Literatti: Fiction By Deslea
Deslea R. Judd
Pairing: Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Malfoy, Irma Pince/Abraxas Malfoy
Word Count: 2500
Summary: Irma knows exactly why newly-engaged Seventh Years Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black are so willing to help her catalogue the library stacks. They aren't the first young lovers she's spied on, and they won't be the last.
More Fic: On AO3 or my fic site.
Feedback: Love the stuff. On AO3 or at deslea at deslea dot com.
Irma has seen many a deflowering in the Stacks.
It's all of her favourite things wrapped up into one. The vaguely erotic scent of ancient, crumbling books, musty, heavy, like a remnant of sex down the ages. The sound of a girl, drawing in her breath with shock and pleasure as she opens for the very first time. The sight of male hands kneading buttocks, drawing up schoolgirl skirts, drawing them away and girlhood as well.
Irma's own first time was in these very stacks, and it was a good one. She supposes that's why it's stayed with her, this need to witness again and again. Reliving youth and exhilaration and becoming a woman. It makes her feel young, and youth has left her far behind.
They don't think of it like that anymore, becoming a woman. For Irma, it was different; it was the first desire that was fully her own and chosen on her own, without reference to anyone else. It was a rite of passage in a million ways. It doesn't seem so much like that now.
Narcissa Black is different, though. She is of ancient stock, and her family still hold to the old ways. She has scrupulously guarded her virginity for the asset that it is. With her betrothal, there is permission but not requirement. It is the one period in her regimented life where her body is truly a gift freely given.
Lucius Malfoy is of ancient stock, too, and there are rules that he is expected to follow, just as Irma watched his father do before him. The Malfoys are sensual and practical, and this is borne out in the initiation of their brides. He is expected to use this time to coach her and coax her, to slowly demolish the barriers indoctrinated into her throughout her girlhood. If he does not, the same self-discipline and reticence that has preserved her for him will soon become a liability. Many a Pureblood girl has come to her marriage bed unable to bear her husband's attentions, so conditioned to fear and reject them that even with social permission, she cannot bring herself to accept them. That has not, in living memory, happened to a Malfoy bride. Narcissa has chosen well.
Irma has never sought out a couple before. There has never been a need. There has been no shortage of furtive couples to "help" her down the years, and she has sent them off to many a far-flung corner of the library, with only enough cataloguing to fill half their break. Not surprisingly, they stay, and she has catalogued more of the ancient stacks than the last century of librarians before her combined. Not insignificantly, her bonuses have crept up steadily as well.
But this last decade has been one of liberation. Girls initiating and leading, one different boy after another. No hesitation, no sense of gravity. Irma doesn't think badly of them, and even envies them. But she misses the anticipation and the gradual breaking down of walls. She misses it badly.
So when Lucius and Narcissa announced their engagement, she had asked them to be library monitors, offering a steady stream of House Points and stressing that they could work together in the stacks. Two young sets of eyes had gleamed before her; two breaths caught, and two glances were exchanged. Mission accomplished.
They haven't disappointed her.
It has been deliciously slow. Slow enough to leave her aching as she watches them, sometimes Disillusioned, sometimes as the library cat (but she has to watch out for Minerva, who can tell a cat from an Animagus, damn her). Being a cat is safer, but it doesn't feel the same - no clit, for one thing - so more often she is herself.
She doesn't touch herself until later. Her explanation, if caught, is that she suspected them of no good, and that won't fly if her hands are in her knickers, moving frantically the way she wants them. But oh, how she wants to. She hasn't felt so alive in years.
Her suspicions were confirmed the very first day. They had stolen a deep, heady kiss in the stacks, and Lucius had casually allowed his hands to brush down over the sides of her breasts, so quick and fast that it was over before it began. Narcissa had hitched her breath like he'd touched her clit, nipples instantly hard and pressing against the thin silk of her blouse, and Irma had allowed a triumphant smile to capture her lips. She'd been right, oh, so right to seek them out.
