Title: Baby, It’s Cold Outside
Summary: It’s a cold Christmas Eve, but Harry has a way of melting all Draco’s defences.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Epilogue compliant? I think it’s safe to say that’s a no.
Word Count: 3900
Author's Notes: Arineat, a little birdy told me you liked it pr0ny. I hope this satisfies. A million thanks to my co-author who saved this story from its abysmal beginnings. Thanks x a billionty to C, E & T. Happy Holidays, my lovely H/D’ers! ♥
Draco stepped through the Floo into his flat, stumbling only slightly. He’d drunk a bit too much at Pansy’s annual Slytherin-reunion-slash-Christmas-Eve-pa
It had been a particularly rough evening, however, even by their standards. Pansy had been incensed when Blaise had shown up only weeks after their break-up, bringing not just one but two dates, resulting in a screaming row and Pansy hexing Blaise and one of his dates before tossing them out and then drinking herself blind. Daphne and Astoria were apparently never going to forgive Draco for being gay and were going on year eight of giving him the cold shoulder. Theo was maudlin about the recent break-up of his marriage and spent most of the night moping in a corner. Millicent was smugly pregnant and seemingly unable to discuss anything outside of her reproductive capacities. Greg had been passed out by ten-thirty, leaving Draco to fend for himself in the increasing misery. And all the while, a dreary winter rain had fallen outside, a perfect mirror of the gloom inside.
He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, grateful for the silence of his flat.
He’d just started to brush the stray bits of ash from his sleeve when he realised he wasn’t alone. His visitor made no sound to alert Draco to his presence but Draco knew he was there all the same. He always knew when Potter was in the room. He could feel Potter’s eyes on him, feel the pull of him from across the room.
Draco’s pulse picked up and his whole body flushed. He hated how his body always betrayed him, giving away all his secrets within seconds. Potter would notice, too. How he had ever thought the man oblivious was beyond him; Potter noticed everything. Every hitch of Draco’s breath, every tremor of his body, every moment’s hesitation, every word left unsaid. Even now he’d probably noticed the way Draco had gone still, the way his breathing had gone quick and shallow.
Even though he knew he wasn’t fooling either of them, Draco took a minute to compose himself under the guise of dusting off his clothing. He adjusted his shirt and smoothed his hair. He didn’t speak until he was sure his voice would come out cool and even.
“Christmas Eve?” he asked without turning around. He wasn’t ready to face Potter, not yet. “Really?”
There was a creak of a floorboard and then Potter’s body fit itself snugly behind him, hands reaching around to divest him of his suit jacket. Potter tossed it aside carelessly; he never treated Draco’s clothes with the respect they deserved. Draco opened his mouth to chastise him for it but then Potter’s hands came around him again and started making short work of the buttons of Draco’s shirt and he decided the lecture on the proper handling of clothing could wait until later.
As he freed each button, Potter’s fingers brushed over the bare skin of Draco’s torso, setting sparks racing across Draco’s skin the way Potter’s touch always did. By now, he had learned all the things Potter did to his body, the effect he could have with his hands, his mouth, his words. Even his silences, when he just looked at Draco with those green eyes that hid nothing and demanded everything. Once the shirt was undone, Potter’s hand closed around Draco’s wrist, encircling it in a loose grip. His thumb moved in small circles against the soft skin at his pulse point. Potter breathed a contented sigh and Draco tried to ignore the way something loosened in his chest at the sound. The gentle circling went on for another moment, Potter’s body strong and solid against Draco’s back, his breath warm on Draco’s neck, and then Potter went to work on Draco’s cufflinks.
The cufflinks fell to the floor and then Potter pulled Draco’s shirttails free of his trousers and slid his hands up Draco’s torso and over his shoulders. There was the soft slither of fabric over skin as the shirt slid from Draco’s body onto the floor. Potter’s hands retraced their path, skimming back down over Draco’s shoulders, his chest, his stomach, before coming to rest on his hips. Potter’s touch was light and Draco’s skin prickled into goose flesh.
