( her hand fumbles like a dropped bird from a perch, all broken wings. nothing to tether her to the air, nowhere soft to land. not poised, not elegant — just hopeless and lost, for a suspended moment in time. it feels pathetic, hovering her fingertips a breath too long, missing the natural stage cue that should come smoothly. he lets go of her. she acts like she isn't afraid he means it with finality. that it doesn't burn a hole of rejection into her, with the subtlety of a washed-up understudy fucking up the role she once knew beat for beat.
maybe she's just been out of the business of pretending with him for too long. maybe the return on royalties from that particular performance just aren't worth shit anymore. she looks down at the absent space like it might still tell her something. flutters her hand almost protectively back to herself, sliding it over where silk pools in the crease of her hip. )
Yeah, yeah. You're real funny, Goldilocks. Fuck off with that.
( a laugh churns out of her, quiet. not an honest one — it's ani's favorite decoy: that flirty, flighty sound when she wants something too badly to ask for it. when what's on offer tastes too much like hope. as if he hasn't always known the wistful gleam in her eye, hadn't seen her pause too long in front of degas' the dancers in blue that one time, hadn't acted like he could drop it in her lap over breakfast. like the only cost would be loving him back.
her head tips toward her shoulder, half-hidden behind a silky curtain of dark hair. not shy, because ani is never shy. but girlish, the softness of a secret romantic under all those thorns she's grown to survive. )
I'd give you two months before you get bored. ( of a life where the only thrill is her. she smiles. a sad, sepia-tinge of nostalgic. ) Sounds too fuckin' quiet. That ain't us.
( her eyelashes flutter, stealing a glance at him. it doesn't help that the sudden return of life to his eyes, like he's seeing a table worth betting on, makes her want to be stupid, be honest. doesn't help that the scratchy whisper of stubble makes her legs twitch, ticklish. a kinder burn that's left her skin red, before. her palm uselessly pushes at his cheek to save herself from her sighing, involuntary giggle, the thrill it sends up her thighs. )
Nah. I want somethin' one of a kind. Something you can't lift off some rich asshole's collection. ( she nibbles on her lip, scared he'll laugh. say no. her toes curl in his lap. she doesn't run, just leaves her cards facing him. ) So, what's the going rate on Jake Seresin these days? He still on the table, or is the birthday girl shit outta luck?
no subject
maybe she's just been out of the business of pretending with him for too long. maybe the return on royalties from that particular performance just aren't worth shit anymore. she looks down at the absent space like it might still tell her something. flutters her hand almost protectively back to herself, sliding it over where silk pools in the crease of her hip. )
Yeah, yeah. You're real funny, Goldilocks. Fuck off with that.
( a laugh churns out of her, quiet. not an honest one — it's ani's favorite decoy: that flirty, flighty sound when she wants something too badly to ask for it. when what's on offer tastes too much like hope. as if he hasn't always known the wistful gleam in her eye, hadn't seen her pause too long in front of degas' the dancers in blue that one time, hadn't acted like he could drop it in her lap over breakfast. like the only cost would be loving him back.
her head tips toward her shoulder, half-hidden behind a silky curtain of dark hair. not shy, because ani is never shy. but girlish, the softness of a secret romantic under all those thorns she's grown to survive. )
I'd give you two months before you get bored. ( of a life where the only thrill is her. she smiles. a sad, sepia-tinge of nostalgic. ) Sounds too fuckin' quiet. That ain't us.
( her eyelashes flutter, stealing a glance at him. it doesn't help that the sudden return of life to his eyes, like he's seeing a table worth betting on, makes her want to be stupid, be honest. doesn't help that the scratchy whisper of stubble makes her legs twitch, ticklish. a kinder burn that's left her skin red, before. her palm uselessly pushes at his cheek to save herself from her sighing, involuntary giggle, the thrill it sends up her thighs. )
Nah. I want somethin' one of a kind. Something you can't lift off some rich asshole's collection. ( she nibbles on her lip, scared he'll laugh. say no. her toes curl in his lap. she doesn't run, just leaves her cards facing him. ) So, what's the going rate on Jake Seresin these days? He still on the table, or is the birthday girl shit outta luck?