rockyhatemark

You didn’t know who he was or what he studied, nor did you care to find out.

In general, you were pleasant with everyone you crossed paths with and your first time meeting Ryland Grace wouldn’t have been any different from seeing any other random grad student if he hadn’t immediately pissed you off. To his credit, he didn’t even know he had done something to irk you and it hadn’t been his intention to be a thorn in your side- not at the beginning at least.

If you hadn’t already been having the worst day of your life (woke up late, missed bus and denied scholarship application, to name a few of the events that morning), maybe the two of you could’ve hit it off and been fast friends. He was probably nice enough and besides occasionally being a smartass, he had a good head on his shoulders. Smart, confident and easy on the eyes- all things that pointed to a person you could get along with.

So how had he immediately put himself on your shit list?

Well, he was sitting in your spot.

No, the little nook in the University’s library did not have your name on it, nor did it actually belong to you.

But you’d been sitting there, in the same sunny little spot of the library that you’d come to call the closest thing to heaven you’d experienced during your doctorate studies, every day since you began your research. After extensive lab work, you’d disappear into the almost always empty corner of the library to type up your findings for hours at a time. 

No one had ever been in your nook before. Until Ryland Grace decided he wanted to sit there too.

You’d already had a day from hell so stumbling up to your spot midafternoon only to find that someone else had already claimed it with all of his stuff immediately infuriated you.

He seemed to be around your age, most likely working on his masters or PhD like you were. A spread of papers, books and packets were strewn over the desk surface, no apparent rhyme or reason to their organization. The guy was tapping away at a laptop where a huge spreadsheet of data was displayed, completely ignorant of your presence until you cleared your throat.

Any other day, you would’ve grumbled about it but found a different area to plant yourself for the night. But not that day. You were too irritated and too tired to let this dirtbag take away the last scrap of peace you would get until the sun set.

The blonde haired intruder jumped at your pointed grumble, pulling a pair of wired earbuds out of his ears and looking you up and down from his seat. You most definitely looked like a hundred miles of bad road but you couldn’t have cared less.

“You’re in my spot.”

The quirked brow he gave you had you seeing red.

“Pardon?”

“You’re in. My spot.”

He seemed at a loss for words, pointedly looking past you where you knew a slew of other perfectly empty desks sat. “Uh… can’t you go sit somewhere else?”

You ground your teeth together. “No.”

Gesturing to all of his stuff on the table, he shrugged in a half-assed apology. “Sorry, I’m pretty comfortable here and I’m kinda busy, so…”

The stare off the two of you had for several seconds was charged with tension. He wouldn’t back down and you didn’t want to either, but he had the advantage. He had already claimed your nook and if you went and complained to one of the library staff several floors down, they would look at you like you were crazy. Every spot in the library was first come first serve, you had no special claim to this specific spot.

So you moved. To a table very close to the one he occupied. And spent the better part of your evening glaring daggers at him. 

He’d look up occasionally, meet your gaze and go back to his studies, like he wasn’t bothered at all. It sure bothered you that he was so nonchalant about everything. You could only watch with a sneer as the sun slowly set, bathing your perfect little nook in warm, golden sunlight and in turn making the messy jerk look ethereal while you were stuck in the library’s shadowy interior.

You’d been the one to leave first. It was late, you were exhausted and you had a 10 minute walk home in the dark. The stranger didn’t seem to be ready to leave at all, dutifully typing on his laptop and occasionally shuffling through the mess on the table for a notebook or sheet of paper marred with scribbles.

He’d looked up when you stood, giving you a smug grin that nearly had you flying into the booth to wring his neck. Unfortunately, there were laws against that so you just settled for a middle finger and left.

You thought that would be the end of it.

A one off encounter that you’d fume about for weeks and a man who you’d never see again. The university was big and hopefully you’d made your point that the spot was yours so he’d find somewhere new to study.

When you walked up to your spot the following day in much higher spirits, your good day shattered when you saw the familiar fluffy haired head over the back of the booth. He’d come again. And deliberately sat in your spot.

