|Beth H (bethbethbeth) wrote in hp_beholder,|
@ 2010-05-08 12:23:00
|Entry tags:||beholder_2010, femslash, fic, irma pince, rating: nc17, rita skeeter, skeeter/pince|
FIC: "The Madmen, the Scarecrow and the Milkmaid" for featherxquill
Title: The Madmen, the Scarecrow and the Milkmaid
Pairings: Rita Skeeter/Irma Pince; Aunt Muriel/Mr. Ollivander/Xenophilius Lovegood (mentioned)
Word Count: 2811
Warnings: The rating is the primary warning.
Summary: Irma spends a day of her holiday in one of her favourite bookshops. Irma had established that she was weary of other patrons.
Author's/Artist's Notes: I apologise for only offering a brief mention of one of your requested pairings; if I ever get the hang of the characters I will make haste in sending you another story! I hope you enjoy it.
Dust speckled the light streaming through the windows of the store. It was generally a quiet corner store, mostly underground beneath a pub of regulars. Shelves lined the low-ceilinged room; the spines that protruded spoke of age but also appreciation.
It was a home of sorts for one Irma Pince, a voracious connoisseur of elderly books. In her opinion, they required meticulous care and endless love—it was only then that they whispered their stories without tears or slackened spines. She did value a properly-bound book able to flip through the ages like any aged soldier.
Oh, yes, elderly books were just to her liking.
Elderly witches, she decided as she closed the old Muggle book, were not.
“You call this a bargain? My dear—” Irma noticed that the tone of ‘dear’ sounded similar to ‘impudent hag’ “—I could find this book down the road for one third of the price.”
“I find you’re missing the point,” the shopkeeper admonished over his spectacles. “’Down the road’ you would not receive a third-edition book; I presume it would be something along the lines of two-hundred-and-twelfth edition. However, it that floats your fancy, feel free to toddle down the road. That book could find a finer owner than you, I’m sure.”
Irma snorted into her copy of Anurae’s What Not to Do with a Toade printed in 500 AD, before Muggles had quite got the knack for printing. It was not the sort of book Irma would read, but she had picked it up when reminded of a High Inquisitor she had once suffered. She imagined she would certainly have enjoyed doing most of the things the book was decidedly against.
The elderly woman was not quite finished. “The men living with me demanded some proper reading material. Heaven knows why but they’ve connected quality reading with age—as if the amount of dust dictates the value of the words!”
“No, indeed, I’m sure you enjoy your Tabloids freshly dusted, but if you’ll excuse me, I have a business to run...”
“This is what I get for trying to buy a book from a man wearing a purple bonnet and shining red shoes!” the female voice exclaimed contentiously.
Irma had come into vision as she browsed the section on Mythology. She witnessed the woman throw her arms above her virgin-white head and sigh ostentatiously.
The book-keeper stiffened visibly; his eyes narrowed. “The men you scandalously live with will have to fend for themselves in the world of literature, then, for there’s certainly no reason to deal with one of your like. Huffily comparing my antiques to the fickle best-selling tosh down High Street... You ought to be ashamed.”
“Yet surprisingly I’m not,” the female responded acerbically. “I don’t see you fit to call me scandalous, or have you not noticed your pot’s undeniably black hue?”
She threw the books down on the counter and stormed off. Her dramatic exit was cut short when a new arrival, a man with shoulder-length blonde waves and smiling blue eyes, caught her arm.
“Muriel, dear, I had wondered if you’d been snatched by a territorial Libriperuse!” his voice was soft as he herded her back to the counter at the rear—where she least wished to go, it seemed, although it went beyond his notice. “I see you found my favourite shop. Ah, my dear friend Aiken!” He glimpsed the books stacked on the counter and smiled. “Fantastic selection—were you expecting me?”
“Yes,” Aiken answered, offering Muriel a rueful look, “but I received this woman in your stead.”
