man. He must’ve thought he was in a movie with the way he was behaving, talking about himself as if one day he’d be some big story. Your watery eyes moved to Forrest. He hadn’t budged. His knuckles were bloody and dripping - his blood or the men’s blood he didn’t know. All he saw was red. He felt hot and irritated, at a loss of control.

“What do you want?” Forrest said. His voice was so monotone. He sounded like he was taking someone’s order for food, not trying to save your life.

The man chortled. “I want you to light a cigarette and put it out on her body. I’ll let you choose where.” The man moved his hand to the back of your neck, roughly pinching it before he shoved you as hard as possible out from behind the bar and in the direction of your boss. He didn’t follow, he kept four feet between himself and the two of you. The gun was cocked and pointed, all he had to do was shoot.

Your feet didn’t cooperate with your mind, especially not after being forcefully sent flying forward. You rammed right into Forrest’s broad chest, arms immediately lifting so that you could clutch on to his cardigan. No part of you worried that he’d actually do what he was told. This was Forrest, he had a way out of everything - you hoped. Lifting your watery eyes to his own as he pressed his thick fingers against your elbow, steadying you, he checked your face for any signs of injury before slipping his other arm around you as well. You’d never been so close to him, pressed flush against him with hardly any room to breathe.

The man reached up and pinched the front of his hat. Removing the accessory, he lowered it to your head, shielding you from what was to come. Should he be shot, he didn’t think that was something you should see. You blinked slowly, your breaths seeming louder than usual beneath the oversized hat. You couldn’t see much, nothing but the ground and his belly as it rose and fell with every inhale and exhale.

So what happened next made you flinch. It was loud, so loud, there were screams of pain and the sound of cracking bones. Forrest hadn’t moved, he was still standing firmly with his feet planted against the wooden floor. His fingertips dared to brush along your arm, slow and assuring as he watched the scene play out. His brothers weren’t the best fighters, they weren’t the best when it came to confrontation, but regardless of what was happening they’d always have his back like he had theirs.

Without explaining what was going on, Forrest merely lifted the front of his hat so that he could see your features. Inspecting you closely, he let out a quiet grunt before giving you the best smile he could muster. With a swollen lip and a bruised eye, the expression didn’t seem fitting. Who’d be happy at a time like this? Relief colored his features as he slowly brushed his knuckles along your warm skin before he parted his lips to speak.

You beat him to it though. “Thank you..” You whispered softly before dragging yourself back. You didn’t want to suffocate him or make him uncomfortable by clinging to him. There was no longer a threat. “Come on,” You murmured softly. “Let me look at your injuries.” Peeling the hat off of your head, your slender fingers slipped through his own and you slowly guided him toward one of the tables. It was wiped clean, void of any crumbs or liquor, so you set the hat down on the surface and then nudged him gently to take a seat.

Forrest’s knees popped under the pressure and his bloodied hands moved to his stomach. It was only then, when he felt the pressure of the brass knuckles, that he realized he hadn’t taken them off. His fingers felt swollen and stiff and his arms refused to move for a few moments.

You have him a soft smile before slowly reaching for his hand. Your touch was delicate and slow as you pried the brass knuckles off of him. Setting the tool on the table, you turned around to fetch the first aid kit from behind the bar, just as Howard and Jack were hauling the bloke toward the exit. They’d be back for the other three as well.

You stepped over the unconscious bodies on the floor - some drunkards, and the three others were Forrest’s attackers. Retrieving the fallen revolver, you uncocked the weapon and slipped it back in the safe before securely closing the black case and then retrieving the plastic first aid box. The white handle fit snugly in your small palm as you pulled it free from its place under the bar.

You didn’t have the confidence that you’d be able to fix Forrest up as good as new, but you were certain that you’d be able to prevent anymore swelling, help some go down, and patch up the spots on his face that were bleeding. Your boots clicked softly against the floorboards as you made your way over to the table. Setting the box down, you undid the clasps on the front and then pushed it open. Dragging out the small container of alcohol, some gauze, a few wipes, and an ice packet, you gave him a small smile.

Forrest watched your every movement through one good eye, and one half-opened, swollen, purple eye. His nose was busted and bleeding and purple in the center. It didnt look broken, but it certainly looked bruised.

“Could I wipe your hands clean?” You asked softly. There was always an ever present shyness to you when it came to the man seated in front of you. You didn’t know what it was about him that made you feel so nervous, but you felt the need to shy away after every word exchanged.

He gave a quiet hum before lifting his hands and laying them on the table. His knuckles were tense and bleeding in various places. The impact of the brass knuckles hammering against a man’s face, still brought a small amount of pain to the man’s knuckles. He shuffled, watching you as you slipped your hand into his own and lifted it. The sun poured in through the window, falling across the injury so you could see perfectly. You opened the bottle of alcohol, dousing the cloth in it before you gently began to wipe away the smudges of blood and then cleaned the opened wounds, cuts and scrapes that bled like gashes.

He didn’t wince or jerk away even though it stung horribly. It wasn’t a matter of protecting his ego, everyone experienced pain at some point in their life. Adjusting his hand lightly, he cleared his throat before letting his thick fingers drop to his lap when you were finished cleaning them up. “Would you have really shot him?” He asked suddenly.

Your eyes lifted to his own as he asked such a thing. You stepped away again to retrieve some ice, but his words burned your ears. As you filled the ice pack, you couldn’t help but wonder what the honest answer was. Would you have shot him? Blinking a few times, you carried the ice pack back over to your boss and slowly lifted it so that he could hold it in place over his eye. “Yes.” You said after what felt like an eternity to him. “In the leg.. perhaps, or the arm.” You offered. “But I don’t think I couldve killed him.”

Forrest gave a soft nod. “I didn’t expect you to.” He assured you before giving you the best smile he could muster. “I’m incredibly grateful that you.. well, put your life on the line for me like that. He could’ve killed you.”

You snorted. “You and me both. But we’re fine.” Guiding his hand to the ice pack so he could hold it on the wound, you then began to tend to his nose. There wasn’t much you could do, apart from clean up the dried blood that rested underneath his nostril. He had stubble, dancing along the length of his warm flesh. His cheeks and his jaw were coated in the fine hairs, giving some texture to his face as your hand cupped the sharp surface, thumb grazing his chin so that you could tip his head back.

The close proximity was numbing. You felt like you’d been swallowed by a flame. Maybe it was the way the sun illuminated the both of you, but the heat you felt was completely internal. Fidgeting for a moment under his unwavering stare, you watched as the white cloth turned red and his red skin returned to the initial paleness it ordinarily was. Crumbling the rag, you laid it on the table before leaning into him so you could get a better look at his eye. You moved the ice pack, squinting as you inspected the damage.

“I’m not doctor, Mr. Bondurant.. you’re probably better off having this injury looked at.” You suggested before straightening. Your arms slowly crossed over your chest, warm fingertips tracing the sleeves of your shirt.

Forrest grumbled something incoherent before giving you a soft nod. “Feels just fine.” He lied.

“Forrest.” You scolded him. “It’s swollen shut.”

The man arched a brow. Very rarely did you use his first name. His large palm lifted, covering his eye so that he could watch you through the swollen one. “See. Works just fine.”

You squinted challengingly before shaking your head in mild amusement. The man was insufferable. You made movement to turn to clean up the first aid kit tools, but he grasped your forearm tenderly in his large palm.

“Id know if something were wrong with my eye, Y/n, because you look just as beautiful through my swollen eye as you do with my two good ones.” He pulled you in his direction, his expression a pleading one. “Perhaps you should take one more look at it.”

Your brows furrowed at the compliment he’d given you before you stumbled in his direction. Laying your nimble fingers against the unsturdy, wooden arm of the chair. Inspecting his eye as he asked, you gave him a small, shy smile. “Mr. Bondurant, I believe you..” Though you weren’t sure if you did or you just wanted to put some proximity between you and his body. He was so warm and inviting, it drove you up the wall.

Forrest leaned forward. He enjoyed seeing you squirm so much. You were riddled with your fear of being unliked by him, even though it was clear he felt the same things for you. The man’s hand was gentle as it slid up the length of your arm so he could brush a few of your tresses back and out of your eyes.

Your cheeks felt unbelievably warm in this moment. You were sure that if they could be, they’d be the color of a ripe tomato. Lifting your free hand to steady yourself, you pressed it against his strong shoulder. “What are you doing..?” You breathed, attempting to rack your brain for some sort of explanation for his actions. Your brain refused to help you, it was completely blank. The closer your face grew to his own, the hotter you became and the more your brain shut down. You felt like a blob of jello.

He couldn’t help but smile. He sensed your shyness, which was exactly why he didn’t offer any words. Just actions. He figured they’d speak louder. Besides, he had to thank you in some enjoyable fashion. Why not with a kiss? The man spread his thighs wide enough to give you a place to stand. Drawing you forward, he moved his hands to your curvy waist and held on to you as his hot breaths began to mingle with your own.

All at once, your brow smoothed and your mind was completely blank. You saw nothing but him, heard nothing but the hammering of your own heart, smelled nothing but him - and he smelt like smoke and liquor, you felt nothing but his hard body under your palm, and soon you’d taste nothing but those big, pink lips of his. Your own mouth parted, incredibly too willingly, and all at once your mouth’s molded together like long lost pieces to a missing puzzle.

Your body fell into his lap, arms appearing to be insanely slender as they curled around his wide, broad, muscular shoulders. Forrest moved his hand to your leg, steadying you with one hand on your thigh and the other laid against your back. His mouth was slow, tentative, and curious as it moved in sync with your own and your’s was hungry, exploring, and needy. The shyness you felt crept away, but it didn’t go too far, it was just silenced by the romantic exchange he was leading.

His lips were as soft as you were imagined, and he tasted like honey and coffee. You pressed the crook of your elbow against the back of his neck and let a sultry moan fall from your lips in approval. Every brush of his fingers against your spine and feel of his tongue gliding against your own, sent sparks of electricity jolting throughout your body.

You still didn’t understand why he was kissing you, but was there really a point in questioning it? Maybe he was just grateful. Maybe he’d been hit so hard in the face he thought this was the right thing to do? And maybe, you hoped it was for this reason, the incident had helped you both find the confidence to grow suddenly closer. You were careful not to let your nose bump his or your hands to stray too far in fear of hitting an injury. What this meant and how far this would go didn’t cross your mind though, because in this moment there was only him and those sweet tasting lips of his.

———————————————————————

Tag List: @saved-fanfiction @thephuonganh @theaamberr @innerpaperexpertcloud @darklydeliciousdesires @thebeckyjolene @mollybegger-blog @travelingmypassion @caffinated-tree @tcmhollnd @br0ck-eddie @ellar21 @advictedtohim @river-rain-water @crldrr2 @louloudeug99

A/N: This is my first fic in almost a year so please bear with me🖤 ( ALSO NOT MY GIFS ) also it’s been soooo long since I’ve uploaded, I can’t remember how to do a ‘keep reading’ on mobile, so please message me and let me know how!!

#tom hardy #forrest bondurant #forrest bondurant x reader #forrest bondurant fanfiction #forrest bondurant fic #lawless imagine

[amxriyaa]

sweater weather.

pairing: Steve Rogers x Fem Reader  black reader imagined, but anyone can read

summary: Steve comes home after being away for a bit. He’s missed you. Based off “Sweater Weather” by The NBH

word count: 2,568

warnings / tags: 18+, Smut, Mild Exhibitionism, Sleepy Sex, Face Fucking (with a hand), Creampie, Dirty Talk, Biting, Desperation, Kinda Fluffy. this is basically just porn. 

Please do not interact with this post unless you are 18+!!

A/N: i’ve never posted anything here before, so let’s pray i actually did this right. anyways, i hope you enjoy this!

Steve’s never said it out loud before - only because he’s never been prompted - but the transition from fall into winter is his favorite time of year. Losing his family so young proves for harsh memories, but when Thanksgiving turns into a small event spent watching heist movies - he’s really grown a liking for Ocean’s Eleven and Tower Heist - and preparing mac n cheese and stuffing with you in his arms, he can only see the upsides. You. His girl.

It’s probably your favorite, too, if you’re honest… Something about the cold weather in New York seems to discourage criminals. You can’t complain. Wouldn’t even dare, because it means more time spent with him.

