𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰 ꤪꤨꤪꤪ @koschyei - Tumblr Blog

˚₊‧ ( 𝓚 ) 𝒀𝑶𝑼, 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑮𝑨𝑹𝑫𝑬𝑵 & 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑮𝑹𝑨𝑽𝑬 a private & highly selective rp blog for koschei the deathless from slavic folklore. portrayal is not canon-specific, but set within its own fabled universe drawing influences from slavic cosmologies, turkic mythos, and fairytales as collected by andrew lang and alexander afanasyev. | crowned by caliope ( 30 , she / her, pst ) est. 2020

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studying . . . the slave who flew too close to the sun & the dragon who swallowed it, the devil in the garden, opening forbidden doors, the ugly truth behind the fairytale, escaping death but never the hunger, the demonization of magic & paganism, and the endless cycles of love and war | also found at @lebedevya

𝓲 ˚ carrd 𝓲𝓲 ˚ info: @chyertsar 𝓲𝓲𝓲 ˚ pinterest 𝓲𝒗 ˚ prompts

#the wicked lich of the east bro !!!

im gonna be so honest and self indulgent i want to psychically beam all 15 years of rubylore into your head and see you write her. i think it'd be so much fun.

THE WAY I WOULD GUZZLE 15 YEARS WORTH OF RUBYLORE JUST FOR THE SHEER JOY OF IT !!!!! I LOVE MOTHER MONSTER SO MUCH !! but genuinely even then could never do her justice. you'd be looking at the eight-legged doodlebob of rubies !! i'd be begging you to put her down and banish me from the land for ever bringing her into existence

𓆩 ♔ 𓆪 which character(s) could you see me writing butchering?

#being so serious #it'd be like that one scene with the librarian from ghostbusters #doodleruby telling doodlekoschei to stfu and then chasing him through the archives #he's screaming like a goob #she's spitting webs rolling him up like a burrito #and then CRUNCH #the library was saved everybody cheered

fcntasyadvcnturc

Based on my writing which character(s) could you see me writing, or who would you like to see me write?

#˚₊‧ 𓆩♔𓆪 ˚ ⧽ ( prompt )#im curious im curious #and kicking the multi off again soon soooo

🌺 Send this to ten blogs you think are wonderful! 🌺

ME ME ME ME ME RIGHT BACK @ YOU FRIEND !!!! 🥹❤️ wait until i throw this blood mage at your disgraced templar YOU WILL BE SO SICK OF ME !!!!

#but thank u sm for this !! was such a sweet pick me up <333

what if a ouat verse turned him from a red gay to a blue gay??

#kindly but firmly asking the storybrooke HOA to fuck off #this is so 2012 but genuinely cursing this diva to live a calm and normal life AKJSHDASD it would be SO funny to me #and tragic bc really that's all he ever wanted :')))) a quiet house with the best landscaping and large enough space to keep his horsies

blood and bile, whose brilliant idea was it to let a hedge witch bore him with yet another one of their righteous complaints? there were schedules for this sort of thing. protocols. proxies of less importance who might better pander to them. and yet, deda — the domovoy and steward of this infernal house — insisted the tsar's immediate audience was needed on the matter. ( she will not see anyone else, gosudar. would not trouble you were it not urgent. ) and so here he sits, in the inner cranium of the castle, atop an obsidian throne. from the dais to the door, a carpet stretches forth like a long red tongue: thick and tiresome as the silence that falls between him and the encroaching visitor.

❛❛ well. are you mute ? ❜❜ the question echoes loftily. if there was not to be a proper address, she could have at least come out with the bid already. perplexingly, the witch simply stares. perhaps expecting him to have some explanation of his own for her being here. slowly but surely, koschei begins to smell a conspiracy afoot.

