All the usual- I don't own any characters or rights to Twilight. I own the idea but all the inspiration from comes from my muse Emmy at PPSS blog. Seriously, Em, whether you read these words or not, you have given me not only the desire to write but to share with the wonderful world that is fanfiction. Thanks
PS. I can also be found on Twittah my_e_addiction It's also where I link to PPSS and get the incredibly sexy pics that get me going.
PPS. Thank you so much to my beta Dellaterra for agreeing to help me with this nonsense and trying to understand my ramblings.
Oh, one more, the song is Nina Simone, "Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood"
I can see her in the bathroom. She looks nervous again. I love it when she goes in there. I have such a perfect view of her from my bedroom. I can see her fairly well in her living room too, especially when she stands near the stereo system. Her hips sway back and forth. I only wish I could hear the music. Maybe another time. I can only see her when she looks out at the sky from her bedroom window. I would love to have a better angle for the bedroom but I think I would have to move next door for that. I would seriously consider it but then I wouldn't have the lovely view the bath. Sometimes she starts in the living room, turning on a CD or something. She starts to sway really slowly. I picture her listening to Nina Simone.
Baby, do you understand me now
Sometimes I feel a little mad.
And I can't tell if the lyrics are for her or for me. She raises her hands over her head and rolls her pelvis in circles. I want to feel her sweet, round ass grind against me like that. She is perfect. With perfect apricot skin. It has no marks, no scars, although I can't understand how; she is far from graceful. I will get to be the first. I will get to leave my mark alone on her perfect skin.
But don't you know that no one alive
Can always be an angel.
She moves down the hallway and I picture her slowly stripping away her layers of clothes, her layers of sadness, her layers of fear until she reaches the shower.
When everything goes wrong you see some bad.
And finally, finally, she takes that damn wig off. The one with that makes her soft, deep auburn curls disappear. It's a straw broom on her head and I can't wait to burn it. It will go up quickly. I'll have to use the kitchen sink; I won't taint the porcelain with anything less than her.
I love how she leaves her pretty black shoes for last. Like a little girl playing dress up she's all bows and high heels. She leaves those things for me. A soft little present to unwrap. She waits until it's just us. Closed off from the world. She wears that hideous blond thing like a hijab. She protects her beauty, her virtue, from everyone except me and God. She stands naked. Exposed. She is not like the whores downtown. She has a dark thatch of curls between her legs that matches her mane. She is not fake or perverse. The soft hair would hold her scent, her liquid essence, until I could part her folds with my fingers, my lips, my tongue.
She always makes the water so hot. Some nights she pushes the gossamer curtains apart and the steam billows out the windows. It catches the sweat on her skin and makes her breakout in tiny goose bumps, raising each downy hair on her pliant curves. The tea-rose tips of her breasts grow darker, changing to salmon pink as they tighten in the twilight air. Her sweet skin so fair, so delicious. She is like my very own personal Snow White and I am the hunter sent to cut out her pulsing, warm heart.
But I'm just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood.