#danvich

[romans-art]

"Für mich gibt es auf dieser Welt nur eine Mrs. de Winter."

[notinmyvocab]

[whycantwegivellove]

Day 16 of @gelphiefemslashfeb: Crossover

in which Elphaba isn't the only one who gets a makeover

[marascomics]

Reading Danvich fanfiction nobody talk to me

[aliesafenlock]

A Chicago-inspired "Rebecca Alternate Ending" video by Kara Lane and Lauren Jones!

"We've been sent so much fanfic from all over the world, and we've loved every single alternate ending! We thought we'd create our own. Chicago the play was first performed on Broadway in 1926, the same year Rebecca is set... Maybe that's where the similarities end... or maybe not!"

[gwouinaelle]

Here's a drawing commissioned by @aliesafenlock for @jon-withnoh!

A little Danvich moment from Was wird aus uns for its first anniversary!

Fun fact: in the chapter it is described that Ich puts on a yellow cardigan and a blouse. Because I was unsure of what she wore below, I decided on a green trouser as a Beatrice reference (in the musical she has a green skirt and Beatrice in trousers is always great)

[callmekamel]

So, uh, this happened. If you know you know.

(It is dusted in so much pink you can taste the fluff)

[neednottoneed]

fictober 22: "who takes care of you?"

(I know I missed Fictober completely but better late than never)

Written for @jon-withnoh just because they’re so good at writing soft Danny and Ich, and because I missed writing these two.

wc: 853

”Who takes care of you?”

It’s been rattling around in her head since the girl asked it. It disarmed her, though she knows she didn’t show it at the time. 

”I take care of everything, Madam. The staff, the house, every last detail, the way I did for Mrs. de Winter before she passed.”

”That’s all well and good, Mrs. Danvers, but who takes care of you?”

She’s not sure the girl meant to ask it. Not really. Certainly she knows the girl doesn’t care about the answer. It’s a rhetorical question, after all. There is no answer. Danny takes care of herself, she always has. Ever since she came to Manderley—before, even. A woman of her station has to be self-sufficient, and she knew long before she even accepted the position that there would be no husband, not for her. 

Once, she’d hoped the answer to that question might be Rebecca. But that was before Manderley, before Maxim de Winter, back when it was just the two of them and Danny was nothing more than a lady’s maid. And that hope died long before Rebecca did. 

No. No one takes care of Mrs. Danvers. She won’t let anyone get close enough to take care of her anymore, and she tells herself that is how things must be. If someone is close enough for her to ever show that kind of vulnerability, then something is wrong. 

It would be nice, though, a voice whispers in her ear, late at night when she’s certain she is the only one in the house still awake. Just once it would be nice, for someone to massage her shoulders at the end of the day, for someone to check if she’s eaten enough the night before a ball. 

You’d let the girl take care of you, wouldn’t you? But then, you’d want her to take care of you in other ways… 

She closes her eyes against the thought, and she tries to sleep. 

Months pass, and against all odds, she finds herself warming up to the new Mrs. de Winter. She is nothing like Rebecca, and in a moment of weakness Danny admits to herself that that is refreshing. She has none of Rebecca’s temper, none of her impulse to lash out—certainly she’s never seen the girl angry, not even for things she should perhaps be angry about. And she’s never seen Maxim this… domestic. 

It happens one morning, though looking back she cannot pinpoint the exact moment. She’s dusting in the morning room, and the girl is writing letters—she’s had far more to write, now, since the costume ball a few months back—when she hears one of the maids come in with a tray. 

It’s too early for tea, she thinks automatically, and then has to stop herself. It’s too early for Rebecca to have wanted tea, but the new Mrs. de Winter likes hers while she works. What really surprises her, is that when she turns to make sure the maid has set the tea in the correct spot, that there are two places set. 

“I thought Mr. de Winter was out this morning,” she says. 

“He is,” Mrs. de Winter says. “The other cup is for you.” 

“I’m busy, Madam.” 

“You can rest for five minutes, Mrs. Danvers,” the girl says, and there’s the steel in her voice which Danny has only heard a few times before, but which seems to be there more and more each day.. The girl is finally growing a spine. “I don’t think the books will accumulate more dust if you stop for tea.” 

