all_not_well: (Andrej pink floral)
[personal profile] all_not_well
Because she correctly guessed the identity of the mysterious Weasley in The Perfect Wife, [livejournal.com profile] capitu wins a bonus ficlet!

Title: Life Imperfect
Rating: R
Warnings: No, there is too much. Let me sum up: It's a kinky twisted mindfuck in which Draco is Harry's not-really-willing wife. And he has the breasts to show for it. Oh, and the angst. There's some forced feeding in there too. ...See? TOO MUCH.

Summary: Draco's new life is far from perfect.

Author's Note: I know it feels incomplete, but I don't have any more written. It just is what it is, a slice of Draco's new life. Enjoy. :)

...Or not, as the case may be.

--

Draco kneels on the padded window seat in the front room of Harry's London townhouse. He sighs and presses his nose against the chilly windowpane, staring listlessly out into the dull grey morning. Cold air radiates from the glass, making him shiver, turning his nipples into hard and painful nubs beneath the thin silk of his chemise. He massages them with his fingertips, trying to ease the ache.

It's been two hours since Harry left him, and without so much as a goodbye kiss. His separation anxiety is steadily mounting. He hasn't felt so needy in months, not since he first woke up into his new, amnestic life. Time and routine have settled him into his role as Harry's wife - if not comfortably, then at least with the satisfaction of knowing that he's living his life exactly as he should be, as Harry's wife and babygirl.

Except that Harry is not there with him, and hasn't been every day for nearly two weeks running.

He has no idea where Harry's been spending his days since they arrived in London, nor what he's been doing in all that time. Draco stopped asking after the third day, when it became obvious to him that no clear answers would be forthcoming.

He picks up the mobile phone lying on the seat beside him and taps at the screen with a well-manicured nail. It only takes a moment to confirm that the volume is set as loud as it will go, and that all five of the little signal bars are showing. Everything appears, to Draco's eyes, to be in perfect working order.

But there are no new messages. There have been no new messages. There have been no messages at all, actually, and he's tempted to fling the blasted thing into the fire. Except that Harry Potter's wife would never stoop to such a display of temper. That would be unladylike.

So Draco kneels by the window, and he watches for Harry, and he waits without fidgeting like a good babygirl should.

The mobile chirps at him. He snatches it up, nearly breaking a nail with his frantic tapping to unlock the screen.

HAVE YOU EATEN, the new text message says.

Draco sighs and rests his forehead against the windowpane. He's so full, always. The thought of stuffing himself even further with food only sickens him.

He strokes the soft, silk-covered swell of his belly with his fingertips. While he enjoys the feeling of fullness that comes from the plug in his arse, and he loves knowing that it's Harry's come he's got plugged up inside him, sometimes he thinks it might be nice just to be empty for a little while.

The mobile chirps again.

HAVE YOU EATEN.

NOT YET, he painstakingly types back, and with great reluctance abandons his self-imposed vigil at the window.

EAT NOW, the mobile prods him as he sets off for the kitchens.

He's limited to a slow, mincing pace by the plug in his arse. It's a good deal bigger than the last - his body has adjusted too well to being continuously stretched and filled, it seems. And Harry doesn't like him leaving wet spots on the furniture; therefore Draco must cope.

He's getting used to it. Almost.

ARE YOU EATING.

He blinks back tears while he stares at the stark words on the screen. "Almost," he murmurs in reply.

His voice is lost in the huge, empty house.

It's warmer in the kitchen, where Harry's left a fire going in the massive hearth. But Draco shivers when he steps into the room, and his stomach cramps immediately - either from dread, or from one of his usual pains, he really can't tell. He rubs his belly absently with the palm of his hand, trying to imitate the soothing touches Harry sometimes gives him. But it's not the same.

He hates this kitchen. It always smells like bread baking, thanks to Harry's fascination with the monstrous bread machine he bought when they moved in. Or worse, there are the thick, meaty smells from the slow-cooker on the counter, and the lingering odors from the roasts Harry's so fond of making.

The smells alone are enough to make Draco nauseous. And there are days when he can't escape, when the rich scents pervade the lower floors and send him creeping laboriously to the upper stories in search of cleaner air.

But if he doesn't do this - if he doesn't feed himself, and take care of his body - he knows that Harry will force-feed him. And that is infinitely worse. He knows he certainly can't fault Harry for worrying about him...can he? It's a husband's prerogative to worry. So it's best just to get it over with, and ease Harry's mind.

Draco braces himself, taking several shallow breaths through his mouth, and opens the refrigerator door.

Even the sight of all that food is enough to make him gag.

Of course gagging forces him to clench his muscles, and clenching around the plug hurts like a bitch, and he just wants to close his eyes and breathe carefully in and out until the pain and nausea recede.

But.

HAVE YOU EATEN YET, the mobile wants to know.

There are too many choices, none of them appealing. He hastily grabs the first thing within his reach - a container of diced fruit - and shuffles over to the sink to pick out the more tolerable bits.

Grapes are good. He can hold his nose and swallow those whole, and not taste or smell a thing. But Harry will not be satisfied with just grapes.

HAVE YOU EATEN.

2 GRP 2 STRBRY 2 WTRMLN 1 CHRY, Draco finally types with sticky, trembling fingers. Silently pleading for that to be enough. The pieces are huge wet globs of mush sitting in his belly, and he feels ready to burst like a water balloon.

GOOD.

That's all.

Draco stares at the screen, willing more words to appear. GOOD GIRL, maybe, or DADDY LOVES YOU, or ILL BE HOME SOON SWEETHEART.

The screen stares blankly back at him, and does not give him what he needs.
From:
Anonymous( )Anonymous This account has disabled anonymous posting.
OpenID( )OpenID You can comment on this post while signed in with an account from many other sites, once you have confirmed your email address. Sign in using OpenID.
User
Account name:
Password:
If you don't have an account you can create one now.
Subject:
HTML doesn't work in the subject.

Message:

 
Notice: This account is set to log the IP addresses of everyone who comments.
Links will be displayed as unclickable URLs to help prevent spam.

Profile

all_not_well: (Default)
all_not_well

November 2016

S M T W T F S
  12345
6789101112
13141516 171819
20212223242526
27282930   

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 22nd, 2017 02:46 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios