“Alabaster” (Harry Potter/Fight Club; Bellatrix Lestrange, Marla Singer; Bellatrix/Marla)
Title: “Alabaster”
Fandom: Harry Potter/Fight Club
Characters/Pairings: Bellatrix Lestrange, Marla Singer; Bellatrix/Marla
Genres: Whump, torture porn
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,718
Challenge: Self-cest Comment Fic Meme/
moragmacpherson, “This chick, Marla Singer, wasn't a pureblood. She was a liar. She didn't have any wizarding abilities at all.”
Warnings: Violence, rape/non-con, torture, humiliation, racism, misogyny
Summary: Marla Singer isn’t a pureblood. She’s a liar, and if there’s anything that Bellatrix hates more than being lied to, it’s believing those lies.
Mirrors: AO3
“You little liar.”
Every word that falls past Bellatrix’s lips is laced with venom and acid, drips abhorrence like spit to Marla’s face. But Marla, rather than cowering before her like any other filthy Mudblood should, only smiles and shrugs, takes another drag of her cigarette.
“Had you fooled, didn’t I?” she says. Her voice is low and rough with years of smoke clogging her throat, and she slips into an American accent. Bellatrix draws back, bares her teeth. This woman can’t even claim purity in her nationality. Bellatrix trembles with rage if she lingers on the fact that this-this American trash, stupid, ignorant Mudblood-managed to deceive her-
She pushes the thought away and brings her fury forward instead.
“I will kill you,” Bellatrix says, and Marla snorts.
“And people say I’ve got anger issues,” she murmurs.
Bellatrix grinds her teeth and draws out her wand and points it at Marla.
“Crucio!” she screams, and Marla jerks. The cigarette falls from her fingers-sparks ashes against the stone floor and shines for a second, then goes out. Fury and rage nourish Bellatrix, burn through her and keep her glowing, but, all the same, she knows when to channel it and to let it go. Catharsis. Sweet release. And pleasure-utter, satisfying pleasure-as Marla’s screams reverberate through the dungeon.
A few beats of silence pass between them, shaken only by the sound of Marla’s ragged breathing. Bellatrix smirks. Mudbloods, she knows, are weak. Frail. A dose of pain and they crumple, beg for their lives, no matter how tough of a front they put up. And the way they plead, all sense of dignity and resolve broken-oh so amusing.
Mudbloods, she thinks, would make excellent pets. Little toys to play with, to maim until she grows bored. And then they’re disposable-
Marla, with her limbs splayed out, laughs. Her chest rattles with the sound, shudders with little ups and downs.
Bellatrix takes a sharp breath. It’s not uncommon-some Mudbloods can take one Cruciatus curse. A rare few can even take two. But for one to show such arrogance, to laugh in the face of a truly superior master-
“Crucio!”
Marla jerks and twitches. An insect beneath her gaze. Bellatrix smiles a wicked and twisted smile as she rips more screams from Marla’s throat, watches as her whole body curls together, withered and tense with pain.
Silence falls around them again. Bellatrix waits. The pain is that much more intense when there’s a moment of reprieve, a chance to hope that there will be no more.
“Is that all you got?” Marla breathes as she sits up weakly, smirking. “Maybe you should drop by a BDSM club sometime-”
“Enough!” Bellatrix screams. She slashes her wand at Marla, and Marla levitates, slams against the wall. She clutches at her throat, claws away at the invisible force squeezing in around her neck. Watching her choke-those desperate half-gasps for breath only barely making it out of her mouth, out of her nose-is satisfying in itself. Bellatrix considers choking her with her own hands, wonders how much more satisfying it would be to feel that pulse slowly ebbing, to feel the thrashing of her body feed back into her fingers-but physical violence is a Mudblood sport. Unrefined, undignified; savage, animalistic.
And she would not touch one of them-would not lay her pure hands on their filthy skin-not even for that satisfaction.
Bellatrix releases Marla, and she falls into a wheezing heap.
