[Fanfiction] - Crehador/Cain - Watching
Please don't burn me. Yes, I took an OTP, broke them apart, then amused myself playing with the pieces, but I did so in the name of character exploration. Which makes it better.
And come on. Some of it's kinda hot. You know you want to read it. XD
Title: Watching
Fandom: Godchild
Word Count: 2600
Beta: kashibanohikari
Genre: Angst/Romance
Characters/Pairing: CrehadorxCain with implied CainxRiff and some hints of RiffxCrehadorxCain in an odd way.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Spoilers for volume 6 of Godchild, crossdressing, somewhat dubious consent, angst, exhibitionism, voyeurism, elements of BDSM, Cain and Crehador exploring the darker sides of their personalities. Devastating diversion from the OTP of the fandom.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were.
Summary: Riff watches two fine actors flinging themselves across the stage of life, and wonder who is using who in this game of desire and desperation.
A flash of green silk, a hint of painted lips. The barest redolence of jasmine almost smothered by the heavy odours of smog and filth and human misery. A snatch of conversation, heated but hushed. He watches them, a gargoyle leering down from the gutters of dilapidated houses, fair of face but foul of soul.
Magician and assistant, gentleman and whore, master and harlequin, dancing down London’s dingy streets all covered in paint and pretence. The lush green silk looks strange against the filthy grey wall. Cain appears out of place, an exquisite oil painting cut out and tacked to the embodiment of a city’s sins, somehow made all the more beautiful by the stinking squalor around him. He tosses his head teasingly, one hand on his waist, a jaunty swing to his hips.
Riff suspects he enjoys it, tarted up in silk and lace, playing the part of the whore he is. He’s as beautiful as a woman as he is a man, his lips stained red, his perfect skin dusted with powder. Crehador’s gaze lingers on his face as they walk.
Crehador’s mocking voice drifts to his ears, saturated with taunting mirth. Cain snaps something in reply and Crehador throws his head back and laughs. Cain catches the magician’s wrist and Crehador turns to him, his coat billowing around his body. They’re still acting, still throwing themselves across the stage, though Riff knows he and the stars are their only audience.
They stare at each other for one, long, moment, then suddenly Cain’s arms are around Crehador’s neck and his lips are hovering over the magician’s. Riff can almost taste his breath, the shimmering need in his eyes, the scent of his skin. Crehador freezes as Cain presses closer, one of his hands going to toy with the buttons on Crehador’s shirt. He tilts his head, lips parted invitingly, one eyebrow raised in challenge. He plays the coquette well. It’s what lured silly girl is after silly girl into his arms, the beguiling mixture of arrogant sensuality and vulnerability, the bewitching blend of flirtatious smile and haunted eyes.
The stay poised like that, dancers as the curtain falls, hesitating on the edge of the abyss. Riff sees Crehador’s back heave as he inhales, once, twice…Cain’s lips twist in a smirk and he begins to pull away.
Even from his spot far above them, Riff hears Cain’s gasp of shock, stifled by Crehador’s lips. The magician cuts off the sound, wrenching him closer and devouring his mouth. Cain melts forward into his embrace, kissing him back wantonly, twining his arms around Crehador’s neck. Crehador propels them backwards, shoving Cain hard against the wall of the alley, grinding their hips together.
Cain begins to struggle against his embrace (a pretence, as everything about this is a pretence), and Crehador presses him back hard, shoving a knee between his legs. Cain’s fingers scramble against the wall of the alley as he jerks his head to the side, breaking the kiss. Crehador laughs huskily, pressing a mockingly gentle kiss to his cheek. Cain’s eyes are wide, his pupils dilated, are drug addict trembling on the brink of surrender. The addict knows that every breath, every moment of bliss is a little fragment of suicide. The addict doesn’t care.
The shadows creep up around them, muting the brilliant colours of their clothing. The smog is smothering, and for a moment they are not Cain and Crehador anymore, they are merely another two puppets jerking on the end of invisible strings, another two faceless, nameless people searching for something, anything, everything, nothing at all.
