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This Christmas, I Give You My Everything

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“This how you usually spend Christmas Eve, Potter?” Malfoy asks, raising his voice over the music as he hands Harry his pint.

Harry snorts, shaking his head as he takes a long gulp. “No, I usually stay over at Ron’s parents’; we all do,” he replies, squinting slightly as the strobe lights hit them in the face for a moment before sweeping in a wide arc over the club.

“So why not this year, then?” Malfoy asks him, sipping on his scotch. “Why aren’t you holed-up in ginger-central?”

Harry doesn’t want to admit that it’s because year after year there are always more kids, more engaged, if not married couples, more demands for promises that the next year, Harry would be there with his own someone special.

Harry shrugs. “Felt like going out tonight,” he says lightly. “Besides, I’ll be there most of tomorrow anyway. What about you? Did you have to ditch plans to come here with me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Golden Boy,” Malfoy laughs, “It was either here with you, or Pansy’s outrageously cheery Christmas Eve party, and it’s been several years since I’ve actually looked forward to celebrating Christmas.”

“How come?”

One shoulder is lifted in an elegant shrug as Malfoy lifts his tumbler for another sip. “Everyone’s always asking you to bring somebody, or to find somebody or...” he trails off, rolling his eyes, not noticing Harry's surprised stare, “It doesn’t feel much like a party after a point when they’re all asking you if there’s someone worth mentioning in your life and you’re wondering how to tell them that the bloke you slept with last night not only left while you were still asleep but also stole all your soap.”

Harry almost spits out his beer as he bursts out laughing. “Did that actually happen to you?!” he asks incredulously, still laughing loudly. “Did you wake up to find all your soap gone?!”

Malfoy grins reluctantly, looking at the dancing, twirling, gyrating hundreds in the club, the multicoloured lights making his pale eyes sparkle pink-blue-purple-green for a second. “No,” he admits, “but it happened to someone I know.”

“’s a good story, though,” Harry chuckles, “You should tell it to people tomorrow.”

“Yeah, I’m just going to be at home tomorrow.”

Harry blinks. “What? Why?”

Malfoy shrugs again. “It’s barely been eight months since Mother died,” he says lightly, “Pansy and Blaise are going to his parents’ and I don’t much like his new step-father – he’s younger than us and talks of nothing but Quidditch and Mrs. Zabini's tits. Father will expect me to come visit, of course, but I’d rather spend the day by myself at home than at bloody Azkaban.”

“Come to the Burrow,” Harry says automatically. “Ron invites you every year anyway, you’ve yet to make an appearance. Mrs. Weasley would be really pleased.”

Malfoy scoffs, throwing Harry a look, his glossy hair sliding over his forehead and onto his eyes. “Weasley just invites me to be polite, Potter,” he says, absently swirling his scotch around the glass, long, agile fingers stiff as he holds the tumbler by the rim. “He invites half the department, and the only reason he bothers with me is because I’m your partner and share an office with you, and he thinks I’d be hurt if he doesn’t extend the same invitation that he comes and yells into your face to me too.”

“’d be nice if you came,” Harry says earnestly.

“Don’t worry about it, Potter,” Malfoy smirks, tossing the rest of his drink back and setting it on the bar they’re leaning up against, “Tell me, d’you ever dance at these places, or d’you just watch other people dance and then go home?”

“I don’t dance,” Harry informs him. “Correction: I can’t dance.”

“Have you ever tried?”

“I don’t have to try,” Harry snorts, “I can’t swim either but that doesn’t mean I’m going to jump into the Thames and try in case I’ve somehow innately known how to all along."

Malfoy stares thoughtfully at him. “I’m sure you’d dance if it were with someone you actually fancied.”

“What if I just can’t?!”

“I get the feeling you’d do okay if you tried,” Malfoy says simply.

“And why’s that?”

“Because I also get the feeling that you’re fantastic in bed,” Malfoy says flatly.

Harry’s soft splutter is lost in the loud, sultry thump thump thump that fills the club. “And how, pray, are those two related?”