Potter’s lips pressed to Draco’s ear. “I left the Weasleys’ early. I knew you wouldn’t be home for hours but I came anyway. Just so I could sit here and wait for you. ”
Draco’s stomach fluttered. He pictured Potter sitting alone in his dark flat, the hours ticking by as he waited, imagined. Planned.
Potter’s hands worked Draco’s belt buckle with practiced ease. He pulled the leather through the belt loops and tossed it on the floor. A quick pop of a button and pull of a zip and Draco’s trousers pooled around his ankles. He shivered in the cool air of the room and kicked off his trousers, along with his shoes and socks. He heard a shuffling behind him, felt Potter bend and straighten, and then Potter’s body was back, pressed against his, skin to skin with nothing between them. Draco’s breath hitched.
Potter bent his head and ran his nose along the line of Draco’s shoulder, up the back of his neck, and into his hair. He buried his face there and inhaled deeply. Potter’s muscles relaxed as he breathed Draco in, as if, even after an evening spent with the people he considered his family, it was still Draco he needed before he could let go and just be. Heat pooled low in Draco’s belly at the thought and he couldn’t keep himself from pressing back into the touch. Potter nuzzled Draco’s hair and neck, his body loosening, leaning into Draco just that much more, and with every breath he whispered Draco’s name, again and again, his lips moving against Draco’s skin, warm and soft. The tension of the evening, Pansy’s tears and Millicent’s smirk, felt years away, so far from the desperation in Potter’s quiet need.
Potter lingered there for several long moments, grazing his teeth over the muscles of Draco’s neck, his hands moving over Draco’s body, not with any purpose other than just to feel him, and Draco suddenly wished he weren’t so drunk. He wasn’t prepared for this, hadn’t expected Potter on Christmas Eve, had thought he’d stay with the Weasleys like he’d told Draco he was going to only last week. If he’d known there was a chance he’d be seeing Potter, he wouldn’t have had so much wine. He wouldn’t have let Pansy talk to him about loneliness and love and make him start thinking about what life would be like if he granted Potter‘s oft-spoken wish and let this thing between them turn into something more. He wouldn’t have let his mind linger over all those things he tried not to think about, not to dream about, not to want.
If he’d known he was going to see Potter, he would have stayed sober and hard because if there was one thing that Draco had learned in the months that he and Potter had been doing whatever it was they were doing, it was that Potter was dangerous. He’d always known that to some degree, of course, known that Potter had some kind of weird hold over him that made him do stupid things to get his attention or prove him wrong. But that was before he’d known this Potter, the one that came to him in the middle of the night and wrung pleasure from him until Draco was mindless and shaking and begging for release. The Potter who knew all of Draco’s secrets, who drew Draco’s emotions out of him as easily as drawing water from a well. The Potter who lingered in the back of Draco’s mind, who left traces on his body, sense memories that would appear at random, the feeling of lips on the nape of his neck, of fingertips along the inside of his arm, of breath ghosting over the curve of his arse. The Potter who refused to pretend, refused to deny what he wanted. The Potter who wouldn’t let Draco pretend either.
The Potter who Draco fought against like a drowning man fighting the tide. But, like the tide, this Potter was relentless. It was all Draco could do to keep his head above water on the best of days, but now, like this, when the energy hummed between them, when there was emotion in Potter’s touch and he was making Draco’s whole body sing, Draco didn’t stand a chance.
Potter’s hands ceased their roaming of Draco’s body, stilling again on his hips. Potter peeled away from Draco’s back, cold air rushing into the space between them. There was a pause and Draco could feel the sweep of Potter’s gaze up and down his body. One hand left Draco’s hip to trace down his spine and over the swell of his arse.
“You are so beautiful,” Potter said and then dropped to his knees.
Potter knelt there behind him, his hands gliding over Draco’s arse, smooth and gentle, again and again, sensitising the skin until Draco had to grit his teeth against the urge to thrust backwards and rub his arse into Potter’s face. He squirmed and shifted but Potter lingered, touching too softly, his breath a maddening tease against Draco’s skin.
