#I years had been from home by Emily Dickinson

[ro-sham-no]

Motel Parking Lot Reverie

Sam had never been down this way before, but the sleepless nights were piling up, lately, and since Jess had moved in, pacing through his apartment late at night was out, so: Late-night walks to new areas of town.

Or,

While at Stanford, Sam finds Dean asleep in a motel parking lot.

cw: minor blood mention, gencest (in the most gen sense of the term)

Sam had never been down this way before, but the sleepless nights were piling up, lately, and since Jess had moved in, pacing through his apartment late at night was out, so: Late-night walks to new areas of town.

He’d made it a point, back when he’d first gotten to school, to not look at the yellow pages. Stanford was his ticket to safety, and being normal was a crucial part of that scheme, which meant not knowing exactly where his family would turn up- would have. Would have turned up, if he weren’t living this fever dream life where every waking moment was tainted with the un-ignorable flavor of losing the only home Sam’d ever had.

Anyway, normal: Sam was The Normalest Guy Ever™ and that meant avoiding looking at the first page of motels listed in the phonebook, alright? Don’t worry about it. But now, turns out he didn’t need that listing, after all. The proof, the undeniable, shining black, chrome-accented proof, was glaring him in the face. 

Just casually on a stroll, but setting a brisk pace, because even though he’s a big guy, walking with confidence doesn’t hurt your chances of not getting mugged. Then, cue record scratch, cue “I bet you’re wondering how I got here” monologue, cue the what the fuck, is that really– yep, it must be– what the fuck cliche of it all, all while standing twenty feet away, having just turned the street corner. Sam would recognize that car anywhere, as soon as she came into view, naturally. And to think he came down this side street randomly, to think it was all by accident. What the fuck.

An uncomfortable, gnawing thought containing the words fate and in the end, it all comes back to this flitted through his mind, but he swiftly ignored it; there were more relevant problems at hand. Such as, if Dean had a motel room, why was he passed out in the Impala? And, what would happen if I used the spare key I kinda-sorta stole to unlock the door right now?

Wait, what?

No, no, no- absolutely not, there was no way Sam would get any closer than the current fifty feet of space he had put between him and Dean the car. After getting fifteen feet too close on instinct, hence seeing Dean lying across the seat, Sam wasn’t taking any chances and had moved much farther back.

And yet, when Sam looked down, his feet had moved three feet forward. A single, halting stride. He looked at the car, then back down at his feet, and- there! It happened again!

Clearly, his shoes were possessed and he needed to tear them off his feet and burn them, as quickly as possible. Fuck- he got distracted (damn those shoes!) and fifty feet had reduced to thirty. Shit. Twenty feet, now. Two. Sam gripped the nearby lamppost, unlit, for support. In resisting, for support in resisting, the- uh, the possessed shoes! Obviously. Not because the unobstructed view of Dean’s face for the first time in nearly four years made him weak in the knees, and in the heart. Definitely not.

His fingers burned. The key in his pocket, never taken off of his had-since-high-school key chain, burned. His lungs burned. Since when did his breath get so fast? And was it just him, or was the brisk night air suddenly sweltering? What is happening? Maybe these shoes really are possessed—

The thought process went like this: Cursed object. Heart attack. Hex bags. Collapsed lung. Blood loss. Hemorrhaging, hemorrhaging. Blood loss.

Dean— right in front of him, Dean, two feet away, right fucking there— was suddenly covered in blood. Sam’s responding lurch snapped him out of it; he looked again, and the blood was gone.

The silence, loud and quiet as the ocean and Sam’s own tinnitus, rolled and crashed against his ear. Not dying, no— scared. 

A barked, wooden laugh garbled in his throat as he tried to stifle it. Scared.

The door handle of the Impala gleamed menacingly (menacingly!) in the glare of the half-moon, and Sam gulped non-existent spit down his suddenly dry and aching throat. Yep. Scared.

Hilarious. Real fuckin’ funny. More than a lifetime’s worth of death and danger and fighting for his life and fighting for his brother’s and father’s lives, and he’s scared of a goddamn door. 

Sam’s free hand flitted up to touch the car — when had he dug out his keys? — but it stopped two inches from the black paint. He took his hand back, conscious of it now, and put the keys back in his pocket, careful not to jingle them, a surefire way to wake Dean up. Keys secured, Sam reached back out, bare-handed and trembling, and placed his splayed hand gingerly against Baby’s side, like a gentling touch to a horse’s flank, keeping it still. His hand was firm on the steel, since he was half-convinced the awful door would spring open at any moment, exerting his will without lifting a finger.

Dean’s chest moved up and down steadily, dead asleep. The door stayed shut.

Sam exhaled shakily, through pursed lips, mouth tense as he minutely began to pull his hand away. Both his hands came up to either side of his face, a universal sign of what the fuck am I doing, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit— but also covering his ears, clutched close and squeezing, just as his eyes squeezed shut, too, his breath coming in quick bursts, again, hitching and painful.

His eyes snapped back open just as fast, though, scanning every inch of the scene before him — the graceful gleam of the Impala’s leather seats. Dean’s slack mouth. Dean’s drool on his arm where it was tucked under his head. Dean’s shitty green cooler that he should really give up on lugging around. Dean’s, Dean’s, Dean’s– Dean, whole, peaceful but for a small furrow in his brow that Sam hadn’t seen before. Dean, uninjured and driving around with the two pieces of Sam’s life that were the most integral to his definition of home: the Impala, and Dean himself. All absorbed, all stolen from the peaceful nightscape and tucked away into the webs of Sam’s fingers and behind his ears and in between his teeth and wherever he could fit them, really, all in the span of the few seconds Sam felt he could spare. 

Sam’s breath was hiccuping, at this point, but no, his eyes were not wet, thank you very much- this was grand larceny, not a damn soap opera. His foot shifted back in the loose gravel, just barely loud enough to be heard through the hands over his ears, but it was enough, setting him off like a track field gunshot. He ran. 

Hands off his ears, now, swinging him into his stride; more loud gravel, more hiccuped gasps, more not-tears, more stolen visages clutched tight, and a resolute decision to not glance backward to see if Dean had woken up. A thief in the night. He ran.

...

I years had been from home, And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine And ask my business there. My business, — just a life I left, Was such still dwelling there? I fumbled at my nerve, I scanned the windows near; The silence like an ocean rolled, And broke against my ear. I laughed a wooden laugh That I could fear a door, Who danger and the dead had faced But never quaked before. I fitted to the latch My hand, with trembling care, Lest back the awful door should spring, And leave me standing there. I moved my fingers off As cautiously as glass, And held my ears, and like a thief Fled gasping from the house.

- Emily Dickinson

[inkskinned]

for a while i lived in an old house; the kind u.s americans don't often get to live in - living in a really old house here is super expensive. i found out right before i moved out that the house was actually so old that it features in a poem by emily dickinson.

i liked that there were footprints in front of the sink, worn into the hardwood. there were handprints on some of the handrails. we'd find secret marks from other tenants, little hints someone else had lived and died there. and yeah, there was a lot wrong with the house. there are a lot of DIY skills you learn when you are a grad student that cannot afford to pay someone else to do-it-for-ya. i shared the house with 8 others. the house always had this noise to it. sometimes that noise was really fucking awful.

in the mornings though, the sun would slant in thick amber skiens through the windows, and i'd be the first one up. i'd shuffle around, get showered in this tub that was trying to exit through the floor, get my clothes on. i would usually creep around in the kitchen until it was time to start waking everyone else up - some of them required multiple rounds of polite hey man we gotta go knocks. and it felt... outside of time. a loud kind of quiet.

the ghosts of the house always felt like they were humming in a melody just out of reach. i know people say that the witching hour happens in the dark, but i always felt like it occurred somewhere around 6:45 in the morning. like - for literal centuries, somebody stood here and did the dishes. for literal centuries, somebody else has been looking out the window to this tree in our garden. for literal centuries, people have been stubbing their toes and cracking their backs and complaining about the weather. something about that was so... strangely lovely.

i have to be honest. i'm not a history aficionado. i know, i know; it's tragic of me. i usually respond to "this thing is super old" by being like, wow! cool! and moving on. but this house was the first time i felt like the past was standing there. like it was breathing. like someone else was drying their hands with me. playing chess on the sofa. adding honey to their tea.

i grew up in an old town. like, literally, a few miles off of walden pond (as in of the walden). (also, relatedly, don't swim in walden, it's so unbelievably dirty). but my family didn't have "old house" kind of money. we had a barely-standing house from the 70's. history existed kind of... parallel to me. you had to go somewhere to be in history. your school would pack you up on a bus and take you to some "ye olden times" place and you'd see how they used to make glass or whatever, and then you'd go home to your LEDs. most museums were small and closed before 5. you knew history was, like, somewhere, but the only thing that was open was the mcdonalds and the mall.

i remember one of my seventh grade history teachers telling us - some day you'll see how long we've been human for and that thing has been puzzling me. i know the scientific number, technically.

the house had these little scars of use. my floors didn't actually touch the walls; i had to fill them with a stopgap to stop the wind. other people had shoved rags and pieces of newspaper. i know i've lost rings and earring backs down some of the floorboards. i think the raccoons that lived in our basement probably have collected a small fortune over the years. i complain out loud to myself about how awful the stairs are (uneven, steep, evil, turning, hard to get down while holding anything) and know - someone else has said this exact same thing.

when i was packing up to leave and doing a final deep cleaning, i found a note carved in the furthest corner in the narrow cave of my closet. a child's scrawled name, a faded paint handprint, the scrangly numbers: 1857.

we've been human for a long time. way back before we can remember.

[aboutbirds]

I Years had been from Home And now before the Door I dared not enter, lest a Face I never saw before

Stare stolid into mine And ask my Business there — "My Business but a Life I left Was such remaining there?"

I leaned upon the Awe — I lingered with Before — The Second like an Ocean rolled And broke against my ear —

I laughed a crumbling Laugh That I could fear a Door Who Consternation compassed And never winced before.

I fitted to the Latch My Hand, with trembling care Lest back the awful Door should spring And leave me in the Floor —

Then moved my Fingers off As cautiously as Glass And held my ears, and like a Thief Fled gasping from the House —

Emily Dickinson, "I Years had been from Home," from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson

[maximoffsgirl]

Peace in Chaos

summary: You can’t say no to the twins; Wanda, can’t say no to you. It’s a dynamic that often works in their favor—especially when they desperately want something. The twins know that, if all else fails, they can rely on you to soften Wanda’s resolve, even if they trick you along the way.

warnings: Established relationship, Wanda and Reader are married. Domestic Life. The twins are close to 7/8 years old. Wanda is referred as mama/mom, Y/N is referred as mommy. Otherwise, I think there's none, this is pure fluff

author's note: English isn't my first language :) and to the anon who requested this, I hope this is what you were thinking about❤️

word count: 3.311

not proofread!

When Wanda first joined the Avengers, she spent much of her time locked away inside the room they designated as hers, finding solace in the company of old books she had never had the chance to read before. Among those books, she stumbled upon a collection of poetry and came across a single phrase, quoted by Emily Dickinson; a phrase which was still written at the beginning of the diary Clint had gifted her for Christmas when the Avengers Tower became her home: "The heart wants what it wants, or else it does not care."

At first, Wanda found the phrase peculiar. How could her heart, which had never known a single day of peace, possibly want anything? Yet, as time passed, she began to understand. It was precisely because her heart had endured so much chaos that it longed for something different.

Stability was a foreign concept to Wanda. Her life had always been beyond her control, and when her powers came into the picture, they only added to the turmoil. But the constant inconsistency made Wanda’s heart want one thing more than anything in the whole world. A family.

She yearned for a family like the one she once had. A family she could come home to at the end of the day, where she could sink into the couch with the weight of the week pressing down on her shoulders - an uncomfortable ache, yet in a place where she felt comfortable. An environment where a television program no one was really watching played softly in the background while someone shared the details of their day. Wanda’s heart craved for care and tenderness, something solid yet gentle—a sanctuary that felt soft, safe, and unshakably real.

After the life she had lived—always running, fighting, and losing—it felt almost unbelievable that Wanda now had everything she had ever wanted cradled in her arms. Hard to believe, I know. But with your head resting against her chest, your body nestled between her legs as you scrolled through your phone, Wanda was certain that she needed nothing more. She closed her eyes  briefly, letting herself savor the peace, the warmth, and the steady rhythm of your breathing.

The sounds from your phone mingled with the lively chatter drifting down from upstairs, where the twins were deeply immersed in a passionate debate about something. It was chaos. But it was her chaos. A chaos that she chose and was looking forward to every single day live in. 

“Hm? What are you doing?” Wanda asked, her arms tightening around you as you started to move. Her voice was soft but carried a hint of reluctance. She tilted her head a little to the side, wanting to know what you were planning. 

You turned to face her, a small smile on your lips. “We forgot to put the plates in the dishwasher,” you replied casually, as if that alone was enough reason to leave Wanda's embrace. To your wife, it definitely wasn't.

Wanda let out a low, drawn-out groan, clearly unenthusiastic about you leaving the comfort of her body pressed against yours. She held you a little tighter, silently protesting your attempt to get up.

“Don’t you need to finish your mission report?” you teased gently, raising an eyebrow at her reaction. Your words made her sigh in mild defeat. She had mentioned earlier that she needed to wrap up her mission report after dinner. It wasn’t a task she enjoyed—especially when it meant sacrificing time with you—but it was something she couldn’t ignore, no matter how much she hated it.

“I do,” she complained, her tone carrying a mix of annoyance and reluctance. Her thumb gently brushed against your cheek. It was obvious she didn’t want to move, but the mission report wasn’t going to complete itself.

Before either of you could say more, a sudden, loud noise from upstairs interrupted the moment. Both your heads turned toward the ceiling in unison. Wanda frowned, her brows knitting together as she stared at the source of the commotion.

“What are they doing up there?” she muttered, her voice tinged with both curiosity and a hint of irritation.

“Probably destroying your things,” you joke, smirking at her. Wanda didn’t share your amusement; instead, she shot you a stern look, her concern evident. That only made you chuckle softly.

