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“I'm not even supposed to be here, bro.”
“It's an art class. There's gonna be loads of hot models.”
“You said that two weeks ago,” Pedri groans. He looks at his easel. A piss poor excuse of a drawing sits on it. Someone walking by couldn't even tell you what the fuck is on either of their canvases, but at least Pablo’s sort of looks like the figure that's in the center of the room.
Yeah, that's right. Pedri’s super brilliant friend convinced him to take a basic art class. Because of the “easy credits and hot models!” Except nothing about this class is easy and there are no live models. He should've known. This is a Basic Anatomy of Art class. Not Nudity 101. But Pedri, being the horny college student he is, totally fell for Pablo’s logic because at the time, who wouldn’t wanna be around hot nude models? And now the add/drop period is over and he and Pablo are stuck here with a bunch of other morons who probably thought similarly.
“The last time I take a class with you, Gavi, I swear.”
“Whatever, it's not like you can fail art.”
Uh. Apparently, that's not entirely accurate either. The professor tears Pedri apart in one on one feedback, telling him to practice at home or in his spare time. Pedri's got no time to be practicing painting or drawing or whatever. He's on the school’s football team, on scholarship. Every minute that's not spent studying is spent in practice. Somehow, Pablo has gotten this art shit down in less time than him.
Pablo smirks when, in the next class, he gets a higher mark on his rendition of the figures than Pedri. “What can I say? I'm good with my hands and my feet.”
Pedri rolls his eyes and looks at his mediocre grade. Next to it are the office hours of the professor and art department, underlined three times.
“Now, in today’s class, we're going to move onto drawing hands. Notoriously difficult, but you should have begun practicing in your workbooks already.”
Pedri groans. He's definitely behind on that.
The Professor passes out the figures, one per pair of students. And Gavi, “I'm-good-with-my-hands” Pablo Gavira, goes and drops the damn statue and shatters it into a million pieces.
“Nice,” Pedri drawls while he gets up. “Where's the damn broom?”
“Shit, I'm sorry, Professor.”
“Language,” the Professor sighs. “And it's alright. We'll have to split you up to work with others. It may be cramped…”
Pedri starts sweeping and grumbling. “Great.”
“Unless…” the Professor’s face lights up as she bounces on her feet. “How would you two like a live model?”
Pablo’s eyes nearly bulge out of his sockets. “Finally!” Pedri nudges him with the broom. “I mean, we'll be happy with either or.”
The Professor goes into another one of the art classrooms and Pedri turns to Gavi as soon as the debris is swept up to the side. “Looks like your hands have landed us a model.” Most of the class seems to be leaning in, too, eager to see who their hot model is going to be.
The Professor walks back in. “Class, this is one of the teaching assistants in the art department, Unai Simón. He's a student here and he's agreed to model his hands for today’s class!”
Time is moving at a snail’s pace.
Gavi is half slumped over his work, obviously and totally disappointed that the model isn't a hot babe wrapped up in a bedsheet. Nonetheless, he still has something on the paper: the first two fingers of Unai’s left hand, which is delicately placed on the bench between them, his right one not too far away.
And Pedri? Well, Pedri’s canvas is still empty because he's not exactly sure why he's staring at this man’s hands so much. Yes, he's supposed to stare at them. Because he needs to replicate them onto his canvas. But he hasn't drawn a single line yet.
Maybe it's because they're fucking huge?
What does this guy do again? A teaching assistant? With hands like that, he's probably moonlighting as an assassin. Or a butcher.
Unai is seated with his headphones in, eyes closed as he stays still for the class. Pedri’s impressed by his control. He hasn't seen the man move or twitch once, and nearly fifteen minutes have passed. There were no introductions. They didn't even make eye contact. Unai just sat down with his AirPods in and let the professor position his hands, and then he shut his eyes.
He's probably asleep.
That's probably a good thing because Pedri can't stop staring at the man. And it's not just his hands.
Well, it was the hands at first. They're kind of rough looking and were a little dry at first until the Professor scolded him and doused him in lotion. Now they look soft and supple, but still obviously riddled with symptoms of labor: thick callouses, very short nails with tiny cracks around the skin. They almost look tinted reddish. But what gets Pedri tinted pink himself is how large his hands are compared to the figures the rest of the class works with. Unai’s hands look like they could easily squish his head or wrap around his thigh. And they seem strong. Incredible, really, with their veins and the skin being perfectly taut over the man's knuckles and muscles. On the man’s right wrist is a faint scar, but also several string and cloth bracelets that also seem to be tinted red.
