Let's be Scarlet [Baccano!, Claire/Chane, R]

[shiegra.livejournal.com]

Title: Let's be Scarlet
Author/Artist: shiegra
Rating: R
Warnings: Blood, and bloodplay.
Word count: 1024
Summary: It's her wedding night.
Prompt: Baccano!, Chane/Claire: Killing as foreplay-- She was beautiful covered in blood.



He died fast and silent, the wet burble of escaping blood and air slipping out from the opened wound of his throat before she let him collapse, rubber-limbed, to the ground at her feet and the cut folded up.

Her white heels -- Eve, who had helped pick out her wedding attire and found them beautiful, Chane quietly put her foot down concerning the height -- were splashed with miniscule droplets of blood. For the moment, glistening wetly, they looked like pretty beaded embroidery, tiny gems. Chane shifted her grip on her knives in her new gloves, watching the light move smooth and dull over the razor-keen matte grey blade. And then she skirted the corpse and moved down the hall, feeling the hum of the train's movement beneath her feet.

If this was Luck's business intruding on her wedding night, she intended to make her displeasure known.

Chane moved smoothly down the hall, skirting the open mouth of the windows despite the fact that she was fairly certain there was no one in the attacking party that was agile enough to pull that particular and familiar trick. Nor, for that matter, alive enough to do so. Chane knew she'd finished roughly half of the enemy, and knowing Claire -- knowing her husband -- he'd have no problem finishing his share.

A soft thump, a click as the knob began to turn and the door to swing open. Chane flipped the knife in her fingers and flung, a smooth flowing motion.

Claire grabbed it by the hilt with the blade a hairsbreadth from his throat.

She watched the sparks dance in his eyes as he looked down the corridor, over the gleaming blade and the fallen body and into her eyes.

Chane knew where each splash of blood had struck her. She was a clean killer, usually, but she had made an exception just this once for him, and she'd chosen her canvas well. A stripe just below her cheekbones, one skating the curve of her breast and splashing across her belly -- a thicker swathe than she'd intended over her thighs, soaking the delicate lace. The dress was irretrievable.

The look in his eyes was worth it.

She shifted her grip on her second knife, deliberately, feeling the blood wet and tacky on the white lace. His eyes slid down and up, taking her in from head to toe. It was an assassin's look, measuring her. The sex was there, but buried up until he met her eyes.

Chane smiled, and with the toe of one expensive show she slid the fallen man aside.

He came in a rush down the corridor and she jumped back, steadier on her heels than she thought she'd been, and struck for his throat. He veered to the side but didn't flinch away and she reversed it at the last second so that the pommel struck his shoulder as his body drove her into the wall.

He was smiling at her, brilliant and boyish, like a young man giddy on his wedding night rather than a killer with blood painted across his hair. He was surprisingly clean, for Vino.

His teeth showed white. "I wasn't sure you'd like it," he said. "I thought it might be rude."

The actual wedding bed had pristinely white sheets, with embroidery. It would certainly have been rude to Eve.

But the rug in this corridor was soaked with blood already, and the blood in his pants was wet through her skirt. She let him press closer, fisting one hand in his collar and moving with him as he slipped between her thighs and brushed a soft, worshipful kiss across the corner of her mouth. "Hello, darling," he said lightly. Her knife dangled from his fingers as if forgotten.

Chane pushed him back, took it from him, and meticulously cleaned both blades on what clean expanse of her skirt was left. Then she sheathed them in the leather straps on the inside of her dress, leaning back against the wall. He gave her space, but when she was finished she let the fabric fall back, snagged his coat, and dragged him closer with unexpected vehemence. He caught himself against the wall, his eyes full of those dark dancing sparks, and Chane rose onto her toes and kissed him, mouth opening against his in a wet, dark invitation, warm and hard.

The carpet was wet and he was very, very strong -- he slipped his hands beneath her thighs and lifted, and she hooked her legs around his waist, muscles tensing in her thighs. She caught hold of a light fixture, fingers tightening -- it had been broken in the fight, so there was no chance of burning herself, and Chane barely spared it a thought before they were kissing again, greedy and almost violent.

The buttons were tiny pearls. Claire's hands were deft, and when the dress fell open they smeared long lines of red over her belly and breasts, and Chane sucked in a shuddering breath at his fingers on her nipples, his voice crooning, throaty and greedy, against her throat.

Claire, she thought, and sank her nails into his shoulders where she'd slipped her hands beneath his coat. He groaned against her, back arching like a stroked cat, and his hands were wet with blood against her hips.

Her fingers curled at the buttons to his trousers and he shook his head against her throat. "No," he breathed, not yet, and sank to his knees before her.

Chane looked down at him, her breathing shaky, her eyes wide. Down the hall the last light flickered and sputtered, and he was a dark crouched shadow, red lights gleaming in his eyes. Chane touched his cheek, fingers brushing his lips, and he kissed her fingers, then bit gently.

"May I?" He asked, proper solemn manners, and Chane laughed silently, body quaking, and relaxed into his hands.

When his mouth pressed between her legs and he licked her open, teeth pressing just ungently enough, she threw back her head and saw, against the inside of her eyelids, dancing lights the colour of blood.