[ There are a number of more innocuous ways he could start, from commenting on her choice of username to asking after the colored tinsel in her hair or why she always looks so sour at meals, but, ever at least assuming the mask of a gentleman: ]
( it shouldn't be entirely shocking he tracked her down — but no guy is staring at small details like her nails and her tattoos to connect the pieces, instead of her tits. there's a notable delay of a few hours, leaving him on read, just to make a point of it. then, )
"thank you"? you're making it sound like i'm running a charity babe next time, i'll be sure to charge you double :)
( she clocks it — not eagerness. but in the same family, some distant cousin of it, from a man that likes his composure as pressed as his suits, likes to play it as cool as ice. in the privacy of her room, ani snorts, half-dismissive, half-feline smugness. )
aw did you think it was gonna be that easy? that i was just gonna hand you the answer? watching you fuck around and figure it out is half the fun why don't you offer something, and i'll tell you if it's worth unwrapping
[ The issue with living in a house in which most amenities are easily accessible is that it makes gift-giving rather more difficult. What's so precious about something one could saunter down the hall to procure for oneself? What's so special about fine wine when it's served with every meal? In tandem with the fact that Ani doesn't seem like the kind of woman to be easily won over by flowers or sparkly things—
He spends a little while at Budsnik, paying little to no attention to the bouquets that fill much of the space. The next day, by the foot of Ani's door is a jade plant, a blue silk ribbon tied around its base, tethering a note that reads, simply: DIFFICULT TO KILL. ]
( difficult to kill. even in the privacy of her room, ani snorts, nearly derisive — wool over the eyes on how she smirks to herself. knowing silco, his creepy ass has beady eyes watching from the corner. it's a good attempt, on his part; not the usual ice and sparkle and pretty flowers meant for death, too soft to survive in the world. something that almost challenges i see you. the resilience inside of her that few have ever cared to compliment, the least favorite thing on the menu when her beauty is the appetizer, her body the main course.
deliberately, she leaves him swinging from a hangman's noose of suspense for the duration of the day. difficult to kill, sure — difficult to break down, too. it's only when night rounds the corner, and ani is swiping glittery sparkles from her eyes, does she send off, )
"difficult to kill" you sayin i'm resilient, or that i'm a bitch with roots? cute choice either way
( even if it's tempting to do just that — kill it with the same maternal neglect ani survived. prove there's not a nurturing fucking bone in her body. she fingers the leaves of it, anyway, ignoring the small sentimental pang of kinship she feels with a goddamn plant, of all things. )
[ Waiting for her the next morning (sent in the early hours before breakfast rather than the middle of the night): ]
The thoughts are hardly mutually exclusive.
[ Typically, something given demands something in return. Silco isn't the type to leave a trade unfinished, but in this case, it benefits him, keeps the line open. The important thing, anyway, is that he hasn't struck out, which is no small feat if he's reading her correctly. ]
[ He sees her, between then and now, at the host club. They're busy, for the most part, pieces shifting as Jinx drifts in and out of orbit. There's a sort of humor to it — a materialization of her modus operandi as soon as she'd spoken it aloud. Her time's worth something. The club makes it so. Or at least, it makes that transaction more transparent, even though there's nothing like payment really involved.
It's a week or so after the club opens that he approaches her again, carrying a cage containing a blue morpho (unceremoniously "liberated" from the menagerie's butterfly garden) in a gloved hand. Maybe the staff will reclaim it, maybe she'll hate it, either way, such creatures only live for so long. At worst, it's hardly as though the little cage can't be unlocked. ]
Ani.
[ He doesn't smile, but the exchange is his attention, focused entirely on her — on her gaze, despite the tightly-drawn latex of her dress. ]
Come with me to the prom.
[ Better to ask in person (even if it's not quite phrased as a question). ]
( silco's attention has all the (un)subtlety of a hot poker — sharp, intense, wanting you to feel the sear of it. ani doesn't feel colder in its absences, those spaces between; she makes it a point to be busy, her schedule a curated performance of her own desirability — every hour booked, every glance bought and paid for. the reminder that she isn't waiting around for anyone. her time, exclusive. her presence, a limited edition. it's always been the case — the host club has just made it a matter of official, public record.
that's all to say: she's never needed sparkle and shine to guarantee attention when she's already the brightest thing in the room. still, there's a difference between background noise and silco's tunnel-vision stare — intent, calculated. a man that doesn't want her with the same intensity of sloppy boys fumbling over their feet, or giggly girls melting into her lap — but with a desire closer to precision, closer to strategy, closer to war. like he's in it to win it, no matter the cost. the type of guy drawn to a conquest. the type of guy who will bored of the victory, once he's seized it from her.
her head tilts, the vibe of a queen weighing the worth of a tribute, eyes watching the fragile flutter of butterfly wings. it feels as pointed as silco's usual brand of gift-giving: never lacking substance, always having something to say. her plant might be a resilient little fucker, but this — ani plucks the cage from him, trying not to think of what message he's sending this time. if it's commentary on beauty that has an expiration date, or a creature that knows it was meant to live fast and die young. in a cage, of all things, trapped.
still, it's pretty, one of her favorite things. fuck him for that. )
What, no corsage?
( her painted mouth twists, easing out a snort. her fingers wrap around the cage, a decisive verdict — like she's already chosen to keep it, despite the hard-ass treatment, despite how the demand grates. like her yes is inevitable, a purchased service in the transaction. )
You got shitty manners, making demands and all. ( she says evenly — not offended, and pointedly not flattered. ) Ask nice.
[ War is apt — living is an act of war for those born with nothing, isn't it? Eating, breathing, sleeping, all of it requires snatching a loaf of bread, a spare moment, a place to lay your head from the hands of those who already possess them. Violence will do the trick, but not violence alone, lest it bring retribution thundering down like the head of a hammer. There's also this: the terms she's set, borrowed from what one might call polite society, demanding a pretty show of respect to thread the needle the rest of the way. His wardrobe, his demeanor. The tools of his enemy. (He knows she doesn't number among them — wouldn't be here if she did. He plays for keeps, and he has no use for a spoiled, silver-spoon brat.)
Still, "nice" makes him laugh, just a little, like flipping a page to find a torn sheet in his usually steely book. Not a word ever associated with his name in Zaun nor Piltover, he expects, except to stress that he's the exact opposite. He wants to say it's hardly a demand, that he knows that nothing he could say or do would move her if she didn't approve of the gift — and more to the point, if she didn't want to go with him to begin with, but that's a presumptuousness that's just asking to be cut off at the stem. ]
Would you be my date for the night?
[ The words come out a little more gently than he means for them to, though he lets them go with the awareness that they can hardly be spooled back. A gift on its own terms, as much as the butterfly, as much as the plant. Their sharper edges often come to oppose each other without their meaning to — he can afford to let go of a moment of softness, all the more because she's asked for it. Well, not so much asked as demanded in much the same way she'd accused him.
So he weighs the next word that leaves his mouth, giving it over with a slight bow of his head. (He'd knelt, that night at the club. He's not likely to go that far again, not straight away.)
( it's a good performance, the kind of shit they would lap up at the club without thinking twice. roughspun, with just enough polish to make you believe it's a glimpse into something rare, cubic fucking zirconia parading itself as a diamond — passable, until you go to examine it in the light of day, and not the neon flicker of a club. a little gravel in the voice, a little hush on the end of the sentence — a little softness in the right place, and clients think they've gotten somewhere with you. that they're a special exception to the limits you live by, the rules that keep girls like ani safe. that there's a sweetness in her that's not for sale, waiting for them to reach the core of it.
she's watched him run the same playbook back-to-back while he held court in that booth of his like a king. sat on her smoke break, heels off, puffing on her vape with a side of entertainment, all those pretty little things crowding his lap, bending easy. breathless for a second of his attention — like he hadn't trained every one of them to feel his gaze like a benediction. like it meant something, being chosen. like they weren't all the same, at the end of the day. just pets salivating over a treat when it's been offered by an expert hand.
like ani hasn't run the same game to empty a fat wallet, working like the rent is due.
it's fucking impressive. it's also fucking bullshit, like consuming empty calories — a craving you regret indulging later. she laughs, more airy than substance, a cloud of warm smoke from her mouth. making him work for the pleasure of the sound, even now. )
Damn, Daddy. ( unrepentant, mock-innocent. her lashes flutter, butterfly-winged. ) You don't gotta beg.
( a bubble of gum snaps in her mouth, weighing an invitation she's already taken, acceptance between her fingers as she spins that pretty cage around. it doesn't have to be sentimental. it doesn't have to mean anything that, out of his gaggle of admirers, he's asked ani. probably because she knows the score, like he does. it's just business, mingled with a side of pleasure. she knows where the boundaries are, how to keep it clean. )
Sure, I'll go with you. ( she pats him on the chest, indolently flippant. ) Wear somethin' nice.
Not one of those suits that makes you look like you got a hot date with a boardroom and not me.
[ It's just business, but he smiles anyway, swaying gently on his heels as her hand finds his chest. He's good at this, at indulging the harder edges of girlishness. Ani's the only one who's really seen that, here, besides Jinx. They're not cut from the same cloth, but they're songs written with a chord in common. Too sharp to be pushed around, too changed by some previous hurt to be truly soft even if they wanted to be. He'd be lying if he said he didn't like that about her.
But like is immaterial in the end, unimportant in comparison to what they can do for each other. And it doesn't matter that that doesn't totally account for why they choose each other. His choice is one thing. Hers — he hardly believes she's the kind of woman who wouldn't have any other offers — is another. ]
And here I thought you liked me on my knees.
[ His gaze falls to the butterfly. At least for the moment, it sits relatively still, shimmering blue wings lazily beating as its feet cling to the flowering branch that serves as its company. One more gift, approved, though he wonders what she'll do with it. A little life in her hands, more delicate and more readily visible than a plant's. He hadn't meant to follow one living thing with another, but perhaps that's its own sign of value. What's more precious than a life? A principle, he might once have said. An ideal. But he's had that luster cut away on the blade of a loving knife. ]
Tell me when you've picked a color, then, [ he adds, curbing any chance for the prior thought to linger. That he can bend doesn't mean he particularly likes to, though one more thing that Ani and Jinx have in common is a knack and desire to push him to it anyway. ]
( it's not the sway of a tree moved by the wind, the bending of nature to a greater force. ani knows the choreography of concession, clocks it for what it really is — an allowance of softness, slipped into her hand with the same smoothness of twenty crumpled in a g-string. not a gift, but an earned trade. permission to feel strong, pretend she's the one in control. like his edges wouldn't carve into her palm, if she ever mistook herself as having the sincere, real power to break him, push him, soften him. not a delusion she'll ever let herself entertain.
the nostalgia of the moment tastes perfumed on her tongue, like otherworld booze and silco on his knees. ani's gaze does doughy with feigned concern, virginally doe-eyed, flicking down to silco's knees. up again, with a lazy grin that cuts into the illusion. )
Wouldn't want 'em to crack. Every girl's gotta take good care of her toys.
( case in point: the butterfly wings fluttering around like a heartbeat. ani's nails slip away with a graze, tapping against the golden slats of its cage, recognition in her eyes. all that fight in something made small, made ornamental, raging against its imprisonment. beautiful for its short lifespan. later, she'll unlatch the door, let it decide for itself — stay perched on her windowsill, drunk on sugar water because it wants to stay, or fuck off into whatever version of freedom still exists out there. maybe it'll be more real than ani's. she pivots on her heel, turns to leave. casts a glance over her shoulder, lashes low. )
Pink. ( easily. there's a sparkle in her eye, imagining it — beauty and the beast, more used to his bruised blacks and reds like blood, condemned to sequin damnation. she flips a silky wave of hair over one shoulder, parting with a sugary murmur: ) I look good in any fuckin' color. Try not to get outshone.
Edited (the embarrassment of repeating yourself in prose aha) 2025-05-11 02:08 (UTC)
[ On the eve of their respective establishments' openings, Silco leaves a delivery for Ani with one of her girls. When the (simple, red) wrapping paper is peeled back, a cigar box is revealed underneath, packed full and bearing a note that reads, simply: ]
( you would be surprised, she doesn't say, cyanide-bitter at the edges. an annoying, mosquito-bite itch of a thought she can't help scratching: did vanya miss her once the ink on the annulment dried? she swats it dead, cleans up the corpse of that fantasy, then: )
cute flattery will save ur ass from wakin me up 😘 what's up
[ within the promised hour, sam arrives at ani's door, a bottle of champagne she'd swiped from the liquor supply in hand, either as a thank you gift or for them to partake in afterward (or both, should ani want to share). she knocks three times, then steps back to wait for her to answer the door. ]
[ A few hours after seeing this, Giles leaves a tray outside Ani's door. There's a butterfly cake on a little plate with a single candle in it, a small vase with some flowers from the dining room, and a note. ]
( the next day, a book appears outside giles' door — a beat-up paperback of the picture of dorian gray, dog-eared and spine-wrecked, like it's been shoved in a purse too many times or splashed on in a bathtub. the cover's been graffitied in black pen, devil horns and a cigarette drawn on dorian gray. tucked inside is a folded napkin from the bar used as a bookmark, smudges from what has to be ani's lipstick on the corners, an embossed velvet membership card for the pink slip and a note written in the inside cover with looping, feminine cursive: )
Old book, pretty boy, lots of feelings no one wants to talk about. I circled the parts where I think he deserved it. And the ones where I didn't. — A.
(PS: Lord Henry's a prick.)
( scribbled inside are a series of ani's annotations in glitter pen, beneath several lines:
"There is no such thing as a good influence, Mr. Gray. All influence is immoral..." this bitch would've loved instagram.
"Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic." lol. no shit. wear glitter, cry in the bathroom. that's the job.
"I am tired of myself tonight. I should like to be somebody else." get in line.
"There is always something ridiculous about the emotions of people whom one has ceased to love." said every guy who cried in my lap at 3am then blocked me. (next to that: fuck off, dorian.)
on a quote by dorian gray: bet he cried in the mirror after fucking someone he couldn't remember the name of. on a monologue by lord henry: this guy talks like every rich asshole i danced for. smart tho. i'd key his car.
at the final page: moral of the story, don't let hot people talk you into shit. they're never cleaning up their own mess. dude should've just gone to therapy. )
Edited (omg my many edits i forgot the most important part) 2025-05-20 03:22 (UTC)
( at the carnival, she'd won ani a pink bear, and herself a matching yellow one. so. with the message comes attached a picture — her yellow bear pinned to a stripper pole, arms tucked around it, coyly peering from the side. it does look like a stiff breeze would probably knock it out of place. the positioning definitely took some time. a lot of time, actually. )
still hiring? mr. money shot needs to make rent. gambling addiction. it's really serious.
( attached: her fuzzy bear propped up to the mess of her vanity mirror, a perfect pink match for the glitz of ani's decor, one of ani's velvet chokers tied to its neck, and a paw balancing lube like it's a glossy trophy. in the reflection, her wide smile is cut off to give the focus to a manicured hand playfully flashing a middle finger, a gemstone shining on the nail. )
tell mr. money shot to get good at hustling or stop blowing his load on blackjack so early 💸💸💸
got some follow-up questions for him before i try him out 1. does he look cute in a bowtie 2. can he pop it
( follow up: buffy doesn't have a bowtie on her, but she does have a piece of ribbon, long enough to knot over his tiny teddy throat. not that you can see much of it — the picture shows mr. money shot posed for the camera, fat bear butt up in the air, head bonked on the ground. )
your customers will be BEARY pleased. i guarantee it. 🐻💛
Edited (not me missing the obvious pun) 2025-05-27 00:18 (UTC)
( an image volleyed back: the same pink bear, wearing a scantily clad thong definitely not designed for bears. someone has dusted glitter, lovingly, on his ass. )
long as he doesn't come for the crown only one juicy ass gets the spotlight, honey, and it ain't his 🐻❄️✨ showtime, bitch
( is buffy that type? a part of her wants to say yes, but the more honest answer is something more like sometimes. on the subject of herself, buffy is generally resigned to frugality. she's learned this, over the years — not to be connected, to always be in charge. when it comes to creepy crawlies that go bump in the night? yeah. she goes to fucking get it. (slay it, dust it, enjoy the feeling of her stake in something's chest.)
where it concerns ani? well. she did say there's nothing hotter. buffy doesn't look the fact she wants to be seen as hot by ani too closely in the face. )
[true to his word, there's a delivery to ani's door before the end of his first day back at the hex club, where he's bright-eyed and chipper and earnest. the basket is a simple one, mostly things from the pantry -- a decent bottle of champagne, chocolates, some candied fruit -- that seemed "thank you for helping me be a slut" appropriate. there's also a set of press-on nails that koby had made himself, while convalescing in bed over the last week or so. they're a touch clumsy in places (he had been concussed), but overall painstaking work.
and of course, there's the review: single-spaced, typed, no emoji's or glitter pen, nothing overly fancy:]
Formal Lubricant Review for Ms. Ani Disclaimer: All opinions therein are the author's own and in no way reflect the official position of the Hex Club, Pink Slip or associated entities, this author is not being reimbursed for review and receives no monetary compensation for positive lubrication scoring, names have been changed to protect the innocent but you can probably guess who I'm talking about.
