𝙂𝙃𝘼𝙎𝙏𝙇𝙔 𝙍𝘼𝙉𝙆𝙎.

reminder that peter facinelli signs as “dr. carlisle cullen” and adds a lil fangy vampire face beside it and that’s how carlisle signs the holiday cards to all the cullen family friends 

            𝐈𝐍  𝐇𝐄𝐑  𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒   ,   𝐒𝐇𝐄  𝐇𝐀𝐃  𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐃  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋   !    trapped  was  the  innkeeper’s  daughter   ,   locked  into  a  sheltered  life  with  which  she’d  seen  no  end   ––   𝐍𝐎  𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐄   .   the  count’s  whispers   ,   sweet  words  upon  a  dreaming  mind   ,   had  held  promise  of  freedom   .   the  sacrifice  had  been  a  small  one   ;   to  say  goodbye  to  her  mortal  life  in  exchange  for  what  her  betrothed  had  given  her  had  hardly  been  a  difficult  decision   . 

            the  fledgling  vampire  turns  at  the  other’s  voice   ,   the  immediate  smile  that  had  graced  her  lips  upon  his  first  words  failing  as  the  next  ones  follow   .   sarah  turns  away  once  more   ,   draws  her  shawl  tighter  around  her  shoulders   .   ❝   why  must  it  be  a  matter  of  when   ?   ❞   while  not  inherently  accusatory   ,   her  tone  is  detectably  defensive   ,  ❝   𝙞  𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚  𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣  𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙣  𝙣𝙚𝙬  𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚   .   is  that  not  reason  enough  to  rejoice   ?   ❞

quaint, she was. he supposed his father would feast upon the girl. his father seemed to have quite an appetite for innocence, took great delight in devouring it: for even as virgin blood had been all but drained from her mortal veins, still yet had he her sweet light to swallow. smile remained, though more catlike did it grow, as painted fingertips descended to tease and tousle the russet curls upon her shoulders.

𝑷𝒆𝒓𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒔 𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒍𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒓𝒕, Thranduil appreciated the beauty of it no less.    Thus willingly sauntering along, hands loosely clasped behind his GRACEFUL frame, he took in every inch exposed to his ever keen sight.    He admired the precision in some of those paintings, not as much the seemingly whimsical patches of color presenting more abstract pieces.    Carlisle, too, fell under the ellon’s observation — albeit primarily to capture the fondness glistening in his eyes.

SILVERY head tipping minimally to one side, Thranduil studied this particular painting for a moment shrouded in silence.    Solely a low hum that rumbled in his throat served as sign for paid attention;  ere once again that BRILLIANT-BLUE gaze of his sought friend’s countenance.    Curiosity tugged at his strong brows.    ❝  Does there exist a connection between your friend’s sentiment and the motive of that piece ?  ❞

if ever there were a soul whose beauty ascended above art. had carlisle yet called himself a patron of the arts, perhaps the elvenking would be a new muse, for the gleam of his brow had ever lit a flame in his heart: peace at his side, warmth in his breast. their friendship, still-green, steadily-ripening. suppose he could have once composed poems about the other, sung songs to the happiness which grew in him with each moment shared. suppose he could. the thought was tempting for a moment, before it became humorous, and carlisle’s smile grew as he imagined what reaction the other would take to his petrarchan poems. fond gaze turned to him, heart lost in its own passion as he beheld him once more.

     𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳 𝙲𝙰𝙽𝚃𝚂 𝚃𝙾 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴, bending to try and capture the gaze of the other. Tongue hooks on a canine as the corners of his eyes crinkle with mirth. ❝ Darlin’ yer friendship is mah world… ❞ Hand reaches out to rest against against his friend’s shoulder, thumb drumming against his collarbone. ❝ ‘m guessin’ mah smart mouth ain’t a deal breaker fer ya? ❞

