#is it acceptable to put her in my little box with my favourite trinkets?

[fionnsmeadows]

was thinking about the fact that we’re just a princess and her knight and then i thought about her calling me princess and idk if i can think anymore i wanna curl up with her and give her little kisses

[wolfish-trickster]

Old oak tree

Loki x female!reader

Word count: 2,3K+

Warning: typos, angst, itsi bitsi fluff at the end

Tag list: @gaitwae @lucywrites02 @hard-to-be-the-bard @birdgirl90 @laramoonworld @forevernthensome @kozkaboi

"So, what do you think?" Loki asked spreading his arms and showing you his new outfit.

You shrugged. "Looks good to me."

"Don't you think it's too much?" he checked himself in your mirror.

"Is anything EVER too much for you?" you asked with a smirk.

"I just...I really like her and I don't want to mess up."

"You won't, trust me," you reassured him.

He hugged you tightly, to your surprise. "What would I do without such a friend like you?"

The younger prince bolted from your room faster than you could answer. You sighed and closed the doors after him so no one could hear your heart breaking, again.

You and Loki were friends. Best friends actually. But you started to to see him more than that years ago. And you hated it.

You already accepted the fact he'll see you as only his supportive friend. If only he could stop asking you to help him woo his love interests. He always asked your opinion on everything. Flowers, his outfits, gifts he wanted to give them.

Once he even asked to kiss you so he could practice. It was in general your and his first kiss ever. Your head spinned when your life long best friend and crush in one person gently placed his lips on yours, his tongue sliding to your mouth. When he pulled away he just mumbled simple 'thanks' and ran away, leaving you flustered and with a face on fire under your favourite tree. At first you often sat under that old oak, remembering the feeling and smiling to yourself. However with every new interest of Loki you started to avoid the poor tree. Hate it even. You hated how it represented how you foolishly threw away your first kiss.

You still stood by Loki. What else could you do? Confess your feelings? As if that'll help.

You started to see pattern in his interests and you never managed to tic the boxes. You were only average among everything; intelligence, looks, skills. There were hundred and one people who were exactly like you. Loki would never choose you over a noble woman or man he was used to courting.

Now, when you were finally alone, you could think about what are you going to do about your never ending crush. You layed down on your bed and stared at your white ceiling. You already tried to avoid him in hopes you will loose your feelings for him, that didn't work. You wrote down every negative thing about him, trick your mind he isn't a good boyfriend material. Didn't work either since he is the kindest person you've ever met. And the gentlest. And nicest. With the most beautiful smile and eyes. And arms that give the coziest hugs.

"Fuck," you whispered and closed your eyes. It always ended like this. No matter how much you tried, you could never see him as something less than a great person he was.

Suddenly you heard his melodic laughter under your windows. As well as some girl's. You couldn't take it anymore.

"You know what? If he can date around, so can I!" you told yourself in pure desperation to get rid of the jealousy and pain from knowing he will never love you.

First thing you did was hiding everything he gave you as a child, every little trinket you cherished in false thought he's starting to catch feelings for you. You removed all of it from your shelves and put in a big box sliding it under your bed.

There, now onto the more complicated part: the oak of your very first kiss. Your heart ached with every step you took towards it. It was already old and not so full of life like it used to be. Its bark was dry and overgrown with moss. The poor thing didn't have enough energy to grow its leaves as viscoulsy like few years ago. No one visited it anymore. It was lonely just like you.

"Looks like you're few years from death, old buddy," you patted its trunk. "Let's end your missery now."

*

You were on your way back to your room holding a little pot filled with soil. Nothing was growing out yet, but in few months you were expecting a small oak sappling to grow. You couldn’t say goodbye to your old wooden friend just yet.

There, deep in halls, sounds are resonating. Sounds you soon came to hate. Kissing, Loki chuckling, some woman moaning, door closing.

You sadly looked down at the pot and took the biggest diversion to your room, avoiding coming any near Loki's bedroom.

*

Few days later you still avoided Loki. That time was the first time he had brought anyone to his bedroom to do....that. It was good he didn't ask you to practice on you. If he did, you would've.... you don't know what would you do. Probably panic first and get angry next.

While Loki was, let's say, occupied you got closer to one soldier, Arne. He was kind, tall, ginger with freckles and very skilled fighter. He wasn't the smartest but he had a sense of humor and always tried to make you laugh. He wasn't Loki though, but it didn't matter. At least you kept yourself busy, so your heart could heal.

Right now you were in stables with Arne. He was telling you how he got his first horse when he finished his soldier training few decades back. You were braiding his mare's mane as he stood right beside you, his shoulder lightly touching yours. Everything was at peace.

"Y/N! Y/N, WHERE ARE YOU?" came Loki's voice.

Almost everything.

You turned your head towards his voice. He was rushing towards you until he stopped when he noticed Arne standing so close to you.

"Am I interrupting something?" he asked a little irritated.

"Well-"

"It doesn't matter, I have to show you something," he took you by the hand and started dragging you out of the stables only for you to slip your hand from his and hugging Arne. "See you tomorrow," you waved him goodbye and walked out, Loki trailing after you.

"So, what is it you wanted to show me?"

"What the Hel was that?" he pointed at you and behind him at the stables, completely ignoring your question.

"A hug. Why?"

"Since when are you hugging random soldiers? And since when are you even hanging out with low ranking soldiers like Hofferson?"

"His first name is Arne, and I'm allowed to hug whoever I want. Same goes for hanging out. Now are you going to show me the thing or can I return to him?"

"Right," he remember, took your hand again and ran to gardens. To the familiar now empty corner. "Look what some bastard did," he pointed at the wide oak stump.

"Yeah, I know."

"You do? Oh, darling," he threw his arms around you. You fought with yourself internally to not hug him back, but being close to him after a very long time felt just too good not to give in.

"I'm so sorry. I know it was your favourite tree. I will find the culprit and-"

"You don't have to," you interrupted and pulled yourself away from him.

"I do! That tree meant a lot to me too. I was actually working on a spell to bring life into it again."

"And how exactly did it mean a lot to you? I never saw you even near that tree."

Loki stuttered. "E-ehm, we had our first kiss underneath it."

"As if that meant anything to you," you muttered.

"What?"

"I said it was old and it had to be cut down."

"Well you could've asked me before you killed it," he spat rather angrily.

"My family planted it, I get to do whatever I want with it!"

"Did it mean so little to you?"

"No. On the contrary, it meant the world to me! That's why I had to cut it down!"

"What? Why? I don't understand you," he shook his head.

"Well excuse me for wanting to destroy the biggest thing that reminded me how my best friend stole my first kiss!"

"Stole? I asked and you complied!" Loki defended himself.

You groaned. "Okay fine, you didn't steal it, I lost it. Now can I go back to Arne?"

"Lost it?! Have you got any idea how many people would murder for a kiss from a prince? And why do you want to go to Arne so desperatelly? You never talked to soldiers before, so why the change of heart?"

"I like him, he's nice and courageous and-"

"I forbid it."

"What?!" you couldn't believe your ears.

"I forbid it. You can't whore around with soldiers like him, think about your reputation!" he crossed his arms infront of him.

"Whore around? Look who's talking! You've had at least 5 lovers in the past month!"

"T-that's different."

"And how exactly is it different, Loki?"

"I-"

You waited. Nothing came out of him.

"That's what I thought."

*

Few days passed, you continued avoiding Loki and he started to close off from everyone. Occasionally you saw some green sparkles in a shape of a person sitting on the oak stump. You figured that must be Loki under cloaking spell. All you wanted to do was run to him and hug him, he looked so depressed and lonely. Just like you were when you saw him with all those lovers in the past.

You felt bad for him. But you doubted he felt bad for you back then. Or now. So you always walked pass him, pretending you didn't notice him.

*

*knock knock*

You looked up from watering your growing oak sapling. Who could it be? You weren't expecting anyone. "Who's there?"

"Guess," came a dull voice.

You put away your watering kettle and hid the pot behind courtains. "Come in, Loki."

He stepped inside wearing one of his ordinary clothes, his hair wasn't slicked back like he used to style it and he had apologetic expression on his face.

"Y/N, I came to apologize."

Loki is apologizing. Now that's new. "What for?" you asked teasingly.

He sighed. "For saying you were whoring around. It wasn't right from me," he pulled out your favourite flower from behind his back, "friends?"

You took the flower. "Okay, friends."

Loki clapped his hands excitedly. "Great, now that we're at good terms with eachother I-"

"No!" you silenced him. You knew there had to be a catch. He made up with you just so he could ask you for help. Just like always.

"You don't even know what I was about to say."

"Oh, I think I do. You want me to give you advices again. Well, guess what? That's not happening. So you can, as mortals say, do 180 and walk out that door," you pointed behind him to your bedroom door.

Loki held out his hands in surrender. "I wasn't going to ask you that! I just want to talk."

"Oh," now you felt stupid. "Okay, a little talk never killed anyone I guess."

"Thank you," he let his hands fall down and took a walk around your room. "I see you were redecorating," he noticed all of his trinkets he gave you were gone. He assumed you most likely threw them out or burned them. Just the thought of it hurt him.

"Yeah," you hugged your arms to comfort yourself. "I still have them, I just didn't want to look at them anymore."

He turned towards you. "Why? First the tree, then my little gifts. What's next, me?" he joked to ease both your and his growing anxiety.

You chuckled lightly and shook your head. "No, don't worry."

He walked to you and put his hand on your shoulders. "Then why? We're best friends, right? We can tell eachother everything."

"That's exactly what I can't do," you grabbed his hand on your shoulder and slowly removed them.

"Why? Do you... do you hate me?"

"What? Heavens no! I could never hate you!"

He sighed from relief. "Good. But then why? I can't think of a single reason you would do those things. Wait. On a second thought," he held his chin between his thumb and index finger and looked down like he always does when he was thinking. He shook his head then and chuckled to himself. "No, that's absurd. You could never be in love with me."

You involuntarily tensed up. He noticed.

"Or could you?"

Tears started burning in your eyes as you nodded. "Sorry."

"For how long?"

After few minutes of thinking you shook your head. "I don't remember when it happened. It just happened."

"Well, when did you realise then? That you...you know? Are in love with me?"

"Few days before the oak kiss, I guess."

"But that was decades ago! This long time and I never saw," he facepalmed.

"And you...?" you asked hopefully. Maybe he will tell you he loves you too, right?

He sighed. "I'm sorry Y/N. I love you, but not like that. You have always been like a little sister I always wanted."

You nodded. Of course he doesn't love you like that. How even could he? You turned away from him and let some tears escape.

"Y/N, I'm so sorry," he rubbed your back. "We can still be friends. Nothing will change between us. I promise."

But it already did. Everything changed for you. How could you even look him in the eye?

You wiped away your tears and put on a perfectly rehearsed fake smile. "Okay, I can work with that," you offered him your hand, "friends?"

Instead of shaking it he hugged you. "Friends."

You hugged him back and let your fake smile fall. Your naive little self told you he will change his mind in the future. You are already so close with eachother. Closer than anyone you know. It's just a matter of time. For now, you can only dream.

