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 caramel and her smile is the sticky-sweet of honeyed fingers after a cake. For a moment Minya wonders what such a smile might taste like. Her lips draw idly over that girls lips, they draw up and up and up the lines of her face, trailing like a fingertip over the sharp of her cheekbones, the soft of her cheek more gossamer than flesh.
They are fae girls, Minya and Bexley. Fea girls spun from gold and silver and rich, wonderful things. Their lips are enchantments, the curves of their bodies siren calls. Minya moves like a dream, she stalks like a wasp. Her tongue is viperous but oh she is a masterpiece to behold.
She turns that divine face of hers. She drinks in the coy of Bexley’s lips. So confident. Self assurance is a perfume that oozes from this Day girl’s gilded skin. Minya drinks it in, her match met.
Her slim body weaves into the dark throng, her silk hair trailing none dare step upon it. They treat it like a bridal veil, they treat her like a bride – the most beautiful, treasured girl within, not just the Scarab, but Denocte.
Leaving so soon? That girl’s voice sings. It is a breath within Minya’s ear, a promise, a whisper of something more and she turns. Bodies pressing against hers, brushing, caressing as if to lay just a finger upon such a creature.
Beneath her jeweled lashes (that gleam and glitter gold in the firelight) the dancer gazes at the sunlight girl. “And what do you have that might make me wish to stay?” Minya purrs, like the cat Boudika is. Like the lion Minya is becoming.
Her smile is small and as wicked as a fae girl with a knife for a tongue. Her hair cascades like a veil, silk and soft, a sheet, a ribbon. It flows in the wind and pools at her feet. She does not step toward Bexley Briar, but she does wait. Her eyes trail over the girl wondering what part of her might convince her enough to stay.
“I have bedded kings and queens and gods and goddesses…” She whispers as she slinks back toward Bexley, more a hunter than a girl made to dance in the flames. But even flames will eat and eat and eat. “So what do you have for me?” She breathes in a whisper, for even in the firelight and dark, with music and revelry, Minya is enough to be heard. She commands to be heard, even in her whispering. Slowly her gaze trails white hot over ever inch of the gold girl’s skin before rising to let silver eyes sink into blue.
@
| "speaks" | notes: <3
