Summary - Tate Langdon, an introverted English professor, meets Violet Harmon, grad student, musician, coffeehouse employee, at a dinner party. Part 2 - Pour Richard's - Violet's POV. Because sometimes I just want to take them out and have some fun. I imagine this taking place on the east coast, probably in Boston.

Violet/Tate - AU - Rated M

A/N – A coffeehouse trope fic. Because I've never done one before and how is that possible? Another PWP? Yes, kind of, but with a bit more plot than the last. Sex and fluff mostly. Edited quickly this morning and probably still filled with mistakes! Sorry. But enjoy!

Disclaimer - I do not own American Horror Story. Just this little fic is mine.


Pour Richard's

I never knew before, what such a love as you have made me feel, was; I did not believe in it; my Fancy was afraid of it, lest it should burn me up. But if you will fully love me, though there may be some fire, 'twill not be more than we can bear when moistened and bedewed with Pleasures. – John Keats, written in a letter to Fanny Brawne

Violet stares out over the counter, bored. Pour Richard's could be packed to bursting, a bustling little coffee shop, or it could be a wasteland. And, of course, it happens to be the latter. She can't stop thinking about Professor Langdon. Tate. He said to call him Tate. And she grins. Likes the way his name sounds knocking around in her skull. Mashed up with images of his blond head between her thighs, his mouth sticky with the taste of her as he kisses her lips. Him making breakfast, watching her devour the eggs and toast, before knocking her plate onto the floor and fucking her on his kitchen table.

"Fuck," she sighs. Her shift is inching toward its end, only a couple of hours left, but they're dragging. And there's nothing for it. Violet can't make customers appear. The café is in a fairly residential part of town, just off a major street, and during the morning rush the line stretches nearly out the door but my mid-afternoon, with lunch breaks over and the day winding down, the place is practically deserted.

Still, Violet wipes the counters, refills the pitchers of milk and cream, stocks the sugar, and keeps the espresso machine at the ready. Other than that, she fucks around on her phone, flips through a copy of Rolling Stone left by an earlier patron, and narrows her gaze at the New York Times crossword puzzle.

It's while scrolling through her tumblr feed that there is yet another text from her mother. She has been messaging, calling, all weekend. Since the morning after the party at Leah's, desperate to know if that 'particular man' was there. Violet never regretted telling Vivien something more. But she had been so fucking excited. Couldn't hold it in. Had to explode about it to someone. And her boss, Cordelia, her co-worker's, she liked them, but they tended to meddle. As for Leah, if Violet had brought up Tate or the aforementioned evening one more time, she was fairly certain that her friend would have bludgeoned her to death. On the spot. So in a moment of weakness, she had mentioned it to her mother, knowing it was a mistake even as the words left her mouth.

Another minute ticks by and her phone rings. Violet's eyes flit to the door, the empty tables and chairs, then down at the screen. A picture of her ten year old brother, shaggy black hair, wearing a pair of wayfarers and looking cooler than any kid his age has a right to look, flashes. "You have got to me kidding me," she mutters, picking up the offending object from the counter and answering.

"Hey, dude," she starts.

"Violet," he sing-songs, "Mom offered me twenty bucks to call you."

"Son of a fucking bitch," she curses, hearing her mother yell in the background.

"Oh," he laughs, "I wasn't supposed to tell you that."

"Jeffery," she says patiently, "please put our dear mother on the phone."

His giggles end abruptly and he huffs, "Fine. But I'm still coming there to hang out on Friday, right?"

"The whole day, dude. You and me. Whatever you want to do."

"Junior League Thrift. The Goodwill. That record shop. The guitar store. And the movies!" He ticks off immediately.

"What movie?" she asks suspiciously.

"Uh," her brother starts and most people would think that he wanted to see something rated R. Something violent or sexual, graphic. Something Vivien would never allow. But Violet knows the kid like she knows herself.

