FIC: Fuck You, Rita
Title: Fuck you, Rita
Author: lash_larue
Pairing: Arthur Weasley/Rita Skeeter
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: She is nothing like Molly, that’s what keeps him coming back, even though he hates himself after.
Warnings: Explicit het sex, language, infidelity
Summary: His temper isn’t the only thing rising.
Author’s Notes: Extras: Infidelity, Stockings, Rough Sex. I hope you meant all that… My thanks to Featherxquill for the impromptu beta.
“He’s here again, boss,” Tiffany informed Rita Skeeter as she entered the office and shut the door behind her.
“Right on schedule,” said Rita with a malicious grin, “you might as well go to lunch, Tiffany. He’ll be a while this time.”
“Why do you put up with him?”
“Oh, I encourage him,” Skeeter explained, “I love to see how purple I can get him to turn. Besides, every time one of my articles makes him angry enough to come in here and tear me a new one I know it was a good story. Arthur Weasley’s temper helps pay the bills, if my columns get him angry, I know that my readers will love them.” Tiffany shook her head in wonder.
“You’re something else, boss,” she said in admiration.
“I am indeed. Tell them to put your lunch on my tab, and please indulge yourself, I have a feeling I’m about to strike it rich. Make him wait fifteen minutes, then send the weasel in and take off. Take your time, enjoy.”
“Thanks!” Tiffany went back through the door and Rita lazily pulled off her panties.
“Ms. Skeeter will see you now, Mr. Weasley,” Tiffany informed him after the arbitrary waiting period had passed.
“Thank you,” Arthur said brusquely, and he entered Skeeter’s office without further ceremony. Tiffany headed to lunch; she had a sudden yearning for lobster.
“What on earth do you think gives you the right to put rubbish like this in print, you cheap harpy! You know very well that none of this is true!” Arthur yelled as he slammed the door behind him, a crumpled copy of the ‘Prophet” in one hand.
“Nice to see you too, Arthur,” Rita replied with a serene smile. “Sit. Get it off your chest. Tell me what a horrible bitch I am,” she encouraged him, pointing to the chair opposite her desk.
Arthur Weasley, his face blazing, sat and glared angrily at her as she circled the desk and perched on the edge of it facing him, crossing her legs casually. Arthur’s flush deepened as he caught a brief glimpse of the dark triangle between her legs when the short red skirt hiked up. She made no move to rearrange it, merely sat and grinned at him, dangling a red stiletto heel from the toes of one foot while she absently smoothed the black fishnet stockings she wore and fiddled with the snap on her garter belt. The red of Arthur’s face deepened, edging towards violet.
“Eager, are you, Arthur?” Rita asked him, and her pink tongue moistened her red lips.
“That won’t work this time, Rita,” he blustered, “I’m here to complain about your slanderous treatment of someone you know to be innocent of wrongdoing. When I leave here I’m going straight to the editor and file a complaint!”
“Oh, you mean that, do you? I don’t think so Arthur, not now, not ever. The shoe fell to the floor, and Rita placed that foot, now clad only in the black hosiery, on an arm of Arthur’s chair. Arthur’s eyes were drawn irresistibly to the wild growth between her legs.
There could exist no greater contrast than that between the carefully potioned and spelled, expensively arranged golden curls that covered Rita’s head and the riot of black hair that covered her sex. There, was the real Rita Skeeter. Uncontrolled, uncaring of what anyone thought, unconcerned with anyone’s opinion but her own. As they had both known that he would, Arthur Weasley felt the blood rush to his groin, his cock swelling until it tented his robes.
She smiled and pointed at the bulge.
“Now that’s why you’re here,” she purred as she gave a negligent flick of her wand to ensure their privacy. Rita unfastened the snaps holding up the stocking on the leg that was propped on the arm of Arthur’s chair, and slowly rolled the hosiery off, stretching the black silk between her hands before dropping the other shoe and putting that foot on the top of her desk. It was only her personality and ambition that was inflexible.
The short skirt had risen up above her hips as she opened her knees further, fully exposing herself to him.
“I won’t do it,” he declared, still staring, unable to look away, unwilling to walk away, as he knew he should.
“You will.”
“I love my wife,” he protested.
“I know you do, and you despise me, and yet there you sit staring at my cunt, with an enormous boner poking at your robes. I have to admit it, Arthur, ‘Weasley’ might rhyme with ‘measly’, but that term just doesn’t apply to you.”
