FIC: Another Love I Would Abuse [Harry/Draco - R]
Author: Anonymous
Title: Another Love I Would Abuse
Characters/Pairings: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Warnings: bloodplay, dubcon-ish overtones, self-harm (potential trigger)
Word Count:850
Prompt: 87. Harry and Draco have a fondness for bloodplay. (submitted by tarklovishki)
Notes: Since this is emofest, I went pretty angsty with this one, tarklovishki. I hope that suits you. The title, as well as the epigraph, is taken from Placebo’s “Every You Every Me”-which I think may be my new H/D angst theme song. *g* As always, thanks to LS for her never-wavering beta love.
Carve your name into my arm.
Instead of stressed, I lie here charmed.
‘Cause there's nothing else to do,
Every me and every you.
--- Placebo, “Every You Every Me”
His hand didn’t shake when he made the first mark on Harry’s skin, letting the scalpel trace a delicate line on Harry’s back.
Harry hissed, and Draco didn’t waver. He was frozen, entranced, and his hand moved like it was being controlled by someone else. A phantom limb, carving such thin beautiful lines on the golden canvas in front of him.
“Tell me-tell me what it looks like,” Harry groaned.
The scalpel moved, ever-so-lightly, and for a moment it would look as if nothing had happened-and then, in a rush, the blood would well, appearing as if Draco had conjured it, like magic, like the purest, most elemental form of fucking magic.
“Like a knife in butter,” Draco said. “Beautiful.”
@@@@@@@@@
The thing about the razors was that Draco wanted to do it. Just like he wanted everything Harry gave him.
But it was so fucked up. It was so fucked up, and Draco knew it had to stop, but he couldn’t.
@@@@@@@@@
“Not my back-please,” Harry begged. “I want to see it.”
Draco looked up, looked into Harry’s wide, pleading eyes.
“I need it,” Harry said.
Fuck.
Draco nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
The blade had moved through the thin skin of Harry’s inner thigh in a way that was so much more satisfying than the broad expanse of his shoulders, his lower back, had been. Maybe part of that was simply because Harry’s back was covered with a faint tracery of scars now, a network of old cuts that he’d never allowed Draco to heal, until his back looked like it was covered with spiderwebs. But part of it, Draco was certain, was that the flesh here was so soft, so delicate, so fucking vulnerable-and every time the blade moved higher on his thigh, Harry’s cock would throb, until fuck, Draco wanted to jerk him off in his own sticky blood.
@@@@@@@@@@
Draco couldn’t speak when Harry offered up his wrists the first time, his arms out, palms up, in a mute display of need.
“I-” he swallowed hard. “I don’t know if-”
“You won’t hurt me, Harry interrupted, and the scars all over his back, his shoulders, his thighs, the thin skin around his nipples, the tender soft flesh of his belly, gave voice to the lie. “You won’t hurt me. I trust you. I need this. I need you.”
Draco inhaled, feeling his own chest rise, imagining he could feel the Sectumsempra scar pulling taut as his lungs expanded. He looked down at Harry’s wrists, so thin and delicate, covered with faint blue veins.
Harry laid himself back against the pillows, his body looking so thin, small, broken, beautiful-and his cock rising up to throb against his belly in a testament to how very fucked up things had become.
Draco felt his own cock jerk in response, and Harry’s sharp eyes caught the movement. “Do it,” Harry said, pouncing on the opening. “Cut me, mark me, and then-then fuck me, Draco, fuck me out, fuck me ‘til I bleed.”
Draco’s hands still didn’t shake when he brought the blade down on Harry’s right wrist, and it was a testament to how many times he’d done this before, how many times he’d opened Harry’s skin and watched the boundaries of privacy, of safety, of inner and outer beauty, blur and run and disappear, that he carved the capital ‘D’ in perfect, rolling script.
The matching ‘M’ on his left wrist took a little longer, but it was equally perfect.
The wrists bled more than anything had before, and soon the blood was dripping, landing on Harry’s belly with soft little splats. Draco looked up at Harry’s face, and his eyes were so wide, his pupils so blown, that he didn’t look like himself at all. He wasn’t Harry, in that moment-just a silent creature of need and ruin.
Draco’s stomach clenched, and he didn’t know what he hated more-that Harry asked Draco to mark him this way, that he felt he had to make up for something, to atone for past sins, their blood long since washed down the drain of a filthy Hogwarts loo-or that Draco was willing to do it. That a part of him wanted Harry’s guilt and shame and blood on his hands.
@@@@@@@@@@
They dressed for dinner that night and Draco watched as Harry pulled the sleeves of his jumper down over his wrists, letting his thin hands nearly disappear inside the wool.
“I love you,” Harry murmured as he passed by Draco to peer into the mirror above their dresser and tug fruitlessly at his hair.
Draco’s lungs felt tight, and all he could do was nod. Smile. Wonder how long he would let this go on-this wreck of blood and pain and aching, throbbing need that was written all over Harry’s body like a map of horrible, horrible love. He forced himself to take a breath.