You decided right then and there that Ryland Grace was the bane of your existence.

For two weeks the man hogged your little piece of heaven. Try as you might to come earlier and claim it yourself before he could, he was always there. Did he ever do anything besides study? Did he eat? Did he sleep? Surely he didn’t spend the night at the library, but you wouldn’t put it past him to hide when the library staff shut the place down and stay until morning. The jerk would probably do that to be petty.

You could’ve found another spot. Surely there was another booth a floor up that was the exact same layout and would get just as much sun. But you refused out of principle. You wouldn’t let this asshole get his way. He wanted to sit in your spot? Fine. If your glares weren’t enough to deter him, you’d turn to another method to smoke him out.

The shocked face the man gave you when you slid into the booth opposite of him one day was worth every drop of fury you’d endured for those couple of weeks. His look of distress when you shoved all of his things to his half of the desk, leaving your half clean, was priceless.

“Hey! Why??”

“You want to sit in my spot? Fine. We’ll share.”

You began unpacking your things while the blonde tried to straighten out his. “You messed up my system!”

Neatly setting your own books on the desk and opening your laptop, you laughed incredulously. “That was your system?”

His scowl was searing. “Yes. I don’t expect you, of all people, to understand my method of madness.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You’d parted ways very angry that day. 

The next day, you did the same thing: sat opposite of him and pushed his things to his side. And the next. And the next. And the next. He slowly started to learn to keep his things on his half of the desk to save himself the trouble of ‘reorganizing’. 

One time, you were surprised to find you’d beat Ryland to your nook and nearly jumped for joy. Finally! Your persistence must’ve paid off and he’d found somewhere else to plant himself. You were all smiles- up until a thick book was dropped onto the table, scaring you half to death, and that stupid messy mop of hair plopped into the booth with a smug grin. Said mop of hair then proceeded to give as good as he got; shoving your things from his side of the table back to your side.

Thus began your slightly hostile relationship with the man you eventually learned was molecular biology doctorate student, Ryland Grace (you read his name on one of the papers that snuck across the invisible line on the table).

For the most part, neither of you acknowledged each other during your joint study sessions- any conversation was clipped and tense. You didn’t try to learn anything about him and he made no effort to learn anything about you. In fact, you weren’t sure he even knew your name which was fine by you.

While you rarely conversed, there were small things you began learning about Ryland just by observation alone. 

Number one, while he was studying molecular biology, he seemed to have a specific interest in the stars; life in regards to space and the possibility of life outside of our planet. You knew as much because he had this annoying habit of grumbling while he worked- speaking out loud and working through his thoughts verbally.

He also had a smorgasbord of space and science related stickers on the back of his laptop you occasionally stared at when you were trying to think. NASA, planets, beakers, science puns and the occasional fox sticker stared at you every day. You weren’t sure why the foxes were thrown into the mix but you weren’t about to ask. 

Ryland couldn’t ever seem to sit still. He was always bouncing a leg or tapping a pen. The one time you got after him for it, he only did it more so you never brought it up again.

You also noticed something that Ryland didn’t seem to even know about himself. It took a couple of days to work up the willpower to actually ask about it.

“Do you have contacts?”

It was rare that you spoke to him, so Ryland looked up from the notebook he was writing in with a blink of surprise. “Huh?”

“Contacts. Y’know, the things in your eyes that help you see? Or glasses?”

“No?” He seemed truly flabbergasted.

You hummed and sat back in your seat. “Looks like you need them.”

“Wh-”

“You’re always squinting at your laptop so I was wondering if you have some but are so stubborn that you refuse to wear them. If you don’t, it might be worth getting your vision checked. I can’t imagine your eyes and brain appreciate the strain you put on them every day.”

Ryland didn’t speak to you the rest of the evening, which wasn’t too odd, but then didn’t show up in the library for a week. You wanted to say you loved the extra space, but you begrudgingly realized the table felt too big with him gone. You didn’t want to say you missed him, per se, but maybe somewhere adjacent.

When you saw Ryland after a week of absence- outside of the library for the first time- you had to do a double take. 

