Fishnet and Cigarettes
The Rebellion of Draco Malfoy manifests in the form of red lipstick smeared on Harry’s collar. Harry slips a hand beneath the obnoxious, black fur coat, thumbing smooth, white thigh and the lacy elastic of black fishnet stockings. He’s oblivious to the fight raging on at the bar, blood splattering from one drunk’s nose onto the sticky, scuffed countertop as the other patrons, rowdy and loud, scream for more violence. He hears the bottle crashing into hard skull, but he doesn’t give a fuck because Draco tastes like sex and cigarettes and nothing else matters.
Draco’s haunts have become grimy pubs in the dark cracks of Muggle London where the world-weary self-medicate with frothy pints. Places where no one knows who he is; places where they don’t give two shits about the eccentric faggot in the corner booth chain smoking and sipping his poncy drinks in fuck-me pumps and stockings and his dead mother’s fur coat. He does it because his father would hate it, and sometimes he pens letters about his exploits to Azkaban to make sure it’s not all in vain.
He sucks on Harry’s Adam’s apple, trailing his tongue over salty skin as he roughly palms Harry’s cock through worn denim. Harry’s fingers curl hot and insistent under his garter, pulling the fabric back and snapping it against his thigh, curious and perverted all at once.
A man is sent reeling into a table, knocking it onto the ground and shattering a glass of Baileys, as well as his ribs. Harry still doesn’t give a fuck, but the manager gruffly announces that he’s called the police while the bartender attempts to part a fight between two wiry university students.
“We need to get out of here,” he puffs into Draco’s ear, reluctantly withdrawing his hand from between Draco’s legs.
“Where do you suggest we go?”
“Your place, mine, doesn’t matter.” He stands, pulling Draco up with him. His breakneck pace makes it difficult for even Draco’s long legs to easily keep up, and he can hear the vinyl pumps clicking a noisy staccato.
When they reach the sidewalk outside Nelson’s Arms, Draco wrenches his hand from Harry’s sweaty grip, coming to an abrupt stop.
“What do you think you’re doing? If the police find us out here, they’ll most likely think you’re a rent boy in that get-up. How am I supposed to explain this if we get arrested?”
“Oh fuck off, Potter; I didn’t hear you complaining about my clothes before,” Draco scoffs. “It’s bloody freezing out here. I’m not wearing knickers, you know.” He pulls a scarf from the pocket of his coat, Gryffindor colours clashing strangely with whorish black. Harry’s anger abates slightly at the sight of his scarf around Draco’s neck. A sight that would make Lucius’ pure blood boil.
From that same pocket, a crushed carton of Marlboros and a Zippo purchased from an underground station. Harry finds something erotic about the way smoke drifts from Draco’s cherry red lips, the elegant posture of the cigarette between long, white fingers. It’s dirty and unhealthy, but it’s never looked so good. Draco knows Harry gets hard watching his mouth form the perfect O for smoke rings. In his head, he can see his father’s staunch disapproval of the filthy, Muggle vice, and the nicotine is all the sweeter as it replaces the poisons of childhood in his veins.
The Apparation point is a piss-drenched alley between a strip club and a clothing shop that’s graffitied with anti-Pakistani sentiments.
“What now?” Harry asks as Draco flicks the cigarette butt into obscurity.
“I want to go home.”
Harry shifts disappointedly. “Well, alright. I’ll see you around, yeah?”
“For fuck’s sake.” Draco grabs Harry’s hand, forcing it to cup his bare bollocks. “I want you to come to the Manor and fuck me daft, you imbecile.”
Harry grins, lopsided and relieved. He doesn't think he’d want Draco nearly as much without the causticity. Draco can’t help but smile stupidly back at him.
He fucks Draco in his parents’ bedroom, the fur coat carefully returned to the closet with the rest of Narcissa’s things. The high heels dig into his back, leaving ugly, purple bruises as he fucks Draco into the mattress, thumbs hooked in the guipure lace of the garter belt. Draco knows nothing would piss his father off more than this; spreading his legs for Harry Fucking Potter in his mother’s deathbed, degrading himself with lipstick and women’s lingerie. It’s enough to bring him to a nearly-painful orgasm.
Harry watches Draco sleep. He’s not as stupid as Draco thinks he is. Harry knows Draco resents his father. Harry knows he blames Lucius for his mother’s death. Harry knows he hates Lucius for immortalising him as a villain and making a normal life impossible. Harry knows Draco signs documents as Draco Potter because he wants to hurt his father. He lets Harry fuck him and hold his hand in public because there is no greater betrayal. He wears a Gryffindor scarf and fishnet stockings and he smokes cigarettes and donates to charities, and sometimes he uses Muggle hair dye because he doesn’t want to look like his father.