“You can’t make me.”
“I don’t have to. You know you will, you know you want to, you know youneed to. Molly can’t give you what I can, can she, Arthur my pet?”
She couldn’t, and Arthur Weasley damned himself for his weakness, for the lust that Rita Skeeter inspired in him. Even as he told himself he mustn’t do this, not again he could feel the sticky fluid leaking out of his cock, see it making a dark spot on his robes. No two women were ever less alike; Molly was warm and soft and welcoming, and even after all their years of marriage she still got wet at the thought of him, her body, thickened from bearing his children, still trembled at his touch.
Rita was hard and cold and combative, and she surely didn’t soak her knickers at the thought of one Arthur Weasley. He knew all this; he knew that she felt more contempt for him than anything else. But nonetheless, here he was, standing up and moving between her open thighs, bunching his robes up around his waist and dropping his trousers down around his ankles. Just as he had known he would from the instant he had read her article about his old friend.
“I hate you,” he said.
“You hate yourself, you want me. Don’t try and make this anything but what it is, Arthur, now shut up.” Rita dragged the stocking she held on a slow trip between the lips of her pussy before forcing it between Arthur’s teeth and tying it tightly behind his head. He chewed greedily on it despite the anger in his eyes, and he guided his erection to her entrance, to the place that more dared him than desired him, because she was right. He wanted her, and he wanted her to want him. The fact that he knew she did not, not really, well that just made him try a little harder; and hate himself a little more.
He longed to slam deeply into her in a single violent thrust, but it was impossible, for as it always was in the beginning, her cunt was like her prose; dry and tight and vicious. The wiry hair abraded him outside and her inside as he forced his way into her, making a shallow, irregular, sort of squeaky progress with each powerful thrust.
Skeeter was like an alley cat; it didn’t really get her attention until it hurt.
“Harder,” was just about all she ever said during sex.
With a last desperate effort he buried himself in her, and she wrapped her legs around him, grabbed his thinning hair and crushed her thin lips to his in a gesture of ownership rather than affection.
“Harder!” she demanded, and as she began to flow and the passage eased, Arthur’s lips peeled back from his teeth, and the savage inside him came out, the beast that he hid from his wife, but could not hide from himself. The beast that brought him always back to her, and shamed him in the process.
Angrily he slammed his length into her, his cock pulling at the wiry hair, his broad hips forcing apart the slender thighs, wedging her further open.
She fastened her teeth in his neck; no kiss this, she wanted to hurt him, just as she wanted him to hurt her. She wanted no emotional entanglements; she wanted what he had to give her, lust colored by hatred, both of her and himself. This was nicely spiced by her personal dislike for Molly, an animus that had originated in their school days. She knew that she owned a part of him that his wife did not even know existed.
“Harder,” she hissed into his ear before she bit it, and he responded by giving one of her nipples a vicious twist through the thin cloth of her blouse.
His balls slapped the edge of her desk when he plunged back into her, and the sharp pain of that was counterpoint to the tight pleasure of her body. It added to the frenzy of the act now, and to the lingering ache that later would be a part of his self-imposed penance. His fingers left bruises on her hips where he squeezed her, pulling her to him with his arms at the repeated command, ”Harder” that scalded his ear, sounding suspiciously like “is that all you’ve got?”, and driving him to greater efforts. His nails left red welts on her thighs as hers clawed at his buttocks, his neck, small spots of blood welling up along the tracks the painted claws left in their wake.
Later he would wonder that her slender body did not break, later, when he sat alone in his darkened office with the door spelled shut, hating himself for his weakness, his obsession, his betrayal. Later, when he spelled away the scratches he had only quickly hidden with a glamour before leaving her office in a shamed hurry, leaving her sitting calmly behind her desk as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t happened.
Later.
Now he could feel the building pressure that told him he was close, he could feel the spasmodic clenching of her walls like the chewing of some hungry animal. Now, as he always did, in what was for him a last desperate effort to keep some part of himself exclusive to his wife, he withdrew from her and spilled the pearlescent liquid that flowed from him into the thick dark tangle of her pubic hair rather than allowing himself that last bit of pleasure that coming deep within her would bring to him.
