( that age-old saying comes to mind: actors make the best liars. as if even the most classically trained darlings can lie the way ani learned to, with jake seresin as mentor and muse. no one's ever cried as prettily or as convincingly on cue, or swanned their way past louvre security with a wink and a waistline just to fuck under the death of sardanapalus, hips bruising against delacroix's flames. the theater of becoming what the room wants to watch, learned on the lap of her first director.
her body doesn't jerk. her expression doesn't so much as twitch, a bluff at muscle control that always plays well from the mezzanine. what's always given ani away is this: the close-up shot, a lens on the eyes, a betrayal of breath. she blinks slow as a camera shutter, lashes catching the light just enough to shimmer — not with tears, but something closer to disbelief. a flash of eyes across his face, watching anger — fear? — short-circuit through his cocky, golden boy smirk.
ani's own poker tell: the plush kitten-curve to her mouth when she's been dealt a winning hand, pressed right into the heat of his snarl. not mocking, just privately pleased. because the scene hit its mark, and the bet paid off. another gamble made with all she has left on the table: flesh and pain. unflinching, she presses the fragile hollows of her wrists into his grip like she's starved for the contact, willing — wanting — to wear the imprint of his fingers like a bracelet, if it means he's still holding on. arches up, instinctive, like a cat in rumpled silk.
the ache sharpens, sings up her arms like applause in an empty theater. ghost-light devotion. ani's thigh twitches, a come-up of adrenaline from the sting, the cylinder bloom already reddening into something ugly. and still, the burn is his eyes runs hotter. )
Right. I forgot you got the monopoly on doin' stupid shit. That's your job.
( like she hasn't done stupider shit since he's been put away, death by a thousand cuts. as if her whole body isn't a ledger of bad decisions made in the dark with people who never looked at her like jake did. her free hand wraps around his, drags it down until his palm cups the wound, flesh to flesh. complicity, fingerprints on a crime scene. look at what you stopped. remember what you didn't.
plainly (painfully) honest: )
I just wanted to see what you would do. ( if you'd stop me. ani whispers, sandpapered, triumph still: ) Got you, motherfucker.
( three words that echo like the click of a safe she's cracked open. the score was never the wound, but the golden proof: you must still love me, you poor fucking bastard. )
no subject
her body doesn't jerk. her expression doesn't so much as twitch, a bluff at muscle control that always plays well from the mezzanine. what's always given ani away is this: the close-up shot, a lens on the eyes, a betrayal of breath. she blinks slow as a camera shutter, lashes catching the light just enough to shimmer — not with tears, but something closer to disbelief. a flash of eyes across his face, watching anger — fear? — short-circuit through his cocky, golden boy smirk.
ani's own poker tell: the plush kitten-curve to her mouth when she's been dealt a winning hand, pressed right into the heat of his snarl. not mocking, just privately pleased. because the scene hit its mark, and the bet paid off. another gamble made with all she has left on the table: flesh and pain. unflinching, she presses the fragile hollows of her wrists into his grip like she's starved for the contact, willing — wanting — to wear the imprint of his fingers like a bracelet, if it means he's still holding on. arches up, instinctive, like a cat in rumpled silk.
the ache sharpens, sings up her arms like applause in an empty theater. ghost-light devotion. ani's thigh twitches, a come-up of adrenaline from the sting, the cylinder bloom already reddening into something ugly. and still, the burn is his eyes runs hotter. )
Right. I forgot you got the monopoly on doin' stupid shit. That's your job.
( like she hasn't done stupider shit since he's been put away, death by a thousand cuts. as if her whole body isn't a ledger of bad decisions made in the dark with people who never looked at her like jake did. her free hand wraps around his, drags it down until his palm cups the wound, flesh to flesh. complicity, fingerprints on a crime scene. look at what you stopped. remember what you didn't.
plainly (painfully) honest: )
I just wanted to see what you would do. ( if you'd stop me. ani whispers, sandpapered, triumph still: ) Got you, motherfucker.
( three words that echo like the click of a safe she's cracked open. the score was never the wound, but the golden proof: you must still love me, you poor fucking bastard. )