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So I watched Baccano! and I liked it! And I think more people should watch this series! I could detail the reasons why but other people have beaten me to it. Also I have a huge boner for the time period. Have I mentioned I have a huge boner for the time period? What I really want to write for this is long, well-researched, stylish period pieces about prohibition era mob politics, and the advent of World War II, and how this effects the immortals. And how Claire Stanfield winds up fighting Nazis.
Instead, um, have something vague porn! Some short, sort of bendy vague porn, 'cause that's how these two roll.
"You know, I knew this contortionist. Rubber Anne, was her act. Her real name was Trixie but that just didn't have the same ring to it, you know."
Bent over the railing with her knee somewhere over his shoulder, Chane opened her eyes. Her fingers loosened on his upper arm. Slow, deliberately, one by one.
Claire got the picture. "Uh. Not that we were intimates or anything!" Chane pushed up on her elbows, straightening so that their faces were level. She Looked at him. Skin pale and eyes gold like a tiger's in the lights from the hotel room above theirs. He laughed. "She was just the kind of girl to kiss and tell. Not my type."
The hand holding his arm was now on his neck. She was unconvinced. Shifting his weight to free up his other arm, he folded his fingers over hers shifting her hand down to the spot between his collar bones. She blinked. Little earnest moves like that always seemed to startle her, especially when she had murder on the mind. It was endearing, actually. "But you're the first girl I've ever been steady with, Chane. I told you, right? You're pretty one of a kind." He leaned over her, looking into her sharp features, her dress open in a disarray, framed by the river down below. "I like that kind of act the best."
Chane's eyebrows rose, slightly. She was a hard sell. It was trite, but it'd do. She shut her eyes, tipping her head back. Taking the hand on his collar and guiding it down to her hip, guiding it up her dress and the faint lines of her knife holster. Very well, is what she meant by this, pricking her nails against his wrist. But you should know better to bring other women into the bedroom. Even if we are half out of it. He was fortunate (she added this with an arch of her back) she knew she came out better from the comparison. What would he do, if she were not?
"Can't imagine," grinned Claire. "You're unparalleled."
Hmph, said the press of her heel against the small of his back. That, too, would do.
Instead, um, have something vague porn! Some short, sort of bendy vague porn, 'cause that's how these two roll.
"You know, I knew this contortionist. Rubber Anne, was her act. Her real name was Trixie but that just didn't have the same ring to it, you know."
Bent over the railing with her knee somewhere over his shoulder, Chane opened her eyes. Her fingers loosened on his upper arm. Slow, deliberately, one by one.
Claire got the picture. "Uh. Not that we were intimates or anything!" Chane pushed up on her elbows, straightening so that their faces were level. She Looked at him. Skin pale and eyes gold like a tiger's in the lights from the hotel room above theirs. He laughed. "She was just the kind of girl to kiss and tell. Not my type."
The hand holding his arm was now on his neck. She was unconvinced. Shifting his weight to free up his other arm, he folded his fingers over hers shifting her hand down to the spot between his collar bones. She blinked. Little earnest moves like that always seemed to startle her, especially when she had murder on the mind. It was endearing, actually. "But you're the first girl I've ever been steady with, Chane. I told you, right? You're pretty one of a kind." He leaned over her, looking into her sharp features, her dress open in a disarray, framed by the river down below. "I like that kind of act the best."
Chane's eyebrows rose, slightly. She was a hard sell. It was trite, but it'd do. She shut her eyes, tipping her head back. Taking the hand on his collar and guiding it down to her hip, guiding it up her dress and the faint lines of her knife holster. Very well, is what she meant by this, pricking her nails against his wrist. But you should know better to bring other women into the bedroom. Even if we are half out of it. He was fortunate (she added this with an arch of her back) she knew she came out better from the comparison. What would he do, if she were not?
"Can't imagine," grinned Claire. "You're unparalleled."
Hmph, said the press of her heel against the small of his back. That, too, would do.