hpkinkfest | Fic: A Touch of Silk

Title: A Touch of Silk
Author:

raitala
Prompt Number: 134 submitted by

writcraft
Kink Showcased: Clothing fetish (e.g. satin, silk)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Summary: Harry has won a bet and Draco Malfoy has to serve him afternoon tea while wearing a dress. This should be amusing, Harry thinks.
Warnings/Content Notes: Cross dressing, but not gender bending.
Word Count: 4400
Author's Notes: This prompt really spoke to me. I loved the idea of writing around that sensual and luxurious material, silk. Many thanks to

birdsofshore for all her help and encouragement.

As soon as the door opened Harry knew that he was in trouble. Serious trouble. He bit his lip and stared at Draco Malfoy.

Everyone involved would readily admit that things had got a bit heated at the last staff Cribbage night. After that awkward occasion when Dean Thomas, the art master, had ended up winning Septima Vector’s family tiara they had stopped playing for cash stakes. Instead they exchanged promise notes, mostly marking duties or the overseeing of detentions. But for some reason they had all got a bit carried away this month.

That was the reason why Harry was knocking at Draco Malfoy’s study door of a Sunday afternoon expecting to be served tea. Malfoy answered the door wearing a dress. That wasn’t what surprised Harry, as the terms of the offer on the table had been that he would host afternoon tea to the winner whilst wearing a frock. It had all sounded bloody hilarious at the time. Sprout’s Greengage Wine possibly had something to do with that.

No, what Harry was taken aback by was the dress itself and quite how good Malfoy looked in it. It was grey, with a soft glowing sheen to it. The skirt was long, falling all the way to the ground; full and puffy so that it seemed to settle around him like a cloud. On top it fitted Malfoy tightly, with half sleeves that frothed with lace around his elbows. The neckline was so low it showed half his chest with a sort of neckerchief of the same lacy stuff tucked around him. His face was powdered pale with a little black patch in the shape of a star stuck high on his cheekbone. He should have looked utterly ridiculous, but somehow he didn’t.

Bloody Malfoy, Harry thought. Only he could turn the good honest fun of a bloke in a dress into something weirdly elegant.

“Are you just going to stand there and stare, or are you going to come in?” Malfoy asked, turning around with a swish of skirts. Assuming Harry’s compliance, he headed back into the room, calling over his shoulder for Harry to close the door behind him.

Malfoy didn’t mince or step daintily, as somehow he ought to in that dress. He walked like he normally did, or strode, with the skirts billowing behind him. The way he moved drew attention to how ridiculously broad his shoulders were for the dress, how lacking in curves he was. At the back of the skirt, on a pile of froof, sat a fat satin bow. ‘He looks like he’s been giftwrapped,’ Harry’s mind supplied, before he shook his head and followed Malfoy into his study.

“Do take a seat, Potter,” said Malfoy, gesturing to the sofa. There wasn’t usually a sofa in Malfoy’s study. On those few occasions when Malfoy had offered drinks in his rooms, Harry had noticed how little furniture there was. A large, light room, lined with bookshelves, and just Malfoy’s desk and chair and a couple of smaller wooden chairs for students to sit in during tutorials and office hours. Malfoy must have transfigured the desk and chairs because now there was a large, plump, dark grey sofa, scattered with cushions, and two dainty arm chairs arranged around a low tea table.

“Er, thanks.” Harry felt awkward and a bit anxious, and absurdly like he should have worn a shirt. He perched uncomfortably on the sofa. He had a flash-back to sitting on Mrs Figg’s sofa as a child, but Mrs Figg had smelled of cat and under-laundered clothes, whilst Malfoy smelt … Right, that was it. Harry categorically refused to think about how Malfoy smelled. Honestly! Malfoy was the one who ought to be awkward and embarrassed. He was the one in the dress, for fuck’s sake.

“Will you take tea, Potter?” Malfoy enquired.

“Er, yes. Thanks.”

