Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/613667.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Scorpius_Malfoy/Albus_Severus_Potter
  Character:
      Scorpius_Malfoy, Albus_Severus_Potter, Narcissa_Malfoy
  Additional Tags:
      Masturbation, Crossdressing, First_Time
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-29 Words: 2329
****** Blood, Silk, Sex, and Magic ******
by DandyboyDaniel
Summary
     When sex with his boyfriend becomes stale and routine, Scorpius' eyes
     begin to wander. He finds renewed excitement in a women's fashion
     magazine. The models weren't coy little women, coquettishly showing
     off their knickers. They stood like perfectly hewn statues in
     striking poses, exuding glamour, beauty, sensuality, and most of all,
     power. Scorpius didn't want them. He wanted to BE one of them.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
  This work was inspired by
      Identity by Ischa
He's slipping away from me like a silk scarf through my fingers. I could bind
him with magic. I could tie him to the bed. I could do all manner of things to
make him stay, but it wouldn't be real. I want him to want to stay.
He was just a boy of eleven when we first kissed. Everything was new and
exciting. To touch virgin skin with virgin hands; to kiss nubile flesh with
innocent lips – this was our gift to each other. And through the years, I gave
him my body to explore, to uncover new curves and lines as they emerged from
pubescence, to discover novel ways to give me pleasure. In return, his body was
mine to do the same. No gift is more precious and fleeting than that of a boy
blossoming into a man. I was truly blessed.
When he made love to me for the first time, I had bled for him. We were
fifteen. Pain never melted into pleasure, as we had expected. But I didn't let
him stop, even as I cried – not just tiny whimpers of discomfort – I actually
cried, with real tears that streaked down my flushed cheeks and instantly froze
against my skin in the cold autumn night air. With his breath coming in white
puffs, he panted and pleaded, "I don't want to hurt you, Snowflake. I love you
too much," and he cried just as I did. Still I urged him on, deeper, harder,
faster, proclaiming my love all the while. I welcomed all the pain, blood, and
tears, for I knew that I would always be his, as long as I could still feel him
between my legs for days after.
But, of course, my body learned to accommodate him. And instead of reinforcing
his ownership with pain, he owned me with pleasure. We made love in secret –
hidden in cramped spaces, contorting our bodies into unique shapes; silently in
his bed while others slept nearby, biting our lips to keep from moaning, so
hard that I could taste blood when we kissed; in the middle of the night on the
quidditch pitch where we could fuck with reckless abandon and shiver in each
other's arms until dawn.
It would never be boring. Or so we believed.
Even the novelty of fucking in a broom closet wears off after you've done it a
dozen times.
He would never admit that things were getting stale. I knew him too well. He
would love me and gladly partake of my body no matter how routine it became.
But it could never be as exciting as the first time, never be as thrilling the
tenth, twentieth, thirtieth time, even if it still made us come.
I first noticed the rift forming between us one night when I snuck into his bed
to cuddle. We started to go through the motions of having sex, not because we
particularly wanted each other, but because we assumed that's what we were
supposed to do. The rift grew wider and wider, until sex became almost as banal
and predictable as brushing our teeth.
We had been together every single day of every school year from our very first
day at Hogwarts. But I found myself missing Albus Potter, even as he sat next
to me in the Great Hall, holding my hand beneath the table. Even more horrible
than this feeling, was the sense that Albie wasn't missing me at all.
Boredom makes one's eyes wander. I was sitting in the Slytherin common room
with Roz Parkinson, resting my head on her shoulder as she flipped through a
muggle fashion magazine. There was a highly stylized photo spread of models in
fancy underwear. They weren't coy little women, coquettishly showing off their
knickers. They stood like perfectly hewn statues in striking poses, exuding
glamour, beauty, sensuality, and most of all, power. I was fascinated, deeply
drawn to this power, ogling with mouth agape. I didn't want these women. I
wanted to be one of them. If I wielded even an ounce of their power, I could
keep Albie – he would want me again, just like the first time I bared myself to
him.