“I don’t actually know,” Malfoy looks thoughtful, “I’ve wondered too, actually, but people always say that dancing is like sex and that if you’re good at one you’re automatically good at the other as well.”

Harry laughs, cheeks still pink. “That’s fucking ridiculous,” he says, grinning. “Because while I’m a fucking disgrace on the dance floor, I'm gr—” He breaks off on a strange, gulping sound, cheeks going from pink to crimson as he clamps his mouth shut and takes a huge swig of beer.

Malfoy is vibrating with gleefully wicked laughter beside him. “Yeees?” he sings. “Do finish that statement.”

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

“What; this is something that you ought to be shouting from the rooftops, Potter,” Malfoy says, a tad impatiently. “You don’t hide something like that. So, how good are you anyway?”

“You’re not serious,” Harry can feel reluctant, mortified laughter bubbling up inside him, “I’m not going to talk to you about how I’m in bed, Malfoy!”

“And why not?” Malfoy asks calmly, one eyebrow hooking up in his trademark insouciance. When Harry just chuckles and shakes his head, Malfoy goes on, “See now, there are a number of possible reasons why you don’t want to tell me.” When Harry just sighs at him with patient expectance he continues, “One, you’re lying, and you’re actually above and beyond terrible in bed.”

“Oh, you got me there,” Harry says solemnly.

“Two, you’re this vanilla prude who’s probably only had sex once  in his life, and that too with an ardent devotee who wasted no time in gushing about how spectacular you were.”

Harry slants him a look, gaze amused as he takes in Malfoy’s wide, mischievously twinkling grey eyes, his sharp nose still slightly pink from the cold outside, to match his cheeks, flushed with playful excitement. Slowly Harry says, “I’m not a vanilla prude.”

Malfoy’s eyes widen in slight shock before narrowing slightly. “Or three,” he shifts minutely closer to Harry, looking around casually as he says, in a low, husky murmur, “You’re worried that you might, oh, I don’t know, get me all hot and randy for you if you talk about it.”

Harry’s hand is so unsteady suddenly that he has to hurriedly place his pint on the bar lest he drop it. Malfoy is shaking again, eyes scrunched up with mirth, the spinning shafts of lights from overhead once again reflected in his eyes, and glancing off his satiny hair.

“Careful, Malfoy,” Harry finally manages, “You don’t want to be asking for trouble now, do you?”

“Oh, but I ask for so little,” Malfoy murmurs, turning his head to regard Harry steadily. “It’s the holidays, Potter, where’s your generosity of spirit?”

“In my pants, starting to get pretty generous,” Harry shoots back blandly, resting one elbow on the bar as he surveys the room.

Malfoy’s eyes are gleaming now, and slowly, almost involuntarily, he bites his lip and lets his gaze rake down over him. “Well, since I’m asking so nicely...?” Malfoy trails off, their gazes back on the room.

“You are, aren’t you,” Harry agrees, low and hot. “Do you beg as nicely too?”

Malfoy’s quick, sharp inhale is only audible to Harry and that too because of their proximity, and he laughs as Malfoy smacks him loosely on the shoulder. “Bastard.”

Harry smirks, wide and smug. “I’m not a vanilla prude,” he repeats simply.

“If only there were a way to prove it,” Malfoy sighs, “I might’ve even believed you.”

“You know, Malfoy,” Harry says, tone easy and playful, eyes dark with promise, “one of these days you’re going to stop getting away with saying things like that.”

“Whatever do you mean, Potter?” Malfoy isn’t looking at him, lounging complacently, eyes half-lidded as he watches the dancers.

“I mean that regulations or no regulations, the next time you give me a boner, I will bend you over the nearest surface and fuck your brains out your ears.”

Harry follows his calm statement up with a leisurely sip of beer while Malfoy slowly turns to regard him heatedly in shocked silence.

After a solid two minutes, during which they just stare around quietly, hearts pounding, hips and shoulders brushing, Malfoy asks softly, “Is that why you’ve never responded before? Regulations?”