He came home around seven last night with a new VHS tape (something he learned about and just won’t let go) and two bottles of Chateau Montelena - pronounced ‘Sha-Too Mon-Tell-A-Nuh’ as a terrible, terrible joke he won’t let go - in which you, with a smile on your face, caught the implications of the ruby liquid he clutched for dear life:

“Red wine is slutty, Steven.”

“Color me slutty, then.”

It was the first time you’d had your hands on him in a month, and now that you’re watching him sleep, mesmerized by the little sounds he makes - those soft, tiny noises akin to those of a cat’s purrs - and the way he bunches up the blankets when he flips over those few times throughout the night, burying himself like an adorable little groundhog - you think, ‘I wish I could have you to myself all the time.’

(It’s selfish, but whatever.)

You wrap your arms around him, pull him in close to feel his warmth. He always smells good, even when he’s just come home all sweaty, you’ve found, and you still don’t know how it’s possible for someone to smell like comfort. Warmth.

Cinnamon and bonfires. Cinnamon from the soap he’s fallen in love with, and bonfires from… somethin’. You don’t know, and neither does he.

You run your nails over his scalp, smelling his shampoo, desperate to have your hands all over. Fingertips meet carved marble - his pecs, abs - and you rake, rubbing your thumbs in slow circles to wake him easy. Maybe it’s selfish again - he’s probably tired, but you can’t resist. Refuse to, even, with the way the moonlight makes him glow, pale skin brought to life with glimmering, bluish light. Blue’s always been his color.

He groans, still sleepy before he rolls over to face you, nudging your hip to flip you over. “Hey, doll.” His words, groggy, rumble against the back of your neck, arm sliding down to clutch the space just under your breasts. He hooks, possessive. “Time is it?”

“Three A.M.”

You rut your ass back into his hips, his cock, already half-hard, and he gets the memo, knows you’re wanting. He hums, and the sound sends chills up your spine as he slips a hand to the space just below your ear and strokes gently, moving any errant hairs out of the way with a hazy, rough whisper of, “Needy baby.”

Kisses to that spot right below your earlobe make you tremble, your body lighting up with that familiar feeling he never fails to provide, his hands heavy and warm, his touches electricity. He guides your hand back to his boxers before pulling down your panties just enough for access. “You want it slow, doll?” he says, reclaiming his cock with his own hand, sluicing up the tip with the slick gushing from your pussy.

A weak nod is all he needs before he maneuvers your legs and slides inside, slow, so, so slow, lowly moaning in your ear with every inch engulfed. He sighs when buried, stroking your hip before another languid stroke, admiring your perfect body - all his - in the dreary moonlight.

Soft whines, gentle moans, broken whispers of his name… He likes you like this - all… fragile from his touch, that slight rocking of your hips into his when he hits a spot that makes your toes curl - right there, Stevie - and that way you turn to pieces with every movement, every word. “You smell so good… Just like me…”

And then there’s a lazy rhythm, the occasional smack of his thighs against your ass, wet kisses pressed to your back, all while he tells you just how much he adores you, how much he missed you, with his hand nestled loosely underneath your chin, almost as if to say, Mine.

All mine again.

✾  ✾  ✾

A new day.

The midday sun creeps through the windows, illuminating tangled bodies and depleted wine bottles, crimson red morphed into emerald green. The yellow and orange rays swirl into a symphony, adorn his cut body, make him look so pretty.

Golden God. Beautiful.

You unwrap yourself from him after brief adoration, your mind already set on other tasks.

On the ottoman at the end of the bed, already unwrapped, lies the brand new sweater you just purchased, pre-distressed because you thought it’d be cute on him… but more importantly, you thought it’d be cute on you, too.

You slip it on, despite it being way too big for you - but that’s kind of the point - and head out onto the balcony that overlooks the backyard, adorned with a lemon and orange tree, both covered in a thin layer of frost from last night’s harsher weather. Today, though, it’s a cool fifty degrees, perfect for sitting and scrolling Instagram while in his sweater and sweats.

The door creaks as he slides out in a pair of plaid pajama pants, lifting his arm over his head to scratch his bicep, eyes squinted, still looking sleepy. You peer up at him over your phone with a smile, free hand reaching out to grasp for his, which he takes gently before pulling you out of your seat.

It’s almost instinctual, the way he guides you to the edge of the balcony and settles behind you, arms tucked under yours and wrapped around your stomach. The lemon tree is where he sets his sights, chin finding the nook of your shoulder and neck, the warmth from his chest pressing against your back. He hums, the vibrations ripple down your spine. “I love that tree.”

“I prefer the orange. She’s cuter.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he pauses to press a kiss into your jaw, “yeah…” Warmth meets your collarbones, his lips travelling your upper body as he strokes your hips, depriving you of the much appreciated heat across your stomach. You make a noise, a sort of… delighted disappointment - happy with the attention, missing his warmth - but then his hips drag forward, and that’s when you feel his cock, a hard line against his thin pants, rubbing deliciously against the globe of your ass -

Your stomach jumps when he does it again and nestles his body up to yours.

“Stevie…” you whisper, chills cascading down your back as he nudges your head to the side, carves out a place for his lips to land against the column of your throat. He bites lightly, and you immediately know what he’s feeling: lust, desire, need -

He wants to fuck. Now.

The thought gets lost in the press of his hand between your thighs, and any remaining sense packs up and leaves, no warning, no hesitation. He murmurs your name, and there’s some sort of… yearning about it, almost like he didn’t see you last night… “You should wear my stuff more often.” Your breath hitches when his hand slips beneath your waistband, fingers rolling over your clit in slow, hypnotic circles… “Looks good on you… Me.”

“Please.”

It’s intoxicating - him, his desperation, and it makes the synapses in your brain fizzle out, send electric shocks down to your toes and right back up to the tip of your head, and, yeah, it’s a different kind of heat, but one that burns in the same way, and then you realize - “Wait - We’re… It’s…”

You’re still outside.

“Hmm?” he says, slipping both waistbands off your actual waist, shimmying them below the curve of your ass before fondling with little groans, and, God, you’d kill to hear that sound more often, to hear his sounds more often -

You’re still outside.

“It’s cold.”

“What a shitty reason.”

Maybe it is.  

(It is.)

There’s a bit more maneuvering - your hips are pulled back to fit against his better, his pajama pants are shimmied down below his cock, and he’s rubbing the tip, dripping with precum, against your holes, which is making it so much fucking harder to focus on the fact that -

You’re still outside, and Steve fucking Rogers should not be trying to fuck you on your patio in the middle of fucking autumn because someone might fucking see - “But… you…” you take a deep breath, “…you don’t have a shirt on.” Another shitty reason. A prod at your entrance makes your legs weak, a little shake that clearly betrays how wrong you know this is -

“I’ll hold my hands in the holes of your sweater.”

“Oh, God - ” you sigh, all concerns temporarily fleeting when you feel him press past, slowly eating away at your resolve, warm, calloused hands rubbing at your skin.

“Good, baby?” he mutters, inhaling deeply when he brings his nose to the crook of your neck, letting your scent warm his chest. He wiggles his hips ever so slightly, lets you adjust to those few inches as he waits for a response, imprinting kisses into your throat, hands pawing your breasts through the soft material of the sweater.

You nod, get a few muffled words out, your grip tightening on the railing as he buries himself to the hilt, stretching tender skin taut, still slow, still holding you steady, so fucking deep. “What if someone sees?” you breathe, words getting caught in the back of your throat - God, you’re so full - as you peer over your shoulder at him, noticing his frosty eyes have been completely devoured by the onyx of his pupils, lids hooded, hair mussed. He’s hungry.

An open-mouthed kiss finds your neck. “Don’t care. Want you here,” he whispers.

Dirty boy.

You nod again, too… blissed out to do anything else but let him have you here - of all places, here - and you’d be a liar if you didn’t admit the faint thought of someone seeing makes your body thrum something awful. He rocks, just a bit, humming in your ear when your walls flutter around him, then again, and again, until he starts up a lusty rhythm, hips rolling into your ass, eyes fixed on the way your mouth stutters open every time he nudges that sweet spot inside. “Still my babydoll, aren’t ya?”

He leans down, hunches over you, hand sliding up your chest. It settles beneath your chin, strong, large, and two fingers slip under your tongue as he fucks. “Missed it. Missed you.” An errant bead of sweat catches between his teeth, licked from your neck, and his warmth sends little pricks through your skin. Knuckles turn white when he grazes your shoulder in a bite, sinking his teeth, and there will likely be a mark tomorrow, but the thought sends you reeling. “Tell me you missed me, baby.” His desperate tone is decorated with a shaky breath.

You whine, manage to get a few words out, muffled by his fingers thrusting gently, hand holding a loose grip on your jaw - his.

“Gonna make you sloppy, huh?” Tender, bruises on your insides, you feel him pounding, gripping, pawing, hand hooked in your mouth in greed, in possession, claiming you and embedding himself. He wants it all. “Gonna fuck you open, right here for everyone to see, sweetheart… see how much I missed ya…” He wraps himself around you, possesses you, makes you feel him everywhere, in every nerve, and your body thrums with excitement, head lolling back onto his shoulder, mouth drenching his fingers in spit.

How does he do it?

He slips a hand through one of the holes in the sweater, clutching your stomach, nails clawing your sensitive skin, begging to be everywhere at once, begging to feel himself everywhere at once - You’re mine, baby. -

The sounds keep getting caught in your throat as that sinful, obscene noise of his skin slapping against yours makes your stomach do flips, your sweetness swimming in the air from the wetness between your legs. His fingers dip down between your thighs, spreading your wetness around your clit in frantic, taunting circles, pressing, and rubbing, and rolling, and the coil in your stomach can’t stop tightening with the dirty words mumbled into your shoulder - Squeezin’ me good, yeah… Yeah, what if someone sees, doll? Sees you takin’ my cock so good? -

You moan, a wretched sound that pulls a little laugh from him when he discovers that, yeah, you actually like this, like the faint chance someone might see how needy Steve Rogers gets for you after he’s been away for too long, too depraved to even think straight without making sure his cock still fits the way he remembers, that you still feel the way he remembers, the way he dreams about when he has to spend nights at the Avengers compound. Like a glove one size too small - tight, and snug, and so, so perfect -

“My baby likes it, huh? Gonna leave you a mess for everyone to see, doll… You want that?”

“Please, Stevie - ”

“Come on,” he pants, fingers smearing your drool across your chin before turning your head over your shoulder. “Need my best girl to come for me - Make my cock filthy with it sweetheart - ”

His teeth graze your shoulder just as he bites one more time, and you fall apart, moaning his name like a bitch in heat, all sensations from the cold muted as you jerk your hips back into his, your pussy like a vise around his cock as he keeps slamming into that sweet spot -

“Gonna give it to you, baby… Gonna give it all to you - Been too long, y’know? Can’t - Can’t keep my fuckin’ hands offa you - Gonna fill you nice ‘n full, doll - ”

And with a strangled groan, he buries himself deep, hips rutting and painting your bruised insides with thick ribbons of white, the remainder of his thrusts absolutely deranged, grunts broken up by stuttering pulses, hands forcing your hips back into his with a bruising grip.

The two of you sit there for a while, you desperately trying to catch your breath, collar wicked with sweat, him panting and whispering nonsense into your ear - You’re so good to me - and decorating your cheek and neck with sloppy, wet kisses. He pulls out after you feel like you can stand, and feels his chest tighten at the way his seed looks spilling out of you, adorning the insides of your thighs with his mark. Wrong for Captain America to be turned on by that, isn’t it?

Oh, God, how he’s missed you.

He pets the inside of your thighs with a few fingers before gathering the juices, then bringing slickened fingertips up to your lips.

You whine at the taste, sending the vibrations through his hand as you clean him with a smile on your face, licking your lips, He growls before kissing you hard, gripping the back of your head harshly, craning your neck backward to have you the way he wants you, until he sighs into your mouth. 

“S’little bit cold, isn’t it?”

divider from the lovely @stargazingfangirl18​​! thank you so much!

A/N: okay, so, first post down, hopefully many more to come. i still have a lot of things to figure out!! likes, comments, reblogs are appreciated! <333

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #fanfiction #smut #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers x black reader #steve rogers x female reader #captain america fanfiction

[music-of-dragons]

For #Danymonth2021 I will be posting a Dany chapter analysis each day. She has 31 total chapters and there are 31 days in October! I'll try my best to keep up since this is a project I've wanted to do for a long time. I meant to start yesterday but I'm already off to a late start so 2 chapters are going up today!

