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“I thought we quit smoking,” Patrick said. 

“I have been awake for forty-eight hours, I have earned this,” Shelagh said, taking the first puff.

on ao3 here.

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"professionally acquainted."

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raspberry sponge

Dr. Turner and Sister Bernadette debate the superior cake flavor. on ao3 here.

Early 1958. 

“Doctor Turner!” Sister Bernadette exclaimed from the bike port as she spotted his automobile pull up in front of Nonnatus House. 

She nearly ran to the car, leaving her bike still in the rack. Simultaneously he scrambled out of the car as quickly as he could the second he heard her call his name, nearly forgetting to slam down the parking brake. 

“I have never been more excited to see you,” she smiled as soon as his feet hit the ground. He valiantly attempted to push down the joy he felt as he heard these words. Patrick did not want to admit how much he liked that smile. It was wider than usual, perhaps because it was only him. Or, the selfish part of him, thought perhaps it was because it was for him, perhaps it was because of him. 

“Is there an emergency?” He asked after a second of taking in the sight, the logical part of his brain overtaking. He started to head to the boot of his automobile, ready to fetch his bag, but stopped as she shook her head with a fond smile. A smile he wished to believe was fond. 

“No, no, no. Everything is fine. There is simply a debate you must settle,” she said, heading towards the front staircase of Nonnatus House. 

“A debate?” He asked, quickly following her, taking the stairs two at a time to make up the distance. 

“Which do you prefer, raspberry or almond sponge cake?” 

“Cake is the debate?” He laughed lightly. He anticipated something with higher stakes. 

“Yes,” she answered seriously. “Raspberry or almond?” 

“Which side are you on?” 

“Almond,” she answered as if it was as obvious as the color of the sky. 

“Truly?” He couldn’t control his surprise. 

“Do not tell me you prefer raspberry,” she said, turning around as she reached the top of the stairs. 

“I am afraid I must confess I do,” he smiled sheepishly. “You prefer almond?” 

He stopped on the stair he currently stood, a few below her. This meant they ended up at each other’s eye level for the first time. He had never noticed what a bright shade of blue her eyes were. This was not a fact he should have been noticing about a vowed Sister, he knew that. 

“It is leaps and bounds better,” she said, breaking their eye contact as she turned back to the front door, heaving it open. “And when you add a slice of fresh apricot. It can not be beat.” 

“You must have not had a slice of quality raspberry sponge cake then,” he said, following her as she led him inside. 

“The quality makes no difference.” 

“Would you still like me to settle the debate?” He asked as they drew closer to the kitchen where muffled but heated conversation could be heard. “Even though I disagree with you?” 

“He knows I brought you this far,” she smiled, looking back over her shoulder at him. 

The muffled conversation became clearer the further they walked, Sister Evangelina and Sister Monica Joan were the two loudest voices. 

“It has crunch, and sweetness,” Sister Evangelina argued. 

“Berries provide sustenance,” Sister Monica Joan said louder. 

Sister Julienne — who Dr. Turner was initially there to see — was also at the table, but seemed disengaged from the bickering, instead attempting to focus on a small needlework project.  

“That was the quickest labor in history,” Sister Evangelina quipped, spotting Sister Bernadette. 

“I was just leaving when I found someone to settle our debate,” she said, motioning to Dr. Turner. When she realized she just admitted to neglecting her patient she quickly added, “Mrs. Harris was in the early first stage when her husband called, I can spare two more minutes.”  

“Dr. Turner, which is the superior sponge cake: raspberry or almond?” Sister Monica Joan asked, ignoring any other conversation at hand. 

“In my personal opinion, it would be almond,” Dr. Turner lied, sneaking a glance at Sister Bernadette and her smile that seemed to light up her face. It was smaller than before, less gleeful. 

She caught his gaze out of the corner of her eye and quickly looked away. 

“He’s finally good for something,” Sister Evangelina said, sitting back in her chair. 

“I apologize, Dr. Turner. I can not explain why we are spending time disagreeing on our preferred flavor of cake,” Sister Julienne said. 

“She is feigning not to know, when it is her insistence that causes discord amongst her Sisters,” Sister Monica Joan said. “Do not be tempted to condemn her memory in a court of law, Doctor Turner.” 

“Will you ever forgive me for that, Sister Monica Joan?” 

“I am not the one who’s forgiveness you ought to worry about.” 

“Would you like a slice of almond sponge, Dr. Turner?” Sister Bernadette asked, trying to distract from her Sister, she motioned to the cake tin on the counter. 

“I will fetch him a slice,” Sister Evangelina said before Dr. Turner could respond. “See to your patient.” 

