#Also! After he does take a bath he gets hair curlers to curl his hair how he wants it to be

[amandacanwrite]

Alright. *cracks knuckles* Welcome to the intersection of two of my special interests: Art and Hair. I am going all in, so please spare me a couple moments of your time.

Qualifications: Licensed cosmetologist of 6 years who does stuff like this.

And Artist of like...20 years who does stuff like this. (I was once an art major before capitalism destroyed my dreams, dont worry about it. I'm fine now.)

Okay so let's get into Astarion's hair because, not only is it fun to think about drawing his hair, but it's also fun to think about what a character's hair tells you ABOUT that character.

Here is our beautiful, sad boy. Or precious, gorgeous, trauma bean. Our warm capri-sun enjoyer. Our Juice Box Regent. Our Maniacal Magistrate.

So first off, this part of his hair suggests that his hair is actually naturally curly, and quite curly indeed. Like if he grew his hair down to his shoulders it would probably look like this.

(We will conveniently pretend that the majority of the photos I found to illustrate this were not funky-fun looking women in their 60's)

What happens when you cut curly hair shorter but not short enough is the curl pattern is interrupted mid-curl which is how those little flippy bits in the back. The only way that this could be achieved without a natural curl pattern that supported it would be a curling iron which likely is not something you would expressly find in Faerun.

This means that his hair is layered, which also suggests that someone is likely cutting his hair for him, perhaps his siblings, maybe Cazador (a chilling thought, tbh) or some brainwashed thrall. It would be very hard for Astarion to accomplish cutting his hair this way on his own, especially by feel alone.

Now lets move on to the right side of his head.

So this is the direction he parts his hair toward. (Meaning he parts on the left.) The tufts at the back of the neck and curling slightly behind his ear suggests that the sides are long enough that he can actually tuck them behind his ear. It also suggests that the back isn't trimmed up to his neckline (basically where his hair "stops" on at his nape) he is a boy who likes to have a little bit to play with when it comes to his hair.

Now this is a fun detail to think about.

So, you see how the curls on our left side are more defined and piecey than on our right? This suggest that the haircut toward the front is actually slightly uneven. It is trimmed shorter on the left hand (our left, his right) side than on the right side.

This further supports the idea that the person trimming his hair is passable but not a professional. Also kind of lends itself to the idea that something could have happened in battle that required him to trim off singed hair. (Burned hair friggen stinks bros.)

Now, to my favorite part, the front/coiffeur of his hair.

So that little swoopy in front? That can not be achieved through natural means, but it would be fairly easy to style without looking at it once you got good at it. (Which I'm sure you could in 200 years.)

The method most likely used for Astarion to achieve this swoop in front based on available styling methods, resources and technology?

A set of large curlers, probably 1.5-2 inches.

So that means, at night, after he bathes, he is taking some sort of round-thing. It could be a rolled up bit of fabric, it could be a narrow bottle, it could be a magic scroll or a damn pinecone. He is wrapping his hair around that item, probably with some kind of emollient to help it form the shape of the looser curl and then.

AND THEN THIS IS MY FAVORITE PART.

HE IS WRAPPING HIS HAIR IN A SCARF TO PROTECT THE STYLE WHILE HE SLEEPS LIKE A 1950'S HOUSE WIFE.

I should also note it is possible that this could be achieved with pin curls, but it would be very hard for him to get the looser, waving swoop without applying some kind of tension to his natural curl pattern.

Once he wakes in the morning (likely before everyone else so he doesn't have to be bothered during his morning rituals,) he will finger comb the curls out and sculpts them slightly by hand. This part would be very easy for him to figure out within a few years of doing it blind.