It was early in the morning- so early you could barely stand on your own two feet, which was why you were standing in the ever growing line at one of the cafes on campus for a cup of brain fuel.

You weren’t paying attention to who you stood behind in line, absentmindedly blinking at the slew of texts you received from a friend about a huge frat party happening that weekend that you weren’t planning on attending. A familiar notification sound jolted you out of your tired stupor.

Ryland had a unique chime that played any time he got a notification. It was the satellite phone jingle from the 3rd Jurassic Park movie. You suspected Ryland was a huge nerd about science fiction media but he’d probably rather die than admit that to you. In and of itself, the sound wasn’t that annoying but you’d heard it so often that it had seared itself into your brain and ‘Pavlov’s dogged’ you into feeling annoyed when you heard it.

Sure enough, a familiar set of shoulders stood in front of you, all covered by a cream sweater.

“Ryland?”

The science student turned on his heel. He seemed just as surprised to see you as you were him. It felt like seeing a wild animal, seeing Ryland outside of the library. You were surprised in turn, to find a new addition to the man’s outfit. Gold rimmed glasses sat on his nose. 

Ryland’s ears quickly became tipped in red.

“Oh. Hey.”

He seemed embarrassed, like he’d been caught red-handed. 

“Nice glasses.”

“Thanks…”

Your interactions were always awkward but this felt different. “Farsighted?”

“Yep.”

“Knew it. They fit you though, if that’s any consolation.”

“Thank you.”

Coffee suddenly didn’t sound appealing any more- not if you had to endure one more second of this horribly uncomfortable encounter. Your regular chats together weren’t always pleasant but they weren’t this odd. What changed? Was he angry that you’d been right and pointed out something he himself hadn’t noticed? Was he embarrassed that you’d proved him wrong? Was he that egotistical?

You stomped off without another word.

-

There was a hot, steaming cup of coffee with your name on it sitting in front of Ryland the next Monday. 

You hadn’t expected to see him at all in the library anymore, not after your last altercation, so you didn’t get a chance to turn and flee before he spotted you standing a couple of paces away, giving you a crooked smile.

You were too proud to run away now. You feared you’d look weak if you did. And Ryland Grace was the last person you wanted to look weak in front of.

So you pressed on, pointedly not looking at the scientist and pretending he didn’t exist. Ryland watched you the whole time, You could feel his stare and you wanted to slap yourself silly when you felt your cheeks heat up.

When you made no move to talk to him after you settled, Ryland nudged the coffee closer to you with an uncomfortable clearing of his throat. 

You pursed your lips and kept your eyes on your notes.

“I feel like we started off on the wrong foot.” His voice was cautious, like he was talking to a cornered animal. “I’m sorry for being an ass when we first met. I’d had a rough day and I know that’s no excuse but it’s the truth. I was feeling stubborn.”

This was the most he’d ever said to you in one go. You peeked a glance.

God did those glasses suit him. They made him look softer, somehow. Maybe they made his eyes bigger? Yeah that was probably it. Big eyes, like an alien. 

“Can we start over?”

He stuck a hand over his laptop and held it out to you. A handshake. His fingers were trembling. Did you make him nervous? Your confidence took a nice little boost from the thought alone.

You didn’t hate Ryland. Not really. As much as it pained you to admit, you enjoyed his company and had missed it while he was hiding from you. He just annoyed you sometimes with his snarky comments. But even those weren’t that bad. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to give him a chance?

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you carefully clasped a hand in his and gave him one firm shake. 

His ears bloomed red again and he held onto your hand a little longer than you thought he would.

“Yeah, ok cool! Didn’t think you… would actually accept my offer so this is awesome. Your coffee order, I think I got it right? I’ve been peaking at your coffee cups for a little while to read the labels. Is that creepy? I didn’t mean it in a creepy way, I just wanted to make sure I knew what you liked if I ever got you anything.”

This was a new side of Ryland- unsure, stammering and sweet? Maybe he’d always been this way and you just hadn’t seen it.

