Ficlet: Lust and Other Terminal Cases (H/D, PG13)
It's insane and silly and meta and... uh, did I mention silly? But I'm surprised it's like, there at all, so. ><;;;;
Disclaimer: not mine, can you believe it??!
Dedication: to Ste, who waited.
- Lust & Other Terminal Cases -
When Draco turned thirty years of age, he was alone in his flat through circumstances entirely too gruesome and not any fault of his own to recount here, but the point is that he was quite thoroughly pissed. It was this unfortunate state of utter raving inebriation and nothing else which led him to make the even more unfortunate appointment with what the filthy Muggles like to call a 'shrink' (so to speak).
No one needed to specify that the 'circumstances' consisted of his mum's visit earlier that day, during which she tutted and asked him when he'd finally settle down with a nice girl, or at least stop lying to himself and go to someone paid and safe and reasonable; 'responsible', even. Only the very best of 'sexual services' for her dear son. She'd even had a business card for an S&M brothel along with her. Draco shuddered, remembering. The nerve! As if he'd spread his cheeks for money; at least, on the giving end. Business was business, after all.
No wonder he needed therapy, Draco thought with no small amount of resentment. And after all he'd done for her, too.
However, it was a point of Pureblood honor that he actually showed up the next day, dressed quite immaculately in a white suit with a suitably matching pink tie (with small yet tasteful polka-dots in a cross pattern). He squinted suspiciously at the wrinkly, evilly smiling old man (who looked just enough like Dumbledore to set Draco's stomach roiling but little enough so that it didn't actually heave). At length, he exhaled and leaned back on the armchair, closing his eyes.
The wrinkly man introduced himself as something-or-other, and then he doubtless went on to say something else, but none of that mattered compared to Draco's pain. His deep (cock-deep) pain and suffering.
Best get this over with quickly, he thought. Quickly, and being as pissed as humanly possible while still capable of stringing together coherent sentences. Draco had it down to a science, if he did say so himself.
"I've always wanted to be a bottom."
There was a cough, and a pregnant pause. "I see." The scritching of quill on parchment soon followed, and Draco's left eyebrow twitched rather dangerously.
"What's even worse, I want-- that is, I wanted, once-- wanted-- to be one to my worst enemy. The most badly-dressed, excruciatingly ill-mannered, ridiculously filthy and tasteless tosser in my school." Draco sneered. "Well. Perhaps 'wanted' is overstating things. It is only that I couldn't stop certain... reactions, shall we say. Entirely understandable at my age. Everyone goes through something of the sort, don't they? The things we despise the most... ahem. One can be easily deluded with things like that." He pursed his lips. "In any case, recently I've wondered-- once or twice, you understand-- I've wondered if perhaps this early case of-- runaway hormones has possibly scarred me. Prevented me from enjoying the peace and well-being that is my due. As a sex-god. I mean, as a Malfoy."
The old man hmm'ed discreetly, and more scritching followed.
"Don't get me wrong," Draco burst out. "Women love me. Of course, why wouldn't they? It's just-- they can't give me what I want, can they? And I can't exactly ask, can I? 'Excuse me, will you ram my hole with your thick hard rod?' I mean, they'd get the wrong impression, wouldn't they? And that wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all." Draco popped his eyes open and looked demandingly at the infuriatingly unflustered old bag.
Clearly seeing that some response was required, the therapist nodded and blinked slowly at him. "Go on," he said placidly.
Draco huffed. "Besides, it's quite normal for a red-blooded Englishman to be a tad repressed, innit? Absolutely. It's probably even required! I mean, do you think my father invited all those blokes my age into his study for tea and crumpets?" Draco groaned. "I can't believe I said that out loud. Merlin's balls, I need to get laid for real. And soon." He ground the heels of his palms into his eye-sockets. "But I'm too young for pedophilia. And besides, I don't think I could live it down, eh? Having some wet-eared fifth-year suck me off would be bad enough, but the thought of some milky-arsed Gryffindor with his dick up my...." Draco had to stop to collect himself. "It's preposterous," he coughed. "As well as frankly unsanitary."
"Um-hmmm," the dozy bastard muttered, looking half-asleep. Well, it was better that way... no need to Obliviate the bugger, was there?
