Fic: Kane RPS: And In His Hands, My Everything (1/1, happy birthday darlinglisa!)
Title: And In His Hands, My Everything
Author: Havenward
Fandom: Kane RPS (various aus)
Pairing: Kane/Carlson
Rating: varied by section, up to NC17
Words: 1980
Author's Note: For darlinglisa on her birthday. Proof that I could get something (almost) written on time! She requested Steve hand porn, but couldn't choose a verse. So I decided to write her a few vignettes and give her a nice selection. Which is nice, because there's so many ways to show off his hands... Keep in mind these are non-linear to anything written already for these aus... Thanks to cyphersushi for the suggestion of and shannonrita for the how to on the truffles.
Summary: Steve Carlson has amazing hands, no more, no less. (Ok, maybe a little more.)
Apollo au
Christian can't help but stare. Steve's playing is good -- alright, so he's pretty fucking awesome starting from the moment he sets foot on stage. The way his hair catches the light, his presence, his voice (god, his voice...). The way he tips his head back, as though there's nothing at all between him and the music. Not that he's on stage now, of course, though it doesn't seem to change anything about the way Steve looks when he picks up a guitar.
But still, what Chris' eyes are drawn to again and again are his hands. The way his left hand curls around the neck, fingers sliding over the strings, his other hand plucking and pulling music from the chords. The way they move is so confident it's intoxicating.
Steve smiles knowingly as he curls over the guitar, as he gives in to the music. As he puts words to the sound.
Goth!boys
Steve loves that he can do this to him.
Christian hisses as the tour bus hits a bump and Steve's hand jerks in the wrong direction. It doesn't stop him from lifting his hips, head falling back on Steve's shoulder as he pushes into his fist. He barely bites back the needy noise in his throat, and his mouth moves in silent begging.
"Shh," Steve whispers into his hair. They're in the back of the bus, barely concealed by the bunks and the shelving Steve is leaning against, with Christian steadying himself with whatever he can get a grip on since his pants are around his thighs. He smirks and nips at Chris' ear, tugging on his earring before whispering again. "You wouldn't wanna wake up Jensen and Jared, would you?"
Chris makes another aborted noise, and Steve can't help but watch as he writhes in his hands. The way Christian's breath hitches as he traces the lines of his tattoos along his side and up his ribs, relishing the way his black lacquered nails leave goosebumps in their wake. The way he squirms and bucks when Steve twists his nipple. The way Chris' thrusts start to lose their rhythm as Steven twists his wrist. He watches as much as he feels Christian's orgasm claim him, back arcing as Steve strokes him through it, holds him up as the bus hits another bump.
The tv turns on out in the lounge. Steve reaches for one of the t-shirts on the floor to clean them up with, but Christian grabs his wrist. He raises Steve's hand to his mouth, pulls one of his fingers into his mouth and gently sucks it clean before moving on to the next.
"Jesus," Steve mutters. There's still another twenty minutes til they reach their hotel...
Forget Me Not verse
Things are quiet now. It's safe here, or as safe as it can be at times like this. Puzzles inside of chess pieces, set into motion when no one was looking. Even the Dollhouse has to sleep eventually.
But Whiskey is very much awake. It's confusing sometimes, but it's all there really, even when he forgets. No one's made him forget anything since yesterday, since before the building went into lockdown.
He's awake, wide awake, and maybe that's what lets Steven sleep. It isn't heavy sleep, only just deep enough to rest, and he keeps one hand on Whiskey's thigh. He wonders if Steven is afraid he'll leave, if something will take him away and erase him again while Steven's sleeping.
Whiskey rests his own hand over Steven's. Brushes his fingers with feather light touches over his knuckles and the curve of his fingers, along the way the tip of his thumb curves out almost elegant. He traces them, memorizing them. If things work out, if the Dollhouse wakes up, he'll forget again and he wants to remember this, to remember Steven. To remember his hands.
When he leaves, someday, when he isn't Whiskey anymore (someday), he wants to remember this...