[erazonpo3]

(This is a written collaboration between myself and Hemlock/pathygen in the ‘Cassandra’s Tangled Adventure’ AU verse, featuring our characters Alphecca and Violante. This was just a fun little back-and-forth with our two villains set in the period in which Violante has possession of Alphecca’s phylactery.  

The formatting is based on our replies, it was really fun to get to write together and watch Violante flex on Alphecca. I’d recommend reading it on my blog’s desktop page for the formatting) 

The Eagle and The Mole

Ever since her rebirth in flame and ash, Alphecca hasn’t known the icy grip of cold; yet Countess Violante’s chateau inspires it in her bones. It’s a monument of stone, glass, and drapery, and at this time of night the torchlight in the hallways are extinguished; malingerers are unwelcome. Even the ever-present ache in her chest takes its leave here, something she would have been thankful for if it weren’t Violante’s doing. Her soul burned like a dying star, but since her phylactery fell into Violante’s hands all she has known is its absence— numb apathy— the closest thing she knows to cold. 

She’s sure to school her features before entering Violante’s parlour, smoothing out the notch between her eyebrows and the curl of her lips that may as well have been sculpted into her flesh these days. Trinket shrieks at her as she walks past, aggrieved that her delicious bones are today wrapped in the illusion of skin and, on top of that, a stupid uniform. It’s stiff and it pinches in ways she can’t feel but is nonetheless frustrated by, and whenever she catches her reflection in the silverware she can’t help but grimace at the militant emblems and pageantry she advertises. All that’s missing from her marionette costume is the strings. 

The Countess is waiting for her as expected, perched perfectly poised on the gaudy piece of furniture she likes to pretend is a throne. She resists the urge to sneer at the pretentious display, if only because Violante would find it so amusing. 

“I’m back,” she announces flatly, absently picking at the cuff of her jacket. 

“Yes, I noticed.” Violante replies, crystal and calm as a winter morning. 

The countess has a quill pinched between her fingers; sharp motions carry the crimson plume across the page laid out in front of her, scratching. The chamber swallows sound and bounces it back. Dim moonlight ekes through tall, arched windows of blue stained glass, and casts a watery pattern against the polished floor. 

Violante does not look up at the dead woman. 

A minute and a half passes before she finally caps the tiny, neat scrawl on the parchment with a looping signature, rolls it into a neat cylinder, and sets it aside. The feathered end of the quill finds its way between her lips, ponderously. She tilts her head up and her smile is delicate. There’s something of a spider in it. 

“That certainly took you long enough. One little village could hardly have been all the effort.” The Countess of Solanales stands with a fluid motion, and folds her arms loosely across her chest. A cigarette smolders in it’s holder on the edge of the desk, filling the room with an oily, herbal smell. She inspects Alpchecca like one might a mannequin stuck in a display, lips pursed.

“Well, at least you kept everything in order this time. See? You can look nice. I knew the collar would be a nice touch. The color accents your eyes, now that you have them in.” 

Trinket croaks from her perch. The monochrome vulture returns to preening, bored now that the arguably edible bits of the lich aren’t on display. Violante leans back against the edge of her gilded seat. “So how did it go? Did you make any friends?”

This time Alphecca doesn’t withhold the grimace that curls back her lip to expose a yellowed canine. She’s aware of the way the moonlight makes her pale skin seem especially waxy and sallow, which typically serves to unnerve humans- all save the Countess. Violante’s  eyes glitter like a cut diamond as she appraises her, and Alphecca forces her gaze away in a show of deliberate disregard. She stares through the blue washed windowpane to speak to the waxing moon, but keeps an eye on Violante’s figure in her periphery. 

“I was just being thorough, I’m sure you can appreciate that. No stone left unturned, no building left standing, everything razed just right, just for you,” she says, flashing Violante a quick, sardonic smirk before returning her gaze to the window. “I don’t imagine you’ll have much of a problem marching your people down there and claiming a new pile of dirt, or whatever it is you do with the ashes. There’s nothing left.” 

The moon’s bright glow begins to burn a spot into her vision, but facing the window makes it easier for her to keep her face blank. Her excursion today would be considered a success by Violante’s standards, but she had been sure to cause enough of a racket as she tore through the streets that most villagers had ample time to flee before she tore into the place. If they couldn’t escape even after all the time she gave them, well, Cassandra can’t say she didn’t try. 

Under the scrutiny she can’t help but scratch at the briarthorn collar, and she chances another glance back at Violante. 

“Thoughtful. I can’t say I have much use for more dirt than I already seem to own, but,” Violante gestures and Trinket stretches her neck. The vulture flaps off the stand and onto the desk with a crooked hop, and remains still while the countess fastens the scroll to her leg. “I’m sure whoever is left will be happy to accept all the aid Solanales is willing to provide, in the wake of their unfortunate devastation.” 

Eyes glittering, she crooks a gloved finger under the large bird’s beak and hums. “The world is lousy with monsters, after all.”

And in the end, it was only a barrier town. But every little bit counts, every scrap of seizure. Scraps still. But these were things that couldn’t be rushed. Or shouldn’t have been, if she had been able to stick to her original schedule. Plans were important, but the ability to adapt to a situation was worth even more. Put attention in the right places, stress on the right joints, poison in the right tea. 

Or get creative, and toss a skeleton into a henhouse. Ho hum. 

“Go on.” Violante says to the bird. Trinket makes a clicking noise low in her throat, and takes off without a backwards glance at Alphecca, winging towards some high and hidden exit. Violante watches her go in silence. She doesn’t expect it will take long for a response, in some capacity, but she doesn’t really plan to wait for one either. Aldara is out in the field somewhere, hopefully stalking her other quarry, but there’s a decent chance both situations will muddle together eventually. 

“Now, what to do with you?” Violante turns back to face the dead woman, who looks hilariously unsure. It’s already late, and she needs to keep some space between the raids, as she creeps them closer to the borders of the Iron Kingdom. 

Alphecca scowls at the vulture’s retreating form, however glad she’d normally be to see it leave. With Trinket gone, only the two of them remain. It didn’t exactly make for a good buffer, yet in the leering bird’s absence the room tightens with intimacy. Violante and intimacy are her two least favourite things, and combined they manifest as the bane of her existence. The only thing that can make it worse is Violante’s voyeuristic shadow who is thankfully out on her master’s orders tonight, likely committing her own fill of atrocities. 

The Countess’ icy veneer betrays nothing of her intentions. In a game where information is everything, Alphecca knows she’s at a woeful disadvantage. If she tries fishing, Violante will know what she’s doing the minute she speaks, no matter how vague or disinterested she comes across— but she might be indulged. It begs the question of whether it’s better to stumble around blindly or sniff out a trail she can’t trust. Either way, she needs to say something- the longer she concedes to silence, the further the scales tip in Violante’s favour. 

“How about giving these old bones a rest? You’ll find a siesta does wonderful things for the constitution,” she quips. “I’m assuming you don’t want to cause too much of a stir, anyhow,” she adds, unable to deny the temptation of the gamble. Now she forces herself to keep her eyes trained on the Countess, and settles into a smirk. 

“You’re dead, you don’t have a constitution,” Violante drawls.

She glances away towards the window, the picture of disinterest, thinking. Ghostly evening light blankets the room, and flows over the silent collection of statues and armor bordering the walls, the curtained archways. Rooting out the location of the lich’s phylactery had been more of an effort of time and money than anything else. She had a number of contacts stretched over the continent, from tomb takers to Morcant to disgruntled former servants who had once swept the halls of the Spire. The crumbling little ruin of a shrine had seemed like a forgotten afterthought, nestled on the edge of an icy valley north of Ingvarr. The pendant had been wrapped in hay and rue. The plain little goat skull carved into the stone that boxed it had worn smooth with time. It was imagery that had become much more frequent among the information she lately received. So many old stories seemed to be pulling themselves up out of the grave these days. Even keeping the new ones in the ground was proving to be a challenge.

 No one died like they used to. The lich had certainly been involved in that most recent of frustrations.

Although, maybe, her decision to poison Cassandra had been a little hasty. She had maybe been a little angry. A little perturbed. Corpses and memories were generally less useful than breathing attendants, even if they were less trouble. People were so stubborn. Still, even there the lich might prove..useful. If that was the way things shook out in the end.

“Besides, we both know rest isn’t really in your cards.” The countess says, stepping down away from the desk, towards Alphecca. Reaching up, she adjusts the collar the lich keeps fiddling with, smooths down the epaulettes on her shoulders. The illusion of flesh truly was impressive. Almost as much as the facade of confidence. “You know, I once heard that a long life eventually deprives you of optimism. They also say that time heals all wounds. People never seem to be able to make up their minds about just how sad they think they’re supposed to be.”

Alphecca wraps her grimace up into a wry grin, though the fury in her eyes burns a palpable heat in the gelid room. Violante ignores said look as she smooths out the creases in her uniform, abusing all sentiment of personal space. The woman isn’t physically intimidating in the slightest; even wearing stilettos Alphecca has to look down her nose at her. But the proximity is unnerving. If her physical body is merely an extension of her soul, then Violante owns both, and she isn’t shy about making it known— so Alphecca does her best to ignore it, training her eyes on the wall in front of her instead of the head of perfectly coiffed curls only a breath away and the nails that cross her clavicle to smooth over her shoulders. 

“In my experience, more time is just an avenue for more procrastination,” she admits. It’s the truth, or at least it’s her truth, and there’s no harm in admitting it- the information has no value to Violante. If the Countess got her claws on immortality, the last thing anyone should be concerned with is if she were happy or sad. 

“People also say that destroying people’s lives and livelihoods won’t make you happy, but we both know that’s not true,” she adds. She hasn’t actually heard anyone say that, but it’s one of those unspoken things- and it’s wrong. Schadenfreude and victory are one hell of a cocktail. 

“A common adage, is that?” Violante hums, stepping back. “Stagnation is hideous. And regret is a waste of energy. If you’ve really wasted all this time waiting for a death that’s never going to come, then it’s fortunate I came along to make better use of your… afterlife.” She tilts her head. “Especially considering that I found you rooting around in a cave, talking to bones. I can’t imagine skeletons make for very good conversation.”

For once, Alphecca isn’t bothered by the barb. She wastes her time however she pleases, spending her years harassing new villages until she gets bored and moves on, or searching for new fossils to reanimate, playing in the dirt. She knows she’s a disappointment but that’s how she’s come to like it— fuelled by the spite of those more ambitious than her who have to watch her gnaw on the unending life they can’t have. That is, until Violante took it from her. 

With more distance between them now, Alphecca releases a breath; it’s unnecessary, but calming all the same. 

“They make better company than your pets, at least,” she says. They don’t talk back, for one thing, but she’ll keep that part to herself. All the bones she finds have very interesting stories to tell, but unfortunately Violante’s dreadful companions only find them useful for teething. 

“Tsk. Oh, kettle.” Violante says, sotto voce. She has very little interest in making any argument about the quality of company Aldara or anyone else brings to her circle. She doesn’t keep them around for their people skills. Mostly. The countess reaches out to tap the bottom of her jaw. “You’re so uncertain for a corpse. You chatter so much for a tool. But if that’s the way you feel…” A thoughtful pause, wintry silence. Violante steps past her, the dark pool of her gown trailing on the floor. “Come.” 

