FIC: "She's Your Cocaine" for eduaimon
Title: She's Your Cocaine
Author/Artist: ???
Recipient's name: eduaimon
Characters/Pairings: Rita/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Summary: She met her again in Amsterdam, of all places.
Warnings: BDSM
She met her again in Amsterdam, of all places. One more war in the Wizarding World’s history of hatred over, and Rita Skeeter wondering if she would live long enough to see the next one.
This place was like gunpowder - bright when all lit up, but it smelled like danger. It was the kind of place one could live and die and be reborn in, all in the same night. You could get lost here, in the winding streets, in yourself, in someone else. The atmosphere was a heady cloud of sex and marijuana smoke. It let a person forget who they were, or be someone else entirely.
Rita supposed, in the end, that was what Hermione Granger was trying to do.
“U wilt wat cocaïne, dame?”
Rita flicked her curls, ignored the dealer on the street who melted back into the shadows when she didn’t respond. Her heels were loud on the narrow street. Above her head, stars glittered, but they were made dim by the neon bulbs that lit the shop windows - green and pink and yellow - coffeshops, sex stores, nightclubs. Rita ignored them. She was looking for a more potent hit that night, turned down a twisting alley and followed the dark toward glimmering red lights.
Perhaps she too wanted to lose herself, wanted to feel pleasure so blinding it was like death, like the way the light in Bellatrix Lestrange’s eyes had flared then gone out when Neville Longbottom killed her. Like the moans for help from dying wizards that rang out across battlefields as Rita buzzed about corpses and collected stories and stories and stories and didn’t help any of them. I don’t pay you to be Florence bloody Nightingale, Skeeter. Bring me names.
Well, fuck that.
A young blonde in nothing but black underwear quirked a brow at her from behind a pane of glass. Rita smiled back, but kept walking. No, she didn’t like them off street.
It was an opulent brothel, all red velvet and hanging lights. When Rita stepped inside, heels clicked on polished off-white tiles and nobody was about. Nobody, that was, until a brunette in a corset and long skirt slipped out from behind a curtain at the front desk and started to pencil something into a large, open book that lay upon it. Rita cleared her throat and the woman looked up.
“Rita Skeeter?” The voice was surprised, scandalised, amused, all at the same time.
It took Rita a moment to recognise her, out of her Hogwarts robes. “Hermione Granger.” She felt a smile tugging at the corner of her lips; eyes raked the girl’s form. Her hair was still bushy and her face plain, but her attire certainly gave her a few curves. “My my,” Rita murmured, walking forward, “I never would have thought to find Gryffindor’s golden child in such an unscrupulous place.”
Hermione laid the pencil down, clapped the appointment book closed and smirked. “This is exactly the kind of place I suppose I could have expected you.”
Rita rested an elbow against the countertop, once again allowed her eyes to pointedly take in the swell of breasts and thin waist. “Working here, are you?”
Hermione snorted. “Please. My uncle owns the place. I’m running it for him. I don’t sell myself.”
Rita arched a brow. “Yes, I suppose I can see where you’d get a kick from this, with your martyr complex. Working tirelessly for the rights of Dutch prostitutes, I suppose.”
Never mind that her sense of justice never caused her to question the morality of locking a woman in a jar for over a week. And never mind the little voice in the back of Rita’s mind jeeringly reminding her how much she’d liked the bondage.
“How many men and women did you watch die during the war while you collected your sordid little battlefront stories?” Hermione shot back.
Rita snarled. She’d had her fill of this conversation. “Show me your girls,” she snapped.
Hermione gave a false smile. “Right this way.”
Rita was expecting a floor show, a number of scantily clad young women awaiting her whim, but the room Hermione showed her into was, although lavishly decorated, bare but for an X-frame. By the time Rita turned to question, Hermione had closed and locked the door, and her wand was in her hand.
“What are you--” Rita began, something hot racing through her veins that could have been fear or excitement, but Hermione cut her off.
“Don’t think I don’t remember the look in your eyes when I let you out of that jar. I didn’t know what it meant, then, but I’ve learned a lot about life in the last few years. And you can’t possibly pay for one of my girls. I’ve been getting the Prophet, and you haven’t had anything published since the war.”
