𓍢ִ໋ ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐂂ִֶָ་༘࿐ 𝐹𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒟𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝓈 𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝒟𝑒𝓋𝑜𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃
draco malfoy x reader (~1,500 wc) ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆𖢻
One sleepless winter night.
One clingy, feverish husband.
And several increasingly pathetic requests for “just one more kiss.”
Snow battered the manor windows hard enough to sound like thrown gravel.
The wind howled through the old estate in long, mournful groans, rattling the shutters and slipping icy fingers beneath every door no matter how many servants stoked the fires. The entire countryside had frozen solid beneath winter’s cruel hand, roads buried beneath thick drifts, horses refusing to travel farther than necessary.
And upstairs, in the dim gold warmth of Draco Malfoy’s bedchamber, your husband burned alive with fever.
You woke to the sound of coughing.
Not the restrained sort Draco usually hid behind his fist with quiet irritation, but something rough and violent that tore straight from his chest. It echoed through the dark room until it dissolved into a ragged breath.
The mattress shifted sharply beside you.
Another cough answered you.
You sat up immediately, sleep vanishing as moonlight spilled across his figure. Even in the dark you could see how wrong he looked. Sweat dampened the pale strands of his hair until they clung against his forehead, his breathing uneven beneath the heavy blankets tangled around his waist.
“Don’t light the lamp,” he muttered hoarsely.
Too late. You already had the match in hand.
Soft amber flooded the room.
Draco squinted against the brightness with a quiet hiss before turning his face deeper into the pillow.
His normally sharp features had gone flushed from fever, pale skin stained pink high across his cheeks and nose. There was exhaustion beneath his eyes, and his lips looked dry despite the sheen of sweat along his temples.
“You’re burning,” you whispered, immediately pressing the back of your hand to his forehead.
The heat nearly startled you.
Draco made a low sound at the contact—not quite a sigh, not quite a groan—before suddenly catching your wrist.
“I’m only getting water.”
The words came rough and quiet.
That alone told you how ill he truly was.
Draco Malfoy was affectionate even on ordinary days. In private, away from noble eyes and sharpened gossip, he had always been far softer than the rest of the world realized. He kissed your knuckles absentmindedly during supper, pulled you into his lap while reading correspondence, buried his face against your neck whenever returning from long rides.
Sick Draco became something else entirely.
Every ounce of restraint vanished beneath fever.
You barely had time to set the lamp aside before he was moving toward you, large hands wrapping around your waist as he dragged himself close with exhausted desperation.
He buried his face directly against your stomach against the soft fabric of your nightgown, arms tightening around you immediately.
His forehead pressed into your stomach like some oversized, miserable cat.
The heat of him seeped through the thin cotton instantly.
You couldn’t help the small, helpless smile that touched your mouth despite your worry.
A muffled noise came from him.
Then another cough shook his frame.
You threaded your fingers carefully through his damp hair, pushing pale strands back from his forehead while he practically melted against you at the attention.
“There you are,” you murmured softly. “Poor thing.”
“You should’ve told me you felt this bad before bed.”
“You are very clearly not fine.”
Draco only burrowed closer.
The movement would have been amusing if he did not look so utterly exhausted. One of his hands slid beneath the blanket to find yours, immediately intertwining your fingers as though terrified you might disappear.
“Don’t leave,” he mumbled again.
Instead, you leaned down to kiss his feverish temple. His eyes closed instantly at the affection, lashes fluttering faintly.
“There,” you whispered. “Satisfied?”
The answer came immediate.
Another weak cough rattled through him before he tilted his face upward just enough for you to see the miserable crease between his brows.
Even half-delirious with fever, he still sounded vaguely offended.
You smiled despite yourself and cupped his face gently.
“Demanding tonight, aren’t we?”
That softened you immediately.
Draco almost never pleaded for things. He seduced, persuaded, cornered, charmed—but begging sat poorly on his pride.
Yet now he looked at you with glassy grey eyes and flushed cheeks, visibly aching for affection like a man starving in winter.
He sighed against your mouth like the contact alone eased something painful inside him.
The kiss should have ended there.
