Be it his coworkers snarking at each other, a corpse, the barista that somehow says his name wrong as his coffee is pushed to the counter, John keeps his hands in his pockets, or tucks them into his arms as he silently judges whatever grotesque scene lies before him. Eyes are the windows to the soul, so he’s heard, but hands will betray your desires.
He fidgets when he’s left idle for too long. Not restlessly spinning a pen between his fingers, he’s playing chess against himself to give his hands something to do. He’s tossing a ball in the air, he’s crumpling paper and tossing it into the trash can across the room, he’s quietly tapping on his desk to the song playing in his head.
He waves them about when he speaks, though. He gestures animatedly at the air, his mouth moving just as quickly. Or, he calmly paints a picture with his hands out in front of him to show his thought process.
He runs a hand down his face when he’s frustrated. He points fingers when he’s pissed. He cards his fingers through his hair when he’s nervous, checking for at least one thing that’s still in place. He taps his lips when he’s deep in thought.
His hands carry two coffees, have ever since he memorized your drink order
His hands reach for you the minute you’re in his orbit, finding a way to hold onto you, keep you
His hands toy with your clothes on occasion. Sometimes it’s to fix your collar, smooth out a wrinkle, adjust an accessory, zip a zipper. However it’s always an excuse to touch you
His hands flirt with yours, teasing with the idea of holding them. He likes to torture himself like that. It’s you that has to lace them together
His hands, from the moment they touch you, begin a map of your skin. It’s not a conscious decision. He memorizes the tomb of every dip, every scar, every freckle, every mole, every tattoo
His hands can finally rest after every crappy day— on you. On your shoulder while you’re tucking into his side, stealing a peak at whatever he’s reading. On your leg as they stretch across his lap. On your hand, thumb dragging across your knuckles affectionately
His hands aim to annoy, too. He’ll poke your nose, cheeks, forehead, while proving a point and he’ll just laugh if you snap your teeth at him
His hands slide over your throat, fingers touching at the back of your neck, thumbs brushing under your jaw. Sometimes it’s to kiss you, maybe merge your foreheads together for an intimate moment… sometimes he just stares at you like that. Eyes scanning over, memorizing each tiny details of your face
His hands easily find the tension in your shoulders, that kink in your neck that’s been bothering you all day, the sore spot lingering in your lower back. He’ll mindlessly (or so it looks) massage the area, glancing at you occasionally to check for signs of discomfort
His hands roll blunts with expertise that he jokes Snoop Dogg wishes he had. He can twirl a lighter over and under his fingers, switching the flame on and off like magic. The end ignites, burning slowly, held between his fingers while he pulls a drag
His hands that push your thighs apart as his lips trail down your stomach, trading his voice for your moans
His hands encourage you closer to his mouth, pulling and guiding you to use him as you wish. Your pleasure is his, after all
His hands grab your hips, matching whatever rhythm they’ve set as he’s plunged deep inside so you that he sees stars
His hands tease between your legs, knowing featherlight touches will make you squirm for him
His hands cradle your face as he kisses you so passionately that you just know in your bones everything he wants to say. His words come out a broken mess and his grip tightens slightly as the closer he gets to his release
His hands that move idly over your skin as you both come down from a euphoric high. He’ll tug you closer if you try and clean up before he’s ready to let you go. He’ll bring a glass of water to your lips if you’re being stubborn about staying hydrated
His hand smooths a damp rag over and between your thighs, gently collecting the mess you both made together. His blush betrays the stoic expression he wears
His hands remain steady as he slips a ring onto your finger when he proposes, though his mouth moves anxiously. Deep in his bone marrow he knows.
You’re it.
His hands have touched, loved, and learned every inch of you, and he’ll have no other now.