“What, you’re not a fan of our stimulating discussions?” Alphecca jeers, cocking her head. Blunt as they are, words are the last weapons she has in this fight, but she turns to follow her nonetheless. She kicks her feet up off the ground to hang a foot in the air to let the click of Violante’s heels echo down the hollow hallways alone, creeping behind her like a spectre. 

She’s hesitates, trailing behind at a healthy distance, but she can’t deny her curiosity is piqued. 

“I think your talents lie elsewhere.” Violante answers without turning around, wry. The castle is large and cold and strikingly empty of people. There are servants, courtiers, of course, but this late at night the work has gone to ground. Most of them, having been around this long, have learned to work out of sight, or in silence. Violante lifts a low burning candelabra from a table in the tapestried hall, wax dripping into the filagree crevices that tomorrow will be picked clean again before she wakes. The halls stretch on, half covered portraits lining the walls, tall arched windows that continue to leak in cool evening light. Violante takes them down, towards the ground floor, and eventually comes to rest in front of a heavy, ornate door set back far from the main vestibule. 

“Wait here.” she commands, and without stopping, the countess takes off down another hall and vanishes around the corner. She returns about ten minutes later, unchanged and smiling. In her hand is a small pouch, dangling with a loop of cord that she drapes around her neck. She nods at the door. “Shall we?”

Alphecca lingers back as she follows Violante through the chateau. She’s no stranger to silence, and she can even appreciate the servants’ scarce presence; humans can be such annoying creatures. However, there’s a hostility that comes with the quiet— an unspoken threat that has butlers and maids scurrying away like rats in the corner of her eye, only daring to move when the Countess strides past.  

She halts when instructed, taking the time to inspect the portraits of Violante’s ancestors while she waits. The dim light is no obstacle as she takes in the details, sneering at the pompous Lords and Ladies that line the walls. The different fashion styles over the centuries blend together in her mind, but she recognises the distinct ruffles that predate the Shampanier Era crossing over to the more modern style of headdress, evolving across the row of portraits. They have matching brutal, patrician features and cold eyes, and their arrogance is palpable even through the oils. She wonders if Violante sees them as an inspiration or an embarrassment. 

Alphecca drops to her feet when Violante arrives, eyeing the new fashion accessory. 

“Ladies first,” she gestures in a parody of an usher, trying to avoid the sense of dread that accompanies the sight of the heavy wooden door. 

“True.” Violante says agreeably, placing her gloved hand on the door. In the other she still clutches the flickering candelabra, and the light plays shadows against its surface. The front of it is carved with vines and flowers, mountains and snowflakes. It opens with a heavy grinding sound when she tries the handles, with some effort. Cobwebs stick and pull between the gap, and Violante sneers a little at the dust that collects on her fingertips. A staircase leads down into darkness. It reeks of earth, dry and undisturbed. 

Violante’s face remains impassive as she starts down the steps, the click of her heels ringing against the stone. The walls are featureless rock, and roots start to press through the gaps the farther down they travel. Eventually the stairs level out onto a narrow, dark, landing. Violante moves with a caution in the dark that relaxes when she finds the torches set into thick pillars that frame the entrance, and she lights them with the candle flame. Orange light fills the cavern.

“Homey, I imagine.” she says. “But still better than what you were used to.”

It is a tomb, of course. More a mausoleum, seemingly built into the naturally limestone cavern underneath the castle. The roof of the crypt rises up high above the chamber, arched ribs and all angles like the inside of a cathedral. Violante doesn’t pause in her intrusion, gliding down the center aisle with a curious fervor, idly stroking the covered parcel around her neck. She finally stops as they near the back of the chamber, in front of a stone dais that elevates two, long, solid coffins. Side by side, in their lofty place of honor. Violante sets the candles down. She looks back at the lich. 

She says, “You’re going to wake them up.”

Violante isn’t wrong to assume that the cavernous underbelly of the castle is more comforting to Alphecca than the bleak architecture and furnishing upstairs, but it’s still far from homely. The crypt is stale and azoic, lacking the warm smell of rot and soil that accompanies her usual hovels. Nonetheless she does feel more at ease here, and it takes the tension out of her shoulders.

“Is this mum and dad? I didn’t really take you for the mournful orphan type,” Alphecca says, her smirk eking into her voice. She approaches the left coffin and slides a hand over the lacquered wood, which is stained with black and ornately carved. The golden filigree is finely engraved and the craftsmanship of the coffin itself is masterful. A thrill runs through her bones; as disinterested as she is in the coffin’s inhabitants, she’s eager to see what bijous and tchotchkes she’ll find inside. 

It takes her mind off of Violante’s request. Resurrecting one body, one soul, takes more effort than she is usually willing to expend. Two isn’t out of the question, but it’s going to take time. There are shortcuts she could take- 

No. She’ll take all the time she needs. 

“I can do it for you, but it’s not going to be quick or easy. I’m assuming you want more than just a couple of braindead puppets, after all,” Alphecca states, glancing carefully at Violante. 

Violante watches the dead mingle, the old and the ancient. There’s a stone bench opposite the dais, maybe long ago a place meant for prayer or meeting. The back of it curves up into a chiseled swan’s head, with the beak broken off. She sits, and crosses her legs, eyes lidded, observing Alphecca as she circles the caskets. The lich’s interest is evident, undisguised. She’s being so nice.

“Mmm.” she confirms, very calm. “Lady Fiore and Count Viator. I poisoned them when I was seventeen.”

She draws a finger across the jagged beak of the swan and rubs the grit between her thumb and forefinger. The black fabric of her gloves are already powdered with dust. Idly, she pinches one finger and slips it the long glove off, stretching her hand in the cool, dry air of the crypt. The tips of her fingers are stained purplish-black, even deep under her nails. 

“They need to be able to speak, and answer questions truthfully. I’m not especially worried about mobility, but memory is important.” She tilts her head, dark eyes focused on the bone witch. “How long? Describe the process for me.”

Alphecca’s lips twist as Violante confesses to her parents’ murder, but continues to investigate the coffins. 

“Well, the process involves bartering with Death, binding the soul to an anchor and then binding said anchor to your will- it’s something that can take months, depending on how long it takes to get the reagents, and that’s just for one soul. Doubling up will save time, but even you don’t have infinite resources,” she explains.

Without asking Alphecca lifts the nearest coffin lid, and lets out an involuntary whoop at the burst of pungent aroma. There’s not much left of the carcass itself, despite what she’s sure was a vigorous embalming. Corpses are meant to return to the earth, and the ones buried above ground have a messier time of trying to find it. Lady Fiore’s robes are completely soiled with corpse juice, but she’s surrounded by a few glinting baubles that could still be disinfected- although she’s sure Violante won’t let her play with them. 

“A fresh corpse is always easier to work with, but it’s just as well you kept the remains at all- souls will anchor to their own bodies with less of a fuss,” she says, disregarding all the loopholes that come to mind. With a snap of her fingers Fiore’s bones glow a pale blue, battling the orange torchlight for a moment before it subsides. It’s a basic preservation spell that she uses on all her creatures to protect their bones from the elements, which she hopes Violante will take as a sign of her veracity. 

“You’ll find my resources will more than suffice.” Violanate says. “Considering the state of your previous arrangement, and what you’re used to.” Scrounging around in the shadows and the muck couldn’t have been all that profitable for the lich. Procuring things, especially things of an elusive nature, is not usually a problem for her.

The stench that emanates from her mother’s coffin is certainly vile enough. Violante’s nose wrinkles, and she nearly rolls her eyes at the bone witch’s obvious enthusiasm for it. For a moment she has to tilt her head to the side, and she brings the pouch around her neck closer to her face. There’s baby’s breath and rosemary inside: a good dampener, or so she’s been told. The Countess is not unfamiliar with corpses, but they’re usually less decayed, and less in her face. She could have used a stronger perfume. 

“Useful little spell.” She says, turning back to face the dais. 

And then, “..bartering with death.” Violante drawls, stretching the words out slowly. That has her curiosity piqued. Something about it, a string to tug. “Like it’s a person.”

Alphecca hums absently, neither in agreement or disagreement. 

“I suppose we’ll see,” she says. She swipes a thumb over Lady Fiore’s cheekbone, imagining how the muscle would have wrapped across it and how the skin might have sat on top. Her sharp jawline mirrors Violante’s, and she’s willing to bet they shared the same nose. She was no doubt a very attractive woman in her prime, and Alphecca finds herself almost frustrated that she’ll be deliberately prolonging the reconstruction process. 

She crosses over to the coffin on the left but her fingers tapdance across the lid, and her head perks up at the mention of Death. 

“Well, yeah- okay, she’s not really a person, but she’s the shepherd between this realm and the realm where lost souls are... supposed to go, and you’re not going to get a soul back from the realm of the dead without her noticing,” she explains, smiling at the memory of the spectre. Absently she traces shapes in the dust of the coffin lid as she continues. 

“It’s far simpler to make a trade with her than to try and steal one, but that’s still easier said than done.” 

Having to watch the lich inspect and handle her parents' remains doesn’t seem to phase the Countess very much. Legs crossed, she sits back on the mourning bench, and rests her chin on the back of her fingers. 

“‘She’. You make a trade with death.” Violante repeats, not a question. “What could..death-the-entity possibly want in exchange for a soul?”

There’s a visible sneer on her face at the word soul. It’s not that she doesn’t believe in spectres or spirits: she’s essentially speaking to one, even if it’s trapped in a bone. The concept of anything trying to tell her what to do, even after death, dissatisfies. Even at a young age, playing with her first herbs and poisons and staining her skin, Violante knew that she wasn’t going to go until she was good and ready. 

She can guess what the lich might think of her. The many things, every terrible notion. Most she’s probably right about. But Violante has no interest in living forever. Cavorting around for centuries as a moldering corpse isn’t an appealing notion, and it obviously hasn’t done the witch any favours. No. She is going to build something great. Something right, something hers.

In the end, if it is really worthy, it will outlast her. 

And if it’s not...well. 

Violante hums, “Longing for death is a bit of a cliche, even for you.”

“Depends,” Alphecca shrugs. “Sometimes she asks for help wrangling the ghosts that refuse to let go, or she has a specific soul in mind, or sometimes she just wants a favour to keep in her pocket. There’s always some kind of catch though, because she’s hardly going to ask for something she can get herself.” 

Even if she weren’t already planning on delaying the process, she anticipates bargaining for two souls will be the most difficult part. Bartering with Death isn’t exactly something she makes a habit of; she can count on one hand the amount of times she’s made the deal, and every time had brought its own headache. Just the memory of it is enough to make her head hurt, so she turns her attention back to Violante.

“Yeah, well. Even you’d be begging her to come take you after long enough. You and I both know Death can be a mercy,” she says with a smirk, and cracks open dear father’s casket.  

