L&O: SVU drabble: you can’t take away the kiss of the color red from the motel sign
Title: you can’t take away the kiss of the color red from the motel sign that reads vacant
Fandom: L&O: SVU
Characters/Pairings: Olivia, Olivia/Elliot
Word Count: 544
Rating: R
Spoilers: General S8. ♥
Summary: The room is white, the sheets are tan, and the heater moans clink, clink, clink! after you shut the door. Hello, intermission.
Author's Notes: For cathiexx ♥ and her interest request of: movie soundtracks, mascara, intertwined fingers.
I remember your fingers.
Ted Hughes, Fingers
*
You drive to a hotel, on the state line, walk up to the desk and smile (show your teeth) and say:
“My name is Persephone Jones.”
*
The room is white, the sheets are tan, and the heater moans clink, clink, clink! after you shut the door.
You’ve called, left a message, and play your I need time to myself as an excuse in your head.
You don’t know if he’ll (want) come. You don’t know if you’re hoping. But you’re forgetting Olivia, instead of Persephone, and you need to stop losing your head.
*
It might be Saturday. But he’s here.
“Persephone?”
You shrug, dip your head down, and dig your nails into the wood of the door. “I didn’t pick it,” you mumble tiredly.
He snorts and digs his hands into his pockets. He’s not looking at you and you’re not looking at him and you’re starting to panic because you can’t remember the last time the two of you have sat down and just had a beer.
“Gonna let me in?” He murmurs in half-amusement, half-curiosity.
You blink, peering over his shoulder. And then step back.
*
You can’t remember the last time you’ve ached like this, wanting desperately to reconnect to a tangible sense of yourself.
He doesn’t look at you, but picks an old Western (you laugh, kind of hollowly, and go figures which makes him smirk) and settles on the opposite bed.
“You didn’t bring me flowers,” you say finally, picking at your jeans.
He quirks an eyebrow (and you want to ask, why?) and your fingers curl because you want to touch or punch him in a fit of nostalgia that just makes you burn.
“I’m here,” he says softly, turning his gaze to you and sliding to the edge of the bed. His hands dip forward and you think, maybe, he might reach for you. But he stops.
“Yeah.”
*
It’s indistinguishable, you desire for a break in this and your need to see him. The difference is that he’s here, you’re here, and there’s a lot that you don’t know how to handle.
“I-”
He shakes his head.
*
There’s a commercial for Marlboros, a moan from upstairs, and the echo of a truck horn all at once, the disjointed symphony ringing your ears.
You look at him. And he looks at you. You could do this for hours, dip into a romanticism that the two of you have been trying, desperately, to avoid because there is always someone else.
You don’t ask about solo work, partner work, but you do lean forward and he meets you halfway.
You slip, tumble, and fall because his mouth is too warm.
*
You might wake up in the morning and he might be gone, but for now, now, you twist underneath him as his mouth burns along the curve of your throat. You moan, you growl, and your lashes dust against your cheeks, dusting dried chunks of mascara against your skin.
He breathes: Fuckliv and you slur something, but you’re spinning, spinning, and ready to just lose this all.
It’s a movie soundtrack, almost, and when he tangles your fingers together, pinning your wrist above your head.
Maybe it’ll end with his fingers between your legs.
end.
Fandom: L&O: SVU
Characters/Pairings: Olivia, Olivia/Elliot
Word Count: 544
Rating: R
Spoilers: General S8. ♥
Summary: The room is white, the sheets are tan, and the heater moans clink, clink, clink! after you shut the door. Hello, intermission.
Author's Notes: For cathiexx ♥ and her interest request of: movie soundtracks, mascara, intertwined fingers.
I remember your fingers.
Ted Hughes, Fingers
*
You drive to a hotel, on the state line, walk up to the desk and smile (show your teeth) and say:
“My name is Persephone Jones.”
*
The room is white, the sheets are tan, and the heater moans clink, clink, clink! after you shut the door.
You’ve called, left a message, and play your I need time to myself as an excuse in your head.
You don’t know if he’ll (want) come. You don’t know if you’re hoping. But you’re forgetting Olivia, instead of Persephone, and you need to stop losing your head.
*
It might be Saturday. But he’s here.
“Persephone?”
You shrug, dip your head down, and dig your nails into the wood of the door. “I didn’t pick it,” you mumble tiredly.
He snorts and digs his hands into his pockets. He’s not looking at you and you’re not looking at him and you’re starting to panic because you can’t remember the last time the two of you have sat down and just had a beer.
“Gonna let me in?” He murmurs in half-amusement, half-curiosity.
You blink, peering over his shoulder. And then step back.
*
You can’t remember the last time you’ve ached like this, wanting desperately to reconnect to a tangible sense of yourself.
He doesn’t look at you, but picks an old Western (you laugh, kind of hollowly, and go figures which makes him smirk) and settles on the opposite bed.
“You didn’t bring me flowers,” you say finally, picking at your jeans.
He quirks an eyebrow (and you want to ask, why?) and your fingers curl because you want to touch or punch him in a fit of nostalgia that just makes you burn.
“I’m here,” he says softly, turning his gaze to you and sliding to the edge of the bed. His hands dip forward and you think, maybe, he might reach for you. But he stops.
“Yeah.”
*
It’s indistinguishable, you desire for a break in this and your need to see him. The difference is that he’s here, you’re here, and there’s a lot that you don’t know how to handle.
“I-”
He shakes his head.
*
There’s a commercial for Marlboros, a moan from upstairs, and the echo of a truck horn all at once, the disjointed symphony ringing your ears.
You look at him. And he looks at you. You could do this for hours, dip into a romanticism that the two of you have been trying, desperately, to avoid because there is always someone else.
You don’t ask about solo work, partner work, but you do lean forward and he meets you halfway.
You slip, tumble, and fall because his mouth is too warm.
*
You might wake up in the morning and he might be gone, but for now, now, you twist underneath him as his mouth burns along the curve of your throat. You moan, you growl, and your lashes dust against your cheeks, dusting dried chunks of mascara against your skin.
He breathes: Fuckliv and you slur something, but you’re spinning, spinning, and ready to just lose this all.
It’s a movie soundtrack, almost, and when he tangles your fingers together, pinning your wrist above your head.
Maybe it’ll end with his fingers between your legs.
end.