Happy Holidays to klarsfeld
Title: Sleepwalker
Author: i_l0ve_my_az
For: klarsfeld
Who asked for: Fiction. Imperfect ending; most preferably with unrequited feelings harboured by both parties. No non-con.
Summary: This is a life that he has never pictured himself having.
Hanging up sprigs of holly and mistletoe, garlands, and wreaths wasn’t something Draco imagined he’d ever be doing during the holidays.
Draco doesn’t much care for Christmas.
He has never been one for snow, the cold, the fake pleasantries, and the forced good will that the season brought.
But Potter loves it - revels in it; Draco would have to make do.
Draco goes back inside, to the kitchen where he has roast in the oven, vegetables that are steaming in a pot, and a pie waiting to be assembled.
This is a life that he has never pictured himself having.
Potter will be home any minute and Draco only hopes he hasn’t forgotten to buy the wine.
And if he has, Draco prays he has bought the right one.
With a flick of his wand, Draco turns off the oven, then the stove. He stares down at his hands, at his wand, and wonders. In the periphery of his vision, he spots the ingredients for the pie. He shakes himself out of his stupor and begins to assemble it. By hand - because Potter prefers it that way. Draco himself can’t taste the difference but it makes Potter happier if it’s done the Muggle way so Draco complies.
It is while he’s pouring the treacle filling into the pie tin that Potter enters the kitchen.
‘Happy Christmas, love!’
Draco can hear the smile in his voice, and picture the red-tinge to his cheeks. Potter smells of winter and his lips are cold when he kisses Draco’s neck.
Draco leans into the kiss while he scrapes the rest of the filling from the mixing bowl. Potter runs his hands along Draco’s forearms. Draco sets down the bowl and the rubber spatula and Potter twines their fingers together.
Draco smiles and allows a few moments of this-just touching. He feels Potter’s fingers warm and is not at all surprised when he’s turned around and pressed up against the counter. Potter’s smile is wide and genuinely happy. Draco tilts his head back for the expected kiss.
They go on in this manner for the better part of ten minutes before Potter realizes that their actions are better suited for the bedroom.
With his hands wrapped securely around Draco’s hips, Potter tries to drag Draco out of the kitchen. Draco places a finger over Potter’s lips and murmurs, ‘I have to finish the pie.’
Potter pouts down at him, sucking at Draco’s finger. ‘It can wait.’
*
Draco has never liked touching people.
He has never understood Potter’s need to brush hands, run his fingers over Draco’s hip or any such overt gestures. He has never comprehended Potter’s inability to forego touching Draco at every available opportunity.
But he allows it.
Like now, when Potter has him spread out on the carpet of their den, naked and aroused. Potter thrives on foreplay, kissing his way over every inch of Draco’s skin, lingering on sensitive places.
There is a fire and another bottle of wine, the contents of which Potter had spilled over his chest and has been conscientiously lapping up.
Draco grasps at Potter’s hair and stares up at the ceiling.
He sees mistletoe over them.
He would laugh at Potter and his clichéd notions of romanticism, but he is too tired.
When Potter spreads his legs wide and pushes into him, their eyes meet and Draco sees all of Potter’s feelings for him churning underneath the surface.
Years of war, years of political chaos and Potter has yet to learn to mask his emotions.
Draco suddenly realizes that he is exhausted.
*
Draco has never been fond of pies.
He has never liked sweets and doubts that he is the only one in the world to feel that way.
Once Potter realises this, he’d been aghast and has made it his task to inundate Draco with as many different types of sugary products as humanly possible.
Draco can’t muster up enough will to fight him off.
This is how he finds himself in Potter’s lap, feeding each other bites of pie and kissing around the sticky sweetness.
*
Draco doesn’t like to be touched.
He was raised in an environment wherein affection was never given much merit.
He doesn’t need it; he doesn’t crave it.
He thinks that he may be one of the very few people in the world completely disinterested in sex.
On the other hand Potter, whose childhood was much like his - completely devoid of warmth, can’t stand to be in the same room as Draco without touching him. Can’t sleep at night without sex then slumping beside Draco, spent and satiated.
Potter falls asleep with peace written over his face, his arms wrapped around Draco’s waist.
Draco doesn’t much care for sex but he will admit to finding pleasure in the act.
*
Draco doesn’t think that Potter’s attractive at all.
He can’t surmise how an entire population of people would think so.
He supposes Potter’s defeat of Voldemort has as much of a hand in this as anything else he can postulate.
Not to say that Potter doesn’t possess a charm all his own.
Boyish reticence that, should the occasion call for it, morphs into a cool assurance born out of the knowledge of his own power.
Though Draco still can’t see what quality brings out such desperate adulation in Potter’s innumerable admirers.
*
Draco doesn’t love Potter.
Draco doesn’t feel much of anything, but whatever he does feel for Potter neither matches nor surpasses the descriptions of love that he’s read of in books or seen in the faces of people who’ve claimed to be in love.
Potter doesn’t make him feel like a better person, doesn’t make him want to be a better person. He doesn’t feel ‘complete’ whenever Potter’s around, nor does he feel bereft when Potter’s gone. He doesn’t think of himself as part of Potter, but he can’t say the same should it be taken the other way around.
Draco owes Potter a life debt.