“I’ve other ways of earning money,” Rita growled, but it was a lie. She’d quit the prophet when the battle ended, disgusted with herself and what they wanted from her - survival stories, digging into people’s pain. It had stopped being just rumours, gossip and trash and dropped to a level even Rita couldn’t bear to stoop to. Couldn’t it have just ended? She’d planned on disappearing tonight as she usually did when she couldn’t pay for something.
“Liar.” Hermione stepped forward, pressed the wand into Rita’s chest, trailed it slowly up to her chest, then smiled and stepped back. Before Rita could blink, Hermione had flicked her wrist and sent her flying backwards into the wall. Her arms and legs splayed wide, and then she felt leather cuffs tighten mercilessly around her wrists and ankles.
“I think, though,” Hermione smirked, and Rita saw something dark and predatory and potent in her eyes, “That I might just give you something for free.”
Rita wanted to be angry, wanted to be furious at the girl, but whatever rage she felt was undermined by a burning heat tearing through her body that had nothing to do with anger.
Hermione waved her wand again and Rita’s clothes were on the floor - cloak and satin and lacy knickers, leaving her exposed and bare, nipples tightening in the room’s cool air and blood pounding into her cheeks. Hermione stepped forward with a smile. A finger curled under Rita’s chin, and their eyes met.
“I’ve been wanting to see that look in your eyes again for a long time.”
She stepped back, gave her wand a flick, and in an instant it had turned into a leather flogger. “You look like a whore,” she said.
“Not surprising, in this place,” Rita bit back. The flogger whipped across stomach, and breath caught in her throat. Fire burned in her cheeks again, hot with humiliation. It wasn’t the nakedness, the submission, but the fact that she liked it, liked the sting of warmth as Hermione followed the blow with another, and she felt the fire shoot down through her to her sex.
Hermione was merciless. Rita felt sick with desire, watching her lay the blows, face beautiful with concentration. Did she put the same intellectual intensity into everything? Then thought left her completely as the flogger bit at her nipples, and Rita gasped. Hermione smirked, laid another stinging blow over Rita’s stomach; then stepped forward.
“Whore,” she whispered again as the flogger fell to the floor, then she was gripping Rita’s chin again and kissing her ruthlessly, tongue pushing into her mouth and owning her, biting Rita’s bottom lip as she pulled away. Her other hand came up over the lash-warmed belly as she tongued lightly over the place she’d bitten, and she caught one of Rita’s breasts in her hand, thumb flicking across nipple quickly and smiling as Rita gasped against her mouth.
“You want me to make you come, don’t you?” she breathed, taking the nipple between her fingers and giving it a twist for emphasis. “You want to come so hard that it hurts.” She pinched the nipple, hard, and Rita cried out; felt the answering rush of warmth to her already dripping wet cunt.
Hermione was so close that her skirts brushed against Rita’s naked thigh, the she stepped away, bent down, retrieved the flogger from the floor and turned it back into a wand with a tap. She murmured a spell and something Rita couldn’t quite see materialised in her hand, but a moment later she didn’t need to see, because the clamps were closing around her nipples with vice-like grip while she whimpered and moaned.
And then Hermione dropped to her knees. “I’ve wanted this forever,” she whispered, “Wanted to hurt you and worship you at the same time.” And then her lips and her tongue were there, and her hand was snaking up to tug at the chain that hung between the clamps and set Rita on fire, arching and writhing and pulling at her bonds, strung up like a crucified goddess. Hermione’s lips and tongue were fervent, angry prayers. There were teeth leaving angry red bite marks on her thighs, one hand wrapped around a hip and the other tugging at the chain and the clamps; then Rita was falling and burning and dying again and again and again.
Later, as blonde and brown curls mingled on a pillow and Rita pulled her young lover into protective arms, Hermione chuckled and pressed her down into the sheets.
“Did you like that, the memory charms, not remembering anything about us?” She spoke in a whisper and smiled, tracing a hand over the place her lashes had landed earlier. “Should I put them on again next time?”
