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Imagine tracing your hands over his, the veins rolling slightly under your thumb as you caress his skin and he pretends to ignore you and how much he likes having you touch and appreciate him. His skin’s a little dry—it’s getting chilly out, and I know damn well he doesn’t care about taking care of himself enough for lotion.
He has small scars across his hands and fingers, too. His father definitely used to bring him on camping trips to ‘teach him how to be a real man’ or something. The cuts are from finding out the hard way how to hold a knife properly and almost slicing off his thumb. (Same, man. Same.) Not to mention the occasional paper cut or two. He always keeps a little book or something to read in his bag with him. He doesn’t like being bored, and his mom had it instilled in his mind that books are the best way to spend spare time.
•“What’s this from?” You ask in a tired voice, not bothering to look up at him. You’re too comfortable with your head tucked into the curve of his armpit as you two cuddle up under the duvet to hide from the fact that you’re both too snug to get up and turn on the heater. “Almost cut my hand off with a hatchet.” He said it so casually that all you can do is snort as you rub it under your thumb.
Oh, and don’t forget the calluses. He has a few soft calluses built up on his hand from using his cane, and his fingertips are always a little cracked from his guitar strings .
•While you’re still playing with his hands, you decide to turn the one you’ve been occupied with around to rub his palm. Lately, since it’s been getting cooler out and you’ve been using it as excuse to lay around on him, you’ve been finding yourself memorizing his body while going over the anatomical terms. Anatomy was always one of your strong suited interests. You switch from massaging the thenar eminence, then the hypothenar, along the medial palmar region, and then spend your time gently rubbing the hard skin on the palm side of his knuckles, on the metocarpaphelangeal joint, you note. You let out a soft huff of a laugh at how silly it is to mentally note names like that, but continue anyway. You use one hand to gently hold his wrist and the other uses its fingers to trace up his palm, following the path of the nerves deep under the flesh. Once you reach the tips of his fingers, you slide yours back down to interlock your fingers between his and bring it up to your head, gently kissing the rough skin of his fingertips.
I’m such a whore for nice hands. Imagine him sliding a few fingers into your mouth if you’re being too loud* and smiling to himself as you just roll your tongue between them, his other hand precisely moving inside you in all the ways he’s memorized to make you feel the best. I know for a fact that man is amazing at fingering. He’s so observant, he can’t not be good at sex. Speaking of observant, he definitely knows if you like his hands like this. When you’re in the room, crosses his arms with one hand up to move around his face or neck, just to make it easier for you to look at them. He’s such a sneaky bastard I WANT HIM.