InsaneJournal

[FIC] Blood and Snow: Draco/Morag
Originally posted here on 2 September 2007

Title: Blood and Snow
Requestor: serpentqueen13
Author/Artist:
Rating: Somewhere between R and NC-17
Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Morag MacDougal
Summary: Draco Malfoy is a man without purpose of his own. Then one night, he catches a glimpse of a life lived on one’s own terms…
Warnings (if any): Bit of bloodplay and biting.
Author's Notes: I tried to fit in as many of the prompts as I could. And although this is a pairing I never thought of, it really grew on me in a major way! I hope it’s sexy enough, as I tend to write romantically rather than smutty.
Word Count: 6706 (And trust me, I coulda made it much longer..)



A faint pink sky was all that was left showing through the tiny tower windows as Draco crept up the stairs to the Ravenclaw dorm. Twice now he’d reminded himself to straighten his shoulders, that there was no need to skulk, but as soon as the thought left his mind, his muscles tightened in fearful anticipation. Truthfully, it was a combination of factors that created the heady mix of worry and attraction. Being a Prefect alone wouldn’t mitigate his punishment for invading the girl’s dorms. But he was prepared to accept it, even relish it, if they were caught, for the rumor of conquest would be nearly as good as the real thing in this case.

The remainder of the students were down in the common hall, feasting on the late fall fare. He hadn’t even bothered to make excuses to Parkinson, Crabbe and Goyle. If he wished to miss dinner, as he’d told those dim-witted trolls, then he’d miss it. Pansy was the only one more suspicious than chastised, but Draco knew she’d do anything to stay in his good graces, as long as it didn’t jeopardize her own standing.

No breeze ruffled his white-blond hair as he gently pushed open the unlocked door at the top, squaring his shoulders for a third time in quick attention. He wanted to swagger in, wanted to savor this moment when he might see fearful lust, or just outright fear, in her eyes.

What he did not expect was to see a completely different set of eyes.

“Looking for Turpin?” came the smoky, guttural tones, the unexpectedness and roughness of them startling Draco. Oddly, he liked it.

“MacDougal,” he managed, trying to regain his equilibrium as Lisa’s roommate uncurled herself from the opposite bed, folds of her nightdress falling into place. Falling rather short of her knees, he noticed, with the barest trace of a smirk, which more than anything helped him to regain his former bravado. She stood to her full height, which was not close to his, but her stance spoke volumes of her nonchalance about it. He hesitated as the door closed with a barely audible click behind him; Morag merely raised an auburn brow at his slight movement.

“Well?” she continued, with the barest hint of a smile. “I know I did not invite you up here, and Lisa has been speaking lately of drumming up some courage.” Her voice was languid, unworried. She leaned against the balustrade of her bed, thick red hair sliding over her shoulder as she adjusted her wrap. Under it, Draco caught the glimpse of lacing, but that was unfortunately all.

“She’s not here,” Draco murmured, instantly regretting stating the obvious instead of trading a jab with MacDougal. He didn’t know enough about her, anyway, no more than his mates saying she was a bit fastidious for them. Curious if she was quick to offense, he widened his smirk deliberately and said, “Did she ask you to stand in for her, then?”

He was surprised with Morag gave him an honestly genuine smile, and Draco suddenly felt a bit warm. He’d come up here prepared for Lisa’s shy denials of her chastity while giving token resistance, as had been their game. She had wanted to dabble with something darker, and Draco didn’t disabuse her of the notion. Lisa would get over it soon enough, and he didn’t wish to speed that process up. But now he was faced with an unknown, and that called for a mask, for careful shielding. Morag didn’t look as though she would simply go through a phase of wanting him.

“I don’t think you and I are cut from the same cloth in that respect, Draco,” she murmured, and he found himself thrilling to the way she rolled his name with her brogue. Chalking that up to the anticipation of expecting a tumble with lovely Lisa, he merely cocked his head at her. “Let’s say,” she continued, in that same amused and gently dark voice, “that I am a bit more demanding than my roommate is.” She shifted, crossing her arms over her chest comfortably, likely aware, he guessed, at how it framed her small breasts perfectly.

