Tess's Athenaeum.

tigerlilyxx said:

I know I've told you this, and I wish I could put into words exactly why, but the way you write continues to enthrall me. I'm searching for more words, because I know you want feedback, but I really do not know what to say. That story managed to take something that normally does nothing for me (welts and pain and crops and such) and make it exciting and somewhat enticing... I wish I could tell you more. But those are my poorly constructed thoughts.

Click to expand...

I'm so glad! It's very encouraging to hear compliments like that. And if I can take subjects that aren't necessarily of interest and give them a new perspective for someone, well--that is really great, and honestly a big goal of mine. Those weren't poorly constructed at all! Although I'm glad you liked the story, if you ever have any inspiration for me or any challenges, let me know. Sometimes it's quite a lot of blowing off the dust for me to dredge up ideas and it helps to have others contribute, which is really why I made this thread.

He replied levelly, “I dinna know what’s a sadist. And if I forgive you for this afternoon, I reckon you’ll forgive me, too, as soon as ye can sit down again.”

“As for my pleasure…” His lip twitched. “I said I would have to punish you. I did not say I wasna going to enjoy it.” He crooked a finger at me. “Come here.”

Diana Gabaldon, so cute! Probably about as sappy a love story as I can get into. I'd love to do a Scottish Highlander thing but I'd have to make it darker somehow. This is something to ponder...

The front door to the Athenaeum burst open, a cloud of snowflakes tumbling in with her as she struggled to close its sturdy frame against the wind.

Christ, that's cold!

The door caught, finally. She regretted wearing such a flimsy blue dress but the Lounge was right down the road. Silly, that. But there was something she needed to do, and quickly. She darted back into the stacks that were located beyond the well lit front room. It was quiet back here, thick with the smell of literature and weighty atmosphere of knowledge. A secret place. She flipped out some of the light switches, the glow that shimmered along the shelves dimming at once.

Heart thumping.

Heart beating.

She smiled.

The choice was made, the die had been cast. There was nothing stealthy about his entrance into her Athenaeum. The keening wind and groaning trees would make sure to announce even the most sneaky of people. He pushed the door closed and paused inside for just a moment. Bloody hell it was hot in this room. Women and their complete lack of body warmth! What the hell?

He paused.

The room was still, so that was to be the game was it? Well no matter what he did she would have the advantage, as he had never been here before, and this was here dwelling. He didn't know the layout, and she would likely know all the good places to set up an ambush. The question was, spring the trap, or even the odds as much as possible? His hand drifted to the lightswitch, tucking the second of the pair of pillows under his arm. Just as he was about to plunge the room into darkness he decided against it.

He shrugged his broad shoulders and just smirked.

The navy blue T-shirt settled back down as he relaxed He had enough tools right here to deal with anything she wanted to throw at him. Figuratively, or otherwise. He paused at the door way, sliding out of his shoes when he saw another pair sitting beside where he had slipped from his. Tilting his head thoughtfully. Weren't those Lily's? So... the two of them were in collusion? Well that would make it... interesting.

He started to walk, making sure to keep his feet just a little more than shoulder's width apart, which offered a broad base considering the sizable width of his shoulders. He moved with grace most would not expect from man a his size. Eyes darting back and fourth he seemed prepared for just about anythings. Maybe the years of martial arts training would pay off tonight.

She had settled into her hiding place comfortably, her small frame tucked into a compact section of shelf. From this vantage point she had a few different escape routes and so she felt rather brazen, for all she was lurking in the inky blackness of the stacks. She had pondered the wisdom of keeping such a trove of books--who had time to read them all, anyway?--but was grateful for it now.

Her limbs froze when she heard a hushed patter of feet. She knew every inch of the floor in this place: the wood creaked and groaned, but it didn't make scurrying sounds. Light footsteps. No way was it FD. Lily. She smiled. She wished she could call out to her and show her a place to hide, but there wasn't time now. She couldn't know how close was, if he was coming at all.

There was always that.

But the way his eyes had fixed her, nailed her like a peg in the wall... She bit down hard on the inside of her cheeks to keep from smiling. She failed. There was something about bratting out that could thrill like nothing else.

