Stronger Than Skin

[Notes] Written for the serpentinelion Secrets and Wishes fest. I tried to realize everything from the prompt I could (it's at the bottom since it's long). Part of the reason I took the prompt was to explore cutting, since I've had friends who do. Aside from some reading and chatting with my friends who cut, I also am obsessed with A&E's Intervention, which is really a fun watch. Thanks to imma for the handholding.
[Beta] themostepotente

Discovery

The ballroom was filled with foreign dignitaries and floating trays of wine and champagne. House-elves popped in and out as they checked on the crowd, making sure that seats before the round, white-linen covered tables were pulled out properly for each guest.

The room was off-white, with vases of flowers of ungainly size. Several candle-lit chandeliers hung from the ceilings, casting flickering warm party light over the crowd that was just tucking in for dinner. At the head table-- a long affair with many important people sitting, including Scrimgeour, Percy Weasley and Kingsley Shacklebolt-- sat the unlikely romantic pair, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.

Harry clutched Draco's hand under the table. It was shaking. Harry was too nervous to eat, not just because there were so many people here, but because of what he was here for: an Order of Merlin. It was a brilliant award, but one he didn't feel he earned. Minerva McGonagall, the new head witch of the Wizengamot waved to him, her face smiling from what he could tell. Her face had been badly burned in the war, and she was left with one eye. The other was warm and friendly, though. Harry waved.

Draco could feel his timidity and exhaled slowly. He leaned in to kiss Harry's cheek, whisper, "I love you. You'll do fine," into his ear.

Harry looked gaunt and less than convinced. Harry imagined Hermione and Ron at the front table; Ron made a face at Harry, trying to goad a laugh out of him. Harry shot his imaginary friend a half-smile and then looked down into his bouillabaisse and stared at his reflection until it was pulled away.

On his third glass of wine, Draco was making friends. Making friends was easy for Draco. He had always had the name and the money. Now that he was with Harry Potter, everyone believed him redeemed. Maybe he was. None of these people would know that Draco escaped the Death Eaters onto the streets of London. That he hustled in nearly every township when Harry found him under a bridge in Dover. He hadn't even been looking for Malfoy, just giving someone a few quid to see him through.

But it had been Malfoy. How couldn't it have been? Who else would it have been? Harry'd let him follow him home, undressed him, bent him over his futon in the crappy flat he'd bought and took him. Roughly. He wasn't doing it to be vicious; he did it because he didn't know any better. He did it because he wanted to feel something and being inside of Draco Malfoy made him feel less trapped, less like the world was closing in on him.

Fucking Draco made him feel human at least for a little while.

Whatever feeling Draco had once elicited from him had long since left, but Draco stayed. He talked a lot about finding his own place to live, but never did shit about it. Every day he'd go out for a run, come back and watch the telly all day. Waiting out the war. He didn't help with Horcruxes. He didn't know about them. He cooked meals, and waited oiled on Harry's bed at night, fucking until Harry thought Draco was filled with his come.
But still, that wasn't enough.

Now Harry had something else; another addiction to fill his pained mind.

"Harry Potter, Order of Merlin." As Harry stood, he had the feeling of vertigo that something had dropped. His heart panicked that it was something he needed. He peered down from his green formal robes to see Draco's pointed foot out beside him, covering something. Harry looked up into Draco's eyes and Draco merely looked disappointed. Harry opened his mouth to say something, but Draco waved him off, flinging his hand to tell him to go accept his reward.

He spoke some words. Talked about killing Voldemort and the importance of a soul and all of those things heroes are meant to say. What he was thinking about was the little tin box with a butterfly on the top in the print of Mucha that inside held several sharpened blades. The box that had been under Draco's foot and was undoubtedly in his hands right now with his lover pricking his finger on the sharp tips-- asking himself why.


Confrontation

The sting of each cut brought him to another reality. Each dribble of blood reminded him that he was alive. It reminded him that there were some things that were stronger than skin, stronger than bone, stronger than even love. Blood had protected him, but wasn't enough to protect those he'd lost. It wasn't enough to protect him from what those of his blood would put him through.