Help, promises, wayward souls. “That’s a lot out of death’s reach.” More than one would think, for such a definite force. Violante listens to the dead woman without looking up, thinking, rubbing the pad of her thumb across the velvet pouch dangling from her neck. There is another wave of foul scent, all earth and rot. The sound of heavy stone dragging on stone. Her father had been a count of some notable prowess. He had been good at getting people to listen, and always spoke with confidence. Curt at times, but he shared a warmth with her mother that would have seemed anathema to the traditional Solanales chill, to anyone outside of their family. They were a private people. Violante had loved her parents. She had loved them even when she was putting them in the ground. 

 “Who said anything about mercy?” The countess murmurs, tilting her head, a silver-dark curl of hair sliding over one side of her face. Wintry, she says, “How long is this going to take you? Approximately, for one body?”

Alphecca rakes a finger down Count Viator’s sternum, making a mental note of his measurements. She’s sure there’s a portrait somewhere in the castle she can look to as a reference for their bodies, which are clearly tall but perhaps wider than their frames let on. Violante’s voice echoes in the cavernous room, yet the words themselves float around in the air. There’s a few trinkets scattered in the coffin, rings and jewels and heirlooms; they’re gaudy and expensive, but far from valuable to the dead. The sudden change in the intonation of Violante’s voice catches her attention, and she only catches the tail end of her question. 

“Hm? Oh- well, for one? It’d normally take around a month or so to source all the reagents- meat, ivory, rare herbs and spices and whathaveyou- then somewhere between one to two weeks to build the body itself. After that it really depends on what I need to do to recover the soul,” Alphecca explains, finally dragging her eyes away from the remains. 

“And of course, I wouldn’t want to rush perfection.” 

“How thoughtful,” Violante drawls. “But they don’t need to be perfect, just functional. Enough to answer what I want to ask of them. You fare well enough without lungs. Or gray matter.” The countess tilts her head again. “They’re going right back in the ground after I’m finished with them.”

Pushing away from the bench, Violante stands with fluid, gossamer grace. Holding one arm loosely tucked around her waist, she climbs the steps and despite the reek, peers slowly into each of the caskets, expression unreadable. Swipes one stained fingers against the dust collected on the stone lip, rubbing. 

Almost conversationally, she looks back and says, “Tell me what you need, and you’ll have it within a week. If not sooner. We have the merits of civilization here.” With a surprising amount of ease, Violante leans back against her mother’s grave and lifts herself into a sitting position on the skewed cover, ankles crossed. She smiles, her mouth a sharp, dark slash. “Three weeks, I think, is more than enough time for you to finish the work.” 

Very slowly, she lifts the velvet pouch and threads it open. The amulet is heavy, and Violante curls it’s chain delicately around her fingers, thumb hooked under one of the horns. Scarlet light suffuses her from below. 

Coy, Violante hums, “If you put your mind to it.”

Alphecca scowls at Count Viator, cursing him for ever procreating. 

“If you want a botched job, then fine,” she sneers, bristling at the intrusion on her oasis. The presence of the phylactery is like a sneeze sitting at the back of her nose, painless and yet impossible to ignore. However, the Countess has extended her a favour in the same token, providing her the irritation necessary to redirect her attention elsewhere. 

“The souls of the dead don’t tend to like being torn from their peace and shoved back inside their corpses, and the further the vessel is from their actual flesh and blood, the harder it is to attach them. And if a soul doesn’t attach properly, then you’re going to have a very uncooperative, likely half-braindead, pale imitation of your dearly departed loved one. So it’s your call,” Alphecca explains, drumming her fingers on the coffin lid. 

It’s a gambit for more time, but the phenomenon of corrupted souls isn’t unheard of. And it’s not exactly something she’s keen on dealing with. 

And then there was silence. It was followed by the shrill whistle of a lofty wind, swiftly swallowed by the cavern, sucked down. Above, a jagged crack in the apex of the cave opened up to mountain air and evening sky. Snow-melt had formed thin icicles which dripped with languid precision onto the old stone. There were some places within the cavern where if you listened close enough you could hear the sounds of running water; more runoff that was kept flowing by the warm channels that ran all underneath Solanales. The recessed thermal rivers: mineral rich, were responsible for the health and diversity of the medicinal herbs the county was able to cultivate. Her father had shown her maps, long ago.

Violante regards the lich cooly. The sneer; the constant flow of excuses, the obstinance. There is a moment before she speaks, where the slick consideration in her dark eyes slides towards bored. Just as quickly, the flat stare is replaced with a knifelike flash of malice, penetrative and acute—then a return to hawkish study.

“You’re right,” The countess says smoothly, examining the blemished fingers of her free hand, “it is my call.” She tilts her head, and wrly continues, “..and if I cared about what they liked, I wouldn’t have killed them in the first place.”

The glow from the amulet gives her skin a rosy tincture it doesn’t usually possess. Violante places her empty hand back on the coffin lid behind her, relaxing back into a lounge.

“Alphecca…” her voice is deadly soft. She rarely uses the corpse’s name. She’s never seen much point. The countess peers down at the phylactery, slim fingers curled under the horns and through the chains.

“You know, this really was remarkably easy to find. Time; a few simple exchanges of gold, a barter with a like-minded contact—who will no doubt realise, eventually, the true cost of that information, and likewise, the great loss she would accrue attempting to take it back.”

Calm, easy, her posture is that of a woman relaxing in a parlor; not an arm's reach away from her mother’s seeping skeleton. Violante runs her thumb up the side of the crystal. It’s warm, with a steady, pulse-like thrum. 

“That is a part of what it means to have dominion—to have dominance. Laying the foundation. Control over people and their emotions, so that they don’t go spinning them out into actions they haven’t thought over properly. Something always there, in the back of their minds.” 

With a sly smile, Violante tilts the amulet. “Like this.” Her fingers tighten, squeeze around the pulse. 

“Come here.” she commands.

The Countess’ silence brings the familiar weight of dread, the coils of her contemplation winding and tensing before their inevitable release. The use of her name, soft as it is, is like the snap of a twig; the arrow is coming next, but she has nowhere to run. When Violante speaks, her words are dripping with nightshade, and Alphecca pays less attention to the words as she does those eyes and the way they peel back the illusion of her flesh. How long ago was it that Zhan Tiri had stood in her place, holding the phylactery that they’d created together, swinging it before her like an aberrant hypnotist? The image lingers in her mind, branded into her being, and it burns again now. Violante holds her ransom with equal avarice and even more capriciousness. 

She doesn’t fight the command.

One foot drags after the other, pulling her away from Viator’s putrid remains towards his fetid offspring. The ends of her hair dance in the waves of heat that surge from her body, casting her pallid skin in the same glow mirrored in her bottled soul, and her sclera seeps with augural ink. She looks down her nose at the Countess, but stays mute; her glare speaks for itself. 

“Oh, that face again,” Violante smiles slyly as the lich draws near. “You looked at me like that the last time you tried to get me to break this. For all that trite dribble about souls, they pack rather nicely into tight spots, hm?” She lifts the phylactery and lets it dangle from her fingers again. The carved crystal twists, shedding ruby light. 

Tilting her head, the countess adds, “..though honestly the sheep-theme is a little provincial for my taste.” 

From her perch on the coffin lid, she and the lich are almost at eye level. Idly, she taps the curled horns of the amulet against her lips, and  takes a moment to inspect the flickering hair, warmed by the unnatural heat in the cold center of the crypt. She’s seen the witch dressed in bone before, skeletal, human then very much not. She hasn’t yet been able to divine whether the flesh is an illusion, or a simulacrum. 

“...you know, it’s almost funny,” she says after another moment, musing. Gently, Violante reaches up to take Alphecca’s chin between her fingers, feeling for bone or for the presence of a seam. Without much force, she tilts her face left, then right. “The creature that made you this way got to die before you, didn’t it? Whether it wanted to or not. And even though it’s gone, you’re still here. That’s an impressive act of malice I’m not even sure I could aspire to.”

She brushes a strand of winding hair behind the dead woman’s ear, the fingers of her other hand wrapped around the amulet. They rest there, lingering.

 “Mercy,” she hums, “Death. Do you really think that force regards you as anything more than a vague afterthought? Do you know why?”

Close, her eyes are dark and flat. When she smirks, her lips part, and there’s something of a serpent in it. The fingers set behind the corpse's ear hook suddenly, sharply. “It’s because you’re a commodity.” Softly, “A body. It was a waste having you be as you were before: running loose, childish and deranged. Whatever worth you had was decided on ages ago by something greater, and then discarded in one instant, only to be defined again, now, by me. That’s the only thing that matters here.”

Drawing her hand back, Violante twines another piece of fiery hair around her stained, lacy fingers. The amulet beats a rhythm against her palm. “Like that little village you destroyed. Garbage, right? But now, it’ll be built up again into something useful—desirable. Not only as a consequence of my birthright, but because I have the power to make that happen, and the will to speak through it. Because that’s the zeal the world recognizes. In the end, it doesn’t matter who you are or who you’re trying to be. Whether you’re a shambling monster… or a wayward sword, I’ll use the power I have; my proof of conquest, to assert my will—” a rough tug on the strand of hair, closer “—and change the meaning of value.”

Silence, and the drip of distant water. Violante lets the strand slide free from her hair, and inspects her hand with distant disinterest.

“Three weeks,” she says cooly. The phylactery thrums in her grip. “Don’t ever try to argue with me again.”

Alphecca’s phantom heart thumps in her hollow chest. Words intended to cut to the quick come close to their mark, but nothing Violante says can slice deeper than the futility of her situation. She can’t remember needing to gasp for air like this, not for a long time. And yet for all her vast networks of contacts and flies on the walls, Violante doesn’t know everything. She clutches that thought like a final matchstick in the dark, for all its limited warmth. The Countess doesn’t know Death; not like she does. And she’ll get those souls that she wants, and she’ll do her finest job— but Violante’s not the only one that has strings worth pulling. 

For as tainted as Violante’s hands are, they’re still warm. Blood pulses right to the tips of her fingers and beats against her false skin, and she feels its absence when her hand draws away. Alphecca responds with a cock of the head, and a sneer.

“I’d better get going, then.”

[with-love-anu]

Quills and Ink

Pairing: Sirius Black x Reader Summary: Sirius gets anonymous letters from someone really sweet and falls for her. Warnings: It’s just fluff, no warnings to give! Word Count: 1,903

Sirius sat grumpily eating his breakfast. His head was throbbing due to last night’s endeavors and he wanted to gobble in all sorts of grease he could get. He piled his plate with bacon and fried egg when a school owl landed in front of him. He furrowed his brows. Who would write to him? He carefully took the letter out and opened it reading.

Dear Sirius,

Charms’ not an easy subject. The summoning charm they taught us yesterday is no different. For performing a summoning charm, you must clearly, and I mean clearly visualise the object you are summoning, like your favourite cookie. You could see it in your mind the sandy coloured biscuit full of dark brown choc chips, some edgy some melting. You could practically sniff its sweet smell and you want it right now, you need it. You say accio cookie with a small hand movement, imagining it coming towards you. And there you go, you have it. You can practice it over and over again and I am sure you’ll get used to it.

