Headcanon; Violet Winters.
"You've got a name?"
"I've got hundreds."
Delicacy paints the silhouette of innocence dancing around in the kitchen; white dress flowing about, her back embellished by chocolate curls spiraling with the breeze of Spring. She laughs, running into the arms of her home, her safety; her father. His embrace radiates warmth, and warmth is her savior, for it shelters her petite figure from all of the deficiencies threatening her fragility.
He smells like the rain; fresh, sharp and mild. Her mother hates that smell, but Violet cherishes it with every fiber of her being, never forgetting to respire that drizzly essence of his. Her mother's different, though; artistry, elegance and draconian shapes the physique of an obscured Aphrodite. She doesn't smell like rain, no; she smells like Vanilla--the aftermath of baking one-too-many cupcakes.
Mischief and naivete wanders around them in the shape of a little kid, one whose smile is capable of melting all complications disputing the universe; her anchor, Kyle Winters--also known as her little brother. With a cupcake in hand and smudged chocolate in the other, he jumps in with no proposition, demanding a group hug.
"Want a bite, Lettie?" He whispers, earnest delight shimmers in his orbs as he offers his half-eaten cupcake to his idol.
"Kyle!" Their mother interrupts. "I told you no wiping your hands off on your shirt. Lettie, go give your little brother a bath--I can't stand seeing him like this."
A velvet like carapace flaunts in the face of men by the name of desire, a vulpine smile manipulating every shred of sanity her victim possesses as they crave for her touch, beg for a taste. Not once did she long after; she simply revels in the authority they've unknowingly granted her instead.
How did that happen, you ask?
Deprived and disoriented after her home and her anchor got deceased, she almost sold her soul to the devil. The keyword is almost. She sold a piece of her; Lettie, the little girl in the white dress who loved the smell of rain and vanilla. She sold her innocence and her morals, she sold her vulnerability---the only thing that made us human. However, she didn't like being enslaved to the devil, to the numbness that she knew was a gift from the dealer, claiming to be hers. So, she learnt his language, and the devil's language tastes of lust.
A rabbit hole, an escape; she didn't fall, she dove.
Alice, that she was. But she was also the Queen of Spades, the Cheshire cat and the Mad Hatter.
It's a constant battle between admiring life and detesting all vital activities around her. Ironically, she only admires said impulse given to the universe when she's taking it away; fingertips tasting the crimson silk as the last gasping breath vibrates against her figure, the euphoria provided as she whisks their heartbeats away with one last touch.
It's the fragility of it all, how one minute you're worrying about your future and the other you walk into it, unprepared and unwilling.
She's not her father's daughter, not exactly. She's much more precarious, much more deadly.
Her victims are chosen upon their past---or present, it depends. If they've stained their life with indefensible sins, they're on her radar. It's not that she favors herself over them, because she doesn't; she knows, just as well as everyone, that she's just as bad. But avenging is what gives her power, what breathes stability into her senses.
It takes a monster to kill a monster, that's what she lives by.
