Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: islandsmoke
From: tryslora

Title: So Sane It’s Driving Me Crazy
Characters/Pairings: Percy Weasley/Marcus Flint
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Included: mild bondage, playing with ribbons, playing with lights, first times (together and in general), dirty talk, Christmas decorations
Other Warnings/Content: mild angst, awkwardness, growliness, sappiness, smoochies, happy endings
Word Count: ~8500
Summary/Description: Percy is alone for the first time on Christmas Eve, and bumps into someone completely unexpected, resulting in a strange night, and a magical morning.
Author's Notes: The title for this song is from Barenaked Ladies’ “Falling for the First Time,” which is a song I’ve long associated with Percy. I know this likely isn’t an expected pairing, and I do hope you enjoy this, dear requester. I wanted to give you something spicy hot, and fluffy, and awkward and sweet and a bit silly all at once with someone who can shake Percy out of his blues at being estranged from his family. I had a great time writing this (and it grew longer than I’d originally planned), and I hope you enjoy it.


Percy wakes to the sound of a thud against the window. Not quite rhythmic, it stutters and repeats and refuses to let up until he opens his eyes. It is barely daylight, the pale light of dawn just streaking the sky and Errol flies into the window again and again, waiting for Percy to open it.

He stumbles from the bed, falling to one knee at the unexpected height of it. As his hand hits the floor, there’s a grunt from the bed behind him, and memories flood back. His body aches in pleasant ways, and there is still a red ribbon looped around his wrist. He could ignore the family owl and crawl back into that warm bed.

Percy has been estranged from his family for the last several months, but he has been a Weasley his whole life. He opens the window and lets Errol in. The owl flops clumsily onto the floor, the package weighting him down. He hoots as Percy closes the window, hopping back up to thud against the glass.

“Not yet,” Percy says quietly. “Just wait.”

He can’t say why he keeps Errol there. It isn’t for treats; he has no idea where to find any in this flat. Instead he picks up the package, feeling the lumpy squishy gift inside the paper. He doesn’t have to open it to know what it will be: one of his mother’s trademark Christmas jumpers with a P upon it.

A Weasley jumper.

His lips press thinly together, and he wonders if it is habit that sends it, or if it is an apology. Or another attempt to make him see their side. Another attempt to lure him back to the family fold, to take him away from what he knows is right.

They cannot see that their way of order is actually chaos.

Percy turns the package over in his hand, noting the spellotape sealing the paper closed, noting the pattern on the paper. It is the gift he has received every year from his family for as long as he can remember. The jumpers remind him of his mother: over-earnest and not quite perfect, but well-meant and at the very least warm.

He misses his childhood, when everything was simple. When his parents were people that he looked up to, people who had all the answers.

Now it is all reduced to this—a jumper that means family, and no other linkages between them.

Percy holds the package out to Errol, waiting until the owl takes it. “Take this to Molly Weasley at the Burrow,” he murmurs.

He opens the window and waits while the aged owl takes flight.

“M’cold.”

Percy turns back to the bed, huffs out a slow breath. “You’re the one under the blankets,” he replied. “So I’d suspect you’re warmer than I. Care to find out?”

He can hear the smile in the reply. “C’mere.”

And Percy does, sliding beneath the comforter and hand-knit afghan, between sheets of a far higher thread count than he’d ever seen before last night. He curls around the large warm body, his hand resting on the other’s abdomen. His body eases, breath by breath. When his hand is taken, cradled against the thump of a heart, Percy sighs and slips back into sleep.

#

Percy meandered down the street, moving slowly. He didn’t have anywhere in particular to go, nor anywhere that he actually wanted to be. As long as he kept walking, he wasn’t in his flat and alone on Christmas Eve. He peered in windows, picking out gifts in his mind for his family members with absolutely no intention of buying anything. He lingered when he reached Quality Quidditch Supply, caught for a moment by a flash of red. The boy was too short to be one of his brothers, the hair too dark to be a Weasley, and his breath eases after that moment of stutter in his chest.

Still, if he were buying gifts, this would be the place to stop. He knew little enough about the details of Quidditch, but the blokes inside always helped him choose the best quality that his funds could afford.

“Didn’t think you were into Quidditch.”

He didn’t recognize the gruff voice at first, noting instead that the bloke next to him was as tall as himself, but thick where he was thin. He was a wall of sudden hot solidity against the cold, standing a shade too close in a manner that Percy had a feeling ought to feel threatening.

His mind scrolled back, searching through people he had met through the Ministry, people he had worked with on the Wizengamot. None of those seemed to suit, so he responded while he let his mind slide back further.

“Hardly,” he said, hands shoved in his pockets. “While I realize that it’s a horror for any Weasley to not be enamoured of the game, I remain entirely unenthused.”

“Never were one to follow the pack, were you?” The bloke turned as he spoke and Percy recognized him then. Marcus Flint, of the pureblood Flints. Slytherin back at Hogwarts, and once upon a time not all that long ago, someone Percy considered an odd sort of friend.

“You might be the only one to say that.” Percy had heard from his family already that he was following the Ministry line too closely. That he stayed on the straight and narrow and was entirely unlike his Gryffindor siblings. That perhaps he was sorted incorrectly, that perhaps he simply needed to open his eyes and step outside the box he had created for himself.

Those weren’t lines he wanted to follow now. Tonight, of all nights, he didn’t want to think of family.

