fic: sunny with a chance of
Nothing to see here, just a bit of pretty fluff for brinimc because she was sadfacing and a sadfacing brini is just not on. Also because srsly, any excuse at all to write these two, I can't even deal with their adorableness.
title: sunny with a chance of
pairing: percy/oliver
rating: pg-13
a/n: uniquepov did her best to make me not look ridiculous here but alas, I wrote more words and got impatient because for fic, I am an instant gratification sort of critter. for brini's prompt: sunshine.
Percy’s never considered himself the sort of person that summers in the South of France but there’s a conference he’s meant to attend for work and it fits nicely in Oliver’s schedule for reasons Percy hasn’t sussed yet, so there he is.
Sunning. In the South of France.
Oliver’s beside him stretching on a lounge chair, evidently sleeping in nothing more than his swim trunks and a grin. Percy’s brought a book because Oliver won’t let him take conference materials anywhere but their room or the actual conference, but he isn’t getting much reading done.
It’s difficult to concentrate with Oliver making a show of himself just to Percy’s left, and not just for the twittering attention it draws. Percy’s used to having strangers fuss and gawp over Oliver when they’re out but he’d hoped it might be different here. Surely the South of France can’t know or care what Oliver’s record on the season is; the only reason Percy’s agreed to a joint vacation at all is that he’s sure no one’s going to care.
The flaw in his plan only becomes evident once they arrive, and so Percy’s had two whole days lamenting his own lack of foresight. Oliver’s appealing to strangers because he’s good at Quidditch, yes, but he’s appealing for other reasons, too. The shape of his features, the lean strength of his build, the colour and cut of his hair, the precise shade of his eyes. Percy knows all that because he’s had it babbled at them by an irritating mix of strangers, absolutely none of whom seem to appreciate that Oliver is not on holiday alone.
Percy’s not prone to jealousy but he doesn’t have to be; he knows full well that if the broom bunnies at Hogwarts couldn’t lead Oliver astray, their adult counterparts are equally unlikely to meet with success, and if all the clucking over him in England hasn’t turned Oliver’s head, it’s highly unlikely some strange Frenchman’s going to do so, either.
Oliver’s come with Percy and he’ll leave with Percy, and as he’s so fond of saying when their trips out back home get interrupted by his fans, Oliver Wood is a one-wizard man.
So Percy’s annoyance at the pair of girls twittering and gawping to their left has less to do with jealousy, per se, than it does to do with the fact that their twittering’s keeping him from enjoying his book.
He’s working on a way to deal with the situation which won’t end in a note for his personnel file-misbehaving at conferences is highly frowned upon and Percy can’t be certain his manager will appreciate Percy’s reasonable explanation of events-when Oliver shifts in his chair and inches a little higher.
His swim trunks inch a little lower. Percy wants to roll his eyes.
“Time for more sunblock yet?” Oliver asks muzzily.
Percy eyes Oliver’s chest for colour, presses a finger to his arm to check his own, and decides it is. “You look all right but I suppose a bit more couldn’t hurt.”
Sunblock’s hardly difficult to come by. They can afford to indulge.
Percy’s put the sunblock away, though, and it’s slipped lower in his bag than he anticipates, so he has to go rummaging for the bottle.
“Are they still staring?” Oliver asks, sotto voce, which makes Percy crane a look over his shoulder, and the way Oliver’s brows lift when he turns his head and tugs his sunglasses down speaks volumes.
“When aren’t they?” Percy goes back to his rummaging.
Oliver curses but doesn’t say anything more, which Percy supposes is because they’re in public. Oliver’s had quite a lot to say about the interruptions when they’re at home alone but he’s all smiles and strained patience when they’re out.
It’s possible Oliver’s gone back to sleep by the time Percy’s found the sunblock, because when Percy holds the bottle out, Oliver ignores it. Percy contemplates waking him up and resolves that’s a poor use of time. If Oliver’s tired, he deserves his rest and if he’s just feigning sleep to avoid his public, who is Percy to give him away?