You didn’t know how to feel about it.

-

Being ‘friends’ with Ryland lasted about a week.

All too quickly did you regularly find yourself hidden in a far corner of the library between the endless shelves of academic literature, kissing each other senseless. Or making out in a quiet study room. Or whispering weak protests against his shoulder when he laid you back in your shared nook to suck a mark on your neck.

Turns out, Ryland didn’t hate you. Never did. Except maybe for a second the first time you got after him for sitting in your spot but other than that, he was just smitten (and terrified) of you which was why he kept coming back. He was still arrogant and a smart ass, usually when you asked him a question related to his field- like you were supposed to know what the boiling point of liquid helium was- but you found yourself enjoying his quips.

It was just another Wednesday when your relationship shifted.

You had Ryland pressed up against a line of shelves, cradling his head in your palms and soaking up the feeling of his glasses brushing over your cheeks while your lips slowly worked against his. 

The library was silent at this time of day, especially being in such a far off corner of it, so the only sounds you could hear were the creak of the shelves when Ryland pressed too far back into them, your mouths, and your breath. It was your favorite pastime when you were tired of writing essays.

When Ryland pressed his thumbs into your hip bones, you pulled away an inch to give him space. His glasses were smudged from your skin and barely hanging onto his nose. His stupid t-shirt (a navy blue top with a ringed planet graphic and the words “Jupiter? I hardly know her.” stamped below it) was rumpled and riding up on his navel, allowing you a glimpse of his happy trail.

“I start a new job on Monday.” He breathed, eyes jumping between yours.

You pulled back even more in surprise. Ryland kept his hands on your waist so you didn’t go too far.

“Really?”

“Mhm. It’s a part-time lab technician job. The pay isn’t great but it’ll help boost my resume once I get my doctorate and I need the extra income anyway.”

You beamed. “That’s great! Are you going to be able to juggle school and work, though? Will it be too much?”

Ryland’s eyes fluttered when you ran a thumb over his cheek. “I should be ok. But…” He hesitated. “I won’t have time to come here anymore.”

Oh.

Neither of you put a label on… whatever it was the two of you had together, so you never had a reason to meet up outside of your unspoken joint study hours. Ryland stopping his visits here meant you wouldn’t get to see him.

Your hands slid from his face to his shoulders as you tried to put on a nonchalant face. This was just a hookup- a little fling that probably never would’ve worked anyway. Ryland would continue his life and you would continue yours. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did to find out you would rarely, if ever, see the prospective scientist after Friday.

“I’ll miss my desk partner,” you smiled, hoping it wasn’t obvious how sad his words made you.

One side of Ryland’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “Yeah, me too.” He seemed awfully nonchalant about the whole thing. You kicked yourself for being so blinded by the handsome ass that weaseled his way into your life. Ryland fiddled with the hem of your shirt and straightened it out a bit, tilting his head to gesture down the aisle.

“So… should we go back to our spot and hash out our schedules, then?”

Now you are confused. “Our schedules?”

“Yes? To find times that work for both of us to meet up? Like… between labs and such. Or in the late evenings. Or weekends. Or you could stay the night at my place- uh, unless I read this thing wrong?” He let go of you to gesture between your bodies, beginning to fidget on his feet. “Did I read this wrong? If I did, forget everything I said because it was all just a funny joke-”

You flew onto your tiptoes and flung your arms around his neck, only slightly shoving him into the shelves behind him to claim his mouth. Ryland made a noise of approval and wound his arms around your torso to lift you into him. 

Schedule swapping would have to wait a little longer and you offhandedly hoped that there were no security cameras this deep between the stacks of books because if someone was watching them, they wouldn’t enjoy what they were about to see.

You’ve been dying for your neighbor to work up the courage to ask you out. You thought your feelings were pretty clear (you wouldn’t sleep on your couch with just anyone) but apparently not clear enough to him. 

You worried for a little while that he was hesitant to pursue you because he held some sort of guilt for wanting to date another person outside of his late wife- which you fully respected. 

