FIC: these hands
Title: these hands
Author: denorios
Rating: PG
Summary: Vin loves Chris' hands.
Pairing: Chris/Vin
Word Count: 965
Notes: This, uh, may or may not stem from the fact that I have a serious kink for hands, and can you blame me if I maybe reflect that onto the boys? And, as always, love and hugs for my ever-wonderful beta, farad.
***
Vin looks at Chris, spread out beneath him like a ritual offering to some pagan god, skin of gold and eyes of emerald, transfigured into something strange and beautiful by the light of moon and candle; he looks at Chris and for a moment his vision blurs, his head spins, and all he can see is a dancing shimmer of light, a chiaroscuro of light and dark and Chris at the centre of it all.
He trails his fingers down Chris' chest, feeling him shiver under his touch, feeling the damp slick of sweat and semen, and thinks of treasure maps written in human skin and secrets concealed in bone, never to be told. He thinks of whispering his past into the curve of Chris' back, baring his soul to the arch of his neck, hiding his heart in his strong hands.
He loves Chris' hands. There are times when he gets lost just watching Chris speak, watching not his mouth but the way his hands move and draw patterns in the air. Somehow the words themselves seem to dissipate in the space between them, and when Chris calls on him he can only shrug helplessly, and the corner of Chris' mouth will tug in a knowing grin. Sometimes his hand will drop under the table and he'll brush his fingers against Vin's gently and his smile will spread and soften, and Vin has to look away for fear of loving him too much, too openly.
Vin lifts those hands now, presses their palms together, entwines their fingers, traces the familiar lines and scars, first with his fingers and then his tongue until Chris shudders and his eyes blink slow and lazy.
He knows these hands. These hands have held him, hit him, pushed him away and pulled him close, have broken him and put him back together, drawn him to such heights of joy and held him teetering on the edge, never letting him fall; such strong hands, capable of such terrifying violence and such heart-stopping gentleness. These hands, Vin thinks, these hands that have held life, taken life, given life; and as he watches the slow pulse in Chris' wrists and counts each beat all he can think is how alive Chris is, how wondrously perfectly alive.
Vin wants to say I love you. He wants to tell Chris how much he loves his hands and his eyes and his smile. He wants to throw his arms wide and cry aloud that he loves Chris' arms and his back and his throat, and yes, his cock and his ass, but his wrists too, and his scrawny knees and the scar on his thigh. He loves the way Chris' hair sticks up in the morning and the way he fights sleep like a child. He loves the way Chris' breath hitches when Vin touches him and the way he can crowd Vin against a wall with just a look, just a breath, until Vin's skin is on fire and he thinks he'll die if Chris doesn't touch him.
He thinks of that first day, that dusty street, and that simple connection between them, thinks of the loss Chris carried before him like a shield, as though in some twisted way his heart bled so his body didn't have to. He remembers looking in Chris' eyes and feeling something inside him twist and break at the emptiness he saw, at the way Chris' gaze was ever fixed on the horizon, over and away and past Vin to the horizon where the one thing he was looking for would never never come again.
Sometimes Vin wanted to shake Chris then, shake him until his teeth rattled and his spine snapped, shake him so hard that he'd see stars and maybe even some sense too. He wanted to shout at him, to hit him, to hold him down and let him struggle until he exhausted himself. He wanted Chris to fight something he could see, not to endlessly battle against ghosts and fate and things he couldn't even understand, let alone defeat. More than anything he wanted to open Chris' eyes and just make him see.
But now, here, in this room, in this bed, Chris' eyes are dark and heavy-lidded and if there is anything in the world beyond Vin he gives no sign of it. His breath is relaxed and deep, but his sharp teeth catch on his lower lip and he makes a soft whine in his throat as Vin shifts above him, hip to hip, thigh to thigh; his eyes never leave Vin's, and though his hands tremble within Vin's he makes no move to break free.
Vin wants to say I love you.
"I love your hands," he says simply, and his throat is too full for anything more and all the words he can't say dance behind his eyes.
Chris blinks up at him, lips curling in a soft smile. His hands flex and turn suddenly; his warm palms rest against the back of Vin's hands and his work-reddened fingers twist and twine around Vin's, until Vin can't tell where he starts and Chris ends, and his whole world narrows down to the rough slide of Chris' skin against his and the damp warmth of his touch.
Chris brings their joined hands to press against his forehead gently, eyes slipping closed as Vin watches, curious and entranced, before bringing them slowly down to his lips. He lavishes care and attention on each callused finger, laves his tongue along Vin's left forefinger, broken and set awkwardly, drops soft kisses on every scar and blemish.
"I love your hands," Chris whispers, and he smiles and rests his cheek against Vin's knuckles, scarred and torn and never before beautiful to anyone.
