How Bad Do U Want Me
“Do you have someone special at home waiting for you, dear?”
Draco sighed. Somehow he was even worse off now than he’d been an hour ago, which he hadn’t thought possible. Quite an impressive achievement, really, considering he’d wangled the Minister of Magic’s wife, call me Sheila, love, through the Floo while she was pissed as a newt.
Now he was stuck with a group of witches so old they’d probably been alive with Merlin himself. And for whatever reason, they were deeply invested in Draco’s love life, or more accurately, his seemingly complete lack of one.
“A sweet, charming young man like you should not be alone,” Bridget, or was it Jane, maybe Janice, said.
Despite having been accosted only mere moments ago by someone far too drunk for polite society, Draco was deeply grateful for the open bar and free-flowing alcohol. He couldn’t possibly endure this sober and still stay out of Azkaban. Still, he might actually end up murdering someone with his bare hands. It felt like that kind of night. He’d take out Anderson from Games and Sports first, since Potter was all the way across the room and unlikely to come anywhere near Draco this evening. Well… He could always use his wand.
“First of all,” Draco said, “I’m not that sweet, and I’m really not that charming.”
“Nonsense, dear! We’re plenty charmed. Aren’t we, ladies!”
Secondly, he wanted to add, there is someone. He just didn’t have him. Not like that. Not waiting at home, or even just standing next to him.
At that exact moment, Potter’s laugh carried over the dance floor, making heads turn and prompting Draco’s gang of old ladies to sigh dreamily. He wished he could blame them, but the man was gorgeous and absolutely worthy of swooning.
Even without the infectious laughter, Potter was hard to miss. Draco had hoped he wouldn’t show, but of course Potter was here. He’d even warned Draco. I’ll be there, he’d said.
Not even Come talk to me.
It made Draco feel like– Well, it made Draco feel. Better left at that.
He had to settle for glaring daggers at Potter from a distance, tragically ineffective as far as killing went. Besides, what Draco really wanted was Potter alive, flushed, moaning and begging underneath him.
To hide the tremor in his hands, Draco tried tucking them into the pockets of his too-tight jeans. They wouldn’t fit. Like an absolute idiot, he’d worn the jeans he knew Potter liked. They shamelessly emphasised the perfect lines of his buttocks and long legs. Worth every Galleon, if you asked him, but they weren’t designed to hide anything, least of all insecurities. Not that Draco had many. Potter had always been the exception.
He’d chosen them specifically because of the ridiculous holes, the ones Potter always ended up sliding his tanned fingers through on pub nights, as if he couldn’t help himself.
Merlin, this party was unbearable. Fun and festive were definitely not words Draco would use to describe this torture of a Christmas party. He wanted to be somewhere else — anywhere else. Preferably naked.
Unfortunately with a very specific someone.
What he wanted was that woodsy, intoxicating scent of Potter cloaked around him. He wanted his bedsheets soaked in it. He wanted slow-burn heat, sun-kissed skin, and to read Potter's body by way of the scattered, hidden freckles like braille.
How many people even knew about them? How many people truly knew Potter? How prettily he yielded, how easily he went pliant when held down. How he purred in contentment when you played with the soft-curling hair at the nape of his neck.
Potter was smiling from the crowd, one of his real ones, not the tight, polite thing Draco was attempting, and Draco was more sure than ever that something must have happened back then, all those years ago. While he’d been busy bleeding out on cold white tiles, chest open, barely breathing, between the yelling and the panic, something must have slipped into the gashes.
Something wild and compelling.
His skin must have healed over it, sealed tight, but whatever it was, whatever of Potter had been left behind, had stayed. It had spread like wildfire since, seeping into everything, itching and stinging and refusing to be contained. Draco had tried to get it out, to shove it back into Potter where it belonged, but it only seemed to grow.
He had to get out now, get some fresh air, not stand here like a pathetic idiot.
Of course Potter didn’t want to be seen with Draco. He was bleeding inconvenient feelings all over the place. Just like last time. Draco cringed at the memory.
“How bad do you want me?”
He’d meant for the words to come out confident and seductive, playful in a way that made the intention unmistakable — like they used to. Instead, they’d spilled out of him blatantly transparent, as bruised as the mouth they came from. It was painfully obvious what he’d meant.
How badly do you want me?
This thing between them was different. Something Draco had never experienced before. Something more of… Everything.
The snow was a small relief on his overheated skin. Above him, the night sky glittered with distant stars, lightyears away. Unreachable, meant only to be admired from afar.
Oh. What if he didn’t turn? What if he Apparated away? Moved to France, perhaps?
Draco turned. Potter had followed him.
“Mistletoe,” Potter said, pointing to the arched beam above them, now adorned with Christmas ornaments.
Draco was sure it hadn’t been there a minute ago.
A lump formed in his throat.
“There are a lot of people here. They might see us.”
“Let them,” Potter said, and to Draco’s surprise, stepped closer, radiating heat.
“I want them to see. You?”
Yes. Please. It was never spoken out loud.
As far as kisses in the snow went, this one was… all right.
Potter’s hand closed gently around Draco’s arm, Apparating them directly into his own bedroom.
That was the problem. Wasn’t it?
How badly do you want me?
“Hi,” Potter huffed, placing a burning hand on Draco’s chest, pinning his frantic heart in place.
“I want—” Potter started. “I want—” He sounded ragged. It didn’t really matter what he wanted; Draco was well past the point of denying him.
“Yes,” he breathed. Anything.
And then Draco was being pushed onto Potter’s unmade bed, Potter crawling in after him on hands and knees, unwrapping him like Draco was something precious. Something worth keeping.
