Smutty-ish? I guess?
You always had a thing for Sami’s hands. You’d known him for years, drifting in and out of the same companies, and you were mostly just friendly acquaintances, but you liked to talk to him, loved to watch the way he used his hands as he spoke, his gestures landing somewhere between elegance and enthusiasm, punctuating his words like graceful flourishes.
And then one day, out of nowhere, he asked you out, and you discovered that Sami’s hands had talents that went way beyond looking cool and kind of hot while he talked. It had been your experience that most guys weren’t good with their hands, their fingers too rough or too clumsy, always hitting the wrong spots with too much or too little pressure but Sami… well. Sami’s hands were something else again.
“Damn,” you’d said after that first time. “Your hands are…” and there didn’t seem to be another word, so you said “…magic.”
He’d smiled at you, a little smug, shrugging, like it was nothing, and said, “Yeah, they are pretty magic.” And he started calling them that from then on, Magic Hands, and it was, frankly, annoying as fuck, but whenever he touched you, your irritation instantly vanished.
Tonight you’re backstage at Smackdown after your match, and you’re watching Sami as he talks to Baron. He’s laughing, gesturing wildly, and you can’t stop staring at his hands, the way they move through the air. And you have to shift your hips slightly, unsettled, because just the sight of them is doing things to you.
He sees you, giving you a smirk from over Baron’s shoulder, then finishes up his conversation, approaching you. “Hey,” he says, and you wordlessly grab his arm and drag him into a nearby storage closet you spotted earlier.
“What?” he asks, and you don’t say anything, but then, you don’t have to. “You want Magic Hands, don’t you?”
“Please don’t call them that,” you say.
“It’s…” You wince, screwing up your nose. “It’s just so cheesy.”
And Sami steps back, folding his arms. “You mock Magic Hands, you don’t get Magic Hands.”
“No, I…” you start, but he’s not listening, shaking his head.
He holds up one hand, silencing you, and it’s right there, and you just want to grab it, suck on his fingers one by one and then push them down inside your shorts and… “Say it,” he says.
“Say that they’re Magic Hands.”
And you know perfectly well he’s mostly just fucking with you, but, at this point, you’re desperate. “Fine,” you reply, too turned on to give a shit. “They’re magic.”
“No,” he says, pedantic, “the actual phrase, say ‘Magic Hands.’”
“Oh my god,” you say, because he truly is the most infuriating man you’ve ever met, and that’s at least partly why you love him so much, but still. “They’re Magic Hands,” you tell him. “Please may I have Magic Hands.”
He grins at you. “See?” he says. “You only had to ask.” And you’re about to argue, but then those hands are on you, working their magic and… yeah.
You don’t care.