FIC: Big Boys Don't Cry
Title: Big Boys Don't Cry
Author: featherxquill
Pairing: Percy Weasley/Rita Skeeter, background Rita/Rufus
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: I'm not in love, so don't forget it. / It's just a silly phase I'm going through.
Warnings: Canon character death
Summary: During the war, Percy begins to realise his mistakes. At a low point, he turns to the only person who won't judge him - Rufus Scrimgeour’s widow.
Author's Notes: Thanks to cranky__crocus for the super-awesome and fast beta job! :D
Percy is able to pretend that everything is fine until the day Rufus Scrimgeour is killed.
One hand fists in her hair, pulls her head back. Moonlight paints her pale throat blue and his lips crush against it. Her voice is a guttural wail; he feels it vibrate through her skin and thinks yes - yes, that is how I feel, too.
Percy likes order. He likes rules. He likes that his pens are sorted by colour and his day is divided into neat blocks of twenty minutes, with time allowed for his morning cup of tea and his lunch. He likes that Minister Scrimgeour is ordered, too. He could set his watch by Minister Scrimgeour, and frequently does - he knows when the Minister will be in the lift with a moment to spare, and he uses that time to pass on important and sometimes sensitive information.
(He knows the Minister appreciates it, because he never comments on Percy’s timing, and always thanks him for the information.)
And so, the day that the Minister is not in the lift, Percy knows there is something very wrong.
Her stockinged foot trails over his calf and her nails score his back. Her breast is in his hand and he presses his mouth down over her nipple and sucks hard enough to bruise. His free hand falls against her lips and she opens her mouth. He pushes his fingers inside and she bites down on them.
The Ministry is chaos after Scrimgeour dies. Of course, their official line is that he resigned, but everyone knows the truth. It takes Percy one conversation with Thicknesse to know the man is Imperiused, and it shows in the administration. Without a proper leader, the Ministry is beset by infighting politicians and Death Eaters fighting for dominance.
(Percy recognises the Imperius this time because he has never forgotten failing Mr Crouch.)
Percy can’t stand the disorganisation and he is increasingly disturbed by what he sees around him. There are Dementors in the Ministry, and the morning that the statue is erected, every Ministry employee is present in the atrium. Percy watches the green-robed transfigurers as they move, working in tandem, wands casting arcs of light. He watches the centaur and the goblin ground to dust and then mutated into ugly shapes that become twisted limbs and distorted faces. By the time they are finished, Percy’s hands are shaking and he thinks he might be ill.
This is not what he believes in. This is not what he signed up for.
He spreads her legs wide, fingers biting into her thighs, and pins one leg with his knee. His fingers against her sex, then, sliding up and down: spreading her there too, then pressing inside. He curls his fingers up in her and she gasps, her leg shaking in his grip. He looks at her face and her mouth is stretched wide but her eyes are tightly closed.
He wonders who she is seeing behind her eyelids.
Percy catches glimpses of his father, sometimes. Another red head in the crowd as he Floos in, walking with eyes forward or head down like everyone else. Despite his misgivings, Percy feels the chasm between them is as wide as ever. Talking to his father now could be dangerous for everyone, and even now Percy remembers the sting of his father’s words. Remebers the implication that no one could promote Percy because of his intelligence and work ethic, that it must be about the Ministry wanting a spy in the family and the Order. It galled Percy that his father, who’d never shown a speck of ambition and had never wanted to be promoted from the job he loved even to provide more for his family, had dared to question Percy’s promotion in such a way. And it hurt that his parents cared more about Dumbledore’s resistance than they did about their son’s happiness.
No. Even if Percy wanted to (and he didn’t), it would be impossible to reconcile with his family now. He does wish he had somebody to talk to, though.