Thank you for coming to this very long winded post about how Astarion's hair absolutely supports his backstory as a character. I had entirely too much fun doing this.

guys i’ve got to admit. i have no idea how in hell astarion’s hair works and it’s driving me insane

[astronomyparkers]

waltz (koh!tom)

Warnings: Language

Pairing: King of hell!Tom Holland x Angel!reader

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: after a few months, I finally finished another addition to the koh!tom au! this one is more towards the beginning, during the first few weeks of being in hell. does it read a little like a 1d wattpad stockholm syndrome au?? yes. am I too old to be writing those?? yes. did I still write it?? also yes. let me know what you thought! and please, if you like it, reblog it. not just my work, but the work of others. not to be a PSA about supporting content creators, but please support content creators.

{koh!tom masterlist}

{masterlist}

The flowers had begun arriving three days ago.

Your first week in hell had been nothing short of terrifying.  No angel had ever been there so long and lived to tell the tale, and you were afraid that your number would be up at any moment.  Even after the king commanded that you be brought to a private chamber, waited on by servants, be served any food you wanted, you couldn’t relax. Every movement around you was a threat, every sound foreign.  For all you knew, the king was keeping you like a shepherd keeps a lamb for slaughter.

In the meantime, you had created a routine.  After you woke up, you ate breakfast, dressed, and went to the palace library. It was bigger than you ever could imagine, and hiding in the stacks of ancient books helped you feel at peace. You took your lunch in there, and tea, before returning to your room for dinner.  Then, after a bath, you would go to sleep, only to wake up and repeat it all again.  

Until three days ago, when you awoke to a red rose on the pillow next to you.

It was the scent that had woken you first.  The smell of sulfur penetrated every surface of hell, made your nose burn each time you inhaled.  When you turned over that morning, however, you were greeted by a light floral scent. When you opened your eyes, the red rose was lying innocently next to you, placed there while you were asleep.

You had sat up in confusion, picking up the rose carefully.  The thorns had all been removed from the stem, making it safe to touch. When you examined it closer, you could see it beginning to wilt, wither from the atmosphere it was in.

You knew how the rose felt.

Blowing a light breath on it, the rose brightened, its petals returning to their original glory. You had no doubt in who had left the flower for you, but you were confused as to why.  You were even more confused when there was another rose the next morning.  Then another.

When you woke up this morning, you now expected the flower.  Just as you did for the others, you breathed life into it, and wondered why Tom had left it for you.  What was the king of hell doing leaving roses for his prisoner?  And moreover, what was he doing sneaking into your bedroom every night?  The thought made your face burn.

Looking down at the pillow, you noticed something new.  Sitting next to where the rose was lay a folded piece of yellowed parchment. Curious, you picked it up and unfolded it, unsure of what you would find.

The handwriting was messy, but still refined.  I’m having a ball tonight.  Your servants will dress you in the gown I’ve picked. Be ready by 7.

A ball?  There was no way demons would welcome an angel into their party for a positive reason.  It seemed the shepherd had decided it time to slaughter his lamb.

Terror coursed through your veins, but you tried to steady yourself with deep breaths.  Perhaps this was a lie, meant to unsettle you. Perhaps he just wanted to get inside your head.  And why would you give a demon what he wanted?

Instead of sitting in your room, afraid of your fate, you decided to spend the day as you would any other.  You ate breakfast, went to the library, had lunch and tea.  But when you returned to your room, you found it changed.  And populated.

The three servants that had been waiting on you were hanging gowns around the room, setting up trays of accessories and rows of shoes.  You could smell fragrance emanating from the bathroom, signalling the luxurious oils that had been poured into a bath for you.  There was more makeup than you could even name lined on your vanity, along with a set of hot curlers being heated up.

“What…what is all this for?” You asked hesitantly.  You knew, of course, but you couldn’t answer the question for yourself.

“We’re here to get you ready for the ball.” One of them answered, taking your arm. “Come.  We only have a few hours, and your bath is ready for you.”

“No, I-I don’t want to go.” You shook your head adamantly. “I don’t want to go to a ball.  I’d much rather stay here—”

“Your attendance is not optional.” They cut you off, glancing at each other. “The king specifically requested we prepare you.”

