A Most Memorable Christmas

Title: A Most Memorable Christmas
Author: ifyouweremine
Beta: N/A
Challenge responses: Category A - First Christmas Together, Category B - festive, cordial, marzipan, Category C - "The bitch hit me with a toaster!", Category D - ‘O Christmas Tree’
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Harry hadn’t expected to spend Christmas Eve bent over the back of his sofa, having his brains buggered out by Draco Malfoy, but that’s exactly what happened.
Warnings: Explicit sexual imagery
Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter. If I did, he’d be spread out on Draco’s bed in a green silk negligee. ^__~
Author’s Note: Written for The Sugar Cum Fairies Christmas Fic Challenge (http://www.livejournal.com/community/dracotops_harry/16441.html) at dracotops_harry.


Harry hadn’t expected to spend Christmas Eve bent over the back of his sofa, having his brains buggered out by Draco Malfoy, but that’s exactly what happened.

His sock-clad feet slid over cold tile with every thrust; his toes curled and his fingers clenched tightly into the ratty fabric as he moaned and gasped out-of-tune to the festive sounds of O Christmas Tree warbling lowly, through a thick hum of static, on the cheap Muggle radio he kept in the kitchen.

“Does that really need to be playing right now?” asked Draco, grimacing, his sweaty blond hair sticking to his forehead in dark clumps as he held onto Harry’s hips and pushed-pushed-pushed inside the other boy, rocking into him—Harry’s back arching into an inverted bow as his arse snapped back into the motion: wanting more, harder, deeper.

“I didn’t exactly—oh, sweet fucking God, yes, right there, right there!—I didn’t exactly know you were coming over,” panted Harry belligerently, foggy glasses sliding down his sweat-slippery nose.

Draco licked the little bit of perspiration off the back of Harry’s neck and nipped lightly, his teeth leaving a dull pink O imprinted prettily into the soft, pale skin.

“Damn it, Malfoy, that bloody hurt,” complained Harry, but he didn’t stop pressing back against him.

“What, did you think I wouldn’t stop by to do this?” asked Draco, ignoring Harry’s weak protest; one hand wrapping around the base of Harry’s unattended cock and moving upward in a slow, lazy drag—twisting his palm over the sensitive, leaking head as Harry made throaty, incomprehensible noises from deep in his chest.

“Did you think I wouldn’t do this?—or this?”

Every inquiry was accompanied by an excruciating pleasure, bringing Harry closer and closer but not-quite-there as his fingertips gently teased Harry’s heavy balls, dancing up his hip; as he thrust inside of him just right so the head of his cock prodded insistently against Harry’s prostate—sent thrilling spirals of pleasure thrumming and throbbing all through Harry’s body in desperate, tingling waves.

“If you keep doing that, I’m going to cum right now,” warned Harry breathlessly, his knees buckling for a split second and then locking straight as he regained control of his weirdly wobbling legs.

“If you do I’ll never forgive you,” hissed Draco, but ruined the warning with a hot lick along the shell of Harry’s ear—his breath a cool, ticklish whisper against the damp line there as he said, “Don’t you dare, Potter!”

Harry let go of his death-grip on the cushion to circle his cock with his hand, holding himself firmly just above the balls; keeping himself from losing control, from losing himself, too soon, too soon, too soon.

“You’re so fucking sexy when you do that,” growled Draco, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the side of Harry’s neck with an almost-vicious satisfaction, thinking, you’re mine, you’re mine as he moved inside him, cock sliding in-and-out-and-in Harry’s velvet-tight heat: the swelling satisfaction of the thought making his chest ache, expand—an unthinking, instinctual smile (feral and possessive) tugging up at the stern, angled corners of his mouth.

There was a knock at the door.

“Harry? Harry! Open up, it’s me,” called Hermione from the hallway. The lock rattled.

“Oh no,” said Harry, tensing.

“Fuck,” said Draco, horrified, but also responding to the way Harry’s body suddenly tightened all around him.

“What’s taking you so long? And when did you change the wards on your door?—it’s not letting me in!”

“I—I’ll be there in a while! Please go away, I’m not—” started Harry.

“What? Nonsense! Harry, what’s wrong?! Are you okay?!”

The lock rattled even louder (louder, louder, faster: a grating, ominous sound), then buckled open after a hastily-spoken spell, just as Harry shouted—“Hermione, no!”—the hand that had been firm around his cock (keeping him on the edge, keeping him from coming) flying out instinctively, futilely: a splayed disclaimer.

The door swung open and everything froze, those few shocked seconds stretching out endlessly: each image preserved with crystalline clarity and precision.

Hermione’s mouth fell open; the radio buzzed. The tacky wreath on Harry’s door wriggled in remembered impact.

Harry’s jingle-bell socks moved across the floor by millimeters, his arse filled with Draco’s cock and all three of them unable to move, to think, and Harry was orgasming, his arsehole clenching convulsively around Draco’s length as he bucked and cried out, his flushed face contorting—squeezing into itself—as he grabbed helplessly at the couch.

A box of Italian marzipan-candies dropped from Hermione’s hands and thumped heavily to the floor.

