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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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.

Her free hand firmly gripping Miho's hip, she bends to run her tongue up the wound, the faintest scrape of teeth acompanying.

Her lips are stained when she lifts her head.

"Waste not," she murmurs, then kisses her.

Want.

What Miho wants now is Mary Anne, so she's more than happy to kiss back, tasting her own blood salty on those sweet lips. Her hands slip up, now, curling into her hair.

She laughs gently into the kiss.

"Getting blood on my good clothes..."

She pulls away just long enough to discard shirt and bra, then resumes the kiss.

"Much better."

"We can't have that, can we?"

Miho watches appreciatively as Mary Anne strips, and picks up the knife that she'd discarded in order to have both hands free. She turns it over, running the tip of an index finger lightly along the razor edge. Miho keeps her weapons in perfect condicion.

She watches Miho's hands and the way they handle the knife.

"Careful, now. Wouldn't want you to cut yourself."

Miho raises an eyebrow, and raises the blade to her lips. Her red tongue darts out, delicately licking the length of the blade.

"Wouldn't we?"

The corner of her mouth twitches in silent laughter.

"Not by accident, anyway."

Miho giggles, and lowers the knife.

"Indeed. And besides," reversing her grip so she's holding the knife by the blade, offering it handle-first to Mary Anne, "isn't that your job?"

She takes the knife delicately back, twirling it once.

"I suppose it is."

She drags the flat of the blade slowly down Miho's cheek, then flicks her wrist to leave a gash blossoming on her collarbone. Her mouth covers the wound before the blood can run down, tongue teaseing at the edges.

Miho jumps, just a little, before her head tips back with a moan.

"You've done this before."

"Mhm."
weight of a different knife in her hand
It's hummed against the wound.
the scar over her breast itches
Keeping her mouth where it is, she drags the knife up and down Miho's back, twisting her wrist now and then to leave a shallow cut behind.

Eyes closed now, the little samurai whimpers.

"The leather'll stain," she whispers. "Sheets wash."

She doesn't make any move to pull away, though. She's not going to make any decisions when someone else is holding the knife. After all, she's a toy, now.

"Excellent suggestion."

She leaves a kiss on the corner of Miho's mouth (can still taste copper) before going to take a seat on the bed. She leans back against the pillows, beckoning with the knife in a 'come hither' gesture.

Always obedient, Miho stands, leaving the robe where it falls, and pads over. Almost-but-not-quite dry, her hair clings slightly to her back and shoulders, it's tips crimson-stained. More streaks stain her neck and chest, and her lower lip bears a smudge of blood.

She pauses, at the edge of the bed, and leans forward to capture Mary Anne's face with her hands, kiss her gently, at first, then sharp teeth nipping at her lips, slow to break skin.

It really has been far, far too long.

She moans softly into the kiss when she finally tastes blood (hers mine does it matter).

Stashing the knife temporarily beneath a pillow, she settles both hands on Miho's waist and pulls her down onto the bed.