 𝐋𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓   𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐒   𝐀   𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐄   𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐖,   chasing   off   shadows   from   the   circle   of   warmth   she’s   burrowed   herself   in.   and   though   the   hour   is   late,   and   the   morrow   is   wont   to   bring   new   challenges   requiring   a   rested   mind,   sleep   is   an   elusive   creature.   she   sits   then,   large   tome   opened   over   her   knees,   cheek   resting   comfortably   against   a   shoulder,   fingers   following   the   ancient   words   as   she   speaks   them   in   a   murmur.         ❝   but   the   maiden   was   a   curious   creature,   you   see,   and   the   shepherd’s   song   delighted   her   so   …   she   left   behind   her   throne   of   stars,   and   o’er   to   the   land   of   the   earthlings   she   would   go.   ❞

nestled at her side, auburn hair falling across the pillows that cradled the two, the star-child drew fingers along the opposing page: gentle hums left ruby lips, the girl falling prey to the peace the maiden brought her, each halcyon word leaving her feeling lighter than the last, as if she climbed the clouds to meet her amongst the night sky. painted nail fell upon one word, a mere inch from the other’s, sweet mouth imitating her speech as she sought to understand the distant tongue. 

lips grew into one lascivious smile, the stark white of his teeth near glowing over painted mouth and fine brows rising in intrigue. the new bride had been quick to take the crown of night: suppose that she felt as if she were among the stars. a hum, waxy lips smacking as they separate, and then he spoke: his voice was a clarion, even with the cadence of the poet, and easy-going as silver notes rose from his throat.

     𝙿𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝚃𝙾𝚁𝚈 𝙸𝙽 𝙽𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙴, a smile curls upwards, white teeth flashing dangerously. ❝ I don’t need to try to control you… ❞ Oh but his eyes, those blood red eyes that stare into souls focus to capture averted gaze. ❝ Look into my eyes and I’ll own you.. ❞

and so down fell his eyes, refusing to give archer the satisfaction. he was an aesthete, of course, and a dreadful flirt: a personality carlisle had well-adjusted to. his own lips drew, smiling lightly, offering that alone to show his amusement.

if it was strange, carlisle did not know. it had been too long since the strange, foreign fear of this life passed, leaving behind only a strange familiarity. there was no great love now in his life that had not been gained in much blood, and, noble though he may try to be, there was yet no great virtue without vice. 

laurent’s coming to their life had been tumultuous, at best, but forgiveness was given in boughs for those who asked of it. warmth had been extended to laurent, now become family by a friendship immeasurable. and though, in their ranks, there were surely some old tensions, they were outnumbered in the kindnesses given unto him by the heads of the family.

happy to have found a companion as enamored with the relics of human creation, carlisle strode side by side (with slightly widened step) with the elder, honeyed gaze freely traveling about the pieces before them. artifacts here, sculptures of bygone eras elsewhere. however, when their steps came to a stop before a series of ancient pottery, carlisle languid eyes rose toward his friend. spying a certain nostalgia, he softened, and bent low his chin to catch his gaze, voice low between them to share some quiet humor.

should the professor think for a moment that he were welcome, he would be considered a most unwise tutor. though they once stood on the same side against the curse now curdling his blood, never had they been compatriots. men like him, buried deep in their studies so far they could not see the world beyond the tips of their nose, or baptized into the soul-sucking church to become its mindless servants. 

and how he had felt the earth shake! down to his bones, deep in drying veins, he had felt it. so had his lover spoken his last words and taken last gaze, slain by the hands of mortal men. an unbridled hatred had arisen with the grief of loss, both of a groom and equal spirit, and the being bore the man down with heated eyes, borne of that same wild ferocity found within his ancient sire. yet he did not sneer, would not sneer.

guiding the other through his modest office, sans the art proudly displayed on each wall. by the look of them, they were old: though not all original pieces. many were indeed collectibles, others his own replications. carlisle looked upon them with a small sense of pride, leading thranduil to the chief of his collection: a piece, old enough to have been painted sometime long before its frame. its colors dim, but the painting well-kept by carlisle’s trained hand. his warm, amber eyes gazed upon it in familiar motion, tracing the action of the piece from figure to figure.