"That new Disney movie with the ice princesses?" She smiles, her elbow on the counter, her chin in her open palm. "Don't want any of the kids from school to see you?"

"Violet!" he squeaks, like he is certain she has been overheard. That she has just blabbed to his entire fifth grade class.

"It'll be our secret," she swears solemnly, inwardly excited to have an excuse to go herself. He grunts, passing the phone to their anxious mother.

"Hello, sweetheart," she says, the tightness in her voice belying her calm.

"That was a new low, Viv."

"Violet, I'm your mother. I worry. And I've told you to call me Mom. A thousand times. You're a bad influence on your brother."

The siblings, on either end of the line, groan simultaneously.


"Oh my god," Violet blurts, halting her mother's barrage of questions.

"What is it, honey?"

"I have to go."

"Shit. Do you have a customer?" The older woman is clearly disappointed, "We were just getting to the good stuff."

"Mom!"

"Alright, alright. Call me later."

"Okay," she rushes.

"And Violet?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you." Violet rolls her eyes, repeats the words back, and quickly hangs up.

A beat up, decades old, silver-gray BMW has pulled into the coffeehouse's parking lot and is turning into a space across from the door. The driver, a man, bleached blond hair, black thick rimmed glasses, sits there. Violet waits. She recognizes the car, knows it belongs to Tate. He had taken her out for supplies: food and booze, cigarettes, a couple of times over the weekend. And her heart races.

There's no mirror and she can only imagine how she looks at the end of a shift. She doesn't wear much make up to the café, it all ends up dripping off her face due to the steam anyway. So there's only black liner and mascara, chapstick, to worry about. Her hair is pulled up in an oversized bun, purple on the outside, small green bow pinned into the side. Violet feels her palm sweat and she rubs them along her thighs, over her muted navy tights and up under her high-waisted green and blue striped skirt. She suddenly wishes she had worn sexy underwear. Or no underwear. Instead she remembers the white cotton day of the week pair she had chosen in the pitch black of her tiny apartment that morning as she fumbled around trying to get ready. She's fairly certain they are not even the right day. The sweater is cute: navy angora, short, fluffy, with a boatneck. But her bra isn't lace or satin, it's t-shirt fabric with tiny pink hearts printed on it.

She honestly had never assumed, figured, even allowed herself to dream, that she would hear from Tate so soon, let alone see him. He had dropped her off at her place the night before, had begged her to change her mind about returning home. But she had work at six that morning. So with a lingering kiss, her fingers dragging along his scalp, she had left him, her phone number in his phone, a promise that he would call her on his lips.

But he's there. At Pour Richard's. Not on the phone. And with no actual warning. Violet bites her lip as he emerges from the car, looks frantically around her work station for something to do, to look busy. She feels like she's having a heart attack. Or maybe a stroke.

The door clangs open, bell chiming, as he crosses the threshold, nervous smile gracing his face, dimples on display, his hair an absolute wreck. But god, he's gorgeous. Black wool military coat, marled gray wool sweater, faded well-worn, well-loved jeans, frayed, torn open at the knee, and black Chuck Taylor's. Violet's breath catches. Fuck, she wishes she had a cigarette. Anything to occupy her hands, her mouth.

Tate's eyes take in the barren expanse of tables as his teeth nibble at his lower lip, fingers shoving his frames back into place as they slip down. Violet fucking loves his glasses. The Buddy Holly thing had never made her cream her panties before but they sure worked on him. She wants to fuck him while he wears them, watch them slide down his nose with drops of sweat as he concentrates so hard on making her cum. Wants to tug them from his face, mouth the tip of the arm like a naughty librarian, slip them on and watch the world turn hazy.

It's been about eighteen hours since she had his cock buried balls deep inside her and she doubts she can wait much longer to have it back there. Not with Tate in Pour Richard's, looking like that, looking at her like that.

"Hi," Violet breathes.