It’s this small joke that makes Danny turn. There was a time only recently the girl wouldn’t have dared say such a thing in front of Danny, that she wouldn’t have even glanced her way. Now she is staring at her expectantly, her back straight, and she is sitting in the chair in the morning room and for the first time Danny does not think of it as Rebecca’s chair. 

Rebecca, who would never have asked Danny for tea like this, because it’s not proper. Because Rebecca was aware of their stations, the line between them clearly demarcated in a way Mrs. de Winter is either too ignorant or naive to see. 

Still, Danny sits. And she accepts the tea. 

“What are you doing?” she asks softly, as Mrs. de Winter pours. “And don’t say pouring tea. You know that’s not what I mean.” 

“I’m taking care of you,” Mrs. de Winter says simply. 

“Why?” 

“Because someone should,” she says. And with that she reaches forward and takes Danny’s hand, and Danny is too shocked to object. Mrs. de Winter begins gently massaging her palm, and Danny is so startled she almost pulls away.

Almost.

But she doesn’t. She lets Mrs. de Winter take care of her, because she is offering, because she is there. And because it has been far too long since anyone has taken care of her, and it might be nice—for a change. 

So many things are changing around Manderley nowadays, anyway. 

Why shouldn’t this?

[jon-withnoh]

guess who's back to exploit your offerings of rebecca drabbles

💗for danvich please!

also i hope you get well soon! (damn you covid coworker)

Finally got to write something for this :) Beware, it is angsty!

When I finally returned to the house, I felt like a stranger. My own shadow seemed too tall to belong to me, the sound of my feet on the flagstones held no trace of the timid girl I had been. I crossed the hall, barely spared a glance for Frith except to hand him my coat and hat. He bowed his head to me, and for the first time it seemed only right that he did so. 

I had not wanted a big reception in the hall, no endless train of servants waiting to greet me. This time, she had honoured the request, maybe because it had been mine and not Maxim’s. She would not be waiting for me in my own rooms, that much was clear. I went up the stairs and threw open the doors to the west wing. I no longer cared who heard me. She stood on Rebecca’s balcony with her back to the room. There was a dull pain in my stomach at the sight of her. She had suffered so much, had been so steadfast. Her hair had more grey in it now than when we’d met. When she turned her head slightly to the side, her cheekbones were more prominent than ever. At the same time, she was not as pale as she had been, there was some colour in her face, even if it was just from the wind. I went to her. She looked at me, shrewd and unsmiling. 

“Well?”

I tried to smile. “It is as we expected. If he is hanged, the house will go to the next male relative in line. That’s Beatrice’s son, of course. As long as the court has not reached a decision, everything remains as it is. But if they do, well…”

“You will have to leave.” 

“Yes.”

“I see.” She turned her whole body to face me and I mimicked her, searching her face for I did not know what. Her expression was impossible to read. “You would stay with Mrs Lacy first, I expect.”

“I suppose so.”

“She would be more than happy to host you, I’m sure, even indefinitely. There must be money as well, a widow’s pension of some sort. You would be provided for.” 

There was something unpleasant in her tone. I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “What does it matter now? We don’t know that anything will change at all.” 

“You mustn’t leave these things up to chance, Madam,” she said. “When something does happen, it will happen fast.”

“Stop.” I had meant to sound decisive, but the word came out as a whimper. “Please stop. Why must you talk about it? Why must we think about it now? We still have time and just for a moment, I want to—”

She raised an eyebrow. “You want to… what?”

“I want to stop. Just stop and be still.”

“Here?”

“Yes, here. With you.” I uncrossed my arms and held out my hands to her. When she did not move, I took a step forwards and brought my hands to her forearms, gently brushing my thumbs over the black fabric of her dress. 

“Madam—”

“If you don’t feel the same, tell me. Say the word and I will never touch you again. I promise. You have nothing to fear from me.” 

She was silent. I took hold of her hands and brought them to my waist. The gentle pressure of her fingers reassured me. She was not merely humouring me. I moved even closer, pleased when she pulled me the rest of the way towards her. 

