( 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.
no subject
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.