Crehador pins Cain’s wrists against the wall, holding them above his head. Riff knows just how that skin feels, warm to touch, how it gives beneath rough fingers, how the bones beneath feel all too delicate, all too easy to break. Cain will wear bruises in the morning, black and blue gilding on his perfect white skin. He can see Cain trembling, his pulse fluttering at his throat, his helpless hands clutching Crehador’s shirt.
Riff wonders what exactly is lurking behind those gold touched eyes, darkened by desire. He can see Cain’ face, but he doesn’t recognise it. The mask he’s stretched across the sharp bones and hollows of his skeleton is billowing, contorting, slipping, until Riff can almost see through it to the glistening skin and pulsing veins beneath. His lips are parted, his head thrown back as Crehador’s teeth leaves raspberry stains on his throat, as if somewhere, sometime, pleasure and pain became so deeply intertwined he’s forgotten how to tell the difference.
Cain always was a masochist.
Crehador shoves the top of the dress down, the silk crumbling beneath his fingers, trapping Cain’s arms against his sides. Cain opens his mouth, but Crehador catches the words with his tongue before they can be breathed forth into the night. Cain’s hands find Crehador’s back, his fingernails loosening threads in the rich fabric.
Riff wonders, for a moment, how that warm skin would feel under his fingers. Crehador is almost as beautiful as Cain, in his own way. A little cheap, perhaps, and a little too given to indolent debauchery, but two penny drink does the job as well as velvet smooth wine.
The harsh heat of Crehador might be almost as exquisite as the subtle melancholies and dark sweetness of Cain.
Crehador’s hands tighten on Cain’s waist and he lifts him abruptly, pinning him back against the wall. Cain wraps his legs around the magician’s back, the lace of his petticoats frothing around his ankles. His veil has fallen across his face and Crehador kisses him hard, the fabric a biting barrier between their lips. They break apart and Crehador rips the gauze away, tossing it aside. It drifts down to fall in a stinking puddle, a bridal veil slowly giving in to the weight of the encroaching sludge.
Cain’s lips are plum-dark and swollen. Crehador brushes a finger lightly across them and murmurs something Riff cannot hear.
He does hear Cain’s laugh. It’s brittle at the edges. It’s not the indulgent chuckle of a lover, not the rich ring of seduction. It’s edged with insanity and it breaks from his lips like bile. It reminds him of the twang when a violin string snaps, the high, tuneless sound as the pressure finally stretches steel to its breaking point.
Crehador’s fingers tiptoe up Cain’s cheek with strange tenderness, sliding into his hair. He runs the strands gently between his slender fingers and Cain slumps forward, a marionette with suddenly snipped strings. Crehador lets him lie there for a moment, then tightens his grip and wrenches Cain’s head to the side, tilting his chin up to bare his throat.
For a moment Cain’s nothing more than a beautiful porcelain doll, eyes glassy and blank. Smooth and cold, the flush on his cheeks as false as the brilliance of his eyes. He lolls in Crehador’s arms, boneless, lips parted in something darker than submission. He’s pale as a cadaver in the moonlight, skeletal fingers laced in Crehador’s hair. The flesh is yet to fall from those bones, but there are maggots nibbling their way through his soul. Can Crehador taste the rot on his tongue?
Crehador kisses him again, tasting him, then crushes their lips together brutally. For a moment Cain remains limp in his arms, then suddenly he is kissing Crehador back almost as viciously, one hand clutching the medium’s hair. There is a particular sort of desperation in his passion, addict’s fingers seeking the promise of oblivion, addict’s lips chasing the elusive taste of heaven. He presses himself into Crehador’s embrace, as if he could merge their bodies together, slip beneath Crehador’s skin and let his sins settle against someone else’s soul. Riff wonders if they can taste blood yet, hot copper in their fused mouths, slippery heat as their teeth clash and their lips slide together over and over again.
He wonders if they like it.
Cain’s free hand slides down until his fingers are linked with Crehador’s. The intimacy of the motion belies the violence of their embrace. Sweethearts hold hands, strolling through the parks eating cotton candy and watching children. They twine their fingers just so, speaking with touch and tenderness. Their saccharine smiles and tawdry endearments do not belong here. Cain held hands with a lover once as they walked through golden fields of wheat, exchanging reckless forbidden kisses and clandestine touches. The gesture jars the image, shakes it, laces it with deadly nightshade and cherry tears.
