Kristmas Wish Fulfilled for: ldymusyc
From: tryslora

Title: Sometimes a Fantasy
Characters/Pairings: Draco/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Included: ties as restraints, light spanking, high high high heels, corsets, jewelry
Other Warnings/Content: n/a
Word Count: ~4k
Summary/Description: Hermione is always running late. Draco might be persuaded to admit this is partly his fault, when his gift for her is almost as much a gift for himself.
Author's Notes: I really had fun writing this, and I hope you enjoy it!

Draco had never been good at waiting. He relaxed on the sofa, one arm across the back, the other resting on the arm, fingers tapping. His lips were pursed as he watched the Floo. Waiting.

After all, waiting was bad enough when people were on time. But one thing he had learned in the early days of their courtship was that his wife was rarely, if ever, anywhere exactly when she said she would be. He suspected it was in reaction to having once had more time in the day than any witch should have, and she had never quite learned to handle time the right way around again. The irritating thing was that she was meticulous in everything else, but time… it simply slipped away from her, and no matter what plans they had made, Hermione would be late.

There were times when he told her to be early—gave her a time twenty minutes or even an hour ahead of when he actually wanted her to appear. But it never mattered. He couldn’t predict when she would arrive, nor could he second guess her. He had simply learned to deal with it.

She came through the Floo in a flurry, brushing herself off and already speaking as she stepped into the room. “I’m so sorry. My meeting ran late, and then something came up—” She cut off abruptly, fingers in her hair, trying to comb the soot out of thick curls as she looked at him. He knew what she saw: the carefully slicked hair, the formal robes. The raised eyebrow.

Her expression fell. “Oh. We had plans tonight, didn’t we?”

Draco did his best to hide the smile that wanted to sneak out at her woebegone expression. The corner of his lip curled in a small smirk. “I’m sure it’s quite all right. It isn’t as if society expects us to be on time.”

Hermione was an organized woman. Dreadfully organized when it came to her causes. But social activities simply didn’t register at the same level of importance on her radar. Even their wedding had begun a half hour late. By now, it had become almost routine.

“I’m so sorry.” She wrapped her arms around him after he stood, and he kissed her, threading his fingers into that thick, luxurious hair. “Let me guess: you’ve laid out my clothes for tonight.”

The smile snuck free. “Your dress, your shoes, and your jewelry. Would you care for help getting dressed?”

Apology disappeared with a soft, throaty laugh, and she kissed him again before nudging him back. “If I let you help, how late would we be then? You wait here; I’ll get showered and changed and we’ll be on our way before you know it.”

Perhaps Hermione wasn’t the only reason the Malfoys were always late. But once the time had already passed where they could be on time, why worry about exactly how late they were? Draco didn’t answer, merely pulling her outer robes off, hands sliding over smooth skin where they could, teasing her. He caught her, pulling her back against him, one hand on her belly while his lips fell to her neck. “You might change your mind,” he murmured, mouth warm against her skin. “There’s a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” Hermione frowned, and he could hear it in her voice. His tongue flicked against her throat, and she whimpered, hands tugging at his where they rested and held her in place. “Draco—stop.” Her words protested, but her voice was soft and breathy. Still, he let her go, and she stepped away again, smiling back at him. “Draco Malfoy, you said we have to be somewhere. And wherever it is, you’d rather we’re not so late that someone notices and chastises you. Or reminds you that if you hadn’t married a mudblood, you might possibly be able to show your face in society.”

“I haven’t called you a mudblood since we were children.”

“They still do,” Hermione pointed out, a hint of sharpness entering her voice. “You wait here. I’ll be back momentarily.”

He followed her to the end of the hallway, watching her as she stopped in the doorway to their room. A flush rose to her cheeks, and she turned to look at him.

“I—I might need your help a bit after all,” she admitted. “Did you truly want me to wear this tonight? Out? In public? That’s not—”

“It’s not what you meant, I know.” Draco came up behind her, looking over her shoulder at the dress laid out across the bed, and the corset that lay with it. The dress would only fit with the corset underneath, the waist narrow, the hips and bosom lush. The corset would peek out, just at the line the collar, a small frill of silvered lace drawing the eyes to the swell of her breasts. “You are beautiful, ‘Mione. The world looks at you and sees a mouse. I know better.”

“But—in public?” Hermione’s voice faded into a squeak.

Draco chuckled, gathering her hair back, lips drifting over her ear. “Just because it is your fantasy, doesn’t mean I can’t indulge in one of my own,” he murmured. “Now, would you like help getting dressed?”

Hermione’s voice was shaky. “In order to properly wear a corset, the stays must be pulled tight. Often, a maid would be employed to pull until she could not pull any longer, or in the absence of a maid, a sister or a mother, until the waist was cinched small enough that a man might span it with the fingers of both hands.”

