Collecting Scars
"Hurt me," he whispers as if it's the simplest of requests.
Hurting the Gryffindor was never simple.
Harry thrashes beneath him as he bites particularly hard against an already aggravated nipple. A short hiss sounds in appreciation while a long and shuddered moan follows. Draco ignores the nagging in his stomach to move slower and gentler atop the Boy Who Lived.
That would make this something it isn't.
He's frightfully hard and if his cries are any indication, he's near his edge already- before Draco even thinks of entering him. The blond is never quite ready for the act, in fact, he dreads it the most.
The moment his length breaches the tightened ring of muscles of his counterpart, he knows a searing pain is shooting through at its presence. What's more maddening is that the pain is what Harry craves. He comes to Draco because the Slytherin enjoys his pain almost as much as he does. The Death Eater revels in the embarrassing fetish of the Chosen One.
Lies.
Draco hates hurting him. He's always hated hurting Harry even if history says otherwise. But, that kept him returning, didn't it?
The blond sucks the digits of his left hand, knowing full well Harry detests lubrication, and hopes he can distract the man while he attempts to prepare him.
No such luck.
"Inside me, now," he commands huskily, raising an eyebrow as if to say, try anything like that again and this ends.
So, Draco complies half-heartedly, readying himself as Harry nearly bends in half. His eyes screw shut at the intrusion and yet his manhood thickens in excitement, twitching at the onslaught of pain he must be feeling.
Not that the Slytherin would know for certain. He isn't allowed to bottom. Harry likes the helpless pain he subjects himself to. He likes to be under someone's control.
He likes collecting scars.
And perhaps that's one idea they can fully agree on. Harry was just another scar in Draco's collection, after all. Just another obscure collection of battered flesh.
Fully sheathed, Draco scratches angry red trails over Harry's chest, leaving rising welts and cracked skin. The man howls eagerly and the blond almost willingly repeats. His own eyelids snap together to shield himself from the abuse he's causing. Another familiar urge rises, begging him to comfort the shaking form beneath him.
I should kiss him. Fuck, I just want to kiss him.
And hold him and pet him and tell him nonsensical things to scoff and snicker at.
But, Harry doesn't want anything of the sort. Harry wants a raw sort of feeling. A real, concrete feeling of pain- the only feeling he has ever really been confident wasn't some sort of conjured façade.
Pain was certainly real. Pain killed and turned one mad. Pain tortured and controlled. Pain dulled the senses and quelled the mind.
It keeps Harry sane and human to feel this. He realizes, when he comes to, that he is still alive. He's still surviving.
Draco, on the other hand, dies a bit after each encounter.
Because the second to last thing he wants to do is hurt this man- the man he knows he, for all intents and purposes, loves.
The last thing he wants to do is be without him. And if he can't be what Harry needs, he'll lose him.
So, he continues to hurt him- to hurt the one he loves most.
Then again, though, don't we all?
Suddenly, the Chosen One stiffens beneath him and he knows Harry's climaxed- a mixed and twisted face of pained pleasure catching his expression. Draco follows soon after and collapses against the Boy Who Lived.
Lazily, he trails a finger through the mess decorating the savior's abdomen- both blood and a touch of Harry. Without thinking, he presses the coated digit to his lips. Curiosity coaxes him forward and he begins to lap at the remainder. A strange combination of copper and salt flood his mouth and he groans- his eyes rolling languidly to the back of his skull.
Hands thread through his sweat-dampened hair and pull none too gently at his scalp. His innards churn when he realizes he may be susceptible to pain as well, but he continues to clean nonetheless.
"I'm hard already," Harry muses almost sweetly- as sweetly as one can be when speaking of the status of his cock.
He doesn't leave room for protest as he takes the Chosen One whole- hollowing his cheeks and letting the entire bed of his tongue slave over the underside of his length. Humming as soon as the head hits the back of his throat, Harry's head falls backwards- smacking deftly against the headboard.
He really can't enjoy this without pain, Draco thinks impressively coherently.