Waiter au
Steven's only vaguely aware of the apartment door opening and closing. He's too absorbed in making whiskey and chocolate truffles for the party tomorrow. He'd made the ganache yesterday, and balled them earlier, so now he's in the process of coating them. He's got a rhythm - ganache to melted chocolate, gently scooped out with a fork and dropped into the finely chopped and toasted nuts, roll carefully, lift carefully, shake off the excess nuts, and tray.
There's chocolate all over his hands, of course. He can't say he minds, not when the truffles are turning out perfectly. Steve hums to himself as he works and little by little, the tray of ganache is emptied.
"Those look great," Christian says from his shoulder. Thankfully Steve had already put the last ball of ganache in the chocolate sauce or he might have dropped it. Chris chuckles and kisses his shoulder, rubbing the small of his back.
"They'll taste even better once they're ready," Steve says, and doesn't even miss a beat of his routine. He smiles over his shoulder as he places the last truffle and reaches for a paper towel. "Let me just clean up and then..."
He doesn't get any farther than that because Christian puts a hand on his arm and draws it back. Steve might ask what he's doing, but Chris turns him and traps him against the counter with his hips, sliding his hand slowly up Steve's arm until he's holding his wrist. Steve's breath catches at the look on his face, at the way he pulls his hand up and draws the tip of his thumb into his mouth. Sucking lightly, Chris licks it clean, works his way down to Steve's palm before starting again with his first finger.
Except that this time he draws the whole finger into his mouth, dragging his tongue along the underside before sucking the finger into his mouth again, as though he can't get enough of the velvety chocolate and whiskey flavor. As though he can't get enough of Steve. Chris watches his face as he moves on to the next finger, this time lapping upward from the palm, tongue darting out to swirl around the knuckle. But Steven can't look away from his mouth, from the way his lips wrap around his next finger and so very slowly sucks it into his mouth.
Steve whimpers, and tries to hitch his hips up. Chris has him pinned too well, though, and his smirk as he moves on to Steve's pinky, still taking his time, is obscene. He licks the palm of Steve's hand in slow, broad swipes of his tongue, tracing every curve as he turns Steve's hand to nip and suck at the few splashes of chocolate still left on his knuckles.
It seems that that's where Christian's patience ends, though. He fists a hand in Steve's hair and kisses him hard, rolling his hips until Steven is whimpering and groaning into his mouth. And then he pushes back and steps away, chuckling low and throaty when Steve just blinks at him with a glazed expression.
"You better put those in the fridge darlin'," he says. He turns, heading back toward the bedroom. "I'll be ready when you are..."
Steampunk au
Christian knocks on the workshop door. After a few moments there is no answer, but he can hear the soft, tinny strains of music as though they're coming from a gramophone. Jefferey had mentioned this when he sent him to retrieve Steven, and had said just to go in. He bites his lip nervously and tries knocking once more, louder this time, yet still there is no answer. Master Morgan won't be pleased if he returns alone; doubly so because according to him, that will also mean Steven will not have eaten since breakfast.
"There's nothing for it," he murmurs to himself, and tries the handle. To his surprise (and no little concern) it isn't locked, so he peeks his head inside. He doesn't see Master Carlson right away, so he slips in and closes the door behind him. Chris can tell now that the music is Indian, recognizes the sound of a sitar from his time on the merchant airship a few years ago.
He wanders through the front of the workshop slowly, trying not to stare too much at the different stations. At the partially constructed projects and works in process. The marble block in the far corner, only just broken down enough to perhaps reveal a figure. Various sketches laid out across tables, covered in graphite and coal and ink. Stained woods set aside to dry near brass fittings. Partially hung canvases. It's no wonder the man doesn't eat, if he's always trying to finish so many projects at once.
Chris reaches the door to the back. He's never been farther than the front door before, though he knows the kiln is back there. He's not surprised to see larger saw horses and various other supplies, covered and raised off the ground of course, but he is surprised by the open yard. It could not begin to qualify as a garden, with only one tree and barely a shrub, but it is hardly hard on the eyes. And there, just off to the side, not far from the gramophone, he finds Steven bent to work on an easel in the last of the natural light.
