For the purposes of this meme, please have the following, and note that this is now a WIP (I did not mean to get inspired for Rose/Kanaya comp lit theory wars and librarysex, but, WELL.)
—
Her fingers are long and spindly on the pages of her book, perfect jade-laquered oval nails scraping the paper. You’ve been watching her since she came into the library, from within your Victorian attic of literary criticism. Whatever she’s reading is in French. It is likely to be Simone de Beauvoir, she looks the type, perfectly coiffed pageboy and burgundy lips. The haloed curves of her eyelashes infuriate you. You could begin by quoting bell hooks at her, but it would be disingenuous, and far closer to the point than you’d like to remain.
*
Kanaya shoves you into the stacks with her hips and one knifeblade palm at your sternum, just above your breasts. Your head hits the metal shelving and snaps back clearer; you’re in the depths of the Gs, between folklore and leisure/recreation. She means it this time; there’s no one here to come upon you unawares.
“Do you know what you’re doing, Rose,” Kanaya says, perfectly even. You would like to break her voice open, hear what she sounds like if she’s sobbing, or if she wants. You tell yourself you don’t care what she wants.
“Yes,” you say. “But I doubt you do.” You tilt your head, cup the long curve of her neck in your palm, and press your mouth into the hollow between her throat and her collarbone, open-mouthed and wet.
“Try me,” she says.
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