Ella's Oneshots

[Ella]

Dag allemaal! 

In dit topic zal ik al mijn korte schrijfsels posten. Ik schrijf in principe alleen in het Engels, dus als je naar Nederlandse schrijfsels zoekt ben je niet aan het juiste adres. Ik post zowel HP als non-HP fanfictie, maar heb ook origineel werk. Hieronder vind je een overzichtje van wat allemaal in dit topic te vinden is. 


Original works 

• A Happy Family
  
• Bang Bang
  
• Clichés in Space
  
• I Carry Your Heart (I Carry It in My Heart)
  
• Nervous
  
• Something There Is More immortal Even Than the Stars
  
• Three Little Pigs
  
• What Hath Night to Do with Sleep?
  
• Yo Ho, Yo Ho, a Pirate's Life for Me
  

Fanfiction

The 100 

• A Remarkably Good Date - Lincoln/Octavia Blake
  
• Broken - Bellamy Blake/John Murphy
  
• In the Dawn / of a Most Stormy Life - Was Drawn / From Every Depth of Good and Ill / the Mystery Which Binds Me Still - Bellamy Blake/John Murphy
  
• I Will Run until My Feet No Longer Run No More - John Murphy/Emori; Bellamy Blake/John Murphy
  

• Oh Memory, You're So Unkind - Bellamy Blake/John Murphy
  
• So Since I'm Still Here Livin' / I Guess I Will Live On - Bellamy Blake/John Murphy
  
• Survivor's Move - John Murphy/Emori
  
• Yu Gonplei Ste Odon - Roan
  

Case Histories

• A Dead End - Jackson Brodie
  
• Not Today - Jackson Brodie
  

Event Horizon

• What Has Risen May Sink, and What Has Sunk May Rise - D.J.
  

Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them 

• Shadows - Percival Graves
  

Game of Thrones

• A Fragile Trust - Sansa Stark & Jaime Lannister; Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
  
• A Man without Honour - Sansa Stark & Jaime Lannister; Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
  
• Do You Still Believe in Love I Wonder - Jaime Lannister & Bronn
  
• Hope Is the Thing with Feathers - Sansa Stark/Sandor Clegane
  
• Shall I Tell You, Then, How It Is? - Jaime Lannister & Bronn; Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
  
• That's All There Is To It - Jaime Lannister & Tyrion Lannister; Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
  

Harry Potter 

• All I Need - Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Malfoy
  
• Clouds - Draco Malfoy & Scorpius Malfoy
  
• The Perfect Coffee - Voldemort (crackfic)
  
• Roses Are Red, Peacocks Are White - Lucius Malfoy/James Potter (semi-crackfic)
  
• We All Live in a House on Fire - Draco Malfoy
  
• Your Favourite Place in the World - Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Malfoy
  

Inspector Lynley Mysteries

• Love and a Stolen Television - Thomas Lynley/Barbara Havers
  

iZombie

• Karma's a Bitch - Blaine DeBeers
  
• Love Will Abide / Take Things in Stride - Blaine DeBeers
  

Marvel

• Fate, Destiny & a Horse - Clint Barton & Kate Bishop
  

Once Upon A Time 

• A Sliver of Darkness - Dr Whale/Ruby
  

Pirates of the Caribbean: Salazar's Revenge

• Ecce Gigantes Gemunt Sub Aquis et Qui Habitat Cum Eis - Armando Salazar/Lesaro
  
• For It is Plain, As Anyone Can See / We're Simply Meant to Be - Carina/Henry (but not really)
  

The Shining

• He Knew How to Play Elevator - Jack Torrance
  
• Love, n1 - Jack Torrance
  

Star Trek: Discovery

• All's Fair in Love and War - Gabriel Lorca
  
• But Atlas Shrugged - Gabriel Lorca & Hugh Culber
  
• Daniel Comes to Judgement - Gabriel Lorca & Katrina Cornwell
  
• Down the Rabbithole - Gabriel Lorca & Ash Tyler
  
• Keep the Albatross Around Your Neck - Gabriel Lorca & Saru
  
• We (Don't) Choose Our Pain - Gabriel Lorca & Ash Tyler
  

Suite Française

• A Perfect Melody - Lucile Angellier/Bruno von Falk
  

That '70s Show

• Good Times Bad Times - Eric Forman/Steven Hyde
  
• It Takes Two to Tango - Eric Forman/Steven Hyde
  

Weird stuff that's in a sort of limbo between original work and fanfic or is just very niche

• All Magic Comes with a Price - William Shakespeare & Kit Marlowe 
  
• A Portrait of the Pussens as a Kosher Cat - James Joyce's Ulysses
  
• I Dreamed up the World in Sepia Colours - inspired by Samuel Beckett's Endgame
  
• Such Stuff as Dreams Are Made on - Peter Pan prologue
  
• Oh, the Joys of Transfenestration - Thomas Pynchon's Vineland
  
• Untitled - creative writing exercise
  

[Ella]