Draco came.

He couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t do anything but dig his fingers into Harry’s narrow waist and hold on, ride it out, he was too far gone, he—

Hermione screamed in alarm and grabbed at the nearest thing she could find, yanking it off the counter—the cord whipping out of its electrical socket with a flash of white-blue sparks—and flinging it at Draco close-range.

The toaster thunked into his leg painfully, startling him—sending him forward, further impaling Harry on his throbbing cock as he cursed and shot his seed inside the smaller boy in stringy, thick-hot streams.

“Get off of him, you rapist!” shouted Hermione shrilly, searching for another heavy object to assault him with.

Draco wrenched himself away quickly, his slick cock going limp as he left Harry’s body.

Harry remained slung over the back of the sofa, the breath knocked out of him.

His puckered pink arsehole was utterly exposed—slightly red and swollen from use, leaking and wet with Draco’s white cum gleaming on his inner thighs: Christmas colors. Appropriate.

When he managed to pull himself up and get turned around, his front was smeared with his own release; his flat, smooth abdomen sticky with the stuff.

He reeked of brazen, salty sweat and sex; well-fucked. He was a study in debauchery: bruised, used, cum all over him, his hair messy and falling in his face—the pattern of the sofa-fabric indented in his fingertips, he’d been gripping so hard, and an agitated pink line running blurrily across his stomach from being pressed into couch’s thinly-padded back support frame; he had never looked more enticing, or more unreachable.

He radiated tension, green eyes glazed and bright and flicking back-and-forth between his friend and his lover in stunned dismay, and then—

“Hermione, wait!” shouted Harry as she snatched up a snow-globe, winding it back for a pitch.

“Call your Mudblood off me!” shouted Draco, ducking away.

“Don’t call her that!” shouted Harry back as Hermione fumbled for the clay candy bowl on the coffee table.

“Rapist!” yelled Hermione. “Pervert!”

By this time the bowl was in her hand, and she was flinging it, sending chocolates spiraling through the air—a swirling arc of sugar scattering to the floor as Draco threw himself to the side, just barely avoiding a hit to the head.

“Stop! Stop!” yelled Harry, waving his arms, standing in front of his friend before she could find anything else to lob at the blond.

“Hermione, this is not what it looks like—” he began.

“Move out of the way, Harry, I’m defending you!” said Hermione, having acquired a throw-pillow she was very seriously contemplating stuffing down Malfoy’s throat.

“Hermione, he’s my boyfriend!” blurted Harry, forming the words even before he knew what it was he was going to say.

“What?” asked Hermione.

“What?” asked Draco.

“He’s my boyfriend,” repeated Harry, rolling the strange words around in his mouth.

Hermione slowly put down the throw-pillow.

“But when—?” she started. “How—?”

She noticed Harry’s nudity and blushed to the roots of her hair, mortified; Harry did the same, ducking behind the couch with a strangled sound and hastily pulling on the first clothes he saw, bringing the other crumpled shirt and trousers to Draco (who had ducked into the kitchen) when the other boy hissed “A little help, here!”

Harry had put on the wrong top—a rich, green turtleneck a little too big on him, its excess making him look young and small, his eyes suddenly much more shockingly, vividly green than Hermione had ever realized.

“Damn it,” muttered Draco, when he was forced to wear Harry’s red dress-shirt. It was small and fit closer than he liked, pulling at his broad shoulders and the muscles of his chest, leaving little to the imagination.

“I think you—I think you need to explain this to me, Harry,” said Hermione, very carefully, as Draco got dressed.

Harry sunk down into a seat on the couch, across from Hermione—who had chosen to sit in the armchair, he noticed, pointedly not mentioning his clothes or the fact that she’d just watched him get shagged right over the very piece of furniture he was sitting on now, trying to melt into the cushions in his embarrassment.

“So you two are—are dating?” she started, her lingering disbelief thick and clumsy on her tongue, painting her face.

“…Er…yeah, I guess you could say that…” began Harry.

“More like I’ve been shagging him through the walls for six months, but you can call it whatever you like,” said Draco, zipping up his trousers and walking out of the kitchen, going behind the sofa to grab his shoes.

Hermione’s face went a curious shade of bright lobster-red.

“Draco, stop it,” hissed Harry. What was he doing?! Things were complicated enough as it was—he was just making them worse.

“Why should I?” asked Draco.

“Because she’s my friend! The least you could do is be cordial!”

“The bitch hit me with a toaster!”

“She was trying to defend me! We owe her an explanation, at the very least!”

“What? We don’t owe her anything. We don’t need her blessing—it’s none of her business!” replied Draco indignantly, sitting down next to Harry and forcefully tugging on his shoes.

“It is my business when my friend’s involved!” interjected Hermione from around her blush, her anger getting the better of her embarrassment.

“You Gryffindors are all the same—making a big deal out of nothing,” stated Draco disdainfully, tying his laces perhaps more roughly than was strictly necessary. “Harry’s a grown man—he can decide for himself who he lets into his bed.”

