( 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.
no subject
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.