Thud.

Her head flew up at the noise from up front. This was him. Heavy-handed, deliberate, masculine. Only men opened doors like that. There was a gale blowing outside, it was true, but regardless: he had arrived. Her stomach was rebelling, flip flopping, twisting. Heartbeat ticking in the silence. She could taste the honey from the tea she had drunk earlier, still sweet in the back of her mouth. A brief moment of fear for Lily, wondering if she was hidden, if he could see her, what he could see. She hadn't thought to test the play of shadows or light, hadn't thought to show her around.

Was her Athenaeum a trap now?
Were they the prey?

Tune in next time on the Granny Tess Radio Hour.

She snorted, and instantly went glacially still. Fuck.

Soft, near silent footsteps drew him forward. Was he trying to sneak up on her? Not so much. This was her playground, this was her home. There was simply little to no chance that he could sneak up on her. From the few conversations he had with her he knew that she had a sharp wit. So why bother being so quiet?

His senses were acute on levels most people could barely dream about. There was a blessing in having nerves that were so sensitive that he could sometimes feel the change in pressure exerted when someone was flanking you in the endolymph fluid inside the ears. His hearing, his sense of smell, taste, all were tuned to the edge of a razor because his nerves were constantly firing full throttle.

He heard the unladylike snort. At this point he didn't care who it was, it was a north star in the gloom. He paused just inside the edge of the darkness and closed his eyes, counting to ten. It not only focused his hearing, but it helped his eyes adjust to the darkness with a rapidness that couldn't happen while they were open.

The darkness was not complete, it was enough so that he could see the outline of shelves, he wasn't bumping blindly into things and as he got close enough he could make out what filled the books. He started heading silently in the direction of the noise, not knowing who it was he was stalking, but he decided he needed another clue. Time to test the limits of her self control, whoever 'her' was.

He took both pillows in one hand and ever so carefully fished into his pocket. A few random coins slid together, the sound muffled as he palmed them, feeling the texture, the weight. Finding a quarter he played back the sound in his mind, judging just about where it came from He aimed about three feet higher, and then hurled the coin as hard as he could. The movement was silent except for the quiet hiss of the coin cutting air. That was nothing compared to the near deafening CLACK that followed. It only seemed louder because of the silence before hand. It didn't hit her book shelf, it bounced far to the right, a few stacks ahead of her, he couldn't see the shelf that far in the darkness. Aim wasn't really important here though, it was the sound.

There was something about hiding, being still, that made a person want to jump out screaming. She yearned to run tearing through the stacks, toppling books to the floor and shelves to the opposite walls, leave obstacles in her wake. Almost instinctive. And yet she resisted.

But now she heard less than before. The silence was much more frightening than his noisy advance. Had he seen her? She strained her eyes to scan her surroundings. No good. Next time get night vision. She scowled. After her impromptu outburst, she had heard a muted noise not far away. It was in the wrong direction to be him--it must have been Lily. She should've grabbed her hand when they had left the Lounge.

Should have, should have.

She was chilled. The jaunt to the Athenaeum in the snow hadn't been easy, for all she had nonchalantly left the safety of the Lounge's warmth. Her nerves were doing nothing for her body heat now. Only adrenaline was fueling her and it was an icy derivative.

CLACK.

The noise was so abrupt a half whispered shriek popped out of her mouth. Immediately she wriggled out of her choice location in the shelves and began hightailing it for the next darkened room, feeling a painful throbbing in her arm where she had struck it along a wooden edge. Her breathing was harsh and panicked. Regretfully she though of Lily and hoped she had heard, that she had run in the other direction. Her boots were still wet from the snow and slipped on the floor, making skidding sounds as she ran.

And you wanted to throw those damn pillows.

The advantage to hunting someone is you could control the situation, the scenario, and the reactions to a limited extent. She heard the noise, gave a half scream and darted for the next room. Like Bambi's mom fleeing in the sight of the rifle she ran as she was provoked to do and he was ready. Springing after her was not easy in the dark. He still didn't even know who he was chasing, just that he was chasing a shadow in the dark.