But he isn't working with brushes or coal. Christian has to blink - surely Steven is not painting with his hands?
There are cloths and bowls of something, water perhaps, all stained with different colors. There are splashes of it on his clothes, a smudge here or there on his face and in his hair. It is good that his sleeves are rolled up, because there are faded stains along his forearms and his hands. Browns and pinks and a little gold, glittering. But the tips of his fingers now are a brilliant collection of blues and whites, almost a palate on his right hand while he smudges and works at the canvas with the barest tips of his fingers on his left.
For a long few moments, Christian watches him work. The flex and stretch of his fingers as he works with singular focus and devotion. The way the colors curve around his knuckles and wrist, highlighting even the most delicate motion. He can't help but wonder what they feel like, if they're as calloused as his own. Chris bites his lip and stifles his desire to take the painting's place.
"Master Carlson," he calls, banging loudly on the door frame.
Steven looks up at him, giving him a brilliant smile that doesn't seem in the least bit surprised. "Ah! It must be time for dinner..."
Spy au
Sometimes Steve marvels that Christian lets him touch him. He's a spy, which makes him a liar and a thief; the fact that Chris trusts him at all is a miracle by itself. But he isn't exactly a good person. When a job's gone wrong, he's maimed and killed. And while for most of the jobs he's been on he feels no guilt, every drop of blood on his hands lays on his conscience too.
What's more, Chris likes his hands. Those hands that more often than not have fired guns not forty-eight hours before, pulling the trigger with confidence as cold as gunmetal. Hands that have wired bombs. That have snapped necks.
Chris takes his hands, bruised, sometimes broken, knuckles split from a brawl or a bad get away and calloused with dirty deeds, and kisses his wrists, his palms. He pulls Steve closer, still holding his hands, until there's no space between them at all. Chris holds his hands over his heart and tips his head just so, leaning up to kiss him.
Sometimes Steve can't understand why Chris would let him touch him, why Chris would love him, but he thanks whoever is listening that he does.
Author: Havenward
Fandom: Kane RPS (various aus)
Pairing: Kane/Carlson
Rating: varied by section, up to NC17
Words: 1980
Author's Note: For darlinglisa on her birthday. Proof that I could get something (almost) written on time! She requested Steve hand porn, but couldn't choose a verse. So I decided to write her a few vignettes and give her a nice selection. Which is nice, because there's so many ways to show off his hands... Keep in mind these are non-linear to anything written already for these aus... Thanks to cyphersushi for the suggestion of and shannonrita for the how to on the truffles.
Summary: Steve Carlson has amazing hands, no more, no less. (Ok, maybe a little more.)
Apollo au
Christian can't help but stare. Steve's playing is good -- alright, so he's pretty fucking awesome starting from the moment he sets foot on stage. The way his hair catches the light, his presence, his voice (god, his voice...). The way he tips his head back, as though there's nothing at all between him and the music. Not that he's on stage now, of course, though it doesn't seem to change anything about the way Steve looks when he picks up a guitar.
But still, what Chris' eyes are drawn to again and again are his hands. The way his left hand curls around the neck, fingers sliding over the strings, his other hand plucking and pulling music from the chords. The way they move is so confident it's intoxicating.
Steve smiles knowingly as he curls over the guitar, as he gives in to the music. As he puts words to the sound.
Goth!boys
Steve loves that he can do this to him.
Christian hisses as the tour bus hits a bump and Steve's hand jerks in the wrong direction. It doesn't stop him from lifting his hips, head falling back on Steve's shoulder as he pushes into his fist. He barely bites back the needy noise in his throat, and his mouth moves in silent begging.
"Shh," Steve whispers into his hair. They're in the back of the bus, barely concealed by the bunks and the shelving Steve is leaning against, with Christian steadying himself with whatever he can get a grip on since his pants are around his thighs. He smirks and nips at Chris' ear, tugging on his earring before whispering again. "You wouldn't wanna wake up Jensen and Jared, would you?"
