twiststheblade | (no subject)

(no subject)

Miho's room is, indeed, much more personal than the last time Mary Anne saw it. It's still stark and white - white walls, white sheets and comforter on the low futon - but now there's also a deep pile rug (also white, of course), on the blonde floorboards, and an enormous and extremely comfortable (white) leather bean bag sofa with a coffee table in front of it.

A book-case at one end of the bean bag has an eclectic collection of books, graphic novels and movies, and there's a small (digital) sound system next to the television. A few half-finished projects are lying on a neat desk. In other words, she looks like she's moved in, not as if she expects to leave at any moment.

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She sighs.

"It's just. . ." This is the bourbon speaking. "Well, Goldy. She says that she wants to make this work, but she doesn't seem to want to put any effort into it. If we have a problem, she seems to think that a cute smile will make it better. And it doesn't work like that."

Sigh.

"She doesn't take me into account. I don't own her. But it would be nice if she thought about my feelings."

"Not everybody's big on dealing with things head on," she says, still toying with Miho's hair.

"Especiallly not confrontations with people they care about. Not defending it, 'm just saying."

And taking another sip of tequila, since that helps the philosophical processes.

"I've never been good at it. But at least I make the effort."

She sighs and sits up again. Far too hard to drink whilst lying down.

"I'm just starting to think she doesn't care."

"I think she does," she says, the words not so much argument as gentle disagreement.

"In her own way."

Because she's not willing to believe just yet that Goldy doesn't care at all.

"And there," just a little slurred, now, "lies the root of the problem."

But not slurred enough. More bourbon.

"Her way is not conducive" Miho uses big words when tipsy "to us coming to any kind of fucking agreement."

Angry face.

She sighs, running a hand through her hair.

"You may have a point there, sweet."

The point is toasted by more tequila.

"It's just. . . she calls me her girlfriend, and treats me like a fuck-buddy."

Miho shrugs. The robe slips down again and this time she ignores it.

"And it sucks."

She sighs, and abruptly changes the subject.

"You know. Your eyes are fascinating."

"I know it does, lovely."

(sisters and fiancees and ex-wives and entirely too many other women)

She laughs softly. "Glad you like them."

Well, then. If Goldy is going to be like that. And it's not vengeance, at all. Because, unlike Goldy, Miho knows how her girlfriend feels. And she cares.

"Very much."

Pupils dilated, Miho's eyes are near as black as Mary Anne's are blue. Not quite, of course, for her eyes are purely human.

"And not just the eyes, of course."

"Of course. Glad you like all of me."

This seems the appropriate time to steal a kiss.

So she does.

Now, here is an interesting philosophical question. Is a thing stolen, if it is given up willingly? Or does the intent to steal make the act theft in any case? We shall leave that as an excercise for the reader, and say only that Miho has no objection to being kissed.

And kisses back.

And if there is just the smallest touch of desperation, what of it? She hasn't seen Mary Anne in a while, after all.

It's been much too long. Desperation is entirely reasonable.

She reaches over and manages to set her glass on the coffee table without spilling; after that, both of her hands are free to hold Miho's face in optimal kissing range.

Well, as long as that's allowable.

It's lucky that Miho's glass is empty, as she drops it when she slips lithely forward into Mary Anne's lap, winding her hands into the other woman's hair.

And then her lips are far too busy for words.

Words are overrated anyway.

One hand slips down Miho's neck to her back, eventually settling on a hip as Mary Anne wraps her arm around her waist to pull her closer.

They really are.

Lips, however, are not, and Miho's lips travel sideways to Mary Anne's neck. And her kisses sting a little, and her fingers are hard, but that's not bad, is it?

Not bad at all. She hasn't had pain in some time and part of her has missed it something fierce.

She tilts her head, exposing her throat and giving Miho more room to work. The hand on Miho's hip tugs up the edge of the robe, ghosting over thigh and hip like a promise before running nails up her back.

So has Miho. Goldy really isn't into anything like that - and she wouldn't push her into it.

So she gasps, and arches back into Mary Anne's nails, her own hands slipping under her shirt. Mary Anne might notice - certainly will, in fact - that Miho has one of her knves strapped to a thigh. Shealways does, no matter how safe she feels.

Always being armed is just practical.

With her free hand, she draws the knife, pausing a moment to examine it.

"What have we here, hm?" she asks, teeth nipping at the curve of Miho's ear.

And Miho is, of course, the very soul of practicality.

"Oh, you know me," huskily, with a shiver, "always prepared."

She's very still under Mary Anne's hands now, fingers curling into her sides.

She hums low in her throat, lips still hovering near the other girl's ear.

"Now the question is what to do with it," she murmurs.

There's the momentary press of cold steel to the back of Miho's neck, before Mary Anne trails the tip of the blade along her spine--just enough pressure to make it's presence known, but not to snag the fabric of the robe.

"Any suggestions?"

Miho has all sorts of suggestions but, funnily, at the moment, none of them come to the forefront of her mind.

"I'm sure you can think of something" she manages, the skin of her back suddenly excruciatingly sensitive. Of course, if the tables were turned. . . but Mary Anne is the one holding the knife.

"I'll do my best."

She leans back enough to fit the knife between them and have a clear view of what she's doing. She slips the flat of the blade beneath the sash on the robe and tugs it loose, careful not to cut the satin. The knifepoint flicks the sides of the robe open, then traces a line over Miho's collarbone.

No blood--not yet. She smiles.

The little samurai is not watching her hands, but rather, those blue eyes. Her breathing is just a little shallow, but even.

"And your best is so terribly good," she whispers, lips and jaw barely moving.

"Thank you, sweet. I've had a lot of practice."

The knife moves slowly, slowly back and forth across her chest, moving progressively lower before dragging a line down along her breastbone. There's enough pressure for blood this time.

"Mmm."

Enough pressure, especially when Miho arches her back, pushing forward into the sweet bite of the steel. Her breath hisses a little between her teeth, and her eyelids flutter, slightly.

The thin line of blood that wells up behind the blade thickens, hands for a moment, before spilling over and running down her chest, and her belly.