He wondered if it really was just him. Maybe he was bad. Maybe he was evil and deserved eleven years in a closet to purify him. Just like he deserved this-- the tiny prickle of pain-- but then, it was just a little pain and followed with the euphoria of release, of accomplishment, of some measure of control for his life that he didn't have otherwise. This moment was his. Skin was claustrophobic. Life and its choices stifled him.

The razor stroked its fine edge over his forearm. The blade was so sharp it tickled before it hurt and then the blood, crimson and beautiful, bubbled up in irregular rows, responding to the violation imperfectly. The scars from the fine blade crisscrossed at irregular angles. A sharp blade shouldn't leave so many scars, he mused, but the repetition would. It was all right. He was living with so many scars on the inside; just one more on the outside wouldn't kill him. He just wore long sleeves.

"Does it make you happy?"

Draco's drawl from across the room startled him, even if Harry knew he was in the room. Sound changed frequency in some immutable way that defied explanation. It was the sort of thing he learned early on thanks to Dudley's abortive attempts at surprise attacks. In the end, it was lucky for Dudley-- and everyone-- that he'd learned to sense another's presence. Catching Harry Potter off-guard was dangerous.

A rebellious part of his mind wanted to inform Draco of how few things did make him happy. In fact, when he thought of the word happy, his experience was so fucking far from it that he didn't know why he didn't bring the blade across his throat and end it. Harry's courage didn't lie that way. Even though people said that taking your own life was cowardly, Harry couldn't even begin to fathom that line of thinking. To him it seemed brave. Bold. An ending.

He couldn't explain what really kept him from doing it except perhaps the burning hope that things might get better if he just went on another day. As if one day the death of his friends, the guilt of murder and being rewarded for taking a life would just peel away, shed like snakeskin.

Stronger than snakeskin.

He dropped his head, still keeping his back to Draco. "It gets me by."

He could hear Draco shifting, heard the creak of the old, warped doorway as Draco leaned his shoulder on it. Harry could picture the expression so clearly, as if he were looking at him. Draco's pale, pointed features quirked into that arrogant, proud sneer-- his default expression. He'd use it in times like these. Times when Harry was incapable of clarity, or when Draco's experience was so lacking that he had no way of understanding.

In the beginning, when he sought solace in listening to Draco's piteous moans and wails when he buggered him, it was the expression Draco would make when Harry threw him out of bed. Some nights, Harry would keep him there, cradling him against his chest, needing the warmth of someone to hold. Other times, he couldn't even bear to look at Draco and threw him out, undressed and skittering down the hall to his own room before the few remaining Order members could duck out and see what the noise was about.

As if they didn't know what was going on already.

"We haven't fucked in weeks," said Draco.

Harry imagined his temple against the doorway, his pale hair long and straggly against the worn wood. He was so different from school now, so different from when they went out. He let his hair grow out; it flowed around his face, fine and flyaway, staticky in the winter, ends splitting, eyes sunken, skin pasty and ashy. Unattractive, but Harry's all the same.

"You told me you hated sex," said Harry flatly. He pumped his fist a few times, watching the edge trickle blood to the crook of his arm. It sunk into the lines of the skin, outlining the pattern of folds and dents.

Draco huffed petulantly, the sound he made when he thought Harry was being incredibly dense. Then he settled in. The floorboards creaked when Draco stood up straight and took a heavy step forward. "I thought you liked it because I hated it," said Draco.

Harry winced.

"See, it makes you smile to think of how I suffer." Draco always thought his wince was a smile. Maybe he was so desperate for Harry to smile; he'd just decided to take what he could get.

"I think it's funny that you're asking for something you hate," said Harry, playing along with it. His pulse was racing now, and he had no idea why. Draco was moving towards him in more certain steps and Harry's shoulders tensed in anticipation of touch.

"I think it's funny that a man cutting himself doesn't understand how someone else craves something they may or may not like," said Draco. His hands rested on Harry's shoulders and Harry exhaled, his skin burning where Draco touched him.