Fandom: Harry Potter
Summary: Lucius/Narcissa; takes place during DH
Words: 940

All I Need

He nodded at everything she was saying, but didn't take in a word. The food on the plate before him remained untouched, and he couldn't bring himself to look her in the eyes.
"Lucius?" Her fingers tightened around his hand; her thumb caressing its back. "Are you listening?"
He didn't react. He couldn't bring himself to lie to her and averted his eyes even further.
"Lucius," she repeated calmly, as she took his head in her palms and forced him to look at her. The dullness of his grey eyes startled her. "I know you didn't listen, so I'm going to repeat myself: I love you, Lucius. I love you, and I want to you talk to me, do you understand?" She shook his shoulders lightly.
He shook his head. There was nothing to say. The less she knew, the better. He knew very well how much his wife loved him; as he loved her. He couldn't tell her about – about –
His breath stuck in his throat and the room suddenly felt very small. He knew it couldn't be true – if he thought about it rationally, it couldn't be true –, but the walls were closing in on him. On the both of them. No, they could have him. They could devour him, but they wouldn't have his wife. Never –
"Lucius!"
A hand on his face, a hand caressing his hair. A calm face with startled eyes. She smiled lightly.
"Tell me," she urged.
He was shaking. He was shaking and he felt like a bloody idiot. Had he truly been so easily deceived. They were just dreams. Nothing more; nothing to be afraid of. Yet he could feel his hand trembling in his lap. He bit his lip. He felt so incredibly weak, and he didn't want to be weak. He knew what happened to weak people. He had trampled them himself. Was this how he would end – under someone's feet?
"It's not important," he said, yet he couldn't keep his voice from shaking. The images wouldn't leave his mind, clouding his brain with darkness and cold stone.
She took his trembling hands in hers again. "It is. It is to you, and assure yourself that it's important to me as well." She squeezed softly. "I know that you're bothered by nightmares." Involuntary, he tried to free his hands out of hers, but her grip tightened. "We sleep in one bed, Lucius, it's hard to miss," she added.
"I'm sorry," he said under his breath. "I didn't want to –"
"You didn't want me to know, but I did, alright? I care about you, Lucius Malfoy, and it's time you get that into that stupid head of yours." She smiled lightly, but he didn't move a muscle in his face. "I want to know. I want to help you, Lucius."
Now the corner of his mouth turn up a little, but it is was a bitter smile. "I don't think you can help me."
"You can't say that until I've tried," she said stubbornly. "You don't want help, and I understand why. But you don't have to be ashamed, not with me. Please let me try."
He sighed. It was a game he couldn't win. Not when he didn't play the cards anymore. He'd given them away when he'd failed his Lord.
"Tell me what your dream was about last night," she said, her voice softening at the conflicted look on her husband's countenance.
"It's always the same one," he said, a mere whisper, as if he was afraid someone could hear it – which wasn't a weird thing to be afraid of, given the fact that his entire house was crowded with people whose name he couldn't remember half of the time. Narcissa gave an encouraging smile. "I'm in my – my cell. In Azkaban. I can't move, and I can't see. It's as if my muscles are frozen. When I try to shout, no sound leaves my throat." He stopped.
"What do you want to call for?" she asked, realising she was stepping on dangerous grounds.
He shrugged awkwardly. "The usual. For mercy, for someone to hear me, for anyone to hear me. For help. For you." He coughed. "Then the walls start closing in on me. I can't see it, but I can feel it. And then I die."
"Are you afraid of death?" his wife asked, and he shook his head.
"No." But I am afraid of dying. I'm afraid of how I will die, when I will die, and what will be after death. What will be of you and Draco after my death or your own. I'm afraid of losing you. Death itself is nothing to be afraid of. It's a word, a thing. Only what surrounds it gives it its terrible meaning.
"That's a lie, Lucius. A neat one, but still a lie."
"I'm fear for what will happen. To all of us, Cissa," he sighed. "I don't know what to do. I can't protect you. I've been stupid. I'm nothing anymore, I'm –"
She cut him off by kissing him softly on his lips. "You are my husband, and that is all I ask of you. My husband, and Draco's father. And you are not perfect. You never have been. No one is, but that's not the point. You're here, and we're together. And that's all I need."
But for how long, the voice inside him whispered. How long until it will all be over? What does the future hold? He didn't dare to ask the question, but deep down inside he knew the answer: it were his own feet that had trampled him long ago.

[Ella]

Fandom: Once Upon A Time
Summary: Dr Whale/Ruby; Post "In the Name of the Brother."
Words: 1166