I became obsessed. It was a sick fascination. Every curvy girl I encountered, I
wondered what lay beneath her school robes, fantasized about how she looked in
her underwear. But I didn't view them the way a horny teen-age boy would view
them. No, those boys wanted to get into their knickers. I wanted more. I wanted
to get into their bodies, in the way one would put on a glove. I wanted to feel
with their skin, move elegantly with their delicate arms, stalk like a tigress
with their graceful legs.
Of course, I could never do that.
I'm a boy, you see.
It's not that I want to change my gender, nor do I feel like I'm trapped in the
wrong body. I love my cock. I love what I can do with it. I love the way my
cock feels, pulsing hard in Albie's fingers, gliding wetly through Albie's
mouth, and that rare occasion buried deep in his arse. I enjoy being a young
man, appreciate the entitlement it gives me in society, and revel in the
masculinity I exude when I put on a tailored suit.
But a woman's sensual power intrigues me. I want her strength. I want her
control. I want to command attention and inspire adoration the way only a woman
can.
Ever since my first glimpse, I'd been flipping through the pages of muggle
magazines like Vogue and Elle, poring over the Agent Provacateur and Victoria's
Secret catalogues. Nobody around me seemed to find it odd. It fit their
stereotype of homosexual men. But they didn't realize that I'm not a
stereotypical gay boy. I'm not terribly interested in fashion. I'm a
stereotypical Slytherin. I seek power.
Albie became suspicious. He thought my fascination meant I wanted to explore
the other side of my sexuality. He even suggested giving each other a "free
ticket" to experiment with a girl. I was furious and hurt. I'd never share my
lovely Albie with anyone, especially with a girl. His offer only made me
suspicious. Perhaps my cock was not enough for him.
Over the Christmas hols, I took my obsession further.
Nanna Cissy still keeps a home in the East wing of Malfoy Manor, but she rarely
stays there. Ever since Grandfather Lucius died, she's been globe-trotting. She
has a villa in Corsica where she spends her summers and a townhouse in London
where she spends her winters shopping and going to the theater. In between, she
vacations all over the world. I knew she kept a lot of clothes and jewelry at
the manor, but I had no idea what a treasure trove of designer luxury it truly
was until I went exploring. In secret, of course.
After my parents and the twins were asleep, I snuck to the other side of the
house and crept into Nanna's unoccupied room. Inside was an enormous walk-in
closet that could fit my entire dormitory bedroom within. It was filled with
gowns made of silk, satin, sequins, and lace, most of which were vintage and
hadn't been worn in decades. There were shelves upon shelves of shoes of every
style and color. Drawers held jewelry, mostly costume jewelry (her real jewels
were in the vault), and various accessories – hair clips, belts, gloves. I
spent hours just looking at everything, letting my fingers explore the
textures, feasting my eyes on all that glittered and shined. I would imagine
how my grandmother would appear in these clothes, how she'd stand regally, how
she'd dominate an elegant party with her presence and style. I've always
admired her strength and her beauty.
Soon, simply looking and dreaming wasn't good enough. I felt compelled to adorn
myself with her clothes. I even felt justified. Were I born a girl, this would
all be mine to inherit. One night, I carefully chose a gown – a silk dress of
gold with spaghetti-thin straps at the shoulders, pearl beads and sequins along
the bodice, and shimmery fringe at the bottom hem. The label inside the gown
proclaimed that it was a Chanel. It looked like something Nanna Cissy might
have worn as a young lady, perhaps to a cocktail party, maybe before she was
even married to my grandfather.
I stripped down to nothing. It seemed silly to keep my boxer briefs on,
something decidedly male, when wearing something so sleek and feminine. I
unzipped the back of the gown while it was still on the hanger – the sound it
made gave my cock an unexpected little twitch. I stepped into it, careful not
to tread on the fabric gathered at the bottom, and felt the silk slide over my
legs as I pulled it up – it was like being touched by desirous hands, like
being caressed by a satiny ghost. I shivered with pleasure. I hooked the straps
on my thin shoulders and reached behind to pull up the zipper. Then I stood
before the large gilded mirror. To my surprise, it fit rather well. Of course,
it was a bit loose in the chest and hips, but otherwise, it hung on my lanky
frame nicely, giving me the illusion of curves.
