Tess's Athenaeum.

[Firmhanded_Daddy]

He could feel the tension in her slender frame as she went taut, then melted back into his broad muscled figure. She was trying to catch her breath, maybe even calm herself down.

A slow smirk drew over his features. Those expressive green eyes of his glinted with a wicked light as they took her in. He could almost hear the pout in her tone as she muttered her protest. "It was just a couple of pillows"

"Indeed it was. However I do believe I warned you not to throw them at me."

The tone in his voice was deep, rich, and held the promise of wicked things to come. The chuckle that followed was deep rumbling sin. The hand draping around her waist simply curled tighter, causing the thick cord of muscles to flex against her smaller frame. Pulling her closer, ever closer.

"Now what should I do with you hmmmm? Throwing pillows at people, and then making them chase you. That is not very nice at all."

His free hand drifting up to curl into the long stands of hair. At first his fingers simply toy with the end of the locks. Then he walks them up, letting the red strands curl around the thick fingers. Letting the pressure slowly build, a slow and steady increase. The faint tug turning ever more into a demanding gesture, like an ever tightening winch to draw her head back. What he wanted was to stare down into those eyes. His gaze was not hard, but the element of danger was there.

Leaning forward he brought his face closer to hers until his gaze was almost filling up her sight. His lips twisting into a playful, wicked grin. A light hint of a kiss, a soft whisper of lips on skin pressed against the corner of her lips.

"Any ideas, kitten?"

 

[thestruggle]

His body was liquid and yet immobile, an abiding blockade. If she had kept up her struggle, would his hands be drifting? Would she have broken free? She could not know, would not. The assurance in his voice spoke of—appetite? Punishment? Always asking for it. It was a recurring theme. Her lips trembled at the tension thrumming through her, heat and ice. Anticipation. Foretaste. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“Indeed it was. However I do believe I warned you not to throw them at me.”

Snatching back her reply with her teeth on her tongue, the words bloodless before she gave them voice. It had been a snappy retort, and one she was glad she did not share. His hand, moving closer, reeling her in—you set the bait and then you writhe on the hook. Well, she felt like writhing. As ever, when faced with a man whose control lay coiled in him like an everlasting well, she felt brimful with craving. Him, disciplined. Her, wanton. Unchanging.

She whimpered, her tongue still caught in her teeth.

A moth to flame. If the moth had a string around it.

“Now what should I do with you hmmmm? Throwing pillows at people, and then making them chase you. That is not very nice at all.”

Her fingertips twitched. It was a weary fight, but one she had to do. Something so small, and yet such a fulfilling game. She smiled, closing her eyes. She felt her boots around her feet like anchors to the floor, grounding her. It would be too easy to float into his voice, his mouth, his hands. Nobody ever said you were difficult.

Except when she tried to be.

Fingers touching her hair. She leaned her head forward for respite, resting it on his chest, her hands coming up to shelter by her face. Feeling a steady hunger build. Or maybe she was already being devoured. So much she didn't care to know. When his hand tightened in her hair, moving harder, a primal yank—a shock of pure thrill startled a gasp at the first, and then a slow exhalation as her head tilted back. And back. And back.

Their eyes met. Hazel on green. Her eyes could match her hair in the light, but now were dark and secretive. The room itself was dim, and her pupils were dilated. Her fingers tangled themselves in his shirt.

“Any ideas, kitten?”

She laughed. She couldn't help it. For all it was a noise of amusement, there was no humor in it. It was breathless, short, none of her musical commonplace giggles. A reckless sound.

“That depends, Daddy.”

She clenched her fingertips in the fabric and then loosened, drawing them up to his neck. Smoothing over where his pulse beat—where her teeth could sink, where her hair could tickle. Clasping about his neck, the back of his head, lithe hands gentle. Feminine. She could be many things. Her small pink tongue darted out when his mouth got close, her white teeth following. One nibble, and she laughed once more against his open mouth, her breath hot and sweet.

“Would a good girl get spanked or fucked? You know, no one--”

Fingers tracing on his shoulder, mouth moving to his ear. Pretty lips shaping words.

“No one has done either here yet, but if I have to beg, I'll beg for both.”

 

[Firmhanded_Daddy]

Oh there was just something about here that kept his attention. She was different, and it was something enjoyed quite a great deal. It was not just one thing that drew him about here, it was the whole package. Each piece was neatly wrapped together, tied with a pretty pink bow and put on display. Of course none of this has to do with the raw, primal appeal of her obvious desire to surrender, right?

