(Drarry) Faking My Own Death

CW: PTSD flashbacks/panic attack. Themes of sexual harassment and trauma. This chapter is entirely skippable if these themes are uncomfortable for you.

Summary: Harry gets triggered at the worst possible time. Draco comforts him. A glimpse into Harry's past, something I mentioned in one paragraph in chapter 53. 

"You weren't meant to see that
All the shit I should hold back
'Cause it's all in my head and I can see it through your swampy eyes
That I won't always be the only one for you"

It started like any other time they had sex. It continued on like any other time. For the two of them, this was ordinary, comfortable, predictable. These are perhaps not words anyone would want to associate with sex, but for Harry it was good. Perfect, even. It was just as breath-taking and earth-shattering as usual, until something changed.

It wasn't that much. It was barely anything.

Harry was atop Draco, riding him fervently. They had set a steady pace, and beady sweat covered them both. Overall, going great.

Draco moaned, holding onto Harry's hips lightly, as if scared to throw him off his rhythm. He leaned his head back in pleasure, and words spilled from his lips: "Good boy..."

Harry rocked back and forth, feeling suddenly a hand grasp his shoulder blades, sliding down. It dawned slowly, electric, tangling. Harry cocked his head sideways with a slight grunt, but the feeling wasn't shaken so easily.

He repositioned himself on Draco, his thighs already growing tired from the effort. He looked down at Draco, his hand leaning on Draco's chest. Next, Harry closed his eyes to focus back on the pleasure of being with Draco. Regaining a rhythm on his penis, Harry rubbed himself in time with the rocking of his hips, hoping to climax at the same time with Draco.

A second hand started to plague Harry, down his chest, down his shirt, itching, scratching, annoying. Harry gritted his teeth, opening his eyes. Beneath him still lay Draco, beautiful as always, his hands resting on Harry's hips like before.

This was fine.

Harry continued riding, ignoring the hands taking him in, centimetre by centimetre. He'd stopped touching himself. By the time the hands reached for his ass, his hard-on was lost entirely.

Cold spread across his face, like his nerves blocking out warm smoke blown into his face. The warmth of embarrassment tainted his lips, his chin, but he stopped it. He willed it to stop, he told it to stop. The cold resided, the warmth gave up, as all he felt were the hands on his ass, squeezing beyond what could be good.

"That was great, baby." Draco kissed his cheek. Harry hadn't noticed him coming. It was only now Draco's hands moved to cup Harry's face, the softest feel, the tenderest touch. This wasn't his fault.

Harry nodded, kissed his boyfriend back shortly, and got up from the bed. Putting on his boxers and shirt, Harry walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

He sighed deeply, the sort of sigh that built up. Shaking jitters out of his hands, Harry faced himself in the mirror.

To be fair, he looked like shit. He wasn't imagining it. Something was wrong. The hands had stopped, leaving only tensed muscles and static screwing with his head.

Draco opened the bathroom door, stepping inside. He removed the condom and threw it in the bin. Then, he took some toilet paper to clean himself up. As he was about to leave again, he peered over at Harry.

"Hey, everything alright?" He walked over, still fully naked, wrapping his arms around Harry, nuzzling against the side of Harry's arm.

Harry nodded. "Fine." He couldn't even make it into a full sentence. Somewhere he knew he couldn't pretend around Draco. So, he gave the flimsiest excuse of an answer he was capable of giving.