“Relax, baby” you murmured, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to her lips, your way of soothing her. With a lazy stretch, you slipped out of her warm embrace, earning a soft groan of protest as you stood. “I’ll get the dishes,” you said with a playful shrug, heading toward the kitchen while Wanda remained on the couch. 

She reached out for you, calling your name with a playful pout on her lips, as if trying to coax you back into her arms. But all she got in response was a teasing kiss blown in the air, followed by a few more chuckles from you. "You're impossible," Wanda muttered, though the corners of her mouth twitched, hinting at a smile she couldn’t quite suppress

A few minutes later, Wanda mirrored your actions with a resigned sigh. With a stretch and a yawn, she slowly pushed herself off the couch, kissing your shoulder once she moved past the kitchen to her home office. She opened the door with another huff, the thought of that mission report weighed heavily on her, already draining her energy before she even began.

As peaceful as the silence was, it didn’t last longer than fifteen minutes—a brief reprieve, but in a house with twins, it felt like a blessing. The twins knew better than to disturb Wanda when her office door was closed, understanding the importance of letting her work in peace. However, today was different. They had something important to ask her, and they were certain that mama wouldn’t mind being interrupted if it was truly important.

Wanda, ever attuned to the sounds around her, heard the soft footsteps and hushed whispers before the three gentle knocks echoed on her office door. She glanced down at the mission report in front of her, then dropped her pen onto the pile of papers near the notebook, her attention fully shifting to the interruption. 

“Yes?” she called out, her voice loud enough to reach her sons, signaling they had permission to enter.

The door creaked open slightly, and two sets of curious eyes peeked through the gap. First, Tommy, with his usual impatience, then Billy, who always seemed a bit more cautious. Their wide eyes and raised eyebrows said it all—they had something to ask. Wanda couldn’t help but smile at the sight of them, her stern demeanor softening instantly. She gestured for them to come in, her smile softening as she watched them shuffle inside, their little hands fidgeting with each other in anticipation.

“Is everything alright?” Wanda asked, her voice filled with the kind of tenderness that only a mother could provide.

The twins, true to their age, began poking and nudging each other, whispering in hushed tones while they stood in front of their mother - who was looking at them with amusement as they continued to argue who would be the one to initiate the conversation. 

“Mom, we have something super important to ask. But… promise you’re going to listen first” Billy tried to negotiate, his little feet shuffled nervously as he spoke. Tommy, by his side, nodded his head in support, his wide-eyed expression practically daring Wanda to disagree.

Wanda arched an eyebrow, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she watched her boys’ antics. Leaning back in her chair, she murmured a soft, “Okay…” her tone amused yet curious, ready to hear what the twins were planning. 

“So.. we saw something on the internet..”

That wasn’t entirely true. Long before the twins were even born, you and Wanda had agreed, in a heartful parenting talk, that unrestricted internet access wouldn’t be part of your children’s childhood. That being established, the closest the twins got to the “internet” was their tablets - with a few games they begged to have since all their friends were active on and the little maximoffs were being left out- streaming shows, and, on some occasions like weekends, YouTube videos.

Still, Wanda stayed quiet, her expression neutral as she listened to Tommy’s words. Even if he couldn’t possibly get whatever their idea was from the ‘internet; more likely, he was just saying it as an excuse to shift the responsibility off himself and his brother. 

“And we wanted to try.. We wanted to have a night pool party”

Wanda arched an eyebrow, glancing between her sons with growing curiosity. She had a sneaking suspicion about where this was headed but decided to feign ignorance, opting to play along.

"A night pool party..." Wanda repeated slowly, dragging out the words with a hint of amusement as she looked at her sons. Her lips twitched with a barely suppressed smile. "And where would this happen, exactly?"

"Here! Tonight! We've already planned everything," Tommy blurted out, his words tumbling over each other in his excitement.

Billy immediately hissed at his brother, shooting him a sharp glare. That definitely wasn’t part of the carefully rehearsed convincing speech they had agreed on beforehand. 

Wanda frowned, her amusement fading. If it were any other season, the idea might not have bothered her as much. But her sons wanting to swim in the freezing water of the pool outside? That was a firm no. The idea would only serve so they’d catch a cold and be miserable for the rest of the week. Besides, late hours weren’t meant for pool parties—especially not in this weather and not with the age they had. 

There they stood in front of her: matching cozy pajamas, hair lazily brushed back, and fresh-faced from their recent bath. They looked absolutely adorable, and Wanda couldn’t bear the thought of letting their idea ruin that. Spring was just around the corner, and while her children were undeniably the cutest in the world, she had no interest in dealing with two sick little ones—especially when even the smallest sneeze turned them into impossibly needy bundles of chaos.

“No. It's not even hot.” she simply replied, looking back to the now black screen of her notebook. 

“But mom,” the twins protested in unison, their voices carrying the familiar tone of pleading.

Wanda, however, was unmoved. Her decision was final, and she wasn’t about to budge. Crossing her arms, she gave them a firm but gentle look that clearly said, not happening.

“No is no, boys. I’m not going to repeat myself. When it's hotter we can think about it”

The twins left her office with matching little huffs, their quiet complaints trailing behind them. They knew better than to argue further or try to reason with their mother—her decision was final, as always.

But the twins, as stubborn as any Maximoff to ever walk the Earth, weren’t ready to give up just yet. Instead, they exchanged a look, a silent agreement passing between them. They’d just have to come up with another strategy.

It was no secret that, between you and Wanda, you were the parent more likely to entertain the wild ideas your sons came up with. Camping in the backyard? Of course. Nearly a liter of milkshake, even if it was freezing outside? Without a doubt. If it sounded fun, you were usually on board.

You didn’t blame Wanda for seeing things differently. After everything she had endured in her life, control and structure brought her a sense of peace she had rarely known before. Ensuring that the household stayed balanced and comfortable wasn’t just her way of parenting—it was her way of feeling secure.

But that didn’t make her the “boring parent.” If you asked the twins, they’d insist that mama was just as fun as mommy. Sure, she was a little scarier when she got angry, but that only made her the perfect balance to your more carefree approach.

Although they knew better than anyone how to take advantage of your different personalities.

At times like this, when Billy and Tommy had their hearts set on something, they knew they could always count on you to try convincing Wanda to let them have their way.

Sometimes it didn’t work—after all, undermining Wanda’s authority wasn’t part of your parenting playbook, nor was it in hers. But there were moments when a little push for compromise didn’t hurt, especially for something harmless enough to reconsider.

That’s why you felt two little fingers poking each of your shoulders while you scrolled through your phone on the couch. Turning around, you were met with the two most adorable faces you’d ever seen.

“Hi, boys. Already tired of breaking the house upstairs?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

They responded with cheeky smiles, and without a word, Billy climbed up to sit beside you on the couch, Tommy quickly settling in next to his brother. Their mischievous grins told you they had something up their sleeves.

“Mommy…” Billy trailed off, his voice sweet and direct. “Can we have a swim party tonight?”

His question was much more straightforward than Tommy’s had been when they’d asked Wanda.

You frowned slightly at the idea. The weather wasn’t exactly cold, but it certainly wasn’t warm enough to make a pool party seem like the best choice. You thought about it for a moment. The pool was clean, they’d have fun, and it might tire them out enough for an easy bedtime.

“Hm. Why not?” you said with a shrug, giving in to their request. The twins smiled, happy to finally receive a ‘yes’ to their idea. 

“Can you convince mama then?” Tommy asked eagerly, his excitement practically radiating off him. Billy let out another huff, clearly annoyed by his brother's impatience.

You turned your body to face them, a sigh escaping your lips as you realized you'd fallen for one of their tricks, again

“Don’t turn this on me, boys,” you said, shaking your head. But when they hit you with those puppy-dog eyes, you knew you were in trouble. You sighed again, giving in.

“Okay, I guess I could try to convince her... but if she doesn’t budge, I won’t try again, alright?”

The twins nodded eagerly, their smiles growing wider once they got you to agree with their idea. You ruffled both of their messy hairs playfully before standing up, a smile tugging at your lips as you made your way toward Wanda’s office. The twins’ giggles echoed behind you, but you knew you had your work cut out for you if you were going to convince Wanda.

Just like your sons, you approached Wanda’s office quietly, giving a few light knocks before stepping inside. Wanda, who was about halfway through her report, looked up and smiled at the sight of you. Grateful for the excuse to take a break, she rolled her chair back slightly and patted her lap, inviting you to sit.

You settled sideways on her lap, and Wanda wasted no time wrapping one arm around your waist, pulling you close, sighing with the familiar weight of your body upon hers

“How’s it going?” you asked, your fingers working gently at the tense muscles in her neck. Wanda let out a soft sigh, her smile a blend of contentment and fatigue.

“Annoying, as always,” she replied, her voice laced with a hint of frustration. Her hand drifted to your thigh, her fingers lightly running over the fabric in soothing motions as she added with a small smile, “But I’m halfway through it”.

“You know... the twins mentioned something about a night swim tonight,” you said casually, your tone light but deliberate. “And, apparently, I’ve been tasked with convincing you,” you added playfully, though there was a touch of seriousness behind your words.

“Have you now?” Wanda replied, her voice mirroring your playful tone but laced with even more amusement. She arched an eyebrow knowingly, already piecing together where this conversation was heading.

“I know you already said no, but they’re so excited about it, Wands,” you said, trying to play the kids’ happiness card against her. Wanda rolled her eyes, a small smirk tugging at her lips. She saw right through your game but decided to let you play it anyway.

“And just think about it,” you continued, your hands gently moving along her neck, down to her shoulders, and back up again in soothing motions. “We can turn on the pool LEDs, make it fun. They’ll tire themselves out, and bedtime will be so much easier.”

You laid out the positives, your tone soft but persuasive, waiting patiently for her response.

“Love.. I know. But it’s late and It’s not even hot” She tried to resonate with you, sighing with each argument, knowing she has already lost. 

“They’ll be alright, babe. Let them have this,” you said with a convincing smile.”

Wanda let out a heavy sigh, her expression unamused as she looked at you. “If they catch a cold, you will be the one taking care of them,” she said firmly, pointing a finger at you for emphasis.

But despite her words, you both knew the truth. If that scenario played out, Wanda would be right there, rolling her eyes but still doting on the sick twins, as she always did.

You stayed wrapped in her embrace for a while, both of you savoring the quiet presence of each other. Wanda adjusted you on her lap, shifting just enough to free both hands so she could continue working on her report. You rested your head against her shoulder, your warm breath brushing against her neck, which made her smile softly despite her focus on the task.

The content of the report didn’t matter to you now—you’d already heard all about the mission the day after she got home. So you stayed quiet, simply enjoying the comforting warmth of her body and the peaceful moment you were sharing.

After that,  you and Wanda made your way to the living room, stepping in quietly. The twins were curled up on the couch, watching something on Netflix, completely oblivious to your arrival. Wanda stepped forward, arms crossed, hands on her hips, and her head tilted in mock frustration.

“I can’t believe you both!” she exclaimed, her tone sharp and disapproving.

The twins froze, their eyes widening as they turned to face you both. Wanda’s intimidating stance and your almost-guilty expression made them shrink in their spots, unsure of what they’d done.

“What are you two doing? You should be getting ready for the swim party!” Wanda said, feigning exasperation but failing to hide the faint twitch of a smile.

The twins blinked at her, then at each other, before springing up from the couch in pure joy. “Oh my god, seriously?!” Tommy shouted.

“YESSS!” Billy cheered, both of them jumping around excitedly as they circled their mothers, their energy contagious.

Soon, the house transformed into its familiar brand of chaos. The twins, now dressed in their swimsuits, were already splashing around in the pool, the colorful glow of the LED lights—courtesy of Tony Stark—dancing across the water. Their laughter echoed through the backyard, only occasionally interrupted by shouts of, "It's so cold!" Wanda, unimpressed, responded with a dramatic eye roll, her arms folded across her chest.

Standing at the edge of the pool, Wanda kept her distance, her arms wrapped firmly around her waist as she watched the scene unfold. She made no effort to join the fun, choosing instead to watch with a raised eyebrow and an air of feigned detachment. Yet, the slight tug at the corners of her mouth betrayed her amusement.

Somehow, despite her initial objections, Wanda found a sense of peace in the chaos surrounding her. The sound of Tommy and Billy's laughter brought a soft smile to her face, and she even chuckled at your playful teasing—directed at both her and the twins.

Two days later, the inevitable happened. The twins began sneezing, and you found yourself on the receiving end of a very pointed lecture from Wanda. But, as always, her frustration melted away with a sweet kiss, leaving her shaking her head in exasperated affection.

It was a different kind of chaos—one filled with sniffles, tissues, and extra cuddles—but it was hers. Wanda’s heart had finally found something. Had finally found peace in the beautiful mess of it all.

✄╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

thanks for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it💌

masterlist

[paracosmic-murdock]

i still got love for you

part four: i hope for you

pairing: francesca bridgerton x fem!reader

summary: leaving for bath out of the sudden was the hardest thing you had had to do, not particularly because you had left your parents and home behind, but because your friendship with francesca bridgerton was ripped away from you a sudden summer morning.

five years later, francesca arrived in bath for the season to practice pianoforte with her aunt winnie, and finally, you see her again after thinking you had forever lost her. how much you wanted for your love to live and beat still, how much you wanted for francesca to say so.

warnings/tags: sapphic francesca bridgerton, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, am i gay quiz but make it nineteenth century somehow, smut, minors dni, inspired by an emily dickinson intimate letter to susan hunington dickinson, song: seven (taylor swift)

word count: 3.7K

❁ part one | part two | part three | part five | part six

❁ mila's anthology (main masterlist)

“Susie, will you indeed come home next Saturday, and be my own again, and kiss me as you used to? I hope for you so much, and feel so eager for you, feel that I cannot wait, feel that now I must have you — that the expectation once more to see your face again makes me feel hot and feverish, and my heart beats so fast.” (Excerpt from Open me carefully: Emily Dickinson's intimate letters to Susan Hunington Dickinson by Emily Dickinson)

“That is your favorite breakfast.”

