FINN WOLFHARD IMAGINES

hands | richie

okay, so I've seen a bunch of these going around and I wanted to do one very badly. so, here you go!
aged up 17/18.

Richie Tozier has nice hands, you just noticed. Sure, they're always covered in Band-Aids, cuts and bruises. But, still, he has nice hands.
It's just the way they are. They're one of those things that makes him Richie. They always find their way to you when you need them.

Days can be quite stressful in Derry, especially when you're a not ugly-looking girl and Henry Bowers has it out for you. He's had it out for you since you since forever, but now hanging out with Richie more often made it a whole other challenge for him, it seemed.

"I swear, all I had to do was bike home! How hard is that! But, noooooo! Of course Henry fucking Bowers just has to drive by and catcall me. Fucking asshole, I swear to god. Why can't he take a fucking hint and back the fuck off?!" You ranted, sitting next to Richie on his couch.
You found yourself at Richie's place more often than you would admit. Today, instead of going home, you just biked to Richie's, knowing that his parents were out of the house. He made you feel better, and safer.

"I mean, the absolute nerve!"

"Y/n."

"Why me?!"

"Y/n..."

"I swear to god, if this happens one more-"

"Y/N!!"

A hand reached out and was placed on your face. You instantly shut up as warmth radiated out of the hand.

You were surprised.

You had always thought that Richie's hands would be cold and clammy. But they were so very warm.

Richie was kinda surprised when you closed your eyes and pressed your cheek into his warm palm.
"U-um, y/n?" He asked.

You came to your senses and looked at Richie, who was sort of blushing, which was a rare sight.

"Oh, shit. I'm sorry, your hands are just warm," you moved your head away from his hands and turned back to the blaring tv.

You realized that Richie was just a warm person. He was filled with happiness and love.

"Really? I thought my hands would be all gross and stuff from jerking off, yah know?" He smirked.
You groaned and slapped him lightly on the shoulder, "beep beep, Richie."

He stuck his tongue out at you playfully, "just trying to get you from not being all crabby." He reached out and tapped you on your nose softly and looked back at the tv.

You giggled lightly and you guys sat watching tv together as the sun went down slowly.

"Hey, Richie? Can, can I have your hand?"

Richie looked over at you with his eyebrows raised, and adjusted his glasses on his nose, "only if you don't cut it off."
You rolled your eyes and took Richie's hands. They were pale and soft, covered in cuts and bruises. You ran your thumb down his left palm, feeling the scar from the blood oath you had taken all those years ago. There were scars all over his knuckles, his right hand more than the left.

You moved down his fingers to his nails, examining each of them. They were manicured black, from that time last week when you and Bev did them. They were obviously nibbled on, you knew that was Richie's nervous habit. You moved to his right hand, looking at the nails that were slightly longer and sharper, with better designs on them in the black polish. You knew that it was because Beverly was better at painting than you were. The details were still intact, despite his obvious picking at them. You wondered why the right ones were shorter than the lefts.

"Hey, Rich. Why are your right nails longer than your left ones?" You asked, intertwining your fingers with his warm right hand.

"Hmmmm..." his response was a low moan that took you by surprise.
When you looked up at Richie, your eyes were met with a very content-looking Richie, his mouth in a small o shape and his eyelids fluttering.

"Sorry," He said, "it's just that you're giving me a real nice massage and I kinda zoned out, what did you ask?"

"I asked why your right hand is the only one with long nails."

"Oh, it's for guitar!" He exclaimed, "it's easier. Normally, people just get finger picks, but I just let mine grow."

"Ah, Okay," You said.
He nodded and you went back to playing with his hands.

Sometime later, you found yourself with your head in his lap, his warm fingers running through your hair. Your eyes closed and Richie with his glasses discarded.
It was nice. It was quiet.

"Hey, Richie?"

"Yeah?" His voice huskily replied.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being you."

You looked up at him, into his warm brown eyes and smiled. He smiled softly back at you.

You had completely forgot about your shitty afternoon, with one touch of those hands.