“Apologize for your insolence,” Bellatrix says, her voice low and dangerous. But Marla looks up, her gaze defiant.
“Narcissistic personality disorder,” Marla says, a faint smile at the corners of her lips. “Look it up sometime. If you batshit crazies even have shrinks in this world.”
Bellatrix cuts through the air, and Marla’s clothes rip, exposing her pale flesh. Alabaster. Marble. The girl already looks half-dead; it’s a wonder she has this much fight in her.
But now, with goosebumps crawling up her skin, Marla doesn’t resist. She lies still on the slab of a bench, the curls of her tangled black hair falling into her eyes, half-lidded with defiance. She props up one knee and smirks as she spreads her legs.
“Is this what you want?”
“I,” Bellatrix breathes, her heart rate rising, “am a pureblood. Unlike half-blood traitors, I have no interest in the flesh of dogs like you. That they can even think to fuck your kind is disgusting.”
“And yet you’re so eager,” Marla says, her voice trailing off into soft nothingness.
Bellatrix considers using her wand to violate Marla. Considers shoving the handle in-twisting and fucking her until she begs for mercy. It would be a show of dominance, a reassertion of the fact that this insolent bitch is second-class, nothing compared to herself. A message to her and other Mudbloods like her that magic controls them, that they are nothing more than ants in this world.
But doing so would mean sullying her wand with a beast’s flesh.
“Accio,” Bellatrix murmurs. A bone floats over to her, hangs in the air between them. She smirks. This, she supposes, is just as fitting.
Give the dog a bone. One of her own kind.
She swishes her wand, and the bone floats over to Marla.
“Kinky.”
“Quiet.”
Bellatrix flicks her wand, and the bone dives into Marla. Marla arches her back, and a hiss squeezes past her teeth.
“You crazy bitch,” Marla says, her chest fluttering with her breaths. Bellatrix twists her wand, and the bone digs in deeper.
“Watch your language,” Bellatrix says.
She draws her wand back, pulling the bone with it, then jabs her wand forward. Marla yelps.
“That’s right,” Bellatrix hisses, grinning. “Bark like the little bitch you are.”
“And shall I call you mistress too?” Marla says in between breaths. Bellatrix glares at her and plunges the bone faster and harder into her.
“Shut your insolent mouth,” Bellatrix says. She flashes her wand again and murmurs accio. Bones gag Marla, shove themselves into her mouth and halfway down her throat, and she sputters.
Bellatrix flicks her wand again, but Marla twists to the side, lets her legs fall open wider. Her nipples are hard, little mountains that rise against the air; the outline of Marla’s femurs show, and the shadows throw that line into sharp relief. She glistens around the bone, and she twitches around it, squeezes on it, defiant even in her silence.
Marla raises her head and stares straight into Bellatrix’s eyes.
Bellatrix growls in frustration. Her wand dances in a frenzy, with careless thrusts and jabs, but Marla only lifts her hips. An invitation. She doesn’t close her eyes except to blink, and she keeps her gaze trained on Bellatrix.
Bellatrix feels heat rising in her cheeks, and Marla moans. Actually moans, and everything about her body tells Bellatrix that it isn’t fake.
“You heathen,” Bellatrix spits. “Filthy slut of a Mudblood. You find pleasure even in this, in being degraded? Your kind deserves to die.”
Bellatrix’s heart pounds against her ribs. Her eyes gleam, and she feels fire uncoil deep in her belly. Her wand moves differently now-longer strokes. Gentler, almost. She tells herself that she wants to draw out this humiliation, wants to drive home the fact that she is being pleasured with a dog’s bone-
The bones choking Marla’s mouth fall with a clatter to the ground. Marla moans, and her chest heaves with the sound. Her body undulates, and her hips lift to meet Bellatrix’s thrusts. Bellatrix’s fingers tremble, and she watches the way the scraps of light play across Marla’s skin, highlight the swell of her breasts, the wetness of her lips. She can count every rib sticking out from this wraith’s chest.
“Yeah, fuck me,” Marla breathes. Heavy, charged, loud even in its softness.