You stopped playing with your fork and looked at him. “I am not hungry.”

He ate the last bite of his dish. “Oh, and why would that be? The last time you ate was for lunch yesterday and it was almost nothing.”

“I do not know. Perhaps I am tragically ill.”

“Clearly,” He scoffed sarcastically. “You miss her.”

“I don't miss anybody, Charles. I just feel unwell.” you stated.

“You, Sister, are a terrible liar.”

“And you, Brother, are delusional.”

He shook his head and stood up, putting the napkin you had embroidered on the table before storming off without any explanation.

You rolled your eyes, drinking your berry tea.

As much as you wanted to deny it, you were pensive because you missed Francesca.

You haven't seen her since dinner a couple of weeks ago, and you couldn't help but feel bad about it.

Three days after that evening, you went to her aunt's home but were told she was not there. You left a message for her: she was invited to join you for tea the next day or whenever she wanted to, for you would be at your home every day.

You canceled quite some plans just in case she went, but she never did. And you were devastated.

It was a lovely evening, and you thought everything went really well. Perhaps it was because you had called her darling. You felt it was proper at the moment, but now, not anymore. Now, in your mind, you have made her feel uncomfortable and lost her forever.

Charles’ mind was known for hardly being made up.

Dilemma was almost his second name, and it was no secret. Always a dilemma, and now wasn't the exception.

He hates to see you upset and hurting. You are his sister, and ever since you were born, he vowed to love you and protect you. And after your parents sent you away, it was his biggest purpose.

Right now, he had no choice but to tell Francesca Bridgerton, in front of him, the reason he was there.

Charles cleared his throat. “I suppose you have an idea as to why I am here.”

“Charles…”

“Frannie, did she do something wrong?”

“No, I just…” She sighed. “I have not been feeling very well lately, that is all.”

“Are you sure?” he questioned, not quite believing her.

“Yes.” She nodded.

“My sister has been punishing herself for your absence, and… it breaks me to see her like this,” he mentioned. Francesca felt her heart break at the thought of you hurting. “Why don't you come for lunch at our home? I shall have the cooks do something you like.”

“Uh, we were invited for lunch at the Maguire's home, I am sorry…” she lied.

Charles sighed. “When can we receive you, then?”

“I do not know.” she said, looking down to her hands.

He stood up. “I really hope you know she is hurting because of your absence. She did those five years, and she has these past weeks. She loves you, and I know you love her too. And no, not in a friendly manner.”

And, just like that, he left.

Francesca sighed and watched him leave, not able to decide what to do. To stop him. To ask him. To do anything.

In truth, the reason Francesca has not visited you in weeks is because she was scared of loving you. Not for being you, but for being a woman.

Her aunt Winnie had asked her if Lord Chadwick was courting her, but she didn't quite know what to say. She just said she did not know, but her aunt was convinced he was.

Understandably so, because no man would just invite a young lady to his home so many times if he didn't have any intention to court her. What she didn't know was that the one interested in her was you. Another lady.

After the implications regarding your brother, Francesca's aunt remarked how important it was for her to marry a gentleman, a good man, wealthy, and with title. The only one Francesca wanted was you.

You, you, you… No one else.

It pained her to know that her actions were affecting you, especially because the last thing she ever wanted was to make you feel bad. She loved you, and she knew that when you love somebody, you want that person to be happy.

But you could never feel fine or happy without Francesca. You couldn't deny that. Nor would she, especially now that you have reunited. And now that she knew that you loved her, too.

In all honesty, you calling her darling was unexpected and spooked her more than she was willing to admit. Maybe because it was a term of endearment and no one had used it on her before, or maybe because you used it, confirming she was your darling. Yours. Oh, how much Francesca longed to be yours.

So she thought about you during the lunch at Chadwick House she was invited to attend but wasn't intending to, during the afternoon she would've spent playing pianoforte instead, and during the evening she was supposed to get ready to sleep but didn't. Her aunt went to sleep, and she did quite the opposite, sneaking to the backyard to get you flowers, and leaving her home for the purpose of finding you.

Francesca did not particularly come up with a plan, so when she saw herself in front of the entrance to Chadwick House without a way to get in, she got worried. However, she didn't have to worry for much longer because Charles opened the door some minutes later.

“Charles!” She flinched and hid her hands behind her back as he suddenly appeared in front of her with a confused frown.

“Francesca?” He grinned. “What are you doing here?”

Francesca shook her head. “I- uh… I came to- nothing! I was just- I am going back.”

“Frannie, with all due respect,” Charles sighed, grabbing her forearm to stop her from leaving. “Shut up. My sister is in her chambers. Third floor, second door to the left.”

“Sorry,” She pouted. “I guess-”

“Lord save me! You two are driving me mad!” he exclaimed as he covered his face with his hands. “Get in there, Francesca, and don't you dare leave before resolving whatever it is that you two have going.”

With that, he left her there and got on the awaiting carriage she had failed to notice before.

Francesca sighed, walking inside the house and following your brother's directions until she reached your door.

She knocked, but received no answer, so she opened the door to find your room empty. Francesca guessed that, perhaps, you had gone out for a walk, so she went downstairs and ended up looking at you from afar.

You were sitting in the swing and looking at the night sky in utter silence, and she almost didn't dare to interrupt you. She, however, had a purpose for her visit and wouldn't let the courage she had gathered go to waste.

Francesca sat silently in the swing beside yours without saying a word.

“Charles, I told you to let me be.” you groaned, looking opposite from 'his' face.

She cleared her throat. “This is not Charles.”

You turned around abruptly to face her.

Dear God.

“Francesca-” you whispered, almost not believing it. “Are you truly here?”

“Yes, I am here,” She smiled, showing you the tulip of an unknown color in the dark. “But, firstly, this is for you.”

You smiled weakly.

At the silence, she spoke. “I, uh- I had to see you.”

“What for?”

“To apologize,” she replied and sighed, getting ready for the speech she had prepared the whole afternoon. “For not coming back after dinner. I… I was scared because you called me darling, and it made me realize that I might not be… alone in these feelings I find impossible to name. It felt real out of the sudden, and I was not prepared for it. I thought about them all those days and reached to a conclusion I was dreading: that I love you. Not like a girl who is fond of her childhood best friend or like a girl who has such dear affection for a sister, no; I love you like one loves the person that is to be their spouse, their love match. I know well enough that this is not something a woman is supposed to feel for another woman, but I do, and I have reasons to believe you do as well. Please, tell me I am not alone in this feeling, for I believe that love could never be as profound as mine for you were it not reciprocated.”

You grabbed the rope of her swing and pulled her close to you. “I love you, my darling. I love you so much that I fear the word love is not enough to grasp all that I feel for you. It is pathetic, the way your proximity makes my whole being combust in yearning; it is alluring, the way your eyes can heal all that chaos when they look into mine. Having you here with me, under the full moon and in a field of violets, is the utmost proof of how sacred this love is. How sacred we must treat it. Being yours is the ultimate purpose of my existence, and I would be beyond grateful to you if you allowed me to honor it by loving you devotedly and cherishing you adoringly.”

Francesca exhaled and hesitated for a single, intrusive second. She, right then and there, kissed your lips softly. There was doubt and insecurity, but you managed to wash it out by kissing her back with a passion she couldn't have even dreamt of.

“Would you like to stay for the night? It is far too late for you to return home by yourself and we do not have another carriage available. I fear Charles will not return until tomorrow.” you proposed, standing up and offering her your hand to do so, too.

Francesca nodded, now standing as well, and staring at your lips.

You smirked, closing the distance promptly.

You did not know how to kiss, but the two of you would certainly learn that night.

Of course there was an extra room, but there was no need for that. Despite the last sleepover being five years ago, there was still this feeling of comfort and intimacy shared between you and her.

“I know that sharing a bed has never been an issue for us,” you began. “But, if you wish, I could have the help bring another bed for you.”

“No!” she exclaimed, regretting the haste and reluctance of her answer. “I mean, no. It is not necessary, for your bed is big enough for the both of us.”

You nodded with a smile. “Would you like for me to get a maid to help you get ready to sleep? I might as well call-”

“No, There should be no need. We could help each other, is that not right?” she answered shyly. You were surprised to hear that, but thought nothing of it, ignoring the warmth taking over your body at the mere idea. “I- well, I- I did not mean it like… if you… if you want to. I do not have a problem. If you do, it is alright if you-”

“Yes, it is alright.” you agreed, approaching her and pointing to the bed with your head. “I had a maid bring a sleeping chemise for you… should you like for me to-?”

She nodded, undoing her coiffure before you got to her. “Yes, I should like for you to help me now.”

Francesca didn't know what was going on in herself. Her words seemed to come out before she could process them and her intentions were rather unclear even to herself.

Now, she was in front of you. Your hesitant hands trembled lightly as you started taking her dress off. Francesca let out a soft gasp when your fingers grazed her skin, noticing your closeness as she leaned closer to you, not creating contact just yet but desiring so, so very anxiously. You started undoing her corset slowly, trying to take in every second of proximity existent between you, the fervid hunger invading the moment.

Francesca let out a shaky breath, leaning toward you and, this time, she was actually resting her weight on you timidly. She whispered your name, almost silently enough for you to not hear.

But you always heard her.

Her head was resting on your shoulder, touching your cheek with her cheekbones. “I love you.”

You kissed her cheek gently and then went to her neck. You left slight bites on her skin and moaned as she pressed herself onto you slightly more.

“I love you, too,” you reminded her, and it felt as if it was the very first time you told her so. “I will never not.”

You kissed her shoulders and put your hands on her hips.

“I think we are…” you whimpered as she intertwined your hands with hers. “We are doing something we most likely should not.”

She exhaled with difficulty. “What would that be?”

“I saw them,” you began. “Anne and Petunia, my maids, they- I saw them doing this.”

“This?”

“Making love.”

Your answer left her in a place between confusion and oblivious understanding. She knew, but also she did not.

“What does it mean?”

“I went for a late night walk in the backyard and heard some noises,” you told her. “Chadwick House is not as big as the Devereaux Manor, so we do not need as much help, nor do we have enough room for more. Some of the help that stays at the house has to share a room, so my two lady maids do. I know where their room is, so, upon hearing the sounds, I peeked through the window in case something had happened. And I saw them… As soon as my shock subsided, I ran back to my chambers, but not without seeing them like we are now. They were kissing and touching each other, nude.”

Francesca frowned. “How do you know what it is called?”

“A few days later, I asked Charles about it, but I never said I had seen them. I told him I had heard it somewhere,” you answered. “He panicked and told me not to speak of such things ever again. Then, he said those are things men and women do after they marry, but that some men do it without marrying and that it was normal, but respectable ladies like me could not do so under any circumstance… So, naturally, I ended up asking Anna about it and blaming it on Charles. She said that it is called making love and that people do it to consummate their marriage. I told her that Charles said some men do, but that ladies like me cannot, so she explained to me that it is said that women lose their worth after doing that and must be valuable for deserving a marriage. Also, we could get pregnant when doing it with a man, but men do not have to worry about themselves being with child; I, then, asked if men did it with men or women with women, and she said it was possible but not well seen at all, so I should not do it unless I love and trust the woman, but that I must be careful and not tell a soul about it because it was a display of love, goodness, and intimacy that deserves to be cherished and not broken by society's discrimination. Anne also said that it is supposed to feel quite pleasurable. That is how I know.”

She nodded, taking a few seconds to think about it and analyze the situation.

“Can we… do that?” Francesca asked, some boldness whose origin she unfortunately ignored.

“Oh,” Your eyes met hers as she turned around. “Well, if you want to… I mean, I want to, but only if you do as well, uh… Do you want to?”

“Yes, I want to make love with you.” She smiled confidently.

“Are you sure?”

“I have never been more sure of anything in my life,” Francesca assured you, giving you a quick kiss on the lips. “Can I take off your gown?”

A soft exhale left your lips at the thought. “You can take all of me, my darling.”

Francesca smiled a little, pressing her forehead to yours. Your noses brushed each other's before you kissed.

And, when it happened, you could only describe it as mystical. With her, everything felt like magic.

You thought, more often than not, that you weren't built for this world. You weren't built for this society because you wanted nothing but her and to be able to dance with her at balls, to just say ‘this is my wife’ to everyone you met, to love her freely.

You weren't built for a society that kept you away from her.

You wanted to be with her like this always, to feel the tip of her fingers brush your skin and cause goosebumps, to stand naked before her and her before you, just like you were now.

“What are we supposed to do now?” she asked.

You shrugged. “Shall we find out?”

She chuckled nervously, feeling like the fire lighting up the room was actually inside of her. Francesca nodded, giving you the needed cue to end the distance between you two and kiss her.

It was hesitant at first. You didn't know what to do with your hands, so you just put her hair behind her ear, deepened the kiss, and then cupped her face. Meanwhile, Francesca freed your hair and rested her hands on your shoulders, not knowing what to do either.

She ended the kiss, looking at you with a glint of need in her shy hazel eyes. She sighed, all her fears leaving her body with that exhale. Her hands went to the back of your neck to pull you close and began kissing there, imitating what you were doing when you helped her undress.

You held her by her waist and her hands traveled your shoulders and her fingers drew burning, irregular shapes on your back. “This feels good.”

“It does.” She smiled against your skin.

In an attempt to get closer, you put your leg between hers and pulled her until your skin was on hers. Which also meant that you were close enough for your thigh to touch her core.

The moan she let out was almost delirious and the way her hips bucked in response caused her thigh to stumble upon you.

Your eyes met, both silently agreeing that what you just did felt, oh, so good.

Francesca swallowed hard and looked down as she bucked her hips to provoke the same feeling to both of you.

“God,” you moaned, holding her tightly against you and moving like she moved. “My bed.”

When you pulled apart to go to the bed, a strange emptiness took over you. It was not only emotional, as if missing each other a bit; it was physical, too. A warm and wet something was left on your thighs as a result of your pleasure, which came as a surprise because neither of you had any idea what any of what you were doing was, but you did know how good it felt.