A Sliver of Darkness

He watched the dark water anxiously when the small clock fell into its cold arms, to embrace it to a death of its daily run. Would he die if he'd jump?
He watched, he only stood, and watched. His hands clinging onto something in the air that wasn't there, and that would probably never be there. His gaze, however, stayed upon the rather calm darkness.
Nobody really, no-one would miss him. Why would he not jump? By the time they would find his body, it would be too late – because who would go searching for him? He couldn't swim (as far as he knew), so he would be dead in just a few minutes. Not the prettiest death, but better than anything he could think of right now. If only he had his gun, but of course that little friend didn't come with the curse.
He deserved this. This was supposed to be his ending. Unhappy and alone. Because that was what he had left his brother to be. His brother could better be dead, but he hadn't been able bare it to kill him again. It was only now that he knew how his brother must have felt – and he was well aware that he just felt an inch of it. How selfish he had been.
All he wanted was it to be gone. It. Everything. The pain he felt. He had wanted to save people, but now he wasn't sure of it anymore. He couldn't do it anymore, he'd never been able to. What he had done was just inflicting more pain, and he knew that would be the result of whatever kind of life-saving operation he would give the man in the hospital. He couldn't do it anymore.
He pulled out a determined breath, hoping it to be his last.
And then he closed his eyes and jumped. He jumped, feeling the cold breeze through his hair, striking over his skin and make his body shiver.
He didn't touch the darkness. Was he dead already? Did he simply not feel a thing? Had he become that cold?
It was only when he found a hand holding onto his shoulder, keeping him from the dark, that he realised that he wouldn't get to touch the darkness today.
Ruby (or Red, he didn't really know what kind of person either of them was, apart from the fact that he had been hitting on the young waitress more than once because she was pretty) was staring at him in some kind of shock, dragging him onto the stone again.
And that was when he told her his story. For the first time since the curse had been broken, he told someone his story.
Because she listened, she just listened, and even kind of tried to comfort him. Perhaps it wouldn't seem much to an average person, but to him – well, it had been more than anyone had done for him in a long time. Maybe even more than anyone had done for him in a lifetime.
She had saved him, while she didn't have to. While he didn't deserve to be saved.
Two monsters. The difference was that he was alone, while she wouldn't be. She was loved, just like he never would be – never had been.
He didn't really know why he was standing here. It felt wrong on so many levels, like he was creeping up on her. Yet he needed to thank her, didn't he? Even if it would only be a courtesy.
When he realised he had been standing there, just staring, for longer than twenty minutes, he decided to take a deep breath again, and just walk in.
The door made its familiar sound. He had been to this place so many times as Dr. Whale, trying to fill his empty life with even more empty relationships. Trying to be a person he wasn't. Trying to be less lonely.
"Is Ruby – I mean, Red, I mean, I don't know… Is she in?" he asked her grandmother (she had always been known as Granny, he couldn't think of another name she'd ever been called – just like no-one knew his first name wasn't 'Doctor').
She looked upon him with a look of slight contempt (not that strange, judging from how he probably looked right now, and what he feared he smelled like), and then he saw her walking from behind the storage doors. "Granny, did you know that… Oh," she cut off her sentence when she saw him standing in front of her.
"I just wanted to thank you," he said quickly. "That's – that's all."
Her grandmother looked at him as if he was going to rape her granddaughter in front of her, but kept herself quiet.
"No problem," she said, watching him rather astonished.
He nodded to her awkwardly and left. It had been all he had to say, but still it didn't seem enough to feel good about it.
"Dr. Whale!" he suddenly heard behind him. He had just reached the street, and turned around to see Red's kind of anxious face staring upon him.
"Victor," he said, in a soft, breaking voice. "My name is Victor."
"All right," she said, and he noted that this did not help pulling away her worried face. "I just… I just wanted to know if you were OK." It wasn't even a question, but still he answered to it.
"I'm fine, I suppose."
"You suppose?"
"Well, I'm not floating somewhere down in the dark, thanks to you." It was only after he had spoken the words that he realised it had sound rather… well, like he was blaming her.
"You wouldn't be floating anymore by now, it's 9AM, someone would have found you."
"No," he said, curtly.
"Of course," she said.
"No," he said a bit harsher. "Who would have gone looking for me? Either about Dr. Whale, the asshole hitting on every living soul he can find, or Dr. Frankenstein, responsible for the murders of so many people while trying to bring life, no one would care. And I can't blame them for that – after all, that was why I wanted myself drowned, wouldn't it be?" He saw the effect of the words on her, and didn't know if he was feeling sorry about speaking them aloud. He believed he just felt relieved.
"You think you are alone," she said, her eyes, with the golden crown in it, piercing through him as if she was trying to find whatever it was that was left inside of him.
"I am," he said.
"No," she said. "No, you aren't." She pressed a brief kiss upon his cleft lips. "It's just that neither Dr. Whale, nor Dr. Frankenstein can yet see it. But he will."
"Will he?" he asked, aware of the desperate, kind of dubitable sound in his voice and even more aware of her inner warmth, something stronger than he had ever experienced.
"Yes, he will. Because whatever he might think; he's worth saving."

[Ella]

Fandom: Harry Potter
Summary: Lucius/Narcissa; post-DH
Words: 631

Your Favourite Place in the World

"You took me to [i]your[/i] favourite place on earth," she said. "Don't you remember? Now it's my turn."
He did remember. It had been a holiday years and years ago, before Draco had even been born – before they were even engaged. It was the year that Andromeda had renounced her family, and Narcissa had been terribly upset. He had taken her to the Seven Sisters, where he used to go for the summer holidays with his parents. It had cheered her up. He knew all this, but he didn't understand what she meant by asking. His wife never spoke of that moment again, because she never spoke of her sister again.
"This garden is my favourite place on earth," she stated. It was mid-summer, and the sun was high up in the sky, reflecting in the small river coursing through the garden and adorning the brightness of the swans' feathers. "Will you not ask me why?" she questioned. He saw their reflection in the water. It had been some time since he had last come to this place. He hadn't had the opportunity in a while, and had long forgotten what it was like to breathe into fresh air.
"Because I know," he said, simply.
"I wonder if you really do." She offered no explanation.
They were sitting on a white bench attached to the tree above it, softly swinging due to Narcissa's movements.
He didn't know how to respond.
"Why do you think this is my favourite place?"
"Why do you ask?" he said, becoming slightly irritated by all these questions. The Ministry had done nothing but question him for the past two months, and he didn't need any more of that from his wife.
"Just answer the question."
He sighed. "Because I proposed to you here."
"And…?" There was a meaningful look in his wife's eyes.
"It's a good memory," he said. And it was. It was a memory of better times. He remembered how in that moment he thought that nothing could ever change the happiness he felt at that moment. Apparently he shouldn't have tempted fate, since it had found a devious way of proving him wrong.
Narcissa softly took his hand in hers. "It's not a memory, Lucius."
He didn't look at her.
"It's not merely something from the past I happen to remember. I have a lot of those moment stored in my memory, but this one is not like them. This one is still here, right now, as it will always be," she said. It remained silent for a while, but he could feel her gaze on him. "Lucius, I will never stop loving you. Through the good and the bad times, remember? Why do you refuse to believe that?"
"Because [i]I[/i] was the one who created the bad times, [i]remember[/i]?" he spat, pushing her hand away. "It is my fault that you and Draco had to go through all that, and there is literally no way in which…"
"In which I still love you despite all of that?" she replied just as sharply. "I think I get to decide that for myself. Besides, part of the blame is on me either way. I never opposed your actions."
"I wouldn't have listened, would I?"
She smiled. "Perhaps, perhaps not. You underestimate my capacities."
He smiled too. "Perhaps… Perhaps not."
That earned him a kick against his leg before Narcissa buried her head against his shoulder.
"My favourite place isn't Seaford," Lucius finally said.
"It is not? Well, then you must certainly return my favour and take me somewhere else. Where is it?"
"That is of no importance," he said. "As long as you are there."
Narcissa smiled at the closest Lucius Malfoy had ever come to an 'I love you.'
"I love you too."

