Australian friendly Christmas drabbles
Here is an Australian-reader friendly version of my Christmas drabbles (i.e., no chan, more's the pity).
For snakeling, whose prompt was Snape/Harry, quill:
His lover’s skin stretches out before Harry like old parchment, yellow and fragile. Scars crisscross the unlovely back, a history written in blood and faded, arcane symbols as though with the nib of a quill.
On Snape’s side there is a scar that runs from sternum to clavicle, and Harry is uncomfortably reminded of Sectumsempra. “Does it hurt?” he asks, feeling the white puckered flesh. It is unpleasant to the touch, but Harry continues stroking.
The dark eyes bore into him, laying him bare without Occlumency. He shivers in the cold, but doesn’t look away. “Not anymore,” he says.
Harry smiles.
For spurious, who wanted James/Sirius, sex in a pub:
James’ hands are slick with sweat where they clutch the scarred wood of the table. Secluded in a corner booth, it doesn’t matter that Sirius’ head is resting on his shoulder; no one can see. Sirius’ hot breath pants against James’ neck, and under cover of the table, Sirius grips his cock a little tighter. Dimly, James is aware of the other patrons, aware of the the beat of the muggle rock music thumping through the club in time with his own pounding heart, but mostly he is aware of Sirius - Sirius’ hands, Sirius’ breath, Sirius’ smell.
Sirius twists his wrist on an upwards stroke, and James' come mixes with the spilt alcohol on the already sticky floor.
For reddwarfer, who wanted Snape/Harry, rimming or felching:
Head and shoulders supporting his weight, Snape held open the cheeks of his ass, panting with the exertion of not taking control, of staying still and just feeling. The brat had moved on from his cock, his agile-wet tongue kissing and licking his reddened, raw hole, lapping up his own bitter seed, cleaning the last lingering trace of himself from where he’d fucked Snape, hard and rough.
Harry’s tongue slipped inside, not quite thick enough to be anything but a reminder of his cock spreading Snape open and claiming him. Snape tensed, fingers leaving white marks on his ass, the world fading to silver stars.
For mecklen, who wanted Ron, Neville, and Harry, "I just realized you're gay":
Neville’s round eyes stared at Ron in horror; Harry was turning an unattractive shade of purple, and he looked like he was choking on his tongue.
“Oh come on, mates,” Ron said, face set in a sort of earnest grimace. “I know I’ve been the worst sort of friend, only just realizing you’re gay and all, but you don’t have to hide the fact that you’re shirt-lifters from me anymore.” Ron’s freckles were steadily disappearing under a brilliant red blush.
Neville and Harry shot unbelieving glances at each other. After it was obvious that Harry was still not in a position to speak, Neville stepped bravely forward. “Er. Ron, we’re not dating. And I’m not gay,” he added. Harry nodded his head furiously, clutching his throat.
“You’re...not queer?” Ron asked, looking confused. Harry and Neville shook their heads. “But then...whose lube is this?” He held up a bottle with thumb and forefinger.
Dean and Seamus chose that moment to walk into the dorms, laughing.
Ron, Neville and Harry stared at them, Ron still holding up the lube.
For yanks02, who wanted Snape/Harry, fluffy Christmas smut post-war:
The smell of pine filled Harry’s nose. It had been a battle, getting Severus to agree to a Christmas tree, but Harry had won in the end. Threatening an end to sex had been the final and fatal weapon in Harry’s arsenal, though both he and Severus knew it had been an empty threat.
Now, Harry admired the tree and the burn in his arse, Severus making good use of Harry’s holiday spirit. He felt Severus’s hands move from Harry’s hips to his nipples, scratching the hard nubs and then skating his fingers down to Harry’s cock. He pulled the foreskin down from the head and Harry whimpered, coming over Severus’s fingers. The sparkling lights from the much-begrudged Christmas tree danced and mixed with the stars behind his eyelids.
For alchemia, who wanted Snape/Harry, clouds:
The rain washes away the mud clinging to his tattered robes, and Severus, still kneeling in a puddle of blood and dirt, allows himself a smile. He lifts his face to the dark clouds blocking out the sunlight and closes his eyes. Voldemort is dead, and Severus can feel the rain soothing his aching forearm, the dark mark peeling off in great ghastly layers of dead skin and regret.
“It’s over,” a voice behind him says. “And you...” There is a choking noise, and then a hand trails itself through his hair. “I thought you had betrayed us. Betrayed me.”
Severus shakes his head. “Never.” His voice comes out scratchy like sandpaper, as though he hadn’t just spoken the killing curse. The hand in his hair tightens, and Severus feels it lifting his head up and back. He feels soft lips meeting his, the wire frame of ugly round glasses biting into the bridge of his nose.
For manraviel, who wanted anything slashy, preferably Snape/Harry, Christmas:
Severus had never had a real Christmas before. There had been the Christmas crackers with Dumbledore in the Great Hall when he had been a student and teacher, of course (and just thinking Dumbledore’s name made Severus’s chest ache, heart constricting painfully), but no presents from his parents. No tree, no eggnog, no carols.