“You know what Turpin prefers then, do you?” Draco cajoled, sure she would lose her temper and throw him out at any moment for his remarks. Yet he couldn’t help himself. He’d only seen Morag here and there in the castle, foreign and remote, with an air of perfect ease about her. He wanted to see how far he could push her, wanted to see where her breaking point was. I want to see if there is more to her, he thought, suddenly, but just as quickly buried the flitting idea. The girls at Hogwarts were shallow, predictable, all of them. It just fell to him to determine how little each depth went. He left the relative safety of the doorway to venture into the room, some of the swagger disappearing as he forgot to maintain it.

Dark eyes followed him, still unworried, as Morag moved a little to keep him in sight. Her smile had not diminished, as she responded, “I might. We girls are a bit more open about it than you blokes, I suspect. Doesn’t hurt to practice.” She shrugged one shoulder. “Lisa gets nervous. I can calm her down.”

Intrigued despite himself, Draco abandoned his halfhearted game and regarded Morag with interest. He had made it as far as Lisa’s bedpost, and now he leaned against it in a subtle reflection of Morag’s stance. He had worn his robes to conceal that his clothes were much more casual than usual, and he didn’t bother to keep them from falling open as he leaned. Morag was hardly in a position to complain, he decided, standing there brazenly in her nightdress. If that’s what it was. “You could tell me what she likes then, couldn’t you?” he prompted, managing only to keep his leer to a minimum, if not his tone. “Not that I’ve had any complaints so far. Still, a woman who’s been there is invaluable, isn’t she?”

With an odd look of amused pity, Morag leaned her head back a bit, to look at him. He watched gaze take in his half-buttoned silk shirt, his close-fitting pants. He liked that her eyes slowed enough to note his partial arousal. “She thinks your tongue is too hesitant between her legs,” Morag said, bluntly. “She likes it much rougher than that, you know.”

Draco flushed deeply, both angry and humiliated at the crude assessment, and straightened jerkily. A shock of white fell onto his forehead as he moved too fast, but he ignored it. “Slag,” he muttered, his eyes dismissing her as he started to turn for the door. He didn’t need to be schooled on his technique, he told himself furiously. Turpin wanted to play with danger, with him. He hadn’t sought her out.

A flash of black silk and red hair surprised him, as Morag darted between him and the door. “Don’t be that way, Draco,” she warned, and his tone was serious rather than wheedling. Draco drew up short, his robe swirling a little against her ankles, since she’d stood closer than he would have expected. Her dark eyes were intense, belying the lush lashes that wanted to make those same eyes seem innocent. He had to jerk himself back to attention. Why had he noticed that? “It’s not as if she’s told half the school. I’m her mate, and she trusts me. Trusts that I am not the sort who shies away from speaking about sex as if it were degrading.”

Draco realized she was defending Lisa rather than herself, and puzzlement made him pause. Any other girl would have tried to hex him, or at least given over a few tears, for the insult. “You’re the expert, are you?” he muttered, although the wariness in him kept any venom from his statement.

Morag tossed her head, haughtily, and moved a little so that his way was no longer blocked. “I’m not going to be the pawn,” she said, matter of factly. “I won’t be trapped, like you, trading my reputation for the affection someone else decides to bestow on me.” She walked back towards her bed, the unconcern back in her gait.

“I don’t understand,” Draco said, automatically, then wished he could take it back. He didn’t want to understand MacDougal anymore; she was too much effort. Too much conflict. “I’m not trapped,” he added, derisively, not sure what she meant but uncaring. He wasn’t trapped…not in any way she could mean, at least.

“Of course you do,” she said over her shoulder, her back to him as she smoothed her bedcovers. Her voice seemed dull this way, and Draco turned again to hear it fully. Something about the thickness of her tone, the underlying heat of it, transfixed him again, and he couldn’t put his finger on it. “My family is as pureblooded as yours,” she continued, evenly. “It’s just as expected of me to marry for name rather than affection, although my aspirations surely aren’t as high as yours.” There was a touch of sarcasm in that last, yet Draco marveled inwardly at how she could make it sound affectionate at the same time. “I will be the one who determines if my lover suits me, however, and that means knowing what pleases me.” She looked at him, only half-turned back, and the dark lashes again took him off-guard. “I don’t have time for milk-blooded games.”