"Hi," he grins back.

She can't move as he approaches, locked in place behind the register, while his glasses begin to fog over. The coffee shop is almost tropically warm compared to the bitter snowy weather outside. Violet giggles, covering her mouth, as he pauses mid stride. Tate tugs off the frames, drops them on a table and shrugs out of his coat.

All Violet can think about is being with him. She hasn't been able to get her mind around anything else all day. Him being there only makes the situation more desperate. But she's unsure of the etiquette. They spent the weekend fucking, wrapped up in one another, the outside world slipping away. They'd drank whiskey on his couch, NPR on the radio. They'd blown lines, killing her stash, and fucked, him on his knees, her folded over the arm of the couch, long hair dusting the floor. They'd rummaged through his fridge and when they turned up nothing edible, ordered Chinese take-out, using chopsticks to steal from each other's cartons.

But those moments already felt like a memory. Something frozen in a time capsule. The perfect weekend in a bubble. What if that was it? It would be the only real experience of her entire life. And what if, right there, with him gazing at her, eyes so earnest, lips quirked in a modest half smirk, she fucks it all up?

Violet has spent years fucking it all up. Ruining everything. And she has spent a fair number of years hating herself for it. But Tate, fuck, he has a way of seeing her, listening to her, hanging on her every word, and smiling that makes her feel whole and right. But does good shit like that actually happen? In real life? Maybe she's just never seen it. Ben and Vivien Harmon had not been ideal role models in regards to relationships. Or much else. Still, Violet wants to believe. So much her heart hurts, her knees feel weak, her lungs won't inflate properly.

Tate had actually told her she was perfect at one point and she nearly died:

"So, you're in a band? You sing?" he inquired, fingers trailing through her hair, wrapping the vibrant violet ends around his digits.

"No," she kissed him, mouth open, hips undulating, demanding his attention. "I play bass."

"Oh, god. You're killing me," he groaned.

"Mmm," she had hummed, "I play cello too."

"Fuck, do you know how perfect you are?" Violet grinned against his mouth, heart racing, delirious.

No one had ever called her perfect before. Not when she was being beaten up by the other girls in high school for being weird, different. Or when she was sneaking smokes just so someone would notice, say something. When she started cutting herself, holding burning cigarettes to her pale flesh. But Tate saw those things. Saw them and used his lips, pressed his mouth to her hurts, and worshipped her.

Violet doesn't deserve someone like him. But the way he is looking at her, right then, lifting his glasses up to slide them back on his nose, makes her think that maybe he feels the same way about her.

Minutes must be ticking by but neither one of them says anything. Tate tucks his head bashfully and Violet shifts, awkward.

"Can you come around here?" he asks, finally breaking the silence, and the unexpectedness of the question must show on her face because his smile grows.

She steps around the counter, comes to stand right in front of him. She doesn't know what she supposed would happen when she did, but when Tate folds his arms around her, dragging her even closer, holding her to his body, she just sort of melts into him with a stuttering exhalation. His lips touch her temple, his fingers dance down her spine.

"I've wanted to do that all day."

Violet sighs in response, clutching the back of his sweater, and grinning manically into his front. When she finally pulls back, he's staring down at her, lip caught between his teeth again. She uses her thumb to dislodge it, reaches up on her toes, and kisses him.

His lips are cold, the brush of his nose on her cheek is icy, and she notes that his hands are spreading a chill where they rest on her lower back through the satiny fabric of her skirt.

"You're freezing," she mumbles into his mouth, admonishing him, worrying. "Let me make you some fucking coffee."