“You’re a hell of a partner,” Harry admits, just as softly. “We’re not known as the best team that the DMLE has for nothing.”

“...Right,” Malfoy says after a moment. “And that’s... Right, we can’t risk that.”

“We could,” Harry says hoarsely, gulping before adding, “But not for a quick fuck that we’d likely then regret for the rest of our lives.” When Malfoy doesn’t reply he goes on, “Risks can be taken, but for something meaningful, Malfoy.”

“Because...we’re not ever likely to share something meaningful?” Malfoy’s tone is like that of a question, but he says it flatly, following it up with a derisive huff. “Right,” he says again, “So, since you don’t like to dance or whatever, you won’t mind if I do? Only, I’m two drinks down and I don’t want to waste this brilliant buzz I’ve got going on.” Without waiting for Harry to answer, Malfoy pushes off the bar, not looking behind as he disappears into the crowd.

Harry quickly shifts to his left and cranes his neck to look over the crowd, spotting Malfoy in about three seconds; his hair appears almost white in the way it lights up under each colour of the pulsing lights, his long, pale form standing out like a beam of light of its own.

He’s already found someone to dance with, and Harry grips his bottle too tight as he watches the way the man immediately pulls Malfoy closer, his hands skating over Malfoy’s hips, thumbs slipping under the waistband of his leather trousers as he grabs his arse and pulls their groins flush.

Swallowing hard once more, Harry looks away, mind whirring, unable to blink away the expression on Malfoy’s face just before he’d walked off – the look of someone who’d dared to hope after ages of deliberation, only to have their hopes immediately crushed.

More than five years Malfoy and he have been partners, going from barely able to stand each other at twenty-two, to whatever they are now at nearly twenty-eight. Ron is still his best friend, but at his lowest, it’s Malfoy Harry finds himself seeking out. Ron is still his favourite drinking buddy, but when he wants to avoid a Burrow full of loving, genuinely caring Weasleys, it’s Malfoy he Floos.

It’s Malfoy he buys a croissant for every single damn day without fail on his way to work because the prat is too lazy to make himself breakfast, and it’s Malfoy who makes all his numerous mugs of tea that Harry consumes daily. It’s Malfoy who helps him pick out gifts for Hermione and Molly and Ginny for any and every occasion, and it’s Malfoy’s birthday and Christmas gifts that Harry spends most money on every year.

He’s spent five years almost constantly in Malfoy’s presence, and Harry’s at a place where he knows he’d do anything for Malfoy just like he would for Ron or Hermione. When he’d realised a couple of years ago, after inadvertently overhearing Malfoy describe, in vivid detail, a night he’d spent with a date to Pansy (and then smashing his favourite mug), that Malfoy may just mean more to him than just a close colleague, he’d safely tucked it away well out of reach, not brave enough to ever let it be known, or even hinted at.

Malfoy flirts, Harry flirts back, they kick some serious arse out there as partners, and Harry indulges in the occasional wank to memories of Malfoy’s luscious arse that he gets frequent glimpses of in the locker room. They never in any way address that spark between them that they’re both clearly aware of, and keep the details of their dating lives to themselves. Harry stays away from the flirty clerk on Level Three who’d gotten three sheets to the wind and snogged him at a Ministry event before Malfoy clocked him in the face, and Malfoy never goes down to the canteen lest he runs into the slightly lascivious lunch-wizard whom Harry had once furtively hit with a Stinging Hex for touching Draco’s hair.

He can hardly stand it now, to watch Malfoy grind against that bloke with the earring, turning around in his arms to press back into him and rock his arse against his groin, arms in the air as the man brazenly yanks Malfoy’s sheer, cream shirt out of his trousers and shoves his hand up inside, stroking his stomach and chest.