Which, of course, is why he was standing in front of Quality Quidditch, rationing funds in his mind and wondering whether he could afford both the gloves he knew Ron wanted, and a broom care kit for Ginny. Not that he would buy them. Not this year.

Perhaps not ever.

Lips pressed thinly together and he cast a glance at Flint to find him still watching him. “Buying something for yourself?” Percy inquired.

Flint shrugged one shoulder. “Just looking. The Cannons buy anything I’d want for the Pitch, so there’s no need to buy my own gear anymore. Didn’t feel like going home.”

Percy snorted softly. “And why not? If I recall, you have an estate in Yorkshire, younger siblings to spoil, and parents who dote on you. Oughtn’t you be heading home for the night? You can’t miss Christmas morning with the wee ones.”

Flint’s gaze shifted back to the window, and Percy tried to follow it, to spot what was being watched so carefully. The man at the counter wrapped a small broom in a package. A training broom, the sort given to children around the age of five, that couldn’t rise more than a foot above the ground. If he recalled, it ought to be right about the size the youngest of Flint’s family would be receiving right about now.

“I’ve a flat in Chudley.” Flint’s voice is cold. “Share it with two blokes from the Cannons. Neither of ‘em are there just now. Place is cold and dull. Doesn’t even have a sodding Christmas tree.”

“You ought to at least have a Christmas tree.” Percy ignored the fact that he didn’t have one either, and that his flat might well be colder and more dull than Flint’s. “And decorations. It’s not Christmas properly without decorations.”

Again Flint’s gaze fell to meet Percy’s, and Percy met it in return. Once upon a time they had been civil, almost close, as odd as it was. Slowly Flint’s features twisted into an almost smile. “You going back to your Burrow? Always thought that odd, naming a lion’s den after a snake’s home.”

Percy’s chest tightened. “No. I’m not.” The words were clipped and short.

Flint nudged his shoulder. “There’re places still open. You think I need a tree? Find me a fucking tree, then, Weasley. But you’ll be helping me get it up.”

#

The sun streams through the breaks in the curtains when Percy’s eyes drift open again. He is warm and comfortable, the blankets a welcome weight over his body, his arm curved around the bulk of the bloke in bed with him. When he shifts slightly, the bloke stirs, grunting his displeasure at awakening.

“This may well be the latest I’ve slept in years,” Percy murmurs, speaking to the wall of Marcus’s back. Marcus smells like cinnamon and sugar, mixed with sweat and past arousal and a hint of wool. Percy presses a kiss to his shoulder-blade, then drags teeth over skin. He is rewarded with a shudder.

“S’not a bad thing,” Marcus grumbles. “I like sleeping in. S’bloody good.” He rolls onto his back, and a moment later Percy is straddling him, Marcus’s hands gripping the bars of the headboard while Percy holds them there.

“I’ve always rather fancied breakfast in bed,” Percy says lightly.

“Might be hard to do that for you,” Marcus points out as the shower of ribbons over the headboard come to life and bind his wrists in place. His body stretches, arching beneath Percy’s. Percy presses down, rubbing their morning erections together with the motion, and Marcus groans.

Percy likes that sound, that sensation of Marcus Flint losing control. Giving himself over. He bends down, teeth grazing skin along Marcus’s throat, teasing him until another groan slips free, then another. “What, exactly, is it that you think I might want for breakfast?” Percy muses.

His mouth reaches Marcus’s collarbone, and his tongue slides over the solid muscles of his chest. He tastes the remnants of chocolate laced with cinnamon, and he focuses on cleaning every inch of skin, until Marcus writhes beneath him.

Percy might be smaller, but he is resourceful. More ribbons slip from their places where they’d slid to the floor, binding Marcus’s hips to the bed in a bright flourish of colour. When Percy sits back, Marcus is a gaily wrapped package, but everything Percy might want from him is already unwrapped. The ribbons pull, and legs are spread, openning Marcus for Percy. His arse is slightly red, slightly open, still well-used from the night before.

“Fuck, Percy…” Marcus twitches, trying to press up.

“After I have a proper breakfast,” Percy tells him, and he bends to take Marcus in his mouth.

#

Percy was relentless when it came to buying decorations. He had grown up in a family that treasured the holiday and that ensured that every year was bigger and brighter than before. The Weasleys may not have had much money, but Molly knew how to find a bargain and every year during the post-holiday sales, their collection of decorations grew.

Starting from scratch was a hardship, but Flint didn’t seem bothered by the expense as he and Percy went from shop to shop. At first Percy was cautious, carefully selecting only items that were in a budget he might be able to afford himself, but after Marcus took them from his hands and put them back on the shelf, he allowed his more expensive sensibilities to take flight.

The number of bags Marcus carried grew quickly as Percy ushered them from store to store. Twinkling fairy lights were a must, enough to decorate a tree, then windows, and perhaps the entire flat. Tinsel and garland, shiny silver balls, and small figures that would dance among the branches of the tree. Percy chose cold-burn candles that were guaranteed never to burn anything but themselves. He selected imported silk ribbons in a bright array of colours.

“What are those for?” Flint leaned in, his broad hand dwarfing Percy’s as he touched the soft silk.

“You have gifts to wrap,” Percy said.

“S’not true.” Flint let the silks drop from his fingertips and shoved his hands back into the pockets. “Buy them if you want.” One shoulder shrugged.