Lovers hold hands, as though they can somehow seal themselves together, turn their melded fingers to silver and pour them into a Celtic knot.
Now Cain clutches Crehador’s hand as the magician’s lips bruise his mouth.
He wonders how Cain will explain the grey marks around his swollen lips tomorrow to Merry, what silvery little lies he’ll concoct to spare her virgin ears. He shouldn’t bother. Merry knows, knows far more than Cain thinks, because the London street turn children to whores and girls to women before they’ve blossomed into adulthood. If she dealt the cards now, her fingers would lay them out in an intriguing pattern.
The Magician. The Lovers. The Hanged Man. Death. The Tower.
If she saw them now, would her strawberry lips part in an ‘o’ of horrified surprise? Would the doll in her hands slip from her grip to shatter on the cobbles? Or would she merely turn away, duck her head so her summertime ringlets would tumble into her eyes, obscuring their rough, frenetic absolution in a soft sheet of gold.
How would she look at Cain if she knew this was what he wanted? What he needed?
Crehador’s fingers tighten on the top of the bodice and he rends the fabric in two, stripping it away from Cain’s willowy body. Cain is as slender and perfect as Narcissus, his arms trapped in shackles of emerald silk. He always has been. His beauty is a fragile, pallid thing, all cobwebs and silk threads and crystal. The serpent’s tongue of a whip scar curls over his shoulder, and Crehador lowers his head to it.
Cain throws his head back, gasping something. Riff wonders if it’s a name or an obscenity.
You’re the only one who’s allowed to touch my scars.
The stars marked his words all those weeks ago, and they laugh softly as Crehador slides his tongue along the faded pink line. Cain moans, his free hand going to hold Crehador’s head in place. His desire-dark eyes shine with unshed tears.
One of them falls, slipping from his eye and creeping down his cheek slowly. It splashes onto Crehador’s cheek, and for a second Riff thinks the magician hasn’t noticed, too lost in the salt of Cain’s sweat and the heat of his skin. Then his fingers are skirting down Cain’s cheek, following the tear’s path. He leans forward, whispering something in Cain’s ear.
Cain shivers. His lips part again and he says something in reply. His words dissolve into the smoggy air before they reach Riff’s ears, but he doesn’t need to hear them to know what Cain is saying.
Use me.
Crehador turns them suddenly, putting his own back to the wall and pulling Cain hard against his body. The naked skin of Cain’s back is stark and white against the spilt ink of his hair. Riff can see Cain’s fingers trembling as he plucks at Crehador’s shirt, those pianists’ hands searching for something to cling to.
Humiliate me.
Cain’s shoulders shudder as Crehador’s hands glide over his back, tracing every one of the scars. Scars soothed by gentle fingers and warm touches, scars that go beyond simple rents in flesh to rents in a bruised and broken soul.
Shove me down onto my bloody knees.
Crehador presses him down and he drops to his knees, head bowed as if in prayer. Penitent boy, kneeling at the altar of the sins of his father. He moves as though in a dream, a strangely surreal fluidity replacing his trembling.
His hands are steady.
Hurt me. Hurt me like he’s hurt me. Slip your hands under my clothes, under my skin, into my heart. Touch me with your dirty fingers until my soul is covered in your filth. Burn your name into my breast then lick the scars with your serpent’s tongue.
Filth caresses the edges of the dress, spreading insidiously over the vibrant silk. The stench of the city moves to immolate him, stretching rotting fingers towards his perfect white skin. Crehador’s fingers are in Cain’s hair now, gentling him, soothing him even as they hold him down.
Riff can’t see Cain’s face, but he wonders what expression has moved those fragile features.
He wonders if Cain is smiling.
Hurt me like they’ve all hurt me.
Then Crehador looks up, straight into Riff’s eyes. The breath catches in Riff’s throat as the magician holds his gaze, his slumberous eyes glinting with something strange. They flicker shut for a moment as Cain drags his tongue across toned skin, but the expression remains etched on his face. It dances somewhere between vicious satisfaction and possession, threaded through with hot gold flashes of pleasure and cold jet beads of loathing.
