Entry tags:

fic, harry/draco, smut

Fic: Red, Red Lips, D/H, NC-17
Title: Red, Red Lips
Author: foreword
Disclaimer: JKR owns.
Summary: Harry, the eternal Draco voyeur, catches him in his Saturday best. There is bitching, and smut, and lipstick.
Warnings: Cross-dressing.
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: Very much NC-17. Omg pr0n.
A/N: This is for one of my favourite people in fandom, froggie, for the hp_slashfantasy HBP exchange. ♥ Omg I hope you like it, love!

The thing about writing for people you like is that it makes you nervous. So um. Thank you to cursescar for giving me feedback and keyboard smashing and love, and for "DRACO MIMICKING PEOPLE IS MY LIFE" ♥! And tinkerpixy for owning my heart and for fixing my commas because omg I fail at commas ♥. And alittlewhisper for doing such a meticulous and wonderful job, and for helping to improve my writing as well as the fic.

ETA: The incredible fanart_fairy did gorgeous art for this fic! Go look! :D

***

Harry can’t believe his eyes.

The blond hair and the bony outline of the figure before him are familiar, but the rest is entirely new. He swallows, his mouth dry as he watches Malfoy smearing dark red lipstick across his lips, tilting his head to stare at his reflection from a different angle. Two thick strands of pearls wound around his neck dip inside his blouse, shining in the lights above the mirror.

Harry supposes the mirror had been dealt with earlier, as it remains silent. He isn't sure if he'll be able to manage the same as his gaze sweeps Malfoy's figure again. His skirt hangs low and loose around his bony hips, looking as though it might slip off at any moment. His knee socks are neatly in place, green bands at the top of them tight around his calves, his thighs bare except where the hem of the skirt reaches, halfway down, brushing his legs with every slight movement he makes. Harry's trousers feel uncomfortably tight and he shifts, accidentally stepping on his cloak.

A moment later, he’s staring at his reflection alongside Malfoy's, and Malfoy's expression has twisted into one of absolute horror. The lipstick clatters to the vanity table before him, and he remains frozen as the sound of the falling lipstick echoes around the room.

Harry is positive he’s about the same colour as Malfoy's lips and oh, he shouldn't think like that, this is clearly wrong.

"Potter."

Malfoy’s sneering at him in the mirror, still not turning around, still behaving as if he holds the upper hand, even in his current ridiculous predicament.

Harry swallows hard, bending to pick up his cloak and shoves it into his pocket, having no idea how to respond. It seems obvious that he should comment on Malfoy's outfit as he finds himself staring at the backs of Malfoy’s knees again, but he feels strangely flustered every time he tries.

Malfoy's cheeks are a faint shade of pink now, and Harry wonders if it’s makeup too, before the boy turns around suddenly, leaning back against the table and crossing his arms over his chest.

There’s something that looks rather pink and lacy peeking out of his half-buttoned blouse and Harry suddenly feels a dire need to discover what it is.

"I uh..."

Malfoy's features soften slightly as he raises his eyebrows in interest, twisting his ankle slightly, his toe grinding teasingly against the carpet as he eyes Harry. It’s a ludicrous imitation of a school girl, but Harry finds his eyes fixed on Malfoy's knees now, watching them part as he moves his leg, the skirt moving against his thighs tantalizingly.

"Just as articulate as ever, I see."

Harry looks up sharply and Malfoy is smirking at him now, the arrogant sod.

"You look like a girl," Harry finally manages to croak out.

Malfoy sneers at this, his red lips parting to reveal sharp white teeth as he drops his hands, fisting them in the skirt and refusing to be embarrassed.

"Better than looking like an idiot."

Harry turns even redder, glaring at him and refusing to be distracted by Malfoy's hands moving his skirt even further up to reveal thighs that look entirely too smooth to be male.

"I don't look like an idiot. You're the one wearing lipstick."

Malfoy glares at him, letting go of the skirt and crossing his arms over his chest again, the blouse getting pulled enough to the side to reveal a bit more pink lace.

"What are you even doing here, Potter? Intent on stalking me?"

Harry marvels at this turn of the conversation, sure that no one else would be this nonchalant after being caught dressed like a girl.

