The story of The Mora was created by Djuna Rykiel, not out of perfection but fun.

Benjamin Stone, Shambala Green, Paul Robinette, Adam Schiff and Arthur Gold belong to Dick Wolf/Law&Order

“Ben… Ben?”

It took half a second after five for Ben to raise his eyes and acknowledge the tall elegant figure of Paul at the door, conjecturing as his eyes followed the figure in. He swallowed, placing the file upon the desk and gestured oblivious. Paul stood by the edge of the desk, glancing down at his watch, parting his lips. “Planning on sleeping here Ben?”

Ben stretched slight after he escaped his meditation and stood straight, pity for his back, listening to the rain to the rear of him.

He gave the other a minor thankless smile and sighed. “I was… waiting for the rain to leave…” he drawled without much strength, avoiding how Paul looked onto him, knowing exactly where Ben stood without being told.

Like other things… Like other people… Like her…

Benjamin’s fingers pursued the words on the paper, not understanding what he had read earlier, even before he was interrupted, a day that was lapsed from consciousness before it had memory. “Here Ben. I brought you some coffee…”

Ben stared at the paper cup as if it were merely an insect and mumbled his thanks, holding onto his suspenders, turning his head toward the window.

“We did good today Ben… Don’t stay too late…” Paul said before walking away, leaving Ben alone again.

He at once stared at the door close and pulled out the chair, sitting down.

This time he pushed the file away, folding his arms upon the desk after removing his glasses and bowed his head, breathing in the scent of the wood, the ink. Remembering her scent on his sheets, on his shirt.

The stain of her tears on his pillow because she was leaving for the countless time but this time she was crying because she had something to hold onto, a man she was beginning to impose against everything in her life, devising an equal.

“I have been torn apart so many times…” she whispered last. He had been hurting in silence, the bruises marked upon his pallid flesh healthy in their existence due to the cruel outcome of their obsession and she had to leave him, to go home.

Hurting to a level that left him without voice, only sustain with the strength that still lived in his fingers, in his hands.

To keep her in an embrace most suffocating, letting his face stay within the crook of her shoulder and throat, his lips against the beating of her pulse, breathing in her skin.

He contented himself with the utterance of her name every now and then, just uttering her name. And when she woke him, dressed in her overcoat, her hat, and her eyes so sleepy in the early morning, he felt her kiss beneath his chin and he had reached out severely, taking her hand.

To walk with her to the door, to make her a few seconds late by stealing kisses from her, letting her walk away from him with the tattoo of his passion.

Swollen lips she had to parade for a bit, stained with other droplets of tears, of miss, he did not see as she walked out of the building.

Shambala was the only woman that ever left him in the state of famine, in threatening anxiety; in a whirlwind of turmoil that he found himself starting problems where such a word would not exist.

Every second that came and passed him by was overworked with a need to stay away from her in his mind.

Lingering around, walking and talking in circles and the final truth that Arthur Gold was going to regret he was ever born threatened the thought that flitted about in his head. At least the old rat was an abstraction to Ben but still, the resentment was a bit tiring.

He had fallen asleep for a ten and he rose, still the rain fell behind him but he wanted to leave, go home and find something other that would not bring him to relate files, cases or defenses like instincts to her. He slipped into his coat and quickly took hold of the umbrella and briefcase, leaving the cold and the forgotten coffee behind.

And with Ben, the way life handled him and the way he gave back was indeed a mystery within itself. A feeling had spoken loudly within him and when he turned around to respond with thought, he sensed someone’s eyes upon him. Some still stayed; working in the late lost hour but no one stood guilty with their eyes for him to suspect.

Kept his eyes closed, his arms crossed as he waited for the elevator to drop him off in the lobby and sighed as he could see the rainfall heavier now.

The mystery aforementioned is how he came to be in life, handling certain situations that perhaps would have been the most predictable in its outcome but Benjamin was one to start where it left off, leaving anyone and everyone involved burnt in their wake.

His hands trembled as he fumbled with the umbrella and stopped, raising his head and let his eyes oscillate about the extent of the lobby and almost choked on the breath that came to hinder in his throat. He faltered as he slightly moved and had to stop at once or he would have ended up on the floor.

