Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/21983.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Cedric_Diggory/Rita_Skeeter
  Character:
      Rita_Skeeter, Cedric_Diggory
  Additional Tags:
      Fetish, Fingernails, Crossgen, Rita_Skeeter_-_character, Cedric_Diggory_-
      character, Community:_erotic_elves
  Stats:
      Published: 2009-11-27 Words: 2359
****** Onychophilia ******
by Musyc
Summary
     Cedric has a liking he can't explain; Rita understands it without any
     explanation.
He'd always had a fondness for an older woman. He'd known it for years - when
he once visited Hannah and caught her mother having her tea at sunrise in
nothing but a soft shirt that barely covered her hips; when Rosmerta's low
voice, velvet with decades of a smoky bar, caught his attention every time he
walked in. It had nothing to do with the tight blond curls that tempted him to
tug on them just to see if they'd bounce in the air, nothing to do with the way
her hair gleamed when she moved in the sunshine. It had nothing to do with the
slight crow's feet at the corners of her eyes, or the deep laugh lines at the
corners of her mouth, marks of a lifetime spent in her own amusements and glee.
That wasn't what had caught his attention.
It was the nails.
Those long, red-painted nails that his housemates mocked quietly, drawing their
fingers up in claws and pretending to scratch out each other's eyes. He grinned
at the shrieks of teasing in the common room, gave amused glances to his
friends when they made taunts about talons, but when he slipped off into the
prefects' bath or shut his bedcurtains at night, he wrapped his hand around his
cock, closed his eyes, and with every stroke pictured those nails dragging down
his cheek, leaving a daintily-welted trail down his chest. The more times he
saw her at the castle, the more Silencing charms he had to cast after curfew,
and weeks before the second task was even scheduled, he was already so
proficient at it that he could cast it both silently and wandlessly.
He'd thought he was handling it well, thought he was dealing with it just fine,
and then she swept into Madame Puddifoot's while he was on a date with Cho, and
he lost track of Cho's conversation almost immediately. When she crowed with
delight at seeing one of the Champions in a - as she almost shouted it -
'romantic, intimate moment to break the tension of peril and hazards', she
reached out and clutched his chin, shaking his head gently. He gasped, jumped,
his knees hitting the underneath of the table and knocking over the sugar bowl,
his trousers tightening quickly enough that he bit his lip to stop a pained
whimper. She looked him full in the face, then, one arched eyebrow lifting, and
her delighted, knowing laugh was still echoing in his ears after she'd left and
Cho was dabbing at the parallel scrapes on his cheek with the soggy corner of a
handkerchief.
It didn't even come as a surprise to him when he got the note three days later,
a note with a date, a time, a location, but no signature. Instead, there was a
smudge of brilliant red at the bottom of the page, a streak on the parchment
that shimmered in candlelight, and that night he held the note pressed to his
upper lip, panting breaths trapped in the crumpled parchment as he dragged his
own short and bitten nails along the underside of his cock.
Deciding whether to go in answer to the note or whether to hide under a desk
for the remainder of the tournament distracted him for the next week, a state
easily - and silently, gratefully - blamed on concentration and work on the
next task. His distraction only elevated when he met Cho in the greenhouse to
repot a Screechsnap and her usual primly-pink nails were a deep and wine-dark
burgundy. Laughing through her explanation of friends, giggles, amusement, and
teasing, Cho didn't notice his widened eyes and rushing breath until he pinned
her against the table and kissed her so hard her teeth knocked against his. She
drew back to slap him with a surprised yelp, rushed out before his cheek could
even turn red.
He sent a note that night. Off the record?
The response was immediate. Yes.
---
He Apparated to a small town in the north of England, outside a pub with the
sign of a bullfrog wearing a waistcoat and spectacles. He slunk inside with the
hood of his cloak up to shadow his face, straight up the side stairs and to a
door halfway down the corridor. When he knocked, his hand was shaking, and the
quiet invitation to enter made his breath catch in his throat. He shut the door
behind him and leaned against it, hands clenched together at the small of his
back. "Off the record, right?" he asked, tipping his head to slide his hood
off.
