Kinky Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: ragdoll
From: florahart

Title: Diverted
Characters/Pairings: Percy/Pansy/Draco
Rating: NC17
Kinks/Themes Included: voyeurism, exhibitionism, wanking, shagging
Other Warnings/Content: none
Word Count: ~3500
Summary/Description: Some people like to watch, some people like to perform, and some people find they like all of the above.
Author's Notes: This was for wish #67, which involved a threesome out of a wide range of options, not all boys, and Character A & B getting it on while Character C watches and wanks


There is no good reason for taking a route to Magical Creatures by way of Accounts and Receiving, which is all the way across the floor, and Percy knows it. He knows it, but every day, he gets out of the lift, turns left at the corner, and makes the long walk along the corridor in which he has no business, and every day he nods as he passes the door, as though he's on his way to Retrieval or maybe Restoration. He isn't, and every day he feels the heat rise in his face as he makes the customary trip.

He has to come back through Illegal Use, which generally means an unwelcome and unpleasant chat with Jasmine Butterby, who is a nice enough girl but whose liberal use of floral scents is off-putting, and who seems to be under the impression Percy is taking this obviously unnecessary route expressly to see her.

It happened once by honest mistake, a moment of distraction followed by a blushing glimpse, but he's long past pretending it's anything but deliberate now, and he really needs to stop.

But.

Every day, the door is open, and she's always there, at the desk just inside the door, the top button of her robe unfastened, and she winks, and he can't seem to make his legs just take the appropriate path. He means to, but sometimes she leaves the robe tossed over the back of her chair and stretches tall to fetch a file in her very short skirt, and sometimes her hair is loose and apparently every shred of discipline in his body went into being the starched Prefect and the stuffy Minister's Assistant because now he's as weak as an overcooked bit of linguine.

Over Pansy Parkinson. Honestly. It's a wonder he sorted into Gryffindor at all, if it takes nothing more than a knowing smirk and the promise of soft skin to sway him.

He exits the lift and turns left at the corner, again, and berates himself all the way there, but the door is open, and his heart beats faster as he approaches it. He nods and she winks, quill crushed and stained with extremely red lipstick where she's been chewing on it between calculations.

That's the usual, and he moves on past, but he hears her say his name, voice sultry and low, and he stops just past the door and bends back to look in. "Yes?"

Damn it, he's twenty-six years old and should be long past that kind of squeak.

She grins, and clearly she knows he has no legitimate reason to walk past. "Nothing. Only..."

"O--" He clears his throat and tries again, mustering, if not the confident baritone he wishes were in his repertoire, at least the clipped efficiency to which he has resorted for nearly a decade. "Only?" He steps back into the doorway.

"I wondered whether you required a map." She picks up an unassuming little scroll from her desktop, tied shut with ribbon that exactly matches the stain on the quill, and he glances at her lips. She grins again.

"I. No, I believe I know where I'm going." Percy straightens his shoulders almost automatically as he speaks, affronted at the implication even as a jolt of heat forms and expands in his belly. He knows it's a purely physical reaction to her, based on his imagination and nothing more, but who cares?

"Just take it," she says, waving the scroll. "You might learn something... interesting." Her voice drops lower yet, teasing and melodious, and he could swear she's holding the damned parchment at such an angle that as he reaches, he's unintentionally (but willingly) looking quite directly down her shirt.

He doesn't even bother going on the rest of his daily route; Jasmine will probably check on him this afternoon, but he just turns around and goes back to and past the lift, the way he should always go. The scroll rests in his pocket, and the slight weight of it brushes his thigh; each time it touches, the hair on his leg reacts, and he feels sensitive and aware.

It's the shortest meeting in Magical Creatures he's ever had, and by half past he's back in his office, door closed and locked, unfurling the scroll.

It's a map, yes, and it's the Ministry, but there is no such room on level nine. He would know, wouldn't he, if there were? He'd have seen it.

Yes. There is no such room, and there is certainly no reason he should visit it this evening at a quarter past six as the legend suggests. Even if Pansy... Well, even if anything. It's impossible that she should be interested. Or single. She attends events with Draco Malfoy, and surely he doesn't share.

Does he?

Of course he doesn't; he's a Malfoy.