“Prepare me?” Your voice was barely a whisper. “Prepare me for…what?”

“For…the ball.” Another servant leaned over to her colleagues. “Do angels not have balls?”

“No, but we do have ears.” You couldn’t help the sarcastic remark that left your lips.

“Please, miss.  We are just following our orders.” They sighed.

You sighed as well. “But I—”

“Come.” Two of them gripped your elbows and walked you to the bathroom, while the third began undoing the back of your dress.

Within an hour, against your will, you were bathed, scrubbed, dried, and sitting in a thin silk robe as one of the girls wound your hair tightly in curlers.  The other two debated between the makeup, glancing at the dresses as they did.

“The king said he wanted to see red lipstick on her—”

“But won’t that be too much with the red dress?  Especially with the eye makeup—”

“We’ll just keep the eye makeup more neutral.  And the dress—”

“We’ll never get her in this one, it’s too low cut.  She’d freak out at the colour alone—”

“What about this one? It’s modest in front, but backless—”

“The king would hate it—”

“The king sent it—”

You turned around in your chair. “Can you two please stop discussing things like I’m not here?”

They stared at you for a moment, their eyes unblinking. “That was quite rude, angel.”

“I apologize, but—”

“It’s fine.  Rude is good.” They shrugged. “But be careful with your temper in front of the king.  He doesn’t like to be interrupted.”

“If he wants me to watch my temper, then he should watch his.” You muttered, a blush coming over your cheeks.

“You’ll want to get those remarks under control before seeing the king.” The girl doing your hair warned you. “He won’t like them.”

“I’m not really concerned with what he’ll like.” You mumbled, looking down.

“We are.  And I think he’ll like this dress.” One of the girls pulled a red satin ball gown from the rack.  It had jewels embroidered into the fabric, and a higher cut front than you imagined.  When they turned the dress around, however, you saw it was completely backless.

“I can’t wear that.” You shook your head. “No way.  No. It’s not happening.”

But two hours later, you were in the dress with your hair crushed into soft curls, a red rose tucked behind your ear.  Two of the girls held your hands as the third climbed under your dress, strapping heels onto your feet.

“Have you ever walked in high heels before?”

“No.” You answered nervously. “Is it…hard?”

They glanced at each other. “Maybe we should practice before you go to the ball.”

 It took another hour for you to practice enough that you could walk without holding onto something, but the practice did nothing to soothe your nerves.  Your dress was uncomfortable, your makeup was uncomfortable, your hair was uncomfortable, and the shoes…uncomfortable didn’t even begin to cover it.  Perhaps this was part of the king’s punishment for you.  It was certainly torture enough.

By the time you reached the ballroom doors, you were shaking.  You were knowingly about to walk—well, stumble—your way into a room full of demons that hated your kind.  Would you even make it to see the end of the night?

The doors opened, and you had no choice but to walk forward.  Everyone inside the ballroom stopped and stared at you.  You felt like you were on autopilot as you made your way down the path of parted demons, all dressed to the nines, to where the king was seated on his throne.

Tom was in an all black tuxedo, his crown glittering on his well-managed hair.  He had his hand on his chin, his ruby rings sparkling as he considered you.  You saw his eyes move up and down your form, pausing on the rose in your hair.  He licked his lips.

You paused when you reached his throne, sinking into the curtsy the girls taught you.  You could feel everyone’s eyes burning holes into your bare back.

You didn’t rise until you heard the sound of Tom stepping down from his throne, his dress shoes clicking against the marble floor.  When you stood up, he was in front of you, a serious look on his face.

He extended a hand to you, the other behind his back.  You took it nervously, unsure of what else to do.  His hand was cold around yours as he led you to the middle of the room.  

Still not speaking, he let go of your hand, and instead, placed his hand on your waist.  The orchestra began to play a waltz.