When he fucks her (and Percy knows that is what it is - he holds no illusions about there being love between them, or even affection - they are here only because one agony is better than another) she doesn’t touch him. At other times, her grip is tight, fingernails digging into his arm or scraping down his back, and she certainly isn’t averse to sucking him off - on her knees, most often, with her blouse undone and her tits poking out of her bra, hand around his cock and tongue against his balls, lipstick smeared across her face and his hands fisted in her hair. But when he fucks her - as soon as his cock breaches her - she stops touching. Her hands fist in the duvet or wrap around the headboard. Her back arches and her hips rise to meet his thrusts, blow for blow, but she doesn’t touch him. He grips her hips hard enough to bruise and hopes she does, hopes he marks her, hopes he leaves his fingerprints on her skin. His fingers are slender and the tips are narrow - not like large hands she remembers.
It’s the books in the window of Flourish and Blotts that make him think of her. The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore - who knew she was such a kindred spirit?
Well, Percy has for a while, actually.
Rita Skeeter. Or Mrs Scrimgeour, which was the context he knew her in. When he’d worked for Barty Crouch and seen her at the Triwizard Tournament, he hadn’t understood it - a woman like that, brazen and uncaring, cavalier with the truth, was married to the Deputy Head of Magical Law Enforcement? A man Percy knew by reputation to be methodical, guarded and careful. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t until Scrimgeour was made Minister that Percy came to know him better - to see the Gryffindor temper that railed under the control - and came to recognise that a sharp, political, sometimes manipulative mind was what made him so careful.
Percy knew all about that last one from personal experience.
Christmas was always a difficult time for Percy. Peace and goodwill and happy families, the lumpy gift of an ugly jumper from his mother that arrived on Christmas morning even after Percy had made his feelings clear. I don’t understand you and I never have was what that jumper said to him. And so, Percy was honoured when the Minister came to him in person and invited him to share Christmas lunch at the official residence.
It was the best Christmas lunch Percy had ever spent. Not only was the food fantastic - the House Elves in the Minister’s Residence were even better cooks than the ones at Hogwarts - but the conversation was fascinating. Intelligent, political, witty, without a moment of season-induced sentimentality. And it wasn’t just the Minister, either. Rita Skeeter was sharp and clever. She read social currents while her husband followed the Ministry’s progress on legal and administrative matters. His humour was dry, hers sarcastic. Percy felt like the amateur he was, discussing the world with them, but Rita pulled him into the conversation with the casual deftness of a seasoned reporter; and Rufus, with the skill of an accomplished politician, asked him questions that made him think. Percy wasn’t sure at what point during lunch he noticed just how well they complemented each other, but by the time the meal was over he decided that they were a perfect couple, and he didn’t know how he hadn’t seen that before.
Percy preferred to remember that part of the day to what came after. The Minister said that he felt bad for keeping Percy from his family on Christmas Day, and perhaps they could pay a visit. Percy hadn’t felt that he could refuse. The visit was disastrous, and afterward, the Minister had showcased the Gryffindor temper’s less fiery companion, the self-righteous sulk. As soon as they returned to the Residence, he stomped up the hallway to his private study with some grunted excuse about needing to make a Floo call, and he left Percy feeling a bit betrayed and manipulated, standing awkwardly in the sitting room with Rita.
Rita poured him a drink and invited him to sit down in a way that was somehow gentler but no easier to refuse than her husband’s ‘suggestion’ that they visit his family. So Percy did, sipping the drink even though he felt vaguely nauseous. Rita watched him, and although they had made easy and intelligent conversation over lunch, it hadn’t quite prepared Percy for being alone with her. Her gaze made him feel quite naked. He could see her, weighing him with her journalist’s eyes and taking him apart. She’d had to leave the Prophet when her husband became Minister, and in that moment she looked almost hungry to have a subject again.
She asked him about his family. He told her.
They don’t talk much, not now. Percy has trained himself out of talking - it’s dangerous, now, to do that in the Ministry - and she seems to shy away from it, perhaps because of that hunger he remembers so well. Perhaps she fears knowing too much about what is going on in the Ministry because it would make her want to write about it, and doing that would be a death sentence. Instead, she channels her hunger toward him and his body. She pulls him in deeper with her legs around him, with thighs more powerful than they look. She is like that all over: stronger than she appears. He remembers the time she forced him to his knees and propped her foot up on the coffee table, burying her hands in his hair and pulling his face against her cunt. He tongued her obediently, wrapping one of his hands around her ankle and the other around his cock. The noises she made told him he was doing things right, but when he tried to pull back to look at her she gripped his hair tighter and pulled him so close he couldn’t breathe. When she came that day she left bloody scratches on his shoulder, and for the next three days his shirt rubbed at the skin as he moved, reminding him not to underestimate her strength.
