the unveiling.

only the edges go on like this, long into dusk.

[imitori]

vtriol‌.

TO DANCE IS TO FREE YOURSELF.     is that why the movements between bodies,   fluid and close,   intimidates them?   (it’s too vulnerable    too honest.   it opens their soul like a budding flower,   still unshaped,   without its beauty.)   so to escape prying eyes,   thana stands beyond the crowd.   no invitations to the dance floor can reach me here,   they reason.   the air near the door is crisp and void of the polluted noise found further in.   it cools their covered skin,   providing some relief from the insufferable drapery they’ve been confined to (at the request of a rose-haired companion).   objectively,   there are no flaws in wearing other than academic uniforms to a ball ordained by the archbishop…   but they were coerced into attending!

in their routine glance-over,   the heir of faerghus appears.   something about holding his gaze unnerves them,   so they hurry to look elsewhere    but they react slowly.   their king approaches and they seem at a loss,   then hide it quickly.   `  your highness,  `   curt and forced.   `  i hope you are enjoying the festivities.  `   half-truth.   festivities is generous.

    𝐢𝐧  𝐚  𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞  𝐬𝐨  𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫,  𝐡𝐞’𝐬  𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐝.  of  course,  he  fits  the  intricacies  of  textbook  royalty:  the  exact  degree  of  the  posture  and  the  practiced  smile  and  the  tailored  garments.  it’s  all  there.  and  he’s  not  here.  or  rather,  would  like  not  to  be.  so,  that  leads  him  to  excuse  himself  among  the  bodies,  uncaught  and  with  sights  set  on  the  exit  until...  he  meets  eyes  with  someone.  they  look  away.  it’s  only  polite  to  take a small  detour  and  address  them  now,  and  he  supposes  they  do  make  for  amicable  talk.   ‘‘   ah,  no  need  for  titles  or  formalities.  call  me  dimitri,  please.   ’’   and  despite  the  times  he’s  requested  that,  the  insistence  doesn’t  flow  any  less  earnest.

   ‘‘   to  tell  you  the  truth,  i  feel  a  bit  out  of  place  here.  festivities  like  these  don’t  quite  suit  me.   ’’   which  reminds  him---------   ‘‘   that  being  said...  if  i  may  be  so  bold,  𝗐𝗂𝗅𝗅  𝗒𝗈𝗎  𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋  𝗃𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀  𝗆𝖾  𝖿𝗈𝗋  𝖺  𝖻𝗂𝗍  ?   ’’

[imitori]

blows.. kissy

😳

[imitori]

:mouth:

[insolot]

My life is over. Just leave me alone.

there is plenty of words he could use to describe this feeling—to sculpt it, chisel it into a figure, nick and pick until it is no longer just a thought but a real, physical representation of this sick ache growing inside his chest, blooming from weeds into wildflowers; there is plenty, yes, but his mind blanks, speaking only of one. 

yearning. senile, ever-growing, horrifying yearning, stained with regret-filled agony, soaked in blood of men that had fallen by his hand as well as his own. yearning that has been blossoming within the old cage of his heart for years, accompanied by the soft hum of bereavment, its continual presence an endless reminder of what had been taken from him, that he had thought lost. it makes him sick, the weight of that feeling—years, five years, he chose to spend in the silent embrace of detachment, listening only to his heart in the reticence of solitude, his grief a heavy shackle that denied him all life. five years he did not live—only existed, only was.

five years, he waited. 

just to face rejection—bitterness, hatred. five years. he lets his fingernails dig into the flesh of his palms, roughened by pulling at the chains of war. five, five, five long, long years. vincent wills his body from turning away, from escaping back into the confines of his barren room—his tomb, his self-dug grave. the breath he takes hitches in his throat, but he dares not sob—dares not cry.

cyanosed lips, a pair of eyes schooled into emptiness, ghostly pallid skin. he looks like a ghost that haunts itself, not much better in his despair than dimitri himself. a face that has not met emotion in five years breaks into that of a man on the verge of tears, a feigned restraint before the storm. this feeling            it’s too much, too present, he cannot name it, cannot say it—

“   is that it?   ”   the sound of his heels hitting against the marble floor is near immaculate, a clear, light click, one after another.   “   is—is that it? do you truly want me to leave?   ”   i’ve waited for so long—i’ve waited for so long.   “   say it. say it, and you will never see me again. look me in the eyes… and tell me to leave.   ”   by the end, his voice falls quiet, but it remains sincere, sincere as it could only be. carefully, he forces his lips to curl into a smile, its welcoming nature a thing of the past—now it seems only sorrowful, a crack spreading itself over thin glass. 

a smile, a single tear, his head tilted to the side.   “   i will not—be mad at you… dima. if that is what you desire, i will not be mad.   ”

[vanwulfen]

Guess who’s my new son.

[imitori]

dimitri loan me some money please 😔 it's to help pay for textbooks i swear....

oh.. well if it’s for such cause.. *writes down his credit card information* i can’t bring myself to deny…

[imitori]

timecall replied to your post: how do u think u can pick up girls w that BOWL OF...

string cheese hair

jokes on you. dimitri loves cheese. it’s a compliment.

