#very loving fluff for my beloved anon
For Anon, 500 words featuring trans man Draco and some top surgery scar worship. A million thanks to @samyistrying for all the help and cheering!
It was a little after eleven, Saturday morning, and the sun was out. They’ve just finished breakfast. Harry made scones; extra butter, raspberry jam for Draco, strawberry for him, with a very strong tea. Draco took three sugars in his–“Because you’re so sweet,” Harry would tell him, and he’d always roll his eyes. Or almost always. He just laughed, today; touched Harry’s lip, gentle, as if trying to feel the words. Then hummed, looked down, and was quiet for a long spell. Nothing alarming—he’d do that every now and again, dive into his own world, needing some time. Harry was happy to wait. He sat beside him, getting lost in the patterns the light made on the table, cheery and bright. At first he didn’t notice the movement beside him.
Then a cough, and—oh, Draco wasn’t sitting down any longer. He also wasn’t wearing his shirt. Harry might have squealed.
“I—” Draco gasped, a touch panicked.
“No—darling, no, no. I was… surprised, is all. You never—”
Harry’s seen it before, but not like this. A couple of times when they were drunk, giggly and stumbling, clumsy hands searching; on quiet nights, careful and slow; once or twice hurried, desperate, blurry. But now it was morning, Harry had his glasses, and the blush on Draco’s cheeks could undo him. Not to mention…
He tore his eyes down, heart beating too fast. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—”
“Harry,” Draco laughed, and the sound made breathing possible again, “baby. I want you to look. I wouldn’t have… I want to.” He came closer, gave a small kiss to Harry’s forehead, and another to his ear. “Baby.”
He sat down in Harry’s lap, and no force in the universe could stop Harry’s hands from wrapping around him, instinctive.
“Sorry,” he murmured. Then, helpless: “Darling, you’re so beautiful.”
“So I’ve been told, yes,” Draco smiled, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder. “You can touch, if you like.”
If he liked. Like he could resist leaning forward, laying gentle kisses on each scar. Like he could keep his hands away, like he somehow had the power to. With how Draco chuckled, ticklish and warm and precious, smelling of lavender body-wash and tea—with how he was laughing, “Harry—Harry!”
“Sorry,” he managed. “I don’t… god, Draco. Is this okay?”
“Yes,” Draco said, muffled against his neck. “Yes.”
It was cold in the kitchen—he could tell by the goosebumps on Draco’s bare arms, but the skin under his fingers felt warm. Harry ran them along the scar on the left, then on the right, a little drunk on being allowed to, on being trusted enough. He tried to control himself, not to overdo it, some-bloody-how.
“You’re sure it’s okay?”
Draco’s head came up, shy smile igniting something deep in Harry’s chest. “I’m sure.”
It was morning still. They had all day. Harry breathed a grateful sigh, watching the light glimmer across the body of the man he loved.