Percy added the ribbons to the pile after a moment’s hesitation. Whether Flint had packages to wrap or not, there had been something in Flint’s expression when he touched the silk. It was the look of someone who knew quality textiles and appreciated them, of someone who understood colour and threadcount. Whether Flint had a use for them or not, he would appreciate the ribbons, strange as that thought might be. Percy figured they could always find some use for them.

They ended at a ceramics shop, looking over tree top ornaments. Percy watched as Flint’s fingers danced over the possibilities, touching rather than just looking, as if he had to feel to understand what the ornament is. He was dyslexic, Percy remembered, and always preferred a hands on class to one that focused on learning from books. He remembered their last year, when Percy took Herbology as an easy NEWT and was partnered with Flint who was taking it for the final time in his second seventh year. He wore the same expression of concentration then, brows furrowed slightly as he tasted texture with his fingertips.

Flint paused at a topper made of Quidditch rings, with a chaser zooming around it. For a moment Percy thought he might select it, but then he moved on to a simple star and stared at it.

It was, perhaps, one of the plainest items in the shop. There were elaborate angels, and all manner of magically mobile objects, but this one was a simplistic piece. It had many points, each point tipped with a light, and as they watched, the colours shifted through the range of a rainbow, cycling through pink after purple, and back to red again. Flint watched it through one cycle, the colours playing across the back of his hand, then reached to pluck it from the display stand.

“Are you quite certain?” Percy asked. After everything else, it seemed almost gauche in comparison. Childish.

“S’good,” Flint said, and that was that.

The tree was the last item on the list. Flint wrapped his arm around Percy, tugging him in tight for side-along Apparition. Percy stumbled when he stepped out, still feeling the heat of Flint’s body and remembering certain childish fantasies that weren’t all that long ago. He barely saw Flint’s flat as they dropped off their packages and headed back out into the cold, wrapped securely in scarves, coats, hats and gloves.

Percy had no difficulties keeping up with Flint as they strode through the streets of Chudley. Flint might be a shade taller, but Percy had a swift stride and often found himself racing about the Ministry. He might not train every day with a professional Quidditch team, but he certainly managed to maintain his health well enough.

There was a miniature forest on the edge of Chudley. Lights winked out as they approached, and a bloke met them at the gate. “Closed,” he said.

“You’re still here,” Percy pointed out. “And we’ve a need for a tree.”

“Do you now?” The bloke’s gaze shifted from Percy to Flint and back again. “Well, you’ve left it a bit late, don’t you think? There’s not much left of Christmas Eve.”

“S’not over yet,” Flint growled. “He wants a tree, he’s going to fucking well get a tree. M’willing to pay for it.”

This was Flint at his toughest, somehow looming over the bloke, seeming taller and wider than Percy knew him to be. He’d seen it done before. He’d seen it done on his behalf before, but this bloke didn’t deserve it, not like Higgs had. “It won’t take long,” he said mildly, being the voice of reason. “Just let us in to pick a tree and we’ll pay twice the cost of it. After all, where will these be going tomorrow? Out for firewood? No one buys a tree after Christmas is done.”

The bloke hesitated, hand falling to the latch of the door. At another growl from Flint, fingers twitched and the gate fell open.

“Be quick about it.” The bloke snapped, although there was a hitch in his voice. “I don’t have all night.”

Flint grunted in reply as they walked by.

There weren’t many trees left to choose from. It was indeed late on Christmas Eve, a bit past ten. Percy lit the end of his wand to give them something to see by, since it seemed the bloke in charge had no intentions of turning the lights back on.

“Need a fucking big tree to fit all those bloody ornaments,” Flint grumbled.

The corners of Percy’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Didn’t see you arguing when I was buying them. We need to make certain it will fit into your living room, and that your star won’t hit the ceiling.”

“Need space to let the light fall.” Flint turned in place, surveying the trees around them. He started walking, and Percy hurried after him, recognizing the set expression of someone who had found what they sought.

Flint stopped in front of a tree that had far too much trunk and too few lower branches. What limbs it had were wide, tapering thickly to a point that stood just shorter than Flint and Percy themselves at its full height. “This one. S’perfect.”

“It has too many branches up high, and there’s nothing down low,” Percy pointed out.

“More room for gifts.”

“Which neither of us seems to have to put there.”

They both fell silent after Percy made his point, Flint holding the tree in his large fist. He hoisted it up, resting it on his shoulder. “S’perfect,” he said again, expression daring Percy to contradict him.

Percy might have started them down this road, but it seemed Flint was going to finish it his own way. Percy trailed after him, waiting while he paid the bloke in charge, then leaving that all behind as they returned to the flat.

When Flint had described the flat in Chudley, Percy had expected a tiny thing, much like his own single room flat in London. Something with dingy walls and a three floor walkup. Something that sorely needed new furniture and new lights, and perhaps a drapery or two to keep out the morning light.

He hadn’t expected a sprawling four bedroom flat where one bedroom was entirely devoted to a room for weights and working out. He hadn’t expected a warm fireplace that burst to life as soon as they came into the room, and furniture that looked as if it had seen better days, but had likely cost thousands of galleons when new. He hadn’t expected bright artwork on the walls, pictures that smiled and waved and danced as strangers stared back to meet Percy’s gaze.

Percy hadn’t expected something that seemed so lived in and so unlike home at the same time.