Malfoy stooped over the tea table and picked his way deftly between little bits of china and shining silver. The sun was streaming in the windows, which stood open. It was never stuffy in the castle, but the air felt warm and heavy. The distant shouts of children out in the grounds were faint and far away.

“Milk?” Malfoy said, gesturing interrogatively with an impossibly small tea cup in its saucer. The skirt, which puffed lightly around him, shimmered coolly in the sunlight. The sun caught the angles of Draco’s face and glinted on the silverware and gilt-edged tea service.

“Er, yes.”

“Sugar?” Malfoy held up a tiny pair of silver tongs.

“No, thanks.”

“Think you’re sweet enough, Potter?”

And there it was. Those stupid little things that Malfoy would say, too dry to be come-ons. More like little exercises in discomfiture. Fuck it. Maybe it was even Malfoy trying to be friendly? The twitch of a brief, wry smile. A slow blink. Always too innocuous to take real issue with and always leaving him a bit flustered and aggravated, with no release.

Harry took the cup that Malfoy proffered and Malfoy turned back to the tea table. There probably wasn’t more than three good mouthfuls in the shallow bowl of the teacup, and the porcelain was so thin Harry could practically see the shadow of his fingers through the thin lip of the saucer. Christ, this was going to be excruciating. Malfoy was such an arse.

Malfoy, having finished preparing his own tea, came and sat himself beside Harry on the sofa, settling his skirts around himself. His long fingers twitched delicately at the material. There wasn’t much he could do to control the great flounces of soft folds. The skirt lapped at Harry’s side, but he was damned if he was going to be chased off the sofa.

“Well, isn’t this nice?” Malfoy turned to Harry. His smile was slow, glittering and insincere, making it clear that the elaborate set-up was all to the purpose of winding Harry up.

“You are such a cock, Malfoy,” said Harry, admitting defeat. Malfoy grinned with a sharp flash of teeth and the effect was, again, unsettling. Framed in lace, his face powdered and holding aloft his delicate cup, he should have looked effeminate. Maybe it was his close-cropped hair or the fact that, despite the powder, his face was unrouged and he had no paint around his eyes or lips. Maybe it was his decidedly unladylike smile. Harry shifted uncomfortably and took a gulp of his tea.

Malfoy began to talk about staff room matters. There was some bullying going on among a particular group of third years that needed attention. The fifth year Gryffindors really needed taking in hand if they were to have any chance with their OWLS. Harry found he couldn’t concentrate. The room smelled of beeswax polish and the scent of the tea, which was heavy and fragrant.

Malfoy was lounging back as he always did, with one leg thrown over the other. He gestured to emphasis his points and the large bones of his forearms looked completely incongruous emerging from the delicate lace. The muscles of his upper arms strained the fine fabric of his sleeves.

Malfoy’s eyes were ridiculously light: the clear, greyish colour that glass has when it doesn’t have any colour, transparent like water. The grey silk was the same, only not as vivid. Was it snakes who mesmerized mongooses or the other way around? Harry had been up too late the night before; he could feel himself sagging into the sofa cushions and his eyelids drooping.

“So how come you just happened to have a dress that perfectly suits you, then?” Harry interrupted before he could let Draco’s low, husky voice lull him to sleep.

“Of course I didn’t just happen to have this dress, Potter.” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “It’s an exact copy of one depicted in one of the portraits at the Manor, actually. You don’t imagine I was just going to waltz into Madame Malkins and purchase myself a frock?” Malfoy laughed his soft, hoarse laugh.

“I have no desire to make a laughing stock of myself. As a matter of fact, I have been researching social mores of the eighteenth century for my next book. This is Goblin silk, made by Goblin tailors. We wizards don’t commonly wear it anymore, but it was very much in vogue in the 1760s. So you think it suits me perfectly, Potter? I’m flattered.” That same brief and strangely private smile. Damn it all.

“I just meant the colours suit you. A bit. Or something.” Harry took another gulp of his tea and was disconcerted to find his cup nearly empty.

