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Fic: 'Close, Closer... Closed', Alastor Moody, Bellatrix Lestrange, R - Peg Leg and Eye Appreciators' Smutfic Extravaganza [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
Peg Leg and Eye Appreciators' Smutfic Extravaganza

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Fic: 'Close, Closer... Closed', Alastor Moody, Bellatrix Lestrange, R [Sep. 7th, 2011|06:06 pm]
Peg Leg and Eye Appreciators' Smutfic Extravaganza


Title: Close, Closer... Closed
Author: purplefluffycat
Characters: Alastor Moody, Bellatrix Lestrange
Rating: R
Words: ~1000
Warnings: D/s fantasy, masturbation, canon character death
Summary/Description: They say that love and hate are flip sides of the same Galleon. Perhaps obsession lies in between.

Author's Notes: A response to daily_deviant's theme, 'dark witches/wizards: short but not-so-sweet.

They say that love and hate are flip sides of the same Galleon. That might be true, Alastor admits, but he's never been one for fancy philosophising; he prefers a solid work-ethic and a bottle of Old Ogden's over any of that navel-gazing malarkey, any day.

At night, though, when he lies uneasy, sleep elusive, he might ponder - then panic. Is it right? he thinks, getting hot and anguished as his cock throbs hard. Should there be such palpitating, entwined closeness between what can make him sick and what can make him come?

It's all her fault, he decides - bitterly, when the moment has passed and he lies in his own seed, hands sticky, soul brittle. The deranged bitch; evil harpy; Dark Lord's toe-rag. He can't stand her; wants her dead. That's what she deserves.

But people so rarely get what they deserve, now do they? Alastor adds, to himself. Poor old Jorkins, bumped off just for minding her own business; that young Hufflepuff lad, his only crime being a bit too bright and eager when they asked for volunteers.

- And then he turns to himself: Ok, Alastor, what is it you deserve? He closes his eye, trying to blot out the thoughts, trying to find rest... but an image swims into focus: dark imperious brows, perfect blood-stained lips concealing sharp canines, shapely legs astride, wand in hand. He's lying on his back, stripped and tied, just waiting for her. Oh gods... He realizes he's hard again. Bella's gliding closer. His hand creeps downward. She's eyeing him, stalking him, he can almost feel her breath on his cheek...


It is two years since Alastor was made chief of the case of one Bellatrix Lestrange: criminal, murderess, escapee, torturer. He has studied, fought and spied. His office is papered with intelligence about her - interviews, observations, locations, history and photographs - oh, so many photographs! - Bella pointing and hexing and cursing - until the room looks like the explosion of twenty filing cabinets.

Or, perhaps, a shrine.

He knows more about her than he has ever known about the women he has called 'lover'. Her wedding robes were made from black Chantilly lace, sourced by an aunt who keeps elf factories in France. Fifty-three elves were crushed in machinery for that dress, alone. When Bella was young, she had a Kneazle as a pet. It was named Striker, and died under mysterious circumstances exactly a month after she was given detention for stealing a book about poisons from Hogwarts restricted section, in the spring of her fifth year. Her wand is walnut, with a dragon heartstring core, and Ollivander had never before sold one so heavy to a female. Her waist measures twenty-nine inches, but she cinches it in to twenty-six with a Thestral-skin corset; the result of illegal poaching in Albania.

Since she joined the Dark Lord's service, the murders directly attributable to Bellatrix Lestrange number 73 wizard and 341 muggle - with a further 102 and 439 circumstantially attributable, respectively. She is a master of the Cruciatus curse, and has invented novel charms to bruise, hang and eviscerate. Since escaping Azkaban in 1996, her mental stability is thought to be reduced, with violent sprees less predictable and lacking strategic purpose.

Her devotion to the Dark Lord is spotless, however, as is her conviction to the philosophy of blood supremacy; unless captured, it is predicted that a further thousand lives will be lost to her wand in the next two years. It is Alastor's job to make sure that does not happen.

And he will. When awake and clear-headed, he is sure of it; steely mind set, plans solid, vigilance constant. It will not be difficult to kill her when the time comes, for he hates her so.

He has played the scene out in his head a thousand times: storm the mansion, find the chamber, whisper the curse before she spies him. Some may say 'cowardly', but Alastor would have it as 'efficient' - valour is for those who die, after all; the wily get away with most of their limbs intact.

Indeed, he has played the scene out in his head more than a thousand times: storm the mansion, find the chamber, whisper... sweet nothings into her raven-black hair and wait for those poison-berry lips to caress his neck. Lie down helplessly, stretched like a cat, and feel the sting of her whips on his skin, the sweet ache of her curses on his body and the burn of her eyes in his soul; deep and dark and more exciting than anything he has learnt or chased or caught. For now, Alastor wants to be the prey.


If you're careful enough, they won't get you. That's a maxim an Auror has to live by, Alastor is sure. Your life is in your own hands, so take bloody good care of it. If you're clever enough, you won't die.

And Alastor is both bloody-clever and bloody-careful. That is why he never worries about what might happen - especially not tonight, when they have Polyjuice galore to contend with, and the boy to protect at all costs.

It's all going to plan; everyone present, that fool strapped to his side. At the given moment: launch.

- But then the attack. Curses, wands, fire and screams. He can't see who is pursuing them, but knows it can't be good. He tries to swerve, tries to hold the idiot down as he flaps.

Then the light - green and sudden and overwhelming, hitting him in the face and making the world go still. The broomstick is no longer there; nothing chafes but the surge of the wind and the sense that the plan has failed.

The ground moves closer, and now he knows. Goodnight, Alastor, he thinks, it's been a pretty good run.

- But not quite careful
enough, eh? Or maybe, after all these years, you wanted it, deep down?

As he falls, Alastor finds himself hoping that it was by her hand.

Touched, at last.