A corner of the internet to slot many a musing and headcanon.
Various media.
This is a sideblog to @wastheheart.
Some drabbles are taken from my rp blogs, others are new here.
Most can be found on AO3 & fanfiction.net
Do not steal my work.
Lychee, she/they, 25+.
I could say it, but you won't believe me
You say you do, but you don't deceive me
It's hard to know they're out there
It's hard to know that you still care
I could say it, but you won't believe me
You say you do, but you don't deceive me
Dead hearts are everywhere
Dead hearts are everywhere
Could we stay right here,
Till the end of time until the earth stops turning?
Wanna love you until the seas run dry.
I've found the one I've waited for!
I donāt necessarily have an exact prompt but just maybe something sweet or fluffy with Carlesme?
How About a Dance
Word count: 707 | Characters: Carlisle & Esme | No Content Warning | Time-frame: Post Volturi Confrontation, Breaking Dawn
The majority of the covens who came to testify had left after their testimony or simply followed closely behind the Volturiās own departure. Whoever remained were seen off by Carlisle and Esme, their contribution to the Olympic covenās safety deeply appreciated; an appreciation made known to those as they said their goodbyes.
The silence that encroached after everyone had left was almost unsettling. The last few months of their lives had been nothing but a flurry of noise and panic, plans chopping and changing. Nothing could be set in stone, no-one dared to live beyond the next hour.
With their safety now assured, Carlisle and Esme find themselves alone. Bella, Edward and Renesmee have taken themselves to their cottage, Rosalie and Emmett have gone away to one of their various wood cabins, and Alice and Jasper have taken themselves away to indulge their nomadic ways for the time being.
With the house having previously been full to the brim with vampires, being the only two occupants left has the house feeling nothing more than too bigā bordering on lonely.
Esme has taken herself to their bedroom. As much as she has the whole house, she feels safest here. Snow is freshly falling outside, the sight hypnotising with vampiric sight; every single flake is noticeably different and unique. She spends hours watching snow fall most winters, utterly mesmerised by its beauty.
Carlisle finds her fairly easy. She can see his reflection in the window, his golden gaze content with the image of her and nothing else.
Eventually, he makes his way to the record player and places the needle against the spinning record. The familiar notes of Paul Whitemanās Wonderful One replaces the comfortable silence between them, and she sees Carlisle unbutton the first three buttons of his shirt; he rolls his sleeves to his elbows before offering out his hand to Esme.
āHow about a dance?ā
She accepts his hand with biggest of smiles, her arms draping lazily across shoulders to clasp loosely behind his head. His own arms snake around her waist and eventually his forehead finds her own as they sway, the song the same one Edward played for them on the piano after their weddingā their first dance.
Carlisle playfully twirls her around, caramel curls brushing against his face and tickling his nose which causes him to briefly scrunch it up. Esme laughs, inviting his own before he pulls her close again and Esmeās head rests against his chest as her arms hold him around his torso.
They stand wrapped in each otherās embrace as the song finishes. Carlisle pulls back slightly only to find Esmeās eyes, gently singing the closing lyrics directly to her:
āJust you, only you; in the shadowy twilight, in silvery moonlight. Thereās none like you, I adore you. My life Iāll live for you, oh, my wonderful, wonderful one.ā
Esme canāt help but beam, her hands coming to rest against his chest as fingers lightly curl around the material of his shirt.
He places a kiss against her forehead, soft fingers coaxing her chin up so he can place a kiss against her lips too. He leaves for the briefest of moments to remove needle from record, opting instead for the saved playlist of 1920s love songs on his iPod to avoid scratching vinyl.
Before they can continue their dancing, heās on one knee as he was all those years ago, a ring held between them in the daintiest of boxes.
āWill you do me the honour of renewing our vows?ā
Just like then Esme feels him steal away her breath, but not before she can whisper yes.
Carlisle whisks her off her feet, his smile as wide as her own before placing her back down and drawing her into the deepest of kisses, one that hadnāt been shared between them like this since Aliceās vision.