“I love you, too.”
Title: Another Love I Would Abuse
Characters/Pairings: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Warnings: bloodplay, dubcon-ish overtones, self-harm (potential trigger)
Word Count:850
Prompt: 87. Harry and Draco have a fondness for bloodplay. (submitted by tarklovishki)
Notes: Since this is emofest, I went pretty angsty with this one, tarklovishki. I hope that suits you. The title, as well as the epigraph, is taken from Placebo’s “Every You Every Me”-which I think may be my new H/D angst theme song. *g* As always, thanks to LS for her never-wavering beta love.
Carve your name into my arm.
Instead of stressed, I lie here charmed.
‘Cause there's nothing else to do,
Every me and every you.
--- Placebo, “Every You Every Me”
His hand didn’t shake when he made the first mark on Harry’s skin, letting the scalpel trace a delicate line on Harry’s back.
Harry hissed, and Draco didn’t waver. He was frozen, entranced, and his hand moved like it was being controlled by someone else. A phantom limb, carving such thin beautiful lines on the golden canvas in front of him.
“Tell me-tell me what it looks like,” Harry groaned.
The scalpel moved, ever-so-lightly, and for a moment it would look as if nothing had happened-and then, in a rush, the blood would well, appearing as if Draco had conjured it, like magic, like the purest, most elemental form of fucking magic.
“Like a knife in butter,” Draco said. “Beautiful.”
@@@@@@@@@
The thing about the razors was that Draco wanted to do it. Just like he wanted everything Harry gave him.
But it was so fucked up. It was so fucked up, and Draco knew it had to stop, but he couldn’t.
@@@@@@@@@
“Not my back-please,” Harry begged. “I want to see it.”
Draco looked up, looked into Harry’s wide, pleading eyes.
“I need it,” Harry said.
Fuck.
Draco nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”
The blade had moved through the thin skin of Harry’s inner thigh in a way that was so much more satisfying than the broad expanse of his shoulders, his lower back, had been. Maybe part of that was simply because Harry’s back was covered with a faint tracery of scars now, a network of old cuts that he’d never allowed Draco to heal, until his back looked like it was covered with spiderwebs. But part of it, Draco was certain, was that the flesh here was so soft, so delicate, so fucking vulnerable-and every time the blade moved higher on his thigh, Harry’s cock would throb, until fuck, Draco wanted to jerk him off in his own sticky blood.
@@@@@@@@@@
Draco couldn’t speak when Harry offered up his wrists the first time, his arms out, palms up, in a mute display of need.
“I-” he swallowed hard. “I don’t know if-”
“You won’t hurt me, Harry interrupted, and the scars all over his back, his shoulders, his thighs, the thin skin around his nipples, the tender soft flesh of his belly, gave voice to the lie. “You won’t hurt me. I trust you. I need this. I need you.”
Draco inhaled, feeling his own chest rise, imagining he could feel the Sectumsempra scar pulling taut as his lungs expanded. He looked down at Harry’s wrists, so thin and delicate, covered with faint blue veins.
Harry laid himself back against the pillows, his body looking so thin, small, broken, beautiful-and his cock rising up to throb against his belly in a testament to how very fucked up things had become.
Draco felt his own cock jerk in response, and Harry’s sharp eyes caught the movement. “Do it,” Harry said, pouncing on the opening. “Cut me, mark me, and then-then fuck me, Draco, fuck me out, fuck me ‘til I bleed.”
Draco’s hands still didn’t shake when he brought the blade down on Harry’s right wrist, and it was a testament to how many times he’d done this before, how many times he’d opened Harry’s skin and watched the boundaries of privacy, of safety, of inner and outer beauty, blur and run and disappear, that he carved the capital ‘D’ in perfect, rolling script.
The matching ‘M’ on his left wrist took a little longer, but it was equally perfect.
The wrists bled more than anything had before, and soon the blood was dripping, landing on Harry’s belly with soft little splats. Draco looked up at Harry’s face, and his eyes were so wide, his pupils so blown, that he didn’t look like himself at all. He wasn’t Harry, in that moment-just a silent creature of need and ruin.
Draco’s stomach clenched, and he didn’t know what he hated more-that Harry asked Draco to mark him this way, that he felt he had to make up for something, to atone for past sins, their blood long since washed down the drain of a filthy Hogwarts loo-or that Draco was willing to do it. That a part of him wanted Harry’s guilt and shame and blood on his hands.
@@@@@@@@@@
They dressed for dinner that night and Draco watched as Harry pulled the sleeves of his jumper down over his wrists, letting his thin hands nearly disappear inside the wool.
“I love you,” Harry murmured as he passed by Draco to peer into the mirror above their dresser and tug fruitlessly at his hair.
Draco’s lungs felt tight, and all he could do was nod. Smile. Wonder how long he would let this go on-this wreck of blood and pain and aching, throbbing need that was written all over Harry’s body like a map of horrible, horrible love. He forced himself to take a breath.
“I love you, too.”