The day the Muggle-Born Registration Commission comes into effect, Percy owls Rita Skeeter. The sight of Muggle-borns cowering before Dolores Umbridge makes him sick to his stomach, guilty for being a part of the organisation that allowed this to happen, and he needs to talk to somebody. Somebody who isn’t a part of this corrupt administration but isn’t family or a member of the Order, either. He knows she is neither.
The owl is carefully worded. He knows she is likely in hiding after her husband’s death - Merlin, he hopes she got out before they took the Minister’s Residence - so any correspondence will be suspect to her. He expresses his condolences - enough to let her know where he stands, since the official line is resignation - and says he would like to pay his respects. He references the conversation he had with her that Christmas Day so she will know it is truly him, and then he sends it off and hopes the owl can find her.
It takes her less than 24 hours to reply. She is living in a flat in Southport. Percy Apparates there when his work day is done.
When she opens the door, she is the same woman he remembers - styled blonde hair and intelligent blue eyes - but she is not wearing makeup. Her clothes are softer, too - a swishy skirt and a pastel blouse. She lets him in without a word.
“You should have asked me a question,” he says, once the door is closed behind him.
“Death Eaters have better things to do than hunt me down,” she replies. “If they’d wanted to silence me, they would have done it already.”
“Why Southport?” he asks.
“My sister lives here. Around the corner. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go, after.”
After her husband was killed. Percy nods. Slips a hand into his pocket, pulls it out again. Shifts on his feet.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry about Min... Rufus.”
“Why should you be sorry?” she asks. “You didn’t kill him.” She turns away from him, crossing the room. “Drink?”
It would be rude to refuse. She pulls a bottle of firewhiskey from a cabinet against the wall, conjures two glasses. She pulls the stopper from the bottle and pauses, peering at the thing in her hand. “Thank you, though.”
When the drinks are poured, he takes a glass from her and they sit. The living area is small but the armchair is comfortable. There is a television in the corner. Percy finds himself thinking that his father would be fascinated by it. “What are you doing with yourself?” he asks her, to banish the thought.
“Freelance. For a Muggle women’s magazine. Keeps me occupied, when I’m not with my sister or my niece and nephew. What about you?” she asks, though when she says it, it doesn’t sound like small talk.
Percy shakes his head. “Just trying to... Just trying... Gods, I can’t stand it. The Ministry, it’s...”
“Percy.” She says his name, sharp and quiet, and he looks up at her. “I really don’t want to hear how it is. I can’t write for the Prophet, I can’t visit Diagon Alley. I can’t bury my husband. I don’t want to feel any more helpless.”
“Right,” Percy says, and suddenly he feels sick again. His cheeks are hot and of course she doesn’t want... Why did he think he could come here and unburden himself on her? Just because she’d asked him questions once before, and he had been able to talk to her.
This was a mistake. He sets his glass down, wipes his suddenly sweaty palms on his trousers. “I should,” he says. “I should go.” He stands, moves toward the door, but suddenly she is there in front of him, blocking his path.
“You remind me of him, you know,” she says.
She kisses him.
When she comes, she is silent. Her thighs shake and her head arches back and she shudders around him, but the only sound she makes is a twisted hitch of breath. He closes his eyes and pounds harder, pushing her further. He can hear the wet slap of his skin against hers, can hear the laboured sound of his own breathing, then his toes clench and his abdomen tightens and he can’t hear anything but the pounding of blood in his ears.
They lay tangled in the dark for a long time, skin pressed together and hearts beating erratically against each other. He holds her, after, and buries his face against her shoulder, waiting for what always comes.