This is Draco’s way of convincing himself that his thoughts are his own, and Harry hopes the realisation that his father still has a hold on him doesn’t kill him. But until then, Harry will seize the opportunity to hold Draco in his arms, and hope to god that he’s got a permanent place in Draco’s life when the epiphany unravels.
Draco’s haunts have become grimy pubs in the dark cracks of Muggle London where the world-weary self-medicate with frothy pints. Places where no one knows who he is; places where they don’t give two shits about the eccentric faggot in the corner booth chain smoking and sipping his poncy drinks in fuck-me pumps and stockings and his dead mother’s fur coat. He does it because his father would hate it, and sometimes he pens letters about his exploits to Azkaban to make sure it’s not all in vain.
He sucks on Harry’s Adam’s apple, trailing his tongue over salty skin as he roughly palms Harry’s cock through worn denim. Harry’s fingers curl hot and insistent under his garter, pulling the fabric back and snapping it against his thigh, curious and perverted all at once.
A man is sent reeling into a table, knocking it onto the ground and shattering a glass of Baileys, as well as his ribs. Harry still doesn’t give a fuck, but the manager gruffly announces that he’s called the police while the bartender attempts to part a fight between two wiry university students.
“We need to get out of here,” he puffs into Draco’s ear, reluctantly withdrawing his hand from between Draco’s legs.
“Where do you suggest we go?”
“Your place, mine, doesn’t matter.” He stands, pulling Draco up with him. His breakneck pace makes it difficult for even Draco’s long legs to easily keep up, and he can hear the vinyl pumps clicking a noisy staccato.
When they reach the sidewalk outside Nelson’s Arms, Draco wrenches his hand from Harry’s sweaty grip, coming to an abrupt stop.
“What do you think you’re doing? If the police find us out here, they’ll most likely think you’re a rent boy in that get-up. How am I supposed to explain this if we get arrested?”
“Oh fuck off, Potter; I didn’t hear you complaining about my clothes before,” Draco scoffs. “It’s bloody freezing out here. I’m not wearing knickers, you know.” He pulls a scarf from the pocket of his coat, Gryffindor colours clashing strangely with whorish black. Harry’s anger abates slightly at the sight of his scarf around Draco’s neck. A sight that would make Lucius’ pure blood boil.
From that same pocket, a crushed carton of Marlboros and a Zippo purchased from an underground station. Harry finds something erotic about the way smoke drifts from Draco’s cherry red lips, the elegant posture of the cigarette between long, white fingers. It’s dirty and unhealthy, but it’s never looked so good. Draco knows Harry gets hard watching his mouth form the perfect O for smoke rings. In his head, he can see his father’s staunch disapproval of the filthy, Muggle vice, and the nicotine is all the sweeter as it replaces the poisons of childhood in his veins.
The Apparation point is a piss-drenched alley between a strip club and a clothing shop that’s graffitied with anti-Pakistani sentiments.
“What now?” Harry asks as Draco flicks the cigarette butt into obscurity.
“I want to go home.”
Harry shifts disappointedly. “Well, alright. I’ll see you around, yeah?”
“For fuck’s sake.” Draco grabs Harry’s hand, forcing it to cup his bare bollocks. “I want you to come to the Manor and fuck me daft, you imbecile.”
Harry grins, lopsided and relieved. He doesn't think he’d want Draco nearly as much without the causticity. Draco can’t help but smile stupidly back at him.
He fucks Draco in his parents’ bedroom, the fur coat carefully returned to the closet with the rest of Narcissa’s things. The high heels dig into his back, leaving ugly, purple bruises as he fucks Draco into the mattress, thumbs hooked in the guipure lace of the garter belt. Draco knows nothing would piss his father off more than this; spreading his legs for Harry Fucking Potter in his mother’s deathbed, degrading himself with lipstick and women’s lingerie. It’s enough to bring him to a nearly-painful orgasm.
Harry watches Draco sleep. He’s not as stupid as Draco thinks he is. Harry knows Draco resents his father. Harry knows he blames Lucius for his mother’s death. Harry knows he hates Lucius for immortalising him as a villain and making a normal life impossible. Harry knows Draco signs documents as Draco Potter because he wants to hurt his father. He lets Harry fuck him and hold his hand in public because there is no greater betrayal. He wears a Gryffindor scarf and fishnet stockings and he smokes cigarettes and donates to charities, and sometimes he uses Muggle hair dye because he doesn’t want to look like his father.
This is Draco’s way of convincing himself that his thoughts are his own, and Harry hopes the realisation that his father still has a hold on him doesn’t kill him. But until then, Harry will seize the opportunity to hold Draco in his arms, and hope to god that he’s got a permanent place in Draco’s life when the epiphany unravels.