Kirika likes being useful. She likes being useful to Mireille. So if Mireille needs to vent her frustration, Kirika doesn't mind if it gets taken out on her.

It's because Kirika is useful, that Mireille feeds her, and clothes her, and lets her live here. It's everything Kirika could want, and more than what's deserved of someone who never existed in the first place.

But Mireille doesn't care about who Kirika is, she says. As long as Kirika helps her achieve her goal.

And once she does, Mireille is going to kill her.

Kirika gets lonely when Mireille goes out without her. Sometimes Kirika considers going through Mireille's things, to try and find out more about the woman that has become her whole world. She always thinks better of it. If Mireille doesn't care about who Kirika is, then Kirika will offer her that same respect.

The apartment feels too big when Kirika is the only one in it. So does Mireille's bed.

Mireille still wears her pajamas, even though she's stripped Kirika down to nothing. That's how it always is. Mireille made it clear early on that Kirika isn't allowed to touch her back, so why undress?

She has Kirika flat on her back, two slender fingers pressed inside her. Kirika wishes that Mireille would kiss her. Without, all Kirika can do is squirm and pant.

Mireille never seems sure how to use her free hand. Sometimes she'll pin Kirika's arms above her head with it, or cover Kirika's mouth—only for a moment, though. Like she's frightened touching Kirika for too long might make it turn tender. That's what Kirika thinks.

The back of Mireille's hand brushes against Kirika's cheek. Kirika resists the urge to nuzzle into it.

That same hand then moves to grip the front of her throat. Kirika's body reacts before her brain, the shock of restricted oxygen not enough to override the excitement of Mireille holding her life in her hands. She feels herself squeeze down on Mireille's fingers. Mireille's eyes widen for a moment, before she furrows her brow, returning to that look of disdain she saves just for Kirika.

"You really are vulgar."

No matter how cruel, Mireille's words never bother Kirika. It's only the truth.

Remembering how to speak is a struggle with pleasure and asphyxia clouding her brain. But Mireille isn't doing this properly. It could be so much better.

"Both hands," Kirika gasps out.

Mireille is beautiful, and older, and she knows lots of things Kirika doesn't. But there's a lot that Mireille doesn't know.

"Use both hands, Mireille... please..."

Kirika watches Mireille's face closely. She looks baffled, then disgusted, before settling on a look of contempt. She's seen this process before. Mireille is convincing herself that what Kirika asked is what she had wanted to do all along.

With little fanfare, Mireille pulls out her fingers. Kirika can't choke back the whine that escapes her throat. Grimacing, Mireille shoves her knee between Kirika's legs. A shut-up-will-you gesture, but it's enough.

Mireille adjusts so both hands are wrapped around Kirika's neck. Her grip is looser than before. Maybe she's scared?

Kirika closes her eyes, to focus only on the feeling. Mireille is barely pressing down at all anymore. But the sensation of Mireille's hands, that steady pressure, that signal that she could if she wanted to, is enough.

Except Mireille couldn't, if she wanted to. Strangulation takes effort, and Mireille has never killed anyone with her bare hands, never snapped anyone's neck. She thinks she's above it. Above Kirika.

Still, Kirika wishes that Mireille could kill her this way, when she does. Mireille's markswomen hands wrapped around her neck, knee pressed between her legs, and looking Kirika in her eyes until Kirika can't hold them open anymore. But Mireille doesn't have the strength, let alone the dedication.

As much as Mireille's gun is merely an extension of her arm, it isn't going to be the same.

Mireille's hands are trembling against Kirika's neck. Kirika feels a chill. Mireille's palms are getting wet with sweat. She doesn't seem to like doing this after all.

It's nice, getting to make Mireille shudder.

It doesn't take long for Kirika to come. It's short, muted. She was already close, and alongside everything else, the steady pressure of Mireille's knee was enough to finish the job.

Kirika keeps her eyes closed, until she can feel Mireille climb off of her. She's too afraid to find out how Mireille would look at her right now.

Kirika tries not to think as she composes herself again. Tries not to dwell on the fact she got off more from her own fantasy than anything Mireille actually did.

When Kirika opens them again, Mireille has turned her back to her, facing the wall. Same as always.

Kirika gets up to pick her underwear off the floor, and silently pulls them back on.

Her shorts and camisole ended up further away, closer to the cracked leather couch that sits across from the bed. Kirika spent the night there once, as punishment. Kirika learned the hard way about who gets to be touched and who doesn't. It makes Kirika shiver thinking about it.

When Mireille found Kirika still curled up there the next morning, she seemed even more annoyed than the night before. Kirika had only done what she was told. But it seemed that Mireille had expected—had wanted?—Kirika to crawl back into bed with her once she fell asleep.

With her pajamas back on, Kirika turns towards the bed again. Mireille hasn't moved.

Kirika stares at the back of her head, her long hair fanned out on the pillow behind her. Kirika longs to run her fingers through it, bury her face in it and inhale that floral perfume smell. She knows better now than to try.

It's enough, if Kirika can sleep by Mireille's side, in proximity of her warmth. Even if Mireille won't face her, even if Kirika can't touch her.

Kirika prays that just once, Mireille will let her. Just once, before the end.

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