Rating/Warnings: M for sexual references.
Disclaimer: Itís Maki Murakamiís sandbox; I just play in it. I donít own the rights to Gravitation or its characters, nor do I make any money from writing about them.
Summary: Shuichi appreciates Eiriís hands for all sorts of reasons, not just the obvious ones.
Word Count: ~500 words.
A/N: It only took me two years to edit this after beta review and post it. :D Thanks to HawkClowd for the beta review.
I love to watch Eiriís hands when he drives. When heís going straight, the steering wheel barely moves. On winding roads, he turns the steering wheel with ease. If heís driving in traffic, he slams the shifter around, but I can tell itís just impatience because he has to shift so often. When heís on the open highway, he handles the shifter much more gently, coaxing it where he wants it to go.
I love to watch Eiriís hands flying over the keys on his laptop. He types rapidly and without hesitation whether heís adding or deleting text. Of course, sometimes he has to sit and think for awhile or write something down first before typing it, but once he starts typing thereís almost no stopping him.
I love to watch Eiriís hands when he cooks. He wields the utensils so deftly, chopping onions, cutting up meat, separating skin from melon. I could never do that so well. Iíd cut myself first. He whisks eggs and stirs batter without the ingredients slopping over the side. Me, Iíd whisk and stir them all over the counter. I wonder: how does he manage to keep it all so contained?
I love to watch Eiriís hands when heís shaving. Heís so careful and hardly ever nicks himself. His fans might not realize it, because his face is so beautiful and angelic and the color of his hair is so light, but he develops rough stubble if he stops shaving even for a day. Occasionally, when heís engrossed in his writing and doesnít need to go out, or if weíre away on vacation, he wonít bother shaving for a day or two, and I get to caress that stubble. Iíve discovered that the roughness feels kind of nice against my skin when he goes down on me.
I love to watch Eiriís hands when heís putting on or removing his clothes. Itíd be easy to think itís just because I like seeing him undress, and I do, but itís the way he does it, like a cat gracefully stretching to put something on or take something off. I know cats donít wear clothes, but you understand what I mean, donít you?
I love to watch Eiriís hands, period. Theyíre long, with thin fingers. Iím a little envious; they look like pianistsí hands. When I took piano lessons, I had a hard time reaching further than an octave. Heíd have no difficulty, though.
I love to watch Eiriís hands caress me. Even more, I love to feel his hands caress me. Not just in that special intimate place thatís reserved for him, but everywhere: caressing my face, stroking my back, rubbing my nipples, feeling me up inside until I feel like Iím about to burst from pure pleasure. I know I havenít much of a basis for comparison, but no one makes me feel like he does: alive and like Iím ablaze. He can make me come with just a few quick strokes.
When weíre finished, I love to watch him run his hands through my hair and put an arm around me before he goes to sleep. I love watching his hands even when they, and the rest of him, are still.