The softness of his skin ends at his wrists, though. The rest of Unai Simón is rugged; his arms look dusty and his hair is kind of a mess, along with his beard. He's wearing an apron, just like all the other art professors, but his is very used with streaks of red and gray across it. And actually, upon closer inspection, there are red and gray streaks across Unai’s jeans as well.
Not to mention that when Unai walked over and sat down, Pedri saw that the man was a full head taller than him, at least.
Maybe he's a painter too, Pedri thinks. He can't imagine such large hands doing something so delicate, but then again, he never imagined Gavi to be a good artist either.
He could play sports. Something like basketball or football. He's definitely tall enough for it. Pedri fiddles with his pencils, pretending to plan out the first series of lines he'll draw as the Professor starts to approach. As soon as she walks past him, though, Pedri goes back to wondering what Unai Simón could be doing with those hands if he's not tackling people into the ground.
Definitely gym bro hands. The entire football team has them, but another quick glance over Unai’s arms tells Pedri that he's someone who frequently works out.
Maybe his second job is in labor or construction.
I bet they give really good massages.
That's… that's a really weird thought to have about a stranger.
Pedri shakes his head and tries to refocus his attention onto his canvas. Class is basically half over and he still hasn't got anything decent onto the page. He positions the pencil onto the paper and begins to lightly sketch what he hopes to be Unai’s thumb.
No ring, either.
You idiot. He's a student. He's not married. And if he's married, he's probably got the ring in his pocket.
He honestly doesn't look old enough to be married.
I wonder what he's listening to.
Also why would anyone wanna be an art major? Pedri snorts. Whoever this guy is, his hands are the only thing he has going for him.
That, and maybe the biceps under his shirt.
What?
“Is everything alright?”
Pedri blinks.
Unai’s eyes are open and they're staring right at him.
Okay. Hands, biceps, and nice eyes.
“What?”
“You sounded like you coughed.” Despite speaking, Unai is still totally frozen in his pose.
Pedri flushes. “Yeah. Sorry.”
Unai closes his eyes again, and Pedri tries to go back to work. He swears he feels Unai’s gaze on him, but whenever his eyes wander, he sees the man hasn't moved at all. It's not enough of a reassurance; Pedri stays determined to not look at any other part of Unai except his hands.
Class ends quickly and not to his surprise, he's nowhere close to being finished. The Professor sighs at his progress and recommends he stop by for office hours or to at least practice at home. He grumbles as he starts putting away his materials while Gavi, quite smugly, leans close to him.
“So. Plans for tomorrow?”
“Shut up.” Pedri elbows him, though he can't quite think of anything snarky to say back. Because at that moment, Unai gets up from his chair and stretches his arms up.
Oh, great. He's got abs, too. Pedri tries not to stare as the man cracked his knuckles, which earns another swift scolding from the Professor.
“How many times have I told you not to do that,” she thwacks Unai on the back. “It's not good.”
“But it feels good,” he says with a goofy smile.
“Thanks for being the model today.”
Unai nods as she walks away, and he slips his AirPods out.
“Yeah, thanks for the help,” Pedri adds, for literally no reason at all.
Unai raises an eyebrow. “I didn't help. I just sat there. But you're welcome.” He gives Pedri a small wave and walks away into the other art room, his hands at his side.
Pedro breathes a sigh of relief. Over what? Unsure. But at least that'll be the last time he sees Unai Simón’s hands.
Or, so he thought.
Eventually, he's forced to go to extra help because if he doesn't, his coach is going to tear him a new one. He can envision it now: being benched because of an art class. That's not happening. Not on his watch.
Pedri walks into the art classroom where the Professor is holding extra help. It's not the usual classroom where they meet; this one has people working on all sorts of things. Easels and sketchbooks are only the start: there's someone working with charcoal and another person who's digging through a huge pile of fabric.
And on the other side of the room are low circular tables with short stools, one of which is occupied by a certain someone with enormous hands. Pedri stops dead in his tracks when he sees the figure slam down what appears to be a brick onto the table.