But what if he does? Percy's breath catches a little at the thought, but it's absurd and he ought not to spend any more of his time considering it.

He sets the scroll aside and returns to the actual work of the day: a new revision of section nineteen of the already thoroughly-revised statutes regarding dragon oversight in urban settings.

It's merely a coincidence, surely, that his mind wanders and he has to strike out and eventually rewrite entirely the third paragraph when he realizes there is in fact no call to specify appropriate lip color for dragon handlers (honestly. They can wear glittering green gooseberries across all exposed skin if they really want, and that's nothing to do with the question of restrictions on certain related requisitions). He glances at the scroll again and runs a finger along the loose ribbon, then sighs and goes back to reframing the introduction to clarify the purpose and scope. If they want to be sure there are no more instances like the dragon deep under Gringott's after all the negotiation that's already gone into this bill, they need to be clear and unambiguous.

At six exactly, he stands and casts a drying charm (no need to smudge the eleventh draft after so many bloody errors), and picks up the scroll.

Level nine is calling him.

–

"D'you think he'll show?" Draco leans back against the cushions and crosses his feet at the ankle, trailing a finger around the rim of his glass. Pansy leans forward and splashes more wine into the bowl of it, and of course she doesn't manage not to also liberally drip all over the back of his hand. He arches a brow at her and drags his tongue over the skin, watching her all the while.

She likes to watch him, and he likes to watch her. It's half the fun, after all. He sucks his fingers clean and picks up the glass to drink properly.

"Can't say," she says after another moment. "He wants to, has wanted for ages, but he won't even admit out loud that he comes past my desk on purpose." She sips from her own goblet. "Still, he didn't refuse, and I half expected he would. All that starch and prissy propriety, you know."

"He did go against type at least once, I remember." Draco recalls a lot of things about the war, and about the night that ended it; in fact, he remembers a great many more things than he ever discusses. Percy Weasley, terrified but fighting despite that he might be all alone for his previous choices, is one of the parts he doesn't discuss. It feels too raw, the way it made Draco notice...something undefined, but something.

Pansy says that Weasley has wanted her for a long time, but he's not sure whether she knows Draco has wanted this, too.

She probably won't tell him if she does. Giving away secrets isn't ever going to come naturally to either of them, which is why he won't enlighten her, either. It isn't as though he can put it in words particularly cogently, anyway. Sure, there's the way in which Weasley is something like a role model for him, but that's not why he's appealing. That's more a tangle of authority and ethical certainty, and honestly, if that were all, he'd have fallen for Potter, so it's obviously more complicated than that.

He sets the problem aside for the twentieth time.

They sip for a while and watch the clock, and when it chimes a quarter past, Draco stands and leans against the door frame, casual, like this is nothing special, and Pansy freshens her lips and fills the third glass.

Weasley lands startled mid-stride between them, arms flung wide, and straightens slowly. He's facing Pansy, and Draco thinks he doesn't know they're not alone. "No Portkey," he says quickly, "No Floo and I certainly didn't Apparate here on my own. What have you--"

"Some of us had reasons, once upon a time, to leave the premises quickly," Draco says. Weasley spins, then glances back at Pansy. She licks her lips, and Weasley clears his throat roughly.

"You might have said," he notes after a moment, looking to Draco again. "I expected--"

"Exactly what I wanted you to," she says behind him.

"So you set me up." Weasley doesn't face her, and his eyes go flat, like a light has gone out, although Draco can't decide whether he's angry or disappointed.

"We have a proposition for you. It's no set-up."

"A proposition." Weasley's nostrils flare. "And if I say no?"

Draco shrugs, working to keep the movement loose as though he isn't particularly vested in the outcome. "Then we take ourselves to bed without you." He moves past Weasley, smirking, and adds, "but it's more fun if everyone plays." He drops a kiss on Pansy's mouth and turns back. Weasley's color is high, his breathing a little harsh, and Draco grins. "Pansy likes you."

"And you like her?" Weasley asks.

Draco watches Pansy stand and move toward the bedroom, pulling her shirt over her head, and says, "I like a lot of things."

–

Pansy knows Draco thinks he can be opaque, but he's not, of course. He's transparent like a newly-hatched lacewing; as much as she's looking forward to what they're about to do, she'd never have specifically noticed and started seducing Percy Weasley on her own.