Percy slicks sunblock on himself-Weasley colouring was not meant for the out-of-doors-and eyes Oliver again before he sets it aside.
Oliver clears his throat. “What, I don’t get any?” Percy knows there’s no good reason Oliver’s playfully pleading look ought to work with sunglasses covering his eyes, and yet. He supposes he’ll always be susceptible to Oliver’s enthusiasm, the private smiles he only shares with Percy that make the whole rest of the world inconsequential for a moment. “Come on, Perce. I could burn.”
Percy snorts, because Oliver’s made for the out-of-doors as much as anyone from Scotland can be. “I highly doubt that.”
“But I could,” Oliver says, mock-solemnly, slinking higher up in his lounge chair and cocking his head so Percy can see those ridiculously over-earnest eyes. “I could burn, Percy. And then where would we be?” And it’s one of Percy’s very favourite things about him that Oliver gets out, “There’d be no touching me at all until I healed,” with a vague regret played straight.
As though he wouldn’t see the need for cool baths and lotions as a brilliant opportunity to make Percy skive the rest of his conference to keep them both in bed. Honestly.
“Right,” Percy says agreeably, and hands over the bottle.
Oliver’s pout is delightful. There are times Percy feels awful about making Oliver’s face fall like that, but for every time he steals a bit of Oliver’s enthusiasm because Percy has to work, there’s a time Oliver manages to coax him into compromise and as Percy’s found, there’s nothing quite like watching Oliver’s bright smile of realization.
And this time, there’s nothing but the clever promise of that pout, because Oliver Wood is not a man who makes a face like that seriously, or without a plan in mind to get his own way.
“You’re not going to put it on for me?” Oliver laments. Percy has to bite down on a smile.
“You start,” Percy counters. “I’ll get the bits you’ve missed.”
Oliver mutters a thing about Percy and bits that’s nothing short of cheering. “Where’s the fun in that?” His tone lowers promisingly. “Don’t really want the sunblock, Perce. It’s more having your hands on me.”
“Don’t need sunblock for that,” Percy reminds him, just to watch that flare of heat in Oliver’s eyes.
“Yeah,” Oliver says thickly. “But it’s easier to get you over here if you’re leaning over me first.”
Percy can see it, clearer than the inevitable note in his personnel file. Oliver laying back patiently, waiting until Percy’s got his hands busy to hook a broad hand on the back of Percy’s neck, tugging Percy down on top of him for a snog the way they sometimes do at home.
Percy’s yet to get much reading done lying on the couch with Oliver at home, for precisely this reason. Oliver Wood is distracting and he likes to be distracted, too, and his favourite ways to do that all involve Percy.
“Not much point in that now,” Percy muses, because Oliver tugging him down tends to end with Oliver’s hands on Percy’s back and the promise that Percy’s trousers won’t be on much longer.
“Oh, I dunno about that,” Oliver murmurs. “I’d have you on top of me, wouldn’t I? And they’d have something to really gawp at, wouldn’t they? That’s a win-win scenario, if you ask me.”
Percy can’t swallow for a moment, can’t think much beyond the lazy promise of it. For reasons Percy’s never really sorted out, Oliver likes having Percy over him, Percy’s weight on his hips and Percy’s knees at his sides, Percy’s thighs under his hands and Percy’s kisses pressing him back and Percy’s hair falling in their eyes. Percy likes it, too, Oliver looking up at him and smiling, gasping and arching up for him, sighing serenely when he’s worked his hands under Percy’s shirt.
If it happens now, Percy can’t guarantee they’ll make it back to the room without a flagrant display of skin. With Oliver in just his little swim trunks and whatever sunblock he’s still wearing, Percy can almost guarantee it, because when Percy straddles him at home, there tends to be shirts lifted and grinding off on each other through the kissing and quite frankly, Oliver’s swim trunks aren’t built for that sort of thing.