"So as I was saying. Er, yes." Draco scowled for a moment, but then regained his bearings decisively. "I've always wanted to be a bottom, but. 'Want' isn't really the right word, is it? Because clearly what kind of idiot would want-want something like that?" He made a face. "It's not my fault if I keep having those dreams where I'm tied up and helpless-- at his mercy-- and he-- and he strokes my face and reassures me and-- you know, from behind, so I can't see him and he can't see me-- it's best from behind. It's not my fault if I want him to touch me slowly and torturously, never stopping no matter what I do until it's not up to me at all, it's really, ah-- really all right for me to let go, and... feel, and... have him take what he wants, and.... Then it doesn't matter what I want at all, because he'd give it to me without my ever having to ask, because he would know. He would know what I want. Just like that."
"Hmmm," the shrink mumbled, stroking his chin languorously. "I see."
"Well?!" Draco demanded at length, once the silence stretched out. "Is that all you have to say, old man? I'm not paying good Pureblood money for nothing, you know."
"Ah." The cheeky bastard raised his eyebrows with pure false benevolence. "I do have something else I'd like to say to you, Mister Malfoy," the Old Bag said, his putrid-looking grey eyes twinkling disturbingly (not at all like Draco's). "I believe I have what may very well be the solution to your little... problem."
"I'm not coming here again, grandpa. A Malfoy keeps his appointments, but I don't remember making two. And naturally, there's no need to say that everything I've told you stays in this room, or--" Draco's eyes narrowed and he smiled widely, waggling his eyebrows and patting down the trouser-legs of his expensive white suit.
The shrink smirked at him, going so far as to raise a hand to his mouth. The twinkling intensified, and Draco began to feel rather uncomfortable all of a sudden. "Believe me when I say that this solution is nothing like what you'd be expecting." He lifted his hand and returned Draco smile for wide, unapologetic smile, loose yellowed teeth bared in glee.
Draco got to his feet in a flash, a tiny bit flushed. "What are you playing at? I've got solicitors at my beck and call even now! The Malfoy name may be... a bit tarnished these days, but I won't be trifled with! I've got the power where it counts!" He jutted out his hips unconsciously, cocking his head, chin up.
"That much is clear, Mr. Malfoy," the grandpa chortled, stroking his sparsely-haired chin. "Be that as it may, you may be calmed. I was only speaking of a certain, ah-- 'tasteless tosser', was it? Patient confidentiality prohibits me from going any further, but I believe you'll find that you two have something of a... complementary problem, shall we say. Things are likely to come to a satisfactory conclusion if you can manage to reconcile your differences, but elsewise, I do have a generous discount for couples' therapy...."
"Are you implying--?" Draco stopped mid-sentence, trying to be sensible or reasonable or at least not suddenly, obviously excited. "What I think you're implying? That he-- that is, I'd heard he'd had a divorce three months back, but that is-- I mean, I'd always thought that shrill witch would off him in his sleep before long, but--"
"I assure you, I wish I could say more but my professional honor prohibits me from going into any, ah-- incriminating details. I shouldn't tell you this much, but it's so rare that my patients' neuroses...." He coughed discreetly, but Draco's mind was racing ahead and he couldn't be bothered actually getting upset. "It's unusual for quite this combination of needs to coincide, shall we say. I shall say no more, except that you would be quite fortunate to be waiting outside my office door around 3 o'clock in the afternoon. That is four hours from now or so," the old devil added helpfully.
Draco could only think in brief flashes of darkly glinting spectacles, black trousers stretched improbably across one disgustingly fit arse, and that mouth curved in the only real smile Draco had ever seen directed at him. It had been (all too) brief and the circumstances not ones he'd since cared to dwell on, but in the end, he hadn't been able to stop himself from dwelling on certain other things quite as effectively afterwards. And then... and then Potter had gotten himself bloody well hitched, and Draco had gotten himself pissed as flying fuck and into the beds of most of the single wizarding population of London, if rumor was to be believed. It may very well be true, though damned if Draco could actually recall any of it, though he would've known-- or rather, felt-- if he'd taken it up the arse, and he hadn't.
He paused outside the sneaky old bastard's door, breathing shallowly and gripping the door-handle for moral support, earning a frankly curious look from the blonde tart at the reception desk. He sneered at her, but she only raised a humored eyebrow. Draco was definitely not in top form, but he had no time to dwell on it before he made it to the loo and collapsed against the back of the furthest stall, one hand down his impeccable pure-white trousers.