It's Unai, and much to Pedri’s surprise, he's making pottery.
Oh, that makes sense. Unai presses his fingers into a reddish brown slab of clay, as if to feel the texture of it, before the table starts rotating. The slow spin starts to pick up speed, but Unai doesn't touch the clay. Not yet at least. Because he looks up, and their eyes lock, and Pedri wishes he could vanish from the classroom.
Caught twice. He's never been this awkward with someone he's only spoken a handful of words to. Unai doesn't wave or smile. He just raises an eyebrow, to acknowledge that he's now caught Pedri looking over more than once.
For his own safety, or maybe his own sanity, Pedri tries to pick a seat that's a good distance away from the pottery section of the room. He readies his materials before getting up to look for a figure to borrow. He ventures into the supplies closet where he's sure the Professor keeps them.
“My hands not good enough for you?”
Pedri jumps away from the shelf, nearly knocking into another. Unai’s arms immediately steady him, and Pedri’s back collides with Unai's very solid chest. As soon as he's figured out who's behind him, Pedri whirls around.
“Fuck, you scared me.”
“I can see that.” Unai is nothing short of amused. “What do you need from the closet?”
“Um, one of the figures we used in the other class.” He should answer Unai’s question too, but embarrassment floods him when the voice in his head sings, Yes, please be my model and show me your beautiful, manly, strong, huge, hands!!!!
“Ah, okay. They're up here.” Unai stretches up to get a box on the top of the shelf, a box that Pedri couldn't have reached without help, and for some reason, that's enough to get Pedri fixated on the man’s arms once more. “Here.”
He supposes that when he takes the box from Unai, that’s when he feels the smallest.
Pedri needs to get out of this closet. It’s becoming a little too much like a metaphor.
“Thanks.” He ducks out before Unai can say anything else. Not that he seemed like he would say anything else, and not that Pedri is looking to stick around. Pedri hurries back to his seat, positions the models as he best remembers from the previous class, and gets to work.
And he hates that Unai is right: his hands are far better to stare at than this wooden model.
After five minutes of staring at his blank page, Pedri gets lost in watching Unai spin pottery.
He doesn’t mean to stare. Trust that if he had any other option, he would not stare. But he swore that vase just a block of clay a few moments ago.
How the fuck does he do that?
Out of nowhere, he hears a loud thwack!
Unai’s fist sits right on top of his vase, the clay folding easily under his hand.
And when their eyes meet, Pedri is shooting out of his seat and gathering his things. Because no fucking way is he about to sport a hard on at art extra help.
“Professor, I have a family emergency, I have to go!”
“Okay, try to-”
But he’s practically sprinting out the door, so very aware that a certain potter is watching him.
That night, Pedri dreams.
He doesn’t dream often, and whenever he does, he barely remembers any of it. Except tonight’s.
Tonight’s dream has him pinned to his bed, air heavy around him. There’s something around his neck. Not choking him, but the slightest of pressure, easing on and off of his throat, pacing his breaths. Pedri reaches for the thing. He feels rough skin under his fingertips.
He opens his eyes, and he’s met with a familiar sight. He knows him, barely, but enough to nod, to urge quietly: keep going.
Something around his neck. Something. Nothing. It’s a hand.
And there’s another, skimming up his shirt, brushing against his chest, skittering down his abs. Pedri feels his chest expand, feels the hand around his neck loosen to let him breathe before it lets go all together.
Now both hands are moving downwards. Down to his waist. They hold onto it, gripping him, but Pedri feels no pain at all. The heat from the hands is enveloping him, making his skin tingle. He inhales again, and now he’s faced to face with the person. And he doesn’t stop him as he leans into his neck, hot breath making him shiver. And he doesn’t stop his hands either, when they start to tug downwards, when they brush over his hips, when they find the crease of his thigh and-
An alarm blares.
Pedri wakes up.
For fuck’s sake.
Class isn’t any better the next day.
“I thought since Unai did such a wonderful job as the hand model before, I asked him to model again!” The Professor claps her hands, obviously thrilled, but Pedri would rather saw off his own hands than endure another hour of staring at Unai’s.
Too bad he doesn’t have a choice.
And Unai’s just sitting there, AirPods, eyes closed, like the last time. But Pedri’s fucking sweating. Daydreaming of what those hands ought to be doing instead of being folded all prime and proper on a desk. He wants those hands wrapped around him. Grabbing him. Pulling on his hair. Stroking his dick.