𓆩 ♔ 𓆪 @hedgewitched ( 𝒓𝒖𝒆 ) . . . inquisitor prompts ↳ are you the one that sent the note ?

ah, there it was then. ❛❛ a note ? ❜❜ he nearly scoffs. why ever would he bother? on the other hand, why bother to come if she did not believe it true? deigning to consider her more carefully, there was indeed something rather familiar ( if not deeply unsettling ) about the witch. yet koschei could not for the life of him peg any memory of importance to her. with a lizard's eye, his scrutiny sharpens, almost imperceptibly; and though his voice remains even then, some agitation calcifies in the wrap of his fingers over the volute of his seat. ❛❛ i see so many leave this castle, you will have to refresh my memory. ❜❜

over the slightest cant of his iron-thorned head, the tsar's attention splinters to the farthest corner of the room. he spots deda there — with all his convenient senility — pretending to be transfixed on some intricate vase or other, as if he may find a fault that did not already lie squarely on his shoulders. ❛❛ tell me, ❜❜ koschei continues, though whether he means to address the old steward or the stranger depends on who'd do better to answer, ❛❛ what — exactly — could i have possibly had to say in this note ? ❜❜ for if the witch turned out to be who he thought she was. . . he'd have sooner punted the imp straight into his brother's country ( let the wretch finally have his share of the family nuisance ) than ever send for the likes of her.

#hedgewitched #♔ . ⧽ v. red fairy book * you walk the same tale over and over #RUE WHEN WAS THIS???#aksdjadasd listen listen we can plot this out a bit more or go crazy i just needed these two to meet against their will c:#and who better to stage that than a silly little family tree goblin??? hehehehehe

happy pride month from your local pan king 🙂‍↕️ 🩷💛💙 here at koschei nation it doesn't matter who you are, the only question is "are we fighting or (👀⛓👍💥🐕👏)"? and he's hoping it's all of the above

#anywhoozle i got back from my sister's #hit the road at 5am got home at 9am and still have an 8hr shift so once i am free and feeling SOMEWHAT human again #EXPECT TO HEAR FROM ME #so many goodies to get back to im AKJSHDKJASHD

remember that "romance isn't dead" profile with the ranking for gifts that he'd like....

#WRITE THE MAN SOME LETTERS 😭😭😭😭😭#doesn't care if it's a break up letter #he's still smooching it in the trenches #like can't wait to come home and tell pookie how funny they are

something so satisfying about seeing mage-types being transposed into the arts in some way for modern aus like sooooo true these are creatives, performers and visionaries at heart !! koschei of course is very competitive, very physical, a man of war, but i could neverrr see him translated as a jock??

the male witch has to be dabbling in the arts in some way if given the choice. even where it's not possible for him, he's still drawn to that world, whether it be his spearheading a global fine art auction house or even his crime verse, where he was built in the ruska roma theater !! had to do pirouettes to failure every time he fucked up too

#artsy boy in a scary jock trim that's himmmm #idc idc idc #all this to say gimme gimme gimme more modern aus #pls and thank you

yharnum

[38.] trying to be quiet and failing, so they clamp a hand over your mouth. ( 🫩 you already know)

𖤝 stages of intimacy ! [accepting].

she wonders idly: what did the king of his castle have to fret for, that he would cover her mouth? then, more jealously, she wonders: who did he answer to but his own desires? the thought is half splintered, even though much like her nails, they try to hold stubbornly onto him, the thought of him, the skin of him. perhaps it was the servants, their habit of whispering, inviting the chance of trouble. surely he’d have their throats for it, or she imagined he’d like to, for holding the thought of her in their mind. yes, she settles on that— he must be so greedy for her that he can’t bear the thought of even the walls listening in on this: a hitch of breath, just in her throat, struggling to get out that once it does, it’s a moan that borders on a whimper.

koschyei

why indeed should he care if all the castle heard what transpires here? pray tell, who within the hex of his lordship would not find the blood of their tongues swell black and gagging to speak of it elsewhere? he isn't worried about them. not even about the little rat that sleeps in the basement ( a local friend of her husband's. told to keep an eye out. should she scurry too far from the sick aunt she'd claimed to be visiting ). between the blow he'd taken and the cauldron-brewed spirits he'd be forced to drink upon waking, the man would be lucky if he remembered his own name, let alone the one that pierces through the walls. no, koschei stops and stifles her for far more selfish reasons. obvious ones, he thinks, when they'd been apart for so long— and never once been given a chance to loose their madness upon one another within the asylum of his own house.