[Ella]

Fandom: Case Histories
Summary: Jackson Brodie-centric, deals with loss
Words: 643

A Dead End

“When will you finally tell me?” he asked. He lit a cigarette, making a face at her apparent disapproval. Both her brothers smoked now. If their mother had known, they’d have never heard the last of it.
The weather was better than he had expected. Not that he came here to enjoy the weather. He came here to talk, like he always did. He knew she would always be there. She, unlike all the other people in his life, would never leave him. When his wife left him, she had been there. When she had taken their daughter with her, she had been there. When Julia broke up with him, she had been there. He just wished she would tell him that one thing. He knew it was her secret, yet it was always on his mind. It never left him for a second, and he knew that she knew that.
Yet she didn’t reply. She never did.
He remembered how the hours had turned into days, how the days had turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and the months into years. It was case he still hadn’t been able to crack. He hated how of all the mysteries he managed to solve, he couldn’t unravel the mystery that was his sister. If she wouldn’t tell him what had happened that day, he would never know. And he wasn’t sure if he could live with that.
He had begged her, time after time, but she never even opened her mouth on the subject. She always let him talk, and she listened.
“Niamh?”
She smiled. “It’s good to see you again, Jackson.”
He smiled too.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. There was concern in her voice, but her eyes still smiled like they always did.
“I’m tired.”
She let her head rest against his shoulder. Tears fell from his eyes on the hand that was holding his. “That’s okay, Jackson.”
Her hair was wet against his neck. She was crying too.
He woke late, as he usually did. No, that was a lie. Usually he might not even have been home by now, which was exactly why the aforementioned women left him. Incalculable, obsessed with his work, etcetera, etcetera. His sister never minded. Or if she did, she had never expressed it.
He finished the bottle he hadn’t finished last night, splashed some water in his face and left for work. Deborah was waiting for him, annoyance dripping off her face.
“Why are you so bloody late?”
“You’re not my boss.”
“Well, you don’t act like mine. Someone has to do the job.”
“Your job is to take calls, take notes, do research – you’re an assistant, not my mother. I can take care of myself.”
“Evidently.”
Grimacing, he left for his office. “Any important calls?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Louise called.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What about?”
She rolled her eyes. “Not to ask for a date, surely. Something about your sister, I believe she said.”
He frowned, mumbling a thanks, dialling Louise’s number immediately.
“And? Did you find a match?”
“Good morning to you too, Jackson.” There was no annoyance in her voice, and that made his heart sink. “I’m sorry, Jackson. He didn’t do it. Said he was close to the scene of the crime, but he never touched your sister. Never saw her until her face was in the newspaper. The fingerprints didn’t match. I’m really sorry, Jackson.”
He sighed. “I know.”
“It was a long time ago. Perhaps you should –”
He put down the phone. He couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t let her go. He had to find her secret. Him, her, it… as long as he had something to put a bullet in.
He took flowers to her grave that afternoon. “When will you finally tell me, Niamh?” he whispered. Yet she didn’t reply. She never did.

[Ella]

Fandom: The 100
Summary: Lincoln/Octavia; Octavia and Lincoln go on a date. Things don't go as smoothly as expected.
Words: 834

A Remarkably Good Date

“Follow me.”
“Where are we going?” He didn’t speak, but simply took her hand in his. She smiled. “A surprise then.”
He smiled back at her, leading her through the forest. It was beautiful at night, especially when he was with her. Usually there was at least some sense of fear lingering in her mind, but he made her feel safe. When she was with her brother, she knew he would do his best to protect him, but he wasn’t Lincoln. With him she could see the beauty of every flower, every tree and every animal. He picked a flower and put it in her hair.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, putting a lock of her hair behind her ear and kissing her gently. It always struck her how careful he was when he was with her, and yet how forceful his looks could be towards others. She knew he was kind, but her brother would not hear it.
Lincoln pulled Octavia further into the woods, until he finally halted. They were near to the river now. The trees were tall here, and they were standing in front of a large stone.
She looked at Lincoln questioningly. “It’s a stone?”
“Trust me,” he said, putting his hands before her eyes.
“Okay.” She relaxed at his touch. He lead her forwards, slowly. She could hear water, and she had to resist the urge to push his hands away and simply look. She had been locked up into the dark for long enough, but she decided that if he wanted the element of surprise, she would give him that.
“Close your eyes,” he said, pressing his lips against the back of her neck.
“But you already have your hands before my eyes.”
“You’re stubborn,” Lincoln said, but unlike her brother, his voice wasn’t a judgement. There was a smile in it that she longed to see.
“Isn’t that what you like about me?” she said teasingly, but she closed her eyes anyway. “Okay, they’re closed.”
She felt him release her from his grip and moving away from her. He was moving around, and just when she was about to sneak a glance through her lashes, he spoke. “Open your eyes,” he said.
There was something resembling a picnic in front of her. But before she could even begin to comment on his efforts on food, she was taken aback by the view. They were standing inside a small cave behind a waterfall. Behind it she could see the river and the forest. It was awfully close to the tribe, but the light of the fire reflecting into the water made her forget that entirely.
“I – I don’t know what to say,” she said, looking at Lincoln. “You seem to have spent a lot of effort on our first date.”
He furrowed his brows. “Date?”
Her smile disappeared. “Isn’t this a date? I thought that –”
“What is a date?”
She burst out in laughter. For a moment she had thought that – but of course not. “I’m not exactly sure what a date is supposed to be like either. It’s not like I’ve ever been on one. But it’s when people go out together, when they are – you know, involved.”
“Involved?”
She took a gulp of air. “When they are in love.”
A small smile now showed on his face. “We are.”
She smiled too. “Yes. We are.”
He brought her face to his. She closed her eyes, but instead of feeling his lips on hers, her body suddenly collided with the wet ground beneath her. An arrow barely missed Lincoln as he dragged her up. “Anya,” he said, as composed as ever. “Run.”
With her hand tangled in his she now found herself running through the forest. She didn’t know if they were following them, and frankly, she didn’t care to find out.
“Get in here.” She was half pushed down a smaller cave. Lincoln followed soon after her, shutting them off from the outside world. “She will not follow us this far. You’re safe now.”
She didn’t respond.
“We’re safe,” he repeated, stroking a loose strand of hair out of her face.
“We’ll never be safe,” she whispered. “I only put you in danger. I – I was born like that.”
He wiped the tear on her cheek away. “I can take Anya’s anger.”
“But are you sure that you want to –”
“You’re worth it. I am sure.” He pulled her closer. “As you said, we’re in love.”
“Yeah,” she smiled, even though she was crying into his chest.
“I’m afraid I provided a weak first date. I apologise,” Lincoln said, when she finally disentangled herself from him to look him in the eyes.
She laughed. “On the contrary, it was the best date I’ve ever had.”
“You Sky People are strange. How can you see being chased by people who wish to harm you as a good date?”
She pressed her lips to his and then whispered her answer into his ear. “Because it was my first.”