Now, as he sat in a dark corner of his home at Spinner’s End, he wondered if he’d really been as deprived as he had thought. The Brat had invaded his home, hanging cheerful and hideous red and gold crepe paper on his bookshelf so that half of his (infinitely rare) books were obscured.
“Severus,” Harry said, smiling at him from the doorway. “It’s not that bad. Stop looking at the tree as if you want to Avada Kedavra it.” The Brat moved towards Severus’s chair, straddling his lap and pulling him forward for a sloppy kiss.
Well. Perhaps there was something good about Christmas after all, Severus thought, as Harry’s fingers moved to his trousers.
For fluffyllama, who wanted Snape, alone or with anyone, Christmas:
As a boy, Severus counted the days until Christmas. He sat in the window seat of the parlor, drinking hot chocolate and watching the snow drift lazily from the heavens. The gentle clicking of his mother’s knitting needles soothed him, and he fell asleep wrapped in handmade quilts his mother had tucked around him. They smelled like cinnamon and warmth.
As an adolescent, Severus hates Christmas. He stays in the dank common room and reads ahead in his potions text. Often, he is the only Slytherin that remains, and though he likes the solitude, the duvet he wraps around himself is never quite warm enough.
As an adult, Snape will pretend that Christmas doesn’t exist. He will sit in his library at Spinner’s End and stare into the fireplace, drinking elf-made wine until his vision blurs and memory fractures. The wool of the blanket will scratch his bare forearms, and he will know the taste of regret, heavy in his mouth like the blood red wine.
I also participated in skuf's Christmas Card Drabble Exchange. My giftee was flutteringazure, who requested Remus/Harry, Ministry of Magic, desk, bondage:
Remus’ own battered tie was looped around his wrists and tied to the door knob. Arms stretched above his head and taut with exertion, Remus fought to keep his balance on the rickety Ministry of Magic desk.
“Oh...god...” Harry whispered, voice unnaturally quiet as he thrusted into Remus. Loose papers ruffled themselves and fell, irritated, to the floor, attempting to get away from Remus’ arching back and Harry’s grasping hands.
Suddenly, footsteps sounded in the corridor. Remus and Harry stilled, breath coming in short, nearly silent gasps. The door knob jiggled. Both men froze, staring in horror at each other as Tonks’ voice drifted through the wood. “No, they can’t be in there, the door’s stuck shut. Did you check the fifth floor, Kingsley?”
The footsteps faded, and the men breathed again.
For snakeling, whose prompt was Snape/Harry, quill:
His lover’s skin stretches out before Harry like old parchment, yellow and fragile. Scars crisscross the unlovely back, a history written in blood and faded, arcane symbols as though with the nib of a quill.
On Snape’s side there is a scar that runs from sternum to clavicle, and Harry is uncomfortably reminded of Sectumsempra. “Does it hurt?” he asks, feeling the white puckered flesh. It is unpleasant to the touch, but Harry continues stroking.
The dark eyes bore into him, laying him bare without Occlumency. He shivers in the cold, but doesn’t look away. “Not anymore,” he says.
Harry smiles.
For spurious, who wanted James/Sirius, sex in a pub:
James’ hands are slick with sweat where they clutch the scarred wood of the table. Secluded in a corner booth, it doesn’t matter that Sirius’ head is resting on his shoulder; no one can see. Sirius’ hot breath pants against James’ neck, and under cover of the table, Sirius grips his cock a little tighter. Dimly, James is aware of the other patrons, aware of the the beat of the muggle rock music thumping through the club in time with his own pounding heart, but mostly he is aware of Sirius - Sirius’ hands, Sirius’ breath, Sirius’ smell.
Sirius twists his wrist on an upwards stroke, and James' come mixes with the spilt alcohol on the already sticky floor.
For reddwarfer, who wanted Snape/Harry, rimming or felching:
Head and shoulders supporting his weight, Snape held open the cheeks of his ass, panting with the exertion of not taking control, of staying still and just feeling. The brat had moved on from his cock, his agile-wet tongue kissing and licking his reddened, raw hole, lapping up his own bitter seed, cleaning the last lingering trace of himself from where he’d fucked Snape, hard and rough.
Harry’s tongue slipped inside, not quite thick enough to be anything but a reminder of his cock spreading Snape open and claiming him. Snape tensed, fingers leaving white marks on his ass, the world fading to silver stars.
For mecklen, who wanted Ron, Neville, and Harry, "I just realized you're gay":
Neville’s round eyes stared at Ron in horror; Harry was turning an unattractive shade of purple, and he looked like he was choking on his tongue.
“Oh come on, mates,” Ron said, face set in a sort of earnest grimace. “I know I’ve been the worst sort of friend, only just realizing you’re gay and all, but you don’t have to hide the fact that you’re shirt-lifters from me anymore.” Ron’s freckles were steadily disappearing under a brilliant red blush.
