( 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?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
— 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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
( 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. )
no subject
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?