[Ella]

Fandom: Inspector Lynley Mysteries
Summary: Thomas Lynley/Barbara Havers; “I never said you were an idiot,” she grinned lightly. “I said you’re an arrogant prick.”
Words: 1621

Love and a Stolen Television

“You think you’re such a saint, don’t you?” she hissed at the man next to her in the car.
He raised his eyebrows. “What makes you say that?”
She looked at him. [i]Seriously? Why did this man need everything to be spelled out for him? [/i]“You act like a hypocrite.”
His knitted brow deepened. “How exactly do I act like a hypocrite? I told him what I thought, nothing more.”
She sneered. “Of course you did. You always do.”
“Why are you angry with me? The boy was toying with that girl’s feelings – you know it. He was using her, and I told him what I thought about that.”
She sighed and hoped she wasn’t blushing as her boss set his jaw. “He may have been an important suspect, and we just lost him, because you [i]told him what you thought[/i], do you realise that?”
“Do I have to remind you who’s in charge?” he answered her rhetorical question with another, making her shake her head lightly. She turned to the window, and watched his reflection as he drove on. It was a small path through the woods. A murder had been committed in a large estate, and of course it was their luck that those people appeared to have an entire rain forest as their personal garden. It was raining, and every now and then a branch would fall down. She could only hope it wouldn’t hit the Bentley. The man next to her was already in a mood, and one does not simply touch his Bentley without severe consequences. The fact that he wouldn’t be able to do more than curse the wind and the rain and the trees if it happened, wouldn’t do any good for her either.
“I was right, though, wasn’t I?” he spoke, suddenly. She broke her eyes from the reflection of him, merely to be face by his eyes full of concern. “I did – I wasn’t wrong, was I? She loves him, and he obviously doesn’t love her. He hardly appears to see her, yet he allows her to play the part of his lackey. She runs around for him, she makes his tea, she does anything to please him… I don’t even know what she’s thinking. She’s the daughter of the laundress, and he – he’s well on his way to become a lord. She must realise that… She must, right?”
Barbara smiled. “She must… I bet she realises that she doesn’t have any chance just as well as you and I do.”
“Then why doesn’t she give up? Why doesn’t she leave him rot in his own prestigious shit, if he feels too good for her?”
Barbara raised her eyebrow. “You just mentioned it, didn’t you? She [i]loves[/i] him, and even if he doesn’t love her back the way she does, they are friends. She cares about him, and I’m sure he cares about her –” She gave him a stern look when he opened his mouth to interrupt her. “– in some ways.”
“He is using her,” he stubbornly insisted.
“Perhaps,” she said, looking down. “But perhaps he doesn’t realise it.”
His dark brown eyes looked at her questioningly. “He’d be an idiot not to realise that. It’s obvious – you have to look at her for a spare second and you see she’s in love.”
“Perhaps she hides it around him – and besides, he is a man. They can be more oblivious than you may realise.”
Now it was his turn to roll his eyes.
“Sir, you said it yourself. He doesn’t even [i]see[/i] her, how is he supposed to see her love then?”
Detective Chief Inspector Lynley focused his eyes on his sergeant. “He’s supposed to notice that. You notice when you break into a house and steal a television. You’re supposed to notice when you steal a heart.”
Barbara laughed. “You’re the only one I know who would compare love to a crime.”
“Only if the love isn’t returned.”
Her smile faded. She knew what he was thinking about now. His marriage had collapsed years ago, but she didn’t think he’d ever gotten past it. She had left him. Barbara knew somewhere that it must be his own fault too, she knew how insufferable he could be, and yet… She blamed Helen for it. For hurting him. She blamed her for dying, too. She was a thief, and she had gotten away. For good. 
Barbara focused on the window once again. His gaze was fixed on the road before them, but she saw his eyes drawing away to her. The pensive look troubled her. Just as she was about to speak, about to ask, she was flung forward in her seat and hit the front window. The car has stopped abruptly, and her boss was cursing next to her. “Are you okay?” he asked.
She nodded. “We’re stuck,” she said. What rich people don’t asphalt their bloody driveway anyway?
“Thanks for the observation,” Lynley said sarcastically. “I haven’t noticed.” He got out of the car and inspected the mud which had caught around the tyres. Another string of curse-words came out of his mouth. She joined him in his attempts to push, but it was to no avail. In the end, they called the station.