"Wait," he isn't quite ready, willing, to release her, so she smiles, watches his mouth. Violet loves his mouth. His tongue. On her, inside her. "I'm giving a lecture later this week. On Friday evening," he clears his throat, picking an imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve. "I thought you might enjoy the topic. It's actually a discussion regarding the Genevan period in the Shelley-Byron relationship in regards to the influences they may or may not have had on Mary Godwin or as you might know her better, Mary Shelley, and her writing of Frankenstein." Violet opens her mouth but is immediately cut off as he continues, "Of course, they were all there when the short story was first written and read, but did either man, the Romantic movement even, have any real influence over her creation or was that all just happenstance? Where and how should we classify the book, the monster and his creator? Where and how do they fit in?"

She stares at him with wide eyes, her lips forming a little 'O' shape. He wants her at a lecture. Wants to see her there. Thought about the fact that she would find something like that interesting.

"Oh fuck," Tate groans, looking down. "I'm sorry. I'm fucking lecturing you. God," he drops his hands from her body, instead rubbing his exasperated, tortured face. "I'm such a fucking loser."

Violet can't stop smiling around him, it's uncanny, unusual, so unlike her. There are butterflies in her stomach, her heart is fluttering, like a bird just let free of its cage. She pries his fist from his eye socket, tilts her head until she catches his onyx eyes. "No," she shakes her head, "you're not a loser. And I think it sounds amazing, Tate, but I have plans that night." She frowns, he does the same.

"Plans?" The gears in his head are obviously turning, trying to work out what the exact nature of said plans are, if it's a date. And she wants to laugh he is so fucking transparent, so adorable.

"My little brother doesn't have school. And it's my day off, so I promised him, weeks ago," she emphasizes, because truthfully she would love to spend the entirety of her day off with him, anyway he would have her, "that we could spend it together."

"Little brother," he repeats.

"Yeah," her face lights up, she feels it. She loves the little dude. "Jeffery. He's ten."

Violet steps back around the bar, Tate following her. "Now let me show off my skills with the espresso machine and get you that coffee, okay?" And grins when his hand finds a place on the small of her back, rubbing small circles.

"Okay."

After a moment of silence, her back to him, hands finally busy, Violet further reveals, "You know, having me, well, it's what got my parents married, I guess. And having Jeff? Is what got them divorced." Tate says nothing, just watches her, waiting for more, hanging on every word she wants to give him, every fact she is willing to share. "I mean, it wasn't his fault. Obviously. My dad's a total douche bag. He's a psych professor, started fucking one of his students when my mom was pregnant. Knocked that bitch up too, actually." She nibbles on the flesh around her thumb, gaze cast downward. "They moved out to Los Angeles. I haven't really seen him since." She doesn't know why she's talking, unable to shut up, telling him her bullshit tale of woe.

Tate exhales the breath he's been holding, inching a step closer behind her. "My dad left too. Took off with our maid, Moira, when I was nine. I don't blame him though. Constance, my bitch of a mother, is a cocksucker. Literally. She was sucking off the guy next door." He smiles wryly.

Violet's laugh starts as a chuckle and grows from there into something deep and throaty, until there are tears in her eyes, the mood lightening. When she has recovered, she turns, resting her palm on his arm, the wool of his perfectly aged sweater is so soft.

Tate suggests, "Maybe I could," shrugging, "take you guys to lunch."

"Me and Jeffery? You want to hang out with my ten year old brother? You know kids can kind of suck right?"

Tate smiles at her. "He's yours though, right? I like anything that's yours."

"Anything, huh?" she cocks a brow, smirking, melting a little further into a puddle of love-struck goo.

His face goes deadly serious, black eyes smoldering, burning her from the inside out. "Anything."

Before she can blink Tate has spun her around again, her stomach pressing into the edge of the counter, his hand wrapped almost painfully tight around her wrist, thumb tracking the line of faded raised scars, as she tries to support her weight on one arm. Her other hand is already blindly attacking his fly as she rolls her hips, making him moan, his mouth at the join of her neck and shoulder.