Author/Artist: ???
Recipient's name: eduaimon
Characters/Pairings: Rita/Hermione
Rating: NC-17
Summary: She met her again in Amsterdam, of all places.
Warnings: BDSM
She met her again in Amsterdam, of all places. One more war in the Wizarding World’s history of hatred over, and Rita Skeeter wondering if she would live long enough to see the next one.
This place was like gunpowder - bright when all lit up, but it smelled like danger. It was the kind of place one could live and die and be reborn in, all in the same night. You could get lost here, in the winding streets, in yourself, in someone else. The atmosphere was a heady cloud of sex and marijuana smoke. It let a person forget who they were, or be someone else entirely.
Rita supposed, in the end, that was what Hermione Granger was trying to do.
“U wilt wat cocaïne, dame?”
Rita flicked her curls, ignored the dealer on the street who melted back into the shadows when she didn’t respond. Her heels were loud on the narrow street. Above her head, stars glittered, but they were made dim by the neon bulbs that lit the shop windows - green and pink and yellow - coffeshops, sex stores, nightclubs. Rita ignored them. She was looking for a more potent hit that night, turned down a twisting alley and followed the dark toward glimmering red lights.
Perhaps she too wanted to lose herself, wanted to feel pleasure so blinding it was like death, like the way the light in Bellatrix Lestrange’s eyes had flared then gone out when Neville Longbottom killed her. Like the moans for help from dying wizards that rang out across battlefields as Rita buzzed about corpses and collected stories and stories and stories and didn’t help any of them. I don’t pay you to be Florence bloody Nightingale, Skeeter. Bring me names.
Well, fuck that.
A young blonde in nothing but black underwear quirked a brow at her from behind a pane of glass. Rita smiled back, but kept walking. No, she didn’t like them off street.
It was an opulent brothel, all red velvet and hanging lights. When Rita stepped inside, heels clicked on polished off-white tiles and nobody was about. Nobody, that was, until a brunette in a corset and long skirt slipped out from behind a curtain at the front desk and started to pencil something into a large, open book that lay upon it. Rita cleared her throat and the woman looked up.
“Rita Skeeter?” The voice was surprised, scandalised, amused, all at the same time.
It took Rita a moment to recognise her, out of her Hogwarts robes. “Hermione Granger.” She felt a smile tugging at the corner of her lips; eyes raked the girl’s form. Her hair was still bushy and her face plain, but her attire certainly gave her a few curves. “My my,” Rita murmured, walking forward, “I never would have thought to find Gryffindor’s golden child in such an unscrupulous place.”
Hermione laid the pencil down, clapped the appointment book closed and smirked. “This is exactly the kind of place I suppose I could have expected you.”
Rita rested an elbow against the countertop, once again allowed her eyes to pointedly take in the swell of breasts and thin waist. “Working here, are you?”
Hermione snorted. “Please. My uncle owns the place. I’m running it for him. I don’t sell myself.”
Rita arched a brow. “Yes, I suppose I can see where you’d get a kick from this, with your martyr complex. Working tirelessly for the rights of Dutch prostitutes, I suppose.”
Never mind that her sense of justice never caused her to question the morality of locking a woman in a jar for over a week. And never mind the little voice in the back of Rita’s mind jeeringly reminding her how much she’d liked the bondage.
“How many men and women did you watch die during the war while you collected your sordid little battlefront stories?” Hermione shot back.
Rita snarled. She’d had her fill of this conversation. “Show me your girls,” she snapped.
Hermione gave a false smile. “Right this way.”
Rita was expecting a floor show, a number of scantily clad young women awaiting her whim, but the room Hermione showed her into was, although lavishly decorated, bare but for an X-frame. By the time Rita turned to question, Hermione had closed and locked the door, and her wand was in her hand.
“What are you--” Rita began, something hot racing through her veins that could have been fear or excitement, but Hermione cut her off.
“Don’t think I don’t remember the look in your eyes when I let you out of that jar. I didn’t know what it meant, then, but I’ve learned a lot about life in the last few years. And you can’t possibly pay for one of my girls. I’ve been getting the Prophet, and you haven’t had anything published since the war.”