I just, I have always seen you excelling in every single class, and when you couldn’t do the spell yesterday, I thought maybe I’ll help. The professors having taught the same things a million times already, aren’t enthusiastic and somewhat, vague. Anyways, happy learning!

A fellow student.

Sirius smiled at the odd letter. He turned it around to find a name but there was none. The owl had already flown away.

Sirius closed his eyes taking his wand in his hand. What’s the harm in trying again? Accio muffin! Sirius grinned as a muffin zoomed towards him. Finally. He had done his best yesterday, but couldn’t perform the spell. He munched on the little cake happily. He felt satisfied; thinking about the sweet letter reading it again. Who could it be? He smiled, he wanted to meet this anonymous helper.

***

Sirius was sitting on the quidditch stands when a school owl came in. He smiled and his eyes widened. The person wrote him another letter? Telling the owl to wait; he opened it. It hooted indignantly but did just the same. He smiled realising he was right.

Dear Sirius,

I know you love teasing the Slytherins, but you need to understand that the group you hate is rather small. My friend who is in Slytherin was exhausted ridding their supplies from the red paint and gold glitter which you drenched their common room in. You know, this friend I am talking about is so damn sweet and couldn’t even hurt a fly. They have been loyal to me since the first year and have gone out of their ways to make me smile.

I am not asking you to stop pranking, but make your targets specific. Let me be honest here, I hate Mulciber’s gut as much as I hate sardines, and that’s a lot. And you know, harmless pranks are good too; specially if they make the targets smile and laugh along with you.

A fellow student

Sirius quickly summoned a sheet and started writing. Whoever this person was, was funny, and seemed to have a great personality.

Dear fellow student,

Firstly I want to thank you for your help in charms. I could do it on the first try after reading your explanation. *wink*

Secondly, I am sorry about your friend, maybe we do take it too far at times. I’ll make sure me and my friends don’t allow our pranks to affect ~innocents~. Speaking about pranks, I would love to hear more about those harmless ones you were talking about.

And thirdly, don’t you think it’s bad that you know me well enough to notice how I do in charms and I don’t even know your name? You seem like a fun person, sign the next letter with your name?

Sirius.

Sirius tied the letter to the owl and said, “Give it to the person who gave this to you”

***

Time passed and Sirius and a fellow student continued to exchange letters. Sometimes they were short, sometimes long and there wasn’t one where Sirius didn’t plead to find out who it was.

He showed some to his friends, others he kept to himself as his own little box of pleasure. James never failed to tease him and Remus would give him a knowing smirk whenever he didn’t let anyone touch those pieces of paper which had somehow become very close to his heart. No one missed the crimson blush that coloured Sirius’s cheek whenever he was asked about this very adorable fellow student. He kept every single one of the notes, trinkets, and gifts in a shoe-box hidden under his bed.

An empty box of an exclusive collection of handmade treacle tarts shrunk in size with the note which came along with it was tucked neatly in the box. Sirius had received it when he had got a nasty letter from back home during one morning. He had thought no one noticed but apparently he was wrong. The note said-

Dear Sirius,

You can never change people, make them see you or appreciate you or love you for that matter. Nothing in this world is fair and we take what is given to us. I know you got a letter from your parents this morning and over the years I’ve come to assume that they aren’t the most loving ones. We need you to remember you are an amazing person. So, gobble up these amazing chocolates while writing down things that are great about you. Let me start-

1.     You are funny / sarcastic. I don’t know anyone who could make McGonagall crack a smile and the moment you did it, I knew you were special

2.    You’re VERY intuitive. I saw you damn so many times calming down or walking various students through breakdowns, anxiety attacks; you know just what the person needs.

3.    Smart, that’s one thing about you not everyone sees, but come on; people should know those mischievous ideas need a brainy person behind them.

Your turn now, be as selfish as you could be!

A fellow student

A bouquet of lavender on which Sirius casted an everlasting spell, and an empty bottle of Chamomile tea made by an American company had come with a short note- “Put those flowers under your pillow, they help”. He ran his hand through them remembering feeling so touched when he received; he actually shed tears because he hadn’t slept all week and was exhausted to death.

There was a pile of books too. They contained all the famous muggle comics, which he had received when a fellow student had rambled on about their favourite superheroes and Sirius had admitted not understanding a thing in the long write up. He had read every single one of them more than thrice. Along with them, there was a detailed magazine on different motorbikes; their prices, their quality, talks about their engine. Sirius had gasped when he received it. The small note on it had said- “Even though I am sure I am going to regret this; because these are dangerous machines and you are one reckless person; I know your fascination with them and always love to see you smile. Just promise me you’ll read everything on the safety precautions page.”

There was a small key chain with paws on it, he got on Easter. He had barked out laughing seeing it (pun intended). He didn’t think you would remember something he wrote so offhandedly about. The note had said- “Since you were so adamant that you would be a dog if you were an animal!”

It was becoming incredibly frustrating. He was cautious of all the people who noticed him in classes, trying to guess who it was, which was futile since a major part of school turned to him whenever he entered the room. He was desperate, he was falling, hard. If the love they all gushed about, wasn’t what he felt; then he didn’t know what was. And he didn’t even know who it was! All he knew that your nickname was (Y/n/n) and you were in (Y/h) house. He felt stupid wanting you.

He had tried and failed trying to follow the owl to find you. Halfway to reaching you the owl had turned and bit him until he was forced to stop stalking it. Yeah, that had hurt. He tried to cast a monitoring spell on it so as to track it on the marauders map. The owl had realised something was going on as it fluttered and scratched his face red with it’s claws.

He took a pen and paper and ran to the owlery. As he entered the owlery, he saw someone was already there. (Y/n Y/L/n). She was a fellow student. They attended various classes together. Her eyes widened seeing him, and she quickly turned to what she was doing. Wait a fellow student! Can it be?

“Hi (Y/n), what brings you here?” he asked noting her reactions.

She stumbled.

“I… Just posting a letter.”

“Oh, how’s Abernathy’s health?” Sirius asked nonchalantly. Abernathy was (Y/n/n)’s sister who had caught a bad case of dragon pox.

“She’s better. The healer said- “(Y/n)’s mouth opened in realisation. Sirius smiled. He had finally found her.

“I…I…” (Y/n) stuttered looking at Sirius’s wide grin.

“I’m gonna go.” She said flustered and turned to leave.

Sirius quickly ducked in and grabbed her hand. “Don’t go” he pleaded.

(Y/n) slowly turned. She looked everywhere but him.

“Why did you not tell me?” Sirius asked quietly making her look up.

“I was afraid. I am really shy and I accept it. I’ve had a crush on you since forever and was quite sure I wouldn’t be able to talk to you face to face. I- I thought that when you realised that it was me writing you all those letters, you wouldn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

“Why wouldn’t I want to talk to you?” Sirius asked frowning.

(Y/n) let out a scoff.

“Oh come on! I see the type of people you are always with. Tall, beautiful, smart. Why would you even look at me!” She said mirthlessly.

It was Sirius’s turn to scoff.

“Are you kidding me?” Sirius asked incredulously. “Do you even own a mirror? That little (Y/f/c) colour dress you wore last weekend. Darling, I am sorry to inform you but you turned heads. I’ve always noticed you. You just light up when you talk to your friends and have that brilliant smile on your face. Before, you started writing to me you were just pretty; now I know you’re beautiful. You’re so full of kindness and generosity. Your letters never failed to bright up my day. You’re funny, sarcastic and motivated. I love that you could make me smile at the worst of times. I love that you constantly talk about made up heroes and heroines who could take on the world. I love that you care so much about your family that you write to them every other day. I love everything about you. I love you.” He breathed.

“You what?” you whispered.

“I love you” Sirius repeated.

“Good, cause I don’t know what I would have done you hadn’t told me soon” you sniffed a little, smiling.

“Come with me to hogwarts this weekend, you know, on a date.” Sirius asked as you gulped and nodded. Sirius smiled widely and you were sure your own expression mirrored his.

A/N: Let me know what you think!

[danganronpa-21]

Happy Birthday Best Girl! ft. Some birthday headcanons

I couldn’t manage some writing this year, but for those of you who don’t follow my Instagram, I did manage an edit. Thought I might slap on some fun birthday headcanons to at least contribute a little more for my best girl:

- Based around the math I did two years ago, Kyoko would be twenty-five years old today.

- She’s halfway to being thirty and has no idea how to deal with it.

- She tries not to think about it though, she’s pretty focused on that career of hers! Since the Tragedy’s wake, she’s become a highly requested detective. People mostly ask her to locate or discover the fate of missing family members.

- She gets her birthday off of work. Not because she asks for it herself, but because Makoto asks her to. It’s her second year of being a married woman on her birthday, so she accepts and lets him take care of her.

- She gets birthday breakfast in bed. She hears Makoto stumbling about in the morning to get it, and she feels the absence of his warmth in their bed, but she pretends to be asleep anyway. And pretends to be surprised when presented with breakfast. 

- Kyoko spends her birthday doing pretty much whatever she wants. Literally. Makoto has handed her the reigns to do whatever she wants -- he’s not allowed to say no to her. 

- As such is the case, they end up spending their entire morning watching old detective movies while Kyoko cuddles with Makoto and their grumpy old cat, Kimi. The bonus of this is that she can solve the mysteries before and happily blurt out the answer whenever she pleases. Still, for some of them she strings Makoto along to get him to give the right answer.

- She notices Makoto’s on his phone a lot. He seems like he’s texting someone. She tries to ignore it, thinking it’s probably just work people pestering him. He’s been swamped with paperwork lately. 

- At the end of the movie marathon, they head over to the local bakery to pretend to be a newly engaged couple (rather than the already wedded couple that they are) for the sake of getting cake samples. It’s one of the few times Makoto will happily splurge on anything. They rate the cake flavours from best to worst on a chart Kyoko draws in her notebook.

- Kyoko’s favourite was the chocolate buttercream. Makoto was caught between raspberry chocolate and plain vanilla. Predictably. 

- They stop at the florist on their way through town. Makoto buys her a bouquet filled with an assortment of purple flowers, because they remind him of her. She carries them happily through town.

- Their next stop is to a little book store run by a retired literature professor. She discovers that it’s already been arranged that she should get to spend however long she wants reading books in his store for her birthday. She takes full advantage of this, and spends hours in there. It gets to the point where Makoto has to get her to leave whilst carrying armfuls of books.

- If he hadn’t told her that he intended to take her out dancing as a treat that night, she probably wouldn’t have left. 

- They got home and started getting ready, applying make-up and getting in to their best outfits for the night. It had been awhile since Makoto had last taken Kyoko dancing, so she couldn’t help but be excited. Mostly, they just danced around like goofballs in their kitchen while cooking breakfast.

- When they got in to the car, she noticed something was different about Makoto. He seemed a little too excited to just be taking her out dancing, like he said he was. She knew he must have had a surprise in store, but she didn’t tell him she knew. 

- She couldn’t help but smile at how right she was, as when they entered their dancing venue, she was greeted by shouts of: “SURPRISE!”

- Just as expected, her friends had put together a surprise birthday party for her. They had all been waiting in a decorated venue and everything. She was greeted with all kinds of smiles and hugs and happy birthdays from her loved ones.