You knew enough about dancing to pick up your skirt, letting Tom guide you as you began to dance together. More couples joined as you continued. Your skirt swished around every time Tom spun you in a circle, but it didn’t stop him from getting as close to you as he could.  You could feel his hot breath hitting you as you danced together.

The band finished playing with a final flourish, and everyone on the dance floor began to clap. Tom, however, kept his grip on you, his dark eyes locked on yours.

“You look lovely in this dress.” His voice was low as he spoke his first words of the night to you. “Absolutely ravishing.”

“I hate it.” You said honestly, breathless from the dance. “I hate the colour, I hate the cut of it—”

“You should be grateful.” Tom’s voice was soft, but his tone was dangerous. “I could have dressed you in something skin tight, low cut…”

The servants’ warnings about Tom’s temper had completely left your head as your indignation rose. “I shouldn’t have been forced to dress at all.  I shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet you are.” Tom took a step back from you. “You’re here, you’re at this ball, and you are on the arm of the king.  Do you know how many here tonight would kill for that?”

You knew.  As you danced, your eyes had travelled around the ballroom, catching the gaze of more than a few demons who were shooting daggers at you.  Your instinct had told you to pull your angel blade out, but the bracelet Tom had placed on your wrist the moment you arrived prevented you from doing so.

“It’s one night out from your…prison, as you think of it.” Tom’s fingers moved to the flower in your hair, barely brushing against the petals. “Try to enjoy it, angel.”

“Why did you bring me here?” You ignored his words. “Why was I brought to a ball?  Everyone here wants to kill me, and I—”

“And you think I’ll let them.” Tom laughed, his hand dropping from the flower.  He snapped his fingers, and a goblet of wine and a crystal glass of liquor appeared on a servant’s platter.  Tom took the crystal glass for himself, passing the wine to you. “Not yet, angel.”

You took the wine on instinct, but wrinkled your nose when you got a smell of it. “No.  I don’t drink.”

“You’re in hell.  Do you really have anything to lose?” Tom raised an eyebrow, sipping from his glass.

“I’m in hell. Apparently, I do.” You kept your voice deadpan, trying not to show your fear.  You know demons feed off of it.

“Satan in hell, you’re stubborn.” Tom shook his head, draining the rest of his glass. “I thought angels were supposed to be docile little things?”

Your previous spark of indignation burst into a full flame. “When we’re not being threatened.”

Tom spread his arms wide, gesturing around the ballroom. “Who has threatened you here tonight?”

“Just look at how they’re staring at me!” You answered, glancing around the room. “They’re all—”

“Jealous that you’ve captured the attention of their king.” Tom stepped forward, gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “My attention is all they desire, and yet…I’ve given it to you.  They’re jealous.”

“If it’s all they desire, then why don’t you give it to them?” You pulled out of his grip, a drop of wine spilling onto the marble floor. “They’d be more receptive to it.”

“Because.” He grinned wickedly. “I’m having fun playing with my angel.”

A shiver ran through you. “I’m not ­your angel.”

“Yes.  You are.” Tom set his glass down on the tray of a passing servant. “If you stop resisting, angel, you just might find yourself having fun.”

Your nostrils flared as you sucked in a hard breath. “Never.  I’ll never find amusement with you.”

Tom laughed. “Then I suppose you’ll have a dreadful time dancing with me.  Come.”

 The rest of the night passed in a blur of dances, Tom’s meaningless chatter with important officials, and being the official arm candy of the king.  By the time he allowed servants to escort you back to your room, you were exhausted, your feet were aching, and all you wanted was to take off your uncomfortable dress and collapse into bed.  When you finally did so, you fell into a deep slumber almost instantly.  Your sleep was sound, so much so that, as usual, you failed to wake up when Tom snuck into your room in the early hours of the morning.