Loose key for some organization:

●Summary ○My thoughts

AGOT Dany I

●The chapter starts with Viserys telling Dany to caress the fabric of the dress she is to wear to impress Drogo. The fabric is so fine that Dany is frightened by it so she pulls her hand away and asks if it really belongs to her. ~She could not remember wearing anything so soft.~ 

○Dany has had a life of hardship, from the moment Ser Willem Darry died she had lived on the streets, hopping from one place to the next until people began to shun the last Targaryens as beggars and lost causes. Such finery is so foreign to her that she is frightened by it. 

○Dany is 13 but still more grounded in reality than Viserys. She knows that the kindness of Illyrio shouldn't come as freely as it does and that the throne is merely a dream. 

●~ For a moment she wished that she could be out there with them, barefoot and breathless and dressed in tatters, with no past and no future no feast to attend at Khal Drogo's manse.~

○Dany desires a simple life, free of the responsibility and shadow of her elder brother, this is a recurring theme throughout the books. 

●~Viserys lived for that day.  All that Daenerys wanted back was the big house with the red door, the lemon tree outside her window, the childhood she had never known.~

●Illyrio's "servants” come to prepare Dany for the feast. Dany already recognizes the humanity of them and observes their attitudes and mannerisms. She also recognizes that these "servants" are slaves, even though there are no slaves in the free cities.

○Dany is familiar with the unbalanced system that forces people into indentured servitude from her first chapter. She listens to the younger slave girl speak and takes her words to heart; she tells Dany that Drogo's slaves wear golden collars and Dany dons a golden collar at the feast. This is a direct reference to the situation Dany is in; she's a glorified sex slave being sold off to a barbarian by her own brother. That's how much she means to Viserys. 

○Dany mistrusts Illyrio's words about the smallfolk crying out for their true King, just as she mistrusts everything about Illyrio. For a 13 year old, Dany is wise. Her life forced her to mature faster to survive and to be weary of superfluous kindness.

●Dany tears up when Viserys hurts her for wanting to go home and not be Drogo's queen. ~She brushed away unfallen tears with the back of her hand.~ Viserys commands her to smile and stand up straight. ~Daenerys smiled, and stood up straight.~

○Daenerys is at the mercy of Viserys, she does everything he commands her to do to avoid pain and suffering, even if that means pain and suffering. She's so broken down and meek in the beginning; her story is truly that of an underdog rising up through experience and sheer force of will. 

I'll be using the tag #ARereadOfDaenerys to compile these analyses together on my blog!

#daenerys targaryen #danymonth2021 #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #dany #book!daenerys #book!dany #ARereadOfDaenerys #my meta #a game of thrones

[atopvisenyashill]

i accidentally went down the fake dany rabbit hole on reddit and to be clear, i think it’s fun to think about but it’s absolutely not gonna happen BUT one of the main pieces of evidence for this is…A Thing and that’s Dany’s memory of the House With The Red Door:

…one night Ser Willem Darry and four loyal men had broken into the nursery and stolen them both, along with her wet nurse, and set sail under cover of darkness for the safety of the Braavosian coast.

She remembered Ser Willem dimly, a great grey bear of a man, half-blind, roaring and bellowing orders from his sickbed. The servants had lived in terror of him, but he had always been kind to Dany. He called her "Little Princess" and sometimes "My Lady," and his hands were soft as old leather. He never left his bed, though, and the smell of sickness clung to him day and night, a hot, moist, sickly sweet odor. That was when they lived in Braavos, in the big house with the red door. Dany had her own room there, with a lemon tree outside her window. After Ser Willem had died, the servants had stolen what little money they had left, and soon after they had been put out of the big house. Dany had cried when the red door closed behind them forever.

She mentions the lemon tree more than once:

All that Daenerys wanted back was the big house with the red door, the lemon tree outside her window, the childhood she had never known.

And again she sees it in the house of the undying:

And there outside the window, a lemon tree! The sight of it made her heart ache with longing. It is the house with the red door, the house in Braavos. No sooner had she thought it than old Ser Willem came into the room, leaning heavily on his stick. "Little princess, there you are," he said in his gruff kind voice. "Come," he said, "come to me, my lady, you're home now, you're safe now." His big wrinkled hand reached for her, soft as old leather, and Dany wanted to take it and hold it and kiss it, she wanted that as much as she had ever wanted anything.

But we get it mentioned several times that there are not citrus trees in Braavos. Sam says it here:

Trees did not grow on Braavos, save in the courts and gardens of the mighty.

And then there is Arya's description:

Braavos, devoid of grass and trees ... They have no trees, she realized. Braavos is all stone, a grey city in a green sea. ... In the forest, they see all. but there are no trees here ...

Now, this could mean she stayed with the Sealord of Braavos, since he signed the marriage contract with Dorne as a witness:

"It is a secret pact," Dany said, "made in Braavos when I was just a little girl. Ser Willem Darry signed for us, the man who spirited my brother and myself away from Dragonstone before the Usurper's men could take us. Prince Oberyn Martell signed for Dorne, with the Sealord of Braavos as witness." She handed the parchment to Ser Barristan, so he might read it for himself. "The alliance is to be sealed by a marriage, it says. In return for Dorne's help overthrowing the Usurper, my brother Viserys is to take Prince Doran's daughter Arianne for his queen."

Except George has been Cagey As Fuck about this when asked TWO separate times:

Q: “Dany remembers a lemon tree outside the house with the red door in Braavos, but citrus trees shouldn’t really grow in Braavos’s cold, foggy climate. Is this discrepancy significant? Does it point to future revelations about Dany’s past. Thank you so much.”

GRRM: “Very perceptive of you. Yes, it does point to … well, that would be telling.”

And again here:

Question: “How old was Daenerys when she left the house with the red door, was it located close to the palace of the Sealord of Braavos?”

Answer: “That’s a interesting question. But I don’t think I’m going to answer it. There’s a certain revelation about the red door that will come into the books that I have yet to write. So we’ll keep an eye to it.”

Obviously there’s the whole lemongate thing, with some saying this means she’s a fake - some say Blackfyre, some say Rhaegar’s daughter. I think it’s more likely her memory is just faulty; she was so young when this happened, and we see Ned, Sansa, and Bran misremember things that traumatized them because it’s a very common coping mechanism. There’s theories around her memory as well - she was in Tyrosh or she was in Dorne.

But for me, it’s more about WHY he’s being cagey and WHY there’s this discrepancy in her memory. If she was really in Tyrosh or Myr or Dorne, why does that matter? I think it’s something that will only matter to Daenerys, and not the plot at large. Will she find the house with the red door or hear the story from Doran (or Areo??) and find out she misremembered that way? And why will it affect her? I’m not sure if “Daenerys realizes even those memories are tainted by the fact that she was only in Dorne because of politics and was sent out of Dorne and safety and now holds a grudge” because…the memories are already tainted by how sick Willem Darry was as he was dying.

Like, “Dany was Rhaegar’s daughter raised by Willem Dustin then sold to Illyrio and passed off as Rhaella’s last child who actually died, because it puts Viserys ahead of her in succession and gives him a Targaryen bride to marry or sell off and Viserys has spent the last few years torturing her into thinking she’s his sister, the same way Ramsey tortures Theon into being another person” is such a crackhead theory lmao but a revelation like that would shake Dany to her core. “Dany misremembered Dorne as Braavos” like that’s such a nothingburger so WHAT IS GOING ON. If she just invented a happier memory for herself to hold onto, what is the original memory hiding? Is it not even real, and while the lemon tree is our sign the memory is fake, the real secret is the red door and it’s going to be some metaphor for something?

The House With The Red Door represents everything Dany really wants from her life deep down and that’s to belong somewhere. So what I’m leaning towards is it’s not even a real memory, just something she cobbled together from several of Viserys’ stories. It’s not just that the lemon tree and red door were in the wrong place but none of it existed. Not the peace she had, not Willem Darry. That seems devastating enough that if none of it was real, that she can never find peace, that the red door she was chasing all these years never existed. I think it might be, emotionally, a big step in her deciding to burn king’s landing.

But it was not the plains Dany saw then. It was King's Landing and the great Red Keep that Aegon the Conqueror had built. It was Dragonstone where she had been born. In her mind's eye they burned with a thousand lights, a fire blazing in every window. In her mind's eye, all the doors were red.

and later on:

She saw sunlight on the Dothraki sea, the living plain, rich with the smells of earth and death. Wind stirred the grasses, and they rippled like water. Drogo held her in strong arms, and his hand stroked her sex and opened her and woke that sweet wetness that was his alone, and the stars smiled down on them, stars in a daylight sky. "Home," she whispered as he entered her and filled her with his seed, but suddenly the stars were gone, and across the blue sky swept the great wings, and the world took flame.

If there was never any red door, never a lemon tree, if even her sweet memories of Willem Darry are somehow false, just a scared child trying to make sense of the world, I think that loss will completely push her towards the path of destruction, and she won’t just embrace the dragon, she’ll embrace its devastation as well. Behind the red door isn’t her salvation, only destruction.

The door loomed before her, the red door, so close, so close, the hall was a blur around her, the cold receding behind. And now the stone was gone and she flew across the Dothraki sea, high and higher, the green rippling beneath, and all that lived and breathed fled in terror from the shadow of her wings. She could smell home, she could see it, there, just beyond that door, green fields and great stone houses and arms to keep her warm, there. She threw open the door. “… the dragon …” And saw her brother Rhaegar, mounted on a stallion as black as his armor. Fire glimmered red through the narrow eye slit of his helm. “The last dragon,” Ser Jorah’s voice whispered faintly. “The last, the last.” Dany lifted his polished black visor. The face within was her own.

GEORGE I AM IN YOUR WALLS

#the point is the emotion so WHAT EMOTION SILL TBIS MAKE HER FEEL #getting on my soap box #anti daenerys targaryen #if the red door never existed im literally gonna cry. she makes me so sad. it’s like seeing cersei age 13 you know. not just the after where #she’s already evil but instead all the moments in which she breaks and becomes a monster #a child weaned on poison considers hurt a comfort #daenerys is old valyria risen again

[bohemianrhvps]

Mon amour, puisque tu m'aimes. - G.W.

Summary: George and Fred barely fight but when it happens they might not talk to each other’s for days. After a big fight, George stormed out of the shop and went to muggle London for a walk to calm his nerves. He found himself in one of those old vintage cafes and as he was sitting outside he spot a little flower shop across the street, playing some vintage french songs then he saw her and his heart started trembling.

warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol, fluff, modern!George and muggle!reader.

note: I love Edith Piaf and vintage songs with all my heart and lately I can’t stop to listen “Hymn à l’amour” by Edith Piaf. Physically the reader is based on me (hope that’s not a big deal). I had this idea because I think that George would definitely fall for a muggle, he finds them fascinating just like his father.

‘How dare he say something like that? How dare Fred tell me that my job is not enough and I need to focus more?’

George was furious, he and his brother Fred just had one of their biggest fight ever. He stormed of the shop that he and his brother owned leaving a furious Fred and a confused Ron behind him. He went straight to the Leaky Cauldron and entered muggle London crowded streets. It was early evening and almost everyone was going home after a long day at work.

He decided to calm down his nerves and take a walk around London’s little alleys. His mind was full of thoughts, he was thinking about the words he and his twin brother said to each other’s, angry words that it doesn’t matter that they were said impulsively they still hurt.

After a while he found himself in a little street, less crowded, one of those roads that seemed like those roads in small country villages. A little vintage cafes caught his eyes and he decided that he needed a coffee, even if he didn’t enjoyed his flavour. After ordering, paying and picked up his coffee, he went out to sit in one of those two-seater tables outside the cafes.

Vintage french musics draw his attention, making him stand up and look around trying to figure out where it came from. His eyes landed on this little flower shop on the street corner so he crossed the street and walk towards it. He was never a big fan of Herbology at Hogwarts or plants in general but he was fascinated by these plants, he also saw lemon trees and they were so yellow and so beautiful and their smell was magnificent and he wondered how could they be so beautiful, they were simple and common plants but they were the most beautiful he had ever seen.

