FIC: [Noir] 'Artistry' (Mireille/Kirika, R)
I'm terribly sorry for how late this is, and even more sorry for how late my other stories are. They've been very slow going, but I've had a burst of inspiration the last couple of days so I'm hopeful the comm will see more of the results of that over the next day or so.
In the meantime, I give you...
Fandom: Noir
Title: Artistry
Author: Elsewhere (elsewherecw)
Pairing: Mireille/Kirika
Rating: R
Prompt: "Something subtle--they aren't overtly romantic, but they're content together. Not sappy, but the angst shouldn't be overwhelming. First time, or romantic/sexual tension preferred to established relationship." (requested by anenko)
Date Finished: May 9th, 2006
Note: Written for yuri_challenge 2006.
Artistry
By Elsewhere
elsewherecw@shaw.ca
Disclaimer: Remarkably enough, these characters don’t belong to me. I’m a shameless thief writing about shameless assassins. Ironic, eh?
Distribution: If you want this story for any page other than the ones I’ve sent it to, please ask me first, so I know where it goes.
Spoilers: This takes place after the end of the anime series. If you haven’t seen it, some of the references might not make sense.
Note: Written for anenko, in response to the following prompt: “Something subtle--they aren't overtly romantic, but they're content together. Not sappy, but the angst shouldn't be overwhelming. First time, or romantic/sexual tension preferred to established relationship.”
I’m not sure how well I managed to answer the prompt. There’s plenty of romantic and sexual tension, and following that a first time. Otherwise, I tried to keep it relatively subtle and not too overtly romantic, and certainly to portray their contentment with one another, but I’m aware that I may have slipped. Depending on one’s tastes, parts of this may seem entirely too sappy and/or romantic, and for that I apologize. Perhaps if you look at it as the sort of prideful romance that occurs between an artist and her masterpiece it might be a bit more manageable. ;P
Summary: In her eyes, from that moment of decision Mireille became the canvas and she the artist, quill in hand.
*****
Life was strikingly normal in the flat they shared, the days composed of simple, blissful monotony.
Mireille spent much of her time in front of her laptop, sifting through job board postings looking for some sort of innocuous occupation that one or both of them could take up. With the steady clicking of Mireille’s fingers over mouse and keyboard as a sort of soothing background noise, Kirika spent the days watering the plants, sweeping the floor, making sure they had fresh eggs and milk, and making the bed. She would often linger on this last task, fingers running back and forth over the sheets and blankets she shared with Mireille. It gave her pleasure to pause, to place her palm on Mireille’s pillow. She felt that by doing so she was closer to Mireille somehow, closer to understanding the dreams that made her whimper in her sleep.
Kirika had few dreams, and those she did happened while she was awake. At some point---she couldn’t remember when---she had taken up her sketchpad again. At first she tried to draw landscapes and flowers, fruits in bowls and the clouds in the sky. To her surprise, she had found that whenever she tried to sketch these symbols of everyday life around her, she would drift off into formless daydreams, her eyes restlessly chasing blurred figures no longer familiar to her conscious memory. Each time, when she came around to herself again she would find she had sketched something. These somethings were sometimes strange and terrible, etched in angry blacks and greys, and sometimes soft and cautious, pillowy shapes drawn with the lightest touch of pencil to page. These sketches, taken together, formed a record of her quest to regain more of herself, more of the person she had abandoned so long ago. She kept the pictures in a loose pile beneath her side of the bed, under where her own head lay. By doing so she felt she was closer to herself somehow, closer to understanding the blank slate she saw behind her eyelids every time she went to sleep.
Most nights, rather than chase the dreams that never seemed to come, she would lull herself to sleep by listening to the rhythm of Mireille’s breathing. When Mireille slept peacefully, her breathing became slow and even, and seemed to be easily in rhythm with Kirika’s own heartbeat. Once, in a moment of boldness, she had tested the theory and reached out, placing her palm over the flesh between Mireille’s breasts. Under her palm she had felt a steady beat entirely in time with her own, and she had marveled at that, feeling her heartbeat briefly quicken in excitement to find something new she shared with Mireille. She had quickly realized it must surely be a mere consequence of lying so close to one another, but explanation of the phenomenon had not served to obliterate the delight it gave her. She recalled that that night, she had fallen asleep with a silly grin on her face.