"I know you're up to something."

Malfoy raises an eyebrow and Harry feels like an idiot, but he plunges on nonetheless.

"I've seen you in Borgin and Burkes. I know you're going to the Room of Requirement all the time and I can't get in because you're keeping me out, but I want you to know that I know."

Malfoy stares at him in silence and Harry starts feeling hot around the collar. He wonders if the Slytherin/Hufflepuff game is still going, and when the other Slytherins will return to find him here with Malfoy... dressed like that. He smiles at the thought of how embarrassed Malfoy will be.

"Potter, you're pathetic. Has anyone ever told you that?"

With that, Malfoy turns around, leans over the table and retrieves the lipstick, examining his face closely in the mirror. He’s bending over just enough for his skirt to ride up a tad and Harry watches this movement anxiously, a thrill of excitement coursing through him at thoughts of what might be underneath that skirt.

Malfoy watches this in the mirror, and if Harry had been able to tear his eyes away from the hem of the skirt, he'd notice that the lipstick in Malfoy's hand hasn't moved.

"See something you like, Potter?"

Harry's eyes dart away, and he glares at the dark green ceiling of the dormitory, his face burning with embarrassment.

"No, I just think you're a bit mad, is all."

Malfoy sighs heavily, setting down the lipstick, and straightens to glare at Harry's reflection, placing his hands on his hips in such a manner that reminds Harry painfully of Mrs. Weasley.

"Fuck you."

Harry glances at the mirror in surprise, meeting Malfoy's angry stare, only to discover that his face is still quite flushed.

"Where did you even get this stuff, anyway? And what's that...er...” Harry blushes again, breaking off and averting his gaze, because he shouldn't care what Malfoy is wearing under his shirt.

Malfoy smiles and turns – or rather, twirls - around, taking his sweet time to bridge the distance between them, his hips moving more than they have any right to.

“Why, Potter?”

Bony fingers are sliding over Harry’s shirt before he realises Malfoy has asked him a question.

“I er…”

He wonders if Malfoy is going to break his nose again and he almost pulls away, in spite of how much his instincts seem to be screaming against it, remembering the painful crunch of bone and the hot flow of blood. Almost.

Malfoy flashes that scornful little smile again and Harry wants to hit him but he swallows instead, his hands gripping the material of his trousers because he’s afraid he’ll touch him otherwise. Malfoy smells like Ginny sometimes does, when she isn’t playing Quidditch. Harry swallows.

Malfoy laughs, his fingers gripping Harry’s shirt now and he kisses him, the bastard kisses him and all Harry can think about is how red his lips are going to be when he pulls away. These thoughts melt into the realisation that Malfoy is kissing him and he lets go of his trousers, shoving Malfoy away as hard as he can manage, quickly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and trying to look as disgusted as he’s sure he’s supposed to be. He isn’t going to give Malfoy the upper hand here. He isn’t going to let the bastard think he’d actually enjoyed that.

Malfoy stumbles, not especially used to the Mary Janes he’s wearing (that look a bit too small, really), and nearly falls, his skirt flying up just enough to reveal more of his fair skin. But Malfoy collects himself, glaring at Harry as if Harry’s just done him a personal wrong as he straightens his skirt.

“Potter, stop being such a pouf and get out.”

Harry gapes at him in disbelief, uncertain of which aspect of the statement he should respond to first. The urge to hit him returns, but Harry feels a sick twist in his stomach at hitting Malfoy dressed like that.

He’s not a girl, he tells himself, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the idea, but somehow seeing isn’t believing right now.

Malfoy snorts and takes a seat on his trunk in a most unladylike fashion, resting an elbow on his raised knee and toying with his pearls as he watches Harry in a bored manner. His legs are spread wide and his knee is raised high enough so that Harry can finally catch a glimpse of what he’s wearing underneath the pleated grey skirt.

Harry swallows hard and Malfoy grins wickedly in response. When Harry is finally able to tear his gaze away from the clearly-too-small knickers stretched over Malfoy’s cock, he finds that Malfoy is blushing. Or maybe he’s wearing blusher. Harry still can’t tell.

“God, you’re pathetic.”