He slips the ring onto her finger, capturing her hand so he can hold it as his other arm comes to wrap around her waist. And they dance until the sun rises, their eyes never straying too far from each otherās own, the memorisation of their features no longer fuelled by fear that that memory is all they will have left of another.
Can you write out a small scene between Emmett and Esme, when Emmett first joined the family? I think it would have been really sweet to see, especially because they're both such family-oriented people. I could imagine Emmett being so nervous at first and Esme just guiding him along through the process.
Word count: 1,305 | Characters: Esme, Emmett, Rosalie, Edward. | no content warnings.
It's been six months since the addition of Emmett to their coven. Esme remembers the day Rosalie came home carrying a fatally wounded Emmett as if it was yesterday; she's still immensely impressed with Rosalie's self control. Esme couldn't have done the same, she simply didn't have the restraint. It still stuns her to know that Carlisle managed to restrain himself from simply draining her dry when transforming her. The self control of them both was beyond admirable.
Between now and Emmett's addition, Rosalie confided in Esme why she brought Emmett home. Rosalie's honesty admittedly took Esme by surprise, but amongst Rosalie's admission, Esme could make her own. Esme didn't remember much of her son. What she could remember was the mop of dark hair and a flash of blue she could only think were his eyes. Emmett reminded Rosalie of Henry in the same way he reminded Esme of her own son. They both let grief-stricken laughter bubble from lips with their confessions, relieved the other one understood.
Ever since that hushed conversation while the men had taken themselves hunting, Esme has gleefully watched the blossoming relationship develop between Rosalie and their newest coven member.
Emmett's feelings have been evident since eyelids revealed the blood-red of newborn eyes. Despite impassioned pleas from Rosalie as she cradled a wounded Emmett, Rosalie has since been tentative of Emmett. There's no denying how Emmett has brought life to Rosalie once more; her laughter often fills otherwise comfortable silence and her face is usually adorned with a smile which never fails to reach her eyes. Rosalie struggles with proximity, golden eyes flicker to find Esme whenever she finds herself and Emmett alone in the same room as one another. Rosalie never had to askā Esme understands in a way neither Carlisle or Edward (regardless of ability) could possibly begin to.
It's raining when Emmett joins her in the kitchen. Usually she can be found experimenting with recipes no-one can eat, or, like today, simply painting. She has the backdoor open, her easel with its back against the open door and just to the side, herself perched on a dining table chair. Esme owns multiple aprons; they are either adorned by cooking stains or paint stains, but Carlisle is always there with a new one, his mouth set in a smirk which she is only privy too.
Despite Emmett's size, Esme didn't hear him slip into the room. It's only when she glances up at her view and is met with his large figure, muscular arms crossed over his broad chest, that she realises he's even there. Her startle moves her paintbrush abruptly against canvas, an out-of-place brushstroke staining the otherwise grey of rainclouds. There is an immediate sigh, one that causes Esme to discard her palette and place her paintbrush into the glass of water she has faithfully placed next to her. Emmett's expression changes from his usual smile to that of which Esme can only describe as a boy knowing he's about to be admonished. An immediate grin captures Esme's lips and before he can even begin to apologise, she's put a hand up between them to silence him.
"It's fine... I suppose you're looking for Rosalie?"
And again, his expression changes from guilt to bashful and Esme grins wider.
"Unfortunately for you, she's gone hunting... with Edward of all people, and no, I don't understand either. Hold tight, son, she'll be back before you know it."
This time, Esme is rewarded with Emmett's own grin as he grabs a chair to sit at the table. There is the unmistakeable sound of splintering wood between Emmett's fingers, their eyes meeting with the realisation he's broken a chair, but Esme's quick to reassure, "please do me a favour and help yourself to the rest. I've never liked these chairs. Apparently Carlisle got them for a steal... I can see why."