Once you were finally sitting on your bed, you looked at each other as if asking for permission, but then you realized how absurd it was to ask, to wait, to hesitate, so you kissed, this time hungrily and intensely. The way you clumsily returned to your previous position gave away how much you needed each other.

You were so clumsy and careless, that this time it wasn't your thighs but your cores that met, and you cried out at how terribly delicious that contact felt.

“This… feels so…” Francesca began, not able to come up with the words that could describe how she was feeling, so she just kept moving with you and moaning your name loudly.

“Good?” you panted.

“Better than- than good,” she replied, her breath labored. “Great.”

Hearing her be vocal about this was unexpected to say the least. However, you found it exciting and hot. “How do you feel, Fran?” you encouraged her to speak, craving to hear her say things about this very wonderful moment.

“Great,” she replied, a strange pressure building inside her very being. “This- I like… this.”

You kissed her eagerly, harshly, to then ask. “Do you?”

“Yes…” She nodded, kissing you again as your hands traveled to her hips and then used the contact to guide her to be faster and pull her close enough to apply more pressure.

Francesca broke the kiss, her head falling back and giving you access to her neck. You sucked her skin, beginning to notice how she had some burning red spots on the places your mouth has been to before.

A desperate moan left your lips when a sensation started to form deep inside you, and she was feeling it, too. You could only describe it as if you were running from a great distance to a cliff, and everything you were doing in the earthly world made the inside you run faster and faster until you reached the edge. And there, Francesca was waiting for you to see how you slowed down for a second, only so she could hold your hand and jump with you.

In both the earthly and imaginary world, you moaned her name loudly as you fell off the edge of the cliff, or as you came with her.

She moaned and gasped, and hid her head against your neck to muffle the sounds she was making.

“Do not hold back,” you told her, feeling your orgasm last so very long. “I wish to hear you, please.”

Francesca obeyed you, pressing her forehead to yours and moaning your name against your lips.

It was so innocent, yet so sensual. It felt right, but, oh, so immoral. And carnal. And fascinating. Scandalous, beautiful, mystical, sinful.

You didn't stop until it was too much. Her embrace didn't end, and she wanted anything but.

“I love you.” you whispered, guiding her to lie on the bed with you.

She smiled. “I love you, too.”

“I am so happy that you still had love for me.” You kissed her softly.

“I will always have love for you.” Francesca replied.

You stared at each other in silence. Her hand was on your cheek, caressing it, and yours drew delicate patterns on the soft skin of her hips.

“Can we do this again?” Francesca asked.

You smiled. “Can we?”

“I should like that.”

“Me as well.”

taglist: @swiftholic-13 @kenzieisgone @urmultifandomfan

[sweetteaanddragons]

I Could Not See to See

(Title taken from Emily Dickinson's "I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died," a poem about the transition between life and death. It felt appropriate.)

(Summary: Morgoth's darkness blots out even the stars. Maedhros loses hope that any of them can survive this.

Some six thousand years later, Elrond refuses to lose hope when it comes to bringing home everyone that he can.)

The last time Elrond saw a star in Beleriand was when he was thirteen. After that, the Enemy’s smog grew too thick; only the sun’s light was fierce enough to bleed through it, and that only weakly.

He was also thirteen the first time Maedhros turned to him around the campfire and said, “When you die - ”

Elrond was not sure precisely what his face did at that moment. He thought Elros would have gone for a weapon if their hands had not been so occupied with the first bowls of hot stew they had been able to risk for three fortnights.

It helped that the most threatening thing Maedhros was handling at the moment was the ladle for said stew. It helped, too, that it had been a very long time since Maedhros had been the most immediate threat to them. He had slain three wights for them only that day and taken a nasty slash to the leg in the bargain; Elrond did not think he would so lightly turn and slay them now, especially while the leg was not yet well, and Elrond, for all his youth, was already the best healer among them.

Still. It did not stop Elros’s grip from changing ever so slightly on the bowl of stew.

“If,” Maglor said hastily, sitting down between them and Maedhros and heavily stressing the word. "If you die.”

Maedhros - the greatest swordsman Elrond had ever seen - looked down at the cut on his leg that even he was not quick enough to stop. Not when surrounded by so many enemies; not when protecting two more vulnerable targets; not when so many plants have shriveled beneath the choking smoke and animals have grown so scarce. “If,” he said sardonically.

He did not complete his thought.

It was two years later before Maedhros turned to them again and said, “When you die.” He paused there for an interruption, but there wasn't one.

Around them, what remained of the Feanorian followers were doing their best to make camp as far back from the mouth of the cave as they could. Outside, the rain hissed down, and there was something evil hiding in its whispers.

There were fewer of them than there were before the rain began to fall.

Maglor was still there. Maglor was by the mouth of the cave, singing up a draft to push back against the winds greedily pushing the rain farther inward. His mouth grew tight at his brother’s words, but he didn't stop the song.

“When we die,” Elros prompted from where he was leaning against the rough stone, wincing as Elrond inspected his wrist, swollen from his fall in the desperate scramble up the mountain.

“I don’t know where you’ll go.” The words were flat, but Maedhros’s eyes were as worried as he ever let anyone see. “You might be counted Men; if you are, there is little I can do to advise you, save to say that if there is any danger where Men go, you should certainly seek your kin.”

“Tuor, Turin - ”

“Huor, Hurin - ”

“Nienor, Morwen - ”

“Yes,” Maedhros interrupted before Elrond and Elros could get too far into their game of seeing who could remember the most ancestors. “Though if it comes to it, I’d recommend more toward appealing to Beren and Luthien and less toward Turin. I know little of his curse, but from what little I did hear, you will not want to tangle with it if it still remains.”

Elros refrained from pointing out that at least hiding behind the edges of a curse would be a familiar state for them. Elrond suspected that even someone not half entwined with Elros’s mind could guess it, judging from Maedhros’s weary twitch of the lips.

“But if you are counted as elves, that is another matter. Mandos’s Halls will be safe; I cannot speak for what you will find when you are released from them.”

The part of Elrond that still remembered being six years old and watching as his father sailed away in desperate hope of Aman’s salvation wanted to protest. Aman was perfect; Aman was untouched.

But he was not six years old anymore, and he had heard enough speculative whispers by now to know that just because the fires of Alqualonde must have long since burned out and those first darkness-fueled riots long since ended, it did not at all mean that all in Aman must be at peace. Conflict would not have ended with the Noldor’s exit.

“Stick together and use your best judgment as to whether it is better to be Sindarin princes or Noldorin princes or anonymous children of nowhere in particular. But before that - ” Here, he broke off and with a sharp gesture summoned Farande over from the throng of people investigating the back of the cave for danger. “Before that, you must get there, and if the wraiths and spirits that have haunted us this past month are any indication, that may require more cunning than it once did.”

Farande saluted as she drew near. “My king,” she said, before turning to them and taking on a tone Elrond had never heard her use before; she sounded like Maglor when he was teaching. “Mandos’s call is loud, but even in the days when all there was to oppose it were some leftover traps, Melkor’s was tempting.”

It took Elrond a moment to process this. His hands paused in their gentle prodding of Elros’s wrist. “You’ve died before?”

Elros peered around him curiously as though the information would somehow make Farande look different than she ever has before.

“On the great journey to Aman,” she said. Her tone did not invite further questions. “After the final blow, your spirit will linger about your body for a few moments in confusion; already, you will begin to hear the calls. They will tug at you. When I fell, Mandos’s was by far the stronger.”

She said nothing about what she suspected about now.

The hissing whispers in the rain seemed to get louder.

“The Enemy is cunning,” Maedhros said. His eyes were suddenly very hard to look into. “He lies well. It is not surprising that some fëa may have become confused by him.”

“Can you teach us what Mandos’s sounds like?” Elros asked Farande. “So we don’t get confused?”

She grimaced. “I will sing up the best memory I can for the company,” she promised. “But it will not be perfect. And without knowing what form the Enemy’s lie takes, I cannot promise it will be close enough. Which is why, when you fall, you should keep your fëar as near as you can to your bodies until I can come find you.”

Elrond recoiled a little. “But houseless spirits - ”

“Not houseless,” she said. “Namo is too stubborn to give up the call so quickly. He will not cease calling for some time; certainly not so little as it will take for me to find you. I can guide you after that.”

Elrond supposed this might work; he had seen communication with the dead before.

But it had always been the Enemy’s dead, bound closer to the world through his magics, and the communication had always been on the order of as forcefully as possible shooing them away. He was not sure Farande would be able to find them to speak to him - unless she didn’t need to, he supposed; if she went to their bodies and assumed they yet lingered, she could speak well enough, although how she would hear them describe the sounds they heard -

Elros’s mind had already raced further ahead. “That will only work if you die in the same battle as us,” he pointed out. He didn’t bother asking what would happen if he and Elrond didn’t fall in the same battle; the idea was too unthinkable. “What if you don’t?”

She raised one scarred eyebrow, almost laughing. “You think you will outlast me, little prince?”

“No,” Elros confessed freely. Farande had been fighting since before elves first saw the light of the Trees; it was hard to credit the rumor he had heard that she was once a healer when her hands were so quick with her blades. “But what if we fall in a fight and you don’t?”

“I will,” she said, all laughter gone. “I swear it to you as I swore it to my king, little prince: I will. And I will lead you home.”

For just a moment, Elrond stared at her in blank incomprehension.

“It won’t take me long,” she promised, her hand, just for a moment, brushing up against her own neck. “You know how quick I am with a knife.”

Elros recovered quicker. “You can’t,” he protested. “Namo won’t let you out, not after - “

She laughed in earnest then, high and clear. “I will be twice slain and thrice a kinslayer. Namo will not let me out regardless, and I would not want him to; Aman was never for the likes of I. No, his Halls shall suit me fine, and I can think of no better mission to bring me there.” 

She bowed to Maedhros and went back to her work, still laughing as she went.

Elrond stared after her. He could not seem to swallow.

“If that was a ploy to get us to train harder,” Elros said from behind him. “Congratulations, it worked.”

Maedhros didn’t smile.

(It did not take someone as perceptive as Elrond to see that Farande had made no preparations to depart.

“Your sons yet linger,” she told him. “I would not leave them alone.”

“No,” he agreed. There were others who had said such, and he was glad of it. “I worry for them.”

“I will defend them to my last breath,” she promised.

“I have never doubted it! On these shores, you shall keep them safe if any can. But Elrohir . . . Elrohir, at least, will sail, I think. I am not sure about Elladan, but I think he will sail for his brother’s sake. They will sail, but the sea is wide, and my sons are not sailors. I do not know that any Cirdan’s folk will yet linger when they decide to try it.”

Farande said nothing.

There were many who had said they would linger a while longer. He worried for them all.

But there were few he thought as likely as Farande to let themselves fade to echoes beneath the trees.

“You promised once to guide Elros and I west if it came to it,” he said softly. “I ask no oaths, Farande; you know that. But is it so greater a thing to ask a different guidance home?”

She swayed forward - swayed back. Swallowed, as she looked down to the courtyard where Elladan and Elrohir played at fighting and laughed below.

“It was no home to me,” she said at last. “It - could be, for them.”

“It could be for you,” he said, softer still. “Surely there is yet some untenanted valley in Aman where our people can gather again.”

The laughter swelled louder below. It had been long since he heard it from them so light and so free.

She swayed forward.

“I will sail them west,” she promised. “If you ask it of me, my lord, then yes; I will get them home.”)

[every-momento]

you can go home, but only as a memory

postcard // i had years been from home by emily dickinson // eric hurst // pledging allegiance by noor hindi // letters from home by zarina hasmi // the bedroom by vincent van gogh // breathe by lin manuel miranda // the house that built me by miranda lambert

[armandsbf]

“MY HEART WITHIN THE PIECES OF YOUR OWN”

INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE, SEASON ONE, EPISODE SIX

SUMMARY: A lot had unfolded since Claudia left that fateful day after Charlie’s death. Things had deteriorated between Louis, Lissette and Lestat, eventually leading to Lissette being turned into a vampire herself. When Claudia came back, begging Louis and Lissette to leave with her Lestat’s abandonment issues sparked and in his emotional distress, he hurt all three of them. Lissette’s heart broke, and three years later, he tries to make amends.

AN: hello! So this is the next part of Lissette’s story, as I said this will not be in chronological order, and this is the bit I was most inspired to write. Please read the summary for context and enjoy!

NEW ORLEANS, 1925

It had been months of precarious recovery before Lissette felt confident enough to go out. Even now, scars still peaked out from under her clothing. She found them shameful, proof that the person she'd loved the most had been willing to her for the mere idea that she'd choose to have her own life.

But tonight was good. Tonight was her, Claudia and Louis out for a walk on the town like they were a normal family. She felt happy for the first time in a long time, giggling and laughing as she hung off his arm.

"Emily Dickinson is not a vampire!" Louis cried playfully.

Claudia shook her head, utterly convinced of her own conspiracy. "How do you know?"

"She got a grave." He argued.

"So do you!" Said Claudia.

Lissette laughed. "She's got you there, daddy. But if anyone's gonna be a vampire, it simply must be Mary Shelley! She'd make a fabulous one."

"Oh, she would! I just know it!" Claudia agreed with a big smile on her face, leaning closer into her sisters side.

"It doesn't matter if she would or wouldn't cause you know what? She's not!" Louis chuckled.

"We'll see." Lissette sang sarcastically.

Then suddenly a car rolled up in front of them. The air felt very stiff and Lissette stumbled back a bit. She didn't know why or how, she just knew something was wrong.

She was right. Lestat stepped out of the car, nervous but trying his best to mask it with a smile. She couldn't look at him, keeping her head down as if the sound of his footsteps would deafen her. Louis and Claudia immediately stepped before her, forming a wall between her and her father.

She heard his voice for the first time in so long. "25 horsepower Rolls-Royce, six cylinder engine and a front end they call a coffin nose." His attempt at a joke fell flat. "Isn't that rich? This one's yours," he tossed the keys to Louis. "Mine's back at home, in blue."