His eyes watered because of the breath that had trapped itself in his chest and felt his lips part. A neurotic smile made his lips twitch and he shook his head. “Is that you… Sham… Or is this the outcome of my first episode…?” he breathed askance.

She walked towards him, that veiled smile at her lips as she looked up at him with that ingenious expression he liked so much.

“I could have made hurricanes, tempests… apocalypses for a better example, in my missing you. I realized something Ben…”

He felt faint, feverish and very much like a schoolboy. This very woman before him made him feel things he did not know actually existed within him. And he was going mad he sensed then, as he stood a little closer to her, inhaling her scent, in her memory and folded his arms, letting the cerulean of his eyes rest upon the verdant belief of her own. “What is that Sham…?”

Benjamin Stone, what in hell’s name is the matter with you?

This is the exact image and being of the woman that has haunted every point and final in his life, his imagination. She has arrived in rain, out of the blue, to find him and see him and he had not once touched her, embraced her.

That was the residue of that mystification that made him who he was. This was the man that truly made her react because if he said one thing, he really meant another.

“If I leave you again… I would not be able to take care of myself…”

but he understood what she was telling him then. What made him take a second glance, stay behind, made him listen a bit more attentively was the manner in which this woman wore her merit, her virtues.

Inner pretense with the mask of enemy in the killing fields but one who would give him shadows of a deceiver on the sidelines, to help him when she was not against. As well as she tried him when he was against her. In other words and the only words to describe Miss Green was that she was not delicate. With bare hands, with eager tongue, with open eyes she could have stolen the fire within him and not suffer burns. Another good question: When would he react?

“Where were you going?” he asked to bother her.

“I was following you.” she whispered.

“Keep doing that Miss Green.” he pledged to her, paying attention upon her footfalls beside him as he now stood beneath the rain, awaiting the taxi.

“How was home?”

“Home was novel. I felt a stranger in my home.”

“Did you find the reason to why you felt that way in the end?” he drawled wearily, resting his head against the crest of the seat, the drops of rain beating with violence against the taxi, the ride becoming long and the scent of her was making his teeth hurt. The wet clothes he tried to ignore for it was bothering the shit out of him and wanting a glass of red, maybe eat something, kiss her for while.

“Yes. Someone stole the interpretation of that existence. It is not comforting being there. Because I could leave it and lose it but it will not recall my being.”

“Someone?” but it was a rhetorical question on his part and he stared at the drops of rain holding onto her hair, her throat. He said nothing more, solely hearing the jazz, wanting to forget there was another in the taxi with them.

He brought a trembling hand and tainted his fingertips with the rain from her skin, seeing how the slightest of movements made her skirt ride up her thigh, the garters catching a glance from his eyes.

She seemed so profoundly lost in her thoughts, she had become unaware of such thing and he would not tell. When she turned her head in his direction sometime, to look at him because he had finally touched her, he mimicked the same stance, looking out the window then and brought the water stained fingertips to his lips, wetting them, tasting it.

She moved about his home like she lived there, leaving her hat and coat upon the sofa, staying in the kitchen to open a bottle he had kept away. And he acted upon his desires lethargically, not ridding of the wet clothes, sitting at the dining table to hear her move around, as if he could not do anything else.

To hear her softly hum from a safe distance and accept the glass from her when she made herself seen, looking up at her as she stood there, drinking it like water but determined not to finish it, staring at him.

He was acting like a masochist, a contumacious boy with so much to take before him but refusing to do so because the first thought told him he did not deserve. In reality he should have welcomed her right there in the lobby, kissed her to allow her to know she had been missed more than she could imagine, more than he could say with the words lacking sophistication.

She touched his head, smoothing back the golden strands of hair and he swallowed the bitter red, attending to her touch, his breath. “How was my blue-eyed boy?” she asked.

The storm of my isolation/Stumbling onto a desert in a dream/Waking up and realizing it had not been a dream but truth/And there was nothing to deliver comfort to the hunger/The suffocation of not having anything to cease of the thirst/Walking into walls for fun/Delirious in a state of mind that always deciphered the right and wrong/Now there were in-betweens and maybes and I don’t know/Lost for good, away/Found, when near.