"Maybe I figured out you liked it and didn't want to do it anymore," said Harry flatly. He cleaned his blade on his jeans and set it back in the little Mucha box. He tapped his finger on the butterfly once it was closed.

"I think you figured out you enjoyed it," said Draco, his voice tight, pained.

It was Draco's secondary look-- hurt surprise. His eyes would be glassy, but he still looked as if something in the room smelled unpleasant. Words came out staccato like gunfire, as if Draco believed he could shoot down whatever hurt him verbally. Harry knew all of this, because he knew Draco far too well by now, knew why his hands had turned to hooks on his shoulders, knew the kneading was angry and not meant to be soothing in the least.

Something in Harry twisted, the shifting sands of self-loathing turned to regret at actually hurting Draco. He'd hurt him enough. Tilting his head down, he pressed his cheek to Draco's hand and he confessed, "I did enjoy it."

"But you don't enjoy it anymore?" Draco's voice sounded so lost and child-like, yet was underscored with the sullenness of a rejected toy.

Harry kissed the back of Draco's hand and sighed. "I haven't done it lately, have I?"

"Because you figured out that I liked you-- er. It," said Draco, his words breathy and hurried towards the end.

Inhaling in surprise, Harry felt tears well up, but he refused to shed them. His mouth was gaping open and he couldn't breathe. He'd been with Draco since before the war ended. It had to have been a couple of years by now. They'd never expressed sentiments as such. Harry didn't know quite what to do with the information. He stared longingly at the box. The world was closing in on him again, and he was desperate for some way to escape.

Draco knocked the box away and crouched next to Harry. As much as he tried to fight it, seeing the look of concern in Draco's cold grey eyes made him feel pathetic and stupid, worst of all, he felt weak and exposed. A sob that emanated from his chest forced him to exhale, and he felt the warm sting of tears on his cheeks.

"Stop it. Shut up. Go away." Harry's voice was choked off by sobs in spite of his intended fierceness.

"Make me," said Draco, his pitying look turned defiant, but never lost the hint of concern.

Harry's hand balled up into a fist. He'd never wanted to hit someone so badly as he wanted to hit Draco Malfoy right now. Not even all of those other times he'd wanted to hit Draco. Draco had never really got to him.

He'd arsed him off, certainly. He'd attacked him through his friends, but never had he ever made Harry feel so angry and exposed and somehow, worse than all of that, he'd made him feel loved, and that he could just not abide. Not now. Not as he was now. Not after all he'd done, after all he'd had to do.

"Go. Away."

The balled up fist hadn't escaped Draco's attention, and he brought it up to his cheek, rubbing it against his sallow cheek. "Hit me," said Draco.

Harry snatched his hand away in reaction to his own temptation to do just that. "No."

"Why? Because I asked you to?"

"Because it isn't right," said Harry, ignoring his own hypocrisy given what all he and Draco had done. So little in his life had been right for so long. Not since his temper had gotten the better of him, not since he'd allowed things to get past his ability to control.

Draco snatched the box of razors and shook it in front of Harry's face. "This is right, then?"

Harry tried to grab it from him, but Draco was too fast for once in his life. Gritting his teeth, Harry glared at him. He didn't have an answer for that at first. Then he said, "That only hurts me."

"And it benefits you how?"

"It makes me feel," said Harry. Saying this out loud sounded so ridiculous. He didn't have a brilliant explanation for it.

"Fucking me used to make you feel. Hurting me..." said Draco as he stood, pocketing the blades.

The fact that Draco was taking his release away gave way to panic and Harry jumped up with him. He was flushed with adrenaline, not even thinking that he could buy new ones. It was symbolic, but it felt as if all he had left were his symbols, and he needed them. "I didn't want to hurt you anymore!"

There it was again, that surprised, overwhelmed look on Draco's face. His eyes were watery as he stared at Harry's face, gaze roving from eye-to-eye, searching for what that meant and with lips pursed. Harry almost thought Draco would hit him, but he backed down, looking defeated. "I guess that's it, then."