“Know-it-all,” Draco whispered, nipping at her earlobe. But he loved it.

“I don’t think my waist will be that small,” she said back.

“Why don’t we see?”

She had been dressed quite plainly beneath her work robes: a soft white blouse and a pencil skirt, over cotton bra and panties. Draco stripped these away, fingers lingering against her skin, teasing her nipples to taut pebbles, stroking her belly until she arched against him, begging silently for him to drift lower. Instead, Draco stopped, leaving her naked and him fully clothed.

“Do you trust me?” he murmured, tilting her head back so he could claim a kiss. “You asked me to buy you a corset and lace you tightly, and to turn your bottom red. Tonight I’ll give you that, and more, if you promise that you trust me, no matter what I choose.”

He felt a soft breath shudder through her. They’d played before, only the lightest of touches, teasing each other with the idea of what they might do. And Hermione had asked for this, quietly, calmly, her cheeks red as she told him that it would add spice to their life in the bedroom. She had presented him with references for corset makers, with historical articles on how they were constructed and why they were used. She had found a dressmaker who created historically accurate dresses. And he had ignored her, saying perhaps and letting her believe that he had no interest until she stopped asking. Until she believed that he would not give in.

In the meantime, he had commissioned these to be made for him expressly, and he had carefully considered their use, with as much thought as she had given to her presentation of an argument. She hadn’t looked past the garment to the potential; he had, and he intended to fully exploit it.

“I do,” she said, after only a moment’s thought. “Whatever you want, Draco.”

He smirked. “Then let’s get you dressed.”

The corset was made of green satin, striped with burgundy, with threads of silver and gold running through. It seemed like it ought to be an odd combination, but it worked, rich and dark against the pale of her skin. He laced it loosely at first, appreciating how even that simple start nudged her breasts up until he couldn’t resist kissing their creamy softness. He let his tongue drift along the edge, almost able to tease a nipple, where he could just barely see the edge of her areola. He gathered her hair, twisting it and tucking it over her shoulder as he turned her to face the posts of their bed. “Hold on,” he directed, and he took hold of the laces.

He tugged, quickly at first, then steadily, watching her shiver as the corset bound around her. She gasped softly, then moaned. “More,” she breathed. “I can take more.” And as she exhaled, Draco tugged again until he couldn’t pull anymore. He twisted the laces, tying them carefully and adding a knotting spell on top of that to ensure that they wouldn’t loosen throughout the evening.

Then he placed his hands at her waist; he couldn’t quite circle it, but then, she hadn’t been trained to the corset her entire life. Still, her waist seemed tiny to him, shockingly so. “How does it feel?” he asked.

“Tight,” she admitted with a soft gasp. She was trying to breath, finding new patterns and ways of bringing air in despite the confinement, and after a few moments she seemed to get the hang of it. Her breasts rose and fell with every breath, and again, he couldn’t resist touching them. With a breathy laugh, she slapped his hands away. “Don’t start, or we’ll never manage to leave. Where are we going, anyway?”

“Pansy’s holiday party,” he replied. When her expression fell at the mention of Parkinson, he smirked. “We won’t be staying long. With you looking like this, do you think I would rather be there or here?”

“You haven’t finished my fantasy yet,” Hermione pointed out.

His hands fell to her bottom where it was bare beneath the corset and he squeezed lightly. “I know, but you’ll have to think of that while we’re out. Or else we’ll be too late.”

Her eyes widened, soft and brown and oh so warm as her tongue darted out to lick her lips. Draco considered ending this script right there and pushing her down, taking care of all their wants and desires. But not yet. No matter how tempting it was. He wrestled himself under control, thankful for the robes that hid his erection. “Dress,” he said.

“You forgot my knickers,” she said with a smile.

“You won’t be wearing any,” he replied, rewarded with that slightly shocked, warm gaze again. He chuckled. “Where’s my Gryffindor, ready to charge into any battle?” he teased.

“I’ve never charged into anything without knickers!”

“My bed.”

He had a point, and she stopped right there, mouth working slightly as she flushed brightly, right down to the heaving softness of her breasts.

“But you are right, we’ve forgotten something. Lean back there against the post.”

Draco waited until she was in position. He knew she couldn’t sit, not while in the corset, so instead he knelt and carefully lifted one foot, unrolling a stocking over her toes. He slid it up her leg until the tight top clung to her thighs, leaving her legs bare the rest of the way. Here he could see her center, could press a kiss there if he so chose, tasting the juices he saw clinging there, the musk of her arousal apparent. Instead, he drew back and carefully unrolled the other stocking, pressing kisses to the inside of her thigh, teasing her with his tongue and small nips until she rolled her hips towards him with a whimper.