“I have two peppermints and a bottle of water. Oh, and three cigarettes. Do you still have anything?”
He didn’t answer, but merely stared ahead of him. There was nothing to see. The window was clouded by rain and mist, and he didn’t bother to clean it anymore. He had been lamenting the fact that his precious car had broken down, and how much the tow truck would damage it, and when he had finally figured out that she didn’t particularly care, he had resolved himself to silence.
“I’m sorry about the car,” Barbara said, merely to fill the uneasy air between them. “No, you’re not.”
“All right, I’m not, what you want.”
She looked at him. He leaned back into his chair, sighing.
“Who d’you reckon did it?”
“Did [i]what[/i]?” he asked, irritation dripping from his voice.
“The murder, [i]sir[/i]. Do you have any suspects?”
“Oh.” He sighed again. He did that a lot. Always wallowing in self-pity. And all that over a car! He looked at her. She noticed how he’d missed a part with shaving, and the small crack in his upper lip. She noticed how he was getting older. His dark hair was visibly greying, and she silently wondered whether he would dye it. He was vain enough. “Maybe the butler did it,” he said.
She laughed, and caught a small smile around his lips as well. “If only it were so easy.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes it is.”
“It hardly ever is with us.” She looked at him just a little too long.
“True, true,” he acknowledged.
They were silent again. Her window was misted too now, and she couldn’t see his reflection anymore. “I need a fag,” she finally said, and she stepped out of the car. Her head was still spinning a bit from her recent encounter with the window, and cigarettes always helped. She leaned against the car, inhaling the smoke, as she saw him in the corner of her eye.
“It’s raining,” he said.
“I’m aware,” she said dryly.
“You’re not even wearing a coat.”
She shrugged. “I don’t have one with me.”
“Take mine.”
She raised her eyebrows. He took that as a ‘yes,’ apparently, and draped his own coat over her shoulders. The rain was now dripping on him, through his shirt. “What are you doing?” she asked, looking straight into his eyes. She expected to see the well-known innocent confusion, but for once he broke her expectations.
“I’m not an idiot, am I?”
She shrugged, not sure what kind of answer he was expecting. “Well, to be fair, sir, you do have your moments.”
“But in general, do you think I’m an idiot?”
“You can be an arrogant prick at the best of times, but you’re not an idiot.” She couldn’t read him, and that scared her more than anything. “Why do you ask?”
He laughed. It was strange and hollow. “Because I am. I am an idiot, and you know it. Now I know it too. About time, you must think.”
“Sir, I –”
He shook his head. “Perhaps we are both idiots,” he decided. “I think we are.” He smiled.
“I don’t –“
His lips were on hers before she could finish her sentence. For the first time, she could feel where his lip had cracked, and she for the first time, she felt whole. Barbara felt the blood flow to her head. She felt warm, and it wasn’t just his jacket. She was blushing as his lips left her cold.
“You were right, sergeant,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows, unable to speak.
“I am a hypocrite. And I am an idiot.”
“I never said you were an idiot,” she grinned lightly. “I said you’re an arrogant prick.”
“Also completely true,” he said jovially. His shirt was now soaked, and his hair was dripping raindrops on his face, but it didn’t matter. None of that mattered when he kissed her again.
He smiled when he let go of her. He was beautiful when he smiled. He was always beautiful, but when he smiled something in him seemed to blossom. Something she didn’t get to see a lot. Overcome with emotion, Barbara wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. She cried, and her tears mangled with the rain. She felt his heartbeat as his hand was stroking her hair, and felt so peculiarly alive.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I should have remembered to give you my television in return.”

[Ella]

Fandom: Harry Potter
Summary: Lord Voldemort is determined to win this year's best-coffee-in-town contest. Harry Potter coffeeshop AU. Crackfic.
Words: 1271