It was actually Holly that gave you the final shove you needed. She told you one Thursday that she was going out of town with a friend’s family for the weekend meaning her dad had nothing to do and the house would be empty.

“He’s been trying to figure out, statistically, what the perfect date is. He even had me to go the library to find books about it. You should just ask him out and save him the trouble because I think it’s driving him crazy.”

So you did. But in a way that wouldn’t label your outing as a date.

You had a sneaking suspicion that if Holland knew it was a date, he’d panic and act weird or try overly hard to seduce you. You didn’t need that, you just needed him as he was.

So Friday morning when you went out to get your mail and Holland just so happened to also be getting his mail at the same time, you asked him if he would take you into town later that evening for groceries.

“My car won’t start and I’m almost out of milk.”

“Oh! Yeah! Sure. Absolutely. Definitely. I’m not busy later so I can take you.” Queue a casual shrug. “Anyway, what’s wrong with your car?”

“Not sure.”

“I can take a look-“

“That’s ok! I’ll worry about it tomorrow.”

Holland follows behind you in the supermarket with the cart, leaning his forearms on the handle and donning a cheesy smile. You’re both laughing and having a great time while you gather ingredients for dinner. Holland doesn’t think twice about what you’re putting in the cart, just ogling at you when your back is turned.

When you ask him for help cooking dinner, he says he’s the worst person to ask but you wave him off and usher him inside. The two of you have a blast and a half, flitting around the kitchen together (the asparagus only gets slightly charred when Holland neglects his only job duty in favor of watching your shirt ride up when you reach for something) and you spend the next several hours talking.

A couple of glasses of wine are consumed and the two of you sit way closer than ‘friends’ should on the couch, but nothing happens beyond that. You walk him to his door with a laugh once your night winds down.

“Thanks for the date, Holland! I look forward to the next one.”

Holland looks like he’s trying to solve the world's hardest math problem, his wine muddled brain not helping him in the slightest. “Date?”

You kiss his cheek and hurry home before your stomach explodes with butterflies.

Holland makes a point to never let you see him as shabby looking as he did the day you first met. If he’s not in a suit for work, he’s at least wearing nicer pants and a loose button up. He was gonna make sure that if you do ever see him in his boxers again, it’s because you’re in his bedroom (or he’s in yours) and he’s pulling you under the covers.

He tries to play it cool for the first couple of weeks after you move in, wanting to make sure you’ve settled and making sure he doesn't come on too strong. After bringing you flowers that first day (your first bouquet of many), poor Holly becomes the March household’s head baker. Holland can’t bake worth shit, but Holly can. So he’s full of bribes and promises of books and things in return for a dozen cookies or a plate of brownies to bring to his new neighbor. Holly does it, only because watching her dad fumble the beauty next door makes her laugh (and because he genuinely seems interested in someone for the first time since her mom died).

You’re all smiles when he shows up with baked goods, inviting him in with a wave. Holland wants to fall to his knees.

The first time he had come over with cookies, Holland soaked in every bit of information he could about you from what he could see in your house.

He learned small things, like your hobbies and what he could guess was your favorite color. But the main thing he noticed was the lack of things that pointed to you having a partner. There weren’t enough belongings for two people, unless you’re with someone who’s an extreme minimalist.

Holland couldn’t have been happier. 

You were so nice. So warm and welcoming. Holland was immediately enamored. 

He would go over every day if he could, but he held himself back. He allowed himself one visit a week, sometimes two (or three). Any time you came to his house didn’t count towards the total. 

He offers to mow your lawn (he rarely ever mows his own), he’ll bring your newspaper to your doorstep if he sees it in your driveway, he’ll offer you rides into town when because he just so happens to be heading into town at the same time as you.

He’s so proud of himself, believing with his entire being that he’s oozing with charm.

Holly disagrees. 

She says no man who spends that much time staring out of the kitchen window just on the off chance he’ll be able to catch a glimpse of his neighbor has any game. He had about as much charm as a lovesick puppy in her eyes.

As much as you love Holly, you would have to disagree with her opinion.