“I’ve other ways of earning money,” Rita growled, but it was a lie. She’d quit the prophet when the battle ended, disgusted with herself and what they wanted from her - survival stories, digging into people’s pain. It had stopped being just rumours, gossip and trash and dropped to a level even Rita couldn’t bear to stoop to. Couldn’t it have just ended? She’d planned on disappearing tonight as she usually did when she couldn’t pay for something.
“Liar.” Hermione stepped forward, pressed the wand into Rita’s chest, trailed it slowly up to her chest, then smiled and stepped back. Before Rita could blink, Hermione had flicked her wrist and sent her flying backwards into the wall. Her arms and legs splayed wide, and then she felt leather cuffs tighten mercilessly around her wrists and ankles.
“I think, though,” Hermione smirked, and Rita saw something dark and predatory and potent in her eyes, “That I might just give you something for free.”
Rita wanted to be angry, wanted to be furious at the girl, but whatever rage she felt was undermined by a burning heat tearing through her body that had nothing to do with anger.
Hermione waved her wand again and Rita’s clothes were on the floor - cloak and satin and lacy knickers, leaving her exposed and bare, nipples tightening in the room’s cool air and blood pounding into her cheeks. Hermione stepped forward with a smile. A finger curled under Rita’s chin, and their eyes met.
“I’ve been wanting to see that look in your eyes again for a long time.”
She stepped back, gave her wand a flick, and in an instant it had turned into a leather flogger. “You look like a whore,” she said.
“Not surprising, in this place,” Rita bit back. The flogger whipped across stomach, and breath caught in her throat. Fire burned in her cheeks again, hot with humiliation. It wasn’t the nakedness, the submission, but the fact that she liked it, liked the sting of warmth as Hermione followed the blow with another, and she felt the fire shoot down through her to her sex.
Hermione was merciless. Rita felt sick with desire, watching her lay the blows, face beautiful with concentration. Did she put the same intellectual intensity into everything? Then thought left her completely as the flogger bit at her nipples, and Rita gasped. Hermione smirked, laid another stinging blow over Rita’s stomach; then stepped forward.
“Whore,” she whispered again as the flogger fell to the floor, then she was gripping Rita’s chin again and kissing her ruthlessly, tongue pushing into her mouth and owning her, biting Rita’s bottom lip as she pulled away. Her other hand came up over the lash-warmed belly as she tongued lightly over the place she’d bitten, and she caught one of Rita’s breasts in her hand, thumb flicking across nipple quickly and smiling as Rita gasped against her mouth.
“You want me to make you come, don’t you?” she breathed, taking the nipple between her fingers and giving it a twist for emphasis. “You want to come so hard that it hurts.” She pinched the nipple, hard, and Rita cried out; felt the answering rush of warmth to her already dripping wet cunt.
Hermione was so close that her skirts brushed against Rita’s naked thigh, the she stepped away, bent down, retrieved the flogger from the floor and turned it back into a wand with a tap. She murmured a spell and something Rita couldn’t quite see materialised in her hand, but a moment later she didn’t need to see, because the clamps were closing around her nipples with vice-like grip while she whimpered and moaned.
And then Hermione dropped to her knees. “I’ve wanted this forever,” she whispered, “Wanted to hurt you and worship you at the same time.” And then her lips and her tongue were there, and her hand was snaking up to tug at the chain that hung between the clamps and set Rita on fire, arching and writhing and pulling at her bonds, strung up like a crucified goddess. Hermione’s lips and tongue were fervent, angry prayers. There were teeth leaving angry red bite marks on her thighs, one hand wrapped around a hip and the other tugging at the chain and the clamps; then Rita was falling and burning and dying again and again and again.
Later, as blonde and brown curls mingled on a pillow and Rita pulled her young lover into protective arms, Hermione chuckled and pressed her down into the sheets.
“Did you like that, the memory charms, not remembering anything about us?” She spoke in a whisper and smiled, tracing a hand over the place her lashes had landed earlier. “Should I put them on again next time?”