by GrandMoff _Grim_Grimoire_ yuri microfiction-the characters are trademarked by NIS America, makers of the game. This story is lime, so please don't read it if you don't like mild physical girl/girl affection.
Packed house again-I can hear many voices from backstage, from your dressing room, where we are now. Another night of thousands of people listening to your sweet ballads, arias, and librettos, falling under your spell. I'm the wizard, but you've done more enchanting than I ever will.
"Let me paint you," I say, sitting in my usual chair.
"Is there time for that?" you ask, but you're already taking your seat across from me.
"Of course, Amoretta," I answer. You lift your pale, smooth-skinned leg and I guide your foot into my lap. I open the cap on the bottle of shiny purple polish. I savor the feeling of your warm, firm foot in my hand as I apply the color to your smallest toenail.
We don't speak, as usual. Who needs words? We enjoy this simple pleasure-this communication of flesh with flesh. I feel your pulse, your warmth, your very life.
Finishing all five toes on your right foot, I surprise you by reaching for your left while keeping your right in my lap. You shift in your seat, readjusting your weight. I caress your lower leg for a few long moments before I pick up my tiny brush and resume my work.
Too soon. One more stroke-the nail of the great toe on your left foot is completely painted. You know I'm done, but you wait; you can feel that I'm not quite ready to let you go yet.
My hands still softly rubbing your feet, I ask, "Do you like how it looks?"
You glance at your shiny nails, considering. Then you look up again, into my eyes. "Yes, thank you," you reply. Is it me, or are you breathing a little faster?
I keep staring at your gorgeous scarlet eyes as I gently lift your feet from my lap. I release the right and you set it on the carpeted floor. Eye contact as strong as ever, I raise your left foot higher, and I press my lips against it very lightly.
"Lillet," you say quietly. Your voice isn't much more than an unsteady breath, a passionate sigh.
I bend a little closer and kiss your calf, just above your ankle. I feel more than see you squirm slightly in your chair. Your eyes and mine are still locked together. Then I lower your foot, all the way to the floor.
You rise from your chair, step forward, take my hands, and squeeze gently.
We allow ourselves to go back to life, leaving our private world for a while. You go to the wardrobe for your white sleeveless dress; I get your white low-heeled sandals from the chest of drawers. I help you with the dress's laces and the straps of the sandals.
"You're on in one minute, Ms. Virgine-Blan," the stage manager says from outside your door.
I gaze at you, clasping your hands. You are as beautiful as ever, your thin yet strong limbs, your long and wavy blonde hair, your lavender-lidded eyes, your cute button nose. "The finishing touch," I tell you. I cast my spell, and your classic muslin dress gains an opalescent shimmer, as do your sandals and the white choker around your slender throat.
"Captivate them with your song, my love," I say.
You smile, filling my spirit with light. "I'll see you after the show," you promise.
I watch you exit the room. You'll be on stage; no one will notice the faint lipstick mark on your calf. It's only a symbol of the fingerprints we have on each other's hearts.
I could feel it in the last touch of your hands. You love me as much now as you did the day we won our freedom from the evil in the academy tower, as much as you did the first night we spent together in our house, in our bed. You love me as much as I love you.