“You should change out of your clothes Benjamin. You will catch your death…”

“It’s only water…” he said quietly, believing it now. He stood, to play music because Ben was convinced the vulnerability of his thoughts, and his emotions could somehow be heard. He was playing the masochist on purpose.

He would not surrender to his desire and let it come and pass as if the miss had not been worth anything. He was slowly building up more expectation than he had in the months of past. He was making this hard because he wanted to know how he would stand, how he would be when she finally reached his destination.

“I called you didn’t I?” he asked then, skimming through the records. He played Coltrane for her and waited sedulously for her to respond and saw her nod. I called you in mind. Would she have come to him if he had not chosen to stay there late? If he had followed Paul out, would he have missed her? As if she could read his mind, she explained his suspicions.

“I was keeping eyes on you. I had arrived earlier than the norm and went in and spoke to Paul for a bit. You did not drink the coffee did you?”

He watched her sit in his chair and felt that rare unstable smile making its way back to his lips. He neared and leaned against the chair and thanked her as quietly as possible, mourning hush-hush that he did not drink.

“Do you believe it then?”

“Believe what Sham?”

“The mind… of how it calls another…”

“Only… if the… man and woman… are meant… One cannot finish alone without the other…” he said under breath, letting his eyes stray to the outside world, still the rain fell, leaving New York inebriated in its purity of heart that was not likely.

Had he thought about the four corners of his plight? For the words that left his lips, were the words the truth to his confusion that he was not able to say alone? Those nights where sleep did not fancy him one bit, leaving him to tremble against the cold as he had been in fear. Those nights where he heard his thoughts so loud, he could have sworn they were questioning him, days where he did talk to himself, trying to give answer.

But now, now… he was not confused anymore as he could feel, as he could see. Now it was disturbingly explicit. Because he was able to see the tightrope he walked in daily life so clear, between the anomaly and common sense. When she was away, it felt like he stumbled and fell hard.

That tightrope not giving light to reason but to delusion alone, his hands holding onto that tightrope round his throat. And who would have thought Benjamin Stone would feel that, ever? It could not be her, not all her, as he tried to discourage himself. When he looked back at her, she was now rather virtuous, semblance to a puerile girl faced her with her secret admirer, something in her eyes, telling him something. Why couldn’t it be her? But he strictly ignored that thought when he reached down, close to her, a finger under her chin.

“What is wrong with your eyes Sham…?” he drawled, letting his wine stained breath caress her face.

Was it an apparition? Was this his mind playing tricks on him? That he wanted her so much, now he was beginning to see her there… So many questions, now and then and he could not understand how easily it happened. It had been trained so perfectly, this fate and he was behaving bad. He was acting against his aspirations but as far as he could see, she was holding back too. Was she still reading his mind? He grinned; ready to pull away when she roughly caught his wrist, so hard in her need that her fingernails dug into his flesh and he winced. “Sham…” he complained.

“You are holding back Ben… That’s not good… I was waiting…” she confirmed. “But… you know something else… Ben…?”

She had not let go and he felt his cheeks burn, his throat. He raised his brow.

“I am tired of always waiting for the man to be old-fashioned when he’s not. I know you are old-fashioned Ben but right now, I am not going to allow you to act that way before me. As a matter of fact, I don’t want you to do or say anything. You are going to be obedient to my need, you are going to follow where I lead...”

He was pulled down, to sit on her. “Be aggressive Benjamin… Act the way you do when you face me in your office, when I am against you.” She firmly stated against his lips. He sucked in a tremulous breath, holding it, as her hands circled his waist, to dig her nails into his back. She kissed him upon the meeting point of the collarbone, her lips brushing the pulse. He was held so tight, so tight that he was persuaded he was going to stop breathing. But it was a most pleasurable agony he was beginning to endure and she could feel his lust against her, in starvation, brushing against her belly. He moved his arms, taking hold of her face with his hands, his tongue delineating her lips, at a leisurely pace, before he forced it into her mouth, parting her teeth.

