Fic: "Conversations in a Madhouse," NC-17 (original) (raw)

fem_exchange reveals are up, and you know that that means. It's crosspost time!

Title: Conversations in a Madhouse
Author: acidpop25
Rating: NC-17
Length: 1,217 words
Pairing(s): Luna/Bellatrix, Bellatrix/Morag, Luna/Morag
Summary: Sometimes, you don’t need prison bars.
Warning(s): Noncon (impaired consent/drugging), bondage, blood/knife play, object insertion, mindfuck.
A/N: Written for sappholococcus; the original request can be found here and the comm post is located here. Writing this one gave me fits; darkfic and mindfuck, of course, are beloved favourites of mine, but I had never written either Bellatrix or Morag, and, seriously, when was the last time you saw me write smut, much less kinky smut? Right, exactly. So it was a bit outside my usual writing zone, but oh man, I am so happy with how it turned out. I owe giant thanks, also, to el_em_en_oh_pee for looking it over and reassuring my panicky self at the 11th hour.

“Mother.... Mother...”

“She’s out of her head.”

“Of course she is. This is a prison.”

“Torture chamber.”

“Lunatic asylum.”

“It amounts to the same.” Bellatrix flicks a sharp, dismissive hand in the direction of her nephew. “Draco, go tell my darling little sister to have the elves hold dinner for us.”

Retreating footsteps; Morag does not bother to watch him go. Her gaze is focused on the pale figure caught like a mayfly in a spider’s web, suspended limply from the dungeon chains.

The eyes flick open; in the darkness of the dungeon, they have the glassy luminescence of silver pearls, and are directed with unerring unfocus at Bellatrix.

“Mother,” she says again, quite distinctly, “they think I’m rather mad, you know.”

Bellatrix smiles thinly, with no trace of real humour. “Precious pet,” she croons, “they think the same thing about me.” Her fingers claw into Luna’s tangled hair, fist in the snarled strands as Bellatrix yanks sharply, pulls Luna’s head back with an audible crack and palms a crystal phial, flicking it open and pouring a dose of sickly-sweet smelling blue potion down Luna’s unresisting throat; the pale eyes stare blindly, open but unseeing, and a sudden shudder wracks the waiflike body not long after Bellatrix lets go.

“It won’t take long to work.”

“I won’t take long to work,” the Healer says reassuringly, and she pets Luna’s hair and she smells of herbs and of green. The Healer has long dark hair and deep-set dark eyes and is very tall, much taller than a lot of people and certainly taller than Luna. Luna looks up at her.

“What is your name?”

“Bella,” The Healer says, “you don’t remember?”

“I don’t know.” A pause. “Bella. Beautiful Bella, bella bella beautiful belladonna bella bella beautiful...”

“That’s right.” Bella’s fingers linger in the hair at the nape of Luna’s neck. “You’re going to be all better, pet, very soon you’re going to be all better and you’re going to leave.”

“No!” Luna doesn’t understand the stab of alarm, doesn’t understand why it feels like there’s knives in her, all over her, no, no, she can’t leave, she can’t leave!

“Don’t you want to get better?”

“Let me stay,” Luna pleads, “please, please, don’t make me go!”

“Shh, shh,” Bella’s hands are sliding over the skin where the fear was, tracing along the hurts, and Luna shivers. Bella beautiful.

“Please, please.”

“I’m going to take care of you,” Bella says, and Luna whimpers like a kitten and lets her legs fall open as long fingers find their way inside her, and something is flooding Luna’s belly like the heat of the sun, like sunlight running in rivulets inside and over her skin. The blood is running in rivulets over her skin, oozing from the wounds, and Bellatrix has the handle of the knife pushed as deep into Luna’s body as it will go, gripping it heedlessly by the blade, push-thrust push-thrust, eyes black and sharp and gleaming savagely at the way Luna squirms and pants and whimpers please please please.