"What's it?"

Draco turned, his shoulders hunched as he lurched away, heading towards their bedroom. Harry couldn't recall when it was that his bedroom had turned into theirs. He was pretty sure it was after the war. Draco's things just drifted from his own room into Harry's. Order members who had survived moved out, found their own flats, houses, checked into St. Mungo's.

"What do you mean that's it, Malfoy?" asked Harry. After all of this time together he still couldn't bring himself to call him 'Draco.'

"You don't need me anymore. I'm leaving," he said, his voice echoed down the hall and up the small stairwell of Grimmauld. Harry winced that it might wake Mrs. Black, but by now her paint was so old, worn and faded that she rarely heard much of anything anymore.

"I never needed you," said Harry. His fingertips were numb, his feet frozen to the spot. He was gutted that Draco would go anywhere. He couldn't even imagine where Draco would go.

Draco turned and stared at Harry with an expression he had never seen before. It was so raw with pain and shock that Harry thought his knees might buckle. Harry hadn't seen Draco cry since that day in the bathroom. He'd seen him shed tears from pain, but never express sorrow or hurt as an emotion. "You've made that abundantly clear."

"No," said Harry breathily. It wasn't what he meant, it wasn't what he meant at all, but his mind was too full of cotton to come up with the right words. As if there were words that would be right, words to end this stand-off, to make Draco understand what Harry didn't.

"Fuck you, Potter," he said, stepping into their bedroom. He slammed the door and Harry stood outside, chest heaving, so fraught with emotion that he could barely function.


At least you are feeling something.

But this was exactly what he didn't want to feel. Pain. Loss. Revulsion. Anger.

Harry kicked open the door, flying through to grab Draco and pin him against the wall.

"No," Harry said, this time it was a command.

The blackened portraits on the wall shuddered from the impact. Draco's head bounced against the wall, his eyes rolled back and his lip dribbled blood, one canine tooth pinkish from savaging his lip. Harry grabbed Draco's head with both hands, his fingers cupping the back of it as he dove for his lip, sucking the blood, the fragile skin giving way just a little more.

Draco grabbed Harry's hips, pressing his hard length against him, forcing him into an angry frot.

He should stop this. He'd stopped this before. Right about the time that he started to see Draco as human, he knew he couldn't just use him this way. He didn't want to hurt him, he wanted to love him, but he didn't know how to do that without it causing someone pain. Love was pain, hate was pain, everything in between was safe. Neglect was peace. It left the house quiet-- left him to his own pain, his own broken skin.

But Draco had his hands down the front of Harry's trousers, both hands scrabbling for his prick so hard that it hurt. His nails dragged over his abdomen, through his curls, scaring Harry that he'd scratch his prick.

Swinging them around, Harry threw Draco on the bed, leaving him to sort out his clothes and to prepare himself while Harry shook out of his trousers. He felt sick with himself. Weak that he was so desperate to keep Draco here that he'd do something he knew was wrong.

Draco was spread over the edge of the bed, his fingers already working himself, his cheek against the navy blue plaid blanket. His face was flushed but relieved. Harry mounted him roughly, shoving a pillow under his hips before sliding into him with little preamble. Just seeing Draco so vulnerable, so wanton, so eager made him hard enough that it was no trouble to slide into him.
Fisting his hand into Draco's cropped, fine hair, he dragged him back, wrenching his neck back so that Draco was left to brace himself on the bed-- two pale hands fisting into the fabric, back muscles tensed, groaning and crying at the fierceness.

Harry's fucking was like an assault. He didn't think he could ever be sweet about it. He'd tried, but sex like that had left Draco listless and himself frustrated. But like this, with Draco's body pulled up against his, the bedsprings screaming, his own hand wrenching Draco's cock as he ordered him to come-- this was such ecstasy that Harry couldn't see how it could be right.

He bit down on Draco's shoulder, grunting and growling, his eyes on the blanket as he felt the tremor inside of Draco that signified he was going to come.