The shades are up, the coffeehouse door unlocked, but the parking lot is empty aside from Tate's car. She's the only one left working, it's her job to lock up at the end of the afternoon. The sun is setting, light fading into a hazy gray gloom. And fuck, she wants him. Doesn't care about customers or hygiene or what her boss, co-workers, might say. And it is abundantly clear that Tate wants her as well.

His hardness in flush against her ass, fingers sliding up her thigh, under her skirt, rubbing languidly at her heated aching center. She's soaking, wetting his fingers through cotton underwear and her tights.

Tate's teeth scrape her flesh and she moans, falling forward, her chest brushing the countertop. He releases her wrist, that hand joining the other behind her. One tugs at her tights, panties. The other rucks her skirt up. As her ass is exposed Violet feels cool air caress her skin in a beautiful juxtaposition to his heated questing hands.

Hair falls in her face. Tate's palm slides up her back, under her short sweater, to unclasp her bra, and dips around the front to cup one breast, thumbnail dragging across her nipple.

"Violet," he grunts, thrusts, when she frees his cock from his soft frayed jeans.

"No boxers?" she laughs. "Had something like this in mind all along, did you?"

"Well," he smirks into her hair, "I really was in desperate need of a caffeine fix."

"But?"

"I wanted to see you," he shrugs. Violet hums her approval, raising her hips, running the blunt head of his cock along her soaking slit. Tate's breath catches, his fingers flexing, digging into her over sensitive flesh. "Tease," he taunts.

"Uh-uh," she replies, guiding him inside and slowly lifting herself, sliding up along his length, taking him in. "It's only a tease if you don't plan to follow through."

Tate's forehead hits her shoulder with a thump before he shifts, moves, circles his hips experimentally. Violet releases a little cry, a mewl. Tugging at his arm, his wrist, until he releases her tit, she brings his hand out from beneath her shirt. She feels his pout more than sees it.

She maneuvers the digits between her lips, licking and sucking, keeping time with his thrusts. Tate pulls out and slams back in with a ferocity that takes her breath away, makes her thighs shake.

Releasing his fingers with a wet pop she is guides them downward, placing his spit-slick digits against her burning pussy, on her clit, whispering, "Fuck, oh god, right there. Touch me there. Please, please," before her words are nothing more than ramblings, nonsensical mutterings, her body moving of it's own volition, leaving her mind behind in a realm of bliss.

Tate takes to the task like it's life or death as he continues to brutally pound her from behind, little grunts slipping past her lips as he grinds her into the counter.

"Fuck," he starts, "I can't, I won't. Violet, you need to cum." She moans long and low, pushes her hips back to meet him. "Fucking cum," he hisses into her ear, teeth biting down viciously on the lobe, his fingers pinching her clit.

Violet's body clamps down on his, practically sobbing, her hands scrambling to hold onto the far edge of the counter. He snaps his hips, once, twice, and blows, her pulsing walls milking him of every last drop.

It's like she drained the life out of him when it's all over, their bodies piled one on top of the other, their naked bottom halves still connected. Violet finds her voice first. "Fuck," she breaths, "I fucking drooled all over." Tate's response is a grunt, though it sounds satisfied, proud. "That was so hot." She goes on, trying to pick herself up and failing under his dead weight. And eventually she laughs, a huffing sound, "Can you move? I think you're crushing some vital organs at this point."

He steps back sheepishly, a hand running through his wild blond locks as he tugs his pants back up, tucking his rapidly softening cock away. "So," he asks as she faces him, reaching down to yank her tights back into place, turning her skirt on her waist until the front and back are where they belong, "when are you done for the night?"

Violet glances at the wooden and brass Victorian clock on the far wall and shrugs, "Now?"

"Really?" He grins like a kid in a candy store, all boyish and gleeful.

"Yeah. Why? You wanna give me a ride home?"

"Only if by home you mean my place," and then he's pulling her close, hands on her waist. "I'll make you dinner," he whispers against her lips before kissing her.

"Mmm," she replies against his mouth. "I wouldn't have had it any other way."