The man—Xenophilius Lovegood, Irma recalled—seemed not to notice Aiken’s tone and merely smiled, patting the woman’s head as if she were a beloved pet. He pulled her close at the shoulders. “Why yes, isn’t she darling? Olli and I are quite fond of her. I see you’ve accounted for his tastes as well.”
“You mentioned he will only read fairy tales these days, yes, yes; I imported these translations from the faeries of the mountain tribe Hodpenae in the East.” Aiken gathered the books and slipped them into a velvet pouch embroidered XenLo and slid it over the counter. The men smiled as their hands touched and Xeno held the bag close to his heart.
“He will thank you personally in time, I’m sure; he isn’t quite up to leaving the house yet. I’m sure each foot massage brings him closer, isn’t that right Muriel?” Xeno’s smiling face gazed down at her.
She glared at Aiken, although the look softened when she turned to Xeno. Her response was almost absent-minded. “Yes yes, of course. Shall we pay and leave now, Xeno? I’m sure Ollivander is itching for his new book...”
“I’m afraid he’s itching from a nasty case of Warring Warts, but yes, a book will be useful.” Xeno shook hands with Aiken and turned, walking with Muriel from the shop. Irma heard the rest of the conversation before the door closed on them:
“Shouldn’t we pay, Xenophilius? The price is ridiculous, certainly, but still meant to be—”
“Ah, dear, did I forget to mention? The books here are for purchase or loan.... Aiken must have forgotten as well; he does get so enthusiastic about his books...”
“Yes, of course he forgot out of his unbridled enthusiasm.... Typical. The state of shopkeepers these days. I’ll certainly be telling Augusta about this.”
“At least Olli should truly appreciate this book on male sexuality through the ages. He told me his last was too tasteful—”
“Xenophilius Lovegood! Not until we’re home!”
The door shut. Irma and Aiken released their pent-up laughter: for Irma, a chortle into her book; for Aiken, a huff, a flick of his wrist and an airy ‘hmmph!’ He turned to Irma, gave a quick nod of his head with the hint of a smile and disappeared into his back from.
This was a second home for Irma, when breaks allowed her to leave the library of Hogwarts. She and Aiken spoke rarely but trusted each other implicitly. Irma often acted as stand-in shopkeeper during her visits, although they had no verbal contract officially stating this.
By the time the bell above the door sang again, however, Irma had established that she was weary of other patrons. She had lost her interest in ear-wigging. She picked up a book on a fictional story of a lesbian scarecrow transformed into a human and charmed into seducing milkmaids. It wasn’t academically trying material, of course, but she occasionally enjoyed a sojourn away from the scholarly.
Irma sat in one of the comfortable corner chairs and set her sensibly-booted feet on the short table before her. Peace at last, with Muriel gone. She settled in for a pleasant and blissfully solitary read.
Despite her firm resolution, it was remarkably difficult to ignore the sensual ‘mmm’ of the newest arrival. It was a decidedly feminine sound; it arose every once in a while as if in deep appreciation—deepest appreciation—of the books. Irma scolded herself for glancing up to catch the culprit but found she could only see a pair of emerald green heels, anyway.
And in the name of Merlin himself, did they have a heel. Irma was intrigued based on footwear alone. She couldn’t help but imagine her black lace-up boots tucked close to the bright ankle-wrapped heels, sturdy soles touching surly spikes from behind...
She threw herself back into the world of enchanted Sapphic straw to cleanse her mind. It was no use: now the latest milk maid wore shining emerald heels and the enchanted farmer girl sported scruffy black boots.
A delicate gasp sounded. Before gazing up, Irma conjectured the sound was formed by lipstick-coated lips and lungs beneath a highly feminine form.
“If it isn’t The Librarian herself,” the voice nearly purred. “From Hogwarts nonetheless.”
Irma was right. It was Rita Skeeter: defiler of the written word and, unfortunately, sex on stilts.