- So many loved ones at the party! The room is decked out in purple and white decorations, streamers hanging from the ceiling and helium balloons all over the room.

- There’s an amazing cake, too. Aoi baked it herself, with a little help from Komaru. Toko helped decorate it. Funnily enough, it’s chocolate buttercream -- the flavour she had so greatly enjoyed when she and Makoto were cake tasting.

- Makoto set up other foods, too. There’s tasting plates of some of her favourite around the world delicacies, something she knows must have been expensive. She assumes that this was Byakuya’s contribution to the party. 

- She spends much of the party eating and drinking and talking with her friends, thanking them all for such a wonderful party. She genuinely doesn’t know how she got so lucky to have such loving people in her life. 

-  At some point, Yasuhiro inevitably takes down one of the helium balloons and inhales as much helium as he can to make his voice higher. In this state, he gives a loving speech about Kyoko, and gets the whole crowd to sing her happy birthday. He nearly passes out at the end of it, on account of having inhaled too much helium.

- Once Hiro recovers, everyone starts pushing gifts at her. From Toko, she receives a stack of new notebooks and pens for her detective work. Toko says that she went for her own personal favourite brands, and insists that they’re the smoothest for writing. Yasuhiro gets her a crystal trinket that she doesn’t understand, but he insists that it “embodies her aura” and “will bring her luck in her new year of life”. Byakuya gives her a box of chocolates from Germany, saying he remembered that she had once told him that she loved chocolate from there. He claimed to have “bought some extra while on a business trip there”. Everyone knows he bought them just to be a good friend. Aoi gives her a new pair of gloves, white with cute light purple ribbons. A childish rainbow friendship bracelet is given to her too, with her name written on it. Aoi proudly boasts a matching one. Kyoko slips it on immediately, so happy to have a symbol of friendship. 

- Makoto gives his gift to her last. It’s a diamond necklace, which shocks her, considering his frugal disposition. She acts how much he spent on it, and he doesn’t answer. He insists instead that the sparkle reminded him of her eyes, and he just knew he had to get it for her. 

- The necklace is paired with a book, full of love letters that he has written to her. One for every day, starting on October 6th of the previous year. She hasn’t even read one of the letters yet when she pulls him in to a passionate kiss. Their friends cheer. 

- When she finally pulls back, she can’t help but grin. “So,” She says, “How about that dancing you promised me?”

[dazeyrains2]

DECEPTION - A Multi Chapter, Hayffie fic - Prompt...POISON

Thanks @ellanainthetardis for the prompt.

....

DECEPTION PT1

....

Pt1 of Deception

Today was Thursday and Thursday's were quickly becoming Effies favourite day of the whole week in district 13.

Thursday's were when Coin held their weekly update meetings about Katniss and the war.

And Thurdays was also a day when they were allowed coffee!.

Astriss arrived a little later than usual with a full tray of steaming hot mugs and Effie couldn't stop the beam spreading across her face.

Whatever Coin was babbling on about did not matter to Effie for the next 10 minutes, because she would be holding a steaming mug of coffee between her hands and smelling the bitter sweet aroma of the black liquid and nothing was going to stop her from enjoying it.

"Thank you Astriss, you may serve" Coin six passively, waving at the girl with the tray.

Astriss was also quickly becoming Effies new favourite person.

Haymitch reached for a mug but Astriss batted his hand away...

"Not that one, that's for miss Trinket" The girl looked at Effie and winked "Double shot, just how you like it"

Coin cringed at the delightful squeal that came out of Effies throat.

"Oh Astriss, you are a pet!"

Haymitch grumbled something irrelevant and just took another mug.

"How come she gets two shots" he tutted and Effie jutted her bottom lip out towards him sarcastically

"Because Miss Trinket asked. And besides...she gives good makeup tips...tit for tat" she winked again

"Enough, Astriss" Coin begged "That will be all"

The girl left with a grin and a wave from Effie.

"Oh she's delightful" Effie trilled

Haymitch sipped his coffee and it tasted weak."Yeah, sure. Delightful indeed"

...

That evening in the cafeteria, Effie invited Astriss to join her and Katniss at their table for dinner.

"I don't think the woman dishing out this slop likes me very much" Effie grumbled over her tray of soggy vegetables and questionable meat. Katniss and Astriss peered over towards the serving station.

Effie had a point. If looks could kill. The woman behind the counter was throwing daggers at Effie almost too obviously.

"Has anything happened between you?" Katniss asked, knowing full well that Effie possibly brought it on herself, complaining about the food or something, but Effie shook her head.

"I know what you're thinking Katniss, but I've done nothing to offend that woman, just merely exist it seems"

Astriss lay her hand over Effies

"Hey, some of the people down here just haven't been able to accept the Captiol refugees yet" she sympathised "But if they want to live bitterly, then let them. You're a kind and generous person, Effie. They'll come to know it soon enough"

Effie smiled bright but her smile soon faded when she noticed the difference on her plate as to what was on Katniss's and Astriss's

"Look at that" Effie huffed, picking up a rather unusual looking slice of the rabbit meat that was on her plate. "Pure fat! And those vegetables look like they were drowned twice over..."

"Maybe she's just having a bad day and wants someone to take it out on?" Katniss suggested, but Effie wasn't bought.

"No, Katniss." Effie disagreed tiresomely "She's been treating me this way since I arrived here. Always taking my plate out of my hands and wandering off, only to return with what can only be described as leftovers fit for a mutt. I put up with it because I'm hungry, but heaven knows where shes getting my food from or what shes doing to it"

Astriss grabbed Effies plate suddenly and slid it towards herself "You're right Effie, this is disgusting and this is uncalled for, leave it with me"

Before Effie or Katniss could protest, Astriss was up and marching over to the counter to confront the woman.

The ladies couldn't hear what was said, but Astriss looked stern and the woman looked sheepish.

In less than a few more seconds Astriss had returned with a brand new plate full of healthy looking meat and fresh vegetables

"She won't be bothering you again Effie" Astriss beamed brightly "Not whilst I'm around"

Fair to say, Effie had just found her new best friend.

....

At dinner the next evening, the woman behind the counter barely made eye contact with Effie but Effies plate was returned to her bursting with fresh vegetables and dumplings.

On returning to her table, Effie couldn't help but feel suspicious.

"Saved you ladies some nice hot coffee!" Astriss smiled, sliding Effie and Katniss a cup each.

"Thanks Astriss" Katniss grinned but Effie was distracted by her thoughts

"She's smirking at me" Effie said, peering over her shoulder at the woman still serving the food.

"Effie, she's just smiling" Katniss assured "Maybe she's trying to make amends"

"What exactly did you say to her Astriss" Effie asked curiously

"I told her that if it wasn't for you slipping those golden tokens into the arena, then there never would have been an alliance with Finnick Odair, and Katniss and Peeta may not have trusted him and possibly not survived." Astriss stated proudly "I told her that the real hero here was you, no offence Katniss, and that she better start showing you some respect or I'd notify Coin of her behaviour"

Katniss and Effie shared a look but then Effie was beaming...

Astriss kind of reminded Effie of Katniss in some ways. Fearless, honest, brave and loyal.

"You're a good person Astriss" Effie smiled

Katniss agreed "Yeah, good job you're here"

...

Later that evening, just before she settled down to bed, Effie felt a whirring in her stomach and the room felt particularly warm that night.

She downed a glass of water, took off all of her clothes and crawled into bed, hoping the feeling would shift by morning.

The next morning, she felt no better but Coin had called an early 2nd meeting to discuss an urgent propo for Katniss, but Effie wasnt happy about it because it was still too soon, the girl wasn't ready. So, Effie had to be sharp and focused today and stand her ground.

She arrived late after spending the first part of the morning with her head over the toilet, but her excuses fell flat. Coin didn't strike anyone as a sympathetic soul.

"If you're under the weather, Miss Trinket, I suggest you sit this meeting out?" Coin challenged, but Effie was having none of it.

"No, no. I'm quite alright...go ahead"

But as Coin proceeded, Haymitch leant a little closer in to Effie and gave her a nudge.

"You sure you're ok?, I can fill you in later, you look a little pale?"

"That damn food server in the canteen" she seethed quietly "She's fed me rotten meat again, I just know it"

"Food poisoning?"

"I think so" Effie nodded "But I got the worst out this morning"

Haymitch turned his nose up at the thought.

"Vomiting, Haymitch" She assured "Not the other way yet...although, not too far off" The face he pulled as she rubbed her stomach was totally worth it. She chuckled at his reaction and told him she was kidding... but she wasnt kidding. Her insides felt alien.

"Just...drink plenty of water, ok" he suggested and Effie smirked curiously. Haymitch had never been one to care before... Ever!

"Ok" she nodded, and poured herself a glass.

As the meeting went on, the temperature in the room seemed to sky rocket. Effie could feel beads of perspiration running down the back of her neck.

"Look, just a few more weeks" Effie tried to argue "let's get her comfortable with that damn camera first, if you throw her in now, it'll be a disaster"

Haymitch had agreed with her, thankfully, but between the two of them and Coin and Plutarch, it was still two agaisnt two.

Plutarch tried to reason...

"Well, let's film rehearsal? She doesn't need to know the cameras are rolling, we might capture something good?"

"And if she figures it out-" Haymtich began until Effie interrupted

"Which she will! She will lose more trust in you than ever..." The room suddenly started spinning but Effie couldn't bow out now. "Look, just give her time"

"WE DONT HAVE TIME, TRINKET" Coin bellowed suddenly it was like a hammer had been smashed into Effies skull.

"Ouch! Why are you yelling!?"

Conversation erupted around the table but the voices seemed to become raised causing Effie to cover her ears.

Everything sounded weird and everyone seemed to be yelling now.

She pleaded one more time "Please stop yelling"

Confused eyes crossed the table to where she sat

"Stop moving, why are you all moving..." effie continued, trying to focus. The room felt like it was spinning

Haymitch reached out towards her, grabbing her wrist

"Effie, we're all sat down...no ones moving, no ones yelling...What's going on with you?"

Effie put her head in her hands for a moment, but as she tried to focus again, Haymitch noticed the blood

"Jesus ef! Your nose!"

Effie looked into her hands and saw a pool of sticky red liquid, she pressed her fingers above her upper lip and felt the blood running from her nose.

"Get her a tissue!" Coin ordered. Plutarch grabbed a box on the side and ran around the table to join Haymitch.

Hands were holding her arms for comfort but she didn't know who's they were as the room began to spin even more.

"I need to stand" she whimpered but Haymtich strongly protested

"I need to get out, it's too hot in here..." she begged

Her speech was slurred, Haymitch ordered one of the guards to fetch a doctor.

"Ok, let's get you up" He soothed "I'll walk out with you" But as Haymitch lifted her to her feet, Effies knees buckled immediately and she fell into his arms.

"Miss Trinket? What's happening?" Coin asked, looking to Haymitch for answers but he was just as clueless.

She was becoming a dead weight so Haymitch lay Effie down gently on the floor instead and whipped his sweater off to create a pillow for her head. That's when she started coughing.

