[ Droll. Dry. He can sell it better, if it's a panel of decision-makers and the officer theoretically in charge of his probation. Here, now, he doesn't much bother to. Who needs the feint? Not Jake, who knows what he is. Not Ani, who lets the air kiss her skin where her robe has left it. Giorgione's Venus, in the flesh, reclining but not sleeping; disaffected, unaffected. Not interested.
She's not looking at his hand, but Jake's looking right at her. She looks older, somehow. Part of him likes that, that he has something to compare it to. That he knows her different years. Her hand moves across her thigh and Jake doesn't look away — holds his breath, just for a second. Thinks selfishly, hopelessly, for a single heartbeat: You can't hate me that much.
Fingers that are so deft and sure suddenly turn blunt, shot through with urgency. He knocks her wrist away by grabbing onto it, thumb pressing hard into her tendons. Enough force that he tells himself he can feel it, the scrape of all those tiny, intricate bones in her wrist, grinding together in the ring of his grip. His own movements all messy and chase, as big a sign as a neon goddamn billboard. Panic from a thief — in any room beyond this one, it's an unforgivable crime. Throat clicking unevenly for a swallow, breathing knocked uneven. Every shiny, golden part of him, abruptly falling away. ]
Stop it.
[ A low tone, shot through anger and fury. It's spread all over, from his frown to his jaw to the tension that pulls everything about him taut. Jake's knee finds its place against the very edge of the chaise, his other foot still flat on the ground; he bears his weight down on her, pinning her hand closer to her chest. A cherry-red half-ember, nicotine holding vigil between them.
He steals that, too. Plucks it right from her grip, crushing it out on the cushion by her head, smearing ash into the fabric with a vindictive twist. His grip on her wrist is the one taking most of his weight. He grits out the words like they cost him, an echo of a snarl right against her teeth: ]
Don't fucking do that.
[ (He'll never be able to smoke Marlboros again.) ]
no subject
[ Droll. Dry. He can sell it better, if it's a panel of decision-makers and the officer theoretically in charge of his probation. Here, now, he doesn't much bother to. Who needs the feint? Not Jake, who knows what he is. Not Ani, who lets the air kiss her skin where her robe has left it. Giorgione's Venus, in the flesh, reclining but not sleeping; disaffected, unaffected. Not interested.
She's not looking at his hand, but Jake's looking right at her. She looks older, somehow. Part of him likes that, that he has something to compare it to. That he knows her different years. Her hand moves across her thigh and Jake doesn't look away — holds his breath, just for a second. Thinks selfishly, hopelessly, for a single heartbeat: You can't hate me that much.
Fingers that are so deft and sure suddenly turn blunt, shot through with urgency. He knocks her wrist away by grabbing onto it, thumb pressing hard into her tendons. Enough force that he tells himself he can feel it, the scrape of all those tiny, intricate bones in her wrist, grinding together in the ring of his grip. His own movements all messy and chase, as big a sign as a neon goddamn billboard. Panic from a thief — in any room beyond this one, it's an unforgivable crime. Throat clicking unevenly for a swallow, breathing knocked uneven. Every shiny, golden part of him, abruptly falling away. ]
Stop it.
[ A low tone, shot through anger and fury. It's spread all over, from his frown to his jaw to the tension that pulls everything about him taut. Jake's knee finds its place against the very edge of the chaise, his other foot still flat on the ground; he bears his weight down on her, pinning her hand closer to her chest. A cherry-red half-ember, nicotine holding vigil between them.
He steals that, too. Plucks it right from her grip, crushing it out on the cushion by her head, smearing ash into the fabric with a vindictive twist. His grip on her wrist is the one taking most of his weight. He grits out the words like they cost him, an echo of a snarl right against her teeth: ]
Don't fucking do that.
[ (He'll never be able to smoke Marlboros again.) ]
What the hell, Ani.