˚₊‧ ( 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
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
𝒐𝒏𝒆. you know the drill by now, no meanies, no god-modding, tag your spicy images etc. i'm limiting this blog to a handful of mutuals and long time friends until i get back to an active pace. will be very slow to reply to threads and dms until then, but please don't take the delay as a lack of interest ! i'm working with very short bursts of free time and poor time management skills here :') as a general rule, you can expect me to be most active on early week days.
𝒕𝒘𝒐. muses from the historical fiction space are super welcome, but as a personal preference i will not interact with muses based on real life historical figures. generally, i'd also prefer to plot crossovers or aus that allow for koschei's fantasy universe to be recognized. it's where i'd feel most comfortable exploring his themes, so really appreciate working with me on this ♡
𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒆. mature content will be present, so i will not be interacting with anyone under the age of 21. there are lots of themes of war, violence, and romance here, but i will be sure to tag anything particularly triggering or suggestive as ___ tw. if i miss one of your triggers pls lmk. for me, no need to tag anything except your us.fw/ns.f.w
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ok round two of blind friend group hangout was a huuuuuuge success 🙌 ended up doing a clay class and made this silly lil guy modeled after my 20+ yo beanie baby so if the lich every makes u think there's a scary maniac behind him pls know this is who you're actually talking to
[ fish major ] : if you stopped listening to inna and the blogsphere you'd know it
. . .
[ fish major ] : you keep saying you don't like me but
[ fish major ] : allah'a şükür box dye exists
[ fish major ] : so does the block button
[ fish major ] : i fail to see your real problem here
[ fish major ] : we should talk about it after your psych eval
[ fish major ] : i can pick you up tues 8pm
[ fish major ] : let you touch glass at the aquarium
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[ shhhh ] : i think i'm fucked up too
[ shhhh ] : are we at the same party?
[ shhhh ] : come find me.
[ shhhh ] : i'll let you light my cigarette if you hurry
[ hex girl ] : wanda read that again
[ hex girl ] : and turn your location back on
[ hex girl ] : i'm not prowling the perimeter for you
[ hex girl ] : i shouldn't even be here
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?
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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.
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
[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.
even the mattress against her mouth did little to keep it at bay, though she can’t say she tried all that much to stay modest. even bent over his bed, with an arm pinned to her back, & his waist pressed tautly into her, she evades having her voice muffled. with another groan that leaves her fingers curling into the sheets, and her wrist twitching in his grip, she takes stock half-dazedly of how he has slowed behind her. she nearly thinks to turn back her head somewhat to tear his ear off for it, for stopping and leaving her wanting, at the cusp of release, but no sooner had the thought formed that she feels the hard warmth of his chest along her spine. he’s crowded her in, and that is when he sets his palm warmly around her mouth.
obsessively, she recounts the hurry with which she had made to be rid of his pretty doublet. now that very fine hair he had, she had especially taken joy out of wrecking. on his turn, he had undone the ribbons from her hair and let it fall long & tousled down her back.
❛ kostya! kos— ❜ there’s a huff of a protest, a futile noise. she grunts a little as her body strains, trying to search for friction, but he is momentarily interested in the fact that she has cried. panting against his palm, she closes her eyes to stomach it all: god above, he felt terribly good, terribly sweet. a stern pendulum of movement that had her emptied of good sense and fed on greed. handsome to the point of utter pain to her heart, blood dusting his rough knuckles. careful with her body, kissed to bruises. against his harsh hand, muffled and half-pleading, she says: ❛ don’t— goodness, why did you stop? ❜
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. ❜❜
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. ❜❜
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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 !!!
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!!