Draco couldn’t quite help himself. The surety of her tone, the promise in her eyes, compelled him to abandon his swagger completely as he moved back over towards her. He was unaware of what caused the slight hitch in her breathing, hidden by a rueful smile, because he did not see how his movements had become smoother and more directed. More purposeful. But she saw something in him. “So you…what?” he murmured, his inward breath taking a bit of the scent of her shampoo. It was more intoxicating than he expected, not the strawberry and cream he was used to on schoolgirls. “Test them out? See if they pass muster?” He smiled, reflexively, liking the image that came to mind. A true predator, then. He rather liked that. He liked her idea about maintaining her control over one part of her life. Perhaps he could… “Why bother with girls, then?”

“What can I say?” Morag purred, narrowing her eyes slightly as she looked up, although not threatening yet. “Just trying to pass on a bit of hard gained wisdom.”

It was time for his breath to come fast, and Draco relished it. He had thought her too complicated to toy with, but there was an edge to her, a meaning that was starting to come through. More tentatively than he wanted, he put his hand on her wrist, squeezing slightly. “Is there a price for that wisdom?” The words shocked him; he wasn’t very good at verbal sparring, usually. He hated to admit his affairs of late had been more seeking of affection or oblivion than this exciting exchange.

Morag lifted her chin, with a mocking lilt to her mouth. Draco despaired inside of reaching this goal, of getting any more out of her than she was willing to give. MacDougal looked like she was quite used to being in control, relishing it even. “No,” she answered, “the invitation is free of charge but hard to procure.”

He was lost now. He didn’t have a witty retort, no sure way of getting past her clever defenses. Draco’s eyes fell to her wrist, imprisoned in his grasp. Even as light-skinned as he was, her wrist was pale against his fingers, with a fine blue tracery of veins. “So pale,” he said, faintly. It made her look fragile, even with her obvious strength and control. Bringing the other hand up quickly, he moved to draw his fingers over her exposed forearm.

Under his fingertips, a thin line of blood blossomed, like the seam opening to reveal a blood-red chemise.

Morag gasped, jerking her hand back, but Draco reflexively tightened his grip without thinking, his thoughts whirling madly. He’d cut her? Unsteadily, he lifted his fingers to his gaze and saw that the razor he used to whittle his quills had stuck to the hem of his robes, no doubt from the gummy quill points. His eyes went down to the imprisoned arm, blood making neat little rivulets across the white expanse. Fascinated, he brushed his thumb across it, surprised at the warmth, and transfixed at how it made a sweeping brushstroke under his fingertip, like an unfinished painting.

Harder this time, Morag tore her arm out of his grasp, her breath coming fast and furious. “How dare you!” she cried out, color high on her cheeks as she drew her arm in. Draco’s gaze skimmed over her face, the sudden blazing in her eyes, the redness in her lips. “You may as well have raped me,” she choked, and he realized that she was far more angry than hurt. “This is my blood! It’s me, more than anything else!”

“Morag,” he started, realizing as he stumbled over the syllables that it was the first time he’d said her first name. Both intrigued and contrite, he managed to snatch her arm again before she could move far enough away. She tried to back up, but the backs of her thighs hit the tall bed. “I didn’t mean…here, let me see it.” Draco swallowed hard, normally uneasy about any kind of bloodshed, but he was more worried about her than anything.

Her arm stretched out, a pale expanse, and Draco saw where the vein at the juncture of her elbow throbbed, sending out small distress signals. The cut was shallow and already slowing, and his quick grasp left red fingerprints across her skin. As if she belongs to me, Draco thought, suddenly, struck by the possessiveness of it. The blood was gathering at the edge of her arm, preparing to leap in ruby drops to the floor. Unthinking, only wishing to contain her pain, Draco brought it to his lips and licked gently.