The king crept quietly, placing his usual rose on the pillow next to you.  He was careful not to place it too close, so that it wouldn’t be crushed as you moved in your sleep.  Tom couldn’t help but admire the peaceful look on your face, specks of glitter still surrounding your eyes, your lips still stained red from your lipstick. You were the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

He hesitated before reaching out, letting his calloused fingertips brush gently against your cheek. When you failed to stir, he moved his fingers to your hair, tucking a small strand behind your ear.

“Beautiful.” He murmured to himself, pulling his hand away. “Such a beautiful creature…you’ll like it here. You will.”

With one last glance at you, he snuck out of the room before you awoke.

[cozy-possum]

The venom burns through some things quicker than others. When you’re born a vampire part of you dies. Pt. 2

Bella turns the water off and is about to call Reneesme to the bath when Edward pulls her back. She blinks at him.“It’s too hot.” She rolls her eyes.“It’s lukewarm at best.”“Bella can you not see the steam?” He glances to the bath and she nods.“It doesn’t feel hot.” Edward nods brow creasing as he tells her to wait. He hands her a raw steak and she holds it shrugging.“What was that for?”“That steak’s been in the deep freeze for months, can you not feel it?” Bella shakes her head and Edward brings her out to the living room having her stand in front of Carlisle. He glances up, watching her holding the now thawing steak.“Temperature then? Not surprising since you spent your human life in different climates. I’d imagine you being a shield has something to do with it as well.” Bella lets Carlisle explain whatever it is he’s talking about, waiting patiently for him to simplify it for her. He finally turns to Bella, it can’t have been more than five minutes but he smiles slightly.“When we become a vampire, the venom takes something from us.”“Our life.” Bella interrupts.“No something else, a price for becoming immortal and powerful. It varies for each of us. But is usually something that as a vampire, we don’t need.”

When Edward wakes Carlisle is surprised to hear him speak in monotone, nervously stumbling over the words as if he had forgotten how to say them. He makes sure Edward has far too many language and grammar books. As the days go on Carlisle is relieved the venom didn’t rob him of his speech, but the flat tone in his voice is worrying in a way Carlisle can’t place. It isn’t till Esme joins, asking Edward about where he grew up that it clicks. Edwards price was painfully obvious now. He can see his son recoil at the thought. Carefully answering Esme’s question and growing upset when he answers in the same flat monotone as he has been for the past years. When Rose and Emmett join it brings the frustration to the front of Edwards mind again, his voice almost scratchy from overuse, edging just on the side of husky, a byproduct of the venom constructing the lure from his voice for the predator façade they have. When Alice and Jasper arrive the anger is calmed, if only by Jasper’s gift. Edward still seethes, still hisses and goes quiet after certain phrases and sentences.

Bella questions it, when it happens after she wakes post transformation. She mumbles embarrassed how his voice had always sounded like music now sounds flat and strained. She worries Carlisle can tell which is why he pulls her aside. Explaining what she already knows. Edward is from Chicago. She laughs joking about him losing his accent after years of moving. Carlisle shakes his head as Edward scowls his voice a flat monotone as usual.

Emmett stands gripping the map the teacher had given him, the highlighted pathways she had drawn on it all merge together and he grips Rose’s hand as she leads him to their only shared class. They finish English and Emmett tries to calm the anxiety bubbling in his chest, he has no one in his next class and any classes they have are on the opposite side to where he needs to go. Rosalie watches him, before casually starting to walk with him. She kisses him at the door, wishing him a good rest of the day.

As Emmett settles into math he frowns, thinking about how when Rosalie’s classes have always been on the opposite side of the schools she still manages to make it to her classes on time. He hopes she hasn’t gotten caught running or using her vampire speed.

“Rosalie, we got another call from the school, if you’re late for anymore classes you’ll have to go to detention again.” Rosalie frowns as Carlisle scolds her.

“Detention?” Emmett turns looking worried to Rose.

“It’s nothing.” She smiles shaking her head. Carlisle watches eyes narrowed.

“You’ve been getting in trouble for walking me to class?” Emmett states.