The Perfect Coffee

It was a bleak Tuesday night, and to any Muggle in sight the café would have seemed completely abandoned. The windows appeared unwashed, and the sign saying ‘Morsmordre’ looked as if it could fall down and crush an unsuspecting pigeon at any moment. Inside the café, however, life was stirring, as more and more men and women appeared with loud ‘pop’s. All were dressed in black to match the grim interior. Although it seemed somehow unusual that any of these people would enjoy the taste of coffee at this time of night (in the corner, a half empty bottle of Fire Whisky would already be spotted), and much less would work at this place, all of them seemed to blend naturally into the interior.
“Silence,” their Master hissed, the slits that were his eyes narrowing bit more, until nothing but a faint glimpse of red was left to his eyes. “December is nearly upon us – you all know what that means.”
“Halloween?” Goyle asked.
“That’s in October, dumbass,” Rabastan Lestrange said. “I’m appalled you don’t have any distinct memory of it. I believe my brother tried to set some dressed-up candy-begging kids on fire; it was all rather exciting,” he mocked, which got him a punch in the side from his older brother.
“How was I to know they weren’t real vampires?”
“In Zalazar’s name, Rodolphus, one of that kid’s fake teeth had fallen out.”
“But come on, they could have been.”
“Christmas is in December,” Lucius offered in a weak attempt to be helpful, but the Dark Lord only rolled his eyes at him.
“Wrong, wrong, wrong,” Lord Voldemort said. “Sometimes I can’t believe what fools I surround myself with,” he muttered to himself.
“What is it then, my Lord?” Bellatrix asked.
“It’s the annual best-coffee-in-town contest, of course,” their Lord said, with a strange sort of excitement which was hard to get out of him. Murder and torture would usually do the trick, and although most of his followers still had to get used to the idea that their Master got excited over the simple ownership of a coffee shop, despite it being three years since the opening, they unanimously agreed that making coffee was far less labouring than killing, so they simply let him be. “Despite your inferior intelligence, I bet most of you can guess who our most realistic opponent will be this year…”
Those words produced some sighs and groans. Every years since the opening they had competed for the title, but for three years straight the award had come to Mrs Molly Weasley, who owned the small tea shop on the other side of the road. It was on thing that they were beaten by a Blood Traitor, but by a tea shop – that’s really where one had to draw the line.
“As we all know, last year’s idea was not too successful,” their Lord continued, and his eyes rested for a moment on Draco Malfoy.
“I’m sorry – it was a perfect opportunity. How should I have known that it wasn’t Potter who would drink that poisoned latte? Not that I think the world is any less without Katie Bell around, but –”
“Silence, you insolent boy. Potter’s death is of second-rate importance now. It’s December.”
Draco grumbled a bit, but after a stern look from his father, he decided to keep quiet.
“Now, does anyone have any original ideas for this year’s coffee?”
Goyle put up his hand.
“Yes, Goyle?”
“Coffee with pumpkin juice!”
“For the last time, Goyle, Halloween was two months ago. Get over it.”
“We could just poison all the judges this year. Then we win, right?” Bellatrix mused.
“No, no, no; that’s not how it works,” Voldemort exclaimed. “We have to make a good coffee – the best coffee – and they have to award us for it. Otherwise it spoils all the fun.”
“We could add something authentic,” Snape offered. “Bat’s wings, rat tails, something like that.”
“This isn’t potions, Severus,” Lucius whispered from aside.
“Do you have any better ideas, then?”
“We could make Irish coffee.”
“No, we couldn’t.”
“Something stronger?”
“Why don’t you just understand that I don’t need any of these silly ideas,” the Dark Lord fumed. “I JUST NEED THE PERFECT COFFEE.”
Quirinus Quirrell made a small sound. “W-we could j-just make black coffee.”
“Black coffee?” Voldemort’s nose slits narrowed as he breathed in sharply.
“Y-yes.”
“It would make the colour of your soul stand out really well, oh my venerable dark liege,” Peter Pettigrew said.
This proposal seemed to please the Dark Lord immensely, and he clapped his hands. “Black coffee it is,” he said. “Now chop chop – you’ve got this evil task at hand, my villainous friends. Make me the best black coffee this stupid town has ever tasted, and we will finally be able to defeat the Weasleys, once and for all.”
***
Ten days later, all the Death Eaters were gathered around the small picnic table in the local park. The Weasleys were just a few yards away, eyeing them cautiously.
“They won’t know what hit them,” Lord Voldemort whispered. “You have all done terrific, my slaves – I mean, friends.”
“Well, well, if it isn’t our good ol’ fellows from the other side.” Mr Weasley politely took off his hat, but the sight of his red hair only disgusted most of the men and women sitting around the table.
“How do you do, Mr Weasley?” Voldemort said, equally polite.
“Fine as always, fine as always.”
“I will crush you,” the Dark Lord whispered, when he was sure the judges weren’t looking.
Mr Weasley smiled as he looked at the older man. “Not if my wife crushes you first.”
***
Two hours later, Rabastan looked around him and wondered how it had come to this. The majority of the Death Eaters was stained in the bright colours of Mrs Weasley’s accompanying carrot cake, while the Weasleys, without exception, were stained in coffee. Some people lay motionless on the ground. He didn’t know if they were dead or simply not moving, and found he didn’t care that much.
“I can with certainty announce,” Rita Skeeter proclaimed, haughtily, “that neither of these very unsporting parties have won this year’s award.”
It had all ensued after one of the Weasley twins had thrown the first cake to Lucius Malfoy, who had of course immediately reacted by dumping his cup of steaming hot coffee over Mr Weasley’s head – or was it the other way around? It didn’t matter. Neither of them had won this year, and according to Rabastan, that was better than losing from a Weasley.
This, however, left the question as to who had actually beaten them.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lord Voldemort grumbled as they saw who was climbing onto the stage.
“I thank you all for this great new opportunity. It really means a lot to me. After losing my career as a writer – oh, and my memory – I thought my life would be over. But this opened a new prospective for me, and I want to thank all my faithful fans out here. Of course, you may all have my autograph.” Gilderoy Lockhart threw a sickening smile into the audience, and to Rabastan’s amazement, they devoured his attention like he was a person of actual interest instead of a mindless lunatic. Oh well, he then thought as he looked at his own Master, who now appeared to be on the verge of tears. I shouldn’t be a hypocrite.
“Does he make coffee too now?” Lucius asked, trying to get some of the sticky orange out of his tangled blond hair.
Arthur sighed. “Who doesn’t?”

[Ella]

Fandom: Suite Française
Summary: The aftermath of the execution of the Viscount.
Words: 1151

A Perfect Melody

“This music,

the sound of this rain on the windows,

 the great mournful creaking of the cedar tree in the garden outside,

this moment, so tender, so strange in the middle of war,

this will never change, not this, this is forever.”