No, that had nothing to do with the heat coursing down his spine. Not at all. Oh he could feel the anticipation coursing through her veins. Something she had yet to find out about him was how strong his empathy was. How he could feel the emotions of another person just by being close enough to read their body language, listen to the tone of their voice. The good part was it made it easy to read others, the downside was every mood from joy to rage was contagious, infectious. It surrounded him like water soaking through cloth.

Every little thrum of heat that raged in her slender figure, a softer version assailed his senses. He didn't fight it, that would be energy better spent in other places. The heat behind his eyes flickered like a roaring flame, but it was not out of control. He could tell she had been about to reply, but the words never came.

Instantly a grin bloomed over his lips. The amusement was clear in his eyes. Apparently she knew better than to make the situation worse. Good. He had other plans in mind. That first delicious whimper cut through him like a razor blade along skin. Oh the downfall of being an audiophile

He could feel the ache balling up inside his gut, strands of head and a sweet surge of pain arced out like the radiant heat of a burning building. Outwardly he gave no sign, but it was the first test of willpower for him and he had not expected it so soon. Just as he managed to get his focus back came that sweet laughter. That grin of his bloomed like a morning glory in the summer light.

“That depends, Daddy.”

The first cracks in his armor showed.

Sucking in a sharp breath, his whole body went tense. He should have anticipated that too, but he hadn't. For a moment, a brief heart pounding moment his flesh became fire. Heat coalesced under his skin and the hint of color rushing to his cheeks was not a blush, it was the sudden spike in his pulse from that fucking word! He pushed the breath out in the smallest hint of a growl, but there was no hiding the sudden change in his emerald orbs. As a matter of fact they were no longer green.

The sudden shift in mood turned the deep emeralds to a soft, green blue and each second they continued to shift. Looking more and more like the sky with every thundering beat of his heart.

That beating thunder, it was a betrayer, and he knew she could feel the sudden heat on the back of his neck, and the rushing pounding along the life giving vessels. She had just found a tool, a dangerous tool, but it was a hand hold nonetheless. It took him time to get his breathing, and his pulse to slow again, but he managed it.

The feeling of her delicate, supple fingers upon the back of his neck made the lids of his eyes flutter in delight. He had mentioned to her that he felt everything more than the average person and it had been no exaggeration. The fine hairs on the back of his neck became erect as goose bumps exploded over the skin. The growl that started in his chest flooded the room with every slow, measured breath. It was soft, soothed, almost like the content purring of a large cat.

“Would a good girl get spanked or fucked? You know, no one--”

She drew him in, her lips so close to his ear he could feel them brushing against the skin when she spoke.

“No one has done either here yet, but if I have to beg, I'll beg for both.”

The tone in her voice set him on fire, but instead of letting it consume him he embraced it. The growl that ceased only while breathing turned into a deep, throaty chuckle. Tipping his head slowly toward her slowly, allowing the stubble of the day to nudge against the side of her neck. He took a moment to really absorb her words, and to measure his response.

"Well dear, only good girls know how to beg properly. So really the question is not would it happen, but when? That is assuming that you are a good girl."

The last words were pushed out with a low sensual rumble. His head shifting slowly until his lips pressed against that place where her collar bone becomes the column of her throat. A trail of slow, soft, tender kisses marking a trail upward until he reached about half way between her ear, and the point of her chin, following the line of her jaw.

That was where the first bite landed. Soft, sensual just as much a slow drag of teeth over ivory flesh as it was anything else.

"Don't you want to be a good girl?"

 

[thestruggle]

The little changes mattered. A pulse racing, a flush creeping over skin. She felt them all and drank them in, his growls and rumblings: a preparation. It was getting harder and yet she stayed upright with her hands light on his neck, his hand in her hair, feeling vulnerable. Wasn't she? Feeling her mouth water at his voice, at his breath on her, his stomach and hips and legs stacking up like puzzle pieces by her body—an unrelenting ache.

It was an ache. All through her stomach. Seeping lower.

She knew his word. Thinking of it as his word, so accurate—she said Daddy like it was wrapped in honey. Smiling against his ear, feeling him grip her, wondering if it would be enough to tip his scales. Push, shove. The roughness of his stubble made her gasp, half laughing. Lighthearted, and yet anything but. She was getting near to it now, where he would be too much: she'd cum if he brushed his finger against her, it took so fucking little. She'd said she would beg. Fuck, I would beg.