The sweet metallic tang of her blood hit his tongue, a flavor he’d never expected, just as Morag tensed, her eyes widening with an emotion he couldn’t name. Thickly, she murmured, “Stop….you can’t…..I didn’t give you permission-“

Draco drew his tongue roughly over the cut, so tiny he couldn’t feel it even with the tip, but the warmth of her blood and the minute throb of her pulse made his own quicken. He’d never tasted anyone like this, intentional or otherwise, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop. Permission? The word registered but he couldn’t take time to examine it just then, nor his sudden desire to keep tasting Morag on this most elemental of levels.

A moan tore from her throat, shocking Draco and prompting an unfurling heat, deep inside him. It was hoarse and needy, and spoke to him on a primal level. He stepped into her, the arm he held tightly now pinned between them, but he barely had time to feel the tautness of her belly against his straining trousers before she forcibly shoved him away.

Draco stumbled, caught off guard by the strength in her rejection, undermined by his unusual reaction to her blood. Morag’s breath came fast, as if she were suffocating, and Draco’s now hungry gaze noticed more about her. The rapid rise and fall of her breasts above the neckline of her fitted nightdress. The hardened points of her nipples under it, barely seen in the black material except for their small shadows. How she pressed her legs together tightly. “Get out,” she panted, a curious mixture of dread and desire in her tone. He righted himself, taking a step towards her involuntarily, wanting to touch her, ignoring the command. “Get out!” she screamed this time, fury overtaking and burying the signs of passion, and Draco felt the stirrings of a hex. She was activating the dorm’s protective spells, the ones Lisa had taken down for him.

Doubt and anger warred in Draco as he wavered, torn between wanting to force her to acknowledge what just happened, and self-preservation. The magic was congealing, and his gaze was matched by a venomous and equally terrified one of hers. She’d lost that vaunted control, he realized, backing towards the door with a clumsy step. That wasn’t how he wanted it, and yet….and yet, it was exciting.

She wasn’t so shallow. Suddenly, this red-haired sylph had depth, and he wanted to delve into that depth. Even through her skin.

Myriad thoughts coursing through his head, Draco silently turned and fled the dorms, his black cloak rippling over the stairs in the gloom. Behind him, the door slammed with a howl.


Lisa was forgotten. Draco barely remembered to greet her in the halls, and some unknown fear of Morag kept him from adding cruelty to his forgetfulness. The blond Ravenclaw took it as a sign that their fleeting affair was over, and she made him endure the proper censure of dirty looks, girlish whisperings, and haughty tears. None of it made an impression; none of it stirred the surface. Underneath his placid uncaring, all he could think about was the reality of Morag, such a comparison to this falseness.

As for Morag herself, she did little to further his wonderings, for all he got from her was inscrutable looks and even a mild smile. She was like blood on snow to him, a depth of life suggested to but hidden behind cool detachment. And Draco himself didn’t know how…if….he wanted to pursue it. What was he searching for? Before now, it would have been distraction, oblivion, an escape from what lay ahead for him outside the school. But Morag….it was as if she had an entire world to herself, a world he somehow felt could free him. In what way, he couldn’t answer.

For several weeks, he patrolled the corridors late at night, hoping without belief that she might be the sort to break curfew now and then. He wasn’t seeking punishment or a loss of points; but he knew she wouldn’t open up to him where anyone else might see. If she would at all.

As expected, she was elusive. After all, he reminded himself yet again, she wasn’t the one looking for answers. She had no reason to seek outside her rooms. Surely she didn’t know, or care, that he was doing just that.

His footsteps didn’t echo as he crossed the marble floor of the entry hall, practicing as he was with his silence charms. Moonlight slanted in perfect squares across the open space in the center, framed by the large windows. Snow made the night outside equally silent. He finally decided to put his questions away once and for all; as she herself had said, his future was mapped, and no amount of wondering would change that.

