|wanking_mods (wanking_mods) wrote in hp_wankfest,
@ 2011-05-16 12:00:00
Fic: Alastor Moody in a Ministry of Magic Lift with a Potions Flask
Title: (Self) Love In An Elevator
Character: Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody
Location: A Ministry of Magic lift
Prop: A potions flask
Other Characters: Rufus Scrimgeour
Warnings: Beating the bishop, attacking the one-eyed warrior, bludgeoning the beef steak, cranking the love pump, paddling the pickle, smiting the pink knight, etc. In a word: wanking.
Word Count: ~2500
Disclaimer: Not even remotely my characters. I just like to (self) abuse them.
Author's Notes: Hoorah for hp_wankfest! I had so much fun (self) abusing Moody here! I could not have done it without the help and support of R&R or L., all of whom gave me fantastic suggestions and allowed me to whinge at them both online and in person. L. was also a fantastic beta. Thank you, my darlings!
Title courtesy of Aerosmith. I know it's an Americanism, but somehow, "Love in a Lift" didn't seem quite as funny.
At the moment, Alastor Moody was not a happy man. Not that it was ever in his nature to be happy-go-luck or carefree, even on the best of days, but today was certainly not the best of anything, and he was in a right strop. Pulling his cloak tighter around his body to hide his condition from view, Moody stomped into the Ministry of Magic lift, the clack clack of his wooden leg against the metal floor reverberating into the lobby. The lift door didn't close fast enough for his liking; Moody grabbed the golden grate and gave it an impatient yank, shutting it tight before anyone else could join him. Company was the absolute last thing he wanted. He was more likely to hex the inane witches and wizards who infested the Ministry than indulge in idle chitchat with them. Especially he was sporting more wood than just his prosthetic leg.
He had no bloody clue of the identity of the blasted Dark Wizard who'd cast the curse at his crotch. The bastard had buggered off, Disapparating away like a craven coward. If Moody ever found him, he'd wring his neck with his bare hands. Prior to today, Moody had never heard of the Priapus Spell, but after suffering the painful and embarrassing side-effects for the past eight hours, he'd certainly never forget it.
The first erection had been disconcerting although hardly surprising. It wasn't the first time he'd experienced a hard-on after the heat of battle. For Moody, danger was an aphrodisiac. It was why he'd joined the Aurors in the first place. The thrill of the fight, the rush of adrenaline while chasing a foe, every last minute was all exciting to him. Constant vigilance was a demanding mistress.
He'd rushed home to deal with his erection, wanking hard and fast to alleviate the mounting pressure. Usually that did the trick, but not today. Within moments of coming, his cock was had returned to full salute and throbbing painfully again. Moody hadn't had powers of recovery like that since he was a teenager. It had come as quite a shock. It had been a heady mixture of elation and confusion for a man his age to relive the libido and stamina of a teenage boy after so many years.
He'd tossed off again, this time coming even harder than before. As before, his cock had sprung back to life minutes after he'd finished. By this time, he knew that there was more to the situation than just post-battle excitement. He'd been cursed. There had been talk of such curses in Auror Training, although no instructor had ever discussed specifics. "If it happens, just wank it off, boys," one instructor had told them, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
"If you have an erection that lasts more than four hours, please consult a healer," another had urged. Sod that, Moody had thought. The hell if he was going humiliate himself by going to St. Mungo's sporting a stiffy the size of a baby whale. He would handle it himself.
There was a third time, and then a fourth, followed by a fifth, each progressive orgasm more intense and powerful than the last. By that time, he was sore, and he suspected that his cock was starting to get raw. He'd run out of lubrication and began to fear friction burns. With much reluctance, he conceded that perhaps it might be time to seek professional advice whether he liked it or not.
Luckily, the Aurors Department had its own extensive archive of books specializing in obscure curses and cures. There was also a dedicated Healer on call for the department who was known for his discretion. If all else failed, Moody could talk to his boss and see if he had any clever suggestions on how to get of the problem. Surely the head of the department had seen situations like this before and would be well versed in how to deal them.
Moody was utterly grateful that Rufus Scrimgeour had recently taken over as the Head of the Aurors Department. Unlike his predecessor, Barty Crouch Senior, Rufus was a level-headed man who thought a problem through before reacting. Had Crouch still been in charge, there was no doubt that he'd have demanded Moody cut his cursed todger off just to ensure that no one else was effected by the spell. As angry as Moody was at his traitorous body right now, the last thing he wanted was to have his bits hacked off.