“Well dear, only good girls know how to beg properly. So really the question is not would it happen, but when? That is assuming that you are a good girl.”

Better be fucking good.

The line of kisses, the clemency in them—for all she had been difficult, was she going to pay for it now? Head tipping back into his fist, her body swelling up to push against his, her breasts against his chest. As his teeth scraped over her flesh she felt the tenuous grip she had on her control slip--fuck--and she hissed air out through her teeth, not wanting to give it up but it had already gone. Her hand sinking down, down, seeking his belt or belt loops, wanting to feel the suppleness of leather or something she could grip, hard. Moving soft and quicksilver, the pressure against him covetous and yet graceful. Cheeks feeling hot, her vision blurring around the edges.

“Don't you want to be a good girl?”

She felt whatever mastery she had left drop, like water on fire, a light winking out. Tumbling into something dark and sweet and so familiar. Her hand pushing, his mouth moving, her lips making way for her teeth as she gripped his shirt with them and tugged, a low moan departing—even if it was her being brought to bridle, it fit her so neatly. Her head tipping back as her nails gently pulled up on the fabric that worked smoothly under them, seeking his skin, and she breathed:

“Yes. Please? Let me be good, please, Daddy,”

Her voice was still girlish but rounded out somehow, need echoing in every syllable. Her hand still searching, wanting to wait for him to say so but more wanting to feel the weight of his cock in her hand at least—something, give her something. Feeling her knees quake, not knowing how much more she could stand. Knowing she was wet and fighting to be patient.

“I could be so good for you, Daddy. Will you let me use my mouth? Will you take me up to my room and show me what a good girl I am?”

A sigh as she pushes, knowing it was easy, but being a good girl—and he had known, of course he knew. He knew she was mostly good, but he'd make her work. She didn't mind the work.

It was effort well spent.

“Please?”

 

[Firmhanded_Daddy]

Did she know she was playing with fire? Not just fire, but a burning inferno. Heat so powerful that it could burn bone to ash. She had been pushing, prodding, testing his control.

That little lighthearted giggle, and the girlish tone in her voice. It nearly did him in. That is because she is playing your weakness' like a fiddle. She can taste the game coming to a close. She knows in order to break you all she has to do is be the sweet little girl and you are done Shut up brain or I'll stab you with a q-tip.

She pressed close, moving in a way that made her feel like a tiny little doll pressing against his broad chest. Her hand drifted down and found the thick, fat leather belt, and the cool metal buckle to grip onto. She was holding it like it was her anchor to reality, to life. Perhaps it was? The only problem was his body was starting to betray him, to show her just how hungry he was.

The heat grew and changed. Suddenly it felt like shards of frozen glass being driven into his spine, then pulled out. The rippling shudder that followed coursed through his entire body.

She spoke, and the sweet tone dazed him. He listened to her words and his breathing stopped, even his heart stopped beating. If only she knew how dangerous that word was. He could hear the need laced in her tone and that only made it all so much more powerful. There was only one emotion she could have laced within to push him even further.

He felt her hands on the verge of motion, as if wanting to touch, to take unbidden what she wanted. The need and desire between the two of them was electric. With the two of them pressed so close the need crackled like a hand on a plasma globe. She wanted something?

He was frozen. The words she spoke still ripping through his body and setting him on fire. He couldn't breath, couldn't speak, couldn't fucking think straight. Then he drew in a deep shuddering breath. Instead of letting it out, he pressed forward, both hands moving to cup her face firmly. Pressing his whole body tight to hers, he crushed her lips with a pure expression of desire. It was not just a kiss, it was lust given flesh. Moaning low into her lips until the kiss broke suddenly.

His eyes fastened to hers and something in his gaze was different. He was less reserved, less in control, more feral. Reaching down with his hand he covered her smaller one with his. After one single deliberate stroke along his hardened, thick length which produced a groan he ripped her hand away. A quick flick of his wrists, and a jingle of the buckle and the belt fell open, sagging agape. He jerked his hand again, the sound of leather gliding rapidly over canvas with a clearly heard ziiiip almost like the zipper itself.

"Better move. You have ten seconds to show me something more comfortable than book stacks."

The belt was in his hands. Folding it double, then pulling it taught with a SNAP that echoed through the quiet room he growled.

"Move!"

