 | ShatterStorm Productions
|
| ShatterStorm Productions
|
Disclaimer: “Law & Order: Special Victims Unit,” the characters and situations depicted are the property of Wolf Films, Universal Network Television, NBC, etc. They are borrowed without permission, but without the intent of infringement. This story is in no way affiliated with "Law & Order: Special Victims Unit,” Wolf Films, Universal Network Television, NBC, or any representatives of Stephanie Marsh or Mariska Hargitay. This story contains content between two mature, consenting adult females.
Author's Notes: written in less than a half hour in the morning of 6-15-05. I was wracking my brain over what seemed like such a melancholy verse, when my Alex muse stepped up and kindly informed me that she would take care of it. All I can say is… wow…
Webmistress' Notes: This story was written for the FreeVerse Challenge 2005.
Freeverse Challenge 2005
To start the morning over, somewhere else
on that landscape of her, all you really want
is the person you think she is,
without all the yesterdays and you know
how yesterday is, that haunting voice never shuts up.
I’ve wondered and wondered what the hell I’m doing here, in her bed, my body and brain sticky and wet with her presence. Watching that body, tempting enough to turn angel’s holy heads, supple and seductive in the moonlight.
The woman hardly slept, her body a vibrating live wire, hot and restless in all weather. My small noises in the bed have made her turn her head to rake that intense earthen gaze over me. Fearful almost, of breaking whatever spell keeps drawing me to her, I lay still, feigning sleep. Miraculously, it works, and she remains still and relaxed in the window seat, silhouetted by the rainbow of lights from the city, from the round moon.
What does she see in me? Why do we come together again and again, like magnetic pull? It’s a sensation like a physical want, the drug of her potent in my veins. One look in the hustle of our work, one burning caress of that incendiary gaze, and I’m on autopilot until she touches me, makes me scream for her. It happens in so many places, the discrete slither of her hand under my skirt, past the panties I no longer buy expensive, they get ruined so often. The demanding press of her body against mine, her mouth on my skin, growling, licking, biting. Once, I reached back as we fucked in some obscure corner of the precinct, and missed the tight material stretched over her fully-clothed hip. I was close anyway, but the icy hardness of the pistol strapped securely to her hip, made me come so hard, I saw stars.
Now, she splits her time between who she really is and the person I really want her to be. Some nights, some quickies are for the abrupt, white lightning pleasure of release, and we go back to our daylight lives. Sometimes, we are slow and languorous, even tears mix with all the other fluids. Those times, I feel so powerful, so wanted. It’s almost like we were real lovers. Other times, she will hold me down, ravish me until it hurts, her eyes wild and dangerous. Rough or tender, I love what she does to me, the way she plays my body and my mind. I could count the words on my fingers that we’ve traded, our lover’s language beyond words.
But suddenly, I want more. Something has shifted between us, a longing separated by the chasm of fear. There is a need in me, more than the molten sex, more than the languorous way she leaves me, more than the way her eyes rake over me. There is a feeling bridging the gap of fear between us. All my fancy lawyer words fail me now, as all of the yesterdays whisper at me in a haunting voice that never shuts up.
But she’s worth it, this woman of fire and sun and moonlight, my crusader against the sin of millions of lives around us. I sense the change in her as well, a thawing of that rigid control, that part of her of which I’ve only seen glances of the hurt and violence she bottles up inside. It’s marked me, both my skin and my soul. What she is so terrified of, is as much a part of her as her glorious skin and her dedication.
Too much thinking in the deep darkness before the dawn. There were better ways to greet the day. It was time to start the morning over, somewhere on the landscape of her. “Olivia,” I whispered and her dark head turned away from the great moon. “Come here and love me again.”