It’s all too easy to imagine it happening, Oliver looking at him like that and sunblock to slick their skin, but there’d be walking back to their room with sand in unfortunate places and scrambling for their wands to clean their trousers-swim trunks, Merlin-and even if by some miracle they got a privacy spell up before things got unruly, they’d still both know.
For all Oliver’s public property at work-at least, thinks he is, which Percy hates but tolerates because it’s Oliver-they’re both private people and their relationship isn’t something they’ve been inclined to share with the world.
Hard to believe that’s worth ending just to stop a pair of twittering girls in France, if it hasn’t been to stop the constant swarm of them back home.
Percy wants Oliver under him, wants it more than anything he can name at the moment, but he wants it to be theirs. No one else gets to hear the way Oliver’s voice breaks when he’s close and no one else ever gets to see the way Oliver clings when he comes, the way he can’t do it without drawing Percy’s face against his own, forehead-to-forehead sometimes, sometimes for a broken, open-mouthed kiss, the way Oliver can’t ever quite give himself over to it without shutting everything else out but Percy.
So he gives Oliver a wicked look that promises all of the above, whatever Oliver wants if Percy can just have that, and says, “You know, actually, I think I’m about done with the beach.”
Oliver’s face blanks for a moment; he blinks the worst of it away for something that looks rather like awe. “Really?” he asks, voice low and husky, that smile Percy loves best dawning. “I just meant a bit of snogging, Perce, but…yeah?”
Percy makes a point of eyeing Oliver’s swim trunks, the warm, slick expanse of his chest. “Dressed like that? Really, Oliver. Do be sensible.” Because Oliver’s still watching him like he thinks Percy’s some sort of gift, Percy finds a prim look to ruin with what he’s sure Oliver will tell him later is a ruthlessly unfair eyeshag. “Would it help at all if I promised not to even look at work again this afternoon?”
Then Oliver’s blurting a helpless sound and scrambling up to collect their things, fumbling all over himself in his haste.
And perhaps he doesn’t get much reading done-pleasurable or otherwise-but in his defense, sun-warmed Oliver is incredibly distracting.
~ f ~
title: sunny with a chance of
pairing: percy/oliver
rating: pg-13
a/n: uniquepov did her best to make me not look ridiculous here but alas, I wrote more words and got impatient because for fic, I am an instant gratification sort of critter. for brini's prompt: sunshine.
Percy’s never considered himself the sort of person that summers in the South of France but there’s a conference he’s meant to attend for work and it fits nicely in Oliver’s schedule for reasons Percy hasn’t sussed yet, so there he is.
Sunning. In the South of France.
Oliver’s beside him stretching on a lounge chair, evidently sleeping in nothing more than his swim trunks and a grin. Percy’s brought a book because Oliver won’t let him take conference materials anywhere but their room or the actual conference, but he isn’t getting much reading done.
It’s difficult to concentrate with Oliver making a show of himself just to Percy’s left, and not just for the twittering attention it draws. Percy’s used to having strangers fuss and gawp over Oliver when they’re out but he’d hoped it might be different here. Surely the South of France can’t know or care what Oliver’s record on the season is; the only reason Percy’s agreed to a joint vacation at all is that he’s sure no one’s going to care.
The flaw in his plan only becomes evident once they arrive, and so Percy’s had two whole days lamenting his own lack of foresight. Oliver’s appealing to strangers because he’s good at Quidditch, yes, but he’s appealing for other reasons, too. The shape of his features, the lean strength of his build, the colour and cut of his hair, the precise shade of his eyes. Percy knows all that because he’s had it babbled at them by an irritating mix of strangers, absolutely none of whom seem to appreciate that Oliver is not on holiday alone.
Percy’s not prone to jealousy but he doesn’t have to be; he knows full well that if the broom bunnies at Hogwarts couldn’t lead Oliver astray, their adult counterparts are equally unlikely to meet with success, and if all the clucking over him in England hasn’t turned Oliver’s head, it’s highly unlikely some strange Frenchman’s going to do so, either.