At first he thought a door was standing ajar, leading to the outside. A sharp shadow was perfectly still against the lowest pane, and automatically he went towards it, training coming to the fore. It wasn’t until he was nearly upon the figure that it moved, the sharp elbow straightening and dropping to the side. Draco blinked; it was the slant of moonlight that made the depth all wrong. The shadow was much too short to be anything but a person.

After years of being conditioned to the loss of dreams, Draco couldn’t feel excitement, but he lost control of his silence charm in a small surge of anticipation, and the sound of his step was suddenly loud in the hall. Morag turned, the hem of her cloak sweeping the floor in an arc. Her face was unsurprised, paler in the white moonlight, her hair dark as dried blood in the shadow.

He wanted to speak first, to inject something akin to apology into his opening words, but Morag said, gently, “You’ve been watching me.” It was a statement, not an accusation, but Draco still drew back, perplexed.

“I only just saw you,” he answered, just as gently. She would never scare easily, this one, but he still ached to show her that he could be honest. He could be decent, worthwhile, somehow.

“I don’t mean right now,” Morag replied, an indulgent smile coming and then melting away. The light fell onto her face from an angle; Draco could see his reflection in one eye, darkness in the other. Unaware of himself, he kept moving, walking as she spoke and drawing up much closer than he expected to. If she noted it, she didn’t allow him to see. “You’ve been watching me for weeks. In the halls, in the classrooms…” She let her voice trail off, as if waiting to see if he would deny it, but Draco merely let his eyes roam over her face. “You must stop, Draco,” she continued, softly.

“What?” Draco said, his eyes focusing abruptly on her expression. Hers was calm, his worried. “Look, Morag, I can’t be the sort to back down from my actions, but I do owe you an apology. I am…sorry for hurting you.” He had rehearsed this, unused to making amends with someone. To swallowing his pride, although it was plenty bruised. If this was what he had to do to solve this puzzle, then he would do it. Draco knew he’d caught glimpse of a chance he wasn’t aware was out there. He couldn’t let it go easily.

Dismissively, she waved her hand, her wrist showing no blemish from where he’d nicked her. “It’s in the past,” she murmured. “All of that needs to remain there.” She fixed him with her solid, deep-set gaze. “I cannot be for you.”

Frustrated at her cryptic words, wanting to deny what she implied, Draco blew out a breath and shifted his stance. His family, his name…his jailors and his prison. He couldn’t even be the man they wanted. He was too craven to commit to their path. And now it was denying him yet another one. “Morag,” he said, thickly, trying to think how he could continue. Seizing inspiration, he said, “You told me your blood was your self. You have to know there’s more inside me as well.” He searched her unrelenting gaze. “Even I……I need you to help me find it,” he finished, surprising himself with the words. But it was true.

“You can’t understand,” she said, quietly, her eyes luminous and yet still able to hold secrets somehow.

“Then make me understand,” Draco replied. What should have been demanding came with a persuasive undertone he hadn’t realized he was capable of. Almost a pleasant threat, he thought, if that were possible. And clearly, with her, it was.

“I cannot…not for such as you,” she persisted, turning her head away from him, leading her body to follow, but he was too close now, and she couldn’t move without brushing fully against him. She wouldn’t make that move; she was still dictating what did and did not happen, and it became too much for Draco. The answers had to be deeper within them. Deep in their blood, and he would make her see that. See that even such as he could learn.

Silently, in one swift motion, he brought his mouth down to her exposed neck and bit. Hard. It didn’t break the skin, but his instincts were right; he could feel the sudden increase in her pulse under his tongue, the heat that flavored her skin. This was what she meant, this primal body language. He’d bitten to hold her still, to keep her there, and it translated more than words ever could. This way, she couldn’t lie to him, for her blood told only truth. His movement pressed them against the stone wall, trapping her between it and him.

Morag stiffened against him, her breath coming in a swift hiss. He would have thought it angry, perhaps at his presumption, but the delicate throb of her vein told him otherwise, spoke volumes of her sudden wondering. It beat a hesitant rhythm, questing, curious now if he was going to pursue this, if he was ready for such a thing. He was the innocent here, in this sense, for Morag knew the language of blood, of metallic savory and changing beats. She didn’t force him back, like she had before, and Draco understood suddenly that this was her test. A test to see if he was worthy of what she knew.