Crehador licks his lips slowly. Something unfurls in Riff’s stomach - something hot and alien and unsettling. A flicker of horror slips from the hidden recesses of his heart, sliding insidiously through his veins. Ghostly memories flit before his eyes, memories of soft touches and sweet kisses and gentle words whispered in the dead of the night. There is a hollow inside him, an empty space filled to the brim with an aching nothingness.
Something shudders, slips, stretches to breaking point. There’s a voice, whispering at the edges of his consciousness, taunting him, fighting him. The scars on his chest spring to painful life, lacing fingers of agony towards his heart.
He forces it back, drowning it out with the image of desperate debauchery before his eyes. This is your fault, he hisses in his mind. Your fault. How does that make you feel?
The whispers fade, recoiling. Flee like Dreams from Truth or Love from Honesty.
Crehador is breathing raggedly, his fingers still wrapped in Cain’s hair, his eyes black with need and desire and something bordering on obsession. He bites his lip, and Riff watches as blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, dripping onto his naked torso.
Cain pulls back, raising his head suddenly, and Crehador moans, his breath hitching, the beginnings of a plea lingering on his lips. Would he beg?
Cain rises, still moving almost as if in a dream, and drags his finger through the droplets of blood, tilting his head. He raises it to his lips and slides it into his mouth. Riff can’t see Cain’s face, but he can see Crehador’s, and for a second he thinks there is fear coupling with desire in those lust-dark eyes. What has the magician drawn from his hat with nimble fingers? What have his words unlocked, what have his power set free? Cain lowers his head and his tongue slides languorously over Crehador’s ribs, tracing the arches and valleys as it catches his blood.
Crehador looks up at Riff again, and this time he smiles.
Then they are kissing again, kissing hard and passionately, kissing open-mouthed and desperately. Kissing as though the answers are hiding in the other’s breath. Kissing as though they are drowning, or dying, and perhaps in this moment they are. Kissing as though there is nothing else. Kissing roughly because tenderness was locked away for those they loved, and those they loved have fled from them on the silver wings of death and deception. Kissing because there is nothing else, and there never will be. Not anymore.
They kiss.
And Riff watches.
Thoughts? Comments? Objects to throw? Flames will be used to toast marshmallows.
And come on. Some of it's kinda hot. You know you want to read it. XD
Title: Watching
Fandom: Godchild
Word Count: 2600
Beta: kashibanohikari
Genre: Angst/Romance
Characters/Pairing: CrehadorxCain with implied CainxRiff and some hints of RiffxCrehadorxCain in an odd way.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Spoilers for volume 6 of Godchild, crossdressing, somewhat dubious consent, angst, exhibitionism, voyeurism, elements of BDSM, Cain and Crehador exploring the darker sides of their personalities. Devastating diversion from the OTP of the fandom.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were.
Summary: Riff watches two fine actors flinging themselves across the stage of life, and wonder who is using who in this game of desire and desperation.
A flash of green silk, a hint of painted lips. The barest redolence of jasmine almost smothered by the heavy odours of smog and filth and human misery. A snatch of conversation, heated but hushed. He watches them, a gargoyle leering down from the gutters of dilapidated houses, fair of face but foul of soul.
Magician and assistant, gentleman and whore, master and harlequin, dancing down London’s dingy streets all covered in paint and pretence. The lush green silk looks strange against the filthy grey wall. Cain appears out of place, an exquisite oil painting cut out and tacked to the embodiment of a city’s sins, somehow made all the more beautiful by the stinking squalor around him. He tosses his head teasingly, one hand on his waist, a jaunty swing to his hips.
Riff suspects he enjoys it, tarted up in silk and lace, playing the part of the whore he is. He’s as beautiful as a woman as he is a man, his lips stained red, his perfect skin dusted with powder. Crehador’s gaze lingers on his face as they walk.
Crehador’s mocking voice drifts to his ears, saturated with taunting mirth. Cain snaps something in reply and Crehador throws his head back and laughs. Cain catches the magician’s wrist and Crehador turns to him, his coat billowing around his body. They’re still acting, still throwing themselves across the stage, though Riff knows he and the stars are their only audience.
