Daily Deviant
- there is no such thing as 'too kinky'
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22nd August 2014 14:42 - Fic: Pig (Oliver/Percy, R)
Title: Pig
Author: yeaka
Characters/Pairings: Oliver Wood/Percy Weasley
Rating: R
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Salirophilia
Other Warnings: Established relationship, HJ
Word Count: 1.8k
Summary/Description: Oliver ruts into Percy in the field behind their house.
Author's Notes:



Some days it’s not so much about practice as just getting out of the house, feeling the wind in his hair and channeling all his energy. Percy sometimes teases—Oliver knows it’s just teasing, no matter how annoyed Percy seems—that Oliver turns into a caged dog when the team goes too long without practice. They practice all the time. But it’s been on-and-off rain for the past week and the next game’s not until Monday, which leaves Oliver circling the mud of their countryside home. When they were house shopping, Oliver’s only condition was that it be far enough away from muggles to fly. Percy obliged.

Percy gets his way on just about everything else house-related, and when Oliver finally lands on the ground, the lights of the back porch are flickering on. Oliver’s breathing hard and sweating through his shirt—he’s been out a few hours more than he meant to. The sky’s taken on the orange-black glow of sunset, and he starts walking slowly towards the house, dragging his broom limply behind him. Being on the ground makes him feel human again. It’s a crushing reality, but it’s the shadow he needs to make the light of his next flight brighter.

Oliver stops a few meters away when the back door opens, Percy stepping out. He walks to the edge of the deck, safely under the overhang even though the rain stopped a few hours ago. He calls, “Supper’s ready.”

Oliver stays where he is. It’s his stubborn way of saying ‘come and get me’—it’s how he coaxes his perfect prince out of their manicured house and into the great outdoors. Percy doesn’t have the heart of a camper. Oliver loves him anyway.

Percy loves Oliver too, and that’s evident when he sighs and rolls his eyes. He pushes his glasses up his nose and looks distastefully down at the ground beyond the wooden deck. He tried a grass spell a few months ago, but what little grew was too thoroughly trampled by Oliver and his team to last. When they come over, they play this land hard. Oliver reaches out a hand and lies, “Come watch the sunset with me.”

Percy’s a genius. He has to know Oliver’s intention, but he makes a show of giving in anyway, stepping off the porch and carefully avoiding the patches of dirt that threaten his white socks from every side. He practically hops towards Oliver, carefully choosing where to step. His trousers are the loose informal ones he uses on weekends when the office is closed, and his thin shirt is too big for him—one of Oliver’s old ones that Percy’s turned into something of a nightshirt and a rag for doing housework in. Oliver pays attention to it because he knows that Percy cares about his clothes and his appearance, or at least, the right clothes. Oliver wouldn’t tackle Percy in designer robes.

But he’d think about it in these, and as soon as Percy’s close enough, Oliver drops his broom and reaches for Percy’s—Oliver’s—shirt. Percy’s too used to hand-me-downs. He deserves a wardrobe of entirely expensive things, but they’re young and not there yet. At least Oliver can tear these. He makes fists in the sides and tugs Percy tightly against him—Percy stumbles up and gasps. With his hands busy holding Percy still, Oliver uses his head to nudge Percy’s in to place, to duck in and kiss Percy hard. He can tell that Percy was going to scold him, but the protest gets cut off in the interim.

When Percy breaks the kiss to turn away, Oliver nuzzles into his neck and nearly growls, “You know better than to come to me right after flying.” The adrenaline’s still coursing through his veins, and there’s nothing like flying. There’re only two things in this world Oliver really cares about—Quidditch and Percy. Combining the two is dangerous. He gets high on the overload and can’t come down.

Percy wraps thinner arms around his shoulders and mumbles coyly, “I suppose I wouldn’t minding eating cold.” Oliver’s hands twist in Percy’s shirt, sensing permission, and Percy sighs, “You’re going to tear it.”

“It’s mine anyway,” Oliver decides, before adding, “I’ll buy you a new one.” A new used shirt. Percy laughs and kisses his forehead.

He reaches for the neckline and jerks at it hard enough to split the seams. He holds onto both sides to keep from choking Percy, though Percy’s tilted his head back and is watching Oliver with heavy-lidded eyes, letting it happen. He knows what Oliver likes. Oliver knows what Percy likes. This isn’t it, but for now, he can’t stop himself. He pulls and the old fabric splits, making a small screeching noise, and from then, it’s ridiculously easy to rip right down the middle. He wants Percy in rags and doesn’t even know why. Maybe it’s because of how posh and perfect he looks most of the time. Oliver splits the shirt in two and brushes the frayed edges aside, revealing Percy’s lithe, pale chest, splattered with freckles and two dusty nipples, perking in the cold evening air. Oliver runs his bigger hands up over them. He can feel the oncoming wave of lust and doesn’t counteract it in time.

