Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: thilia
From: A Wicked Watcher: thegildedmagpie

Title:A Galleon and a Good Time
Characters/Pairings: Percy/Ginny
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Included: Chan, incest, mild intoxication
Other Warnings: Smarminess. Did I mention chan? Very very chan? 1993 chan?
Word Count: 2398
Summary/Description: In which butterbeer is consumed, Christmas cards are read, and Ginny knows just how she'd like to spend a Christmas Eve with her brother.
Author's Notes: Sorry, I couldn't work in the sexy Santa outfit, but it pretty much wrote itself in one fevered sitting and will bear no costume-checks. I hope you enjoy it in any case!


Percy has just about had it with Family Traditions.

He is tempted to make an announcement to this effect, as he moodily polishes his spectacles on his bulky jumper – last year's, because the new one won't arrive until tomorrow morning. If only there were a few more years in the spread of Weasley children! If only Percy could escape the – well, say it, the stigma of his brothers making trouble for a few blessed years, obscuring Percy's own areas of competence by the association of theirs. It's detracting from his studies, he knows it is.

He also knows just how he'd spend Christmas Eve if he had the choice. Catching up on his studying, perhaps outlining that eleven inches on significant events in the history of numerology that's due at the beginning of term, wrapping his gift for dear lucky Penny who's an only child, and staying up a little late to celebrate the holiday. Instead, he's here in this corner of the common room being made to open his mouth for a noxious spoonful of Family Tradition.

He sits and listens to the droll singing Christmas card from Mum and Dad (it has a squeaky home-charmed tinniness to it that makes him wince) in which both parents have penned little personal messages to each of their children. Reading them aloud falls to Ginny this year, and she's looking frankly nightmarish in her too-small chunky pink knit if Percy does say so himself. It's the same idiot stuff of every Christmas card, too, ever since Bill and Charlie dragged him downstairs in first year to hear it. And now both of them send their own cards, though mercifully they're less musical and shorter.

“Dear Percy, hope everything is going well at school. Our love to Penelope. -Mum.” “Fred and George – I'd better not hear anything about that rubber chicken that went missing from the garage. Happy Christmas, Dad.” “Gin – I'll bet you miss the heat by the Pyramids now. Keep writing to me, Runt. Much love, Bill.” “Ron – We hope you're still enjoying Care of Magical Creatures! Give our love to Harry and Hermione and try to stay out of trouble. -Mum.” “F and G – Think you'll find your gift tomorrow useful. Yrs, Charlie.”

Percy makes a resolution to himself that the only message in his Christmas cards, ever, will be “We Wish You a Happy Holiday.”

“I really should get to bed,” he says, faking a tidy yawn behind his hand, when the reading is done.

“Oh, no you don't,” Fred and George chorus. Fred continues, “We stole popcorn balls from the kitchen.”

“I am not interested in stolen goods,” Percy says stiffly, which really should not provoke gales of laughter thank you very much.

“Where's your Christmas spirit?” George wants to know, helping himself to the largest.

“You're not leaving until you have one,” Fred concludes.

Once the popcorn balls (and a few bottles of butterbeer) are consumed, he tries again. “I really must –”

“Have another,” says Ginny, pressing a warm bottle into his hand.

“There's eleven inches –”

“You've got days and days,” Ron says, now tilting his chair on its back legs in a manner that he really ought to stop because it's giving Percy ideas of pushing him, like an unpleasant child, and Percy does not behave that way.

“Ginny,” Percy says authoritatively, after a few more interminable minutes, “that is quite enough butterbeer for you.”

“It's barely more than lemonade,” Ron defends her. Percy resists the urge to correct his sprawl and feels saintly and hard-used for resisting.

“No,” Ginny says quietly, “you're right,” and sets aside the bottle.

At least his sister is sensible.

“Percy,” she goes on, “would you come and help me with something? I know it's late, but I'd like to do it tonight – instead of waiting.”

“Don't encourage him, Gin,” Ron protests, but Fred throws a bit of sticky popcorn at his head.

