b e x l e y
the merry girl who became lot's bride, the happy woman who loved her wicked city;
B
exley has never been an easy scare, and this is no different. It’s a competition more than any real challenge.The girl’s scowl and the flat press of her ears are no real opponent to the Solterran’s charm; she has no doubts that by the end of this conversation this pink-haired girl will be wrapped around her finger, just like everyone else. No doubts at all. She can see from miles away that they are on equal footing, her and this little witch, and that makes for the best kind of night.Minya’s smile is a wild thing; it is as clear and recognizable as Bexley’s own smirk, shining from the cleanest mirror. She finds herself even a little impressed at the way that her pink hair and bright smile manages to spark something in Bexley’s stomach for the first time in a while. Now the night is closing in around them, and it is both a blessing and a curse to feel the weight of that darkness settling like a blanket of her shoulder. She is not totally in her element. If she needed to use her magic, or wanted to, it would be significantly more difficult now than it would’ve been a few hours ago. The light is low, her powers are sleeping.
And yet she isn’t particularly upset about it. She gets the feeling that Minya isn’t the kind of dangerous that would (could) be quelled by violence. Worst comes to worst, Bexley has experience in the field of carnal warfare—more than this girl, she’s guessing, though it’s impossible to be sure—and she’ll go down kicking and screaming if things don’t go her way, just as God intended. No need to worry ahead of time.
Don’t worry about the cake, the girl says. Bexley smiles, though it is something of a drawl; the lazy, nearly patronizing curve of it responds I wasn’t planning on it, though she doesn’t bother saying as much out loud. Her eyes drop. For a moment she wants to tense—
At the sight of the bright-white tattoo inside the girl’s thigh, an almost pure carving of a scarab that shines like a lantern from the dark slate of her skin. Bexley’s blood runs a degree hotter. She does not flinch, does not shudder, does not even let her eyes rest there too long, but while she turns her eyes back up to Minya her brain is turning in circles. The same tattoo August wore on his shoulder. What is it supposed to tell her? What does it mean, if anything, that theirs are marked in different places? Curiosity pushes up against the back of her teeth.
The girl is already bored, already turning away. Bexley can’t blame her. But it’s satisfying, too—now she sees just how in tune they are, and she is not in the least surprised at the way Minya purposefully drags their shoulders together as she turns, skin hitting skin, burning hotter than ever. There is no flinch, no shudder, but Bexley’s nostrils flare and her smirk widens. “Leaving so soon?”
She does not move from where she stands. Even when her shoulder bumps against Minya’s hip, even when the crowd thickens around them, even as the distance between them widens. She has never been a chaser. And she does not think that today will be the day she starts—not when she has seen the way Minya’s lashes lower when she looks at her.
@Minya | "speaks" | notes: <3
