( cute to pretend he can't see it on her like a bright neon sign, and isni't passing judgment as they speak. less cute that he's walking the tight rope of her thinning patience. ani lifts her eyebrows to her hairline, an expression torn somewhere between are you fucking kidding me and are you fucking stupid, before a cuttingly sarcastic: )
A professional ass-beater. Ask dumbass questions, and you're gonna get dumbass answers.
( it isn't shame, necessarily — she's already lived through the humiliating process of being disposed of as trash, once ivan had his fill of her. an inconvenience lying around, to his cunt of a mother, like a soiled napkin. one single use, and then thrown away. it's just — it's bullshit to pretend a stranger cares about the dirty details of ani mikheeva's life, some half-assed attempt to connect. she's not playing the kindergarten game of show and tell.
her lips purse to one side, arms banding over her bare breasts. expectant, in the worst way, like waiting for a kid to stick their finger into an outlet, or like — if she's being honest, waiting for a coward to kick up dust and leave her to breathe it in, as he moves to the door. a title that might belong more to her; it only takes the rotten stench of decay in ani's nose to make her back up in a gagging fit, knocking into the nightstand, its painful edge probing into her back. )
Oh, sure, I'll just call him on my fuckin' missing phone. ( half-hysteria, mixing into the cocktail of her impotent anger. vanya wouldn't be the one to save her, even with a gun barrel pressed to her skull — if anything, she imagines they'd be happy to see her brains on the walls, a more permanent guarantee that she'll go away, a permanent silence that money can't buy. the thought alone sets her stomach off, a sea of fury and hopeless, nauseated disgust. on a staggered exhale: ) Don't — don't fuckin' touch me.
( i'm gonna be sick, she could warn, if she had the breath control left to spit it out. not that she'd feel guilty over throwing up on library boy's shitty shoes — ani wards him off with a hand, ducking into the bathroom just in time to heave her guts out into the sink. )
cw: emeto
A professional ass-beater. Ask dumbass questions, and you're gonna get dumbass answers.
( it isn't shame, necessarily — she's already lived through the humiliating process of being disposed of as trash, once ivan had his fill of her. an inconvenience lying around, to his cunt of a mother, like a soiled napkin. one single use, and then thrown away. it's just — it's bullshit to pretend a stranger cares about the dirty details of ani mikheeva's life, some half-assed attempt to connect. she's not playing the kindergarten game of show and tell.
her lips purse to one side, arms banding over her bare breasts. expectant, in the worst way, like waiting for a kid to stick their finger into an outlet, or like — if she's being honest, waiting for a coward to kick up dust and leave her to breathe it in, as he moves to the door. a title that might belong more to her; it only takes the rotten stench of decay in ani's nose to make her back up in a gagging fit, knocking into the nightstand, its painful edge probing into her back. )
Oh, sure, I'll just call him on my fuckin' missing phone. ( half-hysteria, mixing into the cocktail of her impotent anger. vanya wouldn't be the one to save her, even with a gun barrel pressed to her skull — if anything, she imagines they'd be happy to see her brains on the walls, a more permanent guarantee that she'll go away, a permanent silence that money can't buy. the thought alone sets her stomach off, a sea of fury and hopeless, nauseated disgust. on a staggered exhale: ) Don't — don't fuckin' touch me.
( i'm gonna be sick, she could warn, if she had the breath control left to spit it out. not that she'd feel guilty over throwing up on library boy's shitty shoes — ani wards him off with a hand, ducking into the bathroom just in time to heave her guts out into the sink. )