There were other things that, at times, she thought must be the consequence of lying so close to one another at night: things like the way her chest ached when Mireille would kindly say her name, or the way her breath caught when she would catch a glimpse of the nape of Mireille’s neck, or the way her heart clenched almost painfully when Mireille would sit next to her late at night, wet from a recent shower and wearing nothing but a towel, and turn off the lamp. Other times she let herself engage in a lucid flight of fancy and supposed that after all they had been through together, all the times their backs had been pressed together as they fought, it was only natural that her body should respond so readily to Mireille’s. She told herself it was only to be expected, that the closeness of empathy should in turn cause the body to call out for the intimacy of proximity.
It was only rarely that she allowed herself the ultimate fantasy, a daydream lacking in the abstraction of her sketches and instead clear and immediate. In these daydreams she fantasized that she was a normal seventeen year old girl, and that, as so often happened with teenage girls, she was a slave to boundless infatuation. In her daydreams it seemed the simplest thing in the world, to have a crush and want to be closer to her. In reality, she knew this theory was the most complicated of all. The killer that spoke to her through her sketches was a person who had no concept of love.
On this particular night, she was feeling a bit light-headed, and because of it she suffered what even at the time felt like a lack of judgment. She decided to allow her daydream to progress for the evening, to explore its consequences, and to that end she settled on a notion of what she imagined might appear out of her mind. In her eyes, from that moment of decision Mireille became the canvas and she the artist, quill in hand.
She was not aggressive about it. She began simply and without ceremony, by cutting carrots. Carrots, she knew, were not particularly romantic, and that was what kept her calm and her heart relatively steady in her chest as she proceeded with her plan. The first few steps flew by quickly enough, and shortly she had a pile of the needed materials: diced tomatoes, carrot slices, chopped onions, peeled potatoes. On the stove a pot of potatoes boiled, the only interruption to her thoughts the occasional sound of a bit of water splashing out of the pot and into the gas below.
She was so engrossed in her task she failed to notice the telltale silence that took over the apartment, a respite from the usual taps and clicks from the direction of the pool table, before a hand came to rest lightly on her shoulder. She lifted her head even as Mireille lowered hers, bending over Kirika. Silken blonde hair tumbled over Mireille’s shoulder, pulled by gravity to curtain over Kirika’s bare shoulder.
“You seem to be going all out,” came Mireille’s soft voice, sounding, as she so often did, vaguely amused. “What are you making?”
“Shepherd’s pie.” Kirika’s accented voice spoke the words softly, made them sound somewhat exotic even to her own ears.
“A real meal!” was Mireille’s teasing response, even as she stood, removing herself from Kirika’s space. Kirika felt a slight chill, but ignored it as she started to pod a bag of fresh peas. “What’s the occasion?”
“Nothing,” Kirika replied, aware that she sounded, as always, somewhat sullen and that it was entirely inappropriate to her true mood. The question was certainly a fair one, and she took it in stride; up until now, she had for the most part been a toast and eggs cook at best.
“Mm…do I have time to take a bath?”
Kirika felt a slight smile at her lips unbidden as she listened to the soft purr of contented amusement in Mireille’s voice.
“I think so,” she said, and she glanced up as Mireille waved in dismissal and then disappeared into the bathroom. She continued to watch as the door swung closed behind Mireille, but failed to latch. It swung back a bit, leaving a bare inch of open space. She couldn’t see anything, but nonetheless Kirika found her mouth going dry. She had to shake herself from her absent-minded staring and return to her task. Within moments she heard the apartment’s old pipes creaking in the walls and the heavy sound of water hitting the bottom of the claw-footed tub. This sound, and the one that soon followed it---that of water dripping and shifting as Mireille moved her limbs---became her new soothing background noise, keeping her heartbeat steady as she moved cautiously through the motions of creating the dish.
The bath was a long one, and the timer nearly done by the time Mireille’s voice floated out of the space between the door and the jamb.
“Kirika!”
“Yes?” she called back, without breaking eye contact with the timer she had been eyeing ever since the pie had gone in the oven.
“Could you bring me my dressing gown?”
Kirika nearly tripped over herself as she got to her feet and padded up the stairs into their bedroom, to where the dressing gown was hanging on the inside of the closet door. Once the fabric was in her hands, she hesitated briefly, and without conscious thought she raised it to her face, eyes sliding closed as she took in a breath. The scent of Mireille left her feeling a bit dazed as she made her way back down the stairs and around into the bathroom. She pushed open the door without thinking, then hesitated briefly as she took in the sight of Mireille relaxing back in the tub, hair piled on top of her head and eyes closed. Her breasts bobbed against the fragrant bubbles surrounding her, and Kirika felt her cheeks flush pink.