 

[thestruggle]

His lips were warm, bruising. She welcomed them, her own mouth curving under his, matching his ardor—but softer, sweeter. The vibration from the noises he made circled lazily into her ears, traveling along her nerve endings: she wanted so badly to clutch him to her, wrap her legs around him, beg to be put against the wall. She was becoming breathless, fighting for air with a faint creeping in a way that was delicious. She felt swept up, taken in hand. Her left hand came to cup his, feeling the roughness of his fingers and the heat that radiated throughout her face.

If he lets go of me I swear I'll fall on the floor.

It wasn't a kiss of romance. It was a blast of desire, a hair-trigger switch flipped. When his mouth pulled away she felt bereft, her lips swollen and full, but she stayed upright. She raised fingers to touch, to feel the tenderness, watching his expression morph. That was something, their eye contact. Ever constant. She didn't lower her gaze with him. She felt more submissive, if it were possible, when she met his eyes—pleading, full on need, exposed.

His eyes looked savage.

She swallowed, feeling his hand make contact with hers. Pressing her hand around his hardness, one smooth second of friction and then he thrust her arm to the side. She felt empty after, fingertips itching to reach out, throat waiting to take him. Always pushing it. She backed away from him while he ripped his belt from the loops, the accessory snaking out in a sinister dark river. Her hands were behind her back, her right hand loosely holding her left wrist.

Mouth dry, she whispered, “Daddy?”

“Better move. You have ten seconds to show me something more comfortable than book stacks.” His voice was raw. What did you do? What bell did you chime?

She stood for the briefest of moments, poleaxed. Wh--

SNAP.

She startled badly at the sound, even though the movement played out right in front of her. The belt stretched between his hands, the crack, the harshness of it in the silence of the filing room. Her own breathing still labored from the kiss and the feel of him against her.

“Move!”

It was enough. She had enough of a grasp on her residual instincts that she stuttered out a, “Yes, Daddy” before heading to the door. The Athenaeum beyond was still and dark, the stacks standing vigil in solitude. There were books spilled on the floor but she ignored them, even though a few ended up under her boots. Normally such a thing would have made her cringe but now—now she hurried, slim legs working as she darted forward.

Faster, go faster. Good girl.

The snow was falling in peaceful drifts outside the windows of the main reading room. The reflection of light off the pretty display gave enough of a glow that she didn't bother turning on the lights. She crossed to the stairwell. She had been glancing over her shoulder at him, trying to walk in a way that was pleasing, but mostly just scurrying. Normally she would've tried to take him up the spiral staircase but it seemed too narrow to be quick upon. She entered in the code for her bedroom and watched as the door unlocked with a click. Pulling it open revealed a shadowy stairwell with no windows and low lighting. She led him up the stairs.

All the way up the tinkling of his belt was a constant reminder in the velvet dark. She had breathed in his ear, met his lips, touched him. Whether it was his belt or his caresses, the same excitement flooded her. The belt came with a healthy dollop of fear. She slowed at the top of the stairs and opened the double doors that led to her bedroom and waited for him to step inside before she closed the doors. She removed her boots and left them to the side of the doorway, her bare feet quickly growing chilled on the wood floor.

The room was an expanse of white. There was some relief from paintings not yet hung, a side table with books stacked neatly upon it, a vase of red gerbera daisies. There was no doubt a female slept here, lived here. The air smelled of lavender. She felt shy, in spite of the belt in his hands, in spite of the carnality she knew was bubbling right beneath the surface.

Quietly, she asked, “Is it alright, Daddy?”

 

[thestruggle]

the scene is paused and she wearily enters, putting away her coat and scarf. Her hair is long and loose today, hanging in auburn waves. She had no time to fix it this morning and it suits her, regardless. She unzips her skirt, leaving herself in stockings and a sweater. Stepping out of the puddled fabric around her small toes. Watching the snow, one knee on the window seat. The piles of slush that edge the front of her shop aren't present in her side yard, and she's grateful. A wave of exhaustion overtakes her, making her normally brisk movements slow and deliberate.

Going upstairs.
Pulling back her blankets, her room wide and quiet.
A black and red ember in the ivory expanse.
She doesn't bother to take off her stockings or garters or sweater.
Hazel eyes close, and close, and close.

 

[LeChatNoir]

The streetlight outside casts its puddle of light on a solitary figure working his way steadily through the steadily-falling snow. The black leather combat boots on his feet punch through the powdery whiteness with every step, but the wax coating that their owner has carefully applied to their exterior keeps his feet at least mostly dry despite the heavy snowfall. The man is hunched over against the wind so that it's difficult to tell his exact height, but seems as though he's probably just a bit under six feet, and it's not only the snow catching in his beard that gives it a partially white cast under the harsh sodium lights.

