shiegra (shiegra) wrote in kinkfest, @ 2008-07-27 22:34:00 |
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Entry tags: | a: shiegra, f: baccano!, july 17, p: chane/claire |
at your feet, Baccano! (Claire/Chane)
Title: at your feet
Author: shiegra
Rating: R
Wordcount: 431
A/N: I meant for something entirely different to result from this prompt. But it didn't! I hope this will suffice.
Prompt: Baccano! - Claire/Chane - beginnings - "He grabs me by the hand/Drags me to the shore/And says 'Maybe you don't love me/But you'll grow to love me even more'"
She didn't think she'd ever put her feet on the ground again, in the early days. Was half afraid he wouldn't let her.
Sometimes he'd find her, or she'd find him, his presence elusive as smoke but as constant as a magnet, drawn and gravitating to her with his bewitching smile, his constant delight in the world, in himself, in her. "I'll take you to Brazil," he'd murmur into her hair, "to Beijing, to India, I'd shower you with silks--" And then he'd laugh and she'd know what he was thinking like he was still speaking, a low husky croon, into her ear: red silk and her heartbeat would triple time, just the decorous touch of his fingers throwing her into something close to dizziness.
Because, of course, it was Claire. And Claire wouldn't stop touching her, couldn't resist, drank her in like fine wine or the sunset. And he stole her breath, everytime he appeared outside her window, tapping on the glass and smiling at her with the devil in his sparking eyes and his hair falling across his forehead.
It took six days and thirteen hours for her fingers to automatically twitch with the urge to brush it away whenever she saw it. It was four hours and thirty five minutes after that, that she kissed him for the first time on a roof top, tasting steel between her teeth and still running hot on adrenaline. She didn't mean to count them; she just knew.
He gave an exuberant shout and wrapped his arms around her; her body was half-pinned against his, coat falling around her, enveloped in the scent of dark male musk and blood and something faintly sweet, like he'd been eating candy even though she didn't taste it on his tongue.
Not sex. Not yet. Her body was still hers, she still flinched with an alley cat's instinctive wariness when any touch strayed over sensitive skin. But it didn't seem to bother Claire; he was skin hungry, as tactile as he was vibrant, but nothing delighted him more than Chane touching him, his face or shoulders, or Chane stepping into his shadow, or Chane hunting with him, slipping from doorways to trace his steps and find him on the killing grounds, her star-dark eyes and endless silence as wild as the animal red in his eyes.
And every evening, somehow--slowly--she's beginning to wait for the tap of his fingers at the pane, as his smile as he holds out a hand for hers and tells her he's going to give her the world.