First and foremost, thank you for the time, attention to detail and dedication in your gifting, Ms. Ani, it was very much appreciated by myself and my partner(s). I hope my token of appreciation is to your standards, though please let me know your favorites so I can be better prepared moving forward. As promised, I've collected the following reflections on the supplies provided and come to the following conclusions:
[and then koby meticulously rates and reviews every single flavor of lube, from the cotton candy to the strawberry to the "bizarrely named, respectfully" bubblegum-raspberry-twist. the highest rated is by far:]
Pink Lemonade TASTE: ★★★★★ CONSISTENCY: ★★★★☆ EFFECTIVENESS: ★★★★★ (+bonus) LONGEVITY: ★★★★☆ OVERALL: ★★★★★ (+bonus) COMMENTS: Slightly slicker than bubblegum, tasted much better, not too sweet with enough sourness that I said offhand "my mouth is already watering so much" and he did that thigh-shuddery ready-to-come thing he does and told me I needed to dirty talk more (hence the bonus). I'm not sure if this counts as my homework since it was sort of unintentional, but I did say other things when he was ready to go a second and third time.
[and so on and so forth, concluding with:] I hope this review is satisfactory, though please let me know if any edits are needed and what further homework might assist in my upward mobility as an employee. And I hope you like the nails. :)
( it’s by happenstance that buffy crosses ani’s path in the hallways of saltburnt, two girls in a rush in opposite directions, barely looking up to offer each other a glance of acknowledgement. they knew each other before the bad month, and had barely any interaction during. so, there’s no awkwardness between them besides the inevitable understanding that, in all likelihood, bad things happened to each of them last month. things that have them storming off, heads bowed, uninterested in interacting with anyone.
buffy doesn’t know why she does it, really. genuinely liking ani, genuinely disliking the thought she might be upset over some invisible enemy, something buffy will never understand and cannot defeat. she spins on her heels, to face her. ) Hey, Ani. ( a little unsure, she offers a smile, a small shrug. ) Buy you a drink?
( buy doing a lot of work in that sentence, because there’s no buying here, and they eventually take aim at the pink slip, as owned by ani, so really. it’s earlier in the day, the place vacant except for the pair of them. ani slips behind the bar and makes them two blowjob shots, and buffy watches her tongue while she laps up the whipped cream, grateful the low light hides her blush. anyway. it’s not just one blowjob for the both of them — it’s two, and then they switch to pink whitney cocktails but they take too long to drink, so then it’s tequila shots with lime and salt, presumably until one of them passes out. they’re both chasing away their troubles, not talking about it. happy to not talk about it, in fact. buffy had every intention of holing away for the foreseeable while, before potentially joining a convent or something equally as dramatic and full of change, but this? watching ani meanly laugh at her every time she struggles and cringes and makes bleh, yucky faces to every freshly poured shot? this is preferable.
she’s at that stage of drunk enough that she’s handsy, not grabby but eager to touch her, hands on ani’s cheeks and pulling her in just to look at her closely, worthy of every ounce of buffy’s drunken, hyperfixated attention. with a deserved amount of seriousness: )
Why are you so pretty? Ani, why? Who let that happen.
( as far as hiding places go, the pink slip is a decent pick. daytime dims its sparkle into less of a glitter bomb to the senses, less dazzling, less loud — but ani likes the secrecy of it. the lack of windows to the outside world, denying sunlight and peeping toms their chance for a sneak peek. the magic of the sliding door they pass through, like falling down the rabbit hole — a portal to somewhere that feels secret and unknown to the rest of the world. just theirs, for awhile.
she lets buffy take up at the bar like ani's a queen holding court in her private kingdom, and buffy's the lucky petitioner she's let through the gates. more access than she's allowed most, walls up, entry denied. maybe it's because there's no chance of buffy cupping her face between soft palms and seeing someone else, some lingering afterimage of another woman wearing her face like stolen skin, memories ani's still trying to shed like a snake stuck in molt.
there's a pinch of seriousness right between buffy's eyebrows. probably the first warning sign she's doing drunk girl math equations, reaching for an inpossible solution to an impossible question. ani laughs, a warm bite of a sound, in the face of it. doesn't flinch when buffy keeps looking, and looking — ani's too comfortable in the armor she's painted on: a full-beat of spiky falsies and glittery eyeshadow that screams i'm fine to anyone looking for a defect. instead, she smooths down the bridge of her nose, flattening out the wrinkles in buffy's expression. little, creased lines of interest in just how pretty ani knows she is, from little miss i'm straight, i swear. more like little miss ani made a liar out of me and shit, those shots went straight to my head. after that last pour, her bloodstream has to contain more alcohol than sense. )
I guess God made me this pretty as a punishment or something. Tragic for the rest of you, huh?
( — a tone that implies she's the punishment to mankind, obviously. all of it combined with an irreverent shrug that only playfully pretends at modesty, the kind of attitude from a girl who doesn't invest much faith in any higher power that isn't the dollar bill. lotion-smooth fingers fan across buffy's face in a teasing echo. it has the advantage of feathering away some of the honey-wheat strands blocking ani's view, best in the house, of buffy's face. cute, confused. those touchy-feely hands put her close enough to taste booze on her breath, to know the inside of buffy's mouth is glossed with lime rinds and tequila. a little burn of something sweet with her sour. )
( unfortunately for her hands, buffy likes how they feel on her skin, cool in comparison to the drunk flush heating her up. instinctively, she bows into them, all kittenish behaviors, inclining towards the best scratch, towards the cashmere scent of her lotioned fingertips. safely said, buffy doesn't get many off days, and there's no calling in sick to being the slayer. has she let loose over the years? sure, sometimes, but it's few and far between and almost always a detriment to whatever the greater good is at any particular moment. the most blissful thing about here and now, is that ani makes her feel extremely normal, like — kind of like how faith used to, encouraging her wild side, feeding into the darkness that like-minded people can always see stagnant under the surface, waiting for a feeding. it's not exactly like that though. part of the greatness of ani is that she's comfortable to be around, a bottomless well of charm.
still, buffy pouts, heroically. )
Ugh, I know. You should drink more, so I'm not alone. I'll sober up — yee-up.
( one hand stays situated on ani's cheek, while the other reaches for the tequila bottle, though she has drunk brain focus and quickly loses the will to pour, namely because there's a pretty girl in her other hand, and why is she even looking at anything else? buffy resettles her gaze, hopping off her stool to lean in close to ani, foreheads almost touching. )
No, wait, I had a point. The point is ( she tries to remember, staring at ani intensely again, before noting her smile, which makes buffy grin, brightly. ) — you have such a pretty smile! Even though you only ever smile about mean things. Ani, you have to be nice to me.
( it's a coin flip between what ani feels, looking down at the open bloom of buffy's attention. heads: envy for how easy she makes it seem, a daisy-face turned up toward the light, no hint of second-guessing — like giving and receiving affection is really that natural for her. like there was never a moment where she was left in the dark without it. tails: the same surge of protectiveness humankind feels for baby birds and newborn kittens, soft things that blindly trust you to take care of them. which is insulting, probably; she's watched buffy slam through tests of strength without breaking a nail, olympian levels of athletic, and nothing has ever depended on ani — except an envelope with her sister's handwriting, reading RENT in bold-faced demand.
recognition, still. an easy transaction struck. buffy trusts ani not to hurt her, so she won't. kindness was denied to ani, so — she'll do better for girls with soft hearts, who haven't had reason to calcify it against the world, the way she has. heels give her the advantage of higher ground, a slight slant, but she taps her nose down against buffy's button-tipped one. a playful, bumper cars-like collision. )
Yeah, 'kay. Playtime's over, Buff. You're juiced up enough.
( so — off that bottle goes, a clack of ani's acrylics as she leans to slide it back onto the bar top. not because it's an expensive business expense, but because wasted booze splashed on her floor is almost as fucking depressing as having to be the one to clean it up. hands free, she grabs buffy's newly empty one, settles their joined hands right under ani's chin. the propped stance of it under her chin, the sloe-eyed glance she gives buffy — perfectly angelic, theoretically, if you don't know ani in reality. )
I think I've been very nice to you. You don't think I'm sweet? ( coy, dulcet: ) I let you drink without making you pay-up, freeloader. How much nicer do you want me to be?
( there could be, in theory, a drunken pout prelude to a drunken hissy fit, if it were not for the aforementioned beauty of ani being close up enough to see the laid lash band of her falsies on each eye, a captivating bit of femininity. it would be enough to distract anyone, buffy thinks, sharing glances between each of her chocolatey eyes, wondering when she ever got so close to her, but not necessarily minding the proximity. buffy is generally not a hugely touchy feely person, so there's not only comfort, but undeniable novelty in the sensation of having anyone, particularly a woman, close by.
well, maybe not novelty. that seems more like something a paying customer with a wife at home would say, which makes it very unbuffy in two ways: no wife, no money. in fact, back at home this wouldn't even be possible — every penny earned goes right back into the bills of the house, right back into feeding dawn. here? in the currency ani trades in, buffy just so happens to be a millionaire. )
Should I pay-up? I've got loads of secrets. ( in that morbid drunk way, her first thought, my mom's dead, casual accepting shrug. i found her body. guess who else is dead? two jutting thumbs gesturing to the tarry black spot inside her that sometimes feels devoid of feeling, this guy. ) Anyway, you're definitely sweet. ( immediately correcting, ) Sweetish. You're actually nicer when you're meaner.
( nonsensical drunk babble, maybe, but she means it — buffy has always been someone who prefers a hard truth to a convenient lie, is always seeking out brutal, painful honesty from everyone in her life. so, ani doesn't necessarily need to be sweet, for buffy to like her. anyway. there are things you can't fake on that front, can't position in the light to make them prettier or more courteous, like the soft skin under buffy's knuckles that she rocks back and forth instinctively, eyes laser focused on her pale throat leading to the point of her chin, steady on the foxlike twist of her knowing mouth. she wonders what marble ani was carved from, to make her look so kissable. ) Hm. Ani.
( my best friend is a lesbian, she thinks to say at first. so, she goes with option two, instead, ) Are you ever gonna teach me how to dance on a pole?
( ani's first thought is naive blip in a dog-eat-dog worldview. no, the fuck am i going to make you pay for? we're friends. those are playground rules, the shit she lived by when she was just a kid, and the capital of kindness hadn't come into play. it just was, rationed out without expectation, as easy as sharing the fruit cup on her lunch tray and beading bff bracelets. those friendships never lasted past puberty, of course. getting older means growing pains, and growing pains for ani meant losing all of that: love without conditions, the youthful innocence of thinking sleepovers and stuffed animals won at boardwalk fairs means they're her ride-or-die.
she still thinks it. still considers buffy through a low-lidded lashline, a feathery-flutter of eyelashes that's more honest. strip clubs are a sisterhood, a slutty sorority by any other name, but — well. ani knows better than anyone you don't always fuck with your family, and money makes monsters out of anyone. hard to call her girls friends when they're competition, too — a pack of hyenas all fighting over the same carcass for tips and tricks. ask diamond, with her teeth in ani's fresh leftovers, before her marriage with ivan had even cooled. ask ani, with diamond's clients defecting to her private rooms parties, paying for the privilege of pussy grinding in their lap.
but if there was a qualified candidate for friend? maybe she'd look a little like buffy, sweet as her last name implies — sunshine summers. ani knows better than to be hopeful; even friendships come with terms and conditions, but she still skims her thumb across buffy's knuckles, hard blades on a soft girl. wonders if she can call her a friend one day, full stop, and know it means something. )
Keep your secrets hush, baby. I'll cash in your IO Ani when I can make it count. I'm gonna love havin' you in my debt.
( her hand slips, like a graceful ribbon of water, from buffy's. straight to business as ani slinks forward, beeline-straight for the pink plexiglass of the stage. offers a hand to lead buffy up, up, up the shiny steps with her. )
You know ... I charge a fee for teaching, too. Tuition at Ani Academy ain't cheap when you're learning from a fucking legend. ( warmly, she flicks her fingers through buffy's bouncy ponytail. ) You're totally racking up a tab tonight. But sure, we can give it a spin.
( once she's settled in front of her, she sends a playful swat to buffy's ass, no shame in ani's hook of a grin. instead: an expectant finger wag, to the bubblegum-bright of a velvet chair, dead in the center of the circus they call the pink slip. )
( said with the drunken giggle of a girl who has always been a commodity, to the bad news of all vampire-kind. ani says debt and buffy doesn't feel the weight of chosen one responsibility crush her shoulders, some looming grief over being asked to do something she doesn't want to, but will have to, for the good of the world. ani says debt like a promise — if there are more nights like these in buffy's future then she'll never close tab, never ask for her card back, never be anything but greedy with ani's time, company, talents.
she trails after her, not too clumsily, but bumping into ani's back once she stops — purposefully, so buffy can wind both arms around her middle into a squeezing hug, that has buffy nosing behind her ear. the goal is to make ani laugh, and the best way to do that is to pick her up and twirl her in a circle, lest she forget buffy is about a million times stronger than she appears, and can lift ani without any expended energy. at the very least it makes buffy laugh, putting ani back on her feet and yipping joyously at the spank, girlishly covering her hands over her butt to dissuade any further swats, in a i'm going, i'm going!! kind of fashion. and she does, plopping down in the proffered seat, a smile so sunshiney on her face, the pink slip has likely never once seen its equal within these walls before — of course people are happy for lapdances and pole dance and metallic thongs and bare tits, but giddy? it's more suitable to a situation where a cotton candy stand is somewhere you least expect it, at a convention hall or a birthday party. this is how buffy looks at ani — like she's a sugar high waiting to happen, like she's pure indulgence with empty calories, like she can't help but smile when she looks at her, at something new but something familiar, exciting every time.
on the other hand. buffy's never been in this position before, and so isn't entirely aware of what she's doing. her hands lay flat on her thighs, before she squashes them together between her knees, lifting up her shoulders like she can't contain her excitement. )
You know, I'm a really good student. ( well — ) Okay, I'm not. I flunked out. But my professors have never been as hot as you, so I think the odds are with us. I'm watching.
( she is hypnotized, more like. there is an undeniable feline grace to ani always, but she really shines in her element — even the way she steps on the stage has the markings of a master, someone who's never met a beat she couldn't dance to, or a patron she couldn't impress. buffy will not be the one to break the streak. clearly. )
( it works, is the thing. simple cures for complicated colds, like her grandmother's kharcho — the best remedies, she used to say, are the ones you make at home. warmth threads through ani's skin, breaks up the lump nestled in her throat, goes down as easy as soup on a sick day. makes it a little easier to breathe again, in a body that's been bogged down by — not homesickness some cousin of it. some shade of the same symptoms, the incurable illness of loss. the yearning for four walls you can't ever go back to, check. home videos of memories looping in her head on repeat, double check. the pain of knowing you'll return a different version of yourself than who you grew to be in that sacred space, the one that smells like lemon-fresh safety. check check check.
modern medicine — ani's homebrew cure-all, which just so happens to be the medicinal vodka-burn still swimming in her head — hasn't brought her any long-term relief. but buffy eases the stiff ache in her shoulders from trying to stand upright. smooths over the shadow-bruised fatigue smudged under her eyes, from trying not to dream a dream of another life. even the shake of her laugh comes freer. sounds less like it's crackly from disuse, and just — happy. to matter enough to someone, for a second. simple and plain. )
Kiss-ass. I don't grade on a curve, but ...
( sly, her leg sweeps outward. playful mimicry of a vintage beauty, hailing a cab with a smooth, scandalous stretch of skin. she winks, showmanship glitz, the light kissing the glittery paint of her eyeshadow, like liquid mercury dripping along her eyelids. )
Compliments will get you extra credit.
( a dimple cuts into her cheek. from where she's standing, buffy reminds her of a girl enthralled by sleight of hand, hopeful for ani to pull a bunny free from a hat next. honestly, it's a balm to the ego. supergirl, wide-eyed and attentive, like ani's the one built supernaturally, impossibly — special. not as someone's sinkhole of sexuality and sweat for the night, but as herself, shining in the element of buffy's admiration — for admiration's sake, no money-driven motive. the newness of it thunderclaps, all electric thrill, in her chest. )
So, tip one. No moisturizing. You're gonna sweat it out like a slip and side. Which is terrible for your grip. Hands — ( one stacked over the other, higher by a fraction. twirling into the smallest swirl of a spin around the pole, carried by momentum's breeze. ) — go here. I mean, there's all sorts of grips, but that's like, serious veteran shit.
( as if to define serious veteran shit — ani hoists herself onto the chrome pillar with a cinch of core strength she knows buffy has in spades. so maybe it's a little try-hard — a talent show need to impress; how do you wow the girl who could lift the bumper of your fucking car, if she wanted to? — when ani shifts from a simple off-ground swing. inverts herself into a pretzel of shapes from there, all upside down backbend, arm stretched to hook onto the en pointe of her toes. )
We call this one cocoon. Like a kinky little butterfly about to be born. ( a coquettish curl of her mouth. ) All about flexibility, baby. Wanna see how far I can bend?
[ Classic Eurodance has been thumping out of Buffy's room for over an hour.
Giles, having been warned of the room's new occupant thanks to Buffy's thoughtful note, has so far been polite and welcoming, if a little unsure as to how he should proceed. He doesn't want to intrude on any burgeoning friendship between her and Buffy, but his previous encounters with Ani feel like unanswered questions, and recent events have, if nothing else, taught him that his baser instincts are not to be trusted. So rather than go and ask her to turn it down, or doing something sensible like leaving and going to the library, he's stayed in his room, trying and failing to read his book, listening to someone sing boom boom boom and baby be my lover, I don't want no other and I'm dancing naked in the rain.