He'd made her wait a couple of days after that. In between, he'd run his hands up her waist to just shy of her sideswell, or down over her arms instead, until Narcissa clenched her fingers around his shoulders and pressed her breasts against him in frustration. Irma had smirked at that; Lucius had, too. The next day, he had rewarded her with a firm, lingering touch of his palms beneath her arms, pressing there as he kissed her, long and deep and slow. Narcissa had squirmed there beneath his touch, twisting, trying to bring her nipples in contact with his palms. He'd drawn his hands away to plunge them into her hair, leaving Narcissa whimpering.
Irma had whimpered too, breasts aching, her nipples as firm and insistent beneath her shirt as Narcissa's. That night she had gone to Professor Willett and let him take her on the Potions lab floor. She hadn't done that - Willett or the floor - in years.
There had been another week of these hits-and-misses until him stroking the sides of her breasts and brushing her nipples finally became a regular thing. Towards the end of that week, he started touching her bottom, too. Hands on her hips gradually drifted lower, gripping became kneading, kneading became working her open and closed through her skirt. He resolutely ignored her pushing her bottom back into his hands for aching, tantalising days until Narcissa growled out, "Please!" into his mouth. He rewarded her, cupping her and pulling her hard against him, grinding his hips against hers, cock pressing into her flesh through layers of fabric. Irma had lit the room carefully, and she could see it straining against his trousers as he dragged her close.
Next had been kneading and rolling her nipples through her silk blouse. Then his hands up her skirt, kneading her through her knickers. It has been long, torturous work. More than once, Irma has seen Lucius make an excuse to go off in a different direction after these petting sessions, and flee, sweating, his hand already straying to his belt. One of those times, she was in cat form, and she followed him, into the nearest alcove, watching eagerly as he released his straining erection from his pants. To her cat's eyes, it was enormous, erupting in his hand, and she had replayed it in her mind over and over.
Afterwards, Lucius had cocked an eyebrow at her.
"I've seen you watching, cat. You're quite the sneaky little voyeur, aren't you?" He leaned down and scratched behind her ear. "You should be in Slytherin."
He wandered off, whistling, and Irma, who had been in Slytherin, preened herself for an hour after.
"You know what he'll do next, don't you?"
Abraxas Malfoy asked this that evening over a glass of Firewhiskey, their first since the night before his wedding to Lucius' mother. That had been an arrangement, not a love match, and his father had died two years earlier. As a young librarian, Irma had found Abraxas distressed in the library, not much younger than her, and in a moment of weakness, he had unburdened himself. He knew what to do, but not how to do it. Irma had told him, and so Dorothea Malfoy had been initiated like every Malfoy bride before her, under Irma's careful coaching and supervision.
Abraxas knows she watches. He's the only one who ever did. As soon as he'd learned Lucius and Narcissa were working in the library, he had put together why. Her initial fears for the consequences were unfounded; he sought only verification that Lucius was doing what he was meant to do. The rest of the night unfolded in companionable conversation, as though they were old friends.
She supposed, in a way, that they were.
"Pardon?" Irma said now. She was standing by the table with a decanter in her hand.
Abraxas rose and came up to stand with her. Took the decanter and set it down beside her. "I said, you know what he'll do next?"
Her heart skipped a beat as she understood. Skipped again as she turned it over in her mind. She had never laid a hand on a student, never would, but that was decades ago. Now he was a middle-aged man and she was older than that.
"He...he'll lay her down," she choked out when she found her voice. "He'll lay her down on the table."
"Yes," Abraxas murmured. Easing her back. "Easier to get her clothes out of the way." Slowly, leisurely, he ground himself against her, friction and movement dragging up her dress as though by accident. "You taught me that."
"You," she gasped between deep, heady kisses, "you were a good learner."
"I wanted you to want me, all those times you watched. I imagined doing it to you." He was grinding against her through the thin fabric of her knickers now, drenched silk cupping swollen flesh. Pressing deep into her and rotating her clit with his hips, his cock. Kneading hard on her breasts, bunching fabric with his hands until her shirt came open, pretending not to notice as his hands fell on naked flesh. She pressed her breasts up into his hands, moaning, pressed them up towards his mouth as she spread her legs wide.