“Thank you, Sister,” Sister Bernadette said, turning to leave the room. As she passed by Dr. Turner, she dropped her voice to a whisper, “And thank you, Dr. Turner.”  -------------------------------

The antenatal clinic had been chaotic. They were understaffed, as they so often were, Sister Bernadette had seen enough patients for three nurses, staying an hour after the slated end of clinic to ensure everyone was able to be seen. 

Exhausted, she made her way into the Parish Hall kitchenette to fetch her coat and bag before heading on to her evening district calls. The visits to new mothers and babies would then be followed by a night spent as second on call. 

She found a white paper box and fork sitting on top of her medical bag, ‘Sister Bernadette’ was written on the lid. She opened the box to find a slice of raspberry sponge cake and a slice of almond sponge cake. 

“I thought you ought to have a quality piece before you declared victory,” Dr. Turner said from the doorway. 

“I can not accept this,” she started to protest. He waved away her objection as he walked into the room.  

“Please. You’ve earned it,” he said, leaning his back against the counter top. “Thank you for staying late tonight.” 

“There was work that needed to be done.” 

“And yet you are always the one who does it. Accept the token of gratitude, Sister.” 

“I will have a bite, only to prove my point,” she said, picking the fork up and taking a bite of the slice of raspberry sponge. To prove her point, and because she had not eaten since breakfast. 

“Well?” He asked after a few seconds. 

“That is marvelous,” she admitted quietly. 

“Better than almond?” 

“Did you make this?” She asked, ignoring his question as she took another bite of the raspberry sponge. She would not give him the satisfaction of being right that easily. 

“Oh no, I’m a dreadful cook, just ask Timothy. I picked it up from a bakery in Mayfair.” 

“You went all the way to Mayfair just for this?” She asked, looking up at him with wide eyes. Was it a look of surprise? Honored? Why did he care? 

“I went all the way to Mayfair to prove a point,” he grinned. He was going to say more, there was so much he wanted to say, but the phone on the wall rang. It was Nurse Lee, calling him out to a breech birth in Lisbon Buildings. 

“I have to go,” he said apologetically. Why was he apologetic? He was a doctor, he was being called to a medical case. She was his coworker. She nodded understandingly, beginning to pack her own bag, sneaking one more bite of the cake before she tucked it away. 

He reluctantly pulled his coat off the rack and his bag off the counter and took his leave.

“Just as good as almond,” Sister Bernadette admitted quietly as he passed by the kitchenette window. 

“I’ll take it!” He laughed, desperately trying to convince himself he would have driven nine miles to prove a point to any of his coworkers. He was doing quite a poor job. 

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this.THIS.THIIIIIIIIS!!!!!!

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Turnadette - kisses, part I (part II)

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when it’s the fourteenth 

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"If Carlisle was the soul of our family, then Esme was the heart."

everybody give it up for the world's most sepiatone couple

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"God bless us, everyone." is this vampire's fave catchphrase this time of year

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Chapter 14 is here people this is not a drill

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The twilight phase is forever. You can rip this shitty movie/book series from my cold, dead hands, thank you.

Gonna try to start sharing more of my art here. I pretty much spent all day on this yesterday. I’m super proud of it but I hope yall like it too :)

(I take art commissions btw! I have more of my art over on instagram. My handle is @ caitlyn.renee98 )

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#me at any minor inconvenience VEEP (2012 - 2019) | 4x04

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Just a short reminder to the venn diagram of my politically concerned Twilight fans that Clallam County, WA (Forks, La Push, Port Angeles, Sequim) is a actually fantastic spot to watch with respect to the country. They've only gotten it wrong twice in the last hundred years (2/25).

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Apparently I didn't have time to finish this for two years but it's now complete and on ao3.

Wasn't able to finish this before Halloween but here's a rough draft inspired by one of @jessicanjpa 's Halloween prompts.

cw: domestic abuse.

1927. 

Columbus, Ohio. 

The stolen pearl hairpin clattered onto the splintering front porch. A murder of crows in the front oak tree shrieked at the sound, an ear piercing, off-key, cacophony. 

Late, 1927. 

Vermont.  

A Bible that had seen hundreds of years, dozens of countries, and a handful of heartbreaks was swallowed by the orange flames of a hastily made bonfire, a deed to a house, and a poorly written obituary used as kindling. 

1931. 

The fire in the study was dying, thick logs now nothing more than a pile of ash and a sparse orange ember. Wind was beating against the old house, like a husband with a temper, tree branches hitting the windows with a screech that could have woken the dead. 

Carlisle Cullen was technically ordained, but he was not a priest. This is why he felt more than uncomfortable, and entirely unqualified when he found himself sitting in an invisible confessional being begged for absolution he had no place to give, and no desire to. 

Edward had been back home for a little less than a month. The three of them had been dancing around the herd of elephants — so large trunks and tusks were sticking out of windows and chimneys — attempting to relish the peace reunion brought. 