Before he could contemplate that thought any farther, the lift came to a screeching, grinding halt, slamming Moody against the back wall.
"This lift is experiencing technical difficulties," said a chirpy, disembodied voice. "The proper authorities in the maintenance department have been notified, and repair wizards will be dispatched as soon as possible."
"Bugger all," Moody growled, palming himself through his trousers, the fabric rough against his skin. This was not the time for the bloody lift to break down. "How long will it take?"
"This lift is experiencing technical difficulties," the voice repeated. "The proper authorities in the maintenance department have been notified, and repair wizards will be dispatched as soon as possible."
Cursing, he slid his wand out of the holster sitting on his hip, then tapped it against the wall. "Locomotor Lift." Absolutely nothing happened, although he thought he felt the lift twitch. Encouraged by that, he tried it again. This time there was the ear-splitting shriek of metal scrapping against metal, the lift suddenly shuddering and groaning beneath his feet. The sound reminded Moody of a goblin opera he'd once been forced to sit through. That ordeal had been just as unpleasant.
"This lift is experiencing technical difficulties." The lift's voice sounded admonishing now. "The proper authorities in the maintenance department have been notified, and repair wizards will be dispatched as soon as possible. Please do not attempt to repair the problem on your own."
However, no repair wizard was anywhere to be seen. Under other circumstances, Moody would have been concerned. A stopped lift would be an ideal place for a Dark Wizard to take out an Auror (or anyone else for that matter), but lift breakdowns were matters of daily occurrence at the Ministry of Magic. Still, it wasn't good to let down his guard down entirely.
A quick survey with his magical eye assured him that there were no fiends lurking behind the walls of the lift or between the floors of the Ministry intent on assassinating him. Moody squirmed, fighting the urge to stick his hand down his trousers and take care of himself, not wanting to have anyone show up in the middle of things. Clearly he was not equipped to fix a broken lift. If there had been any other way he could think to sort out the problem himself, he'd have done so, but mechanical devices, magical or otherwise, were hardly his forte.
He threw his head back, smacking it against the wall behind him in frustration. There was a loud clang. Hoping that pain might distract him from the growing pressure in his pants, Moody did it over and over until he nearly dislodged his magical eye from the force of his blows. Unfortunately, that did nothing to alleviate his condition, only causing him a splitting headache on top of the unbearably painful erection. An unbearably painful erection he was not going to be able to ignore for much longer.
Desperate times called for desperate measures and by this point, Moody was beyond desperation. If a Death Eater assassin did show up to murder him in the stalled lift, it might be a kinder fate than dying from blood loss to the brain as it was obvious all of it had converged into his bits.
He fumbled with the fastener on his trousers, pulling them open before freeing his cock from the constricting fabric of his pants. He was so hard that it felt as if he had been subjected to a Duro spell. Although real stone could never be that swollen, raw or red. This definitely called for a copious amount of...
Lube. Moody cursed as he belatedly recalled he had no lubrication on hand, having used up the last of it in his flat. Attempting to wank in his current condition was most likely a health hazard. There surely had to be something else he could use as a substitute. With trembling hands, he began to pat himself down, searching for something, anything he could utilize instead. He let out a sigh of relief as his hand hit a hard object in his right breast pocket. Somehow, his hormone-addled brain had almost made him forget the flask he carried with him everywhere.
The flask was heavy, made of chased silver and cast in the form of a vengeful harpy. He kept it filled with firewhisky infused with fortifying herbs, a nourishing elixir of Moody's own concoction; the only thing he would allow to pass his lips when in public. With a tap of his wand, the contents were Transfigured from liquid into a gel which Moody poured onto his calloused palms. The lubrication still smelled strongly of firewhisky, warming his hands as he rubbed it into his palms and then liberally applied it along the shaft of his inflamed cock.
He winced as it made contact with his skin, so sensitive that the merest touch sent shivers of pleasure and pain up his spine. His foreskin was already pulled back; the swollen head was a deep, angry purple, the colour of a fresh bruise. Moody gripped the base with one hand, using the palm of the other to brush over the tip in slow, concentric circles. He let out a hiss as he began to stroke with his gripping hand, moving his fist up and down his length, gingerly at first, then increasing both the speed and the pressure as the firewhisky lube began to dull the pain.