“Indeed.” She intended for the brevity of the word to sting, but alas that had always been an impossible feat with Rita. Instead Irma forced herself to look into her book again, feigning disinterest. Her eyes caught on the words ‘spread her legs to allow entrance’ and she worked to hide her flush.
Rita deigned to ignore this and lowered herself to sit on the table next to Irma’s legs, leaning over to place one hand next to her boots. She crossed her perfect legs—Irma could see them under her book, not that she was looking—and inspected her sparkling emerald nail varnish. “What brings you to a shop like this?”
“I’m a librarian. It’s a library. Is enhanced logic necessary?”
One of Rita’s eyebrows arched. “It bears little resemblance to your own library, if my memory serves me as well as it usually does.”
“Then perhaps you’ll recall that you befoul the English language each time your damned Quill touches parchment, and a library is probably not in your best interest?” Irma’s temper flared. She waved her hand to indicate the shelves around her. “These are nearly original copies of some of the most respected works out there. Surely your presence besmirches them.”
Rita held up her hands. “Not a Quill in sight.” She glanced at the title of Irma’s book; her eyebrow rose again. “Respected like your Sapphic Scarecrow Stories, I imagine?”
“Highly important: one of the first lesbian books written for agricultural witches.”
“And wizards, I imagine. So highly important, but perhaps not respected,” Rita summarised as she stood and walked to Irma’s chair. She sat on the arm and crossed her legs once more, one muscular calf settling against Irma’s thigh. “I have seen parallel situations in the media today...”
“If you insinuate yourself as one,” Irma surmised with a look of disgust, “I do not concur. Slander and gossip for publicity and fame is not at all the same.”
“Mmm,” the other woman murmured in response; it jolted straight to Irma’s centre. Rita noticed the slight jerk and altered facial features despite their ephemeral expression. She leaned her forearm on the chair back and stretched to read some of the words. “Shirly released her tongue to let it traverse Maida’s thigh, soft tongue to supple skin travelling closer to her flowering centre. A damsel-dragon egg peeked from generous folds glistening with the milk-maid’s nectar, the scent potent enough to draw moans from Shirly’s parted lips. Maida rose to meet the probing tongue...”
As she read, Rita circled her heeled foot, consequentially rubbing Irma’s thigh through her trousers. A slow smile spread over the younger female’s painted lips as she watched colour rise from Irma’s collar.
“If I had known my librarian read this behind her station,” Rita whispered in her ear, “I may have ventured to the library more often.”
“Slytherins don’t often come to the library of their own accord save exams...”
Rita slipped from the arm into the dip of the chair and manoeuvred one lean leg over her prey’s, rotating until she straddled the woman. “We went with incentive. We have a great appreciation for the darkest corner in the southeast corner, all nestled up warm in good company...”
“I’ll have to remember that,” Irma stated with a grunt. It was maddening that Rita was unwittingly hitting each of her most powerful attractions...or was it unwitting at all? Perhaps she was more predictable than she had guessed.
She didn’t even like Rita. Perhaps that’s why she wanted Rita.
The maddening Skeeter woman was drawing patterns into her forearm with one slender finger. “You know, I’ve always loved a soft butch woman... Strong arms but a soft heart.” She spelled the book away, instructing it endearingly to return to its place.
Irma stood, lifting Rita with her, and carried her to the most secluded corner. She spelled the books stable on the shelves and pressed Rita against them. “There is nothing soft about this heart, not that you’ll ever get close enough to know.”
Rita hissed in response; not out of offense, Irma realised to her dismay, but out of arousal. Perhaps Rita wanted her for the self-same reason.
“The strong arms you can’t debate,” Rita countered, wrapping her legs tighter around Irma. It was a vice grip, like beetle claws. “Not lifting all those books and bar-maids...”
“Rosmerta is none of your concern,” Irma huffed, silencing Rita with her best ‘you should not be speaking now’ voice, perfected through years as a librarian. Rita was unaffected—damn Slytherins—and merely smirked in response: she had gleaned some confirmed information alongside her present pleasure. Irma damned herself for it but couldn’t be stopped now.