“S’not much.” Flint wrestled the tree into one corner of the living room, frowning when it spilled out and threatened to overtake the sofa.

“It’s better than mine.” Percy thought he ought to leave it at that, and simply be glad that they were here rather than there. He grabbed the arm of the sofa, tugging it into a new place that almost but not quite blocked the door to the flat. “No one’s coming in or out for a bit,” he reasoned. “The door doesn’t need to be available.”

“Father Christmas comes down the chimney, anyroad,” Flint agreed. He bent down, trousers framing a perfect arse that was the only thing visible from under the heavy brush of tree limbs as Flint managed to get the trunk wrestled into the pot and held securely. A quick Augamenti filled the pot.

Percy managed to look away, staring at the fire instead, before Flint caught him staring.

He wasn’t surprised to realize that a professional Quidditch had a brilliant arse. He wasn’t surprised at all to notice that Marcus Flint’s arse was still as brilliant as Percy remembered watching during Herbology not all that long ago. But he was not going to get himself hurt by letting Flint know he thought so. Some blokes simply radiated don’t even think about it, and Flint was definitely one of those.

“You’re the one that wanted the place decorated.” Flint leaned against the mantle, arms crossed. “So go on. Decorate.”

“I’m not a house elf,” Percy pointed out, words sharp but tone mild. “You’re going to bloody well help.”

Flint snorted, summoning a bottle of firewhiskey and two glasses. Good firewhiskey, at least twenty years in the cask according to the label. Percy wasn’t certain he’d ever had anything nearly as expensive in the same room as him, let alone being poured into a glass and handed to him.

“Loosen up, Weasley,” Flint said with a smirk. “The phrase is that I’m going to fucking well help.”

“I don’t curse.” Percy’s tone was prim. The first gulp of the firewhiskey was a shock, the burn swallowing his tongue and slipping down his throat to curl warmly in his gut.

“You didn’t curse,” Flint corrected him. “And I remember. Although you did just say bloody, and that’s hardly lily white language. S’a curse. Fucking just sounds better. Feels better on the tongue.”

Percy swallowed hard, and took another gulp of the whiskey. So many responses came to mind for that, about other things involving fucking that might feel better on the tongue. The odd urge to tell Flint to put that tongue to proper use, right now, on his knees.

A second gulp masked the words, kept them from spilling out dangerously into the quiet room. Glass empty, he set it down only to have Flint refill it.

He was going to be drunk before long at this rate.

It didn’t seem like such a poor idea.

Percy rarely let go, rarely let himself lose control, but this seemed like a night outside of time. A bundle hit him in the chest, showering him in silvered tinsel, and he laughed in surprise.

Flint stood on the other side of the room, a fistful of garland in his large hands. He raised them up. “Let’s fucking decorate.”

#

Percy had always been aware of who Marcus Flint was at Hogwarts. While Percy didn’t participate in Quidditch, his siblings flew for Gryffindor, and his best mate was on the team. So Percy attended games, and he was well aware of the rivalry between Oliver Wood and Marcus Flint who flew for Slytherin.

By the time Percy was in his fourth year, he was well aware that Marcus Flint was a cruel sod with the manners of a troll and the intelligence of a flea

He was entirely surprised to find out that neither was true.

They met after a misunderstanding between Percy and Terence Higgs, wherein Percy was surprised that Flint helped sort it. Percy was still small then, far smaller than the hulking fifth year who stood there, looking at him somewhat awkwardly.

“Thank you,” Percy said primly, wiping sweaty palms against his robes. He offered his hand, slim fingers extended. “I appreciate the aid. It was entirely unexpected, but quite—” He ran out of words as he saw Flint looking at his hand and doing nothing.

Of course, Percy was a Weasley, and Flint was a Flint. What else could he expected.

Percy’s lips thinned. He had pride in his family, pride in who he was. Pride in his house, in his grades, in himself. He drew himself up to his full height, letting his hand drop.

Flint caught it at the last second, his large palm curling around Percy’s slender fingers. “You’re welcome,” the older boy rumbled, voice already dropped low, the depth matching his height and breadth. “Higgs was being a fucking arse.”

Percy’s cheeks went red. “There’s no need for profanity.”

“When someone’s a fucking arse, you call them a fucking arse,” Flint said simply. “S’not like he’s some sort of angel. Tries to be on the pitch sometimes, but that’s just because he’s afraid of your Wood. Higgs’d get caught if he did something he thinks, or he might get hurt. Can’t think how to play hard and still play right like the rest of us do.”

Despite himself, Percy found a slow smile starting. “What are you doing here?” He knew why he was in the greenhouse; he had a seventeen inch essay due Monday on the specifics of modern breeds of lilies, both wild and engineered, and he planned to use his Saturday to study those in the greenhouse and finish as best he could.

It certainly wasn’t a place he’d expected to find Marcus Flint.

Flint flushed, jaw set as he looked away. “Just something I told Sprout I’d do. Sometimes I help out.” The admission came from long away, as if dragged out of him, and his expression dared Percy to argue the concept.

Percy blinked twice. “You’re good at Herbology then.”

“S’not bad,” Flint said, which Percy took as a yes. “S’not like we’ve got sheep here. Flints know how to breed sheep.”

Percy blinked again, trying to assimilate this idea of the pureblooded Flint in a farmer’s clothes, up to his shins in sheep dung, or kneeling with his hands buried in the soft loam as he planted. He didn’t have to imagine the latter long as he saw Flint do just that, not at all worried about the dirt as he went to work.