"Turn her on her side!" Coin suggested

But as he did, her throat gargled painfully and she began to cough up blood. Not just a little...a lot...a whole lot. It started pouring out of her mouth.

"Effie!? Effie?!" Haymitch panicked now. He saw her eyes starting to roll into the back of her head "Stay with me, Ef. Come on, Breathe in! Breathe!"

Haymitch didn't know what to do or what to say, all he knew was that this doctor better hurry because this was no food poisoning or stomach bug, this was something else. Somthing far more sinister.

To be continued...

*what's going on with Effie!?? Will she be ok??? Find out soon... xx

[ghostlyfacedream]

um, good morning. or afternoon here, i guess. it's 1:25 pm. i'm going to start a diary. even if it's not official or fancy or well thought out. even if it's short blips here and there when i have a thought to share. i need somewhere to share, and my hands are too fucked up to write physically in a book, and that would just make it worse. i also know that i need to :post: or :upload: whatever i type because i feel the need to have an audience, to be seen and acknowledged. i know that there isn't anyone out there reading this, but typing it into a post that CAN be seen is different from typing into a doc where i am alone in a empty chamber.

ok, so... i'm hungry. i've been hungry since last night. i didn't eat though. tomorrow we are having pizza. i want to save up for that. maybe just two pieces with garlic dip. mm.

my tattoo is healing nicely. i'm 18. i walked into the shop off the street and asked for one a while back. it's still cloudy but it's been gradually clearing up. most people need 30 days to fully heal their tattoos; given my genetic disorders i wouldn't be suprised if it took double that time, or even triple. i like it, even though i keep getting caught off guard and thinking it's a bug on my arm. i guess that happens when you're so disconnected from your own body all of the time. i forget what i look like, i forget i have a tattoo now, etc etc.

i'm making a new friend at work, i think. their name is cecelia. they're very pretty, like their name - they remind me of a deer with their big brown eyes and gentle demure nature. i like joking around with them. i intrusively feel the need to let them know that i am not hitting on them - i'm incredibly aromantic. i'm socially inept though, and i'd like to have friends, but i don't know how to behave, so i sort of fumble over my lines and shuffle around in a costume that's three sizes too big for me. it's like i missed all of the dress rehersals and then boom, suddenly i'm in a play and everyone knows how to act but i'm flying in with my head in my back pocket.

anyways, cecelia invited me to hang out. and they talk to me about all kinds of personal stuff, like mental health issues. and like i said, we joke around. so i feel like we could be really close, if i don't make this weird somehow. i made them a pair of earrings - during our first week (we got hired on the same day) they complimented my green earrings. i make my own earrings out of little trinkets i find and collect, and one of the kitchsy little things i made was a pair of green clothespin earrings. they said they really liked them, asked me where i got them. so i made them a pair. yellow, which is their favourite color. i'll give it to them next time i see them. i plan on putting a little disinfectant wipe - the ones i use for my shots- in there for them to clean the earrings. covid times, and all that. i hope they like them. i hope it's not weird.

um, i tried to make this blog as ... bland as i could. i don't want to project an identity here. i was diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder in 2016 and it makes life really hard. when i made this blog, it had yuri's art as the profile picture, and then that made it feel like HER blog instead of the collective MY blog. we are me. anyways. it's really hard. my identity is never the same. i mean, to some extent, it is; i have distingushed parts... but there's no solid me. i have many interests. i seem like someone who can't make up their mind on who they are. but the truth is, i just am... i'm just many people, and they all have their own interests and qualities and ways of thinking, and it makes interacting with me really really hard. it makes living as me really really hard.

i wish i was normal. i think about that a lot actually. maybe too much, lately. i promised when i started this blog that i wouldn't censor myself. my therapist - ex therapist, rather - said i spend too much time choosing what to omit when i speak to people. she used to say that she could see me picking through my thoughts, choosing which ones to share and how best to word them. i focus more on being presentable than what i have to present. so i needed a place to just spit out everything, uncensored, undevoured. the roast chicken, meat stripped off of it's bones and laid out for the guests - they are starving, there is nothing there.

so here's the first uncensored thought: i wish i was a woman. specifically, i wish i was an endosex cisgender woman. it's distasteful, but i find myself watching pornography and wishing for their soft and supple forms - silky skin, round, curvy bodies. beautiful lips, long hair, delicate hands. i've always been fascinated by drawing the naked form - i suppose there's just an alluring siren's call that i feel in my bones when i see the warmth of a lovely lady radiate from her very being. you see, i was born outside of the boxes. a messy smear. they made a choice when i popped out, raised me girl, gave me estrogen when my body wasn't doing what it was being asked to do. i grew girl, lived girl, tried girl. i tried so hard. you have no idea. i wanted it so badly. swirly skirts and long golden hair and painted lips. - now, i don't believe that these things are gendered. i believe that humans of any shape, size, form or spirit can do whatever they please in the means of self expression. but for me, there was always some underlying PRESSURE of NOT BEING GIRL ENOUGH. i was wanted girl. i had a broad chest, and large hands. i was hairy. i had a deep voice. my feet did not fit into girl's shoes. bits of me stuck out in women's clothing where women have no bits TO stick out. it hurt. it still does. i understand that i have some deeply rooted intersexism that leads me to apply the gender norms to myself, but i promise i don't think that way of other people. which leads me to... why them, but not me? why can other people be fat, hairy, wear makeup or no makeup, wear short skirts or cover every inch of their body - why do i praise and support gender nonconformity, women with beards and facial hair, men with long hair and makeup, shaving or no shaving, dyed pubic hair and jewelry - but when it comes to me, it's not okay? i rejoice in the trans community, femmes with voices as dark as tinted glass, or midnight, or the cat's rumbling purr. masculine entities with curves, and high voices, and typically "feminine" traits, because fuck that, traits are traits, and we can mix and match, and there is no restraint here because we are all living, breathing animals with vibrant souls and a taste for love and laughter. i accept everything. but i'm a hypocrite. my shoulders are too big for dresses. my skin is too hairy. my voice is too low for a woman, too high for a man. clothes do not fit me - men's pants cannot cling to my hips, women's tops cannot fit over my shoulders. i wear bags, or blankets, or nothing at all, hiding away in my room. i don't want to be seen. i don't want to know of the world and it's specifics around what shape my body isn't. my hands are big and clumsy. my chest didn't grow, and then when it did, it was incredibly lopsided. my bones don't even fit me, not sure what sex they belong to, pressing at the seams or curling grotesquely to fit inside my body. the only time i see others like me on tv... we are freaks. we are shemales, or wonders of nature, or abominations. we are hermaphodites, fucked up humans who grew the wrong parts or not enough of the right ones. we are misgendered, or prodded at on fictional doctor dramas and made spectacles, fucked up malformities to be gawked at. they want to guess what is in your pants, how you were raised - did they choose to mulitate you to make you more one way or the other? they want to know what's inside you, what is inside you, what's inside you? testes? ovaries? both? nothing? take it out, or put it in, fill you with hormones to make you normal, we joke about celebrities on the news - are they a hermaphodite? you have a girly face mr bieber, are you a hermaphodite? were you born with a penis, lady gaga? we are fetishized, but disgusting. horrific, and captivating, because people love the boygirl with their androgyny. i hate it. i want to rip my body to pieces. i want to sink my nails into flesh and bone and tear away. i want to throw my organs as far as i can, you failed me, you failed me, you failed me. i want to rip away until i am nothing but a floating concience. i hate it here. i always have.

[vampiricallyinclined]

Prompt: “My house, my rules. The Christmas music stays on” - Prompt lists

It may have only been the first of December, but you were ready to get in a festive mood. You had spent weeks secretly purchasing the perfect decorations that would fit in with what you already had, determined to make your home the pinnacle of Christmas joy. Of course, with friends like yours, it wasn’t easy to keep your actions private. Between their rather over protective natures and cursed curiosity, you had found yourself doing a lot of online shopping and travelling to the next town over just to keep your actions from them.

It wasn’t that you were ashamed of your love for all things festive; on the contrary, you wore your Christmas spirit with pride. But as protective and caring as your mystical friends could be, almost every one of them was bound to give you some hell for just how prepared you were. So, it was with some relief that December finally rolled around, and you were able to begin adorning your home with tinsel, trinkets and all things red and green.

Your house was almost ready, but not quite. You still had the Christmas tree to put up and decorate, and the outside was severely lacking in flickering lights and there were still the wooden reindeers that you had bought for your roof. But, despite the work that was still left to do, you were in a fantastic mood. It may not have been complete, but with festive fairy lights hung from your fireplace, tinsel adorning every doorway, cookies already out as you couldn’t wait to get a start on the baking, and your favourite Christmas songs playing loudly on your stereo, you were filled with the Christmas spirit.

All that was needed now, was the helping, albeit currently unknowingly, hand that was expected to arrive at any moment now. As if the thought had summoned him, you heard three stout knocks on your front door; a clear indicator of who was on the other side.

Your steps held a little extra bounce as you made your way towards the door; an effect of the cheerful music, you told yourself, nothing to do with the man who had just arrived. Opening the door enthusiastically, you couldn’t help the grin that enveloped your features at the dour face of one Klaus Mikaelson.

“You came!” you cheered, ignoring the look of sheer displeasure that was thrown in your direction as he made his way past you and into your home in an effort to get out of the cold.

“Yes, well, you did say this would be me repaying you, and I don’t like owing people,” he grumbled, taking his jacket off and hanging it up with well-practiced ease. It had been some time since he had first been allowed to enter your home, and it was clear he hadn’t taken the words ‘make yourself at home’ lightly. Your home had soon become a haven for him whenever he needed space from his siblings, or what ever insanity was brewing with the doppelgänger and her friends.

“Ok, you can stop the big bad hybrid act whenever you feel like it,” you rolled your eyes at his behaviour, more than used to seeing him like this, generally when others were around.

“Sorry,” he apologized almost meekly, an embarrassed smile on his lips as he turned to face you. “My mind was on some business from earlier today.” He was always careful when it came to his so-called business dealings. Sure, he would happily vent to you for hours about whatever madness was taking over his life when he needed to, but he tried awfully hard to keep you away from any danger, and that meant keeping some things to himself. You didn’t mind, if anything, it was actually quite sweet to see him trying so desperately to keep you far from his enemies, especially when you knew how badly he wanted to talk about some of the more pertinent of details at times.

“Well, I have just the thing to get your mind off any of that supernatural stuff,” you smiled at him, picking up one of the many boxes of fairy lights from a nearby chair. “You want to stop owing me for the not so little favour I did for you, I want someone to hang these outside, so the house is just as Christmassy outside as inside. And you, my friend, are the only person I can think of who wouldn’t get hurt if they lost balance and fell off the roof or something.”

“You want me to decorate your house’s ex- I’m sorry, what the hell is that noise?” he cut himself off, looking around for where the cheesy music was coming from.

“It’s officially December, you’re not allowed to judge me for having Christmas music on,” you crossed your arms in front of your chest defensively, attempting to ignore the pull at your lips as your sights captured the amused smile on his lips.