“Here,” she said breathlessly as her body carried her the next few steps, and she stood at the side of the bath with the bathrobe outstretched. At first Mireille opened her eyes and reached out to take it, but she realized quickly that Kirika had no intention of giving it to her. With a sort of smirk, Mireille bent forward and pulled the plug out of the tub, then stood and turned, presenting her back and arms stretched backwards. Kirika’s hands were gentle as she slid the robe over Mireille’s arms, and remained on Mireille’s shoulders as the other woman took hold of the fabric and pulled it against her chest. Despite herself, Kirika found herself swaying forward, eyes closing again as she took in a deep breath this time. Her senses went blank for a moment as the scent of soap and bubble bath and beneath all of that Mireille assaulted her control. Nonetheless, as the breath left her she stepped back, and before Mireille had turned around, she had left the bathroom and was back in the kitchen, staring at the timer with focused intent.
She was just retrieving the shepherd’s pie from the oven when Mireille appeared, still in her dressing gown and with wet, stringy hair hanging loosely about her shoulders. She smiled and uttered a soft word of thanks as she accepted a plate of the steaming meal. Kirika waited until Mireille was seated before she sat down, and waited until Mireille’s eyes lit up at the first bite before she lowered her own fork.
“It’s fabulous.” Mireille’s voice was rich with genuine surprise and delight, and upon taking a bite, Kirika couldn’t help but silently agree. “You might be onto something here, Kirika.”
She found herself blushing again, worse than before.
“Thank you,” she said softly, for a moment feeling shy.
Mireille didn’t speak again until they had both finished eating and Kirika had stood to clear away the dishes, and when she did, it was to finally pose the question. Kirika watched as Mireille savored a sip of red wine, fingers dancing against the flute of the glass as her eyes, bright and sparkling, regarded Kirika in return.
“That was wonderful,” Mireille said, her voice firm but not lacking in mirth. “I can’t help but be suspicious.”
Kirika didn’t respond as she rinsed the dishes, her back now turned to Mireille.
“You aren’t, by any chance, attempting to make yourself indispensable, are you?” There were a number of other questions behind the one that was spoken aloud, and none of them were precisely what Kirika had expected, so it was with real surprise that she turned, distractedly drying her hands on the dish towel.
A moment’s reflection on the amused expression in Mireille’s eyes forced Kirika to blushingly realize that, although it might have been for the most part false to answer yes, it might be easier than to say that rather, she was trying to seduce Mireille. To admit to insecurity, she abruptly discovered, was easier than to admit to desire.
“Something like that,” was what she said eventually, aware that a mere admittance of either extreme would have oversimplified what she was truly feeling, and certainly would have put something of a crick in her plans.
She watched, mildly bemused, as her canvas suddenly approached her, solidifying before her eyes as Mireille’s hands came to rest on Kirika’s shoulders.
“Surely you know better than that,” said Mireille lightly into Kirika’s ear, and then she bent, one hand sliding under Kirika’s chin to tilt her up as their lips met.
Somewhere between then and the moment her back hit the bed beneath the gentle push of Mireille’s hands, Kirika became aware that her plan was no longer going according to plan, and consequently, her heartbeat was wildly out of control. She felt the quill slipping, sliding from her grasp, then finally dropping away as her hands slid up to tangle in Mireille’s hair.
“Surely you know that after all I went through…”
Kirika gasped as Mireille kissed and nipped at the flesh beneath her chin, her legs restlessly lifting on either side of Mireille’s hips as she felt something she hadn’t at all realized she’d been holding release. Suddenly a dry mouth and an aching chest were the least of her problems.
“…to get you back…”
Her eyes closed and she heard herself let out the strangest noise, a moan like none she had ever heard herself make, as Mireille’s hands slid beneath her tank top and flickered like dancing butterfly wings over the tensing muscles of her belly.
“…I would absolutely not…”
After some maneuvering, Kirika found herself sinking back into the thick blankets, cold and naked but soon warmed by the press of Mireille’s body over hers as Mireille’s hands stroked through her hair.
“…be so quick to let you go.”