“More tea, Potter?” Malfoy rose to his feet with a susurration of silk and took Harry’s cup from him. Harry’s arm tingled from where the skirts had lightly brushed him as Malfoy rose.

“It’s very swishy, isn’t it? I mean, it makes a lot of noise compared to normal clothes.”

“That’s an interesting point, historically speaking,” Malfoy drawled. “It’s the sort of detail you don’t get from reading books: the sounds of a different age. Granger told me about it when we were chatting at the last Governors thing. Muggles call it ‘living history’ or something.” Malfoy waved his hands as he talked. Large, expressive hands on supple wrists.

“Though, of course, Montesdane writes quite eloquently in his diaries about the erotic charge of the rustle of silks, audible before the lady is even glimpsed. I admit I didn’t really know what he meant until I had this dress made. It’s these sorts of little details that can really make History of Magic come alive for students. What do you think, Potter?”

“What?” Harry had not really been listening, transfixed by the glimpses of Malfoy’s nipples, just visible through the gauzy lace at his plunging neckline as he bent over the tea table.

“I can see your nipples,” he blurted out. “That’s not very ladylike.”

Malfoy handed him back his cup with a dry laugh. “Well, the sexual mores of the 1760s were pretty lax by present-day standards. The invention and dissemination of contraceptive charms in the late 1750s led to something of a sexual revolution, apparently. Similar, I believe, to what happened when Muggles finally caught up in the 1960s.

“The fichu, this thing,” said Malfoy, gesturing at the fine lace around his shoulders and front, “is supposed to mostly hide them. Though apparently some ladies rouged their nipples or even wore diamonds in them to make them more noticeable. Are you blushing, Potter? How delightfully middle-class of you.”

“Shut up,” Harry said, and took a mouthful of rapidly cooling tea. These tiny cups cooled very quickly.

Malfoy settled himself back on the sofa, his skirts billowing around him, lolling as he tended to do on the sofas in the staff room. “Oh bugger! These things keep coming down.” And he swung one ankle up onto his opposite knee and hoisted his skirt.

“What are you doing?” Harry squawked, strangely scandalized.

“These stockings keep coming down,” Malfoy complained. He was wearing what looked like fine white socks that ran up to just over his knee to where they were secured in place with a black ribbon. Harry’s brain had stuttered to a stop at the sight of the small expanse of lean muscled thigh, with its fine blond hairs, that appeared out of the top of the stocking and disappeared again under the crisp folds of grey silk.

He took another gulp of tea. He was going to have to deal with this somehow. He was unexpectedly and shockingly aroused by Draco Malfoy in a dress. He needed a plan. He needed to get through this tea without embarrassing himself and then he needed to go and get some sort of professional help. He shifted uncomfortably.

“I don’t understand it,” Malfoy was saying. “I’m using the exact charm recommended in Madame Faverille’s Guide for the Witch of Quality. Unless,” Malfoy started nodding slowly. “It would be just like Faverille to set the charm to fail if the young lady did not maintain correct deportment. The old bitch. Let me try just tying a normal knot and see if it holds.”

Malfoy was wearing soft black pumps that looked like ballet shoes. The stocking bulged over his taut calf muscles as he adjusted the garter. Why didn’t he look ridiculous? There was a note of pleading even in Harry’s inner monologue.

“Can you put your finger here, Potter?” Malfoy indicated the knot he had made in the black ribbon.

“Oh, okay.” Harry’s voice might have come out slightly higher than normal. Malfoy tied a firm bow, directing Harry when to withdraw his finger, so that the knot didn’t slip. Malfoy then switched legs and started to fix the other garter.

“So,” said Harry conversationally, “the whole outfit is authentic, is it?”

“Yes. I researched it most carefully.”

“You wearing historical pants then and everything?”

“No pants, Potter. Not until the nineteenth century.”

“Oh.” Harry tore his eyes away from the glimpse of thigh disappearing into the shadows beneath Malfoy’s skirt. He needed to get a grip. Literally. He was starting to sweat and he was going to drop one of these tiny cups which probably cost …

“Finger, please.”