- Irène Némirovsky

It all started with a single shot. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it had started with the bombings that took them by surprise, even though they should have expected them days before the fatal attack. Maybe it had started when Benoît drove a bullet through Bonnet’s heart. Maybe it had started with the firing squad, whose presence still lingered on Bussy’s town square. She knew better. Those had only been the warning shots, not the ones that had taken her fantasy and ripped it to pieces. That had been that single shot after the many – the shot which she knew could only come from one man.
When Lucile heard the front door creak, she knew she wouldn’t be able to look at him. She didn’t blame him, not really. Neither could she hate him. He received his orders and he had to follow them. But she did hate what that made him. It made him the same as all the other uniformed men who had been strutting around [i]their [/i]town since the occupation had started. Machines. She had been lying to herself if she imagined their billeted lieutenant was any different from them. Even if she had never cared about the viscount de Montmort in particular, his execution had forced her back into reality.
She hid herself in a room on the first floor, the only one with a lock. It was small and rather hot in the summer, but that was of little consequence to Lucile. She had hid in here many times before, when she didn’t want to talk to her mother-in-law, or even before the war, at times her husband was particularly cranky. Still little less than two weeks ago she had hid herself here from Bruno, when she had found out that he had known all along that her husband was an adulterous, lying [i]connard[/i]. She pressed her lips together until it hurt, and closed her eyes in a weak attempt to focus on something else. The room was adjacent to Bruno’s room, so she would hear him come up without having to talk to him. Lucile sat down against the door and willed herself not to cry. She was stronger than that. She shouldn’t long for her fantasy anymore, for it was nothing more.
His heavy, black boots made a thumping sound on the carpet. She heard him take them off and tried to imagine him in his white shirt, stripped from his Wehrmacht uniform, but found that she couldn’t. With that shot, he had become his uniform.
“Lucile? Où es-tu?” her mother-in-law’s shrieking voice bellowed through the house. Lucile huddled her legs to her body, embracing them as she rested her chin on her knees.
“She’s not here, Madame,” Lucile heard Bruno say.
“Of course she isn’t,” Madame Angellier said, her voice even and cold. “Why would she be?”
“She wouldn’t,” Bruno replied, his voice devoid of emotion.
The door closed. “You can come out,” he said softly. “She’s gone.”
Lucile closed her eyes. “I can’t.” Her voice quivered and she scolded herself for it.
He answered her with the soft piano tones she had become so attached to.[1] She closed her eyes to see his fingers move over the clavier, producing the sweet and calm notes that were filling her ears. This was his piece, his very own masterwork, and for a moment she forgot everything else. For a moment, she forgot everything he was. She just saw the artist.
But then the music stopped, and the image crumbled again.
“I think you should come out of there now. Madame will be going into hysterics.”
“Let her rage,” Lucile said, but she pushed herself up from her sitting position nonetheless, placing the palm of her hand flat against the door.
“You don’t mean that.”
“Vous ne savez rien sur moi,” she whispered under her breath. “Rien du tout.”
She opened the door and was ready to storm past him, but Bruno grabbed her arm. “Look at me,” he said. His voice wasn’t more than a whisper. “Please.”
Lucile complied. “I am looking at you now,” she said. “Does it change anything?”
“Everything,” he answered, his green eyes piercing hers with their honesty. “It can’t change what I did, I know that.” He bit his lip uncomfortably. “But if only one person could think good of me, it would change who I am.”
“My father used to say that men are formed by their actions.” Lucile knew her words to be cruel.
To his credit, Bruno didn’t look away. “I – I can’t afford to think like that.” He caressed Lucile’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Can I kiss you?”
She didn’t answer. She wanted to, but she had promised. Whatever fantasy they had been living in was over now. Lucile laughed because of the irony. What the large explosions in the fields hadn’t been able to accomplish, a single bullet now had. His bullet.
“Have your feelings for me changed?” Bruno’s face was blank, but Lucile could hear a slight tremor in his voice.
“I wonder what would happen if you just stopped following orders,” she countered his question with one of her own. Knowing the answer to her question, she left the room.
Lucile found the lieutenant in her bedroom that evening. “I’m not like them.” He had been crying; his eyes were still glassy with tears, and he made no effort to hide it. With a shock she realised just how much he trusted her, and how little deserving she was. She knew she would never give him what he wanted, as much as she would not take what he offered. There were differences over which even love was not supposed to triumph. Not during the war – and she didn’t yet dare to hope for an end. “I didn’t want to shoot him, but I had to,” Bruno said, clasping her small hands in his shaking ones. “He wasn’t dead after – after the others had fired. It was a mercy shot. I’m not like them.”
She wanted to believe it as much as he did. She truly did. Every time he touched the piano, she almost believed it. But even if he didn’t want to be, he still was. Bruno’s single shot had disrupted not only the viscount’s heartbeat that day. De Montmort would take hers with him to the grave, only a weak beating discernible against the insuperable damage, a calm and sweet melody still reaching out to Bruno von Trap long after he was gone, finding a way where love had not. [i]Je t’aime, je t’aime[/i].  
 
[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYK6qlnHQvs

[Ella]

Fandom: iZombie
Summary: Blaine dies, but then again he doesn't. Post 2x14-oneshot.
Words: 619

Karma's a Bitch

For a moment, death didn’t feel like the worst option to him. Death would top this hell. Except for the fact that after all he’d done that would probably be exactly where he was headed the second he stopped breathing.
Maybe this was hell. He had expected it to be a little more flame-y. Luckily he had mastered the art of hiding his disappointments years ago.
Then he remembered.
Death.
Breathing. He needed air. Soon. He thought of his grandfather. Was this what his death had felt like?
Without even thinking about it, he could feel his hands digging through the dirt, fighting their way into freedom. He couldn’t lose the image of the dying old man as his body tried to release itself from its cage. Was this what regret felt like? His brain hadn’t caught up yet.
Brains.
Oh, [i]shit.[/i]
He could see the soft rays of sunlight shining through, reaching his skin. But he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel it. It must be the dirt. The dirt was covering him and that was why he wasn’t able to feel the warmth of that stupid yellow ball in the sky.
Children’s laughter filled the morning. Blaine pushed himself up and up, dragging himself out of the grave like he was the star of a second-rate horror movie. Perhaps he was.
Brains.
He looked at their young bodies, and all he could think about was their limited brain mass. [i]No[/i]. This couldn’t be happening. He had never wanted to taste grey matter on his tongue again, and he fought the urge to rip open their tiny skulls with every fiber of his being. It wasn’t real. He could feel the sun on his face. He was sure of it. This wasn’t happening, it was all just a bad dream.
Candy. Boss. Death. Grave. Brains.
He closed his eyes and felt. He felt and felt and tried to feel [i]so deeply[/i] that it hurt. Nothing.
Carefully, Blaine opened his eyes, finding the world unchanged. He took a deep breath – a breath he hardly needed – before gritting his teeth and stepping forward, into his new life. His old life. Another life.
They yelled when he took their degraded tablecloth. At his appearance, at his manner. He wished they’d shut up. His head hurt. He was hungry. They should be happy he wasn’t ripping him apart. People were so ungrateful these days.
Blaine wrapped the tablecloth around his body, even though he wasn’t able to feel the cold. Perhaps it wasn’t cold. He couldn’t really tell. He would notice if he was freezing or melting, everything in between was a bit of a blur. He suddenly remembered Major’s face in the freezer, and smiled. Liv’s goody-two-shoes ex- or not-ex-lover would be changing soon as well. At least they’d have some incentive to find a cure. Blaine knew he couldn’t be enough. He would never be.
The good Doctor. That was where he’d go.
Or home?
Morgue.
Funeral home.
He felt like sleeping for ten years, but he already knew that if he closed his eyes, he would feel the mounds of earth descending upon his body once more.
Morgue.
He had no home. Every time his life got even the least bit comfortable, it had to fall apart. It just had to. He had built a company. A trade. He had built a life, and it had been taken from him.
Perhaps it had never really been his to claim. Sweet wine doesn’t last, and if Blaine believed in such a thing, he would say that karma catches up even with the cleverest of souls. That it was time to pay.
He had died, and this would be his hell.