It was all downhill from here on in, that much was obvious.
He should've known. His mother was always right.
Disclaimer: not mine, can you believe it??!
Dedication: to Ste, who waited.
- Lust & Other Terminal Cases -
When Draco turned thirty years of age, he was alone in his flat through circumstances entirely too gruesome and not any fault of his own to recount here, but the point is that he was quite thoroughly pissed. It was this unfortunate state of utter raving inebriation and nothing else which led him to make the even more unfortunate appointment with what the filthy Muggles like to call a 'shrink' (so to speak).
No one needed to specify that the 'circumstances' consisted of his mum's visit earlier that day, during which she tutted and asked him when he'd finally settle down with a nice girl, or at least stop lying to himself and go to someone paid and safe and reasonable; 'responsible', even. Only the very best of 'sexual services' for her dear son. She'd even had a business card for an S&M brothel along with her. Draco shuddered, remembering. The nerve! As if he'd spread his cheeks for money; at least, on the giving end. Business was business, after all.
No wonder he needed therapy, Draco thought with no small amount of resentment. And after all he'd done for her, too.
However, it was a point of Pureblood honor that he actually showed up the next day, dressed quite immaculately in a white suit with a suitably matching pink tie (with small yet tasteful polka-dots in a cross pattern). He squinted suspiciously at the wrinkly, evilly smiling old man (who looked just enough like Dumbledore to set Draco's stomach roiling but little enough so that it didn't actually heave). At length, he exhaled and leaned back on the armchair, closing his eyes.
The wrinkly man introduced himself as something-or-other, and then he doubtless went on to say something else, but none of that mattered compared to Draco's pain. His deep (cock-deep) pain and suffering.
Best get this over with quickly, he thought. Quickly, and being as pissed as humanly possible while still capable of stringing together coherent sentences. Draco had it down to a science, if he did say so himself.
"I've always wanted to be a bottom."
There was a cough, and a pregnant pause. "I see." The scritching of quill on parchment soon followed, and Draco's left eyebrow twitched rather dangerously.
"What's even worse, I want-- that is, I wanted, once-- wanted-- to be one to my worst enemy. The most badly-dressed, excruciatingly ill-mannered, ridiculously filthy and tasteless tosser in my school." Draco sneered. "Well. Perhaps 'wanted' is overstating things. It is only that I couldn't stop certain... reactions, shall we say. Entirely understandable at my age. Everyone goes through something of the sort, don't they? The things we despise the most... ahem. One can be easily deluded with things like that." He pursed his lips. "In any case, recently I've wondered-- once or twice, you understand-- I've wondered if perhaps this early case of-- runaway hormones has possibly scarred me. Prevented me from enjoying the peace and well-being that is my due. As a sex-god. I mean, as a Malfoy."
The old man hmm'ed discreetly, and more scritching followed.
"Don't get me wrong," Draco burst out. "Women love me. Of course, why wouldn't they? It's just-- they can't give me what I want, can they? And I can't exactly ask, can I? 'Excuse me, will you ram my hole with your thick hard rod?' I mean, they'd get the wrong impression, wouldn't they? And that wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all." Draco popped his eyes open and looked demandingly at the infuriatingly unflustered old bag.
Clearly seeing that some response was required, the therapist nodded and blinked slowly at him. "Go on," he said placidly.
Draco huffed. "Besides, it's quite normal for a red-blooded Englishman to be a tad repressed, innit? Absolutely. It's probably even required! I mean, do you think my father invited all those blokes my age into his study for tea and crumpets?" Draco groaned. "I can't believe I said that out loud. Merlin's balls, I need to get laid for real. And soon." He ground the heels of his palms into his eye-sockets. "But I'm too young for pedophilia. And besides, I don't think I could live it down, eh? Having some wet-eared fifth-year suck me off would be bad enough, but the thought of some milky-arsed Gryffindor with his dick up my...." Draco had to stop to collect himself. "It's preposterous," he coughed. "As well as frankly unsanitary."
"Um-hmmm," the dozy bastard muttered, looking half-asleep. Well, it was better that way... no need to Obliviate the bugger, was there?
