( worker bees swarm ani the minute they're through the door like she's the queen bee of the operation — and maybe she is, with silco complacently waiting for her verdict in the background, that backseat deference to her judgment. the closest two control freaks can come to sharing the responsibilities of their respective thrones. what ani decides on, somewhere in the frills and thrills of their fussing, isn't the same designer brand of pretentiousness vanya would have thrown his cash, the kind of carefree spending she hadn't realized was free of any real care for her. bullshit and bluster and benjamins ani once mistook for meaningful, like it wasn't all fucking monopoly money to boys like him, buying up as much property as he could before mommy and daddy ended his game.
her selections are the practical option on a menu tailored to excess and vanity, cutting out the extra calories that don't serve her. the three-meal course of necessary self-care: a milk & honey bath (vital hydration), sugar scrub with coconut oil (exfoliation, scrubbing off the dead cells of another life), and bottle of cork-popped champagne (mental exfoliation) to wash it all down. just enough to keep her beauty sustained and healthy. not gorge it, moderation she learned watching rookies at the club fumble their shot at securing themselves a benefactor. sugar daddies will give you a whole lot of sweetness for the chance to taste you, sure — but they still test you to see if you'll accept a slice of what he's offering, or take him for the whole damn birthday cake of what he's worth.
in his usual fashion — mute, communicated in the sign language of his mouth, for anyone with eyes to read it — she expects silco will appreciate that. restraint's a little like respect in ani's world, where using each other is just the accepted, standard exchange rate. something that creeps closer to mutual consideration, too, when ani slinks back over to his side. leans into the crook of space there, with the lazy, comfortable ease of draping into a doorway. ) Told 'em we wanted hands-free service.
( ani's eyes flicker to the bandaged gauze of his hand, the pointed punchline to a joke before her quiet interest moves on. one of the workers — monica, whose name ani learned quick, saleswoman to saleswoman solidarity — peels open the curtain to a view of a copper tub, gleaming round and overlarge. roomy enough to fit vanya's pretty posse and still have space for their fat fucking egos. floating there: drizzles of petals, sprinkled in rainbow shades across the cloudy water. she doesn't put a stopper on the snort that chuffs out of her, like it's a funny oxymoron to have them occupy the same space silco soon will. )
— It's the Cleopatra special. ( might mark the first time in history she knows more than silco, she thinks, dipping her fingers in. gives them a twirl to test the water, stirring cyclones in her wake, a natural disaster on sea and land. her mouth tips up, all mean amusement. ) 'Course, she used donkey milk. But we got plenty of jackasses downstairs.
[ As a rule, Silco doesn't gawk. At the house, at any of its rooms, at the violence that occurs in fits and starts. There's nothing to be gained in showing off what catches you off-guard, much less so among those that will judge you for it, and— it's less that any of it surprises him than that some of it seemed so far out of the question. Clean water — clean air — had been an unspeakable luxury. The kind of excess the Balfours place at their fingertips — he ought to balk, but he'd made speaking Piltover's language into a tool, dressing and conducting himself in a way that projects wealth and influence, the two arbiters of respect in a world defined by means.
Ani is the same way, he thinks. She understands how to speak the language of the wealthy and how to navigate within the world it gives her access to, even if she refuses (part of why he likes her, in the end, even if he'd never say it out loud) to sand down her rougher edges once she's past the door. (She's in the right, besides, when they'd take the first opportunity to kick her — either of them, really — out regardless. Better not to scrape and bow for those who'll cast you aside, and to take while you can. Best to hang onto a little pride and save your regard for those who deserve it.) ]
I'd rather not imagine our bath to have anything to do with them, [ he says mildly, casting a last glance at the contents of the bath (the flower petals on its surface, as strangely funny to him as they are to her) before turning to shed his jacket and unbutton his shirt. He follows her lead where modesty is concerned, stripping without much fuss given that each has already seen what the other has to offer. Lean muscle, his sharp edges worn close to the surface where hers are a hidden behind soft curves, a little more malleable — different tools for different approaches to the same game.
He turns, with that done, offering her his good hand to steady her on the wooden step stool leading into the tub. ]
Who was she?
[ Asked as he lowers himself into the bath, accompanied by a sigh of both effort and — miracle of miracles — relief. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
her selections are the practical option on a menu tailored to excess and vanity, cutting out the extra calories that don't serve her. the three-meal course of necessary self-care: a milk & honey bath (vital hydration), sugar scrub with coconut oil (exfoliation, scrubbing off the dead cells of another life), and bottle of cork-popped champagne (mental exfoliation) to wash it all down. just enough to keep her beauty sustained and healthy. not gorge it, moderation she learned watching rookies at the club fumble their shot at securing themselves a benefactor. sugar daddies will give you a whole lot of sweetness for the chance to taste you, sure — but they still test you to see if you'll accept a slice of what he's offering, or take him for the whole damn birthday cake of what he's worth.
in his usual fashion — mute, communicated in the sign language of his mouth, for anyone with eyes to read it — she expects silco will appreciate that. restraint's a little like respect in ani's world, where using each other is just the accepted, standard exchange rate. something that creeps closer to mutual consideration, too, when ani slinks back over to his side. leans into the crook of space there, with the lazy, comfortable ease of draping into a doorway. ) Told 'em we wanted hands-free service.
( ani's eyes flicker to the bandaged gauze of his hand, the pointed punchline to a joke before her quiet interest moves on. one of the workers — monica, whose name ani learned quick, saleswoman to saleswoman solidarity — peels open the curtain to a view of a copper tub, gleaming round and overlarge. roomy enough to fit vanya's pretty posse and still have space for their fat fucking egos. floating there: drizzles of petals, sprinkled in rainbow shades across the cloudy water. she doesn't put a stopper on the snort that chuffs out of her, like it's a funny oxymoron to have them occupy the same space silco soon will. )
— It's the Cleopatra special. ( might mark the first time in history she knows more than silco, she thinks, dipping her fingers in. gives them a twirl to test the water, stirring cyclones in her wake, a natural disaster on sea and land. her mouth tips up, all mean amusement. ) 'Course, she used donkey milk. But we got plenty of jackasses downstairs.
no subject
Ani is the same way, he thinks. She understands how to speak the language of the wealthy and how to navigate within the world it gives her access to, even if she refuses (part of why he likes her, in the end, even if he'd never say it out loud) to sand down her rougher edges once she's past the door. (She's in the right, besides, when they'd take the first opportunity to kick her — either of them, really — out regardless. Better not to scrape and bow for those who'll cast you aside, and to take while you can. Best to hang onto a little pride and save your regard for those who deserve it.) ]
I'd rather not imagine our bath to have anything to do with them, [ he says mildly, casting a last glance at the contents of the bath (the flower petals on its surface, as strangely funny to him as they are to her) before turning to shed his jacket and unbutton his shirt. He follows her lead where modesty is concerned, stripping without much fuss given that each has already seen what the other has to offer. Lean muscle, his sharp edges worn close to the surface where hers are a hidden behind soft curves, a little more malleable — different tools for different approaches to the same game.
He turns, with that done, offering her his good hand to steady her on the wooden step stool leading into the tub. ]
Who was she?
[ Asked as he lowers himself into the bath, accompanied by a sigh of both effort and — miracle of miracles — relief. ]
Cleopatra?