As the man nears the Athenaeum, he pauses long enough to pull a sleek smartphone from his pocket, carefully shielding it against the wetness of the falling snow. He impatiently bites his index finger to peel off a black leather glove, leaving it dangling from his mouth, and checks the address on the building against one evidently displayed on the screen of his phone. Nodding his satisfaction, he slips the phone back into his pocket before replacing his glove and heading up the sidewalk, grateful that someone has cleared away the snow and ice to the point where it is now merely covered in a fine layer of slush.

The man reaches the door to the building, pausing to stamp his feet on the threshold to knock the excess snow off of his boots. He raises a hand and presses the button to ring the bell, mindful that he's arriving at near-closing time on one of the worst nights of the year. If his errand weren't so important, at least to him, he'd have waited for another night, but this simply cannot wait. If the rumors he's heard are true, this Athenaeum contains a treasure trove unlike any other, and he simply must see it for himself.

 

[thestruggle]

rolling, tumbling, thrashing. A supple but agitated girl fighting valiantly to fall asleep. No good. Column of red hair along a spotless pillow, almost like a spill of red wine.

Blankets tossed back. She studies the ceiling far above, the molding she's so fond of casting shadows that creep in the corners. Hearing the click of her eyes as they move in silence, blinking and observing. A night of inching time. Ordinarily, it would be a fantastic chance to mull over story ideas, to scribble on rough paper, to prowl amongst her books. There was a stack of crates awaiting her attention even now, just behind the counter. Books that she would peruse but probably never sell. A shame. But the idea felt dull, however necessary.

Slipping from the warmth of her bed, leaving an outline rich with lavender scent. The snow has begun yet again, the flakes fat and languid. She selects another skirt, having left hers downstairs. A minor inconvenience. It hangs just underneath her sweater, enough to cover the garter line. She fancies these stockings, their intricacy.

She would also fancy a drink.

Seeking bourbon and intending to dig through some boxes, her stockinged feet pause on a riser of the spiral staircase. The front bell has rung, sending its pleasant tones throughout her store. A two-chime note. She studies her attire, pondering its suitability for receiving company. After all, the Athenaeum is more than just a store. She looks modest enough.

She crosses to the door, peeking through the blinds at the man standing there. She wonders if he has come from the Lounge down the street, where she has spoken with him before. Pleasant interaction. If she did not recognize him, she wouldn't be opening the door. Slim fingers with red lacquered nails snap the locks to open, slide the bolt.

"Hello," she says. "Nice to see you. Did you come to look at some books? I must admit you catch me wrong-footed, I thought I'd never see a customer."

She smiles at him, gesturing to the expanse of book lined walls behind her. "Welcome to the Athenaeum. Care for a drink?"

 

[LeChatNoir]

A smile lights up the snow-covered man’s face as the door opens, revealing the proprietress of the place. He brushes some of the snow off of his gray woolen peacoat and nods as she asks the purpose of his visit, responding to her enquiry as to whether he’s come to look at some books. ”Yes, I’d heard that this was simply the place to go for a hard to find book, and that’s exactly what I’m looking for.”

Grateful for the invitation inside, the dark-haired man steps over the threshold, pausing just inside to again brush some accumulated snow off of his shoulders and stamp it from the sides and soles of his boots.

”I would absolutely love a drink, if it isn’t too much trouble. Do you happen to have rye whiskey?” he asks, hoping against hope that she has what is still a rather uncommon choice.

“If not, bourbon would be lovely.”

Now inside, and out of the steadily falling snow, he can’t but help casting his eyes over the shelves and shelves and shelves of books with something akin to naked lust. Clearly, the man is a bibliophile; his eyes scanning over spines and leaves with a practiced appreciation. A few nods and quiet grunts indicate his pleasure with some of the titles and conditions of the manuscripts, while others are simply passed over in silence, but their presence is always noted.

”You have a very impressive collection. A second-edition Shakespeare Folio, Voltaire’s Candide in excellent condition, and some of the rarer works of Kant. I’d love to have your sources.”

In addition to the books, his eyes can’t help but linger on the owner, as well. The sweater, skirt, and stockings, combined with the long spill of red tresses, speak to something deep inside the man. He finds it difficult to pull the thoughts out of the writing mass inside him, but they are dark, dangerous, and very, very difficult to deny.

