кощей

Do I owe you guys a long ass explanation as to why I’ve been gone? 

           No,                   not really. 

So I’ll keep it really short: university. 

Will I be hella active and an ideal rp-er this holiday season?  In all honesty, 

           No,                 not really. 

I’m gonna try to be online here and there, but I’m fucking burnt out at the moment. So if I’m gonna be online, can we keep it to single paras? That’d be sweet. 

This new chat feature is nifty, though! Feel free to request to rp with Koschei there. I’m not sure if there’s a formatting system in place for that but just like! Feel free.

‘ I’m clever alright. ‘

her anger flits hot and light over her tongue as his sarcasm is made abundantly clear. she doesn’t like it when people don’t listen to her, especially someone like him. however, it doesn’t change her attitude — if anything she’s ready for her own rebuttal as soon as he stops talking, though it is somewhat delayed by his actions.

‘ what’s next? absolutely fucking nothing, sweetheart. ‘

however, her breath hitches when he touches her, the palm of his hands catching on the skin of her thigh — bold and unafraid, even though she’s pretty sure she could punch him bloody if he goes any higher.

which he doesn’t, but he does lean, lips brushing against her jaw, and his voice feels like it vibrates on every word he’s saying into her ear — eyes fixated on her own, waiting for a reaction.

her eyes give him exactly what he’s looking for, hesitation, a flutter, a cautious want that doesn’t seem to dull, but instead flower between her legs. lips part and hover close to his own, drawn for a moment to this dark haired boy. he’s instinctual, and she responds easily to such instincts —having had a taste of them herself over her few years in school. but that was then, this was now, and she suddenly worries over what the other guests might have seen. the two of them, so closely pressed.

she wonders how much they’ll say tomorrow.

if I don’t back down, I’ll keep going, and that is not an option.

‘  you’re too young, we don’t travel in the same circles and also,   I have a thing going on with this guy who is kinda sorta my boyfriend   so. nice try, pick some other helpless girl. ‘

she wants to match him, word for word, move for move, until he’s left breathless by her, whispering his apologies into her mouth but no, no Lilly, she tells herself, that smile is bad news and you know it, and you have a boyfriend. ish. even if he’s fucking boring.

tucking a strand of blond hair behind her ear, she moved backwards into the couch, the challenge fading from her eyes as she does so.  she’s a senior now, first year, and if she wants to get anywhere in this world, she’s gotta start turning her record around before graduation.

‘ besides, if I hung out with you, I’d only get into trouble,   and I’ve had enough trouble on my record to set me up   for life. ‘

It seemed like, before today, she was some kind of distant star–– Almeisan, likely. “Shining.” Something twinkling and pretty to gaze up at in the darkest times and twilights. Set like a diamond into the very fabric of duality and longing–– that is, the constellation of Castor and Pollux. Gemini. And at first, he laughed and walked willingly into her twinkling light. But he’s finding ( not that he’d admit it ) that she’s not a star that glimmers, but a star that roars. Giant and plasmic and dancing an archaic rotation, while iron planets like him are subject to her gravity. 

So she retreats, and he follows ( No. To claim autonomy in this scenario would be fallacious. Rather, he orbits ) by those aforementioned laws of attraction. His bended elbow snags on the back of the couch. His chin tucked tight into the flesh of his palm–– gaze and lashes falling to his knees like dusk.

            ‘ Give yourself some credit, ’

His smile softens as if he’s actually being earnest–– is he?                                 Can she tell when he glances back up? 

           ‘ You obviously don’t need my help to get into trouble.              And if you’ve been in trouble before, you know that the               state of your record’s hardly relevant when practicing              the unholy art of fucking shit up. ’

He looks at her from under his brows. Traces the heavy fall of her bangs with his gaze. Her lashes, her brows, the state of her face.  Her mouth, her mouth, her mouth–– like a broken record. The  words have a particular rhythm–– and fuck it. 

                                                                           He’s drunk enough.                                                                            She’s close enough                               so that he can draw his palm against her cheek.                                                                           Thumb along her lip.

                  ‘ Last time I saw a face like yours–– ’

sawdust was a common breakfast item–– the streets were painted red with flags and propaganda. A lost duchess nearly stabbed him between the knees and moved into his care in the same breath. But aside from that– the excitement of the period–– he remembers the pint of type O in his icebox behind the caviar,  the wraith with the familiar name who needed it,  ( for you couldn’t trust blood at the time. couldn’t   trust the health of others. )

            koschei. how delighted she is, to finally meet someone with a name as strange as her own! his hands are cold to the touch, and a shiver passes through her as his lips brush the back of her hand, and she thinks of an old saying, one that was apparently beloved by her mother – “ cold hands, warm heart. ” she hardly knows koschei, cannot even call him an acquaintance, but she would be lying if she were to say she didn’t hope that it may apply to him.