Harry glares at him, and then he crosses the room to where Malfoy sits sprawled on the chest, intent on doing something to wipe that sneer off of his face.

“I’m not.”

Draco laughs as Harry stops in front of him, dropping his pearls and raising his hand as he mimics Harry in a voice several octaves higher than necessary.

“I’m not. Oh, what an astounding comeback, Potter. Did you think of that all by yourself?”

Harry hits him without thinking this time, because it’s not a girl, it’s Malfoy, and he deserves it. Malfoy looks almost shocked as Harry’s fist connects with the side of his jaw, and he falls back against the bed behind him, grabbing the frame to keep from tumbling off of the trunk, cursing all the while.

Harry blushes, but not because he’s embarrassed, he tells himself. Malfoy had deserved that, just like he’d deserve it if Harry did it again. Malfoy deserves much worse, so Harry isn’t sure why he’s holding out his hand to Draco. It surprises him, but when Draco accepts it, pulling himself to his feet, Harry is even more surprised.

Draco doesn’t look surprised, though. He doesn’t even look grateful. He just looks – justified. And for some reason he’s still holding Harry’s hand. Harry glances down at their interlocked fingers, but that’s a mistake, because their hands brush dangerously close to the hem of Malfoy’s skirt and Harry isn’t going there. Harry turns pink and tries to let go, but Malfoy is talking now and he doesn’t seem to notice – or care – that Harry is uncomfortable.

“Honestly, Potter, I ought to have you locked up. You’re clearly in no sort of fit mental state, going around punching whomever you please.”

Harry gawks at the boy wearing lipstick and pearls and lecturing Harry about his mental state. Malfoy seems to find this endearing, because his fingers wind around Harry’s tie and pull him close. Malfoy kisses Harry and Harry lets him.

He doesn’t kiss him back, not at first. He just stands rigidly, his hand in Malfoy’s and brushing the hem of that bloody skirt as the blond boy kisses him, his mouth warm and soft – much softer than the rest of Malfoy, which is all sharp angles and hardness. But Harry can’t think about hard and soft right now. He holds no delusions about his own hard-on and he remembers the glimpse he had of Malfoy's cock straining against sheer red material. He can’t think about things like that, because then he’ll want to touch him, and nothing scares Harry more right now.

Apparently grudging submission isn’t what Draco wants, though, because then he pushes Harry, who suddenly finds himself backed against a bed. His mind is racing and his heart is pumping, but when Malfoy pulls away, Harry licks his lips and tastes the lipstick that’s smudged across Malfoy’s face. Draco smiles, his bony fingers clawing at Harry’s shirt, and fabric is tearing as Malfoy tries to take off the shirt without bothering about Harry’s tie. Harry gasps for air but then it’s gone and the fabric is brushing his shoulders as Draco tugs it off of him and Harry tries to wiggle his arms out of the sleeves. The shirt is gone but the tie remains and Harry wonders how Malfoy managed that as Draco moves his hands down to start tugging at Harry’s belt.

When his trousers are around his ankles and he feels Malfoy (and the red, red knickers) pressing against him through his shorts, Harry realises he should stop this. This isn’t what Harry wants. This isn’t why he’s been following Malfoy all term. This has nothing to do with anything and he doesn’t know what Malfoy’s thinking, but he’s wrong.

But those ridiculous red lips are sliding over his again, and he almost gasps as the smooth, hard pearls press against his bare skin. For some reason, his fingers have taken it upon themselves to undo the buttons on Malfoy’s blouse, visions of lacy pink dancing behind closed eyes as he slips his tongue into Draco’s mouth and Malfoy gasps. Harry has never heard him make a sound like that before and he does his best to get him to make it again, stroking Malfoy’s tongue with his own and slipping his hands inside the open blouse to cup missing breasts. Malfoy almost squeaks at this and Harry moves his thigh between Malfoy’s legs, ruthlessly grinding his thigh against the silk-clad erection hidden beneath that ridiculous grey skirt.

