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moogingHarry Potter fic here, one to cross off the list! The list needs updating though, with two additons...I will be a busy, busy Moogie!
Title: Truth is Polished and Revenge Tastes Like Syrup
Rating: R
Warnings: Femslash, some blood, some kink.
Pairing: Rita Skeeter/Hermione Granger
Summary: "She sends word, with a time and a place and an intention. She doesn't know whether to expect a reply. When one arrives, all that the parchment contains is a signature too familiar and Hermione doesn't know what it means. "
Disclamor: Not mine. Sadly. I do not own them. JKR does, I just...borrowed them. I don't think they're hurt.
/N: First time writing Rita fic or any kind of sex!fic. Inspired in part by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sweet_pamina's genius 'Kicking and Flailing', hopefully not too overtly similiar. *sigh* Please comment because...comments are nice! Thanks go to the wonder that is my Meredithy, for being my darling beta of love. *kisses*
Truth is Polished and Revenge Tastes Like Syrup.
It is morning but only just. The light is cold and too pale to be sunlight and yet it is. It streams through barred windows, shining where nothing else can, and it falls on a figure as cold as the light itself. She turns and all the light reveals is Rita Skeeter, journalist, and she is crying.
*
There's an article in the paper that day. Hermione sees it first and she won't be the only one. Harry won't notice because he never does, and he's too pre-occupied with a chase-capture of his own. She will rely on herself for this. The headline is snide and the words are cruel and the truth it tells is nothing but an acid lie. Insinuations catch on faster than any rumour can and Hermione remembers back two years. There was a journalist with fingernails brighter than her smile and all she touched turned to syrup, too sweet and too addictive. Hermione remembers her. The next year Hermione had used her, and this year it doesn't seem to matter. The article in her hand is signed with that same confident loop, Rita Skeeter , and Hermione remembers how revenge had felt. It is her syrup, her addiction, and the article she holds is her reason to crave it.
She sends word, with a time and a place and an intention. She doesn't know whether to expect a reply. When one arrives, all that the parchment contains is a signature too familiar and Hermione doesn't know what it means. When the time she chose rolls round, she is there. Waiting. Revenge is all too-consuming and Hermione can't tell whether the leap her heart gives at the sound of high heels on stone floor is her own or part of her addiction. When Rita pauses and drapes herself against the door, she decides not to think about it.
Rita's lips are gashes of vermilion, too enticing, too bright, and her hair is as lacquered as her nails. The mouth that twists into two expressions at once has Hermione's gaze and she makes up her mind, you have to do this, but part of that thought is untrue. Part of her wants it. She just can't think it. Rita comes closer, closer, and when her hand finally rests against Hermione's neck it is cold and warm and confusing at once. She says nothing but her mouth is split in a smile that sneers. Hermione can't speak, she can't say a word, and all the thoughts she has had evaporate before she feels Rita slide her school robes off her shoulders.
Her bra is too plain and her panties too demure for what she is doing. Rita says nothing and lifts Hermione's hand to her red, red lips, sucking one finger into her cunning mouth.
"I don't want to touch you." Hermione's voice is too sharp and Rita raises one perfect eyebrow.
"As you like," and Hermione's finger slides away, "You won't touch me."
Then there is violence, speed, and Hermione's bare back against a cold wall, Rita's nails drawing blood at her collar and drawing pleasure from wet heat. Everything happens at once, without sense or law or time; Hermione is bleeding and gasping and crying and arching and Rita is simply relentless. Hermione arches up against the wall and Rita twists her clitoris between two nails of spite; never entering Hermione, never letting her hands wander but blood has dripped onto Hermione's breast and Rita licks it off. Hermione shivers and throbs and feels and wants and Rita tortures and pleasures and relishes. There is a burn of orgasm in Hermione's abdomen and climax in Rita's coloured nails and Hermione comes in a rush of heat of helplessness, destruction, pain and ecstasy and abandon, and collapses into her opposite's grasp. She shakes, too cold and too hot, too weak and strong, it's almost time, to care. Rita laughs and the sound is victorious.