Harry can’t get rid of the feeling that Malfoy knows Harry is watching him – it’s probably because he’s now so attuned to Malfoy that he can tell with one glance approximately how many hours of sleep he’s had, whether he’s excited about or irritated with a case that they’re being briefed on, when he’s received a letter from his father, and lately, when he’s missing his mum too much. Malfoy doesn’t even glance his way but Harry just knows that Malfoy is aware of being watched by him.

Tossing his head from side to side in time with the beat, Malfoy sways his hips, eyes lightly closed. Undulating against the stranger, Malfoy slowly sinks onto his haunches, pushing his arse out against the man as he smoothly rises back up, before immediately being dragged backwards, even closer, so the man can nose at Malfoy’s sweat-shiny throat.

Harry accidentally snaps the thin neck of his bottle and looks down in surprise before lazily placing the pieces aside and pushing his way into the surging, wildly moving crowd. It’s hot in here, despite the time of the year, and the press of so many bodies as well as the rising fury inside him, has Harry breaking out into an instant sweat.

He slaps a hand down onto the man’s shoulder, squeezing hard enough for him to flinch in pain as he turns to scowl at Harry. “Fuck off,” Harry says mildly, but there must have been something in his expression that’s not entirely mild because without even blinking, the man instantly raises both hands in capitulation and backs away, disappearing into the crowd.

Malfoy stares at him in silence, hands on his hips, slightly out of breath as he watches Harry coolly. When Harry then steps forward and yanks Malfoy to himself, his breath huffs out in a surprised burst across Harry’s face, though he still doesn’t say anything.

His eyebrows slide up slowly as Harry starts to grind them together, barely doing more than rubbing their half-hard cocks together through their clothes. Still, he brings his arms up to rest on Harry’s shoulders and starts to move in time with the music again, their gazes saying firmly locked, their cocks going completely hard within seconds.

“That guy actually danced with me, you know” Malfoy drawls after a few more seconds, “What exactly was the point of driving him away if you didn’t intend to replace him properly?”

“I didn’t like it,” Harry says shortly.

“The dancing?”

“No, the dancing was great.”

“You were watching?”

“Piss off, you little shit, as if you didn’t know that already.”

“I knew,” Malfoy accepts simply. Neither of them says anything, now close enough that their noses bump with every other move, and Harry can smell the scotch on Malfoy’s breath.

“I think you misunderstood me earlier,” Harry says suddenly, his hands splayed against Malfoy’s back.


“I didn’t mean to imply that I wouldn’t risk it for you.”

Scoffing, “I see. Because you would? Risk it for me, I mean?”

Harry’s reply comes out a growl, his arms tightening around Malfoy. “I’d risk everything for you and you bloody well know it.”

Malfoy’s movements are no more than a light gyration against Harry, but at Harry’s words, he goes still, standing there with his elbows on Harry’s shoulders, expression wary and closed off.

After a moment, he starts moving again, lifting his arms in the air so his shirttails ride up, twisting around in Harry’s grip to press his back to Harry’s chest, gasping softly as Harry’s erection presses into the crease of his arse through denim and leather.

“Once we board that ship – if we were to decide to—” Harry murmurs against Malfoy’s flushed cheek, “there’s no getting off for me, Malfoy, not ever.”

“Are you implying that I’d want off?” Malfoy asks, breathless and sharp. “Are you saying you’re the only one who knows how to commit?”

“I’m saying, I don’t know where you stand,” Harry hisses, whipping him around by the hips and lifting one of Malfoy’s long thighs up to curl around his waist. “I’m saying once I decide you’re mine, there’s no way I’m letting you go, so if you ending up wanting to leave, we’ll have a problem.”

Malfoy pants softly at him for a moment, eyes boring into Harry’s, before slowly dipping backwards, fingers curled around the lapels of Harry's leather jacket , long neck straining as he wiggles against Harry, before he fluidly rises back up, bringing his arms around Harry’s neck, lips brushing Harry’s ear as he whispers, “I’ll be counting on you not to let me go, Potter.”

Harry pulls back just long enough to cup the back of Malfoy’s head and bring their mouths together.

