Title: The Killing Moon
Author: misfit_ragdoll
Characters: Bill/Original Female Character, and a House Elf with mention of Bill/Fleur
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Not too rough, just massive angst!
Kinks chosen: Caning, Masochism, mention of n-c
Word Count: 2700
Summary: Bill goes seeking penance for things he’s done while under the influence of Greyback’s Curse
Author's notes: Sorry for the delay. This was last month’s challenge which got eaten by my old laptop dying. Luckily it was retrieved and I was able to finish it. I’ve suffered for my art. Now it’s your turn. *grins* Thanks to elfflame, kabal42 and katesque for the hand holding and betaing.



He could feel the moon’s pull like a siren’s song, the blood burning in his veins, the madness almost upon him. The sun had not gone down yet so he still had some time, but he quickened his pace all the same. Head down, eyes on the ground, he pulled his cloak tighter, covering his face and shielding his copper-bright hair as he descended the steps of Gringotts Bank, making his way down to Diagon Alley, avoiding the gaze of passersby, hoping no one would recognize him. Not family, not friends, not co-workers. He didn’t have time to stop nor did he want to explain where he was going tonight. It would be too awkward to explain why he was out at this hour, not wanting to hear the subtle jibes about how he should be home attending to his pretty new bride. If only they knew that was the reason he wasn’t home tonight, why he was never at home on the eve of any Full Moon.

Another twist in his path and Diagon Alley became Knockturn Alley, full of shadows and darkness. The lively bustle now turned to muted whispers, no one to acknowledge him or call attention to him here. Patrons of Knockturn Alley rarely wanted to be noticed themselves.

Finally, he arrived at a dimly lit side alley and turned in, stopping at a black door with a silver knocker in the shape of a Gorgon’s head, light shimmering in a violet pool on the doorstep. He knocked once, twice, three times, and the door swung open, a harsh voice bidding him enter.

The parlour was black with charcoal on black flocked wallpaper, rich ebon carpets, the lamps covered in black moiré, although the same eerie violet light shone out of them. He stood, trying not to fidget. He’d been here before, he knew the rituals. Now he just had to wait.

A wizened old house-elf arrived shortly, bearing a goblet of blood-red wine on a silver tray and offered it to him. He turned the drink down, not wanting anything to dull his senses or blunt his pain. That would be too easy and he didn’t deserve it. The elf disappeared with the goblet and tray, returning a few minutes later. “Mistress will see you now, sir.”

He was ushered into a private chamber, Spartan in its décor, but functional. Without being told, he stripped off his cloak, his boots, his shirt and jeans, and finally his underclothing, folding the garments and laying them neatly on a chair. His scars all burned now, feeling as raw and angry as the night he’d received them. The moon must be rising, he thought.

He lowered himself to the floor, getting on his bare knees, eyes averted, hands clasped at the small of his back, loose copper fringe falling over his eyes, his ponytail tickling his back. There was a creak as the door swung open and she arrived. “Mistress,” he whispered.

“I wasn’t certain you were coming tonight,” she replied, her voice low. She was an imposing vision in black: tall with long sleek raven hair, clad in a black leather bodice and trousers, and high black heeled boots that clicked as she came toward him. Everything was unrelenting black except for her alabaster skin, her scarlet lips and her violet eyes. “You were late.”

“I’m sorry, Mistress. I had to work to do…” It was true – old Krolak wouldn’t let him leave, coming up with more and more paperwork to be filled out, more bureaucratic rubbish to manage. The sadistic little bastard had to know the moon was full tonight, had to know how badly he’d been tormenting him. Krolak was lucky he hadn’t had his neck snapped like a twig and his throat torn out. No one would have missed the exasperating old goblin at any rate.

“No excuses,” she snapped. After all this time, Bill only knew her as “Mistress Violette”, no other name. Tonks had once mentioned her in passing as a trustworthy source – he didn’t want to think of what she would have thought if she’d known he was now frequenting Violette’s salon. But, he had needed to go somewhere and this was the only place he knew of where he wasn’t likely to get his throat slit and his body thrown in the Thames.

“I’m sorry, Mistress,” he repeated.

“As you should be.” She wound his ponytail around one elegant hand, yanking his head back to look up at her. “So, why are you here tonight?”

“I…” His mouth was dry, his tongue thick in his mouth. He could smell her more keenly now; musk and spice and leather and roses along with something distinctly female. He could feel his cock twitch in response. “I wanted to kill tonight, Mistress. The goblin I work for would not let me leave on time to see you. I wanted to rip his throat out and watch him twitch and bleed.”