Chris makes another aborted noise, and Steve can't help but watch as he writhes in his hands. The way Christian's breath hitches as he traces the lines of his tattoos along his side and up his ribs, relishing the way his black lacquered nails leave goosebumps in their wake. The way he squirms and bucks when Steve twists his nipple. The way Chris' thrusts start to lose their rhythm as Steven twists his wrist. He watches as much as he feels Christian's orgasm claim him, back arcing as Steve strokes him through it, holds him up as the bus hits another bump.
The tv turns on out in the lounge. Steve reaches for one of the t-shirts on the floor to clean them up with, but Christian grabs his wrist. He raises Steve's hand to his mouth, pulls one of his fingers into his mouth and gently sucks it clean before moving on to the next.
"Jesus," Steve mutters. There's still another twenty minutes til they reach their hotel...
Forget Me Not verse
Things are quiet now. It's safe here, or as safe as it can be at times like this. Puzzles inside of chess pieces, set into motion when no one was looking. Even the Dollhouse has to sleep eventually.
But Whiskey is very much awake. It's confusing sometimes, but it's all there really, even when he forgets. No one's made him forget anything since yesterday, since before the building went into lockdown.
He's awake, wide awake, and maybe that's what lets Steven sleep. It isn't heavy sleep, only just deep enough to rest, and he keeps one hand on Whiskey's thigh. He wonders if Steven is afraid he'll leave, if something will take him away and erase him again while Steven's sleeping.
Whiskey rests his own hand over Steven's. Brushes his fingers with feather light touches over his knuckles and the curve of his fingers, along the way the tip of his thumb curves out almost elegant. He traces them, memorizing them. If things work out, if the Dollhouse wakes up, he'll forget again and he wants to remember this, to remember Steven. To remember his hands.
When he leaves, someday, when he isn't Whiskey anymore (someday), he wants to remember this...
Waiter au
Steven's only vaguely aware of the apartment door opening and closing. He's too absorbed in making whiskey and chocolate truffles for the party tomorrow. He'd made the ganache yesterday, and balled them earlier, so now he's in the process of coating them. He's got a rhythm - ganache to melted chocolate, gently scooped out with a fork and dropped into the finely chopped and toasted nuts, roll carefully, lift carefully, shake off the excess nuts, and tray.
There's chocolate all over his hands, of course. He can't say he minds, not when the truffles are turning out perfectly. Steve hums to himself as he works and little by little, the tray of ganache is emptied.
"Those look great," Christian says from his shoulder. Thankfully Steve had already put the last ball of ganache in the chocolate sauce or he might have dropped it. Chris chuckles and kisses his shoulder, rubbing the small of his back.
"They'll taste even better once they're ready," Steve says, and doesn't even miss a beat of his routine. He smiles over his shoulder as he places the last truffle and reaches for a paper towel. "Let me just clean up and then..."
He doesn't get any farther than that because Christian puts a hand on his arm and draws it back. Steve might ask what he's doing, but Chris turns him and traps him against the counter with his hips, sliding his hand slowly up Steve's arm until he's holding his wrist. Steve's breath catches at the look on his face, at the way he pulls his hand up and draws the tip of his thumb into his mouth. Sucking lightly, Chris licks it clean, works his way down to Steve's palm before starting again with his first finger.
Except that this time he draws the whole finger into his mouth, dragging his tongue along the underside before sucking the finger into his mouth again, as though he can't get enough of the velvety chocolate and whiskey flavor. As though he can't get enough of Steve. Chris watches his face as he moves on to the next finger, this time lapping upward from the palm, tongue darting out to swirl around the knuckle. But Steven can't look away from his mouth, from the way his lips wrap around his next finger and so very slowly sucks it into his mouth.
Steve whimpers, and tries to hitch his hips up. Chris has him pinned too well, though, and his smirk as he moves on to Steve's pinky, still taking his time, is obscene. He licks the palm of Steve's hand in slow, broad swipes of his tongue, tracing every curve as he turns Steve's hand to nip and suck at the few splashes of chocolate still left on his knuckles.