They stare at each other for one, long, moment, then suddenly Cain’s arms are around Crehador’s neck and his lips are hovering over the magician’s. Riff can almost taste his breath, the shimmering need in his eyes, the scent of his skin. Crehador freezes as Cain presses closer, one of his hands going to toy with the buttons on Crehador’s shirt. He tilts his head, lips parted invitingly, one eyebrow raised in challenge. He plays the coquette well. It’s what lured silly girl is after silly girl into his arms, the beguiling mixture of arrogant sensuality and vulnerability, the bewitching blend of flirtatious smile and haunted eyes.
The stay poised like that, dancers as the curtain falls, hesitating on the edge of the abyss. Riff sees Crehador’s back heave as he inhales, once, twice…Cain’s lips twist in a smirk and he begins to pull away.
Even from his spot far above them, Riff hears Cain’s gasp of shock, stifled by Crehador’s lips. The magician cuts off the sound, wrenching him closer and devouring his mouth. Cain melts forward into his embrace, kissing him back wantonly, twining his arms around Crehador’s neck. Crehador propels them backwards, shoving Cain hard against the wall of the alley, grinding their hips together.
Cain begins to struggle against his embrace (a pretence, as everything about this is a pretence), and Crehador presses him back hard, shoving a knee between his legs. Cain’s fingers scramble against the wall of the alley as he jerks his head to the side, breaking the kiss. Crehador laughs huskily, pressing a mockingly gentle kiss to his cheek. Cain’s eyes are wide, his pupils dilated, are drug addict trembling on the brink of surrender. The addict knows that every breath, every moment of bliss is a little fragment of suicide. The addict doesn’t care.
The shadows creep up around them, muting the brilliant colours of their clothing. The smog is smothering, and for a moment they are not Cain and Crehador anymore, they are merely another two puppets jerking on the end of invisible strings, another two faceless, nameless people searching for something, anything, everything, nothing at all.
Crehador pins Cain’s wrists against the wall, holding them above his head. Riff knows just how that skin feels, warm to touch, how it gives beneath rough fingers, how the bones beneath feel all too delicate, all too easy to break. Cain will wear bruises in the morning, black and blue gilding on his perfect white skin. He can see Cain trembling, his pulse fluttering at his throat, his helpless hands clutching Crehador’s shirt.
Riff wonders what exactly is lurking behind those gold touched eyes, darkened by desire. He can see Cain’ face, but he doesn’t recognise it. The mask he’s stretched across the sharp bones and hollows of his skeleton is billowing, contorting, slipping, until Riff can almost see through it to the glistening skin and pulsing veins beneath. His lips are parted, his head thrown back as Crehador’s teeth leaves raspberry stains on his throat, as if somewhere, sometime, pleasure and pain became so deeply intertwined he’s forgotten how to tell the difference.
Cain always was a masochist.
Crehador shoves the top of the dress down, the silk crumbling beneath his fingers, trapping Cain’s arms against his sides. Cain opens his mouth, but Crehador catches the words with his tongue before they can be breathed forth into the night. Cain’s hands find Crehador’s back, his fingernails loosening threads in the rich fabric.
Riff wonders, for a moment, how that warm skin would feel under his fingers. Crehador is almost as beautiful as Cain, in his own way. A little cheap, perhaps, and a little too given to indolent debauchery, but two penny drink does the job as well as velvet smooth wine.
The harsh heat of Crehador might be almost as exquisite as the subtle melancholies and dark sweetness of Cain.
Crehador’s hands tighten on Cain’s waist and he lifts him abruptly, pinning him back against the wall. Cain wraps his legs around the magician’s back, the lace of his petticoats frothing around his ankles. His veil has fallen across his face and Crehador kisses him hard, the fabric a biting barrier between their lips. They break apart and Crehador rips the gauze away, tossing it aside. It drifts down to fall in a stinking puddle, a bridal veil slowly giving in to the weight of the encroaching sludge.
Cain’s lips are plum-dark and swollen. Crehador brushes a finger lightly across them and murmurs something Riff cannot hear.
He does hear Cain’s laugh. It’s brittle at the edges. It’s not the indulgent chuckle of a lover, not the rich ring of seduction. It’s edged with insanity and it breaks from his lips like bile. It reminds him of the twang when a violin string snaps, the high, tuneless sound as the pressure finally stretches steel to its breaking point.