He shoves Percy backwards. Percy stumbles to the ground, landing on his ass, and Oliver takes just a split second to check if he’s hurt. Then Oliver’s going down, too, half slinking to his knees and half lunging on top of his boyfriend. Percy’s glasses have already fallen asked, but they tilt worse when Oliver leans over him, forcing him back. Percy runs from Oliver’s kiss until his skull hits the mud and there’s nowhere else to go. Then he turns sideways to look at the dirty puddle he’s landed in, and he winces, face scrunching up. Oliver takes the opportunity to flatten the rest of their bodies together. He crushes his weight down on top of Percy and uses his own knees to shove Percy’s legs to the ground. He grabs Percy’s wrists and pins them inside the rim of the puddle. Percy whines and arches up, but Oliver presses their mouths together again, stealing Percy’s noises and breath.

Oliver’s a true rider. Percy tries to turn his head, and Oliver goes with it, keeping their kiss going, one little lick and suck and nip after the other, until Percy practically headbutts him and sighs, “You didn’t have to go full on muddy.”

Oliver snorts, “It’s not my fault it rained.” But he appreciates that it did. By now, there’s no way Percy can think this is going anywhere but Oliver getting off; the sizeable bulge in his pants is grinding into the small tent in Percy’s. He knows Percy’s hard for him, always is, but this isn’t where Percy will come, and Oliver knows that. Percy sighs again like he’s a saint for indulging such a silly child.

Then he says matter-of-factly, “It’s dirty.”

And Oliver smirks, leaning closer to nuzzle into Percy’s cheek and nip at Percy’s jaw. He purrs, “I like you dirty.” He runs his teeth down Percy’s neck, stopping just short of where the brown splatter is creeping into his cropped orange hair. Oliver laves his tongue along the shell of Percy’s ear, leaving a trail of saliva, and hisses, “You know I like seeing my prissy husband all messed up. You know I love it when you’re filthy.” Percy’s breath hitches. His hips subtly shift up against Oliver’s, but Oliver’s already driving the ship. He’s grinding Percy down.

Percy’s blushing furiously and breaks out of Oliver’s hold to throw his arms around Oliver’s neck. He buries his face in Oliver’s shoulder—Oliver can feel it burning, feel the cool press of Percy’s glasses and the tickle of Percy’s hair against his cheek. The raw smell of Percy, the lingering cologne of this morning and the underlying musk, makes Oliver moan. He ruts into Percy like an animal. Suddenly he’s desperate to come, not in their bedroom or even the preferred change rooms of a stadium, but right here, in the earth, in the dirt and the muck on the land they own together. Oliver loves the outdoors. He loves Percy more. He wishes he’d thought to take his own shirt off so he could feel Percy bare beneath him. He hisses into Percy’s skin, “Touch me.”

Percy always was a good prefect. He does what he’s told. He reaches one hand back over and runs it all the way down Oliver’s chest, taking liberties along the way to squeeze and feel. Oliver doesn’t mind. He knows Percy likes his muscles, likes his athletic build. Percy reaches Oliver’s trousers and slips inside them, right down to skin. He wraps his long fingers around Oliver’s cock and starts to stroke, dry and rough except for the muddy water clinging to Percy’s hand. Percy kisses his cheek and murmurs, “I’m going to have to clean you up after, you naughty thing.”

Oliver tries to chuckle, but it comes out as more of a moan. Percy knows just how to touch him, how to squeeze his shaft with just enough pressure and peel back his foreskin and thumb the slit at the head. Oliver’s nearly trembling in his arms, still grinding into him. He feels so good. He fits just right. Oliver bites into his neck, he gasps, and Oliver almost snarls. He wants to leave possessive marks all over Percy’s body. He wants Percy to look this debauched all night and tomorrow morning. He finds Percy’s mouth, and they kiss just as fiercely as they first did on their wedding night.

Then Percy’s giving him too much, and Oliver’s scream’s cut off in Percy’s throat. The orgasm rips through him and splatters all over Percy’s hand and the inside of his own pants. Percy keeps dutifully pumping him and pets his hair with the other hand. Oliver’s in that limbo of ecstasy where he could die right now and be absolutely happy.

Of course, he comes down. Slow and giddy. He shudders and slumps against Percy, aware he’s heavy and sweaty, but he’s tired. Percy just grunts and takes him. When Percy’s hand slips away, Oliver groans, not sure he wants it to go.

He can still feel the bulge at Percy’s crotch. Oliver takes a few seconds, then pushes himself up on his elbows. Percy straightens his glasses, painting the sides brown, and mutters, “Merlin, you made a mess of me.”

Oliver grins, adoring and fond. “Do you want to wash me off?” Percy just laughs—of course he does. He shoves at Oliver’s chest, and Oliver sits up like a good boy.

Then he scoops his husband up in his arms. Percy clutches on to him and insists, “You’ll be performing the cleaning spells for whatever you do to my carpet.” Oliver already knows that won’t happen. He’ll come back later to get his broom, and while he’s out, Percy will have the whole house looking pristine again. For now, Oliver carries him across the deck and through the open backdoor, headed straight for the shower and Percy’s turn.

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