( home. the reminder of what she's crawled back to pisses salt and vinegar into a raw, slow-healing wound — all that hope in a cinderella story, just to turn back to rags at midnight, right where she started. the glass slipper was never meant to fit. she rolls her lips together, flips her hand back in an aborted wave. a perfectly manicured appearance of casual, unbotheredness. )
Yeah. ( given so casually unsuspicious it becomes suspicious. there's safe distance in it, like a hand outstretched to hold a body at arm's length, like — her mind floating somewhere else for an escape, while her body goes through the motions of a paid dance, a paid fuck. a tired bite, with no effort to drive it: ) Real great deduction. Good for you, Sherlock Holmes.
( she doesn't wait for igor to look at her like she's sprouted two heads — a hand whips out to snatch the clothing from his hand, with all the quickness of someone expecting a viper's bite to follow a simple, small act of kindness. the sweater reeks, fittingly, of dust and neglect — but ani slips it overhead without complaint. tries not to think of it as the last, flimsy scrap of dignity between herself and another rich prick's game, another red scarf to keep her warm in the cold, alone. )
Your English is shit. ( fact. also fact: ) You won't need it. We're not gonna use words to negotiate with them, honey.
( it's more scathingly determined than she feels, in the moment — more bluster and bark than bite, more of a spark than the full flame of her temper, at having to deja vu, groundhog's day this shitshow all over again. there's only so much of a hopeless fucking fight she can put up in just a few short (long, painfully long) days, only to be forced back into the ring, when she knows how it's going end, when the odds are rigged against her: with her as the loser, with nothing to show for it but a new collection of bruises. )
no subject
Yeah. ( given so casually unsuspicious it becomes suspicious. there's safe distance in it, like a hand outstretched to hold a body at arm's length, like — her mind floating somewhere else for an escape, while her body goes through the motions of a paid dance, a paid fuck. a tired bite, with no effort to drive it: ) Real great deduction. Good for you, Sherlock Holmes.
( she doesn't wait for igor to look at her like she's sprouted two heads — a hand whips out to snatch the clothing from his hand, with all the quickness of someone expecting a viper's bite to follow a simple, small act of kindness. the sweater reeks, fittingly, of dust and neglect — but ani slips it overhead without complaint. tries not to think of it as the last, flimsy scrap of dignity between herself and another rich prick's game, another red scarf to keep her warm in the cold, alone. )
Your English is shit. ( fact. also fact: ) You won't need it. We're not gonna use words to negotiate with them, honey.
( it's more scathingly determined than she feels, in the moment — more bluster and bark than bite, more of a spark than the full flame of her temper, at having to deja vu, groundhog's day this shitshow all over again. there's only so much of a hopeless fucking fight she can put up in just a few short (long, painfully long) days, only to be forced back into the ring, when she knows how it's going end, when the odds are rigged against her: with her as the loser, with nothing to show for it but a new collection of bruises. )