( and the little boy boxers. christ. ani chokes on an incomprehensible sound that could, generously, be labeled as laughter — or, less generously, as an oncoming breakthrough of hysteria. like hitting rock bottom wasn't fucking embarrassing enough, she had to go digging into the earth's crust by — what? rebounding with another rich loser? fool me once, fool me twice type of bullshit, if you ask her. )
You wanna be my bitch? ( the words are all wrong for the artificial sweetness coating them, the kind of sugary goo that sticks between your teeth. an obvious mocking that can be delivered as easily from a kiss from a fist or her lips. ) Pay for it, sweetheart.
( the sheet falls to the wayside in a curtain of dust, specks that catch in the hazy morning light. there's a natural unabashed ease in her body — deservingly, really, when it's the least humiliating factor in all of this — like another proud painter is with their work of art, a creation made from grit and effort. the little tempting baggie goes ignored, for now, as she snatches at a pair of men's jeans — wiggles her acrylic nails into its pockets to try, in vain, to find some I.D. to classify past-ani's last-night mistake. or, at the very least, a phone so she can uber out of this hole. )
Whaddya do? ( search fruitless, she tosses the pants directly into his lap, surprisingly well-aimed. accent thick, hands on her cocked hips: ) Fire your maid?
no subject
You wanna be my bitch? ( the words are all wrong for the artificial sweetness coating them, the kind of sugary goo that sticks between your teeth. an obvious mocking that can be delivered as easily from a kiss from a fist or her lips. ) Pay for it, sweetheart.
( the sheet falls to the wayside in a curtain of dust, specks that catch in the hazy morning light. there's a natural unabashed ease in her body — deservingly, really, when it's the least humiliating factor in all of this — like another proud painter is with their work of art, a creation made from grit and effort. the little tempting baggie goes ignored, for now, as she snatches at a pair of men's jeans — wiggles her acrylic nails into its pockets to try, in vain, to find some I.D. to classify past-ani's last-night mistake. or, at the very least, a phone so she can uber out of this hole. )
Whaddya do? ( search fruitless, she tosses the pants directly into his lap, surprisingly well-aimed. accent thick, hands on her cocked hips: ) Fire your maid?