He’s had months, years to imagine what this’d be like – how he’d push his tongue into that pink, snarky mouth and kiss Malfoy until he’s out of breath and gasping; how he’d hold his head in place and suck on his lips, how he’d hold Malfoy as close as physically possible.

The real thing is something he couldn’t have successfully imagined even if he’d had a few more decades to.

For one long, startlingly vivid moment, he feels as though Malfoy and he are one single entity. They’re fused so tightly together, wound so close, Malfoy’s mouth fused so hard against his – for that brilliant moment, Harry is filled with a dazzling burst of happiness because surely Malfoy and he will never be apart now, not ever.

Then the heavy beat, the blinding flashes of light, the jostle of the cavorting people around them, the soft, nearly inaudible whimpers Malfoy is emitting – they’re all rushing to the forefront and Harry manages to gather enough awareness to realise with a rough groan that he’s currently in the midst of the literal best kiss of his life.

Malfoy’s got him by the hair, both hands fisted in Harry’s mane, and he’s kissing Harry with the same fervent desperation that Harry’s insides are bubbling with. He still has a leg around Harry’s waist, and he’s grinding their cocks together almost unconsciously as he shoves and slides his tongue against Harry’s, nipping and biting ruthlessly at Harry’s mouth.

He gasps when Harry tightens his arms around him, exhaling shakily into the kiss as it deepens, their mouth moving in a wet, slick dance as they stand perfectly still under the lights and music.

Harry doesn’t know how long it’s been when they finally pull apart, panting roughly, Malfoy’s fingers combing slowly across his scalp, Harry’s hands gentle on Malfoy’s arse.

“I’m serious, I won’t let go,” Harry’s warns.

“I’m appropriately appalled,” Draco murmurs, nuzzling at his nose. “Can we go have sex now?”


They make it to Harry’s bike in the narrow, pitch dark alley between the club and the greasy spoon next door before Harry is on Malfoy again. It reeks in the cramped, damp space, the overflowing skip a few yards away giving off the stench of rotting garbage and possibly a dead rat. Christmas lights twinkle merrily over the tall fence and they can hear faint strains of carols playing on the radio inside the diner. It’s snowed lightly, there’s a thin layer underfoot that their boots crunch on, but Harry’s hands are hot where they touch Malfoy.

He presses Malfoy against the bike, lapping just under his jaw, leaving uneven, mottled bruises as he sucks ruthlessly into the bites he gives him. Malfoy leans into Harry, swaying unsteadily on his feet from the force of Harry’s assault.

“W-wait,” Malfoy whispers, “Wait, Potter, shit, give me a second so I can Disapparate us, Merlin—”

“What— no,” Harry sucks at his earlobe, soft and pink, “Can’t leave my bike here—”

“Just pick up the bike tomorrow, let’s go now,” Draco snaps impatiently even as he tugs Harry closer, pushing his hands into Harry’s hair and tipping his head back, his breath clouding in bright white puffs.

“If you’re that impatient,” Harry pulls back and spins him around so quickly that Malfoy nearly completely loses balance before falling over the bike and bracing his hands against the freezing wall for support, “I could just fuck you right here.”

“Oh, that’s classy,” Malfoy snaps, but his breath hitches as Harry pushes his slightly rumpled shirt higher up his back and presses his mouth to the dip of his spine, rubbing his erection in slow circles over his arse. “I’ve always fantasised about being fucked by you in an alleyway that smells like something severely flatulent recently died in it. Isn’t the first time you fuck in a relationship supposed to be romantic as all hell or something?” He shivers from a combination of the cold and Harry’s wet mouth against his skin.

“You want romance, I’ll buy you bloody roses,” Harry murmurs, licking his way up Malfoy’s back, smelling the sweetness of expensive soap under the tang of his sweat.

There’s a sudden flurry of activity at the streetlamp-lit end of the alley where a small group of people exit the club, laughing and jostling one another, merrily drunk, as they stumble and sway over to the greasy spoon for bacon butties and chips. They hear the bell above the door chime as they enter the diner, the carols suddenly sounding louder, before the door shuts and there are just vague drifts of it over the sounds of their breathing again.

