featherxquill: (Rita Makani art)
[personal profile] featherxquill
Title: Said the Spider to the Fly
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sirius Black/Rita Skeeter
Summary: Kicked out of the house by a best mate who's about to propose, Sirius heads to the Leaky fully intending to drown his frustration in a of pint of beer, but the blonde woman across the bar seems like a much better outlet for it.
Author's notes: Many thanks to my fabulous beta, [livejournal.com profile] an_fhanai. Written for [livejournal.com profile] chibitoaster in the [livejournal.com profile] smutty_claus exchange.

Sirius was starting to wonder if every man lost his mind once a woman got hold of him, or if it was just James.

“You can make yourself scarce tonight, can’t you, Padfoot?” he'd said, barely half an hour ago. He’d been jamming a bottle of champagne into a cauldron full of ice at the time, and Sirius had been too busy thinking how tacky it looked to answer. “Big night, if you know what I mean.” He'd winked, carried the cauldron out to a table set for two, then come back into the kitchen to slide his hands into bright yellow oven mitts.

“Padfoot?” he’d said, at which point Sirius had realised he was staring.

“I... Right, yeah. Sure. Making myself scarce. Can I come back before tomorrow morning?”

“Of course,” James had said, squatting in front of the oven and pulling the door open enough to poke his arm in. “But not before midnight, eh? We’ll probably be busy.” He'd turned his head long enough to twitch both eyebrows suggestively.

“Right. Not before midnight. Have a good one, then, mate.” And before he could spend any more time contemplating the spectacle of his best friend talking about nailing his girlfriend while he poked around the oven in ridiculous yellow mittens, Sirius had left.

And so he found himself scowling into a pint of bitter at the Leaky Cauldron. He wasn’t even sure why he was so mad. So what if he’d been kicked out of the flat for hours? He’d done the same to James. So what if Prongs would rather spend a night in with his girlfriend than go out? So what if he’d started to prefer roast beef and champagne over baked beans on toast? So what if he was going to propose tonight, move out in a month, and pop out a few sprogs? So what if he was moving on, growing up, and leaving Sirius behind?

So what?

Sirius slapped his pint glass back onto the bar. It seemed to be empty. How on earth had that happened? He ordered another.

And saw her sitting across the bar.

She wasn’t the kind of woman who was easily forgettable. Blonde hair all in ringlets and a red dragonskin jacket, zipped down far enough to display some smashing cleavage. As he watched her, scarlet lips puckered around a straw as she took a sip of her cocktail, and she idly flipped the page of a battered Daily Prophet, lifting her eyes to scan the bar before she returned her attention to the paper.

Sirius didn’t know her name, but he felt a burn of irritation at the sight of her.

He’d been fifteen when he met her at the Three Broomsticks, sick of Remus and Peter and their obsessive OWL study. Their dire predictions of doom-filled exam papers had even managed to get James hitting the books, and they'd begun to start on him. Bunch of old women. So Sirius had nicked James’ cloak and slipped into Hogsmeade, where Madam Rosmerta was always willing to sell a drink to a boy clever enough to slip out of Hogwarts, whatever his age (just the one, mind you, for audacity). He’d smile at her, and wink, and toss his hair back, and she’d say oh go on then, and pour him another, but this is the last.

The blonde woman was about the same age as Rosie—about ten years older than him, far as he could tell—and they'd seemed to know one another, because when Rosie poured her a drink she'd leaned across the bar and whispered something in the other woman’s ear, and they'd both laughed. The blonde one had turned, looked him up and down, and smiled in a way that said come here.

Sirius had. Fifteen years old and his cock prone to jumping at any opportunity, and even if he hadn’t wanted to move along the bar, it would have led him there. Taking his drink with him, he'd sidled up to her.

“Isn’t it past your bedtime, sweetheart?” was the first thing she'd said. Her eyes had roamed again, examining him in close up, and he'd taken a moment to return the favour. She had fantastic tits and a very round arse, tapered in nicely at the waist. Square jaw, delicate nose, high forehead, all perfectly powdered. One pencilled brow had twitched up as he watched.

He wouldn’t have called her pretty, but the way she'd moved and flashed him a little more cleavage, and the look in her eyes, were pure sex. Besides, he’d always had a thing for older women.

“I don’t have a bedtime,” he'd told her, winking. “I stay up all night long.”

