( 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.
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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.