Unofficial Portkey Archive

This is a shag scene. It is only a shag scene. Had it been a real love scene, I would've had ten thousand words to build up to it, and a sweet climactic end befitting such a lengthy wait. There's no mentioned emotional compensation for their actions; Instead I have to force them to do it, because this could go on forever, and if they didn't, it would either be overlong or incomplete. So to make it a whole story, I'll let them work off their already grossly OOC aggressions. Besides, I have another idea for a less OOC, far more patient plot, which could develop and get posted here soon. Reviews on the completed story will be most appreciated to let me know how to better convey sex without having to use the word "cock." Please enjoy the brief unabashedly Out of Character conclusion to Our First Christmas. O brother, even the title is super generic; there are enough screw stories here that having one more shouldn't peeve anybody. OOC will be my brand name for this story, I need to include a big capital notice in the summary: O. O. C.

I consider out of character to mean something a character would never do under any circumstances. Therefore, this, ladies and gentlemen, is either extreme circumstances, (which it is not,) or it is me abandoning all hope of rescuing my story, and transforming the beloved Hermione into a dominatrix. Two whole lines of dialogue.

Enjoy anyway, Hippie

Aug 8, 2005

If it was any atonement for his overeager hormones of the day before, on Christmas Eve, Harry had a very different take on his relationship. Somehow in a space of twenty four hours, the inevitable crept up on him in a blind spot and jumped in his path to rear its head. Its gorgeous wavy bushy brown head.

Roughly two months had passed since he began picking up on Hermione's subtle hints. Hints of affection that somehow bypassed Ron altogether and appeared directed at Harry. Though Ron's actions often brought about such comments, she only ever shared them with The Boy Who Lived.

Suddenly he was The Boy Who Loved Hermione Granger. The swift nature with which the emotion swept over his life, removing all else from thought, could be compared to provoking a docile tiger. Only when it sinks into you tooth and nail do you realize just how folly it is to tease a beast like love. It seemed to come out of nowhere; a euphoria that encompassed his entire existence, filling all holes and answering all questions.

They had danced around the idea, poked fun at it, enjoyed their private daydreams in the absence of courage to communicate it, but now that it was lying in the open, it seemed wounded and pained. He was happy, and she was happy, but the relationship lie bleeding and choking between them, suffocated by starvation and suddenly breathing deep, feasting on fresh amorous air.

Happy as they were to have confided in each other, and relaxing as the other's arms might've been, this was a beginning, not an end. It didn't feel as though they'd solved the problem; rather, they took a break from it to hide in each other's embrace. It still stood before him in his mind's eye, looming, accusatory and indefinite. It was the beginning of something wonderful, but it hadn't reached the wonderful part just yet.

It was closer than it had ever been, and only now that he was this close did he realize how much he wanted it. No, not that. He wanted her whole self, inside and out; he wanted to feel her feelings and think her thoughts and breathe her breath, and he felt so close to achieving that connection that he dared not stop now.

She was lying in a most vulnerable and innocent position; her top lip even slacked and hung slightly separated from her bottom. She looked tranquilized, and his pupils burning against her eyelids seemed to pull her out of a little doze. She smiled so happily and stretched to hook her arm around him in such a darling drowsy way that his heart seemed to trickle to his stomach again.

Neither of them had slept for very long the night before, and they dozed off and woke impeccably at the same time. It was afternoon; Harry could tell because the sun no longer lit the room properly. Hermione rose and shied out the door without looking his direction, probably to avoid being overly honest and saying, "I'll come right back, I have to pee," he thought. Before he knew it, he was asleep again.

He was heading down to the kitchen when she finally reappeared and followed him down the hall. How were they going to introduce this concept to Ron's family? Here's how, he thought as Hermione scooped up his fingers and grasped them between hers with no sign of abashment. They paused before passing the doorway, exchanging indiscernible looks.

She kissed him; she was acting completely different than just a few days ago; different than last night, even. It felt to him as though she'd been holding back a high tide of emotions all her life and had finally been given his blessing to show him. When they crossed into the next room, however much he had wanted the Weasleys to see the two of them together at long last, the kitchen was empty.

Hermione looked wryly pleased with herself. Harry stuck his head into several other rooms before calling out the names of Ron's parents and siblings. He knew Ron would be gone today to pick out a new -

Hermione slid her arms around Harry's waist in a sultry way, making as much lingering contact as possible. She pressed into his back and nibbled the back of his neck. This was not good. "I convinced them all that they needed some fresh air," she said in a deep voice unlike her usual bemused satisfied tone. This tone sounded like she was plotting to overthrow Harry's whole universe in a single sentence and knew she had succeeded: "- Told them we could use some privacy."

