Baccano!, Claire/Chane, knifeplay, learning her rhythms
It's something in the way he moves, she decides. Almost an echo of herself, like a shadow carefully slipping into the mirror-wake of her body, the dart of a heartbeat, the quick shivering pulse. He's still so fast, but sometimes he moves slow enough that his footsteps are a 1-2 tandem to hers, like the moves of a strange dance. Like he's learning her, etching who she is into him.
Chane never danced much--who with, and how would she have the time? And why? Huey Laforet and her quest for his freedom consumed her life and she gave it up gladly, willingly.
She's danced with Claire before, she thinks. On the top of a train, in an abandoned warehouse, taking the cautious unchoreographed steps. Can you love me? He'd asked, eyes fever-bright. Will you love me?
He's inside her--long fingers pressed against the slick shuddering heat of her flesh, lips tracing patterns over shoulders and collarbone as she gasps and writhes--and she's inside him, the tip of the blade slipping through layers of skin and into a red as deep as his hair.
He's teaching himself this about her to, what surface of her skin is the most sensitive, what makes her move away, what makes her dig her nails into his skin and mouth soundless aching cries.
They'll unweave a rhythm from the raw demand of their flesh together.