I'm actually not sure if this is the first time I write Cain/Riff, which probably means that I've fantasized way too much about writing them. In any case, enjoy, and though there are no spoilers, there is foreshadowing :)


The question has never been if, but when.

"Do you want me?" Cain asks, stretching impossibly pale and long fingers out in front of him, elegant and exotic as a nobleman ought to be, sinfully thin legs thrown over the couch, knees together like a proper lady, sleeves rolled up for comfort to expose his unmarked skin. He lies on his side with an elbow as support, and gazes at nothing and everything in the room with the satisfying knowledge that it is all his — to control, manipulate, hold close or dispose of as he sees fit. The firelight bathes in orange warmth the skin of his palm and it is soft and smooth and familiar to Riff, marred only by the shine of age-smoothened scars, the only remainder of an inexperienced youth playing with poisons men thrice his age balked at trifling with.

There had been a time so many years ago, back when his Lord first asked him, when Riff would stiffen, eyes shifting cautiously in search of another servant, or God forbid, Mary Weather. Are you afraid they'll hear me? Cain had asked, eyes haughty with the belief that in his house, no one would defy him and a volatile spark of anger, that Riff would let anyone else's prejudices get between them, that he would value their opinion over Cain's needs and wants.

No, Riff had answered after a moment's hesitation, as he let the curtain drop and the emotions swimming naked in Cain's eyes fill his own until they could drown in it, a scalding non-heat that transferred from pupil to skin to blood and raced through their bodies like wildfire, I'm afraid they will see how much I do.

Now, Riff merely looks up, steam wafting gently from perfectly-poured teacups that smell of rose and lemongrass, and lets his eyes roam with the same calculatingly cold fire they had that day, traveling from the slice of white skin on Cain's delicate ankles to the never-ending expanse of his thighs, mentally probing the dip of his collarbone and seeking to glance into the horizons of skin beyond the barriers of his collar. He imagines the slim but solid weight of Cain's hips pressed against his and mentally traces the curve of his jaw, a sharp, uncomfortable structure that hardens Cain's face, countering the delicacy of his nose and eyes, and offers the perfect plane for Riff to plant kisses along.

"As no else does, my Lord, or ever will," Riff says amiably, as if he were agreeing with a flippant statement of Cain's instead of professing something too carnal to be kinship, but more permanent than a marriage.

The look Cain throws his way is nothing short of smoldering, the firelight kindling in his eyes as he lowers his hand, settling it on his hip, one thumb digging under the belt as his lips part slightly like ripened fruit, beckoning.

Riff obeys, of course, bringing the tea and leaning forward to hand it to his charge, eyes locked firmly with Cain's until their fingers meet and Riff lets his sight travel down to peek at the expanse of flesh Cain's unbuttoned blouse allows him to appreciate from this angle. Cain smirks, though his eyes too rove hungrily over Riff, even as he lifts the teacup with an air of nonchalance and elegance that only Cain can pull off, even as Riff sees the coiled tension ready behind his pupils.

It is the anticipation that will make it all the sweeter once the dam breaks. Riff tells himself that this is the reason he is holding back. Every glance Cain graces him with, every thought Riff lets play out in his mind, they are all followed by a whisper that coaxes Yes, take him, and yet, he is not sure that voice is speaking for all the right reasons. Take him, his mind urges, pleasure him. Take him, pleasure him, it will make him suffer all the more when the time comes, the whispers cackle, and Riff is afraid of the deceit laced throughout that voice like a sweet, undetectable poison.

And Cain reads it, that uncertainty, and the darkness that goes along with it. He contents himself with a huff, with the brush of Riff's lips along his knuckles, and says in a voice too rough to be a whisper, but his Lord cannot renounce the husky, honey-smooth quality of his voice, and so it comes out like melting chocolate, warm and low and pouring down Riff's body in a way that makes him shiver wantonly, "One day, Riff, I will make you follow through on your claim."

Yes, my Lord, he thinks. It's not a question of if, but when.

Thanks for reading!