( 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.
🎀
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.