They were silent, planting and studying side by side, for a long time. Percy broke it first, asking about the sheep, then Flint asked about his family.

They talked for hours that first time, and again and again over the years. They became a strange sort of friends, never acknowledged outside of the greenhouse, but comfortable when they were within its walls.

When Percy was sixteen, he realized that Flint was fit. He stayed silent, never breathing a word of those thoughts, positive that Flint knowing that Percy fancied him would spell the end of their friendship.

When they finally finished Hogwarts, Percy never expected to see him again.

#

Tinsel tangled in Percy’s hair, making it sparkle when he caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye. There was garland draped around Marcus’s neck, trailing over his shoulder. Percy was warm and slightly aching, and somewhere in the last hour he had started calling Flint by his given name, and Flint had started calling him Percy.

It was strangely comfortable, for all that the room looked as if a Christmas store had sicked up all over it.

Flint held a music box in his hand, eyebrows arched as he looked at it. “When the bloody hell did you pick this one out?” He twisted it carefully, winding it up with large fingers on a small dial. When he released it, the tinny tones of My Wizard, My Christmas, My Home plinked into being. Flint snorted. “Tacky.”

“It’s not tacky, it’s a classic.” Percy took the music box from him and set it on the mantle, sandwiched between a Christmas tree candleholder, and a Father Christmas figurine. A small shower of tinsel fell, disturbed by the motion of his arm passing by. “It’s the song my mum sings when she’s had a glass of wine and we’ve all had dinner, and she thinks she’s alone cleaning up in the kitchen after.”

“Don’t you have house elves for that?”

“Of course not.” Percy spread his hands. “She has us to help. And our father. They usually end up dancing rather than doing dishes.”

He was caught unaware when Marcus grabbed his hand and spun him into a slow, awkward waltz, footsteps clumsy and stumbling from the amount of firewhiskey they’d imbibed. Percy clung to his hand to hold himself upright, trying to somehow press closer and not too close at the same time, while utterly aware of how large and warm and fit Marcus Flint was.

He laughed when his foot struck a box and he tripped, falling into Marcus’s arms. When Marcus lifted him up easily, setting him to rights and holding him there, he stayed right there, swaying slightly as the tinny notes faded away into silence.

Percy flushed, coughed.

Marcus let him go and turned away. “S’enough of that,” he muttered, voice rough. “I think we’re just about done with the decorating.”

“We haven’t used all of it yet.” Percy fell back on the simple facts in the face of awkward embarrassment.

“There’s no bloody place left to put anything else.” Marcus pointed to the room, and Percy had to admit that he was right.

The sofa was covered in a Christmas afghan, with four throw pillows taking up the rest of the space. The mantle was littered with figurines, candles, and the music box, while garland, tinsel and fairy lights hung from it, along with two large stockings. The tree itself was a gaudy affair, covered in fairy lights, tinsel, garland, and what Percy suspected were more than a hundred decorations, many of which moved on their own.

“You may have a point.” Percy lifted one box and held it out. “However, that means it’s time for the final piece. Your tree topper.”

Seeing Marcus Flint smile was a strange experience. It didn’t soften his rough features, but it brought a boyish light to his eyes. He was obviously pleased with the star, placing it carefully atop the tree, then touching it with his wand to light it.

Rainbows spilled into the room, and Marcus laughed.

“That is tacky,” Percy said. Laughter was contagious and Percy found it bubbling up, despite the ridiculousness of it all. Red light shaded over Marcus’s face, chased away by orange, then yellow, then a green that lights his blue eyes. It should be strange. It should be ugly. Instead all Percy can think is how strangely attractive it is.

“S’not the point of it,” Marcus said. “Something you’ve got to see, to know what it’s like. C’mere.”

He caught Percy’s hand and tugged, drawing them both down under the tree. They lay down side by side with their heads towards the trunk, staring up through branches heavily laden with ornaments, dipping low over their heads. “Is this why you thought it was perfect?” Percy asked.

Marcus rolled his head to look at Percy. “S’perfect because it’s got plenty of space for Father Christmas to leave gifts,” he repeated his earlier assertion. “But s’not bad for this either.” Rolling back, he stared up. “S’brilliant, really. Just watch.”

The lights played over the room, filtering through the branches, flickering over their skin. Percy couldn’t remember ever doing something so frivolous, not since he was a young teen at least, possibly not even earlier. He was the practical child. The practical Weasley. This… this was an alien, strange experience.

Magical.

He felt something brush his fingers, warm and solid. When Percy turned his hand, trying to grasp it, that touch jerked away. Percy felt the loss and slid his hand across the floor until he touched more warmth, large and real. A low sound, almost a growl, but Percy refused to pull his hand away.

He was a Gryffindor after all. It was one small hint, but perhaps that touch had meant he wasn’t wrong to fancy Marcus Flint.

“S’almost midnight.” Marcus’s voice was low, gruff. Hoarse. “Now there’s a tree, Father Christmas’ll want to come. Can’t do that if we’re down here like a couple of sprogs, waiting to catch him.”

There was a quiet humour in Marcus, something Percy knew others rarely saw.

“Lying here like a couple of gifts,” Percy observed. “Although we’ve not been wrapped.”

“M’not unwrapped, either.”

