Daily Deviant
- there is no such thing as 'too kinky'
FIC: Clean and Filthy (Snape/Draco, NC-17) 
10th November 2009 00:27
Title: Clean and Filthy
Author: EntreNous ([info]entrenous88)
Characters/Pairings: Severus Snape/Draco Malfoy
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Costumes
Other Warnings: Cross-Dressing
Word Count: 5,175
Summary/Description: After failing to kill Dumbledore and fleeing with Snape, Draco finds himself in the middle of quite a mess.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to [info]chiralove, who prodded me out of a kink-slump with a timely suggestion.

When they get to Spinner's End, Draco sniffs disdainfully, and immediately wishes he hadn't when he begins to sneeze.

It's ridiculously dusty, as though it were a mausoleum someone had decided to set up house in as a lark. The rooms haven't been cleaned for ages. Everywhere he looks there are layers of dirt and grime.

"We'll not be staying here long, I imagine?" he chokes out when Snape pauses at a table to thumb through a book. They're the first words he's said to Snape since they fled the grounds of Hogwarts.

"We shall stay as long as I deem it safe," Snape answers, not looking up.

"You can't be serious! How long will that be? I don't think I can stand it more than a minute. It's horrid here!"

Snape's robes snap in the air as he pivots to face Draco. "This is my home."

"Well, I love what you've done with it," Draco bites out.

Snape charging up to him is completely unexpected. Draco's never been struck by an adult, but his flinch is automatic.

Instead Snape stops short in front of him, though he looks as though he would very much like to throttle Draco. "Do not forget who helped you," Snape hisses, far too close for Draco's liking. "Do not forget to whom you owe your life at this moment."

Draco scowls, but he drops his gaze, staring down at the filthy threadbare carpet. He can't tell if Snape did save his life or rather damn him to death. Neither side would offer safety to Draco at this point. If he had killed Dumbledore himself, well. Or if he had stopped Snape, stopped the others, maybe. But no, he's done nothing, and he's failed everyone.

There is a long silence.

At last Snape speaks. "As your surroundings hold such importance for you, you may make yourself useful by improving them. Cleaning utensils are in the cupboard in the kitchen."

Draco jerks his head up, his eyes going wide. "You can't mean -- you can't think I am going to --"

But Snape has already left. And Draco really has nowhere else to go.


Wizards do not clean. House elves clean.

Apparently even idiot Muggles don't deign to clean, but have maids who clean for them. The one Mudblood Draco knew in Slytherin, a girl who arrived the year after him, seemed surprised the other students in her House didn't have maids and butlers at home.

"You let those creatures live with you?" she had asked in shock when Draco jeered at her for not understanding about house elves.

"Well, yes," he had answered, slightly stymied. "It's always been our way, the proper way."

She had shuddered. "Awful. The Muggle way is far more civilized."

"I can't think of anything more awful than seeing a person do such filthy work," Draco had shot back.

Now as he gets on his hands and knees and scrubs he remembers those words. At least he cannot see himself now.

"Can't I just use magic?" he asks in exasperation one afternoon when Snape hauls out a completely hideous set of silver and a smelly jar of muck he's supposed to rub all over it.

"Can't you?" Snape asks in mock-wonder. There's a burning in his eyes as he fixes them on Draco.

Of course not. Snape has taken possession of his wand, "for the time being." Draco stopped asking after it once a week passed.

Snape departs through the Floo for supplies, and is gone for hours.

Draco polishes the silver over and over, meticulous in his anger, and wonders how long that "time being" will last. When he grows weary of worrying in circles around that, he begins to wonder how long Snape will be gone.

Draco has not left Spinner's End since stopping here, not through the Floo, nor through the front door. They're no doubt warded he thinks (whenever the uneasy thought that he might somehow attempt an escape arises). He has never checked.

Snape never invites him along when he disappears for hours at a time. Not that Draco wishes to accompany him, particularly if he's off to see other Death Eaters.

Draco tries not to think what might happen if some of the Death Eaters decide to come round to Spinners End while Snape is gone.

If only he had his wand, he thinks again desperately, and then snorts aloud. What, so he can get killed all the sooner, set upon with a storm of hexes and curses as soon as he draws it? Maybe if some of the Dark Lord's supporters should burst in and Draco obviously has no wand, he will be safer; perhaps if they see he poses no threat...