The boy had revealed some of the horrors tugging on his conscience like a fishing weight gradually, often veiled with philosophy and theory and only ever with Carlisle. 

That evening something in the wind shifted. 

Esme was spending the evening on her own, a phenomenon which occurred now but would have seemed inconceivable when Edward first decided to leave. Just one of the many changes he now used to justify his absence in the hours he spent alone, and on the worst nights attempted to persuade himself to leave again. 

For five hours Carlisle had been subjected to horrors beyond comprehension. The boy had worked in reverse chronological order; from the last man, with five children and a sixth on the way, who convinced him to come home all the way to the first, the man who inspired it all. 

“Charles is-” Edward choked out, his legs pulled to his chest, his face buried in his knees. 

“Edward, I know,” Carlisle said, his hand on his son’s shoulder. “You sent me the man’s obituary and the deed to his house.” 

He attempted to keep the scorn out of his voice, tried in vain to repress the memory of his temper tantrum which resulted in him diving into a bonfire to save his father’s Bible, and hide the fact he never told his wife she had become a free woman. He was positive he was failing miserably, only reassured by the grimace on the telepath’s face. 

“I didn’t kill him,” Edward whispered. 

‘Please don’t lie,’ Carlisle thought. He could understand why this murder in particular was hard to admit to but the only thing getting him through Edward’s confessions was the fact he was being honest. The genuine demonstration of trust, the proof of the strength of their relationship. 

“I did not kill him,” Edward said, pulling his head up to look, no glare, at Carlisle. 

“You…” Carlisle frowned to himself, pondering his next words, attempting to avoid any syntax which would sound like an attack. “You sent a letter which read ‘Congratulations, Mrs. Evenson. You won,’ scrawled on top of his obituary.” 

Edward flinched away from Carlisle like he had stabbed him in the side. “Did you…did she ever see that?” 

“No,” Carlisle said definitively, or defensively, it was hard for him to tell himself, as hard as it had been to see “Mrs. Evenson” written in his son’s handwriting. “And she never will.” 

“Thank you,” Edward said quietly. 

“He is dead, is he not?” 

Edward sat silent. 

“Edward?” 

1927.  

Columbus, Ohio. 

The lock was stupidly easy to pick. It wasn’t until the peeling red front door swung open that he realized picking the lock was entirely unnecessary. A relic from the decorum which had been drilled in him by the man, enchanted by a world he had no place being in, he had spent the last ten years of his life with. 

If he had been ‘raised’ by anyone else the doorknob would have been crushed by his pinky, the beast sleeping inside the dilapidated house, in a drunken stupor, would be torn to shreds, his intestines strung up a flagpole. 

 Instead, Edward Cull— Masen had been coached to be a coward; forever doomed to be a little boy pretending to be a man. 

He crept through the house, avoiding the creaky floorboards he had seen in an innocent woman’s horrifying memories. The man, lying helpless, on the bed looked innocent. He was anything but. 

Edward had seen him looking down the barrel of a shotgun, one he hung above the fireplace, a trophy of the time he threatened someone’s, his wife’s, life. He had seen that mustache twitch as he slammed a jaw into a wall, the slightest of dimples showing when a crack rang through the room and a wail emitted from the woman curled up on the floor. He had seen those hands, now tucked under the man’s cheek, stained with the blood of a wailing woman whose only mistake was her choice of spouse. 

Thick blood coursed through the man’s veins, the steady intoxicating thump of a heartbeat filling the room, wrapping around Edward like a constrictor, whispering in his ear telling him to take a bite of the fig. One little bite. No more. That would be a waste. A momentary self-serving thrill, or a worthy punishment was the choice he had at hand and he better choose wisely. 

He was a monster; and, the wicked must not go unpunished. 

1931. 

It was Carlisle’s turn to be silent. Even his thoughts were blank, giving Edward even that insight would be too merciful. 

“You…” He started quietly but stopped as quickly as he began. 

The grandfather clock Carlisle had insisted on carrying across oceans ticked away forty minutes before either of them spoke, the wind howling outside like a grieving mother on a cliffside. 

“Please say something,” Edward finally pleaded. “Think something. Anything.” 

Carlisle wasn’t so merciful. 

“Carlisle, please.” 

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Twilight Series - All Media Types Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Charles Evenson, Esme Cullen, Carlisle Cullen, Edward Cullen Additional Tags: Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence Summary:

“Charles is dead, is he not?” Carlisle asked. A crow, which Esme fed every night at a quarter past five and named ‘Albert’ screeched somewhere in the yard. “Edward?” 

What if Edward had sought revenge on Charles Evenson in a form other than murder?

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briefly breaking my hiatus to say I quilted a Twilight bag. patterns found on fandom in stitches by cat magraith

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briefly breaking my hiatus to say I quilted a Twilight bag. patterns found on fandom in stitches by cat magraith