“Jasper says you panic when you have to try to get to class alone, plus the first few times we had classes apart it took you ten minutes to find your class and that was after the teacher walked you to it. Also when it comes to following directions you’re not the best babe.” She shrugs a little and Emmett nods. Carlisle smiles.

“Well it seems a good sense of direction was your price.”

“Hah, yeah, I bet if I have know which way to go in the forest I wouldn’t’ve met any of y’all.”

Jasper knows he’s kept the lie up too long. He knows it will unravel soon enough. He sighs tucking his hands in his pockets and refusing to meet everyone’s eyes. He’d made the joke that eyes were the windows to the soul, and he got more than enough of the soul with feeling everyone’s emotions. No one questions his refusal to look at them and they allow him to exist in peace and further the lie.

Bella scowls, huffing as her voice pitches up, anger flowing from her like a broken dam.

“Jasper why don’t you ever look at anyone! It’s rude!” She’s worked up, she’s almost a year old, and he knows it’s the last of her newborn ability leaving her, the last big emotional snap before everything quiets into normalcy. Edward and Carlisle hover close to her, knowing what is happening. He can hear her moving, it’s slowed down her excess speed the first to fade. He can feel her hand, jerking his chin up and forcing him to stare at her. He cringes back closing his eyes desperate to erase her gaunt face and dead eyed stare. He covers his nose automatically not breathing in the scent of her blood, avoiding looking at the gash and bloody clothes that hang off her. He shoves her away opening his eyes and gluing them to the floor.

“If you touch me like that again I’ll snap Reneesmee’s arm off.” He deadpans. Everyone bristles shock still heavy in the air. Carlisle stares, eyes narrowing as the shock melts from him. Jasper hates the taste of pity.

“You can tell them.” Jasper growls standing slightly straighter, his posture tense. They can tell he’s prepared to run.

“His price. He’s looked death in the face so many times it’s all he can see.” Bella’s hand falters.

“Jasper, what do you see when you look at me?” Bella looks nervous now, Edward startles whimpering at the visual in Jaspers brain of the version of Bella he sees. He looks to each of them, Edward carefully projecting the images of themselves in their near death state. He does not look at Esme and she frowns.

“Jasper, it’s okay.” Carlisle adds in worried Jasper will feel bad. Jasper nods opening his eyes and choking little as he looks at Esme. She’s dressed in a nightgown, no blood or bruises on her, no bones jutting out, no swelling. Her feet caked in mud and dirt and wood under her fingernails.

“I hate this.” He mumbles to no one as he focuses on the blanket in her arms, her son wrapped carefully in it. He can almost smell the dirt; he can feel the ache in her chest as she curls her son to her. He turns his gaze down and the vision stops. He can still smell it, the faint dirt from Esme, the blood from Bella, the rotting food from Carlisle, the stench of bear from Emmett, beer and blood mixing when Rosalie steps in and the sickly sweet stench of sick as Edward steps closer. He closes his eyes stepping back as he turns and runs into the forest until he can no longer smell the antiseptic that wafts around Alice. He can’t get away from the stench of horse or heat that burns from him.

It surprises Bella when Jasper grips Alice’s wrist the first time. She thinks maybe he missed her hand. But as the day continues she notes he never actually touches her hands. He’ll brush his own against her body, up and down her arms, pulling her into him by her shoulders. Never touching her hands.

She asks Alice, when they’re alone, the only two not out a on a hunt.

“Oh, my price.” She smiles bubbly as always and says no more on the subject.

“I always though Alice’s price was her memories.”

“Ah, but what need does someone who can see the future have for touch.” Edward lounges on the couch reading.

“Touch?” Bella looks up from her book horrified.

“She cannot feel with her hands. They’re completely numb.” Edward shrugs returning to his books for a moment

“She tried to convince us it was just her memories, and we believed her for years, of course she ended up slicing her fingers off one day. Didn’t even notice until Carlisle panicked for her.” Edward laughs at the memory and Bella scowls, careful not to grab Alice by the hand anymore.