But the silence continued. He so desperately wanted Lissette to look at him, talk to him, perhaps even let him hold her. His beautiful daughter he'd driven away so quickly, and had little to no chance of getting back. He'd try to earn her again until his dying day.

He cleared his throat nervously as he looked to her. "You...you don't like to drive, ma petit, so I have new sheet music and a piano of your own that I'll set up in your room back home. I do hope you like it, but of course if you should want anything else—" he cut himself off, seeing Lissette retreating into herself, her fingernails nervously scratching into the skin of her forearm. He gulped, knowing this nervous tick of hers. "I'm back in town. Permanently."

Claudia sized him up, red eyes looking him up and down. "Where you gone?"

"Across the river. In Algiers." He answered honestly. Lissette almost scoffed at that.

"You know who lives in Algiers." Her sister spoke into her mind.

"Louis, I don't know what possessed me that night." He was quick to explain, eyes trying their very best to be sincere but the blonde girl could no longer believe it. She knew those eyes, she had those eyes, and she knew all he wanted was to have them back in his control.

"Three years ago." Claudia clarified spitefully. "That night three years ago, he means."

"I was someone I don't want to be anymore. I've changed." Lestat's desperation was palpable. "Let me prove it to you. I'm nothing without you. I'm nothing without all of you." His eyes trailed from Louis to Lissette and then back to the ground. "If you want me to go away, just say so. I'll obey you. I'll leave your life forever." These words were entirely directed at Louis.

They were well aware that if Lissette tried to stray from him any longer, he wouldn't be so kind. He was her father, at the end of the day, and while his love for her was possessive and territorial, it was the love he felt most in the world.

But no one spoke.

"This silence is cruel." He said. "And you were never cruel, Louis."

Claudia was having none of it, taking her nails and digging them into the brand new paint job of the car, a harsh screeching sound following which made Lissette's ears hurt. She winced, but kept her eye trained on the ground.

They walked away, but one last desperate call came from the broken vampire. "Lissette!" He called out, this time more genuine. All three of them turned around, Louis and Claudia standing before her as if to protect her. It was silly, really, she was a vampire trained by Lestat himself, his perfect student, she didn't need their protection, but they knew she wouldn't harm her father. They just weren't sure if he would harm her.

He exhaled sadly. "I'll go. I will. If I can speak to Lissette."

"No." Claudia was quick to answer.

"I believe we should let her answer, Claudia." He snapped back. His hands were shaking, almost desperate to hold her in his arms. "Please." He begged.

Louis turned to his daughter, placing his hand on her soft cheek. His expression was questioning, asking her if she felt ready to speak to him. His love for her ran so deep that no matter what she said, it would sound like glory to his ears.

Claudia on the other hand stared at him with full hatred, refusing to allow him any closer to her sister.

But Lissette felt conflicted, her eyes full of pain but also longing. She didn't want Lestat, she wanted her papa.

She nodded.

Louis stepped out of the way as she walked towards him, but the other vampiress took hold of her forearm gently and held her. "Ettie." She warned.

She smiled sadly. "It's alright, Dia."

Still unsure, Claudia let go of her arm.

She stood directly before her father, whose face was full of relief. He looked at her like he'd looked at her before, like he'd always look at her, like she was a part of him. "My lovely girl." He breathed. "Y-you look well. You look beautiful, truthfully."

But she didn't say anything. She couldn't get the words out.

He continued. "I'm sorry. For everything. I hope you know that." He said. "Hurting you was a mistake, hurting all of you was a mistake."

He waited for her to reply desperately, like a dog at the door waiting to be fed. He looked behind her to see that Louis still refused to meet his eyes and Claudia was still staring him down. "Perhaps we can take a walk. Just the two of us."

"No." Louis spoke for the first time. "I'm not leaving her with you."

He seemed taken aback that he'd ever said a word to him, but was quick to reply. "She's my daughter." She's mine, he meant to say. "I won't hurt her."

"You said that last time." Claudia argued.

"Alright." Said Lissette.

The energy shifted. Lestat was shocked, but ecstatic. Her other family members were shocked and horribly worried.

Louis shook his head. "Baby, you don't have to—"

"I know, daddy." She nodded. She kissed his cheek and smiled slightly. "I'll be alright. It's just a walk." She hoped it was just a walk.

Her sister was much more concerned. "You don't have to deal with him anymore. Let's go home."

She shook her head. "A walk. I'll be home soon, don't worry about me." She kissed her cheek too for good measure. She looked to Lestat. "Park your car, and let's go. I won't suffer your company for long." She still loved his company.

He sped back to the car and went to park, meanwhile Lissette turned to the two others and giving them a nod. With concerned looks, they both walked away.

Lestat was back in front of her in a flash and she flinched unintentionally. His eyes grew sorrowful, his mouth opening to speak but being unable to get the words out. Was she afraid of him now? His heart clenched at the idea.

He cleared his throat. "Shall we?" He held his arm out but she didn't take it, instead she started walking.

A silence continued between them until he broke it again. "You know, it hasn't been the same without you. I confess I miss your rambling. And the sound of someone other than me playing the piano."

"You said you'd put one in my room?" She asked, stone faced.

He nodded eagerly. "Yes, mon ange. It's lovely. Now you have your privacy when you play."

As if she was moving back in with him.

"Hm." She hummed. "The house is still throughly damaged, I presume you know this?"

He paused at that. "Yes, yes it is. But it's fixable! I promise." He continued.

"I've learned not to trust your promises, Lestat." She spat.

He stopped in his tracks. Lestat? He wasn't a stranger to her, he was her father, her papa. Had he broken every bond between them that night three years ago? No, no it wasn't possible.

"Don't." He said. "Please, don't." He turned to her, and they were standing face to face. He reached out to touch her cheek but she flinched away again subconsciously. "How can I fix this? Tell me and I shall do it."

"You can't."

"I can." He insisted. "I can, and I will. Lissette, you are...you are everything to me."

"You hurt me."

"I love you."

That word had new meaning.

She sniffled slightly, not noticing red tears building up in her eyes. "There's nothing more to say to you." He tried to touch her again but she just moved away. "Stop."

He looked to the ground and then away from her, trying not to get emotional himself. "Lissette, I can't fix it if you don't tell me how. We always talked to each other, about everything. This doesn't have to be any different."

"But it is." She scoffed. "That was before, not now. I can't talk to you now." A tear fell down her cheek. "I don't feel safe with you, Lestat." She confessed. "I'm afraid."

Her home, her haven, had become a cavern of fear and unsureness. She loved him, so much, but it his love was no longer safe.

The words hit him like a bullet to the chest. His daughter, his girl, his salvation was afraid of him. His heart broke. He just wanted to hold her, to touch her gently and make her feel at home, but he was no longer capable of that in her eyes. No longer could he protect her from the monsters, he was the monster.

"Please don't say that." He begged. "Come with me tonight."

She shook her head. "No."

"Or tomorrow. Or the day after. Whenever you want to, whenever you can. A-and you can scream and cry and kick and hit me if you wish, I won't fight back, I'll take it all. I will be the vessel for your anger and I'll be grateful for it." His rambling was brutally honest, like he was ready to become her punching bag if that meant having her back, having her touch him, even if it hurt.

She shook her head. "Goodnight, Lestat." She turned on her heel, and began to walk away.

"One night!" He called out. "Just one. My door is always open, our door is always open. I'll wait every night, I swear it!" He only watched her walk away. "I love you, Lissette."

I love you too, but it would be years before he heard those words from her again.

[annaelizabethhenry1]

Echoes from the Past

Summary: River visits his grandfather post season four at the care home. The visits conjure memories of River’s childhood and teen years as he grapples with his grandfather’s declining mental health and how once he’s gone he’ll have no one left. Warning – spoilers for all four seasons!

There’s a certain slant of light On winter afternoons, That oppresses, like the weight Of cathedral tunes, Heavenly hurt it gives us, We can find no scar, But internal difference Where the meanings are. None may teach it anything, ‘Tis the seal, despair, - An imperial affliction Sent us of the air When it comes, the landscape listens. Shadows hold their breath; When it goes, ‘tis like the distance On the look of death.

Emily Dickinson

Chapter One

The car’s tires crunched to a halt on the gravel drive. River shut the car off and stared into the distance. The steel grey sky cast a gloom over the care home’s edifice in a way River hadn’t noticed on his previous visits.

River’s thoughts swirled back to a different time before he ended up at Sough House – he remembered a conversation in his grandfather’s study. One where his grandfather jokingly called care homes ��God’s waiting room’ and how he insisted if he ever needed one he’d rather be dead. At the time there was no need for one and River reassured his grandfather he’d never allow it. But now…needs must…River sighed and forced himself from the car.

He braced the cold February afternoon and turned up the collar on his green corduroy coat up as he jogged the length of the path to the front door, pushing it open, he was greeted by warmth and chatter – and the slamming of a tray along with the clatter of dishes and cutlery. River recognized his grandfather’s raised voice and almost turned back around.

No, no I can do this…he and Nan raised me…I owe him no matter how hard.

Entering the wood panelled dining hall where other elderly residents were gathered for lunch, River spotted his grandfather off to the side at a small table near the fireplace causing a scene.

An orderly busied himself with cleaning the mess on the floor while two women – Sylvie, who River already knew was trying to soothe David Cartwright and while another petite woman attempted to tidy him up after some of the food had landed on his sweater.

“Stop! I’m not a baby!” David shouted, swatting at the smaller woman.

“Granddad, don’t get handsy with the ladies,” River said with a forced half smile and a raised brow, trying to lighten the situation.

“River take me home! These harpies are treating me like I’m an invalid!” he shouted, then stood up, grabbed his cane and pushed past them, hobbling away.

“Granddad you know I can’t…” River went to grab him.

“No leave him be,” the petite woman said.

“But…”

“It’s best to let him settle down. I’m Orla by the way, you’re the grandson?” she asked offering her hand with a kind smile.

Orla had warm, but sharp green eyes that reminded him of his grandmother, Rose. Freckles sprinkled the bridge of her nose and cheeks and red curls bounced, just reaching her shoulders. River had never seen her before today.

“Yes, River Cartwright. Nice to meet you,” River shook her hand and smiled back.

“I’ve just been brought on board with recreation at the home. Seems we have some very sharp retirees here who need more challenging tasks to occupy them.”

River knew that all the employees were specially vetted and aware that the bulk of the residents were former service or higher ups in government with a few military veterans sprinkled in for good measure.

“Yes, this lot aren’t your run of the mill pensioners,” River said wryly.

“I look forward to the challenge. I’m glad you’re here though as we have been having trouble with your grandfather. I was curious to know a bit more about him to see if I could find a way to reach out to him.”

River flushed, wondering how many other times his grandfather, the OB or the Old Bastard to many, threw a tantrum making more work for the staff here. “I’m so sorry he’s been…difficult. I know he’d rather be home, but it’s just not safe for him and I live in London and can’t commute here all the time…” River rambled.

Orla put a hand on River’s arm, “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. He does have dementia and that is bound to make him act out. The staff understand. Why don’t you come to my office? We can have some tea and chat.”

Orla led River through the large and very windowed recreation room where some staff were setting up for what appeared to be arts and crafts. There was a small side door that went down a narrow passage and onto hallway with a number of highly polished doors. Orla pushed one open and led River into a cheerful room filled with small potted plants, a well-organized desk and a low bookcase filled with books and what appeared to be files.

“Tea or coffee? I have a fresh lemon drizzle loaf from home – happy to share.”

“Whichever is easier for you. Uh, yeah, sure, thanks.”

Orla chuckled. “You’re making it too easy for me.” She switched on the kettle on top of the bookcase. “Have a seat. Let me go find a knife for the cake and some milk. Make yourself comfortable.”

She handed River a pamphlet about coping with the transition to a care home for family members as she breezed out. River was tempted to chuck it into the bin, but thought the better of it as she was just being nice. Everyone always was so damn nice, which made it harder somehow. He wanted to shout at someone as if that would make him feel better about the situation. Demand to see someone in charge and lodge complaints as that would be easier than someone smiling and handing him a slice of his favourite cake.

River sat back in chair, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He thought back to the time when he was almost seven and he had that first slice of lemon drizzle loaf in his grandparents’ kitchen.

It was a rare sunny afternoon in late winter when River’s mother, Isobel knocked on the front door of a large stone house in the countryside. River was in awe by the size of it. He had mainly lived in small flats and tiny houses with his mother and whomever her current boyfriends were at the time. This was like a palace to him.

“Mum, is this like a castle?”

His mother laughed. “God no. It’s just a house. I hope they’re home. I can’t keep Pedro waiting we have tickets to Spain.”

As if on cue he honked his horn from the car in the drive. Isobel rang the doorbell again and knocked on the door.

River stood silently, freezing in a jacket that wasn’t suited to the current weather. He clutched his rucksack on his shoulder and clung to his bunny, Mr. Hoppinheimer. “Mum, where are we going?”

“You’re going to stay here with your grandparents. They’ll look after you.”

Finally, the door opened and a stunned David Cartwright appeared. “Isobel?”

“Yes, father. I’m rather in a hurry. This is River. Here are his things. I’ve got to go.”

“What? You can’t leave him here. Isobel, come inside. What’s going on – are you in trouble?” David asked, his features etched with disbelief and his eyes wildly going between his daughter and the blonde little boy with big, sad blue eyes looking up at him. They reminded David of a favourite spaniel he had as a boy growing up that he loved.

“Father I don’t have time! Pedro is waiting,” Isobel pointed to the car in the drive.

“Sod Pedro, he can wait. You can’t just leave him here like this Isobel. We never met him.”

“Who? Pedro?” Isobel asked.

“No, you bloody idiot – River.”

River shrunk back to the side of the doorstep. He learned from living with his mum how important it was to fade into the background when necessary. It was key to not being yelled at or getting in the way.