Harry bit his lip and placed his finger on the knot of the second bow. When his finger was released he hurriedly scooted back over to his side of the sofa and hid behind the rim of his teacup. Malfoy lowered his skirts and Harry felt the loss keenly.

“Another cup?” Malfoy asked and Harry just nodded.

Malfoy rose and bent over the tea table again. Nipples. Also that little dip in the centre of Malfoy’s chest where his pectoral muscles disappeared into lace, fichu, thingy. He looked away, but he could hear that soft rustling of Malfoy’s every movement as silk shifted across silk and, oh God, bare skin. Harry was so fucked.

“So, living history,” Harry made a desperate bid at adult conversation as Malfoy handed him his third cup and sat back beside him. “Have you learnt anything else from, uh, actually wearing the dress?”

“It’s surprisingly light, considering the volume of material. One of the properties of Goblin-made silk, I’m guessing. It really feels very comfortable. Incredibly soft stuff too; feel it.”

Malfoy was sitting closer to him and the skirts billowed against his side. Harry took a handful of the silk and rubbed it between his fingers. The material had a fineness, a lightness to it, and slipped pleasantly between his fingers. It was cool and buttery, as if it left a trace on his skin. Harry swallowed. “It feels really nice,” he said, a little huskily.

“Imagine that against your whole body.”

Harry looked up sharply. Malfoy had to be doing this on purpose. But Malfoy’s face just had an enigmatic little half smile. Harry was still running the silk through his fingers. Boldly, he rested his hand on Malfoy’s thigh and rubbed the silk up a few inches. “What does this feel like?”

“It feels very … pleasant. I think that Goblin silk may have some amplificatory properties, heightening sensation. I thought those eighteenth century writers were all just a bit over-blown, but it does feel …” Malfoy paused and licked his lips as Harry stroked his thigh, “…surprisingly intense. I can feel the heat of your hand, even through all these layers.”

“So, that’s interesting, for research purposes,” Harry murmured.

“Yes, for research,” Malfoy agreed.

“What else did the writers say?”

“You have to stop doing that, now, I can’t concentrate,” Malfoy’s voice was becoming slightly breathy as Harry continued to stroke the silk of his skirt.

Emboldened by Malfoy’s slipping composure, Harry reached across to sample the texture of the fichu. Coincidently, a bit that happened to be over one of Malfoy’s nipples. “Is this made of the same stuff as the skirt; it looks like lace?” He ran the fabric through his fingers, dragging the soft creases against Malfoy’s skin.

Malfoy actually gasped and his lips were starting to look markedly pink against his powdered skin.

“Yes, it's … Merlin, Potter. You have to stop doing that.”

“Why?” Harry asked in faux innocence, but when he met Malfoy’s eyes again, the blown pupils, the parted lips and spots of colour high on his cheekbones stopped Harry in his tracks.

“Draco?”

Draco stared at him for what felt like an age, before he licked his lips. Harry’s eyes followed the trace of pink tongue helplessly.

“I suppose,” Draco breathed, “if the fashions of the period were all about sexual liberation and the silk was specially made to amplify sensation, I should, for research you know, I should … ”

Draco’s chest was visibly heaving within the confines of his bodice and a blush was spreading up his neck. Harry leaned forward and kissed him. The silk skirt settled coolly around him, enveloping him. In contrast, Draco’s lips and tongue were impossibly hot. Harry wanted more and he leaned into him, sliding an arm around his waist as Draco sank back into the cushions.

Draco might have been dressed like a princess, but he didn’t kiss like one. His kisses were wet and urgent and hungry. Harry felt stocking-clad calf slide up his leg as he pushed Draco down among the plump cushions. They kissed desperately as the pent-up tension of the afternoon overflowed. The sounds of wet lips and sucked breaths filled the room alongside the endless, soft rustle of silk.

