Kirika's body is a weapon, tried and tested. She knows her body, and what it is capable of; except, she thinks--breathless and aching--except that she had never imagined her body capable of this. This: sweat-slicked and trembling and wild beneath Mireille's eyes, hands, mouth.
Her own body is made strange, and wondrous, and she can hardly feel the ache of old scars under Mireille's carefully rounded fingernails. She drags her hands across Mireille's back, scrambling for purchase, and digs her fingers into the curve of Mireille's hips. Mireille leaves a smear of dark red lipstick against the upper swell of Kirika's breast. Her mouth is messy when she lifts her head, her smile crooked.
Kirika closes her eyes.
Beneath the thrill of Mireille's eyes, hands, mouth, there is this: this is dangerous--they are dangerous--and there is already far too much between them.
Written for livejournal's fornicari community.
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