Malfoy had frozen still as the group passed by the alley, twitching involuntarily as Harry’s mouth had moved lower and lower until he was nibbling over his tailbone, shivering getting progressively more vigorous. Now, however, he’s gasping out sharp little cries, because Harry has slipped his hands under him and is relentlessly rolling his tightly beaded nipples between forefinger and thumb, mouthing at the dip above his arse crack.

“This is—we’re just asking for an embarrassing situation,” Malfoy gasps when Harry’s hands slide down and begin fumbling with Malfoy’s flies, peeling the clingy leather down the curve of his naked arse. “Potter.”

“I knew you weren’t wearing pants under this,” Harry murmurs, grabbing the milky white globes of Malfoy’s bum and kneading two handfuls of the soft, supple flesh. “These trousers are too bloody tight, and you’re never wearing them in public again unless I’m with you.”

“Oh, because I’m the kind that’s likely to listen,” Malfoy scoffs, even as he cants his hips higher, lifting his bum eagerly.

Grabbing him by the waist, Harry lifts him so that he’s resting on the bike, balancing on his belly upon the seat, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the ground before lifting. “Potter, what are you—?!”

Harry spanks him, smacking his palm down over his arse so hard that the cheek wobbles deliciously and the crack of the strike resonates around the confined space they’re in. “Fuck!” Malfoy groans, drawing the word out as his arse instantly blooms with a scarlet hand print. “Who even are you right now?!”

Not a vanilla prude,” Harry reminds him, both hands covering his arse in a reverent squeeze, inadvertently humping into the front of his jeans. His fingers are too tight, too insistent, as he works Malfoy’s arse cheeks open, prising them wide apart and peering in the semi-darkness at the little pink bud that winks up at him. “Believe me now?” he murmurs, pulse speeding up even further just at the sight of that quivering, wrinkled little divot, pushing Malfoy’s thighs further apart and stepping between them, hunching over Malfoy.

Malfoy scoffs again. “Wouldn’t a bed and some proper lighting make this experience more worthwhile?!” he whines, jerking as Harry thumbs at his hole, panting as he fights to keep from sagging over the side of the bike. “Fuck, Potter, I’m going to land up face first in this ditch and this whole thing would’ve been moot because I’ll fucking kill you if—”

But Harry’s barely listening; he’s eased Malfoy’s arsehole open with both thumbs, nosed his way down the crack, and shoved his tongue into the waiting opening as far down as he can get it.

Malfoy rears up in shock, his hoarse gasp loud in the darkness, his nails raking down the naked brick wall in front of them as he scrabbles. Harry’s already fucking him steadily with his tongue, thrusting it in and out indelicately, and for so long, that by the time he pauses to give his aching jaw some respite, Malfoy’s cock has already started to leak onto the seat. Harry’s own cock, meanwhile, is steadily getting more and more painful as he keeps it confined as tightly as it is, while it’s as hard as it is.

“Fuck,” Malfoy wheezes, “Potter, fuck.” He’s wiggling and rutting, one foot now and then kicking at the ground as he slips down a little before being unceremoniously hauled higher by Harry.

Tilting his head, Harry latches his mouth over the wet hole, sucking with loud, crude slurps, mumbling unintelligibly into Malfoy’s arse as he shoves his tongue back in, joggling and bobbing his head as he goes back to fucking him with it. Malfoy moans throatily, loudly, seemingly unaware of himself as he pinches shut around Harry’s tongue.

Another bunch of people exit the club, this time pausing right at the mouth of the alley, lighting up cigarettes and talking loudly among themselves. Harry doesn’t even bother pausing in his act of taking Malfoy apart completely as Malfoy bites down into one arm to stifle his moans, shuddering under Harry’s ruthless mouth and groping hands.

Malfoy jerks wildly as Harry bites down onto the flimsy skin of his rim and reaches back to shove desperately at his head, yanking at his hair and pushing at his face while simultaneously lifting his arse higher, muffled whimpers of pleasure sounding every now and then.