Scooting further down Harry swiped his tongue across the pink nipple he could see behind the fine veil of material, which soon became translucent with his saliva.

Draco made a strangled noise and his hand came up to cup the back of Harry’s head as he arched up into his mouth. Harry laved the nipple again, feeling its hot, pebble-hardness through the wet sheen of silk.

Malfoy’s skirt rustled around him, soft caresses on his bare arms.

“Fuck, oh fuck!” Draco was gasping breathily. “Harry, fuck.” He threw one of his arms up behind him to brace himself against the back of the sofa and Harry heard a rending of material as the seam gave way under Draco’s arm. Through the rent beneath Malfoy’s sleeve Harry could see a glimpse of underarm and sweat-darkened hair, shockingly masculine beneath the fine delicacy of the silk.

After that, it didn’t seem such a crime to tear away the lacy fichu to reveal both Draco’s nipples, pink and hard, framed by the grey polish of his bodice. Harry leaned in again and nibbled lightly on one whilst rolling the other between his fingers.

Harry was painfully hard, constricted in his jeans. Draco suffered from no similar constraint and Harry could feel his erection through his skirts as Draco began to squirm beneath his ministrations.

“Oh, fuck, Harry. Oh yes.” Draco moaned, his movements becoming gentle thrusts.

Sitting up, Harry reached between them to grasp Draco’s cock in a handful of silk. Silk slid against silk and Draco moaned again, thrusting up into Harry’s hand.

“Tell me how it feels,” Harry directed breathlessly. Draco’s head was thrown back, his bare chest and long neck blushed pink. His nipples were flushed and swollen, still glistening. The grey silk shimmered and shifted around him, its softness framing the hardness of his body.

“Tell me,” urged Harry, “for research. In case you forget.”

“Mmmuph,” Draco’s voice no longer sounded dry and clipped. “So good, Harry. So, ah, so good.”

Harry slide his other hand up Draco’s stocking-clad leg, his hand gliding up silk, over the velvet ribbon to the impossibly perfect reality of Draco’s thigh.

“What is it like? Tell me.”

“Like, like,” Draco stuttered and Harry felt a surge of elation that he was making the always poised Draco Malfoy fall apart like this. That Draco had no glib witticisms or erudite observations to impart.

“Like fucking silk! Oh fuck, Harry, touch me. You have to touch me!” And Draco was lifting his hips and fumbling blindly for Harry’s arm to try and guide him.

Still keeping up the strokes of furled silk around Draco’s cock, Harry slid his other hand higher up Draco’s thigh. Draco’s eyes fluttered closed and his tongue was darting reflexively over his lip as he strained towards Harry’s touch.

Sliding his hand between Draco’s legs now, Harry let out a surprised gasp when he encountered a wet, warm stickiness and the familiar slide of lube.

“Christ, Draco, you’re … you’re …?”

Harry’s fingers skated over Draco’s entrance and Draco whined and twisted beneath his hands, chasing the sensation. “Wank. I had a wank. This silk. I wasn’t expecting …” he gasped, breathlessly. “I couldn’t greet you at the door with a raging hard on.”

Harry ghosted his fingers again through the slickness beneath Draco’s skirt.

“You had a wank before I came? You were sitting here, all prim, all this time, with your arse dripping with lube?”

Draco squirmed, trying to get more of Harry’s fingers. “Harry,” he moaned. “Please!”

Harry sunk two fingers into slippery heat of Draco’s arse and Draco arched up, cursing and gripped Harry’s waist with his thighs trying to give himself more leverage as he fucked himself on Harry’s fingers and up into Harry’s silk-shrouded fist.

“Oh yes, yes, oh, fuck, Harry!” Draco panted. “More!” Harry added a third finger and Draco became incoherent, his instructions melting into rhythmic, soft moans. He sounded like he was going to come. Harry could feel his arse beginning to clench around his fingers.

“I want to fuck you.” Harry heard the words spill from his mouth rather than make any conscious decision. Once they were out there, they became imperative. “Please, Draco. Fuck, I need …”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Draco panted.