Eventually he forces himself to get up, tucking his book under his arm as he makes his way through the shared bathroom to knock on the adjoining door. When he doesn't get an answer -- probably because of the volume of the music -- he eases the door open and peers around it. ]
( hiding is a strong word for what she's doing, one meant for pussies, runaways, felons with a warrant to outrun. (girls who can't stand to have the bones of the past dug up. girls who can't grieve for what they've lost a second time over. girls who need to shove it back into the dirt where it can't haunt and hurt anymore, good fucking riddance.) what ani tells herself it is: relaxing. no different than paid time off before she returns, rested and ready and renewed, to the grind.
buffy needs it, too. though maybe not more than ani needs it, the way an addict needs a nicotine patch before they kick a habit for good; turns out one symptom of withdrawal from an old, fake life is how good it felt waking up to someone beside her. a warm place to hide away in the dark. someone who opened their eyes to her like she was morning sun tapping at their eyelids, soft and daylit and a welcome sight to start a day. it's nice — even if buffy never smiles first thing in the morning. in fact, she always looks like someone pissed in her cheerios, the grumpiness of a girl who's decided only caffeine can prepare her for suffering the world's bullshit.
still, ani stays, because buffy's cranky reign of terror is better than being alone (right back where she started, full circle). which leads her: here, sprawled out on top of buffy's sheets, rummaging through her makeup, cozied up in one of her shirts. maybe one of giles', on second thought, all the starchy collar and crisp-clean lines of an expensive button-up. she doesn't look remotely guilty when he pops his head in, the hellish audacity of a woman who grew up as a younger sister, and all the sweater-stealing and shared gifts and shameless snooping it entailed. )
Hey. ( the end vowels drawn out into a heyyy, bright and breezy as her smile — and shouted over a noisy bassline. ani drops a tube of sticky lip gloss, slides off the bed. pads over to the stereo, bare-legged and unbothered strides, to dial it down. ) Hey, Professor. Long time no talk.
( her eyebrows tip up, a question in their lift. )
Am I bothering you? I know you've probably got those sensitive librarian ears.
[ The way the shirt skims the tops of her thighs -- very bare thighs -- reminds Giles of seeing Buffy dressed the same way, makes him wonder who gave her his shirt (as if it's not obvious), which leads his distracted mind into a brief but vivid mental image of the two of them getting dressed, or undressed, Buffy's deft fingers on the buttons, and God knows what's underneath --
He blinks and makes a conscious effort to keep his gaze on Ani's face. The casual greeting and the brassy roll of her accent reminds him of Faith, not for the first time. Giles clears his throat and smiles, faintly embarrassed. ]
Oh no, no. It's just, um. I was going to go and see about.. about breakfast. [ He wasn't, but he is now. ] I thought perhaps I could bring you something?
( a feline eyebrow tips upward, sign language for: i see you, i caught you, i know what you're thinking. because it's the same line of thought every man has when they queue up for the exhibit that is ani mikheeva, paying an admission fee just to admire her up close and personal; on this glorious morning, it's a ticket paid for not in cash or credit, but cuisine. fair exchange rate, as far as ani is concerned, for how it tips in her favor — a little bit of leg for a big bite of breakfast. for the chance to be catered to, like someone genuinely gives a fuck about taking care of her. from an older guy like giles? she can almost buy into the idea.
a smile slinks across her face, slow as the curious, flickering tail of a housecat, knowing to play cute to get a treat. then, its corners slant into honest, amused surprise, haloed by the hazy, golden corona of late morning sunlight filtering through the curtains. )
Oh, shit. ( a dry, cigarette-crackle of a laugh. her nose crinkles, a notch at the tip. ) I mean — they're still servin' breakfast? I forgot to pick something up.
( as if forgetting to pick something up isn't bad, neglectful habit — hours lost to hustling too hard through a double shift, hours lost to the meaningless blur of distractions. weed, sleep, buffy. whatever's available. whatever distraction can rewire her brain chemistry for a few hours.
ani's palms smooth over her stomach, muffling its grumble. its humble disagreement over ani's choice to hibernate in the recesses of buffy's room where the world can be whatever she decides to make it, dozing through breakfast hours, recovering energy from whatever tooth-rotting junk buffy brings back. movie night essentials: the evidence is a crime scene splayed out on the night stand, the end of the bed. corpses of empty wrappers and plastic bags lay scattered, their gummy insides devoured over some mindless, dumbass romcom. they crinkle, accusatory, as ani flops down at the end of the bed, settling into a seated bounce. )
Um. Coffee? Breakfast of champions, you know? ( she nibbles, soft pressure, at the tip of a nail. giving thought to basic needs she's tragically lapsed in. ) And — I don't know what Mary Poppins shit they're callin' it. Some scrambled eggs, if they've still got any. Please?
[ By now Giles is well aware how easy it is to be disarmed by Ani's casual friendliness, the soft-eyed customer service mask she wears while that shrewd and uncannily perceptive mind works away in the background. He knows how to spot it as much as he knows he's liable to fall for it without thinking, all too easy to assume that the nothing-to-worry-about attitude is real. But he's also spent a lot of time around a certain young woman who is also very capable of dissembling over her state of okayness; he's not entirely fooled, noting the telltale signs of someone doing a good job of hiding out so she doesn't have to deal with whatever it is she's hiding out from.
Still, he can't judge -- the maids who clean his room have become very good at replacing the empty whiskey bottles that find their way to the bottom of his wastebasket every few days, hidden under discarded papers. They're all of them doing their best. So he allows it, hides most of his sympathy in a wry smile, nodding along with the small lies. ]
Coffee. And eggs. All right. I'll just -- [ Getting briefly distracted again when he remembers she's wearing his shirt, he gestures at the door. Starts and stops. ] I'll just, um. I won't be long.
[ The exit is somewhat awkward; he turns and goes back through the bathroom, closing the door again as he goes. In the privacy of his room, he spends a few moments silently cursing his stupidity and inability to concentrate around pretty girls in Oxford shirts, follows with a silent pep talk as he locates his shoes, and goes off out into the house on his unplanned breakfast errand.
It doesn't take long. Maybe half an hour later he returns, knocking at the hallway door to Buffy's room this time. He's juggling a well-laden tray as he enters: a French press full of coffee and a stack of three cups, milk, sugar; a covered plate; a small rack of toast, a crock of butter, and a jar of apricot jam. Carefully, he crosses the room and sets the tray down on the edge of the little table by the windows, moving aside junk food wrappers and hair straighteners to make room. ]
I didn't know if Buffy would be -- ah, joining us. [ He tries not to make it sound too much like a hopeful question, picking up the French press to pour for the two of them. ]
( there's no obvious overhaul to the set dressing of buffy's room when giles re-enters. nothing as visible as four-corners of the wrinkled bedsheets tidy and tucked, or crinkly wrappers dropped into the graveyard of the bathroom trashcan, buried six feet deep so no one can exhume ani's evidence of a mid-level crisis. but there's the slightest impression that the room has lightened — sun biting its teeth through the thin curtains, eating away at a room she's kept dark and private, all funerary colors. an emergency clean-up of her damage, burned away the worst stains before they can be seen and remembered in full, fragile detail.
from the open jaw of the window, a fluttery breeze breathes in fresh top notes of perfumed honeysuckle, overpowering the stale stench of girl-rot in their little enclosed tomb. ani's perched at the windows like some grounded bird ruffled by the wind after a long time going without — chin turned up to the sun, leg half-dangling from the sill's rounded ledge. as the tray gives a tinny clank, she swivels. paints on a smile that's baked in old school lipsmackers, scented skittles on its fire-red tube. it still tastes like a front when she runs her tongue across her lip, all artificial sugar. drawls, consonants polished into brass: )
— If I'd known Buffy had built in room service, I would have stayed over sooner.
( but as she hops down to curl into a seat, legs tucked at a sideways angle, she does feel — better isn't the word. like she's saying see? all good loud enough for him to hear it, even if all good only looks like sunshine and fresh, unrecycled air. (if it's good enough for plants to be considered fucking — fine and functional, it's good enough for her.)
her hands cup around the warm bowl of the mug, an instinctive and direct pinpointing of whatever substance will shock her awake and alive. )
Sorry. ( because, even as the steam wisps between them, it doesn't obscure her sudden insight — that ending note, lilting into cautious, casual hope. the sensation of solidarity that comes with understanding maybe all three of them are fucked in the head, lately. ) She's probably flexing on some dipshit who thinks protein powder's a real food group.
( here's where she'd joke. tease what, am i chopped liver? until he's bumbling like paddington bear. the sympathy of a distraction, instead: )
So. What's on the syllabus, Professor? You come up with a required reading list?
[ As someone well aware of what it looks like when a young woman in trouble is doing her best to try and look very much like she isn't in trouble and is, in fact, totally fine to go out patrolling, Giles doesn't miss the effort Ani's made around the room. His gaze ticks around the slightly less chaotic piles, lingering appreciatively on the slice of bright daylight visible through the curtains. With almost visible effort, he resists looking too closely at what might be a g-string tossed over a pile of DVDs.
Instead, he helps himself to a slice of toast, going about the business of buttering it before he offers it to Ani -- he is a gentleman, after all. And it would probably do her some good to eat something that doesn't end in -splosion or -tastic. It also helps him attempt to ignore the mental image of Buffy "flexing", whatever that means. ]
I'm not a professor. [ Polite correction as he reaches for some more toast. ] I'll have you know, I'm a failed high school librarian. Any delusions of grandeur are entirely unearned.
( ani's lips roll together, in perfect rhythm with the irreverent shrug she eases off of her shoulders. social hierarchy would still rank him above her, on the ladder of influence and importance — a more time-honored profession. as if a paycheck earned with some dead dude's dusty words is worth more than the fat fold of cash tucked away in a thong, somehow — not a real job, not real labor, to anyone who hasn't worked a shift in six-inch stilettos and stayed standing.
her eyes sweep over the creases in his expression, lines in a book written by time, lingers by the dog-earned creases in his eyes. a quiet appraisal, trying to determine where, exactly, he thinks he thinks that revelation knocks dollar signs off of his worth. )
Whatever you say, Professor. ( stubbornly committed to the bit, on a shallow read. subtext says, with a sly wink to match: ) What's wrong with a little grandeur, huh?
( she lends it smoothly, easily, an anora mikheeva seed of wisdom — no point discounting your worth in a world that will try to do it for you, every damn day. the toasted edges crunch satisfyingly under her incisors, an uninhibited murmur of satisfaction purring up her throat. like everything she does, it's a little messy, a little unapologetically filthy, a little savage in its hunger — her tongue swipes the melty lipgloss combination of butter and crumbs from her mouth. )
Are you f— ( through a biteful, a lump stretching out a chipmunked cheek. it stalls the conversation, helps her surprise and curiosity seem subtle; sure, men have invested in her. liked what they saw, a window dressing of tits and ass. none of them ever offered her a reading list, full stop serious, like they were interested in funding her brain; probably never stopped to consider she has a fully functional one, anyway. assholes.
she looks away, nails massacring a sugar packet. with a flip flick of a hand: ) I mean, sure. It ain't like I've got anything else goin' on. Pick out something good for me. No boring ass Hemingway bullshit. I don't wanna read some guy jerkin' himself off over how goddamn smart he thinks he is.
[ Again, there are the reminders of another brassy young woman whose survival had often required being underestimated, as much as it grated against her. He catches himself wondering -- not for the first time -- whether Faith would have been so easily drawn into the Mayor's clutches if he'd made more of an effort to get to know her, to shelter and guide her as he had Buffy. At the time, he'd been too distracted, too frustrated with the boundaries of his calling. And perhaps he'd allowed himself to assume she didn't need his help. Now, he has cause to regret, and is at least self-aware enough to note, as Ani visibly processes his offer, that he might just be trying to make up for that particular mistake.
Still, he doesn't take it back. Nor does he think he'll come to regret reaching out to Ani, even if half the words out of her mouth make him feel both old and, as Buffy would put it, terminally uncool.
He breathes a soft and genuine laugh at her comment, conceding that she has a point with a lift of his eyebrows. ]
I'll do my best. No Hemingway. [ Settling back, he looks down at his cup. ] I, ah.. I enjoyed your thoughts on Dorian Gray. Perhaps if you enjoy my recommendations, we could.. discuss them?
( dorian gray, giles says. bringing up her birthday, the poor trade of her perspective on some classic piece of literature to pay back the kindness with words that weren't her own. gratitude she didn't need to have the vocabulary for when she could steal something he'd like better. the result isn't unlike breaking some unspoken pact. the elephant in the room you're polite enough not to prod and poke at. pretending it doesn't exist, pretending you don't know the shape it takes, pretending you don't know the oppressive space it occupies.
ani's stare shoots up, a quizzical scrunch to her brow. her vertebrae unravel, posture tentatively perking. her tone balances on that tight-wire between skepticism and sincerity without fully tipping over to one side when she exhales, )
Yeah? ( she laughs, not anymore substantial than a breath. ) I would've figured you needed a translator for it. Didn't think you spoke fluent Brighton, Gee.
( or, with a pointed, playfully judgmental eye-flicker over his outfit, like she's highlighting a passage in a book, supporting evidence of her point: not fluent in stripper, either. she flicks away flakes of crust in her next breath, crusting on the pillow of her lower lip. in hindsight, it almost feels — fucking ridiculous, really, that he'd think a peek through the window of her brain would be equivalent in worth to any birthday gift. but — here he is, asking like he wants the personal, stamped invite inside her head.
the sugar sprinkles, full and tooth-rotting, into her coffee; sweetens it to a caramelized brown. the mug lifts to her lips. looms there, even as the steam hazes up into her vision, narrowing her stare into pinholes. )
No homework, right? If you're tricking me into a thesis, I'm out. ( she smiles through a scalding sip. coy: ) And I'm gonna graffiti your books. Warnin' you now.
[ Buffy comes and goes from the crypt, the way she does. Without knocking, though Spike never knocks, either, once he's been invited into a place. Still strange not to have to run to and fro with a blanket catching fire overhead, but he's not complaining.
So Spike just opens her door. Knocking's for when it's locked, and it's not, on this sunshine-y morning. ]
Buffy! You left your—
[ Bra, leopard print with lacy trim, which dangles from Spike's thumb when his brain computes the dark hair that greets him instead. Girl he's seen around--talked to on the net, maybe, but they definitely haven't been properly introduced.
Doesn't faze him, anyway. He just hangs off the open door, looking around to see if Buffy's ducked under the bed or something. ]
( okay. so buffy is way more popular than ani thought.
no, that isn't right. she's exactly the type of popular ani would have expected. goody-two-shoes cheerleader type, with the boys drooling over her pleated skirts from the stands. as bubbly and warm as soapsuds, the kind you want to sink into for comfort after a long day. (long life, too.) it's why ani's here, after all — beyond the now defunct, incorrect theory that she'd get some fucking peace and quiet. case in point: spike's loud entrance, the instinctive coil of ani's muscles at the intrusion. a leg dangles off the bed, anchoring to the floor. the promise of being able to move, if he tries some stupid shit.
her eyes narrow, knife-slit pupils staring down spike's silhouette in the doorframe. making a threat-level assessment. flat affect, unimpressed: )
Dude. What the fuck.
( dangling from the coat rack of spike's fingers: a lacy-trimmed bra, at odds with ani's mental catalogue of what buffy's underwear drawer must look like (satiny bows and ribbony laces — sugarplum princess shit, not wildcat leopard print; huh, ani thinks, eyeing it with arced eyebrows — you really do learn something new every day.) resting in ani's balled-up fist: a porcelain ashtray, which may or may not be better suited to some rich fuck's fine china collection, rather than the collection of cigarette ashes sprinkled into its basin.
could have been better suited to braining his grey matter into the floor, if he met ani mikheeva on the wrong day, in the wrong mood. and she always is, these days, for guys who want to trample into her space. she lets the ashtray thunk onto the bed, within perfect reaching distance. the way she always keeps something heavy close by, in case embry moore ever comes to finish what he started. )
Look around. Is she home? ( slow, syrupy enunciation, like she's talking to someone a few colors short of a rainbow. she shrugs, careless; licks her index finger to flip through the glossy page of a magazine. ) Think she's out with that other guy. At least he brought us breakfast. You should probably step your game up, bro.
[ Somehow, it's always the same with Buffy's friends. No matter how many times he saves their rears, it's always 'Spike's evil, we can't trust him, blah blah blah.' And this one hasn't even been properly menaced by his past actually evil self to be on alert the way she is.
Spike just stands in the doorway a moment, assessing her, before he taps the door shut with the heel of his boot and tosses the bra onto Buffy's pillow. ]
Who, Giles? 'Course he's playing fussy nanny. What'd he get you, tea and Weetabix?
[ Spike eyes the ashtray, then Ani. ]
That's not gonna be necessary. [ The way she was wielding it, he means. Brows arched, he pats his back pocket, procures a crumpled pack and a lighter. Spike places a cigarette between his lips before holding the pack out for Ani. Mouth full, ]
( tea and weetabix, whatever the hell that is. some healthy breakfast shit whose nutritional content vera would responsibly swear by, probably, if ani's circadian rhythm wasn't as anemic and sun-allergic as dracula. a creature whose diet relies on night and nicotine, through and through. a rasp of a laugh wafts out of her, a little flicker of what the fuck in the pull of her eyebrows. the equivalent of watching some drunk in a piss-soaked alley slur through nonsense sentences, entertained and exasperated in equal measure. )
No shit. ( ani's gaze rakes over him like a tease of a zipper. slow descent, build to the anticipation of sizing him up. the conclusion, cool inflections of a shrug: ) I could take you easy.