“Rufus,” she whispers into the dark.
Author: featherxquill
Pairing: Percy Weasley/Rita Skeeter, background Rita/Rufus
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: I'm not in love, so don't forget it. / It's just a silly phase I'm going through.
Warnings: Canon character death
Summary: During the war, Percy begins to realise his mistakes. At a low point, he turns to the only person who won't judge him - Rufus Scrimgeour’s widow.
Author's Notes: Thanks to cranky__crocus for the super-awesome and fast beta job! :D
Percy is able to pretend that everything is fine until the day Rufus Scrimgeour is killed.
One hand fists in her hair, pulls her head back. Moonlight paints her pale throat blue and his lips crush against it. Her voice is a guttural wail; he feels it vibrate through her skin and thinks yes - yes, that is how I feel, too.
Percy likes order. He likes rules. He likes that his pens are sorted by colour and his day is divided into neat blocks of twenty minutes, with time allowed for his morning cup of tea and his lunch. He likes that Minister Scrimgeour is ordered, too. He could set his watch by Minister Scrimgeour, and frequently does - he knows when the Minister will be in the lift with a moment to spare, and he uses that time to pass on important and sometimes sensitive information.
(He knows the Minister appreciates it, because he never comments on Percy’s timing, and always thanks him for the information.)
And so, the day that the Minister is not in the lift, Percy knows there is something very wrong.
Her stockinged foot trails over his calf and her nails score his back. Her breast is in his hand and he presses his mouth down over her nipple and sucks hard enough to bruise. His free hand falls against her lips and she opens her mouth. He pushes his fingers inside and she bites down on them.
The Ministry is chaos after Scrimgeour dies. Of course, their official line is that he resigned, but everyone knows the truth. It takes Percy one conversation with Thicknesse to know the man is Imperiused, and it shows in the administration. Without a proper leader, the Ministry is beset by infighting politicians and Death Eaters fighting for dominance.
(Percy recognises the Imperius this time because he has never forgotten failing Mr Crouch.)
Percy can’t stand the disorganisation and he is increasingly disturbed by what he sees around him. There are Dementors in the Ministry, and the morning that the statue is erected, every Ministry employee is present in the atrium. Percy watches the green-robed transfigurers as they move, working in tandem, wands casting arcs of light. He watches the centaur and the goblin ground to dust and then mutated into ugly shapes that become twisted limbs and distorted faces. By the time they are finished, Percy’s hands are shaking and he thinks he might be ill.
This is not what he believes in. This is not what he signed up for.
He spreads her legs wide, fingers biting into her thighs, and pins one leg with his knee. His fingers against her sex, then, sliding up and down: spreading her there too, then pressing inside. He curls his fingers up in her and she gasps, her leg shaking in his grip. He looks at her face and her mouth is stretched wide but her eyes are tightly closed.
He wonders who she is seeing behind her eyelids.
Percy catches glimpses of his father, sometimes. Another red head in the crowd as he Floos in, walking with eyes forward or head down like everyone else. Despite his misgivings, Percy feels the chasm between them is as wide as ever. Talking to his father now could be dangerous for everyone, and even now Percy remembers the sting of his father’s words. Remebers the implication that no one could promote Percy because of his intelligence and work ethic, that it must be about the Ministry wanting a spy in the family and the Order. It galled Percy that his father, who’d never shown a speck of ambition and had never wanted to be promoted from the job he loved even to provide more for his family, had dared to question Percy’s promotion in such a way. And it hurt that his parents cared more about Dumbledore’s resistance than they did about their son’s happiness.
No. Even if Percy wanted to (and he didn’t), it would be impossible to reconcile with his family now. He does wish he had somebody to talk to, though.