“Beautiful,” he said again.
Then he nudged Draco’s feet farther apart and his hands spread Draco open and Draco had to steady himself on the mantel over the hearth. Draco expected another pause, more looking, and he was startled by the sudden feel of Potter’s mouth on him. The touch of Potter’s tongue on his skin felt like fire, the surprise of it intensifying the sensation, setting Draco to burning. Potter pressed his tongue flat to Draco’s skin and licked a broad stripe from the base of his balls all the way up the crack of his arse. He did it again and then once more and then blew on Draco’s damp skin, making him shiver.
He heard himself whine, a needy sound from the back of his throat. Potter chuckled and pressed his mouth to Draco’s arsehole properly. His lips parted and Draco felt the soft slickness of Potter’s tongue as it flicked over the furled flesh, light and teasing at first, then pressed flat as Potter licked, slow and hot, over and over. He sealed his lips tight against Draco’s skin and the tip of his tongue dipped into Draco’s hole. Draco quivered, the tight circle of muscle twitching open and closed under Potter’s ministrations. The need for more was starting to become overwhelming. Bending forward, he tightened his grip on the mantel. The shift in position opened him even further, and Potter nudged forward eagerly.
Potter tongue’s stiffened and pushed hard against Draco’s arsehole. Draco breathed deep and concentrated on relaxing, letting himself open. As Draco let go, he heard Potter moan into him, felt the vibration of it against his skin, and then Potter’s hot, wet tongue was inside him, plunging into him, driving in as far as Potter could manage. Draco’s head fell forward in pleasure. He tightened his hold on the mantel until his fingers ached.
The world went hazy around the edges as Potter fucked him with his tongue. Again and again, Potter pushed into him, hot and wet and soft and, fuck, so good, but still not enough. Draco’s hips began to move of their own accord, tilting back in rhythm with the movements of Potter’s tongue, a silent plea for more. Potter got the message; Draco felt the brush of knuckles as Potter wet his fingers. Then one of those fingers joined Potter’s tongue in his arse, rough in comparison to the softness of Potter’s tongue and lips. Draco squeezed his eyes shut. Potter’s finger moved in and out of Draco’s arse, gently but steadily, pressing in all the way to the knuckle with each stroke. A second finger joined the first, together pushing and thrusting for several long moments before parting to spread Draco’s arsehole open further, allowing Harry’s tongue to press in even deeper.
“Oh god, Potter.” The words tore from Draco’s throat. “Just fuck me already.” Draco bent over further, grinding back against Potter’s hand and mouth.
Potter stilled and Draco thought for a second he was going to go on, torture Draco until he begged. Draco was about to add a ‘please’ but Potter’s fingers withdrew and both of his hands moved to grip Draco’s hips. Draco hissed as Potter scraped his teeth up Draco’s right arse cheek and then nipped his way back down the left. Draco jerked helplessly at each sharp, stinging bite. Potter stood, at last, and Draco straightened and braced himself.
But Potter tugged at Draco’s shoulder. “Not like that. I want to see your face.”
Draco turned, hesitating before raising his eyes to meet Potter’s. Potter’s chin and cheeks were smeared with saliva, his lips pink and wet. Even in the dim lighting of the room, there was no mistaking the colour in his cheeks or the blown-wide pupils. Chest to chest, each ragged inhale pressed them that much closer to each other.
Potter’s gaze roved over Draco’s face. He looked like he would say something but then those burning green eyes fluttered shut and his mouth found Draco’s and drew him into a kiss that flayed Draco open, exposed every last bit of him. Potter’s tongue filled his mouth, slick and hot and demanding a response. Draco wouldn’t have been able to hold back even if he’d wanted to. He plunged his hands into Potter’s wild shock of hair and pulled him closer, crushing their mouths together until it was almost painful.