Following his newfound intuition, Draco bit slightly harder, feeling the give of skin under his teeth. So supple and yet so fragile a container. He couldn’t reconcile the contrast, struggled with it, and felt her impatience rise to the surface of her vein. Fear of losing this chance made him act, abandoning the intellectual side. He growled out a hot breath, a mixture of need and demand.

As sure as if she were speaking to him, Draco felt the give of her shoulder sending reluctant approval, the smallest hitch in her breathing as faint hope. She’s been watching others and seeing them fall short, his mind spoke. Has she been wishing for this too, someone who wouldn’t be frightened away?

“I’m not afraid,” he heard his voice press out against her skin, and Morag jerked, caught off guard. Draco pressed his advantage, his left hand curling around her throat while his right found the curve of her hip. She was wearing silk under her cloak. “Let me in, Morag…”

She was hot and cold, a mixture of control and yet loss of it. She arched her neck more, but her voice was still calm as she answered, “You can’t know me all at once, Draco.”

“But it’s all there, isn’t it,” he replied, digging his fingers into her skin through the silk. She brought her hands up to his chest, fingers questing rather than pressing away, but there was a question in her movements. “Inside you. Is this what you meant?” He licked the throb of vein. “I can taste what you are feeling; I can smell it.” He paused, then said, unthinkingly, ”Your beauty is in your blood.”

Morag froze, her fingers fisting in the material of his shirt and forcing him back enough for her to look into his face. “What..?” she started, her eyes first startled but then penetrating. “You’re telling me what I want to hear,” she accused, but without rancor.

“But it is,” Draco repeated, hating giving up the sensation of his teeth on her flesh. He understood more and more by the moment, of the secret language she spoke in, of the coloured way she looked at the world, and him. He was aware now of the rush of his own heartbeat, of it carrying heat to all parts of him. “It drives you,” he murmured, stepping into the space she had forced between them. His body had stiffened, his cock full and tight, and it pressed against her lower stomach, translating heat through his clothing to hers. “It drives me, now…so much more than before.”

Morag’s eyes weighed him, assessed him, and for once, Draco wondered if this time he might measure up to a standard. “It’s the main hall,” she whispered, with the smallest of smiles. Chiding humor laced through the thickness of desire in her voice, and Draco knew she was consciously letting him hear it.

Emboldened, Draco answered, “Does it matter?” His hands continued to map out the curvature of her hip, her waist, the swell of her bottom, unrelenting, knowing there was capitulation in her tone. “This is your chance to find out if I am right.”

“Right?” She laughed, a deep throaty sound, and it was like another revelation of the real woman, not the inscrutable scholar. Draco drew the sound into his mouth as he covered her lips with his, stealing her breath. The laugh turned into a moan, low and vibrating.

“Right,” he answered, his breathing matching hers, their lips barely touching, almost visible in its passage from one to the other. “That I can taste what you are feeling. It’s the first step, isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer this time, and he knew he had mesmerized her with the evenness of his breath, stroking in and out of her with sure thrusts. But even as it seemed he was now in control, it was an illusion….the thrum of her pulse was directing him, now that he sensed what to listen for, what to feel for. He took her lower lip in between his teeth, moving the thrusts down their bodies like an undulation, cloaks making a shield as his chest and abdomen and hips made a seamless line of hers. Her legs were pressed against the stone wall but she shifted her stance, widening them just enough to change the tempo of their heartbeats.

Draco pulled her into the alcove between closed door and wall; their breathing echoed in rhythm off the tight walls. His tongue delved into her mouth with a sudden need, and he was rewarded with her hands tearing at the front of his shirt. He thought to do the same, but when his hand slid up from her thigh, he found the stiff boning of a corset above her waistline.

