(no subject)

[twiststheblade]

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.

Comments

[song_tra_bong]

She nips at the skin beneath Miho's ear.

"Not going to."

[twiststheblade]

"Thank--"

broken by a gasp

"--you."

Her back is arched, now, almost inhumanly far, tendons standing out. The muscles of her legs and belly are taut, corded, and she turns her head that last fraction, pressing her lips to Mary Anne's forehead.

One last gasp, that's almost a cry, before she collapses, suddenly like a doll with it's strings cut. Both hands relax, one lying limp, the other making the smallest of movements to cup the back of Mary Anne's head.

Still again. Shaking, only slightly.

[song_tra_bong]

She wraps her arms around Miho, mouthing a tender string of kisses up her throat and along her jaw.

"Shhh. You're welcome."

[twiststheblade]

"Hmm." Humming contentedly, Miho turns sideways into her arms, wrapping around her and trailing lazy patterns up her back and sides.

"Just let me get my breath back."

[song_tra_bong]

She grins.

"Take your time, lovely. Wouldn't want to rush a good thing."

[twiststheblade]

Miho laughs quietly into her hair, before slipping down the bed a little to kiss her sweetly. And even though it's barely more than feather light, there's still an underlying ghost of pain, from lips that are bruised and tender.

"Of course not."

[song_tra_bong]

"Mhm," is all she says, tongue flicking out to brush aching lips.

One hand strokes idle patterns over Miho's hip, more for the pleasure of touch than any ulterior motive.

[twiststheblade]

Miho smiles, before capturing her bottom lip between sharp white teeth, nipping lightly. Her fingers curve, nails cutting lightly into Mary Anne's back, drawing delicate swirling patterns.

[song_tra_bong]

She hisses softly, arching back into the touch.

She kisses Miho in between nips of teeth, a cat and mouse game where she doesn't mind much getting caught.

[twiststheblade]

One last soft laugh, and a rake of her nails from the nape of Mary Anne's neck to the curve of her buttocks, before repeating her earlier move and pushing her onto her back.

(White sheets no longer pristine)

She tooks down at her captive for a moment, before bending to kiss her. Not on the lips this time, though - she seems drawn to the scar on her chest, lettering. She runs her tongue lightly over the scars, as if she can taste the name written there.

[song_tra_bong]

This time she stays where she's put; she's had a turn on top, after all.

She shudders at the touch to her scar. The scar is bound up in sex and blood, and the bed smells of both. Her fingers curl subtly into the sheets and she turns her head away. Her eyelids fall half-closed, part of her waiting for pain.

[twiststheblade]

Pain that doesn't come, for the little samurai is, when it really comes down to it, a tease.

She pulls back, smiles, and retrieves her knife from under the pillow. Twirls it between her fingers for a moment, before setting the tip exactly where Mary Anne had held it on her.

Watches her for a moment.

[song_tra_bong]

She sees the glint of the knife from the corner of her eye and feels the coolness of it against her skin.

She doesn't move, just watches in turn and waits.

Patience is a virtue.

[twiststheblade]

The blade warms quickly, of course, so that when Miho drags it lightly down, scoring a thin line between her breasts and stopping at her sternum, she feels not cold but the hot sting as it breaks the skin. Miho runs a finger lightly along the cut, smiling.

Then, because really, it's irresistable, the knife flickers rapidly above her hip, quick short scores. Deeper, this time.

[song_tra_bong]

A sharp hiss of indrawn breath over teeth and then she's silent while Miho works.

She props herself up on her elbows to get a better look at the mark and smiles.

"Nice choice."

[twiststheblade]

There's a little laugh, before Miho presses a kiss just below the design, lips picking up some of the blood that's begin to trickle across her skin. Choices now, of course, seeing as she's at hip level. To go up, or to go down? She grins, the wolfishness of her expression only enhanced by the blood on her lips.

She goes down.

[song_tra_bong]

And Mary Anne falls back on the bed, though not so hard as to jar Miho from her present task.

One hand trails through Miho's hair while the other twists in the sheets.

[twiststheblade]

Miho isn't about to be jarred too far. One hand has a steely grip on Mary Anne's hip, although it is a little slippery with blood. She makes a small contended sound in the back of her throat, and runs the other hand up a smooth inner thigh.

[song_tra_bong]

She turns her face further into the sheets, back twisting but anchored by the hand on her hip--not so much trying to move as needing to.

Her hips jerk and she moans softly

[twiststheblade]

With only one hand free to keep her steady, Miho has to hope that MaryAnne has self-control - although given that the object is to make her lose control, she could be onto a losing battle.

But she does her best.

And her best is very, very good.

[song_tra_bong]

Some part of her brain that still functions with rational though reminds her that accidently hitting Miho in the head is likely to end things much sooner than she'd like. So now she's under her own precept to keep still.

Her hands fist in the sheets while her breathing grows more shallow. There might even be a whimper.

[twiststheblade]

If there is a whimper, it is followed by a smile that surely she'll feel, and a flutter of fingers. And the fact that teeth are sharp isn't neccessarily bad, if you're careful.

Miho is careful.

[song_tra_bong]

Miho is perfect.

She would say so, if she could form words, but now she's wrapped up in remembering how to breathe. Her feet flex, toes curl, trying to twine with the sheets the way her fingers have. Communication is limited to the twitching muscles in her thighs, the subtle arch in her back, the moan working its way up her throat into a whine.

[twiststheblade]

There's a soft brush of fingers against fresh wounds, and a harder curl of fingers on the other hand, and Miho is hummin contentedly to herself. She's tender and vicious and sweet and sharp and she adores the woman beneath her.

[song_tra_bong]

The twisting of her hands becomes a clawing, her knees lock. She opens her mouth--a gasp becmes a vowel that never becomes a word but just a cry, high and wavering.

The sound lingers until she sinks bonelessly back onto the bed, her fingers untangling from the sheets. She reaches down with one hand and runs a faintly trembling hand through Miho's hair.