I brought my hand to her face, tracing the sharp angle of her jaw. “Don’t make me imagine a future you have no part in.”

She blinked, then shook her head. She wore an expression I had become accustomed to over the past few months, her eyes blank and unfocused. She had not been with me entirely. She had heard my words in another woman’s voice. I could not bring myself to care. 

“Don’t ever leave me,” I said. “Please.”

She seemed to become aware of my touch again, leaning in so that my hand was pressed against her cheek. She turned her head and kissed my palm. 

“I would never leave you,” she murmured. “You know I could never leave you.”

I closed my eyes, bracing myself for what I knew would follow. 

“I will be with you always.” Her lips so gentle against my skin. “My Rebecca.” 

The grip of her fingers tightened around my waist. I tipped up my head to meet her, greedy despite the cold that pooled in my fingertips. She kissed me. I had grown accustomed to the way she kissed me in these moments, the way she would have kissed Rebecca had she ever been given the opportunity. Every movement, every touch was worship and I let her worship me. Below us, the indefatigable waves crashed against the cliffs.

[ultimate-fucked-up-ship-tourney]

Propaganda:

Sam and Dean: The fandom is huge and they're so codependent it's almost impossible to not look at them and go: these are really insane over each other huh?

Ich and Mrs. Danvers: one is a young wife to a much older man, and the other is the housekeeper who is HEAVILY implied to have been in love with the husband’s deceased first wife and loathes the new wife for taking her place, even trying to drive her to suicide.

[conquerthenight]

22 for danvich please!!

“Madam”

Mrs. Danvers’ voice caused Ileana to jump out of her seat, her sketchbook falling to the floor. She didn’t know what it was, but the older woman tended to have a way of sneaking up on her. This time in particular, was quite embarrassing indeed, for she had just been finishing up a portrait of her.

“Mrs. Danvers” She said, barely managing to collect herself and praying to high heaven that she hadn’t started blushing.

Mrs. Danvers picked up the sketchbook and handed it to her. She was silent for a moment, until she cleared her throat, giving a pointed look. “Is that supposed to be me you’re sketching?” She asked.

Ileana knew then that she had been caught, and immediately began to scour her mind for an explanation. A suitable lie that would satisfy Mrs. Danvers’ curiosity. “Well, I always draw people I love and…” She stammered out the truth and took a deep breath, knowing that there was no point in hiding her feelings anymore. “…and I’ve come to love you”

“I know” Mrs. Danvers replied, completely unfazed. In fact, her lips had turned upwards into a small smile.

Ileana stared at her, her lips parted as she struggled for words. “You knew…all this time?” She felt quite embarrassed at the notion.

Mrs. Danvers laughed, kissing her on the mouth in one fell swoop. Ileana could feel her breath being taken away from her, yet she couldn’t resist the urge to kiss her back. There was a teasing edge to her voice as they pulled apart, the likes of which she had never seen coming from the prim and proper housekeeper.

“You’re not very discreet, madam. The drawing, for one thing, and I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

[romans-art]

what if you bullied me at Manderley and we were both girls? 😳

[christabelthevampire]

This is so gay...why did she phrase it that way °-°

[sassmill]

“Did Rebecca ever do that?” I whispered, a second story unfolding within my memory of the last few months, of Mrs. Danvers’ reverence for Her: not just devotion, I now realized, but something more complicated. Deeper.

Adoration. Ardor. Need.

"No."

“But you wanted her to, didn’t you?”

She didn’t make a sound. Refused to look up at me.

“Answer me, Mrs. Danvers.”

[aliesafenlock]

Portraits of a tender-hearted Mrs Danvers from Rebecca, inspired by two fics:

Was wird aus uns, wenn man ihn hängt? by @jon-withnoh

Sweet Scent of Roses by @orchidsareforever

Willemijn Verkaik as Mrs Danvers in the musical Rebecca, adapted from Daphne du Maurier's novel

Screencaps from Nienke Latten's vlog #9 (in German)

[gwouinaelle]

Inspired by a video of Lauren Jones being asked if she knew that the gays loved them

I had to do Danvich after Danbecca even at the cost of my sleep!