It doesn't matter. In either case, it's likely only a matter of time.

Draco puts the silver back in its dreadful velveteen case and tries not to jump at little noises: a creak in the floor upstairs, a yelp of a child outside. At least when Snape is about Draco doesn't feel nearly so skittish.

He sits for a moment, resting in the chair Snape seems to prefer. It's something he would never do if he thought Snape could see him.

When Snape is there, Draco's routine is predictable. He wears the extra robes Snape tosses at him and he cleans, he prepares the food Snape brings back with him and he cleans, he rubs salves and lotions on his hands so they won't crack and he cleans, and he cleans and cleans and cleans until he falls into bed at night, grateful for his exhaustion when it brings him dreamless sleep.

When he closes his eyes during this moment of quiet in Snape's absence, though, all he can think of is who will do it when the time comes. Who will kill him? Would the Dark Lord himself -- or does he reserve his venerated killing spells for the likes of Potter and other major enemies? Would Snape kill Draco?

Draco often wonders if Snape would like to kill him, or at the very least itches to hit him. At times Snape watches Draco as he wipes down the counters or removes cobwebs from the corners, his expression fiery as he eyes Draco's progress or makes a remark about his methods. Sometimes his hands twitch as he stares Draco down.

If Draco pauses in his work when it seems he's alone, sitting back on his heels as he surveys the little he has accomplished and the vast amounts of work remaining, Snape almost always appears, watching, foreboding, eyes sharp and hungry. Based on those sorts of looks, Draco imagines Snape might quite like to cast a variety of spells on him.

There's no point in thinking about it. He sets his shoulders and stands, seeking out the bristle brush so he can lose himself in making sure the kitchen floor shines.


Snape returns, saying nothing of where he's been, but he has armfuls of packages. Draco doesn't get to see what's in most of them (Snape immediately takes some upstairs), but he's hardly concerned when he finds a number contain food.

After a supper of stew, Draco puts away the dishes and then pushes a rag around a table in the front room, hoping to tire himself out just a little more before he tries to sleep.

He skims the edges, rubs circles in the center, swipes along the sides.

It's not that he wants to do extra cleaning; far from it. It's a nasty business, getting rid of layers of grease and piles of dust and stains. It's far harder than he thought it might be. He's never cleaned before now, and he swears to himself that he won't lift a finger in service of such things again once he gets out of here.

If he gets out of here. If the Dark Lord lets him --

"You missed a spot," Snape observes, suddenly standing over him, rubbing over a tiny smudge on the table Draco has been polishing. His fingers linger, and then stroke back and forth before Draco's eyes to demonstrate. Draco blinks and watches the faint trail they leave, absorbed in the motion. He's not thinking of who's going to curse him or the Dark Lord now or anything, really, apart from Snape and those long elegant fingers.

Snape's robe brushes against Draco's back. Just for a moment, Draco swears he can feel the heat from Snape's body. He leans back ever so slightly.

Then Snape is gone.

Draco grits his teeth, and reapplies the cleanser.


Finally the front room is clean. And then the kitchen is free of dirt and grease. And at long last the upstairs bedrooms have laundered linens, and the wood floors have been waxed. Though the house is still terrible and ugly, and its windows serve only to let in soot and smells instead of fresh air, for the moment, everything is clean.

"It's done," Draco pants out. He swipes the back of his hand across his forehead to mop away sweat as he stands before Snape who sits at a small desk, quill in hand. "I'm finished."

He had anticipated this moment, imagining the immense relief he would feel when everything was clean. But as he looks around at the neatened space and dusted bookshelves and gleaming wood, he feels a growing sense of unease.

It's done. And what happens now? Will Snape take him to the Dark Lord? Where is his mother? Has Potter gone and done something stupid and blundering, and saved the day? Or is Potter dead? Will Draco be punished for not completing his task? Or punished for what little he managed to do?

Or will he and Snape stay here for a little longer, hide away from what's happening outside these walls?

"Done, you say?"

Draco nods slowly, hardly daring to breathe.

"Now you must maintain it," Snape intones. He takes Draco's slack-jawed look for one of disbelief, and his lip curls. "Or are you not able to do so?"