As a gesture of denial, it was really rather pathetic, and Rita didn’t seem to care one way or another. She never even bothered with a cleaning spell; she just waited for him to step back, and then she stood and ordered her skirt and inspected her remaining stocking for damage before she went to sit behind her desk while he muttered various spells and fumbled his way back into some outward semblance of respectability.
“Is there any other complaint you wish to register, Mr. Weasley?”
He stood in silence for a moment, the guilt already replacing whatever pleasure he had had from her. Then he pulled the silk from between his teeth.
“Wouldn’t do any good, would it? Whose life are you going to make miserable next?”
“Wait and see.”
“I don’t know why I bother reading the bloody ‘Prophet’. It’s rubbish,” he spat.
“I know why you read it. You have to have some excuse to come storming in here and come all over me, don’t you, Arthur? We can’t always meet in some dark corner when the urge strikes, although I do miss being able to tie your hands to a bed with my stockings. You can keep that one, by the way. Besides, it’s always better when you’re angry with me as well as yourself.” He had no reply to that, she was right.
“I won’t do this again,” he said as he glared at her.
“Certainly you will.”
He knew that she was right about that as well, that he would indeed return to fling his rabbit into that briar patch, and he balled up the soggy stocking and put it in his pocket.
“Next thing we know you’ll be branding Harry Potter as a Death Eater,” he spat, and then he knew a moment of fear when she appeared to consider it.
“No, my readers aren’t ready for that yet,” she mused. “But thanks for the idea; I’ll keep it in reserve.”
“There’s nothing you won’t do, is there?” he asked tiredly.
“You would know better than most. Be sure and catch my next column. See you then, Arthur.”
“Fuck you, Rita.”
Arthur Weasley turned and left her office, and only then did Rita perform the spells that restored at least her outward cleanliness, for she knew that it disgusted him to think that she simply did not mind the mess that he had left in her crotch. And it amused her no end to know that he would return to her regardless.
She retrieved the story that she had been working on, her excitement building at the prospect of the wealth of possible stories unfolding before her due to Harry Potter’s selection as an unprecedented fourth Triwizard Champion.
She took up her quill and unknowingly resumed sowing the seeds of her destruction with her own words, all the while gleefully anticipating Arthur Weasley’s rage and the certain outcome of it when this story broke…
“… says that Harry is rarely seen out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl who…”
Author: lash_larue
Pairing: Arthur Weasley/Rita Skeeter
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: She is nothing like Molly, that’s what keeps him coming back, even though he hates himself after.
Warnings: Explicit het sex, language, infidelity
Summary: His temper isn’t the only thing rising.
Author’s Notes: Extras: Infidelity, Stockings, Rough Sex. I hope you meant all that… My thanks to Featherxquill for the impromptu beta.
“He’s here again, boss,” Tiffany informed Rita Skeeter as she entered the office and shut the door behind her.
“Right on schedule,” said Rita with a malicious grin, “you might as well go to lunch, Tiffany. He’ll be a while this time.”
“Why do you put up with him?”
“Oh, I encourage him,” Skeeter explained, “I love to see how purple I can get him to turn. Besides, every time one of my articles makes him angry enough to come in here and tear me a new one I know it was a good story. Arthur Weasley’s temper helps pay the bills, if my columns get him angry, I know that my readers will love them.” Tiffany shook her head in wonder.
“You’re something else, boss,” she said in admiration.
“I am indeed. Tell them to put your lunch on my tab, and please indulge yourself, I have a feeling I’m about to strike it rich. Make him wait fifteen minutes, then send the weasel in and take off. Take your time, enjoy.”
“Thanks!” Tiffany went back through the door and Rita lazily pulled off her panties.
“Ms. Skeeter will see you now, Mr. Weasley,” Tiffany informed him after the arbitrary waiting period had passed.
“Thank you,” Arthur said brusquely, and he entered Skeeter’s office without further ceremony. Tiffany headed to lunch; she had a sudden yearning for lobster.
“What on earth do you think gives you the right to put rubbish like this in print, you cheap harpy! You know very well that none of this is true!” Arthur yelled as he slammed the door behind him, a crumpled copy of the ‘Prophet” in one hand.
“Nice to see you too, Arthur,” Rita replied with a serene smile. “Sit. Get it off your chest. Tell me what a horrible bitch I am,” she encouraged him, pointing to the chair opposite her desk.
