MINYA
take that look from off your face
you ain't gunna burn my heart out
you ain't gunna burn my heart out
The girl is gold. Gold like the sun. Gold like her most lavish jewelry. Yet Minya’s eyes do not linger, not when her cake is gone, trampled under dancing feet. Serpents twists and twine as ire seeps like morphine into her blood. Her ears fall flat, flat upon her skull. Her lips part, so say more, to chastise this girl for her foolishness, for not looking where she was going. But, the stranger is looking at her. Hunger darkens her gaze like a shadow, it settles feline upon Minya and how she knows the touch of that look. It is what has placed the gems upon her body and lined her room with more gold than any of the other Scarab employees.
Lust. Lust burns bright and hot and Minya is ever the fire girl to heat such desire.
There is no part of Minya that Bexley does not watch. She feels that gaze of silver-blue upon her every inch. A smile softens the line of her glistening, stee-dark lips. Where a scowl once gashed across the elegant lines of her face, so now a knowing smile tips. It is warm, seductive, aloof. Her lashes lower, the diamonds dusted across her lashes glitter gold in the moonlight and shadows breathe khol along her eyes. Heavy, heavy is the gaze Minya rests upon Bexley Briar. It is the same gaze she affords every creature who watches her dance with desire in their heart. Minya knows the price of this look, it is a look honed to entice and entrance, it is worth diamonds and rubies.
“As you should.” Minya says with a voice of liquor – warm and golden, intoxicating. The wind blows and the silk of their manes brush, cream upon strawberries, strawberries upon cream. The fires hiss, they gleam along Bexley Briar’s skin, the crawl across Minya, they douse her in smoke and frankincense. The serpent pieces slither in gold, animated by the dancing light.
The gems glitter and shine as her skull tilts. Minya casts a long look beneath her lashes. Laughter bubbles from her lips, she knows how she is being watched – by the vendor, by that wanton dark in the sun girl’s eyes. Her skin is sunset and honey, sweet and wild, hot and feral. Minya has never been feral, but she has been a street girl with gems in her hair.
The tattoo on her inside thigh gleams brilliant white upon the dark steel of her skin. It is enough to remind her that this girl is an act, that all of her is a performance: of fire, of magic, desire and luxury. “No.” She breathes, still enchanting with her smile, “Don’t worry about the cake.”
Oh but then Minya turns like a sigh, her hair drifting like a song. Their shoulders brush, slow, slow static and Minya looks back, beneath her glittering lashes that lie low, heavy, wanton. Her smile is tantalizing. A laugh is peeling from her lips, less a melody than a spell. Then, as she turns from the day-girl, her lips draw back into a line and she moves through the crowd, like ice, like wicked, wicked ice.
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| "speaks" | notes: <3