with her eyes squeezed shut, her senses mottled and mystified, perhaps she simply had not noticed the state of him: the crudity of his desire for her. how it threatens to tarnish anything left of life or beauty that he may seem to possess. over her shoulder falls an anchoring beam; the skin of his arm dithers a dark plain of scars built upon scars, piled over one another like the chaotic crust of cooled lava. it's a sobering sight. for him, at least. granting him the moment to find his breath and center again, though he's no less aware of how exquisite it feels to remain soldered to her. how close he'd be to plunging into a small death if he moved so much as an inch, felt so much as a quiver, or heard so much as a syllable of his name cried out with abandon again.

❛❛ not yet, lyubimaya. not yet. ❜❜ he pants, his lips and forehead pressed between her draped shoulder blades, movements slow as sap. ❛❛ stay here with me a little longer. ❜❜ he'd ask her to stay forever if he could. drenched in amber sweetness, a moment immortal. but she craves friction. a means to a great dissolving end. the palm-fitted hold over her mouth doubles as the leverage needed to draw her into his body and he to hers. to see her follow the tempo he commands instead of giving in to her own greed. to trust that he knew best. that her patience, her silence, her agonizing with him as close to the edge as they may tolerate— there was no greater feeling, no matter how much the body lies and begs to stop resisting. let it be finished.

❛❛ you wish to kill me, don't you ? ❜❜ the bloodied hand drifts to her throat as if to squeeze it for an answer, but he doesn't. it's a single pummel of the hips, hard enough to rattle a skeleton, that demands she spit it out. he carries out like this, growing more unbridled and unspeakably hungry for the sounds she makes, until at her ear finally loosen his breathy hums again. his own betraying whimper: ❛❛ blyat— i might let you. ❜❜

#yharnum #♔ . ⧽ v. red fairy book * you walk the same tale over and over #pathetic #both of them #PATHETIC #nsfw tw

valtsv

more stories where falling in love is a horrifying fate worse than death rather than a source of comfort and hope. more stories where love is understood as a terminal affliction.

valtsv

more stories where someone falls in love and understands that this means they will be changed and made more vulnerable by it, compelled to do irrational things in the name of it, and be willing to die for it, and starts lashing out and stress vomiting about it

#˚₊‧ 𓆩♔𓆪 ˚ ⧽ ( study )#(taps mic) ahem THIS IS MY FUCKING SONG #'love is understood as a terminal affliction' !!!!!!!! 'starts lashing out and stress vomiting about it'!!!!!

[15] 😌 at la golden villa

𓆩 ♔ 𓆪 @laperlina ( 𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒂 ) . . . the stages of intimacy ↳ accepting

a far cry from the chernosvyat's perpetual twilight, a golden house on a bluff had seen a full week of a bright-yolked sun before a cloud ever dared to blemish the sky. not much of that house had gone unglimpsed by the sun either, having bent and woven its way through the latticed windows, fruitful terraces, and porous atriums yet it rarely caught sight of the inhabitants. after all, if lovers be lunatics and lunatics be moonstruck, it is only natural that'd remain relegated to the shade. insatiable at night and languished by day, in the baths and in the couches. the tsar was glad for the reprieve and privacy offered to them here, but after a time, a cool-blooded creature of a different breed, he'd longed for the sun and open green. only he didn't wish to seek it out alone. to be sure, the moments left undividedly with her were so few and precious. but so too were his moments in a free field where he didn't have to burn it down or soak it in red.

he waits for a compromise. a day when a generous cloud cover full of seasalt and mingling mists finally casts the pastures with enough shade and dew. for it was the only tolerable set up where the perisi — eyes built for the abyss, skin more fond of cool, luxuriant steeping — might be convinced to spend a morning with him in the outdoors. she'd promised him as much. perhaps believing the morning wouldn't come. but when it does, koschei calls a local groom to ready his horses, dons his boots and riding coat with a regimented speed and waits, fairly patiently, for adella to dress accordingly.