When he fucks her (and Percy knows that is what it is - he holds no illusions about there being love between them, or even affection - they are here only because one agony is better than another) she doesn’t touch him. At other times, her grip is tight, fingernails digging into his arm or scraping down his back, and she certainly isn’t averse to sucking him off - on her knees, most often, with her blouse undone and her tits poking out of her bra, hand around his cock and tongue against his balls, lipstick smeared across her face and his hands fisted in her hair. But when he fucks her - as soon as his cock breaches her - she stops touching. Her hands fist in the duvet or wrap around the headboard. Her back arches and her hips rise to meet his thrusts, blow for blow, but she doesn’t touch him. He grips her hips hard enough to bruise and hopes she does, hopes he marks her, hopes he leaves his fingerprints on her skin. His fingers are slender and the tips are narrow - not like large hands she remembers.
It’s the books in the window of Flourish and Blotts that make him think of her. The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore - who knew she was such a kindred spirit?
Well, Percy has for a while, actually.
Rita Skeeter. Or Mrs Scrimgeour, which was the context he knew her in. When he’d worked for Barty Crouch and seen her at the Triwizard Tournament, he hadn’t understood it - a woman like that, brazen and uncaring, cavalier with the truth, was married to the Deputy Head of Magical Law Enforcement? A man Percy knew by reputation to be methodical, guarded and careful. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t until Scrimgeour was made Minister that Percy came to know him better - to see the Gryffindor temper that railed under the control - and came to recognise that a sharp, political, sometimes manipulative mind was what made him so careful.
Percy knew all about that last one from personal experience.
Christmas was always a difficult time for Percy. Peace and goodwill and happy families, the lumpy gift of an ugly jumper from his mother that arrived on Christmas morning even after Percy had made his feelings clear. I don’t understand you and I never have was what that jumper said to him. And so, Percy was honoured when the Minister came to him in person and invited him to share Christmas lunch at the official residence.
It was the best Christmas lunch Percy had ever spent. Not only was the food fantastic - the House Elves in the Minister’s Residence were even better cooks than the ones at Hogwarts - but the conversation was fascinating. Intelligent, political, witty, without a moment of season-induced sentimentality. And it wasn’t just the Minister, either. Rita Skeeter was sharp and clever. She read social currents while her husband followed the Ministry’s progress on legal and administrative matters. His humour was dry, hers sarcastic. Percy felt like the amateur he was, discussing the world with them, but Rita pulled him into the conversation with the casual deftness of a seasoned reporter; and Rufus, with the skill of an accomplished politician, asked him questions that made him think. Percy wasn’t sure at what point during lunch he noticed just how well they complemented each other, but by the time the meal was over he decided that they were a perfect couple, and he didn’t know how he hadn’t seen that before.
Percy preferred to remember that part of the day to what came after. The Minister said that he felt bad for keeping Percy from his family on Christmas Day, and perhaps they could pay a visit. Percy hadn’t felt that he could refuse. The visit was disastrous, and afterward, the Minister had showcased the Gryffindor temper’s less fiery companion, the self-righteous sulk. As soon as they returned to the Residence, he stomped up the hallway to his private study with some grunted excuse about needing to make a Floo call, and he left Percy feeling a bit betrayed and manipulated, standing awkwardly in the sitting room with Rita.
Rita poured him a drink and invited him to sit down in a way that was somehow gentler but no easier to refuse than her husband’s ‘suggestion’ that they visit his family. So Percy did, sipping the drink even though he felt vaguely nauseous. Rita watched him, and although they had made easy and intelligent conversation over lunch, it hadn’t quite prepared Percy for being alone with her. Her gaze made him feel quite naked. He could see her, weighing him with her journalist’s eyes and taking him apart. She’d had to leave the Prophet when her husband became Minister, and in that moment she looked almost hungry to have a subject again.
She asked him about his family. He told her.
They don’t talk much, not now. Percy has trained himself out of talking - it’s dangerous, now, to do that in the Ministry - and she seems to shy away from it, perhaps because of that hunger he remembers so well. Perhaps she fears knowing too much about what is going on in the Ministry because it would make her want to write about it, and doing that would be a death sentence. Instead, she channels her hunger toward him and his body. She pulls him in deeper with her legs around him, with thighs more powerful than they look. She is like that all over: stronger than she appears. He remembers the time she forced him to his knees and propped her foot up on the coffee table, burying her hands in his hair and pulling his face against her cunt. He tongued her obediently, wrapping one of his hands around her ankle and the other around his cock. The noises she made told him he was doing things right, but when he tried to pull back to look at her she gripped his hair tighter and pulled him so close he couldn’t breathe. When she came that day she left bloody scratches on his shoulder, and for the next three days his shirt rubbed at the skin as he moved, reminding him not to underestimate her strength.