He smacked her bare bottom with the tips of his fingers, knowing it would sting. “Later, love,” he said. “You need to be patient tonight.”

“None of the research I gave you included this,” Hermione said, chin in the air. “You aren’t being authentic.”

He rolled back on his feet, coming to his heels easily. “Oh yes, my love, I most certainly am. You aren’t the only one who can indulge in some research.”

The dress settled over her head, the green a shade lighter than the edge of the corset that was exposed under the neckline. Hermione stared at her silhouette in the mirror, taking in the hourglass figure, the lush curves exposed by the tug of the corset. “Is that how you see me?” she asked.

“That’s how you ought to see yourself,” Draco responded. He gathered her hair back, twisting it and pinning it in place with a spell, not having the patience for anything more than this casual updo. But it suited her, the way little curls and wisps escaped to frame her face. There were two more pieces, both of which were also laid on the bed, but had been missed in the excitement over the corset.

The first were offered as he knelt before her, a pair of green pumps with impossibly high heels, narrowing at the tip. As she stepped into them and he stood, she came nearly to his height, her legs long and slender and hidden beneath the dress. She took a careful step, eyes widening at how the heels made her sway, loosening her walk in a way that made Draco’s gaze fix upon her bottom, watching her move.

He was tempted, again, to simply toss her on the bed and flip her skirts up, and drive into her, possessing her. Another deep breath as he focused instead on dressing her, the last item a choker about her neck. It fit tight and snug against her throat, emeralds set in gold to match the dress and corset. A touch to the back ensured that it was locked, unable to be removed for the course of the night. When she swallowed, he watched the choker move slightly.

“I like it,” she said. “Are we ready to go?”

When she turned, he knew she was comfortable with her surprise, and had settled into the change in wardrobe. He saw the high points of colour, the way her cheeks flushed when she was aroused, making her damnably attractive. But she was taking control in her Gryffindor way, ready to lead him on a tug of war for the night until he wrested that control back from her. Which he would, at the time of his choosing. He smirked, lifting her hand to brush his lips against the back of it, then nip at a fingertip, tongue teasing her. “I’m ready.”

He wrapped her in a cloak and together they apparated to the Parkinson-Zabini home. They couldn’t apparate directly in—Blaise was too paranoid for that—and most of the attendees had arrived long past, late as they were. So they arrived alone in the gardens, and Draco guided Hermione with a hand against the small of her back, walking along the pathways, his gaze entranced by the gentle sway of her hips.

He couldn’t wait.

He couldn’t share her with the others, not like this, not aching and more than ready for her. With a soft growl, he tugged her with him into an alcove, sharing space with a small statue. He pulled her to him, pressing her against the wall, his hips matching with hers, high as her heels were. His mouth crushed over hers, and she responded with a low whimper that shuddered through her, a soft whisper of his name.

“Not historical,” she whispered.

“Completely historical,” he countered, opening her cloak at the throat to kiss tender skin, nipping at it until it warmed red. “You’ve escaped your chaperone for a rendezvous in the gardens. And I shall have my way with you in privacy.”

“You’ll ruin me.” Her laugh was husky, ending in a moan as he slid one finger under the edge of her corset, teasing the nipple that was caught so tightly there.

“I believe I already have, Mrs. Malfoy, long ago and with your permission.” He bent his head, teasing the tip of her breast out until he could capture her nipple, suckling it roughly. His tongue eased over the tip as it pebbled, flicking until she cried out, her fingers clasped at the back of his head. “You need to be quieter.”

Her thwap against his shoulder was half-hearted. “You’re the one started snogging me in public.”

“This isn’t public; it’s an alcove.”

Laughter drifted on the wind, carried from the house down into the gardens as someone must have stepped out onto the terrace.

“It’s just outside of Pansy’s house.”

Draco took a handkerchief from his pocket and crumpled it tightly, gently tucking it into Hermione’s open mouth. “Then you’ll just have to be quiet, now, won’t you.”

Her eyes widened, and he placed a finger over her lips. “Do you trust me?” he asked again. She nodded once, quickly, and that was all Draco needed.

He turned her to face the wall, quickly tugging his tie off and placing the loop around her joined wrists before tightening it. He pulled them over her head, using a sticking charm to fasten them to the stone, leaving her hanging there as he stood behind her. Hands on her hips, he thrust against her, letting her feel how ready he was, even through the thickness of her skirts and his robes. “There we go, my beautiful girl,” he murmured against her shoulders.

Fingers dipped beneath the edge of the corset, teasing both nipples free, tweaking them between thumb and forefinger until moans vibrated through her body, threatening to be louder than the makeshift gag could contain. He should be quick, he suspected, and that wasn’t a problem for him, as anxious as he was to have her.