He waits until the group has gone back into the club before straightening up, grinning at the gritted cusses that immediately float up from where Malfoy’s head is hanging over the side of the bike. “You’re shaking, you can’t even try to convince me that it wasn’t good,” Harry says blandly, massaging Malfoy’s sloppy arsehole with the tips of two fingers.

“It’s freezing cold, you utter shit,” Malfoy hisses, bracing his palms against the seat and lifting up slightly. “That’s why I’m shaking—” Harry slaps his arse again, this time on the other cheek, “—fuck, Potter!”

“Here, in this dirty, stinky alley?” Harry asks innocently, still rubbing away at Malfoy’s fluttering rim. “Okay,” he says, before Malfoy can answer him, pushing the two fingers into him matter-of-factly, twisting them around until he feels the throbbing little nub of his prostate. “Still cold?” Harry asks sweetly as Malfoy lets out a wail, his spine bowing inwards.

“Potter, please, oh fuck, oh fuck—”

“Going to fuck you into next year, Malfoy,” Harry promises, “Going to fuck you so hard, you’ll likely not be able to sit for a fucking week—”

“That’s so fucking sweet,” Malfoy says weakly, rutting his cock frantically into the seat. “You’re so bloody sappy, Potter, it’s wonderful—”

Harry pulls his fingers out to the tip, adds a third and fucks them back in hard enough to make Malfoy lose all sense of himself and scream bloody murder, the alleyway ringing with it. “Romance and sap is for when you’re too old and arthritic to do anything but cuddle and talk about your feelings, Malfoy.” Harry leans over and mouths around his fingers, licking at the skin stretched taut and thin around his knuckles. “Besides, you’ve always ditched the sappy ones you’ve dated in the past – Parkinson talks, you know?”

Malfoy is trembling now, nails digging into the soft leather of the seat as he fucks himself on Harry’s fingers. “Th-that bint never could hold her d-drink.”

“Who said she was drunk?” Harry chuckles, pulling his fingers out to a mournful cry from Malfoy, unbuckling his belt and pulling his flies open to gingerly pry out his poor, neglected cock, hissing as he eases the foreskin down and gives the shaft a swift little stroke.

Without much ado, he lines up, shoves into Malfoy and immediately starts an wild, unsparing pounding, rocking the bike dangerously under them as he ploughs over and over and over into the scorching clutch of his arse. Malfoy screams into one arm, one arm flying back so he can claw at Harry’s hip, rearing up and craning his neck to shoot him a fierce, burning glare when Harry pulls out for a moment to spell some lube around his cock.

“Harder,” Malfoy wheezes at once, the second Harry pushes back into him. “Potter, you inept bastard, harder—oh shit!” His feet stomp back onto the ground as Harry willingly complies and begins battering away at his arse, stroking the sweaty nape of his neck for a second before pushing his fingers into the tousled, white blond mess and grasping a handful, yanking his head back roughly. “Potter,” he moans, voice breaking as he slips down a couple of inches, at which point he starts stroking his cock in slippery ruts against the seat again. “Fuck, I’m—I’m going t—”

“Do it,” Harry bites out, spanking him again, over and over and over, with his free hand before grabbing one cheek pushing it inwards, against his cock, tightening the clutch around it. “Come now, do it now. Come for me, Draco.”

It’s a bit of a task holding a thrashing, flailing Malfoy in the throes of a particularly intense orgasm down, tugging his head back in warning when he shrieks too loud, while continuing to jackhammer away into his arse, lube starting to squelch out messily as Harry’s thrusts get uncontrolled and savage, Malfoy's rim dark and rosy where it stretches outwards with each pull-out of Harry's cock, clinging tightly to every ridge and fold.

Fingers tightening in Malfoy’s hair, Harry flattens himself against him, groaning into his neck as his hips snap, wild and unstoppable, the slap slap slap of skin on skin wonderfully lewd in the still, icy air around them.