My eyes started to tear up. I wasn't a wispy, gangly, bony boy that was too
tall for his thin frame. I was beautiful. I felt beautiful. Instinctively, I
posed, smoothing my long fingers over the intricate beading until my hands
rested on my waist, tilting gracefully to put my weight onto one leg, while the
other leg angled out to the side, accentuating the gentle curve of my calf.
I was so giddy and excited, I immediately dipped into the drawers and pulled
out a jeweled comb, which I wedged in my relatively long hair to keep it off my
neck. I pinned my fringe back with bedazzled pins. The result was striking. The
line of my neck flowed seamlessly to my back that lay mostly exposed thanks to
the low cut of the dress. I didn't look like a boy in a dress. The features of
my yet-to-fully-develop teenage body were soft and smooth enough that I was
quite convincing as a woman.
I twirled and posed and postured in front of the mirror for what seemed like
hours, giggling and pouting and smirking as if I were being photographed for a
fashion magazine. Nothing had ever made me feel so beautiful. Not even Albie.
I poked around the accessory drawers in search of some matching gloves. I
pulled on a previously unopened drawer and discovered row upon row of sheer,
delicate silk in various skin tones. I carefully lifted one out of the drawer,
revealing a thigh-length silk stocking. When I felt my cock hardening, I knew I
was in trouble. Before I could befoul the Chanel gown with precome, I quickly
took it off and carefully replaced it on the padded hanger. Then I sat on the
bench by the mirror, naked, with my hair still adorned in jewels, and dipped my
toe into the silk stocking. I watched myself in the mirror as I slowly slipped
the sheer silk over my pointed foot, up my ankle, over my calf, and up past my
knee, all the way up to my thigh. I let the elastic snap into place, loving the
sweet little smacking sound it made against my flesh.
Merlin… That was sexy.
I did the same with the other stocking, but this time, I was aware of every
move and every expression. I put on a show in front of the mirror as if I were
performing for somebody – for Albie. I licked my lips and parted them, narrowed
my eyelids, and gave my best fuck me look that I'd ever managed.
Oh gods, I was hot.
I rose from the bench slowly, each movement deliberate and smooth. I stood and
admired myself in the mirror. There was something about those silk stockings
that made my normally frail-looking body appear powerful. It was a subtle sort
of strength. I was fully erect, cock rising straight up from a soft nest of
lucent curls, leaking glistening strings of pre-come like a thin pearl
necklace. It was then that I knew I had it. I'd accomplished what I had thought
only a female supermodel could.
The power of sensuality and beauty was mine. I was a goddess. A goddess with a
cock.
I gently took the corner of my bottom lip between my teeth and looked at myself
with hooded eyes – lashes fanning out like a faintly visible curtain. I bit
down hard, hoping to bring a bit of color to my lips, but drew blood. I smeared
it over my lips and made them rosy. I took my cock into my hand and stroked
myself languidly. Feeling dizzy, I sat back down on the bench. I let my silken
legs slide against each other, marveling at the sensual smoothness as I fisted
my cock, firmly and slowly.
I allowed myself to moan – such a rarity after always hiding. It wasn't the
shameful, carnal grunt that usually escaped my lips when Albie fucked me on the
quidditch pitch. It was all part of the act. It was a sexy little sound,
rumbling deep in my throat, like the purr of a big cat.
As I came, spewing hot, voluminous amounts of semen over my fist, I thought of
Albie. I thought of him, not as my teen-age boyfriend, but as my red, hot
lover, and I as the physical embodiment of lust – the king, no, the Queen, of
Desire.
When I returned to Hogwarts for the second half of the school year, I knew
exactly how to repair that rift between me and Albie – with a little bit of
blood, silk, sex, and magic.
End Notes
     I first read "Identity" on Live Journal, along with other AS/S cross-
     dressing fics that I failed to bookmark and can't find anymore. This
     story was inspired by those. I sought to explore the reason why
     Scorpius would want to wear women's clothing. The initial absence of
     names in the narrative and the gender of the narrator is intentional.
     This story connects to "An Education" series. Roz Parkinson isn't my
     OC. Originally posted on FF dot net as "Blood, Silk, and Magic"
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