Another strange noise left her mouth as Mireille kissed her again, drawing her into a pleasant duel of lips and tongues that came to her easily despite its unfamiliarity. She nearly sobbed with loss when Mireille finally broke for air, her lips tracing the outside of Kirika’s ear.
“Oh no,” she murmured, and Kirika found herself shivering as Mireille’s hands started to move downwards, warm and wonderful sensations moving through her as Mireille’s fingers stroked and teased her breasts. “I wouldn’t let that happen.”
Kirika found herself breathing raggedly as Mireille’s mouth replaced her hands, and for the first time Kirika experienced the sweet feeling of Mireille suckling her for a few moments before Mireille moved on, apparently seeking another target. As Mireille moved down her body, Kirika opened her eyes and, suddenly feeling impatient, reached up to fumble with the dressing gown still draped over Mireille’s figure. Mireille chuckled, sitting up just long enough to let the gown slide away before she bent again. Kirika had little time to do any of what she wanted; to explore, to reorient herself, to bring herself back on track and pick up her pencil. Before she caught up with herself, Mireille had caught her first, her hands caressing Kirika’s thighs as she bent between them.
Every sound that came from Kirika’s mouth after that was even more foreign to her, a series of whimpers and groans and even shrieks that she had never imagined herself making. Once or twice she managed recognizable words, words like ‘please’ and Mireille’s name. At some point she lost track of herself entirely, her gaze fixed on the ceiling seeking ballast as her body rocked her, stormed for a moment before coming to rest. Her voice was raw from the cry she gave out at that release, and she lay there stunned, unmoving as Mireille rested her head against Kirika’s belly.
“I wouldn’t let you go now,” Mireille murmured, and Kirika shivered at the sensation of Mireille’s lips on over-sensitized flesh. “You are mine as much as I am yours.”
She wanted to say something to that, to find some response, to paint something on the canvas that would be recognizable to her in the morning. But it dawned on her, in that brief moment of total clarity, that there would be no recognizing this, no prize at the end of the journey; only the journey itself. Instead of speaking words, what she found herself doing was lifting her arms, pulling Mireille up until their lips met again. The following daydream was more pleasant than most, and this one she knew she would never forget; that sound of Mireille so softly calling out her name was one that would forever remain with her.
She awoke the next morning to find that at some point she had drawn a face, and for the first time since her sketching had begun, it was a face she recognized.
*****
THE END
In the meantime, I give you...
Fandom: Noir
Title: Artistry
Author: Elsewhere (elsewherecw)
Pairing: Mireille/Kirika
Rating: R
Prompt: "Something subtle--they aren't overtly romantic, but they're content together. Not sappy, but the angst shouldn't be overwhelming. First time, or romantic/sexual tension preferred to established relationship." (requested by anenko)
Date Finished: May 9th, 2006
Note: Written for yuri_challenge 2006.
Artistry
By Elsewhere
elsewherecw@shaw.ca
Disclaimer: Remarkably enough, these characters don’t belong to me. I’m a shameless thief writing about shameless assassins. Ironic, eh?
Distribution: If you want this story for any page other than the ones I’ve sent it to, please ask me first, so I know where it goes.
Spoilers: This takes place after the end of the anime series. If you haven’t seen it, some of the references might not make sense.
Note: Written for anenko, in response to the following prompt: “Something subtle--they aren't overtly romantic, but they're content together. Not sappy, but the angst shouldn't be overwhelming. First time, or romantic/sexual tension preferred to established relationship.”
I’m not sure how well I managed to answer the prompt. There’s plenty of romantic and sexual tension, and following that a first time. Otherwise, I tried to keep it relatively subtle and not too overtly romantic, and certainly to portray their contentment with one another, but I’m aware that I may have slipped. Depending on one’s tastes, parts of this may seem entirely too sappy and/or romantic, and for that I apologize. Perhaps if you look at it as the sort of prideful romance that occurs between an artist and her masterpiece it might be a bit more manageable. ;P
Summary: In her eyes, from that moment of decision Mireille became the canvas and she the artist, quill in hand.
*****
Life was strikingly normal in the flat they shared, the days composed of simple, blissful monotony.