Usually when Moody masturbated, he would immerse himself in assorted fantasies, his favourites being those involving him looming over defeated nubile witches and wizards on their knees begging for mercy and offering him a myriad of sexual delights in exchange for their freedom. Today, however, the only fantasy he needed to indulge in was that of release, being free of the agony of continuous pent up frustration and arousal.
Stroke, stroke, stroke. He wanted to come so badly it was killing him. Even though he'd given himself a respite since his last orgasm, the need to come again was just as urgent as before, if not more so. He hadn't been this desperate to get off since he was a fifth year lad at Hogwarts.
Stroke, stroke, stroke. "Come on, come on," Moody growled, his slick, gnarled hand moving at lightning speed along his length while his hips bucked in tandem with his movements. His bollocks were so tight, they felt as if they might burst— that was one part of himself Moody preferred not to need replacing.
He was so close, so bloody close...he curled his fingers tighter around his cock, squeezing as hard as he could while continuing to stroke. The additional pressure seemed to do the trick, sending him spiralling out of control. With a loud, feral grunt, Moody came, hot jets of spunk pouring into his slippery hands, trickling between his fingers and splattering his worn boots. He kept on stroking and squeezing, head tilted back, hips jerking violently, until he'd milked every drop out of his cock.
Panting and wheezing, he leant against the wall, limp and sated. At least for the moment— Alastor was under no illusion that this would be his last orgasm of the day. As he began a hasty clean up, the lift gave a violent jolt and began to move upwards once again. He'd barely had time to yank his trousers together when the lift stopped with a loud bang.
"Level Two, Aurors' Department," said the voice blithely, as if there had been no previous problems whatsoever.
He could see a number of witches and wizards milling about, heading in his direction. "Merlin's bloody pants," Moody muttered under his breath, shoving his still sticky palm into his cloak pocket, hiding it from sight before anyone could suss out what he'd been up to. He'd have to deal with that later.
"Ah, Alastor, there you are." Rufus Scrimgeour stood outside the lift door, greeting him with a curt nod. The lift door opened of its own accord, allowing Scrimgeour access inside."Heard you had a spot of bother with a Dark Wizard earlier today."
"Yeah. It was why I was on my way up here to see you," Moody admitted. He suppressed a grimace as he felt his cock beginning to twitch again, creating a telltale bulge in his trousers. He did his best to shift his cloak to cover it. Unfortunately, the flutter of fabric caught Rufus' attention. Moody swore under his breath for not remembering to cover himself earlier.
Behind his spectacles, Scrimgeour's odd yellow eyes flickered down momentarily to Moody's crotch, then up again. He cocked an eyebrow, clearly having noticed Moody's unfortunate state. "Happy to see me, are you?" he said dryly.
"Priapus," explained Moody as if that was the sort of thing that occurred every day.
"Ah. I suppose you'll be needing that sorted out?"
"I was hoping to see Healer Butters—"
"Most admirable," Scrimgeour said, cutting him off, "although I regret to inform you that the Healer was called away on an emergency case about half an hour ago."
Moody's heart sunk while his cock rose even higher, straining against his flies.
"I suppose you could wait in his office until he returns, although there's no telling when that might happen. Of course, you could allow me to handle it for you. I'm well versed in how to nullify that particular jinx."
At this point, after having suffered for a good part of the day, Moody was willing to endure any form of torture, however horrible, to rid himself of the sodding curse. Hopefully it would not entail any form of amputation. He swallowed hard, keeping his face impassive. "Oh?"
Scrimgeour's mouth curved into the slightest of smirks, the tip of his tongue darting out to lick his lips. "Most definitely." Not waiting for an answer, he stepped into the lift, closing the distance between them with a few short strides of his long legs.
Moody did nothing to prevent him.
"Courtrooms, Level Ten."
The lift door slammed shut and they began to plummet downwards at a dizzying rate. With a quick stab of his fingers, Scrimgeour hit the 'Stop' button, the lift halting so quickly that it caused both men to bounce and smack into the walls. The impact did nothing to end the excruciating pressure in Moody's groin.
"Well then," said Scrimgeour, once again licking his lips. "Perhaps now we can get down to business."