The moment you pulled back slightly, Draco followed immediately, chasing your lips with startling desperation. One hand rose shakily to cradle your jaw while he kissed you again and again—warm, lingering, almost painfully tender.
You laughed quietly against his mouth. “Draco, you’re ill.”
The blunt honesty of it made your chest ache.
His fever had stripped him utterly bare.
You stroked your thumb across his cheekbone. “You already have me.”
“I’m directly in your arms.”
You finally relented fully, shifting until you sat properly beside him against the headboard. Draco wasted absolutely no time.
He immediately folded himself against you.
One arm wrapped tightly around your waist while his head settled into your chest, breathing slow and uneven. The blankets tangled around both of you as he practically climbed into your lap despite being far too large for it.
“Comfortable?” you asked gently.
“You stopped kissing me.”
You laughed softly then, unable not to.
The sound seemed to relax him further.
“There’s my sweet boy,” you whispered teasingly.
Draco made a faint grumbling noise that might have been embarrassment if he weren’t currently nuzzling into you with alarming determination.
“You’re cruel,” he muttered weakly.
“I do.” Immediate. Feverishly sincere. “God, I do.”
Your expression softened.
Even exhausted and sick, he spoke the words like they physically hurt to contain.
You pressed another kiss into his hair.
“Drink some water for me first.”
“No,” he repeated stubbornly, though his voice cracked midway through the word. “Stay like this.”
“You need to stop moving.”
You tried unsuccessfully to pull away.
He tightened his grip instantly.
“They don’t smell like you.”
Your face heated despite yourself.
Fever made him catastrophically affectionate.
You finally compromised by reaching awkwardly toward the bedside table while still half-trapped beneath him. Draco watched the entire process with visible suspicion, arms refusing to loosen from your waist even slightly.
The moment you handed him the glass, he frowned at it.
He obeyed only because you pressed a kiss against his forehead immediately afterward.
The second your lips touched him, his eyes closed again with a soft exhale.
“There,” you whispered. “Better?”
His voice had gone sleepy now, rough around the edges.
You set the glass aside before easing back against the pillows, gently guiding him down with you. Draco followed instantly, clinging shamelessly the entire time until you were both lying beneath the heavy winter blankets.
Snow continued raging outside.
Inside, the room glowed gold and warm around the two of you.
Draco curled himself around you without hesitation, one leg tangled with yours while his face buried against your throat.
Every few moments he pressed absentminded kisses against your skin.
The corner of your mouth.
As though he could not stop.
“Draco,” you whispered after the fifth kiss in less than a minute.
“You’re impossible when you’re sick.”
His entire body softened at that.
Like warmth melting snow.
Another kiss brushed beneath your jaw, slower this time.
“Say it again,” he murmured.
Your fingers slid through his hair carefully. “I love you.”
You realized suddenly that part of this clinginess was not merely fever.
Draco had always loved intensely—quietly, privately, desperately beneath all his elegance and sharp wit. Illness simply stripped away the last barriers protecting that devotion from view.
Every thought became you.
Warmth. Comfort. Safety. Love.
You gathered him closer instinctively.
“There you are,” you whispered into his hair. “Rest now.”
He tilted his face upward slightly, eyes half-lidded and fever-bright.
“You stopped touching me again.”
You huffed a quiet laugh through your nose before immediately cradling his cheek.
The words came sleepy and slurred.
Emotion tightened unexpectedly in your throat.
You kissed his forehead carefully, brushing damp hair away from his skin once more.
“I love you too, darling.”
This time, finally, Draco settled.
Still clinging to you fiercely.
Still pressing sleepy kisses wherever he could reach.
Still nuzzling into your warmth at every opportunity like an overgrown housecat determined to climb directly beneath your skin.
But gradually his breathing slowed.
The fever still burned hot beneath your palm as you stroked his hair, and you knew neither of you would sleep much tonight.
Not when Draco held you like you were the only gentle thing left in the world.
🦌۶ৎˎˊ˗ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶ 𝒽𝒶𝓏𝒾𝑒𝓁𝓁𝑒
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