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Up on the Rooftop

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She was something special.

Of course, Claire had already known that for quite some time. He could recall from memory all the varied ways she found to make the most mundane moments interesting. While this was not on aspect of her of which he had bored, it was something that he had come to expect. But on that night – and in just that situation – something about her made him stop and stare.

It helped that he had already finished with his half of the job. The Runorata goon he had chosen didn't put up much of a fight. His body and mind were lethargic by even average standards. He had realized this and he spent an unfortunate amount of their fight cowering in Claire's presence. So, it didn't take long for Claire to work his magic and turn a barely existing thug into a sad hunk of meat. It was a trick he performed very well. He just preferred it when his assistant met him effort for effort.

Chane, though, had hit the jackpot. Her soon-to-be-dead man had just the right mixture of youthful swagger and aged experience to make him worth anyone's time. He held a knife as if he had been given it as a kid and fought like had been training with it for just as long. He was long, wiry, and capable of shifting into outlandish positions without a problem. When he swung out, he was swinging to hit.

He just rarely did so. Each of his moves forward were met by the sterling shimmer of her knife. Her body moved with smooth precision. No obvious deliberations caused her limbs to hesitate as they darted in and out of position. Her legs glided with ease across the rough rooftop exterior. When she spun at just the right angle, the wind would slip in and forced her dress to billow out in a delicate, fanciful way. It looked almost as if she were dancing. The sight of her one-sided waltz made Claire want to pause the moment, take her by the hand, and finish out that dance with the jagged city skyline as their only witness.

But Claire would never kill the momentum of one of her hard won fights.

Even he had failed to see the end coming. A particularly harsh blow had pushed Chane and her assailant apart by a few feet. The man had laughed as Chane glided swiftly towards him. He had little chance to move by the time he realized that the knife was moving swiftly for his throat. Claire watched as the man's head slammed back. The thick red line that dotted his throat gradually widened until a torrent of blood burst forth from it. Chane shifted the knife to her other hand and turned away. But she did not do so soon enough to miss the aftermath. The spray eventually covered much of her right side with blood.

Years late, they would blame the sudden moon glow for what happened next. But he knew that it was more than that. The waning red fountain outlined her steady form as if she was a maiden emerging from the mist. Her eyes glanced over and suddenly caught sight of him. She shifted just enough for him to appreciate the vibrant contrast between the slick red blood and the rest of her. Deftly, she raised one blood spattered arm, beckoning him in the only way she could to come forth.

How could he refuse? Claire darted from his position and stood before her in a flash. He took her blood stained hand in his and pulled her close. She did not resist. Carefully, she slipped the knife into his coat pocket and looked up. The faint moonlight caught the dampness of her brow and the still wet blood along her cheeks, making her appear to glisten. There was a determined softness to her stare. It was a look he had easily learned to interpret. "We can always hold off for a few minutes," he said.

Her hand reached up and her fingers threaded into his hair. She bounced to her toes and thrust her face forward. Their mouths crashed together and Claire eagerly drank her in. He was used to the faint tastes of sweat and blood but it all seemed different when taken off of her. The bitter metallic tang was tempered by something he couldn't quite describe. He only knew that he wanted more.

Carefully, they guided each other across the broken terrain. Chane would occasionally tug at his hair when he moved in a way which she did not like. Playfully, he would nip at her lip each time it happened. It didn't pass her notice that he began receiving harder tugs the closer they got to their destination. It was all a game. After all, the serious business, was over and they were now free to relax. The fallen bodies melted into the background as they moved toward the supply hutch. They were all but forgotten by the time Chane's back slipped up against the shack's wall.

Claire broke the kiss and pulled away as for as her arms would let him. The blood on her face had smeared and mingled with the blood that had been on his own face to form irregular blush marks. The look in her eyes, though, was the same. He leaned in a whispered, "What do you want to do?"

She untangled her hand from his hair and let it fall until it reached his waist. She slipped her hand between them and grabbed onto him at dead center. She flexed her fingers gently, eliciting a small gasp from his as his manhood swelled from the pressure.

"I approve but would you mind if I went first?"

Her eyes shifted to the side in seeming contemplation. She looked back towards him and nodded. She let him go. She placed each hand over a thigh and slowly began to crinkle the fabric up into her palms. Claire stood back and watched as the stained black curtain rose over her pallid legs. He knelt down and pressed his face against it. He slipped his head inside the fabric fort and placed eager kisses up her thighs. He stopped, naturally, at the cotton barricade.

At first, he slipped his fingers along the waistband and began to tug. Then he realized that he had an altogether different tool for the job. He pulled out the knife and, after wiping the remaining bits of blood off onto his coat, snipped at the flimsy cloth until he was able to pull it off. He placed it and knife back into his pocket for safekeeping.

He was a bit surprised when the world went dark. Claire leaned back and realized that Chane had let go her skirt. Even in the dim light, he could note joyous trembling in her knees. He had to laugh at the new situation. It was, in its own way, funny. He let out a low chuckle and placed his hands on both of her legs As his face lifted up towards her, he put his mind and mouth on the task at hand. He had more in mind for the night than stray giggles. He wanted to bring out more than a slight tremble in her knees. And he would stay on his for as long as it took to bring her to hers.