Groaning, he let his fingers explore the tiny silver fastenings that led down from the unyielding high back, and Morag arched her back as it slipped enough to spill the fullness of her breasts, white against the blackness of the silk. Draco left off the undoing, fervent to have any piece of her that he uncovered immediately, before it could resolve into fantasy. His hand at her neck let out the knot of her cloak as he possessed her mouth; it pooled onto the floor with his, as she did the same. The light illuminated the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, and he released her mouth to give them his attention.

His heartbeat became faster and more furious than he intended, as he cupped the rosy mounds in his hands and bit a trail down to them. He didn’t see the increasingly reddening marks, only felt her breath come shorter and quicker as he closed his mouth around the erect nipple. It was so easily caught by his questing teeth, and he pulled at it to send sharp stabs of pleasure through her skin and into her. He had to know, know the effect his fevered nips were having, and his hands went under the hem of her skirt, pulling it up and into knots of fabric, higher and higher.

She wore nothing underneath it and Draco didn’t have time to be surprised; his tongue was working the flushed red nipple into a stiff peak and his fingers met no resistance on the smoothness of her upper thighs, just a faint trail of wetness. One hand cupped her ass to draw her closer; his fingertips touched strands of silky wet hair. They moaned in unison as he followed the cleft with his hand, gliding over the tight nub of her clit and among the slick folds that concealed her pussy. Her hips jerked once; Draco returned to the spot, sliding one finger deep inside her as his thumb roughed over the small, erect clit.

She was tight around his finger, even as she spread her legs further to allow him access. Draco was dimly aware of his shirt opening; a thin, exquisite pain blossomed over his chest as she drew her fingernails across his exposed shoulders. A warm, tiny prickling slid along the muscle, and he knew instantly that she’d drawn blood from the skin.

“Taste me,” he demanded, huskily, as he thrust his finger inside her again, her hot fluid making his hand wet. Morag’s lips obediently came down on the spot, and he felt the warmth of his blood being drained away by her quick, sensual mouth. Her tongue darted out to follow the seam of it, and Draco shuddered. “I have to….oh, please…”

“I know,” Morag murmured, thickly, a wealth of need and yet understanding in her tone. Her hands were quick between their bodies, freeing his almost painfully hard cock from the confines of his clothes. She tilted her hips up; Draco withdrew his fingers from her and grabbed the outside of her smooth thighs. It one, swift movement, he lifted her legs from the marble floor and she wrapped them around his waist. His body pressed hers against the wall, anchoring her there before he could lose complete control, and the strained head of his cock sought entrance among the soaked outer lips of her pussy.

“Morag-“ he started, but it was gone among their mingled breath as he thrust into her in one stroke. His breath released in a longing sigh, and became her gasp, then given back to him as a deep moan. Following the pounding of her pulse, Draco thrust again, deep, her heels digging into his ass with each stroke. He held her thighs in place, imprisoning her hips so that he could plunge into her over and over. The hard nub of her clit drew a hot line along his cock every time he took her, and he changed his angle slightly to rub the swollen flesh continuously.

The small alcove echoed with their gasps, cries, and moans, but they extended no further as each breath became part of the other person. Draco was obeying the demands of her pulse, frustrated longing coming apart in him as he drove into her repeatedly; Morag seemed to wrap around him and into him, her teeth pressing into his lip, her nails making bloody half-moons on his shoulders. She whimpered and bit, urging him on with her wild heartbeat and slick heat; he wondered faintly if he was indeed able to match her. His aggressive thrusts increased of their own accord, and suddenly she convulsed, her thighs gripping him as undulating wave after wave of spasms milked his cock deep inside her. Draco pressed her so hard against the wall, the stones imprinted on his hands and her back; he jerked once then exploded inside of her, feeling their mingled wetness flow over the spot their bodies joined.

Slowly, gently, he let her legs uncurl from him, her feet tentatively finding the floor. His cock slipped from her, and he groaned at the loss of her tight folds. He didn’t move back and Morag didn’t push him; they leaned against the wall together, enjoying the flow of air between their mouths, in and out more slowly and sensually than before.

“It’s not enough,” he spoke against her lips, eyes meeting her dark ones as they flashed up at him. He didn’t read anything in their depths but warmth and questioning.

