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bakerolivias-archived · 2 years

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femslash february moodboards: ballerina!zoyalina au, enemies to lovers

She feels her throat constricting at the sight of Zoya, heat rising to her cheeks. Alina does nothing but watch as Zoya whips by in a blur, dark, curly hair that flowed like silky tresses of black ink swept into a bun at the crown of her head, lips a deep ruby red, black tank top clinging to Zoya’s form and hugging her curves at just the right places with a pink tutu, tights, and pointe shoes (the standard ballerina attire), all but waving her off dismissively with a sniff, not sparing her a glance, and - it hurts. A lot more than it should, really.

Alina’s breath hitches as Zoya begins a series of stretches for warm-ups which show off her divine, exquisite form, tearing her eyes away (though it is a valiant and laughably difficult effort) from Zoya’s arching back and abundant curves. She bites her lip, repeating a mantra in her head of how Zoya has no affect on her, that Zoya’s hateful brown eyes and smooth tanned skin and sculpted form don’t keep her awake at night, how Zoya is not the last thing she thinks of before sleep claims her body and her eyes flutter to a close. Her fingernails scrape her palms, forming crescent moon shapes in her fleshy skin, and she endeavors to use the pain as a means of distraction and, funnily enough, focus, though the two are often considered mutually exclusive; really, pain works wonders (being a ballerina is nothing but pain, after all, a way of stretching the body past its limits to form a graceful and beautiful dance with her limbs). Alina schools her features - ballet is all about discipline, and structure, and stoicism, and she needs to keep herself poised, maintain as much of an air of dignity as she possibly can.

She hangs on to the metal bar for balance, feeling the cool metal in her hands as she proceeds to her own warm-ups, matching the movements of the other girls - to which Zoya notably rolls her eyes, and Alina feels the flare of indignance deep in her stomach. Really, there’s no need for Zoya to have such an attitude, to be visibly annoyed by Alina’s mere existence, to act as if she’s better than her, than everyone here, with her nose turned up and head held high - and there’s no need for Zoya’s contempt for her to be such a turn on, but damn it, it is.

A hush falls through the room at the sound of the clapping of hands, loud and confident and demanding. The ballerinas around Alina stand up straighter, including Zoya - and she does too, stiffening her spine and hiking up her shoulders, hardly letting herself breathe. That’s the effect Genya Safin, infamous in the world of New York’s performing arts, has on her, on all of them.

“The Swan Lake concert approaches,” Genya intones dramatically, striking blue eyes giving each and every one of them a quick once-over. Pausing on Alina, before continuing, her red curls bouncing with her movements. “I trust you’ve been practicing, and I hope to see stellar performances from all of you. The New York Times will be there, as will several important people in the world of performing arts,” Genya being one of them goes unsaid, “and I expect you all to make me proud. We’ll be working with partners today.”

Alina’s heart hammers in her chest, dread curling around her ribs. Genya’s gaze swivels meaningfully from Zoya to Alina, and she knows what will happen before Genya even has the chance to say it-

“Zoya, you will be working with Alina,” Genya decides before rattling off a list of partnerships. Zoya approaches, and Genya’s silky voice is reduced to nothing but a buzzing drone in Alina’s ears.

It is far too early in the morning for this.

The intimacy of the moment is not lost on her. It’s too much, and it’s threatening to overwhelm her, and instantly, Alina feels ridiculous at the thought that this even means anything. She’s just - she’s being stupid, and horny, and it’s not entirely her fault that Zoya’s ruining her.

“You’re doing it all wrong,” Zoya snaps, an enraged spark in her eyes that is far too sexy for its own good. Alina, feeling petulant, sticks her tongue out - discreetly, of course, but it’s enough to make Zoya shake her head in exasperation.

Their fingers brush, the contact exploding across Alina’s nerves. Before she can bite her tongue, Alina finds herself speaking her mind - the stupidest words she’ll ever say, rising out of her throat uncontrolled - “you look breathtaking.”

It throws Zoya off, and she lets go of her contempt long enough for her eyes to widen in surprise, lips parting. A tongue peeks between her teeth, darting to her lips, before Zoya recovers and resumes the routine, albeit shakily. “Shut up,” she hisses.

“Have you ever heard of gratitude? It’s customary when given a compliment. I’m sure you’re not familiar with the concept.” A fire kindles deep in Alina’s chest - she’s never felt this confident before; normally, it’s Zoya who comes out superior in their verbal sparring.

“Why should I express gratitude for a faux-compliment meant to make me wobble? I know what game, you’re playing, Alina Starkov,” Zoya hisses with twice the normal amount of acidity, and Alina no longer wonders why she hasn’t seen any eligible men complimenting her, she’d probably just scared them off (she certainly wasn’t lacking in beauty, or intelligence, or spirit; Alina couldn’t help but think they were sorely missing out).

“You don’t have to be a bitch to be prima, Zoya Nazyalensky,” Alina snaps back. Two can play at the using the other’s full name game, and Alina will not be squirming first. A deadly rage fills Zoya’s eyes, which isn’t particularly rare for her, and Alina makes the unbiased, objective observation that this killing calm made her far more beautiful than she’d ever seen her, than she had the right to be.

The rest of rehearsal is spent this way, Zoya’s gaze never breaking hers, their eyes locked in a stare-off. Alina’s unsure of how this rivalry even happened to begin with, what lit the spark of this feud, but she doesn’t care. Tension ripples from Zoya’s body in waves - and Alina vividly imagines how relaxed Zoya would be if Alina was peppering kisses along her jaw, her lips, teeth scraping across her clavicle, nails sinking into her slim shoulders, bodies pressed into each other in a desperate attempt to close a non-existent gap.

She doesn’t act on the impulse afterwards, despite how much she aches to do so, to snake her fingers across Zoya’s thighs and bare back. When Zoya sends a last death glare her way with eyes of steel before leaving the locker room, Alina returns the gesture in kind, before leaning her head back against the locker with a sigh, exhaling deep breaths as frustration and arousal swirl in her blood.

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