|shiegra (shiegra) wrote in kinkfest,|
@ 2008-07-06 11:38:00
|Entry tags:||a: shiegra, f: baccano!, july 06, p: chane/claire|
blood/chocolate, Baccano! (Claire/Chane)
Prompt: Baccano! - Claire/Chane - first time - nothing between them now
She’s the one, in the end, that goes looking for him.
He’s been gone for a month; either a difficult job or an especially fun one, and she thinks it’s ‘fun’. He brought her a present before he left, blades with ivory handles and perfect balance for throwing, a sheer rarity. She kissed him for it, rising to her toes to brush his mouth with hers, and he made a sound like the purr of a big cat, delighted with himself. That makes her think of cats that lay mice with broken necks at their owner’s feet to provide for the miserable hunters they surely are.
That almost makes her laugh, vibrations trembling in her throat but never making it out, skipping her heart into quickness at the thought of his face.
She can almost feel him the way she feels her father, a deep pulse in her stomach, a whisper along her skin that echoes with susurration in her skull. Here, it says knowingly, here, this way—
She finds him through an opened skylight, standing on creamy carpet and spilling blood over red velvet bedcovers with spectacular lack of concern. He turns when she drops down, his face lighting up like a child’s on Christmas, and reaches for her. She goes to him willingly, and raises her eyebrows.
“Not a train this time,” he tells her, pleased with himself, eyes glittering with a wild darkness still. She arches to kiss him, helpless to the lure, the desire to taste it in him. He kisses her back, obligingly deep and hungry, and she shivers in his arms like a restless animal, fingers tightening against his skin. “Almost as nice, though...” He steals another kiss, never able to resist once he has her in his arms. His mouth opens against hers, and he tastes like chocolate, probably a relic of the gift box laying opened on the bed, and smells like deep dark musk that raises the hairs on the back of her arms. “Maybe better. A dirigible.” He confides, secret and gleeful as though he’s seeking praise. She pats him on the shoulder, pulls free, and trailed over the bloody imprints of his feet—placing her own footprints within each in careful and automatic subterfuge—to investigate the chocolates.
She’s pleased; it’s a mirror, two chocolates of each kind on opposite sides of the box, and there’s only one missing. She finds its twin and slips it into her mouth, closes her eyes to taste Claire while his smell and his touch linger on her skin. “I was going to look for you.” He says, dizzy and pleased against the nape of her neck.
She takes his hands and slides them over her hips to her stomach, where she’s burning with the awareness of his presence, a heavy liquid throb. When his hands fan and his thumbs press in her breath catches and she rocks her hips almost involuntarily. His breath catches in turn and he nuzzles against her throat, the line of her pulse and then shoulder.
“Chane.” He murmurs against her skin, and she turns to face him as his hands rise to the buttons of the dress. His eyes are wide and gleaming, and the wildness in his eyes hasn’t abated at all, but turned just different enough all the same. “Beautiful.” He adds as solemnly as Claire can ever manage, and she kisses him again and let the fabric fall to her feet.