the bullet is mine. i'm not giving it up.
This life is nothing but replay. Bexley stalks the desert. Replay, replay, replay.
The replay of Seraphina’s mismatched eyes in the summit-dark. The replay of a summer night filled with the omniscient buzz of lightning bugs. The emptiness of her stolen magic, replayed till it burns a hole in her stomach. The sun overhead, replayed a thousand days in a row.
When does it stop.
Her own brain is a replay of missed opportunities and the wet gleam of fire and Acton’s dark knee cracking under her weight. Motherfucker. She stalks the back-alleys of Solterra like a wild thing, teeth bared, hackles raised. Her beauty feral, even unhinged. She is ragged and keening with want. It is another familiar feeling, replayed, replayed, replayed until it hurts. Wanting for what it’s hard to say. If she doesn’t want the whole world, she wants most of it, and that’s a confession in and of itself, and the length of a full confession is longer than the world is wide, and who has the fucking time to listen to something like that.
She is tired of pulling of teeth. Of working hard for the barest hints of recognition. She is tired of her own loud mouth, her own rapid heartbeat, her own need to be right and even righteous, and today is the day she thinks she might really give it all up, throw herself into the deepest part of the Vitae, until her eyes silver and her breath stops and the water swallows her forever, silence her once and for-fucking-all.
Until he shows up.
Because he has to ruin every god-damn plan of hers, right down to the sickest and most satisfying. (What else can Bexley ask of him?) He has to ruin everything - her heart, her body, her schemes and her wants. Maybe he is Solis’ punishment.
It wouldn’t be a surprise. Sweet irony.
And he’s on replay when they find each other, sweet irony again. His mouth on her hip, or her tugging his dark hair. (Replay replay replay. Her brain is liquid warmth, she sways on her feet.) Bexley is on her way out of the inner Court when she literally bumps into him, smashing shoulder-first into his chest with her eyes turned glowering to the cobblestone. Of course her intuition says to spit something venomous and fiery, but her preparatory inhale brings with it the scent of something foul and familiar, and Bexley bites back her rancor only long enough to look up and confirm it’s really him.
Aw. Hey, babe.
She grins, catty and too casual. The space between them is negligible at best. Her shoulder is still pressed up against his; her hair brushes his chest; when she glances up at him it burns through whatever tiny distance is left between them, until they very well could be the same person, an amalgamation of temper and magic (maybe) and righteous fury. If I knew you were showing up today I would’ve worn something nicer.
Bexley’s smirk widens. She shakes a stray curl from her face, tilts her head at him coquettishly. Everything that was on replay is on pause now, overwritten entirely by the sight of Acton - the many freckles, the dark, ambrosial eyes. Bless you, she wants to say. For ruining everything.
Of course, she doesn’t.
this way you still owe me, and that's as good as anything.
@acton