And this is all he has to give.
Author: i_l0ve_my_az
For: klarsfeld
Who asked for: Fiction. Imperfect ending; most preferably with unrequited feelings harboured by both parties. No non-con.
Summary: This is a life that he has never pictured himself having.
Hanging up sprigs of holly and mistletoe, garlands, and wreaths wasn’t something Draco imagined he’d ever be doing during the holidays.
Draco doesn’t much care for Christmas.
He has never been one for snow, the cold, the fake pleasantries, and the forced good will that the season brought.
But Potter loves it - revels in it; Draco would have to make do.
Draco goes back inside, to the kitchen where he has roast in the oven, vegetables that are steaming in a pot, and a pie waiting to be assembled.
This is a life that he has never pictured himself having.
Potter will be home any minute and Draco only hopes he hasn’t forgotten to buy the wine.
And if he has, Draco prays he has bought the right one.
With a flick of his wand, Draco turns off the oven, then the stove. He stares down at his hands, at his wand, and wonders. In the periphery of his vision, he spots the ingredients for the pie. He shakes himself out of his stupor and begins to assemble it. By hand - because Potter prefers it that way. Draco himself can’t taste the difference but it makes Potter happier if it’s done the Muggle way so Draco complies.
It is while he’s pouring the treacle filling into the pie tin that Potter enters the kitchen.
‘Happy Christmas, love!’
Draco can hear the smile in his voice, and picture the red-tinge to his cheeks. Potter smells of winter and his lips are cold when he kisses Draco’s neck.
Draco leans into the kiss while he scrapes the rest of the filling from the mixing bowl. Potter runs his hands along Draco’s forearms. Draco sets down the bowl and the rubber spatula and Potter twines their fingers together.
Draco smiles and allows a few moments of this-just touching. He feels Potter’s fingers warm and is not at all surprised when he’s turned around and pressed up against the counter. Potter’s smile is wide and genuinely happy. Draco tilts his head back for the expected kiss.
They go on in this manner for the better part of ten minutes before Potter realizes that their actions are better suited for the bedroom.
With his hands wrapped securely around Draco’s hips, Potter tries to drag Draco out of the kitchen. Draco places a finger over Potter’s lips and murmurs, ‘I have to finish the pie.’
Potter pouts down at him, sucking at Draco’s finger. ‘It can wait.’
*
Draco has never liked touching people.
He has never understood Potter’s need to brush hands, run his fingers over Draco’s hip or any such overt gestures. He has never comprehended Potter’s inability to forego touching Draco at every available opportunity.
But he allows it.
Like now, when Potter has him spread out on the carpet of their den, naked and aroused. Potter thrives on foreplay, kissing his way over every inch of Draco’s skin, lingering on sensitive places.
There is a fire and another bottle of wine, the contents of which Potter had spilled over his chest and has been conscientiously lapping up.
Draco grasps at Potter’s hair and stares up at the ceiling.
He sees mistletoe over them.
He would laugh at Potter and his clichéd notions of romanticism, but he is too tired.
When Potter spreads his legs wide and pushes into him, their eyes meet and Draco sees all of Potter’s feelings for him churning underneath the surface.
Years of war, years of political chaos and Potter has yet to learn to mask his emotions.
Draco suddenly realizes that he is exhausted.
*
Draco has never been fond of pies.
He has never liked sweets and doubts that he is the only one in the world to feel that way.
Once Potter realises this, he’d been aghast and has made it his task to inundate Draco with as many different types of sugary products as humanly possible.
Draco can’t muster up enough will to fight him off.
This is how he finds himself in Potter’s lap, feeding each other bites of pie and kissing around the sticky sweetness.
*
Draco doesn’t like to be touched.
He was raised in an environment wherein affection was never given much merit.
He doesn’t need it; he doesn’t crave it.
He thinks that he may be one of the very few people in the world completely disinterested in sex.
On the other hand Potter, whose childhood was much like his - completely devoid of warmth, can’t stand to be in the same room as Draco without touching him. Can’t sleep at night without sex then slumping beside Draco, spent and satiated.
Potter falls asleep with peace written over his face, his arms wrapped around Draco’s waist.
Draco doesn’t much care for sex but he will admit to finding pleasure in the act.
*
Draco doesn’t think that Potter’s attractive at all.
He can’t surmise how an entire population of people would think so.
He supposes Potter’s defeat of Voldemort has as much of a hand in this as anything else he can postulate.
Not to say that Potter doesn’t possess a charm all his own.
Boyish reticence that, should the occasion call for it, morphs into a cool assurance born out of the knowledge of his own power.
Though Draco still can’t see what quality brings out such desperate adulation in Potter’s innumerable admirers.
*
Draco doesn’t love Potter.
Draco doesn’t feel much of anything, but whatever he does feel for Potter neither matches nor surpasses the descriptions of love that he’s read of in books or seen in the faces of people who’ve claimed to be in love.
Potter doesn’t make him feel like a better person, doesn’t make him want to be a better person. He doesn’t feel ‘complete’ whenever Potter’s around, nor does he feel bereft when Potter’s gone. He doesn’t think of himself as part of Potter, but he can’t say the same should it be taken the other way around.
Draco owes Potter a life debt.
And this is all he has to give.