Without breaking the kiss, Potter turned them around and started to walk them down the hall towards Draco’s bedroom. Draco knew he should resist, should make Potter fuck him there against the mantel and not in the bed where it would feel like something more. Too much more. Yet Draco made no move to stop the progress, nipping and tugging at Potter’s lips as they walked. Potter groaned and bit back, sharp, even teeth closing down on the soft flesh of Draco’s bottom lip, pulling it into his mouth to lick and suck. Draco felt like every inch of him was throbbing with need as they stumbled through the flat.
When the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, Draco fell back willingly, pulling Potter down with him, all thoughts of being cautious gone. His thighs dropped open and Potter settled between them, covering Draco’s body with this own, his mouth still moving on Draco’s, hungry and restless. Potter’s erection pressed into his stomach, hot and hard, and Draco felt like he couldn’t wait a second longer.
He tore his mouth free from Potter’s, gasping. “Now, Potter.”
Potter pulled back slowly, giving one last lick to Draco’s mouth. He leaned over to Draco’s bedside table and pulled the lube from the drawer, the ease and familiarity of it sending a flare of warmth at the base of Draco spine that he refused to acknowledge. They really should have fucked in the living room.
Potter squeezed out a handful, first slicking his cock, and then fingering the rest into Draco’s hole. Then finally, finally, he lined up, and Draco felt the blunt head of Potter’s prick brushing against his arsehole and his eyes fell shut knowing what was coming.
Potter paused then, the way he always did, brushing the tip of his cock back and forth across Draco’s hole, relishing the feel and the anticipation. It was maddening. Potter knew it and did it anyway, every time. Then, just as Draco was about to scream from the aching frustration of it, Potter pushed forward, sinking into Draco in one long, burning stroke.
Draco gasped and shuddered, the sensation of being stretched and filled overwhelming. Potter didn’t wait. He began to thrust, shallow at first as he found his angle but then deep and long and hard. He read Draco like a book, knew exactly what he liked, knew when he’d found the right angle, the right rhythm, knew how to bring Draco quickly to the far edge of pleasure and, then, how to hold off that mad descent into orgasm, how to keep him teetering there on the brink until Draco was reduced to a writhing, gibbering mess.
It didn’t take long. Draco didn’t know what it was, if it was the alcohol or the melancholy or just random luck, but he was right there within minutes, his body squirming and twisting under Potter’s, ragged breath scraping from his throat. His hands scrabbled and twisted in the bed sheets, seeking anchor, something to hold onto that would keep him from flying apart. He panted and thrashed and gave himself over to the pleasure, letting it wash over him, letting it sweep everything else away.
Potter shifted above him, his arms closing around Draco, scooping him up off the mattress and drawing him close. He pulled them upright, Draco in Potter’s lap, Potter’s hips still rocking upwards, still driving into him, but slow and deep. The energy seemed to change with the change of position. The need ran deeper, the emotion higher, and Draco knew he was playing with fire now, but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to.
Potter ran his cheek along Draco’s, stubble rasping against his skin.
“Draco...Draco...” Potter whispered, tone hushed, almost reverent. “God, you’re so...”
He trailed off, his words replaced by moans, the rocking of his hips becoming more urgent, less coordinated, and he pressed Draco even tighter against him. Draco could feel his orgasm starting to uncoil, the rush of tension breaking loose, streaking down his spine. The pleasure felt white-hot as he came, and for several long seconds the world blurred, separated, and Draco was floating. He rode out the sensation, eyes squeezed shut, body trembling. Potter came only seconds later, his face pressed into Draco’s shoulder, muffling his choked cry as his body shuddered and jerked.
They remained like that for several long minutes, Draco in Potter’s lap, Potter’s softening cock inside him, Draco’s come sticky and cooling on their bellies. Potter’s face was still pressed into Draco’s shoulder, his arms holding Draco tight.