Percy’s breath caught in his throat, trapped, choking him. “Wait here,” he managed to say. “Just… wait. Don’t move.”

He eased out from under the tree, going to find the discarded ribbons. Percy half expected that by the time he turned around, Marcus would have moved, might even be gone. But no, he was still there, lying beneath the tree like a gift Father Christmas had delivered early.

Percy clenched the ribbons in his fist, and crawled back beneath the tree.

#

The room is now dark, the curtains held tightly closed against the sun by a spell. Fairy lights twinkle on the headboard, casting flickering dots of illumination over Marcus Flint’s body as Percy thrusts into him. Sweat shines, skin sticks to skin as Percy stretches over him. He licks a line along Marcus’s throat.

“Fuck, Percy, don’t fucking stop. S’good. So fucking good.”

But Percy does stop, buried deep inside of Marcus Flint. He kneels there, fingertips gripping those hips, holding himself in place and he just looks. Marcus is splayed on the bed, entirely under Percy’s control. Oh, Percy has no illusions that the ribbons are strong enough to hold Marcus if he were to want to escape. He suspects those muscles could snap them with a thought. But Marcus Flint has given himself to Percy, given his trust, and Percy loves that. He loves the feel of being the stronger one, the feel of knowing that whatever he says, Marcus will do.

“You want me to fuck you,” Percy murmurs. The word feels harsh on his tongue, rough and dirty and entirely unlike anything he normally says. “You want me to fuck you until you’re fucking well screaming, don’t you?”

Marcus stares at him, and he nods once, a low growl building. “Get on with it,” he orders.

And Percy laughs. Just laughs. He doesn’t know where it came from, but it vibrates through him much like the growl he can feel shuddering through Marcus. “I’m in control here,” he says with a smile. His fingers slide up his chest, tweaking two nipples sharply until Marcus jerks beneath him. “Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

He likes the word. Marcus uses it often, but Percy has always avoided it. It’s vulgar. Crude. But it’s so right just now, so perfect for this situation. He is fucking Marcus Flint on Christmas morning, bathed in the twinkling of fairy lights sparkling over their skin.

Percy can’t think of a better Christmas morning.

“I want you to fuck me.” Marcus snarls the words, hips twitching, snapping as much as they can despite the ribbons. The word sounds even better from his lips, harsh and guttural.

Percy responds with one quick thrust, going as deep as he can, feeling Marcus tighten around him. “Fucking brilliant,” he murmurs. “You have a fucking brilliant arse.”

“Don’t stop,” Marcus begs, and Percy hears the edge of a whine beneath the harsh tone. Percy knows that he has Marcus riding at the edge, his prick thick and hard between them even though Percy already sucked him dry once this morning. So Percy obliges.

He tilts his hips, driving deep inside of Marcus, then withdraws to do it again. He pushes hard, making the bed sway, lights flickering everywhere as if fairy dust is spilling over them. Marcus growls, and Percy silences him by claiming his mouth fiercely. He won’t touch him, won’t wrap his hands around Marcus’s prick because he wants to know if he can come just from this, just from the friction of his body over him and inside of him.

Percy is close. Marcus is tight and hot around him, slick with lubrication and clenching with every thrust. His movements stutter as he starts to lose control, and Marcus’s rumbling slides through him, warming him. He wants this. He wants to do this again, wants to remember this when Christmas is over. “Fuck,” Percy breathes, and Marcus echoes the word roughly with him. “Fuck… fuck… fuck…” And he does, driving into Marcus over and over until he can’t stop and his entire body tenses as he spills inside of him.

He feels Marcus’s prick jerk, feels the spill of sticky fluid between them, and Percy smiles because he did that. A slower kiss this time, nipping at lip then jaw.

Percy breathes in their mixed scents, then exhales long and slow, relaxing. He feels no need to move.

#

The room was still bathed in rainbows, but Marcus’s eyes were closed. Percy laid down beside him, stretching out to almost match his length beneath the tree. He dangled the ribbons from his fist, letting their soft tips trail over Marcus’s throat.

He watched as the other man swallowed, clenched his hands, and didn’t move a muscle otherwise.

“If you’re to be a gift, you ought to be properly wrapped.” Percy’s tone was clipped, made prim by nerves. He reached for one hand and let all the ribbons fall save one bright red one. That one he wrapped around Marcus’s wrist, tugging one end tight.

Eyes flew open, pupils blown wide as a low groan slipped free. Percy chose to take that moment for a risk and silence Marcus, mouth to mouth, cautious at first, then demanding as he gripped that ribbon wrapped wrist and raised it over Marcus’s head.

Hips lifted, and Marcus groaned again, and Percy felt a rush of blood to his groin, thickening his prick until his trousers were tight. “Bloody hell,” he whispered.

“Not a fucking word about this.” Marcus held his gaze. “S’not something I want spread around.”

“That you’re bent or that you’re even more turned on by the ribbon around your wrist?” Percy shot back. “Or perhaps it’s the rainbows. Your reputation as a tough as nails Quidditch player might suffer if I were to mention to the press that your favorite holiday ornament is a rainbow star.”

Marcus simply raised his other wrist, and Percy wrapped the ribbon around that as well, then lashed them both to the tree trunk. All of the above, Percy thought. All of the above.

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke again. “Not a word,” Percy agreed. “This stays between us.”

