Hello! 3 Or 16 For Writer Asks? 🙌

hello! 3 or 16 for writer asks? 🙌

Hi fw00sh!! 💕

3. What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway) OHOHO HELL YES THANK YOU FOR THIS GREEN LIGHT cw violence and like, mild dubcon? nsfw ish. wc ~900

Draco slammed his locker shut, revealing Potter in the doorway of the locker room, looking like death warmed over.

Looking, as he usually did, fucking furious.

“Again?” Draco sighed.

Harry’s boots echoed in the empty room as he marched toward Draco, who grit his teeth in frustration.

“Oh, for fuck’s—” Draco was cut off by Harry’s fist and an explosion of pain in his jaw, then the back of his skull as his head hit the locker, because of fucking course.

But this wasn’t new. And Draco was tired. He’d had the same shitty day as Harry. They’d both been on that bollocksed-up raid. They’d both seen horrible, painful things.

Harry followed it up with a punch to Draco’s gut, knocking the wind out of him, and a familiar grunt of “Come on, you fucking—”

Draco whirled on him with an elbow to the face, a satisfying, sickening crack, and blood poured from Harry’s nose. Harry was used to that, though, and barely reacted before grabbing Draco’s shirt and slamming him back into the lockers. He pulled his fist back, and Draco said, “Stop.”

Harry’s expression flickered—guilt, fear, desperation—Draco had never before tried to stop this. In fact, Draco had usually landed twice as many hits by now.

It was the only time he was ever allowed to touch Harry. Of course he had never tried to stop it.

Because in a few minutes, Draco would give the final blow and pin him down—against the floor, the wall, a door frame, a desk, it didn’t matter. He’d have Harry’s wrists in his hands and Harry’s wide green eyes staring up at him, and Harry’s conspicuously hard cock against his hip, and Harry’s face would get even redder as he spluttered and tried to wriggle away.

And he could have. But he never did.

Instead, he’d fight with himself until he felt Draco inevitably getting hard, too; until Draco’s whole body was pressed up against him, holding him down; until Draco slotted his thigh between Harry’s legs, and Harry gave in with a shiver, frotting against him with a quiet little moan, breathing hard against Draco’s neck. Until they both came in their pants, and Harry made that sweet, broken sound that Draco was already addicted to, and Draco had to let go of him and run, unable to face Harry’s disgust in the aftermath.

It wasn’t disgust. He knew that, now.

Harry didn’t stop. His fist hit Draco’s cheekbone, but the whiplash was worse. Draco ducked under his arm, using his shoulder to ram him into the opposite wall of lockers. Harry’s back hit the metal with a loud bang and a heavy oof, and he pounded his fist against Draco’s back, trying to knee him in the gut, but Draco was faster, as always, and had his wrists pinned to the cold metal in the blink of a swollen eye: “Harry, stop.”

Harry froze, then grit his teeth and started squirming again, trying to buck Draco off. “No.” He wasn’t even hard, this time.

Because it wasn’t about the sex. It had never been about the sex. It wasn’t even about the fighting, and it had taken Draco way too long to figure it out: that while this was the only way Draco was allowed to touch Harry, this was the only way Harry knew how to ask for it.

Harry’s eyes grew brighter, shinier, and he growled as he bucked and squirmed and pushed against Draco’s hold, desperation renewed under Draco’s piercing, knowing gaze.

“Harry.” Draco quickly gathered Harry’s arms to his chest—a calculated risk, Harry could easily push him away like this, but Harry grabbed onto Draco’s shirt, instead. He still squirmed, shaking his head frantically. “Harry.” Draco wrapped his arms around him, pressing him into the lockers, locking him in a tight, confining embrace. Harry’s body shook against his, his fists clenched in the fabric of Draco’s shirt, his breaths harsh through bloodstained teeth.

“Sweetheart,” Draco breathed. “It’s alright.”

Harry tensed; Draco could hear his teeth grinding as he held his breath. Harry let out a small gasp, and another, and Draco held him even tighter as Harry finally, finally let himself cry, breaking apart in the safe, containing circle of Draco’s arms.

Draco ran his hands over Harry's sides, his arms, his shoulders, burying his fingers in those wild curls and pressing Harry's face into his neck, kissing the side of his head and whispering in his ear—I've got you, sweetheart, I'm here—and relished in the freedom of finally letting himself break, too, as all of his love and care poured out of him, surrounding them both.

"I couldn't—" Harry hiccuped, "—save them—"

"You can't save everyone, Harry," Draco interrupted. "I couldn't save them, either."

Harry clung tighter, sobbed harder, soaking Draco's shirt with blood and tears. He didn't let go, didn't pull away, not even once his sobs had subsided, his breaths slow and even against Draco's neck.

"Let me take you home," Draco said, combing his fingers through Harry's hair. "With me." Harry reluctantly pulled back to look at him. "Please?"

Harry looked awful, with blood on his face and exhausted, red-rimmed eyes, but he eventually nodded, and Draco immediately started planning which healing charms he would use, which bath potions, which dinners he could prepare on short notice.

And all the new, gentle ways he could touch him.