"Now, tell me," says Rita, "Which headline sounds better? 'Hermione Granger: Pricktease, Skirtwhore' or 'Plain Jane: Less Plain, More Jane for Miss Granger' ?"
Suddenly that quill is by her side, notebook covered in leather and bound with betrayal open and the ink that stains the pages is red. As red as blood, thinks Hermione, as painful as tears.
She draws away from Rita, whose very skin is scorning her, powdered and stainless and steeped in sin, creases her own skin and screams and screams and screams.
*
Hermione remembers sitting in a court, or maybe an office. She cried tears wrought with doubt and laced with vengeance, accompanied by words as false as the gloss on Rita's nails. She didn't look at Rita once, never lifted her dripping eyes to those of the wronged victim because Rita could never be that. She looked only at the hateful, spiteful, fatal journalist and saw only the suffering she had caused to layers upon layers of people. Hermione couldn't feel guilt then. She couldn't feel sympathy. She could only feel the throbbing of the wounds on her clavicle; the only other sense left was taste and she tasted her syrup at last.
It was the word of a perfect student, so truthful, so hard-working and so intelligent, and it was only her word against that of a cheap and easy reporter. Everyone knew how it would end. It became as unfair as any of Rita's articles, laced with more venom than a drop of ink from that quill, and no call was made for any device of truth. Hermione was golden and Rita was tarnished and reputations meant everything. As the sentence was called, throw her in Azkaban, Hermione let her eyes fall on Rita. She didn't see the pain hidden in a stance more slumped than sexual. She only saw those perfect nails, saw the lies and the power and the beauty, and they alone held truth.
*
It is morning but only just. The light is cold and too pale to be sunlight and yet it is. It streams through barred windows and attempts to warm a figure, cut from a different cloth than was meant. She turns, and she is Rita Skeeter, accused and guilt and the things are different. She is branded: rapist-liar-prisoner. She is crying, too broken a sound for the woman she is, and her hands hide her face. All the light reveals is Rita Skeeter, the woman, crying in her cell - and her nails try to shine even then.
Hope you like! Cut is not fake, x-posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ritaskeeter_.
Title: Truth is Polished and Revenge Tastes Like Syrup
Rating: R
Warnings: Femslash, some blood, some kink.
Pairing: Rita Skeeter/Hermione Granger
Summary: "She sends word, with a time and a place and an intention. She doesn't know whether to expect a reply. When one arrives, all that the parchment contains is a signature too familiar and Hermione doesn't know what it means. "
Disclamor: Not mine. Sadly. I do not own them. JKR does, I just...borrowed them. I don't think they're hurt.
/N: First time writing Rita fic or any kind of sex!fic. Inspired in part by
sweet_pamina's genius 'Kicking and Flailing', hopefully not too overtly similiar. *sigh* Please comment because...comments are nice! Thanks go to the wonder that is my Meredithy, for being my darling beta of love. *kisses*Truth is Polished and Revenge Tastes Like Syrup.
It is morning but only just. The light is cold and too pale to be sunlight and yet it is. It streams through barred windows, shining where nothing else can, and it falls on a figure as cold as the light itself. She turns and all the light reveals is Rita Skeeter, journalist, and she is crying.
*
There's an article in the paper that day. Hermione sees it first and she won't be the only one. Harry won't notice because he never does, and he's too pre-occupied with a chase-capture of his own. She will rely on herself for this. The headline is snide and the words are cruel and the truth it tells is nothing but an acid lie. Insinuations catch on faster than any rumour can and Hermione remembers back two years. There was a journalist with fingernails brighter than her smile and all she touched turned to syrup, too sweet and too addictive. Hermione remembers her. The next year Hermione had used her, and this year it doesn't seem to matter. The article in her hand is signed with that same confident loop, Rita Skeeter , and Hermione remembers how revenge had felt. It is her syrup, her addiction, and the article she holds is her reason to crave it.