She'd laughed, head going back and white throat exposed, and it was a reward for his audacity the same as Rosie’s drinks were. They'd spoken—about what, Sirius could not remember, but whatever it was, it had been punctuated by flirtation, her fingertips over the back of his hand, the light scrape of long nails on his skin. She'd leaned forward to show him her breasts, crossed her legs in a way that made robe slip open over thigh. He'd lied about his age, saying Sixteen but meaning Legal; made sure to say it when Rosie was out of earshot. Eventually, he’d suggested they get out of there, go someplace else.

“Where?” she’d asked, eyebrow arching. “To your dormitory at Hogwarts?” He’d lifted his chin, tossed his hair, told her he was a Black and could afford whatever she wanted, and she’d laughed again, this time at him rather than his audacity, and told him he looked like his cousin when he did that.

She’d leaned in so close he could smell her musky perfume, and whispered in his ear, breath hot and damp. “The truth is, I’m just not that interested in schoolboys.”

And with that, she’d set her empty glass on the bar, risen, and left.

Sirius had fisted himself furiously under his sheets that night, and he’d hated her vehemently for a week, obscurely for a month. He’d remember her for at least a year, half-expecting every subsequent girl he chatted up to cut him dead. When James and Remus and Peter had taken him to the Three Broomsticks on his seventeenth birthday, Rosie had poured him his first legal pint with a smirk in her eyes. By that point he’d nearly forgotten the blonde bitch, but one amused glance from a barmaid and he’d wished the woman had been there right then, for the chance to force her into a corner and show her exactly what she’d missed.

Draining his second pint and thinking over second chances, he watched her; so relaxed, so nonchalant. He wondered if she was still leading young boys on and then leaving them to walk home stiff-legged while she flounced off with a laugh.

He ordered another beer. As it was placed before him and he reached into his pocket to fish out a few coins, he felt some animal sense prickle the back of his neck. When he turned his head, he caught her looking at him. Staring over the tops of glasses he was sure she hadn’t had the last time. She didn’t look away when his eyes met hers, but held his gaze. Her face was expressionless, and for a few brief moments Sirius felt as though they were locked together in an embrace that traversed the geography of the room.

Then she smirked and returned her gaze to the paper, and left fire burning in his fingers. Bitch. Smug bitch. That smile left no doubt in his mind that she remembered him. Remembered him as a fucking joke, most likely.

He wanted to trap her. Trap her here with him like he was trapped here with her. Nowhere else to go, since he’d been kicked out of the flat. Plenty of other bars, of course, but why should he leave? Why should he slink out the door like an embarrassed little schoolboy? Why should he be chased away by women who wanted to mock him or marry his best friend?

His pride carried him over to her like his cock had done the first time. She jumped when he slapped his pint glass down onto her table.

Waiting for someone?” he asked, voice almost a growl, slipping into the chair opposite her.

She recovered from her surprise quickly, lifting her swishing cocktail from the table and taking a sip from the straw. “Oh, waiting for you, obviously.”

She looked different than she had four years ago. Harder, if that was possible. More polished, but there were very fine lines around her eyes. Sirius wondered why it was that she'd created the façade.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

She looked down at the newspaper again, licked her index finger, then leafed back a few pages. Folding the newspaper in half, she turned it around to face him and pushed it across the table. One red fingernail pointed to the byline of an article titled EXCLUSIVE: DEATHEATERS INSIDE OUR MINISTRY? Rita Skeeter reports.

Sirius snorted. “Rita Skeeter. You like playing with fire, don’t you?”

She leaned her forearms against the table, watching him steadily. “Oh yes.”

“You’re a fucking bitch, you know that?”


“Do you have any idea how many months I- Wait, what?”

“Yes, I am a bitch, and I do know that.” Her lips curled into a smile, which suggested to Sirius that she was rather pleased with herself for it as well.

He wrapped his hands around his pint glass with no idea what to say. What exactly did one say to something like that? Silence stretched, heavy and taut, between them. Rita leaned back in her chair, toying with the string of black beads around her throat, tugging at the collar of her jacket in a way that revealed an expanse of pale flesh. Sirius took a gulp of his beer.

He hated how collected she was, brazen and uncaring. Bloody Slytherin, most likely. They were all like that, closed and cool. His parents were like that, his brother was like that. Even Andromeda, with whom he'd always been friendly, was hard to ruffle and harder to understand. The only one of his family he'd ever been able to rile up was Bellatrix. Sirius glanced down at the headline in the paper, back up at Rita. Wanted to see if she rattled like Bella did. This woman might have been sex on stilettos, but nothing would turn him off faster than someone who shared the views of his family.

“You knew my cousin,” he said, firing the words like an accusation. “How?”

“We shared a dorm for seven years,” she replied. “We were friends for five of them.”

“Only five?”