Holland’s attempts to woo you, as obvious and silly as they may be, were working.

From the very first time you saw him- in his bright yellow boxers and extreme bedhead, watering flowerbeds that honestly looked like they had more weeds than flowers- you liked him. He was a little goofy and acted much more confident than you believed he really was, but you liked it. 

You looked forward to his visits and found excuses to visit him just as often as he found excuses to visit you. 

Once, Holland comes to your house absolutely plastered. He’d meant to go to his own home after a night of drinking but he’d been over so often lately, his drunken mind must’ve been on autopilot. It’s 3 am and you answer the door with a steak knife before you realize who it is. 

Drunk Holland is so happy to see you ("Heyyy! What are you doin’ in my house? Finally moving in?")

You let him in, half dragging him to your couch as he uses you as a crutch. Holland babbles to you for an hour, apparently forgetting who he’s talking to for the majority of it and telling you all about his cute neighbor who he’s falling in love with.

You listen quietly, smiling so much your mouth hurts until Holland passes out with his head tucked in your lap.

When he wakes up the next morning, Holland is convinced he finally got alcohol poisoning, kicked the bucket and by the grace of God, somehow ended up in heaven. Sprawled on the couch together, his body prone between your legs and head resting on your chest and breathing together, he had to pinch himself and pinch you to make sure he wasn't dreaming.

RYLAND’s hands are long. He can reach and massage parts of you that you can’t reach on your own. He’s able to curl his fingers and press against your walls in such a way that you swear he’s slowly rearranging your guts to mold perfectly to his digits. If you plead enough, he’ll even stick those fingers in your mouth, pressing firmly on your tongue to make you drool. His precise control over his hands means he’s methodical in the bedroom. He knows just where to touch you, when to touch you and how to touch you so you’re able to get the most out of your time with him. With patience and practice, he knows your body better than his own. Basically, Ryland can play you like a fiddle. One specific thing he does that drives you crazy is use those long fingers of his to push the extra droplets of cum that drip out of you back into your heat, coaxing it deeper where it’ll stay. He’s always mesmerized when he does it and frankly, you enjoy it too much to bother asking why

HOLLAND’s hands like to wander and he’s not ashamed to hide it. Keep this man on a tight leash when you’re out because he can and will touch you in ways most would find insanely inappropriate for the public eye. You’re at a restaurant sitting side-by-side at a table that has a long tablecloth? His hand is already on your knee and winding between your thighs within minutes of ordering your drinks, right in front of your waiter. Walking down the street? His hand is in your back pocket. Driving him to meet one of his clients? He’s leaning over the center console to unbutton your pants/pull your skirt up or do whatever it takes to reach what’s underneath. His hands are always moving when you’re alone too- sliding under your shirt when you’re trying to brush your teeth or tugging your towel loose when you’ve just stepped out of the shower. You occasionally get your revenge by pinning his hands above his head when you ride him to oblivion, not letting him touch you like he wants as punishment

LARS’ hands are huge. He’s hesitant to really use his hands to their full potential at first; for whatever reason, he’s terrified he might hurt you. Only after you’re able to reassure Lars that he couldn’t hurt a fly, much less hurt you, then he gets a little bolder. His hands dwarf every part of you he touches. Palming your chest, cupping your cheek, splaying between your legs all has you weak at how much surface area his hands cover. The aching stretch that his fingers provide have your eyes rolling back into your skull. It’s only a matter of time before Lars realizes just how easy it is to make you squirm and becomes confident enough to use that to his advantage. He’ll even hold a palm to your throat once he’s comfortable, not squeezing hard enough to cut off your air but just enough so he can feel your neck bob under his hand.

COLT’s hands are rough. As mentioned before, his hands are a little worse for wear but it only makes things all the more enjoyable for you. The scrape of his callouses against your flesh- when he trails his fingers down your sides, smooths his thumbs over your nipples or slipping his middle finger into your heat- the scuffs are enough to have your back arching off the bed. He’s teasing both in and out of the bedroom. Colt’s hands will edge you until you’re seeing white before he’ll pull away, just to see you beg for more. Once, he had you straddling his hips and riding his hand to pleasure yourself, barely able to find relief while being impaled on only one of his fingers, so worked up your eyes were lined with tears. He was so turned on by the sight that he came untouched and shot ropes of cum all over himself.