( it's stripped of hostility. just a tone that suggests it's sure of itself. the same factual certainty of considering the odds of a cage match, right before laying money on a wager — because if there's any outcome ani can bet on, any one damn thing she can invest faith in, it's that she'll always come swinging. so she doesn't brandish it like a fucking hammer when she tips the ash tray his way. doesn't flinch when she slips one cigarette from its pack with something close to feline entitlement; like if her eyes can see it, if her mind can dream it, it's hers for the taking.
she clicks on her own lighter, recouped from buffy's bedside table. lets it eat up the paper of his cigarette, common courtesy when you're participating in the communal tradition of sharing a smoke. or maybe it's just an olive branch, that silent agreement to ignore ani had been spooked into nearly braining him two minutes ago. )
Try some fuckin' flowers next time if you're looking for a crowd-pleaser, Sid Vicious. Tip's on the house — you gotta pay a subscription fee to get the rest.
I recently encountered a spa on the second floor. I thought it might make for a well-earned reprieve [ from party aftermath and from the previous month, though he doesn't say as much ] if the idea appeals.
[ Does the message smack of someone who hasn't asked anyone out on a date in literal decades, yes; is he going to do anything about it, no. ]
( jesus fucking christ, that's a pathetic attempt. and admittedly an endearing novelty for ani to revisit, some fossilized memory of her youth, before boardwalk nights and boys with clammy hands became confident wall-street wallets and private penthouse suite visits. no guy has struggled with asking her out on the town since — not when the american dollar is a bottom-line guarantee of her company. when sex is as much of a pay-to-win industry as life itself, why would they ever bother with the fucking foreplay of wining and dining?
like everything she does, ani knows how to milk it for its worth. so, local woman who has never made anything simple for anyone caught in the chaotic blackhole pull of her orbit: )
damn straight it's well fucking earned thanks for thinking of me, smokestack 💋 you gonna warn them to take good care of me or else?
[ The awkwardness — an anomaly, when he seems assured in nearly everything else he does — is a byproduct, he thinks, of the strange manner in which their rapport has crystallized, casual sex to a brief play at courtship to business partners, the last of which sets into concrete terms what they’ve been circling around. They understand each other, know enough of each other not to have to bullshit. He understands that. It’s the rest — the play at something, anything else, even if the burden of expectation is considerably lessened by the fact that both of them point much of their attention elsewhere — that’s new. ]
Naturally. Lady’s choice, of course, when it comes to consequences if they fail to comply. This afternoon?
( that's better. take-charge, straight-shooting to business. mercy granted for a prisoner of her teasing: )
aw honey generous as always you spoil me 😘
( silco knows she's playing for fun, not necessarily for keeps. it might be what she likes best in their exchanges: how he circles within her comfort zone, never tries to breach the hard, inflexible boundaries of it. safe, comfortable, companionable. content with silence, if that emptiness is all she has in the fuel tank; tolerant enough to entertain her bullshit, if that's the mileage she's running with. direct, but not so inflexible he can't let her lead where it matters most. when it matters most.
it makes it easy to set the parameters of her expectations — like she's cutting off a chance to be disappointed, before that possibility can even live and breathe air. like it's usually a foregone conclusion she will be, statistical odds too fucking high to take the risk. )
2 PM you wanna do this like a gentleman, you better be fucking escorting me i like roses (take the hint)
[ It works, is the bottom line. Maybe it's not something so solid as trust, but mutual understanding is still something: it means they open businesses that feed from each other, that they manage things in a kind of tandem, their books shared rather than split.
It works, so he finds her when she disappears for a week instead of letting sleeping dogs lie. So he doesn't say a word when the floor falls out from under them on their way back to the club, when a version of Drowning Girl that looks uncannily like Ani seems to leak into their vision, dots giving way to a constellation that struggles to maintain its points of connection and coherence.
(A woman with midnight hair and a pale, heart-shaped face, laughing sweetly at you, laughing at the violet- and blue-haired babies at her hip. The same woman, slack-jawed and dead-eyed in death, over whose body the man you trust most leaps so that he can tear you apart. You are bleeding, you are drowning, and you will die at his hands if you cannot escape, and even then, the bitterness of the betrayal may still kill you.
He says nothing of it, when they resurface into the hall, and neither does she. The party goes forward as planned.)
It works, so he shows up at the appointed time, with a dozen red roses (freshly cut from one of the flower bushes outside) already placed into a vase, and held up when she opens the door, as though he'd ever been used to this kind of courtship.
Before she can ask why it's not a proper bouquet: ] I thought I'd cut out the middleman.
( in ani mikheeva's world, there are benefits to a well-rehearsed routine. know the choreography by heart, and you never have to question which step comes next, never have to open yourself to the possibility of a stumble, never run the risk of it becoming a shitshow. and if there are cons to the same shit, different day hustle — if that numb absence of surprise outweighs the rest — she's learned to survive it. same way a rookie's body acclimates to the bruising demands of a pole, the blistering pressure of balancing in six-inch pleasers: the body adapts, eventually. grows thicker skin, evolution at its finest.
darwin, eat your fucking heart out.
she blatantly blinks when cracking open the door reveals silco. reveals that tiny break from what she's expected, too — thrown-off like a scene partner that didn't quite expect a deviation from the script, for a scoffing second. not harsh, but some sparkling shade of bemusement — a question that tics in her brow before it lowers. before she remembers that she and silco don't ask questions of each other, really. strictly don't ask, don't tell — a policy that's worked for them, so far. as age-old wisdom goes: if it ain't broke, don't fucking fix it.
(a policy that stays working, through the iv drip of memories; silco's grief, silco's losses, silco's betrayals. ani's, warped in the surfaces of his memories: neon lights, a body held down by men twice your size, a ring wrenched from your finger. blackmail of a different kind, knowing if you resist, they'll take more from you, your friends, your family. )
Oh my god. ( it isn't quite starstruck-astonished in any real, substantial way. just a glint of amusement that loosens her mouth, the curl of it threatening a dull-edged smirk. her stare twinkles, none too privately satisfied. she asks it only after she's scooped the vase into her chest, securing the bag: ) What'd you use to cut 'em? Knife? Switchblade?
( it's a little funny, the contrast of that mental image with what he is: silco taking care to pluck something soft without destroying it, a man tailored from sharp angles and crisp lines. she caresses the velvety bloom of one petal under the soft pad of a fingertip, a rare glimpse of sentimental appreciation — can't be anything but, from someone who knows how quickly beautiful things give up on you. roses aren't an exception, a gift that fades twice as fast as the rest. )
[ Riding easily on the same current and landing somewhere between self-deprecation and genuine joking, and delivered so quickly that one would be forgiven for thinking that flowers (anything green, anything requiring the touch of sunlight) had been at all common in his life prior to arriving here: ] I tore them from the flowerbed with my teeth.
[ The slant of his mouth mirrors hers — the closest he ever gets to really smiling, allowed here only because it's just the two of them, and not the circus car of staff they've assembled at the their respective clubs — his gaze tracking her through her room as she finds a place for the vase. (Viciousness and softness both: all of the thorns have been carefully pried off of the roses, a trail of green tacks leading in from the grounds. One sharp thing neutered in order to spare another.) He doesn't, however, go so far as to come in, instead leaning against the doorframe like this is all de rigueur.
(And it has become routine, in some ways. Not this, exactly, but overseeing the clubs, less back and forth — less testing for bullshit — than there had been before, companionable silence in lieu of perpetual performance. He prefers it to artifice, when it colors so much of the rest of his existence here. Only Jinx sees him as he is, has seen the full scope of what he's capable of. Would Ani balk, to know how much blood is on his hands?) ]
Ready?
[ For the spa — as inconceivable in his previous life as the rest of the house is — and the tub that's been curtained off for them, though it's hardly as if any one part of the manor is particularly heavily trafficked beside the dining room. ]
( her laugh barks more than bites, same as anything yipping in surprise at an unexpected knock at their door — only the intruder in question is silco's fast-footed joke. no, scratch that — an indulgence of humor, rather than the vibe of a drive-by: tolerating it, if it'll pass him by quickly enough. the sparkle-shine of ani's delight is half-hidden by the overgrowth of rose petals waving by her nose as they're planted in the garden of trinkets looming on her bedside table. piss-poor luck, she doesn't tell him, to bring an even number; stupid superstition she's as removed from as the culture that conceived them.
besides, from the sway of her stroll back to the door, one would think ani's turn of luck is looking up. can't be all that bad, if a spa day's on the table. there's no bullshit a deep-tissue massage can't hammer out of her, and even if it fails — well, at least she'll stay beautiful through the next batch of fresh, unbelievable bullshit baked specially with her in mind. )
Oh, watch out.
( — called out, new york construction worker levels of cat-calling, jackhammer-loud, right before her hips swing back into view, making a pivot around the door. only half-ajar, a small sliver of an opening — the implication of someone who's in the habit of keeping the blinds closed, keeping anyone from spying into the spaces they consider safe.
with the growing slant of a smile, more mirth than mean menacing: ) Smoke's got jokes now.
( it's not a presumption of touch — ani's hands adjust his collar with a a passing look of approval, a proficiency for nudging into personal space without overtaking it. a working girl's awareness of where that line, crisp as any of silco's pressed shirts, lies. her arm swans through his to lead him down the corridor, steps smooth and unhurried, in much the same vein. the companionable choice, without blurring boundaries into the easy, juvenile affection of holding hands. sappy shit meant for sappier romcom couples, not — whatever label suits them. )
Didn't think you were the pamperin' type. ( a squint brings the point of her chin to his tricep, leering sidelong. conversational curiosity — not suspicion, for all that silco never looks unsuspicious. like he just walked, sinisterly, off the set of the sopranos. ani chuffs a private snort. ) We're gonna book you a face mask, honey. Give you some shine.
[ They've come far enough from their initial encounter under the ruby lights of the Otherworld that Silco no longer sees Ani as a ghost, but shades of the past continue to unearth themselves — he'd waited like this, he thinks, as he lingers by the door, when he'd been younger, when he'd had peers instead of foot soldiers and employees. For Felicia, for Vander, for Connol. Waited, in anticipation of nights spent just as much in the interest of Zaun's liberation as the simple pleasure of shared company. Is that why he's here? Not really, when they've twin businesses to run, but for all that her brashness irritates and impresses him in turns, he understands things like that laugh, that nickname, to comprise reciprocation of— something. Trust, maybe, nascent though it may be. Or at least a mutual understanding.
So he doesn't protest as she fixes his collar of when slips her hand through his arm, and he doesn't say, in response to her first comment, I'm not, but you are, lest that plain a confession of consideration be too earnest for not just one but both of them. Rather, he meets that peering glance like it's old hat — which it is, to a degree, only in a slightly more volatile tenor — one eyebrow slowly arching like he isn't the one who suggested the spa in the first place. ]
I'll follow your lead, my dear.
[ They've been around each other enough, now, that she's seen him carefully applying color to the sallow half of his face, over scars that appear nearly black when unattended. (And under his shirt, marks that track a spray of bullets, surely enough to kill a man. Today, a new injury, even: a bandage wrapped around the broad of his left hand.) There's no amount of treatment in the world, at least not in the form of a face mask, that will fix his complexion — nor is he looking for a cure.
He doesn't have to say as much — not to Ani, nor to the staff awaiting them at the spa once they arrive, as he lets Ani pick out what it is she wants — though it could be chalked up, in part, to novelty. No such space exists in the Undercity, and the idea of spending time like this in Piltover had been laughable at best, as much for the impracticality and pure vanity of it as for his unwillingness to leave himself so vulnerable. That's the gesture, really — his time given and his soft parts exposed for the better part of the afternoon. ]
( worker bees swarm ani the minute they're through the door like she's the queen bee of the operation — and maybe she is, with silco complacently waiting for her verdict in the background, that backseat deference to her judgment. the closest two control freaks can come to sharing the responsibilities of their respective thrones. what ani decides on, somewhere in the frills and thrills of their fussing, isn't the same designer brand of pretentiousness vanya would have thrown his cash, the kind of carefree spending she hadn't realized was free of any real care for her. bullshit and bluster and benjamins ani once mistook for meaningful, like it wasn't all fucking monopoly money to boys like him, buying up as much property as he could before mommy and daddy ended his game.
her selections are the practical option on a menu tailored to excess and vanity, cutting out the extra calories that don't serve her. the three-meal course of necessary self-care: a milk & honey bath (vital hydration), sugar scrub with coconut oil (exfoliation, scrubbing off the dead cells of another life), and bottle of cork-popped champagne (mental exfoliation) to wash it all down. just enough to keep her beauty sustained and healthy. not gorge it, moderation she learned watching rookies at the club fumble their shot at securing themselves a benefactor. sugar daddies will give you a whole lot of sweetness for the chance to taste you, sure — but they still test you to see if you'll accept a slice of what he's offering, or take him for the whole damn birthday cake of what he's worth.
in his usual fashion — mute, communicated in the sign language of his mouth, for anyone with eyes to read it — she expects silco will appreciate that. restraint's a little like respect in ani's world, where using each other is just the accepted, standard exchange rate. something that creeps closer to mutual consideration, too, when ani slinks back over to his side. leans into the crook of space there, with the lazy, comfortable ease of draping into a doorway. ) Told 'em we wanted hands-free service.
( ani's eyes flicker to the bandaged gauze of his hand, the pointed punchline to a joke before her quiet interest moves on. one of the workers — monica, whose name ani learned quick, saleswoman to saleswoman solidarity — peels open the curtain to a view of a copper tub, gleaming round and overlarge. roomy enough to fit vanya's pretty posse and still have space for their fat fucking egos. floating there: drizzles of petals, sprinkled in rainbow shades across the cloudy water. she doesn't put a stopper on the snort that chuffs out of her, like it's a funny oxymoron to have them occupy the same space silco soon will. )
— It's the Cleopatra special. ( might mark the first time in history she knows more than silco, she thinks, dipping her fingers in. gives them a twirl to test the water, stirring cyclones in her wake, a natural disaster on sea and land. her mouth tips up, all mean amusement. ) 'Course, she used donkey milk. But we got plenty of jackasses downstairs.
[ As a rule, Silco doesn't gawk. At the house, at any of its rooms, at the violence that occurs in fits and starts. There's nothing to be gained in showing off what catches you off-guard, much less so among those that will judge you for it, and— it's less that any of it surprises him than that some of it seemed so far out of the question. Clean water — clean air — had been an unspeakable luxury. The kind of excess the Balfours place at their fingertips — he ought to balk, but he'd made speaking Piltover's language into a tool, dressing and conducting himself in a way that projects wealth and influence, the two arbiters of respect in a world defined by means.
Ani is the same way, he thinks. She understands how to speak the language of the wealthy and how to navigate within the world it gives her access to, even if she refuses (part of why he likes her, in the end, even if he'd never say it out loud) to sand down her rougher edges once she's past the door. (She's in the right, besides, when they'd take the first opportunity to kick her — either of them, really — out regardless. Better not to scrape and bow for those who'll cast you aside, and to take while you can. Best to hang onto a little pride and save your regard for those who deserve it.) ]
I'd rather not imagine our bath to have anything to do with them, [ he says mildly, casting a last glance at the contents of the bath (the flower petals on its surface, as strangely funny to him as they are to her) before turning to shed his jacket and unbutton his shirt. He follows her lead where modesty is concerned, stripping without much fuss given that each has already seen what the other has to offer. Lean muscle, his sharp edges worn close to the surface where hers are a hidden behind soft curves, a little more malleable — different tools for different approaches to the same game.
He turns, with that done, offering her his good hand to steady her on the wooden step stool leading into the tub. ]
Who was she?
[ Asked as he lowers himself into the bath, accompanied by a sigh of both effort and — miracle of miracles — relief. ]
[ The day after the fire, sent with several pictures that make it clear that both the Hex Club and the Pink Slip are largely still intact apart from a scattering of ash and minor cosmetic fire damage (with Silco's reflection just barely caught, like a blur, in a few of the mirrors and reflective surfaces): ]
We were lucky. A shame it happened so soon after the party.
thx for the open casket pics i'll pour one out for our shit luck that coulda been shittier
( par the course — if she's wrong and god's will does exist, she has a vendetta against him for wasting his precious time fucking, personally, with her. )
can you get my stuff 🙏 i don't want some fuckin bozo thinking it's free game
[ His immediate instinct, having long since vaulted himself past any real need to do what could be quantified as grunt work, is no, but after a long beat (not even graced with ellipses that indicate typing): ]
( fucker, ani thinks, with no true viciousness driving the thought; might as well find fault with new york for breeding the same type of inconsiderate, if she's taking silco to task for bustling in his own lane. it is what it is. with a scoff of cigarette breath, the blinged-out brick of her phone bounces on a lakeside sun lounger. lights up not a second later in an obnoxious game of phone tag, like it's laughing at ani's impatient glower.
ani's attempt at a text bubbles up, vanishes, bubbles up again. less a choice of etiquette, less a consequence of hesitation, and just a presence that lives to announce itself. even if it's just a pixelated blurb: ani is typing ... for the (vengeful) duration of a dragged-out minute. )
just the shit in my locker pink backpack. it should all be there change of sweats, big ass fucking ring, make-up bag, my best pair of pleasers, enough thongs for a panty raid
( practical items, with only a three carat rock of sentimentality sandwiched in the list, like a dull list will make its dull appearance on it only worthy of silco's dulled-down attention. )
[ Immediate, this time: a thumbs up reaction. Less a result of learning what a woman of her temperament expects but because it's easy — he's already agreed to play runner, and there's little else to say (that he wants to say) unless he ends up not being able to find what she's asked for. Plus, it conveys about the degree of attentiveness that he expects she wants out of this interaction, which is to say — he pays attention to her, but he doesn't ask questions.