"Right," Draco mutters, turning away. "Maintain."

Perhaps this is part of his punishment he thinks as he goes through the kitchen cupboards to get rid of old jars of spice and seasoning. Perhaps it is a reprieve he considers the next morning when he hauls out table linens to press.

In any case, it is a relief. It's a relief that it isn't over.

He wanders to the floor above to search out more to do. He feels Snape's eyes on him all the way up the stairs.


It is far from over, Draco realizes three days later. Really, perhaps it has just begun.

He drifts downstairs an hour before Snape usually rises, a plan that would have weeks ago seemed ridiculous shaping in his head: make breakfast, do the washing up, and then hunt down a tin of wax he came across at one point so he can put another layer on the kitchen floor.

It will make the day go by, at any rate, and if that day brings him closer still to his fate, at least with his fingers rubbed raw and his brow furrowed in concentration over his tasks, he will not think about it.

The only wrinkle in his aim not to mull over such things is everywhere around him. His surroundings are much improved. Even given Snape's directive to maintain, there is simply less to do. If Draco wishes to lose himself in tasks and make himself useful (keep whatever happens next in abeyance), he must find something else to do.

That something is presented unexpectedly in the form of three large packages stacked on a table in the front room. Draco almost doesn't pause to examine them, knowing they cannot be for him.

Yet they are. He narrows his eyes at the sight of his name on a plain card attached to the top package. Snape's writing. Draco knows it as he knows his own, especially after six years of seeing it scrawled on his parchments and essays.

The note inside is on crude paper, and says simply: Wear This.

Draco shrugs and tears the rough paper covering the boxes before pulling the lids off. It won't be the first time Snape has provided him with clothing to wear at Spinner's End, though these are the first new items he's received. It seems a good sign somehow. Maybe Snape is especially pleased with his work. Maybe this is Snape's way of telling Draco they will be here for some time to come, if he is in need of new robes for the duration.

Then he sees what's inside.

Bits of silk. Bits of lace and silk, and maybe some satin, skirts and bodices and petticoats, stockings and high-heeled shoes and sets of undergarments that match, black and white, white and black, all the accoutrements, including an ebony-handled feather duster.

He slams the lid on the horrifying contents and backs away until he hits the door.

This is blatant harassment, completely disrespectful to the Malfoy name, and utterly aggressive toward Draco's person. Cleaning, that was one thing, but this -- this!

For one wild moment he wonders if he might somehow get a message to somebody. Certainly his father is in prison (though is he still?) but even he might be able to do something through a contact or an ally or maybe even a gang. He would wish to take action unquestionably were he to learn his son's low-born professor expects him to traipse around his ugly little attached house wearing a French maid's uniform.

Wear This.

Draco will not do it. He won't wear any of this.

When he flees up the stairs, however, he takes the packages and their contents with him.

They are, after all, his.


Alone in the small room Snape installed him in from the first night, Draco rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands.

When he drops his hands and opens his eyes, the flirty underskirts and laced bodices and shoulder-skimming sleeves are still there. He's laid them out, for there are several, all variations on the same theme, and piled the knickers and bras and stockings in piles together, like with like.

It's ridiculous. It's absurd. It's offensive on multiple levels.

He runs a hand over the material of the nearest outfit and shivers.


He imagines a scene in which Snape pounds on the door, demanding Draco show himself in his new apparel.

He pictures a confrontation, in which he hurls the outfits, already torn to bits, at Snape's ugly hook-nosed face.

He considers a détente involving some blurted apology -- though what he's supposed to be sorry for, he cannot begin to imagine.

None of those scenarios come to fruition, however. He tires of waiting.

It is nearly evening when he grips the banister tightly and clicks down the stairs.

Snape, his profile to the doorway, is scanning The Daily Prophet, having already made a meal for himself. At the sound of Draco's approach, he folds the paper to the table. Draco waits for shouting and recriminations.

Instead Snape gazes at him, his eyes widening ever so slightly.

"It suits you," he pronounces at long last before he again picks up his paper.


If cleaning was difficult before -- well, to be truthful, it is not more difficult now. Draco cursed and sweated through the absolute worst of it and then some, and by the time Snape delivered the costume to him, the place was in perfectly acceptable shape.