“Yes. Her opinion of me changed when I decided to use my brain.”

Sirius felt his eyebrows lift. “A Slytherin with a brain? How novel.”

“A Gryffindor with a meow? How cliché.”

He leaned forward. “Are you going to lead me on and cut me dead tonight?”

She matched him, face to face. Her breath was warm and it smelled of the sugary cocktail she’d been drinking. “Are you going to slink away when I insult your manhood, this time? Or are you going to follow me and prove me wrong?”

The moment hung. Sirius felt his heart beating hard in his chest. He stared at her, with her eyebrow lifted ever so slightly and her lips in the barest hint of a smirk, and oh. Oh, Merlin, had he...? Had she expected him to follow the first time? Had it been some sort of test that he’d failed? Had she waited for him outside the pub, that night, while he'd sat and stared at the place she’d been, painfully aware of Rosie laughing behind the beer taps? Fuck. Merlin buggering fuck. Why did women play games like this?

Gods, his fifteen-year-old self was an idiot, and the memory of him was fogging Sirius’ vision. Ever since he’d started to lose his puppy fat and turn into someone worth looking at, people had been calling him an arrogant brat, and he had been. Still was, and he usually got away with it. But this woman bewildered him, facing down his arrogance with quiet amusement, not cold enough to be familiar like dealing with his family, nor warm enough for banter like with his mates. Toying with him. Clearly, that's what she'd been doing the last time they'd met, but was she still doing it now?

Abruptly, she pushed herself back, lifted her cocktail glass and drained its contents. She set it back down with a slap, pushed her chair back and stood. “I’m going to the loo,” she said, as if making a declaration.

She disappeared round the bar, headed for the door marked ‘Witches’. He watched her arse sway under her skirt as she went. Sirius drummed his fingers against the newspaper, glanced at the headline again and her name printed neatly below it. "Are you going to slink away, or follow me?" "Make yourself scarce for a while, mate? Big night, if you know what I mean."

Sirius shoved his chair back. No. No, he damn well wasn’t going to slink away this time.

The door of the Ladies slammed against the tiles when he pushed it open.

She was standing in front of the mirror, leaning forward slightly, reapplying scarlet lipstick in tiny strokes. She glanced sideways at him as the door closed behind him, pressing her lips together and rubbing them against each other. Her mouth made a popping sound when she opened it again.

“Ah, so you have grown up this time. Lock the door, will you?”

“No,” he replied, all low and growly. “You’re just going to have to be quiet.” And before she could react, either to leave or pull her wand and lock it herself, he moved forward, catching her wrist and pinning it against the vanity.

They stared at each other for a moment, neither moving. Rita’s mouth curved into the tiniest suggestion of amusement. Sirius was powerfully aware that the door could swing open at any time, but he wasn’t prepared to throw her over his shoulder like a Neanderthal. Smiling, he stepped into her space, forcing her to move backward or lose her balance. Again, and again, and they danced their way across the bathroom in awkward steps until he’d backed her into the closest cubicle. That door he did lock behind him, feeling it out with his hands behind his back, not breaking eye contact with her as he slid the bolt home.

Then he lifted his arms and pressed one hand to either side of the cubicle, leaning in. She was only inches away from him. He towered over her. Now he had her. She was still as a statue, staring up at him with wide, curious eyes. He could feel the heat in his own gaze and smell the animal scent of anticipation—excitement tinged with a tiny thrill of fear—coming off her in waves. He devoured the sight of her throat pulsing and breasts heaving. She reached up to her chest, caught the ring-pull of her jacket zipper with her fingernail and pulled. The sound of it opening was almost deafening in the silence.

Sirius found his chest was heaving as hard as hers was. There was nothing under the jacket but her bra, and that was made of flimsy black mesh that he could see straight through. She laughed, deep and sultry, and he lunged at her and shoved her against the wall.

His hands were all over her, then, sliding around to cup her arse and tugging roughly at the fabric of her bra, pulling the cups down to expose her breasts and pinching her hardening nipples. He wanted to devour her, taste her and smell her and fuck the living daylights out of her. The force of his own desire shocked him. He wasn’t afraid of it—he wasn’t afraid of anything—but it was intense. Humiliation made him want to prove himself. Strength and power made his head spin. He buried his face against her neck, dragging his tongue up her throat, and she made a little growling noise that vibrated against his mouth.