He breaks the kiss when Malfoy bites him, those teeth every bit as sharp as they appeared and Malfoy looks almost angry. Harry wonders hazily if he wasn’t allowed to touch but then Malfoy is extracts himself from Harry’s grasp and crawls onto the bed behind him. Harry can’t tear his eyes away from the hem of the skirt - moving ever higher - as Malfoy crawls, his arse high in the air, and Harry wonders if he’ll come in his shorts.

Harry moves to climb onto the bed with him and nearly stumbles before he remembers about the trousers around his ankles. He toes them off with his trainers and carefully climbs onto the bed, flushed and breathing hard and pausing on his knees as Malfoy stretches out on his back, watching him. Harry doesn’t know what’s so interesting about him, but Malfoy is flushed almost the shade of the lacy pink camisole that Harry can see now, and he realises Malfoy has shed his blouse somewhere along the way. Malfoy props himself up onto his elbows, watching Harry as he spreads his legs, his toes pointing inward in those ridiculous shoes and his knee socks slipping down his calves.

Harry swallows hard, still not moving, his shorts tented and damp where his cock’s already leaking. He’s afraid to touch himself, afraid to move, because what seemed so right and so good and okay a moment ago has changed now that they’re on a bed. Harry has no idea what he’s doing, and Malfoy seems to think he should be doing something.

Draco rolls his eyes, his cheeks a darker shade of pink than the rest of him as he props himself up further, his eyes dropping to Harry’s shorts.

“C’mere.”

Harry licks his lips and he can still taste the lipstick and he shouldn’t like it this much but he does, and he crawls across the space between them, stopping on his knees between Malfoy’s.

Malfoy’s knees are knobbly and nothing like a girl’s knees but Harry finds himself taking hold of them anyway, trying to focus his gaze on Malfoy’s face and not where the skirt is revealing the (red, red) knickers, something Harry doesn’t think he’s ready to see.

Draco makes a frustrated noise and now his fingers are on Harry’s, fingernails that shouldn’t be that sharp are digging into Harry’s hands and he realises Malfoy is saying something.

“Don’t just kneel there, you imbecile!”

This insult somehow gives Harry direction, and he finds himself leaning over Draco, his hands on either side of the boy and he kisses him again, lowering his body slowly onto Draco’s. He almost starts at the feeling of the pearls against his skin and then his cock is brushing folds of the skirt through his shorts and there is heat and hardness amongst the frills and Harry gasps.

Malfoy is apparently not impressed with Harry’s surprise and writhes underneath him, bringing his body up against Harry and Harry grits his teeth at the friction. Malfoy hooks his fingers into the waistband of Harry’s shorts and Harry almost objects as they’re pulled down off of his hips because now there’s really no going back, and now Malfoy expects him to do something. Apparently Malfoy’s tired of waiting, though, because his hands slide up from where they’ve dragged Harry’s shorts down to cup his arse and Harry lets his head fall, his forehead pressing against Malfoy’s shoulder as he tries to remember how to breathe.

Malfoy is writhing again and whining, and it takes Harry a moment to figure out what he’s complaining about because his fingers are still gripping Harry’s arse and Harry thinks there might be marks there. When he does figure out that Malfoy’s talking, Harry catches the word ‘knickers’ and almost loses it again.

Instead, he pulls himself shakily off of Draco, and kneels in front of him again, pushing up his skirt with trembling fingers.

Draco’s cock is thick and hard and the (red, red) silk looks as if it might break, it’s so tight around it. They aren’t high enough, though, and the head of his cock is brushing wetly against his stomach. Harry pushes the skirt up further, exposing Draco completely and Draco makes a small noise. Harry pays him no mind, and turns his attention back to the silk-clad erection, eagerly and shamelessly running his fingers over it.

“They are red…”

Somewhere in the distance, Draco is muttering (between gasps) about Parkinson and her inability to match (pink lace and red silk, what an abomination!), but Harry isn’t listening. He tugs on the strings of the knickers but doesn’t pull them down, and he really wants to run his tongue over the silk, to feel it, hard and soft and wet in his mouth. He ignores the voice in the back of his head that tells him he shouldn’t (because really, he can’t stop now), and he leans forward to mouth the length of Malfoy’s cock through the silk.