 

[thestruggle]

She studies him for a moment as he takes in her shop, seemingly missing nothing. It's odd, somehow, having a visitor. The place has been mausoleum quiet for the most part, with evenings spent puttering around and fiddling with book orders. Unpacking crates, sorting piles, roving through the stacks. Tidy busywork.

“Yes, actually. Knob Creek Rye. I have a bottle of Templeton around somewhere in here, but I haven't yet found where it's been squirreled away.” She walks to the bookshelf, pushing the copy of On the Road and taking a squat bottle along with two tumblers from the depths of the revealed liquor cabinet. “I'm afraid we'll have to have it neat. My ice machine is abysmal and I've not yet found a replacement. For all its sleek lines, this building is quite old.”

She grins briefly at his compliments, uncorking the bottle and setting the glasses down on a table by the crackling fireplace with two small clacks. A glug as she pours two fingers into each glass. “There are so many, it's difficult to keep track. It's a secretive business, book selling. The written word is mysterious and vast, obviously,”

Looking at him apologetically, putting his drink down. “Forgive me, let me take your coat. I'm so out of practice at being a hostess, it's shameful.” She smiles at him, delicate lips glimmering in the light—soft as she keeps it dim, ruined eyesight from word searching be damned. He's hit upon a sensitive topic with her, the book collection that she has worked to build and encourage. She lets herself relax, holding out small hands for his coat to hang up on the hook by the door. He is quite intriguing, after all, and it is lovely to have company with snow falling outside the windows.

 

[LeChatNoir]

Dark eyes light up as the proprietress says that she has Knob Creek, and a grin and a quiet laugh accompany the mention of Templeton, not to mention the fact that she conceals her liquor cabinet behind a copy of Kerouac's classic.

”I have a friend from Iowa who occasionally brings me bottles of Templeton Rye when he comes to visit. I like him well enough, but I wish that he came to visit a lot more - I simply can’t get the stuff where I live. I’m going to have to send him a blank check and tell him to bring me a crate next time he comes out.”

He slips out of his woolen coat, revealing broad shoulders beneath a forest green cardigan sweater worn over what appears to be a vintage Black Flag t-shirt. The man glances down at his attire and grins wryly.

“Please pardon the t-shirt. It’s getting closer and closer to laundry day at my place and…” He shrugs eloquently, a small lift of the shoulders in an almost Gallic gesture, and hands over the coat.

“Thank you. It is quite pleasantly warm in here.”

The dark-haired man watches her take the coat, turn, and head towards wherever it is that she plans to hang it. His love for books is so strong that it almost overcomes his sudden desire to watch the curve of her rear as she walks away, but not quite. The entire milieu - the smell of the old books and the whiskey, the feel of the cold giving way to the warmth of the shop, the beautiful old spines of the leather-bound books, the flowing red tide of the young woman’s hair – it’s almost overwhelming. But it feels good, it feels very good.

The man bends down, picks up the tumbler of rye that the woman set down for him, and swirls the drink around in the glass to aerate it and allow it to catch the light. The amber liquid smells of vanilla and heat and other spices, promising pleasure and pain as it slides down the throat. Lost in his reverie for a few moments, he does not notice her return as he gazes into his glass.

 

[thestruggle]

Her eyes sparkle conspiratorially at his confession, and she replies, “It can be a hassle to find, certainly. It's a bit of a mad scramble when it appears around here—everyone informing their friends about a display of Templeton at the liquor store. I'll admit that bourbon is generally my liquor of choice, but it's nice to have a variety of whiskey.”

Smiling a catlike smile as she takes his coat, “They all have different degrees of warmth, going down.”

His choice of attire is refreshing to her, and she says as much, “Nothing to excuse. I believe my Athenaeum has many facets: casual, formal, strict, relaxed. Whatever the occupants so choose.” Ruefully, she examines her own dress and remarks, “Obviously I've just cobbled together an ensemble, but I can't seem to shake my fondness for sweaters.”