Tugging her skirt up, fabric bunching in his fist, her hands pulling at his clothes, nails poking him as she tried to unbutton his shirt. He caught her wrists, wrenched her hands above her head and pinned them to the wall. Her eyes were full of fire. He didn’t speak, but there was a smirk on his lips as he lifted her arms higher and stretched her taut, holding her so that her toes were only just touching the floor. With her arms like that, her breasts jutted out even further, held pert and high by the bra that still clung beneath them. He wanted to taste them, to suck and bite, but he wouldn’t relinquish her hands to lower his head. Instead, he slid his leg between hers, pressing forward until his knee touched the wall behind them and he could feel her pubic bone hard against his thigh. He rocked against her and was rewarded by her little hitch of breath.

Then she lifted a leg, wrapped it around him and pulled him against her hard enough that he gasped. His cock pressed almost painfully against her thigh, and the only way to relieve the pressure was to move. Oh, but when he moved-

Fuck, that was good. He shifted and it wasn’t his thigh against her pubic bone but his cock, and fuck, he lifted her higher and ground against her and she pulled him close and rocked her hips into his. Again and again and again and again and his eyes were closed, but they flew open when she laughed.

Her voice was breathless and her glasses crooked and some of her curls had tumbled into her face, but she still smirked like she’d been born with that look on her face. “Are you going to come in your pants like a schoolboy, then, or are you going to fuck me?”

His cheeks went hot with embarrassment and fury. “Bitch,” he snarled.

Yes,” she breathed, like he’d just whispered an endearment.

He tore himself away from her and spun her round so fast that she barely had time to catch the wall before he flattened her against it. He pressed himself up against her back, leaning down to breath in the smell of her hair, to nip at her ear. Her fingers were splayed against the wall, trembling in their effort to hold her face away from its surface with his weight pressed against her.

“Oh, I’m going to fuck you,” he whispered. “I’m going to fuck you so hard that you’ll have to bite your tongue so you don’t scream.” He stilled, listened for a moment to the jagged sound of her breathing. Then he slipped his arms around her, one hand sliding up to grab hold of her breast and twist her nipple while the other hiked her skirt up even further, sliding his hand roughly between her legs and pulling her back away from the wall. He kicked her legs apart, let her teeter on her heels for a moment before he steadied her. His finger caught the hem of her knickers and pulled them aside.

She was wet and ready for him. He cupped her mound, pulled her back against him, and plunged a finger into her. She let out a breathless gasp, rocking against his hand as he twisted her nipple even harder. He felt his hand slick up with her wetness, ground the heel of his palm against her, pressing his cock into the ridge of her backside and squeezing his eyes shut for a moment lest his arousal blind him.

He couldn’t stand it anymore. Had to be inside her. He slid his fingers out of her and fumbled for her skirt, yanking it up to her waist, exposing her pale, round arse half covered in the lacy black knickers he’d pulled aside. Suspenders stretched taut over her skin, holding up her stockings with little metal clasps, and fuck, he’d never seen a woman in suspenders before. It was the hottest thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

It seemed to take him an age to unbuckle his belt; his fingers were shaking with the force of his need. Finally, he freed himself from his pants, wrapped his hand around his cock and squeezed the head. A few seconds of blessed relief.

“Gods, hurry up,” Rita hissed, fingernails scraping at the wall. “Hurry up and fuck me.”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. Pulling her even further back from the wall, he covered her arse with his hands, spread her wide, and pressed the head of his cock into her cunt. Then, gripping her hips, he plunged in, immediately beginning a steady, punishing rhythm.

Oh, fuck, she was so hot and tight and she was making the most delicious noises, whimpers and little hisses of breath, pressing back against him in time with his thrusts. He looked down and he could see himself pumping in and out of her, could hear the slick wet slap of skin against skin and see her cunt spread wide by him and flushing red from the blows of his pelvis, and fuck, fuck, fuck.

The door of the ladies thudded open.

Sirius froze. Rita’s fingers went white around the nails as she pressed them hard against the wall. Both of them caught their breaths. The click of high heels sounded on the tiles and the door of a nearby cubicle snicked closed.

Sirius’ hands tightened on Rita’s hips, he let his breath in and out in a ragged stream, drawing a new one as quietly as he could. Rita turned her head, and there were curls in her face but he could see her nose and mouth in profile. Her legs trembled. She mouthed the words ‘don’t stop’.

Fuck, how could he keep going without breathing? How could he stay still without dying? Slowly, slowly, he began to move again, holding her steady, trying not to make a sound. The slow friction was nearly unbearable. Rita made a fist of one hand and shoved it against her mouth, pressing her hips gently back against his, clenching tight around him. Sirius gasped, and Rita’s back shook with silent laughter.