Crehador’s fingers tiptoe up Cain’s cheek with strange tenderness, sliding into his hair. He runs the strands gently between his slender fingers and Cain slumps forward, a marionette with suddenly snipped strings. Crehador lets him lie there for a moment, then tightens his grip and wrenches Cain’s head to the side, tilting his chin up to bare his throat.
For a moment Cain’s nothing more than a beautiful porcelain doll, eyes glassy and blank. Smooth and cold, the flush on his cheeks as false as the brilliance of his eyes. He lolls in Crehador’s arms, boneless, lips parted in something darker than submission. He’s pale as a cadaver in the moonlight, skeletal fingers laced in Crehador’s hair. The flesh is yet to fall from those bones, but there are maggots nibbling their way through his soul. Can Crehador taste the rot on his tongue?
Crehador kisses him again, tasting him, then crushes their lips together brutally. For a moment Cain remains limp in his arms, then suddenly he is kissing Crehador back almost as viciously, one hand clutching the medium’s hair. There is a particular sort of desperation in his passion, addict’s fingers seeking the promise of oblivion, addict’s lips chasing the elusive taste of heaven. He presses himself into Crehador’s embrace, as if he could merge their bodies together, slip beneath Crehador’s skin and let his sins settle against someone else’s soul. Riff wonders if they can taste blood yet, hot copper in their fused mouths, slippery heat as their teeth clash and their lips slide together over and over again.
He wonders if they like it.
Cain’s free hand slides down until his fingers are linked with Crehador’s. The intimacy of the motion belies the violence of their embrace. Sweethearts hold hands, strolling through the parks eating cotton candy and watching children. They twine their fingers just so, speaking with touch and tenderness. Their saccharine smiles and tawdry endearments do not belong here. Cain held hands with a lover once as they walked through golden fields of wheat, exchanging reckless forbidden kisses and clandestine touches. The gesture jars the image, shakes it, laces it with deadly nightshade and cherry tears.
Lovers hold hands, as though they can somehow seal themselves together, turn their melded fingers to silver and pour them into a Celtic knot.
Now Cain clutches Crehador’s hand as the magician’s lips bruise his mouth.
He wonders how Cain will explain the grey marks around his swollen lips tomorrow to Merry, what silvery little lies he’ll concoct to spare her virgin ears. He shouldn’t bother. Merry knows, knows far more than Cain thinks, because the London street turn children to whores and girls to women before they’ve blossomed into adulthood. If she dealt the cards now, her fingers would lay them out in an intriguing pattern.
The Magician. The Lovers. The Hanged Man. Death. The Tower.
If she saw them now, would her strawberry lips part in an ‘o’ of horrified surprise? Would the doll in her hands slip from her grip to shatter on the cobbles? Or would she merely turn away, duck her head so her summertime ringlets would tumble into her eyes, obscuring their rough, frenetic absolution in a soft sheet of gold.
How would she look at Cain if she knew this was what he wanted? What he needed?
Crehador’s fingers tighten on the top of the bodice and he rends the fabric in two, stripping it away from Cain’s willowy body. Cain is as slender and perfect as Narcissus, his arms trapped in shackles of emerald silk. He always has been. His beauty is a fragile, pallid thing, all cobwebs and silk threads and crystal. The serpent’s tongue of a whip scar curls over his shoulder, and Crehador lowers his head to it.
Cain throws his head back, gasping something. Riff wonders if it’s a name or an obscenity.
You’re the only one who’s allowed to touch my scars.
The stars marked his words all those weeks ago, and they laugh softly as Crehador slides his tongue along the faded pink line. Cain moans, his free hand going to hold Crehador’s head in place. His desire-dark eyes shine with unshed tears.
One of them falls, slipping from his eye and creeping down his cheek slowly. It splashes onto Crehador’s cheek, and for a second Riff thinks the magician hasn’t noticed, too lost in the salt of Cain’s sweat and the heat of his skin. Then his fingers are skirting down Cain’s cheek, following the tear’s path. He leans forward, whispering something in Cain’s ear.