Mireille spent much of her time in front of her laptop, sifting through job board postings looking for some sort of innocuous occupation that one or both of them could take up. With the steady clicking of Mireille’s fingers over mouse and keyboard as a sort of soothing background noise, Kirika spent the days watering the plants, sweeping the floor, making sure they had fresh eggs and milk, and making the bed. She would often linger on this last task, fingers running back and forth over the sheets and blankets she shared with Mireille. It gave her pleasure to pause, to place her palm on Mireille’s pillow. She felt that by doing so she was closer to Mireille somehow, closer to understanding the dreams that made her whimper in her sleep.
Kirika had few dreams, and those she did happened while she was awake. At some point---she couldn’t remember when---she had taken up her sketchpad again. At first she tried to draw landscapes and flowers, fruits in bowls and the clouds in the sky. To her surprise, she had found that whenever she tried to sketch these symbols of everyday life around her, she would drift off into formless daydreams, her eyes restlessly chasing blurred figures no longer familiar to her conscious memory. Each time, when she came around to herself again she would find she had sketched something. These somethings were sometimes strange and terrible, etched in angry blacks and greys, and sometimes soft and cautious, pillowy shapes drawn with the lightest touch of pencil to page. These sketches, taken together, formed a record of her quest to regain more of herself, more of the person she had abandoned so long ago. She kept the pictures in a loose pile beneath her side of the bed, under where her own head lay. By doing so she felt she was closer to herself somehow, closer to understanding the blank slate she saw behind her eyelids every time she went to sleep.
Most nights, rather than chase the dreams that never seemed to come, she would lull herself to sleep by listening to the rhythm of Mireille’s breathing. When Mireille slept peacefully, her breathing became slow and even, and seemed to be easily in rhythm with Kirika’s own heartbeat. Once, in a moment of boldness, she had tested the theory and reached out, placing her palm over the flesh between Mireille’s breasts. Under her palm she had felt a steady beat entirely in time with her own, and she had marveled at that, feeling her heartbeat briefly quicken in excitement to find something new she shared with Mireille. She had quickly realized it must surely be a mere consequence of lying so close to one another, but explanation of the phenomenon had not served to obliterate the delight it gave her. She recalled that that night, she had fallen asleep with a silly grin on her face.
There were other things that, at times, she thought must be the consequence of lying so close to one another at night: things like the way her chest ached when Mireille would kindly say her name, or the way her breath caught when she would catch a glimpse of the nape of Mireille’s neck, or the way her heart clenched almost painfully when Mireille would sit next to her late at night, wet from a recent shower and wearing nothing but a towel, and turn off the lamp. Other times she let herself engage in a lucid flight of fancy and supposed that after all they had been through together, all the times their backs had been pressed together as they fought, it was only natural that her body should respond so readily to Mireille’s. She told herself it was only to be expected, that the closeness of empathy should in turn cause the body to call out for the intimacy of proximity.
It was only rarely that she allowed herself the ultimate fantasy, a daydream lacking in the abstraction of her sketches and instead clear and immediate. In these daydreams she fantasized that she was a normal seventeen year old girl, and that, as so often happened with teenage girls, she was a slave to boundless infatuation. In her daydreams it seemed the simplest thing in the world, to have a crush and want to be closer to her. In reality, she knew this theory was the most complicated of all. The killer that spoke to her through her sketches was a person who had no concept of love.
On this particular night, she was feeling a bit light-headed, and because of it she suffered what even at the time felt like a lack of judgment. She decided to allow her daydream to progress for the evening, to explore its consequences, and to that end she settled on a notion of what she imagined might appear out of her mind. In her eyes, from that moment of decision Mireille became the canvas and she the artist, quill in hand.
She was not aggressive about it. She began simply and without ceremony, by cutting carrots. Carrots, she knew, were not particularly romantic, and that was what kept her calm and her heart relatively steady in her chest as she proceeded with her plan. The first few steps flew by quickly enough, and shortly she had a pile of the needed materials: diced tomatoes, carrot slices, chopped onions, peeled potatoes. On the stove a pot of potatoes boiled, the only interruption to her thoughts the occasional sound of a bit of water splashing out of the pot and into the gas below.
She was so engrossed in her task she failed to notice the telltale silence that took over the apartment, a respite from the usual taps and clicks from the direction of the pool table, before a hand came to rest lightly on her shoulder. She lifted her head even as Mireille lowered hers, bending over Kirika. Silken blonde hair tumbled over Mireille’s shoulder, pulled by gravity to curtain over Kirika’s bare shoulder.
“You seem to be going all out,” came Mireille’s soft voice, sounding, as she so often did, vaguely amused. “What are you making?”