RYLAND’s hands are steady. Long and precise, several hours in labs and handling delicate microscopic life means he has a lot of control over his movements- until he gets flustered. When you do something that gets his heart racing, his concentration gets shot and he gets uncoordinated. Its so endearing. Fumbling fingers, unsure touch. He talks with his hands, sometimes communicating with them even more so than his mouth. One of your favorite things to do is to lay next to him and listen to him ramble about something or other while his hands wave in the air. Ryland has veiny hands and ooooh how you love mapping the raised bumps they make in his skin, following their trails up his arms before they disappear. After his dance with death when he saved Rocky, Ryland’s right hand and arm are very tender and stay overly sensitive to touch for a long time thanks to his slowly healing skin. You both have doubts it’ll ever truly heal, leaving his raw skin vulnerable and raggedy. It becomes a daily ritual for you to carefully apply burn cream to the puckered scar. Ryland says your touch alone ebbs the pain more than any medicine (he’s sappy like that).

HOLLAND has shaky hands. At the beginning of your acquaintance, they shake because he’s drunk. Clumsy and fumbling thanks to the whisky in his system. His hands are shaking when he tries to woo you the first time you meet, attempting to smoothly brush an eyelash off your cheek which ends with a thumb in your eye, an angry you and a frantic apology from him. He tries not to drink around you after that. But then, his hands would shake because he’s nervous. You terrify him. Something about you calls to him- more than the fleeting attraction he’d have towards those he might want a fling with. He actually wants to try with you, which scares him. Holland both hates and craves the way you make him feel and his hands reflect that. He’s so unsure and cautious around you, dying to touch you but too worried about what you might think. Why would someone like you want a screwup like him? On multiple occasions does he reach out to graze your arm or hold your thigh before he second guesses himself and pulls back. Only when you reach out to him first- grabbing his wrists to bring his hands to your hips so you can kiss him stupid- do his hands stop shaking around you.

LARS’ hands are hidden- at least for a good several months after you first meet. Always covered by thick gloves, even when the weather gets a little warmer. You weren’t sure why but never pried for answers- if Lars wanted you to know, he’d tell you. It was rare that you ever touched at all, the inly contact being the occasional brush of his hand against yours while you’re walking together which he’d pull away from like you were a hot pan. It should’ve hurt you, that he seemed so averse to touching you, but it didn’t. That’s just how Lars was. The first time you actually saw his hands, you weren’t at all surprised by what they looked like. They were strong- thick fingers, meaty palms- hands to match the rest of him. When Lars started experimenting with touch, carefully dusting his fingers over your skin to see if it hurt, you found Lars’ hands to be extremely soft: both physically and in the way he kissed them over you. Once he’s comfortable enough, Lars LOVES holding your hand. While his trumps yours in size, he feels like your hand is protecting his- a lifeline when he gets overwhelmed while around other people. He relies on that tether and has a hard time letting go when you’re alone again.

COLT’s hands are rough. As a stunt man, especially one who’s been around the block as many times as he has, his hands have roughened up over the years. Small scars, callouses, fingers that have been broken more times than he can count and fingernails that have seen better days. Despite that, his touch couldn’t be more gentle. The way he cradles you, cupping the back of your head to hold you close- not once has his toughened hands hurt. He’s maybe a little self conscious of them? Not too much, he’s overall very confident with his body, but when you point out the light catch of his skin against yours when he rubs a thumb along your neck or slides a hand down your bare spine, he gets worried the roughness bothers you. That couldn’t be farther from the truth of course and you spend ample time kissing his palm and fingers to get your point across. His hands are also very teasing; poking your soft spots to get you to laugh, flicking your ear to get your attention or swiping something out of your back pocket so you’d come to him later begging for his help because somehow, Colt was always able to find your misplaced things.