Assured he's pardoned for his second mistake in less than five minutes, Emmett finally settles. His arms rest across the top of the backrest as he straddles the seat of his chair. For a moment he observes Esme's unfinished painting before rewarding her his attention once more.
"About Rosalie," he begins, gingerly rubbing the back of his neck as he speaks. "Uh, well... uh..."
Esme crosses a leg over the other, amusement playing on her features as she leans back against her chair. She's patient, she can wait for the end of his sentence, but that doesn't mean she can stop an eyebrow from arching in anticipation.
"... Well, uh... you seem close to her, is what I'm trying to say..."
"And?"
"And," he coughs, a fist coming to tap against the palm of his left hand, "I was wondering if she's mentioned me at all?"
Not the question she expects him to ask, but progress nonetheless. Esme tilts her head, her cheeks aching with her grin. "Hmm, well... she's mentioned that you ripped her coat the other day. Apparently it was designer..."
Emmett swallows, his eyes falling to concentrate on rhythmic punching. "Uh, yeah... Carlisle says he can purchase a new one, current season and all," he explains in a flurry, his words contending with each other to get out.
"Butā" Emmett's head raises with unmistakeable curiosity. "She's also told me how much she enjoys spending time with you."
"Even with ripped coats?"
"Even with ripped coats, Emmett."
The man finds his grin once more, his hands settling with Esme's confession. That isn't what he came to ask, of course, but it was a good start. Something tells him Esme is half expecting his next question, but it doesn't make it easier to get out. "So... knowing that... I was wondering if you could, uh, maybe tell me what she enjoys?"
There it is.
"If she hasn't mentioned it by now, may I suggest you offer to dismantle a car?" she replies, lazily wiping paint-stained hands against her apron. "And I don't mean by brute force, Emmett. Surely a man such as yourself knows his way around a toolkit? I can say she definitely does."
"Do you really lack that much faith in me?" he retorts, coaxing a laugh from Esme.
"She's also rather fond of perfume," she continues, watching the cogs turn in Emmett's head with every drip of information she feeds him. "Her favourite at the moment is Twenty Carats by Dana. Don't worry, I'll make sure to buy some for you. She doesn't have to know I told you."
Emmett exhales as if blowing through a straw, his fingers curling and uncurling against the palms of his hands. If it wasn't already obvious how he feels, he's sure it is now.
"Anything else?" Esme adds, watching the man piece together various plans in his mind.
Emmett shakes his head, standing as suddenly as he appeared and, in his enthusiasm, completely severs the backrest from the seat. He slowly pushes the now detached backrest towards Esme, her fingers coming grab it with an exasperated sigh, but fondness demonstrated in both her eyes and smile.
"Now, if you'd excuse me, I've got wood to repurpose and you've got a toolkit to find... I think the garage is your best bet."
He offers Esme a faux salute, his excitement palpable amongst the two of them. "Yes, ma'am."
And with that he's gone again like an unseasonal hurricane whirling through the house. Hopefully, the chair is all she has to fix... Esme doesn't even spare a thought for the garage.
When she finally settles once more, paintbrush between fingers, Esme glances up to catch familiar figures approaching the house. Edward's gaze catches that of Esme's and he lopsidedly grins. Rosalie doesn't look particularly happy at Edward's side, but Esme's sure it's nothing a little engine oil won't solve. The plan's in place, now Emmett just has to ask.
She had endured for months. In a tender, few weeks it would be their first wedding anniversary. She had nearly forgotten until opening the pocket diary she took shopping with her. The date was circled, something she had done the morning of the new year in the hope that it would all work out.
That belief was the only thing that got her through the wedding ceremony.
She hadn't slept at all last night. It was a Friday; Charles had come home drunk after missing dinner. By the time he stumbled through the door it was cold and of course it was her fault. She tried desperately to outrun him, use his inebriation against him, but her foot caught the leg of the dining table as she made her attempt to evade him. She was never quick enough at returning back to her feet.
Plates smashed as he swiped dishes from a clothed table, cutlery falling deafeningly around her. His fingers found her ankle as he dragged her toward him before her back was against the wall and his fingers around her throat.
