This story was my August, 2011 entry for the Daily Deviant comm on Insane Journal. Each month, members are asked to write a fic based on a specified list of kinks. For August, I chose "body writing," and two quill-wielding characters immediately came to mind: Rita and Dolores. You'll note that there's also blood-play involved, because even though blood isn't really my kink, it's definitely Dolores's - - canon says so. As for Rita, well...her life is all about words, one way and another. No matter what the source of "ink."

Takes place during OoP.

Disclaimer: No, I'm not JKR. When she writes about blood-play, she's smart enough to make money from it. I, foolishly, write about it for free.

~ / ~ / ~

"Logos"

By Kelly Chambliss

~ / ~ / ~

"Potter. . .

. . .is mad. . ."

The words form in bold, angular script on the inside of Rita Skeeter's left forearm, and she hisses in pain and satisfaction. At first the letters are pale, mere white scratches against her skin, but as she watches, the outlines fill with the bright red of her own blood.

With the blood comes heat, heat that travels from her arm to her cunt and straight out to the quill resting in her right hand.

"Dot it," orders a breathy voice.

Rita spares the speaker a glance, taking in the disheveled greying curls, the flushed face, the open and panting mouth. Dolores Umbridge, her pink hair bow slipping sideways over one ear, her pink-upholstered bosom heaving, is plucking at her pink tweed skirt, rucking it up over her knees. When she makes a little kittenish mewling sound, Rita grins.

Dolores is getting desperate, and that's just the way Rita wants her.

~ / ~ / ~

She'd been surprised, years ago, to find that she wanted Dolores at all, as anything, let alone as a bed-mate. When they'd first met, early in their careers, Rita had considered Dolores a sort of grotesque joke. She'd been an assistant to an assistant to an under-under-secretary to an under-secretary or something, while Rita had been the rising star reporter at The Daily Prophet.

Yet soon Rita had realised that she did want Dolores - - as an inside source for stories, one of the many Ministry snitches and snouts that any good reporter needs. They'd established an informational quid pro quo, with Dolores feeding Rita what Ministry tidbits she could in return for tip-offs about any upcoming journalistic exposés that might reflect badly on Dolores's bosses.

It hadn't taken Rita long to recognise Dolores as a kindred spirit, a woman admirably ruthless and dedicated primarily to her own advancement. They hadn't trusted one another, of course, but that was all to the good, Rita felt; it kept them from any foolish temptations to friendship or similar weakness.

Sex, when it happened, had been just another layer of their professional relationship. They'd come together after a clandestine meeting in a smoky Muggle pub. The summer evening had been hot, and by the end of it, Dolores had reeked - - of sweat, of ambition. . .and of desire.

It was a heady musk, the same one that pulsed from her now, and Rita had sensed an opportunity - - a sexually-compromised Dolores would be even more useful as a source: she'd owe Rita information in exchange for having her sexual secrets kept.

As for compromising herself, well, Rita wouldn't be. So what if it got around that she was willing to sleep with someone to get a story? Stories could be purchased in all sorts of currencies, and sex was as good a coin as any.

So, after considering the risks and deciding they were few, Rita had leant over and slid her tongue into Dolores's pink mouth. It was a little repulsive, but it was also business.

Dolores, after a moment of stillness, had reciprocated by biting Rita's lip hard enough to draw blood.

Ah. So it was going to be business mixed with pleasure.

That was fine with Rita, because as far as she was concerned, the two were the same. Good story, good orgasm, no difference: both of them gave her the same feeling of fire in her blood and sweetness on the back of her tongue, both of them gave her the same giddy, gasping, clenching sense of total fucking triumph.

When Rita came, when Rita wrote, she was in charge. With the slash of her quill, on parchment, on flesh, she could make the world bleed.

She'd dug her lacquered nails into Dolores's neck and bit back.

~ / ~ / ~

"Dot it!" Dolores demands, more urgently. "And add an underline!"

This time, Rita laughs aloud.