“What’s going on?” Rose asked stepping out into the cold, pulling her cardigan tighter around herself to shield her from the brisk wind despite the bright sun. “Isobel, I’m surprised you’re here. Where’s River?” Rose searched and finally found him almost hiding behind a potted evergreen perched to the side of the front door. She bent down and smiled at him as he just stared back. “Oh, love you must be freezing,” she touched his shoulder and nudged him into the warmth of the large stone house as he clung to his bunny and rucksack.

“Mum, I don’t have time for you to coo and coddle over him because it’s a bit chilly out here. I’ve got to go,” Isobel said coming into the foyer.

David came in as well. “You can’t expect us to take him just like that Isobel. Where are you going? What’s going on?”

“Yes, I can and I’m off to Spain. Once I get settled I’ll send you my address.”

“Spain? What if he gets sick or something,” David asked.

“You raised me and managed to keep me alive. I suspect you’ll do just fine – thanks – ta!”

“Love, wait! Don’t you want to say goodbye properly to River?” Rose asked. She already had River in a sideways hug, ruffling his hair.

Isobel hesitated and went back to the doorstep to retrieve a luggage that she deposited in the foyer. “These are the rest of his things. He’s no bother, he’s usually quiet except when he’s got a million questions about something. Be good and don’t cause any trouble for your grandparents,” Isobel said and blew River a kiss.

Rose looked over at River who didn’t bat an eye or show any emotion at her leaving him. “David do something!” she hissed.

“What? She always was so out of control. I told you that artistic streak would lead to nothing good. We should never have indulged it.” He shut the door.

Rose sighed. “River dear, I’m grandma Rose, but you can call me Nan if you like. I’ve sent you cards and gifts – I do hope they made their way to you.”

River nodded and held up his bunny.

“Oh, excellent love, you still have it from a few Easter’s ago,” she said smiling but her eyes welled with tears. “David take his luggage and rucksack up to the guest room. You look hungry sweetheart – let me take you to the kitchen. Would you like some cake?”

“It’s not my birthday,” River finally uttered something.

“No love, I know that.”

“Is it your birthday?”

“No, you don’t just have cake on birthdays.”

“Oh.”

Rose looked to David.

“Come along dear, bring your bunny. Does he have a name?”

“Yes, Mr. Hoppinheimer.”

“Really, love,” Rose said ushering him into a warmer room still. There were lovely smells and lots of sunlight.

Rose had him sit down at the small table while she busied herself about the kitchen. She put the kettle on, went into a cupboard pulling out dishes and things. River just sat there with his bunny on his lap watching. Rose finally put dishes down on the table and a small mug that had a woodland scene on it.

“This was your mum’s when she was little. It’s a scene from Beatrix Potter.”

River looked at it curiously seeing a rabbit dressed in a coat. “Why is he wearing a jacket?”

“It’s Peter Rabbit. He’s a character from her books. Do not know them?”

“No.”

“Oh, I see, well don’t worry we have the books here.”

“Rose, a moment, please,” David stood on the cusp of the kitchen.

She nodded and joined him. “What?”

“The boy hardly has anything in his luggage. It’s appalling Rose,” he whispered.

“He seems scared. I’m worried how she’s been living…what if the men in her life…”

“Rose, don’t…”

“He’s ours now, David. She’s never taking him back. I won’t allow it. Look how sweet and quiet he is…”

David rubbed her shoulder. “Yes of course. He stays. He’s better off.”

The kettle whistled and River jumped. “What’s that? Is something wrong?”

“No, love – it’s just the kettle is boiling, which means it’s time for tea or in your case hot chocolate!”

“What’s hot chocolate? Is it like when a candy bar melts?”

“No, its special warm powdered chocolate. I trust you’ll like it.”

“So young man, do you have any interests? Dinosaurs, airplanes, horses, trains or even cars?” David asked.

River shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Rose put a slice of lemon drizzle cake on River’s plate and filled his little mug with hot chocolate and then dispensed tea and cake for herself and David.

“Go ahead, have some cake, love,” Rose urged.

River picked up the slice and sniffed it. It smelt like lemons and sugar. When he bit into the slice it was like heaven. He never tasted anything so wonderful and he smiled over at his Nan and she smiled back at him.

The reverie was broken when Orla fluttered back in cheerfully with a knife and little carton of milk. “Sorry that took longer than I hoped, it’s tough to get the elevator down to the kitchens at meal times, I had forgotten that since I’m new.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“You looked like you were a million miles away,” she said as she opened a box of tea.

“Yeah, well…it’s not easy seeing granddad here. I promised him once I’d never do this.”

“The hard reality of caring for someone in his condition and balancing your own life tends to make these situations impossible,” Orla said as she prepared tea.

River sighed. Orla was right. It was unsafe for him to be alone, especially given how confused he became, but there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot going on in his life at the moment that he maybe couldn’t have made this work. Slough House wasn’t buzzing with anything important to do. As to his personal life that was non-existent. Sure, he’d love to have what other normal people had, but he found it so difficult to connect. River had spent too many years alone in the safe little bubble his grandparents had created for him after he’d been dropped off. River’s unique situation in life always set him apart from his peers and made him feel unwelcome as he didn’t exactly fit. No one else at school was raised by their grandparents, but even before that when he was with his mum, they moved around so much he never had a chance to make friends then either.

“Thanks,” River said almost shyly, “What is it I could help with to make things better for him?”

“Well, Sylvie tells me you do visit often, which is great, but it doesn’t seem to help his mood.”

“Yeah, that’s because he’s angry at me for putting him here.”

“Milk first?”

“Umm, sure.”

“You really are the least particular person I’ve met,” Orla said with a smile.

River chuckled. “I learned early in life what actually matters, and how your milk goes in isn’t one of them.”

“I’ve seen that point hotly debated in the dining room here, so I disagree.”

Orla sliced some cake and handed River a small paper plate and a mug of tea.

“Thanks. I do want to help my grandfather, he’s just very stubborn.”

“Can I ask – what did he do before he retired? I know he’s former service – someone mentioned you are also in the service.”

“Yes, I am service, too. When granddad retired he was first desk,” River said feeling that he just misrepresented himself. Slough House wasn’t service in anyone else’s mind at the Park.

Orla’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, he was very important…okay…no wonder he feels helpless here.”

“It’s also why he has to be here. He knows too much.”

Orla nodded. “Of course. Let me have a think on this and see if we can come up with something that makes him feel more useful and engaged.”

“I’d appreciate that, thanks,” River said.

About fifteen minutes later after tea and cake, River made his way to his grandfather’s room in the east wing of the care home. He found him sitting in the leather chair near the window, just staring blankly out into the front garden. He knocked and said, “Granddad, how are you?” River walked over and crouched next to the chair.

His grandfather looked over at him blankly. “I told you, I don’t want any lunch – it’s bland!”

River furrowed his brow and frowned. “Granddad, it’s River. I don’t work here, I’m your grandson,” he touched his arm and tried to rub it and forced a smile.

“Go away! I don’t have a grandson,” David Cartwright shouted, pulling away from River’s touch.

River bit his lower lip and tried to contain himself. He knew it wasn’t his grandfather’s fault he couldn’t remember, but sometimes River did wonder if he did remember and just acted like he didn’t because he wanted to punish River for leaving him in a care home. There were times when David was very lucid and they would share a memory or a story from his work days. Maybe it wasn’t an act and he wasn’t torturing River on purpose. He just felt so helpless when his granddad looked through him. The doctor told him there would come a point where David would not remember River anymore. It’s not like he didn’t already know that, but to hear it from someone in an official medical way made it all the more final.

Read Chapter Two here

[dabiconcordia]

Returning

I years had been from home, And now, before the door, I dared not open, lest a face I never saw before Stare vacant into mine And ask my business there.

My business, — just a life I left, Was such still dwelling there? I fumbled at my nerve, I scanned the windows near; The silence like an ocean rolled, And broke against my ear. by Emily Dickinson

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

[Langston Hughes]

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

November 3, 2024

Heather Cox Richardson

Nov 03, 2024

I’m home tonight to stay for a bit, after being on the road for thirteen months and traveling through 32 states. I am beyond tired but profoundly grateful for the chance to meet so many wonderful people and for the welcome you have given me to your towns and your homes.

I know people are on edge, and there is maybe one last thing I can offer before this election. Every place I stopped, worried people asked me how I have maintained a sense of hope through the past fraught years. The answer—inevitably for me, I suppose—is in our history.

If you had been alive in 1853, you would have thought the elite enslavers had become America’s rulers. They were only a small minority of the U.S. population, but by controlling the Democratic Party, they had managed to take control of the Senate, the White House, and the Supreme Court. They used that power to stop the northerners who wanted the government to clear the rivers and harbors of snags, for example, or to fund public colleges for ordinary people, from getting any such legislation through Congress. But at least they could not use the government to spread their system of human enslavement across the country, because the much larger population in the North held control of the House of Representatives. 

Then in 1854, with the help of Democratic president Franklin Pierce, elite enslavers pushed the Kansas-Nebraska Act through the House. That law overturned the Missouri Compromise that had kept Black enslavement out of the American West since 1820. Because the Constitution guarantees the protection of property—and enslaved Americans were considered property—the expansion of slavery into those territories would mean the new states there would become slave states. Their representatives would work together with those of the southern slave states to outvote the northern free labor advocates in Congress. Together, they would make enslavement national. 

America would become a slaveholding nation. 

Enslavers were quite clear that this was their goal. 

South Carolina senator James Henry Hammond explicitly rejected “as ridiculously absurd, that much lauded but nowhere accredited dogma of Mr. Jefferson, that ‘all men are born equal.’” He explained to his Senate colleagues that the world was made up of two classes of people. The “Mudsills” were dull drudges whose work produced the food and products that made society function. On them rested the superior class of people, who took the capital the mudsills produced and used it to move the economy, and even civilization itself, forward. The world could not survive without the inferior mudsills, but the superior class had the right—and even the duty—to rule over them. 

But that’s not how it played out. 

As soon as it became clear that Congress would pass the Kansas-Nebraska Act, Representative Israel Washburn of Maine called a meeting of thirty congressmen in Washington, D.C., to figure out how they could fight back against the Slave Power that had commandeered the government to spread the South’s system of human enslavement. The men met in the rooms of Representative Edward Dickinson of Massachusetts—whose talented daughter Emily was already writing poems—and while they came to the meeting from all different political parties, often bitterly divided over specific policies, they left with one sole purpose: to stop the overthrow of American democracy.

The men scattered back to their homes across the North for the summer, sharing their conviction that a new party must rise to stand against the Slave Power. They found “anti-Nebraska” sentiment sweeping their towns; a young lawyer from Illinois later recalled how ordinary people came together: “[W]e rose each fighting, grasping whatever he could first reach—a scythe—a pitchfork—a chopping axe, or a butcher’s cleaver.” In the next set of midterm elections, those calling themselves “anti-Nebraska” candidates swept into both national and state office across the North, and by 1856, opponents of the Slave Power had become a new political party: the Republicans. 

But the game wasn’t over. In 1857, the Supreme Court tried to take away Republicans’ power to stop the spread of slavery to the West by declaring in the infamous Dred Scott decision that Congress had no power to legislate in the territories. This made the Missouri Compromise that had kept enslavement out of the land above Missouri unconstitutional. The next day, Republican editor of the New York Tribune Horace Greeley wrote that the decision was “entitled to just so much moral weight as would be the judgment of a majority of those congregated in any Washington bar-room.”

By 1858 the party had a new rising star, the young lawyer from Illinois who had talked about everyone reaching for tools to combat the Kansas-Nebraska Act: Abraham Lincoln. Pro-slavery Democrats called the Republicans radicals for their determination to stop the expansion of slavery, but Lincoln countered that the Republicans were the country’s true conservatives, for they were the ones standing firm on the Declaration of Independence. The enslavers rejecting the Founders’ principles were the radicals.  

The next year, Lincoln articulated an ideology for the party, defining it as the party of ordinary Americans defending the democratic idea that all men are created equal against those determined to overthrow democracy with their own oligarchy.

In 1860, at a time when voting was almost entirely limited to white men, voters put Abraham Lincoln into the White House. Furious, southern leaders took their states out of the Union and launched the Civil War.

By January 1863, Lincoln had signed the Emancipation Proclamation ending the American system of human enslavement in lands still controlled by the Confederacy. By November 1863 he had delivered the Gettysburg Address, firmly rooting the United States of America in the Declaration of Independence. 

In that speech, Lincoln charged Americans to rededicate themselves to the unfinished work for which so many had given their lives. He urged them to “take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion, that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

In less than ten years the country went from a government dominated by a few fabulously wealthy men who rejected the idea that human beings are created equal and who believed they had the right to rule over the masses, to a defense of government of the people, by the people, for the people, and to leaders who called for a new birth of freedom. But Lincoln did not do any of this alone: always, he depended on the votes of ordinary people determined to have a say in the government under which they lived.

In the 1860s the work of those people established freedom and democracy as the bedrock of the United States of America, but the structure itself remained unfinished. In the 1890s and then again in the 1930s, Americans had to fight to preserve democracy against those who would destroy it for their own greed and power. Each time, thanks to ordinary Americans, democracy won.

Now it is our turn. 

In our era the same struggle has resurfaced. A small group of leaders has rejected the idea that all people are created equal and seeks to destroy our democracy in order to install themselves into permanent power. 

And just as our forebears did, Americans have reached for whatever tools we have at hand to build new coalitions across the nation to push back. After decades in which ordinary people had come to believe they had little political power, they have mobilized to defend American democracy and—with an electorate that now includes women and Black Americans and Brown Americans—have discovered they are strong. 

On November 5 we will find out just how strong we are. We will each choose on which side of the historical ledger to record our names. On the one hand, we can stand with those throughout our history who maintained that some people were better than others and had the right to rule; on the other, we can list our names on the side of those from our past who defended democracy and, by doing so, guarantee that American democracy reaches into the future. 

I have had hope in these dark days because I look around at the extraordinary movement that has built in this country over the past several years, and it looks to me like the revolution of the 1850s that gave America a new birth of freedom. 

As always, the outcome is in our hands. 