“I’ll make you a deal, love,” Klaus spoke surprisingly softly, his eyes twinkling for just a moment as they caught yours. “You turn that music off and I’ll get up on that bloody ladder and put the lights up for you outside.”

It was tempting, and by the way his smile was quickly turning into a smirk, it was clear he knew it. But no, you were going to stick to your guns, he owed you, and even if he may hide it, you knew there was a part of him that actually found the innocence of Christmas music somewhat endearing.

“Counter offer,” you shifted your weight onto one leg, settling into it with confidence oozing out of you. “You put the lights up because, as you said, you owe me.”

“Come on, Y/N,” Klaus spoke almost conspiratorially. “We both know I could turn it off before you’d have a chance at stopping me. Why don’t you just turn it off already?”

“My house, my rules. Christmas music stays on,” you smiled sweetly at him, before pushing a box of lights into his chest with just a touch more force than necessary. “Ladder is out the back, I’ll have gingerbread men done for you when you finish,” you smirked, leaving him to his reluctant acceptance, missing the amused chuckle that crept from his lips as he shook his head at your determination.

[scarlettrhettelizabethrichard]

Chapter 3. Impression, Rising Sun, my GWTW fanfiction

Chapter 3 of The Robillard Boutique

Charleston, December 1873 Sitting back in a comfortable chair, Rhett nervously inhaled the smoke from his cigar, a sheaf of documents in one hand. The other was gripping the armrest firmly. Without taking any notice, his fingers were mechanically scratching the already worn leather of the good old Chesterfield.     He had waited so long for this divorce certificate. As soon as he returned from Atlanta and his altercation with Scarlett, he had gone straight to his notary's office after leaving the station to give him the form signed by Scarlett O'Hara. "Don't flinch! Break the bond now. » And then the wait for the official notification began. For the next three weeks, his nervousness put Eleonor and Rosemary to the test. They could not enter the library. The place reeked of alcohol and the ashes of burnt cigars. At the slightest signal from old butler Michael to open the front door, Rhett would appear, looking for a courier to deliver the envelope. He hoped for it, he dreaded it, he looked forward to it, he hoped it would never happen... How many times had he had to restrain himself from rushing to his solicitor's office and ordering him to cancel his divorce petition! His constant changes of mind had finally caused him stomach cramps. "Thank God I held out! Free at last! "Rhett Butler chuckled to himself. It's true, he had doubted. Scarlett had clouded his judgement with her incongruous declaration of love when Mrs Wilkes died. After twelve years of desperate waiting! But no, it was too late. The little pest had succeeded in drying up her capacity for emotion. In any case, Bonnie had taken all her love with her. "That Scarlett should cry in turn is only fair! » And besides, did she really love him? From the speed with which she had accepted the end of their marriage, he doubted it. When he arrived in Atlanta last November with the divorce form in his pocket, Rhett anticipated many months - even years - of struggle before Scarlett agreed to stop calling herself Mrs Butler. Dumbfounded, he had seen her stand up, take the pen with a determined air and sign "Scarlett O'Hara" at the bottom of the document. Without a fight. A twinge of guilt surprised him, but he quickly banished this emotional reflex. Ah, if it had been for Ashley... All those long years during which she had waited patiently for this vain puppet. But in the case of Rhett, her "great love" miraculously revealed according to her, two months had been enough for the distraught lover to annihilate her patience and to probably change her love target again. "Definitely, no, there is nothing to regret. No more Mrs Scarlett Butler. The rope with which you strangled me for twelve years is cut. It's over, Scarlett! A clean, sharp break. Brutality suits you so well! From now on, there will be no more ties between us. No more enduring your whims and cruelty, no more being in your presence, no more drowning in your emerald eyes, no more wrapping your long locks of hair around my neck, no more being able to touch you... Never again, Scarlett..." He celebrated his new status as a divorced man with his stash of whisky and shut himself up in his room for three days. A week later, judging it best to avoid the ire of a mother outraged by his "abandonment of wife and children", he had run away - "as usual", Scarlett could have said. "Of course not, it's not running away. I'm just going to enjoy my single life. » *************************

Paris, January 1874 He left for London where his English partner was waiting for him. It was while talking to industrialists that he got the idea of starting a new business. "We'll see when I get back to Charleston. I've got time to work on my project. » Then he crossed the Channel to spend a few weeks in Paris, his favourite European capital. There, too, the wealthy businessman planned to do some business and invest in successful ventures. As on his previous visits to the French capital, Rhett the art lover admired the architecture of the Eternal City and its museums. He made a few days' foray into the provinces to visit the châteaux of the Loire. Rhett the epicurean enjoyed the sophisticated gastronomy, the Parisian life and its nightly shows. Rhett the jouster found above all his refined places of priced pleasures. The seductive American with the enticing smile was welcomed with open arms, of course. Every evening he greedily chose his playmate for a few hours, never for the whole night. On Tuesday, this one was chosen because her blond hair contrasted with Scarlett's hair, which was as black as darkness; on Wednesday, this one accompanied him because her skin was the colour of gingerbread, contrasting with the pearly whiteness of Scarlett's body; on Thursday, he preferred the third one because her hips were wide, contrasting with Scarlett's slim waist. It was unconscious. He didn't even notice. At social functions with friends, he was often placed next to young girls to be married. In France, his situation as a divorced man did not seem to panic the families of good society. On the other hand, his bank account was certainly attractive. Jacqueline, a pretty young person with blonde curls, had been his date on trips to the theatre and the opera. She blushed. Rhett, who had been out of the habit of dating "maiden" since a certain barbecue, was flushed. Had the 16-year-old Scarlett blushed at Twelve Oaks in 1861? No, certainly not to him, but perhaps to Ashley... He admired the young Frenchwoman's literary and artistic knowledge. It was a change from his ex-wife, whom he had taken to slyly mocking because of her poor school education! After a few discreet caresses exchanged, kind words spoken, the prospect that the lady would probably become a perfect housewife, submissive to her husband, cultured, pleasant, loving and... so boring, he grew weary. "To my great regret," he confided to her apologetically, "my duties call me back to America. Rhett Butler, a great aesthete since his adolescence, took advantage of his stay in Paris to indulge in more cerebral pleasures. On 15 April 1874, following the advice of his friend Jean, he went to 35 Boulevard des Capucines in Paris, to the studios of the famous photographer Nadar. 30 artists had gathered for the first time to show their paintings, sculptures and engravings for a month. Most of the exhibitors were unknown to Rhett. Their common denominator was an innovative, provocative and revolutionary style, according to the art critics. One of the critics, in mockery, later called them "Impressionists". He did not linger long in front of Berthe Morisot's painting, "The Cradle": a young mother leaning tenderly over her sleeping baby. Scarlett had never taken the time to admire her precious Bonnie in her little bed. Rhett stood petrified before a painting entitled "Impression, Rising Sun". The author of the work, Claude Monet, observing this elegantly dressed American, took care to comment on his creation, the effect of the mist on the port of Le Havre. Rhett thanked him warmly. A disturbing emotion made his imagination wander. He was mysteriously caught up in the scene: an orange sky, symbol of fire, of burning passion; in the background, port buildings and boats reflected in the water, with blue pigments similar to the eyes of his dear little girl; finally the sea, a gradation of green hues: water green, like a tear-fogged eyelid; pale green surrounded by a thousand shining sequins, like eyes flooded with sweetness after love; emerald green, a hard, raging green, heralding flashes of anger, Scarlett's last look on that November day in 1873. He inquired about the price and immediately reserved the painting, making sure that it would be shipped to him in Charleston as soon as the exhibition was over. He cut his visit short. On the way back to the hotel, he stopped at his travel agent's and booked his place on the first boat to leave for America the next day. Rhett was looking forward to seeing "Impression, Rising Sun" in his armchair in Charleston. Perhaps he would install it in his room so that he could not take his eyes off it until he fell asleep. ********************** Charleston, May 1874 When she returned, Eleonor gave Rhett a big hug. As usual, her favourite son had spoiled her and Rosemary. Packages were piled up in the hallway, between Parisian-style trinkets and boxes of chocolate pralines. "I'm finally turning the page! "he thought with conviction. He immediately contacted his solicitor to check that he had not received any letters from Atlanta sent by Henry Hamilton, Scarlett's solicitor and uncle by marriage. "Not that I care in the least, by the way! "he convinced himself. It was high time to manage his business. These were difficult times and Rhett had to take a serious look at his investments. He couldn't help but chuckle as he recalled the ironic coincidence between the resounding financial crash on the New York Stock Exchange in September 1873, triggering a string of industrial bankruptcies, and the day Rhett left Scarlett and Atlanta. The Nothern Pacific Railway was ruined that day, followed by 89 other railways. Fortunately Rhett had divested himself of the company and sold all his shares earlier that year. One of his partners who had speculated on the rail frenzy had not had the same reflex. Overnight he was ruined. Yes, divorcing Scarlett seemed like an earthquake, even on the New York Stock Exchange, he quipped. "And I'm afraid I'll continue to feel the seismic tremors for some time to come," he said bitterly. The former war profiteer Rhett Butler had proved to be quite adept at managing the improperly earned Confederate money. Of course, large sums had been invested in hedge funds. So he too had suffered some losses. But nothing that would threaten his fortune. When Bonnie was born, in order to protect the future of his beloved daughter, he had embarked on a vast real estate project in New York, in Yankee country. In this bustling city, every piece of land was now prohibitively expensive. In 1869, Rhett had acquired a large area of wasteland in a fast-growing district. He had built buildings of about ten storeys. Rhett demanded that his high-end properties be equipped with all the comforts of new technology, lifts, good ventilation and sanitation. Central heating fed by a low pressure steam circuit ensured comfort for the lucky occupants. To make the most of every precious yard, the ground floors opened onto large glass galleries with shops. In short, Rhett Butler's property portfolio on that May day in 1874 was impressive. "Fortunately, I took the precaution a long time ago to convert my financial liquidity into gold bars! "The businessman congratulated himself once again. Unlike many of his acquaintances, who had to endure the catastrophe caused by the decision of the US Congress and its Coinage Act*. Overnight, their fortune in bundles of money was deflated. Thanks to his foresight, flair and experience, Charlestonian Rhett Butler had managed to weather the financial and economic crisis without much damage. Rhett was very rich. "Rich enough to continue paying Scarlett's expensive pension." Deep down he knew he would continue to protect her financially well beyond the five years agreed in the divorce. He laughed under his breath at his ex-wife's incomprehensible and in no way deserved show of generosity. Ex-wife... " It's been seven months, and I still can't get used to it..." Rhett shrugged. "Scarlett, you can continue to squander part of my fortune without fear of running out! "He hoped, with a childish reflex, that Clayton's former county belle would hear him in Atlanta.       ***************************** Endnotes to Chapter 5: *Coinage Act: On 12 February 1873, the US Congress voted to change the monetary standard from silver to gold.

Disclaimers : I do not own the history and the characters of the book and movie of Gone with the Wind, which beloong to Margaret Mitchell.

#novel, #writer, #fanfiction, #GWTW, #Gone with the Wind, #historic novel, #french painters, #Impressionnists, #1875's krak