Y/n was watering the tulips inside her little shop, humming that old french song that she put in her “oldies” playlist when she spotted this tall red haired man outside her shop, looking at her plants almost suspiciously and she wondered what he was thinking about.

“Did you know that talking to plants makes them grow better?” she calmly said leaning on the front door, still holding the watering can with both hands.

“Is that the secret to having such beautiful plants?” George said turning fully around.

When they met each other’s eyes they remained silent for a couple of minutes. She was mesmerised by his features, he was indeed handsome and his hair was a fiery shade of orange. On the other hand he was mesmerised by her looks, he found her particular, almost weird but she was absolutely dazzling. She had short brown hair, her haircut right under the ear, that perfectly framed her round face. She was wearing a white flannel shirt and a pair of beige flannel pants and the first buttons of her shirt were open. She was at least one foot lower than George, she wasn’t skinny, her waist was slightly narrower than her hips that widened, highlighting her fleshy thighs. And George, being the thighs man he is, had to refrain from staring too long. She was so simple yet so particular and captivating.

“So you like my plants, ay?” she said smiling and putting the watering can on the side.

“I’m not a big fan of flowers and plants but I have to admit that your plants look very tempting.”

‘You are very temping. No wait- George what the heck. Calm down your hormones, mate’ he mentally cursed himself for thinking such things about her.

“If my plants are tempting let me show you something then.” She laughed and went inside her shop, shouting a muffled “Come in” waiting for him to follow her. After having rummaged among the various plants she came back to George with a little succulent in her hands.

“This is a little Echeveria elegans, which is a succulent plant.” she smiled placing the plant on the counter.

George found himself entering the shop and looking around it, it was much smaller than his but it was lovely, full of colours and aromas. He looked at the plant she brought with her and raised his eyebrows, wondering why she took that plant.

“I want to give you this plant.” Her smile was so big that he sweared her skin was going to break. He panicked because he didn’t know how to pay that plant sure he had money with him but muggle money is different from Galleons. He opened his jacket to get his wallet but her hand stopped him.

“No, it’s a gift.” her hand was still on his forearm and he couldn’t help but smile at the contact.

“Forgive my rudeness for not introducing myself sooner but I’m (y/n).” her hand stretched out waiting for George to hold it.

“I’m George and it’s very nice meeting you.” he smiled softly at her, making her blush. She couldn’t help but think about how handsome and charming he was.

“You’re new around here, right? I’ve never seen your face before.” and what a beautiful face she may add.

“No actually I found myself in this street after a long walk and had a coffee in that lovely cafes I want to add that I think I’m going back because that coffe was amazing and I usually don’t drink or like coffe. Anyway I own a shop with my twin brother.” he was babbling but Oh Merlin she made him so nervous.

“Oh yeah? And where is this shop?” the way her brow frowned over in curiosity was adorable.

“Oh it’s across town actually, yeah” his initial enthusiasm had now disappeared.

George looked at his watch and realised that it was almost dinner time and tonight he was supposed to cook for him and Fred.

“I’m sorry but I really need to go now, I guess I’ll see you around then.” he said making his way out of the shop.

“I’ll wait for you to come back here again then.” she smiled at him. The sunset made the whole situation looking like one of those romantic muggle movies his parents made him watch.

He waved his hand at her and walked towards the Leaky Cauldron with the biggest smile on his face and this little plant on his huge hands, he felt like Neville back in Hogwarts.

*The next day*

“Good morning Dear (Y/n)”

“Good morning Margaret”

“Oh you’re wearing a dress and you’re in a good mood today. The usual, love?” (Y/n) simply laughed at the old and lovely woman that owned the cafe and nodded at her question.

“Can I ask you something?” she said sipping her hot cappuccino.

“Anything dear” Margaret smiled at her.

“Did a tall red-haired guy come in here yesterday?” she tried not to look very hopeful.

“How could I forget him? He had this fiery red hair, this purple suit and he was so tall. Is he your boyfriend?” same old nosey Margaret.

“What? No no” she blushed laughing nervously.

“Oh, okay then.” Margaret simply shrugged.

“If he comes again I offer everything he orders.” she smiled and hurried to open her flower shop.

**

“I don’t know why but she was capable of making me nervous. Me? George Fabian Weasley nervous in front of a girl? She’s beautiful though, very particular may I add. Anyway I’ll probably visit her again tod-“

“George who the fuck are you talking to?” Fred came out of his room hearing George talking to a plant?

“Oh Fred ehm nothing, I mean no one” he laughed nervously scratching his neck.

“Do you remember that we have lunch at the Burrow right? Ron and Hermione wants to tell us something.” Fred began to have breakfast as if nothing had happened.

“Alright but I have to go now” George rushed down the stairs, making his way to (Y/n)’s flower shop.

He stopped at the cafes and just as he was about to pay, Margaret stopped him.

“(Y/n) offers” she winked at him. His brows furred but he cracked a smile.

“What’s your name, dear?”

“George” he said before leaving the cafes and run towards her shop.

While he was sipping his coffe, he stayed outside waiting for her clients to leave but admiring her. She was radiant today, she was wearing a yellow long flower dress, with long sleeves balloon and she curled her hair a bit. ‘How cool, they seem shorter’ he thought.

“You know you didn’t have to, right?” he said raising his coffee as soon she was alone in the shop.

“I know, but I wanted to.” everything about her was simply adorable.

He looked around and he found these beautiful and aromatic lilies.

“Just her favourites.” he whispered to himself but (Y/n) heard that and she felt her heart clenched a bit and she didn’t know why.

“Can I have a few of these?” he turned her way.

She took the lilies and made a lovely bouquet, she didn’t want to be nosey but..

“Are these for your girlfriend?” she said tying the boquet with a pink ribbon.

“My girlfr- no no, these are for my mom.” he answered almost too quickly. “We have a family lunch, my brother and his wife want to tell us something. I’m wondering what it is.” again he was babbling and tell her things that she probably didn’t want to hear.

“Maybe she’s pregnant, I don’t know.” she answered giggling. He was going to pay but again she stopped him, shaking her head with a simple smile.

“Let me know if your mum liked them.” she waved her hand and again George found himself with the biggest smile of his face.

**

“Merlin’s beard George, they’re beautiful.” Molly was thrilled when she saw the lilies. “(Y/n)’s flawless flowers.. never saw it in Diagon Alley, is it a new shop?”

“Actually mom it’s a shop in muggle London, yeah.” he scratched the back of his neck, blushing a little.

“And tell me, what's she like? Big tits? Big ass?” Fred whispered pushing his shoulder a bit.

“Big tit- Fred what the hell?” he scolded at his twin brother.

“Boys behave we have an announcement!” Ron said clapping his hands drawing everybody’s attention on him and Hermione.

“I’m pregnant.” Hermione said with a big smile on her face.

“(Y/n), how did you know..” George whispered to himself while clapping his hands at the happy couple.

“Were you talking to me?” asked Fred smirking, acting like he didn’t heard George’s exact words.

**

It was Monday morning and it was also (Y/n)’s day off so she decided to walk around London and look for George’s shop, she wanted to surprise him. It took her almost the whole morning but she hadn’t seen his shop, he told her that outside his shop there were a huge statue that looked like him so it was impossible to miss. It was around noon and she decided to go visit her grandmother and her flower shop. The only thing was that her grandmother was a witch and her flower shop was in Diagon Alley so she made her way through the Leaky Cauldron and entered Diagon Alley. It has been a while since she was in the wizard world but she knew exactly how to act. Just around the corner she spotted an unfamiliar shop.

Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

The moment she saw the statue she instantly froze. She recognised it and the shop was exactly like George described it. She decided to enter and look around.

The inside of the shop was simply beautiful, so full of colours and people and she was simply enchanted. She spotted a familiar tall ginger man and she made her way to him.

“George?” she tapped his shoulder.

“Wrong one, love. I’m Fred.” he said turning around to greet her. She smiled at him as she instantly recognised him as George’s twin brother.

“And you are?” he raised his eyebrows.

“(Y/n), I’m (Y/n).” she reached out to him.

“Oooh” Fred said with a cheeky grin. “(Y/n)’s flawless flowers, right?” he squeezed her hand.

“Oì, stop flirting with our costumers and come to h-“ he froze. He was panicking when he saw her. And now what? What is he supposed to do? What is he supposed to say?

“(Y/n) hi, w-what are you doing here?” his palms were sweating so hard he hoped you wouldn’t notice.

“Your shop is literally magical.” she ignored his questions as she giggled looking around George’s shop. “My grandmother is a witch, she owns a flower shop here in Diagon Alley, so here I am.” she said raising her hands.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you” he was really sorry because he really like her, he didn’t know if he liked her as a friend or more but he sure enjoyed her company.

“Oh it’s okay, I can imagine it’s not easy telling someone you’re a wizard” her laugh was lovely.

“So, can I have the honor of showing you around the store?” he asked her extending his arm which she gladly accepted.

“Y/n guess what... Hermione’s pregnant.” he said super excited.

“I told you!” she said jumping a little making George smile like a five years old.

George turned around to his brother who was looking at them smiling. Fred knew his brother and he knew that George fell for her, even before George himself knew that.

note: I’m thinking of making this a mini series, divide it into three maybe four parts (reader meeting the Weasleys and maybe add some smut lol). Let me know if you liked it and if you want me to continue it.

#george weasley #george weasley imagine #george weasley smut #harry potter imagine #hermione granger #hogwarts #ron weasley #draco malfoy #george and fred #fred weasley #fred and george #the weasleys #the weasleys twins #george weasley x reader #george weasley headcanon #fanfiction

[leesielex]

Magic Awakens

Hello everyone! I'm so excited to post the next update of my first ever fan fic. Huge thanks to @jilliebaby for beta-ing this for me! She is awesome! The truly talented @libradoodle1 for the adorable pic edits! And the amazing @moondancer71 for creating this beautiful moodboard! I had this idea in my head for so long and these wonderful women motivated me to go for it, and to keep writing! Seriously thought I would start and quit after 2 chapters, I'm on 32 so far! (But far from finished!) Hope you all enjoy this as much as I do!

Chapter 4: Daenerys Targaryen (An Exiled Princess)

The waves gently rocked against the boat and lulled Daenerys into a peaceful and calm sleep. She and Vis had been aboard the “Sweet Serenei '' for a couple days now and were stopping in Pentos to gather supplies. Quaithe told them to stay onboard the ship and below deck once again so they would not be seen; the Usurpers assassins were always looking for them, she said, and his Master of Whisperers had little birds from The Wall to Qarth.

As soon as Viserys heard the steps above deck fade, he moved into action. Stuffing their belongings back into the rucksacks, he sneered, “come on Dany, we are getting off this damned boat.”

“Quaithe told us to stay here. It isn’t safe out there!”

Quaithe was mysterious and odd. She never quite gave them a straight answer. But before she had seen her in person, Dany had dreamt of Quaithe -In a place of darkness, where she had dragons and was bathed in fire. A place where the flames danced from her fingertips. Daenerys knew they were supposed to follow Quaithe. She could just feel it.

Viserys was another story though. He didn’t believe in Dany’s dreams anymore. He wasn’t the same Vis from the house with the red door and the lemon tree. When she said she liked being on a boat and wanted to be a sailor, he grabbed her arm and pinched it until it bruised. He told her she was stupid, and she was a Targaryen, so she would marry him and be his Queen to keep their bloodline pure. Even if she was stupid and useless, she would fulfill her duty to him once she was a woman grown.

Viserys also didn’t trust Quaithe. “How can we trust someone who won’t even show us their true face?’

“I trust her because I have seen her before in my dreams! She is there when I ride my dragon, like Visenya and Rhaenys did.” Dany had exclaimed excitedly.

Viserys grabbed her hard then so that she was inches from his face, a cruel sneer upon it. “Your dreams are just that, childish fantasies. Dragons haven’t existed in a hundred years, and the last ones were small, the size of a cat. You shall never have your dragons!”

Dany cried herself to sleep after that. Viserys must have felt bad because he brought her dinner, and asked her if she wanted to hear a story about Visenya and Rhaenys, and their dragons, Vhagar and Meraxes. They were the sister-wives to Aegon the Conqueror, who rode Balerion. He pulled her into his lap and stroked her hair as he always did when he told her stories.