She turns on her heel and pads over to the line of hooks next to the front door. Hanging up his coat she runs a hand over it thoughtfully and feels a nervous hiccup somewhere in her abdomen. Having taken care of the small rituals, they would speak of—of what? Books, whiskey—they had touched on these topics, all pleasurable, but surely she would be dull to expound on them? He has caught her attention by presence alone, which seems both appealing and perplexing. She sees him studying his drink, and takes his measure as she moves to join him by the fireplace. Dark-haired men. Always a temptation. Well-read, good taste. She catches her lip gently with white teeth and reaches down for her own glass as she comes up to the table. Her arm brushes by him as she rights herself with the liquid prize, the scent of lavender on her skin an agreeable counterpoint.

“Sláinte,” she murmurs, clinking her glass against his and taking a sip. She gestures to the couches grouped around them. “Please, have a seat.” She sinks gracefully onto the cushions, tucking her legs up underneath her. A moment where she drinks again for—courage? Fortitude? How silly she's being. “So. What brings you here? Besides seeking to get me to reveal my hard-won literary providers?”

 

[thestruggle]

when she enters her Athenaeum, the air inside is chilly and still. Two empty glasses are sitting forlornly on a table top, and the fire has gone out. She studies these small details as she removes her coat and tosses her scarf onto the back of a chair. Normally she abides by small codes, cleaning up after herself and living a generally tidy existence. There's a reason for her carelessness.

She tosses the book onto a table with a slam, its glossy cover winking cheerily up at her. Giving it a baleful eye she snatches the bottle of Knob Creek and pops out the cork. The resounding noise of its release echoes throughout her store, as does the liquid swilling around the bottle as she takes a pull.

Moodily she leans against the counter, sweater soft against her skin.

She swears, feelingly,

Fucking textbooks.

Stomping over to her stereo she turns on music at full blast. She doesn't want to think just now. The headache pounds, swirling around her, and she rests her back against the wall. Slides down to kneel against its comforting presence, the bottle in her hand, as the music moves and moves and moves.

 

[seven_of_nine]

steps quietly in on the balls of her feet, not wanting to intrude, placing on the nearest desk a cylinder wrapped in silver paper that its recipient will find familiar

gazes around at all the wonderful fiction... words written just for 'fun'

strides out again making virtually no noise, walking with catlike grace

 

[thestruggle]

she has slowly been catching up on the ordinary, moving from room to room: shelving and unpacking. The work never seems to cease, but it is a comfort. It keeps her occupied.

At a pause in her bustle, she heads to the front to seek something to quench her thirst. As she tilts a glass of water back to drink, a sparkle of something catches her eye. She puts down her beverage, curious, and picks up the package. Opening it, she gives a laugh of delight. How very suitable.

An excellent reminder.

She makes a note to have it framed and hung, and stealing back to her work, takes it with her.

 

[thestruggle]

Window seats are something to appreciate. There's one in her bedroom and that's where she sits, tracing a bare toe on wood floorboards. She spends so much time these days contemplating snow. A guilt-free pleasure, simple and idle. She tucks her other knee up, hugs it close to her chest. The flakes keep falling.

The books will wait.

 

[thestruggle]

A Memory.

she's in bed, on her side, sheets clutched to chest. The music starts, played again. She remembers. She'll always remember.

------​

He laid on the couch, shirt off, arms behind his head. She stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame, tank top and boy shorts. The only light was a lamp on the floor in the corner. The wood floors were unfurnished, the cream walls bare. Dust bunnies along the baseboards. The stereo played quietly in the middle of the room.

We might kiss when we are alone
When nobody's watching
We might take it home

There were boxes by the front door. They were stacked tidily, carefully. A candle was set recklessly on the top and released a lavender scent. The glow from the lit hall behind her fell over her shoulders.

"What's the point?" she asked.

He smiled. He hadn't shaved for a few days. There were shadows under his eyes. His nose ring and teeth were the only bright points in his face. He was beautiful.

"Does there have to be one?" he answered.

We might make out when nobody's there
It's not that we're scared
It's just that it's delicate...

And then she was crossing, rushing to him, and his arms were held out--he sat up to meet her, balanced on the tail of his spine. Her small body straddled his hips and his jeans rubbed her thighs, then the warmth of his flesh as he crushed her to him. His hand gripping her back, his hand tangled up in the auburn richness of her hair. Lips fighting and biting, angry and scared. Lips caressing and tasting, tender and careful. Their tongues tasted like the pale ale they'd drunk after their final walk-through, bottles clinking in deliberate cheerfulness.

But his fingers were tugging at the button of his jeans, and she--

"No, why?"

"Please don't tell me no."