Releasing his hair, Harry winds his hand around Malfoy’s neck, splaying his fingers gently across his bobbing throat and holding him in place like that, his balls drawing up against his body, too tight to slap at Malfoy’s arse now. “Draco,” he moans brokenly against his nape, his chest tight suddenly, throat constricting. “Draco.”

They’re groaning together then, Malfoy’s arse, sore and sensitive as it flutters weakly around him, Harry’s cock sliding through the slippery mess of his own come as he finishes inside him with several jarring, grunted thrusts, clutching him tightly.

They remain like that for a bit, Harry draped over a completely limp Draco, stroking his hair and kissing his neck, murmuring nonsense against his skin as Draco shivers and breathes in ragged wheezes. When Harry gently guides Malfoy’s head to turn slightly so he can kiss him, Malfoy instantly responds.

He’s mostly useless after that, leaning heavily against Harry with his clingy trousers around his thighs, while Harry rights his own clothes, then rights Malfoy’s clothes, and then spells the seat clean, all the while catching his own breath.

“I cannot believe you fucked me out here in the open like that,” Malfoy says blankly when Harry pulls him close and brushes his hair off his face. “We’re not telling people that this happened here; we’re telling them you fucked me on a bed with white, silk sheets, layered with red roses.”

“That can’t be pleasant,” Harry says amusedly, holding him tighter when he shivers, “Roses have thorns. Imagine getting a hundred thorns embedded in your cock and arse.”

“Rose petals, then,” Malfoy drawls, rolling his eyes and permitting Harry to kiss him for a few seconds.

“Come to the Burrow tomorrow,” Harry tells him softly, “Come spend Christmas there.”

“Do I have to?” Malfoy asks, mock-wearily. “Is this how it’s going to be now? You making outrageous demands of me?”

“I’m serious,” Harry growls, grabbing his arse roughly and bringing them closer, impossibly close. “I can’t skip out on the Burrow on Christmas but I also can’t let you be alone on Christmas. Not when we’ve only just—” He doesn’t continue, kissing Malfoy’s nose lightly instead.

Malfoy rolls his eyes again, his hands warm in Harry’s hair. “Are we to arrive separately?” he asks cheekily. “Are we to greet each other like colleagues and nothing else – shake hands once maybe?”

“I’m going to tell everyone the second I get there and you can sit on my lap, if you like,” Harry says at all once, raising his eyebrows. “And arrive separately? You think you’re getting away anytime soon, Malfoy? I’m taking you home right now.”

Are you now?” Malfoy’s eyes sparkle even in the dimness. “Pray, what for?”

“What do you think?” Harry deadpans, grinding his still-hard cock against him. “We’ll pick up some roses on the way if you like. You can shred them up and toss them all over the place while I eat you out and fuck you again.”

“Ambitious,” Malfoy mutters against his cheek, shivering as he nuzzles him. “I’m definitely in. So, can we go now? I think your come just froze into spermcicle inside me.”

Harry can hardly stand upright for how hard he laughs, nevertheless fishing his keys out and kicking up the stand before swinging a leg over the bike and raising an eyebrow pointedly at Malfoy as he just stands there.

Malfoy smirks, and then instead of climbing on pillion, he straddles the bike facing Harry, settling onto the fuel tank and deliberately grinding their crotches together, his thighs settling atop Harry’s as he curls his legs around him. “You were right,” he murmurs, gnawing at Harry’s jaw. “I doubt I can sit very long right now, so get us there quickly.”

“This can’t be safe,” Harry laughs huskily, already starting the ignition, “You’ve got to hold on to me really tight, Malfoy,” he breathes into his hair, both of them sighing as he pushes the little red button that throws up a bubble of warmth around them both.

“Any excuse to, Potter,” Malfoy quips, wrapping long arms around his chest and wiggling even closer as the bike jerks forward. “I’ve been looking for one for years now.”

They’re soaring high within seconds while Christmas twinkles up at them in all its glory.