They say it’s your birthday...
*overly enthusiastic new friend wave*
Happy Birthday, abigail89! Rumour has it you enjoy a bit of sexy!Harry, so I set out to drabble you just that. This ‘drabble’ seems to have run away from me a bit - obviously he and these prompts are just that inspirational. And so are you. :) Have a wonderful day!
Title: Palmistry
Author: goneoffthelump
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Words: 1200
Rating: R
Summary: Ron loves Harry's palms.
Notes: Thanks, midnightblue88 and nathaniel_hp!
Palmistry
I think I’m in love with Harry’s palms.
Which, even though I know I’m in love with Harry, strikes me as a bit strange, given the appeal of various other parts of his body. Or, rather all the various other parts of his body.
Like that Seeker’s arse of his - completely fucking gorgeous. It’s amazing what a proper diet, the Auror physical training regimen and the ability to finally relax and sleep at night will do for a bloke. Bloody hell. He’s still small, but he’s got these arms and this chest and this stomach - taut and hard, but still perfect for use as a pillow. He’s got this chiselled jaw that I love to scrape my thumbnail over in the morning before he shaves, and these delicious green eyes that can (and do) convince me of anything just by looking at me. (Shut it. You’d get all girly, too, if he turned them on you.) And then, of course, nestled at the end of the happiest fucking happy trail you can imagine, he’s got the greatest set of cock and balls on the planet. Honestly. The greatest. And I’m not just saying that because I’m allowed to touch them.
But even with all that, I’m often happy just to sit and contemplate his palms.
It’s completely stupid, I know. It started in third year. Just the palm thing - not the bit about the cock and balls and arse and all that, just to be clear. That came much later. But the first time I ever thought about Harry’s palm was right after a certain hack of a Divination professor got a hold of it and informed him that his life line was the shortest she’d ever seen.
And even though I knew it was complete bollocks, that she couldn’t predict her way out of a cardboard box, it freaked me the fuck out. It felt different somehow, her examining Harry’s body and telling him he was going to die, instead of reading it in his tea leaves or crystal ball or whatever.
I grabbed his hand and stared at his palm and let out a huge sigh of relief because his life line looked plenty long to me. I think I probably ran my finger along it, too, for good measure.
His hand was hot, and his palm a bit sweaty, and I suddenly remembered what I’d done with my own palm just the night before.
And even though I was fairly certain Harry wasn’t getting up to that sort of stuff yet (we lived in very close quarters, after all), it occurred to me that Harry’s palm, the very palm I was now fondling, might have done the same sort of thing mine had.
My ears had never grown quite that hot quite that quickly.
Harry seemed to interpret my gasp and recoil to mean that something on his palm had upset me. In the time it took for him to stop staring at me like I’d grown a third eye and look down at his hand with something approaching worry, I got a hold of myself and told him I was just putting on a show for Trelawney.
And that earned a look that made me wonder if I actually had grown a third eye, but at least he didn’t know I’d been thinking about him wanking.
In the years that followed, I found myself oddly aware of Harry’s palms a lot of the time. I’d just sort of notice them. Often.
Like when they were sweaty, and he’d rub them on his thighs, or when his grip on his wand was particularly tight, I’d find myself imagining the skin of his palms, sliding over the denim or pressing against the wood.
I’m not sure exactly when these thoughts started to become sexy, but at some point they did, and they were then followed by futile attempts not to think about what other types of wood Harry’s palm routinely pressed against.
Which thoughts were then followed by lame, unconvincing excuses and hurried trips to the loo.
As it turned out, I eventually discovered that me thinking about Harry wanking wasn’t such an unwelcome thing. And then, suddenly, those sweaty palms were sliding over and pressing against me.
Bloody hell.
But you know what? Even now that I can see and touch and have my wicked way with every inch of Harry’s gorgeous body, his palms are still my favourite.
I spend hours sometimes, when we’re watching telly or listening to Quidditch, just running my fingers over his palm. (I know. Shut it.) Up and down, side to side, round in circles, and I think about him gripping his broomstick and snatching a Snitch out of thin air. Or I picture the base of his wand nestled between the lines, casting cleaning charms and overpowering dark wizards. Or I imagine his palm, hot and sticky, pressing hard against my pelvis as his fingers dig into my hips and I arch up underneath him.
But mostly I just run my thumb up and down the length of his long, robust life line, and try not to think about a lot of things.
“You know,” he says, as the wireless proclaims the end to a long match neither of us particularly care about, “you’re probably rubbing years off the end of my life when you do that.”
I look up into smirking green eyes. “Yeah, probably.”
He reaches for my free hand. “Did I tell you, by the way, that I’ve developed a bit of a talent for certain branches of Divination?”
I smirk back. “You didn’t.”
“Well, I have.” He runs his fingertips from the heel of my hand up to my knuckles, flattening them so that our palms slid over one another. “Would you like me to read your palm?”
“Please.”
He changes his grip, so my palm is exposed, furrows his brow and proceeds to examine my palm intently.
“Hmm, yes,” he says. “Interesting. Very interesting.”
A chuckle takes root in my chest, but I suppress it. “What?”
“You see this line here? The way it bows out in the middle and comes so near to this other line? The one that forks?”
“Uh huh.”
“That clearly indicates that you’re about to come to bed with me, and you’re going to let me take off all your clothes and run my hands over your entire body.” My cock twitches. “And then, you see here, where these two lines meet? That says I’m going to fuck you until you pass out.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Says all that, does it?”
He nods solemnly. “Plainly.”
“Is there anything in there about that disgusting thing you like to do with your tongue?”
He grins, and it’s outrageously sexy.
I rub my thumb up and down once more before pressing his palm to my awakening groin. “I think you may have missed your calling as a Seer, Harry.”
