Fic - "Break For Me" (Bellatrix Lestrange/Barty Crouch Jr., R)
Title: Break For Me
Pairing: Bellatrix Lestrange/Barty Crouch Jr.
Rating: R
Word Count: 1092
Warnings: Slight non-con, adult language, gore and sexy cruelty.
Summary: Her deviant reason told her to claim him, all of him.
A/N: Cross-posted to several comms. Barty is eighteen and thus perfectly legal tender in England.
Angry, mad with silence, tonight Bellatrix did not slip into the hazy coma she had come to endure instead of sleep. She did not wish for it. In her head, over and over, growing darker and brighter by feverish turns, her many torments stormed together - her master’s scornful disappointment at the birth of the Metamorphmagus child - her failure to kill it - the rigid face of Barty Crouch - the night she had taken his son’s virginity in an angry rush -
They had come for Crouch Junior’s body a few hours ago. Committed to the sea or lain in the injured dirt patch by the cliffs, Bellatrix’s only true peer was gone.
She was, and had always been, filled with contempt for her husband, but strange, poisonous affection she’d always had in spades for the Crouch boy. If she did not have a son from her own flesh, she had an excellent surrogate alongside her. The boy was mad, the boy was ill, the boy was so delicious fucked in the head that he could easily have been of her blood. Her deviant reason told her to claim him, all of him.
The first night, he came too quickly, and she lost her temper with him. Vowing to ride him until she reached the orgasm she wanted, she held his upper body down with her hands pinning his shoulders, his lower body with the pressure exerted on his hips with each of her thrusts.
“No,” she snapped when he pushed at her suddenly - slapped his face, continued. His first lesson started then. He lay still, in pain, knowing this was what it meant to please the Dark witch. She took him every night from that point on. Each time they fucked, he would yelp, plead, anything to try and slow her down, but she refused to cut her pace, training him to move with her and only her. She inducted him into her own personal rhythm and wouldn’t let him learn another.
Rodolphus watched without much feeling from a respectable distance as his wife stole more pieces of the boy for herself. She grew selfish with him, jealous with him - she refused to call him “Barty,” she flew into screaming rages when he didn’t look sufficiently elated to see her, or just because she needed to hurt someone. One evening, exhausted by her sourceless, endless fury, he fell, crying, before her. In one instant her face became soft and she fell in love with him. She gathered him to her and smothered him with unrestrained joy. “You’re crying for me, you little darling,” she breathed into his ear. “You broke for me. At last.”
This time, she let him mount her: she sighed, bit the pillow, performing for him extravagantly, and he rewarded her with a protracted cry and a sharp arching of his back as he came deep inside her, pushed beyond control by the sight of her mewing and gasping under his onslaught.
She ceased to bleed after that. She lay, smug, queenly, on an old chaise longue she had demanded be moved to her own room. She draped herself over her secret and quietly fumed as Bartemius failed to notice anything different.
Lying next to him in the bed she’d never shared with anyone else, she took his arm and held it over her. She wished she was bigger, in order to have him cradle her stomach. She kissed him over and over as he smiled distantly and tried to sleep. To tell him would mean sharing her golden, hard-won prize of pureblood fertility; to wait for him to guess what he’d done meant frenzied lip-gnawing and tense flexing of her toes with sheer frustration.
The days wore on. Sometimes, she was swathed in a foul mood for no apparent reason, and twisted her nails against his skin when he attempted to touch her. When he stayed away from her, she hissed that he was a coward, a child, before throwing him on her bed. He did not attempt escape from their little game.
She woke him with a torrent of kisses one morning. Just as he allowed himself to glory in her excitable indulgence, Bellatrix made a sound halfway between a scream and a snarl. Too fast for him to do anything, all the blood seemed to drop away from her face, and then from her body - all the blood she possessed was massed between her sweating legs, drenching the sheets. She was crying, howling - he tried spells on her, tried to move her, tried to avoid her scrabbling claws, running back from her then as though she had transformed into a Manticore. She was inhuman - she was a dying, maddened animal, and her furious shrieks unnerved him so much he couldn’t move. He stood still until his mistress lay down, broken, whining over and over, “The baby, the baby.”
Something stopped the realisation from sinking in properly. Bartemius stepped towards her. “It was mine?” he stammered, frightened of the answer and of her.
Bellatrix raised her dark eyes to his. “Ours,” she croaked, “it’s dead, the baby’s gone.”
He approached the bed. “I know,” he said as gently as he could manage.
Her mood turned about in a flash. “It’s your fault,” she flung at him venomously. “Your weak blood.”
Bartemius swallowed. This - this now - after he had given her what her pathetic husband could not - he had sacrificed so much of himself to her now that he was not himself any longer, but an ageless, remorseless thing, a cup for her bile to splash into and burn away. He was too much of her. She had made something terrifying of him and now he thrilled to the sight of her, lying in her pool of blackened scarlet.
She smiled nastily, sallow with febricity, as his eyes glinted and he came closer. He bent down to her slowly. His teeth were gritted; his wand was under her chin before she could move her head. The tip surged into her skin and broke a cry from her. One of his hands stroked her hair away from her cheek before closing around her neck.
“No,” he murmured into her ear. “You broke for me. At last.”
He kissed her hard, biting and bruising her lips until she squealed, before striding from the room. She was left with her bloodied mouth and her bloodied bed.
