Mireille is bleeding. Kirika has seen Mireille's blood before--she has been the cause of Mireille's wounds--but she can't look away this time. The wound isn't deep, but it has been a long time since they have been forced to fight for their very survival, and Mireille is bleeding.
Mireille's blouse sticks to the wound. She hisses as she pulls the material away, and lets her blouse fall to the floor. Mireille is clothed in her bra, and blood, and bruises. She moves with a fraction of her usual grace. Kirika's heart hurts, her throat too tight for breath as she watches Mireille. It has been a long time--a very long time, and Kirika had almost forgotten that fear, and pain, and death make her feel things that she should not.
She does not like killing--but her heart is pounding, hands shaking, and Mireille's breasts are full in Kirika's palms. Mireille's eyebrows go up, and her lips quirk: she is the one who taught Kirika what the growing slickness between her thighs calls for, after all. Kirika presses forward, pushes hard, until Mireille's back is against the wall--she is held in place by Kirika's body, and Kirika's skill.
Kirika kisses Mireille's chest, just below the bloody furrow in her skin. Mireille tastes of blood, and sweat--but she is warm and alive, and perfect in Kirika's arms. "Savage," Mireille says, but does not flinch away from Kirika's probing fingers, or her blood-wet mouth.
Kirika may be savage, but Mireille is no lady: her legs part, and she licks the taste of her own blood from Kirika's mouth.
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