But no matter how skilled the artist, scars would still show up close. As Harry traced his fingertips along the long line of his Sectumsempra scar, trailing the light touch with gentle kisses, Draco had a hard time believing him. “I hadn’t known it scarred,” Harry whispered against his skin. “I did my best to cover them up,” Draco breathed. “I wish I could vanish them.” “Draco…” Harry looked up at him, his chin near the top of his pants. “Our skin without scars would be like a canvas without paint.” He kissed the trail of blonde hairs that disappeared under his clothing. “Your body's own ink.” Draco was speechless, his breath caught in his throat looking down at the man who had once been his rival, who had hated him as deeply as he had him, who had fought an entire war on the other side. He had run from the wizarding world, hidden his existence from them in hopes of leaving all the ugliness behind. With a dream of making something new for himself that he could make beautiful. “And you are a gallery I could spend a lifetime touring.” Another delicate kiss, a request. Yet here he was, in his bed with the shining example of the very life he had been hiding from, being laid bare and called art. His past and present were on display, judged and found worthy by the best of what he’d been running from. Holy fuck. “Take me,” Draco panted, “Now.”
Dark Artistry (WIP)