             ❝ i think i’m the charmed one here, mister koschei, ❞ she breathes as her cheeks begin to colour, rather dazzled by his behaviour. she had seen much of it in what she considers Before, in her life as a rich man’s daughter, but she knew then that the behaviour was because of societal convention, because the boys all wanted something, because she was lady blue, rather than simply blue. here, in the country, where she is nothing and no-one, and being complimented so – she becomes a fool.

             ❝ quite the pair we make, red and blue. funny, i never knew men to be colours either. ❞ is this truly how awed she is, reduced to parroting his own words back at him? she reaches into the basket at her arm, and when her hand it emerges, there is a lily grasped within it, white as snow, and the ribbon tied around the stem ( so neatly! ) is the same hue as the ocean.

            ❝ a token of thanks, for your compliment. or, a bribe to earn your friendship. who knows? ❞ her eyes sparkle a little as she offers it to him, from mirth, from anticipation, from hope that he’ll accept the flower. ❝ russian, you said – is that where you’re from? you must have had quite a journey to end up in a little place like this. i hope you’re not expecting anything too exciting. nothing exciting ever seems to happen here. ❞ she cannot hide the note of disappointment in her voice. she loves her new life, truly, but she cannot deny – sometimes, she wishes it were just a little less of what it is, and a little more of what it was.

           What a sad day it will be, the day she learns–– if she learns–– that the curling gild of his ribs sits empty. A vacant setting where there ought to be a gem. His heart–– his death–– could never be warm! Not when it’s been threaded through a needle so finely–– nested in a multitude of fowl like a sorcerer’s turducken and buried under frost and snow. But, one must come to understand that affection ( that is, the minor key of love ) does not require a heart, nor warmth to survive. 

           It requires feeding. Like a caged thing, it must be given scraps and rations of ruddy cheeks and curling lips–– lilies tied up in neat little bows. Which is why he accepts her gift with concealed hunger. Why he sticks it through his left lapel, as to place it near to where that besmirched spot lies. It’s perfume nearly pleasant as Blue’s own pleasantries. Koschei breathes it in, looks to the scenery of her country,

                      ‘ exciting things can happen anywhere.                         in fact, much of Russia is white plains–– ’

          He gesticulates, as if spreading the land before him, 

                       ‘ monotonous tundra as far as you can                         see. ( Not that you can see much in a                         storm. ) But look how many books take                         place there. ’

           A brow shoots up, as a mischievous actor’s would while breaking the fourth wall. 

                       ‘ I, myself, prefer the mountains but––                                                                        I digress. ’

❝ no sir, i don’t think we have. ❞ he is beautiful, she notes that straight away, hair like coal and eyes as black as the night, and she cannot decide if that is admiration or intimidation she feels building within her. ❝ blue, ❞ she introduces herself, offering a hand.

❝ blue sang-in. your accent tells me you’re not from around here, mister … ? ❞

He’s seen her in his sleep, as he sees many. Watches their faces and fates and omens cross clearly as thread in a loom. But her? Never more than a glimpse. A faint tweed. A wisp. That’s enough to pique anyone’s curiosity–– no? Enough to make him jump when he saw her and check whether or not he was dreaming before he first spoke.  He takes her hand with a slight fervour, her fingers folding in his. He bows slightly to her height, such a gentlemanly gesture! While white teeth, red mouth, and wry grin all conspire to come perilously close to her knuckle, 

                        ‘ call me charmed.                                       or. if you must use a name,                                          I’ll gladly accept Koschei. ’

                          “A  pigeon  with  likely  far more grace than I ever found. They have no                            common name for a bird that flaps about in such a manner.” A Wendy                            bird  they  had  called her, all gangling limbs and a nightgown flapping                            about.  She  likely  looked  a  silly  little thing, but she missed it all the                            same.  Perhaps  she  betrayed  herself only a small fraction her. Lips                            losing  their  teasing  curl,   and  eyes  taking  on  the  distant  look  of                            nostalgia.

           ‘ I wouldn’t call it grace–– we couldn’t have such a thing in common.                No. If I could be called graceful or any of the goodness it entails, then I              taint the name. Though, if you must call me graceful, surely you are             divinity–– ’

Though, he doesn’t doubt that, either. She has a certain way about her.  A certain knowing in her movements, as if her bird-boned limbs had been  through their operations too many times to count. He understands that, his own bones operating like worn clockwork. And, what’s more, there’s a steep to her gaze that’s telling–– jaded–– storied.