“Fellow-citizens,” Lincoln reminded his colleagues, “we cannot escape history. We…will be remembered in spite of ourselves.”  

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[inspofromancientworld]

Belshazzar and its Ancient Origins

By Unknown author - https://s3.amazonaws.com/amherst-wsg/ED-dag-case-720dpi_big.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21206329

Emily Dickinson was an American poet who lived from 1830-1886 who wasn't well known until after she died. Since her death, she's been considered one of the most influential poets in American history. She wrote almost 1800 poems, though only 10 of them were published before her death. She was well educated and considered eccentric, spending most of her time in isolation. When she did go out, she tended to wear white and was very unlikely to talk to anyone. Most of her friendships were maintained through letter writing, though most people weren't aware of how prolific a poet she was. She was the middle of three children. Her father encouraged his children to learn, even when he was out of town for business, asking them what they learned, though her mother was described as 'cold and aloof'. She also had a talent for the piano, as noted by her aunt. She had an obsession with death, especially of those she was close to. When she was 14, her second cousin died of typhus, which traumatized her. When she was 15, she attended a religious revival that gave her a sense of peace for a while. She regularly attended services until she was 22, writing that '[s]ome keep the Sabbath going to church - I keep it, staying at Home'. She tended to have influential relationships with older men, including Leonard Humphrey (the principle of Amherst Academy during her last year there), Benjamin Franklin Newton (a friend of the family), and Samuel Bowles (owner and editor of the Springfield Republican). These relationships don't appear to be romantic in nature, but mutual respect and encouragement. Her friends and brother brought her books, including Jane Eyre and the plays of William Shakespeare.

When she was 20, her friend Leonard Humphrey died suddenly, which caused a deep melancholy. During the 1850s, her strongest relationship was with Susan Gilbert, her sister-in-law, resulting in over 300 letters and whom she called 'most beloved friend, influence, muse, and advisor' and '[w]ith the exception of Shakespeare, you have told me more of knowledge than any one living.' In the mid-1850s, her mother became chronically ill, living until 1885. She became more and more home bound until 1858, when she was 25, when she essentially stopped going out at all, partially because someone always needed to be available to her mother and partially to be around for her father and miss her. She took up writing more poetry during this time and began organizing her poetry into forty bundles consisting of nearly 800 poems by 1865, though no one was aware of this work until after she died. Her friendship with Samuel Bowles and his wife Mary encouraged her to write more and he encouraged her to publish a few of her poems without them being attributed to her.

In the late 1860s, Dickinson socially active despite only leaving her home when absolutely necessary. Her dog died after 16 years of life in 1886 and the family servant left the house after marrying. It took three years to find another maid, much of that work falling to Emily to complete. In 1867, she began to talk to visitors through closed doors and became known as 'the woman in white' since she usually wore white when she did go out. Most of the people she exchanged messages with, she didn't see in person during her from about 1871 through to her death. In 1874, her father suffered a stroke and died. In 1875, her mother suffered a stroke and ended up with an impaired memory and partial paralysis. She lived until 1882. Her youngest niece died in 1883. The summer of 1885, Emily complained of 'a great darkness coming'. She collapsed one day while baking and weeks of poor health followed. In the spring, she sent out a lot of letters, her last one thought to be sent to her cousins and reading 'Little Cousins, Called Back. Emily'. Despite promising to burn her poems and letters, her sister, Lavinia, instead preserved and published them.

By Osama Shukir Muhammed Amin FRCP(Glasg) - Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=122825799

Belshazzar was likely the grandson of Nebuchadnezzar II and was one of the prince regents of Babylon referred to in the book of Daniel. He overthrew king Labashi-Marduk, allowing his father Nabonidus to take the thrown and for himself to become crown prince in 556 BCE. He was also a prominent business man as well as the head of the household, despite this not being a common role in the royal household. He also didn't have a record of working his way up to the oligarchy, but becoming one 'overnight'. Belshazzar never took the title of king himself despite co-reigning with his father Nabonidus as there aren't any documents that refer to the 'X year of the reign of Belshazzar', though he did receive the remains from offerings, something typically given to the king. During his regency, the Achaemenid Empire under Cyrus the Great was becoming more powerful, starting to threaten Babylon. In the Book of Daniel, which many scholars think is historical fiction written around 160 BCE, Belshazzar is depicted as having a feast and using holy vessels of the Jerusalem temple. A hand appears at the feast and writes out 'mene, mene, tekel, upharsin', predicting the fall of Babylon to Darius the Mede, of whom there is no historical record.

The poem, which is in Part One: Life of the collection introduced by her niece Martha and published in 1924 is eight lines long. It starts with the line 'Belshazzar had a letter,--', referring to the Biblical account of Daniel, but also expands that out to the reader by saying 'In that immortal copy/The conscience of us all'. The seeming simplicity of her writing lends itself to a much deeper reading, if desired by the reader, or it could be a simple reflection on the story found in the Bible.

BELSHAZZAR had a letter,— He never had but one; Belshazzar’s correspondent Concluded and begun In that immortal copy The conscience of us all Can read without its glasses On revelation’s wall.

[inwintersolitude]

- June 6th 2024 -

What were you doing before you logged on here? I was sitting outside on the back deck watching the birds at the bird feeders, then I came inside and made a cup of tea and got on the computer.

What was the last airline you flew on, and where were you going? The one my husband flies for - I don't want to disclose his employer online LOL. We were flying from Dublin to Washington DC.

Which of your breakups was the hardest for you to get over? I don't have any exes, I've never experienced a breakup.

What did you have for dinner last night? Sushi.

Do you write poetry? If so, what kind of poetry do you write? Nope, I'm terrible at any type of creative writing. I do sometimes like to read poetry, though. Actually, my usernames on both here and Bzoink/ProBoards were inspired by poems. One by Emily Dickinson, and a haiku by Matsuo Basho.

Have your parents traveled to any countries that you have not been to? Yeah, my parents are fairly well-traveled. Between the two of them, the places they've been to (that I haven't been to) are France, Austria, Germany, Italy, Switzerland (my Granny and Granddad lived there when my mom was in college so she lived there with them during her summers off), Greece, Turkey, Israel, and Japan. Maybe some other countries but I can't remember; those are the ones I know for sure.

Did you have acne when you were a teenager? No, I've never been acne-prone. I only get acne if I forget to use my moisturizer, but that doesn't happen often, I usually moisturize 2x a day because my skin is really dry.

What's your favorite type of gemstone? Hmmm, probably sapphires or moonstones.

Do you prefer sleeping in total darkness, or do you like to have a little bit of light? I like a bit of light. I have color-changing Hue bulbs in all the lamps in my bedroom, and I set one of them to 1% brightness on a very deep orange color.

Who was your favorite children's book author when you were a kid? Mary Pope Osborne (I loved the Magic Tree House series). Then when I was a little older, like 9/10ish, I got really into the Redwall series by Brian Jacques.

Would you rather take a class in fencing or archery? We did a unit on each of those in 9th grade gym class, and I remember liking archery a lot more.

Has a significant other ever given you the silent treatment during a fight? No, never.

What is something you took for granted when you were younger? My happy childhood. A loving family, a nice house in a nice town, a top-notch education, extracurricular activities. I didn't realize til my late teen years/early adulthood just how lucky I am to have grown up with all of that.

Have you ever seen the movie Blue is the Warmest Colour? Nope.

How many bathrooms does your house have? Three (two full bathrooms and one half bathroom).

What was the last thing you borrowed from someone? I'm not sure.

What are your favorite condiments to put on a burger? I like either ketchup/mayo/lettuce, or ketchup/mustard/onions.

What color are your best friend's eyes? Blue.

Have you ever had a stalker? Nope, not that I know of at least.

Would you rather work in an office setting or work from home? Work from home.

[vendettavalor]

@tacticalvalor said: being able to sit/work in a comfortable silence -> 47 and psyche; bc i see subtle signs of affection and my brain goes feral

⚔️ Ways of Subtly Showing Love // CLOSED ⚔️

The safehouse was quiet save for the hum of the old vents and the muted chirping of crickets singing in the wake of a late evening drizzle. Warm air held the scent of fine cologne and perfume leftover from his suit jacket and her evening gown; formal attire the chosen disguise for the night's job now abandoned and left hanging on the wooden coat tree by the front door. With their mission complete, the two could safely retire to the cozy comforts of their secure location and wait out the storm of chaos that followed the death of their target. There would be a search, of course, but no evidence would turn up. Nothing that suggested it had been anything more than a tragic accident.

They were fine with that outcome. And more than content to wait it out, so long as they were together.

The near silence that blanketed them was so comfortable it was almost jarring. Their work so often put them at the heart of violent clashes. The grating sounds of screams, the tinnitus-inducing explosions of gunfire and detonations, the endless surge of chaos and panic like racing pulses pounding in their ears. It was a strain trying to sift through the endless noise that had become such a routine part of their job to identify the sounds that actually meant something. For so long they had lived with the endless thunder of their work haunting them long after they'd punched out of their jobs, only dulling to a low rumble when they went to sleep at night. But now, it stopped once they left the scene of their crimes. It faded into the distance the more they walked, until they pushed past the threshold of whatever tiny residence they'd called home and left it behind entirely. And then, it was quiet. Truly quiet. Peacefully quiet.

Like finally being able to breathe again.

47 took it in stride, unused to the odd feeling of comfort that sprouted up like weeds carefully blooming from in between the slowly forming cracks in his apathetic, unfeeling shell so carefully crafted by Ort-Meyer and maintained by those accursed serums that suppressed even the most minute of sensations and experiences. Such things as peace and relief were foreign concepts to him. He struggled to understand them at first. He was only able to clench and unclench his fists, muscles tensing in response to the feeling as though physically trying to fight off the sensation of letting his guard down. It took time, but once he realized that this was a natural response to not having any threats around, to feeling safe, he began to embrace it. It started with simply loosening his tie, then shirking off his coat, then abandoning them both to go about a newly established nightly routine of cooking a meal for the two of them and settling in to watch television.

In the absence of a TV in this safehouse, 47 settled for sitting on one end of the plush living room couch to indulge in a book she'd bought for him. Admittedly, he had always been one for historical texts, war memoirs, or archival pieces. They tended to be the most utilitarian. But the works of such poets as Sylvia Plath, Maya Angelou, and Emily Dickinson were starting to grow on him. And just across the way in his peripheral, he could see Psyche refilling his glass of wine and taking another sip form her own while she indulged in some writings of her own. Trying to get her third book finished by the end of the year for publishing was proving to be a challenge, but she said it was easier to do with him around. Something about his presence just seeming to make the words come so much easier to her. The recollection was enough to have the corners of his lips twitching.

Not a word was said as he shifted to slide his free hand over towards the center of the couch in silent offering. It only took a moment before he felt the familiar heat of her fingers resting over his. A similar warmth bloomed in his chest, mingling wonderfully with the peace he felt and drawing him to curl his digits around hers. Gently, she squeezed his hand in return.

And the silence lingered on, more blissful now than it had ever been.

[rockislandadultreads]

Read-Alike Friday: The Lace Widow by Mollie Ann Cox

The Lace Widow by Mollie Ann Cox

New York, 1804. America’s beloved Alexander Hamilton lies dead after a duel with Aaron Burr. Meanwhile, Eliza Hamilton’s eighteen-year-old son, Alexander Jr., was seen fighting with a man in a tavern the night before his father’s duel and quickly comes under suspicion for murder when the man turns up dead.

Eliza searches for ways to clear her son’s name, even as she is grieving, but as she combs through her late husband’s papers, she finds evidence of a plot to steal money from the government during his tenure as secretary of state. Hamilton was accused of stealing that money, and it was a scandal that almost broke the family—but is Eliza now holding proof of Alexander’s innocence?

Deep in debt and despair, with eight children to support, Eliza turns to selling her handmade lace—and is drawn into a mysterious network of widow lacemakers who are intimately connected to New York’s high-society families. They know their dead husbands’ secrets—and soon, Eliza begins to piece together the truth.

There’s a dark plot connected with the duel, as one by one, witnesses to the bout are being killed. Now, Eliza must not only clear her husband’s and son’s names but keep herself out of the killer’s sights.

Because I Could Not Stop for Death by Amanda Flower

January 1855: Willa Noble knew it was bad luck when it was pouring rain on the day of her ever-important job interview at the Dickinson home in Amherst, Massachusetts. When she arrived late, disheveled with her skirts sodden and filthy, she'd lost all hope of being hired for the position. As the housekeeper politely told her they'd be in touch, Willa started toward the door of the stately home only to be called back by the soft but strong voice of Emily Dickinson. What begins as tenuous employment turns to friendship as the reclusive poet takes Willa under her wing.

Tragedy soon strikes and Willa's beloved brother, Henry, is killed in a tragic accident at the town stables. With no other family and nowhere else to turn, Willa tells Emily about her brother's death and why she believes it was no accident. Willa is convinced it was murder. Henry had been very secretive of late, only hinting to Willa that he'd found a way to earn money to take care of them both. Viewing it first as a puzzle to piece together, Emily offers to help, only to realize that she and Willa are caught in a deadly game of cat and mouse that reveals corruption in Amherst that is generations deep. Some very high-powered people will stop at nothing to keep their profitable secrets even if that means forever silencing Willa and her new mistress...

This is the first volume of the "Emily Dickinson Mystery" series.

What the Dead Leave Behind by David Housewright

Once a police detective in St. Paul, Minnesota, Rushmore McKenzie has become not only an unlikely millionaire, but an occasional unlicensed private investigator, doing favors for friends and people in need. When his stepdaughter Erica asks him for just such a favor, McKenzie doesn t have it in him to refuse. Even though it sounds like a very bad idea right from the start.

The father of Malcolm Harris, a college friend of Erica's, was found murdered a year ago in a park in New Brighton, a town just outside the Twin Cities. With no real clues and all the obvious suspects with concrete alibis, the case has long since gone cold. As McKenzie begins poking around, he soon discovers another unsolved murder that's tangentially related to this one. And all connections seem to lead back to a group of friends the victim was close with. But all McKenzie has is a series of odd, even suspicious, coincidences until someone decides to make it all that more serious and personal.