Harry broke out of her grasp cautiously and looked at her aghast. Was she serious? When had she planned this? How often did she rehearse this moment in her bed in the preceding months? He certainly had, but never gave the thought any credibility; he wasn't even sure, until two seconds ago, that she lusted after him in the same manner he craved her.

It seemed stupid for the following two seconds, during which he hesitated for hours in his mind, trying to grasp her behavior. He couldn't just stand there looking as though her plan disgusted him; he tried edging in close to hide his face over her shoulder, but she cut off his attempt with curt kisses which escalated to a continuous tug of war. Far from giving him time to think, it drove her rash, out of character behavior from thought. His most important questions were silenced at the source.

All that mattered was winning this round of tongue fighting. All that made sense were her hands creeping around his sides, and her lower body pressed heavily into his. Who cared that a year ago he would've wanted this from someone else? Who cared that Hermione had never shown any sign of wanting it at all? She obviously did now. Who was he to deny this new Hermione?

Though her movements remained slow and lingering, she began to force her hips against his with what might've been mock desperation, and kept kissing him huskily. Startled rather than forced, he backpedaled several inches, bumping heavily into the dining room table, jostling everything on it with a brief noisy clank of china and silver. She never broke her kiss.

Her eyes were open, then closed, her mouth was kissing him, then his face; she splayed her legs over one of his and straddled it standing while he struggled not to lose balance. He was almost sitting on the table, trusting his weight on its surface while he wedged his arms around her back. They were locked in an embrace, and Harry, though his heart was desperate for reason, found little time to ponder one.

Hermione seemed desperate for him. She leaned into him, adding her weight to his continued effort to remain standing. She was blind from kissing him, utterly lost without thought of consequence or hesitation. Where did this come from? Need he bother to hunt for reason in her logic when she seemed hopelessly impatient to fuck him on the table his surrogate family ate from?

She was trying to eat his face, he decided. She was ten-hundred-thousand times different than he'd ever witnessed her, and he truly didn't mind. He himself would've never given into this before, so what did it matter that they were both hopelessly changed, and their relationship taking leaps and bounds to an adult level? Was it even mature? Love at all? This part was lust; just as surely and wholly as he'd felt her love the night before, he felt her immediate ache for him now.

Was this that well of emotions breaking the levee? An atypical tidal wave of hormones or a full fledged tsunami of love just making landfall? Why did it matter so much to him? He felt the dormant love threatening to tear him apart the night before; why not release it in the closest way possible? His heart sank; she was a step ahead of him the whole way. He was just wondering if he had been keeping up properly when she crossed her arms to the hem of her thick shirt and lifted it gracefully over her head, turning it inside out.

The festive markings on it looked horribly out of place when the weave was backwards, but the skin she hadn't flinched to reveal gave him goose bumps. They must've looked horribly out of place amidst decorations of Christmassy cheer; gentle and warm while the two of them were hot and ravaging. At least, she was, dropping her jumper to the floor unceremoniously.

It made no sense to him, but he decided that it didn't have to. The torrent of pent desires was the tiger. Wholesome wholehearted love had its place in it, but the ferocity of the conception of that love being born was dominant in this moment. They would've never given in without the love. He wasn't really thinking about this, either.

She tore at his clothes, removing his shirt with his counterproductive bewildered help. She was the one to give in, he realized. It turned him on to no end. She rubbed his chest widely, a lusty haze over her eyes. How could this be her? Why was she the one to be dominant? Why did she get to wear the pants for their first sexual encounter?

He felt dejected, uncomfortable, and almost violated, but outweighing those feelings was the cumulative reminder of every single time he'd wanted her this way in the past year. Including, though probably amended in his memory at that moment, their entire past, which suddenly seemed to include them gazing lovingly at one another between heroics. He couldn't recall wanting her this zealously, or for that matter, wanting her to be this zealous.

To interrupt his self interrogation, she deftly took down his jeans, causing him to stand erect (not like that) till they crumpled oddly around his ankles. He struggled to step free of them and fell back against the table again, catching the faintest warmth of a smile from behind her hungry eyes.

Good. She was still her. Somewhere in there was the same Hermione. And at least she let him keep his underwear. She stood back to her full height and finally broke character, almost giggling at the situation like she normally might, had it ever been normal for her to yank his pants off in a horny fit. The way she beamed at him lifted the uncomfortable feelings of hesitation and he was left with, quite appropriately, a perfect balance of love and lust.

