Drabble -- WatXM - Pietro/Dominic
Title: (The dark and empty rooms were full of) Incandescent Hands
Warning/Rating: T- to be safe. Non-explict slash. Schmoop like whoa.
Wordcount 464
I am such a nerd for this pairing...
Dominic.
His fingers are calloused; rough like an unshaven cheek.
He has the hands of the blue collar, hard and strong, with dark grease underneath the short trimmed nails, a peppering of coarse hair on the knuckles. Capable, and their talents are not infinite, but nearly.
They can shatter the earth.
They can topple a city block.
They can move mountains.
And, Pietro knows from firsthand experience, they can shake a man to his very core.
What he really enjoys, though, is watching Dominic work with something delicate. Because those hands are large, wide and broad, and it’s fascinating that they are skilled enough to handle fragile things. Like when he’s carefully assembling a part from the Jeep’s engine, or flicking the ash from his cigarette, or working at the pearl-string of knots at the back of Pietro’s neck.
Those are hands that have killed before.
One can cover the entire side of Pietro’s face.
Pietro.
Those long piano fingers are lightning fast and skilled, and watching them perform is utterly mesmerizing.
Pietro is right-handed. He can crack any security system code in thirty seconds. Give or take.
His hands are nearly skeletal-his nails rough and bitten down to the quick-and sometimes all Dominic wants to do is press them against his cheek.
They can do so many effortless, deft little things: sew an even row of stitches across Dominic’s forearm without flinching, unclasp the tiny catches from his armor, pen the Times crossword in precise block letters while lying in bed. But what's more intriguing is seeing them do big things.
They curl into white-knuckled fists, and hurtle into noses, shattering them easily.
They flit manically across chalkboards, outlining the collapse of an unjust system.
They point and direct and inspire, while simultaneously getting dirty. Figuratively. Literally.
Mostly, Dominic loves them when they fuss with him, tucking or pulling or smoothing, insulting but endearing.
A Pair.
It’s rare to see their fingers intertwined. And it’s always so dramatic; Dominic’s skin is olive whilst Pietro’s is pale, pallid, and it makes for a striking contrast.
When they are together, it’s normally between the sheets, twisted, mouths and limbs, someone pressing the other’s hand into the mattress, gripping it tight-like if they let go...
Those are the times when their skin is fused together, when all but the soft gasps and breathless laughs are meaningless in their lives.
But every so often, Dominic will reach out; try to take Pietro's hand even though he knows he will be rejected, because it is much too intimate for what they both pretend to have.
And once in a blue moon, after his hand as been shaken off, a finger will curl around his a few minutes later, and the promise of something more hangs.
Warning/Rating: T- to be safe. Non-explict slash. Schmoop like whoa.
Wordcount 464
I am such a nerd for this pairing...
Dominic.
His fingers are calloused; rough like an unshaven cheek.
He has the hands of the blue collar, hard and strong, with dark grease underneath the short trimmed nails, a peppering of coarse hair on the knuckles. Capable, and their talents are not infinite, but nearly.
They can shatter the earth.
They can topple a city block.
They can move mountains.
And, Pietro knows from firsthand experience, they can shake a man to his very core.
What he really enjoys, though, is watching Dominic work with something delicate. Because those hands are large, wide and broad, and it’s fascinating that they are skilled enough to handle fragile things. Like when he’s carefully assembling a part from the Jeep’s engine, or flicking the ash from his cigarette, or working at the pearl-string of knots at the back of Pietro’s neck.
Those are hands that have killed before.
One can cover the entire side of Pietro’s face.
Pietro.
Those long piano fingers are lightning fast and skilled, and watching them perform is utterly mesmerizing.
Pietro is right-handed. He can crack any security system code in thirty seconds. Give or take.
His hands are nearly skeletal-his nails rough and bitten down to the quick-and sometimes all Dominic wants to do is press them against his cheek.
They can do so many effortless, deft little things: sew an even row of stitches across Dominic’s forearm without flinching, unclasp the tiny catches from his armor, pen the Times crossword in precise block letters while lying in bed. But what's more intriguing is seeing them do big things.
They curl into white-knuckled fists, and hurtle into noses, shattering them easily.
They flit manically across chalkboards, outlining the collapse of an unjust system.
They point and direct and inspire, while simultaneously getting dirty. Figuratively. Literally.
Mostly, Dominic loves them when they fuss with him, tucking or pulling or smoothing, insulting but endearing.
A Pair.
It’s rare to see their fingers intertwined. And it’s always so dramatic; Dominic’s skin is olive whilst Pietro’s is pale, pallid, and it makes for a striking contrast.
When they are together, it’s normally between the sheets, twisted, mouths and limbs, someone pressing the other’s hand into the mattress, gripping it tight-like if they let go...
Those are the times when their skin is fused together, when all but the soft gasps and breathless laughs are meaningless in their lives.
But every so often, Dominic will reach out; try to take Pietro's hand even though he knows he will be rejected, because it is much too intimate for what they both pretend to have.
And once in a blue moon, after his hand as been shaken off, a finger will curl around his a few minutes later, and the promise of something more hangs.