And Bellatrix complies. Tells herself that this is to humiliate her, to show her her inferiority; she pulls her wand back and flicks it forward, and Marla throws her head back and moans, slips out a throaty yes, and Bellatrix tingles.
Humiliation. Power. Dominance.
Marla closes her eyes and bites her lip. Her whole body pulls into a smooth curve-the arch of her back, the dip of her stomach, the lines of her legs-and she holds still for a half-second.
The whole world holds still for a half-second.
And then that wave crests and breaks, and Marla twitches, tenses and releases, her breaths coming out in little rhythmic gasps, her moans sharp and raw, gutteral and melodic. She opens her eyes at the peak, fixes them on Bellatrix, and grins lazily, and Bellatrix feels her knees weakening.
Humiliation. Shame. Marla will be ashamed that even this could bring her to an orgasm.
Moments later, Marla falls still, and silence settles once again over the dungeon.
Bellatrix swings her wand to the side and lets the bone fall from Marla’s body. She steps forward, casts a disdainful gaze down over Marla’s naked body, over her upturned lips.
She raises her wand. The first syllable of the killing curse is already on her lips.
She could kill her.
She should kill her. She always kills her victims. It is the way all things end.
Marla lets out a barely audible sigh, and her chest falls as her breath unfurls into the air.
She will kill her. But first, she has to shame her more. Make her pay for her arrogance, her insolence. Draw out this torture. Make her repent for her lies, for deceiving her.
Bellatrix’s eyes trace over Marla’s body, lingering on her perfect white skin, on the flush now in her cheeks, on those eyes that are still bright, even now.
Bellatrix lowers her wand. She strides over to the dungeon door and leaves, slamming it behind her and locking it with a flick of the wrist.
She leans against the door. The stone is cool against her flushed skin, and her breaths, she realizes, are heavy. She runs a hand through her hair and claws at her cheek, then lets her arm drop to her side, lets it smack against the wall.
Marla will pay. And she will die.
Bellatrix casts a muffling spell over the dungeon. She screams until her throat and lungs are raw.
Fandom: Harry Potter/Fight Club
Characters/Pairings: Bellatrix Lestrange, Marla Singer; Bellatrix/Marla
Genres: Whump, torture porn
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,718
Challenge: Self-cest Comment Fic Meme/
moragmacpherson, “This chick, Marla Singer, wasn't a pureblood. She was a liar. She didn't have any wizarding abilities at all.”
Warnings: Violence, rape/non-con, torture, humiliation, racism, misogyny
Summary: Marla Singer isn’t a pureblood. She’s a liar, and if there’s anything that Bellatrix hates more than being lied to, it’s believing those lies.
Mirrors: AO3
“You little liar.”
Every word that falls past Bellatrix’s lips is laced with venom and acid, drips abhorrence like spit to Marla’s face. But Marla, rather than cowering before her like any other filthy Mudblood should, only smiles and shrugs, takes another drag of her cigarette.
“Had you fooled, didn’t I?” she says. Her voice is low and rough with years of smoke clogging her throat, and she slips into an American accent. Bellatrix draws back, bares her teeth. This woman can’t even claim purity in her nationality. Bellatrix trembles with rage if she lingers on the fact that this-this American trash, stupid, ignorant Mudblood-managed to deceive her-
She pushes the thought away and brings her fury forward instead.
“I will kill you,” Bellatrix says, and Marla snorts.
“And people say I’ve got anger issues,” she murmurs.
Bellatrix grinds her teeth and draws out her wand and points it at Marla.
“Crucio!” she screams, and Marla jerks. The cigarette falls from her fingers-sparks ashes against the stone floor and shines for a second, then goes out. Fury and rage nourish Bellatrix, burn through her and keep her glowing, but, all the same, she knows when to channel it and to let it go. Catharsis. Sweet release. And pleasure-utter, satisfying pleasure-as Marla’s screams reverberate through the dungeon.