It seems that that's where Christian's patience ends, though. He fists a hand in Steve's hair and kisses him hard, rolling his hips until Steven is whimpering and groaning into his mouth. And then he pushes back and steps away, chuckling low and throaty when Steve just blinks at him with a glazed expression.
"You better put those in the fridge darlin'," he says. He turns, heading back toward the bedroom. "I'll be ready when you are..."
Steampunk au
Christian knocks on the workshop door. After a few moments there is no answer, but he can hear the soft, tinny strains of music as though they're coming from a gramophone. Jefferey had mentioned this when he sent him to retrieve Steven, and had said just to go in. He bites his lip nervously and tries knocking once more, louder this time, yet still there is no answer. Master Morgan won't be pleased if he returns alone; doubly so because according to him, that will also mean Steven will not have eaten since breakfast.
"There's nothing for it," he murmurs to himself, and tries the handle. To his surprise (and no little concern) it isn't locked, so he peeks his head inside. He doesn't see Master Carlson right away, so he slips in and closes the door behind him. Chris can tell now that the music is Indian, recognizes the sound of a sitar from his time on the merchant airship a few years ago.
He wanders through the front of the workshop slowly, trying not to stare too much at the different stations. At the partially constructed projects and works in process. The marble block in the far corner, only just broken down enough to perhaps reveal a figure. Various sketches laid out across tables, covered in graphite and coal and ink. Stained woods set aside to dry near brass fittings. Partially hung canvases. It's no wonder the man doesn't eat, if he's always trying to finish so many projects at once.
Chris reaches the door to the back. He's never been farther than the front door before, though he knows the kiln is back there. He's not surprised to see larger saw horses and various other supplies, covered and raised off the ground of course, but he is surprised by the open yard. It could not begin to qualify as a garden, with only one tree and barely a shrub, but it is hardly hard on the eyes. And there, just off to the side, not far from the gramophone, he finds Steven bent to work on an easel in the last of the natural light.
But he isn't working with brushes or coal. Christian has to blink - surely Steven is not painting with his hands?
There are cloths and bowls of something, water perhaps, all stained with different colors. There are splashes of it on his clothes, a smudge here or there on his face and in his hair. It is good that his sleeves are rolled up, because there are faded stains along his forearms and his hands. Browns and pinks and a little gold, glittering. But the tips of his fingers now are a brilliant collection of blues and whites, almost a palate on his right hand while he smudges and works at the canvas with the barest tips of his fingers on his left.
For a long few moments, Christian watches him work. The flex and stretch of his fingers as he works with singular focus and devotion. The way the colors curve around his knuckles and wrist, highlighting even the most delicate motion. He can't help but wonder what they feel like, if they're as calloused as his own. Chris bites his lip and stifles his desire to take the painting's place.
"Master Carlson," he calls, banging loudly on the door frame.
Steven looks up at him, giving him a brilliant smile that doesn't seem in the least bit surprised. "Ah! It must be time for dinner..."
Spy au
Sometimes Steve marvels that Christian lets him touch him. He's a spy, which makes him a liar and a thief; the fact that Chris trusts him at all is a miracle by itself. But he isn't exactly a good person. When a job's gone wrong, he's maimed and killed. And while for most of the jobs he's been on he feels no guilt, every drop of blood on his hands lays on his conscience too.
What's more, Chris likes his hands. Those hands that more often than not have fired guns not forty-eight hours before, pulling the trigger with confidence as cold as gunmetal. Hands that have wired bombs. That have snapped necks.
Chris takes his hands, bruised, sometimes broken, knuckles split from a brawl or a bad get away and calloused with dirty deeds, and kisses his wrists, his palms. He pulls Steve closer, still holding his hands, until there's no space between them at all. Chris holds his hands over his heart and tips his head just so, leaning up to kiss him.
Sometimes Steve can't understand why Chris would let him touch him, why Chris would love him, but he thanks whoever is listening that he does.