Abraxas chuckled. "He'll make her wait. He'll make her wait until she wants it so much that even the old rules don't matter anymore. He'll make her whimper and he'll make her beg. He'll drive her crazy and he won't give her what she wants until there's nothing in the world for her but here." He ground hard into her as she twisted and squirmed, gasping out his name.
"I'm already there," she whimpered. "Just fuck me!"
"When he does," Abraxas growled, and then he touched her through her clothes until she came, harder than she could do on her own, but not enough. Nowhere near enough.
He left her there, still pounding with desire and need.
It takes many, many weeks. Where once she revelled in the anticipation, now she longs for completion. Longs to feel Abraxas inside her at last.
There is the week of Lucius working up to opening Narcissa's shirt and grinding against her knickers. The week of sucking her nipples through her bra, which starts the week as full-cup silk and ends it in a lacy balconette so that they're skin to skin. Irma does the same, and tells Abraxas in luxurious detail. There's the week of dragging her knickers between her nether lips, and grinding it into her, hard on her clit until she climaxes for the first time. There's the first time Narcissa opens Lucius' shirt, and Irma celebrates by removing Abraxas'.
The girl's reserves are crumbling. It won't be long before she opens his trousers. That step, she must do herself. No contrived accidents will do. It is the only way she will own the choice.
Irma has long since opened Abraxas' trousers, but he won't go further until Narcissa does the same, damn him. There is a lively spark in his eyes that she hasn't seen before, and she wonders if he's ever had it before at all.
Perhaps she isn't the only one who needs to feel young.
Finally, the girl does it, with a cry of frustration and need, and Irma launches herself at Abraxas with the same cry that evening. He still won't take her, but he gets her off with his mouth and lets her do the same for him.
It picks up pace after that, thank Circe. Lucius makes Narcissa come with his hands and his mouth. Explores her body, raining kisses over her everywhere. When Abraxas does the same, surprisingly tender, it's the highlight of Irma's life so far.
She hopes it will soon be bettered, though.
Then one day it happens. Lucius drags his cock back and forth over Narcissa's clit, again and again. Irma has broken her own rule and her fingers are deep inside her. When his gleaming cockhead slips into her, just a little, Narcissa arches with a gasp, and strains into him, and Irma comes hard, hard and wet, knickers soaking, fluid streaming down her thighs. He does it again, and again, and finally thrusts all the way into her. Narcissa's whimpering cries of pleasure ring in Irma's ears.
She wonders, as she waits impatiently for Abraxas that evening, if their first time will also be their last
"Thank Circe," he growls, plunging into her, so deep and hard and full that she jolts with the shock and pleasure of it.
He takes her every which way that night. First on the table, then, unable to even wait to get to the bed, roughly bent over the armchair, her face deep in the cushions. Then standing against the wardrobe. Then, softly and slowly in the bed, kissing her with the tenderness of lovers.
He kisses her like Lucius kisses Narcissa.
"I have to go," he murmurs into her hair when they're done. "Dorothea keeps tabs on me." He adds dryly, "She wouldn't mind if I was with another woman, but she'd really hate to think I was enjoying myself."
"Of course," she says. She feels a cold, creeping sense of loss, and quells it.
He is awkward, putting his clothes on. They've never been awkward together.
"Don't, Brax," she says dully. "You have your life. I have mine. It's all right."
He looks away. "Of course. All right." Then, after a moment, he stops short and stares at her. "Wait. You think I want this to end?"
It's Irma's turn to stare. "Don't you?"
His shoulders slump. Suddenly he looks very vulnerable.
"I want to come back."
She lets out her held breath. Suddenly trembling. She nods.
"Please," she whispers. Halting.
He stares at her, breathing hard, and then he strides over to her and bends and captures her mouth in a kiss.
Irma likes to watch. That hasn't changed.
She doesn't do it to feel young anymore, though. Getting older is even better.
Abraxas taught her that.