To end the nonsense that occurred whenever Rita spoke, Irma kissed her. It wasn’t tender or romantic, nor even intimate or passionate: it was a display. It read, right now you are mine and I will have you.
Rita’s ‘mmm’ this time was a moan and it nearly stabbed Irma straight through. It was a show of dedication and strength that her knees did not weaken. Rita’s resolve did.
She tore through Irma’s buttons and pushed her hands into the woman’s shirt, seeking skin and waist and breast. Nothing held her back. Rita offered a delighted gasp at Irma’s bare chest. She sought out a nipple with one hand and used the other to knock off Irma’s silly bird hat. Her manicured fingernails raked through Irma’s hair, tangling into her plait and repeating.
Irma pulled out her wand and elongated a section of the shelf, providing a stand beneath Rita’s bottom. The woman arched back as she felt her torso spelled free of its confining blouse. Well-formed breasts greeted Irma’s hungry mouth; she teased the sleek green fabric of the bra with her tongue until she felt the nipple peak. She offered it her attention as she used her hand to cup Rita’s other breast and thumb the opposite nipple
Rita’s hips bucked. She squeezed Irma with her legs and used both hands to clutch the woman’s hair. Her chest grew red with the heat of her body’s arousal. She pressed herself to Irma’s face. Irma moved to nuzzle the skin in the valley between Rita’s breasts, stroking it with her tongue. The younger woman pushed down insistently, impatiently.
Irma nipped and licked her way down Rita’s flat stomach—too flat, in a way, but it was another extreme that drew Irma in; an attraction for something outside her usual ‘type.’ Rita panted and spread her legs, revealing that she was lacking an important piece of underwear herself. Irma smirked and licked her lips, amused at the juxtaposition between her previous literature and her present situation.
From very far away, she heard the harmony the door-bell sang only when Aiken was leaving and locking up for a time. Irma’s smirk grew; they did occasionally do a favour of this sort for the other, although it was more heavily weighted toward Aiken’s sexual appetite.
The woman set back to work, pinching and soothing Rita’s waist as she approached the prize before her. She nosed at the trimmed blonde hair, drawing a sharp intake of breath from Rita. Irma snaked her tongue down to awaken the ‘damsel-dragon egg’ from its slumber, but found it to be fully revealed already above a slackened entrance.
Nectar indeed, Irma thought, feeling a bit like an enchanted Sapphic scarecrow herself, although her milk-maid was a media-maid who sold very different milked products indeed.
An hour later, Aiken found the shop empty and still locked. Sapphic Scarecrow Stories stared up at him from atop the counter. A note sat next to it, carefully placed to not tamper with the book—Irma’s relentless paranoia, he recalled.
‘Scaring an old student. Buy you lunch at Batty’s Bakery tomorrow to make amends? Owl a yes or a no, if you please.
He just smiled. Looks like he had a bookstore to himself and a baguette to look forward to tomorrow.
Irma did less scaring than she had intended, locked at the wrist by Rita’s surprisingly strong hand. The older woman learned a few tricks herself.
When at last the two were sated—for the moment—conversation commenced once more. For once it was Irma’s doing, although she feared she would regret it.
“I doubt Muriel, Xenophilius and Ollivander gleaned this much fun from a foot massage and a faerie book.” When Rita stirred beside her, Irma turned and grinned in her most withholding manner. “This is off the record, of course.”
“Surely a scrap, given the post-war dearth of subject matter...”
“No, you can stand by your customary scandals of miss-directed infatuation and untruthful character studies,” Irma answered firmly, caressing Rita’s hip as she spoke.
“Cold-hearted, frigid schoolmarm librarian.”
“Wicked, word-defacing gossip-gobbling reporter. You desecrate all of the rules that I value and adhere to.”
“And you abhor the values I cherish dear.”