"So as I was saying. Er, yes." Draco scowled for a moment, but then regained his bearings decisively. "I've always wanted to be a bottom, but. 'Want' isn't really the right word, is it? Because clearly what kind of idiot would want-want something like that?" He made a face. "It's not my fault if I keep having those dreams where I'm tied up and helpless-- at his mercy-- and he-- and he strokes my face and reassures me and-- you know, from behind, so I can't see him and he can't see me-- it's best from behind. It's not my fault if I want him to touch me slowly and torturously, never stopping no matter what I do until it's not up to me at all, it's really, ah-- really all right for me to let go, and... feel, and... have him take what he wants, and.... Then it doesn't matter what I want at all, because he'd give it to me without my ever having to ask, because he would know. He would know what I want. Just like that."
"Hmmm," the shrink mumbled, stroking his chin languorously. "I see."
"Well?!" Draco demanded at length, once the silence stretched out. "Is that all you have to say, old man? I'm not paying good Pureblood money for nothing, you know."
"Ah." The cheeky bastard raised his eyebrows with pure false benevolence. "I do have something else I'd like to say to you, Mister Malfoy," the Old Bag said, his putrid-looking grey eyes twinkling disturbingly (not at all like Draco's). "I believe I have what may very well be the solution to your little... problem."
"I'm not coming here again, grandpa. A Malfoy keeps his appointments, but I don't remember making two. And naturally, there's no need to say that everything I've told you stays in this room, or--" Draco's eyes narrowed and he smiled widely, waggling his eyebrows and patting down the trouser-legs of his expensive white suit.
The shrink smirked at him, going so far as to raise a hand to his mouth. The twinkling intensified, and Draco began to feel rather uncomfortable all of a sudden. "Believe me when I say that this solution is nothing like what you'd be expecting." He lifted his hand and returned Draco smile for wide, unapologetic smile, loose yellowed teeth bared in glee.
Draco got to his feet in a flash, a tiny bit flushed. "What are you playing at? I've got solicitors at my beck and call even now! The Malfoy name may be... a bit tarnished these days, but I won't be trifled with! I've got the power where it counts!" He jutted out his hips unconsciously, cocking his head, chin up.
"That much is clear, Mr. Malfoy," the grandpa chortled, stroking his sparsely-haired chin. "Be that as it may, you may be calmed. I was only speaking of a certain, ah-- 'tasteless tosser', was it? Patient confidentiality prohibits me from going any further, but I believe you'll find that you two have something of a... complementary problem, shall we say. Things are likely to come to a satisfactory conclusion if you can manage to reconcile your differences, but elsewise, I do have a generous discount for couples' therapy...."
"Are you implying--?" Draco stopped mid-sentence, trying to be sensible or reasonable or at least not suddenly, obviously excited. "What I think you're implying? That he-- that is, I'd heard he'd had a divorce three months back, but that is-- I mean, I'd always thought that shrill witch would off him in his sleep before long, but--"
"I assure you, I wish I could say more but my professional honor prohibits me from going into any, ah-- incriminating details. I shouldn't tell you this much, but it's so rare that my patients' neuroses...." He coughed discreetly, but Draco's mind was racing ahead and he couldn't be bothered actually getting upset. "It's unusual for quite this combination of needs to coincide, shall we say. I shall say no more, except that you would be quite fortunate to be waiting outside my office door around 3 o'clock in the afternoon. That is four hours from now or so," the old devil added helpfully.
Draco could only think in brief flashes of darkly glinting spectacles, black trousers stretched improbably across one disgustingly fit arse, and that mouth curved in the only real smile Draco had ever seen directed at him. It had been (all too) brief and the circumstances not ones he'd since cared to dwell on, but in the end, he hadn't been able to stop himself from dwelling on certain other things quite as effectively afterwards. And then... and then Potter had gotten himself bloody well hitched, and Draco had gotten himself pissed as flying fuck and into the beds of most of the single wizarding population of London, if rumor was to be believed. It may very well be true, though damned if Draco could actually recall any of it, though he would've known-- or rather, felt-- if he'd taken it up the arse, and he hadn't.
He paused outside the sneaky old bastard's door, breathing shallowly and gripping the door-handle for moral support, earning a frankly curious look from the blonde tart at the reception desk. He sneered at her, but she only raised a humored eyebrow. Draco was definitely not in top form, but he had no time to dwell on it before he made it to the loo and collapsed against the back of the furthest stall, one hand down his impeccable pure-white trousers.
It was all downhill from here on in, that much was obvious.
He should've known. His mother was always right.