“MacDougal,” Bellatrix says, and grabs her hard with her free hand, pushes Morag to her knees on the cold stone floor and then hikes up the hem of her robe.

Morag knows better than to make Bellatrix ask twice.

“Good girl.”

“You’ve been such a good girl.” Luna feels so impossibly full. “Precious pet, would you like to come?”

“Yes, please, please...”

Stars burst behind Luna’s eyes, and she screams as Bellatrix rams the knife handle in one last time, so viscously Luna’s whole body is forced back to collide with the stone wall, and Morag’s eyes snap shut but she still hears it, hears the sickening crack of Luna’s skull and the shrieking cry and Bellatrix’s low hissing noise of pleasure as she comes, thighs gone tense.

Morag gets to her feet, and Bellatrix lets her robes fall back into place. “Dinner should be waiting,” she says, and sweeps out of the room.

“Bella doesn’t love you,” she says. Luna doesn’t like this girl with the red hair. Maybe she was blonde, once, but it had gotten so stained with blood as to turn the colour of rust.

“You shouldn’t lie,” Luna admonishes. Then, “You’re covered in blood, you’re a murderer.”

The other girl glances down at her short white Healer’s gloves. She looks too young to be a Healer. “I suppose I am,” she says. “Does it matter?”

Does anything matter?

The girl doesn’t wait for an answer, anyway, just leans over and kisses her. This is different, this is not the same. The girl’s lips are very soft, but all Luna tastes is some poisonous sweetness, too-sweet sweetness but she doesn’t know whose mouth it is that’s the trap, hers or the girl’s.

Luna forces her eyes open; the lids feel heavy, so heavy, and everything aches. Cold, she is cold, there is stone, she is in a dungeon.

Dungeon. Hair like she’s bleeding from the head. Luna’s voice sounds cracked when she at last manages to speak. “Morag?”

“Luna.” Morag’s voice is calm, calm and precise and familiar, the familiar slight lilt of her accent. “You know who I am?”

“Yes, yes of course, you’re in my House, you’re a year older than me, you have pretty freckles.”

Morag smiles wanly; she looks tired. “Yeah.”

Luna studies her a moment longer. “You were kissing me.” Her tone, if anything, is that of faint bemusement. “Have you kissed me before?”

“No,” Morag lies, “no, I... I haven’t been here very long.”

“Oh. I think I probably have. They’ll kill me eventually, I expect, when they don’t have any more use for me. If they can’t catch Harry with me, or anyone else, or keep Daddy quiet.” She pauses briefly. “What do you think it feels like?”

“Here,” Morag answers dryly, “I think it probably hurts.”

“That would be a logical conclusion,” Luna agrees. “Eventually we will be able to corroborate it, when we see each other again. After.”

“After what?”

Luna blinks. “Dying, of course.”

“There’s no such thing as life after death,” Morag says, sharper than she means to, and for a long moment Luna is quite silent, just looking at Morag, or looking through her.

“What at very sad place your world is,” Luna murmurs pityingly. “I would like you to be in my After. We could kiss all we pleased.”

Something tightens in the set of Morag’s shoulders, and she pulls a phial out of her pocket and pours a dose of brilliantly blue potion into her mouth, a blue the colour of the sky on a perfect summer’s day, blue as freedom, and when she kisses Luna the potion floods her mouth. It tastes of decay, and of candyfloss.

Morag steps back, spits the last drop of potion to the floor and forces down the spinning lightheadedness brought on by the trace of the dose, watches Luna go limp and lost and unreal all over again.

“You love her.” Bellatrix’s sneering voice; Morag turns, sharply, features set in a hard mask.

“I don’t.”

“You shouldn’t lie to me if you want to keep your limbs attached, MacDougal,” Bellatrix says; her tone is deceptively casual. “And when it’s time–“ the note of steel, “–you’ll kill the little traitor.”

Morag nods. “With pleasure.”