"Slag," he grunted into Draco's ear after he was certain he'd milked the last from him. Then he shoved Draco's face into the wet spot as he finished off inside of him.

When Harry was done, he fled to the bathroom to vomit. His knee crashed onto the tile as it spilled out. In an instant, Draco was behind him, holding his hair back with one hand as he dabbed his face clean with a flannel.

"Don't leave?" Harry begged.

Draco rinsed the flannel with cool water and pressed it to Harry's forehead. "Don't hurt yourself. Hurt me."

The bile rose again and Harry shook his head. "I can't."

"You just did."

Harry's eyes watered, but he blinked it back immediately. He wasn't going to cry. He didn't cry when he killed Ron. He wasn't going to cry now. Instead, he just shook his head.

"Can't." He wrapped his arms around himself and rocked slowly.

Draco kissed his temple and nuzzled him. "I want you to."

What have I done to you? Harry nodded and then looked down at his bare knees, all pasty skin, black curly hair and scratches. He pinched the abraded skin, watching the blood bubble up. "I'll try."


Relapse and Recrimination

How must it have been for Ron to see everything he wanted go to Harry?

How must it have been for him to see the wealth in Harry's hands?

For Harry to not even want what he was given?

How must it have felt to have been a sidekick?

To be attacked for little other reason than having been Harry's friend?

What must Ron have thought when Hermione sacrificed herself on the top of that mountain?

What was it that he shouted when the giants ripped her in half?

What wouldn't Ron have given up for Hermione?

What would he have chosen had he a chance to think of it?

Was Hermione worth ten Harrys?

Was Harry even surprised to find Ron marked?

Was Ron surprised when Harry ended his life?

Who was he to take a life?

Who was he to judge Ron?

Who but the Dursleys recognized the potential evil that was in Harry?

Who should have allowed the monster out of his cage?

Harry looked down at his arm, the cuts so long denied now turned deeper, ragged, long slices up his forearm. He cut the skin where Ron's mark had been, where Draco's mark was. The mark Harry punished him for. The mark that he punished himself for.

Amongst the random scratches, Harry started to trace a skull, a snake. A freckled face, blond hair he'd razored off. Pride. Arrogance. Yellow angry teeth and he was right, wasn't he? Right and gone. Like Ron. Like Hermione.

In the distance, Draco is screaming. His face is puffy and red. He looks panicked. Angry. Harry can't stop laughing. Can't stop hitting. Can't stop holding.

Draco can't stop crying. Harry knows he's become a monster.

The Dursleys were right to lock him away.


Admission of Guilt

Harry stared at the ceiling. The top of the room all but disappeared into the darkness, but he could still make out the worst of the cracks and where the warped boards replaced the molding. Draco's breathing beside him was labored, still rasping and hitching, but satisfied.

The only person he hated more than Draco was himself.

His abdomen was gummy with come, slippery with sweat. The blade was warm in his hand.

In this light, Draco's blue chest bled black in nonsensical looping patterns. It was smeared over his chest like he was a crime victim, as if he'd fought it. Draco hadn't fought. He'd begged for it.

"Don't cut yourself, cut me."

It started with Harry tracing the corner of the blade over the mark on Draco's arm, sliding over the wriggle of the snake. It hissed at him. Harry had always thought that when Voldemort died that the marks would vanish, but it seemed that as a final punishment for his followers failing him, the marks remained active. Alive.

"It scares me to think that maybe there's a piece of him still in there," Draco said as Harry put out its eyes with two small jabs of his razor. Draco had hissed with the pain of it, but squirmed in his chair. Harry wondered if he did that when he cut himself. "I think it should be amputated."

In response, Harry dragged his tongue over the mark, lapping up the bubbled blood over the blackness. It tasted awful and bitter, like sin. Each time his tongue lapped at Draco's scar he felt as if he were eating his sin, taking away his darkness. He was eating him to purify him, to make him better. He was serving a purpose, even as he gave him pain.