The ring doesn't stick out, per se, but there's still the fact that it's something he has to look for, the one small thing amidst a list of items that are otherwise fairly obvious. In the moment, he notes it — something specific, rather than the loose tangle of lingerie that serves as the last item on the checklist — but that's all. When her bag finally reaches her, tucked dutifully inside the flap of her tent rather than left outside, everything is where she last left it. ]
( distantly, she imagines silco's geriatric squint surveying the emoji options on his mobile set-up like it's all Very Serious, phone screen jammed into his face. like their little yellow expressions will make more sense up-close, a choice as insignificant but integral to conducting business as debating how to sign off an email. which one screams polite yet slightly inconvenienced professional? god, he's such a fucking dad. makes a sort of sense for why he'd been her perfect pick for the job — the hiring pool of guys who wouldn't pop a boner over inventorying her panties is slim pickings. silco, for all he'd probably mistake tiktok as slang for hurry your sweet ass up and leave her on read over the mistranslation, is uniquely qualified.
her own little sign-off to the conversation: ani blips out a snort of amusement. returns the favor by not interrupting his damage assessment of the club. by nightfall, she squares her shit away in the corner of the tent, unobtrusive. ani's thoughts are less so, an intrusive refrain that keeps reminding her of that unmentionable thing tucked away with the rest of her unmentionables. (a stupid name — ani has an easier time talking about her panties than the proof of how she got played.)
before she drops into her tent that morning, she leaves behind a vintage bottle of a fine red at the lip of his, a 1990 lafite rothschild, five-finger lifted from portia's personal collection. (see also: her unattended birkin; ani only briefly considered stealing the baby with the bathwater.). the attached pink post-it reads, in loopy curls of glitter pen: IOU. )
Back home we have a holiday called Yhyakh, but I missed it. It's for the solstice, to welcome the sun. We're going to have it on the 20th of this month instead I don't care if it's late. I want to be grateful for the sun before it goes away again. And for not being burnt up
Will you come? I will make you food Maybe not the most traditional food. But I can cook something on the campfire!
( first shift ani ever took came with a working rule, a silent code of stripper conduct cooked up by the girls themselves: nobody respects a fucking door vulture. (and respect goes a long way in the biz; no need to give them another reason to conflate taking off your top with dumping your hard-kept dignity at the fucking door, too.)
naturally, ani always assumed it was meant to preserve the fragile nature of the male ego, as if that's ever been at jeopardy of becoming an endangered species. (she's no data analyst, but the correlation between a dude's pride, the generosity of his pockets, and a night's payout? the undeniable power of statistics leaves no room for argument.) now, she thinks they must've sensed it — the too-desperate reek of girls who hadn't hidden their hunger. girls who had circled too eagerly. girls who had been too keen to pick the meat of their bank account and the bones of their self-control clean. doing what's necessary to survive, when you're ranked bottom-tier on the ecosystem and have to scavenge for your next meal ticket.
there's an important life lesson ani took away from watching it, like it was all just national geographic in action, informative and educational: show how badly you want something, and you're guaranteeing it'll be snatched away. even ani's silence seems to buy into the idea — hesitates, like an immediate yes will jinx something as good as roza believing ani is someone you welcome into your family, your traditions. a full half-hour later: )
tight salespitch, zaza gotta say the bribery was a nice touch
counteroffer i'll come if you can find my favorite flower & bring it to me (this is extortion) (no hints allowed)
I speak the language of offerings! You're the only person who calls me Zaza, you know, I like it
[ She's responsive to Ro, was once Rozzy (less of a fan, at least in her teen years), but the value she assigns to names cannot be understated. Each derivative is prismatic identity viewed as a different angle, and although she doesn't know yet what version of her may coalesce in Ani's eyes —
She wants to find out. There are places where the way they see the world coincides, Roza thinks; both born from the same post-Soviet hangover, raised in the wake of a world that no longer exists. But her powers of discernment have another target first, and it's gardening. She's grinning behind her screen. ]
No hints![ says the psychic, ]OK, deal. And I'm so confident in my abilities that I might even bring you two. But if I do, will you do some of the dances with me?
( fucking embarrassing, the amount of time ani has to commit to deciphering this shit, spun fever-sick and squinting at the screen. a return to the russian she carried from country to country, that survived a trip over the atlantic and braved american shores and four immigrants making dreams out of pennies and kopecks, that babushka baked into her bones with warm, kneading insistence until her rs were perfectly rolled. it takes a solid ten minutes to bleed slow sense out of something that's sat neglected and decomposing and disappointed in ani for so fucking long. to dig up childhood memories of cyrillic where she's buried them under years of survival, dealing in the only language that keeps the lights on: hard, brutal american dollars.
some of it shambles back to life, begrudgingly. progress that's helped along by jake strutting around with a tourist's guide on russian for dummies knocking around in his dense ass skull, filtered down into her brain. when the shape of the letters finally resembles the skeleton of her grandmother's handwriting, when she pieces together the bones of that language lost to her and put back together again, old and brittle but forever familiar: )
[the message sits delivered, but unread, for a solid half hour -- inconceivable for koby, who triple and quadruple texts without embarrassment, who always replies within minutes, if not seconds.
but finally, it's read, and the response comes:] I'm so sorry, Ani, I have no idea what that means. I keep Doing this, sending things. Words I don't understand. I think I'm trying to get it all out of my head, so it doesn't kill me.
it means you need a fucking straitjacket asap thanks for the nightmares kobes really appreciate you sharing with the class
( — like they aren't already headlining ani's nightly shitshow. those fucked-up dreams where she wakes up choking on stolen scraps of sleep, and all that gets her. the bite of her own hands tearing into her throat. screams swallowing up her nights, spitting her out into morning's exhaustion. at least she's got the act perfected — the practiced, violent art of grabbing her terror by the throat and throttling it into something muted. something manageable, a taste she's learned to swallow, a pressure she's trained herself to breathe around. that whisper of quiet struggle no one strains to hear over the selfish static of their own need, their own panic.
and koby's? his screams through her skull like a bullet splattering through her squishy gray matter. couldn't unhear it ricocheting around inside of her even if she begged it to, grazing up against every compulsion she has to soothe it, fix it, staunch the worst of his emotional bleeding. after a pause — )
you going to be good? you're worrying me, asshole croak on me and swear to god i'm going to be so pissed
I'm sorry. I don't know how to stop. I keep running out of ink and I scratch them into the walls instead.
[not helping, he knows, he realizes, but the fuzzy edge between himself and the madman scribbling and scratching, snapping and splintering his fingernails, smearing his own blood up and down and across the walls -- it keeps growing more and more abstract, permeable, impossible. koby's not entirely sure where he ends and the oracle begins.
he thumbs across the edge of the broken mirror in one pocket, thinks i need to be more careful and so much damn snow outside the car, the muffled thumpthumpthump of the wipers, igor's hands on your face and he won't let you fucking go and he won't let you look away and you hit him and hit him and and oh god it's getting worse.
and then he puts it all in a box and tries to be himself again, be koby, be normal.]
But it's usually only this bad at night. Maybe I just need some more sleep and it'll go away. Right?
Well. I'll do my very best not to die, because I want to still have a job when we go back.
( right? ani recognizes it from the short-lived stint of being a kid, tucked in her babushka's shadow. that child's nighttime search for reassurance — tell me the monster under the bed can't drag me under. no, tell me it never existed at all. that i'm wrong, that my imagination is conjuring domovoi out of empty spaces — let me stay small and safe and stupid to what's lurking outside this memory, waiting for me to grow up. the innocence ani knows you're born to lose, once you wise up to a world that's cold concrete instead of warm quilts, more lies than lullabies, prayers with the spending power of pennies: worthless shit fished out from the rock-bottom of a purse. too broke and too bankrupt on miracles to bribe your way to good luck, but desperate enough to collect them, still. like maybe it'll amount to something, like maybe your sorry ass can save your way to better days.
ani tallies the options. considers the coin flip between cold honesty and a comforting lie. pretty fiction won't rewrite ugly facts. she cares enough about koby to draft him a better bedtime story, anyway. sweet, embellished. close your eyes and sleep now. nothing's there. the heroes always bleed their way to a happy ending. except reality says koby's fucking sick in the head, and the only prescription ani's got in stock is an echo of the lies they all dose themselves on, console themselves with. everything will get better. just swallow the bullshit being measured and spooned out, and try not to choke on the taste.
it's easy. exactly what she can sense koby wants her to say, nodding along with his excuses. )
yeah sweetheart i know your power mode is always set to on but no sleep puts the screws to your head makes you ready to flunk any psych eval
you seriously STILL haven't finished star wars, koby? do or do not. yoda doesn't fuck with do-nothing bitches
so do something about it and come hang i got methods of knocking you out if i gotta
[koby may normally resist the comfort -- he wants to be seen as strong, capable, able to stand up beneath the weight of his own fears and anxieties, to be a true member of a team (a crew) that won't consider him dead weight to be jettisoned at the first inconvenience. he's built his entire existence at saltburnt around this desire.
but they're not in saltburnt anymore. and the things koby sees and hears and feels now are immense, all-encompassing, weighing him down until he gives voice to each and every strange name and phrase and title, every word that means nothing to his ears but everything to the person he speaks to. he thinks about ani and thinks of ring and house and big wide windows looking out across the city and you can stay one more night here, but tomorrow you have to go and he doesn't want to know these things without being given them. it feels violent, invasive, something he hasn't earned, and he hates that. but he can't stop.
and he's scared. he's so scared.
so:] Can I? You aren't busy?
And I haven't finished Star Wars because there are no TV's out here.
( can i? koby asks, and ani thinks: how much she fucking hates that question when she's already signed her name on the bottom line, already offered herself for the job. that polite courtesy that reeks of desperate johns, cocks already capped in the raincoat of their condoms, a heart's beat away from getting themselves wet with her. begging for her cue, waiting for their wallet to make their existence worth the breath and bread they spent: tell me you need this, tell me you want it. tell me you're not just tolerating me. pretend they're not paying premium rates to feel less pathetic, as if ani hasn't thumbed through their sweaty bills, checking and double-checking they haven't fucked her before she's even spread herself.
it isn't fair to koby, she knows. but she can taste the raw edge of his ache, imagine the pleading eyes above her, his insomnia inching down her throat until she's gagging with it. a chase for relief his own hand can't bring. it isn't enough she's volunteered to work that emotional blowjob dry, everyone's convenient hole to dump their load off and leave — he needs her to choke down his needy pulse for reassurance, too. she scrubs a knuckle over the pinched bridge of her nose. tries to remind herself koby has earned the right to need her body, even if it's still learning the difference between carrying a friend's weight and suffocating small under someone's shadow. )
busy with what? milking a fucking goat? just come over dude
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
✉️ text — un: silco.
Thank you for the other night.
no subject
"thank you"? you're making it sound like i'm running a charity babe
next time, i'll be sure to charge you double :)
no subject
And what sort of payment would please you?
no subject
aw did you think it was gonna be that easy? that i was just gonna hand you the answer?
watching you fuck around and figure it out is half the fun
why don't you offer something, and i'll tell you if it's worth unwrapping
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He spends a little while at Budsnik, paying little to no attention to the bouquets that fill much of the space. The next day, by the foot of Ani's door is a jade plant, a blue silk ribbon tied around its base, tethering a note that reads, simply: DIFFICULT TO KILL. ]
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deliberately, she leaves him swinging from a hangman's noose of suspense for the duration of the day. difficult to kill, sure — difficult to break down, too. it's only when night rounds the corner, and ani is swiping glittery sparkles from her eyes, does she send off, )
"difficult to kill"
you sayin i'm resilient, or that i'm a bitch with roots?
cute choice either way
( even if it's tempting to do just that — kill it with the same maternal neglect ani survived. prove there's not a nurturing fucking bone in her body. she fingers the leaves of it, anyway, ignoring the small sentimental pang of kinship she feels with a goddamn plant, of all things. )
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The thoughts are hardly mutually exclusive.
[ Typically, something given demands something in return. Silco isn't the type to leave a trade unfinished, but in this case, it benefits him, keeps the line open. The important thing, anyway, is that he hasn't struck out, which is no small feat if he's reading her correctly. ]
I'll keep it in mind for next time.
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baby, you better be keeping a whole damn spreadsheet if you’re tryna book time with me
until then, stay cute
→ 🎬
It's a week or so after the club opens that he approaches her again, carrying a cage containing a blue morpho (unceremoniously "liberated" from the menagerie's butterfly garden) in a gloved hand. Maybe the staff will reclaim it, maybe she'll hate it, either way, such creatures only live for so long. At worst, it's hardly as though the little cage can't be unlocked. ]
Ani.
[ He doesn't smile, but the exchange is his attention, focused entirely on her — on her gaze, despite the tightly-drawn latex of her dress. ]
Come with me to the prom.
[ Better to ask in person (even if it's not quite phrased as a question). ]
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that's all to say: she's never needed sparkle and shine to guarantee attention when she's already the brightest thing in the room. still, there's a difference between background noise and silco's tunnel-vision stare — intent, calculated. a man that doesn't want her with the same intensity of sloppy boys fumbling over their feet, or giggly girls melting into her lap — but with a desire closer to precision, closer to strategy, closer to war. like he's in it to win it, no matter the cost. the type of guy drawn to a conquest. the type of guy who will bored of the victory, once he's seized it from her.
her head tilts, the vibe of a queen weighing the worth of a tribute, eyes watching the fragile flutter of butterfly wings. it feels as pointed as silco's usual brand of gift-giving: never lacking substance, always having something to say. her plant might be a resilient little fucker, but this — ani plucks the cage from him, trying not to think of what message he's sending this time. if it's commentary on beauty that has an expiration date, or a creature that knows it was meant to live fast and die young. in a cage, of all things, trapped.
still, it's pretty, one of her favorite things. fuck him for that. )
What, no corsage?
( her painted mouth twists, easing out a snort. her fingers wrap around the cage, a decisive verdict — like she's already chosen to keep it, despite the hard-ass treatment, despite how the demand grates. like her yes is inevitable, a purchased service in the transaction. )
You got shitty manners, making demands and all. ( she says evenly — not offended, and pointedly not flattered. ) Ask nice.
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Still, "nice" makes him laugh, just a little, like flipping a page to find a torn sheet in his usually steely book. Not a word ever associated with his name in Zaun nor Piltover, he expects, except to stress that he's the exact opposite. He wants to say it's hardly a demand, that he knows that nothing he could say or do would move her if she didn't approve of the gift — and more to the point, if she didn't want to go with him to begin with, but that's a presumptuousness that's just asking to be cut off at the stem. ]
Would you be my date for the night?
[ The words come out a little more gently than he means for them to, though he lets them go with the awareness that they can hardly be spooled back. A gift on its own terms, as much as the butterfly, as much as the plant. Their sharper edges often come to oppose each other without their meaning to — he can afford to let go of a moment of softness, all the more because she's asked for it. Well, not so much asked as demanded in much the same way she'd accused him.
So he weighs the next word that leaves his mouth, giving it over with a slight bow of his head. (He'd knelt, that night at the club. He's not likely to go that far again, not straight away.)
Lightly: ] Please.
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she's watched him run the same playbook back-to-back while he held court in that booth of his like a king. sat on her smoke break, heels off, puffing on her vape with a side of entertainment, all those pretty little things crowding his lap, bending easy. breathless for a second of his attention — like he hadn't trained every one of them to feel his gaze like a benediction. like it meant something, being chosen. like they weren't all the same, at the end of the day. just pets salivating over a treat when it's been offered by an expert hand.
like ani hasn't run the same game to empty a fat wallet, working like the rent is due.
it's fucking impressive. it's also fucking bullshit, like consuming empty calories — a craving you regret indulging later. she laughs, more airy than substance, a cloud of warm smoke from her mouth. making him work for the pleasure of the sound, even now. )
Damn, Daddy. ( unrepentant, mock-innocent. her lashes flutter, butterfly-winged. ) You don't gotta beg.
( a bubble of gum snaps in her mouth, weighing an invitation she's already taken, acceptance between her fingers as she spins that pretty cage around. it doesn't have to be sentimental. it doesn't have to mean anything that, out of his gaggle of admirers, he's asked ani. probably because she knows the score, like he does. it's just business, mingled with a side of pleasure. she knows where the boundaries are, how to keep it clean. )
Sure, I'll go with you. ( she pats him on the chest, indolently flippant. ) Wear somethin' nice.
Not one of those suits that makes you look like you got a hot date with a boardroom and not me.