Pedri suppresses a wince when the last image flashes in his mind. Hands like that would make him feel so fucking tiny, and Pedri can’t find himself caring. He’d take the bruising to his ego if it meant Unai would get him off just once. Because he knows those hands are fucking incredible.
Just another day of Pedri running out the goddamn door, hoping to God he gets back to his dorm before he busts in his shorts.
And if he were a luckier person, the third try would be the charm. And for the first thirty minutes of his next extra help session, he is a luckier person. No pottery or Unai in sight. No giant with huge hands in the corner, smoothing away at the clay, which is, in Pedri’s opinion, too often phallic shaped. Why do so many vases start out looking like penises?
Doesn’t matter. Unai isn’t here. Pedri sighs, and for the first time in a week, he finally manages to actually draw a hand. It’s not Unai’s hand, and the Professor says there’s ways to go, but there’s a fucking hand on the page and that’s a goddamn victory. He’ll take it.
Things go downhill when Unai walks in. “Sorry I’m late.”
Pedri instantly freezes.
“Ready to put those hands to work?”
He hears knuckles cracking before Unai laughs. “Yeah, sure.”
He does not look up. He does not wait for the Professor to excuse him. “Professor, I’m sorry, I have to go.”
The Professor turns to him, annoyed. “Again?”
“Yes, I’m really sorry.” Pedri struggles to put everything back into his backpack, but he’s out the door in less than a minute. It doesn’t help that Unai is staring at him with a puzzled look on his face as Pedri shouts his goodbyes and apologies.
All he knows is that if stays in that classroom with Unai, something terrible and wonderful and supremely fucked up will happen.
Pedri gets all the way across campus and back to his dorm when he realizes that’s a fucking idiot who’s so delusional about some stranger’s hands that he forgot his keys. They’re not in his pockets or in his backpack. Pedri groans. This inevitably means he has to go back to the art rooms. All he can do is hope, being that it’s late afternoon, that the rooms are empty and that there are no hunky large men brooding about in corners and making pottery.
And the third try is the charm, as Pedri walks into an empty classroom. Not wanting to press his luck, he does not waste any time. He ducks down to check the floor and around where he sat. He checks the easel he used, the Professor’s desk, the countertops, but finds nothing.
Where the fuck are my keys?
He ventures deeper into the classroom, even checking the pottery table because maybe he was dumb enough to toss them over. It’s then that he remembers that he did struggle with getting the models from the top shelf. Maybe it’s there. Pedri walks into the supplies closet and begins searching inside. He gets to the very end of the closet before he hears someone clear their throat.
He turns.
It’s Unai. And in one of his glorious hands is a set of keys. Pedri’s keys.
“Looking for these?”
Pedri swallows and averts his eyes. “Yes, those are mine.” He makes a move to get them, but Unai withdraws his hand.
“Not until you tell me why you’re staring at me all the time.”
“What?”
“I said, I won’t give them back until you tell me why you’re always staring at me.”
Pedri rolls his eyes, but he knows the tops of his cheeks are starting to smart. “Shut up and give me my keys.”
Unai gives him a silly grin. “Answer the question and they’re yours.”
Annoyed, Pedri reaches for them, but the fucking bastard thrusts his hand up, making it impossible for Pedri to reach.
“You’re an asshole,” Pedri glares.
“Me? You’re the one who’s being weird and giving me a nasty look-”
“I’m not giving you a look-”
“Yes you are-”
“Just fucking give me my keys-”
“No-”
Pedri lurches forward, crashing into Unai, almost headbutting his chest. They topple backwards until Unai’s shoved up against the closet door, and Pedri’s shoved up against him, trying to catch the taller man’s hands. Pedri barely gets to Unai’s chin, and every time he tries to go for his keys, it’s like he’s climbing on top of the fucking giant.
“Give them-”
“No, not until you tell me what your problem-” Unai stops. “...is.”
Pedri stops.
“Are you… are you hard right now?” Unai asks, aghast.
Pedri seizes the chance and grabs his keys from Unai, shoving them into his pocket. But, if he thought he was going to escape with just that, he’s sorely mistaken, because now Unai’s looking at him, wide eyed, barricading himself between Pedri and the door.