Neville and Harry shot unbelieving glances at each other. After it was obvious that Harry was still not in a position to speak, Neville stepped bravely forward. “Er. Ron, we’re not dating. And I’m not gay,” he added. Harry nodded his head furiously, clutching his throat.
“You’re...not queer?” Ron asked, looking confused. Harry and Neville shook their heads. “But then...whose lube is this?” He held up a bottle with thumb and forefinger.
Dean and Seamus chose that moment to walk into the dorms, laughing.
Ron, Neville and Harry stared at them, Ron still holding up the lube.
For yanks02, who wanted Snape/Harry, fluffy Christmas smut post-war:
The smell of pine filled Harry’s nose. It had been a battle, getting Severus to agree to a Christmas tree, but Harry had won in the end. Threatening an end to sex had been the final and fatal weapon in Harry’s arsenal, though both he and Severus knew it had been an empty threat.
Now, Harry admired the tree and the burn in his arse, Severus making good use of Harry’s holiday spirit. He felt Severus’s hands move from Harry’s hips to his nipples, scratching the hard nubs and then skating his fingers down to Harry’s cock. He pulled the foreskin down from the head and Harry whimpered, coming over Severus’s fingers. The sparkling lights from the much-begrudged Christmas tree danced and mixed with the stars behind his eyelids.
For alchemia, who wanted Snape/Harry, clouds:
The rain washes away the mud clinging to his tattered robes, and Severus, still kneeling in a puddle of blood and dirt, allows himself a smile. He lifts his face to the dark clouds blocking out the sunlight and closes his eyes. Voldemort is dead, and Severus can feel the rain soothing his aching forearm, the dark mark peeling off in great ghastly layers of dead skin and regret.
“It’s over,” a voice behind him says. “And you...” There is a choking noise, and then a hand trails itself through his hair. “I thought you had betrayed us. Betrayed me.”
Severus shakes his head. “Never.” His voice comes out scratchy like sandpaper, as though he hadn’t just spoken the killing curse. The hand in his hair tightens, and Severus feels it lifting his head up and back. He feels soft lips meeting his, the wire frame of ugly round glasses biting into the bridge of his nose.
For manraviel, who wanted anything slashy, preferably Snape/Harry, Christmas:
Severus had never had a real Christmas before. There had been the Christmas crackers with Dumbledore in the Great Hall when he had been a student and teacher, of course (and just thinking Dumbledore’s name made Severus’s chest ache, heart constricting painfully), but no presents from his parents. No tree, no eggnog, no carols.
Now, as he sat in a dark corner of his home at Spinner’s End, he wondered if he’d really been as deprived as he had thought. The Brat had invaded his home, hanging cheerful and hideous red and gold crepe paper on his bookshelf so that half of his (infinitely rare) books were obscured.
“Severus,” Harry said, smiling at him from the doorway. “It’s not that bad. Stop looking at the tree as if you want to Avada Kedavra it.” The Brat moved towards Severus’s chair, straddling his lap and pulling him forward for a sloppy kiss.
Well. Perhaps there was something good about Christmas after all, Severus thought, as Harry’s fingers moved to his trousers.
For fluffyllama, who wanted Snape, alone or with anyone, Christmas:
As a boy, Severus counted the days until Christmas. He sat in the window seat of the parlor, drinking hot chocolate and watching the snow drift lazily from the heavens. The gentle clicking of his mother’s knitting needles soothed him, and he fell asleep wrapped in handmade quilts his mother had tucked around him. They smelled like cinnamon and warmth.
As an adolescent, Severus hates Christmas. He stays in the dank common room and reads ahead in his potions text. Often, he is the only Slytherin that remains, and though he likes the solitude, the duvet he wraps around himself is never quite warm enough.
As an adult, Snape will pretend that Christmas doesn’t exist. He will sit in his library at Spinner’s End and stare into the fireplace, drinking elf-made wine until his vision blurs and memory fractures. The wool of the blanket will scratch his bare forearms, and he will know the taste of regret, heavy in his mouth like the blood red wine.
I also participated in skuf's Christmas Card Drabble Exchange. My giftee was flutteringazure, who requested Remus/Harry, Ministry of Magic, desk, bondage:
Remus’ own battered tie was looped around his wrists and tied to the door knob. Arms stretched above his head and taut with exertion, Remus fought to keep his balance on the rickety Ministry of Magic desk.
“Oh...god...” Harry whispered, voice unnaturally quiet as he thrusted into Remus. Loose papers ruffled themselves and fell, irritated, to the floor, attempting to get away from Remus’ arching back and Harry’s grasping hands.
Suddenly, footsteps sounded in the corridor. Remus and Harry stilled, breath coming in short, nearly silent gasps. The door knob jiggled. Both men froze, staring in horror at each other as Tonks’ voice drifted through the wood. “No, they can’t be in there, the door’s stuck shut. Did you check the fifth floor, Kingsley?”
The footsteps faded, and the men breathed again.