Bitch! he thought, but couldn’t help the sly smile curling at his lips. He pulled his hips back and slammed into her again, and she gave a strangled, muffled moan against her hand. Sirius prayed that the intruder hadn’t heard it over the sound of pissing.

The stream stopped, the toilet roll rumbled, and Sirius was moving very slowly once again, leaning forward over Rita and slipping one hand down to rub at her clit. Her thighs shook and her nails went click as she flung her hand back up to the wall.

The stall unlocked and there were more footsteps. Sirius allowed himself a quiet growl under the cover of running tap water, then there was a seemingly endless moment of silence in which the woman fixed her hair, or reapplied her lipstick, or whatever the fuck else women did in the loo that took so long. Then finally, finally the heels were walking away, the door swung open and there was a burst of pub noise before it closed again and left them alone.

Fuck,” Sirius hissed.

“Your idea,” Rita replied.

Bitch,” he swore again, just because he felt like it.

Still flicking her clit, he increased his speed again, pounding minutes of pent up energy savagely into her. Her moans were coming louder now, but he wanted more. With a growl, he reached down and grabbed one of her thighs, cupping it in his hand and yanking it up, and fuck, he went so deep like this.

He snarled, burying his face against her shoulder and pounding harder, faster, plundering her heat. His fingers gripped her thigh like pincers. He closed his eyes, blinded by pleasure, by the crazed, animal need in his blood. Her ankle gave way and he supported her entire weight for a moment until she found purchase again, but he didn’t let up, didn’t relent. She wanted this, she’d asked for it, and she could damn well take everything he was giving her.

Take it, take it, take it....”

Yes, yes, yes...


And then she was quaking, crying out and thundering off into orgasm, and she clenched around him so tightly that his head flew back and all he saw was white. He followed, stilling completely for a moment and then moving and moving and moving and moving and emptying himself into her, vision nothing but a pale blur of oblivion.

Then he was empty, nothing but a shell, collapsing against her and flattening her against the wall, barely giving her time to fling up a forearm to catch her head. He had the presence of mind to wrap one hand around her waist and press the other against the wall, holding her up on her stilettos and stopping her from taking all his weight

Hot. He was hot, and sticky, his clothes clinging to damp skin. His legs were shaking, jelly, but he didn’t move.

Slowly, slowly, his strength returned, breath slowing to some semblance of normality, and he chuckled and pulled her tight against him. “Man enough for you?” he rasped.

Her answering laugh was breathless and tired, but she was seemingly unable to resist a quip. “Passable,” she replied.

He laughed fully, then, releasing her as he stepped back, flicking the hair out of his face. She turned and he noticed her knees were still shaking. She leaned back against the wall and righted her glasses and tucked herself back into her bra. She watched him as she re-zipped her jacket by feel, then stood properly and fixed her knickers and skirt. He watched her right back as he tucked himself back into his trousers and re-buckled his belt.

She took a step toward the door of the cubicle, but he reached out and blocked her path with an arm.

“Wait,” he said. Her fingers frozen on the lock, she looked up at him with one eyebrow arched. He felt like a schoolboy again, but he shook it off, giving her his best cheeky grin before asking, “Will I see you again?”

She glanced pointedly at his hand. He moved it. She unlocked the door, but turned back to him, leaning up on tiptoes to press a kiss against his lips. Then she smiled, leaned in close and whispered, “I don’t think so.”

And with that, she crouched down, picked up her handbag, and left.

Sirius stood there for a few minutes inside the open cubicle. He had no idea what to do, no idea what to think. Bitch was an appropriate word, but he'd thought and said it so many times now that it didn’t feel strong enough anymore. He felt hollow, first from that powerful orgasm, then from being cut dead by her for the second time in his life.

Eventually, he re-emerged to the bar, checking himself in the mirror and then pausing at the entrance to the Ladies before he slipped back into the pub. Numbly, he ordered another pint, although what he really wanted to do was go home. But it wasn’t midnight yet, and the last thing he wanted to do was walk in on James and his new fiancé fucking on the sofa.

The pint was poured, he paid for it. He glanced at the table Rita had been at earlier, now occupied by someone else. The copy of the Prophet had been carelessly discarded onto a nearby seat. He crossed the room, picked it up and tossed it onto the bar in front of him. It was still open to the page they’d left it at. Her name smirked up at him. He glared at it.

Then he heard her voice again, inside his head. Are you going to slink away when I insult your manhood, this time? Or are you going to follow me and prove me wrong?

Sirius stared at her name for a long time. His lips curved slowly into a smile. Flicking to the front of the paper, he tore out the page that contained the address of its offices.

He wondered what the loos at the Prophet were like.

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