in the end, what she walks out with from the swarm could scarcely be called a dress. it was an ambush. a taunt. a vision to make any man forget himself. koschei's jaw twitches, an anchoring weight tilts his axis, and his neck rolls to the side— to speak his exasperation to the towering columns, the tired frescoes, anything to might help recall his resolve to leave this place. ❛❛ we cannot keep doing this, zhanım. i did not leave one cage to sit in another. not even with you. ❜❜ he thinks he has the stubborn will to win over all desire, keeping his returning gaze trained no lower than her own eyeline, but too quickly does the will crumble, when adella calls his bluff and makes to walk past him with a banishing remark.

he catches her first by the bait of skin left bare at her waist. then slips his hand over the thin nacre of her dress, reeling her back by the navel. folded into his frame like a nesting doll, he keeps her in place, indulges in the shape of her hip only so far as the fabric might keep him from feeling the sweet burn of her sweat again. ❛❛ what if we come to a bargain? ❜❜ he murmurs at her temple, dizzied but not wholly deterred by the incense that bids him to remain latched here. ❛❛ you change into something better suited for riding, and i take you to see a truth. one no one else in the isle knows but me. ❜❜

#laperlina #♔ . ⧽ v. red fairy book * you walk the same tale over and over #AKSJHDKAJDH the conundrum of an outdoor man being obsessed w a pampered princess #like whatever be free horse boy #go to war and touch grass there #she really doesn't have to do all that

𓆩 ♔ 𓆪 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐀 ?

crimson

rose vines, blood, apples, velvet, sharp nails, galaxies, dripping jewelry. your essence is crimson: you are the strong, defiant and avoidant. you crave some sort of deviation; to walk in another's footsteps feels mundane, a waste of your time. you are possessive and never look back at the things you've lost or forgotten. you are the rebel. you are the one who will change the world. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of red, blush, garnet, and bronze, who share your impassioned existence. you are also drawn to the confident souls royal and gold, who will help you grow and show that not everyone seeks to break you. however, you may struggle to get along with the slow-acting personalities of navy and umber who never seem assertive about anything.

tagged by: the myth the legends @herslaughter & @laperlina ❤️❤️❤️ tagging: @stelegy, @yharnum, @cadever, @exitvelo, @dvaurga, @lavorrire, @maleuficent, @azarathian, @fabala, @archaeval, @vivrez, @evincere, @hedgewitched and whoever else hasn't been tagged !!!

#˚₊‧ 𓆩♔𓆪 ˚ ⧽ ( study )#CRIMSON BLOOD TSAR LET'S GOOOOO #never looking back at the things you've lost or forgotten..... true UNTIL IT ISN'T #this is so on brand #let me see all of themmmm !!!! pls tag fr !!!

happy friday lovies !! parents and i are going to be heading down to see my sister for memorial day weekend, so may not have much time for writing, but will try to spend any free time i do get getting back to dms & plotting!!

#gonna post an official plotting call soon i just wanna make sure i'm actually around to gab properly #anywho ty for being patient !! and hope you guys enjoy the wee break !!!

dvaurga

[25.] pushing them onto a piece of furniture before straddling them

⊹ , a delectable box of korovka wrapped in twinkling foils, ripe for the plucking. of course they were only supposed to be admired for their presentation, not tasted but it was encouraged to attempt to sell the possibility despite the taboo. the dean of performing arts off campus home was more of an estate than the modest dwelling of a starving artist. all the students milling about the ground floor could only dream of coming into such wealth in their careers. festivities were a convergence of the informal and formal, a rare occasion that the dancers and the orchestra came together to perform the same task. to dazzle, to charm, and to slip their hands ever so deftly into deep pockets just to get a single signature on a check. between the plying of alcohol and the spirit of competition they did make a match of it.