It isn't long before he's coming again, this time down the Death Eater's greedy throat.
After catching his breath, Harry throws an arm over his eyes and sighs heavily in disappointment. "You know I hate that."
And he does. He hates feeling entirely good. It's so unnatural.
"I know," Draco admits throatily, his voice still recovering.
"Why do you do it, then?" he asks with his arm still masking any way of reading the direction of this conversation.
"Because sometimes you can't get what you want, Potter. If I want you to fuck my mouth, you'll bloody well do it from time to time." You're not the only one who wants to be out of power.
He's registered their similarity only recently. Being in control was great every now and again, but there was something alluring about the unknown.
"Malfoy, if this isn't working for you-."
"You'll what? Find someone else to break you in two? Slim pickings, Chosen One. There aren't many people willing to hurt you. Face it, we're a strange lot and we're practically our only shot." At what, I haven't the slightest.
It makes sense in his head. But, there's always the chance of Harry leaving that keeps him from becoming so defensive of their relationship, if that's what one would call it.
"Fuck you, Draco."
"Maybe next time. You have great stamina, but three times in an hour is asking a bit much," he replies cheekily as he rises from the bed and makes to dress. "Guess I'll be going, then."
Harry doesn't respond and his elbow still covers his eyes. Draco chances the impossible and closes the distance between the pair. Sensing his approach, the Gryffindor reveals himself- hardly deterring the blond from forcing his lips against the raven-haired man's and thrusting his tongue over the rivets and caverns of Harry's mouth. Surprisingly, he's met with a tentative response and he straddles his waist for a better angle as he suffers for lack of oxygen.
At their separation, the Chosen One looks as though he's contemplating spitting the taste from his mouth. Instead, he runs his tongue over his lips and swallows experimentally.
"What was that for?"
Draco shrugs. "Thought a twisted fuck like you would want to taste himself."
His crudeness alarms him. Never would he think of speaking to someone like this.
Harry was always the exception, though. Wasn't he?
He seems convinced as he claims Draco's mouth again.
The blond doesn't dare hope that perhaps it's getting to Harry as well. Perhaps the roughness can melt into something soul scorching instead of physical ailment. Perhaps they can heal each other instead of maul each other.
Perhaps they could lo-
"I don't think I like it," he mumbles, still not breaking the bruising kiss.
"I don't think I asked if you did," Draco readily quips- his icy exterior always in wonderful control. "Fuck, Potter. You don't know what you do to me." The statement is harmless enough. It doesn't speak volumes. It isn't needy or sincere. He's perfected the lustful tone- keeping himself out of harms way in terms of possible sentiment.
A sure hand takes hold of his member through unbuttoned jeans skillfully, saying without words, I know exactly what I do to you and don't you fucking forget it.
As much as their sex results in Draco leading, Harry is always in control- whether he accepts it or not. It's he calling the shots and it's he pulling Draco to completion everysinglemindblowingtime.
With one particularly sharp nip at his lower lip, the Slytherin comes in hot spurts over he and Harry, falling back against the man's chest groggily.
If he had any control, he'd lay like this for a week. Maybe two if his body would allow it.
Oddly, trepid fingers trace patterns against the salt-filmed skin of his back. Draco attempts pitifully to remain awake, but as those hands gain confidence and thread through his hair to massage his tormented scalp, he cannot help but begin to succumb to the silent lulling.
"Shh," he faintly recalls hearing. "Sleep."
And because that may be the greatest suggestion he's ever heard, he does precisely that.
When Draco awakes, he's alone. His denims have been taken from him and he's starkers- tucked still in Harry's bed. He rolls and notices a small slip of paper on the bedside table.
It reads:
Don't make this a habit. And make my bed if you ever plan on sleeping in it again.
Draco smiles and stands, letting his bones creak and crack back into a comfortable order. He'd slept with Harry without sleeping with Harry.
They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks.
But, what have they to say about lions?
On day, I'll be motivated by original work…
Thanks for reading, Love.
Came to me in a dream, this one…
Or, something like that.
Cheers!