Oliver’s come with Percy and he’ll leave with Percy, and as he’s so fond of saying when their trips out back home get interrupted by his fans, Oliver Wood is a one-wizard man.
So Percy’s annoyance at the pair of girls twittering and gawping to their left has less to do with jealousy, per se, than it does to do with the fact that their twittering’s keeping him from enjoying his book.
He’s working on a way to deal with the situation which won’t end in a note for his personnel file-misbehaving at conferences is highly frowned upon and Percy can’t be certain his manager will appreciate Percy’s reasonable explanation of events-when Oliver shifts in his chair and inches a little higher.
His swim trunks inch a little lower. Percy wants to roll his eyes.
“Time for more sunblock yet?” Oliver asks muzzily.
Percy eyes Oliver’s chest for colour, presses a finger to his arm to check his own, and decides it is. “You look all right but I suppose a bit more couldn’t hurt.”
Sunblock’s hardly difficult to come by. They can afford to indulge.
Percy’s put the sunblock away, though, and it’s slipped lower in his bag than he anticipates, so he has to go rummaging for the bottle.
“Are they still staring?” Oliver asks, sotto voce, which makes Percy crane a look over his shoulder, and the way Oliver’s brows lift when he turns his head and tugs his sunglasses down speaks volumes.
“When aren’t they?” Percy goes back to his rummaging.
Oliver curses but doesn’t say anything more, which Percy supposes is because they’re in public. Oliver’s had quite a lot to say about the interruptions when they’re at home alone but he’s all smiles and strained patience when they’re out.
It’s possible Oliver’s gone back to sleep by the time Percy’s found the sunblock, because when Percy holds the bottle out, Oliver ignores it. Percy contemplates waking him up and resolves that’s a poor use of time. If Oliver’s tired, he deserves his rest and if he’s just feigning sleep to avoid his public, who is Percy to give him away?
Percy slicks sunblock on himself-Weasley colouring was not meant for the out-of-doors-and eyes Oliver again before he sets it aside.
Oliver clears his throat. “What, I don’t get any?” Percy knows there’s no good reason Oliver’s playfully pleading look ought to work with sunglasses covering his eyes, and yet. He supposes he’ll always be susceptible to Oliver’s enthusiasm, the private smiles he only shares with Percy that make the whole rest of the world inconsequential for a moment. “Come on, Perce. I could burn.”
Percy snorts, because Oliver’s made for the out-of-doors as much as anyone from Scotland can be. “I highly doubt that.”
“But I could,” Oliver says, mock-solemnly, slinking higher up in his lounge chair and cocking his head so Percy can see those ridiculously over-earnest eyes. “I could burn, Percy. And then where would we be?” And it’s one of Percy’s very favourite things about him that Oliver gets out, “There’d be no touching me at all until I healed,” with a vague regret played straight.
As though he wouldn’t see the need for cool baths and lotions as a brilliant opportunity to make Percy skive the rest of his conference to keep them both in bed. Honestly.
“Right,” Percy says agreeably, and hands over the bottle.
Oliver’s pout is delightful. There are times Percy feels awful about making Oliver’s face fall like that, but for every time he steals a bit of Oliver’s enthusiasm because Percy has to work, there’s a time Oliver manages to coax him into compromise and as Percy’s found, there’s nothing quite like watching Oliver’s bright smile of realization.
And this time, there’s nothing but the clever promise of that pout, because Oliver Wood is not a man who makes a face like that seriously, or without a plan in mind to get his own way.
“You’re not going to put it on for me?” Oliver laments. Percy has to bite down on a smile.
“You start,” Percy counters. “I’ll get the bits you’ve missed.”
Oliver mutters a thing about Percy and bits that’s nothing short of cheering. “Where’s the fun in that?” His tone lowers promisingly. “Don’t really want the sunblock, Perce. It’s more having your hands on me.”