Harry fumbled quickly with his fly, just pushing them far enough down his thighs to free his cock. He then began fighting with Draco’s skirt, but there was just so damned much of it. He swore.

Draco twisted away from him and there was another rending of silk as part of the skirt remained trapped beneath Harry’s knee on the sofa. After a brief struggle the skirts were all mostly freed and Draco arranged himself on his knees braced against the arm of the sofa. He’d gathered the skirts up under his arms and angled his bare arse towards Harry.

Harry had to grab the base of his own cock to keep from coming. The sight of Draco’s perfect arse and his long thighs, emerging from the soft fine silk of his stockings, the black ribbons round each one, all within the shimmering cloud of grey silk and lace was probably the most profoundly beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The cool grey of the silk perfectly set off the snow white of the stockings, the cream of Draco’s thighs and the pink blush of his arse, with its glistening smear of lube.

“Come on, Harry.” Draco whined, shifting impatiently.

Harry didn’t wait to be told twice. He grasped Draco’s hips and pulled him slowly back as he thrust forward into that overwhelming, slick heat. They gasped in unison for a minute before Harry steadily withdrew and thrust again.

Harry set up a pretty urgent rhythm and quite soon Draco was panting again with those breathy little moans that signalled how close he was to climax. Harry was considering the logistics of a reach-around, given their somewhat precarious position on the sofa, when he realised that Draco was propelled by each thrust into the mass of silks he’d gathered out the way in front of him.

Draco was gripping the sofa, a sheen of sweat across his bare back where scraps of silk from the torn fichu still clung. “Harry.” he moaned urgently.

“I think you can come like this,” Harry panted. “Fuck, Draco. I think you’re going to come like this. With me fucking you. With just the touch of silk on your cock.”

Draco whimpered.

“Don’t touch yourself. I want to see you come like this. Come all over the inside of your petticoat with just that touch of silk.”

“Oh God, Harry.”

Harry thrust fiercely and saw the muscles in Draco’s back flex as he braced himself and threw his head back.

“Harry, fuck, Harry!”

Harry felt Draco’s orgasm shudder through him and that was all he needed before he was coming too.

Harry fell forward across Draco’s back and for a couple of minutes there was silence apart from their heavy panting and the drowsy buzzing of a bee outside the window.

After a bit Draco wriggled and shoved gently and they re-arranged themselves until they sat, or rather sagged, side by side on the sofa.

Draco sprawled in a tangled mess of his skirts. One of his sleeves drooped from his shoulder, partially ripped from the bodice. A section of skirt had also come adrift at the waist and spilled across the floor, showing a pale flash of midriff. The tattered fichu hung from the other shoulder.

“We ruined your dress,” Harry observed.

Draco ran a hand through his hair and stretched out on the sofa. “It can be fixed.” He gave Harry a sly, pointed smile and a slow blink. “If you like.”

“If I … um?” Harry was confused.

“Well,” said Draco, still smiling his sharp, self-satisfied smile. “You seemed to rather like it.” His lips twitched.

“I liked it? You’re the one who had to have an emergency wank as soon as he put it on. I still can’t believe you sat there with your stupid tiny tea cups and lube running down your thighs.”

“Well, I wouldn’t usually. But as you say, the matter had become unexpectedly pressing.”

Draco stretched his arms above his head, coincidentally pushing his chest out. Harry’s eyes were drawn irresistibly to the still-pink nipples and the dark hair of his underarm.

Draco’s lips twitched again. “But you did like it, didn’t you? The dress.”

Harry looked Draco straight in the eye and paused. “Yes, I liked it. I don’t know … I never … but you, you looked beautiful. You look beautiful.”

Draco’s eyes blazed. Not like glass anymore, but like diamonds.

“That’s just as well. Because I’m afraid our results are not valid,” he said and his smile held a warmth that it hadn’t before.

“Not valid?”

“Our research. Not valid at all. Next time you’ll have to wear breeches.”

Fin