She drops her blouse on the chair and unhooks the back of her skirt, listening as the two of them approach one another behind her.

The choked sound--almost a cough, almost a groan, certainly an expression of need and need met--comes much more quickly than she'd have expected of either of them; perhaps Percy is, like so many of his House, the sort to decide and act all in one go. When she looks around, Percy's glasses are askew and Draco is on his knees, nuzzling Percy's crotch and looking at Pansy. She smiles slowly and unhooks her bra behind her as her skirt slides to the floor. She tosses one and kicks the other to join her blouse, and perches on the foot of the bed in her knickers and stockings to watch the show.

"Is this, do you just..." Percy bites his lip as though he requires a physical barrier in order to stop himself stammering parts of words in a tumble. "Do you mean to watch, or to join us?"

She beams. "I knew you'd be good at this game. Draco, shall I watch, or join you?"

Draco's busy tracing the outline of Percy's hardening cock through his trousers, leaving wet impressions of his teeth along the fabric, but Percy's raised eyebrows are directed at Pansy. "You did?"

"What?" Oh, dear. Being caught off guard by a straight-laced Gryffindor. What is the world coming to?

"You said you knew--"

"Oh. Well, I hoped you would. And I knew you were interested, of course." Pansy feels her face flushing, which is not at all the image she likes to put forth, so she straightens her shoulders and leans back on one hand, opening her knees wide. "Do you have an opinion?"

"Of course he has an opinion, Pans," Draco says. He's flushed pink, too, although at least he has some degree of exertion to blame. His hair is standing out electrically from the side of his head where he's been rubbing against Percy's clothes, but he's still pretending he's in control and unflustered; he's drawling as though he's not desperate to yank down Percy's trousers and pants and swallow him to the root. "The question is whether he'll tell us what it is."

Pansy shrugs the shoulder that's not holding her up and draws that hand up her thigh. "Percy?"

His eyes follow her fingers, and she stills, fingers just grazing the soft fleshy swell her mother used to criticize as excessive (her mother also taught her a hundred other ridiculous things, and she mostly only lets herself be influenced by any of them on her worst days; in this case, it's clear from the heat in both gazes that her thighs are just fine the way they are).

Percy shoves his glasses up his nose and nods once, like it's a business meeting. "I do."

"Do what?" Draco asks, looking up. He tilts his head and stands. "Do have an opinion?"

"I have opinions about many things."

Pansy rolls her eyes. "Yes, of course you do, but what would you like to do now?"

--

He's being manipulated, at least a bit, and a part of Percy resents that he can still be played. Not that he isn't fully interested in what's happening, of course; the more information he gets the more he's certain that he'd have agreed if they'd asked.

Well, no, he's not certain at all; he'd probably have stammered something about propriety, so in the end, it's probably very much just as well they ambushed him. Still, he's in favor of the overall proposition, so he moves, walking toward Pansy and her red lips and impractical stockings even if he's become considerably more skilled in the last several years at seeing ways in which a plan of which he approves could be flawed.

For instance, he has no idea how one negotiates the relationship the two of them appear to have, in which they are a pair, but they bring in additional partners. Perhaps he should--not now, certainly, but at leisure sometime soon--have a short discussion with, oh, Charlie, probably, as to modern relationships and complexity. Once he'd have thought of the twins, but George is, by all accounts, a monk these last four years, and why in the world is he allowing himself to be distracted like this while Pansy's hand is moving smoothly again toward her really very tiny knickers and Draco is encouraging him forward?

He resolves not to be distracted again, then immediately breaks the resolution. "This will be all right, won't it? It won't be upsetting to you, or… anything?"

Draco chuckles. "Weasley, if this was upsetting, I wouldn't have my hand in my own pants while you walk toward my practically-naked girlfriend with obvious intent."

Percy glances over his shoulder, and it's true, Draco has his trousers around his knees and is stepping out of them, cock hard as he squeezes the base.

Right, so it's not upsetting. And it's not as though he's disgusted by anything he sees; if he'd never have explicitly considered having sex that involved Draco Malfoy, well, he is very pretty. And very interested, too, which is appealing in its own right. He turns back to Pansy. "And you?"

