( 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?
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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?
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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.
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( 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. )
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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?