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100 Days of Drabble

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Percy groaned in pain as he faceplanted onto his soft and inviting fourposter bed, arse in the air, and not giving a toss as to how undignified the position was. He turned his head to the side and grumbled, “Remind me to never let you talk me into riding a broom, ever again.”

Oliver laughed and flopped down on the bed beside him. “You’re just a bit broom sore. If you keep riding and wear a better pair of flying trousers you’ll be fine.”

Not wanting to risk putting any pressure on his arse, Percy just cocked his head and gave his boyfriend the most withering glare that he could muster. “Oh yeah? Then why did Madam Pomfrey give me a salve and tell me to cast cushioning charms on everything for the next week?”

“Lighten up, Perce, you can’t be more sore than that time we--”

Percy’s face flushed scarlet and he was certain the blush was creeping down his neck. “No, but this is cruel and unusual.”

“All the healers say that it’s normal,” Oliver counted.

“Well,” Percy retorted, “that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt.”

Oliver suppressed a laugh and began rubbing soothing circles along the man’s back before leaning down to murmur slyly in his ear, “So does this mean I can convince you to top for the next few days?”

A wicked grin spread across Percy’s face. “Oh, I believe that can be arranged.”