Draco tugged her skirts up, gathering them and using magic to hold them so his hands could be free, dipping down between her legs into her soaked cleft. She whimpered, her body shuddering as he teased her clit. “Silence,” he reminded her, swatting her bare bottom. She bit back another moan, and he swatted her again, seeing the rose warmth of her skin faintly in the moonlight. She pushed back against him, begging silently now, rough breaths dragged in and out of lungs confined by the corset about her ribs. He gave her what she wanted, sharp quick slaps, eased by soft strokes over her skin with one hand, the thumb of his other hand rolling over her clit until she gasped and shuddered through her orgasm.

He couldn’t wait, freeing himself quickly and pressing against her from behind. The sharp high heels raised her ass to just the right height that he didn’t have to bend, able to thrust in with one stroke, pressing her against the wall. She cried out at the rough feel of the skirts and stone over her skin, the soaked handkerchief barely able to contain the sound. Draco was past caring who heard, loving that she could match him thrust for thrust like this, that he could take her without thinking. His mouth fell to her shoulder, nipping sharply as he stroked in and out of her, worrying at the skin and leaving a path of red marks, claiming his wife.

Each of her gasps was rougher, higher-pitched, a soft whimper as she tried for air. He slid fingers through her folds again, teasing her roughly, wanting to feel her contract around him. But he couldn’t stop, couldn’t even consider slowing down as his body tightened and his mouth clamped down on tender skin, sucking it in roughly as he spilled inside of her. He felt her clench around him a moment later before going limp.

He ended the spell that held her skirts and hands up, twisting so he leaned against the wall, taking her weight against him as he stroked her face. He tugged the handkerchief free, tucking it back in his pocket, ignoring the fact that it was sodden now. “Are you alright?” he murmured, wondering when she was so quiet.

“A bit winded,” she admitted. “And light-headed. Apparently I now have complete understanding why corseted women tended to swoon when they were excited. I can’t quite decide whether it added to the experience or detracted from it.”

That was his Hermione, analyzing every situation, even in the aftermath of pleasure. He smirked, as his hands slid over her body, helping tuck her breasts back safely away in the confines of the corset. “You loved it,” he said knowingly. “Just as much as you’ll love it again later tonight, when I have you on your back in our very own bed.”

“With the corset still on?” she asked.

“Corset and heels, and this,” his fingers touched the choker at her throat. “And nothing more.” A moment’s pause as they caught their breath before he asked, “Was it what you wanted?”

“Everything I asked for and more. Do we still have to go to the party?” She sounded so hopeful that perhaps it was just an excuse, that they could go home now, that Draco almost laughed.

“Yes, love, we are expected. Pansy would never forgive me if I were to leave now.” Draco fluffed her skirts, standing back to make sure she was presentable. She looked as if she had just been tumbled, her skin flushed and her hair tousled, but he thought she was perfect. And more importantly, she was his.

He held out his arm, and she took it, and together they walked the rest of the way to the terrace. As they stepped inside, he waited a moment until Hermione spotted the banner hanging upon the wall, and her eyes widened. She raised one hand as if to fix her hair, as her gaze darted about the crowded room, picking out Gryffindors and others who wouldn’t normally set foot near Pansy’s place, but had come for her: Ron dancing with Lavender, and Harry off to one side with Ginny. Neville doting on Hannah.

Her gaze flicked to Draco then, eyes wide and panicked as he smirked.

“I can’t be here like this! I’m not presentable!” she said quickly. “And we’re late and they’ll all know why.”

“You look as if you were just shagged quite thoroughly,” he murmured, “and as we are celebrating our tenth anniversary, I do believe they will make allowances, Mrs. Malfoy.”

It had taken quite a bit of planning to set this up, after all, the worst of it being the trick of convincing Pansy and Potter to work together on a single celebration without one trying to undermine the other. Now all he had to do was keep his wife from running from the room.

“They all know we were shagging on the terrace,” Hermione said, voice barely more than a whisper. “I think I’m going to faint.”

“If you swoon, it would be authentic,” Draco murmured, drawing her into his arms again, mouth tracing over the bright red marks that stood against the bared pale skin of her shoulder. “And I will carry you off to a drawing room to care for you. Quite thoroughly. Again.”

She flushed, and swatted at his shoulder, but he felt the pleased shudder that went through her, and he suspected that he would test the limits of her breath within that corset at least one more time before finding their bed that night. He appreciated authenticity as much as she, after all, and it wouldn’t do to leave any possible idea unexperienced.

But later, as now it was a time for friends, as they approached with their congratulations and fond wishes for many more years together. He kept his hand at the small of her back, letting it drift lower where he could feel the edge of the corset beneath her skirts, and knew there was nothing but skin beneath. He watched as she fought a flush and greeted Ron with a kiss on the cheek.

It was most definitely going to be a perfect night.