There was a problem though, he still had no idea where he was going. She was gaining distance because he wasn't running full speed. He had no idea when a book shelf was going to come up to meet him. Nothing was sexier than bleeding all over someones house because you broke your nose running full speed into a book shelf you couldn't see. More than once he had to twist on his feet, roll his body as the book shelf came out to greet him. The roll shifted his inertia enough to allow him to soften to blow, take it in the body, and continue moving without having to readjust. Like putting back spin on a pool ball. He heard one of the stacks fall as his movement was too much for it. Only one though. He winced, but didn't stop.

He only prayed the next room had some fucking light or he was going to break a rib in this game of cat and mouse.

She launched herself at the closed door between the current room and the one that lay beyond. He was behind her, she could hear him, and a burst of unadulterated panic flared in her mind. A spidery whisper of exhaustion was tickling at the base of her spine. Almost. The next room was where she kept periodicals: the stylishly sleek black filing cabinets lined the walls and were grouped in the center of the space. When she hooked herself around the corner using the doorway as an anchor, she skidded to a stop at the wall. There was a problem.

The lights were on. Dimly, but still on. They were on a different circuit than the other storage rooms, to keep the microfiche files at a certain temperature--at least that was what the installer had said. Fuck, fuck fuck. Move, go, MOVE. Her arm twinged hotly in protest. Her body wanted to lay down and forget it. But this had all started over some ridiculous pillows, and her will wasn't spent out yet. Always asking for it.

She tapped her way frantically to the cabinets in the middle, a safe harbor: their bulk calmed her. It was a big deterrent, at least for a moment. Enough to scramble away again. She heard him outside the door. Rubbing quickly once, twice, at her injured arm, she stood leaning against the filing containers. She was still breathing heavily but it couldn't be helped. A crash as some shelves were toppled and she flinched. She wondered where Lily was in all this mess.

She waited.

He paused in the door frame, glancing around and trying to quiet his own breathing. He could keep chasing her but the truth of it was that if he did so he was going to wear out before he got hold of her. It would be the most disappointing ending to a chase he could remember in some time. No, he was not going to catch her winded, sweating, and exhausted. Instead he took his time, lounging against the wall and as he did so he could hear her breath rushing even worse than his. He gave a slow smile and waited for a single moment. Finally his words broke the silence, much more under control than panting.

"Here kitty kitty, come out to play."

He was able to pinpoint her location better with both the heavy breathing, and the meager amount of light. His steps were slow, calculated, careful.

"Awww, not going to come out?"

His tone was condescending, he was trying to rile her on purpose, force another mistake, to give him an opening. Oh sure he could make one, but where in the fuck was the fun in that?

Her cheek was pressed against the cool metal of the filing cabinet. She was no longer cold: her blood was practically boiling, she could feel it fizzing in her veins. A bizarre rush, a dizzying shift. She knew she was leaning heavily against the blockade at her back, but what could she do? If she stepped out she'd fall over. A big pile of girl, and he'd snatch her up. He'll do that anyway.

"Here kitty kitty, come out to play."

She felt a low moan come unbidden in her throat. His voice was low, rough enough to dissuade her from stepping out but gentle enough that she saw her foot tremble along the wood floor. She felt like jamming her fingers into her ears and shoving over the cabinets, even though with her petite frame she'd be lucky if she could make them shudder in their bearings.

"Awww, not going to come out?"

She started to edge away in the other direction, hoping to sneak around to the other side of the cabinetry. There was a heat curling around in her stomach that she didn't encourage, didn't trust at all. She'd never let him know it was there, and if he caught her, he'd find out. She laughed, quietly, not amused.

She was still breathing hard, but nothing else to go on for-

He heard a noise, oh he knew that noise. Low, throaty laughter with a wickedly velvet rumble rushed out from between his lips. It was just the right blend of rough, and smooth. He continued to step forward, eyes locking to that sound like an arrow fired from the bow, still quivering with the impact. There was that tone in his voice it flooded out, and couldn't be hidden. He could just tell, he could sense that he had her. The gazelle had a good run, but it was time for the lion to feast.