“Hurry up and put that on!” Vis said, as he threw a cloak at her, bringing her out of her thoughts. Dany did as she was told. She was just a little girl and he was the only family she had left, what choice did she really have? A tear fell down her cheek as Vis grabbed her hand.

They hurried up the steps and around to the ramp leading to the dock, Viserys dragging her behind him as he wove in and out of people and ducked behind alleys. Finally after what felt like hours, her lungs were burning for air, her feet aching, Viserys stopped in the alley of a small tavern inn.

“Where are we Vis? Where are we going? I’m hungry, and tired,” Dany whined. Viserys was hunched over, hands on his knees, taking big gulps of air as sweat dripped down his face.

“We are in Pentos I believe. It didn’t take the boat long to arrive so it must be close to Braavos. And this certainly is not Westeros. Thank the gods we got away from her.” Viserys breathed out. He slowly straightened himself out and walked to the edge of the alley to look around. “Come Dany, let us see if the inn has any rooms for tonight.” When they opened the tavern door, everyone seemed to stop and turned to stare at them. The tavern is full of mostly grown men drinking cheap pale ale, and women in various states of undress in their laps. The women served food and drink while shoving their barely-covered teats in the men’s faces. A younger woman with honey blonde hair and dark blue, almost purple eyes, saunters up to them.

“Well aren’t you two a sight for sore eyes. My name is Larra. I work at this fine establishment. Is there something I can help you with?” She gives Dany a quick smile as she turns to Viserys and puts her hand on his forearm. Vis looks down at her hand and swallows, seemingly lost for words. Dany tugs at his other hand.

Viserys clears his throat under Larra's intense stare. “We would like a room, please? And some bread or food.” He hands Larra the few coins he has. “How many nights and meals will this pay for?” He asks her.

“A fortnight,” She responds, with a sad twinge in her eyes. “After that you will have to pay more, or leave.”

“A fortnight will serve us well. Please, show us to our rooms and have a meal brought up,” he responds, looking down at the floor. The gravity of the situation seemed to hit him at that moment.

Larra bid them to follow, leading them up a set of stairs in the back. Once she shows them to their room, she excused herself, but not before letting them know they need only ask if they required anything. She returned later with stew, some bread, and a pitcher of drink that Dany is afraid to try as it looks too much like pisswater. Dany thanked Larra for their meager meal, as her hunger suddenly made itself known, her belly growling loudly.

“You are welcome, little one. Are you also from Lys, as I am? I was a pleasure slave who was bought to serve in Pentos. My master was old, and freed me before he died so I would be taken and resold. He was a good man, but what was I to do with my freedom when I had only known one life and one purpose, to serve with my body? I work in this tavern now, and at least I choose whom I service. The owner is a kind and rare soul. But I recognize that look in your eyes--Of being lost, of not knowing what to do next.” Dany was about to reply but Vis cut her off quickly.

“Yes!” He squeaked out a little too forcefully. He coughed before continuing, “Yes, we are from Lys. Our mother was a bed slave and she was sold to someone in Pentos. We were separated and wanted to try to find her after we escaped the boat that was taking us to our new Master.” He risked a quick glance at Dany to silence her. Her mouth gaped open but he closed it and turned back to Larra, nodding her head.

“Well, I wish you luck in your search. I give you your leave. Please find me if I can help.” And with that they were left alone.

Viserys beckoned Daenerys to his side after discarding the sacks they carried their belongings in and removing their cloaks, “We cannot let anyone know who we are, Dany. Word could get to the Usurper or Quaithe. We can stay here for a fortnight, which gives me time to figure out our next move.”

She wanted to argue, but she could see how tired Vis was, how sad, and possibly frightened. She decided to trust her brother.

The next few days seemed to drag on forever. Vis wouldn’t let her leave the room and she felt more trapped here than she did on that boat. On the boat she knew she was supposed to be there, that she would soon get her dragons. Here she was afraid. Viserys would be kind and playful, chasing her around the room and tickling her, throwing her on the bed. Then inevitably she would say something that “awoke the dragon” he took to calling his anger now, no longer their fun childhood game. He would pull her hair or pinch her arms, sometimes telling her she was to blame for this mess because she killed their mother. And the closer to the end of the fortnight they came, the angrier he became. Viserys looked like a caged dragon, desperate to burn his way out of their small tavern room.

Dany began to dream of Quaithe quite often. She would appear in the shadows, always leaving her with that same vague riddle: “to go north, you must journey south, to reach the west, you must go east. To go forward, you must go back and to touch the light, you must pass beneath the shadow.” Dany would always awaken when dragons bathed her in fire.

It was currently the hour of the wolf when she had awakened. She arose from the bed and walked over to the doused candle. Looking around for a way to light it, she found none at the moment. She turned back to the unlit candle. An old habit when she could not sleep was to let her fingers dance in the flame. It soothed her. But she had never told anyone; she knew that fire was supposed to be hot, so hot it hurt. But for her the fire felt like home. And she missed home so much right now. She ached for it, chest tight and constricted at the thought. Staring at the candle, hands dancing where the flames would be, Dany wished for the fire to be there, she wished for home, for warmth, for the comfort of the flame. She gasped when she saw a spark leap from the tip of her fingers to the wick of the candle. The flame suddenly danced as she had willed it to be. Dany didn’t know what to think; she was confused, and scared. So she let her fingers flit through the flame, and she started to calm once more. The fire was her home.

#jonerys #daenerys targaryen #daenerys deserved better #jon x daenerys #viserys targaryen #fanfic #fanart #moodboard

[mldrgrl]

The Matchmaker

by: mldrgrl Rating: PG Summary:  Based on this old prompt I got, which I originally said I couldn’t handle, but then inspiration struck and I had to roll with it.  

Scully has only just barely opened the door to the dark office when Mulder is shoving a file into her hands and closing the door behind her.  The projector is on, but the screen is blank, just white square of light and Mulder’s silhouette as he takes her to-go cup of coffee from her hands so she can shrug out of her overcoat.

“Once upon a time,” he says, handing her coffee back to her.

“Really, Mulder?  Once upon a time?”

He smirks good-naturedly and snatches up the remote to the projector to advance to the first slide.  “Once upon a time there was a little tiny tree in a great big forest in New Hampshire.”

“Mmhm.”  

Scully tucks the unopened file under her arm and passes through the warm light of the slide projector to put her satchel down at her workstation.  She takes a momentary glance at a grainy, black and white photo of a large tree and sips her coffee.

“Estimates have placed this particular tree to be somewhere around 400 years old.  This is the earliest photo of it I could find, in the Manchester Daily from 1929.”

“Did someone cut this tiny little tree down and release a great big swarm of deadly mites like the ones we encountered in Washington state?”

“No, nothing like that.”  Mulder winces and scratches the back of his head before advancing to the next slide, another black and white photo from a different angle, wider so that the tree in question stands small and alone in the middle of a field against a backdrop of mighty oaks and firs and pines.    

“Well?” she asks.

“Did you know there are countless legends about enchanted trees?  Trees with magical powers, trees that have the ability to heal or harm or grant wishes or foretell the future?”

“Folklore.”

“Every single culture has some kind of legend about the power of a tree.”

“Mulder, you once tried to tell me the same thing about Bigfoot.”

He ignores the wisecrack and clicks through his slides, narrating the images that appear on the screen.  “The Jinmenju tree in Japan is said to have fruit with human faces that laugh at people who happen to walk by.  There’s the sacred Norse tree Yggdrasil, center of the cosmos and where the Gods gather for daily court.  In Iranian mythology the Bas tokhmak is said to contain seeds that eliminate sorrow and despair.  And the Hungarian égig érő fa or sky-high tree that only selected shamans are entitled to climb and encounter magical worlds in the clouds.”

“Sounds suspiciously similar to Jack and the Beanstalk.”

“And then there’s the Hart’s Location Flame Thrower Redbud.”    

Scully presumes the new slide is the same tree that was in black and white at the start of the slideshow, only now it’s in color.  The leaves are multicolored, mostly red and purple, but some are so dark they’re nearly black.  Though small, the tree stands out in sharp contrast to the yellow fieldgrass, blue sky, and the green trees behind it.

“Well, it’s certainly beautiful,” she says.

“The locals call it The Matchmaker.”

Scully snorts softly.  “And why is that?” she asks.

“If you open up that file I so generously put together for you, you’ll find newspaper clippings from the past half-century, most of them wedding announcements, citing this tree as a key to what led these couples to a happy union.”

“Mulder...you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Of course with any good legend, there’s a catch.”

“Of course there is.”  She puts her coffee down and opens the file, but doesn’t take more than a passing glance at the pages she flips through.

“From what I can gather, and keep in mind this is the Cliff’s Notes version of things, people believe the tree can predict compatibility in couples who make the pilgrimage there.”

“And how, pray tell, does the tree do this?”

“Glad you asked!”  Mulder advances the next slide, a close up photo of the left hand of a woman.  The ring finger is disfigured in some way, appearing to Scully to almost resemble a twig.

“What the hell am I looking at, Mulder?”

“You’re looking at an example of what might happen if a couple is not compatible.  There’s an online Usenet group dedicated to finding matches for anyone who’s had, let’s say, experiences with the tree that have left them unrequited.”

“Unrequited?”

Mulder scrolls through the next few slides without comment.  There’s another photo of the side of a woman’s face with what appears at first to be a small pinecone earring, but on closer look the pinecone is actually attached to the earlobe.  There’s another of a hand, masculine this time, with veins that look like tree roots creeping up from wrist to knuckles.  The last one is a forearm covered with a thin layer of moss.

“They say the only way to reverse the effects is by true love’s touch.”

“True love’s touch,” she repeats.

“Hope you’ve got your hiking boots ready and an overnight bag in the car,” he says, clicking over to an aerial photo of a forest.  “We’re headed to a little town on the outskirts of Crawford Notch State Park.”

She tries not to sigh in response.

*****

The flight to Manchester is less than two hours and they arrive just before noon.  Scully has flipped through the file Mulder gave to her, and though the clippings make for amusing anecdotes, she sees nothing noteworthy or remarkable.

“What exactly is your interest in this case,” Scully asks, buckling her seatbelt after she takes her usual navigational seat in their rental car.  “Not that I even believe there actually is a case here, let alone an x-file.”

“You don’t think it’s unusual just how many couples cite that tree as a turning point in their relationships?”

“Not really.”

“You’re not even a little curious?”

“About what?”

“The tree.”

“Quite honestly, I’m far more curious about what you’re going to buy me for lunch than I am about a matchmaking tree.”

He chuckles.  “Ah, well, lucky for you our first stop happens to be a diner not too far from here.”

“Yes, lucky me.”

*****

The diner resembles a small cabin and is nestled amongst the trees off the side of the road.  She doesn’t want to admit it, but the drive so far has been beautiful.  The highway is narrow and tree-lined and it’s autumn.  Miles upon miles of yellows and reds and golds and greens and oranges.  To say that the road is picturesque would be an understatement.

The little cabin-diner is warm and cozy.  A wood-burning stove is on in one corner, easily heating the small space.  There’s a long counter with swivel-seats dividing the cabin in half, lengthwise, and four booths pressed up against the front windows, two on either side of the door.  Only one man sits at the counter, sipping coffee and reading a newspaper.  He looks up briefly when Mulder and Scully enter, but immediately returns his attention to his newspaper.

A waitress in an emerald green, button-down dress and starch white apron comes out from behind the counter with two menus.  She smiles congenially as she says good afternoon and waves to the booths.

“Take your pick,” she says.

Mulder looks to Scully and she sees him glance at the counter.  She nods and cuts her eyes to the nametag pinned above the pocket of the woman’s uniform.  “The counter is fine,” she says.  “Janet.”

“Sure.”  Janet turns and her blonde curls bounce lightly against her back.  Her shoes squeak as she makes her way back to the other side of the counter and places the menus down side by side.

“What do you recommend?” Mulder asks.

“Can’t ever go wrong with a burger,” Janet answers, pulling an order booklet out of her apron pocket.  “But, the special today is meatloaf.  And the soup is tomato bisque.”

“I’ll do the burger.  Medium well.  Is that pie under that dome back there?”

“Pecan.”

“More of a sweet potato guy.”

“Yeah, me too.  Well, sweet potato girl.”  Janet laughs and winks and Mulder chuckles and nods.

