'Tis a short fic, but I like it. Sexual implications of the HG/RW variety. I swear, I just cockblocked myself writing this. Fair warning.
You wouldn't think it to look at them, but he's truly amazing with those hands of his.
Now, I'm not one to be vulgar, it's just that his bloody hands… just… fuck. Really.
But, like I said earlier, you wouldn't think it. He has trouble with his shirt buttons in the morning, can't fold for his life, and, please, don't even ask him to cast a simple tidying charm. His writing is the very definition of chicken scratch; sometimes even he can't read what he's written. That's why he usually sticks to the charmed quill I gave him a few Christmases back. Before that, he tried using his dad's old typewriter. Well, let's just say the poor thing didn't last much longer in our house than it would have back in the Burrow as the twin's test dummy. When I tried to teach him the piano, the notes fumbled and clashed around the room with his playing.
Yet, somehow, when the sun settles down, it's like a new man comes out with the moon. He skillfully guides me into our bedroom, shamelessly and seamlessly undoes my buttons and clasps with no fumbling, and seals and silences the room with an easy flick of his wand. And when he finally gets me on the bed, he slowly and gently tortures me, dragging his fingers lightly across every single centimeter of my body; he makes sure he covers every crease and every dip with his touch. And when I can take no more, those… those marvelous, amazing, breathtaking, perfect fingers find their way to exactly where I want them, again, and again, and again, until I'm shaking in pure bliss.
Yes, his hands are far better than anyone else would think, and will ever know.
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