“Shepherd’s pie.” Kirika’s accented voice spoke the words softly, made them sound somewhat exotic even to her own ears.
“A real meal!” was Mireille’s teasing response, even as she stood, removing herself from Kirika’s space. Kirika felt a slight chill, but ignored it as she started to pod a bag of fresh peas. “What’s the occasion?”
“Nothing,” Kirika replied, aware that she sounded, as always, somewhat sullen and that it was entirely inappropriate to her true mood. The question was certainly a fair one, and she took it in stride; up until now, she had for the most part been a toast and eggs cook at best.
“Mm…do I have time to take a bath?”
Kirika felt a slight smile at her lips unbidden as she listened to the soft purr of contented amusement in Mireille’s voice.
“I think so,” she said, and she glanced up as Mireille waved in dismissal and then disappeared into the bathroom. She continued to watch as the door swung closed behind Mireille, but failed to latch. It swung back a bit, leaving a bare inch of open space. She couldn’t see anything, but nonetheless Kirika found her mouth going dry. She had to shake herself from her absent-minded staring and return to her task. Within moments she heard the apartment’s old pipes creaking in the walls and the heavy sound of water hitting the bottom of the claw-footed tub. This sound, and the one that soon followed it---that of water dripping and shifting as Mireille moved her limbs---became her new soothing background noise, keeping her heartbeat steady as she moved cautiously through the motions of creating the dish.
The bath was a long one, and the timer nearly done by the time Mireille’s voice floated out of the space between the door and the jamb.
“Kirika!”
“Yes?” she called back, without breaking eye contact with the timer she had been eyeing ever since the pie had gone in the oven.
“Could you bring me my dressing gown?”
Kirika nearly tripped over herself as she got to her feet and padded up the stairs into their bedroom, to where the dressing gown was hanging on the inside of the closet door. Once the fabric was in her hands, she hesitated briefly, and without conscious thought she raised it to her face, eyes sliding closed as she took in a breath. The scent of Mireille left her feeling a bit dazed as she made her way back down the stairs and around into the bathroom. She pushed open the door without thinking, then hesitated briefly as she took in the sight of Mireille relaxing back in the tub, hair piled on top of her head and eyes closed. Her breasts bobbed against the fragrant bubbles surrounding her, and Kirika felt her cheeks flush pink.
“Here,” she said breathlessly as her body carried her the next few steps, and she stood at the side of the bath with the bathrobe outstretched. At first Mireille opened her eyes and reached out to take it, but she realized quickly that Kirika had no intention of giving it to her. With a sort of smirk, Mireille bent forward and pulled the plug out of the tub, then stood and turned, presenting her back and arms stretched backwards. Kirika’s hands were gentle as she slid the robe over Mireille’s arms, and remained on Mireille’s shoulders as the other woman took hold of the fabric and pulled it against her chest. Despite herself, Kirika found herself swaying forward, eyes closing again as she took in a deep breath this time. Her senses went blank for a moment as the scent of soap and bubble bath and beneath all of that Mireille assaulted her control. Nonetheless, as the breath left her she stepped back, and before Mireille had turned around, she had left the bathroom and was back in the kitchen, staring at the timer with focused intent.
She was just retrieving the shepherd’s pie from the oven when Mireille appeared, still in her dressing gown and with wet, stringy hair hanging loosely about her shoulders. She smiled and uttered a soft word of thanks as she accepted a plate of the steaming meal. Kirika waited until Mireille was seated before she sat down, and waited until Mireille’s eyes lit up at the first bite before she lowered her own fork.
“It’s fabulous.” Mireille’s voice was rich with genuine surprise and delight, and upon taking a bite, Kirika couldn’t help but silently agree. “You might be onto something here, Kirika.”
She found herself blushing again, worse than before.
“Thank you,” she said softly, for a moment feeling shy.
Mireille didn’t speak again until they had both finished eating and Kirika had stood to clear away the dishes, and when she did, it was to finally pose the question. Kirika watched as Mireille savored a sip of red wine, fingers dancing against the flute of the glass as her eyes, bright and sparkling, regarded Kirika in return.
“That was wonderful,” Mireille said, her voice firm but not lacking in mirth. “I can’t help but be suspicious.”
Kirika didn’t respond as she rinsed the dishes, her back now turned to Mireille.