Then Unai smirks. “You’ve got a crush on me.”
Pedri goes scarlet. “I don’t. Get out of my way.”
“You do. That’s why you’ve been staring at me.” His smile grows wider. “Is that why you’ve been running out of class?”
“No-”
“Admit it.” Without any warning, Unai pulls on his shirt, forcing Pedri to come closer. “Admit it, and I’ll help you with your problem.”
Pedri’s mouth opens, but not a single word comes out. Because Unai’s hand is on him. On his chest. Right there, and he can see it, can feel the warmth of it through his flimsy shirt: Unai’s tight grip and his strong hand and his goddamn arms and-
Unai looks like he’s a cat that’s trapped a mouse between its paws.
Pedri gulps.
“Yeah?” Unai pulls him closer. They’re chest to chest now, and Unai bends his head to Pedri’s ear. “Just say the word. And I’ll give you a hand.” A wince that he tries so hard to suppress escapes his lips, and it makes Unai whisper again. “Tell me, hm?”
Pedri closes his eyes when he whimpers out, “Fuck, just do it already.”
“Do what?”
Pedri drags Unai’s hand from his chest to the front of his shorts. He’s hard, harder than he’s ever been, and it’s all Unai and his stupid perfect hands’ fault.
“Touch me already.”
Unai leans down and captures Pedri in a heated kiss, and while it throws Pedri off to have the bane of his existence kissing him right now, all he can think about is how Unai is holding him by his waist as they maneuver around each other.
Fuck, his hands are strong. Better than any dream. Clay, pottery, even the fucking boxes that Unai carries to and from the closet are lucky; they get to be touched by Unai all the time. And now he’s lucky too, because Unai is touching him, and is seeking out his body.
Unai kisses him hard, kisses him aggressively. If Pedri weren’t so humiliated by Unai’s teasing, he’d think that Unai’s just as enthralled as he is by this. Struck in the supplies closet, going at each other, furiously palming each others’ erections through their clothes. Unai’s hands crawl up Pedri’s shirt, making the shorter man shiver.
“What do you want?” Unai asks, teasing.
Pedri clutches at Unai’s shirt, desperation obvious in his voice. “Get me off,” he grits out. And if that answer isn’t enough, Pedri grabs around Unai’s waist too. “And I’ll return the favor.”
Unai succeeds in dragging Pedri’s shorts and underwear down just enough to get his thick cock out. The moment Unai’s hand wraps around is the moment Pedri breaks out in a strangled moan, his head falling against Unai’s chest.
“God, that’s good- keep going-”
“Like that?” Unai breathes out. “Was that what you were waiting for?”
“Fuck yes.” He can hardly think straight, watching Unai slowly stroke his weeping cock. Unai’s thumb sweeps over the pearly come at the tip, rubbing it all over before dragging his hand down to the base of Pedri’s cock. “Tighter-”
Unai does as he’s asked, half smirking against Pedri’s mouth. Pedri knows he’s never going to live this down, and oh fuck, are they going to be screwed if anyone finds them, but he could not care less about the consequences. Instead, he rewards Unai by sticking his own hand down Unai’s pants and frantically feeling for his cock. Unai hisses into the kiss before helping Pedri unfasten his jeans and shuck them down.
Pedri doesn’t know why he’s shocked. Of course Unai’s dick is huge. His hands are huge. So of course-
“Scared?” Unai teases.
“You wish.”
He brings Pedri’s hand back over his cock. “Then what are you waiting for?”
Pedri shuts the guy up with another deep kiss. He said he would return the favor, and that’s not going to change, but goddamn: Unai’s gotta be the biggest he’s ever seen, and quite frankly, just touching him has got Pedri spiraling towards his orgasm. Unai breaks away from the kiss to plant several onto Pedri’s neck, making him moan.
“Fuck, that’s so good-”
“Gotta be quieter than that,” Unai mutters into his skin. But the bastard doesn’t let up, and when he sinks his teeth into Pedri’s sensitive skin, Pedri cries out. “What did I just say?”
“I can’t be quiet,” Pedri pants. “Not if you’re doing it like that. Not if- shit!”
“Do I have to shut you up,” Unai asks half playfully.
But Pedri’s pretty keen on the idea. “Yeah, go ahead,” he challenges. “Shut me up.”