Like cat and mouse went the game of the kiss. He sucked on her tongue, her lips and he pushed her arms behind the chair, holding them there as he kissed and kissed her, unrelenting and bloodthirsty. Tumultuous in her behest, yielding to that storm of his greed, knowing that her arms would feel a distress, that his hands were fixed upon them. He was blinding himself, giving himself away, not caring, and not caring at all.

She was driving him insane and even if it was true a million times, he did not want to be giving himself away like that. He wanted to hold back, let it hurt. And that he did, leaving the kiss without end, dropping his desire like a cat on a hot tin roof, trying to catch his step as he stood now. He succeeded in drinking the wine before walking away but she managed to find him. To take hold of his arms and push him against the wall in the hall, kissing his throat as he grunted against the brutality of her action. It would be that way Ben, stop acting spoiled, stop wanting to make it hurt.

Give in/She’s here/Give in to her.

But if he did, the night would come and go, it would pass him by, it would end and what if he laid there with her, if she woke up, if she left him? His eyes watered as her hands passed over his shirt, feeling their ardor through the linen, her fingers solely running along the buttons. He wanted her so bad, so bad that he was sold he was going to break, he was going to be that person one, not even in his or her wildest dreams, ever imagined Ben Stone to be.

A bumbling and docile coward.

She was the one who made the very first move once upon a time, the one who sought and demanded. Always getting what she wanted and in secret he agreed to whatever she said because he was willing to throw the trivialities and the materialistic and whatever else became a facile obstacle into the air, letting the wind keep all of it.

He almost fell when she let him go, smiling as she turned away. Ah, charade it was tonight as he realized. His hand touching where she had kissed and made some noise in his throat as he could see into the present. But Benjamin Stone could not give a summation with a turtleneck and an overcoat. He cursed the frailty of his skin color, its sensitivity in his head before he moved, to look for her and found her at the table again, reading the label of the red. Acting like if nothing happened.

“I had a dream about you. I saw that you were not a lawyer but a priest. I still think fate would have picked the same card you see. One evening, coming into confession, kneeling in your presence. Hear you… Hear that voice… telling me to pray…”

As she talked, he was still on the stage of pyrexia but ultimately coming to his senses. He gave her a diluted smile, enjoying how she taunted him. As she closed her eyes, her hand against her chest as she mentioned something else about his voice. “I love you and love you and love you and love you…” she mouthed to him.

He walked cautiously behind her, pulling down the collar of her shirt and kissing the nape. He neatly packed all the thoughts that hindered him before and sent it off to hell. He would do whatever she wanted him to do. Now it was becoming an order inside him, that if she had to go anywhere in the morning, if she ever left him again, he was going to paint a disparate picture. He was going to ask her not to go anywhere. Point and final.

His hands passed her face, kissing her forehead as she pulled her head back, kissing the bridge of her fine nose. His hands passed her throat, finding her shirt and disrespected her by ripping it. His hands passing her breasts as she found his lips, severing with her tongue. Letting his hands enfold her heavy breasts, kissing her slow within the inverted position, coming around and asking for her hand.

The cerulean intertwining with the green as he pushed her back onto the table, not really allowing her to sit at first, when he simply wanted his desire to be felt against her. To make her realize what she was doing to him. His hands passed over her chest and when he finally allowed her to lie back, he held her arms down, bringing her hands to rest on either side of her head.

Leaning close to provoke her with his tongue by her lips, not abandoning to her want, not that easily. He could feel the nipples brush against his shirt, her legs circling his own somewhat, sensing her desperation, this recklessness to touch him. She was actually fighting him now, wanting to get away from his strength, wanting to be the one handing him what he so deserved.

He smiled against her impatient mouth and she laughed softly, revealing his name. His eyes found her and he nodded. “Are you sure?” and he played it off so well that he kept his malady to himself as he walked into the kitchen, holding his head. “I am going to open another bottle…” he said more to himself, mediating on what she was thinking of.