glassy eyes, hazed over, and half-lidded but she kept catching that gaze as she was pulled in by the waist or had her ear commandeered for unsavory secrets. observing each other being handled by strangers in a manner that could be described as borderline intimate. touch that shouldn't be allowed but was because it was for the good of the department. the ballerino has always been more liberal with his mouth than of the instrumentalist. she committed her lips to music and he rather give his kisses out for less than free. searing envy pours into her as he languished and leaned into the peck of a cheek. two was customary but he remained pressed together with an older gentleman, the same man who had attempted to goad her good humor earlier to little avail.

through the pale of his lashes he finds her in the crowd over the shoulder of his current mark. when she disappears up the staircase several moments after, she is not surprised when she hears the creaking of the floorboards in pursuit of her trailing gown. a silvered serpent slipping into the muffled quiet of the heavily carpeted library. forcing him to pursue her through the shelves, maze-like, and disorienting until she reached a dead-end ( or simply came to halt as the hunted fancied herself the hunter ) stalking her down the aisle until they are forehead to forehead his chin canted upward, beckoning her for a kiss but she turns her face away to the right.

a palm connecting with chest before shoving him back down onto the closest reading bench. there she clambers on top of him before he could gather his bearings. skirts ridding up her thighs, exposing the slope of her back-side to the open air. beneath her he is already stiff, he had been already when she saw him downstairs ( only half-hard but she was well acquainted with the view ) now fully realized straining against the waistband of his trousers. ❛ did you have your fun, slut? you want to fuck me while you still stink of old man — ❜ in the biting cadence of her mothertongue, their language of secrets, and harsh truth. with great indolence her hips move over him once, the thin silken material of her underwear providing a meager barrier to prevent the damning friction. ❛ now, why should i let you do that? ❜

🌩️ ₊ stages of intimacy prompts 𓂃 @koschyei

koschyei

when you're young and in a craft that idolizes the bounds of the human form, you imagine a body never wears out with use. that it will rise to meet every challenge if you condition it hard enough. shatter the sirens within that scream ' that's enough ' until you find yourself shattering a ceiling. glittering among the greats, closer to stardom and prestige than anyone in your bloodline could have ever hoped for themselves. it was easier to say the ballerino came to the gala hungry for a challenge than to admit he was never taught to have an appetite for much else. that he never knew when to call it quits for his own sake, even if his mother — for all the family ambition she'd sewed onto his back like wings — wouldn't have wanted to see him go this far.

he tells himself there is no harm in being paraded as a cash cow. that there was very little he wouldn't do today to see himself in a house like this tomorrow; that at least in some ways he had been born with an upper hand: the male promise of mutual destruction if the gentleman's advance ever stepped beyond something fun. a luxury his mother never had with her sponsors. to be called out for it hardly registers harshly in his ears either. in fact, koschei purposely went out of his way to provoke the jealous remark, hadn't he? and he'd been called enough names to know zoya hardly means for it to sting in a way that wouldn't instigate his pleasure. or perhaps just his desire to bite back.

❛❛ smells more like old money to me. ❜❜ like these encasing rows of worn leather books, the candles that limn the shape of her, the old-growth mahagony that props the weight of him. and how easily that man was able to put out a hundred grand when he'd asked— like it was nothing. just a scratch on a paper. ❛❛ i don't think anything gets me harder, ❜❜ koschei taunts, eye to eye with her green envy and his needing to discern if money had been the object. or something else. by his accounting, it seemed zoya scored the higher donations throughout the night. yet evidently, she wouldn't let him catch her. or kiss her. or fuck her. for the time, all he was granted was her ire, a torturous drag of clothed bodies, and maybe a touch. his treads up the dark open plain of her thighs. with full palms, kneading and admiring, he can feel they were trained. too well for him to believe all her passion hadn't the time nor the space for anything but the orchestra. though he'd let her go on pretending, while he at least admits: ❛❛ — except you. ❜❜

with zoya, he found there were never any sirens to shatter. no confused hunger. no chance for him to tire. quite the opposite— he began to crave her to a degree that couldn't ever hope to wear out, despite the purely practical arrangement they find themselves in. ❛❛ and to think of all the scholarships we saved through our little match tonight. ❜❜ his hands slip beneath her bundle of dress, following the folded lines of her underwear over the curve of her hips. where he finds a firm grip at the bulk of her flesh. ❛❛ if the dean won't give us the keys to his castle, at the very least, we deserve to have a good fuck in it. ❜❜ foreheads almost touching again, his heart beating everywhere, he pulls her in closer. coaxing another satisfying roll, desperate to feel the barest hint of her finally warming up to him. ❛❛ no ? ❜❜

