𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔰 ꤪꤨꤪꤪ

text prompts / @koschyei

*⁑. txt talk. 🪞｡˚ * 𓂃 ࣪ ˖ ➷ ❪  @koschyei ❫

[ ➵ rothbart ] : because i dont find you particularly attractive?

[ ➵ rothbart ] : what is wrong with you?

[ ➵ rothbart ] : ivan.

[ ➵ rothbart ] : if you choked me.

[ ➵ rothbart ] : with gunpowder or hornets or a mace or all three

[ ➵ rothbart ] : i would still never date a blond man

[ ➵ rothbart ] : now STOP. texting me

[ fish major ] : you are deeply unwell.

[ fish major ] : i am reporting this to the dean so you never have to grade a paper ever again

[ fish major ] : still need you to explain this aversion to my blondness though

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.

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.

        ⊹ ,  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? ❜

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. ❜❜

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.

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.

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.