Happy Birthday, abigail89! Rumour has it you enjoy a bit of sexy!Harry, so I set out to drabble you just that. This ‘drabble’ seems to have run away from me a bit - obviously he and these prompts are just that inspirational. And so are you. :) Have a wonderful day!
Title: Palmistry
Author: goneoffthelump
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Words: 1200
Rating: R
Summary: Ron loves Harry's palms.
Notes: Thanks, midnightblue88 and nathaniel_hp!
Palmistry
I think I’m in love with Harry’s palms.
Which, even though I know I’m in love with Harry, strikes me as a bit strange, given the appeal of various other parts of his body. Or, rather all the various other parts of his body.
Like that Seeker’s arse of his - completely fucking gorgeous. It’s amazing what a proper diet, the Auror physical training regimen and the ability to finally relax and sleep at night will do for a bloke. Bloody hell. He’s still small, but he’s got these arms and this chest and this stomach - taut and hard, but still perfect for use as a pillow. He’s got this chiselled jaw that I love to scrape my thumbnail over in the morning before he shaves, and these delicious green eyes that can (and do) convince me of anything just by looking at me. (Shut it. You’d get all girly, too, if he turned them on you.) And then, of course, nestled at the end of the happiest fucking happy trail you can imagine, he’s got the greatest set of cock and balls on the planet. Honestly. The greatest. And I’m not just saying that because I’m allowed to touch them.
But even with all that, I’m often happy just to sit and contemplate his palms.
It’s completely stupid, I know. It started in third year. Just the palm thing - not the bit about the cock and balls and arse and all that, just to be clear. That came much later. But the first time I ever thought about Harry’s palm was right after a certain hack of a Divination professor got a hold of it and informed him that his life line was the shortest she’d ever seen.
And even though I knew it was complete bollocks, that she couldn’t predict her way out of a cardboard box, it freaked me the fuck out. It felt different somehow, her examining Harry’s body and telling him he was going to die, instead of reading it in his tea leaves or crystal ball or whatever.
I grabbed his hand and stared at his palm and let out a huge sigh of relief because his life line looked plenty long to me. I think I probably ran my finger along it, too, for good measure.
His hand was hot, and his palm a bit sweaty, and I suddenly remembered what I’d done with my own palm just the night before.
And even though I was fairly certain Harry wasn’t getting up to that sort of stuff yet (we lived in very close quarters, after all), it occurred to me that Harry’s palm, the very palm I was now fondling, might have done the same sort of thing mine had.
My ears had never grown quite that hot quite that quickly.
Harry seemed to interpret my gasp and recoil to mean that something on his palm had upset me. In the time it took for him to stop staring at me like I’d grown a third eye and look down at his hand with something approaching worry, I got a hold of myself and told him I was just putting on a show for Trelawney.
And that earned a look that made me wonder if I actually had grown a third eye, but at least he didn’t know I’d been thinking about him wanking.
In the years that followed, I found myself oddly aware of Harry’s palms a lot of the time. I’d just sort of notice them. Often.
Like when they were sweaty, and he’d rub them on his thighs, or when his grip on his wand was particularly tight, I’d find myself imagining the skin of his palms, sliding over the denim or pressing against the wood.
I’m not sure exactly when these thoughts started to become sexy, but at some point they did, and they were then followed by futile attempts not to think about what other types of wood Harry’s palm routinely pressed against.
Which thoughts were then followed by lame, unconvincing excuses and hurried trips to the loo.
As it turned out, I eventually discovered that me thinking about Harry wanking wasn’t such an unwelcome thing. And then, suddenly, those sweaty palms were sliding over and pressing against me.
Bloody hell.
But you know what? Even now that I can see and touch and have my wicked way with every inch of Harry’s gorgeous body, his palms are still my favourite.
I spend hours sometimes, when we’re watching telly or listening to Quidditch, just running my fingers over his palm. (I know. Shut it.) Up and down, side to side, round in circles, and I think about him gripping his broomstick and snatching a Snitch out of thin air. Or I picture the base of his wand nestled between the lines, casting cleaning charms and overpowering dark wizards. Or I imagine his palm, hot and sticky, pressing hard against my pelvis as his fingers dig into my hips and I arch up underneath him.
But mostly I just run my thumb up and down the length of his long, robust life line, and try not to think about a lot of things.
“You know,” he says, as the wireless proclaims the end to a long match neither of us particularly care about, “you’re probably rubbing years off the end of my life when you do that.”
I look up into smirking green eyes. “Yeah, probably.”
He reaches for my free hand. “Did I tell you, by the way, that I’ve developed a bit of a talent for certain branches of Divination?”
I smirk back. “You didn’t.”
“Well, I have.” He runs his fingertips from the heel of my hand up to my knuckles, flattening them so that our palms slid over one another. “Would you like me to read your palm?”
“Please.”
He changes his grip, so my palm is exposed, furrows his brow and proceeds to examine my palm intently.
“Hmm, yes,” he says. “Interesting. Very interesting.”
A chuckle takes root in my chest, but I suppress it. “What?”
“You see this line here? The way it bows out in the middle and comes so near to this other line? The one that forks?”
“Uh huh.”
“That clearly indicates that you’re about to come to bed with me, and you’re going to let me take off all your clothes and run my hands over your entire body.” My cock twitches. “And then, you see here, where these two lines meet? That says I’m going to fuck you until you pass out.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Says all that, does it?”
He nods solemnly. “Plainly.”
“Is there anything in there about that disgusting thing you like to do with your tongue?”
He grins, and it’s outrageously sexy.
I rub my thumb up and down once more before pressing his palm to my awakening groin. “I think you may have missed your calling as a Seer, Harry.”