Malfoy falls silent and Harry wonders if he’s done something wrong, so he pulls away. Draco’s hands are fisted tightly in the sheets on either side of him, and his eyes are closed almost as tightly as his lips. Harry grins at this, and Malfoy cracks one of his eyes open to glare at Harry.

“Goddammit, Potter!”

But Harry pays him no mind because the best idea has just occurred to him, and he’s sure that Malfoy will agree.

“I wanna fuck you.”

Malfoy’s eyes (and mouth) open wide at this, and Harry thinks there might be a slight glimmer of terror in his eyes, one that quickly disappears as Harry tugs on the strings of his knickers. Malfoy groans quietly as the material slides over his prick, and in a sudden, savage stroke of brilliance, Harry tugs on the knickers with both hands, ripping the fabric and eliciting a roar from Draco. He swallows hard and looks up, red silk dangling from his fingers and Malfoy’s face has flushed a different shade of pink entirely, one that Harry quickly identifies as rage.

“Potter! You fucking idiot! That hurt! Not to mention how expensive I’m sure those bloody knickers are. Pansy doesn’t wear just anything, you know!”

Harry blushes and drops the remnants of the (red, red) knickers, his eyes wide as thoughts of where else those knickers have been fill his mind.

“I uh…”

Malfoy’s face is taut with fury and he sits up as much as he can manage, sliding off of the bed and crossing the room, still ranting.

“You ‘uh’ nothing, Potter! Such an insensitive, idiotic prick.”

Harry watches Malfoy storm across the room, his gaze darting to the damaged knickers on the bed in front of him and then back at Malfoy. He thinks he should leave now, that Malfoy’s done with him and all because of those stupid knickers, and Harry had tried to rip them so they wouldn’t hurt but he guesses that he fouled that up, because Malfoy’s pretty angry.

He’s surprised when Malfoy returns to the bed, throws a small container at him, and crawls back to his previous position, shooting the ruined knickers glowering looks as often as possible and crossing his arms over his lacy, pink chest.

Harry looks down at the container in shock, still trying to register the fact that he hasn’t fouled up as much as he thought he had. It’s small and unopened and the label says something about lubricant. Harry looks up at Draco in surprise and confusion and holds up the container.

“Er… what’s this for?”

He thinks it’ll probably be something to fix the knickers, but ‘lubricant’ doesn’t really seem like something that would get the job done.

Malfoy has never looked quite so angry as he does when Harry questions him and he brings his hands to his (red, red) face.

Harry has to strain to hear what Malfoy is muttering under his hands, and it doesn’t sound like instructions so much as more insults. Finally, Malfoy’s hands drop and his face is still red when he leans forward, snatching the lube from Harry’s fingers. Harry thinks Malfoy looks unladylike with his scowl, but his thoughts are lost the next minute when Malfoy flips the lid off and dips his fingers into something that looks rather unpleasant to Harry. He frowns and looks down at the knickers again, wondering what on earth Malfoy is planning to do with his fingers coated in lubricant.

And then Malfoy shows him.

Harry’s cock is starting to ache as he watches Malfoy, pink-faced and scowling as he dips his fingers under his leg, holding his skirt up with his other hand, the lube forgotten on the bed next to him. Harry can’t tear his eyes away from the movement of Malfoy’s hand as his fingers move under his cock, brushing his hole. Harry thinks he might pass out.

He licks his lips and glances up as Malfoy starts fingering himself and Malfoy isn’t scowling anymore, his eyes closed and his (still-red) lips curving into a smile. Harry wants to try, and now he kneels by Malfoy again, reaching underneath and brushing Malfoy’s hand with his own.

Malfoy’s eyes open suddenly and he looks almost scared for a moment before he drops his skirt and grabs the lube from where he left it, thrusting it at Harry, a scowl on his face once again. Harry flushes and mimics Malfoy’s earlier movements with his fingers, first with the surprisingly cool lube and then down to where Malfoy was pulling his fingers away. It’s tight when he pushes two fingers in and Malfoy makes a soft noise, but when Harry looks at him, his eyes are closed again and he’s biting his lip. He finds this sort of encouraging, so he pushes in deeper, thrusting harder and letting his other hand fist in Malfoy’s skirt.