The day the Muggle-Born Registration Commission comes into effect, Percy owls Rita Skeeter. The sight of Muggle-borns cowering before Dolores Umbridge makes him sick to his stomach, guilty for being a part of the organisation that allowed this to happen, and he needs to talk to somebody. Somebody who isn’t a part of this corrupt administration but isn’t family or a member of the Order, either. He knows she is neither.
The owl is carefully worded. He knows she is likely in hiding after her husband’s death - Merlin, he hopes she got out before they took the Minister’s Residence - so any correspondence will be suspect to her. He expresses his condolences - enough to let her know where he stands, since the official line is resignation - and says he would like to pay his respects. He references the conversation he had with her that Christmas Day so she will know it is truly him, and then he sends it off and hopes the owl can find her.
It takes her less than 24 hours to reply. She is living in a flat in Southport. Percy Apparates there when his work day is done.
When she opens the door, she is the same woman he remembers - styled blonde hair and intelligent blue eyes - but she is not wearing makeup. Her clothes are softer, too - a swishy skirt and a pastel blouse. She lets him in without a word.
“You should have asked me a question,” he says, once the door is closed behind him.
“Death Eaters have better things to do than hunt me down,” she replies. “If they’d wanted to silence me, they would have done it already.”
“Why Southport?” he asks.
“My sister lives here. Around the corner. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go, after.”
After her husband was killed. Percy nods. Slips a hand into his pocket, pulls it out again. Shifts on his feet.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry about Min... Rufus.”
“Why should you be sorry?” she asks. “You didn’t kill him.” She turns away from him, crossing the room. “Drink?”
It would be rude to refuse. She pulls a bottle of firewhiskey from a cabinet against the wall, conjures two glasses. She pulls the stopper from the bottle and pauses, peering at the thing in her hand. “Thank you, though.”
When the drinks are poured, he takes a glass from her and they sit. The living area is small but the armchair is comfortable. There is a television in the corner. Percy finds himself thinking that his father would be fascinated by it. “What are you doing with yourself?” he asks her, to banish the thought.
“Freelance. For a Muggle women’s magazine. Keeps me occupied, when I’m not with my sister or my niece and nephew. What about you?” she asks, though when she says it, it doesn’t sound like small talk.
Percy shakes his head. “Just trying to... Just trying... Gods, I can’t stand it. The Ministry, it’s...”
“Percy.” She says his name, sharp and quiet, and he looks up at her. “I really don’t want to hear how it is. I can’t write for the Prophet, I can’t visit Diagon Alley. I can’t bury my husband. I don’t want to feel any more helpless.”
“Right,” Percy says, and suddenly he feels sick again. His cheeks are hot and of course she doesn’t want... Why did he think he could come here and unburden himself on her? Just because she’d asked him questions once before, and he had been able to talk to her.
This was a mistake. He sets his glass down, wipes his suddenly sweaty palms on his trousers. “I should,” he says. “I should go.” He stands, moves toward the door, but suddenly she is there in front of him, blocking his path.
“You remind me of him, you know,” she says.
She kisses him.
When she comes, she is silent. Her thighs shake and her head arches back and she shudders around him, but the only sound she makes is a twisted hitch of breath. He closes his eyes and pounds harder, pushing her further. He can hear the wet slap of his skin against hers, can hear the laboured sound of his own breathing, then his toes clench and his abdomen tightens and he can’t hear anything but the pounding of blood in his ears.
They lay tangled in the dark for a long time, skin pressed together and hearts beating erratically against each other. He holds her, after, and buries his face against her shoulder, waiting for what always comes.
“Rufus,” she whispers into the dark.