"Come on out If you come out now I might even be nice."

Quickly followed by words that were spoken quietly, but intentionally loud enough to be overheard.

"Not bloody likely..."

The distance shrank by the step until he slapped the sturdy metal cabinet with a big, thick hand. It made a loud noise lick a crack of thunder, the sudden onset of a storm. Then he pressed out, and rocked two of the shelves apart so that they were both spread apart enough for him to see her trying to sneak it. That had not been his intent and he did not act on this new information. No the entire reason for him doing that was simple. It was a lesson. It was him showing her that if he wanted to, he could rend her new hiding spot to pieces, so to speak. He wanted her to see the potential strength in his limbs, to let her see the potential for danger, and violence. He simply wanted her to See[/i]

"Come on out. If you come out now I might even be nice."

She choked, laughing in spite of herself. She knew her ass was smoked and hung in strips when he caught her. A squirm rippled up her torso when she paused to lean against the cabinets, thinking about when he caught her. She didn't know whether she should claw at him and fight, or come over sweet.

"Not bloody likely..."

The slam that followed made her yelp, and the cabinets split, tipped, swayed apart. He stood on the other side, watching her with unnerving and deadly, patient calm. Her eyes were wide and heart hammered in her throat, climbing the cave of her chest. It beat an insane pendulum tattoo upon her ribcage and she backed up quickly, tumbling, down to the floor. Stupid! So fucking stupid, get up! She cried out, kicking her feet over and then onto her shins, her knees, up, up, standing--But now her cover was at her back, and she dove for it, knowing she could round that corner and snatch the door back to flee. Where was Lily? Was she hiding? Was she watching this?

Just to the door. Just the door.

The thick trapezious muscles contracted, and his complete lack of a shirt might even give her a good look at the defined muscle as the weight of the cabinets were suspended by him. The sight had not been intended to frighten her, not much anyway. He had been more intent on just showing her what he might be capable of, if he so desired. Instead she nearly lost it, she tried to flee, and ended up tripping over her own two feet. For a moment, just one fleeting moment he looked concerned, wondering if she had actually hurt herself. She however bounced back almost immediately and was on her feet.

He had one moment of surprise, but it quickly shattered as he reacted. The cabinets fell with a tremendous thundering roar, and his slightly longer stride, and longer arms gave him the extra length to snatch her by the wrist. His fingers closed firmly, locking around her the base of the radius and ulna as it gave way to the carpal bones.

Pivoting, he shifted closer to her as she reached the end of her ability to move. It was like releasing a seat belt too fast, but it was her body that snapped back instead of the belt. She had to have somewhere to go, he knew enough about body mechanics and how to use them. His free hand became a hook and she landed in the cradle he had made. Pulling toward him, her impact ended up being absorbed by him, by his broad chest. He forced the air out of his lungs just in time to avoid having the ability to breath removed momentarily.

He expected to be kicked, and his body was tense, ready to blunt some of the impact, but his voice was that deep, sensual smooth rumble[/i]

"Well hello there kitten. Just where do you think you are going?"

She had felt reassured by the swooping lope of her legs, their steadiness, the feeling of her boots connecting with the floor. The door was in sight, almost there: quite close.

And then his hand encircled her wrist, and pulled her back like a boomerang sweeping round again. His broad body caught her impact and there was a moment where she sat in stunned silence, her brain ticking and working like the fine clockwork that it was. There was a thrill in being caught, in not having to run, in submitting. There always was. The variable was how long the game was stretched, played out. Which strings to pluck. Which fuse to light. The long wait hidden in the stacks, with the short burst of adrenaline and fear, the pounding chase--she allowed herself a moment of breathing against him, sending out tendrils to comprehend the stakes at play.

She exhaled, slowly. But she didn't fight. He had her. She wouldn't get away. She didn't necessarily want to get away.

Bird in a cage.

"Well hello there kitten. Just where do you think you are going?"

She wriggled slight against him at that, her hips shifting against his body.