"Not so fast, dearie," she says, lightly touching the "P" on her arm and feeling again the welcome burn. "I'm not the only human parchment in the room. I've shown you mine; now it's time for you to show me yours."

Dolores tries to act as if her deepening flush comes from girlish embarrassment rather than arousal, a pretension that gives Rita a little surge of pleasure. Silly pink cow. She can't see that her little affectations are a weakness, and Rita isn't about to enlighten her.

"Now, now," Rita says, tapping Dolores's knees with her quill. "Don't be shy, Headmistress. Let me see that front-page smile."

Dolores isn't actually the Headmistress of Hogwarts yet, but she's soon going to be, Rita would bet on it - - and she's determined that Dolores will be her own ticket back to success. No more unemployment for Rita Skeeter - - that Granger chit and her blackmail schemes be damned.

Rita feels her gorge rise at the thought of Hermione Granger, but she forces herself toward calmness. She needs a scoop, and Dolores needs good press, and together they can do for each other.

Quid pro quo.

Dolores giggles and hitches her skirt a little higher, then higher still, revealing her thick white thighs. They are fleshy and puckered, but otherwise are gloriously unmarked. . .so far.

So far.

But the night is young, and the blood quills are fresh and sharp, and Rita is - - first, foremost, and always - - a writer.

It's time to make some words.

"Harry Potter is mad, is he?" Rita asks, using the feather tip of her quill to trace delicate whorls on Dolores's skin, fluttering the plume higher and higher on the pristine inner thighs. Dolores wears no knickers, and the scent of her arousal fills the room. "You know that's not enough, Dolores."

"It's not?" Dolores whispers, her little-girl voice sweetly disingenuous.

"No, it's not," Rita replies. She deftly catches a drop of blood from her arm and draws her reddened finger lightly along Dolores's clit. The kittenish giggle changes abruptly to a gasp; Rita hides a smirk as the plump legs open a little wider.

"You see," Rita continues, moving her quill back to the sheet of parchment in front of her. The words "Potter is mad" have already darkened from crimson to burgundy. "I need. . ."

Her quill strokes, loops, and slashes; the word "Proof" appears in glistening red lines on the page.

And on the pale soft skin of Dolores Umbridge's inner thigh.

The gasp becomes a little shriek, and Dolores begins slowly to rock her hips. Rita retraces the word on her parchment, deepening the lines on Dolores's leg until the blood gathers thickly, in gleaming red beads. If blood could be Transfigured into gems, Rita thinks - - rather poetically, if she does say so herself - - the drops would be carnelians. Or garnets.

But blood can't be Transfigured. It's one of Gamp's exceptions, and it pleases Rita to think that she can succeed where magic fails. Magic can't turn blood into jewels, but Rita can write words into life. Hasn't she just turned Dolores's very body into a command? Power visible.

Dolores is breathing heavily. "You want proof?" she asks. "Write it, then."

Rita moves the quill back to the parchment and waits.

"Delusions," Dolores says, her voice ragged with need. "The Potter boy has delusions of grandeur, thinks he's some sort of avenger. He's trying to raise an army. I have witnesses. Write it!" she barks. "Delusions."

"D," Rita writes, etching each stroke with excruciating slowness. She feels her skin part, sees the lines form on her arm, feels her rage at Granger drain out of her along with her own blood. She's almost at peace.

She starts the "e," and her cunt throbs deliciously.

Dolores is practically sobbing as she watches; there is spittle in the corner of her mouth. But she says nothing until the entire word has taken crimson shape.

"Delusions"

"Yes, delusions," Dolores whispers at last, lying back on her bed, her legs spread. "He has delusions. There are witnesses; I'll give you their names. Now fuck me."

Rita has been feeling herself grow more powerful with every movement of her pen, so she doesn't even bother to use her wand as she Transfigures her blood quill into a thick, anatomically-correct dildo.

Quill into cock; what could be more appropriate?

The Word made flesh.

Rita rubs the head of the cock across the new, bright word on her arm.

Then she steps between Dolores's legs and thrusts.

~ ~end