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But like is immaterial in the end, unimportant in comparison to what they can do for each other. And it doesn't matter that that doesn't totally account for why they choose each other. His choice is one thing. Hers — he hardly believes she's the kind of woman who wouldn't have any other offers — is another. ]
And here I thought you liked me on my knees.
[ His gaze falls to the butterfly. At least for the moment, it sits relatively still, shimmering blue wings lazily beating as its feet cling to the flowering branch that serves as its company. One more gift, approved, though he wonders what she'll do with it. A little life in her hands, more delicate and more readily visible than a plant's. He hadn't meant to follow one living thing with another, but perhaps that's its own sign of value. What's more precious than a life? A principle, he might once have said. An ideal. But he's had that luster cut away on the blade of a loving knife. ]
Tell me when you've picked a color, then, [ he adds, curbing any chance for the prior thought to linger. That he can bend doesn't mean he particularly likes to, though one more thing that Ani and Jinx have in common is a knack and desire to push him to it anyway. ]
And I'll pick something to suit.
🎀
the nostalgia of the moment tastes perfumed on her tongue, like otherworld booze and silco on his knees. ani's gaze does doughy with feigned concern, virginally doe-eyed, flicking down to silco's knees. up again, with a lazy grin that cuts into the illusion. )
Wouldn't want 'em to crack. Every girl's gotta take good care of her toys.
( case in point: the butterfly wings fluttering around like a heartbeat. ani's nails slip away with a graze, tapping against the golden slats of its cage, recognition in her eyes. all that fight in something made small, made ornamental, raging against its imprisonment. beautiful for its short lifespan. later, she'll unlatch the door, let it decide for itself — stay perched on her windowsill, drunk on sugar water because it wants to stay, or fuck off into whatever version of freedom still exists out there. maybe it'll be more real than ani's. she pivots on her heel, turns to leave. casts a glance over her shoulder, lashes low. )
Pink. ( easily. there's a sparkle in her eye, imagining it — beauty and the beast, more used to his bruised blacks and reds like blood, condemned to sequin damnation. she flips a silky wave of hair over one shoulder, parting with a sugary murmur: ) I look good in any fuckin' color. Try not to get outshone.
📦 delivery.
text | @buck120
you awake yet?
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u know me
gettin in that beauty rest
u miss me already?
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cute
flattery will save ur ass from wakin me up 😘
what's up
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i’ll buy you a drink to make up for it?
but before that i think i decided on a tattoo and a placement if you still wanna hold my hand 😉
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u know i'm down
now spill. what's the damage? hope u picked out something hot
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but on my ribcage
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my little badass
bet it's gonna fucking hurt like hell but worth it
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when's a good time good for you?
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just means u survived some dark shit and came out swinging like a badass bitch
not everybody's got that fire
pick me up in an hr 😘
gotta slap my prettiest party face on for u
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thanks, ani.
[ within the promised hour, sam arrives at ani's door, a bottle of champagne she'd swiped from the liquor supply in hand, either as a thank you gift or for them to partake in afterward (or both, should ani want to share). she knocks three times, then steps back to wait for her to answer the door. ]
a gift
For a belated happy birthday - RG
🎁 delivery.
Old book, pretty boy, lots of feelings no one wants to talk about.
I circled the parts where I think he deserved it.
And the ones where I didn't.
— A.
(PS: Lord Henry's a prick.)
( scribbled inside are a series of ani's annotations in glitter pen, beneath several lines:
text — un: BUFFY
still hiring? mr. money shot needs to make rent.
gambling addiction. it's really serious.
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tell mr. money shot to get good at hustling or stop blowing his load on blackjack so early 💸💸💸
got some follow-up questions for him before i try him out
1. does he look cute in a bowtie
2. can he pop it
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( follow up: buffy doesn't have a bowtie on her, but she does have a piece of ribbon, long enough to knot over his tiny teddy throat. not that you can see much of it — the picture shows mr. money shot posed for the camera, fat bear butt up in the air, head bonked on the ground. )
your customers will be BEARY pleased. i guarantee it. 🐻💛
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long as he doesn't come for the crown
only one juicy ass gets the spotlight, honey, and it ain't his
🐻❄️✨ showtime, bitch
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you know, saying that's just gonna make him try harder. he's a guy who likes a goal.
( they are not talking about mr. money shot. )
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he the the "i saw it, i want it, i'm gonna fucking get it" type?
nothing hotter than a guy who knows what he wants
( they are not talking about mr. money shot. )
i can respect the hustle
tell him to come get it
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where it concerns ani? well. she did say there's nothing hotter. buffy doesn't look the fact she wants to be seen as hot by ani too closely in the face. )
on that note
what are you up to tonight?
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but i'm kinda waiting for this cute blonde to come hang
wanna cause some trouble?
delivery; cw: nsfw as well
and of course, there's the review: single-spaced, typed, no emoji's or glitter pen, nothing overly fancy:]
Disclaimer: All opinions therein are the author's own and in no way reflect the official position of the Hex Club, Pink Slip or associated entities, this author is not being reimbursed for review and receives no monetary compensation for positive lubrication scoring, names have been changed to protect the innocent but you can probably guess who I'm talking about.
First and foremost, thank you for the time, attention to detail and dedication in your gifting, Ms. Ani, it was very much appreciated by myself and my partner(s). I hope my token of appreciation is to your standards, though please let me know your favorites so I can be better prepared moving forward. As promised, I've collected the following reflections on the supplies provided and come to the following conclusions:
[and then koby meticulously rates and reviews every single flavor of lube, from the cotton candy to the strawberry to the "bizarrely named, respectfully" bubblegum-raspberry-twist. the highest rated is by far:]
Pink Lemonade
TASTE: ★★★★★
CONSISTENCY: ★★★★☆
EFFECTIVENESS: ★★★★★ (+bonus)
LONGEVITY: ★★★★☆
OVERALL: ★★★★★ (+bonus)
COMMENTS: Slightly slicker than bubblegum, tasted much better, not too sweet with enough sourness that I said offhand "my mouth is already watering so much" and he did that thigh-shuddery ready-to-come thing he does and told me I needed to dirty talk more (hence the bonus). I'm not sure if this counts as my homework since it was sort of unintentional, but I did say other things when he was ready to go a second and third time.
[and so on and so forth, concluding with:] I hope this review is satisfactory, though please let me know if any edits are needed and what further homework might assist in my upward mobility as an employee. And I hope you like the nails. :)
--Koby (EOTM May '08)
— action
buffy doesn’t know why she does it, really. genuinely liking ani, genuinely disliking the thought she might be upset over some invisible enemy, something buffy will never understand and cannot defeat. she spins on her heels, to face her. ) Hey, Ani. ( a little unsure, she offers a smile, a small shrug. ) Buy you a drink?
( buy doing a lot of work in that sentence, because there’s no buying here, and they eventually take aim at the pink slip, as owned by ani, so really. it’s earlier in the day, the place vacant except for the pair of them. ani slips behind the bar and makes them two blowjob shots, and buffy watches her tongue while she laps up the whipped cream, grateful the low light hides her blush. anyway. it’s not just one blowjob for the both of them — it’s two, and then they switch to pink whitney cocktails but they take too long to drink, so then it’s tequila shots with lime and salt, presumably until one of them passes out. they’re both chasing away their troubles, not talking about it. happy to not talk about it, in fact. buffy had every intention of holing away for the foreseeable while, before potentially joining a convent or something equally as dramatic and full of change, but this? watching ani meanly laugh at her every time she struggles and cringes and makes bleh, yucky faces to every freshly poured shot? this is preferable.
she’s at that stage of drunk enough that she’s handsy, not grabby but eager to touch her, hands on ani’s cheeks and pulling her in just to look at her closely, worthy of every ounce of buffy’s drunken, hyperfixated attention. with a deserved amount of seriousness: )
Why are you so pretty? Ani, why? Who let that happen.
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she lets buffy take up at the bar like ani's a queen holding court in her private kingdom, and buffy's the lucky petitioner she's let through the gates. more access than she's allowed most, walls up, entry denied. maybe it's because there's no chance of buffy cupping her face between soft palms and seeing someone else, some lingering afterimage of another woman wearing her face like stolen skin, memories ani's still trying to shed like a snake stuck in molt.
there's a pinch of seriousness right between buffy's eyebrows. probably the first warning sign she's doing drunk girl math equations, reaching for an inpossible solution to an impossible question. ani laughs, a warm bite of a sound, in the face of it. doesn't flinch when buffy keeps looking, and looking — ani's too comfortable in the armor she's painted on: a full-beat of spiky falsies and glittery eyeshadow that screams i'm fine to anyone looking for a defect. instead, she smooths down the bridge of her nose, flattening out the wrinkles in buffy's expression. little, creased lines of interest in just how pretty ani knows she is, from little miss i'm straight, i swear. more like little miss ani made a liar out of me and shit, those shots went straight to my head. after that last pour, her bloodstream has to contain more alcohol than sense. )
I guess God made me this pretty as a punishment or something. Tragic for the rest of you, huh?
( — a tone that implies she's the punishment to mankind, obviously. all of it combined with an irreverent shrug that only playfully pretends at modesty, the kind of attitude from a girl who doesn't invest much faith in any higher power that isn't the dollar bill. lotion-smooth fingers fan across buffy's face in a teasing echo. it has the advantage of feathering away some of the honey-wheat strands blocking ani's view, best in the house, of buffy's face. cute, confused. those touchy-feely hands put her close enough to taste booze on her breath, to know the inside of buffy's mouth is glossed with lime rinds and tequila. a little burn of something sweet with her sour. )
Baby, you are a lightweight. It's embarrassing.
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still, buffy pouts, heroically. )
Ugh, I know. You should drink more, so I'm not alone. I'll sober up — yee-up.
( one hand stays situated on ani's cheek, while the other reaches for the tequila bottle, though she has drunk brain focus and quickly loses the will to pour, namely because there's a pretty girl in her other hand, and why is she even looking at anything else? buffy resettles her gaze, hopping off her stool to lean in close to ani, foreheads almost touching. )
No, wait, I had a point. The point is ( she tries to remember, staring at ani intensely again, before noting her smile, which makes buffy grin, brightly. ) — you have such a pretty smile! Even though you only ever smile about mean things. Ani, you have to be nice to me.
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recognition, still. an easy transaction struck. buffy trusts ani not to hurt her, so she won't. kindness was denied to ani, so — she'll do better for girls with soft hearts, who haven't had reason to calcify it against the world, the way she has. heels give her the advantage of higher ground, a slight slant, but she taps her nose down against buffy's button-tipped one. a playful, bumper cars-like collision. )
Yeah, 'kay. Playtime's over, Buff. You're juiced up enough.
( so — off that bottle goes, a clack of ani's acrylics as she leans to slide it back onto the bar top. not because it's an expensive business expense, but because wasted booze splashed on her floor is almost as fucking depressing as having to be the one to clean it up. hands free, she grabs buffy's newly empty one, settles their joined hands right under ani's chin. the propped stance of it under her chin, the sloe-eyed glance she gives buffy — perfectly angelic, theoretically, if you don't know ani in reality. )
I think I've been very nice to you. You don't think I'm sweet? ( coy, dulcet: ) I let you drink without making you pay-up, freeloader. How much nicer do you want me to be?
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well, maybe not novelty. that seems more like something a paying customer with a wife at home would say, which makes it very unbuffy in two ways: no wife, no money. in fact, back at home this wouldn't even be possible — every penny earned goes right back into the bills of the house, right back into feeding dawn. here? in the currency ani trades in, buffy just so happens to be a millionaire. )
Should I pay-up? I've got loads of secrets. ( in that morbid drunk way, her first thought, my mom's dead, casual accepting shrug. i found her body. guess who else is dead? two jutting thumbs gesturing to the tarry black spot inside her that sometimes feels devoid of feeling, this guy. ) Anyway, you're definitely sweet. ( immediately correcting, ) Sweetish. You're actually nicer when you're meaner.
( nonsensical drunk babble, maybe, but she means it — buffy has always been someone who prefers a hard truth to a convenient lie, is always seeking out brutal, painful honesty from everyone in her life. so, ani doesn't necessarily need to be sweet, for buffy to like her. anyway. there are things you can't fake on that front, can't position in the light to make them prettier or more courteous, like the soft skin under buffy's knuckles that she rocks back and forth instinctively, eyes laser focused on her pale throat leading to the point of her chin, steady on the foxlike twist of her knowing mouth. she wonders what marble ani was carved from, to make her look so kissable. ) Hm. Ani.
( my best friend is a lesbian, she thinks to say at first. so, she goes with option two, instead, ) Are you ever gonna teach me how to dance on a pole?
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she still thinks it. still considers buffy through a low-lidded lashline, a feathery-flutter of eyelashes that's more honest. strip clubs are a sisterhood, a slutty sorority by any other name, but — well. ani knows better than anyone you don't always fuck with your family, and money makes monsters out of anyone. hard to call her girls friends when they're competition, too — a pack of hyenas all fighting over the same carcass for tips and tricks. ask diamond, with her teeth in ani's fresh leftovers, before her marriage with ivan had even cooled. ask ani, with diamond's clients defecting to her private rooms parties, paying for the privilege of pussy grinding in their lap.
but if there was a qualified candidate for friend? maybe she'd look a little like buffy, sweet as her last name implies — sunshine summers. ani knows better than to be hopeful; even friendships come with terms and conditions, but she still skims her thumb across buffy's knuckles, hard blades on a soft girl. wonders if she can call her a friend one day, full stop, and know it means something. )
Keep your secrets hush, baby. I'll cash in your IO Ani when I can make it count. I'm gonna love havin' you in my debt.
( her hand slips, like a graceful ribbon of water, from buffy's. straight to business as ani slinks forward, beeline-straight for the pink plexiglass of the stage. offers a hand to lead buffy up, up, up the shiny steps with her. )
You know ... I charge a fee for teaching, too. Tuition at Ani Academy ain't cheap when you're learning from a fucking legend. ( warmly, she flicks her fingers through buffy's bouncy ponytail. ) You're totally racking up a tab tonight. But sure, we can give it a spin.
( once she's settled in front of her, she sends a playful swat to buffy's ass, no shame in ani's hook of a grin. instead: an expectant finger wag, to the bubblegum-bright of a velvet chair, dead in the center of the circus they call the pink slip. )
Giddy up, show pony. Time to take notes.
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( said with the drunken giggle of a girl who has always been a commodity, to the bad news of all vampire-kind. ani says debt and buffy doesn't feel the weight of chosen one responsibility crush her shoulders, some looming grief over being asked to do something she doesn't want to, but will have to, for the good of the world. ani says debt like a promise — if there are more nights like these in buffy's future then she'll never close tab, never ask for her card back, never be anything but greedy with ani's time, company, talents.
she trails after her, not too clumsily, but bumping into ani's back once she stops — purposefully, so buffy can wind both arms around her middle into a squeezing hug, that has buffy nosing behind her ear. the goal is to make ani laugh, and the best way to do that is to pick her up and twirl her in a circle, lest she forget buffy is about a million times stronger than she appears, and can lift ani without any expended energy. at the very least it makes buffy laugh, putting ani back on her feet and yipping joyously at the spank, girlishly covering her hands over her butt to dissuade any further swats, in a i'm going, i'm going!! kind of fashion. and she does, plopping down in the proffered seat, a smile so sunshiney on her face, the pink slip has likely never once seen its equal within these walls before — of course people are happy for lapdances and pole dance and metallic thongs and bare tits, but giddy? it's more suitable to a situation where a cotton candy stand is somewhere you least expect it, at a convention hall or a birthday party. this is how buffy looks at ani — like she's a sugar high waiting to happen, like she's pure indulgence with empty calories, like she can't help but smile when she looks at her, at something new but something familiar, exciting every time.
on the other hand. buffy's never been in this position before, and so isn't entirely aware of what she's doing. her hands lay flat on her thighs, before she squashes them together between her knees, lifting up her shoulders like she can't contain her excitement. )
You know, I'm a really good student. ( well — ) Okay, I'm not. I flunked out. But my professors have never been as hot as you, so I think the odds are with us. I'm watching.
( she is hypnotized, more like. there is an undeniable feline grace to ani always, but she really shines in her element — even the way she steps on the stage has the markings of a master, someone who's never met a beat she couldn't dance to, or a patron she couldn't impress. buffy will not be the one to break the streak. clearly. )
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modern medicine — ani's homebrew cure-all, which just so happens to be the medicinal vodka-burn still swimming in her head — hasn't brought her any long-term relief. but buffy eases the stiff ache in her shoulders from trying to stand upright. smooths over the shadow-bruised fatigue smudged under her eyes, from trying not to dream a dream of another life. even the shake of her laugh comes freer. sounds less like it's crackly from disuse, and just — happy. to matter enough to someone, for a second. simple and plain. )
Kiss-ass. I don't grade on a curve, but ...
( sly, her leg sweeps outward. playful mimicry of a vintage beauty, hailing a cab with a smooth, scandalous stretch of skin. she winks, showmanship glitz, the light kissing the glittery paint of her eyeshadow, like liquid mercury dripping along her eyelids. )
Compliments will get you extra credit.