Cain shivers. His lips part again and he says something in reply. His words dissolve into the smoggy air before they reach Riff’s ears, but he doesn’t need to hear them to know what Cain is saying.
Use me.
Crehador turns them suddenly, putting his own back to the wall and pulling Cain hard against his body. The naked skin of Cain’s back is stark and white against the spilt ink of his hair. Riff can see Cain’s fingers trembling as he plucks at Crehador’s shirt, those pianists’ hands searching for something to cling to.
Humiliate me.
Cain’s shoulders shudder as Crehador’s hands glide over his back, tracing every one of the scars. Scars soothed by gentle fingers and warm touches, scars that go beyond simple rents in flesh to rents in a bruised and broken soul.
Shove me down onto my bloody knees.
Crehador presses him down and he drops to his knees, head bowed as if in prayer. Penitent boy, kneeling at the altar of the sins of his father. He moves as though in a dream, a strangely surreal fluidity replacing his trembling.
His hands are steady.
Hurt me. Hurt me like he’s hurt me. Slip your hands under my clothes, under my skin, into my heart. Touch me with your dirty fingers until my soul is covered in your filth. Burn your name into my breast then lick the scars with your serpent’s tongue.
Filth caresses the edges of the dress, spreading insidiously over the vibrant silk. The stench of the city moves to immolate him, stretching rotting fingers towards his perfect white skin. Crehador’s fingers are in Cain’s hair now, gentling him, soothing him even as they hold him down.
Riff can’t see Cain’s face, but he wonders what expression has moved those fragile features.
He wonders if Cain is smiling.
Hurt me like they’ve all hurt me.
Then Crehador looks up, straight into Riff’s eyes. The breath catches in Riff’s throat as the magician holds his gaze, his slumberous eyes glinting with something strange. They flicker shut for a moment as Cain drags his tongue across toned skin, but the expression remains etched on his face. It dances somewhere between vicious satisfaction and possession, threaded through with hot gold flashes of pleasure and cold jet beads of loathing.
Crehador licks his lips slowly. Something unfurls in Riff’s stomach - something hot and alien and unsettling. A flicker of horror slips from the hidden recesses of his heart, sliding insidiously through his veins. Ghostly memories flit before his eyes, memories of soft touches and sweet kisses and gentle words whispered in the dead of the night. There is a hollow inside him, an empty space filled to the brim with an aching nothingness.
Something shudders, slips, stretches to breaking point. There’s a voice, whispering at the edges of his consciousness, taunting him, fighting him. The scars on his chest spring to painful life, lacing fingers of agony towards his heart.
He forces it back, drowning it out with the image of desperate debauchery before his eyes. This is your fault, he hisses in his mind. Your fault. How does that make you feel?
The whispers fade, recoiling. Flee like Dreams from Truth or Love from Honesty.
Crehador is breathing raggedly, his fingers still wrapped in Cain’s hair, his eyes black with need and desire and something bordering on obsession. He bites his lip, and Riff watches as blood trickles from the corner of his mouth, dripping onto his naked torso.
Cain pulls back, raising his head suddenly, and Crehador moans, his breath hitching, the beginnings of a plea lingering on his lips. Would he beg?
Cain rises, still moving almost as if in a dream, and drags his finger through the droplets of blood, tilting his head. He raises it to his lips and slides it into his mouth. Riff can’t see Cain’s face, but he can see Crehador’s, and for a second he thinks there is fear coupling with desire in those lust-dark eyes. What has the magician drawn from his hat with nimble fingers? What have his words unlocked, what have his power set free? Cain lowers his head and his tongue slides languorously over Crehador’s ribs, tracing the arches and valleys as it catches his blood.
Crehador looks up at Riff again, and this time he smiles.
Then they are kissing again, kissing hard and passionately, kissing open-mouthed and desperately. Kissing as though the answers are hiding in the other’s breath. Kissing as though they are drowning, or dying, and perhaps in this moment they are. Kissing as though there is nothing else. Kissing roughly because tenderness was locked away for those they loved, and those they loved have fled from them on the silver wings of death and deception. Kissing because there is nothing else, and there never will be. Not anymore.
They kiss.
And Riff watches.
Thoughts? Comments? Objects to throw? Flames will be used to toast marshmallows.