Author: denorios
Rating: PG
Summary: Vin loves Chris' hands.
Pairing: Chris/Vin
Word Count: 965
Notes: This, uh, may or may not stem from the fact that I have a serious kink for hands, and can you blame me if I maybe reflect that onto the boys? And, as always, love and hugs for my ever-wonderful beta, farad.
***
Vin looks at Chris, spread out beneath him like a ritual offering to some pagan god, skin of gold and eyes of emerald, transfigured into something strange and beautiful by the light of moon and candle; he looks at Chris and for a moment his vision blurs, his head spins, and all he can see is a dancing shimmer of light, a chiaroscuro of light and dark and Chris at the centre of it all.
He trails his fingers down Chris' chest, feeling him shiver under his touch, feeling the damp slick of sweat and semen, and thinks of treasure maps written in human skin and secrets concealed in bone, never to be told. He thinks of whispering his past into the curve of Chris' back, baring his soul to the arch of his neck, hiding his heart in his strong hands.
He loves Chris' hands. There are times when he gets lost just watching Chris speak, watching not his mouth but the way his hands move and draw patterns in the air. Somehow the words themselves seem to dissipate in the space between them, and when Chris calls on him he can only shrug helplessly, and the corner of Chris' mouth will tug in a knowing grin. Sometimes his hand will drop under the table and he'll brush his fingers against Vin's gently and his smile will spread and soften, and Vin has to look away for fear of loving him too much, too openly.
Vin lifts those hands now, presses their palms together, entwines their fingers, traces the familiar lines and scars, first with his fingers and then his tongue until Chris shudders and his eyes blink slow and lazy.
He knows these hands. These hands have held him, hit him, pushed him away and pulled him close, have broken him and put him back together, drawn him to such heights of joy and held him teetering on the edge, never letting him fall; such strong hands, capable of such terrifying violence and such heart-stopping gentleness. These hands, Vin thinks, these hands that have held life, taken life, given life; and as he watches the slow pulse in Chris' wrists and counts each beat all he can think is how alive Chris is, how wondrously perfectly alive.
Vin wants to say I love you. He wants to tell Chris how much he loves his hands and his eyes and his smile. He wants to throw his arms wide and cry aloud that he loves Chris' arms and his back and his throat, and yes, his cock and his ass, but his wrists too, and his scrawny knees and the scar on his thigh. He loves the way Chris' hair sticks up in the morning and the way he fights sleep like a child. He loves the way Chris' breath hitches when Vin touches him and the way he can crowd Vin against a wall with just a look, just a breath, until Vin's skin is on fire and he thinks he'll die if Chris doesn't touch him.
He thinks of that first day, that dusty street, and that simple connection between them, thinks of the loss Chris carried before him like a shield, as though in some twisted way his heart bled so his body didn't have to. He remembers looking in Chris' eyes and feeling something inside him twist and break at the emptiness he saw, at the way Chris' gaze was ever fixed on the horizon, over and away and past Vin to the horizon where the one thing he was looking for would never never come again.
Sometimes Vin wanted to shake Chris then, shake him until his teeth rattled and his spine snapped, shake him so hard that he'd see stars and maybe even some sense too. He wanted to shout at him, to hit him, to hold him down and let him struggle until he exhausted himself. He wanted Chris to fight something he could see, not to endlessly battle against ghosts and fate and things he couldn't even understand, let alone defeat. More than anything he wanted to open Chris' eyes and just make him see.
But now, here, in this room, in this bed, Chris' eyes are dark and heavy-lidded and if there is anything in the world beyond Vin he gives no sign of it. His breath is relaxed and deep, but his sharp teeth catch on his lower lip and he makes a soft whine in his throat as Vin shifts above him, hip to hip, thigh to thigh; his eyes never leave Vin's, and though his hands tremble within Vin's he makes no move to break free.
Vin wants to say I love you.
"I love your hands," he says simply, and his throat is too full for anything more and all the words he can't say dance behind his eyes.
Chris blinks up at him, lips curling in a soft smile. His hands flex and turn suddenly; his warm palms rest against the back of Vin's hands and his work-reddened fingers twist and twine around Vin's, until Vin can't tell where he starts and Chris ends, and his whole world narrows down to the rough slide of Chris' skin against his and the damp warmth of his touch.
Chris brings their joined hands to press against his forehead gently, eyes slipping closed as Vin watches, curious and entranced, before bringing them slowly down to his lips. He lavishes care and attention on each callused finger, laves his tongue along Vin's left forefinger, broken and set awkwardly, drops soft kisses on every scar and blemish.
"I love your hands," Chris whispers, and he smiles and rests his cheek against Vin's knuckles, scarred and torn and never before beautiful to anyone.