"Draco likes to watch. I like to be watched. And the other way about, sometimes, if you'd like to keep that in mind." Her fingers are against the crotch of her knickers, and he's close enough now to smell her. It isn't as though he has miles of experience with how extremely frank women behave when they're aroused, but he's not a complete novice with sex in general, and as he moves to stand between her knees, he's at least confident that she wants this, too.

And so he decides. "Then he should watch," he says, Banishing her knickers and every stitch of his own clothing with a wave. Her eyes widen, and he only stops to think for an instant before he just levitates her back from the edge, following on his hands and knees until he's atop her, hips between her upraised thighs, hands planted to either side of her ribs. She's panting slightly, and he pauses, dropping to his elbows. "Sorry. I thought moving you by hand might be awkward."

She shakes her head and lets her feet slide down the outsides of his calves to hook around behind his knees. "Startled. Not in a bad way." Her hands come to his shoulders and up his neck, and then they're kissing, hungry and eager, as he slides into her in one smooth thrust.

It's impossible to forget Draco's in the room and watching; he's offering instructions and praise in terms Percy hasn't ever actually thought of as erotic before, and all it's doing is spurring him on--fuck, for instance, is crude, and he's never felt that having someone describe the state of his balls before was to be desired, but it's clear the monologue is both intended and functioning to improve the experience. He kisses Pansy again and lifts his head to see the wreck they've made of all that lipstick, then glances at Draco. "Perhaps you should come closer," he says. "Just to be sure you're getting the whole picture." He holds out a hand even though it throws him off balance, then sets it down again for leverage and returns his attention to Pansy.

The bed dips as Draco crawls up next to them, and Percy reaches again, looping his arm between Draco's legs and around the back of one thigh. He can feel the tension and the quiver of Draco's body as he wanks, as his knuckles and his balls brush Percy's arm every time his own increasingly irregular thrusts and Draco's increasingly urgent strokes coincide.

"You should touch yourself," he says to Pansy. "So we can see."

She shoves a hand between them agreeably, spreading herself open wider and gripping him with her thighs so he can't very well thrust so much as grind his pubic bone against her clit, and while this particular friction isn't very effective for him, it's clearly good for her, so he can't say he minds.

And when she pants and squeezes harder, face flushed and overheated, he concludes Draco doesn't mind either; he gives a shout and comes, splashing on Percy's side and back amid a whole new string of filthy description. Percy spares a quarter of a second to decide if he should, what, wipe up the mess on his own back? How ridiculous, and also, it occurs to him with a shudder that this evening is turning out to be very educational as to things Percy didn't know he liked.

A moment later, Draco's leaning over, one hand down on the other side of Percy for balance and the other sliding up between Percy's thighs to massage his balls while Pansy comes on his cock.

Percy can't figure out what to pay attention to, and while that's a little disconcerting because he's used to being very able to follow complicated information, he can't bring himself to care. As Pansy's thighs start to relax, he pushes forward, and Draco's busy fingers come up and brush against his arsehole just hard enough to matter. He comes with a shout of his own and tries not to completely collapse on Pansy as Draco more or less totally rests on him, murmuring something about how they must do this again.

--

"D'you think he'll come back?" Draco asks. He's naked and lounging again, wine glasses retrieved as Pansy clears away the wet spot and rearranges the blankets on the bed.

She goes to the mirror and grimaces at the smears of her makeup, then wipes away the lot of it and comes back to bed bare-faced, in nothing but the stockings she still hasn't taken off. "Maybe," she says, taking her glass and sipping before setting it on the nightstand. "I don't think we scared him off, at least, and the invitation was made, so there's no reason we can't be… friends."

"Definitely," Percy says from the doorway. He holds up a greasy paper bag. "I feel a bit overdressed, but I do come bearing food."

"Oh, well in that case," Pansy says. "That is. I didn't quite expect, um." She holds up her hand and a fuzzy bathrobe sails across the room to her, and she puts it on. "That's twice tonight you've surprised me," she says. She glances across at the mirror again and scowls.

"You look fine," Percy says. "And twice in one night is my personal record for surprises. I'll probably be completely boring from here on."

Draco frowns. "Wait. How did you get back in here without--"

"Your transport charm. Once I knew it was there…" Percy shrugs. "I have a thought or two about improving its security. So, shall we eat at the table, like friends, or in bed and see what happens?"