Draco flicks away a speck of dust from a rather crude imitation Ming vase with his new duster that evening and acknowledges privately the rooms are cleaner than any place he's lived before now. And he is the one responsible for it. He cannot tell whether he should be proud or deeply ashamed.

He knows he was alone when he began, but as he's leaning over the console table to straighten a picture frame and smooth a ruffled fabric covering, he feels it.

A hand. On his thigh.

Just at where the stockings Snape provided with this outfit end. There are suspenders holding them in place, and layers of underskirts just above those, but the hand rests on the slim bare patch of skin Draco could not find any way to cover.

He inhales sharply, but doesn't move.

Then a fingernail trails down the seam, along the length of the thigh, over the back of the knee. By the time it gets to Draco's calf his breaths have started hitching.

"You haven't mussed any of it, have you?" Snape's voice is in his ear now, and the hand withdraws. No part of Snape is touching him, but Snape's heat is everywhere against him, telling Draco he is only a hair's-breadth away. "While you were cleaning?"

"No." His own voice sounds low and husky.

"Good. Because I would hate to see you ruin your pretty things."

Snape is gone before Draco can speak.

He lets fall the duster with a clatter as he turns, cursing under his breath.

All this work, all this cleaning.

He's ready to demand some sort of compensation.


Snape does not leave the house for the next three days. He busies himself with books, with scratching out letters at his desk, with concocting potions.

Draco cannot say for certain, but increasingly he believes Snape remains because he does not wish to miss an instant of Draco cleaning his house in these outrageous costumes.

And why would he? Draco stands on stepladders to dust the books on the topmost shelves while Snape reads in his chair, hearing his skirts swish as he reaches and bends. He rubs surfaces to a lush sheen steps away from Snape at his desk, twisting his hips and leaning over his work to do it properly, feeling air kiss the tops of his thighs. He wipes the glass containers and jars in Snape's potions closet to the rhythm of Snape's deep breathing just behind him at his worktable, extending his legs to point and show as much stocking as possible as he lifts the jars and pots and tiny boxes back to their places on the shelves.

He sometimes changes stockings mid-day, hearing Snape inhale sharply when he fusses with his skirt and ostensibly checks to make certain he hasn't torn anything.

He's stopped wearing his normal robes entirely.

Snape begins looking ragged, as though he has difficulty sleeping of late.

"Here you are," Draco coos the fourth morning, setting down a plate of eggs and toast before Snape. He sits opposite and watches Snape eat with a small smile on his face, one elbow resting on the table and index fingertip just at the center of the seam of his lips. He's taken to pinching his cheeks and lips to make them redder before he enters rooms, and it seems to work; at the moment, Snape seems unable to tear his eyes away from Draco's mouth.

"I -- will you eat nothing?" Snape asks finally. His voice sounds a bit shaky. "You should have food as well."

"Oh, I'll eat after you," Draco demurs. He has joined Snape the past few days, but it seemed somehow counterproductive as Snape ignored him entirely.

Now he lowers his eyelids and trails his fingertip to the edge of his bodice before smoothing it with both hands. "I take pleasure watching you enjoy what I make you."

Snape's eyes darken as he slams his fork to the table. "Obviously you believe to have bested me in this game of yours, or you would not provoke me so." He stands, charging off toward the Floo.

"No, wait," Draco calls. It's harder than it looks to scramble to his feet in these spindly heels.

"You may return to your normal attire tonight," Snape sputters. He looks everywhere but directly at Draco. "Do not expect me until late. I have tasks I must see to."

He's gone in a whirl of soot and flame.

Draco does no cleaning that day. Instead he spends part of the morning sitting cross-legged on his bed and looking back and forth between the wizards' robes hanging on the right of his cupboard and the maid costumes hanging on the left.

The robes are familiar. Yet all he can picture when he looks at them are visions of standing before the Wizengamot to plead for his life, or kneeling in front of the Dark Lord and his followers, begging for mercy. He sees himself atop the Astronomy Tower raising his wand to Dumbledore or wildly casting curses in Potter's direction in the girls' bathroom. He imagines running in them through forests and fields, pursued from every direction and tripping over them, without a wand, unable to cast even a Protego.