"It was just a couple of pillows," she muttered, rebelliously.

breezes in, brushes snow from her hair and takes off her coat. Kicks off her boots and starts setting things to rights: replaces books on shelves, stands knocked over shelves upright, sweeps the floor. Studies the effect with hazel eyes.

Hmph.

picks up a large tome and starts thumbing through it, too bored to keep writing and too lazy to decorate any of her rooms.

Stupid snow day.

walks in, tossing her books down on the first couch she sees. She doesn't pause to take off any of her winter things, but instead heads to a bookshelf across the room. Pushing on a rather distinctive copy of On the Road causes a panel in the wall next to the shelf to slide open, revealing a glistening amber bottle of Knob Creek and several tumblers. She grasps the bottle, pours three fingers into a glass, and shuts the panel. Crossing to the window seat she sits and looks out at the snowy night, flakes falling fast by the light flickering on the doorway of her Athenaeum.

Pondering something.

She has her arms crossed on her chest, the drink idly rubbing against her lips. Drinking, listening to the whiskey hiss in her throat. Slow burn.

Adelaide? Madeline?

grimacing, she tosses back the drink and goes to get another. Writing is not agreeing with her tonight.

She wanders downstairs after getting dressed for the day, running absentminded fingers through her hair. She is puzzling over the problem of what Bukowski quotes would hit her point home in her new piece--what makes the naughtiest student. Setting down her purse she starts to reach for her coat and sees the gift left the night before.

Smiling uncertainly she bends to pick it up, heels shuffling on the floor. The grin broadens as she sees the label. She hugs the scotch to her chest for a glorious minute and crosses to her hidden liquor cabinet, opens it, and stashes it inside. She'll work harder on that idea she promised to the gifter--certainly while sampling her new present.

She gets on with her routine carrying a smile on her face. Putting on her coat and scarf and gloves she snatches up her purse and hurries to the door, now running a little behind. As she turns at the door with the knob in her hand she flicks out the light, and says to the room at large,

Well, the girl knows how to give a good gift, that's for sure.

and she pulls the door to, before braving the snowy world outside.

having made it through the whirling snow to the shelter of her bookstore, she now sits digging through a crate of Moleskin journals. All are filled with precise, delicate script in black ink--pages upon pages of thoughts marching along defined paper rows. Some of what she has jotted down are unfocused, scattered meanderings. Occasionally, as she flips through these outpourings, she giggles at her past intensity.

Pretty indulgent, all this.

she stands, letting the book in her hands fall back into the crate with a thump. There had been a purpose to this, an expectation. But perhaps the inspiration she sought has shrouded itself too deeply in her exasperating verbosity. She wishes she wrote more simply. Sort of. It's all she knows how to do, though. A phrase from one of her past writing professors swims up from the muddle in her mind and she smiles.

Never use two words when one will do.

energized by this, she turns on the fireplace and starts unpacking the newest shipments. Piles by price, by genre. She wonders if anyone will ever come to buy a book. Then again, she could hoard her collection as she saw fit.

Being a bibliophile had its perks.

she slips into another sweater and leggings combination, having left her boots dripping at the back door of the shop proper. It suits her, occasionally, to make new tracks in fresh snow and wonder at the blanketing silence that a snowstorm brings. Small brown birds cackling in dead branches. The ornate black fence of her garden. As she shakes out her red hair she studies that garden: dormant, resting. Her slim leg is brought up to her chest as she sits in the frame of her window, the room white around her.

The snow, untouched.
Her bedroom, undisturbed.

She is a small flicker of flame in this naked expanse: hair bright, clothes muted--yet a relief from the unremitting purity of color. Her face is calm, reposed, and yet she cannot remain still. Words itch to entwine themselves, from her lips to her arms, from her breasts to her legs. Restrain her, tease her.

She stands, moving to the door. As it quietly clicks open, she broods over the wisdom of letting them have so much power. Sock feet glide noiselessly down the stairs, to the room where her journal awaits with a fire and tea to accompany the creative unearthing she so lives for.

As for the binding she endures with words:

I confess, I do crave it.

smiling, she sits down upon one of several comfortable couches: the lithe young woman amongst the books, taking a pen to paper.