“The lady's tired, Ron,” Fred says.

“Have a heart,” George adds.

“Have some chivalry,” Fred concludes.

“Of course, Ginny,” Percy says rather importantly. “I am happy to help you. Potions again, is it?”

“Potions,” she says. “Right. I'll come up to your room.”

She follows him up the stairs, and Percy consoles himself that at least the youngest Weasley has her priorities straight.

He opens the dormitory door for her and closes it behind her, and when he turns around she pushes him against it.

Ginny's a slight little thing, just beginning to gain her height, and she couldn't have pushed him if he'd been expecting it. “Ginny,” he starts to say forbiddingly, and then she wraps her arms around his neck and rises on her toes and pulls his head down and presses her mouth against his before he can speak any further.

This is a surprising development, which is surely why he finds himself holding still. That and desire not to hurt her. Yes. She's the smallest of them, after all.

Her lips are soft, and he can taste a little bit of some kind of balm on them, and feel its faint waxy traces. Also her tongue – her tongue. Yes. Is softly gliding along the part of his lips.

“Ginny, really,” he starts to say, and her tongue presses into his mouth, stifling his protest into “ngk!” She's hanging round his neck like a monkey so he finds himself staying hunched over, letting her kiss him. And the hands coming to rest, gently, on her shoulders are a gentle discouragement, surely. And then he finds himself returning it.

This is … really not usual. He should be resisting. And yet he isn't.

But Ginny feels warm and dainty and small like a little bird or a wild fox pressing desperately close to his jumper-covered chest, and his mouth moves with hers instinctively. It feels nothing like kissing Penny, whose kisses have restraint and decorum even when their tongues are meeting in her mouth; with Ginny it's wet and warm and rushed, hasty like meeting in the garden with the chaperone about to come round the corner of the path.

Also, it feels good. She must be good at it. She is … quite good at it. This does register dimly, though he is too distracted by her small, eager mouth to wonder about it.

Ginny's hand is caressing small circles on the back of his neck now, and when one arm slides down to wrap around his waist, he doesn't pull away. Not even when the other hand moves down, and suddenly, through layers of trousers and pants, the very beginning of what will be a considerable bulge in the fabric is being stroked by small, thin fingers.

“Ginny –” he begins, forcing himself to pull away at last (there's a small wet noise as they break apart that he refuses to think about).

“Percy,” says his twelve-year-old sister, “shut up.”

And she squeezes. And he does.

Her hand on his groin continues a light but not tentative massage. Little hands, slender hands. Her other fingers are curled into the back of his jumper. She's too confident about this, he thinks, a moment of brotherly protective feeling surging, but then he lapses back into just trying to untangle the sensations. He can't quite seem to focus his thoughts.

Even less so when she lets go (his hips move to follow her hand a little) and begins to pull her jumper over her head. Underneath is no shirt, no brassiere – does she even own one? Is she old enough to wear one? How would Percy know? “Ginny,” he protests again, and this is the third time he's said her name and the third time he's forgotten how the sentence is meant to end, as she shakes her hair loose again, and steps closer, holding onto the jumper for a moment before she lets it go to touch him again, one hand cupping his face and the other returning to undo his trouser placket. Helpless, he puts his hands back on her shoulders, and lets her continue to kiss him. Then his hand slides down, movement following curiosity without passing through any of the higher-thought parts of his brain, and his fingers find her left nipple.

It slowly peaks under his touch, turning to a hard little ball under velvety skin as he strokes it in short, soft movements. Ginny's spine arches and her head falls back, red hair streaming toward the floor – he can see the narrow, freckled column of her throat. His cock jumps as she reaches inside the spread V of fabric – it springs eagerly free as her fingers lift it and close around the base of it. Her breasts, Percy thinks without predicate. They're tiny and freckled and beautiful, with one blushing nipple tightly erect with lust and the other softer. He caresses the budding features with a hand that can completely cover each.