“Even if it’s not you?” retorted Hermione smartly.

“Er, guys—” started Harry.

“It will always be me, and only me,” shot Draco, his gray glare briefly startling her with its intensity.

“And just how can you be so sure of yourself, Malfoy?” she asked.

“Guys—” tried Harry again.

“Because he’s mine,” said Draco.

“He’s—”

“Guys! I’m right here! Could you stop talking about me like I’m not in the room?!” burst Harry.

There was an awkward pause.

“Do…do you love him?” asked Hermione, very quietly, breaking the strained silence.

Harry wasn’t sure who she was asking.

“Er—” said Harry.

“I don’t have to take this,” snarled Draco. “I’m leaving.”

He jerked to his feet before Harry had processed what he’d said; he walked quickly to the door, snatching his wand from the floor and stalking out of the flat as Harry jumped to his feet and called after him.

“Hermione, I—I’ll just be a minute—” he said distractedly, rushing out behind the other man.

“Harry, your shoes!” protested Hermione.

“No time!” called Harry as he dashed out the door. His building had anti-Apparition wards in place; Draco would have to leave the building before he could Apparate away.

“You’ll catch cold!” yelled Hermione behind him, but he was already in the hallway, and her warning was ignored.

When Harry reached the building entrance on the first floor, Draco was already outside, his long-legged stride eating up the distance to the edge of the wards as Harry ran after him.

“Malfoy!” shouted Harry, glad for the privacy charm around the building. “Malfoy! Draco!”

Draco kept walking, unwilling to acknowledge him.

Harry did the only thing he could think of. He scooped up a handful of the thick, ice-crunchy snow and threw it right at the back of Draco’s head.

The cold projectile hit its target and splattered wetly against the fine blonde hair, its watery chilliness oozing down the back of Draco’s neck, past his collar and under his shirt.

Draco stopped, very deliberately, and turned on his heel, expression livid.

“Did you just throw snow at me, Potter?” he asked dangerously.

“You’re damn right I did!” responded Harry, having worked up a good deal of anger himself.

Draco shoved his wand in his pocket and grabbed a handful of snow—crushing the stuff into a crude oval in his palm—and threw the whole thing right back at Harry, catching the Gryffindor with it in the chest.

Harry’s jaw dropped open. He’d only meant to stop him—he hadn’t expected that Draco would throw anything back.

“There,” said Draco. “Now we’re even.” He sounded smug

“You—you! You’re insufferable!” said Harry, bending to pick up more, and Draco darted to the side and scooped up some more as well.

Harry’s snowball caught Draco on the shoulder and Draco’s caught him on the hip, and then both boys were scrambling around for cover, each hurling great round clumps of frigid snow at the other and darting place-to-place, determinedly dodging the whizzing white missiles.

“You were totally out-of-line up there, just so you know!” said Harry, aiming a snowball at the taller man’s chest but only grazing his arm as he lurched sharply to the left.

“Me? Me? I was out-of-line? She was the one interrogating us!”

He threw another packed ball of ice right at the side of Harry’s pretty, aggravating face, but it missed. Maybe he wanted it to miss.

“She wasn’t interrogating!” yelled Harry. “She was—she was just trying to see if you were good for me! That’s what friends do!”

He skittered away from the flying ball of snow determined to plaster itself to his leg.

“And am I good for you?” asked Draco, swerving out of the way of another throw.

“I—”

“Harry, are you in your socks?” interrupted Draco, flabbergasted; dropping his ready snowball to the trampled ground.

“And what if I am?” retorted Harry defiantly, deciding, for the moment, to maintain this short cease-fire.

“Then you’re an idiot! You’re going to get sick. Go inside!” said Draco.

“Don’t order me around—I’m not a child!” responded Harry, outraged.

“Then stop acting like one!”

“I’m not acting like one!”

They were getting closer and closer to one another, almost nose-to-nose.

“Oh, no? Then why did you run out here in your socks and throw snow at me?” asked Draco.

“Because I think I might love you, and you wouldn’t have turned around if I hadn’t!” shouted Harry, without meaning to, and he didn’t have time to hate himself for saying it, because then Draco’s hands were grabbing his head—his long fingers threading through Harry’s wild hair—and Draco was kissing him, both of them shivering and wet—Harry was surprised his teeth weren’t chattering, he felt frozen through—and Harry couldn’t believe he’d just said that, couldn’t believe this was even happening, it was too much to take in—and then Draco’s tongue was inside his mouth and his arms were reverent around his waist, and Harry’s hands held tightly onto Draco’s shoulders, every nerve inside his body trying to break free from him all at once in this one perfect instant where they met and melded into something new, something better, and Harry didn’t ever want it to end—Harry stopped thinking and let himself have this, keep this, because he needed it, he needed it: they both did.

“Do—do you love—” started Harry when they finally had to breathe, but Draco kissed him before he could finish, so carefully soft and tender that anything more would be too much, anything more might break them.

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here,” he said, which meant more to Harry than he could possibly say.

“Good,” breathed Harry, his head tilting up and his hands tangling in Draco’s shirt, lips meeting lips.