( a dimple cuts into her cheek. from where she's standing, buffy reminds her of a girl enthralled by sleight of hand, hopeful for ani to pull a bunny free from a hat next. honestly, it's a balm to the ego. supergirl, wide-eyed and attentive, like ani's the one built supernaturally, impossibly — special. not as someone's sinkhole of sexuality and sweat for the night, but as herself, shining in the element of buffy's admiration — for admiration's sake, no money-driven motive. the newness of it thunderclaps, all electric thrill, in her chest. )
So, tip one. No moisturizing. You're gonna sweat it out like a slip and side. Which is terrible for your grip. Hands — ( one stacked over the other, higher by a fraction. twirling into the smallest swirl of a spin around the pole, carried by momentum's breeze. ) — go here. I mean, there's all sorts of grips, but that's like, serious veteran shit.
( as if to define serious veteran shit — ani hoists herself onto the chrome pillar with a cinch of core strength she knows buffy has in spades. so maybe it's a little try-hard — a talent show need to impress; how do you wow the girl who could lift the bumper of your fucking car, if she wanted to? — when ani shifts from a simple off-ground swing. inverts herself into a pretzel of shapes from there, all upside down backbend, arm stretched to hook onto the en pointe of her toes. )
We call this one cocoon. Like a kinky little butterfly about to be born. ( a coquettish curl of her mouth. ) All about flexibility, baby. Wanna see how far I can bend?
also action 👀
Giles, having been warned of the room's new occupant thanks to Buffy's thoughtful note, has so far been polite and welcoming, if a little unsure as to how he should proceed. He doesn't want to intrude on any burgeoning friendship between her and Buffy, but his previous encounters with Ani feel like unanswered questions, and recent events have, if nothing else, taught him that his baser instincts are not to be trusted. So rather than go and ask her to turn it down, or doing something sensible like leaving and going to the library, he's stayed in his room, trying and failing to read his book, listening to someone sing boom boom boom and baby be my lover, I don't want no other and I'm dancing naked in the rain.
Eventually he forces himself to get up, tucking his book under his arm as he makes his way through the shared bathroom to knock on the adjoining door. When he doesn't get an answer -- probably because of the volume of the music -- he eases the door open and peers around it. ]
Ah, hello?
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buffy needs it, too. though maybe not more than ani needs it, the way an addict needs a nicotine patch before they kick a habit for good; turns out one symptom of withdrawal from an old, fake life is how good it felt waking up to someone beside her. a warm place to hide away in the dark. someone who opened their eyes to her like she was morning sun tapping at their eyelids, soft and daylit and a welcome sight to start a day. it's nice — even if buffy never smiles first thing in the morning. in fact, she always looks like someone pissed in her cheerios, the grumpiness of a girl who's decided only caffeine can prepare her for suffering the world's bullshit.
still, ani stays, because buffy's cranky reign of terror is better than being alone (right back where she started, full circle). which leads her: here, sprawled out on top of buffy's sheets, rummaging through her makeup, cozied up in one of her shirts. maybe one of giles', on second thought, all the starchy collar and crisp-clean lines of an expensive button-up. she doesn't look remotely guilty when he pops his head in, the hellish audacity of a woman who grew up as a younger sister, and all the sweater-stealing and shared gifts and shameless snooping it entailed. )
Hey. ( the end vowels drawn out into a heyyy, bright and breezy as her smile — and shouted over a noisy bassline. ani drops a tube of sticky lip gloss, slides off the bed. pads over to the stereo, bare-legged and unbothered strides, to dial it down. ) Hey, Professor. Long time no talk.
( her eyebrows tip up, a question in their lift. )
Am I bothering you? I know you've probably got those sensitive librarian ears.
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He blinks and makes a conscious effort to keep his gaze on Ani's face. The casual greeting and the brassy roll of her accent reminds him of Faith, not for the first time. Giles clears his throat and smiles, faintly embarrassed. ]
Oh no, no. It's just, um. I was going to go and see about.. about breakfast. [ He wasn't, but he is now. ] I thought perhaps I could bring you something?
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a smile slinks across her face, slow as the curious, flickering tail of a housecat, knowing to play cute to get a treat. then, its corners slant into honest, amused surprise, haloed by the hazy, golden corona of late morning sunlight filtering through the curtains. )
Oh, shit. ( a dry, cigarette-crackle of a laugh. her nose crinkles, a notch at the tip. ) I mean — they're still servin' breakfast? I forgot to pick something up.
( as if forgetting to pick something up isn't bad, neglectful habit — hours lost to hustling too hard through a double shift, hours lost to the meaningless blur of distractions. weed, sleep, buffy. whatever's available. whatever distraction can rewire her brain chemistry for a few hours.
ani's palms smooth over her stomach, muffling its grumble. its humble disagreement over ani's choice to hibernate in the recesses of buffy's room where the world can be whatever she decides to make it, dozing through breakfast hours, recovering energy from whatever tooth-rotting junk buffy brings back. movie night essentials: the evidence is a crime scene splayed out on the night stand, the end of the bed. corpses of empty wrappers and plastic bags lay scattered, their gummy insides devoured over some mindless, dumbass romcom. they crinkle, accusatory, as ani flops down at the end of the bed, settling into a seated bounce. )
Um. Coffee? Breakfast of champions, you know? ( she nibbles, soft pressure, at the tip of a nail. giving thought to basic needs she's tragically lapsed in. ) And — I don't know what Mary Poppins shit they're callin' it. Some scrambled eggs, if they've still got any. Please?
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Still, he can't judge -- the maids who clean his room have become very good at replacing the empty whiskey bottles that find their way to the bottom of his wastebasket every few days, hidden under discarded papers. They're all of them doing their best. So he allows it, hides most of his sympathy in a wry smile, nodding along with the small lies. ]
Coffee. And eggs. All right. I'll just -- [ Getting briefly distracted again when he remembers she's wearing his shirt, he gestures at the door. Starts and stops. ] I'll just, um. I won't be long.
[ The exit is somewhat awkward; he turns and goes back through the bathroom, closing the door again as he goes. In the privacy of his room, he spends a few moments silently cursing his stupidity and inability to concentrate around pretty girls in Oxford shirts, follows with a silent pep talk as he locates his shoes, and goes off out into the house on his unplanned breakfast errand.
It doesn't take long. Maybe half an hour later he returns, knocking at the hallway door to Buffy's room this time. He's juggling a well-laden tray as he enters: a French press full of coffee and a stack of three cups, milk, sugar; a covered plate; a small rack of toast, a crock of butter, and a jar of apricot jam. Carefully, he crosses the room and sets the tray down on the edge of the little table by the windows, moving aside junk food wrappers and hair straighteners to make room. ]
I didn't know if Buffy would be -- ah, joining us. [ He tries not to make it sound too much like a hopeful question, picking up the French press to pour for the two of them. ]
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from the open jaw of the window, a fluttery breeze breathes in fresh top notes of perfumed honeysuckle, overpowering the stale stench of girl-rot in their little enclosed tomb. ani's perched at the windows like some grounded bird ruffled by the wind after a long time going without — chin turned up to the sun, leg half-dangling from the sill's rounded ledge. as the tray gives a tinny clank, she swivels. paints on a smile that's baked in old school lipsmackers, scented skittles on its fire-red tube. it still tastes like a front when she runs her tongue across her lip, all artificial sugar. drawls, consonants polished into brass: )
— If I'd known Buffy had built in room service, I would have stayed over sooner.
( but as she hops down to curl into a seat, legs tucked at a sideways angle, she does feel — better isn't the word. like she's saying see? all good loud enough for him to hear it, even if all good only looks like sunshine and fresh, unrecycled air. (if it's good enough for plants to be considered fucking — fine and functional, it's good enough for her.)
her hands cup around the warm bowl of the mug, an instinctive and direct pinpointing of whatever substance will shock her awake and alive. )
Sorry. ( because, even as the steam wisps between them, it doesn't obscure her sudden insight — that ending note, lilting into cautious, casual hope. the sensation of solidarity that comes with understanding maybe all three of them are fucked in the head, lately. ) She's probably flexing on some dipshit who thinks protein powder's a real food group.
( here's where she'd joke. tease what, am i chopped liver? until he's bumbling like paddington bear. the sympathy of a distraction, instead: )
So. What's on the syllabus, Professor? You come up with a required reading list?
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Instead, he helps himself to a slice of toast, going about the business of buttering it before he offers it to Ani -- he is a gentleman, after all. And it would probably do her some good to eat something that doesn't end in -splosion or -tastic. It also helps him attempt to ignore the mental image of Buffy "flexing", whatever that means. ]
I'm not a professor. [ Polite correction as he reaches for some more toast. ] I'll have you know, I'm a failed high school librarian. Any delusions of grandeur are entirely unearned.
[ He pauses, then looks over at her. ]
Would you -- would you like a reading list?
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her eyes sweep over the creases in his expression, lines in a book written by time, lingers by the dog-earned creases in his eyes. a quiet appraisal, trying to determine where, exactly, he thinks he thinks that revelation knocks dollar signs off of his worth. )
Whatever you say, Professor. ( stubbornly committed to the bit, on a shallow read. subtext says, with a sly wink to match: ) What's wrong with a little grandeur, huh?
( she lends it smoothly, easily, an anora mikheeva seed of wisdom — no point discounting your worth in a world that will try to do it for you, every damn day. the toasted edges crunch satisfyingly under her incisors, an uninhibited murmur of satisfaction purring up her throat. like everything she does, it's a little messy, a little unapologetically filthy, a little savage in its hunger — her tongue swipes the melty lipgloss combination of butter and crumbs from her mouth. )
Are you f— ( through a biteful, a lump stretching out a chipmunked cheek. it stalls the conversation, helps her surprise and curiosity seem subtle; sure, men have invested in her. liked what they saw, a window dressing of tits and ass. none of them ever offered her a reading list, full stop serious, like they were interested in funding her brain; probably never stopped to consider she has a fully functional one, anyway. assholes.
she looks away, nails massacring a sugar packet. with a flip flick of a hand: ) I mean, sure. It ain't like I've got anything else goin' on. Pick out something good for me. No boring ass Hemingway bullshit. I don't wanna read some guy jerkin' himself off over how goddamn smart he thinks he is.
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Still, he doesn't take it back. Nor does he think he'll come to regret reaching out to Ani, even if half the words out of her mouth make him feel both old and, as Buffy would put it, terminally uncool.
He breathes a soft and genuine laugh at her comment, conceding that she has a point with a lift of his eyebrows. ]
I'll do my best. No Hemingway. [ Settling back, he looks down at his cup. ] I, ah.. I enjoyed your thoughts on Dorian Gray. Perhaps if you enjoy my recommendations, we could.. discuss them?
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ani's stare shoots up, a quizzical scrunch to her brow. her vertebrae unravel, posture tentatively perking. her tone balances on that tight-wire between skepticism and sincerity without fully tipping over to one side when she exhales, )
Yeah? ( she laughs, not anymore substantial than a breath. ) I would've figured you needed a translator for it. Didn't think you spoke fluent Brighton, Gee.
( or, with a pointed, playfully judgmental eye-flicker over his outfit, like she's highlighting a passage in a book, supporting evidence of her point: not fluent in stripper, either. she flicks away flakes of crust in her next breath, crusting on the pillow of her lower lip. in hindsight, it almost feels — fucking ridiculous, really, that he'd think a peek through the window of her brain would be equivalent in worth to any birthday gift. but — here he is, asking like he wants the personal, stamped invite inside her head.
the sugar sprinkles, full and tooth-rotting, into her coffee; sweetens it to a caramelized brown. the mug lifts to her lips. looms there, even as the steam hazes up into her vision, narrowing her stare into pinholes. )
No homework, right? If you're tricking me into a thesis, I'm out. ( she smiles through a scalding sip. coy: ) And I'm gonna graffiti your books. Warnin' you now.
delivery (vampire-shaped)
So Spike just opens her door. Knocking's for when it's locked, and it's not, on this sunshine-y morning. ]
Buffy! You left your—
[ Bra, leopard print with lacy trim, which dangles from Spike's thumb when his brain computes the dark hair that greets him instead. Girl he's seen around--talked to on the net, maybe, but they definitely haven't been properly introduced.
Doesn't faze him, anyway. He just hangs off the open door, looking around to see if Buffy's ducked under the bed or something. ]
Hello, love. Blondie home?
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no, that isn't right. she's exactly the type of popular ani would have expected. goody-two-shoes cheerleader type, with the boys drooling over her pleated skirts from the stands. as bubbly and warm as soapsuds, the kind you want to sink into for comfort after a long day. (long life, too.) it's why ani's here, after all — beyond the now defunct, incorrect theory that she'd get some fucking peace and quiet. case in point: spike's loud entrance, the instinctive coil of ani's muscles at the intrusion. a leg dangles off the bed, anchoring to the floor. the promise of being able to move, if he tries some stupid shit.
her eyes narrow, knife-slit pupils staring down spike's silhouette in the doorframe. making a threat-level assessment. flat affect, unimpressed: )
Dude. What the fuck.
( dangling from the coat rack of spike's fingers: a lacy-trimmed bra, at odds with ani's mental catalogue of what buffy's underwear drawer must look like (satiny bows and ribbony laces — sugarplum princess shit, not wildcat leopard print; huh, ani thinks, eyeing it with arced eyebrows — you really do learn something new every day.) resting in ani's balled-up fist: a porcelain ashtray, which may or may not be better suited to some rich fuck's fine china collection, rather than the collection of cigarette ashes sprinkled into its basin.
could have been better suited to braining his grey matter into the floor, if he met ani mikheeva on the wrong day, in the wrong mood. and she always is, these days, for guys who want to trample into her space. she lets the ashtray thunk onto the bed, within perfect reaching distance. the way she always keeps something heavy close by, in case embry moore ever comes to finish what he started. )
Look around. Is she home? ( slow, syrupy enunciation, like she's talking to someone a few colors short of a rainbow. she shrugs, careless; licks her index finger to flip through the glossy page of a magazine. ) Think she's out with that other guy. At least he brought us breakfast. You should probably step your game up, bro.
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Spike just stands in the doorway a moment, assessing her, before he taps the door shut with the heel of his boot and tosses the bra onto Buffy's pillow. ]
Who, Giles? 'Course he's playing fussy nanny. What'd he get you, tea and Weetabix?
[ Spike eyes the ashtray, then Ani. ]
That's not gonna be necessary. [ The way she was wielding it, he means. Brows arched, he pats his back pocket, procures a crumpled pack and a lighter. Spike places a cigarette between his lips before holding the pack out for Ani. Mouth full, ]
Unless you want one.
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No shit. ( ani's gaze rakes over him like a tease of a zipper. slow descent, build to the anticipation of sizing him up. the conclusion, cool inflections of a shrug: ) I could take you easy.
( it's stripped of hostility. just a tone that suggests it's sure of itself. the same factual certainty of considering the odds of a cage match, right before laying money on a wager — because if there's any outcome ani can bet on, any one damn thing she can invest faith in, it's that she'll always come swinging. so she doesn't brandish it like a fucking hammer when she tips the ash tray his way. doesn't flinch when she slips one cigarette from its pack with something close to feline entitlement; like if her eyes can see it, if her mind can dream it, it's hers for the taking.
she clicks on her own lighter, recouped from buffy's bedside table. lets it eat up the paper of his cigarette, common courtesy when you're participating in the communal tradition of sharing a smoke. or maybe it's just an olive branch, that silent agreement to ignore ani had been spooked into nearly braining him two minutes ago. )
Try some fuckin' flowers next time if you're looking for a crowd-pleaser, Sid Vicious. Tip's on the house — you gotta pay a subscription fee to get the rest.
✉️ text — un: silco.
I thought it might make for a well-earned reprieve [ from party aftermath and from the previous month, though he doesn't say as much ] if the idea appeals.
[ Does the message smack of someone who hasn't asked anyone out on a date in literal decades, yes; is he going to do anything about it, no. ]
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like everything she does, ani knows how to milk it for its worth. so, local woman who has never made anything simple for anyone caught in the chaotic blackhole pull of her orbit: )
damn straight it's well fucking earned
thanks for thinking of me, smokestack 💋
you gonna warn them to take good care of me or else?
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Naturally. Lady’s choice, of course, when it comes to consequences if they fail to comply.
This afternoon?
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aw honey
generous as always
you spoil me 😘
( silco knows she's playing for fun, not necessarily for keeps. it might be what she likes best in their exchanges: how he circles within her comfort zone, never tries to breach the hard, inflexible boundaries of it. safe, comfortable, companionable. content with silence, if that emptiness is all she has in the fuel tank; tolerant enough to entertain her bullshit, if that's the mileage she's running with. direct, but not so inflexible he can't let her lead where it matters most. when it matters most.
it makes it easy to set the parameters of her expectations — like she's cutting off a chance to be disappointed, before that possibility can even live and breathe air. like it's usually a foregone conclusion she will be, statistical odds too fucking high to take the risk. )
2 PM
you wanna do this like a gentleman, you better be fucking escorting me
i like roses (take the hint)
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It works, so he finds her when she disappears for a week instead of letting sleeping dogs lie. So he doesn't say a word when the floor falls out from under them on their way back to the club, when a version of Drowning Girl that looks uncannily like Ani seems to leak into their vision, dots giving way to a constellation that struggles to maintain its points of connection and coherence.
(A woman with midnight hair and a pale, heart-shaped face, laughing sweetly at you, laughing at the violet- and blue-haired babies at her hip. The same woman, slack-jawed and dead-eyed in death, over whose body the man you trust most leaps so that he can tear you apart. You are bleeding, you are drowning, and you will die at his hands if you cannot escape, and even then, the bitterness of the betrayal may still kill you.