He cannot control what will happen to him in the end; if nothing else, the past year taught him that.

But if he decides to at this moment, he could put his robes on right now and investigate whether the Floo works for him, try the handle on the door and learn whether it will give, walk back into the snares and traps of his life to find whether he might make it through them alive.

He knew from the start no one in the wizarding world would offer him safe haven. Except Snape has done that, hasn't he, offered him a secure place to stay, a respite from the inevitable?

That afternoon Draco launders and folds all the robes, the ones he arrived in as well as each set Snape gave him during his stay here, before stowing every last one away in Snape's tall wardrobe.

Then he puts on the sultriest of the French maid outfits, the one with the shortest skirts and the tiniest apron in the front, the most voluminous white underskirts puffing up the black top skirt, silk stockings that make no pretense of reaching the tops of his legs, leaving a healthy portion of skin and suspender straps showing easily. He laces the low bodice tight, creating the illusion of the slightest swell at the top. Underneath he wears one of the black lacy demi-bras, none of which he's worn until now even as he has been faithful to the other elements of the costume. With it he has matched the most ridiculous pair of knickers Snape had provided, the ones with ruffles layered over the arse.

He looks at himself in the mirror so he can see the entire ensemble and smiles.


He waits to go downstairs after he hears Snape's return, listening for the clack of utensils (as Snape eats the dinner Draco has left warming in the oven for him) to begin and end.

When Snape arrives home this late, he typically retires to his study with a glass of Firewhiskey, to sit in his chair and stare at the fire. Usually Draco tries not to disturb him or draw his attention.

Tonight is different.

Draco tiptoes down the stairs so as not to sound a single click of his heels. He pauses for a moment to watch Snape's back lit by the wood crackling in the fireplace.

"All right?" he ventures.

Snape grunts, not turning.

"Want anything?"


He creeps closer across the floor, still keeping his heels from touching the ground.

"Oh, look," he says under his breath as if to himself. "Soot all over the carpet. That won't do."

Snape makes no response at first.

But when Draco crawls past him on hands and knees, not groveling but cat-like stretching and contracting as he inches next to the chair and toward the mess, Snape makes an odd strangled sound.

Draco pays him no attention, tutting and beginning to swish his duster to sweep some of the soot back toward the fire, wriggling to reach it all.

"What are you doing?" Snape's voice is strained.

Draco pauses, glances back over his shoulder. "Cleaning."

There is not much distance between Snape's chair and Draco. It's certainly close enough for Draco to hear Snape's breathing growing heavier.

That isn't quite enough, however. So to give the full effect, Draco returns to his task, sliding one knee back a bit and arching as he tilts his hips back, flashing skin and skirts and silk.

As he continues, he hears the weight of Snape's glass meeting the tabletop. For a moment he stills, waiting to hear if Snape's footsteps will move away.

Then he feels it, the very tip of Snape's boot, ever so slowly lifting the layers of skirts and sliding beneath.

Draco doesn't hesitate, tilting his arse up and letting Snape's foot slide along it, until it is resting against the lowest swell of his arse, just above his balls.

When Snape does not move further, Draco resumes his swishing at the soot, shifting his weight forward and back so that Snape's boot tip slips and presses up and down while Draco works.

They continue like this for a few moments, with Draco twisting his hips and keeping the contact steady, growing warm from the combination of glancing touches and the heat of the fire.

At last Draco feels a slight answering pressure, Snape pressing his sole against his arse, trailing the pointed edge of his boot along the fabric covering the crease of Draco's arse.

"Perhaps you should continue your filthy task another time," Snape says at last in a low voice.

Draco shifts back, sitting on his heels, and once more glances over his shoulder. "What shall I do instead?"

"Stand," Snape commands hoarsely.

Despite the order, he stands first, reaching to help Draco up as he turns, pulling him flush against his body.

"Oh," Draco cries out when Snape yanks him close and cups his arse, fingering the ruffles before fondling his balls through the fabric. Then he yelps in surprise as Snape very nearly bends him in two, supporting the small of Draco's back while he forces his body to bow, as if they were in the middle of a particularly acrobatic dance move. Snape keeps him in this precarious position while he sets on him like wildfire, biting his neck, massaging his arse, inhaling against his collarbone; doing all he can to make Draco shiver and pitch while all Draco can do is hang on.

