Daily Deviant
- there is no such thing as 'too kinky'
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31st January 2015 21:39 - Fic: My Heart's In The Highlands (Minerva/Abraxas NC17)
Title: My Heart's In The Highlands (Or how Abraxas Malfoy went a'hunting the haggis in the Highlands and what he caught there)
Author: [info]inamac
Characters/Pairings: Minerva McGonagall/Abraxas Malfoy
Rating: NC17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Everything old is new, salirophilia: deriving sexual pleasure from dirtying or dishevelling one's partner: covering in mud, messing hair, the "ruining" of a very attractive partner
Other Warnings: handjob, outdoor sex
Word Count: 1000
Summary/Description: Minerva makes a surprising discovery out on the moors.
Author's Notes: This started off as a long and detailed account of a Scottish country house party C1936 and a dissertation on one of the Magical Creatures missing from Scamander But it was taking too long to get to the sex so I started in the middle. Minerva is in her 20s and Abraxas is at least 46. I was inspired by the date to write a Burns Night story.


My Heart's In The Highlands
(Or How Abraxas Malfoy went a'hunting the haggis in the Highlands and what he caught there.)

Until the moment when she saw Abraxas Malfoy flat on his back in a Scottish bog, bespattered from well coiffured head to expensively shod foot in mud and covered with broken wisps of heather, Minerva McGonagall had not realised how arousing she found the thought of fornicating in filth.

It was a moment to savour, and Minerva adjusted her spectacles and savoured it. He had overrun hounds in his eager pursuit of their prey, tripped over a treacherous root and hurtled down the side of the hill into the mud, losing both his hat (a tartan deerstalker quite inappropriate for this particular hunt) and his wand in the process. His white-blond hair had come free of its confining ribbon and was pied with mud. A sprig of heather had tucked itself behind one ear, which would have given him a rakish look, but for the thunderous expression on his face. His kilt was awry, revealing his manhood (when Malfoys embrace foreign customs they do so with fervour) and, although the warming charms he had been using were beginning to wear off with the loss of his wand, the neep and two tatties revealed to Minerva's fascinated gaze would not have disgraced The Bruce himself.

She was scarcely aware of the sound of the hunt passing by away to their left, the music of horns and hounds blending with the sough of wind across the moor. Then it was gone and they were alone together.

Common courtesy demanded that she assist a fellow hunter in distress, even one of whose morals and magic she disapproved. It was entirely an accident that the hand she offered to assist him to rise was diverted to achieving a different arousal altogether. Really, she asked herself, much later, how could she possibly have resisted the combination of such depravity and such temptation?

His eyes widened as the warmth of her fingers augmented the fading warmth of his magic and he hardened against her palm.

"Madam! What are you..."

"Ach, mon, don't act the fool now. Y'wanted a taste of Highland hospitality, did y'not?" Inside she was giggling like a schoolgirl. Ordinarily she would never have acted thus, particularly with a man nearly old enough to be her father, and certainly rich enough to ruin her and her family if he took offence. All the Obliviate charms in the world could not erase the memory of a really good shag (even if it could obscure the participants). And she had no intention of using them. This she was going to enjoy.

And so, it seemed after that initial outrage, was he. He propped himself up on his elbows, the better to observe her. The action made him sink a little further into the bog, and spattered more mud over his hands and arms. The mess didn't seem to bother him, and that excited her further. She stopped her caress long enough to smear her own hands with slippery soil and returned to her task with more lubrication.

Seconds later he was no longer watching her, he was watching the racing clouds, the circling eagles, the watery sunlight, and the soil on her hands was painted and streaked with come as white as his hair.

He looked glorious in orgasm. She released his cock and plunged her filthy fingers into his hair, bent her lips to his, and devoured the taste of him, of the earth and heather, feeling it strike through her core and kirtle to set her own loins on fire.

Oh yes! It was like fucking the land. Fucking her own sweet country. It was the scent of heather and the taste of a good malt whisky.

She was lying over him now, becoming as dirty as he was, and hardly noticed his hands moving up her thighs, lifting her skirts, parting her undergarments, positioning her over his newly-hard cock. He eased into her, riding the pulse of her orgasm, allowing her to set a rhythm that was emphasised by the slop of the bog under them and the hard edge of his displaced sporran against her stomach. She would have an interesting bruise on the morrow, but that hardly mattered; all that did matter was the sweet ride to a second fulfilment.

He had stamina, more than she'd expected from a Sassenach, particularly one who had lost his wand. Perhaps it was true what they said about Malfoy fucking his first wife into her grave in order to marry into the Fawley family, into their castle and estate and the good hunting to be had in the Highlands. But even perverted passion cannot long survive the rigours of a Scottish winter. She became conscious of the cold, and the movement of wind in the heather. And then they were both abruptly drawn back into the present as three rotund creatures erupted from the heather only a yard away and made their way down the hill with the strange lopsided hop of their species.

Minerva was on her feet at once, wand in hand and petrifying spell on her lips. Malfoy swore, rolled over, struggled upright and cast around for his own wand. By the time he had found it, wiped off the mud and used it (with little effect) to repair his toilette, the rest of the hunt had appeared over the rise of the hill, hounds in full cry and the sound of the horns echoing across the glen.

FINIS
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