This is the 14th volume of the "Mac McKenzie" series.

A Study in Scarlet Women by Sherry Thomas

With her inquisitive mind, Charlotte Holmes has never felt comfortable with the demureness expected of the fairer sex in upper class society. But even she never thought that she would become a social pariah, an outcast fending for herself on the mean streets of London.

When the city is struck by a trio of unexpected deaths and suspicion falls on her sister and her father, Charlotte is desperate to find the true culprits and clear the family name. She’ll have help from friends new and old—a kind-hearted widow, a police inspector, and a man who has long loved her.

But in the end, it will be up to Charlotte, under the assumed name Sherlock Holmes, to challenge society’s expectations and match wits against an unseen mastermind.

This is the first volume of the "Lady Sherlock" series.

[paracosmic-murdock]

i still got love for you

part six: because i am with you

pairing: francesca bridgerton x fem!reader

summary: leaving for bath out of the sudden was the hardest thing you had had to do, not particularly because you had left your parents and home behind, but because your friendship with francesca bridgerton was ripped away from you a sudden summer morning.

five years later, francesca arrived in bath for the season to practice pianoforte with her aunt winnie, and finally, you see her again after thinking you had forever lost her. how much you wanted for your love to live and beat still, how much you wanted for francesca to say so.

warnings/tags: sapphic francesca bridgerton, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, am i gay quiz but make it nineteenth century somehow, inspired by an emily dickinson intimate letter to susan hunington dickinson, song: seven (taylor swift)

word count: 2.5K

❁ part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

❁ mila's anthology (main masterlist)

“I move on wings now, on wings as white as snow, and as bright as the summer sunshine—because I am with you.” (Excerpt from Open me carefully: Emily Dickinson's intimate letters to Susan Hunington Dickinson by Emily Dickinson)

“Frannie?”

She looked up at Charles.

“It will be alright,” he murmured, leaning closer to take her hand in his. “I promise.”

Francesca nodded, sighing nervously. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

They were silent, but not for long as you appeared finally. A light layer of sweat gave away your rush.

“My apologies for the delay!” you exclaimed as you sat beside Francesca, sighing tiredly. You spoke, but not before giving her a sweet, swift kiss on the lips. She blushed. “I could not find my fortune necklace.”

“Fortune necklace?” Charles questioned, grinning at your actions.

“We are about to tell Francesca's family that we love each other. All the fortune to come is greatly appreciated.”

“You keep scaring me.”

You pursed your lips. “Don't you mind me, my darling.”

“It is for the best if you don't. Ever.” Your brother smirked.

“Oh, hush you.” You rolled your eyes and he laughed.

Francesca smiled lightly and touched your hand. “Care to grace me with your attention?”

“For you, my darling, forevermore.” you replied, looking at her attentively. She blushed and looked down, and then beside her. In her hand, there was a white rose destined to you.

You grinned happily. “It is certainly beautiful. I adore it.”

“I would appreciate it if you stopped acting like a newlywed, loving couple. Public displays of affection discomfort me.”

“Apologies.” Francesca suppressed an amused smile.

“I do not regret a thing,” You shrugged. “Go find yourself a love match and leave me with mine.”

Charles scoffed. “Lord save me from the two of you.”

“Bridgerton!”

“Lord Chadwick!” the Viscount exclaimed. “It has been a while, has it not?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning closer to Francesca until you could whisper without anybody else hearing. “They should marry each other instead.”

She chuckled lightly. “He has not noticed us. Not even his own sister, can you believe it?”

“I fear I believe it firmly.”

Soon enough, your brother and Francesca's ended their conversation, and their attention shifted to you and her. Anthony kissed his sister's forehead and then went to you with a wide smile.

“Miss Devereaux, what a blessing to see you after so long.”

You laughed. “Lord Bridgerton, how much you flatter me.”

He shook his head while he laughed and hugged you. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” you replied. “I must say I am grateful for your fiancée and all the work she has done with fixing that attitude of yours.”

Anthony rolled his eyes. “Come in, the family is eager to see you finally.”

Soon, you were all in the drawing room chatting about anything and everything.

Every once in a while, you and Francesca locked eyes, silently asking the other when to speak. However, you didn't do it. Not during lunch nor during dinner… you just didn't. Instead, you sneaked out of your room and went to Francesca's when everyone was fast asleep.

“What should we do?”

“I just do not want to say it when it is my brother's wedding so soon. We cannot steal the attention.”

You nodded, snuggling closer to her and holding her close to you under the bedsheets. “You are right. I believe we should tell them after Anthony and Miss Sharma leave for their honeymoon. Perhaps, we could tell Anthony only so he knows. You know, before he leaves.”

“We could, yes,” she agreed. “Although, I am scared.”

“I think they will understand,” you said. “They are great, and they love you truly and unconditionally. Whoever you love will not change that.”

“I cannot help but fear a negative answer.”

“We will always have each other either way, alright?” you promised. “Always.”

She smiled weakly. “We can move to your family's beach house.”

“Of course we could,” you answered. “We could go wherever you wish… The Chadwick Seaside House is most wonderful! Bigger than the Devereaux Cottage that you used to love. My parents will not allow me or Charles to set foot there while they breathe, so we could make use of our late uncle's properties.”

“How is it?”

“Mmm… it is big and it looks like a smaller palace. It is full of art pieces and it has a beautiful library; we can see the sea from every balcony and it is on private land. My brother brought a magnificent piano from Germany so I could play there. You would love it.”

“We should live there.”

You kissed her lips. “Right?”

Francesca chuckled. “Yes.”

You nodded and kissed her again. She kissed you back, getting closer and closer until the only thing keeping you from the closeness you so much yearned for was the fabric of your chemises.

“Hmm… What do you want, my darling?” you asked with a smirk.

She blushed and you laughed. “We could, you know…”

“Yes, I know.” You smiled.

Then you kissed her again, gathering the soft fabric of her garments until the end of it was in your power. You put your hand underneath her chemise, tracing soft shapes on her skin. Francesca, however, wanted you more than ever tonight. She feared that it could even be your very last night together, so she must honor it.

“I love you.” she whispered, undoing the buttons of your sleeping garments.

You helped her finish taking it off. “I love you, too.”

Right that moment, with her driving her kisses from your lips to your neck, you knew you loved her more than anything. When her mouth went to your breasts, you thought you would do absolutely anything for her. When she took off her own chemise and offered herself to you, you were sure you would leave everything behind just for her.

“Are you mine?” she wondered.

“Every piece of mine is yours to make your own,” you replied between the kisses on her breasts. “Are you mine?”

She moaned softly. “Yours. Yours only.”

With a satisfied smile, you left her breast and kissed your way south. You put each of her legs above your shoulders and kissed the tender skin of her inner thighs. Francesca moaned loudly, but covered her mouth right away.

You hushed her, speaking in between soft kisses. “This is not Chadwick House at night, my darling. There are many a pair of ears who could listen and question.”

“Mhmm…” she conceded, already shaking in anticipation, her eyes begging you to tend to her. “Please…”

You did as she told you and enjoyed the heavenly taste of her.

“And when, pray tell, are you going to tell the family?!”

Before, you thought that the finest melody on Earth was that of a piano, or that the greatest delicacy were chocolate biscuits. However, now you know better: the sound of Francesca begging you was definitely far above any composition, any dessert. Neither Mozart nor the best cook of Chadwick House could do any better, even if they tried.

You frowned. “Brother, give us time!”

“It almost slipped in a conversation with Anthony last night! We have been here for three days and you have not done anything yet!”

“Charles…” Francesca sighed. “The right moment has not come up, but I assure you, we will tell the family as soon as-”

“Tell the family what?”

The three of you looked at each other, alarmed.

“Brother!” she exclaimed awkwardly. “You have frightened us.”

“Have I?” Anthony grinned.

“Yes, you have!” You nodded.

“Indeed.” Charles ‘confirmed’.

“Why is that? Am I really that unpleasant to the eye?”

Francesca shook her head. “No! We were just distracted and you caught us off guard.”

“Sister,” He frowned. “Why are you acting like this? You have been behaving strangely since you arrived. All three of you. What aren't you telling us, huh?”

Charles pursed his lips. “I am feeling not so w-”

“You stay,” Anthony commanded. “You three must tell me what is going on or else I will have no other choice but to sit down with Charles and you know how easy it is to get him to speak.”

“I want nothing to do with this, let that be clear.” your brother stated. You rolled your eyes.

“What is this?”

“Brother, I…”

“We have been meaning to tell you something, Anthony,” you spoke after seeing that Francesca had frozen at the possibility of talking about it herself. “And we would really appreciate it if you were… open-minded.”

He made a confused grin. “Open-minded?”

“Yes,” you confirmed, looking at Francesca and her nervous frame. “We hope for you and the family to support us, but you must know that the lack of a blessing would not change a thing.”

“You two are scaring me,” Anthony replied. “I will choose the safest path and ask you if you have planned not to debut, not find a husband and remain unmarried to death or something of the sorts?”

You and Francesca looked at each other and then at him again.

“Not quite.” she said.

“Dear God!” Charles complained. “Speak at once, the two of you have me going insane!”

“Fine! We love each other!” Francesca almost yelled, catching the three of you by surprise. Even yourself.

Anthony gasped, this being way further than what he expected as the craziest possibility.

He looked at your brother. “What?”

“Look at us,” you ordered and he did so. “We love each other. We always have, just… Only as we grow older is that we figure some things out. The motive of Charles and I's departure from Kent was that our parents found and read my diary entries and learnt that I loved your sister. Neither like a friend, nor as a sister: I have loved her like a young love match couple loves each other. I love her as a woman, that shan't change, not now nor ever, with or without your blessing… We love each other and-”

“And we will always be together. We do not need your blessing, nor will it change me and her, but it is very important for me to have it; you are my brother and we- I want nothing but your unconditional love and support as always.”

“Did you know about this?”

Your brother nodded. “I did, yes. For quite some time as well.”

“Well, this is…” Anthony exhaled and pursed his lips after. “I need some time to think about this.”

“Of course you do,” you looked up, knowing he was having the best possible reaction. “We understand.”

He nodded, but before leaving, he kissed Francesca's forehead. “You must know that, above all, you are my sister and I love you and support you unconditionally.”

Eventually, Anthony came around and told you and Francesca that it was alright. He did not know how to help, but he loved his sister and cared for her and for you, and whatever makes you two happy, that is great for him.

She almost cried then and there.

A thing you weren't expecting, though, was his idea: telling the family before he and Kate left for the honeymoon. Hence, there you were.

“As I told you before, there is an... announcement,” Anthony said. “It is something we might not be accustomed to, but you must know that whatever rejoice there is in our family, should be shared between us all. This will not be the exception and should be as welcomed as Kate and I's marriage.”

Lady Bridgerton frowned. “Anthony, what are you saying?”

“Mother,” Francesca interrupted. “It is us who are announcing something.”

The two of you looked around at the confusion of the family. Charles seemed to be more nervous than you and Francesca; and Kate, to whom you had confided the news before, gave you a calming smile.

“Us? As in…?”

“Us.” you replied, pointing at Francesca and then at yourself.

You breathed in and out, locking gazes with an expectant Daphne, who seemed to have realized the matter. Then, as you averted Daphne's look, your eyes caught Benedict's. As soon as he noticed your attention was on him, he slightly pointed at Francesca and then at you with his head, raising his eyebrows right after. You nodded swiftly, a motion so vague that only he was able to notice and decipher. As a response, Benedict smiled widely, making all the tension fall from your shoulders.

“We love each other.” Francesca finally announced.

“We do,” you confirmed, seeing how everyone had different reactions, none away from surprise or bafflement. “And we are happy. You do not have to accept it or understand it, we cannot expect you to do so, not when it is something so… rare, at that.”

“We would love to have your support, but I- we understand it is not an easy matter. On the contrary: it is most likely none of us has seen it or heard of it before.”

“We needed you to know.” you finished.

There was silence until Hyacinth stood up with a big smile brightening her face. “Does it mean Y/N would be our sister officially?”

“Yes, if you have me.” you answered truthfully.

The youngest Bridgerton ran to you and hugged you and Francesca. Despite being in Mayfair for two weeks only, you easily bonded with Hyacinth. She was quite similar to you in many ways, and, in many aspects, you saw yourself in her. When she bickered with Gregory or Benedict, it reminded you of you and Charles; when she sat beside you and talked about anything as if you had known each other your entire lives, it felt rather wholesome and heartwarming.

“I do!”

You and Francesca laughed until you saw her mother standing in front of you. She hushed Hyacinth, who left reluctantly after muttering ‘good luck’.

“I do not know what to say,” Lady Bridgerton curved her lips. “Other than… remark my love for the two of you. Y/N, you are like a daughter to me, and reuniting with you has filled my heart with joy. Not only that, but now you tell me that you will be one of us… I am delighted for the two of you. I trust you completely with my daughter's heart. It is true that this is something that requires adjustment and that is going to be difficult to defend, but I am willing to do what it takes to ensure the happiness of my two daughters. And, my dear Francesca, I do not want you to ever doubt the love of your family. Whatever you do, dearest, we will always love you and support you… through anything.”

“I love you, Mama.”

“As do I.” She took her daughter's hand and then yours.

“Thank you, my Lady.” you said.

“I am afraid you must call me mother from now on.”

You smiled.

Charles cleared his throat loudly to get the attention. “May I be adopted as well?”

Lady Bridgerton laughed warmly. “The more, the merrier.”

Francesca looked at you with a pleased smile. “As much as you will hate to admit it, your brother was right… Everything is going to be alright.”

“Our brother, my darling,” you corrected her. “And yes, it will be alright.”

You focused on Francesca and on the feeling of immense joy that she caused you. Only her eyes were enough to melt your heart, and her smile made you smile, too.

Right then and there, you were more certain than ever that, as long as you are together, everything will be perfect.

the end

taglist: @swiftholic-13 @kenzieisgone @urmultifandomfan