It took a tap of his wand and Marcus was left naked, his erection thick and hard, red against his belly. Percy’s fingers skated over it, gently chasing colors as they shifted and changed, ignoring the entreaties for him to fucking get on with it already. He closed his hand around Marcus’s prick, stroking from root to tip, teasing him by rolling his hand over the head. “Not yet. This might be the better time for some questions. For example, do you prefer to take it up the arse, or are you the sort who expects me to bare my arse for you, even though you’ve gone and gotten yourself a bit tied up at the moment?”

Percy considered him, not letting Marcus respond before he decided for himself. “I think your arse is mine,” he said quietly. “I think I’m not the only one here who’s thought of this before. And you’ve trusted me here, and I’m going to wrap you up properly, then unwrap you and take quite thorough advantage of you, while you’re utterly unable to get away.”

Another swish of his wand and the ribbons came to life, twisting around Marcus’s groin, hiding him from Percy’s view. He could see the erection straining against the silk, twitching when Marcus growled and shifted. “Fuck, Perce, I said unwrap, not truss me up—” His voice trailed off as Percy pressed the heel of his hand against that long, hard ridge, stroking firmly. “Fuck.” Marcus’s head fell back, eyes closed, hands clenching where they were bound. “S’fucking good.”

There wasn’t a lot of room beneath the tree, but there was enough for Percy to lie down and quickly shimmy out of his own clothes, tossing them aside. They could be folded later, made neat later. Tonight was still outside of time, still something strange and unusual and magical, and for just this moment, perhaps Percy could revel in being messy.

“I wanted you,” Percy admitted. “When we were working together back in school.” It was easier to say, now that he could see what Marcus wanted, see that he’d held even more secrets than Percy himself. His hand drifted down to cup beribboned balls, squeezing gently, teasing Marcus.

“S’alright.” The words slurred together, hissed through gritted teeth. “Fuck. Yes. Wanted you too. Can you just fucking well get on with it?”

Percy’s hand halted, and he looked at Marcus. Really looked at him, this big brawn of a bloke spread out beneath a Christmas tree, wrapped for Percy and Percy alone. A gift. And Percy flushed a deep rose. “Well. There’s just one bit of a problem. You see I’ve… I’ve…”

“Fucking hell, Percy, are you trying to tell me you’re a bloody virgin?” Marcus twisted, unable to get leverage as he craned his head to meet Percy’s gaze.

Percy nodded. “Yes. That’s it exactly. And while books are certainly illuminating, I have to admit to a certain lack of hands-on experience, so it might rather help if you could talk me through the experience.” He straddled the larger man, feeling the way his cock brushed over the silk-wrapped prick. “You do have more experience than I, I’m assuming.”

“Mm.” Marcus lifted his hips, and this time it was Percy who groaned. “I’ve done it once or twice. S’a lot a bloke can do without actually getting fucked.”

Percy’s lips thinned. “I’ve given a blow job,” he said primly. “And several hand jobs. I assure you, I’m not entirely innocent here.”

Marcus snorted. “Then figure this is m’gift to you. Now could you just fucking well get on with unwrapping me already? Lube’s in the bedroom.”

Lubrication, of course, they would be needing that. Percy summoned it, setting it within reach along with his wand. Marcus gave him a spell for cleansing next, and Percy repeated it easily, watching Marcus squirm under the spell’s effect. Then he turned his focus entirely to touching Marcus.

His chest first, broad and covered with a smattering of hair. Percy sought one nipple, tasting it, teasing it to a hard peak before he sought the other and did the same. Marcus tasted faintly of sweat, and for a moment Percy thought he tasted something else that he couldn’t quite catch. Cinnamon? Perhaps. An image flitted through his mind, of warm cocoa laced with cinnamon, pouring it over Marcus’s chest and licking it clean. His prick twitched, balls tightening at the thought. Later, perhaps.

His fingers found the ends of the ribbons, and he slowly unwound them, hips shifting down Marcus’s legs, pinning him in place. He undid the silk inch by inch, kissing every bit of skin as it was exposed: the bone of his hip, the muscle of his belly, the tip of his prick that already wept fluid. He teased the slit at the tip when he found it, pressing his tongue into it, then letting his mouth glide down, pushing ribbons out of the way as the foreskin slipped back. Marcus cursed, and Percy responded by letting his prick slip from his mouth, tugging at a ribbon with his teeth instead.

Marcus was unwrapped achingly slowly, and it was torture for Percy as much as Marcus, he thought. Every taste inflamed him, made him want more. The musky smell of Marcus’s arousal, the warmth as Percy kissed behind his balls. Marcus was hairy, but Percy didn’t mind it, he just wanted to tease him. Firing him up. Making him ache to be fucked.

Fucked. Percy loved that word right then.

The last ribbon came free and Marcus groaned at the release, hips thrusting up. The soft, hot skin of his cock slid against Percy’s cheek, and he nuzzled him, tasting salt and bitter fluid from the tip.

“Fuck, Percy, I want you to fuck me.”

It wasn’t an order this time. It wasn’t begging, it wasn’t desperate. It was simply, honestly said. Percy leaned back on his knees and looked up to find Marcus watching him. Percy offered a nervous smile. “You’ll have to tell me if I’m hurting you.”

“S’okay, you won’t.” Marcus let his head drop back. “Trust you.”

Trust was a heady thing, and something in short supply in Percy’s life. The people at the Ministry trusted him to do his job, but not for anything else. He knew he was still that boy from the Weasley family, if they even remembered who he was exactly. And his family didn’t trust him at all.