Arthur Weasley, his face blazing, sat and glared angrily at her as she circled the desk and perched on the edge of it facing him, crossing her legs casually. Arthur’s flush deepened as he caught a brief glimpse of the dark triangle between her legs when the short red skirt hiked up. She made no move to rearrange it, merely sat and grinned at him, dangling a red stiletto heel from the toes of one foot while she absently smoothed the black fishnet stockings she wore and fiddled with the snap on her garter belt. The red of Arthur’s face deepened, edging towards violet.
“Eager, are you, Arthur?” Rita asked him, and her pink tongue moistened her red lips.
“That won’t work this time, Rita,” he blustered, “I’m here to complain about your slanderous treatment of someone you know to be innocent of wrongdoing. When I leave here I’m going straight to the editor and file a complaint!”
“Oh, you mean that, do you? I don’t think so Arthur, not now, not ever. The shoe fell to the floor, and Rita placed that foot, now clad only in the black hosiery, on an arm of Arthur’s chair. Arthur’s eyes were drawn irresistibly to the wild growth between her legs.
There could exist no greater contrast than that between the carefully potioned and spelled, expensively arranged golden curls that covered Rita’s head and the riot of black hair that covered her sex. There, was the real Rita Skeeter. Uncontrolled, uncaring of what anyone thought, unconcerned with anyone’s opinion but her own. As they had both known that he would, Arthur Weasley felt the blood rush to his groin, his cock swelling until it tented his robes.
She smiled and pointed at the bulge.
“Now that’s why you’re here,” she purred as she gave a negligent flick of her wand to ensure their privacy. Rita unfastened the snaps holding up the stocking on the leg that was propped on the arm of Arthur’s chair, and slowly rolled the hosiery off, stretching the black silk between her hands before dropping the other shoe and putting that foot on the top of her desk. It was only her personality and ambition that was inflexible.
The short skirt had risen up above her hips as she opened her knees further, fully exposing herself to him.
“I won’t do it,” he declared, still staring, unable to look away, unwilling to walk away, as he knew he should.
“You will.”
“I love my wife,” he protested.
“I know you do, and you despise me, and yet there you sit staring at my cunt, with an enormous boner poking at your robes. I have to admit it, Arthur, ‘Weasley’ might rhyme with ‘measly’, but that term just doesn’t apply to you.”
“You can’t make me.”
“I don’t have to. You know you will, you know you want to, you know youneed to. Molly can’t give you what I can, can she, Arthur my pet?”
She couldn’t, and Arthur Weasley damned himself for his weakness, for the lust that Rita Skeeter inspired in him. Even as he told himself he mustn’t do this, not again he could feel the sticky fluid leaking out of his cock, see it making a dark spot on his robes. No two women were ever less alike; Molly was warm and soft and welcoming, and even after all their years of marriage she still got wet at the thought of him, her body, thickened from bearing his children, still trembled at his touch.
Rita was hard and cold and combative, and she surely didn’t soak her knickers at the thought of one Arthur Weasley. He knew all this; he knew that she felt more contempt for him than anything else. But nonetheless, here he was, standing up and moving between her open thighs, bunching his robes up around his waist and dropping his trousers down around his ankles. Just as he had known he would from the instant he had read her article about his old friend.
“I hate you,” he said.
“You hate yourself, you want me. Don’t try and make this anything but what it is, Arthur, now shut up.” Rita dragged the stocking she held on a slow trip between the lips of her pussy before forcing it between Arthur’s teeth and tying it tightly behind his head. He chewed greedily on it despite the anger in his eyes, and he guided his erection to her entrance, to the place that more dared him than desired him, because she was right. He wanted her, and he wanted her to want him. The fact that he knew she did not, not really, well that just made him try a little harder; and hate himself a little more.
He longed to slam deeply into her in a single violent thrust, but it was impossible, for as it always was in the beginning, her cunt was like her prose; dry and tight and vicious. The wiry hair abraded him outside and her inside as he forced his way into her, making a shallow, irregular, sort of squeaky progress with each powerful thrust.
Skeeter was like an alley cat; it didn’t really get her attention until it hurt.
“Harder,” was just about all she ever said during sex.
With a last desperate effort he buried himself in her, and she wrapped her legs around him, grabbed his thinning hair and crushed her thin lips to his in a gesture of ownership rather than affection.
“Harder!” she demanded, and as she began to flow and the passage eased, Arthur’s lips peeled back from his teeth, and the savage inside him came out, the beast that he hid from his wife, but could not hide from himself. The beast that brought him always back to her, and shamed him in the process.