He’s surprised when thin fingers close around his wrist and he stops, glancing up at Draco worriedly. Draco’s entire face is flushed and he hesitates before he speaks. His voice sounds much less whiny, but as demanding as ever. He tells Harry to fuck him, and Harry feels hot all over.

He pulls his hand away and moves closer to Malfoy. Malfoy shoves the lubricant at him again and Harry fumbles in his haste, smearing it over his (red, red) cock and wincing at the cold. Malfoy’s watching him wantonly, licking his lips and Harry doesn’t know if he’s going to make it.

He moves over Draco awkwardly, shoving up the skirt with one hand as he drops the lube and grabbing his cock with the other, but this isn’t going to work. He thinks he hears Malfoy cursing, but he pays him no mind. He’s going to fuck him and then maybe Malfoy’ll shut up. Malfoy bends his legs, thrusting his hips out toward Harry and Harry has a sudden burst of inspiration as he kneels between the knobbly (not girly) knees. He slides closer on his knees and moves his hands to grip Malfoy’s thighs, hauling them over his shoulders. Malfoy’s head falls back against the mattress and he curses again but Harry doesn’t hear him, because he’s positioning himself at that hot, wet, little hole.

Harry lets go of a thigh to grip his own cock and now he’s sliding into Malfoy, and oh, it’s so hot and tight and he wonders if this is possible, but then he’s in and he fists his hand in the skirt to keep it from falling over Malfoy’s cock as he starts to move. Draco is writhing under him again, and Harry thinks he’s making noises but he’s gotten so used to blocking it out when he’s talking that he’s not sure. Harry blinks through flashes of the pink, lacy camisole and (still-red) cock and the ridiculous skirt that’s hiked up around Malfoy’s waist, thrusting blindly into slippery, tight heat.

He’s coming before he means to, collapsing on top of Draco; the camisole tickling his cheek and his glasses digging into Malfoy’s shoulder.

Malfoy is unimpressed and Harry hears cursing after a moment, as Malfoy squirms underneath him, his fingers scrabbling against Harry’s chest, tugging on his tie until Harry is forced to roll off of him.

When he opens his eyes, Draco is moving to straddle him, his irritation evident in his expression. Harry smiles up at him lazily, blushing as he tries to work out why Malfoy’s so angry.

Malfoy has his answer a moment later when he lifts his skirt, taking hold of his (still-red) cock, still mumbling curses under his breath. Harry wants to make it up to him, he really does. He tells Malfoy this, and a strange look passes over his face before he nods, a short sort of nod that makes it seem like he’s doing Harry a favour. He smirks then, crawling up Harry’s chest and straddling his chest, running the tie through his fingers as he thrusts his hips forward, toward Harry’s mouth.

“Suck it.”

Harry flushes and opens his mouth to object, but suddenly it’s full of cock and Harry’s trying his best not to gag and hoping Malfoy doesn’t pull any tighter on his tie. He’s so busy worrying about his life, however, that he’s not paying very close attention to Malfoy’s cock, and forgets to guard against his teeth on Malfoy’s third thrust. Malfoy makes a sound that clearly signifies disapproval, pulling out, and Harry wonders for a moment if he’s done before there is a hot, wet, sticky slap against the side of his face and Malfoy is laughing.

Harry wants to kill him.

But Malfoy has tightened his grip on Harry’s tie as he thrusts back in and Harry tries his best to focus on sucking Malfoy off, hoping he’ll come soon.

He can still feel the cooling precome dribbling down his cheek as Malfoy comes. Harry does nearly choke then, hot wet thick salty seed shooting past his tongue and down his throat.

Malfoy rolls off of him when he’s finished, smoothing the wrinkles out in his skirt and raising a leg to tug up one of his knee socks. Harry’s too sated to move and he wonders drowsily when Malfoy’s roommates will get back.

Malfoy glances at him when he’s finished straightening his camisole and shakes his head as he climbs off the bed, examining himself in the mirror once more before he starts undressing with a sigh.

“Pansy’s going to be furious when she finds out you ruined her knickers, Potter.”

But Harry can only stare at the boy in the mirror with the (red) red lips and the lacy pink camisole.