“It never is,” Morag whispered back.

“But I can get closer than that,” Draco answered. He let her skirt fall into place but didn’t back away. “I want to see the things that move you. I want to see it in your face.”

“Draco…”

He heard wonderment and yet distance in her voice, but now, he knew how to proceed. She had opened up enough to give him a taste of what being with her was like, but he wanted to show her what he was capable of. What he could still draw from her.

The door behind them was open, and led to the side courtyard. It was thick with snowdrifts, but here there was no wall to block the moonlight and he drew her down onto the bright whiteness. Without thinking, he created a warming charm underneath her, so she could lie in the snow and yet not feel it. The contrast was striking, and Draco held himself above her to take in everything.

Morag watched him, her curious and indulgent veneer giving way to open fascination. “What is it you see, Draco?” she murmured, for the first time with true question in her voice.

Her hair was pooled across the snow, like liquid, and Draco’s eyes went along its ripples to the smoothness of her brow, the stung redness of her lips, the burgeoning marks in a neat trail from the crook of her neck to the jutting rosy tips of her nipples. There was an artistic smear of blood across the fullness of her left breast; he knew it was his blood, and it thrilled him. He had wanted to share that with her, let her adorn herself with the most personal part of himself. The simple black corset had slid down but still encased the slender waist; her hips flared out from under the bunched black fabric of her nightdress into long, moisture-flecked legs. At the juncture of her thighs, red hair curled out like a small, smoky cloud, and his fingers went unerringly to the spot, spreading the supple flesh with his fingertips.

“It’s not just inside you,” he whispered. “It is you….you are blood and snow and…” He paused to stroke his fingers through the thick curls; she moved her hips to meet him. The pupils of her eyes dilated again; her eyelids grew heavy with desire. It was an invitation he couldn’t resist. This time, he was slow as he took her on the snowdrift; he suckled each bruise across her chest and created new ones where he fully unbuttoned her corset. His lips delved into the nest of curls so his tongue could find her clit, and he drew it out with his teeth. But it wasn’t enough. Draco moved his mouth to the inside of her thigh, sliding two fingers inside her sweet, wet pussy, and then bit the tender white flesh hard as he plunged them into her, over and over. The harder he pressed his teeth to the throbbing vein there, the deeper he thrust his fingers, the more guttural her cries became, until she finally screamed her release. And more than the hot warmth of her flowing over his hand, more than the tang of her blood in his mouth, Draco heard in her throaty cry the complete abandon, the part she’d held back until now. Her pulse became his, her body unfurling before him, and Draco rose up and slid his whole shaft into her before her climax ended. He wanted to prolong this, and he penetrated in long, sure strokes as she lifted her hips for each thrust.

Holding himself above her with his elbows, Draco watched the open pleasure fill her eyes, vibrate through the sweet moans, waiting until her body’s tension was at it’s peak before he came deep inside her again, with almost frightening intensity. It seemed to last forever, a spiral of ecstasy that tightened every muscle in his body. He emptied himself into her tight wetness, trembling, and he curled up into the snow with her, body heat melting where it touched. Her body came again and again with aftershocks, and he breathed in the ebb and flow of her as her conciousness returned to where they lay.

“I never thought you would be the one to see me,” Morag whispered, and Draco lifted his head to look at her. Her eyes were on the stars, barely visible in the moon’s luminescence. Her tone was satisfied, and yet fragile and wondering.

“Neither did I,” he admitted, feeling the wisps of his inadequacies drifting back to him. Clutching tighter to her, he banished them for the time being. “But I was determined to see life the way you did. More determined than I’ve ever been for anything before,” he added, slowly, as the realization came to him.

Morag’s dark eyes found him silhouetted by the moon. His white hair was gilded by it. “Why?” she whispered.

“Because it made everything else look dead by comparison,” he finally answered, after a long moment. “And I can’t go back to that.” He wrapped his fingers into her blood-red hair, a promise surrounded by need. “No matter what….because you make me feel alive. More than that. You made me live.”

The End