She led him by the hand with the same girlish air, shy of skipping, down the familiar path to - O God. As if it wasn't enough for him to be dragged by the hand through Ron's house, having been aggressively undressed by his other best friend, now Hermione led him unerringly to Ron's bedroom.

Granted it was the only room they were always allowed in, and the only one that wasn't unfamiliar and dark, but Jesus Herm. Way to add insult to injury. Or maybe Ron agreed, who cared? She was topless, breaking her hold on Harry's hand to undo her bra. She faced away, making sure to show him only her back. Was she? She wasn't. She wriggled out of her pants and stepped out of them nimbly.

It was about this time that Harry's brain stopped working. The little hamster in the wheel said, "Ah fuck it," and he was left to stare at Hermione's light skin, lit by mid day light, every inch of her body exposed to him. He didn't remember consenting to anything; in fact, every bit of this situation beyond his flirtation was her doing. (as if)

The first thing he consented to knowingly, and perhaps the biggest decision he had made towards any friendship, was to stride to her backside and wrap his arms around her acceptingly. Love filled his heart, and all trace of wanting or desire beyond holding her to his body momentarily dissipated.

She felt the same, or must've, because they basked in the warmth of the window and each other for minutes, grudgingly separating enough for her to turn in place face him. They held one another and seemed lost, their eyes focused on each other but somehow distant, as though they didn't need to see for this. They were reembracing warmly again and again, testing their skin contact and teasing and rubbing together, filled with both evil anticipation and the purest of adorations. It was a giddy feeling, something fully happy without remorse or complaint.

They sank into Ron's bed. It seemed less out of place than he thought it might. As a matter of fact, Hermione taking charge was the only way they'd ever be in this position. Harry accepted in the back of his mind, along with dozens of other simultaneously formulating notes for the future, that he would've never taken this direct route, and for whatever reason, it was what she wanted. She wasn't so off base in her actions, although they stuck out like a sore thumb in the face of Christmas eve.

It appeared that it was still Harry's turn to make a move. They separated on the bed long enough for him to decide what the hell he was going to do. He wished she would go on pacing things for him. The look on her face was unreadable; it was very content, but mixed with zeal. Very innocent and sly at the same time.

Her body was every bit as beautiful and soft to the touch as he imagined. Without hesitating too long or leaning into it too quickly, he moved to kiss her. She obliged; he still felt like she was in charge. She seemed less zealous; Harry knew it wasn't entirely an act to begin with, and suddenly missed it. He hovered over her; she obliged even to lie back on the bed.

Just as Harry became determined to set the pace, she parted her legs so he could lie across her whole body. It wasn't so much that he wanted contact as that his arms and legs buckled from underneath him; he lay on her, feeling her breathing through her stomach and chest. Their bodies were so soft and warm where they pressed against one another; he felt claustrophobic but it was invited.

It wasn't hard to kiss and steadily begin to make the motions of the thing that was on their minds. He was in control, but she had a resolve to her demeanor that led him to question himself. It felt so good; that was why they were going to do it, right? What ulterior motive could possible exist here, clinging to each other, kissing desperately, hips rolling & bellies heaving? Was there a world outside this one; a world which had anything to offer that could make him feel better than being this close to Hermione? Was the give and take that was about to take place all it was cracked up to be? He stopped asking questions. The hamster took the rest of the day off.

Before they committed, wearing a pair of frankly surprised slack-mouthed expressions, they were kissing heavily. Though he'd never remember exactly how, he'd managed to join her in his birthday suit and laid, ready and contemplating, lifting his hips awkwardly to position himself by trial and error. Again, it wasn't too difficult.

It felt to Harry as though they were made for each other, engineered specifically to fit perfectly locked in each other's grasp. She dug her nails into his back for several seconds; he hardly dared to move, both for the sake of her expression, contorted with cute ridges in her brow to mask her pain, and because he felt as though he'd crumple on her and die on the spot.

They hardly looked from each other's faces. Brand new sensations didn't have to be observed except with the senses that perceived them. It was indeed, brand new. Warm and alive. Apart from the physical pleasure washing over the pair of them, it was like having climbed an emotional mountain and having found the plateau. He felt closer to her now than ever, as though every plane of emotional responsibility had been reached and covered. There was nothing to loom over him, no threat of misguided intentions, and absolutely no way he would ever look at her without recalling the love and respect in her eyes as they looked back at him meekly.

Oh. Okay. This is how you do it, he thought, risking a slow and awkward rhythm. Now it truly felt like all the holes in his heart were filled, and every past encounter with her flooded back to him with a loving rush. She filled his mind, his world, and he filled her belly. No, that's mean, he smiled to himself.