“And that’s all?”

“No. I—“ He closed his eyes, swallowing hard. “I found it very difficult to leave my wife this morning. I wanted to stay at home and…and…”

“And?” Her voice was cold and distant.

“I wanted to take her. Use her. Make her mine all over again.” Visions of the past times began to flood his brain: coming home from work, the Curse in full effect, throwing her down on the bed, tearing at the flimsy clothes she thought would seduce him, taking her hard, fast and brutally as she struggled and screamed and begged for him to stop. Seeing her bruised and scratched face, tearstained, as she forced him out of the room at wand point and locked the door behind him.

His cock responded further, beginning to throb painfully.

“Did you?”

Bill shook his head, feeling his cheeks burning with shame. “No.”

“Well, then you’re learning, aren’t you? My lessons are beginning to have an effect.” He felt her hands in his hair, gently petting him. “However, we wouldn’t want those lessons to go to be forgotten, now would we?”

“No, Mistress.” A shiver run up his spine; he knew what would come next.

“I think,” she said slowly, “you need some strong reminders. First, I think we need to take care of this,” she ran her hand down his chest and belly to his now rock-hard cock, wrapping her gloved fingers around it and squeezing so tight that he gasped. “Thinking about ravishing your wife caused this – I wouldn’t want you to derive any pleasure from it. You don’t deserve that, do you?”

“No, Mistress,” he murmured, trying not to move although he wanted desperately to rub against her hand or beg her for release.

She pulled out a wand, as black as her clothes, from her boot and stroked it along the underside of his erection, teasing him for several minutes before removing it again.

“Mistress, please, I…”

“If you behaved like a man and not a beast, this wouldn’t be necessary,” she chided, taking a small leather strap from the side table. “But, then you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

His face flushed even darker with humiliation. “No, Mistress.”

With deft fingers, she wrapped the strap around his cock and balls, securing it with a murmured spell. “This should keep you from such lascivious thoughts. The more aroused you get, the tighter it will become. If you can control your animal lusts, it won’t hurt you.”

“Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.” The ring was already fairly restrictive, constricting around him like a vice.

“Now for your punishment. 24 strokes for the murderous thoughts, 24 strokes for the urge to violate your wife and then,” she stroked his hair softly, “another six just to keep you in line.” She bent low, her mouth pressed against his ear, and whispered “I can’t wait to see the pretty marks the cane makes on that lovely white skin of yours or to hear you cry out as I do it.”

Bill bit his lip, stifling a moan, feeling the cock ring tighten further.

“You know what to do. Now hurry up.” Mistress Violette gave him a quick nudge with her foot.

He began to crawl on hands and knees over to the whipping block, padded and covered, like all of the furniture in the room, with ubiquitous black leather. He leaned over the hard surface, not struggling as his wrists were immediately locked in a pair of tight restraints, stretching him farther forward, black leather straps wrapping themselves around his spread thighs to keep him in place. His cock was pressed up against the wooden base and he fought the urge to ease his need against it, knowing he’d suffer the consequences if he tried.

She yanked his head up and placed the fibrous surface of the cane against his lips; Bill kissed it in obeisance without having to be told.

“And now we begin.”

Bill braced himself as best he could, knowing what was to come next. He heard a faint whistling as the cane whipped through the air, landing squarely on his bare buttocks. The initial blow was bearable, but within a minute, there was a searing pain as the welt flared up. “One,” he whispered.

The pain washed over him, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his heart, the one that reminded him that whatever Mistress Violette subjected him to was nothing compared to what he truly deserved, or what he’d put his poor wife through. Another man might have blamed the Curse and let it go, claiming he had no control especially when faced with an amorous Veela, but Bill knew better than that. Not only had he taken Fleur against her will, but he’d enjoyed it; he wanted to do it again. That wasn’t the Curse, but his own base nature coming to the surface, and he couldn’t live with that. Or the look of betrayal in Fleur’s eyes every time he tried to touch her.

Mistress Violette administered another five strokes in short order, each one landing near the previous one in a series of parallel lines across his buttocks, all burning and throbbing in tandem, his cock aching and straining against the leather cock ring. Her hands were in his hair again and she spoke soothing words that barely registered; he was only focused on the pain. He only became aware again as she resumed with another barrage of blows.

