Claim
Title: Claim
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Morag MacDougal/Draco Malfoy
Rating: R
Warnings: Erotic asphyxiation, bloodplay, D/s
Notes: None
Summary: Love and violence
“You’re mine.” The claim runs through Morag’s body like fire, making her every muscle quiver and her breath catch. Or maybe that’s just the hold on her throat, the way his thumb is pressing ever so gently against her windpipe, and her head tilts back against the cool stone of the wall. Her eyelids flutter and while she cannot answer, she manages a semblance of a nod. She yields, without even thinking about it, wanting this, wanting him, wanting all of it.
“Good.” His voice is rough, and his breath bathes her ear, making her moan softly. She loves this, the heat, the possessiveness, the way he cradles her throat as if it’s fragile, like a baby bird. She moans when she feels the steel cut into her thigh, and her fingers curl into his shoulders.
“Mine,” He says again as she feels the knife dig in and turn, slashes against skin that spell out his claim. It’s entirely barbaric, in a way, and she loves it, because more than just ownership, she knows it goes both ways.
“My wife, my love…” He says, and she can feel the effect this is having on him, the way she’s splayed out against the wall-they hadn’t even made it to the bed, and if she could smile, she would, because she knows her turn is next.
He loosens the hold on her neck, and she rasps softly, voice rough with brogue. “All yours, my husband.”
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Morag MacDougal/Draco Malfoy
Rating: R
Warnings: Erotic asphyxiation, bloodplay, D/s
Notes: None
Summary: Love and violence
“You’re mine.” The claim runs through Morag’s body like fire, making her every muscle quiver and her breath catch. Or maybe that’s just the hold on her throat, the way his thumb is pressing ever so gently against her windpipe, and her head tilts back against the cool stone of the wall. Her eyelids flutter and while she cannot answer, she manages a semblance of a nod. She yields, without even thinking about it, wanting this, wanting him, wanting all of it.
“Good.” His voice is rough, and his breath bathes her ear, making her moan softly. She loves this, the heat, the possessiveness, the way he cradles her throat as if it’s fragile, like a baby bird. She moans when she feels the steel cut into her thigh, and her fingers curl into his shoulders.
“Mine,” He says again as she feels the knife dig in and turn, slashes against skin that spell out his claim. It’s entirely barbaric, in a way, and she loves it, because more than just ownership, she knows it goes both ways.
“My wife, my love…” He says, and she can feel the effect this is having on him, the way she’s splayed out against the wall-they hadn’t even made it to the bed, and if she could smile, she would, because she knows her turn is next.
He loosens the hold on her neck, and she rasps softly, voice rough with brogue. “All yours, my husband.”