Unai turns him, shoves him against the door. “Yeah? Should I make you blow me right here?”
Pedri nearly comes at that, but he’s not willing to press his luck. “Put your hand over my mouth.”
“Oh, God-” Unai groans. “You’re one of those freaky-”
“Just,” Pedri whimpers. “Just fucking do it-”
Unai does, cutting Pedri off with his hand, but still working his cock, still locking eyes with him. And Pedri’s breathing hard through his nose, tasting the salt and earthiness of Unai’s skin. He just wants to lick it, lick Unai’s hands, worship them, beg them to bring him to orgasm every fucking day for the rest of his life. He can go without all the rest as long as he has-
“Getting close?” Unai boasts. “Look at you. You’re just aching for it-”
Pedri makes a muffled sound, something along the lines of “Shut up” and “Yes, please” but he’ll be damned if he ever admits to which it is.
“We might have to do this again.” Unai presses against him harder. “Might have to use my hands on you some more.”
Yes, yes, again and again and again, please touch, please use your hands-
“Fuck.” He starts to work at Pedri’s cock faster. “You’re gonna come, aren’t you?”
Another muffled sound.
“Do it, Pedri. That’s it, baby, come in my hand-”
And right on command, he does. Orgasm racks through Pedri’s body violently, the last week of pining after Unai’s hands suddenly releasing itself all over his shorts and Unai’s fingers. Unai keeps his other hand pressed to Pedri’s mouth, even when Pedri sinks his teeth and his eyes roll back. When Pedri’s breathing calms, Unai pulls away, only to have Pedri bring his other, soiled hand to his mouth. He licks his own come right off Unai’s skin. It's revolting, but all he can think of is Unai's hand in his mouth.
Unai finally gets the message. He shoves two fingers into his mouth as Pedri strokes him. “That’s what you want, hm? My hands?” Pedri gags and chokes, but lets out a strangled yes. Unai grabs both of Pedri’s hands and puts them on his cock. “Just like that, baby. Use both hands to make me come.”
Pedri doesn’t have to be told twice. He seeks Unai out for another kiss before putting his hands to work, and right after he’s done making a mess of Unai’s lips by biting them, sucking on them, pulling on them, does he see Unai’s face scrunch up and his body tighten underneath his hands. Seconds later and Unai is shooting off all over Pedri’s hands, the taller man panting heavily against him while the pleasure courses through.
“Fuck,” Unai breathes out. “Should’ve done this days ago.”
Pedri gives him a shaky laugh. “Yeah, maybe I wouldn’t have been so dumb then.”
Unai kisses his forehead. “Not dumb. Just kind of cute and weird.”
“Weird?!”
“I’ve gotta say, this is the first time anyone’s hyper fixated on my hands,” Unai smirks. “I like it though.”
“Shut up,” Pedri grumbles.
“I like you, too,” Unai teases. “If you’re wondering.”
“I’m not.” But Pedri looks away, trying not to smile at him. “And I only like your hands.”
“Yeah? You sure about that?”
“Yeah, I’m-”
“Professor? Are you there?”
It takes about three seconds for them to realize that they seriously need to clean up before they’re caught. They quickly straighten out their clothes, though the only thing they have to clean themselves up is Unai’s already filthy apron. And it’s not like anyone can stop him, so despite Unai’s horrified look, Pedri wipes his hands on the apron before Unai gives in and does the same. They very patiently and quietly wait for the footsteps to fade away before Unai opens the door and lets them out.
“God, that was close,” Pedri complains with a sigh.
“Mhm.”
“Would’ve been fucked if we got caught.”
“Mm.”
“What are you-” Pedri turns and sees Unai flipping through his sketchbook. “Hey, that’s mine!”
Unai holds up a piss poor drawing of hands. “Not exactly anatomically correct,” he teases. “What sort of hands are you staring at all day?”
Pedri snatches the sketchbook away. “If I had a better model, maybe I’d finally finish this drawing.”
“Oh?” Unai pulls on Pedri’s shirt again. “What sort of model are you looking for?”
“Hmm, someone with big hands.” Pedri looks down at Unai’s. “Yours are alright.”
“Think you can manage?”
Pedri takes Unai’s hand in his and laces their fingers together. “I think practice makes perfect.”