Pairing: Bellatrix Lestrange/Barty Crouch Jr.
Rating: R
Word Count: 1092
Warnings: Slight non-con, adult language, gore and sexy cruelty.
Summary: Her deviant reason told her to claim him, all of him.
A/N: Cross-posted to several comms. Barty is eighteen and thus perfectly legal tender in England.
Angry, mad with silence, tonight Bellatrix did not slip into the hazy coma she had come to endure instead of sleep. She did not wish for it. In her head, over and over, growing darker and brighter by feverish turns, her many torments stormed together - her master’s scornful disappointment at the birth of the Metamorphmagus child - her failure to kill it - the rigid face of Barty Crouch - the night she had taken his son’s virginity in an angry rush -
They had come for Crouch Junior’s body a few hours ago. Committed to the sea or lain in the injured dirt patch by the cliffs, Bellatrix’s only true peer was gone.
She was, and had always been, filled with contempt for her husband, but strange, poisonous affection she’d always had in spades for the Crouch boy. If she did not have a son from her own flesh, she had an excellent surrogate alongside her. The boy was mad, the boy was ill, the boy was so delicious fucked in the head that he could easily have been of her blood. Her deviant reason told her to claim him, all of him.
The first night, he came too quickly, and she lost her temper with him. Vowing to ride him until she reached the orgasm she wanted, she held his upper body down with her hands pinning his shoulders, his lower body with the pressure exerted on his hips with each of her thrusts.
“No,” she snapped when he pushed at her suddenly - slapped his face, continued. His first lesson started then. He lay still, in pain, knowing this was what it meant to please the Dark witch. She took him every night from that point on. Each time they fucked, he would yelp, plead, anything to try and slow her down, but she refused to cut her pace, training him to move with her and only her. She inducted him into her own personal rhythm and wouldn’t let him learn another.
Rodolphus watched without much feeling from a respectable distance as his wife stole more pieces of the boy for herself. She grew selfish with him, jealous with him - she refused to call him “Barty,” she flew into screaming rages when he didn’t look sufficiently elated to see her, or just because she needed to hurt someone. One evening, exhausted by her sourceless, endless fury, he fell, crying, before her. In one instant her face became soft and she fell in love with him. She gathered him to her and smothered him with unrestrained joy. “You’re crying for me, you little darling,” she breathed into his ear. “You broke for me. At last.”
This time, she let him mount her: she sighed, bit the pillow, performing for him extravagantly, and he rewarded her with a protracted cry and a sharp arching of his back as he came deep inside her, pushed beyond control by the sight of her mewing and gasping under his onslaught.
She ceased to bleed after that. She lay, smug, queenly, on an old chaise longue she had demanded be moved to her own room. She draped herself over her secret and quietly fumed as Bartemius failed to notice anything different.
Lying next to him in the bed she’d never shared with anyone else, she took his arm and held it over her. She wished she was bigger, in order to have him cradle her stomach. She kissed him over and over as he smiled distantly and tried to sleep. To tell him would mean sharing her golden, hard-won prize of pureblood fertility; to wait for him to guess what he’d done meant frenzied lip-gnawing and tense flexing of her toes with sheer frustration.
The days wore on. Sometimes, she was swathed in a foul mood for no apparent reason, and twisted her nails against his skin when he attempted to touch her. When he stayed away from her, she hissed that he was a coward, a child, before throwing him on her bed. He did not attempt escape from their little game.
She woke him with a torrent of kisses one morning. Just as he allowed himself to glory in her excitable indulgence, Bellatrix made a sound halfway between a scream and a snarl. Too fast for him to do anything, all the blood seemed to drop away from her face, and then from her body - all the blood she possessed was massed between her sweating legs, drenching the sheets. She was crying, howling - he tried spells on her, tried to move her, tried to avoid her scrabbling claws, running back from her then as though she had transformed into a Manticore. She was inhuman - she was a dying, maddened animal, and her furious shrieks unnerved him so much he couldn’t move. He stood still until his mistress lay down, broken, whining over and over, “The baby, the baby.”
Something stopped the realisation from sinking in properly. Bartemius stepped towards her. “It was mine?” he stammered, frightened of the answer and of her.
Bellatrix raised her dark eyes to his. “Ours,” she croaked, “it’s dead, the baby’s gone.”
He approached the bed. “I know,” he said as gently as he could manage.
Her mood turned about in a flash. “It’s your fault,” she flung at him venomously. “Your weak blood.”
Bartemius swallowed. This - this now - after he had given her what her pathetic husband could not - he had sacrificed so much of himself to her now that he was not himself any longer, but an ageless, remorseless thing, a cup for her bile to splash into and burn away. He was too much of her. She had made something terrifying of him and now he thrilled to the sight of her, lying in her pool of blackened scarlet.
She smiled nastily, sallow with febricity, as his eyes glinted and he came closer. He bent down to her slowly. His teeth were gritted; his wand was under her chin before she could move her head. The tip surged into her skin and broke a cry from her. One of his hands stroked her hair away from her cheek before closing around her neck.
“No,” he murmured into her ear. “You broke for me. At last.”
He kissed her hard, biting and bruising her lips until she squealed, before striding from the room. She was left with her bloodied mouth and her bloodied bed.