He says nothing of it, when they resurface into the hall, and neither does she. The party goes forward as planned.)
It works, so he shows up at the appointed time, with a dozen red roses (freshly cut from one of the flower bushes outside) already placed into a vase, and held up when she opens the door, as though he'd ever been used to this kind of courtship.
Before she can ask why it's not a proper bouquet: ] I thought I'd cut out the middleman.
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darwin, eat your fucking heart out.
she blatantly blinks when cracking open the door reveals silco. reveals that tiny break from what she's expected, too — thrown-off like a scene partner that didn't quite expect a deviation from the script, for a scoffing second. not harsh, but some sparkling shade of bemusement — a question that tics in her brow before it lowers. before she remembers that she and silco don't ask questions of each other, really. strictly don't ask, don't tell — a policy that's worked for them, so far. as age-old wisdom goes: if it ain't broke, don't fucking fix it.
(a policy that stays working, through the iv drip of memories; silco's grief, silco's losses, silco's betrayals. ani's, warped in the surfaces of his memories: neon lights, a body held down by men twice your size, a ring wrenched from your finger. blackmail of a different kind, knowing if you resist, they'll take more from you, your friends, your family. )
Oh my god. ( it isn't quite starstruck-astonished in any real, substantial way. just a glint of amusement that loosens her mouth, the curl of it threatening a dull-edged smirk. her stare twinkles, none too privately satisfied. she asks it only after she's scooped the vase into her chest, securing the bag: ) What'd you use to cut 'em? Knife? Switchblade?
( it's a little funny, the contrast of that mental image with what he is: silco taking care to pluck something soft without destroying it, a man tailored from sharp angles and crisp lines. she caresses the velvety bloom of one petal under the soft pad of a fingertip, a rare glimpse of sentimental appreciation — can't be anything but, from someone who knows how quickly beautiful things give up on you. roses aren't an exception, a gift that fades twice as fast as the rest. )
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[ The slant of his mouth mirrors hers — the closest he ever gets to really smiling, allowed here only because it's just the two of them, and not the circus car of staff they've assembled at the their respective clubs — his gaze tracking her through her room as she finds a place for the vase. (Viciousness and softness both: all of the thorns have been carefully pried off of the roses, a trail of green tacks leading in from the grounds. One sharp thing neutered in order to spare another.) He doesn't, however, go so far as to come in, instead leaning against the doorframe like this is all de rigueur.
(And it has become routine, in some ways. Not this, exactly, but overseeing the clubs, less back and forth — less testing for bullshit — than there had been before, companionable silence in lieu of perpetual performance. He prefers it to artifice, when it colors so much of the rest of his existence here. Only Jinx sees him as he is, has seen the full scope of what he's capable of. Would Ani balk, to know how much blood is on his hands?) ]
Ready?
[ For the spa — as inconceivable in his previous life as the rest of the house is — and the tub that's been curtained off for them, though it's hardly as if any one part of the manor is particularly heavily trafficked beside the dining room. ]
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besides, from the sway of her stroll back to the door, one would think ani's turn of luck is looking up. can't be all that bad, if a spa day's on the table. there's no bullshit a deep-tissue massage can't hammer out of her, and even if it fails — well, at least she'll stay beautiful through the next batch of fresh, unbelievable bullshit baked specially with her in mind. )
Oh, watch out.
( — called out, new york construction worker levels of cat-calling, jackhammer-loud, right before her hips swing back into view, making a pivot around the door. only half-ajar, a small sliver of an opening — the implication of someone who's in the habit of keeping the blinds closed, keeping anyone from spying into the spaces they consider safe.
with the growing slant of a smile, more mirth than mean menacing: ) Smoke's got jokes now.
( it's not a presumption of touch — ani's hands adjust his collar with a a passing look of approval, a proficiency for nudging into personal space without overtaking it. a working girl's awareness of where that line, crisp as any of silco's pressed shirts, lies. her arm swans through his to lead him down the corridor, steps smooth and unhurried, in much the same vein. the companionable choice, without blurring boundaries into the easy, juvenile affection of holding hands. sappy shit meant for sappier romcom couples, not — whatever label suits them. )
Didn't think you were the pamperin' type. ( a squint brings the point of her chin to his tricep, leering sidelong. conversational curiosity — not suspicion, for all that silco never looks unsuspicious. like he just walked, sinisterly, off the set of the sopranos. ani chuffs a private snort. ) We're gonna book you a face mask, honey. Give you some shine.
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So he doesn't protest as she fixes his collar of when slips her hand through his arm, and he doesn't say, in response to her first comment, I'm not, but you are, lest that plain a confession of consideration be too earnest for not just one but both of them. Rather, he meets that peering glance like it's old hat — which it is, to a degree, only in a slightly more volatile tenor — one eyebrow slowly arching like he isn't the one who suggested the spa in the first place. ]
I'll follow your lead, my dear.
[ They've been around each other enough, now, that she's seen him carefully applying color to the sallow half of his face, over scars that appear nearly black when unattended. (And under his shirt, marks that track a spray of bullets, surely enough to kill a man. Today, a new injury, even: a bandage wrapped around the broad of his left hand.) There's no amount of treatment in the world, at least not in the form of a face mask, that will fix his complexion — nor is he looking for a cure.
He doesn't have to say as much — not to Ani, nor to the staff awaiting them at the spa once they arrive, as he lets Ani pick out what it is she wants — though it could be chalked up, in part, to novelty. No such space exists in the Undercity, and the idea of spending time like this in Piltover had been laughable at best, as much for the impracticality and pure vanity of it as for his unwillingness to leave himself so vulnerable. That's the gesture, really — his time given and his soft parts exposed for the better part of the afternoon. ]
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her selections are the practical option on a menu tailored to excess and vanity, cutting out the extra calories that don't serve her. the three-meal course of necessary self-care: a milk & honey bath (vital hydration), sugar scrub with coconut oil (exfoliation, scrubbing off the dead cells of another life), and bottle of cork-popped champagne (mental exfoliation) to wash it all down. just enough to keep her beauty sustained and healthy. not gorge it, moderation she learned watching rookies at the club fumble their shot at securing themselves a benefactor. sugar daddies will give you a whole lot of sweetness for the chance to taste you, sure — but they still test you to see if you'll accept a slice of what he's offering, or take him for the whole damn birthday cake of what he's worth.
in his usual fashion — mute, communicated in the sign language of his mouth, for anyone with eyes to read it — she expects silco will appreciate that. restraint's a little like respect in ani's world, where using each other is just the accepted, standard exchange rate. something that creeps closer to mutual consideration, too, when ani slinks back over to his side. leans into the crook of space there, with the lazy, comfortable ease of draping into a doorway. ) Told 'em we wanted hands-free service.
( ani's eyes flicker to the bandaged gauze of his hand, the pointed punchline to a joke before her quiet interest moves on. one of the workers — monica, whose name ani learned quick, saleswoman to saleswoman solidarity — peels open the curtain to a view of a copper tub, gleaming round and overlarge. roomy enough to fit vanya's pretty posse and still have space for their fat fucking egos. floating there: drizzles of petals, sprinkled in rainbow shades across the cloudy water. she doesn't put a stopper on the snort that chuffs out of her, like it's a funny oxymoron to have them occupy the same space silco soon will. )
— It's the Cleopatra special. ( might mark the first time in history she knows more than silco, she thinks, dipping her fingers in. gives them a twirl to test the water, stirring cyclones in her wake, a natural disaster on sea and land. her mouth tips up, all mean amusement. ) 'Course, she used donkey milk. But we got plenty of jackasses downstairs.
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Ani is the same way, he thinks. She understands how to speak the language of the wealthy and how to navigate within the world it gives her access to, even if she refuses (part of why he likes her, in the end, even if he'd never say it out loud) to sand down her rougher edges once she's past the door. (She's in the right, besides, when they'd take the first opportunity to kick her — either of them, really — out regardless. Better not to scrape and bow for those who'll cast you aside, and to take while you can. Best to hang onto a little pride and save your regard for those who deserve it.) ]
I'd rather not imagine our bath to have anything to do with them, [ he says mildly, casting a last glance at the contents of the bath (the flower petals on its surface, as strangely funny to him as they are to her) before turning to shed his jacket and unbutton his shirt. He follows her lead where modesty is concerned, stripping without much fuss given that each has already seen what the other has to offer. Lean muscle, his sharp edges worn close to the surface where hers are a hidden behind soft curves, a little more malleable — different tools for different approaches to the same game.
He turns, with that done, offering her his good hand to steady her on the wooden step stool leading into the tub. ]
Who was she?
[ Asked as he lowers himself into the bath, accompanied by a sigh of both effort and — miracle of miracles — relief. ]
Cleopatra?
✉️ text — un: silco.
We were lucky. A shame it happened so soon after the party.
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i'll pour one out for our shit luck that coulda been shittier
( par the course — if she's wrong and god's will does exist, she has a vendetta against him for wasting his precious time fucking, personally, with her. )
can you get my stuff 🙏
i don't want some fuckin bozo thinking it's free game
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Send me a list.
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ani's attempt at a text bubbles up, vanishes, bubbles up again. less a choice of etiquette, less a consequence of hesitation, and just a presence that lives to announce itself. even if it's just a pixelated blurb: ani is typing ... for the (vengeful) duration of a dragged-out minute. )
just the shit in my locker
pink backpack. it should all be there
change of sweats, big ass fucking ring, make-up bag, my best pair of pleasers, enough thongs for a panty raid
( practical items, with only a three carat rock of sentimentality sandwiched in the list, like a dull list will make its dull appearance on it only worthy of silco's dulled-down attention. )
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The ring doesn't stick out, per se, but there's still the fact that it's something he has to look for, the one small thing amidst a list of items that are otherwise fairly obvious. In the moment, he notes it — something specific, rather than the loose tangle of lingerie that serves as the last item on the checklist — but that's all. When her bag finally reaches her, tucked dutifully inside the flap of her tent rather than left outside, everything is where she last left it. ]
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her own little sign-off to the conversation: ani blips out a snort of amusement. returns the favor by not interrupting his damage assessment of the club. by nightfall, she squares her shit away in the corner of the tent, unobtrusive. ani's thoughts are less so, an intrusive refrain that keeps reminding her of that unmentionable thing tucked away with the rest of her unmentionables. (a stupid name — ani has an easier time talking about her panties than the proof of how she got played.)
before she drops into her tent that morning, she leaves behind a vintage bottle of a fine red at the lip of his, a 1990 lafite rothschild, five-finger lifted from portia's personal collection. (see also: her unattended birkin; ani only briefly considered stealing the baby with the bathwater.). the attached pink post-it reads, in loopy curls of glitter pen: IOU. )
@suor00
I don't care if it's late. I want to be grateful for the sun before it goes away again. And for not being burnt up
Will you come? I will make you food
Maybe not the most traditional food. But I can cook something on the campfire!
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naturally, ani always assumed it was meant to preserve the fragile nature of the male ego, as if that's ever been at jeopardy of becoming an endangered species. (she's no data analyst, but the correlation between a dude's pride, the generosity of his pockets, and a night's payout? the undeniable power of statistics leaves no room for argument.) now, she thinks they must've sensed it — the too-desperate reek of girls who hadn't hidden their hunger. girls who had circled too eagerly. girls who had been too keen to pick the meat of their bank account and the bones of their self-control clean. doing what's necessary to survive, when you're ranked bottom-tier on the ecosystem and have to scavenge for your next meal ticket.
there's an important life lesson ani took away from watching it, like it was all just national geographic in action, informative and educational: show how badly you want something, and you're guaranteeing it'll be snatched away. even ani's silence seems to buy into the idea — hesitates, like an immediate yes will jinx something as good as roza believing ani is someone you welcome into your family, your traditions. a full half-hour later: )
tight salespitch, zaza
gotta say the bribery was a nice touch
counteroffer
i'll come if you can find my favorite flower & bring it to me
(this is extortion) (no hints allowed)
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You're the only person who calls me Zaza, you know, I like it
[ She's responsive to Ro, was once Rozzy (less of a fan, at least in her teen years), but the value she assigns to names cannot be understated. Each derivative is prismatic identity viewed as a different angle, and although she doesn't know yet what version of her may coalesce in Ani's eyes —
She wants to find out. There are places where the way they see the world coincides, Roza thinks; both born from the same post-Soviet hangover, raised in the wake of a world that no longer exists. But her powers of discernment have another target first, and it's gardening. She's grinning behind her screen. ]
No hints! [ says the psychic, ] OK, deal.
And I'm so confident in my abilities that I might even bring you two. But if I do, will you do some of the dances with me?
So I don't look silly by myself
text | @buck120
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where you at? i'll find you
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i'm by the fire. if you don't like it you can chuck it in and i'll make you a s'more instead.
text — un: BUFFY
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is this a booty call or a call to action
you want me to put nair in his shampoo?
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neither
just expressing my gratitude for you and how gay i am for you
though i mean the first part isn’t off the table obviously
i’m not DUMB
( you know, recent evidence might suggest otherwise. )
literally in the middle of the night | @koby
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some of it shambles back to life, begrudgingly. progress that's helped along by jake strutting around with a tourist's guide on russian for dummies knocking around in his dense ass skull, filtered down into her brain. when the shape of the letters finally resembles the skeleton of her grandmother's handwriting, when she pieces together the bones of that language lost to her and put back together again, old and brittle but forever familiar: )
yo
what the fuck, koby
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but finally, it's read, and the response comes:] I'm so sorry, Ani, I have no idea what that means. I keep
Doing this, sending things. Words I don't understand.
I think I'm trying to get it all out of my head, so it doesn't kill me.
cw: references to choking
thanks for the nightmares kobes really appreciate you sharing with the class
( — like they aren't already headlining ani's nightly shitshow. those fucked-up dreams where she wakes up choking on stolen scraps of sleep, and all that gets her. the bite of her own hands tearing into her throat. screams swallowing up her nights, spitting her out into morning's exhaustion. at least she's got the act perfected — the practiced, violent art of grabbing her terror by the throat and throttling it into something muted. something manageable, a taste she's learned to swallow, a pressure she's trained herself to breathe around. that whisper of quiet struggle no one strains to hear over the selfish static of their own need, their own panic.
and koby's? his screams through her skull like a bullet splattering through her squishy gray matter. couldn't unhear it ricocheting around inside of her even if she begged it to, grazing up against every compulsion she has to soothe it, fix it, staunch the worst of his emotional bleeding. after a pause — )
you going to be good? you're worrying me, asshole
croak on me and swear to god i'm going to be so pissed
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[not helping, he knows, he realizes, but the fuzzy edge between himself and the madman scribbling and scratching, snapping and splintering his fingernails, smearing his own blood up and down and across the walls -- it keeps growing more and more abstract, permeable, impossible. koby's not entirely sure where he ends and the oracle begins.
he thumbs across the edge of the broken mirror in one pocket, thinks i need to be more careful and so much damn snow outside the car, the muffled thumpthumpthump of the wipers, igor's hands on your face and he won't let you fucking go and he won't let you look away and you hit him and hit him and and oh god it's getting worse.
and then he puts it all in a box and tries to be himself again, be koby, be normal.]
But it's usually only this bad at night. Maybe I just need some more sleep and it'll go away.
Right?
Well.
I'll do my very best not to die, because I want to still have a job when we go back.
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ani tallies the options. considers the coin flip between cold honesty and a comforting lie. pretty fiction won't rewrite ugly facts. she cares enough about koby to draft him a better bedtime story, anyway. sweet, embellished. close your eyes and sleep now. nothing's there. the heroes always bleed their way to a happy ending. except reality says koby's fucking sick in the head, and the only prescription ani's got in stock is an echo of the lies they all dose themselves on, console themselves with. everything will get better. just swallow the bullshit being measured and spooned out, and try not to choke on the taste.
it's easy. exactly what she can sense koby wants her to say, nodding along with his excuses. )
yeah sweetheart
i know your power mode is always set to on but no sleep puts the screws to your head
makes you ready to flunk any psych eval
you seriously STILL haven't finished star wars, koby?
do or do not. yoda doesn't fuck with do-nothing bitches
so do something about it and come hang
i got methods of knocking you out if i gotta
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but they're not in saltburnt anymore. and the things koby sees and hears and feels now are immense, all-encompassing, weighing him down until he gives voice to each and every strange name and phrase and title, every word that means nothing to his ears but everything to the person he speaks to. he thinks about ani and thinks of ring and house and big wide windows looking out across the city and you can stay one more night here, but tomorrow you have to go and he doesn't want to know these things without being given them. it feels violent, invasive, something he hasn't earned, and he hates that. but he can't stop.
and he's scared. he's so scared.
so:] Can I?
You aren't busy?
And I haven't finished Star Wars because there are no TV's out here.
cw: sex work
it isn't fair to koby, she knows. but she can taste the raw edge of his ache, imagine the pleading eyes above her, his insomnia inching down her throat until she's gagging with it. a chase for relief his own hand can't bring. it isn't enough she's volunteered to work that emotional blowjob dry, everyone's convenient hole to dump their load off and leave — he needs her to choke down his needy pulse for reassurance, too. she scrubs a knuckle over the pinched bridge of her nose. tries to remind herself koby has earned the right to need her body, even if it's still learning the difference between carrying a friend's weight and suffocating small under someone's shadow. )
busy with what?
milking a fucking goat?
just come over dude