When their hearts had slowed and their breathing evened out, Draco disentangled himself from Potter and flopped back down onto the bed. Potter lay down beside him, pulling Draco’s thick duvet over them both. The room stank of sex and it was much too warm under the duvet with both of them so hot and sweaty, but Draco felt sated and still a little bit drunk and peaceful in a way that should have been discomfiting but instead was just...nice...
He was on the edge of sleep when he felt fingers gently smoothing the hair away from his face and tucking loose strands behind his ear. Draco’s heart turned over at the tenderness of the touch. Dangerous. Potter was so dangerous.
“How much longer are you going to keep pushing me away?” Potter whispered.
Until I stop wanting you so badly, Draco thought. Until I can get through a day without thinking about you. Until I stop being completely terrified by the thought that you might never come back.
A stab of adrenalin chased away the pleasant post-shag stupor. Oh god, what if one day Potter didn’t come back? What if he got up and left and Draco never saw him again?
His chest ached and his heart seemed lodged in his throat, but he said nothing, didn’t even move.
Potter sighed and pushed the duvet aside, preparing to rise to his feet. Draco couldn’t control much about Potter’s behaviour but he had trained him in this – Potter knew better than to expect to stay the night. He knew better than to even ask. Early on, these nights had ended with Draco’s hurtful words and Potter’s scowl, the whoosh of the Floo and a cold empty bed, with Draco telling himself he was glad for it, and wishing that Potter had fought a little harder to stay. Now they ended with sullen resignation on Potter’s part and Draco alone and still trying to convince himself that was the way he wanted it.
Potter dressed slowly, the floor creaking as he moved about, the rustling of his clothing loud in the quiet of the room. It didn’t take him long and then he was leaning over Draco, looking despondent.
“Happy Christmas, Draco,” he said.
Potter straightened and started to move away when Draco’s hand shot out, closing around his wrist, stopping him.
Potter turned back with a questioning look.
Draco swallowed. Panic squeezed his lungs. He shouldn’t do this. It was a mistake. It wasn’t smart. He’d regret it later. It was the wrong choice and he shouldn’t do it. He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t –
“It’s cold outside.” The words left him before he’d even made the decision to speak.
Potter’s questioning look turned confused.
“The weather is terrible,” Draco continued and he couldn’t look at Potter, had to look down at the duvet, had to study its stitches and folds as he spoke. But he didn’t let go of Potter’s wrist. “For travelling, I mean.”
Draco glanced up briefly, saw the puzzled frown on Potter’s face. “I heard it’s supposed to storm all night. High winds. Freezing rain. Maybe even snow. Dangerous conditions.” He nodded towards the bedroom window where, sure enough, raindrops spattered against the pane.
Potter’s gaze went to the window, too. “Well,” he said slowly, carefully, as if testing out a response. “Lucky for me, I’m a wizard and can just Floo home without worrying about it.”
Draco shook his head. “Nights like this, sometimes it’s better to just stay where you are.” He tightened his grip and looked at Potter. “It’s cold outside.”
There was a beat and then Potter broke into a wide smile. “So it is.”
“Exactly,” Draco said and nodded firmly. He hoped to god he didn’t look as ridiculously happy as Potter did but he had a nasty suspicion that, in his own way, he did.
Potter had his clothes off and was back under the duvet with Draco in less than ten seconds. As he slid closer and wrapped an arm around Draco’s waist, Draco couldn’t help thinking – despite his pounding heart and stuttering breath – that it wasn’t nearly as frightening as he’d thought it would be. Having Potter curled up beside him in his bed on Christmas Eve didn’t feel like drowning or danger or anything remotely scary. It didn’t feel like the wrong choice and it didn’t feel like a mistake. In fact, for the first time in a long time, he rather felt that everything was just as it was supposed to be.
Potter’s hand started to trace slow circles on Draco’s belly and Draco could feel a burgeoning erection press against his thigh. Potter shifted closer and mouthed at the curve of Draco’s ear.
“Happy Christmas, Draco,” he said, sounding much more cheerful than he had the last time he’d said it.
Draco smiled and turned face him. “Happy Christmas, Harry.”