--she nipped at his neck, feeling sharp whiskers brush the softness of her cheek. He was yanking, moving. His hand smoothed down the curve of her side. She breathed him in, her nose rubbing against his skin. His fingers smoothed the lace on her hip, kept moving, found the source of the warmth in between her thighs. Pulled her head up by her hair, kissed her, pushed her panties aside.

So why do you fill my sorrow
With the words you've borrowed
From the only place you've known

Resistance.
A thrust, a second.
They groaned together. Still shocked at how easily they fit.

His words echoing in her mouth again.
"Please don't tell me no."

And why do you sing Hallelujah
If it means nothing to you
Why do you sing with me at all?

Her stomach pressed against the hardness of his chest, heart quaking. She could have kept kissing him, again and again. But she needed to feel him, the roughness of his skin. The texture. The response. Her fingers ran to the hem of her top, thighs bracing to steady herself, muscles clenching around him as she held herself on the narrowness of the couch.

"Oh, fuck."

We might live like never before
When there's nothing to give
Well how can we ask for more

His hands moved to her hips. Her hair tumbled down, released. She sat upright, peeled off her shirt. Felt him inside her, more completely, fuller. An urge to move, and yet she stayed still. He took in her body, eyes wide and luminous. Grazed the side of her breast with his fingers. Moved them to her mouth as her hips started to rock, feeling denim on her calves.

"You're so pretty."

A tear at the corner of her eye. He swiped it with his thumb, his skin dark against her paleness.

We might make love in some sacred place
The look on your face is delicate

"My pretty girl."

His hands sought her hair again, pulled her head down. Rolled them over with care. Ran his tongue down her collarbone, tasted the salt of sweat and her perfume.

Made love to her, made claim to her, left signs on her, his teeth on her neck and her nails on his back and arms. And they fit, oh how they fit--notched together like perfect machinery, ticking along in impeccable harmony.

Why do you sing with me at all?

​

He held her, his leg draped over her, still inside her. She was nestled in the curve of his body as he kissed at her shoulder.

"It's not forever."

It's not forever.

"Right?"

-----​

her eyes open. She's alone in her bed. She wraps herself in her sheets, crosses to her window. Sinks down, a hand against the glass.

Forever.

 

[thestruggle]

scurries in and snatches one of the journals left out, starts to scribble in it furiously,

A Scheherazade story: darker, more violent, king more commanding, not as romantic.

she closes the notebook with a bang, sets it neatly back in its place, and then rushes back out, a few snowflakes falling from the front door in her wake.

 

[thestruggle]

Another quiet day. The girl has dragged a box of books over to the window seat that faces her quiescent garden. A stack of Bertrand Russell on the floor. A copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is stuck on the edge of the window frame haphazardly. Her mug of tea steaming on a journal next to her; a capped pen sitting undisturbed next to it. The stereo plays quietly in the background.

God knows how I adore life
When the wind turns on the shores lies another day
I cannot ask for more

When the time bell blows my heart
And I have scored a better day
Well nobody made this war of mine

And the moments that I enjoy
A place of love and mystery
I'll be there anytime

Oh mysteries of love
Where war is no more
I'll be there anytime

When the time bell blows my heart
And I have scored a better day
Well nobody made this war of mine

And the moments that I enjoy
A place of love and mystery
I'll be there anytime

Mysteries of love
Where war is no more
I'll be there anytime

Someday soon, she will plant her garden. She can see it, barely: green leaves and stretching roots, a lush harvest. A verdant hideaway. For now, the snow still reigns, a halcyon blanket of white. It will melt. It always does.

 

[Scuttle Buttin']

Just gonna... leave this here.

 

[thestruggle]

Just gonna... leave this here.

I will kill you with fire.

 

[Scuttle Buttin']

I will kill you with fire.

If I go down, I'm taking all the cherries with me.

 

[thestruggle]

If I go down, I'm taking all the cherries with me.

RIGHT NOW IT MIGHT JUST BE WORTH IT

burns the shortcake with a blowtorch.

 

[Scuttle Buttin']

RIGHT NOW IT MIGHT JUST BE WORTH IT

burns the shortcake with a blowtorch.

Right now, maybe.

But think about later!


"Lalala, I'm Tess and I think I'll have a cherry!"

Opens cherry cupboard.

Le gasp!

"Zee cherries, they are gone! Oh, Tess, why were you such a foolish, impulsive girl! Now you shall never have cherries again!"

Sobs uncontrollably.




And scene.







I think we've all learned an important lesson here today.