She never cried.
His spittle found her face with every angry wordā every insult he hurled at her. She did her best not to struggle, but his fingers grew tighter and tighter which caused her to wince. Soon enough she was struggling to breathe.
Is this how she died?
He released her on the brink, allowing her to fall onto her hands and knees as she heaved, desperate for air in her lungs. The respite was brief. Soon enough he had his fingers in her hair, forcing her to follow him clumsily into the living room.
She couldn't remember what happened once the door closed, but from the bruises staining pale skin, she had gathered it was nothing pleasant.
The fingerprints around her throat were her most urgent concern. She settled on wearing her hair down accompanied by a coat with a generous collar. No-one would notice if she kept herself to herself. Charles had left for work and he expected Esme to shop for groceries. A fruitless endeavour in her opinion, especially when he most often hated what she cooked.
The decision was sudden and derailing. Instead of turning left as she normally would, Esme instead found herself walking a route she hadn't dared tread for months.
As she walked, the first few raindrops began to fall. It was gentle at first, almost relieving against skin that ached beneath clothing, but soon enough the rain pelted down as hard as her husband's punches and Esme found herself beginning to soak through. As roads transformed into dust tracks, the hem of her skirt picked up mud with shoes sinking into it.
The smell of the farm was a different type of pungency to the city. Manure was familiar to her, as was the sight of pigs and chickens.
The tree that came into few as she rounded the curve of the road caused a smile to pull at her lips. She was glad it was still there. With its presence, she was also reminded of the blonde-haired doctor so long ago.
She stood for what felt like hours at the door or the farm house. With every stuttering breath, she tried to find her bravery. An equally as shaky hand (curled lightly into a fist) came up to rap knuckles against the door, but she was interrupted by her name said behind her.
Esme startled. She turned, expecting Charles but was instead met by her mother with a cluster of eggs collected freshly from the hens.
Esme's chest collapsed in partial belief, but anxiety remained chained around her ankle. Rain dripped pitifully from the rim of her hat as she offered a strained smile. Of course her mother ushered her in with comments about Esme catching her death.
They had barely closed the door before Esme revealed she had come to talk to both her mother and father about something which drew her father from the doorway leading into the living room.
They invited her to sit, but nerves refused them.
With nothing more than an deep inhale, Esme revealed the treatment she suffered at the hands of Charles. She peeled away material to show bruising, her voice trembling but not breaking as she detailed his true nature before asking for their help.
The silence between them was as violent as Charles himself.
Esme's mother spoke first; Esme had to understand that Charles had a very taxing and stressful job. Perhaps she could do better not to frustrate him after a hard day's work.
Then Esme's father joined in, supporting his wife by suggesting Esme try to please him physically. The last thing a husband wanted when getting home was a wife who criticised them. He'd want to let off steam somewhere, she should be available for him to do that.
The figures in front of her suddenly became unrecognisable.
In the midst of their appeal of Charles' character, Esme's fingers found the door handle.
The rain had not subsided, but she did not care to stay a moment longer.
She had always wondered when she would lose her parents. This unexpected grief of losing them despite still living nearly doubled her over. Even with the aching in her chest, Esme retraced her steps until the key found the lock of her own house. Tears fell as heavily as the rain outside as she shed nature-stained clothes.
She would not wash them, Charles would be too suspicious. Instead she watched them burn in a fire that burned not only fabric, but any lingering connection to her parents.
Eventually, Esme found her diary again. She circled this date before glancing her reflection in the mirror. Lingering tears were wiped away, a smile stretching cheeks despite her agony. A dwindling fire was extinguished, the evidence of her disobedience gone and absolving her of her crimes.
The grocer commented on how late she was, how she usually appeared like clockwork. Esme dismissed his observation with a laugh, fruit and vegetables finding her basket as she explained she simply lost track of time waiting for the weather to pass. He laughed in return as bills were exchanged and Esme accepted her change.
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