rose_whispers (rose_whispers) wrote in pervy_werewolf, @ 2008-05-06 11:00:00 |
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Entry tags: | #lmom 2008, author: rose_whispers, kink: exhibitionism, kink: wanking (solo or mutual), remus/narcissa |
LMoM Day 6: Is (1 of 3)
Title: Is (1 of 3... I think)
Author: rose_whispers
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Remus/Narcissa
Kink(s): Exhibitionism, wanking
Challenge: Lusty Month of May 2008
Word Count: 1669
Summary: Narcissa Malfoy spends her days watching her new gardener. Today, he gives her something to look at.
A/N: Today's rune prompt is Is, ice: "Ice may in fact be protective... that we want to store something away for later use. This rune counsels caution... denotes that things have gone on for too long and with too much coldness for there to be much chance of any warmth returning" (Horik Svensson's The Runes). Thanks to Lia for the beta!
The drawing room was smaller than Remus remembered, and dustier. Without a house-elf, one could hardly manage to keep up appearances, he supposed. Suppressing a wry smile, he thought about how hard he'd laughed when Dumbledore told him about the freeing of Dobby. That was before Remus had even met Harry, or rather re-met him. It had told him all he'd need to know, though-- the boy had inherited his father's sense of mischief and his mother's sense of morality.
He tried to picture Lucius going home to tell his wife that she would have to start scrubbing out pots and pans herself, lighting the fires, weeding the gardens. That had been Remus' job once, battling back the Abyssinian Shrivelfigs and Flutterby bushes, nourishing the stubborn hornbeam trees and trying not to be eaten by the overgrown Screechsnaps kept in the four corners of the Manor's grounds. Cissy would have had to hire someone to take care of these things. She was hardly a delicate woman, Narcissa Black Malfoy, but she was refined. Dusting chandeliers and pruning honking daffodils was outside her domain.
No, he'd known Dobby the house-elf all those years ago, when he was fresh out of Hogwarts himself and finding that he didn't have the galleons for even a month's rent. And he'd have been damned even then to accept hand-outs from his friends. It might have just been "crashing" on Padfoot's sofa but Remus saw it as charity.
Instead, he'd joined a Wizarding employment agency and on his first assignment out, he found himself wide-eyed and nervous on the front steps of Malfoy Manor, wondering how exactly an A on his Herbology NEWT had translated into "gardener for the rich and evil". When the door opened, there had stood... no one? He'd glanced down three feet until he took in the appearance of the little house-elf in his dirty potato sack, a smear of silver polish on his right cheek.
"Right this way, follow Dobby, now," the little creature had squeaked, and Remus had entered the Malfoys' home...
She is watching him. She doesn't even hide the fact, as though discretion around the help isn't necessary. She hasn't spoken to him once yet, though she relays her constant dissatisfaction with his work to the house-elf, who chides him in a squeaky, apologetic voice as he tries to beat away the billywigs that have flown out at him from a dead tree trunk. She normally stands on a balcony and looks down on him, and isn't it lucky for her that there are balconies facing every direction. No matter where he is on the grounds, she can watch him.
From the first day, she's perched there with a tea cup or a martini glass in one hand, her wand in the other. Twenty-two years old and the lady of the Manor.
Today has been particularly delightful for Remus, considering her rare collection of Mimbulus mimbletonia all decided to splatter him with stinksap. He suspects that semi-sentient plants can sense what he is and defend themselves accordingly, as if a werewolf would stoop to eat flora in the first place. He's stripped away his shirt and trousers in disgust, leaving them in a crumpled heap on the ground before conjuring himself a little rain cloud, a cross between an Aguamenti and a Scourgify charm. It rumbles with thunder as it hovers over his head, sending warm rain over him. He tilts his head back, washing away the stinksap from his hair and eyes, his chest and arms.
Only when he is satisfied that he no longer reeks does he Banish the little cloud and glance back up at the Manor. Buggering hell, has he given her a free show? He squints and to his surprise sees that she is, for once, not there. He is surprised to feel the sting of indignation. What, so she can watch him work but she's so far above him that seeing him naked is too much for her.
Snarling, he stoops to retrieve his ruined clothing and is stopped by a voice, cold and imperious. "Surely you could ask to use our bathing facilities."
He turns slowly, holding his head in a dignified manner. "I didn't want to trouble you."
She arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow but remains otherwise expressionless. "Instead you would work almost naked? Rather than... troubling me?" Before he can respond, she continues, "Those scars. Are they from my Screechsnaps?"
"Yes," he lies smoothly, and he wonders that she can't tell the difference between old and and new scar tissues. "And your Chinese Chomping Cabbages."
She nods. Once. And then, "Trouble me, should you need to in the future."
Remus blinks, unsure what that means, but again she doesn't wait for his response. She picks her way out of the gardens and back up to the main house. He doesn't see her on the balcony for the rest of the day.
It bothers him. Bothers him that he doesn't know what she means, or what she wants, or why she watches him. Or why she's not watching him now. He is hyperaware of her absence that day, and so when he shows up for work the next morning, he immediately senses her. It could be proximity to the full moon, only three days away. His senses are heightened, to be sure, and he can smell her perfume, like deadly nightshade on the breeze.
She doesn't acknowledge him, merely sips her tea from her priceless bone china heirloom cup. He can feel her gaze on him, though. And maybe it is the moon that makes him do it, but before he can stop himself, his shirt is on the ground. And with a whispered spell his trousers are tighter than usual. He spends half an hour rooting about in the dirt on his knees, picking out invasive fluxweed by hand. And possibly showing off more of his arse than is strictly necessary. But if she wants him to trouble her, then he'll do so.
He turns around a short while later, smeared with soil, glistening with sweat. She's still there, teacup placed on the railing. Watching him. On his knees on the ground in front of her, he can't help the wicked smile that plays over his features, or the hand that wanders across his chest, through the light thatch of hair there and across his right nipple. She leans forward ever so slightly, so he does it again, tweaking his nipple. He rolls it between his thumb and forefinger, moaning just a little louder than the actual sensation calls for. His other hand touches his flat stomach, muscles lean but toned from his monthly "work-out." His arousal is quickening, singing in his veins. Because no one has ever looked at him like Narcissa is. For once in the weeks he's been here, her expression isn't dead. She looks hungry.
He runs his thumb nail in circles around his nipple as he deftly undoes his fly. He slides a hand inside, cupping himself, and he enjoys the frustration in her eyes at being unable to see better. He tangles his free hand in his hair, throwing his head back and groaning as he grinds against his palm. She plays it cool, though. She doesn't call out to him, ask or beg or demand to see more. He wants to hear that. But for now, he pushes his trousers and pants down, letting his prick spring free. The warm summer air caresses it, and so does her gaze. He slips his thumb into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, and then rubs the moistened digit over the head of his prick. It twitches in response, and so does she. Barely visible, but it's there. He spreads his precome over the tip, groaning appreciatively. It's not enough to truly lubricate and he isn't in the mood just now for a dry wank. Glancing around, he dismisses the ancient watering can but alights upon the bottle of Mrs Fecund's Slug-Stopper. Which is basically olive clove oils, only the Malfoys pay twice as much for the brand name.
"Accio Slug-Stopper," he hisses, and the bottle flies into his waiting hand. He uncorks it and pours some of the spicy oil onto his palm. Her eyes follow the movement of his hand, the deft twist of his wrist as he wraps his fingers around his prick and strokes himself. The cloves warm his skin, making him tingle and sweat and thrust harder. He fucks his hand and doesn't have to overact the moans that spill from his lips. Their eyes remain locked the entire time. Apart from a dusky flush on her normally pale cheeks and heat in her eyes, she doesn't react outwardly. He wants to see her touch herself, to let him melt that icy exterior. He wants her under him, over him, that long hair tickling his lips as she leans forward, bucking against him.
He speeds up, his bollocks tightening, his toes curling with anticipation. He holds her gaze though it's hard to keep his eyes open, and he imagines that it is her hot mouth wrapped around his prick, driving him upward, upward until he climaxes in a blinding, white-hot flash. He manages to remain upright, though his body quivers and his muscles threaten to give out on him. With a steadying breath, he wipes his hand clean on the grass and pushes himself to his feet. His knees are grass-stained.
She looks him over once more, a full-body up-and-down scrutiny, and then she turns and floats back into her house. Remus gathers his shirt up and moves to the back gardens, where he has some serious hedge-trimming awaiting him. He still has work to do, after all, but he wonders just what will be on tomorrow's list of tasks.