“Don’t need sunblock for that,” Percy reminds him, just to watch that flare of heat in Oliver’s eyes.
“Yeah,” Oliver says thickly. “But it’s easier to get you over here if you’re leaning over me first.”
Percy can see it, clearer than the inevitable note in his personnel file. Oliver laying back patiently, waiting until Percy’s got his hands busy to hook a broad hand on the back of Percy’s neck, tugging Percy down on top of him for a snog the way they sometimes do at home.
Percy’s yet to get much reading done lying on the couch with Oliver at home, for precisely this reason. Oliver Wood is distracting and he likes to be distracted, too, and his favourite ways to do that all involve Percy.
“Not much point in that now,” Percy muses, because Oliver tugging him down tends to end with Oliver’s hands on Percy’s back and the promise that Percy’s trousers won’t be on much longer.
“Oh, I dunno about that,” Oliver murmurs. “I’d have you on top of me, wouldn’t I? And they’d have something to really gawp at, wouldn’t they? That’s a win-win scenario, if you ask me.”
Percy can’t swallow for a moment, can’t think much beyond the lazy promise of it. For reasons Percy’s never really sorted out, Oliver likes having Percy over him, Percy’s weight on his hips and Percy’s knees at his sides, Percy’s thighs under his hands and Percy’s kisses pressing him back and Percy’s hair falling in their eyes. Percy likes it, too, Oliver looking up at him and smiling, gasping and arching up for him, sighing serenely when he’s worked his hands under Percy’s shirt.
If it happens now, Percy can’t guarantee they’ll make it back to the room without a flagrant display of skin. With Oliver in just his little swim trunks and whatever sunblock he’s still wearing, Percy can almost guarantee it, because when Percy straddles him at home, there tends to be shirts lifted and grinding off on each other through the kissing and quite frankly, Oliver’s swim trunks aren’t built for that sort of thing.
It’s all too easy to imagine it happening, Oliver looking at him like that and sunblock to slick their skin, but there’d be walking back to their room with sand in unfortunate places and scrambling for their wands to clean their trousers-swim trunks, Merlin-and even if by some miracle they got a privacy spell up before things got unruly, they’d still both know.
For all Oliver’s public property at work-at least, thinks he is, which Percy hates but tolerates because it’s Oliver-they’re both private people and their relationship isn’t something they’ve been inclined to share with the world.
Hard to believe that’s worth ending just to stop a pair of twittering girls in France, if it hasn’t been to stop the constant swarm of them back home.
Percy wants Oliver under him, wants it more than anything he can name at the moment, but he wants it to be theirs. No one else gets to hear the way Oliver’s voice breaks when he’s close and no one else ever gets to see the way Oliver clings when he comes, the way he can’t do it without drawing Percy’s face against his own, forehead-to-forehead sometimes, sometimes for a broken, open-mouthed kiss, the way Oliver can’t ever quite give himself over to it without shutting everything else out but Percy.
So he gives Oliver a wicked look that promises all of the above, whatever Oliver wants if Percy can just have that, and says, “You know, actually, I think I’m about done with the beach.”
Oliver’s face blanks for a moment; he blinks the worst of it away for something that looks rather like awe. “Really?” he asks, voice low and husky, that smile Percy loves best dawning. “I just meant a bit of snogging, Perce, but…yeah?”
Percy makes a point of eyeing Oliver’s swim trunks, the warm, slick expanse of his chest. “Dressed like that? Really, Oliver. Do be sensible.” Because Oliver’s still watching him like he thinks Percy’s some sort of gift, Percy finds a prim look to ruin with what he’s sure Oliver will tell him later is a ruthlessly unfair eyeshag. “Would it help at all if I promised not to even look at work again this afternoon?”
Then Oliver’s blurting a helpless sound and scrambling up to collect their things, fumbling all over himself in his haste.
And perhaps he doesn’t get much reading done-pleasurable or otherwise-but in his defense, sun-warmed Oliver is incredibly distracting.
~ f ~