Bill groaned, the pain becoming more and more intense as she continued: six blows and then a short respite, and then repeated it again, each round increasing in strength. There were tears in his eyes now, but he bit back his cries, his jaw locked with tension as he forced himself to take his punishment like a man.

Finally, the last stroke landed; he didn’t know which was more agonizing: the backs of his thighs and his arse, enflamed and raw, or his erection, which was so engorged that it felt like it might burst at any second.

Violette’s hands were on his arse, her gloved touch surprisingly cool as she traced the line of welts gently. A whimper escaped his lips, now swollen and bloody from where he’d bitten them in an attempt to keep from making any noise, as she caressed and kneaded his cheeks, letting her fingers trail down to cup his aching balls, causing his hips to jerk involuntarily in response.

“You took that very well, Bill. Perhaps you deserve some release after all.”

“No,” he rasped. “I need to learn…”

“Do you dare tell me what you require?” she snapped, giving him a quick slap on the arse with her free hand. It caused the welts to sting even more.

“N-no, Mistress, but I…” Bill swallowed hard, blinking back tears.

“But, nothing.. I’ll do as I please with you.”

“Yes, Mistress. I’m sorry, Mistress.”

Her gloved hands were rough against his cock as she yanked off the cock ring. Blessed relief coursed through him as the excruciating pressure dissipated, replaced by the press of her strong fingers. This time he didn’t hold back from moving, jerking his hips as best he could against the coarse leather.

“That’s a good boy, move for me,” she crooned in his ear, although he doubted he could’ve stopped for anything in the world. “Come for me.”

It was over all too soon, the pent up tension and need spurring him on to move faster and faster, until he gave a loud groan and spilled into her hands. A dam seemed to break then, a sob escaping his lips, tears pouring down his pale, ravaged cheeks.

“Let it out.” Her words, like her solid weight against his sore buttocks and thighs, were oddly soothing. She continued to stroke his cock, milking him until there was nothing left, and even his sobs had turned to dry, rasping heaves.

There were a few whispered words and he was free, flexing his wrists and arms to get the feeling back, wincing as he backed away from the block, still on his knees. Mistress Violette loomed over him, cupping his chin with her now-clean hands and tilting his face up to hers. “Better?”

He managed a nod, his throat too raw and constricted to speak.

“You did very well, Bill. You’re improving. I’m very proud of you.” She leaned in and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “You should be proud of the progress you’ve made too.”

“Thank you, Mistress,” he croaked. “I-I’m trying very hard.”

“You should rest,” she told him, smoothing his hair off his damp face. “Pasha will take you to a room where you can spend the rest of the night thinking about your transgressions. Take your things with you.” She kissed him again, very softly. “You may pay Pasha when it’s time to leave. I’ll see you in a month’s time although…,” there was a tinge of regret in her voice, “Perhaps that won’t be necessary.”

He nodded, knowing they both knew it wasn’t true. As long as he suffered from the Curse, he would need her to get through the difficult Full Moon.

He waited until she’d left, watching her slim figure sashay out the door, then stumbled to his feet, trying not to wince from the pain. He collected his clothing and let the wizened old house-elf lead him to another room, similar to the first. Not bothering to dress, he found his way to the small pallet and eased himself down onto his stomach, the only part of his body that didn’t hurt. At least the constant throbbing in his arse and thighs took the focus away from the painful Cursed scars which riddled his face and torso.

Resting his head on his crossed arms, he tried to rest, knowing sleep would not come. The visits to Madame Violette were not a cure, just a diversion to keep him from harming anyone on Full Moon nights, as well as a chance for absolution. In the morning, when the moon had set, he would be back to normal. At least, as normal as he could be. Fleur would not ask where he’d been all night, would not ask about the additional bruises and welts that appeared on his body just as they did every month. Either she assumed he acquired them in some Curse related brawl or, more likely, she just refused to acknowledge them at all. She barely looked at him these days as it was, barely touched him, barely spoke to him, it was like living with a wraith. He loved her with all his heart but nothing he did seemed to tear down the wall that she’d put up between them.

He lay there until the first rays of sunlight shone through the gap between the thick black curtains, feeling the Curse draining from him, taking his strength with it. He slipped on his clothing with difficulty, savouring the pain as the rough cloth chafed against his raw welts. It would be with him for a few more days, a constant reminder of the crimes he had committed, the horrors he’d inflicted on the people he loved the most.

He slipped out of the room, meeting Pasha on his way out, tossing a handful of galleons to him, before going out into the early morning light, knowing he’d be back in another 28 days, to do it all over again.