Draco moaned. He thanked him. He begged for more cutting, sliding his fingers through Harry's hair, scraping his scalp and down the back of his neck. His fist pumped after every few cuts, forcing out more for Harry to take.

Harry moved up his arm, cutting up the sleeve of his shirt, bearing his arm to leave all of it fair game. He carved his name, he carved x's and swirls. He hacked off each button on the shirt, pushing Draco onto the bed as he ground against him, their cocks sliding together before Draco worked through their fastenings, freeing them both.

Every inch of Draco was Harry's to claim and Draco writhed against the bed giving it to him. "Do what you want with me. Take what you need," Draco whispered, heels driven into the bed to lift his arse suggestively for Harry to take.

Harry couldn't stop staring at what he'd done, what he was doing. The marks he'd made, the scars that Draco would bear that were all his. The breath he exhaled became Draco's inhaled, and he circled it back to him till hurting Draco-- cutting Draco-- released him. The energy circled between them, making him feel clean, even as he soaked his face in stripes of blood and kissed each new slash.

He'd fucked Draco slowly; long strokes, unhurried, bodies moving in careful internal caresses. He'd never kissed Draco so much before-- never wanted to share this with him, to share his taste, his sweat, his joy.

Draco held him, breathing through his teeth at each slice on his shoulder as Harry moved in and out of him. Harry came while he licked his shoulder. For the first time, Harry crawled down Draco's body and sucked him off, gazing up at him.

Now Harry was left in the dark, next to his mutilated boyfriend. He trembled with the confusion of emotions. He wanted to start over somehow. He wanted to fall asleep and never wake up. To never see the accusing look on Draco's face at what he'd done.

"You're quiet," said Draco after he'd caught his breath.

"I'm a monster."

In a swift movement, Draco had rolled to his side and plucked the razor from Harry's hand. "We're all monsters here."

Harry was grateful he'd spared Draco's face. Maybe it wasn't the most beautiful face, elongated as it was, with the long, pointed nose and the dark circles beneath his eyes, but after a life of his own facial scaring, it was one thing Harry couldn't abide. "You're not a monster."

"You used to think so. Remember what I said to Longbottom about his mum? The things I said to you? I almost killed Weasley..." said Draco as he pushed Harry's hair back from his face.

"I did kill him," said Harry. His voice was flat, expressionless, but he was desperate to be told he wasn't a monster. Not really. Even if word came from another monster, at least someone believed it.

"He was on the wrong side," said Draco.

"So were you."

They stared at each other for a long while. "But I came to the right side."

"But if you didn't..."

"You would have killed me," said Draco. He leaned in to kiss Harry, pulling him possessively against his body. "And it would've been the right thing to do."


Recovery

"But why?" asked Harry.

Draco was strapped down to the bed, this time he wanted Harry to hold his forearm to his throat, to cut off his air supply. "I want to be closer to death."

"But why do you want to be closer to death? Why do you..." it was on the tip of Harry's tongue to ask why Draco wanted these things. He didn't understand why he wanted to be hurt. He understood that he did it because he needed to vent, but also venting while giving Draco the pleasure he wanted made him feel purposeful rather than decadent. He couldn't see why Draco wanted to be hurt.

"Because we're both monsters, Harry. Because I let my family down. I deserve to be punished. Because when you hurt me, I feel something, and it's more than I feel aside from shame and regret. I feel optimistic. I feel like the pain lifts me up above it, and I can look down on my petty life and this stupid world and that so high above it, none of it can touch me. And also..." Draco paused and pulled on his bindings. The hemp ropes held fast.

They encased his lithe body, dyed black to contrast in their macramé patterns around his prick, tied behind his balls, down his legs to keep them spread apart, yet still confined to where they were. Each rope ended at a corner of the bed. "And also, because I can see that it helps you. That you're above it with me, and being above it isn't so lonely. I like doing this with you, to know that you would never push me too far, would never take more than I can give. It makes me feel needed, which is as close as I think someone like me can get to love."

Love.