“You aren’t, by any chance, attempting to make yourself indispensable, are you?” There were a number of other questions behind the one that was spoken aloud, and none of them were precisely what Kirika had expected, so it was with real surprise that she turned, distractedly drying her hands on the dish towel.
A moment’s reflection on the amused expression in Mireille’s eyes forced Kirika to blushingly realize that, although it might have been for the most part false to answer yes, it might be easier than to say that rather, she was trying to seduce Mireille. To admit to insecurity, she abruptly discovered, was easier than to admit to desire.
“Something like that,” was what she said eventually, aware that a mere admittance of either extreme would have oversimplified what she was truly feeling, and certainly would have put something of a crick in her plans.
She watched, mildly bemused, as her canvas suddenly approached her, solidifying before her eyes as Mireille’s hands came to rest on Kirika’s shoulders.
“Surely you know better than that,” said Mireille lightly into Kirika’s ear, and then she bent, one hand sliding under Kirika’s chin to tilt her up as their lips met.
Somewhere between then and the moment her back hit the bed beneath the gentle push of Mireille’s hands, Kirika became aware that her plan was no longer going according to plan, and consequently, her heartbeat was wildly out of control. She felt the quill slipping, sliding from her grasp, then finally dropping away as her hands slid up to tangle in Mireille’s hair.
“Surely you know that after all I went through…”
Kirika gasped as Mireille kissed and nipped at the flesh beneath her chin, her legs restlessly lifting on either side of Mireille’s hips as she felt something she hadn’t at all realized she’d been holding release. Suddenly a dry mouth and an aching chest were the least of her problems.
“…to get you back…”
Her eyes closed and she heard herself let out the strangest noise, a moan like none she had ever heard herself make, as Mireille’s hands slid beneath her tank top and flickered like dancing butterfly wings over the tensing muscles of her belly.
“…I would absolutely not…”
After some maneuvering, Kirika found herself sinking back into the thick blankets, cold and naked but soon warmed by the press of Mireille’s body over hers as Mireille’s hands stroked through her hair.
“…be so quick to let you go.”
Another strange noise left her mouth as Mireille kissed her again, drawing her into a pleasant duel of lips and tongues that came to her easily despite its unfamiliarity. She nearly sobbed with loss when Mireille finally broke for air, her lips tracing the outside of Kirika’s ear.
“Oh no,” she murmured, and Kirika found herself shivering as Mireille’s hands started to move downwards, warm and wonderful sensations moving through her as Mireille’s fingers stroked and teased her breasts. “I wouldn’t let that happen.”
Kirika found herself breathing raggedly as Mireille’s mouth replaced her hands, and for the first time Kirika experienced the sweet feeling of Mireille suckling her for a few moments before Mireille moved on, apparently seeking another target. As Mireille moved down her body, Kirika opened her eyes and, suddenly feeling impatient, reached up to fumble with the dressing gown still draped over Mireille’s figure. Mireille chuckled, sitting up just long enough to let the gown slide away before she bent again. Kirika had little time to do any of what she wanted; to explore, to reorient herself, to bring herself back on track and pick up her pencil. Before she caught up with herself, Mireille had caught her first, her hands caressing Kirika’s thighs as she bent between them.
Every sound that came from Kirika’s mouth after that was even more foreign to her, a series of whimpers and groans and even shrieks that she had never imagined herself making. Once or twice she managed recognizable words, words like ‘please’ and Mireille’s name. At some point she lost track of herself entirely, her gaze fixed on the ceiling seeking ballast as her body rocked her, stormed for a moment before coming to rest. Her voice was raw from the cry she gave out at that release, and she lay there stunned, unmoving as Mireille rested her head against Kirika’s belly.
“I wouldn’t let you go now,” Mireille murmured, and Kirika shivered at the sensation of Mireille’s lips on over-sensitized flesh. “You are mine as much as I am yours.”
She wanted to say something to that, to find some response, to paint something on the canvas that would be recognizable to her in the morning. But it dawned on her, in that brief moment of total clarity, that there would be no recognizing this, no prize at the end of the journey; only the journey itself. Instead of speaking words, what she found herself doing was lifting her arms, pulling Mireille up until their lips met again. The following daydream was more pleasant than most, and this one she knew she would never forget; that sound of Mireille so softly calling out her name was one that would forever remain with her.
She awoke the next morning to find that at some point she had drawn a face, and for the first time since her sketching had begun, it was a face she recognized.
*****
THE END