serpentqueen13: Too Much Is Never Enough (Draco/Morag, PG-13/R)
Title: Too Much Is Never Enough
Author: serpentqueen13
Rating: PG-13/R
Prompt Set: 100.3
Prompt: #46 Full
Word Count: 462
Summary: They both live for excess.
Warnings: Het, drinking, implied!sex
Notes: Also for hp_ficathon prompt 'Excess'
People in wizarding Scotland tended to be extremely traditional, especially in areas where one family ruled and day to day life changed very little in centuries. These kind of people thrived on stories, whether it be gossip, old stories from a hundred years before, or the old myths that still breathed true to the dwellers among the heath and the lochs. They also tended to be superstitious and among the first to recognise older forms of magic, as close as they lived to the land and the ever-shifting energies of it.
They saw, they understood, and they said nothing, their loyalty to the witch and their fear of her family absolute and hand in hand. They watched with bated breath as they saw the great casks of the finest wine arrive, and they understood the sultry, humid days that heated the Scottish blood with the heat so unaccustomed to the wet, green landscape. They could not escape the cloying sweet scent of it as the long days passed, and slowly the wine was heated and spiced as cunningly as any scheme was ever hatched, with the skill of Circe over her cauldron. Wiser, elder heads shook knowingly as the pale, blond man appeared outside the battlements of the castle, walking easily into the fateful ensnarement that awaited him.
Morag MacDougal was a gracious and pleasant hostess, as she plied her guest with frank, intelligent conversation, a little flirting, and a masterpiece of a claret. "But you must, of course, try some more of this fabulous vintage." She purred as she uncrossed and recrossed her legs, refilling Draco's glass. "While we discuss such things as blood and death." Her lips were a scarlet red, almost as red as the claret she too was sipping. She urged him on subtly, until he needed no more urging, the change evident in his eyes as they turned stormy and grey as more than one combination heated his blood.
After that, it was all easy, both of them were given to excess--in all things, pleasure, drink, adrenaline and all other things that were as intoxicating as the sweet liquor that the redhead had tempered so meticulously. It was all so obvious, easy, and simplified to nothing more than breathless moans and murmured vulgarities between bruising signs of affection that left bruises in their wake, emotion reduced to nothing more than physical.
People might see, and people might understand somewhat, the machinations of the pair, but they could never quite understand the heart of the games they played until they were impossibly full and sated, because what no on ever really understood was that it was not so much seductress and prey. It was far too practised and habitual for that--it was a game of excess.
Author: serpentqueen13
Rating: PG-13/R
Prompt Set: 100.3
Prompt: #46 Full
Word Count: 462
Summary: They both live for excess.
Warnings: Het, drinking, implied!sex
Notes: Also for hp_ficathon prompt 'Excess'
People in wizarding Scotland tended to be extremely traditional, especially in areas where one family ruled and day to day life changed very little in centuries. These kind of people thrived on stories, whether it be gossip, old stories from a hundred years before, or the old myths that still breathed true to the dwellers among the heath and the lochs. They also tended to be superstitious and among the first to recognise older forms of magic, as close as they lived to the land and the ever-shifting energies of it.
They saw, they understood, and they said nothing, their loyalty to the witch and their fear of her family absolute and hand in hand. They watched with bated breath as they saw the great casks of the finest wine arrive, and they understood the sultry, humid days that heated the Scottish blood with the heat so unaccustomed to the wet, green landscape. They could not escape the cloying sweet scent of it as the long days passed, and slowly the wine was heated and spiced as cunningly as any scheme was ever hatched, with the skill of Circe over her cauldron. Wiser, elder heads shook knowingly as the pale, blond man appeared outside the battlements of the castle, walking easily into the fateful ensnarement that awaited him.
Morag MacDougal was a gracious and pleasant hostess, as she plied her guest with frank, intelligent conversation, a little flirting, and a masterpiece of a claret. "But you must, of course, try some more of this fabulous vintage." She purred as she uncrossed and recrossed her legs, refilling Draco's glass. "While we discuss such things as blood and death." Her lips were a scarlet red, almost as red as the claret she too was sipping. She urged him on subtly, until he needed no more urging, the change evident in his eyes as they turned stormy and grey as more than one combination heated his blood.
After that, it was all easy, both of them were given to excess--in all things, pleasure, drink, adrenaline and all other things that were as intoxicating as the sweet liquor that the redhead had tempered so meticulously. It was all so obvious, easy, and simplified to nothing more than breathless moans and murmured vulgarities between bruising signs of affection that left bruises in their wake, emotion reduced to nothing more than physical.
People might see, and people might understand somewhat, the machinations of the pair, but they could never quite understand the heart of the games they played until they were impossibly full and sated, because what no on ever really understood was that it was not so much seductress and prey. It was far too practised and habitual for that--it was a game of excess.