Esme and Carlisle rush towards the scream, slamming into the door and watching Rosalie glaring at the floor hands twisting in her hair.

“It won’t work!” She looks up; they know she’d be sobbing if she could. Carlisle approaches her.

“What’s wrong?”

“The mirror is broken.” She points to it and Carlisle looks into the smooth surface, seeing himself standing beside a panicked Rosalie. He watches it, pulling her towards him and notes how she squirms.

“I can see you fine. I’m just blurry.” She scowls and turns away from the mirror. Carlisle sighs.

“We’ve each forgotten something. We’ll never be able to get it back, a sacrifice for becoming.” Carlisle offers a sad smile as he gestures to himself. Rosalie shifts.

“I was trying to do my hair. And I looked up and it was all foggy, I couldn’t see anything.”

“Yourself. You’ve lost the ability to see yourself.” He grimaces as Rose curls onto her bed.

“It doesn’t come back ever?” He shakes his head and nudges Esme.

“May I?” Esme nods carefully sitting next to her holding the brushes and hair curlers rose had thrown against the ground.

“Now curl towards this side or the other?” Carlisle leaves them thankful Esme sits with her.

Esme sighs nervously running her hands over the cookbook. She looks up sheepishly to Carlisle.

“Yes dear?” He responds when he feels her eyes on him.

“Could you read this to me?” Carlisle nods worry creasing his brow as he reads the cooking instructions to the roast Esme was making for the neighbors.

“Thank you dear, for some reason I just couldn’t make sense of it. Maybe not needing to eat has muddled my brain.” She laughs and Carlisle swallows that this is the fifteenth time she asked him to read to her. He kisses her forehead and strokes her hair mumbling confirmation that she should accept what she’s forgotten. She nods eyes downcast.

“Well this makes cooking difficult. Not being able to read the cooking times and such.”

“It’ll be a memory soon enough, you won’t need the cook books.” Esme nods and Carlisle pretends not to see the recipe card in her own handwriting.

Carlisle closes his eyes and sighs nervously as he steps through into the cool marble of the building, he shuffles uncomfortably gliding past the rows and groups of people before settling into seat.

“I have not been in a church since before my father passed.” His voice is quiet, choking on every other word even though his ability to cry is gone.

“I find myself desperate for it, the smell, the memories, the comfort. My family doesn’t understand, none of them have the same upbringing I did.” He sighs twisting his hands against his shirt.

“Forgive me father-“ Carlisle coughs, the words stuck in his throat, his vision blurring and head spinning as he tries to recall what to say next. He knows this feeling and he retreats from the confessional booth rushing outside into the forest gagging and coughing as blood drips down his chin and onto his shirt. He returns home, his family commenting about how messy he is, joking his control does not extend to his ability to eat. He nods agreeing with the joke and vanishes to his study again. Edward finds him an hour later; he knew he waited to make it not suspicious.

Edward settles next to him, gripping his hands in his own and tangling them in the rosary that Carlisle holds onto.

Edwards voice both speaking and the voice he pulses into Carlisle head is soothing, it reminds him of his father before he grew twisted and dark. He lets his thoughts wander to the events of the past years, their moves and hunt, the friends they’ve made. Edward finishes the prayer, quietly untangling his hands and pushing the rosary around Carlisle wrist as he smiles at his father.

“God be with you.” Edward keeps his hand gripped on his shoulder. Carlisle chokes wincing as he spits blood into the trashcan.

“And also with you.” Edward carefully speaks with him, Carlisle smiles in thanks bowing his head as Edward leaves ignoring the thoughts Carlisle knows he can hear. He can hear Edwards voice faintly telling everyone he lost a patient earlier. His sadness and ache at what he lost from his transformation plays into the lie perfectly. Nobody bothers him in his study as he hacks blood into a trash can, desperately try to recite his father’s bible.

Coffee?