Scully clears her throat and slaps her menu down on the counter so hard that Mulder jumps.  “I’ll have the chicken salad,” she says, pushing the menu towards Janet.  “Balsamic vinaigrette on the side, if you have it.”

“Sure.”

Janet swipes the menus from the counter, scribbles their orders down and rips the paper from the pad to slide it through a small window behind her.  Scully adjusts her napkin and cutlery as Mulder swivels towards her and leans in close with his elbow on the counter and his hand across his forehead.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you being hostile to the witness.”

“The witness?”

Mulder inclines his head towards Janet and then raises his eyebrows.  “Did you even read the file?”

“I gave it a glance.”

“Janet is one of the unrequited.”

“Too bad for Janet.”

Mulder narrows his eyes a little at her and puckers his lips to form a question.  She doesn’t know why she’s suddenly feeling so catty, she just does.  No, that’s not true.  She does know why she’s feeling catty.  The past year her partnership has felt like a game of ping pong, bouncing between extreme highs and extreme lows.  And the wedge that was driven between them by Diana Fowley, may she rest in peace, is not far enough in the rear view mirror for her liking.  They’re on the mend, both professionally and personally, but she still can’t help but feel threatened in some way when Mulder turns the charm on with strangers.

“I’ll stop being hostile if you stop flirting,” she blurts out, regretting not only what she’s just said, but the way in which it flies out of her mouth.

“Flirting?”

“Forget it.”

“Flirting?”

“Nevermind.”  

Mulder straightens in his seat and puts both hands flat on the counter.  Scully rolls her shoulders back and tucks her chin down.  She lets her hair fall across her cheeks to hide her embarrassment.  Janet is suddenly there in front of them again, two glasses of water in her hands.

“Didn’t even ask if you folks wanted something to drink,” she says.

“Got any iced tea?” Mulder asks.

“Sure do.”

“Two lemons, please.”

“And for the lady?”

“I’ll just have the water, thank you,” Scully says.

Janet is gone for what feels like only seconds before she’s bringing a glass of iced tea to Mulder and a small glass dish of lemon slices.  Mulder thanks her warmly and for some reason, that makes Scully feel even more chagrined.

“Janet,” Mulder says, reaching into the interior breast pocket of his jacket to grab his ID.  “My name is Agent Mulder and this is Agent Scully.  My partner and I are actually on an assignment right now that you might be able to help us with.”

“Me?”

“Have you ever been out to see a tree they call The Matchmaker?”

The smile on Janet’s face wavers and then fades into a frown.  She stands stock still for a few moments and then grabs a rag from the side of the counter as though she’s about to clean something, but then just twists it nervously her hands.

“What do you know about it?” she asks.

“Not much, which is why we’re here.  We know from our preliminary investigation that you’re amongst the group that calls yourselves the unrequited.”

Janet nods slowly.  “That’s not...a crime, is it?”

“No, no.  We’re trying to determine if you might be the victim of one though.  It’s my understanding your contact with the tree has left you with some sort of affliction.”

Janet nods again and then hesitates before tucking the rag in her hands into her waistband and coming around the counter.  Both Mulder and Scully turn in their seats and Janet turns her back to both of them.  She lifts the hair up off her neck and it’s then that Scully’s interest is finally piqued.  The back of Janet’s neck is rough and scaly, resembling tree bark.  Scully whips a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and leans closer to Janet.

“Do you mind if I…?” Scully asks.

Janet glances over her shoulder at Scully, looks at the gloves she’s pulling on, and then nods her head.  “Go ahead,” she answers.

“Agent Scully is a medical doctor,” Mulder says, unnecessarily.  

Scully gently prods the ridges at the back of Janet’s neck.  It appears as though the skin is very dry and may flake away, but in reality it’s very thick and does not give at all.  Mulder hovers over Scully, his chin nearly touching her shoulder.

“It could be an allergic reaction,” Scully says.  “It appears to be a localized eczema.  Have you seen a dermatologist?”

“I’ve been to every dermatologist in the area,” Janet answers, dropping her hair and turning back around.  “They’ve done biopsies, tried laser removal, creams, gels, cryotherapy, the whole nine yards.  No one knows what it is or how to treat it.”

“And you think the tree that Agent Mulder mentioned earlier has something to do with this?”

“Oh, I know it does.  I was foolish enough to ignore the warnings and so...well, now I’m one of the unrequited.”

“I see.”

“Can you walk us through how it happened?” Mulder asks.

“It was about five years ago now, I was a senior in high school.  Me and my boyfriend at the time, Anthony, we thought it would be like a funny thing to do just before graduation.  We’d been together all through high school, grown up on the same block, and we were planning on getting married the next fall.”

Scully lets her eyes drop momentarily to Janet’s hands and notes the absence of a ring on her finger.  

“You knew of the stories before you went up there?” Mulder asks.

“Oh yeah,” Janet answers.  “I mean, if you’re from around here, you hear all about it from the time you’re a kid.  And everyone wants to brag about it, you know?  You hear from all your friends, my parents touched The Matchmaker and then got married, but no one wants to talk about the other side of it.”

“You and Anthony?” Scully asks.  “You never married?”

“Well, how could we?  He wasn’t the one.”

“According to the tree.”

“If it was true love, I wouldn’t be afflicted.”

“You really believe that?”

Janet points to her neck.  “I didn’t until this happened.”

“You didn’t believe in the legend when you went there?” Mulder asks.

“Not really.  Who would believe that a tree could do this?”

“You folks need to talk to Hattie Vale,” the man at the other end of the counter suddenly pipes up, even though he doesn’t even look up from his newspaper.

“Hattie Vale?” Mulder asks, swiveling in his seat to face the older man.

“Mmhm.”  He nods once and turns the page of his paper.  “That cursed tree is part of her legacy.  Janet, I’ll take my check now, if you please.”

“You got it, Wallace.”  Janet gives Scully a wry smile before she heads behind the counter again, ripping a page out of her booklet.

“Can you tell us how to find Miss Vale?” Mulder asks.

“Take the red bridge about a mile inside the entrance of Crawford Notch. Sign’ll say private property, but it’s just to try to keep looky-loos away from the tree.”  Wallace takes a few bills out of his wallet and puts them on the counter.  “Thank you, Janet.”

“See you tomorrow,” Janet says.

“Miss Vale lives out by the tree?” Mulder asks.

Wallace folds his newspaper and then stands and tucks it under his arm.  “Go right at the fork, that’ll take you to Hattie.  Go left, that’ll take you to The Matchmaker.  And take my advice, don’t touch that tree.”  

“You have a personal experience you’d like to share with us?”

“No.”  Wallace pulls a hat out from his jacket pocket, slaps it on his head, and walks out of the diner.

“Why do I not believe him?” Mulder says to Scully as he turns back to face the counter.

*****

Hattie Vale’s home is exactly where Wallace says it would be.  While the diner was a faux cabin, Hattie’s place is the real deal.  Scully would not be surprised if it did not have running water or electricity.

The woman that greets them on the porch is both ancient and spry.  She’s stocky and squarely built, wearing a thin housedress and a hand-knit sweater and moccasins on her feet.  Two long, grey braids fall over her shoulders to her hips.  Her face is sunburnt and weathered, deep lines in her forehead and at the sides of her mouth.  She grins broadly, revealing a handful of missing teeth.

“I had a feeling I might get visitors today,” she says.  “And here you folks are.”

“Are you Hattie Vale?” Mulder asks.

“Sure am.  Who’s asking?”

“My name is Agent Mulder, this is Agent Scully.”  He stops at the edge of the porch and holds up his badge and Scully does the same.

“That supposed to impress me or something?”

“Ah, no Ma’am,” Mulder says, chuckling as he tucks his ID back into his pocket.  “We’re investigating some unexplained afflictions associated with a tree in these parts referred to as The Matchmaker.”

“You’re about three centuries too late for that, bub.”

“Forgive me for my tardiness.”

Hattie laughs heartily at Mulder’s joke and Scully has to fight not to roll her eyes at him when he gives a pleased grin in her direction.

“Come on in, I got coffee I can put on.”

“That’s not necessary, Mrs. Vale, we only want to ask a few questions,” Scully says.

“Come on in anyway, let me put my feet up.”

Mulder hops up the stairs onto the porch and Scully trudges up behind him.  She’s surprised to find that the cabin actually does have electricity and is fairly tidy and well-furnished.  The large room is a combination kitchen, dining area and living space.  Hand-woven rugs are strategically placed on the wood floors.  Knitted blankets are draped over the couch and a lounge chair.  There’s no TV, but there is a transistor radio perched on a folding tray next to the chair.

Hattie plops herself down into the lounger and pulls a lever to extend the footrest.  She leans back with her hands over her belly and flexes her toes inside her moccasins.

“How long have you lived out here?” Mulder asks, waiting for Scully to take a seat before he perches himself at the edge of the couch.

“Well, I was born here, so I figured I might as well die here too, but I did move out to Vermont for a time when I got married.  After I raised my kids and my husband passed, I thought it was as good of time as any to come back.  That would’ve been somewhere around 1942, I think.”

“That was fifty-seven years ago,” Mulder says.  “You had already raised your kids and been widowed by then?”

Hattie laughs again.  “I was born in 1885.”

“You’re 114 years old?”

“Don’t look a day over 100, do I?”  She wiggles her shoulders a little and lifts her brows.  Even Scully has to smile in amusement.

“Mrs. Vale,” Scully starts.

“Hattie, please.  Never liked formalities.  So stuffy.”

“Hattie, can you tell us anything about the tree?”

“Maybe why some might say it’s cursed,” Mulder adds, and Scully grimaces.

“A curse?  Bah.  Sounds like you’ve been talking to my grandson.”

“Who’s your grandson?” Mulder asks.

“Name is Wallace Byrd.  He’s my girl Rosemary’s boy.”

Mulder and Scully give each other a glance.  “We did...happen to run into someone named Wallace,” Mulder says.

“Wally had a bad go of it when he was a young man.  He blames the tree for it, silly boy.”

“So, you don’t think it’s cursed?”

“Not at all, the tree is blessed, if anything.”

“Do you happen to know how it came to be blessed?”

“Oh yes, I can tell you exactly how it came to be.”

There’s a twinkle in Hattie’s eyes as she starts to tell the story of the tree, one that makes Scully even more dubious and Mulder even more interested.

“My four times great grandfather, Jean-Luc Benoit, came to this area from Quebec City in the first half of the 1700s,” Hattie says.  “There was a Winnipesaukee tribe that lived nearby and they traded goods often.  Jean-Luc fell in love with a squaw from the village called Little Flower, and she with him, much to her father’s dismay.  Sensing that Jean-Luc was going to ask for his blessing to marry his daughter, her father met with some of the elders of the village and they told him he would have to ask the white man to pass a test of his true love if he were to take one of their women away.”

Mulder nods encouragingly at Hattie and then grins at Scully.  His enjoyment of the tale is palpable.  She keeps her gaze straight ahead, afraid she might slip and very unprofessionally roll her eyes at him.

“Little Flower’s father took the advice of the elders,” Hattie continues.  “Except, he decided he was going to give the would-be suitor an impossible task.  He told Jean-Luc to plant a seed, and only when that seed had flourished and become a tree, could he have his daughter’s hand in marriage.  Jean-Luc said his love was unhurried and he would plant the tree and wait as long as it took.  A ceremony was held for the planting and to everyone’s astonishment, the tree grew overnight.”    

“Overnight?” Mulder asks.  “Incredible.”

“I’ll say,” Scully murmurs.

“But, that wasn’t to be the end of it,” Hattie says.  “Little Flower’s father was distraught by the turn of events.  Instead of turning to the elders as he had before, this time he went directly to the tree, believing the Gods may have grown the tree as punishment for his trickery.  He apologized for his wrongdoing and pleaded with the tree for a sign that would show him that Jean-Luc was worthy.  When he went home, his village was in chaos.  They told him that right before their eyes, his daughter had started growing leaves where her hair was and roots where her feet were and that she reached up to the sky and her arms became limbs and her fingers became branches.”

“She turned into a tree?” Mulder asks.

“So they say.  Little Flower’s father was distraught and horrified.  He tried pulling her feet from the earth, but the roots just grew deeper.  When he saw that he could do nothing, he ran to Jean-Luc and asked for his help.  The instant that Jean-Luc touched the tree that Little Flower had become, she was restored to her human self.”