Ginny lets go and unbuttons her own trousers (a little too large, a little worn – which brother's were they?). “No,” she whispers, “no, Perce, don't stop,” and with unthinking acquiescence he lays his thumbs on her nipples and slides the pads over them, eliciting a little moan from his little sister as she pushes down her trousers to her knees.

“Let's go to your bed,” she tells him, “Bed, Percy, it's hard to reach you.” She steps out of her remaining clothes quickly and without shame. He can see her knickers still tangled in her trousers; they're lacy and pink, like her jumper, like what they're meant to hide.

And somehow he's coming with her to the four-poster by the door. She climbs onto the bed, momentarily granting him a view of a small, bare freckled arse and a dark, rosy slit beneath. He follows her onto the bed, cock bobbing before him. As she pulls the red velvet curtains tightly shut, he toes off his shoes (he doesn't usually do that; they wear out faster if one doesn't untie them properly, as he's often told Ron) and pushes his trousers the rest of the way down. He's gotten halfway to pulling off his jumper when Ginny tackles him.

Her weight is so slight, even as she straddles his hips, her bony knees spreading around him as her knee socks brush his thighs. Her hands fist in the green jumper he's still, for some reason, wearing. When the dampness between her thin legs touches the head of his cock, he moans out loud, an undignified, needy sound that replays in his head and makes him wince.

He reaches out to touch her breast again, and she takes his hand under her own and presses it there hard, biting her lip with an expression he can't interpret as she lowers herself onto his shaft. The other hand goes underneath herself, hiding her from view for a moment as she holds him in place a little too hard until the head abruptly pops into her. He can feel tight, moist heat steadily inching down over the velvety skin, and his breathing goes rough and animal as he finally feels her clench around the root of him. Then the guiding hand curls into the wool again and she begins to ride him, bouncing on her knees, making Percy writhe and gasp.

His cock moves in and out of her, and he can see every movement throughout her slight frame – every rise of his hips reflected in the slight wobble of her teacup breasts, every twitch of her slight frame sending a pulse to his cock – and eventually her hand returns to where it was when she put him in – he thinks for a moment she's going to take it out of her again but her fingers only spread the flushed lips around her red clit, and the longest finger begins to stroke there, rapid and desperate and arrhythmic. Part of Percy is vaguely shocked by seeing this, something too uncouth to even wonder about right here in front of his eyes. But that thought leads too swiftly to the thought of being naked with his sister at all, let alone having his cock inside her, so he shies from it.

When she cries out he thinks he's hurt her – she's so small, so fragile it seems inevitable, and that's a little exciting to think about so again he refuses to – but the way she grows tight as a fist around him and then collapses, rubbing her cheek against his jumper, dissuades him of thinking that was pain, as does the way she wails with pleasure when he too shudders and finishes, feeling his come spurt into his sister's body as they both lie panting, their fingers curled together, on his still-made bed.

***

It's breakfast time on a crisp Christmas morning.

Percy is cheerful.

Mind you, it's a manic sort of cheer. He was sour when he first woke up. But as the details of last night were lovingly revealed by his overprecise brain, he got to be … well, yes, cheerful.

“Pass the jam, Perce?” says Fred, and the older brother jumps.

“Jam?” says Percy. “Jam. Of course. Jam.” And he passes all three types.

“You and Ginny have fun with Potions?” George asks, and Percy squirms.

“Er, Potions?” he says. “Potions. Of course. Potions.”

Ginny saves him. “Yes,” she says and meets Percy's eyes. “Yes, he helped me a lot.” And she gives him a small, sincere nod.

Percy continues to squirm a little, invisibly. “Just don't spread around that I'm doing too much,” he says abruptly. “We wouldn't want anyone to think we're cheating. That would reflect badly on us all.”

“I won't spread anything around,” says Ginny significantly. “But no one would blame you if I did. We're a family, aren't we?”

Percy nods, looking a little relieved. “Of course we are.”

Under the table, Ginny and George silently link fingers. When they part Ginny's holding a Galleon. Folded tightly around the coin is a bit of parchment bearing the words, You win. “Potions” tonight with Fred and I?