#dvaurga #♔ . ⧽ v. if we were villains * we must measure out our stately steps / and tread a dreadful dance #can they pls be so serious #next she's gonna have him listening to a&w like: me core #nsfw tw

mcflymemes

AS SAID BY THE INQUISITOR, PART 1 * assorted dialogue from dragon age inquisition, updated version

what do you mean everyone's dead?

i'm starting to worry about these "stories" that everyone's heard.

i was hoping to steal a moment of your time.

let's do something interesting.

you think i'm responsible.

i don't know what that is, or how it got there.

where are you taking me?

how did i survive the blast?

if you're going to lead me through a demon-infested valley, you'll have to trust me.

at least this is good for something.

that's a nice crossbow you have there.

i'm just trying to get through this alive.

are you calling me a criminal?

i don't remember what happened.

don't talk about me like i'm not here.

now you're asking me what i think?

it was worth saving you, if we could.

i'm assuming you have a plan to get me up there.

what's going on here?

is this another prison?

so you're saying... they're happy with me?

so i'm still a suspect, even after what we just did?

let me guess. you need my help.

what more do you want from me?

five minutes ago you wanted me dead, and now i'm your savior?

what if i refuse?

i just wish i knew what it was.

what harm could there be in powering up something we barely understand?

that didn't take long.

it's a little unsettling.

you don't think that could be an ambush?

i'm told you asked for me.

what happened was horrible.

they want to execute me, and you think i should just walk up to them?

it's good of you to do this.

so far, you're the only one who's insisted we can't work together.

don't let anyone riot while we're gone.

we came here in peace, simply to talk, and this is what you do?

we must unite to stop it!

what's the meaning of this?

was that display supposed to impress me?

haven't you already made up your mind? why ask me now?

there's got to be a way to calm everything down and clean up this mess.

we had to do something.

you think the invitation could be some kind of trap?

that does sound odd, i agree.

do you have proof? it could just be a coincidence.

is this some kind of test?

who's in charge now?

i'm sure we can come to an arrangement.

we'll be careful, but we need to figure out what's going on here.

who are you?

stop talking like you're waiting for applause. just tell me what's going on.

are you the one that sent the note?

i hope that's less dangerous than it sounds.

you're asking me to take a lot on faith.

do you have any suggestions?

we can't just give up. there has to be something we can do.

if my friends can't enter, then i won't go in either.

don't bother. i know you invited me here to kill me.

you wanted me here. why?

blah, blah. "my cult is better than yours." i've heard it a thousand times.

that... doesn't sound good.

what did they do to you?

we have to get out of here.

i promise, i will do everything in my power to set things right.

i've never fought a god before. this should be memorable.

are you sure you want to find out?

it's really me, and i'm definitely not dead.

i should have been here, but we'll set things right.

you look wounded.

i should have been there to help you.

i didn't mean to frighten you.

#since i cleared the inbox!!#last one for a minute here though

compunctions

sophomore year— theatre students in his slot weren't allowed to take big roles unless a third or fourth failed to fill a void, their eager brains saddled instead with forgettable characters like osric. ( a fool james had brought to very brief life earlier that month. ) so he was not yet the darling of the theatre department, charming audiences only in flickers, only just barely. a flash of his head on the stage, his eyes and his grin, and nothing more. but he had promise, everyone said as much; behind his back and to his face. with envy and with admiration, sometimes a chemical mix of both.

under the cool sun, he half-jogged to koschei's side, catching him just as he left the refectory. james was taking his core classes this semester and had just finished algebra, his black backpack heavy on his shoulders, the equations whirring in his mind, making his temples ache. or maybe that was the lack of sleep— four miserable hours of rest.