“And since then, people have come to ask the tree to show them who their true love is?” Mulder asks.

“That’s about right.  Mostly locals though, passing the story along to their children and grandchildren.”

“Mrs. Vale, Hattie, are you aware of any pesticides that may have been sprayed around the tree or perhaps any poisonous foliage that might surround the area?” Scully asks.

Hattie shrugs.  “Been years since I’ve been out by that tree.  The state took that part of the land years ago when they formed the park.”

“Have you heard about people coming away from the tree with afflictions?” Mulder asks.  “Skin problems, or physical ailments of some kind?  You said your grandson, Wallace, believes the tree to be cursed.  Has he been suffering from an ailment after contact?”

“Ailments?  No.  Broken heart is more like it.  Wallace brought his sweetheart out to the tree before he proposed.  He was a believer in the legend and said the tree showed him that Corrine, that was his girl, was his true love.  A week before their wedding she was killed in an automobile accident.  He never got over it.  Now, he thinks the tree cursed him to a life alone.  I tried to tell him many times not to take stock in that tale.  It’s just a tale, after all.”

“So, you don’t believe in the legend?” Mulder asks.

“Believe in a tree that grows overnight and wraps a girl up in branches?”  Hattie laughs.  “You’d have to be crazy to believe in that kind of thing.”

It’s Scully’s turn to grin and Mulder smiles good-naturedly.  He stands, and Scully does as well.  

“Thank you for your time,” Scully says.

“Could you tell us, what’s the best way to reach the tree from here?”

“Once you cross back over the bridge head due west.  The ‘no trespassing’ signs should lead you right to it.”

*****

It really is a stunning tree, Scully thinks, as they stand before it.  The photos didn’t do it justice.  The sun shines onto the top of the tree, making it look alive with red-purple flames.  The branches curve out and the leaves cascade like a waterfall.  The field grass flutters in the wind like a golden wave around their feet and the leaves of all the trees that surround them shake and rustle.  She has to brush her hair from her eyes and away from her cheeks.

“Well, I guess we should take a look,” Mulder says.

“What is it that we’re looking for?” she asks.

“You tell me.”

“I don’t know, Mulder, I’m not a botanist.  Plants aren’t something I ever took a strong interest in.  I’m not even sure I’d truly be able to identify poison ivy if I came across it.”

“Leaves of three, let them be.”  Mulder smiles as he pulls on a pair of gloves.  “Something we used to say as kids to avoid it when we were camping.”

“And somehow I’m guessing you still managed to pull your share of rashes.”

“I don’t know where these baseless accusations are coming from, but I will neither confirm nor deny the generous supply of Calamine Lotion my mother kept on hand for such occasions.”

Scully snorts softly and pulls her own pair of gloves on.  Mulder is already crouching before the tree, running his hand over the dirt. He picks up a fallen leaf and twirls it by the stem.

“It looks like a heart,” he tells her, turning it upside down and holding it up between pinched fingers.  He’s right.  

“Bag it,” Scully says, handing him a plastic bag.  “We’ll need soil samples as well.  Maybe scrape some bark off as well.”

“I take it your theory is the tree is toxic?”

“Perhaps.”

“Mmhm.”  Mulder seals up the leaf and stands back up.  “Any of those poisonous plants you mentioned before known to cause skin irritations for over five years?”

“Mulder, I’m fairly certain that contact with this tree is merely coincidence.  Take Janet, for example, she could have daily exposure to an allergen without even knowing it, causing that rash at the back of her neck, her laundry detergent, for example.”

“Something that all of the dermatologists she’s been to have failed to diagnose?”

“I’m only saying that there are more probable explanations for why someone would develop a skin irritation than a centuries old legend.”

“Probable, but not implausible,” he says.

“Mulder, you’re crazy,” she answers with a shake of her head and a small laugh.

He pockets the plastic-wrapped leaf and then walks away from her to circle the tree.  Scully studies the lush mane of leaves, trying to determine the best possible way to part them and reach the trunk.  She puts her hands into a gap and a few birds fly up and out of the tree in a panic, their wings flapping wildly.  She jumps back, heart racing.  A sudden breeze ruffles the back of her hair and she shivers.  Goosebumps prick her arms, but she isn’t cold.  Her shoulder pulls up automatically as the inside of her ear is tickled with what feels like a soft whisper.

“Mulder?”  She turns, but no one is there.  She hurries to the other side of the three and spots Mulder a few yards away, looking up into the white pines that border the clearing.

Scully turns back to the tree and finds another gap in the leaves to part.  She cautiously pushes them aside and finds she’s able to lift a section back and step under the canopy of branches.  Hunching slightly, she pulls her pocketknife out and scrapes a bit of bark from the thin trunk and bags it.  She crouches down to collect some dirt as well.  As she straightens her knees, her heel comes back and catches on a tree root and she stumbles.  Her first instinct is to throw her arm out and her hand smacks into the tree trunk.  She can feel the bark bite into her palm through her glove and the inside of her wrist is scraped in her efforts to prevent herself from falling.

“Dammit,” she mutters, wobbling into her hunched position and letting go of the tree.  She pulls the sleeve of her blazer up to inspect her hand.  There’s debris on her glove and the inside of her wrist is scratched red, but the skin wasn’t broken and she’s not bleeding.  She rotates her wrist a few times and fortunately it doesn’t feel sprained, just a little sore.

“Scully!” Mulder calls.

“Yeah,” she answers, warily.

“Where are you?”

“In here.”  She can hear the crunching of the field grasses and leaves underfoot as Mulder approaches.  She pulls the cuff of her sleeve down over her wrist before pushing the leaves aside like drapery and steps out from the canopy.

“You have…”  Mulder approaches and reaches up to pluck a leaf from her hair.

“Thanks.”

“It matches,” he says, twirling the red leaf softly against the ends of her hair.

A breeze comes up again and that same whisper and tickle of her ear returns.  She shivers again and moves her hand up to take the leaf from Mulder, but he pulls it back and puts it in his pocket.

“Find anything interesting?” he asks.

“Bagged up some bark and some dirt.”

“You ask the tree if it was cursed?”

“I did.”

“What was the answer?”

“Stop letting your crackpot partner talk you into fruitless jaunts to the forest.”

Mulder chuckles.  “There is some poison oak in the woods up there.  You’ll be happy to know I steered clear.”

“Wonderful,” she says, wincing as her wrist burns slightly when she peels off her gloves.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You think those are storm clouds rolling in over there?”

She nods slightly, rotating her wrist in her pocket.  It’s beginning to itch.

“I guess we should probably head out then?”

“No argument from me.”

*****

They leave New Hampshire with nothing more than the samples and family legends.  Mulder finally accepts there isn’t much of a case to be had, especially when they can’t find any other afflicted locals to speak with, and they return home.  They run the samples through the lab, but the results don’t account for any toxins.

A week passes and Scully’s wrist doesn’t seem to stop itching.  It’s at its worst during the day at work and seems to calm at night when she goes home.  She sees a dermatologist who can’t find anything wrong, but gives her a prescription for an anti-itch cream that does nothing to help.

They’re out of town again, on a case in Iowa.  She shouldn’t be relieved to be doing autopsies again, but it’s been awhile since she’s been in a morgue and not out in the field.  She’s either too busy to notice her itching wrist, or it miraculously ceases to bother her for the day.  When she’s back at the motel, having a pizza dinner over crime scene photos and witness statements, her whole hand starts to feel like it’s on fire.  She excuses herself from the table and shuts herself in the bathroom.

By all outward appearances, nothing is wrong with her wrist.  It’s not inflamed, it’s not scratched, it’s not even red anymore, but her skin crawls.  She holds it up to the light and takes a closer look, running her thumb across the line where wrist meets palm.  There does seem to be a slight bump where there wasn’t one before.  She checks her left wrist in comparison and then the right one again.  When she scratches at the little bump with her nail, she can actually feel a slight pull under her skin.  She pushes at it with her thumbnail and then her skin ruptures and what looks like the stem of a leaf emerges.

“Oh my god,” she whispers.  There is a pair of tweezers in her toiletry kit that she finds and then plucks lightly at the stemp, but it doesn’t budge.  It doesn’t hurt and it doesn’t bleed and no matter how hard she pulls, the stem is immobile.  After only a few minutes she’s nearly in tears with frustration.  She wipes her watering eyes dry and then goes back to the table to rejoin Mulder.

“I need to show you something,” she says.

Mulder pauses with his hands full of photos and looks at her.  He sets them down and then wipes his hands on his pants and leans forward, elbows on the table.  “Okay,” he says.  “Show me.”

Scully pulls the sleeve of her shirt up and drapes her hand across the table, wrist up.  Mulder looks down at her hand and then up at her.  He moves his face closer to her arm and tilts his head from side to side.

“What am I looking at?” he asks.

“When we were in New Hampshire, I scraped my hand on that tree.”

“The Matchmaker?”

“Yes.  It wasn’t a bad scrape, no skin was broken, but since then, my wrist has not stopped itching.”

“What is that?”

“I don’t...I don’t know.  I tried using my tweezers on it, but it wouldn’t come out.”

Mulder picks up Scully’s hand with both of his and runs his thumbs across the bottom of her palm.  Her whole arm tingles when he touches her and she can feel something move beneath her skin.  

“It feels like...I’m not sure...”  Mulder puts a little more pressure on Scully’s wrist and slides one of his thumbs up to her palm.  Suddenly it feels like her whole hand opens up somehow and something unfurls out of her wrist like a butterfly to rest in her palm.  It’s a red, heart-shaped leaf.

They’re both silent, staring down at her hand, at the leaf.  Her arm still tingles and she sways slightly, lightheaded.   “Mulder…how did…?”

“I don’t know.”

“What just happened, Mulder, it’s impossible.”

“Well, there is one explanation.”

“Don’t say it.”

“You touched the tree.”

“A tree didn’t do this, Mulder.”  She jumps up from the table, determined to pull the leaf from her hand, but it’s stuck to the stem and the stem won’t budge.  “I need scissors.”

“Well wait, maybe you should see a doctor.”

“I am a doctor!”  She rushes back into the bathroom to get the small scissors from her toiletry bag.  Mulder follows behind and watches as she attempts to cut at the leaf and the stem, but the scissors just slide right off of the leaf as though it refuses to be cut.

“Stop,” Mulder says, putting his hands on her shoulders.  “Come on.”

“Mulder, there is a leaf growing out of my hand!”

“I can see that, come out here.”

Mulder guides her out of the bathroom back to the table, but she doesn’t want to sit.  She stares at her palm and at the leaf while Mulder sits and then he brings her towards him with his hands on her hips.

“Let me see,” he says.  

Scully reluctantly shows him her hand and he holds it gently, tracing the shape of the leaf in her palm with his index finger.  He pinches the leaf between his fingers and pulls gently and the stem slides out of her wrist without any effort at all.  When it’s completely free of her hand, she feels something wash over her that she can only describe as utter euphoria.  She sways slightly on her feet, leaning into Mulder and putting her hands on his shoulders to hold herself up.

“Scully?”  The leaf flutters to the ground as he grabs her hips.

“Oh, I feel…”

“Sit down.”  He stands and tries to urge her to sit, but she holds onto his arms and shakes her head.

“No, I…”  She feels overwhelmed by something she can’t describe, but the force with which she aches to be as close to Mulder as possible is powerful.  It’s like she can’t breathe, but he is oxygen.  It’s like she’s freezing and he’s a warm fire.

“I really think you should sit down,” he whispers.

“Mulder,” she says, blinking lethargically.  Her voice is slow and her eyes are heavy.  “If it was the tree, then that would mean…”

Mulder puckers his lips a little and his chin juts forward as he swallows.  “It would mean whatever you want it to mean,” he says.

Her heart hammers in her chest.  She tingles from head to toe, but especially where his hands grip her hips and where his arms press against hers.  She opens her mouth a few times, but doesn’t know what to say.

“I heard you, you know,” he says.

“Heard me?”

“When I was exposed to the artifact.”  He lets go of her with one hand to reach up and lightly touch his fingers to her forehead.  “I heard you.  I don’t need an enchanted tree to tell me what I already know.”