But Marcus Flint, his unexpected friend and even more unexpected lover, trusted him.

That was, perhaps, more arousing than anything else that had occurred.

Percy spilled lubricant over his fingers, too much in his haste, the slippery fluid coating his inner thighs and balls at the same time. He quickly placed his fingers at Marcus’s hole and pressed two inside. They caught, unmoving, for a moment before Marcus opened and they slipped in to the first knuckle as Marcus groaned.

“Is that too much?” Percy asked worriedly.

“S’fine. S’good.” Marcus’s breath came in rough pants. “S’okay. Keep going.”

Percy’s heart hammered wildly in his chest as he pushed and felt those fingers slide into Marcus’s tight, warm channel. Marcus clung to him, pushing against him as Percy withdrew and pushed again, fucking Marcus with careful strokes. It was so sodding tight, he couldn’t imagine how he was going to fit.

He couldn’t imagine how he was going to last once he was in. Fuck, he was about ready to go off just like this, thinking about it.

He didn’t want to wait.

He withdrew his fingers and lined himself up, staring down at the way the head of his cock rested against Marcus’s hole. It was open slightly, waiting for him, glistening with lubricant. Percy was long and thin, and he thought it would work. He knew it would work; after all, the books said it would work.

“I’m going to fuck you now.” The words clipped from nerves, thin and tight, and Marcus’s answering laugh was hoarse.

“Do it,” he ordered.

So Percy did. He pressed forward, waiting for that moment when Marcus’s ass welcomed him in, opening and letting him slide slowly inside until he was seated balls deep. “Fuck.” Percy couldn’t help the oath and nothing else sounded right in his mind but that. “Oh fuck, this is sodding brilliant.”

“Fucking brilliant,” Marcus growled. “S’fucking brilliant.”

Fucking. Oh dear Merlin, that was the word for this. Percy started to move, withdrawing just enough to drive back in again, his balls slapping against Marcus’s arse. He lost himself in the tight, wet slide of prick against arse, lost himself in the rhythm and motion, in the sound of Marcus’s groans and grunts. He knew some of the sound was himself, making delightfully wonderfully improper noises as he fucked him.

Percy wrapped one hand around Marcus’s prick, his palm still slick from the lube, and started to stroke. He felt the moment that Marcus lost control, the tight clench around Percy’s prick moments before hot fluid spilled over his hand. It was almost too much, too tight, and Percy cried out as he stroked one more time and spilled inside of him.

He collapsed on top of Marcus, breathing roughly, dragging in air and trying to hold oxygen in his lungs. “Fuck…” he exhaled.

Marcus’s laugh rumbled in his chest. “Think you’ve cursed more tonight than in your whole sodding life.”

“Seemed appropriate,” Percy murmured. He pulled free and stretched out next to Marcus, content to watch the play of rainbow lights over their skin. He released the spell, setting Marcus’s hands free, and pulled one to his lips, kissing the fingertips. “It was, indeed, a fucking brilliant Christmas gift.”

He felt something tickle at his wrist, and when he looked, Marcus wrapped a red ribbon around it, tying it loosely. Percy shivered.

“I’ve always fancied getting gifts in bed,” Marcus mused. “If you’re up for another go.” He tugged at the ribbon.

“As long as you don’t expect me to fit in your stocking come Christmas morning,” Percy responded. “You go on, and I’ll be there shortly. There’s something I need to do.”

Marcus frowned. “What’s that?”

“I’m assuming you’ve got the makings for cocoa in your cabinets. I find myself craving a cup.” Percy smirked. “Don’t worry. I promise I’ll share.”

#

The spell ends and mid-morning light spills through the room, casting shimmers across naked skin. Percy blinks into the brightness, and inhales the scent of stale arousal and chocolate. He is curled half on Marcus, their bodies not quite stuck together by sweat and orgasms.

He can’t think of any place he’d rather be.

“Might be gifts under the tree,” Marcus rumbles.

Percy murmurs nonsense as a reply, kissing his shoulder. He’s not ready to move, and Father Christmas isn’t real. Although he has to admit that it’s certainly possible that some Flint house elf has come with gifts for Marcus, filling the stockings with treats and piling gifts high beneath the tree. There won’t be gifts for Percy. He doesn’t belong here, and he has already sent back the one gift from his family hours ago.

All that doesn’t matter.

“I don’t actually care,” Percy replies mildly. “I’ve already had my gift.”

“Have you?”

Percy pulls back to look at Marcus, one hand against his chest. “I most certainly have. Wrapped and unwrapped, under the tree and in bed. Both Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. I count this a holiday well-celebrated.”

Marcus captures his hand, large fingers wrapping around slender ones, and brings it to his lips to press a kiss to Percy’s palm. “So do I.”

Blue eyes are serious, and Percy wonders if this is what he was afraid of all along. That stepping over that boundary meant treading a path where one couldn’t quite return the same way one had gone. That doing this meant going irrevocably forward.

He doesn’t mind. He really doesn’t mind at all.

Marcus stretches, then rolls out of bed. He finds tinsel somewhere and tosses a ball of it that explodes into a rain of silver strands on Percy’s chest. “Happy Christmas,” he rumbles.

“Happy Christmas indeed.”

After all, it’s been one of the best Percy can remember, and one he’ll keep close to his heart.