When Snape stops suddenly, Draco whimpers, trying to pull Snape back into their whirlwind of motions.

"You chose to remain in this apparel despite the option you were given," Snape murmurs against Draco's throat. He scrapes his teeth along the skin, sucks Draco's Adam's apple.

"Yes," Draco gasps. He's able to twist so he can press against the hard length he feels even through these ridiculous multiple layers of lace, but he can't get as close to it as he would like.

"Then," Snape growls, licking then worrying with his teeth the sensitive skin at Draco's jaw, "you must now make yourself useful by allowing me to remove every last piece of it."

"Yes," Draco moans, a sound swallowed by Snape's demanding mouth.

They make it up the stairs in an odd dance of steps interrupted by gropes and bites. Draco's heels threaten to topple him more than once when Snape thumbs over the fabric covering his nipples and palms his cock through the silk of his knickers.

At last they stumble inside Snape's bedroom. Draco doesn't get a moment to collect his wits before Snape rips open his bodice and inhales deeply against the lace of Draco's brassiere.

Draco tries to say something about Snape taking off his clothes as well, but how can he when Snape is so wonderfully aggressive, yanking the fabric triangles down to swipe his tongue greedily over Draco's nipples? Draco does manage some gurgling sounds as he attempts to push at Snape's robes, hoping Snape will interpret this correctly.

But Snape pays him no attention, pushing him back on the bed and watching avidly as Draco bounces then wriggles backward so he's not hanging halfway off the mattress.

The lace of the bra slips back up as Draco squirms, scratching against his hard nipples and making him moan helplessly. After weeks of feeling only worry and work, this onslaught of insistent sensation threatens to undo him.

But that's nothing compared to when Snape deftly flips up Draco's multi-layered skirts and bends to rub his cheek against the silky knickers and over Draco's stiff prick. Draco has to bite his palm so he won't shout ridiculous things, especially when he looks down to see Snape has let the skirts fall and cover his head. Draco's legs jerk and kick as Snape, his head still concealed in the pile of finery, avidly mouths along his cock, wetting the fabric as he licks and sucks and tastes through the silk.

"My heels," Draco manages to force out, only now realizing his shoes are in danger of digging into the bedclothes.

"Leave them on," Snape snarls, turning his head to bite at Draco's suspenders. When he actually opens one buckle with his teeth, Draco's hips jerk forward.

Draco reaches down to help undo his skirts, but Snape knocks his hands aside, obviously preferring his own method of tearing the fabric off and ruining it utterly. Draco might object, but he thinks now Snape must have fantasized about shredding these garments to reveal Draco's naked body just as he had fantasized about Draco wearing them around his house to clean, to taunt and tease.

At last he's naked, tatters of fabric around him -- that is, apart from the suspenders, the high heels, and the stockings still on him.

Snape makes short work of his own robes and other clothing, paying it no attention whatsoever as he hurls it over his shoulders, until they're skin to skin.

Draco worries he won't last as Snape strokes their cocks together. Then he knows he won't last as Snape lets go to focus entirely on Draco, sucking on his nipples, twisting and pulling his prick with ruthless skill, biting everywhere he can reach.

When Draco starts to come, it's with his ankles crossed behind Snape's middle, heels digging into Snape's back. The silk of his stockings swooshes faster and faster until he throws his head back and cries out at the feel of Snape sucking on his throat.

He pants for breath in a sprawl when Snape rears back, fisting his hard cock with relentless strokes until he's shooting come all over Draco's chest and groin.

For a moment, everything is warm and wonderful, a world where Draco hasn't a thing to worry about other than the state of his costume.

But as Snape's dark eyes flash at him, Draco swallows. How long this reprieve will last, how long he will last, he still has no idea.

"What now?" he whispers when Snape moves closer.

"Now?" Snape trails a finger over Draco's abdomen through the droplets of come, making him shiver as he turns it up and brings it to Draco's mouth. "Now we clean this up."

*~* the end *~*
14th November 2009 21:01
Thank you, thank you! It's great hearing you thought so highly of the build up as well as Draco's rationales for his decisions. I'm so pleased you enjoyed this!
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