She smiled at him and he smiled back. Smiles. Lots of smiles and kind strokes, gentle affections and light embraces. Lots of repetitive grinding, slowly speeding from a cautious lull to a more confident motion. He even tried different movements to see what suited her best. She was keeping quiet as a mouse, but her eyes communicated everything in the world to him. He saw what felt best to her, which often felt the best to himself, and what hurt her, which still unfortunately felt fine to him. They were happily at a loss of words, swapping kisses without breaking eye contact, occasionally sharing sharp inhales or slow exhales, or causing the other more satisfaction, grinning over it.

She seemed to pick up the rhythm on her back, moving her hips at the right intervals, though they were getting to the point of laughing over it when they missed a beat and had to start over. He could tell she was enjoying herself far outside the realm of physical pleasure. Course, it didn't hurt either.

She seemed happy, she seemed more like herself every second until there was no differentiation. There was no horny Hermione, no friendly bookworm Hermione, no girlfriend; she was just, her. He himself found he had shed many masks and taken down his guard to the lowest it had ever been. It seemed rushed in retrospect, but they were taking there time now, weren't they?

Nope. Not really. He was making a sincere effort to make her wear that pitifully strained expression again, and succeeded promptly by quickening his pace. Their bellies pulled apart with a sticky sensation, the same one he got pulling away from her topless hug; skin on skin. He knew his newfound ruthless pounding probably hurt, but he could also tell it felt good to her. It was all the same to him now that he was confident he wasn't going succumb to the pressure right away.

The animal lusting came back; he knew how Hermione felt before they started making love; now he was the tiger, forcing into her while her body worked to opposite ends. She held a continuous humming moan in her throat, clutching fistfuls of Ron's sheets while she grew louder. It wasn't caught in her throat anymore, and slipped out. It egged Harry on further. He knew precisely what he was driving her towards, and wanted her body wracked with pleasure, to know he caused it.

What the hell? Oh, right, the hamster took the day off. The sweet part was over; why did the sweet part need to last so long anyway? They had been at this, by the clock on the wall, twenty minutes. O yeah. He was going to give her a finale. Hopefully encores. He encouraged her, unable to keep entirely silent his whispers of, "come on, 'atta girl,"

Apart from looking a little shocked and more than a little pleased, Hermione beamed at him with familiar eyes. She was all his. There was love in those eyes that just couldn't have been there days before. It couldn't have. Harry doubled his efforts without changing pace. He found anything he could do to her in the seconds she climbed towards an orgasm that would make her body quiver under his. If there were one word to contrast her inevitable loss of control from the preceding moments? "Loud."

That fuckin hamster was never coming back. She called his name with a quiet desperate voice, but he wouldn't relent. She surrendered under the pressure and Harry found out, quite immediately, what a girl's orgasm feels like to the one that gave it to her. He did, indeed collapse on her naked form, buried in her still, and felt like he was dying. Or being born. Or hell, I dunno, it feels fuckin perfect, he concluded, while her arms slacked around his neck. Her feet were slowly replaced on the bed; Harry hadn't noticed how contorted they were.

What the hell do I do now? he asked himself. He stayed wrapped up in her grasp and made to tighten their embrace. It was the closest he'd ever felt to anyone, he wasn't eager to separate. Amidst not knowing what to do, hardly making heads or tails of his own emotions, and having to presume things about his friend that he wouldn't have thought possible, he had found the girl of his dreams.

Only she would've wanted him so much, or would've let herself be in this position. She was the only person he could think of to be in that position with. The thought of any other body underneath his seemed ludicrous. Love or lust? Dormant passion finding an outlet at last or new passion to be written off as heat of the moment? Why? The why wasn't necessarily the most important part of their story.

Christmas came, and went. It seemed uneventful. They dressed shyly, Harry having to retrieve his pants from the kitchen. How it came about, and how it just happened all of a sudden & out of nowhere? Must all be in the spirit of their first Christmas.

You wanna know why? Cause Harry and Hermy need to be together and I only get two hours a day tops to write. Eh this was bad sex, but at least it wasn't completely tasteless. I have accepted the fact that it makes no sense, but instead of rectifying myself I thought I'd dig the hole deeper for your reading pleasure. Shit, this could've been R-rated, couldn't it?

Hopefully I'll get to write out some ideas for a new story, which would undoubtedly be better & have nothing to do with sex till after 10,000 + words. Thanks for reading, please write me some heinous reviews to make flouting the characters out like tramps worth the hours I spent doing it. I ran out of time and interest, which is why it ends so horribly. I didn't even get an author's boner. =[