He condemned the fact that the new bottle was slightly tepid than he preferred and she found him before he could put it away for a while. And slammed the door of the refrigerator because his second thought made him do that and as if the moment had been suspended watched how the bottle of the red slipped away from his hands, breaking between him and her. He leaned against the counter and looked at her with amusement. “It was your fault…” he drawled without care, bringing his hand to his mouth.

“How much am I to blame?” she asked.

“It depends… I mean, you are to blame if you get down on your knees and actually lick it up…”

She showed him her palms and smiled, cocking her head. “Would you like to see?”

“See if you would…”

And she did it purposely, brushing against him as she got down onto her knees and raised her eyes to him, her hands pulling at his trousers. He came to her level and she winced when he came closer, due to the pieces of glass scraping against her knee. He felt it too but chose to ignore it as he circled her, kissing her hard. It was a long kiss that he break it off after a while to breathe, to breathe her in, now finding a different scent in the air surrounding them.

The wine flaunting its existence between them, the glass hurting them as he positioned her onto her spine, tugging at the shirt to free itself from the constraint of her skirt, not really removing it from her. She did not complain one bit when he settled upon her, his full weight onto her as his hand drifted then, slipping into the opening of her skirt. Covering her mouth when he slipped two fingers into her, touching deep and he pushed them deeper, as far as he could go, hurting her. Kissed her again and again, removing his hand, kissing her before he placed his palms onto the floor, lifting himself off her to give her room to unsnap the suspenders and unbutton his trousers, slipping her hand inside. OhMyGod… she mouthed, that cunning smile quivering at her lips.

She helped him lift her skirt somewhat, the glass rubbing against the back of her legs as she allowed him to enter her there, amid all the broken pieces. The wine wetting them and the suffocating heat of her man with the blue eyes now in her, bowing his head close her to own as she held onto his waist, pushing him deeper, slow but deep. He remonstrated in pain as she made him go slower than usual.

Shambala only wanting to feel Ben inside of her for a moment, for a moment lost. She kissed him beneath the jaw as she hurt him wince again. He said her name in hunger, in an injured tone, that beautiful voice always above a whisper and how much she loved these moments, to see and hear this man. Voice out the pain she caused him in good.

Imploring to her to relieve him. She could sense his weakness by his rapid yet inconsistent breathing, loud in her ear and she finally allowed him to do as he pleased. Now she wanted his desire to resemble that of a rape. Without ever telling him, she was playing along to those games he liked to suffer alone. The only woman that was allowed to think like Benjamin Stone.

And much afterwards she saw him crawl away, to catch his breath as he fell against the cupboard, brushing glass fragments off his hands. She fancied the scant pain in her vulva, which he left behind always, the guilt playing out on his face. Because he never wanted his desire to resemble that of rape he always said a day later, in other times. Damn all to hell if she was going to allow him to do that now, to promise nothing in silence. Such a beautiful man she thought in admiration, in and out.

She removed her shirt, throwing it aside, glancing down at one of the countless cuts on her legs and neared him, resting her wine stained arms upon his raised knees, bringing a hand to harass the scowl at his lips, to cease of it. His blue eyes found her, uttering that the rain would not stop, ever. She leaned in close and kissed those pale lips. “Will you follow me if I walk out that door…?”

He stopped kissing her and pushed her back but holding her close as he rested his hand upon her cheek, his eyebrows drawing to a close. “I already asked myself that…”

“And what did you come up with Ben…?” and now, by mistake, she let a strain of hesitance slip out and he took it, keeping it.

“What Sham? What are you talking about?” he asked innocently.

She playfully hit him upon the shoulder, holding onto his knees. “Would everyone like to see Benjamin Stone on hands and knees…? I think not… But there is a prospect of such thing occurring. Even in another life.” He drawled rather solemnly. “I would love to see Adam’s face…”

“BenBenBen… Unlock all the doors, the windows… I wish to see I wish to see…”

He laughed considerately as she leaned in, her lips finding a good excuse against his throat and kissed and nipped him there.

“Sham… I am hungry…” he whispered into her hair. She languidly pulled back and looked into his blue eyes. “What are you hungry for Ben…?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. Yet before anything, he pulled her close again, supporting her. “Thank you for coming home…” he breathed.