"Of course, dear. I'm a lot of things, but indiscreet isn't one of them." She
laughed, rising from a chair and moving forward to dangle a small bottle, the
color as red as the blush he knew was on his cheek, in front of his nose. "At
least not on this particular subject. Never reveal your sources or your
playmates, if you want to see them again."
Eyes focused on the polish, on the bare pink sheen of her nails, he swallowed
hard. "Playmate. Um. Miss Skeeter, tha--"
"I think you can call me Rita, dear." She reached behind him, sliding her
fingers across his hip and along his forearm, tapping her nails on his wrist
and tugging his hand forward while he gulped for a breath. She pressed the
bottle into his palm, wrapped his fingers around it, and lifted her hand to
draw the point of one nail under his bottom lip. "Ever done this before?"
He shook his head wildly, unsure of what question she was really asking, but
negative on any of the possibilities. Her laugh stirred the tips of his hair,
and she tapped his nose, smiling, before returning to her chair and sitting
with both hands out, fingers spread. Fingers tightening around the bottle in
his hand, he wet his lips and stared at her until the slight impatient waggle
of her fingers brought him across the room in a barely restrained lunge, his
cloak falling to the floor. He drew a footstool up and sat directly in front of
her, his legs on either side of hers, knees touching knees. He opened the
bottle and drew the tiny brush out slowly, wiping excess color onto the lip
with delicate care, but he was forced to look up at her in confusion when one
hand held the brush, one held the bottle, and he was out of hands to hold her
hand.
She laughed again and ruffled his hair, scratched behind his ear and along his
jawline to make him shiver, before she took the bottle and held it positioned
in easy reach. Her free hand settled in his, palm to palm, the point of her
longest nails just touching the thin, blue-veined skin at his wrist. He
swallowed audibly, his Adam's apple rising and falling in his throat, his
cheeks heating and deepening their red tinge when she smiled and twitched one
fingernail over his arm. Bending over her hand, he drew the brush shakily from
cuticle to tip, starting at her left pinky. The color dried quickly as he
worked, each nail shimmering almost before he'd moved on to the next.
By the time he finished carefully, delicately painting, he was hard, pressed
tight and uncomfortable against his zip. He shifted on the footstool, his legs
rubbing against hers, trying not to obviously rock his hips in an attempt to
get himself into a more comfortable position. Beneath her outstretched hands,
her long nails that hovered over his trembling fingers as he capped the bottle
and set it aside, she moved her feet and slid off her shoes. One foot drew up,
instep resting on the edge of his seat, and he held his breath as she curled
her toes, arched and stretched, and stopped with the ball of her foot resting
firmly against him, her toes pushing at the fabric of his trousers and spread
around the base of his twitching cock.
He froze, jaw trembling and eyes shut tight, the heat of his embarrassed flush
moving down from his cheeks and over his neck, slithering across his shoulders
and chest. "It's quite all right, Cedric," he heard her murmur, and his cock
twitched again when she added the slightest bit of pressure. He squeezed his
eyes even tighter, muttering under his breath something that could have been
apology, could have been nonsense, could have been pleading, but then he heard
the chair squeak and felt one nail draw up his throat and under his jaw to rest
at the point of his chin, and his mutter twisted into a stuttering gasp when
his cock jumped and pulsed and he came.
Scooting back on the stool, he pressed his thighs together and hunched over
himself, staring at the floor as he wished desperately for it to swallow him
whole. Over his head, he heard that same knowing laugh, and his cheeks flared
even hotter, his eyes squeezed shut to stop them from watering. "You are new to
this," she said, and the points of her long nails rested under his chin,
lifting his head. She traced the line of his bottom lip, tapped at the corner
of his mouth. "You know, dear, there's nothing to be embarrassed about.
Certainly not the first young man in my experience to be interested in these."
She fluttered her nails against his cheek and he opened his eyes, looking up to
her smile.
"It's ... it's not normal," he said, blinking rapidly through his humiliation.
"Not supposed to be something a fellow finds a turn-on. Is it?" The question
was hopeful, pleading, without his realizing it, and he watched her eyes
carefully.
She traced the top of his cheekbones, drew around the curve of his ear. "Let me
guess, your friends are more traditional?" Clearing her throat, she dropped the
pitch of her voice, her accent shifting. "No, it's the tits, mate. No, it's the
arse. Gotta be the legs, get those wrapped around you."
Cedric bit his lip at the rather accurate imitation of locker room chat and
late-night dormitory talks. "Well ... yes."
"Not very creative, is it? With all the number of body parts on a woman, from
eyes to hair to breasts to thighs, you have to ask if fingernails are something
that's all right to be aroused by?" She made a soft clucking noise and took his
hands as she stood, tugging him up with her. "If you're not hurting anyone, and
you like it, what's the problem?"
He shook his head, following her movements as she reached to the side table and
took up her wand, blushing again despite himself when she passed the tip over
the front of his trousers and dried the material. "I don't know." He wasn't
even certain he'd spoken aloud.
"You'll learn, when you're a little older, that you'll get much more
satisfaction if you concentrate on your own excitements, rather than what
everyone else tells you that you should think." She examined her nails with a
critical eye, scraped off one knuckle a dot of color where his hand had shook
too much. "Not a bad job," she said, and touched his cheek again, pressing into
his flesh just enough that he could feel the arch of each point and a shudder
rolled down his spine. "You've earned a bit of a reward, I'd say."
She had to stretch up on her toes to wrap her hands around the back of his
head, her lips slightly parted. He took a deep breath, started to kiss her, but
her nails scratched across his nape and he bent to her with a shiver, burying
his face in the curve of her neck and locking his fingers on her hips. She
laughed again, the smallest touch of triumph in her voice, and before he
realized it, she had three buttons on his shirt undone and her hand was against
his chest, her nails tracing down his sternum. The muscles in his abdomen
tightened when she trailed over his stomach, and he hissed softly when she
jerked his shirt free of his trousers and drew the very tip of one nail from
navel to zip.
Cedric's hands tensed and tightened on her waist, blood rushing to his cock
quickly enough to make his head hurt. "Please?" His voice was a mutter and a
desperate request, and she hooked her fingers into his waistband and tugged him
to the bed. His shirt got caught on his elbows, his trousers hooked on his
shoes, but he was flat on his back and she was straddling his thighs with her
nails tracing down his hips, and he barely noticed that or his wand digging
into his calf. There was a long and aching moment of absolute calm, and then
the silence broke with his rough gasp when she dragged her fingers down his
chest and her nails scraped over his nipples.
She played with him, tormented him, traced lines in his skin. Around the curve
of his ribs, into the hollow of his hip, along the tensed muscles in his
abdomen. Scraping and scratching, light touches that he barely sensed, deep
pressure that he could feel leaving welts behind. She teased and promised with
each pointed tip, until he was arching under her and begging, and she stroked
her fingers up the bottom of his cock, ran one nail around the head. She
wrapped one hand around him, placed the other lower and around the base, and
her nails poked and pricked at him from shaft to ridge to scrotum and back
again until he groaned, bucked, and came with a grunt.
Several near-pained spasms and several seconds later, and he was able to gather
his thoughts enough to push up onto his elbows and mutter a fervent and
embarrassed apology as he watched her delicately rub thin, white strands off
her wrist, fingers, and the red of her nails. "Lovely, dear," she murmured,
reaching up to tap him on the nose and scratch under his chin, her smile wide
and pointed. "Just lovely. More?"
"Please."
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