the dorm building he and fifteen others had been wedged into was usually rowdy, isolated, quotes flying up and down the halls 'til 12 or 1. but last night had been uniquely rough, with richard bitching over tea in the common room about a certain broody performer... james didn't know what else had happened between them, a recent development in their rivalry perhaps, and had no intentions of getting involved, of saying anything, until that morning. until he saw him. he'd extend an olive branch, he decided quickly, unwilling to be lumped in with that cranky brute, and wasn't it a little absurd to bully someone over what they couldn't control?— if james was going to succeed here, he needed to be liked by all parts of dellecher.

so he cleared his throat, waited for the other to turn and said: ❛ hi, do you have a moment? james farrow. ❜ gesturing to his chest once with a pale hand, mechanically introducing himself— koschei was looking at him with what seemed like suspicion in his eyes, and james took the lack of immediate protest as invitation to continue. best to be forward. ❛ in light of.... recent events... i've come to clear the air, and apologize to you. richard is an asshole— but we're not all like him, i promise. most of us think what he's doing is ridiculous. so, peace? ❜ expecting the absolute best here, and practicing at sociability, james extended his right hand with a placid little smile on his mouth, and waited for a shake.

@koschyei,

koschyei

koschei had left the refectory almost as ravenous as when he'd entered it. of course, fueling himself on oats and apples was just enough to get him through the work he was about to do, but not enough to hold him privy to the rest of richard's conversation or the fight that he was clearly trying to instigate. the fiend had weaseled his way into yet another troop of dancers, seeming eager to fill them in on his posh summer tour through the states ( and oh, you'd never guess who i met at the derby — mr. memetov, yes! except. . . he wasn't a patron there, was he? no, that was all a load of horseshit, scooped up on the daily by yours truly! )

it took everything in him not to knock the boy's teeth in for the slander. koschei never said his father was a wealthy man, nor had the trainer ever feigned or aspired to be anymore than what he was. but it was what everyone at dellecher assumed, wasn't it? with the derby and lebedeva's name attached to his family legacy ( and koschei's deliberate failure to correct the misunderstanding when he had the chance ). suddenly he was glad for the paltry meal. it was much easier to keep down when all his blood and bile felt like it was about to boil over in his throat. on his way out towards the studio, he'd blocked out the whispers and itch for violence with a thrifted discman, listening to mercutio's variation and visualizing his routine over and over again until he could dance it to exhaustion. nothing else existed to him then— not richard, not his audience's laughter, and certain not the tail who'd been trailing eagerly behind him.

he felt a tap on his shoulder, recognized @compunctions instantly. ( his face might have gone unintroduced for over a year, but hardly unnoticed. ) even then, the dancer only deigned to nudge a single earpad back. determined to give the poor kid the same courtesy he would any other solicitor: letting him speak knowing he wasn't going to buy any of it. it wasn't that james failed to sound sincere ( he'd never find himself in dellecher's camp if he had ), but that it resonated to the other as a note of pity. and something else, too close to the heart of the whole matter. a desperation to be well- liked. to see this reflected back to him only irritated him more, and suddenly all the pent up loathing that he held for himself and his circumstance finally finds its favorite hook to hang on.

❛❛ peace ? ❜❜ koschei repeats, scowling at james with no more than the dragging steadiness of his stare, waiting for embarrassment to squirm its way into that stupid little smile of his. only then does he take a step towards him, the music and lines a ballerino could never say — only ever gesture at — drifting mercurially between his ears ( nay, gentle romeo. we must have you dance. ) ❛❛ i hadn't realized i was at war with the whole of the theatre department, nor that you had the authority to speak for all. but if that's the case. . . ❜❜ without bothering to reach or even look at the proffered hand, he spits right into. ❛❛ fuck off, farrow. ❜❜

#compunctions #♔ . ⧽ v. if we were villains * we must measure out our stately steps / and tread a dreadful dance #jfc this is so late but kasjhdak COMPUTA #you know what to do !!!!!!

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