[imitori]

how do u think u can pick up girls w that BOWL OF A HAIRCUT!!!! 😰😩

a… what of a haircut ?

[imitori]

' im sorry i wasn't fast enough. you can rest now, dimitri. '

   she  had  spared  him  of  a  real  killing  and  he  had  spared  her,  in  turn.  the  wretched  part  of  him,  seemingly  abundant,  had  not  been  able  to  touch  aurelia  after  all;  he’s  got  his  sights  set  on  bigger  aims,  anyway.  a  figure  in  red,  just  as  filthy  and  guilty  of  bloodshed.  to  call  it  the  rules  of  beasts  is  pretentious———  and  dead  on  accurate.  now  that  the  end’s  on  sight,  he  thinks  he’s  so  close  to  grasping  and  reaching  and  killing  who  he  came  here  for.

   so,  when  he  takes  matters  into  his  own  hands  along  with  his  lance,  he  never  expected  to  end  with  a  mouthful  of  dirt.  never  noticed  when  he’d  collapsed,  body  brutally  mortal  and  unbelievably  deprived  of  all  things,  or  when  she’d  taken  off  to  running  after  him,  despite  sustaining  injuries  arguably  worse  than  his.  but  it’s  so  late  now.  humorously  so.  he  struggles  to  his  knees  when  he  starts  to  be  prepped  for  slaughter.  it’s  like  a  ritual.  looks  like  prayer,  even.  someone  of  the  empire  would  make  a  painting  of  this,  someday.  the  blood  he’s  spilling  with  every  stab  should  immortalize  this  on  the  literal  earth  for  now.  

   aurelia’s  watching  all  of  this.  she’s  the  prime  witness.  does  it  give  her  second  thoughts  about  the  allegiance  she  pledged  ?  would  she  have  switched  houses  if  she  had  known   the  outcome  ?  none  of  that  matters  now.  not  to  him.

   death  feels  nothing  like  he  imagined  it  to.  it  goes  through  as  quick  as  it’s  granted.  the  sound  of  her  voice  pierces  his  corpse  in  a  way  the  spears  couldn’t.  it  would  have  been  a  viscerally  bittersweet  thing  to  lose  himself  to,  had  she  gotten  here  sooner.

@arustel.

[imitori]

' im sorry i wasn't fast enough. you can rest now, dimitri. '

*is dead*

[imitori]

BBRO I FORGOT DIMITRI ATE A FROG

[imitori]

anyway only real mary stans wuld follow me on @varentine @goldear

[arustel]

mari: *literally just logs onto dimitri* me: *starts foaming at the mouth*

[imitori]

   ‘‘  im  goin  to  beat  yuo  to  ddeath.   ’’  @empereaux.

[imitori]

bro i am just s

[imitori]

picks  dimi  up ... and  struggles . wheezes . gets  sweaty  and  breathless  and  spiritually  exhausted . and  to  make  matters worse : he  was .. only  an  inch  off  the  ground ..

    oh,  no.  registering  what  is  happening  takes  him  a  couple  beats,  and  their  struggling  only  amplifies  his  shock.  he’s  going  to  be  dropped,  sooner  or  later,  isn’t  he  ?   ‘‘   w - what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ??   ’’   it’s  easy  to  push  his  weight  down  enough  for  his  soles  to  touch  the  ground  again,  and  he  frees  himself  from  their  grasp,  immediately  saying,   ‘‘   you  are  going  to  hurt  your  back,  please  promise  me  to  never  do  that  again.   ’’

@birdsinew.

[imitori]

arustel‌.

    ‘    i  promise  i’m  fine!   there’s  no  need  for  to  worry  yourself.    ’   she  can’t  place  where  his  concern  comes  from  and  it  irks  her.   a  soft  tone  is  taken.   anything  to  ease  the  situation.   ‘    it  doesn’t  even  hurt  anymore.   i’m  sure  i’ll  be  released  before  the  month  ends.    ’    /    @imitori

   ‘‘   i  am  relieved  to  know  that  you’re  alright,  but  that’s  hardly  the  point,  aurelia,   ’’    𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬  𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭  𝐚  𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭  𝐡𝐞  𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝  𝐭𝐨  𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞  𝐮𝐩𝐨𝐧,  𝐭𝐨  𝐩𝐮𝐭  𝐢𝐭  𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲.  it’s  a  tension  that’s  pulsing,  and  he’s  pushing back the alternate endings  her  escapade  had  to  the  back  of  his  mind,  for  now.  the  hand  that  had  once  been  on  her  shoulder  retreats,  as  if  he  touched  fire,  and  curls  to  a fist.   ‘‘   goddess,  𝘪  𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥’𝘷𝘦  𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦  𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩  𝘺𝘰𝘶.  how  could  i  have  been  so  negligent  ?  and  now  .  .  .  you’re  hurt  because  of  it.   ’’