LMoM Day 8: Is (3 of 3) Title: Is (3 of 3) Author:rose_whispers Rating: NC-17 Pairing: Remus/Narcissa Kink(s): alpha!Remus, adultery, biting, dominance struggle Challenge: Lusty Month of May 2008 Word Count: 1524 Summary: Years later, Remus returns to Malfoy Manor to finish what he started 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!
This can be read on its own, or part 1 can be found here and part 2 here
Remus dreams of Narcissa's pale, unmarred skin. He dreams of leaving his mark upon her, his teeth upon her throat giving her a bruise that magic and makeup can't hide. That she can't hide from her husband. What he's feeling isn't love. Not even close. But he is fascinated by her, by her complete self-control, and by the way he broke that control. He wants to feel his cock inside her again, wants to coax another scream from her perfectly painted lips.
And he never gets the chance. The next day Lucius is there, by his wife's side as Remus walks past the large glass French doors that lead from the garden into one of the drawing rooms. Neither Malfoy looks at him, and he bites back the ire that rises at the sight of them. The matched set, in looks and money and social status. Blood is becoming more and more important, and Remus doesn't fit in here. The fact that they don't even acknowledge him reminds him of that.
Two days later, the full moon overtakes him and he misses half a week of work. He is sent an owl telling him not to bother showing up again. After that, he only sees her in passing, and in years to come, he will see her reflected in the scowl upon her son's face....
Coming back to himself from his reminiscence, Remus shook his head. Funny how the years managed to get away from him, through the rise and fall of You-Know-Who (a time when he was suspected of being a spy for the Dark because of his very connection to this house, this family), a decade of peace, to the second rising of evil (and a time when this connection was being used in the service of the light). He was here as a double agent, an emissary for the werewolves but truly as a mole for the Order. A weremole? He chuckled at the thought.
He'd heard Lucius Malfoy's voice thrumming through the ceiling upon his arrival. The man was yelling at someone upstairs, though Remus didn't know who. Moments later, Narcissa swept into the drawing room. She was as lovely and refined as ever, though infinitely colder. She radiated ice from her glance, from the curl of her lip, from her very stance. She moved like a queen.
"Madam Malfoy," he said, in the same mocking tone with which he'd once addressed her before going down on her. "You're looking well."
She sniffed as if even his words were distasteful to her. "What news of Greyback?"
"Really? Have you nothing else to say to me?" He was more goading her than genuinely puzzled or hurt. He wanted to see, even now, if he could break through that frozen exterior.
"What should I say? You were once an extremely disappointing gardener, Lupin, we hardly have a history together." She ran her graceful fingers along the back of a chair, declining to look at both him and the dust that she disturbed.
He walked closer to her, slowly but with confidence. "I know what you sound like when you're fully aroused," he said, surprising himself with his candor. He wondered if he surprised her too. She didn't react at all. He drew his index finger along the back of her hand. "Can your husband say the same?"
Quick as spellfire she struck him, her palm reverberating against his cheekbone. He reacted instantly, instinctively, his fingers wrapping around her wrist, forcing her arm behind her back. She didn't cry out, merely tensed and flared her nostrils slightly. He dragged her closer, enjoying the nearly foot of height difference he had on her.
Tangling his other hand in her immaculately pinned up hair, he whispered, "I can still make you scream, Narcissa. Do you think Lucius will mind?"
She didn't answer with words. Instead, a hint of a smile played at the edges of her lips and she leaned in close, her breath tickling his jawline. He didn't even see it coming until she sunk her teeth-- he'd forgotten how sharp they were-- into the soft flesh of his throat. Growling, he yanked on her hair and she disengaged, a smirk of triumph breaking her blank expression. Holding her head back, he bent and copied her action, dragging his own teeth across the delicate expanse of her porcelain neck. He could see four red lines left in his wake, and even as she tried to twist away from him, he bit down hard at the juncture of throat and collarbone. With her free hand, she swiped at his face, her nails digging into his skin and drawling blood. He could feel it welling up on his cheekbone even as he worried her skin between his teeth, sucking hard enough to bruise.
They disengaged at the same time, taking a step back from one another. She looked like a feral cat, crouched and ready to fight or flee. But he... he was a wolf. Wolves never fled. He didn't give her the chance to make up her mind before his body was against hers once more, using his momentum to walk her toward the nearest wall. The bruise was blossoming on her neck like an exotic flower, like the azalea or deadly nightshade he used to compare her to in his fantasies. He can feel his own blood drying on his cheek. They hit the wall and she wrapped one leg around his waist, her thigh against his hip and her calf on his arse. She dragged him closer even as he grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head with one large hand.
Neither spoke, and neither broke eye contact as he hiked up her expensive silk robes to find sensible cotton knickers underneath. At least, they felt sensible. He didn't look away from the sky blue/grey of her eyes to see. He rubbed her through the fabric, feeling heat and moisture just a whisper away from his fingertips, and the familiar way her entire body tensed in order to keep her reactions from showing. Even as he pressed hard against her clit with his index and third finger, she lunged forward, biting his lower lip, inflicting pain even as she pulled him closer. He did groan then, at the promise of experiencing what he never thought he would again, at the pain, at the way she was vibrating beneath his ministrations.
After deftly unlacing his fly, he shifted her knickers to the side, not even bothering to take them off. He stroked the head of his cock against her soft folds, marvelling at how wet she was, and how heated. He ground his teeth together in an effort slow himself down, to stop himself from driving into her immediately.
Only she took the choice away from him, thrusting herself down upon him and biting back a gasp as he filled her. He buried his face in her shoulder to muffle the cry that escaped him. So much so quickly... and god, she was just as tight as he remembered her, and just as demanding. Even as he held her against the wall, she began to fuck herself on him, undulating against him in a way that likely didn't become a lady. He was mesmerized, too swept up with sensation and memory combined to find the rhythm himself. Her eyes flashed and he felt her inner muscles twinge against him, squeezing him even as she moved.
He kissed her throat and her shoulder, holding her wrists with one hand as the other crept upward under her robes to explore her small, firm breasts. He thought he heard the shadow of a moan as he tweaked her nipple in time with her thrusts, and then when he twisted her nipple fiercely, she cried out. One short, bright cry of pleasure as she shuddered against him, her orgasm quiet and not-quite-controlled. Seeing the beads of sweat on her aristocratic brow, feeling her clench against him inside, was more than enough to send him over the edge as well, plunging into her hard one last time as he spilled himself inside her.
Pulling out almost immediately, he let her go and she immediately slipped out of his grasp like quicksilver. He heard the litany of spells he murmured to tidy herself up, to hide her bruise, to freshen the air around them so that the drawing room no longer reeked of sex. He tucked himself back into his trousers and touched his own cheek, cleaning away the blood. The scratches could stay, though. Who would think twice about a werewolf with an injured cheek?
By the time he turned around, she was gone and moments later, Lucius arrived, announcing himself the click of his boot heels against the marble floor.
"Ah. Werewolf," he said with a smirk of disgust. "And what can we do for you this evening?"
Remus hid his own smirk. After nearly twenty years, he'd sated a hunger he'd almost forgotten. Lucius, preening idiot that he was, would never know. What else could Remus want?