A few beats of silence pass between them, shaken only by the sound of Marla’s ragged breathing. Bellatrix smirks. Mudbloods, she knows, are weak. Frail. A dose of pain and they crumple, beg for their lives, no matter how tough of a front they put up. And the way they plead, all sense of dignity and resolve broken-oh so amusing.
Mudbloods, she thinks, would make excellent pets. Little toys to play with, to maim until she grows bored. And then they’re disposable-
Marla, with her limbs splayed out, laughs. Her chest rattles with the sound, shudders with little ups and downs.
Bellatrix takes a sharp breath. It’s not uncommon-some Mudbloods can take one Cruciatus curse. A rare few can even take two. But for one to show such arrogance, to laugh in the face of a truly superior master-
“Crucio!”
Marla jerks and twitches. An insect beneath her gaze. Bellatrix smiles a wicked and twisted smile as she rips more screams from Marla’s throat, watches as her whole body curls together, withered and tense with pain.
Silence falls around them again. Bellatrix waits. The pain is that much more intense when there’s a moment of reprieve, a chance to hope that there will be no more.
“Is that all you got?” Marla breathes as she sits up weakly, smirking. “Maybe you should drop by a BDSM club sometime-”
“Enough!” Bellatrix screams. She slashes her wand at Marla, and Marla levitates, slams against the wall. She clutches at her throat, claws away at the invisible force squeezing in around her neck. Watching her choke-those desperate half-gasps for breath only barely making it out of her mouth, out of her nose-is satisfying in itself. Bellatrix considers choking her with her own hands, wonders how much more satisfying it would be to feel that pulse slowly ebbing, to feel the thrashing of her body feed back into her fingers-but physical violence is a Mudblood sport. Unrefined, undignified; savage, animalistic.
And she would not touch one of them-would not lay her pure hands on their filthy skin-not even for that satisfaction.
Bellatrix releases Marla, and she falls into a wheezing heap.
“Apologize for your insolence,” Bellatrix says, her voice low and dangerous. But Marla looks up, her gaze defiant.
“Narcissistic personality disorder,” Marla says, a faint smile at the corners of her lips. “Look it up sometime. If you batshit crazies even have shrinks in this world.”
Bellatrix cuts through the air, and Marla’s clothes rip, exposing her pale flesh. Alabaster. Marble. The girl already looks half-dead; it’s a wonder she has this much fight in her.
But now, with goosebumps crawling up her skin, Marla doesn’t resist. She lies still on the slab of a bench, the curls of her tangled black hair falling into her eyes, half-lidded with defiance. She props up one knee and smirks as she spreads her legs.
“Is this what you want?”
“I,” Bellatrix breathes, her heart rate rising, “am a pureblood. Unlike half-blood traitors, I have no interest in the flesh of dogs like you. That they can even think to fuck your kind is disgusting.”
“And yet you’re so eager,” Marla says, her voice trailing off into soft nothingness.
Bellatrix considers using her wand to violate Marla. Considers shoving the handle in-twisting and fucking her until she begs for mercy. It would be a show of dominance, a reassertion of the fact that this insolent bitch is second-class, nothing compared to herself. A message to her and other Mudbloods like her that magic controls them, that they are nothing more than ants in this world.
But doing so would mean sullying her wand with a beast’s flesh.
“Accio,” Bellatrix murmurs. A bone floats over to her, hangs in the air between them. She smirks. This, she supposes, is just as fitting.
Give the dog a bone. One of her own kind.
She swishes her wand, and the bone floats over to Marla.
“Kinky.”
“Quiet.”
Bellatrix flicks her wand, and the bone dives into Marla. Marla arches her back, and a hiss squeezes past her teeth.
“You crazy bitch,” Marla says, her chest fluttering with her breaths. Bellatrix twists her wand, and the bone digs in deeper.
“Watch your language,” Bellatrix says.
She draws her wand back, pulling the bone with it, then jabs her wand forward. Marla yelps.
“That’s right,” Bellatrix hisses, grinning. “Bark like the little bitch you are.”