That was what had preserved him so long, had brought him to this wretched state, and maybe it was a different kind of love that had to pull him out of it. There was the absolute love that a parent could give and then there was the trusting love-- the most that a person could give to another. It wasn't a perfect love, and it was difficult to obtain. It was the love he thought he'd had with Ron, the love that Ron had betrayed, and that was why Harry had to end him.

Harry thought he understood that now, but it was going to take him some time to really believe it.

For now, he knew that what he was doing with Draco was something that he could do. Something he had to do with him. It wasn't the sort of love that everyone could appreciate or even want, but it was perfect for Harry. As he sat on his knees between Draco's hips, feeling the light prickle from the sanded hemp ropes against his inner thighs, he nodded. He trusted Draco and Draco trusted him not to take it too far.

After consulting the instruction book one more time, Harry grabbed the ropes he'd strung around Draco and tied to work as levers. He pulled on them, and they raised Draco's legs up, making his feet dangle near the posts of the bed. Harry secured the knots on the bedposts and lubed himself up. He toyed with Draco's hole a little bit, enjoying the creak in the robes as Draco writhed against them, his pale body blushing from the invasion and chafing where rope met skin.

Harry entered him holding his lower back up for support as he took him. This was not the fucking they'd had before the war ended. Harry was in charge, and Draco was the receptive partner, but now it was slow and intense and best of all, shared. Like this, he felt connected. He could feel the bodily changes in Draco as he hit something inside of him that made his bottom lip quiver. Draco would demand more, harder, faster, and Harry would keep them at their tortuous speed.

Harry watched the way Draco's balls rolled, how his cock traced a sticky line over his abdomen before Harry deigned to take it into his hand.

Using the ropes as leverage, Harry sped up, fucking him in staccato and erratic slaps, their bodies coming together in a haze of need and sweat. Then he leaned down, crossing his forearm over Draco's pale neck, pressing in gingerly till he felt Draco's breathing cease. He didn't want to hurt him too much. Just enough to give Draco the euphoria he was after.

Watching Draco's face starting to turn blue drove Harry on. He would give it just a few more strokes, moving his hand on Draco's cock faster and harder until he felt the tremendous shudder in his body. Draco's eyes rolled back dramatically, his body pitched up and Harry's hand was slick with his come.

Harry paused his own fucking to watch Draco cough and sputter; his breathing came in harsh gasps, dragging in and out of his lungs in wheezes. But soon it started to even out and Harry kissed him, fucking him with a few more punctuated thrusts before he came inside of him.

Breathing the air that he exhaled. Giving him what he needed while taking (took) what Harry needed. Their sex had become more loving and as a result, Harry started to feel less like a monster and more like himself.

Harry released a few of the safety knots in the rope so he could feel Draco's skin, wanting to touch him as much as he could. He kissed Draco again and smoothed his hair back. It was growing long again.

"Was I all right?" asked Harry.

Draco kissed him again and pulled at his bindings, put out a little that he couldn't hold Harry back, but he otherwise looked happy. "Perfect."

--

Prompt: 18. Would like a fic where Harry and Draco are together, and have been for some time. Set a while after the war, but don't want them too old (early-mid 20s would be fine). Both boys are slightly broken and damaged by the war. Harry has a guilt complex, and develops masochistic/self-harming tendencies to try and cope. Draco suspects something is up for a while, but one night he catches Harry cutting/hurting himself in some way, and stops him. Harry has a bit of a breakdown in front of Draco, and Draco offers to let Harry take his frustrations out on him, instead.

Harry is shocked at first, and refuses, telling Draco he could never hurt him, but Draco assures Harry that he wants him to. Needs him to, even. Thus they enter into a slightly unhealthy but consensual BDSM, D/s relationship. (Dom!Harry/sub!Draco, obvs ;P) The progression of their relationship would need to be written carefully and believably in order to work properly, and I'd like the D/s to be not just a sexual thing (although hot, kinky sex is very, very encouraged, lol) but something that is prevalent in their day-to-day lives.

But above all, I want the relationship to be loving and consensual (as well as very, very kinky). :D