WONDER by Eggbert
Summary: The most beautiful thing in the world, in Percy's eyes anyway.
Rating: - PG13 for implications of a slashy nature
Notes: - Short, pointless bit of PWP fluff. Too sweet for its own good.After that day in the Leaky Cauldron.
Summer mornings are the best times of the year when daylight slowly creeps through the windows like an unfaithful husband trying to sneak into his house without his wife noticing.
Today will be warm, guaranteed by the golden beams shining through the window. I don't see the point of having curtains if you never draw them.
The light illuminates the sleeping form of the man beside me. No matter how many times I see him like this it never fails to fill me with awe.
He is turned away from me, his soft brown hair tousled on the pillow. I resist an urge to touch it and prop myself up on one elbow, the better to look at him.
His eyes are tight shut. Long thick lashes sweep his cheek, hiding his warm hazel eyes.
His lips are slightly parted and he is making soft, snuffly sounds of contentment. Sweet dreams, love.
His fair skin is lightly bronzed by the sun, a legacy of playing Quidditch in all weathers but it is soft and smooth to the touch.
My touch. No one else's.
He is almost too perfect, bathed in the soft morning light, stretched out on crisp cotton sheets that, a short time ago, was the forum for the deepest, sweetest pleasure imaginable.
I lay back, satisfied with my inspection. Still so new to me I sometimes pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming.
I put my arm around his waist, snuggling up against his broad back. He takes my hand and presses it to his chest and I feel my heart swell with happiness.
My love, my courage, my heart, my soulmate, the essence of my desire, my rock, my comfort. My Oliver.
Summary: The most beautiful thing in the world, in Percy's eyes anyway.
Rating: - PG13 for implications of a slashy nature
Notes: - Short, pointless bit of PWP fluff. Too sweet for its own good.After that day in the Leaky Cauldron.
Summer mornings are the best times of the year when daylight slowly creeps through the windows like an unfaithful husband trying to sneak into his house without his wife noticing.
Today will be warm, guaranteed by the golden beams shining through the window. I don't see the point of having curtains if you never draw them.
The light illuminates the sleeping form of the man beside me. No matter how many times I see him like this it never fails to fill me with awe.
He is turned away from me, his soft brown hair tousled on the pillow. I resist an urge to touch it and prop myself up on one elbow, the better to look at him.
His eyes are tight shut. Long thick lashes sweep his cheek, hiding his warm hazel eyes.
His lips are slightly parted and he is making soft, snuffly sounds of contentment. Sweet dreams, love.
His fair skin is lightly bronzed by the sun, a legacy of playing Quidditch in all weathers but it is soft and smooth to the touch.
My touch. No one else's.
He is almost too perfect, bathed in the soft morning light, stretched out on crisp cotton sheets that, a short time ago, was the forum for the deepest, sweetest pleasure imaginable.
I lay back, satisfied with my inspection. Still so new to me I sometimes pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming.
I put my arm around his waist, snuggling up against his broad back. He takes my hand and presses it to his chest and I feel my heart swell with happiness.
My love, my courage, my heart, my soulmate, the essence of my desire, my rock, my comfort. My Oliver.