“And shall I call you mistress too?” Marla says in between breaths. Bellatrix glares at her and plunges the bone faster and harder into her.
“Shut your insolent mouth,” Bellatrix says. She flashes her wand again and murmurs accio. Bones gag Marla, shove themselves into her mouth and halfway down her throat, and she sputters.
Bellatrix flicks her wand again, but Marla twists to the side, lets her legs fall open wider. Her nipples are hard, little mountains that rise against the air; the outline of Marla’s femurs show, and the shadows throw that line into sharp relief. She glistens around the bone, and she twitches around it, squeezes on it, defiant even in her silence.
Marla raises her head and stares straight into Bellatrix’s eyes.
Bellatrix growls in frustration. Her wand dances in a frenzy, with careless thrusts and jabs, but Marla only lifts her hips. An invitation. She doesn’t close her eyes except to blink, and she keeps her gaze trained on Bellatrix.
Bellatrix feels heat rising in her cheeks, and Marla moans. Actually moans, and everything about her body tells Bellatrix that it isn’t fake.
“You heathen,” Bellatrix spits. “Filthy slut of a Mudblood. You find pleasure even in this, in being degraded? Your kind deserves to die.”
Bellatrix’s heart pounds against her ribs. Her eyes gleam, and she feels fire uncoil deep in her belly. Her wand moves differently now-longer strokes. Gentler, almost. She tells herself that she wants to draw out this humiliation, wants to drive home the fact that she is being pleasured with a dog’s bone-
The bones choking Marla’s mouth fall with a clatter to the ground. Marla moans, and her chest heaves with the sound. Her body undulates, and her hips lift to meet Bellatrix’s thrusts. Bellatrix’s fingers tremble, and she watches the way the scraps of light play across Marla’s skin, highlight the swell of her breasts, the wetness of her lips. She can count every rib sticking out from this wraith’s chest.
“Yeah, fuck me,” Marla breathes. Heavy, charged, loud even in its softness.
And Bellatrix complies. Tells herself that this is to humiliate her, to show her her inferiority; she pulls her wand back and flicks it forward, and Marla throws her head back and moans, slips out a throaty yes, and Bellatrix tingles.
Humiliation. Power. Dominance.
Marla closes her eyes and bites her lip. Her whole body pulls into a smooth curve-the arch of her back, the dip of her stomach, the lines of her legs-and she holds still for a half-second.
The whole world holds still for a half-second.
And then that wave crests and breaks, and Marla twitches, tenses and releases, her breaths coming out in little rhythmic gasps, her moans sharp and raw, gutteral and melodic. She opens her eyes at the peak, fixes them on Bellatrix, and grins lazily, and Bellatrix feels her knees weakening.
Humiliation. Shame. Marla will be ashamed that even this could bring her to an orgasm.
Moments later, Marla falls still, and silence settles once again over the dungeon.
Bellatrix swings her wand to the side and lets the bone fall from Marla’s body. She steps forward, casts a disdainful gaze down over Marla’s naked body, over her upturned lips.
She raises her wand. The first syllable of the killing curse is already on her lips.
She could kill her.
She should kill her. She always kills her victims. It is the way all things end.
Marla lets out a barely audible sigh, and her chest falls as her breath unfurls into the air.
She will kill her. But first, she has to shame her more. Make her pay for her arrogance, her insolence. Draw out this torture. Make her repent for her lies, for deceiving her.
Bellatrix’s eyes trace over Marla’s body, lingering on her perfect white skin, on the flush now in her cheeks, on those eyes that are still bright, even now.
Bellatrix lowers her wand. She strides over to the dungeon door and leaves, slamming it behind her and locking it with a flick of the wrist.
She leans against the door. The stone is cool against her flushed skin, and her breaths, she realizes, are heavy. She runs a hand through her hair and claws at her cheek, then lets her arm drop to her side, lets it smack against the wall.
Marla will pay. And she will die.
Bellatrix casts a muffling spell over the dungeon. She screams until her throat and lungs are raw.