Loko: Cain appeared one day and said: "I am a Hargreaves. Write, bitch." and there wasn't terribly much to be done about it.
Summary: You're wondering if today will be the day he snaps.
Disclaimer: Kaori Yuki is greater than me. That is the long and short of it, I'm sorry to say.
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pressure
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You're wondering if today will be the day he snaps.
He buttons your trousers, quick shuffling moments against your hipbones -- the slightest pressure, feathered along the curved jutted ridge, and then his focus shifts smoothly up. You wonder if he notices that you notice the momentary pause between his thumb on the button and his thumb against the flesh of your hip.
He's biting his lip. You think he probably doesn't.
Brief scrape of nails along your arms as he slides your shirt on your shoulders and you wonder if he sees you shiver, just the tiniest shudder and almost-goosebumps. You see his white fingers moving against the white of your shirt and the white of your skin, almost indistinguishable against each other, except when foreign texture catches on your ribs and you know it is not cloth.
At your collar his hand stops, second and third and fourth finger resting dreamsoft along the rise of your clavicle. You breathe, your chest rises, and suddenly his hand is very there on you, on your neck, and his startled blue eyes are widened and staring at you.
Some part of you knows that he can't, that he's a servant, that he's the one who will pay everything and then some if you're caught, but most of you is just annoyed. You're an exception. You've always been an exception. You think he knows this, and you're annoyed because he just hasn't acted on it yet.
He has nerves of steel, but they must be ridiculously fine-tuned, because when you reach out with your own hand and brush your thumb justalmostmaybe along his jawline -- pad to nail, a touch so light it can be denied. For a second your second and third fingers are flush along his neck just below where jaw meets ear, and you watch his eyes unfocus and feel his breath along your arm grow barely unsteady. If he swallows -- if he breathes -- you will have him. If he moves just the barest brush forward, into you --
"Your cravat is crooked," You say nonchalantly, and tug it straight. Your voice breaks everything. He flinches back, drops his hand, and manages a "Thank you, Master Cain."
He picks up your waistcoat and buttons it on you, securely, smoothly, without hesitation.
When he's tying your cravat, there is a hesitation when the tip of thumb finds your throat, but then it's gone and you think that you'll let him off today, but tomorrow he will snap.
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414 words
Cain playing mental games with Riff is par-the-course, as is this useless author helplessly begging concrits from reviewers. Opinions? Any? (Please?)
Loko