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@reapsowed,          you look like you’re on the verge of death,  is all.    are you alright,  damiano?

@eurysphea      do you mean to make a fool of me?  it’s offensive for a man to sit while a woman stands.  surely,   even you know that.   i’ll rerun when it’s over.   

@reapsowed,            here,  take my seat.   i’d rather you wait sat.   shouldn’t be long now, he’d told me he’d be out soon.

@snakeandthorn,             “i will answer truthfully.”          heart is hardest to bear, a world—weight never meant for a single pair of shoulders.    readily, she will dispossess immaculacy to admit that she has grown selfish,    that in her dead—winter has bloomed a garden of greed.    to remember everything,    and to suffer for it.    so if she quiets the alarms of instinct to catch a glimpse of him      —   in phosphenes,    in the unfocus,   in every corner he would not dare to look,   —      the fact of the matter is that she has lived almost overlong as wife more than girl to remain so inconsiderate of the self.          “just ask.”

an untruthful father is weighted enough.  

*     yes hello

i prefer the silence,    anyway. 

@kimaquare,              “achilde..     please.”          the bug seems to overtake her from the inside and out, sickness spreading through the fragility of bones to render her unfit to escape his advances of aid a minutes more. the sweat on her forehead paints her otherwise sheet—white canvas of a face. the furious rouge on her cheeks stands out in the dimmed light of the enclosed chambers, typically reserved for pestering brother, hours of studying, and one membresia.              “i’m fine..   really.     you’re missing the night’s game.”

@kimaquare,              “doesn’t it?”           proximity lullabies her tonight, eyelids grown too heavy to bear and weigh, gaze otherwise focused completely disoriented once casted upon his face beneath the carnelian glow of lamplight. plush sheets swallow them whole, abandoning bodies and existing in company of spirits and tendril flame with waning contact between skins.            “i’ll treasure this forever.”            all sleep’s escaped her, then. something stops, perhaps the whole world halts, and theah’s right hand glides across the periphery of chest. beating, despite it all.       “—right here.”

[‘who you think it is’.  why, it could very well be anyone in her case.  the depressed green eyed beauty,  the red beast riding lioness—her dear best friend membresia (and he only knew them to be just that).  maybe even the (to be)king.   amethyst eyes rise so hesitantly, you would think aestreller had found sudden interest to move in slow motion. ]    why is it,  when the need for you to be specific is great you prefer the opposite?   [nevertheless,  the “favor„ grabs his attention long enough to plant a seed of interest;  a seed that will either prove itself baron or sprout into a deep—rooted tree.    hands do not stop the returning of rings to slim dark fingers, but his ears twitch inwardly with hunger]    go on.    @eurysphea

@aestreller             december is notoriously unseasonable for those phototrophs so greedy for a breath of sunlight.     theah has long been eschewed by equinox,    exiled from the burgeon to find kindred with the likes of hellebores,    winter-bred and perilous and stiff-stemmed in defiance of loveliness.     so beautiful,  so sad.            “i have a favor to ask of you.”               that was sure to grab his attention,     whatever it was to follow.   she is coaxed from her solstice by a finger’s behest,    steered to gaze upon twain suns carved into an eventide face.      it is too late in the year for bloom,      yet she is inexplicably possessed of them,    and acquiescence looks like surrender,    looks like the fleshly line of a white throat bared.    she escapes his gaze then,   for the split second it takes her to get the syllable of his name out.             “it’s about who you think it is.”

@aestreller              i haven’t even posed my question   ..         and you are pouting. 

@rosaunt              supped at shared succor as they hewed themselves into belonging,             “you must know i do not partake in solemnizing your pain.”           her hands on the kaftan of dress’ beedwork,      probing into the cage of her ribs,      as though matteo at a distance could scaffold its decrepit structure by the force of his grip alone    —    it was comforting,      to know that he could catch her heart in his palms when her bones failed to keep it restrained.      if he felt like it, anyhow.      bloodstained fingers creased fabric with a promise of transference;      it would be laborious to launder it into impeccability;      but no labor seemed too arduous for theah dallen when it came to matteo rosaunt,      no mountain too high.            “i cannot bear to see you in it.         (but you must also know what i feel for you    ..        this is pain too,    can’t you see that?)”         the balcony catches her particle—sharp gaze then,   concealed from the wandering eye by sheets of velveteen curtain kissing together from the night’s gentle howl promising a breath not yet nipped from the suffocating ballroom.           “come.”

the wine already calms them.  [a rejection.  he doesn’t want eyes on him more than they already.  in fact, he didn’t want them at all.   it seemed to him that they cared little of her comfort and even lesser of his.   he was the man,   the rosaunt heir— there was equal if not more judgement for him if expectations weren’t met.   it did the opposite of motivate him.   he longed to climb onto the back of umbraros and fly until neither of them knew where they were going anymore.   mayhaps even allow just a glimpse of that moment to decide if that would be the day where the son of vincent becomes a myth——a runaway.    he takes a step back,  his lungs grasping for the air that seemed to limited to him.    but then he sees the hurt in her eyes, however faint,  and doesn’t have the heart to be crueler]    … besides,   i will only humiliate us.     i’ve never danced all my life.      @eurysphea

@rosaunt              two children,   born lonely,    left on their deafening solitaire in the grand ballroom of stoic’s end.   the fleeting touch of matteo rosaunt coaxes back into alert,   bathing the room in an eerie half-light that limns all it touches with an almost otherworldly glow.    before her stands a conflagration,      tendrils of holy flame sprouting from a sacred scalp and licking down her shoulders.    in her chest,   theah’s heart stumbles,   if only because she has always been a creature of the cold.       a reverent murmur,      striking true to the marrow of him:            “you look well.”              —like clockwork,    she goes where he leads her,      to the invitation of his secretive vicinity and the whispered commitment to a shared breath,      his languorous exhale enticing her every febrile heartbeat into docility.          “perhaps a dance?    you and i..    in order to calm everyone’s nerves.”

@valhalkyrie           “my grandpapa is     still     your grandpapa,   too.”           her fingers,   seismic and cool,   lay down the last of the corset’s breathing.   the cold of the dallens’ den left little room to move,   existing within a terrain altogether pacifying,      a subtle matrimony of earth and saccharine within thunderous weather’s mighty grasp.       lips are coaxed into an upward curve by tendrils of nostalgia for a home now returned to,    that sansa was looking with naked eye with.      there is grief in there,    too—      no longer ululating like a febrile tempest,      but a steady pulse percussing her heartbeat,      so intricately woven into the esse of her.            “remember,     he greets you.     not the other way around—      in fact,      never the other way around.        and what do you say once he does?”

@eurysphea ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ [1.]  i haven’t been in stoic’s end since aunt leanna’s turn to host anazevys dinner—i was \five\.   [*TINY INVISIBLE MITES NIPPED AT THE FLESH OF SANSA FRASER.  and she only dared to hate the garment further.  it was tight—suffocating her and she had hardly wore it for any longer than a minute,  perhaps even two.*]    my /father’s/ father wouldn’t make me wear it if i didn’t want to.   i hardly even know YOUR grandpapa

@VALHALKYRIE           it’s   /traditional/—       !     the shepherds and trained women of stoic’s end spend months gathering   an—and  mastering these intricate tapestries.      you look just fine with it on,    chic!          grandpapa will be    (even more)    displeased if he sees you without it.