( it's no small victory. to the outside eye: just a passing, uninspiring tic in his jaw. to ani's: jake's poker tell, an expression that could bluff the entire goddamn room, but faltered when she was the one dealing him a shitty hand. frustrated tension she's only witnessed when's up against a safe he can't crack, and ani? she's locked up vault-tight. all bolted shut with nothing worth stealing inside, anymore. not that he isn't trying, like there's something gold-lined and authentic behind the steel of her eyes.
the only thing left gleaming is her passing glint of petty satisfaction, quick as a sleight-of-hand. good, ani thinks. let him know how painful silence is when you're on the other end of it, stretching across weeks, breathing across months, waiting for any fucking sign of life. the least he owes her is an even score. he can pony up according to her house rules, bleed out the debt one drop at a time.
a film's still frame of disinterest, ani plucks at the satiny bow of her robe, without sparing a glance to jake's moving shadow across the room. like he's just part of the vintage furniture, an antique she couldn't part with. )
I wouldn't trust your thieving ass anywhere near the rare editions.
( sticky-fingers, yeah — but look how he left her. dog-earned, spine cracked, before she even exchanged hands. not a lot of worth left in the resell market, probably, despite how many men have tried to own her, more for the prestige than the contents. she's always looked best on the shelf of someone else's arm.
her leg stretches out, the curve of her calf lazily bumping forward. the slip of her robe down her shoulder is a pin-up billboard: a skintease dressed up in glamour, something that looks artfully photogenic on ani. not once do her eyes flicker to his hand. )
Start light. Euripides, maybe. Medea always reminded me of us.
( how do you destroy a man who wants your teeth in his throat? set yourself on fire and make them watch. tale as old as time. so, she doesn't blink. doesn't flinch. just presses the hissing end of the lit cigarette to the tender skin of her thigh, a vengeful fuck you. )
no subject
the only thing left gleaming is her passing glint of petty satisfaction, quick as a sleight-of-hand. good, ani thinks. let him know how painful silence is when you're on the other end of it, stretching across weeks, breathing across months, waiting for any fucking sign of life. the least he owes her is an even score. he can pony up according to her house rules, bleed out the debt one drop at a time.
a film's still frame of disinterest, ani plucks at the satiny bow of her robe, without sparing a glance to jake's moving shadow across the room. like he's just part of the vintage furniture, an antique she couldn't part with. )
I wouldn't trust your thieving ass anywhere near the rare editions.
( sticky-fingers, yeah — but look how he left her. dog-earned, spine cracked, before she even exchanged hands. not a lot of worth left in the resell market, probably, despite how many men have tried to own her, more for the prestige than the contents. she's always looked best on the shelf of someone else's arm.
her leg stretches out, the curve of her calf lazily bumping forward. the slip of her robe down her shoulder is a pin-up billboard: a skintease dressed up in glamour, something that looks artfully photogenic on ani. not once do her eyes flicker to his hand. )
Start light. Euripides, maybe. Medea always reminded me of us.
( how do you destroy a man who wants your teeth in his throat? set yourself on fire and make them watch. tale as old as time. so, she doesn't blink. doesn't flinch. just presses the hissing end of the lit cigarette to the tender skin of her thigh, a vengeful fuck you. )