: Take Me DownAuthor
: Draco/doll, Harry/DracoRating
: see theme ;) Also, infidelity and non-explicit Harry/GinnyThemes/kinks chosen
: Fornicatory dollsWord Count
: For one single moment, Draco could pretend that this was real.Author's notes
: This is my first piece for Daily Deviant, and I'm very excited about it. Thanks so much to the mods for inviting me! And special thanks to lilithilien
for providing the much needed beta, though all mistakes, as always, remain my own.
It wasn't that Draco couldn't pull a bloke. His sex life was more than ample, if he did say so himself, and he regularly shagged his share of tall, dark and handsome. Or he had done—still could in fact, if he wanted to—if he hadn't realised more than a month ago that every man he brought home had black hair or green eyes. Or worse, there was that time when the bloke had had both, and Draco had scrunched his fingers into that hair to pull the strands in every direction like a hedgehog, then fucked him raw while calling out Potter's name.
But that wasn't the worst of it—wasn't his low point. Oh no, that was now. Inking out a lighting bolt scar with a red marker across a plastic 'fuck-me' doll's forehead was definitely rock bottom.
Merlin, wouldn't someone have some compassion and Obliviate
Draco stared hard into the plastic doll's face. Spelled green eyes met his, flat and vacant, and a tuft of black hair fell over the painted-on scar. The wig was an extra touch as well, affixed to the doll's head with a sticking charm that would hold no matter how hard Draco tugged on the strands. And then there was the doll's mouth, a perfect round hole made for a cock—his cock—and already warm and slick with lube, gagging for it.
"Cock whore," Draco muttered, and he pushed the doll down to his groin.
Draco's fingers flexed in the wig's course hair and he teased himself, stretching those plastic lips just around the head of his cock. He rolled his hips once, letting the lips catch on the crown, then pushed all the way inside as he closed his eyes, drawing forth the memory of the real thing.
It had only happened once, six months ago at the Leaky Cauldron. Potter was full of firewhisky and bravado that night—his stag night, of course, last bit of freedom before bonding with the ickle Weaselette. Draco couldn't remember why he hadn't left as soon as the group had come in, but he'd stayed at his corner table in the shadows, trying not to watch as Potter's friends plied him with more and more alcohol, clasping his shoulder in turns, congratulating him on his perfect match.
Draco was sure Potter hadn't noticed him, but he'd been wrong. While his best mate and future brother in-law ordered another round, Potter followed Draco into the loo, shoved him against the grimy stall, and sank to his knees to pull Draco's cock out of his robes before Draco could even take a breath.
It wasn't the same—it couldn't be the same; Potter's hair was so soft, no matter how prickly it looked, and it didn't matter how many warming charms or how much lube Draco spelled into the doll, nothing could replace the fire of Potter's mouth, his tongue gliding over Draco's shaft as he sucked Draco in, his fumbling fingers tugging on Draco's balls. Potter couldn't hide his inexperience, but he'd been eager, working Draco with his mouth, in and out, in and out, until Draco's cock had swelled large enough to choke. Potter hadn't even slowed to catch his breath. He'd wrapped his fingers around the neglected length and rubbed and sucked and swirled…
"Stupid wanker," Draco hissed, shoving his cock inside the plastic mouth again. He looked down into dull green eyes, but he saw Potter's instead, his gaze locked into Draco's like a lion stalking his prey. Draco twisted his fingers into the wig and mashed the face into his crotch, holding back the groans he hadn't been able to that night.
He'd tried, Merlin knew he'd tried. He bit his lip until he tasted blood and still couldn't stop the needy whine hissed through his teeth. He yanked on Potter's hair in retaliation, but that only spurred Potter on, and he swallowed Draco whole, the head of Draco's cock bumping the back of his throat with every thrust. Draco flooded his mouth in an embarrassingly short amount of time, and sagged against the wall, panting.
By the time Draco had opened his eyes, Potter had disappeared.
"Fuck-" Draco jerked the doll off his cock and it flew across the bedroom, landing in an ungainly heap at the foot of his wardrobe, arse in the air. And there was another hole for Draco, willing and ready to be filled. But Draco had never had the chance for that, had he? Potter had left without a word and married the ginger twat the next day as if he hadn't spent his stag night with his mouth full of cock.
Draco stomped over to the doll and grabbed it by a lock of its hair and threw it back toward the bed. He mashed the face into the mattress and gripped the rubbery hip, lined the head of his cock up with the hole, then slammed inside. Potter's wife couldn't give him this, couldn't give him a cock so far up his arse that he saw stars. Potter didn't know how good this could feel—couldn't know; he hadn't given Draco his turn. Draco would have shown him, right there in that grubby stall. Draco would have bent him over and stretched him with slick fingers and maybe even his tongue until Potter was close, so close, until he was begging for Draco to fuck him, now, please
and only when Potter was completely undone and shaking with need would Draco show mercy and slide inside.
And then Draco would pound him into the wall, hard and fast, and Potter would plead for more still; he'd moan and scream and shout Draco's name so loud that everyone in that pub would hear—everyone would know, and Draco would wrap his fist around Potter's cock and bring him off in a few short strokes. Potter would spray over the stall as Draco rocked into him again and again until he was coming too, his cock pulsing inside Potter's tight heat-
Draco squeezed his eyes shut; his fingers dug into the doll's hips and he thrust once more inside, crying out, and he was coming hard. His orgasm rushed over him in a hot flush, and for a moment, one single moment, he could pretend that this was real.
But it wasn't.
Draco flopped over on the bed and rolled to his back to stare up at the ceiling. He tried to catch his breath; his cheeks felt sunburned and his eyes stung, but that was just physical—just over-exertion; nothing to be concerned about.
And it didn't matter that when he came he cried Harry's name. Not Potter; Harry.
No, that didn't matter at all.