She sends word, with a time and a place and an intention. She doesn't know whether to expect a reply. When one arrives, all that the parchment contains is a signature too familiar and Hermione doesn't know what it means. When the time she chose rolls round, she is there. Waiting. Revenge is all too-consuming and Hermione can't tell whether the leap her heart gives at the sound of high heels on stone floor is her own or part of her addiction. When Rita pauses and drapes herself against the door, she decides not to think about it.
Rita's lips are gashes of vermilion, too enticing, too bright, and her hair is as lacquered as her nails. The mouth that twists into two expressions at once has Hermione's gaze and she makes up her mind, you have to do this, but part of that thought is untrue. Part of her wants it. She just can't think it. Rita comes closer, closer, and when her hand finally rests against Hermione's neck it is cold and warm and confusing at once. She says nothing but her mouth is split in a smile that sneers. Hermione can't speak, she can't say a word, and all the thoughts she has had evaporate before she feels Rita slide her school robes off her shoulders.
Her bra is too plain and her panties too demure for what she is doing. Rita says nothing and lifts Hermione's hand to her red, red lips, sucking one finger into her cunning mouth.
"I don't want to touch you." Hermione's voice is too sharp and Rita raises one perfect eyebrow.
"As you like," and Hermione's finger slides away, "You won't touch me."
Then there is violence, speed, and Hermione's bare back against a cold wall, Rita's nails drawing blood at her collar and drawing pleasure from wet heat. Everything happens at once, without sense or law or time; Hermione is bleeding and gasping and crying and arching and Rita is simply relentless. Hermione arches up against the wall and Rita twists her clitoris between two nails of spite; never entering Hermione, never letting her hands wander but blood has dripped onto Hermione's breast and Rita licks it off. Hermione shivers and throbs and feels and wants and Rita tortures and pleasures and relishes. There is a burn of orgasm in Hermione's abdomen and climax in Rita's coloured nails and Hermione comes in a rush of heat of helplessness, destruction, pain and ecstasy and abandon, and collapses into her opposite's grasp. She shakes, too cold and too hot, too weak and strong, it's almost time, to care. Rita laughs and the sound is victorious.
"Now, tell me," says Rita, "Which headline sounds better? 'Hermione Granger: Pricktease, Skirtwhore' or 'Plain Jane: Less Plain, More Jane for Miss Granger' ?"
Suddenly that quill is by her side, notebook covered in leather and bound with betrayal open and the ink that stains the pages is red. As red as blood, thinks Hermione, as painful as tears.
She draws away from Rita, whose very skin is scorning her, powdered and stainless and steeped in sin, creases her own skin and screams and screams and screams.
*
Hermione remembers sitting in a court, or maybe an office. She cried tears wrought with doubt and laced with vengeance, accompanied by words as false as the gloss on Rita's nails. She didn't look at Rita once, never lifted her dripping eyes to those of the wronged victim because Rita could never be that. She looked only at the hateful, spiteful, fatal journalist and saw only the suffering she had caused to layers upon layers of people. Hermione couldn't feel guilt then. She couldn't feel sympathy. She could only feel the throbbing of the wounds on her clavicle; the only other sense left was taste and she tasted her syrup at last.
It was the word of a perfect student, so truthful, so hard-working and so intelligent, and it was only her word against that of a cheap and easy reporter. Everyone knew how it would end. It became as unfair as any of Rita's articles, laced with more venom than a drop of ink from that quill, and no call was made for any device of truth. Hermione was golden and Rita was tarnished and reputations meant everything. As the sentence was called, throw her in Azkaban, Hermione let her eyes fall on Rita. She didn't see the pain hidden in a stance more slumped than sexual. She only saw those perfect nails, saw the lies and the power and the beauty, and they alone held truth.
*
It is morning but only just. The light is cold and too pale to be sunlight and yet it is. It streams through barred windows and attempts to warm a figure, cut from a different cloth than was meant. She turns, and she is Rita Skeeter, accused and guilt and the things are different. She is branded: rapist-liar-prisoner. She is crying, too broken a sound for the woman she is, and her hands hide her face. All the light reveals is Rita Skeeter, the woman, crying in her cell - and her nails try to shine even then.
Hope you like! Cut is not fake, x-posted to
ritaskeeter_.