She should feel embarrassed, and maybe two months ago she would have, maybe even two minutes ago, she would have, but not now.  She drops her gaze to his mouth and then she looks up into his eyes again.  By some unspoken, mutual agreement, they both lean in.  Mulder bends and tips his head to the right, Scully lifts onto her toes and lets her eyes slip shut just before his mouth touches hers.  The kiss is soft and unhurried.  It’s tender and sweet in a way that makes her feel warm and secure.

“I can’t believe this is real,” she whispers against his lips.

“What part of it?”

“All of it.”

“Of course you don’t.”  He chuckles and bends down to pick up the leaf he dropped.  He twirls it between his fingers and then brushes it against her nose.

“It’s just not possible.”

“All of it?”  He cocks his head a little and his eyes fall to her mouth.

“Maybe not all of it.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m having a hard time believing it myself.”

“Which part?”

“All of it.”  He smiles, and bends to kiss her again, but she leans away and puts two fingers against his lips.

“Why did you take me up there?” she asks.

“I’ve owed you a nice trip to the forest for about seven years.”

“Is that all?”  

“Autumn in New England?  I only wish we could’ve found something worthwhile to stick around a little longer.”

“So, you never intended for…”

“For you to start becoming part tree?  Not at all.”

“Oh my god, I just can’t...I can’t wrap my brain around it.  It’s…”  She covers her face with both hands and shakes her head.

Mulder kisses the knuckles on her right hand.  “You wouldn’t be you if you believed it.  Once upon a time there was a very skeptic little g-woman named Scully.”

“You are not allowed to start any stories with ‘once upon a time’ any longer,” she says, taking her hands away from her face.  “Bad things happen in fairy tales.”

“Well you are forgetting one thing though.”

“What?”

“They always end with ‘happily ever after.’”

The End

#i wrote this #xf fanfic #definitely non canon #but set somewhere after The Sixth Extinction: Amor Fati #msr

[imagine-lcorp]

Between Two Lungs (One Shot)

A/N: Hello dears, so here it is the infamous fic I’ve been writing. I really hope this fullfils my dream of crushing your hearts once again and that you have a fun time agonizing over this final choice. Because yes, I’ve made this a multiending fic...As always, remember to tell me what you think, is it something you want me to keep doing for other fics? Also, how did you feel after this? pls let me know. Also i made this PLAYLIST if you want to add some feeling to this while reading... Enjoy! 

Lena Luthor x R/Hanahaki AU//Word Count: 3,464

-------------------------------------------------

It is possible to die of a broken heart.

You look it up somewhere in the internet. It's similar to a heart attack, caused by a very strong and emotionally stressful event. The death of a loved one, a breakup, a betrayal. It's treatable and rarely fatal. Following the recommendations of your doctor, you can make a full recovery within weeks. Still, it is possible to die of it.

You don't have a broken heart. You wish you had one. Because love, the one only you feel, is growing inside of you and it is much worse than that.

Thankfully, compared to others your condition it's not as painful as it could be.

You have heard about people with roses inside them, how their thorns puncture their pharynges with every breath they take. Others don't get flowers. They get apple or cherry trees with their fruits pouring juice inside their lungs and out of their mouths. Some others have pines and spruces, with cones constricting their organs and rib-cages until they bones break.

So you look at the small white petal that lays in your hand and think that, in your case, it is something almost magnanimous.

Plumerias have no thorns and, even though some can be a bit thick, their branches are soft enough to bend around your heart and lungs without much trouble. Their petals, small and delicate, rise easily up your throat without lacerating it in a coughing fit.

Maybe, you want to think in a very optimist way, if you can keep that love from growing further, you won't have to suffer through it.

Maybe.

So you prescribe for your own heart solitude and abstinence.

The first one is the easiest.

You tell your friends you are sick and need some time to recover. Most of them get worried as they don't know yet what illness has fallen upon you in these troublesome times.

"You know, If you wanted, I could get you a full medical examination." Alex offers with a raised eyebrow, giving you the look of the always concerned big sister.

"Thanks, but it's alright." You assure them with a smile. "I was thinking about spending some time at home anyway."

After a lot of questions you manage to dodge in the end, they decide there's no reason to doubt your intentions. So they leave you to your own devices.

Homemade remedies, or herbicides depending on who you ask, seem to help as you spend your days at home. Drinking some salt water with lemon in the morning, or a couple of vinegar tablespoons in a cup of tea before going to bed. They don't taste that bad once you get used to the flavor and these help you ease the new bitterness that you taste in the back of your throat.

The second is a bit harder.

You have to stop yourself from dreaming her, thinking her, missing her.

She has texted you a few times already, wanting to know how you're doing and offering her help if you don't feel like you're doing okay on your own. You handle it as best as you can. You text back, consistently enough and with measured time and words, so you don't raise any red flags. When you don't seem to answer she calls, but just thinking about hearing her voice makes your chest hurt a little.

You never answer. She doesn't try to call again. You spit your first handful of flowers after that.

It's all fine, you lie to yourself, at least until the pain reaches your insides and white petals come out of you mouth dappled in red.

"You need to tell her." Kara says softly as she pats your back after another coughing fit.

You cover your mouth with your hand, making sure there are no signs of blood or petals as you tight it into a fist. "Tell who what?"

"Tell Lena about the flowers." She sighs when she fells you freeze under her touch. "Sorry. Alex told me if I could get a clear shot at your lungs maybe we could figure out how to help. I didn't expect it to be... well, flowers."

It shouldn't come as a surprise to you but you are still amazed at how easy it is to forget Kara has x-ray vision when she's not wearing her suit. With or without it, she's still the same caring and protective person you have always known. It also explains why she has been so adamant about having lunch together, at least once a week, after your failed attempt at convincing her you were doing well after a month alone. You couldn't expect less from your best friend, you remind yourself as you catch your breath.

"How do you know it's her?" The taste is bitter as you swallow the rest of blood and petals in your mouth.

"It's plumerias, isn't it?" She rubs your back again as you regain you posture. "They are her favorites."

There are a couple of red tainted petals in your palm when you open your hand. "Yeah, they are."  

Kara looks at you and you see something in her you don't think you have ever seen before in the Girl of Steel. But you recognize it, because you feel the same way. Hopeless. Helpless. Powerless.

"(Y/N)." She says like she's already grieving. "It's spreading fast."

The easiest way to get ride of the disease is by removing its seed from your heart, the doctor says. No more than an hour in the operating room and your respiratory system would be as good as new. Common symptoms after the surgery can include aches between your shoulder blades, ribs, back of the neck or chest, weakness and hoarseness in your voice, and, in general, some memory loss and the inability to experiment intense or deep affection towards another person. Most of these stop shortly after you recover, except for the last one.

More experimental methods have been developed with the help of biotherapy. Experts in Japan are said to have reduced the spread of the flowers with other plants like kudzu or barberry, while someone in Europe has been using thrips to eat the plant and control its growth. It's like using maggots to eat your wounds, the doctor explains more enthusiastic than you feel.

You could, of course, try the simplest of things and confess your love.

It only takes to be loved in return for you to heal before any permanent damage is done. The seed that grows in your heart will almost instantly wither, the cough will purge the last of the flowers out of your lungs, and your recovery will last only a couple of weeks. You will breathe again.

But, if your love goes unrequited, you'll reach your fatal end in a matter of days. Doctors will give you a double dose of morphine or induce a coma trying to ease your pain. Flowers, fruits and cones bloom, branches and thorns grow. You convulse and gasp until your last breath when the biggest flowers come out of your mouth. All until your thorax is transformed, beautifully and violently, into a garden of flesh and blood.

Anyone who has seen it happen will tell you, how shocking it is to witness such a thing.

Whatever the case, this only serves to confirm what you already know. You can't be optimistic anymore.

You're dying and you will die, soon with flowers in your lungs or after many years with a loveless heart. Because this life and death of yours, you think, cannot be, shall not be, decided by a coin in the air.

And yet.

"It's flowers...in my lungs." You can almost tell which direction the flower stalks take inside your chest as the words form in your mouth.

"Oh." Lena says as she starts to fidget with her hands.

The anger, that had been growing inside her after weeks of vague replies and evasions, vanishes in her eyes the moment she understands what you're going through.

"Have you...talked to the other person?"

"No, not really. Not yet." You try not to lose your composure as you feel the flowers threatening to rise up your throat.  

"Will you?" She asks.

You take a deep breath, feeling the gravity pull your already heavy heart down. "It's plumerias."

"Plumerias?" You can see the moment it dawns on Lena, and the look she gives you makes you wish again you could die of a broken heart instead.

"Miss Luthor, I'm sorry but the board meeting will start shortly."    

Jess opens the door a second later and it gives you time to look at the other side and place your hand in your chest. As if that could possibly stop your heart and lungs from collapsing.

"Thank you, Jess. I'll be there." Lena dismisses her with a nod and looks again at you.

She doesn't say anything else and you feel a coughing fit building in your lungs. Stronger than you have ever felt it.

"(Y/N)!" She leaves her chair, running towards you.

You cover your mouth as your chest feels like a boxer is using it as a punching bag. I doesn't feel like it will end quick and when it finally does the only thing that remains is pain.

You thank the chair that holds you in place as you catch your breath.  

"I'm fine. It's fine." You don't want her to see it, but she manages to catch a glimpse of the bloody petals that cover your palm once you recover.

"No, it's not, (Y/N). You're dying and I-"

"It's not your fault." You cut her off, shaking your head and taking a little napkin from you pocket to clean yourself as best as you can.

The death, the break, the betrayal. You feel it all as worry and pity finally merge in her eyes. There's also guilt when she looks at you. It is there along with everything else she doesn't feel for you. So you don't want an apology, especially not from her, especially not like this.  

"You're my friend and I just- I wanted you to know. I got my surgery already programmed."

"Surgery?" You watch her draw back a bit in surprise.

"I'll be fine." You lie again.

"(Y/N), I-"                            

"Miss Luthor, the board-"

"I know!" Lena snaps and, when she realizes the magnitude of her reaction, she retracts, taking a deep breath for herself before answering. "Sorry, yes. Do you think you could hold it for a minute?"

"You should go." You say with a small voice before any of them can say more. "The meeting, sounds important."

"(Y/N)..." The way she pronounces your name makes you want to be over with this already. You just can't stand it anymore.

"We'll talk later." You say. "We got time."

She wants to argue, you know, but you won't, can't, do it. Still, you pull a little smile for her.

"We'll talk later." She replies with a nod.

There will be time for another conversation. There will be time. There will be time. There will be time. You repeat it like a mantra to help you carry yourself out of her office.

Everything else after that passes like a blur.

You know you reach the front door of the building, with the voice of the receptionist behind your back offering to call for help. You stumble on the sidewalk trying to hold onto light poles and signposts to keep yourself from falling. You clutch your hand in your chest as the pain reaches its peak. Flowers come pouring out of your mouth and you gasp for air as you finally fall.

You're delirious by the time you land on the hospital bed.

Many faces come and go then, doctors, nurses, friends, ghosts, both the living and the death. The only constants are your dying gasps and the painful beating of your heart until the morphine does its work. It helps you see, with certain clarity the only face that can make a difference.

"You listen to me, alright? I'm sorry I didn't say anything earlier." You open your heavy lids at the sound of her voice, and you see those emerald eyes for what could be the last time. "I love you, (Y/N), please, I love you."

You hear her words, or you don't, or it is simply to late to care anymore. The coin is in the air and there's no more time.

***

☞ You let yourself drift into darkness as the plumerias are pulled to a better light. The garden is gone and what is left behind is only an empty carcass. You cannot stand the emptiness and your heart does what it should have done from the beginning. It breaks and breaks and breaks...

***

☞ Your mind tries to grasp her words but you find your heart too weak to keep a hold of them. So you let them pass through like a shadow. No need for them anymore as the anesthesia and the scalpel give you a break from all this suffering. There will be no flowers and it is, truly, not as bad as it could be...

***

☞ Her words suddenly hit you in their full meaning and your mind does its best to keep and save them into your heart. Even through branches and petals, it has the effect of an echo chamber, repeating those words like a healing prayer. I love you. I love you. I love you...

#Between Two Lungs #One shot #lena luthor #lena luthor x reader #lena luthor imagine #lena luthor imagines #lena luthor x you #lena x reader #lena x you