Angrily he slammed his length into her, his cock pulling at the wiry hair, his broad hips forcing apart the slender thighs, wedging her further open.
She fastened her teeth in his neck; no kiss this, she wanted to hurt him, just as she wanted him to hurt her. She wanted no emotional entanglements; she wanted what he had to give her, lust colored by hatred, both of her and himself. This was nicely spiced by her personal dislike for Molly, an animus that had originated in their school days. She knew that she owned a part of him that his wife did not even know existed.
“Harder,” she hissed into his ear before she bit it, and he responded by giving one of her nipples a vicious twist through the thin cloth of her blouse.
His balls slapped the edge of her desk when he plunged back into her, and the sharp pain of that was counterpoint to the tight pleasure of her body. It added to the frenzy of the act now, and to the lingering ache that later would be a part of his self-imposed penance. His fingers left bruises on her hips where he squeezed her, pulling her to him with his arms at the repeated command, ”Harder” that scalded his ear, sounding suspiciously like “is that all you’ve got?”, and driving him to greater efforts. His nails left red welts on her thighs as hers clawed at his buttocks, his neck, small spots of blood welling up along the tracks the painted claws left in their wake.
Later he would wonder that her slender body did not break, later, when he sat alone in his darkened office with the door spelled shut, hating himself for his weakness, his obsession, his betrayal. Later, when he spelled away the scratches he had only quickly hidden with a glamour before leaving her office in a shamed hurry, leaving her sitting calmly behind her desk as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t happened.
Later.
Now he could feel the building pressure that told him he was close, he could feel the spasmodic clenching of her walls like the chewing of some hungry animal. Now, as he always did, in what was for him a last desperate effort to keep some part of himself exclusive to his wife, he withdrew from her and spilled the pearlescent liquid that flowed from him into the thick dark tangle of her pubic hair rather than allowing himself that last bit of pleasure that coming deep within her would bring to him.
As a gesture of denial, it was really rather pathetic, and Rita didn’t seem to care one way or another. She never even bothered with a cleaning spell; she just waited for him to step back, and then she stood and ordered her skirt and inspected her remaining stocking for damage before she went to sit behind her desk while he muttered various spells and fumbled his way back into some outward semblance of respectability.
“Is there any other complaint you wish to register, Mr. Weasley?”
He stood in silence for a moment, the guilt already replacing whatever pleasure he had had from her. Then he pulled the silk from between his teeth.
“Wouldn’t do any good, would it? Whose life are you going to make miserable next?”
“Wait and see.”
“I don’t know why I bother reading the bloody ‘Prophet’. It’s rubbish,” he spat.
“I know why you read it. You have to have some excuse to come storming in here and come all over me, don’t you, Arthur? We can’t always meet in some dark corner when the urge strikes, although I do miss being able to tie your hands to a bed with my stockings. You can keep that one, by the way. Besides, it’s always better when you’re angry with me as well as yourself.” He had no reply to that, she was right.
“I won’t do this again,” he said as he glared at her.
“Certainly you will.”
He knew that she was right about that as well, that he would indeed return to fling his rabbit into that briar patch, and he balled up the soggy stocking and put it in his pocket.
“Next thing we know you’ll be branding Harry Potter as a Death Eater,” he spat, and then he knew a moment of fear when she appeared to consider it.
“No, my readers aren’t ready for that yet,” she mused. “But thanks for the idea; I’ll keep it in reserve.”
“There’s nothing you won’t do, is there?” he asked tiredly.
“You would know better than most. Be sure and catch my next column. See you then, Arthur.”
“Fuck you, Rita.”
Arthur Weasley turned and left her office, and only then did Rita perform the spells that restored at least her outward cleanliness, for she knew that it disgusted him to think that she simply did not mind the mess that he had left in her crotch. And it amused her no end to know that he would return to her regardless.
She retrieved the story that she had been working on, her excitement building at the prospect of the wealth of possible stories unfolding before her due to Harry Potter’s selection as an unprecedented fourth Triwizard Champion.
She took up her quill and unknowingly resumed sowing the seeds of her destruction with her own words, all the while gleefully anticipating Arthur Weasley’s rage and the certain outcome of it when this story broke…
“… says that Harry is rarely seen out of the company of one Hermione Granger, a stunningly pretty Muggle-born girl who…”